All posts by Laurie Graves

I write about nature, food, the environment, home, family, community, and people.

Another Look at Squirrels: From An American Year by Hal Borland

The bird feeder, sans squirrels
The bird feeder, sans squirrels

If you feed birds, chances are that you consider squirrels to be nothing more than a nuisance.  Indeed squirrels eat so much seed that it is often difficult to keep a feeder filled, especially a small one.  While I have no particular grudge against this furry animal who, after all, is just trying to make a living, I am very mindful about the cost of sunflower seeds. Our budget simply does not allow for replacing the seeds that the squirrels whip through with such astonishing speed. I compromise by spreading seed on the ground—some for the squirrels as well as crows, mourning doves, and, yes, mice.

Recently I came across a writer—Hal Borland—who also had some sympathy, and even empathy, for squirrels. According to Wikipedia, Hal Borland “was a well-known American author and journalist. In addition to writing several novels and books about the outdoors, he wrote ‘outdoor editorials’ for The New York Times for more than 30 years, from 1941 to 1978.”

In An American Year Borland writes about baby squirrels by his home. “Our baby squirrels were down on the ground today, for the first time. After that initial venture from the nest, they came out each morning, gaining confidence by the minute….But even on the fourth day they still descended the tree tail downward, in the manner of a black bear cub.”

Borland then goes on to describe how gradually the babies learned to go down head first and how cautious and frightened they were when they were on the ground. But Borland concludes, “From now on they’ll be coming and going many times a day. The mystery is broken. They have found the ground. The world is theirs—for a time.”

Even though I have lived in the woods for over thirty years, I have never been lucky enough to see baby squirrels venture to the ground for the first time. How I would love to see this!

Borland, with his beautiful, precise prose, reminds me yet again what an observant layperson can bring to nature writing. But better still, he reinforces my belief that when you look closely at the natural world, you can gain not only knowledge but also sympathy for the creatures who are struggling to earn their keep.

To my way of thinking, this sympathy can only be a good thing, especially when you consider how quickly we humans are driving so many animals to extinction.

For now, anyway, the squirrels are thriving. Next spring I’ll be on the lookout for baby squirrels leaving the nest.

And I’ll definitely be reading more of Hal Borland, who was introduced to me by Gladys Taber, in one of her books.

A Day at Local Breweries for Himself and a Day at the Beach for Me

Yet again, Clif celebrated his retirement, and this event was orchestrated by our son-in-law Mike, who arranged a Maine Brew Bus tour of several local breweries in the Portland area.

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Raise the glass high

 

While Clif and Mike had a jolly afternoon sampling beer, Shannon, the dogs, and I had our own jolly afternoon on Crescent Beach in Cape Elizabeth. (Shannon and I are, ahem, decidedly unenthusiastic when it comes to beer, which means that an afternoon on the beach appeals to us far more than an afternoon drinking beer.)

Like Popham Beach, Crescent Beach State Park is relatively undeveloped. No condos or shops crowd the beach, and it is a lovely slip of sand, water, waves, and rocks. There is an inn by the beach, but it is back far enough to give the seaside plenty of breathing space. Crescent Beach doesn’t have the grand sweep of Popham Beach, but it is nevertheless one of my favorites.

From October 1 to March 31, dogs are allowed on the beach, and the five us had a splendid, sparkling time of crashing waves, gleaming rocks, warm sun, and blue sky.

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Beach grass by that lovely slip of beach

 

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Shannon and the dogs on Crescent Beach

 

Shell and foam
Shell and foam

 

Wood and shell on sand
Wood and shell on sand

 

After the beach and breweries, we gathered at Shannon and Mike’s for pizza and homemade apple crisp. It was a finest kind of day.

On this Bright October Day

On this bright October Day, when the sky is deep blue and there is a nip in the air and there is no better place to be than Maine, I bought forty pounds of squash and ten pounds of potatoes from Farmer Kev. From beneath my friends’ apple trees, I gleaned nine pounds of apple.

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What a wonderful bounty! Next week, I’ll be stocking up on more of Farmer Kev’s vegetables. And, I’ve got a lead on where to glean some pears.

Autumn is finally here, and how I love it.

Bring on the Chicken Casserole, but Hold the Canned Cream of Mushroom Soup

IMG_2435A week or so ago, when I was reading Gladys Taber’s Harvest at Stillmeadow, I came across one of her original recipes for a chicken casserole. She listed the layered ingredients: Cooked chicken; carrots or peas; rice or potatoes; tomatoes; cheese; and bread crumbs. So far, so good. But then came the dreaded ingredient—canned cream of mushroom soup.

