Gingerbread Inspiration

Since my family and I are usually Thanksgiving orphans (i.e. the extended family would rather stay put, eat wild rice stuffing and shovel snow than travel to a milder climate and taste my newly developed southern cooking), we decided to venture out on a road trip this year.  Less than four hours away from us, nestled in the Smoky Mountains, is the gracious southern town of Asheville, North Carolina. Asheville is home to the country's largest single family dwelling, The Biltmore Estate, and the renowned spa and resort, The Grove Park Inn.

Besides the fact that The Grove Park Inn actually looks like a massive gingerbread house itself, with its rounded red roof and cobblestone exterior, this century old Inn is home to the National Gingerbread Competition. Each year, The Inn receives hundreds of entries from across the country and displays them throughout their property.

If you don't think it's a big deal, take a look at this panel of judges.  

Curator at The Metropolitan Museum of Art?  Executive Editor for Southern Living Magazine? Impressive.

You'll be inspired by the creativity....

I loved this Gingerbread Van!

And the detail.  Is this Charlie Brown scene not the cutest thing?

Oh, yeah, did I mention these were from the kids' division?

Have a few spare hours?  How about this brick and cobblestone model?

Or some 100% edible toys?

Stone walls.....

Wallpaper, checked tiles, miniature food, carousel horses.....

And finally, the Grand Prize Winner:  The Little Old Lady Who Lived In a Shoe.

It's displayed in a glass-enclosed case with mirrors and a rotating pedestal.

On December 23rd, it's scheduled to be featured on Good Morning America.

But you can say you saw it here first.

I have a feeling the kids are going to want to make gingerbread houses this year.

Thank goodness for the beautiful pre-fab houses at Costco!  I'll be heading there shortly.

THIS POST MAY BE LINKED TO: MONDAYS: MOUTHWATERING MONDAYS, MADE BY YOU MONDAY,MINGLE MONDAY , HOME SAVVY A TO Z, BEDAZZLE ME MONDAY TUESDAYS: TALENT SHOW TUESDAYS, MUSHKI LOVES MY STUFF TUESDAYS AND THE TABLE, TEMPT MY TUMMY TUESDAY,TWO MAIDS A BAKING, TIP JUNKIE ,GET YOUR CRAFT ON, CRAZY SWEET TUESDAYS!  TEA PARTY TUESDAY  MANDY'S RECIPE BOX WEDNESDAYS: SHOW AND TELL, WORKS FOR ME WEDNESDAY, THIS CHICK COOKS, LADY BEHIND THE CURTAIN, GINGER SNAP CRAFTS,  THURSDAYS:  IT’S A KEEPER THURSDAYS, STRUT YOUR STUFF, FULL PLATE THURSDAYS , CHIC & CRAFTY PARTY, THRIFTY THURSDAYS  FRIDAYS: I’M LOVING IT, FOODIE FRIDAY, GROCERY CART CHALLENGE, FOOD ON FRIDAYS, FRIDAY POT LUCK, TATERTOTS AND JELLO,  SWEET TOOTH FRIDAY,  SHINE ON FRIDAYS, FRIDAY FAVORITES,  FUSION FRIDAYS,  FRIDAY FOOD , BACON TIME SATURDAYS:SWEETS FOR A SATURDAY SIX SISTERS STUFF, CRUMBS AND CHAOS SUNDAYS: NIFTY THRIFTY SUNDAY, AWELL SEASONED LIFE

Worst Class

On my return trip from Minnesota, I fly coach.  Different day.  Different airlines.  This one requires cash upgrades for first class, not points.  I pack my bags and open up the zippered extension on my carryon so I don't have to lug my computer all the way through the airport.  My seat is in row 33 - the back of the plane.  I check in at the ticket counter to see if I can improve my seat.  "You have to do that at the gate," the man behind the counter says, giving me the once over.  But you'll have to check that bag.  "Don't worry,"  I say, "Once I take out my computer it will be just fine.  I check in at the kiosk and head toward the gate.  I don't have a good feeling.  At security the gentleman asks me if I have any liquids.  I pull out my ziploc quart freezer bag containing three small Bath and Body Works hand sanitizers.  

