last party, last kitten

We knew the day would come, and it’s been the most glo­ri­ous of blue-sky mar­vels.  Jes­samy has gone away.  And I’ve set my com­pany table for the last time.  Sum­mer is nearly over.

But I’m get­ting ahead of myself.

This week has been a whirl­wind of emo­tion, let­ting each kit­ten go to her new fam­ily.  And while Avery’s been a total star, I’m an emo­tional wreck!  But it couldn’t have ended more hap­pily for every­one, so I’ll tell you all about it.

Jes­sica was first, John’s favorite, to fly the coop.  And what an image, as it turns out, because as we pulled hes­i­tantly into the dri­ve­way where Lily and Matthew live, look­ing around to make sure we were in the right place, there were… chickens!

And, in the dis­tance, cows, even!  A glo­ri­ous barn built, we found out later, by Matthew’s very own hands (the hands that cra­dled Jes­sica so expertly, ready instantly to take her home), then a small Fed­eral salt­box, if those two des­ig­na­tions make sense?  A lit­tle white house, tucked up behind masses of low-growing bushes, cold frames of plants and herbs a more savvy vis­i­tor could iden­tify (they don’t come any less plant-savvy than me), a tired-looking labrador guard­ing the screen door.

And out popped Lily, wear­ing a t-shirt that said some­thing about Hait­ian relief, her gor­geous white-blond hair pulled back in a twist held in place by a pen­cil, her smile shin­ing at us.  “Ah, it’s Jes­sica!  Bring her in!”

If I had invented a mother for Jes­sica, I couldn’t have thought of all the ele­ments of her per­son­al­ity that make Lily per­fect. In addi­tion to Hait­ian relief, she and Matthew build tim­ber barns for char­ity, vol­un­teer for Habi­tat for Human­ity, and once brought home 9 stray kit­tens from a camp­ing trip!  One remains with them to this day, Sabine, who will be Jessica’s older sister.

Jes­sica set­tled straight down, with only the min­i­mum of crawl­ing on her belly like a rep­tile, sniff­ing every­thing in sight.  Lily’s well-scrubbed and entirely beau­ti­ful face glowed with hap­pi­ness to see her, and we real­ized there was no rea­son for us to stay.

We kissed Jes­sica good­bye and Lily ush­ered us out, through her kitchen full of the clob­ber of a real cook, and I spied a cook­book open on the counter to a hand­writ­ten recipe for… granola.

Heaven!

As we left, she asked unnec­es­sar­ily, “Can you eat eggs?” and thrust a plas­tic box in my hand con­tain­ing twelve of the most var­ied eggs I had ever seen, rang­ing from lit­tle more than would fit on a table­spoon to one mon­ster that, when cooked in the morn­ing, proved to be a dou­ble yolk!

Dou­ble heaven.  There really wasn’t room in our minds for sad­ness, because it was all taken up with grat­i­tude at Jessica’s hav­ing fallen into a pot of such home­made jam.

As we pulled out of the dri­ve­way, tak­ing care not to run over Jessica’s chick­ens, I remembered.

“Do you mind stop­ping at the gro­cery?  I really am crav­ing some but­ter­nut squash, and I wouldn’t mind a bunch of beets.”

We had not gone a half a mile when up popped one of those won­der­ful honor-system farm stands with two dif­fer­ent spellings of “veg­etable”, some­thing for every­one, and guess what they were sell­ing?  Yes.  Serendip­ity!  A reward, along with the eggs, for hav­ing been brave enough to give Jes­sica up.  Not that we had a choice, look­ing at hun­dreds of dol­lars and six-months’ quar­an­tine if we didn’t.  But still!  A reward.

The next day brought a killer ten­nis game, a glo­ri­ous swim in the grotty town pool with my favorite moment: com­ing up through the frigid water, eyes wide open, to see the blue of the sky and the green of the pines.  And then the trip to Wash­ing­ton, CT to deliver Jamie to her new home, also an 18th cen­tury house that’s been inhab­ited, in this case, by the very same fam­ily since it was built, and now the lat­est scion, in fact the Gor­geous Peach Guy at my farmer’s mar­ket, and his beau­ti­ful girl­friend Jemima.  In short, Jamie’s new parents.

Jamie’s new mother was nurs­ing burns from an explod­ing pres­sure cooker filled with apple­sauce, her project for the ancient orchard and farm stand owned by her boyfriend.  Go, Pick-Your-Own Every­thing in the autumn.  Maybe you’ll meet Jamie there, patrolling the orchards for mice.  That would suit her dev­il­ish per­son­al­ity down to the frosty ground.

By this point, my sense of tri­umph at get­ting two kit­tens safely to their new homes was giv­ing way to a feel­ing of sub­dued lone­li­ness, and a sort of wait­ing for the other paw to drop.  Jes­samy ran around the kitchen alone, clearly try­ing to invent some new games that did not involve sib­lings, and I was happy to have din­ner plans… Rol­lie and Judy’s house for sup­per!  And more than happy to con­coct a salad to take along.

