I'm sitting in our house listening to the after-effects of Hurricane Irene. She turned inland earlier, and we are now getting the windy side. The house sounds like a subway as the train is coming into the station. Earlier, we had an old maple come down next to the house, and when I say next to the house, I mean that it is touching the house. And it's a big tree. The kid woke up and wouldn't go back to bed for a while.
After a summer of relationship and PTSD hell, tons of transitions and personal learning, and a week of earthquakes and a hurricane that almost scuttled our trip up here, I am about ready for some respite. Some sense of moving forward. Cooking again. Talking about beer, literature, and whatever else seems cool again. New music. Time with the kid. New horizons, and maybe a trip or two this fall. Certainly, there is a puppy on the horizon, and that's as much of a new start as anyone could ask for.
In any case, Maine. I have a love-hate relationship with our history up here. As the youngest of eight grandchildren in an old New England family, warmth isn't exactly the first word I'd use when describing my memories of summers up here. Nonetheless, it's one of the places I know best and one of the places that has been most restorative at times in my life. Driving up from Boston yesterday after we had flown out just ahead of the hurricane, I spent a great deal of time remembering my visits here over the years — the food, the music, the beer, the company, the quiet moments, the joyful moments introducing the place to people. I remembered it in part because I had only ever been up here this late in the season once, 20 years ago, when I last experienced a hurricane.
More than that, the memories came at me because so much has happened this year, and because I am doing so much rebuilding. And this is a place that has allowed me those moments in the past. When we got here, I opened a Geary's Ale and watched my mother and the kid make crab cakes with the local peeky-toe crab meat. It's a delicate meat that has a softer, less buttery flavor than the backfin crab meat we get in Virginia. But in the past, taking over the preparation of the crab cakes and corn would have been my purview. This time, however, I was happy to sit back and watch grandmother and grand-daughter work as a team. Not only did it mean I got to relax after a long day, but it was a reminder that sometimes we can let other people do what they do well.
Even if I had an opinion about a touch of this or a touch of that in the crab cakes, the moment wasn't about control. It was perfect as is. And the food was perfect when we ate the corn, crab cakes, and local leaf lettuce (something we miss in VA right now) and tomato salad. Letting life be perfect and happy as-is (but with potential for greatness) is something I'm trying to remember as part of this rebuilding.
Showing posts with label Maine. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Maine. Show all posts
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Friday, July 04, 2008
bloggin' the Fourth, pt. 2
So, we find ourselves down at Edgewater for the annual party. The usual band is playing, minus their full set of amplifiers. It was quieter, but nice to see them roving about.
As the cannon rumbles, so must the cannon be lit. Repeatedly.
(At least no one decided to shoot Betsy's favorite broom into the bay this year.)
The pit. In some places, it might be used for a pig. Others, clams or lobsters. Here, beans and moose.
No lobsters this year, but we did pull a pretty hefty run of salmon and crab legs. Once you dive into crab legs, you realize how wonderful the meat is—and why it's so expensive... it's damned difficult to get enough out of them!
As the night (and beer) wore on, the evening turned to a perfect color. Minus, of course, the mosquitoes.
As the cannon rumbles, so must the cannon be lit. Repeatedly.
(At least no one decided to shoot Betsy's favorite broom into the bay this year.)
The pit. In some places, it might be used for a pig. Others, clams or lobsters. Here, beans and moose.
No lobsters this year, but we did pull a pretty hefty run of salmon and crab legs. Once you dive into crab legs, you realize how wonderful the meat is—and why it's so expensive... it's damned difficult to get enough out of them!
As the night (and beer) wore on, the evening turned to a perfect color. Minus, of course, the mosquitoes.
bloggin' the Fourth
6:40 a.m. — Awakened by cannon blast.
7:30 a.m. — Finally drag tail out of bed after Banana has checked the shore to make sure it's still there.
8:25 a.m. — Walk Reilly over to Edgewater to thank the owner of said cannon for the wake-up call. He has already set it off one more time since then. Owner's reaction: "Serves you right for sleeping in that long."
11:45 a.m. — Banana and other kids playing down on the rocks at Edgewater. Another dad informs me that the cannon owner and the others have been up since four working on the coal pit. I feel both envious of their drive, and glad that I managed a couple extra hours.
12:15 p.m. — Banana enters into heavy playtime with two other girls at a house above the shore road and Route 1. I begin to feel sad that we are leaving tomorrow.
3:00 p.m. — Cooling heels at the house in advance of The Party. No cannon blasts in a couple of hours.
3:15 p.m. — Banana and grandmére go up to the field to pick blueberries. Mind you: when I was young, the wild blueberries didn't ripen until August.
4:00 p.m. — The cannon goes off. The party has begun.
7:30 a.m. — Finally drag tail out of bed after Banana has checked the shore to make sure it's still there.
8:25 a.m. — Walk Reilly over to Edgewater to thank the owner of said cannon for the wake-up call. He has already set it off one more time since then. Owner's reaction: "Serves you right for sleeping in that long."
