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So we’ve got these cats, as I’ve mentioned before.  One of them, Gracie, is soft, purrs a lot, loves a good petting, and cleans himself often.  He’s your basic, normal, male cat named Gracie.

Now the other, the other is not normal.  He’s not right.  There’s something wild, something untamed about him.  His name is Moose.  Not because I am completely enamored with the species of actual Mooses.  (Meeses?)  But rather because he’s big.  Hefty.  Beefy.  Brawny.  Dare I say, Husky.

You’ll note I did NOT say “FAT”.  He’s not fat.  The vet said so.   That’s not his belly hanging in this picture.  It’s…..it’s……it’s muscle.

He’s more like a Puma.  Look at him.  Acutely alert….waiting for his prey.  He can’t help but strike terror in all birds and chipmunks and squirrels.  He is fearsome.  His body was made for hunting.   He’s fast.  He bares razor sharp teeth.  He draws dagger-like shredding claws.  Killing runs hot in his blood, deep in his veins. He knows it.  He exudes confidence.  He is Moose, the hunting, killing machine.  Grrr.

Today, an impressive pile of mouse poop was found behind our saggy leather couch.

The worthless furball.

ATTENTION:  The following is not a paid advertisement.  In no way am I related to the people in the story below.  I am not sleeping with any of the people in the story below. (No, wait, strike that.  I do sleep with my husband.) I have no hidden agenda by posting this.

My Captain took me to Alexander’s Restaurant (in Buckeystown) tonight, at my persistent pleading.  Brunch last Sunday, with the bacon! bacon! bacon! bacon!, was still so good in my memories, that I was dying to try out something from the dinner menu.

I’ll get straight to the point.  I’m rapidly becoming addicted to this Chef’s food.  My Captain and I discussed the possibility of us eating our way through the entire menu.  It might take a month or so, but we are willing to commit to the cause.  And we’d like a free appetizer out of it if we actually succeed.

Let me tell you what I started out with!  Oh LAWDY!  Fried Green Tomatoes with Pickled Corn and Cherry Tomato Salad with Shrimp.

I’m not going to lie to you, I made some inappropriate moaning noises while I ate this.  And not quietly.  My Captain continued to eat his appetizer unfazed….a lesser man would have been embarrassed.  He just kept right on enjoying his Flying Dog’s Winter Ale with his Low Country She Crab Soup.  Maybe that was distracting him from the moaning going on across the table from him.  We’ll never know.

Our next course was …oh. my. golly.  Fantastic.  I had the Low Country Shrimp in Cream Sauce, with Benton’s Bacon, Roasted Peppers, and served over the worlds creamiest grits.  Ever.

I inhaled it.

I have no picture to show you because, well, I inhaled it.

My Captain ordered the Beer Brined Center Cut Pork Chop, served with Sweet Onion-Bacon Chutney.  He gave me a small bite. And I mean small.  As in Miserly.  As in he wasn’t sharing at all worth mentioning.  He must have missed that particular day in kindergarten.

Oh wait!  I forgot to mention the Biscuits and Molasses Butter that were served upon our arrival to the table.  There is a secret ingredient in the butter that I know, but I’m not telling you!  If you want to know, you’ll have to go suck up to Chef Smallwood yourself.  I’m not your lacky!

And My Captain had another Winter Ale.  It seemed appropriate with the Beer and Pork Product Theme we had going on.

Desert? You ask?  Holy Mother of God, Yes!  Homemade Carmelized Pineapple Ice Cream, thank you kindly.  There was no air injected into this bad boy…it was full on heavy cream.  My arteries are 80% occluded just from the few bites My Captain allowed me. And yes, it went well with the Flying Dog Winter Ale as well, according to him.

We asked Chef Chris Smallwood if we could take a picture of him.  He’s a little shy.  But he agreed, reluctantly.  This is the Chef looking professional and talented:

And this is the Chef when we asked him to take off his shirt:

(Just Kidding.)

He’s a super nice guy. Down to earth. A true master of mixing flavors…and I’m not kidding about that.

So go! Go to Alexanders in Buckeystown.  Go this weekend, for sure.  If you’re a man, your woman will love you for it.  And if you are a woman, make him think its his idea, and then love him for it.

Hey, I’m just a facilitator.  You still gotta do the work yourself.

Love,

Mama Boe

This is the man who serves his country.

This is the man who serves his community.

This is the man who serves his shift.

This is the man who serves his friends.

This is the man who serves his parents.

This is the man who serves his children.

