“So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.”
~Robert Frost
Robert Frost was right—nothing gold can stay. Perhaps that’s a good thing. I’m not sure if we Mainers could take more than thirty-one days of October’s golden beauty. It would be too much dazzle and burst for us, and like overstimulated children, we would wear ourselves to a frazzle. With that in mind, November’s austerity—its russets and browns—has a soothing quality and a quiet beauty of its own.
Still, I wouldn’t want to be without glorious October. And as Gladys Taber observed, “When the blizzards come, I shall not only get what I can out of being snug and toasty by the fire…but I shall tell myself, as always, that without our special climate, no October.”
Taber was writing about Connecticut, but the same applies to Maine and its “special climate.”
The time has come to buy a new stove, and this is not a decision we have made lightly. Both Clif and I are of the mindset that appliances are to be replaced only when they are past the point where they can easily be fixed. For us, updating is a foreign concept.
But, alas, our stove, valiant trooper that it is, has reached the end of its days. All the burners have been replaced, but the front one is so far gone that there is no replacing it. The oven door no longer stays open by itself, and we have to lock the door when we went to bake anything. Occasionally, the lock light goes on, and we can’t open the door until the oven has cooled. Not a good arrangement. Mostly we can avoid this by not sliding the lever all the way over. But still.
My worry is that on some crucial holiday, say, Thanksgiving or Christmas, the lock will give entirely and we either won’t be able to open the door or the door won’t close at all.
Therefore, on Saturday, we went to Dave’s Appliance, right here in town, to look at stoves. Dave’s is where we get all our appliances. Their prices are competitive with any other store that sells appliances. That is good. But what is especially wonderful about Dave’s is the service. If something goes wrong with your stove, your washing machine, or your refrigerator, then a repairman (always a man) comes to take a look. First he tries to fix the ailing appliance, and if it can’t be fixed, he will tell me, and I will believe him. This kind of service is reminiscent of days past, but we have it right here in Winthrop. Is it any wonder all our appliances come from Dave’s?
A most excellent store
Our budget is small, which meant we were looking at low-end stoves, and the sales clerk at Dave’s took it in stride. In fact, he did more than take it in stride. He suggested we wait until November, when all the stoves would go on sale, and we would save at least $100 on the stoves we were interested in. That is exactly what we will do. After all, we only have one more week of October.
Then there was the question of whether to buy a gas stove or another electric, similar to the one we have. Another sales clerk weighed in on the matter. “Well,” he said, “gas is better to cook with. It’s more responsive. You can have exactly the heat you want with the burners.”
We agreed and told him we also wanted a stove that would work even when the power went out, which it does at least once a year on our road.
He nodded. “The winter storms are getting wetter and warmer, and this means more freezing rain and power outages.”
Again, we agreed, remembering the winter storms we had in the old days, when we were young. We got lots of snow, but we seldom had freezing rain, and we seldom lost our power.
“This trend with freezing rain is only going to get worse,” the clerk added.
We knew just what he meant. Climate change is here to stay. Unfortunately, after calling the gas company, we discovered the cost of hooking up a gas stove was more than we wanted to pay. This means we will stick with electric and bring up the little camp stove when the power goes out, as it inevitably does.
I will miss our old stove. It was not expensive. It is not a trendy color—I always go with white, although our old one does have some black, too. We bought the stove in the 1990s, and I have cooked over forty thousand of meals in it and on it. I know that bread takes thirty-three minutes, and brownies are done in thirty-one minutes. Ginger snaps? Eleven minutes.
Yesterday, I made two apple pies. One to bring to a potluck and one to share today with our friends Paul and Judy. To me, there is something very satisfying about making pies, especially apple.
First there is the peeling and slicing of the apples. Into a big bowl they go, and I stir in the sugar and spices.
Second there is the dough—the cutting, the mixing, the rolling out. By the time I am done there is a grand explosion of flour, a glorious mess, and why this gives me so much pleasure I cannot say. (I do want to note that this sort of mess did not give my Franco-American mother any pleasure at all, and her way of dealing with my messy habits was to leave the kitchen and read while I was cooking.)
A grand explosion of flour
Then there is the filling of the pie—in this case with fresh Maine apples. My favorite part is the crimping of the edges. I love pinching that dough. Finally, I cut a the hole in the middle of the pie, a trick my mother and I learned from Addie O’Keefe, a neighbor of ours in North Vassalboro. Lord, that woman could cook, can, and make preserves. Addie took my mother, a “city” girl, under her wing and taught her what she needed to know about living in the country.
The pie with crimped edges and a hole in the middle
From time to time, I think of Addie’s generosity. She was not a young woman, and she had her own big house and gardens to take care of. However, Addie found the time to teach my mother practical country skills. In turn, when Addie was dying, my mother sat by her side and held her hand. The wheel of generosity turned from Addie to my mother.
