This is probably a dad joke

I bought my dad an egg separator.

This is not a revolutionary gift by any means. Like many things related to my family, it has a back story: For as long as I can remember, there has been a yellow, plastic egg separator in my parents' kitchen. It may have been Tupperware, but I'm not entirely sure about that. We had a lot of Tupperware when I was a kid (as did any suburban family in the mid-late 1980s). It was the egg separator of every Sunday breakfast and of countless Christmas cookie baking days. This model was great because it would rest across the edge of the prep bowls perfectly, making egg separating a snap. It survived at least seven moves, including a move back and forth from Hawaii. One day, about two years ago, the yellow egg separator disappeared. No one seems to know what happened to it. I suspect it was accidentally thrown away. This is the only explanation that makes sense. 

Now my father has not gone two years without an egg separator. A replacement separator was purchased, but it is not the right egg separator. It's a metal, wire version. It's not the same. I admit, some of my feelings about the yellow egg separator are wrapped in the constant wave of nostalgia I've been riding since we began cleaning out my parents' basement. I'm both incredibly sentimental about the things we unearth, which have been hiding in the basement for at least a decade, but I'm also the first one to say "throw it away." Some things, like the wooden salad bowl we used forever, needed to go, but the egg separator was being used and felt necessary. The new separator is totally fine; my dad's egg prep is still on point (he makes the best fried eggs), but he doesn't like the new separator. It doesn't work as well and it doesn't fit over the little prep bowl he uses when he makes eggs. Little things like this shouldn't be so complicated or annoying. Since the yellow separator went missing, anytime I'm out and about and come across kitchen utensils, I always looks at the egg separators, hoping to find something similar to the one we lost. I usually strike out. Until last weekend.

After our morning at Crumbs & Whiskers, Anita and I made our way back to Virginia and ventured to a random store called Hollin Hall Variety Store off Fort Hunt Road in Alexandria. Walking into this store is like walking into an old-store general store, complete with a penny candy aisle and weird knickknacks that would make anyone who likes awkwardly adorable knickknacks incredibly happy. It's the kind of place where you can buy fabric off the bolt, ant killer, and puzzles all at the same time. Before there were dollar stores, there were variety stores. As I wandered down each aisle, because it's a requirement to walk down every aisle in a store like this, I considered buying completely unnecessary items like buttons I'll never sew on anything, cookie cutters, a dinosaur hobby horse, and Nordic Ware bundt pans. I came upon a display of kitchen utensils that made the baker in me sigh given the sheer volume of possibility. Among the utensils, I found the egg separator. It's not an exact match to the lost one, but it's pretty close. I texted the photo to my brother and asked him to ask dad if he wanted it. Even if he had said no, I would have purchased the egg separator. He did not say no. He's getting an egg separator for Easter. That's a dad joke waiting to happen.

This isn't so much about the egg separator, but about the idea of finding the egg separator. This is exactly the kind of thing my dad does. Things get mentioned to him, even in passing, and they eventually appear. Sometimes he's legitimately not listening, but most of the time he's listening just enough to make it matter. A few Christmases ago, he asked me what I wanted and I, being the smart ass I am, said a unicorn. Well, he bought me a unicorn pendant. It's one of the few pieces of jewelry I wear regularly. That's the kind of human my dad is. What this episode has made clear to me is that I'm turning into my dad in small ways. Mention something random to me and I will find it for you. It might take me years to accomplish, but one day I'll be wandering the aisles at a time warp variety store and whatever you wanted will magically appear. You might not need or want the item anymore, but I'm still going to buy it for you.

What will be next on the road to becoming my parents?


Want something more Easter-y for your weekend reading? Check out my short story series "House of Peeps" - who knew Peeps could be so dangerous? The original story can be found here. The sequel, "Return of the Peeps" can be found here and here. 

Someone has to be the Bond villain...

My brother: He looks like he could play the evil wizard in a sci-fi movie.
Me: Who?
My brother: Uncle Bob.
Me: He sort of does, doesn't he?

