Mmmm, turkey. And bacon. And scrapple.

And so turkey time commences, err, rather commenced but I have been in too much of a food coma to write otherwise. It's been a blustery day out here on the island, warmed only by the ubiquitous smell of roasting turkey. To say that this holiday of all holidays is exhausting is an understatement. First of all, there's all of preparation for the eating: the list making, the pondering on new side dishes (new side dishes? ha! we're traditionalists), the actual grocery shopping which involves battling some very grocery store savvy mommies who are on a mission-and I swear being a soccer mom also entitles you to at least three lines of coke a day, these days, those bitches are lethal, the cooking, and then the most exhausting part of all: the consuming. Phew, am I tired. I ate, I drank, I ate, I drank and now I am ready for bed. But let me just say, as a true dilettante, I do believe I fulfilled my role to the fullest. I appreciated the culinary arts, I tasted that wine with a discerning palette (as in, it had to taste like wine), I gave each pie a willing nibble (ok, let's be honest, a nibble is an understatement) and now I am heading to bed with a belly full of happiness. That's right, I said happiness.

There better be bacon for breakfast. And scrapple (scrapple you ask? that's right, left overs from the sausage factory deep fried in bacon fat. Yes, you should be jealous). And sausage. And you know what? The good thing is I can go to bed in this house of gluttony knowing that there will be all of these things fried up for me in the morning. I'm thankful for Thanksgiving. (And my body is thankful that it's only once a year)

NEW pages!

Hello all! New pages are being added as we speak...I wants thoughts, ideas, input, criticism, a friendly greeting...ANYTHING you can think of!

Rum, golf carts, and bingo.

Well this dilettante has really had one hell of a ride the past few weeks--let's see, where did I leave off? Somewhere in Virgina? Great Bridge was it? Ah yes, a lovely little town with, well, a great bridge.

When I left you my dear little readers, I was bobbing around in the Inter Coastal Waterway, begrudgingly motoring along at a very slow pace and giving the nasty weather the evilest stink eye I could come up with. Two days later, a quick re provision at the Piggly Wiggly (in a 1991 Buick Roadmaster, no less-that's right, I provision in high style) in Beaufort, NC and off we set for the high seas. And high they were. Well high-ish, but enough to have my crew doing a group boot over the side as I sympathetically (ok, that's a lie, I was gloating) watched on, my dear little stomach standing up to whatever Poseidon wanted to throw at me. Thank you Bonine Gods. Another two days and we had calm sees, a happy little Island Piglet and only a couple hundred miles to go. After many meals of pop tarts, chef boyardee and gold fish, a whale siting, a near run in with a rogue floating washing machine and we were THERE. Ahhh, the Abaco. We made it in time for Halloween (as per my very stubborn request), checked in with customs, and spent three glorious days lost in a rum fueled daze, getting as sun burnt as we possibly could and eating as many conch fritters as our bellys would hold. Highlights include: An aging, and yes I say aging, cougar in a pink play boy bunny costume, a golf cart, five gallons of rum, two hundred Kaliks, and a victorious game of bingo. The cougar had a penchant for young girls (me) and dancing, the golf cart, rum, and Kaliks are, er, one way to see an island and as for the bingo, well we had to pay for it all somehow. Success, no?

Ah yes, I may be broke but life as a dilettante is a pretty happy one and I'm just going to go ahead and say that I do it pretty damn well.

