Plump, pregnant periwinkles

The fog was thicker than pea soup today in Dorchester, Mass. It was as white and dense as a simmered, dairy-based chowder full of heavy cream and potato starch. The air had that briny, low tide, cloying odor that can only mean one thing in Savin Hill. Periwinkles are pregnant again.

After their winter hiatus, hibernating in the sandy mud of Malibu Beach, the periwinkle population is propagating again. They mate like rabbits in slow motion underwater and then pull themselves up into the intertidal zone to deposit their zygotes. At low tide, the beach is studded with little spurs that prick the tender spots of barefooted shellfishermen. The water is still cold this time of year so most people wear boots.

March's periwinkles sport imperially sized shells they've spent the last few months improving under the Dorchester Yacht Club's piers. The winkles are fat and sluggish and ripe for the stewpot as any long-time Dorchesterite knows. Malibu Beach wasn't crowded today, but there were plenty of people out with pails plucking up periwinkles for their evening repast. The beach wasn't picked clean by the time low tide turned into high, but the buckets were full.

The preparation is a bit of a chore. You have to steam them first and them pierce them with a toothpick to extract them from their shells. Then you dump a mess of winkles into a pot filled with either tomatoes or olive oil and vinho verde. Garlic is essential no matter which recipe you use. The sauce gets poured over pasta or rice depending on the household tradition. No matter how they are cooked, the arrival of periwinkles on Malibu Beach is proof that spring has arrived and summer can't be far behind.

Two shots of happy, one shot of sad

The way dropped toast lands in Dorchester is always buttered-side down. Luckily the floors are spotless, spic-and-span. We were at the Sugar Bowl this morning at 857 Dot Ave. You know the place, across from the New Store On The Block, though how new that store is, I don't know. I was enjoying a slug of java and a scone, watching the foot traffic outside the curved, plate glass window. It was Sunday. Parishioners were filing toward the Blessed Mother Theresa of Calcutta Church for mass. We felt we should be following, but other obligations intruded. I checked my watch and looked at my companion. She was finishing up a blueberry muffin. She said, "Is it time?"

It was.

Donning our helmets we rocketed out of Dorchester on the Littlest Ninja this side of the Charles River, one stoplight at a time. She hugged me tightly down Columbia Road and then down American Legion Highway. The engine screamed in fifth gear. We navigated through Roslindale to Center Street, heading into West Roxbury. Today's mission: to get from the West Roxbury line, where Boston abuts Dedham, to the Charlestown Bridge with as few turns as possible. Sunday morning seemed the best time to accomplish this endeavor.

We pulled a tight U-turn at the Dedham border and headed north. Center Street was no problem, a reasonably straight shot with no traffic and no interference. We hit the Jamaicaway, then the Riverway, then Fenway. Things started to get dicey. We figured Boylston Street was the best bet and it was for awhile. After the Common, our plans all went to hell as we turned and swung around and back again in Chinatown.

Determined not to take the Surface Road, we wove through downtown. It was magnificent to wend through the canyons of old buildings mixed with new with no congestion. Sunday is the day to take a motorcycle through downtown Boston. Though a temperature of fifty degrees is nothing to crow about, it's nothing to complain about either, especially when both parties are wearing polypropylene long johns and wind-proof jackets.

After speeding in circles through back alleys and along one-way lanes, we sighted the Charlestown bridge. Would we cross it? No. We didn't want to go too far afield. Charlestown's delights would wait another day. We headed to Charles Street, found enough room to park the bike and wandered Beacon Hill with our day's second cups of coffee in our hands. Charles Street is picturesque, but it's no Dot Ave.

Dropping our empty cups into the trash barrel in front of Seven-Eleven, we mounted the Little Ninja again for the sweetest ride of all: the ride back to Dorchester. Hurtling through Newmarket, we felt a pull on the front tire that matched the push of the rear. The bike, like its passengers, knew it was headed home and couldn't wait to get there.

Dorchester by choice

A specter is haunting Dorchester and it is has the wet, hangdog stink of unfinished business. A ghost with a blue collar stalks Dorchester's streets with rolled up shirt sleeves and calloused hands. This phantom wanders with heavy boots that have seen better days in trenches and scrap piles, that have stood in picket lines and bread lines and stomped in the snow waiting for work. Idle hands are the Devil's tools and Dorchester is antsy to be employed getting the job done sooner rather than later.

Boston, with its well preserved precincts and modern, glass, office towers is more than its architecture. A city is made up of people who come in all shapes and sizes and abilities, who lend their skills and know-how to burnish their surroundings more humanly palatable. It is the life on the street and between the walls that makes a city interesting, not the masonry on the streetfront facades. Bureaucrats try to channel citizens' impulses, but an independent people presented with options will tend to their hearths first. Dorchester is a laboratory in which Boston's future is being forged. If its contagion catches fire, Dorchester's health will spread from Codman Square to the State House and then all along the shores of Massachusetts Bay and farther inland. Wealth and prosperity will be common in the Bay State, which will become a beacon for the rest of the nation and the world.

A city that lives off its history neglects the promise it offers immigrants and the native-born. A real city is a place of boundless opportunity. A museum, not a city, is described on a tourist's map. A real city is where work gets done, things get built, everything is in flux, meals get prepared by chefs not consumed in food courts, families are raised, and the next generation is prepared to carry the torch of responsible citizenship high against the tyranny of low expectations. Public schools have their place to teach reading, writing and arithmetic, but a real city's streets teach hard knocks and what it takes to put food on the table and nurture a brood of little men and women who will grow up to be larger ones. Dorchester, like many of Boston's outlying neighborhoods, is a crucible and an incubator.

