Belgium

We returned yesterday from a lovely trip to Belgium.
We felt inspired a take a holiday getaway over our three-day weekend, and Belgium--with plenty of beer, chocolate, waffles, and mussels--seemed just the ticket. Wanting to avoid that...morning-of-travel-early-wake-up-and-drive, we decided to stay Thursday night in a London hotel, in order to be fresh and rested for the following morning's train ride. After work and a frenzied packing tornado at home, we kissed Lego goodbye and hit the road (For those of you who are worried as you read this, thinking, "HOW could they LEAVE that sweet little black puppy?! He has the fuzziest little face anyone could ever wish to kiss!" Do not be alarmed, dear concerned reader. He was lovingly entrusted to our neighbor friends whose love and care for their own puppy-child rivals our own. Also, said puppy, Venus, is Legs' girlfriend and they like to spend time together when one set of parents travels).
As we drove into the sunset towards London, the weather was perfect, the car was full of petrol, and we'd had a lovely cannelloni dinner, courtesy of my darling husband. So, happy and ready for adventure, we parked at Epping station and rode the tube to the hotel. En route, we noted with pleasure that our hotel was only about a block from the international train terminal; we fell into a contented, pleased-with-ourselves sort of sleep in our modest hotel room.
The following day came with London-waking-up-on-a-Friday-morning sounds, and with them, we excitedly (and a little groggily) bid London adieu. (Actually, this reminds me of a funny thing I've noticed about travelling here: customs is never the same, trip to trip. Some countries require a full passport check and landing card every time you cross the border. Others seem not to care two figs whether you have a passport or not. (Belgium is a good example of the latter--they cared a maximum of one fig. Apparently, since we had to show our documentation to French customs--as we were travelling THROUGH France into Belgium--Belgium doesn't feel the need to see the passports. "Well, if they're good enough for France, they're good enough for us!") But I digress...
Our decision to take the Eurostar high-speed train was made for the following reasons:
1) It was fast and cheap--just over two hours.
2) It would give us the third passport stamp style that we needed to collect all three: plane, train, boat. Our collections are now complete.
3) We think trains are neat.

