Going to Buffalo, of all places, wasn’t my idea. But my husband’s notion of trying to see every house Frank Lloyd Wright ever designed is infectious. Chris had learned that Buffalo was the site of a number of Wright houses and other buildings, so going there had been in the cards for some time. It turned out to be a fascinating few days.

    I have sometimes cast a gimlet eye on pieces sent to The Star as “Guestwords” by travelers who write, as if with authority, about places with which they have only a nodding acquaintance. But, if you’ll excuse me, here I go.

    Buffalo was once the eighth largest city in the United States, a thriving industrial metropolis. Today it is unsettling proof of what happens when time — and industry — march on. Miles of deteriorating factories and derelict grain elevators line the Lake Erie shore, and many of the neighborhoods we drove through looked worse for wear.

    The census counted about a quarter of a million people living in Buffalo in 2012. The unemployment rate is high, despite the fact that there are several colleges as well as the highly regarded State University at Buffalo in the city, and despite the fact that the public school system is said to be noteworthy (for all the right reasons, not the wrong). Here’s a stark fact: The median value of houses or condos in Buffalo was $67,000 in 2011, compared to $285,300 in the rest of New York State. In the same year the poverty level was 26.6 percents.

    But Buffalo is home to many architectural treasures from the turn of the 20th century, many of which are national landmarks or on the National Register of Historic Places. It’s probably just as well that the architecture guide we ordered from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology didn’t arrive till after we got home; otherwise, we might have missed our plane back.

    We took a very windy morning’s look at one of downtown Buffalo’s most astonishing office buildings. Designed by Louis Sullivan, and constructed in 1895 and ’96, the Prudential (or Guaranty) “skyscraper” has a “ruddy terra-cotta facade . . . embellished with . . . rich foliate and geometric ornament,” to borrow a description from the book from M.I.T. We only had time to drive by the Art Deco City Hall and another “skyscraper,” this one an octagon known as the General Electric Tower, which is faced with white terra cotta.

    After a bit of misguided wandering about, following the instructions of a robotic Siri — reminder! paper-and-ink maps are still best — we found a boathouse Wright designed in 1926. We searched in vain for his filling station, which is apparently entombed in the city’s Pierce-Arrow Museum.

    The highlight of the trip was touring the Darwin D. Martin complex and Graycliff, Mrs. Martin’s summer estate on a bluff overlooking Lake Erie. The complex includes a two-story principal residence, which exemplifies Wright’s prairie houses; a smaller house, which was built first as a “test”; a gardener’s cottage, and a garage and stable — all of which have been restored at a cost of about $50 million after years of neglect and an earlier renovation.

    The Martin complex main residence is one of only three Wright designed for which there was no budget at all. The sky was the limit. It was reported to have cost $178,000 by the time it was finished in 1906. I don’t know what that translates to in 2013 dollars, but . . . can you imagine? Both opulent and reflective of nature, the house has 394 iridized “tree of life” windows, made with 750 pieces of glass; a 180-foot-long pergola and a conservatory, ruled at one end by a 9-foot, 3-inch statue of Nike, and a fireplace in a reception room, which has bronze powder in some of its mortar.

    It was wonderful to see preservation in action, and it was wonderful to be surprised by the reminder that there are still amazing places out there to discover. Buffalo was more captivating than we expected. And we didn’t even eat any wings.

    The house at the end of the block, where Madeline Bastis, a Zen priest, once told me that when it came to reporting on the New York marathon, I should write about all the finishers from here, not just the top ones — to wit, that attention should be paid — is being torn down.

    At first I thought how sad, but now, having got out her file and reading through it a bit, I imagine her saying, in Zen fashion, “Let it go, Jack, let it go.”

    We’re all tear-downs in the end after all. And presumably Zen practitioners go far toward tearing their clamorous egos down long before they take leave of this life.

    Speaking of leaves, you can take mine. As the sun began to go down yesterday — well, it really doesn’t go down, but anyway — I thought, after having transferred a metric ton of leaves from our lawn to a still-vacant (but not much longer) lot nearby, “I’m either Hercules or Syphilis . . . er, Sisyphus.” A flat-lander Sisyphus, of course. (It’s all what you think about as you drag the tarp back across the road.)

