On notice

That's it. I've had enough. Hurricanes -- you're on notice.

Every big event we plan, a hurricane comes along and tries to elbow its way in door. Our wedding in 2003 was preceded by a hurricane that nearly blew everything into the Atlantic, and now our Labor Day picnic is being threatened by the remains of Ernesto. I'll be grilling 15 lbs of ribs and 20 lbs of chicken from a dinghy.

On scrambled eggs

I know, this is a house blog, which should contain musing about home renovation, repair and the like, but really, what's a house without food? Nothing more than shelter. Add the smell of fresh baked bread or a roast chicken, and a house becomes something entirely different – it becomes sustenance, the place where you take nourishment, recharge, and share your bounty with others. It's cliché, but the kitchen is truly the heart of the house. And what's the heart of cooking and baking? Eggs!

One of the simplest things to make is scrambled eggs, but it's not a simple as it seems. Years ago, when I'd wake after a night of heavy drinking, the only thing on my mind was a mound of scrambled eggs, a heap of bacon, a cup of coffee and half-pack of cigarettes. That was my aspirin. I'd crank up the stove, slap a pan on the burner, swirl some butter, and then dump some quickly-whisked eggs into the hot pan. All wrong. The suckers would start to draw up like a scared turtle and in a flash they'd be dry and chewy. What the hell did I know? I was hung-over and just wanted some grease.

Then I had a revelation. The revelation came, again, after a night of heavy drinking, the day my good friend was getting married. All the groomsmen had stayed at his house prior to the big day, and our friend Ed, who happened to be a chef, offered to cook eggs. I watched with marvel as he put a pan on the burner, dropped some finely-diced cold butter in the pan, and then dumped whisked eggs in the cold pan. What the fuck? This guy is a chef?! He doesn't even know how to cook eggs!

Ahh, but he DID! The eggs were soft and luscious; they just melted in your mouth. This is what they're supposed to taste like. Thanks to that lesson, and with a little help from Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking, I now prepare a proper plate of scrambled eggs. You should try it: Cold pan, medium-low heat, butter, gently whisked eggs with a splash of cream, and stir and stir and stir. As soon as they start to come together in a custard consistency, remove them from the heat and continue to stir. Be careful not to bring them off the heat too late, as they'll continue to cook in the pan. Salt and stir in one small pat of butter for good measure and plate. Enjoy!

A side note to Alton Brown: Dude, last week I went to a place that serves pig's stomach! We should definitely check it out, because I'm certain you never had that on your drive across the middle of America. I'll be waiting for your call.

Privy, thee

During the process of scraping and painting the smokehouse we finally got a chance to examine the outhouse tacked on the back of the main building. Apparently it used to be located off the side of the house, at the end of the main walkway – a common location for most old privies. I'm not sure why or when it was moved, but regardless of the location I can't imagine what it was like to hike out there in the dead of winter to take care of business.

The door had been nailed shut and covered in poison ivy, and with a task list longer than my right leg it was an easy thing to ignore. Besides, it's a hole in the ground filled with, well, you know. Not very romantic. But this one is special: If nature called in the middle of the night, you could always bring a buddy. Behold, the two seat outhouse:

Sweet, huh? Even has electric, with a single bulb as it's light source! I think we may need to do a little cleaning before it's open to the public...

Honey I shrunk the beefsteaks

The garden has been looking a bit ratty of late. It's late summer and, well, there aren't a whole hell of a lot of vegetables that perk up and get giddy at the thought of hot, dry weather. Except for tomatoes.

We've got a bumper crop this year off of four plants: two plum and two beefsteak. Believe it or not, the small tomatoes above are beefsteak. They taste great -- very sweet and hearty -- but they're just miniaturized, a bit larger than cherry tomatoes. Perhaps we should have pinched off some of the buds on the beefsteak plants? I'm not sure, but even miniaturized, I'm loving 'em. Our plum tomatoes, on the other hand, are gargantuan. Gina's hoping to can a portion of them and the rest are destined for some great sauces.

More painting this weekend, but I took it rather slow. It's a birthday weekend; I can afford to slack.

Oh, daddy.

Once again I managed to avoid doing much work on the house this weekend, opting instead to waste time by (a) washing the cars, (b) mowing grass, and (c) shopping for baby furniture. Yes, in 16 or so weeks we'll be welcoming a new addition to the family, and that new addition needs somewhere to sleep. We have the room picked out, but right now that room is functioning as our closet. My other closet is the chair that sits in the corner of our room – the one buried under an ever-expanding pile of clothes. Oh, and there is that makeshift closet that the previous owner built from plywood in the front of the hallway. It's very pretty.

