The Lost Kitchen
When Erin French says that she's opening her wine shop to the public on a Saturday afternoon, you scrap your plan to spectate the Lobster Boat Races in Boothbay and point your wheels north.
Freedom feels an hour away from anywhere, even if you've already been driving a long way. But the roads are empty and the way is wide and varied: you find river crossings, pastures with old barns, young forest, glimpses of the sea. You notice the gentle undulations in the road, the soft-but-shocking green of the new grass and fresh leaves.
We were lucky enough to dine at the Lost Kitchen once before, back when calls and emails were still accepted for reservations. We added our names to the waitlist as soon as we booked an anniversary trip to Rockland. It was the last weekend in July, the fullness of the growing season, when tomatoes, fennel, and zucchini all tumble from the garden beds. The printed menu from that night (the best souvenir!) tells me that we enjoyed a roasted carrot & fennel soup, an heirloom tomato salad with smoked ricotta and "many basils", buttered black sea bass over new potatoes, and cream puffs with a hazelnut brittle.
More than the many courses, I remember the loving details in between. The warm washcloth that followed the oysters and olives, tied with a sprig of lavender. The palate cleansing sorbet served in a tiny jadeite hen. The flickering candles and redolent wildflower bouquets. The flowers everywhere, on every surface, every dish: nasturtium, calendula, flowering fennel, chive, and dill.
I've sent in a postcard every year since, in the hope of dreaming that dream once more.
Well, today was a veritable daydream. There were candles lit despite the heat, filling the space with the subtle sweetness of beeswax. There were peonies on every table, foxglove and phlox in grand bouquets. There were a plentitude of wines, and ice buckets at the ready.
Erin flitted about, greeting guests and signing books on request. Erin's mother found us in our camp chairs to offer us mixed olives in an enameled tray. Children leaned against the bridge rail to observe a throaty bullfrog in the pond below. Wine in hand, we walked along the perimeter of the garden, appreciating the cosmos, firmly planted and readying themselves for their colorful debut. As I admired the old Airstream, a dragonfly landed on the rim of my glass.
The Lost Kitchen is magic.
