New England to New Scotland, Part I: Sheep, Cousins, and Great Big Rocks

Posted on June 5, 2025 by gretchenwing

“I have a week’s vacation, use it or lose it,” said Son One from Costa Rica. “But getting to Lopez Island and back would take 2 days out of that. Wanna meet somewhere else?”

“Way too long since we’ve seen our New England cousins,” I mused.

Next thing you know…

NOT an actual cousin…but cousin-adjacent!

One branch of our family (on The Mate’s side) runs a sheep farm in southwestern Vermont. We love these people dearly. So after meeting Son One at Logan Airport in Boston, we headed over to Shaftsbury, and this:

Cousins Jesse & Cally were deep in lambing season. Lots of triplets this year (sheep usually have twins), and Jesse was concerned about this lil’ brown one who needed help nursing.

“Pretty wobbly,” Jesse said. Meaning: Probably won’t make it.

After two days of sunshine, the weather slid sideways, and our youngest cousin got strep so we couldn’t hang out in a big group. But we helped out as much as possible (I was Lamb Camp Cook), in between soaking up the pure gorgeousness of that part of New England.

Not to mention the pure Vermontness! Like the neighbors’ sugar shack.

Spring’s later there than here on the North-wet Coast.

On our last day, we walked up to Studio Hill, for which the farm is named…

…and stopped to say goodbye to the flock, now more than doubled in size, 130 lambs and counting. Our cousins were hosting a (literal) field trip for their son’s 5th grade class, so we listened in. You gotta love hearing 11 year-olds warning each other, “Look out, don’t step in the placenta.”

Oh, and I learned a neat trick about telling the gender of the lambs! Right ear tag = ram lamb. Left = ewe…

Like our lil’ brown gal! She made it after all!!!!

Next up: Gloucester, MA, the home of Cousin Cally’s parents–or more specifically, the village of Annisquam. This place was a second home to me as a college student, back in the early 80s.

I used to sunbathe on Lighthouse Beach. But not today!

I don’t know if “Annis” or “Squam” means Big Honkin’ Rocks, but it should.

Son One and I deciding we’re fine with posing at the bottom instead of the top.

Rocks define the place. Even in the middle of the woods, giant boulders rise like whales, casually, like they own the place.

Coastal Massachusetts spring was a little farther along than in Vermont: no more trillium, just this cute lil’ Jack-in-the-pulpit:

Annisquam is also defined by its AGE. Here’s the (former) home of the Mate’s Aunt Erma (really a cousin, but REALLY more like his adopted mom), built around 1700:

Many’s the bowl of fish chowder served in that blessed kitchen!

Walking around the neighborhood, I couldn’t help but capture the “official” oldest dwelling:

1690, the sign says. But I still love Erma’s house best.

Son One had to get on back to his beloved jungle, but after dropping him at the airport, we took a last visit of Lobster Cove…

…remembering various leaps off that bridge from the past. Not today, thanks!

Speaking of cold water: from Massachusetts, the Mate & I hopped an eastward-bound plane for Nova Scotia. Call it a bucket list thing. Which I’ll save for the next post.

Join me!

Handwritten Recipes: Chicken Soup For The Soul Even When They’re Vegetarian

Posted on October 29, 2019 by gretchenwing

The Mate and I have been downsizing again. You know. All those boxes that we decided to keep and store, the last time we downsized,10 years ago. Did they somehow go forth and multiply while we had our backs turned?

Among these boxes are old cookbooks, ones I swore I couldn’t part with 10 years ago. But have I used them in the last 10 years? Course not. So, into the boxes with them.

That part wasn’t too hard. But then I discovered the handwritten recipes.
Specifically, I found Aunt Erma’s recipe for fish chowder. Aunt Erma died 14 years ago, at the age of 90. She wasn’t my aunt, being on the Mate’s side, and she wasn’t actually even his—more of a cousin. First, once removed? Second? In truth, though, she was more of his adopted mom. Aunt Erma lived in a small hamlet near Gloucester, MA. She was a widely-renowned artist, and a wonderful cook. And her fish chowder was LEGENDARY.

Guess what recipe I found, in Erma’s handwriting?

It even includes illustrations!

In case you’re wondering, yes–I can actually read her handwriting. But the recipe’s become less legible over the years. Last time I made it, I simply modified an Internet recipe, Erma-style, by adding more butter. The point is not the exact recipe, of course. The point is the memories conjured by that loopy scrawl, that attention to detail, the voice I can almost hear as she transcribes her kitchen magic. She’d be making sure we had some good crusty bread to eat with our chowder. And of course she’d be warning us not to forget to pre-heat the bowls, whatever we do.

So I’m not sure exactly what I’m going to do with Erma’s fish chowder recipe. I guess since I’ve taken its picture and blogged about it, maybe it’s time to let the actual papers find their way into our wood stove. Maybe I’ll think about it for the next 10 years.

But I do know one thing: right now, I want to cook me some fish chowder. With extra butter, and pre-warmed bowls.

Speaking of old family recipes, handwritten or otherwise…now would be a great time and place to share one!

The Importance of Cultchah: Reuniting With New England

Posted on November 24, 2014 by gretchenwing

It’s easy to assume the amalgamation of American culture, especially when traveling. Macdonalds, KFC, Shell, Walmart. Where am I? Who cares? Yeah, this is Dunkin Donuts country supposedly, just like the Midwest is Bob Evans and the South is Hardee’s, but on my way to the North Shore from Boston the other day I spotted two Starbucks and a Trader Joe’s, so even that regionalism is fragile.

So here’s a little celebration of everything that is completely, 100% New England.

Granite. Everywhere. (Cue pun about not taking New England for granite. I’m sure they’ve never heard that before.)

Squam Rock. If you can…just…make it…to that crack up there…you can climb it!

Houses built right up against the street (’cause the original street was just a carriage track). Austere architecture. (Who needs porches in this climate? And who has time to be sitting on them, even in nice weather? Get back to that gardening!)

OLD buildings. This “salt box” house, built around 1700, used to belong to The Mate’s Cousin Erma:

Nice, greasy, Italian-American food (or, in Gloucester, Portuguese-American):

Ask me about the special.

And then there are all those iconic images, like birch trees:

…and those hard to capture with my camera, like the accent–“Pahk ya cah”–and the attitude, which, to a southerner like me, could best be characterized as ~~cranky rude~~ forthright. I lived in Massachusetts for four years, thirty-some years ago, and I still miss that.

So before we move on to a different slice of New England, here’s a classic icon to celebrate cultchah: