How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a wood chuck could chuck wood?
Growing up, I made it my serious business to not just memorize that troublesome tongue twister, but to show up the older girls on the playground by clicking my tongue around those words faster and more precisely than they ever could. You could say I had a bit of a competitive streak. Had. As in, when I was younger. Anyway... Ahem.
For years, I thought nothing of the meaning of the words. But all that changed this morning.
I'm not sure why it came back to me, but lying in bed early this morning, I started to wonder. How much wood would that would chuck chuck? And then it hit me: he CAN'T chuck wood. How incredibly sad. He'll never live up to his name. Now it's not like my name mistakenly predestined me to a life of unfulfillment, but at that still dusky just-dawn hour, I became determined to make the most of my day. After an hour more of sleep.
Five hours later, I was finally up and headed to Campgaw Mountain in Mahwah with Darius, who had planned a lovely outing. Oh, did I say lovely? I meant terrifying. We were going snowtubing. As in somersaulting to our deaths when the tube gets caught on an icy snare, lauching us up and back down a snowchute/death trap of a mountain ready to swallow us up with its forested maw.
I'm all for trying new things. I swear! Take the sweetbreads at Kefi a couple of weekends ago. While the warmed feta meze called to me from beyond the menu, I opted for the crispy pancreas/thymus gland of a lamb/calf (the menu was imprecise and my palate undiscerning) for the simple reason that I had never had it before. It's a raved about delicacy and I had high hopes, hopes that fell flat when I put the first "crispy" piece in my mouth. You know how when you peel off the skin of fried chicken the crunchy batter is lined with a layer of goopy fat? Imagine if that fat goop were spooned off the yummy batter bit, balled up into goopy, rounded cubes, re-crisped in hot fat, and served up in front of you in its goopy glory. Very not yumm. But I was happy I tried it - at least now I know that pancreas/thymus gland is not for me. (I should note that Kefi made up for the lackluster appetizer with a stunning branzino, charred and smoky off the grill, served up with a succulent smattering of roasted potatoes, and a refreshing blackberry port sorbet that was at once innocently sweet and bitingly tart.)
Today, on the way up Route 17, past strip malls and chain restaurants that showed not a trace of precipitation save the remnant puddles from yesterday's torrential springlike downpour, I was pretty sure Campgaw Mountain would turn us away - "No snow today, folks," I exected a jolly mountainman to tell us. We'd head straight for an early lunch and call it a day. No harm, no foul.
But as we pulled into the parking lot, I saw it. Campgaw Mountain. My Everest. Covered in snow, albeit somewhat slushy, somewhat icy snow. Nothing that would warrant turning away paying customers. I was sure Darius was leading me to my doom. He pointed out the small children and their parents zipping down the mountain on skis and snowboard, bopping along in brightly hued, inflatable, donut-shaped tubes. I followed him, unconvinved.
We checked in, selected our tubes (I picked one in burnt orange, probably because it was the one that looked closest to a real donut) and got in line to be hooked onto a small piece of orange plastic that would drag us up the hill. The ride up was the longest four minutes or so of my life. We skidded along, slowly but surely, as other tubers whuzhed by us at high speeds. I felt queezy and very nearly passed out when the teenager at the top of the hill told me to lie face down on the donut. I got off to a slow start, much as I wanted, but the teenager kindly gave me a push. "It's not so bad," he called out behind me.
And then I was flying. I was too scared to scream out as I banged down the hill, swerving side to side and over a small piece of exposed rock. Then, it was over. I bumped to a stop just short of the finish line, awkwardly heaved myself up and pulled my donut the rest of the way. I survived! I was in shock, and unlike the sweetbreads, I wanted more.
An hour and a half later, we were heading out - hunger (Darius's) and sopping wet feet that were threatening to freeze (mine) got the best of us.
After all the excitement of the day, I needed something reassuring and reliable - Applebees. Please don't judge. The French Onion Soup off the restaurant's Weight Watchers menu is satisfying and delicious enough in a very standard sort of way. Reassuring and reliable, with no effort required.
Halfway through the soup, it hit me. It's Groundhog Day! It must have been kismet that I so sympathetically considered his wood-less fate this morning, just as he was being cruelly roused for that annual moment of augury. I immediately wondered if Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow, and immediately after that wondered if I was hoping for an early spring as I had every year for as long as I could remember. I wasn't sure about either.
It turns out that dear old Phil did see his shadow out on Gobbler's Knob this morning, and I can't say I'm disappointed. Today, Feb. 2, we 're technically halfway through the season, but it was the first time in a long time that it really felt like winter. Exciting and familiar and scary and comforting all at the same time. Six more weeks of this doesn't sound quite so bad.
Preheat broiler.
Place bread in a single layer on a baking sheet; broil 2 minutes or until toasted, turning after 1 minute.
Place 8 ovenproof bowls on a jelly-roll pan. Ladle 1 cup soup into each bowl. Divide bread evenly among bowls; top each serving with 1 cheese slice. Broil 3 minutes or until cheese begins to brown.
Yields 8 servings
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