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.

Road Scholars- Fear of Boredom in Salem, Massachusetts

Kierkegaard said, “Boredom is the root of all evil.”  In the case of the Salem Witch Trials, he was correct.  Historians have debated the cause of the fanatical witch hunt for ages, but after one visit to Salem, Massachusetts I knew boredom started it all.

  Our morning leaving Boston began in the most irksome way: a dead battery.  The family truckster died of boredom sitting in a hotel parking garage for two days.  We joined Triple A auto club for this supposition, so Greg made the call and a mechanic was duly dispatched.  Greg stood by our vehicle while the kids and I sat on the curb waiting.  

Triple A called. “Traffic on I-90 is shutdown.  The mechanic is looking for side streets to your location.  It may be another thirty minutes.”

Wyatt leaned his head on my shoulder.  Emma sprawled over the curb with her head in my lap.  Anabel paced with her dad.  We waited.

The mechanic called. “Wheh is youh cah pahked?  I can’t find the entrance.”  Greg explained the back alley/underground entrance to the Hyatt Hotel.  We waited. 

(Are you bored yet? I fell asleep while writing this.)

Finally, the mechanic found our vehicle and assessed that we needed two new batteries to the tune of $350.  

“Aw, you’re kidding me!  I had those replaced last year.  They can’t be dead yet!” Greg said knowing three hundred and fifty dollars was not in our budget.

“Wheh’d you get ‘em?  You can return ‘em fa a refund.  If you got’em at a Triple A affiliate, I won’t chahge you.”

Greg couldn’t remember, but called our hometown mechanic to find out. Suddenly, Greg’s ennui was relieved by the slowest Southern drawl in one ear and a Southie’s   rapid dropping of Rs in the other.  I kept the kids out of the way while Greg’s brain tried to translate. 

Georgia mechanic: 

“Hey, Greg.  How’re you?  Yeah.  Heard y’all were traveling.  Where’re y’all at?  Boston, you say.  Well, how bout that. What’s that bout your car? Yeah. We replaced them batteries for you… let me see… seems like it was last year.  Where’d we get the batteries?  Let’s see… seems like it was that place down the road…”

Boston mechanic:

“Wheh’d he get ‘em? Wheh’d he get ‘em? We got a Auto Zone ‘round the corneh can deliveh them a sap.”

Georgia mechanic:

“Well, Greg.  I’m trying to think.  Most times we get our parts from that Auto Zone up the road in Macedonia. You know the one just past the church there.  Yeah.  Down by the Ace Hardware.  But now I’ma thinking we might of got‘em at that other place.”

Greg to the Boston mechanic while still listening to our old mechanic:

“Order them.  I’ll take the dead batteries with me and sort it out later.”  Boredom cost us $350 bucks; evil, indeed.

Two hours later, we arrived at the village of Salem in time for the noon tour at Salem’s Witch Museum.  Walking up to the door I pointed to a statue in the street.  “Look kids! They have a statue of a witch.”

“Mom, that’s a pilgrim man.” 

“Oh. Yeah. I see that now. Roger Conant- first settler of Salem, 1626.  Never mind.”

The Salem Witch Museum tour began with a interactive show that took us through the entire witch trial drama.  We were led into a church/court-like room and sat around the edges of the stage on benches. The lights were dimmed and only a circle of names glowed in the middle of the room. I had goosebumps.  Then, a curtain opened and an animatronic pilgrim came out to tell the story.  My goosebumps receded. 

Seventeenth Century New England’s Puritan culture demanded that children be seen and not heard- and I thought waiting for a mechanic was boring.  In January of 1692, Salem Village wanted to get rid of their new minister, Reverend Samuel Parris, having become disenchanted by his greed.  Parris’s nine-year-old daughter, Betty, felt the stress in the household and sought release.  It was the dead of winter with the entire village covered in snow.  What can a girl do to fight stress and boredom? Gather your girlfriends for some fortune telling with the family’s Barbados slave, of course.  Betty and her friends, Abigail Williams and Ann Putnam delighted in the devilish entertainment of Tibuta’s tales.  What could make this more fun?  Pretending to be afflicted and possessed, obviously.  Soon Betty began writhing on the floor and speaking gibberish.  When Ann and Abigail saw the great diversion Betty was having, they joined in.  Each cowered under chairs, frightened of unseen specters.  They convulsed in fits and flung themselves against walls and furniture.  The honorable Reverend Cotton Mather said upon witnessing their afflictions, “The girls’ agonies could not possibly be dissembled.” Without natural causes, the Puritans declared the girls to be under supernatural control… bewitched. 

