The Drag Coefficient of Chocolate

A view of Snowmass on Thanksgiving Day.

All over the Northeastern United States, in seemingly every ski resort in the Northeastern United States, there is a cultural phenomenon so ubiquitous that it is very easy to give it short shrift and to assume that it’s been around since the Mayflower dropped anchor.

Go ahead, ski around the busier parts of your preferred ski resort on any day when there are large groups of children in race programs swarming around like flocks of starlings in matching jackets while their coaches try their best to keep them reasonably safe and on target. Watch carefully. There will be one small, very particular place where the madness stops, like the calm in the eye of a storm. You will most certainly smell the spot before you see it, and then you will understand the root cause of the big pause in all the action. Yes, I’m talking about the Waffle Cabin.

Vermont purists may bristle at the idea of chocolate-covered waffles having overtaken real maple syrup as the covering of choice for these warm, gooey, saccharine-sweet treats, but there is no denying the preference being exercised. Perhaps “laced” with chocolate is a better description than “covered” or “slathered” given the effects the waffles have on their willing victims. Either way, it's a thing, and it's important.

If you happen to be near the start or finish line of the course where these programs compete on race day, NASTAR or otherwise, you’ll notice the stunning amount of chocolate smeared on the faces of the kids. To be clear, their faces are covered in chocolate because, in defiance rational explanation and the laws of physics, the waffles are larger than the faces of the typical race kid. It can look as though the coaching staff took a big mop dipped in molten goodness and ran down the line of children getting all of their faces in one long swipe to make sure they all got their share. There is nothing quite like the site of a bunch of 7-year-olds in matching oversized jackets or oddly baggy speed suits with chocolate all over their faces. It’s hilarious.

The question I have about waffles and their undeniable place among young, aspiring American ski racers is whether it would be possible to identify, for purposes of modern science, the effect they have on the performance and development of the athletes. If I somehow were able to get press credentials to the FIS World Cup races being held at Killington this weekend and somehow were able to ask questions of the several exceptional American athletes who spent at least some of their formative ski years in the New York or New England, I’d pose the following questions:

(1)    What role do you feel was played by the chocolate-covered waffles on race day as a kid in your ascendancy to the world stage?

(2)    Do you still include chocolate-covered waffles in your race-day preparations?

(3)    Do you think that the quality and prevalence of the chocolate in the Alps is a competitive advantage or disadvantage for European ski racers?

(4)    Mikaela, do you have to make accommodations for chocolate-covered waffles in your sponsorship negotiations with Barilla?

(5)    Paula, do you find a significant difference between the waffles in Minnesota and those in Vermont and how do you accommodate for that difference in your preparation?

(6)    Lastly, and most importantly, do your ski service techs secretly smear chocolate on your face or on your skis to make you go faster?

Like so many Vermonters who are current and former ski racers, I am immensely proud of the way in which the people of Vermont host the World Cup. I absolutely adore the way in which the athletes from all over the globe and from here in the US feel the warmth of the place and its people. Especially now that I am away in Colorado when Killington hosts the races, I get pretty misty when I see the enormous crowds cheering loudly for every single athlete and then get even louder for the Americans. It’s a wonderful reminder of why ski racing in Vermont and in the Northeast generally does have a very special place in skiing in a way that draws out the reasons we all love it so much, allowing it to shine through for the world to see.

I do not know if the television coverage of the HERoic Killington Cup presented by Stifel will allow me to scan the faces of the thousands of kids screaming their lungs out in the base area for the telltale presence of chocolate. I do not know if I’ll be able to tell whether the kids with more chocolate on their faces will scream louder for their heroes. I do know, however, that I will watch the Killington races with great pride and real excitement, for my sport, for the athletes, for my home, and for the wonderful people who make it such an extraordinary event. And, on this Thanksgiving I will be truly thankful for all the many wonderful kids whom I've coached and for their families.

Happy Thanksgiving!

5000 Miles in Five Minutes

My people, on Essex Street circa 1908.

