Issue 02 | Summer 2013
The Essence of Living Locally
www.tellnewengland.com
t.e.l.l. t.e.l.l. was born out of a desire to capture the essence of living locally in New England. We are a design and photography team with a passion for local culture and the ambition to tell the story of growing up and living in the Northeast. This publication is our tribute to and support for New England’s communities, small businesses, people and their stories.
Wanderlust
10
In Praise of Maine
24
Memories of ‘White’
42
How Wanderlust Wrote Its Name on my Wrist
Adventure
Harvest
Indulge
50
An Evening on the Lake
56
Into the Wild
66
How To: Clamming
70
The Benefits of Local
82
Blueberries
94
The Flavors of Summer
102
Campfire Peaches
108
Mom’s Seafood Chowder
114
A Summer Evening: Little Compton
Welcome
Welcome back for our second issue, an ode to the New England summer! Summer in our region is all about getting outside and exploring your surroundings. When the sun is out, we New Englanders have a get-up-and-go attitude about everything. But of course, it wouldn’t be summer without slowing down for a minute to enjoy a delicious campfire meal or even some steamers! For this issue, we found that our features comfortably fit within four main themes; wanderlust, adventure, harvest and indulge. We hope with each feature you feel inspired (maybe even a little hungry), but most importantly, we hope that we have done a justice towards depicting a traditional New England summer. Jenn & Ashley
wanderlust | wan • der • lust |
(n.) a strong desire for or impulse to wander or travel and explore the world.
In praise of maine
Words by Heather Caulfield Mills Photographs by Jenn Bakos
“We were standing where there was a fine view of the harbor and its long stretches of shore all covered by the great army of the pointed firs, darkly cloaked and standing as if they waited to embark. As we looked far seaward among the outer islands, the trees seemed to march seaward still, going steadily over the heights and down to the water’s edge.” Sarah Orne Jewett, The Country of the Pointed Firs, 1896
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Maine is a state that seems to have it all: seashores and forests, historic villages and remote wilderness. It’s a place where you can find solitude, or run into your neighbor from back home. Like many who grew up in land– locked Vermont, my family has made an annual pilgrimage to Maine since the 1950’s. I feel a deep nostalgia for my favorite haunts, as one can only feel for a childhood place. We still return year after year, set on visiting the same places and finding new and unimagined treasures. In Maine, there is a rugged beauty of endless texture and color to be discovered — from rocky coastlines and weathered grey clapboards, to smooth sea glass and the cool pearlescence of creatureless shells. Maine is a great place for outdoor adventures such as camping along the Appalachian Trail, skiing in the mountains, or sea kayaking. You can walk wave–smacked cliffs and clamber over rocks with the gulls, or visit historic houses–turned–museums where eminent Maine–folk like Sarah Orne Jewett once lived. Check the lifeguard station for the water temperature before wading brief ly into the icy sea, then dash back to the comfort of a good book, a sun-warmed beach towel, and hot cocoa from a nearby surf shop. Bask in the calm of tidal pools and dark stands of fir trees. “You can walk wave–smacked cliffs and clamber over rocks with the gulls, or visit historic houses–turned–museums...” Maine offers homemade ice cream and saltwater taffy, blueberries, incredible seafood, and farm-stand vegetables. A variety of smells waft on the breeze: fishing wharves, wet seaweed, and the leaves carpeting forest f loors. Breathe in the sun block amidst armies of beach umbrellas and water–logged children. Bend to smell the lush scent of wild roses that grow in impossible places. I love the sounds of seabirds, rustling grasses, and foghorns. I like spotting surfers — just tiny dots on a faraway wave. I like noting the tides as the ocean creeps up the beach toward snoozing sunbathers. I love to watch families spend hours fortifying an intricate sandcastle, and then wait for it to crumble, then fall, then be swept away. I love to stand at the outer edges of waves and feel the wet earth shift under my weight. I love to say goodbye to Maine each summer so I can go back again next year.
