It Is All In The Wrists

It isn’t the recipe. It is the technique.

Mom’s Pie Crust
The Ingredients

• 2 Cups all purpose flour


• 2/3 cups shortening


• ¼ cup plus 2 tsp chilled water

The Technique

Sift flour and then measure 2 cups. Cut shortening into flour using two knifes. The shortening should be about the size of peas and small lima beans (more peas than lima beans). Keep it cold so keep your fingers off. Put mixture into refrigerator to chill. By the tablespoon, add chilled water. Don’t use frozen water like I did. I dropped a few slivers of ice in the dough. It doesn’t help. Gather gently into a ball using a fork. Keep hands off dough. Your body temperature isn't good for the shortening. Divide into two, making two balls. Okay, you can use your hands at this point, but the less man-handling the more flaky the crust and that is what this is all about.

Before rolling ball make a small indentation with thumb into the ball of dough. Why? I am not sure, but those are Mom’s instructions and you don’t mess with perfection. I think it helps rolling the dough out in round shape.

Do all this dough rolling (not rolling in the dough) on a floured pastry cloth and roll the dough in one direction from the center to the outside. Rotate the pastry cloth if needed to get a round crust 2 inches larger than the top of the pie pan. Fold in half and lift into pan.

The Pie Filling
Cut enough Macintosh or Macoun apples to fill the pie plate with a “heap in the middle” (a cooking term yet to be defined by professionals on FoodTV). Peel and cut into eighths. Coat apples with the following mixture.

• ¾ cup sugar


• 1 tsp cinnamon


• 2 Tablespoons flour

Put coated apples into pie plate and then take 2 tablespoons of butter and dot the apples. (A secret ingredient.)

Cover with the other half ball of dough (rolled out of course).

Now trimming, tucking and folding the top and the bottom crusts together to make a pretty little wavy edge along the rim of the pie is a technique I never mastered. It will be one of those lost arts.

Cut a few bird feet in the crust, sprinkle with cinnamon and place in a preheated oven at 450 degrees for 15-20 minutes. Then turn the oven down to 350 degrees for 30 minutes or until apples are soft and pie bubbles over and makes a mess out of the bottom of the oven. Of course, I know how to avoid that, but some things should be kept a secret.

Cool on rack and enjoy with cheese, as Mr. Grey (Mom once taught Faith Grey how to make apple pie) use to do or make it ala mode as first introduced to the world in Cambridge, NY.

Leftovers for The Road

Jennifer: Butter?

Robin: Didn’t mom ever make you a sandwich?

Jennifer: Yes. Peanut butter and jelly with butter on the bread. It was gross.

Valerie: Mom always made sandwiches with butter. A turkey sandwich with butter. I don’t even think she made them with mayo. Just butter. Actually it wasn’t butter. It was margarine.

Jennifer: She never used mayo. It was Miracle Whip.

Valerie: Butter was a mom thing.

Robin: Put butter on both sides. Light.

Jennifer: Both sides?

Robin: Not the outside. We are not grilling it. On both pieces. With mustard between the slices of turkey so the bread doesn’t get soggy.

Valerie: That’s why mom made sandwiches with butter. The bread wouldn’t get soggy when packed in a brown bag for school.

Jennifer: Here is your sandwich for the road. With the carcass.

Robin: I get the carcass. I got the prize.

Apple Pie

The ten day weather forecast for Worcester, MA includes tonight’s low of 37 degrees with a 30% chance of rain. Ten days from now, on December 1st (can you believe that?) the prediction is for a high of 42 degrees with a 20% chance of rain. Since I’ll be in Honolulu on Monday I won’t give much care to the weather in the northeast. By the way it is suppose to be 83 there on Monday.

The tradition for Thanksgiving has been to gather at Jennifer and Darryl’s house in Worcester where we complain that the thermostat set at 54 degrees at night and 60 during the day. The sport is to see how many times Dad will try to turn the heat up and how many time Jennifer will yell at him for doing so. I always bring sweatpants, a down jacket, a heavy blanket or sleeping bag and plenty of tea bags for hot drinks.

