Driving home from the office on Tuesday evening, I was surprise to notice that I was in what amounted to a traffic jam — well, for East Hampton Village, at least. Cars were backed up at the Newtown Lane light and jockeying to merge left to get onto North Main Street. A truck had earlier run into the Accabonac Road underpass and become stuck, adding to the confusion.

    There’s a renewed rumble outside the Star office windows on Main Street as Memorial Day weekend gets closer. There are more cars on the roads, more people, longer lines at the lumberyard and at Bucket’s when I go to get a sandwich.

    A year or so back, when things were at their worst, economically, the lunch line would have been served and out the door by 10 minutes after noon. This spring, there are customers ahead of me when I get to the deli as late as 1 p.m. Does the sandwich line mean the difficult tide has turned? I hope so.

    Those of us who live here year round experience a mild sense of surprise every year at this time, tinged, we have to admit if we’re honest, with just the littlest twinge of resentment. While they were away, we kept everything running, and here they arrive as if they owned the place! The faces on the lunch line are unfamiliar. The cars lined up to turn at Egypt Lane are different.

    It is funny that in a semi-suburb such as this, we know one another as much by what we drive as anything else. Subconsciously, we catalog the familiar among our social surroundings, recognizing people according to which 2,000-pound assemblage of metal and plastic they are in.

    That white van, the one with the guy yakking on a cellphone? The one with the city-style padlock on the back? No, I definitely have not seen you before, nor most of the other vehicles in this traffic jam.

    And so I went east on Pantigo Road, feeling a bit like a visitor my self.

    Before Osama bin Laden built his compound in Abbottabad, Pakistan, he spent a few harried years looking for the perfect property while looking over his shoulder. One wife liked France, another Marrakesh, another Afghanistan, another Dubai, and so on and so forth. Fortunately, he had an excellent broker at Corcoran who showed him many fine locations in many countries before he decided on the half acre less than a mile from the National Military Academy of Pakistan.

    The original estimate for construction was $600,000, but it went slowly and ran over bud­get. When the cost hit $1 million, the general contractor went missing. Turns out he was building two other mansions at the same time, on the other side of Abbottabad, and was overextended. Pakistani officials say they are searching for the poor fellow, and the U.S. reports that no Navy Seal team has been dispatched to find him. (Real seals, in this instance, might have better luck.)

    One of the properties Osama bin Laden seriously considered before settling on Abbottabad was in Southampton, N.Y. (The exact address is being withheld for obvious reasons; it would hurt the summer rental.) While initially balking at the suggestion, his excellent Corcoran broker reminded Bin Laden of all those years spent in desert tents and in mountain caves, so why shouldn’t he spend some quality time with his family near the ocean and enjoy the peace and quiet of Southampton?

    Additionally, his agent told him, Southampton suited his needs for modern connections — satellite television, optic-fiber Internet, Twitter, Foursquare, iMovie to edit his videos — in order to keep in touch with his minions, who hated everything about modernity. Except Boeing 737s and Kalashnikov AK-47s.

    Among the fascinating items found at the Osama bin Laden compound in Abbottabad was a scratchy audiotape of his one and only appearance before the Southampton Town Planning Board in May of 2003. (We would thank Wiki­Leaks for the tape, but we don’t want to get anyone in trouble or see The Star hauled before a government subcommittee.) Apparently, Bin Laden was accompanied by his attorney, Al Keida, who insisted that his client disguise his identity and came up with the alias “Obama Lin Saden.”

    The record shows that they arrived late for that morning session at Town Hall. We must assume they did so in order to skip the Pledge of Allegiance ceremony that starts each day. Obama Lin Saden did most of the talking through an interpreter.

    This is the unexpurgated reprint of that initial meeting with the planning board of Southampton.

    Good morning, Mr. Lin Saden.

    Good morning, gentleman of the planning board. Salam-alaikum. And you two women too.

    Your elevations are very well executed.

    Allah be praised.

    Are we looking at a single-family dwelling here?

    Yes. But you must remember that I have many wives, too many children, and 34 security guards. Not to mention a live-in cook and an organic farmer.

    Bodyguards? Do they sleep at the residence?

    I hope not. I pay them to stay awake.

    You said farmer, right?

    Yes. He interned at Quail Hill many years ago. He is fantastic. He can get blood from a stone.

    Will he be growing anything on the premises?

