The sun glistened through the sheer curtains, reflecting the light like a kaleidoscope around the guest bedroom which sat at the front of the house. The windows gave way to a second-floor balcony perched directly above an elevated garden, which was plush with an abundance of vibrant flowers and symphonies of birds shimmying their feathers in the sun warmed water of the bird bath. Oaks, willows, pines and crepe myrtles slouched under the weight of their leaf saturated branches, threatening to topple at any minute, but managed always to stand their ground. The golden morning light spun a halo around the North Texas countryside and my eyes followed the seemingly endless driveway bordering the right side of the lawn until it disappeared behind the botanical respite and stretched out of sight.
I could hear my brother and sister surfacing in the other rooms, and the faint chatter of my Aunt Donna and Uncle Terry downstairs in the kitchen. Their house was a dream. Pushed far away from the hum and patter of freeways and honking vehicles, it sat on several acres in the countryside, the closest neighbor 300 yards away. The crisp, clean air enveloped your skin and you effortlessly melted into the fabric of the bucolic pastures in the distant roads of Argyle. It was slow, simple, full of life and though hundreds of miles away from my bed, when I was there, it felt like home. I walked onto the balcony, breathing in the intermingling scent of hay and wet moss, the smoke tinged air of last night’s bonfire, hot manure and blooming flowers, and wafting up behind me, the irrefutable smell of breakfast.
The old hardwood floorboards wept and creaked beneath me as I made my way down the staircase, through the sitting room, and into the only modern thing about the house: the kitchen. Standing behind the marble topped island housing the stovetop, my Aunt Donna with her blonde bobbed hair and striking features was furiously whisking away at an enormous bowl of pancake batter. I took a glance around the kitchen, taking careful note of the countertops littered with broken egg shells, bottles of oil, various containers of flour and baking spices, and blueberries-tons of blueberries. My uncle Terry handed me a cup of coffee (which I wasn’t supposed to be drinking), and quipped “’mornin’ Bek” with the faintest of drawls tinging his annunciation. “Morning” I replied. I was the first to make it downstairs, and as such, took advantage of the few minutes of alone time with them, which I relished and valued above anything else. Before long, the rest of the family made their way downstairs, and the chatter multiplied as Donna got to work turning her batter into fluffy disks and her extra blueberries into homemade syrup.
She worked the stove top like and old pro. Measuring and mixing, pouring and heating, simmering and flipping-If she was in the slightest bit stressed you wouldn’t have known it. She engaged and laughed, and flipped and stirred, and stopped only to retie her apron. I watched intently as she poured the blueberry saturated batter onto the searing hot griddle, the liquid forming flat round disks as the shock of the cold batter on the heat emitted a satisfying crackle. The pancakes began to puff and bubble along their perimeter, and Donna kept a close eye on their progress, assessing the thickness of the batter before flipping and finishing them off and stacking them up, one atop the other until I was sure they’d topple onto the ground.
After she finished the last bits of batter we all gathered around the table in the breakfast nook and took our seats, the bay window behind us shedding beams of sunlight onto the pancakes and homemade syrup, magnifying the steam and specks of blue interspersed throughout the stacks until the light was absorbed by the kitchen floor. She told us to serve ourselves, and without hesitation we grabbed our forks and knives and went to work.
They were soft in the center, with the right amount of crunch on the outer edges, the syrup, not too sweet, was a perfect compliment to their warmth and delectable wholesomeness. Slowly the pile of pancakes began to dwindle, until nothing was left but haphazardly scattered morsels and dollops of syrup which we somehow didn’t manage to sop up. And then, just like that, breakfast was finished. As we all began to scatter from the breakfast nook, I surveyed the kitchen once more, taking note of the artifacts left over from the cooking process, moved by the fact that my aunt and uncle didn’t see the point in cleaning as they went, as it would’ve been a distraction from the process of feeding their guests.
As the years have gone on, I’ve had many encounters with exceptional pancakes, and underwhelming flops of sticky dough presented to me at questionable diners. Vague attempts to make pancakes from scratch as a dirt-poor college kid resulted in me trying to substitute the raw ingredients with pancake mixes and cardboard flavored vegetable oils and never ended well. And eventually I gave up until a few years ago, when I randomly ordered pancakes for brunch, and remembered how delicious they were when Donna fed them to me fresh from the griddle. I was transported back to the warm and sweet aromas of the sun kissed breakfast nook that pervaded in my memory, but had been obscured by time, lack of resources and failed attempts.
