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March 13, 2026

Centreville Spy

Nonpartisan and Education-based News for Centreville

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Food Friday: Frankly, Hot Dogs

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Sometimes I forget that we live in a country that is so vast and diverse that a New England hot dog is so different from a Chicago-style hot dog, and neither of them is like a hot dog from Texas, or from California. And this is one of the great American qualities – we are true blue and we love our regional delicacies.

In Boston, a Fenway Frank is boiled first, and then lightly grilled. (It is served in a split-top roll, which is also used for the best sort of lobster rolls: Split-top Roll) The Puritans among us prefer garnishing a Fenway Frank with just a thick wiggly trail of spicy mustard. But since this is America, feel free to pile on your own favorites.

As you travel west to Chicago, you will observe that the Chicago-style hot dog is a completely different creation. Chicago-style hot dogs are cooked in butter in a pan, and then served in warm, poppy-seed rolls, with lots of veggies on top. Chicago-style dogs are “dragged through the garden”: topped with sweet pickle relish, chopped onions, pickled peppers, tomato slices and sprinkled with celery salt. Have you been watching The Bear? You’ll know then how popular these franks are.

Then you’ll mosey down to Texas, to encounter the Hot Texas Wiener, a frank cooked in hot vegetable oil. If you place an order for a “One”, you’ll get a blisteringly hot frank topped with spicy brown mustard, chopped onions, and chili sauce. Yumsters.

As you continue west, and stop in Los Angeles for a some street food, you will encounter an L.A. Danger Dog. This frank is wrapped in bacon! I cannot imagine the state that Gwyneth and Meghan call home would do anything so decadent and audacious as a grilled, bacon-wrapped hot dog. More controversial to a hot dog purist are the toppings: catsup, mustard, mayonnaise, sautéed onions, with peppers, and a poblano chile pepper. Catsup? Mayo? But to be polite, you must eat like a local, and it will be deelish.

Common sense teaches us to not use catsup on our franks after the age of 18. You might as well make bologna sandwiches with Wonder bread, and douse them in catsup.

Have you ever seen the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile on the road? I can remember driving on a Florida highway once, and suddenly, puttering alongside us, was the Weinermobile. What a cheap thrill that was! Sadly, now it is called the Frankmobile. Time marches on. You can follow the Frankmobile on Instagram:

July is National Hot Dog Month, and the National Hot Dog and Sausage Council says that some of the top hot dog consuming cities include: Los Angeles, New York, Philadelphia, Boston, Chicago, Phoenix, Atlanta, Detroit, Washington, DC, and Tampa. You’ll want to brush up on your hot dog etiquette, I’m sure.

And here are the official rules for Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest, in case you want to try this at home.

NPR 1A – Hot Dogs

Happy Fourth of July! (I will still be in Massachusetts enjoying my first post-COVID vacation next week, so we will be repeating a column, something from the Way Back Machine. Enjoy!)

“A hotdog at the ballgame beats roast beef at the Ritz.”
― Humphrey Bogart

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Expanding the Possible on Port Street: A Chat with Arc Advisor Ross Benincasa

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It’s one thing to talk about affordable housing as a campaign issue or as a matter of policy, but it’s quite a different when a great example is staring you in the face.

And that will be the experience of thousands of Easton motorists and pedestrians as they travel on Port Street over the next year as they watch the construction of a three-floor mixed-use building,  just a block from Route 322, called Port Street Commons.

With an official groundbreaking already done, The Arc, and its Chesapeake Neighbors affiliate, are well on their way to creating a unique model for affordable housing. While the first floor will house The Arc’s service center, which will provide a much-needed community resource center for those with intellectual or developmental disabilities, the building will offer nine affordable housing units ranging from two to three-bedroom apartments, targeting families with a household income at or below 60% of the area median income.

It’s a bold vision for what The Arc calls “expanding the possible.” But it does nonetheless come with  some real challenges. We asked Arc advisor, Rivers & Roads’ Ross Benincasa, to walk us through that vision, some of the obstacles being faced, and the unique model Port Street Commons might become in the years ahead as other Eastern Shore communities find new ways to meet their housing needs.

This video is approximately five minutes in length. For more information about The Arc-Central Chesapeake, its Chesapeake Neighbors program, or Port Street Commons please go here. 

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

Unbidden by Laura J. Oliver

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Sophie, the robin who has been sitting on three blue eggs in the pink dogwood just outside my office window, abandoned ship last night. The nest was a magnificent structure. To make the interior soft and bowl-shaped, she had pressed her rounded breast into the grass and twigs she’d gathered and painstakingly plastered with mud. She shaped it like a potter might use his hands; only Sophie-bird had used her heart. 

A crow discovered the nest two days ago and swept in for repeated attacks. I’d warded off two assaults myself, but I knew the crafty crow, a hulking black shadow, a menace to all small things that sing, would inevitably succeed in this lethal mission, and he did.

