Herbed Seafood Skewers

April first this year was an actual snowstorm, ten inches falling overnight Tuesday into Wednesday, the kind of late-season Vermont snow that arrives with a sense of its own dramatic timing and that Vermonters greet with the resigned amusement of people who have seen this play before. The crocuses disappeared under the white. The bare patches on the lawn went back to white. The maples that had begun to bud reconsidered, retracted, and waited. By Friday the snow was already going under the warmer sun and by Sunday the crocuses had reappeared, slightly battered but unkilled, and the lawn was bare again and the world had been shown, briefly, to be the world it has always been, which is the kind of place that does not move in straight lines.

The shoveling Wednesday morning aggravated the leg in a way it has not been aggravated since January. The shrapnel does not move — the surgeons in 1972 left it where it was for the reasons surgeons leave such things — and most days the leg is something I notice rather than feel, but a hard wet snow shovel, ten inches of it across two driveways and a path to the woodshed, will pull on the muscles around the metal in a way that the muscles do not appreciate. I took an aspirin. I sat by the stove. I put a hot water bottle on the leg in the evening and read for two hours and went to bed early, and by morning the leg was its usual self again, the way it has been its usual self after every overexertion for fifty-three years now. The leg is patient with me. I am patient with the leg. We have an arrangement.

Made a chicken pot pie Sunday with the leftover roast chicken from Friday — a proper New England pot pie, with peas and carrots and pearl onions and a top crust of the same biscuit dough I use on the turkey pot pie. The trick is in the gravy: the broth and the cream and the flour all work together, but the broth has to carry the flavor, the cream has to soften the texture, and the flour has to thicken without going pasty. I made the gravy at the stove with the patience the gravy requires — the roux first, then the broth in slow additions, whisking constantly, then the cream at the end. The pot pie went together at the kitchen counter, the filling spooned into the pie plate, the biscuit top laid over and crimped at the edges, the egg wash brushed over for color, into the oven at four hundred for thirty-five minutes. It came out the way a pot pie should come out, which is golden and bubbling and smelling of the kind of dinner that has been in this house in some form on cold Sundays since long before I was born.

Sarah called at 8 PM. Lucy is settled at the clinic in Costa Rica, has texted twice this week with photos of the local food (rice and beans and plantains and a pork dish I did not recognize), and is, by Sarah's reading, happy in a way she has not been since the New Zealand trip. Sarah said: I think this is what she needed. I said: I think you are right. We talked for twenty minutes about Lucy and about how Sarah's anxieties had shifted in the three weeks since Lucy had left, the worry softening into a more manageable background hum as the texts and the photos accumulated and the abstract dread of having a daughter abroad gave way to the concrete data of a daughter who was in fact fine. I told her that this is the cycle every time, and she said she knew, and I said: knowing it does not make it easier the first time but it does make it easier the next time. She said: the next time will be Africa. I said: Africa will be fine too. She laughed. We hung up. The granddaughter is in Costa Rica eating rice and beans. The world is still the world.

The pot pie was Sunday’s answer to a hard week — the leg, the shovel, the ten inches of wet April snow — and it was exactly right for that. But by the time Sarah called and we talked about Lucy eating rice and beans in Costa Rica, I was already thinking about what comes next, which is spring, actual spring, and the kind of cooking that belongs to it. These herbed seafood skewers are what I make when I want to face toward warmth rather than away from cold — quick to put together, built on fresh herbs and a good olive oil, the kind of thing that reminds you the season does eventually arrive, the way it always has.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 10 min | Total Time: 25 min (plus 30 min marinating) | Servings: 4

Ingredients

1 lb large shrimp (16–20 count), peeled and deveined
3/4 lb sea scallops, side muscle removed
3 tablespoons olive oil
3 cloves garlic, minced
2 tablespoons fresh flat-leaf parsley, finely chopped
1 tablespoon fresh thyme leaves
1 tablespoon fresh rosemary, finely chopped
1 teaspoon fresh dill, chopped
Zest and juice of 1 lemon
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1/4 teaspoon red pepper flakes (optional)
Lemon wedges, to serve

Instructions

Make the marinade. In a bowl, whisk together the olive oil, garlic, parsley, thyme, rosemary, dill, lemon zest, lemon juice, salt, pepper, and red pepper flakes if using. The herbs should be evenly distributed through the oil.
Marinate the seafood. Add the shrimp and scallops to the marinade and toss gently to coat. Cover and refrigerate for 30 minutes. Do not marinate longer than 45 minutes — the lemon juice will begin to cure the seafood and change its texture.
Prepare the skewers. If using wooden skewers, soak them in water for at least 20 minutes before threading. Thread the shrimp and scallops onto skewers, alternating between the two and leaving a small gap between pieces to allow even cooking.
Heat the grill or grill pan. Preheat an outdoor grill or stovetop grill pan to medium-high heat. Brush the grates lightly with oil to prevent sticking.
Grill the skewers. Cook the skewers for 2 to 3 minutes per side, turning once. Shrimp are done when they turn pink and curl; scallops are done when they develop a golden sear on each side and turn just opaque at the center. Do not overcook.
Rest and serve. Remove from the grill and let rest for 2 minutes. Serve immediately with lemon wedges alongside.

Nutrition (per serving)

Herbed Seafood Skewers — After the Snow Clears, Something Worth Looking Forward To