Woodpecker

I had thought I'd catalogued all the back yard birds around here - at least the ones that would sit still and pose for a photo - but it turns out I was wrong.  Not long ago I managed to capture this chap digging into a dead tree behind our house.

That's a pileated woodpecker (you can tell it's a male from the red moustache and forehead).  There's species of woodpeckers around and about, some of which I've blogged about before.  The pileated kind aren't the most colourful or even the most friendly they are the largest and probably best known species.  When casting agencies get asked for a woodpecker, these are the guys they send over.
I've seen a few of these over the years, but I'd come to assume they were quite timid.  It turns out I must have only spotted younger birds before: this one was huge by comparison - as big as a small chicken - and not timid at all.  I was able to creep (not very stealthily) up to the base of the tree he was pecking and he didn't even flinch.
Thinking about it now, I realise it's a good thing he didn't take exception to me - I wouldn't like to end up on the business end of his beak, now that I've seen how easily they chisel big chunks out of wood.  Perhaps I was lucky he didn't decide to have a go at chiselling big chunks out of me?  The risks I take for the perfect shot!

Oh deer!

It's a bit of a dull time of year for backyard wildlife in Pennsylvania.  There are the ever-present squirrels of course, and the sturdier birds like blue jays, titmice and wrens stay throughout the winter (so do the cardinals, usually, though they haven't been around as much recently - perhaps they were called to Rome) but groundhogs, chipmunks and most of the birds are mostly still slumbering or sunning themselves in more equatorial climes.

I understand of course.  I can slumber with the best of them in the winter and I was recently sunning myself in a more equatorial clime and it was most agreeable - more on that soon.  But it does make the backyard naturalist  pine for the summer months when you never know what exotic (at least to a Kiwi) creature is going to amble into your life.

So I was very excited this morning when a pair of deer ambled - or rather ran - across the yard.  It was pure chance that I spotted them out the back window: I wouldn't usually be looking out at that time and for all I know they wander through every day.  It's not the first time I've seen deer locally, or even in the backyard, but previous sightings from the house have all been during early evening and it was very striking to see them on our hill in full daylight.

It was a brief encounter, but I will be on the lookout for them again.  Along with changes to the weather they gave me hope that spring is really on the way.  Hopefully its not deer today and gone tomorrow.

Here be dragons

It's certainly been an odd season, weatherwise.  Mrs Walles and I were spared the devastation of Sandy thanks to our distance from the coast (though we battenned down the hatches just in case - our barbecue cover and compost bin are still tied down with bungee cords).

Since Sandy we've had extremely mild temperatures for the time of year and only one fall of snow which lit up the landscape for two or three days but didn't require me to even lift my shovel.  After last year's mild winter people have been assuming that this year we'll be hit hard, but so far Jack Frost hasn't really flexed his muscles.

But over at the Weather Channel they've found a way to spice things up by naming winter storm systems, like tropical storms are here and around the world.

Of course they claim there are numerous worthy reasons why naming storms is a good idea, which may be true, but you can't tell me that dramatic flair wasn't on their minds when they cooked up scheme.  As evidence of this I would like to present exhibits A, B and C: Athena, Brutus and Caesar, the names given to the first three storms of the season.  These didn't really live up to their billing, and I'm uneasy with the plotting which had Brutus come before Caesar...surely Caesar should appear first and then Brutus should develop and quickly usurp its power.

Now we have Draco (yes, really) sweeping across the country which finally is bringing actual winter weather to many places including here - though given the time of year it's not exactly unexpected.  Certainly not as unexpected as either a dragon or an Ancient Athenian leader would be.

But it certainly makes it sound exciting.  If you think you're having a tough time in the lead up to Christmas, just think of me, bravely resisting Draco's cold grip...mostly by staying inside in my slippers with a hot drink.

In fourteen hundred and ninety two...

Last Monday was Columbus Day, another one of those non-holiday holidays in that it's a public holiday if you happen to work for the government, but not if you happen to work for me.  To be honest, I would be inclined to go easier on myself when it comes to these extra public holidays, if it wasn't for the fact that Mrs Walles doesn't get them off either.

