Materiality

I learned a new word the other day – materiality. I got it from A Splendor of Letters by Nicholas A. Basbanes.  The author takes up the question of whether a book is a collection of words that may be presented in any format, or if it’s an object to be respected, even revered.  My edition of A Splendor of Letters is printed on fine acid-free paper.  It has weight. The letters are sharply defined and easy to read. The dust jacket is satiny and pleasant to touch. The picture on it is a vast library of old books. The volume has materiality. 

Books on the computer don’t. You summon them up like insubstantial spirits, and the words appear before your eyes.  Basbanes notes the contrast between turning actual pages and scrolling down.  On the other hand, a book, being material, takes up room.  My space for books has run out. If I decide to keep A Splendor of Letters, something else must go. 

I picked up the book a couple of weeks ago and enjoyed reading it so much I may give it a place on a shelf.  It will have to be dusted from time to time, and there’s no certainty I’ll consult it again.  On the other hand I’ll be able to look at its spine and remember the pleasure it gave me.  The book is a first edition published in 2003. Its description of computers is a little dated.  Basbanes’ latest book is titled On Paper, and I notice that I can purchase on Kindle. If I do, the book will lack materiality. 

Actually I don’t own a Kindle.  My friends, who do, praise them. They say Kindles are great for traveling.  You can load them with a collection of books to read on a plane or train or during airport delays.  I use paperbacks for that.  I buy them at used book sales, and when I’ve read them, I leave them in seat back pockets or hotel rooms. 

I like to read pre-owned books, and I like to pass them on to other owners. I imagine maids or airplane cabin cleaning crews carrying my paperbacks away.  Maybe they’re trashed, but I send them on to take their chances in the world.  Flicker editions don’t end up at used book sales. 

Like Basbanes, I value materiality in books, but I also I admire the internet.  It used to be that only devout students of the Bible could quote it chapter and verse.  Now all you need to know is a half-remembered phrase.  The feeding of the five thousand came to mind.  (I’m a foodie and that’s my favorite miracle.) I Googled “loaves.”  I didn’t even have time to put in fishes because “Loaves and Fishes Bible” appeared on the screen.  A click of the mouse and I knew it came from John 4:1-14. It made me feel smarter than I am.

It would have taken me hours to find that passage with Bible in hand.  They wouldn’t have been unpleasant hours, and maybe I would have learned something along the way.  There is a certain opportunity for serendipity with a material book.  My house was built in 1910 before all this computer business came along.  On the landing of the stairs there’s a built-in bookcase where I keep my poetry.   If I weary during my climb, I stop and pluck a book from my shelf and open it to a page. It’s a habit I don’t want to give up.

The Kindle ad tells me I can access a million books.  I’m tempted by that.  I used to have a dream that I found a door in my house I never noticed before.  I entered and found myself in a wonderful library, and I wandered among the shelves.  The Kindle ad taps into that dream.

 Maybe I don’t need materiality, but I like it all the same.  With books, I’m like my father-in-law, who used to carry a lot of cash in his wallet.  He liked his money close at hand.  I run my hand over my bookcases like a miser fondling his gold.  I’m a materialist and will remain that way as long as I can.  If I go to assisted living or, God forbid, a nursing home, storage space will be at an even greater premium.  Then I’ll settle for a Kindle, provided I still have eyesight and a working brain.   

The other day we went to the Vine Hills Cemetery to bury my mother in the family plot.  It’s a woodsy spot, and I don’t mind thinking about as a resting place for my own body when it comes to that. I’m happy that mayflowers flourish over the graves, and this time I noticed wintergreen berries.  As we were waiting for the mourners to assemble, I took this photograph.  Perhaps it was unseemly for me to be snapping a picture, but the image comforts me.

50 Foods

Edward Behr is not a man with whom I’d like to go to the supermarket.  A strawberry comes to perfect ripeness for only a day. Anything that has been shipped is not to be considered.  You should buy lamb from a farmer you can trust. Chestnuts are best in the weeks after the harvest.  By Christmas they are already in decline.  So there, Nat King Cole! 

“Most commercial wine vinegar doesn’t taste like much, because it starts with cheap wine, which can give it a muddy taste and off flavors. And the industrial process doesn’t help,” he writes in 50 Foods, which I recently picked up at the Plymouth Library and have been reading with interest.  Don’t even get Behr started on supermarket balsamic vinegar.

 He writes, “Supermarket asparagus, so many days having passed, has muddy, unclean, nearly human flavors.”  “Nearly human!”  Has he been lunching with cannibals? Behr is a gourmet of the old school who combines his enthusiasm for the best with his scorn for anything less.  I have to agree that fresh asparagus is better, and if it has been shipped from Argentina, I’d just as soon leave it alone.  Like him, I prefer the green variety to the more expensive white.  He likes north Atlantic oysters, and so do I.  I think I could serve him freshly opened Island Creeks, without shaking in my shoes.

I don’t mean to imply I didn’t like the book. I enjoy fantasizing about butter churned from fresh unpasteurized cream, preferably in the spring. I agree that the old fashioned varieties of corn that had to be eaten very fresh were better than the modern genetically modified corn that retains a sweetness that tastes like corn syrup to me.

I agree with him that grass-fed beef can be terrible.  He says sometimes it’s great, but I haven’t found that kind yet.  Naturally he thinks supermarket beef is inedible.  With beef, as with nearly everything else, Behr wants to know the farmer.  He is extremely knowledgeable and provides a wealth of information about farming, storing, processing, and shipping.  I find reading him enjoyable despite the impression he gives me that I have seldom experienced the best of anything.  

