The Beach House

            When I was in second grade, my parents and their best friends rented a cottage at the beach.  201The two families would spend spring vacation together in Lincoln City, Oregon.

            There were four kids, including myself. This was thrilling to me, as an only child. Built-in playmates! Amy, the oldest, was my age. Her brothers, Andy and Paul, were slightly younger. I couldn’t wait!

            We got to the cottage on a Saturday. The Johnson’s had arrived the night before. Amy ran out to meet me and show me around.

            Leaning slightly, the cottage was wind-worn and faded. The clapboard siding had not seen a paint brush in years. The place was great, it looked like you couldn’t hurt anything if you tried. There was a big, open, kitchen and living room downstairs, and several bedrooms upstairs. Tough clean and neat, the place definitely had an air of casualness. The furniture was old and comfortable and nothing matched. There was a tire swing in the backyard, and the beach was across the street. The kids’ bedroom had two sets of bunk beds. Amy and I called “dibs” on the top bunks.

            That night we had a bonfire on the beach. We ate Kentucky Fried Chicken and watched the sun go down over the Pacific. I remember dozing by the fire, lulled by the lapping of the waves.

            Next thing I knew, I was waking up in my bunk to the smell bacon. After breakfast, we grabbed buckets and shovels and ran to the water. The day was foggy and cool, and the tide was way out. We were going clamming. With just a few tries, I got the hang of digging and flipping clams up onto the sand.

            I remember the smell of salt air and seaweed on the spray, and the cries of the gulls, swooping overhead. It was a magical morning, mysterious and still. We pretended the clams were treasure, and that a pirate might appear from the mist at any time.  We chased seagulls and played tag, and eventually brought the filled bucket of clams back to the house. There would be fritters or chowder for dinner that night.

            By midday, the fog always burned off and the sun came out. Amy and I would roll up our jeans and wade in the tide pools, playing with the sea anemones. The wet sand squished between my wiggling toes. I wanted to bring a starfish home, as a pet, but my father explained that it couldn’t live without saltwater. Reluctantly, I put it back where I found it, to continue its starfish life.

            One afternoon the four of us built a huge sandcastle, surrounded by a fence made of oyster shells. As we finished, we saw the tide had crept up, unnoticed. We dug moats to protect the castle, but quickly got overwhelmed. The water surged around our feet as we frantically scooped sand. In no time, we were soaked to the skin. When Paul fell, face first, into the rising water, we realized it was no use. Starting to shiver, we ran back to the cabin. In the morning there was nothing left to mark the spot but a few oyster shells from the fence.

            There was no television at the cottage, and none of us missed it. We were seldom inside, anyway. There was always something to do. On our last day, it rained. After a morning of board games and puzzles, and watching it pour, our parents decided to reward our patience. We all piled into the station wagon and drove to town.

            Lincoln City was a small, quiet town, home to fishermen and loggers. It was still a decade or more away from being discovered as prime vacation real estate. It drew its share of tourists, though, and did its best to offer things to entertain them.

            At the Aquarium, we fed sardines to seals in the front lobby. Crossing through the turnstile into the main gallery was enchanting. Dimly lit, illuminated mostly by the glow from the tanks, the effect was of an undersea cave. Maritime objects decorated the spaces between displays. We saw fish of every size, shape and color. The center of the room was sunken, a wide pool, filled with creatures native to the northwest. An octopus drifted by, changing color as it went, blending in with its surroundings. Sea cucumbers and Dungeness crabs shared space with rock cod and flounder. It looked like an underwater anthill, there was so much activity.

            When we were done with the tour, we made our way down the boardwalk. Andy and Paul wanted to ride the bumper cars. But when stood by the red line, they were not tall enough to ride alone. After just a tiny bit of pleading, our dads agreed to take all of us on the ride. Amy and I climbed in with my dad, while the boys got in with theirs. We giggled and squealed as the carts zipped around, bumping and whirling, in a crazy game.  Our moms stood by, laughing and waving. On the way back, we had purple snow cones.

That night, Amy and I sorted our collection of shells and other treasures we’d found while beach combing. We stayed awake late, whispering in the dark. I watched the full moon outside the window, and wished our vacation didn’t have to end.

            Although the adults talked about it, we never did get back to that cottage. A busy, happy summer came and went. The Johnsons moved away not long after school started, and Amy and I lost touch.

            I thought of my old friend the other day, when I found a photograph taken during that long ago vacation. Two eight-year-old girls wearing toothless grins and dragging a massive piece of driftwood, on their way to a new adventure. It all came back in a flash, after more than thirty years, the wonderful week at the crooked old house in Lincoln City. 

