Halloween at 127 Hunter

Greetings!  It is a week after Halloween.  The hype has diminished,  the costumes are put away (or just lying on the floor of the basement), and the candy calories are settling on our hips in such a way that we may expect many trips to the gym in the near future.  Halloween enthusiasts have but to look forward to next year.

Growing up in my house with a creative and crazy mum always meant that Halloween was a big deal.  More than this, growing up in Sleepy Hollow where Legends ride by, ominous and headless in the moonlight, Halloween is REALLY a big deal.  This was the first year since college where I’ve been in town for the big event, and in honor of the occasion, we resurrected some old traditions.  I think Mom is proud.

Halloween at 127
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Ode to a Sandwich

Over the hills and yonder a ways sits a quaint New York 24 hour joint called Rocky’s Deli. Standing room only is an overstatement, as standing in line, even when the place is not busy, can be somewhat difficult: you eat in the car. And if it is a Chicken Parmesan sandwich, you will most likely eat it in the car, instead of waiting to get to your destination, since such a delicacy is way too delicious to save for later. Once such a treasure is in your possession it is all one can do, especially if one is hungry, not to rip open the paper wrapping and stuff its contents into one’s mouth, completely abandoning all traces of etiquette.

I know what you’re thinking: really, Emily, how good could it possibly be? It is just a sandwich after all. I will tell you, as I sat there eating my Chicken Parmesan on a roll today I wondered how anyone could ever consider becoming a vegetarian after tasting something so succulent, so full of flavor, and so tantalizingly satisfying as that meaty sandwich dripping with melted cheese and tomato sauce. I salivate just thinking of it. My brother thinks even more highly of it. He dreams of it while he is away at school. He says that the ten dollar bill is his favorite tender, as it buys him his dream meal: A chicken parm on a wedge and a Snapple. He goes out at all hours of day or night to Rocky’s just to get this sandwich when the craving hits, because when it hits it hits hard. I had that craving today, and since I was in the area, I indulged. It’s a miracle, that sandwich is. It has such a splendid balance of flavor: Not too spicy, not too oily, not too cheesy, not too saucy. (I like that word, saucy) The chicken is breaded and lightly fried, covered in melted mozzarella cheese and drizzled with a fabulously seasoned tomato sauce. The whole thing is served on a roll of your choice. Before the guys at Rocky’s hand it over, they cut it in half so that when you open it up later, the cheese stretches in strings across the gap as if in a tv ad. The steam rises, the aroma permeates, and the experience begins.

Even so, you may say, it is just a sandwich. Nay, I say to you. That sandwich is a culinary experience worthy of praise. It is the kind of thing you enjoy so much you get sad when it is almost gone. I slowed down eating it today, taking smaller and smaller bites to make the experience last longer. When at last I finished it, I admit I was tempted to gnaw on my fingers in case the sandwich had left remnants of flavor there. Over the top? Yes. Accurate? I’m afraid so. You will just have to try it yourself now. You will be glad you did.

Leaves!

Everyone and their mother was out and about in the Rockefeller Preserve today and with good reason. The leaves are fantastically colorful today. I haven’t been around NY for autumn in five years, and now I realize yet again that New York is spectacularly beautiful.

Irony in the Hollow

So you know how it’s hard to describe irony without using an example? Well…I have a doozey! It’s so wonderful I could burst.

First, a little background. Hold your horses. Ha ha, horses. You will see why that’s funny in a minute.

I live in Sleepy Hollow. That’s right, the real Sleepy Hollow. As in Washington Irving’s The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, as in Ichabod Crane, Brom Bones, and a headless Hessian soldier roaming the woods by the cemetery at night looking for a head to replace his lost one. I like to freak people out by telling them I live two blocks from the graveyard, which is true. When people come to visit, I show them the Old Dutch Church, the bridge and other significant places from the legend. I tell them that my high school’s mascot was The Horseman—and we were the mighty, mighty Horsemen, might I add.

Ok, yea, whatever, moving on. My story is too great to squander your patience on the details.

Needless to say, Halloween here is a BIG deal. We’ve participated in many of the town’s traditions, but this year, for the first time, we went to ‘The Legend,’ an event taking place at the Phillipsburg Manor historical site. They decorated the grounds with gouls and goblins and ghosts, all appropriately gory and ghastly. (Ah, alliteration) There was a singing pirate, a joking magician, and a set of witch sisters. Most important of all was the Headless Horseman himself astride his mighty steed, pumpkin head in hand.

Yeah Yeah, ok whatever, moving on.