I'm paraphrasing slightly but this is basically a conversation my brother and I had in the car earlier this week while in Detroit for our aunt's funeral. There is no mistaking that my uncles are my father's brothers (and my aunt fit right in but in a pretty, feminine way): they have the same nose (as does my brother), their hair has grayed in the same way/pattern although they each wear it differently, and they have similar mannerisms. I don't remember the last time all four of them were in the same room together for a significant amount of time. Sadly, it was probably at my grandmother's funeral (over 12 years ago). After my brother made the comment about Uncle Bob, I couldn't help but cast my dad and other two uncles in their respective villain roles, not because any of them are bad people but because this is how my brain works:

• Chris would be the billionaire super genius Bond villain who owns an island (think Dr. No's Crab Key meets Atlantis from The Spy Who Loved Me - yes, this is a very specific reference but one my father and uncles would appreciate).
• Phil would be the tech villain, wreaking havoc on an unsuspecting populace with sound operated drones. (This makes lots of sense if you know my uncle and his hobbies. Again, the family will find this more amusing than anyone else.)
• My dad would be the retired military guy who uses a bird army to do his bidding. This would work for my dad...trust me.

Everyone has a coping mechanism for grief and loss. Cleaning, stress-eating, exercising, extreme anger, internalizing all emotions - there's something for everyone. I prefer a mix of crying, (including, but not limited to, ugly crying, hitched breath crying, and silent crying), making jokes, and being extremely polite. Humans are actually the only species who can trigger crying for emotional reasons; tears are mostly used for keeping eyes properly lubricated or as a reaction to something in an eye (like dust) but there's no real scientific reason for why we cry in other situations. According to several articles I've read on crying, many scientists believe humans cry to form social bonds. Crying is a signal from one human to another that there's a problem or something that's causing an emotion (positive or negative). Shedding tears is also a sign of vulnerability and triggers empathy and comfort in others. So we cry to connect to another person and we react because we're wired to do so and not come off like jerks when someone needs a hug. There's no scientific proof that crying has any positive health benefits but that doesn't mean we can't believe it does. I'm sure I'm not the only person who feels better after crying. Crying and swearing are incredibly satisfying ways to get out emotions.

It's hard to believe that my aunt is gone. When I was younger, I thought my aunts and uncles would live forever (just like my parents). I couldn't imagine them being anything but the young people they were at that point in time. While she and I were not super close, we loved each other and I know that there are certain things I do in my life that she influenced. She never learned to drive (I got my license late in life at age 20). She loved to travel and enjoyed opera music. She was a kindergarten teacher for over 30 years. She loved her students and teaching. My favorite memories of her are from childhood when I'd get to help her set up her classroom for the new school year (she'd let me help with the bulletin boards). According to one of her colleagues, she was the best snowflake maker of all of the teachers in their group; she literally wrote the lesson on how to do this and they still use it to this day. She was artistic and creative, bringing art to life for her tiny students. I met one of her very first students who told me my aunt was her favorite teacher ever and it's because of my aunt that she became a librarian. Teachers, if you ever doubt that you have an impact on your students, please don't. After meeting this woman and reading online posts from other former students, I will never doubt the power of an exceptional teacher. Alzheimer's is a cruel disease and it's even worse to see it in someone so young (she was 66 when she died). My uncle took great care of her and you could feel how much love there was/is for both of them amongst their friends and colleagues. I didn't know anyone other than family at the funeral but they all had a kind word or a wonderful story about my aunt or my uncle or them as a couple. They all talked about how vibrant she was, even as the disease took its toll.

The other memories I have of my aunt are of her house. We'd usually visit Detroit during the summer or over a holiday so much of these trips was spent shuffling from one relative's house to another. Both sets of grandparents have very distinct houses that form the basis of most of my childhood memories of Detroit: the yellow house on Vinewood with the big backyard where I made mud pies until I couldn't add another layer of dirt to my clothes and the small house on Lola; I'm still not sure how my father, his four siblings, and my grandparents lived in that house but the back porch was a good hiding spot when I wasn't eavesdropping on my mom, aunts, and grandma gossiping at the kitchen table. My aunt's house was different; I never wanted to touch anything because it all seemed like it was in the perfect place and if I touched something the magic would disappear. Both she and my uncle collect things (Santas, Civil War artifacts, pottery, art) so there was always something interesting to see. You enter the house through a front porch (covered so maybe it's not a porch?) so it always seemed so formal to me as a child. There are stained glass panels in the windows which cast colorful shadows and patterns into the rooms during the day. The backyard was lush and beautiful; it was like stepping into a fairy tale. We didn't go there as often as my grandma's house but it always seemed like an occasion when we did (and it usually was for someone's birthday or a holiday so there was cake).

