Consumers of alcoholic beverages choose between hard cider and beer (S.Rept.105-33)

Considering that we move a bunch of crap nearly every two or three years, TJ and I have an unspoken pact that we generally try not to give each other non-consumable presents. So for Christmas, I put into effect the "teach a man to fish" philosophy and bought him enrollment in a one-day cider-making class at Distillery Lane Ciderworks near Burkittsville, which we visited back in the fall.

During that visit, TJ bought some non-alcoholic cider that he fermented into alcoholic cider. After all, the process is less complicated than homebrewing, with which he already has experience. The first batch of cider came out quite tasty, so TJ wanted to get some further tips and try a second one. I accompanied him to the class, basically because I knew free cider samples would be on hand.

Quite a bit of the class took place inside the apple-pressing room in the form of lectures, demonstrations, and Q&A periods (read: no good picture-taking opportunities). But the owner got us outside to show us some of the operations of the orchard, which was nice since we didn't even notice and therefore follow the self-guided tour signs during our previous visit.

First, he explained the process of actually growing apple trees. Apparently, if you plant apple seeds, there is no telling what kind of apple will sprout; a Granny Smith seed does not get you more Granny Smiths, for example. And buying and planting full-grown trees is expensive and difficult. So growers start specific varieties of new trees by grafting, in which a branch is attached to an already-planted tree base. This farm mainly uses the whip-graft technique, in which the branch and base are notched then taped together (left). According to genomic studies, the apple originated in Kazakhstan, so the farm bought some untested sprouts from the Central Asian country, but it still has to wait a few years to see what type of fruit -- tart to sweet -- they bear (right).

During the winter, the main operations of the orchard center on maintenance. All the trees are pruned to keep branches growing slightly above parallel to the ground, which allows them to get the right amount of sunlight and bear the weight of the apples (left). Bad apples that fall to the ground and rot before they can be harvested are collected and distributed to South Mountain Creamery to be used as cattle feed (right).

 

All the good apples, of course, have already been picked, then sold whole or pressed into cider, either alcoholic or not. The hard-cider process is pretty simple. It starts with sanitizing all ingredients and equipment so no bad bacteria throw off the flavor. Then yeast is added to initiate fermentation, which can last a month or longer. Then you drink the cider, or if you want sparkling cider, you leave it to carbonate in bottles for another couple of weeks. As you can see, the hardest part of the process is having patience. And on this day, we didn't have any, so we went to Mad Horse Brewpub in nearby Lovettsville (left). They didn't have cider on tap, so we tried the Falcon IPA, Nut Brown Ale, Pony Pale Ale, Abbey Ale, and Stout instead (right).

Besides cider and beer, the only way to make this present even more perfect for TJ was to let him go running in the mountains. So we headed to Gathland State Park, formerly the site of the Gapland estate of George Alfred Townsend, whose empty crypt sits right next to the Appalachian Trail (left). Townsend, who ended up being buried next to wife in Philadelphia, was a Civil War correspondent who wrote under the pen name "Gath," which is how the park got its modern name. On the grounds of the park is a War Correspondents Memorial Arch that Townsend built in honor of his fellow reporters (right).

 

The state park also pays homage to the 6,100 soldiers who were killed, wounded, or missing because of events at the South Mountain State Battlefield. Union troops wanted to pass through Crampton's Gap in order to get at Confederate troops being led by Gen. Robert E. Lee. They didn't entirely succeed, but they weakened his forces before the Battle of Antietam three days later. That bloodiest day in American military history was thankfully a distant memory as we watched the sun set over the Blue Ridge Mountains on our way home, where hopefully we soon will have a few gallons of cider to sip.

I cannot be accused of simply backing an old chum! (146Cong.Rec.S4255)

I'm an opportunist, by which I mean that I take advantage of opportunities, even if it means me elbowing my way into someone else's plans. Some friends of mine announced publicly on Facebook that they were going to New York City to see a show. Unfortunately for them, this was a show that I wanted to see, so I invited myself to join them. Lucky for me, they were gracious enough to act like they didn't mind.

So after class on a Friday night, I took the bus from DC to the Big Apple. From the dropoff point by Penn Station, I walked to our hotel, The Evelyn, which was literally right around the corner from the Museum of Sex (left). Admission to the museum cost $17.50, so I settled instead for gawking at its gift shop and strolling to the nearest phallic symbol. Luckily, the Flatiron Building was only a few blocks south on Fifth Avenue (right).

After having taken my language test the Monday before, I was ready for a release from Russian. But it seems I couldn't escape it. One of the original tenants of the Flatiron, formerly the Fuller Building, was the Imperial Russian consulate, and just to the north of our hotel was Saint-Petersburg (left), an outlet of the same FromRussian.com that has a shop in Brighton Beach, also know as NYC's Little Odessa. I knew I wasn't going to have time to get to Brooklyn, so I shared some of my rocky Russian with the storekeeper as I scanned some matryoshkas (right). 

