Blue Tears

Vanilla Bean–Blueberry Ice Cream with Lemon Shortbread Crumble

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I didn’t make it up to Maine this summer. Maybe that means summer didn’t happen, because Maine is the state of summer for New Englanders. It’s the capital of summer for those who’ve grown tired of The Cape, a reward for those who can will themselves to drive past that scary and confusing state called New Hampshire. It’s a place where the clearness of the water makes up for its frigid temps. For out-of-towners like me, it seems to exist only for vacation (it’s called Vacationland, after all); it’s a place to go, not a place to stay—weekend Xanax, essentially. Maine has all the chill.

Besides “chill,” when I think about Maine, I think about my mom, not because she’s chill—I’m a product of a chill-less family—but because I spent many summer days there when I was a child, with just her. She worked weekends and nights and so I had a gift many other kids didn’t (or, they did, because we were misplaced shit-eaters in a town where no one seemed to have to work): a summer vacation adventure partner. Tuesdays were usually our big day, and we wouldn’t make it past Ogunquit—a day is only so long—but we had the best time driving with the windows open, baking and snoring on the beach, absolutely ruling at paddle ball, and eating cliché Maine blueberry confections, most frequently a slice of blueberry pie at The Goldenrod in York. That’s why cool vanilla ice cream melting into a dark purple sea of molten blueberries is my madeleine, and my favorite taste of summer.

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Standing Up

Plum-Raspberry Crisp with Browned Butter and Hazelnut Topping

Plum Crisp
Where are people when they write their blog posts? Or, rather, where are people when they just write? I find myself asking this question whenever I read something—blog post, short story, whatever. I’m fascinated by the sights (window? willow tree? big-screen TV?) and the sounds (night crickets? humming refrigerator? upstairs neighbors’ paces? meowing kitty?) that surround human and computer screen and that either inspire thoughts or compete for attention.

And when? When do people write? Certainly time of day must control the above factors. What programs do they use? Do they type out their thoughts in Word, or in notepad to escape formatting, and then paste the spilled words into a post. Or, do they simply craft sentences right into the text field of their blogging platform? And do these things ever change, or are they constants? Is it socially acceptable to, in the comments field, ask: “Where were you when you wrote this post, and what surrounded you? I’m just curious.”?

Me, I prefer to write at the kitchen table, which is surrounded by three windows, and the room is filled with light until sundown. I start in word. I need a very blank space, because my mind is usually busy. The wordpress dashboard is too busy. I prefer to be accompanied by breakfast or lunch, because I like to break up the flow with stabs of fork and slow chewing. In that time, I can recollect my thoughts, and what better way to write about food than with food? The eating reminds me of the textures and flavors of the dish. It doesn’t have to be that particular dish (though that helps!) and it also doesn’t have to be glamorous. Right now, I’m eating a clean-out-the-fridge-of-the-almost-on-its-way-out-produce salad. There are multiseed crackers on the side and some prunes. But when the apartment is bustling, I take the laptop to my bedroom, sans food. Writing is less fun that way—I should see if the tone of posts written in various locations is different. I often make my final edits while sitting in my bed with all of the lights off. It’s the purest form of silence and tranquility I can find.

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FYI, It’s Still Summer

Saffron-Scented Summer Fruit Galette

pac man
Sorry, I don’t have many words to share today. And I don’t believe in trying to craft them when they’re just not coming naturally. I am here for a reason, though, and it is simply to deliver a call for action. For a brief public service announcement, if you will:

Well, here we are. That inevitable point when I start whining and complaining about how summer was lost. How my skin’s so snowy white you can tell it didn’t carry my bones to very interesting places these past months. How I didn’t do X or Y. How I haven’t been able to just breath and be—whatever that really means. But I’ll spare you. Summer cannot be lost. If you lose summer, it is your own damn fault. And, yes. I fully acknowledge that it’s my own damn fault.

However, I shake my fist at those who mark summer’s end with this coming holiday weekend. Please. Give me until September 21st, kay? I’ve seen local apples and pears at my farmers’ market for weeks. I’ve bought them. They’re sweet-tart and crispy and shiny and vibrant and everything that makes this born-and-raised New England girl happy. But they are demon fruit. And they’re not going to trick me. They may have tricked Eve*, but they will not get me. There will be no apple anything coming out of this kitchen. I will partake in no apple or pear pies, crisps, muffins, slaws, compotes, sauces, or dumplings—no matter how cute the word “dumpling” is. Hear that? I AM NOT HAVING IT. OK, so I’m eating apples and pears, but I am eating them raw and cold and crisp. That’s IT.

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