When the weather gets cold: GO SOUTH

And go South we did indeed. We went down to the Keys for a hot minute, boiled in the heat, took a quick swim, and then boarded a flight back to DC where we spent one glorious night among friends and then headed to Annapolis where the next adventure began. After acquiring some last minute crew, we flung out bags on our new home for the next couple of weeks ("Island Retreat", a 40 foot Island Packet, or the Piglet as she is more, er, endearingly called for reasons to be explained later) and began the "leaving" process. I use the term "leaving" lightly as it is quite an involved process: full boat check to make sure we don't sink (good, very good), provisions for four people for two weeks (and yes, I made the mistake of promising to feed everyone well), and a list that seems to go on and on. So, after many hours of "leaving," a quick night's sleep, a last minute coffee run, we actually left. For 21 hours we pounded down the Chesapeake, motor at full speed, sails tightly rolled up, the boat barely moving (a total bonus for cooking dinner though, have to admit, am a culinary goddess in the galley, I even have pictures to prove it), ahhh, what a way to start. The Piglet, to explain, is a very sturdy boat, full keel, wide ass, the works. She pounds through the waves, steady as she goes, a little too steady in fact: she stops in the waves. Alas, movement was slow. We arrived in Norfolk to a disheartening weather report, ie, it was bad and we are now trudging down the Inter Coastal Waterway or ICW to all of you pros out there. So here we are, in Battle Bridge VA and the trudge begins...The bonus? This is some gooooood bacon fryin "sailing," mmmmm, the galley goddess strikes again!!

Go home, do some laundry.

Well kiddies, for those of you unlucky enough not to have seen us, we're home (for a hot minute). We hiked, we biked, we climbed, we flung ourselves down mountain sides on foot and bike (more than slightly terrifying, I might ad) we moo'ed at endless cows, laughed at goats, and ate enough cheese to last us a lifetime (we're making fondue for dinner).

We topped off our lovely trip in the beautiful Alps, enjoying that Swiss lifestyle that well, only the Swiss can truly impress upon outsiders. Yes, it's like being in the Sound of Musice, and yes, it actually does look like that.

Just to catch all of you up, because I just know you've been non stop checking for an update on the endless wanderings of Frallory (a dilettante x2), we spent one last glorious night in Switzerland. Geneva to be specific. And no, we did not buy any watches. We spent one sleepless night in a very sterile steal box next to the airport, hoofed it to the Easy Jet terminal, hopped a flight to Amsterdam, ate breakfast and took a wander, trained to the airport, jumped on a flight to Dublin where we had just enough time for a pee break and then boarded our flight back HOME. Finally, at 7:45 pm we landed on the hallowed grand of New York...AMURRRRRICA. A quick stop in Brooklyn to make fun of some hipsters and then high tailed it Back to the Bean where we have been imbibing far too much PBR, sleeping into the early afternoon and watching bad American TV. Yes. There's no place like home.

But, as a true dilettante, this lazy behavior can not continue. No, there are things to see, places to go, and of course, people to see. The next adventure begins already. Next time you hear from me, I will be swimming among the manatees and basking in the sunshine. Off to the keys for a quick minute...

Be a dilettante: EAT CHEESE

A dilettante, by definition, is one who enjoys the, er, better things in life. Stimulating company, scintillating travel (yes, I said scintillating and i MEANT IT), salacious encounters, a fine wine here and there and of course, melted cheese.

Here we are, in glorious Switzerland, admiring cows, driving through windy mountains and enjoying some very fine fromage, as those silly froggies say. We've left the dirty, and i mean dirty, streets of Paris behind with a fine dilettante-esque swan song of a farewell-countless pitchers of beer served with Roman Candles, drunk in the shadows of Notre Dame until the wee hours of the night, ok, morning with some very fine NON froggy company-and have found ourselves nestled into a little mountainside watching some very content cows nibble grass.

For the next few days I fully intend to pursue my trying and exhausting career as a dilettante by meandering through the grassy green hills of the alps, eating any and all melted (and solid, I'm not discerning) cheese I can get my hands on. I have already begun this difficult project with a stop in Gruyere for not only fondue but also raclette (melted Gruyere on potatoes) I am now feeling very exhausted from this grueling day of work and must cap it off with a bottle of wine. Tomorrow commences with a young, light breakfast cheese, a stroll in the alps and a lunch of what else? Fondue.

I can't wait.