But back to pie, specifically apple pie. Its next gift is the lovely smell when it cooks, the bubbling of apple, the mingling of sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg. Someone coming to the house, upon opening the door, would immediately know that apple pies were baking.
After all the mess, all the fuss, there is—ta dah!—the baked pie with its brown, flaky crust and tangy apple filling.
The finished pie
M.F.K Fisher, the great food writer, thought that food was much more than a way to nourish the body. It also nourished the soul and expressed a variety of emotions, depending on the cook and the eater. How right she was.
And how evocative something as simple as an apple pie can be, taking me back to my childhood, reminding me of generosity.
What happens when you take four Benadryls in a four-hour stretch? Well, you don’t cough. This was a very good thing when my dentist installed my new crown. Everything went smoothly. No interruptions because of coughing.
However, I did get a little bit drowsy as my dentist worked on my crown, and when the procedure was over, I was glad Clif had driven me to my appointment. I napped all the way home, woke up, made myself do a couple of chores, and then napped for a few hours on the couch.
On the one hand, it felt like a wasted day. The sun was shining and rather than nap on the couch, there was much I could have done outside. On the other hand, the deed was done well before our dental insurance expired. (Why eyes, teeth, and ears aren’t included in general health insurance is a great mystery to me. Good vision, teeth, and hearing are essential to good health. They are not luxuries.)
However, this particular crown is behind me, and I don’t have to worry about paying over $2,000 out of our own little budget. In celebration, I’m gong to share some pictures I took last week on a glorious fall day as I did errands around town.
Last weekend we had the final retirement fête for Clif. Dee came home from New York, and Clif was treated to a meal at the Great Impasta in Brunswick. As the accompanying picture indicates, Clf was toasted as well. May he have a long, healthy, happy, and creative retirement.
Dee left yesterday, and her extended stay gave all of us a mini-vacation. It also gave us a chance to celebrate Dee’s birthday, which is at the end of the month. At her request, I made cheddar cheese soup from a recipe I have adapted from a Moosewood cookbook. The whole family loves it, and this soup is rich and satisfying, just perfect for special occasions. I also made a double batch of biscuits—another request from Dee—and a salad with romaine lettuce, roasted walnuts, feta, and sliced apples rounded out the meal. Naturally there was cake. Chocolate.
While Dee was here, we saw a couple of movies. One—Martian—was very good, and the other—Maze Runner—was all right.
Now, it’s back to reality. This afternoon, I have a dental appointment so that I can have a permanent crown installed. (Having six crowns should certainly make me a queen, don’t you think?) While I am feeling much, much better, I have an annoying dry cough that will not go with keeping my mouth open for nearly an hour while my dentist drills and installs the permanent crown.
I have doused myself with Benadryl, and my mouth is sweet from too many cough drops. I’ll take another Benadryl just before I leave, and Clif will be driving in case I get drowsy.
Normally, I would have canceled the appointment, but our dental insurance runs out at the end of the month, and the crown is expensive. I don’t want to pay out-of-pocket for it.
Never a dull moment at the little house in the big woods.
Let’s just say that with the little flu Clif and I have “shared” for the past week, cooking has not exactly been inspired at the little house in the big woods. For two or three days, I didn’t feel like eating much of anything: toast, tea, and my standby when I’m sick—Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup, which I will not touch when I’m well. Just as I started to recover, Clif caught what I had, and his normally robust interest in food dropped sharply.
By mid-week, I was done with Chicken Noodle Soup. I was ready for something filling yet comforting and very easy to make. Although I felt better, I wasn’t up to tackling a major cooking project. Clif, who was two days behind me in terms of wellness, was even less motivated to cook.
And who should come to the rescue, just when I needed it most? None other than the inimitable Mark Bittman, a journalist and food writer for the New York Times. (Bittman has recently left the NewYork Times to be a Fellow at the Union of Concerned Scientists.) On Facebook, bless its heart, I saw Bittman’s recipe for Pasta Frittata, and it was exactly what I wanted—-simple and not too spicy with only a handful of ingredients, all of which I had.
Rather than cutting up spaghetti or linguine, I just used macaroni. No cutting necessary. Because Clif and I still felt under the weather, I made the most basic frittata imaginable—pasta, eggs, butter (olive oil could be used instead), Parmesan cheese, and salt and pepper—and I followed Bittman’s instructions for cooking the frittata partly on top of the stove and partly in the oven.
Readers, the frittata came out beautifully. It was just what we wanted. I cut up some of Farmer Kev’s carrots, boiled them, and served them as a side. This was the ultimate comfort food—easy to digest, delicious, and nutritious.
Best of all, like a quiche—surely the frittata’s cousin—it reheated well and was just as good leftover as it was when originally made. Who could ask for anything more?
