Chowdah

You can't visit New England without trying some of the local clam chowder, and unlike a lot of dishes commonly served in restaurants but foreign to home dinner tables, New Englanders actually do eat a lot of the stuff. Today's clam chowder -- New England, or Boston clam chowder, that is -- is a thick, creamy almost stew-like soup with big chunks of clam in it, and some dry soup crackers on the side to crunch up and add in.

"Manhattan clam chowder" is essentially the same thing but with a tomato base. Irate Bostonians, wedded to tradition, apparently denounced this variation on a classic as "Manhattan" (Read: "Made by dirty, rotten stinkin' foreigners like New Yorkers"), though Manhattan clam chowder is as New England bred and born as, well, Dunkin Donuts. They eat lots of this kind too, but you have to ask special for it in restaurants. If you ask for "clam chowder," you can expect only one kind. Asking for Manhattan style will get you a dirty look, but you'll see the waitress eating some on her break, too. Don't take it personally.

Truth is, I'm not much of a seafood lover and clam chowder is basically fish soup, just with a lot of flour and crackers to kill the taste a bit. However, crafty New Englanders have come up with some other variations on the theme to keep non-fish eaters like myself from starving to death. One of my favorites is corn chowder; this is a wonderful winter dish with a thick corn(meal?)-base but bustling with potatoes and sausage chunks as well. Now we're talking. A friend in Rhode Island makes some killer corn chowder. So whatever your tastes, there's a chowdah out there for you.

When Not to Visit New Hampshire

New Hampshire is a beautiful state and one well worth your time as a tourist, but we must confess that there is, every few years, an infestation which makes this otherwise exceedingly tourist-friendly land a dangerous place for man and beast. We've tried everything, from pesticides to special hunting seasons, but these ornery critters just seem to breed like bunnies and have an immune system that would impress a cockroach. Our every attempt to eliminate them has come to naught, and every leap year they swarm over the scenic New Hampshire countryside like locusts. For some reason, probably owing to its severely picturesque nature, they are particularly attracted to the main east-west artery in southern New Hampshire, Route 101, which goes from Route 1 on the coast to the southern Vermont border. Route 101 is lined with postcard-perfect town after town, each one filled with friendly, folksy everyman "Joe and Jane Sixpack" New Hampshirites, genuine hard-working Yankees, each one a gullible victim-in-waiting for these predatory vermin. It's a sad spectacle to have to watch, with the victims shown months later on the local news reliving their ordeal very much like Midwesterners describing on their local news stations what the tornado sounded like. These beasts seem to show up in 4-year cycles, although some of their lower-level cousins -- the bottom-feeders -- function in 2-year cycles.

I feel like I'm letting some deep, dark secrets out of the family closet, but it's best you knew: New Hampshire is attacked and overrun every four years or so by...politicians. One day, you're just walking down the street, maybe contemplating some shopping, and the next thing you know you're confronted by a baby-kissing, hand-shaking, absurd promise-making politician, desperate to slobber over your baby and grip your hand in their clammy, germ-infested paws for a photo op before shoving you out of the way to make room for their next victim. Worse, maybe you've got steak on the mind and so you round the corner towards the local butcher shop or market, only to be confronted by several big guys in black suits wearing dark sunglasses with wires sprouting from their ears blocking your way, informing you, American citizen, that your market is now off limits as a politician has his/her picture taken inside with real, hard-working Yankees and a lobster. (This is New England, after all. All photo ops must include either a lobster, maple syrup or a moose, preferably with all the local Yankees wearing Irish wool sweaters and knit fishing caps.) These insidious creatures snarl traffic everywhere they go ("security concerns"), and set up cruel ambushes in local diners for innocent but gullible Yankees. Some of the more ruthless of these buggers like to play with their prey, feigning sympathy in front of cameras for common people's problems and then promising to solve them all in far-off Washington. Like I said, it's a sad thing to watch later after the elections when their victims describe on local news stations in disbelief how they were blind-sided by the outlandish promises.