Anyway, Columbus Day marks the discovery of the Americas by an expedition led by an Italian and paid for by the Spanish government.  The significance of his discovery depends on your perspective.  The majority of Americans treat it as an absolutely pivotal moment in the foundation of their nation.  Native Americans are probably agreed on the pivotal nature but, one imagines, have rather mixed feelings about the outcome.  Europeans  decimated the indigenous population with their diseases even before they got stuck in with the swords and guns.

Meanwhile in Spain (and Italy, come to that) people must get a pang of nostalgia when they're reminded of times past when they could, you know, pay for things.

That's one European disease America has yet to succumb to, and hopefully it will stay that way.

The pulse of the nation

Recently the US Supreme Court upheld most of what's come to be known as "Obamacare" - a huge raft of changes to the way health care is regulated here in the United States.  Though the legislation has many provisions, the most controversial aspect must be the individual mandate that forces all Americans (and foreign hangers-on, including yours truly) to have health insurance - while at the same time ensuring that those who can't afford to buy their own will receive assistance to do so.  Coming from a country where health care is taken for granted, I can only see positives in making sure that everyone can go to the hospital if they are sick and not worry about being turfed out into the street or (more likely) bankrupted by the cost.

Most Americans don't, in fact, buy their own health insurance.  Through a strange historical quirk most people receive insurance as a benefit from their employer - not just for themselves but for their families, too.

This all works fine in principle, but there are numerous cracks which people can fall down and end up without coverage.  Obviously if you don't work for someone else you either have to pay out of your own pocket or go without which is a very risky proposition.  There are also rather grey areas when people change jobs or when grown children leave the nest.  The majority of Americans are covered, one way or another, by a patchwork of insurance schemes but the patchwork is straining at the seams and people are dropping into the gaping holes that are opening up.

I should make it clear that the American people are not so heartless that they would see sick people dying in the street next to a hospital.  If you come to an emergency room gushing blood you will be treated.  But you still have to pay - and if you can't then someone has to make up the difference, generally the taxpayer.  The point of the individual mandate, as I understand it, is that everyone should have health insurance even if society has to pay for it - on the assumption that society would have to pay anyway somewhere down the line, when the unpaid medical bills start piling up.  In some ways its just a way of nudging costs from one line to another in the national budget.

Unfortunately many Americans do not see it that way.  After President Obama guided these changes into law early in his term, opponents challenged their legitimacy in the Supreme Court.  Now that the court has ruled in Obama's favour the only option is repeal, and as long as Obama is in the White House that isn't going to happen.  So healthcare reform is threatening to become a major theme of this year's election.  Not for any reason to do with the care of the sick; as with so many other apparently everyday things in the US this has become a kind of constitutional crisis.  But that's a theme for another day.

The pitter-patter of tiny, tiny feet

In one corner of our front garden (which is coming along quite well, thank you) there used to live a very elusive creature.  I say "used to" because I'm pretty sure he has moved on, either to the hereafter or to somewhere where I'm not constantly weeding and digging and generally caving in the ceiling of his house.  I still take care to wear gloves when I'm doing that though, for reasons that will become obvious.

I first spotted him late last year. I happened to be standing on the front steps admiring the quiet when the quiet was broken by the sound of something scuffling around in the garden bed.  On closer examination, and with the help of a book, I  discovered that it was a shrew.

It's the little grey blur in the centre of the photo above.  Shrews are tiny, fast and look like little moles (which, oddly enough, I still haven't seen in person).  They like to nest under things, and this one had a hole leading to a nest which I presume was under our front steps.  He would then run along from his home to the conifer at the other end of the flower bed where the pickings were apparently rich for a shrew.  Sometimes he would run along a kind of half-open tunnel he had made beside the stones lining the bed.  Other times he would run just beneath the surface of the soil in the bed, making a little moving ripple of dirt and leaves like something out of a sci-fi movie.

Shrews are fairly common but not often seen, from what I understand.  They stay under the surface of the soil most of the time, and lead very fast-paced and short lives.  It was sheer good fortune that I spotted this one and was able to get even one photo of him.

I continued to see him until the late spring, a month or two ago, including a few times when I was working out in the garden.  One time he surprised me by poking his head out of his hole as if to ask what the heck was going on.  He certainly wasn't timid about challenging me.  Which brings me to the gloves.  Cute and furry as he is, it turns out that saliva of these shrews is mildly poisonous. Not enough to make you keel over but certainly enough to make it a bad day if you get bitten.  That threat, along with all the other unfamiliar creatures I might unexpectedly disturb while planting out my annuals, is quite enough to ensure that I always wear gloves when working outside.

