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Running Story Contest 1

EntertainingYourself.com Writing Contest

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April 8, 2011 – AND THE WINNER IS…Joseph Schubert for his Kunming China Running Story.  Joe wins a new pair of his favorite running shoes (Vibram Fivefingers Men’s KSO Treks) – a $150 value!

The entries were amazing and the decision was very close.  We had a tie for 2nd place:  Eli Terris for his Czech Running Story  & our own Megan Ritchie for her Poland Running Story!  Our 2nd place winners have received checks for $75. 

Other notable entries included:  Tammela Platt for her Ukraine Running Story, William Kennedy for his Strasbourg Running Story, & Martin Mudry for his China Running Story.    Look for  our favorite entries to be posted on this site, then DECIDE for yourself who the winner is!

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SEEKING THE BEST RUNNING STORY IN A FOREIGN COUNTRY

EntertainingYourself.com is launching our FIRST EVER* writing contest.  It all started with a comment by Martin – an avid runner, globe trotter and EY Contributor, in response to an article written by Sam, another avid runner, globe trotter and EY Contributor (see Take the Blessing and Run).

Martin suggested a contest for Best Running Story in a Foreign Country.  We loved it and we said YES – Let’s Do It!

We’ve not only invited all of our current EntertainingYourself.com Contributors to submit, but we’ve also opened the competition to other writers/runners too.  Any takers?  If so, submit your Best Running Story in a Foreign Country (in English please) to Contactus@EntertainingYourself.com.

With your permission of course, we’ll post our favorites and select a winner.

Now – about the prize – how about a new pair of shoes? Along with your story, tell us your favorite type of running shoes** and if you are selected as the winner – you’ll be sporting them on the trail and on our Homepage!  To qualify for the shoes, submit your entry by Friday, April 1, 2011.  Assuming we receive some entries,  the winner will be announced and their article featured on our website, one week later, on Friday, April 8, 2011. Supporting pictures are welcome and may increase your chances of winning!

Any questions? Contactus@EntertainingYourself.com

Now all runners…On your marks…

*We’ll see how it goes and if it is a success, then it could be the start of a new tradition.

** 1st Prize is a pair of running shoes of your choice! Maximum prize value up to $150 retail, including taxes and the cost of shipping the shoes to you.  Include your Full Name, Address & e-mail with your entry.

Sam at St. Basils in Moscow.3

Moscow: A Beginner’s Guide

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General Charles de Gaulle at the Cosmos Hotel in Moscow

Attribution: www.kremlin.ru

Picture Attribution: www.kremlin.ru

The last thing I expected to see when I looked out the window of my Moscow hotel room was a ten-story statue of French General Charles de Gaulle. Lenin, maybe (in one of the three USSR-approved poses) or even a sheepish Pushkin mid-recitation, but a former French president was just not in the running. It was mid-October. We had just arrived off the overnight train from St. Petersburg and already things were off to an unexpected beginning. And from that height, staring down at the top of a French General’s head, I could hardly imagine the great depths to which I’d travel to see what I could of this famous Russian city. Almost immediately after l’introduction francaise, we got onto the elevator and went down 17 floors to the main lobby.

Then, we crossed the street and got onto an escalator, transported further downward into the depths of the Moscow underground. Our great descent had begun. For much of the trip, I felt like I was seeing the city from these two vantage points – a bird’s eye gaze and a strained-necked stare upward from the inner belly of the city’s metro system.

For this reason, our final sun-brilliant day walking around Red Square remains fixed in my mind as something beyond beautiful. It seemed like our first time surfacing – our first time looking out instead of up or down. And, at last, I got a sense of what it might be like to walk around this place.

Currently, I live outside of the Ukrainian city that boasts the largest square in Europe, bigger even than Red Square, as I’m often reminded. And while I’m impressed by the enormity of Liberty Square in Kharkov, there is something awe-inspiring about Red Square. Perhaps it’s because turning around in the middle of the cobbled square, you can watch history pass by.

Every 45 degrees brings another example of Muscovite success: Saint Basil’s Cathedral, Gum department store, Lenin’s mausoleum and the Kremlin all zoom by on your self-guided panoramic turn. It can make a person dizzy, standing there and staring out at the long, wide expanse. It makes a person wonder what kind of people inhabited this place where every half-turn leaves you faced with yet another anachronism. Lucky for visitors, you need not look further than the bronze and iron statues that people the city to find your answer.

