For over a week, I have had some kind of flu/virus that has taken the wind out of my sails, as the saying goes. The past few days have been the worse, with much coughing and little sleeping. I’ve spent quite a bit of time on the couch, and I’ve forced myself to do a few chores so that the house won’t look too bad when I am well again. But what an effort everything is. I don’t have the focus to post recipes on this blog—I have a couple in mind, and I’m just waiting for this darned flu to say adios—and I don’t have the focus to work on fiction. I can’t go for walks in the woods.

Because I can’t be my usual busy self, time itself seems to have slowed down. Yesterday, after taking a short catnap on the couch, I woke up and thought it was at least 6:30. Instead, it was only 5:00, with the whole long night ahead of me. As I didn’t get to sleep until 2:00 a.m., the night was very long indeed.

This enforced inactivity has made me realize how much I enjoy my busy life, a combination of cooking, writing, chores, family, reading, volunteering, meeting with friends, and, this time of year, taking walks in the wood. Couch and tea time are ever so much more enjoyable at the end of a busy day rather than as a continuum of a long, idle afternoon spent waiting to feel better.

So there it is. I enjoy being busy. I like being productive and useful. Having a list of projects adds pep to my life.

As there is plenty to do in this life, in this rural state, in this little town, I never have to wonder how to fill my hours. And as soon as this virus goes away, I’ll gratefully return to my busy routine, ordinary yet oh so absorbing.

In this country, when it comes to food, there are several groups of people. There are those at the top with the money and the inclination to buy only the best—organic, local, free range, no hormones, no antibiotics, grass fed. They can rattle off types of cheeses the way a kindergartener can rattle off the alphabet. When a high-end restaurant opens, they are the first ones there, and if the food is very good, then the menu becomes a sort of Holy Grail.

To those people I say, good for you. There are a lot worse ways to spend money—oh, so many worse ways—and affluent people who care about food and shop locally are supporting farmers and artisans who usually need every bit of support they can get.

Then there are the people who are not quite as affluent, the ones who must budget and plan to provide healthy meals for their families. They buy organic when they can—when the price is right and when there are sales. If they are lucky, there is a Trader Joe’s nearby where they can shop. However, often times they buy conventionally grown food because there simply isn’t enough money in the budget for the extra cost of organic. They know, of course, that in the long run, organic is better for the planet and for their health. But in the short run, bills must paid, the children need new sneakers, and the washing machine just broke and has to be replaced. There are a lot of people in this category, including Clif and me.

Finally, there are the people at the bottom—those who earn extremely low wages, those who are disabled, seniors living solely on Social Security, students, and those who have lost their jobs. Often they receive food stamps and rely on food pantries and soup kitchens to help them get through the month. Organic and local are seldom considerations for them. Just getting food on the table is enough of a challenge, never mind where it comes from or how it was grown. Unfortunately, there are far too many people in this category, and their numbers are growing.

I have lived long enough in Maine to have seen many food trends, from the days of casseroles made with cream of mushroom soup to quiche to granola to the advent of vegetarianism. But I have never seen such a fevered interest in food that corresponds with the huge gap between what those at the top eat and what those at the bottom eat. I suppose it should come as no surprise. As inequality becomes more pronounced in this country, it manifests itself in many ways, not the least in what we eat or how we regard food.

Tonight, President Obama will be giving his State of the Union Address. Political pundits are predicting that the president will talk about inequality and how bad it is for this country. This is all very well and good, but talk is cheap. Will action follow? Will this large ocean liner of a country at least veer in the right direction?

I remain hopeful, but I am not overly optimistic. To continue with the ocean-liner analogy—there are many, many icebergs in the water, just waiting for that ship.

Time was, not that long ago, when Clif and I ate out on a regular basis. During the week, I cooked dinner, but on the weekends we would eat out at least twice and sometimes more. We did this for a variety of reasons. As a food writer, I liked to check out various restaurants, and even though we limited our culinary adventures to an hour or so from Winthrop, Portland was included in our food travels. We would eat out socially, with friends and family. Finally, we ate out for the sheer fun of it.

