This was part of Tommo’s pitch as we locked in our plans to leave Australia and move to somewhere in New England. In all my visits to the US and New England it was true, I had never seen her in the summertime. Always in those nondescript times of year. No longer fall but not yet winter. No longer winter but not yet spring kind of months. Always echoing the cold of winter with grey skies, brown grass and leafless trees. Of course I was curious, maybe even a wee bit excited for the new adventure. Beyond summer I was even excited for winter and to see falling snow and a white Christmas for the first time in my life ever.

Now anyone who knows the northern US and New England specifically would see through my wife’s pitch of a beautiful New England summertime and its Anne of Green Gables painted eternal bliss.  Lacking were a few simple meteorological nuances that any sun kissed Australian looking to follow my lead should probably know. Have you ever wanted to visit Siberia… well the winters in the northeast are essentially the same, yay! Don’t like spring? well not to worry, in northern New England did you know it doesn’t exist, just a couple of weeks in May and you can move straight into summer, phew! And summer, well that equates to a only 10 weeks, maybe even less if your lucky before the first yellow hue appears in the landscape and leaves begin to turn and your soul slowly begins to wither on its journey to January.

Now I am not sure if New England is really that magical in summertime or if the long grey months of winter leaves you so dead inside that once longer days and bluer skies arrive, you can’t help but feel the world around you is some how magical. So I decided to take an afternoon and explore this corner of New English summertime and see how much magic was actually sprinkled around. After all, I now very much called this home and it was time to get my bearings and work out where all these meandering country mountain roads I passed by on my day to day actually did lead. I was so used to the “this used to be a vibrant town… until the mill closed down” scenario that I didn’t expect much.

I began out my drive and took the first right at the bottom of the hill. Streeter Pond Road, hmmm that sounds like a nice New Englandy road to start on. I criss crossed farm land and flower farms I didn’t know existed, beautiful mountain estates with their stone walls, giant red barns and panoramic mountain views. Fields of wild lupine and home gardens bursting to life. With roads that wandered around hills passing through the towns of Sugar Hill, Easton, Franconia and Littleton. Past Robert Frosts summer home over crystal clear rivers lined with river stone and traversed by covered bridges, roads seemingly looping around hills and back on themselves.

I was a little gob smacked, I was in an almost cul der sac of New England mountain purity. All this just a few miles from the Franconia notch and State park with it hikes, springs and waterfalls and right at the center of all this our little home and slice of heaven. So I turn my truck back onto a familiar road and begin the brief drive home.  I guess after two years I can finally now agree, New England and the mountains in the summertime kinda sorta are pretty beautiful and I might even feel lucky to be nestled into the corner of the mountains that we have found ourselves.

But come see me in six months, I don’t think I will have quite the same romanticized optimistic out look.

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The first time I saw it was well before the turn of the millennium. That would make it something like 16TBT. I was working aboard a replica of the HMAV Bounty, the square rigger built for the famous film, Mutiny on the Bounty starring Mel Gibson and Sir Anthony Hopkins. It was all very theatrical little job and damn good fun. Each crew member with a role to play dressed in buccaneer type garb all sashes and bandanas, ooh arrh-ing and aye aye captain-ing and all that kind of pirate talk melarky. We would take the old girl out with our guests and steam into the wind, somewhere into Sydney’s vast harbor. It was different everyday and as with all things sailing, our itinerary was dependent on the wind.

We would steam past the Opera House and turn under the Harbor Bridge or out past Fort Denison pointing out Sydeny landmarks and historical sites as we went. Once a destination of nowhere in particular had been reached we would come about, that being to turn the ship around. We would set those heavy square canvas sails to the song of sea shanties and sail back the way we had come, in  silence except for the sound of wind through the rigging and a hum of a generator keeping the beer cold and food hot. Lunch was a spread of roasts, grilled meats, seafood, salads, a giant tropical fruit platter and Australian cheese board and to finally finish the meal off–tea, coffee and the humble scone was served with King Island Dairy’s double cream and strawberry jam.

