But now that I have moved to Connecticut, lobster abounds in the summertime. Steamed, grilled, and of course rolled, these succulent babies are served up in a variety of different ways, at a variety of different establishments. But for my very first lobster roll, I went to Chick’s in West Haven. Chick’s is truly a relic from the past, not much has changed here since the 1950’s. While the food is standard, large and usually fried, the location can’t be beat– it’s literally across the street from the beach. Moments after ordering, my lobster roll came out of the kitchen, piping hot, dripping with butter, on a toasted hot dog bun.

The Connecticut lobster roll is ideal for a mayonnaise-phobic fiend, such as myself, because it is simplicity itself. All you really taste is lobster, moist and slightly chewy, and butter, lots of butter. The cheap white hot dog bun, toasted to perfection, is merely a vehicle for getting the lobster into one’s mouth.

My husband, though sampling my lobster roll, ordered the special, deep-fried, soft-shell crab. It was served with toast in order to make a sandwich that looked like it could literally walk away with its claws peeking out from under the bread. The crackly carapace offered a welcome crunch to the sweet crab meat hiding within.

(That’s my husband’s hairy arm. I think it is the perfect backdrop for his fried feast.)

Was the food at Chick’s amazing? No, there is better fried fish to be found, and I am sure now that I am a Nutmegger, I will eat a better lobster roll. But Chick’s was the perfect introduction to this state. Sitting outside, on hard concrete benches, with our plastic plates of seafood before us, with a watery dish of coleslaw, and a lemon wedge as accompaniments, the cool breeze of summertime by the water, and the waves lapping the rocky shoreline across the street– Chick’s was great. I definitely think I will be back again.

When I was reading the Sunday NY Times a few weeks back, ignoring the salsa music coming from the street below, and sipping on a delicious cup of bodega/deli coffee, I spied Daniel Patterson’s recipe in the magazine section for fresh, homemade butter. I squealed with glee, my high-pitched emoting blending in perfectly with the jangle of the salsa music. Here was my opportunity to become my very own milkmaid , never having to leave the comforts of my couch in New York City. I ran out to the store to buy the only ingredient, a quart of heavy cream.

Who knew that making butter would be so simple, and so satisfying? All that is required is block of time, and a heavy duty mixer. Have you ever whipped cream into pillowy mounds to top your favorite dessert? Well imagine doing that, but not stopping when the cream reaches the desired billowy stage. There you have butter. (For anyone who would like to become an urban/suburban milkmaid themselves, Luisa has the complete recipe, with pictures, on her blog.)

As the minutes pass, and as you continue whipping that cream, just as you are about to wonder if anything will happen, little pebbles of butter emerge from the watery whey, which I learned is actually buttermilk. Then, there is draining, and some kneading (which I will admit is a little bizarre), in order to release even more buttermilk from the butter, yet in a matter of moments you have it– pure, rich, butter. And you can say that you made it.

The butter was good, not delicious, but very good. Light, unsalted, sweet, and it didn’t taste a bit like the fridge, always a dangerous threat when buying butter at the store these days. But the thing that was most gratifying about this little experiment, was just knowing that you made the butter, something we buy so readily, and may take for granted, yourself.

The original article, had a recipe for pea and mint soup, made with the buttermilk the butter produced. Sounds good right? Well, I didn’t end up making the pea soup, but stay tuned for what I did make.