Certain sounds, scents and tastes will always spell summer to me, returning me to a long ago and seemingly simpler place and time in my life when summers spent in New England seemed to last a lifetime.
In no particular order, here are my triggers.
Bird song filling the early summer mornings coming from the “woods” next door to my house.
Dinners on the screened porch were followed by Dad falling asleep on the wrought iron lounge chair, the inevitable summer thunder-storm and the increasingly shrill calls from my mother signaling my Dad that it was time to come inside.
The first sweet corn of the season was bought only from local farmers with the mandate to cook and eat asap. It was an eagerly awaited event in late July. It was a brief, celebrated season, precious enough to make it a requirement for every dinner served to have corn on the cob from the Underwood Farm. By general agreement, Sugar & Butter corn, was the tastiest of all. It would arrive a few weeks into the season and really kick summer into high gear. Stories of acquaintances who could eat a dozen ears of corn at a seating, were told and retold around the dinner table each summer.
Impatiens. One of the few flowers my Mom could grow successfully in our shaded landscape. She made the most of it, adding baskets of them wherever possible and carefully monitoring them to insure high performance all summer. Her love of flowers soon became mine.
Ferocious thunderstorms could be so terrifying and intense that I might have to crawl in bed with my parents. This behavior was generally, not encouraged, but sometimes tolerated. The darkness and heaviness before the storms was mixed with anticipation and fear. During one vicious storm, lightening split a giant oak tree in half just a few feet from our house, as sparks flew from the radio before all electricity cut off.
The sounds of the radio, broadcasting Boston Red Sox games.
The bitter cold of the Atlantic Ocean, north of Boston.
The first smell of salt air as we neared the beach. Lobster dinners at the beach whenever possible, be it in New London, Conn., Cape Cod, Rockport, Mass. or Nantucket. The pure pleasure of sunny beach days , sand dunes, beach grasses and wild roses mixing it up. The importance of a good tan.
The threat of hurricanes at the end of summer that would sometimes cut vacations short.
Pin ball machines, Miniature golf and the Dodge-em.
I always enjoyed our regular outings to Tanglewood, the Music Inn and Jacob’s Pillow (all in the Berkshires.) I developed my love of jazz at the Music Inn listening to the MJQ, Dakotah Staton, Miles Davis and Brubeck whenever I could get a car for the hour long drive to get there. At Jacob’s Pillow, I got to sample some of the best artists of the era and expand my love and appreciation of dance. Tanglewood was mostly my Mom’s thing. For me, it meant too many people trying to out-picnic each other. The music outside the tent seemed secondary to the picnics. But I went along, because it brought her pleasure.
The Good Humor Truck made a regular appearance at our little beach in Ocean Beach Park, New London, Conn. A toasted coconut, please.
Most weekends we hosted large family cook-outs on our back porch, fighting mosquitoes. Dad was the self – appointed master griller, always ready with a rare juicy steak, while the women prepared the sweet corn, green salad and a fresh fruit salad. My job was to set the table.
Black Raspberry and Maple Walnut Ice Cream, were my favorite flavors that were readily available in New England. To this day, I seek them out when in the Northeast.
“If I had to choose one ice cream flavor for the rest of my life, it would be black raspberry. Yes, there’s the color, which is almost obscene in its intensity. But the flavor of black raspberries, when combined with cream, sugar and egg yolks, transforms into something rich and lush, and at the same time floral; for me, it’s a nostalgic flavor, both childlike and sophisticated at the same time.” Merrill Stubb (cookbook author)
Makes one pint of Black Raspberry Ice Cream