We are more than half-way through June, and what a lovely June it has been so far. Enough rain to keep the plants happy, and enough sun to keep the humans happy. I just love this time of year, when night doesn’t come until 9:00, leaving plenty of time for drinks—usually iced tea—on the patio and bike rides when my husband, Clif, comes home from work.

It has become warm enough so that the windows can stay open, night and day, and the air at the little house in the big woods is so sweet, so clean. This time of year, when I am in the backyard,  I often stop just to smell the forest with its ferns and trees. It smells green, it smells like life. Too bad I can’t bottle and sell that aroma. People would be clammoring to buy it, and Clif and I would have a very comfortable retirement.

We are heading toward the summer solstice, a bittersweet time when the day is at its longest and loveliest. However, on Sunday, June 22, slowly, slowly it starts going the other way until the dark presses in at 4:00 p.m. Well, no point in thinking about that now.

Saturday, June 21 is also the anniversary of my mother’s birthday. She would have been 78, and I always think how wonderful it was for her to have a birthday on the summer solstice. (I also think of how often we had to have her birthday celebrations inside as June is often a rainy month in Maine, and our plans for a barbecue were inevitably foiled by the weather.)

This weekend is filled with summer solstice plans. On Friday, our friends Jim and Dawna are coming over for grilled bread and salads and parfaits made with homemade ice cream.

“Keep it simple,” Dawna told me, as she tells me every year. Usually, not only do I serve grilled bread and salad but also chicken and either rice or pasta to go with it.

“We don’t need that much food,” she said.

“Especially at our age,” I agreed.

So this year I am following her advice. We will be having simple appetizers—tortilla chips and a homemade dip made with salsa and sour cream and, of course, the bread and salads and dessert.

“Would you like me to bring over fixings for margaritas?” Dawna asked.

Would I ever! Dawna’s homemade margaritas are the best I’ve ever tasted. The weather is supposed to be good tomorrow, and it looks as though we’ll be able to enjoy our margaritas on the patio.

On Saturday, our friend Diane invited us to a potluck, so to Brunswick we will go. I plan on bringing a pasta and spinach salad, made with Farmer Kev’s spinach. I’m also going to bring cinnamon pie knots, a favorite of Diane’s.

What a lovely way to begin summer.

The time has come to say farewell to A Good Eater. It makes me a little sad to do so as I have enjoyed writing for A Good Eater for 5 years. However, I am no longer doing what I set out to do when I began this blog—write about food in Maine from many different angles, from home cooking to eating in restaurants to visiting stores that feature local food to interviewing farmers. In other words, the Maine food scene.

Initially, I started out doing exactly what I had intended with A Good Eater. Clif and I traveled around the state, we ate, I cooked, I wrote. But then the Great Recession happened and with it came an increase in the cost of both food and fuel. Clif and I were affected in other ways, as many families were, and we had to adjust to living on a tighter budget. This meant staying closer to home—central Maine—and eating out only very occasionally. (I have watched with a kind of fascinated horror as the price of lunch has gone from, say, $6 to well over $10 and sometimes as much as $15. Dinner prices have become lunch prices.)

When it become clear that we could no longer travel around the state and sample food from various places—I must admit I loved doing this—I decided to focus on home cooking. After all, I cook supper nearly every single night. Supper at our house is not fancy, but it is tasty and nutritious, and it is almost always made from scratch. (Full disclosure: I do use Bertolli jarred sauce—tomato and basil.) In addition, I make bread, biscuits, muffins, and other baked goods.

For several years, I wrote about home cooking, coming up with new recipes at least once a week. However, I am more a generalist than a specialist, and as the years went by, I wanted to write about other things, too—community, people, living in place, social concerns, the environment. Slowly, almost stealthily, I began weaving these topics into A Good Eater, and I called them “digressions.”

Then one day not long ago I realized the digressions had pretty much taken over A Good Eater. Around the same time, I read a terrific book of nature essays—Field Notes from a Hidden City—by Esther Woolfson, who lives in Aberdeen, Scotland. Her clear, lovely prose and her keen observations about animals and plants made me realize how much I wanted to write nature essays, too. I have always been interested in the natural world, and for me a happy afternoon is sitting on the patio and observing all the fluttering and buzzing around me. I love watching the seasons change and with it the coming and going of leaves and flowers. Over and over it happens, but it never grows stale or old for me. When it comes to nature, I always have a “beginner’s mind.”

Clearly, it was time to go in a different direction with blog writing, and I knew exactly what I wanted for a new name. It would be Notes from the Hinterland, the title of a column I wrote for Wolf Moon Journal, the magazine Clif and I published for 7 years. Notes from the Hinterland is a broad enough title to allow me to write about whatever I please—nature, community, people, social concerns, and, yes, even food. There is no reason why I can’t still post recipes when inspiration strikes. After all, when you live in Maine, you live in the hinterlands, and anything that happens around you is fair game.

For long-time readers, nothing much will change except the title of this blog. Both http://www.agoodeater.com and http://www.notesfromthehinterland.com will take you to the same place: to Notes from the Hinterland (the blog formerly known as A Good Eater). I expect I will have to change things on Facebook, but I won’t be doing that for at least a week or two. Also, the blog itself might look a little different until everything is worked out.

So I bid a fond and sad farewell to A Good Eater. Not only has it been a good run, but I will always be a good eater. Now, onward to Notes from the Hinterland!