11:45 a.m. — Banana and other kids playing down on the rocks at Edgewater. Another dad informs me that the cannon owner and the others have been up since four working on the coal pit. I feel both envious of their drive, and glad that I managed a couple extra hours.
12:15 p.m. — Banana enters into heavy playtime with two other girls at a house above the shore road and Route 1. I begin to feel sad that we are leaving tomorrow.
3:00 p.m. — Cooling heels at the house in advance of The Party. No cannon blasts in a couple of hours.
3:15 p.m. — Banana and grandmére go up to the field to pick blueberries. Mind you: when I was young, the wild blueberries didn't ripen until August.
4:00 p.m. — The cannon goes off. The party has begun.
Thursday, July 03, 2008
gentrification woes
It occurred to me yesterday, as we drove into Southwest Harbor to catch the Cranberry Island ferry, that gentrification ultimately destroys a place—or at least risks changing a place irretrievably. The thought hit as I watched a late-model Mercedes SUV pass an old man walking his dogs. The SUV belonged to the new Southwest Harbor, the town that has evolved as newcomers looked for new places with the appropriate "character." In this case, character comes in the form of real working fishermen and other year-round residents. Of course, as money pours in and Southwest Harbor becomes the new Northeast Harbor (beautiful burg that hasn't been a "working" place in years), the people who created that character (that old man with his working pants, massive white beard, and aging mutts, for example) are crowded out.
The flip side of this equation happens in towns like Winter Harbor. Winter Harbor has its fair share of moneyed summer communities nearby, but it is very much a working town that has been hit hard by the ups and downs of the past ten years, including the closure of the nearby naval base. The rough patches were exacerbated when Roxanne Quimby came in with grand plans to gentrify the town and make it into a "destination." Central to the plans were a massive restaurant built at the center of town. The place was designed and built to stellar specifications, and was designed to become the flagship restaurant for her thirty-something son and his chef-girlfriend. Unfortunately, running a restaurant on the coast of Maine wasn't their bag, and when they tried to turn management and part-ownership over to new people, the beautiful restaurant proved to be too costly to run. It didn't help that the place stood no chance of connecting with most of the year-round population. Result: a multi-million dollar white elephant at the heart of a town that's already holding on by its callused fingertips.
The flip side of this equation happens in towns like Winter Harbor. Winter Harbor has its fair share of moneyed summer communities nearby, but it is very much a working town that has been hit hard by the ups and downs of the past ten years, including the closure of the nearby naval base. The rough patches were exacerbated when Roxanne Quimby came in with grand plans to gentrify the town and make it into a "destination." Central to the plans were a massive restaurant built at the center of town. The place was designed and built to stellar specifications, and was designed to become the flagship restaurant for her thirty-something son and his chef-girlfriend. Unfortunately, running a restaurant on the coast of Maine wasn't their bag, and when they tried to turn management and part-ownership over to new people, the beautiful restaurant proved to be too costly to run. It didn't help that the place stood no chance of connecting with most of the year-round population. Result: a multi-million dollar white elephant at the heart of a town that's already holding on by its callused fingertips.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
artifacts
This morning, Banana was up and about very early. We went down to the shore, and trotted back up for breakfast after a bit. Once she'd eaten, she got very tired and climbed into my arms. She was warm—not burning, but definitely not a normal temperature either. I asked my mother whether we had a thermometer in the house. She said she wasn't sure and went to rummage around around in the bathroom. She returned, saying all we had was an old mercury thermometer, and put this box on the table in front of me.
Given the design, typography, and materials, I would have to guess that the package dated from the forties—perhaps even before my grandparents built this house in the early fifties. that guess is helped by the small mark branding the thermometer as a Rexall product. Given the effort to build and brand the Rexall name in the late forties, the timing seems right.
On opening the box, the discovery became even more interesting. Both the manufacturer's mark (Brooklyn!) and the numbers appear to have been hand-painted and hand-etched. It is nearly impossible to imagine any mass market product that has such detail applied in this day and age.
This kind of direct connection to history is unique, I think, to summer homes built in the era when families could truly "summer" in a whole other place than they lived the other nine or ten months of the year. In the cases of some towns along the coast, that meant simply transplanting an entire echelon of society for a few months, i.e. Baltimore money summered on one point while Boston money summered on another point. In the cases of communities such as ours, that meant mixing centuries of local history (families with deep regional ties) with lives lived elsewhere.
The end result is that you find homes filled with artifacts like six decade-old thermometers, spice tins filled with long-stale paprika, toasters that should have died years ago, a grandmother's favorite work gloves, and generations-worth of collected beach treasures. In the case of toasters and appliances, you might feel guilty replacing them because they have nostalgia going for them, but the reality is they continue to work well because they have only been used two months a year for decades. (It is this way with the waffle maker I long since appropriated from the house.) In the case of spice tins, you don't bother replacing them; you simply supplement with fresh spices bought in smaller bulk quantities. The old tins remain because, well, they've always been there.
