It is a cliché, I know, to eat lobster in the Northeast. But it’s what we do, even if that means feeding into the stereotype.
I have a confession to make, though. I’m not a native New Englander. I’m a transplant. I grew up in the great state of New Jersey: home of big hair, shopping malls and Bruce Springsteen.
My parents, on the other hand, were born and bred in a rural cow-tipping-is-a-sport town in Maine. . .
This past weekend, my husband and I headed away from our Trenches full of kids for a getaway weekend. Our destination? Freeport, Maine and the land of Subarus and LLBean. (Freeport is about a 2-1/2 hour drive from Boston.)
Amidst the hustle and bustle of the holiday season there is one thing that my family never misses...the lighting of Nubble Lighthouse down in York, Maine.
For a lot of folks, I suppose cutting into a juicy turkey on Thanksgiving, or fighting their way through Black Friday crowds at the sales signifies the start of the holiday season. For me, it doesn't feel like the holidays unless I've watched them flip the switch at Nubble Lighthouse and grinned from ear to ear as the magnificent beacon of safety to mariners is set ablaze with twinkly white Christmas lights!
Continue reading "My Favorite Things - The Lighting of Nubble Lighthouse, Maine " »
Looking for something holiday related to do with the family this weekend? We've got you covered. Here's a sampling of what's going on around New England Friday, December 11 through Sunday, December 13:
Put down the flour! Let me help you find something. I love Etsy. Some may call it an addiction, I call it... an addiction. But one person’s time suck is another person’s boon. I’ve scoured Etsy to find some perfect gift ideas for the teachers in your life, gifts good enough to guarantee your child a good grade. Not that you would bribe a teacher or anything. That would be wrong...
Hey, look over there!
Continue reading "Just in time for the holidays - gift ideas for teachers that deserve an A. " »
Autumn and I have had a lifelong love affair that grows more exciting with each passing year.
She shows up on my doorstep, the gorgeous fiery red-headed beauty she is, hair blowing about her, insists I take her hand, and spirits me away on a yearly adventure. She's never missed a year, despite the presence of an Indian Summer, or the early arrival of Old Man Winter. She arrives and claims her time with me even in the face of the last hot boastful breaths of summer or the bone-chilling exhalations of an early winter. I might be distracted, or not completely whole, but she never fails to demand my time. She's a passionate and greedy lover and I am powerless to resist her call.
I am even more drawn to her as I inhale her intoxicating perfume, a mixture of the first hints of apple-wood smoke from chimney's, a brisk chill in the air, apple cider, cinnamon, cloves and an earthy smell that when combined make me swoon with desire for my beloved. As I walk with her, the crisp crunch of fallen leaves underfoot make me tingle with excitement and fill me with a joy unlike anything I experience any other time of year. Autumn is a generous lover and gifts me with a bacchanal for my senses.
Photo by me
I am 'silly in love' with Autumn. Ask anyone who knows me and they'll tell you that I become just a little wild this time of year. I'm not so dissimilar from the crisp amber leaf that finds itself carried away on a brisk fall breeze as it begins its descent from where it was born, grew, and spent its youthful glory upon the mighty arm of perhaps a maple or even a stately oak tree.
All spring and summer long, it sat aloft and took in the rebirth of life all around it, weathered the tempter tantrums of spring and the fickle nature that is a New England summer. Now it sets its sights on places unknown. Maybe it's a short ride to the ground below where it will end up amongst its red, yellow, orange and amber colored brothers and sisters in a huge pile to be jumped into with the wild abandon of youth - and some not so young, or perhaps this breeze will carry it further afar to places unknown. Maybe it's a brief journey upon the wind through apple-laden orchards, or across fields of golden corn, waiting for the coming harvest.
Like me, the leaf is powerless to the beckon of Autumn. She wants what she wants, and she always gets what she wants.
My yearly affair with Autumn is a bit scandalous. You know what? I wouldn't have it any other way. I actually feel, (for the first time in a long time), with every fiber and cell of my being, like being scandalous, a little bawdy, and more than just a touch celebratory with the arrival of Autumn. She excites my senses and makes me feel alive, more truly alive than I do any other time of year.
More of life's absurdities and observations of life along the Maine coast from Audrey can be found at Barking Mad!
As I sit here ready to post this, it's literally pouring down rain by the bucket-full. There is nothing prosaic or pretty about this kind of rain...the kind of rain which was preceded by booming rounds of thunder and electric flashes of silvery tendrils of lightning. Normally I love a wicked-good thunderstorm; the kind that sets the imagination ablaze with tales of shipwrecked mariners coming to rest upon the rocks buffeting ancient lighthouses, or ghastly stories of the ghosts of long dead New Englanders. However this kind of rain? The kind of rain that beats my shy little flowers into submission, drowns the newly planted seedlings and makes my cats howl with utter contempt at all that slippery wetness preventing them from running around outdoors as if their tails were alight? I don't like it at all.
The thunder has passed and the lightning has all but burnt out into the drowning torrents of rain. And now there is but rain. A lot of rain.
Yesterday? Not so much, although we were told to expect it. Most of us along the coast of the New England seaboard were breathing a collective sigh of relief that our coastal areas and adjacent wetlands were not going to be in the direct path of Hurricane Bill after all. It seems Bill decided to pass up blue crabs from the warm waters of the Chesapeake Bay and lobster from New England's deep indigo depths in search of other playgrounds to harass. At least avoiding a direct hit gives the asylum here a brief reprieve in order to stock up on things like candles, batteries and a stockpile of Valium which will come in handy - if not during hurricane season then the subsequent Nor'easter season which will be upon us soon enough. Two teenagers, a toddler and four cats, mixed with no electricity is enough to drive anyone over the edge. Heck, even on a good day, when we have all the trappings of modern life, it's enough to drive me insane.