Crafty New Hampshirites have found something of a solution for this problem, though. It's not pretty and it's only temporary, but hey, it works, at least for the short-term. They fib back to these flag-waving, speech-spouting locusts, promising them that we'll vote for them, at which point they pack up and swarm off to Iowa. Like I said, it may not be the most ethical thing to do, but you can't argue with success. We're really sorry, Iowa, but it was either you or us, so... And anyway, as we understand, you folks do the same thing to South Carolina. Passing the buck is the American way.

Stonewalling

One of the main reasons I live in New Hampshire is that it's drippingly, almost sickeningly scenic. This place looks like a postcard, with eye candy everywhere, at least if you love the outdoors. Really. I love that aspect of this state, and it draws in the tourists. The fall season is a big attraction, and then there's the covered bridges -- although in truth, there are only a few of those left. What we do have in abundance still, however, are the famous New England stone walls. They're everywhere, and not just newer ones thrown together by quaint condominiums with names like "Olde Salem Village" or "Ye Commons". Often while driving down a road -- and New Hampshire roads are like canyons of trees, with forests coming right up to the shoulders -- you'll see the sad remnants of a stone wall trail off into the woods. Farming isn't quite as profitable as it used to be, at least not for small New England farmers, and many of the old farms have been abandoned and their lands have reverted to forests. The only hint that humans had once worked this land are the decrepit stone walls wandering seemingly without rhyme or reason through a forest.

I've heard a few different stories about why they built stone walls. Some sound practical, like the fact that any farmer in New Hampshire -- the Granite State, remember -- is going to turn up lots of rocks and boulders while plowing, and well, ya gotta put 'em somewhere. Another version has it that the state (or colony, as it were) actually ordered the walls built in the 18th century so that farmers could easily channel their cattle southwards as they herded them on the north-south roads from New Hampshire to the Boston slaughterhouses. Other versions are a bit more suspect, however, such as the claim I once heard that New Hampshire farmers used to order young farm hands to build the walls to keep them busy -- and away from their daughters. So whether they are the result of soil tilling or hormone control, they certainly add a nice atmosphere to the place, enough to maybe make a guy think he could live in a historic place like this.

BTW, to show you how bad things have to get before a New Hampshire farmer abandons his (or her) land, you might take note of the Tuttle Farm in Dover, NH. It seems that the Tuttles have decided to sell the farm, as they are getting on in age and the kids aren't interested in farming. A sad but not unusual story -- with the possible exception that the Tuttle family has owned this farm for 11 generations, since the 1630s. I wonder which generation put in the first, um, indoor plumbing....?

Navigating New Hampshire

Actually, this is applicable to all of New England, but for most places you travel, you'll need to become familiar with some of the local landmarks to get around. However, New Englanders developed their own sort of primitive GPS system in the 1950s by which they still abide today: the DDSN (Dunkin Donuts System of Navigation). Founded in Quincy (pronounced "Quinzee" for you dirty, stinkin' foreigners who don't know better) Massachusetts in the 1950s, the Dunkin Donuts chain has not only kept New Englanders caffeinated and cholesterolled since then, but also serves as the distinctive landmark of choice for directions. Stop and ask directions from any local, and you'll be given flight plan-style way-points based on the local DD franchises to get you to your destination. Krispy Kreme? Tim Hortons? Baskin Robbins? No Sir -- or Ma'am -- the DDSN is somehow specially calibrated using Dunkin Donuts coffee, which I suspect is secretly loaded with cocaine because everyone in New England is utterly addicted to the stuff. But if it helps them get from Point A to Point B -- via a Dunkin Donuts in between -- who am I to criticize?

More New Hampshire Geography

Concord. It's a nice town. How much do you expect you'd pay for a mortgage on an average two-bedroom cape in Concord? Well, that depends of course. Which Concord do you mean?

