It’s been twenty-five years since that fateful day when, having heard there was a small cooking store for sale in Sagaponack, Long Island, I drove over and looked it over carefully. A soft natural light spilled in from the bank of windows in front and on one side of the main room, which made the room appear larger than it was. I walked behind the wooden counter and into the kitchen, which seemed to be just the right proportions for someone like me who had catered parties for years, mostly from my own country kitchen in Noyac, sometimes using my customers’ kitchens, and many times on outdoor grills under vast tents. The store—already called Loaves and Fishes—was cozy, and I was able to see that its size was certainly manageable. Its embracing atmosphere made me feel immediately at home, and after spending more time inside and then outside in the small, charming garden I decided that I had to buy it.
My husband, Detlef, and I scrubbed the inside from top to bottom, repainted everything white, even the floors, made sure all the facilities were in A-1 condition, weeded the back garden, and planted herbs and vegetables. As we worked, I allowed my imagination to run rampant; new recipes began cluttering my brain, ideas that I had been yearning to test and try but had no space in which to develop were now in almost my every thought. I was, at the same time, excited and terrified. Time flew by at an alarming rate. The season was to begin in approximately two weeks from the time Detlef and I finally mopped our way out the back door. I began buying, storing, planning, baking—I felt as if I had suddenly sprouted eight arms, all of them moving simultaneously. Suddenly, it seemed, opening day was upon us. I had not stopped, filling the shelves with my own freshly baked breads, scones, muffins, pies, and cakes; the cookie jars were gradually filling to their brims, each food bin held new and, I hoped, innovative salads, meats, pastas, grains, and vegetables. Ducks and chickens, crisp and still steaming, were slid off the spits and lined up on a huge wooden tray. Room was made for the savory tarts and the whole roasts, sliced, garnished, and ready to go. Pâtés, dips, dressings, sauces, and hors d’oeuvres were placed in my brand-new freezer and I can’t even remember what else, but, believe me, there was more, much more.
When our doors opened, I had been there since before 4:00 a.m., the time when our ovens needed to be turned on for the day’s baking. I slipped on a clean and starched white jacket and opened the front door. The shock on my face must have been quite apparent because the first few customers in the line that stretched to the road and curled up its side smiled back at me, and some laughed at my surprised expression. I welcomed everyone inside, and within a few short hours I was putting more ducks and chickens on the spits, whipping up more salads, and taking orders for parties of ten to forty. At around 4:00 p.m. I sat down and treated myself to a cup of strong coffee and a cookie. I felt a glow of extreme pleasure. It had become apparent that this was possibly the beginning of the most exciting, challenging, and demanding part of my life. Looking back at it with today’s perspective, it was. And still is.
Summer, for me, begins when the first signs of spring appear, when the earth is launched on its gradual thaw and we can almost sense life beginning to unfold beneath our feet. Windows stay open and breezes begin to usher in intoxicating aromas. Honeybees begin circling fresh flowers or plants that have blossomed overnight. Rows of seedlings in the garden behind Loaves and Fishes begin their greening, and as far as the eye can see, all along the village streets and country roads, plumpish buds are ready to dazzle us with their gorgeous palettes.
It’s when April arrives that I begin my early morning ritual of bicycling to the beach. The air is crystal clear, crisp and incredibly invigorating. As I pedal down the hilly road to Main Beach, I pass the seafood shop where our local fishermen, still in their hip-high rubber boots, are delivering crates filled with their catches of the day; seagulls are swirling overhead. I immediately imagine recipes dealing with fish, shrimp, scallops, lobster. I make a mental note to check out what is the freshest and when to expect a delivery to the store.
The air is beginning to warm up as I eventually reach town where the vintage homes are being dressed up for the season; new paint, new cedar shingles, new roofs, flower boxes with baby buds peeking over the rims, trees being pruned, lawns resodded, and behind one house, I can see a young woman scrubbing her grill on the back patio.
I love summer.
Farmers have plowed their fields, potatoes and corn are planted. Outdoor farm stands have begun to display freshly picked young vegetables: baby peas, beans, spinach, white eggplants, greens of all sorts, and baskets overflowing with zucchini, their large, drooping flowers hanging over the edges. What will my customers, many of whom have become close friends over the years, like me to suggest they buy? How should it be prepared? Questions like what reheats well? What is best served chilled? Which foods are safe to bring to the beach? How long does this or that salad, meat, cheese, or vegetable last—these are ones I answer many times each day.
I am delighted to discover fresh goat cheese on sale, local and divine. Green strawberry fields are dotted in red. Hand-painted signs that invite anyone to PICK YOUR OWN remind me of a time, not long ago, when we brought our grandchildren to these annual rituals; their fingers, shirts, and mouths would be stained pink at the end of our outings.
I love preparing food in summer because it’s when the freshest produce is so easily accessible and cooking options become limitless. It is my season. The best time to spread my wings, be creative, be inspired, be challenged and like those buds in our flower boxes, I actually feel blessed by the sun and raring to blossom.