A gray day on Narrows Pond Road. This morning, I found a dead mouse on the dining room floor. It is mouse central in our little house in the big woods, and the cats are doing their job. When I went to toss the mouse into the woods, I heard the ethereal up-and-down song of the hermit thrush and the manic call of a loon. The first of the season for me. Spring is here. 

I’ve been thinking about my idea of cooking and eating mostly local dinners in honor of Earth Week. Not an easy project in central Maine in April. Yes, dandelion greens are available, and they are free for the digging, but the truth is, I can’t stand those bitter greens. My grandmother, who grew up on a potato farm in northern Maine, just loved them and would dig them every spring. In fact, as far as I can remember, there was nothing she didn’t like. I suppose that’s what comes of growing up in a time and place where most everything you eat is produced by you and your family. You can’t afford the luxury of being picky. However, I grew up in a different time and a different place—when Spam and margarine where more common than dandelion greens. My misfortune, I know, but in my defense, I have come a long way from those Spam and margarine years. I eat a pretty wide variety of food, but somehow, I haven’t mastered dandelion greens. 

Then there is the definition of local. What is local, anyway? For some, it’s a swath of a hundred miles. I know there have to be limits to what is local, but in a way this seems rather broad. After all, food grown a hundred miles away still needs to be transported, and generally it’s by a carbon-belching vehicle. On the other hand, that vehicle will have belched less carbon than one coming across country. Or half the country. Or even five hundred miles. Nevertheless, the criteria I have come up with—and it’s just as arbitrary as any—are that Maine is my state, and local is Maine. The food can come from Fort Kent, and it can come from Kittery. It’s all Maine. No, I don’t need to be reminded that Portsmouth, New Hampshire, is just across the border from Kittery, and the distance between the two places is pretty much zip. Nevertheless, Maine is the limit. 

Then, to further muddy the waters, there is the “mostly local” part. This means that spices and olive oil are allowed and any little thing that might spruce up the meal. But the emphasis will be on what I can get in Maine. 

So what can I get? Potatoes, and as a gesture of respect to my northern Maine ancestors, they will be a central feature of what we eat in the upcoming week. Anything and everything dairy, from butter to cheese to ice cream. Blueberries, frozen of course, but from Maine nonetheless. Maple syrup, elixir of the gods. Honey, eggs, and apples. H-m-m-m. I wonder how caramel apples would taste with honey rather than sugar. It’s worth a try. Those bitter dandelion greens notwithstanding, fresh vegetables are where we falter. Heck, with vegetables in general, even frozen and canned. This Saturday, I’ll be making a trip to Lakeside Orchards in Manchester, Maine. Along with selling apples, Lakeside has a big, apple-scented store that sells all sorts of Maine products and food. If I’m lucky, I can find some squash or cabbage, but I wouldn’t place any bets on this. It’s pretty late in the season and too early for fiddleheads, which I can’t say I love, but they are more palatable to me than dandelion greens. Something tells me that I might have to sneak in some nonlocal vegetables to fill in the meal. However, caramel apples—really just a fancy, delicious applesauce recipe from the New York Times cookbook—will certainly do for a couple of meals.  We also have local tomatoes grown all year long in greenhouses in Madison, Maine, at a place called Backyard Farms, and the tomatoes are reasonably tasty. Now, it is entirely debatable how environmentally friendly it is to buy tomatoes grown in a greenhouse in April in Maine. But they are local, and right now in Maine, the pickings are very slim indeed. Grilled tomatoes with a sprinkle of olive oil and herbs don’t sound bad any time of year. 

Flour is also a consideration, especially since I bake all the bread we eat. In the 1800s, Maine used to be the breadbasket of New England. This is no longer the case, and most of our flour comes from the Midwest, from places like Kansas, not local even by the broadest standards. A call to Hannaford Supermarkets, the largest in the area, came up short. I had better luck calling Harvest Time Natural Foods in Augusta. They told me they have a decent little selection of Maine-grown flour, ranging from whole-wheat pastry flour to graham flour. I’ll be stopping by there on Saturday as well. 

So tentatively, our kick-off meal for Earth Week will begin on Saturday, April 24 and will consist of pancakes made with Maine flour, butter, milk, and eggs; home fries made from Maine potatoes; and caramel apples made with honey. A good start, but an easy one.