October 19, 2015--Donuts

It was still dark at 6:15 but Rona was stirring.

So in a whisper I said, "Are you awake?"

"Sort of," she mumbled.

"Interested in Frosty's?"

"For donuts?" Without waiting for an answer, she threw back the covers and stumbled quickly toward the bathroom.

We hadn't been there for about a month and for the past were feeling a donut rush. And we knew, to get the widest selection--especially Boston Creams--we would be pushing our luck if we showed up after 8:00. It's about a 50 minute drive and knew if we didn't hit the road by 7:00, traffic being unpredictable, we might make all that effort and wind up disappointed.

And Frosty's is the last place in the world where you want to be disappointed. If you can't rouse yourself, better not even to go.

"Look at that pink sky," Rona said, almost impossible to understand with the electric toothbrush whirring away.

"That's sunrise. You're rarely up early enough to see it." I was attempting to represent my insomnia as evidence of my moral superiority. "Right now, actually in about 15 minutes, it should be rising above the horizon just north of Monhegan Island."

"If I hurry, do you think there's enough time to drive to the Pemaquid Loop so we can see it?"

I checked my watch and said, "It depends on what you mean by hurry."

"I know, I know, this is about donuts."

Well, Rona did hurray sufficiently and we did get to the Loop just in time to see the fireball of the sun leap above the horizon at the edge of the Gulf of Maine."

"I have to try this more often" Rona sighed. "I'm missing too many things of this kind. But let's get a move on I need one of those Boston Creams."

"I think we'll be OK, but to be sure why don't you call them to reserve one?"

"Reserve one? You can reserve a dozen. But just one?"

"It never hurts to ask."

Which Rona did and when we got there--almost too late at five to eight--there it was in a small white paper bag propped up on the counter with "Rona" written on it.

You get a better price if you order a half dozen so we asked for a Glazed Raised, a Butternut Crunch, one Maple Glazed, and two Chocolate Coconuts to accompany the Boston Cream. That made a half dozen.

"If we need more," I told the woman serving us, we can always come back for them."

"If there are any left," she alerted us knowingly. "If you want, I can put a few more aside for you."

Not wanting to appear as out of control as we were, I shrugged and said, "I think six will be fine for us."

Rona kicked me.

"OK," I corrected myself, "How about a Glazed Twist and another Butternut Crunch. We really love those."

The server smiled, having heard it all.

After filling up on Frosty's--we did manage to eat all eight--heading home I spotted a sign for Orr's and Bailey Islands.

"We've never been there so why don't we see what there is to see."

After only four miles we entered another universe of glacier-gouged coves, fishing villages from another era, and a landscape dotted with lobstermen's cottages and cabins.

Rona said, "This feels like a perfect place to get away from things and readjust one's inner balances. That Log Cabin Inn looks to be where one could book a room to take all of this in and get reoriented."

"It looks just right for that. Maybe next season we should check in for a few days."

"How about next week?" Rona said only half kidding. "They are clearly still open."

"Maybe we should," I said, "Thursday's our anniversary."

"And Frosty's only a short drive from here. And . . . "

On the way home we talked about the popularity of donuts. "At least as popular as pizza," Rona said.

"Or bagels," I said.

"I wonder about the origins of donuts," Rona mused.

"I don't know why I'm saying this but my guess is that they're of German origin. I mean, pretzels are and I think bagels."

"Donuts are not really like either pretzels or bagels. Except maybe they have similar shapes. But neither are fried. In fact, quite the opposite."

"If we had a smart phone we could look it up."

"I'd rather look at Casco Bay," Rona said, staring out her window at the foliage, now close to their magnificent peak.

So I stopped rattling on about donuts and paid attention to the narrow, twisting road.

Back home, after checking emails, In Wikipedia I looked up donuts. For certain they are not of German origin. In fact, who first made them is not definitively known. Probably the Dutch who in the early 19th century made what they called donut-like oliekoeks, or "oil cakes." The term donut itself is an American invention. First appearing in Washington Irving's History of New York. He called them doughnuts, and they were really more what Dunkin Donuts calls Munchkins, or donut holes.

Later that afternoon, agreeing it had been one of our best times ever, I said, "I know you won't believe this after what we ate for our so-called breakfast, But I'm feeling a little hungry."

"Me too," Rona sheepishly admitted. "Since we're not having a healthy eating day, why don't we heat up that can of Chef Boyardee ravioli we impulsively bought a couple of months ago. You said, it was 'for old times sake.'"

"Another guilty pleasure. But what a wonderful idea," I said, reaching for a small sauce pan. Rona already had the mini ravioli can opened.

With enough parmesan cheese, they were in fact delicious, tasting to each of us just as they had the last time we had any. Decades ago. "I don't think they had the mini version back then," I said.

"Maybe for next time we should get the classic version."

"The next time? You mean you want these again? Soon?"

"Why not? I read the label and the ingredients are all pretty much OK. With an arugula salad and some crusty bread they could make a pretty good dinner."

"We'd probably need more than one can. For lunch, one is plenty; but for dinner, I think a can each."

"We could make a mix of both kinds--the classic and the mini."

"Listen to us," Is said. "It's come to this. The next thing we know we'll be checking out recipes for Spam."

"While you're looking things up," Rona said. "Check out Chef Boyardee. To see if he is or was a real person."

In less than a minute I knew.

"Yes, he was an actual person, an Italian immigrant named Ettore "Hector" Boiardi, who made and served ravioli in his restaurant in Cleveland. They were so popular that his customers urged him to produce and sell them, which he did beginning in 1928. They appear to be made in the same factory."

