by CJ Hauser
But it was magical. Everyone wore cutoffs. No one wore shoes. The outdoor shower ran hot and we ate steamers and drank the broth from a mug, and afterward we went to the penny candy store, which smelled like Pixy Stix dust, and bought fudge and crystals of purple rock candy that we sucked on for hours even though they were jagged in our mouths. We were always sunburned at first, and after that we were naked and brown. There were small scurrying sand crabs that tickled your fingers if you stuck your hands in the sand. If you were as small as we were, you could catch just about any wave and ride it to the shore. On stormy days, when there were small craft warnings, we watched the churning sea from the window and did puzzles inside. The ocean smelled strongly of salt and dark plant matter. Everything was sticky and sandy and warped.
Me with Leopold, before I realized he was dinner.
The writer Aleksandar Hemon once said that we make “retroactive utopias” out of places and homes we wish we could return to. Places to which we know there is no way back because they are only half real anyway. I think there’s something to that. How much of those summers do I really remember? How much have I imagined?
It was a less than utopian day when my parents decided that we would eat lobster for the first time. When they brought home four live creatures in a rustling sack. When they decided that it would be fine for Leslie and me to pick out which lobsters would be ours and play with them all afternoon in the lead-up to their becoming our dinner.
This is a favorite family story. It is mostly substantiated by fact. It is also the product of the four of us, my mother, father, sister and me, telling it to each other again and again. How did it happen? Was it like this? Yes, it was. Remember? Oh yes, we remember.
It was an era of purple for Leslie, so she named her lobster Lavender. I named mine Leopold. Who knows why. It sounded courtly and dignified, I think. We took the lobsters out to the lawn and watched them crawl lurchingly through the grass. We stooped close over them, encouraging them on their way. Good job! Yes, very good!
We brought them inside and put them on the braided living room rug. We talked to them. We discussed the details of their friendship and possible romance, but no, really, they were just friends, didn’t we think?
This was certainly not humane. But neither was what happened next.
Leslie, listening to what Lavender has to say. She has just learned that we planned to eat Lavender and is very, very sad.
It’s not that we hadn’t known the lobsters were on the menu. We had heard our parents say, We are having lobster for dinner. And yet we had not understood that this meant killing them. That this meant the end of our play. That this was where food came from, really.
My mother had the grim job of explaining this to us. My father had the grim job of lifting the lobsters from our hands and tossing them into the pot.
We cried, of course. We sat in the corners of the room, our hands balled, saying, We do not want to eat them! We won’t! We won’t eat Lavender and Leopold!
We were in our nightgowns by then and we pulled the fabric over our knees and tucked our heads against them and sniffled purposefully, waiting our parents out.
Our parents, however, were craftier than that. Fine, they said. Then we will eat them all.
They set the table. There was corn and butter in ramekins and elaborate metal instruments for the cracking of shells and dislodging of meat. My father brought the lobsters out on plates, placing one at each of the four places. My mother lit the candles. They sat down to table.
Are you sure? they said.
We were sure.
We looked at each other. Weren’t we?
Our parents were lobster-eating pros. Oh, they said as they ate, this is delicious. So good. There’s nothing like it.
My sister looked at me. Was it delicious?
She tiptoed over to the table and took her seat. She looked at my father.
He cracked a claw for her. She picked it up with her fingers and dunked it in butter and put it in her mouth.
I held out a little bit longer. I wanted the moral credit for not eating the lobster. But I wanted to eat my lobster too.
A little bit longer, but not much.
I joined them. I made a big fuss about how terrible this was and how I was only doing this because they were doing it and so forth.
Mmmmm, my parents said.
My sister poked my father. He cracked her another claw.
Me and Leslie, the following summer. By this point we are heartless lobster-eating pros.
I dissected poor old Leopold into parts. I cried upon his shells. I ate him all.
He was delicious.
Read on
Down East Recipes
Lobster Rolls
Lobster
Mayonnaise
Lemon
Celery
Celery salt
Hot dog rolls
Optional: fresh basil, paprika, roe
Boil the lobsters in a nontraumatic way (please reference “The Story of Lavender and Leopold”) and, after they’ve sufficiently cooled, crack and remove the meat. Place the meat in a large bowl. Tear the meat into small chunks.
Adding several scant tablespoons of mayonnaise, mix the ingredients with your fingers so that the mayo lightly coats the chunks of lobster meat. If you are the sort of cook that the author’s mother is, you will speak to your lobster as you do this: That’s right! There we go! That’s the ticket! This is understood to improve flavor and integration. DO NOT overdress—just enough mayo to lightly coat the lobster meat is sufficient!
Add the juice of one (or one-half) lemon depending on how much lobster you’re using. Don’t let any seeds sneak in.
Slice two to four ribs of celery (again, depending on how much lobster) crosswise, then halve each slice.
Add celery salt to taste.
Some people like to add a little shredded fresh basil. This is not traditional, but it can be delicious. This, of course, is up to you.
Be sure to add all components gradually and taste as you go so you don’t oversalt.
