Category Archives: Trout Towers

A parable for Tim

In quantum physics, they’ve discovered that light particles are connected. No matter how far apart they are or how impossible it seems, when one light blinks, another responds.

Once there was a filmmaker who pointed his camera at things people didn’t see. People all around the world told their stories to him. He recorded their stories, and shared them. He talked to hundreds, maybe thousands of people. It’s amazing, if you think about it, how many people we don’t hear or know about until someone shows us. Those stories, the ones he filmed, spoke to people’s hearts in many languages and on different continents. People who lived invisible lives felt heard because someone had seen and documented a story like theirs. Because of this filmmaker, they were not alone anymore.

For other people, the stories were surprising, or scary. They couldn’t believe that other human beings were having these experiences. But there they were, looking through the video camera, telling their lives.

The stories lit up something in all these people – something that was there all along but didn’t have anything to connect to.

He told many stories, for many years, never seeming to tire. Everywhere he went, he listened to people. He was intensely thoughtful, joyful, and impish.

And then, suddenly, shockingly, with so many stories still to tell, the filmmaker died. The sparks from the shock lit the night, and then went out. It was intensely dark.

“Now there’s a hole,” people said. “Where he was. There is no one else like him.”

And they were right. But what they couldn’t see was that the sparks had not gone out. Instead, they connected to their sister lights, in hearts all over the world. The impact – maybe the shock – made those lights dance furiously, joyfully, and with determination unimagined. An inexplicable joy and fierceness overcame the people he had touched.

The sparks ignited ideas, burning up self-doubt, apathy, and fear. People who didn’t think they could do something, now felt like they had to, and did.

Those lights still burn brightly – connecting the planet through new work, and more stories,

and inextinguishable love.

For Tim McCarthy. May you burn ever brightly.

Collapsing Dunes National Seashore

“Unstable areas can collapse at any time”

When I first moved to Cape Cod, leaving behind my family, friends, and a reliable source of cheap Mexican food, I got lonely and homesick. Whenever I missed the mountains, I’d drive to the beach. I spent a lot of time looking at the ocean – mostly from the comfort of my car because it’s hard to be homesick when the weather is nice.

Decades later, I thought about those trips to the ocean as I watched the waves from my old parking spot at Nauset Light and noticed a sign right in front of me: WARNING! Unstable areas can collapse at any time. Stay back.

Things really do need to be right in front of me sometimes. And be literal signs.

I thought, well obviously. When I moved here I had come specifically to stand on the sand, stomp on it, and see what happened.

Not this exact beach or sand dune, I’m not an environmental monster. I moved east because I needed to figure life out, and discard the parts that clearly weren’t working. I also really liked it here.

If you have a choice, of course you avoid the unstable parts and walk obediently to the path and stairs, where it’s shored up and safe, and won’t do ecological damage. When it’s your life, you don’t always have that choice. And when you realize that you’re standing on something that’s eroding around you – and out from under you – you need to do something about it. Like, jump up and down until it all gives way so you can find the parts that are solid.

I wanted to revise the sign: “Unstable areas can collapse at any time. Go for it.” But nature doesn’t need life lessons and some dork would take it literally.

The dunes teach us that change is constant and that nothing really belongs to us, no matter how many lines we draw or permits we issue.*

But once that sand finds its spot and settles into the cracks and crevices of life, it’s pretty solid. You can shake it down, stand on it, jump on it – until the next time things shift and it’s time to move, grow and reevaluate. But by that time you know what to do.

Take the stairs.

*I first typed “issues we permit” because Freud.

The politics of personal care items

I have long conversations in my head. Sometimes they’re with other people, but not always. Often, they’re with my husband. Sometimes I talk to him more inside my head than face to face – although I am sometimes talking to him inside my head when we are face to face. He is glad for the inside-my-head aspect of our conversations, or at least he would be if he had to listen to all of it.

My shampoo is the latest thing we’ve been discussing in my head. My husband ran out of his shampoo and started using mine. I know this because it is disappearing at an alarming rate. I don’t even have to make those little lines on the bottle to mark the last known volume to see that it is disappearing faster than normal.