Bachelor pad

Back in January I posted a picture of a Myrtle the squirrel collecting leaves to pad her winter nest with.  As the weather is warming up the squirrels have been moving from their nests inside hollow trees to their summer digs, big leafy affairs high in the canopy.  Usually you can't even see these until the autumn when the leaves drop and reveal the locations of the dreys, as they are officially called.

This year, though, it happened that three squirrels decided to build one in a tree behind our house that fortuitously happened to be in direct line of sight from our back door.  At least I assume it is fortuitous.  Maybe they planned it that way, but from their point of view the back door is in direct line of sight of the drey and they can see whether we've put any nuts out for them just by poking a head out of the nest!

It's still a little hard to see, but the drey is the bundle of green leaves around the fork in the tree near the centre of the picture above.  Here's a closer look.

I happened to notice the construction project going on early one Friday morning and as I checked throughout the day I could see at least three different squirrels cutting leaves and bringing them back to stuff inside the nest and pad it out.  There is one in the photo above, in fact, off to the left of the nest.

They all seemed to be males, from a group Mrs Walles and I have been calling the interlopers since they only turned up on our patch this year.  Mixed-sex nesting is not unknown among squirrels, apparently, but as the spring comes on the females like to have nests to themselves to bring up their young.  I suspect that the interlopers, finding themselves homeless, banded together to build themselves a bachelor pad.  It's still there, shaded by the trees, no doubt a very pleasant summer home for the crew who built it.

A taxing time

Yesterday was Tax Day in the United States, the last day for filing taxes.  Normally this happens on the 15th of April but as that is a Sunday this year taxpayers are given two days extra to get everything together.

Mrs Walles and I had our taxes done professionally.  Unlike New Zealand, everyone has to file a return even if they just work for salary or wages, though for most people it's a one page form and can be done online.  That's what Mrs Walles has done before but this year, given that we married and I got my green card and my general unfamiliarity with the tax system we put it in the hands of a pro, which eased things tremendously.

That's because the US tax system is a tad on the complicated side, to say the least.  There are seemingly dozens and dozens of deductions and credits and exemptions and such.  The deductions are so complicated that most people just take what's called the standard deduction, a catch-all figure computed by the government that saves you having to bother with any details.  Even if none of the actual deductions would count in your favour you can still take the standard deduction, which means that many, perhaps most taxpayers get a rebate just for turning up.  And then of course there are three different levels of income tax here.  The federal government takes the lions share, then the state has a go and finally the local government takes a bit, and each of these entails a separate tax return with slightly different rules.

They seem quite keen on taxes here, in fact.  There's a separate tax taken out for social security and Medicare which is supposed to fund superannuation and medical insurance for retired people (but which, we are often told, it isn't enough to cover).  Our town also levies a per capita tax of a few dollars a year, apart from the income tax.  Then there are property taxes and state sales tax, and the town charges separately for services it provides, like water and sewerage.  For some of these you can find New Zealand equivalents in ACC levies, GST and rates, but not all.  "No taxation without representation" was a rallying cry of the American Revolution, and it seems that once Americans got their representation they went to town with the taxation.  It's not that the taxation is very burdensome, its roughly the same as in New Zealand and no doubt most of the industrialised world.  It's just that it manifests itself as a lot of little nibbles rather than the few big gulps I'm used to.

On the plus side, though, married couples in the US can pool their income for tax purposes, resulting in a tax break, something that's impossible in New Zealand.  With such an incentive it's hardly a surprise that long engagements are the exception rather than the rule!

Great Horned Owl

Spring has come very early for most of the United States this year, so Mrs Walles and I have turned the heating off.  This is one of my favourite times of the year because we can open the doors and windows and let the fresh air in, instead of staying cocooned inside with either the air conditioning or the heat running (essential though they may be for comfort in summer and winter).

Last week was particularly warm with summery temperatures that lasted through the night and so we had our door open late in the evening, and one night during a break in the noise from the television we noticed an unusual sound coming from outside. Mrs Walles, who is of course more familiar with such things, soon identified it as an owl.

