A little bit of planning (and some carefully planned cooking projects), and you might even survive until Wednesday. Don’t worry; you can thank me later.
18 Central Oyster Bar and Grill in Rockport is the kind of beautiful neighborhood restaurant you want to visit every Sunday evening, to reassure you that there is still actual civility in the world. It’s a shining, warm space with dark wooden interiors, a gleaming bar, and an open kitchen with a grill that spits fire like a medieval dragon. It’s a great big room with little nooks and corners for conversation.
Cheese is my thing. My jam. My go-to snack. My favorite food. Everybody knows this about me. There are very few cheeses I do not like on the spectrum of cheese, from your mild and milky mozzarella to runny, barnyard-y washed rinds that were aged in holy French caves by ancient nuns.
We spent the late afternoon at the playground, the one that overlooks the ocean. It was unusually warm and many families were lingering as the sun dipped down like a Eucharist into the cup of the sea. No one wanted to go home on this last day of being outside without a sweater; we may not see another like this until May. Finally the parents, reluctant, looking to the horizon, rounded up their children and went home.
Sometimes you just have to put the kids to bed early, and invite a couple of grown-ups over for a night of snacks, games, music, and laughter. Since we live way far outside of town, through the woods, beyond numerous coves, at the end of a peninsula almost in the ocean, and getting a babysitter is costly and never easy, we often opt to stay in, and have a mini party on our own turf. It’s always fun to host a house party!
Every single day is a marathon (Not that I’ve ever run, walked, or even watched a marathon. Exhausting!).
Today, for example, I was up with Mina before dawn, so Malcolm let me sleep late: 7:15! Big Whoa. BUT! Violet had school and I had work. So it was a race to wash my face and throw a denim ensemble over my body, nurse Mina, make waffles, make more waffles, pack V lunch, write a little note, get her shoes – “NO, MAWM, KITTY SHOES!!!!!”, remember Malcolm’s shrimp, and drive across town to her preschool and back again so I can open the bookshop at 8:45. Ahhhhh, books.