After finding our seats and settling in, I promptly fell asleep. I think Travis maybe read a magazine, but I'm not really sure, since I basically just woke up in Brussels.
The weather in Belgium was rainy and chilly and drizzly-grey, but our spirits were NOT dampened! We bought an umbrella at the train station (we forgot ours) and cheerfully headed into the "ten minute walk" with our crisp, new Brussels map. The rain continued, but we persevered, enjoying the quirky sights; at every little bend and hill, we expected the historic market square to burst into view, beautiful and breathtaking. But somehow, while we saw many lovely shops and statues, we never came to the square for which we were searching.
At some point, we saw some interesting Gothic buildings down an alleyway, and Travis wanted to go look at them, but I insisted that we first find The Square. If we found The Square, then we could later venture out into the many alleys, nooks and crannies in order to look at all the random Gothic buildings the city had to offer. By the time we reached the far side of Brussels, we realized we must have missed something, so we consulted our map. Yes, of course those "Gothic buildings" were actually the corner of The Square. Oops. In the end, The Square was really beautiful.
After all this exhausting walking-around, we felt it was time for our first sampling of Belgian lunch. We chose our restaurant from three or four in a row (that honestly looked EXACTLY the same) and had a delightful meal of garlic butter drizzled mussels with parsley  puree. This was accompanied by a Brussels salad (which had an increadible warm bacon dressing). We felt refreshed and ready to continue our tramping through the city.
We perused a museum or two, and learned much about Mannequin Pis, the small statue of a boy, peeing into a fountain. This small boy is much more than a chuckle-inducing absurdity to the Belgian people (We learned all about this in the museum); he is a symbol of the people's freedom. He wears patriotic clothing at different times of year, and has over 700 "outfits" stored and displayed at the Brussels museum. He also makes people laugh because he's peeing--definitely a good tourist combo. We went to see the little tyke, and--fortunately for us--there is a delicious waffle shop just around the corner from his fountain.
This was our first experience with the truly Belgian waffle, and though we did not have high hopes (I mean, it's a waffle, right? How great could it be?) Well, I'll tell you: it can be AMAZING. Banish your preconceived notions about waffles--keep the waffley, criss-cross pattern, but forget the dry, crusty texture. The true Belgian waffle is not circular, it's a sloppy rectangle. The inside of a Belgian waffle is gooey and sweet, hot and slightly chewy. The outside of a Belgian waffle is soft, with ever-so-slight a crisp to the outer crust. There is a taffy-like browned sugar substance at the corners and edges. It burns your tongue and your lips, but you don't care because it's so delicious. They are sold in the Belgian streets like hot dogs in NYC--and the smell! Let me just tell you that it's fantastic. The good news about all this is that we had the joy of such an enjoyable experience; the bad news is that I will never be able to eat at IHOP again.
With mouths still burning from melted sugar, we caught a cab to the art and history museum, took a look (it was cool--big architecture and arches and old buildings, etc.) and headed to our B&B, previously booked online. This is when things got interesting.
When we pulled to the side of the road, I looked out the cab windows to a third-world country. We were clearly not in the better part of Brussels, and when we found the building number, it was fixed to a solid iron door. I rang the bell for #38, and the door unlocked for us. We wound our way through a scary little alley, to an open courtyard. Through open French doors, three greasy men were sitting on the floor around laptops. They looked up at us and without prompt, one of them--the ringleader--said, "You're in the right place."
This did not give us comfort. The ringleader led us upstairs, approached a room, changed his mind, and said, "No, there," pointing to the door opposite. We anxiously glanced at each other and entered the room to which he indicated. The ringleader encouraged us to look at the bathroom--to make sure it was satisfactory, he said--which we did. "Go inside--please make sure." [At this point in the story, dear readers, I was quite certain that Travis--who was closer to the bathroom--was going to be clubbed by a junior member of the B&B mafia.] Travis checked the bathroom, declared it to be very nice, and politely thanked the ringleader for his help. When he finally left us alone (after informing us that we would be required to pay in cash), we closed the door and turned to each other. "We're going to die," I said.
It is times like this that I am thankful for my cool-headed husband. "We're not going to die, Carrie. I'm going to die; you are going to be sold into sex-slavery."
We considered leaving, but to be honest, neither of us wanted to go past the billy goats gruff downstairs. Instead, I prepared for bed by tucking our passports and debit card into my sock, in preparation for rapid departure, if necessary. [I am not joking about that.] Thank goodness the room was clean and presentable, as though someone had put much care and thought into decorating. We woke up and went to breakfast with some trepidation. We stood just inside our door and took a deep breath before we headed down to eat.