But then the Great Recession happened. The salary went down, and the cost of food and fuel went up. Suddenly, it seemed that lunch prices had jumped to dinner prices, and dinner prices had correspondingly increased. In Maine, before the Great Recession, lunch was always well under $10, even in decent restaurants. Now, $12 and $15 are the norm. This means that lunch, including a soft drink and a tip, can easily come to a third and sometimes even half of our weekly grocery budget. (I do realize that fast-food restaurants such as McDonald’s or Burger King are significantly cheaper, but the food is of such poor quality that it still feels like a waste of money to eat at one of those chains.)

So we had to ask ourselves, is the price of going out to eat worth it? With some reluctance—we did enjoy eating out—we had to concluded it was not worth the money to eat in restaurants, and we have cut way, way back. While I am not a great chef, I am a decent home cook, and the meals I prepare are tasty, nutritious, and much, much less expensive than even lunch at a restaurant. Pasta dishes, soup, bean dishes, chicken in a Crock-Pot—I vary our meals so that in any given month there aren’t many repeats.

Nowadays, when I cook, I always plan on having leftovers, which means I only actually cook a few meals each week. (Thanks, Shari Burke, for encouraging this!) This week, for example, I had leftover cranberry chutney from a potluck at the home of our friends Margy and Steve. On Sunday, I put four large chicken breasts in a Crock-Pot, smeared the leftover chutney on the chicken, and let it all cook on high for about four hours. I served this with rice and corn, and there was plenty of leftover chicken and a tangy sauce from the drippings and chutney. The next night, we had wraps using the rice, some of the chicken, and the sauce. Still, there was enough for another meal, but on the third day, for variation, I made a pasta dish with broccoli, garlic, oregano, red peppers, chicken sausage, and a lovely lemon olive oil. Naturally, I made enough of the pasta dish for leftovers.

Occasionally, perhaps twice a month, we still do eat out. Most of the time it is when we meet friends, and we keep it inexpensive by going to a pizza place or to a Mexican restaurant, where we reluctantly pass on the Margaritas.

Would we eat out more if our budget suddenly increased? Perhaps a little, but only once a week because there is one other very good reason to eat mostly at home—the health benefits of home-cooked meals. From portion size to ingredients to the amount of salt I use, very few restaurants can match, health wise, what I cook from scratch.

So from now on, at home we will mostly eat, regardless of our salary.

Today in the New York Times, I read a piece by Mark Bittman in which he wrote about the correlation between money and food. “With a lack of money comes either not enough food or so-called empty calories, calories that put on pounds but do not nourish.” No argument there. Healthy food does indeed cost more than junk food, and if the intent is to buy as many calories as possible when the budget is tight, then that huge bag of store-brand potato chips certainly fits the bill.

The fact that good, healthy food is so abundant in the United States makes the situation even worse. Bittman continues, “In fact, it’s hard to imagine having a food supply as abundant as ours and doing a worse job with it.” Again, no argument. The United States is the land of plenty. Why should good food be out of reach for so many people?

In his piece, Bittman also writes about social justice, the marketing of junk food, and the lack of emphasis on food education. Bittman concludes that what this country needs is a national food and health policy, “one that sets goals first for healthful eating and only then determines how best to produce the food that will allow us to meet those goals.”

As I read Bittman’s article, two questions came to mind. The first, which I have written about in other posts, is this: Why was obesity the exception rather than the rule when I was growing up in the 1960s? I realize that my neighborhood in North Vassalboro can hardly be considered a broad sample of the times, but there was only one obese family on the road where I lived. Most everyone else was in pretty good shape. And here’s the thing: While gardens and home-cooked meals were the norm, we did not hold back with salty snacks and sweets. As I noted in a previous post, we ate sugary food with a gusto that would have made Shakespeare’s Falstaff proud.

We did play outside a lot—children, all the time, and adults when their work allowed. Could this be the difference? Could eating out also be a factor? Families today eat out much more than they did when I was child. Perhaps today’s families really do take in more calories than families did in the 1960s, despite the abundance of  salty snacks and sugary sweets available to us back then.