He motivates me to frequent farmers’ markets, specialty cheese mongers, butchers, and fish markets.  Knowledge can’t do me any harm, and I can keep an eye out for something good.  With Behr’s guidance I will ask the right questions. That being said, I have to eat every day, and the supermarket is where the food is.  He has not made me dyspeptic over my buttered toast, my burger, or my vinaigrette.

The Gate

I was going to call this "The Autumn of Life," but nobody likes a morbid old man.  When I took it I had just heard a marvelous performance of Beethoven's 9th Symphony by The Boston Baroque Ensamble at the Strand Theater in Dorchester and was feeling great. 

Swedish Fish Martini

The effort it takes not to be curmudgeonly increases alarmingly with the passing years.  Not only is there a danger of general grouchiness, but there are pet peeves one compulsively harps upon.  With me the list is topped by the new “martinis.”  I’ve written about this before.

A couple evenings ago, Annette and I dined at Sushi Joy. Our waitress was 55 years my junior and of Chinese extraction. She was trained to converse fluently about the menu, but on topics ranging away from the printed word, the linguistic waters became deeper, and she floundered. 

I said, “I’ll have a Tanqueray martini straight up with an olive.”

“What kind of martini?” she asked.

“Those drinks listed on the menu are not martinis.” I explained. “A martini is made of gin and vermouth.  I want a classic martini.” 

She recognized my pedagogical tone as I instructed her about the true nature of a martini, and her attention skipped to the part where I was making an order. “A crassic martini,” she said and headed in the direction of the bar.  I reflected that I’d been redundant.  A martini is a classic.  The distinction had been unnecessary.

A few minutes later she returned, flustered and embarrassed. “What kind of martini?” she wanted to know.

I accompanied her to the bar and made my order directly to the bartender, who was skilled in her trade and made an excellent drink. 

I was reminded of the incident today when I looked at a cocktail list and saw I was able to request a Swedish fish martini.  After a puzzled interval I began to understand that the drink would not taste of herring or any other finny denizen of Scandinavian waters.  A Swedish fish is a candy.

I am a man of infinite tolerance. If a person wishes to enjoy a drink that tastes like a piscine confection, I may not agree with his choice, but I will defend to the death his right to make it.  Only let’s not call it a martini.  Couldn’t we please just call it a Swedish fish cocktail, no matter what the shape of the glass in which it served.  And might we not do the same for drinks flavored with apples, pomegranates, or in the newest abomination on the same list as the Swedish fish, pumpkin pie.   

Let the younger set not be so grievously confused. Someday they will achieve maturity and turn in moments of weariness and stress to that solace of mankind, the martini – provided they know what it is.

 

 

 

Oxford Creamery

It got to be a joke.  It seemed every time we passed the Oxford Creamery on Route 28 in Mattapoisett it was closed, and we speculated they saw us coming and had all the customers move their cars and hide. We’d heard rumors of good food, but had just about given up tasting it. The other day, however, we detected activity. We were headed for Turk’s, and my mouth was watering for their shrimp Mozambique, but life stirred at the Oxford Creamery and it was an opportunity not to be passed up.

 

Having operated on the spot for eighty-two years, Oxford Creamery is the type of old time eatery I love.  Brightly painted in blue and white, it evokes the past.  The interior is festooned with signs that substitute for a menu.  Their prices are old fashioned too, and with sandwiches starting at $2.50 and soft drinks at $1.25 you can easily get lunch for under $5.00. 

 

Seats inside may be at a premium, but there are picnic tables just outside the door and in a grassy area on the far side of the parking lot.  The food is available to go, and you could take it to Ned’s Point Lighthouse, and eat it with a beautiful view of Mattapoisett Harbor.

The lobster roll is $11.50 and comes with coleslaw and fries.  It’s packed with lobster meat with no filler and only a light coating of mayonnaise. We each had one. The accompanying raspberry lime rickeys were a tad sweet and benefitted from squeezing the eighth of a lime garnish to add a little tartness.  

 

If, upon reading this, you are motivated to journey to the South Facing Coast and eat at The Oxford Creamery, you’ll have the same experience we used to have.  We got lucky on the last day before it closed for the winter, and they weren’t sure exactly when they are going to reopen in the spring.  Let the thought of sitting in the sun enjoying some old fashioned New England food sustain you through the ice and snow and visit http://oxfordcreamery.com/  when the crocuses bloom.  By that time the management  will probably have decided on the opening day. 

Glen Breton

 

For whisky to be called Scotch, it must be made in Scotland, but a spirit made elsewhere of the same ingredients and using the same methods can have remarkable excellence.  One such is Glen Breton, which is made in “New Scotland,” or Nova Scotia, Canada.  This fall I visited the beautiful  Glenora Distillery on Cape Breton Island and brought home some of what they term North America’s first single malt whisky. 

The claim could be disputed.  Under Scotch whisky regulations, single malt Scotch whisky must be made exclusively from malted barley.  It must be distilled using a pot still, and must be aged for at least three years in oak casks of a capacity not exceeding 700 liters. There are some American whiskey’s advertised as single malts that are made from malted rye.   

My friend John Sgammato and I briefly discussed the technicalities as I poured out glasses of the souvenir I’d brought home , but our main interest was to discover (1.)  did Glen Breton taste like Scotch? And  (2.) did it taste good?  Our answer to both questions was yes.  A review by P.P. at the Wine Enthusiast website had this to say:

“The delightful aroma features scents of spice, dried banana, cinnamon/nutmeg; ginger, egg cream, and a hint of honey. The palate entry offers a  zesty, spirity warmth; by mid-palate the pleasing tingle is replaced by round tastes of honey coated cereal, sweet oak, and candied almond. Finishes elegantly, smoldering warm, and resiny  bittersweet. A world-class malt whisky.”

