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Someday, I’ll be able to make a proper French tart. One that looks pretty AND tastes good all at the same time, instead of one or neither of those things.
In the meantime, I’ll be washing dishes. Lots and lots of dishes, while glaring at my conveniently broken dishwasher. And my confounded tart pan.
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It took me 45 minutes to read The Giving Tree to my son the other day. I had to stop after every page to blow my nose because of “allergies,” and mask my cracking voice with “violent coughing fits.” I could blame it on hormones, but that's only half the story. Curse you, Shel Silverstein. Curse you and your scary insight into human nature, the pursuit of happiness, and the sacrifices tied to unconditional love.
I’m a big fan of the classic children’s books (Winnie the Pooh, The Pigeon Finds a Hotdog), but these days, my favorite is Cookies: Bite-Size Life Lessons by Amy Krouse Rosenthal. My mom gets the credit for finding this gem amidst all the crap. Think of Cookies as an illustrated dictionary of common adjectives and concepts that are often difficult to explain to kids. Not that we ever have that problem. When words like Trustworthy and Respect are explained in the context of a delicious treat, they're much easier to understand (for me, at least).
Jane Dyer’s illustrations are charmingly retro, but without the cookie-cutter faces of yesteryear. The text, however, is timeless. It's earnest, to be sure, but I’m going out on a limb to say that morals can’t hurt. The clearer, the better. And, as we all know, everything is easier to swallow in cookie form. If I bully you into buying one book for a kid this year, let this be it. I'll even lay off your lunch money for a week.
Some excerpts:
PROUD means, my chin is high, and I sure do like the way my cookies turned out.
ENVY means, I can’t stop looking at your cookie out of the corner of my eye – it looks so much better than my cookie. Boy, I wish it were mine and not yours.
LOYAL means that even though the new person has a much bigger cookie, I’m sticking by you and your little cookies because you’re my very best friend.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go weep.
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When my grandmother, Dora Barbaresi, married her second husband, Albert Donroe, it turned out not to be the ideal marriage. Still, they stuck it out for more than 20 years for the sake of the kids.
They divorced in the 1970s, so my memories of Poppi are vague: a mixture of stubbly five o’clock shadow, the pasta e fagioli he made, him singing about the pasta e fagioli he made, and how he pretty much was always singing (including Sinatra's song, Tangerine, which was his pet name for me). The singing gene, I’m pretty sure, hasn’t skipped any generations since.
Over the years, many a colorful word has been used to describe him, which I won’t repeat because I’m a lady. But, this is my favorite story, probably because the embellishment is mostly mine (embellished, but still largely true). Here’s a recipe for his most memorable culinary contribution.
Squirrel Surprise
On your way out the door to gamble away your family’s meager food budget, take note of strewn acorn shells on the front stoop. Complain loudly about your wife’s annoying habit of feeding a particular neighborhood squirrel.
Wait until the wife is away, preferably working her arthritic fingers to the bone at a low-wage dress shop. Locate a large rock. In your ample free time between dead-end jobs, stake out behind bushes. Identify tame and peckish squirrel. With your good arm, hurl rock squarely at the head of the rodent. Swagger toward your prize, wondering why your pitching career never went anywhere. Skin the bushy-tailed rat, and then spit-roast over an open fire (preferably in the front yard). Or stew with a variety of dubious wild mushrooms from the backyard. Or grind into one tiny sausage.
Enjoy – then hide the evidence. Wait until wife wonders aloud why the squirrel hasn’t shown up for meals, lately. Then proudly detail your exploits.
Note: Any suburban animal will do, but choose wisely. Deliciousness corresponds directly to the amount of affection between the animal and the person you wish to spite. Well-groomed pets tend to be plumper than strays, but consider moving spit to backyard.
Albert Victor Donroe
New Haven, Connecticut
1913 - 2007
Next Recipe: Stuffed Mushrooms
(Previously: Making Pasta)
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I know I’m about 15 years behind everybody else, but I just joined Costco. This might have been a mistake.
