While blueberries are the wild fruit of the island, there are strawberries in my garden, and some of my friends grow them in window boxes. Sweet, deep red, and overflowing with juice, they are superb for summer eating. I like to doll them up for a more formal dinner by marinating them in Grand Marnier. The orange-flavored spirit, which adds a hint of sophistication, and the topping of whipped cream and lavender buds combine for a perfect ending to a summer Sunday meal.
SERVES 4 TO 6
Slice the strawberries in half lengthwise and place them in a glass bowl. Pour ¼ cup of the Grand Marnier over the berries, cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate for 2 hours.
When ready to serve, stir the berries and Grand Marnier. Place the cream and 1 table-spoon sugar in a bowl and beat with an electric mixer until the cream begins to thicken. Drizzle in the remaining 2 tablespoons Grand Marnier and continue to whip until stiff but smooth peaks form, adding more sugar if you prefer a sweeter cream.
Spoon a dollop of the cream on top of the berry bowl and dot the cream with the lavender buds. Place the rest of the whipped cream in a small serving bowl. Serve the berries and the cream immediately.
The social ways of Oak Bluffs are a conundrum for those from other parts of the island. Many of us have Southern roots and our inbred sense of etiquette makes us seem to be more formal. Many of us also revel in our summer finery or newly acquired clothing from C’est La Vie or Vital Signs. We eschew the frayed jeans and Birkenstocks or khakis, madras, and Top-Siders that prevail on much of the rest of the island. We also party heartier and relax with the abandon of those who are not always at peace in the world. In Oak Bluffs, folks who spend the year laboring for The Man find solace in a few snatched weeks of comfort among similar folks, where laughter is always long and heartfelt, with heads thrown back and hands slapping thighs.
Nowhere is this more evident than at a five-to-seven, Oak Bluffs’s favorite type of party. A five-to-seven is an early-evening house party at which generations mix. When these gatherings began decades ago, refreshments ran to cheese and crackers and pretzels and chips along with mixed drinks. Now, the fare can range from such traditional African American favorites as baked ham with coleslaw and potato salad, or fried chicken with macaroni and cheese, to island delights like smoked bluefish spread, fresh corn, and quahogs—stuffed, fried, or freshly shucked.
Folks on the five-to-seven circuit keep a folding chair or two packed in the trunk of the car so that they’re ready to take off on the round of parties that lasts from the Fourth of July until Labor Day. All it takes is a change of clothes from beachwear to elegant summer casual and voilà, party time. Chairs are set up in conversational groups, paper plates are piled high from the groaning boards of delicacies offered by the hosts, and news of recent arrivals and memories of those departed are shared by summer residents and their guests. Five-to-sevens are parties that fulfill the need to be totally at home—what the French call être bien dans sa peau (to be at ease in one’s skin)—to be able to revel in the company of your peers and breathe deeply of the air of contentment.
One of my favorite pictures of my mother is of her standing in the middle of a field in one of the Hawaiian shirts that she loved to wear in the summers. She’s got on an old, beat-up straw hat, and she’s clutching a basket half filled with strawberries and grinning like a little girl. I remember the day well.
The bright red strawberry sign on the Edgartown–Vineyard Haven Road had been hanging for years when my mother and I decided to venture down the dirt path to see what lay beyond. There, after a few startlingly deep ruts, we found ourselves at the entrance to Thimble Farm, a pick-your-own strawberry and raspberry farm. We had known the name because Thimble Farm’s hydroponic tomatoes arrived in the market in early summer and it was hard to miss their advertisement below the fold of the Vineyard Gazette.
For a born New Yorker with an urban New Jersey mom, pick-your-own strawberries were heady stuff. First there were the farm baskets, and then the bending and discovering of the ripe berries under the leaves, and trying not to eat more than I put in the basket. It was even more difficult to pick the ripe raspberries from their thorny bushes without squeezing them into a pulp. We persevered and always managed to get enough to fill up a basket or two. Over the years, we became friendly with the Moskows, the owners of the farm, and we would trade recipes and tales of winter doings with them each summer. A Thimble Farm day became a summer event, and sometimes there was more than one.
I haven’t been back to Thimble Farm in years. The Moskows sold it and somehow it slipped my mind until I was searching for some ingredients for a meal, missed the Norton Farm Stand, and got my friend to turn into the Thimble Farm entrance to see what might be available. Now called Benson’s Thimble Farm, the place has been transformed into a cut-your-own flower farm, but still sells a few veggies and wonderful tomatoes. As we drove up, Brazilian workers were cleaning carrots, and some tomatoes were available as well. I smiled and watched my past pass by as a car drove up and a mother and daughter got out and headed into the fields to enjoy a late Vineyard afternoon picking flowers and enjoying each other’s company.