It came in a small brown paper bag. In my mind’s eye, there was a red ribbon tied around its wiry handles, maybe a tuft of white tissue paper sticking out.
There was a certain heft to it, like someone had given me a can of Campbell’s Soup. And when I parted the tissue paper, it did reveal a can—but this was no Manhattan Clam Chowder. Instead, it was small and yellow with a cheery green illustration, and I had to read its label twice. Someone had given me a can of tuna-stuffed jalapenos.
I had never heard of such a concoction before—let alone received a can of them for Christmas—but that fact didn’t really bother me. (Its giver knew I enjoyed spicy foods.) But as I inspected this culinary oddity a little closer, I could see in a scratchy blue ink inscribed on the side of the can: To Jack. Enjoy!
My name is not Jack.
I was a victim of regifting, and in this case, the perpetrator was sitting directly in front of me.
I didn’t let on to Jack that I had seen the inscription. I couldn’t. I simply feigned excitement at having received such an unusual gift and went about opening other presents, specifically purchased for me.
Years later I still wonder about that little yellow can. What had Jack been thinking? Did he ever notice its inscription? Or did he simply not care? And frankly, who gives cans of tuna-stuffed jalapeños as holiday presents anyway?
I’m not opposed to the idea of regifting—some would even say it’s a form of recyclingÑbut if you’re gonna do it, you have to do it right.
Jack undoubtedly would have benefited from Sarah Achenbach’s essay, “The Art of Regifting” in this month’s CL. He would have realized that passing along inscribed presents is definitely a “regifting don’t,” and violates her second tenet, “Take the effort to make it look new.”
In this issue, we’ve also got a story about gifts that have made lasting, favorable impressions, “Gifts that Kept on Giving,” as well as an article about Davidsonville’s over-the-top holiday shopping playground, Homestead Gardens. Also, be sure to check out historian Mike Dixon’s retelling of Elkton, Md.’s own Iranian crisis from 1935. It’s a funny, fascinating tale.
So whatever happened to that can of tuna-stuffed jalapeños? It still sits in my kitchen cupboard, awaiting the Apocalypse or the day when my pregnant wife turns to me and utters, “I have the most unusual craving.” But I also keep it because it really was a one-of-a-kind gift, and besides, it makes for a wonderful conversation piece.
Gee, maybe it wasn’t such a thoughtless gift after all. Thank you, Jack.
Join us next month for more conversations about food, as we visit some of the Bay’s hottest restaurants and talk about crab cakes from around the country.
Until then, happy holidays!
Joe Sugarman
Photography by Scott Suchman
Curries are the meat and potatoes of many Asian cuisines, the go-to, one-pot meal for millions of people from Thailand to India to Singapore. In this country, curries are often misunderstood as being either too spicy or too difficult to cook with. But, in fact, curries can be made with subtle flavors just as readily as bold ones, and good, authentic curry dishes can be whipped up within minutes. An entire meal can be made from buying just a few fresh ingredients and relying on basic items, like coconut milk, curry pastes, and dried rice noodles. In fact, I purposely did not shop in a specialty grocery store to prepare these dishes. You can find their ingredients in any large supermarket.
I’ve also included a broad variety of curries to appeal to different taste buds. The traditional Indian curry, made with braised lamb leg, is a classic. Thai curries can be quite thin but still boast huge flavors, like the red duck curry, which I serve regularly at my own Thai restaurant. For a not-so-hot curry, try the Singaporean chicken Laksa, in which the primary flavoring components are turmeric and lime juice. And for a closer-to-home spin on the curry theme, try the curried crab—you may not reach for the Old Bay ever again. Enjoy!
Chicken and Coconut Milk Laksa
Andrew Evans is the owner/chef of Easton’s Thai Ki.
Photographed by Erik Kvalsvik
Wearing a tailored charcoal suit and silk rep tie, Thad Bench looks out of place against the barren, wintertime fields surrounding his Kent County house. Coming home for lunch, he greets his wife, Renee, in the kitchen and then stares out the window.
“I think I’m going to go climb into the blind and hunt for the rest of the day,” he announces with a sly grin. “You know, go hide.” While originally an Indiana farm boy, such a statement proves that his transformation into a true Eastern Shoreman is nearly complete.
The Benches had lived in Annapolis for fourteen years before finding their ideal dwelling on the Shore, an eighteenth-century farmhouse cum dairy farm called Worth’s Folly. But it was in such a sad state of disrepair that they almost let it go. “We knew it would be a huge undertaking, but we kept coming back to it,” says Thad, who, with his wife, bought the house in 2003. “We must have driven past it a dozen times, visiting it at sunset and early in the morning. I thought it was as right as rain.”
Built circa 1780 in Flemish bond brick, Worth’s Folly was patented to a John Worth in 1687 and originally included 1,036 acres. The oldest part of the house contains the living room, dining room, and den, all true to the authentic Colonial vernacular, with low ceilings and diminutive square footage. The architectural highlight of the space, decorated in neutral-toned silk and crushed velvet fabrics, is the paneled fireplace wall, which embeds an enclosed stairway and two closets.
The view from the living room stretches into the adjoining dining room, made elegant with a working fireplace, nineteenth-century French landscape paintings, a mahogany table, and smatterings of family silver. For the Benches, rabid entertainers, this room, which contains four original, exposed ceiling beams, is custom-made for winter dinner parties. “I personally enjoy entertaining when you can actually have a conversation and spend the time getting to know someone,” says Thad. “And that’s easier to do at a dinner table. It’s an intimate space, and the scale of the room brings sincerity to it.”
The kitchen wing, incorporated into the footprint in 1970 by previous owners, represents the newest part of the house. The Benches refurbished it in 2007, gutting the old space and adding wide-planked pine flooring and new cabinetry and appliances—all requirements of Renee, an avid cook. The wall of windows looks out over the two-acre pond and bordering soybean, winter wheat, and corn fields. The honking of the resident Canada geese provides gentle background noise, often drowned out by the sound of Duke, the male yellow Labrador, snoring in his favorite corner of the kitchen.
With two kids, three dogs, two horses, three cats, three peacocks, twenty-five rare-breed chickens, and a duck named Chuck, there’s always plenty of action on the farm. In fact, until relocating to Chestertown last year, Thad’s marketing company, Benchworks, was housed in the barn across from the main house.
For a break from the chaos, the couple decided to create a family retreat in the 100-year-old granary. The first step in the renovation process was to clean out the hay, evict the colony of pigeons, and power wash the all-wood interior. “On the weekends, we cleaned it out, piece by piece,” recalls Thad. “It was a massive undertaking.”
They transformed the roomy grain bins into three seating areas, adding a white sofa banquette in the center space, a piano in the other, and Thad and Thad Jr.‘s hunting gear everywhere in between. A wood stove heats the space in the winter, while the sweet-smelling smoke from Thad’s pipe perfects the hunting-lodge ambience. “We spend Christmas morning out here,” says Renee. “We started the tradition the year we moved in. Some winters we’re out here in our coats and gloves, but it’s worth it.”