All this said, I should point out that there are at least two kinds of summer homes. There is the functional sort—cabins, we might call these—where order and nostalgia take a backseat to kids' feet made dirty and wet from trips to the beach. Chaos rules brilliantly in these homes. Then there is the nostalgic sort—cottages, we might call them—where preservation takes precedence and dirt is quickly whisked away. Order rules calmly in these homes.
As I've gotten older and become a parent, I've struggled with what this means to me, whether it's just a nice perq of our family (our summer house) or whether it is a legacy that I must carry on in some way (our living history). I've come to understand (accept?) it as both, but I've also begun to think about how I want Banana to see the place. In the long-run, I suspect my vision may may be noisier than history.
Given the design, typography, and materials, I would have to guess that the package dated from the forties—perhaps even before my grandparents built this house in the early fifties. that guess is helped by the small mark branding the thermometer as a Rexall product. Given the effort to build and brand the Rexall name in the late forties, the timing seems right.
On opening the box, the discovery became even more interesting. Both the manufacturer's mark (Brooklyn!) and the numbers appear to have been hand-painted and hand-etched. It is nearly impossible to imagine any mass market product that has such detail applied in this day and age.
This kind of direct connection to history is unique, I think, to summer homes built in the era when families could truly "summer" in a whole other place than they lived the other nine or ten months of the year. In the cases of some towns along the coast, that meant simply transplanting an entire echelon of society for a few months, i.e. Baltimore money summered on one point while Boston money summered on another point. In the cases of communities such as ours, that meant mixing centuries of local history (families with deep regional ties) with lives lived elsewhere.
The end result is that you find homes filled with artifacts like six decade-old thermometers, spice tins filled with long-stale paprika, toasters that should have died years ago, a grandmother's favorite work gloves, and generations-worth of collected beach treasures. In the case of toasters and appliances, you might feel guilty replacing them because they have nostalgia going for them, but the reality is they continue to work well because they have only been used two months a year for decades. (It is this way with the waffle maker I long since appropriated from the house.) In the case of spice tins, you don't bother replacing them; you simply supplement with fresh spices bought in smaller bulk quantities. The old tins remain because, well, they've always been there.
All this said, I should point out that there are at least two kinds of summer homes. There is the functional sort—cabins, we might call these—where order and nostalgia take a backseat to kids' feet made dirty and wet from trips to the beach. Chaos rules brilliantly in these homes. Then there is the nostalgic sort—cottages, we might call them—where preservation takes precedence and dirt is quickly whisked away. Order rules calmly in these homes.
As I've gotten older and become a parent, I've struggled with what this means to me, whether it's just a nice perq of our family (our summer house) or whether it is a legacy that I must carry on in some way (our living history). I've come to understand (accept?) it as both, but I've also begun to think about how I want Banana to see the place. In the long-run, I suspect my vision may may be noisier than history.
travelin' observations
A couple of quick notes...
That said, this is what the road looks like when you get away from the traffic:
- Why is it that certain older couples begin to dress alike—same shirts, same shorts, and so forth? Is it so they can distinguish each other in the crowds at outlet malls?
- On the topic of outlet malls, Freeport was busy yesterday, though the crowds did seem a little lighter than usual. Also notable were the number of signs advertising sales. You know things are bad when factory outlets begin deep-discounting. L.L. Bean was also advertising thirty percent off sale prices, a highly unusual move for them too.
- Wilco over the sound system at Whole Foods... um... I am part of a demographic now.
That said, this is what the road looks like when you get away from the traffic:
Monday, June 30, 2008
travelin' 2
There was definitely a lot of this over the weekend. Saturday, I opted not to to do the (potentially slower) cutaway through smaller roads in Virginia, Maryland, and Delaware. As a result, we ended up with a lot of high-speed merges at very slow speeds.
By the time we got to New Jersey, I was fried, Banana was cranky, and nothing seemed better than cooling our heels there an extra day. Our single adventure en route involved a stop at an old-school Baltimore seafood joint.
It was the sort of place where the walls are hung with pictures of local notables from decades past who have written nice notes to the now-deceased owner about their wonderful dining experiences. The sort of place where I was—by a generation—the youngest patron there, and Banana may have been the first child in ages. Besides a few obvious regulars, there was the requisite table of blue-hairs enjoying manhattans and white wine before their house special crab cakes. Presiding over it all were two of the sketchiest wait-people I've seen in a while. Their white shirts and black pants were mostly clean. The man's teeth were so bad that Banana even talked about them later, and the woman was in that indeterminate window of thirtiesh-with-a-very-rough-history. All that aside, the crab cake was very, very good. And very, very large. Really. A good two and a half inches thick. All crab, no breading, just mayo, eggs and Old Bay seasoning to hold the thing together. In the end, Banana and I did just fine sharing the crab cake, and it made for a good break between traffic jams.
