Sea Cliff (and why New Yorkers hate Signage)

I try not to dwell on just how little time I've had for exploring Long Island and The City. A few days ago, around 11 AM, I decided to do two things: 1) scream, 2) drive to Sea Cliff, a little sea-side village on Long Island's northern shore, a village reputed to be a still-lovely bit of funk-tastic Victoriana.

But first let me explain the screaming; it's the same thing I'm always howling about, that is the simple lack of free time in a domestic engineer's life. After I've taken care of everybody, washed their clothes and made the beds and shopped and chopped and walked the dogs, and found some time to either go to the gym for a spins class or the state park for a bike ride, there's no time for anything else. So, nine months after we first moved in, half the windows are still covered with paper or sheets or are just left bare. I could, of course, start sewing in the evenings after dinner, but I'm just too damn tired!

On this particular day, I was to have a full 3 hours to work on curtains. But the day had hardly started when the list of phone calls I needed to make began to grow as did the Little List of Perpetual Errands. Screw it, I thought. If you can't win, then do your best to lose. I may as well check off another item on my "To be Explored" list.

Oh, but before I talk too much about Sea Cliff, did I mention that Spring on Long Island is so colorful it's Disneyesque? The trees have gotten really, really excited. They're covered in pink or white or red. And the bees! They're excited, too -- and fat, and furry and buzzing like chain-saws on every branch. I think these are apple trees. Or pear.

But on to Sea Cliff. I'd read about this square-mile village in the NYT. The Times has a weekly section that, whatever its title, should be called: "For those in the city who are dreaming of escape to leafier climes but aren't sure where to move to." Week after week, this section of the paper features some little burg on Long Island or in Connecticut (no one wants to move to Jersey), a burg where a buck goes further than in the city (a city that eats money), where stress-free dog-walking and child-rearing are possible. Sea Cliff stood out in my memory as a place to visit because it was billed as relatively untouched and undefaced by the rich of New York City, a demographic that has an unfettered love of 5-acre estates, Godzilla-in-Tuscany mansions and SUVs by Porsche. Sea Cliff would be, I was promised, funky, friendly and kind of weird. Like Austin. Which is not nearly as weird as it used to be, but that's a complaint for another time.

Anyway, near mid-day I drove the barely half hour it takes to get to Sea Cliff, the same distance from Cold Scream Harbor as Pflugerville is from Austin. But on Long Island, a distance of ten miles can seem like a world away. You get pockets of ethnic domination, more Italians here, more Jews there, and you get family after family that ventures out of its birth-zipcode only to go on vacation or to a ballgame. "I haven't been to the city since 1952," one geezer on our street was known to boast. And this is saying something. Because unless this grizzled old fossil has taken the ferry to Connecticut, that means he's never left Long Island at all.

So I get to Sea Cliff and initially, while driving around, I'm thinking that the proportion of original housing stock to other houses may be larger than in any town I've ever seen (well, except Savannah) . So me being me, I find the village breathtaking. One Victorian rubs shoulders with the next, usually on small lots not larger than a tenth of an acre. These more modest homes were built for the accountants and the office clerk who would have brought their families here in the summer, the city being almost as intolerable in the Gilded Age's heat as it is in today's.

Of course I head straight for the sea, leaving my car near a little public park that has its own gorgeous views of the Long Island sound. I discover that many of Sea Cliff's houses sit atop a 300 foot bluff. Unusually for Long Island's north shore, these houses' view (and the view of these houses) has not been thoroughly eclipsed by massive hedges. Some locals have assured me that this fondness for privacy screening is a New York thing and not something you have to suffer much in New England.

The village has its own public beach. There are many such beaches on Long Island but "public" has to be understood to mean, "Open to those lucky few who can get a parking permit." To get a permit in many cases, you have to have residency in the town. In the Hamptons this is a particular bother because, having driven all that way and discovered that there's nothing to see but hedges, you'll probably decide to go for a walk on one of the Atlantic beaches. And what a long walk it will be once you discover that the nearest truly public parking is at least a mile's walk away. The major town, Southampton, should change its motto to "Keeping the riff-raff out since 1765!"

But I digress. I found the 'No Diving' sign poignant because the platform is clearly unsafe for the stated purpose, being wholly out of water. Then I remembered the story we'd heard from a used car salesman a few weeks ago, when we were looking for a Honda to replace the one that I had managed to drown in the spring floods. The salesman clucked his tongue and said you didn't need floods to get something good and drowned on Long Island. He had recently sold a car to a lady who had gone to a seaside restaurant in Sea Cliff, there to attend a banquet for a wedding. Seeing a line of other cars parked along the shore road, she parked her Audi right beside them, then went inside to toast the happy couple for a few hours. When she came out, her car and all the others near it were sitting in tidewater up to their headlights. Hmmmm. Does this disaster strike you as avoidable? Could a well placed sign have helped? But this is New York, and they're not big on signage, not big at all.

The coolest thing about Sea Cliff was the sense of community. Despite the faux "public" nature of the beach, there were a number of urban parks, small but well kept and available to the actual public. An urban ethos pervaded the village, which I appreciated very much. Most of the houses had little in the way of a yard, so I imagine the parks were created to give people a place to picnic on fine days. Interestingly, the more well appointed homes also enhanced the urban feel, because despite their larger yards they would be placed near a village green or the town center. This gaudy beauty, with its very autumnal color scheme, was not far from Sea Cliff's main street.

And as was true a century ago, the more prosperous mansions stood among humbler homes, such as this blessedly pink structure. I'm not sure when Americans became so terrified of mixing with others outside of their economic stratum, but such fears are not much in evidence in these old neighborhoods. In films of the 20s and 30s, you often see upper-middle families hiring the housekeeper or the gardener from the family next door. Now, I imagine there are few of us who would ask the house-cleaner where she/he lives. Like we know one trailer park from another.

Of course, after all this walking about and my exhausting meditations on architecture and history, it was hard not to think of lunch, a subject truly dear to my heart. With this little
garden beckoning, it seemed sensible to find a sandwich and a drink and then take both outside for a moment of dining al fresco.

I took a deep breath. A sandwich is most easily secured, in New York anyway, from a deli. A New York deli. This is an adventure which in my mind is always accompanied by the theme music to "Jaws".

