Nantucket the Beautiful
Guys, this is it. My favorite season. My favorite holiday. My favorite color combination.
Except this year, it was going to be different. We live on Nantucket now, afterall, therefore making our usual pilgrimage to Portland, Maine not exactly feasible.
But seeing as this island is like, one of the Fourth of July capitals of the world, it seemed crazy to be anywhere but here. So they came to us. They being Alisa and Rocky, the other half of this annual patriotic party, and then later, my sister Becky and her boyfriend Fred joined as well.
But Lindsay, didn’t you move into a super small apartment over a garage down a dirt road in the middle of the woods? Why yes, yes we did. So what did we do? We had everyone over anyways. All six of us. One bathroom.
But let’s start at the beginning, shall we?
We moved about a week before our guests were scheduled to arrive. There’s nothing like impending company to force you to unpack. Without them, we’d probably be living in a box fort right now. We spent all our waking hours trying to get organized and make our place at least livable, if not presentable. It was less than a mere 24 hours before Alisa and Rocky were set to arrive that we even got our couch set up:
|yep, that’s right. we didn’t have anywhere to sit for an entire week.|
As we neared 2:00 A.M. on Tuesday evening, I attempted to put away some stragglers of my wardrobe that hadn’t found a home yet. As I opened my dress closet, I felt a strange wobble, and before I even had time to react, this happened:
|there aren’t enough tears in the world.|
The game hadn’t even started and I already lost. For those of you that don’t know, there is a very long, love-hate (me being the “love” part and Steve being the “hate”) relationship with this particular piece of furniture that I am feeling deserves its own post. However, I still haven’t processed my feelings on that yet, so it will have to wait until I have completed the seven stages of mourning and am emotionally stable enough to tell my story.
So there was a set back. But we soldiered on. And finally, on Wednesday night, we were reunited for the first time in what felt like forever:
|forgive our weird pupils.|
After a little dinner and after-dinner drinks, we headed to Stop & Shop for a few necessary essentials:
|inappropriateness. not on the list.|
PS- Did you know if you go to the grocery store super late at night, it is all neat and organized for your shopping pleasure? I may have to start cooking.
|i wish my life was this organized. color me jealous.|
That night, we prepared some lovely sleeping accommodations for our guests. I.e., sheets on either end of our newly cleared off sectional couch. Of course, that meant that violations ensued:
|this shit is bananas. b-a-n-a-n-a-s.|
For those who may not know, many years ago, we noticed a pattern in pictures of Steve and Alisa together. And that pattern was some sort of inappropriate gesture in Alisa’s direction. It had become such a phenomenon, that one year, Steve created an anthology of pictures known as the “Violation Album” (Volume 1, of course) for Alisa for her birthday. And so, almost eight years later, it continues.
We awoke the next morning with only two thoughts in our mind: food and fireworks. Okay, and booze. Three things.
Let’s start with the food. Steve made his most notorious breakfast item that he only breaks out for very, very special occasions: The oven-baked caramel french toast from the Graycote Inn in Bar Harbor, Maine. If you must know how to make it (and I assure you, you must), you can find the recipe here. We all died a little bit, came back to life, ate more food, and died again.
|there is also an egg sausage thing, but we all know i don’t eat eggs. among many other things.|
The best part? There is a caramel drizzle. CARAMEL DRIZZLE, PEOPLE.
|breakfast will never be the same.|
Did I mention mimosas? Yeah, there were those two.
|nothing like popping the cork on a three year old magnum of champagne.|
The weather ended up being kinda meeeeh that day, which really started to concern me after last year’s fireworks got totally rained out and we had to miss them completely. But we couldn’t resist visiting at least a few of Nantucket’s numerous miles of shoreline.
|it’s just like that movie beaches, but with dudes. and less death and singing.|
Of course, it wouldn’t be us if there weren’t some more inappropriateness:
|from dancing to violating in less than five seconds. a new record.|
The weather mildly started to improve, which could only mean one thing: it was time to grill. Slight problem: the grill was in pieces. In a box. In the garage (yes, the very one we live over). Luckily, the men were here to save the day:
|like mckayla, rocky is not impressed.|
But they did it. And it only took like seven hours for us to feel hungry again.
|you may not be able to tell, but there is cheese inside the burger.|
There may have also been beverages. We steered away from the red, white and blue margaritas this year, because unfortunately, I only own one blender. But there was a new addition, which will forever be known as… boozy fruit.
|i.e., steve’s orange sangria champagne concoction thing.|
But Steve was greedy, and stole my Nantucket-necessity Lilly Pulitzer coozy and got beer sweat condensation all over it, totally decreasing the preppy girl value of it.
|it takes a very secure man to rock a regatta print.|
After conquering our expertly grilled meals, we prepared ourselves for the fireworks on the roof of the Whaling Museum. At the last minute, the entire staff was invited to take in the Fourth of July finale from the rooftop observation deck, which is not only private, but boasts some of the best harbor views on the island. I was so excited to show our guests not only where I worked, but also to beat the insane crowd that heads to the beach.
And of course, the second we pulled out of the driveway, the fog rolled in. That Grey Lady can be such a bitch sometimes.
We went to the roof anyway, hoping that as fast as it rolled in, it would just roll right out.
|so happy i curled my hair.|
And it stuck around. But so did we.
|fog or instagram?|
But the fog, like this shirt that Steve insists on wearing, was relentless. They cancelled the fireworks, rescheduling them for the next night.
It was mildly depressing. I mean, this was our first Nantucket Fourth, after all.
Nothing a little trip to the Juice Bar can’t fix.
|if i could cover my life in patriotic sprinkles, i would.|
That’s it for the first installment of Steve & Lindsay’s First July Fourth on Nantucket guest-starring Alisa and Rocky. Coming up next? The arrival of Becky and Fred. And more ice cream. And more drinking.