Wine critics are well known for their imaginations.  As  we sipped, neither John nor I mentioned Honey Bunches of O.  In fact I think the flavor is simpler than the review implies.  John referred to the mid-palate taste as biscuity. We found the whisky approachable and easy to drink. 

Each single malt whisky has its own personality.  Unless you have a lot of money and a very large liquor cabinet, you have to choose a favorite.  Glen Breton would make a comfy friend.  It has the attraction of being made on our very own continent, and the disadvantage that it doesn’t seem to be sold in Massachusetts.  You can buy it in Connecticut, however.  The Glenora Distillery website provides a list of merchants in the United States where you can find it.  Check it out at http://www.glenoradistillery.com/ It has the added advantage of being a rarity.  You will enjoy offering it to your friends.

"Gravity"

Yesterday Annette and I went to see "Gravity."  The movie is extremely well made and absolutely harrowing.  Cured the last of my desire to be an astronaut.  Only two characters played by George Clooney and Sandra Bullock do a great job.  Would I go see "Gravity II?"  No.  I came out theater wrung out.  It was very realistic, especially if you see it in the big screen 3D version as we did.  You can probably get the DVD for the price of two tickets.  Then you can take a break and catch your breath and come back to it when you feel able. 

Legal C Bar

  

I was an early fan of Jasper White.  I traveled to Boston to eat at Jasper’s, his dazzling restaurant on Atlantic Avenue.  I still swear by his book, Jasper White's Cooking from New England.  When he opened Summer Shack in Cambridge I made the trek and found it huge, cold in atmosphere, and mediocre in cuisine.  I love real seafood shacks, and White’s version wasn’t even close. 

When they opened a Summer Shack at the Derby Street Shops in Hingham I kept trying it. After all, I thought, it’s owned by Jasper White, surely he’ll bring it around.  I had some good fish there, but never an entire meal without a serious flaw. The restaurant deserved to close and did. 

The good news is that it has been replaced by Legal C Bar.   Okay, it’s a dumb name, and the sparkly sign looks like it belongs on a used car lot.  The atmosphere inside might be better when the places is full.  It’s a large dim room devoid of charm, and it was nearly empty when we were there for lunch on a Tuesday.  Never mind that; the food was outstanding. 

It’s a new concept by Legal Seafood.  I’ve always found their restaurants dependable.  I’ve never had fish that wasn’t fresh and well-prepared.  That’s saying a lot.  Where else would you eat at Logan Airport or bring an out-of-towner for scrod?  A lovely piece of fresh fish, perfectly cooked is exciting enough for the likes of me, but Legal Seafood never went for glitz.

Until now. 

For lunch Annette had fried Malpeque oysters from Prince Edward Island with a seaweed salad.  You squeezed a fresh lime wedge over a mixture of salt and cinnamon and dipped each oyster into it.  Cinnamon on oysters? It not only worked; it made your taste buds snap to attention and salute. It’s a marvelous thing to go to lunch when you’re shopping and get a dish that gives you something pleasant to think about for the rest of the week. 

I had the signature crab cake.  It was made of lump crabmeat that was not overdone.  In fact it was like a warm crab salad just stuck under the salamander long enough to brown it a little.  It was moist and flavorful and came with a sprightly green salad.  I got a side of onion strings that were expertly done.  To drink, Annette enjoyed a perky rosé wine, and I had a draft Fisherman’s Ale from the Cape Ann Brewing Company. 

Annette got a side of sautéed Swiss chard that was a little too chewy.  This was the only flaw, and I must admit underdone greens are fashionable.  The chard was garlicky and studded with toasted pine nuts.  I think the dish was the way it was supposed to be; it just wasn’t to my taste.

For dessert we shared a banana bread pudding that was sweet and tasty.  This was particularly pleasing after the disastrous desserts we suffered at Summer Shack.  We got a wedge of blueberry pie there that is  enshrined in our all-time pastry hall of shame.  I must add that the coffee at Legal C was so good I’m still thinking about how it tasted.  I must also commend Mary Ellen our server, who was helpful and charming.   

I’m recommending Legal C Bar to you and anyone else who will listen.  I think you’ll find the daring dishes aren’t just gimmicky, they’re well thought out.  If you’re not the sort to take risks, there is plenty of plainer fare backed by Legal Seafood’s well-known dependability. 

 

Stuffed Clams

Ingredients

12 coarsely chopped little neck clams.  Ours were cooked.

1/2 cup chopped parsley

1/2 cup chopped Portuguese Chorizo

1/2 cup chopped red onion

1/2 cup chopped sweet red pepper

1/4 cup chopped celery

2 tbs. clam juice.

1/2 cup crisp breadcrumbs.  We get them from My Little Bakery in Duxbury

1/4 teaspoon seasoning mix.  We used Penzy's Southwest Seasoning. 

2 dashes hot sauce.  We used Tabasco.

1 grind black pepper

1 pinch dried time (not powdered) or finely minced fresh thyme -- optional

1 tbs. olive oil

1 tbs. butter plus a little more to dot clams

 
Method

Sauté the clams, onion, red pepper, celery, and chorizo in the butter and olive oil.
Season with seasoning mix, thyme, hot sauce, and black pepper. 
Mix in breadcrumbs and moisten with clam juice.
Stuff the mixture into clam shells, dot them with butter, and put them in an aluminum foil lined pan.
Bake in a 375 degree preheated oven for ten to fifteen minutes or until nicely browned. 