That Saturday morning brunch launched me into a pancake recipe campaign, for which I tried every variety of pancake one could concoct in their imagination. Savory, sweet, cheese, plain, fruit, nuts, candies, various syrups, grains and flavors…nothing was off limits. I wanted a recipe to call my own, one I could pass on to my friends and family and anyone who showed an interest. Over the past few years, I’ve worked and reworked recipes until I’ve found the perfect balance for my taste preference when it comes to pancakes. Funnily enough, I don’t typically crave sweet foods in the mornings. Given the option, I will almost always take savory breakfast over sweet, but from time to time I’m struck with a pang of nostalgia for the slow summer days of my Texas adolescence and calculated chaos of my aunt’s kitchen. Without fail the pangs inspire an overwhelming desire to replicate that sweet, leisurely morning. So I wake, up, make coffee, and do just that.
Buckwheat, Ricotta and Lemon Pancakes
- 1/2 cup Buckwheat Flour
- 1/2 cup All Purpose Flour (if you don't want gluten, you can use one cup of Buckwheat)
- 1.25 cups Ricotta Cheese
- 2 tbsp Lemon Zest
- 1.25 cups Fresh Blueberries
- 1.5 tsp Baking Powder
- 1/4 tsp Salt
- 3/4 cup Whole Milk
- 3 Eggs Separated
- Maple Syrup Optional
Turn on oven to 300F. Mix together flour, egg yolks, milk, lemon zest, salt and baking powder until combined.
Mix the ricotta and blueberries into the flour mixture, and carefully combine. You don't want the ricotta to be too smooth nor do you want to smash the blueberries. Mix until they're just integrated and you still see flecks of the ricotta.
In a separate bowl, whisk together the egg whites until they form stiff peaks, and then carefully fold them into the batter. Do not over mix it.
Heat a griddle or skillet over medium-high heat, and pour in just enough oil to lightly coat the bottom of the pan. I use coconut oil for my pancakes, but butter, vegetable oil, shortening-whatever you prefer is fine.
When skillet is hot, lower the heat to medium, and using a 1/4 cup measure, scoop the batter on the griddle or skillet two at a time, taking care not to crowd the pan. When the edges of the pancakes start to bubble and brown (about 2-3 minutes) carefully flip them over and cook for another minute. Do not press down on the flipped pancake with your spatula, just let them cook.
Remove the pancakes when they're done and keep them warm in the oven while repeating the process until the entire bowl of batter has been cooked.
All it took was fishing line, raw chicken legs, and a modicum of patience. At least that’s what my uncle told all of us as we sunbathed on the deck of his house in Galveston Bay. Our entire family, enormous in its extended scope, had gathered for the annual Fourth of July party, and the children had been tasked with providing fresh caught crabs for dinner. “Suit up and let’s get going,” he said to nobody in particular, but we all obeyed, pushing and tripping each other as we rushed to the cars, fighting over who would ride shotgun.
The drive was all but ten minutes, but the excitement mingled with the thickly salted air of Galveston made it seem like an eternity. I peered out the window at the water below the bridge, the viscous dark clay from the Mississippi Delta giving the water its signature brown hue. I had never seen a beach with white sands or blue waters at that age. Galveston was all I knew, and I knew I loved it.
We filed out of the family Suburban one after another, barely able to contain our excitement as we sprinted to the jetty, a squall of sand stirring up in our dust. My brothers, sister, a sprawl of cousins, and I arrived for duty on the slick rock jetty stretching out into the murky waters. Our mission was simple: catch some crabs.
Chicken legs fastened to fishing wires, we dropped our bait just off the jagged edges of the jetty, and watched as the chicken sank slowly, hovering for a moment just beneath the surface of the water before vanishing out of sight. Slugging or limpid fishing wires behind us, bickering as children do, trying not to slip and fall into the shards of rock obscured by the water below us.
The “nothing is happening,” “I don’t think there are any crabs today,” “get off of my rock!” and various other squabbles were swallowed by the crashing of the waves and gusts of gulf winds, and then suddenly… a tug. I buried all of my focus under the faint flicker of light glimmering just beneath the surface, watching intently as the fishing line slowly straightened itself out. Slowly, then all at once, a repetitive jerking sensation resonated along the length of the wire, causing my hand to vibrate as though it was an extension of the bate.
