Raspberry

Friday August 7, 2026

Raspberry has been a common word in our recent vernacular.

Lindsay went berry picking in Amesbury with MJ Crossman and Desmond last week, and came home with a preposterous amount of blueberries, raspberries, and peaches. She baked blueberry protein muffins and raspberry chocolate chip protein muffins that we’ve been eating for breakfast and dessert all week. (How many foods are breakfast and dessert?)

Desmond loves getting raspberries blown on his tummy. He also loves blowing them himself, although it may be generous to call his tongue-stuck-out, spit-flying-everywhere imitation a raspberry. It might be more appropriate to call it a shart noise. We call them raspberries to be polite.

He also might think a raspberry is the word for “mama.” Ask him to say “mama,” and he will make the nastiest, wettest raspberry sound you’ve ever heard — hyperbolically more gnarly than the base-level raspberry.

I also got “Raspberry Beret” stuck in my head earlier this week. Week of raspberries.

One Update: Demolition Permit

It was a real pain in the ass of a week on the house front for reasons I’m not going to get into here. But there was some good news: We applied for a demolition permit this week. There’s a non-zero chance we’re knocking this damn house down next week if the building permit comes through today.

We swung by the house Thursday to see if we could make any final saves. Got the Ring cameras and the Tommy Bahama chairs off the porch, but that’s about it. The clock in Desi’s room is still ticking.

We’re going to South Carolina for cousin Elliott Matticks and Nicolette Fisher’s wedding on Wednesday, so we’ve requested to hold the demo until we’re back if it’s not done by Tuesday. But if it’s not done by then, we should be able to do it soon after we get back.

One Hollywood: The Sopranos, Max

We went to Carmelina’s in Boston’s North End for lunch on Tuesday. The reservation was made six weeks ago because that’s when you have to make reservations for Carmelina’s, and nowhere did it say “WE ARE NOT BABY-FRIENDLY.” If it had, we might not have brought Desmond.

The staff wasn’t openly hostile, and they had a nice private alley to tuck the stroller, but they were clearly not happy to have an infant there. They don’t offer high chairs. It took 15 minutes for anyone to even come speak to us (it’s a 15-table restaurant, tops). Nobody so much as acknowledged Des, which is just insane because he’s the cutest baby alive.

Apparently, they were merely passive-aggressive and withholding judgment, because we made it through the meal with no broken dishes and a mess that honestly could have been made by me at a normal meal without a child. Des was a maniac, needing to be in constant motion, jumping in our laps, grabbing at utensils and dishes, stuffing penne in his mouth — but he really was not a disruption to anyone. (Except for when he threw my sunglasses under the people next to us, but that was one time.)

When the waiter came over to pack up our leftovers, he finally acknowledged Des and said hello. The host who cleaned up the table said “good-looking kid.” The waitress who brought over the handheld POS was openly fawning over him, which is exactly the reaction we expect any time we’re in public thank you very much.

All this to say: Carmelina’s is really good, but if you want high-end Italian food for a better price at a friendlier, more baby-friendly North End restaurant, you cannot beat BenCotto.

Oh, Tony Soprano’s wife is named Carmella. That’s how we got here.

One Book: Another Hellish Newsletter

What the hell, we’re self-plugging here this week. This isn’t a book, but this is a lawless space governed by the capriciousness of some random asshole on the internet. We crossed 100 subscribers this week. The first time I sent this out, it went to 63 people — mostly friends and family pulled unknowingly and unwillingly from our wedding guest list. There have been a few big-ish subscriber events — after the first month, the fire — but I mostly hovered around 80 for the last year.

I don’t really know what’s happened, but over the past few weeks, I’ve had a mini influx of strangers subscribing, such that I’m afraid I’m being bot-farmed and should stop posting pictures and information about my child. But on the chance that you’re real people who just like reading random newsletters, reach out and say hi! I’d love to know how you found this obscure corner of the internet.

Thank you to all of you — the Day Ones and the new folk — for continuing to read every week. (Or opening so Substack thinks I have an audience and continues to circulate my shit.) I don’t really know why you do it, but the slimmest of expectations are the only thing that keep me locking in on Thursday evenings to get something out Friday at 6:30am sharp.

One Song: Prince, The New Tower Generation, and The Revolution - Raspberry Beret

Obviously.