“It’s a great place to retreat,” adds Thad, “to think or take a nap or read. We’ve had some epic dove hunts on the farm, and afterward we come back here to drink wine and listen to music loudly while not bothering anybody. There’s been a lot of dancing, a lot of laughter in here.”
For the Benches, adjusting to country life has been easy since both were raised on farms. “I’m a big space person,” says Renee, who grew up in rural Pennsylvania. “I love having elbowroom. Having the space is wonderful, and being in the country with all the animals is fabulous. But I did have to train myself to think that anything under an hour was close.”
“Renee adjusted much more easily than I,” admits Thad. “I am very social, and I miss my friends from Annapolis. But they come to visit and now we also have some good new friends. To live in a place this rural, you have to be really comfortable in your own skin.”
While the holiday season is a time of joy, unfortunately, it can also be a time of stress. Searching for the perfect gift for a long list of family, friends and co-workers is enough to send even the most seasoned of shoppers into a retail spin.
This year the Alter Communications editors at STYLE, PaperDoll and Chesapeake Life have embarked on our first collaborative effort, the sole purpose being the alleviation of pre-holiday shopping angst. Pooling our fashion and design savvy, we’ve compiled a holiday gift wish list of all the objects that make our hearts go aflutter. Wish List is sure to give you loads of fantastic gift ideas and inspirations for your holiday shopping and, you might even find something to put on your own holiday wish list!
Click images for larger view. Or, download the entire section (13MB).
Illustration by Francis Blake
Tom Weaver, owner, Eastport Yacht Co., Annapolis
We were living in Tanzania when I was four and went to visit my grandparents in Nairobi. Despite these exotic locales, my favorite gift was very American: a cowboy hat, little vest, chaps, holster, and lots of tassels. The gun, of course, was the best part of the outfit. My first target was my sister. Then I went after the imaginary Indians hiding in the bushes. I think the gift lasted two weeks before I destroyed it. The funny thing is, a few years later, I received a real air gun rifle and then a .22 and later a big boy’s gun, a .303. But after all these years, it’s the little toy gun that I remember with such joy.
Cynthia McBride, owner, McBride Gallery, Annapolis
I grew up on a farm in northern Minnesota. We were very poor. Every Christmas we received two gifts, a toy and a piece of clothing. My best memory is falling asleep to the sound of my mother’s treadle sewing machine, knowing she was making something for us to wear. When I was eight, she made me a pale blue dress with puffy sleeves and a gathered skirt. I wanted to show it off when we went to church the following Sunday. Usually, we kept our coats on throughout the service, because it was freezing. But on that Sunday, I took off my coat and showed off my beautiful dress—and my goose bumps.
Woodlief Oliver, musician, Easton, Md.
I got my favorite Christmas present in 1955 when I was five years old. I raced down the stairs, and there, next to the tree, was a X-1, silver and red spaceship. It was a two-seater made of cardboard that had a cheesy printed control panel with Tinkertoy-like levers. But I could get inside and fly through outer space. I still remember the absolute joy of commanding my X-1 across the universe. I would never know that joy again: It was the last Christmas that my younger brother was still in his cradle and not able to mess up my presents. I hadn’t even heard that horrible word share yet.
Ron Bowman, retired NASA project manager, Annapolis
My wife recently gave me the best Christmas gift, something I had wanted for a long time. Ten years ago, I did my first Ironman [race], in Hawaii. I wanted something to commemorate this accomplishment. I saw this beautiful gold ring with the Ironman emblem on it, but it was too expensive. Instead, I bought a tie tack. I retired this year and don’t wear ties anymore. Then, this past July, I completed my second Ironman, in Lake Placid, shaving 1.5 hours off my previous time. My wife took the tie tack to a jeweler, had him turn it into a ring, and gave it to me for Christmas.
Ann Coates, owner, Bishop’s Stock Fine Art and Craft, Snow Hill, Md.
The best Christmas gift I can remember had nothing to do with presents. Three years ago, my husband, son, and I decided we didn’t need anything. Our son, Bryan, was graduating from college, and we wanted to spend time together while we could. So we went on a family trip to New York for three days. The highlight was going to see Jersey Boys on Broadway. We had third-row seats right in front of Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban. Bryan even got to talk to them. He was thrilled. It was such a special night. We all realized having time with family is the best gift possible.
Lari Caldwell, social worker, East New Market, Md.
I desperately wanted a Tiny Tears doll when I was seven, because my mother refused to have another baby. My friend had a Tiny Tears; it drank from a bottle, cried, and even wet itself. It was the most wonderful doll in the world. But we were poor, and every time I asked for it, my mother would only say, “Maybe Santa will bring it to you.” Christmas morning, I opened my gifts. No doll. I thought maybe Santa had to give it to some other girl. Then my parents pulled out a huge box from behind the tree. I tore off the wrapping paper, and there she was. She even had a layette. All these years later, it is still my favorite gift.
Stewart Dobson, publisher, Ocean City Today, Ocean City, Md.
The year of the BB gun, the first bike, and the stocking full of bubble gum—which my capitalist, robber baron brother promptly sold by the piece—somehow seem fused into a single yuletide blur. But the one gift that stands out is a box of spaghetti by Chef Boyardee stuffed in my stocking, the great chef being a step up in the Italian cuisine of the pedestrian Franco-American. This gift stemmed from an early obsession with spaghetti, a small part of which involved disgusting my older sister by holding one end of a strand, swallowing the other and then pulling it back up. It was the gift that kept giving to a six-year-old.
Jeff Schaub, owner, Annapolis Marine Arts Gallery, Annapolis
When I was a kid, I loved anything that flew. I would often go on trips to Newark Airport with my family or with my Cub Scout troop. When I was seven, my parents got me my very own airplane that was made in post-war Japan. It was unbelievably intricate: hand-welded wires formed the wings and body and both were completely covered in brilliant blue silk thread. It was about twenty inches long and two feet wide. It didn’t fly very well, but I didn’t care. It was so beautiful and ephemeral. As I got older, I got into building balsa wood planes and then planes with engines that could really fly. But none of them meant more to me than that beautiful blue airplane.
Marc Apter, associate vice president, marketing and public relations, St. Mary’s College of Maryland, St. Mary’s City, Md.
From the time I was born, my grandfather took me out on the water. When I was six, he blessed me with the most wonderful Christmas gift ever. I was sent to the garage and opened the door. There was my very own eight-foot Chris-Craft dingy. It was a total surprise. It was the Porsche of dinghies. It started me on my avocation of acquiring
little boats: Today I like to say I have 103 feet of yachts, seven in total, including a Hobie Cat, Zodiac, and a Laser.
Butch Arbin, captain, Ocean City Beach Patrol, Ocean City, Md.
Even as a child it was never about getting gifts for me; it was about giving. I am blessed that my children feel the same way. Nine years ago, when they were eleven and fifteen, we had a family meeting. We decided to take the money we would have used to buy gifts for ourselves and bought gifts for families living in a women’s shelter. My kids picked out the gifts themselves, wrapped them, and had their best Christmas handing them out. Watching the delight on their faces was the best gift I could have received.