These are the things that ran through my mind during the visitation and the funeral and the after funeral reception: backyards, stained glass windows, and bulletin boards. Casting my uncles as villains in movies. Crying silently. Watching family dynamics play out in different versions of grief. Experiencing the true community of growing up in one place; my parents and their siblings went to high school together so they've been involved in each other's lives forever. My dad and my uncle (my aunt's husband) were altar boys together too. They all have stories for each other's stories and family lore that needs to be written down stat. Fun thing I learned on this trip: my great aunt Peggy supposedly dated/hung out with gangsters and teamsters. Sweet.

I don't know what it's like to live in one place all my life. That was not the life I had nor am I sure I would want that life but it's interesting to see the connections and relationships of people who do. For me, the closest thing I have to that is my work life. When I finally stopped the two year job hop (that's totally a thing people do in their early careers so don't judge), I found a community of people with who I felt at home and I stuck with them for 10 years. These were people who were/are committed to helping students be their best and providing support for the people who work to help students succeed. It was energizing to work in a place that had a strong mission and such passionate people. I was doing good work and doing my part to help my colleagues be their best at work. While it's difficult to end this chapter of my life just as it's difficult to think about my aunt's passing (and at the same time, thanks whoever decided on that one), I know that both of these moments are for the best. She is in a better place, without the pain and hopefully, with her voice returned to her after these years. I will figure out what's next for me and move on to something even better.

For the record, if you ever have to receive more bad news on top of an already crappy week, I highly suggest scheduling time after you've visited two wineries. The wine won't numb you completely but it will help when the hitched breath crying starts and you let loose a string of obscenities that would make a sailor blush. You can blame the wine...it's always the wine's fault.

And because I promised, here is a fun childhood photo since I've depressed you enough today. I was looking for pictures of me and my aunt in my picture box when I got home but I don't have any here which means they're in that box at my parents' house that I've been meaning to bring home for months. Instead I found this. I can't judge Pumpkin's Ikea bag too much if this is how I used to roll.

Apparently, I enjoyed hanging out in laundry baskets as a baby...like a cat.

The Christmas Cake

I just finished reading Judith Fertig's novel The Cake Therapist. It's been on my to read list for awhile. I finally decided to treat myself to a used paperback copy rather than spending over $3 for the Kindle version. I have a $3 and below rule on Kindle. I feel like if I'm going to pay more than that I should just buy the actual book. Or maybe I'm cheap. You can decide.

Anyway, in addition to being a very colorful, pretty book (it's worth the paperback just for the color it adds to my bookcase), it's also a delightful story. The novel follows a baker who moves back to her hometown in Ohio as her marriage is ending and her opportunities in New York are dwindling. She decides to open a bakery and it just so happens that her hometown has become a destination for brides and weddings. Her talent isn't just making exquisite cakes and pastries; it's knowing the exact flavor the person she's baking for wants most. Her ability to match the flavor and the person crates the perfect taste for the customer. This serves her well in the wedding cake world. I would like to tell you that I savored the book and lingered over it for a few days but that would be a lie. I read it in one day and had to order the sequel Memory of Lemon this week.

There's a quote early-ish in the novel that I particularly love. It perfectly encapsulates the way I feel about baking something.

"As I cracked each egg into the bowl and added the sugar while the mixer did its work, I wondered whether I was the only person who found the whir of a stand mixer oddly comforting. For me, it was the sound of something good about to happen." (page 63)

Baking, as I've written before, has always been a form of therapy for me. The process of making something, of following a recipe, measuring ingredients, prepping pans is soothing and calming. The process is great for working through an issue, problem solving something, or just ruminating on an idea for a bit. It can also be a completely blank moment where my mind focuses solely on what I'm doing and not my to-do list or stress at work or getting my move organized or whatever else is happening in my world. I love my stand mixer, Stanny (yes, it has a name) and I know the whir Neely, the baker in the book, is talking about. It's the whir that makes marshmallows out of water, gelatin, and sugar or brings together the perfect balance of ingredients for pumpkin cookies or apple cinnamon cake. It's a sound that's not too loud but certainly not quiet. It's a sound that is all about making something delicious happen.

Around the holidays, everyone I know seems to go into beast baking mode. Instagram and Facebook are full of tables full of cookies and candy and whatever else people have decided their family and friends need to truly enjoy the holidays. Some recipes are passed down generation to generation and it wouldn't be the holidays without them. This year, our cookie options include snowballs (a perennial favorite), coconut macaroons, and maybe chocolate chip. I made some fudge and my dad made chocolate chip cookies, banana bread, and cranberry bread. Did I mention there are only four of us?

