If he could do even a little, I prayed I could hold everything together until some part-time help turned up. The children were all too far away to come more than a couple of weekends a year. Linda and Rick were too busy professionally to be counted on for more than that, and the same was true of close friends who volunteered. Although friends said it sounded like fun and wanted to experience running a bed-and-breakfast, it was unrealistic to think there would be any steady help and I had no way to put them up. The fledgling business could not support regular inn stays or even an inexpensive motel.
I longed for my mother, who at one time could have run the place all by herself. At ninety-two she was starting to feel her age and did not think she could travel. By phone she kept saying she only wished to be five years younger.
At least there wasn’t a lot of time to worry because there was always something that needed doing. If the bed-and-breakfast didn’t require attention, then Hugo did. He dreamed he heard coyotes yipping in the cornfield, then he started saying he heard coyotes for real. I thought it was his medications—until I started hearing them too.
One rainy dusk, a Saturday, he was watching TV while I made dinner. From the kitchen, I heard screams. It wasn’t the TV. I went to the kitchen door. Unearthly screaming came from somewhere in the yard. In the deep shadows I made out Annabelle cornered between the magnolia and the brick path by a much larger cat or maybe a small collie. I ran outside, yelling and flailing my arms to chase it off. As it turned, I saw the distinctive, large straight-up ears, elongated muzzle, and bushy tail carried straight down of a coyote.
It gave me a long, cool stare before walking off along the formal path leading to the front of the house. Annabelle dashed for the kitchen door. That night, and every night after that, she refused to sleep downstairs and stayed outside our bedroom door where Hugo set a basket for her. I thought they were both overreacting until a few days later when I came downstairs in the morning to make coffee, found a rip in the screen door and long, tawny hairs caught in the jagged edge of the screen.
No one mentions coyotes unless you ask. “Ah, yes,” Scott said when Hugo asked if it could really be a coyote I saw. “There are coyotes and red foxes around, too, but the coyotes are chasing the foxes away.” It seems that coyotes expanded east of the Mississippi in the early twentieth century, though they did not arrive in Maryland until the 1970s. Based on their rate of increase in neighboring states like Virginia, coyotes are expected to increase here at a comparable rate of close to 30 percent a year.
Top-order predators, coyotes are secretive, wary, clever, and fast, and they are highly adaptable, especially in their food habits. They eat seasonally abundant plants, insects, mice, squirrels, birds, rabbits, deer, and livestock and have acquired a special taste for domestic cat.
CHAPTER
19
Kitchen, Garden, Field
AT FIRST I KEPT THE KITCHEN EXACTLY AS HUGO had it. Over time I began reorganizing his domain, out of necessity, moving basic equipment down to the lower shelves where I could reach it without a stepladder and clearing the countertops. I stacked cartons full of sauciers, mixing bowls, ladles, immersion blenders, and three extra cast-iron pans, all completely unnecessary in my view, and dragged them to the back of the laundry room. A second electric mixer, two waffle irons, and a mandoline big enough for a cruise ship kitchen went under the desk.
He noticed but didn’t say anything, except to bring out a favorite spatula and ask if we could make room for it. I didn’t see why we needed four spatulas, but agreed. Normally, when Hugo was cooking, I entered the kitchen at my peril. Now I missed the aura created by his autocratic chef self, even if the kitchen was more orderly. When he was in charge, the food was better.
Returning from a porch visit with Susie in the middle of the summer, I walked into the kitchen and stopped short. The boxes of extra cookware I had stashed away blocked my path. Open cookbooks, flour, sugar, mixing bowls, cream, spices, and broken eggshells covered the counter, along with a cutting board full of chopped onions and red and green peppers, which spilled onto the floor. From the oven drifted the fragrance of cheese melding with eggs and herbs—chives, dill, maybe a little rosemary too.
Hugo, in a fresh shirt, his hair neatly brushed back, wore a new intent expression on his face. Smoothly he swung the oven door open, as I watched from the other side of the cartons, and spooned out a bit of breakfast pudding, blew on it, and raised the spoon up to my mouth.