Now I am aware that New Zealand is not without owls, like the morepork or the world-conquering barn owl (which is also found here in Pennsylvania).  But they have nothing on what we were listening to (you can hear a recording I made here), as I discovered when I flicked through my field guide.

This was the call of the Great Horned Owl, a nocturnal bird of prey that grows half a metre high.  It eats cats - not exclusively, of course, but it gives you an idea of what we're dealing with.  It's not the kind of thing you'd want to run into on a dark night (which is of course exactly when you would run into it) and it knows it, too, judging by the expression of disdain it wears in all the photos I've seen.

This hooting normally ends by Christmas so we were quite fortunate to hear the call, or rather calls because what we heard was a duet.  One owl was not far from our house and another was responding from some distance away, and the call is used to establish territory...perhaps our two late callers had been encroaching on each other's turf and were trying to sort things out.  We were doubly lucky to hear it, really, since normally the double-glazed doors and windows would all be shut and we'd be oblivious.  I realise now that they probably hoot all through the night in November and I've just never heard it because the double glazing muffles most sound and the constant buzz of heating systems drowns out the rest.

Anyway, I'm very glad to have heard an owl at last.  Don't expect me to go out trying to get any pictures myself, though.  I'd worry that a particularly ambitious one would swoop in for the kill, and I'd return either missing a scalp or with a surplus owl attached to my head.  No, owl hunting is for the birds, if you ask me.

A post post

Last time I was complaining that sometimes the post office is closed unexpectedly because of some federal holiday or other that Mrs Walles and I do not mark (not that we wouldn't be keen to mark said holidays, of course, its just that not everyone gets them off).

Now I'm going to balance things out by extolling the virtues of something that all Americans take for granted, but that to me is like magic.  In America if you put outgoing mail in your mailbox, the mail man will take it away for you, with no fuss.  You can have all your gilt bathrooms and antique ivory back scratchers: as far as I'm concerned this is the epitome of luxury.


I was vaguely aware of this before I came here.  Movies had taught me that in the US mailboxes had a little red flag on the side that had something to do with sending mail.  As a child I was deprived in the mailbox department because we had a post office box instead.  But things have changed.  Now I have one of those fancy American mail boxes (approved by the Postmaster General himself, no less!) complete with the little red flag.  Mrs Walles and I spruced ours up last year with a fresh coat of paint.  I was going to put up a photo but when I found this almost identical one on Wikipedia I decided I could save myself the trouble.

Ironically the red flag isn't necessary.  You just put the mail you want to send inside in the morning and later that day you find it gone, typically replaced with screeds of glossy catalogues and fliers and the occasional bill.  Every time I do it I'm tempted to put the little flag up, just to get into the spirit of the thing, but then I think twice and realise that the flag would be a signal not just to the mail man but also to any nefarious characters who wonder if any of our correspondence is worth pilfering.

At least it's still there, though, the cherry little flag, just like in the movies.  Even if its duties are only ceremonial, it is nice reminder of where I am (well, that and the enormous flag the neighbours have over their door).  And flag or no flag I can still send mail without setting foot off the property.  Can you?

Presidents Day

Yesterday was Presidents Day in the United States, a federal holiday intended to celebrate all the presidents of this proud republic - or so I thought until I went away to check where the apostrophe goes in "Presidents Day" and discovered that not only is there no agreement on the inclusion or placement of the apostrophe, but that it isn't even the official name of the holiday.  According to the relevant federal law the holiday celebrates the birthday of George Washington, and although a number of states have it on their books as Presidents Day (with varying punctuation and ambiguous meaning) it is only convention that establishes the name nationwide.

This is just one of the perplexing things about American holidays.  In New Zealand the the public holidays are, if not exactly mandatory, then delivered with a strong hint from the labour laws that everyone gets the day off.  Here there are a number of federal holidays - but those are technically only holidays for federal government workers.  The individual states declare their own state holidays, many of which coincide with the federal ones, but again these only technically apply to state government workers.  By convention at least some of those holidays are also taken by workers in the private sector, though your mileage may vary.  Mrs Walles, for one, did not get the day off yesterday.

There are a few holidays, like Independence Day and Thanksgiving that seem sacrosanct, but the rest often fall by the wayside.  There's little motivation to mark a holiday which isn't really a holiday, so you forget and treat it like just another day.  Which is all well and good until you go down to the post office with that urgent parcel...

