All You Have to Do is Show Up.

Inkwell Beach Foam

 Often, I labor over the blog posting. I work hard on choosing the right image, bolstering it with the ideal word, and edit it until I feel willing to share it with the world.  Today is different. Today, the beach, in its wisdom, taught me that sometimes, to enjoy life, truly enjoy its many mysterious and wondrous ways........

............all you have to do is to show up. 

My good fortune was that I had my camera along to document some of the things I saw as I found my way to spend 90 minutes spent at Eastville Beach.

The Wharf - No Trespassing.
I trespassed. The secret is to act as if you belong.

The Shenandoah and the Black Dog cross paths.

A Painting in Motion

Vineyard Haven Harbor

A reminder of another Island, for another day.

The tourists, they keep coming.

A stop at Packer’s Wharf en route to Eastville.

A seagull clutching a wine bottle cork.

The seagull takes flight with the cork, not interested in sharing.

All of this perfection, and I simply showed up. Mindfulness training? I’ll take the sky, the sea, the sand and all that they offer.

Kay’s Eggceptional Eggs: 18 months, two dozen eggs and three homegrown herbs

Homegrown rosemary, oregano and sage

       The Christmas before last, my daughter, Kay, surprised me one morning when she volunteered to make eggs for me.  It was one of the first times I could recall that, in her 23-years, she had offered to serve me eggs..  At the time, I lived in a condo with an open floor between the living room and the kitchen. From where I was ensconced on the sofa, I couldn’t see what magic was wrought. I heard the refrigerator door open many more times than I thought necessary if she planned to scramble up four eggs for us to share.  Finally, unable to contain myself, I got up to see what all the commotion was about.  Kay had buttered two small ramekins. The oven was preheating to 350 degrees.  She was furiously chopping herbs.

“What have you got here?” I asked her.

“Baked eggs.  Go away, they will be ready in fifteen minutes.”

When I saw the container of cream open on the counter, I reminded her I avoided dairy products.

“Not today,” she said. “It’s not enough to worry about. Now go SIT DOWN.”

I went back to my resting position. Then I heard aggressive chopping resume.

“What are you chopping?”

“Food.” She has a knack of boiling things down to their essence.

         The only time she asked for my assistance was in finding a pan the dimension of which she could submerge the ramekins half-way in a water bath. Shortly thereafter, I heard the stove door open, then shut.  The electronic beep of the timer informed me that the baked eggs were underway.  Fourteen minutes passed more rapidly than I expected.  To my pleasure, Kay had the kitchen Spic and Span clean just as the timer dinged.

         I came in for the unveiling. As I watched her gloved hand reach into the hot oven and withdraw the eggs, my mouth began to water. She was careful not to jostle the water bath into the ramekins.  I pulled out a cooling rack from under the counter. Kay gently placed the perfectly cooked eggs on the rack. She had toast already browning.  Ever so tenderly, she slid the eggs onto our plates. I buttered the toast.  I told her, “I can’t wait.” I broke into the just slightly runny eggs on my plate. Some of the yolk had thickened and some hadn’t quite. The tops were brown as if someone had torched them to get a look suitable for magazine perfection.  The first bite was simply sublime.  How can I call an egg sublime? When the egg white tastes salty but savory. When the white of the egg is melded to the yoke by a hard-to-define substrate, a carrier that unifies the egg and the yoke so they are rich and smooth on the palette.  I was so enraptured by the eggs Kay made, that I never sat down. I ate my breakfast hovering by the stove – all the while demanding she give me a complete rundown of what she did that made her eggs so exceptional.  She shrugged her shoulders forward in a very je ne said quoi French expression of dismissal.

“I just used whatever you had in the refrigerator, ” she said.  Over the last two days of her visit, I finally teased out of her that she used some ½ and ½, salt, pepper, rosemary, sage and oregano – all fresh.