"Is this all?" he asks.  "Yes, sir" I reply.  "Are you sure?" he asks quizzically. I'm positive. I had even left my toothpaste behind, just to avoid the security hassle. It's like he can sense I don't have a first class ticket. I'm just a commoner with no privileges.  A commoner with no rights.

Once through security, I rearrange my luggage so that my suitcase is back to size.  I even unload the outside pockets, just to make sure there are no questions asked.  I am returning with exactly the same number of items with which I left.

As I approach the gate, I hear the announcement that the flight is full.  "Please do not approach an agent about a seat change."  I look down at my row 33 ticket.  I'm the last section to board.  Which operational genius thought of this?  Shouldn't the back of the plane be the first one to board?  You don't stock a pantry from the front to the back.  You don't fill a bucket from the top to the bottom.  The back row should board first!  But not today.  Today I'm boarding the back of the bus.

The back-of-the-plane section is finally called.  I approach the gate, roller and shoulder bag in hand.  "Ma'am, you'll have to check your bag."

I knew it.  Mr. Ticket Agent called ahead.  I'm sure of it.

"But I always travel with this bag." I protest.  It's true.  That bag has made at least twenty trips as a qualified carry-on item.

"Well, then, you have two bags. You have to check one."

'This is my purse," I said, pointing to the largish Vera Bradley Tote I scored at 50% off last season.  "I'll put it under the seat in front of me."

She was not letting up.  "Your other bag is too big.  It has to be able to fit into this designated holder."  I lift my bag, and, sure enough, the deluxe pockets on my Costco luggage exceed the parameters by one-half of an half inch.

Out of 189 passengers, she has singled me out as the example for the entire lower class section of the plane.  I'm not first class, I'm worst class.

I'm determined not to give up without a fight.  In the middle of the gate check-in aisle, I open my bag and transfer my laptop and my Nikon D80 to my Vera Bradley.  I certainly can't check those. I look around at the passengers behind me.  Suddenly, I hear my own voice resonating like an out of body experience.  "Why is my bag the only being checked?  What about that red bag or that blue bag."  Regretfully, I hear myself throwing other passengers under the bus.  Who is this voice that has inhabited my body? The gate attendant looks flustered and begins instructing other passengers to measure their bags as well.

Shortly, I hear a male voice.  "Ma'am, come this way."  I realize I've lost it - like Ben Stiller at the airport in "Meet the Parents".  I've behaved badly.  I'm pretty sure the Air Marshall is waiting for me at the other end.  Hopefully he looks like The Rock and not Robert De Niro.  I take my ticket from the gate attendant and head down the long corridor.  Surprisingly, there's nobody waiting for me at the other end and I board the plane, squeezing my wheeled bag into the first available overhead compartment and placing my Vera Bradley under the seat in front of me.

I take my seat in the back and pray for forgiveness.  When the security tape video goes viral, I promise I won't make excuses for my behavior.

I look out the window at the sunset and, on the 10th anniversary of 9/11, give thanks that an almost-checked bag is my greatest concern.  As the plane takes off, the world seems bigger and my problems seem smaller.  There's nothing like flying above the clouds to change one's life perspective.

The Benefits of Being the Weaker....

Men and women are different.  It's true.  What works for one - does not necessarily work for the other.

Men tend to use their strength.  They power through the board room, they muscle the ball across the field,  they intimidate so that no one will encroach.  That's fine for some.

I find, however, that there is no shame in being the weaker.  I loved the days when I had my own personal "expecting" parking spot at the grocery store.  I cherish the fact that I can quickly retrieve 40 bags of mulch at Home Depot because a helpful employee is loading my SUV.  And I unapologetically declare my latest feat: Pre-Boarding.

As a family of six, pre-boarding ended with the demise of the stroller.  I admit, I stretched that scenario as long as I could, finally leaving the beloved stroller behind when my youngest turned five.  But today I was traveling without my stronger half, without my man of muscles, without my stud of steel.  As I glanced around at the fully booked flight and scanned our combined ten carry-on bags (five wheeled bags and five rather large-ish "personal" bags) I knew that this would not just be a luxury request, but a necessity.  Zone 9 just never fares well in the overhead storage department.

I approached the men behind the counter and put on my best acquired southern charm.  "I was wondering," I said, "since I'm traveling alone with my four children, if you would let me pre-board."  First rule of sales:  Smile.  Stop talking.  