At this point, the whole story changes. There was a lovely woman preparing crepes in the kitchen area, a beautiful spread of bread and cheese and jams and jellies, tea and coffee, omelets and fruit was set up on a pretty table. The downstairs was filled with travellers from all over the world (we sat next to a really nice Italian woman who chatted with us while we ate. Also, we got some great ideas about visiting Italy later this year). There were children and daylight and people smiling and laughing. [Actually, it really reminded me of Bearenstein Bears book about strangers. In the first part, the apples were rotten and wormy, the people were angry and mean. THEN! The apples were bright red and friendly again. The man on the street had balloons and the people were smiling! If you haven't read this book, I am sorry for confusing you, but more sorry that you haven't read this book; I hope you'll take the time to do so--it's quite a good life lesson.]
We paid, then left our Italian friend, thanked the chef, and headed back to the train station to catch our commuter to Brugge.
Upon reaching rainy, windy Brugge, we walked from the station to the town center (with much less difficulty this time). There are beautifully manicured paths and stone trails for walking and biking in Brugge which lead a wanderer to cool little courtyards, large stone churches, museums, chocolate shops, and all manner of food stops. We checked out a few cool museums and walked through the alternating rain and bright sunshine. We stopped into about a hundred chocolate shops and sampled various delicacies. We saw a really nice bronze statue-man who performed on one of the more popular street corners. I took a picture of him (he posed for me!) and following the shot he pointed at me, beckoned me with his finger curling, and pointed at his cheek, indicating that the price of such a photo was a kiss. The crowd thought it was funny, and he was insistent, so I obliged. When I blushingly returned to Travis, however, he was laughing and pointing at my face, which was covered, lips to nose with bronze oil-paint!
Shortly thereafter we found our Brugge hotel--which was everything we needed and more. It was luxurious and offered all the little indulgences I needed following our harrowing night previous. The bathroom was well-stocked with L'Occitaine French bath products (in my favorite scent, no less!), and the minibar was packed with tiny, rip-off products--just the way I want them! The bedding was soft and perfect white (and smelled like lemons), there was a bathtub and a separate shower, all of which was separate from the toilet. The whole beautiful place was exactly what I needed!
With no idea where to eat dinner (and feeling quite peckish, despite our ample waffle and chocolate sampling earlier in the afternoon), we asked the hotel concierge for advice. We were looking for a quiet, friendly place with exceptional food. He immediately recommended a restaurant across the square, Brasserie Raymond. With little to lose and high hopes, we traipsed with our slightly soggy, crinkled map to the little spot. We were seated immediately, and enjoyed a perfect dinner.
I love eating in Europe at restaurants, since the diner never feels rushed by the waitstaff. In fact, our kind waitress offered many helpful suggestions for beer, wine, and local food specialties. I ordered a life-changing steak--it could be cut with the side of my fork! It was so tender--utterly delicious, with a warm pepper cream sauce. Served with crispy pommes frites and fresh greens. Delightful! Travis had one of the specials; guinea fowl with sweet bread over wide fresh pasta--killer good. He enjoyed a local brew or two and when I asked if there was a local red wine, the aforementioned kind waitress apologetically told me their wine came from France. Ummm...okay! Sounds good to me! It was perfect. Delicious bread and olives rounded it all off beautifully.
We woke up to an absolutely stunning breakfast room--three kinds of flaky pastry, three or four breads, a cheese and meat plate with brie and smoked salmon, prosciutto, hazelnut spread, sausage, eggs, bacon, cereal, a dozen teas, coffee...I was glad to finally get something to eat on this trip...!
At this point, I must inform you of the sad part of our trip. Unfortunately, when we called the hot air balloon company to make sure the flight was still going to run as planned over Brugge, they informed me that due to rain and wind, it would be cancelled. I would be fully refunded, of course, but no magical flight over the countryside at sunrise. I expressed my disappointment gently, and told him that I was sorry for his loss, since this weekend is a significant one in Europe (due to the bank holiday). The balloon man was quiet for a moment and said, "I appreciate your saying you're sorry for me--most people are only sorry for themselves."

With no hot air balloon ride, we found ourselves with more time than we'd planned, and really more time than we needed, so we called Eurostar to see if there was any possibility of changing our train to an earlier one, in order to get me home at a reasonable hour to sleep before work Monday. We were very coldly informed that it was not possible.
The morning was a slow, lazy one. We didn't have anything left that we HAD to do (Waffles? Check. Chocolate? Check. Mussels? Check. Beer? Check.) so we strolled through the streets, visited a park, watched the horse-drawn carriages...we stopped for tea when it started to rain, but the neighbors at the next table had a giant pot of fragrant mussels, so we ordered some as well. We ate a leisurely afternoon lunch and watched the people walking by in the rain, then beautiful sunshine. Brilliant.
We meandered back to the train station on beautifully paved, lovely walking paths through a wooded park area. We had the nicest conversation--loved chatting and laughing and pointing things out to each other.
The local train took us back to Brussels to head home, but since we gave ourselves time, we ended up at the large station early enough to have one final good-bye waffle; Travis even branched out and ordered his with whipped cream and berries.
As we were finishing our delectable final waffles, Travis saw the train departures sign and suggested we try--once more--to get seats on the train leaving one hour before ours. We headed to the check-in desk and asked the gentleman whether there were any last-minute seats unbooked on the boarding (getting ready to depart) train. He stated that it was normally out of the question for the non-flexible tickets we had booked (aka, the cheap seats), "But my manager called this afternoon and said I could make an exception, just for you." And with that, he stamped our tickets, guided us through customs (this time: England (including landing cards), Belgium, and France), and we were on the train, one hour ahead of schedule in order to get me home safe and sound for sleep.
This is nearly the end of the story. But for those of you, dear readers, who are concerned about Lego--not to worry; we picked him up from the neighbors, gave him lots of petting and ear-scratching, then kissed him goodnight as we all went to sleep.

