Great Travel Ideas for Spring:

1. Take the Capt. Barry Experience.
2. Golf at GlennRiddle
3. Go Fish—From a Kayak
4. Tour Some Lighthouses
5. Catch Crabs with a Waterman

Charlie Buckley, aka “Mr. Waterfront,” Long & Foster, Annapolis

2011 bargain pick: This four-bedroom, five-bath South River waterfront home is selling for $1.4 million, $300,000 off its original list price.

Predictions for 2011: I think things are taking off. Right now, the volume is up dramatically. In 2009, we did $24 million in sales. In 2010, we sold $40 million (compared to $100 million in 2006). That said, the prices do not seem to be going up. Buyers have seen we hit bottom. Now is time to cherry-pick the bargains. There’s a lot of inventory, but in six months or a year, the really good deals will be gone.

The sweet spot: A lot of people think the waterfront market is immune. Wrong. On average, it’s dropped about a third. The sweet spot has dropped, too. Almost all my sales have been under $2 million, with the bulk $800,000 to $1.3 million. In 2006, it was all $2 million to $3 million. Almost nothing in the [Anne Arundel] county is selling for over $2 million. Any volume at all is coming up from the bottom. It’s an entry-level world.

Advice to buyers: It really is a great time to buy. Prices are down and interest rates are down. Of those two things, interest rates are more important. It wasn’t that long ago that jumbo mortgages were at 7 or 8 percent. … If you bought a $1 million house several years ago compared to now, that $1 million hasn’t changed, but that monthly payment has. 

Hugh Smith, Chesapeake Real Estate, Coldwell Banker, Easton

2011 bargain pick: This 6.5-acre Church Creek property has a pool, tennis court, and five bedrooms. Originally listed at $2 million, it’s now $900,000.

Predictions for 2011: I’ve seen a gradual improvement tracking the national economy. Consumer confidence numbers, improvement in pace of sales. Based on the stock market, I’m encouraged. Hopefully, we’ll be seeing increased energy and calling for higher-end listings.

Where the bargains are: The bargains are in Cambridge. It’s a buying opportunity for anyone. You’ll definitely get bang for a buck. There’s tremendous value in most of the market. The lower end has been seriously challenged by foreclosures; inventory is very high.

Where the sales are: I am very encouraged by what I’m seeing in the $1 million to $2 million range. They mostly seem to be buyers coming from the suburbs of D.C., purchasing pre-retirement and retirement homes. We’re seeing some good action from the Philadelphia market, too. Most of that has been in Talbot County. Kent has been pretty challenged. Dorchester, too.

Advice to buyers: There’s never been a better time to buy. It’s astounding. Right now the waterfront values I’m seeing are once-in-a-lifetime. There’s a whole new segment of people that couldn’t afford it and now it’s laid out at their feet. But we are seeing investors stepping in. You can feel the tipping point. I tell my own buyers—you’ll only see the bottom in the rearview mirror. 

Mike O’Brien, O’Brien Realty, Solomons

2011 bargain pick: This St. Mary’s County bayfront property with beach was originally offered at $725,000 in fall 2009. Price now: $449,900.

Predictions for 2011: The number of people who have strategically defaulted has gone up. Short sales and foreclosures will continue to influence market value. That’s never a positive thing. I think we’ll have one more year of the same and after that a more predictable market. I think we’ve done all of the rollback we’re going to do.

Trends: The higher priced homes are slower moving. Even homes between $200,000 and $325,000 are selling but not at anything but modest rates. There’s been a little bit of price stability and a little bit of moving upward on waterfront. I think people are recognizing that low interest rates are even a better bargain than a low purchase price.

Appraisals: The issue now becomes appraisals. As prices start to move up, appraisals trail the market because they’re based on looking back in time, so they become a restraint in terms of prices increasing.

Where the bargains are: Anybody interested in a house over $500,000 can get a very good value. Virtually anywhere in rural areas where people bought large lots and built large homes seem to be the best bargain, 60 percent off the peak of what the property sold for. The other bargains are in the foreclosed properties being sold as is—houses with plumbing problems, mold contamination, etc.

Debbie Hileman, Hileman Real Estate, Berlin

Best bargain 2010: This waterfront rancher off the St. Martin’s River in Ocean Pines sold in 2005 for $400,000. It was listed in 2010 for $299,000 and sold for $208,000.

Hitting bottom: I’m going to be honest, I’m not sure if we’ve hit bottom yet. I’m hoping that we’re very close. Our market is more second home buyers. We got hit first and I’ll think we’ll recover last. But I’m optimistic because if you do have money, they’re some really good values out there.

Best bargains: There are some really good deals—Ocean City condos and some of the newer things built. The prices were incredibly high during the boom, but now you can get some of them at 50 cents on the dollar. 

If you can’t sell, rent: There still is a wave of bank property that needs to get blown through the market in order for us to level out here. I expect about the same for 2011. We’ve been very busy with rentals. What first started happening was that people who couldn’t sell have rented, and that created a higher supply, causing rental rates to go down. A lot of people who had short sales and lost property are becoming the new wave of [renters].

Advice for buyers: Right now (pre-season) is a really great time to buy—you don’t have competition. I’ve seen deals as much as $100,000 lower than asking. Even something priced at $200,000, people will offer $150,000. You have to have thick skin as a seller.

Cliff Meredith, Lacaze Meredith Real Estate Co., Easton

2011 bargain pick: The former house burned on this two-acre Royal Oak lot, leaving behind $200,000 worth of improvements, including a pool, driveway, septic, and dock on the Miles River. Priced at $1.6 million.

Prediction for 2011: If I had to guess, I’d say it’ll be better than 2010. I believe some of the higher-end markets have experienced increases. Naples, Fla., for instance, has experienced a 10 to 12 percent increase in prices. I would say overall the market seems to be moving slow but steadily upward, both in volume and price. Still, there’s no sweet spot in the market. People are still looking for bargains at any level.

Advice to sellers: I recommend they look at comps and price it to the market if they want to sell. We’re still seeing listings start at maybe what they were five or six years ago, but we’re in a different market. If it’s overpriced, the house could go for 30 or 40 percent less of list.

Advice for buyers: I’d get a good realtor and just use common sense. Look at what comparable homes have sold for. Low balling is very common today because, well, we’re still in a very unusual situation.

For more than 20 years, Rob Timm has been a familiar voice on local radio. The Boston native arrived in the area in the late 1980s and worked as a helicopter traffic reporter before becoming a DJ on the late, great WHFS-FM in the 1990s. Since 2004, he’s been a fixture on Annapolis’ WRNR and plays drums in a band called Prozakistan.

I had no idea what I wanted to do when I was young. I was playing in a band with two guys who worked in radio and they seemed to really enjoy their jobs and their lives and I looked at them and said, “This might be a good idea.” I went to college for it and it turned out I had a knack.

My voice is an accident of birth. I sound a lot like my father. When he was younger it was very difficult to tell us apart on the phone. I’ll claim my father for my voice and my mother for my sense of humor.

I’m a good enough musician to know that I’m not a good enough musician.

I found there’s good stuff in almost every genre. Unfortunately, that’s not the way we Americans tend to consume music. As Auntie Mame said, “Life is a banquet and most poor suckers are starving to death.”

It’s hard to not like a good pop song. The Beatles wrote good pop songs.

My biggest problem with working in a traffic helicopter was that it was so peaceful and serene that I would have a tendency to fall asleep between reports.

HFS was an astounding place. It was really like we had lightning in a bottle. It was an extremely fertile time musically and we had an extremely talented group of people who were given license to do things that no other station was allowed to or had the ability to do.

It’s not the public’s imagination: Radio stations really do play a lot more commercials than they did 20 years ago because they’ve amassed these huge loads of debt they have to pay off.

How has the business changed? I don’t know, that’s depressing. I don’t want to talk about that. Luckily, I’ve found this little oasis in Annapolis.

Violinist Andrew Bird after visiting WRNR called it “a well-curated radio station.” It’s a high-brow way of looking at it, but I think it hits the nail on the head. It may be the only curated radio station left. Most of the others are researched in cold, robotic ways. We don’t research the music. We listen to it, decide it’s good, and play it.

Imagine if museums were curated [like most radio stations] through demographic research, what horrible places they’d be. Every place would have nothing but Monet’s “Water Lilies.” Don’t get me wrong, Monet’s “Water Lilies” is a wonderful painting, but there are other things.

I really never got Stern. I’d rather watch paint dry than listen to Howard Stern. I don’t understand strippers on the radio. I can’t see them. What’s the point?

I did adult contemporary and I thank the Lord every day I don’t have to play any more Lionel Ritchie records.

What’s been extremely gratifying over the years is being able to do things for nonprofits and for people by being in this position. That’s been a huge bonus I didn’t even realize when I got into this business—helping causes from the environment to homelessness to women’s issues.

I have a lot of unemployed friends who used to work in satellite radio. I don’t know if it will ever really take off or not. Of course, when I was a kid, you never would’ve \convinced me that I’d be paying 100 bucks a month to watch TV, but I do. So there is hope for it.

I was in this business for 15 years before I dropped the F-bomb on the air. … I meant to say, “It’s fricking cold.”

If there is any wisdom to be had out of all these years in this business which can be incredibly competitive, it’s that kindness is more important than competitiveness. I believe doing something you enjoy and doing it well and treating people kindly is worth so much more than striving for what many people would consider success—through any means necessary. Life is short but it’s far too long to live that way.

What have I learned from fatherhood? I’m a far more patient person than I ever imagined. I’ve also learned you cannot outrun projectile vomit.

My son informed me that every day is the best day ever. I think if I could somehow think more like he does, that even if the world wasn’t a better place, it would seem that way.

Most of the artists I’ve interacted with have been surprisingly generous with their time and are much nicer than you might imagine. ... But interviewing Keanu Reeves is like talking to a stump. 

I always have something stupid on my mind and the ability to unleash it. Perhaps I’d make a fantastic politician.

Buying coffee 20 years ago was an easy task. You picked up a can of a national brand ground coffee from the supermarket, or, if you were slightly more gourmet, you ground your own bright red bag of whole bean Eight O’Clock Coffee in the equally bright red grinder at the end of the cashier’s station. Your choices were regular or decaffeinated; French Roast was a treat; and latte was just the Italian word for milk.

If it all tasted pretty much the same—hot, strong, and bitter—well, that’s just how coffee was supposed to taste. Not anymore.

In this article, we introduce you to a handful of local micro-roasters, folks who roast small quantities of coffee in their basements, their garages, or compact business spaces. You may see them or their coffee at your local farmers market, café, or restaurant. Or you may have ordered their gourmet roasts online. Nonetheless, their ability to offer fresh, limited quantities of high-quality roasted beans is changing the local coffee landscape.

Good Dog Coffee Micro Roasters
West River, Maryland
571-748-7519, http://www.gooddogcoffee.com

Even though it’s not his full-time job, Leo Miranda knew he had to do something with coffee. “It’s in my DNA,” he says with a laugh. “I love the product, all the culture, and the history—the whole package.”

Miranda, a biologist and supervisor of the Chesapeake Bay Field Office of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, grew up in the coffee-growing region of Puerto Rico and even owns a small coffee plantation there. Since he couldn’t plant coffee after he moved to the area, he decided to roast it, and began selling his beans under the West Indian Treasure Brand, adopting the name Good Dog Coffee as an homage to his three Labradors in 2005.

Miranda’s business is small but growing. He roasts shade grown and organic beans to order out of his garage nearly every day in 1 kilo amounts, and sells his coffee though the Internet and by word of mouth.

Miranda is fortunate to be able to buy much of his coffee directly from farmers in Puerto Rico, Nicaragua, Colombia, and through a Bolivian family in Massachusetts who import coffee from their own estate.

“I go the extra mile and make contact with the farmers,” says Miranda, who often finds coffee growers through friends and by word of mouth. “I like to sit down and talk to them because I learn so much,” he says. Plus, growers value the relationship and often boast about having their own private roaster, says Miranda.

“For me, coffee is my life,” he explains. “For my clients, I try to get them to have a coffee experience and not just drink coffee. It’s not like going to McDonald’s just to have the caffeine shot. I like to talk to people about my coffee and why they got it and how it got there. I try to get my passion out to my clients.”

Caffe Pronto
Roastery and cafe: 90 Russell St., Suite 500, Annapolis, 410-626-0011;
Cafe: 2329 Forest Drive, Suite G, Annapolis, 410-266-5776,
http://www.caffepronto.com

“We see ourselves as stewards of the bean,” says Vince Iatesta, owner of Annapolis’ Caffe Pronto. “Our job is to do everything the best we can to showcase coffee, to bring out everything that coffee has to offer.” This means Caffe Pronto does not offer flavored coffees or roasts so dark that they obliterate the character of any given bean.

Iatesta’s stewardship of quality coffee (and coffee’s qualities) is reflected in every aspect of Caffe Pronto. He sources beans directly from farmers in Central America and Ethiopia with whom he also works to improve quality control and farm sustainability.

Back in Annapolis, the beans arrive in burlap or sisal bags, ready for roasting, which occurs frequently and in small batches. In order to maintain absolute freshness for the consumer, Caffe Pronto beans have a very short in-store shelf life: No coffee is sold after three weeks of roasting. Even Caffe Pronto’s name, “coffee now,” is a reference to the freshness of the product.

Iatesta gained his appreciation for coffee in Europe, where he was studying as part of his graduate program in international marketing. Not long after his return to the States, he was ready to make a move from corporate America to opening his own café in 2002. 

Every day at 2 p.m., the roastery offers free public cuppings (tastings) that explore different qualities of coffee—body, acidity, and roast profiles. The café also offers product demonstrations of new coffee-making equipment and is offering classes in coffee brewing in conjunction with the local Whole Foods.

“Coffee has more flavor [and] aromatic compounds than wine does, and more complexity,” notes Iatesta. It’s more than just a morning pick-me-up or “caffeine delivery system.” For Iatesta, it’s a consuming passion.

Chesapeake Bay Roasting Co.
Crofton, Maryland
410-454-0102, http://www.cbayroasting.com

Rick Erber and his partners at Chesapeake Bay Roasting Co.are fanatical about their coffee and the environment—so much so that five years ago they founded a coffee company designed around the concept of being eco-responsible. Here, blends have names like Oyster Reef and Boater’s Brew and are sold in 100 percent recyclable and reusable steel cans. Beans are organic, fair trade, and rainforest certified. Even their Sirocco roaster is green: It re-uses the chaff from roasted beans (as much as 3,500 pounds a week) as fuel and releases fewer emissions into the atmosphere.

Erber, an Annapolis resident and avid boater, is also serious about Bay restoration. Motivated by what he characterizes as “a great passion for the region and the Bay,” the company regularly provides free catered coffee service to events promoting watershed restoration. Plus, a percentage of all profits from their coffee are donated to efforts to save the Bay.

Chesapeake Bay Roasting Co. coffee is sold primarily through wholesale accounts, online, Graul’s supermarkets, and at coffee shops listed on its website.

Eastern Shore Coastal Roasting Co.
Willis Wharf, Virginia
757-414-0105, http://www.coastalroast.com

Kristin and Jamie Willis have their hands in many connected pies. Among other endeavors, the couple own and run the Eastern Shore Coastal Roasting Co., a wholesale business they started in 2006 that roasts both coffee and peanuts (in separate roasters).

Nearly everything about Eastern Shore Coastal Roasting is connected to the narrow strip of Virginia’s Eastern Shore, from the roasting facility in Willis Wharf to the marketing of the coffee itself. “We wanted to provide a local niche and promote local places [through the naming of the coffee blends],” says Kristin Willis. Blends boast names like Hog Island Sunrise, Oyster Roast, and Machipongo Morning. Mockhorn Bay Birders Blend, a shade-grown, bird-friendly mix, is a nod to the migratory pathway along Mockhorn Bay. Zoe’s Decaf takes on a more personal significance: It’s named for the Willises’ three-legged dog, the company mascot.

Through a green broker, the Willises buy ethically grown coffee from 14 different origins, as well as maintaining several direct relationships with growers. “I’m particular,” says Kristin. “I want to know where [the coffee] comes from.” The couple roasts approximately 400 pounds of coffee a week to order for small businesses, cafés, and bakeries on Virginia’s Eastern Shore.

Kristin feels strongly that people be particular in seeking out local coffee whether it’s hers or a roaster’s in another community. “When a customer goes on vacation and seeks out a local coffee roasting company, that, to me, is massive, that I helped to get them to appreciate supporting a local business. It’s not in our business plan to have our coffee beans sold in Arizona.”

Rise Up Coffee
Multiple locations including
1216 S. Talbot St., St. Michaels, 410-430-8144;
529 Riverside Drive,, Salisbury, 410-219-1150; 
Tred avon shopping center, Easton, 877-474-7387,
http://www.drinkorganiccoffee.com

Call Rise Up Coffee and you’re liable to hear Bob Marley urging you to “rise up this mornin’ [and] smile with the risin’ sun.” It’s that kind of sunny optimism that pervades Tim and Abigail Cureton’s funky chain of drive-through coffee stands.

Tim’s fascination with coffee began during a Peace Corps stint in Micronesia between 1999 and 2001 when an Australian friend “opened his eyes to coffee.” (Today, Rise Up sends coffee to Peace Corps volunteers who contact the company through e-mail or Facebook.) Soon he was a self-proclaimed “coffee head,” and by 2005, Rise Up had its first drive-through in St. Michaels, followed by a location in Salisbury, and most recently, Easton.

Rise Up is “all about creating community around coffee,” says Noah Kegley, the company’s general manager, a task accomplished through a number of relationships, both local and international, which give rise to the company motto: “Grown by friends. Roasted by friends. Enjoyed by friends.” Organic beans are purchased from small farms through fair trade agreements, and roasted by a Pacific Northwest-based pal of Cureton’s. The drive-throughs use milk from Nice Farms Creamery in Federalsburg, and Rise Up Coffee is a component in EVO Rise Up Stout from Delmar’s Evolution Craft Brewing Co.

Come June 2011, the company hopes to have its own roasting operation. “We take what we do very seriously,” says Kegley, who recently completed a course of study at the American Barista and Coffee School in Portland, Ore. “Roasting coffee ourselves is going to give us more flexibility, and space for classes and demos.

It’s going to be great.” Coffee heads on the Eastern Shore can hardly wait.

WHAT’S IN A BEAN?
Organic, fair trade? How to decipher what’s in your cup.

Organic, perhaps the most familiar term to consumers, indicates that the beans have been grown under organic production methods, including no use of pesticides, fertilizers, or herbicides. Shade grown means that coffee farms maintain a shade canopy that not only allows for a longer growing season that results in a bean with a more intense flavor, but also creates a rich habitat for birds and other animals. To be labeled bird friendly, a certification developed by the Smithsonian’s Migratory Bird Center, coffee must be both organic and shade grown and create an environment conducive to migratory birds. The Rainforest Alliance designation certifies sustainable, eco-friendly coffee production. On the economic side of coffee trade, roasters who engage in Direct Trade practices travel to the source of their beans to purchase directly from growers, while coffee that is Fair Trade, a certification developed by Fairtrade Labeling Organizations International and licensed in the United States by Transfair USA coffee, is sold through co-ops that regulate coffee pricing and promote sustainable methods of farming.

Some editor’s letters are harder to write than others.

Some flow effortlessly from personal experience. Others are squeezed out only after days of false starts.

This one was especially tough to write because it’s the last.

Unfortunately, after a dozen years of publishing award-winning articles about the Bay and its denizens, we’ve decided to cease publication of Chesapeake Life magazine—another casualty of the Great Recession.

Most editors don’t get to write farewell letters to their magazine’s readers, so I am grateful that I have this chance. I’ve worked for a variety of publications in my day, and I don’t think I’ve ever encountered an audience as passionate about a magazine as this one has been. Thank you for your letters and comments—both positive and negative—over the years. This magazine could not have existed as long as it has without your support.

I’d also like to thank those we’ve written about over the years. The best part of this job has been getting out in the community, meeting the people of this fascinating region, and hearing their stories.

For an editor always looking for fresh subject matter, the Chesapeake area and its colorful inhabitants provide an unending bounty of rich material.

Although this is beginning to sound like an Academy Awards acceptance speech, I also have to thank our fantastic writers and photographers, who have lent us their incredible talents. [Music starts to swell…] Most of the pages in our magazine have been produced by freelancers, and without them, we could not have done it. And finally, I’d like to acknowledge art director Kim Van Dyke, who has worked passionately over the years to design a magazine as beautiful as the Chesapeake itself.
This is goodbye, but not farewell, as they say. Kim and I will continue to work for Alter Communications’ other publications. In the meantime, see you out on the Bay.

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As an Anne Arundel County-based builder, Charlie Berliner of Berliner Construction Co. has spent the past 38 years listening to homeowners and architects tell him how they want him to build their houses.

So when Berliner and his wife, Kathy Dahl, decided to build their own home in Annapolis’ Murray Hill neighborhood, it was a freeing experience.

“I had the liberty to decide how it was going to be,” says Berliner. “And I didn’t have to deal with the owner. Well,” he pauses, with a knowing look at his wife, “except for her.”

Berliner and Dahl’s co-creation, a modern take on an Arts & Crafts bungalow, has both contemporary and old-fashioned touches, and remains imminently livable. “People respond to the house’s simplicity,” says Dahl, a retired zoning attorney. “It’s a peaceful house.” 

Originally, a 1920s bungalow stood on the property and the couple thought about restoring it, but its tiny bedroom windows (ample light was a priority) and slanting second-floor hallway with just enough headroom for Charlie to walk down the middle convinced them that a renovation would be too challenging. Architect Gary Schwerzler of Fourth Street Design Studio in Eastport sketched out a floor plan for a new three-bedroom, 3,200-square-foot building and Berliner added his own details to the design. An experienced woodworker, Berliner also designed the moldings and woodwork that adorn every room and give the new house a much older feel. “You’ll notice the scale of the house,” says Berliner. “The doors are big, the windows, high and large. It just has a scale that works well.”

Berliner also designed the living room’s walnut mantel to highlight the embedded rosettes that Dahl found at a Baltimore antiques shop. “The owner swore to me that they came out of [actor] Jack Palance’s house,” she says. “So we designed the mantel around them.”

Dahl spent hours combing eBay for the French Art Deco light fixtures that hang in the dining room/library and hallway. She also found two deco sconces from an old Western movie theater. “I thought they were the most outrageous things I had ever seen,” recalls Berliner.

“He said, ‘Whatever you do, don’t bring them in the house!’” says Dahl, with a laugh. But Berliner eventually made peace with the fixtures, and they now hang prominently on the walls of the entry foyer.

The couple cooks and entertains frequently, so the kitchen had to be spacious and well-organized, and allow for easy flow. “Not that I’m an efficiency expert, but I’ve done hundreds of them so I’ve seen every mistake that people make,” says Berliner. One side of the kitchen, divided by a granite-topped island, is the “cooking side,” which contains the Sub-Zero stove and area for food prep, while the other side serves as storage for plates, serving bowls, and the like. Even the island’s double stainless-steel sink has “a cooking and a cleaning-up side.”

Vera Karelian of Vera Karelian Designs in Tracys Landing picked out the mix of 18 to 20 different, mainly neutral custom paint colors for the house. Dahl’s budding collection of art, an eclectic mix of abstract paintings, adds color, as does original photography by her brother-in-law, Harry Tarzian. 

All in all, the couple couldn’t be happier with their home, which they occupied in 2007. “It was a pleasure to do,” says Berliner. “There are times when you want to do things your own way and you can’t on [someone else’s] house. But I really enjoyed this process.”

There was a time about seven years ago when I didn’t know the definition of barbecue. I was a trained chef, a graduate of culinary school, I had opened a well-respected restaurant, and I thought barbecue described food that was cooked on a grill and smothered in a sweet sauce. How little I knew.

But then, to my surprise, in October 2004 I was invited to be a celebrity judge at the Super Bowl of barbecue—The Jack Daniel’s World Invitational BBQ Competition, simply known as the “Jack.” I had to attend an eight-hour class at the site of the Jack Daniel’s distillery to earn my certification in order to judge the next day in front of TV cameras and alongside Food Network stars.

Before then, I never thought much about barbecue. I had eaten only uninspired renditions from random restaurants north of the Mason-Dixon line. But when I sank my teeth into my first real hunk of barbecued meat, to my complete astonishment and delight, I found it to be some of the most delicious food I had ever eaten. Goose bumps rose on my arms and I wanted to grab somebody—anybody—nearby and tell them about my new discovery. Still, when someone asks me to name the top meals ever to have crossed my lips, the barbecue at the Jack easily makes the top 5. And the most important thing I learned that weekend was that good barbecue is not cooked on a hot grill, but “slow and low” with smoke.

From that moment on, I returned to Maryland on a quest—to re-create the barbecue I tasted at the Jack. But it wasn’t easy. By far, barbecue has been the most challenging cuisine I have ever undertaken. It took seven years—and many inedible attempts along the way—to finally produce quality barbecue that competes at a national level. (My own competitive barbecue team, Walk the Swine, started earning some trophies just last year.)

Unfortunately, when I started my quest, there was minimal help out there. You can buy books, read blogs, talk to professional chefs, but no one is willing to divulge their secrets. The winning combination of sauce, smoke, meat, brines, cooking times and temperatures is personal and hard-fought—you just don’t reveal what took you years to accomplish. (Sorry, dear readers.)

But one of the most enjoyable aspects of barbecue is the satisfaction of creating a product that is uniquely yours. To help you get started, I’ve prepared some useful steps to guide you through the basics. You can also Google a million recipes for sauces, rubs, and brines or buy quality rubs and sauces online or at specialty gourmet stores. At my restaurant, The BBQ Joint in Easton, we sell my competition rubs and bottled sauces, too.

Just remember, there are myriad paths to success on the barbecue trail. All it takes is creativity, determination, and some sweet-smelling smoke. 

Smoked Pork Butt
Smoked Brisket
Smoked Ribs
Smoked Chicken

The Annapolis water treatment plant is crumbling. The city’s Market House, once the pride of downtown, awaits revamping after years of mismanagement. An energized citizens’ group wants to create a council-manager form of government that would reduce the mayor’s clout. On top of all this, the city is broke, refinancing its debt to make ends meet. So why would anyone want the job of mayor, especially a bright young guy like Josh Cohen?

“Despite the bad wrap politicians get, I believe politics is a noble calling,” says Cohen. “I have enough of an ego to believe that I have something to contribute and confidence in my ability to make a difference. I have an opportunity to effect a positive change—or to crash and burn.”

Just one year into his term as Annapolis’ 126th mayor, the jury is still out. Despite dealing with the worst snow storms in history, passing a balanced budget without raising property taxes, creating the Annapolis Economic Development Corp. to attract and expand business, and making progress toward securing a long-term solution to the Market House, his short time in office has not been without controversy.

“I came into office during a difficult time,” he says. “When times are tough and there’s not the money to do some of the initiatives I’ve promised, every issue is a battle. Anytime there is a new sheriff in town trying to assert himself, there is inevitable tension.”

At 37, this lifelong Annapolitan is driven, a tad cocky, and plays a mean saxophone. He’s more handsome—think a shorter JFK Jr.-type with glasses—and more personable face-to-face than he appears on his weekly YouTube address where he comes off as stiff. Trim and athletic, he jogs three times a week in his West Annapolis neighborhood where he lives with his wife, Lesley, a registered nurse, and their two daughters. A Key School graduate, he briefly attended St. John’s College at the New Mexico campus but got his bachelor’s degree in economics from the University of Maryland, College Park. Before taking over as mayor, he spent eight years working in the criminal justice field as a Maryland parole and probation agent and director of special grants for the Maryland Crime Victims’ Resource Center.

If likeability were the sole job requirement, Cohen would have it aced. Even critics agree that he is funny, forthright, and well-intentioned. “I like the guy’s spirit,” says Frederick Paone, the city’s lone Republican alderman. “Even though we disagree on some things, he has a good grasp of issues. I’ve never seen him lose his cool.”

Alderwoman Classie Hoyle says, “When we disagree, we talk about it, then we shake hands or hug. That’s a good thing. He doesn’t lose his temper or fly off the handle—quite different from our former mayor [Ellen Moyer]. And he listens.”

This trait is obvious during a recent council meeting when Cohen gives the same level of attention to a request for a proclamation from a homeless war veteran dressed in camouflage to probing questions about the Market House from savvy Council-woman Sheila Finlayson, with whom he often spars. “Sometimes he doesn’t always consult with the council and makes decisions as if he is totally autonomous,” Finlayson says. “We each have a voice in the city, a voice that we’d like to be heard. After he is called on it, he does come to us, but we would appreciate it if he would keep us in the loop.”

In his rare spare time—13-hour days are not unusual and weekends are reserved for the family—Cohen enjoys a good read. “The Lost City of Z: A Tale of Deadly Obsession in the Amazon” by David Grann is a recent favorite. Perhaps Cohen feels a connection to the story of an explorer who ventured into uncharted territory with little more than a machete, a compass, and a passionate sense of purpose. 

Cohen wasn’t the city’s first choice for mayor. He became the Democratic nominee only when Zina Pierre, the first black woman to receive the nomination withdrew from the race due to personal financial issues. (Pierre declined to be interviewed for this story.)

Cohen was elected to the city council when he was 28, and later to the county council, but he didn’tfinish his term in order to run for mayor, a fact that draws criticism—and it’s not something he is particularly proud of. “I knew people would beat me up about this, but when I saw the shape the city was in, and the people who were lining up to run, this may sound ridiculously cocky, but I felt I had to run.” While Cohen candidly admits to being open to future political opportunities, he relishes his current role. “I will finish out this term as mayor.”

The idea of a young, ambitious mayor with future political aspirations doesn’t sit well with some area residents. “He’s a political animal. Each decision is made with an eye on the next rung on the political ladder,” says Trudy McFall, a mayoral candidate who lost to Cohen in the primary. “His strong suit is his ability to stay calm in the face of anything. It’s an extraordinary skill, especially for someone his age. He’s good at maneuvering behind the scenes while maintaining his choir- boy persona.”

During Cohen’s first year, perhaps nothing in his administration caused as much of an uproar as the firing of 33 employees in March. Cohen admits that he failed to appreciate the magnitude of the budget crisis. “I thought that by controlling overtime and reducing spending we’d be able to avoid layoffs, but it became clear we had to lay off employees.”

He was chided by a few aldermen for not exploring other alternatives. “My request was to look at every other option first,” says Finlayson. “Some employees were handled rudely. They were approached that Friday morning and told they had to vacate their desks. We have low morale in the city. We have to rely on people to provide good service in the community. We are destroying that atmosphere. We’re paying now for some of their firings. Some people are suing the city.”

Cohen says that he had to act quickly. “We didn’t have the luxury of time. Every day we failed to take action, we created a bigger deficit.”

If he had to do it over again, he says he would have communicated more effectively, both with the council and employee unions. “Even though I don’t believe it would have changed the outcome, the need to lay off employees is such a fundamental reversal of the city’s culture that it left a bad taste in a lot of people’s mouths.”

He says he avoided raising property taxes and cut the budget by 13 percent, the biggest cut of Maryland’s 147 municipalities. “In 45 years the Annapolis budget was reduced no more than 2.5 percent three or four times so this reduction is pretty dramatic,” says Cohen.

But critics say he hasn’t cut enough. Bill Kardash, chairman of Annapolitans for a Better Community, says the city’s budget is based on “hypothetical sources of income,” projected savings that may or may not materialize, and that with 700 city employees, the payroll is bloated. He says Annapolis has 18 departments while larger cities such as Rockville, Gaithersburg, and Bowie have eight or fewer. Kardash says that 85 percent of Annapolis’ city budget is personnel and personnel benefits. “If he took the medicine and laid off 50 or 60 people when he came into office, he would have made a huge impact. We have three arborists. I’m worried about the trees, too, but maybe this is something we could contract out,” says Kardash.

Local blogger and Capital contributor Paul Foer describes the mayor’s handling of the budget as “Cohenspeak,” where bad news is slapped with a smile. “I think he feels that it is more important to reward people than get things done,” says Foer. “He is doing nothing to cut an overspending bureaucracy. Everything comes down to politics instead of governing.” 

But Cohen claims the payroll isn’t bloated, pointing out the nearly 80 positions he eliminated in this year’s budget. (A combination of early retirements, eliminated positions and the 33 layoffs.) According to Cohen, comparing Annapolis to larger towns isn’t fair. You have to compare the services, he says. Do they have full-service fire, police, and public works departments? “We may be comparable in population, but we have a tremendous demand on services both in terms of our physical infrastructure, as well as law enforcement and public safety, because we have over a million visitors a year.”

Cohen says his challenge is to forge a steady path without being pulled too far to one extreme or the other. “One side says I cut too much, I should have raised taxes instead. The other side says I didn’t cut enough. Passions are high on both sides; it’s hard to carve out a middle ground.”

Kardash is the primary force behind a movement to create a council-manager form of city government. Currently, the city manager reports to the mayor. In a council-manager system, he would report to the nine-member city council.

Cohen opposes this direction. “There are small towns that have part-time mayors and the citizens turn the keys over to a full-time professional manager. That’s not Annapolis. Our residents and business persons want to call City Hall and know the mayor is in charge. There is never a guarantee that we’re going to elect a good mayor, but at least when the buck stops here, the mayor is accountable. If you make the nine-member council responsible for the city manager and have him report not to the mayor but to all nine council members, you lose that accountability. The reins of government would be in the hands of a non-elected official who would report to nine bosses, each with a competing agenda. It would be a recipe for political gridlock.”

But Kardash claims that inaction has been a hallmark of Cohen’s administration thus far. “Analysis paralysis,” says Kardash when describing Cohen’s management style. He says Cohen creates too many committees and studies everything to death. Decisions don’t happen.

“That is in the eye of the beholder,” counters Cohen. “There are some people who think I’m rushing decisions. It really is a judgment call.”

Perhaps his management style is best reflected in his approach to the redevelopment of the city’s beloved Market House. “What I’ve found is that the key to successful politics is to understand when the right time is to put on the brakes and when the right time is to press the gas pedal,” he says. “I believe in taking the time on the front end to make sure there is a lot of thought put into something that is as multi-faceted as the Market House, to make sure the people are heard and that we have the right guiding principles. But once it gets to a certain point where we’ve talked about it enough, then we need to move forward deliberately.”

Cohen says the Market House—and the economic development of the entire Historic District—is one of the biggest challenges facing Annapolis. Main Street and Maryland Avenue are dotted with empty stores owing to high rents and the recession, and the new Annapolis Towne Centre has taken its toll. “Downtown should be a vibrant destination for locals primarily. If you make it work for locals, the tourists will come,” he says. Cohen wants to attract unique retailers—not chain stores—with an emphasis on quality and personal customer service.

Right now big plans are in place. If all goes as planned, downtown’s Market House will be revamped and open by spring. For decades city officials have talked about reinventing the entire City Dock; Cohen is taking action. He has created an advisory committee to make recommendations for redesigning the entire space, giving the public greater exposure to the waterfront by turning the existing parking lot into a public pavilion and adding underground parking. The ideal redevelopment would put an emphasis on recreation and shopping, and create a City Dock that brings locals and visitors back again and again. “I envision a waterfront that’s a true public space as opposed to a place just to park cars,” says Cohen.

Agree with his policies or not, nobody questions Cohen’s passion to make Annapolis a better place. The question is, what can he accomplish in this economically challenging time? Will additional layoffs be necessary? Will there be continued gridlock on a plan for downtown?

As he told an audience during his December 2009 inauguration: “This is our moment. This is our opportunity to be what we never thought we would be. It’s up to us.” Which is maybe the reason why a bright young guy like Josh Cohen would want the job in the first place.

Mary Ann Treger blogs the Annapolis Insider.

Lesly Sajak Photographer, Pat’s wife

Though her married name may be Polish, Lesly Sajak grew up in Annapolis in a large, extended Italian family. “We always used to get together on Sundays,” she says, recalling visits to Baltimore to see her aunt and uncles. “And we always brought the salad.” Although the family has now gotten smaller, she says, they still try to see each other most Sundays at her mother’s house. And antipasti is still on the menu.

Sajak’s version of antipasti has changed little from her mother’s or grandmother’s recipe. Sometimes she’ll use red wine vinegar in the salad dressing; sometimes she reaches for the balsamic. If she’s making the salad for company, she’ll make sure she has every ingredient, but if the antipasti is for family, she’ll let a few things slide—but only a few. “It has to have the olives, lettuce, tomato, pepperoncini, Italian meats, and garbanzo beans [Sajak’s favorite ingredient] to make it an antipasti,” she says. Now that’s Italian.

Lesly Sajak’s Antipasti

Linnell Bowen Executive director, Maryland Hall for the Creative Arts

“My mother collected people over her dinner table,” says Linnell Bowen, and for the people at Janice Robinson’s table, crab cakes were often the lure.

Although Bowen’s Southern mother thought picking crabs was “barbaric,” after the family moved to Maryland, her mother embraced crab cakes like a native.

“She just put in a dab of this and a dab of that,” explains Bowen, who often prepares crab cakes for dinner parties. “I only learned to make them with great difficulty.”

To save others the trouble, Bowen has written down the perfected recipe, which was included in a goody bag for a recently married nephew so that his new New York relatives could replicate a taste of the Eastern Shore.

Linnell Bowen’s Mother’s Crab Cakes

Joanne Rich Co-owner and proprietress, Inn at Huntingfield Creek, Rock Hall

As an innkeeper, Joanne Rich has what she calls “a pretty nice repertoire of desserts” in her recipe stash, and her chocolate bread pudding recipe is a result of two of them. After cutting up a batch of her grandmother’s German chocolate cake to use in a recipe for macadamia nut chocolate cake towers, Rich found herself with a pile of leftover little diamond-shaped pieces of cake. “This cake has always been so absolutely delicious,” says Rich, “and it would have been a crime to throw it all away. Or it meant [my husband], Jim, and I would have had to stuff our faces full of these diamonds. None of these were good options.”

So Rich put the cake diamonds in the freezer, only to pull them out when she came up with her chocolate bread pudding recipe. “It’s unadulterated bliss,” she says of the dessert. “Lovely and simple with a molten, chocolate cake consistency.”

Joanne Rich’s Chocolate Bread Pudding

Dave Harp Chesapeake Bay photographer, http://www.chesapeakephotos.com

Dave Harp procured this recipe for bluefish dip during a visit with his college roommate and his wife at their home in Maine. “He’s a real avid fisherman,” Harp says of his friend, “and we ate it at their house and thought, ‘This is just great.’”

Harp started making it for his own parties and found that folks gobbled it up. Though he concedes that his wife, Barbara, does most of the cooking, this recipe gets him into the kitchen. “What I like about it is that a lot of people don’t like to eat bluefish,” says Harp. “It’s not as popular as rockfish or flounder. But this dip is just so good, and it uses a fish that isn’t as expensive or popular. So it’s sort of a two-fer, you know?”

Dave Harp’s Montauk Bluefish Dip

Max Onder Proprietor, Karavan: Treasures from Turkey

Max Onder remembers the stuffed grape leaves of his youth in Ordu, Turkey. “In the spring, we would collect wild grape leaves,” he recalls, “and my mom and I would just sit down and make yaprak sarma together. It was like a fun thing to do. We would make tons of them.”

After Onder moved to the States, he re-learned how to make the grape leaves, courtesy of his friend Haluk Kantar, who owns Cazbar restaurant in Baltimore. Now the grape leaves are a mandatory dish for all of his parties.

Max Onder’s Turkish Grape Leaves (Yaprak Sarma)

Renee Brooks Catacalos Community outreach coordinator, Future Harvest: Chesapeake Alliance for Sustainable Agriculture

After a Foreign Service stint in Turkey, Renee Brooks Catacalos thought she knew how to make moussaka. Then she met her late father-in-law, Louis Catacalos.

Catacalos remembers Louis, a Texas restaurateur, as “kind of Old World, first-generation, Greek-American, big hearted, generously hospitable.” He greeted people with, “Hello, come on in. You want a little soup?” she recalls. And he made a great moussaka that was a little different from what Catacalos had learned in Turkey. “It had a béchamel soufflé topping that’s a Greek thing,” Catacalos says. “It’s a very luxurious addition to moussaka.”

Catacalos’ father-in-law passed away soon after the two shared a cooking session in his kitchen, where he showed her how to make his baklava as well as his moussaka. Now she makes it in high season when eggplants are plentiful and at Easter. “Whenever we make it,” Catacalos says, “we think of him.”

Renee Brooks Catacalos Greek-style Moussaka

Margaret Julia Howard Vendor, Anne Arundel County Farmers Market

Margaret Julia Howard has been selling her toothsome baked goods on Saturdays at the Anne Arundel County Farmers Market for more than 15 years. “I don’t sell anything I don’t eat,” says Howard. “That’s just my principle. If I don’t like it, I’m not going to fix it, and these are things I fix for my family all the time.”

While many of Howard’s recipes come from her voluminous cookbook collection, her gingerbread recipe is one that’s long been in her family, passed down to her from her mother. “[My mother] didn’t make it too often,” Howard says, “but in the fall, you could always count on a batch or two.”

Margaret Julia Howard’s Old-Fashioned Gingerbread

Dawn Costigan ECO Radio host, WRNR, 103.1 FM

WRNR’s Dawn Costigan is a self-proclaimed “avid gardener [who] tends to get a little tomato crazy” when it comes to heirloom varietals. To use up and preserve the surplus at the end of the season, she adapted a recipe for oven-candied summer tomatoes created by another radio personality, Lynne Rossetto Kasper, host of American Public Media’s “The Splendid Table.”

“I love gourmet food, but I’m not the one to crank it out,” admits Costigan, who loves the “simplicity” of this recipe. The tomatoes can be frozen indefinitely and used throughout the year anywhere you might use sun-dried tomatoes. Costigan uses them on broiled fish and homemade pizza—“bachelorette cooking,” as Costigan modestly describes it—anything but dull.

Dawn Costigan’s Oven-Candied Summer Tomatoes

Luc Fouquet Co-owner, Hudson & Fouquet Salon, Annapolis

Luc Fouquet brought a taste of France to Annapolis years ago when he first made his mother’s chocolate mousse for a party “and everyone jumped on it.” Now it has become tradition, he says. “Every time I have a party it is expected.”

The key to Fouquet’s mousse is its simplicity. “People think you have to add sugar,” he says, though it’s not necessary. “It’s just eggs,” he points out. “And dark chocolate is good for you. ... It’s almost a healthy dessert.”

Luc Fouquet’s ‘Famous’ Chocolate Mousse

Lisa Hillman President, Anne Arundel Medical Center Foundation, senior vice president, Anne Arundel Health System

Lisa Hillman’s busy schedule allows little time for serious cooking. But when time and an occasion allow, she pulls out all the stops with this lemon cheesecake, a recipe she says she’s had “for so many years—at least 25—that it’s quite faded, and I cannot recall where it came from originally, but likely Bon Appétit.”

The cake takes a long time to make, admits Hillman, who bakes it maybe two or three times a year. She likes to serve it on a footed glass cake plate, where “it usually brings lots of wows” and requests for the recipe.

Lisa Hillman’s Lemon Cheesecake

While the holiday season is a time of joy, unfortunately, it can also be a time of stress. Searching for the perfect gift for a long list of family, friends and co-workers is enough to send even the most seasoned of shoppers into a retail spin.

This year the Alter Communications editors at STYLE and Chesapeake Life have once again embarked on our collaborative effort, the sole purpose being the alleviation of pre-holiday shopping angst. Pooling our fashion and design savvy, we’ve compiled a holiday gift wish list of all the objects that make our hearts go aflutter. Wish List is sure to give you loads of fantastic gift ideas and inspirations for your holiday shopping and, you might even find something to put on your own holiday wish list!

Click images for larger view. Or, download the entire section (4MB).

There are no historic markers along Virginia’s Route 13 noting that the “Father of Rock ’n’ Roll” lived and died here. No signs point toward his gravesite in Franktown, Va., which, until the late 1990s—25 years after his death in 1974—wasn’t even marked by a headstone.

Ask many in this close-knit region if they’ve heard of Arthur “Big Boy” Crudup and they’ll shake their heads. If you had asked that same question 40 years ago, many people—at least in the white community—would have responded that Crudup was the tall, soft-spoken crew leader who oversaw migrant laborers picking vegetables on the Nottingham Brothers farm. But a blues legend who wrote Elvis Presley’s first-ever hit and whose work was covered by everyone from Eric Clapton to Creedence Clearwater Revival to Elton John? Not a chance.

The truth is, unless you’re a fan of the blues, you’ve probably never heard of Arthur Crudup either. (And likely don’t realize his name is pronounced “Crood-up” not “Crud-up.”) Like many African-American blues musicians of the 1930s and ’40s, he was cheated out of royalties for his compositions while music publishers, record companies, and the white artists who covered his music got rich.

But there’s something even sadder about Crudup’s story. No other blues artist can boast such a strong connection to Presley, who recorded two other Crudup songs—“My Baby Left Me” and “So Glad You’re Mine.” And, at the end of his life, Crudup, who was born into poverty in Forest, Miss., came tantalizingly close to finally receiving those back royalties, only to be denied at the last second by a calculating music publishing executive.

Arthur Crudup may have been dubbed a king, but he spent all his days living as a pauper.

FINDING TRACES OF ARTHUR CRUDUP on the back roads of Northampton County is like following a trail that isn’t marked. Crudup, his wife, Annie, and their five children lived in a variety of glorified shacks, none of which remain standing.

The Malibu Inn, Crudup’s legendary juke joint, where the bluesman and his musical sons, Jonas, James, and George, held court and made and sold moonshine is long gone.

So I’ve enlisted a local, Billy Sturgis, to take me around. Sturgis, 53, may be Crudup’s biggest fan on the Shore. A blues fanatic who co-hosts a radio show every Saturday night on WESR-FM, he produced an album featuring the three Crudup brothers in 2000. The record, “Franktown Blues,” features Big Boy’s sons performing their father’s hits as well as original tunes. Sturgis, also a devotee of the Blues Brothers movies, owns one of the “Blues mobiles” from the second film, but it has a flat tire, so we step into his slate-colored Mercedes instead.

We drive past old farms and small, tidy houses, a pond where Crudup, an avid fisherman, likely cast his line. We end up at the bluesman’s gravesite in the Bethel Baptist Cemetery, overlooking the Nottingham farm, where he toiled for so many years as an overseer. Next to the gray tombstone someone has left a vase of fake flowers, now cracked and faded by the weather. Sturgis tells me that the family was too poor to afford a headstone when Crudup died and his gravesite lay unmarked for years. “This is where we assume he’s buried,” says Sturgis. “Jonas [Crudup’s third son] said there was a tree nearby,” he says, motioning toward a stump.

Crudup’s wife, who died in 1963, lies in an unmarked grave, as does his mother, Minnie. Crudup’s youngest son, James, who gained unwanted notoriety for robbing a local bank and then using the Crudups’ van—emblazoned with the family name—as his getaway car, lies nearby. “When James sang, he sounded just like his father,” comments Sturgis, as we stand by his headstone.

Sturgis tells me at Big Boy’s funeral someone delivered a huge bouquet of flowers—much more grand than anyone in town could have afforded. “Some people say Elvis sent it,” says Sturgis, though he hasn’t been able to verify it.

A combine rumbles past on the road as we climb back into Sturgis’ car, Muddy Waters singing about love gone bad on the satellite radio. We drive a few miles to the site of the Malibu Inn in a thick woods a half-mile west of Route 13. Sturgis has been here before, but as we fight our way through the heavily overgrown underbrush, he can’t seem to find the building’s remains. “Wait, wait, here it is,” he suddenly shouts, pointing to one of four concrete blocks outlining the building’s frame. “You got the cornerstone of rock ’n’ roll right here,” he says. “Look at it!”

We poke around at what’s left of the structure—pieces of old wood, carpet fragments, a screen window frame, and a few rusted bus seats likely used as chairs.