The problem is that I’m not a shopper. When I enter a supermarket, or any store for that matter, I get the hell out of there as quickly as possible and hope I left with some food in my cart. I don’t like to shop. For anything. I would like things to magically appear in my home in the exact quantities that are necessary. I don’t like to store excess things in odd places. I’d rather just run out. Then, I know I need more.
But, I was tempted by the idea of fewer shopping trips and less money spent over the long-term. Since I started “freelancing” four years ago, I’ve managed somehow to lose money. I think this might mean I’m a sucky freelancer, but I have to slack off for at least another year before I can earn the distinguished title of Utterly Failed Freelance Writer. Meanwhile, my lack of income has seriously cut into our luxury lifestyle. We need more jewels. And furs. Costco, I was told, might be able to cut us a deal.
So, there I was last week, wandering down the aisles with my HUGE shopping cart like a deer in headlights. Or, at least, a deer with a shopping problem. About halfway through, I found myself in the unusual predicament of having to choose between a 12-pack of paper towels and a 32-pack of toilet paper. Only one of them would fit in my cart along with the very important 7-pack of Barilla pasta and 3-pack of HUGE Heinz ketchup bottles. It took longer than it should have to make a decision.
I can’t really remember what happened after I shelved the toilet paper. I kind of blacked out at the register, something about not taking MasterCard, and then after signing away one of the kids, I was practically frisked on my way out the door. It’s tighter than airport security over there. The frisker was not cute.
So, even though I probably more than made up for the $50 annual fee on the diapers alone, I’m still feeling used. Like someone just dumped a whole bunch of stuff in my basement and isn’t coming back to pick it up for five years.
On the upside, I may finally be closing in on the ultimate tampon bargain.
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I’ve been all over the blogs this month, frantically trying to use up my CSA produce before it wilts (why does it wilt so fast?). Here are the things that made an impression:
For once, the bacon didn’t steal the show. This crappy shot was taken over vacation, which was SO three weeks ago. Still, the Southern cream biscuits from Trivialissimo were to-die-for, along with this rhubarb compote that Helen of Beyond Salmon recreated from Cambridge’s Rendezvous.
Another recipe from Helen is her mother’s rhubarb cake. It’s slim pickings for rhubarb these days, but you can substitute in other seasonal fruit and it makes for a rustic, not-too-sweet treat that will inevitably turn into a meal. I’m waiting for my CSA peaches and plums to arrive. Where the hell are they, anyway?
Looking for the chicken piccata of chicken marinades? It's at Kalyn’s Kitchen. Thank goodness, or I might have resorted to injecting capers directly into my bloodstream (not nearly as delicious). Her tips for grilling are spot-on and the meat was perfectly juicy, as promised.
If you’re at all lukewarm on quinoa, as I was, this particular recipe at Tea & Cookies truly is the thing to change your mind. The red stuff is beautiful, and it cooks up just right in the rice cooker. Mixed together with farm-fresh radishes, a well-seasoned vinaigrette, and some marjoram from the deck, not to mention a liberal hand with the goat cheese, it can make a girl weak in the knees. Tea, you weren't the only one who was wrong.
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The other day, our preschooler asked us what a stranger was. We immediately felt like failures as parents. Even the handbook for slacker moms suggests an intensive seminar on stranger identification by age 11.5 months. How behind are we? Should we do the drug speech while we’re at it? The birds and the bees?
We hadn’t lectured him about strangers, yet, because someone we trust is with him every second of the day. He’s shy and won’t even talk to family or friends half the time, never mind people he doesn’t know. I have enough trouble trying to get the younger one into the car, I didn’t want to complicate matters.
But, the subject came up at preschool and, I’ll admit it, sometimes I take my cues from the professionals. Looking back, I should have run a rough draft by them first. Here’s how it went:
Him: What’s a stranger?
Me: A stranger is somebody you don’t know.
Husband: And you should never, ever talk to strangers. Even if they give you candy.
Him: They have candy?
Me: Gross, yucky candy. That tastes bad and makes you sick.