Judy McDonald, Choptank Animal Hospital, Cambridge, Md.
It was the week before Christmas when our cat, Wolfie, went missing. My husband and I scoured the neighborhood and finally found someone who had seen some dogs attacking a cat three days earlier. We went to where the attack happened and found Wolfie hiding under the porch. We rushed him to the vet and brought him home four days later. One of the girls in my husband’s office made a Christmas ornament to commemorate his return: a big silver ball with paw prints, his name, and the year. Sadly, Wolfie died four years ago, but we still hang the ornament on the tree and think about our best Christmas gift ever, his miraculous return.
Jennie Merrill, teacher, Severna Park Elementary School, Severna Park, Md.
I would get one gift from my mother every Christmas, and it was always great. The most memorable one was when I was nine. It was a Person Power Vehicle (PPV). It literally looked like a paddleboat on wheels. I would pick up my best friend who’d sit upfront with me and pedal (it took two), and we’d put two more friends in the back. We’d pretend it was a car and feel, oh-so cool. We’d ‘drive’ all around town, pretty much stopping traffic when people saw it. The PPV lasted four years until it finally wore out and was too expensive to fix.
Samantha McCall, freelance writer, Easton, Md.
My boyfriend, Tom, and I were traveling around the world and were about a third of the way through our trip when we stopped in Bali. It was a week before Christmas in 1994, and Tom asked me where I saw our relationship going. Did I think I wanted to get married and have kids? I was very excited, but he dropped the whole conversation. Then on Christmas morning, while we were still snuggled in bed, he proposed. When I said, ‘Yes,’ he gave me a pair of beautiful amethyst and silver earrings [he wanted us to pick out the ring together]. That’s a hard gift to top.
Cheryl McCready, secretary, Advanced Projects Office, NASA, Wallops Island, Va.
Holidays are a time for family, especially Christmas. But as our sons have grown up and moved away, it gets harder to coordinate everyone’s schedule. Eight years ago, my boys and daughter-in-law made it home right before an ice storm hit and knocked out the electricity for three days. We all huddled around the wood-burning stove with our boys, taking turns chopping wood. I made chili on top of the wood stove for our Christmas dinner. We had a real old-fashioned Christmas with lots of laughter and conversation—all made possible by our secondary heating system. Who knew it would turn out to be the best gift we had ever given ourselves?
Stacie May, captain, Trader Joe’s, Annapolis
After nearly forty years, I still have a picture of my favorite gift: a two-foot-long Fisher Price plastic Noah’s ark. When you opened it up, it had lots of little compartments filled with pairs of animals. I’d play with them for hours. Years later, I was looking through my husband’s photo album and saw that he had the same toy. Five years ago, I bought a similar ark in a toy store, and put it away. We’re going to give it to our three-year-old and eighteen-month-old for Christmas. Hopefully, it will become a second-generation favorite gift.
Illustration by Shane McGowan
It’s the morning after your holiday celebration (or birthday party, bridal shower, retirement party, whatever). Among the boxes and bows are some gems. But there are also duplicates and duds—and nary a gift receipt to be found.
Sooner or later, this pile of un-wanted loot is going to raise a serious question: To regift or not to regift? Not me, you say. I’d never. Not so fast. If you’ve ever given someone a bottle of wine that was given to you, congratulations, you’ve regifted. In a recent American Express survey, 31 percent admit to regifting at least once.
Chances are that Ben Parker wasn’t thinking about regifting when he told his young nephew (and soon-to-be-Spider-Man) Peter that, “with great power comes great responsibility.” But the sentiment certainly applies. With gift-giving, it’s the thought that counts. With regifting, the same motto applies, though your thinking needs to be more strategic. Here are the basic rules of engagement.
Don’t ask, don’t tell. It’s official: Judith Martin, aka Miss Manners, has deemed the practice of regifting acceptable. She writes in the latest edition of Miss Manners’ Guide to Excruciatingly Correct Behavior that if you receive a present that isn’t quite right, “the present does not have to be used or displayed…This leaves room for returning, donating to charity and regifting, none of which is rude if the rule is strictly observed about protecting the donor from knowing.”
When you unwrap the crime novel from your brother-in-law, follow the standard rules of etiquette (and basic kindness): say thank you and don’t let on that the gift isn’t everything you’ve ever wanted. Then start thinking about people you know who love James Patterson’s work. On the flip side, your brother-in-law shouldn’t comment when he doesn’t see the book on your shelves a few weeks later. If he does, you could feign surprise—”Oh, isn’t it? I saw it there the other day.” Or tell a little white lie that your friend is borrowing the book. Whatever you do, avoid a conversation about plot development.
Take the effort to make it look new. Let’s be honest: Regifting successfully boils down to not getting caught. Be sure to remove every scrap of the original wrapping paper and tape. Nothing says, “Here, I didn’t want this, so I’m giving it to you,” like a crumpled gift bag and used tissue paper. If the packaging shows signs of obviously having been wrapped once before, consider finding another use for the gift. And by all means, heed the true tale of the bridal couple who didn’t look inside the Crock-Pot box after unwrapping it. Instead, they rewrapped it and gave it to another couple—who discovered a note of congratulations inside the box, written to the first couple.
Keep good records. It can be as simple as jotting notes in a spiral notebook or as elaborate as a spreadsheet, but keeping track of the gifts you plan to regift will minimize embarrassing mistakes and protect the feelings of all interested parties. Just jot down what you received from whom and when and to whom you gave it. Giving your mother the chocolate fountain your sister gave you—or, God forbid, your mother herself gave you a few years before—is unwise.
Keep your distance. If you received the original gift from a family member, don’t regift within the family (or to a family friend). Keep species separate. Regift the platter your running buddy gave you to your college friend who lives across the country. The idea is to put some distance between the item’s point of origin and its final resting place.
Give it away—but not as a gift. If you’d rather not regift, fine, but you don’t need to hang onto something you don’t want. If the green V-neck sweater you received is neither your size, color, nor cut, give it to someone you think would like it. Tell the person you received it as a gift, and ask if she’d like it—no long preamble necessary.
Or donate it to charity with tags attached. Goodwill has new stuff on the racks all the time. Since it was a gift in the first place, you could return the favor to a charity that collects new items such as Toys for Tots. Most charities put new items like clothing and household appliances to good use year-round, too.
Cash out at your own risk. Holiday gift-giving (or any other time of the year) is not about profiteering. Sure, eBay has lots of things that were gifts in their first life, so auction if you must. But remember that you never know who is scanning the auction sites. Ditto for Internet regifting sites, such as regift.com, which allows you to swap (for a fee), buy or sell unwanted gifts and swapagift.com for unwanted gift cards.
As for consignment shops and yard sales, don’t do it anywhere near the donor. I sold a few wedding gifts at a yard sale, but it was years after the gift was given and the donor lived two time zones away. The idea was to get it out of the house, and I think I netted enough to buy a latte.