Fast forward to Monday... We hit the road early Monday morning after a day chilling out with the cousins in Montclair. I'd prepped Banana the day before that I was buying food at Whole Foods for breakfast and for the the rest of the trip. Though I probably didn't save any money with the Whole Foods run vs. fast food on the road, I can report that we lunched on caprese sandwiches—fresh mozzarella, roma tomatoes, prosciutto, and pesto on excellent crusty bread assembled at a rest stop—instead of anything prepackaged. When it came to snacks, we had cherries and local blueberries, among other things.
That's all well and good, and the rest of the drive to Maine was uneventful. Unfortunately, I am now certain that Banana is fighting something. When we arrived, she was still moody, then she rejected a smoked salmon appetizer—this from a girl who never rejects any kind of salmon. Then she decided she was too tired for dinner. As she fell asleep, she was sweaty and feverish. Hmmmm...
By the time we got to New Jersey, I was fried, Banana was cranky, and nothing seemed better than cooling our heels there an extra day. Our single adventure en route involved a stop at an old-school Baltimore seafood joint. It was the sort of place where the walls are hung with pictures of local notables from decades past who have written nice notes to the now-deceased owner about their wonderful dining experiences. The sort of place where I was—by a generation—the youngest patron there, and Banana may have been the first child in ages. Besides a few obvious regulars, there was the requisite table of blue-hairs enjoying manhattans and white wine before their house special crab cakes. Presiding over it all were two of the sketchiest wait-people I've seen in a while. Their white shirts and black pants were mostly clean. The man's teeth were so bad that Banana even talked about them later, and the woman was in that indeterminate window of thirtiesh-with-a-very-rough-history. All that aside, the crab cake was very, very good. And very, very large. Really. A good two and a half inches thick. All crab, no breading, just mayo, eggs and Old Bay seasoning to hold the thing together. In the end, Banana and I did just fine sharing the crab cake, and it made for a good break between traffic jams.
Fast forward to Monday... We hit the road early Monday morning after a day chilling out with the cousins in Montclair. I'd prepped Banana the day before that I was buying food at Whole Foods for breakfast and for the the rest of the trip. Though I probably didn't save any money with the Whole Foods run vs. fast food on the road, I can report that we lunched on caprese sandwiches—fresh mozzarella, roma tomatoes, prosciutto, and pesto on excellent crusty bread assembled at a rest stop—instead of anything prepackaged. When it came to snacks, we had cherries and local blueberries, among other things.
That's all well and good, and the rest of the drive to Maine was uneventful. Unfortunately, I am now certain that Banana is fighting something. When we arrived, she was still moody, then she rejected a smoked salmon appetizer—this from a girl who never rejects any kind of salmon. Then she decided she was too tired for dinner. As she fell asleep, she was sweaty and feverish. Hmmmm...
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
the world
is too much with us here and now late and soon. There is so much to worry about, from food to toys to war-mongering to so many other things. I'd rather just think about this:
Monday, July 09, 2007
Quote of the Day
I just stumbled across a note I made in Maine a week and a half ago:
"Do starfish sleep a little later than people?"
This was Banana's question when she discovered that the starfish we had brought back from Edgewater seemed, um, not to be very responsive despite our efforts to put together a nice little tidal ecosystem on the shore. It was at that point that I realized I had used a basin that probably had decades of bleach residue imbued in the plastic. Oops.
The comment is closely rivaled by tonight's at Sticky Rice, after she had decorated Piko with a tutu and fuschia shoes: "She's so stylish."
"Do starfish sleep a little later than people?"
This was Banana's question when she discovered that the starfish we had brought back from Edgewater seemed, um, not to be very responsive despite our efforts to put together a nice little tidal ecosystem on the shore. It was at that point that I realized I had used a basin that probably had decades of bleach residue imbued in the plastic. Oops.
The comment is closely rivaled by tonight's at Sticky Rice, after she had decorated Piko with a tutu and fuschia shoes: "She's so stylish."
Thursday, July 05, 2007
Foodblogging - Isleboro Dock
During our foray out to the Cranberries, the first stop was a late lunch at the only restaurant on the islands-- the Isleboro Dock. It's an informal place with a short menu: a couple of salads, chowder (out of it), a mezze platter; the obligatory burger, crab roll, lobster roll, and two bbq sandwiches; and a third section that offered lobster at market price and "Something Steamed." The steamed something turned out to be mussels, and I ordered them, along with a Bar Harbor Real Ale. It was the first I'd had either on this trip...
The beer, I know. It was good, as always--especially because it was on tap. The mussels? Oy. Double oy.
I've never had mussels this good. The broth was butter and white wine over a perfect stock. There were cloves of roasted garlic that had simmered for so long they melted in your mouth. Carmelized onions added an unexpected smokiness to the dish, and the fresh oregano--from the garden across the road--lent a pungent punch to the whole thing. The bread came from a bakery in Northeast Harbor, and it was crusty and airy. Perfect to soak up the brodo.
I worried about being hungry afterward, but there was no chance of that. (Of course, snacking off Banana's perfectly crisp french fries helped too.)
And when the power went out mid-meal for a few minutes, that didn't throw anyone for a loop. Life is slower on an island, and if I could eat like this for the rest of my life... oy. I'd live a happy man.