Waiting patiently to do as a sweet scone was born to do.

That is when the question first arose.

Why oh why are those mad Americans dipping our “for the end of the meal” scones into their “middle of the meal” roast beef and gravy, what kind of barbarity is this?

To answer this question one first needs to ask another question; what is a biscuit?

I had no name for it at the time, but now at least I understand. As it turns out, a “biscuit” is what one is to call an ill used scone. Now historically speaking when you slather a slightly sweetened bread, leavened with baking powder rather than yeast, in sweet strawberry jam topped with a big dollop of heavy cream it is called a scone, has always been a scone and has been used in a way that sconey type things are meant to be used. It has been so since the 15th Century. There is divinity in its simplicity and in its simplicity it remains a scone.

A rose by any other name is still a rose, unless of course you think to dunk it in gravy or serve as a side to fried chicken, then friends your rose is now a biscuit.  I dare say here lies the root as to why American sandwich bread is so very sweet. It shouldn’t be, you really should stop that. Regardless, whatever you think to call them and however  you choose to use them, lets face one simple fact shall we. Biscuits or scones…. we all luv ’em!

Ahh You say tomato, I say tomahto.

Now I have never heard of a “cobbler” but being that summer is upon us and the strawberries are in fine form, it seemed to make perfect New England type sense.  This was great warm but I must say I think I preferred it the second day cold. But that is neither here nor there.

lets  just get to cobblering shall we!

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There is something to be said about blue water sailing, to be amongst the elements far out to sea with the waxing and waning of the moon. Wooden boats and iron men as they used to say. Now much more plastic boats and plastic men, but the thrill is still the same. That being said, there is something pretty fantastic about being stuck in port for six months within walking distance of a pub and with not a guest to be seen. This is exactly how I finished yachting on what was to be one of my favorite gigs with an awesome bunch of people, siting at the dock in the birth place of pesto genovese or simply put, Pesto. In the Italian city of Genoa.

Now don’t go all “goo gah” on me because it’s Italy, like you guys seem to love to do. Spend enough time in Italy and you will quickly learn that nothing works, everyone is a con artist and its really hard to find a fekking salad. Unless slice tomatoes on a plate is your idea of salad then knock your socks off, book a flight cause the salads are awesome. So as Italian cities go Genoa is some what of a shit hole.

Seriously I got shot in the face in this city by a flying Prosecco cork with a razor ring of glass still attached to it. It sliced across my cheek, leaving a pretty horrified bar of people and a very nasty scare. They stemmed the flow of my alcohol rich blood with the aide of a kitchen towel roll tied to my head with electrical tape and gave me a pint of Irish whiskey and waited until I passed out. Believe me my nurse wife was horrified when I skyped her the next morning. So this is no Rome or Venice folks rest assured.  I certainly wouldn’t mark Genoa on my list of must see destinations.

Like all good love stories, give her enough time and you’ll come around. Look past the horrible freeway that cuts across the face of the city and her tired exterior and you find a lot of wonderful nooks and crannys and a deep and rich history. From here I was able to hit most all of Northern Italia in weekend trips and that in the end made up for it. With the famous coast line of Cinque Terre and old coastal fishing villages like Portofino to the beautiful Tuscan country side and its Porcini mushrooms. With the cities of Milan, Florence and Pisa all just an hour or two with in reach and still under 3 hours to the Alps. Genoa might not be pretty but location location location.

So our bosun and dive master a wee English lass Amy who has since left yachting to become a pretty successful life coach both agreed, “don’t eat carbs they only make you feel like a f*#khead”…. and I still stand by that statement. So although I do love  my carbi beers and pizza, I tried not to force a lot of carbs on the crew if I could help it and when I did, I kept it light and simple. For good pasta, keep the ingredients to two or three. This is one of my favorites.