Smoked Beef

 

When I was writing my newspaper column, I got an email from a reader who said he didn’t like French food.  It seems he’d been to Montreal and gotten a bad meal.  I told him French Canadians are French the way I’m English.  I have English ancestors, and I speak the English language, although not the same way the English do.  The food ways of my culture have strayed from those traditional in England. I don’t eat bangers and mash or spotted dick.

Having been in the business, I know writers are oppressed by deadlines and under pressure to find something to say.  When I read that driving to Montreal is like visiting Paris without the airfare, I roll my eyes.  They speak French in Montreal, but Paris it ain’t. 

In Canada French cooking is an imported cuisine the same way it is in Boston or Dallas.  Like my reader, I’ve had some disappointments.  On my latest visit, I hit the jackpot because I chose a local delicacy for which the city has become known – smoked beef. 

I had some time waiting for a train and made my way to Reuben’s Delicatessen at 1116 Rue Sainte-Catherine Ouest. Behind the counter a man was hand cutting pink slices of succulent beef which are stacked on bread and served with fries.  You can get the regular, which is mountainous, or you can get the large.  

The meat is tender, juicy and flavorful, and I found I could eat more than I thought at f first.  In fact I recommend Reuben’s for a Montreal lunch, and would go there again for the same meal.  The flavor of the beef is slightly spicy and lightly smoked.  As a native Canadian delicacy, I give it top rating. 

For dessert get the cheesecake. It is lighter than the New York style and easy to eat after stuffing yourself on a sandwich.

Prince Edward Island

When you get to my age, you’ve been wrong so many times, you get so you expect it. I didn’t think you could get great food on Prince Edward Island.  After all, who ever heard of P.E.I .cuisine?  I predicted that my visit was certainly not going to be gastro-tourism.  I’d heard it is nice there, but at mealtime I expected to be underwhelmed.

I was pleasantly not surprised to find I’d added one more faulty prediction to my lengthening list. Nice is an appropriate adjective for PEI.  It’s an island of rolling farmland.  There are fields of corn, but it isn’t Iowa.  These are family farms.   There are lovely beaches, a light house or two, and very little else to attract crowds.  The people are friendly. 

Nothing these days is trendier than locavore cuisine, but on Prince Edward Island it’s just what they’ve always had.  Why would they go elsewhere to get ingredients?  Of course the farming is sustainable. It has to be.  Since you’re on an island, the seafood is fresh.  The cooking is simple, but what better way to treat such amazing food?

The hottest tourist attraction on the island is the town of Cavendish, the home of Anne of Green Gables.  Well of course Anne Shirley is a fictional character, but her creator, Lucy Maud Montgomery, lived there, and the house that inspired her story is preserved. 

The book Anne of Green Gables so charmed Annette in her childhood that she had always wanted to visit Prince Edward Island, so there we were.  Even I, who have read the book, felt a pang when I explored the house and came to door of Anne’s room.  Yes I know Anne is a made up person and never lived in a room.  Even Lucy Montgomery never lived in the house, so it wasn’t her room either, but sometimes you forget reality when you’re under the spell of a good book. 

This being the biggest tourist attraction in the province, there are collateral lures. I was a little disturbed to see the bright plastic of Shining Waters Fun Park and even more so to find that Cavendish has its own Ripley’s Believe It or Not Museum, where you can see a two-headed sheep, a hand painted vampire bat, and a twenty foot section of the Berlin Wall. 

My alarm dissolved when I realized that’s about all the blight there is.The area is like Cape Cod as envisioned by Patty Paige. There are no condos or McMansions or even cottage clutter to block your ocean view.  There are tourist cabins, but few motels.  There’s not a fast food restaurant in sight. If your children are bored with all the scenery, they can play miniature golf. 

And when you have explored the Haunted Wood and wandered down Lover’s lane, which were named by the young Prince Edward Island author whose sweet naiveté charmed thousands, you can have dinner at Chez Yvonne’s. It is a sizable restaurant with a deck. Located as it is in the center of a tourist area, one might assume that its owner would figure that his patronage consisted of one-time visitors, who wouldn’t be back no matter how good the food.  But if you order turkey soup, the turkey is fresh killed from the farm of a relative.  The fish is brought daily to local wharfs, and the deserts are freshly made.

Our waitress was so friendly, she was thankful that it was September, and the crowds had vanished so she had time to find out where we were from and what we thought of her island home.  Chez Yvonne’s was about to close for the season , and the mistress of the tiny nearby post office said that in a few weeks you could fire a cannon down Route 6 without the danger of hitting anyone. 

There is still a narrow road in Plymouth that in my father’s youth was the way to Cape Cod.  There is a grade called Blacksnake hill that is so steep they used to drive the Model T’s up backwards so the fuel tank behind the driver would be above the motor and the gravity feed would still bring gas to the engine.  The date I think about is 1910, the year my house was built and the insurance agency I used to own was bought by my Grandfather.  Instead of a park on Water Street, there were wharfs and ships chandleries, and seamen’s saloons. 

I like to imagine Plymouth and Cape Cod as they must have been in those days, and the closest I can come to it is Prince Edward Island.  I want to go back and spend more time getting to know the people, wandering the countryside, and eating the beautiful food.  The twenty-first century looms offshore.  It has already enveloped much of Nova Scotia, but the countryside of Anne Shirley still exists, and it is worth the trip.

