At the beach, we had vodka flecked with lemon. We had bike rides striped with sunburn. We had crabcakes topped with intrigue.
What was in the tartar sauce? Couldn't say. My friend, the one who concocts it, guards her legacy. She taunts us with its tangy snap and creamy bite. If I were being held underwater by a tartar-crazed shark, I'd say mayo and relish, but in the comfort of a cabin by the sea, with cocktails and crabcakes and camaraderie, I'm good with having no idea.
We had peaches, which I baked into a crumble under a handful of instant oatmeal. Like everything at the beach, it was delightful. No need to fret the details.
