On Saturday, I baked two buttercup squash purchased from Farmer Kev. (Thank you, Farmer Kev, for all the fresh, clean organic vegetables you delivered all summer long.)

I baked them at 375° for about an hour, until they were very soft, and when the it had all cooled, I scooped out the soft squash and mashed it until it was smooth. Then, using a tried and true pumpkin bread recipe from Betty Crocker, I substituted the squash for the pumpkin, and made two loaves of bread, which went into the freezer. I’ll be taking them out on Thanksgiving morning.

But then I found I had some leftover squash, about a cup and half.

What to do? Why, make a squash side dish to go with dinner that night. I chopped four sage leaves and set them aside.

In a small saucepan, I melted 1/2 tablespoon of butter in 1/4 cup of milk and added them to the cooked squash, beating the mixture until it was nice and smooth. Then, in another small sauce pan, I melted 1 tablespoon of butter, added the chopped sage leaves, and let the butter turn a beautiful brown while the sage leaves became crisp. This took several minutes and constant watching. You want browned butter, not burnt butter. I put the squash in little individual dishes, drizzled the sage butter on top, and baked it for 30 minutes or so at 375°.

Looks a little messy, I know, but it was oh-so-good. It would be easy to increase this squash recipe so that a casserole dish would be filled rather than an individual dish.

‘Tis the season for winter squash. So stock up and cook!

For the past few days, I have been sick with a flu, and I have had all the usual symptoms: headache, fever, runny eyes, runny nose, a cough. One day, while the unraked leaves beckoned as well as many other projects, I just lay on the couch, listening to Public Radio. I like Public Radio as much as the next person, but lying around all day drives me nuts. While in the usual course of a day I have plenty of quiet time—for reading and writing—I also have quite a bit of active time for chores and exercise, and that’s exactly how I like it.

But the thing that bothered me the most was losing my sense of smell and taste, which always happens when I have a cold or the flu, and even though I have come to expect this loss, I still dread it. It seems strange, I know, to mind not having a sense of taste or smell when the head is pounding and the eyes and nose are running none-stop, but I do.

Ever since I can remember, I have had a very keen sense of smell and taste, and I can smell things that my husband, Clif, can only dream of. One day, quite a few years ago, we were in Boston, having lunch at Quincy Market. As we ate, I picked up a strong smell, the smell of a horse. In Boston? In Quincy Market?

“Clif,” I said, “You’re going to think I’m crazy, but I smell a horse.”

I expected him to agree that I was indeed crazy, but instead he smiled and shook his head.

“What?” I asked.

“Look behind you.”

And there, a block or so away, was indeed a horse with a police officer.

Was Clif, who can hardly smell a thing, impressed? You bet he was.

My world is as much defined by smell and taste as it is by sight and hearing. When taste and smell are gone, I feel a little unmoored, unable to translate the world in my accustomed way. Something dear and essential is missing.

Each time this happens, I always think, “What if I never get my sense of taste and smell back? What if I’m like this for the rest of my life?”

What a horrible thing it would be. Fortunately, after a cold or flu, I have always regained these two senses, and how glad I am to have them back.

Quite rightly, we place a high value on sight and hearing, and I certainly wouldn’t want to lose either of those senses. But it seems to me that we undervalue taste and smell, and often it is only when they are gone that we realize how vital they are.

My sense of smell and taste were only gone for one day. Now when I eat toast, made from my homemade bread, I can taste the slightly sweet and nutty flavor of the whole wheat flour as well as the butter, rich and salty. My grapefruit has its wonderful tang softened by a little sugar.

I might not be completely well, but with my sense of taste and smell restored, I feel much, much better.

It is two days after the election, and a wet snow covers the ground. The dog is thrilled to chase snowballs, but since it is raining, my own limited enthusiasm for throwing the snowballs cuts short the fun. But the nasty weather can’t dampen my feeling of relief—Obama won, and the Democrats control the Senate, with many women winning the election. I don’t expect any miracles, no “Kumbayas” from the Republican-controlled House, but at least the country can list in the right direction—toward health care for all, toward green energy, toward Pell grants, toward the rich paying their fair share in taxes.

On election night, I stayed up late to watch the results, and when the cameras turned to the Obama supporters in Chicago, I was struck by the beautiful diversity of the crowd—black, brown, Asian, white, young, old, female, male. This is what American looks like now, and in the upcoming years, it will be even more the case.

Unfortunately, too many in the Republican party fear this future. They don’t see beauty in this diversity, and their fear makes them angry. Angry with blacks and Hispanics and immigrants. Angry with women. Angry with poor people, with students, with gays, with anyone who doesn’t fit their narrow vision of what America should look like. I can’t help but feel a little sorry for these Republicans. The country is changing, and rather than embrace the vitality that this change brings, they clamp down in anger and ugliness. And with an individualism that promotes a selfishness that could be summed up as “I want mine, and to heck with you.”

