Fahrenheit.
We talked little during the drive. Our flight from OHare had landed late, and it was midnight when I reached my condo in centre-ville , two before I got to sleep. Barely awake, I sipped the coffee Ryan provided and watched the city slide past my window.
My funk wasnt entirely fatigue-induced. I was still bummed by events in Chicago.
Ryan and I never got to see Schechter. Excuse was he was taking depositions in Rock Island. Consequently, I was still clueless about the viper whod smeared my reputation with false accusations.
The conversation concerning Lassie had been as painful as anticipated. Throughout, Cukura Kundze wept as though shed lost her own grandchild. The only upside was that Mr. Tot had insisted on informing his son and daughter-in-law personally concerning their sons fate.
In addition, Id had another clash with my new neighbor, Sparky Monteil. Yeah, Sparky. Though built like a pear, the guy works hard at lookingtough. Elvis hair. Badass tattoo on the side of his neck. My building superintendent, Winston, says the little twerps at least fifty-five.
Sparky moved into my complex sometime last spring. His boxes werent unpacked when the whining began. Seems Sparky hates cats. No, that doesnt do it justice. Sparky would have every feline on the planet rounded up, bagged, and tossed into the sea.
Granted, our home owners association has a no-pets policy. But since Birdie and I are away so much in Charlotte, and since the little guy never sets paw outside the condo when in residence, Ive been granted an exemption. Sparky is fighting to have that revoked.
Sparky exited the elevator as I was waiting in the lobby for Ryan. This mornings grievance concerned turds in the courtyard.
Sorry, pal. My cats not with me this trip.
On top of all that, I was once again freezing.
The heater in Ryans Jeep wasnt state of the art. The windows were frosted, and I could feel cold rising through my boots, up my legs, and into my pelvis. I suspected the only warmth Id experience all day would be that leaching from the cup I clutched in gloved hands.
Our destination lay approximately fifty kilometers northwest of Montreal in Oka. When I hear the town name I think of three things: Mohawks, monks, and monastery cheese.
The last two are interrelated.
In 1815 a group of monks settled in Brittany and created a cheese called Port Salut. Six decades later their brainchild was the rage of Paris. Didnt matter. In 1880 the army of the French Third Republic seized the orders Abbaye de Bellefontaine, and the cheese-making Trappists were booted from the country.
At the invitation of Quebec Sulpicians, eight of the exiles set sail for Canada. From their vast holdings, the host brothers gave the immigrants land on the north shore of Lac des Deux-Montagnes. Naming the property La Trappe after Soligny-la-Trappe, the orders 1662 founding site, the new arrivals established LAbbaye Notre-Dame du Lac.
At its peak, the monastery boasted upward of two hundred monks. By the early twenty-first century only twenty-eight remained, most over seventy years of age. Today, LAbbaye is no longer a working monastery but serves as a nonprofit center for preservation of the sites heritage.
In making their transatlantic journey back in the day, the Trappist travelers brought with them their treasured recette de fromage and, oncesettled, the churning of cows milk began anew. As in the homeland, the cheese was a box office hit.
As far as I know, the brothers still oversee the production of Oka Trappist Cheese, which, over the years, has evolved a new-world character uniquely its own.
The Mohawk thing is a bit more complicated.
In the summer of 1990, the Oka Crisis made international news. Essentially a land dispute between the town and the Mohawk community of Kanesatake, the confrontation lasted from mid-July until late September, and resulted
We talked little during the drive. Our flight from OHare had landed late, and it was midnight when I reached my condo in centre-ville , two before I got to sleep. Barely awake, I sipped the coffee Ryan provided and watched the city slide past my window.
My funk wasnt entirely fatigue-induced. I was still bummed by events in Chicago.
Ryan and I never got to see Schechter. Excuse was he was taking depositions in Rock Island. Consequently, I was still clueless about the viper whod smeared my reputation with false accusations.
The conversation concerning Lassie had been as painful as anticipated. Throughout, Cukura Kundze wept as though shed lost her own grandchild. The only upside was that Mr. Tot had insisted on informing his son and daughter-in-law personally concerning their sons fate.
In addition, Id had another clash with my new neighbor, Sparky Monteil. Yeah, Sparky. Though built like a pear, the guy works hard at lookingtough. Elvis hair. Badass tattoo on the side of his neck. My building superintendent, Winston, says the little twerps at least fifty-five.
Sparky moved into my complex sometime last spring. His boxes werent unpacked when the whining began. Seems Sparky hates cats. No, that doesnt do it justice. Sparky would have every feline on the planet rounded up, bagged, and tossed into the sea.
Granted, our home owners association has a no-pets policy. But since Birdie and I are away so much in Charlotte, and since the little guy never sets paw outside the condo when in residence, Ive been granted an exemption. Sparky is fighting to have that revoked.
Sparky exited the elevator as I was waiting in the lobby for Ryan. This mornings grievance concerned turds in the courtyard.
Sorry, pal. My cats not with me this trip.
On top of all that, I was once again freezing.
The heater in Ryans Jeep wasnt state of the art. The windows were frosted, and I could feel cold rising through my boots, up my legs, and into my pelvis. I suspected the only warmth Id experience all day would be that leaching from the cup I clutched in gloved hands.
Our destination lay approximately fifty kilometers northwest of Montreal in Oka. When I hear the town name I think of three things: Mohawks, monks, and monastery cheese.
The last two are interrelated.
In 1815 a group of monks settled in Brittany and created a cheese called Port Salut. Six decades later their brainchild was the rage of Paris. Didnt matter. In 1880 the army of the French Third Republic seized the orders Abbaye de Bellefontaine, and the cheese-making Trappists were booted from the country.
At the invitation of Quebec Sulpicians, eight of the exiles set sail for Canada. From their vast holdings, the host brothers gave the immigrants land on the north shore of Lac des Deux-Montagnes. Naming the property La Trappe after Soligny-la-Trappe, the orders 1662 founding site, the new arrivals established LAbbaye Notre-Dame du Lac.
At its peak, the monastery boasted upward of two hundred monks. By the early twenty-first century only twenty-eight remained, most over seventy years of age. Today, LAbbaye is no longer a working monastery but serves as a nonprofit center for preservation of the sites heritage.
In making their transatlantic journey back in the day, the Trappist travelers brought with them their treasured recette de fromage and, oncesettled, the churning of cows milk began anew. As in the homeland, the cheese was a box office hit.
As far as I know, the brothers still oversee the production of Oka Trappist Cheese, which, over the years, has evolved a new-world character uniquely its own.
The Mohawk thing is a bit more complicated.
In the summer of 1990, the Oka Crisis made international news. Essentially a land dispute between the town and the Mohawk community of Kanesatake, the confrontation lasted from mid-July until late September, and resulted
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