My father swore the secret was the seaweed.
Donning his custom “Bakemaster” apron,
He’d first dig out a pit in the driveway,
Then lay a fire in it, setting each split log just so.
Next a half barrel, of uncertain provenance,
Appeared each year and was settled on top.
Bricks were laid in the steel bottom to retain heat.
Then came the seaweed, dampened with a garden hose.
My father swore the secret was the seaweed.
Next layers of offerings from Poseidon, Neptune:
Lobster, steamer clams, fresh from the dock,
Followed by butter and sugar corn, new potatoes, yams.
With each layer kept separate from the rest
By a buffer of seaweed, dampened with a garden hose.
My father always swore the secret was the seaweed.
Then the whole epicurean treasure chest was covered in burlap.
My father, and my cousin—the bakemaster’s assistant—
Attended to the fire, to the moisture level of the burlap.
While woodsmoke and steam lazily entwined,
we kids were press-ganged into cranking ice cream,
Taking turns with vanilla, chocolate, and banana.
When Dad announced the feast ready for the masses,
And kith and kin, family and friends, had gathered,
He’d preside over the table and intone:
“May everyone have it this good.”
Then butter dripped from claw meat and corn cob,
And compliments flew.
But Dad dismissed the praise, with a smile and a shrug.
The secret, he’d say, is in the seaweed.
Curiosity Seldom Pays 