Of leaves and squirrels

A couple of weeks ago Mrs Walles and I were preparing to go out when we spotted Myrtle the squirrel out on the back deck clutching a wad of dead leaves in her mouth.

The squirrels collect these to pad their nests with.  We've watched them collecting leaves before, shuttling back and forth from their nests redecorating (often several of them share a nest).  Myrtle wasn't shuttling, though, she was looking at me earnestly and sitting quite still.  When I put some nuts out, she hopped down and dropped the leaves before making off with a snack.

According to the experts a lone squirrel looking for shelter on a cold night will sometimes bring a wad of leaves as an offering to an already occupied nest.  It's pleasant to think that Myrtle was bringing us a little present in return for the (vast quantities of) nuts we give her.  Alas I think the answer is much simpler: she was probably up the hill gathering some leaves for nest, spotted us moving in the house, and hurried down to ask for something to tide her over without even stopping to dump the leaves.  After all, I'm sure with all the interior decorating she'd been doing that she'd worked up quite an appetite!

Nutty as fruitcakes

Christmas has come and gone, absorbing more of my time than I would really have liked, principally in preparing far more food than is good for me.  Anyway, that's why I haven't had an opportunity to post during the festive season.

One of the reasons Christmas cooking takes so much of my time is that I find myself making some things that are traditional for Mrs Walles and some that are traditional for me.  I grew up eating fairly conventional New Zealand Christmas fare: ham, new potatoes, peas and carrots along with a roast, usually pork in our case but occasionally lamb.  So my first American Christmas (I've had three here now, but this last one was the first in my own home) was quite a culture shock with only one point of similarity (the ham).  Mrs Walles comes from Italian-American stock and so pasta figured heavily in that first Christmas dinner - not that I was complaining, mind you, as it was all excellent, but it was certainly different from what I was used to.

One of the most remarkable of all the American festive food quirks, I find, is the widespread distaste for Christmas cake, or indeed fruit cake of any kind.  There is an annual competition, in Texas I believe, where fruit cakes of all shapes and sizes are lobbed by catapults to see who can hurl theirs the furthest, and my own polling indicates that many if not most Americans agree that's the only thing they are good for.

For two Christmases I was baffled.  I was used to seeing Americans turning up their noses at foods they were unfamiliar with, but I couldn't understand this wholesale revulsion to such an inoffensive food. I'm well aware that not everyone in the fruitcake-eating regions of the world likes the stuff, but in America fruitcake is a kind of joke.  But what really got me was that when I made my own Christmas cake, using the hallowed family recipe that never fails, the result just didn't appeal like it usually did.  So unappealing was it that, even coated in a thick layer of brandy icing, most of the cake would end up in the bin shortly after New Year's Day.  Was there something in the air?

But now I understand.  Clearly lingering jet lag from long pre-Yuletide flights had clouded my reason over those two Christmases past.  Careful investigation this year led me to discover that what is labelled "mixed fruit" here, and which is trotted out for sale as the holidays approach, is not mixed fruit as I know it.  Mixed fruit should be heavy on the sultanas and raisins, but the stuff commonly available here contains not a single dried grape. Instead it contains candied pineapple and something called citron, which is the candied peel of a green citrus fruit which must taste something like a lime in the flesh.  Neither is conducive to a good fruit cake, making it overly sugary sweet and dense with an off-putting flavour.

This year I purchased my dried fruits individually and mixed them myself (not a trivial matter as it turned out - the mixed peel had to come by mail order from a British food importer).

The cake that emerged from the oven this year is just as I remember it.  Even Mrs Walles, long an opponent of fruit cake, had to admit that it was palatable, especially without the citron.

And so I think I've probably solved the mystery.  I reckon that American fruit cake has such a bad reputation because it is made with the wrong kind of fruit.  I can't imagine how this state of affairs came about. Maybe fruit cake devotees here couldn't get the best ingredients and had to make do.  Maybe revolting fruit cakes were deliberately baked during the revolution to scare the British away.  I don't know, but it doesn't matter.  Its enough that I know I can make good fruit cake here myself.  And in the unlikely event that I'm offered a slice of the genuine American article, I should probably politely decline.