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memories of ‘white’
When Jenn and I first met, we quickly realized that we had a tremendous amount of things in common. Beyond our passion for photography, travel and our roots being grounded in New Hampshire, we both had grown up spending a large portion of our summers in Ossipee, NH. Even more so coincidentally, we both spent our time at places named ‘White’ — Jenn, White Lake State Park, and I, White Pond. Although quite vague, at the time we felt as though this was a groundbreaking connection. Our excitement grew during a brainstorm session for issue two. With both of us having such fond memories of our sacred ‘White’ bodies of water, it was with little doubt that this would somehow be included as a feature. And so, we are excited to share with you our memories of White Lake State Park and White Pond, both places that have played instrumental roles in our past and have inspired our future.
White lake state park
Words and Photographs by Jenn Bakos In 1995, our good friends the Carlisle’s, introduced my family and I to White Lake State Park. This year marks the 18th year we’ve been going to White Lake, and each time has been as much fun as the last. My family members and I are extremely sentimental and deeply rooted in our traditions, and I think in the last 5 years or so, I really began to appreciate and understand what this place means to me. Rain or shine, White Lake is incredibly gorgeous. Named White Lake because of its crystal clear waters, it shimmers f lawlessly in the sun, no matter what time of the year. Peaceful waters compliment the afternoon wind in the mornings and nights, so still you’d swear it was glass. I’ve witnessed the greatest sunsets of my life here, as well as the greatest thunderstorms, each with heart shattering beauty.
“No matter what, it’s about the people you are with, having a good time, and enjoying the incredible scenery we have been blessed with.” Mostly, it is the memories that hold such a special place in my heart. We grew up there, digging in the beach sand, swimming for hours on end, playing in the fields and woods. Then we were chasing boys and picking on my brothers, sneaking into the field at night when my friend got her first cell phone to talk to our crushes. Later on we kayaked and f loated, talking about our dreams and soaking up the sun. We kept a subconscious checklist that had to be completed each trip, and it wasn’t a real trip if we didn’t! Campfires, s’mores, dinners together, kayaking, hiking around the lake, catching frogs, stargazing, enjoying the beach and celebrating birthdays all made the list. No matter what, it’s about the people you are with, having a good time, and enjoying the incredible scenery we have been blessed with. Every time I have been there, I have been amazed at the view and how peaceful I’ve felt being there. It’s where I’m planning to get married, whenever that may be, and it’s a place I really enjoy sharing with the people I love. I plan to continue the traditions and keep camping there for the rest of my life, and hopefully pass it on to my family to make memories of their own.
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White pond
Words and Photographs by Ashley Herrin
When I think of White Pond, I think of the smell of wood burning in the fire, the crackle of the logs as they slowly cook pancakes, filled with blueberries picked from the bushes that guard our camp. I think of the loons that playfully call to each other in the morning or at night, when all have left the water but them. I can hear the bullfrogs, nature’s alarm clock, reminding us that’s it’s 7:00 o’clock in the morning and ‘why are you still in bed?’ I can picture myself in the hammock, enjoying a good book and an even better afternoon nap. I’m reminded of the simplicity of it all. The fact that there’s no running water and an outhouse out back only adds to a true camp experience. The sunsets and the sunrises. The early morning paddles around the lake when everything stands still just for you and a cool mist dances off the water. I’m reminded of the hundreds of delicious campfire meals shared with friends and family and the hundreds more that have yet to be enjoyed. I can picture the dozen or so camp journals stacked on the bookshelf that have documented every stay over the years, and will continue to do so for generations more. Our place on White Pond is called Broken Paddle. It’s a humble lake house built in the 60’s by my grandparents. What was meant to only be a temporary structure has become a family landmark that houses too many memories and laughs to count. The earlier years at Broken Paddle saw a gathering place for friends, family and co-workers almost every weekend during the summer months. My grandparents and crew would make the weekly pilgrimage, oftentimes equipped with a keg that was to be buried in the ground for cool keeping. They laughed and swam and ate and drank. From May until September. It was their tradition. Although traditions change throughout the years, there has always remained one constant. That one-room camp built in the 60’s is still standing. And with it, so are the many memories of canoe rides around the lake, campfire pancakes, hammock naps and even a few kegs. I wouldn’t trade that camp for anything else in the world. It’s the keeper of our family memories.