A strange phenomenon in the naming of some of New Hampshire's towns is what I call the 'mirror effect'. The simple story is that Massachusetts has been exporting people to New Hampshire for centuries, and these apparently unimaginative Puritans named the new towns they founded after the old Massachusetts ones they'd just left behind. This is why there is a Salem, Massachusetts -- where the primary industries are fishing and witch-toasting -- and Salem, New Hampshire (whose primary industry is providing retail outlets for over-taxed Massachusetts shoppers). Mind you, this phenomenon of naming newly-founded communities after the towns in Massachusetts they'd just left behind is not relegated to New Hampshire alone; New York has a Boston, NY which is next to Concord, NY, which itself is next to Lexington, NY. Very original. So when mentioning a town in New Hampshire, especially in southern New Hampshire, be careful to specify what state you mean.

Oh, and I suppose I should 'fess up that Concord, New Hampshire apparently gained its name after a border dispute with a neighboring town in the 18th century, and the name reflected the peaceful resolution reached by the towns. It has nothing to do with the Massachusetts Concord, made famous by an unannounced visit from the British army in 1775.

Some New England Geography

The simple fact is that, except for the farthest northern parts of Maine and possibly Massachusetts west of the Berkshires (which looks towards Albany, NY), just about all of New England is one, big suburb of Boston. Everything revolves around Boston. A northern New Hampshire farmer or a fisherman off Narragansett Bay will just as likely pummel you to death for suggesting the Red Sox are not the greatest team of any sport ever anywhere just as surely as a bunch of drunk Boston College students waiting outside Fenway Park before a game. You'll get an extra kick in the nether regions if you dare even mention the Yankees in that same sentence.

Southern New Hampshire, especially as you get closer to the ocean, has over the past thirty years become utterly overrun by Massachusetts' lower Middle Class fleeing skyrocketing home prices and local taxes. It is quite normal for people to own homes in southern New Hampshire but work in Massachusetts, often driving the 45+ minutes to the '128 Ring' (Route 128) which circumvents Boston. Within that ring are packed like sardines an amazingly dense cluster of towns and businesses. Driving anywhere within that ring is technically considered a suicide attempt, as each Boston driver seems to be operating under the distinct impression that they are the only ones on the road. Cars in Massachusetts are specially customized so that they can only go two speeds, either 5 mph or 75 mph. Add in for fun that at certain times of the day -- which can be understood to mean "whenever they damned well please" in practical terms -- it is legal in Massachusetts to use the shoulders as separate lanes.

Anyway, the region along the ocean coast for points north of Boston are collectively referred to by Bostonians as the North Shore, or, in local parlance, the Nuth Shuh. This used to be a fairly impoverished region of stark, stolid little New England fishing villages -- think Gloucester, the setting for the story/film A Perfect Storm, as well as Salem, Massachusetts, famous for its sense of humor -- but recently tourism and small retail outlets have transformed this region into one of the pricier places to live in New England. A few stern-faced fisherman still persevere, but increasingly, this region is becoming New England's Hamptons.

Speaking of the Hamptons, New England actually has some of its own. North of the Nuth Shuh is a place many Massachusetts folks consider terra incognito, like deepest, darkest Africa, filled with exotic peoples and strange monsters; it is none other than my beloved New Hampshire. Indeed, there is little love lost between Massachusetts and New Hampshire; Massachusetts sees New Hampshire essentially as a living embodiment of the 1972 John Boorman film Deliverance. For Massachusetts folks, when crossing their northern border into New Hampshire, they hear cartoon-ish jungle sounds and wooden percussion instruments. Meanwhile, New Hampshirites refer to folks from Massachusetts as....well, I can't really print it here in full: "M***holes." Can you feel the love?

Anyway, despite all this animosity, New Hampshirites flood Massachusetts all year long for jobs, while Massachusetts people flood to New Hampshire in the summer and fall for vacations. One of their prime targets in the summer are the Hamptons -- the New Hampshire Hamptons, that is, where the beaches are. The greedy state leaders in both Concord and Boston, seeing all this cross-border traffic, often get the dumb idea that they want to put tolls up on their side of the border, forgetting that charging people to cross the state border would hurt their own citizens as much as the other state's, so there's usually an uproar when some budding politician suggests this idea, and it quietly goes away.