Much in the Soviet tradition, statues have been erected to everyone and everything here in Moscow. In New York, there’s a Starbucks on every corner; in Moscow, they build historical figures. Not only to the French General, but to war battles, Soviet heroes, composers, fishermen, astronauts, and ballet dancers. When I first moved to Eastern Europe, I didn’t quite understand this tradition. It baffled me – this vehement emphasis that was placed on not only writing about but on physically memorializing history. And not just the big, important moments, oh no. In Poltava, Ukraine, for example, there was a bronze bowl of traditional dumplings erected beside a wooden spoon. Now, I ask you: Do they really need to go to such great lengths to remember what they like to eat?

As previously mentioned, I was suspicious of all those statues. Moscow, however, convinced me of the importance of making things larger than life. Indeed, though at times I felt as if I were walking through a city inhabited entirely by giant, bronze citizens, there wasn’t a moment when I couldn’t hear all of their hearts beating out the events of their collective history. But equally loud were the modern heels of Moscow’s women and the whoosh,whoosh of long coats taken up in gust of wind erupting from metro stops along the cities main arteries.

This same feeling of mixing worlds stayed with me in Moscow. On our first day, I had the best vegetarian food I’d had all year at Avocado Café near Chisty Prudy metro. The creamy butternut squash soup and a dark, green salad made it easy for me to imagine myself sitting at one of those American eateries where Health Food reigns. Sitting here now, in my small Ukrainian village, the memory of such freshness is almost too much to bear. Later, for dinner, we had an outstanding Uzbek pilaf with two kinds of meat and I was riding bareback through Central Asia, in a Persian lamb’s wool cap to save me from the scorching sun.

As a first time visitor to Moscow, I don’t doubt that there are plenty of things I missed; but what I’m sure of is that it is a city worth seeing from both the highest and the lowest geographical points. It’s a city where history and modern life bump up against each other as often as passengers on a trolley car; sometimes one takes notice and apologizes for the intrusion but, most often, each passenger continues on silently toward wherever it is they call home, not noticing the collision of ancient and modern worlds at all.

                                            -Sam-

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Part 2 – The Engagement

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My Engagement
or
How A Procrastinating Pragmatist Rediscovered Romance

Continued from Part 1 – An Engaging Story:   Mid-morning on April 18th I woke up, looked at my phone, then rushed to the laundry room for pants. I had a lunch appointment with my girlfriend’s mom. I needed permission to marry her daughter. The rest of the day would be for ring shopping…

… I had two things remaining on my to do list: 1) find a ring; 2) tell my parents. I didn’t get around to either that day.

It was now April 19th, the day my girlfriend turned 25 and we were meeting for dinner at 6:00. I had a writing assignment due at 3:00. I finished it at 3:01 and drove home from school.

On the family patio I ran into my father balancing our trusty stone fountain with a screwdriver and some pennies. Water started gurgling from the angel faces on all four sides. 

“Dad I’m–getting engaged.”

He stood up. “When?” The angels went silent.

“In two hours.”

“You better tell your mother,” he said. Those were his words anyway, but the look said, “Son, you’ve stepped in it.” 

I took a deep breath and stared at the gaping cherubs on the imbalanced fountain. “Don’t look at us for help,” they seemed to say. “You’ve really done it this time.”

My mother interrupted these reflections by opening the front door. There was no time for a lengthy explanation and the words spilled forth in an unbroken stream.

“Hi Mom I’m getting engaged.”

“That’s…”

“Before you say anything I have to do it in two hours and I don’t have a ring and I really need your help.”

My dad needed to be at work, but he came too. We drove to the downtown jewelry shop where he’d once taken me to buy my girlfriend a silver necklace inlaid with purple-glass. That was the night of junior prom.

“Good afternoon,” my mother said to the jeweler lady, “We’re looking for engagement rings.”

“Congratulations!” she smiled at me sympathetically. “We don’t have a huge selection, but you’re more than welcome.” She removed a case with about 30 rings of assorted shapes and sizes. The prospects were dim. 

After a while my mother picked out an imperial-looking ring whose center stone rose high above two bulbs of carbon. It was quite probably the best of the lot, but it wasn’t good enough.

A procrastinating pragmatist with a heart of gold

“Wait a minute.” I pointed to a better one. “She’d love this.”

It was a band topped by an elongated, angular face with a pearl coming out of the head like a turban or a partially popped piece of corn or an exposed, giant-white brain: A Temple of Doom ring.

“You can’t,” my mom said.

“It’d be kinda funny.”

“An engagement is something a girl never forgets. It’s supposed to be romantic.”

