Would you believe it? I've found the way to move again. This time, on the web.

Yes, I've decided that the cost of hosting being what it is, bunking in at Alva Press, Inc., will be less expensive. So I'm packing my bags and in a few days you will find me at http://alvapressinc.com on page RobertaMRoy.

As well as more cost effective, the move should increase my efficiency while bringing my webblog more viewers. Like double what RobertaMRoy.com is currently getting. Maybe more.

Anyway, you may like Alva Press. I have a second writer/publisher's blog there that keeps the reader up to snuff on my writing and publishing progress. (Or lack thereof:) And in addition to commenting, within the site you can email me from the Contact Us page.

But the good news is that in January, Nancy Means Wright says she will be ready to blog at alvapressinc.com on Writing and Trauma. And I've still got Kristen Henderson's lovely poem on the topic that I'll use to introduce the series. And Joan Schweighardt will be back from her days on the road and also hopefully ready. And who knows what other great I'll be able to scare up for what will be the Alva Press Visiting Writer's Tuesday Blogs.

When I stop seeing you here, see you there.

Roberta in Po-Town, Still figuring it out

Sad ending to a story of neglect. And in the chill of winter when only the most dedicated of tourists likely to flock to see it. Ignoble.

According to the Press Republican come Wednesday morning at ten, permissions in place, the explosive demolition of the the Crown Point, NY, to Addison, VT, bridge across Lake Champlain will end the eighty year old landmark's existence. We'll miss it. Viewable from the back of my house on the hill overlooking the lake in Port Henry, the bridge marked for me the almost end of the viewable lake expanse south. Such pretty lines it has. Regretfully two states failed to recognize what residents and the media had known for years. The bridge was neglected.  

Sometimes it's no fun being right.

http://www.pressrepublican.com/0100_news/local_story_352164113.ht, 

In other, yesterday and today I am sending off some fifty copies of Jolt: a rural noir.  Missed Hanukka but at least first purchasers, mostly family and friends, should have their copies by Christmas.

Today I will work on a press release announcing the publication of Jolt so do let me know if you would like a copy for your local paper.

Roberta in Po-Town, Wakin' up

I was out shopping for bubble-mailers for Jolt today and decided to grab a burger at Five Guys. Last time I had a Little Burger but today I decided to try a Hamburger which, unlike a Little burger is two Little Burgers. It gives you plenty of beef, however it's just not the same as a Bigger Burger, which they do not carry--probably no one does.

Now my theory is that Bigger Burgers can be pinkish inside while Little Burgers come in either cooked or uncooked. They are too slim for pink. But still, not to knock them; with a few fried onions over them and a shake to two of salt, they're great! Almost as good as White Castle burgers were when I was a kid.

If you go to the Five Guys, you should do it for only one reason. To eat. Or better yet, to eat and talk and leave when you have finished eating. Done. Simple. Very American. Very. If you doubt that, then just consider the ambience.

And as you enter the front door, on top of the disposal containers on either side you'll find cardboard boxes filled with shelled peanuts to which at any time you are welcome to help yourself. Just scoop them out with the small paper dishes provided.

Along the sides of the room, bags of sweet potatoes line the windows. They ain't gorgeous but they do insulate the place from the heat and cold. Today the place is full. Forty people fill the forty chairs. They are eating and talking. And laughing. And there's a line.

Behind the counter a crew works. Only the packer and the fry cook have specific jobs. Everybody else back there just floats among the tasks required: Accept the burgers, read the order, squeeze on the mustard or catsup, add the pickles or fried onions, wrap it all in aluminum foil, take a sticker, use it to stick the order to the burger, push it down toward the packer for bagging, he calls out the number. 80! 80? Oh, that's me. He tells me to enjoy. Somehow I know he means it. And I do.

I pick a chair at the empty table in what I call the potato corner. That's the corner between the doors where sacks of potatoes on both windows are piled almost as high as I am tall. It's cosy there. The bags dampen the chatter.  So I sit down to eat. And look. And what do I see?

Well, there're still about forty people seated in the room. Not all the same ones. Some of the earlier ones have left. The people who were in the line have taken their places. And there is a new line. Not quite as long, but a line. People. Ordering. Eating. Talking. Laughing. I like the feeling. It feels like home.

I don't have to worry if my black workboots go. Or if my hair looks yuk because it's raining. I eat with my coat on and I note that the split in numbers between jeans and black denims is almost even with more of the older crew in the denims. But there's no hard and fast rule.

No one in the room has overspent on make-up or hair styling.

Yup. I fit right in. Even with my olive drab denims. I'm the only one in the room wearing them. Nobody notices.

Roberta in Po-Town, Home in the Hudson Valley

Have you ever noticed how a googie is not a googie once the yolk no longer runs?

