I have not, as yet, addressed the cuisine of the Outer Banks. This is not because there is no cuisine. There is plenty, although not all of it is to be found on one's plate.
One way to experience the cuisine of the area is to dine at a buffet. We, of course, wanting the full experience, did this, stopping at a popular seafood buffet for dinner one night. It is perhaps fortunate that we did not bring along a food safety inspector, as he or she would almost certainly have immediately shut down the buffet, unless he or she was from the area, in which case he or she would have said, "Welcome to the Outer Banks dining experience! Be prepared to duck. "
In honor of the restaurant's 10th year of operation, the buffet was offering 10 different kinds of crab. Our server talked about this wonderingly, as if it were a watershed moment in history, another Woodstock. Indeed, the crab buffet was very popular with the other diners, who seemed quite willing to overlook the myriad body parts sticking out at all angles from the warming plate, all jumbled and mangled together. This so impressed me, however, that I endeavored to order something else, such as a grilled cheese sandwich, but had to be content with some sweet and sour chicken and ice cream. The buffet did not, I noticed, offer 10 different kinds of ice cream.
The thing about seafood is that there are almost as many contents left on one's plate after one has eaten as there were before. For this purpose the server sets a large bucket on the table, into which diners dump the remains of their dinner, and which he periodically empties into another, larger bucket and hauls away to some secret location, probably your car trunk. In his haste, our server would sometimes leave behind a trail of discarded appendages that fell from his bucket. This no doubt explains why, as I was sitting in our booth, I kept encountering something underfoot. I looked down, which in retrospect was probably unwise, as I was met with the sight of a lone crab leg, sitting there for who knows how long, becoming progressively more unrecognizable as it was crunched and smashed. I considered dashing out the door and screaming. As Joe was not finished yet, however, I decided to handle the situation in a mature way, which is to say that I kicked the crab leg over to someone else's table.
Which a food safety inspector, had we brought one, would probably merely have laughed at, and sworn me in as a full-fledged Seafood Carnage Participant.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Bathroom reading
In the previous episode regarding our vacation to the Outer Banks, we looked briefly at some of the wildlife in the area, specifically the wildlife that invades your home and leads you on a merry chase until finally, exhausted of its game, leaves and tells all of its friends and relatives where you keep the Oreos.
If you prefer your wildlife, as I do, dead and stuffed and mounted in tasteful displays, with no possibility of its coming into contact with your person or belongings, you can do no better than visit the nature center on the northern end of the islands. The center is a very popular destination with families, particularly on days when it is raining and they cannot go to the beach.
The nature center is filled with helpful signage about the animals on display, and also about humans, such as a dire warning that "More than 250 people in this room at one time is dangerous." Not only is it dangerous, it is highly optimistic as well -- at least based on our visit, during which, despite the inclement weather outdoors, the only living things not swimming around in a tank were Joe and I.
Yet it is evident that the nature center people take their jobs very seriously. Through interpretive displays and a tasteful movie depicting live insects shown at 300,000,000 times their actual size, they attempt to impress upon you how the influx of humans is destroying the Outer Banks, and to urge you that when you go on vacation, you should respect the fragility of the ecosystem and go somewhere else, like Disneyland, where the damage has already been done.
The nature center people feel so strongly about educating visitors on the importance of the ecosystem that your wildlife education continues even in the restroom, at least if you are a female. Here, once you are comfortably settled, you may read, on the back of the stall door, an educational display about the winter habits of snakes. This display is accompanied by several photos of what snakes do in the winter, such as burrowing underground, growing to 900 times their original size, emerging to terrorize people in restrooms, etc.
I do not know what kind of person thinks that a sign about snakes on the back of the stall door in the women's restroom is a good idea. The only sign I want to see about snakes in a restroom is one that says BE ASSURED THAT IT IS PHYSICALLY IMPOSSIBLE FOR A SNAKE TO COME UP THROUGH THE TOILET AND BITE YOU, with perhaps a little drawing of a snake in a circle with a line through it.
Maybe then they would have a shot at getting more people to visit.
If you prefer your wildlife, as I do, dead and stuffed and mounted in tasteful displays, with no possibility of its coming into contact with your person or belongings, you can do no better than visit the nature center on the northern end of the islands. The center is a very popular destination with families, particularly on days when it is raining and they cannot go to the beach.
The nature center is filled with helpful signage about the animals on display, and also about humans, such as a dire warning that "More than 250 people in this room at one time is dangerous." Not only is it dangerous, it is highly optimistic as well -- at least based on our visit, during which, despite the inclement weather outdoors, the only living things not swimming around in a tank were Joe and I.
Yet it is evident that the nature center people take their jobs very seriously. Through interpretive displays and a tasteful movie depicting live insects shown at 300,000,000 times their actual size, they attempt to impress upon you how the influx of humans is destroying the Outer Banks, and to urge you that when you go on vacation, you should respect the fragility of the ecosystem and go somewhere else, like Disneyland, where the damage has already been done.
The nature center people feel so strongly about educating visitors on the importance of the ecosystem that your wildlife education continues even in the restroom, at least if you are a female. Here, once you are comfortably settled, you may read, on the back of the stall door, an educational display about the winter habits of snakes. This display is accompanied by several photos of what snakes do in the winter, such as burrowing underground, growing to 900 times their original size, emerging to terrorize people in restrooms, etc.
I do not know what kind of person thinks that a sign about snakes on the back of the stall door in the women's restroom is a good idea. The only sign I want to see about snakes in a restroom is one that says BE ASSURED THAT IT IS PHYSICALLY IMPOSSIBLE FOR A SNAKE TO COME UP THROUGH THE TOILET AND BITE YOU, with perhaps a little drawing of a snake in a circle with a line through it.
Maybe then they would have a shot at getting more people to visit.
Monday, July 27, 2009
A too-close encounter
There is a great variety of wildlife in the Outer Banks, should you be inclined to seek out its company. Most of our own encounters with wildlife took place indoors and were definitely not instigated by us. Indoor encounters are not optimal, because there are fewer places to run and hide. For us, I mean.
On the first evening of our vacation we were greeted by a large cockroach, about the size of an African elephant, swaggering across the living room floor. Of course I, as the female, was the one to sound the alarm upon sighting the intruder, mainly because I, as the female, am the only one who ever sees such intruders.
The Cockroach Alert sounds remarkably similar to Everyday Toddler Speak, in which only essential words are communicated:
"Big! Thing! Roach! Get it get it GET IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
This Alert was of course accompanied by the Toddler Stomp performed around the living room, the object of which is never to have both feet on the ground at the same time, for fear the intruder might run up one of them.
I did manage to wave a flyswatter threateningly in the direction of the cockroach while Joe went to call the National Guard, but the cockroach showed no fear of my weapon, probably because he knew that I would not get close enough to actually use it on him, for fear I would miss and he would run up one of my legs.
This is a situation in which my father would say, "Has a cockroach EVER run up your leg? Then why are you afraid of it? It's more afraid of you." My father also told us, when we were growing up, that eating carrots would put hair on our chest. I am not sure why he thought this would be appealing to four daughters, but the point is that a father's wisdom, though helpful in many areas of life, cannot be trusted when it comes to cockroaches.
Speaking of cockroach wisdom, if you are ever faced with a giant cockroach, and you are tempted to dispatch of it by sucking it up in the vacuum cleaner, avoid that temptation. Because unless you are prepared to keep the vacuum cleaner running for some time -- say, a few months -- you are wasting your time, because the minute the suction ceases the cockroach comes back out of the hose, sashaying about and thumbing his nose at you. At least this is what our cockroach did.