Make it a party. Kristin Hoffman of Baltimore County throws an annual regifting party during the week between Christmas and New Year’s. Guests bring their unwanted gifts rewrapped as fancily as possible. People pick numbers and select a wrapped gift, opening it as they go. Those with higher numbers can “steal” an already unwrapped gift. “This party is the perfect example of one man’s trash being someone else’s treasure,” says Hoffman. “One year, someone brought a bird clock that makes different bird calls on the hour. One lady loved it. You can’t come expecting to get something great, but it’s a lot of fun.”
Give good karma. This holiday season, show your loved ones you really care: include a gift receipt (or gift invoice if you shopped online) with every gift you give. That way, they can easily return the coffee-maker, cut-glass picture frame, or Cosby-esque cardigan. Do you really want to see the talking moose slippers you bought your father on his neighbor when he could have returned them to get what he really wanted: talking cow slippers?
Photography by Scott Suchman
401 Love Point Road, Stevensville, Md.
410-643-9444, http://www.rusticoonline.com
Hours: Dining Room, Lunch 11 a.m.-4 p.m.; Dinner 4 p.m.-10 p.m.; Wine Bar, Mon.-Sat. 11 a.m.-midnight, Sun. noon-10 p.m.
Atmosphere: Comfortably sophisticated
Service: All pro
Don’t Miss: Tortellini alla Romana; seafood fra diavola
Tariff: Appetizers, $6-$11; entrees,
$14-$26; four-course prix fixe, $35/person
In Italy, roosters symbolize good luck and good fortune. It’s the result, tradition tells us, of an instance in which a cock crowing foiled an assassination attempt made upon the de Medici family in Renaissance Florence. So when my husband and I twice heard a rooster crow as we walked from Rustico’s pebbled parking lot to its front entrance, we took this as an auspicious sign. And the rooster didn’t let us down.
From restaurant partner Gino Romano’s front-door greeting to the pumpkin-orange and butternut-squash-yellow that appear on tablecloths, walls, and china, Rustico exudes warmth and easy comfort. We overheard one diner exclaim “understated elegance!” as she brushed past taffeta drapes into the smaller of Rustico’s two dining rooms. The presence of casually dressed families in the larger dining room and solo diners in the wine bar, suggest that Rustico can be what you want it to be—be it fine or family dining or simply your favorite watering hole.
The menu has everything to do with this, of course. Diners who frequent Annapolis’s Luna Blu (owned by Rustico’s other two partners, Ivano and Michelina Scotto) will recognize Rustico’s menu as nearly identical. As Romano says, “It worked there [in Annapolis]. Why not here?”
Why not, indeed. Like at Luna Blu, the voluminous menu lists ten appetizers, roughly a half- dozen salads, eleven pastas, and eleven entrees featuring seafood, chicken, or veal. And you can sample much of the above (or at least an appetizer, salad, main course, and dessert) in the four- course prix fixe ($35).
Normally, I preach quality over quantity, but in this case, you have both. Just make sure to bring an appetite, and even then, count on taking home leftovers. Nearly everyone does, admits Romano, and we were no exception. (I do wonder, however, if the restaurant might consider a three-course special with the option of either an appetizer or a salad and trim the price accordingly.)
Though I was tempted by frittura di pomodori verdi (fried green tomatoes with buffalo mozzarella), my meal began with vegetali misti, a generous serving of grilled and marinated vegetables. (I did have three more courses to consume.) While this dish might be dull in other hands, the vegetables shone in their simplicity. The marinade clinging to the artichoke hearts flashed a bit of heat, and thin slices of grilled zucchini and eggplant were a hearty foil to silky strips of red pepper. Tomatoes in the mozzarella and eggplant Napoleon could have been riper, but the almost marshmallow-like creaminess of the mozzarella di bufula created the equivalent of a savory s’more. After those dishes, salads, as respectable as they were, seemed unnecessary.
Entrees reward diners who pace themselves. Tortellini alla Romana, tri-color tortellini with sausage and mushrooms in a cream sauce, is like the best sausage gravy you’ve ever had. And, yes, I mean that as a compliment. Neither unctuous nor greasy (but yes, rich), the spicy sausage marries with the cream in a balanced amalgam, and on a cool evening, it was hearty, not heavy. Seafood fra diavola appears regularly on the menus of Italian restaurants, but its execution is often something of a mixed bag. Not at Rustico. The mix of seafood imbued the red sauce with layers of flavor, so that the whole dish tasted fresh, a little briny, and spicy, and calamari, scallops, clams, and mussels yielded tenderly to fork and jaws.
After all that, the idea of dessert seems preferable to the thing itself, but Rustico offers a number of house-made desserts worth trying. Some are more traditionally Italian than others, and we skipped chocolate mousse and cheesecake in favor of a frothy zabaglione and the warm strudel de mele, apples in crisp puff pastry dressed in caramel sauce and ice cream, generous enough for two.
Tables at Rustico aren’t uncomfortably close together, but throughout the evening I overheard praise for service coming from various corners of the room (“He was great,” said a woman whose family celebrated a birthday, of the server taking care of them. “He was there when you needed him.”) I couldn’t agree more. Our server graciously let us set our own pace during dinner, explaining that it’s the restaurant’s policy not to bring out the next course until a diner has finished with the current one. She also inquired when we wanted our bottle of wine brought to the table, and kept our leftovers in the restaurant’s kitchen until we finished our meal. This was service that was deft and polished but without pretension.
If you’re eating in the dining room, it’s easy to forget that Rustico is a wine bar until you see the breadth and depth of the wine list, particularly where Italy is concerned. (There aren’t too many places where you’ll see Falanghina, a white from Campania, offered by the glass). On Mondays and Wednesdays, all wines over $30 a bottle are half price, but there are plenty of bottle choices in the under-$30 range as well, and Maryland law allows you to take home what you don’t consume at the restaurant. If you order a bottle and the prix fixe, you may not have to worry about tomorrow’s wining and dining either. Cock-a-doodle-doo.
Mary K. Zajac writes from Baltimore.
I’ve recently returned from a trip to Smith and Tangier islands and I’ve been trying to imagine a time when the rest of the Bay more closely resembled those two isolated bits of real estate.
I’ve been trying to picture what life was like when so many more people depended on the water or the land to sustain their livelihoods. I’ve also been wondering what the Chesapeake would be like if all of those watermen, farmers, boat builders, and others, who stubbornly still pursue their traditional trades, suddenly disappeared. How would our unique Chesapeake culture change? What would we lose?
Elizabeth Watson, who helped organize last spring’s first-ever Historic Preservation Summit for Maryland’s Eastern Shore, spends her days asking those very same questions. Watson, executive director of Eastern Shore Heritage, Inc., says her job involves a constant conundrum: While we know what it takes to preserve the land from development (at least in theory), we’re fairly clueless when it comes to assisting the “tradition bearers,” as she calls them, or those who make their living from it. “You can put aside all the land you want for Open Space, but will you save the culture that produced it?” she asks. “In other words, you can save the farmland, but can you save the farmer?”
In this issue, we meet eleven young men and women who continue to practice traditional Chesapeake occupations. They are the next generation of farmers and watermen and decoy carvers, who have—at least for now—figured out a way to make centuries-old occupations work in contemporary times.