Philly Cheesesteak

My only experience of Philadelphia so far has been from the inside of a train station, but thanks to a friend of ours who is a native we recently got to sample its most famous culinary creation, the cheesesteak.  This is a sandwich (in the American sense, which encompasses a broad church of bread-based foods, in this case it means it comes on a long roll) filled with thinly sliced steak and cheese, at the very least, with added extras depending on who makes it.

Our friend was kind enough to bring us two different kinds, one from Pat's, which has widespread reputation for good cheesesteaks (and is supposed to have been founded by one of the inventors back in the day), and one from Max's which is her personal favourite.

Max's was modestly wrapped in paper, Pat's was more promotional.

Having tried both of these I can honestly say that they were both fantastic but Max's clearly blew Pat's out of the water.  Apparently Pat's use processed cheese (only in America!) while Max's uses real cheese, and it really makes a difference.  And while Pat's added only onions Max's added some kind of tomatoey sauce which moistened everything up delightfully.  Here's a cross-section, Max's on the left, Pat's on the right.

Max's reminded me very much of eating a good steak and cheese pie back in New Zealand, which isn't surprising because there are many similarities.  Given that meat pies are almost entirely lacking in this part of the world, it's obvious that things like the cheesesteak fill the gap.

It's also clear that the City of Brotherly Love knows what its doing.  I've ordered cheesesteaks before in other parts of the country, even the state, and the genuine article is just in a league of its own.  I certainly know what I'll be eating next time I go to Philadelphia!

The plumbing strikes back

I had been going to end the last post by noting that when the Amish fix something, it stays fixed.  Alas our toilet seems to have the devil in it, for not a day had elapsed after they left before it started playing up again.  We've been on to the landlord and have received instructions that Hosea (which I now learn is the satisfyingly exotic name of our erstwhile and taciturn plumber) will appear sometime next week to have another go.

I hope he brings his bible as well as replacement valves, just in case there is more than rust at work and he has to exorcise demonic forces from the cistern.

The Return of the Amish

The Amish are back again.  Long time readers will recall that they fixed our deck earlier in the year.  Now they're back to fix our screen door, some drainage difficulties out the back, and an unrelated problem with the flush in the downstairs toilet (or "half-bathroom" as they're called here, despite not containing a bath).  For thirty years of my life these people might as well have been from a fairy tale, now they're fixing my toilet.  I'm not sure what to make of that.

I'm writing this post to take a break from writing about the next big thing in high speed wireless communications.  Somehow it feels a bit wrong doing that while these famous eschewers of the electric age are downstairs fixing the door.  Admittedly I'm still using a computer as I write this, but at least the subject matter isn't adding insult to injury.  Anyway, I hear the fellow downstairs using his electric drill and possibly even a cell phone...so my overactive conscience is somewhat assuaged.

Unlike last time when they swept in and out with barely a word, this time I have had to interact with them to explain the plumbing difficulties.  I had been going to write - and indeed had just written before I erased it - that these Amish workmen seem cold and unfriendly.  But I've just this minute been on a hunt in the basement for the main water valve (turned out it was hidden behind some slapped-together walls) and I think I should revise that.  Taciturn and quiet, yes.  But not out of hostility, I think, just as a way of using as few words as possible.  They've got a job to do, you know.  Mind you, they don't say hello or goodbye.  I don't know their names, they come and go without a word.  So maybe not cold, but certainly rather chilly.

It's an interesting experience, trying to learn about a people from the way they mend your house, and a technique that anthropologists would no doubt frown upon as full of methodological flaws.  It's the only one I've got, though, so I'll have to stick with it even if it leaves me with more questions than answers.

Thanksgiving fare

Thanksgiving was last Thursday, followed by a few days off for Mrs Walles and I.  We needed it after preparing all the food.  There was the turkey, of course...

 ...and bread stuffing with cranberries...

...fresh bread...

...along with yams (the American kind, like sweet potatoes), cornbread, more stuffing (cornbread this time, out of a packet), gravy, cranberry sauce and, as a token gesture towards nutritional balance, green beans.

Then there was dessert.  I made two pumpkin pies - to test the difference between fresh and canned pumpkin - and an apple pie.

There were only the two of us, but that just meant that we had leftovers right through the weekend, plus a few things for the freezer.  I wasn't going to let my first Thanksgiving pass without all the usual trimmings, just because there would be far too much food.  That's seldom a good enough reason to stop me doing anything!