Yes, Sophie was one of a billion robins, collectively known as a “worm” of robins—like a “pride” of lions and a “murder” of crows. And yes, statistics indicate that only 25% of birds fledged in summer, make it even to fall, but she was a good mother. Or at least the best she could be.

And that kills me. That good wasn’t good enough.

Self-improvement was a major theme in the house of my childhood, and I need to get a handle on this. Good never feels good enough, remorse never feels deep enough, and you cannot be grateful enough for the gifts you’ve been given. (I won’t argue with that last one.)

I was thinking about these things lying in a float tank—a sensory deprivation chamber. I signed up for this hour session somewhat impulsively because I’d always been curious—what on earth would happen if I turned off my brain? I’d heard that the experience is unique and lends itself to emotional insight, healing, and spiritual revelations. (I’m not known for low expectations.)

I arrived for my session in a ponytail and no makeup. I was going to be in water up to my ears for an hour and then showering off the Epsom Salts that would make me as buoyant as a balloon, so the normal morning routine had been swapped for “dear-God-don’t-let-me-run-into-anyone-I-know.”

The float chamber itself had been a stunning surprise. If you’ve ever been to a grotto, like the one on the island of Capri, where the sunlight seems to shine upwards from the white sea floor making the water pristine blue and alive with light, it was like that. As if blue and light had merged to be a living thing. And the ceiling of the float chamber was covered in glittering stars! We know I was charmed.

After taking a peek into it from my private outer room and having showered at home, I got undressed, then opened the chamber door and lowered myself into water the color of the sky and the temperature of my skin. 

When ready, I could push a button with a wet salty hand to turn out the chamber lights so that only the stars lit the darkness. But I had been advised to use a second button to eventually turn out the stars as well. Floating in the absence of light, as if in the womb, would provide the ultimate float experience. 

I lay there, reluctant to relinquish the stars. They are themselves evidence of a living universe, but I did eventually hit the button in search of the greater experience. The water held me just as it must have held me in the womb. I could open my eyes, and there was no difference in having them shut. I was sightless. Sort of weird. Sort of utero. Except, I probably wasn’t thinking thoughts in the womb.

Okay, that’s a lie, I probably was, but I was definitely still thinking thoughts here. I wanted to turn my brain off, but I came to understand that my internal mental chatter was not the result of outside stimuli. With all external stimuli eliminated, the mind monkeys were having a barn dance and had invited rowdy friends on scooters. 

I tried concentrating on my breathing and on the water itself—which some call silky, not slimy. But after what I’d determined to be about 40 minutes (with deadly accuracy, it turns out), I resorted to amusing myself. What would happen if I put my feet down? Made the water ripple? If I died and became suddenly limp, in what position would they find my body? My hands seemed to always float to my hips—like Wonder Woman! Like someone who died bossing everyone around! I had earplugs in, but I could feel water seeping in around them and started worrying about getting salt crystals in my ears. 

I tried harder to find heaven. 

Where was the spiritual revelation? The emotional insight? The healing? I’ve got conundrums, and I’d provided the blankest slate I could muster to no avail. After a while, I started pinging myself off the sides of the tank, floating from left to right, pushing off with my toes. 

I was a float fail. I tanked the float-tank experience.

The times I’ve been graced by the presence of spirit have come unbidden, have descended like a cloud. Like the night before surgery, when I’d been waiting three weeks in excruciating anxiety for a specialist from Georgetown to join my surgeon at Anne Arundel Medical Center.

I was awakened by gratitude—a soft, living presence that entered the room as gently as light, flooding my body and saturating my being so thoroughly that I could only lie in the dark and weep for the reality of a living love. I lay there just ridiculous with gratitude because I knew that if my surgery revealed the presence of a terminal illness, it would somehow be the experience I was born for. I didn’t feel assured that I would not be sick, only that if I were, all was well. All was perfect.

Sometimes God has arrived in a flash of intuition where I suddenly knew something I could not possibly know. Spirit has shown up as someone I’m meeting for the first time who feels like home. But God has never arrived when I was looking. Or testing. Or bargaining. 

Instead, God has always materialized in ways I cannot anticipate. Do you search for the air you breathe? That’s the way love manifests, I thought, lying there in the primal dark. Grace is a presence for whom you can only open the door.

And with that revelation, I turned on the stars. 

Laura J. Oliver is an award-winning developmental book editor and writing coach, who has taught writing at the University of Maryland and St. John’s College. She is the author of The Story Within (Penguin Random House). Co-creator of The Writing Intensive at St. John’s College, she is the recipient of a Maryland State Arts Council Individual Artist Award in Fiction, an Anne Arundel County Arts Council Literary Arts Award winner, a two-time Glimmer Train Short Fiction finalist, and her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her website can be found here.

