I didn’t have much interest in seafood growing up. Occasionally I would eat tuna fish if it was doctored with enough mayonnaise and relish (which, coincidentally, is a preference I still have), but anything else I’d probably have deemed too fishy. I famously eschewed the lobster—prized and highly anticipated by everyone else— at dinner on our annual summer trips to Nantucket in favor of a meal comprised entirely of French fries. Even a generous coating of melted butter couldn’t convince me.
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If you’ve read my writing much (you’re a gem if you just nodded), then you might remember that I love mail. Real mail. Handwritten letters and packages and the like. The farm where I grew up has a veeeery long driveway—about a third of a mile—and when you pull into the top of it, the entire farm is spread out in front of you like a beautifully draped blanket in greens and golds. The first bit slopes gently, then flattens out once you pass the edge of the woods; there used to be a huge, sprawling oak tree on one side and my dad kept a hive of honeybees on the other.
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Have you read anything lately that you’ve loved? I’ve read some great things, amidst many others that have been inconsequential (e-mails) or uninteresting (e-mails) or anxiety-producing (all of the news?). Like, say, these lines from a poem by Suzanne Frischkorn: “we are in the changing days, crisp mornings and afternoon’s swelter visions that summer is still here. Goldenrod pushes us towards autumn with promises of richness. Something I can’t name blooms alongside it and promises royalty.” Or a novel with some particularly memorable passages, like—“So much of becoming an adult was distancing yourself from your childhood experiences and pretending they didn’t matter, then growing to realize they were all that mattered and composed 90 percent of your entire being.”
Read moreBLUEBERRY YOGURT MUFFINS
Is there something particular about sea air that makes baked goods taste better? It could be the salty scent of ocean water, or the appetite brought on by a day at the beach, or the specific pleasure of eating while watching boats bob gently at a marina. Or it could be something else entirely—some other secret phenomenon that brings excellent bakers in droves to beach towns.
Read moreCHEESY HERBED ZUCCHINI WAFFLES
I'm sitting on the front stoop of my house, my feet resting on the third brick step and my back leaning against the glass-paned front door, which is slightly ajar. On either side of the door are two oversized slate pots filled with basil plants: an unconventional choice over flowers but a welcome scent to come home to. A woman passes slowly on her bike, stopping a few feet beyond the house and resting one slim Converse-clad foot on the pavement. She's wearing a fitted white t-shirt with a French phrase (one I can't translate) across the front in a pretty block font, and crispy navy Bermuda shorts. Her graying hair is beautifully layered and brushed behind her ears. She waves and calls out tentatively, asking if this is the baby she hears often from her back porch.
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