It was all good kitschy fun, but it was a bit nippy and we started heading home. As we walked, we could see up ahead the horse trailers parked on the side of the road. Beside the trailer we could just make out the silhouette of a stallion and a headless figure standing beside it, a jack-o-lantern his only source of light. Though admittedly less intimidating when dismounted, he was, well, uh, still headless. Overcoming my fear, I bid him Howdy, and we walked on our way. Just as we were about to pass the trailer, we hear a voice behind us. “Come here,” it said. We stopped and turned. There stood the horseman himself beckoning us forward. We all were quiet for a minute, hesitating. “No seriously, can you give me a hand?” said the Horseman, with a remarkably higher-pitched voice than I was expecting. “Oh, yeah, sure.” We shook ourselves out of our trance. “Could one of you hold onto my pumpkin while I get back on my horse?”

Kathy stepped forward to take hold of the pumpkin, though still with a measure of hesitation.

“What’s the matter?” said the decapitated man in black.

“Well you are rather imposing, you know” I suggested.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “I forget about that sometimes. So I take it you don’t get asked to come closer by many headless men,” he added.

“It doesn’t exactly make up the best pick up line,” said my dad.

The Horseman seemed to have trouble untying the horse from its line, but with the combination of the light from the pumpkin head and my cell phone he was able to get it free. We all stepped back while he mounted the horse.

“Could I have my head please?”

“Oh!” said Kathy, “I forgot. I suppose you can’t go about without it.”

“I need it to see,” he said.

“And a very handsome head it is too,” Kathy added.

“Why, thank you,” retorted the horseman rather licentiously. “Thank you all for your help.”

“No problem,” said I, “Now go and terrorize abundantly!”

With a laugh, he rode off into the night.

 

I’ve lived in Sleepy Hollow for the greater part of twenty three years. Sometimes when in the cemetery I feel the need to look over my shoulder, but not until tonight had I ever encountered the Headless Horseman. Who would have thought that in this “encounter” the Legend himself would need help to get back on his horse. Isn’t it Ironic? Don’t you think?

 

Plimoth Plantation: Live History

I remember school field trips as feeling restricted: No, you cannot touch that, it’s very old; No, you cannot go up the stairs, only staff; No you cannot sit on that chair bed stool bicycle, it’s worth more than you are; No, of course you must not breath. There were some exceptions, but overall, field trips usually felt like disappointments.

    And it wasn’t just the rules. Kids have a keen sense of what works and what doesn’t in terms of engaging educational programs. Of course, some kids are more inclined to pay attention or find something interesting than others, but this shouldn’t mean that teachers should ignore the kids who need an extra push. I have a theory that all kids want to see touch smell the real thing. I remember going to Lyndhurst, a historical landmark in my area where Jay Gould, the robber baron, once lived, and learning about the lives of women at the turn of the century. Now, I don’t know about you, but I’ve always had a curious desire to try on a corset, and so when the teacher said we would find out what it felt like to wear a corset, I got really excited. Then the teachers passed out pieces of string and told our buddies to tie it around our wastes as tight as they could. I believe the word for this is Lame…and we all knew it, even at age ten.

    Experiences like that really drive my desire to change how education, particularly historical education, is administered. And so it was with great pleasure this past weekend my family and I travelled to Plymouth, Massachusetts and visited Plimoth Plantation, a living history site where folks can SEE, TOUCH, AND SMELL recreations of the first colony at Plymouth and the homes of the Wompanoag tribe. Not only this, but visitors can ask questions of the staff, all of whom reenact the roles of pilgrims and Native Americans. This past Saturday I sat on a real bear skin inside of a wetu, a Wompanoag home, in front of a fire, watching and smelling the billows of smoke rise through the opening in the roof while talking to an actual descendent of the Wompanoag tribe about the symbolism of the carvings of the tomahawk in my hand. Now that’s education!

    The tour begins in the welcome center with a film introducing you to the plantation and the facts about the cultures you are about to see reenacting. Myths about the first Thanksgiving were explained, tensions between the two cultures illustrated. From there, you walk down a nature trail until you come to the Wompanog village. There they have a few different structures, recreations of the winter and summer lodgings of the tribe. Several people, mostly Native American in heritage, are dressed in Wompanog attire and work on various tasks including weaving, cooking, and farming while carrying on conversations with visitors about the daily lives of the people in 1627. Miracle of miracles, the kids were loving it. They were running back and forth between activities, touching everything, testing everything, looking at everything, and not slowing down until they succeeded. Though some may say that this is no educational model because there is no guarantee of their retention of facts, I would put money on these kids remembering that day. They would remember the smell of that fire, the way the duck soup looked as it cooked over an open flame, and the imposing figure of the twenty-something Native American proudly answering questions about his culture. These things are far from superficial memories: these kinds of activities inspire a deep seeded interest in the material, motivating the kids to ask questions and do further research once they are old enough to do so. Some of the kids were already asking questions. Later on in the day I watched a school group asking questions of a pilgrim. Five of them had their hands in the air at any given time. Some of them asked questions clearly under pressure from the teacher, but some of them were genuinely curious. “How much does your gun weigh?” asked one kid. To my utter astonishment, the pilgrim broke all the rules I had associated with field trips and handed the musket to the ten-year-old kid. I could have danced.