My heart pounding, I go into the deli, Tony's or Frank's or whatever the hell it's called, tucked into a line of artisanal shops on Sea Cliff Avenue, the town's main street. Now, at self-service lunch counters back in Texas, there's a shingle that says, "Place Order Here" and another that says, "Pick up Order Here". But not in New York. Oh, no. New Yorkers find it much more fun to have a kind of scrum at the counter, where customers body-block their way to the front, then maul a passing human, hoping the victim actually works in the deli and isn't just delivering beer.

Fortunately, Tony's staff looked to be fairly idle. So it wasn't long after staring at the menu that a stolid chap in his 40s -- I believe they kept calling him Tony -- appeared to take my order. "I'll have a Tony's Tiny".

"A what?"

"A Tony's," I say, pointing at the menu. Tony snorted, then ambled off.

Of course, I had just made a terrible error. One thing real New Yorkers never do in a deli is order from the menu. Oh, deli owners struggle bravely against the popular will, offering long lists of little innovations in the Sandwich Universe, each item having its own cutesy name, unfamiliar mix of ingredients, and linguistic flourishes provided by the owner's niece who went to college: Try our Beanie Panini, a scrumptious symphony of olives, swiss, black beans and avocado, toasted to buttery perfection.

But only ferners like me actually order these named dishes. This menu aversion is puzzling because New Yorkers are fond of efficiency. But put a New Yorker into a deli and, baby, it's The Day the Earth Stood still, all over again. You wait and wait while the guy ahead of you concocts some fantasy sandwich combo, involving a flotilla of ingredients, each of which has to be cooked, or perhaps chilled, to a specific temperature, then layered in a particular way (God help the deli-server who lets the mayo come into contact with the bread), and then garnished with the right kind of caper. You thought there was only one kind. You fool.

About twenty minutes later, Tony arrives with my Tony. I duly take it outside to the aforementioned prettyish garden spot. I draw the sandwich from the bag. This is America, not just New York, and the sandwich is massive, huge. If this is Tony's Tiny, Lord knows what battleship Tony's Big One could sink.

I took a bite. Sigh. The chicken was over-cooked yesterday and no amount of bacon, with which Tony has been very, very generous, will ever hide this. Maybe it would have been wiser to order off the menu. I'm coming to think that New Yorkers avoid menus for the same reason they avoid signs of all kinds. New Yorkers are not, contrary to their reputation, immoral or unkind. They have simply concluded if you don't know the rules, then you can't be blamed for failing to follow them. Signs, particularly speed limit signs, are simply odious reminders to do something you don't want to do. Better to hack them all down and save the taxpers' money.

I wrap the rest of my sandwich up for the dogs back home, then I find the new Honda that replaced the drowned Honda, and head for home. I'm sooooo coming back. To Sea Cliff, if not to that deli.

A Blue Day in the Royal Gorge

For me, Sherry's Christmas begins on the Friday of the weekend before December 25. Now, if December 25 actually falls on a Saturday, this does not mean that Sherry's Christmas begins on the 24th. Oh, no. In that event, the period of eating and drinking that defines Sherry's Christmas begins a whole eight days before the Actual Day. This year, the 25th fell on a Friday, so Sherry's Christmas had almost the maximum ramp-up period, a whole week. And this year, Sherry's Christmas began with the arrival of a splendid winter storm (pictures here). As I settled into the ritual of the season's First Friday, I watched the snow, floating down from the heavens.

Eventually, watching the storm from the window proved insufficient. Despite the latish hour and the cold, Jesse and I simply had to go for a walk in the 'hood. So we put on our coats and new boots -- thickly-soled and fur-lined and absolutely essential in this climate -- and stepped out into a wonderfully muted world. The snow swallowed every sound, except for the crunching beneath our feet. And the light! There aren't many street lights in our neighborhood and Long Islanders being the type to get to bed at a decent hour, there were few lights from the windows. But the snow scattered and amplified what light there was. Every tree, shrub, and stretch of road seemed to have its own silvery glow. We walked for a few blocks, greeted our neighbors and their border collie also out for a stroll, and returned home.

And my plans all went pear-shaped after that. I had planned to spend two weeks just knitting by the fire and listening to Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows on my Iphone. Every Christmas season, the Universal Heart-Mind issues me with a new set of memories, a set that usefully omits all recollection of just how much bloody work a Christmas involves. So though I had done all the shopping, there was still much to do: cleaning, chopping, washing, cooking, last minute forays to the store, long waits in line to pick up pies, ducks, wine. And now, four days after Christmas, which means 11 days into Sherry's Christmas, I've had exactly six hours of doing what I'd intended. This is not much progress when you consider that the Harry Potter book CD occupies 17 disks. Since pandering to a 14 year old is one of the things that majorly occupies my time, I've decided to extend Sherry's Christmas by a week, when the young one has gone back to school. Who knows if I'll stick to this plan?

So, you may ask, why am I still so preoccupied with keeping Jesse occupied? Because, despite the fact that there's a group of young ladies she's friendly with at her new school, nothing has emerged that even begins to rival the friendships she had back home (yes, I still think of Austin as home, though it could never be my year-round home again). The phone doesn't ring for her. It simply doesn't. I don't know why this is, but it breaks my heart. We take her to movies and watch DVDs at home with her, but it's not enough. We play table-tennis with her and talk over Stuff with her. When we're not entertaining her, she texts her friends back in Austin, or calls them, or makes friendship bracelets for them. On some level, she doesn't even live in New York, not yet anyway. I wonder if she'll manage to get through her entire high school career without ever really taking up mental residency in the state.

Given the fact that when she's sad, I'm sad, I should not have been surprised by the fact that Christmas Day, when it finally came, found me almost speechless with depression. I soldiered on and didn't divulge how I was feeling. Which was a good thing, because there was far too much work to do to permit a good wallowing in black despair. I know people who would upbraid me for not telling my family honestly what I'm feeling and maybe those people are right. But I think I've unlocked the great secret as to why so many people remember their dads as happy, cheerful, easy-going chaps they were always glad to see and yet remember their mums as chronic downers who were moody and joyless. The secret: their dads behaved like happy and cheerful souls while their mums always had an Emotional Agenda behind everything they did. I don't want Jesse to remember me as That Downer Woman. So I got up, opened presents, cooked, ate, laid splat in front of the TV afterwards, went to bed. The next day was better.

It's annoying me greatly that I can't find the little journal I kept last year, which would have recorded what I actually cooked on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. So that I won't be annoyed next year, I'd better record what I cooked this year and how it went.