    Perhaps I’m a little bit of both. I forget the nature of Hercules’s labors, but removing the leaves from our lawn might qualify as a modern-day alternative to the Augean stables. (I am picking up after Henry these days, by the way.)

    Ou sont les leaf suckers d’autant? Perhaps Larry Cantwell will bring them back. He can’t? Well . . . I wish he would.

    Especially considering that this fall may be the last in which I can transport them across the street. (Many probably are blown back by the north wind over the course of the winter, but for the moment we’ve got that curried look the middle class adores so. Cleanliness is next to Godlessness here, you know.)

    I guess it’s because we want others to think we’ve got it together, that we’re people of substance rather than of substance abuse. Neat and tidy, not for tearing down.

    Yet if everything’s to be torn down in the end, why go to any effort to make improvements a potential buyer might like if it’s all to be reduced to rubble?

    I guess you might say the same of ourselves. But one wants to do one’s best, to put one’s best foot forward, to spring ahead rather than fall back, even though we know we’re tear-downs in the end, which is why I bought a new pair of sneakers today, formal New Balance black ones, and got a haircut (ears and nose primarily) and am wearing jeans that Mary says do justice to my butt, rather than the baggy khakis so many old men wear, to their detriment she says.

    But there’s that ego again. I must tear it down and haul it over to the vacant lot where it will stay, until the north wind begins to blow.

    They say as a woman ages the first thing to go is her body. With me, though, it was my teeth; the body went second. For the past few years my teeth have been breaking down and falling out. But my smile, and it’s a big one, has been beautifully restored thanks to my new dentist in Southampton. I’ll be offering my thanks to him tomorrow when I chomp down on that traditional turkey dinner, celery and all.

    Except for the fact that I’m white and not as funny, I was beginning to look like Moms Mabley, the comedian who used her toothless smile as part of her act. My smile has a life of its own. Under the worst circumstances my teeth would just burst forth and make their presence known, sometimes in a very inappropriate manner.

    I believe the condition of your teeth is a genetic trait, which didn’t bode well for me. Both my grandmothers, grandfather, my aunt, and some cousins all had false teeth. Mind you, my new teeth are not false; they’ve been restored. If my choice was to get false teeth I think I would have chosen to look more like Moms. My grandfather used to make us kids laugh like crazy when he took his teeth out and made jokes or chased us around chomping his toothless gums. But it was really creepy going into my grandparents’ bathroom and seeing their teeth in a jar. I tried to avoid looking at them for fear that they’d start chatting away with me while I was doing my business.

    When we were younger, my sister and I were the only ones who had to drink milk at the beach to protect our teeth, according to our mother. While everyone else was sipping bubbly soda, we were spitting out warm milk into the salty water. We’re probably the cause of the polluted water in the Long Island Sound off City Island in the Bronx where we grew up.

    It’s odd that our teeth are so troublesome. My mother was very conscious of taking us to our dentist, who lived over an hour away from us and practiced from his home office in a beautiful area of Westchester County. He was a nice man but a torturer. Even though we let her know how much he hurt us and how much we hated him for that, she still piled us into the car for our monthly (sometimes weekly) trips to the good ol’ torturer.

    Putting it in perspective, I think maybe she had a crush on him. While we were shaking with fear in the examination room, she was probably flashing some leg to him in the waiting room. And she was a professional dancer so she had good legs. My mother’s legs and God knows what else probably distracted him while he was working on us. She was a flirt, my Mom. That’s the only reason I can think of for the pain this nice man inflicted on us adorable little children.

    Because of his painful treatments, we resisted going to the dentist in our adult years and of course we’re paying for it now, literally. No matter how expensive your clothes or how beautiful you might be, if you have bad teeth, nothing else matters. But the beauty here is that I’ve found a fairly young and very advanced dentist who does it all — root canals, extractions — and except for the initial numbing injections, the work was pain-free.