Before the bed-and-breakfast opened, we’d questioned friends, family, the electrician, the painter, colleagues of mine at the museum, and other guests and hosts whenever we stayed at a bed-and-breakfast about what they liked to eat when they visited an inn. They all gave remarkably similar answers.
Strawberries, almost everyone said, and homemade bread or muffins, also a “baked egg thing.” Strawberries were plentiful and grown locally. The baking was well in hand. But the “egg thing” was cause for concern. The director of the Talbot county tourism office, Debbi Dodson, remembered a bed-and-breakfast where all they served was “plain old scrambled eggs.” Clearly this entrée staple, even if our eggs were cooked with fresh herbs, would have to go.
Hugo now considered fritattas, stratas, and variations on French toast—all delicious, but they didn’t seem truly at home on the Eastern Shore. We started investigating traditional local favorites to celebrate the Chesapeake. Reading from a collection of historic recipes at the library, I learned that savory “puddings” were brought here by early English settlers and the dish caught on. It wasn’t on any restaurant menus as far as I could tell, so I asked around. No one seemed to know about it until I happened on Kim, a physical therapy assistant and fourth-generation Eastern Shore resident. When I described what I meant by the pudding—bread soaked in egg and milk, layered with cheddar and sausage or ham, and baked, she said, “Whatever you call it, we always have that for Christmas. I love it.”
Lucy and Amanda were less enthusiastic. Maybe, Lucy said. “You’ll ruin the business if you give that to guests,” Amanda advised. “It sounds gross.” After they tasted it, they changed their minds and this Eastern Shore Pudding, served with local asparagus and potatoes crusted with Bay Spice, came to be a favorite with guests.
Looking around some more, we discovered that the farmers market, set up under shady trees overlooking St. Michaels harbor from spring to fall, offers a gorgeous selection of fresh cheeses, figs, red and green tomatoes, squash blossoms, berries, peaches, pears, sweet corn, and apples—all grown or made nearby—as well as country ham, a long-time local tradition. The first owner of the Pasadena Inn in Royal Oak once slaughtered a seven-hundred-pound hog and people reminisced that you could smell it for days smoking over apple wood. There are still folks around who will smoke a quarter-ham for you, perhaps in exchange for a second ham. A mixture of apple, cherry, and sassafras wood is considered about as good as it gets.
A creamy, aged cheddar with a delicate white rind at the market caught my attention. Sometimes it was available, other times not. Eventually I tracked down the cheese-maker on her family dairy farm in nearby Easton. At Chapel’s Country Creamery, owned by Eric and Holly Foster, I saw Holsteins and Jerseys grazing on clover and rye. “The grass and the sun,” Holly said, “that’s what makes good milk and good cheese.” In addition to the cheddar, cave-aged for a year, she had a soft, young cheese with an earthy, nutty flavor that was luscious, and I came home with both.
Then in the fall Hugo happened on a spindly persimmon tree behind an abandoned barn and gathered a basketful of the plump orange globes, bringing thoughts of persimmon bread and sweet persimmon pudding. Being native American foods, I tried my hand at these.
After the first frost, I walked down the driveway one day and found dark brown husks the size of golf balls scattered all over the road. I looked up and saw the tree from which they had fallen, its branches laden with more. On intuition I got a hammer and cracked one open. The unmistakable piquancy of black walnut took me back to my
grandmother’s kitchen, to black walnut cookies and cake. I remembered an old-fashioned milk cake baked in a cast-iron pan that would be perfect for these succulent nuts, so prized by former generations and forgotten by ours, probably because of how hard it is to pry them out of their shells. Our menus started coming together just by looking around, though sometimes it took an expert eye to tell us what exactly we were looking at. That winter, Roland stopped by and pointed out to Hugo that right at his feet bloomed lovely mounds of winter cress. “My sister really likes cress,” he said. “She’ll pick it where she can.” We offered him some and brought more in the house to taste. Lacy, tender, crisp, and slightly bitter, these greens would complement almost any breakfast entrée.