Ditch the car. Hop on a train. End up in Paris (again)

After a very eventful drive to the famed St. Tropez to oggle some plus sized boats that only a truly ridiculous person with an unfathomable bank account could afford, a sail in a death trap of a 4-20 (mast teetering on the verge of death, floor boards ominously quavering and a center board that more than leaked) we've ditched the car and trained (super duper TGV fast, of course) it back to Paris. Ahhh, Paris, and ahhh Paris during Fashion Week...what a, well, er, strange place. The "outfits" are out in full force and the people in them aren't much better. Parisians, I have to say, are annoying. Being in the South, I forgot the snark that comes with Paris, the constipated glares that follow you around, the unattractive duck face that overly botoxed French women make and general unpleasant atmosphere that comes with the wine swilling, Galoise smoking, baguette munching, tongue clicking Parisians. Good riddance. Send me back down South.

Although I must say I am looking forward to some clandestine iPhone shots of the Fashion week get ups...

Road Trip It.

Get in the car and drive South.

Expletives yelled at French rental car companies: Too many to count

Threats made to have entire staff of Auto Europe fired: 2

Pee stops: Also too many to count

Squat toilets peed in: 2

Baguettes eaten: 2

Blocks of cheese consumed: Again, too many to count

Vom stops: only 1

Wallets left on the roof of the car and lost into the French abyss: 1 (BAD, VERY VERY BAD)

Days spent road tripping through France: 2 (very long)

So we've made it South and to the sun: land of saggy, old, leather looking French boobs and men in banana hammocks-many too small for their, er, bananas and other extraneous parts. Have spent the day splashing in the waves of the Med, oggling expensive sailboats, eating fromage, drinking a lovely concoction of beer and lemonade called Panache (MUST remember for future drinking events) and getting completely sunburned.

Off for a lovely bottle of pink wine and sun burn damage control (extra wine, of course...and more fromage)

Like I said. End up in Paris.

Well, a little earlier than expected but we have indeed ended up in Paris, home of the wine swilling, gendarme roller blade wearing (please see picture and pee your pants laughing-those are indeed Gendarmes not only on a Segway but yes, on roller blades), baguette munching Parisians. Ahh, Paris. Well thanks to those bloody Frenchies and their silly strike (it was a train strike this time, big surprise, eh? Silly Frenchies can't stand the thought of retiring at 62 instead of 60, o mon dieu! Soixante ans? Non!) we ended up in Paris NOT Nice, which coincidentally, we here is very nice (har, har) We spent a lovely night, well, swilling wine and now we head to Nice (which is nice) in a very small auto. We have packed our baguette, un peu de frommage and we shall see where we end up from here...8 hours to Nice...

When in Amsterdam...

RENT BIKES...ride them for a few minutes and then return them. As scenic and romantic as it seems (and oh it is on the canals!) riding in Amsterdam traffic, contending with bicyclists, motorists, scooter, er, ers, and pedestrians is downright terrifying. Try doing it with a few delicious beers in you. Now go, return them.

EAT FRITES!!...in a cone of course. That's it. End of story. Do it.

AVOID...Starbucks (as I write I'm staring at two VERY American looking American chickies sucking down their grande lattes right now, damn it, and they're wearing Lulu Lemon leggings...at the Flying Pig-another to be avoided maybe once ultra hip hostel now overun by cheezoids seeking an Amsterdam thrill at a what they think is an uber hip hostel), McDonalds (even though they are super cool and look like they were designed by some Swedish interior designer) and any other super boring place that can be found at home. Just eat frites in a cone and all will be ok.

Amsterdam was lovely, even if I did spend most of the time shooting down narrow roads at alarming speeds on a bright orange bicycle hoping to avoid any and all collision. I got my frites, and er, some other delicious things and now we're OFF!

But where to...?

When in doubt find a willing partner, fly to Amsterdam. GO

Lucky girl that I am, I have a very willing partner in crime and travel buddy...

Positively vile Irish breaky sandwich in Dublin complete with Irish snossage, ham and bacon and then completely ruined by a healthy smear of ketchup. Vile.

Amsterdam next...

How to #1

Travel extensively. Always end up in Paris.

How to be a Dilettante

A dilettante: a dabbler, a lover of all things pleasurable.

Dalliances of a dilettante: the flirtations and brief encounters of said dilettante.

This is how it's done.