Turkey time

It's Thanksgiving next week, and Mrs Walles and I are well prepared.  In past years one of the local supermarkets has given away free turkeys if you have enough loyalty points.  This year turkey prices are unusually high so they aren't offering that, but by biding our time and keeping our eyes open (most of the credit here going to Mrs Walles) we found one for 45¢ per pound. We got an almost twenty pound bird for less than eight dollars plus extra money off next time we fill up the car, which just about makes it even in my mind.

The idea that an entire turkey can be bought for less than ten dollars - a real flesh and blood bird, not a photograph - seems remarkable to me. Apparently some of the locals have become conditioned by Thanksgiving deals into thinking a turkey at Thanksgiving is an inalienable right, like freedom of speech and guns.  There was a man behind us at the checkout when we bought ours who was almost apoplectic with anxiety that he might miss out on his free poultry, and then even more so when the cashier told him, in effect, that if he was waiting for a free one he'd better go and catch it himself (which, as this demonstrates, is quite possible).

We also picked up ten cans of cranberry sauce on special, which should tide us over.  It might not be so much a matter of having sauce with our turkey next week, as having turkey with our sauce.

Now we just have to decide how to cook it.  I've cooked turkeys a few times here but I want to do something a bit special for the holiday meal, and my mind is turning to stuffing.  That poses a problem, because I like the dense, moist kind of stuffing that goes inside the bird and is traditional where I come from.   But I also like the comparatively dry herbed bread cubes that are traditional here and cook separately.  I don't know if I'll be able to choose between them, so that turkey had better look out: it's going to be well and truly stuffed this Thanksgiving.

Election Day

Last Tuesday was Election Day here in the US.  They have it every year, on the Tuesday after the first Monday in November.  It's a Tuesday because that used to be market day, or some such, which was a good day for people to vote on.  Now it's Tuesday because it always has been and if it was good enough for grandpappy it's good enough for me.

That certainly seems to be the gist of it, and Mrs Walles was complaining how silly it is that Election Day is not a holiday so that people could get to the polls if they so wished. 

The reason they need to have an Election Day each year is that they do like a vote here (whether they actually use the vote is a different matter, but they clearly like the option to be there).  In Pennsylvania they vote judges in and out of office, and district attorneys and all manner of relatively minor public officials at the local and state level.  Some states like to hold referenda on legislative issues, what they call voting on propositions.  Mississippi had a contentious one on whether an embryo is a person (they decided that it isn't).

All this reminded me that there is an election back in New Zealand that I have a say in, so I got my papers filled in ready to send away.  I suppose I could have posted my papers away on Tuesday, to get into the swing of things here, but in many matters I'm a traditionalist, so I sent them away on Saturday instead.

A matter of degree

The weather is cooling rapidly now.  No more snow since the big storm last week, but the temperatures have been dipping down low overnight - we've had several good hard frosts.  Even the squirrels are getting up later in the morning when it is warmer.

The other night it got down to twenty five degrees, which I'm used to thinking of as comfortable room temperature, but which here is a chilly frost.  Though that's not as disconcerting as temperatures reaching one hundred degrees in the summer, which to me sounds like I should be actually on fire, rather than just feeling like I am.

Yes, this Fahrenheit business is all very confusing.  Like all the other measures here it takes a bit of getting used to. I have to try to remember that sixty something is room temperature and a hundred or thereabouts is blood temperature and so on.  But it's a little more complicated with temperature, too, because it is not just that a degree of Fahrenheit is smaller than a degree of Celsius, but the zeroes are in different places.  That really throws me.

I'm very used to talking about temperatures below zero as being freezing, because that's where water freezes in Celsius.  But water freezes at thirty two degrees Fahrenheit.  If you say the temperature is below zero here you mean not just cold but bits-of-you-turn-blue-and-fall-off cold.  I still catch myself in the winter about to say "below zero" and quickly substitute "below freezing".  Except when I forget.  Then I get the odd looks suggesting I have a poor grasp on reality.  You know, as if I ordered mayonnaise on my salad, or something.

And here comes another winter.  Another opportunity to hone my vocabulary into a more US-friendly form.  At least in public.  In private I'll think whatever I like because there's nobody around to give me a frosty look.