Anyway, I don’t have an answer to this one. Only the question.

The second question is even more complicated than the first and needs a bit of a backstory. We evolved on the savannahs of Africa where salt, sugar, and fat were very hard to come by. Therefore, it is no surprise that we have also evolved to crave salt, sugar, and fat. But the problem is that we no longer live on the savannahs. To borrow from another writer—I can’t remember her name—we now live in Candy Land where there are many, many temptations.

And this not just a problem in the United States. As wealth increases in countries such as China and India, so does obesity. Overeating is a human problem, not a Western problem. So how do we combat that? How do we overcome our natural tendency to gorge on fats and sweets? (For myself, I have developed a regimen where I eat healthy, low-calorie foods six days a week and splurge on the seventh. This approach helps, and I am more or less maintaining a healthy weight. )

Even though I don’t really have any answers, I feel as though these two questions must be asked: Why wasn’t obesity such a problem in the 1960s, and how can we deal with the natural tendency to gorge on salt and sweets?

And just for fun, we can throw in a third question: How does money and status affect obesity?

If we can address those questions, then we will go a long way toward addressing the problem of obesity.

Recently in the Portland Press Herald, there was an excellent piece about Jim and Nancy Pike, two Maine senior citizens who are struggling to stay afloat on their social security benefits, which come to about $15,000 a year. Normally, I would feature this on Friday, the day I reserve for posting interesting links, but the couple’s story was so compelling, so much a sign of our times, that I thought it deserved a post all on its own.

According to Gillian Graham’s article, Jim and Nancy Pike, who are 65 and 77 respectively, have worked hard at various jobs. She had a child daycare in her home for 30 years. He cut wood, took care of other people’s properties, and drove a truck for Meals on Wheels. They grew their own vegetables, cooked their own meals, made their own bread, and raised a big family. Nancy “worked until she was 59 and was forced to stop after she was diagnosed with congestive heart failure.” Jim’s last job was as a handyman at a motel, and between what he earned and what Nancy received from Social Security, they were able to make ends meet. But then Jim had a heart attack and a stroke, and he was unable to work.

So now they have joined the ranks of food insecure seniors. As Nancy puts it in the article, “We’re broke before the end of the month.” Because the Pikes are at the poverty line, they do qualify for $66 a month in food stamps and are eligible for other programs, including the Commodity Supplemental Food Program for low-income seniors. (The latter is a federal program.) The Pikes also go to their local food pantry. She clips coupons, they shop the sales, and they don’t buy processed food. They get by, but just barely.

Naturally, my heart goes out to the Pikes, who must live on such a small amount of money. But what really floors me is the cuts Congress made in the Commodity Supplemental Food Program for low-income seniors. (Fortunately, the Pikes are still enrolled in this program.) In 2013, the program was reduced by nearly $5.2 million. This meant that 35 Mainers had to be cut from the program, and the year before 60 people were cut. Not surprisingly, there is a waiting list of 1,200 for this program.

How can Congress cut programs such as this? How can they justify reducing benefits to poor elders who are no longer able to work for a living? I would love to hear the explanations. On second thought, maybe I wouldn’t. Maybe it would be such a load of bull that it would be hard to take.

One of the richest countries in the world can’t afford to support seniors who can no longer work? Really?

I don’t believe it. As the late, writer Tony Judt observed, “Ill Fares the Land.”

Yesterday, we had a little snow storm. We got several inches of light, fluffy snow, enough to make the roads slippery and enough to make the woods and the yard pretty. Soon the dog and I will head outside so that I can finish with the clean-up. (Clif got up early and used Little Green to clean most of the drive way.) If this were March, I wouldn’t bother with so little snow. But this is December, and much more snow is likely to come, which means keeping up with the snow is very important.

The countdown to Christmas has begun. We are 10 days away, and I have devised a cooking schedule for myself. Some things, like squash bread and the chocolate ice-cream pie made with homemade ice cream can be made ahead of time and frozen. The same is true for wheat bread, and I always like to have a few loaves stashed in the small chest freezer in the cellar. French toast is ever so much better with homemade bread, and the same is true for grilled cheese sandwiches.

