Saturday morning.
No, we did not attend the Emerald RV Park Pancake Breakfast from 8:30-9:30 in the pavilion. In a flash of brilliant adaptation to key ingredients and motor home cooking, I used some of the bread we brought with us from the Hungry Ghost in Northampton to make Torn French Toast. Ah, you might say, sounds like bread pudding to me.
But no. I am not fond of the motor home oven. The lighting of it. The uncertainty. Or in this case, the waiting. So I am for now, a stovetop cook. I left my flour at home.
And the bread: in preparation for the trip, I bought and froze some favorite loaves. We moved them in a cardboard box from our freezer to our auxiliary trip freezer—the back of the Rav. This was adequate until we arrived in Florida, where I have to admit that although it is chilly, it is warmer than we have experienced for weeks.
Though we eat a slice of toast with our righteous, almost daily bowl of oatmeal, there is bread that must be eaten or lost. Thus, French toast. But this artisan bread is dense, crusty, and full of holes; deep penetration by the egg-milk soak is lengthy if not impossible. Which inspired creativity with little regard for aesthetic presentation—a not-uncommon adaptation of motor home living. I rapidly tore the bread, shook it in the egg-milk, let it sit awhile, and finally poured the mass into my smallish hot buttered round iron griddle. I alternately poked pieces delicately or mashed the lumpy mound forcefully into a single-layered oozing giant cake, knowing all along that when it came time to turn it, my golden Torn French Toast round would disintegrate.
Still, in these creative endeavors, although the vision might not fully materialize, there is great joy in the initial idea. And joy in the maple syrup on the plate. And a little surge of satisfaction to see Phu-Phu—who has a great enthusiasm for pork, chicken, steak, and dog biscuits—eagerly consuming the 4 pieces of torn toast I gave him when our own plates were clean.
All of this is a distraction from the fact that we are in Florida. It is raining hard. (In fact, this is the storm that is predicted to move up to Massachusetts, bringing snow on Sunday.) The little tree outside my window is swaying continuously. There is a constant ssshh and battering of water on metal over our heads. And the palms are blowing and blowing. The motor home is not affected by the high winds. But there is a steady drip from the skylight above the toilet. The usual rhythm of dogs being walked at intervals has ceased. I know the management is expecting all of this rain and wind to stop in time for the Dog Parade on Sunday at 1pm.
As for Samual Dogg and Puppy Phu-Phu—I doubt that they will be participating. From what I overheard in the office yesterday afternoon, it sounds a little clique-ish. The woman behind the desk was saying to a woman volunteering to help that everyone gets a prize. Great.
But then, when she mentioned one of the awards—Dog Most Likely To Pee On A Tire—both ladies simultaneously named a resident dog and chuckled. I could see then that Sam and Phu-Phu didn't have a chance for any meaningful recognition. Sure, it all makes sense. We are strangers here. Short-timers. Not admitted, committed Snowbirds. So they can't begin to know the creative talents of our "little fur-bearers." That's just how things work in this arena.
And we'll get over it. We're leaving Tuesday morning, heading North-east toward Fayetteville, Arkansas. Back into winter.
No, we did not attend the Emerald RV Park Pancake Breakfast from 8:30-9:30 in the pavilion. In a flash of brilliant adaptation to key ingredients and motor home cooking, I used some of the bread we brought with us from the Hungry Ghost in Northampton to make Torn French Toast. Ah, you might say, sounds like bread pudding to me.
But no. I am not fond of the motor home oven. The lighting of it. The uncertainty. Or in this case, the waiting. So I am for now, a stovetop cook. I left my flour at home.
And the bread: in preparation for the trip, I bought and froze some favorite loaves. We moved them in a cardboard box from our freezer to our auxiliary trip freezer—the back of the Rav. This was adequate until we arrived in Florida, where I have to admit that although it is chilly, it is warmer than we have experienced for weeks.
Though we eat a slice of toast with our righteous, almost daily bowl of oatmeal, there is bread that must be eaten or lost. Thus, French toast. But this artisan bread is dense, crusty, and full of holes; deep penetration by the egg-milk soak is lengthy if not impossible. Which inspired creativity with little regard for aesthetic presentation—a not-uncommon adaptation of motor home living. I rapidly tore the bread, shook it in the egg-milk, let it sit awhile, and finally poured the mass into my smallish hot buttered round iron griddle. I alternately poked pieces delicately or mashed the lumpy mound forcefully into a single-layered oozing giant cake, knowing all along that when it came time to turn it, my golden Torn French Toast round would disintegrate.
Still, in these creative endeavors, although the vision might not fully materialize, there is great joy in the initial idea. And joy in the maple syrup on the plate. And a little surge of satisfaction to see Phu-Phu—who has a great enthusiasm for pork, chicken, steak, and dog biscuits—eagerly consuming the 4 pieces of torn toast I gave him when our own plates were clean.
All of this is a distraction from the fact that we are in Florida. It is raining hard. (In fact, this is the storm that is predicted to move up to Massachusetts, bringing snow on Sunday.) The little tree outside my window is swaying continuously. There is a constant ssshh and battering of water on metal over our heads. And the palms are blowing and blowing. The motor home is not affected by the high winds. But there is a steady drip from the skylight above the toilet. The usual rhythm of dogs being walked at intervals has ceased. I know the management is expecting all of this rain and wind to stop in time for the Dog Parade on Sunday at 1pm.
As for Samual Dogg and Puppy Phu-Phu—I doubt that they will be participating. From what I overheard in the office yesterday afternoon, it sounds a little clique-ish. The woman behind the desk was saying to a woman volunteering to help that everyone gets a prize. Great.
But then, when she mentioned one of the awards—Dog Most Likely To Pee On A Tire—both ladies simultaneously named a resident dog and chuckled. I could see then that Sam and Phu-Phu didn't have a chance for any meaningful recognition. Sure, it all makes sense. We are strangers here. Short-timers. Not admitted, committed Snowbirds. So they can't begin to know the creative talents of our "little fur-bearers." That's just how things work in this arena.
And we'll get over it. We're leaving Tuesday morning, heading North-east toward Fayetteville, Arkansas. Back into winter.
posted by Susan at 10:19 AM
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