Calendar pinups

I imagine most people’s June calendars have sunny beach scenes or images of warm people and gardens full of blossoms. I turn my calendar page, and there stands Little One in full rain gear (that’s boots, a coat, rain pants and a hat with ear flaps, for those of you who don’t live in a temperate rain forest), soaked to the skin and covered in a fine layer of sandy mud. Yes, folks, it is June, damp beginning of the clamming season in the Pacific Northwest.

Fishing Sensei has scheduled a muddy extravaganza to celebrate low tide next weekend, but alas, Number One son will be sawing away at his cello that afternoon, on a stage, which really does require our attendance. Not that it’s a hardship listening to his orchestra, but I admit hesitating a bit, recalling the heady aroma of fresh clam chowder made on the same beach where we dug the main ingredient. Mighty tempting.

The cat meowing loudly at the back door breaks my reverie. I look up and see a soggy mop that looks like it needs rinsing, and then realize she’s either fallen in the creek again, or it’s really raining. A peek through the open door verifies it is the latter, and I’m pretty sure I left the car window open last night. Just a crack, just enough.

Clearly, our plans to mow the lawn and clean the hot tub deck are on hold, and we won’t be dining al fresco any night this week. But I am glad we got the downspout fixed, some beds weeded, and the hanging baskets planted before the deluge. It is tempting to simply crawl back into our nest, where I suspect the covers may still be warm. I note that the cat has taken this approach. On the other hand, I think I have may some clams from last year in the freezer, just enough for a pot of chowder.

Keeping clam

Just because I refuse to put a dish next to my name when someone distributes a potluck signup does not mean I don’t love a potluck. Au contraire, I’ve said it before and will say it again: I love a good potluck. This weekend’s potluck came to us courtesy of Fishing Sensei, who bravely organized another clamming day with his co-workers, my Darling Husband among them.

The rains threatened to make it another soggy day, but Little One wisely noted that if we brought our raincoats and rainboots with, then it wouldn’t rain, and he was delightfully right. It was cloudy for a bit, but enough sun broke out to be pleasant enough to dig in shirtsleeves without working up a sweat. Of course no raingear means mud on our clothes, but I can live with that.

I should note here that Darling Husband does not engage in the actual hunt and capture of said clams. Perhaps it’s because he’s not a great seafood lover, or perhaps he just prefers to hold down the picnic bench with conversation, but he more than earns his keep as a runner for the forgotten shovel or snack for a kidlet.

Now for my confession: I am a potluck anarchist not because of a strong conviction (though I do think overplanning can ruin perfectly good chaos), but because I am often to stretched to think days ahead in my menu planning. But since I knew I was going clamming, I was organized enough to pick up the ingredients for chowder. And then, I thought, why wait until I get home to make it?

So that’s just what we did. While Fishing Sensei threw some of his world famous BBQ ribs and corn on the grill, and his wife cleaned out a squid to do the same, I scrubbed my freshly dug clams and started steaming them. More folks arrived, with even more meat for the grill and showy prepackaged Japanese desserts, and I chopped onion and potatoes and celery and started making soup. The last folks straggled in bearing Ruffles, and I plopped the lid on the pot to let it simmer.

I brought in a string bag of potatoes, an onion, celery, butter, flour, and some milk; I hiked up the hill with two dirty (but empty) pots, a few more clams (dug with all the energy my cup of chowder gave me), and the tired happy feeling that comes from a day spent outdoors.