Now, I live in Winthrop, a small town in central Maine. Its population is 6,000, and let’s just say that everyone is pretty white. However, a funny, moving thing happened yesterday at the Flaky Tart, where my friend Claire and I went to lunch to celebrate the election and to talk about its many details. We sat on tall chairs next to one of the windows. Claire had chicken salad, and I had my favorite, a BLT on homemade bread. As we were talking, in came Craig Hickman, a Democrat, who won the election for state Representative for the towns of Winthrop and neighboring Readfield. It might not be accurate to state that Craig is the only African American in town, but let’s just say that their numbers are small. Craig ran against a very decent white man, Scott Davis, a Republican, and Craig won.

After I gave him a hug, Craig went to talk to Rosa, one of the owners of the Tart. Rosa is from Venezuela, and she has dark good looks and a lovely accent. She also has the outgoing personality so typical of many South Americans. As soon as Craig came over to her, Rosa gave a little shriek, hugged him, and began crying.

Claire and I looked at each and smiled. Here, in white Winthrop, we had a little pocket of diversity, and it sure felt good.

“It all turned out far better than we even dared hope, didn’t it?” I asked.

“Yes, it did,” Claire replied. “It certainly did.”

On Wednesday, the Good Shepherd Food Bank’s Food Mobile came to Winthrop and set up a temporary food pantry at the parish hall of St. Francis Catholic Church. According to Good Shepherd’s website, the food mobiles allow them “to deliver fresh, frozen, and dry grocery goods at great distances at safe temperatures,” and they also allow Good Shepherd, which is in Auburn, to set up temporary food pantries anywhere in the state.

Local organizations helping the Good Shepherd bring the food mobile to Winthrop were the Winthrop Food Pantry, Winthrop Hot Meals Kitchen, and the United Way of Kennebec Valley. Last but certainly not least, Nancy and Charlie Shuman, of Charlie’s Family of Dealerships, generously sponsored this event, donating the money needed to bring the food mobile to Winthrop.

Earlier in the week, JoEllen Cottrell, the executive director of the Winthrop Food Pantry, had called to ask me if I could come to the parish hall to help unload the truck, set up food inside the parish hall, and pass out food. “Yes,” I said. “I’ll be there.”

There were many other volunteers, and with a couple of dollies and a lot of people power, we unloaded boxes and boxes of onions, grapes, baked goods, tuna fish, beef stew, baked beans, rice, meat, eggs, pasta, and macaroni and cheese. Did I forget something? Perhaps, but that is the gist of what was there.

Students from Maranacook Middle School, along with some of the staff, also donated their time, and how glad we were to have them on hand to carry boxes and bags for the elderly and the disabled. Simply put, those students were little gems, and I do hope they help again should the food mobile come back to Winthrop.

Anybody in the area who needed food—there were no income restrictions at all—was welcome to come, and come they did, lining up two hours before the doors even opened. And what did these people look like? Readers, they looked like you and me. They were tall, short, thin, fat, young, old, male, female. Don’t think they were somehow “those other people,” because they weren’t. In central Maine, they live among us, and depending on the turn of events, they could indeed be us, going through the line with boxes and bags, taking free food.

I passed out cans of beef stew, and I am not ashamed to admit that I really love, and I mean love, passing out food to people. I suppose I get this from my mother, who liked nothing better than feeding family and friends. The more cans of beef stew I gave, the happier I felt, and my face must have reflected this joy because people smiled right back at me. When I mentioned this to JoEllen, she said, “I think most of the volunteers at the pantry feel exactly the same way that you do.”

I also want to note, with pride, that in central Maine, people cook. There were so many boxes and bags of onions that I was sure we’d have some left over, but we didn’t. Every single bag went out the door with a home cook. “It’s the same with fresh potatoes and squash,” JoEllen said. “When we offer them at the food pantry, people snap them right up.”

On a less upbeat note…After the food was gone and the recipients had left, my friend Margy Knight and I chatted for a bit.

“Why are there so many people who need food?” she asked, shaking her head. “That is the question we should be asking.”

Why? Because too many jobs don’t pay enough, and the same is true for pensions going to senior citizens and the disabled. Then, of course, there are the people who are out of work or who have high medical expenses. Margy nodded, telling me that she was so moved by the whole event, by seeing how many people came for food. I then went on to tell her that it was my understanding that most wealthy countries did not use food pantries and food mobiles to feed their people. Instead, higher wages and generous social services keep the people well fed.

As I left, I wondered, what happens to struggling people in communities that don’t have people as generous as the Shumans? Or as hardworking and organized as JoEllen or the food pantry’s president, Mike Sienko? What then?

Well, let’s end on an upbeat note. On Wednesday, 170 families, feeding 470 individuals, took home onions, meat, grapes, and bread and enough other food to supplement their diet for the next week or so. They came from 15 towns, and it makes me feel good to think of all that food in their cupboards, freezers, and refrigerators.

