Pour yourself out of the sea
I feel more than a little equivocal about the fact that after twenty years without regular access to a car, I have found it invaluable to have one on hand since the beginning of this summer, but the fact remains that without it we would not have spent our anniversary afternoon at Castle Island, which we had not visited since 2019. Neither of us had been out to downtown or South Boston since last summer, in the lull of vaccines and careful trains. I was glad to see, as we drove over the Fort Point Channel on the Summer Street Bridge, the tomb of the seagull kings still bobbing in the metallic blue chop. Their descendants had littered the paths of Castle Island and the granite-blocked causeway that curves for two miles around Pleasure Bay with a sometimes weathered dry, sometimes still glistening mosaic of oyster shells, their delicious purses of salt pecked clean. "We believe in you!" we cheered them as they scooped into the water, dropped their catches on the rocks. They hung like carved wood on the wind in front of us while the planes out of Logan tore themselves through it overhead. We stayed until sunset: a kind of cream-blue fanning of cloud over the harbor islands in the east, the skyline charred by the last of autumn in the west. I have felt isolated from my city for a long time. It was good to learn one of its new routes.
Having unearthed his beloved Pentax K-x following our most recent move,![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
spatch documented some of his experience of the excursion. This one he took of me right after we got out of the car. If Sullivan's had not been closed for the season, we would have eaten fried clams and hot dogs in the parking lot.
I love the translucence of the ocean. The pastoral roll of hills belongs to the overlay of Spectacle, Thompson, and Long Islands. The pier-like structures stringing the water are the remains of the bridge that linked Long and Moon Islands from 1951 until 2015.
We were not expecting the white water where the tide ran out of Pleasure Bay.
The elusive photographer in one of his natural habitats.
I liked the quiet zigzag of the stones. All photos of mine after this point drastically failed to capture any of the light.
Our traditional facing portraits over the meal.
And because we had a car and this year they were open for takeout and meant it, we ordered and retrieved a catch of sea-dining from our traditional restaurant of Waypoint. Even without the phosphorescent wall of a neon sign that I have coveted for eight years—it looks like a Roman dolphin in plankton-green—it was wonderful. The servers who packed it for us had written a flower-curlicued Happy anniversary! at the top of the bag. The hiramasu crudo was delicate and buttery, not smothered by the heat of the thin rounds of jalapeño or the sweetness of the sesame brittle and the shoyu. The octopus polpetti were savorily dense without heaviness, curled around with tart silver anchovies and thick aioli for dipping. The uni bucatini was as brine-melting, chewy, and sea-smoked as ever, glazed with yolk and studded with the rich orange roe. We had also ordered the seared cod cheeks, but through a slight error in the kitchen received the black pepper spaccatelli with guanciale, which gave us no reason to complain because that's tomorrow's dinner sorted. I wish I had caught the name of the seltzer-spritz mocktail which they kindly let me add to the order, but it contained grapefruit and lavender and none of the Aperol it tasted like. For the half of the party that could drink alcohol, we had procured calvados. We ended up quoting so much of The Blues Brothers (1980) that we hunted it up after dinner on the pseudo-TV and agreed that music in that film works like the magic it is; it was my introduction to almost everyone in it. I don't know when time will stop feeling strange, but this was a good way of marking that it still passes; we still arrive.
Having unearthed his beloved Pentax K-x following our most recent move,
spatch documented some of his experience of the excursion. This one he took of me right after we got out of the car. If Sullivan's had not been closed for the season, we would have eaten fried clams and hot dogs in the parking lot.
I love the translucence of the ocean. The pastoral roll of hills belongs to the overlay of Spectacle, Thompson, and Long Islands. The pier-like structures stringing the water are the remains of the bridge that linked Long and Moon Islands from 1951 until 2015.
We were not expecting the white water where the tide ran out of Pleasure Bay.
The elusive photographer in one of his natural habitats.
I liked the quiet zigzag of the stones. All photos of mine after this point drastically failed to capture any of the light.
Our traditional facing portraits over the meal.
And because we had a car and this year they were open for takeout and meant it, we ordered and retrieved a catch of sea-dining from our traditional restaurant of Waypoint. Even without the phosphorescent wall of a neon sign that I have coveted for eight years—it looks like a Roman dolphin in plankton-green—it was wonderful. The servers who packed it for us had written a flower-curlicued Happy anniversary! at the top of the bag. The hiramasu crudo was delicate and buttery, not smothered by the heat of the thin rounds of jalapeño or the sweetness of the sesame brittle and the shoyu. The octopus polpetti were savorily dense without heaviness, curled around with tart silver anchovies and thick aioli for dipping. The uni bucatini was as brine-melting, chewy, and sea-smoked as ever, glazed with yolk and studded with the rich orange roe. We had also ordered the seared cod cheeks, but through a slight error in the kitchen received the black pepper spaccatelli with guanciale, which gave us no reason to complain because that's tomorrow's dinner sorted. I wish I had caught the name of the seltzer-spritz mocktail which they kindly let me add to the order, but it contained grapefruit and lavender and none of the Aperol it tasted like. For the half of the party that could drink alcohol, we had procured calvados. We ended up quoting so much of The Blues Brothers (1980) that we hunted it up after dinner on the pseudo-TV and agreed that music in that film works like the magic it is; it was my introduction to almost everyone in it. I don't know when time will stop feeling strange, but this was a good way of marking that it still passes; we still arrive.
no subject
*hugs*