I know. Gladys was a cook of her time, just as we are cooks in our own time, but canned cream of mushroom soup is a step back that I cannot take. My own mother was a fan of this canned soup, and although she was a a terrific baker, she used cream of mushroom soup with an alarming frequency in her main meals. Even as a child, I didn’t like it, and my heart would sink when I learned that dinner was another one of my mother’s concoctions, which all revolved around the canned cream of mushroom soup and usually had noodles, some kind of protein, and canned vegetables.

The worst was ground beef, macaroni, Veg-all, and cream of mushroom soup. I can still picture it. I can still remember the taste. And it turned me off casseroles for a long, long time.

Lately, though, I have reconsidered my anti-casserole stance. If they are made with real ingredients, say, a white sauce or a homemade gravy rather than a canned soup, then casseroles can be pretty tasty. They are also economical, using up the last bits of cooked chicken, carrots, and potatoes from a previous meal.

So with Gladys’s recipe, I began to think about substitutions for the cream of mushroom soup. I could make a garlic and parsley white sauce, which is tasty over fish as well as a good binder for casseroles. Or, I could get clever and make a gravy from a stock simmered in a slow-cooker, leftover from a meal featuring chicken, potatoes, and carrots. If I were really clever, then I could cook extra vegetables and have pretty much everything I needed for the casserole the next day.

And that is exactly what I did. On one day, I cut up plenty of Farmer Kev’s carrots and potatoes, and filled the bottom of the slow-cooker, taking care to leave enough room for the little chicken, which weighed about four pounds. (This was a by-guess-and-by-golly type of thing. I just peeled and chopped potatoes and carrots until I had a goodly amount.) I added a cup of warm water and sprinkled salt, pepper, dried thyme, and sage over the vegetables. The chicken went on top, and I sprinkled more salt, pepper, thyme, and sage over it. I also minced a large clove of garlic and sprinkled that over the chicken. (Onion could be substituted for the garlic.) On went the cover, and voilà, in five hours cooked on high, we had a lovely chicken dinner.

When it comes to vegetables cooked with chicken, Clif shows little restraint, and I knew that if I wanted enough potatoes and carrots for the following night, then I would have to Employ a Strategy. This I did, with biscuits, thus ensuring there would be plenty of vegetables for the casserole. After we were done eating, I poured the stock into a bowl and tucked it in the refrigerator.  I also did this, of course, with the leftover chicken and vegetables.

The next day, this casserole went together pretty darned fast. No, making a gravy from stock is not as quick as opening a can of cream of mushroom soup, but it doesn’t take that long, and it sure tastes better. I skimmed the chicken fat from the top. (Sorry schmaltz lovers, but I prefer butter. Must be the Franco in me.) In a saucepan, I heated the stock and strained it. In another saucepan, I melted four tablespoons of butter and whisked in four tablespoons of flour. I poured in the hot stock, whisked and stirred, and within a few minutes, I had a delicious gravy for the casserole.

A word about the tomato in this casserole. Initially, I wasn’t sure if I wanted one or not, but as I had a beautiful ripe tomato, courtesy of Farmer Kev, I decided to add it. I’m glad I did. The acidic tomato added a pleasant tang to the smooth chicken, vegetables, and gravy mixture. When the fresh tomatoes have gone by and I make this casserole again, I will add a small can of diced tomatoes, drained.

Chicken Casserole with Homemade Gravy
Adapted from a recipe by Gladys Taber

Ingredients

  • 2 cups of leftover chicken, cut in chunks
  • 1(1/2) cups of leftover potatoes and carrots, cut in small chunks
  • 1 large tomato, cut in chunks.
  • 1 cup of grated cheese
  • 2 slices of bread, torn into small bits for bread crumbs
  • 2 cups of chicken stock—add milk if there isn’t quite enough
  • 4 tablespoons of butter
  • 4 tablespoons of flour
  • Salt and pepper to taste

Directions

  1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees.
  2. Layer the chicken on the bottom of a large casserole dish.
  3. Put the potatoes and carrots on top of the chicken.
  4. Add the tomatoes.
  5. Sprinkle with the grated cheese.
  6. Pour the gravy onto the casserole.
  7. Top with bread crumbs.
  8. Bake for 45 minutes or until the casserole is bubbling hot.
  9. Makes 4 to 6 servings.