Dad and I took on the task of shopping for tomorrow’s dinner while Darryl and Jennifer went off to work. Jennifer expected the stores to be swamped with people navigating carts through the isles. With list in hand and a mission to be accomplished, I attacked the spree as efficiently as possible. I entered unfamiliar territory in the Worcester’s Price Chopper but, still made quick time of the list. Dad was surprised how quickly I shopped. I’m not a shopper so no sense dawdling over the turnips. For years he shopped with Mom who slowly and methodically made her way through the store, rarely back tracking and avoiding going one extra painful step.

I asked a stock clerk where the lard was. Yes, lard—the poison my Micronesian host mother would fry my pancakes, fish, bacon, and everything else in. It makes a wickedly flakey pie crust. I am surprised the package doesn’t come with a coupon offer—mail in the end labels from three packages of lard, with $9.95 and receive a free stent. Takes four to six weeks so don’t have your heart attack before then.

I thought I got everything on the list until Jennifer asked me to the whip the heavy cream (more heart disease) for the frozen fruit salad. The afternoon’s trip to the store was a little different. Totally dark outside, a stream of car red tail lights illuminating the street ahead of me and a less than friendly feel inside the store where harried shoppers who just gotten off from work stood in line with carts (or buggies as they are called in the South) overflowing with frozen turkeys (are they going to thaw in time?), store bought pies (that is a crime) and soft drinks. In the express lane I patiently stood with my 16 ounces of heavy whipping cream and a single serving size of yogurt—my snack for tomorrow.

Dad went to bed early. He is fending off a cold with Airborne. Mark and Cindi are still a few hours from Worcester after surviving an hour crossing over the George Washington Bridge in NYC. Robin won’t venture down from the north country of New Hampshire until tomorrow morning. Jennifer and Darryl are at a prayer meeting. Mike and Margie are visiting their newborn grandson—their first and Dad’s first great grandson.

Nothing much different about this pre-holiday eve, except the huge emptiness of not having Mom here. I’m going to bake apple pie tomorrow. It was her signature.

So Close

If I had to testify as to my whereabouts for the last several weeks, I might have a little trouble remembering. As I settled into my seat on the flight from Houston to Philadelphia, I wondered where I had been last Sunday. It was Harrisburg (I think), but that seemed so long ago. The Sunday before, I was in Knoxville. Before that, I was on the Outer Banks. Or was I… My trip was winding up, the summer months gone. I caught a glimpse of a small pile of leaves dancing in the wind near the corner of the garage. Their brilliant color turned brown. The memories are already fading.

It took three days to drive to New York—a trip I can make in fourteen hours and I have done it in one day. But then maybe it should have taken me four.

“Do you know the speed limit through town?”

“Yes sir. It is thirty.” I was reluctant to roll down my window. It was cold outside.

“I got you on radar going forty-seven."

That seemed highly unlikely. The RV nearly has to be pushed to get fifty-five. It needs a stiff tail wind to get sixty and a good long downhill with tail wind to reach sixty-five. While forty five was possible through the town of Walden, NY it would have been a stretch. It would have scared the hell out of me. And I had no motive for speed. After all, I was working on day three.

This route gave me a break from the stress of the highway drive where I was constantly pushing the RV to maintain a speed to avoid a semi tractor trailer running through the rear end and joining me in the cab. For eighteen miles I could relax and enjoy the back roads where apple trees and corn fields run west to the Gunks, a fold of rocks renown for good climbing routes. It was Sunday afternoon, and although the rain had ceased, the countryside held the first tale of winter – a damp dreariness carried by a chilling wind. But it wasn’t snowing and I was grateful.

“It doesn't seem likely,” I replied handing the officer my license and registration. I didn’t challenge him, but let him know that I doubted his claim. Okay, I wasn’t going thirty. I could give him thirty seven, but not seventeen miles over the speed limit.

Officer Wood had been in the Air Force, stationed in Knoxville. He wanted to get back there. In the end he sited me for not having proof of insurance and obstructing the view of the license plate with my bike cover. How ironic. On my last day after driving 6000 miles over four months and now I get a warning for these violations. I was grateful he did not write a ticket for speeding.

In Saratoga, I saw hundreds of ducks flying over Loughberry Lake. It was a sight I would have shared with Mom when I got home. At the bottom of the hill near Danda’s, I pulled the RV over and let the emotion once again sweep over me. For three days a renewed sadness haunted me. This would be my first time to come home and Mom would not be there. I listened to Snook Kill rush through the culvert under the road. Focused on the sound, I wiped the last tear on my sleeve and started up the hill toward home.