    I got very good at smiling with my mouth closed because I was so embarrassed when my teeth started going. But that was really hard because I do have a big smile and I can’t always control it. I came up with all kinds of tactics to hide my teeth, including wrapping my scarves higher on my neck to cover my mouth in case I met someone I had to talk to. But no more. I’m giddy with my restored teeth. And the timing is perfect as Thanksgiving is a time to spend with others. I’ll not only be smiling, I’ll be drinking bubby soda. Hell, it’s a holiday, I might even be drinking a bubbly beer and eating a crusty wing, my favorite part of the turkey!

    Janis Hewitt is a senior writer for The Star.

    The talk of Montauk last week was that Bill O’Reilly, the Fox News political commentator and best-selling author, had come to town. Not only was it news that he had bought a spectacular property on the oceanfront, but that he had torn down two small houses that longtime Montaukers considered part of the community’s heritage.

    The first of the two houses was a summer bungalow built by James and Kathryn Abbe during World War II, using traditional materials — in amounts limited by wartime rationing — supplemented by beams and flooring scavenged from old East End buildings that were being taken down at the time, including the house of East Hampton’s famous early American craftsmen, the Dominys. (The second of the Abbes’ tiny houses was put up for their children in 1957.)

    Theresa Eurell of Town & Country Real Estate had the exclusive $8.5 million listing when the property, on a 42-foot-high bluff, was advertised for sale in the spring. Mr. O’Reilly was reported to have been looking only for a summer rental when it caught his eye. A Montauker herself, Ms. Eurell said she tried to enlist the Montauk Historical Society or another organization to save the houses when she learned they would be razed. It wasn’t to be.

    Tear-downs have been commonplace over the last few decades, often to the annoyance of near neighbors, but sometimes — when the building was of historic or sentimental interest, or a neighborhood landmark — they provoke deeper emotions, real sadness or anger, from the community at large. This was one of those times.

    The Abbes were well-known professional magazine photographers, and Mr. Abbe had started selling fine antiques when they decided to build in Montauk back in the 1940s. According to a feature in an East Hampton Star Home Book supplement in 2008, the materials in the 16-by-20-foot house cost $700. It had built-in bunks modeled after quarters in the Charles Morgan, a whaling ship preserved at Mystic Seaport. The furnishings (homespun coverlets, antique chairs, a highboy) were spare. Plumbing and electricity were put in after the war, and a bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom added.

    Word of Mr. O’Reilly’s arrival on the scene put me in mind of Teddy Roosevelt. Is Mr. O’Reilly as famous an American today as Colonel Roosevelt was in 1898, when he brought his Spanish-American War troops to Montauk for rest and recovery? There is certainly rich irony in this whole affair, and also room for some amusing riffs on Rough Riders: Is Mr. O’Reilly in for a rough ride here? Is he riding rough­shod?

    It will be some time before Mr. O’Reilly’s new house is completed, but it is highly likely it will be shingled, it will be large, and materials will cost a lot more than $700: He has hired the Farrell Building Company to do the construction. Surely you recognize the name? It is the Bridgehampton firm that tore down the Elaine Benson Gallery and was the subject of a New York Times profile this summer with the memorable title “Hamptons McMansions Herald a Return of Excess.”

    Forget about turkey, this is the time of the year that our thoughts turn to shellfish. That is, if you are inclined, as I am, toward such things and did not get quite enough of the fall striper run.

    Shellfish news from local waters has been mixed. Most disturbing was a report this week that the East Hampton Town Trustees’ scallop sanctuary in Napeague Harbor was illegally dredged and sustained considerable damage to its eelgrass beds. One of the trustees filed a police report; there is no word on suspects.

    Separately, just over a week back, the state expanded its seasonal ban on shellfishing in the northernmost part of Accabonac Creek, citing fecal coliform trends. The trustees bridled at this, concerned that the state was doing too little testing to be sure one way or the other about the safety of the creek.