Directions for the gravy

  1. Skim off chicken fat from the chicken stock reserved from the slow-cooker meal you made a night or two before. (If shmaltz is your thing, then save it for the roux. If not, discard it.)
  2. Heat the stock in a large saucepan.
  3. Strain it into a bowl and then measure to be sure you have 2 cups. Add a little milk if you don’t. Return the stock to the saucepan and heat until very hot. (The hot stock will make the gravy come together more quickly.)
  4. In another large saucepan, melt 4 tablespoons of butter (or a combination of butter and chicken fat).
  5. Whisk in four tablespoons of flour and stir until the mixture bubbles a little.
  6. Pour the hot stock into the roux. Whisk and stir until thickened. The gravy will be done when it leaves a line on the back of a spoon.

 

 

Clif Has Retired

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Clif at Doc Hollandaise. Picture taken by Megan Spencer.

Yesterday was Clif’s last day at work. His wonderful co-workers, who had fêted him royally last week, treated him one last time. They took him out for brunch at Doc Hollandaise, which makes homemade donuts to order. (Was I jealous? You bet I was! Now that Clif has retired,  we will soon be going to Doc Hollandaise for donuts.)

Retirement is one of those milestone events that makes a person think. For over forty years, Clif has worked at one job or another, all of which have revolved around social services. He worked for the state as an honest-to-God social worker. He worked as a computer programmer for various nonprofits. Finally, he worked as a database administrator for Homeless Initiatives at Maine State Housing. He’s been laid off twice, once right before Christmas when the children were young.

None of these jobs were what you would call high-paying jobs. Clif, like so many people who work for the state or for nonprofits, wanted to work at a job that qualified as right livelihood, as the Buddhists might say. Clif wanted to do good work, to make a difference, to help people. And he did. (Those who like to inveigh against state and federal workers should take the time to look at countries that don’t provide social services.)

Yesterday was also a wild tempest of a day, with a rain that was, well, lashing. A friend told me that she measured over five inches of rain. Readers, that is a lot of rain to fall in one day. In Portland, streets were flooded. Farther north, my cousin Carol posted pictures of flooded streets in Skowhegan, which is snug against the Kennebec River. People lost their power—thank goodness we didn’t—and branches large and small came down.

One large branch, in fact, came down at the little house in the big woods.  When you live in the woods, such things happen from time to time. We were just grateful the branch came down on our fence rather than on our roof.

The fallen branch
The fallen branch

So on his first day of retirement, Clif is going to play chainsaw man. He’ll take care of the wood and inspect the fence to see where it needs mending.

Clif inspects the damage
Clif inspects the damage

 

Sherlock conducts his own inspeciton
Sherlock conducts his own inspection

And after that? There are projects galore around the house to keep Clif busy. He also plans to work part time as a computer consultant for nonprofits, where he will continue with the good work that he has done for all of his adult life.

But most important, there will be trips to Doc Hollandaise for donuts.

 

Fall Comes Slowly and a Poem for Clif

Fall is slow to come this year. The weather has been very warm, and although the nights have been cool, there hasn’t been even a hint of frost. The basil is as full and vigorous now as it was in August.

Then there are the leaves on the trees. Judy, on her blog New England Garden and Thread, observed that “the turning of the leaves is going very slowly.” We live quite a bit north of Judy, but the same is true for central Maine. In some trees there is just the slightest tinge of color, but with most trees, the leaves are still green, as the picture below illustrates.

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Nevertheless, despite the warm weather and the green leaves, I decided it was time to wash our fall fleeces so that we would be ready when colder weather comes. I love how colorful those fleeces look on the line, and I am always dumbfounded when I hear that certain places have banned clotheslines. I hope I never have to live in such a neighborhood.

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Temple dog is still guarding the ragged flowers, but soon I will be going out to cut back the garden, and it won’t be long until there isn’t anything left to shade that little head.

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Liam, the yard dog, will supervise, and this is one of his favorite activities. Being a herding dog, he loves to bark and circle the wheelbarrow as I remove the clippings from the garden. Well, we all have our jobs to do, and Liam takes his job very seriously.

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Yesterday, in the comments’ section of the post I wrote about Clif’s birthday, our friend Claire Hersom shared a poem in honor of Clif’s special day at the ocean. Claire is such a fine poet, as well as a friend, that I thought the poem needed to come “out front,” so to speak, where more people would read it.

The Edge
Undertow tugs the valley of the next wave
curling it into a crunch that crashes
as loud as gulls low-flying the sand,
screeching for tidbits on our beach blanket.

We walk the shore as if one person,
my pink bonnet to shade my eyes
and you, a seven year old of burnished gold.

