Last week, Karl Rove said that, if the election were held today, Obama would have 273 electoral votes, three more than he needs to win the Presidency.  This week, there are still 10 states that voted for George W. Bush in 2004, where Obama has the lead or is trailing within the margin of error.  McCain must carry all those states, plus one that went for John Kerry in 2004.  Here are some ways he can still turn things around:

A 32-yard field goal from Brian Pate gives William and Mary the lead late. The Tribe has been so much better in teh second half on both sides of the ball and have ALL the momentum. UNH has lots of wor

In March an ordinance passed in Barnstead, wrapped in a pretty package masquerading as protection of our water table under the guise of a way to stop companies from coming in and pumping bottled water from that table.

            There’s something about the early October air that invites a quicker step and a deeper breath.  The sunny days warm the breeze, but it’s cool now underneath.  It makes me want to pick apples, cook them down, and put up jars of applesauce for the winter.  I don’t think I’ll heed the call this year; too many other things are luring me out of the kitchen.  But every year I want to do this.  Of course, if I were really serious about canning, I would’ve started weeks ago, when the tomatoes and all manner of insistent vegetables were demanding my attention. 

I am a lifelong learner and innately curious. I wouldn't consider myself an intellectual, but I do believe myself to be a thinking person. Having said that one of my greatest curiosities is the true believers of the Obama campaign. I recognize that certain people on both sides of the political spectrum can become enamored of a candidate. Some will be taken by a person's looks or charisma, some passionately believe in candidate's positions and causes.  These are all things that can be explained and conversely understood. What perplexes me is that none of these things can be said about Barak H. Obama

This event took place in 1996 -

      Early spring, March, Theia was bred to Magnum; two virgin creatures that rather have company in the “love pen” than not.  Neither dog would react to the other if I were not physically inside the ten foot by eight-foot dog pen to watch over the breeding.       I was as virgin about breeding dogs as the dogs were about mating. A week of estimating the timing, commuting Guilford to Hamden, Connecticut and guidance from friends at the vets we were successful.  Sixty-three days later Theia whelped a littler of nine healthy, sturdy, yellow Labrador retrievers all of whom resembled little piglets more than puppies with their pushed in bright pink noses, pudgy bodies, tiny otter tails and little grunting noises.  Willow was the ninth pup delivered at 3:17 AM on May 30, 1996.  She was still unclaimed and unnamed at that point.             Theia belongs to my sister and when the whelping process began early evening the first put finally arrived around 11:30 PM.       Waking Wendy, the two of us cooed and stroked Theia as she let nature takes its coarse.  The first, a male, was all yellow and even before he was cleaned and suckling the second began to arrive. Eventually, my sister became bored with the lack of variety, all pups were yellow and looked the same, and tired she retired to bed.      Alone with Theia I hoped the remainder of the whelp would go smoothly and Theia would handle the situation.  Every fifteen to twenty minutes she whelped a puppy until sleep over came us both around 2:15 AM.  I felt her belly before dozing off and sensed one more puppy waiting to come into this world.  Finally an hour later she made her appearance.  It took a while for Theia to clean the sack off the pups face and time passed, I stepped in to help, but clearly this one wasn’t breathing.  Theia worked diligently licking the pup and gently blowing into her miniature nostrils as she did.  I was struck by this instinctive attempt to resuscitate. Theia new this puppy wasn’t breathing, she was healthy and required air so she worked until successful.  The gentle puffs of air she delivered with each lick were enough to get the pup breathing on her own.  There was a brief moment of panic in my heart as I thought this ninth puppy was not going to survive as she began to turn just slightly in color.           Once cleaned up and breathing on her own the ninth and last puppy born instinctively began to search for sustenance.  I had to complete the cleaning process since Theia was too exhausted to lift her head.  Her job was completed.  The pup squirmed across the sheet, struggled in darkness and driven by instinct, and edged into my armpit.  Imagine, an instinctive search for food only to arrive at a stinky armpit instead of a well of milk.  Marveled by her strength, beauty and perfectly formed miniature canine features, I savored this moment.  The nudging in my armpit tickled; eventually I picked her up, and plugged her into a nipple on Theia’s belly.  I liked this little one, seconds old and we already had a soul touching moment. I pushed the encounter out of mind.  Sleep over came us all, canines and human.  In silence, a new journey was beginning to unfold.   

“Sooner or later, every man sits down to a banquet of consequences” - Robert Louis Stevenson

My mother grew up during the Depression and had to eat mustard sandwiches. As a result my sensibilities have been influenced by many of her penny-pinching habits.

I was sitting at the counter of a local dining establishment waiting for my order. I had relinquished the menu, and having forgotten a newspaper I was at a loss for reading material, until I noticed some instructions taped to a refrigerator door. It was a list of how to make various beverages, and it started:

“Latte: 23 ounces of a full new gallon of milk and 20 ounces of latte mix”

It’s an established convention in the food industry that a place that makes a decent cheeseburger is probably not going to excel in the exotic coffee department. And the cheeseburger (with fries) was why I was there: it was a chilly rainy day and I needed some comfort food. I guess I always knew that there was some kind of short cut to making coffee beverages, but I never realized how short a cut it might be.

Having never made a latte myself, I wasn’t totally sure what was involved, so I called my friend Jeff Petrovitch, a noted barista from Keene, and he explained the process. It begins with espresso – a “well pulled” espresso. The beans should be freshly ground to just the right consistency, and tamped down (he recommends about 40 lbs of pressure) evenly. Then milk is steamed to between 130 – 140 degrees, and poured gently (he does his down the side of the cup) so that it does not break the “crema” the slightly foamy surface that has a somewhat oily finish. Finally, just a small topping of foamed milk that sets over the crema. This is an abbreviated summary – it took Jeff five minutes to describe every little detail, and he noted how shortcuts at any step of the way would reduce the quality of the beverage.

I enjoyed my cheeseburger, paid the bill, and went back to work, but I couldn’t get this latte thing out of my head.
My first experiences of coffee were from my grandmothers percolator, and at various diners on Cape Cod, where I spent summers working for my grandfather on his cranberry bogs. The only variation that one sometimes heard about was Sanka. Some years later I had occasion to visit Seattle where coffee was just beginning to come out of the closet, as it were. What a revelation! It’s a mixed blessing to discover such things, since one’s standards tend to become more demanding, and not always met.