Category Archives: Food for Thought

Food for Thought

A Haunting Tale

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To a large degree, we are all here because of chance. If my mother had married another man, there would be no me. The same is true for my brother. Another daughter or another son, perhaps, but not the two of us with our exact genetic inheritance.

However, for my friend Ed Vigneault, the story of his existence is even more weighted by chance, a tragic, improbable tale that started sometime around 1815 in the waters off the Magdalen Islands, a small archipelago in the Gulf of Saint Lawrence. The archipelago is part of the province of Québec, and its French name is Îsles de-la-Madeleine. Population: 12,781.

According to Wikipedia, the territory once belonged to the Mi’kmaw Nation, and they named this cluster of islands Menquit, which means “battered by waves.” Later, it would be called Menagoesenog, or “battered by the surf. ” Both names give a vivid description of the rough waters that pound the Magdalen Islands, and through the years there have been over 400 shipwrecks. Some of the islanders are descendants of the survivors. And even though he isn’t an islander, this brings the story back to my friend Ed and the year 1815, long before Ed was born.

A ship from Europe, probably from the British Isles, was sailing to Canada. But before the ship reached port and was somewhere near the Magdalen Islands, a terrible storm blew in, a tempest. The ship was obviously in trouble, but the storm was so bad that none of the fisherman from the islands dared go out to rescue the passengers.

As the islanders feared, the shipped crashed against the rocks, throwing passengers into the ocean.  On a beach near Dune du Sud on the island Havre aux Maisons, bodies washed onto the sand. As the islanders searched for survivors, they found a heartbreaking sight: A  dead woman clutching a baby, who, incredible as it might seem, was alive. That baby was Ed’s great-great-grandmother, and a family—the Cummings—on Havre aux Maisons adopted her, naming the baby Sophie Peine. Because of her tragic beginning, Sophie was also known as “La Petite Misère,” which I’m sure needs no translation even for those who don’t speak French.

I first heard this story, told by Ed in broad outlines, at a gathering at a friend’s house, and I was immediately gripped by it. In my mind’s eye, I could see dead bodies—some face up, some face down—washed on a sandy beach. Waves break over them, pushing them farther up the beach and then rolling them back a little. With resignation, the islanders come to the beach, searching for survivors. Dead, dead, dead. Then they hear an infant cry and find baby Sophie in her dead mother’s arms. I think of the force of will it must have taken for that mother—Ed’s great-great-great grandmother—to hold on to that baby, to not let go as the ocean threw them toward the rocks and the sand. If the mother had loosened her grip just once, the baby would have been swept away to drown, and there would have been no Ed.

Knowing I was interested in hearing more, Ed and his wife Becky invited me over for tea one morning so he could fill in the details. He told me that when his niece and his sister started doing genealogy, she discovered the sad story of Sophie Peine. He spoke of how Sophie lived to be a woman and married a man named Bénoni Arseneau. They would have many children together, and eventually they moved to Natashquan, in the Province of Québec. The community is so remote that until 1996, it could only reached by either plane or boat. Ed’s great-grandmother would be born in  Natashquan, and it was in Natashquan, on dry land, that Sophie, La Petite Misère, died.

When he was done talking about his family, Ed brought out a small plastic container. Inside was sand, scooped from the beach on the island where Sophie and her mother washed up. On top of the sand was a little piece of driftwood.

Ed said, “I like to think this piece of wood came from the ship Sophie was on.”

I just nodded. Such a lovely thought that connects Ed to his great-great-grandmother, the improbable survivor of a storm that took so many lives, including the life her own mother.

 

 

 

Food for Thought, Winter

River of Change

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Last Wednesday the weather was so warm for February in Maine that it broke records.

The driveway was filled with puddles and melting ice.

On that warm February day, Clif and I went on a rare outing where we got take-out from the Red Barn in Augusta, about ten miles from our town. Mostly we cook and eat at home, and our meals are vegetarian. However, while we will not eat mammals or birds, we do, from time to time, eat shrimp, clams, and scallops.

At the Red Barn, we ordered fries and the Barn’s delectable shrimp. Then we headed down the road to Hallowell, to the parking lot that overlooks the Kennebec River, which is neither wide nor mighty but is nonetheless dear to us.

