. . . Now our new normal involves haunting this apartment 24/7. We’re pale, nonessential ghosts bumping the walls, taking our temperatures, unable to grasp the passage of time, reliving and reliving. Dreamlike. Did I check my email? Have I taken a bath this week? Wait — did I take a bath today? Have we fed the parrot? (The parrot says no, but he now knows about Cheez-Its and no other food exists in his beady eyes.) . . . Click here to read the rest of this essay in New Hampsh
When I was a kid, a family friend from Cyprus came to stay with us. There was so much to show him in New Hampshire! We admired the boulders at the Flume, sunbathed on Hampton Beach, and rode the Cog. He probably thought we did these things all the time. Rocks, water, and hair-raising rides up the side of a mountain. Typical. But the truth is, you can’t just hit the highs all summer. Parents work and kids have to entertain themselves. But how? Let us cast our thoughts back to
Dear Ms. Moose:
My relatives have been declining my special homemade fruitcakes for years, citing allergies. When I asked what they were allergic to, Aunt Hetty pointedly replied, “Cat,” referring to one minor incident of pet hair contamination in 1993. Last year, things came to a head. I had a little too much wassail and ended up stuffing a whole fruitcake into my face, through rivers of tears, in front of my entire family. I promptly swelled up like an inflatable lawn Sant
It's June in New Hampshire, a time of warmth and renewal. A time when life returns to the veldt behind your walls. It starts when you’re awakened in the dead of night. Scritch, scratch, scuttle. You close your eyes. It was only a dream. Scritch. Scratch. Scuttle. There it is again. You stare into the darkness. “Scooter!” you hiss at the orange cat curled peacefully on your chest. “Stop it!” He opens one sleepy yellow eye and resettles, pressing his butt against your face in a
Well, looks like we’re here for another edition of What Ails You? I’m your host, Ms. Moose, here to answer all your burning questions. Dear Ms. Moose, My idiot son-in-law has gifted us a 60-pound turkey for Thanksgiving. Since, for some reason, he and my daughter always spend holidays on the Vineyard with his idiot family, our gathering will consist of myself, my husband, and my husband’s 106-year-old great-grandmother, who lives exclusively on hot Jell-O and snuff. My questi
Benning Wentworth lorded over the brand-spanking-new Granite State from 1741 to 1767. But how much do you know about him? 1. He was super rich. Sure, his family was wealthy — his ancestor, Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford, was BFFs with King Charles I. (Until he wasn’t anymore, and got beheaded. Spoiler alert: So did Charles.) But Benning made his own money too. After a financial kerfuffle with the Crown, he came out on top as governor of our new state, which we’re lucky w
Are you ready to show some love for local lore this Halloween? Sure, New York has the Headless Horseman, Massachusetts has the witch trials and Maine has the chupacabra (no, really, look it up), but New Hampshire has its own lineup of awesome costume possibilities. Here are a few suggestions... Click to read the rest of this essay in New Hampshire Magazine! Illustration by Brad Fitzpatrick #NHMagazine #NewHampshire #funny #essay
Some say New Hampshire has the shortest coastline of any state in the US (I’m looking at you, Wikipedia). I say what we lack in length, we make up for in dangerous currents. I mean heart. And seafood.
My father’s first word was “frycram.” Forget Mama and Dada, he was Baby Fried Clams... Click to read the rest of this essay in New Hampshire Magazine! llustration by Brad Fitzpatrick #essay #NHMagazine #NewHampshire #funny
Hour One: The first flicker is a surprise. “Where’s Cake Boss?” Granny snaps. I click the remote. Then the lights go off: power outage.
Between telephone poles, the lines sag with ice. Kinda pretty, actually. Maybe I’ll read an improving book. By candlelight!
Hour Two: Tee hee! Living like the Olden Days. Light the hurricane lamp, guv’nah! Fetch kindling for the blaze! Popcorn on the woodstove? I’ll just grab some butter — oh, right, the fridge is off. Keep the cool in, sa
What’s the second most spoken language in New Hampshire? Quelle surprise, it’s French! Even if your family doesn’t hail from the (even more) Frigid North, you may have tasted poutine, worn a tuque, or frozen your fesses off.
My grandparents were born into French-speaking households but, sadly, my family bid adieu to their native tongue during the last generation. My dad had to learn French the same way I did — from Smurfs comics. (In French they’re called Schtroumpfs, which