According to Prechelle Ames, Crudup’s granddaughter, and the only blood relative still living on the Eastern Shore, the Malibu was demolished in 1982. “I remember being in there as a little girl,” says Ames, Jonas’ daughter, now 39, who works as the operations manager for Maryland Food Bank Eastern Shore in Salisbury. “There was always somebody there. They would gamble, roll dice, play cards. It was a typical juke joint—open for business 24/7.”

But now there’s nothing left but scraps. Still, to Billy Sturgis, this is hallowed ground. “This is the real deal here,” he says, as we stand surveying the ruins. “I get choked up being here. I really do.”

Sturgis bends over to unearth a couple of rusty, 1970s-era Ballantine beer cans. “He wrote his songs and Elvis took them,” he says of Crudup. “Elvis became famous and Arthur went into obscurity. Somebody was gettin’ that money and he knew it. It’s a tragic story. … But that’s why they call it the blues.”

BY THE TIME ARTHUR CRUDUP permanently moved his family to Virginia’s Eastern Shore in the 1950s, he was already fed up with the music business. Crudup, who didn’t learn to play guitar until he was 32, had moved to Chicago in the early 1940s to pursue a career in music. As the story goes, he was living beneath the city’s elevated train tracks in a cardboard box when music producer Lester Melrose, who recorded many of Chicago’s famous bluesmen, heard him playing on the street. Melrose invited him to perform   at a party thrown by legendary blues guitarist Tampa Red,  and after some initial stage fright, Crudup impressed Melrose enough that he signed him to a contract. Crudup, then 36, recorded his first song for Bluebird records, “If I Get Lucky,” in 1941.

Crudup stood 6-feet 5-inches tall (thus, the “Big Boy” label), but he sang in a surprisingly high-pitched voice. His unique sound, clever lyrics, and preference for electric guitar at a time when most blues artists were still playing acoustic attracted listeners and his records sold well. Some, most notably, “Rock Me Mama,” “Mean Ole Frisco,” “Keep Your Arms Around Me,” and “So Glad You’re Mine,” were legitimate hits and would later be recorded by other musicians who made them famous.

According to Dick Waterman, the longtime manager of blues legends from Buddy Guy to Bonnie Raitt, and who served as Crudup’s booking agent during the blues revival of the late 1960s, “There probably wasn’t a week during the decade of the 1970s when there wasn’t an Arthur Crudup song on the Billboard Top 200 albums,” he says, rambling off a list of seminal rock albums from Clapton’s “Slow Hand” (“Mean Old Frisco”) to Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Cosmo’s Factory” (“My Baby Left Me.”)

But Crudup, who was paid an upfront fee for his recordings and signed away the copyrights to Melrose (as was typical of blues musicians at the time), only collected scant payments over the years.

“I never knew how much progress I was makin’ because Melrose didn’t tell me,” Crudup said in a 1973 documentary, “Born into the Blues,” filmed in Franktown. “I could hear my songs on the jukebox all through the South. I had a disc jockey tell me, ‘Now, Arthur, you’re supposed to be in good shape. Your records are selling second from the top.’”

In 1946, Crudup recorded “That’s All Right, Mama,” which Elvis covered and released in 1954 as “That’s All Right.” Crudup received credit for writing the smash, which established Presley as a star, but nothing from the singer other than an award plaque, which subsequently burned in a house fire. But Presley, who recorded many other black musicians’ songs, never denied Crudup’s influence. As he told the Charlotte Observer in 1956: “Down in Tupelo, Miss., I used to hear old Arthur Crudup bang his box the way I do now and I said if I ever got to the place where I could feel what old Arthur felt, I’d be a music man like nobody ever saw.” 

Still, Crudup clearly could have used some help. After his second wife was murdered in Chicago, he returned to farm work and odd jobs in Mississippi and later moved to Florida where he established a business shuttling migrant workers from Florida north to Franktown. He only went back to Chicago to fulfill his contractual obligations with Melrose. As he said in the documentary, “Every time I’d go make a record, I’d ask Lester, ‘How many records would a man have to make that he didn’t have to work on the farm?’”

DURING HIS FRANKTOWN YEARS, Crudup settled into a routine of farm work and selling moonshine to earn a living, putting his musical past behind him. “Pop Crudup was quite a distinguished maker and seller of moonshine,” says Ames. “People traveled from deep within the states to get his [hooch].” 
   
He would perform occasionally at the Do-Drop Inn (now Gidden’s Do-Drop Inn), a licensed juke joint in the area that remains meticulously maintained by its owner, Jane Cabarrus, whose father built it by hand in 1967. These days, the club, likely the last juke joint on the Eastern Shore, is mainly used as a catering hall and community center, but its long bar, pool table, and worn wooden dance floor speak to a time when it hosted musical acts from around the region.

Cabarrus, a teenager in the late 1960s, remembers Crudup acting as the club’s doorman, collecting the $3 cover charge from patrons who would come every Saturday night to drink Schlitz beers and watch his sons play R&B hits. Known as The Malibus, the Crudup brothers band enjoyed decent success and toured throughout the East Coast, but were particularly big on the Eastern Shore. “What Elvis was to the world, is what the Crudup boys were to the community,” says Cabarrus, who notes that both father and sons attracted their share of female admirers. “Every Saturday night they’d pack the house.”

Cabarrus remembers Crudup sometimes opening for his sons or joining them on stage, but she says most of the people came to see The Malibus and weren’t really aware of the blues legend in their midst. “I don’t think people knew how big he was, how great he was,” says Cabarrus. “He didn’t really become great until after he died. … A lot of us weren’t knowledgeable about how great the blues were at that time,” as Motown and rhythm and blues were the dominant sounds in the black community.

In the late 1960s and early ’70s, Crudup did record and tour again as part of the blues revival that swept the country. Lloyd Kellum, a local pharmacist and a close associate of Crudup’s, recalls the bluesman showing up at his drugstore with a beat-up guitar case and an “awful-looking fur coat.” “I asked him where he was going and he said, ‘I’m on my way to England to play for the queen.’ I thought, ‘This man is crazy.’” (Crudup did tour England and then Australia, but he never performed for Queen Elizabeth.) Later, Kellum read an article in a Virginia newspaper that referred to Crudup as the Father of Rock ’n’ Roll. “I just couldn’t believe we had this guy living in our town,” he says.

“I had no idea about who he was—and maybe he liked it that way. But after that, we made him a little celebrity around the store.” 

CRUDUP HAD WORKED with various lawyers over the years to help him recoup some of the monies he was owed. Finally, in 1973, the American Guild of Authors and Composers reached an agreement with the publishing house that held the rights to his work.

Waterman met Crudup, then 68 and frail, and his children in New York City to sign documents guaranteeing an initial payment of $60,000, plus future royalties. But as Waterman describes it, things didn’t go as planned. “Arthur signed the documents and then we waited 15, 20 minutes for the attorney to come back. He was very shaken and said, ‘[My boss] won’t sign it. He said he feels this gives away more in settlement than you could win in litigation.’

“Arthur looked at me and I said, ‘They’re not going to pay you, Arthur. You’re going to have to sue them. We’re going to have sue Lester Melrose’s widow.’ But the idea of a black man suing an elderly white woman—it just wasn’t gonna happen.”

Waterman says it was a blustery day in Manhattan as the group left the office building and huddled outside. “Them people got their ways of keeping folks like me from getting any money,” Waterman says Crudup told him. “Naked I come into this world and naked I shall leave it. It just ain’t meant to be.” 

Resigned to his fate, Crudup returned to Franktown with his children. In March of 1974, he was opening for Bonnie Raitt in Washington, D.C., when he suffered a stroke and died several weeks later at a hospital in Nassawadox, Va.

Disgusted at how things turned out, Waterman met with another lawyer, Ina Meibach, in New York City on his way home from Crudup’s funeral. Eventually, Waterman and Meibach did succeed in securing royalties for the estate, which Waterman estimates has been paid more than $3 million since.

Unfortunately, only a daughter, also named Preshell but spelled differently, and Crudup’s son George, who has battled drugs most of his life, remain alive. It’s unclear as to who’s receiving the money, as the Crudup children each had several marriages between them. All Waterman knows is that a Florida attorney oversees payments to the estate.

The tragedy that “Big Boy” Crudup was never properly compensated for his accomplishments is not lost on his granddaughter, Prechelle. “When I’d listen to his music, I used to be really, really angry and upset cause of what he should have gotten—what it would have meant for our family, what we rightfully deserved,” says Ames, whose 18-year-old son, Pharez, hopes to work in the music industry someday. “But I long got past that. I started to enjoy it and just listen.”

For Sturgis and Cabarrus, they’d like to see the county or state or somebody establish an official Arthur “Big Boy” Crudup Blues Trail, with historic markers on Route 13 and signs pointing the way toward his grave and Gidden’s Do-Drop Inn, where Cabarrus hopes to once again host live music regularly.

“Franktown people need to know about what happened here,” says Sturgis. “Big Boy didn’t necessarily create the music here, but this is where he lived and died. They should know that this is where the Father of Rock ’n’ Roll called home.”

Blink and you’ll pass the entry. The simple metal gate leading to this extraordinary Talbot County retreat is surprisingly ordinary. On reflection, the understated first impression is the appropriate entrée to this discreet hideaway. While there is no welcome sign out front, if there were one, it might say, “Enter and enjoy this natural refuge from the chaos of city life and worldly pursuits. Proceed with an open heart and respect for our planet.”

The owners, who are active environmentalists, wanted to create an intimate, secluded oasis where every visitor—from a distant cousin to a high-profile international friend—would feel welcome and at ease while always respecting the land and its creatures.

Once inside the gate, the two-mile drive to the lodge rambles through fields of wheat, corn, and marsh grasses, presenting a palette of earthy colors and textures. Other than the sound of tires crunching gravel, the conversations of chattering birds and geese are the only interruptions to blissful silence.

While the lodge is new, it appears old, as if it had been nestled along the tranquil pond for a century or two. That’s because, in a way, it is old. “Whenever possible we reused old building materials,” says Baltimore designer Henry Johnson. “The exterior wood, interior walls and floors are antique chestnut instead of new wood. Interior walls are real chinked logs.

The wood ceiling is constructed of antique beams.”

Finding such high-quality recycled materials was a collaborative effort between the clients, the firm of Johnson-Berman and ILEX Builders. Conservation efforts continued throughout the entire project.

“The owners believe we should stop throwing things away, so we repaired and repainted furniture and reupholstered what we could. Everything didn’t have to be new,” says Johnson.

Thanks to a talented team assembled by Johnson, the lodge was completed in 18 months. Consultants included Matthew Mosca, an architectural historian and expert on historic colors. (His projects include the U.S. Capitol, Mount Vernon, and the Maryland State House.) He assisted with replicating authentic paint selections in the kitchen and on selected furniture.

There isn’t one word that sums up the architectural style here. “It’s really history unfolding in a gentle, progressive way. It reflects how a 200-year-old cabin would have evolved over a period of time,” adds Johnson. “We began in the 17th century and created a timeline that combines the charm and graciousness of the past with the comfort and efficiency of modern times.”

Doors and frames were hand-worked to reflect the woodwork of the early 18th century. Soft, subtle lighting was achieved by using contemporary wrought-iron fixtures with large cylinders that bounce light off the ceiling.

Furnishings are not of the “hands-off” variety. Quite the opposite. Everything here says, “Touch me, make yourself at home.” Collectibles from the owners’ travels and family treasures inhabit each room like old friends. “You don’t put beautiful things away as if your home is a museum, you put them out and use them. That’s the owners’ mantra,” says Johnson.

Fabrics mix styles and textures. Red velvet draperies may seem an odd choice for a log cabin, but the rich color and sumptuousness add warmth to the open space. Red mohair fireside chairs are strategically placed for building new friendships or rekindling old ones.

Since there is only one bedroom in an upstairs loft overlooking the two-story Great Hall and just one full bath, the lodge is primarily used as a cozy overnight or weekend retreat.

The Great Hall and the adjoining wraparound porch are ideal spaces for entertaining guests before or after a hunt or a hike.
Naturalness and a lack of pretense are the heart of this environmentally responsible retreat. There is no need for an official welcome sign. Once inside the simple entry gate, every aspect of the place says, “Welcome.”

Mary Ann Treger writes from a historic home in Annapolis.

Chicken with rosemary and garlic.
For about 10 years, whenever I needed to impress someone with my cooking, that’s what I made. I don’t remember where I found the recipe, but I first prepared it for my parents way back in high school. I’d whip it up on nights when Mom wasn’t up to cooking and my folks would rave. If I overcooked the chicken and the meat was dry, they never let on. 

Later, I’d make it for dates, purposely easing up on the garlic, just in case the aphrodisiac properties of the extra-virgin olive oil should succeed. (Note to younger self: Extra-virgin olive oil is not an aphrodisiac.) Again, my dining companions would “ooh” and “aah,” probably because no 25-year-old kid had ever cooked them anything with rosemary before.

Chicken with rosemary and garlic was like a trusted friend. But aren’t all favorite recipes? A good recipe can be something familiar and comfortable, like a well-worn pair of jeans but also something extraordinary, like a glitzy ball gown. In other words, you throw together your crab dip for an evening with the neighbors, but you save the paella for your boss and his wife.

I was curious to see what our 10 local party hosts would say when we asked them for their favorite go-to recipes. (See “What’s Your Specialty?” on page 32.) Many gave us family creations, passed down like heirlooms from mothers and grandmothers, who likely used them as their own reliable recipes. Others were concocted on the spot and became something to be re-created again and again. Recipes also make us think about those we’ve lost, like Renee Brooks Catacalos, who told us how her gregarious father-in-law passed on his recipe for moussaka not long before his death.
“Whenever we make it,” she said, “we think of him.”

Also in this food-themed issue, you’ll find my own story on training to become a barbecue competition judge. I find it amazing how Salisbury’s annual Pork in the Park has grown into the second-largest barbecue competition in the country in just seven years. The festival takes place in April, but if you want to be a judge, you’ll have to sign up for a class this winter.

On a completely different subject, contributing writer Mary Ann Treger takes a look at Annapolis Mayor Josh Cohen’s first year in office. Cohen took over at an extremely challenging time in the city’s history, and we hear from both his supporters and critics on his job thus far.

I have to admit that I haven’t made chicken with rosemary and garlic in years. Just as friends often do, we lost touch over the decades. But now that I write these words, I’m thinking it might be nice to reunite. Besides, I’m married now, and my wife likes garlic just as much as I do. 

When cold weather comes, I naturally think of root vegetables. Nothing is more hearty—or sticks to your ribs on a cold winter’s day better—than some simply roasted veggies paired with braised meat. Roasting root vegetables is one of my favorite preparations, but there are myriad other ways to cook them. 

During winter, I also think of chestnuts—and what a great pair: celeriac and chestnuts pureed together in an elegant soup. My recipe makes the pairing even more decadent by adding rich, bacon-infused cream. The result is perfect for entertaining.

Another great starter is the parsnip and leek tart, which is simply delicious. No one will even recognize it as vegetarian! The roasted beet root-spiked risotto meets the unexpected but familiar goat cheese for a smooth and luscious culinary ride. Finally, my carrot ravioli, using wonton wrappers, is a restaurant-quality light course, but it’s actually super-easy to put together.

Start using all those nutritious root vegetables in creative ways, and you’ll be rewarded with some delicious comfort food this winter.

Celeriac and Chestnut Soup with Smoked Bacon Chantilly
Parsnip and Leek Tart with Wild Mushrooms
Carrot and Ginger Ravioli with Yellow Curry and Thai Basil
Risotto with Roasted Beets and Goat Cheese

Andrew Evans is the chef at Easton’s The BBQ Joint.

Great Travel Ideas for Fall:

1. Bike Through Talbot County
2. Dredge for Oysters on a Skipjack
3. Take a Winery Tour—By Kayak
4. Go Natural at Pickering Creek
5. Get Fired Up at Schrader’s Bridgetown Manor

>Canoeing just feels normal and natural. When you’re out there stress leaks out of you like a bucket with holes in it.

>I came back [from a wilderness camp in Northern Idaho] in the summer of ’87 and I thought it would be interesting to either go to Antarctica or run for Congress. But the people had already signed up for the Antarctic. So I ran for Congress.

>I grew up in a Republican household, but it wasn’t a matter of ideology as much as it was economics. I was an independent, but it cost $300 to file as an independent. It cost $100 to file as a Democrat or Republican.

>Did I enjoy campaigning? Let me ask you something: Would you enjoy irritable bowel syndrome? Would you like kidney stones?...Crohn’s disease? That’s how I saw it. In ’08, when I lost the primary, the job was just alien to every fiber in my being. It was a big relief. It was just eating at the marrow of my bones. Not so much that I minded the travel or the work or the hours you had to put into it, what I minded was the lack of productivity. You’d have all this information, but no one was interested. ... You could ask experts from all over the world for information and you’d bring it to meetings or hearings and nobody was interested.

>It seems they were more interested in getting their name as being present at the hearing and then talking to the press about something and then scheduling a fundraiser or a campaign event. They were not focused on the issue of the hour. They were simply handed questions and statements by their staff or talking on their phones or Blackberries. I don’t think John Adams had a Blackberry.

>The Democrats were as bad as the Republicans. They just had a different constituency to please.

>Every Gulf Coast Republican is the biggest anti-environmentalist you can imagine. And these Gulf Coast Republicans—and to some extent Gulf Coast Democrats, too—these Gulf Coast Republicans voted to eliminate the Endangered Species Act. They voted for the ‘Dirty Water Act’ in 1995 [a bill to weaken the Clean Water Act]. Every time we tried to bring in some really good environmental policy—whether it was fisheries or clean air or preserving wetlands or managing the oceans or whatever it was—they voted against it. They brought in Big Oil and now they’re all crying foul: ‘All of the fishermen are out of work! The oil is killing our marshes!’ Well, no kiddin’. Look what you did for 30 years.

>Green on the outside and communist pink on the inside —that’s what I’ve been called on a number of occasions.

>To me, all you have to do is pretty logical. We’re on this little green planet in the midst of an infinite hostile environment where no human can live. We depend on the natural resources from nature’s design, developed over millions and millions of years in a co-evolutionary fashion, and here we are at this particular moment of Earth’s evolution and the human population is bulging, raping the resources and degrading the planet that we depend on with no thought, thinking that this is the way it is.

>You know for every one person trying to clean up the Chesapeake Bay, a thousand are degrading it. And the problem with that is, they either know they’re degrading it and they don’t care, or most of them don’t know they’re degrading it. It’s the fundamental pervasive ignorance of where you fit into nature’s design.

>When I came back from Vietnam I didn’t go to college right away. I ended up living in a boardinghouse in Maine for $9 a week slaughtering chickens. That was pretty cool. I sort of got run over by a chicken truck and broke my leg and that ended my chicken career.

>What does it feel like to get shot? It feels like you’ve just gotten run over by a big truck. ... I couldn’t breathe. The first thing I thought of was my older brother Clifford when we were 10 years old in the backyard playing stickball, and I got a little too close to the swing of the stick, and he hit me in the stomach and I couldn’t breathe. And Clifford said, ‘Relax and breathe through your nose.’ And that’s what I did. I got real calm. I relaxed. I took short breaths and I could breathe.

>What happens [with politicians] is that they give up their souls. And then they stop questioning what they’re doing. And then—boom!—before you know it, they’re living their life with no meaning or purpose other than to stay in office.

>What did I like about [Congress]? I think I liked sitting in an orphanage in Ethiopia run by German nuns, tragically as it is, with children dying of AIDS. ...And then you could appropriate money to that specific place.

>The war in Iraq, I would have voted against it, having found out that a couple years later that little we were told by the Administration was true.

>In ’05 we had a really good discussion with the CIA in Damascus. ... The station chief in Syria, head CIA guy, he just laid it out for us. The whole thing was a sham. The big question was, Where did all the weapons of mass destruction go? They all went to Syria, that was everybody’s assumption because that was what the Administration was saying because [they] were toying with the idea of invading Syria. The CIA station chief started out the conversation by saying, ‘There are no WMDs in Syria’. Just like that. You want to know why? Because there were no weapons of mass destruction in Iraq—and there hadn’t been since 1991, the first Persian Gulf War. We obliterated all of them. And we put sanctions against Iraq, so there was no money to build them back.

>Sometimes they [constituents] would poke me if they didn’t like my vote. Oh, yeah, they’d stick their finger in my chest—especially when I started turning against the war in Iraq. I started pokin’ back.

>The three most important things for [a new congressman] is to be informed, be competent, and have integrity. And think for yourself. Don’t become a lapdog for some lobby group because you need money for your campaign. Be bold about what you do because so many members are afraid that they’ll lose votes in the election and they become timid legislators. And timid legislators then become less informed, less competent, and they lose their integrity.

>There’s always been a certain amount of partisanship. It’s natural—you’re on one team. But there’s also been congeniality between rivals. ... But there’s been a gradual shift to partisanship with bitterness. And bitterness is not a good foundation for lucid thinking. It creates this barrier to emotional maturity and tolerance.

>I can tell you right now if [Sean] Hannity and [Rush] Limbaugh and Glenn Beck are taking over the Republican Party, you, in essence, have the perfect formula for ignorance, arrogance, and dogma, which has been the undoing of civilizations from the dawn of time.

>[In the end] I was thinking about becoming a Democrat. Or I would have stayed a Republican and retained my independent thought. I was becoming much less interested in party politics. Never had much interest in them anyway.

>I don’t think about being happy or unhappy. I grew up during a time when your parents weren’t concerned if you were happy or not, so you don’t have that inside of you. I think being curious and free to follow your curiosity is what gives you a sense of contentment.

>If I could go back, I wouldn’t have done it.

Drinking Traditions
Annapolitans (and visiting sailors) have long been known to enjoy a good tankard of ale. But for how long? Reynolds Tavern edges out Middleton Tavern as oldest “ordinary” in A-Town by a scant three years or so. Reynolds first started serving drinks in 1747 when William Reynolds, a hatter and dry goods salesman, opened The Beaver and Lac’d Hat in the circa-1737 building. In 1750, Horatio Middleton bought the building by City Dock and operated it as an “Inn for Seafaring Men.” Middleton can claim most notable patrons, however, as George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and Benjamin Franklin all enjoyed a belt of whiskey—or two—at the bar.

Lucky Duck
Lothrope Holmes, of Kingston, Mass., was a cemetery superintendent and avid duck hunter. If he had been alive in 2006, the amateur carver would have been shocked to have seen his red-breasted merganser hen— carved circa 1870—fetch $856,000 at a Christie’s auction co-organized by notable decoy auction house Guyette and Schmidt of St. Michaels. The merganser, one of six likely carved by Holmes in his lifetime, set the record for most expensive decoy ever sold at an auction. “I’d have been happier if it made a million because that would have been a milestone,” Gary Guyette noted after the sale. If it comes up for sale again, it may. The last time the merganser changed hands was in 1976, when it went for just $6,000.

Lower Than Low
There have been some real “lowlights” in Chesapeake history (the decline of crabs and oysters and Spiro T. Agnew to name a few), but the absolute lowest point in the Chesapeake itself can be found about 1 mile west-southwest of the southern tip of Kent Island in Queen Anne’s County. At 174 feet below sea level, the natural depression is known as Bloody Point Hole. The area is also known in angling circles for harboring some very big fish. (See “What a Catch!” below.)

High Rent
Looking to upsize your house? Then check out Queenstown’s 29-room Penderyn estate along the banks of the Wye River. The 32-acre property, which features a pool, a conservatory, and oodles of antique fixtures and chandeliers, is the highest-priced house for sale in the Chesapeake region at an asking price of $14.95 million. The house was built in the late 1980s by Maureen and Mario Boiardi, son of Hector Boiardi, creator of the Chef Boyardee line of canned pastas. In this economy, mansions over $10 million don’t move so quickly, but Talbot County’s Benson & Mangold is accepting offers.

Beer Here!
Thirty-six years is a long time to be doing anything, let alone running up and down the steps at a baseball game screaming at the top of your lungs. But that’s how long the Orioles’ longest-tenured beer vendor, “Fancy” Clancy Haskett, has been offering up the suds. What’s kept Haskett going are his crazy antics (he was the subject of the 2008 documentary film, “The Story of Fancy Clancy, the Beer Man”) and his rapport with fans. “I have a large clientele of customers and fans that I have accumulated over the years. It keeps me excited about going to work,” he says. “I’ve got to keep my customers satisfied.”

The Jurors
Turns out John Briant just had some tough luck. The Maryland settler was found dead one day and a jury was called on Jan. 31, 1637 in St. Mary’s County to deliberate what happened. His trial marked the earliest court jury of 12, whose members soon determined that foul play was not involved; poor John was felled by a falling tree.

Sunday Never Ends
Its cemetery is final resting place to a Maryland governor, President Lincoln’s “silent cabinet member,” Anna Ella Carroll, and veterans from every American war (including three from the Revolution). Old Trinity Church, in Church Creek, Md., is the country’s oldest operating Episcopalian church still in its original form. Though membership has ebbed and flowed over the years, church services are still held every Sunday as they were at its founding in 1671.

What a Catch!
This fish was almost as big as the fisherman. It took 97-pound, 12-year-old Devin Nolan an hour to haul in a 67-pound 8-ounce rockfish, setting a Maryland state record for biggest rockfish caught in Chesapeake waters. The Hampstead, Md., pre-teen caught the fish in waters above Bloody Point (see above) in Queen Anne’s County on May 13, 1995. The Nolan family later stuffed and mounted the fish and donated it to the Maryland Department of Natural Resources, where it hangs in perpetuity ready to strike.

What a Catch, Part II
We’re always amazed at the prize money awarded for catching fish. Ocean City’s White Marlin Open, the world’s largest billfish tour-nament, regularly doles out millions in prize money every year. In 2005, angler Ken Coffer suddenly found him-self a millionaire when he caught a 78.5-pound white marlin, netting him $1,538,915 —the biggest prize ever awarded by the tournament.

Bet He Didn’t Pay a Toll
Maryland Gov. Theodore McKeldin made the first trip over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge when it was dedicated on July 30, 1952. He and former Gov. William Preston Lane led a procession of 24 chartered buses across the bridge. With all the sightseeing stops, backslapping, and handshaking along the way, their journey took more than 2 ½ hours—seemingly about the same time it takes to cross the bridge on a busy holiday weekend today. 

Some Like It Hot
For hot sauce aficionados, mecca is located in a Rehoboth Beach strip mall. That’s where you’ll find Peppers and the world’s largest collection of hot sauces. At 8,000 to 9,000 strong (“We gave up worrying about the exact number years ago,” says owner Chip Hearn), the collection ranges from one-of-kind Trinidadian tongue-burners to trial-size bottles of Tabasco. Hearn says he didn’t set out to establish the world record until attending a hot sauce show in the early 1990s. “We found out we had the third largest in the world and didn’t even know it,” he says. “So we made a concerted effort over that winter to be No. 1.” Thousands of bottles are for sale at his Rehoboth shop. 

You Again?
U.S. Census officials may still be sorting through the 2010 tallies, but according to 2000’s records, the smallest incorporated town in Maryland is Port Tobacco in Charles County. All 15 of its residents could fit around a generously sized dining room table.

Crab Caked
Jim Cupp, regional sales manager for Salisbury seafood processor Handy International, holds the record for cooking the world’s biggest crab cake—both officially and unofficially. He set the official Guinness World Record in 2008 when he and a team created a 235-pound behemoth, cooked over nine hours in a custom-built, $10,000 cooker with a three-foot diameter, at Dover Downs. The following year at Baltimore’s HonFest, he concocted a 253-pounder, made of 150 pounds of crab meat, plus breadcrumbs, mayonnaise, onions, pasteurized eggs, and spices. “You have to be careful because too much crabmeat and it won’t hold together,” advises Cupp, who says the cakes are about 55-60 percent backfin and lump. At press time, Cupp was attempting to break his own record at a benefit for a seafood processor in the Gulf. “It’s a big show but it’s also a great way to raise funds for charities,” says Cupp, who notes sales of sandwiches from his previous two colossal cakes helped raise funds for the United Way and Maryland Special Olympics. 

Crab Caked, Part II
They’re not quite the size of Cupp’s creations, but the area’s biggest crab cake sandwiches are created by G&M Restaurant in Linthicum. The softball-sized cakes weigh in at a hefty 8 ounces each.

Crab Caked, Part III
The record for eating the most crab cakes is held by 105-pound Sonya “Black Widow” Thomas of Alexandria, Va., who crammed 46 Phillips crab cakes down her gullet in 10 minutes at 2006’s Baltimore Waterfront Festival. (We’d like to see how she’d handle one of Jim Cupp’s crab cakes.)

Writer’s Best Friend
When Sophie Kerr bequeathed $500,000 to Washington College upon her death in 1965, it stunned college officials, and the literary prize that was established in her name is still stunning students who win it. In 2010 Hailey Reissman won the award—this year $64,243—the largest undergraduate literature prize in the country.

Among Friends
William Penn himself reportedly worshipped in Easton’s Third Haven Meeting House, the oldest Quaker meeting house in the United States. Construction of the building began in 1682 and its first meeting was held two years later. Among its builders was William Southeby, said to be the first native American to write against slavery.

A Real Naval Hero
At the 2006 groundbreaking for the Naval Academy field house which would bear his name, Wesley Brown, the Naval Academy’s first African-American graduate, told the crowd: “Somebody asked me once, did I ever think of quitting? I said, ‘Yes. Every day.’” Good thing he didn’t. Brown, who was subjected to relentless barbs from bigoted midshipmen throughout his time in Annapolis, paved the way for future minorities when he graduated in 1949. More than 1,600 African Americans have graduated since Brown, who retired from the Navy as a lieutenant commander. Barriers take time to fall, however; it wasn’t until 1980 that the academy graduated its first female officer, Elizabeth Anne Belzer.

Fit to Print
Who says newspapers are dead? The Maryland Gazette’s presses have been running since 1727 (albeit, with several lengthy stop pages along the way), making it one of the nation’s oldest newspapers. The paper, based in Glen Burnie and owned by Capital Gazette Communications, publishes semiweekly.

Shoulda Thrown in the Towel
There have been many close Army-Navy football games in the series’ 110-year tradition, dating to 1890—and also a few blowouts. The most lopsided game was Navy’s 51-0 shellacking of Army in 1973. The most points ever scored by one team occurred in 2002 when the mids took the cadets to school, 58-12. Makes us think the tradition should be renamed the Navy-Army game.

Army-Navy, Part II
One of our favorite tidbits of Army-Navy game trivia occurred in 1893 when Navy midshipman Joseph Mason Reeves purportedly wore the first football helmet during a game. He had been advised by a naval doctor that another blow to his head could cause death or “instant insanity,” so the football standout commissioned a local shoemaker to fashion a leather helmet. Reeves, who went on to become a decorated admiral, had a warship and two airfields named in his memory, but, as yet, no athletic equipment.

Wooly Pets
If you’ve ever wondered where you can find the area’s largest alpaca farm (really, who hasn’t?), just look up Angel Forbes Simmons, owner of Villa de Alpacas Farm in Southern Maryland. Simmons cares for 90 animals on 46 acres in St. Mary’s County, breeding and selling them for anywhere between $2,000 and $25,000 for top females. “Alpacas don’t eat much; you can have five to seven of them on just one acre of good pasture, and they’re great around kids,” she says. And in these uncertain economic times, alpacas also qualify for favorable tax breaks. Yet another reason to raise a herd.

In the Swim
The thought of swimming 4.4 miles across the Chesapeake from Sandy Point State Park to Hemingway’s on the Eastern Shore makes us gasp for breath. But not James Kegley, who holds the record for best time during the Great Chesapeake Bay Swim. In 1990, Kegley, who was 32 at the time, completed the swim in a smooth 1 hour 24 minutes and 28 seconds. “No one has beat that record yet,” race coordinator Vicki Saxon informs us. “Several have come close, but no one has ever beat that time.” Kegley also holds the record for most wins with six, the last one coming in 2003.

Poisoned Waters
Although the degradation of the Chesapeake’s waters can be considered an ongoing environmental disaster, the single worst incident in Bay history was discovered in 1975 when a Hopewell, Va., chemical plant was found to have been dumping waste from Kepone production, an insecticide, into the James River. More than 70 workers at the plant were poisoned and the James River was closed to commercial fishing for half-a-dozen years. Even today, Kepone is still detected in the majority of white perch and striped bass samples taken from the James.

Tall Tales
More than eight years after its demise in 2002, we’re still mourning the loss of the majestic Wye Oak, the largest white oak in the nation. So which Maryland tree is today’s champ? The state is home to approximately 23 national champion trees, including a recently crowned 136-foot-tall, 310-year-old Eastern hemlock along Broad Creek in Harford County that has been found to be the largest example of its species in the country. What’s more, according to scientists, it’s still growing.
 
Ferrying Along
Two superlatives for Maryland ferries: In November of 1683 Talbot County authorized the establishment of a ferry service for “horses and men” over the Tred Avon River, thus creating the Oxford-Bellevue ferry. The line is known as the oldest privately operated ferry service in the country. A few dozen miles south, the Whitehaven ferry has been plying the short hop over the Wicomico River between Wicomico and Somerset counties since 1685, and lays claim as the oldest publically operated ferry in the nation. 

Making Rounds
Built in 1902 and installed on the Ocean City Boardwalk in 1912, Trimper’s carousel is the country’s oldest continuously operating carousel—meaning riders get to participate in history with every spin.

Record Collection
There’s a reason folks researching their genealogy head to Eastville, Va.’s courthouse. That building holds the oldest continuous court records in the nation, dating back to 1632. Every few years, members of GHOTES (Genealogy and History on the Eastern Shore of Virginia) convene in the area to talk about the area’s history, family lineage, and ancestry on the Bay. 

Serious Sail
It’s the oldest and longest sailing race on the Bay. The annual Governor’s Cup race from Annapolis, Maryland’s modern-day capital, to St. Mary’s City, the colonial capital, runs 70 miles and was started in 1974 after two St. Mary’s College students and a recent graduate proposed the idea. Now 150 boats participate in seven classes every August. There’s more fun after the race ends: The post-party celebration was ranked one of the top 10 post-race soirées in the sailing world.

Aw, Shucks
Talk about some fast hands. Every year at the St. Mary’s County Oyster Festival, would-be shucking champs step up to a plate of 24 oysters with a blunt knife and a glove and get busy. In 1989 it took Duke Landry of Louisiana just 2 minutes and 20 seconds to cleanly shuck the two dozen bivalves, a record for fastest shucking that still stands. Virginia’s Deborah Pratt, the women’s champ 10 times over, is just 11 seconds behind, a record she set in 1992.

Shining Light
It’s becoming standard for hotels to offer eco-friendly practices such as recycling and water conservation, but Annapolis’ Spring Hill Suites gets extra green credit for being the area’s first hotel to go solar. Last June, the hotel switched on 189 rooftop solar panels, which should reduce energy costs between 15 and 20 percent. We still wonder what happens to all those barely used little soaps and shampoo bottles… 

Old Salt
At 89 years young, Capt. Art Daniels of Deal Island is the Chesapeake’s oldest waterman. He still goes out daily for oysters in winter and crabs in summer on his skipjack, City of Crisfield, which he purchased in 1951. “I fell in love right away,” he says of her. He’s also competed in just about every Deal Island Skipjack Race since its inception in 1959. 

1. What do you enjoy about racing?
I just love to race. The boat kind of comes alive. She don’t say nothing, but she’ll talk when the wind gets in the sails. She’ll obey everything that you want her to do. Over the years, you’ll learn just how she’ll react to certain breezes

2. You two have been through a lot together.
We’ve been in a lot of storms, but I never get scared. Couldn’t afford to get scared! Not when I was captain. You just have to get [the boat and everyone on it] out of the way.

3. What do you like about being a waterman?
You’re free. You go out in the morning and you used to be able to work as long as you liked. When I was a boy, I’d go out at sunrise and come back at sunset. I was my own man. Whatever I put into it I would get out it. It’s good, clean work. 

4. How’s your health? I don’t take no medication.
I take three vitamins a day—C with rose hips, B complex, and an aspirin tablet. Since 1972 I haven’t had a cold. 

5. So you’re not slowing down at all?
Not that I know of. I think you get old when you start thinking old.
If you think you can do it, just go ahead and try it. That’s what I do and I never get tired.

Postcard Central
Mary L. Martin Postcards, in Perryville, Md., offers a peek at history to all who visit the world’s largest postcard shop. After 47 years in business, the store has accumulated several million cards.

1. Why postcards?
Postcards are so unique because they appeal to such a wide array of people. Every topic in the world is on a postcard—whether it’s your home town or your favorite dog or a sport that you play.

2. What is the most valuable postcard you’ve sold?
Most of the postcards that people purchase are relatively inexpensive. You can buy an authentic postcard of Annapolis from 100 years ago for only $10 or $15. But sometimes a specific event, such as relating to the Titanic, can be quite valuable. There are cards that have sold for thousands of dollars.

3. Do you often read the backs of the cards?
If I read all the backs of the cards, I’d be in huge trouble because they are so interesting that I would never get anything done. One of the first things I usually have to tell my employees is not to read the messages on the cards.

4. Do you have a favorite from the Chesapeake area?
Well, I have a huge Maryland collection. Some favorites from the Eastern Shore show people crabbing in Crisfield, and I have some really nice ones from Baltimore that show people bringing in the oysters. A lot of old Naval Academy cards are cool, too.

5. Do you send postcards when you vacation?
Yes, I always send cards, and I always buy them because they are better than the pictures that I take. ... Everyone knows that I don’t write e-mails. If I’m sending a message, it will be handwritten with a pretty picture on the front.—Alexis Blair

Kathy Phillips pulls her skiff close to the shores of South Point Spoils, a tree-covered island in Sinepuxent Bay. The sun has just begun peeking through the canopy of clouds. Egrets glide across the sky, searching for breakfast. As she sits back and watches waves lap, Phillips could be mistaken for a conventioneer from nearby Ocean City out for a day cruise, or a youngish retiree.

But she’s not. Kathy Phillips is the little lady who started the Big Chicken War.

In March, Phillips and her organization, the Assateague Coastal Trust, filed a federal lawsuit against Perdue Farms Inc. and one of the company’s growers, Alan and Kristin Hudson, who have an 80,000-bird poultry farm just outside Berlin, Md. They accuse the farm of violating the Clean Water Act by illegally discharging pollutants into state waters—in this case, a branch of the Pocomoke River. Joining Phillips in the lawsuit are the Waterkeeper Alliance, which Robert F. Kennedy Jr. founded a decade ago. The University of Maryland’s Environmental Law Clinic also assisted in the case and will serve as co-counsel. As of press time, a court date had not yet been set.

Lawsuits over pollution are not new. Nor is it a revelation that poultry manure is a significant problem in the Chesapeake Bay’s waterways. Manure is rich in nitrogen and phosphorus, the bay’s two biggest pollutants, and chickens are mostly raised on the Delmarva Peninsula. Yet, the chicken lawsuit has rocked both the genial Eastern Shore and the sharper-elbow world of Annapolis politics.

At stake is the question of who is accountable for all that chicken manure. The chicken companies tightly control every aspect of how their contractors raise the birds, but they do not control—nor do they want to—the chickens’ waste.

Jim Perdue, whose grandfather founded the company 93 years ago, called the lawsuit “one of the largest threats to the family farm in the last 50 years” and noted that lawsuits like this one probably wouldn’t happen in Delaware. His remarks re-ignited a perennial panic in Annapolis that he could leave the state and jeopardize hundreds of jobs in the heat of the recession. Shore legislators sponsored a bill intended to strip the law clinic of state funding, though it was later amended to just require a report on its activities. Even other environmentalists were conflicted, especially those living on the Shore. Couldn’t the riverkeepers have simply called the Maryland Department of the Environment or paid the Hudsons a visit?

Phillips says she’s tried contacting the agency numerous times over the past four years, and gotten nowhere. And, she notes, you can’t just saunter up to a chicken farm, which has strict rules about visitors and isn’t likely to welcome a riverkeeper anyway.

“These are laws,” she says. “Laws are supposed to be enforced. Permits are supposed to be monitored. And that’s what I am going to do. MDE shirks their responsibility. They haven’t done their job—and people wonder why the Chesapeake Bay is in the shape it’s in.”

Phillips didn’t set out to sue Purdue. Originally, she just wanted to surf.

Phillips and her husband, a teacher, lived outside of Washington, D.C., and used to come to Ocean City on the weekends to catch the waves. They moved to the beach permanently 30 years ago. While her husband got a teaching job, Phillips eventually landed as executive director for a regional surfing association.

In 2006, Phillips ran for Worcester County commissioner. She lost. But the movers and shakers liked what she had to say, and suggested she apply for the job of Assateague Coastkeeper. The position was only a few years old; the first coastkeeper had just left for the West Coast.

Phillips got the job. She learned on the fly, literally—a pilot flew her around the Shore to show her the area. During the flight, she saw the piles of chicken manure that many farmers kept uncovered, despite government funding to help them build sheds to keep it from washing into the bay. She saw how close the farms were to crucial waterways, kept notes, took pictures. Together with the Waterkeeper Alliance, which had already taken on hog farms in North Carolina for some of the same pollution problems, Phillips pressed for stricter regulations on chicken operations, which she argued were more analogous to factories than the typical family farm. The EPA eventually agreed. Now the states are undertaking a permitting process for concentrated animal feeding operations, though they have not yet finished.

But last fall, while on a flight with a Wall Street Journal reporter and the Waterkeeper’s director of advocacy, Scott Edwards, Phillips spotted “multiple piles” of manure on the Hudson farm. She also noticed a trench from one pile that led to a drainage ditch leading to the Franklin Branch of the Pocomoke River, which empties into the Bay. The next day, Phillips took water samples from the ditch. The numbers for E.coli and fecal coliform bacteria were off the charts. Assateague Coastkeeper and the Waterkeepers filed a notice of intent to sue. 

The farmers refused to let MDE test the pile, but they did move and cover it at the agency’s insistence, says MDE spokeswoman Dawn Stolzfus. Five weeks later, based on documentation from Ocean City, MDE concluded the pile was biosolids, or treated human waste, from an Ocean City treatment plant, which farmers often use as a fertilizer to supplement manure. The state also found extremely high levels of contamination in the water but concluded it came from area wildlife. Nonetheless, they fined the farm $4,000.

Stolzfus says the fact that inspectors got the farmers to move the pile and then levied the fine shows that MDE is enforcing the law. “That is doing our job,” she says. “We took action that was appropriate.”

The riverkeepers have never been satisfied with the assertion that the original pile was biosolids, since it specifically was never tested. Perdue, for its part, maintains each farmer is an independent contractor, and it has nothing to do with an individual farmer’s decision to obtain more fertilizer, so it should not be held liable. But regardless of what was in the pile, its condition was a violation of the Clean Water Act. For that, Edwards puts the blame squarely at the feet of Perdue.

“This is a very sophisticated industry that understands very well what nutrient levels do to the Chesapeake Bay,” he says. “Every single step of the way, the industry has resisted doing the right thing.”

Perdue Vice President Luis A. Luna disagrees. He won’t comment on the lawsuit or any specifics relating to the Hudsons—and the Hudsons’ attorneys didn’t return calls for comment. But Luna points to the company’s efforts to help the Chesapeake. Nine years ago, it set up Perdue AgriRecycle, a pelletizing plant in Delaware that takes excess manure farmers don’t want and turns it into a fertilizer additive, which is sold commercially. Perdue has invested $33 million in the plant, Luna says, and this past year was the first that the plant made more money than it lost.

For no cost, Perdue will come to a farm and transport its manure to the plant, which handles about 50,000 tons of manure a year—about a tenth of the total manure produced on the peninsula.

The reason more farmers don’t take Perdue up on its offer is because the manure has value. It’s free fertilizer.

“People do want the manure. This idea that there’s tons and tons of it that is just sitting on the road and not being used is false,” says Virgil Shockley, a Worcester County commissioner who raises chickens for Tyson and saves thousands of dollars every year spreading manure on his 325 acres of cropland. “At the end of the day, manure can be recycled, and the best way is to put it back into the ground and grow a plant.”

The problem is there’s simply too much manure on the peninsula, where the amount of farmland has shrunk but the number of birds has increased. Besides, much of the soil has so much phosphorus in it already that scientists worry it can’t take much more.

Even Phillips would agree that many chicken farms are like Shockley’s—responsible stewards who follow best management practices. They keep pads on the ground to absorb any excess manure, a grass buffer between the houses to absorb pollution, and swales to direct storm water to retention ponds. And, they keep their manure in their sheds. In order to even acquire chickens from a major company, farmers are now required to have a nutrient management plan and manure and composting sheds. And they are subject to random state and federal inspections.

The devil is in the details of how each farmer manages beyond these requirements. Shockley says the farmers are trying to do the right thing—if they could only figure out what that is. Between the changing state and federal requirements, Shockley says, farmers “quite frankly don’t know what the hell to do.”

Perdue is trying to help, Luna says. Working with the EPA, the company started the Clean Waters Environmental Initiative, which uses flock supervisors to make sure the farmers are being good environmental stewards. Those programs were part of the reason Maryland Gov. Martin O’Malley gave Jim Perdue the prestigious International Leadership Award this year, much to the riverkeepers’ consternation. But Luna argues the riverkeepers are blaming the wrong people.

“If there’s any blame to be laid at the plight of Chesapeake Bay, I wouldn’t go to the farmers first,” Luna says. “It makes no sense to me, except that it’s a lot easier to blame a couple thousand farmers than it is to blame 20 million people.”

Judith Stribling doesn’t entirely disagree. A longtime environmentalist, Salisbury University biology professor, and one of the founders of Friends of the Nanticoke, she says Perdue has evolved over the years to become better environmental stewards. To get them the rest of the way, she says cooperation—not a lawsuit—is the answer.

“When the Waterkeepers filed their lawsuit, [farmers] said, ‘That’s what the environmentalists are trying to do. They want to shut us all down.’ The truth is, we have different approaches. I just am not in favor of demonizing people, especially when you’re working with people and negotiating,” she says. “These are our friends, our neighbors, our colleagues.”

Don’t tell that to Fred Kelly. In 1974, the silver-haired Severn riverkeeper was a young attorney working for the Chesapeake Bay Foundation. While there, he heard that PEPCO, the power company, was planning to build a nuclear power plant at Douglas Point along the Potomac River—the very spot where more than half of the East Coast’s striped bass spawn. Kelly knew that the plant would trap thousands of stripers, endangering one of the Chesapeake’s last productive fisheries.

He filed a petition before the Nuclear Regulatory Commission to block the issuance of the permit. But before the matter could go before the three-judge panel, CBF balked, not wanting to appear too radical. So Kelly quit CBF and took the case on himself, representing a small watershed association. He was up against PEPCO’s team of a half-dozen attorneys. He couldn’t even afford the daily court transcript.

But he won. And several years later, the state bought the property, to be forever protected. Kelly netted just $300, but he got so much more, he says. If he hadn’t filed suit, that power plant would stand today.

“True environmental protection only comes from lawsuits, where an impartial judge looks at the action being taken by the polluter and says, ‘You’re in violation of the law. You have to stop,’” Kelly says. “I can understand those groups that want voluntary compliance, but how bad does the Chesapeake Bay have to get before they decide it isn’t working?”

These days, his former employer is inclined to agree. Since 2005, the Chesapeake Bay Foundation has filed more than a dozen legal actions, thanks to a $1.25 million grant from the Philadelphia-based Lenfest Foundation specifically for litigation. It has sued regulators, municipalities, and even Philip Morris. Recently, it settled a lawsuit with the EPA after the agency agreed to meet strict deadlines and limits on its cleanup plan. It also helped kill the King William Reservoir, which would have diverted water from the Mattaponi River to create a water supply for manufacturing in Newport News.

“If we didn’t sue, that reservoir would have been built,” says Jon Mueller, CBF’s vice president of litigation. “That’s some 400 acres of forested wetlands that would be underwater.”

CBF is not part of the riverkeeper suit, but staffers are watching it closely. Obviously, Mueller says, if a chicken farmer violates the Clean Water Act, he is responsible. But whether Perdue is also liable, he says, is “a very interesting question.”

