A Perfect Day

We rose at 6 am and were out of the door at 7. The weather was warm yet the skies remained overcast.The Long Island Expressway was wide open and Angus flew over the roads like a nomad invading the Sahara. We arrived in Mattituck just as a gentle sun broke through the clouds and we were on the tennis courts by 8:30 am. We played for an hour, getting our game groove back up to speed. It felt good. So good, I decided to run the track of the stadium next to the courts. And it was only 10 am when I finished.

We bought a bag of bagels from the local bagel store to take to Aunt Bert. The bagels, fresh from the oven, were warm and pungent with the scent of onion and garlic. Fang decided he wanted to cook dinner for all of us so we detoured to the local Waldbaum's for a rack of pork ribs and chicken. Then we further detoured to one of the Island's local produce stands where we bought asparagus and fat beefsteak tomatoes and fresh homemade mozzarella and heavily scented basil and gorgeous berries and sweet corn. Arriving at the cottage an hour later, Bert was a bit overwhelmed with the bounty. "What's all this?" she asked, "we have food!"

Fang began to prep. He cut up the chicken and marinated it in lime, garlic, peppers and onion. He was busy at work in the kitchen. It was time for me to go to the beach.

The beach is a three block walk from the cottage. It's a leisurely walk down a tree shadowed lane dotted with cedar shingled houses and wide expansive lawns. People sit on their porches and wave as you pass. The air is fresh, lightly scented with the salt of the sea. It's silent save the sound of an occasional car passing or the distant buzz of a JetSki on the water.

I get to the beach and hang with Basia, Fang's cousin. She's a Manhattan girl and conversant in culture, food and travel, but she's also incredibly down to Earth. We sit on folding chairs with our legs draped in the sand as the tide washes over our feet. We share a copy of The New York Times. I go for a swim. The shore is rocky and the water slightly chilly, but it's exhilarating. The sky is bright blue and streaked with finger painting of white clouds. I float in the water and gaze overhead. It's heaven.

Fang joins us. The three of us discuss articles in The Times. We sunbathe. We catnap. Fang and I go for a swim and as we're swimming away from the shore, Fang says, "I think we should consider buying a summer house out here. " You know what? I think we should, too. We discuss this with Basia (who also happens to be an attorney, specializing in real estate law). We agree to come back out here in October after the season to look at some property. I can easily imagine spending my summer weekends at a pretty little house nestled between the vineyards and the beach of the North Shore. And what's more, having a place to entice our friends and family to visit in the summer seals the deal for me.

The cottage Bert has rented has an outdoor shower. There is something wonderful about taking a shower outside with the sky and trees above you and the possibility the innocent passerby on a bike gets an eyeful of your bare ass. It's so casual here that it doesn't seem to matter that much.

As I write this, Fang has the gas grill fired up. The ribs are on, and the chicken, peppers and corn are ready to go. A bottle of Long Island wine (a Chardonnay, I believe) has just been uncorked and a breeze runs through the house. The crickets are already starting their pre-evening chirp.

I think I could spend my summers here. Yeah, easily.