Editing a magazine may not be as down-and-dirty a job as pulling in crab traps or skinning a muskrat (although, sometimes it sure feels that way). However, I do hope Chesapeake Life is an accurate reflection of our region’s history and culture. This issue marks my first as editor in chief, and I hope we can create a dialog about what makes this region special to us all.
The Chesapeake area is a big one, and we can’t learn about everything from our little office in Baltimore, however hard we may try. So if you know of an interesting person still practicing an old-fashioned trade, a cozy B&B, a fantastic new restaurant, or beloved little shop that merits coverage in these pages, please drop me a line. Also, let us know what you think of a particular feature story or department (whether you liked it or not). This is a two-way relationship, and I hope we can learn from one another.
Lastly, I’d like to recognize former editor Kessler Burnett for guiding this publication so passionately for the past ten years. She will continue on as senior editor, and her unique voice will still be heard regularly in these pages.
We’ll be back in December with stories on Annapolis’s Christmas supply superstore, Homestead Gardens, an old-fashioned train ride through Virginia’s Eastern Shore, and a sublime new restaurant in Stevensville.
Until then,
Joe Sugarman
Photography by Scott Suchman
Fish Whistle
98 Cannon St.
Chestertown, Md. 410-778-3566
Open daily: Sun. noon-7 p.m.; Lunch, Mon.-Sat. 11 a.m.-4 p.m.; Dinner, 5 p.m.-9 p.m.; Bar menu available until midnight.
Atmosphere: Bright walls and blonde wood
Service: Erratic
Don’t Miss: Chocolate-chip ice cream sandwich; rice pudding
Tariff: Appetizers, $6.95-$8.95; entrees, $12-$26
If you give them waterside dining, they will come. And come they do to the busy, brightly painted Fish Whistle, which opened in Chestertown in May in the former space of the Old Wharf. There’s nothing subtle about the restaurant, from its mango-walled dining room and lime-green bar to its trying-to-be-everything-to-everyone menu. But Fish Whistle’s crowning glory is its location at the end of Cannon Street on the banks of the Chester River, where guests in the bar and dining room (or on the deck, in season) can take in this lovely stretch of water.
Fish Whistle, named for co-owner and chef Jeffrey Carroll’s friend’s boat, is decidedly a family joint. Young parents order milk for sippy cups while their toddlers point wildly at the families of ducks that paddle by—which is not to say you have to bring the kids, but if you do, they will be welcome. As will boaters, who can dock for free at the Chestertown Marina, if they call the restaurant ahead to make arrangements.
But if the view of ducks and the river is captivating, the food at Fish Whistle falls a bit short of that. Co-owner Jennifer Donisi explains that everything except the chicken fingers (on the children’s menu) and french fries are made from scratch. In theory, homemade is a good thing, but it means little if the food isn’t tasty. And some of it isn’t.
Several dishes suffered from lack of salt (something easily remedied); others simply failed to live up to their promise. The roasted jumbo shrimp appetizer made a particularly pretty presentation laid out on a square, white plate and drizzled with an almost creamy lemon vinaigrette. But its flavor fell flat, something that could have been improved with a perhaps just a touch of salt. Vegetable crab soup had a fresh tomato base and ample string beans, corn, and even squash, but it, too, needed a flavor boost.
Fish Whistle’s dinner entrees range from pan-seared duck breast with mango, lime, and chili jus ($22) to herb-crusted rack of lamb ($25) to a pulled-pork barbecue platter ($12), because, as Donisi explains, the restaurant “want[s] to offer a variety and a price point for everyone.” Crab cakes and pork barbecue are the restaurant’s biggest sellers so far, she adds, and I wonder if, at some point, the restaurant might just concentrate on that kind of casual fare. While it doesn’t feel incongruous to eat more formal food in this informal setting, trying to do everything stretches even the best of kitchens.
Take the elegant flounder special stuffed with crab Rockefeller. “Sort of like imperial,” explained the server, though it wasn’t as rich and had the addition of spinach. This, too, suffered from what was becoming a predictable blandness. (A diner near us registered the same judgment on the fish.) What made the dish even more frustrating were the unpleasant sides: rice flavored with what tasted like spices out of a foil packet, overcooked zucchini and yellow squash in a tomato base, and undercooked green beans tossed with fresh corn.
Beef brisket, which Carroll smokes on the premises, was a better choice. The platter comes with respectable coleslaw and potato salad, and you can add fries for a dollar more.
But if dinner underwhelms, desserts delight and are proof that sometimes simpler is better. Made in-house, the chocolate-chip ice cream sandwich is a sophisticated take on a childhood favorite, and the warm, buttery cookies (spiked with a hint of ginger, maybe?) embrace good quality vanilla ice cream. Old-fashioned, creamy rice pudding boasts a generous amount of nutmeg and comes in a soda fountain-style sundae glass. Save room.
Service at Fish Whistle is a bit hit or miss. There were good things happening around us to be sure—the aforementioned sippy cup service, the gracious treat of an extra (and unordered) appetizer to a table of thirteen near us. And the folks on the phone are warm and professional. Our server forgot bread and didn’t seem to have a firm grasp on the menu, but she may have been an anomaly or just very new.
Fish Whistle offers food with a view nearly twelve hours a day, every day of the week (with live music in the bar on Thursday nights). That’s ample time for you to whet your whistle should you want to take the plunge.
Mary K. Zajac writes from Baltimore.
Photography by Kirsten Beckerman
Waterfowl Caller
Hunter Phillips, 14
There is a certain lyrical musicianship to calling waterfowl—a combination of blowing and speaking actual words to lure birds in, says champion caller Hunter Phillips. “You just have to learn the language,” says Phillips, fourteen, who explains it took him “many years of practice” to perfect it. “The duck call, the basic quack, is ‘Quit.’”
Demonstrating, Phillips rattles off a machine gun volley of quacks. “That’s ‘Quit, quit, quit.’ And for the basic honk, you want, ‘To wit.’”
At the age of seven, Phillips placed seventh in the World Goose Calling Competition in Easton. Since then, he has won thirteen first-place awards in either goose or duck calling.
“I grew up around ducks,” says Phillips, a freshman at Stephen Decatur High School, who lives in Ocean City. “I had ducks in my backyard, raised ducks. So I know what they sound like.”
“That’s how we both got into it, actually,” says Phillips’ father, Glen, also a champion caller. “When I was his age, I had ducks. I raised waterfowl—swans, ducks, geese.”
In 1999 the father and son formed Little Quackers, an outdoor youth club that hosts an annual calling competition at the Maryland Watermen’s Association trade expo in Ocean City. Phillips and his father also conduct calling seminars once a month at Gander Mountain outdoors store in Salisbury, and sell a line of game calls designed by Glen—the Little Quacker for youths and Bottoms Up for adults.
Hunter Phillips doesn’t consider the art of calling old-fashioned, but he’s very much aware of its traditional roots on the Eastern Shore. In 2004, Phillips and his father were invited to represent Maryland in “Water Ways,” an exhibit celebrating maritime communities from Long Island to North Carolina, part of the 38th Annual Smithsonian Folklife Festival, held on The Mall in Washington, D.C. That same year, Phillips’ calling talents were tapped for From Bridge to Boardwalk, an audio CD that explores Maryland’s Eastern Shore culture.