If the chicken companies were forced to also be responsible for chicken waste, Phillips and Edwards say, they would use their vast resources to look for ways to make money by turning manure into energy, and the Shore would likely be the site of many more innovations like the AgriRecycle plant. If that happened, the companies might even pay the farmers for the waste while also taking responsibility for it.

Not only would that change the way chicken companies did business on the Shore, Edwards says, but it could also help the Bay. Manure wouldn’t be piled up anymore, or at least not for long. And farmers wouldn’t have to worry they were polluting one of the state’s most precious resources.

“If we win, that is a victory for every small family farmer on the Eastern Shore,” Edwards says. “I don’t think I’ll get any thank-you notes from them, but that’s the reality.”

Contributor Rona Kobell also writes for the Bay Journal.

When it comes to apple recipes, I often prefer the simplest: a slice of Granny Smith paired with a chunk of aged cheddar. The Granny Smith’s tartness holds up wonderfully to the strong cheddar cheese, making for a perfect match. That said, apples are surprisingly versatile and sometimes I do like to get a little more creative with them.

The following recipes bump apples into the gourmet end of the spectrum. A fun presentation on an old favorite is the Waldorf salad nest that combines all the traditional ingredients but modernizes the presentation with “eggs” made from walnuts with a blue cheese center. The Granny Smith aged cheddar custard tart plays on the yin and yang of slightly sweet and savory. Pork chops and apples is a classic, but I update it by sautéing the apples in brown butter and finishing them with fresh-picked thyme leaves. One of my all-time favorite desserts is poaching apples with dried cherries then baking them off in a ramekin lined with thin buttered bread, essentially making a charlotte. Pistachio anglaise and cherry compote complete the dish. Using these recipes, everyday apples, treated with a little finesse, can be elevated to something even more special than Granny Smiths and cheddar.

Waldorf Salad Nest with Walnuts
Apple and Aged Cheddar Tart
Poached Apple and Sour Cherry Charlotte with Pistachio Anglaise
Center Pork Loin Chop with Brown Butter and Thyme-Sauteed Apples

Andrew Evans is the chef at Easton’s The BBQ Joint.

I had never met Wayne Gilchrest before our interview over breakfast at Chestertown’s Village Bakery. He showed up wearing a worn T-shirt and jeans—not the expected uniform of a politician, whom we so often see in button-down shirts and suits. He had invited me to go canoeing before breakfast, and it looked as if he already had. 

In between bites of his eggs over light, rye toast, and home fries, Gilchrest proceeded to regale me with stories of his days in Vietnam, his work at a chicken processing plant in Maine, and his enjoyment of working with kids and canoeing—two things he does an awful lot of these days.

He also reminisced about his decision to enter politics in 1987, when he was working as a high school teacher/part-time house painter in Kent County. “I was reading the Star Democrat while painting the post office in Kennedyville, and the paper said the Republicans couldn’t find somebody to run against [Democrat incumbent] Roy Dyson,” he recalled. “I thought, there has to be a voice in opposition.”

So the independent Gilchrest, who grew up in a Republican household, registered to run as a Republican mainly because it cost only $100, instead of $300 to compete as an independent.

He lost that election by just 460 votes but decisively beat Dyson in a rematch in 1990.

The political landscape is a lot different than when Gilchrest was first elected. There are far fewer moderates, of course. And “partisanship with congeniality,” as he said, has been replaced by “partisanship with bitterness.” Losing the 2008 Republican primary, he said, was a big relief. By then, “the job was just alien to every fiber in my being,” he told me.

Gilchrest was never one afraid to speak his mind and, now that he’s been out of Washington for a few years, he doesn’t hold back. He takes full swings—particularly at his own party—and disses the opposition as well. He may be relatively at ease these days, but the Gulf oil spill, dogmatic politicians beholden to special interests, and the ongoing degradation of the Bay continue to gnaw at him. As we ate, I recalled thinking that it may have been the first time I had ever heard a politician—one of them—sound like one of us.

Not all of you will agree with our choice to put Mr. Gilchrest on the cover during this election season but, like him or not, he remains a unique character of the Chesapeake who happened to have won quite a few elections.

Again, that was a different time—a time when an underfunded teacher/part-time house painter could read a newspaper article, lay down his hundred bucks, and volunteer to help run the country.
 
Until next issue,

Joe Sugarman
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A woman who lives a few hundred yards across the road has a good view of the house my wife, Jane, and I built on Tilghman Island. She tells us that she monitored the construction closely. “I kept wondering when they’d put on the roof,” she says.

“They put in the windows and then the siding, and still no roof!” 

What she didn’t realize was that the house already had its roof—a flat one. Although flat roofs are not unheard of on Tilghman, ours, which is hidden by a parapet, draws the most comments from our curious neighbors. “What if there’s a heavy snow?” they ask.

Jane and I started planning this house when we were living in a 17-foot-wide, 1880s Italianate brownstone in Brooklyn, N.Y. We wanted something very different from that house, which had carved marble mantels, dark and narrow rooms, a lot of stairs, and ornate, hard-to-dust woodwork. We wanted something bright and modern—and we wanted to get out of New York.

I had spent the 1980s in Baltimore and visited the Eastern Shore a few times. I thought Jane would like it, too. I was right. It took only a few weekend visits before we found our Tilghman Island property, 6.19 acres on the east side of Black Walnut Cove. We bought the land in 2002 and started dreaming.

Mark Beck, of Beck, Powell & Parsons of Towson, Md., took our ideas and designed a house with almost everything we wanted. By happy coincidence, he lived and worked in Royal Oak, Md., about a half-hour from our property. We had sold the brownstone in 2005 and by August of 2007, with the plans all done, we moved full time to Talbot County, renting a house while Frank E. Daffin Inc. of Easton built our home. In October 2008, we moved in.

People often ask if we had trouble adjusting from New York to Tilghman, and the answer is always “no.” We’ve found friendly neighbors on Tilghman and other new friends elsewhere on the Shore. “The people here are so nice,” Jane often says, and she means it. After a career as a newspaper editor in New York, I’m working here as a freelance writer and communications consultant. Jane, who was a vice president at a magazine publisher, is a financial adviser with a major firm.

The house—we think of it as “Chesapeake Modern”—is a relatively modest 2,400 square feet with three bedrooms and two baths. Daffin allowed us to keep costs down by buying things ourselves, like most of the flooring from Lumber Liquidators and closet and pantry components from IKEA. We were so pleased with Daffin’s work and cooperative attitude that when metal columns for the main living area were shipped with the company’s name painted on them, we didn’t allow the names to be removed. We think of the house as a signed work of art.

Within our budget, we’ve tried to be as green as possible: cement-based siding, tankless water heaters, concrete countertops, Marmoleum (an all-natural alternative to vinyl) and bamboo floors, rain barrels, and a geothermal heating and cooling system. The house can be opened to the breezes that are almost constant on Tilghman thanks to a total of nine 8-foot-tall sliding glass doors, other large casement windows, and sliding glass panels between the main living area and a screened-in porch.

One friend compared the house to a boat because we’re always aware of the outdoor environment, which is alive with tundra swans and geese in winter, ospreys and egrets in summer, and great blue herons, bald eagles, and various hawks all year, not to mention wild turkeys, foxes, and deer. Coral-colored rays shoot through the clerestory windows at dawn, starting most days with a rosy glow. At sunset, the opposite side of the cove becomes a dark silhouette of trees sandwiched between the lilac sky and the lilac water.

A bunch of Tilghman’s 940-or-so residents visited the house during its construction, many of them puzzled by a room with no door to the rest of the house (it’s for the geothermal pumps), and the 17 chains that hang from the roof (no, they won’t hold the house down during a hurricane, but are supposed to transport roof runoff from scuppers to the ground). Oh, and for the record, the flat roof easily handled the big blizzards of 2010.

People always ask us if we miss New York. Sure, we miss friends, relatives, and ethnic restaurants. The city itself? No, not when we have everything we want here on Tilghman Island.

Steve Bailey, a former editor for The New York Times, teaches at Salisbury University.

Five great summer trips:

1. New shops and restaurants at the beach
2. Funky Route 50
3. Nine palatial rental houses
4. A scenic winery tour—by kayak
5. Play waterman for a day

It’s still dark at 5:45 a.m. as George Pigge, walking with a cane, makes his way up a sloping sidewalk and up a flight of steps to the drawbridge tender’s house at Knapps Narrows. At the top of the stairs, he throws open the door and shouts “Wake up!” at Jim Rhine, whose 6 p.m.-to-6 a.m. shift is ending. Rhine, who was wide awake, gets out of a lounge chair and starts collecting his things. The movie “Erin Brockovich” is on satellite TV.

It had been a “pretty quiet” night, Rhine says, meaning he didn’t have to raise the bridge very many times. In a minute or two, he’s heading up Route 33 to his home in Claiborne. Pigge puts down the books and containers of food that will keep him going for his 12-hour shift and surveys the room from which the drawbridge, the busiest in the country, is operated. In 2009, it was raised 10,276 times, nearly double the number of No. 2, Seattle’s Freemont Bridge. When the moveable span is down, the bridge is a 71-foot-8-inch link between Tilghman Island and the southern tip of the Bay Hundred Peninsula in Talbot County. When it’s up, there’s a navigable channel about 42 feet wide for sailboats and other craft.

The room is about 200 square feet. Its windows on three walls overlook the road, the bridge, and both east and west on Knapps Narrows. The bridge control panel, full of buttons, switches and lights, is beneath the north-facing windows. There are a large television, a microwave, a toaster oven, two coffeemakers, a sofa, a table, a reclining lounge chair, and a couple of other chairs. It feels like a really, really nice treehouse.  Unlike the tender’s house at the Miles River Bridge on Unionville Road, this one has an indoor toilet. All this and $8.81 an hour, too.

“I enjoy the job here, I really do,” Pigge says, “but you couldn’t live off it unless you were retired.”

Pigge, 69, was a dispatcher for a large construction company in Northern Virginia before he retired and moved to Hurlock on the Eastern Shore. He began his bridge-tending career on April Fools’ Day 2008, at the Miles River Bridge. Since September 2009, he has been commuting 38 miles each way on the two or three days he works at Knapps Narrows every week.

At 6:28 a.m., a voice on the radio asks for a lift. Pigge first presses a button that changes the bridge’s traffic lights to red and sets off clanging bells. Another button lowers the wooden gates, and another lowers the metal barrier on the side where the gap will be when the bridge is up. A fourth button raises the bridge itself. The boat, High Hopes II, makes its way through, going toward the Bay.

The eastern sky starts brightening, but on this overcast day there is no brilliant sunrise over the broad waters where Harris Creek meets the Choptank River. Pigge settles into the lounge chair, rising with each boat that wants the bridge raised. The Terrapin, which carries workers as well as the visiting public between the Poplar Island restoration project and the project’s land base on Tilghman, goes out and back a couple of times during the morning and may very well spur more lifts than any other single boat.

By 11:15 a.m., the TV has changed to the Fox News Channel—“Thank God for television and air conditioning,” Pigge says of the job—and the bridge already has been raised 18 times, but only once for a sailboat.“We have some weather coming in,” Pigge says. A day with fewer dark clouds would see more sailboats. “Rag haulers, I call them.”

The bridge tender keeps a log of all the boats that ask for a lift as well as the direction each is traveling. The tender also has to keep a count of the cars that wait on each side every time the bridge is up. “It’s not a lot of work,” says Carole V. Wood, the lone woman working at the Tilghman bridge. “I saw the job advertised in the Star Democrat and told my husband,” she says. “He got the job and came home and says, ‘It’s so easy, you can do it,’ so after a few months I applied.”

She did work two days a week, but lately she works only one. Her husband, Sam, a former vice president of a bank in New York, works three overnight shifts.

The job may be simple and low paying, but it holds an attraction for the half-dozen retirees who cover the 14 shifts each week. “We don’t live on the water,” she says, “so we get our water views here. I really enjoy it in the winter.”

“It’s home,” says her husband, Sam, “a great waterfront location. I’ve gotten to know many of the boaters in terms of recognizing the boat names or their voices.”

Sam points out that a big diesel generator, which is beneath the tender’s house and keeps the bridge operating during power failures, means that “it’s sometimes the only place you can watch TV.”

“What’s your clearance?” a boater asks at 11:33 a.m., his voice loud over the radio. “Looks like 11 foot,” Pigge replies after looking across the Narrows to the gauge on the other side.

“Don’t think I can make it,” the boater comes back. “Can I have an opening, please?” The boat, a sport fishing boat from Leesburg, Va., called We Did It Again, passes through toward the Choptank.

“I’m a 40-foot sailboat westbound, approaching the Narrows,” another boater radios. It’s a Hinckley with a blue hull. “Pretty,” Pigge says. 

Clouds on the western horizon are getting darker and the wind is picking up, but the boats still come. The trawler Kismet from Kent Island also goes through toward the Chesapeake.

During a quiet spell, Pigge turns away from the TV to tell a story. “All the monkeys ain’t in the zoo,” he says.  “One day I was closing the bridge, had it almost down, and a dirt biker from the north ran the gate and—the bridge was still up about a foot—jumped it, somehow got the bike up and over the barricade and then slid it under the gate, all without getting off the bike. He was gone down the island. As soon as the gates were up, a state trooper raced through, trying to catch him. He hid somewhere,” Pigge says. “Everybody down here knew who it was.”

Pigge’s second story is simpler: “Had one boat coming through; had a guy and three girls. They stopped near the bridge and waved. I waved back and the girls all raised their tops. I waved back again. What could I do?”

The bridge—called a bascule bridge, meaning that a counterweight is used to balance the weight of the bridge itself—opened in 1998 and replaced a smaller and lower 1934 bascule bridge that was just to the west of the current one. That earlier bridge, which now marks the entrance to the Chesapeake Bay Maritime Museum in St. Michaels, had replaced a different type of operable bridge. One bridge or another has spanned Knapps Narrows since the 1840s.

The current bridge is one of 18 state-maintained drawbridges in Maryland; all are operated by contractors hired by the state. The three bridges in Talbot County—Tilghman, the Miles River Bridge, and the Dover Road Bridge over the Choptank that connects Talbot and Caroline Counties— are all operated by M and R Manage-ment in Kennedyville. Mike Lesniowski, a co-owner of M and R, says that when the company recently advertised an opening for a bridge tender, applications were sent out to only the first 50 of more than 100 callers.

Glenn Beck is on TV, but Pigge isn’t paying much attention as his day winds down. He says that 40 lifts and 58 boats make it a fairly active day, especially considering the wet weather. In fact, it’s coming down pretty hard when Sam Wood, wearing a rain poncho, shows up at 5:45 p.m. for his overnight shift.  Pigge gathers his stuff, which doesn’t include an umbrella, and is preparing to leave when Wood offers him his rain poncho. The loan won’t be for long; Pigge will bring it back in 12 hours when Wood ends his shift and Pigge starts another.

Steve Bailey, a former editor with The New York Times, lives on Tilghman Island.

He came to Washington with a canoe, looking for a lake. What he found instead was the Chesapeake Bay.

During the next 25 years, J. Charles “Chuck” Fox would upgrade to a kayak, and eventually a sailboat. And the Bay would become not just his playground but his career focus.

As the Chicago native moved from small nonprofits to big head-of-agency jobs, Fox never took his eyes off the Bay. How could a waterway that practically flowed past the federal government’s doorstep be allowed to suffer? Why, despite billions of dollars, significant laws and the best of intentions, was the Bay still struggling?

Fox has been in a good position to answer these questions over the years: as a high-level staffer with the Environmental Protection Agency under President Bill Clinton, an administrator with the Maryland Department of the Environment, and secretary of the state’s Department of Natural Resources.

But he has never had a more influential perch than the one he has now. Last May, EPA Administrator Lisa Jackson selected Fox to become her senior adviser on the Chesapeake Bay and the Anacostia River. Jackson created the position, Fox said, because she wanted greater accountability in the effort to clean up the Bay.

Fox’s promotion came on the heels of President Obama’s executive order, which declared the Bay a national treasure and assigned the federal government with devising a plan to clean it up. Fox along with representatives from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, the U.S. Department of Agriculture and the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service are devising the cleanup strategy.

Fox works out of the EPA’s Chesapeake Bay Program, the multi-agency effort based in Annapolis charged with implementing the past Bay agreements. He sat down in December to talk with Chesapeake Life about what’s different this time around.

Q: You came here in 1984, just as the first Chesapeake Bay cleanup agreement was signed. Did you ever think that 25 years later we would still be talking about cleaning up the Bay?

A: I remember in 1984 working on the Hughes Laws. [Named for Gov. Harry Hughes, it included Maryland’s landmark Critical Areas legislation and the phosphate ban.] It was a very huge deal. All of us, at the time, really thought it would greatly improve the quality of the Chesapeake Bay. There was this sense of ego; you were working on these big important things to save the Bay, and it was going to work! But we didn’t appreciate at the time how complicated the Chesapeake Bay was. We’ve come to learn that the Chesapeake is a bay, not an aquarium.

Q: If you had to point to one thing that has slowed or stopped the Chesapeake’s cleanup, what would it be?

A: First and foremost, the accountability to pollution control in our watershed. Our progress in controlling pollution has been woefully inadequate. There has always been regulation. It is a little bit of a misnomer that the Bay Program has been a voluntary program. The cleanup agreements were voluntary agreements, but the Clean Water Act has been around since 1972. The challenge today is using a lot of the science that we know and the voluntary spirit we had in the past and moving forward in a much more accountable way.

Q: One of your major initiatives is dealing with climate change, which is a big national issue but not one we hear a lot about when it comes to the Chesapeake. Why is that now a priority?

A: Imagine you spend all this time restoring wetlands, only to find them submerged. Climate change affects storms, the dead zone, the kinds of algae we have, the crabs. We really came to the conclusion that, as a federal family, we needed to assume a leadership role to adapt to the reality of climate change.

Q: We’ve had 25 years of agreements and promises to clean up the Bay. How is the Obama Executive Order different?

A: We’re seeing ideas and actions by the federal government that we haven’t seen—ever. EPA is trying to improve pollution control programs. NOAA is dealing with climate change. Fish and Wildlife is expanding land conservation programs like never before.

Q: A year ago, there was a debate about whether or not the Bay needed a regulatory limit placed on the pollution that a river or stream could accept (known as Total Maximum Daily Load or TMDL). Now that the TMDL is coming, how do you think it will change Bay cleanup?

A: The TMDL is the primary means of increasing accountability, increasing specificity. It is how we will achieve progress. The power of the TMDL is that it will quantify limits for all point sources of pollution, from urban stormwater to concentrated animal feeding operations. Now, we have to make sure that this TMDL yields a different result for the future than the agreements of the past.

Rona Kobell, a former Baltimore Sun reporter, is now a staff writer for the Bay Journal.

I love amusement parks. I don’t like amusement rides. Never did. I just don’t see the point of purposely making myself nauseated or dizzy. I don’t enjoy the sensation of my stomach migrating north. I prefer it where it is, thank you very much.

But I do love the colors, the smells, the excitement of amusement parks and county fairs. I can spend hours wandering the midway, eating funnel cake and futilely tossing darts at balloons. When I do go on a ride, it’s usually the bumper cars or merry-go-round. I can also stomach the kiddie rides. Most of them.

All this leads me to our article by Mary K. Zajac about historic amusement parks on the Chesapeake Bay. Now these were the kinds of parks I could appreciate! They were civilized resorts with grand hotels, dance halls, roller skating rinks, bowling alleys, and movie theaters. They had live alligators at Mago Vista in Anne Arundel County. At Tolchester Beach, ladies could have afternoon tea—in the carpeted carcass of a whale! If you got hot, you went for a swim in the Bay. Who needs
a nauseating log flume? 

Traveling to a park on the Eastern Shore was an adventure in itself. Forget about dealing with traffic—you took a steamer across the Bay. To reach Chesapeake Beach in Calvert County, you boarded a special train. How cool is that?

Oh, sure, they had rides: Ferris wheels, beautiful merry-go-rounds, rickety wooden roller coasters. (The one at Mago Vista even traveled 120 feet over the Magothy River.) There were “thrill” rides with names like The Whip or Racer Dip, miniature steam trains, and carts led by ponies or goats.

Tens of thousands visited these parks every summer weekend, which makes it so incredible that virtually nothing remains of any of them. Throughout the years, all were done in by a host of misfortunes from the construction of the Bay Bridge and failure of the steamship lines to natural or man-made disasters to the rise of Ocean City. You’d think at least one bayside amusement park could make a comeback today. Doesn’t anybody appreciate a good ride on goat-drawn cart anymore?

You’ll notice the water theme runs throughout this issue. From bayside amusements, we travel to Calvert County’s beautiful waterside nature parks to a lighthouse tour with Tilghman Island boat captain Mike Richards. In “Ups & Downs” writer Steve Bailey shadows a tender at Knapps Narrows, home of the busiest drawbridge in the United States. Who knew? 

I hope you enjoy this issue. And if I see you at an amusement park this summer, I’ll be happy to join you on the bumper cars.

Until September,
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When asparagus starts pushing its way up through the ground, spring has definitely arrived. Depending on the weather, asparagus reaches its peak sweetness and tenderness between late April and early May. When choosing asparagus, look for smooth, purple-hued spears with tight heads. My best advice is to pass on supermarket asparagus and shop your local farmers market. You will be amazed at the difference.

One of my favorite dishes to cook—and which is largely overlooked—is asparagus puree. I highlight the soup, which can be served either warm or cold, with whipped crème fraîche and chanterelle powder. Grilled asparagus served with olive oil and tarragon aioli is oh so simple but incredibly delicious and perfect with warm crusty bread. Easily prepared at home, the egg yolk ravioli and steamed asparagus is a three- or four-star dish that will dazzle your family or guests. Finally, who would have thought white asparagus paired with Pinot Noir risotto and truffle oil could look so elegant and be so easy to make? Enjoy!

Recipes:

• Steamed Asparagus with Egg Yolk Ravioli, Parmesan, and Lemon Oil
• Asparagus Puree with Whipped Crème Fraîche and Chanterelle Powder
• White Asparagus with Pinot Noir Risotto, Truffle Oil, and Fresh Thyme
• Grilled Asparagus with Tarragon Aioli

Andrew Evans is the chef at Easton’s The BBQ Joint.

For city dwellers in the early half of the last century, urban amusement parks offered cheap escapism. For a small fee and a streetcar ride across town, you could test your luck on the midway, kiss your sweetheart in the Tunnel of Love, or scream away your troubles as you rode the Racer Dip. Shore parks, however, did one better. Clustered along the eastern and western beaches of the Chesapeake Bay and along Maryland’s rivers, these parks boasted the same amusements as their urban brethren, plus the lure of surf and sand. From Mago Vista and Chesapeake Beach on the western shore to Tolchester in Kent County, parks and resorts offered a day (or week) of blissful respite from urban life.

Tolchester Beach Amusement Park, Kent County
Tolchester opened in 1877, and like other parks of the Victorian era, saw most of its visitors in the first 40 years of its existence. Getting there was half the fun. “Bring your lunch and forget your troubles out on the deep blue sea. Wonderful tonic and salt air for the babies,” read the slogan for the Tolchester Steamboat Co.

Up through the early 1950s, it remained a popular excursion for families and church groups. A 1948 Sun article, for example, heralded the opening of the new park season with the arrival of 1,800 Catholic schoolchildren from Baltimore in “rented swimsuits … eating hot dogs and soda.”

The park offered a plethora of amusements from goat-drawn carts to Shoot the Chute, on which patrons whooshed down a steep track in a boat-shaped car. Rides cost anywhere between 10 and 20 cents, and the entrance fee in the 1950s was a quarter. A sign, now on display in the Tolchester Revisited Museum, requests patrons to “Pay as you leave,” a remnant, says museum curator Bill Betts, of “an era when people trusted each other,” and offered small tokens of kindness—like the engineer of the Little Jumbo train who, as a service to young mothers, heated baby bottles on the train’s engine.

Betts’ museum is full of memorabilia that captures the spirit of Tolchester. Most interesting might be the advertisement urging folks to “Go see the whale at Tolchester,” which was an enormous carcass of a whale whose mouth cavity was carpeted and used for ladies’ teas and men’s oyster dinners, according to Betts.

Although it received state subsidies, Tolchester was “always in debt,” says Betts, and the park often failed to turn a profit. It was finally purchased for development in 1962.

Mago Vista, Anne Arundel County
Mago Vista (its name meant “large view”) was one of several parks on Anne Arundel County’s waterways. But unlike Kurtz’s Beach on the Patapsco or Crystal Beach on the Magothy, Mago Vista disallowed alcohol and gambling, making it a valued spot for families and church groups. “A small Disneyland on the Magothy,” one publication called it.

“We always went to Mago Vista,” remembers Harry Greenwell, a member of the Ann Arrundell County Historical Society’s board of trustees. “Every year St. Alban’s had a picnic there.”

Founded by builder Robert Benson, Mago Vista began offering amusements, in addition to the beach, picnic, and dance pavilion, in 1938. There was a carousel, pint-sized burros for children to ride, kiddie jeeps, the Toonerville Trolley, and the loping Little Dipper roller coaster, whose U-shaped track extended 120 feet over the water.

One of the park’s oddest attractions was its alligator pond, a concrete pool surrounded by an 8-foot fence, that held the live alligators that Robert Benson’s son, Harold, bought from the Baltimore Zoo.

In an article in The Capital, Harold Benson’s son, Robert, recalls: “When his pair of gators reached 7 feet long, becoming more difficult to manage, Dad would go up there [to Baltimore] and trade them in for a smaller set.” While the alligators were an exciting attraction for children who would catch fish and toss them to the gators, the reptiles took on a more sinister role during the ’60s when Harold Benson would leash a pair to intimidate groups who protested Mago Vista’s “Gentiles Only. No Negroes” policy. The park eventually became known as the Mago Vista Beach Club Association and sold park passes only to those who passed inspection by the clerk at the front gate.

In 1964, Harold Benson sold the park’s 14 acres to developers for $300,000.

Brown’s Grove, Anne Arundel County
Brown’s Grove, near Rock Creek, was one of the earliest waterfront amusement parks run by and for African-Americans. Founded by Capt. George Brown, who would become the first African-American member of the Master Mates and Pilots Association, the park billed itself as “the black community’s first, last, and only seaside resort with its own to-and-from excursion boat,” according to
a Sun article.

Folks would take Brown’s boat, the Starlight, from the pier at the foot of Broadway in Fells Point to the park where they could ride the merry-go-round, brave the Racer Dip, try their luck on the midway, or enjoy a simple picnic. Brown’s Grove flourished during the ’20s, but was consumed by fire in 1938.

Betterton Beach, Kent County
By the time it was incorporated in 1906, Betterton was already a bustling resort complete with hotels, restaurants and saloons, and amusements. Its location, just above the confluence of the Sassafras, Elk, and Susquehanna rivers, made it easy to reach by steamers, like the Bay Belle. Folks of means came from Philadelphia, as well as day trippers from Baltimore and Annapolis, to spend time away from the city.

There was plenty to occupy them. A postcard of the beach shows the long amusement pier that held a bowling alley and a room of pocket billiards stretching over the water. In the foreground, men in suits with hats and women in white dresses and parasols or thigh-length bathing suits rest on the beach. Other amusements included a skating rink, bumper cars, and a movie house.

Dot Wright, now a volunteer at the Historical Society of Kent County, worked as a waitress at the Betterton Restaurant in the mid-1940s when she was 13. She recalls Saturday night dance parties held in an open-air dance hall above the bowling alley and the three colorful cooks at the restaurant who whipped up everything from fried chicken to “the most marvelous dinner rolls and pies.” She says that someone at the restaurant would call daily to find out how many people were on the excursion line from Baltimore. “Somehow they always knew how many dinners to prepare.” 

By the 1950s, the beach resort had begun to fade due to the opening of the Bay Bridge, which took visitors farther afield to Ocean City. Today, it’s a public beach.

Chesapeake Beach, Calvert County
Chesapeake Beach embodied the classic “if you build it, they will come” philosophy of development. Otto Mears, a Russian immigrant and railroad tycoon living in Colorado, moved east in 1895 specifically with the idea of opening a resort on the shores of the Chesapeake and a railroad connecting it to Washington, D.C.
The first train arrived at the new resort on June 9, 1900, and by the 1920s, more than 10,000 people would make the trip on busy weekends.

The resort’s 1,600-foot boardwalk was built over the water and boasted a crab house, casino, dance hall, bowling alley, band shell, and the Great Derby, an enormous roller coaster that ran over the water.

Many day trippers took the 50-cent, 60-minute express train from D.C., but overnight guests could stay at the luxurious Belvedere Hotel, which was destroyed by fire in 1923. “It was a terrible fire,” recalls resident Elizabeth Stinnett in one of the Chesapeake Beach Railway Museum’s oral history interviews, “and we didn’t have no fire engines—no equipment at all. So they had a bucket brigade and everybody in Chesapeake Beach had a bucket and carried water, trying to put that fire out.” 

The hotel was never rebuilt, and the park was relaunched as Seaside Park in 1930. By 1935, facing competition from the automobile and the continuing Great Depression, the railroad stopped operating. The park, under new management, was reinvented again in the 1940s as the Chesapeake Beach Amusement Park, which finally closed in 1972. Eventually the land was developed into what is now Chesapeake Station, a residential community. The only vestiges of Otto Mears’ dream can be found at the railway museum, located, fittingly, at 4155 Mears Ave.             

Carr’s and Sparrow’s Beaches, Anne Arundel County
Opened in 1927 by two African-American sisters, Elizabeth Carr Smith and Florence Carr Sparrow, Carr’s and Sparrow’s Beaches, just south of Annapolis, were the destination spots for African-Americans from Baltimore and Washington, D.C., looking for sun, surf, music, and amusements.

The beaches drew huge crowds for church outings, bay swimming, beauty contests, rides, and music concerts featuring popular entertainers, from Billy “Mr. B” Eckstine and Dizzy Gillespie to James Brown and Chuck Berry. (Similar concerts were held at Henry’s Beach in Somerset County.) During the late 1950s, it was not unusual for up to 50,000 people to drive to Carr’s and Sparrow’s and pay $1.50 before noon and $2 after for a 3 o’clock Sunday performance.

“Carr’s was kind of groovy, be-boppy,” says National Public Radio commentator, writer, and social activist Daphne Muse. “Beaches were a real novel concept for us [urban African-Americans]. You saw them [beaches] in magazines. You saw them in National Geographic.” But to actually go to a beach, she explains, was a tremendous coup.

Life in the city could be tough, but the beach, says Muse, “was a place you could go and be relieved of the burdens and everyday droning of black life.” Frank Zappa played the final concert at Carr’s Beach in 1974. The property was sold in the 1980s and today is the site of Chesapeake Harbour Condominiums.

Public Landing, Worcester County
A merry-go-round and a bowling alley. A movie theater and a penny arcade. Billiards, food concessions, and a whopper of a waterslide, taller than any other buildings around it. This was Public Landing, a resort community just 6 miles east of Snow Hill. Located on Chincoteague Bay, Public Landing was an amusement hub from the late 19th century through the 1930s. But unlike other parks that were built along water, Public Landing was built on a series of piers and boardwalks that extended out over the water. One can imagine that the combination of sea spray and bay breezes acted as natural air conditioning on the walks, making the boast, “where it’s always cool,” in a 1929 advertisement for the park, a truthful claim. The park was destroyed by hurricane in 1933.

Colonial Beach, Va.
Colonial Beach on Virginia’s Northern Neck has a long history of luring tourists by steamer to its shores, earning the nickname of the “Playground on the Potomac” not long after its inception, in the late 19th century. Initially, the attractions were bathing beaches, fishing, and boating. Later, in the 1950s, Washingtonians and Baltimoreans flocked to the town’s casinos which were located on a pier that extended into the Maryland waters of the Potomac where gambling was legal. But throughout the years, there were always amusements. “Back in ’50s, ’60s, and ’70s, there was a skating rink,” remembers Jackie Shinn of her hometown, “and dance parlors like the Joyland and Palm Gardens where, in earlier years, folks would dress up to hear the big bands play.”

But if 20th-century Colonial Beach had its charms, it also had its fair share of challenges. Its location—on a flood plain surrounded on three sides by water—made it a ripe target for hurricanes (one in 1933 wiped out the Ferris wheel), and a tremendous fire in the 1960s destroyed the town’s casinos. Still, some of its Victorian buildings—like the Alexander Graham Bell House—remain. And the town has since reinvented itself by offering off-track riverboat gambling as well as the beach and easy access to historical sites, like the birthplace of James Monroe. It’s also adopted golf carts as a legal means of transportation throughout its streets.

Still, says Shinn, the town’s amusement park holds the most memories. “There was a beautiful merry-go-round, a whip, a bullet [which] looked like a capsule on top and bottom. It rotated and made you very sick.” She adds that she knows this from experience.

Freelance writer Mary K. Zajac loves a good amusement park.

Five ideas for spring road trips:

1. Eastern Shore Winery Tour
2. Adventures along Va. Route 13
3. Play in St. Mary’s County
4. Queen Anne’s County Outdoors
5. James River Plantations

You’ve likely heard of Patricia Schultz’s best-selling book, “1,000 Places to See Before You Die.” It’s a “traveler’s life list” of monuments, must-see events, and natural and manmade wonders from the Taj Mahal to Niagara Falls. One of those thousand places just happens to be the Chesapeake Bay, to which she devotes a couple paragraphs on crabs and oy-sters, and mentions a few Eastern Shore towns, including St. Michaels. (We’ll just ignore the fact that she misspells the town’s name with an apostrophe, as in St. Michael’s.)

Here, at Chesapeake Life, we decided to get a little more specific. So we created our own list of “25 (Chesapeake) Things to Do Before You Die.” From visiting Blackwater National Wildlife Refuge to reciting the “Pledge of Allegiance” at Chick and Ruth’s Delly, it’s a fun and varied compilation of must-dos for any area resident. We’ve also included a separate sidebar of must-see events. (Believe me, you haven’t lived until you’ve witnessed pumpkins catapulted the length of five football fields during Delaware’s annual World Championship Punkin Chunkin.)

One of the places we include in our list is the Chesapeake Bay Maritime Museum. This depository for all things Chesapeake boasts a stash of more than 10,000 objects but, as curator Pete Lesher told me on a behind-the-scenes tour, the vast majority aren’t on display at any given time. So we asked Lesher to pick some of the museum’s more interesting pieces hidden from view and to tell us the stories behind them.

See the results of Lesher’s diggings in “Mining the Museum.”

Another place worth exploring is the African American Schoolhouse Museum, originally a one-room school for Kent County students between 1890 and the 1950s. What’s fascinating is that many of its former pupils remain in the area, and a half dozen were generous enough to share their experiences with us in “School Days.”

And now for some housekeeping: As I mentioned in my previous editor’s letter, we’ve decided to cut back on the frequency of Chesapeake Life in 2010. After this issue, you can expect magazines in May, September, and November. If you’re a subscriber, you’ll receive the same number of issues you signed on for, but they’ll be stretched out over a longer period of time. So if your seven-issue subscription started with this issue, you’ll get four issues this year and the first three next year.

While we’ve reduced the quantity of issues to save costs during this difficult time, we will not compromise on the magazine’s quality. You still can count on the same incredible photography and interesting stories from around the Bay.

Until next issue,
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make a date
These annual events are Chesapeake musts, too.

National Outdoor Show Feb. 26-27, Golden Hill, Md., 410-397-8535, http://www.nationaloutdoorshow.org

Chesapeake Bay Blues Festival May 22-23, Annapolis, 410-257-7413, http://www.bayblues.org

Blue Angels Fly-Over May 28, Annapolis, 410-293-1000, http://www.blueangels.navy.mil

Fair Hill Races, May 29, Elkton, Md., 410-398-6565, http://www.fairhillraces.org

Delmarva Chicken Festival June 18-19, Dover, Del., 302-856-9037, http://www.dpichicken.com

Chincoteague Pony Swim and Auction July 28-30, Chincoteague, Va., 757-336-6161, http://www.chincoteaguechamber.com

Renaissance Festival weekends, Aug. 28 through Oct. 24, Crownsville, Md., 410-266-7304, http://www.rennfest.com

Crisfield Hard Crab Derby Sept. 3-5, Crisfield, Md., 410-968-2500, http://www.crisfieldchamber.com

Maryland Seafood Festival Sept. 10-12, Annapolis, 410-268-1437, http://www.mdseafoodfestival.com

U.S. Sailboat Show Oct. 7-11, Annapolis, 410-268-8828, http://www.usboat.com

Sea Gull Century Bike Ride Oct. 9, Salisbury, Md., 410-548-2772, http://www.seagullcentury.org

U.S. Powerboat Show Oct. 14-17, Annapolis, 410-268-8828, http://www.usboat.com

St. Mary’s County Oyster Festival Oct. 16-17, Leonardtown, Md., 800-327-9023, http://www.usoysterfest.com

Downrigging Weekend Oct. 28-31, Chestertown, Md., 410-778-5954, http://www.sultanaprojects.org

Punkin Chunkin Nov. 5-7, Bridgeville, Del., http://www.punkinchunkin.com

Maritime Republic of Eastport Tug of War November, Eastport, Md., http://www.themre.org

Annapolis Christmas Lights Boat Parade Dec. 11, Annapolis, 410-267-9549, http://www.eastportyc.org

As landscape architect Barbara Paca read the two-page, handwritten letter from Bob Simmons, she crumbled. The letter explained that Simmons’ wife, Marcia, had terminal cancer and wanted to make a garden on their Maryland farm to leave for her daughters. “He said it might be the last thing she’d be able to do and that she wanted to do it with me,” recalls the Manhattan-based Paca. “I immediately canceled all of my appointments and went to the Eastern Shore the next day.”

When the Simmonses purchased Centreville’s Reed Creek Farm in 1996, their idea was to turn the main house, a brick Georgian mansion built in 1775, into a B&B. But when Marcia’s illness, which had been in remission, returned two years later, the couple decided to focus their energies on a more meaningful project: creating a formal Anglo-style garden that would honor both the house’s architectural vernacular and Marcia.

“I sent Barbara that letter without Marcia knowing,” confesses Bob, who knew his wife had admired Paca’s work in gardening magazines. “That way, she wouldn’t be disappointed if Barbara told us ‘no.’ Or it would be a happy surprise if she told us ‘yes.’”

Marcia, a master gardener and voracious reader of British gardening magazines, and Paca immediately formulated a plan for the entire 175-acre estate. Marcia sought Paca for her sophisticated approach to land planning and discussed with excitement the concept of a property possessing a heart (the flower garden) and a soul (the spiral mount, a feature south of the garden). 

Marcia knew precisely what she wanted: a garden with a saturated French Provencal color scheme of orange, burgundy, and denim blue. “I remember thinking, ‘Wow!’” says Paca. “It was so forward thinking. People wanted only white or pastel cottage gardens back then. And it was a bonus that she could write the script with me. She was a participant in what she was leaving behind.”

Paca’s ultimate challenge was combining appropriate horticultural symbolism with Marcia’s request for specific colors. “In my mind, I envisioned a garden of pale-blue lavender—an ancient cure for melancholia—and orange poppies, icons of peace and rest,” says Paca, whose Princeton doctoral dissertation was on the iconography of gardens. 

Before implementing the design, the Simmonses visited a dozen landscape parks and gardens in England handpicked by Paca, who suggested they take note of details they might want to incorporate into their private Eden.

It was in the gardens of Hadspen, a 17th-century Somerset estate, where Marcia found the muse for the project’s centerpiece: a meandering brick wall with an exedra-like recess that would create a theatrical backdrop along the rear of the garden, and, at the same time, provide a graceful barrier against the harsh prevailing winds that gust off the farm’s bordering creeks.

“That wall is the most exquisite souvenir that any client has ever brought back from their ‘grand tour’ of gardens,” says Paca, whose husband, architect Philip Logan, structured the wall and gates and detailed its design. “When it was being built, it looked like we were creating the Great Wall of China, but it fit the space perfectly. Things tend to shrink when they’re out of doors, and plantings scale down architectural features even more. Furthermore, it wasn’t precious—it was as honest and muscular as the land that it was built upon.”

For an unexpected, contemporary twist, Paca sited the garden at the south side of the house and not along the property’s rear acreage, as is custom in classical English designs. To give the space depth, she created a goose-foot shaped series of paths, which stretch from the main horizontal axis like three elegantly tapered fingers. A stroll toward the top of the garden is a lesson in the art of composition, as stocky English lavender gives way to taller emberglow montbretia and even lengthier Lord Baltimore hibiscus. The secondary paths merge with a curved path following the gentle arc of the garden wall.

While the wooden gate at the end of the center path opens to the multi-dimensional view of the encroaching cornfields and creeks beyond, the gate at the end of the horizontal axis leads to the garden’s folly, Bob’s boldest contribution to the project. “I decided to turn the 15-foot-tall mound of leftover soil and rock that we were going to pay someone to haul off into a viewing mount,” he says. “It was just my style to recycle a pile of junk instead of acquiring an obelisk or something like that.”

Paca loved this idea and dressed the spiral mount, nicknamed “Bob’s Folly,” with English lavender, orange potentilla, Oriental poppies, and miniature orange petunias and installed a winding brick walkway that leads to a bench at the top.

When the design was completed in 2002, Paca turned over the helm to Marcia, who devoted the last years of her life to planting, pruning, staking, and meditating in this, her living memorial.

Since Marcia passed away in 2006, it has continued its life under the guidance of Paca, who is instructing Bob and Marcia’s daughters, Catherine and Barrett, in the fine art of continuing Marcia’s vision. “Each time we are in the garden working, with Marcia’s funeral urn situated in the wall overlooking the beautiful setting,” says Bob, “I give thanks that we encouraged her to create this garden that means so much to all of us.”

You may think this odd, but I never really liked Italian food other than pizza. It was always just OK in my book. But I must not have eaten it in the right places. That all changed last year when I started cooking the take-home meals for the Piazza Italian Market in Easton. I began studying authentic Italian food cookbooks and using quality ingredients and—wow, what a difference! Suddenly, Italian food was delicious and bursting with flavor.

What I found so remarkable was how simple the food was to prepare. Just using the right ingredients made the ubiquitous meatball something extraordinary and the typical stuffed shell a melt-in-your-mouth treat. I made a minestrone soup full of vegetables and orzo that was good enough to be gobbled up by my kids, who came back for seconds. And my lasagna, layered with Bolognese sauce and ricotta will have your company asking for more.

Everyone has most likely tasted these dishes before—they are part of the standard canon of Italian-American food—but I entreat you to get back to the basics with these recipes and redefine how good they can taste.

Recipes:

• Lasagna with Bolognese Sauce and Fresh Ricotta
• Minestrone Soup
• Meatballs with Sweet Basil Tomato Sauce
• Stuffed Shells with Ricotta and Italian Herbs

Andrew Evans is the chef at Easton’s The BBQ Joint.

For more than 50 years, African-Americans attended Kent County’s one-room Worton Point Colored School No. 2. Now a museum, its former students share memories of attending a segregated school without indoor plumbing or running water. Despite these shortcomings, many say it was the best education they ever received.

They sit around the long table in the old Worton Point Colored School No. 2, seven African-American men and women in their 60s and 70s, all but one former students of the school, sharing memories of their days here in the 1940s and ’50s. They mention teachers: Miss Taylor, Miss Turner, Miss Gibbs. They remember games of dodgeball and Annie-over, collecting ferns in the woods, a pot of soup set to simmer for lunch on the potbelly stove at the front of the room.

The green-shuttered, whitewashed building, built in 1890, looks much the same on the inside as it did when they were students, they say, except for the wood paneling that covers the walls, the drop ceiling, and the thick gold carpet on the floor. The old red water pump and green enamel sink where students washed out their cups are still in the same corner. The Lord’s Prayer is written across the blackboard in the front of the room, and you can still catch a glimpse of the coal house from the side window.

The large cross studded with small light bulbs hanging above the blackboard is a remnant of when the schoolhouse was used as a church in the 1980s while the current church, St. George Methodist, was being rebuilt nearby, they explain.

“I wasn’t fortunate enough to go to a one-room school,” says Kay Somerville, the one adult in the group who was not a student here. “But I’ve been in this community for 50-some years, and this building is very important to me because we have used it so spiritually.

“Every community needs a church,” she continues, “’cause when you go past it, even if you don’t attend, you know it’s there. The school is the same way.

All those precious memories.”

Under the guiding hand of Somerville’s daughter, the gospel and jazz singer Karen Somerville, the precious memories of the individuals who attended this more-than-a-century-old Kent County school are being preserved. Renamed the African American Schoolhouse Museum, the small building has become a repository for the Eastern Shore’s largest collection of 19th-century photographs of African-American life, according to Karen Somerville. It also contains pictures and memorabilia from the community, whose 70 members are direct descendants of freed slaves from the nearby Gale plantation, now known as Andelot Farm.

Somerville didn’t intend to establish a museum when in 1994 she put out a call for community photographs and artifacts to display at the former schoolhouse. Her effort was part of a fundraiser for the completion of St. George Methodist Church next door. She intended to dismantle the schoolhouse exhibit after the fundraiser, “but there was such a great following, I ended up having to leave the exhibit up,” she explains. “I never thought it would be long term, but once I realized what I really had, then I just decided that’s exactly what we need to do is turn this into a museum.”

Somerville has since added to the schoolhouse’s historical collection, and recently received a grant that will allow her to compile a CD of stories and songs gathered from people who attended school or church here.

Visiting the museum is a view into a community both typical and yet utterly particular of the African-American experience on the Eastern Shore. Inside, church pews and school desks speak to the building’s varied uses over the years. (After the school closed in 1958, the church purchased the building from the Kent County Department of Education and used it variously as a meeting hall, community center, and church.) On side displays, an old wooden ironing board and iron, a soup ladle, and a handsaw sit side by side with school report cards and diplomas. There are photos everywhere—of a female student, dated 1956, in a neat white blouse, her hair pulled back; of the Heavenly Echoes, a gospel group who performed in the five-county region. A hand-lettered sign sitting atop a glass case filled with undocumented photos, reads “Who are they?” and Karen Somerville admits that “occasionally people come in and recognize photos of their families.”

But it’s the stories of the former students who lived and learned in Worton Point that create a true portrait of life in this small community north of Chestertown. Says Somerville, matter-of-factly: “Before Hillary Clinton went to Africa and learned it takes a village, we lived that way.”

One-room schoolhouses were an integral part of the African-American educational experience on the Eastern Shore in the late-19th through the mid-20th century, and although exact numbers are tricky to pin down, records show that in 1927, there were 16 “colored public schools” in Kent County in historically African-American communities like Morgnec and Melitota. Although they eventually became part of the Kent County school system, schools like the one at Worton Point were established by the community, not by the local government. “The establishment did not really see a need to see us educated, but our ancestors did,” says Airlee Johnson, a retired real estate professional who attended Worton Point in the 1950s. “And I’m sure they worked very hard to have the schools in their own community. [It was] a grass-roots movement.”       

The Worton Point school served grades 1-6, after which students attended the all-black Garnett High School in Chestertown.

Karen Somerville’s father, Alton Somerville, was a student at Worton Point in the 1940s. A tall man with an engaging grin, he recalls how hearing the ringing of the morning bell on his way to school was his cue to start running. He’d fly down the wooded path dressed in knickerbockers and long stockings, passing through the old cemetery, past the boys and girls outhouses behind the school, to be in his seat at 9 o’clock in time to join the teacher and 30 or so students in singing “My Country ’tis of Thee” or another devotional song.

If you were late, remembers Joan Freeman, another former student, the teacher would recite a rhyme—“Dollar, dollar, 10 o’clock scholar/You used to come at 9 o’clock, but now you come at noon”—and you wouldn’t be allowed to come to school until noon the next day, a shameful situation you wouldn’t want to have to explain to your parents.