The beer, I know. It was good, as always--especially because it was on tap. The mussels? Oy. Double oy.
I've never had mussels this good. The broth was butter and white wine over a perfect stock. There were cloves of roasted garlic that had simmered for so long they melted in your mouth. Carmelized onions added an unexpected smokiness to the dish, and the fresh oregano--from the garden across the road--lent a pungent punch to the whole thing. The bread came from a bakery in Northeast Harbor, and it was crusty and airy. Perfect to soak up the brodo.
I worried about being hungry afterward, but there was no chance of that. (Of course, snacking off Banana's perfectly crisp french fries helped too.)
And when the power went out mid-meal for a few minutes, that didn't throw anyone for a loop. Life is slower on an island, and if I could eat like this for the rest of my life... oy. I'd live a happy man.
A trip to the islands...
Grandma, Banana, and I decided to take the ferry to the Cranberry Islands this afternoon. The weather was awful all morning and kept plans in the air until Banana decided that she would rather take a boat ride than see Flash in the Pan. I was torn so I gave her the choice. Flash is a wonderful, amazing, community-driven show that is full of energy; I love it, but this is what we ended up with:
The ride out during the fog proved to be even more interesting than Grandma and I expected. The seas were fairly calm, and the air was crystalline.
What is truly remarkable is the singular feeling of being on an island. Nothing compares. Whether it is an island off the Brazilian coast (Ilha Bela) or the Irish coast (Inish Moor or Inish Boffin) or Little Cranberry Island, there is a common feeling to island culture--a combination of friendliness and suspicion, and a quiet awareness of isolation. It's remarkable, really.
Anyway, I've now marked Little Cranberry as a point for further exploration. I like the feel of the place, the remoteness punctuated by the honest friendliness of the people we met. There isn't more to write, sadly, about the place because we didn't have enough time there. The next post will explain why...
The ride out during the fog proved to be even more interesting than Grandma and I expected. The seas were fairly calm, and the air was crystalline.
What is truly remarkable is the singular feeling of being on an island. Nothing compares. Whether it is an island off the Brazilian coast (Ilha Bela) or the Irish coast (Inish Moor or Inish Boffin) or Little Cranberry Island, there is a common feeling to island culture--a combination of friendliness and suspicion, and a quiet awareness of isolation. It's remarkable, really.
Anyway, I've now marked Little Cranberry as a point for further exploration. I like the feel of the place, the remoteness punctuated by the honest friendliness of the people we met. There isn't more to write, sadly, about the place because we didn't have enough time there. The next post will explain why...
Schoodic oddness
Check out these satellite topographic projections:
Stunning, right?
The trick is that these are actually pools of concentrated sea salt on Schoodic Point. Never seen this sort of thing before. Tidal pools that were neglected and dried up into salt supplies.
Stunning, right?
The trick is that these are actually pools of concentrated sea salt on Schoodic Point. Never seen this sort of thing before. Tidal pools that were neglected and dried up into salt supplies.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
frogs and more frogs
This is the most recent incarnation of Hopper. Hopper 7, the sequel you might call him.
He (?) was one of the smaller bullfrogs Banana caught at Little Tunk, and one of two this afternoon. He (?) was quite an amiable little bullfrog, and Banana insisted that he liked her. Even as he tried to hop away a few times. After a while, I insisted that he needed to be returned to his home in the reeds. She was slow about it, and I got a little more frustrated than I wanted to be.
This age is a lot of fun--and one can only hope that the various creatures see their experiences as adventures. Banana seems much more aware of the world around her, asking lots of questions about things around the house and suddenly saying "whee" as we go over little hills in the car. But for all those fun moments, there are all the little pains in the neck like when she repeatedly tried to negotiate for more time with the frog.
So this is the battle: No versus But.
He (?) was one of the smaller bullfrogs Banana caught at Little Tunk, and one of two this afternoon. He (?) was quite an amiable little bullfrog, and Banana insisted that he liked her. Even as he tried to hop away a few times. After a while, I insisted that he needed to be returned to his home in the reeds. She was slow about it, and I got a little more frustrated than I wanted to be.
This age is a lot of fun--and one can only hope that the various creatures see their experiences as adventures. Banana seems much more aware of the world around her, asking lots of questions about things around the house and suddenly saying "whee" as we go over little hills in the car. But for all those fun moments, there are all the little pains in the neck like when she repeatedly tried to negotiate for more time with the frog.
So this is the battle: No versus But.
Monday, July 02, 2007
starfish
For generations, kids have pulled starfish and other things like urchins, crabs, sea dollars, sea cucumbers, and moon snails from the tumbled down granite blocks on the point below Edgewater Cabins.
This jumble of granite blocks was a steamer dock in the early part of the century when Sullivan was a prosperous little burg on the coast. Much of the granite used to build Washington DC among other places came out of local quarries and passed down this landing onto steamer ships. Sullivan also had a thriving silver mine industry.