Poutine

I put off trying poutine until my last day in Canada.  There were lots of good things to eat, and even when I braced my taste buds for the ordeal, there were some very delectable Digby clams I could have ordered instead. Poutine is french fries soaked in gravy accompanied by cheese curds.    It’s adored in Montreal where the dish originated and has spread throughout Canada. It is reportedly making inroads into the United States.  I considered it my duty to try some. 

I had a food snob’s aversion to poutine, but having tasted it, I must admit it has a certain appeal.  I knew I was consuming so much fat and salt the mere thought of it would give the nutritionist at the Jordan Hospital Cardiac Rehab a case of uncontrollable shakes and possibly send her into a catatonic state.  I knew I should shove it away and order a salad with the dressing on the side, but as with other junk food, one bite invited another, and before I knew it I had cleaned my plate. 

Poutine is comfort food.  It is soft, warm, salty, and loaded with fat.  The gravy soaks the fries so they are no longer crisp, and it is unevenly distributed so the texture varies as you eat.  There are many versions to be had.  If oil fried potatoes and fat-based gravy aren’t rich enough for you, you can get poutine with bacon – sometimes with pulled pork and bacon.  I’ve heard some people eat fries with spaghetti sauce and melted mozzarella, although I haven’t witnessed this with my own eyes.  According to Wikipedia, poutine is sometimes served with lobster, shrimp, duck, lamb, or rabbit.   There are plainly depths to be plumbed before a poutine addict hits bottom.

Like chili and pizza, there’s no definite recipe, and I’m sorry to say mine had melted cheese instead of the cheese curds, which I’m told squeak when you bite them.  This is a traveler’s tale and not a learned treatise.  Further research is definitely required.  

Man vs. Mouse

Let me say at the outset it wasn’t my idea.  It was a scheme conceived by an engineer.  I don’t mean a train driver; he’s a brainy type who creates elaborate solutions to simple problems.  Our summer cottage is close to nature, and that includes mice.  Once in a while one of them gets in and scampers about in the loft above where we sleep.  With this I can deal. 

The solution was a two-pronged attack using the latest technology.  First he would build a barrier against invasion using cans of mouse-proof foam that he would squirt into every chink.  The foam would harden into an impenetrable solid.  The propellant smelled toxic, but I suppose it wasn’t.  Mice, the engineer felt, are a problem, and problems are meant to be solved.  I endured the odor without comment. 

The second defense was a system of traps, which consisted of plastic trays full of stickum.  The mouse would wander into the tray and be held fast by the goo.  No bait was needed.  I felt allowing the poor creature to die of starvation, or more likely dehydration, was cruel.  My sin, however grievous, was one of omission.  It was, of course, my cottage, but the engineer was adamant about the need and his methods.  I allowed the plan to go forward, and when it had been carried out, I left the traps in place.

During the nights of an entire month Annette and I enjoyed the slumber of the innocent.  There was no scampering of tiny feet amplified by the floorboards of the loft above our heads.  I concluded that the barrier had worked. I now summered in a mouse-proof cottage, which was a good thing.  Then, one night we were awakened by a terrifying racket. 

This was no familiar skitter at which we could smile and go back to sleep.  Something strange was in the house.  We are a family that believes in the equality of the sexes when there are dishes to be done, but at this midnight hour the issue was not brought up.   I got out of bed to investigate.  Out at the beach we are off the grid and live without the benefit of electric lights, but I had a heavy flashlight that could double as a club.  I seized it and sallied fourth. 

The noise was coming from the loft.  I climbed the iron ladder and had a look around.  There had been four of the sticky mousetraps near the top of the ladder; now there were three.  I shone the light around, but I couldn’t see where the missing trap had gone.  However, I went back down and reported to Annette that my reconnaissance had determined the 500 pound gorilla theory could be crossed from the list. 

There had been silence while I was moving around, but now the noise resumed.  With the clue of the missing trap, I was able to identify the cause.  A plastic tray was being dragged across the floor.  If we were to get any sleep, something had to be done.  Once again I climbed the ladder to the loft.

I shone the light systematically, and this time I saw him.  He was a plump and vigorous creature, but definitely a mouse of the species with which we are familiar.  He had somehow gotten his hindquarters into the goo and had been dragging the trap around by running with his front feet.   The mouse twisted its body and looked with terror in my direction.  I was an enormous beast wielding a ray of sunlight that pierced the soft and comforting darkness.  I was the personification of rodent doom.

I, on the other hand, felt no corresponding thrill of power. I needed a battle plan.  The loft is used for storage, and an adult human cannot walk about in it fully erect.  The mouse was over by the eaves.  I could crawl on my hands and knees and reach him.  I could probably overtake him, if he attempted to flee.  I could grab the trap from the side away from the mouse and carry it with my hand out of range of his tiny teeth. 

There would plainly be difficulties.  I imagined proceeding on all fours back to the ladder with the trap in one hand and the flashlight in the other. I had a smaller flashlight I could hold in my mouth, but images of the surgical procedure it would take to remove it from my trachea flashed through my mind.  And how was I to get down the ladder?

I could hang onto the ladder with one hand, but I’m not as agile as I once was.  Holding the trap away from myself during the descent seemed difficult, and I didn’t know what parts of my scantily-clad body might come within range of the rodent’s ravening jaws.

I could throw the trap and its victim over the side onto the floor below, but that seemed cruel.  There was also the danger that the landing would jolt the mouse free, and I would have the task of chasing a sticky and terrified creature around the cottage in the presence of a woman whose composure would be severely challenged. 

Of course I could hand the trap down to Annette who could take it out onto the dunes, where its occupant would eventually exhaust himself and die a painful and gritty death. I rejected that option without extensive thought.