           I listened carefully and felt assured I would be able to replicate her eggs.  I made it my mission to replicate baked eggs that were as dreamy, as tasty, as – shall I say EPHEMERAL as Kay’s had been.  The truth is that I tried at least five times in the oven and they never met the standards I held trapped in my memory.  Initially, I used a water bath.  I didn’t notice a significant difference with it.  I have  had pronounced success with water baths when making baked puddings or  Grapenut puddings.  While the water kept the outside of the eggs from browning, and it slightly changed the consistency of the cooked eggs, the effects didn’t justify the labor.  After   numerous attempts of making the eggs in my oven with the bath and without the bath, the eggs cooked nicely and evenly through either way. Due to circumstances beyond my control, I was forced to continue experimenting using my toaster oven because the oven was not available.  I felt it rational to dispense with the water bath. Perhaps in larger volume, the bath would make sense. Despite following her recipe, I could not replicate the sumptuous flavors that Kay managed to seduce from the lowly egg.

     In June, I had an AhHa moment. It took about two dozen eggs, a dozen trials and and 18 months, but I knew exactly what I had to do; I had to up my game. I assembled a planter outside the kitchen door. Inside, I gently dug three holes, inserted rosemary, sage and oregano, and fed them aggressively with Miracle Gro.  
        This morning was the herbs appointment with destiny. They have had all summer to grow in preparation for the sacrifice they would make on behalf of Kay’s Baked Eggs.  If successful, there were likely going to be many more herbaceous sacrifices in the name of Kay’s Baked Eggs before the first frost settles. Today was the Golden Moment. I greased and preheated. I broke shells and drizzled cream. I scattered salt and tweaked pepper. I minced oregano and rosemary, I rolled and diced sage.  I distributed herbs generously.  Into the preheated oven, the ramekins sat for a mere thirteen minutes.  Using an oven mitt, I retrieved the four dishes. The eggs slid from the ramekins onto two plates.  I didn’t, couldn’t, wait for toast. The eggs had the exact shade of golden brown that I remembered from Kay’s Holiday baked eggs.  Using my fork, I cut one egg in quarter.  Each bite delighted my palette with its perfection of flavors including the verboten creamy richness of heavy cream and the smooth fattiness of yolk that was slick upon my palate. I was delighted with the exploding flavors of fresh farm to table robustness of rosemary, thyme and sage accentuated by the most common of cohorts, salt and pepper.  Kay’s Eggcellent Eggs required unexpected effort and were a long-time coming, but perhaps the waiting made them all the more pleasurable.

Kay’s Baked Eggs serve two.  You will need coconut oil spray, 4 eggs, 1/4 tsp. salt

1/4 tsp. pepper, 3 leaves sage extra for garnish, 1 sprig rosemary extra for garnish

2 sprigs thyme extra for garnish, 4 tsp. heavy cream.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.  Grease four small ramekins with coconut

spray.  Break one egg into each ramekin.  Salt and pepper each

egg. Pour 1 teaspoon of heavy cream over each egg.  Finely mince the

herbs together. For best results, roll the sage leaves, slice, then dice.

Distribute the minced herbs equally over each egg.

*Pop the ramekins into the oven (or toaster oven) for 12-14 minutes. Just as the tops begin to bubble and turn golden, remove from oven.  You may serve the

eggs from individual ramekins or slide them onto two serving plates adorned with fresh herbs and buttered toast.  Kay’s breakfast would always include a breakfast

meat such as linguiça (true to her Portuguese heritage), bacon, ham or sausage.

Kay’s Eggceptional Eggs

*If so desired, you may use a water bath by submerging the ramekins in

a glass or metal dish that will hold volume of water that is equal to half

the height of the ramekin.  Be exceptionally careful to avoid burns.

A final note: having mastered this technique, there is no end to the

creative adventures the adventuresome chef might pursue. Use a bed of

spinach and diced tomatoes.  Layer salsa in the ramekin, then the eggs, then

sprinkle with parmesan cheese.  Kay’s breakfast meats might as easily be

served in the baked eggs as next to them.  The fun is there for the making.

Which way to Upis Land?

Up Island on Martha’s Vineyard Island

          I went to town to get my mail and run a few errands.  One of which was to continue my search for a bumper sticker for my son’s car.  The sticker reads, “Which way to Upis Land?”  My son, quite possibly from birth, is navigationally–impaired.  From the beginning, he was inordinately reluctant to enter this world.  My theory was that he was not wired with bearings for North and South. That would explain why, at birth, he seemed to be heading North when an anxious room full of doctors, nurses and his parents were urging him to move South. I have come to accept this particular quirk as part of what makes him special.  After all, why waste my breath bemoaning that I have a child who can lose his car after parking it?  His iPhone has remedied many of the everyday challenges he used to face.  As he says, “These situations are exactly what the GPS on my phone is for, Mom.”  With that little back-story, you can better appreciate what launched me in search of this particular bumper sticker. 

