finding freedom

(and everything we ate at the Lost Kitchen)

Hi friends,

I should have sent this newsletter weeks ago, but life got in the way—unexpected personal and professional twists, turns, and teachable moments all requiring my immediate attention. For the many ways I allow deadlines to rule my life, publishing this Substack on a specific schedule doesn’t seem to be one of them. Perhaps someday I will be better; perhaps you as readers don’t even notice, but until then, I firmly believe that writing in reflection doesn’t make the experience any less true, so with no further apologies, here we go!

one more note: this post contains an abundance of images—if your email program cuts it short, why not try reading it in the app?

Well, it was bound to happen. After twenty summers on Monhegan and countless clear sky crossings two weeks ago, John and I left the island in sideway sheets of torrential rain. Everything was soaked; even items encased in plastic bins were soggy, so unpacking became all about laundry. Loads and loads (and loads) of laundry. Still, it’s good to be home.

It’s a long day, but it’s possible to travel from the middle of the ocean back to Rochester in one exhausting stretch. However, because of the boat schedule, it’s impossible to get to Monhegan in one shot unless you begin the trip from Rochester in the middle of the night, so over the years, we’ve developed different routines, stopping and staying with various friends or places along the way. Sometimes, there’s an emergency stop at L.L. Bean; other times, when the traffic is light and the line is short (insert laughing emoji), we stop to get a lobster roll at Reds.

This summer, our journey began in its own extraordinary, most likely never-to-be-repeated way because this year, of the 60,000 postcards mailed to The Lost Kitchen in hopes of a Friday or Saturday night dinner reservation, well this year, one of the cards pulled was mine!

Henri Rousseau, Woman Walking in an Exotic Forest, 1905

How exactly did this happen? Honestly, I have no good answer other than to say that sometimes the stars align AND that good things always happen to me in Maine.

To those who asked:

No, I have never sent in a card before.

No, I did not write anything special or dogear the corner.

I followed the directions on the website exactly as written. 

The decision to mail a card only happened at all because I gave my sister-in-law a copy of Erin French’s cookbook for Christmas with the sly suggestion we each send in a card.

“Who knows,” I said, “This could be the gift that keeps giving.” 

On the first day of Spring, I mailed my postcard, then promptly forgot I had done so until April 20, which also happens to be the same sister-in-law’s birthday. When I saw Freedom, Maine, flashing on my phone’s Caller ID, you bet I picked up the call.

The only available date was the night before John and I were scheduled to be on Monhegan. 

More stars. 

“We’ll take it,” I said, which is how we found ourselves in the middle of nowhere, crossing a bridge over Sandy Stream, past the Airstream where this configuration of The Lost Kitchen began, sitting amongst forty strangers in the Mill at Freedom Falls for a five-hour twelve-course menu.

The cost of a meal is not inexpensive.¹ Still, I’ve learned in life that everything comes at a price, and in the middle of the pandemic, I made myself a promise. To privilege presence over presents. To savor the moment more than the material. Because you only live once.

I can only say the experience lives up to everything you've seen written and more. All the food is prepared in the open kitchen before your eyes, casually served in conversation by Erin and her mother (and the rest of her crew), moving fluently from fryer to table, then served tableside on mismatched china surrounded by wildflowers and illuminated in the glow of candlelight.

The details make it feel familiar to everything you may have read, but that's not what you'll remember because nothing is comparable to being in the good company of family and friends. Five hours of food that melted into minutes, a meal infused with memory that would continue to linger long after the last bite.

Here’s the rundown of everything we ate (with a few tasting notes):

The night began with a a bowl of olives, a platter of cured meats, thick slices of grilled sourdough, slathered with roasted garlic bone marrow butter.

Erin herself served us the second course: fresh oysters floating in pickled cucumber and onion mignonette.

Then came my personal favorite: fresh, thinly sliced scallops served in a bath of fresh lemon juice and olive oil, topped with blackberries.

The next course was squash blossoms deep fried and stuffed with ricotta, pecorino, and basil pesto.

side note: this might have been my favorite moment of the entire night as I witnessed my brother eat cheese for the first time in adulthood. Apparently, he is still recovering from the smell of the cheese soufflé my mother made not once but TWICE for her Gourmet Club in the 70s.

Our palette cleanser of Thai basil summer sorbet is not pictured, but I purchased the jadeite glass chicken (in which it was served) as a souvenir of the night.

On to the main(e) event: a simple soup composed of first-of-the-season sweet carrots roasted with coriander seeds and poured tableside over fresh chevre and local honey in the bottom of the bowl.

Next came a thick, crunchy slice of napa cabbage served with sun gold tomatoes, thick, chewy bits of bacon, and blue cheese, dressed with a creamy buttermilk dressing and nasturtiums.

