Last Friday our little cat�the tiny black and white one we called �Kitty��died suddenly. The circumstances of her death were sad and strange.
As you may remember, we had taken her to the vet to get spayed about a month ago, only to find that she was already pregnant. She was also quite sick, and with the medicine and other vaccinations, her litter of kittens didn�t survive. She was mopey and seemed depressed for a bit, but a month after she lost the kittens, we once again took her to the vet to get her spayed once and for all.
Apparently, during the surgery, she had a sort of heart attack or seizure, or else her body just stopped working. The vet was alarmed, so she performed an autopsy, only to find that Kitty barely had had any lungs (apparently they were about the size of a dime), and that she also had no diaphragm. The vet said she�d never seen anything like it in her years of practice and surgery, and that the fact that Kitty had even been alive in the first place was a sort of little miracle. In fact, the vet said Kitty didn�t even have the necessary organs to be alive. So, it also explained why the cat always had such trouble breathing, and why she remained stationary most of the time. In any case, the vet was very considerate and compassionate, and explained the surgery and autopsy photos to Angela, who had gone to pick up Kitty and was somewhat in shock.
So, we were a bit down this past weekend. It�s surprising that despite the fact we had had Kitty for a very short time, we had grown to care for her very much. She was an incredibly sweet little thing, and she only seemed interested in giving and receiving a bit of love here and there. If you sat on the steps, she�d come and collapse into your lap, and just stay there till you made her get off. She also had a penchant for trying to fight with our other cat Cucho (see picture above), which, given her medical condition, age, size, and gender, seemed quite strange, but we didn�t mind since Cucho�s haughtiness probably could have done with an occasional ass-kicking by a sick, little girl cat.
Kitty�s life was quite intense, now that I think of it. She seemed to have been sent to us in order to �live fast, love hard, die young, and leave a beautiful memory,� in the words of the Faron Young song. Angela and I are certainly sad that she�s gone, but we also now consider her stay here to have been a sort of test. Maybe we�re given chances in life to see how we treat the most feeble, weak, and desperate creatures, to understand what our moral fiber is made of. Perhaps Kitty knew she was not meant to be on this world for more than a few months, and maybe she was sent to us or came to us instinctively, hoping to find someone nice to take care of her in a sea of hostility, in a mean world. We also hope that we passed that test.
So, Kitty, hopefully you�re in cat heaven with my old cat Pussypie, playing together with a catnip mouse, or maybe just casually kicking his ass a little bit.
Either way, we�ll miss you.
New on the scene: A Berl�n "Trash Cage"
I learn new things everyday. Only recently have I become aware that the USCGC Eagle was originally a German ship. Commissioned by Adolph Hitler in 1936, the 295 foot barque was named in honor of Horst Wessel, a prominent Nazi activist who died in 1930 . At the end of World War II, she was taken as a war reparation by the United States. Two other ships in her class were taken by the Soviet Union and Portugal. 
The other day people in my office kept calling my name. The same thing happened at my in-laws� house, when my sister-in-law said my name a few times. When I looked up, she wasn�t looking at me, but she was frowning and pointing at a dinner plate. Has the world gone nuts?
Today marks the 71st anniversary of the Great Hurricane of 1938. Flooding and 100 mph-plus winds extended from New York to Cape Cod, with the storm's worst destruction striking Rhode Island, and the eastern portions of Connecticut and Long Island. Occurring years before hurricanes were given names by the National Weather Service, the storm is sometimes called the Long Island Express or the Great New England Hurricane.
Here is my mother-in-law Cecilia with the corn.
Cecilia looks on as Angela cuts the corn from the cob. Gotta make sure she's not slacking. By the way, Angela's St. Regis basketball sweater reflects her passion for and commitment to both St. Regis and the sport of basketball. I once asked her why in the world she had that sweater, and she told me she got it at a second-hand store, and that she didn't like basketball at all. I thought that was interesting, since I also have a basketball T-shirt (Boulder Valley YMCA) that I got at a second-hand store, and I hate basketball. Just another reason our love was meant to be!
Pretty easy: just scrape the corn off the cob. Don't worry about the little corn hairs; they supposedly make the finished product taste better.
Next you've got to grind it. This is the hard part if you live in the U.S. and you're not into things where you need grinders and old kitchen supplies, like casing homemade sausages or making your own shotgun ammo. However, you can always use a blender or food processor, but you may have to drain a bit of the liquid a few steps from now.
Work it! As you see to the left, there's a little trickle of "corn milk" coming from where the base of the handle meets the grinder. That's being collected below the wood block, and will be added in a step or two.
I even got in on the fun.
Here's where you add the "corn milk": that's what was being collected separately below the grinder. If you do the grinding in a blender or food processor, you may actually have to drain some of the milk off, as opposed to adding it in. It just depends on how the grinder works.
Then, you gotta mix it to the consistency of a tapioca or a thick pancake batter. At this point, the rest of the process is basically like making pancakes:
Spoon some of the mixture out and spread it around. Let it cook in either an oiled or a non-stick pan for about 2 minutes, or until it can leave the bottom of the pan and be flipped.
Here's a flipped chorreada.
Cecilia's a good sport letting me photograph her, so thanks again to her for putting up with my questions and the constant flash bulb!
Dinner --or, more often, coffee-- is served! One person can usually eat about two or three of these things for coffee time, or as a sequel to dinner. The traditional Costa Rican way of serving chorreadas is with a fresh cup of coffee and some natilla, which is like a heavy sour cream. That's surely the most difficult part of this recipe for the people in the U.S. to acquire, but you could use American-style sour cream, or possibly cr�me fraiche or even yogurt. And, I've been known to sneak one of these beauties topped with butter and maple syrup, which makes it like a pancake-y type of cornbread... just don't tell the Costa Ricans!
And finally, how you eat it is just as important: you have to use your hands, since utensils are only for panty-waists!
We have a walk at 8pm in Morlaix this evening, meeting by the tourist office between the bandstand and the viaduct. Some of us will be eating beforehand at a creperie nearby - meet at 6.15 by bandstand for that.
Peck Ledge Lighthouse (AKA Pecks Ledge), August 2009
Last Friday our little cat�the tiny black and white one we called �Kitty��died suddenly. The circumstances of her death were sad and strange.
Why couldn't it have been like this over the school holidays? The weather waits til everyone is stuck back inside a classroom and then turns sunny. It was just right today at Landacre, although we could have done without the chilly breeze.
For many cruising sailors and tourists, New London usually gets passed over as a destination. There are much more attractive harbors and towns in the region, and New London with it's train station and ferry terminals, is often just a transfer station used to get to somewhere else. For water rats like me however, this waterfront has a lot to offer. The ferries, tall ships, submarines, and fishing boats make this an appealing harbor. New London Harbor is industrial, but it is a true working seaport.