    We are very green, if that is your concern, no pesticides, no chemicals. We envision some raised beds in a modest garden. Potatoes, kale, cabbage, basil for pesto, and a bushy plant with a pungent Afghan smell and delicious taste which my people dry in the sun and smoke in rolling papers. I prefer Zig-Zag. Some people think I look like the Zig-Zag guy. I laugh when I hear this. It is quite a compliment.

    Why are you growing your own vegetables?

    We don’t go out much. We are on the lam.

    On the lam? What do you mean?

    (The attorney, Al Keida, breaks in here.) “Mr. Lin Saden meant to say he likes lamb, but cannot find it in Southampton.”

    We like lamb kabobs very much. This is true. We don’t like to go out to eat much. Except for lunch. Love the salad nicoise at Silver’s. A little pricey, but very satisfying. I usually share one with two wives. My third wife on this trip cannot handle roughage.

    The plans for your new house indicate it is rather large and sprawling, more like a compound than a house. Is that right?

    My excellent Corcoran broker has been driving me around the area and showing me impressive mansions much larger than my own. Can you believe the Rennert spread in Sagaponack? Allah be praised. It has 29 bedrooms, 39 bathrooms, a basketball court, a bowling alley, two tennis courts, two squash courts, and a hot tub that can accommodate 72 virgins, comfortably.

    We see no hot tub or swimming pool in your plans.

    I cannot swim. I have nightmares that I will end up in the water, unable to see land.

    We also see no basement, no laundry room, no wine cellar.

    Nothing underground, please. I have had it up to here with dark and dank places. Besides, basements always leak. No leaks, please. I have had it up to here with leaks. I drink no wine, Allah be praised. I drink Pepsi Max. I like very much Pepsi Max with a sirloin cheeseburger at Silver’s.

    It looks like you have enough open space in this compound to land a helicopter.

    A helicopter? That thought never entered my head.

    How do you plan to use all the empty space?

    We will be burning our trash so we don’t have to haul it to the dump. Save on petrol. We would not like scraps of paper or discarded letters to fall into the hands of the TMZ or perhaps this very planning board. No offense. But I remember what happened to Bob Dylan. They rummaged through his garbage. That’s how I found out his true name was Robert Zimmerman. A Zionist. Too bad. I used to sing “Just Like a Woman” when we did karaoke in the caves.

    How many bathrooms do you plan?

    Two. One inside, one outside.

    How long do you think this construction will take?

    I have a large construction crew. They also do demolition. Very fast. Very effective. What are the hours permitted for work? In my homeland, we are so courteous that we work only a few hours each day.

    In Southampton, where building is our main business, we allow loud construction and deafening jackhammers 12 hours a day, from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. — 7 days a week.

    On the Sabbath you sanction work?

    What do you do for a living, Mr. Lin Saden?

    I am an inspirational speaker.

    We couldn’t tell.

    It loses something in the translation. I had 565,000 hits on YouTube last week. Perhaps you have seen my work?

    Anyone on the board familiar with Mr. Lin Saden’s work?

    (Board members look at one another and answer, from left to right, “No,” “Not me,” “Sorry,” “I have grandchildren,” “No,” “What is YouTube?” and “I am getting ready for polo season.”)

    No harm. I am a humble servant. How long will permit take?

    As you can see by the crowd here today, we are swamped. Ever since 9/11, more and more people are moving out of the city and building homes in the Hamptons.

    I understand. You have a lovely community. I haven’t seen a policeman in two weeks. Your citizens are very kind. Some salespeople at P.C. Richard can be curt, but I am sure to feel safe and secure here.

    In these plans, your mansion resembles a fortress of seclusion.

    You make me sound like Superman. I blush.

    That was the Fortress of Solitude.

    Oh, right. With so many wives and rivals, I’d settle for seclusion.

    You have exteriors walls of 8 feet and 13 feet and even 18 feet — one on the third-floor balcony. That one has barbed wire. We want to protect the look of the neighborhood more than the residents who live there, so can you talk about the composition of walls, please?

    We use brick and mortar, maybe some cinder ­blocks. Old school. Nothing modern. Fundamental elements.

    We will need samples of the exact bricks and the mortar before we can approve anything.

    You don’t know what a brick looks like?

    You’d be amazed, Mr. Saden. Some people try to sneak in oddly colored or oddly shaped bricks. They even dye the mortar just to be different. We don’t like different. And I’m sure you wouldn’t want your neighborhood wrecked by surprise mortar, would you?

    Death to dyed mortar!

    Your plans also call for metal doors, metal security gates, and a natural camouflage provided by surrounding hedges and trees and man-made dunes.