Him: Oh. Why do they have yucky candy?
Husband: Because they want you to get into their car. But never, ever get into a stranger’s car.
Him: Why? Do they crash them?
Me: Yes.
Him: (…)
Me: And they’re full of spiders.
Him: (…!)
Me: Then they explode.
Him: (!!!!!)
Bugs. Car crashes. Explosions. Candy. Clearly, we have some work to do so that abduction doesn’t sound like the best overnight camp ever.
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I’m so glad that the rest of my family is getting in on the cookbook action. Below is an essay from one of my dad’s cousins, Joey Catone out in California, who is Dava [Barbaresi] Catone’s son. He reminisces about the women in the family getting together to make pasta. Lots and lots of pasta. When he talks about his Nonnie, he’s referring to Lydia [Belbusti] Barbaresi. My Nonni, Dora [Barbaresi] Donroe, would have been his aunt. Here’s his story:
The Barbaresi sisters were all pretty good cooks. They were also good at having families. Most settled in or near Hamden, Connecticut. We enjoyed large family gatherings, and celebrated and mourned together.
We always ate well as kids. Whatever else was going on in our family, the food never took a back seat. Some of the preparations were done on a large scale and it was the Making of the Pasta that I remember most fondly. It didn’t matter what they made — ravioli, passatelli, cappelletti — the anticipation was huge and so was the amount of food.
I had the incredible good fortune (or misfortune, as the case may be) to live right around the corner from the Donroes. I’m Freddie’s favorite cousin and don’t let him tell you otherwise. The Aunts often got together at our house to cook. This would be my mom (Dava), Dora, Jean, Anne, and Nonnie (Lydia, my maternal grandmother). When the sisters got together, usually the cousins did, too, but that’s another story.
There was a large board used in the preparation (pine, I think). Maybe 48” x 36” or so. It was worn smooth by hands rubbing flour all over it. There was also a large rolling pin (also pine) about 4 feet long. No handles, just a long solid pole about 2 inches in diameter. Nonnie would carefully toss flour on it before they would make a large volcano-shaped mound of flour in the middle. The size of the batch would be determined by the amount of eggs. My mother would say, “Today, we’re making 24 eggs!” The significance of this was lost on me, but I’d always nod approvingly. We always nodded approvingly when cooking was involved.
Nonnie would do most of the kneading. I remember watching her old hands add flour, smooth, roll with the pin, repeat, all the while talking to her daughters in Italian. Usually, it was some old story that my mother would later say they’ve all heard a million times. If the conversation was in English and one of the kids walked in, they would immediately switch to Italian. We always knew they were talking about us. When all the Aunts got together with Nonnie, it was the only time I heard Italian spoken.
Once the pasta was made, they would sit around and finish the batch. They would fill the ravioli or cappellettis, or out would come the hand-cranked grinder to make the passatellis. I can recall how every surface in the house would be covered by the pasta of the day. Beds, tables, card tables. Pasta everywhere. Later, it would be divided up, taken home, and we’d all eat like kings. Nope, food never took a backseat in our family.
To this day, when I hear Italian being spoken, I think back to those Saturdays when Nonnie and her daughters would get together and make pasta.
Joey Catone
Hamden, Connecticut
1952 –
Photos of cappellettis (top) and passatellis (bottom) by Trish Barker in 2004.
Next Recipe: Squirrel Surprise
(Previous Recipe: Chicken Potacchio)
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I have to jump on the blueberry cobbler bandwagon this week because, well, I made blueberry cobbler. (Yeah, it’s not really much more complicated than that.)
And why should cobbler be complicated, anyway? Some sweetened fruit, some flaky dough, and vanilla (bean) ice cream melting all over the place. So, here’s my favorite recipe, an adaptation of something that came out of the Cook’s Illustrated test kitchen many years ago. Did I mention I worked there once?
