Yesterday, when I took my dog, Liam, for a walk, the weather was so warm I could hardly believe it. A quick look at the thermometer told me that I should wear fleece rather than wool and that no hat would be necessary.

Not far from our house, the little swamp is still iced-up, and recently a neighborhood boy threw big rocks onto the ice, where the stones sit like sentinels, waiting to be submerged by the spring melt. On the sides of the road, the snow has pulled back so much that not only are the shoulders bare, but the ditches are free of snow as well.

Up the road we went. Finches frisked in the big forsythia bush by the Stebbins’s house. A bird feeder has been placed strategically close to the bush so that between beak-fulls, the birds can dart to safety should they need to do so. As we turned on to the Holmes Road, I thought about maple syrup and Mike’s Sugar House, which is just down the road. Mike should be boiling pretty soon, and I decided the sugar house could be no more than 2 miles from our home.

“We could walk to the sugar house,” I said to the dog, and he gave me his usual perky look. “We will walk to the sugar house when the sap is boiling,” I decided. On the weekends during maple syrup season, the dirt road leading to the sugar house is so clogged with customers’ cars that it’s hard to find a place to park. Walking would be much easier, we would get exercise, and it would be a low-carbon method of transportation. Three pluses. And if I brought one of my trusty backpacks, then carrying the syrup home would be easy.

But yesterday, Liam and I went for our usual walk of a mile or so down the Holmes Road, after which we turned around. By then I was so warm that I stuffed my mittens in my pocket and tied my fleece jacket around my waist. When have I ever done this in February? Never, in my memory.

As we approached the end of the road, I saw Jeff pull his van into the driveway of his house. Jeff is a trim, energetic man, who, as it turns out, is the homemaker of the family. Jumping out of the van, he waved, and his children bounded after him.

“Hello!” I called.

“Hi, there!” he called back. “Do you think I can make meat balls in 60 minutes?”

“Have you ever made this recipe?”

“No.”

“Well, you better get cracking, then.”

Jeff laughed. “These meatballs have both mozzarella and Parmesan cheese in them.”

“Sounds great! Good luck.”

Jeff and his children sped into the house, and the dog and I rounded the corner onto Narrows Pond Road. I was thinking of meat balls and stir-fries using maple syrup.

By the time I reached home, I was definitely ready for my tea and my late afternoon snack of a small bowl of pretzels and an orange. The dog, of course, had hoped for a better snack, but he resigned himself to the pretzels and orange and lay beside me on the couch.

There are two places in Maine that my husband, Clif, especially loves—Acadia National Park, which is a bit too far for a comfortable day trip, and Wolfe’s Neck Woods State Park in Freeport, which is within easy driving distance of Winthrop. Given that the weather is nice, Wolfe’s Neck is where Clif always wants to go for a Father’s Day outing. This year, the weather was splendid, and to Freeport we went.

Unfortunately, our son-in-law, Mike, had to work that day, but our daughter Shannon was free, and she joined us for a picnic and a hike at Wolfe’s Neck. Also, the park allows dogs, which meant we were able to bring Liam. For his special meal, Clif requested potato salad and chicken, and Shannon brought cold, baked chicken that had a spicy rub. I made the “best-ever” potato salad, and the two went together perfectly. (I would have liked some fruit or a green salad to go with the picnic, but Clif was the one who chose the meal, and chicken and potato salad were all that he wanted.)

After we picnicked, we went for a hike on some of the trails. As the park’s brochure puts it, the trails go through “a wooded peninsula, the ‘neck’ of land between the Harraseeket River and Casco Bay.” So there is water and woods, and on the day we went, the last of the lady slippers were still in bloom. I especially love these delicate, elegant flowers, and I was sorry that they were nearly gone by. Still, it was good to see even a few of the late bloomers, and the woods must have been speckled with pink a week or so ago.

Now, we have hiked in Wolfe’s Neck for many years. Usually we start with the trail that goes along Casco Bay, where we can see the island with the Osprey nest. From there we follow a loop that takes us by the Harraseeket River and then inland back to the parking lot. The terrain is a little rough and steep, and although it is slow going for me because of my arthritic knees, the hike is one I can handle.