Full disclosure: I spend more on personal care products than I should. But I hardly use them. They last right up to the expiration date with me. I am careful, judicious, and cheap. I don’t know why anyone wouldn’t be. I mean, you wouldn’t use your eye cream as a body lotion, would you? Of course not, unless it’s not yours and it’s right there and you need body lotion and no one will notice.

So I stand in my shower and eye the bottle, which is emptier than I left it. He’s used my shampoo, I think. Will he buy more when it is done? Or will he move onto someone else’s shampoo? If he moves on to someone else’s and I buy myself another bottle of salon shampoo will he come back and empty it again? What did he get on his report card, on the line that says “respects other people’s stuff?”

This is when I call the entire family to the dining room table inside my head for a talk, because it’s now a life lesson. When these kids leave home, I plan for them to be fully functioning humans who are a delight to live and work with. Read: people who don’t use their roommates’ shampoos.

I start to doubt myself at this point. People don’t use each other’s personal care products, unless possibly they do when they’re married. What is the rule for this? I’ve had siblings and roommates, but I was never called to a dining room table family discussion about the politics of using each others personal care items in marriage.

I was practically 70 when I met my husband. I realize this is a biological miracle since we had two children after we met and married, so 70 may be more of a state of mind than a chronological fact. I had lived on my own a long time. I had matching china, tools, and a dust ruffle.

I know that I am picky about things not worth having outside-my-head conversations about, and have managed some workarounds. I bought him his own toothpaste and put it with his toothbrush in his own tooth care cup so he will stop leaving the cap off my toothpaste and squishing it from the middle. I bought us his and hers razors. His is a bright color he can’t help but notice and grab, while mine blends cannily into the shower basket.

I don’t mind if he raids my cast-offs from the bathroom closet. The No Frizz bottle that is of no use to me since my hair – which once rivaled Chia Pets – is inexplicably thinning. He is welcome to use it on his full head of Kennedy hair. Innumerable bottles and jars of lotion, relegated to the closet, are all his.

When I first noticed my shampoo decreasing I took evasive action. I put it in the corner of the shower no one ever looks in. I accidentally took it with me and kept it in my bathrobe pocket. I put the family shampoo front and center. And then I felt like a freak and put mine back where it was.

I will buy a new bottle when the time comes, I thought. This is not a big deal.

But seriously, is he using it as body wash? I think, noting that the level has dropped below Rosemary Mint and is approaching the ingredient list.

As I toweled off it occurred to me that not only is the level dropping, he smells like me.

When the kids were babies I realized I frequently rubbed my face on theirs, like a mother cat marking her young. I have stopped because they’re practically driving now and are taller than me, but the impulse is still there. What is so wrong about scent-marking your family so it’s evident that we are a unit? I have never managed to do this with my husband because marking your spouse seems like something out of a movie, probably starring Glenn Close. It’s creepy and possessive and I’d never get away with it. Unless, of course, he did it himself. Using my shampoo as hair and body wash. I can’t believe I didn’t think of this sooner. I am a genius.

“Hi,” I say, rubbing my face against his for good measure. “You smell nice.”

I’m so glad we had this talk.

Hiding Places

My aunt took me to Plum Island in the off season once when I was a teenager, and I thought, “this is where I will go when I feign my own death.”

It was like an abandoned army barracks, with rows of houses on short, straight spikes of roads off a central spine, like fish bones.

You could hide there. You could have all the amenities – architecture, structure, the ghost of company – but never have to interact. Never be seen. This is where I will go into hiding, I thought. This is where I will spend months 4 through 9 of my unwed pregnancy. Where I will hide while the evidence proving my innocence floats to the surface and I’m absolved of whatever crime I’ve been charged with. Where I will write my novel.

I wasn’t pregnant. I had committed no crime. But it’s good to be prepared.

Ever since then I’ve had an eye for abandoned, solitary, outposts. There’s a mining town I passed regularly in Colorado that I wanted to live in called Silver Plume. It had just the right amount of nothing happening, mixed with a good number of houses that weren’t falling apart. It’s best to avoid actual abandoned places because they are likely laced with asbestos, or mask a collapsed mine. There’s a line between isolated and insane.

