The Joy of Food in Maine

Greg grinned like Emma in a candy store as we stood in the enormous warehouse of lobsters at Young’s Lobster Pound.  Water circulated through the giant tanks each holding grosses of lobsters of varying sizes.  

“How do we chose?” I asked.

“I don’t think you can make a wrong choice here.  The only decision we have to make is: how many?” Greg said.

“One’s enough for me.”  I ate frugally when we traveled.  (I’d be thin if we stayed on the road.  I blame a house full of inexpensive meals for my fat.)

“Are you kidding? At five dollars a pound, I could eat a hundred dollars worth, but I’ll settle for fifty.”

We ordered five lobsters and a bag of mussels.  We strolled out on the deck while the guys behind the counter caught and steamed our meal.  Twenty miles north of Camden lay the tiny town of Belfast, Maine.  The moon rose above the surrounding mountains and reflected gently on the water of the cove.  Sailboats, dinghies and lobster boats lined the water’s edge.  All fishermen were anchored for the night.  I wondered about the men and women who lived in this remote town.  The ragged coast of Maine had a charm separate from the languid allure of South Carolina’s low country.  Locals dotted the tables on the deck.  It was Friday night and they had brought their own bottles for enjoying with the fresh seafood by the water.  May through October were heavenly months here, but you had hell to pay in the winter.  We spotted several family snow plows already out and ready for winter on our drive up the Maine coast.

My first bite of sweet lobster meat dripping in melted butter was too good to swallow.  I determined to invent a buttered lobster candy as soon as we returned to South Carolina so I could hold this flavor in my mouth as long as possible.  The crisp, light wine washed the taste from my mouth too soon, but complemented the seafood sublimely.  Conversation came to a standstill as Greg and I cracked claws and tails in unison.  The perfection of each bite had me matching Greg’s pace, but I couldn’t match his culinary skill.  He popped the tail off the body with one twist and delighted as he licked up the delicate tomalley before digging into the dense meat of the tail.  Who cares about Paralytic Shellfish Poisoning?  When in Rome…and Maine, the FDA be damned!

Camden’s harbor housed several restaurants tucked along the waterfront.  We chose Fresh hoping to taste fresh, locally sourced food.  The parents ordered lobster rolls while Wyatt and Emma went for the grass-fed hamburgers.  Anabel surprised us all when she chose the catch of the day with a side of brussel sprouts.  Has any parent ever heard a child order brussel sprouts?  I noted the date and the time in case this was a news worthy event.  

Our waitress was curious about our family. “Are you on vacation?”

“Sort of.  We’re homeschooling our kids and teaching them about America from the road,” I said.  People wondered why our kids weren’t in school in October.  It made me uncomfortable at first, but the more we traveled, the more I began to open up about our adventure.  It seemed every time I shared our story we made a connection with someone.

“You’re from Georgia?  Ten years ago, I lived in Alpharetta, Georgia,” said the waitress.

“Our home is just ten miles from Alpharetta.”

“What a coincidence! I think taking a year off to spend with your kids is terrific.  What a great experience for you and your kids!  I have six children myself and would love to spend a year traveling with them.”

“You should do it.  We’re living proof of: if there’s a will, there’s a way.  We sold our car and rented out our home in Georgia to help pay for our travels,” I said.

She surprised me when she said, “Oh, it’s not the money that would stop me. I’d love to do it, but I learned a long time ago that I need to miss my kids.”

I smiled, but thought, “How awful.  I hate to miss my kids.  That’s why we’re doing this- we were missing their childhoods.”

The waitress returned with our food and our discussion ended.  We enjoyed all the food, but the best thing served were the brussel sprouts.  They were blanched and then roasted with garlic, onions and butter.  Anabel got mad at us picking them off her plate.  Who would have thought we’d have a family squabble over eating too many brussel sprouts?