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how wanderlust wrote its name on my wrist
Words and Photographs by Ali O’Brien
I awoke at 4:00AM, my body aching and aglow under a peak of heavy mountains. The fog rolled quietly over the wooden deck just beyond our one–window room, panting with soft, gray eyes and the wane of distant sirens. My head adjusting to synthetic light as I moved methodically in a strange hotel room. New England wore me like a silk robe in the dead of winter. The air felt damp, soothing my sore New Yorker feet, with the same heat warm water carries. We drove a half–mile to the entrance of the smallest national park in the United States, the four of us rubbing sleep from our eyes, but in the forest, I felt singular. At 4:53, the sun rose over Cadillac Mountain, and I remembered all the ways I loved you three years ago. How fragile my heart was from years of failed adulation; how my frosted fingertips reminded me of Maine sea glass and lobsters underneath red awnings. And now, I feel a higher calling, a universe begging me to come home like I am a wild horse and your arms are my stables — the way only natural beauty could weave itself into my city mouth. There are layers and levels of us that twist like a handmade spiral staircase. Chests like onions and blueberry pie. Constantly dreaming, wandering. We were spent from Acadia, tired from lack of smog and light pollution. Drinking in the first sun from the roots of our spines like muddled mojitos on the balcony of Bar Harbor. Perched above the world like four, martyred angels and digging through our wallets to find quarters we could save to move away.
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adventure | ad • ven • ture |
(v.) to engage in exciting activity, especially the exploration of unknown territory
An evening on the lake
Words and Photographs by Ashley Herrin
At 1:00 o’clock I’m tempted to go out there. It seems as though the children’s echoes of excitement and screeches over the tadpoles swimming between their toes has subsided. I’m anxious to have time for myself on the lake. But, as I had assumed, it was just a silence brought on by mothers’ lunch calls and full bellies. The lake would soon be alive again with laughter and splashing, it will only be just a few more minutes now. I resume my position on the old wooden Adirondack chair and return to my book. At 4:00 o’clock there is a lull again. Perhaps a day of play has sent many children to their cabins or tents, wrapped in their damp towels, ready to embrace an afternoon nap. Ah, certainly, it’s now my time. As I grab my paddle and head down towards the dock I notice the miniature white caps formed by the even–tinier waves lapping up on shore. Of course, the afternoon winds... right on time. The gentle breeze of the afternoon brings with it cooler temperatures for the evening, but promise to send you in circles if you’re caught on a solo canoe ride as I was hoping for. And so I wait some more. I wait for the perfect moment where I seem to have the lake, and the trees, and a gentle breeze to myself. I begin to worry that I may only have this “me” time at a time when no functioning person should be awake. ...
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At 7:00, while I’m busy tending the fire and preparing to cook the evening’s meal, I notice it. The silence. The stillness. The calm. The loon has returned to his post at the far end of the lake, calling every few minutes to his mate. A slight haze begins to settle amongst the pines that embrace the lake, creating a mist reminiscent of morning, except this mist smells faintly of firewood and a campfire dinner. Slowly the trees fade from green to yellow to orange as the sun delivers its finest golden hour performance. Now is my time. I retrieve my paddle once again and head for the canoe tucked between the dock and the small peninsula of land that provides shelter for a neighborhood of bullfrogs. I push off from the shore, gliding through the water that ripples from my paddle with each row. With each stroke of the paddle, I stop, pulling it in to sit on my lap while I take in my surroundings completely. I close my eyes. Breathe it in. Repeat. The air is fresh and invigorating. The water is calm, like glass. The sun sets on another perfect evening on the lake. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for.
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into the wild
Photographs by Michaela Levasseur Excerpt from ‘Into the Wild’ by Jon Krakauer
“I’d like to repeat the advice that I gave you before, in that I think you really should make a radical change in your lifestyle and begin to boldly do things which you may previously never have thought of doing, or been too hesitant to attempt. So many people live within unhappy circumstances and yet will not take the initiative to change their situation because they are conditioned to a life of security, conformity, and conservatism, all of which may appear to give one peace of mind, but in reality nothing is more damaging to the adventurous spirit within a man than a secure future.�
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“The very basic core of a man’s living spirit is his passion for adventure. The joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences, and hence there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun. If you want to get more out of life, Ron, you must lose your inclination for monotonous security and adopt a helter–skelter style of life that will at first appear to you to be crazy. But once you become accustomed to such a life you will see its full meaning and its incredible beauty.”
