We awakened to cold sea air blasting through the bay windows, curtains flying, straining against the curtain rod, and rain pelting the cottage roof, made all the louder for the lack of seasonal insulation.  Rainy days and vacation aren’t a good mix.  Although if it’s solitude and solemnity that are your heart’s desire, you would have it in abundance today.  Perhaps it’s a matter of perspective, a different outlook.  Rainy days have their special charm I guess.  The rain comes and goes throughout the day, but blanketing everything is a dense Maine fog, misty and secretive.  The air is cold and wet, hanging, suspended.  It permeates my clothing, the cloth fabric of the couch, the walls. I’ve experienced New Jersey fog, and Florida fog, but I’ve never experience a fog like this.

The cottage is on the rocky cliffs over looking Pemaquid harbor.  The Lobster fleet was visible a few minutes ago, but as the mist continues to overtake all of life in the harbor, one by one the boats disappear from view until I can scarcely see the waters’ edge, no more than thirty yards away.  It’s quiet, except for the sound of the foghorn in the distance, and the north wind slapping waves against the bows of the dinghies moored in the harbor.

What an interesting and solemn day.  I haven’t completely relaxed yet, after all, it’s only my third day away from the frenetic pace that I call daily life.  I’m still in high gear, so quietude has been thrust upon me and I’m not ready for it.  Forced quiet, forced solitude, maybe this is what I need right now.  Slow down, get still, and be quiet.  Good day for reading, and writing.  Perhaps a game of cards?  Backgammon?  The embodiment of leisure time.

One thing that is never on vacation is my appetite.  All of this inactivity has made me hungry.  The perfect rainy day lunch on the Maine coast would be a nice, steaming hot bowl of “chowdah” and some oyster crackers.  Now here’s a subject for discussion – chowder.  New England clam chowder, thick, white, and creamy versus the more colorful and brothy Manhattan style chowder.  It’s a rivalry as contested as the Red Sox and the Yankees.  With the exception of a can of Campbell’s off the grocery store shelf, you’d be hard pressed to find the red stuff around here.  No sir, not this Maine town. “Chowdah”. To the inhabitants of New England there really is only one kind and it’s white like the winter’s here. Unadulterated, pure, made with copious amounts of heavy cream, chunky potatoes, and chopped sweet clams.  Yum!  Served hot and steaming, sometimes with a pat of butter melting on the surface to add an extra dash of richness, Oyster crackers on the side.  I love to crumble the little round saltines onto the top of my bowl of chowder and stir them in.  If you slurp your hot chowder fast enough the crackers retain their crunch before succumbing to the creamy, textured soup.  Did I call it soup?  Drat, shame on me. CHOWDER.  Strong, original, historic.  Not some fly by night chilled Gazpacho, or heaven forbid consommé’.  What the heck is that?  Dishwater I tell you.  What a poor excuse for a soup.  Chowder ranks higher than soup because of its sturdiness.

As the cold continues to rain down, I make my way to the tiny kitchen and ladle some piping hot New England chowder into a bowl and top it with cracked black pepper and some crunchy oyster crackers.  Thick as the fog that is blanketing the harbor, this little bit of home cooked goodness has transformed my rainy day.  What a good day!