Flamingos in Houston

I love mornings when the air is crisp, the skies are clear blue, and the city’s traffic has yet to drown the song of the solo bird singing its song from on top a telephone poll. I might not sell many books, but the morning was perfect for sitting curbside with a good friend. Morning waxed to midday, she knitted a pray shawl and I struck up an interesting conversation with a gentleman who had bought shrimp from Mexican fisherman in international waters for a dollar a pound and shipped garlic to the US/Mexican border only to find them infested with nematodes.

Thanks to the generosity of Half Price Books in Houston I had such an opportunity and I sold one more book. I can’t mention the purchaser's name because he is being sued by the Mexican government. He does have one of those nice Irish names and it ain't Bill O'Reilly.

She parked her late model Mercedes in front of Half Price Books. When she got out wearing a modest house coat, Nancy tried to entice the driver to purchased my book. (The modest house coat would have prevented me from attempting this - forget the car.) She listened to Nancy’s tale about Valerie Perez’s journey across the ocean in the Cosmic Muffin. When Nancy paused, the lady remarked, “My, what beautiful teeth you have.” It was a perfect sale’s deflection. Like the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood, Nancy should have said, “Better to eat you with if you don’t buy a copy of The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin", but threatening a customer is never a good idea.

And that was my last appearance in Houston for 2006.

No Harm No Foul

Considering the propensity for lawsuits it is no surprise that airline attendants no longer provide aspirin for passengers. After all, the staff is highly trained to get passengers out of a burning airplane when it crash lands in the middle of a jungle and the wreckage dangles upside down from the tangled growth of choking vines filled with poisonous snakes (I have no affiliation with the movie Snakes on a Plane), but is not qualified to dispense two aspirin for a headache. The fear of being sued far exceeds any common sense. With a pounding head pain I sat next to the jet engines feeling the drone throb through my head until my semi-consciousness was interrupted by a commercial.

The flight attendent made a pitch for a Signature VISA. Apparently, the airline has paired up with a large bank from the same home town to offer a credit card enticing the general public to apply and borrow more money to qualify for 25,000 free miles (this means a free round trip ticket). It is good business and hardly viewed as irresponsible. Consider that most people live pay check to pay check, have no budget, the average family already carries $8000 in credit card debt and the number one issue couples fight and divorce is money.

So, here is your VISA application, but I’m sorry I can’t give you an aspirin.

In Houston

Ouch. I have been busy.

Everything is big in Texas and they are the friendliest people on earth. That is unless your son is on the opposing football team. The fact that they are all Texans makes them all kin, but a little family rivalry at a Friday night foot ball maintains a pecking order.

I arrived to a balmy 82 degrees and a huge welcome from Nancy Killeen, my Peace Corps buddy from Micronesia. She had arranged a book signing at River Oaks Books Store in Houston on Wednesday. We slid through the door at 4:30 pm, and were greeted by that same friendly Texan warmth I have found nearly everywhere for the past two days. Small wonder why the Katrina evacuees don’t return to New Orleans. (Frank and Shannon Carmello, Nancy's daughter and son-in-law, are moving to New Orleans and everyone asks them why? I view it as a land opportunity in the midst of policital constipation, swarms of mosquitoes and high crime, not unlike living in a Third-World country.)

Before I even had a chance to sit down, I sold a book to Bill, who managed not to escape my little pitch for my prose. Within two minutes he bought a copy of The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin.

4:30 to 6 pm is not the best time to have a book signing, but I was honored to be able to sign at this famous little bookstore in a rather posh area inside the I610 loop around the city. Somewhere close by former President George Bush lurked. I was hoping he might pop in, but making special arrangements with the secret service would have overwhelmed me.

Anyway, the cozy bookstore offered comfortable seats, punch and cookies, and a relaxed atmosphere. Unfortunately, streams of book buyers were not lined up out the door and around the corner. Nevertheless, Mike Jones and Jean of the River Oaks Bookstore played perfect host and hostess and with native Houstonian Grace and Nancy seated in the front of the store we chatted about the character of my captain, the lack of my seafaring skills, the crazy motives of boarding the boat in the first place and life upon the blue ocean. Before I knew it was 6 pm and Grace could not leave the store without an autographed copy.