During my last year of graduate school, I lived in a remarkably diverse neighborhood. The numerous modest pre-war apartment houses, mid-century raised ranches, some ‘70’s towers, and some very old classically New England mansions just a few blocks away were homes for a wonderfully technicolor array of people of every economic strata, race, ethnicity, and religion.

As though to make the point, my go-to pizza joint (in a city justifiably proud of its pizza joints) was run by two Jordanian immigrants named Abu and Omar, and it was right around the corner from my apartment. Their place was like Heaven for a grad student. “Hey, Abu, it’s Russ. What’s good today?” I can hear Abu’s voice like it was yesterday: “Ruuuuusss, my friend. Mozzarella is fresh. We just make pesto. Fresh, fresh, fresh. I make you chicken pesto pizza. See you in 15 minutes.” Click. We had some variation of this conversation at least once a week. Absolute Heaven.

There were immigrants in my neighborhood from all over the planet. Abu and Omar were among a small community of Jordanians; I played pickup soccer games every week with several Somali guys who could really play ball with the Peruvians and Columbians who were the crux of our mid-week crew; and there was a particularly large group of Russian families who had resettled in our neighborhood. The Russians were all so happy to be in America that they’d cross the street hopscotching through traffic just to give each other bear hugs so vigorous that you’d think a wrestling match had broken out if you hadn’t see the grins wrapped around their faces showing their unbridled joy at being among friends that they hadn’t seen since the day before.

The polling place for elections was immediately across the main avenue from my apartment, caddy corner from Abu and Omar’s pizza phantasmagoria. This, as you can imagine, was awfully convenient for me, and on the first Election Day that I lived there I took pride in capping my mop with an old baseball hat and grubbily strolling across the street to vote. Super casual, no big deal, we do this all the time, it’s easy and safe … except that wasn’t quite the case. What I found that first Election Day morning as I slinked into the building's ornate lobby was a lesson in appreciation. There as I entered was a large number of my neighbors, dressed up in their best clothes, cleaned up, slightly serious and shaking hands quite formally with each other but beaming with pride, and giddy having just voted or about to vote in America, some voting for anything, for the very first time. I wouldn’t say that I was ashamed to be so nonchalant about my voting, but I definitely was more prideful of and for my neighbors and cognizant of the weight of that day for them. It was one of my proudest moments as an American.

One day last week, after finishing my morning coffee, I sat at our table here in Basalt, Colorado, filled out my electoral ballot that the state so kindly mails to every registered voter, capped my mop with a lid, put on some shoes, drove the five minutes to Town Hall, and put my ballot in the Drop Box. It was cold that morning, so I turned right around went back home, kicked off my shoes, and proceeded with my relaxing shoulder season day. Easy peasy. The subtle grin on my face the whole time was the indelible and joyous reminder of my old neighbors and that neighborhood, and of the wonderful experience of celebrating our participation in the democratic process together.

Next week is another Election Day in America, the traditional second Tuesday of November. Please vote. If you’ve voted already, thank you. If someone you know could use a hand getting to a polling place, please help them. If you know someone who is intimidated by the process or by those who seek to limit access to voting, please take them by the hand and be by their side. If you know someone who is voting in America for the first time, whether because they are now 18 years old or are now a citizen, please give them a sincere and enthusiastic handshake and make them feel welcome as a participant in the most durable democracy the world has ever known.

If you think you have a reason to not vote, shame on you; please do not waste my time explaining yourself. I’ll be busy remembering Abu and Omar and my many friends whose living example reminds me of what my family and so many others endured so that I can exercise this privilege. My family traveled something like 5000 miles to find a place where I could take a casual five-minute gratitude-filled stroll across the street after breakfast to vote as a normal part of my life in America.

Hmm, maybe I should put a lid on my mop. Then again, maybe I should spruce myself up out of respect for the day and for the sacrifices of my family and others who got me here so I can vote. Ok, ok, where's my hair brush?!

The Bridge and Roundabout Crowd

Even the aspen trees were ready for winter last week. Almost.