 “It’d just be a place holder…”

“If you buy that, she will say no.”

“…Till I can afford something nicer.”

My dad was extra silent.

“I will tell her to say no,” my mother said.

I nudged her in the “let’s keep our voices down in front of strangers, you’re embarrassing me” way, but she was rolling and there was no stopping her.

I sighed and looked back at the potential symbols of my engagement. I was pretty set on the Temple of Doom ring. I tuned back into my mom. 

“You can’t put everything off,” she concluded.

I glanced once more at the case, and there they were: five small diamonds shining from a gold setting that looked white, but proved yellow on closer inspection. It was modest. It was elegant.

I plucked the ring from the lackluster assembly. My mom looked pleased.

“That’s the one.”

“That’s pretty good,” my dad said.

The jeweler placed it on a measuring rod. “Size six and a half, but I can have it resized by next week.”

“That won’t be necessary. I need it in an hour.” The ring was a perfect fit. Or pretty close. “I’m meeting her for dinner downtown.”

“Wonderful!” said the jeweler. “Where’d you make your reservation?”

***

I brushed the lint off my black jacket and tied the knot on the skinny tie my girlfriend likes with a few minutes to spare.  The ring was in the cookie box. The cookie box was in a bag.

I picked her up on time, and my girlfriend and I drove back to the downtown and parked outside its nicest restaurant. The jeweler had called ahead to save us a place. 

“This is so nice,” my girlfriend said.

And it was. Over our food we debated the merits of BBC’s Pride and Prejudice miniseries versus the Hollywood production and laughed and cast people from our high school in roles from Anna Karenina. I brushed the bag under the table with my foot and felt confident.

It was very dark when we finished, but not cold. Outside I placed my jacket over my girlfriend’s shoulder’s and asked if we could go for a walk. We strolled beneath the old iron street lamps, past the cluttered display of the jewelry shop, the town hall and the pizza place we’d been to on a chaperoned date. We walked past the watch maker’s corner shop and turned toward the wooden-planked bridge that leads to a small park. I heard water meandering down the creek bed.

One night after class as a 17-year old I’d walked to my girlfriend’s house on the county line to say “I love you” for the first time, but I’d known it in this little park before that, leaning on a railing and listening to the stream beneath the cool redwoods.

We crossed the bridge and I felt nervous for the first time that day. Beside the railing I took out the cookie box.

“I got you a present. Something small.”

“You did?”

“Well, your mom went to Paris and I asked her to get those macaroons you always talk about.”

“Awwww.”

She took the box and balanced it on the rail to give me a hug. It tottered for a moment.

“Let’s take a step back,” I said.

I grabbed it, handed it to her once more and as she peered inside I lowered myself onto one knee. She saw the ring, then saw me looking up at her.

“Will you marry me?” I asked.

I looked at her face. She didn’t say anything, but I got the feeling I’d just drank something very warm except in reverse, starting in my stomach and moving to my chest. She was crying. I stood up. 

“Yes,” she said.

Did I tell her how much I loved her and how happy she’d made me right there and then? No. I smiled and wrapped my arm around her. I had the rest of my life for that and I didn’t want to spoil this moment with words.

-Will-

A Procrastinating Pragmatist With A Heart of Gold

Part 1 – An Engaging Story

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A Procrastinating Pragmatist With A Heart of Gold

My Engagement

or

How A Procrastinating Pragmatist

Rediscovered Romance

I was romantic once.

It was late summer and I’d been walking with my girlfriend of somewhere-between-eight-and-nine-years down a rolling, park single-track. We’d climbed the dusty hill, descended the empty river bed and were just passing the riding ring and red barn of a stable I know intimately. It was where my mother brought my sister and me as children, ostensibly to pet and feed horses, but actually to inoculate us against farm diseases. 

The stables smelled of old redwood, dry hay, and also of horse manure, which as manures go is quite pleasant. And I felt quite pleasant, even though she and I were fighting.

It was one of those arguments, where problem A (I’d ditched her friends) was presented as the issue when in fact it was problem B (we weren’t engaged). I was winning.

As I petted a mare that searched my hand fruitlessly for something good to eat, my girlfriend broached the real subject.

“All I want,” she said, “is a sign that you are committed to this relationship and to me and that we have a future together.”

It was a very practical thing to say, and “Be pragmatic” had recently become an unofficial motto, a companion to the official: “When in doubt, procrastinate.” These may be difficult to reconcile, but I can be persistent.