I learned a great many things in those hallowed halls, including the best way to peel garlic (with the back of a knife and a mighty thwack) and how to mince it finely (with a little salt and your knife at an acute angle making a sort of rhythmic mashing motion). I also learned that sometimes I like things better when they’ve only been tested, say, 7 times, as opposed to 57. So, I started making this recipe at home before the head recipe-tester was even done, yet. Good enough for me, I thought. (This attitude might have something to do with why I no longer work there.)
Anyway, the “best” recipe is always a matter of opinion. For me, though, it doesn’t get any better than this.
Maybe the Best Blueberry Cobbler (print-friendly version)
6 cups blueberries
1 Tbsp. cornstarch
½ cup sugar, plus 1 Tbsp.
Pinch ground cinnamon
Juice from ½ lemon
2 cups flour
2 tsp. baking powder
½ tsp. salt
12 Tbsp. cold unsalted butter, cut into cubes
½ cup milk, plus 1 Tbsp.
Preheat oven to 400°F.
In a 9-inch deep-dish pie plate, combine blueberries, cornstarch, ½ cup sugar, cinnamon, and lemon juice. Stir well and cover with foil. Place pie dish on rimmed baking sheet and bake until berries start to release their liquid, about 15 minutes.
Meanwhile, add flour, baking powder, and salt to the work bowl of a food processor and pulse to combine. Add butter and pulse until the mixture forms a coarse meal, about 15 seconds. Dump mixture into bowl and add ½ cup milk. Combine with fork until a scrappy dough ball forms. Turn onto counter and knead briefly. Press into a disk about ½-inch thick. With a biscuit cutter, cut into a dozen or so shapes, enough to cover the cobbler (recombine the scraps to make extra biscuits).
After 15 minutes, remove blueberries from oven, uncover, and stir. Arrange biscuits on top, brush with 1 Tbsp. milk, and sprinkle with remaining 1 Tbsp. sugar. Bake uncovered until biscuits are golden brown, 25-30 minutes more. Cool 10 minutes before serving. Don’t forget the ice cream. Vanilla. Bean.
Source: Adapted from Cook’s Illustrated (specifically, Kay Rentschler).
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One of the great things about writing a blog is reconnecting with old friends. But, also, through this cookbook project of mine, I’m meeting family members I didn’t know I had. This started happening when I was researching my family tree, and has only accelerated through the wonders of the International Network.
My most recent e-mail is from a member of the Belbusti family (the name was later shortened to Belmont). Jim from Houston, TX sent me a picture of his mother’s passatelli-maker.
In the comment thread for the post on passatellis, which are noodles made from bread crumbs and copious amounts of Parmesan cheese, there was speculation about how they were shaped before electric meat grinders and whether they were hand-rolled. He writes:
“My dad had that maker commissioned by a metal shop he used to do business with. It’s one-of-a-kind and loosely based on one my maternal grandmother had. Basically, you take a tennis-ball size of passatelli dough and push it through the holes with your palms. The noodles grow about 1 to 1-1/2 inches long, then drop off the plate. Tilt the thing over a bowl, and out slide the noodles.
She'd dry the noodles on baking sheets laid out on the dining room table, and pay my sister and me $2 a day to keep the cat from jumping up on the table and eating them. What she didn't count on was us eating the noodles. The taste? Think cheesy cookie dough.”
Jim found my site while looking for a recipe for crescia, the Marchigiano Parmesan-pepper bread. Here’s what he remembers about his mom’s version:
“One thing my mom used to add to crescia - she would spike the dough (before rising) with chunks of cheese (I think she used block American cheese!) so that most slices came with a lump of cheese, because 5 cups of Parmesan/Romano per loaf just wasn't enough. And I wonder why my cholesterol is high.”
Yup. We’re definitely family.
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My tomato plants are out of control. They have long since dwarfed me (not saying much), and are now towering over my husband (saying much, much more). At this rate, I’ll be able to climb my tomato stalks and bribe my way into heaven by August. Or is God cracking down on illegals, too?
See my little tomatoes? They’re Caspian pinks, a Russian heirloom. Look how cute and misshapen one of them is. It’s all I can do not to eat it up this second.
