The other night my family indulged in a summer tradition: we had lobster for dinner.
True, lobster is a food that can be enjoyed any time of the year. But there’s something about these warm summer days that makes the idea of a lobster dinner seem that much more appetizing. Perhaps it’s the beach sand that’s infiltrated every corner of my house, despite my best efforts with the vacuum. Or maybe it’s the perfect pairing of boiled lobster with freshly picked corn that appeals. Whatever the reason, when the circular from my grocery store advertised lobsters for the bargain price of $4.99 a pound, I couldn’t resist.
I haven’t always been a lobster fan. For that matter, I haven’t always been a seafood fan. Growing up in New Jersey, my exposure to seafood was limited to breaded fish sticks. On the rare occasion my mother would serve these, I’d turn up my nose at those deep fried tubes that looked like chicken but smelled like the aquarium. After moving to New England to attend college, my roommate’s father treated us to dinner at Legal Seafoods. Predictably, I was the only person at the table to order steak.
I’ve been living in New England now for 30 years, and over time I’ve learned to enjoy a variety of seafood. Shrimp cocktail led to broiled scallops which gave way to swordfish, salmon and catfish. Clam chowder is another favorite, though I suspect it has more to do with the copious amounts of butter, heavy cream and potatoes involved and less about the clams. Though I pride myself on appreciating a variety of items from the sea, I still can’t get on board with oysters (too much like snot), calamari (french-fried rubber bands) or any really fishy tasting fish.
My husband was the one to introduce me to lobster. Something about these crustaceans always gave me the heebie-jeebies. Maybe it’s because they look like giant bugs and I hate anything that crawls (or creeps or flies…) Shortly after we began dating, my husband brought me home to meet his parents, who live in Central New York. His long-standing tradition was to bring lobsters home with him. Throughout the drive, I kept glancing at the back seat, wondering if these lobstrocities were working their way out of the travel pack, preparing to hijack the car. When we arrived at his parents’ house we were greeted with open arms and a pot of boiling water on the stove. My apprehension at meeting his parents quickly faded within minutes of meeting them, but my apprehension about eating lobster for the first time remained. What if I hated it? Could I ask for a hamburger instead?
Thankfully, the dinner was a success. Aided by a tutorial in claw cracking (as well as a veritable ocean of melted butter), I found the lobster to be mild and pleasant. Subsequently, my appreciation for this delicacy has grown over the years and there have been many lobster dinners since. I do, however, have my own set of rules when it comes to lobster. I never order it in a restaurant (too expensive). I never eat it as a lobster roll (lobster and mayonnaise? Blech!) Lobster can be enjoyed on the day it is cooked, but not as a leftover (see previous reference to lobster roll). It is acceptable as a filling for ravioli (but only with cream sauce, never tomato). It’s great in bisque, but when my husband ordered a lobster omelet at a favorite restaurant, I had to move to another table. And though some people enjoy it, I will never, ever eat that nasty green tomalley (I don’t do liver in any shape or form).
Unfortunately, my husband and I have done ourselves a disservice when it comes to enjoying lobster. We’ve introduced our kids to it. At first, they turned up their noses and refused to even try it. Oh well, more for the rest of us. But little by little they’ve come around, asking for a piece here and there. At dinner the other night they each ate their own, whole lobster. We have only ourselves to blame for exposing our children to champagne tastes (on our beer budget).
So if you have not yet enjoyed boiled lobster this summer, remember; there’s only a few weeks left.
You better get crackin’.
Summer vacation is officially more than half over. As we shake our heads and marvel about how quickly the time passes, we must now buckle down and start crossing off all those items on our “to-do” list before the leaves turn gold, the air turns cold and the school bus doors unfold.
Time for a trip to Canobie Lake Park.
This has become a summer tradition for my family. Having grown up in New Jersey, I missed having my formative years revolve around “Story Land” and “Santa’s Village”. (We were too busy going down the shore, enjoying the rides at Seaside Heights long before Snookie and The Situation ever heard of the place).
Canobie Lake is the perfect day trip. It’s located just an hour from home and reasonably priced (with discount tickets from Costco, our family of four managed to get in for under $100). The park is large enough to never feel crowded, yet small enough to negotiate even with little kids. And it’s our family’s benchmark for measuring when my children are ready to visit Disney World.