When things went into decline after the twenties, the dock went into disrepair and eventually became an unrecognizable pile of heavy granite blocks.
For the generations since, it has been a boon. Kids whose families owned houses on the road mingled with kids whose families rented cabins or houses by the week as we scrambled over these blocks. We scraped our knees on rough edges, cut the soles of our feet on barnacles, and risked what must have seemed like life and limb in pursuit of the perfect starfish. Why? Because there are few places I've ever been where you can so easily reach into the water and find this:
In recent years, they've put in the new dock and float off the point, and shored up parts of the pile. To those of us who've been here for years, the changes are obvious but understated enough to be "acceptable." Regardless, the starfish have survived well, though there seem to be fewer big ones now. Other changes in the ecosystem are evident, though. Sanddollars seem to be entirely gone; sea cucumbers are rare, though a few anemones still survive; urchins and crabs are around, but there is no sign of moon snails.
Still, the starfish remain. Banana and future generations can still pluck starfish from the rocks and leave them out to dry. I hear it's possible, though I never managed to get anything but a stinking mess out of my efforts to dry one. But being a kid is--and should be--all about optimism.
This jumble of granite blocks was a steamer dock in the early part of the century when Sullivan was a prosperous little burg on the coast. Much of the granite used to build Washington DC among other places came out of local quarries and passed down this landing onto steamer ships. Sullivan also had a thriving silver mine industry.
When things went into decline after the twenties, the dock went into disrepair and eventually became an unrecognizable pile of heavy granite blocks.For the generations since, it has been a boon. Kids whose families owned houses on the road mingled with kids whose families rented cabins or houses by the week as we scrambled over these blocks. We scraped our knees on rough edges, cut the soles of our feet on barnacles, and risked what must have seemed like life and limb in pursuit of the perfect starfish. Why? Because there are few places I've ever been where you can so easily reach into the water and find this:
In recent years, they've put in the new dock and float off the point, and shored up parts of the pile. To those of us who've been here for years, the changes are obvious but understated enough to be "acceptable." Regardless, the starfish have survived well, though there seem to be fewer big ones now. Other changes in the ecosystem are evident, though. Sanddollars seem to be entirely gone; sea cucumbers are rare, though a few anemones still survive; urchins and crabs are around, but there is no sign of moon snails.
Still, the starfish remain. Banana and future generations can still pluck starfish from the rocks and leave them out to dry. I hear it's possible, though I never managed to get anything but a stinking mess out of my efforts to dry one. But being a kid is--and should be--all about optimism.
Sunday, July 01, 2007
Little Long Pond and the Rockefellers
Acadia National Park exists because of the Rockefellers. Much of Mount Desert Island exists because of the Rockefellers, the Astors, and other obscenely wealthy families over the last century and a half.
In the thirties when John D. donated his land Mount Desert to the National Park system, he created a wonderland of nature available to the public. The family did, however, keep some significant chunks of land around their houses and the "secret" garden John D. built for his mother. Part of this land is included in the Little Long Pond carriage road loop.
As an aside: the Carriage Roads were the centerpiece of Rockefeller's holdings on Mt. Desert. They are a beautifully graded and engineered system of roads for horses and carriages. They have become an essential connective tissue of Acadia, an important way for people to get from trail to trail and to ride bikes and horses.
Little Long Pond is better kept, however, than the rest of the network. The private Rockefeller crews keep the property beautifully, and there are no bikes allowed. The only horses allowed are those owned by the various parts of the family. The loop is kept open for the public, as well, and one benefit the family offers is that dogs are allowed off-leash. Unlike the rest of the park system, this allows for people to take a three to four mile hike with their dog roaming and saying hello to other dogs. It's brilliant and rare.
Add to this the stunning natural beauty of the woods and the wide-open fields, the pond with its fish and tadpoles, the beaver huts, the occasional moose, and you have the recipe for an Eden-like setting. Never forget, however, that you are a guest. This is not a warning; just an acknowledgment that we are lucky to have people who still do this.
In the thirties when John D. donated his land Mount Desert to the National Park system, he created a wonderland of nature available to the public. The family did, however, keep some significant chunks of land around their houses and the "secret" garden John D. built for his mother. Part of this land is included in the Little Long Pond carriage road loop.
As an aside: the Carriage Roads were the centerpiece of Rockefeller's holdings on Mt. Desert. They are a beautifully graded and engineered system of roads for horses and carriages. They have become an essential connective tissue of Acadia, an important way for people to get from trail to trail and to ride bikes and horses.
Little Long Pond is better kept, however, than the rest of the network. The private Rockefeller crews keep the property beautifully, and there are no bikes allowed. The only horses allowed are those owned by the various parts of the family. The loop is kept open for the public, as well, and one benefit the family offers is that dogs are allowed off-leash. Unlike the rest of the park system, this allows for people to take a three to four mile hike with their dog roaming and saying hello to other dogs. It's brilliant and rare.