Hugo conjectured that the guests would not be interested in “health foods” when on vacation and he was correct. Once in five years now has a guest asked for the “Health Breakfast” I offer of yogurt, honey, cinnamon, and fruit, along with whole-grain toast. Another quirk that took getting used to was the guests’ appetite for croissants. I didn’t see any reason to make or serve this French specialty on the Eastern Shore and only resorted to frozen supermarket croissants one Sunday when we ran short of homemade sticky buns for guests with big appetites. I warmed the croissants, dusted them with powdered sugar, and set them out. When it came time to clear the tables, it was a surprise to see that some poached pear remained on plates and a few bites of ham, but the croissant plate—licked clean.
For research purposes, I tried offering croissants again. The same thing happened. Even when guests requested just coffee and toast, I put out croissants. They might leave the toast, but never yet any croissants. At brunch, guests have even left some of Hugo’s award-winning praline pumpkin pie, which took first prize one year in the St. Michaels contest, in favor of croissant. I finally tasted one to see what I was missing, but this confection, made entirely by robots and loaded with trans fats, was as gluey as I remembered.
No sooner were the centerpieces of the new breakfast menus set for the start of our second season, with one hot entrée offered each morning, than the health department arrived for a kitchen inspection. This was a new regulation in our state; some regions do not require inspection.
“Let’s say you serve a breakfast-type pudding,” the inspector said, walking briskly into the kitchen. “Would you set it up the night before, for example, mixing together the bread and eggs?” I caught Hugo’s eye. Do these walls have ears or what?!
Hugo was ready. Drawing on his cooking school and obligatory sanitation training, he answered with confidence. “Never.”
“Why not?” the inspector persisted.
Hugo described how raw egg, if it contained bacteria, would contaminate the bread if the refrigeration didn’t hold steady below forty degrees and if the cooking heat was not high enough for long enough to kill bacterial growth.
The Royal Oak House kitchen passed inspection, as I expected, just as enthusiastic reviews of Hugo’s breakfasts started rolling in. When return guests called to book, they’d often request the very same breakfast as before.
Hugo seemed a little better every day. We argued almost not at all and I dared to hope we were climbing back on track.
In some places it might be a big house or a big job that lets you “in,” but around here trucks of a certain size are important and most men have two, a good truck along with an everyday work truck. Early on, Hugo had traded his sport-utility vehicle for a pickup, claiming he had a lot of construction materials and trash to haul around. Guns were also way up there in importance, and ever since the sheriff’s gunfire welcomed us to town, Hugo had planned to look for his gun, untouched since military school days.
With one thing and another, he didn’t get around to it until a lull after the start of the second season. He found his rifle, cleaned it, and had it checked out at the local gun shop (“Fire away, it’s fine”). He bought some shells, and when there were no guests he practiced target shooting in the backyard. At his urging I practiced, too, just enough to know how to load, aim, fire, and not get hurt. The most shocking thing about it was how easy it was. The rifle looked and felt like a toy.
I wanted Hugo to get rid of the shells and put the gun away. Isn’t there a statistic about how many people shoot family members by mistake? What if I came home late one night and he woke up thinking I was an intruder? He chose to ignore my advice. Luckily.
Digging a bed for zinnias under the bay windows, I was sitting on the grass with my back up against the house. The grass shifted as if riffled by a breeze and a long shadow crossed in front of me. It was large and weaving through the grass right in front of the bed I was digging.
CHAPTER
20
As Simple As It Seems
IT WAS ALMOST FIVE FEET LONG. I SCANNED MY MEMORY of snakes. It wasn’t a copperhead, but I couldn’t remember what a water moccasin looked like, just that they are the most aggressive, venomous snake on the Eastern Shore. Called trapjaws, they have a nasty habit of holding on when they bite. Their nonpoisonous water snake companions are less stout but without the two side by side, how could I say if this one was more or less stout? One water snake has round eyes, the moccasin has vertically elliptical cat’s eyes. I was too afraid to look this snake in the eye. It was probably afraid of me, too. The difference was it had the entire yard and I couldn’t move.