You wade in deep tidal pools
fearless of the ocean that runs up the bank,
swoons, then cascades back, never quite
catching sandpipers stuttering along beside
a vastness we barely comprehend.

Our eyes scan the sky at the sea’s blue-white line,
the timbre of our voices swallowed. The wind,
as it did before memory, sings it back,
our red, painted toe nails teetering
on the thin line of discovery.

 

Many thanks, Claire!

A Perfect September Day in Which We Head to the Beach to Celebrate Clif’s Birthday

IMG_2318Sunday was Clif’s birthday, and a week ago, I asked him what he wanted to do on his special day. “If the day is good, go to the ocean,” he promptly replied.

Yesterday was very good indeed, one of those bright September days with nary a cloud in the sky. We packed crab salad sandwiches, grapes, and cookies, and off we headed for our favorite beach—Popham Beach State Park. We love this beach for its broad expanse of sand, especially when the tide is out, but we especially love how the beach is not overdeveloped. On the state park end of things, there is nothing but sand, rocks, sea, and sky, but even when you leave the state park, there are no condos, no honky tonk, no gift shops. Instead, there are a few cottages, one small restaurant, not visible from the state park, and an old ruin of a fort, built in 1807.

After our picnic—a brisk one because of the ocean breeze—we walked the beach. Luck was with us—the tide was going out—and in the clear September light, this beach was even more beautiful and sparkling than it usually is. It was almost as if the beach were saying, “Yes, I show my beauty in the summer to all the tourists, but I am most radiant in the fall, after most of the tourists have left.  It is my gift to all those who are hardy enough to stay here year round.”

We brought our wee cameras, of course, and we happily snapped pictures to record our walk.

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Because the tide was out, we headed to an island that can be reached only at low tide.

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On the way, I found an intact sand dollar, which I tucked in my pocket for safe transport.

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At the island, Clif climbed to the top.

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While Clif explored the island, I found a rock seat and had my moment of Zen as I watched the water and the sky. Truly, I could have sat there for hours.

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My moment of Zen must have given me a pleasant expression because two women—about my age—stopped to speak to me. They were complete strangers, but I was happy to chat with them. (This happens surprisingly often to me when I am at the beach. For some reason, strangers like to chat with me.)

All too soon, it was time to head back. At the edge of the beach, fragrant roses were still in bloom.

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All the way home, we thought about the sea, the sand, the sparkling water, and the deep blue sky. A perfect day that needed a special ending.

“Let’s have a fire,” I said to Clif, “and eat supper beside it.”

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This we did, enjoying a meal of baked potatoes topped with chili and cheese.

But before we ate, I toasted Clif, wishing him many more birthdays and a happy, creative retirement.

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Wednesday is Clif’s last day at work. But that is another story.

You Say Tomato, I Say Roasted Tomato Soup

IMG_2177Thanks to the warm weather we’ve had this September, the tomatoes are coming in full force. For the past few weeks in my CSA share from Farmer Kev, there has been a generous allotment of tomatoes. I hate to play favorites, but I can’t help it. I love tomatoes, and I never come to resent them the way I do, say, greens or zucchini, both of which can seem like a curse rather than a blessing when they are coming in with such vigor that you wonder what in the world you are going to do with them.

Not so with tomatoes. They can be eaten raw, which this time of year, is my favorite way of eating tomatoes. In fact for my lunch today, I had two poached eggs on top of two large slices of tomatoes. What a lovely, juicy mess.

Tomatoes, of course, can be cooked down into a sauce. Or added to soups. Or a casserole, which I plan on doing next week when I make a chicken, carrot, potato, and tomato casserole, held together with a sauce made from the chicken drippings and topped with buttered bread crumbs.

Then there is tomato soup, one of my favorite soups. (No surprise there, given how much I love tomatoes.) Finally, the weather has become cool enough for soup, and the other day, when I opened the refrigerator and surveyed the big bowl bowl of tomatoes, I thought, “tomato soup.”

But first I roasted the tomatoes, which give the soup a sweet, rich flavor. It only takes forty-five minutes or so to roast them, and then into the stockpot they go. Add a cup of water. Some onion and garlic. A bouquet garni of oregano, thyme, and parsley. (Alas, my sage succumbed to tiny marauding caterpillars.)

Bouquet garni—herbs tied in a bundle—is one of my favorite ways to use herbs with tiny leaves, such as thyme. All you do is clump the herbs together, wrap them with thread, and tie the bundle.  Drop it into the soup stock, and let the herbs simmer with the onion and garlic. Then, when the simmering is done, use a slotted spoon to remove the garni.  Voilà! You have the lovely infusion of the herbs without the tedious chore of plucking and chopping.