Other things—cookies, peanut butter balls, and hand-dipped chocolate covered pretzels are best fresh. From Sunday, December 22 to Tuesday, December 24, we will be cooking fools at the little house in the big woods. Fortunately, Clif will be able to help me this year. Last Christmas, he had broken his arm, and all he could do was roll peanut butter balls. This year, he’s not only going to roll peanut butter balls, but he’s going to dip the suckers as well.

Next week, I’ll be making lots of gingersnaps from a recipe of my mother’s, and these cookies are good keepers. They can be made several days ahead of time, very helpful this time of year. I plan to give colorful bags filled with gingersnaps to various “elves” who make this town a better place.

This morning, I read a blog where the writer made a case for not celebrating Christmas or buying a presents. He is not a Christian, and he is put off by the commercialization of the holiday. The writer has a point. Christmas has become commercialized, and with all the cooking and cleaning and getting ready, it is also a lot of bother.

But I don’t care. I love Christmas anyway. I love the bother and the presents and the decorating and the cooking. I love celebrations in general—birthdays, baby showers, anniversaries, whatever—and it seems to me that this country could use more celebrations and less nose to the grindstone. It feels as though there is too much drudgery and not enough fun in the United States. Work, work, work for too little pay. No maternity leave. Very little vacation. You actually want a day off? Bah, humbug!

As always, explanations are in order. I come from an ethnic group—Franco-Americans—that places a high, high value on hard work and cleanliness. In the past, Franco-Americans were all too often accused of being stupid, but nobody ever  accused them of being lazy or dirty. Whether it was in the factory or at home, Francos were (and still are!) organized and energetic.

But, boy did Francos know how to have a good time. (And still do!) On Christmas Eve, my mother’s family would go to midnight mass, come home, have tourtière pie, unwrap presents, and party until dawn. Now that’s what I call celebrating.

So give me Christmas and birthdays and all the other celebrations that give sparkle to life. There are plenty of days left to work hard.

Correction: My daughter Shannon quite rightly pointed out that there are 15 days until Christmas. What a good thing it would be if I could count correctly 😉

A rainy day in the neighborhood, and outside it looks like dreary March rather than crisp December. Never mind! At least there aren’t power outages and freezing rain, and for that I am grateful. At Chickadee Place—my new “old” name for this house—it is no fun when the power goes out. We have a well, which means no water when there is no power, and we have to use buckets of water to flush the toilets. Since our house nestles in the woods—so cool and pleasant in the summer—we don’t get much natural light, and without power, the house is dark. And, we have an electric stove. So although I always am prepared for power outages—big buckets of water in our cellar, a gas camp stove, oil for lamps, a wood furnace—I never look forward to them.

A busy weekend coming up. On Saturday, there will be the town’s Christmas parade, and the library is actually going to have a float this year. The theme of the float will be books, of course, and I am looking forward to seeing it. After the parade, a bunch of us are gathering at Margy and Steve Knight’s house, where we will come together for one of their fabulous potlucks. Margy and Steve have such a warm, welcoming home, and it’s always such a pleasure to go to one of their potlucks. I will be making a ginger-carrot soup, and I’m also going to try to slide in some homemade bread. No sleeping late tomorrow.

On Sunday, I’m meeting my friends Susan and Joan for brunch in Portland at Petite Jacqueline. We’ll be celebrating not only the holidays and our friendship but also Joan’s birthday. After that, I’ll meet my daughter Shannon for tea and then we’ll meander to the Portland Flea Market. Somewhere amidst all the fun will be a trip to Trader Joe’s to stock up on supplies for the holiday.

Despite all the folderol and frivolity of the season, I have been thinking about more serious matters. Striking fast-food workers have been much in the news lately, and even though I seldom go to fast-food places, my sympathies are squarely with the workers. (No surprise there. I come from a long line of blue-collar Democrats. Where else would my sympathies be?) Working people deserve decent wages, and nowadays, it is impossible to live on $8 (or even less) an hour without government subsidies. Through our taxes, we citizens are helping these workers, and, in effect, subsidizing the fast-food restaurants. As a progressive, I am all for helping workers and society, but do those fast-food restaurants, which make billions of dollars in profits each year, really need my tax-dollar assistance for their workers? I don’t think so.