Absences from school were a matter of course; young men were needed to work the fields during harvest, and young women, like Irene Moore, the museum’s chief docent, whose mother kept her home every Monday to help with laundry, had household chores to attend to. But lateness was never tolerated, as an old report card in the museum suggests. Alice Phillips may have missed 51½ days in 1925, but she was never late, and her grades were more than acceptable.

School days, the former students remember, had a comfortable routine. The recitation of the Lord’s Prayer and the “Pledge of Allegiance,” the latter said outside while one of the boys raised the flag to the top of the flagpole if the weather was good, followed devotions. Roll call came next, and then the teacher opened the windows for some fresh air to accompany morning calisthenics before lessons began.

The students in each grade sat together, explains Alton Somerville, and while the teacher worked with the handful of students who made up each grade (there were eight in his class), students in other grades would read their lessons or study. Basic subjects like reading, arithmetic, and spelling were taught by grade, but sciences and social studies were taught to the whole school. This arrangement “worked well,” says Airlee Johnson, “because we could learn from each other.”

Interspersed with lessons were music and art appreciation. Emma Lively, a classmate of Alton Somerville, remembers a song the class learned to help them identify ferns in the woods.

Johnson, who attended the school a decade after Lively, recalls the teachers the county sent in for weekly art lessons. “They were the only white teachers we had,” she says. “We did finger painting and clay, but we used real clay. None of that Play-Doh. And that was fun because we had a chance to play in real dirt.”

Discipline was ingrained from the start. “There was none of that speaking out, you know,” says Alton Somerville. “You had to ask. You had to raise your hand to say something.”

Punishments ranged from being hit with a switch that students would fetch themselves to standing in the corner to a ruler’s smack across the palm of the hand. Irene Moore recalls having to write “I must be quiet in class” over and over on the chalkboard—but only once. “I learned my lesson,” she says. Greater transgressions might result in a letter home to parents or the ultimate shaming, a public dressing down in church on Sunday by your teacher.

“There was an awful lot of order in class,” says Johnson. “Teachers didn’t lose control. Because then your parents would hear about it and that was the worst thing.”

School discipline involved physical work as well. Students were assigned chores, from cleaning the outhouses to bringing in coal from the coal house to keep the potbelly stove burning to patrolling the cloakroom to make sure all the coats and hats were hung up tidily. “We had to sweep the floors every day,” recalls Rudolph Black, a student at the school in the 1950s.

“The only thing we didn’t do was cut the grass.”

Local students often went home for lunch, but during the winter months, explains Lively, each child could bring their own bowl to have a hot lunch that the teacher had simmering on the coal stove at the front of the room. It was beans or soup, often thick with hominy, and its smell filled the classroom. When the coal stove was replaced with gas heat, Rudolph Black remembers, the teacher would go to Irene Moore’s family home next door to cook the soup.

The school day ended at 3 o’clock when students heard the bus rumbling over the hill and lined up orderly for dismissal. “You’d go home, and you couldn’t wait until the next day to go back,” says Alton Somerville. “School was fun to me [then].”

What is most clear in conversations with former students is that in the era of segregation, this closed, intimate community of the classroom was a boon, rather than a burden. “A lot of children now, they don’t like to go to school, but it was like family here,” says Moore. “We sang together, we learned together, we prayed together. And I just loved it.”

School was less engaging, the former students say, when they moved on to Garnett High School. Despite the fact that it was a treat to go to a school with running water and indoor bathrooms, larger classes and less attention from teachers made students treasure their one-room schoolhouse experience even more. “I learned more out here than I learned at other schools,” says Alton Somerville, echoing what other former students express. “When [the teacher] taught you something here, you knew it.”

“When I see other classmates that were here, it’s like [seeing] an old family member,” says Airlee Johnson with a smile. “It’s like our own little private school—with a lot of love.”

Freelance writer Mary K. Zajac wrote about historic Chesapeake cookbooks in our last issue.

Paul Reed Smith has come a long way from tinkering on guitars and amplifiers as a teenager in his Bowie, Md., home. His eponymous company, now in its 25th year, employs 230 people at a Stevensville, Md., factory, and his instruments are played by guitar virtuosos from Al Di Meola to Carlos Santana. Guitar World magazine credits Smith’s high-quality instruments with spawning “a full-blown American guitar renaissance.” CL interviewed Smith in January and learned that his passion for making guitars is rivaled only by his passion for playing them—and also for fishing in the Chesapeake Bay.

> My father wanted me to be what he was, a mathematician. That’s what my son wants to be. It must skip a generation.

> [When I was starting out] I’d say, ‘Here, play my guitar. What do you think?’ I didn’t have anything to lose.

> I always thought I had a lot to offer. Initially, no one really thought so. There are other people in the world who think they have a lot to offer and everybody says, ‘You do. You do.’ I was on the other side. I thought I had a lot to offer and people were saying, ‘No you don’t. No you don’t. No you don’t.’ It’s courage. It’s not confidence. Confidence is something that’s earned.

> I wasn’t going to survive in a one- or three-person shop anymore. [When we started the company], the goal was survival. There was no way I was going to be able to raise a family or send kids to college or anything like that on the income I was making. We wanted to do well while we did well, if you know what I mean. To take care of our employees while they took care of us. A symbiotic relationship. I think it’s gone pretty well.

> There are really good people here. Salt-of-the-earth people in this area. And I mean that in a very positive way.

> You just don’t hear people say the word ‘terrific’ anymore.

> Getting older sucks. What you get is a much better view of the world, and you gain confidence in the heat of battle. But your body just doesn’t continue to work the same way.

> I like snooping around in estuaries.

> I grew up fishing on the Patuxent River five days a week as a kid. My father owned a boat and we were always out on the Chesapeake Bay.

> I’ll tell you one thing that’s disturbing. I went fishing off the Bay Bridge last year and I got my quota of rockfish quickly and they were all sick. There’s something really wrong. When I was a kid they weren’t that sick.

> It’s been a very, very difficult economy. I’m not sure if we’ve had our best year or the worst year. It would be the best year if we should have gone out of business and we didn’t. And it would be the worst year because we’re just breaking even.

> Two-hundred and thirty people work here. That’s a lot of responsibility. You know what it feels like to have a fire at the door. Got to protect what’s inside.

> M. Scott Peck, who wrote “The Road Less Traveled,” said that life is difficult, and when you finally accept that life is difficult, then it becomes way less difficult. I’m trying to absorb that one.

> I don’t like making a defining moment on a journey.

> Is my journey a success? I don’t know. I’m not done yet.

> I get a rush out of good performances—whether they’re playing my guitars or not. I get a rush out of wonderful instruments. I still get goose bumps.

> What’s it like to have Carlos Santana play an instrument with my name on it? Awesome.

> The industry is split into three sections. The people who are working hard to [produce] the best they can. The people who are just [coasting] along. And the people who believe you can buy something for a tenth the cost of something old and it sounds just as good.

> I walk down to the factory constantly. I was down there this morning. I was down there this past weekend carving necks. I like making guitars.

> I get more of a rush from playing guitars than making them. But it would probably be the other way around if I spent more time playing them than making them. I really enjoy playing guitar. Really enjoy it. You can’t get the smile off my face.

> Do I feel like a success? The only way I can answer that question is that on my 40th birthday and my 50th birthday, I felt like celebrating.

> It’s the American dream come true.

Five ideas for winter getaways:

1. Take a Latin food tour
2. Visit Europe (on the Bay)
3. Visit an art gallery
4. Stay at a booklover’s B&B
5. Go (discount) shopping!

Chef David Clark
Julia’s, Centreville, Md.
“I like Joss Café & Sushi Bar in Annapolis. I pretty much let the chef decide what to prepare for me. And I’ll pretty much eat anything there—the sushi, rolls, sashimi; there’s nothing that I don’t like. One of my favorites is the Stop Light Roll, with red, yellow, and green caviar. It’s kind of loud and kind of a crowded place, but I like the electricity of the restaurant itself. I get energized when I’m there.” Joss, 195 Main St., Annapolis. 410-263-4688, http://www.josscafe-sushibar.com


Chef Kevin McKinney
Brooks Tavern, Chestertown, Md.
“If I go out during the weekend, I like Procolino Pizzeria in Chestertown. This is pizza heaven for me. It’s owned and run by two brothers, Sal and Vinny, who have been doing it for 28 years. I usually get the Roll Up—it’s like a calzone—and either a slice of the margarita or garden pizza, with tomatoes, onions, mushrooms, and spinach. They don’t use fancy ingredients, but it’s done right with quality ingredients. The atmosphere is modern and clean, with paintings by Chestertown artist Jimmy Reynolds on the walls and some scenes from Italy. I went around the country for a year and couldn’t wait to get back home to eat their food. I think it’s some of the best pizza going. If I could bring one food with me to a desert island, it might be this pizza.Procolino Pizzeria, 711 Washington Ave., Chestertown, Md. 410-778-5900.


Chef Ian Campbell
Bistro Poplar, Cambridge, Md.
“I like going to Ocean Odyssey Seafood Deli [in Cambridge]. It’s a great place to drink a beer at the bar and get some appetizers. I always get the crab tater tots. They pick all their own crabmeat, and they also sell steamed crabs. I also really like the burger—it’s big and juicy. It’s like going over to my friend’s house, welcoming and not pretentious at all. My wife and I also like to go to Thai Ki in Easton. I get the spicy turmeric beef; she likes to get the red duck curry. I know how well chef Andrew Evans knows Thai food, and I like the flavors he creates.” Ocean Odyssey, 2829 Gypsy Hill Road, Cambridge, Md. 410-228-8633; Thai Ki, 216 Dover St., Easton, Md., 410-690-3641, http://www.thai-ki.com


Chef David McCallum
Tilghman Island Inn, Tilghman, Md.
“What’s so great about [Annapolis’] Jalapenos is that the food is very, very different from the food I do at my inn. I like ethnic food in general, and Spanish food is something that lends itself to conviviality. I really like the chili rellenos, but I eat all over the menu, which is nice because if you’re with a group of friends, you can order lots of things and share. My favorite way to eat is to get as many tastes into the meal as you possibly can. It’s not brightly lit, but you also don’t feel like you have to get out a flashlight to read the menu. You also don’t feel like it’s too formal or that you have to be quiet while you’re there.” Jalapenos, 85 Forest Plaza, Annapolis. 410-266-7580, http://www.jalapenosonline.com


Chef Giancarlo Tondin
Scossa, Easton, Md. 
“One of my favorites is Bistro Poplar. It has a very nice wine list, and the food is appealing. I like the high ceilings, and the bar is a very comfortable place for cocktails before dining. Each table has its own privacy, so it’s a good place for conversation. I like chef Ian Campbell’s duck and gnocchi. He has some good experience having worked at French Laundry in California. And I definitely like Mason’s for lunch. They have a good selection of dishes. I love the crab cakes and the mussels. The atmosphere is so relaxing—it makes you feel like you are on
vacation. Being a restaurant owner myself, I look up to the Mason family for what they’ve been able to deliver for such a long time.” Bistro Poplar, 535 Poplar St., Cambridge, Md. 410-228-4884, bistropoplar. com; Mason’s, 22 S. Harrison St., Easton, Md. 410-822-3204, http://www.masonsgourmet.com


Chef Keith McCord
O’Leary’s Restaurant, Annapolis
“I work all the time, but when I go out, I go to Tsunami. The ambience of eating outside is nice. I usually go with the fresh fish special. I also like the sashimi, the toro or the spider roll. I like the quality of the ingredients and the consistent, good quality of the food. The flavors are not too heavy, and everything’s clean and precise. There’s always something new and inventive on the menu that I haven’t seen before, and as chefs, we’re always looking for something new.” Tsunami, 51 West St., Annapolis. 410-990-9868


Chef Chris Fazio
Ava’s Pizzeria & Wine Bar, St. Michaels, Md.
“I’m one of those guys who likes to belly up to the bar and drink a couple of beers. That’s why I like Legal Spirits. The cream of crab soup is amazing. If I could have that hooked up intravenously, I would. It’s nice and quiet there, dimly lit, and just very comfortable. It’s a great place to unwind. I also like the Washington Street Pub. I always order the Chuck Mangold sandwich [roast beef and onions on sourdough with melted provolone]. It’s greasy and absorbs all the alcohol. There’s just something about sitting at a bar that makes it happen for me.” Legal Spirits, 42 E. Dover St., Easton, Md. 410-820-0765; Washington Street Pub, 20 N. Washington St., Easton, Md. 410-822-9011  


Chef Michael Hollywood
Paul’s Homewood Café, Annapolis
“After I’m through with 12 hours of cooking, I don’t feel like getting dressed up and going to a formal restaurant, so quick and easy food is the theme. With the economy the way it is, I end up getting pizza a lot. On occasion, I go to Rocco’s Pizzeria. I usually get a pie with pepperoni, onions, and mushrooms. I also like the gyros at Chris’ Charcoal Pit. It’s convenient, and they have the traditional Greek gyro with the meat cooked on a stick. It’s a little down-home restaurant with good food.” Rocco’s Pizzeria, 954 Bay Ridge Road, Annapolis. 410-263-9444; Chris’ Charcoal Pit, 1946 West St., Annapolis. 410-266-5200, http://www.chrischarcoalpit.com


Chef Chris DeLaurentiis
Mitchum’s Steakhouse, Trappe, Md.
“I really like Marlin Moon Grille in Ocean City. I like chef Gary Beach’s style—seafood with an eclectic flair. I always order Freddy’s seafood pasta, which has great shrimp, scallops, and crabmeat in a pesto cream sauce. They also have a really good appetizer called Matt’s buffalo shrimp; it’s a spinoff on chicken wings but not heavy on the batter and pretty spicy. You can eat in the fine dining section, but I like to sit at the bar where it’s more casual. It takes an hour to get there from where I live, but it’s worth it. My girlfriend and I make a day of it. We hit the beach and then stop at the restaurant on the way home.” Marlin Moon Grille, 12806 Ocean Gateway, Ocean City, Md. 410-213-1618, http://www.marlinmoongrille.com


Chef Daniel Pochron
Mason’s, Easton, Md.
“I’m only off on Sunday and Monday, which are the two days when most restaurants on the Shore are closed, so it’s hard to eat out. But if I’m going to spend the money, I eat at Bistro St. Michaels. I trust chef David Stein, and I think he’s talented. I like his entree cote steak and spicy wine and garlic broth mussels. And the service is great. When I’m there, I know I’m going to get a good meal, have a good time, and have a great experience. It’s a western shore-caliber restaurant on the Eastern Shore. It’s an intimate place, but when you’re there, you can fly under the radar.” Bistro St. Michaels, 403 S. Talbot St. St Michaels, Md. 410-745-9111, http://www.bistrostmichaels.com

Chocolate is easy to love but can be tricky to work with. Chefs study and work with it for years and still do not get it right. Luckily, these recipes bypass some of the more complicated techniques to minimize your frustration and time.

Before you start, there are some basics you should know: Store chocolate in an airtight container at 60 to 70 degrees. (If you store it in a place that’s too warm, the cocoa butter rises to the surface and gives the chocolate a gray haze; too damp, and the chocolate forms gray sugar crystals on the surface.) If, when melting chocolate, it gets lumpy and hardens, add some vegetable oil and stir the chocolate until smooth.

Bittersweet, semisweet, sweet, milk, and white all refer to chocolate’s makeup. The higher the percentage of cocoa mass, the more intense the chocolate flavor and the least amount of added sugar.

Let’s start with a good old standby recipe that anyone can tackle—chocolate truffles, an after-dinner treat that will even impress the mother-in-law. The little white chocolate tarts with candied lemon rinds are super easy and elegant. The layered mousse cake can be made large or as individual servings for dinner parties. The self-saucing puddings are great because the batter can be made in advance then simply baked for 15 minutes.

So gather up all the bowl- and spoon-licking volunteers you can find. It’ll make cleanup that much easier.

Recipes:

• Self-Saucing Chocolate Pudding with Double Devon Cream
• Layered Chocolate Mousse Cake with Chocolate Sauce and Crème Chantilly
• Chocolate Truffles
• White Chocolate and Lemon Cheese Cake with Candied Lemon Rind

Andrew Evans is the chef at Easton’s Thai Ki.

It’s not easy for a Manhattanite to trade the rapid pulse of the city for the gentle rhythm of the Eastern Shore. But that’s exactly what veteran interior designer Don Wooters did. After being away from his native Easton for 20 years, he returned for an extended visit. While home, former clients began requesting his services, and Wooters soon realized that the Shore potentially held just as much for him as the Big Apple.

Now all that was left was to select a homestead, which he and his partner, Clay Railey, dean of a college in Pennsylvania, found in a cozy, 2,200-square-foot contemporary house in Oxford, filled with light and plenty of room. The pair spent the next four years transforming it into their ideal residence, a space that integrates sophisticated aesthetics with the Shore’s natural beauty. “Our imaginations sold us on the place,” says Railey. “The floor plan wasn’t anything like it is now, but we could imagine how to make it happen.”

Out went the pine-paneled walls, built-in china hutches, and clunky woodstove; in went ebonized floors, a fireplace with black granite surround, and linen-white walls. “When I was in New York, I had
a tiny apartment that was painted in lacquered aubergine,” recalls Wooters, co-owner of Dwelling & Design, an Easton-based interior design boutique. “It was a night time place. But here I have so much light and space that I wanted everything to be white.”

The couple’s art collection was also a driving factor behind Wooters’ choice of wall color. “Clay and I are both enthusiastic about abstract artists, so we created a clean palette for our collection,” says Wooters. “We also put in a lot of key lighting above the paintings, which makes the art come alive. Most winter evenings, the only lights we use in the house are the ones above the paintings and the fireplace.”

Balancing the bold art in the living room are graceful, white Lee Jofa sofas that border the fireplace, which, come Christmastime, is draped with a simple strand of fresh greens. To break up the rectangular shapes that dominate the room, Wooters chose a circular, silver-leaf mirror from McLain Wiesand Custom Built Furniture in Baltimore to occupy the place of honor above the fireplace. The mirror permanently holds the reflection of the ponds and weeping willow trees that sweep over the surrounding grounds.

“Wherever you sit in the living room, you can see outside,” says Railey. “It’s just like you’re sitting in the middle of it all—like living in a glass house.”

To combat clutter in the diminutive kitchen, Wooters designed a wall of well-camouflaged white storage cabinets. He also created an island with a façade of faux, pear wood cabinets and false top, which hides the sink and appliances. To accommodate a dinner party for up to 10 friends, Wooters found a round, glass-top Peter Dudley table. “Seating at round tables is the best way to have conversation,” he says, “that way, everybody’s included.”

“I like the whole open space of the living room, dining room, and kitchen,” adds Railey. “It’s all very fluid and easy, and you’re never away from your guests.”

The living room and kitchen double as a hallway, dividing the guest bedroom wing from the master bedroom wing. It’s in the guestroom where Wooters introduced the whimsy of color to the house. Here apple-green walls, inspired by the Lee Jofa English linen print drapery, bring to life crisp, white linens and artwork ablaze in pastel colors. “I wanted a room where people could see an intense color that they wouldn’t have chosen in their home,” says Wooters. “I wanted to make it an experience.”

In the study, neutral tones once again gently dominate. The room’s icy hues and luxe textures were inspired by a floor-to-ceiling abstract landscape painting that covers the west wall. A Swedish day bed dressed in linen velvet graces the center of the space, where the pair relax for evening cocktails and Clay’s daily exercise of completing The New York Times crossword puzzle. Says Railey: “We can look out on the pond and across to the neighboring fields and pine forests. It’s such a beautiful view of the natural landscape. Between the artwork and the visual space outside, we have all the color in the world.”

Gary Jobson has made a living as sailing’s most dedicated advocate. He won an America’s Cup alongside skipper Ted Turner in 1977, bagged two Emmys for coverage of sailing at the 1988 Olympic Games and the 2006 Volvo Ocean Race, and was honored with US Sailing’s most prestigious award, the Nathanael G. Herreshoff Trophy, for outstanding lifetime contribution to the sport. More recently, he won his toughest competition yet: a two-year battle with lymphoma. In October, CL caught up with Jobson on a rare morning in his Annapolis office to talk about his first sailboat race, a lesson from Ted, and overcoming cancer.

> Sailors have a unique ability to get along with each other. On a boat, those are your brothers and sisters; you’re close.

> Sailors can also be cliquish and often über-competitive —on the water, on land, and in everything they do. As I get older, I am slowly learning that winning at all costs isn’t everything and that what you learn is more important than how you do.

> I’ve been in more than 5,200 races, sailed 62,000 miles, written 16 books, produced 720 television shows, written 900 articles, had 2,350 speaking engagements, and visited 370 out of 1,000 yacht clubs [throughout the world]. 

> My first sailboat race was when I was 6. I crewed on a sneakbox, a 15-foot wooden, gaff-rigged catboat, on Barnegat Bay. I was given three jobs: keep the boat dry with a bucket and sponge, hold the course chart, and don’t ask dumb questions. So it was the first race, and all the boats were behind us. I hadn’t said a peep, the boat was bone dry, and the skipper asked me to point out our next mark, but I didn’t know because the course chart had fallen out of my pocket. We went to the wrong buoy and lost the race. I learned a lesson from that, and for the rest of my life, I’ve always known what the course was and had a goal. 

> It was 2004, and I was lying in the hospital in Baltimore after my stem cell transplant. I was 145 pounds. (I’m now 210.) I was really feeling bad for myself. I started thinking about the sneakbox race and how bad it was to lose the chart. I thought that if I could get out of that jam, maybe I could get out of this jam, too. I then realized I needed a goal. I said to myself, ‘I’m going to get up, and get out of this bed.’ I resolved that if I got out of the jam of being sick, I was going to help people and be more service-oriented. Since then, I’ve helped raise more than $32 million for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society.

> I’ve lived in Annapolis for 32 years. Annapolis is a town that’s very accepting to newcomers. You don’t have to be born here to be accepted.

> Besides my parents, the person who has most influenced me is Ted Turner. He’s got this incredible work ethic, but what really sets him apart is that he’s a visionary. The biggest lesson I’ve learned from him is that the most successful people are those who do something that hasn’t been done before.

> My scariest moment sailing was in 1964. I was sailing an 111/2-foot Penguin on Barnegat Bay, and this unbelievable storm welled up. This thing was racing across the water—thick, black clouds—and the wind started to build. I was going really fast, and suddenly I lost control and the boat just exploded and capsized. I landed in the water under the sail. Thank goodness I had my life jacket on. The whole thing was over in 10 minutes. As a result, over the years I have erred on the side of caution.

> The first time I did a show for ESPN I had an on-camera with 30 seconds of copy to read. It took 30 takes to get it right. I suddenly realized this wasn’t so easy…

> I never pushed my daughters to sail. All of them were in sailing programs when they were young, but they suffered from the opinion of others that said, ‘You have a famous father, you should be winning.’ It was hard for them to excel because of that. They’ll go cruising anytime, but none of them race.

> The very best sailors are calm in the heat of battle, and I’m sure that translates to their personal lives. It’s the second-tier sailors who scream and yell. I wonder about their character. Great sailors—Dennis Conner,
Ted Hood, Buddy Melges—none of them yell.

> It was 1969, and I wanted to go to a concert with a friend of mine, but the 420 Nationals [a dinghy regatta] was in town. I couldn’t decide what to do, so I asked my dad. He said to go to the regatta, that I could go to a concert anytime. I still can’t believe I chose the 420 Nationals over Woodstock.

Cookbooks are much more than simply collections of recipes. They are a cultural archive of the times, a reflection of tastes and trends. Here are 10 regional cookbooks, published between the 1930s and the present day. Their authors include a former first lady of Maryland, the vice president of a defunct piano company, a couple of restaurateurs, members of a local junior league, and a guy who tests his recipes in something called a ‘crab lab.’ All reflect the time and place in which they were written and include recipes inspired by the bounty of the Bay.

Eat, Drink and Be Merry in Maryland

Compiled by Frederick Philip Stieff, 1932

THE SKINNY: “Eat, Drink and Be Merry in Maryland” is Frederick Philip Stieff’s love letter to Maryland’s gastronomic traditions. Compiled in 1932 when Stieff was vice president of the piano company that bore his family’s name, Stieff mines the state’s culinarians, including home cooks, restaurant managers, and many African-American domestics, for their local specialties.

QUOTABLE: In order to capture the spirit of both the cook and the recipe, instructions are written in conversational and often frank language without a separate list of ingredients. A recipe for frogs legs from W.T. Emory, manager of the Log Inn on the Chesapeake in Annapolis, advises that, “Frogs should be served right after they are killed.” Stieff’s headnotes for the recipes reflect his devotion to the state’s local bounty: “Maryland seafood properly cooked is all that the most exacting palate can demand. The pleasure it gives can be augmented only by indulgence within the sight of its famous origin—the great Chesapeake Bay.”

RECIPES HIGHLIGHTS: Oysters have their own chapter, as does a section devoted to “The Cooking and Stuffing of Hams and the Curing of Meats,” but it’s the “Jellies, Preserves, and Pickles” chapter that offers such long-forgotten comestibles as calves’ foot or isinglass jellies and cucumber catsup.

A Cook’s Tour of the Eastern Shore

Prepared by the Junior Auxiliary of Memorial Hospital of Easton, Md., 1948 (first printing)

THE SKINNY: This quintessential community cookbook captures an era when hostesses served punch and women used their husband’s first and last names prefaced by “Mrs.” as their own. The charm of the cookbook lies in trying to identify how many hands transcribed the book’s handwritten recipes and numbered pages, or the artist behind the sweet pen-and-ink drawings like a rabbit relaxing in a frying pan.

QUOTABLE: The game section fascinates with recipes for rabbit, dove, muskrat “tred avon,” and a short discourse on the difference between wild ducks you eat and so-called “trash ducks.” (The text admits, “you eat trash ducks too, but there is some difference in the cooking process,” namely, a soaking in salted water “to remove the strong-
tasting blood.”)

RECIPE HIGHLIGHTS: Mrs. Kenneth B. Millett offers an easy refrigerator cake that through the magic of gelatine [sic] and separated, thickly beaten egg whites and yolks, requires no baking. Just as unusual—but perhaps more appealing—is Mrs. William T. Hammond’s white potato pie spiced with brandy and nutmeg.

My Favorite Maryland Recipes

Mrs. J Millard Tawes, 1964

THE SKINNY: Written during her tenure as Maryland’s first lady (1959-1967), Helen Avalynne Tawes’ “My Favorite Maryland Recipes” simultaneously invokes the traditional food of her Crisfield upbringing and the days of formal dinner parties—like the one she and the governor hosted in honor of then Sen. John F. Kennedy in 1960—that began with a fresh fruit cup and ended with mints. The cookbook was no mere side project for a governor’s wife; Tawes loved cooking. In her introduction, she calls it her “avocation.” She was committed to preserving old Maryland recipes she learned from her mother and mother-in-law and spoke to her readers as fellow cooks.

QUOTABLE: The most endearing quality of this cookbook is Tawes’ voice, which reveals itself in homespun language, like, “A girl just wasn’t worth her cooking salt unless she knew how to make terrapin soup” or “Crab cannot be enhanced, only complemented” and the small descriptive asides she adds to her recipes (kidney bean salad is described as “sounds very plebian but really delicious!”).

RECIPE HIGHLIGHTS: Although Mrs. Tawes includes detailed instructions for Maryland-cooked muskrat, most of her recipes reflect a less rustic, though thoroughly Eastern Shore sensibility (see pink rhubarb sherbet, sweet pickled watermelon, fried cucumbers).

Maryland Seafood Cookbook volumes I-III

From the Maryland Department of Seafood and Aquaculture (formerly the Office of Seafood Marketing), 1980s

THE SKINNY: You don’t necessarily associate the Maryland state government with culinary prowess, but in the early 1980s, the state’s Office of Seafood Marketing published three paperback volumes of seafood recipes that became popular enough to be reissued in the mid-’90s. (All three volumes are available for sale at marylandseafood.org/cookbooks.) Volume I covered “traditional tidewater recipes,” featuring Maryland favorites like crabs and oysters. Volume II tapped into the restaurant community with 93 recipes from Maryland chefs, while Volume III ventured into 1980s “contemporary cooking techniques,” offering microwave-friendly seafood preparations.

QUOTABLE: Volume II, in particular, is a snapshot of Maryland seafood restaurant history with recipe contributions from venerable spots like Oxford’s Robert Morris Inn (oysters a la Gino) and now closed favorites like Busch’s Chesapeake Inn in Annapolis or the Quarterdeck Restaurant in Ocean City, accompanied by pen and ink sketches of the old buildings.

RECIPE HIGHLIGHTS: Volume I’s six recipes for crab imperial invite a week of recipe tasting with one day off for rest!

Mrs. Kitching’s Smith Island Cookbook

Frances Kitching and Susan Stiles Dowell, 1981

THE SKINNY: An intimate glimpse into the rhythm of Smith Islanders’ daily lives that’s part social history, part cookbook. Arranged by season, the book offers the basics on cleaning bluefish and shucking oysters to the difference between clams and manos or soft-shell clams. It is less about Mrs. Kitching herself than of the community in which her (now-closed) restaurant flourished, but it is through her homey recipes and Susan Stiles Dowell’s lyrical prose that we come to know Mrs. Kitching and Smith Island itself.

QUOTABLE: The book is peppered with local tales like “Eddie’s famous shark story,” in which Eddie Evans caught a huge shark when the fishermen from Crisfield told him what he’d been seeing in the water was really a stingray.

RECIPES HIGHLIGHTS: While the recipe for Mrs. Kitching’s 10-Layer Smith Island cake (possibly the original recipe made without the now-common Duncan Hines cake mix) is not in the cookbook (it can be found on the Smith Island website, smithisland.org), you can find recipes for Eastern Shore comfort food like stewed crabmeat and dumplings and homemade scrapple made from pork liver and lean salt pork. Mrs. Kitching’s fig cake makes use of homemade fig preserves, a result of the island’s bounty of fresh fruit in the summer.

From a Lighthouse Window: Recipes and Recollections

From the Chesapeake Bay Maritime Museum in St. Michaels, Maryland, 1989

THE SKINNY: The use of “recollections” in the subtitle is apt, as this volume is as much a history lesson as it is a cookbook. Divided roughly into two halves, the first part is a compendium of historic photos, stories, and recipes like the (non-edible) mast glop, a combination of varnish, boiled linseed oil, and turpentine used to coat boat masts. The second half of the book reflects the culinary evolution of the Eastern Shore, with mostly contemporary recipes that include ingredients like tamari soy sauce and capers interspersed with regional recipes, such as Southern Maryland stuffed ham or ones featuring local ingredients like silver queen corn in a corn souffle.

QUOTABLE: The book relates the famous story of when little Mary Jane Haddaway spilled peas down Harry S. Truman’s back at a lodge on Jefferson (Poplar) Island, and the president quipped: “Aw, hell, honey, don’t worry about it. You’ll have a story to tell your grandchildren.”

RECIPE HIGHLIGHTS: Some of the historic recipes are associated with families who have lived on the Eastern Shore since the 19th century, like Mildred Kemp’s secret ingredient crab soup (the secret ingredient is a pinch of sugar), created at Wade’s Point Farm, today known as Wade’s Point Inn.

Chesapeake Bay Cooking

John Shields, 1990

THE SKINNY: With his boyish good looks and easy charm, it’s no wonder chef John Shields garnered an audience for his Chesapeake Bay Cooking television show on PBS. But it was his “Chesapeake Bay Cooking,” the show’s inspiration, that launched regional Eastern Shore cooking into a national spotlight in the early ’90s.

QUOTABLE: Narrated with folksy good humor, Shields takes readers on a tour of maritime Maryland, introducing them to local cooks like St. Mary’s native Joanne Pritchett, who admits that when she’s preparing to make authentic beaten biscuits, she gets herself “good and mad” by thinking about her sister-in-law who ran off with her husband after her grandmother’s funeral, a thought that “galls [her] into making some of the tenderest biscuits around.”

RECIPE HIGHLIGHTS: Shields ranges all over the region for his recipes, including instructions for peppery South of the Mason Dixon greens and a mace cake whose flavor is so addictive, Shields concludes, that mace must be a drug. Alva Crockett, the three-term former mayor of Tangier Island, dictates a recipe for Tangier Island clam chowder that calls for 50—count ’em—clams.

Queen Anne Goes to the Kitchen

The Episcopal Church Women of St. Paul’s Parish, 1993, 3rd edition

THE SKINNY: The original 1962 edition of “Queen Anne Goes to the Kitchen,” bound in cardboard covers and held together with metal rings, was created as a fundraiser and contained recipes contributed by families in this historic parish, originally founded in the 17th century as Chester Church, just outside of Centreville. The 1993 edition celebrates the parish’s 300th anniversary of its official establishment by the Vestry Act of 1692. It’s a thoughtful volume, divided into sensible chapters like Seafood, Bread, Pickles and Jams, Poultry, and Game, and the pages are interspersed with snippets of prayer, information about the church, and drawn renderings of parish architecture or church symbols.

QUOTABLE: In a recipe for Maryland beaten biscuits from the first edition, a line instructs: “beat batter hard for 20 minutes with the back end of an axe.”

RECIPE HIGHLIGHTS: As would be expected, the third edition reflects a more contemporary cooking sensibility, listing taco pie and golden nuggets, aka, chicken fingers, as well as more formal recipes, like the one for “real paté,” and the very old-fashioned and traditional Truitt family recipe for sweet pone. You can even find recipes for the date bars and peanut blossoms from the annual St. Paul’s Cookie Exchange.

The Chesapeake Bay Crabbiest Cookbook

Whitey Schmidt, 2000

THE SKINNY: When you’re a self-proclaimed “blue crab guru” and “crustacean sage,” one of your 10 Chesapeake Bay-based cookbooks has to be dedicated to crabs, right? Whitey Schmidt’s “The Chesapeake Bay Crabbiest Cookbook” is just that and more. Schmidt includes traditional preparations like Eastern Shore crab fritters and 19(!) recipes for the crispy soft shells whose photo graces the book’s dust jacket.

QUOTABLE: Schmidt peppers his book with crab-related photos (check out the shot of his son’s crab tattoo) and colorful tidbits and opinions about Chesapeake crab culture, including this nugget of crustacean logic:?“If Maryland is for crabs and Virginia is for lovers, then the Chesapeake Bay must be for crab lovers.”?

RECIPE HIGHLIGHTS: Schmidt tests all of his recipes in his Crisfield kitchen “crab lab,” so you can trust his instructions from avocado soup with lump crab to crab-stuffed zucchini bowlers wharf. Bohemia River crab stew calls for leeks, crab roe, crab meat, sherry, cream, and egg yolks. Tile Bridge crab casserole includes cooked lobster and artichoke hearts as well as crab. What’s not to like?

A Thyme to Entertain: Menus and Traditions of Annapolis

The Junior League of Annapolis, 2007

THE SKINNY: Compiled by members of Annapolis’ Junior League, the book’s menus are designed around entertaining, from a steeplechase picnic to a graduation celebration to a football tailgate.

QUOTABLE: Hostess tips for various events appear throughout. “When entertaining for a racing event make sure your table decor is upscale. Use your best linens, china, and silver…Ladies, don’t forget your finest hats. Men should wear seersucker suits and leave their socks at home.”

RECIPE HIGHLIGHTS: The recipes themselves aren’t entirely regional, though, you will find Eastern Shore chicken salad and some locally named recipes, like Kent Island Dessert Cheese Ball and St. Michaels Fruit Delight. Many recipes are quick and use shortcuts. The ever-popular whiskey cake, for example, calls for vanilla instant pudding mix and a generous amount of whiskey to doctor up a yellow cake mix base—a reflection, perhaps, of the busy life of today’s hostesses.

Mary K. Zajac treasures her small library of regional cookbooks.
All cookbooks are still available through local libraries or online retailers.

Tucked away on a winding country road midway between Chestertown and Rock Hall on Maryland’s Eastern Shore lies St. Paul’s Episcopal Parish, more than 300 years old, with its picture-perfect, cozy brick church and surrounding 19-acre graveyard. One late afternoon when I visited, the serenity of the place was broken only by the chorus of ducks and geese enjoying the adjacent millpond. I was wandering the graveyard and having trouble finding a particular tombstone—the final resting spot of the turbulent, talented, and scandalous Tallulah Bankhead, star of stage, film, radio, and television from the 1920s until her death in 1968.

That the denizen of the Stork Club and other Manhattan watering holes who boasted “I’m the foe of moderation, the champion of excess” should end up in a quiet country churchyard in Kent County seems ironic; but her sister, Eugenia, who lived on a nearby farm, insisted. The pair, who had a contentious love/hate relationship during their lives, now lie side by side in the graveyard.

I was not the first person to look for Tallulah’s grave. Far from it. Sue Reep, the church secretary at St. Paul’s, laughed as she told me, “If I had a nickel for everyone who asked me where she was I’d be rich. You wouldn’t believe how many come.” According to Reep there’s a steady stream of visitors to the churchyard who venerate the once-great actress as a kind of cult figure and often leave bottles of bourbon (her favorite drink) or flowers atop her flat stone.

The celebrity’s grave is at the very edge of the churchyard, next to a stretch of woods and beneath a spreading tulip poplar—and about as far as you can
get from the church itself. Small wonder: The occupant of the grave supposedly never set foot in the church during her lifetime. 

And what a lifetime it was. The whole world knew her by her first name—“Tallulah”—a celebrity of the brightest magnitude and the highest paid actress of her day. She had a deep, smoky voice immediately recognizable to millions—a voice, in the words of a fellow actor, “steeped as deep in sex as the human voice can go without drowning.” She talked nonstop. One stunned listener said memorably: “I’ve just spent an hour talking to Tallulah for a few minutes.”

The actress famously doffed her clothes at parties, swore like a longshoreman, and was rarely seen without a cigarette in one hand, a drink in the other. And then there were the drugs. “Cocaine isn’t habit-forming,” she once said. “I should know. I’ve been using it for years.” She laughed with abandon but was heartbreakingly lonesome, despite the entourage she surrounded herself with—as the years went on, mainly handsome, young gay men (she referred to them as her “caddies”), who fetishized her campy, over-the-top style.

Family life drew her to the Eastern Shore. Her nephew Billy, now in his late 60s, still runs a sheep farm in Rock Hall with his wife, Cindy. Both are regulars at Chestertown’s farmers market on Saturday mornings and I’ve enjoyed their delicious lamb chops and lamb sausage.

Billy has long since given up talking publicly about his famous aunt, but Cindy still speaks fondly of Tallulah. Though “diva-ish,” Cindy says, “she was very sweet and kind. Quirky. And demanding. I remember when she was trying to quit smoking, she insisted that someone sit next to her and blow smoke in her face.” (She never was able to break the habit.)

Cindy told me that blue-eyed Tallulah gave her permission to name her newborn daughter after the actress, with one proviso: “If her eyes turn brown, I have to rename her.” She was, of course, immediately smitten with the baby and referred to her thereafter as “my darling namesake Tallulah.”

Locals still recall the celebrity with affection. When Jim Messersmith and Barry Barr used to visit Rock Hall by boat, they’d hear stories of Tallulah’s exploits from the owner of the local marina. They were instantly hooked—so much so that when they established a hotel in 1999, they named it in her honor, Tallulah’s on Main. Its “Bankhead Suite,” appropriately enough, sports a queen-sized brass bed. (They didn’t come any brassier than Tallulah.) And a reproduction of Augustus John’s well-known painting of the actress (the original is at the Smithsonian’s National Portrait Gallery) hangs in the hotel’s parlor. Dressed in pale pink and pearls, her arms demurely folded, her heavy-lidded blue eyes looking downward, the young Tallulah appears both beautiful and sad.

Messersmith regaled me with stories about the actress in Rock Hall. She was known to do her food shopping at Myers Brothers, a small grocery store long since closed, that was next to the hotel.The grocers happily catered to Tallulah’s needs. If she placed an order by 9 a.m., they promised that she’d get whatever specialty item she needed from Manhattan by 5 p.m.—the bus driver would hand-deliver it.Stories about her continue to make the rounds: Tallulah in a duck blind dressed in mink and pearls (no camo for her), and flying with Kent County’s Louisa Carpenter, a DuPont heiress and early aviatrix.

Cindy Bankhead is not entirely convinced by some of the tales, remembering instead how Tallulah “liked to be inside” where she’d play cards with her sister, Eugenia, and entertain friends. The biggest chunk of time Tallulah spent in Kent County was during the last summer of her life. She stayed for several months after the ceiling of her New York apartment collapsed in July 1968. Cindy recalls that the siblings spent much of the time arguing over childhood grievances, continuing a life-long rivalry over their father’s affections. (William Bankhead, a powerful U.S. congressman from Alabama and Speaker of the House from 1936-40, supposedly preferred Eugenia to Tallulah, and the latter never forgot it—nor forgave her sister.)

Not long after her return to New York, Tallulah contracted Asian flu; that combined with the emphysema that she suffered from proved fatal. She died in December at age 66, her sister at her side. Leaving the world in melodramatic style, Tallulah’s last words were “Codeine ... bourbon.” Wrapped in a favorite dressing gown, her coffin lined in baby blue silk, Tallulah was buried at St. Paul’s; Eugenia threw herself on her sister’s casket during the service. Tallulah wanted her favorite motto, “Press On!” inscribed on her tombstone, but her sister won that final battle: The flat stone simply states the star’s name and the dates of her life span.

Even in death Tallulah continues to mesmerize. At least seven biographies have been written about her since 1968, and she’s been portrayed onstage by both Kathleen Turner in “Tallulah,” and Valerie Harper in “Looped,” the latter earning accolades this past summer at Washington’s Arena Stage. The play may yet end up on Broadway this fall. Tallulah, no doubt, would be thrilled.

Donna M. Lucey is the author of “Archie and Amélie: Love and Madness in the Gilded Age.”

Really, who doesn’t like cheese? Silly question—everyone seems to in one form or another. Chefs often joke that if we want to sell a dish, just add cheese!

In my quest to come up with cheese-oriented dishes for this column, I decided to develop recipes in which cheese becomes the main focus of the dish, from appetizer to dessert, with proper accompaniments and flavor pairings.
 
The first recipe is a salad of greens, sliced pears, and crostini topped with a melted, Italian goat cheese called Nocetto di Capra. It’s a perfect example of a soft, ripened cheese, slightly sweet, with a velvety texture. Next is the sautéed gnocchi with a cheese sauce made from Fontina, a semi-soft, cow’s milk cheese that becomes more pungent as it ages. It’s an Italian favorite for its melting abilities. The cheese course is a little nontraditional, served with stewed fruit and oatmeal and hazelnut crisps—both perfect accompaniments to the Australian Roaring Forties Blue Cheese, which has honey notes, and is super creamy from being aged in wax.

Lastly, I picked a trifle of pound cake, caramelized peaches, and mascarpone cheese for dessert. Mascarpone is a cultured cheese, produced without aging or introducing bacteria. Sweet but tangy, it’s a great substitute for traditional pastry cream. So there you have it—four very different dishes but all with a chef’s best secret in common.

Recipes:

• Mixed Greens, Pears, Radishes, and Warm Goat Cheese Crostini
• Vanilla Poached Dried Fruits, Hazelnut Oatmeal Crisps, and Roaring Forties Blue Cheese
• Sautéed Gnocchi, Poached Egg, and Fontina Cheese Sauce
• Caramelized Peach Trifle with Crema di Mascarpone

Andrew Evans is the chef at Easton’s Thai Ki.

In the early 20th century, do-it-yourself kit homes helped fuel the spread of suburbia. Now, with appreciation for the simple and sturdy houses on the rise, an expert tours Annapolis, searching for kit homes among the town’s Georgian- and Federal-style jewels.

Imagine building a home of your own, at half the market price, using top- quality materials and the latest architectural designs—and all from a kit engineered to be so simple that an amateur carpenter could assemble it in a few months.

Too good to believe? Not for the urban dwellers of the early 20th century who, by the thousands, ordered catalog homes from more than a dozen companies, including Sears Roebuck, Montgomery Ward, and Aladdin. The catalogs, written in often flowery prose, informed customers that they, too, could live the American dream by following a thick manual of step-by-step directions and build a house on their own land, often within a streetcar ride of the crowded downtowns.

It was the birth of suburbia, shipped in 30,000-piece kits, each packed in one or two railroad boxcars and delivered by train or even barge. Sears estimated that the average man could, in good weather, build a kit house in about 90 days. Prices ranged from $500 or so up to $5,000, while styles varied from simple cottages to grand, two-story Victorian mansions.

No one knows for sure how many of the kit houses were sold, but Rosemary Thornton, author and national expert on the kit home phenomenon, says that Sears Roebuck alone sold 75,000 in 370 different designs between 1908 and 1940 across the country, including the Chesapeake Bay area.

Annapolis may boast one of the greatest concentrations of Georgian-style buildings in the country, but it also has a little-known collection of kit houses tucked among its stately homes and brick townhouses. “Annapolis has a dazzling collection,” Thornton says. “And it’s unusual because so many of the homes were the finer kit homes with nice amenities, lots of space, and with prices over $2,000.” 

Last fall, photographer John Sheally and I tagged along with Thornton and Patricia Blick, chief of Annapolis’ Historic Planning Commission, on a “windshield survey,” an informal inventory of the city’s kit houses. We’ve toured with Thornton before so we weren’t surprised when she loaded Blick’s lime-green Volkswagen Beetle with cartons of well-thumbed vintage kit home catalogs, copies of the books she’s written, and binders of notes.

A decade of tracking kit houses and memorizing catalogs has evolved into a personal, almost mystic relationship between the 50-year-old author and the houses she loves. “The houses call out to me,” says Thornton, aka, “The House Whisperer.”

Kit homes have undergone sometimes massive renovations, making many of them nearly unrecognizable so Thornton ranks her finds on an authenticity scale of 1 to 10, a measure we’ve nicknamed the Rose Rating. Her evaluations are frank, sometimes melodramatically so. “Architectural train wreck” translates as a kit home that’s been neglected or “modernized” almost beyond recognition. We hear “Poor baby, this is a sin, I feel your pain,” and we know she’s commiserating with a kit house victimized by insensitive remodeling.

To authenticate a possible kit home, Thornton needs to get inside, exploring attics and basements, brushing cobwebs out of her dark hair to search for rafter markings. Wedging her tall frame behind commodes and bathtubs, she checks for manufacturer’s marks. She crawls under breakfast nook tables and scrutinizes doorknobs and hinges. She asks for any surviving original documents.
Often this all occurs while the bemused homeowners, who may never have heard of kit homes, nor suspected they were living in one, get an impromptu Thornton history lesson.

In 1906, two brothers, a lawyer and a newspaper reporter in Bay City, Mich., inherited a lumber company from their father. To boost sales they developed boat kits with pre-cut, numbered pieces for easy assembly and then moved up to offering kits for houses.

Ten years later their company, Aladdin, was offering a full-color catalog of kits for small bungalows up to large Foursquare and Colonial Revival styles.

Sears Roebuck had been selling building supplies in its catalogs since 1895, but not very profitably. In 1908, the company introduced its “Book of Modern Homes and Building Plans,” which featured new kits in seven revisions in just one year. The final version offered 44 home models (and one school). Houses ranged from $695 to $4,115. The school, priced at $11,500 for plans and materials, was the only commercial structure Sears ever offered, according to Thornton.

As other competing firms—Montgomery Ward, Harris, Gordon Van Tine—entered the kit house market, Sears bought up lumber and millwork firms to supply the kits. It sold furniture and accessories to duplicate the catalog illustrations of the home interiors. The company also offered mortgages to individual kit home buyers—one-stop shopping, catalog style.

But soon the Depression soured the housing industry—and kit house sales. In April 1933, Thornton says, Fortune magazine reported that the sales of Sears kit houses had decreased 40 percent from the previous year. As sales continued to fall, Sears followed the example of other struggling kit home manufacturers and published its last “Book of Modern Homes” catalog in 1940.

In the early 1990s, the vintage houses resurged in popularity as preservationists and home restorers rediscovered their nostalgic charm and solid durability. Thornton and a handful of other experts have identified hundreds of kit houses across the country, hoping to save them from inaccurate restoration or demolition.