We've Moved In, We're Settled(ish), Now on to Other Adventures!

To anyone who hasn't completly given up on me: I'm back on the blog. I would like to tell you all that the recent months-long lapse has been for a very good reason or that I've been so terribly busy that I've simply been unable to write. But that, dear readers, simply isn't true.
In reality, I am just a lazy bum.
So, in an effort to win you back, I offer a few updates to our lives here in England: Firstly, you should know that though you may have heard rumors about Lego being quite sick, he is now doing very well. He was hospitalized a time or two for his little digestive system, but it seems to have worked itself out and he is quite happily eating and pooping normally now. (Isn't that a relief to you all?!)
Travis has moved offices--he is now just up the street from RAF Lakenheath at RAF Feltwell, where he runs the BMET shop and prepares equipment for Lakenheath's medical deployments. As you can imagine, with Korea, Egypt, and Lybia going crazy, Travis has a lot of work on his hands.
Carrie is still working in the Emergency Department, switching night/day shift every three months (currently on nights). Turns out that nightshifts are a LOT more fun if one switches her internal sleep-clock on her days off, thus maximizing normal-people-awake-hours-with-one's-husband. Also, with Summer months approaching, things are much more pleasant, weather-wise. The sun is out for many more hours, and it's not freezing, freezing, freezing cold all the time. So in general, things are moving in the right direction here!
Now, added to the above good news is this: we are now living in a house with running hot water (gasp!) and central heating! It's amazing! I always wondered what those funny metal thigns on the wall were supposed to do--they're called "radiators" and they produce HEAT!
All jokes aside, the house is fantastic. We had a little trouble getting the king-sized bed up the townhouse stairs into the master bedroom, but--mind-over-matter--Travis and I were able to push-you-pull-me the giant marshmellow up (though I think I have permanent nerve damage to my fingertips from grabbing and pulling the edge of the heavy mattress). Fortunately, the boxsprings are split into two twin-sized parts, so they went up quite easily.
The American couch was much too large to fit up the twisty stairs into the livingroom (or "lounge" at is it referred to here), so my genius husband bypassed the stairs and lifted it through the large French doors (after removing the balcony railing--which had been previously bolted into the exterior wall of our house).
We received all our household goods; all the dishes, furniture, wall decor, clothes, cooking items, tools, books...all the things we'd done without for the first 6 months of our living in England! After installing a few power converter/transformer boxes throughout the house so to avoid buying all-new appliances, things really started to come together.
We ordered some custom wardrobes for the master bedroom (no closets in British houses), and waited patiently as they were constructed in a warehouse somewhere, then scheduled the delivery and installation date. We we thrilled! We would have a place to hang our clothes that is not a shower curtain rod! And really, since the wardrobes aren't THAT complicated--it's only one straight wall after all--the construction guys who are here to put them together should be able to do them in a snap. Sure, they'd be there during the day, when those of us who work nightshift would be trying to sleep, but it couldn't possibly be too noisy, could it? I mean, the shelves and bits have already been measured and cut; they only need to be put together like IKEA furniture, right?
My first clue that this would not be the case was when the construction fellow first arrived and started carrying boxes up to the master bedroom. Following the first box or two came a power drill. Then a shop-vac, then a table saw. Literally, a table saw.
The gentleman who put the wardrobes together was very friendly and self-sufficient, but needless to say, there was not a lot of sleep happening for the two full days of wardrobe construction/installation. My neighbors actually texted to make sure I was alright, since it sounded like someone was deconstructing the house, they said. My coworkers also appreciated my lack of sleep, saying something about how friendly and enjoyable I was...or something like that.
Installation noise aside, the wardrobes are fantastic, and we love the style, color, and finish. Pics coming soon.
Bottom line is this: my kitchen is small, but wonderful, the diningroom has already proven its worth with guests and dinner parties, the bedroom is perfect, the livingroom--er, excuse me, lounge--is comfortable and great for TV, thanks to Travis and his couch lifting abilites. The guestroom is ready to be finished, now that we can move the clothes into the newly-finished wardrobes, and all is right in our little world, in our little home.

