Sure I’ll teach ya, Kinsey. I am terminally uncoordinated. At least, I was until I started taking skating lessons. Now I am as graceful as a swan, gliding down the Danube.
Oh, I’m sorry. This is a hooey free zone, isn’t it? 
:Nocturne finds her solace in the music room, playing the baby grand piano for hours before switching to the Mighty Wurlitzer, wondering who’s going to join her to make some beautiful music:
I second the saskatoon berry muffins! Can we have a pie, too, pleeeeeze? I’ll be out in the cougar compound, training the little darlin’s for their watch cat duties (can’t have the neighboring Amish wandering in). No! Bad kitty! Leave that frog alone! He’s not good eatin’ - too crunchy.
Hmm… there’s some beatiful piano music coming from the music room. I think I’ll stop in and check it out…
Hold tight. We need to grab thinksnow for this, seein’ as how I’ve never done it before. And lunch sounds divine.
You know, yes, dammit, we can go out and play in the snow after dinner. We can play in the snow until our little cheeks are red and then come inside and throw ourselves in front of the gigantic fireplace in the main hall. We’ll let the snow melt off our boots and puddle around us and we won’t mop it up. We will do all of this with hot tea and ginger snaps. We will watch the snow fall in soft flakes through the great window just to the left of the fire place, and on the mantel, there will be a large, black and white photograph of thinksnow, Kinsey and Sophie, right before Sophie tipped the boat over and we damn-near drowned earlier that day.
You send a geologist and a lawyer out to do something technological?! It’s best you leave us alone to, um, look for needles in the haystack. Otherwise, it’s all too likely that everyone’s computers will explode if they plug into that T-3 line.
Sua
Pardon me, Balance, I almost left you out of the picture.
We won’t need any Ports because the entire house will be run Wirelessly!!!
Me? I’ll work with the network admins.
Ginger hears the piano playing, and wanders into the music room, french horn in hand.
Nocturne plays a little Faure and Kodaly, which Ginger sings along with, then switches to stuff everyone knows! Yay! Singalong time!
Hmmm…to sing or not to sing? Nah–this is a little too high-class for me. Does anyone want to sing shanties with me after dinner and drinks?
How 'bout Barrett’s Privateers for starters?
Oh, whiskey is the life of man;
Whiskey, Johnny!
It’s always been since time began -
Whiskey for my Johnny!
I was thinking “The Old Dun Cow”, but:
<chorus>
Whiskey-o, Johnny-o
John rise her up from down below
Whiskey, whiskey, whiskey-o
Up aloft this yard must go
John rise her up from down below
</chorus>
Whiskey here, whiskey there
Whiskey, Johnny!
Whiskey almost everywhere
Whiskey for my Johnny!
…as his eyes filled with tears of gratitude. There IS a god. Yes, there is. And he made ME ZamboniMaster !! BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.
C’mere, Ginger. We’ve ice to re-surface…
I was thinking old war anthems, you know. Something like “Over There” or “K-K-K-Katy.”
Hi Totoro! Have a seat on the piano bench! You can read your newest literary work to me while I play Gershwin.
Dinner will be the following:
Wrapped Grape leaves, stuffed with rice and peas in an olive oil and rosemary suffusion.
Babaganoush.
Tachini, with fresh baked Pita bread. The Pita bread is airlifted in from the bakery on 21st. Avenue in Astoria, Queens, NYC.
Hoummus. Now, some love it with garlic and some do not. I’d rather not start a land war over garlic, and so I’ve prepared two bowls, each about 3 gallons of hoummus.
A selection of olives. Some Greek, some Persian.
More Basmati rice ( can’t get enough Basmati rice…)
Kasha Varniskes. Yes, with Fleischmann’s margarine 
Salad with feta cheese.
Tea, served in the traditional Moroccan Tea Suffusion Ceremony. Man, that’s some fine tea !!!
Pomogranites.
Desert is freshly sliced fruit, on crushed ice. Also, Grapefruit glace.
Late night snack is homebaked banana bread with chocolate chips. I’ve been making this for years for some of my AOL friends, and have sent it to something like 13 or 14 states in the Union at this point. So, delivering a huge tray of slices at my own table won’t be the least bit of a problem. I use unbleached flour and real chocolate chips, and cinnamon. It’s served with iced tea, or milk.
Please remember, while dress for dinner is optional, we at least request that those of you who have spent the day either horseback riding OR mudwrestling ( Sua? Geo? listen up kids…<cackle>… ) please do use the hose to clean off their legs. It’s located to the right of the 100% hemp hammock, around the side of the East Wing.
But apparently sending some to me is a problem.
As much as I cherish the thought of a black & white (or sepia-toned?) picture of us, what I really meant was a Baltimore Snowball. Not an Italian Ice or a SnoCone.
You can only get them in the summer. A big paper cup of shaved ice, then drown it with the syrupy flavor of your choice: sour apple, tutti-frutti, orange, lemon, watermelon, cherry, grape, rainbow, chocolate, pineapple, pina coloda, whatever your little heart desires. Some people like to top it off with a big glob of marshmallow fluff. Some people like a scoop of ice cream on the bottom.
Yummy!
Even better if you sit on the tailgate of a pickup truck and eat it as the sun sets.
Aftyer several weeks of intense mist-netting, brachy enters the house, grabs some cold salmon, a pomagranate and a bottle of Irish Mist and heads out to the aviary, located next to the conservatory. It’s a large aviary, filled with sunbirds, ratchet-tailed treepies, pitohuis, and other wonderous birds, along with a smattering of golden lion tamarins and statuary. A tame bengal tiger that the Dopers rescued as a cub during a midnight raid on that horrifying fly-by-night circus that passed by so many years ago lolls by the pool at the center of the aviary. “Perfect,” thinks brachy, “and now for a little skinny-dipping.”
brachy peels off her Victorian garb (“I’ve got to find better clothes to do field work in - this whalebone sucks”) and lowers herself into the cool pool. A quick nibble of salmon and a slug of the mist sends a refreshing shiver through her body. She cracks open a pomagranate to see who comes to feast on it. The tiger yawns.
Both brachy and the tiger miss the furtive, twitchy gaze of a rabid woodchuck peering through a window. It disappears.
Will food stuffs make it through Canadian Customs??? Inquiring minds wanna know. And, will find out soon enough.
Tomorrow, my little EarMuff, tomorrow.