The Witching Hour

Before we went to dinner last night, our host and hostess offered us a tour of their home -- the Nathaniel Gardner House. It is believed to have been built 1740 and 1750 (although some records indicate it may have been erected in 1729), making it one of the oldest homes on the island. Walking through, Grandma and I admire the original trim, moldings, paneling, wide plank floors, fireplaces and baking oven. I'm captivated by the oven, complete with beehive protruding into the bathroom on the other side of the wall. In colonial times, they would stick breads, pies or other baked goods inside a small hole into this brick oven to bake. Apparently, early pictures of the house are on file at the Smithsonian.

Nantucket is such a charming place, and I can see why people come here. It has kind of a special place in my family as well, though I am just learning that this is where my dad proposed to my alternate mother, Leslie. The limbs on our family tree twist and turn in a myriad of directions, but I wouldn't have it any other way. She's become a pretty important part of the mish-mash that is our family unit.

It's rainy when we wake up on Thursday morning at about 8:30 am. Instead of waiting for the midday ferry, we opt to scurry and try to catch the next one. At 9:30. Yeah, that's in an hour. Grandma tries to help me pack.

"Help" is a term I use extremely loosely in this situation. I've noticed over the past several days that she's been trying to contribute in any way she can. Mostly, this means she will put stuff I have just removed from the bag back in it. Or she'll bring me things to pack while I am standing completely naked, fresh out of the shower. I just look at her and wonder, smiling to myself, what the hell she's doing. Helping. This woman is so used to being independent, so used to taking care of everyone around her, that she just simply can't let me take care of her. Damn, she's cute.

We make it to the ferry with just ten minutes to spare, plopping down at one of the tables, though there is already a bag marking the territory. I ask the woman who returns with a coffee and doughnut if she minds our joining her. She doesn't, saying she'll be working anyway. I'm glad for that, as I am hoping to catch up on the blog and some work stuff, too. 

Of course, we start talking ... about killing lobster. After I tell our new friend,  Joyce Paige from Amherst, Mass., that I plan to cook my first lobster in a few days for We The Eaters, she tells us a story. It's about killing an eight-pound lobster, which is the part that makes this piece fit into our theme next month: making food "Less Scary." I'm pretty terrified of killing a lobster, be it by scalding water, or the sword. This lobster she's telling us about was so big, it wouldn't fit in her fridge. They kept it outside, but when they brought it in, the cold weather had done a number on it. One of the claws just fell off. That didn't really matter, since it wouldn't fit in the pot without being cut up anyways.

"I thought she should have put a saddle on it, it was so huge," Joyce said.

As we laugh, Grandma pipes in that is won't be a problem -- she had to kill chickens all the time as a kid living on the farm.

Great. Former chicken slayer, now ruthless, lobster-killing white hair.

That sort of brings me back to the comment earlier about her "helping", and the independence it represents. I realize that I come from a long line of strong, independent women. My Great-Grandmother Evelyn left her husband when Grandpa was a small boy, trodding through fields to sell a farmer -- also the school's superintendent -- a set of encyclopedias. She was a Rosie during WWII. She had her own dress shop at a time when most women didn't work. My Grumpy's stepmother, Helen, had a college degree and worked at Michigan Bell. And Grandma, head nurse of a hospital in Detroit, was pretty much the sole breadwinner in their family. It's a badge of honor, and a great deal of responsibility.

We decide to skip Provincetown at the tip of Cape Cod and head up Route 3A, stopping instead at Plymouth Rock. It is so much smaller than I expected. The park ranger explains that it has slowly been chipped away over the years -- not by the elements, as one would expect. By people. They used to hand out a hammer and chisel so visitors could take a piece of the rock home. Although we don't go aboard, seeing the reproduction of the Mayflower moored in the harbor imparts a historic feel to the entire visit. We snap a few pictures and jump back in the car, heading North toward Boston.