Four months of selling my book and I can’t say what a typical book signing event is like. I hope there isn’t one. I do know for the small time author such as myself, these events are not about selling books. They are about talking, sharing stories, meeting fascinating people and having fun. It all happened at River Oaks Book Store 3270 Westheimer, Houston, TX 713-520-0061.

Photo: Nancy Killeen, Jean, Valerie Perez and Grace

Being American

Veteran’s Day

I ain’t no Democrat. Probably not a true Republican either and ‘cause the Libertarians won’t take a position on the security of my country I am not feeling very good about the current state of politics in the United States.

I voted. I sent the only freshman Republican to the Senate.

The trouble with being an American today is you choose a side. It once was you took a stand. When you take a side, someone loses. Why isn’t there one direction for America and the candidates run on a platform to take America in that common direction? Instead, we have two different directions and the platform is how much mud can one party stick on the other. Our enemy sees our weakness.

I followed Virginia’s route 11 for a few miles after the Interstate 81 backed up due to an accident. America is still out there in heart and principal. In historic Middletown they celebrated and honored Americans who had served their country by having a fun walk. In the center of town the street was lined with the American Flags waving in the wind that swept across the Shenandoah Valley. Under a warm November morning sky, I drove slowly through town pretending I was my own little parade. I’m a veteran. It is my day. I waved to an old man on the street corner. He smiled.

Thank God for Good Weather

I-81 Travel Plaza arrives an hour after I called Good Sams.



Jeff removes dually rear. It is the inside tire, of course.
The rear wheel is parked inches from a very dead and dried up unidentifiable animal carcass.

Exposed hub. Note-refrigerator wires have been yanked out by the flapping rubber. Shit, Shit, Shit.
Putting the muscles to the rubber . While no cars or trucks are whizzing by in the photo, believe me they are zipping by us.


This rubber met the road and lost.
Two hours and two hundred dollars later...and he kept my copy of the USAToday crossword puzzle.

And you thought you had a bad day.

Buzz Time

Michelle Brown with an E as she introduced herself was the newly designated Community Relations Manager and she was doing her best to make the most of a night that seemed to have caught her by surprise as much as the new job did. She attended to each of the five authors—no wait… one wrote the forward and stood in for the author who was in Thailand and the other was the subject of a short book about a young solider during the Korean War facing fear—like a mother duck to her ducklings. Nevertheless, we all had our five minutes of fame, I sold two books maintaining my one book an hour average sale.

The highlight was that Raymond Brody’s mom and dad stopped in to meet me. If you don’t know Raymond, then you have not been paying attention on Sunday mornings when Camping in the Zone discusses the ins and out of hitting the road in an RV. (If you want to know how to winterize your investment, tune that dial in at 8 AM Eastern.) Buzz introduced himself and I recognized his voice from the radio. We talked about when the next book is due out (after I write it). Itis about my RV trip and he would be interested in selling the book at trade shows. He showed me photos of his grandkids, Ethan and Camille (he didn't have any of Raymond), and he promised to send me photos of the Terra-cotta soldiers in China.

What do you call a person who attends a book signing, is the last to leave and doesn’t even buy a book? After I excused myself, I drove back to Bean Station. Ahead of me rose a waxing orange moon. For the next hour I watched it slowly lift off the horizon, growing smaller and whiter in its path across the sky. Early this morning before I left for New York, the moon hung in the western sky a pale lopsided light.

Photo: Valerie Perez

The Mystery

The other day I was driving behind a small white car with the license plate LVNWGOD. I quickly deciphered the personalized message - Living with God. Or maybe it was something else. Could it be Love New God? Not satisfied with that message I tried to come up with another meaning for the seven letters. In the middle of my thoughts I missed the fact that the little car had stopped to make a left hand turn. Whoa. I managed to brake and stop avoiding the accident. Living with God. Yes, that definitely was the message. I was and so was the person in the car.

I received notice this morning that a copy of The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin is available through Revaluation Books located in Exeter, DEV, United Kingdom. How this came to be is a mystery to me. Why someone would buy my book for $41.68 US is a bigger mystery.