However, I didn’t totally escape the chore of chopping herbs because after the soup was blended and a cup of milk was added, I finished the soup with fresh basil, which added another dimension to this already flavorful soup.

Clif always likes soup to have “something” in it, and he duly added leftover macaroni to his bowl. Not me. I wanted to eat the soup just as it was—smooth, creamy, with the overtones of basil, and the undertones of the bouquet garni.

Roasted Tomato Soup with Herbs

Ingredients

For roasting the tomatoes

  • 6 pounds of tomatoes—washed and dried and with the stems removed
  • Olive oil for brushing on the tomatoes and the baking sheet
  • Kosher salt, for sprinkling on the tomatoes

For the soup

  • 1 medium onion, cut in half
  • 4 cloves of coarsely chopped garlic
  • 1 boquet garni—I used about 5 sprigs of thyme, several springs of oregano, and several springs of parsley
  • 1 cup of water
  • 1 cup of milk
  • 1 tablespoon of sugar
  • 3 tablespoons of chopped fresh basil
  • Salt and pepper to taste

Directions

For roasting the tomatoes

  • Preheat oven to 375 degrees
  • Cut tomatoes in half and place cut side up on a baking sheet brushed with olive oil
  • Brush olive oil on the tomato halves
  • Sprinkle with kosher salt, about 1 tablespoon
  • Roast for 45 minutes or until the tomatoes are very soft and can easily be pierced with a fork
  • Let the tomatoes cool and then remove the skins

For the soup

  • Put the roasted tomatoes into a large stockpot.
  • Stir in 1 cup of water and 1 tablespoon of sugar
  • Add the onion halves, the chopped garlic, and the bouquet garni
  • Let simmer for at least 45 minutes, until the onion is very soft
  • Remove the onion halves and bouquet garni with a slotted spoon
  • Blend the soup so that it is smooth
  • Stir in 1 cup of milk and salt and pepper to taste
  • Heat until it is very hot
  • Just before serving, stir in the basil
  • Serves 4 or 6, depending on appetite

 

Autumn Begins and the Gardens Are Ragged

But we should not mourn the summer garden. It was not more or less beautiful because it was temporary. If we were smart we took advantage of summer to experience as many moments of garden joy as we possibly could.”  —Jason, from the blog Garden in a City

Yesterday was the fall equinox, that time when there is a balance between day and night. In Maine, fall is perhaps its most beautiful season, a dazzling time of bright blue skies, blazing leaves, warm days, and cool evenings.

However, Jason’s lovely description perfectly captures the bitter-sweet mood that northern gardeners feel when autumn comes. We should “not mourn the summer garden,” but in our heart of hearts, many of us do. Gone are the lilies, the bee balm, and the phlox. The stalwart black-eyed Susans are fading fast. The modest sedums, with their blush of pink, provide some consolation, but the joyous burst of color in the gardens is over for another year.

The modest yet lovely sedum
The modest yet lovely sedum

Yet Jason is also right about taking as many moments of garden joy as we can in the summer. Clif and I certainly did. Almost every evening this summer and indeed this September, we took our supper plates out to the patio, where we smelled the spicy bee balm and listened to the crickets, the loons, and the barred owls. In August, as dusk fell, we admired the hummingbird moths. We were still in blissful ignorance about the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde nature of these little creatures, of how the beautiful, ethereal moths lay eggs that hatch to become marauding, voracious hornworms.   (I do want to note that not all hornworms attack tomatoes, but the offspring of the hummingbird moths that visited our garden certainly did.)

The gardens are in tatters, and next week I’ll begin cutting them back.

The ragged garden
The ragged garden

 

The fading hostas
The fading hostas

Cutting back the garden always makes me feel a little blue, but there are certain consolations. That bright sky, the warm sun, and the changing leaves.  Now that summer’s heat has gone, time spent around the firepit.

And, of course, apple pie, my favorite kind of pie to make. This year is surely a banner year for apples. The wild trees by the side of the road are laden with fruit, and yesterday, on a walk, I snitched a couple of dropped apples from beneath a neighbor’s tree. How good and crisp and white they were, with nary a sign of one single worm.  I am thinking of asking if I can snitch some more drops. (Cheryl, I promise to invite you over for apple pie or crisp. Your choice.)

The ones that didn't get away
The ones that didn’t get away

So onward to fall. Every season—even the long dark of winter—has its beauty and pleasures. And like our friend Burni, we intend to squeeze as much pleasure as we can out of each season.