Food, Family, and Being a Regular

“I miss the banter with friends and family, which more often than not takes place within the confines of a decent public house. So I miss the pubs.”

—Chris Vance

 

Ok, full disclosure, I had to look up who Chris Vance is. Turns out he’s an actor, from England. Well, I guess if you can’t be Irish, that’s close enough. He’s right about the pubs though. Having a regular place to go to, where they remember you, where your friends hang out, and you don’t even have to look at a menu, because you know what they have is priceless. Sometimes, if you are a true regular, they start making your order when you walk in the door. It doesn’t even have to be a pub, though. I am a fan of small pubs where they greet me like family, but honestly, if you have a favorite coffee shop, bistro, or diner, it’s the same thing. It’s knowing that when you walk in the door, you’ll be among friends. You’ll get asked about your kids, your dog, your day. The waitress will remember that you like extra cream in your coffee, which will probably be waiting for you at your regular spot. Having a spot is important if you’re going to be a regular. Every old sitcom that has a restaurant or a bar in it shows the characters always sitting in the same place. Norm at Cheers, Seinfeld at “The Restaurant,” and of course the iconic orange couch from “Friends” that was magically always available, despite being the best seat in a crowded coffee shop. Having a spot means that you sort of own a tiny bit of real estate in a favorite place. It’s an honor that comes with the designation of being a regular.

Luckily there are a lot of local pubs and restaurants around that I like, and that, to their credit, keep letting me come back. There is no place like The Barnacle in a storm, the Muffin Shop lobster rolls are perfection, and Scott and Emily at Sea Salt know just how I like my lettuce wraps. Years ago, when the Salem Diner wasn’t just a write-off for the university and was actually owned by a real family, it was my first stop most mornings. Before anyone was awake, I’d creep out of the house and go there for a coffee, at my favorite spot at the counter. I’d catch up with the owner, chat with other regulars, and start my day on a positive note of community and connection. 

I thought I wouldn’t find another spot like that for coffee, but luckily, a cafe opened up in Swampscott, with delicious food, excellent service, and people that know me and welcome me. Cafe Avellino’s owner Teresa Siriagno has saved my bacon (or should I say prosciutto) more than once with takeout family meals, good music, and a place to sit and chat with new friends and old friends. It was especially nice when a storm knocked power out at our house, but Teresa was open and made room for us to have a hot meal, a cold drink, and charge up our phones.

 

What’s even better than a really nice Italian place, that has good coffee, authentic cannoli, and is across from a beach? A sister restaurant, right downtown Marblehead! La Sirena is the second spot opened by Teresa, and it’s been a most welcome addition to a street of fun shops, and locals. La Sirena also has live music, well, at least it did in the “Before Times” when you could sing and play the harmonica without it being a hazmat event. The pandemic has been hellish for restaurants, pubs, and coffee shops. Many have closed their doors and may not open again. 

 

Teresa has met the challenge head-on, however, and when she couldn’t hire a band and host people, she turned to family meals and take out. Remember back in April and May, when going to the grocery store was like some kind of decathlon of obstacles, stress, and fear? That’s when Cafe Avellino became the lifeboat that kept my family from drowning in yet another boxed rice and dried out chicken. Teresa knew that family meals that come ready to eat, with crusty bread and good sauce are a bright spot on the dark days. I did my part by telling everyone I knew (and even a few random strangers) to go get some of her food, and it turns out there were so many customers from Marblehead going over the line to Swampscott, that she just had to make it happen here too. La Sirena is becoming a one-stop-shop for fresh pastry, gourmet coffee, small bites, and family meals. I’m so happy I can stay here in the ‘Head to get my favorite food, because, hey, there’s still that Marblehead/Swampscott rivalry thing, so staying local matters. Stop by La Sirena soon, get some good food, and say “Benvenuta” to Teresa.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Binge, Revisited

 “Netflix gives you 15 seconds between episodes to decide whether or not you’re doing anything with your life today”

--- Internet Meme

Image by Rob Dobi via https://bit.ly/2PT63qy

 

A little over five years ago, I was stuck at home, unable to go out because of a health issue. No, there wasn’t a pandemic, everyone else was out and about, eating in restaurants, shopping in stores, and going barefaced. My issue was a new hip, and honestly, at least back then I had an excuse to lie around and be unproductive. Now? We’ve reached the Pinterest portion of the pandemic, and everyone is all over social media By everyone, I mean, not me. Sorry, but artisanal bread, kale chips, and gourmet chick pea salad is not how I roll, even if I am trapped in the house.

 

Initially, I bought a few sacks of flour, collected enough butter and eggs to choke a horse, and stockpiled a collection of Tasty and Buzzfeed food videos of deliciously decadent treats. Haven’t made any of them yet. The reason? I've fallen down the rabbit hole of online streaming. Between Hulu, Netflix, YouTube, and Amazon Prime, there are several thousand movies and shows to choose from, and honestly, binge-watching has become my video Valium of sorts. If I can’t sleep, Mary Tyler Moore, James Bond, Bob Newhart, and classic film noir movies are always there for me.