    When in Southampton, do as the Southamptonites do. Everyone here lives as if they are international terrorists hiding from the authorities. I will too. Not to worry. We will blend in. You won’t know we are here. Except when the adhan calls us to prayer five times a day.

    With that, Obama Lin Saden looked at his watch, stood up, and marched out of the meeting. It was lunchtime. His lawyer apologized and later withdrew his application. No explanation was offered. This did happen, however, shortly after Page Six spotted one of Bin Laden’s wives walking down Main Street with a young waiter from Silver’s. That claim has never been substantiated.

    Bruce Buschel is a writer of nonfiction and an Off Broadway musical. He blogs for The New York Times about his restaurant in Bridgehampton, Southfork Kitchen. He has also directed and produced a series of jazz films, “Live at the Village Vanguard.” He lives in Bridgehampton.

    A beautiful afternoon in New York is a holiday for me regardless of why I’m there. It brings back the years when I was single and living and working in the city. I remember discovering, counter to expectation, that it was possible to slow down outdoors and find a pleasant breeze on a hot day in summer. The city is quieter then than in other seasons, which is a plus in itself.

    This week I was in the city as an advocate for my husband, who was scheduled for surgery. I know that sounds about as enjoyable as having toothpicks stuck in your eye, but it was fun being there, anyway. The streets in his Greenwich Village neighborhood are full of college kids in the spring; New York University and some of its dorms are nearby. Late at night we can hear them drunkenly singing as they move in gangs up University Place.

    When I meandered out to find us some lunch today, I bypassed a curious hybrid of a restaurant called Jackson Hole, which — I don’t quite understand this in the context of its name — serves Indian food. It was entirely empty. A little farther up University, though, the Grey Dog was hopping. I’m an impatient sort, but (the unconscious feeling that I was on vacation slowing me to a dawdle) I went in for takeout sandwiches. Usually, I stay away from crowded, noisy restaurants, especially the “hip” kind, but this time I had no problem with the long line or the loud music, and I smiled as the servers moved to a heavy beat as they went from kitchen to table. Despite the long line, my order was ready before I had time to finish an iced cappuccino. I enjoyed being there even though I was obviously the only person around who was over the age of 35.

    Isn’t that what vacations are about? Getting to new places, away from the everyday preoccupations that have become routine?

    The last time I accompanied my husband to New York-Presbyterian Hospital for surgery, only about five weeks ago, he tried to convince me a day or two after the operation that I should take off on a little excursion, just for me. He suggested that I go to the Metropolitan Museum and was incredulous when I insisted that keeping him company in a hospital room felt a bit like a vacation to me already.

    This time around, during our next petite sojourn at New York-Presbyterian, I’m going to take along “Villette,” a novel by Charlotte Bronte that had passed me by until recently. Its first few pages are promising. I will have to bring my laptop, but I’m planning to mostly resist the workaholic temptation to switch it on to do some editing for The Star. (Even I can’t convince myself I’m on holiday if my computer is humming.)

    Okay, there are more glamorous places to get away from it all, I’ll admit.

    But making the most of circumstances beyond your control is always a good idea. And, like most of us, I don’t often find myself with a good excuse to put my feet up and unplug myself from the electronics. Have you ever been out at the ocean beach on a sunny Saturday in July or August and noticed people in their bathing suits sauntering up the sand with cellphones clapped to their ears, shouting over the sound of the surf about real estate or the stock market? I have. They don’t let you do that at the hospital.

    I have in front of me the rule that resulted in the suspension for the rest of the season of our highly successful softball coach, Lou Reale, and wonder, given the apparent fact that Section XI’s executive director can hardly remember the last time it was violated (whether knowingly or inadvertently) before this year, why it is in the section’s handbook to begin with.

    The rule, approved in October 2007, reads: “If an individual or team exceeds the maximum number of contests permitted by Section XI [the governing body for public high school sports in Suffolk] the penalty is team ineligibility from the date of the violation for the rest of the season, including playoffs.”

    Pretty Draconian, don’t you think? Practically a capital offense.

    The number of scrimmages a team can play is apparently unlimited, but God help you if you play one more official contest than the agreed upon number, which in softball’s case is 20.

    It is pretty much agreed that Reale, in scheduling more nonleague games than he should have, did not intend to gain any advantage by so doing. It was, as he said, an honest, though admittedly “stupid,” mistake inasmuch as he’d become used to replacing the two league games East Hampton would have played with Amityville (a perennial League VI dropout) with nonleaguers with Connetquot and Bayport-Blue Point, where he began his career.