All of the gardening books I skimmed said that the best plants for novice gardeners to start with are radishes. Even children can grow radishes, they assured me. Based on my experience, however, they were talking about expensively preschooled, genius children. My radishes have no radish attached to them. Just a skinny, radish-colored root. They suck.
Better candidates, I think, would be tomato plants. From the looks of it, even a stem cell can grow them. Or, at least, a stem cell that stumbled upon the perfect tomato-growing conditions completely by accident. (Take that, stem cells. You think you’re so smart.)
Are tomato plants supposed to be this gigantic?
Also, check out the roses (middle front row, and middle back row). They totally rebounded, no thanks to me. The brown leaves all fell off and by the time I got back from vacation, they had all new green leaves and some buds. I guess the only one the roses had a problem with was me.
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Ilva at Lucullian Delights asked all of us food bloggers to strip down to our aprons and take pictures. I thought it was a little forward of her to ask, but I’m susceptible to peer pressure, so I agreed.
Luckily, after a good night’s sleep and an objective review of the photos on my digital camera, I shan’t be posting any of those pictures. But, here’s the apron itself. Use your imagination.
I got it out of Boston Magazine's free bin when I worked there several years ago (one of the perks of working for a place that always receives unsolicited stuff). I love it for obvious reasons, but also because it's really short. I have enough trouble not tripping over my cats, my children, or my own feet in the kitchen, never mind a one-size-fits-all apron. It's the only apron I have and will probably ever have. And the flour stains you see? Those are permanent.
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This is a photo of Lydia [Belbusti] Barbaresi (on the right) with her sister Rose [Belbusti] Bernabucci in New Haven, CT in the 1940s. Lydia was my great grandmother and Nonni’s mother. The sisters were heading back to Italy for a wedding, and it was, I believe, the first time they had been back since emigrating in 1910. This is the only picture I have of Lydia smiling. She always looked very serious, like here and here (of course, if I had that many kids, I wouldn't be smiling, either).
Today, I’m sharing her recipe for Chicken Potacchio, pronounced “po-TAH-key” in their Marchigiano dialect. You have no idea what I had to go through to get this recipe. First of all, I didn’t even know it existed. I had already interrogated Nonni multiple times to make sure I had all of the family recipes written down, when this chicken dish suddenly appeared on the table. I had never seen it before in my life.
Once I tasted it, I knew I had to include it in the cookbook. It was mop-up-all-the-juices scrumptious. Lydia had taught Nonni how to make it, of course, and Nonni made it for her kids growing up, but not so much after that. In fact, she had forgotten about it entirely.
Nonni gave me the run-down, but my first attempt to duplicate it was lackluster, with the chicken cooking way before the potatoes were done. Turns out, there weren’t even supposed to be potatoes in the recipe (you may recall this conversation).
So, I nixed the potatoes, made it again, and it still wasn’t up to snuff. More phone calls. We played this game of culinary Marco Polo for quite some time. With each conversation, a new ingredient or technique was discovered. Peeled garlic cloves turned into unpeeled garlic cloves. Uncovered pots suddenly had covers. Preheated ovens were abandoned for the stovetop.
But, the recipe still wasn’t right.
I was about to give up, drive down to New Haven myself, and videotape the whole production, but I decided to make a last-ditch attempt from afar. When I called, Nonni’s sister-in-law Regina was there. Regina had also learned how to make the dish from Lydia. When Regina heard what Nonni was telling me, she interjected her own instructions, which (surprise, surprise) were completely different. Suddenly, there’s salt pork instead of oil and red wine vinegar instead of white.
Nonni, who’s pushing ninety, laughingly shouts: “She’s always been jealous of me...My shape...Now, she’s trying to take away my chicken.”
Ultimately, there was consensus on the technique. Even some of the ingredients! I tried the recipe again, and guess what? It was perfect. Finally.
I haven’t asked much of you, dear readers, but somebody, somewhere, please make this. It may be the most over-researched recipe in the whole world, but so very well worth it.
