Many of you have heard of the Hamptons, that putative playground of the rich and famous, and think that summer must be glamorous buckets of fun in a place like this. Beach blanket bingo on a luxe scale. Ha! The inside scoop is that we locals look upon the season with a touch of apprehension as the super-charged A-Types from Manhattan descend in droves on our otherwise tranquil villages. Being an ex-New Yorker myself, I can only imagine that I created the same havoc when I arrived on weekends years ago. But I’ve had fourteen years to unwind into life on the east end and can watch now with rapt amusement, if not murderous annoyance, as these high-strung urbanites arrive, determined, damn it, to find their centers, relaaaaaax and attack the farmer’s market for locally-grown organic produce before anyone else does. (Hilarious, as long as you’re not trying to cross the street with your dog.)
So the annual fandango resumes. Memorial Weekend has arrived and shopping for provisions is nothing short of bare-knuckled combat on Montauk Highway. Girding the loins doesn’t begin to describe what a girl’s gotta do to get out and score some supplies. (Girdling maybe? Nevermind.) If good wine and fresh seafood were not bare essentials, I would settle for a bag of chips and watch golf. But that won’t do for the kick-off of Summer 2015, so the lobsters have been procured through stealth and back-roads maneuvering and the chenin blanc is chilling in a bucket of ice as we speak. Daffodil’s willing to share the couch, so there’s just enough time for a little nap before the festivities begin. Will be dreaming of Marauder’s Maps and invisibility cloaks…..