Colonial Poppy

We're in New Hampshire all week. As usual, it's wonderful. So much cooler than Chicago, and I mean that in every sense of the word.

But it's not exactly a dream vacation, either.

"Oh, good," I can hear you thinking. "We were afraid we wouldn't get our minimum daily adult requirement of whining."

Fear not, gentle readers.

See, this part of New Hampshire is deeply, deeply historic. Many of the houses in this town date to the late 17th century. And in the spirit of the locale, I'm afraid I've become a Colonial New Hampshire reenactor.

First of all, the kitchen has been gutted. Which I knew had happened, but that was literally months ago, and I figured some measurable progess would have been made since January. I forgot that to a normal contractor, fighting little problems like rotted out windowsills, obsolete electrical systems, and mold behind the drywall trump little matters like countertops, cupboards, and a stove. Or a sink, for that matter.

And. While the drywall, windows, electrical system, new grounded outlets and all that crucially important but not very exciting stuff was being taken care of, and they were waiting for the new cabinets to arrive--not to mention the floor--the contractor decided that they might as well paint the master bedroom.

Which means that not only do we not have a kitchen, we don't have a bedroom. Which means that That Stud Muffin I Married and I are sleeping in one of the beds in my daughter's bedroom. (You know, the way you wonder how Colonial families were always so big. How did they manage it? Because honestly, this girl doesn't go to sleep. And even if she did, ew.)

So there is an almost Early American level of family togetherness going on around here. We live, eat, and entertain ourselves in the large room on the ground floor that you moderns call "a living room." If we want to cook, we have a fireplace. If we want to wash dishes, I wait until no one is looking, then lick them clean, wiping them dry with a dish towel.*

So, no kitchen and no master bedroom. There is no cooking, which is good, and yet, there is also no fwomping, which is not so good. So what am I doing for fun?

Not much internet stuff, the internet being a 20th century phenomenon, and not historically accurate for the Colonial period.**

No ... when I'm in New Hampshire, I keep house. I marvel at the low, low prices at Wal-Mart. I rejoice in the lack of a sales tax. And I eat Yankee soul food. I've been here a day and a half and have managed to eat two lobster rolls, a cup of clam chowdah, some local draft beer, and a scoop of black raspberry ice cream--and I've got five days (and as many pounds to gain) left.

* I'm kidding. We're using paper plates, OK?

** Actually, I left my laptop's AC adaptor in Chicago, so I barely had time to post my weekly Mamarazzi entry before the battery died. I'm now stuck using my husband's laptop. When I can pry him away from Snood.