Chicken Potacchio
This is Lydia’s original version. Nonni makes it a bit differently with a few tablespoons of oil instead of the salt pork, and the same amount of white vinegar instead of the red wine vinegar. Serve this with Italian bread to soak up the sauce. For the garlic, squeeze it out of its skin and eat it whole or spread it on bread.
2 oz. salt pork, cut into a small dice
2 lb. boneless chicken breasts, cut into two or three pieces
1 head garlic, separated into cloves with skin still on (DON’T YOU DARE PEEL THEM)
½ cup red wine vinegar
½ cup water
1 Tbsp. dried rosemary leaves
Salt and pepper
In a large skillet (with lid) over medium-high heat, fry salt pork (uncovered) until it starts to turn golden and there’s a thin layer of fat rendered at the bottom of the pan. Season the chicken pieces and add them to the pan with the salt pork along with the unpeeled garlic cloves. Don’t cover the pan (I’ll tell you when, okay, just hold your horses). Brown the chicken on both sides, taking care not to let the garlic burn. You can do this in two batches, if necessary.
With the chicken in the pan nice and brown, add the vinegar and water, and sprinkle the rosemary on top. Cover the pan (yes, now) and reduce the heat to a gentle simmer. Cook until chicken is done and sauce has reduced and thickened, 20-30 minutes. Season with salt and pepper.
Lydia [Belbusti] Barbaresi
New Haven, Connecticut (by way of Castelvecchio, Le Marche, Italy)
1883 - 1974
Chicken Potacchio, Swiss chard sautéed with pine nuts and raisins, and one very marked-up manuscript.
Next: Making Pasta
(Previously: Italian Bread)
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Another great thing about vacationing on Cape Cod is that our in-laws live there. That’s good, I swear. They can often be found feeding us, distracting our kids so that we can pass out somewhere, and driving us around on their boat.
Grandpa P has a Boston whaler that they dock in their backyard, which happens to back into Nauset Marsh as it funnels into Town Cove in Orleans. It’s a good spot to catch lobsters, among other things. Last week, GP took Husband, the preschooler, and I out to check his lobster traps.
The traps, which sink to the bottom, are attached to a long rope and a buoy that floats on the water’s surface. In addition to keeping the rope from sinking out of reach, the buoys help to remind you where the hell you dropped your traps, as well as which ones are yours. All of your buoys have the same color scheme (and are registered with the State) to differentiate yours from your neighbors'.
Your boat should also have a matching buoy on-board to show you’re not stealing someone else’s catch. And, yes, lobster theft does happen. GP’s color scheme is half green, half white. This one isn’t ours.
(Don’t worry, Mr. Fancy Stripes, we got our lobsters fair and square.)
The traps are large, wire cages with two compartments: the bait chamber where a mesh bag containing tasty treats hangs (GP uses herring for bait), and the parlor chamber where the lobster eventually gets trapped while chowing down. You leave the traps for a few days or a week, and then check to see if you caught anything.
Sometimes, traps get lost. If this should happen, there’s an escape hatch built into the trap that is fastened by iron rings. Over time, the rings rust and fall apart, allowing any trapped lobsters or other sea creatures to escape.
Hoisting up the traps requires some serious muscle.
We just sat back and let GP do all the work.
Sometimes the traps come up empty, but sometimes they don’t. Woo hoo!
You need to check the size of each lobster to make sure it’s large enough to keep. You measure from the back of the eye socket to the end of the carapace (the body shell, which is separate from the tail), which needs to be at least 3-3/8 inches long.
Throwing the young ones and any females with eggs back into the water gives the lobsters a fighting chance against otherwise certain extinction. Here’s a little one walking the plank.
Bye-bye, baby lobster. See you next year. (Eat your sea spinach.)
For the keepers, a thick rubber band around each claw is always a good idea.
Most lobstermen wear gloves, but GP is a badass.
Along with any lobsters, there might also be a few crabs, starfish, maybe a giant snail. There was a large flounder in one of the traps a few years back. It was delicious. (I’m not kidding.) This one pulled up a mother load of mussels.
