The sound of goodbye

And then, in what feels like the blink of an eye, they're gone.

Before the last trucks have pulled out of the Blue Hill Fairgrounds, the summer visitors have pulled up their dinghies, taken in their mailboxes, emptied out their refrigerators, and headed south. The children were loaded into their cars and whisked away, gazing out the windows from their comfy car seats, oblivious to what they're leaving behind. The older they get, the longer they pause to inhale that last sweet breath of Maine air.

So painful were those late-August goodbyes that I finally decided to stop making them. Now we live just a mile up the road, otherwise at most three hours away, and can always traipse down to say hello to the place, even in the dead of winter (and usually with a thermos of coffee and thick slabs of cake to fortify us for the long trek uphill toward home).

Initially, there's a sigh of relief. Trying to work among the retired and vacationing is always a challenge. But then comes sadness. Without their noise and fuss and bustle, the manufactured flurry of the temporarily idle, the place feels utterly empty. Almost haunted.

Before they go, somewhere after settling up at the market and putting in their forwarding notice with the post office, they pull up in front of my house. Their own houses, devoid of electricity and inaccessible by car six months of the year, must be emptied of anything that might rot, burst, or attract vermin.

These may be second homes, but their owners are nothing if not true New England frugal. It bothers them deeply to throw anything away, even that half-used bottle of diet salad dressing, those two potatoes. Instead, they pack them up and bring them to us.

In the days leading up to closing time, we receive a steady trail of visitors with boxes and bags of "perfectly good" things that they couldn't bear to throw away. In accepting this food, we're helping them leave with a clean conscience. So we say "oh sure!" when presented with that squeeze-bottle of key lime juice, the box of generic Rice-a-Roni. When they leave, we promptly walk the bag into the barn and drop the most offensive of the give-aways, the crumb-coated sticks of butter that smell of refrigerator, straight into the garbage.

These cast-aways offer a clear economic indicator, and if this year's harvest is any indication, economic recovery has finally reached us. After years of generic, years of feeling the need to rescue that last egg, that last drop of lukewarm 2% milk, people were reaching for the name-brands and throwing away all but the pristine. Campbell's soup, Premium saltine crackers, Heinz tomato ketchup. Even the diet salad dressing was Wishbone.

There was one generic item, though, I'm guessing an impulse buy to please young visitors who chose not to partake: Marshmallows. Generic or not, those are my Kryptonite. I will have them, four at a time atop a steaming mug of hot chocolate, until either they or I am gone. Let's hope they go first. 

Waiting for the echo

Writing a book is like standing at the edge of a cliff overlooking a giant abyss whose edges you can't even see. You stand there, take a deep breath, and then you yell. It takes a long time to get it all out. You begin with early notes on paper, which, for me, became a series of Scrivener files, then a giant Word file, then several thick print-outs, then PDFs, and finally a single bound copy that my publisher sent and that I'm still keeping hidden in its padded envelope.

All the while, the ideas and stories are still safely yours, shared with just a handful of trusted people. They haven't complained too much, so you keep loosening the line and letting the stories fly further and further away.

Then comes what they call "on-sale day," when the book goes from being listed as a pre-order to the day booksellers are actually allowed to sell it. Amazon times its shipments to arrive on people's doorsteps on this day. It's the day you take a big pair of scissors and cut that cord. Now, whatever happens is completely beyond your control. Terrifying, exhilarating, liberating.

From here, people begin to have their own opinions of your stories. And of your writing. And of you in general. And there isn't a goddamn thing you can do about it. I was trying to explain my angst to my friends Don and Robert (see the "Making Martha's Sandwich" essay), and everything I said made me sound more and more neurotic. 

"What's the worst thing that could happen?" asked Robert. 

As I pondered various doomsday scenarios, Don chimed in, "I think the worst thing for me would be if people said my life was dull." We agreed. I wondered if I hadn't added enough sex and drugs to the book. Then I remembered I hadn't added any.

In college I was tasked with writing my autobiography. It was for a women's studies class taught by Diana Russell, and the whole time I was writing I thought, "Boy, how much would it stink if my life got an F?" Thankfully, it didn't. 

Still, all day long I've been doing laps in the kitchen, driving both Casey and Clare crazy. Like a chicken that doesn't know where to lay its egg.

I'm at the edge of the cliff and I've finished my yell, and now comes that exquisite, awful, tentative, interminable wait before an echo comes back. Of course what comes back won't be my voice at all, rather the canyon's response to it. Which is, in itself, another exquisite sound.

In the afternoon my mother came. We had tea, and I made a Busy Day Cake (from Edna Lewis, adapted here). It's an easy, soothing, trustworthy recipe that does the trick every time. It's not a keeper. You don't make it for a rainy day, you make it on a rainy day, and for that day alone.

When life gives you tomatoes

It's a surreal and heady and off-kilter time right now as I wait for what was private to become public, part of a new collective experience of sorts. 

So let's look at something else, shall we? From the farmer's market. Sometimes it all just comes together. 

Did someone say peaches?

They may not be from my tree, but they're still local, their fuzz tender, their fragrance intoxicating. I've got a six-pound bag by my side, destined to become jam this weekend. 

There are many schools of jam. Some believe in leaving the fruit as close to jiggly raw as possible, letting high doses of sugar and pectin do the trick. 

Me? I love the reverse, boiling pure peaches (and less sugar) almost to the point of caramelization, into the 240 degree range. Only then do I ladle the goo into sterilized jars and give them a proper hot-water bath. 

It's a different kind of jam, thicker, visually less reminiscent of the fruit itself. But the flavor knocks you over with a great big POW, which is exactly what I like on a dreary February morning when I need a little sunshine on my toast. 

Up next, we're counting down to Concord grapes. Have you seen any in your market yet?