After lunch, we discovered Maine’s Round Top ice cream at Camden Cone.  We tasted samples of each ice cream way too long since I could have ordered each person’s flavor without asking.  We were all drawn to one selection for a personality reason.  I will try the one that is regional thinking it will help me learn more about the area; Greg will go for the most unusual thinking different is better and who knows when he’ll be able to try it again, right?; Anabel will chose the most old-fashioned flavor thinking it may have been eaten in days gone by; Wyatt goes for the messiest because that’s what ten year old boys do; and Emma will choose the one that looks healthy, but really contains the most sugar because she wants to make good choices, but is still just a kid.  Our final flavor decisions were: Vanilla, Strawberry, Ginger, Blueberry and Chocolate. (Can you match who got which?  Submit your answer to The Joy of Food Show 555 Burbank Studios, Los Angeles, California.)

Just when Greg thought there was nothing better than Maine lobster, he discovered the fried clam belly boat in Bar Harbor.  Crisp on the outside yet juicy in the middle, the clams warmed our bellies during our foggy day touring Fisherman’s Bay. We didn’t let a little drizzle stop us from seeing this Christmas Card town.

That evening, with the kids tucked in the room with another pizza, Greg and I explored Bar Harbor’s nightlife. Let the party begin! The town looked ghostly as we walked from restaurant to restaurant sampling local delicacies. One ingredient began to stand out: not lobster… blueberries.  From fried chicken with blueberry sauce and roasted pork with a blueberry wine reduction to wild blueberry beer and fried blueberry pie, I was in blueberry heaven.  At each bar, Greg asked for a blueberry brandy, but no local moonshine was available in town.  If he could sample homemade peach brandy in Georgia, he was sure a Mainer made the blueberry form somewhere…  

Before leaving for Canada, we enjoyed Maine’s famous lobster rolls at Lunt’s Lobster Pound just outside of Acadia National Forest.  Hunks of tail meat covering a fresh roll dotted with spicy mayonnaise satisfied Greg and the kids, but I thought the roll took away from the subtle sweetness of the lobster.  (Please note: this is the first time I have ever preferred a meal without the bread.)

We fell in love with the people and food of this northern state and looked forward to returning when we had more time to get to know it better.  Maybe someone we meet will hook Greg up with some blueberry brandy.

The Joy of Food- Julia Child's Boston

A slight breeze touched my face as I peered into the grocer’s window.   A pyramid of giant, orange pumpkins surrounded by their apple minions in red, green and yellow happily greeted passers-by, inviting them to stop, look and come inside.  I opened the door and stepped into the world of Julia Child. (Okay, for those readers who know the Savenor’s that Julia shopped is not on Charles Street I confess: exhaustion made me settle. I wanted to step inside the original shop, but time and energy prevented me from walking the extra two and a half miles across the Charles River to Kirkland Street in Cambridge.)
In 1963, Savenor’s door opened daily to Julia and her insatiable excitement for food.  She said, “You don't have to cook fancy or complicated masterpieces - just good food from fresh ingredients.”  Savenor’s supplied her fresh ingredients and she shopped their store near her Cambridge, Massachusetts home each day before filming her cooking show, The French Chef.

The original Kirkland Street location opened in 1939 by Lithuanian immigrant, Ibrahim Savenor.  When Julia Child and her husband, Paul, moved to Cambridge in 1961, Julia made fast friends with Savenor’s son, Jack, while discussing their common passion, food.  Julia believed friends were the most important ingredient to a happy life and loved entertaining.  She wrote in Mastering the Art of French Cooking, “Just like becoming an expert in wine–you learn by drinking it, the best you can afford–you learn about great food by finding the best there is, whether simple or luxurious. Then, you savor it, analyze it, and discuss it with your companions, and you compare it with other experiences.”  Food was always meant to be shared and discussed with friends.