Guess who got to bring some of them home? Once you empty the traps, you bait them up, and drop them down again.
It’s purty out here.
Three keepers and a bunch of mussels out of four traps. Not a bad day out.
The End.
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Much of our vacation was spent among nature. The preschooler found hermit crabs and moon snails in the tidal flats. He was also a pro at catching butterflies in his net. The toddler was less skilled at apprehending rabbits and seagulls. However, Husband was ridiculously adept at catching crabs (the delicious kind) as well as hooking a 15-lb. snapping turtle. All were set free (including the dangerous extraction of a hook from one hissing and seriously pissed-off turtle).
I caught a few minnows, but they barely made a dent in my appetite, so I headed to the nearest fish market to stock up on some striped bass. I grilled it up on the Weber and topped it with a simple tomato, basil, and garlic salsa (seen in the picture with a Mediterranean barley salad).
I was doubtful that the preschooler would eat the bass. As a veteran of Gorton’s delicious fish tenders, he recently graduated to salmon. Still, I always worry when the name of the fish on our plates directly corresponds to something he might find in his Peterson-Field-Guides-To-Every-Living-Creature-In-The-Universe that he has committed to memory. He’s a sweet and gentle boy. I tend to call it just “fish.” The ambiguity seems to be a lot easier to swallow.
But, he overheard us refer to it as “striped bass.” “Striped bass?" he said to himself, thoughtfully. “I didn’t know we were having dead basses for dinner!” With that, he plopped himself on to his chair and grabbed his fork.
That’s my boy.
But, these? These he wouldn’t touch.
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So, did you miss me? Or were you secretly thankful that your feed-reader reported one less blog to read? Be honest.
We had a great time on vacation. Especially, when you consider that a trip with young children isn’t really a vacation at all. Especially, when you’re renting a house where you still find yourself doing most of your own cooking and cleaning (well, cooking, at least). And despite the fact that we went nowhere new because a two-hour car ride with sleeping children is infinitely better than a five-minute plane ride to anywhere with screaming children. So, yes, we went down the Cape, again. That’s where we will continue to vacation until I become blissfully deaf.
But, I love Cape Cod. I don’t care if that makes me boring or old; I still love it. I write love letters to it in my mind every time I visit. They’re not quite the ballads that Patti Page might sing, but as my preschooler wouldn’t hesitate to point out, I’m no Patti Page.
The things that strike me about Cape Cod vacations more than the salty air and quaint little villages here and there are: the smell of mildew that nearly knocks you over when you unlock the door to your rental cottage. And by cottage, I don’t mean small mansion (the definition seems to be shifting). I mean bare shelter. With lots and lots of shell decorations. The patchy, straw-like grass in the yard is unreasonably sharp and poised to skewer tender toes. There’s always a beat-up Weber grill in the backyard. And an outdoor shower with far fewer spiders than the indoor shower. If you’re lucky, there’s a beach within walking distance. It’s luxury, really, considering I only really need the last three things to be happy. I mean, in addition to my wonderful family.
Contrary to my predictions, I didn’t have any trouble at all staying away from my computer last week. It felt odd, I’ll admit, not to share the minutiae of my daily bread with complete strangers. So, this week, I plan to bore you with some highlights from my vacation. It’s going to be thrilling, I can assure you. Not the punch in the stomach that was last year’s vacation, a synopsis of which includes: seven kids, ages 1 month to 4 years old. One house. One week of rain. Cold rain. One child who wouldn’t sleep more than one hour at a time. That would be mine. A broken leg. That would be Husband’s. Cause of break: slippery rain.
Most of that vacation was spent in the car. Husband was being shuttled to and from the ER and various splinting appointments. I was driving around trying desperately to put the littlest one to sleep for two continuous hours, while simultaneously trying to drown myself in the rain/ocean. Note to self: It takes too long on the bay side.
So, yeah, this year was better. Only one day of hail.
(Husband took this picture. Somehow, he managed not to break his leg on the hailstones in the process.)
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Copyright © 2006-14 Tammy Donroe
Banner art by Ximena Maier