As my kids are quick to remind me, we are the only family they know who has never been to Disney World. To which I reply,”When you can go on all the big rides at Canobie Lake Park, then we’ll consider taking you to Disney.” So far, no go.
My favorite ride in the park is the Canobie Corkscrew roller coaster. Each year we go directly from the park entrance to this ride so I can get my fix of being flung upside down for thirty seconds. On our last trip to the park, my oldest son successfully took the plunge with me (twice). This year, I was hoping for my younger son to join me. Would he make it? Or would he turn tail and run back down the ramp at the last minute? After watching his mom and older brother survive a run, he bravely, quietly accompanied me up the ramp. He solemnly climbed into his seat and pulled the restraint down over his head. I could tell the anticipation of the initial climb was making him anxious, so I reached over and held his hand. As we plummeted down the steep drop, the terror on his face turned to wonder as the coaster gracefully snaked its way through the corkscrew, turning his world upside down and back again. By the ride’s end, he was beaming. As we exited the coaster, I told him how proud I was of his accomplishment. He smiled and said, “It was scary, but fun.” “Want to do it again?” I asked, to which he replied, “No thanks.”
After several hours of rides, my kids decided it was time to visit “Castaway Island”, Canobie’s water park. Our very first visit to the park was on a cool day with a steady drizzle of rain, making the freezing cold water that spurts out of Castaway’s climbing structure even more miserable. But this year, we chose a warm, sunny day. As my husband and I relaxed on lounge chairs, our kids climbed up and down the enormous jungle gym of Castaway Island, spraying other kids with water hoses, dodging the giant bucket of water that dumps every thirty seconds, and sliding down the assortment of slides.
I’ve often thought that a visitor from another planet would be able to see just about every type of human specimen by visiting a water park. I’m pretty modest when it comes to my swimsuit; I wear one with enough coverage and spandex to keep everything essential covered and in place. Not everyone at Castaway Island subscribes to this same school of thought. The prevailing mentality was “If you’ve got it, flaunt it” (sadly, most of them didn’t have it, or they had too much of it). My friend always says if you want to feel like a supermodel, go to a water park. As an added bonus, we saw an incredible array of tattoos and body piercings (okay, I understand the pierced lip and the ear discs, but what’s with the black spikes that came out of that guy’s nose?)
Being frugal, I packed my family a lunch, which we enjoyed outside the park, but that didn’t stop my kids from commenting on every salty, fried concoction that went by. I treated each of them to a caramel coated apple (hey, it may be covered in sugar and sprinkles, but at least there’s fruit underneath). Before we left the park, I had to indulge in my own personal favorite: Funnel Cake. This treat is often hard to find, replaced by its New England cousin, Fried Dough. “What’s the difference?” my husband asked. Fried dough is a wad of bread dough deep fried and covered with butter and powdered sugar, while funnel cake is batter drizzled through a funnel into the fry-o-later, plopped on a plate, and also covered with powdered sugar. They sound the same, but in my opinion, when it comes to fried treats, funnel cake is clearly the victor.
As the sun set, we packed up our swimsuits, brushed off the powdered sugar and headed home. Recapping the events of the day, my youngest son overcame his fear of the corkscrew coaster while my older son tried out new rides like the Turkish Twist (centrifugal force at its best) and the Wave Blaster (guaranteed to jolt the lunch right out of you). However, both children refused to accompany us on the old wooden roller coaster, The Yankee Cannonball.
I guess Disney can wait.
Summer is the perfect time for travel. Each summer I enjoy spending weeks on end traveling to locations both exotic and familiar. So far this summer, I’ve traveled to Sweden, Louisiana, the San Fernando Valley, Cambodia and Africa.
Ah, if only my bank account allowed me to really travel to these places. Instead, I content myself with traveling only as far as my couch, the YMCA pool or a nearby beach. Once comfortable, I pull out whatever book I’m currently reading and let my mind travel to the places inside.
I’m a voracious reader by nature, but without the distractions of homework, after-school activities and soccer I am able to spend that much more time lazing around with a good book. I may not be able to physically jet off to parts unknown, but with the help of my local library, I can experience the next best thing.
When school let out, I transported myself to Sweden to enjoy the first two books of Stieg Larsson’s Millennium Trilogy: “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo” and “The Girl who Played with Fire.” I became well acquainted with two fascinating characters, journalist Mikael Blomkvist and computer hacker Lisbeth Salander, while learning about many places throughout Sweden, the country of my ancestors. There was even a mention in the first book about the tiny island of Arholma, where my grandfather was born.