“Take your picture,” Erin said, “then get over it and rip into the textures to taste both the tart and the sweet.”

The eighth course to arrive was a seared sushi-grade bluefin tuna steak caught that day nestled atop stone-ground polenta alongside a few raspberries and a julienne of fennel and baby cucumbers, "the size I remember picking off the vine in childhood."

Each plate was seasoned to perfection with lime, basil, and mint, and I mustn't forget the scattering of the most peppery arugula I've ever had in my life. 

I didn't know arugula could taste that way.

Did anyone save room for dessert? Why yes, we did, beginning with petit vanilla bean ice cream cones churned with brown butter bits of toffee.

And hey, don't forget the donuts.

Erin's mother then served us a candied ginger and lemon scone dotted with blueberries, blackberries, vanilla bean custard, and a dollop of whipped cream.

The final two courses were served simultaneously.

Beneath a glass cloche, we discovered chocolate medallions infused with ginger and rose petals. And finally, last but not least—a plate of warm-from-the-oven sea salt and bittersweet chocolate chip cookies.

We found ourselves lingering at the end of the evening, not wanting the experience to end. Erin and her husband formed a receiving line on our way out, smiling and shaking everyone's hands. Some guests posed for pictures, which has never been my style, but in expressing my gratitude, I shared with her that we were headed to Monhegan in the morning. Erin’s eyes lit up.

"That's where we had our honeymoon!" 

For a few more moments, the two of us waxed on about Jane's fish tacos from the Fish House, which we agreed were the BEST fish tacos in the world, and how watching the island come into view over open water never gets old.

Of course, all good things do eventually end, so with bellies full, it became time to put ourselves to bed. Because The Lost Kitchen is in the middle of nowhere, the lodging options are few. However, less than half a mile down the road, where the villages of Freedom and Unity kiss one another, was a Monhegan friend's 1850 post and beam farmhouse, and Corliss graciously opened her doors, allowing the five of us to stay.

✨✨✨

I'm the sort of person who knows exactly what they want to say, but never in the moment itself. That night at The Lost Kitchen was no exception because as I lay in bed, long after the moment had passed, I wished I had told Erin how her story spoke to me about addiction, how we find our way to freedom in recovery, and how a kitchen can be the space where we learn more than how to cook for others; we can learn how to nourish ourselves. 

I may never own a restaurant, but there was a time during the summer of my separation and the months leading up to my divorce when I found myself on Monhegan unexpectedly working the line side by side with the store's owner, just trying to stay out of the weeds. In the heat of the kitchen, I learned how to make breakfast sandwiches named after islanders: the Shermie, the Cunniff, the Groomie, or how to turn donut batter with a hook in a seasoned Dutch oven. I learned how to make sandwiches (so many sandwiches), and milkshakes, and triple batches of chocolate chip cookies. Most importantly, I let myself laugh again.

That summer in the store, I found my myself in food, and I found my own lost kitchen because the island and its people took me in and taught me to believe I was sufficient unto myself. Slowly, I came to believe that no matter what awaited me on the other side of the ocean, everything would be okay, and there might even come a day again when the stars would align with a meal and a bed and good company to become the ingredients of my delight.

xosew

current contemplations… . ..

• Violet went swimming and she was a Newfie natural! I don’t have any pictures of the swim itself, but here’s the shake (it) off. In celebration of the day, a friend shared this story about the newest lifeguards in Maine and a follow-up dog-on-the-beach interview. It’s got me thinking about employment possibilities on Swim Beach for next year, hmmmm … . ..

• Last week, I read Sarah Manguso’s Liars in one sitting. It’s a story that felt frightenly familiar to a life I left, but also reminded me how the stuff of a story is just a cup of water scooped from a larger sea.² Because we can all be liars in some shape or form, and our stories change through revision and rediscovery. This essay from the New Yorker (and this one from

  Cindy DiTiberio
  offered more food for thought. Who else has read Liars, and what are your thoughts?

• Finally, in other writing news, my interview with Monica Sheets was recently published with Instruments of Memory. In our current political climate, her approach to artmaking and Archiving Activism is as timely as ever.

Thanks for being here. I’m grateful for your readership. Before you go, would you click the ♥️ or share this post with a friend? You may also restack, leave a comment, or reply via email because it helps others find this newsletter. If you want to join in our island adventures, you can also follow me on Instagram, but most importantly, I love knowing what resonates with you.

The Faraway Nearby: stillness, story, sea is FULL

SAVE THE DATE!

next year’s program will be SEPTEMBER 17-21, 2025 ~ for more info or to be put on the waitlist:

1. The meal itself is $265 (not including beverages) + 20% gratuity per person.

2. Rebecca Solnit. The Faraway Nearby. Penguin: 2014. p 27.