So, on the off chance any of you were freaking out because my food column didn’t appear in last week’s Boothbay Register, Wiscasset Newspaper and Penbay Pilot, relax, I’m back.

I know. La de da.

I spent the week with my mother at my favorite place in the world: Our cottage on Bird Point in Cushing.

I cooked a few memorable meals, but nothing you’ll need, or even want, a recipe for. Unless you need a recipe for a hot dog, a hamburger, or chicken pie.

The only reason you don’t need the recipe for the chicken pie though is because it’s already been made. You can get one in the frozen foods section at Hannaford. If you’ve never had a Blake’s chicken or turkey pie, just get one. Made in Concord, New Hampshire, they’re at least as good as my homemade. And you KNOW my homemade chicken pie is good. For $6 plus change you can have a ridiculously yummy meal for three or four people. Unless you’re a pig like me.

Anyway, our days began on a pretty healthful note: oatmeal with applesauce, fruit and yogurt, a single scrambled egg with whole wheat toast and a (small-ish) hunk of cheddar cheese, blueberry bagels with cream cheese and a sprinkling of salt. One morning I made the mistake of putting peanut butter on my mother’s toast. She ate a half piece then reminded me she hates peanut butter. “Your father loved it,” she said. “I don’t.”

“Geez – excuse me!” I said.

This was shortly after waking up from one of those awful long dreams where you can’t find your phone, your purse or your car and you need to get somewhere a hundred miles away, fast. My mother and I needed to get to Sugarloaf (where she lived for 35 years) and no one was willing to drive us. Finally I said to mum, “Let’s call dad - he’ll do it.” But, of course, I couldn’t find my phone.

Then I woke up and remembered dad died 30 years ago. His service was on his birthday, Aug. 26, at the Cushing cemetery It was a perfect summer day. He loved orange juice with toast and peanut butter. So do I. He taught me how to make manhattans, too.

After breakfast it was pretty much all downhill, health-wise. Hot dogs, hamburgers and ham sandwiches for lunch, with chips, and Shain’s ginger ice cream for dessert. Remember Shain’s ice cream.

Other meals consisted of crabmeat rolls, tacos, and chicken and mushrooms simmered in a cream sherry sauce, with fresh green beans. Oh, and manhattans. And wine. Hello.

One night my brother Pete, mum and I had dinner at the Happy Clam in Tenants Harbor. Fried clams all around. With cold chardonnay for mum and me and a German beer for Pete. Warm chocolate lava cake for dessert. Happy campers at the Happy Clam.

Another day we ventured down to the Twisted Iron Grille in Wiscasset. Oh! And McDonald’s in Rockland: Double cheeseburgers, fries and chocolate milk. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t know WHY there’s no indentation where my waist should be.

One thing that was a constant during the week at the cottage was manhattans. Not constant in, like, all day long, but pretty much every evening. I’d mix up a couple in the pretty little glasses that were a wedding present for my parents. (They also got an original painting from Andrew Wyeth, but that’s another story for the memoirs. They sold it 10 years into their marriage when they were short on cash — not a favorite subject.)

Anyway, mum and I would sit on the front deck overlooking the St. George River with Tenants Harbor and Port Clyde in the distance, with a manhattan, each evening. It was a hot, humid week in most places, but it’s rarely hot on that deck. Cool breeze most days, sometimes calling for a sweatshirt.

At the risk of beginning to sound like a column, we wandered over to our neighbor’s and friend’s, Nancy and John Wissemann’s, one evening. They like manhattans too.

I wanted to get a photo of a manhattan on the rocks - on the rocks, for this week’s column. So one morning I mixed one up, put it in a plastic container, and walked down to the big rock on the shore in front of the cottage. I also took a lovely fragile glass and some ice cubes, all separately, at the risk of anyone seeing me walking on the rocks with a manhattan. Imagine how it would have looked if I had just put it all in the glass, and slipped on the seaweed and fallen. At 10 a.m.

I went back up to the cottage and showed my mother the picture. She said, “What did you do with the manhattan?”

It was back in the fridge waiting for our evening respite. As I’ve told you a million times, cooking is more fun with a manhattan. So is everything else.

Okay, now I don’t have enough room for the recipe I was going to give you. A lot of you would probably turn up your noses anyway. Especially if you’re from away. Someone who won’t turn up her nose is Mary Brewer, an old salt from way back. Her daughter Sarah told me Mary has made it many times, and loves it.

It’s salt fish dinner, and I’m going to give you the recipe next week, whether you want it or not.

Next week also marks the six-month anniversary of this column, so along with the recipe I’m going to give you a test. The prize will be a manhattan and dinner at the fast food joint of your choice. As long as it’s cheap. So pay attention. Mary Brewer will probably win anyway. She’s been cutting this column out of the paper faithfully.

See ya next week.

I’m not a chef. I lay no claim to being an authority on food or cooking. I’m a good cook, and a lover of good food. And I know how to spell and put a sentence together. This column is simply meant to be fun, and hopefully inspiring. So to anyone reading this whose hackles are raised because you know more about the subject of food than I, relax. I believe you. And always feel free to send an email with compliments to suzithayer@boothbayregister.com