We finally persuaded the cockroach, through a series of pokes with the vacuum cleaner hose and Toddler Stomps meant to shoo him in the right direction, to exit the house of his own accord, through the front door. Naturally we were aware that he could, at any time, return into the house, probably with 72 of his closest friends and relatives, and we set about removing anything of value from the floor. The house thus looked as if we were expecting an invasion by bears, with everything -- clothes, suitcase, bed, etc. -- hanging from every available hook at least 6 feet from the ground. We conveniently ignored the fact that cockroaches can climb up the wall.
And although the menace did not return, I continued to do the Toddler Stomp when moving about the house. Just in case.
On the first evening of our vacation we were greeted by a large cockroach, about the size of an African elephant, swaggering across the living room floor. Of course I, as the female, was the one to sound the alarm upon sighting the intruder, mainly because I, as the female, am the only one who ever sees such intruders.
The Cockroach Alert sounds remarkably similar to Everyday Toddler Speak, in which only essential words are communicated:
"Big! Thing! Roach! Get it get it GET IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
This Alert was of course accompanied by the Toddler Stomp performed around the living room, the object of which is never to have both feet on the ground at the same time, for fear the intruder might run up one of them.
I did manage to wave a flyswatter threateningly in the direction of the cockroach while Joe went to call the National Guard, but the cockroach showed no fear of my weapon, probably because he knew that I would not get close enough to actually use it on him, for fear I would miss and he would run up one of my legs.
This is a situation in which my father would say, "Has a cockroach EVER run up your leg? Then why are you afraid of it? It's more afraid of you." My father also told us, when we were growing up, that eating carrots would put hair on our chest. I am not sure why he thought this would be appealing to four daughters, but the point is that a father's wisdom, though helpful in many areas of life, cannot be trusted when it comes to cockroaches.
Speaking of cockroach wisdom, if you are ever faced with a giant cockroach, and you are tempted to dispatch of it by sucking it up in the vacuum cleaner, avoid that temptation. Because unless you are prepared to keep the vacuum cleaner running for some time -- say, a few months -- you are wasting your time, because the minute the suction ceases the cockroach comes back out of the hose, sashaying about and thumbing his nose at you. At least this is what our cockroach did.
We finally persuaded the cockroach, through a series of pokes with the vacuum cleaner hose and Toddler Stomps meant to shoo him in the right direction, to exit the house of his own accord, through the front door. Naturally we were aware that he could, at any time, return into the house, probably with 72 of his closest friends and relatives, and we set about removing anything of value from the floor. The house thus looked as if we were expecting an invasion by bears, with everything -- clothes, suitcase, bed, etc. -- hanging from every available hook at least 6 feet from the ground. We conveniently ignored the fact that cockroaches can climb up the wall.
And although the menace did not return, I continued to do the Toddler Stomp when moving about the house. Just in case.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Death by nature
Opportunities abound in the Outer Banks for tours. You can take a walking tour, a hiking tour, various boating tours, a four-wheel drive tour, a Segway tour, a helicopter tour, a rocket tour, etc. These tours enable you to see the natural beauty of the island, help you get in touch with its rhythms, and allow the tour guides to support themselves through the winter months when tours are not so popular.
You can tell how exciting a particular tour or activity is expected to be by paying careful attention to the wording on the release form, which you must sign whenever you merely step out the door of wherever you are staying. This form will list various risks that you may incur when participating in the activity, such as "bodily harm," "dismemberment" "significant mental anguish and hair loss," etc. You know you are in for a thrilling time if one of the risks listed is "death." If the activity takes place on the water, implied in the risk of death is also the risk of "watery interment."
For Joe and I, however, there was an even greater risk to these activities than death and watery interment. This was the risk of coming into excessive personal contact with nature. The fear of drowning, or the fear of decapitation from an errant kayak oar, to us was not nearly so great as the fear of having the black marsh water, which in addition to smelling like sewage was thick and goopy, actually touch some area of our persons. This is why we generally, when viewing nature, endeavor to stay far away from it, preferring a view from, say, the television screen.