"I guess so," he said.  "Thank you so much," I replied.  But when the other gate attendant failed to call pre-boarding, I knew I had to resort to quiet confidence.  I lined up myself, the four kids and the ten carry-ons behind the handful of business class passengers.  When I reached the the gate, I kindly stated that the other attendant had told me I could pre-board.  "Well, I'm not going to say no," he said.  I kindly thanked him and proceeded down the runway.

This, my friends, is the the power of being the weaker.  I am quite sure that my husband (or most men for that matter) would never ask for the help he most imminently needed.  He would, however, graciously bow to a sweet damsel in distress.  There's nothing wrong with that.  Men and women are different.  And different can be good.

Earnest Hemingway's Cats

The topic of pets is a frequent one at our house these days.  It seems that one large, fluffy dog is just not enough.  The girls have taken to watching Animal Planet, checking out books from the library and searching the internet for facts, information and adorably cute photos of pets.  

In November, during a particularly weak moment, we finally gave in to one longing, begging, ten-year-old-birthday supplication for a pet hamster.  Surely, this would cease the obsession with all things cute and cuddly!  It did not.

So, in lieu of becoming the caretaker of more animals, (we do not live on a farm, or a ranch, or even an acre for that matter!) we decided to give the kids an opportunity to visit them.

Thus began our thousand mile journey to Key West.

If you've never been to Key West, getting there is not so easy.  First of all, you have to drive to Florida.  When you reach the Florida border, you suddenly realize that you are no where near Key West.   You keep driving.  You keep driving, trying to avoid Orlando, because it's spring break.  You drive through Tampa, which you somehow always manage to reach at rush hour and then you keep driving some more.  You drive through the Everglades, hoping that you don't run out of gas or get a flat tire or run over an alligator, since there isn't a gas station in like a hundred miles, and still, you are not there.  When you reach Miami, you think you might be close.  You think you  might be deceptively close.  But you're not.  Keep driving until you run out of land.  Then, hop on a bridge.  Drive 100 miles straight out into the ocean.  It's like the Bridge to Nowhere, only Nowhere, in this case, is Key West.  When you reach Key West, the southernmost point in the continental United States, you suddenly realize that you are closer to Cuba than to the mainland, and that there is only one road out.

This is what we went through to avoid getting another pet.  This is what we did to visit Earnest Hemingway's house - the house where he wrote A Farewell to Arms and To Have and Have Not.  This is what we did to visit Earnest Hemingway's Cats.

Ernest Hemingway didn't just have cats.  Ernest Hemingway had polydactyl cats.  Polydactyl cats have extra toes.  The original six-toed cat was given to Hemingway by a Sea Captain.  It was said to bring good luck.

The descendants of Hemingway's polydactyl cats, which roam the grounds at Hemingway's home, are not all six-toed.  Apparently the odds of genetics give them a 50/50 chance of inheriting the extra digit.  Some are completely normal - which might explain their unusual names - like Hairy Truman, Emily Dickenson, Audrey Hepburn, Pablo Picasso, and Archibald MacLeish (named after the famous American Poet and Librarian of Congress.)  I felt the need to elaborate on this last name, lest my in-laws think I was suggesting they were related to a cat.  (My husband's side boasts not one, but three living Archibalds.)  I guess they're in good company!

Approximately sixty cats roam the Hemingway estate.  This provided the girls with ample distraction from the informative tour.

Never mind that Hemingway produced almost 80% of his life's work during the ten years he lived here.

Never mind that The Old Man and the Sea was a real man who actually outlived Hemingway and turned out to be really OLD - like over 100!

Ignore the fact that during the late 1930's, Hemingway's second wife, Pauline, spent $20,000 on a swimming pool!

Or that they divorced shortly thereafter!

Just keep petting those cats, girls!

They are so much more interesting than the fact that Hemingway tallied up a total of four wives

During his half productive, half larger than life, half drunken life.

Just focus on the cats.

Because when you've been to Key West, one thing is certain.....

... It's going to be a long drive back.

Clyde Butcher: Photographer of the Everglades

The great thing about being on vacation is that you can be driving through the middle of nowhere, like through the Everglades in Florida - a place where there is nothing but a two-lane road and swamps and alligators and not even a McDonald's - and out of nowhere, and I mean nowhere, there is a sanctuary filled with art.  As a parent, you can decide that even though the kids think that this is just a mindless beach vacation, you will take this moment to engage their imagination and expand their repertoire of creativity by stopping and viewing the timeless photographs of Clyde Butcher, Photographer of the Everglades.

