Tim Horton & Frank Pepe


Beware: when driving back from Cape Cod to New York, be wary of any Canadians or Yalies in your car. In our case, we had Dara (a Canadian) and Amir (a Yalie) both of whom were responsible for thousands of calories consumed against my innocent, food-shirking will. Why must food obsessives force me, a health-nut, to eat doughnuts and pizza when all I want are bags of trail mix and no-fat fruit smoothies? Are you buying any of this? No?

Ok, you’re right, the Canadian and the Yalie were certainly enablers, but I was the catalyst for all the fat we consumed on the drive back. The Canadian started it. Dara spied a sign for Tim Horton’s, which you see in the picture above. I’d recalled a Canadian reader e-mailing me once about Tim Horton’s, saying it’s the Canadian version of Dunkin’ Donuts only much, much better. Dara agreed. “We should go there,” either she said or I said; or maybe we both said it. We’d pulled off the highway anyway because we needed gas and there was Tim Horton’s, where, after the gas, we stopped for a bathroom and a doughnut.

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Hungry in the Hamptons at The Stone Creek Inn


This is a quick post about a dinner I ate this weekend in the Hamptons. My parents were there with my brother and his girlfriend, Tali, for a party, and I came the day before to spend time with everyone. We had a really forgettable lunch in Westhampton at 75 Main–country club food, indifferent service–and I was expecting the same for dinner. But where we ended up, The Stone Creek Inn (located in East Quogue), offered up a memorable dinner, even if it wasn’t quite a success story.

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Get Away to Kennebunkport


The perfect weekend getaway is one that makes you feel like you’ve been gone for months. That’s how I felt this Sunday night when I came back from a brief trip to Kennebunkport with my friends Patty, Diana and James. We’d only been there 36 hours–we left early Saturday morning (7 am) and returned late Sunday night–and yet I may as well have gone for a jaunt through Europe. It was a fantastic one night trip and if you click ahead, I’ll tell you how we planned it, where we ate, and how you can do the same.

[Note: all pictures in this post are by James Felder, of Snapshot Artifact]

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Labor Day Weekend on Cape Cod


I wasn’t supposed to go to Cape Cod. Well, I was. But then I wasn’t. See, when Craig told me I was invited to go to Cape Cod, to stay at the beach house of his friend Rob and 13 others–most of them film school students–I was thrilled to be included. A Cape Cod invitation is a big deal, not quickly doled out, and a free holiday with free transportation (we were getting a ride from friends) is a very difficult thing to refuse. So I said, “Yes, absolutely, sign me up.”

Then, as last week wore on, I began to get nervous. “I’m getting nervous,” I told Craig. “My book is due in a week, September 9th, and I’m scared I won’t get it done if I go away.”

So I backed out. “I’m sorry,” I said, sincerely. Craig was deeply disappointed. He left Thursday morning and I set upon doing my work. The day was gloomy, the work was difficult, and I came home that night tired but resigned: I made the right decision. Now I’ll get this done and I’ll feel good.

I e-mailed my editor, Philip, who is always quick with a response. “Can I deliver the manuscript directly to you on Friday the 8th? What time is best?”

He wrote back, as I expected, pretty quickly the next morning. “Turns out I won’t be able to begin reading/editing until the week after…so if you want to, just wait until Sept. 18th to deliver it?”

I almost fell out of my chair. September 18th! That’s almost two weeks away! I could have totally gone to Cape Cod!

I called Craig immediately. “Craig!” I barked into his machine. “I can come to Cape Cod! Are there any cars leaving that I can get a ride with? Or is everyone there?”

He wasn’t answering his phone. I left three messages and called over and over again. He didn’t answer. Meanwhile Philip called to apologize profusely after I wrote him about my missed Cape Cod trip. I told him it wasn’t his fault at all—I should’ve e-mailed him sooner. And I told him that it wasn’t a big deal, the weather was supposed to be lousy and that I would get work done while Craig was away having fun.

I joined Kirk for lunch at Pearl Oyster Bar because he’s moving away soon and that seemed a good enough reason to splurge on fancy fish sandwiches. It was nearly 2 o’clock when my phone rang. I just finished a giant plate of sauteed skate when I heard Craig’s voice.

“Can you be at 10th Ave. and 20th street at 2:30?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “I’m at lunch with Kirk.”

“But there’s a car leaving then and they’re going to wait for you.”

I stared down at my empty plate. It was impossible. I was on Cornelia Street, my apartment is on 26th Street and I’d have to run home, pack, put food out for Lolita and then get myself to 10th Ave. all within 30 minutes.

“It’s impossible,” I said. “It’s 2 o’clock now. There’s no way I can make it.”

Craig was very quiet and I could feel his disappointment. “I’m sorry,” I said.

“Ok,” he said. “I didn’t realize how late it was.”

We hung up and the check came. Kirk asked me what had happened and I told him. “Dude,” he said. “You should go.”

I looked at him and felt the weight of his words. You should go. Why wasn’t I going? My book wasn’t due now for two weeks. I could hop in a cab, race up to my apartment, throw things into a suitcase, leave a huge bowl of food out for Lolita, then race down and into a cab direct to 20th and 10th Ave.

“Ok,” I said, shooting out of my seat. “Here’s $20.” I handed him a bill. “I’ll talk to you soon!”

I raced out the door, darting towards 6th Ave. I called Craig’s cell phone. He answered, “Yes?” and I said, “Ok, tell them to wait for me. I’m coming.”

In the blink of an instant I made up my mind to go to Cape Cod. Here’s everything that happened after…

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