Speaking of which, I loved off-season hotels until The Shining came along. Perhaps a lot of us did, and that’s why Stephen King ruined them – to keep the rest of us away. I wish I had thought of that tactic first. There are so many hotels near us. It would be easy to check in on the last day of the season and then stand on the toilet seat in the lobby restroom until everyone went away, locking the doors behind them.

Yes, I have thought this through. I’ve thought about where I will park, how I’ll come and go unnoticed, where I’ll do laundry, and the black out curtains I’ll need to buy. When I pass hotels that are closed for the season I can’t help but look for a telltale sliver of light in one of the windows. I’m sure there are others who have thought of this, did they beat me to it?

Once I heard a news story about a homeless woman in Japan who lived in a man’s cupboard undetected for a year. Had she not taken food out of his fridge, she might have gone on living there indefinitely. But the man who lived there noticed missing food and thought he was being robbed, repeatedly, and admittedly a little weirdly. So he put in a security camera and saw her moseying around his house during the day. Even when they knew she was there, it took police ages to find her.

This obviously makes me think of some of the larger houses on the Cape. I don’t think squatting is legal here, but what if you occupied a cupboard, or an unused bedroom? Heck, some of these houses probably have entire wings that don’t get used. I wonder how long I could make it before I lost control and ate something out of their fridge?

I work at a place where artists and writers disappear for several consecutive months to write their novels – and have their babies I suppose if the timing is right – in a town where very little happens, in an unforgiving season. I wonder at the wisdom of this – placing artist-types at the edge of civilization, with intentionally little interaction, surrounded by darkness, sleet, silence, and alcohol. Because the bars are always open in these places.

If I had my druthers (whatever those are), and a book deal with a bottomless budget, I would pitch a book called Off Season and drag my family all over the globe to live in various resort areas when no one wants to be there. We’ll get off-season rentals and mingle with the locals, finding out what it’s really like to live there. Or maybe we’ll stand on the toilet seats.

The possibilities are endless.

Trout Towers eggs

The best possible way to cook eggs

Whoever said the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results has never had my eggs.

[“It was Einstein, genius” – my entire family, including the dog]

I can totally cook eggs. I can make a poached egg so perfect it will make you quietly weep. I have to watch a video when I’m doing it to remember the steps, but I can do it. I also do a mean scramble – both the fancy slow cook method and the here’s-your-breakfast-eat-it-on-the-way-to-the-bus method. But those aren’t the eggs I cook daily.

Daily, I make path-of-least-resistance eggs, aka fried eggs on the griddle. Lately I’ve been frying eggs every morning because we are overrun with eggs. Eggs are the new zucchini.

Making them on the griddle means they have a little extra trace of iron. It also means I don’t really have to clean up after myself because you’re not supposed to wash cast iron. Instead, you wipe it off with a cloth, or vacuum it or something. DO NOT let the dog lick it off because it turns out that completely removes the “seasoning” aka layers of absorbed fat and your eggs will stick. Also, people think it’s gross but only if they see the dog doing it. Ignorance is bliss.

So I make these eggs on the griddle and every single time they come out differently. I have heard people in restaurants order all the kinds of eggs I’ve ended up making, so I know they’re legit: over easy, over hard, over easy with a broken yolk, sunny side up with a side of shell, etc. It’s not that I don’t know how to make eggs. I just like to mix it up so people don’t get in a rut. I don’t have a method, I have a repertoire.

Okay, fine. They never come out the same way twice, despite my efforts to do the exact same thing every time except a little more this or that to avoid whatever went wrong the morning before. It’s Mystery Breakfast Theater at my house. You can order whatever you want in my kitchen, but you get what you get and you don’t get upset. Scrambled, you say? Here’s your sunny side over hard.

I see my eggs as a morning meditation for my family. It’s a metaphor for the other things that may well happen to them during the day. Things don’t always come out the way you planned, or were told. Broken yolks, surprisingly rubbery whites, and perfectly solid over easy eggs are a gentle way to encourage my family members to be okay with things that really don’t matter. They get fresh eggs, with a side of buttered toast. When life hands you something unrecognizable on a plate, focus on the toast.