Lincoln City, Oregon sometime in the '60's - author unknown

Swimming Holes and Dungeness Crab

            When I was a freshman in high school, my best friend, Julie and I spent spring break at her mother’s cabin near Mt. Hood. It was our first excursion without adults, although we learned later that the neighbors had been keeping a discreet eye on us. At fifteen, we considered ourselves quite self sufficient, and we really did pretty well. We hiked, shot pellet rifles, and rode our bicycles into the town of Rhododendron for breakfast one morning.

            One unseasonably warm afternoon, the temperatures topped 70. We decided that it would be fun to go swimming. We dressed in some of Julie’s old cut-off shorts and t-shirts and headed for the creek. By the time we walked the mile or so, mostly uphill, to the swimming hole, we were really hot. The deep water of Still Creek looked inviting. After checking for submerged hazards by poking aroung with a long stick, Julie ran to the bank and jumped in. I was right behind her.

            The cold shot through my body like an electric shock. My hands and feet were instanly numb. It had not occurred to us that it was only mid-March, and the creek was full of snow melt. (We were on the ascending slope of Mt. Hood, after all.) Our “swim” lasted approximately 15 seconds. Just long enough to get back out of the water. It had also not occurred to either of us to bring towels. Shivering, and on the verge of hypothermia, we made our way back through the very shady woods. Back at the cabin,  Julie stoked the woodstove, the only source of heat. We were very glad that cooking required fire, and we had built one that morning to make coffee. Soon we were in warm, dry clothes and the pot was bubbling. Life was good again.

            Julie and I, even as teenagers, enjoyed good food. Her mother was a gourmet cook, happy to cook for us, and teach us anything we wanted to know. My first taste of caviar was in her kitchen. We were both learning to cook, and found the woodstove at the cabin a lot of fun. Being true Oregon tomboys, we grew up with the lore of the pioneers, and wanted to learn all the skills. The week at the cabin was as close as we could come in the 70’s. And much of it revolved around food. We roasted a rabbit (that we brought from my parent’s freezer) on a spit in the fireplace, and baked potatoes in the coals.  It took about five hours, and countless burnt fingers, but it was a delicious meal.

            Julie brought real Costa Rican coffee, and a traditional non-electric drip coffee maker. It was the first time I tasted real gourmet coffee, and I loved it. The pancakes we made on the cast iron stove top were excellent. Likewise the pepper-cured honey bacon that we found at the market in Rhododendron.

            We lost touch after high school, but have since re-established contact. Our lives have taken us, quite literally, to opposite ends of the country. Mine to the San Juan Islands of Washington State, hers to northern Maine. No surprise that we both live in the woods. We still both love the outdoors, and fantasize about pioneer living, although on a tamer scale. And we both still love to eat, and cook

            Here in the Pacific Northwest, summer is time for fresh Dungeness crab, in my mind, far tastier than any lobster. Julie’s mother passed away a few years ago, but I asked if she would share her special crab soup recipe. I remembered it as her entry in one of the James Beard contests. I believe it won an award, but neither Julie or I can recollect the details. The original recipe was for twelve main course servings, and called for a total of four pounds of crab. I adaptation call for quantities of a more managable size, and the results are scrumptious.

Dungeness Crab Bisque            

Serves 2 as a main course, 4 as an appetizer

½ lb. cooked crab meat

½ lb. cooked crab legs

1 to 1½ quart half & half

¼ lb. butter

¼ cup flour

1 tbsp. onion, grated

2 drops hot pepper sauce or ¼ tsp. cayenne pepper

½ cup heavy cream

1 tbsp. Scotch Whiskey (optional)

Salt, Pepper, Chopped parsley, Paprika

Melt butter in double boiler. Add Flour and onion and cook at least 20 minutes up to two hours (the longer, the better). Slowly add most of the half & half, stirring at low heat to keep from lumping. If too thick, add more half & half. Add a sprinkle of black pepper and the Tabasco Sauce. (Up to this point can be made ahead of time and allowed to cool).

An hour before serving, heat slowly to a simmer. Stir in whiskey and add the crab meat and legs, being careful not to break it up too much. Check for seasoning and add salt if needed (often, the crab is salty enough on its own).

To serve, pour the heavy cream into serving bowls and pour the soup over it. Sprinkle with finely chopped parsley and plenty of paprika.

Baby Dungeness Crab (shown actual size)