I caught up with some close friends yesterday from my hometown in Vermont. Our plan to meet for lunch happened to coincide with the first big winter storm of the season. No biggie. The roads were fine and getting to catch up, hear about their recent adventures, and generally enjoy their company was terrific in every way. Lunch was yummy, we split a disconcertingly sugary desert, forestalled the inevitable diabetic shock with a nice stroll in the cold air along the river, browsed in a great local bookstore, and then parted ways certain that we’d see each other again soon. The hour and a quarter drive home was easy and provided some great views of the new snowfall in Glenwood Canyon. Wait, what? An hour and a quarter drive, you say? Insert sound of the needle skipping across the record here.

Yes, I met friends for lunch in a place that was an hour and fifteen minutes from where I live. It’s about halfway between my house and theirs and a great spot to spend the afternoon. No, none of us thought that was weird and, no, it was not unusual. Not for Vermonters, anyway.

In Vermont, when friends invite you over for dinner it’s common for that to mean a trip that takes an hour to the next town over, along roads that never ever go in a straight line, where conditions are frequently very dicey, cell service is inconsistent and totally unreliable, and we love it. I can immediately think of a few people whose dinner tables are among my favorite places on the planet (you know who you are, Ali & Chris) and whose homes are close as the crow flies but can be an hour away in good weather, and that’s using the river road shortcut. It calms the mind, feeds the soul, and blessedly slows down this hectic world for the evening. It’s wonderful.

In stark contrast, among some Aspen locals there is a very particular way of looking at distances and the effort of traveling across them here in the Roaring Fork Valley. In winter, when Independence Pass is closed to vehicles, the City of Aspen is the end of the road, literally. Colorado Highway 82 is the major thoroughfare into Aspen and, critically, just as it enters the city there is a roundabout. The best way to think of that roundabout is that it functions like a cork – it bottles everything and everyone Aspen inside the box canyon and backs-up traffic of everyone and everything trying to get into the city.

What yesterday’s little trip brought to mind about Aspen is the effect that the roundabout has on the mindset of the people there. Notable numbers of Aspen residents find having to travel past the roundabout to be a serious pain in the derrière, even a distasteful thing to have to do. This particular sociological phenomenon, to be clear, cracks me up. It cracks me up so much that I willingly have ended the prior sentence with a preposition. It reminds me, in a way, of native Manhattanites who smugly refer to the people who travel onto the island as “the bridge and tunnel crowd”. Please note that I say “smug” and not “snobby”: it’s a fuzzy distinction but a critical one because the smugness is applied regardless of socio-economic status.

One entertaining, specific example of this is my favorite restaurant in Aspen. It’s a North African bistro with exceptional, interesting food from an award-winning local chef, with great service in a cozy environment. However, because the bistro is ever so slightly past the roundabout, many self-styled foodies can’t be bothered to try it and prefer to spend their time at the ludicrously expensive name-brand extravaganzas in town whose food is, well, less good. You’d think it was as though you’d recommended a restaurant in Newark to someone from the Upper West Side, only it’s about five minutes away from the Aspen Epicenter. They’re missing out.

Buttermilk and Snowmass are two of the four mountains in our resort. Both are past the roundabout and so are the recipient of that same smugness despite their considerable value to skiers and riders. Aspen Highlands is actually level with the roundabout, not technically past it, so it somehow squeaks under the umbrella of being ‘in town’ despite its historic and proud quirkiness. Highlands is like the far frontier, the wild west of ‘in town’. Skiing at Highlands for residents of downtown Aspen would be like someone from the Upper West Side going all the way off the grid to Greenwich Village if the Village was five blocks away.

I live in Basalt. It’s about 20 minutes from downtown Aspen without traffic (notably, describing 82 as being without traffic is like describing a Vermont drive as being in good weather). In Basalt we have our own authentic main street with shops and nice restaurants; we have great parks, exceptional hiking, two rivers converging right in downtown; and those of us who live here are quite happy being “down valley” and past the roundabout. Basaltines, as we call ourselves (thank you, Rob), happily go to Carbondale with friends, do our shopping in Willits, and run errands in Glenwood Springs (“Glen-Vegas”). Maybe that makes us a tiny bit more like Vermonters and maybe, just maybe, that’s why I like being here.

