The Cocktail Hour, Refined

After " what's for dinner?", our favorite question is always when do the T's arrive on island. Our neighbors just to the east on Cottage Road have been summering on Chebeague for twelve or so years now, and got sucked in to the Webb vortex when their three sons became fast friends with our island brood at the Rec Center pool. The boys have grown into handsome fellows who'll lead the charge in pier jumping and lighting illegal fireworks the night before the Fourth. The oldest is a power hitter on the golf course with an infectious laugh and permanent smile lines around his eyes. Father T. is a district attorney back home, and understandably slides right into island mode the second he steps ashore. He spends most days shaming me on the links, and at Hayden Beach rustling up mussels that his wife Libby serves with drinks most afternoons on their deck overlooking Chandler's Cove.

This year, for the first time, the D.A. enlisted me to help forage for bivalves at his favorite spot. I was flattered. We met up at the appointed hour, just before low tide, and drove out to Jenks Landing and waded into the shallow waters of Coleman Cove (Hayden's Beach, the D.A. likes to call it, as most of the property around the cove is owned by George Hayden). Just a few feet from shore, we were practically tripping over clusters of wild mussels clinging to loose stones. It took us about 15 minutes to fill two buckets with large, beautiful shells. When asked later how the job went, my only reply was, "it was like shooting fish in a barrel."

Libby has come up with two ways to prepare wild mussels. The first is a classic recipe with tomatoes, shallots, garlic and white wine.

Mussels in White Wine

3lbs fresh mussels 2 Tbsp unsalted butter 2 Tbsp good olive oil 1 cup chopped shallots (5 to 7 shallots) 1½ Tbsp minced garlic (5 to 6 cloves) ½ cup drained canned plum tomatoes, chopped 1 cup dry white wine

In a large sauté pan, heat the butter and olive oil over medium heat. Add the shallots and cook for 5 minutes; then add the garlic and cook for 3 more minutes, or until the shallots are translucent. Add the tomatoes and the wine. Bring to a boil. Add the mussels, stir well, then cover the pot, and cook over medium heat for 8 to 10 minutes, until all the mussels are opened (discard any that do not open). With the lid on, shake the pot once or twice to be sure the mussels don't burn on the bottom. Pour the mussels and the sauce into a large bowl and serve hot with crusty bread to soak up the sauce.

Libby's second method was a straight forward grilling and a simple melted butter with garlic and fresh parsley topping.

Grilled mussels

3 pounds cultivated mussels ½ cup melted butter 4 Tbsp minced garlic 6 Tbsp fresh flat leaf parsley, chopped

Place cleaned mussels directly over hot coals on the Weber. Grill for 8-10 minutes, or until mussels have opened up (discard any that do not open). Meanwhile melt butter in a small saucepan and add the minced garlic and parsley. Keep warm until mussels are cooked. Drizzle melted butter over hot mussels and eat immediately.

There is absolutely nothing better that fresh, wild mussels. They are fat, succulent, salty and tender. I had so many one afternoon, I had to push away from the table come dinner time. There was no way I could possibly eat another thing.

The D.A. and I are simply incredulous that more people aren't at our beach collecting their own mussels. Seems most folks are satisfied with farmed ones. Fine by us!

Thanks for taking the time - Blog O. Food

Back to the Island

If once you have slept on an island You'll never be quite the same; You may look as you looked the day before And go by the same old name, You may bustle about in street and shop You may sit at home and sew, But you'll see blue water and wheeling gulls Wherever your feet may go. You may chat with the neighbors of this and that And close to your fire keep, But you'll hear ship whistle and lighthouse bell And tides beat through your sleep. Oh! you won't know why and you can't say how Such a change upon you came, But once you have slept on an island, You'll never be quite the same. "If Once You Have Slept On An Island" - Rachel Field

I am returned from my annual pilgrimage to Great Chebeague. I partook in island rituals generations old. I could be depended upon to run up to Ed's each morning for the papers and whatever provisions were needed to see us through the day. I practiced the Chebeague Wave, that acknowledgement of casually lifted fingers off the steering column as one passed fellow motorists on the rough roads. I dug for mussels off Hayden's Beach. I discovered a trick to calm my suicidal brain when addressing the ball at Great Chebeague Golf Club. And I cooked for the sheer pleasure of making others happy. It was a sublime visit, the best in eight years of summering there.

I had two greetings upon arriving. The first was on the waterfront at the Rí Rá. It was World Cup season again, and my favorite pub promised plenty of big screen entertainment and perfect Guinness draughts. Over a pint or two (or three), I caught a couple of really good matches there. The second greeting was a welcoming party - Old Thumper in hand - at Chandler's Landing as the ferry delivered me to the island.

Except for one sweltering day, the weather was perfect. Warm sunny days, cool breezy nights. There was even one 15-minute cloudburst causing us to dash shrieking indoors one morning.

Of course there was seafood, good cheer, and scenery for days.

My mood always seemed to mimic that of the Island's.

By the end, I was in a Zen-like state of stillness. A leaf on the wind. A ripple in a pond. A footprint in the sand. You get the idea.

And naturally, there was cooking. Lots and lots of cooking. But that's a story for another day.

Thanks for taking the time - Blog O. Food

Come in London!

Yes, Virginia, Blog O. Food still cooks and breaks into cold sweats when he hasn't posted in a while, but it's Championship Week again, and all other considerations are on the back burner (groan).

It's still stewing in its own juices, but I made my own sourdough starter, as I've always wanted to introduce myself with this line: "I am Enzo, the Baker!" (a la The Godfather.) I intend to waltz into parties with that moniker after my first successful loaf.

So there's that, a slew of NYTimes recipes and even some good stuff from Paula Deen, whom I just adore. Just allow me a few more days of handing out tee shirts and taking photos for the University web site, and I'll get back to the kitchen and keyboard in a jiff.

Patience, Grasshopper... Blog O. Food