 I returned to the bedroom.  The scraping continued too loud to be ignored.  We had obligations the next day and needed to sleep.  We dressed, locked the cottage, and beat an ignominious retreat.  It was 2:30 when we sank into slumber in our year-round home.

Aided by daylight, and ready with a revised strategy, I resumed the field of battle with the dawn. I was armed with a lawn rake to fish the trap from under the eave and a bag to transport it.  I reasoned that the mouse would still be alive. He was a robust opponent and wouldn’t have starved. I planned to drown him in the ocean.  Annette was shocked at cruelty I have not heretofore displayed, but I thought the alternate plan of bashing him with a beach stone would be more apt to haunt my nightmares in the years to come.

The honorable hunter tracks his wounded prey. Even if it’s a lion that has retreated into a thicket and may charge from hiding, he doesn’t leave it to suffer. It was with this thought that I mounted the ladder to the loft. 

The trap wasn’t where I’d seen it last.  I stalked it diligently.  I moved an inflatable bed, two enameled lobster cookers, and some plastic dishes with seaside designs.  And there was the trap.  It held patches of mouse fur, but no body parts or blood. My adversary was free. Presumably he ran through the unblocked passage and out into the wild.

If he could talk, what a story he'd have to tell – an evil snare, a sunlight wielding giant, and at last escape. Proudly displaying his stickiness and bald spots, he would become famous from Bert’s Cove to Bug Light.  Awed mouselings would pass the tale down the generations. It was he who triumphed, and I raise my glass to him.

Labor Day

            I checked the forecast for Labor Day Weekend.  Normally I can’t look that far ahead in the summer because the portable radio I have at the beach seldom gives extended forecasts, but today I’m in shore.  We’re emptying the cottage refrigerator in preparation for shutting it down.  I pondered whether or not to bring in the gin, but there’s enough Rose’s lime juice for one more gimlet, and I still have some tonic.  No sense being rash. 

Still the summer’s winding down. I wanted to make a gallant presentation of a sprig of sea lavender to a woman visiting from Japan, but I couldn’t find any of the pale blue flowers that bloom underwater at high tide. The osprey chicks are flying now and their nest is often empty when I pass by.  The eel grass is getting a reddish hue.  The tree swallows are flocking up in preparation to migration.  I shall migrate as well. 

Having moved to my winter quarters, I’ll sleepily click a TV remote, and get a weather forecast in the morning.  I’ll have my evening drink without the view of Plymouth across the harbor, and I shall slowly revert to the consumption of martinis. I’ll summon the chimney sweep in preparation for fireplace fires.

I make my new year’s resolutions in September.    I intend to get into the city more often, travel the roads, pick apples with my grandchildren, and bake beans.  As do all who resolve, I fall short of my intentions, but my life changes.  No more will I buy boxes of chicken broth in the supermarket. On a cool day, I’ll simmer chicken parts and make my own broth to freeze.  I’ll knead bread, or at least pizza dough.  Cape Cod will unclog, at least on weekdays, and I’ll venture down Route 6A. 

I won’t get excited about peak foliage.  The turning of the leaves is a long and beautiful process.  There are the maples in Vermont and the swamp blueberries in Myles Standish State Forest.   There are the yellow locusts and the wine-red oaks.  Outside my bedroom window, the cherry tree that in spring looks like the froth on a strawberry ice cream soda will be resplendent in red-orange leaves. 

It is with fall as with the autumn of life – a season that must be taken a day at a time.  I’ll not look back to my daily walks when my feet splashed in the shallows of Cape Cod Bay, nor forward to the time when the pavements will be slippery with ice.  I’ll inhale the crisp air and give thanks.

 

The Joy of Function

Jonathan Swift said, “Everybody wants to live forever, but nobody wants to grow old.” I think of that when I visit my mother in the nursing home and especially when I complain to the staff about the inadequacy of her care.  Sometimes they’re not prompt about answering her bell when she needs to be helped to the bathroom in the middle of the night. I picture a gaggle of underpaid aides sitting around chatting with buzzers going off all over the floor and reflect that, if you don’t die in a timely fashion, you’re doomed to lie in cold piss. I come from long-lived stock.  I want to enjoy the benefits before I pay the price.

Sometime around 3:00 a.m., I awake from a dream in which I’m looking for a rest room and have somehow gotten lost in endless corridors.  I fling my legs over the side of the bed and remember not to hop up, which would make me dizzy.  I shuffle my feet lest I trip over a shoe in the path to my destination.  Somehow the house gets darker than it used to, but I know the way. 

Is it sacrilegious to pray in the bathroom?  I remember reading that some Jews think so.  Sinfully or not, I offer my thanksgiving that I am vertical and functioning.  I wait for it to be over.  The shut-off doesn’t work as it once did, but the dribble ends.  I wet my hands, pump the soap bottle, rinse, rub, and use the towel.  Smelling of lavendar, I shuffle back to bed. 

I compose my mind, trying not to think of what needs to be done or what I should have said to that cop twenty years ago.  I have received a blessing. It’s one I didn’t appreciate for most of my life, but I do now.  I breathe slowly in and out.  Breath is good too.

 

Small Holidays

I’ve been sick.  Yesterday I got up and brushed my teeth, which exhausted me so thoroughly I went back to bed and slept until 1:30 pm.  Somewhat refreshed I managed to doze through two Buffy the Vampire Slayer reruns, after which I napped.  It gave me insight as to what my mother feels like at 98. 

Today I’m better. I went down to the garden and picked a bowl of mint.  It’s Derby Day, and I plan to celebrate with mint Juleps.  I’d love to have ham biscuits, but that is not to be. 