Serve on toasted hot dog rolls. You may sprinkle the tops of the rolls with a bit of paprika, if that kind of thing is your kind of thing.
If you are lucky enough to get a lady lobster with red roe inside, crumble the roe over the rolls as garnish.
Yield: Three half-pound lobsters makes about five rolls, but in my family, we like a generous roll, and have even been known to use a one-to-one lobster-to-roll ratio.
Blueberry Slump
For the biscuits:
1⅓ cups all-purpose flour
2 tablespoons sugar
1½ teaspoons baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon cinnamon
5 tablespoons cold unsalted butter
⅔ cup heavy cream
1 beaten egg for brushing the biscuits
Additional sugar for sprinkling on top of the biscuits
For the sauce:
1½ pounds blueberries
1 cup fresh orange juice
¼ cup fresh lemon juice
1 tablespoon grated lime zest
1½ cups sugar
2 tablespoons cornstarch
Yield: Serves eight polite people or six slump lovers.
Preheat the oven to 400° F.
First, make the biscuit dough:
Combine the flour, sugar, baking powder, salt, and cinnamon in a large bowl. Stir to combine evenly.
Then cut the butter into small pieces. Remember, the butter should be cold! A bit at a time, integrate the butter into the dry ingredients, using your fingers to crumble and pinch it in. Do this with all the butter so the whole mixture has the crumbly texture of bread crumbs and the butter is evenly distributed throughout.
Add the heavy cream. Mix it around with a wooden spoon just until everything comes together in a doughy way—do not overmix or your dough will get tired.
Flour your hands and knead the dough in the bowl, about seven times. Refrigerate the
dough until you are ready to add it to the sauce.
Now make the sauce:
Combine the blueberries, juices, zest, and sugar in a cast-iron pot or enamelware skillet.
Bring the mixture to a low boil, stirring to dissolve the sugar. As the mixture becomes saucy, add in the cornstarch. If the mixture is not reducing or becoming thicker, you can add a little bit more cornstarch than listed here—but not too much or your slump will taste starchy, and no one likes a starchy slump. Once the mixture has thickened some, remove it from the heat.
(It is important to note that you should use the same cast-iron pot or enamelware skillet that you have cooked this mixture in for the next step. Under no circumstances should you, say, transfer this mixture into a beautiful blue glass baking dish that your grandmother gave you. If you did, the blueberry mixture would likely sizzle impressively for a moment before the dish shattered into shards, which would be both disappointing to you and alarming to any guests hoping to eat slump. Hypothetically speaking, that is.)
Now take out your dough! Using about two tablespoons of dough for each, form biscuits and plonk them onto the sauce, so they are no more than half submerged. Brush the biscuit tops with the beaten egg and sprinkle them with sugar.
Put the whole skillet or pot into the oven. Do not cover.
Bake for about twenty-five minutes, or until the biscuits are cooked through and the blueberry mixture has reduced to the consistency of a compote.
Serve with vanilla ice cream or heavy cream.
Slump time!
Late Night at the Uncle Jukebox with Patsy Cline
Selections from the Monkey’s Uncle Jukebox
The Band, “Ophelia”
Neko Case, “I Wish I Was the Moon”
Guy Clark, “Dublin Blues”
Patsy Cline, “I Fall to Pieces”
Deer Tick, “Let’s All Go to the Bar”
Bob Dylan, “Quinn the Eskimo”
Justin Townes Earle, “Mama’s Eyes”
The Felice Brothers, “Frankie’s Gun”
Fleet Foxes, “Helplessness Blues”
Guns N’ Roses, “Paradise City”
Emmylou Harris, “Guitar Town”
John Hartford, “In Tall Buildings”
Hem, “Half Acre”
Jenny Lewis, “Carpetbagger”
Carter Marks, “Leave Your Shoes Behind (Whiskey-Eyed Dame)”
Tift Merritt, “Sweet Spot”
Old Crow Medicine Show, “My Good Gal”
The Pogues, “Dirty Old Town”
John Prine, “Angel from Montgomery”
Bonnie Raitt, “Bluebird”
R.E.M., “Revolution”
Shovels and Rope, “Hail, Hail”
Bruce Springsteen, “Thunder Road”
The SteelDrivers, “Where Rainbows Never Die”
Talking Heads, “Heaven”
Talking Heads, “This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody)”
Maria Taylor, “Clean Getaway”
Townes Van Zandt, “Poncho and Lefty”
Loudon Wainwright III, “Motel Blues”
Tom Waits, “Hold On”
Tom Waits, “I Don’t Wanna Grow Up”
Gillian Welch, “Look at Miss Ohio”
Neil Young, “Unknown Legend”
Quinn’s Songbook
“No Medicine”
Capo III
G C G G C G
You thought I was a train, come barrelin’ down the tracks
Em G C D G
I thought your heart was a white, white bird, But when it flew off it was black
G C G G C G
You thought I was a fighter, You thought I was a saint
Em G C D G
Your face it looked like broken glass when you realized I ain’t
Chorus:
G
And honey
Em Bm C G
There’s nothin’ to be done for that, No medicine I can give
Em Bm C
Can’t patch up what’s broke too bad, some ills you have to live with
Cadd9 G Cadd9
And I’ve been living
Cadd9 G Cadd9
I’ve been living
Cadd9 G Cadd9
I’ve been living
F
With broken pieces
Am
Of my own
C G
And no medicine at all
G C G G C G
You thought I was a horse, come breakaway from behind
Em G C D G
I thought you’d of left this town by now, and shown how bright you shine
G C G G C G
You thought I was a doctor, could fix us up with glue
Em G C D G
But I wouldn’t touch a single of the cracks that show what’s broke in you
Chorus:
G
And honey
Em Bm C G
There’s nothin’ to be done for that, No medicine I can give
Em Bm C
Can’t patch up what’s broke too bad, some ills you have to live with
Cadd9 G Cadd9
And I’ve been living
Cadd9 G Cadd9
I’ve been living
Cadd9 G Cadd9
I’ve been living
F
With broken pieces
Am
Of my own
C G C G
And no medicine, at all
G C G
F Am
Be my medicine
Cadd9 G Cadd9
And we will weather
Cadd9 G Cadd9
we will weather
Cadd9 G Cadd9
we will weather
Am C
it all
G C
G C
“What Bird”
Capo III
Intro:
G6 Cmaj7 G6 Cmaj7 G6 Cmaj7 Cmaj7 Cmaj7
G6 Cmaj7
What bird is at the window? A sparrow or a lark?