“Listen,” I said, “give me one year and I’ll do it.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

We’d reached the edge of the park and were walking quietly past a bulldozer idling on a vacant lot when I had a flash of inspiration. I would propose on her birthday, April 19th. She’d like it. It would be romantic. It would be easy to remember.

At that moment I was excited. I was committed. Then I forgot.

***

Mid-morning on April 18th I woke up, looked at my phone, then rushed to the laundry room for pants. I had a lunch appointment with my girlfriend’s mom. I needed permission to marry her daughter. The rest of the day would be for ring shopping.

Seated across from the woman who’d once found you in your underwear, hiding in her daughter’s closet, might be intimidating for some, but not for me, until it came time to propose the big pre-question. 

“I’d like to ask your daughter to marry me tomorrow, but I wanted to ask you first.”

 “Awww, that’s nice,” she said. “Why should I let you?”

She looked at me keenly. I was unprepared and didn’t ace the response.

 “Well, it’s a responsible thing to do… it’s important to have commitment… it’s been such a long time…”  Then I rallied for a solid B-. “When it comes down to it, we really care for each other.”

I’d come out of the lunch date with more than I had going in and felt good walking my future mother-in-law to her car. I’d received her blessing, plus she’d improved my proposal plan. Instead of handing over a simple ring box, I would hide it in a second box filled with my girlfriend’s favorite Parisian macaroons, which they just happened to have at home.

I held the car door open for my girlfriend’s mom.

“I’m so happy for you,” she said, “But a taqueria? Couldn’t you have chosen a nicer place?” 

“Yeah, but I didn’t want to give any illusions about the kind of guy I am.”

***

To Be Continued –  in Part 2: The Engagement

-Will-

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<3 At First Bite

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“Just made brownies.” 

This fb post set off a string of comments (not to mention a couple dozen “Likes”)

–Mmmmmmm.

–YUMMY!

–On my way over…

–Wish I were there

–Need to make some NOW too!

–WOOT!

— <3

So what is it about brownies that make them so evocative?  Let’s start with the smell.   If you’ve ever baked brownies (or been in the kitchen of someone who has) the aroma is unmistakable and almost universally appreciated.  That sweet smell of cocoa lingers in your mind long after the last brownie has been gobbled up.  In fact, the smell is so appealing that in some ways, it surpasses the actual brownies themselves! (in some ways!)

Then there is texture and style.  Brownies can be cakelike or chewy!  They can be loaded with nuts, m&m’s, caramels, marshmallows, coconut, chocolate chips, toffee, butterscotch and/or vanilla morsels, to name a few.  They can be served frosted, double frosted, powdered sugared or straight from the pan.

And they can be dressed up or down, depending on the occasion.

Take Valentine’s Day.  Brownies are a perfect alternative to the traditional box of chocolates.

Why?  Because they are delicious and because presumably, someone went out of their way to make them. 

Ironically, it doesn’t take an expert baker to produce good brownies.  The best advice for novices – buy a box mix!  Pillsbury, Duncan Hines and Betty Crocker haven’t spent decades perfecting their recipes for nothing!   A couple of eggs, half cup of oil, quarter cup of water – good to go.  How easy is that?

Their recipes are so fool proof that even accidentally switching the measurements for oil and water still yielded tasty (not to mention low fat) brownies! (hey – not necessarily recommending it – just sayin’!)

Load them up with goodies; suddenly they become “gourmet.”  Decorate them with colorful candies, like hearts for Valentine’s Day, and voila – instant holiday fare.  Get creative: avant garde artiste.   Few foods offer so much opportunity for this kind of freedom and still come out delicious.

Given the assignment to “bring something to share” to a party or picnic, brownies are a sure winner!  Unlike cookies, they are quick and easy to make – throw them in a pan and bake for half hour and you’re done.  And unlike their close cousin – cake – they are easy to eat. They don’t require silverware, leave many crumbs, or make fingers sticky. Even if several other people show up with brownies in hand, by the end of the night, no one is taking them home.  Plus they don’t spoil, so if by some chance they are left over after sitting out for hours, that’s just a bonus because they only get better with age (at least for the first few days after they’re baked).

That’s not to say  they can’t be served formally.  Decorate them in the pan and throw on a few candles; you’ve got a birthday cake!  Add a scoop of ice cream, a spoonful of hot fudge, caramel and/or chocolate sauce and a dollop of whipped cream, toss on a few slivered almonds and you have now created a gourmet dessert worthy of the finest restaurants.   Talk about versatile!