For some reason, we didn’t start at the osprey nest, the way we usually do, and later, we couldn’t figure out if we got turned around or if the trails had been changed because of winter blow downs. Whatever the case, the forest seemed to hold us in its grip, and we marched in what felt like an endless circle. For nearly three hours, up and down we went, over rocks and roots. My knees, my feet, and one of my hips really hurt, but we couldn’t find our way out. A young woman, blonde, pretty, and fit, passed us many times. A golden retriever accompanied her, and each time the woman whizzed by us, she made a perky acknowledgment.

“Humph,” I said to myself, as bright and cheery, she passed us yet again. “I bet she’s doing this for fun and exercise while we trudge on, unable to find our way out.” I’m ashamed to admit this, but I found myself resenting her buoyant energy.

Finally we found our way back to the parking lot, where cold water waited for us in the car. As luck would have it, we passed by the perky blonde’s car, just as she and her dog were getting into it. “Phew!” She called out. “I didn’t think I was ever going to get out of those woods.”

So she was lost, too. My resentment instantly vanished, and although my knees and feet were sore, I laughed right along with Shannon and Clif.

Then off we went, to Shaw’s Supermarket for strawberry Popsicles. With the windows rolled down, we ate them in the car in the parking lot, and those Popsicles certainly tasted good. Liam got the last bits on our sticks, and it seemed as though he thought they tasted good, too.

All in all, a fine day, even though we got a little lost in the woods.

On Saturday, I went to my friend Esther’s house for lunch. She wouldn’t tell me what she was serving. “It’s a surprise,” she wrote by email early last week.

A surprise! All week long I wondered what the surprise would be. The fish dish for which she is so famous? (Pieces of fried haddock smothered with a cheese sauce.) Sounded very good to me, and I was all set for the fish dish. My only concern was that I would go overboard, the way I so often do, and eat too much. Alas, the pitfalls of being a good eater.

But Esther didn’t serve me her fish dish. Instead, she had prepared lobster salad, a huge glorious bowl full, and the lobster was mixed with a little bit of celery and just enough mayonnaise to hold it together. In other words, exactly the way lobster salad should be made. Now, I love all kinds of fish and seafood, but I must admit that lobster is right at the top. Maybe at the very top.

“It’s a little chilly for lobster salad,” Esther said somewhat apologetically when I arrived, and indeed it was a cool June day, albeit a sunny, clear one.

“It is never too chilly for lobster salad,” I said firmly. “It could be a frigid January day, and lobster salad would be just right.”

Besides, Esther’s cozy kitchen was sunny and warm—the way it always is—and with its large wood table and old chairs, her kitchen is one of the places I love best. All around are pictures of her children and grandchildren, and Esther has decorated with lots of miniature kitchen things—little teapots, little cups, a little sifter. “I love small things,” she said.

We started out with cheese, crackers, wine, and some Mediterranean nibbles. Then came the lobster salad, a huge scoop on a salad of mixed greens, tomatoes, and cucumbers. I don’t think I have ever had so much lobster salad at one time.

“Do you want dressing for the salad?” Esther asked.

“No, thank you,” I replied, not wanting anything to interfere with the taste of the lobster. Simply put, I don’t have lobster enough to be complacent about it.

“Did you buy the lobster meat?” I asked dreamily as I ate.

“No, no,” Esther answered. “I got the lobsters and shelled them myself.

That’s the best way of doing it, but also the messiest. Still, the results are worth it—you get more meat for your bucks.

We had our usual good chat, and I caught up on all things Vassalboro, the town where I grew up and where Esther lives. After lunch, we walked around Esther’s yard so that I could admire her flowers. Admire them I did, as well as take a few pictures. I am as crazy about flowers as I am about food.

For our grand finale, we went to Fashions, a consignment shop in Waterville. I get many of my clothes at Fashions, gently used clothes at prices that can’t be beat. Plus, as I tell myself, when I buy clothes from Fashions, I am doing my bit to recycle and save these clothes from going into the landfill. (As I’ve noted before, how we love to justify.) As usual, I found clothes that I wanted, and I bought a top and some slacks for the princely sum of $15.

All in all, a lovely day with a lovely person.