Phillips hopes to pass his skills on to future generations of waterfowl callers, and looks forward to the day when he can take his own children into the marshes. He also says that he’d like to make the outdoors his career, possibly as a hunting guide or game warden. But whatever the job, he’s adamant: “I want to be outside.”—J.T.
Decoy Carver
Colin McNair, 21
Colin McNair sold his first hand-carved decoy for five dollars to his handwriting teacher in kindergarten when he was six years old. It was then that he realized he could do something he loved, and make money doing it. Even at that young age, McNair had a passion for turning a block of wood into something majestic.
Now twenty-one, it’s not surprising that McNair exercised his artistic proclivity so early. His father, Mark McNair, is a carver. So is his older brother, Ian. Since Colin was home- schooled through fourth grade, it was easy for him and his older brother to slip into their father’s workshop. Now it’s the father who learns from his sons. “At this point in our relationship, they’ve long since passed the point of asking my opinion—they’ve been working from their own ideas for years,” says Mark McNair. “That’s such a great feeling to see what’s coming out of them. We really learn from each other.”
Colin McNair’s objects are carved by hand and given an aged patina using a technique that remains a family secret. “As soon as I could hold a tool, I was doing something with altering wood or painting,” recalls McNair. “It was a natural thing to do. My father did it and was always encouraging. And I’ve had a lot of financial success with it ridiculously early.”
These days, McNair’s decoys average $1,200.
The monetary rewards are only a fraction of what McNair loves about his work. (Though, he says, “We try not to call it work.”) He enjoys drawing inspiration from the family’s waterfront home in Craddockville, Virginia, working with his brother and father, and getting plugged into the interesting people who inhabit the “decoy subculture.” Though he often works eight- to ten-hour days, preferably working into the night, the freedom of self-employment is also nice. “If the tide is right, and it looks like the fish might be biting, I’m gonna be out in the boat,” he says.
McNair, who spent one year in art school before attending the College of Charleston to study biology with a studio art minor, finds it easier to call himself a sculptor when explaining what he does for a living. “I enjoy taking trees that have just been cut down and refining them until you end up with this object that will either be hunted over—which is a pretty sweet feeling—or you have a piece of art that people will appreciate. I love the process of creating.”—C.M.
The Farmers
Kristen Nickerson, 34, Jennifer Debnam, 39, and Bill Langenfelder, 38
After graduating from college, Kristen Nickerson, (then Langenfelder) actually toiled as a certified CPA. “I worked for about a year and decided I didn’t like sitting behind a desk,” Nickerson recalls. “But it wasn’t automatic that I could come back to the farm—the operation needs to be big enough and there needs to be enough money to support someone—so when the opportunity came about, I jumped on it immediately.”
Nickerson, along with her siblings, Bill Langenfelder, thirty-eight, and Jennifer Debnam, thirty-nine, are the sixth generation of Langen-felders to work the family farm. (In an unusual twist, none of their spouses work on the farm with them.) All three were lured into the family business by a mutual affection for open space, watching things grow and give birth, and the importance of the family legacy.
“I really missed the attitude of a family business where you’re all pulling together, all working together for the same cause,” says Debnam, who studied agriculture in college and worked briefly for Farm Credit Bank before returning to the familial vocation.
The farm has advanced well beyond the scope of previous generations. The family oversees 2,600 acres of cropland and operates a 700 sow-swine operation in Kennedyville. The cropland is managed using advances such as GPS mapping to determine crop yields. In the sow barn, even feeding is fully automated; a computer controls how much each pig eats based on information delivered to a monitor from its radio frequency ear tag.
It was a different story when the siblings were young, learning the farming business working side-by-side with their parents, in Howard County. (Development forced the family to move the business to Kent County twenty years ago.) The advances in the industry are also what make it such a tough business to break into. All three say they are fortunate because it’s hard for a young person to get access to capital and land unless they take over a family farm.
The siblings hope to preserve a way of life for their children, should they choose to join the business. “Any time they’re building houses anywhere there’s less farmland, and it’s not like they are making any more,” says Langenfelder. “I think we have a viable business here, and I don’t want to see it all go away. I’d hate to see the Delmarva Peninsula turn into a metropolis.”—C.M.
Crab Processor
Clay Brooks, 29
It’s 3 p.m., the busiest time of day for the J.M. Clayton Company, when watermen arrive with their blue crab catch. Clay Brooks stands at the company’s dock in Cambridge ready to buy the crabs, then weigh and sort them by size into batches to be steamed and picked, or sold live.
“I’ve always been down here,” says Brooks, the first of the family’s fifth generation to enter the business, founded by Captain John Morgan Clayton in 1890. “I can remember following my dad, [Jack], around, stapling up seafood boxes and packing up crab meat in Super Giant label cups.”
After attending community college, Brooks joined Clayton ten years ago.
“I’ve always been a hands-on person. This is a hands-on job,” he explains. “I could never sit at a desk long enough. My brother sells insurance. I just couldn’t do it.”
In season, Brooks fills the workday with the chores that take blue crabs by the bushels from watermen’s traps to dining tables around the world. He loads frozen crab picked by American and guest workers onto company trucks, oversees factory repairs, and checks containers of lump and backfin meat for cartilage.
Because his childhood memory of annual crab harvests is hazy, Brooks can’t compare the Chesapeake Bay’s former bounty with its current yield. Other changes, though, are hard to miss. “You don’t find too many young watermen these days,” he says.
Day to day, Brooks frets more about the legal quotas for crabs and guest workers that imperil his family’s livelihood. With new bushel limits on commercial harvests of female crabs, there may be “no product to pack,” he muses. And the national cap on guest workers allowed into the United States could lead to a shortage of pickers, Brooks adds.
He didn’t come to Clayton to witness its demise, though. Not with his baby son, John Clayton Brooks IV, waiting to follow in the family business. “It would be cool to give him the opportunity to join the company,” Brooks says.
And whether or not little John follows his father, grandfather, great-grandfather, and great-great-grand-father to the Cambridge dock, it will be important “to show him that, ‘This is where your family has been,’” Brooks says. “There are not too many companies that have been around for over one hundred years, not to mention family-owned companies.”—S.S.
Muskrat Skinner
Trish Hayden, 16
Sixteen-year-old Trish Hayden may “dress girly” but is quick to point out that anything the boys can do, she can do, too—and that includes skinning a muskrat in about thirty seconds. A senior at South Dorchester High School, Hayden began skinning at age eight, learning the skill from her father, Joe, a Hooper’s Island waterman.
Since beginning to skin competitively, Hayden has won six first-place trophies in the junior division of the World Champion-ship Muskrat Skinning Contest, held at Dorchester County’s annual National Outdoor Show. The 2009 show in February will be her final junior contest before moving on to the adult division when she turns eighteen later that year.