 

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

Food Friday: Cool Summer Salads

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Happy summer! It’s finally here. School is out, and you can hear screen doors slamming up and down our street with busy folk intent upon enjoying summer. Luke the wonder dog and I have to dodge out of the way of the young bicyclists who are toting colorful towels or tennis racquets as they pursue summertime activities. It’s nice to be outdoors.

My chore avoidance tendency is reemerging as thoughts are reluctantly turning to the Fourth of July, and summertime entertaining, and eating in general. I wake up every morning and think about the day ahead; Luke and I take our first walk, and that’s when I decide if I need to head out to the grocery store for provisions. It’s nice to have planned ahead enough that I have already made a couple of kinds of sturdy salads that can sit in the fridge for a few days.

Potato salad seems to get more flavorful as it steeps in its mayonnaise dressing for a few days. It was excellent with grilled chicken on Sunday night, and it will be even better on Tuesday night with baked salmon, and for a side dish with my cheese sandwich on Wednesday. I’m going to make a double batch for the Fourth: half to bring with us to the picnic, and half for another home-cooked dinner, or two, later in the week.

This is my standard potato salad recipe, which tend to repeat here every year or so:
My Popular Potato Salad

This is a recipe that people actually ask for – and not just because they are my in-laws and trying hard to be polite! It that constantly evolves and adapts, and each summer brings a new twist. I don’t always have green onions – Vidalias work just fine. No red bliss potatoes? Go for Russets. A little fresh thyme? Why not? This potato salad is dependable, tasty and can be adapted and stretched to feed the masses. Just add more potatoes and more mayonnaise. It is particularly fine for large picnic gatherings, but Mr. Sanders has been known to make a midnight snack of it, too. It tastes best if it has a little time to sit and mellow, so if you can make it in the morning, it is just right by suppertime.

Many, many servings…
2 pounds little new, red bliss potatoes (do not peel!)
1 cup Hellmann’s mayonnaise, thinned with milk, enough to be pourable
1 bunch green onions, chopped
Sea salt and pepper to taste

Boil the potatoes until tender. While warm (but not still steaming hot) slice potatoes and begin to layer them in a large bowl – one layer potatoes, then a handful of green onions and salt and pepper. Pour on some of the mayonnaise mixture. Repeat. Gently stir until all the potatoes are coated. You may need to add more mayonnaise mixture when you are ready to serve, as the potatoes absorb the mayo. Deelish.

Martha, who is famous, and I am not, has another recipe for potato salad that calls for hard boiled eggs. Also cornichons and buttermilk. I suppose, in this day and age, there is room for differing viewpoints: Martha Stewart’s Potato Salad

The Smitten Kitchen has a novel approach to potato salad – to use a tzatziki dressing: Smitten Kitchen’s Potato Salad I just love using cucumbers as much as I can in the summer.

More colorful, and probably more nutritious, is this chick pea salad. Chickpeas are loaded with protein and fiber. Tomatoes, especially if your homegrown are ripe, are sweet and delightful. And the lemon juice helps keep the salad fresh for a few days in the fridge. Who could ask for anything more? Chickpea Salad

A panzanella salad is the ultimate lazy unfamous-woman’s dish: tomatoes, dried bread, cukes. Add my favorite cheap white wine, some candlelight, and this is total bliss. And it perfect environmentally, because nothing goes to waste: this is why we stash bread in the freezer: Panzanella Salad

Nobody likes cooking in the summertime, unless you are a happy-go-lucky year-round resident of Tuscany, in which case you cannot ever complain. The rest of us mere mortals need to cope with summer heat, doldrums, and constant existential dread. Let’s enjoy some simplicity, and graze from bowls of deliciousness already stashed awayin the fridge. Let us be grasshoppers for a little while.

“Summer… when fireflies come out at dusk and ice melts too fast in lemonade; ice cream tastes better even though it’s the same-old flavor.”
― Nanette L. Avery

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

Watermen of the Bay: A Chat With Marc Castelli

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For over three decades, celebrated artist Marc Castelli has accompanied watermen plying their rigorous trade on the Chesapeake Bay. For hundreds of hours each year, he’s lent a hand, hauling crab pots, oystering, and rigging, all the hard chores a workboat requires to make a day out on the water successful.

But Castelli was also there to study the men who devoted their lives to long hours, often in adverse conditions, to a skill handed down through generations. Taking thousands of photographs over the years, Castelli says that his relationship with the men and his art began to transform. The more he knew them as they revealed themselves in trust, the more refined and articulate their expressions in watercolors became.

“These watercolors are of husbands, fathers, uncles, cousins, sons, and brothers. I hope the individuality of these men will allow  a viewer to discard the notion of them as mere compositional elements in a painting, ” Castelli says.