Leaving Sweden I traveled to rural Wisconsin at the turn of the century to experience the story of a mail order bride and her wealthy husband in Robert Goolrick’s “A Reliable Wife”. Nothing is as it seems in this twisty, juicy read. From there I jetted to the heat of Africa where I found myself enthralled by the epic novel, “Someone Knows My Name” by Lawrence Hill. The novel follows Aminata Diallo, a young girl kidnapped in Africa, sold into slavery and transported to South Carolina, Manhattan, Nova Scotia and, finally, back to Africa. Blending real events and historical figures, the story gives a harrowing account of Aminata’s struggle to survive, eventually aiding the British in the Revolutionary War and supporting the Abolitionist Movement in London.
Needing to lighten up, I then traveled to The San Fernando Valley to hang out with “The Girls from the Revolutionary Cantina” by Mike Padilla. Though I’m not Latina, I recognized plenty of myself and my friends in the novel’s characters as they struggle with female friendships, romantic entanglements and trouble in the workplace. This lighthearted story was the perfect bridge between the heavy “Someone Knows my Name” and the next book on my list.
Just this morning, I finished “First They Killed My Father” by Loung Ung. Forced to flee her home in Phnom Penh, Cambodia in 1975, the author describes in horrific detail the five years her family spent traveling from village to village, hoping to escape imprisonment and death at the hands of the Khmer Rouge. Completely engrossed in the story, I often forgot that the writer was only five years old at the time of the events.
Last, but not least, I’m joining my family on yet another adventure this summer. The required reading for my son entering fourth grade is “Treasure Island” by Robert Louis Stevenson. I wonder what the school was thinking, assigning such a weighty book for a 9-year old. After watching my son struggle for a few days, my husband and I decided that each night we would read a chapter or two out loud to our children. My favorite comment so far is when my son said, “Hey, this character is named after a restaurant… Long John Silver.” We’re hoping to finish our pirate adventure before school begins.
With a mere five weeks left until school starts, I’m looking forward to taking a few more trips through the pages of a beloved book. If you can’t swing the money or the time off for a real vacation, why not join me?
It’s too darn hot.
Okay, I know it’s summer. I know it’s supposed to be hot. I know that, technically, the “dog days” of summer start in early July and run through September. But I am not mentally or physically prepared to deal with so many super-hot days in a row in mid-July.
Did you ever see the Twilight Zone episode called “The Midnight Sun”? In this episode, the earth has changed its elliptical orbit and is inching closer to the sun. Throughout the episode, the few remaining residents of New York City suffer as the temperature climbs higher, thermometers explode and paintings melt.
These past few weeks feel like that episode.
My thermometer is not in danger of exploding, but watching it hit temperatures in the high 80’s and low 90’s every single day is getting old. Though we don’t have central air conditioning, we do have window units that cut the humidity and keep us cool enough to sleep at night. It’s not fun weighing my family’s comfort against the impending electric bill. We have air conditioning in the car too, though I hate to use it for short trips around town. There are my FWPs (friends with pools, remember them?) and my FWBS (friends with beach stickers) and that helps too. But for one day, I’d like to not have to strategize about how to stay cool in extreme heat. I’d like to weed my perennial bed, sleep with the windows open and mow the lawn without dropping dead from heatstroke.
I’m conflicted on hot, sunny days. A part of me feels that my kids and I should be outside enjoying the sunshine. After all, before we know it, there will be frigid temperatures and bitterly cold winds (though not soon enough, in my opinion). But when its 90 degrees with high humidity, all I want to do is hunker down inside my house, the mall or a movie theater and wait for the heat to break.
Last week we had a cool, rainy day. It was still quite humid, but the temperature never rose above 80. It was wonderful to wake to cloudy skies. For once there was no pressure to “…get outside and enjoy the sunny weather…” I’d forgotten what it was like to have grey clouds overhead, with no hint of blue sky. The rain did not come in a torrent, as is so often the case during summer thunderstorms. Rather, it misted and dribbled and dripped, teasing our water-starved lawns and flowers. ‘Hooray’, I thought, ‘lousy weather at last.’
And then it was gone, only to be replaced with another hot, sunny, sticky day. Sigh.