Well, Folks....It's FINALLY Happening!

After months of waiting, getting our hopes up, and having said hopes dashed into the dirt (and spat upon)...we are finally moving into our new house. I must be honest with you, I began to doubt whether it would ever happen, but things are finally falling into place.
We did our first walk-through of the (nearly) completed property on Friday and...wow, it is really a spectacular sight! The builders are laying the carpet and turf today, but otherwise, she's ready for us to move in! As soon as the bank transfers the money into the solicitor's [translation: lawyer to you yanks] account, we will pick up the keys and move in. That creates a lovely, warm, happy feeling in my soul.

An interesting phenomenon to note:
The last time we walked through the same model/floorplan for this house was in September. Since then, our brains have been busy imagining and picturing our new house. During last week's walk-through, we were amazed at how drastically the builders changed the proportions of the rooms (okay, okay...it's POSSIBLE that our imaginations are not exactly 100% accurate)! The living room is twice the size I was picturing it. The bedroom is half as long as I'd remembered. The kitchen is much better sized (and way less WHITE. Plus, I have a gas stovetop--who knew?!). The front entryway is miniscule. The study--being the only room was could see from our stalker positions in the middle of the night with a flashlight--is the only room that looks remotely as we'd expected!
The good thing about all of this is that the house is better--much better--than I'd remembered. Even the rooms that are smaller than I thought are great, the layout is smooth and useable, and the whole thing is very "us." We could not be happier!

Our House in Bury St Edmunds

I would like to take a moment to discuss our current living situation in Bury St Edmunds. We absolutely love the town--it's old and historic with lovely architecture and cute little shops and restaurants. My favorite little French place is "downtown" in the square, and we recently ate at a new lovely Italian place. Tesco--the best grocery store in the world--is just around the corner, and the famous gardens are just down the street. The town is 30-40 minutes from work, but the commute is pleasant and scenic.
Our HOUSE, however, leaves a little something to be desired. By "something", I mean "heat." It is regularly 25-30 degress F outside, and it's been snowing since Thanksgiving, but houses here are primarily heated by hot water radiators. This would be just fine, except that the pump that circulates hot water through the house is not in good working order. (That is to say that the "pump that SHOULD BE circulating hot water...")
This means that there is not only no working hot water in any of our sinks (the shower has a separate pump and works fine), but there is also no heat function in our radiators. They are purely decorative. Don't get me wrong, as radiators go, they are as attractive as any I've seen, but I would prefer they actually provide one microscump* of warmth.
Due to the lack of hot water to our sinks, we boil hot water in the tea kettle for washing dishes, we brush our teeth and wash our faces with freezing cold water. This is delightful, let me assure you.
We felt ourselves quite clever when we purchased a space heater, which effectively warms one room.
"Perfect!" we exclaimed to each other.
"We are only in one room at a time, after all--this will keep us warm during the frosty, frozen weeks until we move into our new house with lovely, amazing, wondrous gas heating."
It was a wonderful solution until I began working the nightshift, at which point I began sleeping during the day, whilst Travis continued to sleep normally during the night. I, of course spend my nights off in our living room while Travis is sleeping upstairs in the bedroom. We have begun fighting over the heater. We may need to buy a SECOND space heater, in order to heat both the bedroom and the livingroom, in order to preserve our marriage.