And now she’s visiting Annapolis.

We’re following the green Beetle as Blick leads us through early 20th-century neighborhoods where she suspects kit houses might be found. Thornton’s radar must be working—we see the brake lights flash and Blick neatly swerves to the right curb of Bay Ridge Avenue in Eastport.

We’ve made a sighting.

The Wild Orchid Café, a well-known restaurant, bears a strong resemblance to Sears Model 126. As we step onto the wide, columned front porch, Thornton nods in approval; kit house vibes are in the air.

The earliest Sears homes were numbered rather than named. The 1909 catalog describes No. 126 as a “five-room bungalow in 20th-century Queen Anne style, light and airy with perfect ventilation.” The kit sold for $657.

Thornton explains that the catalog text was often more quixotic than architecturally accurate and she sees No. 126 as a prairie-style bungalow.

“No. 126 was a common plan used by several companies and appeared in plan books,” Thornton says, glancing around the open dining areas. “This does appear to be a kit house, but it could be from another company than Sears.”

The owners, Jim Wilder, an Annapolis native, and his wife, Karen, aren’t around, but I call them later and learn that they’d heard of the kit house connection before.

“I thought that meant it was something cheap,” Jim Wilder says, laughing when he realizes that the building is a rarity, offered only from 1909 to 1913. “I feel a lot better now then when I first heard about it.”

Leaving the Wild Orchid, we crisscross the city, randomly following Blick’s map and Thornton’s intuition. Together they find more than a dozen likely kit houses—some in pristine condition, a few sadly neglected. Since, Thornton estimates, 30 to 50 percent of the kit homes were modified or customized when they were built—and many more were modified over the years—identification takes an educated eye.

She looks for clues such as the curved dentil moulding over the door of a two-story Sears Newcastle on Chase Street in Murray Hill. The porch supports on a nearby bungalow on Smith Avenue indicate that it’s a Sears Osborne model. We notice a rounded door in an arch-shaped entryway on Archwood Avenue. “Got to be a Montgomery Ward Kenwood from the late 1920s,” she says.

Still in Murray Hill, the Beetle comes to a semi-screeching halt on Lafayette Avenue. Thornton jumps from the front seat and points to a sprawling stucco home with a casual Mediterranean charm.

“Looks like a Sears Osborne,” she says. 

We knock on the door and owner Angela Nikiforou takes a break from making baklava with her granddaughter to talk with us. She tells us that she immigrated to the United States in 1964, sailing from London on the Queen Mary to Ellis Island. When she and her husband bought the house it was painted pink and known in the neighborhood as the Pink Palace. The Nikiforous repainted and expanded it
as their family grew, never suspecting they were living in a kit house.

Looking around the house and basement, Thornton searches beyond the renovations and finds clues—original arched openings between rooms, an original column in what was once the dining room.

“It’s such a classic house and you don’t see this in other catalogs or plan books,” she says. “The unique arrangement of the oversize columns on the front porch and the unusual porch off the dining room—it’s all there.”

Taking everything into account, Thornton announces a 10 on the Rose Rating—this is a classic Sears Osborne.

Still layering the baklava, Nikiforou takes the news calmly. “How about that?” she says. “Nice to know.”

Back in the cars, we spot a Sears Lynnhaven, a two-story house with a steep gable over a recessed front door, on McKendree Street in Homewood-Germantown. Then, another possible Lynnhaven, supersized and customized, on Sixth Street in Eastport. And also in Eastport, a small bungalow with a balcony like second-floor dormer—a Sears Carlin.

But nowhere is Thornton more touched than when we walk along Bay Ridge Avenue in Eastport and find a 1916 Gordon Van Tine No. 575, empty and for sale. The small bungalow with the steeply pitched roof and wide front porch is, according to the original Gordon Van Tine catalog, “the biggest little house you can buy.”

This is a real find because even though it needs work, Thornton says “nobody has hurt this house.“She walks around the bungalow, peers in the window and, with her hand on the door frame, murmurs “I love you, little house.”

In two days we’ve covered much of Annapolis—and identified about 40 kit houses—but, Thornton says, this is only the beginning. Blick seems as excited as Thornton to discover kit houses in almost all wards of the city. She hopes to find additional funds for an official, in-depth survey and, she says, to work with the Maryland Historical Trust to evaluate the collection in the larger Maryland context of kit homes.

“The kit homes aren’t grandiose castles by the sea, but these were the workers’ homes and the middle-class homes, and they’re an important part of the city’s history, too,” Thornton says. “And sadly, it’s this niche in a community’s history that is most likely to get lost and forgotten through the decades.”

Phyllis Speidell writes from Hampton Roads, Va.

In the name of responsible journalism, I’d like to fully disclose something about this issue of Chesapeake Life: I attended first grade with the artist profiled in our Art Gallery department, Stephen J. Griffin. In fact, I grew up with the guy and graduated from high school with him. And wouldn’t you know it, he was voted ‘Most Artistic’ by our high school class. (Coincidentally, I was voted ‘Most Likely to Edit a Regional Lifestyle Magazine About An Estuary.’)

Growing up, there was never any doubt that Steve would become an artist. I remember the little submarines and battleships we used to draw in elementary school. Mine looked like the work of a kid who ate too much sugar; his looked like schematics from the operator’s manual. Decades later, whenever I try to draw something, it still looks like the work of a 6-year-old, and, well, Steve’s work is being featured in this magazine.

I’m not sure where talent comes from. Is it genes? God? Vitamin supplements? In Steve’s case, it was obvious he was born with it. And I give him credit for refining his gift to the point that he can make a living off of it. It’s not easy to work as a full-time artist these days, but somehow, I don’t think he could have been anything else.

It took a little while longer for another personality featured in this issue, photographer Anne Nielsen, to realize her talent. She worked for years as a photography stylist, but didn’t get behind a camera until her late 30s. Then, she says, something clicked. ‘I definitely took to it,’ she says. ‘It was a feeling of pure enjoyment. It just felt logical.’

I think you’ll find her photographs of Eastern Shore American Indians, which she captures with a 20-pound wooden camera and a lens from 1864, both beautiful and haunting.

Another talented personality, the early 20th-century starlet Tallulah Bankhead, receives some ink in this issue as well. Perhaps you know that the original bawdy Hollywood bad girl lies buried in a quiet Kent County churchyard. The actress, who called everyone ‘Dahling’ and gave us pithy quotes like ‘I’m the foe of moderation, the champion of excess’ and ‘If I had to live my life again, I’d make the same mistakes, only sooner,’ often stayed with her sister, Eugenia, at her Eastern Shore home. Writer Donna M. Lucey visited Bankhead’s gravesite and interviewed locals, including Cindy Bankhead, Tallulah’s niece through marriage, who still lives in the area.

I hope you enjoy reading about the talented people we’ve featured in this issue. Oh, and remember
to take your vitamins.

Until next issue,
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Eggplant has a way of dividing people— either you love it or hate it. From a chef’s vantage point, eggplant offers up some real challenges. It can be dreadfully bland with a mushy texture if not handled correctly, but with some skill and effort it can be elevated to haute cuisine.

Eggplants come in several shapes and colors— white and round or long and skinny, as in the Asian variety. All share the characteristic that once cut, the soft spongy flesh discolors quickly. When buying eggplants, look for ones heavy for their size, with smooth unblemished skin and no brown spots.

In this column, I have included four very different eggplant preparations, but all burst with flavor. My passion for Asian flavors comes out in the sautéed Szechuan eggplant, with its minced ginger and rice wine. The roasted eggplant dip makes a great party dish that will be talked about— and you know it won’t be repeated at the same party. For a more elegant preparation, the caramelized eggplant Napoleon with tomato chili jam elevates eggplant into the sphere of fine dining. The eggplant burger is a change of pace for a trendy picnic or luncheon with friends— and you don’t have to be a vegetarian to like it.

Recipes:

• Szechuan Eggplant
• Aromatic Eggplant Burger with Mango Chutney Yogurt and Mint
• Roasted Eggplant Dip
• Caramelized Eggplant Napoleon

Andrew Evans is owner/chef of Thai Ki in Easton.

From pet psychics to mobile dog washes to acupuncture for cats, here are the area’s latest, greatest, and just plain unusual services for furry friends.

Sit, Stay, Smile

It’s not easy to photograph a pet. More often than not, most people end up with a blur of fur, a whisker, or the edge of one wing. But Stephen Bobb, 33, has put a new, unique face on pet photography.

Two years ago, Bobb, based in Takoma Park, Md., decided to branch out from wedding photography to something a bit ... furrier. Already using a more candid, documentary-style method in his wedding shots, Bobb was inspired to apply that same technique to pet photography and dubbed his business FidoJournalism.

Instead of posing bored little dogs on fluffy cushions, Bobb uses a photojournalistic approach to document pets in their own environment. “Photojournalists observe, watch, capture things that are happening,” says Bobb. “So I do the same with pets. I use more of a storytelling kind of approach.”

Shoots, done mainly at clients’ homes, are often eventful, with Bobb running or sprawling on the ground, looking for a unique angle. Somehow, despite the proximity of expensive equipment to claws and slobbery tongues, the photographer usually comes away with nothing worse than a few nose prints on his lenses. And the results are worth the risk. “I just enjoy the creativity that goes with it,” he says. “And I’m giving people some nice memories with their pets.” 202-329-1670, http://www.fidojournalism.com —L.S.

Good Sports

When a portuguese water dog fell 35 feet over a retaining wall onto a highway, its owner flew all the way from Greece to Maryland for treatment at the Veterinary Orthopedic Sports Medicine Group (VOSM). Then there was the dog flown in from South Korea, brought all the way to VOSM for stem cell therapy.

Hunting dogs, police canines, search and rescue dogs, bomb squad dogs— even Secret Service dogs—VOSM treats them all.

VOSM was founded in 2005 by Drs. Sherman and Debra Canapp to give pets a standard of care equal to that given to humans. “That was our vision,” says Sherman Canapp, who modeled the facility after the Johns Hopkins School of Medicine. “They do [these treatments] on the human side, so why not on the vet side? People want as good medical care for their dog as for their kids.”

The sleek, modern interior—with floors covered in rubber so the dogs don’t slip—includes everything from a canine gym to a rehabilitation pool to a state-of-the-art Gait Analysis System, which uses sensors to determine whether a dog is healing correctly.

Specialists also build custom braces, prosthetics, and can outfit paralyzed animals with custom-fitted carts to help them get around. And all equipment is human grade. “We do a lot of crazy things that no one else does,” says Canapp. 10975 Guilford Rd., Annapolis Junction, Md., 410-418-8446, http://www.vetsportsmedicine.com —L.S.

Creature Clairvoyant

Gena Wilson is not your ordinary psychic. Yes, she can sense desires and fears and decipher hidden pasts. So what makes her so unusual? Well, her clients aren’t exactly human.

Wilson, 56, has worked as an animal psychic in the Baltimore-D.C. area for the past 13 years. While she also sees human clients, “some people just know me as the pet psychic,”?she says with a laugh. “I have a lot of repeat customers.”?

Clients come to her for a plethora of reasons: to solve the mystery of their pet’s strange behavior, to discover health problems, to learn the creature’s likes and dislikes, or to understand an animal’s past.

According to Wilson, everything is made of energy that she can channel, including animals. “They’ll give me images, like on a screen, and I have to decipher what that means,” she explains.

So what sorts of things do they have to say? Plenty. For instance, she says, “They might tell me about their relationships with other pets in the house. This one dog was in love with a cat. It was a scream!”

Although Wilson works mainly with cats, dogs, and horses, she’s also dealt with fish, rats, monkeys, sheep, snakes, dolphins, and ducks. “Ducks might say, ‘Oh my god, the fox is coming every night, you need to make sure the fox doesn’t get me!’” she says. “Or, ‘I want to be in this cage with that chicken, not this one!’”

So far, Wilson, who charges $55 per half-hour for her services, says she has never met an animal she couldn’t channel. She currently sees approximately five human and five animal clients per week, and several local vets have even developed a habit of calling her for help.

Sometimes, however, Wilson will find an animal that doesn’t have a whole lot going on upstairs. “Maybe this horse doesn’t have a lot of ambition or a lot going on in there, and you just have to admit, this animal is dumb as mud.” 301-441-4526, http://www.inspiredbyangels.com —L.S.

Prayers for Pets

Since 1996, Annapolis’ St. Anne’s Episcopal Church has hosted a Blessings of the Animals service, when up to as many as 40 pets receive a personal touch from heaven. In recent years, the Rev. Gid Montjoy has conducted the service, which was begun to celebrate St. Francis of Assisi, patron saint of animals and the environment. This year’s service takes place on Sept. 26 at 10 a.m. “It’s typically held the first Saturday in October,” says Montjoy, “but that’s the day of the Navy-Air Force game, so we had to back it up. We felt we couldn’t compete with football.”

1. Who comes to get blessed?
We get everything: dogs, cats, guinea pigs, goats, white mice, parakeets, hedgehogs, gerbils, chinchillas, hermit crabs, turtles—even snakes. I bless the snakes from afar. One year, we tried to get Homestead Gardens to bring in one of its llamas, but it was too complicated.

2. What happens in the service?
The service centers on the creation story told in the book of Genesis. It’s held on the front lawn of the church. I lay my hands on each animal and explain to the congregation that they’re part of God’s creation; we also ask God to bless everyone else who lives in the pet’s household. We have music, and we add a twist by asking folks to remember the environment since humans were given authority over Earth.

3. Any special, pet-friendly accommodations for the service?
We have treats for everybody and poop bags, and obviously, all dogs are on leashes and cats are in carriers. Most of the time, the cats stay in their carriers, but some people will take them out and hold them. I always ask if it’s OK to put my finger in the cat carrier before I bless them.

4. What do you enjoy about the service?
I love seeing all the animals together, their charm, and their relationships with their owners.

5. Do people look forward to this service?
If we said we weren’t going to do it, there would be a revolt. People really look forward to it. It’s a hoot.
—Kessler Burnett

spotlight

Critical Care

By Carol Denny

It’s Sunday afternoon, and Emmie, the wobbly feline in Anne Arundel Veterinary Emergency Clinic’s exam room 9, looks like she’s been on the losing end of a fight. And, in fact, the long-haired calico has. Several days ago, a nasty run-in with a neighborhood dog left her with a large tear in her abdomen. Her owner, Diane Wogaman, rushed her battered pet from their home in Greenbelt to the Annapolis center for surgery.

Now Emmie is feverish, and Wogaman has returned to ask veterinarian Tasha Fleury to take a second look. “I’m a little concerned by the fever and the fluid around her lymph node,” Fleury notes. “I want to have a look at that under the scope.” As she lifts Emmie, the feline manages a weak meow. “She’s complaining, [but] not in pain,” the women agree.

As Fleury departs, Wogaman praises the care she and Emmie have received at AAVEC. “The clinic staff couldn’t have been nicer,” she says. “Last week, while we were waiting, they brought a CD player into the exam room to play music for her, and when the tech arrived with food, she brought a whole armful of different bowls, just to try to get her to eat.”

Started in 1991, AAVEC has treated an ark-full of ailments. All told, the clinic treats more than 10,000 patients a year (nearly all four-legged), including dogs, cats, rabbits, ferrets, pocket pets (hamsters and guinea pigs) and other animals in crisis. With its muted dŽcor, comfortable sofas, and magazines, the tiled space isn’t all that different from a human ER, except for the extra-large floor scale and the complimentaryÊleashes at the front desk.

Patient care is administered in a large, high-ceilinged treatment room, where scrub-suited vets and technicians circulate among kennels stacked two high. As they check fluid pumps, insert IVs, and administer medicines via Pill Pockets, a hound bays mournfully, ignoring the “Quiet Please!” sign in the adjacent cat ward. A tiny hedgehog sleeps in a cylindrical container on a nearby counter, oblivious to the bustle. Stopping to peer at the fist-sized patient, named Sparky, veterinarian Julie Wentzel, admits, “I’ve put catheters in a lot of things, but never a hedgehog.”

Access to a range of specialists like Wentzel is a hallmark of the clinic, which is affiliated with the Chesapeake Veterinary Referral Center. A team of cardiologists, ophthalmologists, dermatologists, internists, surgeons, and dentists comprise the center’s staff. “We’ve got more than two dozen docs,” says Dr. Tom Kozek, who founded AAVEC with a partner and still works several night shifts a week. “The practices are separate, but we all work together to provide overnight care andÊICU services.”

Patients are referred to the clinic by other vets or come through the emergency room for all sorts of ailments. Fleury rattles off a menu of possible maladies—immune system disorders, broken bones, gastric emergencies, heatstroke, seizures, paralysis, urinary blockage, lacerations. Foreign bodies run the gamut, ranging from Ping-Pong balls to entire sweaters. Sometimes, Fleury says, it’s not so much about stupid pets; it’s about stupid owners. As in: Keep that pack ofÊsugarless gum away from your pooch. “It’s got Xylitol in it,” she explains. “People don’t realize that it can be toxic.”

Appliances can be deadly, too. Fleury recalls a case where a dog licked a paper shredder, with dreadful consequences. She was on duty when the victim, still attached to the shredder, arrived. (She sedated the pet then hit the reverse button.)

Wentzel offers more common-sense prohibitions, the result of years of experience. “Don’t tie your dog in the back of your pickup truck,” she says. “And don’t let your dog off-leash outside—because that’s when bad things happen.”

Not all patients recover, of course, and some clinic visitors face the decision to euthanize their animals. At one end of the treatment room, Lorraine Caufield sits on a folding chair beside the kennel holding Susie, her elderly Australian shepherd-German shepherd mix. “Two weeks ago, she was jogging with my grandson,” Caufield says of her listless pet, patting the dog’s head and murmuring endearments. “But then she began to fade and wouldn’t touch food or water, so the vet told me to bring her here,” a lengthy journey from her home in Georgetown, Del. “She was such a good watchdog.” An hour later, Susie was gone.

“We deal with death daily,” Wentzel acknowledges. It can be traumatic for families, she says—even more so, Kozek adds, when owners must make a choice concerning intensive, high-tech care. “It can be very expensive, especially given this economy, and there’s usually no insurance,” he notes, “so we need to go over the costs and tailor the treatment to what’s best for everyone.”

“There’s a lot we can do in veterinary medicine these days,” says Fleury. “But there are tough questions about what owners can afford and what’s right for their animal.”

Emmie’s fluid sample revealed she didn’t have an infection, and Fleury sent pet and owner home to recuperate. A relieved Wogaman, whose invoice for Emmie’s first visit was more than the price of a new Apple laptop, admits that she’ll have to cancel her upcoming vacation to cover the bill. “But she’s such a wonderful cat,” she declares.
“I didn’t want her final memory to be in the jaws of an angry dog.” Or, heaven forbid, a paper shredder.

Carol Denny has owned several pet rabbits. None have needed emergency care.

Tony, Come Home!

Or why an increasing number of pets sport human names.
By Mary K. Zajac

When I named the pretty gray cat that showed up on my front porch one March evening seven years ago, Sylvie, I had no idea that I was part of a growing trend to give pets human names. After all, every family pet, beginning with Cleo, a cat, and Patrick, a dog, had had human, rather than descriptive, names. It just seemed natural to me to avoid Fluffy or Smokey in favor of a “real” name, one that captured my interest in all things French. Besides, the name suited her silvery gray color.

Turns out a lot of people prefer Sam to Spot. In June, The Associated Press reported that “almost half of American pet owners gave an animal a human-like name, such as Jack or Sophie.”

And according to a database of names kept by Veterinary Pet Insurance, the nation’s largest pet insurance company, Max is the most popular name for both cats and dogs, followed by Chloe, Lucy, Tigger, and Tiger, for cats, and Molly, Buddy, Bella, and Lucy for dogs.

Brian Iannessa, spokesman for VPI, reports that there’s not much difference in the naming of cats and dogs with the slight exception of cats more often being given names “representative of the species.”

“Tigger and Tiger are two of the most common cat names,” Iannessa points out, also mentioning the prevalence of cats called Smokey.

“On the dog side,” he says, “you see a lot more human names.”

Maybe this reflects pet owners’ strong bonds with their dogs, he wonders aloud. Or that dogs are “more integral family members. It’s dangerous to speculate though,” he adds hastily. “I don’t want to offend any
cat owners.”

In an era of gourmet dog biscuits, pet spas, and pet Halloween costumes, it shouldn’t come as any surprise that we name our pets like we name our children.

“We give our pets human characteristics,” says Dr. Wayne Eldridge, DVM, author of The Best Pet Name Book Ever!, now in its third edition. In a telephone interview from his San Antonio veterinary practice, he says it’s only natural that we give them human names.

“The pets that are named after humans are often closer to us,” he continues, “and we have closer relationships with them. If you name your dog Bob, chances are he’s not an outdoor dog.”

Eldridge began compiling lists of names after stumped pet owners asked him for suggestions in naming their pets, and his book offers name categories like “Appearance” and “Personality” (think Blondie, Slinky,
or Flash) as well as “Literature and Art” (Banshee, for example) and “Liquors and Drinks” (Chardonnay, anyone?). Currently at work on a fourth edition, Eldridge is constantly updating the “Sports” and “Screen
and Television” categories.

Still, Eldridge admits, “It throws me for a loop sometimes that people need to buy a book to name a pet.

“This subject is not complicated at all,” he says with the weariness of someone who’s been asked about pet names innumerable times. “I think you could summarize it as people name their pets after areas of interest to the pet owner. If they name their pet Ferrari or Martini that says more about the owner than the pet.”

So what does naming my pet Sylvie say about me? I don’t know that one, he says gently, spelling it back to me in confirmation, but it sounds nice.

Mary Zajac and her cat, Sylvie, live in Baltimore near a dog named Vincent.

Doggie Paddle

When Lynne and Maury Chaput’s black Lab, Shadow, tore her ACL, her surgeon recommended swim therapy to help her heal. But the only water facility for animals was located at an Aberdeen horse farm, more than an hour from their Millersville home. So the couple decided to build their own therapy center. “Here we were, two professionals—a CPA and an architect—and we’re looking at building dog pools,” says Lynne, the accountant.

Today, the Canine Fitness Center has more than 2,300 dogs who come to frolic in the center’s twin, ph-balanced, 11,000-gallon pools as well as exercise on the underwater treadmill or receive massage or acupuncture from doggie therapists. For the dogs, it’s not just about healing but fun and fitness, says Lynne. “Fit dogs live longer. Plus, it improves the bonds between owner and dog. It’s like taking your kid to soccer practice. It isn’t just the physical benefit. It’s like play day.”

Shadow died in 2005, but through the Canine Fitness Center, the Chaputs say her memory lives on. As a sign by the entrance reads: “Shadow: The $600,000 dog and worth every penny.” 1353 Generals Hwy., Crownsville, Md. 410-923-7946, http://www.caninefitnesscenter.com —J.S

Pets & Perks

The Bark ‘n’ Bean might be the only place in America where you could be asked: Would you like a double espresso with that flea dip?

That’s because it’s “likely the only dog wash and espresso bar in the U.S.,” says Theresa Mutlu, who opened the business, formerly known as Muddy Paw Dog Wash and Coffee Bar, with her husband, John, in 2005. The concept has proven to be both unique and successful, as the business boasts more than 6,000 clients and a new location in Severna Park.

Bark ‘n’ Bean offers self-serve and full-service washes, which include shampoo, conditioner, blow dry, and brush. Clients can choose after-bath sprays—in scents ranging from pina colada to lavender breeze—to keep their pooches smelling pleasant.

The coffee bar side (the two are separated by a glass wall and a small revolving door to pass beverages through) serves up traditional coffee drinks and has several racks of pet-themed greeting cards. Customers are encouraged to hang out, check their e-mail, browse the shop’s retail section, or chat with other dog lovers. Spend some time at Bark ‘n’ Bean, and you can see why dog owners find it a whole lot more fun than Starbucks. Mutlu certainly would agree. “I used to work in public relations for a science organization,” she says, “but now I get to hug all of my clients.”

130 Hillsmere Dr., Annapolis. 410-268-7387 and 543 Benfield Road, Severna Park, Md. 410-647-7646, http://www.barknbean.com —J.S.

Westminster Backstage

Irma Tillman and her husband, Donald, of Severna Park, Md., spent many years on the dog show circuit with her Staffordshire bull terriers racking up awards at regional and national shows. In the early 1990s, her dogs, Jim and Lizzie, competed in the granddaddy of them all, the Westminster Dog Show in New York.

1. So what was it like the first time?
It was exciting because it was the first time we had gone. The dogs all have to be champions. They only take so many. The second and third year, Jim won his breed. Lizzie got a medal.

2. We’ve heard the show can get political, is that true?
I think it’s very political, especially when you get to the groups and best of show. The judges know the professional handlers. We used to have a handler who’d show our dogs, and he said a judge told him once that he could walk in there with a donkey, and he’d win. When you hear that, it’s sad. Judges do play favorites. I guess it’s hard not to. The judges see the same handlers all the time.

3. Do you get any money for winning?
You get no money, just a cup or ribbon. But you can get a good stud fee afterward. Jim’s stud fees were $400 or $500. Our last litter in 1995 from Jim and Lizzie—both champions—were $1,000 apiece.

4. How would you primp the dogs before a show?
Actually, our dogs didn’t need any grooming. Just a bath before the show, and we’d have to make sure their eyes didn’t have any coating. We took Jim to so many shows he knew the routine. Whenever he heard the bath water, he’d come running.
—J.S.

Pet Art with Pop

Every pet has its own “color,” according to Annapolis pop artist Erin Simmons, who likes to scope out an animal’s personality first before rendering its portrait in acrylic paint. Based on the vibe she gets from the pet, she’ll choose a bold color scheme—blues and pinks, reds and oranges— to bring the creature to life on canvas.
1. Why pets?
I’ve done some people portrait work, but I find you have a lot more creativity with dogs. With people, you have to be spot-on with details; with dogs, you have a little more room to be creative and wild.
2.What’s your style?
My paintings are huge! The smallest I did was 30 by 30 [inches]. They’re large-scale, sort of like Andy Warhol. They’re funky and a little alternative: big, bright colors and broad strokes.
3. What types of animals do you paint?
I’ve done a cat, a bird, but mostly dogs. I’ve done probably 40 to 50 dogs. But I can do any animal. Right now, I’m working on a koi fish.
4.What message are you trying to get across?
When people remember their pets, they don’t always remember what they look like—they remember how they were, how they interacted with them and what kind of spirit they had. So I wanted to be able to capture both in a painting.
5.Anything weird about this job?
Every dog has their quirks, but the owners are funky, too. Actually, for every dog I’ve painted, the owner has been just like the dog!

443-534-0172, http://www.hotdogsandcatschup.com —L.S.

For the Birds

If you’re a bird person, you might already know about M & D Bird Farm Exotic Birds and Supplies. It’s one of the largest bird supply stores in the Mid-Atlantic, according to its owner, Terri Martin, 47. If you’re not, the store is still worth a stop on your way to the Delaware beaches just to gawk at Martin’s moluccan cockatoo, Princess, who performs her shtick for customers. “Yes, she’s a rock star,”?says Martin of the bird who talks, spins on a bar, and generally does whatever Martin commands.

Martin, who bought her first bird at 18, opened the shop in 2002. “I had 17 birds in my bedroom at home already,”?she says. “Nobody else in the area was doing this, so I figured I would.”?

The colorful, 4,000-square-foot store boasts every bird toy imaginable, plus full grooming and boarding services, not to mention a “bird room,” which contains 75 to 100 exotic birds. But beware, as the half-joking sign on the door reads:?“Enter at your own risk. We sometimes snack on fingers and small children.—The Birds.”
26754 Lewes Georgetown Hwy., Harbeson, Del. 302-684-4101 —J.S.

Pet P.I.

Remember that lost whippet fiasco in New York City back in 2006? The one in which the famous show dog, Vivi, took off at JFK Airport, resulting in city-wide upheaval? Laura Totis, certified Missing Animal Relief (MAR) technician, was one of the first “pet detectives” on the scene.

When Totis started her unusual career seven years ago, only four other certified MAR technicians existed in the country. “Initially it was a running joke about the whole Ace Ventura thing,” she says with a laugh.
“But a lot of info has gotten out there and people do take it a lot more seriously now.” Any pet qualifies for the chase (Totis has pursued llamas, tortoises, and skunks), though dogs and cats
are the most common.

Totis, based in Clarksburg, Md., started out conducting human search-and-rescue on a volunteer basis but subsequently branched out to pet detection. She uses two trained dogs to locate missing pets throughout the Mid-Atlantic region, asking only that clients cover her time with “whatever they feel is reasonable and can afford.” Her bag of tricks run the gamut from behavior profiling to mounting wildlife cameras to listening devices to setting humane traps.

Approximately 80 to 90 percent of her clients are recovered. Much of her success is due to her website, which people can use to post lost pet notifications and track sightings as well as consult with Totis (for a fee of $20). So where is the most common place to find a lost pet? “The last place you look,” she says. 410-239-4746, http://www.ljtpettracking.com —L.S. 

To the Point

When Mac, a 100-pound chocolate lab, collapsed as a result from his diabetes, his owners were told he wouldn’t last more than a few months. But Annapolis animal acupuncturist Lydia Wainwright had other ideas. “They carried him in, and he walked out. It was amazing,” she says. “I saw that dog for three years.”

Wainwright is constantly sur-prising herself and her clients with the effectiveness of acupuncture, a method of ancient Chinese medicine that uses needles to correct imbalances in life force energy or Qi. “If you were a toaster, the electricity that runs through you to make you work is your Qi,” explains Wainwright. “I’m the toaster repairman.”

Wainwright works with both animals and people to improve maladies ranging from arthritis to kidney failure. The result? “Ninety percent of the time there’s some kind of change,” she claims. “This is especially true of animals, because they tend not to hold on to baggage the way people do.”

Wainwright, who is certified by the Maryland Acupuncture Board and sees 15 to 40 patients a week, attends to cats and dogs but is also qualified to help rabbits, ferrets, and birds. Each animal responds differently to the treatment, she says. Some get worse before they get better, some need continued treatment (especially for chronic ailments such as arthritis),
and others are cured after just one treatment. The only common side effect, she says, is that “all animals seem to really enjoy it.“443-474-3631, http://www.acuanimal.com —E.B.

In the Raw

If you’ve ever been to Crunchies Natural Pet Foods in Crofton, you’ve likely met Charlie. The 10-year-old
beagle is not only the store’s mascot
but also something of a poster dog for the benefits of the all-natural foods Crunchies sells.

When store owner Julia Cahill adopted him in 2008, he was suffering from a list of ailments ranging from upper respiratory problems to conjunctivitis. “He was absolutely a mess,” recalls Cahill. “We adopted him on a Friday, and the vet wasn’t sure he’d make it over the weekend. We brought him back two weeks later, and the vet couldn’t believe it was the same dog.”

All Cahill did was switch Charlie’s diet to one rich in raw foods, and “it changed everything about him,” she says.

Raw food is the buzzword in dog parks and kitty condos these days. The tainted pet food scare of 2007 helped give legs to the movement, which emphasizes serving foods made only from raw meats and vegetables—no grain fillers. Cahill and other advocates claim “commercial pet foods,” loaded with chemicals and filler, are the equivalent of fast food. “If you ate fast food every meal, every day for a year, how would you look and feel?”

Cahill asks. “People don’t realize it’s like milkshakes and french fries. You’re not going to have a healthy, well-behaved dog. And people are just starting to realize this.”
Cahill admits that her food lines may sport higher price tags than those found at the big box pet stores, but she says dog owners can feed their pets less because raw foods are nutrient dense.

“Besides,” she says, “you’ll have a healthier dog with less allergies, less ear problems, less skin problems. And you know how vet bills can add up very fast…” 2421 Crofton Lane, Crofton, Md. 410-721-5432, http://www.crunchies.com —J.S.

When Pigs Fly… Literally

Say goodbye to the cargo hold, Rover, and welcome to first class. Pet Airways, the first airline to carry animals as “pawsengers” instead of cargo, started service out of several airports (including BWI Marshall) on July 14. With one-way airfares starting at $149, Pet Airways offers flights out of Baltimore, New York, Chicago, Denver, and Los Angeles.

Beechcraft 1900 turbo-prop planes, filled with pet carriers instead of seats, are used to transport the animals. For now, Pet Airways plans to work solely with cats and dogs, but pigs, birds, and reptiles may soon have their chance to fly the friendly skies, too. 888-PET-AIRWAYS, http://www.petairways.com —L.S.

Laps of Luxury

The kennel, as it used to be known, is a dying breed. Dogs and cats now have “pet resorts” with spas and luxury suites to enjoy while their owners are away. “It wasn’t that kennels were horrible,” says Elizabeth Chaney, owner of Perfect Pet Resort in Lothian (410-741-0000, perfectpetresort.com), “but there’s a demand for dogs and cats to have a great experience while their parents are away, with more benefits than just accommodations.” At Chaney’s resort, both dogs and cats get luxury suites with couches or beds and dogs get TVs playing animal-related shows.

The new Maryland Shore Pet Resort in Vienna (410-376-2107, mdshorepetresort.com) boasts a spa offering blueberry facials and paw cream. Pets can unwind during “Yappy Hour” and “Meowy Hour” with complimentary “happy-tizers” made at the in-house Pure Bred Bakery.

And at Dogwood Acres Pet Retreat in Davidsonville (410-798-4776, dogwoodacres.com) dogs can get “cuddle time”?at the end of the day. “Dogs walk out the door with [richer] experiences than when they came in,” says Chaney. “It’s just like camp. A kid goes in shy and comes out strong. People are not just paying for space anymore. It’s the experience.” —J.S.

Natural Healing

Dr. Francine K. Rattner of South Arundel Veterinary Hospital is not your typical vet. She treats everything from dogs, cats, and birds to rabbits and iguanas, but as one of only 53 vets in the United States certified by the Academy of Veterinary Homeopathy, she does so in a very different way.

Through homeopathic treatments, a formal system of “natural medicine” developed in the 18th century, Rattner addresses all aspects of the animal’s health—from its diet to the amount of exercise it gets to its exposure to toxins.

Symptoms of illness, which vets normally attempt to suppress with drugs, are viewed by Rattner as the body’s attempt to heal itself. She prescribes remedies derived from natural substances that would normally cause the symptoms the animal is already showing, in order to encourage self-healing. For instance, for runny eyes or a bad cold, she might prescribe diluted allium, derived from onions.

Rattner, who also practices conventional medicine, admits that homeopathic medicine for pets has its skeptics, but she believes that her treatments work best with the cooperation of owners who are careful and observant, willing to note subtle changes in their animals. “My favorite cases are patients diagnosed with cancer that have been given a very poor prognosis, who instead choose a holistic approach and live a longer and happier life than was predicted,” she says. 410-956-2932, http://www.southarundelvet.com —L.S.

Clean Machine

For anyone who has ever tried to bathe a dog, doing so in a van may sound like a daunting task. But it’s just another day at the office for Jeff Bawkins, who, as owner of Arnold, Md.‘s U Dirty Dog Mobile Pet Grooming, makes his living grooming dogs out of the back of his white Ford E-350.

1. How did you decide on this mobile pet grooming?
It’s actually been around for quite some time. I like it because it’s quiet and comfortable. It’s also more convenient for the customer.
2. How does it work?
I go to each customer’s house and groom the dogs right
in their driveway in the back of the van.
I groom about 10 to 15 dogs a day. On
a given year, I’ll have a list of 1,800 to 2,200 clients.
3. What’s the van like?
The setup is basically like any other groomer’s: We’ve got special grooming equipment, high-velocity dryer, stainless steel bathtub, hydraulic table, air conditioning—just about everything you could ask for.
4. What’s the worst thing that’s ever happened with a dog?
A bite—that’s the worst. Of course, it depends on the dog and what kind of mood they’re in. If it’s a playful bite, it’s not so bad as if it’s an angry one, but a bite never feels good!
5. Has a dog ever escaped?
No, I’m really careful. Most of them are very cooperative and have never tried. Even if they did, I’m a pretty fast runner. 410-349-3647, http://www.udirtydogmobile.com —E.B.

A drive through Southern Maryland’s Amish Community reveals a shopping adventure chock-full of culture and scenery, not to mention handmade furniture and quilts—even a fresh guinea hen or two.

At the end of a rutted buggy lane in St. Mary’s County, amid an enclave of clapboard farmhouses and weathered barns, a barefoot, 8-year-old Amish girl wearing a white bonnet and blue muslin dress cautiously approaches my car and asks what I want.

“Are there guinea hens for sale?” I ask, as advertised on the handmade sign posted back on the main road. I’m in luck. The price: $6 each.

But as I take out my wallet the kid tosses a glitch. On weekdays, there is no caldron of boiling water at the ready, no way to begin the plucking and dressing process. (This was not the time, I thought, to teach myself a handy farm skill back in my condo in D.C.)

“You come back Saturday,” she says. And sure enough, when I return a few days later, she personally chooses a plump hen, and in short order it’s ready to pop into the iced cooler in my trunk. That night, a delicious, roasted guinea
hen is the centerpiece of a terrific farm-to-table meal.

At Amish-owned farms, along the winding roads that snake through gorgeous fields of corn and tobacco near Charlotte Hall, I always find great shopping adventure. There’s no point in planning a menu. I can’t call ahead. The more than 350, low-profile farming families, who moved to the area in the early 1940s from Pennsylvania, enjoy a simple way of life without iPhones or land lines. They sell a variety of goods they grow or make by hand, but there is no guarantee that what they publicize is available.

The quest requires a slow drive down Route 236 (between Route 5 and Route 234) and a sharp eye for the dozens of signs, often scrawled on a piece of cardboard or wood, signaling that “butter,” “eggs,” “bedding plants,” “quilts,” and more are for sale. You take your chances. The family may have hitched up the buggy and gone to town. The last duck of the day may have been sold. But after five or six farm stops, I’m never disappointed by the bounty available, and at every farm and store, I learn a bit more about the Amish way of life.

The best place to kick off a shopping tour is at the North St. Mary’s County Farmers Market (daily, except Sunday, April through December), where a dozen Amish farmers sell seasonal produce and baked goods. They set up shop in a series of white tents beneath a glade of tall pines that together provide both shelter and a serene setting.

“The gingerbread is phenomenal,” a shopper tells me as I browse the long tables filled with appealing pies, breads, and cookies made by the “plain” people who sit in silence nearby. They appear aloof, but ask a question, and they are ready with information about their own goods and their neighbors.

The flour-dusted dinner rolls are a certain purchase, and something called “hummingbird bread” (made with bananas, pineapple, and walnuts) sounds intriguing. But I first grab a favorite, a bag of fresh-baked, nutty, crunchy, and not-too-sweet oatmeal cookies. Into the car they go, along with jars of pickled beets, rhubarb preserves, elderberry jam, and sweet relish.

On another early morning, there are plenty of Asian eggplants, greenhouse-raised tomatoes, wax beans, onions, potatoes, and mustard greens at prices far below farmers markets closer to the city. The best discovery is tiny jars filled with soft, fresh, golden bee pollen that has the flavor of orange blossom. “Sprinkle it on your cereal,” the farmer tells me.

Minutes later, I’m happily munching cookies and heading down 6-mile-long Route 236, spying signs for “birdhouses,” “rabbits,” and “pigeons,” passing fields where farmers work with teams of horses and windmills provide power. At a farm down Dixie Lyon Road, I buy an enormous bouquet of zinnia, cock’s comb, and lisianthus and then double back to check out a farm that offers “barbecued pork.” (No one is home.) For the most part, farms selling dairy products—eggs, cheese, and butter—are easy to locate.

Free-range chickens, like guinea hens, are best found on Saturdays. (Poultry and rabbit are exempt from the Federal Meat Inspection Act for on-farm sales.) A favorite stop is Locust Grove Dry Goods, a charming, old-fashioned variety store that stocks the basic necessities of a self-reliant life. With no electric lights, it’s dim inside Locust. Neatly arranged on shelves are kerosene lanterns, dark-colored fabrics in deep blue and marsh green, and art supplies—ink blocks, papers, and colored pencils—for making greeting cards, a favorite Amish pastime. Here’s where to find pumice soap.Last summer, the owner (a woman of few words who prefers not to give her name) enlarged the housewares department, adding tabletop china, which is displayed alongside a nice selection of apple peelers, food mills, and strainers. When she noticed my interest in the American-made Rada cutlery she says, unexpectedly: “A lot of your people like them, too.”

Those in the market for hand-crafted dining chairs, tables, and bedroom sets will find opportunities at Yoder’s Furniture Shop, where adorable rocking horses and good-looking cutting boards are also made and sold at reasonable prices. The shop sells eggs, if they have them, for $1.50 a dozen. Best of all is the display of wooden trucks of every sort—fire engines and cement mixers—beautifully constructed from oak, maple, walnut, birch, poplar, and cherry wood. Part of a family collection, unfortunately, they are not for sale.

The Amish enjoy making hand-stitched, patchwork quilts, and two dozen or more can be found at The Quilt Shop, a tiny store that also sells quilted potholders and placemats. “The women and girls, they can make a quilt a week,” says the owner, an elderly gentleman who explains that each pattern has a name, such as “moon glow,” “double wedding ring,” and “tumbling blocks.” His exceptional, family-made quilts, in modern, traditional, and folk art styles, range from $700 to $900.

For quilters in these parts, the most exciting day of the year is the annual Amish Quilt Auction, held each year on an Amish farm on the Saturday before Thanksgiving. “For quilts, you can’t beat that, you’ll see everything,” says The Quilt Shop owner. “People come from all over.”

And well, they should. The St. Mary’s County Amish community has much to offer. I know of no other place in the region where you can find everything from yummy bee pollen to handmade quilts to a succulent guinea hen or even delicately flavored pigeon, fresh from the barnyard.

Walter Nicholls is a former reporter for The Washington Post.

Most Amish businesses are open in daylight hours but many do not have set hours of operation. All are closed Sundays. It’s wise to have a cooler with ice packs in the trunk for perishables.

North St. Mary’s County Farmers Market

Seasonal fruit, vegetables, baked goods, honey, and jams. 37600 New Market Turner Road, Charlotte Hall, 301-475-4200, ext. 1402. Open: Mondays through Saturdays, 8:30 a.m.-5:30 p.m.

Locust Valley Dry GoodsM

Poplin fabrics, art supplies, kitchenware, eggs, butter, and jams. 9830 N. Ryceville Road,Mechanicsville Open: Mondays through Thursdays, 8 a.m.-4 p.m.

The Quilt Shop

Handmade quilts, placemats, and pot holders. 28635 Thompson Corner Road, Mechanicsville

Stolzfus Flowers

Field-grown cut flowers. 36723 Dixie Lyon Road, Mechanicsville

Yoder’s Furniture

Dining and bedroom furniture, children’s toys, and cutting boards. 9439 N. Ryceville Road, Mechanicsville

Amish Quilt Auction

The annual event is held the Saturday before Thanksgiving. 301-475-4200, ext. 1404

Information: St. Mary’s County Welcome Center, 37575 Charlotte Hall Road, Charlotte Hall, 301-327-9023, stmarysmd.com/tourism

We never wanted a cat.

Fargo just showed up one day and wouldn’t leave. We posted signs around the neighborhood, called friends and family to find her a home, but as days turned into weeks it became clear that the skinny black stray had adopted us.

During the course of the next six months, Fargo introduced us first-time pet owners to a number of things: unconditional love, yes, but also fleas, hairballs, and—gasp!—more than $2,000 in vet bills.
My wife and I were complete newbies when it came to the increasingly pricey world of pet ownership. We had a 2-year-old daughter—and another child on the way—but we quickly learned it was far easier to spend more money on a sick cat than a healthy child.

Pet owners forked over about $11 billion on vet bills last year, a figure that’s increasing by about 9 percent a year, or three times the rate of inflation. All told, Americans spent about $43.4 billion on their pets in 2008 (triple the sum expended 15 years ago), on everything from kitty litter for their calico to $2,000 Burberry jackets for their beagle. Even in this economic downtown, the pet business has proven to be recession proof, as spending on pets is expected to actually increase in 2009.

Our parents’ generation—and their pets—would likely be stunned at the products and services we’ve written about in this issue of CL, our first devoted to the pet world. Pet psychics, beer for dogs, kitty acupuncture, doggie orthopedics, holistic medicine, organic cat treats, pet resorts with spas offering blueberry facials. (Can you imagine Grandpa ordering up a blueberry facial for his Chesapeake Bay retriever?) The trend here, of course, is that pets are now offered the same luxuries as their human masters, er, parents. Heck, we even give pets human names these days. As writer
Mary Zajac points out in “Tony, Come Home!” page 44, almost half of American pets sport names like Max, Elliot, or Ashley.

So what’s this phenomenon all about?

“The way we treat our pets has always reflected the changes in the way humans live,” says Michael Schaffer, author of One Nation Under Dog: Adventures in the New World of Prozac-Popping Puppies, Dog-Park Politics, and Organic Pet Food. “In the last couple generations, there have been some pretty dramatic social changes that at first blush would seem to have nothing to do with pets.” He cites, among other factors, the rise of two-career couples, suburbanization, increases in divorce, growth in the number of empty nesters, and our new focus on nutrition. Plus, he continues, “with more fractured human social networks, we rely on pets for a bigger emotional role in our lives—we’ve promoted them, in essence, to full-fledged family members.”

No, we don’t allow Fargo to sit with us at the dinner table (yet), but I must admit that after a year with our accident-prone cat, we’ve grown quite fond of her. She’s extremely affectionate, plays fetch like a dog, and the kids love her. So why not spoil her once in a while? Besides, I just noticed something online called “kitty caviar.” At beverlyhillscaviar.com, it’s only $40 for a 4-ounce jar ...

Until next issue,
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It’s late morning, mid-July, and a blazing sun beats down on a field of watermelons at Hales Farms on the south side of Salisbury. A group of seasonal workers, sweat pouring down their foreheads from beneath worn ball caps, stoops among the rows of melons, hacking at vines with long knives. Some of them form fire bucket lines, and pass the watermelons along, one by one, loading them into three school buses—roofs cut away and seats gutted to make room for their ripe cargo.

When each bus is loaded with approximately 800 watermelons they rumble down the road in convoy formation and pull into Hales Farms’ “packing shed,” an 8,000-square-foot, open-air warehouse. There, the buses idle as the watermelons are removed, placed onto a conveyor belt, and packed by hand into white bins proudly advertising, “Grown in Maryland & Delaware.” Forklifts zip here and there, stacking pallets three bins high, as tractor-trailers back into the loading dock. 

Inside the office, Will Hales, a third-generation grower, 34, sits at his desk juggling a cell phone, land-line, and fax machine, all of which seem to go off at the same time—nonstop. He politely apologizes. “It’s kinda busy around here,” he says, offering a cold bottle of water. Will’s father, Donald, sits in an easy chair, shaking his head. “Man, I wanna get out of here when all the phones is a-ringing. It’s pretty hectic.” Looking over at his son, Donald says, “He does a good job of keeping it straight. I can’t do it.” He excuses himself and heads into the warehouse, getting behind the wheel of a forklift.

Donald started Hales Farms in 1955, and today the operation annually harvests between 18 million and 20 million pounds of watermelon from 350 acres of a 3,000-acre farm, which also produces corn, soybeans, wheat, and tomatoes. On a busy day, as many as 17 tractor-trailers visit Hales’ packing shed, hauling away up to 40,000 pounds of watermelon each.

Perhaps surprisingly, Delaware and Maryland are major players in the watermelon industry. In 2008, of the 44 states that produce watermelon, Delaware and Maryland ranked in the top 10 based on product value, generating a combined $26.4 million, while producing more than 11 million watermelons. Impressive, considering that the bulk of regional watermelons are yielded from just a few thousand acres in Dorchester, Caroline, and Wicomico counties on Maryland’s Eastern Shore and Sussex County, Del.