At least until I learn how to make a fried egg.

tiny chicken sympathy

Congratulations on your grief

I realized that “Congratulations! So proud of you” was the wrong thing to write on the group sympathy card almost as soon as I signed my name. I say “almost” because it wasn’t until I looked at what others had written that I realized it was a sympathy card. Things like, “So sorry for your loss” and “Our hearts are with you,” and nine other distinctly non-congratulatory expressions.

In my defense, I have signed a lot of congratulatory cards this month. Plus, I am a Pollyanna sort of person who thinks “oooh, who has news?!?” when the phone rings, not “who died this time?” Note: I still won’t pick up. It’s not what I use my phone for, and that’s why God made voicemail.

Anyway there I was, the last one holding a thoroughly signed card.

I tried to figure out how to make my words make sense with additions like, “so proud of your strength” but there was really no way around “congratulations.” Which left me with only one possible alternative because putting the card in my purse and never speaking of it again is something I’m trying to give up.

“I’ll go ahead and mail this,” I said, sealing the envelope before anyone else could see. I tucked it in my purse (where it will never be seen again), and set about making a forged duplicate.

I tried to find the same card but honestly who will know? I resisted the urge to get a graduation card on the sale rack and went straight to the bereaved section of the store, where I picked out a suitably sad yet supportive expression of our shared grief. And then I proceeded to forge my friends’ notes and signatures.

Some were completely illegible, so I made up something appropriate in their place. “We’ll always have Paris,” is my go-to in such cases. Most notes were easy to replicate. To make them more authentic I utilized what I know of the Stanislavski acting method, and became each person as I performed their signatures. Note: I am not an actor, but I rock at googling “what is the Stanislavski technique?”

By the time I got to my own contribution I felt totally legitimate writing “my thoughts are with you.” Like, you have no idea how much my thoughts are with you. In reenacting the others’ laudable thought processes I had spent more time thinking about my friend than it would have taken me to make a casserole. Or a grieferole, as we call them.

I felt actual grief, and compassion, and an overwhelming desire to go to Paris.

Now I’m not saying you should intentionally screw up a group card, but I am saying that if that’s what it takes to overcome a knee-jerk interaction, go ahead and screw up the card.

Also, congratulations. I am so proud of you.


The Black Friday Rebrand

It is the morning after Thanksgiving, which means I have just made a bathtub-sized batch of raisin bran muffin batter to use up the almost-quart of buttermilk left over from the mashed potatoes. If I know anything about early New Englanders, it’s that they used all the stuff. (I also know that Pilgrims first landed in Provincetown, not Plymouth, and that they fasted on their Thanksgiving, but whatever).

Even though it’s happened for ages, I didn’t realize that bran muffins were our day after Thanksgiving tradition until this year – the year I’m actively re-branding Black Friday. Because who’s the genius who decided it was a good idea to pair a day of gratitude with a day of buying as much sub-quality stuff as will fit in your car?

It started a few weeks ago when my son asked when Thanksgiving was. I told him I was pretty sure it was on a Thursday this year, to which he responded, “oh right, because Black Friday.”

He regretted it instantly because of course a lecture followed. We dedicate a day to being grateful – for our families, our homes, our freedoms, our health, our Sea Monkeys, our whatever. And then we get up the next morning, spontaneously unsatisfied with what we have.

I do get it. If you need something and you are on a tight budget, you buy it when it’s cheapest – like buying vegetables in season, or your own personal stash of peanut butter Cadbury eggs the day after Easter. The thing is, my tight budget doesn’t like other people telling me what I need, and what stuff will make my life happier. You don’t know me, marketing people. No matter how many ads for those boots I want you stick in my sidebar.

So this year I’m starting a new tradition. I’m going room to room, noting all the things I’m still happy I bought, inherited, made, or was given. Quirky things, like the tomato knife I grew up with, and big things, like the couch we saved up for and picked out on our way home from a wedding.

I found out I have a ton of great stuff. Would you think it was great? Maybe not. Not everyone is going to love my tomato knife, the chicken figurines in the kitchen window, or the dinner chime that’s useless but really pretty cool. I’m okay with that.

