Not long ago, at a foodie meeting I went to in Brunswick, a woman I met—Laura—spoke passionately about how food was so central to everyone’s life and how food nourished more than the body. I found myself nodding in agreement, and my first thoughts were of the writer Proust, whose plain little cookie—the madeleine—triggered a cascade of memories.  That a cookie could bring forth such a rush of emotions shows that food is as symbolic as it is real, feeding a person on more than one level.

Well, Proust had his madeleine, and I have my egg salad sandwich, always served with chips and Pepsi. Oddly enough, I am not especially fond of chips. I don’t dislike them, but I’m seldom inclined to eat half a bag at a time, the way my husband, Clif, does. Nevertheless, when I have egg salad sandwiches, I always want chips. And Pepsi.

This goes back to my childhood, to the times my family would visit my Uncle Leo, my Aunt Barney, and my cousins Linda and Carol. They lived in Norridgewock, and in those long-ago days when traveling by car was less common, the trip to their house felt like a real event.

In my memory, which admittedly could be faulty, we usually went on a Sunday, after mass and after dinner, which was at noon. I will pinpoint my memories even further. I am about 8, my brother, Steve, is just a baby. The ride seems long to me, but I don’t care. We are on the way to Norridgewock, perhaps 40 minutes away from our house in Vassalboro.

My aunt and uncle’s house was just as clean and as gleaming as our own house. As a rule, Franco-Americans have a passion for cleanliness that borders on obsession, and if they didn’t also have a balancing passion for fun, then they would be a real drag as an ethnic group.

If the weather was good, we would go for a walk in the pine grove behind their house. If the weather was bad, Carol and I would play with her toys while the adults chatted. Linda, who is a few years older than Carol and I, mostly stayed with the adults. Then came the magic hour, supper time, around 5:00, with everyone grouped around the small table in the kitchen. Was Steve in a high chair? I don’t remember. Unlike the taciturn Yankees, Franco-Americans are a chatty ethnic group, so there was always a lot of talking. And then, of course, along with the talking and the fellowship of the family being together, there were the egg salad sandwiches and chips and Pepsi—everything so entwined that it cannot be separated.

My brother also has fond memories of these egg-salad suppers, so I am sure the tradition carried through long after he had grown from a baby to a toddler to a little boy.

Not long ago, when I met Carol and Linda for breakfast in Waterville, I mentioned egg salad sandwiches and family suppers and what good memories I have of them.

Carol said, “Neither of our families were large, so when we got together, it seemed as though we were a big family.”

She is right, and, as a bonus, our families got along really well.

But along with the kinship, egg salad—humble, hearty, and oh so good—was the food that bound us together.

Yes, the title of this piece is right. Clif and I have been married for 36 years. Yikes! That’s a long time. All marriages have their ups and downs, and ours is no different, yet I am ever so grateful to still be married to a handyman Yankee who just this weekend fixed the power mate to our vacuum cleaner, which means we didn’t have to buy a new one, and says “Pretty darned good,” when I make him a meal that he likes. I love chocolates and flowers as much as the next woman, but what I really appreciate are the details of everyday life—the fixing of things when they are broken, riding our bikes, listening to music, watching movies, cooking for family and friends, walking the dog, working on creative projects. This delight in the quotidian, I think, is partly what has held our marriage together over the years. Let’s face it, hot romance only lasts so long, and then couples must face the practical and sometimes difficult rhythm of life.

On Sunday, we went to our daughter Shannon and her husband Mike’s home for an anniversary meal of lentil soup, homemade pretzels, and chocolate caramel brownies. I ate too much, of course, but how good it all was. There was a walk—brisk but fine—on the beach with the dogs, our Liam and their sweet, little Holly. Mike gave us a lovely photograph of lobster traps glowing in the sun.

On the home front, to celebrate our 36 years, I’ll be making a quiche with smoked cheddar, which I’ll serve with cole slaw and olive oil toasts.

A very, very happy anniversary.

Here are some pictures from Sunday.

Last night, I went to a Food Writers Meet-Up hosted by Christine Burns Rudalevige. Maine is awash in all things food, from restaurants to farmers’ markets to speciality stores to community supported agriculture. In such a food-rich environment, food writers flourish, and it was certainly interesting to get together with people who are so passionate and knowledgable about food. Among other topics, there was much talk about the recent influx of good restaurants in Maine. In Brunswick alone, there are over 30, and Portland, the Babylon of Maine, is a haven for restaurants.

These conversations, of course, led me to think about food in Maine. While it is true that the uptick in good restaurants and speciality stores is a relatively recent event and does correlate to the immigration of those from away, food and cooking have always been of major importance to Maine.

Maine has a rich agricultural history. In the mid-1800s, the state produced so much grain that it was considered the bread basket of New England. Every town in central Maine—and other communities, too, I’m sure—had apple orchards, and remnants of these orchards can be seen in scattered trees by the side of the road. Sugaring and maple syrup have a long tradition in Maine, and in rural towns, many people, not just farmers, had big gardens. Even in the 1960s and 1970s, home cooking was the norm—most people did not go to restaurants—and as I have pointed out in a recent post, obesity was not a problem. We ate prodigious amounts, but we got a lot of exercise, which flowed naturally from our active lives. Then there was the sea, still bountiful, not yet overfished but heading in that direction.

I cannot deny that the food Mainers ate and cooked was plain and unpretentious, often made with eggs they raised and vegetables they grew. Biscuits, muffins, baked beans. Roast chicken, roast beef, corn on the cob. Lots of greens. Carrots and potatoes. Ham. This is the tradition I came from, and it has influenced the way I cook—plain, honest, and with real ingredients. (I will admit that I have jettisoned the tics of the 1960s—cream of mushroom soup and Veg-all. I still hate them, and I always will.)

At this food gathering, as a humble home cook, I felt a little like a plain Jenny Wren among cardinals, blue birds, and gold finches.  As the conversation turned to Julia Child and fancy cheeses, I realized that along with the Maine tradition of local food, my cooking affinities were with Moosewood and the organic movement. While I admire Julia Child, I have never aspired to cook in the “French Chef” style.

My favorite cheese? Cheddar. I might have added that a big block in the refrigerator is perfect when the wolf is at the door, which it has been and still is for many Mainers. Shredded cheddar in casseroles and in macaroni and cheese. Sliced for grilled cheese sandwiches. A lowly cheese, perhaps, but tart, tangy, and good for many things.

However, what I lacked in sophistication, I made up with appetite, and I think I earned my moniker as a good eater. I ate my way through potato and leek soup, glazed bacon, stuffed dates, sugared cranberries, delectable cheeses I was totally unfamiliar with, and a lemon honey so good I could have eaten it all by the spoonful. There was a brittle made with pine nuts and rosemary, so crunchy, nutty, and spicy that I felt as though I were a cat next to a bowl of catnip. (I knew I had overdone it with the gluttony when Christine asked me if I wanted to take the rest of the brittle home.)

While we all brought things, Christine provided much of the food—such as that wonderful brittle—and let’s just say that this woman  can cook. She teaches cooking classes at Stonewall Kitchen in York, and if you live within driving distance, then do not hesitate to take a class taught by Christine.

But just being at this gathering was an education for this home cook.