Thanksgiving is over—and a lovely one it was. We stuffed ourselves silly, talked about movies, cooking, and other things, and gave thanks to all the good things in our lives.
Now, it’s on to the next event. This Saturday (November 28), Clif and I—a la Hinterland Photography—will be at the Mount Vernon Holiday Arts & Craft Fair, from 9 a.m. to 2 p.m. We’ll be selling cards, prints, and calendars. If you’re in the area, please stop by and say hello!
Tomorrow, in the United States, we will celebrate Thanksgiving, a holiday where we get together with family and friends, stuff ourselves silly, and give thanks for all the good things we have in our lives. Quite often, we have Thanksgiving at the little house in the big woods, but this year, Gail, our son-in-law’s mother, is hosting the big event.
I must admit I’m a little relieved. Between the new stove—more on that next week—and a craft fair on Saturday, where we have a table, we are as busy as can be. And to add just a little more hectic fun to the holiday, at the last minute, we agreed to be part of a pop-up holiday sale in Hallowell, a small, arty city not far from where we live.
Busy or not, I can still find time to be thankful, and this year I am especially thankful for our town’s newly-expanded library. (Full disclosure: I am a trustee, and I worked on the library campaign.) Our community raised a million dollars for this project—no small feat for a town of 6,000. We had our ups and some very big downs, but in the end, the expansion was built.
And what a jewel it is! We now have a large events room; an airy, expanded children’s area; a teen area, where there are intense scrabble games most afternoons; events galore; movies; and books, books, books. Add a wonderful staff—Richard, Shane, Ann, Nancy, Kat, and Cindy—and you have a library that is absolutely central to the town.
I don’t think it’s an exaggeration for me to write that the library is essential to my intellectual and creative life, Most of the books I read and most of the movies I watch come from the library. I would be lost without it.
So this Thanksgiving, I am especially grateful to have such a terrific library a mile from the little house in the big woods. Long live libraries!
On Sunday, before the dusting of snow, before crisp weather came, Clif, Liam, and I went for a walk in the woods. The day was gray and moist, but the rain held off until night time, when it eventually turned to snow.
Usually when we walk in the woods, we go on a trail not far from our house. It loops down to the Lower Narrows Pond, and to my way of thinking, a pond makes any walk special. On Sunday, however, we decided to walk on the community trail by our town’s high school. I had heard how pretty the trail was, but I had never been on it.
“It won’t have the Narrows,” I said to Clif as we started out.
“No,” he replied. He loves water just as much as I do.
Nevertheless, right away I knew I was going to like this trail. It was well taken care of and thus easy on my creaky knees. There were little bridges over streams, which made them easy to cross. Best of all, the dog didn’t have to be on his leash, and he could amble and sniff and do other doggy things to his heart’s content. (Yes, I bring little baggies in my pocket. Just in case.)
We walked for a while, talking about this and that—somehow the nature of time almost always seems to slip into our discussions—when we rounded a bend, and I heard the sound of running water. Through the trees, not far from the trail, I caught sight of a large stream.
“Let’s have a look,” I said to Clif, and he didn’t argue.
We walked to the stream and saw that it was connected to a huge marsh. Water tumbled over rocks and rushed through the woods. Naturally, we had to take pictures.
Reluctantly, we left the hurrying stream and continued our walk in the woods. Once upon a time, the whole area had been cleared for fields, and we came upon the remnants of stone walls, a common sight in central Maine woods. (We have some behind our house, which, in an earlier time would have been the little house by a big field. Somehow this just doesn’t have the same ring as the little house in the big woods.)
After an hour or so, we returned to our car, and Clif and I agreed that we had had a very good walk. This trail, which is only a mile and a half from our house, is not only well groomed but it also has water—not the Narrows but really just as beautiful.
We’ll be back to walk that trail again.
This morning, when I got up and pulled the shades in my bedroom, I looked out the window and said, “Oh, my!” Over night, we got a dusting of snow.
“I thought you’d be surprised,” Clif said, and he had the camera ready for me.
Before tea, before toast, out I went to take some pictures. I had purposely left some of the garden ornaments in the yard so that I could get photos of them in the snow.
This angel, I think, will make a good Christmas card with the phrase “Glad Tidings” at the top.
Like this:
The sun is shining, the trees are dripping, and by afternoon the dusting of snow will be gone. Nevertheless, it’s time to bring in the last of those yard ornaments as well as the chairs, the fire pit, and a few other things we left outside.
Winter hasn’t come to Maine yet, but we felt its touch. How good to know the wood is stacked, and the leaves are raked.
Not much time to write today. I’ve been busy with errands, cleaning, and cooking. Thanksgiving is just around the corner, as is a craft fair where Clif and I will be selling our cards, calendars, and prints.
However, this drippy day was so lovely, so filled with little jewels, that I thought I could at least share a photo on the blog.
The tree is beside our driveway. All I had to do was step on the porch and snap the picture.
On Tuesday I went to visit my friend Esther. A visit with her is always a delight, and the time just rushed by as we talked, our conversation ranging from topic to topic.
Two parts of our conversation especially stood out. As to be expected, we discussed the recent bombings in Paris and the refugees from Syria. We then broadened the conversation to people fleeing extreme poverty and violence in Central America and Mexico. Esther spoke of how some of her friends are not sympathetic with the plight of the immigrants who make their way to the U.S.
I said, “No matter who you are or what your beliefs, it is easy to love those around you, family and friends.”
Esther agreed. “A small circle.”
“But it’s harder to extend that circle of compassion outward, so that it goes beyond those you know to encompass the state, the country, the world. I sometimes have a hard time with this myself.”
