Summer Herbs

Summer will always remind us of Cape Cod. For several summers back in the mid-Nineties, we worked for the late Diana Trilling. Mrs. Trilling was one of the last of the New York Intellectuals, but when we took the job, we knew her mostly as a widow of nearly ninety who needed a driver and a companion. Mrs. Trilling hired us partly on the basis of our experience in restaurants, as well as our enthusiasm for cooking and eating in general. We got to know her, her history, and her work over the course of three summers in Wellfleet, but we got to know her best through food and cooking.

Mrs. Trilling enjoyed fresh fish, tomatoes (pronounced with the long "a", natch) and corn on the cob. She commented constantly about how bad food in America was becoming; this was a good decade before the current uproar against what post-war economic expansion has done to eating in our culture. She loved steamer clams, although she was squeamish about cleaning them, and once in a while, enjoyed the treat of a fresh lobster. Eating this summer's peaches and tomatoes and corn here in Buffalo, we can't help thinking, "Hmm...that's not the best peach I've ever had..." And when we're shopping at Wegman's, we find ourselves thinking with her mind, speaking to ourselves with her voice. "That canteloupe is too large...choose smaller fruits...they taste better...Americans think large is best, and that's a fallacy."

We thought of the herb garden we gave her for her last, ninety-third birthday. Mrs. Trilling loved tomatoes with basil, olive oil, and salt and pepper, and the expense of herbs at the local market--Hatch's, which sits on the edge of the parking lot behind the Wellfleet Town Hall. Her last July--her birthday was the 21st of this month--we bought a large terra cotta pot, a bag of potting soil, and a collection of potted herbs, including basil, thyme, marjoram, dill, and oregano. She was delighted by the miniature garden, and enjoyed the herbs as much as she could that last summer of her life. When we left the Cape at the end of the season, we had to leave the pot there. Perhaps someone transplanted them without telling us; perhaps some of the plants were discarded, but found their own way to sink their roots into the sandy Cape soil.