Hugo, who happened to be repainting the porch floor, somehow noticed, went inside, got the gun from the closet and shells from a drawer in another room, came around to the front of the house, down the steps, up alongside me, and aimed.
He missed and the snake took off.
Ten days later the snake came back and hung around the back porch. This time Hugo did not miss. I felt a rush of gratitude, followed by fear. What would have happened if the fates were unkind and Hugo had not been out and around or not around at all? It was impossible to forget the recent past—it reared up at the slightest opportunity—and it seemed clear to me now that the fates had flirted with taking Hugo away, then capriciously, or who knows why, decided not to.
When Roland next came by—Roland, who possesses more practical knowledge of the area’s natural history than anyone else we know—Hugo mentioned shooting the snake.
“Those big poisonous snakes can be annoying and they will hang around a place. You did the right thing, Hugo. You did the right thing.” Roland switched off his truck engine, opened the door, and climbed down.
Hugo had suddenly gained stature because, as Roland went on to say, snakes are hard to hit. Sean, who worked at The Oaks, saw us gathered at the roadside and came over. Roland always brought interesting news and if anything was up in Royal Oak, he probably knew it. He is also the person the weekend people call when a raccoon, snake, or fox gets in their barn, chimney, or house.
Sean said snakes like to hang from the branches of the huge white oaks down by the inn’s dock, but the guests did not like this at all. It was Sean’s job to get rid of them. “If it’s high up in a tree, I’ll shoot it. But if it’s just lying on the ground, I’ll pick it up by the tail and heave it as far as I can in the field.”
I realized a macho contest was underway and got busy deadheading the roses.
“If it bites,” Sean was saying, “don’t go and yank its head off you because the teeth are weak. They’ll break off and stay in your skin and you’ll get a nasty infection. You have to wait till the snake decides to let go.”
Roland: “Shovel’s the best way, as far as I’m concerned, Hugo. If it’s on the ground, smack it on the head. Now if a snake makes my brother mad, I’ll tell you what he does, especially if it’s poisonous. He’ll take it in his two hands and just rip it apart, like you snap a belt.”
The subtext of Sean and Roland’s advice could not have been clearer. You did pretty good for a come-here, but you’ve still got a few things to learn.
It went like that whenever Hugo or I thought we were there, settled, getting comfortable, had learned what we needed to know to move on. It re
ached a point that I started wondering ahead of time what lessons the next day or hour, guests or neighbors would bring. Every time I guessed wrong.
“You aren’t Democrats, are you?” The question was inescapable, whether it came over the fence, at a party, picnic, or happy hour gathering, though it wasn’t always put so directly. The answer was obvious in the newspapers you read and mentioned. Around election time it was more than obvious in the signs you posted in your front yard, or not, and the bumper stickers you displayed on your truck, or not. Only once did the question come straight at me and there wasn’t even time to say independent before this neighbor went on to add, “Because we can’t stand for anyone to be against our boys, our troops, like the Democrats are.”
Safe topics of conversation were gardening, a new restaurant because it was such a novelty that everyone checked it out right away, and encounters with wildlife.
An encounter with wildlife is probably the highest-status topic and I’ve gathered that if you haven’t had any lately it’s okay to make one up. At a girls-only party I was pleased to be invited to, I met a sweet-faced older woman who concocts the best chicken salad with green grapes I’ve ever tasted. When I sat down to ask her for details of the recipe, I noticed her foot in a cast. What happened? She was out shooting a raccoon that was trying to get at the barn swallows’ nest, she explained, when the rifle kicked back so hard she tripped and broke her ankle. But she got the raccoon.
“She wasn’t out shooting any raccoon,” her daughter told me the next day. “She broke her ankle at a yard sale.”
Development, of course, is not a safe subject. The spread of big box stores over vast tracts of farmland is widely welcomed because it brings jobs, lower prices, and more convenient shopping. Even the old standby, the weather, is not a safe subject because of its inevitable, inconvenient connection to climate and politics. Hugo learned this around the neighborhood and he had to learn it over again from the guests.
The House at Royal Oak Page 14