Our logistical expert (a.k.a. Adam) provides us with a tip for lunch in Bean Town. As we are driving into the city, I realize how much I miss it here. I lived in Hopkinton (where the Boston Marathon starts) as a teenager, and then went to Boston University my freshman year of college. I loved the winding roads flanked by huge boulders, and the city steeped in history like the harbor steeped in tea so many years ago. Don't get me wrong -- DC rocks, but there is something special about Boston.

We arrive in the city, and thanks to my parking karma, find a great spot in just minutes. I figure since Grandma couldn't make it with Mom and I to Italy last year, we'll have the next best thing: lunch in the North End. We arrive at Carmen, ordering a fig, caramelized onions and Gorgonzola flatbread. We decide to split lunch, a crespelle (think crepe) stuffed with porcini mushrooms, caramelized onions, topped with a Bolognese Sauce. I can't even explain how good this food was. It was one of those eyes-rolling-back-in-your-head meals. It's making me a bit weak in the knees just thinking about it now. I totally had a foodgasm.

We stop by Modern Pastry to pick up a little treat for Mike, Adam's cousin, and his partner, Marc, who we plan to meet for dinner tonight. Just around the block, we stop at a great little grocery store for something to pair with the treats I've brought back from Italy. We plan to enjoy an Italian-style meal once we get to Vermont.

It's relatively easy to get out of the city, but slow going heading toward Salem. Once we get to the place we are staying, I'm a bit dismayed to see how many steps there are and how steep. I worked really hard to avoid this sort of thing. Grandma is a trooper and makes it up, then collapses for a little nap. I've got plans for the whirlpool tub in the bathroom, and am distressed to find it has been booby trapped. The stopper is AWOL, and I can only guess this is to dissuade me from using it. I am further convinced when I try to turn on the water and nothing happens.

Oh, lady ... you have seriously underestimated me.

I review the House Rules to confirm there is nothing in it about not using the tub, and then proceed to MacGyver a stopper out of a washcloth, opening the access panel to turn the water on. In about fifteen minutes, I am luxuriating in a steaming hot bath.

After I clean up the evidence of my blissful tryst, I find I'm foiled again when I can't get on the Internet. I check the listing, only to find it isn't listed as an amenity, but also notice while I'm there that the room isn't the one pictured. I'm slightly put off, but happy to curl up with my book.

We head out toward Pickering Wharf and Restaurant 62 to meet Mike and Marc for dinner. I drop Grandma off at the door and circle looking for a parking spot. I notice that she's caught up with them as
I circle by the door a second time. She's smiling broadly. Such a charmer, that one. She has threatened on multiple occasions to take Adam home with her already, and I think she's considering whether there is room for them, too.

They are both very sweet, and it's obvious that Mike and Adam share the same blood. They have similar personality traits. He's a "floorologist" (Grandma sees a sign with this word while driving into Boston and giggles away in the passenger's seat, having the same reaction again when Mike tells us he's in flooring.) Marc's in finance. I tell them where I work and it doesn't have the usual reaction. I think they may be the only gay Republicans I've ever met, which I don't feel bad mentioning, since it's them who point out this oddity as we dine (on crazy good food, I might add.)

So here I am, already nervous, and now we're discussing politics. I might as well launch into a diatribe about religion next.

We definitely reach common ground when it comes to Adam, who it is clear we are all pretty fond of. They are protective and seem glad to know that I care about him and his heart. Adam has told me a lot about them, and his cousin Judy, and I am looking forward to meeting more of the family. Adam's parents are adorable, and Grandma was quite taken with them. We may ask them to come along for Thanksgiving. That's saying something, considering we are driving. Eighteen hours is a long ride in the car if you don't like someone!

Sadly, the time comes for us to say goodbye. The gentleman walk us back to the car and I'm thrilled for hugs. I am a total hugger. Looking forward to a full report from Adam on what they thought, and tell him that I hope they will be honest.

Eeep. Now I'm nervous again.