    This year, though, he failed to take into account that Elwood-John Glenn, which moved into the league, had taken over Amityville’s schedule, and thus he went over the 20-game limit.

    After having played a nonleague game with Hampton Bays (which had replaced Bayport on the schedule), Reale realized a violation had occurred and immediately reported it to East Hampton’s athletic director, Joe Vas, who, according to Reale, suspended him, apparently to underline their position that an honest mistake had been made.

    Reale said he was told at first that he would be suspended by the Section from the next scheduled league game, with Kings Park, that he would have to forfeit the last game of the regular season, with Rocky Point, and that the team would be banned from playoff contention.

    A subsequent appeal, by Vas and Reale, resulted in restoring the team’s playoff chances but in banning Reale forthwith for the remainder of the season.

    The idea, we are told, was not to hurt the kids, but to hold the coach — who readily admitted his mistake and who has undoubtedly suffered exceedingly as the result of it — accountable.

    He has agreed that he should be held accountable, that that, after all, is what he always tells his players to do, to admit their errors when they make them, to face the music.

    But I can’t help but think that the punishment in this case — which did not exactly mirror a cited precedent involving girls lacrosse coaches at Sayville and Babylon that had come to light through an e-mailed complaint to Section XI’s executive director — did not fit the “crime.”

    This man has coached wonderful softball teams for nigh 30 years. He is among the state’s top five or six in career wins with more than 400. Under his leadership East Hampton debuted in the state’s Final Four in 2001, and played again in the Final Four in 2007 and ’08. Many of his protégées have gone on to get scholarships and star on collegiate softball teams. He self-reported to his athletic director, which was the right thing to do, and nobody had to send an e-mail to Section XI’s executive director.

    He deserved better — especially given Section XI’s tacit admission in the way it handled the girls lacrosse coaches’ and Reale’s cases that the rule’s penalties were deserving of amendment.

    It is understandable that Reale, having seen the rule amended once, might wonder whether, through appealing further, to Section XI’s athletic council, as is permitted, it could be amended twice.

    The question of appealing further was raised at the East Hampton School Board meeting on May 3, but the board, most of whose members apparently were sympathetic, ultimately decided, after meeting in executive session, to forgo that and to have the school’s attorney write a strongly worded letter to Section XI protesting Reale’s treatment.

    As aforesaid, the coach deserved better.

    And the team did too.   

   “We’re grieving again,” I said recently to our appraiser, adding, “I guess it’s something like drinking again.”

    He could see, he said, how the two might be related, the assessments here presumably being so out of whack.

    Along that line, I have here in front of me a tear sheet from the March 18 Times real estate section with a photo taken by our neighbor, Gordon Grant, of a 3,000-square-foot four-bedroom, four-and-a-half-bath house on parklike 2.4 acres with “a new pool, meandering perennial gardens and the privacy to enjoy both.”

    Asking price: $3.5 million.

    Annual taxes: $13,100.

    Okay. Let’s see. . . . This house is worth — if they get what they want — six times what our shack in Springs is and yet the owners have been paying only twice what we have been in taxes.

    A year ago, when we first began to grieve, having finally awakened to the gross disparity between presumed full values and actual values, I said if enough of us filed grievance forms we might wind up doing the town’s reassessment work for it.

    It’s generally agreed that the time for a townwide reassessment has come, long come. Yet nothing’s ever done. I’m told that while the price tag for such an undertaking might appear large, at $3 million, say, the cost spread out among the town’s 25,000 parcels works out to $120 per. And that that $120 could be pro-rated, as could the effects of increased assessments on properties that had not been reassessed in years.

    Fairness is the goal here, a not unsurprising goal in a country whose institutions are ostensibly dedicated to it.

    If it hasn’t been obvious at the national level, it is certainly so here that middle-class homeowners have been subsidizing well-heeled ones when it comes to property taxes.

    Back to the March 18 blurb. . . . “To get to the house, you drive through automatic gates and up a long driveway to a parking area. The glass sides of the foyer allow views of the large, heated Gunite pool and waterfall behind the house. . . . Meandering perennial gardens and mature trees contribute to the parklike setting. . . .”

    Were it our house, that blurb would read, “To get to the house, bordered on one side by old mowers, rusted folding chairs, the frame of a patio table whose glass top shattered in a windstorm, bikes, and Obama signs, you drive by a mailbox in a sling up an undulating driveway in whose declivities waterfowl serenely glide when it rains. The Palladian kitchen window (when the pollen’s washed off) allows views of a lawn of many species in which ticks gambol and at whose edge a scabrous plastic lamb and a stone owl and rabbit look on in wonder as perennials vanish one by one, tugged under by the owners’ prize herd of meandering voles. . . .”