So what did we do yesterday in light of not-impending-doom? We took a drive down to York Beach and Nubble Light to watch the breakers roll in and catch a glimpse of the massive surf that had been predicted for the Maine coast. I just wish I'd read the bit about the "dense fog as thick as clam chowdah" in the weather blurb. It made the drive around the twisty bits of Shore Road and the 1A in York, interesting.
Once we hit Nubble Light, the fog cleared a bit and I was able to snap off a few halfway decent shots.
When my love of photography started to morph into something other than just a fun hobby, one of the goals I set for myself was to capture the essence of breaking waves on the shore. So far I haven't been able to, or even come close. Yet there's just something about the way the waves crash against the rocks and how the white caps slam into jetty that always takes my breath away.
The sight, sound, and the smell of the ocean enlivens my senses and fills my soul with joy. There is something about the sea that renews me when I am weak and reminds me that simple yet amazing beauty abounds in the state I call home. I don't think I could ever live in a place that wasn't bordered by the ocean. I feel a deep connection to the waters that border this land; a bond I have a hard time articulating.
The inky water which caresses our shores is just one of the many aspects of life along the coast that moves and inspires me. One of my favorite flowers is the sea rose. It's so very beautiful, delicate and soft yet must be resilient in order to stand up to the constant salty sea-spray, the winds that wrap their arms about the shore and the pelting of sand. The sea rose is sort of an allegory for the kind of woman I long to be.
Of course, the most beautiful things seen a long the shore yesterday were two of the jewels in my crown...my kids. Ever patient and always willing to let me click away at a moments notice.
More of life's absurdities and observations of life along the Maine coast from Audrey can be found at Barking Mad!
When you think of Maine, what is the first thing you think of?
If you said "lobster" you'd be in good company. When most people think of Maine, before they think of our bucolic coastline dotted with antiquated lighthouses, shipbuilding, moose, or even the Maine blueberry, they think of lobster. Often, they not only think of it, they start to salivate when they picture a fat juicy crustacean on their plate, accompanied by drawn butter, corn on the cob and maybe even a side of clam chowder, or "chowdah" as we like to say 'round these parts.
I've very rarely been to event that was so satisfyingly...happy.
The simplicity of a balloon launch is it's charm. The crowd who come to watch knows how to wait, knows how to be still, knows the pure joy of watching something as simple as flame lift human beings off the ground as gently as a breeze. Add some homemade pie and red hots to the mix and you get an afternoon of pure enjoyment, even if you are still on the ground.
I found myself laughing out loud as these huge balloons finally lifted off the ground. Something in myself rose up and floated away as well. An unrealized anxiety that I wouldn't find anything in my new home that would make me feel ridiculously good, with no reservations.
How often does that happen?
Not often enough. Next time, I'm going up.
Here we are.
It seems strange sitting down to write in this dim corner of the front room. There is a fireplace behind me quietly waiting for the truly cold weather and a cord of wood to burn. The Impling prances around in the other front room...what was once a dining room but is now a dining/ library/cello practice room. It is also temporarily holding all the paintings, finished and unfinished, that I have yet to either hang or haul up to my little office/studio with the sloping ceiling and window overlooking an apple tree and the road that leads to a farm where the cat is friendly and the pony and horse peek calmly from their stalls at an absolutely mesmerized Impling, and the dancer/organic farmer who owns it all tends her chickens and fields for the fun of it.
Here in this corner, I think of our favorite room, through the library/dining/music room, through the mud room, through a glass door with its tarnished brassy handle, into the great, bright room. It is a large space, larger than anything I've ever lived in. Coming from a small apartment, this house seemed overwhelming the first few nights. But as the days go by, we expand to fill the space. This is not so much due to us appropriating new stuff, as a more personal expansion, like breathing deeply and exhaling, and expanding with each breath until we fill the bigger spaces around us with our thoughts, and our laughter, our chats and our tears, our music and our puttering sounds.
I
feel bigger, somehow, looser, as if part of myself is both inside and
outside all at once. The great room is so bright with windows and
skylights that it's more or less a room outside. It overlooks the
fields and the herb garden where the Impling and I weeded this morning.
We donned our hats, and gloves, and after a protective layer of bug
spray, we set off to work. We saw earthworms, and beetles and mosquitos
and bees, we turned over the earth and tore out weeds and flung them
aside, leaving behind the fresh overturned soil and space for our
spearmint, sage, marjoram, tarragon (or little dragon, as we now call
it), and a host of other herbs I can no longer remember, to grow. While
we were working, the previous owners of the house came by and gave us a
rather nostalgic tour of both the herb garden and the vegetable garden,
naming plants for me and pulling at the gigantic weeds as if they just
couldn't help it. I would miss these gardens too, if I moved away after
four years of tending them.
They brought us an apple picker, with advice to leave the windfall for the deer. I can't imagine picking apples yet as the veggie garden still looks like the forest primeval. And I have at least four or five more burdock plants to dig up. Burdock man. One tough weed. But I have my shovel, my arms, (stronger now from all the construction of furniture and lifting and carrying of boxes and the Impling), and my innate stubborn nature to help me dig down and down into that clean smelling earth and pry up the great weeds that threaten our dill and tomatoes. It is a good battle. It is a good new world.