    Moving on from the Wompanoag Village, visitors walk down another nature path, this one passing by a beautiful reservoir where swans glided by. It was beautiful with the fall foliage. Thanksgiving may not have occurred exactly as what our tradition tells, but I was sure thankful that day. It was a gorgeous spot they had for this plantation. The path meandered up and over a hill and came to a tall fence made out of crudely split, gray wood. Inside stood a large village of about twenty houses, a few sheds, and a church at the top of the hill. Reenactors bid us a Good Day in wonderful antiquated accents and welcomed us to their home. The first pilgrims we came upon were building a house. One worker split wood while the other attached the pieces to the roof. From his lofty perch he answered questions of the crowd about why he had come to America and the economic prosperity he hoped to achieve by the move. He said he was a laborer and could never have owned land in England. By coming to America and working for the colony company for six years he would earn a hefty parcel of land that would improve his status and make him self sufficient. This fellow apparently was among the 50% or so of colonists who had come not for religious freedom but for economic gain. He was contrasted by the next reenactor I came across who played the part of the deacon. It was he who handed his musket to the kids for them to feel its weight. He was dressed in a green outfit and wore a floppy hat. He had sparkling blue eyes and a handsome white beard. Best of all, he spoke with authority and enthusiasm, and did it as if he were thrilled to do it all day. And I could have listened to him all day. One of the school trip girls asked him, “Do any of the women here wish to have the same rights as men and to do as they please?” to which the Pilgrim responded quickly, “Do as they please? None of us may do as please! Have you not been catechized? And what does the catechism say? We all must work for God, for that is right and good. None of us are free to do as we please!” Bet that kid wasn’t expecting that answer.

    Inside one of the houses sat a young woman tending a fire. People shuffled in an out to ask her questions. The same girl who had asked about women’s rights asked a similar question of this woman. “Women’s rights?” she said, “What are those?” “Well,” said the student, “don’t you want to be able to hunt and vote and do the same as the men?” “And why would I want to do that?” asked the woman. “Even if I wanted to use my father’s gun, it is as tall as I am and I wouldn’t be able to use it very well at all. There is no point. Now, I can cook, so I ought to do that. If you were to eat my brother’s cooking, you wouldn’t live very long, so it is best I take care of that. As for voting, my husband and father vote on behalf of the whole family, so in a sense I do vote as part of the family.” Once again, the student was shut down. This woman answered questions about her age, the harsh winters, the difference between her life here and that in England, and her religious beliefs. “If you put your faith in Fortune, you are sure to be disappointed. We must put our faith in God.”

From inside this lady’s house, we could all of a sudden hear drumming. This turned out to be the call to worship, beckoning all the guests up to the meeting house at the top of the hill. Along the way, many of the families, including my own, turned around to take a picture as soon as they realized the ocean could be seen in the background of the plantation village. Folks crowded into the small meeting house where there were several benches facing a pulpit. Towards the side of the building stood another reenactor speaking on traditional worship practices of the pilgrims, highlighting the differences between their church, the Church of England, and all the pagans they came across in Holland. He mentioned various aspects of theology, told the story of their search for freedom from religious persecution but their desire to remain English in culture, and the grant given by the king to the pilgrims for them to begin a colony in the Americas. In the process of all this, he actually read from scripture, prayed aloud with the crowd, and sang a call and response with the group of psalm 100. After he finished his talk, he took questions from the audience on Puritan theology. Once again, he never strayed from character, but spoke with authority on his subject matter.

Moving on from the village, we came to the craft center, a modern building housing four work stations where craftspeople created clothes, furniture, pottery, and tools. When we walked in, a man with an exceptionally wild beard was giving a presentation on wood carving. His station was wonderful. The floor was completely covered in wood shavings, the walls stacked high with hanging tools and previously carved pieces. All around the room stood pieces of beautiful, carved furniture which presumably this gentleman had made. On the counter in front of the visitors sat books describing what the workman did, how it is historically accurate, how to care for the furniture, among many other facts. Across the walkway there was a full pottery set up chock full of various pots and dishware, many of which had we had already seen in the houses of the village.