The Spy recently talked with Marc Castelli about his 30-year immersion into the lives of Maryland’s iconic watermen and how knowing them amplified his determination to convey their lives to us.

Marc Castelli’s second in a series of Chesapeake Bay waterman, working portraits/watermen.2, is now on display at MassoniArt Cross Street Gallery, 113 South Cross Street, through July 8. Gallery hours: Thursday and Friday 11-4, Saturday 10-5, Sunday at S Cross Street Gallery 12-3, Sunday at High Street Gallery – for appointments, call Carla Massoni at 410-708-4512.

This video is approximately seven minutes in length. For more about MassonArt, go here. Or see their Facebook page here.

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

Introducing New Washington College CES’s Director Dr. Valerie Imbruce

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For Dr. Valerie Imbruce, the journey to becoming Director of Washington College’s Center for Environment and Society (CES) began with an undergraduate trip to the remote cloud forests of Ecuador and found its way to researching the provenance of exotic fruits and vegetables in Chinatown.

Dr. Valerie Imbruce

In Ecuador, she developed a keen interest in the local flora. “I really got interested in tropical plants and their taxonomy, so I did a study of trailside vascular plants—those that can grow large and stand up straight because they have a vascular system with hardened cellular tissue—as opposed to algae and mosses—so I learned botanical nomenclature and how to identify plants by collecting them and making pressings of them for herbarium specimens,” she says.

Her early fascination with botany resulted in a field guide of tropical plants to educate visitors at the ecotourist lodge where she did her research.

“It was satisfying. I was learning. I was sharing what I learned with others. So, I decided that I wanted to pursue graduate studies. I started off in a master’s program and was then offered other opportunities to enroll in a PhD and become fully funded, working out that piece of graduate education.”

That led her to PhD work at the New York Botanical Garden, the preeminent place in New York to study botany and eventually to study the markets of Chinatown through the lens of food justice.

“My interest in tropical plants morphed into considering the plants we eat, and how that connects us to different environments. I started thinking about the mechanics of how plants are grown and distributed and how certain types of plants become culturally important and then economically important to feed groups of people. I wound up doing an in-depth study of Chinatown in Manhattan.

Fascinated by the cultural diversity expressed in the Chinatown markets, Imbruce began to explore the connection between market and vendor produce and how they were acquired: how did they get there?

“The streets of Chinatown have tables full of fresh produce. All these different Brassica species, from the mustard family of plants, like bok choy, Shanghai choy, yu choy, right? All of these vegetable species that come from East and Southeast Asia. These were not products that you could find readily in other places, and so, what I did was follow those, use fruits and vegetables as objects to follow their pathways of travel. Where do they come from? How do they get to the city where people are orchestrating these networks of exchange?

Imbruce identified a diverse network of entrepreneurs, from street vendors to international farmers, who utilize their social connections to establish trade systems tailored to Asian American audiences and cultures. Notably, these activities are concentrated in New York, which, due to its massive trade volume, is recognized as the produce capital of the United States. Eventually, she investigated one group in Honduras that developed an Asian vegetable export business in the Comayagua Valley, a prime region for agro-exports. They cultivate crops like Chinese eggplant, bitter melon, and chives, targeting markets on the East Coast of the US.

“You might look and say, well, we’re so good at supplying all of this food. We have food at low cost everywhere, but who is “we”? Where are the access points to what kinds of foods? Are they nutritious foods? Are they culturally appropriate foods? And is the cost relative to any one person’s income for those? So that’s where the justice angle comes in, for food systems. How is food exchanged to meet our needs?” Chinatown’s food system grew out of necessity at time in the US’s history when the Chinese Exclusion Act prohibited immigration from China and there was much anti-Chinese sentiment.

Now Dr. Imbruce focuses on her work as Director of CES. Six months into her role, succeeding Dr. John Seidel’s tenure as Director, Imbruce describes her role as requiring work on several different planes combing stewardship and education.

“I have come as a steward for what has been built, which is an incredible academic center that has positions and programs in place that are very much in line with how I see undergraduate education and how I see the “environment” in society. It’s that blending that brought me here, the natural and the cultural, and I think it is important to retain. So, part of my mission right now is shoring up things we have and filling positions at CES.”

One ongoing stewardship project is Harry Sears’ gift of 5,000 acres to the College. The River and Field Campus (RAFC) is a 10-minute drive down the Chester River and includes river frontage, forest, wetlands, grasslands, and agricultural lands. The campus is intended to serve as an educational and scientific research site. Presently, it houses two significant programs: the Foreman’s Branch Bird Observatory and the Natural Lands Project. Recently, further development of the site has been underway.

“Part of what I’ve been doing over the past couple months is helping expand those programs. For example, at Foreman’s Branch, we’re going to be breaking ground on a new bird banding station within the next year, and we’ll have a new facility where we can host educational workshops and host tour groups. There are tons of students who come to learn, Washington College students as well as area K through 12 students and bird enthusiasts of all kinds.”

