Dry-cured pork products processed in a specified manner (59FR)

A lot of our efforts to reacquaint ourselves with America when we first returned from Pakistan revolved around pigs. So I guess it's no surprise that a weekend trip to familiarize ourselves with pre-America also related to pork. TJ had been wanting to visit Colonial Williamsburg for a while, and I figured that, after seeing his fascination with pork-curing, one specific weekend would be just perfect.

Once a year, Williamsburg holds its "From Hog to Ham" program, in which visitors are educated about how pigs were processed from sty to serving dish during the olden days. A half-dozen Ossabaw Island hogs, the same heritage breed we saw alive and eating at the Claude Moore Colonial Farm in Virginia, were slaughtered, off-site of course due to health regulations. Then their thick bristles were scalded, scrubbed, and singed off before they were laid on the chopping block (left). A group of volunteers took turns with the various steps of breaking down the body: cutting and twisting off the head, slicing out the spine (right), and hacking off the tail and leg knuckles.

Once the hog was broken down into more manageable pieces, it was trimmed into portions better sized for preserving. The back fat was taken off the spine to be melted down as cooking lard, and the loin from the back was extracted and portioned for freezing. Each side of the pig was divided into three sections: the front leg, or the shoulder; the back leg, or the ham; and the torso, the bacon and pork belly (left). All of those side parts were smeared with salt to be packed in barrels with even more salt for curing (right). A task-master was on hand to ensure that the workers thoroughly salted the meat. Perhaps if she had helped us, TJ wouldn't have had to toss his cured ham. Then again, she said that a bit of mold is to be expected, so maybe TJ's leg wasn't the total loss he suspected. 

In case the butchering of a pig wasn't living-off-the-land enough, before we even got to the central part of Williamsburg, where the "From Hog to Ham" program was being held, we found a pair of workers processing a freshly killed deer at the adjacent Great Hopes Plantation (top). Unlike the pork, which will be used in cooking and eating programs throughout the coming year, this venison will not be served to the public because it was killed by a local park warden in the wild. Later on, we actually saw some domestic and live animals. A pair of oxen were groomed before they did their duty plowing a part of the Colonial Nursery (bottom left). Throughout the day, we saw horses carrying visitors on tours of the village grounds (bottom right).

All of the tours pass by the main attraction of the village: the Governor's Palace, which was decorated with greenery for the holiday season (top). With our one-day visit, we didn't have the opportunity to take in every building, but we hit some highlights. On the top of TJ's list was Chowning's Tavern; much to his disappointment, the outdoor beer garden was closed, despite some unseasonably warm weather (bottom left). We also saw the extensive collection of arms, from bayonets to muskets, in the Magazine, one of the village's 88 original structures (bottom right).

 

Across the street from the Magazine you can see the Courthouse, where we participated in one of Williamsburg's many programs, "Order in the Court." In a recreated period trial, I played a villager testifying against a Baptist minister preaching without a permit. Earlier in the day, we watched the talented corps of young men (top left) and women in the Fifes and Drums March. Right after they departed from the Capitol, heading down Duke of Gloucester Street (top right), we headed over to catch a bit of the "Conversation with Patrick Henry." We were planning to stay for only a few minutes, but the actor was so eloquent and engaging that we watched the whole hour-long show (bottom left). In the morning, we had managed to catch only the final minutes of the Williamsburg Farmers Market, near Merchants Square, before the vendors tore down their booths and the crowds cleared from the streets (bottom right).

We also missed out on a stop at the infamous college dive bar Green Leafe Cafe because it closed early for a Christmas beer tasting. So we headed next door to Paul's Deli, where we partook of some Greek fries (covered with feta and oregano) and a sub for a late lunch (left). In fitting with our day, our shared "Delly" sub came with two types of pork -- ham and bacon -- plus roast beef. Our late-night snacks, too, consisted partially of pork. The Ploughman's Lunch platter at DoG Street Pub included some ham, and I'd bet the Black Pudding sausage was made with pig blood (right). 

"The Star Spangled Banner," and recognizing ... heroic human endeavor (S.Res.388)

If Francis Scott Key can be considered an American treasure for writing a poem about a single moment in history, then TJ and I deserve at least some recognition for our heroic effort to see Baltimore in a single day. Our endeavor was eased by the fact that the MARC Penn Line now offers weekend service. It takes less than $10 and about an hour to get from Union Station to Penn Station. 

Still, unwilling to wake up too early on a weekend, we didn't get to Baltimore until around 10 a.m., just in time for second breakfast. So we headed straight to Hollins Market; although it had only one row of stalls, we managed to find mid-morning snacks: a scrapple, egg, and cheese sandwich for TJ and a cup of crab soup for me (left). Although less expansive than the famous Lexington Market, its location in the old Lithuanian quarter and its holiday wreaths on the windows gave the historic hall a lot of charm (right).