Though exhausted and overwhelmed by this point, there was still one more stop to make. A few miles away in the town of Plymouth proper, a recreation of the Mayflower, the Mayflower II, sat anchored at harbor. It was only about a hundred yards or so from the famed Plymouth rock. I got excited as we approached the rock, as there was a stone, Grecian canopy housing it. Then I made the discovery: It’s a rock. From the rock, we went over to the ship and boarded. Once again, reenactors were ready and willing to answer any and all questions about the ship, the 1620 passage, or the strange Halloween decorations adorning the boat (they have a haunted ship event every Halloween). A shocking truth about the Mayflower: it is disturbingly small. I thought, surely, this could not be the true dimensions. But I was wrong. Somehow, that tiny boat held 102 passengers, more than thirty crew, all of their stuff, and possibly some livestock. And this for two months and change! Not only this, but the passengers had to stay below deck for this entire time, cramped and uncomfortable, trying their hardest to comfort and care for each other. Despite the reenactors on board, I still could not even fathom the difficulty of the conditions. The Halloween decorations didn’t help.

I couldn’t believe how much I learned in just one day. And it wasn’t just facts. Facts are bolstered by sensory experiences gathered from visiting the place, talking to the people, hearing the songs they sang, touching the pottery they threw, etc. I got to study their clothes, their homes, their accents. Of course, I cannot know for certain what I would have thought if I had visited Plimoth Plantation when I was little, but to the extent that I still am a kid at heart, I standby that this is one of the best educational models for children of all ages I have ever seen. I would very much like to work to create more of these experiences in the lives of children.

Cops and Robbers Movie

It all started by looking at a bank.  Well, that’s not entirely true because we had been doing things like this all our lives.  But for our purposes,  it started by looking at a bank.  “Doesn’t that bank look like the perfect bank for an old fashioned cops and robbers movie?”  I don’t remember who asked the question, mostly because we all agreed the bank did have that 1920’s demeanor about it, what with its limestone walls, a relief around the top, and the big, gilded fences on the doors.  From that moment my siblings, our friends Maggie and Sam, and I were in complete accord:  We could make an old fashioned cops and robbers movie gosh darnit.

Years went by.  Figures.  The thing was we didn’t want to just bang out a movie, we wanted to do it right, with proper costumes, thoughtful story lines and sets, and an awesome soundtrack.  Such a venture would take time, and time together was what we lacked since four of us were constantly going back and forth between college.  Last September, Maggie went off to the Peace Corps and so once again we would have to wait to pull off our goal.

But the opportunity presented itself last July.  Maggie got leave to come home for 10 days, so the rest of us planned to surprise her with the project and have it all ready to go when she got home.

Finding costumes was my biggest concern.  But as serendipity would have it, the costume store on Broadway two blocks south of Union Station carried everything we needed, including cops hats of various kinds and multiple choices of mustaches.  The mustaches, might I add, all came with fabulous names, including the Casanova and the Charlie Chaplin.  We figured all we needed for the cops were hats and mustaches.  The rest would be made out of black shiny shoes, dark slacks, a blazer with shiny buttons, a large belt worn on top of the blazer around the waste, a collared shirt, and a tie.  Once my brother was fully attired, he put on big, black glasses so that he looked exactly like “My Grandfather, Squigman Paladoris.”  (n.b. if you don’t know that Sandlot reference, go and watch the movie immediately.) The robbers were even easier.  My sister cut eye holes out of strips of fabric which we tied around our heads.  Next, we adorned ourselves with black attire and berets.  We were set to go.

Filming included many a mishap.  The mustaches, despite their cool names, kept falling off the boys’ faces, especially considering how much they were sweating (it was, after all, July) and how the wind picked up toward the end of the day.  Dan eventually lost his, so we had go home and paint one on.  Other troubles included modern day cars drifting in the background.  We tried to limit this as much as we could, but sometimes it couldn’t be helped, especially since we were under a time crunch.  Oh, and Maggie also hit her head on concrete and got really dizzy, but she’s fine now.

Finding music during the editing process proved great fun.  Go to youtube and search for ragtime music and you will get an education in one of America’s greatest musical forms.

By the way, we didn’t end up using the bank.  It was in far too public of a spot with cars and people going by constantly.  Plus, I doubted the bankers and real policemen would think too kindly of our dressing up as robbers and running in and out of the bank.  We used the library instead, because it looks like a bank, kind of.