“CRAB!!! I HAVE A CRAB!! MOM, MOM! DAD!!! LOOK!!!” Bellowed out of my tiny little belly, clinging to my makeshift fishing pole for dear life, clueless as to what actions I should take to procure my catch.
“Pull it up,” my Mom said with a casualty that can only be maintained by parents amused at the histrionics of a young child. I didn’t pull so much as yank the fishing wire vertically with a force that propelled the chicken out of the water, and dangling at my knees was not one, but two ravenous blue crabs nibbling away at the leg as water slid off of their hard shells, transforming into vapor as it collided with the July heat.
My Mom came over with a tennis raquet sized fishing net and lured the crabs into its mesh, their spindly legs and pinchers objecting to their mesh confines. It wasn’t long after that the whole troop of us had multiple crabs tugging at our lines, and the nets swelled with crabs and loose tufts of seaweed. After we had sufficiently wiped the jetty of its crab population, we piled back into our respective cars, giddy that the fruits of our labor would be dinner for the evening.
As we arrived back at the beach house, I nearly flew out of my seatbelt and sprinted to the deck to watch my Uncle Don examine and clean the day catches, releasing the pregnant females back into the bay, careful not to damage the swollen spongy burnt orange sacks clinging to their bellies. He worked with an ease and efficiency one could only posses after years of practice, and I watched in awe as he effortlessly skimmed through the crush of shells and meat.
When dinner came around, crab abounded in all its salty sweet glory, and everyone indulging in the feast thanked the crabbing crew for providing the delicacy. There was a sensation of satisfaction with which I became acquainted in that moment, knowing I had a hand in catching dinner for myself and the family. I felt accomplished, proud, and deserving of a second helping.
I often find myself transported back to those July Fourth crabbing excursions when I pass the local fishmongers at the Farmer’s Markets, the irrefutable scent of fresh seafood wafting through the air as I walk by. I take immense pleasure in the long leisurely chats I have with the fishmongers, watching as their sundrenched skin stretches and curls in passionate waves while they delight in conversing about their boats and territories, responsible fishing practices and marina politics. The respect they have for the water and the fish goes beyond a craft or a hobby; they are the caretakes of the ocean, at one with the sea and the creatures who inhabit it. The culinary liaisons between the water and land. Their excitement and passion reminds me of my own when I pulled my first catch out of the ocean. Only mine was a passing moment, eternally embedded as a childhood memory. Theirs a delicious, daily occurrence.
Perhaps one day I’ll leave New York and find myself quahogging and crabbing on a near daily basis. Or maybe I’ll stay put and drop all of my anchors in the city. Until those days come to fruition, I’ll happily frequent the local fish markets around New York and recall the sand speckled days of summer as a young girl, eager to lull crabs out of their beds, and feed the people I love.
Cajun Crab Cakes
- 1 Large Shallot Minced
- 1 Large Jalapeño Seeded, minced
- 1/2 Cup Mayonaise I use Sir Kensington or make my own
- 1 TBSP Worcestershire Sauce
- 1 TBSP Dijon Mustard
- 1.5 TBSP Fresh Parsley Minced
- 2 TSP Slap Ya Mama Spice (Old Bay can be used as a substitute)
- 1 Egg
- 1 LB Fresh Jumbo Lump Crab Meat
- 1 Cup French Baguette Fresh and roughly chopped
In a large mixing bowl, combine everything but the crab and bread, and stir well-about one minute.
In a separate bowl, combine crab cakes and fresh bread. Stir very carefully so as not to shred the crab (a lot of crab cake recipes call for bread crumbs, but I've found that fresh bread not only gives the crab cakes a much softer texture, it also soaks up a lot more flavor).
After the crab and bread is mixed together, carefully pour the wet ingredient mixture into the crab mixture, make sure that everything is completely incorporated. When everything is fully combined, cover the bowl with plastic wrap and let it sit in the fridge for at least an hour.
When you're ready to make your crab cakes, melt butter or a high quality oil (olive, coconut, grapeseed etc...) on a nonstick skillet on medium-high heat. I prefer to use butter for these, but it doesn't really matter what you use.