 

Indeed, Baltimore is nicknamed the Charm City, which it was showing off on all its streets. We saw pre-Thanksgiving holiday decorations hanging above downtown as we rode around on the Circulator (top). An oft-touted attraction is Washington Monument, which is stuck in the middle of Charles Street within Mount Vernon, a historic district between Penn Station and the Inner Harbor (bottom left). But I found charming architecture adorning other city buildings, many of which were unfortunately shuttered and/or vandalized (bottom right).

 

But of course, the most historic and impressive constructions in Baltimore can be found at the Fort McHenry National Monument (left). An all-night attack by the British navy on the fort during the War of 1812 inspired Francis Scott Key to write the poem that would become the national anthem (right). Key was on a diplomatic mission to one of the warships in order to negotiate the release of some prisoners-of-war when the onslaught began; the next morning, he was as surprised as anyone else aboard to see the U.S. flag still flying above the fort. 

 

Earlier this year, in September, the fort held bicentennial events to mark the publication of "The Star-Spangled Banner." An onslaught of tourists inspired us to delay our trip until later in the year. Despite some hoards of Boy Scouts, on the day we visited, it was easy to experience moments of reflection on the bastion walls (top left) or within the barrack buildings, including the ammunition magazine (top right). But the crowds creeped out when the park rangers pulled out the huge garrison flag, a replica of one made by Mary Young Pickersgill (bottom), who also made the storm flag that is the official star-spangled banner, permanently on display at the Smithsonian National Museum of American History.

In previous trips to Baltimore, we scoped out the bars in Fell's Point and Federal Hill, and the emerging Brewers Hill was a tad inaccessible without a car, so with limited time, we set our sights on drinking downtown. We ended up across from the Convention Center at Pratt Street Ale House, home of Oliver's Brewing Co. Most of the conventioneers seemed oblivious to the restaurant's craft-beer selection. We made up for their oversight by trying four beers -- Dark Horse English dark mild ale, Modern Life is Rubbish Victorian porter, There's a Fine Line between Stupid and Clever black lager, and Winter's Wolves dark ale on nitro -- while we munched on a PSA pretzel, covered in mustard, cheese, and crab dip.

We had planned to call it a day and get home to walk Sage, but the Circulator, which had reliably carried us around the city all day, was running behind right when we needed to get back to Penn Station. We ended up missing our train, and the next one wouldn't come for an another hour and a half. This poor timing turned into a stroke of luck because we were able to hit happy hour at Brewer's Art, which provides an aesthetically-pleasing atmosphere in which to sip its palate-pleasing beers (left). It was difficult not to try everything on the beverage and food menus, but we restrained ourselves to a couple of appetizers -- crispy brussel sprouts and Liptauer cheese dip -- and a trio of ales: Stalking Horse Belgian dark ale, Resurrection abbey brown ale, and St. Festivus brown winter ale (right). 

Indeed, the day was a little rushed, and our dog was a little pissed (not literally), but still, we ended up with no regrets -- except for the fact that we didn't find Brewer's Art's basement bodega until right before we had to leave. It wasn't open yet when we first arrived, so we took a table upstairs. When it was finally opened, we debated moving downstairs, but decided not to give up the safety of our seats. But when we hit the head before we headed to our train, we discovered what we had been missing. And I decided we would need to return to Brewer's Art during our next whirlwind tour of Baltimore.

Nothing more than a bunch of masochists (144Cong.Rec.H69)

I'm not prone to going out on weeknights because, well, I'm old now. But it was hard to pass up an invitation to the 17th Street High Heel Race, in which a variety of cross-dressing, and simply fun-loving, men strap on stilettos to dash 400 meters on downtown DC street. As someone who doesn't like to walk 4 feet in high heels, I admire these racers' perseverance. And apparently, so do many other people: The street was so packed with spectators that I couldn't get a good photo (left). Luckily, as I headed to Stoney's for a post-race meal of an "ultimate grilled cheese," I saw -- and heard -- a crew of singing nuns that had crossed the finish line (right).

Running in heels -- especially while wearing habits -- is pretty sadistic, but it's nothing compared to the race my husband ran a few days later, the aptly-named Mountain Masochist, a 50-mile race through the highlands around the Blue Ridge Parkway in Virginia. Logistics made the race even more challenging for TJ, my little masochist. After we got off work Friday evening, we had to drive four hours to Otter Creek Campground, where TJ got about five hours of sleep in the back of our CRV before the cold and rainy start a couple of miles from the campground (top left). It was still dark at 6:30 a.m., so the runners strapped on headlamps (top right), which reflected nicely in the pond they had to circumvent before starting their first climb (bottom).