Tonight you can buy my book at Barnes and Noble in Knoxville. This may be the only time you can buy my book at this or any Barnes and Noble store. Not anticipating a huge demand for my book, I dropped three boxes into my storage unit so I won’t carry 111 extra pounds back to New York. In the vacated space in the RV I put a pile of warm clothes since I am anticipating chopping down a Christmas tree in subzero temperatures - a task that will last three hours on Christmas Eve when Robin and I will finally find the right tree moments before sundown which is about 3:30 in Northern New Hampshire. It will be in the back forty and we will have to drag it a half mile back to the car. The wind will be blowing like stink. But dang, it will be the best tree ever!

If I remember to grab a very sharp saw before begin my three day drive north…

End of the Day

The warm glow of the RV lights. Lazy cats. A phone conversation with Dad. Blog entries. And sweet dreams.

Tune It In

Once again it is time to get up early. You have had a week under the fall time change. Dark at 6 PM, but daylight around 6 AM. So get up and listen Sunday morning to Camping in the Zone with Raymond Brody. I'll be chatting with Raymond about my latest ecapades in the RV. Catch me between 8 and 9 am Eastern Time on WNOX or The Zone. Okay, no groaning unless you live in Hawaii.

Davidson River: Alone

There are always two ways to look at things. It was a free camp site with electricity, security cameras, bright lights and an alarm system. There was a huge “campground” store known as Food Lion, a CVS drug store and restaurant just across the way. Now there were no facilities, such as a bathroom or shower, but like I said, I could view this as a free site.

The other way to look at my situation was I paid $390 for the site and the fuel pump was free. Either way, it was a deal after one long cold day in the mountains.

It has been an all day ordeal starting at 25 degrees this morning (who cares what time it is when it is that cold). It was hard to believe I slept all night; even went to bed with the chickens.

The key to staying warm is not to go to bed cold. When you do half the night is spent getting warm and the other half is spent keeping warm. Wedged between two cats I was toasty. I let the hot flashes sweep through me and praised the Lord for their arrival.

When Diablo perched on the pillow I used to ward off the cold near the window it was still dark outside. My best guess was 2 am, but there was no light from the waxing gibbous moon which had been filtering through the curtains. It had to be later. I fumbled for the flashlight, finding the metal battery cylinder cold enough to adhere my tongue if I had accidentally been drooling. The bright beam pieced the darkness. It was 5:45 am. Sunrise would cast its rays in the valley of Davidson River in about a half an hour.

I was in no hurry to scramble out of bed, unlike two days ago when I got up in time to catch the sunrise and warmer breezes come over the Atlantic. I fixed a bowl of oatmeal, a cup of tea and crawled under the covers bringing the hot pot in which I boiled the water to bed with me. Not much sense wasting the heat as it cooled on the stove. The pan offered a bit of heaven tucked in my sweatshirt. Diablo slipped back underneath my sleeping bag contently purring in the crook of my arm. Phoenix plopped on my chest redefining physics by turning a nine pound cat into what felt like nineteen pounds of feline.

My plan was to poke around the Pisgah National Forest. With my trip winding up, I wanted to spend a little time in the area where Mom and Dad served as campground hosts for the Davidson River Campground in 1988. North Carolina was a special place to Mom. It was also the place where Mom and Dad took the Sunrader on its maiden voyage twenty years ago. Last week I followed the coast of the Outer Banks as they had done; now I was trying to retrace their path in the mountains in North Carolina.

I wanted the opportunity to spend a couple of days visiting the place where over 1509 waterfalls cascade over the countryside. A place where Mom once picked blueberries and made a pie for me in the RV when I came to visit them at the campground. When their summer duties were over they received a letter of appreciation from the US Forest Service. Mom and Dad framed that letter and proudly displayed it in the RV where it still hangs on the refrigerator.

Shortly after leaving the Ranger Station, the RV coughed, hesitating slightly. Thinking the engine was just cold, I headed north on 276 deeper into the National Forest toward The Cradle of Forestry. But the hesitation grew more frequent. Being cautious I turned around, but soon lost all acceleration and coasted to a stop on a curvy mountain road.