    With Grievance Day looming as I write, I trust our patience soon will no longer be taxed.

    Nikki Goodbird is our 3-year-old Quaker parrot. We named him Nikki as an acceptable androgynous option before we knew his gender. He added the “Goodbird” all on his own.

    Everything we ever read about Quakers is true: In spite of their harmless appearance — brilliant green backs with little gray bellies — they are fire-breathing dragons, fiercely loyal to their “flock,” and in kill mode if you’re perceived as foe.

    When he is in an affectionate mood, he will get the cuddles he craves by any means necessary. If squawking doesn’t work, Nikki, who is roughly the size of a female cardinal, will boldly climb down from his perch, walk across the floor in a house with three dogs, and tap on my foot with his beak to be picked up and adored.

    If he’s feeling frisky, he will initiate a rousing game of hide-and-seek, accomplished by poking his head in my sleeve. “Where’s Nikki?” I ask. He agrees: “Where’s Nik-Nik?” Then he pulls his head out of my sleeve while enthusiastically screeching “Peek-a-boo!”

    This can go on for hours.

    There is only one person that Nikki has loathed with a passion since first sight — my mother. He runs at her whenever she visits, his beak open, ready to take a large chunk out of her foot. The feeling is more than mutual; I can see her strongly resisting the urge to punt.

    She used to impart at least a pretense of fondness, for my sake, but that was left in the dust long ago.

    “Back off, you little shit,” she commands, and he does. They seem to have developed that sort of mutual respect only found between opposing generals in old war movies.

    Considering his brain is the size of a lentil, Nikki has a pretty large vocabulary.

    He can say “Nikki’s a good bird. Yeah!” And “tickle, tickle, under the wing.” And “I’m gonna get you!” And “upside down.” And “pretty bird,” followed by a wolf whistle, along with many other gems.

    He sings and dances to a song he wrote himself, with the help of my children: “Yeah, Nikki/Time to dance/Oh yeah, oh yeah.” (If you are interested in more, you can probably find it on YouTube under “Nikki the Quaker Parrot.”)

     He calls the dogs by name — which confuses them, and amuses him, to no end — gives kisses, asks for “yum-yums,” and always says “thank you” when he gets them.

    Here’s what he can’t say: “Little green pants.”

    For the past three years, I’ve been working on, “Nikki, what are you wearing?” to which the only proper reply should be, “Little green pants.”

    I mean, he does wear little green pants.

    Recently I took to saying, “Nikki, what are you wearing?” and then, after a few stupid birdie blink-blinks, I say, “What’s this?” while pointing to his leg, hoping somehow that will force his hand, so to speak.

    This is how the conversation generally goes:

    Me: Nikki, what are you wearing?

    Nikki blinks.

    Me: What are you wearing?

    Nikki (whispering): Wuhziss?

    Me (pointing at his leg): What’s this?

    Nikki (grabbing my finger): Pleez ta meet-cha!

    Me: Pleased to meet you! Nikki, what are you wearing?

    Nikki blinks, still gripping my finger, tightly, in his claw.

    Me: Is it . . . little green pants?

    Nikki: (same time): . . . pants?

    Me: Little green pants?

    Nikki (same time): Pants?

    Me: What are you wearing?

    Nikki (getting bored): Kisshes. Mwah!

    Me (relenting): Okay, kisses.

    We kiss.

    Nikki (happily): Nikki Goodbirdgoodbirdgoodbird. . . .

    He then goes into the little parrot hut which he shares with his life-mate (an orange Ping-Pong ball), and talks to it in a quiet voice, sounding eerily like Edward G. Robinson.

     “Schwah,” Nikki grumbles to his round ginger friend. “Schwah-schwah-schwah.” He is an odd little creature, who provides endless hours of pleasure with his eccentricities.

    Quakers live for about 35 years, so someone in my house will undoubtedly be wearing a pirate costume every Halloween from now through 2043.

    Nikki, of course, will be wearing little green pants.

—

    Bridget LeRoy is a reporter at The Star.

    Quiet rain, heavy rain, thunderstorms, we’ve had them all this week, and the forecast isn’t for sun until Saturday, if then.

    Many East Enders have been frustrated by this unrelenting downpour. Set back in the annual rush to finish outdoor jobs before Memorial Day, landscapers and those who work in construction have been particularly aggravated.