Unfortunately during our kayak tour, we were required to actually put our kayaks into the water, climb into them, and stay there for the entire duration of the tour -- which lasted about two weeks -- merely one fiberglass step removed from our nemesis, the water. At first we were able, by carefully keeping in the center of the kayak and dipping as little of the oar into the water as possible, to keep from splashing ourselves. But this soon proved impractical, as our guide and the other kayakers seemed to feel the need to set a more vigorous pace, and second only to our fear of the inky water was our fear of being left behind in that marshy wilderness. Our guide, a slip of a girl who moved through the water as effortlessly if she were sitting in a chair in her living room reading and eating Cheez-Its, showed a marked willingness to leave any stragglers behind, and we did not want to be two of them.
As we reluctantly began to make stronger rowing motions, we found it impossible to keep the water and muck from dripping off our oars onto us, and soon we were not only soaking but also covered in what Joe affectionately referred to as "eco tattoos." The fact that it would all undoubtedly wash off at a later time was of no comfort. All the beauty around us -- the tall marsh grasses, the quaint covered bridge, the osprey resplendently opening its wings -- was all eclipsed by one inescapable fact: that black, icky muck was sitting on our bodies. Our disgust could not have been greater had we actually fallen into the water.
Okay, yes it could have.
We were quite content, after this incident, to view nature while sitting on the beach, in a chair, letting the sand touch only our feet. And looking at the pictures in the tour brochures.
You can tell how exciting a particular tour or activity is expected to be by paying careful attention to the wording on the release form, which you must sign whenever you merely step out the door of wherever you are staying. This form will list various risks that you may incur when participating in the activity, such as "bodily harm," "dismemberment" "significant mental anguish and hair loss," etc. You know you are in for a thrilling time if one of the risks listed is "death." If the activity takes place on the water, implied in the risk of death is also the risk of "watery interment."
For Joe and I, however, there was an even greater risk to these activities than death and watery interment. This was the risk of coming into excessive personal contact with nature. The fear of drowning, or the fear of decapitation from an errant kayak oar, to us was not nearly so great as the fear of having the black marsh water, which in addition to smelling like sewage was thick and goopy, actually touch some area of our persons. This is why we generally, when viewing nature, endeavor to stay far away from it, preferring a view from, say, the television screen.
Unfortunately during our kayak tour, we were required to actually put our kayaks into the water, climb into them, and stay there for the entire duration of the tour -- which lasted about two weeks -- merely one fiberglass step removed from our nemesis, the water. At first we were able, by carefully keeping in the center of the kayak and dipping as little of the oar into the water as possible, to keep from splashing ourselves. But this soon proved impractical, as our guide and the other kayakers seemed to feel the need to set a more vigorous pace, and second only to our fear of the inky water was our fear of being left behind in that marshy wilderness. Our guide, a slip of a girl who moved through the water as effortlessly if she were sitting in a chair in her living room reading and eating Cheez-Its, showed a marked willingness to leave any stragglers behind, and we did not want to be two of them.
As we reluctantly began to make stronger rowing motions, we found it impossible to keep the water and muck from dripping off our oars onto us, and soon we were not only soaking but also covered in what Joe affectionately referred to as "eco tattoos." The fact that it would all undoubtedly wash off at a later time was of no comfort. All the beauty around us -- the tall marsh grasses, the quaint covered bridge, the osprey resplendently opening its wings -- was all eclipsed by one inescapable fact: that black, icky muck was sitting on our bodies. Our disgust could not have been greater had we actually fallen into the water.
Okay, yes it could have.
We were quite content, after this incident, to view nature while sitting on the beach, in a chair, letting the sand touch only our feet. And looking at the pictures in the tour brochures.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Sights and sounds -- and smells
The Outer Banks offers plenty of sensory experiences -- gently lapping waves, soft sand between your toes, colorful pebbles that work their way into your bathing suit, marshes that smell like an abandoned sewage plant, etc. Before you even get to your destination -- that is, if you are reading an old-fashioned map instead of blindingly trusting your trip and your life to a little GPS voice -- you will notice a large natural feature, affectionately called the Great Dismal Swamp. We made the difficult decision not to tour the Great Dismal Swamp, feeling that the name was probably a ruse, given specifically to pique the curiosity of 8- to 12-year-old boys who otherwise would have no interest in going along on the annual family vacation:
Son: "I don't wanna go to North Caro -- wherever it is! It's boring!"