Alone, I stalked the rows of Savenor’s simple and luxurious food.  Fresh fruits and veggies encased in wooden bins.  Signature sauces and rubs lined three shelves.  The back wall contained the meats.  Beef bones, beef cheeks, beef ribs- every beef imaginable was lovingly placed in the case by the butcher giving understanding to Child’s quote about her friend, Jack Savenor, “Every woman should kiss their butcher.”  Lamb chops, pork belly, and chicken legs were ready for all the servant-less cooks of Boston.  They just needed the courage of their convictions to choose.  I was drawn to one cooler door by its sign: fats and lards.  Duck fat, goose fat, rendered lard.  Oh, my!  And I thought my sweet southern grandmother backward for insisting on cooking with lard rather than Crisco.  Savenor’s sold lard by each perfected ounce.  Greg swore by it stating simply, “Fat equals flavor.”  I smiled as I closed the cooler door; Julia Child would have loved my Greg.

The Manchester

After ogling the game and specialty meats- they sold kangaroo, ostrich, python, and a variety of others- I made my way to the sandwich counter for dinner. Our first night in Boston had been spent paying homage to history at America’s oldest restaurant,  The Union Oyster House, which has been in continuous operation as a restaurant since 1826.  We sat in the Kennedy booth, JFK’s favorite spot, and enjoyed some “wicked-good chowda,” but we dined on straight forward seafood.  I was hoping to experiment with some take-out from Julia’s gourmet purveyor.  Twenty minutes later, I walked back up Charles Street with cheese, grapes, olives and three sandwiches for our family to share: the Arricia- house-made porketta and house pickled fennel drizzled with  local honey on an Iggy’s farmhouse roll, the Manchester- double smoked bacon, fresh avocado, vine-ripened tomato, fresh mixed greens, and spicy aioli on Iggy’s cibatta roll, and the Toulouse- crisped duck confit, pickled root vegetables, sautéed savoy cabbage with pancetta, and spicy aioli on an Iggy’s torta roll.  Julia would have been pleased, especially since I discovered through Savenor’s an unknown source: Iggy’s Bread of the World.  

 
Iggy’s was the dream child of Igor and Ludmilla Ivanovic (yes, those are their real names) after the couple met while working at Eli’s Bakery in New York.  They fell in love with bread and each other, moved to Massachusetts and created their family business. For eighteen years, they have been baking breads for restaurants, farmer’s markets and kitchen tables out of their Cambridge store.  The Savenor’s folks shared the couple’s love of bread story with me while they layered, spiced and sliced our sandwiches.  Simple and luxurious ingredients on fresh bread.  Who could ask for more?
 
Greg could.  “You only got three sandwiches? I’m starving.”


“I thought that would be enough for us.  We had those huge Boston Barkers for lunch.”


“Hey, we toured all of Fenway Park and walked from the harbor to the hotel and half the Freedom Trail today.  Your two meals of brunch and lupper are not cutting it for me,” Greg said before taking a huge bite of the Manchester.


The kids devoured the other two sandwiches while I nibbled the grapes and cheese. I nicked one bite from Wyatt and almost lost a finger.  Greg begrudgingly handed over the other half of his sandwich to Anabel and said, “Let’s check out Chinatown for dinner.  Kids, do y’all want to come?”
 
Anabel was the first to pipe up. “We’re good.” Their little legs could only take so much, but their mouths were still going.  They finished the cheese and grapes while waiting on the shower.
 
I tucked each into bed with a book before Greg and I headed across the street to Boston’s Chinatown.  I knew nothing about this area having researched American history and Julia Child for this trip, but Greg had clearly done his homework as he marched us passed several delightful looking restaurants to a basement establishment called The Best Little Restaurant.  

With high hopes for the food, I noted they were not named the Best Little Decorated Restaurant.  Clean, white table cloths were as far as their decor went.  We were seated in the back near a table of six Chinese businessmen.  I entertained Greg with each man’s role in the Chinese mafia while he chose our dishes.  I had no idea what was coming, but the waiter smiled as Greg ordered.


When the platter of chicken feet arrived at our table, I understood the waiter’s amusement. “Did you mean to order this?” I asked.  I wanted to try new foods, but this was crossing the line.