 

Five years ago, I wrote about the beauty of the binge, and how when there is downtime, it helps to have a distraction. In 2015, I wrote:

“What’s the answer? A good binge, that’s what. Now before you think anything untoward, I am not talking about vodka or chocolate cake. The new “Lost Weekend” is known as “binge-watching” and it’s perfect for those times when you don’t want to deal with the crapfest that passes for entertainment on some networks. There are a lot of ways to binge-watch too, depending on what you have available.”

That is still mostly true, except now, the crapfest is, sadly, the national news. It seems that everything is blowing up, from COVID numbers to fireworks factories, and Twitter rants, and that gets old after a while. Back then, however, if I couldn’t find something good online, there was Chet’s Video, with their delicious popcorn and candy. They even delivered movies for me while I healed. I miss that place.

The bonus now though? With online streaming, the viewer is the boss. It might be just a coincidence, but the TV “clickah” is actually called the “remote control.” How perfect is that? We’re all stuck learning remotely, working remotely, and doing so much else in an isolated way, and now we get to push some buttons and rule the world. Well, at least the screen anyway. I can wield a remote like a pro, zipping through channels at a seizure-inducing pace. I can’t make the pandemic go away. I am powerless to open the schools, I can’t sit on my favorite barstool at the Barnacle, munching on clams and sipping the perfect Bloody Mary. No hugging my friends, or traveling, or going to a ballgame. So much of what was normal in the “Before Times” just can’t happen now. So, this is one part of life that is entirely up to me, and you bet your sweet bippy, I’m going for it.

Back then, it was frustrating to be physically limited. No bike rides, no badminton matches, I couldn’t even walk Penny the Pug. Now the limits are different, and while I'm grateful to be healthy, it's still frustrating. We are moving into a new phase though, and just maybe in a few months, some of what we are missing will come back. In the meantime, I will be turning away from the 24-hour news cycle of death and destruction, and going for the beauty of the binge. 

 

 

 

 

Don't Forget Where You Live

“Don’t forget where you live.”

---F. L. Kelley, Sr.

My father would say this every time one of us walked out the door. He wasn’t really concerned that we’d forget our address or not be able to find our street; it was more than that. I know where I live, and, lucky for me, it’s the same house I've been remembering for years. The same room where my father sat, watching the game and reading the paper, is where I sit if I have to wait up for a child. Our side yard, where my friends would pull up and honk is now where my own kids wait for a ride, or, in the case of the boys, park their cars when they visit. The car horns and slamming screen doors echo through years of Friday night dates; Neck runs, prom dates and playmates trying to round up enough people for kickball.

An address on a driver’s license isn’t what my father meant when he warned us against forgetting where we live. And it’s not as simple as “where you live is who you are.”  It’s about the place you’ve chosen to call your home. Fair warning, it’s a little bit of a philosophical rabbit hole, something my father was known for getting lost in, but it came to mind recently when there was a discussion on being a “True 'Header.” In its most basic meaning, a “True ‘Header” is someone who was born in Marblehead. Usually, this means the old Mary Alley hospital which doesn’t exist anymore, so in one way, a true ‘Header is quite rare. Sure, now and then a wee one gets born at home, here in town, and that’s pretty amazing, but overall, where you happen to slide into the world, slippery and screaming, isn’t always where you are “from.” In a town like ours, with so much history, so many significant world events that began here, and so much pride, I can understand the importance some place on being a true ‘Header. To a point, that is.

Eventually, though, it must be asked, “Does everyone who lives here now, but  who came from somewhere else have to be identified as such?” How long does one have to live in a place to say, for instance, “I’m from Marblehead?”  I was eight years old when I moved here. It’s been 46 years, and other than a brief time in college, this has been where I call home. What is the proper response when someone asks me, “Where ya’ll from?” For the record, the “ya’ll” is legit, it seems the only people who ask that are from the southern part of the United States; they’re just extra sweet and friendly like that. Vermont holds a special place in my heart, because when I lived there, for school, it became my home, in ways that are not defined by a zip code. I’m not from there though.

Before we moved to Marblehead, my family went all the way back in Nahant to when the boat from County Cork docked. The best stories my parents told growing up happened over in Nahant, like the time my father “borrowed” a police car for a joy ride or the time my mother rode her bike down the church steps. They were from there. I don’t think I am though. Their parents? They were from Ballydehob and Clonakilty. And so it goes; the concept of where we are from becomes a debate, or, sadly, something that causes yet another division between separate groups.

