Welcome to “The Salty Cod,” a monthly column in which humorist Steve Calechman grapples with uniquely New England dilemmas. 

God, I hope not, because I screwed up big time. I grew up on the course, right at the top of Heartbreak Hill, and watched pretty much every race during my childhood, and nothing, not the chance to eat a lot of pasta or run by my own house, ever made me want to do it. Then again, not everyone who grows up in Winthrop becomes a pilot.

And that’s fine. We don’t have to do or like all sports. And marathons, especially, are nothing to trifle with. You can’t just show up at the starting line on a whim. You gotta run a lot. You gotta run outside in January. And you never hit a downhill and get to coast for a mile. It really is all you.

Some of us are happy to be on the sidelines and remind you of just that. Think about it, runners. I know you feel you’ve done something medal- and massage-worthy at the end, and maybe you have. But without the crowds, that Monday is just 26.2 miles on concrete. Are all the splits and intervals and lost toenails still worth it? Now think about what those fans are going through. Standing—most likely sitting—for three, four hours, cheering “You got it!” over and over and over again, meaning it each and every time, even making the effort to occasionally decipher your shirt in order to say, “You got it, Mike!”—all while not spilling a drop of their chili. Sometimes it’s also drizzling, maybe a touch chilly, and they still don’t quit. Who’s the marathoner now?

We all are. Is it the classic definition of one? No. But there are a lot of ways to be part of something. Sometimes it’s hoofing it. Sometimes it’s yelling supportive stuff at people we don’t know. But the thing we have in common is that we both willingly keep coming back because it makes us feel good. If it didn’t, we wouldn’t. “It’s not rocket science,” says Jeff Brown, psychologist for the Boston Marathon’s medical team and author of The Runner’s Brain.

It’s the basis for most traditions and rituals, and it’s a way to make something feel like ours. So no, you don’t have to run to be a part of the marathon. Now, a question for you, readers. What’s one of your traditions that could only happen here, one you wouldn’t miss for all the pasta in the world?

This article was first published in the print edition of the April 2026 issue, with the headline,“Do I Have to Run the Boston Marathon to be a Real Bostonian?”

Got a question for the Salty Cod? Send it to editor@bostonmagazine.com.

Previously: What Should Boston’s Official Smell Be?

Dear Salty Cod: What should be Boston’s official smell?

There’s no shortage of classic whiffs: laundry, garlic sautéing in oil, gasoline, fresh tennis balls. But they don’t necessarily say, “This is us.” The challenge then becomes picking one that can represent everyone and everywhere in the city. Maybe it’s too big to even attempt.

Which is exactly why we should. We don’t just love to do hard things. We love to make things harder than they need to be, like walking on wet cobblestones in treadless shoes. But really, this quest needn’t be so stressful. Our list of official state things doesn’t always make sense or reflect popular opinion. The cranberry? Never anyone’s fruit choice for a pie or daiquiri. Boston terrier? A shelter could be giving the breed away with a free car, and people would still pay four figures for the latest doodle. Volleyball? Few have said, “It’s the only recreational sport I play.”

We’re a smart people, so we should be able to pick an official smell. If it had to be one, then chocolate chip cookies. Supposedly, Toll House cookies were invented about 20 miles south, and, well, what more do you need? But we’re such a big and awesome city, we can’t be contained by merely one scent. It’s only right that we have one for every season.

Spring: grilling. What’s being cooked is irrelevant—it’s the smell of the grill itself that means freedom, proof that the temperature finally cracked 35 and we finally get to be outside without layers. If we can play with fire while doing it, you bet we will.

Summer: boiled lobster. It’s “rich, salty, kind of sweet and musty, and definitely lobstery,” says Jody Adams, the iconic chef and cofounder of A Street Hospitality. If that testimonial weren’t so long, it would make a great license plate motto. Lobster in July is the ultimate. Except…wait for it…yeah, low tide. Now it’s the ultimate.

Fall: used couches. For some, spring is the season of new beginnings. For us, it’s autumn, with the returning students and their infectious, clueless energy. The smell is stale and damp, with a hint of urine. If you close your eyes, you’d think you were standing in Kenmore station.

Winter: waffle cones. We were once an ice cream powerhouse, and while the classic shoppes might be gone and new smells have taken over, our brains “don’t lose the old ones,” says Sandeep Robert Datta, professor of neurobiology at Harvard Medical School. And if there’s anything we do really well, it’s never forgetting our history, be it waiting 30 minutes in line for two scoops of mint chip or the jackhole who cut in front of us eight years ago.

But ice cream in February? Hell yeah. The sage Cliff Clavin said it best: “What else you gonna do with it?”