“Yes! This looks awesome!” Greg dived in.


“Are you kidding me?  It’s jellied chicken feet!” Then, I thought, “What would Julia do? If Paul had ordered her a plate of chicken feet, she would have eaten it with  pleasure.”  I stared at the platter.  The feet glistened in the romantic glow of florescent lights.  They jiggled on their journey from the platter to Greg’s plate.  He forked one and brought it to his lips.  I could hear it squish between his teeth.  Screw Julia.  I was not trying the chicken feet.

I sated my hunger with Greg’s other choices: lobster with ginger and scallions and spareribs with garlic sauce. The delicate lobster melted in my mouth without squishing. The crisp, caramelized coating on the outside of ribs punctuated our discussion of the Cantonese food with crunches and smacks. We declared it wasn’t the best little Chinese food we’d ever eaten, but it was damn good.
With tummies full, we walked back to our hotel tying up our many threads of conversation before returning to the kids.  From the Green Monster to the toiling at MIT, from Savenor’s shelves to the fictitious machinations of Boston’s Chinese mafia, we talked without interruption. It was bliss.

Stealing a line from Julia and Paul Child, I said, “You are the bread to my butter; the breath to my life.” 

“And you are the cheese to this conversation.”

“Ah!  Thanks, Honey.”

 Julia was right. Everything- except chicken feet- tasted better when shared with your best friend.     

Lost Without Biscuits

Lost.  I checked my iPhone again still hoping for a signal.  We had counted on technology for guidance on our east coast excursion, but in the backwoods of Carolina- only 45 minutes from home and barely over the county line- we were stranded up the Congo River with no civilization in sight. 

     “No, there’s a building up ahead. Don’t freak out, Jenny,” Greg said after admitting our plan to use the iPhone GPS as our map sucked.  He was ready to stop for directions under the pretense of buying ice.

     I read the sign. “Harold’s Country Club.  Never heard of it, have you?”

     “Looks open.”

     “What kind of country club is open at seven in the morning?”

     “Don’t know, but I’ll find out.” Greg pulled into the gravel lot, bypassing the gas pumps near the front door that advertised unleaded for $1.21 a gallon and opened his door.  The kids sleeping in the backseat ruffled their throw blankets, but didn’t rouse. 

Eyeing the bag of bananas and granola bars beside me, I whispered to Greg before he closed the door, “Get me a country ham biscuit.”  Smoked and salty, country ham on a buttermilk biscuit cured depression and the common cold. It made friends out of bloodlust enemies. (If served at talks between Hamas and Israeli leaders, peace would ensue, but alas, their common disdain for pork products keeps them at war.)

The night before, I lectured the kids for an hour about our strict budget for this trip.  I packed travel-friendly breakfasts and snacks to save money, eat healthier, and save time- a mother’s trifecta. Morning changed my fit and frugal intentions.  Getting a family of five on the road by six a.m. coupled with a sleepless night of travel-anxiety driven images of head-on collisions, mangled bodies, child abductions, or appendix ruptures at two AM, hundreds of miles from our pediatrician, made me ravenous.  After all the packing, planning and panicking, didn’t I deserve a special treat? Maybe I should get two biscuits.  As I scrambled out of the car to catch Greg, he exited the country club door with a smile on his face. 

“Did you get directions?”

“Yes,” he replied still grinning while pulling a bag of ice out of the cooler. 

Seeing he held no food, I assumed he forgot my breakfast and walked toward their front door. “Did they have any biscuits?”

“No, but they have draft beer if you want one.”

Briefly considering his odd offer before commonsense resumed, I asked, “At seven o’clock in the morning?”

As we returned to the car without beer or biscuits, Greg explained that Harold’s Country Club was not a store. It was a bar, pool hall, dance club and restaurant that serves steak on Saturday nights and, apparently, has regulars who come in early on Friday mornings. When Greg walked in the door, the bar maid didn’t bat an eye.  She grabbed a fresh glass, readied it under a tap and asked, “What can I get you?”