    Such seasonal closures have a silver lining: I can’t see the sense in clamming during the warm months anyway, when waterfront houses here are full — and an unknown number are leaching household waste into the water. Then too, I can go dig at my semi-secret spots in late fall and winter without worrying that high-season weekend warriors will catch on and clam them out.

    Clams had a brief flurry of international attention last week when scientists reported that a quahog relative dug off Iceland was 507 years old, making it the most-aged animal known. Ming, as they named it, had first been pegged at just over 400, but another counting of its annual rings revised the estimate upward.

    Our local clams can run old, but not that old — up to 100, I read somewhere. One clamshell, which I keep on my office windowsill, measures about four inches at its widest and appears to have roughly 30 annual rings — not quite so old to preclude its contribution to a pot of chowder.

    I am reassured that the winning clams in the town trustees’ annual contest, each as big as a man’s fists held together, are thrown back to survive another day. Heaven knows just how old those beasts really are.

    Thank goodness President Franklin D. Roosevelt convinced Congress to set Thanksgiving permanently on the fourth Thursday in November so that we can follow an annual routine. If Thanksgiving were allowed to fall pell-mell on any random day of the week — like Christmas does — I am not sure how we would get ourselves organized.

    I get so wrapped up in the winter holidays that everything else goes by the boards. Television, newspapers, Facebook? I have no idea what’s going on in the world, beyond the rounds of the Thanksgiving marathon.

    I’ve already spent hours and hours food shopping, not only doing a number at the supermarkets but going to the Green Thumb farm stand in Water Mill and Citarella in Bridgehampton. I’ve ordered the turkey from the Mecox Dairy Farm and the oysters and clams from the Seafood Shop in Wainscott, and there are still more shopping trips to come, including Goldberg’s for rye bread, which I want to try in the stuffing for a change, and Breadzilla for sweet treats.

    Things are especially festive around here this year, with two of my grandchildren and their parents visiting from Canada. We don’t  usually pay very much attention to Hanukkah in this household, but it’s also rather nice that it falls on Thanksgiving this time so we don’t have to be confused about when to celebrate it.

    We’ve been eating for a week. The refrigerator and pantry are brimming: aged goat cheeses, pump­kin bread pudding, chicken pot pie, gravlax, whitefish salad, bacon scones, Craig Claiborne’s Chinese green-bean salad, Edward Giobbi’s pork chops in piquant sauce. . . . 

    My husband has become fixated on the new  Jerusalem  cookbook, and he treated us the other night to a delicious chicken-and-bulgar dish with a yogurt and cucumber sauce; he also took advantage of some wonderful extra-late-season local tomatoes, slow-roasting them for an unusually tasty pasta dish. We have had paté mousse as an appetizer and wine with dinner, too — and I won’t mention the mammoth box of fancy cookies my daughter brought home  for the kids.  I will know for sure if all this eating has been bad for my health when I gather my strength and step up on the bathroom scale (perhaps I’ll leave that till next month), but I’ve been enjoying myself immensely.   

    And swiftly, of course, Christmas is approaching. How dare it fall on Wednesday this year? What will we working folks do? Will we shake things up at The Star and publish on Friday so that everyone can go home early on Christmas Eve, then come back the day after Christmas to finish the job? I’m pleased to say this is a conundrum the editor, not I, will  have to solve.

    Cold weather has put an end to what perhaps was a fool’s errand on my part. Sometime in mid-fall on a balmy weekend afternoon, I decided to start restoring our distinctly mid-century, divided-light casement windows.

    My attention turned first to the sets along the walk from our driveway. To describe the paint as peeling would be generous; only paint and glazing putty remained in some places. It had been a score of years or more since the windows had seen any attention, and when we had the house reshingled and the trim redone a while ago, the painters did not bother with the windows, assuming, as their foreman told me, that we planned to replace them.

    But, with three kids and plenty of other things to spend money on, the windows lagged. Moisture crept in, and it lingered between the divided lights and the interior storm panel. The insulating capacity was near to nil when a wind came up. And just as bad, they looked like hell, greeting visitors with a disheveled hello.

