Fairytale

The weekend was weirdly magical — not like I was walking around in a Harry Potter novel or anything, and it wasn’t particularly cheesy romantic, but I’ll tell you, Vermont is something. Some days I think that if we’re ever forced to move that someone is going to drag me out by my hair, although I’m guessing I’d willingly go anywhere in the middle of January when our driveway is an ice skating rink and our car doors are frozen shut. It’s easy to love Vermont in the springtime when it’s all lush verdant lawns and rolling hills and shit. Winter … winter might be hard. Cross-country skiing and snowshoeing will only get you so far, Winter.

Saturday, we found ourselves in the middle of nowhere, as is incredibly easy to do around here, no kidding. If you were to get in the car and drive on any number of roads except for one, you are almost guaranteed to find yourself in the middle of vague wilderness with nary a gas station or convenience store in sight. I mean, there is literally miles and miles of nothingness and the occasional farm. If you think about it, it’s kind of panic-inducing: I live in an island of civilization surrounded by … nothing. Like, if my whole town were to BURN DOWN, we’d have to drive at least an hour and a half to get anything resembling decent pickles, you know?

This random turn of events is precisely how we ended up having lunch at a corner hotel-slash-restaurant that resembled the Bates Motel and was run by a proprietor straight out of a Steinbeck novel, complete with tanned skin and arresting crinkly blue eyes. His fingers were stained and calloused from working outside; he said the reubens were good, and they were — perhaps the best in my whole life, in fact. It was a cool 70 degrees outside and the sun shone over the mountains around us as we ate on the rickety old porch, and when he offered pie at the end of the meal, it took every ounce of restraint I had not to order a slice of each. It is one of the weekend’s biggest regrets, that I turned down that pie, but it remains one of the best meals I’ve ever enjoyed.

We took a leisurely drive and drove until our butts couldn’t take it anymore, through rolling hills and bucolic pastures and field upon field filled with cows and horses of every color, and even passed a camel grazing peacefully among some sheep. We covered at least a quarter of the state, in fact, and did I mention that I forgot my camera? Yes. Shit.

Speaking of farms and cows, I helped a friend move stuff out of her family’s estate house today and on our way there, we passed a farm with a series of tiny huts next to a hillside pasture. She casually pointed out the window and said, “Veal!” and continued the conversation like nothing had happened. At which point I stopped her, because OMG. VEAL. I’m not one to proselytize about anything meat-related — I eat it, with relish, and you’d be hard-pressed to convince me otherwise — and I’m loath to admit that I have eaten veal on many occasions in my life, but GAH GAH GAH the huts! The tiny huts! It was a little too real, and imagining the baby cows in there was just too … well. Let’s just say it will be a long time before I eat veal again, if ever.

I’m sure I’d say the same thing about beef if I ever visited a slaughterhouse, although it’s interesting to note that I was entirely unaffected by Fast Food Nation, as I think I’ve mentioned before. In fact, I had the complete opposite reaction with FFN and spent the majority of the book craving a McDonald’s cheeseburger, even with pages and pages of text outlining why that should be verboten, or at least grotesquely unappealing. I have a sinking feeling that witnessing it is an entirely different experience from reading about it, however, as proven by the hut experience. I mean, I knew how veal was uh, raised, but … well. The huts. They haunt me. And I didn’t even see inside the huts.

Incidentally I’m hoping that the difference of reading vs. witnessing will once again work in my favor, as I’m currently reading The Omnivore’s Dilemma which, if history is any indication, will have me craving food with copious amounts of corn syrup and grass-fed beef.

The house I visited today, by the way, was incredible, and has been in my friend’s family for three generations, and the contents go back much further than that. I sifted through boxes of 17th century instruments and toys and family silver mixed with World War II fatigues and combat photographs from the Vietnam War. The contents are currently being packaged for an estate sale and the home itself is being sold for a fraction of its value due to a family dispute. The property includes the town’s original general store, which closed in 1967 and there’s still a hitching post out front from … well, the olden days, is the best way I can say it. If anyone’s in the market for an underpriced (seriously, you would die) rickety old mansion with a sweeping foyer of Tara’s proportions on three acres that are perfect for vineyards, please let me know, because my God, I’d buy it if I could. Also? I forgot to bring my camera there, too. Shit.

And not to abruptly change gears, but two things I’ve been meaning to tell you. First, if you’re starting to read Elizabeth Berg out of nowhere, don’t start with The Year of Pleasures. At least if your name isn’t Lawyerish, for I got this to her too late and she’d already bought it. I just finished it and … well, it’s decent — the writing is good — but it is in no way her best. I’d be disappointed if you didn’t read her again because it didn’t meet your expectations. The Katie Nash series is a good place to start there.

Secondly, every single night cream I’ve tried has made me break out, with the exception of (drumroll) Night of Olay. Yes, the oldest, most low-tech cream on the market has become the only thing I can use without waking up with underground zits so powerful it’s like the monsters from Tremors have unleashed beneath the surface. And, in nature’s cruelest joke, if I DON’T moisturize, I end up with unhappy skin that looks like bits of pepperoni have gathered on my forehead and cheeks. Mario Badescu wasn’t a total wash, however, because I love their drying cream and special cucumber lotion. (PUT THE LOTION IN THE BASKET.)

Have a great Monday!

*Sara Bareilles

21 comments May 18th, 2008