In answer to the most heartfelt of prayers, the sun finally came out this morning, and that meant that this afternoon was cleared for the Festival of Festivals, the Annual Shad Bake that my dear friends Frank and Monica Eppinger have been hosting for more than a quarter-century. It is simply the event, in celebration of that silvery, bony, and delicious anadromous fish, that we set our calendars around, and to me it is so special a gathering of old friends that when I'm asking to be found worthy, during the Jewish High Holiday prayers, of being inscribed in the Book of Life for another go-round, one of my reasons, I argueth with the Lord, is so I can go to the Shad Bake on Sunday afternoon of Memorial Day weekend: specifically, go, delight in eating shad cooked the traditional way, which is on oak planks in front of a fire, see people I don't get to see often enough, and—this has become my role in the proceedings—photograph the treasured get-together. Here's to the unofficial start of summer, to the groaning boards of splendid fish, Shad roe, and all the myriad dishes the assembled prepared to share, to the hosts, and to all of the attendees, as well as to those who couldn't make it and those who are no longer with us. There's a lot of history in this storied gathering, and, God only knows, a wonderful lot of love.