Thanksgiving has taught me a thing or two about the stuff we own.
1. We inevitably use our tablecloth in a craft project, and then forget that we now have no tablecloth. Ergo, Emergency Tablecloth Run Wednesday. In the rock/paper/scissors of life, craft projects crush homegoods.
2. While we’re at it, we buy new cloth napkins because Jeremy Irons made us stop using paper napkins and by the time Thanksgiving rolls around again we have nothing that matches.
3. Ditto glasses. Maybe this is why people have glasses and plates that only come out on special occasions. I get that now. But I’m also okay with replacing things at certain times of year – like changing smoke detector batteries with the time change. This is why we get toothbrushes and tape in our Christmas stockings. (If you don’t get tape in your Christmas stocking, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to rub it in.)

I really did go room to room, noting things I was grateful to have, and now I can’t stop. I’m wrapped in a mohair blanket my mom used to keep in the back of her car when she lived in the mountains, just in case. My pencil cup was given to me right out of a family’s kitchen cupboard in Bavaria. My stapler – the only one that hasn’t broken – was rescued from my dad’s office.

I like things that are useful, beautiful, do their job, and don’t break. Things that were given or made by someone I love. Things whose history makes me smile.

Please make a note of it, marketing people.

My Mom’s Raisin Bran Muffins
adapted from the Christian Science Monitor

15 oz raisin bran cereal
2 cups sugar
5 cups flour
5 tsp baking soda
a couple grinds of salt
4 eggs
1 qt. buttermilk
1 cup melted butter, cooled
Mix the dry ingredients in the biggest bowl you have (I use my soup pot).
Whisk the liquids in a smaller bowl and then thoroughly combine with dry ingredients.
Store batter in a tight container for up to six weeks.

To bake: Preheat oven to 400º. Fill cups of a muffin tin ¾ of the way full. Bake for 15 minutes.

When I make it ¾ c. of the buttermilk is actually whole milk because I used it in the mashed potatoes. Also, you have to estimate 15oz of cereal because my recipe is probably from the ’70s and there are no 15oz boxes.

I’ve lost count of how many dozens of muffins it makes, but it’s a lot. I will try to pay attention and update when we have a new total.

Taking your fish to parties

Chris and I both had events to attend in the big city last night which meant, obviously, that it was time to get new fish for our hydroponic water garden.

I don’t want to talk about what happened to Antler, the beloved fish who first inhabited the water garden, but okay fine, we lost Antler. Not lost like “Omg where’d I put the fish?” but lost like “oh look, the fish is napping.”

Antler was the greatest and we were very sad. So sad, that we contacted the water garden people to see what we could do better. The response was a kind and incredibly helpful email, which closed with: “Again, we are very sorry for your loss and can send you a care package when you’re ready.” That is customer service, people.

Emily the Community Happyness Guru (not even kidding, that’s her title) recommended we try guppies next, so the plan was to get guppies at a pet store the next time we were near one. But who should pick them up? Chris was taking the girl child to symphony, while I held down the fort at a school fundraiser. Which event would the fish enjoy attending more?

I mean, it’s November and we can’t just leave them in the car while we eat passed hors d’oeuvres. We’re not monsters.

I thought symphony would be a nice way to introduce them to life at Trout Towers, but there was also some argument for taking them to my event where they could mingle a bit and enjoy life beyond the tank before settling in. In the end,  it came down to logistics and the fact that Chris doesn’t carry a purse. And symphony ended way past their bedtime.

I had one extra fundraiser ticket but wasn’t sure it would cover three fish (there is absolutely nothing on the website about the ticket price for fish) so I smuggled them in.

The trouble started pretty much instantly. I ran into friends who invited me to join them at their table. “Here, I’ll take your coat and save you a seat,” one said. At which I may have clutched my coat and bag closer and made up a perfectly logical excuse like “I don’t have fish in here and don’t take my purse.” I don’t know where he went after that.

We – by which I mean the fish and I – looked at the silent auction items and placed some bids. Fish are really good at auctions that are silent.

Here’s something you may not know: Carrying tiny aquatic family members around in your handbag is really good for your posture. It’s like walking with a book on your head, because all you can think about is not sloshing the fish. All possible worst case scenarios come to mind which surprisingly do not include water and fish spilling willy-nilly from your handbag as you reach for just one more bruschetta.