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So I get a call from a mate who lives down in Boston. Not a new mate, an old mate from my home town in Australia, we’ve known each other since we were kids. Him a couple years younger, my brothers age but he spent most of his growing up at our house and standing in front of our fridge. We did all the things boys in high school do, before moving on. After high school we took very different paths but we both traveled a lot and we just so happened to wind up in New England and call her home.

Now the pure coincidence that a childhood best friend from a dusty farming town in the middle of Australia is only a skip and jump away from me, both of us 10,000 miles from where we grew up…now that my friends very much gives me something to be thankful for.

Something I pull out each and every year since landing in America and throw in the “Thanksgiving hat” so to speak. This is no small thing and you’re probably wondering why I bring up Thanksgiving in June. See we as Australians don’t celebrate this day of giving thanks, no not at all, not in the very slightest. Not because we have better things to do or lack appreciation for what we have, simply because the Mayflower never arrived in Sydney harbor; no pilgrims on our doorstep. So as this thing of thanks is something I’m not entirely used to, I like to really save up a couple of things to be thankful for throughout the year and pull them out to throw in the Thanksgiving ring, show you all that I am up for the occasion.

Okay so waaaayyyy off topic, but I’m glad we shared that moment.

So as I was saying,
said mate (Wax) gives me a shout, “Hey I’m coming to the mountains!” Just so happens Wax is still playing Rugby and there is a tournament on ……… and that tournament just so happens to be In. My. Village.

What!? My wee mountain village of 1100 strong hosts a bloody Rugby tournament for all of New England? Holy crap how fecking awesome is that. Now I’ve got two things to be thankful for this year. Three if I count the wife.

Unfortunately I’m busy on the day which is a major bummer, doing all sorts of businessy business stuff a couple of hours away in Vermont, but I should be back in time I say, to catch him and the boys having a run in the afternoon. Bit of a round about story but this actually brings me to duck and this post.

Let me start by saying that duck is the first thing I’ll gravitate to while scrolling through a menu, always. I love this damn bird and it’s rich flavour and crispy skinned goodness. I don’t care if it comes Thai and curried, Chinese and crispy or French and confit. I love preparing it, serving it and eating it up. Such a versatile ingredient that always makes you look like a pro from starters to main course and even dessert, that’s right I said it. Duck fat caramels, yes it’s a thing!

You know what else I love, when I can pick up a pre-cooked bird bring it home and just throw it in the oven. Boom!

Are you thinking some Peking duck action from China town right now? That’s right, if you got yourself a Chinatown then you can roll with the pre-cooked bird action too! Do you see how the horizon of your whole world just opened up….. you are welcome.

So I’ll whack it in the oven, 20 minutes or a little more to crisp up the skin and I can get to playing with a sauce and a few accompaniments I want to serve.

So with an already full day and a mate in town, that’s just what I did.

Now you might call me a cheating bastard, but I simply wont allow any of that name calling stuff on this blog, prick.

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Nothing says summer more than freshly shucked oysters and a crisp glass of Sémillon on a beach bar’s sun deck watching the Pacific Ocean.

Yes it is an acquired taste.

Yes they feel like cold salted snot.

Yes we have all been there and no, judge you I will not.

If your first response to the thought of oysters is to cross your arms, spread your stance and shudder with one eye half closed as you over exaggerate dry retching, then I get you, I do, but you need to relax, there is a segway;

A delicious half way point full of sweet ketchupy and salty bacon goodness.

These oysters couldn’t be any more American than if they were served in a pretzel roll with a pickle.Spiced and with a squeeze of lime, the whole thing is this crispy chewy two bite mouthful of perfection and all these flavors and textures are happening at the exact same bloody time.

Did I mention it comes with bacon?

So right at the center of this oral explosion is that little ball of snot you are so fearful of, delivering the perfect umami pop that no matter your opinion in the beginning, will have you coming back for more like the 50 shades of oyster whore you know deep down inside, you want to be.

Now get in here, take your shoes off.  It’s time to get your oyster on!

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