After much falderal, I am pleased to present you with the finished product!  Though far from perfect, we are rather proud of the result. Enjoy!

Ladies and Gentlemen,

THE REVENGE OF MRS. MERRIWEATHER, A Keystone Knockoff Production.

The Best Fortune Ever!

I just opened up a fortune cookie expecting the usual disappointing piece of paper stating something useless and lacking in pith.  Oh how wrong I was to underestimate the fortune cookie! Check it out!

“You are the crispy noodle in the vegetarian salad of life.”

Score!  But what does it mean??? Why is it just a vegetarian salad?  I like vegetarian salads, but is life lacking in meat on a regular basis in the sense that it lacks a sensation of satisfaction and needs to be supplemented with missing nutrients?  If life is the salad, then what is the entree?  Not only this, but what dressing goes with life?  Do I get a choice of dressings depending on my tastes and moods?  Can I have the dressing on the side? I’m glad I am a crispy noodle…crispy things in salads give the salad a more interesting texture, which I guess means my role in life is to texturize the whole salad…yea.

Slow Motion Wonders

My sister showed me this amazing clip of slow motion spectacles and now I simply must see the whole Discovery series.

It reminded me of that famous Planet Earth Shark footage since it is likely very similar if not the same technology.

Man.  I gotta go practice my photography skills.

What an Open!

The US Open drew to a close yesterday with Juan Martin Del Potro of Argentina defeating defending champion Roger Federer for the Men’s Singles Title. A fabulous five setter, full of drama and suspense, the twenty-year old pulled ahead with a break in the last set to literally bring about an end of an era: the first time Federer lost at the US Open in forty-two matches. And today the world sighs, stunned.

But this wasn’t the only bit of drama this year…ohoho no. This was the kind of edge-of-your-seat tennis that enthusiastic players only dream of. I don’t think fans have been this riled since McEnroe had his famed meltdown of “You Can NOT Be Serious?” in 1891. What with Federer’s stunning loss, Kim Clijster’s enthralling win, and Serena William’s utter meltdown, tennis players and fans are all in a tizzy. I know I am.

I watched most of the Open this year on the computer, thanks to IBM’s marvelous website that allowed viewers to shift between televised courts with ease. Incidentally, my brother had the privilege of working at the Open as a kind of bouncer for the media center. He had a perfect view of the court. And since tennis has certain etiquette prescribing that no one in the stands should be moving around during match play lest the players get distracted, my brother had nothing to do during points but watch center court tennis. In other words, he got paid to watch every single daytime match in Ashe. Can you tell I’m still jealous?

Though I didn’t have Dan’s fortune to be there, I still caught most of the highlights. Here they are:

The Greatest Shot of all Time (or at least of Roger Federer’s life)

Kim Clijster’s win and baby:

Serena’s complete meltdown:

Del Potro’s win

What am I eating?

We went to Sam’s Club today and bought our usual store-made fresh baguettes.  Since they were made in the store, it never occurred to me that they would have anything in them besides flour, water, salt and yeast.  Today I looked at the ingredients for the first time.  Alas, I was oh so naive.

Ingredients:

Unbleached Enriched Flour (Wheat Flour malted barley flour, niacin, reduced iron, thiamin mononitrate, riboflavin, folic acid), water, high fructose corn syrup, salt, yeast, contains 1% or less of: dough conditioners [monoclucerides, diacetyl tartaric acid esters of mono and diglycerides (Datem), ascorbic acid enzyme, azodicarbonamide (ADA), L-Cystein], Guar Gum, Corn Syrup SOlids,  Soybean Oil, Canola Oic, Soy Lecithin, artificial butter flabor, beta carotene (color).  May contain: water, soy protein, propylene clycol, Rice syrup solids, sunflower oil, methylparaben and propylparaben (preservatives), acetylated tartaric Acid Esters of Mono-and diglycerides (emulsifier), methylcellulose, caramel color, sodium phosphate, artificial flavor for aroma enhancement and mixed tocopherols added to protect flavor.

Allergens: Contains soy. This product was manufactured on production lines that also process items which may contain nut ingredients.

Yea.

Perhaps a good rule would be, ‘if you can’t pronounce it, don’t eat it.’  Then again, that rule may not be enough.  A better rule would be, ‘bread should have five or less ingredients.’  An even better rule would be, ‘make your own bread.’

It’s interesting that they explain what some of the ingredients are for: added to protect flavor, flavor aroma enhancement, etc.

That’s nice that they warn people with nut allergies, I guess.