Got a question for the Salty Cod? Send it to editor@bostonmagazine.com.

Previously: What are People Trying to Accomplish by Wearing a Fleece Vest?

Dear Salty Cod: What are people trying to accomplish by wearing a fleece vest?

The easy answer is not much. Staying warm requires covering the skin—keeping heat in and cold out—something the vest, by definition, can never fully do, says Dustin Allen, clinical assistant professor and director of the physiology program at Boston University. It can be comfortable and make you feel warm, but “from a thermoregulation perspective, it’s idiotic,” he says.

Big deal that it’s idiotic. Sure, clothes need to perform, but they’re also for making statements. Back in the non-central-heating 17th and 18th centuries, when base layers were really needed, the vest was saying, “Why yes, ladies, that is my suit of armor. Would you like to touch my bevor?” (Protects the throat.) Or, since no one owned a lot of threads, if you had a silk embroidered vest, the message was, “You were doing okay,” says Michelle Finamore, a Salem-based fashion historian and curator.

So what would the fleece vest be saying? “I support public radio.” “Sorry, everyone. I’m off the market.” “I also love my Crocs.” All true, but the real, bottom-line message is: “I don’t give an eff,” a sentiment so pure Massachusetts that it should be on the new flag the state is still trying to figure out. People know the shortcomings. It’s not warm. It has no style. It looks foolish. (Not on you Mike Vrabel—you’re wearing the vest; the vest is not wearing you.) But this leads to the realer message of why anyone has one: “I got it for free.” Most likely it was from your tech-bro boss. (Huh, Mike Vrabel?) And whether it’s promoting a VC firm or failed robotics startup, we will always put it on, because the only thing we love more than bragging about a parking spot is getting swag and goddamn showing it off.

Oh, and we also love to be stoic and act rugged, and there’s no better garment to display these native qualities. Yeah, the vest doesn’t work in the cold. Guess what? That’s exactly why we wear it. We don’t want comfort. We want bare, frozen, numb arms while we clear a driveway or dig a fence post. All we need is a collar, and those deep pockets for our keys, phone, dog treats, hand wipes, and maybe a protein bar. Keep the sleeves. Save those for the babies in New York.

Dear Salty Cod: Why do so many apple cider doughnuts not taste like apple cider?

Another autumn, another attempt to visit an orchard and not over-pick. As you fail spectacularly once again, the thing that makes it all better is the promise of that doughnut at the end. Yet after waiting in that long line, when you finally take a bite…well…it’s not really that apple cidery.

To address this seasonal betrayal, the Cod reached out to two experts: Nathan Kibarian, owner of Desserts by Nathan, and Marissa Rossi, pastry chef at Northern Spy. The culprit, they say, is that the cider likely hasn’t been reduced. On its own, it’s watery and thin. The former can prevent the dough from frying well; the latter makes it too weak to compete with the spices, sugar, and oil. As a result, the cider flavor gets buried, relegated to backup vocals, handclaps at best.

Buying one at a bakery or farmstand might up the odds of finding something cider-forward, but Kibarian and Rossi would still go with an orchard. And of course, that’s where you’re going anyway, because it’s not merely about buying a doughnut. It’s about doing the walking, picking, and mild sweating to justify putting down one, two, probably three-plus doughnuts. The cider is also most likely made in-house, and you have the best shot at getting a hot doughnut, and a hot doughnut makes most problems go away.

If you think you can tell cider concentration just by looking, well, you’re a fool. You certainly could ask, “Hey, do you reduce?” but only if you want to get mocked by the teenage employees as soon as you walk away. There are, however, some signs you’re getting a good doughnut. It should be fluffy and the size of, you know, an actual doughnut—a four-biter, as Rossi says. Anything smaller is a letdown; anything larger has to take a longer oil bath.

You also don’t want to see any greasy shine, Kibarian says, and Rossi will look to see if any sugar remains on the outside. The sweet stuff is hygroscopic, a fancy way of saying it’ll draw out moisture, then dissolve. No sugar means dryness, so your next move is to stare at the menu board, make your best “can’t decide” face, and let people go ahead of you, because you will wait for the next batch to come out.

Got a question for the Salty Cod? Send it to editor@bostonmagazine.com.

See also: Where to Find the Top Cider Doughnuts at Greater Boston Farms and Orchards

Previously: What’s the Deal with Foliage Drives?

Welcome to “The Salty Cod,” a monthly column in which humorist Steve Calechman grapples with uniquely New England dilemmas. 

Dear Salty Cod: Driving west just to look at changing leaves? What am I missing?