    One of these days, we hope to start on a major renovation, perhaps changing the interior layout of the house, maybe even moving the master bedroom, opening up the kitchen, and during the process, replacing the windows. Until then, I figured, it did not make much sense other than to try to get them back in shape.

    As it turned out, there is not much to it other than time. First, the sashes have to be taken out of the jambs, and the jambs primed, filled, and painted. Unlike the spongy junk that passes for wood these days, the frames and muntins are still sound. They respond well to sanding and painting and look terrific when this is done.

    The thing is that because of other responsibilities, like running a newspaper and driving kids around, I only work on one or two at a time. But now cold has set in, and the project may have to go into hibernation until spring. No matter, I enjoy the work, though at this rate, I should have all the windows done sometime in 2015, just in time for the renovation to begin, I suspect.

    There are some days when you feel that you’re up to anything, at the top of your game.

    Is it the coffee? I would say yes. I feel confident despite having no particular success to point to — all the leaves I raked and hauled last week are back again. And I know I have yet to achieve a state of grace, all the more marked because I forgot once everyone had come out onto the street following a performance in a Manhattan church last weekend of Benjamin Britten’s opera “Noye’s Fludde,” based on a 15th-century miracle play about Noah’s Ark, to ask where God was so that I could get His autograph.

    Had I the nerve, I would have asked Him also about His promise to Noah that there would be no more floods.

    The opera was performed by an admirable cast most of whose singers, including my 8-year-old granddaughter, were blind. Blessed with perfect pitch, it’s also evident she has a theatric sense inasmuch as she, though one of the mice, commandeered the most prominent position in the prow of the ark on the altar stage.

    Many of the singers were led up the aisle by sighted partners, to applause, for their courage and for their refusal to remain on the sidelines in this game of life, a stance with which we know Maya is fully in accord.

    Her younger sister, Zora, radiates joy, which is said to be a fleeting thing in this world, though it seems to be pretty much of a constant with her. I hope it always will be, and I imagine the music Maya may make now and in the future will bring joy not only to her but to others, to wit, that because of her courage she will triumph.

    “Making music in community is a powerful way that we are formed as human beings,” the organist, Paul Vasile, said in the program. “Through the experience of participating in a band or orchestra, through choral or chamber music, we are invited into a heightened awareness of others, to deeper listening, to be fully present to the possibility of the moment.”

    To be fully present to the possibility of the moment, to listen so well, could well be a precursor to joy, which perhaps is more fully expressed in concert with one another, as the organist said, rather than limited to the confines of one’s caffeinated self.

    Joy can be experienced rather frequently, I think, in those moments when you’re of a generous spirit and not weighed down by overweening pride — when you feel both bold and connected. I wish courage and joy, then, for both girls, since coffee cannot be depended on in every instance.

“At a certain point you’re going to plan that gathering which you won’t be able to attend. You’re going to make your final arrangements.”  — from the blog The Screaming Pope

       Q. Dear Pope, as you know, I’ve been thinking about this for some time, and recently settled on Oakland Cemetery in Sag Harbor, which I’ve been hoping to show you one day soon. Should I select a plot on higher land, so that drainage is good?

       “Everyone is opting for higher land these days, but remember Venice and Amsterdam have survived below sea level for centuries. Not to be overly phobic, but higher land also puts your plot in danger of terrorists and drones.”

       Q. Should I buy four plots instead of two, to give my wife and me more space?

       “I would opt for four plots so you can offer your mourners some amenities. With your extra two plots, you can build a little workout area equipped with, say, a treadmill and elliptical for those who want to get aerobic while they’re paying their respects. I personally can’t remember anyone unless my heart rate has reached a certain level. A normal heart rate is like death to me.”

       Q. Should I put a little mini wall around the plots to show that we are important and make it easier for those coming to pay their respects to find us? Should I put a nice little bench nearby to encourage people to give a little more time to sitting and remembering all that was good about me?

       “Again, affirmative . . . my rule of thumb is bigger than a gravestone, but less than a full-blown mausoleum. Oh, one little point: Your bench should a have a plaque. People have short memories and by the time they get to the bench, they may not be able to remember who you are.”