And then you settle in because people take companion animals to things all the time and really this is no big deal. You chat, you bid, you have some cubes of cheese. And then you decide it’s time to go and by golly you can’t get out of there fast enough.

Safely in the car, you start worrying about keeping their bag of water upright, now that they’re not attached to you in their BabyBjörn handbag. You hold them in your lap but then you think about what would happen should the airbag deploy and believe me it’s not pretty.

Once we got home I followed Emily’s email to the letter. The guppies are settled in and seem to be in good spirits – although I’m sensing a tinge of symphony remorse. Maybe next time.

photo: Waving Guppies by Alice Chaos

I have no idea what your name is

I am great with faces, and not so good with names.

Yes, that’s a cop out. If you see a familiar face and are friendly to the person it belongs to, who cares if you know them? They either walk away thinking it was nice to see you, or how friendly people are in this town.

I am by-face-only friends with a woman who goes to the same events I do at least three times a year. Before we became face-only friends I waved and said hello repeatedly, thinking she was my friend Paula. She is not. She is somebody else, who looks, dresses, and walks just like Paula. One day, on probably the 17th smile and wave, I explained myself and we have been strangers who chat frequently ever since.

“Strangers who chat” is my ideal situation, and probably the reason I can’t remember names. Strangers who chat is my happy place. I am perfectly content staying there. I will see the same person every week for several months and be quite happy not knowing names. There is of course a point where it is too late to admit you don’t know their name and then you’re out of luck unless you sneak a picture and run it through the facial recognition software you don’t have but should totally get.

It’s different when you see someone whose name you are expected to know. I don’t know why people expect others to know their names. I almost always remind people who I am and how we know each other, unless it’s my husband or someone related to me by blood. Not everyone does this though. It’s like some kind of test.

As we talk my brain goes through a search function to glean context. Where are you from? When did we last see each other? How much am I supposed to know about you? I haven’t even started to wonder what their name is. It’s like in “The Long Kiss Goodnight,” where Geena Davis realizes she knows everything there is to know about someone and surmises that they were once in love when actually she was supposed to assassinate him.

You have no idea how often this happens to me.

I used to begin the recognition process with “friend or foe?” but found it clogged the machine. Now I figure if I am accidentally nice to someone who dumped my best friend in high school* they will see it as me taking the high ground and will accordingly become a better person, seeing the error of their ways.

There are those people who can sense you don’t know their name and taunt you with it. They refer to you by name. You counter by mentioning something you have in common, which has miraculously surfaced in your brain. They up the ante with your husband’s name, and as you try to remember if they’re even married or not, they ask about the kids by name, acknowledging their correct ages. This is blatant overkill. No one can keep track of kids’ ages, not even their parents.

Five minutes after one of these exchanges I say to no one in particular, “Lisa.” Her name is Lisa. She is the ex-girlfriend of my ex-neighbor.

Twenty minutes later: Her husband is Tariq.

Twenty two minutes: We still know each other because our kids were in playgroup together.

3 AM: Daniel and Lydia. Now 9 and 12.

Don’t ask me to tell you what they look like. For the life of me I can’t picture them.

*As if any of us had boyfriends.

Cartoons, chocolate cake, and the silent treatment

When we were kids, my sister and I would get up crazy early on Saturday mornings and do things we weren’t allowed to do. It required stealth, dedication, and complete silence – attributes we honed over the years. We were so good at being bad.

We really knew how to live it up. While our parents slept, we’d make ourselves bowls of cereal and rot our brains in front of Saturday morning cartoons. By not waking them up, we could go rogue and put Quik on our Rice Krispies, approximating the highly coveted, sugar-laden cereal mom refused to buy. We’d creep into the den and watch cartoons, sometimes in a pillow fort, banking hours of t.v. time before anyone started paying attention. It was the greatest.

Later, it occurred to us that mom and dad were probably awake, lying in bed silently but for the occasional high five. Furthermore, mom may have forbidden our making of Quik Krispies to ensure that we washed all evidence out of our cereal bowls when we were done. As an added bonus, we had to do all of this without arguing. She’s an evil genius.

