Cayuga Lake and Surrounding Environs

The next morning I happily awoke to the sound of the lake's waters gently slapping up against the shores.There were many things that the Lake Champlain and Cayuga Lake experiences shared, which included families with long-held ties and traditions to each respective place; gossip about the other families who also owned houses around them for generations (but weren't actually family); a general population of folks who are not afraid of getting wet, diving or otherwise involving themselves in a body of water that certainly is host to myriad fish (and occasionally snakes); herons; ducks; the sound of boats coming to life and swooshing away, etc. But the S.'s lake house was perhaps slightly closer to the water so the sound of it in the morning was more striking than at Champlain. I also think I wouldn't be wrong to say that Cayuga Lake isn't as wide, nor long, as Champlain, which somehow made the view from shore slightly different. In any case, it was a beautiful morning.

There were clouds, but I don't think they wanted to really hurt us.

Birds flew.

Flowers unfurled.

Breakfast was prepared most masterfully by A.S.'s father and most gratefully consumed by all in attendance.

I believe I was the first into the water on this particular day. I woke up so much earlier than everyone else that I had already enjoyed my breakfast and gotten into my suit while others were still digging in. I BC was kind enough to take a break from the book she was reading to provide some proof that I did indeed swim during this week of lake life.

No hands or feet! Or...I mean I was kind of floating without treading water? Is the point? I love floating.

A.S. likes jumping.

As do others. I never was much into jumping, but I do like a shallow dive from time to time.

I missed getting an action shot of A. going into the water, but this reaction shot is pretty good I thought.

I think she called this the hammer? Something different than the traditional cannon ball for sure.

Triumph.

Before some of the ladies went with a round of planking on the raft, we played a few dozen rounds of four square on the raft, which is not without it's challenges, let me just tell you.

Tubing in progress by A.S.'s neighbors. They swung by and asked if she (and I imagine by extension us) would like to tube, but I guess historically the guy is quite the aggressive boat driver and really and truly goes out of his way to try to get folks to fall off. A.S. declined and so did the rest of us.

Then there was an excursion to a winery. It was good and I'll have to remember the name of the place so I can tell you to consider buying their dry riesling.Anyela's!

It was on a different lake about an hour north and west near a town that has a name that is spelled entirely different than how it is pronounced.

A.S. and her parents stayed behind and were going to have dinner while we were gone, so we ended up at Hill Top Diner, which also has a bowling alley attached to it because, of course it does. B.C. and J. went hog wild with their combined and shared order of: a bowl of macaroni and cheese, a bowl of potato salad, a bowl of mashed potatoes and gravy and the fried appetizer combo. It was frankly miraculous how much they ordered and how good a job they generally did on finishing it all.

I was drawn to the roasted turkey sandwich, which I guess usually comes pre-drenched in gravy. I opted for gravy on the side along with mashed potatoes. I then pretty much ignored the bread and ate the turkey after dipping it in the gravy/potatoes.

Seriously, diner gravy and potatoes, which I know are totally not fancy and basically just sodium, are still one of my all time comfort foods. A million years ago in Wheaton Plaza, my mother and I would go to Hot Shoppes (anyone? anyone?) (also the Hot Shoppes in Wheaton Plaza was not a drive in as the link I've included might make you imagine) and they also had some pretty magic potatoes and gravy to consider in their buffet line.And their roast beef sliced right in front of you? Memories. Nothing like going to a 1960s-style buffet in a mall with your mother and about nine million senior citizens. Good times, they were.

With more of their meal displayed.

And that was the night. The drive back was uneventful except for getting stuck in ungodly traffic outside a drive-thru for a bit of time, and the copious fireworks that were still being lit along the river. Actually that second thing, all the fireworks leaping out of the night sky as we zoomed south was truly a lovely sight to behold.