We also have a newer tradition that I will be adding to this year: the Christmas Cake. It started before I really got into backing. My dad would make a rum torte as our Christmas dessert - did I not mention every of my family members bakes? My dad and brother both make great pies and my dad kills it at banana bread; I get that from him. My mom is an all-around baker; I learned how to make snowballs, cakes, and brownies from her. Anyway, I don't like rum or rum flavored things but the rum torte was always good. As I got more into baking, my dad and I would trade off on making the Christmas Cake. We started varying it up but almost always selecting a cake from Southern Living's Christmas issue. I don't know if you're familiar with the Christmas issue of Southern Living but there's always a beautiful cake on the cover and a section of creative, festive, and sometimes super complicated cakes to adorn your holiday table.

We can thank Southern Living for the Christmas present cake; it's shaped like a present and you use Fruit by the Foot to make pretty ribbon and is also fun for birthdays (and really the first complicated cake I made by myself), the caramel cake debacle of 2013, and my uncle's favorite cake, the Italian Orange Cake. I only make this last one every ten years. To do it right takes three days since it's the type of cake that gets better as it sits. The flavors come together over time so it's better to do each step over the course of several days. I like all of these cakes despite being a bit more complicated from a process standpoint than say, a regular chocolate cake. I want a holiday dessert to be special and more whimsical than my everyday baked goods. That's part of the fun of holiday baking;

Both my parents and I subscribe to Southern Living. I'm sure that seems excessive to some people but it's the way life works. My subscription was a gift from a friend who knows I like baking and reading about cities I love so I accept my dual copy each month with love and sass. The cake on the cover this year is a coconut rum cake with rum filling and ermine frosting. Wondering what ermine frosting is? It's also known as "poor man's frosting," boiled milk frosting, or butter roux frosting. It's a type of buttercream frosting that uses flour instead of eggs for the emulsion factor. I've never made it before but apparently from what I've read, ermine frosting was what was traditionally used on red velvet cake until the 1970s when cream cheese frosting became all the rage. Who knew?

As I mentioned earlier, I don't like rum flavored things so I told my family I'd make one of the other cakes in the holiday extravaganza issue, Peppermint Cake with Seven Minute Frosting.This cake requires me to buy disco dust. Don't know what disco dust is? Well, friends, it's edible glitter. Apparently, it gives the cake a little sparkle. Who doesn't want their holiday cake to sparkle?

There is one major thing about this recipe that makes it the best cake in the world: two different frostings! Peppermint buttercream frosting and Seven Minute Frosting! The cake itself is a pretty standard yellow cake but two frostings make it extra special and holiday worthy. If you've ever made anything with peppermint extract, you know that a little goes a long way. I made peppermint marshmallows once that tasted like toothpaste despite using the small amount of extract the recipe called for (they melted well in hot chocolate - that's a win). The peppermint buttercream looks so pretty in the picture; I would have made the buttercream for myself if my family had declined the cake. Bonus: I've never made Seven Minutes Frosting before so this cake also represents adding another item to my repertoire and I love adding baking things to my repertoire. (Reality: Seven Minute Frosting is basically marshmallow fluff that you whisk for seven minutes. Not nearly as much fun as I wanted it to be.)

You know what else is great about this cake? Smashing peppermint candies with a meat tenderizer. My arms are going to hurt tomorrow between this and the whisking for the Seven Minute Frosting, but it will be worth it. The peppermint extract isn't enough peppermint-y flavor so I have crushed up peppermint candy as instructed to add to the buttercream. I also crushed additional peppermints and added the disco dust (pearl dust according to Wilton) so the cake will really sparkle when it's decorated. I feel so Christmas-y I can't stand it.

I can't tell you how the cake tastes since it's for tomorrow but I can say that the buttercream is delicious, as I knew it would be. The Seven Minute Frosting is basically glorified marshmallow fluff. And the finished, uncut version? Looks like a sparkly winter wonderland. That's exactly what I wanted to accomplish with this cake. Something good happened over the whir of an electric mixer.

Happy Holidays from the Island!