Also near our hotel was the famed French flare of Brasserie Les Halles, Anthony Bourdain's former restaurant. I didn't eat there, but I had a lovely meal of some French-inspired chicken risotto and Jenlain Ambrée, a farmhouse ale, at Le Grainne Cafe in Chelsea. Earlier in the day, I had a "house-made veggie burger" from Spring Street Natural in SoHo. 

But the best treat I had during my trip was a cafe au lait ring from Dough Doughnuts (top left), next-door neighbor of Idlewild Books, a store devoted to travel literature and guides; to be honest, it was hard to decide which place offered more tempting treats. Luckily, I had already fed my cover-browsing addiction at The Strand bookstore, where the staff either has a strange sense of humor or a unique outlook on humanity when it comes to recommending books. I don't really associate a pig's head on a stick with overcoming heartbreak, but that might work for some people (top right). Me, I would prefer to mend my heart by window-shopping at Citipups, which is an acceptable form of recovery because, in case you can't see the sign, the store does not support puppy mills (bottom). It should be noted that there was no sign about whether it supports using adorable fluffballs to entice shoppers into its stores. 

 

I knew I couldn't smuggle a puppy home in my backback, so I did my next stint of shopping at Chelsea Market (top left), where I could ingest my purchases instead of bringing them back on the bus. But that doughnut was pretty filling, so the only thing I bought was from the Filling Station: a Stillwater Existent, a dark farmhouse ale (top right). I even managed to refrain from indulging at Los Tacos No. 1, which seemed to be serving up my kind of traditional tacos, the likes of which I haven't seen since Las Ahumaderas taco street in Tijuana (bottom). 

I didn't realize until later that I could've used the food fuel as I took a self-led walking tour of some of the city's most distinctive sights. Book lover that I am, I headed straight to see those lions at the New York Public Library (top). The main lobby of the Schwarzman Building was a spectacular place to take a break from the biting cold (bottom left). Unfortunately, the beautiful Rose Main Reading Room was closed for renovations, but visitors were still allowed to crimp their necks looking up at the murals of the wood-paneled entrance (bottom right). 

Behind the library, a Winter Village, complete with ice-skating rink, was in full swing (top left). The frozen fountain was a nice touch, but somehow, I think it wasn't planned (top right). From beside of the library, you could catch a good view of the Chrysler Building down the road (bottom), but I had my sights set on another famous skyscraper.

From the winter wonderland at Bryant Park, I could barely spy the spire of the Empire State Building (left). After paying almost 30 dollars, I got a closer view of the famous lightning rod from the building's 86th-floor observation deck (right). I did not opt to pay $17 more to go up 16 more floors to the 102nd floor above. 

 

It was a cold and overcast day, but if you could stand to be out in the windchill for a few minutes, you could look all the way down to Lower Manhattan (top). Through the zoom of my camera, I could see One World Trade Center and the Statue of Liberty in pretty good detail (bottom left). I didn't expect the people-watching to be so fascinating, but it was fun to eavesdrop on single people Skyping and Facetiming from the deck and to watch cute couples cuddling up while they took in the view (bottom right).

 

But of course, the main show I had come to see was on Broadway: a Saturday matinee of Cabaret with Alan Cumming and Emma Stone (top). Cumming, in an excellent turn as the Emcee, filled the Roundabout Theater Company at Studio 54 with talent all the way to our seats in the back row. We made the day a double-header by taking in some evening improv by The Curfew at the Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre. Afterward, we capped off the night with cocktails at Black Door bar, where we serendipitously ran into an Australian couple who had followed our day's itinerary nearly to a tee. The meeting was serendipitous mostly because they bought us a bunch of drinks. But all good things must come to end, so I allowed myself one more glimpse of the bright lights of Times Square (bottom left) before I dodged the taxis around Madison Square Garden to catch my bus back to DC (bottom right). 

They go, oh, you hate children (159Cong.Rec.H4476)

A little while ago, I shared happy-hour drinks and snacks with a soon-to-be-on-orders EFM (eligible family member) of a recently inducted Foreign Service specialist. She was hoping I could shed some light on how her life was about to change. I spewed out a lot of advice before I finally had the wherewithal to ask: "Well, what are you most worried about?" Her response: "I'm afraid it'll be difficult to make friends."

I'm afraid that, on the fly, I didn't give her very good feedback. To be fair, making friends in the Foreign Service can be hard, for a variety of reasons -- short timeframes, difficult logistics, workplace pressures. But for me, in particular, one challenge certainly has been lifestyle choices. 

By my age, most people -- State and non-State -- are entrenched in family life. I'm too old -- and if I'm honest, too uncool -- to hang with the young single kids going clubbin' every night. (Is this a stereotype? Yes, one which I am allowed to espouse because I am old.) But the other segment of people at post usually is made up of parents. And unfortunately, because I don't have kids myself, this group stereotypes me, too, assuming that I don't want to hang with them either. 

In many places, I have found myself in this middle-age limbo. And almost every time, it has taken much effort on my part to dispel this misconception. So, let me put this out there to preempt any misunderstandings: I do not hate children. I do not hate being around children. I do not hate being around you because it will mean I have to be around children. Look, as proof, here I am with a child, and I am smiling. (It is duly noted that the child is not smiling.)