       Q. I struggle between the cheaper and environmentally preferable option of cremation versus full-body burial. But in the end, does cremation seem too final?

       “I like cremation since it’s sexier. I always wanted my ashes scattered in the women’s locker room at Equinox so that I would be surrounded by naked women for all eternity.”

       Q. Should I write my obit and the farewell remarks that will be made at my send-off? Or should I just trust that whoever writes them is going to know what they are doing?

       “Remember Ashford and Simpson? I think the obit can be written by you and your eulogist with one of those little EMI doodads next to the credit, in case the eulogy itself makes it to the Top 40.”

       Q. Should I engrave on the tombstone a link to a website that will have a robust offering of my history, speeches, awards, achievements, etc.?

       “A no-brainer.”

       Q. What should my epitaph emphasize — my good-heartedness, my veteran’s status, my love of family, my Honorable Mention All-City Football Team recognition in Omaha, the love of my cat, Reed?

       “I wouldn’t go into any of these items. Everyone knows those things. I will share with you what I think to be an extraordinary aspect of your character. It may seem like a small thing, but the way you comb your hair says so much. First of all, you are the only guy I know who still puts a comb through his hair and certainly one of the only ones in our age group who still has something left to put a comb through. But I’m sure even if you were bald you would still pull the old comb out in polite company. It’s a spiritual act, by Jove, and the world needs to know this. Combing and praying are virtually the same thing for you. So your epitaph could read: ‘He combed with the hand of God,’ or ‘At home with the comb of God,’ or ‘God, where did he get that comb?’ We can work on the details. I don’t think we have it quite yet.”

    Paul Critchlow is writing a memoir tentatively titled “Outrunning the Peter Principle: Tips From an Inveterate Corporate Survivor.” He lives part time on North Haven.

    Francis Levy, a Wainscott resident, is the author of the comic novels “Erotomania: A Romance” and “Seven Days in Rio.” He blogs at TheScreamingPope.com and on The Huffington Post.

     There are Hamptoners who only use their houses here one week a year. I know this because two years ago I worked as a sous chef for such a family. Headed by one of the biggest Wall Street whales, they only inhabit their Water Mill House during Thanksgiving week, the rest of the year being spent in the city, Florida, England, France, and probably more places to which I’m not privy.

       With its team of gardeners planting all sorts of autumnal foliage around the vast bay-touched property, its cozy fireplace-lit rooms, and its barn with indoor squash court and bowling alley, the compound is an idyllic spot in which to celebrate bounty. They have much to be thankful for.

       I received a call a few days before Thanksgiving from the estate manager. I had known her when she was the private chef of now-divorced friends, a Wall Street pasha and his wife who had a house on the ocean near the Maidstone Club. She knew that I cheffed on occasion. Could I start Monday? There were three days of prep work before the extended family of roughly 30 would gather on Thursday.

       I had never been a sous chef. I had worked the line at a restaurant once, had been a cook at two top Los Angeles caterers, had a couple of catering companies of my own, and had been a “private chef” for several clients from L.A. to Connecticut.

       I would be working under the clients’ French chef, who followed them to their various residences.

       “How’s your knife work?” she asked. Not great, was the truth. Knife work? This had never been important to me. Then again, I never worked for clients who cared if a carrot was properly julienned or a leaf chiffonaded. It’s not that I don’t know how to properly slice and dice, it’s just — like penmanship — I’d never mastered it. I’m a very fast cook, preferring to rely on the various blades of the food processor. But that, I knew, would not please a classically trained French chef. 

       I consider myself a creative chef. My formal training is limited. In my 20s my neighbor in the city, Peter Kump, founder of the James Beard House, inveigled me to attend the first class of his cooking school. Today it is the widely respected Institute of Culinary Education. I already knew what I was doing, having fooled around in the kitchen since I was 15. My first meal: Chicken Kiev from “The New York Times Cookbook.” Yes, the melted butter spurted. I was hooked.