“But that’s what we have to do,” Esther said. “Think of those kids in central America who are leaving home at fifteen or sixteen to come here. They live in slums. They don’t have any opportunities. And when they come north, they are not exactly traveling first class.”
“No, they aren’t. They walk. They ride on the roofs of trains. They rely on smugglers.”
The conversation continued. What if those children were our children or grandchildren? How would we feel to have a son or daughter leave home to go on a long journey he or she might not survive?
“What a terrible thought,” Esther said, no doubt thinking of her own grandchildren.
Yes, a terrible thought. Can we widen our circle of compassion to encompass all children, to acknowledge their basic right to have enough to eat, clean water, shoes, clothes, decent housing, education, health care, books, and even a few toys when they are young? And, as they get older, a positive way to support themselves. (To my way of thinking, digging in dirty, rat-infested trash heaps does not count as a positive way.)
From there, the conversation turned to poverty in general. Esther grew up on a subsistence farm in rural Maine, and she doesn’t mince words—she and her family were poor. When they had baked beans, there often wasn’t enough money to buy hot dogs to go with them. One year, around the holidays, her father sold a steer for $10, and they had “a good Christmas.” They never went hungry, and the taxes were always paid, but there wasn’t much left over. The family just scraped by.
“But,” Esther said, “Every day after the chores were done, my mother and I would take a walk. We’d admire the trees against the sky or what was in bloom.”
“Everyone needs beauty in their lives,” I said, and Esther nodded.
Food for the body, food for the soul. Both aspects need to be fed.
Yesterday, I mixed up a batch of gingersnaps so that I could bring cookies to my friend Esther. Because my stove is new—we’ve had it for a week—I decided to test one cookie to get a sense of the baking time. In my old stove, eleven minutes would give me a good cookie. This stove seemed to run a little hotter, so I decided to try nine minutes.
The results, dear readers, were not good—burnt on the bottom. I tried eight minutes, again, with one cookie, and it was slightly burnt with a gooey middle. I turned the temperature down from 375° to 350°. No luck. I still had cookies that were burnt on the bottom and gooey in the middle.
I called Dave’s Appliance, the store in Winthrop where we bought the stove, and on Thursday they will be sending someone over to look at it. I’ve no doubt the stove will either be fixed or replaced, and I’ll soon be on my way to be making perfect gingersnaps. (I froze the dough in balls, and I’ll bake them as soon as I have a working oven.)
Next week is Thanksgiving, and I started thinking about what I would do if I were hosting the meal this year, and I didn’t have a reliable oven. As it turns out, I’m not hosting Thanksgiving dinner, but cooking nerd that I am, it gave me pleasure to come up with a solution anyway. Here is the plan I hit upon. I have two slow-cookers, and in them I would cook two five-pound chickens on top of potatoes and carrots. Gravy is always made ahead of time—I’ve got one batch in the freezer now, and by this Thursday I’ll have another batch made. Green bean casserole and sweet potato casserole could be heated in the microwave. I might take a chance on using the oven to keep the casseroles warm, turning the oven to a very low heat and setting the racks as high as they would go while still having room for casserole dishes. Stuffing would have to be made outside the bird, in a casserole dish heated the same as the other two.
That leaves dessert. Fortunately, the top of the stove works just fine. I could make pudding for chocolate cream pies and use store-bought crumb crusts.
So there! I could do it. It wouldn’t exactly be traditional, but it would be good enough given I didn’t have a reliable oven.
I must admit that I miss my old stove. And Esther is going to be disappointed when I arrive without gingersnaps.
Ah, well! At least I have a good story to tell her—the saga of the new stove.
Yesterday afternoon when I looked out my kitchen window, I saw a deer running in the backwoods. I waited for the sound of gunshots, for the flash of orange as a hunter chased the deer. Neither came.
“Good,” I thought. My sympathies are always with the hunted, with animals that are often coldly referred to as prey. How terrible to have to run for your life, to know that death is not far behind.
We are halfway through hunting season. For me, and especially for the deer, the end of this season can’t come soon enough. Then, I can work in the backyard without fear of accidentally being shot. (This doesn’t happen often in Maine, but it has happened, most notably to a young mother with twins. She was shot dead in her own backyard as she tried to warn a hunter he was too close to her house.)
When hunting season ends, Clif, Liam, and I can walk in the cold woods—my favorite time of year to walk in them. I’ll bring my camera and take pictures of all the little things that catch my eye.
Fifteen more days to go.
Yesterday, I baked our first loaves of bread in the new oven. My fears— or concerns, if you will—turned out to be completely justified. In my old oven, it took thirty-three minutes to bake the bread to golden perfection. I decided to see if the same was true for my new oven. It was not.
The bread, although not burnt, came out a little too dark, a little overbaked, and thus a little dry. As Clif and I mostly think of bread as toast—oh, how we love toast—this dry bread is not as bad as it sounds. However, next time I make bread, I will bake it for thirty minutes and go from there.
The next challenge will be gingersnaps, which I’ll be making on Monday to bring to my friend Esther when I go for a visit on Tuesday. In my old oven, eleven minutes gave you a perfect cookie that had a little snap and a little chew all at the same time. I’ve decided to try nine minutes.
All this fussing about time reminds me that my old oven and I were quite the team. I knew just how long it took to bake family favorites. Now, I will have to recalculate the times for many of the things I bake.
No wonder the old stove seemed like a friend. People and their tools, their equipment, and their appliances can form quite a bond.
Notes From the Hinterland 