I’ve always loved hats. I wasn’t a particularly feminine girl-child, but I played with dolls, and I made hats for them from handkerchiefs and buttons, ribbons and safety pins. I had my own hats, too…bunny fur and dark green velvet in winter, straw Easter bonnets with fake flowers every spring. That is, up until I hit seventh grade, when wearing a hat suddenly became uncool. At that time the only acceptable head gear among my peer group was scarves. Why we wanted to wear what my Polish grandmother would have called babushkas remains a mystery to me, but like pre-teens everywhere, we were driven by the need to look exactly alike.
Besides running the wood fired oven workshops, Pat runs Hains House as an AirB&B. In case you haven’t been traveling much lately, this is a system like those home stays and farm stays that are so deservedly popular in other countries. Three bedrooms and a bath upstairs, one bed and bath downstairs. So in the four nights I spent in the Log Cabin room under the eaves, Vasu had another of the upstairs bedrooms and the downstairs room was occupied Friday night by Frank and Elaine from Victoria, B.C. and Saturday night by Emily and David from Northern Ireland. And it must be said that in the case of Hains House, “bed & breakfast” doesn’t really cover the experience.
The first of two posts about my wood fired baking workshop in Olympia, WA…
I’ve learned over the course of many years and many trips that travel is like dominoes. If a day starts off ugly things generally get worse. Thursday (Sept. 19th) is a travel day that begins with a thunderstorm at 1:15 AM. After checking the time, making sure the roof isn’t leaking and getting a drink of water, I start mentally calculating how many hours I have left to sleep, which of course means zero. We leave the house at 4 AM (don’t ask.)
“Did you know Cindy Bellinger?” my husband asks.
We’re sitting at a table at Dulce having coffee and reading the paper, our Friday morning routine. I’m reading Pasatiempo and I look up, surprised.
“Yes, we met her at Larry’s signing. Why?”
A while back Jo-Ann Mapson and I were lamenting the lack of decent health insurance for starving writers like ourselves. We decided to start an association in hopes of getting a great group rate on insurance for our millions of soon-to-be members, and Jo-Ann came up with the perfect name…one we felt sure writers everywhere would identify with and flock to…Neurotic Writers of America.
Houston, Texas 1978. Or possibly 1979. My RAM isn’t what it used to be.