Southern Living cover

Postcards from Detroit

In 1932, Mexican artist Diego Rivera was commissioned to create a series of murals at the Detroit Institute of Arts. The murals were commissioned by the museum director and Edsel Ford, the only son of Henry Ford and president of Ford Motor Company. The murals known as The Detroit Industry Murals, are comprised of 27 frescoes depicting a variety of images of the production of an automobile at the River Rouge Factory Complex. Although an avowed Marxist, Rivera had a fascination with the industrial complexes of capitalism. He was particularly interested in places like the River Rouge Factory where the entire process of producing a car took place. Detroit, at the height of the Depression and the automobile revolution, controlled everything that went into producing cars. A factory like the Rouge not only housed every part of production but also the railway system to ship supplies in and out and ultimately, ship finished cars to consumers.

I don't remember if it was in reading his autobiography, My Art, My Life, or in some other article about the murals but if I recall correctly, Rivera spent three months at the Rouge complex observing the factory and its workers and machinery. He also had the assistance of the factory's photographer in documenting the factory. He would use those photographs as part of his preparation for the murals. The murals were finished in record time; eight months working his assistants and himself to almost to death. At one point, his assistants protested the poor wages and working conditions much like their brethren protesting the working conditions in factories around the country (when they could find a job that was).

What's interesting about the murals is the depiction of multiple themes of industrialization and industry. The entire production of a car is depicted, including Ford's famous V8 engine and the line workers (check out the DIA's website for an amazing interactive online exhibit; my photos are a little sad). The workers seem one with the machines (very Marxist but also very capitalist at the same time). He also depicts images of chemical manufacturing, showing how this type of science can be used to both harm (images of poison gas) and to heal (images depicting the creation of vaccines). He also weaves in references to an Aztec goddess (important in Aztec creation mythology) and to figures Rivera called the "Four Races" that line the top of each of the walls. There's a tremendous amount of symbolism and meaning within the murals; I'm sure you can find other resources out there to explain them better than I can. The murals were given status as a National Historic Landmark in 2014.

During my recent vacation, I spent part of an afternoon at the DIA viewing the murals again and visiting some other works within the collection. I have fond childhood memories of the DIA, mostly because of the suits of armor that line the Great Hall that leads into Rivera Court where the murals live. I can't say that I really remember the murals from these childhood visits but I know that we walked through that area to get to other parts of the museum my dad was fond of; Medieval and Renaissance art. I've visited a few times as an adult and am always a bit awestruck standing in front of the murals. There's a lot to see and take in. My brother overheard a docent telling a little boy about Rivera's signature; it's teeny tiny compared to the size of the work. I had never noticed or even thought to look before. A nice little discovery on this visit.

Our stop at the museum came after an afternoon out and about in downtown Detroit with my aunt. She's my mother's younger sister and lives about a mile and a half from where they grew up in Southwest Detroit. In the late 80s when others were moving to the suburbs, she and her husband bought and restored a house in the Corktown neighborhood across from Tiger Stadium (sadly now gone but finally open as a park; we saw kids playing baseball there on this trip). I admire my aunt for lots of reasons but her dedication to Detroit is high on the list. She is a Detroiter; she has the kind of attachment and sense of place about her that I only wish to have. She supports Detroit and fights for it and defends it and criticizes it passionately. She doesn't sugarcoat Detroit; that would be naive and naive is not a word I would ever use to describe my aunt. Every time I've come to Detroit alone or with my brother as an adult, she makes sure to take us around on a tour of what's changed and what's going on. I've never asked her but I think it's her way of anchoring us to our true home. She made a comment about Detroit being our "home" on this trip and in some ways, she's right.

Detroit has been undergoing a fairly radical revitalization in the last few years. It seems that everyone has an interest in Detroit these days from the billionaires to the hipsters to the bougie wannabes looking for the next "It" place. Some great things have come out of this; I'm not going to pretend that seeing new buildings and restoration of historic landmarks and homes and of regular old homes and buildings isn't a great thing. However, and I think my aunt would agree, there's a fine line between revitalization and gentrification. I think certain pockets of Detroit are precariously skating that line. Detroit feels a bit schizophrenic or maybe like it's having an identity crisis.