Well, maybe I could. Next time I make it, I will add this and that to the frittata to make it a more substantial dish. Chicken sausage, sweet red peppers, and mushrooms would all be possibilities. Fresh basil or dried oregano, depending on the season, would also be good additions. I would also try substituting cheddar for the Parmesan in the frittata but still sprinkle Parmesan on top when it came out.
In fact, with the variations, I think this frittata would be good enough for company, either as a light main meal served with a salad and crusty bread or as an appetizer for a party featuring nibbles and nuts.
Either way, this frittata is a definite make again for when we are both feeling better.
Yesterday, I took a break from coughing to wander around the yard at the little house in the big woods. The air was filled with the delightful nutty smell of fallen leaves. Oh, if we could only bottle it. I know. Fallen leaves mean raking, but that’s all right. I really don’t mind being outside on a crisp day and raking the leaves. Also, it gives the dog plenty of time to run and bark, his two favorite things.
Here are some pictures of the yard and garden. Who knew that decay could be so lovely? In a golden, melancholy way, of course.
“The poetry of earth is never dead….The poetry of earth is ceasing never.” —John Keats
I suppose the poetry of Earth thrums in all places, from the Pacific islands, where it is never cold, to Antarctica, where it is never hot. But it seems to me this poetry is especially strong in New England, where there are four seasons, each with a definite chapter. I have lived in Maine for so long that I can visualize each chapter and remember the smells, the heat, the cold, the sounds, and the silence.
For a gardener, fall’s chapter is always a little sad. The flowers and the hostas are way past their peak and must be cut back. But as Johanna, from the blog Mrs. Walker’s Art and Illustrations, recently reminded me, “And indeed better look at the glorious colors of fall and give the plants their deserved sleep whilst enjoying the harvest! Nothing melancholy about that!”
Johanna is right—those glorious colors; the golden light that shines even on an overcast day; and the harvest—the squash, the apples, the pears, the potatoes. There is indeed nothing melancholy in all this. In fact, the crops in Maine have been so bountiful this season that we can rejoice to have such plenty while keeping in mind that other parts of the country are suffering from drought. Nationally, canned pumpkin might be in peril, but fresh Maine pumpkins are not.
Duly reminded of the glories of autumn, I decided to see if I could scrape together a bouquet for the dining room table. In the gardens at the little house in the big woods, there isn’t much left to choose from. But here again, another blogging friend came to the rescue—this time Eliza, from her blog Eliza Waters. She puts together the loveliest arrangements and uses material, much of it dried this time of year, that I had never considered for an indoor bouquet.
So out I went with my scissors. I snipped some sedum, which is still a vibrant pink. That was the easy part. To the sedum I added dried, curling ferns, the stalks of astilbe, and the seed heads from black-eyed Susans.
While the results would never win a prize in a competition, I was pleased nonetheless with how the bouquet turned out. I had used what my gardens had to offer to bring a bit of fall inside.
It would certainly be a stretch to call the arrangement poetry, but with the help of a couple of my blogging friends, I have listened to fall’s poetry.
As it turns out, I had a nasty little flu rather than a miserable cold. By Friday night, my temperature was nearly 102, but the next day, Saturday, I felt significantly better. By Sunday, I was more or less back to my normal schedule. I even did some cutting back in the garden.
Unfortunately but not unexpectedly, Clif caught what I had—couples sure do like to share. But he should be fine by next weekend, when Dee is coming home from New York to help celebrate yet another retirement fête for Clif. (This should be the last one. Clif has certainly retired in style.)
Being sick, of course, is no fun, but I much prefer short and brutal over long and miserable. I have had colds stretch out for a week or two, with coughing at night to make sleep next to impossible. At least what I had was over in a few days, and a good thing, too, as there is much to do outside to get the yard ready for winter.
We still haven’t had a hard frost, but for the most part, the gardens and potted plants have had it. The coleuses have taken on a leggy, spiky look, and I hope to have them removed by the end of the week.
The hostas have become yellow and curled, and yesterday I began cutting them back.
The leaves of the evening primroses have turned a lovely red, and I’ll cut those last.
The ferns, too, have had it and are curling back into themselves. I don’t clip the ferns. I let them take care of themselves, and this seems to work just fine. Each spring, they return in a vigorous burst of green.
For a gardener, fall can be a melancholy time. The clipped plants give the gardens a shaved look.
Soon all the garden ornaments will be stored down cellar, as we Mainers like to say. The patio furniture will come in, and the grill will be moved onto the lawn. How sad, bare, and lonely it all looks when this happens.
Good thing, then, that October is such a beautiful, golden month. It’s almost as if she were saying, “Yes, I know brown, austere November is coming, and after that the long cold of winter, but before it does, I’ll give you some deep blue skies and some blazing leaves as consolation.”
And indeed, what a consolation!
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Notes From the Hinterland 