Roasted Many-Pepper and Moz­zarella Salad with Pinenuts and Mixed Greens

(served 8 as a side dish)

8 pep­pers of mixed col­ors: red, yel­low and orange

3 balls moz­zarella, sliced rather thin, get­ting about 8 slices per ball

3/4 cup pine nuts, toasted or not as you like

2 hand­fuls mixed greens

1 small red onion, diced

dress­ing: 1 part lemon juice to 3 parts olive oil, plus Fox Point seasoning

To roast the pep­pers, either hold them over a gas stove and turn them till all the skins turn black, or if you have a lot of pep­pers as this recipe requires, set your oven to Broil and put the rack right under the broiler ele­ment.  Cut each pep­per in half and remove the stem, then lay all the halves on a cookie sheet, skin side up.  Flat­ten slightly if you can, no mat­ter if the pep­pers break.  Broil, turn­ing the cookie sheet to get even broil­ing, until the skins are as black­ened as you can get them with­out with­er­ing the pep­pers.  Put imme­di­ately into a paper bag and roll the bag shut tight.  Wait five min­utes or so while you do other things, like slic­ing the cheese.  Then open the bag and peel off the skins, which will have steamed loose-ish.  By sep­a­rat­ing the big­ger halves (there’s always a big­ger half on a pep­per, for some rea­son), make about 24 pieces of pepper.

To assem­ble, sim­ply get a large pretty plat­ter and make 8 stacks of moz­zarella slices alter­nat­ing with pep­per pieces, then sprin­kle the greens around on the plat­ter.  Sprin­kle the pinenuts and red onion dice and driz­zle dress­ing around the greens.  Grind some black pep­per over for contrast.

**************************

We had a fan­tas­tic evening, start­ing with Rollie’s smoked blue­fish which, some­one remind me, I want for my last meal on earth.  He catches the fish at some ungodly hour of the morn­ing with his mates, one of whom has a smoker.  And then… magic.  It is supremely fishy, rad­i­cally smokey, fleshy, ten­der, and the most per­fect food ever invented.  And the twin­kle in his eye when he catches me star­ing at it!  “Thought that’d make Kris­ten happy,” he says with Rol­lie understatement.

And New Eng­land clam chow­der from clams gath­ered in Guil­ford, on Long Island Sound… and milk-fed veal cut­lets, raised by Rol­lie and his sons.  Gor­geous fresh green beans and steamed lit­tle pota­toes, Judy’s blue­berry cob­bler.  And as a part­ing gift, Young Rollie’s wife Tri­cia, she of the never-ending gar­den bounty, pre­sented me with two bars of her home­made soap, using Rollie’s beeswax and honey from his hives, and her own goats’ milk.  Crazy cre­ative and capa­ble, these peo­ple!  The per­fect gifts to take back to Lon­don, for any­one lucky enough to get them.  Thank you, Tricia.

We rode home in the bloomy late-summer dark­ness, watch­ing the moon ris­ing slowly over the back meadow, feel­ing grate­ful for our neigh­bors and friends…

And late that night, or early the next morn­ing depend­ing on how you look at life, I awoke around 4 to feel a strange com­pul­sion to look out­side.  So I did, creep­ing down­stairs to peer from the wavy-glassed win­dows in the front par­lor, to see an EERIE full moon cast­ing impos­si­ble shad­ows across the meadow.  Sort of like the neg­a­tive of a photo, if that makes sense: shad­ows where in day­light there is light, a thick, white light where there should be shad­ows.  I moved across the din­ing room to look out over the big red barn (as opposed to the lit­tle red barn, which we call a garage).  And its mossy shin­gled roof glowed with a truly mys­ti­cal light, while more inim­i­cal shad­ows stretched across a sur­face of molten sil­ver, which I knew to be our rather pro­saic lawn.

How I wish there could be pho­tographs of such a phe­nom­e­non!  But it exists only in my mind’s eye, now.  I wanted, part of me wanted, to open the front door and look at it all prop­erly from out­side, but I was, absurdly, rather afraid.  I crept back up to bed and felt glad to get there!

The next after­noon brought my dear friend Shelley’s fam­ily here for a mas­sive lunch of pier­rade, that gor­geous and time-consumingly labor-intensive meal of tiny scraps of sir­loin, to be cooked on a hot stone and dipped in a vari­ety of sauces: satay, plum, wasabi, hol­landaise.  Let’s see, there we have rep­re­sented Thai, Chi­nese, Japan­ese and French cook­ing!  All to com­ple­ment the protein-fest that is pier­rade.  AND Shelley’s gor­geous cucum­ber salad, con­cocted from her own cucum­bers, and her tomato-mozzarella-prosciutto salad with basil from her and Erik’s gar­den.  Quite, quite perfect.

Such a fun, sort of crazy joy to see our three girls laugh­ing it up, find­ing things in com­mon like Hed­wig the owl, a hatred of “sum­mer read­ing,” a love of all things kitten-related… to think that Shel­ley and I “met” through a shared love of Gladys Taber, the ances­tress of our neigh­bors across the road, and became fast friends through emails before we ever had a chance to meet, and hug one another tightly.  She is one of those peo­ple who is defined by giv­ing… that is where she gets her strength.  A gift to have her and her fam­ily here.

