From Karyl’s Cook & Tell Newspaper Column (July 30, 1981)
The song and dance that is my life has been taking place lately to the accompaniment of some strange noises and interesting footwork.
For starters, Jack the dog escaped from the house in a spectacular demonstration of skill and cunning: through an open door. It was 10 p.m.
You know my dog. When he gets loose, he will not return by coming when called, or even by turning around and heading home after a run. Only if we can get out in the car the minute he takes off and make him think he’s chasing us, tiring him out until he trips on his tongue on his way into the car for the ride home—when he’s finally caught us—only then can we retrieve him. Jack does not respond to the classic command, “Come!” Jack flunked dog school.
So, the first noise was The Kid, hollering and horn-tooting as she pulled out of the drive in pursuit of a dog who happened to be the same color as the night. Night cloaks everything in mystery: it was to be expected, alas, that Jack would take advantage of the darkness and say to heck with the chase.
No, Jack was not to be captured this time—no telltale jangle of tags in the dark, no teasing barks to chart a course by—no dog, no sir.
But plenty of noise echoing down the cove and through the woods at 10:30 p.m., quite possibly rousing the neighbors who quite possibly like to take their sleep in silence. I’ve got to hand it to The Kid. I would never have dared put on a pep rally at that peaceful hour of the night. And when she came back dogless and forlorn, I sympathized. Being outmaneuvered by that irascible dog is a lot like being outfoxed by a teenage daughter, for instance. In both cases, tears in the eyes can be an annoying reaction.
Everybody went to bed—I, in my most fetching night clothes, anticipating the calling up of the pajama patrol in the wee hours. When the signal came (Jack would never come to the door. He would stand in the middle of the road, exhausted, and bark), I wanted to be ready.
Time passed on four black, padded, well-traveled feet.
I was awakened at 1 a.m. by a car idling in the road out front. That’s not an awfully loud noise, idling; but just different enough from the surrounding quiet to put that mother’s ear of mine in gear. From the bedroom window, I could see Jack standing, sure enough, in the middle of the road, dramatically spotlighted by the car’s headlights. He was being hugged by the driver.
Across the lawn I skipped, like a blithe spirit in my silvery gray Christian Dior nightgown (Marshall’s Discount Store $10 tag removed). It was exactly as I had planned; barefoot in the cool, dewy grass, running to meet my dog in the middle of the night.
It would have been so much more stunning if it had happened during the eclipse of the full moon just a couple of weeks ago.
Dog and Dior made it slowly back into the house; getting him up the front steps was another feat of skill and cunning. He fell in a heap in the corner, the long fur of his hindquarters woven with a thousand sticks he had picked up in the underbrush along the way. He looked like a pile of kindling. I went to bed and turned off my mother’s ear for the rest of the night.
Next morning, we awoke to a beep sounding every 30 seconds. The dog was spooked and began to whine. The husband left the mystery in my keeping (“Dear, there’s a weird honking near the bathroom. Maybe a creature in the cellar?”) and left the premises for work. The Kid came downstairs to rescue the cat she thought I was stepping on and tried to comfort the dog who was now whining every 30 seconds. Together, we discovered it was the smoke detector.
I wish to place on record the fact that I am not such a clod that I would step on the cat at 30-second intervals, nor even once, for that matter. But I am not so all-fired bright either. It was late afternoon before it dawned on me that, aha, the gadget was beeping to complain that its battery was running out of juice. And by that time, I had gone through the drill of wrapping the thing in a towel and stowing it under a pillow upstairs so my poor dog could get some sleep downstairs. As for my own reaction to the beep, I rather like the company.
I feel sorry for the folks who have to go somewhere on vacation to find fun and adventure. Here at the house on Love’s Cove, on a quiet island off the coast of Maine, I practically have to beat it off with a stick.
Another adventure with dogs can be had with this recipe of Evelyn Sherman’s. When you’re making potato salad, boil some extra potatoes for this dish.
SCALLOPED POTATOES & FRANKS
Makes 4 servings
2 T. shortening
2 T. flour
1 t. salt, dash pepper
1 c. evaporated milk
1/2 c. water
2 T. grated onion
1 c. grated American cheese
2 3/4 c. diced cooked potatoes
2 T. finely cut parsley
4-5 sliced hot dogs (or Kielbasa sausage)
Make a cream sauce by melting shortening, mixing in flour, salt & pepper and stirring in gradually the milk and water. Add onion. Cook and stir over medium heat until slightly thickened. Remove from heat and add cheese, stirring until melted. Then add potatoes, parsley and hot dogs, saving a few slices of hot dogs to place on top of casserole. Turn mixture into greased 1 1/2-quart baking dish. Cover and bake at 350 for 30 min until bubbling hot.
Amie’s Endnotes
I’ve never made this casserole, but it’s worth publishing—not just for the vintage vibe, but to celebrate Evelyn Sherman, an OG legend on our little island. I’ll probably find her next month at the annual island Lobster Roll luncheon, serving up, well, lobster rolls in the Town Hall kitchen.
Evelyn’s long-time bestie, Jean, passed away this month at the age of 99. The two were known as “Double Trouble.”
And yes, I am The Kid.
For dog stories from another island girl, check out a recent post from
about her Newfie, Gertie, sneaking out the screen door. “I was never worried she wouldn’t find her way home,” Sarah writes, “because, on an island, there is nowhere to run where you can’t be found.”And here’s our current black dog, Max, with his Summer Book Club pick:
Want more kitchen hijinks with Max and me? Follow us on Instagram!
fun + adventure + Maine Islands = no place like home
What a story!!