To our credit, we figured this out before we both had kids and understood the value of a morning off.

I was reminded of all this today, Saturday morning. It is not early, but I am still being quiet in the hopes no one notices me. While the kids exceed their allotted computer time, I am in the kitchen eating leftover Buffalo chicken strips and chocolate cake. No one is judging me. No one is criticizing my choices. And no one is asking to share.

Do I hear them whispering? Are they saying things like “shhhh, if we’re really quiet she won’t notice.” Or are they completely hip to my shenanigans, bookending me between generations of people benefiting from my silence?

Frankly, I don’t care. It’s Saturday morning and I have cake to eat.

10 things I meant to do before my book release party

I imagined this going down differently. The launch is now 5 hours away and I am out of time for a whole list of things I envisioned myself doing. Specifically:

  1. Sit in the sun to cut the leg glare
  2. Have my makeup done again
  3. Decide what to wear
  4. Try on that thing I decided to wear
  5. Give up and buy something new to wear
  6. Send an email to people who subscribed for the sole purpose of hearing about a book launch and now will never make it omg
  7. Live in a country that is part of the Paris Climate Agreement
  8. Warn people who are in the book
  9. Get a fancier carrying case for Turnip the chicken
  10. Write a blog post about my upcoming book launch

Things I did:

  1. Marry someone with a cool last name because it will look so great on the cover
  2. Write a book.

There is a book. We have a gorgeous venue. I will have clothes on.

I’m calling it a win.

Book release party!

Frying Pan Gallery
250 Commercial Street
Wellfleet Harbor, Cape Cod
June 3, 5-8 PM

Books by Susan Blood $15 signed by the author
Prints by Rob Conery $10 signed by the author (includes free download)

Food! Drinks! Books!

Music by Brady Signs
Flowers by GATHER


a Cape Cod diet

The Monomoy South Beach Diet

I was listening to Robert Finch talk about his new book The Outer Beach: A Thousand-Mile Walk on Cape Cod’s Atlantic Shore with Mindy Todd on WCAI this morning, and discovered that Cape Cod has its own South Beach. Which means Cape Cod has its own South Beach Diet.

Still listening, I looked up Monomoy South Beach to find out which ice cream stands and clam shacks were closest because surely that would shape this diet. If you’ve ever been to the Cape in the summer, you know it’s all about ice cream and fried food.

I was mistaken. The South Beach Bob mentioned is in the Monomoy National Wildlife Refuge, which changes everything.

Not only is it a NWR, but it is an IBA too – which of course I know is an “important birding area” because obviously my finger is on the pulse of all things ecological, biological, and geological in my adopted region. Or at least it is while Bob is reading. According to Mass Audubon, Monomoy and South Beach are home to many significant species, including Peregrine Falcon, Bald Eagle, Roseate Tern, Piping Plover, Tern both Least and Common, Common Loon, Northern Harrier, Short-eared Owl, Pied-billed Greeb, Short-billed Dowitcher, Sanderling, Red Knot, Ruddy Turnstone, Hudsonian Godwit, Whimbrel, Willet, American Oystercatcher, Black-crowned Night Heron, and Snowy Egret.

If you want to go on the Cape Cod South Beach diet you have to eat marine worms, insects (fly larvae and beetles), crustaceans, mollusks, fish, frogs, seeds, berries, leaves, pigeons, and songbirds.

Which just figures.

I may not know what birds can be found in our IBAs, but I do know that local, native New Englanders do not mess around. They are a hardy, no-nonsense, un-mess-withable lot. They know how to do everything, can fix anything, and will do it themselves, dammit.

People here see your pile of watercress and acai berries and throw a squid and some bear sausage on it. Note: we did have a bear wander over the bridge once – probably in search of ice cream and fried food.

Totally unrelated, did you know that there’s a fish called a Sarcastic Fringehead? Do not look up images of it or you will never sleep again – unless you’re a New Englander in which case you probably eat them with scrambled eggs.

As I have mentioned, I am not from here. I am therefore skipping the diet and going straight to reading Bob’s book instead. I’ll let you know if he includes recipes for marine worms and sand shrimp.

The Outer Beach by Robert Finch