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“And so, Ron, in short, get out of Salton City and hit the Road. I guarantee you will be very glad you did. But I fear that you will ignore my advice. You think that I am stubborn, but you are even more stubborn than me. You had a wonderful chance on your drive back to see one of the greatest sights on earth, the Grand Canyon, something every American should see at least once in his life. But for some reason incomprehensible to me you wanted nothing but to bolt for home as quickly as possible, right back to the same situation which you see day after day after day. I fear you will follow this same inclination in the future and thus fail to discover all the wonderful things that God has placed around us to discover. “You are wrong if you think Joy emanates only or principally from human relationships. God has placed it all around us. It is in everything and anything we might experience.” Don’t settle down and sit in one place. Move around, be nomadic, make each day a new horizon. You are still going to live a long time, Ron, and it would be a shame if you did not take the opportunity to revolutionize your life and move into an entirely new realm of experience. You are wrong if you think Joy emanates only or principally from human relationships. God has placed it all around us. It is in everything and anything we might experience. We just have to have the courage to turn against our habitual lifestyle and engage in unconventional living. My point is that you do not need me or anyone else around to bring this new kind of light in your life. It is simply waiting out there for you to grasp it, and all you have to do is reach for it. The only person you are fighting is yourself and your stubbornness to engage in new circumstances.”
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harvest | har • vest |
(n.) the process or period of gathering crops (v.) gather a crop as a harvest
how to: clamming
Photographs by Ashley Herrin Illustrations by Nick Devine
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1 2 3 4
step 1: wait for for low tide Clamming in New England is dictated by the rise and fall of the tides. Waiting for low tide is essential to digging a plentiful bounty. It is believed that you will get the best results one hour before low tide. Be sure to check the tide information of your location before heading out.
step 2: gather the necessary equipment Make sure you’re prepared. Traditional equipment used while digging for clams includes a bucket, a rake, insulated rubber boots as well as protective gloves. Clamshells are bound to be very sharp, so the latter is strongly recommended. Shovels can be used in some circumstances.
step 3: look for breathing holes To find clams, look for holes left in the mud or sand. These holes, or the clam’s breathing hole, are often shaped like a ‘U.’ One trick in determining if clams are beneath these holes is to stomp on the ground. If liquid squirts up, a clam is there!
step 4: dig deeper Although some clams can be found close to the surface, most burrow six to eight inches below ground. Clams are apt to burrow deep into the mud, razor clams are often times found 12 inches deep. Haven’t found any yet? Dig a little deeper!
the benefits of local
Photographs by Jenn Bakos Graphics by Ashley Herrin
Our food environment has changed dramatically over the years. Today, we are driven by convenience and profit. Returning to a local and sustainable food culture can not only improve our health, but also benefit the economy of New England and our greater environment.
food miles
100 MILES a local diet sources food within 1 hour’s drive or 100 miles of your dinner table
the average dinner travels 1,500 miles from source to table
1,500 MILES
how far does your food travel? NUMBERS BASED ON THE LEOPOLD CENTER FOR SUSTAINABLE AGRICUlTURE STUDY “FOOD, FUEL AND FREEWAYS,” PUBLISHED IN 2001 AND ADAPTED BY WWW.CUESA.ORG
CALIFORNIA
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
( a p p r o x i m at e ly ) 2 , 1 4 3 m i l e s
CALIFORNIA
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
( a p p r o x i m at e ly ) 1 , 3 6 9 m i l e s
WASHINGTON
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
( a p p r o x i m at e ly ) 1 , 5 5 5 m i l e s
ripe produce is the best produce
DID YOU KNOW
INDUSTRIAL PRODUCE IS LIKELY PICKED UNRIPE & ENGINEERED TO APPEAR RIPE, DAYS, OFTEN TIMES, WEEKS, AFTER HARVEST
FRESH FOOD THAT IS PICKED WHEN RIPE, JUST TASTES BETTER!