I’ll probably exhaust myself on my hand cranked, knuckle-busting ice crusher, but I insist on freshly crushed ice for my juleps.  I don’t have silver julep cups, but I find that I can make a good julep if I smash the mint on a plastic cutting board and then put it into the glass.  Perhaps smashing is the wrong word as clobbering the herb can give the drink too strong a mint flavor. 

I’ve been in Lexington Kentucky during Derby week, where ersatz juleps are sold everywhere made with mint syrup, bar bourbon, and a droopy sprig of mint for garnish.  Somewhere the drink must be served in the classic manner, but I haven’t yet found the place.  I’m sure I make damn Yankee Juleps, and one of these Mays I hope to tour the finest bars in Kentucky and engage in serious research. 

Lacking a gold standard for mint muddling, I’m letting my taste buds be my guide.  I’m planning to hit it a little more gently this year.  A julep should be sweet, and it’s a little easier to get that the way you want.  I use simple syrup.  I make this by heating equal parts sugar and water to a simmer until the mixture us perfectly clear.  When it cools I put it into a screw top jar and store it in the refrigerator.  It will keep for quite a while, but watch for dark spots of mold, and when you find them, throw it out and make some more. 

Tomorrow is Cinco de Mayo, and I’m on to margaritas.  The secret for those is fresh lime juice.  Don’t be cheap, and don’t be lazy.  No bottled lime juice or margarita mix.  Don’t use premium tequila or fancy French orange liquor.  Make the drink with regular amber tequila and triple sec.  Forget the recipe on the triple sec bottle.  I use a four-to-one tequila to triple sec ratio.  Because triple sec provides sweetness I add a tiny bit of simple syrup.  I make the shortest possible pour because I like my margaritas tart.  I taste mixture with a silver spoon, and if it’s right I shake it up. Rub the rim of the glass with the rind of one of the limes and dip moistened rim in salt.  Coarse kosher salt is fine.  So is margarita salt if you prefer. 

 I think tomorrow I’ll manage some nachos.  Under the circumstances, I’m not planning to make my own guacamole.  Some of the store-bought brands are quite good.  These mini holidays provide bright spots to help get us fogies through the year.  If you have to skip one or cut down a little on a menu, so be it.  Maybe next year it will be better.  My motto is persist.

 

Ring

In my mother’s house, I came across an object I hadn’t  given a thought during my adult life, but which I instantly recognized as my old Cub Scout ring. It bears the image of a wolf’s head, underneath which is blazoned, “Cubs BSA.” Inside is the numeral 6, which I take to be the size and below that the word “sterling.”

In economics there are varying theories of value.  Marx believed that the value of a good was the labor that went into making it.  There is a utilitarian theory.  If you are freezing for lack of a fire, a book of matches you picked up for free may have enormous worth.  Then, of course, there’s market value.  The ring may be desirable to collectors of Boy Scout memorabilia, but it’s nothing that would cause gasps on “Antiques Roadshow.”

For me none of these theories shed light on my feeling for the little ring.  It has no utilitarian value whatever. I won’t wear it or earn prestige from possessing it.  To others it would be a mere curiosity and not much of a one at that.  I can’t even claim it’s beautiful.  When I saw it, my feelings seemed to precede my thoughts as though the little silver ring had a magical effect upon my heart. 

As a child I wore the totem of the wolf’s head on a ring.  There was a Halloween party in a cottage on Micajah Pond.  We wore blue uniform shirts, gold neckerchiefs and Jeans.  No one sprung for the blue pants with the gold piping on the seams.  We bobbed for apples and ate donuts hung from strings without touching them with our hands.  We cracked wise.  Blindfolded we touched peeled grapes that were dead men’s eyes.  No party today could be so much fun.  We were cubs playing in a den, but we didn’t grow into wolves. 

Sakimura

I am not usually a patron of Japanese steak houses. I went to Benihana when it was all the rage, and It’s a show I’ve seen, but I was in Meriden, Connecticut to celebrate the birthday of the daughter of a friend.  The guest of honor selected a restaurant called Sakimura, so who was I to complain? 

The major feature of the décor at Sakimura is two full size plastic trees. One has green leaves as though it were summer. The other had orange leaves with autumn sunshine streamed through them from a spotlight attached to the ceiling.

I was ready for a drink, and when the young waiter came to take my order, I reeled it off.  The waiter said, “More slowly, please.” Enunciating clearly, said, “I’ll have a Tanqueray martini, straight up with an olive.”

He said, “Only drinks on menu.” 

“You mean you can’t give me a classic martini,” I said incredulously.

“Only drinks on menu.”

“I drink what I drink,” I declared importantly.

“Only drinks on menu.”

I hadn’t looked at the drink menu, but remembered hearing that Sakimura is noted for its scorpion bowl. “I want to talk to the bartender,” I demanded.

“Bartender not here.”

“How are you going to serve us drinks if you don’t have a bartender?"

“Shhhh,” said Annette. In my exasperation, I had permitted myself an increase in the volume of my voice. Heads were turning in my direction. 

I rose from my seat and headed for the bar.  There was a kid there.  It seemed that everyone who worked at Sakimura was a kid, but as I get older I seem to find that’s often true.  “Are you the bartender?” I asked.  He said he was.

“Do you have Tanqueray gin?”  I asked. “I see you do,” I added, pointing to the bottle behind the bar.  He got it down. 

“Do you have vermouth?”  He looked confused.

I glanced sideways at the autumn tree, wondering what rabbit hole I’d fallen down.  “Vermouth,” I said slowly.

A look of understanding came over his face, and he produced a bottle of Martini & Rossi dry vermouth.

“Good,” I said, “Please make me a Tanqueray martini. Do you have olives?”

 He nodded.

I returned to my seat.  In a moment the waiter approached, sheepish with loss of face and carrying the drink. I sipped. It was perfect. Annette, who had ordered  a mai tai, visibly relaxed. In a far corner of the restaurant our waiter was talking to a waitress and pointing at me.  I hadn’t made a friend.

 

 

When he returned, I ordered an appetizer called a Treasure Island.  It turned out to be an atoll of thinly sliced avocado surrounding a lagoon of mango puree filled with pieces of raw tuna.  It was beautiful and delicious. I passed it around

We were seated at a teppanyaki table with a grill surface in the center. Our chef arrived in a flurry and began juggling his knife and spatula.  Annette leaned toward me and whispered, “Go with the flow.” I nodded. The martini was working its magic, and I’d already decided I would. The chef performed his flashy routine that included an impressive blaze on his grill surface.  The food was heavy on carbs – lots of rice and noodles, but it was filling and tasty. 

Allysa, my friend’s seven-year-old granddaughter asked the chef.  “Are you from China?”  He said he was.  Her mother explained that Allysa was learning about China in school.

“What part?” the chef wanted to know.

“The great wall, “Allysa said, “They built that to keep out enemies who wanted to kill China.” 

“It is very old,” the chef said.

I believe the whole staff of Sakimura may be Chinese, and possibly the ownership as well.  Many Chinese know the restaurant business, and Japanese food is an area in Asian cuisine that is not oversaturated.  I saw that my early problems were caused by linguistic difficulties and not incompetence with the job.  It was a good restaurant all in all.

When I got home I visited my mother in the nursing home and sat with her while she ate her dinner.  One of her tablemates asked for a cup of coffee, and when it came she said it was cold. The waitress added some more from the same pot. “It’s still cold,” the woman complained.

 The waitress said she’d done all she could.  I suggested she take the cup to the kitchen and stick it in the microwave. 

“We’re not allowed to heat things up,” she said, “Someone might get burned.”

I can see that going with the flow is a virtue a fogy needs to cultivate. I’ll work on it.

 

Ted’s

Boiled beef is sought after by gourmets all over the world.  Tafelspit, the famous Viennese version, is made from special cuts and is reputed to be sublime.  If I ever get to the famous Plachutta Wollzeile in that city, I’ll report on it, but for now my topic is the steamed cheeseburger.

To truly appreciate a steamed cheeseburger, you have to put aside all your preconceived ideas about hamburger.  Forget the sweet, crunchy caramelization produced by contact with the heat of the grill.  Forget medium rare. Then you have to travel to a small area in central Connecticut where steamed cheeseburgers are a local delicacy. 

I was visiting our friend Ina in Meriden when I set out to investigate this phenomenon.  I went to Ted’s Restaurant at 1046 Main Street in that fair city, but there are other eateries in town where you can expand you r culinary horizons and sample the treat. Another restaurant I visited on my stay had to install a steamer to satisfy popular demand. 

The burgers are formed in molds and then steamed.  The moist heat keeps them juicy.  The waitress at Ted’s told me the steamed cheeseburger was invented there.  Pinning down food origins is tricky, and there are other claims.  My internet research suggests Jack’s Lunch, a defunct diner in nearby Middletown, CT, was the point of origin, but Ted’s has been making steamed burgers for fifty years.  I learned in my research that the steamed burger was first introduced as a healthy alternative to fried meat. 

Ted’s wouldn’t draw you in from its appearance.  It has a weathered wood façade with white framed windows.  Inside is a counter with the kind of stools you can twirl on.  We chose a booth.  The workers wear black tee shirts that say, “Still steaming after fifty years.” 

When my burger came, I tasted the meat and ventured the opinion that the flavor resembled pot roast.  Annette didn’t think so.  Ina satisfied herself with a diet Pepsi, and based her scorn on intuition alone.

 

 

My attitude was more positive.  I knew that many residents of this part of the Nutmeg State seek out steamed cheese burgers and enjoy them a great deal.  If they can, why not I?  I found the taste a little bland.  I tried adding salt, which helped.  The cheese is supposed to be Vermont cheddar.  It’s blander than the finest examples of that estimable cheese, but it melts beautifully and is gloppy when hot and slightly chewy as it cools. 

 

Annette had a Southwest cheeseburger, which had bacon and deep fried onion strings.  I observed that the bland, tender meat made a good vehicle for the condiments. Free add-ons include lettuce, tomato, onion, sautéed mushrooms, pickles, jalapenos, ketchup, mustard, mayonnaise, barbecue sauce, relish, spicy mustard, hot sauce, Buffalo sauce, and ranch dressing.  “So, bring your own burger,” Ina said. 

The home fries, which are the only potatoes Ted’s serves, were also a little bland, but the condiments improved them as well. I dosed mine with habanero Tabasco, which improved them greatly.  They’re available with a combination of cheese, chili, bacon, and jalapenos, which ought to overwhelm the blandness of your socks.  

 

I think I was beginning to get it, but I have to admit Ina had a point, and I doubt I’ll wake up in the night with an unappeasable craving for a steamed cheeseburger.  Perhaps you have to grow up on them to really appreciate their appeal.  I told Ina we needed an upscale version, and suggested we invent Filet mignon haché à la vapeur avec fromage , which I translated as steamed chopped filet mignon with cheese.  We could offer a choice of melted Roquefort or brie and offer it on a brioche for $29.95.  True gourmets aren’t going to sit on a twirly stool and eat a cheeseburger that sells for $5.25.