Entertainment aside, most Aspen residents quite happily include Snowmass, Basalt, and the rest of the Roaring Fork Valley in their orbit without hesitation. I like Aspen and the wider valley a lot. I am glad to be here, very glad to work at Aspen Snowmass, and am very much looking forward to my first full-time non-pandemic winter season here. Still, I will happily make the drive to Edwards, Dillon, or wherever my friends are to share a good meal and hear their stories. After all, though the highways are straight and wide and the winter weather is pretty benign here, their company makes this place more like home wherever we happen to be. Thank you, Todd & Erin, for a great afternoon. I’ll look forward to the next one!

Lobster Orthodoxy

Those who know ... a proper lobster roll this past weekend

Not far from where my parents live is a small family-owned farm stand, operated by the same family and selling produce from their family farm for almost 200 years. Their salt box building is from the 1750’s, was one of the first post-offices in the United States of America, and it is about a half-mile from where the Pilgrims came ashore and settled in 1620. The people at Bramhall’s Country Store know what they are doing.

While it is true that the Maine seacoast is ground zero for lobster in the same way that Vermont is the epicenter of all things maple and the Lower East Side is the Promised Land for deli, cured salmon, decent knishes and so much more … ooph, sorry, focus … Bramhall’s provides important and valuable lessons about one incredibly vital New England food item. I’m talking about lobster rolls.

In my orthodox epicurean world view, the lobster rolls at Bramhall’s are as important for what they do not have as what they do have. No, it is not a “lobster roll sandwich”. No, it most definitely is not “lobster salad”. No, there is absolutely no mayonnaise involved. Not ever. Never. What you do to their lobster rolls if you decide to take them home is totally up to you: go ahead, put some curry powder or aioli on it, some chives, or maybe just a sprinkle of sea salt; just don’t tell me about it. Like all proper lobster rolls, Bramhall's includes the following: a buttered, toasted, top-split hot dog bun; and a huge pile of fresh coarsely chopped lobster from a happy creature recently pulled from the saltwater tanks right outside and boiled alive and whole. Period. Serve it with quality potato chips because, well, it is New England. Although driving there and taking the lobster roll home is convenient, sitting at a picnic table underneath the enormous ancient oak trees that cast their cooling shadows over the farm stand on a hot summer day while listening to the symphony of the birds and bees in the branches above is like hearing Handel live in a cathedral instead of using your ear buds to listen while in a spin class at your local gym. The “jumbo” version of Bramhall’s lobster roll includes, wait for it, half a pound of lobster.

And another thing … in all of the seasons I’ve spent in New Zealand and over the last few years while I’ve been in Colorado, one of the things I’ve missed the most about home is the fresh corn in late summer and early fall. I know people here in Colorado are proud of the corn from Paonia, but it’s just not the same and while I applaud their pride I do believe that they don’t know any better. The corn from my home village in the Housatonic Valley is my favorite, of course, but innumerable nooks and crannies in rural New England and Upstate New York produce corn with a complexity that is unspeakably delicious. Maple syrup comes out of trees and is simply boiled down to its essence to be insanely good; New England lobsters come out of the sea and are boiled until the shells are bright red and the flesh is outrageously yummy, and the same is true of fresh, local corn. When I rocked up to Bramhall’s recently to dive face first into a lobster roll, one of their young staff had just started unloading a bushel of corn that had been picked that morning. I bought six of them. Good Lord.

Yeah, yeah, I get it. I do focus some of my Yankee homesickness on the food here in Colorado and how I feel about it. Yes, yes, the very idea that there is yellow colored cheddar in the supermarkets makes me want to cry almost as much as the maple flavored corn syrup does. Who would do that to their cheddar? Do they dye their cows yellow too? Come on people! An uncomfortable reality of my life here is that good food and good restaurants are almost exclusively outrageously expensive. Together with the fact that dinner parties where we all get together and cook for each other are not a regular feature of life here in the way that they are among my friends in Vermont or in Wanaka, New Zealand and it makes great meals rarer than they should be.