Now googies are for kids. Little kids. Although all of us at one time or another may eat a soft-boiled egg, after the age of four, forget it. No more googies. Except, secretly, I find I still partake of them. And did so this morning.

But this is 2009 and I was seeking a better road to googie. First I filled a cup with water and put it in the microwave for 2.5 minutes as that's how long it takes for my size cups of water to boil. Meantime I turned on the smallest electric burner. By the time the water boiled, the burner was hot. I poured the boiling water over the raw egg I hd waiting in a small deep pot I have that I keep just for boiling eggs. My thought was that then, within three minutes, I would--except for the putting of it into a bowl and mixing in of the butter and salt--have my googie. 

Wrong: the pot was cold and the water was not enough to cover the egg. Therefore, as I had to do, I added water from the tap until the egg was covered and placed the pan on the red hot burner. Now while the water was probably still hot, it was not boiling, and my egg was already in it. So the question then became one of when I should start counting my three minutes. Except at that moment it came to me like a light from the blue that I wasn't looking for three minutes. I was looking for a specific time required to raise the temperature of the egg to whatever one was required to cook the white and heat the yoke without solidifying it.

Regretfully, all these years I have labored under the illusion that the reason a googie was a googie was because it had boiled for three minutes before preparing it to use for toast-dunking. (Hmmm. Delicious.) And never once had it occurred to me before that moment that there might have been another length of time that could work just as well if it could bring the egg somehow to the magical googie-temperature required for that just right mix of solid albumen and thick, runny yolk.

So feeling somewhat chagrinned at my previous state of unawareness, I tried the hot-to-then-boiling-water approach and ventured to cook the egg (note I said cook not boil) for 4.5 minutes. Following this, I poured off the water, ran some cold water over the egg briefly, took a deep breath, and cracked the side of the egg with sharp whack of a butter knife.  Before my eyes it opened to reveal . . . well, not the exact consistency, but what appeared close enough to it . . . a solid egg white and a runny but very slightly too-thick yolk that with a generous portion of butter might result in something googie-enough-like to satisfy my googie-longing.

Scooping all the clean-white and golden-yellow from the shell into the bowl, I hastily cut off some butter, shook in some salt, chopped the mix sufficiently with a spoon, and grabbed my already buttered toast. Tearing off a small piece of the crust, I dunked it into the gold and white mixture, moved the results to a position between my teeth, and bit down. Et voila. Heaven. Well, almost. But googie enough to sate my desire to reach back for one of my earliest comfort foods. A tear trickled down my cheek. (Well, not exactly. I'm afraid the fun of writing has carried me further away than did the taste of my almost-googie. However such may be the extreme to which our behaviors may take us when old beliefs crumble and we find that it was not the three minutes, but the temperature of the egg that made the magic.)

Roberta in Po-Town, Playin'

Whew! Some sleep! My Hyde Park sister left a bit after dinner tonight. Sometime around six-thirty. I dove for the bed.  Slept like one dead. Woke at nine-thirty. (Every so often I have to do that.)

Let's see. This time it was five days to, in, and from New Orleans after which back to work.Then that next Thursday there was the turkey and gravy and just keeping an eye on the timing of the foods. And at work this weekof course it was the end of the month. This meant reports were due at the residential children's home where I do therapy. And Sunday my sister came up from North Carolina so Tuesday we grabbed a bite together with another of my sisters here at my place. And after work Wednesday it was to school to pick up my nine and five-year-old grandsons for a quick meal out before I took them to karate and said goodbye. (Today they were off with their parents to Disneyland in Orlando to celebrate the birthday of their other grandmother who accompanied them.) And now to pack for the four hour trip to Port Henry tomorrow so I can hang out with old friends and chill out in the house I love but have to sell, but for which I have yet to find a buyer.

Meantime the NYS Legislature has passed a Deficit Reduction Plan that avoids cuts to education mid-year and erases all but half a billion--$500 million--of the $3.2 billion deficit. Still. Education, watch out. The plan uses $391 million of next year's stimulus money for schools, which means it will be that much harder to balance the 2010-11 education budget. So no way is the deficit issue anywhere near resolved. (Next month the Legislature will begin to wrestle with what promises ot be a $6.8 billion deficit for the next fiscal year that begins in April.)

So let's hope there is a Wall Street surge so that the bonuses are gigantic, and the resulting revenues significantly reduce the threatened deficit size. (Definitely not any wish I ever even dreamed would cross my lips. But there it is. Hope it works.)

Meanwhile I hang out waiting for Jolt to be shipped on December 11. So if you order a copy at http://alvapressinc.com, you should be able to give it as a gift for Christmas! So best you order your copy now.

Roberta in Po-town, Refreshed