-Nancy-

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Discover the Dried Fig

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It’s winter. The colors are stark and poetic, but aside from that it’s cold and wet. In Boston, it’s been storm after storm, almost like clockwork. I have become accustomed to my car’s windshield scraper, to bringing that extra pair of shoes, to cracked cuticles and chapped lips and long underwear.

But I’ve also become accustomed to scouring my pantry, as winter is such a wonderful time to cook.  To turn down the thermostat to save on oil costs and turn on the oven as the back-up heating source. What has the pantry uncovered? Figs. Beautiful and versatile, dried figs have seduced me. And not just me – figs are believed to be the first plant ever cultivated by humans.

The best dried figs I ever tasted came from a spice market in Istanbul, Turkey.

An old man with white hair and a tattered blazer was selling them by the box. Unlike the other vendors at the spice market who had stands and/or shops brimming with every sort of spice and dried fruit you could imagine heaped into colorful piles, this man was only selling figs. Maybe illegally. I bought a box of these figs for five Turkish Lira, about three US dollars; it weighed about two pounds and contained the largest most beautiful dried figs I’ve ever laid eyes on. As the day wore on and my friend Samantha and I walked around the buzzing, intricate streets of Istanbul, we snacked on these figs, letting their honey-like stickiness cover our fingers. They had the distinct nutty crunch which comes from the seeds of the fruit, made possible by the special fig wasp who coevolved with the fig over millions of years.

I became so enamored with the figs I even tried to justify going back to the market and buying ten more boxes to ship home. But Sam talked me out of it, fortunately.

Because while these Turkish figs, of the Smyrna variety, were amazing, you can find pretty good figs back home on US soil. California figs are good. Look for a variety called “Calimyrna figs” which is a relative of the Smyrna fig. Calimyrna figs are quite large when fresh, and, if dried properly, retain a lot of flavor.

The flavor of a dried fig, like many dried fruits, is that distinct sweetness, like a brown sugar, and a nuttiness, like that of toasted almonds or pecans. A fresh fig, albeit hard to come by, is alternately slightly citrusy, with the sweetness of a fruity port. Fresh figs are a rare delicacy (at least in my corner of the Northern hemisphere) but dried figs are readily available in the dried fruit sections of most supermarkets. Sometimes they are packaged in a round, pressed together like a pinwheel, or else packaged in a long rectangular box. I usually go with the ones that feel slightly soft to the touch. The ones that get TOO dried out can be reconstituted with a little hot water, but generally aren’t as tasty.

What to do with dried figs?

There are certainly an endless number of ways you can bake with dried figs, chopping them up and putting them in muffins or tea-breads, or mashing them up and mixing them with honey and then making some delicious homemade granola.

But I prefer using dried fruit in savory applications, because I think it’s more interesting. Think bacon wrapped dates or salted caramels or chocolate covered peanuts. Sweet meets salty is one of my favorite flavor combinations. Combining dried figs with cured olives is one way to accomplish this.

On a recent winter night, I recalled a recipe for tapenade my sister-in-law shared with me in Brooklyn. It’s about the least-complicated and most delicious tapenade I’ve ever tasted, and a go-to for an easy appetizer for a dinner or cocktail party.

 FIG-WALNUT TAPENADE

             Ingredients:

1 cup pitted kalamata olives

4-5 dried calimyrna figs, stems removed

1/4 cup toasted walnuts*

            a little bit of olive oil

Place all ingredients in a food processor and blend until combined. Add a little olive oil if it seems too thick. Serve with pieces of crusty french bread or crackers. Also delicious as a sandwich spread!

Tips: If the figs feel dry and stiff, put them in a bowl with a little hot water to soften them, then chop them up.

*Best way to toast walnuts is in the toaster oven, but keep an eye on them because they’ll burn easily.

Bonus: Figs are a great source of calcium and fiber.

~Claire~

Fig Leaf Enhancing a Marvelous Turkish View

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Throwin’ Down

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Title: New Year's Eve! Artist: Rosemary B Mudry Painted: 2002, Oil on Canvas

There are party goers and party throwers.  There are amazing stars that shine at both and duds who’d best just stick to dinner and a movie.  What determines success?  How much fun was had by all. 

Consider Robin, a consummate party thrower. She loves throwing parties, but even more, Robin loves planning parties.  Before she has completed one party, she already has 3 or 4 more under construction.  Themes and events stream through her brain at rapid speed and inspiration is found everywhere.  She has a list of people she relies upon to get the job done and she knows who to call for everything.  Need a cake?  Ask Robin and she’ll provide the top 5 bakeries to contact.  Looking for tables and chairs? She knows who to call and how much it’ll cost (if anything).  Need a prop?  She’ll check her “closet.”