On Christmas Eve, I made our traditional Moules Mariniere, this time with Long Island mussels, which are a little small but still wondrously flavorful. We ate them with the typical accompaniment for mussel soup: Great Mounds of Crusty Bread. Instead of making a boule this year, I bought a beautiful couronne, a ring of brown-gold heaven, crackling on the outside and cloud-like on the inside. On Long Island, I've eaten bread that rivals anything I ever had in France. There are no great mysteries as to how I've gained eight pounds since moving here.

Dessert was provided by Northport's Copenhagen Bakery and by my own efforts. Mike had his apple crumble, Jesse her fruit tart. I'd made a chocolate sponge and ganache for myself, eating my dish warm with ice-cream. Obviously, I think that I had the best deal but the tart from Copenhagen was the best fruit tart I'd ever had. The fruit, the usual and beautiful assortment of berries and kiwi slices, rested on a pastry cream that was truly creamy, very unlike the French patisserie custard which Austin's beloved Central Market used to specialize in and which I actually never liked very much. Next year, I'm having the fruit tart.

The last few years, I've roasted racks of lamb at Christmas, since it's so easy to scale up for additional diners. But, since we were only three this year, I reverted to our old favorite: roast duck. Following on the advice of my new goddess, Nigella Lawson, I par-boiled the duck for a half-hour the day before. This reduced the roasting time to just an hour, the same amount of time needed for the English Roast Potatoes. Having test driven the recipe about 6 weeks before, I knew to apply the glaze of soy-sauce and bitter orange marmalade in the last 15 minutes of cooking. The skin came out perfectly. I now have an approach to duck that never fails; in the past, the methods I'd used were all hit or miss. Sometimes the skin was crackling and beautiful and other times it was just blah. True to type, Jesse refused even to try the duck. I wanted to roast a chicken breast for her, but oven real-estate being scarce, I ended up just braising one for her on the stove-top. She didn't seem to mind.

The sides and trimmings were nothing surprising, though everything turned out well. The traditional sauce of duck stock and duck livers, with a bit of soy and marmalade, perfectly paired the pistachio and apricot stuffing I have made many times over. The roast potatoes, which I now do the Nigella way, with a dusting of semolina flour rather than white flour, came out fit only for gods. So we announced ourselves divine and tucked in. We also had, for the first time, the very English accompaniment of chipolata sausages wrapped in bacon. These little treats really suit a dryer meat, like turkey, but Mike found himself particularly willing to over-look this error in menu design.

This year, the Christmas pudding had been home-made by me for the first time. Following the recipe of a good friend who lives in the north of England, I had assembled and put the puddings away in the basement some six weeks before, using vegetarian suet I had bought at the wonderful Myers of Keswick in Manhattan. On Christmas Day, I brought one of the puddings up from the depths and steamed it for four hours. I would later discover that I should also have steamed the puddings on the morning after they were first assembled. I would discover this the next day and would wonder if we were all going to be retching later with salmonella. But the pudding, bathed first in blue flames of ignited brandy and then gobbled down (Mike had seconds), was gorgeous to eat and caused no later regrets. I guess the alcohol the puddings swam in for six weeks was more than enough to kill any bacteria that dared to emerge; the lengthy steaming must have helped, too.

Yes, after the traditional engorgement, came the very traditional nap in front of the TV, in which I at least try to watch whatever DVD some family member has received for Christmas and now wants to enjoy. This year, we watched Local Hero and The Little Mermaid. These days, Jesse frequently burrows into a DVD from her childhood: Mulan, Hercules, Beauty and the Beast. I almost cried watching The Little Mermaid again, because so many of these Princess movies remind me of sitting in the hospital with my niece Blythe, when she was not even two years old yet, trying to entertain her, week after week, as the rounds of chemotherapy progressed. We watched those Disneys on a continuous loop, it seems. It was because Blythe relapsed a year or so later that I finally buckled down and started the project of trying to have a kid of my own. At 38 years of age. Today, both young ladies are the delight of my life.

Gratitude is one way to combat the blues of Christmas, that simple thankfulness that so many of the people I love are still here. I just wish I could have been with all of them.

On Becoming A Domestic Goddess

Anyone who wants to see more than the inside of my fridge is invited to visit the various photos I've posted of this stunning autumn on Long Island.

I can explain about the fridge picture. Notice how bare this former chamber-of-horrors is? That's because the picture was taken on a Monday morning, and that's what my fridge is like every Monday before I do the week's shopping: empty.

I can explain why this is important. Anyone who's ever raised a puppy will remember that there's this period, of a few weeks, when the cute little snub nose you once kissed when no one was looking, suddenly springs out and becomes the great Fuji that the dog is stuck with for life. As a fourteen year old, the same thing happened to me. I mean, I could remember looking in the mirror one day and thinking, "Jesus, where did that come from?" I'd acquired my own great protrusion and now I was done with growing up.

But only in the physical sense. The acquisition of life-skills was still long in coming. Somewhere in my thirties, I decided to get my car inspected on an annual basis, and to see the dentist every eighteen months or so. Somewhere in my forties, I decided that I was wasting too much time looking for things, that it was high time that I started troubling myself to keep my most commonly used possessions -- my keys, the bills, whatever book I was reading -- in the same place. So I started putting things away. That small effort has added months back to my life.

But the basic management of the family meal still eluded me. This disorganization was a natural hangover from my career days, when I could seldom find the mental energy to plan and shop as well as cook. But four years into my 'retirement', we were still eating out way too much, or getting take-away. And we were throwing away way too much food. To top it all off, what meals I did manage to cook always seemed to involve at least 3 trips to Austin's beloved Central Market.

But moving to Cold Scream Harbor has made me take one more step in becoming an adult. With no Central Market a mere five minutes away, it was simply no longer possible to just wing it every day, not if I wanted to stay out of restaurants. I love dining out, but do it too often and you enjoy it less. And you take in too many calories.

But how to get from the disorganized me to a domestic goddess? It seemed to me that I had two things going for me: a computer nook just off of the kitchen in our new house and a fine collection of recipes, from cookbooks and New York Times e-clippings, to guide and inspire me. Surely I could use these two assets to conquer chaos.

But of course to solve a problem you must first understand the cause of the problem (well, often that's true). Hadn't I started every week in Austin with good intentions? I'd always had a few menus in my head, as well as a list, whenever I headed off to the store. But my plans would quickly fall apart. I'd get to Central Market and see some in-season veg I fancied. Or, later when I got home, I'd pull out some veg or meat from the fridge and not be able to reconstruct what, exactly, the menu was. Or -- and this happened a lot -- I'd remember perfectly well what meal I'd intended to prepare, but I'd look at what I'd bought and suddenly loose interest: teriyaki chicken again?