As we pulled out, heading in the correct direction toward I-95 North with our long-awaited east coast Taste of America Tour in front of us, all my husband could say was, “I can’t wait till we get back.  We’ve gotta go there!”  Greg was intrigued.  Pool, music, beer AND steaks in a “country” club on a back road in South Carolina? He had found a kindred place he knew he liked before he’d really even been there.

I nodded and unwrapped a granola bar. I might have supported his enthusiasm to return if Harold’s sold country ham biscuits.

Frogmore Stew

To truly inhabit a new place, one must dine on the local fare.  Greg embraced this theory in South Carolina and immediately, set his crab pot in the water for a good three-day soak.  Each day, he would send Wyatt out to count the blue crabs and Wyatt would bring back a full report.

           “We’ve got four blue crabs, one stone crab and a croaker.” Greg released the stone crab, but placed the croaker in the bait trap.

           “We’ve got seven blue crabs, one stone crab and a hermit crab.”  Greg released the stone crab and I used the hermit crab for an ecosystems’ science lesson.

           On the third day, Wyatt ran in, out of breath, and announced, “We’ve got fourteen blue crabs, some kind of wiry crab and an octopus!” 

This was something new so we all took off for the pier.  Sure enough, our crab trap held a gooey, squishy eight-legged octopus.  Greg gently pulled it out and set it briefly on the pier for closer examination.  We all stared, speechless.  How could such an odd looking creature exist on our same planet? Its slick, burnt orange skin shimmered in the late afternoon sun.  It lifted one tentacle revealing tiny suckers on its underside. Placing the tentacle back on the pier it lurched forward, trying to escape.

Anabel looked worried. “We’re not eating this, are we?”

“Not today, but take a picture, quick, before I put it back in the water.  This is definitely going on Facebook!” said Greg.  He shoved his phone in her hand and she clicked a few shots as the octopus clamored for the pier’s edge.  Greg deftly lifted it up and tossed it back in the ocean.

“Have a good life, Mr. Octopus! Next time, stay away from our crabs or I won’t be so nice.”  He hummed Octopus’s Garden as he and Wyatt loaded the blue crabs into our bucket.  Greg was starting to let go of our old responsibilities and enjoy sabbatical life.  Holding Emma’s hand as we made our way back to the house, I watched Greg’s shoulders relax as he told Wyatt and Anabel the ingredients he’d picked up in town for Frogmore Stew, tonight’s special dinner. (Frogmore Stew was invented in the Frogmore Community on nearby Saint Helena Island by shrimper, Richard Gay of Gay Seafood Company, when he was throwing together found ingredients for fellow National Guardsmen in the 1960s.  Everyone liked it so much, he shared the recipe;  today, many consider it the unofficial dish of South Carolina.)

“You need: 2-3 heads of garlic, 2-3 onions, 2-3 lemons, a box of Old Bay seasoning and a packet of Zatarain’s Crab Boil.  You put all that in a big pot and set it to boiling.”

“When do you put in the sausage? That’s my favorite part,” asked Wyatt.

“Not yet.  Next, you add to the water: 3 pounds of small red potatoes. After about 20 minutes, you add 6 ears of corn- cut in half, a pound of Andouille sausage- cut in sections and as many blue crabs as you can catch. And last, you add the shrimp- 2-3 pounds depending on how many you're feeding.  Immediately, put the lid on and cut the heat off.”

“Do the shrimp cook that fast?” asked Anabel.

“Yep. As soon as they hit the hot water, they’ll start turning pink.  When they’re all pink, it’s time to eat.  Remember, the two things most people do wrong are they under season and overcook."

“I’m hungry,” said Emma.  “When’s dinner?”

            “You’re always hungry,” I said giving her a huge hug and adding, "Soon!"

*Always serve Frogmore Stew (also known as Low Country Boil) with crusty French bread, cocktail sauce-heavy on the horseradish, a nice bottle of white wine for the adults and sweet tea for the kids.