The custom may be revolting to some, but trapping and skinning have been a fabric of Dorchester culture for generations. “In the twenties and thirties, it was an important part of the food chain,” says Rhonda Aaron, Hayden’s mentor and current women’s champion. “Besides the money paid for the hide, it also helped put food on the table. When you’re feeding eight to twelve children, you rely on what is available.”
There aren’t many girls Hayden’s age that skin, and she acknowledges that her friends are a bit grossed-out by the whole affair. “They just think it’s disgusting that I would skin a rat inside out and get blood all over me,” she says. “I love it and they’re like, ‘Oooh. How can a girl love it?’”
“It’s so unique and special. When a younger kid asks to learn how to skin, we try and take them under our wing and help them,” says Aaron, who estimates she’s mentored six or seven kids over the years—both girls and boys. “We don’t want to see it vanish.”
Hayden doesn’t want to see the custom vanish either, and realizes that a new generation of skinners will be the life blood, not only of the craft, but of the Outdoor Show itself. “You feel like you’re keeping the tradition going,” she says of the annual event, which celebrates its 64th anniversary this February. “I think it’s amazing when you can keep something going for so long.”—J.T.
The Watermen
Brian Hambleton, 21, Brooks Hambleton, 13, and P.T. Hambleton, 20
Brian Hambleton and his cousin P.T. Hambleton were probably destined to be watermen. Both their fathers are watermen. Their grandfather still owns P.T. Hambleton Seafood in Bozman, Maryland. The boys were just kids when their fathers bought them their commercial fishing licenses to ensure their future spot on the water. “It was the best job for me to work at, and for now it still is,” says Brian. “It’s good money compared to any land job I could get right now, but the future ain’t lookin’ too bright.”
Despite the dire condition of the Bay, both Brian, twenty-one, and P.T., twenty, say they enjoy the work. “It’s good scenery, you’re alone, it’s good money for the time you’re working,” says Brian. “It’s a real laid-back life. You stand there with a dip net in one hand and steer with the other. You can eat, drink, and smoke a cigarette while you’re doing it.”
“I never encouraged him, I just told him, ‘While you’re still in school, it’s a good way to make some summertime money,’” says Brian’s father, Todd, who starting taking his son out with him at age fourteen. “Once he got out of school, I urged him to go get some higher education because he could always come back to do this. But if they’re willing to work hard, I think this is a good life.”
P.T. says he was eight or ten when he started to work on a boat. “When I was a kid, it was good money to go out and work during the summer,” says P.T., whose thirteen-year-old brother, Brooks, works with him when he isn’t in school. “And it’s a family tradition.” Now he enjoys being his own boss and running his own boat. “The worst part is all the ups,” P.T. quips. “Baitin’ up and gettin’ up.”
Both Hambletons speculate about whether they can stay in the field forever, but they’re fairly certain the family tradition will end in their generation. “For fun, it would be fine [for my kids], but not for a job,” says P.T. “You have no paid vacation or benefits. I guess college is the way to go.”
When Todd Hambleton was still on the water, he says oysters and crabs were abundant, and the standard of living was more manageable in Eastern Shore communities. But he’s proud that another generation is trying to keep the old tradition alive. “It’s good to see, because if a lot of these fishermen weren’t here, the whole industry would collapse, and a whole way of life would be lost—and its people, too.”—C.M.
Smith Island Cake Baker
Dana Evans, 41
Growing up on Smith Island, Dana Evans passed countless hours in the kitchen, stacking thin layers of cake and icing into moist, sweet edible towers under her mother’s supervision. Whether intended for a weekend treat, a Methodist Church benefit, or a get-well gesture for an ailing island neighbor, the cake was an extravagant but unexceptional part of Smith Island life.
Evans couldn’t know the weekly baking ritual would serve as an apprenticeship in a traditional art form that years later would capture worldwide attention as Maryland’s official dessert.
Evans had an inkling of the confection’s appeal when she opened Classic Cakes (classicsmithislandcakes.com, 410-860-5300) in Salisbury five years ago—with her mother, Doris Bradshaw, once again by her side. From the first day, customers have queued outside the bakery, which specializes in nine-layer Smith Island cakes made in a profusion of flavors, from chocolate and banana to Butterfinger and red velvet. “I would have never thought that someday I would be selling hundreds and hundreds of cakes every week,” says Evans, forty-one.
In April, the Maryland legislature designated the Smith Island cake as the official state dessert. “I think I’m still in shock that I’m a part of something that has been put out there in the world, something that we took for granted growing up,” Evans says, who has shipped her cakes as far as Iraq. “It means so much to me and my family.”
To remain vibrant, traditions must evolve, and that applies to Evans’ popular innovation: Smith Island wedding cakes, disguised by her pastry chef in fondant or icing. “You don’t know it’s a Smith Island cake until you cut it,” Evans says.
Evans’ mother was a bit of a Smith Island cake pioneer herself. As a child, Evans loved chocolate, and her brother preferred vanilla. Bradshaw would accommodate both children by icing a half circle of each flavor on every cake layer. That’s one twist too many on tradition. “I won’t do that at the shop,” says Evans, who can ice as many as 1,500 cake layers on a busy day.
Since it opened, Classic Cakes has tripled its cake sales and space. The staff has multiplied to twelve, including Dana’s daughter, Stephanie Evans, twenty-three, a partner in her mother’s business. The younger Evans didn’t bake as a child. But now, her proud mother says, “She can put a cake together quicker than I can.”—S.S.
Photography by Scott Suchman
When the cold sets in, there’s one particular ingredient that is a real pleasure to prepare and eat: squash. Winter squash, such as acorn, butternut and pumpkin, require longer cooking times than summer squash, and are perfect for roasting and caramelizing. They also boast a longer shelf life.
When picking out squash, look for vegetables with unblemished skin, deep color, and those that are heavy for their size. They can be kept either in the refrigerator or in a cool dark place for at least a month, depending on variety.
My recipe for roasted butternut squash, onion, tomato, and feta tart has a slight sweetness that’s a great foil to the saltiness of the cheese. It’s really delicious when served with a side salad or soup for lunch or a light dinner. The risotto, a cool-weather favorite, is a great vehicle to carry the caramelized acorn squash, while the spaghetti squash is scented with thyme, which goes well with goat cheese. The pecans in this dish are a great accent, while the balsamic vinaigrette ties it all together. For an interesting dessert, try the pumpkin mascarpone-filled cake with spiced syrup—my twist on tiramisu. Making use of store-bought pumpkin puree and traditional winter flavors like nutmeg, cinnamon, and cloves, this light dessert is easy to prepare.
Roasted Butternut Squash, Onion, Tomato and Feta Tart
Caramelized Acorn Squash Risotto with Brown Sage Butter and Pancetta
Thyme-scented Spaghetti Squash with Goat Cheese and Arugula
Pumpkin Mascarpone Cake with Spiced Syrup
Andrew Evans is the owner/chef of Easton’s Thai Ki.