So I started one Monday morning at my laptop, looking at my recipe box and coming up with six menus based on whatever I truly fancied eating and cooking. This time, I actually wrote down what I intended to cook, with a list of the necessary ingredients. I realized that if I kept simply adding to this weekly diary, it wouldn't be long before I would never have to wonder what to cook in a given week. I could always raid past diary entries for meals that worked or could be improved on.

The diary helps me from week to week, but it also helps during the week. Nowadays, if I've planned to buy celery but get waylaid by a nice head of fennel at the store, no sweat! I have my menu with me and can jot down any opportune changes. And if there is a change in the family schedule, I can always return to my laptop and look up the ramifications of dropping a meal. Not surprisingly, the meal diary has become a record of what I have on hand. Like a lot of people, I keep a second fridge for storing meats and other items, but I'm great at forgetting what's out there, breeding in the garage. Now the diary keeps me sorted out. If I have extra white kidney beans, too many to put in the Very Simple Cassoulet I'm making, I freeze them and make a note in the meal diary to use them next week in an Italian escarole salad.

Under the new Goddess Regime, one of the happier moments of my week is when I browse a few of those cookbooks I just had to buy at one time or another, and start drooling. As I hinted earlier, my biggest enemy has been boredom. I'm so easily bored, I can't even eat grocery store pre-prepared food for very long. Even Central Market, which had no end of pre-made meatballs and tofu salads and Thai pastas to choose from, all prepared by their in-house staff, never really pleased me. Most pre-prep, to me, tastes like all other pre-prep.

Not that the diary is everything. To be a domestic goddess, as I've learned from the truly divine books of Nigella Lawson, particularly How to Eat, it helps to have inculcated in oneself the idea of a culinary repertoire. Life is simpler if you have a couple dozen dishes memorized, maybe not right down to the tablespoon and teaspoon, but something you can just perform without thinking too much. Too much novelty is stressful. Too little and you're dialing for take-away again. So I've discovered how useful it is to always have the means to whip out a few favorites always at hand.

The last few months have been a learning experience, one where I had to ask myself why I couldn't approach family maintenance with the same zeal I once devoted to working as a computer programmer. And in some ways, housewifery should be more fun than programming was. If the problems got dull at work, there wasn't a whole lot I could do (well, other than breaking the system myself and riding in as a hero when all seemed lost; but that's a little too risky for my blood). As the family chef, I've discovered that I can make the day as simple or as intricate as I want. I get to set the challenges.

Next challenge: vegetable crepes with a gruyere sauce, and a roasted pear salad with walnuts on the side. And if the prospect of that can't make me happy, then I really do need to go back to a real job and be reminded how bad real drudgery can be.

Back from the Salt Mines

For stay-at-home Moms, summer is not always a pleasant time. All those hours of school-provided babysitting suddenly evaporate, to be all but forgotten once the grueling round of kindertainment is underway. This summer was particularly cruel. The sullen and unhappy teenager had to be carted to a lot of places. Money had to be spent, for little benefit. Or no benefit. I booked an entire art class for her, one she could never attend because the class seemed to always conflict with some crony's arrival to, or departure from, New York.

Not only was it a stressful summer, it was a long one. She was out of her Texas school on the 3rd of June, but classes didn't start here until the week after Labor Day, on September 8th. But even on that happy day, the summer still wasn't over, not for me. I had one day of glorious freedom in my own home before it was time to again haul myself over to JFK (I can almost get there without the GPS now!), this time to collect Mother. For a fourteen-day visit.

I was dreading the trip because Dearest Mum had, without any regard to a doctor, decided to drop her anti-depressants. Because she was feeling better. And that's how it is with my Mum. You know how some people love Alice in Wonderland and others just find it unsettling? Some people revel in Carrol's startling, dizzying eruptions of illogic. But I'm in the other group, the one that gets deeply troubled by non-sequiturs and free associations. Mom's style of reasoning can best be labled, "oh-just-hack-your-way-to-the-conclusion-you-want-and-cackle-as-the-bodies-hit-the-floor."

Fortunately, she'd shaken off the worst of the anti-depressant's withdrawal symptoms by the time she arrived. We still managed our crash-and-burn moments, of course. I'd planned a trip to the Hamptons and had to cancel it at the last minute when it became clear that if I could not guarantee her a better time than she'd have watching television, I'd regret it. Well, then, I thought, I'll just keep her busy helping me in the garage. It was a beautiful day and she had complained of being bored (but not so bored that she wanted to make the 3 hour drive to Southampton and back). As I pointed to boxes that needed unloading, she became so filled with performance anxiety that she could do nothing but complain. I removed a dirty plant pot from a box and reminded her that she was good at cleaning things. She washed the pot, then came back to complain that she wasn't sure what to do now that the pot was washed. That's my mum. A normal person would just ask how they could help but she likes to cut straight to the whining. I sent her back to her TV.

Then there was the mad whistling that accompanies her every step in the house. Having lived alone now for four years, she finds herself incapable of doing anything noiselessly. She's always making tuneless little whistling sounds, little pips of startlement that almost drove me insane. And she's taken to brushing her teeth in the living room while others are trying to watch the telly.

All I could do was tell myself that this, too, shall pass. One thing I've learned is that your mother is not really your mother; she's your Siamese twin. Take a knife to her and you'll be the one that ends up bleeding.


As it turns out, Mother was right to have her doubts about the Hamptons, that region where the veddy, veddy rich of New York hang out in sprawling mansions with sea views. I mean, I can go gawk at ghastly wealth with the best of them, but on a recent 50 mile bike ride, I got pretty sick and tired of what you can actually see in the Hamptons: the backsides of vast estates, hidden by hedges. And more hedges. This particular hedge is unusual because you can actually glimpse the structure behind it. There were a few vistas on that 50 mile ride, but very few. Once I got away from the estates and the hedges, I rode through woods. And they were lovely. But not particularly special, not for Long Island.

Still, it was great to be on a long ride again, to sweat my way past the doubts that I'd make it, to finally conquer those doubts and get back to the ride's start. It was great to wallow in the bath later and to feel truly tired in the bones. At 14 mph, I'm still not at my pre-cancer-diagnosis peak, but I'm hopeful that my body can return to a kind of normal that I can live with.

And that will have to do.

Friends and relations

Earl, Janice, and Goddard.