Add to this the stunning natural beauty of the woods and the wide-open fields, the pond with its fish and tadpoles, the beaver huts, the occasional moose, and you have the recipe for an Eden-like setting. Never forget, however, that you are a guest. This is not a warning; just an acknowledgment that we are lucky to have people who still do this.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Blue Hill Farmers Market
We started coming to this market in 2003, the summer we spent up here, and got to know some of the farmers. It's a small crew of local, exclusively organic farmers and the obligatory artisans. The produce is of a generally excellent quality--though it's still just greens season here--and more reasonably priced than at the markets in Richmond--$3 for a bag of mesclun instead of $5. It is still early in the season, however, so we only picked up mesclun, spinach, and chevre.
One of these days I'll have to be more adventuresome and buy things like beets and turnip greens.
One of these days I'll have to be more adventuresome and buy things like beets and turnip greens.
Stink at Little Tunk
As a protected body of water, pollution should be minimal to non-existent at Little Tunk. That's why it was an unpleasant surprise to find foam and a yellow residue on the shore on our most recent excursion.
Most of it had accumulated near the reedy area where Banana and the other kids had been catching bullfrogs on Wednesday. Not knowing the source of the scum and yellow residue, I vetoed frog hunting. Banana was disappointed, though she soon found other ways to occupy her time.
Unhappy about the pollution, I was still happy there wouldn't be a debate over whether a frog could come home with us.
Most of it had accumulated near the reedy area where Banana and the other kids had been catching bullfrogs on Wednesday. Not knowing the source of the scum and yellow residue, I vetoed frog hunting. Banana was disappointed, though she soon found other ways to occupy her time.
Unhappy about the pollution, I was still happy there wouldn't be a debate over whether a frog could come home with us.
Friday, June 29, 2007
foodblogging - the lobster edition
Banana and I headed over to Tidal Falls tonight for our dinner out for the week. She loves lobster, and it seemed fair to split a lobster. Little did I know I would really only end up with the tail. Nonetheless, that's not the point, right?
Tidal Falls has been around in one way or another for a number of years. It was originally one of the best working pounds in Hancock, and as any good pound did, it served basic shore dinners. Most of these old pounds are gone now. The Cardinal at the bridge has become a wholesale outfit. Gordon's and others along the Route 1 corridor have closed up over the years, as did Tidal Falls for several years.
It reopened in the early eighties, owned and operated by a French woman I only remember as Madame. Her lobsters and moules were impeccable, and as a good French chef, she never skimped on the side items she offered, and the bread was always fresh. She also always kept a stash of wine even though the restaurant was technically BYOB; the deal was you replaced the bottle the next time you came. When she retired, the Frenchman Bay Conservancy raised the money to buy the point to keep it from being developed and to use the restaurant to fund their efforts. So how has it gone?
The menu now includes a thorough selection of fried options. When I tried the scallops last year, I was impressed. The breading was light, and the scallops themselves were excellent quality. The new operator has added barbecue to the offerings.
He clearly is quite serious about the 'que, based on the set-up he has going. He also talked about how depressing it was to have to store and reheat food since he hadn't figured out the pace yet. (Apparently, the Conservancy is also against him advertising anything other than the lobster and fried seafood. Go figure.)
Anyway, the initial impression is actually a bit of sticker shock. Prices on lobster have climbed precipitously this year, with hard shells coming off the boat at close to nine dollars. Market price at the restaurant then becomes a painful fourteen bucks a pound. (Note to self: we'll have to check Beal's in Southwest Harbor to see what prices at a working retail operation are running.) In keeping with what I'm seeing everywhere right now, however, other prices are rising too--the most criminal example being Anna's four-dollar lemonade. But the real test comes in the food, right? So here it is:
The lobster was perfect and succulent. It seemed dirtier than it should have been, but then the days of Madame tightly controlling her supply are gone. In any case, Anna tore into the small claws and had some of the meat from the bigger claws before retreating to the garlic bread. I shared the big claws with her and had the tail, and it was very good. The corn was also good, though not as tasty as the corn I put on the grill earlier in the week. Even the cole slaw was good. The main downside was the garlic bread which was basically a hero role slathered with butter and garlic powder, not even much of a trace of minced garlic as it should have had.
Overall, the food was good, not great. (Yes, my veggie friends will crow that we shouldn't even be going through this.) But the thing about Tidal Falls is that half of the experience is the location--a tidal falls (runs in and out with the tide) between Frenchman Bay and Taunton Bay, across the narrows from our house:
In the dead-calm water between the tides, you can watch seals fish, herons and ospreys fly over. It's a stunning spot, and back in the cove are the remnants of its days as a working pound.
The water isn't as clean as it used to be, but then that's nothing new. Unfortunately.
Tidal Falls has been around in one way or another for a number of years. It was originally one of the best working pounds in Hancock, and as any good pound did, it served basic shore dinners. Most of these old pounds are gone now. The Cardinal at the bridge has become a wholesale outfit. Gordon's and others along the Route 1 corridor have closed up over the years, as did Tidal Falls for several years.
