Edisto Fritters

For as long as I can remember, I have stayed at Cassandra McGee’s big pink house midway down front beach on Edisto Island. The drive down from Charleston,^ though less than an hour, is a respite in itself, through marshland and old plantation sites, through tunnels of live oaks with Spanish moss unraveling like gray lace in the amber light of dusk (a friend’s son calls it “squirrel hair”).

All of my memories of that house involve big meals around the two huge dining tables, and I ne