The same is true for most retail jobs. Wal-Mart is the symbol for all that is big and greedy, and they deserve it. However, they are not alone in their Scrooge-like behavior, and it is the rare job in retail that pays a decent wage. (Even $11 or $12 an hour is not really enough to live comfortably.) Unfortunately, this is also the case for small businesses as well, even when they are making a good profit. (I know this from personal experience.)

Therefore, as we move into this season of Peace on Earth and Goodwill to All, my thoughts are with all the exploited people, not only in this country but also in the world—people who work too hard for too little; people who make it possible for us to buy cheap stuff and to eat cheap food; people who deserve better than what they get but are under the thumb of such an oppressive economic system that their prospects are bleak.

There are glimmers of change. Workers in this country are starting to protest, as well they should. And we should be in solidarity with them.

These glimmers of change give me hope. After all, a great man who just died spent 27 years of his life in prison. He lived in a wicked, wicked regime. Finally he was released and eventually went on to become president of his country.

If Nelson Mandela could achieve the nearly impossible, then our country should be able to come up with a fair and decent economic system for its workers. All of them. Not just those at the top.

This morning, I woke up to find a light layer of snow on the ground. Time to get the last of the wood stacked. Time to bring in the the fire pit. Everything else is pretty much done, which means that Clif and I can hunker down and get ready for the holidays.

As it is only two days away, Thanksgiving, of course, is utmost on my mind. Today is a day of preparation—baking the squash for squash bread, cooking the green beans for the green bean casserole, and cleaning the house. Tomorrow, I will make squash bread as well as green bean casserole, and I also hope to make yeast rolls. We’ll see. I broke down and bought store-bought bread for the stuffing. We all love stuffing, and I’ll be making a double batch, one to go in the turkey and one in a casserole dish. I have leftover stock from the gravy, and I’ll use that stock for the casserole stuffing, which is never as tasty as the one that goes in the turkey, but it will be good nonetheless.

Nowadays, it has become fashionable, on Facebook and elsewhere, to give thanks for the many good things in life. I happen to think that counting one’s blessings is a fine idea, good spiritual practice, if you will. This does not mean ignoring the painful or the negative. Far from it. However, most of us dwell quite enough on the negative parts of life. We need no reminders to count our misfortunes.

So I am going to follow suit and give thanks for a lesson my Franco-American parents taught me, a lesson about poverty and respect, two words that are so far apart in today’s society that there seems little hope in bringing them together.

Both of my parents grew up in very poor families. My mother lived with her mother and grandmother in a tiny apartment whose floors were so cold in the winter that they all had to wear their boots to stay warm. As there was only one bedroom—for her mother and grandmother—my mother had to sleep in the hall.

My father lived with both his parents, but money was still tight. He went to school with patches on his clothes and nearly died when his appendix ruptured because his parents didn’t have health insurance. (Thank God for the family doctor who demanded that my father be admitted and treated in the hospital, despite the lack of insurance. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be writing this today.)

Neither of my parents starved, but neither of them had quite as much to eat as they would have liked, and they often weren’t able to have exactly what they wanted. For my father, store-bought whoopie pies were an unaffordable treat that he longed for. My mother often commented on how my grandmother could put together a meal when the cupboards seemed bare.

Both my maternal grandmother and my paternal grandfather worked in a factory, but this was before the days of strong unions and decent pay. My grandparents worked hard, but they were still poor, and the lesson my parents taught me was this: people, through no fault of their own, could indeed work hard and still be poor. My parents felt strongly that those who lived in poverty did not deserve our scorn. On the contrary, they deserved our respect, and in our house, we never looked down on people because they were poor. Never. (Laziness and lack of cleanliness were another matter, but my parents did not associate these traits with poverty.)

As Thanksgiving approaches, I give thanks that my parents taught me to respect those who are poor, to understand that hard work, cleanliness, and poverty are not incompatible. It is a lesson I wish the rest of the country would take to heart.