They lived long and happy lives until, exhausted by the rigors of existence, they climbed gratefully into the pots on my stove. Or maybe it didn't happen quite like that. However it happened, we can be clear that on at least two occasions (she says as if reciting sins), I have done the unthinkable: cooked crustaceans that were neither shrimps nor crawdads nor crabs.

They were delicious. The first time, we ate them with just garlicky melted butter and the second time, I attempted a bearnaise sauce, which seized and turned grainy (any fool-proof tips on this will be gratefully received). In either case, you almost don't need sauces with flesh this sweet and opulent.

My interest in cooking and serving my own lobsters stems from two recent events. The first came from the knowledge, acquired in a restaurant in Maine, that I both love lobster and hate eating it when surrounded by fine diners. They are in nice clothes, and I'm in a bib. And the lobster served me in Maine was hard-shell and a complete b*st*rd to eat. By the end of the meal, I had butter in my hair. Clearly, if I was going to feast again on the succulent creatures, I was going to have to do it at home.

The second reason to eat lobster up here is the abundance of fishmongers. Back in Austin, we had Quality Seafood and that was it. On Long Island, there exists everywhere, in brick-and-mortar establishments and at farmers' markets on the seafront, places to buy fresh caught fish. Avoid the stuff sold in super-markets, I've learned, and seek out the tumble-down holes-in-the-wall. The lobsters come from the Long Island Sound (I'm told) and the chaps we've bought so far have had easily fractured soft-ish shells, the kind that make dining possible. My family refuses to look at them when they come back home in the cooler, preferring to let me function as judge, jury, executioner, and driver of the hearse. They won't even participate in the naming game! What spoil-sports!

I don't know if Jesse will ever be persuaded to try lobster, which is fine with me, given the expense. I've been waiting for her to ask me why I find it so philosophically unchallenging to toss live creatures into a hot pot, but so far, she's held the whole idea at a distance. The reason, I will be happy to tell her, if she ever asks, is that all life-forms displace other life-forms, by the very fact of their existence. Clear a field to plant wholesome grains for sprout salads, and you disrupt a food chain that had happily fed other mammals and which will now feed fewer of them. We should all eat less animal protein, for the simple reason that there isn't enough planet for all of us to party like it's 1998, but the choice to be absolutely pure about vegetarianism is an aesthetic, not a moral one. It's a fine, admirable choice, but not one that I can make.

***&&&***

After the Great Pander reported in my last entry, where Mike and I indulged Jesse's every whim, vainly seeking forgiveness for having ripped her from Texas, we've had more visitors: Dan the artist, Alison the marketer and Patrick the NYU student. The weather has been typically obstinate, affording beautiful, dry days when no one is visiting, then starting on a good round of rain for a few days the minute anyone we know touches down in JFK. We make plans to take all our friends to our favorite out-door spots, but end up going to greenhouses, again, where we can huddle out of the rain. Too much! I'm starting to see faces in the orchids. At least I'm not giving them names, not yet.

***&&&***

Aliens do exist you know and they have snatched our bodies and brought us to another planet entirely. I know this because, on a rainy morning when our darling 14-year-old couldn't possibly be asked to walk to school, I drove her, right up to the soggy parking lot a half-mile from our house. Ahead of me was a, wait for it, Maserati. It was new and it was shiny and possibly it was fast, though in the queue I was sitting in, one can't be sure of anyone's speed.

I was again gripped by the gravest doubts. The high school is said to be "great", but how can anyone know this? With such a population of kids, all beneficiaries of elite education since birth, with an education supplemented by private tutoring and having been wet-nursed by MIT post-docs, what school could possibly fail? What teacher could be so incompetent as to mess these kids up?

Jesse came home on the first day of school, all her grief fresh again, and cried. And I cried the next day. Well, I almost cried. My eyes glistened, anyway. We lobster-killers have hard hearts.

The Great Pander

It's been over a month since we returned from our trip to Maine. Most of that month was taken up with Pandering to Teen Daughter because Her Parents who Ripped her From Texas Feel So Guilty. The Great Pander, as I like to call it, consisted mainly of driving her and whichever friend was visiting from Texas to the beach, the movies, stately gardens, shopping, and more shopping.

Yes, the beach, or as Douglas Adams would have it, that perfect venue for "Sun, sand, and suffering." The beaches on Long Island's Atlantic side are, I discovered, as good a place as any to lose a teen. Not that I became aware of this ocean's teen-sweeping qualities right away. What you notice first is the coldness. And then you notice the waviness. They're big, especially when you compare them to the Gulf, a body of warm liquid mud that I never liked much, not even as a kid. Growing up for 3 years in Alice, Texas, some 45 miles from Padre Island, my mother and the mom next door would occasionally drive us all to the seaside. We would play in the water while our mothers would safely drink beer and have a snooze, confident that those puny little caplets wouldn't do much harm to us. Except for the odd sting of a Portuguese Man-of-War (treat with lashings of Clorox), moms and kids always returned home happy.

But the Atlantic is a much riskier proposition than the Gulf. The first time I went to Robert Moses Beach this summer, with Jesse and her first visiting crony, the undertow was freakishly strong. While we watched, the life guards rescued one swimmer after another. The people being rescued weren't drowning, as far as I could tell. They had simply ventured beyond the second breaker and discovered they hadn't the buoyancy or the strength to ride a wave back to shore. They could either really give it their all, or they could flag a lifeguard down. The lifeguards, once flagged, would trot out with a rope attached to a lifesaver and reel the embarrassed swimmer back in.

The second time we went, the undertow was revealed not to be freakish at all. It was the norm, at least for the summer of '09. This time, the waves were even bigger and the lifeguards busier. The National Guard, every so often, swept the shoreline in buzzing 'copters, scanning the waves for signs of bobbing heads that the lifeguards had missed.

But still I was somewhat complacent. By the time the third trip to the beach rolled around, I figured little could go wrong. It being a sunny day, the beach was thronged by frolickers, so much so the girls had a hard time finding a spot on the shoreline where they could dive into a wave rather than a person. Once they did secure a spot, I noted that the nearest life-guard tower was no more than 60 yards away. And judging from the swimmers all around the two girls, it looked as though you'd have to be an Olympic qualifier to swim past the first breaker, where the rip-tide was.

So, the girls were safe, right? I planted my gear and started reading, returning to check on them every quarter of an hour or so. After checking on them for the forth time and finding again that that they were no more than six feet from shore (the waves were strong enough to knock you down even that close to the beach), I decided it was time for a nap. Stepping past many a lunatic just lolling out in the sun, I returned to the shade of my big beach brolly. The sound of crashing waves was lovely, loud enough to drown out the masses all around me.

