In setting the song order for the album, I had one last place where I needed a transition, namely between the following two titles:

• the Celtic folk drinking song in “Try Try Try,” with its theme of increasingly frustrated attempts to acquire tastes, and
• the orchestral chamber music of “Hush in the Hall,” which has a darker tone albeit with beautiful heartbreak lifts and moving emotional swells.

Creating the music components was helped by already having material from my existing songs. I also wanted to balance the use of the choral involvement and the ad libs, so I composed humorous lyrics (ranging from sardonic to childish) regarding my attempts (likewise ranging from actual to fictional) to acquire the taste of Maine, while simultaneously seeing if it will acquire a taste for me. 

I didn’t want to put brand names into the lyrics, and that gave me the idea about the person trying to remember the names that are familiar to folks around here, but getting those guesses wrong. That way I could still honor those items in the manner that they deserve without needing to actually use words like “Moxie” and “Needham.”

I had already made my lists of popular items (yesterday) when I ran out to do some chores (this afternoon, after the plumber was done) and I just happened across a vendor at the side of the road who was selling fiddleheads, so I bought four pounds of them with the notion that a pile of them would make a great album cover. I also figured on trying to eat them, only to find that each one had to be individually trimmed, which is a type of meal prep that I really do not like and go well out of my way to avoid. Where I had been thinking that they could be tossed into salads, or just snacked on out of the bag, it turns out that they have to be boiled for 10-15 minutes (or steamed for 10-12) to remove the toxins. After they are subjected to that heat, they end up having very little bite, and a particularly mild flavor (to which I ended up adding butter, harissa, salt, and black pepper). The most notable part of the experience, however, was the sensation of the frondy centers repeatedly brushing the inside of my esophagus as they went down. I suspect that there are folks for whom that sensation would be sensorily triggering.

I’ll talk about trying the rest of the listed items (sooner or later) in Haunting Note.

For the lyrics, I am unduly proud of both “underwhelked” and “took to it like a duck to taxidermy.” There is a whole lot going on here structurally, and it was a fun puzzle to solve, but probably not very interesting to read about.

Now let me say something about the phrase “properly prepared.” During a conversation with my close friend Dave (well over three decades ago, I’m pretty sure), we were talking about various things that we do and do not like (such as not eggplant), and I made some comment about some noxious things being tolerable if they’re properly prepared, and he responded that this principle applies broadly to everything, giving the specific example of one part eggplant in a million parts ice cream. At that point, the phrase “properly prepared” entered our functional lexicon. It occurred to me that in getting used to this area, I myself need to be properly prepared as much as the unfamiliar stuff that I am trying.

Anyway, as a bridge, I am very pleased with how this song came out.

[2026-05]

Lyrics

From one acquired taste to another,

    not gonna yuck your yum.

From one retired coast to the other,

    not gonna spoil your fun.

I am properly prepped to discover

    all dishes properly done.

So, when in Maine,

    do as the Mainiacs do...

Everyone knows the name of the belovéd

    eighteen-seventies bittersweet gentian carbonated licorice root beer nerve-food.

(Is it "Molly"?)

Not quite.

Lyme disease,

    takes getting used to...

    or so they tell me.

I don't have it yet

    but I'll go woods walking

    naked on the sly.

Gamely,

    check that tick box sooner... or someday.

Black fly tart,

    not for faint of heart...

    nor fart, milady.

You know I suspect

    this isn't a real thing

    funny neighbor guy.

Justly,

    gifted tart box humor... your birthday.

So, when in Maine,

    do as the Mainers do...

Everyone knows the name of the belovéd

    eighteen-seventies chocolate-covered mashed-potato coconut fondant nougat

(Is it "Harold"?)

Do you mean "Hal"? And no.

Those wrinkles,

    are growing on me...

    all head-to-toe-ly.

Not the kind you eat

    which I mean, yeah, snails, gross

    although I did try.

Frankly,

    pickled wrinkles leave me... underwhelked.

Fiddleheads,

    I can take or leave...

    but leave them mostly.

Mild taste so discreet

    though they do brush your throat

    all from the inside.

Truly,

    leave my fiddles growing... on the fern.

So, when in Maine,

    do as the Down Easters do...

Everyone knows the name of the belovéd

    two handheld chocolate-cake-like cookie-mounds filled with thick-and-creamy marshmallow

(Is it "Goldberg"?)

Different "Whoopie."

Lobster roll,

    took to like a duck...

    to taxidermy.

Sea bug boogeyman

    I really tried my best

    and yet was bested.

Safely,

    keep those lobbies crawling... far from me.

Blueberries

    I soon got the hang...

    of the low-bush league.

So much better than

    the high-bush snot-ball fest

    that's uncontested.

Lovely,

    low-bush berries pouring... over me.

So, when in Maine,

    do as the Mainiacs do...

Everyone knows the name of the belovéd

    bright-red natural-casing beef-and-pork frankfurter with nutmeg and black pepper

(Is it "kosher"?)

Not by a country mile.

From one acquired taste to another,

    some of our yuck is yum.

From one retired coast to the other,

    some of our spoil is fun.

I am properly prepped to recover

    from dishes improperly done.