While immersed in academics and directorship tasks, Imbruce won’t be sidelining her years of teaching skills. Reaching beyond her love for the world of academics and intellectual ideas, the new CES Director wants to create practical applications and discover audiences who can benefit from the bridge being built between the College and “the rich natural and human resources of the region.”

Imbruce plans to teach during her directorship and to develop a community food systems class with the hope of learning more about the various organizations in Kent County that work on food security issues—from ‘how people feed themselves when they need help to the kind of restaurants and supermarkets and shops in the area.’

“I would like to take a holistic look at our food system and find community-based projects that students can engage with,” she says. “My feeling is not just saying this is what we choose to study as students or academics, but to ask the community “what do you want?”

For more about CES, go here. The Center for Environment and Society is located at 485 S. Cross Street. Contact email: [email protected]

Dr. Imbruce received her Ph.D. from the City University of New York, where she participated in a collaborative program with the New York Botanical Garden. Her dissertation focused on food systems.

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

Dink Daffin and the Ways of an Eastern Shoreman

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Ask around the Talbot County waterfront for a man named Daniel Clayton Daffin and people will probably look at you like you have a third eye in the middle of your forehead.

But ask for Dink and instant recognition will flow across their faces. They will probably tell you to check for his brown truck at the fire hall in St. Michaels, or at his marine services business out along Rt. 33 toward Tilghman.

If all else fails, they will probably direct you to one of the local breakfast joints or at the corner position on one of the bars where he holds court on a regular basis. Used to be Eric’s steak and crab house on the harbor in St. Michaels was the best bet.  Nowadays it’s C-Street on the town’s main drag where Dink’s as reliable as owner Johnny Mautz and Shameless Women t-shirts.

Dink Daffin, left, and Josh Richardson. Daffin recently sold his marine service business to Richardson. Photo by Dennis Forney

Time goes by so fast, it doesn’t seem long ago that Cindy Hicks won a contest at C-Street for a slogan to go along with a logo for Daffin Marine. The logo features a drawing by regionally famous editorial cartoonist Kollinger of three men headed toward a boat ramp, their loose pants sagging, their butt cracks winking, one of them carrying an outboard motor hoisted on his shoulder.

Cindy’s winning slogan? “When your boat’s lackin’, we get crackin’ . . .”

In fact, C-Street – officially known as Carpenter Street Saloon – is where Dink was one day this past week when friends, relatives, long-time customers and hangers-on looking for another excuse for a convivial drink gathered to celebrate the May 31 sale of Daffin Marine business and his quasi-retirement.

Quasi because Dink’s working for Josh Richardson, one of his former employees, on a part-time basis.  “Now I get to work when I want to,” he said.

During an interview with Dink last week at what is now being called Richardson’s Marine Repair, Josh said buying the business wasn’t a tough decision for him. “It’s a good business,” he said. “I’m surrounded by the knowledge of all these people here, long-time employees. I just want to keep it going.”

Dink sat perched on a stool behind the counter, in front of his computer, another one of his comfort zones. “Trying to figure out all these parts,” he said, surrounded by shelves groaning with greasy cardboard boxes and metal and plastic and wired items needed for keeping boats, engines and trailers in good working order. It’s what he’s been doing at the Route 33 location for 31 years and for a couple decades before that when he hung around his father who had a small engine repair business in St. Michaels.  “He went by Dink too.”

Dink was 14 when his father died of cancer. He carried on his father’s nickname. By then he was already doing what a lot of young Talbot County men did in those days: anything to make a dollar.

This photo from about 1986 shows Dink wirth his mobile marine van – a converted bread truck – at Easton Point.

“I’ve always been around the water, have had a boat slip in the St. Michaels harbor since I was a little boy. Oystering, crabbing.  Sold my crabs to Big Daddy Wilson.  He was a local buyer. Crabbed when I wasn’t doing other jobs. Oyster season, I didn’t like that. Hunting season was a lot easier, guiding, taking hunting parties for some of the outfitters. When I was 13 I started shoveling oysters from the dock into trucks. That made for some big boys but there was no time for sports.. I made good money oystering.  Tonging.  I remember when three of us could catch 75 bushels of oysters in an hour.  Made $5 a bushel. It took longer to load them than it did to catch them.  That’s before it got all sissified.  Electric winders and dredges and everything.”

A  summer rhythm developed for Dink. He would crab on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays and on weekends he would take to his boat or van and answer calls for broken-down boaters in need of help.  It all worked for him.  Dink likes to be around people, likes to laugh and likes to be helpful. He found that his knowledge and knack for figuring out and fixing marine problems kept him in high demand.