That's today's lesson. Next time, we'll talk about why whenever you mention a town in New England, you need to specify the state.

Taxes in New Hampshire

Years ago, usually sometime in early February, my wife used to lock me alone in a room with lots of paper, pens, and a calculator. She had strict instructions, just like the Gene Wilder character in Young Frankenstein, to not unlock the door or enter, no matter what she heard emanate from within. The door would be duly secured, and an hours-long marathon would commence. After much pounding on the table, issuing of expletives both blasphemous and impugning IRS employees' mothers' moral nature, I would emerge with two envelopes: one Federal, and one state. Invariably, the Federal one was easier and clearer, while the state one was seemingly written by a bunch of inebriated monkeys who merely re-arranged words from an insurance policy.

Imagine my immensely pleased surprise when, upon moving to New Hampshire, I learned that New Hampshire does not have a state income tax. Now, there are some fools in this world who, upon learning this fact, react with a very misplaced sense of joy because they believe that life is cheaper in New Hampshire. These same gullible folks will also react with glee when they learn that New Hampshire does not have a state sales tax, either. Having lived in states very much inclined towards sales taxes, I have that automatic mechanism in my head that calculates the % sales tax for every purchase and automatically adds it to the price while opening the wallet at the cash register; that mechanism has rusted a bit since I've moved to New Hampshire. Ha! Take that Taxachusetts!

Well, there are reasons to celebrate the lack of these two tax forms so common to the American experience, but Ladies and Gentlemen, I can assure you that the Piper demands his due one way or another; New Hampshire makes up for the lost revenue(s) by passing the burden for school systems, road maintenance, police and fire protection -- services elsewhere heavily subsidized by the state -- on to local towns, which means NH residents pay huge property taxes. The Piper will be paid.

Still, my gain is that I don't have to do state taxes each February, a major improvement in the quality of my life, so I raise my glass towards Concord, our state capital, and say "Salud!"

Roads in New Hampshire, Part 1

New Hampshirites are a craggy, gnarly sort of people, which is why they built their road systems to resemble tectonic fault lines. There's the old expression, "as the crow flies" to describe a straight line between any two points, and this expression comes in very handy for New England roads. In the 1950s when the Eisenhower administration began building the Interstate Highway System, New Englanders decided they could save some time and money by simply designating some of their existing roads -- meaning paved old farmer's cattle paths -- as highways. Because the point of a highway was to get from point A to point B, New Englanders were faced with some quandaries, given that many of their roads sort of meander, but with some creative route designations, the problem was solved and everybody was happy. The result is that nowadays, you may be driving down a road designated, hypothetically, Route 25, when you innocently pass a turn-off or side road somewhere, which you ignore. It may be many miles before you discover that Route 25 turned on that side road, though the road which had been Route 25 continued on. Silly you.

Next time, we'll explore the phenomenon of 'Frost Heaves'. When I first encountered them, I expected to see Santa Claus throwing up on the side of the road. Turns out they're something different.

Deadly New Hampshire: Killer Moose and Other Nasties

Recently on the Discovery Channel I watched a show called "Moose Attack!" about, well, how humans and moose apparently don't mingle well socially. Well, this being New Hampshire, of course we have lots of moose, and on occasion, our paths cross, such as here and here too. Now, a couple unfortunate folks are killed each year when they hit a moose, usually at high speed at night on a rural stretch of highway -- the last bit can be understood to mean almost all New Hampshire roads. An adult moose is usually 300-400 lbs., and can weigh in as much as 1000 lbs., but they have long, spindly legs which means that when you hit one, you usually end up with most of that weight right in the driving compartment with you, which becomes an immediate problem regardless of how much legroom those car ads claim you have. The 'moose crossing' signs aren't kidding. However, for all those tragic accidents, the instances of moose actually attacking someone in New Hampshire are rare, despite the seemingly frequent occurrences of moose wandering into residential areas or, in the case of York, Maine recently -- which is within about 4 miles of the New Hampshire border -- a moose taking a stroll on a crowded public beach. This isn't to say that moose can't be dangerous and shouldn't be given lots of room if you encounter one, but I'm just not sure they warrant a whole television program devoted to their homicidal nature. This reminds me, by the way, that I once met an enterprising craft fair merchant locally who was making jewelry, fridge magnets and car keyholders out of moose poop. Really. I got a lot of Christmas shopping done at her booth.