A half hour later I woke up, rose up, and walked back to the spot where the girls had been playing. They weren't there. This didn't perturb me at first. I was calm. Completely calm. Really. But then my head started pounding with all the reasons why the girls' absence was ominous. They had no money, so they wouldn't have gone to the concessions stands. They're not over-endowed with initiative, so even if they had gotten thirsty, they would not have considered the possibility of the free water fountain just a few hundred yards away. And their love of nature being fairly minuscule, it was jolly unlikely they might have gone for a walk to the prettier, non-swimmable part of the beach.

So, obviously, they must have drowned.

I looked for them for another five minutes, the certainty that their bodies would never be found growing in my mind. My finger was on my cell-phone, ready to make the terrible phone call to Mike. Fortunately, some sliver of common sense was still struggling against the rising tide of panic. "Talk to the lifeguards," I told myself. "They'll have a procedure. Let them go through that procedure, then panic."

Of course, it's utterly predictable what happened next. The life-guards were duly sympathetic and happily radioed the girls' description to all the other life-guards. The sharper of the two guards said, "You're from Texas, aren't you?" I could tell what he was thinking: silly desert-dweller does not know how to behave at the beach. "Chances are," he said kindly, "they are looking for you. I know it's hard, but the best thing for you to do is to go back to your umbrella and wait for them."

I simply wasn't ready to do that. I walked up and down the beach for another twenty minutes until I finally swung back to my umbrella and found the girls there, looking exhausted. Shocked that I could have thought anything might have happened to them, they explained that they'd been walking a long time. Though they were never immersed in water for more than seconds at a time, that was enough time off their feet for the current to gradually push them several hundred yards along the shore. When they decided they were thirsty, they realized they weren't even sure what direction they had floated in. It took them awhile to find the tiger-striped towels that they recognized.

I sheepisly walked back to the guards, and told them to stop looking for the girls.

I felt pretty stupid, but I also decided that until my kid was quite a bit older, I probably wouldn't be letting myself fall asleep at the beach again. It's not far-fetched: a 14-year-old girl sees the cool kids going further out into the water, past the second breaker, but these hypothetical cool kids don't know my kid and don't even notice that she's getting into trouble. The life-guard is yakking with his girl-friend and doesn't notice her either. This is the stupid age and in some ways a teenager who doesn't know how dangerous the world can be is just as unsafe as a toddler. I have not shared this realization with my kid, of course, who feels she's ready for pilot training (I kid you not).

The other most notable day in the string of days that made up The Great Pander, involved one of the several trips we made into New York City, aka "The City." We needed to return one of Jesse's Texas buddies to her parents, who were staying in the city for a mini-break. We got the train to Penn Station, our preferred method for getting into town and emerged above ground to find the weather uncharacteristically dry and temperate for a July day. Our friends, like myself, preferred to walk when at all feasible, so we spent much of the day walking around lower Manhattan. The highlight of that walk was a visit to The High Line, a park that has been created on the bones of an old elevated train track. Raised thirty feet above the city street and planted with all the beauties of a New York summer -- russet grasses, the last of the orange day lilies, and yellow, er, asters? -- it was a reminder that every garden is a step closer to heaven.

And I never go to New York without mentally calculating how feasible it might be, over the course of a life time, to visit every cafe and restaurant that looks enticing. And a lot of them look enticing. Our friends K&J took us to one of celebrity chef Mario Bartali's restaurants, Otto. It's a family-oriented place, the least impressive, we were told, of Bartali's establishments. I can't imagine how good the top Bartali restaurants must be. (One of them is so booked up, you can't even get in unless you just turn up when someone else has canceled). In the little eatery we dined in, everything was a balance of the homey and the unusual. I never would have thought of serving just wilted rabe as an antipasto, but the dish was beautiful, oozing with garlic and olive oil and anchovy.

After that lunch and a glass of wine, we visited a strip of Indian restaurants and sari shops somewhere in the middle of Manhattan (yes, I'm still fuzzy on the geography). I'm not sure what I'd do if I lived a mere tube stop away from an Indian grocer, where I could just buy some asafoetida any time I needed it (not that I need it -- a very smelly spice preparation -- that often). I succumb to the notion, a notion that my new goddess, Nigella Lawson, says is a great fallacy: the belief that an adventurously stocked pantry will make me a decent home cook. Goddess Nigella warns her readers not to clutter their shelves with things they only use once in blue moon. So, in this new house, I've been trying to practice some restraint. The great danger I face in having too much variety is that I forget about the variety I have. Then, stuck at the store, I buy another one of whatever it is I think I might need. So, naturally, I threw out 2 jars of asafoetida just before we came to Texas.

Must do better. Tomorrow. Because I could really use some kalonji today.

The Great Annual Vacation

Yes, we had a holiday. This is the place we stayed in on Deer Isle, Maine (pictures here ). The little cabin is what we stayed in. The big house next door is what we would have liked to have stayed in. Anyway, we haven't had a vacation in several years. Last year, we just lived on Long Island. The year before that, we went to Wimberley for 5 days. Oh, joy. The year before that, we went to Maine, which we all loved, though Jesse possibly loved it less, as nature is not really her thing. This year, we resolved to go again to Maine, grateful that we could drive somewhere nice from our new home. From Austin Texas, if you're driving, you can suffer for many, many hours while trying to flee the big unshielded nuclear reactor in the sky. Or you can go a short way and tell yourself that you really do like Port Aransas. I had grown to dislike both options.

So we packed the wagon and headed out. I’m sure our next-door neighbor regrets the arrival of Texans on her street. Leaving for our trip to Maine involved lots of shouting in outside voices from the back-door to the garage. At 5.30 AM. On a Saturday morning. In Texas, on any morning of the year practically, you can be confident of closed windows and the buzzing air-conditioners to drown out every sound of nature. Not so in New York. I belatedly tried to quiet us down when I noticed our neighbor’s cracked windows. I expect a lynching upon our return.

Fortunately, Mike the Half-Scot did most of the driving on what became an eleven hour day given all the stops. I say this is fortunate, because I was coming off some evil drug that my indifferent oncologist had put me on, saying that it might help with hot-flashes. The drug is in fact an anti-depressant and as is my luck with at least half of the drugs I take, it just made me sleepy and dopey and incapable of finishing a sentence. I hated myself on it. Withdrawal made me sleepier still. So I pretty much stayed passed out for the most of the journey, alert enough to listen to a reading of “The Code of the Woosters” over the stereo. The P.G. Wodehouse dialog has infected our speech somewhat, a fact that Jesse despises, eh, what?