Sagging pants and all, he would take to his truck or mobile van or his boat, with his tool box and a head full of knowledge, and help people as well as he could. “People are so thankful – most of the time – and it’s how I made most of my money. Miles River, Wye River, Eastern Bay, boat ramps and landings. I didn’t need to hear what people thought the problem was. Most people who buy boats don’t know much about them.  Most boats are just dock trophies. One of my favorite sayings is ‘investigate before you speculate.’

“I learned a lot at a new vo-tech school they started in Easton.  Went there in eighth grade and was the first graduate of a two-year program.  They taught me a lot about engines. I also figured out I didn’t want to work on lawn mowers. I wanted to stay with marine. Most of it’s just about maintenance. Do one, two and three and your boat will stay in good order.  When I fix someone’s boat, I don’t want to see them them coming back.  Maintenance.”

His mechanical know-how has also made Dink a valuable member of the St. Michaels Fire Department.  Again following in his father’s footsteps, he joined the department when he was 16 and now can boast 40 years of active service, ten of those as an Emergency Medical Technician.

What;’s the allure of the fire department?  “Half the fun is getting there.  I’ve done a lot of driving, including on an old 15-speed tanker truck.  Most people don’t know how to drive stick shifts with all those gears.  I had to learn by watching old man Hinkle.  He wasn’t going to teach nobody.  I figured out that you shift by watching the rpms.  Don’t use the clutch except for getting started and slowing down.”

In between that Dink has gigged bullfrogs – “got bit by a tick and developed Lyme disease while doing that” – and figured out that he really enjoyed taking goose hunting parties for Dan Murphy and Capt. Jimmy Spurry. He got his captain’s license too in the 1980s and took out fishing and hunting parties on boats with Capt. Tom Henry.  “I liked the hunting parties better.  Too many drunks among the fishing parties.  I like to fish and I like to drink, but not at the same time.”

Dink says he got real in the marine services business in 1992, not long after taking on a Volvo franchise and partnering with Harry “Bumper” Hause to open the Route 33 operation.  “Buck Duncan at the St. Michael’s Bank believed in us and helped us get started, Then Bumper’s health failed and I went on by myself.”

At 66, Dink figures it’s time now to move on.  “I’ll keep on with the fire department. Stir the pot there, help keep the young ones straight. The marine business has been pretty good.  I’ve made a good living.”

Dennis Forney has been a publisher, journalist and columnist on the Delmarva Peninsula since 1972.  He writes from his home on Grace Creek in Bozman.

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

Lessons in Navigation by Laura J. Oliver 

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My father painted the entire exterior of our two-story house by himself one summer. From inside the house, it was disconcerting to have his head suddenly appear at an upstairs window, as if the laws of physics had changed for a season.

“Come! Quick!” he yelled one afternoon scrambling down the ladder with a wet brush in hand.

Stormy was barking, plunging about in the unmown grass. The dog had discovered an enormous turtle, her shell 18 inches across, making her way from the woods, edging our yard, down to the marsh. As we gathered around, Dad leaned over her with the brush and in two deft strokes, painted a large white X on her back. “There!” he said, “If we see her again, we’ll recognize her.” The turtle blinked, unfazed, then resumed her slow lurching journey down to the marsh, utterly unaware of her new identity. 

This is the season years ago that my identity changed too, from young mother with a living father to young mother whose father had died alone in the night in his Florida condominium. Upon hearing the news, I immediately thought of the last time we’d talked—checking in to see if it was a good place to leave a relationship for eternity. I was lucky. It was. 

My father died somewhat young, although it was many years after he left to start a new life, and our feelings about him were mixed. He exemplified the Mad Men lifestyle of the sixties—hard drinking, hard smoking, hard-partying, and I was afraid of his often-violent, volatile discipline.

Yet he also was first to help stranded motorists, remodeled a farmhouse kitchen for his dying mother-in-law, had the resourcefulness to build a house from a barn, crafted heirloom doll furniture for my sisters, made replicas of antiques for our mother because she loved them, and was for a time, the administrative director of a children’s hospital. 

Here’s what I’ve learned about that paradox. You get to choose how you remember someone. You get to choose where on the continuum of someone’s character to place your attention. It’s all your experience, but what memory serves you? 

So, the issue for his daughters, ambivalent and 970 miles away, was how to say goodbye. He had wanted his ashes spread in the Chesapeake, but that’s illegal. If anyone knows. 

To honor his wishes, we had them sent up from Bradenton, and my sisters and I gathered in Virginia Beach. Our plan was to charter a yacht with a sympathetic captain, order wine and appetizers from a caterer, and cast off at sunset on a course for the mouth of the bay. The weather was perfect, and we powered out and out until we were so far from land the shore was another country.

As we drifted over solid ground, each of us shared a story about Dad that the others might not know. For me, it was the day Dad told me I had to memorize the 23rd Psalm. I was eight. We sat on the back porch steps in the afternoon sun, and he recited the words over and over. “The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want.” It is, to this day, the only Psalm I know by heart. Had something happened? Was I being given tools, armament to cope with his leaving a year later? I’ll never know.