I do have some friends here that know how to cook and like to sit, have a chat, help each other out in the kitchen, and enjoy each other’s company, and those evenings are worth their weight in gold. I recently had an evening with a terrific group of ex-pat Vermonters where we waxed nostalgic for our home town while complaining about yellow cheddar and other oddities in the midst of enjoying a truly wonderful meal cooked all day by one of our own. It’ll happen again, zero doubt.

Ultimately, the point is to appreciate my friends and family while we break bread together. And if that means expressing our love via angst about our food options and their cost, so be it. As native New Yorkers and New Englanders, we understand better than most that expressing angst is an important form of entertainment in and of itself.

So, put the mayonnaise down and walk away. Sir, step away from the mayo and, I beg you, do not let that mayo come in contact with the lobster!

Bramhall's Country Store

Lobster tanks and fresh picked corn.

Particular thanks to the wonderful people at Bramhall's Country Store for helping me find a (not so) little slice of Heaven during my recent trip home. http://www.bramhallcountrystore.com

A Victim of Larceny

A recent June morning on Independence Pass in Colorado

I’ve had some things I cherish stolen from me. I see the thieves every day, parading around as though they are proudly entitled to my belongings and as though I never really had a right to them in the first place. This blog post is not a way of politely asking for their safe return – asking politely would fall on deaf ears in the midst of the chest-thumping hate-filled and anger-ridden braggadocio of those shameless criminals.

I’ve had my flag stolen. I’ve had my patriotism stolen. And I want them back. Now.

I had a conversation with a friend last week that brought this repulsive thievery to light. My friend is self-made, a hard-working professional and a leader in our field, a pillar of our community, a big-hearted and generous person, and an articulate advocate for the issues and perspectives about which she is passionate. And last week this consummately modern American woman declared that she was going to wear black on July 4th, Independence Day. Instead of smashing a window to steal jewelry from the window of a shop on Main Street, the criminals broke her heart (and mine) and stole something far more precious.

How it is that festooning oneself in our Republic’s flag and use of the term “patriot” have become indicia of belonging the extreme right-wing, anti-democratic factions of American society may be an interesting historical footnote, but it is unimportant to me. I’m confident it has something to do with the sheer volume of their self-entitledness, the shortcomings of their primary school education, and their hatefulness for any who dare to disagree with them. What is important to me, however, is that we get our belongings back for our own use. I’m confident that neither Lincoln nor Douglas made the case that the other had no right to fly Old Glory.

Sadly, I am 100% confident that the extremist militia members and their supporters who wrap themselves in the Gadsden Flag (“Don’t Tread on Me”) as a means of cloaking their racism, sexism, misogyny, xenophobia, and antisemitism are completely unaware of its origins with the Continental Marines. A quick web search for the Gadsden flag will make clear how brazenly those factions of American society have absconded with this once great symbol of our national unity. For the time being, the Gadsden flag actually may be too far gone to rehabilitate for its original use by us all; the Stars and Stripes most assuredly is not.

After some thought about my friend’s understandable grief about the direction our Republic has taken, a grief I share, I drew the opposite conclusion about my sartorial choices for Independence Day. Our grief, our frustration, our sense of loss for the principles that we hold dear as Americans are rooted in the importance of those principles to us as citizens. We are upset about the recent rulings of the United States Supreme Court and the revelations about the complicity of elected officials in the January 6th assault on the Capitol and its political purposes because we still believe in America and its promise of a better, safer, happier life for all of us. We are upset because in our hearts we still believe.

I was born on July 4th and I had an uncle named Sam. My Uncle Sam was the son of immigrants and a U.S. Navy veteran who fought in the Pacific during World War II. My Uncle Sam grew up in Brooklyn and, like all good kids from Brooklyn, he loved a good hot dog. He loved them so much that they were his litmus test for people. “Hey, kid” he’d say, “Do you like hot dogs?” And when the answer was “yes”, he’d beam and announce “They’re one of us; they can stay!”