In March, the girls pointed their undulating fingers toward three of the town’s lowest folks: a beggar- Sarah Good, an infirm- Sarah Osburn, and Tibuta- the slave whose tales first broke the boredom.  Osburn declared her innocence, as did Good, but Good declared Osburn to be a witch.  Tibuta, thanks to the lashes of her master- the good Reverend Parris, sang like a bird.  She confessed to being a witch and enchanted the entire village with her stories of Satan’s army of black dogs, red cats, yellow birds and a white haired man who made her sign the devil’s book.  She claimed there were several undiscovered witches living in Salem whose primary goal was to destroy Puritanism.  Ironically, the Salem Witch Hunt almost did just that.

Within six months, hundreds were arrested and twenty-two were tried and convicted of witchcraft. The bored girls put on an entertaining show at each trial:  Ann suddenly goes limp.  Abigail and Betty shriek in response.  Ann jerks awake and begins flying about the room flapping her arms as wings and screeching an ungodly sound. The overwrought judges implore her to name her tormentors.  She silently points another finger. Puritans from near and far came to witness the nineteen innocent villagers hung till their deaths at Gallows Hill. Five more- including one infant- died in prison awaiting their trials.  One man, Giles Cory, refused to enter a plea of innocence or guilt and was pressed to death with massive stones added atop him- one at a time- by his neighbors hoping to make him confess.  

At this point in the multimedia show, Emma climbed in my lap.  The mannequin Giles Cory grimaced in great pain as the stones lowered onto his body.  This was not part of her elementary school’s reenactment of the Pilgrims at Plymouth Rock.  It was our children’s first exposure to the dour side of Puritan life.   Between the stone pressing and the grotesque statue of Satan, I hoped Emma didn’t have nightmares due to this history lesson. But reservations aside, what a way to learn about history!  We had witnessed the positive effects of the pilgrim spirit with the American Revolution, and we were seeing what happened when that Puritanical work ethic turned into fanaticism. 

After reading the names of the twenty-five people who died in the Salem Witch Hunt, we were guided into the second phase of the tour: the history of witches and the devastating results of witch hunts around the world from the Middle Ages to present day.  From midwifery to the Wizard of Oz, the transformation of women healers to wicked witches with green skin and pointy hats would have been comical if it wasn’t so disturbing.  Then, the museum’s attempts to promote an understanding of the Wicca religion today would have been moving if it wasn’t for the comical pandering of Bewitched items for sale in the museum gift shop.  I loved Samantha, but the old episode- the one where she was chased around Salem by an enchanted bed warmer from Nathaniel Hawthorn’s House of Seven Gables- playing in the background as we shopped for a Christmas tree ornament of a witch made the whole thing feel silly.  But at least, I wasn’t bored.

Before leaving Salem, we discussed hysteria and false accusations over a delicious lunch of comfort food at the Scratch Kitchen.  

“I think teenagers blow everything out of proportion,” said the girl who would be turning thirteen in six months.  Anabel gleaned another reason not to grow up from our tour of Salem.

Downplaying age as a factor, I said, “I think the lesson is: beware of bored people.  Now finish your grilled cheese and let’s head to Maine!”

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.     

Home School Immersion- Colonial Williamsburg

Teaching your own children brings to mind the old Proverb: "You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink."  Traveling to teach our children about history and culture doesn't ensure they will learn it; all we can do is lead them to it and hope they drink...  Case in point: Our Williamsburg Visit.

     We shuffled our three kids and two dolls out the door and headed for the Royal Governor’s mansion.

     A persnickety man assuming we were the hired help answered Emma’s timid knock on the mansion’s front door.  It seemed there was a Royal Ball that evening and he was desperate.

     “From your casual attire, I can see you are not a guest of the Governor’s tonight so you must be the new servants.  Please come in and I’ll show you around,” he said as we entered the heavily armed foyer.  Swords, scabbards, pistols, and rifles lined the walls from floor to ceiling.  He explained that this was a customary display of the power of the British government and we would be expected to dust them later.  “Let’s go through to the ballroom.  I think Mrs. Brown, the housekeeper is there and she’ll find you more suitable clothing and better explain your duties for the night.  It is going to be a grand celebration of Queen Charlotte’s birthday.”

