Provisioning up for the big dinner-and-JAWS-sing-a-long this evening
involves an early morning run to Menemsha for enough bluefish for 12. This also means that I can have the true Breakfast
of Champions: six littlenecks, shucked
right then and there. They’re as briny
as can be and I love them with all my heart.
If I had this for breakfast every day there is really nothing I could
not do.
While I’m ordering the bluefish and the clams and paying, Larsen’s
fills right up with fish-ordering folks.
“Here comes Saturday!” says the gal behind the register.
A minor crisis involving Bill’s lost glasses – left somewhere along
Lambert’s Cove Road when he stopped on his bike ride to read a text – means
that he has to wear his stylish sunglasses if he wants to see anything at a
distance. This isn’t a problem, in my
opinion.
We have a last, long, lazy day at Lambert’s Cove wherein we swim and
nap and read and nap and eat sandwiches and Wheat Thins and take a walk and nap
and then chat with various Londons who make their way down the beach later in
the day. On the way down to the beach,
Peter noted that the rules sternly forbid all animals on the beach after 10
a.m. No seagulls allowed, he
wonders? How are you gonna police
that? And what about humans? More vague writing, dammit.
All too soon it is time to leave.
Welcome to the 2018 version of Cooking Without a Net! We whip up a more-than-passable dinner for
all the remaining Londons (note to self:
remember to do the soy-olive oil-garlic-dijon marinade for bluefish
again, it was that good), in which I make the tuna tartare that I only ever
make on MV[1]
and we stretch our last two Colorado peaches with some mint and some
raspberries to make a lovely dessert with some ice cream.
JAWS, well, you know how that ends but we watch it all the way through
anyway, some through splayed fingers over their faces. I remain in awe of Robert Shaw’s extended monologue
about the U.S.S. Indianapolis, it is my very favorite bit and I’ll hum Spanish
Ladies for the next few days.
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