Due to the fact that freeways are a decent distance from towns in the Northeast, we had to stop at roadway services several times, to eat whatever bilge was on offer. A true foodie would, I guess, pack a plastic container with a salad of smoked mussels and some slices of Pepperidge Farm at least. But I eat the bilge: powdered sugar doughnuts, Popeye’s biscuits. The memories of family holidays when I was a kid, when my mother was determined to wring every last dime out of every last meal, are not ones I treasure. My mum is probably the only woman on record who actually tried to vacations revenue neutral. Drop your standard of living far enough, she reasoned, and you can almost make money on the deal. Her own mother was no different and was always advocating we stay in whatever Crack Den Motel she could spot from the highway, the kind that always have cards left in the lobby from the local 'massage therapists', who would have

the oddest names: Busty Swallow and Purdy Haught.

Once we got across the Maine border, I took over the drive for most of the rest of the way, to a cabin I’d rented on Deer Isle, a wee island, accessible by causeway, that John Steinbeck wrote about in Charley and Me. The cabin was the only place in our price range that had a view of Frenchman’s Bay. I fancied hearing the waves at night.

But I had heard some whisperings of doom. The New York Times had only recently featured an article about great vacation rentals rip-offs. One family found their rental to be over-run with mice and mice droppings. Another family found their picturesque Maine lake to be infested with leeches. To organize a rental, I’ve always gone through agencies that specialize in holiday lets. Such agencies ensure that the cabin or house is cleaned once a week and is stocked with linens and the other basics. The last place we’d rented in Maine, three years ago, was lovely and comfortable. But the NYT article made me wonder if my luck was about to change.

We dutifully followed the instructions for finding the place, admiring the view of Deer Isle’s woods and coastline. I was gratified to find that ‘the yacht club’ our cabin was said to be near looked more like "the sloop and dinghy club". After passing this very modest harbor, the instructions for finding the cabin went a little haywire. We could see woods, trees, unpaved tracks and the main-road itself. Few actual houses were visible in the forest. There were few signs or helpful numbers. We checked for cell-phone service, so we could call the agency, but all our phones were dead. Finally, Mike parked at the marina, and advised Jesse and I to walk out on the dock, glance back to the shoreline and see if we could see our intended rental from there. We did this, and got a nice view of more rocks and birds and a house that was clearly not the one we’d paid for. I could think of nothing else to do but to walk back along the road and hope to see a helpful sign, stuck somewhere in the trees.

On foot, I spotted a tiny, well-concealed sign that had the numbers 303, at the head of one of the unpaved driveways. I walked the several hundred feet down the driveway and saw a red house the same as the picture we were given, a picture of the house next to the cabin we would rent, and the cabin itself. I groaned a little. The house was awfully close to the cabin, and clearly someone was staying in it. We would have neighbors, something the brochure had failed to mention. But I had even greater concern regarding the condition of the driveway where we’d have to bring our car. Recent, heavy rain had turned the drive into a mud wallow suitable for hippos. Or Honda Accords. The good news was the view of the sea, evident from the track where I was standing. It was everything the agency had promised. It was classic Maine coastline, rocky, with a tree-line meeting the shore-line, complete with mists and islets in the distance.

I trudged back to the marina and to Mike and Jesse, still waiting in the car. Of course, I told Mike to park the car near the mouth of the drive-way, well up above the car-eating mud-wallow. He pished and toshed, saying that he could get past that mud easily. Which he did. Only to discover that what looked like solid ground a few feet further on was just more mud deceptively covered in grass and heather. About twenty feet from the house, we were well and truly stuck, our wheels spinning like roulette-tables.

We got out and knocked on the door of the main house, hoping that we could be directed to some planks that we might be able to use make a tractable surface underneath the wheels. The lady who answered our knock was in fact the owner of the property and she looked mortified at the sight of our car. Her own car was parked a few feet away, but seemed to be on more solid ground. It had been, she explained, an awful summer thus far. Alison, as her name was, explained that she would shortly be joined by another woman, a local who was abandoning her own house, because recent rains had merged the septic with the well. She told Mike where to find the kind of planks he was looking for and while he busied himself with what I was sure would be the impossible task of getting our car out of the mud, Alison showed me around the cabin.

The log cabin turned out to be charming though not excessively maintained. You could see tiny shards of daylight between some of the logs, suggesting it might be wise to pray for higher temperatures. The place was cheerful, somehow: rustic but sturdy. The furniture did not look as firm or as comforting at the house: rickety wicker and Indian prints like you haven't seen since 1970 were the theme (I had few hopes for a soft bed and later that night I found I was over-optimistic). The house came with quirks that Alison listed off as she showed me around, chief among them a fireplace that, she promised, was a bit smoky until it gets going.

Downstairs the cabin had 3 rooms: a tiny bathroom, a small kitchen and a sitting room with the hearth and a view of the sea. A flight of stairs, the kind of hand-crafted, uneven stairs that weekend-carpenters throw together without a ruler, took us up to the sleeping loft above. The loft was all one room, with twin

beds overlooking the sea at one end and the marital bed at the other. Later, I would stress to Mike how important a life of the mind is.

I went back out to the car, certain that we would now have an hours’ long wait for a wrecking service to come tow us out of the mud. Mike had managed to cram a number of planks under the front wheels and was ready to make an attempt to spin out of the muck. He got in and with little hope I watched him gun the engine. But incredibly, the car budged an inch and with Alison and I pushing against the front hood, it came free. Mike parked our car a little closer to the solid ground that Alison’s was sitting on.

We got our stuff -- too much -- admiring the view from the window as we moved in.

Once moved in, I turned on the tap, ready to start the water for pasta. The water was murky, with a strange grassy color. It smelled like mold. I had forgotten the cardinal rule of all self-catering holidays: bring bottled water! And so while Jesse and Mike stayed in the cabin, I trudged back to the car and set the GPS to take me to Stonington, Deer Isle’s only burg. There, I found a fairly crummy market. I bought water and returned to make pasta with scallops in a gorgonzola sauce (recipe: boil pasta; simmer cream plus gorgo plus scallops; toss and serve!). We built a fire and chatted, enchanted, as logs turned to coals, then embers.