As we ate, we watched the river. It was iced over, but because of recent rain and the warm weather, there was a skim of water on top. A strong wind blew the water this way and that, as though it were sand.

When we were done, we headed to another spot on the Kennebec, where there’s a turnout with a deck, and you can look down the river into Augusta, our state’s capital. In the distance, a little to the right, is the white dome of the capitol building.

The cropped picture reveals a small black smelt shack, also in the distance. If the thaw continues, the owner will have to remove it lest the shack be carried downriver.

On the deck are posters, in both French and English, that describe how important the Kennebec River was when goods were moved by boats and ships. Back in the day, rivers were superhighways. Because of  this, Hallowell was once a bustling community, and there are many fine old homes that are remnants of a more prosperous time.

But times change. Trains and trucks displaced river ships, cement displaced granite, and refrigerators displaced ice. The Kennebec is no longer a superhighway to and from the Atlantic Ocean. Deprived of a vital economy, Hallowell fell on hard times, and in the 1960s and 1970s, it was a dumpy, depressed place. The river, too, fell on hard times, becoming dark and dirty, polluted by the many factories lining the banks.

But all is not gloom and doom. Thanks to the Clean Water Act of 1972, wildlife now thrives on the river, and the Kennebec is a place of recreation and rejuvenation for humans. Artists and creative types, drawn by affordable homes, moved to Hallowell, and the once depressed town has become funky and vital.

The Kennebec River and Hallowell are object lessons in how change can be both good and bad. Sometimes change is out of our control, and we just have to cope with it as best we can.

But sometimes it’s not. And to borrow from the Serenity Prayer, it’s up to us to have the wisdom to know the difference.

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Nifty Posts from Some of the Lovely Blogs I Follow

Ju-Lyn, of Touring My Backyard, featured the fascinating bat flower.

Despite these turbulent times, small pleasures abound in this post from Thistles and Kiwis.

Tootlepedal’s blog always features fabulous photos, but in a recent post, with some help from his son-in-law, he outdid himself

In a timely post on Robby Robin’s Journey, Jane provides maps of Ukraine that really clarify the geography of the area.

Katie, of the Cozy Burrow, never fails to amaze with her beautiful creativity. Sew on, Katie!

On Retirement Reflections, Donna does her bit to spread peace with with three travelling copies of The Little Book of Inner Peace. What a wonderful idea!

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This is more than a little Christmasy, but I couldn’t resist sharing Aimee Mann’s cover of Joni Mitchell’s The River. The song is so lovely, and it fits beautifully with my own river post.

 

 

 

Food for Thought

When World Events Dominate

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Most of the time, the posts on this blog avoid the political, and world events are seldom mentioned. Instead, the focus is on life in the hinterlands of central Maine. I’m a homebody who seldom travels more than twenty miles from my town. I dwell in the particular, on the edge of a small forest where the wind moves through the tops of the pines and a snake sometimes suns itself on my patio and a bear once smashed flat our bird feeder.

However even in central Maine—far from the center of things—world events can dominate. With Russia invading Ukraine, now is such a time. If there is one thing the pandemic has taught me is that there is no “there.” What happens across the globe ripples outward, touching all countries, no matter how far apart they are. Once upon a time, what happened in a Neanderthal village might have stayed in a Neanderthal village. But those days are gone, and the United States is now inextricably linked to the rest of the world, from Africa to China to Russia to Europe. And as the twentieth century has illustrated, especially to Europe.

What will happen next with Russia, Ukraine, and the world? Naturally, no one can know. But Clif observed that while Afghanistan felt like Vietnam, Ukraine feels more like Poland. I hope this impression springs more from a sense of unease than from any kind of foresight. A world war with an authoritarian leader who has nuclear weapons is terrible to contemplate.

Amidst the gloom, there is a glimmer of hope. In the New York Times, I read, “Thousands of protesters took to the streets and squares of Russian cities on Thursday to protest President Vladimir Putin’s decision to invade Ukraine…Many Russians, like people across the world, were shocked to wake up and learn that Mr. Putin had ordered a full-scale assault against a country often referred to as a ‘brotherly nation.’ At the protests, many people said they felt depressed and broken by the news of Russian military action.”

