On very cold winter days, she sometimes lets herself imagine summer for a few brief moments. She closes her eyes and pretends that it’s the time of year when something shifts imperceptibly overnight from spring warmth to real heat. If she concentrates, she can summon it vividly enough that becomes almost tangible: Her skin practically smells like she’s just rubbed coconut-scented sunscreen onto her cheeks. Like her toes are already dusty with sand as she stands down by the dock.
She can hear seagulls shrieking as they dip and flit above the restaurant that sits furthest out on the marina, its waterfront bar buzzing, tarps rolled up tightly above the sides. It’s packed with people: the yacht hands in their khaki shorts and wraparound sunglasses and crisp white polos emblazoned with names like Serenity II and Quantum. Families with hot, tired kids placated into staying still by slices of pizza while their parents drink rum and cokes on ice. Hordes of twenty-somethings crowding the floor in front of the live band that plays beach music all day long: Jimmy Buffet and Bob Marley and UB40.
Servers thread their way through the throngs, dropping off platters of the restaurant’s famous baked clams, smothered in herbs, garlic, bacon, and mushrooms. A hundred feet away, the town’s oyster shack is open too: Every table is full and people stand and mingle, watching the cute tanned guys out front expertly pop open shell after shell, placing the oysters on ice alongside a wedge of lemon and mignonette sauce. They’re wearing navy t-shirts that read Shuck Yourself on the back and they pass out tall glasses of Bloody Marys from the kitchen in the back. Pitchers of their signature Painkiller cocktail (rum, nutmeg, pineapple, orange juice, and coconut) make the rounds.
The vineyards are busy, too—some are casual, full of kids racing around and guys in Nantucket red shorts playing cornhole out front, with live music and a food truck selling pizza.
Some are pretty enough to transport you briefly to France—one a few miles away has a tasting cottage tucked inside an open-air white-washed barn. Long wooden tables are hidden behind fig trees and rose bushes; you can order the most beautiful cheese plates alongside your sampling of wines.
Slightly further west is a vineyard famous for producing only rosé wines: Imagine if Anthropologie had its own vineyard…and that’s it. On summer days, the shaded courtyard is always full of girls in floral dresses and fedoras, giggling over bottles of Jolie: a deep pink sparkling wine that smells faintly of strawberry.
She thinks about standing in an outdoor shower under the heavy pressure of hot water, feeling the wooded slats pressing into her sore feet. She thinks about standing on a beach in the British Virgin Islands in a bikini, the thin strip of skin just above her waistband ever-so-slightly sunburned, the air so hot and thick with humidity that she can feel sweat prickle at the back of her neck.
About warm waves pooling around her toes. About stepping further in, sinking into the white sand, the water getting cooler around her calves the deeper she goes.
She thinks about the smell of barbecued chicken drifting from the fire pit just off to the side of the wide scalloped beach, and the sticky residue of rum punch on her lips.
About diving headfirst into the surf and swimming a few lengths to where the waves stop gently breaking. Turning around to backstroke languorously out to a float to pull herself up, leaning back on her elbows and letting the hot sun dry her skin, watching beads of water drip down her tanned stomach. Peering down over the edge to watch the fish—iridescent blue chromis, neon pink and yellow fairy basslet, bright red soldier fish with their distinctive black barred pattern —flit around the limpid depths.
About the breeze at sunset. Wandering up the hill from our room with her sisters, all of them dressed for dinner, spritzed in perfume.
She could talk for hours about how captivating she finds the warmth. About how she loves beach days, but she might love beach nights even more. About the languid way that time moves on summer evenings, pulled and stretched out like taffy. About the sticky film of soft chocolate cookie that ice cream sandwiches leave on your fingertips and on the paper wrapper, or how good Rita’s Italian ice is on an August afternoon after field hockey tryouts in high school if you know to order the mango ice layered with vanilla frozen custard—and you eat it sitting on the curb, sweaty and sticky, letting your car cool down before you pile back in with your sisters and drive home: the light so golden and syrupy, the cornfields and horse pastures so green green green, your heart so calm and still.
Note: I like to use homemade vanilla ice cream here—I quite like this NYT recipe that uses 6 egg yolks so you know it’s good! You can, of course, use store-bought if you like, and feel free to use any flavor that you want to pair with chocolate. Mint or pistachio or strawberry are all excellent options.
Homemade Storebought-Style Ice Cream Sandwiches
Makes about 20 sandwiches
1/2 cup butter, at room temperature
3/4 cup dark brown sugar, packed
1/3 cup granulated sugar
2 eggs, at room temperature
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 1/4 cups plus 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
3/4 cup cocoa
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
1/4 teaspoon espresso powder (optional, for more pronounced chocolate flavor)
1 cup buttermilk, at room temperature
1 gallon very good-quality vanilla ice cream (homemade if you can!)
Preheat oven to 350° F.
In the bowl of a stand mixer, cream together the butter and sugars until very light and fluffy. Add the eggs, one at a time, beating until well-incorporated after each addition. Add the vanilla and mix well.
In a separate bowl, whisk together the flour, cocoa, baking soda, baking powder, espresso powder (if using) and salt. Add the dry ingredients to the wet ingredients by alternating with the buttermilk until you've added everything. Mix well.
Line two jelly roll pans or rimmed half-sheet pans (make sure they have a decently high rim!) and VERY thoroughly butter or grease the foil. Pour a thin layer of cake batter on each pan (you should be able to use up half the batter on each, depending on the height of the rim of your pans. The batter shouldn't be deeper than 1/2-inch).
Bake the cake for about 10 to 15 minutes, or until it just springs back when pressed lightly on the surface. Let cool in the pans for at least 15 minutes.
Carefully remove the cake from the pans (inverting it onto a cutting board helps), and peel the foil off the back. Let it cool fully.
While the cake cools, take out the ice cream to soften.
Slice each sheet of cake in half. Spread a 1-inch thick layer of softened vanilla ice cream on each half-sheet of cake, then top with the second layer. You should have two large cake sandwiches. Wrap both tightly in plastic wrap and freeze fully (at least 2 hours).
When ready to serve, remove from the freezer and slice the sandwiches into rectangles, about 5 by 2 inches. If you want to save some, you can wrap the individual sandwiches in plastic wrap for up to 1 month.