    But while the rain has been bad news for them — and certainly it was serious business elsewhere in the country — for me, I have to admit, it was a pleasure.    

    For one thing, any hint of pressure I might have felt about yard or garden evaporated. If we’d had sun, I would have had to do something about the tall grass growing around the house, and face all those empty pots awaiting flowers on the patio. Standing ankle-deep by a storm drain on North Main Street, as I loaded groceries from the I.G.A. into the trunk of my car, I didn’t even mind the water bubbling all around.

    You sometimes hear people say that rainy weather is good for sleeping. My husband is recuperating from surgery this month, and he was sitting up in bed the other day reading poetry by Julia de Burgos, a Puerto Rican writer whose work he had recently discovered. I was on the phone talking to a friend about it, and she said, “It’s perfect weather for poetry.”

    A fragment of a poem in a college compilation by a young woman I knew has never left me, although I’ve undoubtedly garbled it somewhat over the years:

    “Perhaps I flung too much away/ On mad forsythia in May/ Too soon, great greenness overrules.”

    My friends laughed at the poem at the time. College was in New Jersey, where forsythia is at its peak in April rather than May, just as it is here. Never mind, I liked the feeling the lines conveyed, as well as the rhyme.

    If any forsythia was still blooming this week, the rains did it in. The lilacs and yellow irises may have come back, as they do every year, but great greenness has overruled here, deepening on the ground and in the trees.

   What to do with bluefish is one of the warm seasons’  eternal questions, at least in Bonac, where they are caught in great number once the water is the right temperature. I was fishing on a bay beach with my friend Mike Solomon last week at about dusk and landed a nice blue, about five pounds or so. It was my first fish of the season, and I took it home to show the kids before cutting out the fillets.

    I like bluefish and always have, though I acknowledge that some people find it too fishy. In our kitchen, I have frequently played around with recipes to find something that others, less-fish-fond than I, would eat. My latest attempt was bluefish tacos, and I think they were a success. The recipe follows in somewhat abridged form.

    I cut the fillets into chunks about an inch wide and two inches long, dusted them with flour and salt, dipped them in a bit of beaten egg, then rolled them in extra-fine cornmeal. These, I fried in a small batches in a mix of olive and canola oil, turning them until they were browned on all sides.

    For the tacos, I heated ordinary corn tortillas in an unoiled black cast-iron pan. Then I piled on the fried fish dotted with Hellmann’s mayonnaise to which I had added chipotle pepper sauce that was just a hair too spicy by itself. Above this went a heap of finely shredded cabbage, a few pieces of avocado, lime juice, and grind or two of black pepper.

    (A confession about the chipotle sauce: It was left over from some La Fondita takeout we had the night before. You can usually buy a bottle at the Montauk Highway restaurant, and I plan to.)

    The tacos were, in a word, good. We had a houseguest that night, and he and I put the whole batch away in short order. My older daughter, who is not that much of a fish eater, helped herself to those fried chunks that had not been slathered with the hot sauce.

    A word of caution: Bluefish remains on the State Department of Health’s advisory list for potential chemical contamination. Women of childbearing age and children under 15 should not eat more than one serving of a blue that is 20 inches or more long in a month. Men and women over 50 should not eat it more than four times a month. And some people choose not to eat it at all.

    Not long ago, without our telling anyone, my spouse and I appeared on a tabloid news show. Judging from a near dearth of phone calls and e-mails, absolutely no one we know saw the segment. Not only was this lack of exposure fine with us, it was a huge relief.

    We are no strangers to being asked to exploit ourselves. Around six years ago MTV asked if we’d consider being the subjects of a reality series. We turned it down instantly and never told the kids about it. We have five kids. At the time MTV first contacted us the kids were all little and cute and running around our yard and kitchen laughing, fighting, shouting, tumbling (you can just imagine the footage, no?). And my spouse and I are both women. Oh, and my spouse has famous parents. So when MTV asked to enter our home with cameras, we knew exactly why, and of course said no.

    We’re not merely private, we are also filmmakers. I know intimately that a story needs to be fully explored for an artistic piece to reach its potential. I don’t subject our family to public exposure, not because I don’t trust TV producers, camerapeople, or fellow filmmakers, but because I know that they often probe beyond a subject’s comfort zone in order to do their jobs effectively.

    Which is perhaps why, when we produced our first feature documentary three years ago, we had the talent sign waivers before we rolled cameras (this means they agreed in advance to let us use whatever they were about to say and do). We do not do exploitive work, and did not do an exploitive film. But the stuff that happens on camera is not always the stuff someone would plan to have their parents or ministers hear them say.