There are idle hands in Dorchester. A service economy doesn't just mean that people who are quick on a keyboard can get ahead. Plumbers, masons, carpenters, mechanics, ditch diggers, electricians, housekeepers, all use their smarts and experience to deliver products that work. There are plenty of thinkers and doers in Dorchester. Perhaps there aren't enough dreamers. History shows that one new notion can change the world. In a city, concepts and conundrums clash constantly. They do all the time in Dorchester. All it takes is one bright boy or girl to link discombobulated dots to come up with a fresh solution to the puzzle of how to lift all boats at the same time as the sailors are all squabbling. If Dorchester is anything, this vast neighborhood is disoriented to distraction while overflowing with human capital and human promise focused on getting through one day at a time... and every day beyond that. Roses grow best in a mix of rabbit droppings and seaweed.

If you want to witness the best Boston has to offer, look no further than Dorchester. It may be hard to discern the patterns at first. Dorchester is travelling with a slow momentum that hasn't yet reached the critical velocity from which there is no turning back. This star is moving according to its own eccentric orbit and its apogee is still years away from being as close to ultimate Heaven as it can be. Dorchester is on its path to reach its apex on Jacob's Ladder, but it is still a dozen or so rungs short of its destiny. Plenty more hands and minds and souls are needed to push it into its ultimate trajectory. Come aboard.

It will happen. Sober minds, romantic notions, dirty fingernails and strong backs will keep Dorchester on course. What Dorchester needs is people who want to be involved not for convenience or the opportunity to sign a low rental lease, but by choice because they believe the raw materials will yield a better tomorrow. If you make that decision, you are a Dorchesterite through and through and I will be proud to shake your hand. I will be humbled.

Jungle love

With a blanket of snow over Dorchester, we were surprised to hear the soothing sounds of exotic tiki music wafting out of an open, third story window on Sagamore Street. The ukulele strains were so hypnotic, a gaggle of Dorchesterites had stopped in the middle of the middle of the street with ears cocked upward. Nobody was doing a lot of driving today but the streets were thick with pedestrians heading though the snow flakes for milk, malt liquor, bagged snack food and pizza made to order.

A young man sporting a frizzled beard was one of the people stopped on Sagamore Street listening to the music that issued out of this apartment. He said, "I feel like I'm in Hawaii." He said it spontaneously to no one in particular and he was quickly hit with a snowball by a companion who said, "I couldn't do this in Hawaii, buster." The whole group guffawed and scooped snowballs from around their feet and started pelting the guy who exaggerated the situation too much.

It didn't feel like Hawaii in Dorchester or any other part of Boston today. It felt like New England in winter, the worst time to live here. Despite that, it did feel care-free. There is something about a snow storm that makes everyone congenial. We are all in this together. The inconvenience of not being able to travel as far as you choose forges a bond with other people in the street, in the stores, in the pizza parlors...we just want to get out a bit and see that the world is getting on. It's nice to be alive in a winter wonderland. Boston, Dorchester, Roxbury, Eastie, Charlestown, Chelsea, Southie, the Back Bay, the South End, West Roxbury, they are all pretty places but they become even prettier under a blanket of snow.

One of the women who stopped on Sagamore Street, she was 60 years old if she was a day, said, "This music puts me in mind for the beach." She looked at her squire and said, "Why don't we take the Blue Line to Revere and walk the beach?" He said he would load his ipod with tiki music as soon as they got home and then they would be off like a shot for Kelly's Roast Beef and a stroll along the picturesque shores of exotic Massachusetts Bay.

Dorchester breeds daydreams along its shortest streets.

Bird Dogs and Gentlemen

The sap is rising. Finally. The trees are flowering, the cat birds have come north to roost. Worms are churning the topsoil and the grass is the green, green grass of home. Ah, Boston!

The turn of the weather today made a lot of gentlemen linger on street corners. It was a fine day for girl-watching. Skin is starting to be exposed. Not everyone has unpacked thier shorts and bikinis but hems are rising and sleeves are no longer full length. The down coats have been mothballed, thank goodness.

Pretty women are everywhere out and about, taking the streets by storm. Boston is full of eye candy and a virile man's thoughts turn toward the fairer gender. He can't help himself with so many pretty specimens walking the sidewalks. Some tips for potential bird dogs:

1.) Don't wear mirrored sunglasses. a.) Even if you have mastered the peripheral stare, ladies suspect what you are doing. b.) If you haven't mastered the peripheral stare, you look like a damned fool staring head-on at a woman while wearing mirrored sunglasses. c.) If you are not a cop or prison guard, why are you wearing mirrored sunglasses? Do you really want to intimidate lovely ladies by looking like a damned fool out of uniform?

2.) Women are more than a pair of breasts. When you look at them, look at the whole package. you won't seem like a fetishist and you will enjoy the many attributes female beauty embodies. Look the ladies in their eyes. You won't seem so much a creep. This doesn't apply if you wear mirrored sunglassses while you do it.

3.) Women are not just an attractive body or a pretty face. It takes a lot of work to make everything ship-shape. Admire a woman's clothing. Steaks are sold more for their sizzle than their meat. If you like an all-you-can-eat buffet, sloppy dressing may appeal to you. A true connosieur admires a woman's shoes. Ladies put a lot of thought into their outfits and they appreciate attention paid to thier footwear.

4.) A woman can have snaggle teeth and they can be charming. Nothing beats a confident, cheerful smile. Look a woman in the mouth when you look at her. There is plenty to admire and plenty to learn about a potential paramour. A piece of spinach between incisor and gum means she eats healthily. A gangrenous blotch of osteonecrosis means you probably don't want a kiss, no matter how bouncy her breasts.

5.) Muttering, "Nice choppers" is never overheard as a compliment. The same is true of "nice stems," or other unprintable things. Keep your thoughts to yourself no matter how strongly you feel them. Play your cards close to your vest.