Headed to an island in the middle of Penobscot Bay, halfway up the coast of Maine.
You see, the ferry was merely the third leg in a complicated journey from Capitol Hill to Bucks' Harbor Marina where we will board the sailboat. The fourth leg: exploring and exploiting the abbreviated growing season on an island in the Maine woods.
We drove right on by. Stopped instead at an ancient wooden farmhouse with barn, woodshed, greenhouse, chicken coops, threadbare carpets and peeling wallpaper. Here, there are no gardeners or greenskeepers, and the work continues in every season.
Also endless weeding, hoeing, cutting--and washing lots and lots of dishes.
Yesterday I sliced cucumbers and canned dill pickles while Pope weeded the garden, fed the chickens, and cut down overgrowth.
Today I picked beans, spinach, and squash; whipped up scrambled eggs; and served a salad of freshly picked lettuce, spinach, arugula, nasturtiums, and peaches, with a dressing made from lemon and leftover pickle brine. Hostess Sandy completed the repast with stuffed, baked pattypan squash.
Hungry, you say? Sorry, too late. In the midst of an abundant and demanding harvest, the meals are filling, delicious, and over in a flash.