But this is just a glimmer. Unfortunately, as we have seen in our own country, tribalism and nationalism are always lurking, and authoritarian leaders know how to whip up a frenzy for conflict and war.

Frank Bruni, also in the New York Times, gives this sobering assessment of Putin and Ukraine: “Embarrassment, vanity, viciousness: History never moves on or gets past these forces, which drove invasions and conquests in centuries past and will drive invasions and conquests in years to come. There should be no great shock about Russia’s audacious attack on Ukraine — only profound sadness and painstaking thought about what to do and what’s to come.”

When I shared Bruni’s quotation on Facebook, I got some pushback from a friend who wrote “As long as most people say war and destruction are inevitable, just part of life, it will be.”

I sympathize with that sentiment. How nice it would be to say war and destruction are not inevitable, and then have no more war.

If only it were that easy.

Food for Thought, Winter

Scenes from a Recent Snowstorm

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Northern woman that I am, I love the look of the landscape during a snowstorm, the way it is pared down to its essence in color, not quite monochrome but certainly muted. When there is a snowstorm—and to a certain extent in the winter in general—the landscape has a soothing quality that provides me with a much-needed rest from the exuberance of spring, summer, and fall. Yes, by the time dreary March rolls around, I am more than ready for the glorious burst of spring. However, from somber November through frozen February, I am grateful for the quiet that comes in late fall and winter.

Here are scenes from a recent snowstorm:

On a less soothing note…COVID is ripping through Maine, and the positivity rate is 18 percent, the highest it has ever been. (And to think that last June the rate was below 1 percent. Those halcyon days.) The hospitals are overwhelmed, and I’ve heard that beds with patients are lining the halls.

Clif, Dee, and I are hunkering down, grateful we’re in a position to do so. We are well aware not everyone is as lucky as we are. Also, we’re aware there is a high likelihood that we’ll all eventually come down with COVID, which probably will be circulating around the world pretty much forever.

However, we want to give the hospitals time to recover from the onslaught of patients. If I’m unlucky enough to have to go to the hospital because of COVID, I want a bed in a room. I do not want to be in the hall, tended by folks who are completely frazzled. I’m also hoping that sometime soon antiviral drugs will be readily available for an effective treatment. Finally, I am hoping that COVID will mutate to something that is more like a cold, unpleasant but not an unpredictable killer. In the meantime, I’m sticking close to home and wearing my KN95 mask when I go out.

Despite the nastiness of COVID, things could be worse. On a recent episode of the podcast Radiolab, I learned about the year 536 AD, when there was “A supervolcano. The disappearance of shadows. A failure of bread. Plague rats.” Holy cats, that’s a lot of bad things to deal with all together.

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Now, on to something more upbeat…Nifty posts from some of the lovely blogs I follow:

What could be better than a winter scene? How about one with a sunset and the red splash of a cardinal? On Cimple, a fabulous photo provides all three. 

From Whippet Wisdom, different kinds of listening and music. This post certainly made me smile.

For the biggest, most fabulous sticky bun, check out Touring My Backyard.

Thistles and Kiwis features gorgeous beaches and mouthwatering food. Oh, New Zealand!

Judy, at New England Garden and Thread, makes an excellent case for going south for the winter.

 

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I haven’t shared any music videos lately, and here’s a beauty—Yasmin Williams: Tiny Desk (Home) Concert. 

I’m an anxious person who lives in an anxious world. Williams’s soulful, cascading music never fails to make me feel tranquil, and lately I have started my day by listening to her. Also, note how Williams uses tap shoes for percussion. Clever, clever!

Food for Thought

Grateful Not to Have Broken My Nose or Anything Else

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Several days ago, when I went shopping with my daughter Dee, I fell flat on my face outside of Kohl’s.  I mean this quite literally. One minute I was upright, and the next minute I had pavement pressing against my forehead and mouth. The fault was mine; I wasn’t paying attention. When I came to the curb, I walked along as though it weren’t there. But it was there, and down I fell.

A woman came rushing over. “Are you all right?”

Was I all right? As Dee helped me to my feet, I tasted blood, but miraculously no teeth seemed to be broken. I felt my nose. That, too, was fine. As far as I could tell, nothing was broken.