...Waiting--rather impatiently--to move into our glorious new house...soon, soon.

*Very technical term--measure of heat.

Best Restaurant Experience Yet

My delightful husband took me to a terrific dinner the evening after my PT test, in light of my hard workouts, strict diet, and er--very slightly elevated stress level during the preceeding weeks. We went to a local Italian restaurant in Bury St. Edmunds, where we are currently living in our temporary house.
We shared a delicious pizza and pasta combo; the atmosphere was lovely and the waiter prompt and polite. All in all, we were carefree and relaxed, and thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.
When the waiter brought the check at the end of our meal, he expressed surprise at Travis' handing him a British "chip and pin" debit card. (We were required to start a British checking account for the house purchase, but most U.S. military personnel do not, as it's a bit of a hassle.)
Travis gently asked the British waiter to shed some light on an ongoing debate, "Sir, could you tell that we were Americans when you approached our table? Or did you only realize that we were from the U.S. when we spoke?"
The waiter replied that he only knew we were not locals when he heard our accents--that we did not, in his estimation look any different from the local customers. "As a general rule," he continued, "It's very easy to spot Americans from across the room--they have a sort of confidence about them." He continued to describe the American affect, pausing to emphasize a particular brand of egotism.
"There are a few American military bases not far from here, actually, and when the U.S. Air Force chaps come in--[at this point he puffed out his chest as though to show a cocky, muscle-bound Kronk-like figure]--"they're so loud--they shout across the room and swagger about...."
He must've described the "U.S. Air Force members" for 45 seconds or so before he noticed either Travis' haricut or the look on our faces as we attempted to maintain a sort of polite interest in his observations.
He paused for a moment and said, "You're not Air Force, are you?"
We laughed and told him that we both are, as it happens. The poor waiter was thoroughly embarassed and immediately began a stream of apologies, but we were all laughing within a few moments; we told him we knew the sort of military personnel about whom he spoke.

All in all, a lovely dinner and a lovely time at the restaurant...we chuckled about it most of the night, and I still think he was a terrific waiter!

Olfactory Fatigue...Unfortunately Only in my Dreams

The little town in which we currently reside has a sugar beet canning factory in it. It's about three blocks from our rental home, across the street from Tesco (the grocery store, my favorite place in the world).
This week, the entire town reeks of beets. Now, for those of you who know not of my beet aversion, let me say this: I'm not fond of beets. Actually, I detest them. They are gorss. Travis does not seem to mind (He says, "it smells like...dirty bread.") Lego is similiarly uninterested.
I, however, see the town and everything in it in a sort of reddish-purple haze. Our beige car looks maroon, our grass looks burgundy, Lego has taken on a sort of cabernet hue. I cannot stop thinking about beets. They are everywhere, and I think of beet pickles, steamed beets, chilled beets, beet roots, beet sandwhiches, beet salad, and beet soup (and also watermelon pickles, because I associate them with beets...both were gross things that Mom used to eat out of a jar from the fridge during my formative years). All food sort of tastes like beets (my Red Bull has never had such a beety flavor), and the stench of beets is permiating my skin. As I type this, I am eating a cheddar rice cake and a mozzerella string cheese stick...both taste like yucky, icky, gross, purple, stinky, horrible, squishy, staining, gritty, grainy, DISGUSTING beets!!!

On a more positive note, we exchanged contracts on the new house yesterday! We have paid our downpayment and the lawyers have switched signed contracts...the mortgage is set and we're just waiting for them to finish the building now! The best part about the move will be the lovely new little village to which we'll be moving--quiet, calm, peaceful, and best of all...NO BEETS!!

The Deliciousness of British Food...really.

