Got eggs?” If you were a farmer with a farm stand on Martha’s Vineyard this summer, that just might have been the question you dreaded most from customers. Because (though you may remember the summer of 2015 somewhat differently than I in years to come), it actually was the Summer of the Great Vineyard Egg Shortage, as one of our customers put it to me.
It’s an ancient rite of late summer, dating back to long before the arrival of Europeans in the Americas. In a good year, typically around the first week of September, on coastal plains and dunes on Martha’s Vineyard and throughout New England, dozens of small, tart fruits dangle from the branches of the beach plum plant and are gathered by those who know a good thing when they taste it and are lucky enough to know a good patch for picking.
More. I always want more. More sea glass, more fireworks, more Menemsha sunsets, more fair food, more summer. I know I sound like a small child with a bad case of the “I wants,” but at least I am honest about my hedonism. There’s a reason I live on Martha’s Vineyard after all; simple pleasures are never far beyond the grasp of my sticky fingers.
For some, weddings may mean champagne toasts and lengthy best man’s speeches, but for old-school folks, it’s all about the punch.
Jessica B. Harris
Meet the brains and brawn behind the new Rosewater Market in Edgartown.
Excuses, excuses. That’s what I had when it came to pickles. Or I should say, that’s how I avoided making pickles. I’m a farmer! I’m busy at pickling time! Who has time for canning? No place to put those jars! The list went on and on. Good Lord, I even turned down an opportunity to write a preserving cookbook (and this was several years ago before the Return of the Age of Preserving – which of course never went away on the Vineyard), because, I told the editor, I am not a preserving expert.
As the wooden fishing boat slows to a halt, twenty-three rods rest perpendicularly on the red metal railing waiting for the signal. When the motor cuts, the weighted and squid-baited lines drop immediately into the water, finding their way down about fifty feet to the bottom. Tap, tap, tap, the hits come nearly instantly. Within minutes, maybe even seconds, amid shouts and whoops, silver fish dangle from multiple lines.