“I think I’m all right,” I said. “Thank you.”

“That darned curb!” the woman said, making me feel a little less stupid.

Yeah, that darned curb! Why the heck is it there, right in front of the entry way?  What purpose does it serve? In the end, of course, I should have noticed the curb and stepped over it, but I appreciated the woman’s kind words.

Dee and I went shopping in Kohl’s. I was in a bit of a daze, but I followed her around, giving her advice for Christmas presents.

Afterward, we went grocery shopping, a grim event as my right knee was really starting to ache. By the time I came home, I could hardly walk. It seems I had sprained my knee.

Ever since, I have been one with the living room couch, where I can sit with my legs outstretched. I do have a cane, which has been a big help, and every day my knee continues to improve. Today I even feel well enough to sit at my desk and write this post of my woes. (Never fear. If my knee hadn’t improved, I would have gone to the hospital for X-rays.)

In the United States, we celebrate Thanksgiving tomorrow, and it is a time for feeling grateful. You can bet I am feeling grateful that when I fell on the pavement, I didn’t break anything. It still amazes me that all my teeth are in my mouth and that my nose wasn’t broken. And I feel nothing but gratitude for having such a sturdy body.

You can also bet the next time I go anywhere, I will be on the lookout for curbs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Food for Thought, Gardening, News

A Tale of Two Gardens & a Short Break

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At my home on the edge of the woods, my gardens look their best in June, July, and August. This time of year, they are at a frowzy stage, with lots of drooping yellow and brown leaves and spent flowers.

The back garden, more formally laid out than the ones in the front yard, is most definitely past its best. The glory of its summer days are long gone.

However, as you can see from this view from one of the windows in our house, the backyard is still a nice place to be, even in autumn.

In the front yard, the gardens are more haphazardly laid out and are not as lovely as the back garden when it’s at its peak.

However, in autumn, the “tangly” nature of the front gardens really shines, reminding me that late bloomers have a certain loveliness. Perhaps the same is true of people as well?

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Next week will be a busy one for me. In between painting and refurbishing one of our bathrooms, we will also be celebrating two birthdays—my 64th birthday on the 15th and Clif’s 70th. His birthday is not until the 27th, but we are firm believers in celebrating early and often.

I will therefore be taking a break from posting, reading other blogs, and commenting.

I plan to come back the week of September 20th.

À bientôt!

 

Food, Food for Thought

The Consolation of Tomato Sandwiches

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Here we are at the end of August, traditionally one of Maine’s most beautiful months. Time was when the weather was hot—around 80°F—and dry during the day, yet cool enough for blankets at night. It seems this era has passed, and now we veer between a humid 100°F heat followed by a forty degree drop to 60°F. So disorienting, especially to an old timer like me who remembers how sweet August once was in northern New England. It fills me with such sadness to think that those days are probably gone for good, that future generations of Mainers will never know the glories of a Maine August when the weather was nearly perfect.

Fortunately, despite the unwelcome change in the weather, tomatoes still ripen in August in Maine. In my yard by the edge of the woods, I only get six hours of sun at most during the summer. But I have found a variety of tomatoes—Juliet—that actually grows well in part sun/part shade.

Here they are on the vine.

And here are these gems in a bowl.

Juliet is a grape tomato, firm yet sweet and tart, perfect for many uses—sauces, salads, on their own as a side, and, especially, for tomato sandwiches.

Southern readers would probably cry foul if I claimed tomato sandwiches were a Maine speciality. Therefore, I won’t do that. However, old-time Mainers are as keen on tomato sandwiches as they are, say, on blueberry pie or corn on the cob. Tomato sandwiches are definitely a thing in Maine in August and September.

Simplicity in itself, tomato sandwiches consist of three ingredients, garden-fresh tomatoes, bread, and mayonnaise. All right, there is a fourth ingredient if you are so inclined—salt.

Some folks like white bread, untoasted. I am not one of them. I want a good whole-grain bread, and I want it to be toasted, thank you very much.

As I was making this sandwich, Clif asked if I wanted lettuce on it, too. I gave him a pitying look that indicated he should know better. After all, Clif is from Maine. But alas he does not like raw tomatoes and is thus unfamiliar with the protocol of a proper tomato sandwich.