       I loved Peter’s school, learned a lot, but found I preferred my usual method of immersing myself in cookbooks (always piled high on my nightstand), then using recipes as veering off points from which to experiment with my own versions. Like covering songs. A few years later, while living in London, I took a few classes at the Cordon Bleu, but found its methods dated. In one of the classes a dour woman demonstrated how to prepare a marrow squash, basically a large tasteless zucchini. I reverted to the books of Elizabeth David and Madhur Jaffrey, going through a stage where I cooked only Indian food, seduced by the exotic aroma of toasting spices. 

       As I was buzzed through the security gate, I was anxious about what the chef would think of my skills. Never mind my years of cooking untold dinner parties for friends, not to mention cooking three meals a day for myself. (For today’s lunch, just a regular weekday meal, I stuffed a poussin with dried fruits and threw some vegetables into the roasting pan. It took me the same time as making a sandwich, not including cooking time.) The first day went well. We mostly made menus and lists of ingredients, which we gave to another kitchen helper whose only job was to shop.

       That night the estate manager suggested we go out for dinner, an opportunity to bond. She chose Bobby Van’s. Since we were on Long Island, I suggested fluke. When the chef took a bite I could see it was not up to his standards. Then I tried it. Strangely cardboardish. I sent mine back. He didn’t, but he didn’t eat his either. I later found out this had scored against me. But I’d be damned if I’d pay $35 for an inedible fish.

       The next day the prep work began. Two housekeepers and the Water Mill and New York butlers bustled about on the perimeter. The chef eyed me suspiciously, but didn’t find much to complain about. I kept my eye on three kitchen maids who grabbed my chopping block to clean whenever I wasn’t looking. We endlessly peeled and chopped and, as there was not enough room in the three kitchen refrigerators, it was my job to find space in the pool house refrigerators, and its outside closet that stored cushions, but was cold enough to keep vegetables safely. For the next few days I made the trek between the pool house and kitchen dozens of times, carrying boxes of produce through where dozens of clumps of helenium were being planted, and wondered what it would be like to be so rich. I felt like I’d landed on Planet Billionaire: 10 or so acres of privilege and excess.

       On Wednesday, a team of seven tabletop designers spent 12 hours arranging foliage and owl and turkey candles and sculptures spilling a cornucopia of fruit and nuts, as anticipation built. When the head butler, a Brit who spent a lot of time making himself tea and eating jelly sandwiches, rushed through the house calling “Wheels up!” all hell broke loose. Everyone scurried about to ensure all was in order before our lords and masters descended upon the household. If I were rich, I wondered, would I have servants unscrew my Perrier cap as did the lady of the house?

       We made lunch for six. As we lined up platters of sea bass, lobster, and salads (lentil, Caesar, arugula — each one fiddled with by the chef with the precision of a diamond cutter), the missus sent word through her New York butler, Anthony, for us to prepare sandwiches. Back to the pool house with the uneaten food, no one daring to tell the boss that there’d been a communication breakdown. The bill from the Clamman alone was $700. When the chef saw the sandwiches I’d prepared he had a minor freakout. I had to start again and cut the crusts off the bread just so.

       On Thursday a half-dozen freelance butlers arrived (one told me he was paid $1,000). Glorified waiters, it was their job to set the tables and serve the food, but mostly to stand around and look servile. It upset me that we went through miles of plastic wrap and aluminum foil, but there was nothing I could do. It was clear the chef had no respect for Americans’ traditional holiday fare, boiling to death huge pots of vegetables and Frenchifying them with lots of butter and cream. Didn’t that go out in the ’70s with Cuisine Minceur?

       Service went smoothly. The chef had me put beads of Sevruga from a large tin on boring white crackers. Only two were eaten. I didn’t amputate any fingers, didn’t elicit much ire from the chef. But since he never had the opportunity to taste any of my food, I knew he didn’t respect me. I learned many lessons, most notably: Cooking is something I love, so I now I reserve it as a gift for the people I love.

—

       Debra Scott is a real estate columnist at The Star.