So, on July 4th I’m going to wear Red, White and Blue. I would even seriously consider finding an Uncle Sam costume to wear to the parade on the village green. I’m going to take my flag back from the villains who took it and who threaten to take our country from us as well. I’m going to wear it while eating a hot dog with relish and extra mustard, celebrating Independence Day as all Americans can regardless of where we stand on the political spectrum.

And if anyone mistakes my patriotism for right-wing extremism, I’ll consider spitting a little extra mustard in their eye. Because I’m a bit pissed off and I am a native New Yorker. But I won’t do it, because I will have taken my flag back and I will not let it go again.

I proudly support the patriotic folks at @Morethanavote @PlannedParenthood and @naacp_ldf in their effort to ensure the promise of America for all of us.

Out of The Woods

May 20, 2022 in Basalt, Colorado

We’re not out of the woods yet.

It’s a funny expression, “out of the woods”, as though being in the woods represents some sort of difficulty or danger, something to be avoided. Perhaps we should blame the Brothers Grimm for placing in our collective Euro-centric psyche the idea that the woods are a place where bad things happen? Those damn Brothers Grimm.

Rock on up to any group of passionate Eastern skiers between the ages of 6 and 16 on a powder day and ask them where they want to go, and the answer is “in the woods”. In your face, Hansel and Gretel! I often joke that in Colorado people may ski in the trees but in the East we ski in the woods. And if that reflects a chip on my shoulder, so be it. Take that, Little Red Riding Hood!

I, for one, very much miss the woods of the Northeastern USA. In Colorado, where I’ve been living full-time since the COVID-19 pandemic hit (speaking of not being out of the woods yet), I do spend the majority of my days surrounded by trees and in winter I do love skiing in the “gladed” runs on our mountains. Still, somehow, these places are not “the woods”. Forest, yes; woods, no. The distinction is a meaningful one that is a challenge to articulate and that sort of falls into a totality of the circumstances perspective. I’ll try to explain with an example.

For several years, I spent my shoulder seasons conducting outdoor education programs for urban school children at the camp I attended as a child. At first, the city kids would be a little freaked-out by the quiet of sleeping in tents in the woods. And then, in something that never failed to bring me joy and as though the transmission of their sensory awareness had shifted gears to being in the natural world, several days later the same kids would complain about how difficult it was to sleep given how noisy the woods are. Those woods in the mountains of Northwestern Connecticut (near my “home village”) are particularly noisy places, seething with life. Birds, bugs, frogs, and animals of all sorts constantly contribute to the cacophony, and even the wind blowing across the tops of our ancient oaks sounds like giant waves in the ocean. At times, it is as though the entire canopy and every bush is buzzing, chirping, whirring, waving or singing. And that’s before we even talk about the woodpeckers, nature’s greatest percussion section.

There’s so much more to the woods than merely the sounds of the birds and bugs. The fragrance of the air and how it changes from season to season, the temperature and texture of the air, the sensations of the earth under foot, the ever-present trickling of water everywhere. When I fill out the arrival form for New Zealand immigration and check “yes” to the question of whether I’ve been in a forest recently, I do very much enjoy explaining that I am from Vermont and that the whole state is dense woodlands. Can you tell that I am homesick?

None of this is to say that the natural environment here in Colorado is somehow lacking. There is a reason that people flock here in all seasons and that the ski industry is littered with ex-pat East Coast folks. After all, there are good reasons that you don’t encounter many Colorado natives on chairlifts in the East. The climate here is terrific (if not a bit monotonous), there is more sunshine in an average week in the mountains of Colorado than Vermont gets in a year, the snow is justifiably famous, and the wildlife can be pretty impressive. Cry me a river – I think I’ll survive just fine here in the Rocky Mountains.

