At my home here in West Bath I have two wild rose bushes at the edge of the marsh. As I picked a few buds last Sunday morning I was reminded of a far-away summer week-end when I had the distinct pleasure of housesitting for friends who lived on Peak’s Island.

On a glorious Friday evening I rode the ferry from Portland with my two youngest daughters and our dog, Bosco. Upon arrival, we walked along the dusty road to the house, a short distance made long by the shimmering heat, the amount of bags we were carrying, and the fact that we were all famished.

We found the key, turned on the lights and fed Bosco, as well as the two rather large, unfriendly Himalayan cats we would be sharing our quarters with for three days. I don’t know who was less thrilled, the girls and me, the cats, or Bosco. He had retreated to a corner, his tail between his legs, while the cats eyed him from the top of the china cabinet, no doubt planning his demise.

Provisions in the household consisted of a bottle of soy sauce, a few cans of Shipyard, two wrinkled lemons and several boxes of Rice-A-Roni. Since the grocery store was closed, we prepared to walk back to the restaurant near the dock. As I opened the back door, I heard voices and, upon rounding the corner of the house, found two neighbor ladies sitting companionably together on their porch, surrounded by baskets of sea roses.

Mary Jane and Elizabeth were spinster sisters in their seventies who had summered on Peak’s Island since they were young girls. Every year since they could remember, they told me, they had made rose petal jelly. I wanted to hear more about this curious concoction, but my dear daughters were starving. I boldly requested that I be allowed to return after I fed my children and the ladies kindly agreed, stating they both had a tendency to be night owls.

Later, after returning from the dock-side eatery, settling the girls into their beds with their books, and giving my trembling dog plenty of reassurance, I returned to the ladies’ porch where Elizabeth was still hard at work separating the delicate petals from their stems. She had changed into a light cotton robe and terry-cloth slippers. I could hear Benny Goodman tunes floating through the screen door as Mary Jane joined us, a shallow wooden bowl with a pestle balanced on her hip.

“MJ” proceeded to shake piles of petals into the bowl and energetically grind them with the pestle. Periodically, she disappeared into the steamy kitchen to turn the fragrant, smashed petals into a “treat fit for the gods.”

It was a rose-scented, comforting evening spent with two lovely ladies. I hate to admit that I was sleepy long before they were and finally tore myself away at 1 a.m. They were leaving the next morning on the ferry to visit a friend in Auburn for the duration of the weekend, but we agreed we wouldn’t say good-bye.

At 7 o’clock the following morning when I let Bosco out for his morning rounds, there was a basket of fresh scones on the porch flanked by two glistening jars. A short note was tucked under one of them: “Thank you for the delightful visit. It isn’t often we have company. Please fortify yourselves with this snack before you set out for the store. We will be thinking of you. E & MJ.”

On the back of the note was what I had dared not ask for: the recipe for rose petal jelly:

Karen Carlton is a freelance writer living in West Bath, who is a regular contributor to this column. She can be reached by e-mail at [email protected]