While your pan is heating, using your hand, carefully scoop about a palm full of the crab mixture into your hand and shape the crab cakes. They will not come out in uniform balls, so if they're a little uneven and messy looking, that's perfectly fine.
Once you've shaped the crab cakes, put them directly into the pan and let them brown for about 3-4 minutes per side. Be VERY gentle when you flip them, as they come apart quite easily. I usually do this step in two batches, making 4 crab cakes at a time. But if you want to make several small crab cakes as an appetizer, you can make up as many as you can fit in the pan without overcrowding. When they are golden brown on the tops and bottoms, they're done.
If I climbed to the highest ledge of the fence in the backyard, I was face to face with gnarl limbed live oaks peppering the woods that shared a border with our house. Though it was more- or- less strictly forbidden to jump off the fence into the forested world quarantined behind the barrier of wooden planks, I was known to jump into the unknown and land in the underbrush and disappear into the ferns and flora, embarking upon a mapless treasure hunt 20 yards from our backdoor.
I was perched on the edge of the wooden fence, gauging the distance I would need to jump, so as to avoid the bedraggled underbrush enmeshed on the forested side of the fence. As I stood to find my footing and launch myself into the air, the perfunctorily looped laces of my shoe caught an unassuming groove in the wood, and I toppled over, smacking into the ground with a resounding thud while the shoots and rogue branches fractured and crunched beneath me. The fall wasn’t very far, but I fell into a slow, child hewn panic as I examined my legs entangled in the bushes, dripping a thin, sticky red liquid.
“I’m bleeding!!!” I thought to myself, trying to maintain my stealth, but as I extended an arm forward to wipe away the blood, I realized my legs were not the only victim of the fall; my arms, hands and shirt were smeared in red. I gathered myself under the canopy of trees shielding me from the castigating sun on this particularly sweltering Texas day, breathing deeply to steady myself. As I placed my hands on the ground to push myself up, I felt a soft and slightly textured foreign object give way to the weight of my tiny little body, and I froze in horror.
As the lines between my fingers pooled with red, I slowly pulled my hand back to reveal specks of dark flesh embedded in the palm of my hand, and then it hit me; I had landed in a wild blackberry bush. I let out a sigh of relief, untangled my shoes and shorts, pricked myself several times on the thorny branches, and took a step back to examine the massacre of blackberries listlessly strewn along the mangled forest floor.
My skin was sticky and sweet, fragrant with the smell of freshly crushed fruit, and the sun overhead intensified the saccharine odor. At the time, I didn’t even know blackberries had a season, and we were in the thick of it. I didn’t give the bush much more thought, and I proceeded to go about my business in the woods, making sure to keep quiet so as not to give away my disregard for the boundaries my parents had set.
Several years later, in a new house not embroidered by the clutter of forest, my mom came home with gallons upon gallons of fresh blackberries. I watched as she unloaded them onto the island in our kitchen, and pulled out at least a dozen extra-large mason jars. “What are you doing with all of that, Mom?” I inquired? “Making jam,” she quipped.
I don’t recall the process she went through, nor do I recall the amount of time she spent in the kitchen boiling and simmering, flavoring and cooling, but I do, very vividly recall the final product. The smell of stewed berries cut so subtly with lemon, the deep rose color that appeared when I slathered the jam on buttered toast, the stains on my fingertips as I licked them clean, careful to not let any drop go untouched. But most of all I remember my little brother sitting at the head of the table, with an entire loaf of bread and a full jar of jam, dipping the slices into the jar like chips into salsa. It was so good. Transcendent in a way. An expression of fruit as I had never experienced before, except in that fleeting moment of rebellious childhood, when I found myself entangled in the natural habitat of these gentle berries. Raw, fresh, stewed, preserved and consumed without processing or marketing, brands or price tags, just flavor magnified by heat, sugar, and precious time.
As an adult with unbridled access to green markets and seasonal produce, I’ve become accustomed to eating fruits and vegetables in their season’s peak. Every year, as the sporadic pangs of frigid spring days slowly give way to the overwhelming heat of summer, I wait with bated breath for the first sightings of blackberries at the Farmer’s Markets around New York City. Though I can easily purchase blackberries any time of year, I stop myself from doing so. The under ripe tartness of blackberries in winter are an unjust substitute for berries in their prime, and the long months of bitter cold immediately dissipate as you pop the ripe fruit into your mouth on an unforgiving summer day. Around mid- June every year, the presence of blackberries lounging in cardboard pints transports me back to the underbrush of the woods, and the sun soaked kitchen of my pre-teens, and it’s almost as though I’m catching a retroactive glimpse of my kid brother, mouth besmeared with jam and breadcrumbs at the kitchen table. I’ll take them in any form: raw, jam, jelly, pie, cake or cocktail. Just so long as it’s blackberry season.
