Minty

I realize of course that it’s a little silly to get excited about mint growing well, but look at the size of this sprig:

And this was only one of several sprigs that Liz cut, as it was starting to crowd the rest of the herb garden.  And so, faced with the conundrum of too much mint, what should we do?  It would be a shame to waste it.

If you know anything about me, then you probably already figured out what happened.  Hehe–MOJITOS!  Some classics are eternal for a reason.

–Simon

Oblivion Micro-Adventure (Part 2)

In Part 1, I detailed how I, the ever-inquisitive and aging gamer, wandered County Anvil, looking for a non-committal adventure with which to waste a few minutes of time while I sought a distraction from life.

And readers of low expectations were not disappointed!  The gradual mystery of whether or not in-game paintings were impressionistic recreations of in-game vistas was revealed (spoiler: they were).  I then imposed drama upon the NPC whom I concluded was the artist.  But, there are many in-game paintings, and I ended the post on a cliffhanger.  Well fear not, reader of obviously low expectations, for I alluded to a continuation, and I will not disappoint.

Anvil, being at the end of the road, made the choice easy: I would go east.  The artist to which I alluded at the end of the last post, Rythe Lythandas, lives in Cheydinhal, also to the east.  But this isn’t some willy-nilly quest of purpose, no, ’tis a quest of vague direction.  I would therefore amble in Cheydinhal’s general direction, viewing the sights along the way.  And it would be a long way indeed, for Cheydinhal and Anvil are at the opposite ends of Cyrodiil.  But if there’s anything I’ve learned from classical fantasy, it’s that accomplished wizards wander unpredictably in accordance with their own whims, so in the spirit of role-playing, this quest felt right.  Objective defined, I finally stepped off the doorstep of the Inventius’ home.

And I walked, jogged maybe.  I dunno, true walking in Oblivion would exhaust about any gamer’s patience.  It might be unrealistic, but I’ll just say I have magical wizard powers of endurance.

In short order, I had made it back to Gottshaw Inn.  I thought to ignore it, but surely there must be more paintings inside.  And after all, if I’m embarking on this trek to visit a painter, I should be a little more versed in the art, beyond the single work of a painter that isn’t him.  If nothing else, that might come off as a little rude.  So I entered the Inn, much to the indifference of its proprietor, and examined the paintings.  I quickly realized, however, that those of natural landscapes would be near impossible to find.  I needed a painting with an identifiable landmark–an edifice of some sort.  None of the other paintings within bore such distinctions though, so I left.

It is at this time that I should mention the Jemane brothers.  Their quest, which had me pointlessly unraveling their family’s past, ordinarily concludes with reuniting and returning them to their reclaimed family estate.  However, in an act of cruelty, I refrained from the last step–walking them down the hill outside Chorrol and to their home.  Why?  Because, until I do so, they remain trapped in indentured servitude.  Actually, they just follow me indefinitely, but while doing so, I effectively have two unkillable bodyguards.  This means that I don’t necessarily have to fight things that I deem unworthy of my time.  So the Jemanes throw themselves eternally upon hostiles, getting incapacitated repeatedly, until their opponent is eventually vanquished through sheer perseverance.  Is this wrong?  Probably.

No matter.  As we travel east, they kill a wolf.  I pick mushrooms.  They kill some bandits.  I look at the giant Nirnroot growing on the bank of a small pond.  They kill some more bandits.  A bandit chooses to attack me first and I deftly kill him instantly with a lightening bolt, then pick flax seed.  In short-an uneventful and typical cross-country walkabout.

At last, I reach Skingrad.  I pick some grapes and mush them up, making grape juice I would presume, which restores fatigue.  Sugar rush.  Feeling energized, I enter the town proper and make for the first inn, because from experience, inns have a lot of paintings.  I enter the West Weald Inn–where I remember defending myself against a certain Else God-Hater–someone who apparently  hated gods but had no problem worshiping an elf who used profane rituals to ascend to demigoddom.  Some people have many layers I guess.  In hindsight, I don’t think I actually fought her.  I just turned invisible while the town guard wailed on her, because I’m the archmage and I don’t brawl with common street rabble (sneer of condescension).

Anyway, I work my way around the Inn, examining paintings for one which contained a landmark.  Ultimately, I find this:

A church isn’t exactly a rare item in Cyrodiil, but there’s still a finite number.  This, at least, lies within the realm of possibility.

I pop downstairs to greet Sinderion, because I remember I have a batch of nirnroot for him, then needlessly buy and drink a bottle of wine from the barkeep to celebrate my evolving quest.

–Simon

Pass!

Okay, I have one more Wisconsin post, and this is the last one, I promise.

Admittedly, I should have posted this sooner, to establish a more cohesive chronology.  But this isn’t as interesting as the nature posts, since I’m just ranting here.

I am calling attention to the little town of El Paso, WI:

Fuck this place

I can only conclude that this place’s existence is entirely dependent on the fact that state route 24 intersects with I-39, creating a settlement out of opportunity, and therefore so aptly-named: El Paso.

We made the mistake of stopping here last year, on the way home.  There was one gas station, and it uses its location to exploit a price hike, but it does so in a tricky manner–advertising the price of gas with a car wash, but that fine print is a little hard to read from afar.

The men’s restroom was out of order, so I was forced to use a porto-potty, which was the most disgusting confined space I’ve ever been forced to endure.  After retching to the point of delirium, I went into the station to buy hand sanitizer–which they didn’t have.  So I bought a ridiculously expensive bottle of rubbing alcohol to substitute.

Yet we forgot these experiences, and made the mistake of stopping there again.  After abandoning the drive-thru at the local McDonalds because we were unwilling to wait 20 minutes, we got gas, and fell victim to the false-advertising again.

So, if you ever find yourself in this town, my advice–just drive on.

–Simon

A Lubbock County Almanac (January 9, 1995)

Hi!  I’m back home from school with a headache.

—-

I just ate some serbert and now my headache is gone.  We have a new teacher in school.  (I’m in 5th grade)  We’re doing a project in school about reading books.

–Simon

Cucumbers!

If you recall, this is the experimental gardening year, and from the seed vault I have planted a pickling cucumber vine, and despite the presence of vine borers, it appears to be doing very well.

I came back from Wisconsin to see these guy on the vine.  As they were not normal cucumbers, I was uncertain when to pick them.  A quick Google search revealed that they could be picked at any time, so I guess they don’t suffer as much from bitterness if they get bigger?  Liz also concluded that they were ready, so I was convinced.  She also referred to them as “salad cucumbers”, so I presumed she had some prior experience with the variety.

I found them pleasantly very crunchy, and milder than I expected.  They didn’t have that strong cucumber-y aftertaste.  They’re also very prolific.  I anticipate a future experiment with homemade pickles.

–Simon