After my sisters shared their memories, we sang the Navy hymn, Eternal Father Strong to Save, and gently poured his ashes overboard where the last storm of him swirled in a cloudy vortex, then sank with the sun into the sea. To mark the spot, we dropped white carnation blossoms on the waves.

Each of us found a place to be alone with our thoughts as we powered back in. I was proud of us. Grateful. Despite our ambivalence, we had created a beautiful, loving, genuine, and respectful ceremony. I imagined he was pleased, but as we skimmed over the bay and night’s curtain fell, I felt suddenly overwhelmed with loss. It was the only time I have cried for my father. I was once told that you cannot love someone you fear, but that person can still be important to you, and now he was gone. 

In truth, the tears weren’t for him but for the finality. All you know for certain that you will ever have with another person–is what you already have, but until they die, there’s an imperceptible hope that something more is possible. So, that evening my identity changed again, this time to someone newly aware of another dimension of grief. I cried not for him but for potential-him, the man who had run out of time.

My sister found me and asked what I was thinking, and I told her. It was hard to hear each other in the wind. She put her arms around me, and as we stood together, flying towards shore, another memory surfaced. 

My father sits in the stern of a wooden rowboat, a capable brown-haired, blue-eyed man in his thirties, with his youngest daughter, who is six, by his side. It is dusk, and we have been exploring secret creeks and hidden coves, drifting in the song of the whippoorwills. Honeysuckle, seaweed and saltwater scent the air. As the dying light coalesces, he restarts the outboard, pulls the tiller towards him, and spins us towards home. We accelerate into the night, and the stern sinks as the bow rises. Then the boat planes, and we skim toward lights that candle the horizon as if stars have fallen from heaven. In memory, once again, the laws of physics have changed for a season. 

I can’t hear my father speak unless I turn my head sideways. The rush of air whips his words into the night. I’m unprepared, therefore, when he puts my hand on the tiller, scooting over on the seat to let me steer. Stunned to be guiding the boat by myself, I see the entrance to our cove and, in the distance, our pier. I keep the bow aimed precisely, my whole being locked on our landmark, as if we might fly off the edge of the world should I fail. 

He nods at the channel markers, where their lights rock in the current, leans down against the wind, and speaks directly into my ear. “Keep green to starboard going out of the cove, but red on your right going in.” I squeeze my eyes shut to memorize these instructions, then over-correct the tiller, and the boat swings wide. I look up at him, panicked at my mistake, but he redirects our course with a smile. 

He has not left us yet. He has not taught me the 23rd Psalm. He has no idea these are the words I’ll remember when I’m grown and a mother, long after I’m the age he is now. He cups my face, so I’ll understand him and repeats himself calmly. 

“You’ll never be lost on the river, even someday when you’re on your own. Just remember green to starboard going out, red-right-returning to find your way home.” 

Laura J. Oliver is an award-winning developmental book editor and writing coach, who has taught writing at the University of Maryland and St. John’s College. She is the author of The Story Within (Penguin Random House). Co-creator of The Writing Intensive at St. John’s College, she is the recipient of a Maryland State Arts Council Individual Artist Award in Fiction, an Anne Arundel County Arts Council Literary Arts Award winner, a two-time Glimmer Train Short Fiction finalist, and her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her website can be found here.

 

      

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Food Friday: Juneteenth

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This June 19th marks 158 years since Union troops arrived in Galveston, Texas and announced to people who were still enslaved that they were legally free. The Emancipation Proclamation, which was made on January 1, 1863, had been suppressed by slave owners in Texas for two and a half years. Jubilation ensued. The first Juneteenth freedom celebration was held the following year.

That inaugural Juneteenth celebration was in Texas, where they believe in doing things bigger and better. Texas barbecue and all its fixings are fitting for Juneteenth. In 2021 President Biden signed the Juneteenth National Independence Day Act into law establishing Juneteenth as our newest federal holiday. The White House celebrated Juneteenth the other night, and we’ve got a lot of cooking to do!

Traditional Juneteenth foods are: cornbread, fried catfish, shrimp and grits, ribs, pulled pork, fried chicken, collard greens, Cajun gumbo, jambalayla, and potato salad. Make the kinds of foods you would have at a cookout, but be sure to have lots of traditional, celebratory red foods: watermelon, tomato salad, red beans and rice, red velvet cake and strawberry pie.“Watermelon and red soda water are the oldest traditional foods on Juneteenth,” said Dr. Ronald Myers, head of the National Juneteenth Observance Foundation.

This Juneteenth I will be doing some home cooking to honor the legacy of the Black Texans on the anniversary of Emancipation Day. I will remember the enslaved cooks who brought African cooking to America while cooking some of their traditional recipes which continue to enrich our cooking.