“
Over the last decade, our country has lost an average of 300 farms a week.
Large or small, each of those was the
“
lifes work of a real person or family,
people who built their lives around a promise and watched it break. Barbara Kingsolver
support your neighbors
eating locally helps the local economy flourish on a v erage , far m ers recei v e onl y
20 CENTS
of each food dollar spent
the rest goes to transportation , processing , packaging , refrigeration and m arketing
far m ers who sell locall y . . . receive the full retail value
a dollar for each dollar spent
Blueberries
Photographs by Ashley Herrin Poem by Robert Frost
“You ought to have seen what I saw on my way To the village, through Mortenson’s pasture today: Blueberries as big as the end of your thumb, Real sky–blue, and heavy, and ready to drum In the cavernous pail of the first one to come! And all ripe together, not some of them green And some of them ripe! You ought to have seen!” “I don’t know what part of the pasture you mean.” “You know where they cut off the woods—let me see— It was two years ago—or no!—can it be No longer than that?—and the following fall The fire ran and burned it all up but the wall.” “Why, there hasn’t been time for the bushes to grow. That’s always the way with the blueberries, though: There may not have been the ghost of a sign Of them anywhere under the shade of the pine, But get the pine out of the way, you may burn The pasture all over until not a fern Or grass–blade is left, not to mention a stick, And presto, they’re up all around you as thick And hard to explain as a conjuror’s trick.” “It must be on charcoal they fatten their fruit. I taste in them sometimes the f lavour of soot. And after all really they’re ebony skinned: The blue’s but a mist from the breath of the wind, A tarnish that goes at a touch of the hand, And less than the tan with which pickers are tanned.” “Does Mortenson know what he has, do you think?” “He may and not care and so leave the chewink To gather them for him—you know what he is. He won’t make the fact that they’re rightfully his An excuse for keeping us other folk out. “I wonder you didn’t see Loren about.”
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“The best of it was that I did. Do you know, I was just getting through what the field had to show And over the wall and into the road, When who should come by, with a democrat–load Of all the young chattering Lorens alive, But Loren, the fatherly, out for a drive.” “He saw you, then? What did he do? Did he frown?” “He just kept nodding his head up and down. You know how politely he always goes by. But he thought a big thought—I could tell by his eye— Which being expressed, might be this in effect: ‘I have left those there berries, I shrewdly suspect, To ripen too long. I am greatly to blame.’” “He’s a thriftier person than some I could name.” “He seems to be thrifty; and hasn’t he need, With the mouths of all those young Lorens to feed? He has brought them all up on wild berries, they say, Like birds. They store a great many away. They eat them the year round, and those they don’t eat They sell in the store and buy shoes for their feet.” “Who cares what they say? It’s a nice way to live, Just taking what Nature is willing to give, Not forcing her hand with harrow and plow.” “I wish you had seen his perpetual bow— And the air of the youngsters! Not one of them turned, And they looked so solemn—absurdly concerned.” “I wish I knew half what the f lock of them know Of where all the berries and other things grow, Cranberries in bogs and raspberries on top Of the boulder–strewn mountain, and when they will crop. I met them one day and each had a f lower Stuck into his berries as fresh as a shower; Some strange kind—they told me it hadn’t a name.”