The Party Closet - that is – a common element among party throwers.  This space is dedicated to housing props, gifts, costumes and anything else that screams PAR -TEE!  These items are not frivolous.  Expert party throwers are not pack rats. They are selective about what they keep on hand, knowing exactly what is required for the perfect party and impossible to find on short notice.  Everything in the party closet is used at some point or it gets passed along, and not every closet is the same.  Each depends on the unique interests of the party givers.  For example, there may be gowns, tuxedos, table linens, western gear, wigs, folding chairs, assorted hats, palm trees, cake pans, crystal, paper plates, jewelry, strobe lights…the list is diverse and seemingly infinite. 

Robin shops all year, looking for bargains that may come in handy for a future event.  She’s bought Swarovski crystal and iPods at rock bottom prices knowing that they will make perfect prizes for a raffle or contest.  She’s found curtains, lamps, chairs and a sundry of inflatable’s to suit every conceivable backdrop. 

One time it was an in-door beach party, complete with sand, trees and water (beach attire required, despite the minus zero temperatures outside).  Another time it was a Red-Carpet Oscar party, complete with what else?  A red carpet (lined with Paparazzi) and Oscars (awarded through a traditional envelope opening ceremony) for all the guests!

“Parties take work.”

“They cost a lot of money.”

“It is impossible to make everybody happy.”

“There is always a crisis.”

“Throwing a party is exhausting and thankless.” Really?

Not according to Robin.  Throwing parties is pure delight and she hosts parties to entertain herself!  She enjoys every minute of it, from the first idea to the day after clean-up.  A last minute crisis to others is an opportunity for her to tap into that unending reservoir of ideas, props and resources.  Friends and acquaintances come out of the wood work to help her prepare and clean up with the hope that they will end up on the next guest list or get a referral from her in the future. And she is always ready to step-in to save the day for others – that’s just what party throwers do!

Excuses don’t fly with Robin because it’s not about the venue, any locale can be party ready.  She regularly moves furniture in and out of her bungalow style house to accomodate her theme.  It’s not about the money, finding ways to party on the cheap is part of the thrill.  And it’s certainly not about hiring someone else to do it for her.  That would absolutely defeat the purpose.  According to Robin, there is only one real reason to throw a party – and that’s simply for the fun of it!  Stick to that premise and the rest will fall perfectly into place. 

~Nancy~

 

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Dipping Delectable Delights

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It all started when we were in Kindergarten.  Our mom wanted us to feel like we were part of the gift giving process, but she didn’t want our teachers to end up with something they had absolutely no interest in.  Someone suggested to her that dipping strawberries was really very easy and the next thing you know, a tradition (a hobby?) had started.

The beauty of dipping strawberries is that it is really the easiest thing in the world, but everyone feels they are receiving something very special.  Of course, it is critical to mention that this is only a universal truth if you use good chocolate and decent strawberries.  We say decent because the chocolate will hide some imperfections.   But if you use bad chocolate or a rotten strawberry, you can be sure that the whole bunch will be tossed in the trash, (this year and in subsequent years), because nobody is going take that risk twice! 

We were told to “only buy Merckens” because it was the best.  Everyone seems to love it and it is easy to use, so we continue to buy it.  There may be other good alternatives – we just don’t know them!

Anyway, that first year, the strawberries were such a big hit with the teachers, we decided to do it again the following Christmas.

By then, since strawberries were in short supply, we had seen some beautiful pretzels in an expensive catalog and we decided to branch out.  During our first foray into the chocolate mess, we discovered that after you dip the strawberry in the chocolate, it takes awhile for it to stop dripping.

So, if you are not careful, you will drizzle chocolate all over the other strawberries on the tray.  Not a big deal when you are using the same kind of chocolate, but if you decide to start dipping in say, white chocolate, you have suddenly created a slightly modified concoction.  No worries, we discovered…it actually transforms them from ordinary to extraordinary!  We now purposely drizzle in white, dark and milk!

And we’ve branched out beyond strawberries and pretzels.  We’ve dipped Oreo cookies (we like double stuffed), grapes, raisins, miniature marshmallows, caramel squares, peanuts, roasted pecans and almonds (salted are best), potato chips, peanut butter stuffed pretzels…honestly, if it appeals to you, give it a try.  You may end up inventing your own delectable delight.