You might wonder how the Twilight Zone episode ended. As it turns out, the main character was suffering from a fever, which caused her to dream that the earth was moving closer to the sun. In true Twilight Zone fashion, the earth was in fact moving farther away from the sun. As the main character sweated through her delusion, the frigid cold snow swirled outside the window.
Sounds lovely to me.
The television show Saturday Night Live used to have a segment entitled “Deep Thoughts by Jack Handey”. I used to love that segment because the thoughts were anything but deep; they were downright bizarre. Every now and then, a random thought will pop into my head and I’ll think, “I should write about that in my column.” Enough of these thoughts have crowded around the junk drawer of my brain, and I think it’s time to let them out.
So here they are: Random thoughts…by Laura Anderson.
What possesses people to drive with their dog on their lap? When I see this my first thought is, “What happens to the dog in the event of an accident? You wouldn’t drive with your child on your lap?” (Unless you’re Britney Spears). Are these dog lovers so attached they can’t bear to relegate their pets to the back seat? Is the dog programming the GPS or changing the radio station? Or are these drivers hoping that, in the event of a stroke or heart attack, their dog will instinctively take the wheel?
When did the red light become a stop sign and the stop sign become a yield sign? On several occasions I’ve had the driver in front of me suddenly turn left or charge through the intersection while the light is nowhere close to changing to green. I took Drivers Ed more than 30 years ago, but I’m fairly sure you’re still supposed to wait for the light to turn green. And more often than I care to count, drivers no longer stop at stop signs but roll through with hardly a tap on their brakes. Are they in a rush or are they just distracted by the dog on their lap?
This afternoon, I parked behind a large minivan with a bumper sticker that read, “This Car Climbed Mount Washington!” Should I be impressed? After all, it’s a car. I assume that Mt. Washington has a paved road for just this purpose (or did the car outfit itself at REI and climb up instead?) If the bumper sticker said, “This Car Climbed Mt. Everest”, then that would impress me. Ironically, the car’s driver was exceptionally well padded, which made me think that perhaps he would have benefitted from climbing the mountain himself instead of letting the car do all the work (at least he gave the car full credit).
What’s nearly as frustrating as entering a public bathroom stall with no toilet paper? Entering one with no hook for your purse. Sorry gentlemen, this random thought only concerns the ladies. More often than not, the smooth, shiny door has two holes where the hook used to be. Did someone’s heavy bag pull the hook from the door? Did a frugal woman unbolt it and bring it home for her own bathroom? Without a hook, where are we expected to place our handbags while attending to business? The floor? Our laps? The holes are already drilled. Replace the hook.
And while we’re on the subject of women’s accessories, I recently found an eBay store called Single Shoe Outlet. This store sells single high end shoes. I wondered, other than someone with a prosthetic, who is buying single designer shoes? Luckily their website provided the answer: People with severely mismatched feet (oh my). People who have lost one shoe of a pair (Cinderella?) People who have damaged one shoe of a pair (pit bull attack?) People who are part of the trend of wearing different shoes on different feet (seriously?) And my personal favorite: “Folks who cannot afford these expensive shoes can have one in their closets.” Imagine how proud these folks are when their friend asks for a tour of their closet and they toss off this phrase in a devil-may-care way: “That Christian Louboutin pump? Yes it’s lovely, isn’t it? I must have kicked the other one under the bed last night when I came home from sipping champagne at the Four Seasons.”
Thank you for indulging me in sharing my random thoughts. I expect that as a result all dogs will now travel in the back seat, all stop signs and red lights will be obeyed, hooks will be immediately replaced in all restrooms and cars will stop bragging about climbing Mt. Washington.
Now if only I could find that other Louboutin pump…
As the temperature creeps towards 90 degrees on the first of many hot days, I turn my thoughts inward and count my blessings:
I’m blessed to have an air conditioner in my bedroom. I’m blessed to have air conditioning in my car. I’m blessed that I’m in generally good health that’s not threatened by extreme heat and humidity. But most of all, I’m especially blessed to have FWPs.
That’s Friends with Pools.
In the high heat of summer there is nothing better than a friend with a pool. And I’ve been blessed with several.
Yes, there are other ways to beat the heat. You can hide in the movies. You can cruise through the mall. You can head to the shore in hopes of a cool, ocean breeze. But as far as I’m concerned, these options all pale in comparison to being invited to a friend’s pool.