&&&

On Day Two, we spent the morning on the beach outside the cabin, skipping stones and poring over the sea life in tide pools. Jesse, though a little put out at the lack of cell phone service (and don’t even think about a wireless), accepted various lessons from her dad without much grumbling. She worked on her stone skipping technique. With the seaside ramblings and the prolonged breakfast and having to take showers or cat-baths one at a time (given the water quality, I wasn’t confident about whole-body exposure to a shower) , it was noon before we got into the car and drove to Stonington.

I wasn’t sure what to expect with Deer Isle’s one burg. I’d heard that it wasn’t nearly as touristy as Bar Harbor, and this indeed was a fact. But I can't shake some expectations that Britain cursed me with. I still expect even a semi-touristy place to have a green grocer, a butcher, a bakery, a pub. Certainly, in a town where the harbor is choked with real fishing boats, I expect a fish-monger on the main drag, instead of a short drive out of town. Stonington's focus was art galleries: fine if you can afford any, but even if I did have 5K just sloshing around, I'd buy a painting or two from this amazing painter: Dan Thibodeau. Still, the town was very pretty, with many 19^th century houses on the hillside overlooking the harbor. We wondered around, bought sweaters and lobster rolls and ice-cream. Every twenty paces, we’d stop and check for cell-phone service, never finding any. But you do see sweet and homey sights like the one that follows

The best part of Day One was the final goodnight from Jesse. We’ve had our difficulties in the last few weeks. Being resentful and sulky has been the one way she’s had of paying us back for breaking her heart by taking her from the close and very high-quality friends she had in Austin. At first, my own heart broken by her hostility, I responded with my own resentments towards her. Eventually, at Mike’s suggestion, we tried a conscious approach of extreme kindness and negotiation. Everything that she proposed, we decided, we would start treating as if it came from an adult who had legitimate concerns. This may sound like a fancy way of saying that we caved, giving in to her every whim, but that’s not quite what went on. We started treating her like a sweetly reasonable person. Slowly, she became a little nicer towards us, a little more inclined to accept a hug.

The reward last night was when she visited as me I was reading in bed, about to fall asleep. I guess it’s been months since she stopped insisting on being formally put to bed each night, a ritual I’ve sorely missed. It was lovely to have her come visit, accept a long back rub, and just show that she wanted to be in my physical presence still. Whatever happens, I’m still her mom.

&&&

In my quest to avoid becoming too much like my mother, and because I desperately need the rest after a year or turmoil and a month of hard-labor, schlepping boxes until my hands were chapped, I’ve pretty much boycotted cleaning up or tidying up the cabin. Which means that it stays in a state of chaos. We do barely manage to get the dishes washed after what meals we do cook, but clothes are strewn everywhere. Books are hither and thither. Ipods and Iphones mingle in a heap of charging cables.

You’d think this would just cause mass confusion, but the cabin is small enough that the logistics of sloppiness are not too troublesome. If object A is not in Spot B, then Spot C is never far away. Clearly, tidying up as a life strategy is over-rated.

We’ve taken what walks we could around Deer Isle. These are short and not very demanding, which suits Jesse fine. We also found ourselves drawn back to Bar Harbor and the excellent free busses that shuttle tourists around Mt. Desert Island, the large island where the Acadia National Forest is mainly located. The coast of Maine is spectacular here: craggy gray cliffs and tall pines hug the shoreline. The breezes keep the mosquitoes at bay and various sailing craft zig-zag across Frenchman’s Bay.

Possibly the best afternoon we’ve had was on a 70-year-old sailing ship, the Mary C. Lore. She’d been fitted out with limited engines to get her to and from the dock, but her sails and other equipment -- she’s a two-masted schooner -- are unchanged from the day she was built. The 3-hour voyage gave us landlubbers a chance to watch the basics of getting a ship under-sail.

And since it really takes a fair number of hands to raise those heavy sails, we were enlisted in working with the deck-hands. This involved one of the crew setting a rhythm -- “Now One, Now Two!” -- while the assembled neophytes tugged away at ropes as ordered. In about 15 minutes, all three sails were raised. As I told Jesse, such physically demanding action really increases your respect for Jack Sparrow.

After the sailing excursion, we went to dinner at the Pilgrim’s Inn, an 19^th century building on Deer Island that I failed to photograph because, like so many fine buildings in New England, you can’t photograph it without the picture being cut to pieces by the criss-crossing power and phone cables that line every street here. It’s maddening.

But the food was terrific both times we’ve been there. I always find in Maine that nothing beats boiled lobster: succulent and warm, it slides down your throat. The other great joy in Maine, I’ve discovered, is a locally distilled vodka, infused with blueberries. The blueberry edge was perfect. And the Pilgrim’s Inn makes the best Sticky Toffee Pudding I’ve had outside of England. Thank god for the hot-flashes or I’d be gaining five pounds this vacation.

&&&

After the rest, the restlessness. On Day Four we laid around the cabin and read books and played Scramble and skipped stones. On Day Five, a thick pea souper settled in. You could see the bench out in the front yard, but that was about it. So we could lay around another day or we could cut our 9 hour journey in half and perhaps sleep in a bed that was comfortable and was next to a shower that actually dispensed clean hot water. Maybe a bath would be possible! I wondered aloud if we should head back a day early. I wondered aloud about this several times, then when challenged by Mike to explain myself, I said that I was, you know, just kidding. "I want, want to stay another day," I insisted. Mike confessed that he'd like to go a day early. His books were calling.

So we packed up and parted company with Alison, the owner. She asked what could be done to make the place more comfortable, hoping, obviously, to be given a list where no item required more than thirty bob to be addressed. I'd glimpsed into the 'big house' a few times (nosiness is in the blood, I'm afraid) and noted that despite the house's bigger windows and more capacious deck, the furniture was the same lump-pillowed wicker that we'd been trying to get comfortable in. Clearly, unless you have real money in these parts, you shut the cottages down in the winter. This means you either ship your good furniture into dehumidified storage, or you only keep furnishings that you can afford to sacrifice to mold and damp. Too many more experiences like that and I'll start to understand why some people just give up and rent a camper. At least the bed will be something they can sleep on.

On the way back, we stayed in a Holiday Inn in Woburn, MA. The water was not a grassy color, but it was sort of reddish. What is going on in the northeast? But I assumed there were no health risks, so I happily wallowed in a long, hot bath, mentally planning the next year's holiday, which we're hoping will be in Britain if the money goes right. If we do that, I need to start working, now, on loosing the seven pounds I will surely gain back.

More pickies below, for those who don't want to go over to the website.