     Greg and I smiled as we followed the enthusiastic actor through the home.  The kids were mesmerized.  Emma pulled my sleeve as we walked and asked, “Are we really going to get some clothes like his?”

     I whispered, “Sorry, darling, but I don’t think so… that would be neat though, wouldn’t it?”  She giggled to hide her disappointment.

     The historical actor stayed in character throughout our tour of the mansion.  After a while, we let ourselves slip back in time to 1775.  He referred to the recent skirmish near Concord and Lexington and held all of Boston in complete contempt for their ungrateful behavior in the past few months.

     “How could anyone disrespect our King by dumping his tea into the water?  Disgraceful!”  He was definitely a loyalist. 

     As we wandered the rooms, I discovered I couldn’t stop grinning. Greg looked at me like I’d lost my mind.

     “Are you okay?”

     “I’m great.  I’m just happy.”

     “About what?” He wasn’t a history convert yet.

     “This is it.” I waved my hand around the beautiful ballroom with its portraits of the King and Queen flanking the double doors. I pointed at the kids standing near our guide with rapt attention as he told of the grand traditions of the British and complained about upstarts like Thomas Jefferson and George Washington who took it all for granted. “This is what I dreamed about for home school,” I whispered. “I have always wanted to teach by immersion.  Go and see places in person instead of just reading about them in books.  I just can’t believe we’re here.  We are actually doing it!”

     Greg and I trailed the others out into the gardens.  Wyatt spotted a maze and raced Emma to it.  Anabel sauntered through a vine-covered pathway.  Greg and I meandered around the King’s gardens and found our way to the kitchens where a woman was demonstrating beer making. The smell knocked me back as I entered the small outbuilding.  I decided to hang by the scullery door and listen rather see close-up.  She banked her fire and stirred a large pot full of water, grain, hops and yeast.  She explained that in colonial days everyone drank beer- even the children because the water was contaminated.  Brewers made two different types: a large beer- heavy ale or porter for adults and a small beer- very weak but bacteria free for children. The local brewers were usually cooks in the kitchens of larger estates and servants were sometimes paid with a stipend of weak beer.  Imported beers were for the wealthy while most common townsfolk drank a local brew.  George Washington reportedly loved porters and Thomas Jefferson preferred lighter ales.  I couldn’t wait for our dinner in the local pub to taste both to see with which founding father I agreed.

Brewing a pint...or two.

     The remainder of our day was spent along Gloucester Street in the shopping district of Colonial Williamsburg. The kids perused the 18^th century wares and bought some costumes and games with the money they earned washing golf carts on Fripp.  We toured the home where Jefferson studied law and watched the blacksmith and wheelwright’s demonstrations.  As we neared the House of Burgesses, we noticed a shift in sentiment towards the British among the reenactments.  No longer were the town’s folk spouting praises for the King.  Minutemen were marching along the streets and drilling in the courtyard.  A man stood on an expounding plank talking of freedom and the rights of men.

     Our last stop was the Virginia Capital building where a riot had recently taken place.  The Royal Governor and his advisors had left in the middle of the night leaving their food still on their plates in their private meeting room. A few months prior, Patrick Henry delivered his “Give me liberty or give me death” speech during a covert meeting to the Virginia convention in Richmond and rebellion took hold in Williamsburg.  Patrick Henry was named the new governor and the capital building was the site of the first Declaration of Rights in America.  I tried to instill the magnitude of how awe-inspiring it was to stand where our founding fathers stood. 

     “Anabel, Thomas Jefferson studied law in this building.  Wyatt, this is where the first group of people agreed that all men were created equal and free.  Emma, Patrick Henry said in this room, ‘If this be treason, make the most of it!’  Can you imagine taking such a risk?  If they had been caught by the British they would have been killed!” I gave the kids a wide-eyed look for emphasis.  They stared back at me speechless.  I had them.  They were as interested in history as I.  

     Then, Emma opened her mouth and said, “Did they have ice cream in colonial times, Mommy?”

     Wyatt turned to his sister. “Ooo!  I’d really like some ice cream!”

     Anabel shook her head as if coming back from a daze. “Are we getting ice cream? I want some.”

Oh well, I had them for a moment, which was better than never at all.

**This is an excerpt from my upcoming memoir about our family field trip year.  Check out the original blogs from our trip to Colonial Williamsburg:

Budgeting for Williamsburg

Our Long Day's Journey into the Past...Part One (I said it was long!)

Our long day’s journey into the past… Part two (so tired and only our first stop)

Leaving Williamsburg