So, Bethany and I are sharing a futon over here in the Nantucket Cottage. My prospects from last night came true to a certain extent, as I had a fusion lazer tag-escaped zoo-hunger games ecstatic episode of a dream. It was exciting, and from what I last recall before I woke up, it was only me, two other competitors, and a Mark Wahlberg character left in the labyrinth. I also remember having an infinite number of pulled-pork sandwiches in my backpack. Unfortunately for Bethany, I was kicking the entire night, breathing heavily, and flailing my arms around as I was envisioning curb-stomping multiple components of all ages.
Luckily, I woke up well rested, empowered by the strength my cerebral arena of gladiator-lazer tagging was able to bring out of me.
Hoping to make up the last nine hours of sleep to Bethany, I thought it would only be best if I acompanied her as she went to the market to buy a sconset blueberry muffin.
I had one of those two days ago, so rather than settle for the little sugary crustaceans of the Pearly Gates I decided to follow through on my aspiration of taking on a Sconset Cookie with an Iced Coffee.
So we trekked along the beach- the sun beating through my Ray Bans, bumblebees and hornets buzzing around my ears, all those stank sunflowers and hibiscuses stuffing up my nostrils, the sea breeze hitting my entire body, my freshly dried shirt from the Monk Thrift Shop in NY (sans the smell of dead man) making me look really fly- I should’ve just stayed in bed.
We worked up the same steps I used to workout on yesterday and fumbled through our pseudo-grogginess to the Market.
Well, first thing you see when you enter is a crap load of retired, post-Equinox asses wearing Nantucket Red or Electric Blue shorts with polo shirts tucked into them. Nautical Belts in Nantucket surpass nautical belts anywhere else. Here, you don’t just have belts with sailboat graphics- you have graphics of golden retrievers riding sailing boats.
Next thing, a countertop stacked with trays of ‘Sconset’s Best’ everything- Walnut brownies, Blueberry Muffins, Cookies, and croissants.
Waiting in line, I was able to pick up on the stuff that was stacked on the shelves; all of the items seemed to be locally made on the Island and/or were spreadable on bread- lemon creme, lemon ricotta cream, jams and preserves and marmalade, Eggos.
We were held in a line longer than expected because the man in front of us (who also boasted electric blue shorts with a fire hydrant and buoy nautical belt- candy-cane stripped shirt tucked in), was yelling at the cashier because he’d been living on Sconset for over 20 years and ‘How dare they not have his name on the delivery registrar.’ It was really a simple misunderstanding, I believe the man was unaware that the market automatically assumed or was able to know that he had been living on Nantucket at all, the man was totally right on the situation, as he should’ve never had the need to tell the market employees to put him on the register. They should have already known.
He left with some really miserable-looking groceries and a Pepsi. I keep thinking he left his poodle in the car with all the windows up- at least, that’s officially my opinion of him.
We got what we came for- Bethany rocking a muffin and me with an Iced Coffee and a Sconset Cookie.
Hiding from the weather, we retreated to the cottage where I took my first bite and fell into chocolate-covered comatose. Alliteration, folks.
Cookie was about 11 inches in diameter with enough nuts inside of it to make Seabiscuit jealous. A conglomeration of walnut, oats, and brown sugar kept the chocolate chips intact up until the point I chomped down on them and they smeared all over my tongue.
That’s a really gross word, ‘smear’. ‘Moist’ too. Just say it- it sounds like your riding your tongue against the roof of your mouth and a dead squirrel at the same time, ‘Moist’.
The charm of the iced coffee wore off really quickly once I realized that it tasted more and more the burnt and cooled plastic- kinda like the coffee had absorbed the whatever-it-is of the plastic cup and was just waiting and settling in for some schmuck like me to come along and think it to be magical and divine and totally what the morning essence of Nantucket should be like.
Whatever. I devoured it all.
For now though, I’m off to the real ‘town’. We’re off for lunch, to find the Writer’s Colony, and to walk into stores that all have really simple, stupid names, like ‘Books’, ‘Birch’, or my favorite- ‘Belongings’, a furniture store where you can buy things to keep and call your own. Kinda like Williamsburg.