Travis and I don't see each other much these days, due to our crazy conflicting work schedules. I work night shift on a Panama rotation (work two, off two, work three, off two, work two, off three etc.) and Travis works 8 hour shifts Monday through Friday. With our 30 minute commute, this results in us meeting each other--by which I mean "driving past each other" in Tuddinham village on my way home, his way to work. Then, we pass each other again at the pig farm on my way back into work, on his way home. When we see each other in time (and it's not too dark to recognize each other's cars) we flash our lights at each other as though to say "I love you" in headlight-morse-code.

This last weekend, however, was one of those rare, lovely times, when we were both not working at the same time. Now, I'm still on a night sleep schedule and he's still on days, but if we stretch a little, we can be only slightly sleep deprived while we spend about 10 hours together. We had the most beautiful, lovely Italian dinner together (we tasted a new kind of goat cheese on baguette that was so delicious it literally brought tears to my eyes) and saw a movie, we went running (at midnight, since our sleep cycles get all messed up during these times off) and spent the weekend in general appreciation of each other and our time together.

On to more universally interesting things:

I am really getting into cooking the British way. I realize that this may sound terrifying--if you believe all the garbage about how gross British food is (I think that is one of those things where people say, "Don't try these delicious, er, HORRIBLE chocolate cakes...they're TERRIBLE. You won't like them," in order to keep others from partaking in deliciousness). British folks really know how to do sausage RIGHT. Travis and I had pasta with marinara sauce and Apple Pork sausages...it changed my life.

I've ranted and raved about the grocery stores much before, I'm sure, but honestly, shopping here is a whole different experience than at home.

Tesco is my favorite place in the world--it's the general, in every town grocery store, but it is my favorite part about England so far. Most of the store is "prepared foods," but not like you think of them in the States. They're all from within the UK (so nothing could have travelled for more than about 8 hours, max) and they're all prepared fresh (and deliciously), so that if you would like to feed your family something tasty and relatively good for them, you can buy a little Tupperware container of mashed potatoes (but actually really GOOD, fresh mashed potatoes) and a little baggie of mixed vegetables (but actually fresh, green, the-ones-you'd-pick vegitables) and a couple steaks, all for about 8 pounds (or $12). Then you have a great dinner for the energy it takes to steam pre-trimmed veggies and broil a ribeye, not do all the prep work! There's a whole different attitude about dinners and how much work should be involved in making regular ol, everyday meals. There are isles of prepared foods and sides (from many cultures and countries), so it's easy to vary our diet without having to learn how to make Vietnamese food. In fact, I have come to trust even their pre-cooked desserts. I can BUY a pie at the grocery store for the equivalent of about 4 bucks--that is actually good. It's not the same as eating a pie that Laura just made, but it is a good quality pie--certainly as good as a restaurant or friend who doesn't make pies with quite the dedication that the Boehlkes do. :)

However, for special occasions (or when one feels like spending a lot of time and energy cooking a great meal), the selection of produce, meats, cheeses, breads, etc., is increadible. We've been eating the most amazing food, for pretty cheap, and without me pulling my hair out because I have to start a meal from scratch after 14 hours of work on my feet in the hospital. It's a good system, that's all I'm saying.

Travis got Lego a new stuffed toy--his last one, George (the Giraffe) had zero ears, no horns or eyes, one leg, and his face was torn open...it was time. The new one (Toni the Tiger) is very large. I'm not 100% sure that Travis didn't get it in the child toy section of the store, it's nearly as big as Lego! However, Lego fell in love with Toni. He drags her everywhere he goes, though with some difficulty, as her legs are ropes that are anchored into her body, and she weighs quite a lot. Lego will attempt to jump onto the couch with Toni in tow, which he usually cannot do. Then he will try to jump on the couch, reach down, and pull her up with him. She's too heavy. Then he will jump down to Toni, pull her up, and puuuuuuuuuuuush with his nose and straaaaaaaaaaain with his neck until Toni is safely on the couch, where he follows. It's an adorable, exhausting process.

The house process is coming to an end!! We were originally scheduled to close on the deal last Friday, but searches and paperwork held things up a bit...we should be official house-owners tomorrow or Wednesday-I'll keep you posted!