Anyway, if somehow the moose don't get you on land, there have been a series of shark sightings just offshore from New Hampshire, including the dreaded Great Whites. This prompted the Coast Guard to issue its first shark advisory in years in New England after many fishermen reported seeing more sharks than usual near the shore, causing -- in a scene reminiscent of the movie Jaws -- some to complain that the warnings were overblown and affecting local businesses. Can you just hear the munching? Actually, the last (fatal) shark attack in New England was in 1936, in Buzzards Bay (i.e., Cape Cod), Massachusetts.

So, if somehow the moose and the sharks don't get you in New Hampshire, what will? A small bug. Turns out the northeast (including New England) has been undergoing a major resurgence in Lyme Disease in recent years, possibly as more health-conscious (and overweight) Americans head for the woods for some outdoor activity -- and New Hampshire is built for outdoor activity. And ticks. The ticks apparently love it here, and once again, we have a situation where different species (e.g., humans, ticks) just don't seem to cohabitate well.

So the moral of this story is that if you have a deathwish, come to New Hampshire. Somehow the vast majority of us manage to survive each year, but there are plenty of critters here that apparently want to do you in. Or at least give you lockjaw. I'm waiting for "Moose Week" on Discovery Channel.

Yeah, you've heard this before.....

I think state law says I have to post this (from these guys at The Super Secret Project). Here are the lyrics if you want to follow along, since they didn't bother including that little bouncing ball at the bottom of the screen....

The journey begins...

When a traveler in north central Massachusetts takes the wrong fork at the junction of the Aylesbury pike just beyond Dean's Corners he comes upon a lonely and curious country. The ground gets higher, and the brier-bordered stone walls press closer and closer against the ruts of the dusty, curving road. The trees of the frequent forest belts seem too large, and the wild weeds, brambles, and grasses attain a luxuriance not often found in settled regions. At the same time the planted fields appear singularly few and barren; while the sparsely scattered houses wear a surprisingly uniform aspect of age, squalor, and dilapidation. Without knowing why, one hesitates to ask directions from the gnarled, solitary figures spied now and then on crumbling doorsteps or on the sloping, rock-hewn meadows. Those figures are so silent and furtive that one feels somehow confronted by forbidden things, with which it would be better to have nothing to do.

Thus did H.P. Lovecraft describe New Hampshire. Well, sort of. He was actually describing western Massachusetts near Springfield, but many Massachusetts natives would swear this description suspiciously matches the experience of crossing the New Hampshire border on Route 93, including crossing over the Miskatonic - I mean Merrimack River. In fact, the New Hampshire inference may not be incidental; for this 1929 story -- The Dunwich Horror -- Lovecraft combined his experiences in several towns across New England to create the setting for his fictional town "Dunwich" in western Massachusetts, including Salem, New Hampshire whose Mystery Hill (which Lovecraft is known to have visited) apparently provided the inspiration for the hills surrounding Dunwich with other-worldly stone monoliths.

Truth is, I'm not a native New Englander, and I learned a lot of my New England geography from reading H.P. Lovecraft as a kid. Still, home is where the heart is -- but also the liver, kidneys, spleen, thyroid gland and etc. I keep all of that stuff in New Hampshire nowadays, one of the most beautiful states in the Union. My ancestors, through their sacrifice and selfless toil, brought our family to New England and planted our roots deep in the unforgiving craggy, granite-pocked New England soil about seven years ago, where the generations since have prospered. This blog is going to be my chronicle of all things New Hampshire, describing the daily life and realities of living in this most beautiful state. Over time, these posts will accumulate compost-like into a sort of New Hampshire Wiki, at which point I'll sell out and cash in, but until then, you'll have my honest observations.