Clif tried to defend himself. “You would have lettuce on a BLT.”

Yes, you would, but a tomato sandwich is not a BLT, and Clif received another pitying look.

With tomato sandwiches, you have a perfect combination of crunch, sweet, tart, smooth, and salt. With such deliciousness, I can almost forgive the high heat and humidity that is now August in Maine.

Almost.

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Nifty Posts from Some of the Lovely Blogs I Follow:

Michele, of Rabbit Patch Diary, writes movingly of her eldest granddaughter starting school and other big changes.

In Change is Hard, Dawn finds beauty close to home, despite Covid, a hurricane, and other shattering events in this country.

On Etikser, rain provides the windows with a dreamy palette.

On Thistles and Kiwi, small pleasures—food and flowers—are still to be had, despite the uptick in Covid cases in New Zealand.

Ju-Lyn, of Touring My Backyard, is inspired by a trio of seventy-year-old men.

 

 

 

 

Animals, Food for Thought

When Life Gives You Covid, Go on a Picnic

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Here we are in the beginning of August, with the Delta variant, reportedly as contagious as chicken pox, ripping through the country. According to ABC News, one year ago, the U.S. was averaging about 63,000 new cases of Covid a day. This year, we’re averaging 62,000 cases a day. No matter how  you look at it, that’s not progress.

At least Clif and I had two good months in June and July. A heady period when it actually seemed as though we were returning to normal times. Friends came over, we gathered at the local Brewery, we dispensed with masks when grocery shopping.

But all this was conditional. Clif and I are firm believers in science and data, and we continued to keep track of the Covid numbers. We decided that if the numbers rose, then our behavior would change. Unfortunately, the numbers rose. Our masks, tucked away, came back out, and we have been wearing them whenever we go shopping or to any other indoor place.

On a happier note…as I mentioned in a previous post, our eldest daughter Dee has come to stay with us until her office calls her back in. For now, she can work remotely, and we are thrilled to have her here.

But what to do on days off? Going inside with bunches of people no longer seems like a swell idea. However, never fear! We hit upon a solution that is both safe and fun—picnics. While central Maine does not have the dramatic beauty of the coast, there are still pleasing spots to enjoy that feature fields, rivers, and hills.

One such spot in nearby Hallowell overlooks the Kennebec River. There’s a small waterfront park that has jaunty chairs dotting a long boardwalk.  Perfect for a picnic lunch, and perfect for watching the river and the wildlife that thrives there.

So on Saturday, a beautiful sunny day that was not too hot, we headed to Hallowell. Other people, it seems, had the same idea.

Who’s that guy in the front? Could it be Clif?

Here’s a view of the river going north,

with mallards resting by the water’s edge.

We also saw ospreys, which were flying too high for the wee camera to get a good photo.

And even more exciting, for the first time ever, I saw an Atlantic sturgeon, a big one about four or five feet long, jump not far from us. Too quick for a photo, but the image of that leaping prehistoric fish is embedded in my memory.

What a great way to start our season of picnics.

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Nifty posts from some of the lovely blogs I follow:

For daylily lovers, the Strafford County Master Gardeners Association blog features a post about John Hric, an Ohio gardener whose passion for daylilies has led not only to growing them, but also to breeding them.

From Canberra’s Green Spaces: Birds, beautiful birds. What could be better? How about tree kangaroos? Wowsah! This Mainer had never heard of tree kangaroos before.

Ju-Lyn, of Touring My Backyard, celebrates the changing seasons.

From Thistles and Kiwis, a week of small pleasures that included food and a trip to the museum to see an exhibition featuring surrealist art.

Horses, horses, horses! Derek J. Knight gets some great pictures of horses that are allowed to roam free.

Food for Thought, Nature

Enter the Yellow Jackets

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Life is not always idyllic at our home on the edge of the woods. True, we have trees and birds and a patio in our backyard where we can enjoy the cool mysterious green of the forest. But this year we also have yellow jackets, lots of them, swarming the hummingbird feeders and scaring away those whizzing beauties.

Here is how yellow jackets are described on The Home Depot website: “Yellow jackets are a type of wasp that typically live in the ground…Yellow jackets are extremely aggressive insects that are drawn mainly to sugary liquids and meats. Each insect stings multiple times and injects venom into its victim.”