Photography by Celia Pearson
Styled by Jennifer Lilly
Like the family that once spent long, golden summers in its embrace, the Barnhart home on Anne Arundel County’s Cypress Creek has matured. The former “little house with a big porch,” as owner Ellen Barnhart describes it, has been replaced by a contemporary hideaway that’s both a retreat for her and a gathering place for her three children and seven grandchildren—a “Zen cottage,” in the words of her architect, Chip Bohl.
The home, built in 2001, supplanted a beloved but unheated bungalow that Barnhart and her husband purchased thirty years ago. In this incarnation, the screened porch rises to fifteen feet at its gabled peak. A wood-burning fireplace at one corner stands ready to chase the dawn’s chill. “In the morning, I’m always out on the porch or the dock with my coffee,” Barnhart says. “If it’s really cold, I’ll put on an extra robe.”
Four full-length, custom-glass panels on tracks separate the porch from the interior, sliding into a hidden pocket during pleasant weather. Their sleekness enhances the Scandinavian mood in the great room, with its white walls, maple floors, and streamlined furniture. The minimalism is much to Barnhart’s taste. “I love white, and I love spare,” she says with a smile. “I’m a big believer in the KISS (Keep It Simple, Stupid) principle.” To that end, she found a willing partner in architect Bohl, who kept the inner spaces serene but added unexpected geometry that keeps the views interesting. “When Ellen showed me the magazine clips she liked, they were very architectural and abstract—lots of Manhattan lofts,” says Bohl. “But she had also told me that she wanted something that felt like a summer home, relaxed and comfortable, to accommodate her children and grandchildren. I said, ‘Ellen, these images are beautiful, but I’m not seeing summer house here.’ We had a good laugh about that. She understood the contradiction. That’s where we started.”
Bohl angled walls and created unconventional openings to maximize the water views from the narrow lot. “Almost nobody walks in without saying, ‘Oh!’” says Barnhart of the home’s entryway, which opens on to the main room and the panorama beyond.
Along the floating stairway that rises at the left, a curtain of fixed steel rods drops from the ceiling to anchor each tread. The same motif repeats on the gallery banister on the second floor, where a pair of baths and a trio of bedrooms (one, a six-bunk dormitory) accommodate visiting family and friends. Clearly, it’s a house made for gathering. “I can entertain thirty or forty people here,” Barnhart says. “Every New Year’s Eve, I have a group of friends down for four or five days.” When she hosts her grandchildren, they romp through the same bayside adventures that their parents once enjoyed. (Judging from the number of kayaks, fishing poles, and tubes on the waterside deck, it’s quite a party.) “The sandy beach was one of the features that sold us on the original property,” remarks Barnhart. Another was the view of Gibson Island from the end of the pier, its misty contours like a mirage on the horizon.
From the pier, the house seems to flow toward the water, fanning out like the prow of a large ship. But from the street side, it presents a different aspect. Bohl sliced-and-diced the traditional exterior elements, setting the front porch askew and adding three idiosyncratic, second-story dormer windows. “They’re the visual clues to the house,” Barnhart says. “You can tell something different is going on inside.”
The roof is a curved plane with a sloping ridge—a design that yields extra reflected light and acoustic dampening inside, according to Bohl. “I don’t know how they managed to build that,” Barnhart laughs. Yet, with its neutral wood siding and warm red accents, the house nestles easily into the surrounding neighborhood.
Furnishings are purposely simple to highlight the contemporary look. “I wanted warm, modern, and comfortable,” says Barnhart, pointing out the armless couches flanking a red leather ottoman. Above the teak dining table, an Ingo Maurer chandelier of Japanese paper casts a glow. The decor gets even simpler in summer, with white slipcovers over the seating and the silk Tibetan rugs sent on vacation.
Despite the home’s austerity, there’s a place for the Wii and Xbox generation, too. The lower level is a full-sized game room, where ten-foot ceilings and a Ping-Pong table provide plenty of romping space.
Surveying the house contentedly, Barnhart approves of the mix: Bohl’s “fractured” vision, the splendid views over the water, and the passing parade of grandchildren. “What I like best is that there’s always something to look at,” she says.
Carol Denny writes from Arnold, Md.
|
Smilin' Jake's Casual Apparel 5754 Main Street Rock Hall, MD 21661 410-639-7280 Great Oak Manor 1-800-504-3098 www.greatoak.com White Swan Tavern 231 High Street Chesterstown, MD 21620 410-778-2300 www.whiteswantavern.com Osprey Point 20786 Rock Hall Avenue Rock Hall, MD 21661 410-639-2194 www.ospreypoint.com Historic Chestertown, 1706 www.chestertown.com Waterman's Crab House 21055 Sharp St. Rock Hall, MD 21661 410-639-2261 www.watermanscrabhouse.com Turner's Unlimited 31395 Jim Davis Road Galena, MD 21635 410-648-5443 www.turnersunlimited.com Town of Rock Hall P.O. Box 367 Rock Hall, MD 21661 410-639-7611 www.rockhallmd.com |
Enter for your chance to win 6 multi-day admission tickets!38th Annual WaterFowl Festival
November 14,15,16 10-6pm
Savor Classic Eastern Shore Seafood
Take in retriever and fly fishing demos and the DockDogs® event
Don’t miss the kids’ activities, family fun & live animals
Shop for handcrafted holiday gifts
Enjoy and purchase world-class wildlife paintings, sculpture, carvings and photos
If you have any problems, please email .
Contest runs from October 14, 2008 - November 17, 2008. Please click here for contest rules.
Those fall Sundays in the country were magic.
The crunch of the dried potpourri of oak leaves, thistles, and pine needles marked our progress as we made our way farther into the forest behind our house. Leaping over felled trunks blocking our path, sloshing through soupy mud puddles left over from the morning rain, there was nowhere else we wanted to be other than with each other under the gracefully dying canopy. We were an odd, Disney-esque bunch: me, my grey cat, and my yellow lab. With me in the lead and my four-legged friends trailing behind me, we’d cover hours of hilly ground. Forced every twenty minutes or so to stop and wait for the cat to catch up, we’d stand in silence, my dog’s ears pricked by the sound of deer crashing over the floor of crispy limbs, my eyes fixed on the 3-D sculpture of bent and twisted lines surrounding us. Although out there, we were vulnerable, wonderfully insulated from civilization, it was exciting to feel our way through the foreign stillness. As the sky sprinkled us with leafy notes of reds and yellows, our Sunday fall adventures deepened our history. We’d turn for home after two hours or so, tired, cold, and ready for dinner. That night, huddled by the wood stove, I’d recount aloud what we saw and where we went. And while they were half listening and half sleeping with tails wrapped around cold noses, all was right with the world.
In this issue, make your own fall memories with a hike through Easton’s Pickering Creek Audubon Center, a 400-acre Eden of still waters and turning leaves (“Pick of the Season,” pg. 62). Or take a tour of the Bay’s wineries, which stretch from Sudlersville, Md., to Machipongo, Va., in “Winery Road,” pg. 86. Also, meet five regional law men who share their tales of crime and passion in “Badges of Honor,” pg. 76. Spend a quiet night at Cambridge’s Lodgecliffe on the Choptank B&B (Checking Inn, pg.