They stopped to eat at the Lobster Pot, and Abby pointed out the live lobsters in tanks at the entrance.
“You really eat those?” Ellie asked incredulously.
“They’re good! Especially with lots of butter. Hey, I’ll have one and you can taste—it’s going to be different from the ice cream. Maybe you can close your eyes so you don’t see the pincers and the feelers and all that icky stuff.”
Luckily Ellie recognized that she was teasing. They were seated fairly quickly, and Abby did order a small lobster, while Ellie settled on a hamburger, keeping a wary eye on Abby. When her plate was delivered, Abby tore into the cooked lobster with relish, ripping off the claws and the smaller legs, picking out the meat and drenching each bite liberally in the butter. Ellie looked disgusted but agreed to try one small bite of the tail meat. She chewed thoughtfully, then said, “Would I have to clean them?”
“No, don’t worry. Lots of places serve lobster rolls, and they’re already cleaned by then.”
“Okay. Not bad.”
After they’d eaten, they resumed their stroll. The place was such a mixed bag: high-end art galleries and stores selling nice silver jewelry jostling against comic book stores and places offering tacky tee shirts. And the water was around them, only feet away.
“Why’s it called Provincetown?” Ellie asked suddenly.
Abby was caught off guard. “Uh, I don’t know? It wasn’t in the beginning, because there were Indians here long before any English settlers arrived. I think the whole place was called Cape Cod for a while, but it wasn’t until after Plymouth Colony and the Massachusetts Bay Colony joined up that it was given a separate name. And that is just about all I know.”
“Okay. But there’s no province here, right? Or a guy named John Province or King Province of England or something?”
“Nope,” Abby said, laughing. “I think I can safely say that. You ready for saltwater taffy yet?”
“Sure. Why is it called that?”
Abby felt on safer ground explaining the history of the candy. “I’ll tell you what I know, but I’m not really a walking encyclopedia.”
“That’s okay—I can look it up online.”
“No, no, I’ll be happy to tell you. First thing you need to know is that there’s not salt water involved in it.”
“Then why do they call it saltwater taffy?” Ellie asked reasonably.
“Well, that’s not real clear. It first became popular in Atlantic City, in New Jersey. Then some guy got a trademark for ‘saltwater taffy’ and tried to make other people pay him for it, but the government didn’t like that so they eliminated the patent. Taffy just means it’s stretchy, and it’s stretchy because it has corn syrup and glycerin in it to keep it soft. You have to pull it to get air into it. Would you believe people used to do it at home?”
“Sounds messy,” Ellie commented.
“Probably. So then they made a long skinny rope and cut it into small pieces and wrapped up the pieces individually, or they’d all stick together. And if we’re very lucky, we’ll see them doing it at the shop we’re going to.”
The store that Abby remembered was on the main street, on a corner, which gave it banks of windows on two sides. Since it was still prime tourist season, there was a man inside working at a machine, which appeared to be doing the pulling of the taffy. For a while Abby and Ellie stood outside watching the man work quickly and efficiently. Finally Abby said, “Let’s get some to take back for Ned. For your mom and dad too, if you want.”
“Can I pick which colors?” Ellie asked, pointing to the staggering array of choices inside the store.
“Of course you can.”
They spent a happy half hour trying to choose and ended up filling two one-pound boxes with an assortment. After paying, they walked slowly back to where Abby had parked. Ellie fell asleep on the ride back to West Falmouth, worn out from sun and candy and walking and seeing so
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