Summer is, for all intents and purposes, over. But as the temperature still soars to near 100 here in Washington, DC, I will transport myself to the lake of my childhood for a couple more summery memories. Fast forward from my earliest recollections of Lake Champlain in my last post to my teen years, as a “kitchen girl” at Camp Ecole Champlain, where wealthy sunburned girls learned French at the feet of instructors with sexy accents cutting across the Francophone world.
Alas, I have no extant photos from my two years slaving away in the Ecole Champlain kitchen, but believe me it was a thrilling time, living away from home above the kitchen in a vast rustic attic divided (just barely) between male and female dorm spaces. My fellow kitchen girl, Rose from Montreal, supplemented my high school French with peppery phrases like “Ferme ta gueule!” (an unsavory way of saying “Shut up”). My boyfriend du jour, a nice farm boy from nearby, brought me a pet rabbit, dubbed Little Bunny Foo-Foo, who never did master the litter box.
Even as lowly kitchen staff, we were allowed in our off-hours to partake in classes, all taught in French. I don’t recall any judo instructions in French, but I do remember at least one horseback riding command: “Deposez vous etrier!” (drop your stirrups). I didn’t last long at horseback riding, falling unceremoniously off one day and pulling a huge muscle at the top of my leg, my agony garnering no sympathy from the imposing instructor.
One night stands out in my memory, and not in a good way: the night I learned never to mix your liquors. Starting out with a concoction of kalhua and milk (which the older but dubiously wiser cook called “a milkshake except crunchy!”), then progressing to a couple of beers, and finishing off with straight Scotch. I don’t recall how I made it upstairs to my bed, but I do recall waking up in the middle of the night throwing up. Several times. And the misery of having to help serve breakfast the next morning. Warning: do not try tomato juice as a hangover treatment. It burns all the way down.
The lake was ever-present during the Ecole Champlain summers, as its shore wrapped around the grounds like a cool and inviting compress on a hungover brow. The swimming beach and watercraft were accessible for us laborers, and we availed ourselves of their use frequently. But it was more of a scenic backdrop to the Upstairs, Downstairs antics of the camp than the main attraction. Just as to this day I cannot stomach the smell of Scotch, the Ecole years are buried in my psyche and resurface at a turn of certain French phrases, or Elton John’s Tumbleweed Connection album which we often played while mopping the dining room floor. Where to now, St. Peter?
South Carolina. None of them were Southerners by birth, but no matter. There seem to be many more relocated Northerns (like our family) or Midwesterners than actual natives in HHI these days, since the original 
ora and fauna. Or go kayaking, parasailing, paddle boarding, etc. etc. We went on a very nice sunset/fireworks boat tour with my sister’s Rotary Club members. Dolphins obligingly made an appearance, as well as the full moon. It was a good respite from the Washington, DC area swelter – which comes for most of us without a beach and/or our own swimming pool – and work. From sunrise (which I always try to get up in time for, and usually don’t make it) to sunset (which is great from the water), HHI is a nice place to visit.
f so, it is all we will be eating for awhile I guess. Send me some squash recipes just in case!
First up, 
therwise totally bad for you just as authentic ethnic food usually is. First, they go grocery shopping. Then they start cooking. If the recipe calls for booze, Mr. Gale always needs to sample some of the rum or vodka liberally. Some singing and dancing usually occurs as well. The grandmas seem to love him, although I have to say I think he is slightly creepy. He does manage to sneak in a pretty good oral history interview during the cooking, though, which along with the recipes makes this a folklorist-approved show.
The tent might even be gone by now, and the only remains will soon be a very large circle of dead grass and a few crayon and colored paper bits ground into the hard-baked soil. But my 2016 summer interns and I will remember the moments of joy, frustration, laughter, disappointment, and exhaustion that made it an area where we hope kids had fun and learned something about cultural traditions.
One of these activities was Basque Number Bingo, which I generated from an online template that allows you to turn just about any string of related words or images into a bingo game for kids.
These wet and wild gardens are one of those hidden gems in Washington, DC that you can easily miss – in fact, we did the first time around because there is no sign (and apparently no exit off Kenilworth Avenue) if you are heading north, and we had to turn around at the 
Well, anyhow, in the afternoon my good friend and colleague Elaine Eff and a young and enthusiastic representative from the Highlandtown Business Association (Amanda, I never caught your last name, sorry) led a tour of the painted screens of the neighborhood. What, you never heard of a painted screen? Well, luckily, Elaine has written the
Jennifer, the intern from the Netherlands, wanted to do the iconic 
Despite the cattle-like treatment of the blue plastic line-up by the staff handlers (“Move up – move along!”) and the rush of teenagers to the better viewpoints, I have to say the experience was still awesome. Especially when you get to the base of Horseshoe Falls and the cold mists hit you full force. This makes you abandon your camera and just live in the moment (because you can’t see anything through the viewfinder except water, for one thing). I have to admit, I got a little choked up – the majesty of nature and all that.
Last Saturday, we had a drama unfolding in our backyard with a cast of thousands. Thousands of our neighbor’s honey bees, that is. According to 
om outside, even from within the screened-in deck.)