Then, if you’re feeling like you want to add a few creative touches, not only can you drizzle more chocolate, you can also cover them in colorful sprinkles, chopped nuts, chopped toffee, other crushed candy, and little candy decorations, to name a few. Once again, imagination is key, and if it appeals to you, it will probably appeal to others too.  Lately we’ve seen advertisements for chocolates sprinkled with sea salt.  We haven’t tried it, but it is probably good.

The complements and comments over the years have been amazing.  We are now in our twenties, but when we run into former teachers and friends from the past, they still tell us they remember those hand-dipped chocolates and they ask if we’re still making them. When we say yes, they sigh and give a big smile.

So would you call this a hobby?  While not something we do all the time, it is something we like to do now and again, particularly at Christmas.  For us, it is a nice alternative (or complement) to traditional cookies.  Both are good and have their place, but if you are looking for a fool proof, easy recipe, you can’t beat dipping chocolates for a fabulous change of pace.  Our melting process calls for putting the chocolate disks in a microwave safe bowl and melting on high for one (1) minute.  Take out the bowl, stir and then return for shorter intervals (30 seconds, then 15 seconds, then 10 seconds).  You do not want to over heat the chocolate because that changes the consistency and ruins the flavor (learned that the hard way).  So don’t get impatient and try to heat for longer intervals.  (If you ask at the store where you buy the chocolate, you’ll no doubt find an expert there that will be happy to give you all kinds of advice).  And if you don’t use all the chocolate that you’ve bought, it can be frozen for another time.    Video of Dipping Strawberries (note: glass of wine and music are optional!)

Our only problem:  they have become so popular that we end up making what feels like thousands.  So be prepared to find a place to store them (you want to keep them cool) and to package them so they stay fresh.  Or just make enough for yourself and ENJOY!  You really can’t go wrong.

Short Video of Dipping

NOAA Map of US for 12.13.10

Sunny Spot: MIDWEST, USA

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NOAA Map of US for 12.13.10

SHOUT OUT to our fans in the MIDWEST, USA.   First let us say that  in the world of EntertainingYourself.com, a Sunny Spot is really a state of mind.  Therefore, not every Sunny Spot is necessarily warm, or even sunny for that matter!  In the Midwest this week, you are in the midst of a Winter Wonderland! Perfect for Entertaining Yourself indoors and out!  With so many flights cancelled, traffic delays, school and business closings, not to mention really chilly temperatures (friends in South Dakota reported wind chills of minus 35degrees F) it makes sense that many of you would be snuggling up inside, sipping hot chocolate and what else?  Surfing the web of course!    

Then there are the brave souls that are willing to bundle up and get outside.  We’ve heard tales of 7 -10 ft drifts in places like Wisconsin and Minnesota, with snow quickly piling up in the Dakotas, Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, Michigan and Ohio too!   

 

 If you dare, it is the perfect weather for hiking, snowshoeing, cross country and downhill skiing, snowboarding, tobogganing, sledding, snowmobiling, skating and the old standby’s: building snowmen and waging snow ball fights!   

Once you’ve had a chance to warm up again, we’d love to hear from you.  What’s your favorite way of entertaining yourself on a cold snowy day? 

-EY Staff 

ps:  Over the coming weeks and months, EntertainingYourself.com will showcase indoor, as well as outdoor, recreational activities and hobbies.  Look for articles ranging from Brewing Beer to playing indoor Hockey (both ice and field)!  Stay tuned… 

 

Milky Lookalike Portrait

The Zone and the Art of Goat Milking

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It took sweat, tears and getting peed on, but this month I learned how to milk a goat. It wouldn’t have been possible without a lesson I learned at eight years old inside a dim elementary school gymnasium, when I first experienced “the zone.” I’m sure you’re familiar with it—that mindset that transports you to a state of potent, yet effortless focus.

I was toeing the free throw line to practice shooting, growing increasingly frustrated by a series of misses. Everything distracted me: the old building’s echo; dust particles in the light; my dad’s firm reassurances.  

After one particularly bad miss, he stopped me.

“Let’s take a break,” he said.

We walked outside to a tanbark playground and sat, looking at the dry hills for awhile. My dad asked if I was excited about the house we were moving into.

“Well yeah,” I said. “It’s got so much space.”

“Did you explore with your sister?”

“Around the house a little. The neighbor girl played tag with us.”

“It’s a good place for sports” he said. “Maybe we’ll build a basketball hoop there.”