Absolutely nothing. We got plenty of leafy trees right in town, so why ruin an entire Sunday driving all the way out to where? Framingham? Just like there’s no longer any reason to schlep to a theater since you’ve watched The Godfather at home. Or see the Eiffel Tower any farther than Vegas. Or eat Thai food anywhere but Swampscott.

The Cod understands. Traveling equals discomfort, and foliage means the Pike—the tight, wool sweater of roads—and quite possibly Route 2, a “highway” where no ride has ever felt one second faster. Yet continually dismissing the left half of our state is pure foolishness. Just ask Kristina Bezanson, a senior lecturer in arboriculture and urban forestry at UMass Amherst, who appreciated leaves and drives weekly into the city. Her verdict? It’s not even close. The west rules, and deep down, we know it. Sure, we put on a show with our Norway maples and honey locusts that no one knows the names of, and they do give off colors. “Yellow, brown, and bleh,” she says.

But out in the wilderness (that’s way past Framingham), there are sugar maples, red maples, hickories, birches, and black gums with more colors and multiple shades of the same color. These trees are sitting on big, open hills without any buildings or Amazon trucks to muck up the backdrop. Oh, and you also don’t have to hike to see them. You can pull over to the side of the road—and please, do pull over—and just stare out your windshield.

If this makes you reconsider, cool. Maybe you couple it with a trip to Springfield and finally visit the Naismith Basketball Hall of Fame. Or maybe you’ve accepted that leaves will never be your thing. Also cool. We all travel for something that seems nuts to everyone else. Like driving to Jersey and back in a night (hello, Pike) to see Springsteen for the 80th time. Or cruising up and down 6A searching for brass finials. Or waiting in traffic on Route 1 in Foxboro, all to sit outside and watch a sport that’s so much better on TV, drink $14 beer, wait two hours minimum to leave, and then do it for seven more Sundays as the weather gets colder and colder and colder…

Yeah, free leaves in the 413 sound pretty dumb.

Got a question for the Salty Cod? Send it to editor@bostonmagazine.com.

Before you bring in the Boston theme—a noble desire, by the way—the name has to work as a name. It needs originality, personality. It’s got to be theirs. When you yell it across a park, seven dogs can’t come running, which is just another way of saying that we have enough Bellas and Lunas.

To get a winning name, you gotta think, discuss, cross stuff off lists. And above all, the kids do not get final say. It’s a good teaching moment that not all of their ideas are gold. (We also have enough Shadows.)

Now to make it Boston. We have tons of possibilities, some so obvious as to be overlooked. The biggest? Dunks. It’s quick, strong, needs no explanation, and will get a constant response of, “Can’t believe I missed that,” but you’ll need to get on this early because it has the possibility of becoming like Charlie and Jack.

If you want to honor our long, storied history, then go with Norm, Lilith, or Coach. If this isn’t resonating, your first to-do item is to watch Cheers. But under no circumstances can you pick Sam. (See Luna and Bella.)

Sports could be seen as too easy, too hack, but it’s still a good source of the great and unsung. For the Celtics? Hondo (John Havlicek), Russell (Bill), or Bird (Larry). The Bruins? Doakie (Gary Doak), Schmautz (Bobby), Sweeney (Don or Bob), or Chief (Johnny Bucyk), the latter allowing you to constantly say, “How ya doin’, Chief?”—the ultimate Boston display of concern. Patriots? John Hannah gives maximum boy/girl flexibility with his last name and nickname, “Hog.”

The Sox well is deep, but dig a little deeper and consider Boomer (George Scott), Pudge (Carlton Fisk), Tiant (Luis), Carbo (Bernie), or, most especially, Freddie Lynn (Freddie Lynn). If you want to be totally innovative, something we love to do here, well then, it’s Monster. Give the pooch a green collar, and the story is told. If you want a little more bite, Stubby, acknowledging where you end up buying your tickets. Or you could go with Obi, a classic Boston nickname (O’Brien), which in this case could stand for Obstructed View Seats.

Actually, any name that ends in “er” has legs, because you can/should spell and say it with an “ah.” Which leads to another ridiculously awesome choice: Chowder. Full name would be Chowderhead, and in more casual moments, Chow.

And finally, if you’re adopting two dogs at once, there’s only one option: Wicked and Pissah, which would be, well, you know.

Welcome to “The Salty Cod,” a monthly column in which humorist Steve Calechman grapples with uniquely New England dilemmas. 

Dear Salty Cod: Boston drivers are notorious jerks. We race through red lights and honk at people while stuck in gridlock. But are there any moves so bad that even the nastiest local motorist would say, “No. Unacceptable.”?

