All posts by Laurie Graves

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

An October Day of Donuts, Falling Leaves, and Supper by the Fire Pit

Yesterday, Clif and I had many errands to do in Augusta, the city nearest the little house in the big woods.  To keep up our strength, we decided to fortify ourselves with donuts at Doc Hollandaise. Last week, Clif went there with his co-workers, and when he came home from work, he raved about the donuts.  As a donut lover—make that fanatic—I knew a trip to Doc Hollandaise would soon be in my future.

Doc Hollandaise is a breakfast place, and most days they are only open until noon. Along with the donuts, cooked fresh to order, they serve the usual delicious suspects—omelets, bacon, homefries, toast, and other breakfasty things.

But we were there for the donuts, and donuts were what we ordered. I chose a chocolate coconut donut. Rich and tender with flakes of coconut on top, it was delivered  warm, and the donut was so tender I had to eat it with a fork.

IMG_2581

Clif decided to go whole hog, so to speak, and ordered a maple bacon donut. It seemed to me that this was perhaps a step too far down the donut-topping path, but Clif liked it so much that he didn’t even offer me a bite. That donut was gone in a flash.

IMG_2583

In the interest of reporting for this blog, we ordered a third donut—cinnamon sugar—which Clif did share with me.  It was crisp and warm and had a lovely old-fashioned nutmeg and cinnamon taste.

IMG_2582

We spoke a bit with our server. She told us about the owner, Ann Maglaras, who uses buttermilk and kneads the dough with flour before cutting the donuts to order. Each batch only makes about twenty-three donuts, which means Maglaras frequently has to make more dough to satisfy the customers, who come in droves for those warm and wonderful donuts.

Duly fortified, we spent the rest of the morning doing our errands. Afterwards, we took a back road home, where I was able to see Maine October in all its glory—an old man sitting by a pile of burning leaves; the marsh grass burnished to copper; leaves coming down from trees in a flutter of gold. This was all illuminated by that clear October light, golden and at a slant.

After I got home, I swept the patio and wiped the outdoor tables. The day was so mild that I said to Clif, “Let’s have our supper by the fire pit.” Now that he is retired, we don’t have to save those activities for the weekend.

“Good idea,” he said.

“Let’s order Chinese food,” I suggested, “and end the day with another treat.”

“Sounds good,” Clif agreed.

And this we did, eating our egg rolls, rice, and chicken by the fire. The dog lay beside us, getting a treat now and then. (All right, getting a treat very often.) We listened to music—Talking Heads, Counting Crows, and We Might be Giants. The crickets’ fall song provided the backup.

We know, of course, that donuts can only be an occasional treat, and most of the time we will eat pears, apples, and grapes for our snacks. Ditto for the Chinese food, and tonight I’ll be making a fish casserole for supper.

But treats add spice to life, and in moderation, they are good for the soul, if not the body.

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.

IMG_0159
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.

IMG_2480
Beach grass by that lovely slip of beach

 

IMG_2484
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.

IMG_2477

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

12032247_10153640612799882_6539261658738308775_n
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.

IMG_2193

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.

IMG_2349

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.

IMG_2353

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.

IMG_2410

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.

IMG_2234

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

IMG_2253

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

IMG_2272

At the island, Clif climbed to the top.

IMG_2283

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.

IMG_2295

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.

IMG_2331

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.”

IMG_2336

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.

IMG_2338

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