          Martha’s Vineyard is divided in half.  There is Up Island, consisting of: Aquinnah, Menemsha, Chilmark and West Tisbury. The down-Island towns consist of Oak Bluffs, Tisbury (more commonly called Vineyard Haven) and Edgartown.  Recently the Commonwealth of Massachusetts approved funding to standardize road signage across the state. This prompted Island residents to write some irate letters to the Editor of the Vineyard Gazette. People expressed their ire that the perfectly good and serviceable signs that were in place had to be yanked and replaced with new ones.  These letters were as effective as spitting into the wind; the state prevailed and new signs went up.  Something about how the new typeface is set is misleading.  The new signs can leave a near-sighted person with the impression that, when contemplating what direction he or she must go to reach the towns of Aquinnah, Menemsha, Chilmark and West Tisbury, he should head to Upis Land.  Read it out loud.  To regular visitors and Island residents, the sign reads Up Island.  This was brought to my attention when my daughter told me she had overheard someone on a bicycle say, out loud, “Which way to Upis  Land?”  A few months later, I saw a bumper sticker on a vintage Volvo; it read Upis Land. I wanted one, no two, no five.  I thought my son might appreciate the humor of summer people looking for a fictitious place that they will never find.  I thought it might make him feel a little better about his own navigational lapses.  After visiting numerous Island Gift Shops, I took my search for the Holy Grail of Bumper Stickers to Oak Bluffs.  I went into a little tchotchke and gift shop in the building that houses the restaurant called Sharky’s Cantina.  

              Many people call Oak Bluffs the honky-tonk town of Martha’s Vineyard.  It has a small year round population that swells dramatically in the summer.  It is true that, of all the Island towns, it is the one most likely to draw party revelers. The Oak Bluffs harbor, formerly called Lake Anthony, welcomes what seems like a fleet of boats – and their thirsty owners.  The anchor hotel, the Wesley House, is a three- story behemoth built in the 1800s. Whether it is full of car aficionados or eager bass fishermen, the results are the same. The hotel guests head to downtown Oak Bluffs – a one lane, one-way road called Circuit Ave.  The stores on Circuit Ave stay open late to capitalize on the summer visitors.  The town’s unapologetic desire to cater toward being hospitable is why it earned it its reputation as a party-happy, slightly unseemly, town.  The Flying Horses, the Ritz, the Lamp Post, the Lamp Post, the Game Room and Linda Jean’s are among the most popular places tourists to which visitors flock along Circuit Ave. A carousel, bars, a video game room and a restaurant ratchet up tourists’ impressions of fun in Oak Bluffs.   However, having called it “home” for much of my life, I see something else entirely. I was reminded of this when I was on my quest for an Upis Land bumper sticker.

         As I turned to leave the cap store, one of the men behind the counter extended a dollar to me and said, “Would you do me a favor?”

I laughed, hesitantly.

He went on, “Would you buy a lemonade from the kids at the lemonade stand outside the store.”  I peaked out and saw that, indeed, there was a lemonade stand.

Lemonade with Twirly Straw

“Sure,” I said, as I took his dollar. “I’ll be right back.”

“No, no, you don’t understand. The lemonade is for you.”

“That’s nice of you, but I don’t really want any,” I said.

He hurried to correct me. “They are my kids and I want they them to have some business.  Won’t you please help?”

Then, as an afterthought, he added, “But whatever you do, don’t tell them that I asked you to do this!”

“Of course not,” I said indignantly.  “I’m a Mother.  I know better.”

With that, I exited and bought a surprisingly delicious lemonade that included a special twirly straw.  As I walked back to my car, I took sip after sip of lemonade.

I felt a special kind of happy that I live on an Island where kids are still kids and parents are still parents. Budding entrepreneurs and their parents are part of the fabric from which the Island’s future is woven. It is part of the Vineyard’s draw that, whether Upis Land or Down Island, there is a place for all of us here.