And finally, today.  We knew it was approach­ing.  The last lunch party of sum­mer, the last day with Jes­samy.  But what bet­ter way to see the sum­mer out?  Say It With Crab­cakes, is the motto of yours truly.  Then give away the kit­ten, once for­ti­fied.  My dears, these crab­cakes are beyond sim­ple, totally crabby, soft on the inside, crunchy on the out­side, and everyone’s favorite, who tastes them, of what a crab­cake should be.  Thank you, Joel, my brother in law, for the per­fect recipe.  Almost noth­ing but crab, oh… I wish I had one right now.

Kristen’s Crab­cakes (inspired by Joel’s Crab­cakes, thank you)
(makes approx­i­mately 10)

1 lb fresh claw crab­meat, cooked and picked over
1/2 cup thinly sliced green onions, white and green parts
1 red bell pep­per, minced
1/2 cup may­on­naise
3 egg yolks, lightly beaten
1 1/2 cups fresh bread­crumbs
1/2 tsp chili pow­der
salt and pep­per to taste
3 tbsps veg­etable oil

(1 more cup bread­crumbs for rolling)

Mix all ingre­di­ents but oil, thor­oughly. Form into 3-inch diam­e­ter cakes, about 3/4 inch thick. Roll in bread­crumbs and place in a sin­gle layer on a plat­ter. Refrig­er­ate as long as pos­si­ble, at least 2 hours (this will keep them from falling apart while cook­ing). Before fry­ing, firmly squeeze them into shape once again. Heat oil in a wide, deep skil­let and place crab­cakes in a sin­gle layer. Fry on one side 4 min­utes, then turn and fry for another 4 min­utes. Drain thor­oughly on thick paper tow­els and serve with a spicy sauce of mayo mixed with chili sauce.  PERFECTION.

***************************

There are peo­ple in this life, aren’t there, who bring out the best in you: not through flat­tery or agree­ing with you… just by see­ing you through the lens through which you see you your­self… the best part of your­self.  This is part of what I love, adore about our beloved neigh­bors and dear friends  Anne, David, and Katie, and Anne’s sis­ter Alice, now for­ever immor­tal­ized as Jessamy’s new mother.

What makes that sort of friend­ship?  I’ve spent the hours since say­ing good­bye to every­one, try­ing to fig­ure it out.  John says sim­ply, “It’s gen­uine affec­tion.”  That is it.  It’s the fact that we could have moved in here, six years ago, and had a per­fectly nice nod­ding acquain­tance across the road.  Invited each other for Christ­mas drinks.

What hap­pened, all those years ago?  I’ll tell you one thing that’s true.  They under­stand Avery!  From the moment we met them, with lit­tle 6-year-old Avery (my good­ness, the age of my dar­ling niece Jane! how time flies), they had the warmest, liveli­est inter­est in what made her tick.  And she blos­somed in their affec­tion.  She’d recite pic­ture books, dis­cuss horses when she learned to ride, lis­ten with the great­est fas­ci­na­tion to Anne’s tales of life across the road when she was a lit­tle girl, swim­ming in the pond (“but there might be… any­thing under that water!” Avery would say in admir­ing hor­ror, and Anne would oblig­ingly pro­duce sto­ries of snap­ping turtles)…

And David’s unswerv­ing admi­ra­tion for Avery’s sto­ry­telling abil­i­ties — one writer meet­ing another, pos­si­bly — remem­ber­ing for years after­ward funny things she said, as a lit­tle girl, and even now.

But it’s more than just Avery, it’s all of us.  The arrival of lit­tle Kate.  That can’t be described in words.

The choice to become friends has been one of the great­est plea­sures, and of course then (my being Scan­di­na­vian and dark and twisty) one of the hard­est things about liv­ing here, part of the year.  We try to cram a year’s worth of con­ver­sa­tion, par­ent­ing tech­niques, news of the neigh­bor­hood, mutual admi­ra­tion of our two daugh­ters, into… just weeks.  Days, really.  But what days they are!

One of my fond­est feel­ings is know­ing that, across the road in the dark­ness each sum­mer night, they’re cook­ing their sup­per, putting Katie to bed, enjoy­ing a last cup of cof­fee, and across the way are the lighted can­dles in our front win­dows, blink­ing at them with all the love we’ve stored up in the months the house has been empty and cold.

So today we had our crab­cakes, we chat­ted, Avery and Katie had a last jump on the tram­po­line, and then Jes­samy was gone, amid a flood of good­bye hugs and a feel­ing that some­how, this depar­ture of friends and kit­ten spelled the end of sum­mer.  How lovely it has been.

And all is not lost!  Tomor­row will bring a last rid­ing les­son, a last din­ner with dear Jill, Jane, Joel and Molly… and then the job of putting the house to bed for the autumn.  Onward and upward!