Recently, I ventured to the farthest reaches of the American side of Lake Champlain with two dear friends. World traveler and food aficionado Erica found that the waitlist for Global Entry interviews was far shorter for those willing to drive to the Canadian border than in most any other city, so we made a mini road trip out of her appointment in Champlain, NY. Along the way, we ate a lot of delicious food in Burlington, took a car ferry across the lake, and received directions to the best local swimming spot from Erica’s kindly DHS officer and interviewer, who provided his geographical insight once he had determined that she had never been arrested. I had forgotten how dry the north country feels compared to the heavy sea air of home. Everywhere smelled of pines.
Thanks to Erica for the rare shot of me and my chicken legs!
I can only surmise that a flower arrangement given to me by friends went rogue after being discarded in the compost heap last summer, because here I am, waiting for poppy seed heads that I did not plant to dry. They arrived this June in the vicinity of their earthly grave, a series of renewed and glorious blots of watermelon set on comically long, skinny necks. I thought about the women in Modigliani’s life when I looked at them. Did you know the seeds sprinkle out of those little arches at the top, like a salt and pepper shaker? I think I’ll sow them by the light of the next full moon, just because the earth in the meadow smells nice then, and I’ve been seeing some fireflies there lately.
Décembre 2015, Paris.
This past winter, I had the delicious joy of photographing a small dinner party of a rather unusual nature. Set against the backdrop of the Reverend Samuel Maxwell House in Warren, Rhode Island, the meal and its costume-clad engineers recreated what a well-to-do Rhode Island family might have served their guests in the 18th century. In the spirit of a lavish abundance of choice on the menu, three different kinds of meat were slowly cooked to perfection in a kitchen fireplace big enough to stand in, while a selection of ‘drunken fruits’ emerged from their month-long bath in brandy to counter the juicy, smoky meats’ flavor. A rich tapestry of side dishes cloaked each table, which was all but obscured by creamware serving platters by the time that guests were invited to take their seats. For dessert, cups of syllabub were prefaced by a demonstration of the creamy dish’s resiliency to being upended, and many a cheerful glass of elderflower champagne was had before the night was through.
These dinners are meticulously crafted by members of the Massasoit Historical Association just twice a year, with very limited seating open to the public by reservation.