I am half Norwegian and half Irish American. Both of my parents' families were, as you can imagine from completly different worlds.
The Norwegians were (in this order), big gardeners, big drinkers and big eaters. the Irish Americans were (in this order), big eaters and big drinkers.
My father's Norwegian siblings were very close and all lived within ten miles of each other and often had enviable drunken, delicious dinners together, always at our rambling Georgian farmhouse in Buckinghamshire, England.
As a young child (about eight or ten) and after my bedtime story, my sister, Ophelia and I would secretly, sit at the top of the stairs and clandestinely listen to my father and my aunts' laughter and their stories....
By now, I doubt my parents are surprised by anything I do. I’ve dragged them along through three (maybe four) different careers, from North Carolina to New York City to Newport and Newtown. Surely this latest venture—farming on Martha’s Vineyard—has given them a chuckle (and a wrinkle) or two. But they’ve never been anything but supportive.
As a little girl, I loved to swim, still do. Just about any chance I got to go swimming, I would. I dreamed of having my own pool. My bigger dreams were to be an Olympic swimmer and also to swim the English Channel.
My dad wasn’t much of a cook! He even burned the bacon. His idea of making baked beans was to put them in a pan of boiling water – in the can with the top still on. This might actually work, although the only time I remember him doing it, he forgot about them, the water boiled down, the can exploded (EXPLODED!!!), luckily no one was in the kitchen at the time, and a lot of the baked beans flew up to the ceiling and rested there. I do not remember if my mother thought this was funny.