Our country is incredibly divided right now; I’m pretty sure everyone would agree on at least that. Regardless of what label you carry, be it political, racial, geographical or financial, the fact remains that like a Venn diagram, there are lots of areas that overlap. There is someone in town whose ancestry goes back to the same village in Ireland where two of my grandparents lived. So, are we “from” the same place? He’s lived here his whole life, born right in town. He’s a ‘True Header” by definition, but I am not, so I guess that’s a no. Seems very strange to me though, there must be something I am missing. I love telling people about my hometown. It’s the birthplace of the American Navy; our founding fathers were regulars at taverns and historic homes. There’s an ocean that on rare days I can hear from my driveway. There are beautiful beaches, great people, and fresh lobster.  When my father said “don’t forget where you live, he didn’t mean Marblehead or even Nahant. He meant where we are rooted, and where those we claim as our own, wait for us, care for us, and welcome us back.

My children are still finding their way into their adult lives, so who knows what they might say when someone asks, “Where are you from?” I do want them to remember where they live though, always. We should all remember who our people are, regardless of what a map might say. I live here. This is my home, because of who my people are. Call it whatever you like, I won’t forget.

There's No Place Like Home

“If I ever go looking for my heart's desire again, I won't look any further than my own backyard. Because if it isn't there, I never really lost it to begin with!”

--Dorothy Gale

 (She's got legs...she knows how to use them)

I recently had the pleasure of a houseguest. My home is open to my friends and family, all day, every day, but not many of them ever take me up on it. I’m sure it’s because having a snorty pug sharing the guest bed, a sink full of dishes at all times, and no room service isn’t exactly an enticing offer, but still, my door is always open. Mostly because the doorknob sticks and I have to use a deadbolt, but it’s open, metaphorically at least.

LeeAnne, or LAC as she is known, lives in California but had two days in Boston and luckily it was over the 4th of July. Is there any better place to be for Independence Day than here? The Festival of Arts, fireworks, harbor illumination, lobsters and all the rest make this ground zero for celebrating the best weekend of the summer. Even if it did fall on a Wednesday. The second I picked her up at the airport, I was in tour guide mode. She’s visited before, but it was years ago. My kids were younger, there’s a different dog in the house, but those were not the only changes. She didn’t get to see much of Marblehead the last time, so of course, this trip was going to hit all the high points.

We started at Abbot Hall, because the art exhibits were there, along with the Artisan’s Market and, most notably, the Spirit of ’76. LAC knew of it, but seeing the original? It really is quite something, even for me. You tend to forget how big it is and how it really makes the room seem like a place where important matters are handled. Later on, we met one of Marblehead’s Fearless Five who said much the same thing, that sitting beneath the painting while making decisions about what the town needs was a much more thoughtful process when you had such an amazing piece of history staring back at you.

We hit up La Sirena for a quick lunch, and the owner, Theresa, was there. Being able to walk into a local business where they know my name is something I never paid much attention to. I shop local whenever I can; this is my home and I’ve been lucky to get to know a few people in just about every corner of it. Having LeeAnne say, “Wow, do you know everyone by their first name?” was a nice ego boost. It’s not that I know everyone, it’s that the people I do know are awesome and friendly. From the café we moved on to more artwork at the Old Town House, shopping at Hip Baby Gear, Mud Puddle, and Bobbles and Lace and finally making a Neck Run. To the restaurant and the actual neighborhood, because who doesn’t love to point out gorgeous homes, an actual castle, a lighthouse and a view of the entire harbor? I showed LAC where the USS Constitution had moored in 1997 when it came to the harbor, where the Hannah Glover sailed on it’s way to Children’s Island, and yes, even the big inflatable unicorn at SUP East Coast Style, since my daughter was spending a good part of her 4th of July working there.

Seeing one’s own hometown through the eyes of a tourist is, pun intended, a real trip. While I know that the corner of the house down by the BYC was not cut off to make room for Lafayette’s carriage, it’s still fun to tell people that (sorry LAC!) It’s also interesting to hear someone else point out something they think is exciting, but that I’ve stopped noticing. For the record, to a tourist, the turkeys are cute and their babies are adorable and watching them peck at cars in traffic is the theater of life. Also, those golden cods on everyone's house? To someone not from here, they’re goldfish. As in “Why does everyone have a goldfish over the door?  Is that code for something?”

Finally, after snagging a rare parking space near the Barnacle and heading in for some “hydration” we wound up at Little Harbor Lobster Company, to pick up our dinner guests. Larry, Darryl, Darryl, Pedro, Dave D. and Dave L.  Yes, there were two Daves and two Darryls, you had to be there. They came back with us, hit up the hot tub and made for a lovely, butter-soaked, New England summer dinner. The next day it was more arts festival, a walk on my beach and fireworks. LAC had to get on with the rest of her trip, but two days playing tour guide was super fun for me. Like that other red shoe girl, Dorothy, there really is no place like home. Want to come see an amazing little seaside town? Call me; I know where all the good stuff is.