On the Eastern Shore for the long weekend

People, we are on day 3 of a truly wonderful weekend away. A dear friend has a home on Tilghman Island, a quiet place on the Chesapeake Bay, and offered it to us for a few days as thanks for my recently helping her with a project. The work was an absolute fulfilling delight, and I eagerly assisted with zero thought of any sort of payment. But when she suggested we spend some time out here, I jumped at the chance.

The news out of Washington has been so corrosive since November, and many, myself included, are starting to shrug under the daily assault of offensive, embarrassing, false, petty crap spewing from Pennsylvania Avenue (and Mar-a-Lago and various golf courses; Golf News reports that the Yam has played golf a whopping 33 times since taking office in January, and The Independent noted that he took 16 golf trips in his first 100 days [more than one a week] which is so much more than Obama ever played which is only important because Trumpers brayed and wailed about how dare the black man play golf while leading). I'm just saying. #facts

In any case, GREAT to get out of town for a bit. And Maryland's Eastern Shore is so lovely.

We have kayaked twice, churned our own butter (a woman who recently took a canning class from me told me about her Kilner Butter Churn, a simple manual hand-crank contraption that I impulse bought last week), done an art scavenger hunt in St. Michael's, and taken our car on the ferry to Oxford in search of ice cream at the renowned Scottish Highland Creamery. As a side note, the Oxford-Bellevue ferry has been running continuously since 1683, and it is too darling to drive onto a ship that can accommodate no more than six cars.

Side note: I thought Scottish Highland's ice cream was exceptionally overrated (not least because of the number of unpronounceables in the ingredient list). Locals love it, and Trip Advisor just ranked it in the top 10 in the country, so I am definitely in the minority, but... Jack agreed with me. 

We have taken outdoor showers and eaten seafood and strolled through Easton and observed just how much seagulls can poop. We have stayed up late playing games and woken up early with the sunrise. We have read and adored an only partial access to WiFi. We enjoyed a spontaneous rum and curaçao tasting at the Tilghman Country Store.

We have endured a crisis.

Oliver accidentally used "so many of the coins I have been working sooo hard for to buy levels I do not need." while tiredly playing Angry Birds Star Wars when finally Tom and I, exhausted, said ok to screen time.

I fled the 1,000-piece Cinque Terre puzzle I was working on and plopped in a perfectly weathered adirondack chair near the dock. Now I'm listening to the waves lap at the wharf and thinking that if this puppy reclined, I'd be fast asleep in no time.

Four fat gulls are preening and resting on so many copper-capped pilings. One gull is stunningly rumbled, as if it never learned that smooth feathers are the aerodynamic ones. It looks as if it got pulled through a fan. That said, we can't all be good at everything, and I rather like how he's just letting his flag fly. 

 If you zoom in, you can see the four fat gulls.

If you zoom in, you can see the four fat gulls.

I once had a fat orange cat named Puddin' who was pretty much incapable of grooming himself. He forever had a small lump of once-wet cat food dried in a fetching mound atop his nose. (He also could not jump, or even scale, a fence which is decidedly not cat-like.) Nonetheless he was a deeply wonderful cat, and Vavin (a Parisian metro stop; my mom named her), our other cat at that time, a diminutive gray and white tabby which a black nose, would help bathe him. They were so dear. Sadly, one acquired feline leukemia, passed it to the other, probably Vavin -> Puddin via bath time, and both had to be put down. It was tragic.

It is so peaceful out here. The constant ebb and flow of the water is the ultimate soothe symphony. The only flies in the ointment are the few Napoleon complex boat drivers. They are as annoying as sports car fools who gun their motors on 25 mph densely packed city streets. I always hope those idiots hit speed bumps. I mean seriously. 

Tearful Oliver has found me in my escape pod, so I must go. Happy almost 4th of July. My Jack turns eleven early Tuesday morning and we are looking forward to celebrating him. Love to you all!

 seriously, look at that bird poop

seriously, look at that bird poop