No, I don't adore children. I worked too long as a teacher, dealing with high-schoolers who acted like pre-schoolers, to adore them. But I get along with children. I can make faces at them and play games with them -- and I will even let them win. I was a devoted fan of The Babysitter's Club book series when I was younger, and I babysat a lot. So I can take care of children, too. I will wipe their snot and change their diapers.

But I will likely not do any of those things upon my own initiative. Because I've watched many outstanding parents, and I'm afraid I just can't obtain their level of skill and standards. Oh, trust me, I'm not judging you. If I had kids, I would be a pathological mess of insecurity, worrying about how I was ruining them. So I tend to stand back and let you take the lead.

These actions do not mean that I dislike being around you or your children. And it doesn't mean that I don't understand you as a parent. If I come to hang out with you, I know exactly what I am in for. I expect that only a portion of your attention will be focused on me. I expect that perhaps the majority of our interaction will be based on actions involving your children. I expect that we will be interrupted many times. I expect that I will be expected to help in these situations.

So, please, don't exclude me from invitations because you are afraid of my expectations. I think you are an extraordinary person for deciding to raise children, all while you have to manage shipments, obtain visas, get vaccinations, translate the FAM (Foreign Affairs Manual), learn the local language, and -- oh, yeah -- do your everyday job.

In return, I promise to extend invitations to you, even when I know it's highly likely you will have to refuse or bail due to parental reasons. I won't even hold it against you. I will be waiting for that night when the stars align, and you can feel like a young single again. I will even be willing if you need me to babysit, so you can go out clubbin' -- since that's what you kids are into these days. 

Lighted to not less than the minimum illumination (29CFR1926.56)

TJ mostly went to Williamsburg for the swine, but I wanted to go for the fire. For the holiday season, the colonial village rejoices with open flames. I didn't want to fight the crowds at the official Grand Illumination the weekend before. But I did drag TJ to the nightly Illumination of Market Square -- if I had to put up with slaughtering, he had participate in some singing (top). Before the carolers took their porch stage, period re-enactors -- festively dressed in redcoats -- fired off some celebratory musket shots (bottom left). Afterward, I managed to get TJ to hum a few bars as we basked in the glow of the cressets reflecting on the Governor's Palace (bottom right). 

I rewarded TJ's capitulation to caroling by taking him back to Chowning's Tavern for a night of Gambols (left). We shared a table with a pair of particularly boisterous patrons, but we managed to enjoy the wandering entertainment and some hearty ale all the same (right). We even learned how to play the dice game "Ship, Captain, and Crew," which surely and easily could be converted to a drinking game. 

 

TJ and I didn't get sloppy, so we were able to get a reasonably early jump on the next morning. We started with a stroll around the College of William & Mary. A statue of Baron Botetourt, former governor of Virginia, showed the college's Christmas spirit in front of Wren Hall (top). An anonymous well-wisher rigged up some festive lights at the entrance to the Sunken Garden; in the small note attached the post, he or she expressed hope that the decorations would light a path to students' success on final exams (bottom left). Sage became quite studious when we stumbled upon a statue of Thomas Jefferson, an alumnus of the school (bottom right). 

Before heading home, we advanced to the Yorktown Battlefield, site of the last major conflict of the Revolutionary War (left). The grounds, part of the Colonial National Historical Park, are so widespread that you are encouraged to take a driving tour of the major sites. Not far from the visitor's center are Redoubts 9 and 10, where French and American infantries, respectively, conquered Lord Cornwallis' English army (right). With this victory, George Washington's troops were able to set up a second parallel line, which strangled the British soldiers and forced Cornwallis to seek refuge in some caves facing the Yorktown waterfront. 

When reinforcements by land and by sea were thwarted on several fronts, Cornwallis declared his desire to surrender. During a two-hour ceasefire, the official Articles of Capitulation were negotiated and signed at the Moore House, another stop on the driving tour (left). In an embarrassment, Cornwallis' troops were denied full military honors when they laid down their arms at Surrender Field (right).

 

A final stop on the driving tour is the Yorktown Victory Monument, located at one end of the village's Main Street (top left). Many preserved yet converted buildings stand along the street in Yorktown, including a historic house that is now used as an office for Virginia's 1st Representative District (top right). From downtown, it is a steep stumble down to the York River, but once you get there, you find a Waterfront Trail lined with markers outlining the history, economics, and ecology of the region (bottom). Along the path lies the Watermen's Museum, where TJ learned from a worker that we were a week late for the annual oyster roast. 

 

But we were determined to eat some shellfish, so we sauntered over to the Yorktown Pub, where we ordered a half-dozen on the half-shell (top left). Then TJ double-downed on a fried-oyster po' boy while I ordered an immense platter of fried clams (top right). The only things better than the local seafood were the local characters packing the place; they fit in perfectly with the laid-back Mason-jar ambiance of "The Ancient Mariner's Inn" (bottom).