What is it about summertime that tugs at people’s emotions? It’s hot and muggy outside. I’m listening to a Jackopierce CD and thinking about summers at the ocean. Growing up in NYC, the beach was an integral part of summertime. In elementary school, I’d start watching the thermometer in late April, hoping that it would be warm enough to go to the beach that weekend. It usually didn’t happen until the second half of May or even June if it was a particularly cold spring. I loved going to the beach as a child. We would get up early to beat the crowds and guarantee a spot near the water. We would stop for coffee and doughnuts on the way to the Long Island Expressway. It was a long drive, 30-40 minutes or so in the mornings and longer in the afternoons when traffic crawled in either direction. I loved it. I relished sipping my coffee or hot chocolate and watching the scenery change, flattening out and becoming less populated, and finally the sight and smell of the ocean. We had to cross a drawbridge to get to the beach and it was like the gateway to another world. The window would be rolled all the way down, the radio would be blaring, and I would breathe in the salty air with my hair whipping around my face.
When we arrived at the parking lot, there were usually only a few other cars awaiting us. Jones Beach has enormous parking lots and by the time we would leave in the afternoons they would be packed, lines of cars shimmering in the heat, stretching all the way back to the entrance. But we would park at the entrance to the pathway to the boardwalk. It was a long walk to the water and when we arrived at the boardwalk, we would pick up egg sandwiches and carry them down to the beach. Fried eggs with ham and cheese, salt and pepper, on a buttered kaiser roll. They steamed in their packages as we walked down to the beach, checking the water line so we wouldn’t be subject to ambush by the waves later in the day. Once we were settled, sheets and blankets down, chairs up, we would eat breakfast. I loved egg sandwiches all year round, normally purchased from the delis near my house and my school. The ones at the beach were differentiated by the thicker, firmer, saltier ham and the coarse texture of the salt and pepper used at the concession stand. I savored my warm, salty, creamy, chewy sandwich and then raced off into the waves.
I would stay in the water till my lips were blue and my shoulders shaking from the cold. I drove family members insane until I was old enough to swim by myself and no longer needed a guardian at my side or watching from the shore as I dove and played beneath the rough blue-green waves. I loved to lie on the ocean floor as a particularly strong wave crashed over me. I could feel its vibrations down there, but it couldn’t hurt me or send me tumbling to shore. It was this tiny oasis of peace beneath the thundering water and it only lasted for seconds before I would have to surface for air.
When the elders finally forced me back onto the shore, it was usually lunchtime. We almost always brought coolers of food from home for lunch: sandwiches or cold fried chicken, sodas, chips, whatever. I was always hungry and it always tasted wonderful sitting there on the hot sand. We’d wander up to the boardwalk for dessert, devouring items never eaten at home. Lindy’s butter crunch cookies, rocket pops, ice cream sandwiches, astro pops, and the cherry soft serve Italian ices sold from their own concession. We’d walk along the boardwalk from one beach to the next, trying to avoid splinters and look cool at the same time. We’d test the clam chowder and french fries from one food court to the next, checking to make sure that we weren’t missing out on anything not found on our beach. Then it was back to the water and the sand and the waves.
Around two, the young men in sunglasses with coolers on their shoulders would appear along the shore, hawking frozen candy bars and fudgesicles. Sometimes other people would come by, selling jewelry made from mother-of-pearl and shells culled from the beach. We’d walk along the sand, searching for sea glass until we were hot enough to plunge back into the water. It was always an internal struggle for me, whether or not to leave the water in time to let my bathing suit dry out for the long ride home. It was a major loss either way, and early in the summer I would choose to swim, while later in the season a dry suit won the battle.
We’d stop for ice cream cones or Italian ices on the way off the boardwalk to sustain us on the weary walk back to the car. The intense cherry flavors and soft grainy texture as the ice melted against my tongue softened the blow of leaving as we passed through the tunnel leading to the parking lot. I often surveyed the field of cars wondering how others had the energy to trudge all the way back to the ones at the far end. Sandy and content, I’d spread a towel on my seat for the ride home. I’d watch the scenery until we crossed the drawbridge and then drift off to sleep for the rest of the trip home. Those days at the beach were a hallmark of my early years, one of the first where freedom and food were intertwined. Sometimes now on hot summer afternoons when I’m tired and lethargic and cooking seems so hard to do, memories of those days help to spur me on and to remember why I love the kitchen. It’s not just about the food, it’s about creating experiences and fond memories. As I well know, they can sustain a person for a lifetime.
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