Where the Mozzarella Grows
Clearly, in Maine. I took this on a leisurely drive from Edgecomb to Damariscotta. I refuse to believe, as my sister insists, that these not mozzarella but mown hay wrapped in plastic. This mozzarella farm is located just south of Sherman Lake, the lake that is not a lake anymore.
What happened? Well, a crazy rain a couple years ago washed away the 71 year old dam that had kept the seven mile long lake ... a lake. So the lake went tidal, and is now a salt march. Fascinating stuff -- here's a really nice summary from Ethan Nedeau of the Gulf of Maine Times.
While I personally get that a salt marsh is a good thing for the ecology, I do miss the lake. I remember a truly magical night of ice-skating in the dark (you could go for literally miles on the glassine stretch) with ice-sailboats shimmering under the moon all around us, back in the years when lakes actually froze properly and the wind kept them properly swept of snow.
There is also the lovely creepy story of the Island of Lost Dogs, a miniscule hump of land in the middle of the lake, from which at night one could hear the baleful cries of the lost dogs trapped for all time on the little island.
I neglected to mention my birthday and how lovely it was. I got the best presents -- including a piece of art by my insanely talented sister-in-law, B. The photo above doesn't do it justice of course -- I'm still trying to find the best place to hang it. It's so cool -- and, as a present, is a nod to my endless eye problems. I also got a really nice book of poetry from P. and much more cool stuff. The best present of all was seeing T. again and watching him eat a popover.