“I think I want to be a baseball player.”

My dad laughed. “Come on. Let’s give it one more try.” He slapped my shoulder. I was feeling pretty good.

Inside, I stepped to the free-throw line once more, took three deep breaths, bent my knees and made my first shot. And my next one. Then I couldn’t miss. It was better than that; it was like the ball couldn’t even touch the rim. The walls reverberated with swoosh after satisfying swoosh.

 “You’re in the zone son,” my dad said.

The next shot went up, way wide. That was lesson number two about the zone—when you’ve got it, don’t think about it.

Over the next 17 years my family and an assortment of pets grew into our house, and I had plenty of opportunities to get into the zone. It helped me pull weeds in the garden; helped replant the flowers I mistakenly yanked, and helped me shoot baskets in the backyard. It also came in handy when I came home from college one summer and constructed a goat pen for some new residents.

 I can rarely recall needing it more, however, than earlier this month when my parents left for a summer weekend in Yosemite and I had to milk a goat for the first time. And not just any goat. Milky. So named by my sister for her whitish complexion, though she could have also been called “Kicky,” or “Obstinance” or “Stumpy” for a variety of her other traits.

“There’s no way that’s a goat,” my mom told my sister when she brought the scrappy looking creature home, believing for months it was a pig, and eventually a sheep.

But Milky proved her genetics when she gave birth to three very cute baby goats last month. To keep the milk flowing and our fridge stocked after the kids were weaned, my mom and dad went out every morning to milk her, until it was just me home alone.

My practice run the day before my parents departure ended very badly. I squeezed, Milky’s udder and nothing came out. I squeezed harder and she had bucked and rocked. I squeezed one more time and she peed on my hand.

“She’s never done that before,” said my Mom.

“Aaaahhhhhh,” I said.

“Oh well,” she said.

“Aaahhhahhh aahhha hahhhh,” I said.

My parents finished the job while I cleaned my hands off, thinking about the mess I would be in the next day. I returned to watch the last stages, and hopefully pick up a few tips from my mom. Milking a goat is not a difficult process. You gentle push the udder to guide the milk into one of the teets, clamp it with thumb and forefinger so the liquid doesn’t retract, and gradually squeeze down with your middle and ring fingers to push the milk out.

If you’re bad at this, it produces a meager drizzle of milk. If you are good, it’s more of a stream that hits the milking pan in a satisfying shower. For the experienced milker, it’s a 10 minute job; for the inexperienced one, it’s half-an-hour plus.

Probably the real challenge is getting the goat to cooperate, and handling the assorted goaty smells.

Before my mom left, she gave me some good advice.

“You’ve just got to get in the zone,” she said. 

The zone. Of course. But easier said than done.

The next day I should’ve done the milking at sunrise, but overslept and had to go to my sister’s house to help her build a fence. When I next looked at my watch, it was 5:35 p.m.  and I’d left Milky with a near bursting udder for an entire day.

She let me know about it when I finally got home with a bleating that started strong but faded to a whimper. I lured her onto the milk stand with some grain and fastened her in. I don’t know the exact consequences of not milking goats at the right time, but the way she wavered uncomfortably on her perch, it looked bad. As I started, the more she stomped and kicked, the more I started to feel the pressure. If I didn’t pull it together, my situation and that of the animal I was supposed to be helping, was bound to get worse.

But the goat did not seem to be in a cooperative mood. With each squeeze of her udders only a few drips of white fluid came out. My arms and wrists grew tired. A goat of her size typically yields three cups of milk; my efforts had produced a quarter teaspoon.

I stopped for a break and went to cut some rose branches.

“Alright Milky,” I said. “We can do this.”

I put her favorite food in front of her and took three deep breaths, then started again. The milk came out a little faster, the strain on my arms was less severe and then the sound of the milk hitting the pail became hypnotic.  And there I was—in the zone.

I squeezed Milky’s udder once more and nothing came out, this time because the bag was empty. Milky seemed content as she walked back to her pen and I returned to the house to strain the milk and have some with a bowl of cereal.

My mom and dad returned two days later.

“How’d it go,” they asked.

“Easy,” I said.

Really though, I’m not taking anything for granted. They’re headed out of town in a few days and I’m prepping for another visit to the milking stand and the zone.  

-Will

postscript:  Time has passed and Will is now a “semi” pro at milking Milky – look for the long video version of “How to Milk a Goat” under EntertainingYourself – Hip Hobbies. It’s sure to entertain – at least for a bit!