For three days, my husband, Clif, and I have been getting ready for Hurricane Sandy.  When we lose the power on our country road, there is no telling how long it will be out, and for us, no power means no water. Yesterday, Clif and I went about our business and waited for the storm to hit us. We waited and waited.

In the meantime, I made homemade chicken soup and, for the first time, biscuit muffins, from a delectable recipe Nan posted on her blog, Letters from a Hill Farm. They are a make-again, that’s for sure. I did more laundry, and made sure the dishes were done as soon as we used them. I took the dog for a walk. I set more water aside. Clif works from home on Mondays, and he worked diligently, wondering how long he would have power.

The afternoon came, and we still had power.

“Let’s have an early supper so that we can clean up while we have power,” I said, and this we did.

We called our daughter Dee, twice, to see how she was faring in Brooklyn.

“I’m fine,” came the answer. “I still have power.” And as Dee lives on the third floor in a building that is well away from water, there was really no danger of flooding in her area.

In Portland, where our other daughter, Shannon, lives, she and her husband, Mike, lost their power some time in the early evening. But they, too, are far enough away from the ocean so that they were out of harm’s way.

Still waiting for our power to snap off, Clif and I settled in the living room to watch the storm footage on the various news channels, and what we saw filled us with dismay—homes flooded and smashed to bits; a broken crane hovering like some giant bird of death in downtown Manhattan; sand and sea foam flying like snow; actual snow blitzing West Virginia. All along the eastern seaboard, millions of people were affected by this hurricane, and I am grateful that we have a president who values FEMA and has built it up from the sorry state it was in when Katrina hit.

The evening passed—eight o’clock, nine o’clock, ten o’clock. Clif and I were still waiting for the power to go off. When eleven o’clock came, I ventured cautiously, “I don’t think we’re going to lose our power.” And we didn’t.

From one of the meteorologists, we learned that trees and branches start snapping when the wind reaches 40 miles an hour, and in central Maine, it never blew that hard. We were on the outer rim of Hurricane Sandy, which brought us wind and rain but not in damaging amounts.

The storm is passing slowly, and in the weeks ahead will begin the long reconstruction and clean-up in the devastated areas. As my cousin Lynn Plourde, a talented writer, has so beautifully put it on Facebook:

“33 dead and counting
8+ million without power
Destruction that has changed lives forever.
As one who has lost a house to a fire
and another to a flood in the past,
I understand ‘a bit.’
My heart aches.
My prayers are constant.
My one question is NOT ‘How could this happen?’
But rather . . . HOW CAN I HELP?”

She also provided this link to ABC News, which lists the various organizations providing “food, shelter, and other supplies to hurricane victims.” The organizations include the Red Cross and the Salvation Army as well as many others, and they are all accepting donations.

Thanks, Lynn! I’ll be making my donation soon.

And I am also ever so grateful that my family, my friends, and my town came out of this storm safe and in one piece.

At our little house in the big woods, we are ready for hurricane Sandy, so at noon today, when the sky was gray and there was only a slight mist, I felt I had the time to take my dog, Liam, for a walk. I brought the camera along, and here are some pictures I took, all calm and gray and still.

My thoughts are with our daughter Dee, who is in New York City. I hope she and everyone else stay safe and dry.

Yesterday, I had such a full day that I could easily write 2 different posts about what I did—going to my friend Susan Poulin’s reading in Lewiston, where she was promoting her new book, Finding Your Inner Moose, and going to a fabulous harvest-time public supper sponsored by the Winthrop Rotary Club. I took pictures and notes, and indeed over the weekend, I had planned to write two pieces—one about Susan and one about the supper.

But then a not so funny thing started blowing its way north, and that would be Hurricane Sandy, or Frankenstorm, as it has been dubbed by the media. We still don’t know how far north it will reach, but on 74 Narrows Pond Road, we have learned to take such warnings seriously. When we lose our power, we not only don’t have lights, but we also don’t have water. No water means many things, including not flushing toilets. In addition, we live on a rural road with many trees overhanging power lines, which means it is not unusual for us to lose our power during storms nowhere near as powerful as Hurricane Sandy. Finally, because our road is so rural, we are a very low priority. During the great ice storm of ’98, we were without power for 11 days in January.

So my husband, Clif, and I have been busy getting ready. The patio furniture is in, we have water set aside, and we have a store of supplies that can be easily prepared on a camp stove. But there is still much to do—wood needs to be hauled, and there are other chores, such as laundry, that need to be done while we still have power.

This means that my blog posts about Susan and the harvest supper will have to wait until the storm has passed. How long a wait depends on if we lose our power and, if we do, how long it takes to get it back. But I have the pictures, and I have the notes, and I will write those posts as soon as I can.

In the meantime, readers, I hope that you stay snug and dry and that you safely weather this storm.