After the Breakwater Lighthouse expedition, I sank into the warmth of my rental car. I enjoyed the coziness of my Corolla cocoon and sent pictures over my phone until a call of nature sent me in search of facilities. I followed signs for restrooms until I stumbled upon a series of Porta-Potties. Forget the 1950’s; these were outhouses. A couple of states over and I might bump into Laura Ingalls.
The short visit made me thankful for my overseas training and brought back unpleasant flashbacks of my summer in Viet Nam. I made a mental note to write the Maine Tourism Board in regards to the only area of their industry that needed some attention. And tax dollars. Lots of tax dollars.
Mom and I doubled back to the inn to freshen up before supper. Cheryl had a list of suggestions and even called several places to inquire about gluten free options for Mom. Cheryl was such an amiable and helpful person. She gave the impression that if you were to have a massive heart attack and the paramedics rushed in and deemed it necessary to open your chest cavity at the foot of the majestic Victorian staircase, she would have donned an apron and started scrubbing up to assist.
The meal at Café Miranda was fantastic, but I must admit they had already converted me with the words homemade pasta before I scooped a single morsel onto a spoon. We waddled back to the inn and decided to have a slice of pie because, hey, hunger is actually beside the point on vacation.
Cheryl makes three pies daily from scratch: wild blueberry, cherry and raspberry. Because of Mom’s gluten intolerance, she disemboweled a piece and then carried the crust across the kitchen. Mike entered just as she was about to scrape it in the garbage.
“Oh, hang on a second; we have a compost pile for that.” He swept around the counter and arrested the crumbs before she could dump them. “We recycle whatever food we don’t use to a local farm. We never waste anything.” The look on his face suggested he had caught Mom trying to stuff a cadaver into a Hefty sack.
Now it must be stated that we Southerners are guilty of many sins. We forget to conjugate verbs, we consider the Confederate flag a mandatory decoration for the back window of a pick-up truck, and we erect restaurant signs with giant, neon pig fannies all over the Southeast, but there’s one crime of which we can never be convicted: we don’t waste victuals.
“Isn’t that nice!” Mom said, placing her spoon in the sink. “At my house I just step out the back door and rake the scraps out to the possum.”
No one can accuse my mom of not going green.
© 2012 – Traci Carver