Still, Eastern woods live on in my DNA, in my world view, and in my psychological need for the stimuli of the natural environment. I am quite content, therefore, to dismiss the Brothers Grimm, Hansel and Gretel, and Little Red Riding Hood, and to find delightful irony in the idea that normal people are trying to get out of the woods while I dream of getting back into them. Except where pandemics are concerned – I wouldn’t mind being out of those metaphorical woods for good.

Jupe à la Mode

Some of the best pros I know, making "work" oodles of fun at Aspen, as usual.

I speak French. I excel at dining in French and I can execute a world class Gallic shrug, and I do also speak French pretty well. My grammar has definitely faded over the decades as has my vocabulary, but once I am immersed in a French environment I comport myself admirably. Especially for an American.

I even teach skiing in French when I’m lucky, as I did recently for several days with a super cool young graduate student. She is totally fluent in English but was a nervous beginner who was quite homesick in a way that left her really just wanting to learn skiing in French. We had a blast, she absolutely slayed it on the hill, and the crepes in Snowmass worked to transport us just that little bit closer to her home and her people. I hope she enjoyed her time learning skiing in this most foreign place as much as I enjoyed the experience of introducing her to our sport in a language that is not my own.

It’s always interesting to me when friends and colleagues ask me how I learned to speak French so well. I usually just explain that I studied French through Junior High School and High School with a bit of course work in college as well, and that I’ve worked with enough native French speakers to practice a bit, but that’s a simplification. Often, well-meaning people respond by bashfully describing their few years of French studies that never really took hold, which I appreciate but which also can make me feel a little sorry for them. I feel sorry for them not because it is somehow sad, but because the reality of why I speak and understand French so well, and why I love doing so, is that I had the tremendous good fortune to have two truly exceptional French teachers in my public schools in Upstate New York, and I understand how rare that is.

From seventh through twelfth grade, I went from novice fan of Inspector Clouseau to AP French standout under the gaze of Madames Seiler and Gropper. They were demanding, caring, always funny, often frustrated, and remarkably talented teachers. My best friends were Michel, Xavier, Solange, Lise and others, with our French names adopted for class as twelve-year-olds quickly becoming everyday nicknames outside of French class, and that’s not an accident. We loved it. My recollections are very non-specific – several decades later, my ability to speak la belle langue far outstrips any specific memories of how they taught us. Still, I know precisely why I succeeded then and now, and it was those two remarkable teachers who are responsible. I choose to not deconstruct what made them such exceptional teachers (if that is even possible); I prefer instead to think of it as a combination of superb technical skill, copious amounts of passion, and a healthy dose of magic.

Obviously, sans doute, there is a lesson for us here that has nothing to do with my laguage skills. The lesson is about the impact of great teaching and, as it turns out, I teach and train teachers for a living. Although love for the sport and technical advancement are aligned in a meaningful and substantive way, the love for the sport is vastly more important because without it, our raison d’etre as skiers, our reason for being skiers in the first place, simply disappears. Keeping this front and center in our minds when we’re working together to hone our craft as instructors and when we’re working with students of every level and every age is vital. And it always brings to mind the great instructors, coaches, and teachers under whose spell I’ve been so fortunate to fall in my life.

‘Do you remember your ski instructors as a kid?’, I ask new instructors. Did those instructors plant the seed in you for a love of skiing for the rest of your life? Do you realize that this is now your job, your charge, your burden, and your blessing? I wouldn’t trade it for anything, and sharing that, speaking about it with others who choose to pursue our profession is absolutely vital.

Every Halloween, Madame Seiler would wear an oddly long, 50’s style skirt with a big, fake, plastic ice cream scoop stuck to it. Her explanation was that for Halloween she was dressed as a “jupe à la mode”, which in French means a fashionable skirt and in English means a skirt slathered in ice cream. She loved it, and in my mind’s eye I still can see her big grin and enormously long arms gesticulating wildly as she explained her costume to the unwary.

For me, the open question is whether, several decades from now, the grownups who ski with me as kids now will still giggle as they borrow my line that ‘it’s … just … snot … funny. Nope, definitely snot funny at all.’ It’s not quite the jupe à la mode, but it is my joke and, well, you never know; maybe it will stick.