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“I’ve told you how once not long after we came, I almost provoked poor Loren to mirth By going to him of all people on earth To ask if he knew any fruit to be had For the picking. The rascal, he said he’d be glad To tell if he knew. But the year had been bad. There had been some berries—but those were all gone. He didn’t say where they had been. He went on: ‘I’m sure—I’m sure’—as polite as could be. He spoke to his wife in the door, ‘Let me see, Mame, we don’t know any good berrying place?’ It was all he could do to keep a straight face. “If he thinks all the fruit that grows wild is for him, He’ll find he’s mistaken. See here, for a whim, We’ll pick in the Mortensons’ pasture this year. We’ll go in the morning, that is, if it’s clear, And the sun shines out warm: the vines must be wet. It’s so long since I picked I almost forget How we used to pick berries: we took one look round, Then sank out of sight like trolls underground, And saw nothing more of each other, or heard, Unless when you said I was keeping a bird Away from its nest, and I said it was you. ‘Well, one of us is.’ For complaining it f lew Around and around us. And then for a while We picked, till I feared you had wandered a mile, And I thought I had lost you. I lifted a shout Too loud for the distance you were, it turned out, For when you made answer, your voice was as low As talking—you stood up beside me, you know.” “We sha’n’t have the place to ourselves to enjoy— Not likely, when all the young Lorens deploy. They’ll be there to–morrow, or even to–night. They won’t be too friendly—they may be polite— To people they look on as having no right To pick where they’re picking. But we won’t complain. You ought to have seen how it looked in the rain, The fruit mixed with water in layers of leaves, Like two kinds of jewels, a vision for thieves.”
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indulge | in • dulge |
(v.) to allow oneself to enjoy the pleasure of; to take unrestrained pleasure in
the flavors of
SUMMER Recipes and Photographs by Jenn Bakos
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peach thyme popsicles Ingredients 2 cups of water 1 cup packed brown sugar 2 cups fresh peaches, peeled 1 tsp. fresh thyme
Method Heat two cups of water and one cup of packed brown sugar in a saucepan until the sugar is dissolved. Bring to a simmer until you have created a simple syrup. Set aside and let cool. Puree 2 cups of peaches and 1 teaspoon of thyme. Add to the simple syrup and mix. Pour into popsicle molds and freeze overnight.
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blackberry mint popsicles Ingredients 2 cups of water 1 cup packed brown sugar 4 cups fresh blackberries Âź cup fresh mint leaves, minced
Method Heat two cups of water and one cup of packed brown sugar in a saucepan until the sugar is dissolved. Bring to a simmer until you have created a simple syrup. Set aside and let cool. Puree 4 cups of blackberries and Âź cup minced mint leaves. Strain the fruit mix and add to the simple syrup. Stir and pour into popsicle molds and freeze overnight.
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campfire peaches
Photographs by Jenn Bakos
Looking for a way to spice up your campfire cooking? Enjoy this fire-cooked dessert using fresh peaches and our favorite, New England maple syrup.
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grilled maple bourbon peaches
Ingredients 4 ripe peaches 3 ounces Bourbon Whiskey 3 ounces New England Maple Syrup Vanilla Ice Cream
Method Boil bourbon and maple syrup over medium heat until reduced. While boiling, halve the peaches and remove the pits. Grill the peaches, skin side down first, for 3 to 5 minutes. Turn over and grill, f lesh–side down, for an additional 3 to 5 minutes. Serve immediately with a scoop of vanilla ice cream and top with a tablespoon of Maple Bourbon reduction. Serves 4.
mom’s seafood chowder
Recipe by Dee Herrin Photographs by Ashley Herrin Making a deliciously-balanced seafood chowder is a work of art. It takes practice, refinement and years of taste-testing. This recipe is a family favorite, and has been perfected throughout the years with a lot of “dashes of this” and “a pinch of that.” From my mother’s cookbook to yours...enjoy!
Ingredients
8 small red potatoes, cubed 1 large white onion, chopped 4 cans of evaporated milk Ÿ cup salt pork, diced 4 tbsp. butter Salt & pepper to taste 1 lb. shrimp, raw is ideal 1 lb. steamed clams, shucked 1 lobster, cooked & shucked 1 lb. Bay scallops, raw 1 lb. Haddock, raw, cut into large chunks 3–4 bottles of clam juice Alternatively, you can reserve & freeze the broth when steaming clams. This is ideally used at a later date for chowders.