Desperate parent: "We can stop at the Great Dismal Swamp on the way."
Son: "Cool!"
Daughter: "EWWWWWW! I don't wanna go!"
And then, after the young male has waited excitedly the whole trip -- "We're going to the Great Dismal Swamp! Cool!" -- the family arrives at the swamp, only to find that, instead of something out of a horror movie, the swamp is actually a magical place of dancing Strawberry Shortcakes and other assorted colorful dolls, which makes the young female of the family glad she came on the trip after all.
Although we did not visit the Great Dismal Swamp, we did tour a marsh in the Outer Banks, which turned out to be pretty much the same thing. Amidst admiring the foliage and wildlife (consisting of one nesting osprey, probably placed there specifically for tourists: "Flo, it's your turn to sit in the nest." "No! You do it, Bob. Yesterday they wouldn't stop taking pictures and now I keep seeing all these little yellow spots"), we were intermittently hit with what smelled like a thousand cows all letting loose at the same time. But our guide assured us that this smell, which emanates from whatever grows at the bottom of the marsh, means that the ecosystem is healthy. Unfortunately this healthful aroma seemed to cling to us, following us out of the marsh, and for days afterward we would be chatting amiably and suddenly get a whiff of healthful aroma on our persons, causing a frantic running around in circles in an effort to air out some of this healthfulness.
There are many things you can do to have an even more enjoyable experience in the marsh, including exploring it by kayak and heaping the smelly waters on yourself and your kayaking partner with your paddle, which of course Joe and I did NOT do. More next time.
Son: "I don't wanna go to North Caro -- wherever it is! It's boring!"
Desperate parent: "We can stop at the Great Dismal Swamp on the way."
Son: "Cool!"
Daughter: "EWWWWWW! I don't wanna go!"
And then, after the young male has waited excitedly the whole trip -- "We're going to the Great Dismal Swamp! Cool!" -- the family arrives at the swamp, only to find that, instead of something out of a horror movie, the swamp is actually a magical place of dancing Strawberry Shortcakes and other assorted colorful dolls, which makes the young female of the family glad she came on the trip after all.
Although we did not visit the Great Dismal Swamp, we did tour a marsh in the Outer Banks, which turned out to be pretty much the same thing. Amidst admiring the foliage and wildlife (consisting of one nesting osprey, probably placed there specifically for tourists: "Flo, it's your turn to sit in the nest." "No! You do it, Bob. Yesterday they wouldn't stop taking pictures and now I keep seeing all these little yellow spots"), we were intermittently hit with what smelled like a thousand cows all letting loose at the same time. But our guide assured us that this smell, which emanates from whatever grows at the bottom of the marsh, means that the ecosystem is healthy. Unfortunately this healthful aroma seemed to cling to us, following us out of the marsh, and for days afterward we would be chatting amiably and suddenly get a whiff of healthful aroma on our persons, causing a frantic running around in circles in an effort to air out some of this healthfulness.
There are many things you can do to have an even more enjoyable experience in the marsh, including exploring it by kayak and heaping the smelly waters on yourself and your kayaking partner with your paddle, which of course Joe and I did NOT do. More next time.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Important things to know
There are many important things to know about vacationing in the Outer Banks, where we spent the last week in seclusion -- no Internet, and only sporadic forays for coffee -- and where, through no fault of our own, we were unable to locate either a sunrise or a sunset. The first thing to know is that although once on the islands you are able to enjoy a fair amount of privacy, at precisely 9:30 a.m. and 2:30 p.m. each Saturday, the entire population of the East Coast gets in a car and attempts to either (a) leave the island after arriving the previous Saturday or (b) arrive on the island for their stay until the following Saturday. Although the volume of traffic makes it appear that this is in response to a pending hurricane, be assured that it is completely normal, part of the "natural rhythm" of the islands that the tourism people are always touting.
Other than during these times, you will see very few people around, which presents a mystery of where all the people in all those cars go between Saturdays. This mystery is the subject of a nightly performance called The Lost Colony, which is ostensibly about the unknown fate of the first European settlement in America, but which everyone recognizes as an attempt to figure out where all the tourists are during the week.
Another thing to be aware of is that the weather forecast, although presented as if live and up to date, is actually a loop from 1953 and forecasts two types of weather: scattered thunderstorms, and isolated thunderstorms. This forecast is given for seven straight days, coinciding with the typical stay for vacationers, causing a general wail to go up as people arrive for the week and find that the sun is not expected to make even the tiniest of appearances during their stay. However, as they soon realize, it never actually rains there; all the rain accumulates somewhere off Bermuda until a hurricane forms, and then it gets dumped all at once, as the local forecast continues to play the loop of "isolated or scattered thunderstorms."
Thus visitors gradually realize that the weather forecast has nothing to do with real time, and that they do not necessarily have to make "rain plans" in anticipation of unfavorable weather, as we did, and perhaps find themselves in the Museum of Prehistoric Lifesaving Equipment on a perfectly sunny day.
Although the waves on the Atlantic can appear intimidating, it is comforting to know that there is an Early Warning System that offers alerts for three levels of waves. This warning system consists of a loosely arranged group of children in the water yelling thus:
Small wave: "Wave!"
Somewhat larger wave: "Big Wave!"
Hurricane-strength wave: "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
These are just a few highlights of our accumulated wisdom on vacationing in the Outer Banks. In our next vacation report, we present The Outer Banks: The Full Sensory Experience. Stay tuned!
Other than during these times, you will see very few people around, which presents a mystery of where all the people in all those cars go between Saturdays. This mystery is the subject of a nightly performance called The Lost Colony, which is ostensibly about the unknown fate of the first European settlement in America, but which everyone recognizes as an attempt to figure out where all the tourists are during the week.
Another thing to be aware of is that the weather forecast, although presented as if live and up to date, is actually a loop from 1953 and forecasts two types of weather: scattered thunderstorms, and isolated thunderstorms. This forecast is given for seven straight days, coinciding with the typical stay for vacationers, causing a general wail to go up as people arrive for the week and find that the sun is not expected to make even the tiniest of appearances during their stay. However, as they soon realize, it never actually rains there; all the rain accumulates somewhere off Bermuda until a hurricane forms, and then it gets dumped all at once, as the local forecast continues to play the loop of "isolated or scattered thunderstorms."
Thus visitors gradually realize that the weather forecast has nothing to do with real time, and that they do not necessarily have to make "rain plans" in anticipation of unfavorable weather, as we did, and perhaps find themselves in the Museum of Prehistoric Lifesaving Equipment on a perfectly sunny day.
Although the waves on the Atlantic can appear intimidating, it is comforting to know that there is an Early Warning System that offers alerts for three levels of waves. This warning system consists of a loosely arranged group of children in the water yelling thus:
Small wave: "Wave!"
Somewhat larger wave: "Big Wave!"
Hurricane-strength wave: "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
These are just a few highlights of our accumulated wisdom on vacationing in the Outer Banks. In our next vacation report, we present The Outer Banks: The Full Sensory Experience. Stay tuned!
Monday, July 20, 2009
Home, home again
Although the blog was scheduled to return to its regular programming today, we regret that technical difficulties have prevented this. We trust that the Gallant Hero, who is so very knowledgeable about such things -- and who, on our recent vacation, also became very knowledgeable about such matters as sailing; disposing of large, uninvited cottage guests; and grilling without burning the house down -- will be able to restore the blog's full capabilities in short order.
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