In Laurel, Del., Travis Hastings, age 30, grows 120 acres of watermelon on his family’s farm. Like Will Hales, Travis is a third-generation grower. Seated in a GMC pickup, Travis surveys one of his fields and reflects on being part of an agricultural fabric that goes deeper than simply tilling the land. “The watermelon industry and growing watermelons—it’s more important to people around here than just making money. It’s definitely a certain kind of culture. It’s a tight-knit group. Pretty much everyone who is doing it, their father was doing it, their grandfather was doing it, and it’s been passed on from generation to generation.” 

In the 1950s, Maryland and Delaware farmers, recognizing the economic importance of watermelons, formed the Maryland-Delaware (Mar-Del) Watermelon Association, bringing growers, buyers, and vendors together to better promote this specialty crop. Donald Hales and Travis Hastings’ late father, John, were founders of the organization, which today tops 138 members. 

With the support of the Maryland and Delaware Departments of Agriculture, the Mar-Del Watermelon Association started a branding campaign in 2007. Growers began labeling their watermelons with stickers, clearly identifying where they were grown, and shipping them in bins with the Mar-Del logo and slogan: “Mar-Delicious Watermelons: The original summertime treat.”  “The Eastern Shore is known for poultry and seafood. There’s been a lot of ignorance over the years with watermelon,” says Will Hales. “As far as your average consumer, they might live in Annapolis or Baltimore and not even know that the watermelon was grown an hour and a half away.”

The campaign has been successful, thus far, particularly with national supermarket chains in the area. Safeway, Food Lion, and Whole Foods, to name a few, all carry the Mar-Delicious brand when in season (mid-July to mid-Sept-ember) and prominently display the white bins in their produce sections.

Each year, the Mar-Del Watermelon Association crowns a watermelon queen who serves as an ambassador and travels to other state watermelon conventions throughout the United States, as well as making appearances at local parades, grocery stores, and schools.

On a breezy afternoon last August, the 2008 Mar-Del Watermelon Queen, 21-year-old Christina Gallant, a Hartly, Del., native, along with the National, Alabama and Florida queens, were all on hand at a promotional event at the Annapolis City Dock. The queens, dressed in princess-like dresses with crowns and white sashes, attracted a crowd by giving out free slices of watermelon and presiding over a seed-spitting contest. Gallant even gave out a few kisses to admiring girls and boys while spreading the gospel of sweet and healthy homegrown produce. “Besides the safety and security of consuming local food—knowing where it comes from—you’re helping out your neighbor ... and really, it’s going to taste better,” she says.

Seed-spitting contests may be an endangered event, however, as seedless melons account for the vast majority of melons grown these days.

Donald Hales was one of the first farmers on the East Coast to plant seedless watermelons 30 years ago. “I really thought in the early ‘80s it was the way to go. I’d grown watermelons all my life. We grew a lot of them old kind, like Jubilee and Charleston Grey. There were seeds in all of them. I thought it was wonderful when the seedless came along.”

“Seedless watermelon is all anybody wants nowadays,” says Will, who notes his farm’s melon crop is almost 95 percent seedless.

Seeded watermelons or non-edible, grapefruit-sized “pollenizer” melons are still necessary to grow seedless melons, however, because the female watermelon (seedless) needs the pollen from the male’s flowers. The whole business of sexing watermelons is a complicated venture involving thousands of shipped-in honey or bumble bees that work to pollinate the watermelon blooms every spring. From planting, which begins in late April, to harvest, it takes a watermelon anywhere from 75 to 90 days to mature. 

With so many variables at play, watermelon can be a risky crop to invest in. “It seems like from the day you plant them you are fighting something,” says Denny Reid, 34, who grows 350 acres of watermelon, in addition to a variety of other crops, in Rhodesdale, Md. “Disease, bugs, rain—two years ago we had major floods that wiped out probably half our crop.”

Travis Hastings agrees. “Not everyone wants to do it. It’s labor intensive; it’s risky.”

Risky or not, for Mar-Del growers, watermelons are a way of life—sometimes in more ways than one. If it weren’t for watermelons, Will Hales may have never met his wife, Candice, the 2005 Alabama and 2006 National Watermelon Queen. They celebrated their second wedding anniversary this April.

For Donald Hales, who turned 70 this year, the proudest part of all of this watermelon business is that his son is following his footprints through the fields. “If it wasn’t for him I’d quit, because I’m getting old and tired.”

After all these years, does Donald still enjoy watermelon?

“Do I? I love ‘em to death. I get tired, but I still love my watermelon. Ain’t nothing like it, especially to cut that thing on a morning after you had dew and dampness on it all night long. There’s nothing better than to sit down and eat a half one of ‘em.” nCL

Freelancer Jason Tinney also loves a good melon.

One-dish pasta meals are a great vehicle for fresh summer vegetables. Making them is a snap for the chef, and cleanup is easy. To assemble these dishes, forgo the grocery and make a trip to your favorite roadside stand or farmers market.

I love green beans, and I’m always trying to get my children to eat them. They actually do in my recipe for spinach rotini with chicken, a simple dish that bursts with the taste of fresh sweet basil. Grilling summer squash and peppers to include with the trofie (short, squiggly twists of pasta) is easy; pulling them together with fresh pesto takes them to another level. Spaghetti and tomatoes is a classic pairing. Adding feta, crunchy bread crumbs, and thyme reinvents the dish. For a more sophisticated option, try the radicchio with shrimp, artichokes and capers—a guaranteed crowd-pleaser for any special occasion.

Don’t let the simplicity of these dishes fool you—ripe, well-sourced vegetables perfectly capture the bright, clean flavors of a summer garden. Enjoy!

Recipes:

• Trofie with Grilled Summer Vegetables and Pesto
• Spaghetti with Feta, Cherry Tomatoes, and Thyme
• Orecchiette Pasta with Shrimp, Radicchio, and Lemon
• Spinach Rotini with Chicken, Basil, and Green Beans

Andrew Evans is the chef at Easton’s Thai Ki.

In Thomas Eakins’ painting, “Max Schmitt in a Single Scull,” the rower’s craft is slim and light, skimming the surface of the water as lightly as a dragonfly. When the Baltimore architectural firm of Ziger/Snead was asked to create a home for a pair of avid water enthusiasts and rowers, it took this image of a historic rowing scull as inspiration. Like the quiet pastime of rowing, the new home on the Rappahannock River was to be a peaceful weekend retreat, a place to reflect on the convergence of water and land, horizon and sea.

“The water was the most important reason for being there,” says Douglas Bothner, the project architect. “There was something really compelling to the owners about where the water met the land and they wanted to be able to experience that from everywhere in the house.”

To maximize the connection between the structure and the landscape, the house was placed as close to the water as possible, with simplicity underscoring every aspect of its design and construction. In addition to the view of the Rappahannock, it also encompasses vistas of a wetland and a forest.

Historically, rowing sculls consisted of a straightforward frame construction covered in a light skin. Like a scull, the home is a long, slim frame wrapped in glass. The result is that the house becomes a border and the landscape around it a work of art. “If you take a snapshot and put it in a frame on the coffee table, people engage with it differently, as if it has more value,” says Bothner. “This is a way of representing the landscape and the river in that way.”

Though some private spaces in the home are opaque, due to the use of concrete fiberboard siding, interruptions in the transparent frame are kept to a minimum by using floor-to-ceiling glass in the public areas. Even the master bathroom presents an open face to the river, requiring no solid walls for privacy in this rural setting. Sliding doors allow the entire house to be opened to cross breezes, giving the feeling that the structure is one large, pleasant screened porch and blurring the line between house and nature.

The ideal of simplicity carried into the home’s interior finishes, where the owners challenged the architects to use basic materials in creative ways. Inside the 3,500-square-foot home, galvanized steel structural columns are left bare, the fireplace and hearth are concrete block and poured concrete, and the light fixtures (from Home Depot) are cast metal. Ziger/Snead developed the custom stainless-steel kitchen and minimalist lacquered cabinetry in keeping with the home’s restrained palette. Because the structure is essentially a glass box, there is little need for artificial light during daylight hours; a glass floor along the south-facing wall of the building allows sunlight to filter into the lower-level multipurpose and storage spaces while giving a lightweight feel to the home’s main floor.

Despite the home’s minimalism, the owners are colorful people who are active in the Baltimore area art community when not at their river retreat. Their personalities can be seen in splashes of color throughout, such as the red Ligne Roset “Togo” sofa (which offers a soft counterpoint to the rigor of the architecture), and the vibrant array of Arne Jacobsen “Series 7” chairs and bar stools scattered throughout the home.

“The success [of the home] is its simplicity,” says Bothner. “It’s so lightweight when you are inside. I think, in part, it is a very rigorous thing and yet it allows the life of the river to dominate. It slips away and becomes a wonderful frame for being in the landscape.”

Christianna McCausland writes from Northern Virginia.

Confessions of a Beach Tag Inspector

By Jessica Bizik

At first glance, when the Chevy van’s door slid open, you might have thought we were a bunch of neon-vested juvenile delinquents coming to pick up trash. (Or teen cult members sent to lure new recruits from the boardwalk). We were, in fact, Bethany Beach beach tag checkers coming to ruin your day.

The year was 1989 and two of my buds and I had taken the job to pay for our summer expenses before heading off to college. We expected sun, fun, and the opportunity to flirt with Chad Allen—“the hottest lifeguard, like, ever”—on our daily trek down the shore.

I had already planned, in great detail, the circumstances under which he’d save my life. These involved a tsunami, my efforts to rescue a lost puppy from the jetty, and a strong wind blowing me gracefully into the ocean.

But on our first day at work, the Beach Inspector General divided us into teams of two. My friends got to work together and I was paired with the last remaining female: a cranky, 300-pound North Jersey gal who could’ve made Tony Soprano cry Uncle Junior. Her name was Bertha. (Seriously, Bertha.) And she scared the living daylights out of me.

Descending on the beach, we surveyed our prey: a sea of seemingly narcoleptic people who fell asleep the moment we approached. The ones who managed to remain conscious popped their widening, Looney Toons-style eyeballs back into their heads, nudged their partners in (beach) crime, and ran directly into the water.

“Beach wenches, 3 o’clock!” they’d yell, leaping from their Ocean Pacific towels, leaving us in a wake of sand and disdain.

I, the ever-so-polite suburban prepster, had no rap whatsoever. “Excuse me, sir. Did you, by any chance, happen to purchase beach tags for your lovely family today?”

Some people were simply obstinate: “Do you seriously expect me to pay you to use nature? I mean, you aren’t GOD, are you?”

Others pulled out their wallets with a huff—forking over the cash as if I had somehow just offended them or something.

One woman asked me to watch her kid for 15 minutes. She came back five hours later!

And the older folks? Well, they simply enjoyed the company.

Bertha uttered two simple words: “BEACH TAGS” and you could practically hear the “Jaws” theme in the background. Everyone paid. Period.

“Why are you so nice?” I remember Bertha asking on about our fifth outing together. And I got the sense there was a lot behind that question.

I just stared at her blankly, shrugged, and we spent the rest of the summer thick as thieves.

Sometimes, she was even sweet to me. But not as sweet as vanilla soft-serve with chocolate jimmies—or practicing mouth-to-mouth with Chad Allen in the lifeguard stand a week before the season ended.

The Summer of My First Real Kiss

By Mary Ann Treger

The summer before turning 16, my biggest fear (and embarrassment) was that I had not been kissed. I spent many sultry nights at a pity party on the front steps of my New Jersey home contemplating the possibility of missing out on this momentous marker in my young life. 

My prospects for meeting Prince Charming were grim.

A shy, quiet kid, I longed to be one of the pretty, perky, popular girls. But my crooked teeth (now crowned) and oversized nose (now reduced) kept me off that much-envied list. Who-kissed-who was the topic du jour of every girlie conversation. I would keep mum about never graduating from the Spin-the-Bottle variety. The only real kiss contender I had in sight was Bob, the best friend of my sister’s boyfriend.   

The horror of turning Sweet 16 kissless superseded thoughts of kissing Bob’s grotesquely mismatched lips. His lower lip was, to be polite, oversized. This unappealing trough hung open all the time, exposing more moist, pink flesh than I cared to observe outside of a butcher shop. His upper lip was a cartoon line. I realize that this sounds superficial, even cruel to those born with less than ideal smackers. Bob was a great guy. If only I had focused on his wit—he was pretty funny—or his brains I might have seen beyond “the lip.” But cut me some slack. Fifteen-year-olds are not known for wisdom. Character was not my concern. My objective was a kiss. Ideally, equal to the one Burt Lancaster gave Deborah Kerr on the wave-swept beach in “From Here to Eternity.”

Bob asked me out a few times during that hot, sticky 1960s summer. Since my biological clock was ticking and there was nothing more palatable on the social horizon, I succumbed.

I can’t remember where we went—the movies or bowling or miniature golf. It doesn’t matter. All I remember was the wet smooch he planted on me at the end of the evening in the front seat of his overheated Chevy. Bob’s lips were like a big suction cup, covering the real estate from my nose to my chin. I imagined a teenage squid or octopus would have felt the same after a first smooch. When it was over, half of my face was wet. All I wanted was a towel. Just like Deborah Kerr.

The Summer I Stopped Tanning

By Kessler Burnett

I was a teenager in the early ’80s, when women were expected to bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, and maintain a savage tan at all times. Next to a kickin’ pair of Candies and skin-tight Calvin Klein jeans, bronze skin was the most sought-after accessory—and I worked hard to get it.

At boarding school, as soon as spring’s thermometer topped 65, I would find a spot by the pool amid rows of girls slathered in oil dense enough to use in the filter of a Ford F-350. To amplify the grease’s effect, we’d use homemade UV reflectors engineered from tinfoil-wrapped Duran Duran and Go-Go’s albums. Every so often, girls would lift their heads to compare the progress of their melanin production. Even back then I understood that among women, tanning is a seriously competitive sport. Yet, try as I might, I just couldn’t keep up with my olive-skinned opponents. 

Truth is, I’ve never come by a tan easily. My mother has the tawny tone of a Choctaw squaw, my father the soapy pallor of a Scotsman. The genetic combo earns me a spot on the color wheel somewhere between ochre and bile, which yields skin with a tendency to burn. But I never let heredity stop my quest to look like the Bain de Soleil lady.

Then came my wakeup call. On one particular visit to the spa for a facial, the esthetician asked to look at my face under blue light. In the mirror before me emerged a beast’s face covered with a constellation of small black dots and big, misshapen brown blobs. As the esthetician pointed out the areas that revealed the most severe damage, the icy breath of regret brushed against my consciousness. Before me was the handy work of my ego: deep sun damage that threatened to define my future appearance and possibly health. That night, I broke off my relationship with Apollo and opted out of the tanning game. 

Now when I (twice annually) go to the beach, I more resemble a pile of laundry deposited under an umbrella. Instead of Brazilian bikinis, I wear a long-sleeve tunic, floor-length sarong, wide-brimmed floppy hat, and large sunglasses. I’ve donned this Sigmund and the Sea Monsters-esque costume on some of the world’s most exclusive beaches, from St. Barth’s to Mustique, without shame. While I may look like something out of Central Casting, my face, which I obsessively treat with microdermabrasion, Retin-A, and copious amounts of sunscreen, looks pretty darn good, and I sleep better knowing that I’ll have a few less wrinkles and age spots than my contemporaries, who continue to sear under the direct sun. So perhaps, when it comes to midlife female competition, I just might finally have a (pale) leg up. 

The Summer I Went Blond(ish)

By Jayne Blanchard

With its knee-high waves and pasty-skinned beachcombers, Ocean City was a far cry from the West Coast. But in the early ’70s, everyone was California dreamin’ and you wore pukka shells woven on leather strings around your ankles and Hawaiian print bathing suits whether you were from Hermosa Beach or Hampden.

Part of this California look was blond hair. The year I turned 14 I thought I was doomed to go through life a brown-haired Midge to the flaxen perfection of Malibu Barbie until a miraculous new product came out, Sun-In, which promised streaks as sun-kissed as Cheryl Tiegs on the cover of Teen magazine. All you had to do was spritz it on, wait 10 minutes, and then wash it out. Voila, instant surfer girl.

I ran down to Bailey’s Pharmacy for my bottle of Sun-In (a scene I imagined repeated across the country, as mousy-tressed teens stormed unsuspecting store owners, demanding their inalienable right to the pursuit of blondness) and squirted it on my head, as per the directions. True to teenage logic, I thought “Why wait 10 minutes when 15 would be even better?” By the time I washed it out, my crowning glory did not evoke images of Peggy Lipton or Michelle Phillips, but Archie Andrews of comic book fame.

All I needed was cross-hatches on the sides of my head and I could have been the king of Riverdale High with Betty and Veronica on either arm. But follicle faux pas love company, and as it turned out most of the beach that summer was dotted with girls and guys who tried Sun-In, so much so that by August the sand looked like fields of orange chrysanthemums in bloom. 

All season long I assiduously avoided the sun until 4:30 p.m., when I ventured out onto the beach, my carroty hair ablaze and my flounder-white flesh on display, sitting alone in a canvas chair reading “A Season in Hell” or furiously stabbing at my summer art project—a needlepoint rendition of Edvard Munch’s “The Scream.” Come to think of it, I had few dates that summer. Wonder why.

Summer Friends, Self-Doubt, and Raquel Welch

By Stephanie Shapiro

I loved the beach and I loved my best friend, Jo Ellen.

The beach was freedom, possibility, salt and sensuality.

Jo Ellen was fun, true blue, and always up for adventure.

But when Jo Ellen, a precocious beauty, came down to the beach and unpacked her astonishing bikini, the emotional metrics went haywire. Imagine lying next to a teenage Raquel Welch while you’re draped in a loud beach towel that does little to disguise an ill-fitting swimsuit and the chubby body contained within.

Jo Ellen flirted easily with the lifeguards while I toed the sand. I coveted her effortless banter and feared it at the same time. If I were in her flip-flops, I’d be petrified that it could lead to something more, like a date, and then I’d have to worry about other possibilities besides making small talk. 

So it went those circa-1960s summers: Jo Ellen tanned, I burned. Jo Ellen’s hair miraculously turned from dark brown to blond. My hair stayed tangled in a hippie-wannabe mess.

That Jo Ellen wrestled with her own self-doubts didn’t occur to me. Nor did it allay a simmering resentment that flared at times into full-blown jealousy. I downplayed Jo Ellen’s admiration for my jokes and dilettantish store of knowledge and craved a more tangible sign of superiority, as clear to a lifeguard as to Jo Ellen.

The triumph came one cloudy day at a faded amusement park. We slid into a weathered seat for two on the Tilt-A-Whirl. Rising, dipping and rotating, our panoramic view shifted nonstop between shining sea and boardwalk hokum. For about eight revolutions, nothing mattered.

Then, I glanced at Jo Ellen. She wasn’t having nearly as much fun. Her perfect tan had faded to pale green. I signaled the operator and the ride glided to a halt. Jo Ellen excused herself and became sick. For once, I had bested my best friend, who apparently couldn’t take the physical rigors of summer’s idle pleasures. “Wimp,” I crowed silently.

The next day, we probably returned to the beach. There was little no room for smugness there, save a giggle or two at Jo Ellen’s expense, as I lay shrouded in terry cloth next to my beloved, curvaceous friend. Jo Ellen and I probably pattered about boys and bands and hilarious teachers. And as we continue to do today, quietly forgave one another for the wounds that jealousy, self-doubt, and the nauseating ride between the two can exact on a friendship.

If asked to describe Latin American cooking several years ago, I would have cluelessly replied something about giant blobs of sour cream, guacamole, and dripping cheese sauce—the familiar American take on the cuisine.  
Don’t get me wrong, I’m the first to dive into a plate of nachos the size of a Thanksgiving turkey, but the authentic cuisines of Mexico, Peru, Chile, and other South American countries are much healthier and far less heavy. Sorry, sour cream and puddles of melted Velveeta do not exist south of the border.

I have had the good fortune to become friends with the Peruvian owner of a South American grocery store here in Easton, and I began my quest for authentic Latin cuisine with him. I also contacted a Mexican friend of mine, and I was not disappointed in what they told me. The recipes that follow are easy to prepare with ingredients readily available online, from Latin American markets, or from the international aisle of large supermarkets.

The steak a lo pobre is classic hearty food from Chile that is easy to make and filling. The chicken dish or aji de gallina is Peruvian, tasty and different, and you can adjust the spice to your liking. The refreshing Mexican beet and apple salad is a family recipe from my friend. Various empanada recipes can be found all over South America, but I find this version, made with seafood, to be particularly delicious.

Give these dishes a try and see if they don’t forever change your perception of Latin American food. You may never dump sour cream on a burrito again!

Recipes

• Aji de Gallina or Chicken with Yellow Pepper Sauce
• Grilled Steak a lo Pobre
• Pickled Beets, Apples, Oranges and Pecans
• Mixed Seafood Empanadas

Andrew Evans is the chef at Easton’s Thai Ki.

Above the early-nineteenth- century mantel in Fred Comer and Mark Manoff’s living room hangs a portrait of the ninth Duke of Northumberland, elegantly adorned in the khaki battle dress of the Grenadier Guards. With its nod to the Colonial aesthetic that typified British gentlemen’s clubs, the living area is undoubtedly a place where the duke himself would happily hang his slouch hat.

Here, a civilized blend of rugged and gentile décor reigns: a zebra-skin rug pops against a coral Kinsey Marable reading chair, an arc of Black Forest roebuck antlers crowns the wall space above a Queen Anne sideboard, a grouping of Chinese jars perch atop a bookcase across from an imposing Cape buffalo trophy. “The buffalo trophy was the first thing in here,” explains Comer. “So it, along with the duke’s portrait, which is five and a half feet tall, lends that clubby look and masculine scale that we were after.”

Residents of Washington, D.C., Comer and Manoff, who both work in publishing, first discovered the Northern Neck in 1994 after buying an eighteenth-century farmhouse near Urbana, located on the bordering Middle Peninsula, as a weekend retreat. It wasn’t long before they relocated to Irvington, lured by the potential of the home perched on the tall banks of sleepy Carter’s Creek. Despite its waterfront appeal, the house, a dilapidated, two-bedroom rancher built by a local waterman in 1953, needed lots of work and a hefty dose of creative vision. “It was one of those sad little unimaginative ranchers that, unfortunately, there are far too many of in this country,” says Comer. “But we were sold on the location, which had amazing, long views of the creek.”

With the help of Kilmarnock architect George Thomasson, the pair set about transforming the mediocre into the magical. They brought charm to the façade by parging and painting the brick, which lent an aged appearance, while the addition of a cedar shake roof brought dimension and character. Inside, the floor plan was enlarged to include five bedrooms and five and a half bathrooms.

Throughout the three-year renovation, Comer took the lead as interior designer. “My opinions are heard,” Manoff says with a chuckle, “but I know that Fred’s the tastemaker. When we lived in an apartment in Washington, one night I came home from work, and he had thrown all my furniture in the dumpster and redecorated the entire place.”

“He said, ‘I like it!’” recalls Comer. “And I thought, ‘This is going to work.’”

The kitchen, which shares an open floor plan with the living room, is Manoff’s domain. Cabinets are cleverly fronted with grillwork, which prevents guests from having to hunt for what they need. The custom-made island was distressed to appear antique, while two dishwashers make for easy cleanup during weekends, when the four guestrooms are typically full of visiting friends. Vintage cookbooks, from Some Favorite Southern Recipes of The Dutchess of Windsor to Trader Vic’s Helluva Man’s Cookbook, sit over the porcelain farmhouse sink. “When I didn’t want to study in college, I would cook,” jokes Manoff.

Daffodil season marks the official opening of the porch, which adjoins the living room. Here, plush couches and a small dining table overlook life on the creek, where the pair docks their three boats: a Chris-Craft, a Cape Dory Typhoon, and a Boston Whaler.

Understated glamour is the theme of the master bedroom. An eighteenth-century Chinese bench fronts the bed, while white and tan linens pop against buff and bone appointments. The French doors incorporate the tranquility of the creek and open-air pool house into the space. “We live out there all summer long,” says Comer. “We come in to cook a meal and then run right back out. There’s very little reason to go inside in the summer. It’s all you need.”

Summer days are dedicated to lounging by the black slate pool, while summer nights mean gourmet dinners in the pool house, complete with working fireplace. Above the dining room table, accessorized with 1950s Chinese Chippendale faux-bamboo chairs, hangs an iron lantern rigged with a pulley system that makes it simple to light the candles inside.

“The space really became our dining room, which is what the house was lacking,” explains Comer. “When the boats are on the water and the pool is open, why would you want to be anywhere else?”

The thing about driving to the beach is that you usually don’t want to stop anywhere until your toes touch the sand.  But one warm day last fall, just as the leaves were beginning to turn, Senior Editor Kessler Burnett, photographer Kirsten Beckerman, and I decided to make Route 50 itself the destination. We stopped at all those offbeat places we had always wondered about, those stops and shops that we simply breezed by before, too eager for that first bucket of Thrashers fries. In “Funky 50” we include fourteen of the most unique—from an herb farm that sells blue eggs to the haunted remains of an old church to a cemetery for pets. Who knows? Maybe some of them are regular detours on your own journeys to the beach.

Also, in this issue, we take another road trip through St. Mary’s County in honor of that county’s role in Maryland’s founding 375 years ago. Then we head to Rock Hall and check out the Old Gratitude House Bed and Breakfast. In Traveling Gourmet, our food critic visits Brooks Tavern in Chestertown, and Andrew Evans contributes four authentic Latin American recipes in Andrew’s Kitchen. This issue’s home design story tells the tale of a a rundown mid-century ranch house transformed into a sophisticated gentlemen’s retreat.

In case you haven’t noticed, we’ve added four new blogs. Contributor Mary Ann Treger writes about new restaurants, shops, and the social scene in The Annapolis Insider. Our recipe guru, Andrew Evans, brings us a confidential look at the life of a professional cook in The Fat Chef. Kessler Burnett gives us a feminine take on Eastern Shore living in the Girls’ Guide to the Eastern Shore, and I ramble on about new restaurants, ideas for more offbeat road trips, and all things Chesapeake in Cup o’ Joe. Please use those comment boxes on each of our blogs to let us know how we’re doing.

Oh, and you should know that we working on an issue devoted to pets for September. If you have an irresistible dog or cat, hamster or snake—or whatever—please submit your photos and any cute tales about your pet to our Web site. We’ll publish them online, and the cutest pet will win its picture on a mocked-up cover of Chesapeake Life!

Joe Sugarman
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After two excruciating days holed up in an Eastern Shore hotel, struggling to resuscitate the ailing draft of a new novel, author James McBride gave it up for dead, pointed his 1991 Volvo toward Bucks County, Pennsylvania, and headed home.

But a few missed turns sent him wandering the back roads of Dorchester County on that cool October morning five years ago. In a field a few miles outside of Cambridge, he happened upon a small sign noting that Harriet Tubman, the Moses of the Underground Railroad, was born somewhere in the general vicinity. 

“I was a little surprised at the marker for Mrs. Tubman,” he remembers thinking. “It was kind of humble. Is that all there is?”

But the marker got McBride wondering about the institution of slavery, how it’s viewed today, and the complexity of relationships among free blacks, slaves, and their owners.

He found in the Eastern Shore a complexity that was just as intriguing.

“It has a certain sadness and a certain magic to it,” he says. “The place reeks of history, and I was also impressed by the resilience of the folks I met there.”
Rural Dorchester County was two hundred miles and a world away from the all-black housing projects in Brooklyn, New York, where McBride grew up, the son of a black preacher and a white Jewish mother, who passed for black. She even hid the truth from her twelve children until most of them had
finished college, a story famously told in McBride’s 1996 best-selling memoir, The Color of Water.

That day on the Shore—and the demise of the novel he couldn’t save—was all it took for McBride to begin work on what would become Song Yet Sung, the story of a beautiful, young, escaped slave woman whose futuristic visions of freedom throw the county into turmoil in the tense years before the Civil War. The book was released in 2008 and will be reprinted in paperback this spring.

Recently, McBride, fifty-one, returned to Dorchester County, and we met over eggs and grits at the Cambridge Grill to talk about his newest book, and how its setting on the Shore delineated the novel’s characters. 

“In my research I didn’t talk much to local folks. I knew what I wanted,” he says, methodically buttering his toast. “My best source was the land and its defining elements and from them the characters took shape and controlled the story.”

Some of those characters are based on life, such as the notorious slave catcher Patty Cannon. Others, including the protagonist, runaway slave Liz Spocott, developed from McBride’s year-and-a-half of research.

“Time stops past Annapolis,” McBride says with a trace of New York accent. “I must have come down here twenty to thirty times and rode around Dorchester County looking for characters, geography, and bits of information to build characters.”

He kept a low profile, dressed down, drove his aging Volvo, and absorbed the area’s history, customs, and vernacular. He spent hours in the history room of the county library, more hours following the trail of the Underground Railroad, and more with a couple traditional boat builders. He went to the Chesapeake Bay Maritime Museum in St. Michaels and read the works of local authors, including Frederick Tilp, who wrote the classic This Was Potomac River in 1978. He walked the shoreline and through cemeteries. He searched slave and manumission records, discovering that many local slaves were freed in the years just prior to the war.

“I’m interested in slavery, but more interested in people,” McBride says. “There’s a residual grapple in white people with slavery—it’s in the air, you can smell it.”

The black abolitionist Frederick Douglass was born in the neighboring Talbot County, and the Underground Railroad was active across Maryland. The Chesapeake Bay, and the rivers leading to it, was a main conduit to the north for escaped slaves.

Beginning around 1850, Tubman led dozens of other slaves along the Eastern Shore and into Delaware on their way to freedom. Appropriately, the small café we’re eating in sits across from the Harriet Tubman Coalition’s headquarters and museum on Race Street, the street where some of the city’s most violent civil rights confrontations occurred little more than forty years ago.

Jane Turner, manager of the grill, goes table to table, chatting up her customers until she reaches ours.

“You aren’t from around here, are you?” she pauses to ask McBride, whose jeans,  sport jacket, and scarf flung around his neck stand out among the after-church crowd dressed in their Sunday best. “You look like a movie star.”

“Look me up on the Internet and let me know if I am,” McBride teases back, then introduces himself as an author, not an actor. The closest he’s come to the big screen is his recent screenwriter gig for the Spike Lee film production of Miracle at St. Anna, which debuted before Christmas.

“Spike’s wife read my book,” he says, remembering that he thought Lee’s call was a friend’s prank until the director reassured him that it was no joke.

In Song Yet Sung McBride’s Spocott has visions—like Tubman—and suffers from what today might be called narcolepsy, falling into a deep sleep quickly and unexpectedly. Her visions of the future—of young black men wearing chains of gold instead of iron, mysterious boxes that blare music and pictures, and self-propelled carriages—leave her confused and distraught but earn her a guarded respect from other slaves who call her “The Dreamer.” 

There were no secrets in the Eastern Shore slave community. When Spocott’s owner hires a waterman/retired slave catcher to find her, the hunt embroils other slaves, free blacks, slave owners, and other slave catchers, eventually involving the entire community.

Watermen, of course, play a large role in Song Yet Sung as the majority of the Underground Railroad in Maryland traversed open water or marshy creeks. It was a risky business. Whites could be jailed for helping runaways, and blacks were sold South, but the watermen, McBride says, were beyond governing. “The watermen, mostly black and some white, were the soldiers of the Underground Railroad,” he says. “Watermen were like cowboys, only more rugged, physically stronger, and tougher and wouldn’t hesitate to pull a pistol if they needed to.”

Throughout the novel there is a sense that the watermen, black, white, and ever watchful, are aware of everything that happens on land as well as on the water. A few help Spocott, including one old black waterman who hides her in his workboat as she flees Cambridge. 

The character of Denwood Long, the white waterman and former slave catcher from Hooper’s Island, embodies the watermen’s courage, strength, and savvy as he’s lured out of retirement to find Spocott. Until he visited Dorchester County, McBride says he knew nothing about watermen but his admiration grew as he learned about them—“working in ten- to fifteen-foot boats, handling oyster tongs, and watching the horizon constantly for whatever was blowing up behind them.”

Ironically, McBride has a deep fear of the water, so he never set foot in a boat. But he walked rugged Hooper’s Island—and he read. 

“There are plenty of local writers whose descriptions and accounts of watermen were enough to work with, including Frederick Douglass, who to the very end of his life, was proud to be an Eastern Shore waterman,” he says.

In Song Yet Sung, McBride’s characters use codes—the angle of a quilt hung on a line or the rhythm of a blacksmith’s hammer on the anvil—to alert each other of danger. “There may not have been a national system, but I’m sure the signals were understood in a regional sense and included black songs and phrases like ÔGospel Train,’ which referred to the Underground Railroad,” he says. “Music had a tremendous amount to do with the codes—a system of signs to warn slaves throughout Dorchester County and understood by slaves and slave catchers as well.”

Codes of different types play a central role in his novel, as well: The quilts that Clementine, the colored woman over at the Gables farm, aired out on the porch each day were screaming, “Hold tight.” The black watermen who tacked up the Chesapeake ran their sails to leeward, wrapping them from right to left instead of left to right. That meant “Hold. Trouble was about.”

After breakfast we head a few miles outside of Cambridge to a restored tenant house, home of a former slave, Adeline Wheatley, near the Spocott Windmill, a reconstruction of an eighteenth-century, post-type Dutch windmill used to grind grain. The windmill, circa-1800 cabin, and other buildings are maintained by the Spocott Foundation, headed by George Radcliffe, descendent of the Spocott plantation master who freed his slaves in 1855. Now the property is open to visitors. McBride borrowed the name for his heroine, as well as the book’s fictitious plantation and slave owner. “This is the real thing, bare wood walls with holes open to outside,” McBride says as we enter the small cabin. 

He spent hours here, he says, “dumping myself into the fictional world.”

McBride plops into a weathered, straight wooden chair and surveys the downstairs room of the rough but tidy cabin. Sparsely furnished, the room, perhaps twelve feet-by-twelve feet, seems almost spacious. A colorful rag rug warms the bare board floor and a narrow, worn corner staircase leads to a sloped ceiling room upstairs. “It put me back in the time,” he says. “And helped set up the framework of the book.”

In the second-floor bedroom, there’s an old scrapbook, filled with yellowed birthday cards from “Harry,” “Sadie,” “Mildred,” and others, friends or maybe family, of whomever saved them, along with faded early twentieth-century news clippings of local events. McBride’s as excited as I’ve seen him as he pages through the mementos, wondering if they may have been Wheatley’s. “This is a gold mine, like walking into a person’s soul,” he says, marveling that the anonymous, ragtag collection is still intact. 

As we walk toward the windmill, McBride surveys the creeks bordering the property. “It was rough living with not a lot of hope in the area,” McBride says of the land, which provided inspiration for the “Neck District,” a setting in his book. “If you didn’t get your oysters, you had to eat whatever vegetables you grew during the rest of the year.

“The elements are fierce, and you sense how trapped even the normal white person was,” he says. “And you can understand the complications of people trapped by the times.”

The watermen, white and black, survived at the whim of the elements. Even the most knowledgeable and careful could fall victim to weather as well as hot-tempered rivals. McBride portrays the risks in the book’s Sullivan family, watermen and small farmers who kept four slaves: Each day, Kathleen Sullivan, a short, dark-haired, bright slip of a woman, stood at the edge of the creek near her modest cabin at Blackwater Creek, nine miles west of Cambridge at the end of Joya’s Neck, staring out over the water. Her husband, Boyd, had been on the bay oystering for six months. He had been given up for lost yet each day she found herself standing at the bank’s edge staring at the wide expanse of bay beyond Blackwater Creek looking in vain for the sail of his dory boat, hoping it would appear, knowing it would not.”

McBride intended the novel to capture the fabric of pre-war Maryland. He created the slave Liz Spocott as an ambivalent character, who, like many of the other characters, questions her destiny. Should she run? Should she hide? Where should she go?

The waterman’s wife, Kathleen Sullivan, is equally conflicted. Although certain that slavery is wrong, she cannot imagine survival without her slaves.

McBride’s vision of the future of the Eastern Shore is also complex. “The Eastern Shore is the forgotten America, a hard place to be with a large divide between the haves and have-nots” he says, adding that as more wealthy vacationers come to play golf, fish, and eat crab cakes, more local color and history is lost.

“But I love the area, it’s a great American secret,” he says. “Few people seem to appreciate the essence of it.”

It’s an easy place to transport oneself back into history, he says, and it remains a land of treasures in that regard.

Although his next book isn’t set on the Eastern Shore, that’s where he plans to flee, he says, to settle anonymously in a room without a view at a hotel he’d rather not mention. And write.

Phyllis Speidell freelances from her home in Hampton Roads, Va.

Oysters, scallops, clams, and mussels are the complete package—all their briny goodness is conveniently contained right in their own shells. You don’t have to do anything fancy or complicated to prepare any of them. Take an oyster or a clam—douse with a squeeze of lime or lemon and enjoy.

I designed these four dishes to bring out each bivalve’s best attributes—without compromising the essence of their flavors. Shucked oysters with lime granite are a perfect party pleaser and so easy to make, while the little neck clams, cannelloni beans, chorizo, and grilled chicken makes for a hearty spring entrée. I’ve added a Thai twist to the concept of steamed mussels by serving them with chili, lemon grass, and fish sauce. And sautéed sea scallops are dressed up for dinner with the addition of French lentils and smoked ham hock. Enjoy!

Recipes

• Mussels with Lemon Grass and Chili
• Little Neck Clams, Cannelloni Beans, Chorizo, and Grilled Chicken
• Sautéed Sea Scallop with Smoked Ham Hock and French Lentils
• Shucked Oysters with Lime Granite

Andrew Evans is the chef at Easton’s Thai Ki.

My father always loved a bargain. From buy-one-get-one-free sales on orange juice to scoring a cheap used car, he could never pass up a good deal.

As a kid, I recall spending many hours with him at flea markets and garage sales, watching him do his thing. He’d wander from table to table, seemingly uninterested in anything, but then he’d spot the object of his desire: a box of scratched-up records. A ceramic pitcher for my mother. A “gently used” blender. Next, he’d deliver his usual lowball offer. “This case of cassette tapes marked $5,” he’d ask as if he weren’t really interested, “would you take 75 cents?” Somehow, more often than not, the answer would be, “Yes.”

He didn’t always use everything he bargained for, however. Many times that box of records would end up unplayed in our increasingly crowded garage. Sometimes, I think he was just in it for the thrill of the hunt.

But his biggest bargaining exploit of them all—the story he’d tell repeatedly at family functions or cocktail parties—was the time he purchased my parents’ first home. It was a little white Cape Cod on a quiet street in West Allenhurst, N.J. The sellers, a middle-aged couple who recently divorced, wanted more than $25,000 for it, a lot of money in the mid-‘50s for a young couple expecting their second child.

But my dad wasn’t fazed. He offered $19,000—almost 25 percent below their already reasonable asking price. My mother was stunned by his chutzpah.

But, son of a gun, Dad knew exactly what he was doing. The couple, desperate to sell, accepted his offer, and my parents went on to expand their family in that house.

Over the years, the moral behind the tale still reverberates, ingrained in our familial folklore like George Washington and the cherry tree: “Don’t be afraid to ask for a lower price,” my father would say, “because, well, you never know”

Dad would have appreciated the story of Bill and Brenda Egge, who purchased their waterfront home in St. Mary’s County for a whopping 50 percent of its initial listing. As writer Andrew Tilghman reveals in his article, “Let’s Make a Deal,” now is the best time in years to snare a buy on waterfront real estate—as long as you know where to look. In our pursuit of bargains on the Bay, we also visit the area’s best
consignment shops in search of great deals on designer duds and furniture.

Also in this issue, we catch up with James McBride, the best-selling author of The Color of Water, who returned to Dorchester County to talk about the inspiration behind his latest novel, set on the Eastern Shore.

Have you ever visited Annmarie Garden in Solomons? Its lush sculpture garden, full of blooming azaleas and works of art, satisfied writer Carol Denny’s desire for her own little Versailles. And in Traveling Gourmet, food critic Mary Zajac finds a taste of Italy in Annapolis—at a reasonable price. 

Dad passed away last summer at the age of eighty-three, but I think he would have enjoyed this issue full of bargains. And if he were buying a house in this market, you can bet he would’ve pitched another lowball beauty. Because, well, you never know ...

Until next issue,

Joe Sugarman
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If you’ve ever dreamed of owning a waterfront home along the Chesapeake Bay, now might be the time to go bargain hunting. Just ask Bill and Brenda Egge.

The Egges retired, sold a home in Anne Arundel County in 2006, and bought a motor home. Two years later, after several laps around the country, they wanted to settle down again and began looking for a home in Southern Maryland.

They fell in love with a sprawling five-bedroom Cape Cod-style home in Piney Point, near the far-flung tip of St. Mary’s County. With a spiral staircase and a pristine view of St. Jerome’s Creek near the Potomac River and the Bay, the home was originally priced at nearly $900,000 in the twilight of the housing boom. It sat empty after the prior owners had passed away. Their heirs, eager to sell, slashed the price again and again, finally down to $550,000.

Along came the Egges last summer. Feeling confident in a cash-strapped market, they low-balled the sellers with an offer of $450,000. “I figured, ‘Let’s see how far we can push them’” Bill Egge says.

A few weeks later, the couple signed a contract on the home for $465,000—almost half its original price.

“Five years ago, I don’t think we could have afforded it,” Egge says.

Today’s market for waterfront real estate is a bargain hunter’s paradise. Just a few years ago, waterfront properties on and around the Chesapeake Bay were doubling in price every few years. Frantic buyers often bid beyond the asking price. They came in droves, some from New Jersey seeking retirement homes, others from the Washington area looking for weekend getaways. And of course there were wide-eyed investors lured in by the run-up.

For many, it seemed, that dream home was slipping out of reach.

But today? Things have changed. The housing market has soured. There’s simply not that many buyers out there—real estate agents say even traffic on their Web sites is way down. The number of homes on the market—the “inventory” as the pros say—is six or eight times what it was just a few years ago. Any sense of urgency has completely shifted from buyers to sellers.

“It’s the bottom feeders out there right now,” says Jean Atkins, an Annapolis real estate agent for nearly twenty years. “We’re scraping the bottom of the market right now, and they’re out there fishing to see how low we can go.”

Take a look at the raw numbers: The average price of a Chesapeake Bay-front home sold in Maryland rose from about $500,000 in 2002 to more than $1 million in 2006, according to the statewide Multiple Listings Service, a database used by real estate professionals. But those days are over. For 2008, the average waterfront home went for about $788,000. And this year could be worse.

“Are we at the bottom with the waterfronts? Probably not—they’re probably still going to come down,” says Rick McNabb, a realtor in St. Mary’s County. The number of houses on the market has ballooned. St. Mary’s and Calvert counties, for example, had about 250 total houses for sale in 2004. At the end of 2008, there was a total of nearly 1,900 with nearly 200 on the water.

“There’s nobody out there looking,” McNabb says. “And we’ve got a lot of owners who just got in over their heads. It all sounded good when everything was going good, but now they just have to get out. They’re saying, ‘I don’t care that I’m not making any money,’ or ‘I don’t care if I put 200K down and I’m walking away with only 20K—I want out.’”

To be sure, not all of the Chesapeake’s local markets have tanked. Bargain hunting still demands research, patience, and trade-offs. Historic homes, deepwater access for boats, and proximity to big cities and nice towns all drive up the price. For about $300,000, you might find a 1970s rancher with a great water view ten miles down a farm road on the Eastern Shore. But a century-old colonial revival with a boat dock near Annapolis will still likely run more than $1 million.

Indeed, the Annapolis area is holding steady. Overall, the market is just 10 or 15 percent off its peak in 2006. Most homes there are primary residences. A daily commute into the Baltimore-Washington corridor is doable. But there are still some remarkable deals out there. One waterfront home in Bay Ridge sold for $1.9 million in 2005. It later went into foreclosure and is now under contract for $1.2 million.

Don’t expect to find any deals in Talbot County. Far from it. A wealthy region for years and more recently a second-home sanctuary for well-off Republicans such as Dick Cheney and Don Rumsfeld, Talbot is the only bay-front county to see prices continue to rise. Buyers with deep pockets are drawn by the trendy shops and great restaurants in towns of Easton, St. Michaels, and Oxford as well as the short drive to the Bay Bridge. Agents there say you’d have to drive all the way out to the remote tip of Tilghman Island to find waterfront homes under $750,000.

Yet those places have always had pricey real estate. The housing bust’s biggest impact has been on those places that were historically more affordable. “The lower end of the waterfront market has been more impacted than the higher end. There is more inventory at the lower end—less than a million—than I’ve ever seen before,” says Carolina Barksdale, a real estate agent in Easton.

Barksdale says she sends her more cost-conscious home shoppers down to the lower Eastern Shore, to Dorchester County or even Somerset. There’s plenty of options as low as $300,000 down there. But you get what you pay for, she warns. There you’ll find no-frills, unremarkable homes in remote villages. Not much to do there except enjoy your water view.

The best bargains might be in Somerset County, around Crisfield, a sleepy town of shuttered seafood packing-houses and stunning sunset views over the Tangier Sound. A large marina makes it ideal for serious boaters. And a poorly timed condo-building binge a few years ago has left a glut on the market. Condo units that initially sold for more than $600,000 in 2006 are sitting unsold now for less than $300,000.

Another budget waterfront spot near the Bay is Virginia’s Northern Neck, a four-county stretch along the Potomac reaching down into the Tidewater region. Real estate agent Lon Crow saw interest in the region spike during the housing boom, and business is resuming now that prices are once again reaching the “magic $399 range.” Drive about two hours south of Washington along Route 301, and that price will get you a newly built three-bedroom home with a great water view, private pier, and deepwater slip for a boat. But, Crow cautions, it’s rural out there. “We don’t have the shopping malls and other metropolitan amenities.” Recently, a new Wal-Mart opened up down in Northumberland County, so “it’s not a total backwater.”

There’s no crystal ball to say where the bottom of the market is. Some agents say savvy buyers are getting the best bargains right now. But there’s not much hard evidence that the slide in prices will reverse anytime soon.

The bottom line: If you’re in the market for a bargain home on the water, there’s no rush.
“I tell people, ‘It’s not like we’re going back through the roof anytime soon,’” McNabb says. “And I’m talking like fifteen or twenty years.”

Regal Rags
This store looks more like a smart boutique than a shop offering recycled women’s clothes, shoes, handbags, and jewelry, with designer labels. Three visits reveal a brand-new Vera Wang cocktail dress ($275), several new Lilly Pulitzer sundresses ($55 each), and a like-new Escada evening jacket ($150). While the place is packed with pricey labels—Burberry, Kate Spade, Ferragamo, and Tiffany & Co.—there are plenty of Talbots, Dana Buchman, and Chico’s, too. “Between 30 to 40 percent of the merchandise still has the original tags dangling from the sleeves,” says owner Dawn Henderson, who gets her gently used merchandise from well-heeled customers with vast wardrobes and new goods from a not-to-be-named boutique. “We are fussy. We want Louis Vuitton, Chanel, and Dior, the kind of designers you can’t easily find in Annapolis.” This is the sort of place you hesitate sharing with a girlfriend, certainly any girlfriend who wears the same size you do.

Best Bargain: On a recent visit, we spotted a very gently used St. John black knit jacket with gold embroidered collar and jeweled buttons for $300. Sounds rich, but it would cost you $1,200 in a department store. 626B Admiral Drive, Annapolis, 410-224-3434, http://regalragsannapolis.com/ —M.T.

Consign & Design
It’s hard to decide what to look at first when you enter Consign & Design—the snazzy new and consigned furniture in a small room off to the left or the sophisticated women’s consigned clothes and accessories in two rooms to the right. The shop looks expensive but the prices say otherwise. That $275 tag on a gorgeous antique Chinese chair is a real deal. Two palm tree lamps with beveled glass shades are sure to be snapped up at $125 each. “The woman who brought them here paid $500 apiece,” says shop owner Wilma Howett. Clothes look like new and are displayed as if they were in a fine designer salon—there’s no crowding. “A lot of women are glad to have a place to take their better clothes; they don’t want to give them to Goodwill,” says Howett.
Best Bargain: We loved that no-name white-beaded evening dress, a clear deal for $30. 2 Annapolis St., Annapolis, 443-458-5941—M.T.