Eventually, the rain cleared out, so the morning was mild for a trail run (top left). But as the day wore on, the altitudes got higher and the temperatures got lower. During a loop on the Henry Lanum Trail, flurries set it, making the Mount Pleasant National Scenic Area less than pleasant. However, the snow -- the first of the season, for me -- brought a bit of festivity to the aid station there, which was blasting carols as part of its Christmas theme (top right). Eventually, TJ and the other runners descended to the valley for the last stretch to the finish line at Montebello Camping & Fishing Resort (bottom left). TJ was shivering but satisfied at the end, having finished in less than 10-1/2 hours and placing 92nd out of 354 (bottom right).

As I waited at the aid stations to crew for him, I distracted myself from the cold by enjoying the beauty of the George Washington National Forest (top left). Many jewel-tone leaves were still on the trees surrounding the waterways flowing into the Pedlar Reservoir (top right). TJ even finished during daylight, so we both were able to bask in the the pastel sunset of the Blue Ridge mountains (bottom).

Going home by way of Nelson County's Route 151 through Rockfish Valley, we also basked in some beverages. We stopped for a quick pint at Devil's Backbone Brewing Company, but the bar was so packed that we had to take ours to the patio (left). Luckily, the tasty heft of my Schwartz Bier (TJ had a Striped Bass APA) heated my insides enough that I could ignore the cold, hard picnic tables (right).

Our second stop along the Brew Ridge Trail was Wild Wolf Brewing Company, where I had a Howling Pumpkin Ale along with my shredded pork tacos. TJ toasted his achievement with a juicy burger and Wee Heavy in the bar (left). I was so happy to be within warmth that I forgot to take photos inside; I didn't take these shots until we were back outside walking to our car (right). 

Despite the name of the first race in this post, what really made TJ a masochist was his decision to run a second 50-mile race two weeks later. And I, masochistically, was there once again at the cold and dark -- but at least not rainy -- start of the Stone Mill 50-Miler in Maryland. I was happy that I hadn't spent four hours driving and five hours sleeping in a car the night before, but I was still unsure I would enjoy following TJ around Montgomery County during the first big cold snap in the DMV region.

Nevertheless, I showed up at all the aid stations along the Muddy Branch Greenway Trail, Seneca Creek Greenway Trail, and C&O Canal Towpath. One station, with a belated Halloween theme, brought back fond memories of my marathon training because I ran there during the summer -- when it was warm (top left). Another station was staffed by some friendly faces from the Virginia Happy Trails Running Club that organized The Big Schloss 50K in September, when TJ placed ninth -- and when it was warm (top right). The halfway station was at the Seneca Quarry, an old stone mill that the race is named after (bottom). By this point, the sun was coming out, and I was feeling less grumpy about not spending a warm weekend inside my cozy apartment.

By the fifth or sixth stop where I watched TJ emerge from the woods, I was enjoying the weather so much that I set myself up with a chair so I could do homework, read, or simply enjoy the silence while I waited (left). At the aid station near the Seneca Bluffs Trail, there were a few too many children to find peace, so I watched the remaining leaves flutter down instead (right).

 

Plus, Sage was along for the ride, and I felt bad leaving him in the car when I know he enjoys the brisk air so much. He wasn't much help in watching out for TJ at the aid station at Pennyfield Lock, where you can arrange to stay in an old lockhouse, by the way (left). However, he was much more enthusiastic in congratulating TJ upon his completion of the race (right).

Although he was shooting for under 9 hours after an initial fast pace, TJ still finished with a personal best -- and placed 47th out of 260 (left). He looked so strong at the end that the announcer suggested he could run back to his hometown in Ohio. The volunteers could've used some strength as they tried to help him untie his shoes in order to remove his chip (right).

TJ was lacking in strength himself during our post-race meal. He usually beats me to the bottom of any pint, but at Growlers in Gaithersburg, he slowly sipped his Chesnut Street brown ale, while I quaffed my Skellington pumpkin porter at a normal speed. TJ was so wiped that he had to take half of his prime-rib sandwich home (I had no problem finishing my lamb burger) and had to let me share some of his second drink, a Diamond APA. 

Luckily, I had enough strength to drive us the hour home, which was a much better showing by me than after the previous 50-miler, when I had to hand over the wheel to TJ on the way home. But I did, like the old person I am, fall asleep before 10 p.m. -- and it wasn't even a weeknight.