"What a country," Rona said. Frosty's in the early morning, Chef Boyardee in the afternoon. What shall we have for dinner?"

October 16, 2103--Midcoast: That Abdul Fella

We had a few hours to kill. It was later in the morning of the day we drove at dawn to Frosty's in Brunswick for our donut orgy.

We were waiting for the Bowdoin College Museum to open. It was the next to last day of the Maurice Prendergast show. I especially like his work on paper--watercolors, pastels, gouaches, mono prints--and didn't want to miss it.

Thinking about what to do, Rona remembered that our friend Al Trescot was planning to berth his boat in a nearby marina at the end of Mere Point. He plans a book of photographs of the waters of Casco Bay. "Let's drive down to Paul's Marina," she suggested, "From our GPS it looks as if it's only five miles."

We took our time as the historic town of Bowdoin gave way to clusters of suburban-looking ranch houses before quickly turning into the more familiar look of rural Maine. The turn off to Paul's came up quickly and I had to brake hard not to glide past the dirt road that lead down to the marina.

It turned out to be more basic than the yard where Al had been mooring his boat the past two years as he worked on a soon-to-be-published book about the Sheepscot and Kennebec Rivers. But I agreed with Rona who felt it had much more charm huddled among cabins and cottages that lined the shore facing the bay and Merepoint Neck.

We parked next to one of the cottages, maybe a bit too close; but we thought that would be all right since we intended to take a quick look around to get a visual fix on where Al would be early next spring before we could join him for a trip or two.

"Let's get a quick cup of coffee," I proposed, "Just as Al said, there's a general store, over there, Judy's," I pointed toward the dock, "And maybe something to . . ."

"After what you ate at Frosty's an hour ago you want more . . ."

"Maybe some lobster?" Rona glared at me. "See what that other sign says."

"The Lobster You Buy Here Today,'" Rona read, "'Slept Last Night in Casco Bay.'"

"This is a perfect place for Al," I said. "It even rhymes." We both laughed. "Let's just get a cup of coffee. More to see Judy's than for the coffee or . . ."

"Good idea."

The coffee was hot and full flavored. We took it outside to a small deck and sat on a bench, passing it back and forth, looking into the half-risen sun and staring languidly out to the first of the more than 300 islands of Casco. More than enough for Al to find subject matter.

"Time to head out," I said, "By now the museum's open and I don't feel comfortable leaving the car so close to that house."

And with that, the door to it eased open and an elderly but seemingly physically vital man with a severe Amish-style beard began slowly to lumber down the four or five steps, heading toward our car.

I whispered to Rona as we trotted toward where we had parked, "I don't like the way he's looking at it or us. In fact, I don't like the way he looks. Let's just get into the car and not say to much. I'm in too good a mood to get yelled out for where we parked. Maybe just signal a brief apology and move on."

"I see you're . . ."  I couldn't make out what he was saying but from the tone he seemed friendly. I also noticed that our car was not really encroaching on access to his garage.

I relaxed. He sensed I didn't hear him and repeated, "I see you're from New York." I nodded, by then half seated in the car. "What parts?"

"Manhattan," Rona said. "Downtown."

"Not my kind of place," he said. "All these islands right here are enough action for me." With his hand he swept the horizon.

"Where you there on 9/11?" He didn't turn to look at us.

"Yes, we were," Rona said. "The first plane flew right over our terrace. I went out there to check the weather. To determine what to wear when it flew by just above the roof, going full speed. I thought it was in some sort of trouble. Not of course what was really happening."

"Terrible day. Terrible. Terrible time. Then and since."

"I agree with that," I said, "Things haven't been the same."

"We've lost our way," he said. "That's why I hardly ever leave this place. What more do I need? I got all my wants taken care of. I don't need any of that other nonsense."

"I understand," Rona said. "When we're here we feel the same way."

"From then on things have been different," he said, still looking into the sun. "They'll never be the same."

"I agree with that," I said. "It's awful, just awful."

"Do you know what happened the day before?"

"You don't mean yesterday?"

"No, September 10th. That day before."

"Your asking about that reminds me that two of the hijackers started that day near here in Portland."

"That's right, they came to Portland on the 10th, stayed overnight, and then flew from Portland to Boston the morning of the 11th when they got onto the plane that they hijacked and crashed into the first building."

"The one I saw," Rona sighed.

"No one seems to know why they came to Portland on the 10th," I said. "Do you have any idea why?"

"I have my theories," he said. "Before I retired I used to be in law enforcement."

"Your theories?"

"That's for another day." He waved the thought away. "But I'll tell you something I bet you don't know about."

"What's that? I've tried to read a lot about the hijackers."

"In your reading did you see that they came to this here marina?"

"Really?" I exclaimed. "Here? Why would that be?"

"Don't know about why, but I do know they came right here the day before. Was a beautiful day just like today."

"To do . . .?"

"As I said, I don't know. But I do know it was them. Atta, the leader, and that Abdul fella."

"I think it was Mohammed Atta and Abdulaziz al-Omari. For some reason I seem to know the names of all 19 of them."

"They sat down right there on that dock." He pointed to a small float directly behind me. "For more than an hour."

"My God," Rona said.

"As I told you I was in law enforcement and they didn't look right to me. They didn't look like they were from here."

"What did you do?" I asked hesitantly, not wanting to probe too deeply into what might be a terrible memory.

"Well, I had my suspicions. Of course not about what happened. Who could have imagined that. Though I should have . . ." His voice trailed off.

"No one could have imagined what they were plotting," I said. "No one." And that was the truth, not something I said to make him feel better.

"But I did write down the license plate number of their car."

"And, if I may, what . . ."

To be concluded tomorrow . . .