Anyway, the kid. This weekend we looked at baby furniture and realized that even mid-priced stuff costs about as much as a full-sized bedroom. Scary. Not remortgage-the-house scary, but scary enough that I wished I were a proficient woodworker with a lot of time on my hands. Before we furnish the room, though, I need to do some painting and electrical work. Three of the upstairs rooms still have cheap old wall sconces as their sole lighting source, and the kid's room will definitely need a new light. I plan to tap into the line, install a switch, and then continue the line up to a new ceiling light. I don't think it will be a big deal since I have access to the attic and can run the line from there. So that's the plan over the next three months or so. I look forward to the day that I can have the wee one mow the lawn.

In the short-term, though, I need to try and finish up some painting outside. We're having a Labor Day picnic and before we get visitors -- many of whom haven't yet seen the place -- I'd like to spruce up at least a few of the outbuildings. Yesterday evening (Monday) I began the process of scraping the garage doors: three massive wood panel doors that slide along metal tracks. I intended to paint a bit last evening, but a forecast of showers made me think twice. I'm glad because we had some heavy rains last evening -- something we desperately need. It's really dried out over the past few weeks.

Oh, and by the way -- No word from Alton Brown yet on my proposal. Maybe he'll surprise me by dropping by for the Labor Day party.

Paging Alton Brown

OK, this is getting absurd. If you've ever cranked up your old cathode-ray in the early evenings and happened to flip to the Food Network, you've invariably caught Mr. Alton Brown in action. Part chef, part food anthropologist, part scientist, he attacks cooking with vigor and humor, dissecting the craft and educating viewers on the best tools, techniques and ingredients to do the job right. And as a prior cinematographer, he gets some really great camera angles: looking out from inside the fridge, the stove, the cabinets - you name it. Plus he used to have a KitchenAid mixer with airbrushed flames on it that just plain rocked.

So anyway, I occasionally catch the show thanks to the miracles of Tivo. I was happy to get a few tips, maybe learn something about cuts of beef, and then he shows up with a new series. About eating. About driving across the country on a motorcycle – a really nice motorcycle – and eating. It's called Feasting on Asphalt, and it's causing problems in this household. My problem? I want to do the same thing. Ride a motorcycle and eat. I'm slightly obsessed, actually. But since I can't just up and leave for a month to entertain this whimsy, I have a plan. My plan? Get Alton Brown out to the farm.

Since he completely missed Pennsylvania during the journey, I think it's a perfect idea if he were to come to the farm for a few days. We could take a drive around the back roads, chow down on some local Pennsylvania Dutch food, and shoot the shit. I'll even give him a place to sleep, cook him a meal and make him a proper martini (though I still disagree with his somewhat meager use of vermouth). I say we Google bomb Alton Brown and see what happens. Just link Alton's full name to this post, and maybe we'll get somewhere. Do you know Alton? Ask him to skip out of the Iron Chef thing and stop in for a visit.

Mr. Brown, are you listening? Whaddaya say?

Tin roof, rusted.

The heat broke on Thursday of last week, just in time for our Saturday painting party. Humidity was low and the sky was the kind of brilliant deep blue that makes you want to just dive right in. We got rolling around 10 a.m.: my father arrived first, followed by mom, sister, and then Gina's parents and her cousin's family. My father, who happens to abhor heights, climbed right up on the ladder and got to work.

By noon we had tackled half of the front and part of the West side, and I realized then that I had vastly underestimated the amount of paint needed for the building. The five gallons of Behr fence & barn paint was almost half gone, and we weren't even close to finishing the first coat.

By 6 p.m. we had finished two of the largest sides. The rear and the East side still need to be done, but they're fairly small and I can probably tackle them in the evenings after work.

It's unbelievably satisfying to get even a portion of this project completed. If nothing else, it makes my wife happy because the property doesn't give off that "I'm abandoned" vibe. Like anything, though, this project begets more projects. When we ran out of paint about 5 p.m., I climbed up on the lower roof to scrape the East side, which hadn't yet been tackled. Looking at the old corrugated roof I realized it's also in dire need of replacement. All things in time.

I completely blew off doing work on Sunday, though. It was another beautiful day and I climbed on the motorcycle and went out for a two-hour ride. There was a moment of guilt, but it quickly passed.