Like Ansel Adams, Clyde Butcher uses his art form of photography as "inspiration for others to work together to save nature's places of spiritual sanctuary for future generations."

"Like the work of Ansel Adams, Clyde Butcher's remarkable photographs give us an access to nature we rarely see or experience.  They not only reveal the intimate and majestic beauty of the Everglades - and the need to save the fragile environment - they also remind us of the abiding kinship we mortals share when we work together to preserve these magnificent places.  Butcher's art is a national treasure."  Ken Burns, Emmy-Winning filmmaker.

Now, here is a man passionate about his work.  If you look at the photo above, you will notice that Mr. Butcher is standing waist deep in the swamp.

Now, look below.  OK, now look more closely.  Can you see the alligator in the upper left hand corner?

This is the swamp in which he chooses to stand.  Call me crazy, but I am just not willing to dedicate myself THAT much to my art!

After viewing Mr. Butcher's photos in his middle-of-nowhere gallery, you can exit out the back, take a swamp walk, and try a few photos of your own!

Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore!

If the view ahead doesn't please you.....

Just look up!

Clyde Butcher's images are truly stunning.

One can't help but admire not only the photographer, but the work of The Creator, Himself.

A Night In Chicago - (Part Two)

After dropping off the American Girl shopping bags at our hotel, we discussed how to best use our remaining hours.  Our first stop?  The Art Institute of Chicago.  In the interest of time, we decided to take a cab.  After our spring trip to D.C., I knew that the six of us could squeeze into a single taxi.  I ran around the cab and claimed shotgun, leaving the four girls and my very petite sister-in-law to fend for themselves.  Suddenly, the cab driver started panicking.  In broken English I heard, "Shut the door!  Shut the door!"  Being inexperienced cab riders, the girls had left the passenger door open in a tight lane of traffic!  My SIL finally reached across four girls and closed the passenger door, leaving the cab driver relieved to know he still had a vehicle with FOUR doors in which to make a living.  Note to self:  Next time, talk to the girls about about cab etiquette BEFORE entering the vehicle.  Again, I decided a generous tip would compensate for our inexperience.

Finally, we arrived at The Art Institute.  The good news?  On this particular day it was FREE and open until 8:00PM.  The bad news?  The line to get in stretched the length of a city block.  We made the best of it by eating crackers and listening to the sounds of Chicago - JAZZ!

I particularly enjoyed this street performer who came with his portable back-up band.  

We tipped him, too.

Once inside this truly enjoyable museum, we hit the high points including Seurat's "Sunday in the Park",

Monet's "Haystacks",

And an entire section of Miniature Rooms.

As we left the museum, the sun was setting.  My sister-in-law thought we should walk the Magnificent Mile back to our hotel.  Whether this was to take advantage of a beautiful night or for fear of another cab ride with me, she didn't say.  In any case, she made a good call.  

 It turned out to be a perfect evening for a walk.

On our way, we discovered a fountain park with a Vegas-like jumbo screen.

 The screen-boy occasionally blinked and moved his mouth.

Anna posed for a nightscape photo and a giant garden globe reflected the city.

We crossed the Chicago River.

The Hancock Tower appeared to shadow its older counterparts.

As we neared our destination, we gave our feet a rest with a city carriage ride.

We passed the Old Water Tower and the New Water Tower Place (Behind) as the Hancock Tower beckoned (shown in back).

A forty second elevator ride carried us 94 floors up to the John Hancock Observatory.  

Guess what?  No lines on Thursdays at 10PM!

The girls wound down and enjoyed gelato in spinning chairs while city lights flickered below.

The next morning we packed up the suitcases, duffle bags, both coolers and what was left of the Diet Coke and made our way back to The Twin Cities.

On the way out of Chicago, we stopped for a picnic on the front lawn of my alma mater, Wheaton College.

We made the rest of our six-hour trip in a mere eight hours with additional rest stops in Madison, Wisconsin; Warrenton, Wisconsin; Menomonie, Wisconsin and Lake Elmo, Minnesota. 

It was a good day.