A couple of months ago I spent an end-of-summer afternoon at the beach. A sandy beach in Cape Ann, Mass. that has lots of seaweed – the big, ribbony kind that I used to tuck into my bathing suit as a kid so I could race down the beach with a tail flapping behind me; the type that is made up of little pods that we used to like to snap with our fingers, as if it was plastic bubble wrap; the long, skinny ones that look like string beans. Together, they made up a collection of colours from green-golds, to black-greens, to browns, to sea-yellows, all glistening under the bright September sun. They almost looked edible, like huge cakes spiraling skyward, or ribbon candies nestled in the sand, or giant green sea salads.
But we did not eat seaweed. Instead, we went to the Lobster Pool in Rockport and ate fried oysters and lobster rolls and french fries. A day at the beach.