Dear Love Bug,
Our beach week has been marked by less-than-stellar weather, but there have been a couple of glorious afternoons. And the otherwise gloom certainly hasn’t kept us from eating well.
On Sunday, after a full day spent rolling in sand and salt, we grilled burgers and dogs on the charcoal drum grill that sits just outside the screened-in porch at Misty Moon. We all ate well, including you, which was a pleasant surprise. You’ve been off “hangaburgers,” as you call them, for a while. But that night, you gobbled yours up (maybe because it was stuffed with cheese and bacon?).
After dinner, as a special treat, we prepped s’mores–and pulled out our long marshmallow-roasting sticks for the occasion. We’d roast over the still-fiery-hot charcoal in the bottom of the grill. You were so eager to participate, so I told you you could hold one of the sticks and roast a marshmallow on the condition that you never come anywhere close to the grill. You agreed, and I got you set up. You were doing great, with my assistance of course, until I looked up for a second. In that half-moment, you came too close to the grill with your outstretched arm holding the stick. You flinched and jerked your arm back but managed to sear your forearm.
I’m not sure I’ve ever heard such a wail. It was painful to hear. Daddy and I ran for ice while Nonna scooped you up to console you. You allowed us to ice it until your tears dried, and then you took a deep breath and dove into the s’more we’d prepared just for you. And just like that, the entire incident was over. (Although you have a faint pink horizontal line across your forearm as a reminder.)
I’m sure you’ll roast marshmallows again at some point. It just won’t be anytime soon.
Last night, we went out for dinner at Etta’s, as is our long, long time tradition. In fact, from speaking with the waitress, we determined it’s approximately a 30-year tradition from the time Nonna and I discovered it in the original location on Ridge Road. This is your third year in a row having a dinner there during our beach week.
At Etta’s, they bring you hush puppies along with your bread. And you pretty much fell in love. We had them again tonight with our crab feast on the porch (this time from Capt. Zack’s), and you asked for more once you’d gobbled up your ration. You said, “Can I have more of those–what do you call them?”
Island food suits you, I suppose. And that makes me happy.
Love you like crazy, kiddo,