Breakfast at DK Diner and Read This Book

The next morning we awoke in varying stages of a hangover, which we decided to overcome through breakfast at DK Diner. So we got ourselves mobile, picked up K.'s friend A., and got down to the business at hand. DK Diner is a pretty small space with about maybe eight or so booths, chairs along the windows and three or so tables. It's a 'pick your own mug and get your own coffee place,' which I generally enjoy though it seems to be so popular that you inevitably seem to have to step over babies in carrying cases and avoid rogue toddlers to get from your seat to the coffee. It seems that the spot used to be only about donuts, but that over time and a switch in owners, it's now a go-to breakfast/lunch spot as well as donut mecca.
I was torn between going my usual breakfast route of two eggs and sausage links and branching out to one of DK's more esoteric combinations of pretty much the same thing. In the end I chose the path of gluttony and ordered the DK Skillet, which was an open faced omelet piled high with potatoes, sausage and cheese, which was then covered in sausage gravy. I know, I know, the state of my arteries is nothing if not constantly on my mind. This was an ooey gooey mess, but tasty. Maybe a little heavier a meal than I really needed. The gravy was a cut above some diner gravy for sure, and the cheese was properly melty. No complaints. Everyone else's breakfast looked equally good. I'd love to go back, order a simpler breakfast and maybe a donut to boot. I think A., A. and I felt relatively revived by our meals. K. didn't fare quite as well and needed a nice nap to fully recuperate. So after breakfast we parted ways; K. going home for a nap while I zoomed off to German Village for some quality time at the Book Loft.
There are about three constant places in my memories of visiting Ohio with my mother. The first is my aunt and uncle's house, the second is the Book Loft, and then there's COSI. The Book Loft is a sprawling building chock full of books at pretty decent prices. It really is a warren with three floors worth of wares, laid out so that there are twists and turns, rooms that feel like secret finds, different music piping into to different sections and just so many books in a much homier and true atmosphere than, say, Barnes and Noble. As a kid I could literally become lost while exploring the books on puppies, bird migration, religion, celebrity, crochet, and of course fiction and military history. This trip I was generally able to navigate around in a purposeful manner, though I enjoyed getting slightly turned around when looking for the fiction section, as this made actually finding the section more of a feat of accomplishment.
At one point I was carrying around six or seven books, but in the end I curtailed my spend-money ways and chose to abandon my Jasper Fforde and Margaret Maron books in favor of buying Carry the One, by Carol Anshaw. Carol was a particularly meaningful and good professor during my time at SAIC. She was a great teacher, wonderful conversationalist and, also, by the bye, a ridiculously good writer. So I bought her book on a Friday, and in between the family meals and activities and playing with kids and dying eggs and hiding eggs, I managed to finish the book by Sunday. This is a testament to the story's ability to take hold and insist I know what happened to all the characters as soon as possible. What I'm trying to say, in other words, is to go out and buy the book.
Once my purchase was made I got back into my car and drove along one of the smaller alley/roads of the German Village area, all brick and cobbled, all bumpy and teeth rattling. It was a beautiful day. Sunny, relatively warm, flowers out. Good stuff. Then I drove home not using any freeway and saw how quickly Columbus, like most cities, can go from a rather prosperous neighborhood to a markedly not prosperous one and then back again.

Poutine c/o La Banquise

After checking in at our hotel, which was in the Plateau neighborhood right across from Parc de la Fontaine, we regrouped, cleaned up and formed a plan. The plan was basically to check out La Banquise, as M.'s trusty guidebook had declared it the best spot for poutine. And you can't very well go to Montreal and not have at least one serving of the stuff. We had a few setbacks in immediate gratification, as far as that goes...the place is cash only so we first went in search of an ATM. And let me just tell you, we walked many, many, many blocks and passed literally 50 or more restaurants, bars, cafes and shops ... but not a single bank, convenience store or bodega. It was really weird. And when we finally did find such a place, which fell on the 'bodega' side of things, the machine told me that it wouldn't give me money on two different cards, even though there was no good reason for such an attitude. Anyways, part of almost any adventure with M. (or from her point of view, with me) involves a fair amount of not-actually-getting-what-you-want-in-any-immediate-way-ness. M. was able to have a good transaction with the machine, and we figured she could buy the meal and I could reimburse her on the next thing. Back we walked to La Banquise. When we had walked by it the first time the line for a table was out the door. By the time we returned it was only about three tables' deep, and it was probably good that we got some exercise in before our 'dinner' commenced. I started with a Belle Geulle Pilsner, which was perfect. M. went with another Canadian-brewed beer, but of the blond variety. White Horse maybe? If you're into the sweet and cloudy then you'd like it.
La Banquise has any number of possible meals for its clientele, but the clear draw is the poutine, which they serve up traditionally or in any number of delightful or frightening ways. I wanted something a little more special than the classic, but not so much so that I wouldn't be able to truly appreciate and understand the nature of the classic. To that end, I ordered the Poutine Frank, which was the classic poutine of French fries, cheese curds and gravy with the added wonder of Merguez sausage. I will happily pat my back on making a good choice here. Sometimes I go too crazy and order something to complicated or exotic at a place where simplicity rules, but in this case the balance was ideal. I really got a sense of what the gravy tasted like, what the texture of the fries were, and the splendity (not a word) or the cheese curds could induce with only the slight added bonus of a little lamb sausage. M. went with the classic and one couldn't tell the difference between the two unless they had an active bite of sausage.
This was a far better experience than my first poutine. I think this was mainly due to the quality of the poutine and the nature of the fries...oh yeah, and being in Montreal. I imagine that the dish would have been even more satisfying if we were both more in our cups, but with only one drink each and no earlier imbibing we were basically two entirely sober people eating french fries, cheese curds and gravy for dinner. Perhaps unacceptable behavior usually, but that's one of the glories of being on vacation.

M. and I then returned back to the hotel at a reasonable hour in order to make the most of the next day.