Return to Oz
This consignment shop is not for the claustrophobic. The first floor is jam-packed with kids’ clothes, shoes, and boots, many with Gap, Baby Gap, Gymboree, Patagonia, and Lands’ End labels. Prices for kids’ clothes range from $3 to around $50 for a darling, fur-trimmed girls dress-up dress. Upstairs, two small rooms are loaded with women’s clothes (up to size 16), maternity, men’s clothes, and housewares. “We get some high-end women’s boutique stuff, some European brands but mostly Abercrombie & Fitch, Juicy Couture, Ann Taylor, Gap, and Citizens of Humanity jeans,” says co-owner Chloe Griffis, who transformed this 100-year-old house into a consignment shop with her business partner, Virginia Shea, about 1½ years ago. “Sometimes we get Pottery Barn furniture and linens or fabulously expensive shoes—Ferragamo or Michael Kors—that sell for $50 or $75, a quarter of the original price.”

Best Bargain: On our last visit, we spotted a darling, new white bassinet propped on the porch. For $40 it’s a steal. 2011 West St., Annapolis, 410-266-9390—M.T.

Affordable Furniture
Whenever there’s an estate sale on the Eastern Shore, you’ll find Lord Scott hunting for cool furnishings to bring back to his shop. Affordable Furniture consists of six rooms stocked with an eclectic blend of contemporary, antique, and downright funky furniture. “I get furniture from million-dollar houses in Talbot County,” says Scott. “Lawyers who handle the sales call me and tell me what’s happening and when.” The funkiest, most expensive item Affordable Furniture’s ever sold? A $5,500, six-foot-tall Turkish bath studded with angels from a local estate.

Best Bargain: Recent deals include a reproduction Victorian sofa ($175), a walnut chest of drawers ($300), and a 1950s RCA radio cabinet ($50). 123 S. Washington St., Easton, Md. 410-822-1475—K.B. 

New to You
The distinguished gent clad in a starched white shirt, elegant tie, and meticulously coiffed hair looks like he should be shopping in Nordstrom’s instead of cruising the aisles of New to You, but Bill Parker, a criminal defense attorney from Upper Marlboro, is a regular. “I became hooked years ago. My best find was a $400 Lladro figurine for $125. And my cheapest bargain was a dozen new Titleist golf balls still in the original box for $3.”

This place is chock-full of housewares, linens, women’s clothes, handbags, even ski goggles and a few Timex watches. Labels such as Abercrombie & Fitch, Talbots, and Ann Taylor are tucked between scores of lesser-known brands. Owner Madeleine Powers, who runs the store with her daughter, Susan Hummer, keeps a request list. “One customer is a party coordinator. She needs serving pieces,” says Hummer. “If a woman wants a fur coat, we call her when one comes in.” Shopping tip: There’s a lot to look at. Allow plenty of time to roam.

Best Bargain: There’s lots of jewelry but one item stands out—a David Yurman blue topaz and diamond ring ($800). It would probably retail for twice as much.
1916 Forest Drive, Annapolis,
410-263-2211—M.T.

Little Rascals
Those who love the thrill of the hunt will love Little Rascals. Housed in a cottage-style shop on Route 50, the store is full of racks crammed with modern women’s and children’s used clothes. Recent finds include a pair of women’s Italian leather gloves ($5), toddler-size, squeaky-clean Tretorn sneakers ($5), and a baby’s hand-woven Hannah Anderson sweater ($16.50). But owner Kari Kullman says that her biggest market is rapidly becoming teenagers. “More and more teenagers are becoming consigners,” says Kullman, “trading in their Abercrombie & Fitch stuff for something else instead of going to the mall to get something new. At first, a lot of those kids pooh-poohed the idea of buying something used, but once they found out that they can buy things like Lucky Jeans for $25 instead of $125 here, they began to change their minds.”

Best Bargains: We scored several excellent condition designer duds, including a multi-colored, woven Bottega Veneta purse ($85), Gucci shades ($75), and Coach loafers ($70). 7924 Ocean Gateway, Easton, Md. 410-822-6806—K.B.

Second Look
It’s hard to decide what’s better at Second Look—the bargains on homewares and clothing for kids, women, and men or the friendly customer service. Co-owners Marcel Ross and Barbara Segraves work the shop like a couple of Energizer bunnies, constantly helping customers or tidying up. This place isn’t fancy. The long narrow shop is basic but packed with buys. A rack of once pricey greeting cards (each in a plastic sleeve) is tucked in a corner ($1 each). Bargain hunting revealed a Banana Republic black cashmere sweater ($14) and Tahari beige silk suit ($35.) Many kids’ outfits still have the original tags attached. Just a few doors down from Giant, this shop is a must-stop before hitting the supermarket aisles.

Best Bargain: Two brand-new adorably dressed, stuffed bears would make any kid (and his parents) happy for $5 each.
942 Bay Ridge Road, Annapolis, 410-263-3111—M.T.

The Clothes Box
Who says going for your mammogram can’t be fun? A short stroll down from the radiology department in Anne Arundel Medical Center’s Sajak Building lies the well-organized Clothes Box and its great deals for everyone in the family, plus housewares and linens. While you’ll spot an occasional St. John or Prada label, most of the well-known brands include Chico’s, Gap, Ellen Tracy, and Dana Buchman. Smart shoppers stop by before or after visiting the doctor when the Clothes Box has a weekly sale on Wednesdays—and what a sale it is! Thanks to a team of terrific hospital volunteers led by manager Debbie Ganz, there’s always someone nearby to help.

Best Bargain: We spotted a like-new Liz Claiborne running suit for $15 last time we detoured after an appointment with the doc. Sajak Pavilion, Anne Arundel Medical Center, 2002 Medical Parkway, Ste. 160, Annapolis, 443-481-5070—M.T.

The Bazaar
This is one place where hand-me-downs are hip. The consignment shop, operated by Easton Memorial Hospital’s Auxiliary, contains a combination of retro, vintage, and altogether classic finds likely owned by some of Talbot County’s most fashionable frauleins. The shop is organized like a small 1950s department store, complete with window displays and tidy rows of clothing, shoes, and even a home goods section for linens, lamps, and knickknacks. “[Recently,] a lady came in just before closing to look for a gown for a party that night,” says saleswoman Diane Bisanar. “She found a great gown that fit like a glove. She came back in the next day to say that she was the belle of the ball and that she told everyone where she got it.”

Best Bargain: For $9, we snatched up a 100-percent pure camelhair swing coat with three-quarter length sleeves made by Thalhimers, a now-defunct Richmond-based department store chain. Throw on a wide black belt with it, and you’ve got an updated classic. 121 Federal St., Easton, Md., 410-822-2031—K.B.

Echoes & Accents
Just inside the front door at Echoes & Accents, three handsome twisted iron bar stools with upholstered seats are reduced to $75 each. Nearby, four large heavy wooden, Spanish-style chairs are priced at $100, and a stunning Bernhardt painted country French china cabinet is marked $650. “This is recycling at its best,” says Leah Deane, who owns the store with her partner and sister, Barbara Rasin Price.

It’s just about impossible to separate new furniture from consigned goods. Even if you’re not in the market for furniture, stop by to steal a decorating idea or two or to check out the jewelry cases. Furniture is organized in color-coordinated vignettes. Accessories range from two fabulous Chinese porcelain dogs ($277 for the pair) to a handsomely carved duck ($39). “Sixty percent of the merchandise is consigned, 40 percent is new,” says Deane as she proudly shows off a Baccarat crystal vase for $165. “So there are a few chips on top. Are you really going to see them when a dozen roses are in it?”

Best Bargain: A glass-topped dining table with handsome iron base, plus six iron dining chairs with upholstered beige striped seats reduced to $325—for the set!
224 Chinquapin Round Road, Annapolis, 410-280-8800, http://echoesandaccents.com/ —M.T

Great Estates
About 50 percent of the mostly contemporary merchandise offered at Great Estates is new and much of it comes from area model homes. The remaining furniture and accessories are consigned goods that look like they’ve barely been touched. Several big name furniture makers are represented—Bernhardt, Hooker, Bassett. Lots of interesting (and inexpensive) accessories are dotted about—a large white ceramic “O” priced at $21 would jazz up any ho-hum space. The place is packed with bargains. A painted five-drawer Stanley dresser for $159 is a great buy for a kid’s room. That’s cheap (or cheaper) than what you’d find at a big box store. The only downside is that the place isn’t very large so selection is limited.

Best Bargain: A massive Bassett triple dresser and matching hutch in chocolate cherry for $616. 8258 Veterans Hwy., Millersville, 410-987-2490, http://www.greatestatesfurniture.com/ —M.T.

Celebrity Chefs & Winemakers gather to share their passion for food and wine. Enjoy tastings, demonstrations, seminars, entertainment and exhibitors in a celebration of all things culinary. Held on the beautiful campus of the Chesapeake Bay Maritime Museum.

Casual fine dining at its finest. Set in a historic building in quaint St. Michaels, 208 features fresh and seasonal ingredients from the shore's abundance. Nationally recognized for its fine dining, 208 also offers a great light fare menu in the Wine Bar and Eatery, featuring an award-winning wine list, vast beer list and full bar. Join us this winter for great specials including $20.80 entrees!

Enter for your chance to win a dinner for two at 208 Talbot.

Casual fine dining at its finest. Set in a historic building in quaint St. Michaels, 208 features fresh and seasonal ingredients from the shore’s abundance. Nationally recognized for its fine dining, 208 also offers a great light fare menu in the Wine Bar and Eatery, featuring an award-winning wine list, vast beer list and full bar. Join us this winter for great specials including $20.80 entrees!

410-745-3838
208 N. Talbot St.
St. Michaels, MD
http://www.208talbot.com

Enter for your chance to win an overnight stay in St. Michaels, lunch for two and complimentary tickets to the Chesapeake Bay Maritime Museum.

St. Michaels, MD
Historic charm, nautical adventure, romantic spaces

Enter for your chance to win four weekend tickets to the 7th annual St. Michaels Food & Wine Festival, April 24-26, 2009.

Celebrity Chefs & Winemakers gather to share their passion for food and wine. Enjoy tastings, demonstrations, seminars, entertainment and exhibitors in a celebration of all things culinary. Held on the beautiful campus of the Chesapeake Bay Maritime Museum.

Mason’s

Why It’s Hot: Judging from the crowds at Mason’s, you’d never know the world was in an economic slump. Chef Daniel Pochron is gifted at creating a consistently delicious and clever menu highlighted by decadent French sauces and fresh ingredients. A main-stay on the Shore since 1966, Mason’s offers al fresco dining on its wrap-around porch and adjacent patio, while cool temperatures draw crowds to tables near the fireplace in the red dining room.

What to Eat: Hearty and elegant, the beef short rib bourguignon with cipollini onions, button mushrooms, and buttered noodles is a favorite wintertime option, while the schnitzel served with braised red cabbage, spaetzle, and lemon sauce is a welcome, updated version of an old-school classic. Smith Island cake regularly makes an appearance on the dessert list, as does a carrot cake with a cream cheese icing that shames all others. 22 S. Harrison St., Easton, Md., 410-822-3204, masonsgourmet.com—K.B.

Bistro Poplar

Why It’s Hot: Until chef/owner Ian Campbell opened Bistro Poplar last year, the idea of good French food in Cambridge sounded like an anomaly. And although Campbell’s light-filled storefront is miles from the real City of Lights, his epicurean sense is firmly planted on the other side of the Atlantic—whether he’s accommodating couples at the restaurant’s authentic zinc bar or families in for a cozy Sunday supper.

What to Eat: Campbell’s menu changes with the season, but you can always count on bistro standards like pan-roasted chicken, made richer with the addition of lardons (crispy chunks of smoked bacon) and classic steak frites. The gloriously creamy ham-and-egg crepe is available on both the dinner and late-night menus, a delicious reason to drop by after hours. 535 Poplar St., Cambridge, Md., 410-228-4884, bistropoplar.com—M.Z.

Out of the Fire

Why It’s Hot: Green is in…and the environment is everything to owner Amy Haines, literally and figuratively. Sure, soft lighting and earthy colors make the ambience at Out of the Fire fit for romance, but it’s the use of hormone- and antibiotic-free meats, stevia and agave nectar instead of sugar, organic vegetables, and biodynamic and organic wines that sets this place apart from any restaurant on the Eastern—or western—Shore.

What to Eat: It’s almost tradition for groups of two or more to order the meze platter, with hummus, olive tapenade, goat cheese, and grilled nan for dipping. More adventurous souls can opt for the braised lamb ribs, served with caramelized red onion relish and a curry yogurt sauce. And where else can you find a pizza topped with roasted mushrooms, brie, arugula, and a cherry- balsamic reduction? Yes, cherry. 22 Goldsboro St., Easton, Md., 410-770-4777, outofthefire.com—K.B.

Solstice

Why It’s Hot: Two years after
purchasing Berlin’s Atlantic Hotel, chef/owner Nino Mancari offers some of the most consistently pleasing comfort food on the Shore. And diners have their choice of where they want to enjoy it: in Solstice’s rustic bar while listening to live music on a weekend night, in the cozy brick-walled sunroom overlooking Berlin’s Main Street, or in the airy main dining room, with its inviting cocoa leather chairs and large table set for dining family style.

What to Eat: Mancari’s menu runs the gamut, from lunches of updated favorites like the ‘Wichcraft, a grilled ham and cheese with creamy Mornay sauce topped with a fried ‘dippy’ egg, or a grilled cheese made grown up with the addition of fresh figs and bacon. Local day boat scallops are so fresh they still taste of the sea.
2 N. Main St., Berlin, Md., 410-641-3589, solsticegrill.com—M.Z.

Imperial Hotel

Why It’s Hot: Not only does the Imperial Hotel offer a prime spot to take in Chestertown’s High Street, the restaurant also allows diners flexibility when enjoying chef Tom Pizzica’s innovative takes on Eastern Shore cuisine. Want a traditional three-course meal? No problem. Share an entrée? Sure. Can’t make
a decision and want to sample small plates? The best choice of all, in our opinion.

What to Eat: In Pizzica’s able hands scallops find their way into tacos and oysters into risotto, but lovers of fowl should try the juicy quail however it’s prepared that evening. 208 High St., Chestertown, Md., 410-778-5000, imperialchestertown.com—M.Z.

The Charlotte Hotel & Restaurant

Why It’s Hot: Romance blooms in the dining rooms of small inns in tiny towns (good wine lists help, too). The Charlotte Hotel & Restaurant is no exception. There are several good restaurants in Onancock, Virginia—and a couple of nice bed and breakfasts—but the Charlotte’s unbeatable combination of quality gourmet food and lovely rooms stands out.

What to Eat: The menu is short—maybe a half-dozen appetizers and entrees—and changes with the season. Chef Ted Cathey serves up American cuisine with a French twist (and occasionally shows his Japanese heritage). Sample from roasted seafood sausage, stuffed with flounder, lobster, shrimp, and sea bass, or a hefty rib eye, seasoned with Cathey’s dry rub and bathed in a cherry-balsamic vinegar reduction and gorgonzola cheese. The good news is, after a filling dinner, it’s just a short walk upstairs to your room. 7 North St., Onancock, Va., 757-787-7400, thecharlottehotel.com—J.S.

Pope’s Tavern at the Oxford Inn

Why It’s Hot: Pope’s Tavern is the kind of ‘local’ every neighborhood wished they had, and just sitting in the cozy burgundy-and-gold dining room alone warms a body on a cool night. Add a mix of bistro classics and modern interpretations of the local catch of the day, and you’ve got one heck of a hangout.

What to Eat: Chef Lisa MacDougal’s take on the bistro favorite, moules frites, mussels steamed in garlic and white wine, impresses even if the plate weren’t piled high with fries. Locally caught tuna melts in the mouth until the wasabi garnish kicks in. 504 S. Morris St., Oxford, Md., 410-226-5220, oxfordinn.net—M.Z.


 

Corbels

Why It’s Hot: It isn’t very often that Southern Maryland gets a new white-linen restaurant. Corbels, located on Leonardtown’s main drag, opened in 2008 in the Sterling House, an 1850s landmark that accommodated the Sterling family—and their seventeen children. The house was completely redone over the last two years, but the experience is still reminiscent of eating in someone’s living room. Happy hour at the handsome granite-topped wooden bar is a must-do, or stop by for lunch or Sunday brunch when those linen tablecloths get swapped for far more casual place mats.

What to Eat: Order anything you want, but be sure to start your lunch or dinner with the Portuguese chowder, chock-full of chorizo, potatoes, and spinach. Moving onto the Gulf shrimp and grits, served with a helping of Southern greens, would be a wise second move. 22770 Washington St., Leonardtown, Md., 301-997-0008, corbelsrestaurant.com—J.S. 

Thai Ki

Why It’s Hot: After moving on from the Inn at Easton, chef Andrew Evans found a new home in Thai Ki’s open kitchen, where diners can watch the massive wok in action. Having traveled extensively throughout Thailand, Evans has a deft hand at concocting the perfect balance of sweet and spicy, warm and cool that defines the cuisine. Open until 11 p.m. on weekends, Thai Ki has become the after-hours hot spot, where ample portions are ideal for sharing either at the contemporary, recycled teak bar or on the outdoor patio in warmer months.   

What to Eat: Finger foods have never been hotter. For starters, opt for the corn fritters with a sweet chili dipping sauce or the chicken satay. Persuade someone in your party to order the red duck curry or green fish curry, served with heaping bowls of jasmine rice, and let everyone dig in. 216 E. Dover St., Easton, Md., 410-690-3641, thaiki.com—K.B.

Brooks Tavern

Why It’s Hot: We were big fans of Kent County’s Kennedyville Inn, so it’s good to see the restaurant’s former owners, Kevin McKinney and Barbara Silcox, in a new setting. This casual eatery is the centerpiece of the beautifully refurbished Radcliffe Mill, an old feed mill just south of Chestertown’s historic district.

What to Eat: The emphasis here is on fresh, local ingredients, from the spinach in the salad made with goat cheese polenta to the chicken sautéed with mushrooms, spinach, garlic, and cream over linguine. One consistent, for lunch at least, is a holdover from the Kennedyville Inn—the barbecued Carolina crepe, cornmeal pancakes filled with barbecue pork. We also appreciate the short but sweet wine list, with nary a bottle more than $26. 870 High St., Chestertown, Md., 410-810-0012, brookstavern.com—J.S.

Pad Thai

Why It’s Hot: Pad Thai offers high-quality takes on standards like its namesake or panang curry in a setting that might look more at home in Times Square rather than Annapolis’s West Street. It’s that edgy black-and-red décor, the clean flavors of the food, and the genuinely helpful staff that elevates Lex Tsamasangvarn’s restaurant above others and makes us want to hustle to Annapolis a little early to have time for a meal before a concert at Rams Head across the street. 

What to Eat: Pad Thai’s crispy string beans are light as popcorn and just as addictive. A whisper of lime in the coconut milk-based tom kha gai makes this soup smell as good as it tastes, and Tsamasangvarn’s deft hand with spices makes us gain a new appreciation for classics like drunken noodles. 38 West St., Annapolis, 410-280-6636—M.Z.

The Cultured Pearl Restaurant & Sushi Bar

Why It’s Hot: This Rehoboth Beach standout has been rollicking along since 1993, but it wasn’t until it moved to its new digs atop a mini-mall up the street that it really
came into its own. How many restaurants have you been to that feature outdoor tables and gazebos suspended above a 15,000-gallon koi pond? Inside, the spectacle continues, with live bamboo trees and flowing waterfalls. Covet the tables at the end of the deck—you’ll be rewarded with great views of the summer scene along Rehoboth Avenue.

What to Eat: Sushi is the name
of the game here, but we also like the small plates of steamed shrimp dumplings, mango wings bathed in a green curry lime sauce, or the spicy but addictive karai edamame for snacking while watching the tan, beautiful people walk by. 301 Rehoboth Ave., Rehoboth Beach, Del., 302-227-8493, culturedpearl.us—J.S.

Carpaccio Tuscan Kitchen

Why It’s Hot: Carpaccio has been generating more buzz than a speeding Ferrari since it opened in the Park Place development on Annapolis’s West Street. And why not? This is a handsome space, done up in multiple shades of brown, a bubbling wine bar, and outdoor seating when the weather turns Tuscan. Besides, any Italian restaurant that names a pasta dish after Sophia Loren (linguine topped with Manila clams, sautéed garlic, and a light white wine sauce) is OK in our book. 

What to Eat: It’s the only place in A-Town where you’ll find this big a selection of carpacci, thinly sliced meats and veggies coupled with fresh herbs, cheeses, and other Mediterranean goodies. The brick-oven pizza (also available for take-out) is great for sharing as are the platters of antipasti, perfect when paired with a glass of dry Italian vino. 1 Park Place, Suite 10, Annapolis, 410-268-6569, carpacciotuscankitchen.com—J.S.

208 Talbot

Why It’s Hot: Whether you choose to eat in the classic dining room or in the warm brick wine bar, 208 Talbot proves that sophisticated dining doesn’t have to be pretentious, and that a restaurant wine list can be broad and adventurous. Folks who were skeptical when brothers-in-law Brendan Keegan and Brian Fox took over the venerable St. Michaels spot in 2006 needn’t have worried.

What to Eat: Chef Keegan has a way with oysters, whether they’re swimming in a modern version of oyster stew or fried crisply. And what other wine bar offers
sardines with mustard or fried garbanzo beans? 208 N. Talbot St.,
St. Michaels, Md., 410-745-3838, 208talbot.com—M.Z.

Mitchum’s Steakhouse

Why It’s Hot: In an era when ‘steakhouse’ has become synonymous with ‘chain,’ Mitchum’s is a breath of well-grilled air. Like an oasis in the desert, this handsome storefront in tiny Trappe draws folks from all over for dinner and a movie (a flat-screen TV over the bar continuously plays Robert Mitchum movies—unless it’s Sunday and football is on).

What to Eat: Not to belabor the obvious, but meat is the real draw here. Chef Chris DeLaurentiis brings out the best in beef from the silky richness of filet mignon to the almost spicy quality of the Delmonico. That being said, don’t overlook the sautéed shrimp from nearby Marvesta Farms paired with heavenly grits, cheddar, and andouille sausage. 4021 Main St., Trappe, Md., 410-476-3902, mitchumsteakhouse.com—M.Z.

Joss Café & Sushi Bar

Why It’s Hot: This Annapolis hot spot is another stalwart on this list that hasn’t lost its new restaurant shine since it opened in 1991. Take a seat in the always buzzing dining room, or better yet, grab a stool at the sushi bar and watch the masters do their thing.

What to Eat: The sushi is impeccable, but you’re pretty much safe with most things on the menu here, from the rockfish soup to the beef teriyaki. Don’t overlook the creative salads—raw tuna stuffed in a fresh avocado is a marriage made in heaven. 195 Main St., Annapolis, 410-263-4688, josscafe-sushibar.com—J.S.

Rustico

Why It’s Hot: How many places in Stevensville can you order a pizza with fresh buffalo milk mozzarella? Find delicious Aglianico offered by the glass on the wine list? Dine solo in a wine bar without feeling conspicuous? Enjoy happy hour all day on Sunday in a sophisticated setting? This is most definitely the place.

What to Eat: Chef Ivano Scotto’s fritura di pomodori verdi offers a Neopolitan twist on local fried green tomatoes. Ravioli con astice, ravioli stuffed with lobster and sautéed with crabmeat, showcases Rustico’s elegant side, while seafood fra diavola, shows us that a ‘rustic’ dish can be just as powerfully pleasing. 401 Love Point Road, Stevensville, Md., 410-643-9444, rusticoonline.com—M.Z.

Scossa Restaurant & Lounge

Why It’s Hot: Those craving a hit of Manhattan sophistication can slip into Scossa’s buttery leather banquettes that frame tables dressed in white linens and edgy contemporary flatware for an authentic northern Italian meal. Oh, and did we mention the crowds of beautiful people who gather for drinks at the marble-topped, mahogany bar? 

What to Eat: All pastas here are homemade by chef Giancarlo Tondin, and risotto can be prepared with any combination of ingredients desired. Fare here is light, gently portioned, and fresh, from the sautéed Atlantic salmon with mustard and olives to the bay shrimp studded with fresh peas. 8 N. Washington St., Easton, Md., 410-822-2201, scossarestaurant.com—K.B. 

Swanks on main

Why It’s Hot: Southern cuisine with a Chesapeake accent is the name of the game at Swanks on Main, located on Virginia’s Northern Neck. Kilmarnock’s grand dame is the brainchild of John and Wilma Tripodi, who moved to the area in 2003 and couldn’t find a cozy, upscale restaurant, so they opened one themselves. 

What to Eat: Sate your inner Southerner with chef Matt Turner’s shrimp and grits or baked local flounder with smoked sausage. If your hoop skirt isn’t too tight after the main meal, opt for a sweet ending of éclair fritters with espresso-cream filling and blueberry confit. Can’t decide what to order? Then reserve a seat for one of Chef Turner’s seven-course tasting menus, or come Sunday night when meals are served family-style. 36 N. Main St., Kilmarnock, Va. 804-436-1010, swanksonmain.com—J.S.

Evans Seafood Restaurant

Why It’s Hot: Evans was a Southern Maryland mainstay since 1962 when Robert ‘Bugs’ Evans started selling seafood out of his oyster-shucking shack on St. George Island. It enjoyed a long run as the island’s go-to eatery for locals and tourists alike, but its rep suffered in recent years as it fell into disrepair. Enter Chuck and Julie Kimball, who demolished the old building and resurrected the restaurant anew as a prototypical Chesapeake seafood house, with gleaming wood floors, a handsome bar, and boat slips along the Potomac River.

What to Eat: Seafood, in all its permutations, is the way to go here, but the steaks won’t disappoint many landlubbers. Definitely try Miss Connie’s oyster pie, a homey family recipe passed along by Connie Goddard, who used to cook the dish for her waterman husband and crew aboard his skipjack. 16680 Piney Point Road, Piney Point, Md., 301-994-9944—J.S.

Recently, a friend from out-of-town e-mailed me to inquire about good restaurants to visit while she and her husband were traveling around the Eastern Shore.

I replied with a short list of my favorites, including a Thai restaurant in Easton, a cozy tavern in Oxford, and an Italian charmer in Stevensville.
“What? No crab houses?” my friend wrote back. “I thought the only places to eat on the Eastern Shore were crab houses.”

Not too long ago, that may have been true. Twenty years ago—heck, even ten years ago—who would have thought that you could find authentic pad Thai in Easton? Or lobster-stuffed ravioli on Kent Island? Or score some of the most delicious coq au vin you’ve ever had at a French bistro in Cambridge? Yes, Cambridge!

And that’s just the Eastern Shore. In this issue we’ve compiled a list of excellent eateries from across the region, from Annapolis to Southern Maryland to Virginia’s Northern Neck. This is not a “Best Of” list by any means, just twenty tasty restaurants—some new, some familiar—that possess that priceless intangible called “buzz.” We’ll post the list on our website, chesapeakelife.com, where you’ll be able to add your own opinions about it—and recommend some of your own buzz-worthy dining destinations as well.

Also in this issue, you’ll find a fun essay, “It’s a Crab Cake World,” by freelancer Andrew Tilghman, a Salisbury native, who has lived and traveled throughout the world (including a stint as an embedded reporter in Iraq). In that time, he’s sampled his fair share of crab cakes away from the Bay, and in his
essay, he bemoans the corruption of this beloved dish by chefs from out of our region.

And be sure to page through the photos of Laird Wise, a photographer who uniquely captured everyday life on the Eastern Shore during the mid-twentieth century. His beautiful black-and-white photography has recently been given fresh exposure on the walls of Mitchum’s, which happens to be an exceedingly sophisticated steakhouse in the sleepy village of Trappe. Yes, Trappe!

Until next issue, happy eating!

Joe Sugarman
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I love crab cakes.

When my wife and I got married last year in her hometown outside Philadelphia, I insisted we have a crab cake on the dinner menu, a tip of the hat to my family and my roots as a native of Maryland’s Eastern Shore.

For the most part, I let my wife plan for our wedding. She’s a very good planner. Sitting down with the caterer was no exception.

Raspberry vinaigrette dressing?

Sure. Butternut squash soup? Fine.

But when it came to the crab cake, I wanted to ask a few questions.

What kind of crab would he use? 

One hundred percent lump, I was told.

No peppers or celery or anything like that, right?

The caterer shook his head.

And no funny breading?

Of course not, he said.

OK. This guy gets it, I thought.

And kind of light on the mayonnaise, right?

No, he said, we don’t use mayonnaise. We’re going to use a scallop mousse.

What? Was he serious? I turned and looked at my wife, obviously agitated. It seemed like the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard.

Scallop mousse? I’m not even sure I knew what it was. Scallops in a blender and mixed in with the crab? This seemed to come out of left field.

“No mayonnaise?” I said to my wife.

She looked from me to the caterer.

I turned to him and said, again: “No mayonnaise?”

“Honey” she said, putting her hand on my knee.

For the next few days, my wife and I talked about the virtues of mayonnaise versus scallop mousse in a crab cake. In the end, I opted not to insist that my wedding-night crab cake be made to my exact specifications. Scallop mousse it was. Marriage is a funny thing. But I’m not interested in talking about marriage right now. I’m talking about crab cakes.

I grew up Eastern Shore, but I’ve lived in exile for nearly twenty years, and I’m always dismayed at how hard it is to find a proper crab cake. The boorish outlanders beyond the Chesapeake Bay watershed are constantly botching a very basic recipe.

First of all, crab cakes are made with crab. But that’s a tough concept for some. I know a health-food place down in Houston that serves a “meatless crab cake,” substituting shredded zucchini for the crab. I once saw a recipe for a “mock Maryland crab cake”—calling for a base of tofu and some shards of green seaweed (the latter supposedly “lends that little bit of ocean taste and that is what gives it the authenticity”).

That’s great, if you like that kind of food. But it’s not a crab cake.

What kind of crab? Years ago, nobody on the East Coast would ever have thought of anything except blue crab. But globalization has washed over us and eroded our traditions. King crab from Alaska. Stone crab from the Texas Gulf coast. Dungeness crab from California. Am I the only one who noticed that all those Phillips’ crab items in the grocery store are packed with crab from Thailand? 

The breading is another pitfall. To me, it should be bread. And it goes on the outside. Yet so many crab cakes are swirled throughout with bread crumbs or crushed crackers or mashed potatoes or bits of corn. A chi-chi restaurant in New York stirs in some couscous. One restaurateur in Los Angeles covers his with something called kataifi, the Middle Eastern pastry that resembles shredded wheat.

On the matter of stuffing, there is room for legitimate debate. According to Wikipedia, crab cakes with stuffing are called “Boardwalk crab cakes” as opposed to “restaurant crab cakes,” which is more crab intensive. Maybe the breaded variant has its place. But I think it’s a slippery slope.

Then there are the unnatural additives. Peppers are a common problem—green peppers, hot peppers, sweet peppers. Others add scallions or parsley. The new-fangled ones sometimes have traces of dill or cilantro or shards of shiitake mushrooms. I’ve seen people add olives or avocado and even bits of basil and cherry tomato. I love garlic, but it has no place in a crab cake.

Then there are the total and complete overhauls. I remember a Caribbean-style restaurant in Key West that served a crab cake mixed with dark rum and jerk seasoning, and was breaded with toasted coconut shavings.

And there are even some egregious examples closer to home. At the Crack Pot Seafood Restaurant in Towson, they offer “Italian” crab cakes with tomato sauce and mozzarella cheese and a “Hawaiian” version with ham and pineapple.

I’m open-minded about many things. But not crab cakes. My fundamentalist crab-cake sensibilities were largely shaped by my grandmother. She was a wise and warm-hearted woman who grew up in the 1930s, when the term “crab cake” came into popular use. She chain-smoked Merits and cooked with hand-scooped dollops of Crisco measured with the width of her fingers. And she made the best crab cakes on the planet.

In a small rancher near a mill dam on Wicomico Creek south of Salisbury, she would pull steamed crabs from a bushel basket and pick them clean—never so much as a single shard of shell. She’d let the freshly formed cakes chill in the refrigerator before cooking them, then drop them in cast-iron pans that crackled and spewed bits of hot oil that’d burn your skin if you stood too close. Barely held together, with just a little bit of mayonnaise, they were seasoned generously with salt and pepper and Worcestershire sauce, stained yellow with just a bit of mustard.

She never served them with any mango-citrus aioli. She never encrusted them with almonds, topped them with capers, or dusted them with crushed wasabi peas. And I know she never used any scallop mousse.

Andrew Tilghman writes from D.C.

One year after the cast and crew of ‘Extreme Makeover: Home Edition’ visited Cecil County, homeowner Renee Luther shares how the lives of her and her family will never be the same.

Rock Run Road follows the gentle contours of rural Cecil County, past frame houses, farms, and woods to the ranch where for twenty-six years Renee Luther has run Freedom Hills, a nonprofit therapeutic riding program for students with mental and physical disabilities.

It has been one year since Ty Pennington, the cool and compassionate host of the ABC-TV hit series “Extreme Makeover: Home Edition,” knocked on the riding instructor’s Port Deposit door and uttered the trademark greeting she had prayed for: “Good morning, Luther family!”

The “Makeover” team transformed the ramshackle Rolling Hills Ranch into a state-of-the-art riding center. Still, on this day, the ranch’s rhythms and rituals suggest a way of life lived for its own sakeÑnot in the pursuit of anything grandiose.

Luther’s eighteen-year-old daughter, Ellie, grooms a paint mare named Mesa in preparation for an advanced riding lesson. Through translucent roofing panels, sun streams into the remodeled barn, stacked to the rafters with hay bales. Bill Cady, a recently hired maintenance man, repairs fencing with the help of an AmeriCorps volunteer. Assistant Vickie Hucker pores over the mail while her grown daughter, Abigail, a riding regular since she was a toddler, keeps her company.

Suddenly, Renee Luther appears, charging the ranch’s easygoing ambience with frenetic energy to the delight of her dogs, Kiara and Mayleen. Luther is a tall, forthright figure in dark-gray riding britches, blue polo shirt, and jodhpur ankle boots. She wears her hair in a restrained shag style and no makeup masks her open face.

A multi-tasking whirlwind, Luther seems able to answer her mooing phone, consult with Hucker, and quote Scripture from Philippians while surveying her peaceable kingdom.

Luther leads a visitor to her sprawling, stone-veneer home, built on a rise that overlooks Rolling Hills Ranch, with its barn, indoor riding ring, and horses happily basking in the October sun. “I asked for a small rancher and He gave me a castle,” says Luther, forty-eight. “What an awesome God we serve.”

Until Pennington came knocking, it had been a dispiriting year for Luther, Ellie, and her son, Alex. The previous spring, her husband, Carl, had died of liver cancer. The Luthers’ home across the street from the ranch was falling apart.

Most worrisome, both Freedom Hills and the for-profit Rolling Hills Ranch riding program for able-bodied students faced an uncertain future. The ranch’s finances were shaky. The decrepit barn begged for restoration. Luther faced competition from nearby riding schools that could afford to build indoor rings and operate year-round.

True to the hit series’ heart-tugging formula, Pennington and a jolly cast of landscapers, designers, and builders came to Luther’s rescue just in time.

Whisked away to Italy, in keeping with the program’s fairy tale format, Luther and her children toured Rome, Venice, and Florence while 1,500 subcontractors, vendors, and volunteers labored around the clock on “Extreme Makeover’s” largest build to date.

Under the supervision of Belcamp, Md., developer Clark Turner Signature Homes, one team toiled on the barn and the indoor ring while another constructed the home. Within 104 hours, the project, supported by donations of food and materials from dozens of sponsors, was complete.

Instead of the modest, ranch-style house Luther had requested, though, she returned from Italy to a 4,600-square-foot mansion worth nearly $1 million. The empathetic Pennington had known all along what she had not dared to ask for. “Ty figured it out,” she says.

Since “Extreme Makeover” aired in January, Luther’s clientele have grown, including residents of a local nursing home and the Perry Point VA Medical Center. A local alcohol and drug treatment program also has expressed interest.

The immaculate riding facility is ready for everyone. Across the hall from Luther’s new office, a room equipped with donated weights and exercise balls allows clients to work with physical therapists. The “Extreme” crew also expanded the riding center’s kitchen and updated the accessible bathroom.

It is now much easier to move around in the refurbished barn, where twenty-six horses board, including ten belonging to Luther and her daughter. In the gleaming tack room, well-buffed saddles for each horse hang from designated pegs. Next door, the enclosed 7,000-square-foot riding ring, surfaced with a blend of sand, felt, and ground-up tires, guarantees that Luther’s enterprise is weatherproof.

Rolling Hills’ acclaim has spread far beyond Cecil County. Curiosity seekers often arrive unannounced at the ranch, eager to meet Luther and tour her new home and riding complex. Churches and civic groups around the country have invited her to give speeches. Program volunteers, always sorely needed, have multiplied.

When the “Extreme Makeover” episode featuring Luther aired recently in Sweden, several viewers sent well wishes and one asked for work. (She couldn’t afford to hire him.) Another rider came from Pittsburgh to volunteer and a Virginia family spent a weekend helping Luther and taking lessons. The obliging host puts visitors up in a luxurious guestroom.

It has become routine for reality programs to confer celebrity upon folks not otherwise destined for fame. Luther, for one, has adapted comfortably to the attention, taking advantage of her public status to keep both riding programs afloat.

Luther does not regard international recognition “so much as a personal victory as one for the program and the riders,” says Suzette Jackson, a
good friend and frequent Freedom Hills volunteer. “For years, people didn’t even know the program was there.”

To a large degree, Luther’s life has not really changed. The accomplished dressage rider still rises at 6 a.m. She still mucks out stalls. She still worries about paying the bills, particularly because of her new home’s soaring property taxes and propane costs. Last winter, Luther’s efforts to keep the thermostat at sixty degrees failed when Ellie’s friends claimed the home was too cold.

The “Extreme Makeover” experience didn’t change Luther so much as it “helped to reinforce her basic beliefs,” Jackson says. “She has always been a very strong, religious person, and the makeover made her realize, ‘Hey I’ve been doing the right thing, and God has rewarded me,’” Jackson says.

Nor has Luther, who moved to Rolling Hills Ranch when she was two, taken her good fortune for granted, says Jackson, who lives in Havre de Grace. “She has risen to the occasion. You read some stories about ‘Makeover’ homes that a year later are in foreclosure. She’s pretty smart about what her expenses are.”

Around the country, other “Extreme Makeover” fairy tales have taken a sad turn. Last year, a Georgia family selected for an “Extreme Makeover” nearly lost their home in a foreclosure after using it as collateral for a $450,000 loan. In October, a Florida woman made news when she could not afford to pay fines for various code violations cited at another home created by the television series.

Clark Turner will not allow Rolling Hills Ranch to suffer the same fate. The builder has stepped in with significant contributions to offset her expenses, Luther says.

“We’ve been giving her money every year that helps her with her taxes, insurance, and utilities,” Clark Turner says. “The idea was for her to spend her time taking care of all those kids and teaching them riding and not have those worries.” Turner declines to give a figure for the expenses he covers for Luther.

To make ends meet, though, the entrepreneurial Luther continues to run a summer riding and Bible day camp, plans to open a bed and breakfast, and to lease her lofty living room for “princess parties” and other events tailored to little girls. Future fundraisers for Freedom Hills include an open house and an annual auction.

While Rolling Hills riding students pay for lessons, Luther requests an optional donation from her Freedom Hills clients. Luther never turns therapeutic students away if they cannot afford to contribute.

Around the country, other “Extreme Makeover” fairy tales have taken a sad turn. Earlier this year, a Georgia family selected for an “Extreme Makeover” nearly lost their home in a foreclosure after using it as collateral for a $450,000 loan.

Look up,” Luther says, pointing to the yellow, blue, and green stained-glass skylight illuminating the front hall. Beyond, an open floor plan and vaulted ceilings create an aura of palatial grandeur. “When I first came in the house, I felt like such a princess,” she says. Luther delights in the kitchen’s recessed lighting, the dog baths, the Jacuzzi, and the thousands of dollars’ worth of furnishings donated by the series’ sponsors. Luther lacks the heart to toss the lush flower arrangements that greeted her family upon entering her new home. Clusters of dead roses remain on the rim of her fancy bathtub and on a dresser in the master bedroom, the sanctuary that Luther calls “Ty’s secret room.”

Portraits of Luther’s favorite horses, photographed by Pennington, himself, ring her bedroom walls. Among them is a fetching shot of her beloved Giver. “I pulled him out of his mommy’s behind,” Luther declares.

Upstairs, a collection of “pretty metal” guitars embellish Ellie’s room, in tribute to her love of heavy metal Christian bands. Underwear, snowboard boots, and other debris mark the turf of sixteen-year-old Alex. Courtesy of the “Makeover” team, the aspiring aviator’s bedroom boasts a mini replica of a vintage bomber across from his bed, large enough to curl up in.

Outside, Luther’s cats, Bubbles and Gray Fang, prowl the premises, as Luther strides across a rear patio equipped with a gleaming gas grill donated by Sears. Beyond, in the backyard, the “Extreme” team built a gazebo and garden in memory of Luther’s husband.

Luther returns to the barn, where Ashley Harris soon arrives for her weekly therapeutic riding lesson. The seven-year-old has cerebral palsy and does not walk or speak. On a ledge built for this purpose, Stephanie Harris hoists her daughter from a wheelchair up to Luther, who sits astride a patient horse named Ziggy.

Ashley leans against Luther, who corrects the girl’s posture as another instructor leads them around the indoor ring in serpentine loops. The ride stretches out Ashley’s legs, improves her balance, and simulates the motion of walking. As she rides Ziggy around the ring, her mother by her side, Ashley’s eyes dance with pleasure.

When the little girl leaves, Luther turns to the group riding class she will instruct in the outdoor ring. There will be no time for dinner in her extravagant kitchen as into the evening Luther leaps from one task to another. Her cheeseburger lunch with Ellie and Alex will see her through.

It will be 9 p.m. before Luther can claim personal time. Then, she will saddle Carousel and put the gray thoroughbred mare through her paces. Finally, Luther will be able to sink into the mare’s cadence and briefly leave her whirlwind life behind for an hour of therapeutic riding in the ring beside her new home.

Stephanie Shapiro writes from Baltimore.

THERE’S A SAYING THAT there’s no such thing as bad pizza. I believe that. Order a mediocre slice from your corner convenience store, and I’ll bet you’ll still eat it. Whether you prefer Chicago’s signature deep-dish pizza or New York’s famous thin style, the greatest thing about pizza is the endless variety of crusts, cheeses, and toppings you can combine.

A fun way to approach pizza-making is to reinvent some of your favorite dishes in pizza form. I combined some of the components of my favorite stromboli to create a spinach, ricotta, and smoky bacon pizza. While perusing the aisles of the Mexican grocery in my neighborhood, I was motivated to create a pizza using chorizo sausage, queso fresco, and chili peppers. Some chicken left over from a dinner earlier in the week and a few tomatoes were the inspiration behind a grilled chicken and tomato white pizza. Finally, try the dessert pizza, with bananas, caramel sauce, and vanilla ice cream, and see if you don’t agree that pizza is one of the only dishes that can be served as both dinner and dessert in the same meal. Enjoy!

South American Pizza with Chorizo and Chili Peppers

Spinach and Ricotta Pizza with Smoky Bacon

Grilled Chicken and Tomato White Pizza

Banana Pizza with Caramel Sauce and Vanilla Ice Cream

Tom Weaver, owner, Eastport Yacht Co., Annapolis
We were living in Tanzania when I was four and went to visit my grandparents in Nairobi. Despite these exotic locales, my favorite gift was very American: a cowboy hat, little vest, chaps, holster, and lots of tassels. The gun, of course, was the best part of the outfit. My first target was my sister. Then I went after the imaginary Indians hiding in the bushes. I think the gift lasted two weeks before I destroyed it. The funny thing is, a few years later, I received a real air gun rifle and then a .22 and later a big boy’s gun, a .303. But after all these years, it’s the little toy gun that I remember with such joy.

Cynthia McBride, owner, McBride Gallery, Annapolis
I grew up on a farm in northern Minnesota. We were very poor. Every Christmas we received two gifts, a toy and a piece of clothing. My best memory is falling asleep to the sound of my mother’s treadle sewing machine, knowing she was making something for us to wear. When I was eight, she made me a pale blue dress with puffy sleeves and a gathered skirt. I wanted to show it off when we went to church the following Sunday. Usually, we kept our coats on throughout the service, because it was freezing. But on that Sunday, I took off my coat and showed off my beautiful dress—and my goose bumps.

Woodlief Oliver, musician, Easton, Md.
I got my favorite Christmas present in 1955 when I was five years old. I raced down the stairs, and there, next to the tree, was a X-1, silver and red spaceship. It was a two-seater made of cardboard that had a cheesy printed control panel with Tinkertoy-like levers. But I could get inside and fly through outer space. I still remember the absolute joy of commanding my X-1 across the universe. I would never know that joy again: It was the last Christmas that my younger brother was still in his cradle and not able to mess up my presents. I hadn’t even heard that horrible word share yet.

Ron Bowman, retired NASA project manager, Annapolis
My wife recently gave me the best Christmas gift, something I had wanted for a long time. Ten years ago, I did my first Ironman [race], in Hawaii. I wanted something to commemorate this accomplishment. I saw this beautiful gold ring with the Ironman emblem on it, but it was too expensive. Instead, I bought a tie tack. I retired this year and don’t wear ties anymore. Then, this past July, I completed my second Ironman, in Lake Placid, shaving 1.5 hours off my previous time. My wife took the tie tack to a jeweler, had him turn it into a ring, and gave it to me for Christmas.

Ann Coates, owner, Bishop’s Stock Fine Art and Craft, Snow Hill, Md.
The best Christmas gift I can remember had nothing to do with presents. Three years ago, my husband, son, and I decided we didn’t need anything. Our son, Bryan, was graduating from college, and we wanted to spend time together while we could. So we went on a family trip to New York for three days. The highlight was going to see Jersey Boys on Broadway. We had third-row seats right in front of Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban. Bryan even got to talk to them. He was thrilled. It was such a special night. We all realized having time with family is the best gift possible.

Lari Caldwell, social worker, East New Market, Md.
I desperately wanted a Tiny Tears doll when I was seven, because my mother refused to have another baby. My friend had a Tiny Tears; it drank from a bottle, cried, and even wet itself. It was the most wonderful doll in the world. But we were poor, and every time I asked for it, my mother would only say, “Maybe Santa will bring it to you.” Christmas morning, I opened my gifts. No doll. I thought maybe Santa had to give it to some other girl. Then my parents pulled out a huge box from behind the tree. I tore off the wrapping paper, and there she was. She even had a layette. All these years later, it is still my favorite gift. 
                   
Stewart Dobson, publisher, Ocean City Today, Ocean City, Md.
The year of the BB gun, the first bike, and the stocking full of bubble gum—which my capitalist, robber baron brother promptly sold by the piece—somehow seem fused into a single yuletide blur. But the one gift that stands out is a box of spaghetti by Chef Boyardee stuffed in my stocking, the great chef being a step up in the Italian cuisine of the pedestrian Franco-American. This gift stemmed from an early obsession with spaghetti, a small part of which involved disgusting my older sister by holding one end of a strand, swallowing the other and then pulling it back up. It was the gift that kept giving to a six-year-old.

Jeff Schaub, owner, Annapolis Marine Arts Gallery, Annapolis
When I was a kid, I loved anything that flew. I would often go on trips to Newark Airport with my family or with my Cub Scout troop. When I was seven, my parents got me my very own airplane that was made in post-war Japan. It was unbelievably intricate: hand-welded wires formed the wings and body and both were completely covered in brilliant blue silk thread. It was about twenty inches long and two feet wide. It didn’t fly very well, but I didn’t care. It was so beautiful and ephemeral. As I got older, I got into building balsa wood planes and then planes with engines that could really fly. But none of them meant more to me than that beautiful blue airplane. 