I’m not knocking the beach, but overall I am definitely more of a pool person. The beach usually involves travel. Currently, it’s only 20 minutes to the beach, but growing up in New Jersey, it took me at least an hour to go “…down the shore.” (In New Jersey you don’t go to the beach…you go down the shore). A day at the beach involves sand chairs, umbrellas, coolers, towels, bug spray, sun screen and boogie boards. Parking is expensive (unless you have a sticker) if you’re lucky to find a space at all. You have to time your visit carefully (high tide for surfing or low tide for the little ones) and heaven forbid you get all the way to the water’s edge only to discover that the beach has been closed due to a “red tide” or, in the case of beaches closer to Boston, something much, much worse. And if the beach is open, the tide is right, the green heads aren’t biting and there’s no great white shark swimming off shore, you have to stay for the whole day to make the whole exhausting production worthwhile. And then there’s that pesky part of the trip that stays with you forever: Sand. When I get home from the beach, there’s at least six pounds of sand in my car, my bag, my hair and eventually every corner of my house.
The pool, on the other hand, requires little more than a beach towel, some sunscreen and a token offering to the pool gods that invited you (bags of chips, Starburst or Oreo cookies will do). Even if your host’s pool is not heated, it’s guaranteed to be warmer than the frigid New England ocean. There are no rocks to hurt your feet and no crabs to bite your toes. At the pool, it takes only a glance to verify your child’s whereabouts. There’s no undertow or riptide that might carry them off to parts unknown. FWPs usually have lounge chairs conveniently located poolside, and a patio set with umbrella if you choose shade over sun. The pool has amenities like telephones, refrigerators and best of all, clean bathrooms mere steps from the water’s edge (at the pool there’s no question where your kids will pee. At the beach? Well, that’s anyone’s guess). When your kids get unruly, you can threaten to take them home and actually mean it, because home is only a mile down the road and you don’t have to spend an hour packing up all the paraphernalia you brought.
Yes, it’s wonderful to have friends with pools, but it’s important not to abuse the privilege. They’ll throw out that blanket phrase, “Come swim anytime,” but a wise friend waits for an invitation. Remember, they are the ones who spent untold amounts on concrete, liners, landscaping and fences. They are the ones who had their lives turned upside down for months while backhoes and dump trucks invaded their yards. Think about everything you do to prepare your house for a friend’s visit, and then imagine doing that every single day. That’s what it’s like when you own a pool.
So be respectful of your FWPs. Wait for an invitation and leave before your kids become a nuisance. Bring snacks, extra towels and the occasional bottle of Patron. Remove snapping turtles from their pool when they call you in a panic. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll have a cool place to hang during the hot days of summer.
It has come to my attention that there are certain arguments which can never be settled. Which came first, the chicken or the egg? Evolution or creation? How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?
And of course, the argument that ensues in the back seat of my mini-van every time we travel through town:
Pet Smart? Or Pet’s Mart?
They are building one of those pet supply superstores here in town. Every time we drive past the construction site, my kids spy the store’s logo on the banner hanging from the fence.
“Is it Pet Smart…or Pet’s Mart?” one asks.
“It’s Pet Smart,” the other answers. “See how the word Pet is in red and the word Smart is in blue?”
“Yes, “the first argues, “but see how the bouncing ball in the logo looks like an apostrophe? I think that means that it’s Pet’s Mart. You know, like a mart for pets.”
“But,” comes the rebuttal, “because the word smart is all in blue, it means that it’s a store for smart pets. Get it? Pet Smart.”
Now, I’m all for heated debate, but you would think after driving past the construction site daily, and having this same discussion over and over, one child would concede to the other. But no, they each have their mother’s stubborn streak.
While holding an instant message conversation with my out-of-town sister, my kids started in on the debate at the adjacent breakfast table. I typed, “My kids are having an intellectual discussion about whether it’s Pet Smart or Pet’s Mart”.
My sister immediately typed back this response: “It’s Pet Smart. Their website is petsmart.com.”
To which I replied, “Yes, but if you look at the bouncing ball logo, it looks like an apostrophe, which would make it Pet’s Mart.”
Good God, it’s hereditary.
The advertising executives that created the Pet Smart/Pet’s Mart logo must be geniuses, devising a name designed to spark repeated heated debate in cars all across the country. And yet, no one has answered the most important question of all: With Petco a mere one mile from the construction site, does our town really need a Pet’s Mart, a PetSmart or whatever the heck you want to call it?
I’m still waiting for my answer to that one.