Blackberry Cake with Lemon-Thyme Buttercream
- 2 1/4 cups Flour
- 2 1/2 tsp Baking Powder
- 1/2 tsp Salt
- 1/2 cup Butter (softened)
- 1 1/2 cups Sugar
- 2 Eggs (I like to use Duck Eggs, but regular works just fine)
- 1 Packet Vanilla Sugar
- 2 cups Fresh Blackberries
- 1 tbsp Olive Oil Extra Virgin
- 1/2 cup Butter (softened)
- 2 1/2 cups Powdered Sugar
- 1/4-1/2 cup Fresh Lemon Juice
- 1 1/2 tbsp Lemon Zest
- 1 Bunch Fresh Thyme
Pre Heat the over to 350F
In a large boil, combine flour, salt and baking powder
In a separate bowl, combine, butter, sugar, vanilla sugar, eggs and olive oil. Mix on high for about two minutes until smooth.
Add dry ingredients to the batter, alternating flour and blackberries until everything is well integrated, and mix for 2-3 minutes.
In two greased 8" round cake pans, pour the batter. Bake on 350F for 25-30 minutes. Set aside and let cool completely.
While the cake is cooling, steep the thyme in lemon juice until desired flavor (I usually let it sit for about an hour, but if you want a stronger thyme flavor, you can let it steep for up to 4.)
For the Frosting:
Mix together softened butter and powdered sugar in a large bowl for several minutes.
Discard thyme, and strain remaining lemon juice if need be.
Add the lemon juice and lemon zest to the butter and powdered sugar mixture, and mix on high until frosting is at your preferred texture. If you want a thicker frosting, add more powdered sugar 1/4 cup at a time.
Remove cakes from their pans, and smother frosting on top of one of the cakes. Set the unfrosted cake onto the frosted cake to create the layer. Frost the rest of the cake.
Store in the refrigerator for up to 4 days.
Peach Salad with Whipped, Salted Goat Cheese and Honey
- 2-3 Ripe, fresh Peaches
- 1/2 cup Goats Cheese softened
- Red Hawaiian Sea Salt, Himalaya Pink Salt or Regular Sea Salt
Rinse your peaches well, and cut into chunks or slices (whichever you prefer)
In a medium sized bowl, mix together goat cheese and honey. Use a whisk or a fork to vigorously whip the honey and goat cheese mixture until it's light, and slightly fluffy-about one minute. You can use a mixer if you prefer, but as far as I'm concerned, the less clean up I have to do, the better.
After your goat cheese and honey is at your desired consistency, drizzle it over the fresh peaches. Finish with a large pinch of whichever salt you choose.
A couple of months ago I had a chance encounter with Dan Barber, the chef and visionary behind Blue Hill at Stone Barns. For those of you unfamiliar with his work, Dan specializes in sustainable eating and farming practices, and is one of the pioneers of the Farm to Table movement. The Stone Barns Center, nestled in the pastoral rolling pastures of Pocantico Hills, NY, is a fully functioning farm and research facility, and the bulk of the seasonal menu at Stone Barns is derived from produce harvested onsite, and nothing goes to waste. I had the privilege of spending a few weekends at the facility, including an invite from Dan to experience what happens behind the scenes during Sunday brunch. I’m not sure if it was the intoxicating aroma of freshly milled wheat from the onsite bakery, or the panoramic view of the bucolic farm (and let’s be honest, the incredible wine cellar and meat curing closet…and basically everything I experienced there), but a rabid curiosity concerning local and sustainable eating flowered within me, and I’ve been on a deliberate campaign of culinary and personal discovery ever since.