Marc Apter, associate vice president, marketing and public relations, St. Mary’s College of Maryland, St. Mary’s City, Md.
From the time I was born, my grandfather took me out on the water. When I was six, he blessed me with the most wonderful Christmas gift ever. I was sent to the garage and opened the door. There was my very own eight-foot Chris-Craft dingy. It was a total surprise. It was the Porsche of dinghies. It started me on my avocation of acquiring
little boats: Today I like to say I have 103 feet of yachts, seven in total, including a Hobie Cat, Zodiac, and a Laser.

Butch Arbin, captain, Ocean City Beach Patrol, Ocean City, Md.
Even as a child it was never about getting gifts for me; it was about giving. I am blessed that my children feel the same way. Nine years ago, when they were eleven and fifteen, we had a family meeting. We decided to take the money we would have used to buy gifts for ourselves and bought gifts for families living in a women’s shelter. My kids picked out the gifts themselves, wrapped them, and had their best Christmas handing them out. Watching the delight on their faces was the best gift I could have received.

Judy McDonald, Choptank Animal Hospital, Cambridge, Md.
It was the week before Christmas when our cat, Wolfie, went missing. My husband and I scoured the neighborhood and finally found someone who had seen some dogs attacking a cat three days earlier. We went to where the attack happened and found Wolfie hiding under the porch. We rushed him to the vet and brought him home four days later. One of the girls in my husband’s office made a Christmas ornament to commemorate his return: a big silver ball with paw prints, his name, and the year. Sadly, Wolfie died four years ago, but we still hang the ornament on the tree and think about our best Christmas gift ever, his miraculous return.

Jennie Merrill, teacher, Severna Park Elementary School, Severna Park, Md.
I would get one gift from my mother every Christmas, and it was always great. The most memorable one was when I was nine. It was a Person Power Vehicle (PPV). It literally looked like a paddleboat on wheels. I would pick up my best friend who’d sit upfront with me and pedal (it took two), and we’d put two more friends in the back. We’d pretend it was a car and feel, oh-so cool. We’d ‘drive’ all around town, pretty much stopping traffic when people saw it. The PPV lasted four years until it finally wore out and was too expensive to fix.

Samantha McCall, freelance writer, Easton, Md.
My boyfriend, Tom, and I were traveling around the world and were about a third of the way through our trip when we stopped in Bali. It was a week before Christmas in 1994, and Tom asked me where I saw our relationship going. Did I think I wanted to get married and have kids? I was very excited, but he dropped the whole conversation. Then on Christmas morning, while we were still snuggled in bed, he proposed. When I said, ‘Yes,’ he gave me a pair of beautiful amethyst and silver earrings [he wanted us to pick out the ring together]. That’s a hard gift to top.

Cheryl McCready, secretary, Advanced Projects Office, NASA, Wallops Island, Va.
Holidays are a time for family, especially Christmas. But as our sons have grown up and moved away, it gets harder to coordinate everyone’s schedule. Eight years ago, my boys and daughter-in-law made it home right before an ice storm hit and knocked out the electricity for three days. We all huddled around the wood-burning stove with our boys, taking turns chopping wood. I made chili on top of the wood stove for our Christmas dinner. We had a real old-fashioned Christmas with lots of laughter and conversation—all made possible by our secondary heating system. Who knew it would turn out to be the best gift we had ever given ourselves?

Stacie May, captain, Trader Joe’s, Annapolis
After nearly forty years, I still have a picture of my favorite gift: a two-foot-long Fisher Price plastic Noah’s ark. When you opened it up, it had lots of little compartments filled with pairs of animals. I’d play with them for hours. Years later, I was looking through my husband’s photo album and saw that he had the same toy. Five years ago, I bought a similar ark in a toy store, and put it away. We’re going to give it to our three-year-old and eighteen-month-old for Christmas. Hopefully, it will become a second-generation favorite gift.

It came in a small brown paper bag. In my mind’s eye, there was a red ribbon tied around its wiry handles, maybe a tuft of white tissue paper sticking out.

There was a certain heft to it, like someone had given me a can of Campbell’s Soup. And when I parted the tissue paper, it did reveal a can—but this was no Manhattan Clam Chowder. Instead, it was small and yellow with a cheery green illustration, and I had to read its label twice. Someone had given me a can of tuna-stuffed jalapenos.

I had never heard of such a concoction before—let alone received a can of them for Christmas—but that fact didn’t really bother me. (Its giver knew I enjoyed spicy foods.) But as I inspected this culinary oddity a little closer, I could see in a scratchy blue ink inscribed on the side of the can: To Jack. Enjoy!

My name is not Jack.

I was a victim of regifting, and in this case, the perpetrator was sitting directly in front of me.

I didn’t let on to Jack that I had seen the inscription. I couldn’t. I simply feigned excitement at having received such an unusual gift and went about opening other presents, specifically purchased for me.

Years later I still wonder about that little yellow can. What had Jack been thinking? Did he ever notice its inscription? Or did he simply not care? And frankly, who gives cans of tuna-stuffed jalapeños as holiday presents anyway?

I’m not opposed to the idea of regifting—some would even say it’s a form of recyclingÑbut if you’re gonna do it, you have to do it right.

Jack undoubtedly would have benefited from Sarah Achenbach’s essay, “The Art of Regifting” in this month’s CL. He would have realized that passing along inscribed presents is definitely a “regifting don’t,” and violates her second tenet, “Take the effort to make it look new.”

In this issue, we’ve also got a story about gifts that have made lasting, favorable impressions, “Gifts that Kept on Giving,” as well as an article about Davidsonville’s over-the-top holiday shopping playground, Homestead Gardens. Also, be sure to check out historian Mike Dixon’s retelling of Elkton, Md.’s own Iranian crisis from 1935. It’s a funny, fascinating tale.

So whatever happened to that can of tuna-stuffed jalapeños? It still sits in my kitchen cupboard, awaiting the Apocalypse or the day when my pregnant wife turns to me and utters, “I have the most unusual craving.” But I also keep it because it really was a one-of-a-kind gift, and besides, it makes for a wonderful conversation piece.

Gee, maybe it wasn’t such a thoughtless gift after all. Thank you, Jack.

Join us next month for more conversations about food, as we visit some of the Bay’s hottest restaurants and talk about crab cakes from around the country.

Until then, happy holidays!

Joe Sugarman
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Curries are the meat and potatoes of many Asian cuisines, the go-to, one-pot meal for millions of people from Thailand to India to Singapore. In this country, curries are often misunderstood as being either too spicy or too difficult to cook with. But, in fact, curries can be made with subtle flavors just as readily as bold ones, and good, authentic curry dishes can be whipped up within minutes. An entire meal can be made from buying just a few fresh ingredients and relying on basic items, like coconut milk, curry pastes, and dried rice noodles. In fact, I purposely did not shop in a specialty grocery store to prepare these dishes. You can find their ingredients in any large supermarket.

I’ve also included a broad variety of curries to appeal to different taste buds. The traditional Indian curry, made with braised lamb leg, is a classic. Thai curries can be quite thin but still boast huge flavors, like the red duck curry, which I serve regularly at my own Thai restaurant. For a not-so-hot curry, try the Singaporean chicken Laksa, in which the primary flavoring components are turmeric and lime juice. And for a closer-to-home spin on the curry theme, try the curried crab—you may not reach for the Old Bay ever again. Enjoy! 

Thai Red Duck Curry

Chicken and Coconut Milk Laksa

Mild Indian Lamb Curry

Curried Crab

Andrew Evans is the owner/chef of Easton’s Thai Ki.

Wearing a tailored charcoal suit and silk rep tie, Thad Bench looks out of place against the barren, wintertime fields surrounding his Kent County house. Coming home for lunch, he greets his wife, Renee, in the kitchen and then stares out the window.

“I think I’m going to go climb into the blind and hunt for the rest of the day,” he announces with a sly grin. “You know, go hide.” While originally an Indiana farm boy, such a statement proves that his transformation into a true Eastern Shoreman is nearly complete.

The Benches had lived in Annapolis for fourteen years before finding their ideal dwelling on the Shore, an eighteenth-century farmhouse cum dairy farm called Worth’s Folly. But it was in such a sad state of disrepair that they almost let it go. “We knew it would be a huge undertaking, but we kept coming back to it,” says Thad, who, with his wife, bought the house in 2003. “We must have driven past it a dozen times, visiting it at sunset and early in the morning. I thought it was as right as rain.” 

Built circa 1780 in Flemish bond brick, Worth’s Folly was patented to a John Worth in 1687 and originally included 1,036 acres. The oldest part of the house contains the living room, dining room, and den, all true to the authentic Colonial vernacular, with low ceilings and diminutive square footage. The architectural highlight of the space, decorated in neutral-toned silk and crushed velvet fabrics, is the paneled fireplace wall, which embeds an enclosed stairway and two closets.

The view from the living room stretches into the adjoining dining room, made elegant with a working fireplace, nineteenth-century French landscape paintings, a mahogany table, and smatterings of family silver. For the Benches, rabid entertainers, this room, which contains four original, exposed ceiling beams, is custom-made for winter dinner parties. “I personally enjoy entertaining when you can actually have a conversation and spend the time getting to know someone,” says Thad. “And that’s easier to do at a dinner table. It’s an intimate space, and the scale of the room brings sincerity to it.”

The kitchen wing, incorporated into the footprint in 1970 by previous owners, represents the newest part of the house. The Benches refurbished it in 2007, gutting the old space and adding wide-planked pine flooring and new cabinetry and appliances—all requirements of Renee, an avid cook. The wall of windows looks out over the two-acre pond and bordering soybean, winter wheat, and corn fields. The honking of the resident Canada geese provides gentle background noise, often drowned out by the sound of Duke, the male yellow Labrador, snoring in his favorite corner of the kitchen.

With two kids, three dogs, two horses, three cats, three peacocks, twenty-five rare-breed chickens, and a duck named Chuck, there’s always plenty of action on the farm. In fact, until relocating to Chestertown last year, Thad’s marketing company, Benchworks, was housed in the barn across from the main house.

For a break from the chaos, the couple decided to create a family retreat in the 100-year-old granary. The first step in the renovation process was to clean out the hay, evict the colony of pigeons, and power wash the all-wood interior. “On the weekends, we cleaned it out, piece by piece,” recalls Thad. “It was a massive undertaking.”

They transformed the roomy grain bins into three seating areas, adding a white sofa banquette in the center space, a piano in the other, and Thad and Thad Jr.‘s hunting gear everywhere in between. A wood stove heats the space in the winter, while the sweet-smelling smoke from Thad’s pipe perfects the hunting-lodge ambience. “We spend Christmas morning out here,” says Renee. “We started the tradition the year we moved in. Some winters we’re out here in our coats and gloves, but it’s worth it.”

“It’s a great place to retreat,” adds Thad, “to think or take a nap or read. We’ve had some epic dove hunts on the farm, and afterward we come back here to drink wine and listen to music loudly while not bothering anybody. There’s been a lot of dancing, a lot of laughter in here.”

For the Benches, adjusting to country life has been easy since both were raised on farms. “I’m a big space person,” says Renee, who grew up in rural Pennsylvania. “I love having elbowroom. Having the space is wonderful, and being in the country with all the animals is fabulous. But I did have to train myself to think that anything under an hour was close.”

“Renee adjusted much more easily than I,” admits Thad. “I am very social, and I miss my friends from Annapolis. But they come to visit and now we also have some good new friends. To live in a place this rural, you have to be really comfortable in your own skin.”

While the holiday season is a time of joy, unfortunately, it can also be a time of stress. Searching for the perfect gift for a long list of family, friends and co-workers is enough to send even the most seasoned of shoppers into a retail spin.

This year the Alter Communications editors at STYLE, PaperDoll and Chesapeake Life have embarked on our first collaborative effort, the sole purpose being the alleviation of pre-holiday shopping angst. Pooling our fashion and design savvy, we’ve compiled a holiday gift wish list of all the objects that make our hearts go aflutter. Wish List is sure to give you loads of fantastic gift ideas and inspirations for your holiday shopping and, you might even find something to put on your own holiday wish list!

Click images for larger view. Or, download the entire section (13MB).

It’s the morning after your holiday celebration (or birthday party, bridal shower, retirement party, whatever). Among the boxes and bows are some gems. But there are also duplicates and duds—and nary a gift receipt to be found.

Sooner or later, this pile of un-wanted loot is going to raise a serious question: To regift or not to regift? Not me, you say. I’d never. Not so fast. If you’ve ever given someone a bottle of wine that was given to you, congratulations, you’ve regifted. In a recent American Express survey, 31 percent admit to regifting at least once.

Chances are that Ben Parker wasn’t thinking about regifting when he told his young nephew (and soon-to-be-Spider-Man) Peter that, “with great power comes great responsibility.” But the sentiment certainly applies. With gift-giving, it’s the thought that counts. With regifting, the same motto applies, though your thinking needs to be more strategic. Here are the basic rules of engagement.

Don’t ask, don’t tell. It’s official: Judith Martin, aka Miss Manners, has deemed the practice of regifting acceptable. She writes in the latest edition of Miss Manners’ Guide to Excruciatingly Correct Behavior that if you receive a present that isn’t quite right, “the present does not have to be used or displayed…This leaves room for returning, donating to charity and regifting, none of which is rude if the rule is strictly observed about protecting the donor from knowing.”

When you unwrap the crime novel from your brother-in-law, follow the standard rules of etiquette (and basic kindness): say thank you and don’t let on that the gift isn’t everything you’ve ever wanted. Then start thinking about people you know who love James Patterson’s work. On the flip side, your brother-in-law shouldn’t comment when he doesn’t see the book on your shelves a few weeks later. If he does, you could feign surprise—”Oh, isn’t it? I saw it there the other day.” Or tell a little white lie that your friend is borrowing the book. Whatever you do, avoid a conversation about plot development.

Take the effort to make it look new. Let’s be honest: Regifting successfully boils down to not getting caught. Be sure to remove every scrap of the original wrapping paper and tape. Nothing says, “Here, I didn’t want this, so I’m giving it to you,” like a crumpled gift bag and used tissue paper. If the packaging shows signs of obviously having been wrapped once before, consider finding another use for the gift. And by all means, heed the true tale of the bridal couple who didn’t look inside the Crock-Pot box after unwrapping it. Instead, they rewrapped it and gave it to another couple—who discovered a note of congratulations inside the box, written to the first couple.

Keep good records. It can be as simple as jotting notes in a spiral notebook or as elaborate as a spreadsheet, but keeping track of the gifts you plan to regift will minimize embarrassing mistakes and protect the feelings of all interested parties. Just jot down what you received from whom and when and to whom you gave it. Giving your mother the chocolate fountain your sister gave you—or, God forbid, your mother herself gave you a few years before—is unwise. 

Keep your distance. If you received the original gift from a family member, don’t regift within the family (or to a family friend). Keep species separate. Regift the platter your running buddy gave you to your college friend who lives across the country. The idea is to put some distance between the item’s point of origin and its final resting place.

Give it away—but not as a gift. If you’d rather not regift, fine, but you don’t need to hang onto something you don’t want. If the green V-neck sweater you received is neither your size, color, nor cut, give it to someone you think would like it. Tell the person you received it as a gift, and ask if she’d like it—no long preamble necessary.

Or donate it to charity with tags attached. Goodwill has new stuff on the racks all the time. Since it was a gift in the first place, you could return the favor to a charity that collects new items such as Toys for Tots. Most charities put new items like clothing and household appliances to good use year-round, too.

Cash out at your own risk. Holiday gift-giving (or any other time of the year) is not about profiteering. Sure, eBay has lots of things that were gifts in their first life, so auction if you must. But remember that you never know who is scanning the auction sites. Ditto for Internet regifting sites, such as regift.com, which allows you to swap (for a fee), buy or sell unwanted gifts and swapagift.com for unwanted gift cards.

As for consignment shops and yard sales, don’t do it anywhere near the donor. I sold a few wedding gifts at a yard sale, but it was years after the gift was given and the donor lived two time zones away. The idea was to get it out of the house, and I think I netted enough to buy a latte. 

Make it a party. Kristin Hoffman of Baltimore County throws an annual regifting party during the week between Christmas and New Year’s. Guests bring their unwanted gifts rewrapped as fancily as possible. People pick numbers and select a wrapped gift, opening it as they go. Those with higher numbers can “steal” an already unwrapped gift. “This party is the perfect example of one man’s trash being someone else’s treasure,” says Hoffman. “One year, someone brought a bird clock that makes different bird calls on the hour. One lady loved it. You can’t come expecting to get something great, but it’s a lot of fun.”

Give good karma. This holiday season, show your loved ones you really care: include a gift receipt (or gift invoice if you shopped online) with every gift you give. That way, they can easily return the coffee-maker, cut-glass picture frame, or Cosby-esque cardigan. Do you really want to see the talking moose slippers you bought your father on his neighbor when he could have returned them to get what he really wanted: talking cow slippers?

When the cold sets in, there’s one particular ingredient that is a real pleasure to prepare and eat: squash. Winter squash, such as acorn, butternut and pumpkin, require longer cooking times than summer squash, and are perfect for roasting and caramelizing. They also boast a longer shelf life.

When picking out squash, look for vegetables with unblemished skin, deep color, and those that are heavy for their size. They can be kept either in the refrigerator or in a cool dark place for at least a month, depending on variety.

My recipe for roasted butternut squash, onion, tomato, and feta tart has a slight sweetness that’s a great foil to the saltiness of the cheese. It’s really delicious when served with a side salad or soup for lunch or a light dinner. The risotto, a cool-weather favorite, is a great vehicle to carry the caramelized acorn squash, while the spaghetti squash is scented with thyme, which goes well with goat cheese. The pecans in this dish are a great accent, while the balsamic vinaigrette ties it all together. For an interesting dessert, try the pumpkin mascarpone-filled cake with spiced syrup—my twist on tiramisu. Making use of store-bought pumpkin puree and traditional winter flavors like nutmeg, cinnamon, and cloves, this light dessert is easy to prepare.

Roasted Butternut Squash, Onion, Tomato and Feta Tart

Caramelized Acorn Squash Risotto with Brown Sage Butter and Pancetta

Thyme-scented Spaghetti Squash with Goat Cheese and Arugula

Pumpkin Mascarpone Cake with Spiced Syrup

Andrew Evans is the owner/chef of Easton’s Thai Ki.

I’ve recently returned from a trip to Smith and Tangier islands and I’ve been trying to imagine a time when the rest of the Bay more closely resembled those two isolated bits of real estate.

I’ve been trying to picture what life was like when so many more people depended on the water or the land to sustain their livelihoods. I’ve also been wondering what the Chesapeake would be like if all of those watermen, farmers, boat builders, and others, who stubbornly still pursue their traditional trades, suddenly disappeared. How would our unique Chesapeake culture change? What would we lose?

Elizabeth Watson, who helped organize last spring’s first-ever Historic Preservation Summit for Maryland’s Eastern Shore, spends her days asking those very same questions. Watson, executive director of Eastern Shore Heritage, Inc., says her job involves a constant conundrum: While we know what it takes to preserve the land from development (at least in theory), we’re fairly clueless when it comes to assisting the “tradition bearers,” as she calls them, or those who make their living from it. “You can put aside all the land you want for Open Space, but will you save the culture that produced it?” she asks. “In other words, you can save the farmland, but can you save the farmer?”

In this issue, we meet eleven young men and women who continue to practice traditional Chesapeake occupations. They are the next generation of farmers and watermen and decoy carvers, who have—at least for now—figured out a way to make centuries-old occupations work in contemporary times.

Editing a magazine may not be as down-and-dirty a job as pulling in crab traps or skinning a muskrat (although, sometimes it sure feels that way). However, I do hope Chesapeake Life is an accurate reflection of our region’s history and culture. This issue marks my first as editor in chief, and I hope we can create a dialog about what makes this region special to us all. 

The Chesapeake area is a big one, and we can’t learn about everything from our little office in Baltimore, however hard we may try. So if you know of an interesting person still practicing an old-fashioned trade, a cozy B&B, a fantastic new restaurant, or beloved little shop that merits coverage in these pages, please drop me a line. Also, let us know what you think of a particular feature story or department (whether you liked it or not). This is a two-way relationship, and I hope we can learn from one another.

Lastly, I’d like to recognize former editor Kessler Burnett for guiding this publication so passionately for the past ten years. She will continue on as senior editor, and her unique voice will still be heard regularly in these pages.

We’ll be back in December with stories on Annapolis’s Christmas supply superstore, Homestead Gardens, an old-fashioned train ride through Virginia’s Eastern Shore, and a sublime new restaurant in Stevensville.

Until then,
Joe Sugarman
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Waterfowl Caller

Hunter Phillips, 14
There is a certain lyrical musicianship to calling waterfowl—a combination of blowing and speaking actual words to lure birds in, says champion caller Hunter Phillips. “You just have to learn the language,” says Phillips, fourteen, who explains it took him “many years of practice” to perfect it. “The duck call, the basic quack, is ‘Quit.’”

Demonstrating, Phillips rattles off a machine gun volley of quacks. “That’s ‘Quit, quit, quit.’ And for the basic honk, you want, ‘To wit.’”

At the age of seven, Phillips placed seventh in the World Goose Calling Competition in Easton. Since then, he has won thirteen first-place awards in either goose or duck calling.

“I grew up around ducks,” says Phillips, a freshman at Stephen Decatur High School, who lives in Ocean City. “I had ducks in my backyard, raised ducks. So I know what they sound like.”

“That’s how we both got into it, actually,” says Phillips’ father, Glen, also a champion caller. “When I was his age, I had ducks. I raised waterfowl—swans, ducks, geese.”

In 1999 the father and son formed Little Quackers, an outdoor youth club that hosts an annual calling competition at the Maryland Watermen’s Association trade expo in Ocean City. Phillips and his father also conduct calling seminars once a month at Gander Mountain outdoors store in Salisbury, and sell a line of game calls designed by Glen—the Little Quacker for youths and Bottoms Up for adults.

Hunter Phillips doesn’t consider the art of calling old-fashioned, but he’s very much aware of its traditional roots on the Eastern Shore. In 2004, Phillips and his father were invited to represent Maryland in “Water Ways,” an exhibit celebrating maritime communities from Long Island to North Carolina, part of the 38th Annual Smithsonian Folklife Festival, held on The Mall in Washington, D.C. That same year, Phillips’ calling talents were tapped for From Bridge to Boardwalk, an audio CD that explores Maryland’s Eastern Shore culture. 

Phillips hopes to pass his skills on to future generations of waterfowl callers, and looks forward to the day when he can take his own children into the marshes. He also says that he’d like to make the outdoors his career, possibly as a hunting guide or game warden. But whatever the job, he’s adamant: “I want to be outside.”—J.T.

Decoy Carver

Colin McNair, 21
Colin McNair sold his first hand-carved decoy for five dollars to his handwriting teacher in kindergarten when he was six years old. It was then that he realized he could do something he loved, and make money doing it. Even at that young age, McNair had a passion for turning a block of wood into something majestic.

Now twenty-one, it’s not surprising that McNair exercised his artistic proclivity so early. His father, Mark McNair, is a carver. So is his older brother, Ian. Since Colin was home- schooled through fourth grade, it was easy for him and his older brother to slip into their father’s workshop. Now it’s the father who learns from his sons. “At this point in our relationship, they’ve long since passed the point of asking my opinion—they’ve been working from their own ideas for years,” says Mark McNair. “That’s such a great feeling to see what’s coming out of them. We really learn from each other.”

Colin McNair’s objects are carved by hand and given an aged patina using a technique that remains a family secret. “As soon as I could hold a tool, I was doing something with altering wood or painting,” recalls McNair. “It was a natural thing to do. My father did it and was always encouraging. And I’ve had a lot of financial success with it ridiculously early.”

These days, McNair’s decoys average $1,200.

The monetary rewards are only a fraction of what McNair loves about his work. (Though, he says, “We try not to call it work.”) He enjoys drawing inspiration from the family’s waterfront home in Craddockville, Virginia, working with his brother and father, and getting plugged into the interesting people who inhabit the “decoy subculture.” Though he often works eight- to ten-hour days, preferably working into the night, the freedom of self-employment is also nice. “If the tide is right, and it looks like the fish might be biting, I’m gonna be out in the boat,” he says.

McNair, who spent one year in art school before attending the College of Charleston to study biology with a studio art minor, finds it easier to call himself a sculptor when explaining what he does for a living. “I enjoy taking trees that have just been cut down and refining them until you end up with this object that will either be hunted over—which is a pretty sweet feeling—or you have a piece of art that people will appreciate. I love the process of creating.”—C.M.

The Farmers

Kristen Nickerson, 34, Jennifer Debnam, 39, and Bill Langenfelder, 38
After graduating from college, Kristen Nickerson, (then Langenfelder) actually toiled as a certified CPA. “I worked for about a year and decided I didn’t like sitting behind a desk,” Nickerson recalls. “But it wasn’t automatic that I could come back to the farm—the operation needs to be big enough and there needs to be enough money to support someone—so when the opportunity came about, I jumped on it immediately.”

Nickerson, along with her siblings, Bill Langenfelder, thirty-eight, and Jennifer Debnam, thirty-nine, are the sixth generation of Langen-felders to work the family farm. (In an unusual twist, none of their spouses work on the farm with them.) All three were lured into the family business by a mutual affection for open space, watching things grow and give birth, and the importance of the family legacy.

“I really missed the attitude of a family business where you’re all pulling together, all working together for the same cause,” says Debnam, who studied agriculture in college and worked briefly for Farm Credit Bank before returning to the familial vocation.

The farm has advanced well beyond the scope of previous generations. The family oversees 2,600 acres of cropland and operates a 700 sow-swine operation in Kennedyville. The cropland is managed using advances such as GPS mapping to determine crop yields. In the sow barn, even feeding is fully automated; a computer controls how much each pig eats based on information delivered to a monitor from its radio frequency ear tag.

It was a different story when the siblings were young, learning the farming business working side-by-side with their parents, in Howard County. (Development forced the family to move the business to Kent County twenty years ago.) The advances in the industry are also what make it such a tough business to break into. All three say they are fortunate because it’s hard for a young person to get access to capital and land unless they take over a family farm.

The siblings hope to preserve a way of life for their children, should they choose to join the business. “Any time they’re building houses anywhere there’s less farmland, and it’s not like they are making any more,” says Langenfelder. “I think we have a viable business here, and I don’t want to see it all go away. I’d hate to see the Delmarva Peninsula turn into a metropolis.”—C.M.

Crab Processor

Clay Brooks, 29
It’s 3 p.m., the busiest time of day for the J.M. Clayton Company, when watermen arrive with their blue crab catch. Clay Brooks stands at the company’s dock in Cambridge ready to buy the crabs, then weigh and sort them by size into batches to be steamed and picked, or sold live.

“I’ve always been down here,” says Brooks, the first of the family’s fifth generation to enter the business, founded by Captain John Morgan Clayton in 1890. “I can remember following my dad, [Jack], around, stapling up seafood boxes and packing up crab meat in Super Giant label cups.”

After attending community college, Brooks joined Clayton ten years ago.

“I’ve always been a hands-on person. This is a hands-on job,” he explains. “I could never sit at a desk long enough. My brother sells insurance. I just couldn’t do it.”

In season, Brooks fills the workday with the chores that take blue crabs by the bushels from watermen’s traps to dining tables around the world. He loads frozen crab picked by American and guest workers onto company trucks, oversees factory repairs, and checks containers of lump and backfin meat for cartilage.

Because his childhood memory of annual crab harvests is hazy, Brooks can’t compare the Chesapeake Bay’s former bounty with its current yield. Other changes, though, are hard to miss. “You don’t find too many young watermen these days,” he says.

Day to day, Brooks frets more about the legal quotas for crabs and guest workers that imperil his family’s livelihood. With new bushel limits on commercial harvests of female crabs, there may be “no product to pack,” he muses. And the national cap on guest workers allowed into the United States could lead to a shortage of pickers, Brooks adds.

He didn’t come to Clayton to witness its demise, though. Not with his baby son, John Clayton Brooks IV, waiting to follow in the family business. “It would be cool to give him the opportunity to join the company,” Brooks says.

And whether or not little John follows his father, grandfather, great-grandfather, and great-great-grand-father to the Cambridge dock, it will be important “to show him that, ‘This is where your family has been,’” Brooks says. “There are not too many companies that have been around for over one hundred years, not to mention family-owned companies.”—S.S.

Muskrat Skinner

Trish Hayden, 16
Sixteen-year-old Trish Hayden may “dress girly” but is quick to point out that anything the boys can do, she can do, too—and that includes skinning a muskrat in about thirty seconds. A senior at South Dorchester High School, Hayden began skinning at age eight, learning the skill from her father, Joe, a Hooper’s Island waterman.

Since beginning to skin competitively, Hayden has won six first-place trophies in the junior division of the World Champion-ship Muskrat Skinning Contest, held at Dorchester County’s annual National Outdoor Show. The 2009 show in February will be her final junior contest before moving on to the adult division when she turns eighteen later that year.

The custom may be revolting to some, but trapping and skinning have been a fabric of Dorchester culture for generations. “In the twenties and thirties, it was an important part of the food chain,” says Rhonda Aaron, Hayden’s mentor and current women’s champion. “Besides the money paid for the hide, it also helped put food on the table. When you’re feeding eight to twelve children, you rely on what is available.”

There aren’t many girls Hayden’s age that skin, and she acknowledges that her friends are a bit grossed-out by the whole affair. “They just think it’s disgusting that I would skin a rat inside out and get blood all over me,” she says. “I love it and they’re like, ‘Oooh. How can a girl love it?’”

“It’s so unique and special. When a younger kid asks to learn how to skin, we try and take them under our wing and help them,” says Aaron, who estimates she’s mentored six or seven kids over the years—both girls and boys. “We don’t want to see it vanish.”

Hayden doesn’t want to see the custom vanish either, and realizes that a new generation of skinners will be the life blood, not only of the craft, but of the Outdoor Show itself. “You feel like you’re keeping the tradition going,” she says of the annual event, which celebrates its 64th anniversary this February. “I think it’s amazing when you can keep something going for so long.”—J.T.

The Watermen

Brian Hambleton, 21, Brooks Hambleton, 13, and P.T. Hambleton, 20
Brian Hambleton and his cousin P.T. Hambleton were probably destined to be watermen. Both their fathers are watermen. Their grandfather still owns P.T. Hambleton Seafood in Bozman, Maryland. The boys were just kids when their fathers bought them their commercial fishing licenses to ensure their future spot on the water. “It was the best job for me to work at, and for now it still is,” says Brian. “It’s good money compared to any land job I could get right now, but the future ain’t lookin’ too bright.”

Despite the dire condition of the Bay, both Brian, twenty-one, and P.T., twenty, say they enjoy the work. “It’s good scenery, you’re alone, it’s good money for the time you’re working,” says Brian. “It’s a real laid-back life. You stand there with a dip net in one hand and steer with the other. You can eat, drink, and smoke a cigarette while you’re doing it.”

“I never encouraged him, I just told him, ‘While you’re still in school, it’s a good way to make some summertime money,’” says Brian’s father, Todd, who starting taking his son out with him at age fourteen. “Once he got out of school, I urged him to go get some higher education because he could always come back to do this. But if they’re willing to work hard, I think this is a good life.”

P.T. says he was eight or ten when he started to work on a boat. “When I was a kid, it was good money to go out and work during the summer,” says P.T., whose thirteen-year-old brother, Brooks, works with him when he isn’t in school. “And it’s a family tradition.” Now he enjoys being his own boss and running his own boat. “The worst part is all the ups,” P.T. quips. “Baitin’ up and gettin’ up.”

Both Hambletons speculate about whether they can stay in the field forever, but they’re fairly certain the family tradition will end in their generation. “For fun, it would be fine [for my kids], but not for a job,” says P.T. “You have no paid vacation or benefits. I guess college is the way to go.”

When Todd Hambleton was still on the water, he says oysters and crabs were abundant, and the standard of living was more manageable in Eastern Shore communities. But he’s proud that another generation is trying to keep the old tradition alive. “It’s good to see, because if a lot of these fishermen weren’t here, the whole industry would collapse, and a whole way of life would be lost­­—and its people, too.”—C.M.

Smith Island Cake Baker

Dana Evans, 41
Growing up on Smith Island, Dana Evans passed countless hours in the kitchen, stacking thin layers of cake and icing into moist, sweet edible towers under her mother’s supervision. Whether intended for a weekend treat, a Methodist Church benefit, or a get-well gesture for an ailing island neighbor, the cake was an extravagant but unexceptional part of Smith Island life.

Evans couldn’t know the weekly baking ritual would serve as an apprenticeship in a traditional art form that years later would capture worldwide attention as Maryland’s official dessert.

Evans had an inkling of the confection’s appeal when she opened Classic Cakes (classicsmithislandcakes.com, 410-860-5300) in Salisbury five years ago—with her mother, Doris Bradshaw, once again by her side. From the first day, customers have queued outside the bakery, which specializes in nine-layer Smith Island cakes made in a profusion of flavors, from chocolate and banana to Butterfinger and red velvet. “I would have never thought that someday I would be selling hundreds and hundreds of cakes every week,” says Evans, forty-one.

In April, the Maryland legislature designated the Smith Island cake as the official state dessert. “I think I’m still in shock that I’m a part of something that has been put out there in the world, something that we took for granted growing up,” Evans says, who has shipped her cakes as far as Iraq. “It means so much to me and my family.”

To remain vibrant, traditions must evolve, and that applies to Evans’ popular innovation: Smith Island wedding cakes, disguised by her pastry chef in fondant or icing. “You don’t know it’s a Smith Island cake until you cut it,” Evans says.

Evans’ mother was a bit of a Smith Island cake pioneer herself. As a child, Evans loved chocolate, and her brother preferred vanilla. Bradshaw would accommodate both children by icing a half circle of each flavor on every cake layer. That’s one twist too many on tradition. “I won’t do that at the shop,” says Evans, who can ice as many as 1,500 cake layers on a busy day.

Since it opened, Classic Cakes has tripled its cake sales and space. The staff has multiplied to twelve, including Dana’s daughter, Stephanie Evans, twenty-three, a partner in her mother’s business. The younger Evans didn’t bake as a child. But now, her proud mother says, “She can put a cake together quicker than I can.”—S.S.

Like the family that once spent long, golden summers in its embrace, the Barnhart home on Anne Arundel County’s Cypress Creek has matured. The former “little house with a big porch,” as owner Ellen Barnhart describes it, has been replaced by a contemporary hideaway that’s both a retreat for her and a gathering place for her three children and seven grandchildren—a “Zen cottage,” in the words of her architect, Chip Bohl.

The home, built in 2001, supplanted a beloved but unheated bungalow that Barnhart and her husband purchased thirty years ago. In this incarnation, the screened porch rises to fifteen feet at its gabled peak. A wood-burning fireplace at one corner stands ready to chase the dawn’s chill. “In the morning, I’m always out on the porch or the dock with my coffee,” Barnhart says. “If it’s really cold, I’ll put on an extra robe.”

Four full-length, custom-glass panels on tracks separate the porch from the interior, sliding into a hidden pocket during pleasant weather. Their sleekness enhances the Scandinavian mood in the great room, with its white walls, maple floors, and streamlined furniture. The minimalism is much to Barnhart’s taste. “I love white, and I love spare,” she says with a smile. “I’m a big believer in the KISS (Keep It Simple, Stupid) principle.” To that end, she found a willing partner in architect Bohl, who kept the inner spaces serene but added unexpected geometry that keeps the views interesting. “When Ellen showed me the magazine clips she liked, they were very architectural and abstract—lots of Manhattan lofts,” says Bohl. “But she had also told me that she wanted something that felt like a summer home, relaxed and comfortable, to accommodate her children and grandchildren. I said, ‘Ellen, these images are beautiful, but I’m not seeing summer house here.’ We had a good laugh about that. She understood the contradiction. That’s where we started.”

Bohl angled walls and created unconventional openings to maximize the water views from the narrow lot. “Almost nobody walks in without saying, ‘Oh!’” says Barnhart of the home’s entryway, which opens on to the main room and the panorama beyond.

Along the floating stairway that rises at the left, a curtain of fixed steel rods drops from the ceiling to anchor each tread. The same motif repeats on the gallery banister on the second floor, where a pair of baths and a trio of bedrooms (one, a six-bunk dormitory) accommodate visiting family and friends. Clearly, it’s a house made for gathering. “I can entertain thirty or forty people here,” Barnhart says. “Every New Year’s Eve, I have a group of friends down for four or five days.” When she hosts her grandchildren, they romp through the same bayside adventures that their parents once enjoyed. (Judging from the number of kayaks, fishing poles, and tubes on the waterside deck, it’s quite a party.) “The sandy beach was one of the features that sold us on the original property,” remarks Barnhart. Another was the view of Gibson Island from the end of the pier, its misty contours like a mirage on the horizon.

From the pier, the house seems to flow toward the water, fanning out like the prow of a large ship. But from the street side, it presents a different aspect. Bohl sliced-and-diced the traditional exterior elements, setting the front porch askew and adding three idiosyncratic, second-story dormer windows. “They’re the visual clues to the house,” Barnhart says. “You can tell something different is going on inside.”

The roof is a curved plane with a sloping ridge—a design that yields extra reflected light and acoustic dampening inside, according to Bohl. “I don’t know how they managed to build that,” Barnhart laughs. Yet, with its neutral wood siding and warm red accents, the house nestles easily into the surrounding neighborhood.

Furnishings are purposely simple to highlight the contemporary look. “I wanted warm, modern, and comfortable,” says Barnhart, pointing out the armless couches flanking a red leather ottoman. Above the teak dining table, an Ingo Maurer chandelier of Japanese paper casts a glow. The decor gets even simpler in summer, with white slipcovers over the seating and the silk Tibetan rugs sent on vacation.

Despite the home’s austerity, there’s a place for the Wii and Xbox generation, too. The lower level is a full-sized game room, where ten-foot ceilings and a Ping-Pong table provide plenty of romping space.

Surveying the house contentedly, Barnhart approves of the mix: Bohl’s “fractured” vision, the splendid views over the water, and the passing parade of grandchildren. “What I like best is that there’s always something to look at,” she says.

Carol Denny writes from Arnold, Md.

38th Annual WaterFowl Festival
November 14,15,16 10-6pm

Savor Classic Eastern Shore Seafood
Take in retriever and fly fishing demos and the DockDogs® event
Don’t miss the kids’ activities, family fun & live animals
Shop for handcrafted holiday gifts
Enjoy and purchase world-class wildlife paintings, sculpture, carvings and photos

In 1994, furniture designer Dan Hale built a house in Severna Park that calls to mind a host of adjectives—but “ordinary” isn’t one of them.

Constructing his residence from scratch in the style of a Danish farmhouse, the nationally famed craftsman imbued it with so many signature touches that current owner Linda Cameron says that, ten years after moving in, she’s still discovering the details. Cameron delights in pointing out the “magical treasures” that Hale created: ceramic faces on drawer pulls, ceiling lights made from drinking glasses, plump birds perched atop bookcases with chicken-wire doors. Just as beguiling are his architectural surprises, such as the porthole built into the stairwell wall. “Every child and animal that comes into the house finds that spot,” she says with a laugh.

Outside, a rounded two-story tower adds a fairytale touch, while a bluestone porch provides water views of the Severn River. Inside, Hale’s handcrafted furniture, clocks, and fixtures suffuse the rooms with obvious charm.

Cameron and her husband, Glenn Gilmor, weren’t planning to buy a new home until mutual friends introduced them to Hale in 1998. The artist, who’d spent four years in the house, was looking for just the right successors for his property and invited them to take a look. “It was July, the windows were open, and the kids were running back and forth from the house to the beach,” Cameron recalls. “We literally spent about ten minutes inside before we decided to buy it.”

Reflecting on their previous address—a traditional colonial in a modern development—she grins. “We didn’t have a creative bone in our bodies,” she says. “This place helped us break out of our mold.”

Hale’s house offered an aesthetic that wowed the new owners. The designer used simple materials throughout, principally wood, tile, plaster, and cast concrete, which conjured an atmosphere that is part European cottage, part American folk art. Custom French doors, casement windows, and ten-foot ceilings provide for an abundance of natural light. “I like things that are less polished, and I’m always finding new materials,” explains Hale, who has since relocated to northern California. “But the big thing on this house was the porch and the connection to the outdoors. I wanted to blur that inside/outside line as much as I could.”

Re-using materials was important, too. For one banister leading to the entertainment area, Hale used a sailboat mast; for another, a hand-carved length of fallen poplar. He continued the botanical theme in the study on the first floor of the turret, sculpting a plaster relief of leaves and branches over the walls.

One room in particular won Cameron’s heart: the kitchen. A wide wooden farm table with stools spans the center, and slate counters and stainless appliances flank the alcove that holds the range. Large, hand-painted drawers with inlaid faces offer “amazing storage,” amplified by tall, glass-front cabinets. Overstuffed armchairs next to the table invite repose. “It’s organic and ultra-simple—special without being expensive,” Cameron says.

The challenge the couple faced was making Hale’s unique residence their own. “For the first few years, it still was Dan’s house,” Cameron notes. Eventually, she and Gilmor, with the help of Annapolis’s Belinda McClure of Belinda McClure Interiors, undertook renovations, removing a wall between the kitchen and family room, and adding a second bathroom to the master suite. To gain space, they raised the roof of the turret by crane, making sure to keep Hale’s hand-painted ceiling intact.

Still, Hale’s spirit emerges in droll touches throughout the house. A gondolier poles his lamp-boat over the dining table; tree trunks stand in for columns on the guesthouse porch; rounded doorways recall the arches of a Moorish palace. Living among such whimsy, Cameron says, has been a gift in itself. “We’ve learned that a house can add fun to your life, and remind you not to take things so seriously.”

Carol Denny writes from Arnold, Md.

Fresh figs ripen from June to October in Maryland and are plentiful on the Eastern Shore, but they were originally brought to North America by the Spanish Franciscan missionaries, who settled in southern California. (This is where the California black mission fig originated.) 

There are literally hundreds of varieties, ranging in color from almost white to midnight black in color. Unfortunately, one of the few drawbacks to using figs in the kitchen is that they’re extremely perishable and last only two to three days in the refrigerator.

Over the years, I have developed some fun fig recipes that are quick and easy to make. One of my favorites is prepared on the grill and can be used either as an appetizer or as a garnish for a salad. The addition of charred, crispy pancetta in this dish plays well against figs’ natural sweetness. I’ve also created a salad of balsamic vinegar dressing, goat cheese, and figs, which makes for a heavenly threesome atop semi-bitter arugula. For complete indulgence, try the recipe for fried bread, seared foie gras, and an Italian, fig-flavored syrup called vincotto. Probably my favorite fig concoction is a dessert known as a tarte tatin, in which figs are cooked upside down in caramel sauce while the pastry browns on top. Enjoy! 

Grilled Fresh Figs and Pancetta with Honey Glaze

Caramelized Figs with Seared Foie Gras and Fig Vincotto

Fresh Figs, Arugula, and Goat Cheese Salad

Fig Tarte Tatin with Vanilla Bean Ice Cream

Andrew Evans is the owner/chef of Easton’s Thai Ki.

Those fall Sundays in the country were magic.

The crunch of the dried potpourri of oak leaves, thistles, and pine needles marked our progress as we made our way farther into the forest behind our house. Leaping over felled trunks blocking our path, sloshing through soupy mud puddles left over from the morning rain, there was nowhere else we wanted to be other than with each other under the gracefully dying canopy. We were an odd, Disney-esque bunch: me, my grey cat, and my yellow lab. With me in the lead and my four-legged friends trailing behind me, we’d cover hours of hilly ground. Forced every twenty minutes or so to stop and wait for the cat to catch up, we’d stand in silence, my dog’s ears pricked by the sound of deer crashing over the floor of crispy limbs, my eyes fixed on the 3-D sculpture of bent and twisted lines surrounding us. Although out there, we were vulnerable, wonderfully insulated from civilization, it was exciting to feel our way through the foreign stillness. As the sky sprinkled us with leafy notes of reds and yellows, our Sunday fall adventures deepened our history. We’d turn for home after two hours or so, tired, cold, and ready for dinner. That night, huddled by the wood stove, I’d recount aloud what we saw and where we went. And while they were half listening and half sleeping with tails wrapped around cold noses, all was right with the world.

In this issue, make your own fall memories with a hike through Easton’s Pickering Creek Audubon Center, a 400-acre Eden of still waters and turning leaves (“Pick of the Season,” pg. 62). Or take a tour of the Bay’s wineries, which stretch from Sudlersville, Md., to Machipongo, Va., in “Winery Road,” pg. 86. Also, meet five regional law men who share their tales of crime and passion in “Badges of Honor,” pg. 76. Spend a quiet night at Cambridge’s Lodgecliffe on the Choptank B&B (Checking Inn, pg. 55) or a glamorous weekend cruising aboard La Bella Vita (Weekender, pg. 49). And be sure to try your hand with
Chef Andrew Evans fig recipes. 

This fall also brings CL a new editor, Joe Sugarman, who has, for the past seven years, served as senior editor. Starting with the November issue, it’ll be Joe’s face and words greeting you on this page, while I’ll work behind the scenes as his right-hand “man.” Thank you so much for being open and responsive to my letters over the years. And I know Joe is just as excited to share his thoughts with you each issue.

Take care,   
Kessler Burnett
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For most people, coconuts inspire images of swaying palm trees and blue water. But even if you can’t visit the Tropics, you can still find coconuts in most local supermarkets.

When ripe, the inner coconut flesh turns from a jelly-like consistency to hard, white flesh, which can then be grated or peeled. Coconut milk is created by grating the flesh, mixing it with water, heating it until foamy, and then straining it through cheesecloth. (Using readily available canned coconut milk saves you the trouble, of course.)

I chose the following four recipes in order to show off the coconut’s versatility. For breakfast, you can whip up the coconut pancakes and pair them with bananas and passionfruit for a tropical punch. Then move onto lunch with a refreshing shaved coconut and crab salad with mint and lime. Coconut cream
adds the richness to sweet soy pork over jasmine rice for dinner. And for dessert, try the refreshing and light coconut tart with crème fraiche. After eating these coconut-infused dishes, you just might be able to fool yourself into believing that you’re on the Caribbean instead of the Chesapeake. 

Crab, Mint, Chili, and Coconut Salad

Sweet Soy Pork over Jasmine Rice

Coconut Pancakes with Bananas & Passionfruit Syrup

Coconut Tart with Pineapple & Crème Fraiche

Andrew Evans is the owner/chef of Easton’s Thai Ki.

I’ve been on beaches from the Caribbean to Cape Town, and I’ve never seen two people who worked harder on their tans than the couple who basically lived on the sands of Bethany.

Every weekend, they’d recline in beach chairs just a few yards from the surf. She was a petite, pony-tailed brunette with a curvy figure; he was a handsome, hulking fellow, with an enormous beer belly, which stretched wider and more taught than that of a woman carrying triplets. They’d gravitate to the same area on the beach that my mother, my Aunt Daphne, and I frequented, tucked against the jetty where noisy families never camped, knowing that their kids climbing on the rocks would attract the lifeguard’s scolding whistle. 

Arriving to find them in their usual spot aroused the same anxious thrill in us as discovering Jaws on the late-night movie. We’d watch them like curious seagulls, not in a mocking manner but rather as a trio of sociologists studying their fellow (obsessively tanned) man. Around us were a host of other regulars whom we also enjoyed studying: the super-fit sixty-something who wore her white socks and tennis shoes, the white-haired gent who always sat alone and smoked cigars, the pasty family of seven who arrived at 4 p.m., unpacked their tons of gear, slathered themselves with sunscreen, and left an hour later. But none were as intriguing as the couple. 

Constantly reading (and rarely talking), they’d soak up the rays from mid-morning to the late hours of the afternoon, rotating from supine to prone position like chickens impaled on a rotisserie. Glistening in the brutal summer sun, they resembled piec