    Right after we were filmed for the tabloid news show, we told our parents about it. I called my mother in Palm Beach, who checked her program guide and couldn’t find the airing of it, but asked with no small concern how my hair had looked. My spouse texted her parents, who are the most tech-savvy septuagenarians on earth. They DVR’d it, watched it later, and were very positive about the segment (though they never mentioned how my hair looked).

    Six years ago, around the same time we were not allowing MTV crews into our home, our life was intense. Not only did we have that batch of kids, we had recently made the brave decision to blend families and move in together. (I came to the party with one son, my spouse-to-be had three daughters and a son.)

    Deciding to move into a house built in the 1820s added a huge layer of stress in the form of leaks, drafts, rotting wood, and black mold. To pay for the endless stream of house repairs and child distractions (do you know that a seven-person trip to Club Med takes exactly the same amount of time, and money, as the installation of an entirely new septic system?) we upped our commercial work to hyperdrive.

    Those early years together were filled with little sleep and utter bedlam. But it was creative bedlam, whether we were pre-wiring the kids’ four separate school systems about “different” families or shooting big-budget commercials or glue-gunning costumes.

    As filmmakers, we couldn’t ignore the creatively fertile environment we were living in. We didn’t want a network to record our family, but we couldn’t resist doing it ourselves. Since we didn’t want to expose the kids on camera, we wrote a fictitious account of our lives. Titled “Out in the Hamptons,” it is the story of (as our synopsis offered) “two women who work together, play together, have great sex together — and happen to have five kids together.”

    We wrote a pilot and sent it to the best agent in L.A. (courtesy of an introduction from my spouse’s father), who believed in it, believed in us as writers, and tried to sell it. It was too risqué for network, so she showed it to the big cable networks. HBO didn’t like it. Showtime very much liked it, but said they already had a lesbian show. There weren’t many other places to take it at the time, but the best agent in L.A. assured us that “you never know, things are always changing,” and we had no reason to doubt her.

    We took the show ourselves to LOGO (the cable network of L.G.B.T. content). LOGO didn’t have enough money to produce our show — they were looking entirely (like many other networks at the time) for reality TV shows. They wondered if we’d be willing to be the subjects of one. No, we explained — that’s why we created the series. So LOGO asked us to come up with a reality show based on our series. They actually asked us to find a family that was a real version of the fictitious one we’d created, which was based on our real one. . . .

    It took about two months to find a family. It had two male heads of household and 10 kids. It was the reality show version of us, sort of. It was better — they had twice as many kids, all African-American, ranging from an adorable infant to a star of the high school football team. They had zero trepidations about cameras or exploitation, and the dads were articulate and interesting.

    Then LOGO lost its funding and bagged the idea. We are now working on other projects: We are trying to distribute our feature film, we have written a screenplay we hope to direct next year, and, on optimistic days, we still think that someone might like to produce our scripted series.

    Then, Meredith Baxter, the 62-year-old actress most famous for the “Family Ties” series, announced on national television that she’s a lesbian. That night, while we were cooking three different dinners for four kids (the fifth was away at boarding school), my spouse took a call from an unknown number. It was a news magazine show wanting to film (the next day) our reaction to Meredith Baxter’s late-in-life coming out. They promised to hype our film (titled “Out Late”) if we agreed. Uncharacteristically for us, we did.

    The next day we got the kids off to school and welcomed a reporter, a cameraman, a producer, and a sound guy into our home. They were lovely and respectful. At one point, for B roll (the images you see while someone is speaking over them — like us making coffee and checking our mail), they asked us to kiss. I refused, saying I don’t kiss on cue (I made a joke about needing a little red wine and some Billy Joel music for that), and they seemed to be fine without the kiss. They also asked for a picture of my spouse with her famous father, and we said no (I said she’d need a little red wine and some Billy Joel music for that).

    The piece ran that evening, mentioning our film and showing clips from it. Except for a horrifying still of us that introduced the piece (with the headline “Late in Life Lesbians,” which upset my spouse because she didn’t consider her 48-year-old self “late in life”), they made us look and sound good. They didn’t get to show our kids, or the bedlam, or any dirt. They did get a picture of my spouse with her famous father, but not from us.

    Since coming out, Meredith Baxter published a memoir that is now number 10 on The New York Times’s best-seller list. Portia de Rossi’s memoir is climbing that same list. Ricky Martin, after years of deflecting public speculation, not long ago announced on every major talk show that he’s “a fortunate gay man”(who’s also plugging a new book and a new single). Sean Hayes (the star from “Will and Grace” who was neither Will nor Grace) came out a couple of years after his hit sitcom ended and right before his smash Broadway debut in “Promises, Promises.”