Surprisingly, yes, and the Cod has seen much on the roads: last-minute U-turns, backing up 75 feet, cutting over three lanes in one sweep. Often, it’s to snag a parking space, and most of the suspect behavior, language, and hand gestures stem from the local, inborn belief that every trip should take 10 minutes, and it would if you, the person in front of us, would just go.

But, but…but, like Robert B. Parker’s Spenser, there is a code of behavior on the streets—certain things that no Boston driver will ever accept and no “sorry-my-bad-don’t-hate-me” wave will ever excuse.

No. 1. Jamming up an intersection. There’s zero chance of getting to the other side, but you got the green, so it’s kosher? Uh-uh. Just because you can go doesn’t mean you should go, unless your hobby is creating clustereffs. But if you could only wait until the very last second to put on your left turn signal, that would be the bestest.

No. 2. Getting into your car in a crowded parking lot and not leaving the space immediately. Sure, go ahead and stare at your phone. Look for something in the back seat. Ignore our gentle honks. And when we’ve decided to give up and move on, that’s the moment to back out. Bravo, jackass.

No. 3. Double parking opposite someone who has double-parked. Really, you never glanced over once to your left, saw a big object with four wheels, and thought, “maybe not here”?

No. 4. Refusing to let drivers merge when their lane ends or when they’re trying to change lanes in heavy traffic. Oh, they didn’t use their signal? Well, then, go right ahead. You deserve to get nowhere first.

No. 5. Finally, not allowing someone to parallel park. Hey, I can tell you’re trying to back into that space in a controlled and reasonable manner. Guess what? I’m gonna get up on your tail and cockblock you. Or I’ll just drive past, staying really close, achieving the same goal but convincing myself that I’m not.

Getting rid of just these five things would be a good start—all it takes is focusing on what matters most. Oh, then make sure people turn right on red, like right now. It’s only been legal for 45 years.

Got a question for the Salty Cod? Send it to editor@bostonmagazine.com.

A version of this story appeared in the print edition of the June 2025 issue.

Welcome to “The Salty Cod,” a monthly column in which humorist Steve Calechman grapples with uniquely New England dilemmas. 

Dear Salty Cod: What should be the official rock song of Massachusetts?

We already have songs in seven categories: generic, patriotic, folk, glee club, ceremonial march, ode, and polka, none of which anyone could hum. So do we really need a rock song? Eff yeah, because Ohio can’t be the only state to have one. (“Hang on Sloopy,” for the bar bet.) We’re the makers of Aerosmith, J. Geils Band, the Cars, Boston, the Del Fuegos, ’Til Tuesday, Billy Squier, and Dropkick Murphys, who all have viable hits—yet none of these should be the pick.

It should be Jonathan Richman and the Modern Lovers’ “Roadrunner,” far from a new idea. Legislation was first proposed in 2013 and continues to be proposed, and we see no need to rearrange deck chairs, because other tunes don’t measure up. “Dream On” isn’t about Boston and is a power ballad, and thus ineligible. However much J. Geils’s “Must of Got Lost” would be poetic, it doesn’t have the heft. As for “I’m Shipping Up to Boston,” those are the only five words anyone knows.

So that’s it, “Roadrunner” wins on all counts. Richman is a local kid (Natick). The tune calls out Stop & Shop, 128, and “I’m in love with Massachusetts.” The alternate version, “Roadrunner (Once),” also released in 1976, throws in Mattapan, Roslindale, and the power lines in Needham. The kicker? In both, there are no bad words, no unseemly images, no mentions of muggers or frustrated women that would give people pause. So if anyone remains hesitant, the only response is to ask what should be our Official Incredulous Question: “What more do you want?”

Now, nothing is ever simple when it involves a State House vote, and putting in the time to debate a rock song over, say, affordable housing, is a tough sell back in any district. But legislators, this is akin to a tap-in—and can and should be done this year. The Cod suspects that most Bay Staters would see the passage for what it was: honoring our cultural history and a great opening count-off. Not everyone, mind you. Some would complain, email, and even lobby for “More Than Words,” because this is still Massachusetts, and two of our top hobbies are knowing better and not leaving well enough alone.

Finally, the song isn’t without quibbles. For all the push, “Roadrunner” still lacks a high profile in some demographics. It’s not played after victories or shouted at closing time. It’s also slightly unintelligible, hard to follow, a little quirky. And this shouldn’t represent us, because…?

Got a question for the Salty Cod? Send it to editor@bostonmagazine.com.

A version of this story appeared in the print edition of the May 2025 issue.