Cell service has not found the nooks and crannies of the mountains. I was dead and stranded along side a clear cold stream full of trout the same size as a two cats. Here I threw away my backcountry survival skills and did not stay put. I am capable of running four miles, so I locked up the RV, told the cats to hold the fort and trotted off down the road with my useless cell phone, my Good Sam Card and the RV’s license plate number. The RV wasn’t totally off the road and I feared two cars meeting on the curve would have to suck their guts in to pass safely.

I flagged two Wildlife Guys down and they gave me a ride to the Ranger Station. Three hours later the tow truck showed up. I am not very good when I lose control of a situation. Waiting on the tow truck and not able to get back to the RV because I would lose communication with my “rescuers”, I worried about the cats. I feared someone would break in, and steal my camera and computer. Then having no regard for my property they would let the cats out. For three hours I paced the visitor center reading about trail etiquette, how leaves turn colors, and when bear hunting season is over – sometime in December.

My guardian angel in a wrecker from Fates (honest, that was the name) finally showed up along with a North Carolina State Trooper. It was close to 2 pm when we arrived at the garage. I settled down on the overstuffed couch in the waiting area, got on line, and tried my best not to get too engrossed in the family dramas played out on afternoon TV: the Guiding Light, Judge Judy and finally the news.

Heith said they would do their best to get me back on the road before they closed. If not, I could plug in to the shop and spend the night. Another hard freeze was expected. I did not want to spend another night without electricity.
I have camped in the mountains of Nepal on nights so cold frost forms on the outside of the sleeping bag. I had to be careful to lay down my goose down jacket so the frost would coat only the outside. And when the sun finally broke over the highest peaks in the world, the sunlight forced me out of the tent as the frost clinging to the ceiling began to melt sending a cascade of water down on me. But during those adventures cold temperatures are expected and I have the gear to meet the challenge. However, I have come to expect my accommodations in the RV to be more comfortable. After all, it is an RV, not backpacking across the Himalayas.

There is a shop in Horseshoe, NC on 280 north of Brevard called Waycaster Tire and Auto Service. The Toyota Dealer in Hendersonville would not touch the RV, despite having a Toyota chassis, but they recommended these guys to Good Sam. Roger Waycaster is the owner.

Repairs were done and I was set to be on my way, but Heith said he could not let me go out into the cold for the night so he offered to plug the RV in just outside one of the service bays. I had called a campground nearby, but discovered they closed October 31st for the season. Since the sun was setting, I accepted Heith’s offer.

If you are ever in the Brevard, NC area with a troubled vehicle or in need of a set of new tires give the friendly, courteous and compassionate staff a call. 828-801-7023. It is located at 4180 Haywood Road at the intersection of Hwy 280 & 191.


Before I left, I autographed a copy of The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin and gave it to the guys at the shop. Well done guys, well done.

Sell'em!!

I haven’t written a word in the last three days. Blame it on the fact that I haven’t had a strong internet connection so I could not have made a blog entry, but that is a lame excuse. The truth of the matter is I am a little scared. In fourteen days from now I’ll fly to Houston for my last scheduled book signing at River Oaks Book Store, a rather upscale store in an upscale shopping area and I’ll find myself spending an hour and a half in the middle of the afternoon hoping someone will show up. If I am lucky four gray-haired ladies with twenty dollars to spare will accidentally drop in and one might buy The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin after I tell her my story because she’ll be more impressed with my escapades than the book itself. At the end of the afternoon, I’ll thank my host Mike Jones, collect $11.34 for a book I bought for $5.60 and won’t even think about the financial loss because it is too much to bear. Later, I’ll spend that much on the tip for dinner with Nancy, my friend from the Peace Corps. While I am hardly in the same league as Bill O’Reilly and won’t even pretend to be, he’ll get 850 people to show up for a book signing for his new book Culture Warrior. After four months, I still have 850 books to sell.

I did sell two books on the beach yesterday. It was kind of cool to walk down the beach and see someone reading a copy of my book. Eight hundred forty-eight more to go.

But I won't sit here tonight thinking, “Shit, I should have never published this book.” I won’t sit here and regret the fact that I spent the better part of the year working on writing, marketing and promoting my first book. I knew it would be hard. And it was. But I did it. Only thing I’ll never be able to say is, “I should have written a book.”

So what am I scare of? How will I keep 20 boxes of books stored in my parent’s basement from getting that “smells like a basement” smell?

Oh-oh, I know. Sell’em!!