Tick Attack

Day 8


The battle wages on. I was visiting an old friend and her family this weekend and I drank way too much gin last night supplemented by yummy red wine followed by not-so-good honey wine/mead. I took a walk this morning and I did work up a sweat, so I lazily tried to convince myself I didn’t need to work out today, but truth be told it was also nearly 80 degrees and I was wearing a sweater.

Today, I had some work to do (there’s that work reference again) and, just in case, I figured I’d sit at the desk in my running shorts. The minute I got off the computer, I could just hop on the machine…if I felt so inclined. Seemed like a good plan. Turns out, it was an excellent plan because I looked down from my laptop and saw a tiny little mole I had never seen before. Upon further inspection, I discovered it was a tiny deer tick.


I became a woman possessed. This was no funny, ha ha, Brad Paisley moment. If there are workout benefits from hopping, shaking, jerking around, and shuddering, then I got the workout of a lifetime. I’m happy to report my husband pulled into the driveway while I was whirling madly about the kitchen and he tweezed the little f**ker off my leg, speaking gently and soothingly the entire time as though I was a highly spirited horse he had discovered in the wild.

The question remains: Where did I get this tick? I spent the night on an island that boasted an osprey nest and a gnarly little mink, but the deer don’t swim out there anymore–or so say the owners. I sat outside and read in a chair on our lawn for a bit this afternoon, but not for long and this tick was high on my leg.

Conclusion: No one is safe anywhere.

think you’re safe from the zombies? think again.

Back to the aforementioned island for a moment. I was visiting an old friend–meaning I’ve known her a long time, not that she’s old. Well, we’re all old, aren’t we? Yes, so I was visiting a friend from high school and her family.

Her husband, I was pleased to discover, is all about local meats. He started the Serious Meat Club and I plan to watch things there closely and enthusiastically. We ate some of his homemade sausage this morning and it was de-lish-us. There’s something to be said for knowing what you’re eating. And not one scary gristle bite. Not. One.

For dinner last night, we ate a tenderloin from a pig he purchased–like a CSA, but for animals, is the easiest way to describe it, I guess–from Colby Farm. The pork was accompanied by arugula and potatoes from the Bath Farmers Market and delicious French cheese from Formaggio in Cambridge. I showed up with a goat/cow cheese from Appleton Creamery. Accompanying this, salami that just about killed me for all its goodness. I tried to look it up on Formaggio’s website, but it looks like you have to get it at the store because I don’t see it listed, which means I have to go to Cambridge now. 

For dessert, this gentleman made a giant strawberry shortcake from scratch with local strawberries. I can’t remember where the strawberries came from. They may have come from Colby Farm too, but he did wax rhapsodic about a place called “Blood Farm,” for which I cannot find a good reference.

precisely how the night went

I have to mention that I’m sort of interested in mead lately. I had some at Seagrass Bistro the other night, so I bought a bottle from a midcoast label this weekend. Jury’s out. It’s sweet and has a nice subtle honey flavor, but the one I brought with me for dinner to accompany the strawberry shortcake last night had a bitter finish. (I really have no idea if I’m saying any of that correctly. I don’t normally judge wine. I drink it. I enjoy it. I move on.)

Tonight, some chicken thighs from Brackett’s with asparagus from Swango Farm and a little superfood Quinoa. You know what? Here’s a hint. If you don’t open a Quinoa bag properly, the Quinoa spills like a bag of ball bearings. And, if you’re not careful, your reaction to this might make your spouse think you have another tiny tick on your person.

P.S. The tick scare got me on the elliptical for 20 minutes, but that’s all my dehydrated body could handle. My brain, however, is ready to explode.

Sarah Devlin

About Sarah Devlin

Sarah Devlin has been writing about the recreational industry since the late ’90s but ironically can’t run, swim, or bike a mile.