Tag Archives: maine

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Nothing to see here, just a sunbathing seal floating by.

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We had lunch at the Muddy Rudder last week..

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Why the name?

Legend has it that many years ago the tugboat Portland slowly wound its way up the nearby Cousins River. Its destination was Yarmouth, and its purpose was to provide a place for good food, drink, and hospitality. A harsh nor’easter besieged the boat at its mooring and strong winds grounded and overturned her. The restaurant is built on that site.

But wait…. as we were sipping our adult beverages something was spotted outside.

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Do you see it?

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My iPhone camera doesn’t do him justice, but that’s one very chill seal slowly floating by on a chunk of rapidly melting ice.

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Wedge salad and clam chowder later…

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He was still floating. Though he’d flipped over on his stomach and turned to face foward.

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Fried scallops and a stuffed haddock with sherry lobster cream sauce later? He was gone, and we were full. Just another average day on the Maine coast….

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The wall of death and other antique store oddities.

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In an effort to amuse my recently retired husband, I took him to the largest antique in Maine. Five full floors of crap no one needs treasure housed in an old chicken barn. Okay, there was no heat in parts of it and the lights went out twice… but my spouse will tell you that’s part of the charm.

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To say this place went on forever was an understatement. Knowing I was going to lose the spouse over the course of the afternoon I made sure he had his cell phone fully charged and within reach. Many a “I’m standing in front of the walrus tusk, next to the embalmer’s table” calls were made that day.

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When you antique shop with my husband? It’s an all day affair. Each and every ludicrous piece of crap treasure must be thoroughly examined.

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And I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say this is where ugly lamps go to die.

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Good grief. That one looks like it has a tumor.

And since this is a northern Maine antique mall?

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There was the required Wall of Death.

Not being a hunter, these displays always make me cringe. Mounting trophy heads is barbaric as far as I’m concerned. I’m sure this poor fellow agrees…

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Taxidermy.

When it goes wrong? It goes really wrong.

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The juxtaposition of this World War II gas mask with the jauntily hatted little cherub defies rational explanation, but proves you never know what will be around the next corner.

To be continued….

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Nope. Uh uh. Not happening.

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Another attempt at winter cat walking was made this week. The husband bundled up against the chill and Lord Dudley Mountcatten happily donned his harness for an excursion into the wilds of our backyard. All was proceeding nicely …

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Until we opened the door and the cold air hit his pansy ass feline self.

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At which point he turned tail and jumped right on the heating pad.

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His Lordship is most definitely a fair weather beast.

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Drinking Rule #1… do not insult the bartender.

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The husband and I stopped into a local seafood place the other day for a drink and a bite.

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The bartender whipped me up a few fabulous Snowy White Cosmopolitans…

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And somehow we got to chatting about cats. A few cocktails in I was talking about putting the harness and leash on Dudley and told the bartender that as soon as I said “walkies!” in my best falsetto… he came running. She looked at me oddly, so I explained the origin of the term.

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Barbara was a British dog trainer who had a show on PBS in the 80’s. When I mentioned her name, the bartender didn’t have a clue. Which is when I apparently insulted her by saying “You remember that show”. I truly thought she would, because ya know… we looked about the same age and she had previously commiserated with me about hot flashes. Turns out she wasn’t my age, not even close and she was less than pleased I thought so.

It was then that I realized I had broken the age old drinking rule… never piss off the bartender.

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It’s a good thing she’d delivered my crab quesadillas before my I let loose my poisoned comment.

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But clearly we’ll never be able to go back to this establishment. Which is a shame because it was a fun place, complete with an “I prefer my pets” love meter sangria dispenser…

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And an outboard motor kegerator.

Me and my big liquored up mouth. It will never learn.

🥴

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I love my town

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Sometimes things look a little different in my state.

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Don’t knock it, you can carry quite a few six packs in that bucket.

Some of our locals are poets.

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The benefit of living in a small rural town filled with farms? Our food pantry is always well stocked for those less fortunate.

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Maine is on a temperature roller coaster right now.

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I swear I’m getting whiplash.

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But still…

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Life is good.

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Incorrect use of lobster.

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I live in Maine, Land of Lobster. We catch it, we eat it, we export it, we celebrate it with festivals. Hell, we’ve built an entire tourist industry around it.

The one thing we don’t do with it? Relieve menstrual cramps.

Yet someone, somewhere thought they should.

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Meet the Menstruation Crustacean.

Jesus wept.

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Lobsters are a lot of things…. long lived, bottom dwelling, quick swimming, and delicious in drawn butter.

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But cuddly?

Cuddly doesn’t make the top ten.

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Yes, this lobster abomination can hold tampons in its claws.

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Something I have to admit I’ve never seen ours do.

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Ragin’ Asian Cajun?

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My girlfriend and I went shopping last week and were excited to discover a new Cajun seafood restaurant had opened in South Portland. Mouth watering for shrimp ettouffe or crawfish gumbo, we entered The Shaking Crab.

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Why was the crab shaking? I have no idea. But the place being nearly empty at the height of the lunch hour should have been our first clue something wasn’t quite right.

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Six dollar drinks went a long way to calm our suspicions…

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Though the Cajuns I’ve known wouldn’t be caught dead drinking a watermelon-tini.

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Giant plastic crabs were everywhere. As were plastic starfish and randomly placed hanging plastic water bubbles.

All the waitstaff were Asian. 9/10ths of the customers were Asian. The scent of the room was reminiscent of an Asian kitchen. The menu? Not an ettouffe, Boudin, or jambalaya in sight.

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Though you could order “coleslow” and “braccoli ”. (These appeared twice, spelled incorrectly both times.) I didn’t bother taking pictures of our meals, they were just typical fried seafood baskets as the only other choices were giant plates of steamed things in a plastic wrap bubble you had to crack, and we didn’t feel like making a mess. I did try to catch a shot of one being delivered to another table, but missed.

Imagine a giant Jiffy Pop balloon encircling a metal dish, only its clear plastic instead of foil. It was an absolutely bizarre presentation of what I’m assuming was meant to be a crawfish boil.

I lived down south. I had Cajun friends and neighbors. I’ve sucked heads. Whatever The Shaking Crab meant to be? It sure as hell wasn’t Cajun.

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Random nonsense.

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A jellyfish martini glass?

Yes please!

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I may be speaking for myself, but a good Camembert does more for my soul than Jesus ever has.

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Why did I ever stop drinking lemon drops? A recent visit to our favorite restaurant found me sitting next to two women of a certain age, one of whom was celebrating a birthday. They were drinking lemon drop martinis, so I did as well. It’s all about solidarity.

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Best name for a spaghetti sauce, ever.

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Rat – 0. Red bitch – 1.

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Remember the rat who showed up and dug a tunnel to our wood shed. The one whose demise I sadly had to hasten? He’s been gone for quite some time now, but it seems another pesky rodent has taken over his ratty super highway.

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Yes. It’s her. The red bitch we’ve been evicting for the past year and a half.

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It shouldn’t surprise me.

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She’s a resourceful little witch.

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But it does make me wonder how she disposed of the previous tenant’s remains …

😳

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