Having been professionally entrenched in food and wine for years, to the point where chef’s knives and wine keys are basically an extension of my body, this exploration deviated from my normal gastronomic prowess in a myriad of ways. I was invited to reevaluate not only the way I eat, but the cuts of meat I find most appealing and why, the produce I choose, the manner in which I buy food (the never-ending grocery store vs. farmer’s market dilemma, coupled with local specialty shops, which are at times prohibitively expensive), and how much edible product I was actually wasting. I had a sudden preoccupation with where my fruits and vegetables were grown, and while the living conditions of slaughter bound animals has always played a crucial role in choosing the butchers from which I’d purchase meat, I now pressed for the dietary protocol of the animals; what were they eating, how were they fed and how often? The relentless questioning inspired an overhaul of not only my diet, but a creativity in the kitchen I had been lacking for several months.
I found myself experimenting with offal and entrails, vegetables I never thought to purchase were now staples in my kitchen (enter radishes and basically every green you can imagine), grains and dairy were no longer the forefront of my diet, my meat intake was cut by at least half, and I can’t even begin to tell you how much I value the farmers in and around New York who painstakingly load their produce and haul their trucks into the city for the Green Markets.
Needless to say, the whole experience has left me aching to endlessly educate myself on the food world and its systems, and flex creative muscles in the kitchen that I didn’t even know existed; nose-to-tail and root-to-leaf eating was no longer unattainable. By no means does this imply that I’ve managed to create a system of sustainable eating that I follow everyday, nor have I turned my back on the wonderful world of coveted cuts of meat and speciality food items (crab claws, caviar, foie gras…they’re just so delicious) but more so that I’ve opened an avenue of cooking that encourages me to think outside the box and enjoy the culinary arts in a more responsible, sustainable way. The point of this blog is to share my experiences with food, wine and mixology as I continue to explore local and sustainable eating, taking you on my adventures in the kitchen, outside of the kitchen and during my travels. Food and wine for me, is and always has been, the story of the earth and the people who inhabit it. It’s goes beyond sustenance; it’s culture, enjoyment,love and celebration.
What you’ll find here are personal stories, recipes, cocktail creations, food and wine pairings, as well as a bit of culinary and wine history. You’ll also find my conversations with farmers, butchers, winemakers, distillers, chefs, sommeliers and pretty much anyone who helps breathe life into the beautiful stories of food and drink. This personal and culinary exploration has been a form of foraging in its own right, and I hope you come love food, drink and the people behind it as much as I do.
The rock edges jutted beyond the edge of the water, forming a perch on which we sat, legs dangling just above the ocean’s surface. My friend Jillian had spent summers here in her youth, piling into cars with her sprawling collection of cousins, as their parents drove from the wooded hedges of rural Massachusetts to the eastern white pine lined highways of Maine. The destination-Bailey Island, the population-scarce-the nature-untouched. Adults now, Jillian invited me to join her family on their Fourth of July excursion, her flying up from Austin, me catching a bus from Brooklyn, meeting in Boston and driving from there.
As Massachusetts gave way to New Hampshire, and New Hampshire blended into its border with Maine, an instantaneous calm filtered through the open windows as we swerved and snaked through the thicketed parameters of the highway. The northern air crisp and pine scented, peppered sporadically with jolts of salinity, blew our hair into tangles as we approached the bridge connecting the island to the land. The unmistakable scent of saltwater and sun kissed sand permeated the air as we crossed over the water, an arsenal of fishing boats pulling in to dock and unload their catches for the day. Cod and clams, mussels and monkfish, scallops and lobster-the reality that I’d be sinking my teeth into local day boat catches made me salivate.
We arrived at Jillian’s uncle’s house, popping wine bottles and reminiscing about childhood summer excursions and our beer and bourbon soaked college days as we gazed out the open windows, our eyes scanning the star quilted horizon stretching endlessly out of our reach. Our eyelids eventually caved and we scattered to our respective beds, falling asleep to the tranquil lull of cicada choruses and croaks of forest frogs as the waves crashed harmoniously in the distance.
The next day consisted primarily of eating, swimming and climbing down cliff edges leading to the shoreline. The high sun glistened on the surface of the sea, and we found ourselves trekking toward a single room white seafood shack precariously positioned on the northern point of a rickety pier. “This is the freshest seafood in Maine,” Jill quipped as the tattered screen door tilted on its hinges when we pressed it open. New England tchotchkes littered the walls, hovering above the troughs of live lobsters and day boat scallops, artifacts of a time forgotten, when the anglers were known by name and the catches seldom made their way off the island. We scanned the day’s catches resting on ice beds, as the sun leathered fishmonger behind the counter handed us flimsy paper bowls brimming with clam chowder and freshly crumbled oyster crackers. “Let’s steam lobsters” echoed from one of Jill’s cousins, and we silently nodded in agreement as we spooned gobs of steaming oatmeal thick clam chowder into our ravenous mouths.
