On Faith, Rain ... And Killing Lobster

I've always considered my Grandmother a woman of great faith. I also pretty much think she has a direct line to the guy upstairs, so I like knowing she prays for me and my family.

She made a promise to God at one point that if my Grandfather was saved, she would never cut her hair again. Since her hair is uber thin, and always wrapped up with this little hairpiece attached, you'd never know it reaches clear past her tiny tush. The hairpiece is this pony tail holder covered in white hair. Since we've been traveling, I've taken to hiding it at night after she takes it off. One night, it was on an angel hanging on the wall. Another, a stuffed Boston Red Sox bear on the bed. There's a story she's told me before about her hair.  Hearing her laughter once she finds it makes me smile.

I digress.

So ... Gram has this really long hair that is a testament to her faith and promise to God. Well, last night, she told me another story, warning me about breaking a promise to the Almighty. She said after she made that covenant, she went to a beauty parlor and talked to the hairdresser about cleaning it up on the sides to make it easier to manage. She said as soon as the woman started clipping, she felt convicted by the most horrible feeling. She went home and cried, telling Him that she was sorry for breaking her promise and that she didn't want him to break his. She vowed, once again, that she would never touch her hair with anything more than soap, water and a comb.

This story is meaningful for two reasons. It illustrates that, sometimes, even people of great faith fall off track. It also shows that faith comes in all shapes and sizes. Sometimes the ask is just a wee bit smaller. Last night, Grandma is looking at the sky and saying that this weather won't let up. I ask her to stop saying that, telling her that I have faith that He will be bringing us sunshine tomorrow. The meteorologists can say whatever they want, but I'll be sticking to the forecast in my heart, as it's the one I'm praying for.

Couldn't be a prettier day when we wake up. Thanks, G.

Of course, I speak too soon, as once we're in the car -- another deluge. A local tells me they've had about three inches of rain in the past few days. A white tail deer pops out of the woods as we are heading down the driveway, bounding back into the woods with a few graceful leaps. At least there's that.

We stop at a small farm down the road with a little store. I spend an arm and a leg for some hand spun, hand dyed yarn to knit my first hat. We arrive in Bar Harbor about an hour later, deciding to wait out the rain and do a little shopping. On Star -- which is what I've begun calling Adam -- has done a little research for us. He suggests the Thirsty Whale for lunch based on reviews for their lobster rolls. If this is unsuccessful, I'm going to make them myself. I order a Shipyard Pumpkin Ale and hope for deliciousness to ensue.

This time, the beer is a bit disappointing, but the lobster roll is the best I've had -- though not because of the lobster. That pretty much tastes the same. It's the bread and the way they grill it. I throw a little cole slaw and some hot sauce on top ... and voila: it's lobster roll heaven (I'm still going to make my own tomorrow.) Gram says their clam chowder is really good, but still comes in second to Mystic Pizza.

Who knew?

As the sun starts to peek out, we head back to the car for a trek up to Cadillac Mountain. There's a beautiful view of the ocean and the sky is just beautiful. It's a little chilly, though, so I think Gram is happy to be back in the car and heading toward The Jordan Pond House, a place recommended by several folks as a great bet for popovers. These will be a first for both of us. We slather butter and strawberry jelly over the hot crusty muffins before devouring them. They are awesome.

It's about an hour and a half back to the house, and since I am quickly going into a popover-induced food coma, we pull over so I can shut my eyes for a second.

Or maybe I'm just terrified of what awaits me back at the house: three more live lobsters which need to be dispatched. Tonight, I plan to cook our crustaceans on the grill. That means splitting them ... live.

This is not a task for the faint of heart. I can't even explain to you how horrifying first plunging that knife in is. The lobster starts writhing around madly. The first one keeps moving long after he's split in two. Grandma tells me about chickens running around with their heads cut off, which doesn't exactly help. I am grossed out and feel so horrible that I'm just about in tears. In the picture, you'll see my "why won't you DIE?" face. I didn't even know I had one of those. It was really awful.

That said, after the first lobster finally finished it's death throes, number two and three (no names tonight -- I'm trying to distance myself) were much easier to handle. And the taste ... oh, my. Grilled lobster is absolutely delicious. Paired with a Bobby Flay recipe for basil butter that I souped up with my own garlic and lemon twist -- it was literally a smoky, luscious treat I won't soon forget.

Or repeat.