Some of our tomatoes are starting to ripen, but aren’t quite ready for harvesting. It looks like a great time to wander through the watermelons in the produce department, though. I saw yellow watermelons for the first time a couple of weeks ago – they were positively incandescent! They looked as if they could glow in the dark. But we need some bright red watermelon for a proper Juneteenth dish.

Matthew Raiford, the South Carolina Chefarmer, talks about growing up and eating Georgia Rattlesnake watermelons. They had “dark green stripes resemble a diamondback rattlesnake” and were extremely sweet.
This is his recipe for:
Watermelon Steak Salad with Heirloom Tomatoes and Sangria Vinaigrette
Serves 4 to 6

FOR THE SALAD
1 to 11/2 pounds freshly mixed salad greens or microgreens
1 pound heirloom tomatoes of varying sizes and colors, such as Cherokee Purple, Yellow Brandywine, black and yellow cherry tomatoes
1/4 medium seedless watermelon (5 to 10 pounds)
Olive oil for brushing

FOR THE VINAIGRETTE
1 cup traditional red sangria, either homemade or store-bought
1/2 cup olive oil
Freshly cracked black pepper
Sea salt

DIRECTIONS
Prepare your grill for medium- high direct heat, 375° to 450°F.
While the grill comes up to temperature, wash and dry the salad greens, then divide the greens among four to six serving plates. Wash and dry your tomatoes. Slice the whole tomatoes into ½- inch rounds and halve the cherry tomatoes. Divide and arrange the tomato slices evenly among the plates. Set the plates in the refrigerator to chill while you finish the dish.

Slide the watermelon into ¾- to- 1- inch- thick “steaks,” then quarter the steaks into wedges. Brush each side of the watermelon with a little olive oil, then set the wedges on the grill for approximately 3 minutes per side, until you get grill marks. The longer you leave the wedges on, the sweeter they’ll get. Remove the watermelon from the grill and arrange evenly among the salad plates.

Pour the sangria into a large measuring cup with a pouring spout, then whisk the olive oil into the sangria until it makes a nice, loose vinaigrette. Generously dress the salads. Sprinkle the salads with pepper and salt to your liking, then serve.

https://georgefox.cafebonappetit.com/matthew-raiford-juneteenth-recipes/

I also liked this sweet and hot Watermelon Chow Chow. The jalapenos deliver a great kick.

“Juneteenth has never been a celebration of victory or an acceptance of the way things are. It’s a celebration of progress. It’s an affirmation that despite the most painful parts of our history, change is possible—and there is still so much work to do.”
— Barack Obama

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Local Wine and DrinkMaryland in Centreville: A Chat with Mid-Shore Wine Coach Laurie Forster

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Centreville plays host to DrinkMaryland on Saturday, June 17th. From noon until about 5 PM, attendees can enjoy wine, beer, food, music and have a chance to look at unique products made right here in Maryland.

At center stage again this year is speaker, author and professional wine coach Laurie Forster. One of our spies caught up with Laurie right here in Easton where she and her husband have lived since 2005.

An earlier career in software sales required knowledge of wine when it came to wining and dining clients.  So, Laurie dove into an instructional program that eventually saw her leave the software industry for New York to learn more and gain important and hard earned wine certifications.

Believing that people need not feel intimidated by the language of sommeliers, she set out to help people feel more confident in their wine choices. Hence, “the wine coach.”

The concept has taken Laurie from Easton to points across the map, doing wine events for audiences of all sizes.  She has a book and a website (link below). Fortunately for us, her next stop is in Queen Anne’s County where she has been invited back to serve as the “MC” on centerstage at the Centreville DrinkMaryland event.  In addition to keeping a fun, casual and entertaining program going for attendees, Laurie will lead a wine tasting experience at 3:30 PM certain to educate attendees about Maryland wine.

All of this is made possible by local sponsors and the leadership of the event partners:  the Maryland Wineries Association (MWA) and the Town of Centreville.

Event spokesman, Jim Bauckman, shared the group’s excitement, saying, “We’re thrilled to be returning to Queen Anne’s County for the 2023 DrinkMaryland Event. The success of this event series since 2017 has been great for the local community and the small businesses that participate. Maryland makers are the focus – artisan and food vendors, local musicians and Maryland-made wine, beer and spirits.”

Enjoy the conversation with Laurie Forster.  Learn more about her work at https://thewinecoach.com . And, learn more about events and tickets for DrinkMaryland/Centreville https://drinkmaryland.org .

Craig Fuller served four years in the White House as assistant to President Reagan for Cabinet Affairs, followed by four years as chief of staff to Vice President George H.W. Bush. Having been engaged in five presidential campaigns and run public affairs firms and associations in Washington, D.C., he now resides on the Eastern Shore.

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.