The lobsters had been brought in just hours before, and they viciously cranked their tails, propelling their bodies backwards through the water filled metal basin acting as their temporary home. A short haired, deep wrinkled brunette materialized from behind the counter with a fishing net, exchanging pleasantries in her weightily studded New England accent, effortlessly plucking the lobsters from the makeshift seabed while she assured us they would be the “freshest lobstahs you’ll evah try.” It was as though her vocal chords had been marinated in tobacco smoke and whiskey, then left to tan in the sun; to this day I still equate the husky vibrato of her voice with the salty scent of fish markets…
Before we knew it, the sun was sliding hastily west to its final resting place, and multi-quart pots of water were set to boil on the stove. Butter melted on a free burner, and we held our lobsters, claw side down, gently massaging their heads with our free hands in vague attempts to quell their nerves before we plunged them into the boiling water. My stomach tensed a bit as I approached the pot, I’d never cooked a live lobster before, and swinging from guilt to excitement and back again, I drew my breath deep into my lungs, closed my eyes, and let go of the shell. The maroon and black splotched armor transformed into a candy apple red casing within minutes, and I twisted open a cold beer, toasting to my lobster in gratitude for becoming the freshest Fourth of July meal in which I’d ever had the privilege of indulging. The fireworks were about to begin, and we hauled our lobsters to the picnic table on the deck, a symphony of claw crackers and crackling firewood harmonized with clinking beer bottles and infectious laughter, and our butter soaked fresh lobsters stunned our taste buds with the wonderment of their sea salty sweetness.
As the moon made its slow ascension into the pearl pierced night sky, we used the natural light of the stars overhead to navigate our way to the rock formations bordering the shoreline. The July Fourth fireworks glittered above the rushes and unruly forested terrain of the island as we all sat in silence, our arms draped like sheets around each other’s sun drenched shoulders watching the light show above. Our bellies full of fresh local lobster, our heads slightly buzzed from sun and beer, we knew that Maine really was the way life should be.
Live Maine Lobster Rolls
- 1-1.5 lb Maine Lobster
- 1/2 fresh lemon juiced
- 1-2 tbsp plain mayonnaise
- 1 spring onion diced
- 1 New England style roll or hot dog bun
- 1/2 tbsp butter softened
Pre-Heat Oven to 350F
Bring a large pot of water to a rolling boil (you’ll want enough water to submerge the lobster completely), and drop the lobster claws and head first into the pot- you’ll want to hold it at the base of the body near the top of the tail. Make sure you have a firm grip to steady the lobster so you can control the direction it enters the water.
Allow the lobster to cook 12-18 minutes depending on the size. It will turn bright red after a few minutes in the water.
Once the lobster is done boiling, use tongs to remove it from the water, or empty the pot of water. The shell will be scorching hot, so give it a rinse under cold water to cool down the shell until you can handle it with bare hands.
Remove the shell-you’ll need kitchen scissors and claw crackers if it’s hard shelled-soft shells you can pull apart with you hands. Extract the meat and chop large chunks into bite sized pieces and save the shell for a seafood stock (we want to use everything edible if possible).
Mix the lobster, lemon, mayonnaise and onion in a bowl and put in the refrigerator for about 10 minutes so the flavors meld. You can also use celery or fennel if you’d like in place of the onion. You don’t need to add salt, as you’ll have plenty salinity from the lobster meat. But if you want to add salt, nobody will judge you.
While the lobster salad is chilling, butter the rolls and toast them in the oven until golden in the center and slightly crispy around the edges. Remove toast from oven.
Fill roll (it should be slit from the top not the side) with lobster salad and serve with a side of salt and vinegar chips and pickles.
- Chenin Blanc (dry Chenin from Anjou works beautifully with this)
- IPA (Ballast Point Sculpin and Goose Island are my go to beers for seafood)
- Wheat Ale (Ommegang Witte is meant for this sandwich)
- Root Beer (I don’t know why this combo works but it does)