mom’s seafood chowder
Method
Rinse and clean 8 small red potatoes. Cut into cubes and boil in water until partially cooked. Drain half of the water, reserving the rest. Pour the remaining water and potatoes into a large pot and set to low heat. This begins the base of your seafood chowder. Add 4 cans of evaporated milk to pot. Stir. Chop 1 large white onion and set aside. Dice ¼ cup salt pork. Combine the onion and salt pork in a skillet and sauté over medium–high heat with butter. Add to the pot. Add clams, scallops, lobster, shrimp and haddock to the pot. Add bottles of clam juice or any clam stock you may have saved. Stir evenly to coat. Salt and pepper to taste. Allow to simmer on low heat for a few hours or until cooked through. Do not boil. Please note... As this family recipe has been perfected through the years and committed to memory as opposed to paper, these measurements are not exact. Please feel free to add as much, or as little, of the above to your recipe. If you prefer thinner chowders, do so by adding additional milk or clam juice. A thicker chowder can be created by following any method of your preference.
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a summer evening: little compton
Recipes by Sarah Coleman Photographs by Ashley Herrin A summer evening. When hot days give way to warm nights. When crickets and firef lies rule at dusk, only to be conquered by laughter and the warm glow of a campfire shared with your closest friends. A summer evening. Saying this speaks beauty and instantaneously brings a smile to one’s face. A memory conjured. A smell, a taste, a moment shared. These are the nights we dream for. t.e.l.l. | 112
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on the menu
Little Necks in White Wine with Banana Peppers
3 lbs. (about 3 dozen) Little Necks, scrubbed clean 1 cup dry white wine 3 tbsp. olive oil 2 cloves garlic, finely chopped ¼ cup finely chopped parsley 2 small yellow banana peppers, stemmed and finely chopped Salt and pepper, to taste Pat of butter Baguette for dipping Heat oil in a 6–quart saucepan over medium–high heat. Add garlic, and cook, stirring until golden brown, about 1 minute. Add the clams, wine, and chilies; season with salt and pepper. Bring to a boil, and cook, covered, until the clams open, about 12 minutes. Uncover the pan and stir in a pat of butter to finish. Toss in chopped parsley, remove and discard any clams that don’t open. Serve with bread on the side.
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on the menu
Blistered Shishito Peppers with Sea Salt & Olive Oil
1 pint shishito peppers, washed and dried 1–2 tbsp. olive oil A few pinches of f laked sea salt Heat olive oil in a large cast iron pan or pot on medium–high heat. Once it’s hot (shimmering), toss in peppers, trying not to overcrowd. The peppers should brown, not steam. Let them cook for 2 minutes without stirring. When the peppers start to brown or blister, stir, and allow to cook for 1–2 minutes longer. Serve with crusty bread and cured ham.
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on the menu
Oven Roasted Cod with Thyme, Breadcrumbs and White Wine
4–5 lbs. skinless cod fillets ½ stale baguette (should make 1∕3 cup breadcrumbs) 2 tbsp. chopped thyme 2–3 tbsp. olive oil Splash of dry white wine ½ lemon Preheat oven to 450. Cut stale baguette into 1 inch cubes, spread onto cookie sheet and bake until bread is hard and golden brown. Pulse in food processor until bread is a fine (or desired) consistency. Mix breadcrumbs with chopped thyme. Set aside. Brush both sides of each cod fillet with olive oil and season both sides with salt and fresh ground pepper. Place on a nonstick baking pan or cookie sheet. Sprinkle the top of each fillet with the breadcrumb and thyme mixture. Finish with a drizzle of olive oil (roughly 1 tbsp). Bake for 7 minutes, or until the fish is almost cooked through. Remove from oven and add a splash of white wine. Continue baking for 2 to 3 minutes or until fish is cooked through and opaque in the center. Remove from oven and finish with a squeeze of lemon.
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issue contributors
in Praise of maine
Heather Caulfield Mills Writer
how wanderlust wrote its name on my wrist
Ali O’Brien Writer & Photographer
into the wild
Michaela Levasseur Photographer
how to: clamming
Nick Devine Illustrations
mom’s seafood chowder
Dee Herrin Recipe
a summer Evening: little compton
Sarah Coleman Recipes
thank you
A special thank you to our issue contributors and our readers. For your willingness to help and for your consistent support of t.e.l.l. New England during a time when we are still charting our own course, we thank you.
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Issue 02 | Summer 2013