Which brings me back to Diego Rivera and the murals. As I looked at the murals on this visit to the DIA, I got to thinking: what would Rivera paint today? How would he define Detroit industry right now? Would it be the intricate work of the watchmakers at Shinola or maybe the purveyors of Detroit Denim? Or maybe it is Dan Gilbert and his Quicken Loans empire? What about the breweries and distilleries around town? Could it be the sports complexes downtown or maybe the casinos that have taken over Greektown? Maybe it wouldn't be any of these things; maybe Rivera would be a graffiti artist or work in found objects or something else terribly urban and modern. I don't have an answer to this question but I've been thinking about it since Saturday. What is industry anymore?

I'm going to guess that it's not going to be the random beach that's taken over part of Campus Martius Park. Apparently this has been a summer thing since 2013 but this is the first time I've ever heard of it or seen it. It's a beach as brought to you by Ikea. Keep in mind that the Detroit River is not that far away but there is no water here. Just the sandy part of the beach and a grill and tables to enjoy the sun. It seems pretty popular and I guess if I worked downtown something like the beach might be a nice distraction. Not the stuff of murals but an oasis in an urban landscape.

My aunt, brother, and I embrace our Polish roots.

A Rock N Rye slurpee - delicious although we were on the hunt for the Vernor's slurpee but no luck.

Does your mom know you're here?

We've spent the last two days hanging around Detroit. Both of our parents were born and raised in southwest Detroit. Scott and I were born here too (him in Detroit, me in Southfield). We moved away before I started kindergarten. We spent a lot of summers and holidays here when we were growing up. I really didn't like Detroit when I was a kid. My friends went to camp or on vacations in the summer. We went to Detroit where there was no air conditioning and nothing to do (at least that's what I remember telling my friends all the time). What I probably never told them was all the fun I did have playing with my cousins - making mud pies in my grandpa's backyard, going to Tigers games, and getting to go to Dairy Queen on Michigan Avenue (this is back when most DQs were only open in the summers).

I complained about these trips but secretly I loved them. I particularly liked sitting at the kitchen table at either of my grandparents' houses (or late my aunt's) and listening to the adults talk. They'd tell fun stories about our family or gossip about relatives that weren't around. We'd stock up on Vernor's and Faygo and Better Made potato chips. Good times.

Detroit has changed a lot since those summers. I know most people don't know or don't want to know Detroit. It's easier to make fun of the city and to overlook it's colorful history or its contributions to industry, agriculture, art, and music. I'm not going to spend time trying to convince anyone that Detroit is awesome - I know it is, my family knows it is, and people who love Detroit get it. If you don't, that's cool. We can't all like everything all the time.

My aunt took Scott and I on a little tour of places of our past. I feel like my aunt is the keeper of Detroit. She and her family live in one of the oldest neighborhoods in Detroit and really live for the city. She doesn't want us to forget these great places. So we drove to the Detroit River and walked part of the Dequindre Cut. The Riverfront is beautiful; a lot of work has been done to make it bike and walker/jogger friendly and support local art.

Wave to Canada!

We also took Scott by the Heidelberg Project. I had been here before and thought it was amazing. It's an outdoor art project started in 1986. The artist, Tyree Guyton, started the project as a partial political protest to the decline in the neighborhood. The city has razed it twice but he keeps going.  If you make it to Detroit, you should check it out.

Parts of the city are definitely undergoing revitalization. The hipsters have moved in and hopefully, the allure of living in edgy neighborhoods doesn't wear off before they do some good. Neighborhoods change and some look like they're changing for the better. 

Visiting family was great and we did the Detroit errands we always do: Dearborn Music, hockey store, and grocery trip. Dearborn Music is one of my favorite places. You can find good used music and they have a huge selection of indie bands. They're moving to a bigger location soon so it was good to go to the old store one more time. Scott also got to go to the hockey store (like a toy store for hockey players). 

No trip would be complete without a grocery run to get our favorites. Buying potato chips and pop (yeah, I said pop-I'm still in Michigan you know) is the best. We don't eat them in the car on the way home; these are saved for later. It's like a reward - you've driven over 2300 miles and you have about 600 more to go, so you deserve some chips and a pop when you get there (despite the fact that you've eaten fast food for days). That first Rock  & Rye is going to be epic.

Thanks Detroit (and family) for another great visit. We'll meet again soon and hopefully for more a visit next time.

The great relocation of 2012 is drawing to a close. Haul and Oates have had a few days rest in Detroit and should be ready for the open road. Hopefully, Scott and I can get the car back on the tow dolly without an accident. We have written instructions and we watched the guy do it the first time. If all else fails, there's a U-Haul location up the road and they can do it for us.

One more mountain range to go.