No wonder the hummingbirds have stopped coming to the feeder!

Funny thing is, we have had hummingbird feeders for ten years or more, and we have never had a problem with yellow jackets.  Perhaps there is a nest nearby? Readers, if you have had a similar experience, please do share it in the comments section.

Yesterday afternoon, in an uncharacteristic act of bravery, I took down the feeders and moved them to the far edge of the yard. As I removed the feeders, there were lots of yellow jackets buzzing around, but Chance was on my side, and I escaped injury. The yellow jackets did not follow me. Instead, looking for the absent feeders, the yellow jackets circled the pole. I suppose they were wondering where their sweet cornucopia had gone.

Hummingbirds have been sitting forlornly on the post where the feeders once hung. As soon as the yellow jackets went away, which they did after a while, I hung up the feeders. I’m sure you can guess what happened. The yellow jackets zipped back faster than you could say “blueberry pie.” Away went the hummingbirds and down came the feeders again.

Fortunately, the bee balm is still in bloom in the back garden. Hummingbirds adore bee balm, which appropriately are a-buzz with bumble bees, who are not as fierce as yellow jackets.

Such is life in the backyard. I never hold it against animals or insects for doing what is, after all, in their best interest. The yellow jackets were looking for food, which they need to survive as all living creatures do. Bingo! They found a sweet, plentiful source.

That’s not to say that anything goes in the garden—if there were a ground nest of yellow jackets right by the patio, we would have to get rid of it. However, I do try to be as tolerant possible. When a bear raided a feeder with sunflower seeds, we took the feeder down for a couple of weeks, and the bear never came back. When a racoon raided the same feeder, we found a baffle that foiled the clever creature. Sometimes sterner measures must be taken, but we save those as a last resort.

Now to end on an up-note with a bit of beauty, another picture of these daylilies. I wish I knew their name. I think it might be “Summer Wine,” but if anyone knows differently, please tell me.

 

 

 

 

Flowers, Food for Thought

Another Scorchah

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As the title of this post indicates, today is another hot one for Maine, complete with a heat advisory warning. The heat index values are projected to be from 95°F to 100°F. Because we live inland, I’ve no doubt we will be on the 100°F side of things.

Here was the temperature yesterday afternoon. Note: The thermometer is in the shade.

Recently, I read that more people die from heat than they do from cold. I was a little surprised to learn this, but after discussing it with Clif, I understood. With the cold, you can bundle up to keep warm, and small structures, ranging from igloos to tents, will trap body heat. Sleeping bags will keep you toasty even in frigid weather.

There is no real equivalency for coping with extreme heat.  It is true that insulation and building color make a difference, but they only go so far.  We human beings are not equipped to deal with high heat.

Except we have no choice. Temperatures are rising, and those of us who are older know from first-hand experience that the weather is much hotter now than it was when we were growing up. Those old days are gone, and we must cope, which no doubt will involve air conditioners for folks like us who never thought they’d need them.

From time to time I have wondered if Clif and I have been too extreme in our response to climate change. Unless there is some sort of emergency, we will not fly. We severely limit our driving. Rare is the day when we leave Winthrop—good thing we live in such a sweet little town with a great library, a grocery store, and a brewery that has become a gathering place. Every two weeks or so, we drive to Augusta, a small city and the state’s capital. We pick up things that we can’t get in Winthrop and meet with friends at a local café for coffee and tea. We have a farm share with our own Farmer Kev and receive bi-weekly deliveries of fresh veggies from his farm. Finally, we don’t eat beef (or any other meat), whose production is a huge source of greenhouse gas.

But with the heat wave that has hit the country, I realize we have not been too extreme. Rather, we are not extreme enough. We should replace our gas hot water heater with an electric one. We should add more insulation to the attic to help reduce the amount of fuel we use. We should replace all our windows, which are the original ones from when our fifty-two-year-old home was built. And topping the list of all those shoulds: We should be driving an electric car.

Scorching heat leads to sobering thoughts, and to lighten the tone, I’ll end with some pictures of flowers and my gardens, which are still looking their best. Somehow, even during this time of climate crisis, we can be delighted by flowers and things that grow.