This is the man who serves his mate.

This is the man who serves his God.

This is the man:

My father died six years ago.  I loved him dearly.

Years before, when he retired, he downsized all his crap.  And by crap, I mean furniture, clothes, gadgets, piles and piles of junk, and all the other stuff we accumulate throughout our lifetime.  He gave it all away to hapless family and friends, and when he moved from Potomac to Bethany Beach, he was substantially lighter in the stuff department.

One of the things he handed down to me was an old Chesterfield Sofa he had bought when he and my mother divorced in 1971.  That couch had stayed with him in one way or another all this time.  I remember playing Atari on it. I remember time outs on it.  I remember hiding behind it for hide and seek.  I remember napping on it.  And now, it’s mine.

I  love this couch.

It’s got no small amount of sentiment attached to it.

But this couch, sadly, is showing its wear and tear.  Two generations of children jumping on it, decades of adult naps on it, plenty of food and beverage spilled on it…ugh.  If you look at the picture above, you’ll see where the springs have given up the ghost.  When you sit on it, you sink a lot farther than you expect to.  The abrupt, often rapid descent, can be alarming….and tons of fun to watch when it happens to an unsuspecting soul.  It’s not right for us to let it happen, but it is fun.

Obviously, the couch is in disrepair.  The leather is tearing.

The button holes, which are missing buttons, are full of unknown substances, some of which may in fact date to my childhood.

The folds have lost their tightness.   And there are multiple stains in several places on it.

It’s so sad.  And lets be honest,  it’s getting gross.

We were told by a furniture repairman that to fix this couch would cost more than buying a new one, and also, that it would require the deaths of several cows.  I don’t like to think of my beloved couch as dead animal skin.  But, well, that’s what it is.  (ew.)

Unfortunately, we can’t afford to fix it.  So it was with heavy hearts that we told the kids it is time to look for a new couch.

You would have thought we had announced that we were putting the cats down.

“It was Grandpa’s!” they cried.

“That never stopped you from jumping on it even when I asked you not to.” I retorted.

“We’ll stop it now!” They begged.

“Riiiiiight.” I chuckled.

“But Mom, it would be like saying goodbye to Grandpa all over again.”

Direct Hit.  Damn these punks are good.

We came to a compromise.  We will not dispose of the couch.  But when My Captain finishes the playroom in the basement, the couch will go down there, where it will continue to be jumped on, eaten on, napped on ….. lived on.

My father would have been so pleased.

Poolesville is a tiny little town, and we like it that way.  There is an age-old sense of community here; it has not been assimilated into the urban sprawl culture.  It’s not quite Mayberry, but we wouldn’t mind it so much if it was.

We only have a few restaurants here in Poolesville.  For a sit down meal, there is but a handful of choices, one of which is a chinese-sushi-bistro, which if you think about it, mixes enough non-mixable culinary cultures to confuse a person.  (Is ‘Bistro’ French or Italian? Isn’t sushi Japanese? The only thing it’s missing is pizza.)

There is a bar in this particular restaurant, and it is either manned by a guy name Burt or wo-manned by a lady named Lisa.  Alarmingly, a few of the times My Captain has taken me there for dinner and a drink, Burt has served me into oblivion.  And as I believe in earlier posts we have established that I’m no waif, this is an accomplishment worthy of raising your eyebrows.

Look, i’m no lush.  And I don’t have the money to sit there and drink all night. (Or the time for that matter!)   I don’t like the taste of beer.  I don’t like the taste of the traditional hard liquors.  You’d think that would narrow my field of chances of getting snookered considerably.  But Burt can put me on the floor with one drink.  Ya gotta understand… I can’t be responsible whenever Burt makes my old nemesis.

The Blue Hawaiian.

It’s served in a tall frosty glass.  It’s carribean blue.  It’s fruity.  It’s ice-cold.  It’s sweet. It’s tart. It’s Island-ish.  It’s unbelievably yummy.

And it puts me on my tuckus, every time.

I don’t even know what’s in it.  It could be the fluid from Solar Panels, for all I know. And I can state unequivocably that pre-loading with Lo Mein does absolutely nothing to slow the journey into oblivion.

Its gotten to the point where I drink only water when we eat there, because sometimes I just want to remember the evening, you know what I mean?  But My Captain knows, if I have a bad day, or if something really cruddy stresses me more than usual, its time for Burt’s Blue Hawaiian.  Its powerful stuff, man.

I’ve never been to Hawaii, but if those islanders do to me what that drink does to me, I ain’t a goin.