G6 C D G
Not an owl for sure, no. It’s hours past the dark
G6 Cmaj7
What we get into last night? How’d you get here with me?
G6 C D G
We said we wouldn’t do this. I made you promise me.
G
Chorus:
C D Em
But I don’t care
C D Am F
’Cause I’ve looked everywhere for you
F C
Or someone like you
G6 Cmaj7
So I could go get coffee, While you read the news
G6 C D G
I’d come back and you’d tell me all about it, just like we used to do.
G6 Cmaj7
But what’s the point in pretending it won’t turn out just the same
G6 C D G
You and me drunk and screaming in the alley, me trying to forget your name
G
Chorus:
C D Em
But I don’t care
C D Am F
’Cause I’ve looked everywhere for you
F C
Or someone like you
Bridge:
Em C G
So next time I see
Am Em
You standing cross the room there lookin’ sweet
B7 Em A7 D
Maybe you won’t see me, we’ll be happier, we’ll be free
G6 Cmaj7 G6 Cmaj7
G6 Cmaj7
What bird is at the window? A sparrow or a lark?
G6 C D G
Not an owl for sure, no. It’s hours past the dark
“Saint Rosalind”
Capo V
A7sus4 G A7sus4 G
If you hop a tall fence, electric in your mind
A7sus4 G C Am
You’ll see Saint Rosie of the high watts, Saint Rosalind
A7sus4 G A7sus4 G
If you find a tin box, buried, lost to time
A7sus4 G C Am
F
(But) I’ve been trying to find her
C
Jukebox songs, reminders
G
Rosie, Rosie, why’d you
A7
Have to go, and leave us here, on our own
F
’Cause this town ain’t the same
C
You sent us up in flames
G A7
Oh, Rosie, Rosie, tell me you’re comin’ home?
C C C
’Cause if you don’t
G
I don’t know
G G G
(Repeat two times)
Praise
“This big-hearted story about small-town Maine captivated me from the first page. Filled with humor and poetry and complicated characters who love foolishly and too much, The From-Aways is about putting down roots and gazing up at the stars in a place where the rhythms of life are as constant and yet unpredictable as the surf on the shore.”
—Christina Baker Kline, New York Times
bestselling author of Orphan Train
“In The From-Aways, CJ Hauser introduces us to Menamon, Maine, a town of wisecracking fishermen, activist waitresses, and secret fathers, with such deftness we immediately know and care for it like locals. At its heart, The From-Aways is the story of a hesitant friendship between Quinn, a Bernstein looking for her Woodward, and Leah, a newcomer to Menamon and her marriage to one of its prodigal sons. These compelling, unlikely women rub the sorry states of their lives together to ignite a breathless chain of events that whips clean through to an explosive conclusion that resonated with me for days. I loved spending time in Menamon, and was sorry when I had to go.”
—Marie-Helene Bertino, author of Safe as Houses
and 2 A.M. at the Cat’s Pajamas
“The From-Aways is populated by twentysomethings running from and in search of family, by people passionately in pursuit of home. CJ Hauser has written a wise, lovely, luminous novel about love and work and leaving New York. It will make you want to get out your lobster pot and set forth for the coast of Maine.”
—Joshua Henkin, author of The World Without You
“I first read CJ Hauser’s work a few years ago and was immediately pulled in by the wit of her prose, her sharp dialogue, and her honesty in portraying the journey of young women trying to find their place in the world. With her enchanting debut novel, The From-Aways, CJ Hauser delivers on her promise of being a writer to root for, a writer to watch, a writer to read.”