It reopened in the early eighties, owned and operated by a French woman I only remember as Madame. Her lobsters and moules were impeccable, and as a good French chef, she never skimped on the side items she offered, and the bread was always fresh. She also always kept a stash of wine even though the restaurant was technically BYOB; the deal was you replaced the bottle the next time you came. When she retired, the Frenchman Bay Conservancy raised the money to buy the point to keep it from being developed and to use the restaurant to fund their efforts. So how has it gone?
The menu now includes a thorough selection of fried options. When I tried the scallops last year, I was impressed. The breading was light, and the scallops themselves were excellent quality. The new operator has added barbecue to the offerings.
He clearly is quite serious about the 'que, based on the set-up he has going. He also talked about how depressing it was to have to store and reheat food since he hadn't figured out the pace yet. (Apparently, the Conservancy is also against him advertising anything other than the lobster and fried seafood. Go figure.) Anyway, the initial impression is actually a bit of sticker shock. Prices on lobster have climbed precipitously this year, with hard shells coming off the boat at close to nine dollars. Market price at the restaurant then becomes a painful fourteen bucks a pound. (Note to self: we'll have to check Beal's in Southwest Harbor to see what prices at a working retail operation are running.) In keeping with what I'm seeing everywhere right now, however, other prices are rising too--the most criminal example being Anna's four-dollar lemonade. But the real test comes in the food, right? So here it is:
The lobster was perfect and succulent. It seemed dirtier than it should have been, but then the days of Madame tightly controlling her supply are gone. In any case, Anna tore into the small claws and had some of the meat from the bigger claws before retreating to the garlic bread. I shared the big claws with her and had the tail, and it was very good. The corn was also good, though not as tasty as the corn I put on the grill earlier in the week. Even the cole slaw was good. The main downside was the garlic bread which was basically a hero role slathered with butter and garlic powder, not even much of a trace of minced garlic as it should have had.
Overall, the food was good, not great. (Yes, my veggie friends will crow that we shouldn't even be going through this.) But the thing about Tidal Falls is that half of the experience is the location--a tidal falls (runs in and out with the tide) between Frenchman Bay and Taunton Bay, across the narrows from our house:
In the dead-calm water between the tides, you can watch seals fish, herons and ospreys fly over. It's a stunning spot, and back in the cove are the remnants of its days as a working pound.
The water isn't as clean as it used to be, but then that's nothing new. Unfortunately.
the meaning of summer
For the moment, impoliticeye appears to be turning into a photo-narrative essay blog. That's not such a bad thing. Neither is this perfect justification for a vacation afternoon at Little Tunk:
Thursday, June 28, 2007
on the coast
Today, we packed lunches--a lesson well-learned from yesterday's extended excursion to Little Tunk--and headed farther Down East to Schoodic Point. For those who do not know, Schoodic is a mainland extension of Acadia National Park. It's near Winter Harbor, and is a good spot for scrambling around some really cool granite coastal formations. It's also a favorite spot for kids who grow up spending their summers around here:
Even Reilly looked a little more spry after acting like a mountain goat:
You're facing out to the North Atlantic, the territory of rafts of gulls and serious fishermen. In fact, watching boats like this after all the politics I've been dealing with lately makes me wonder if I'd rather cash in my chips, and do something where there are no chess-like mindgames to play:
The surf might be no more predictable, but at least it doesn't smile at you while finding ways to screw you...
And it's a lot more fun to watch.
But I forgot the point. The point is what we can find. Or what Banana can find. Thankfully, nothing came home with us today.
Banana then found twins from New Jersey to follow her to tidal pools. These girls were a few years older, but they were great at exploring with her. A few minutes after this shot was taken, however, one twin's protectiveness proved even more valuable when Banana took what could have been a painful plunge off the rock face. The girl caught her arm, and Banana emerged wet but mostly unharmed.
A short time later, I snapped this as we headed off Schoodic toward Darthia Farm. This little shed is on the edge of Wonsqueak Harbor, and has had these signs painted on the side for as long as I can remember. Never shot it until now...
Even Reilly looked a little more spry after acting like a mountain goat:
You're facing out to the North Atlantic, the territory of rafts of gulls and serious fishermen. In fact, watching boats like this after all the politics I've been dealing with lately makes me wonder if I'd rather cash in my chips, and do something where there are no chess-like mindgames to play:
The surf might be no more predictable, but at least it doesn't smile at you while finding ways to screw you...
And it's a lot more fun to watch.But I forgot the point. The point is what we can find. Or what Banana can find. Thankfully, nothing came home with us today.
Banana then found twins from New Jersey to follow her to tidal pools. These girls were a few years older, but they were great at exploring with her. A few minutes after this shot was taken, however, one twin's protectiveness proved even more valuable when Banana took what could have been a painful plunge off the rock face. The girl caught her arm, and Banana emerged wet but mostly unharmed.
A short time later, I snapped this as we headed off Schoodic toward Darthia Farm. This little shed is on the edge of Wonsqueak Harbor, and has had these signs painted on the side for as long as I can remember. Never shot it until now...
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