    Ellen DeGeneres, a true groundbreaker in 1997, came out during the run of her TV show. Immediately afterward, her ratings soared. Her current talk show enjoys consistently huge ratings and she has reached mega-celebrity status. Conversely (or sort of conversely, in an inverted kind of way), DeGeneres’s onetime partner Anne Heche experienced a significant jolt of fame when she “came out” as a lesbian, while her career suffered the direct inverse as soon as she later “came out” as straight.

    This is not to say that coming out necessarily helps if you’re in the public eye (although, ratings-wise, it arguably has done nothing to hurt the careers of Rosie O’Donnell, Neil Patrick Harris, Nathan Lane, or Jodie Foster). I’m merely pointing out that while coming out can, tragically, still be a career-breaker for teachers, politicians, clergy, and a host of other ordinary citizens worldwide . . . in the entertainment industry it mysteriously provides often positive leverage. My partner and I are not even remotely celebrities, but it seems we are somehow close enough to be of minor interest from time to time.

    And this is how we came to be exploited. On our own terms, and by our own choosing. We were willing to do it because it didn’t include the kids, and did include our feature film. We gave up a measured piece of ourselves in order to promote our careers. I think I’m learning that exploitation can be okay, when it goes both ways. Or, perhaps, when no one you know actually sees it.

Jennifer Brooke is a writer and filmmaker who lives year round in Sag Harbor with her partner in film and in life, Beatrice Alda, and their children.

    Do you remember your first time? I do. It was a late spring evening and a slight fog blanketed Montauk. I was wedged in the front seat of a pickup truck between my brother and his friend, who I had a mad crush on. When we drove over the Old Montauk Highway and had our first glance at that incredible ocean view, I knew I was home. I had found Montauk, and fell deeply in love.

    I had visited as a child, but had no emotional memories from that time. The only thing I remember is that our parents and their friends ate lobsters soaked in warm butter, while the kids ate pot roast soaked in soggy carrots that was cooked over a campfire at the Hither Hills campground. These days that would be considered child abuse, but I was too busy looking for the ice cream truck to even think about filing a police report on my parents.

    I’ve been here 38 years now and have come to recognize the strangers who arrive each season. They often stand in the downtown area dazed and confused, looking like fish out of water. And like the fish in our local waters, some are keepers and some I think we should most definitely throw back.

    One year there was a woman who wore the same clothes and bright red lipstick every day. Her boobs hung out of her tiny black top and her badly dyed hair hung long and stringy. You could tell she thought she was sexiest woman in the world. For some reason she hung out (in more ways than one) in a parking lot behind a local deli, swaying to music only she heard. Who knows, maybe she was selling her wares and I was just too stupid to realize it.

    This past winter a guy showed up walking the downtown streets carrying a guitar case and wearing a suit. I thought he was with a band. He, too, had long straggly hair. As he walked by himself on the shoulder of Edgemere Road, he laughed like a madman. My husband was the one who pointed him out as we took one of our Sunday afternoon drives, which we do in winter for our afternoon cafe au lait.

    The next day when my husband returned from work he told me that the guy had pulled a gun out of the guitar case. He crouched down and pretended he was shooting some customers near a coffee shop. The police apprehended him and found he was a wanted man.

    And then there was the guy who dressed as Pinocchio, but without the wooden nose, who walked each day from the Ditch Plain area to the downtown area. It seemed a tough hike for a grown man, especially one wearing little shorts with suspenders and wooden clogs. A good wind could have blown his little cap off his oddly shaped head.

    I can’t imagine what his gig was but maybe he was searching for Geppetto, the man who carved him and may have been hiding from him in the crazy guy’s guitar case. And though I heard the police found a lot of interesting stuff in that guitar case, I didn’t hear anything about their finding a little Italian man in there.

    This is a busy time out here in Montauk. I envy the newcomers for their first time and all they have to learn and see in our little salt-scented hamlet. But it’s nothing like the Montauk I first came to love, a place that was still undeveloped, with sand-swept lots of shrubby plants and empty beaches for as long as the eye could see. Parking was always available and there were never long waits on sandwich lines.

    It’s a weird cast of characters our little coastal town attracts each season and it will be interesting to see what we pull in this year. Maybe even Hansel and Gretel will visit.

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    Janis Hewitt is a senior writer for The Star and the paper’s Montauk correspondent.