Last weekend, Clif and I dog-sitted Holly while Shannon went to New York to visit Dee, and Mike worked overtime at his job. We got lucky with the weather, which was warm and splendid. Halleluiah, summer and warm weather! This meant we could spend plenty of time outside, and a good thing, too. Holly is only a year and a half, and she has lots—I repeat—lots of energy. Especially first thing in the morning, which for various reasons, is not my best time.

Still, we did all right. There were walks and kick the ball. There was time spent racing madly around the yard—Holly—while I did some gardening. At 9, our Liam is still lively, but he is an older dog. His days of boundless energy—days I remember well—are behind him. But from time to time he would roust himself to play tag with Holly, and it was fun to watch.

On Saturday or Sunday—I don’t remember which day—Clif and the dogs needed a little nap to revive themselves.

While they were napping, I was able to sit on the patio and watch the buzzing life in the backyard. Dozens of small bugs glittered in the sun as they did a flying dance. Someone with a fanciful mind might have noted they looked like flitting fairies. I wondered, what kind of bugs are they?

As I watched, a dragonfly swooped among the dancing bugs, caught one, and landed on the umbrella under which I was sitting. I could see the dragonfly’s silhouette through the pale tan umbrella, and I watched as he—she?—ate the struggling bug. It took a while before all the parts were chewed and swallowed. Unfortunately, the dragonfly flew away before it occurred to me to snap a picture. I guess that’s what comes of observing intently. There are no thoughts of doing, only of looking.

In between observing, I read some of Mary Oliver’s Long Life, a collection of essays and poems about nature and literature and living in place. Oliver, I think, is a kindred spirit. She writes, “People say to me: wouldn’t you like to see Yosemite. The Bay of Fundy?…I smile and answer, ‘Oh yes—sometime,’ and go off to my woods, my ponds, my sun-filled harbor, no more than a blue comma on the map of the world but, to me, the emblem of everything. It is the intimate, never the general, that is teacherly.”

I concur. As for me, I have my backyard—so full of life—the woods, the sparkling Narrows, the rides along broad Lake Marancook, the library. Everything is here within a five-mile range, I thought.

In the meantime my husband slept, with one dog beside him on the couch and the other beside him on the floor.

This is the kind of rainy day I like: The clouds went away to be replaced by blue sky and sun. While I do understand that rain is necessary, in Maine this is not usually a problem. In fact, just the opposite. Once it starts raining, it doesn’t have enough sense to stop. After the third or fourth day of rain, it gets a little old, especially this time of year when there is much to do outside.

I was so encouraged by the blue sky that in a burst of optimism I even put in a load of laundry to be hung on the line. After my morning writing, I’ll be heading outside to work in the gardens. Who knows? I might even get to have lunch on the patio.

Here are some more pictures from the backyard:

Ah, the lovely month of May.

This afternoon, I spent a couple of hours making a double batch of gingersnaps for the Charles M. Bailey Public Library’s Kick-Off Celebration for the new expansion. The Kick-Off will be held tomorrow, Thursday, May 15 at 5:30 p.m. at the library on Bowdoin St. Those of us on the expansion team are hoping we’ll get a good turnout for this event.

For those who come, there will be plenty of homemade treats as well as a chance to talk to members on the campaign team and to maybe, maybe make a donation to this very worthy cause.

Initially, at the beginning of the week, rain was forecasted for Thursday, but as I write, the weather report looks pretty darned good for tomorrow.

I am going to take this as an auspicious sign.

Although everything is late, spring has finally come to Maine. The hermit thrushes are back with their pan-pipe songs. Yesterday, I saw a hummingbird—time to put up the lovely red feeder Clif bought me for Christmas. It’s been sunny and warm enough for lunch on the patio, and mild enough, even, for an hour on the patio when Clif comes home from work. Best of all, the black flies, the scourge of the north, have yet to rear their ugly little heads. Dare I hope that this will be a sparse spring for black flies? I sure do!

In the garden, in the woods, by the road, flowers are blooming, and plants are unfurling. Here are a few pictures I recently took:

Such a busy time of year. For the next few weeks I will be digging, planting, and, in general, grubbing in the yard. There is also a lot going at our library, with the expansion entering its public phase. (I’m a trustee and a volunteer.) There will be a kick-off celebration next week, and—surprise, surprise—I was the one to organize the food.

Busy or not, I’m still cooking dinner every night, of course. Clif and I hardly ever eat out, and I even have a recipe to share—chickpea cutlets—and another to experiment with—chili made with black bean “meat balls.” But these recipes will have to wait for either a rainy day or June.

In the meantime, here is a picture of the chickpea cutlets, adapted from a Mark Bittman recipe. My, my, they were tasty, if I do say so myself. A definite make-again dish.

This Sunday is Mother’s Day, and at the little house in the big woods, there will be a waffle brunch, complete with home fries, fruit salad, and an egg dish. I’m told there will even be chocolate cupcakes for dessert.

Happy spring and Happy Mother’s Day to all!

Spring in Maine continues to be cold and gray. I am still wearing my winter garb—turtle neck, sweater, big corduroy shirt—and that is inside the house. Outside, I am even more bundled up.

Despite the recalcitrant weather, the grass is turning a bright green, and undeterred by cold, the perennials in my garden are bravely emerging from their winter sleep. However, I’ve heard that many farmers are behind in planting peas. The soil is just too cold for seeds to germinate.

But right on schedule, the maple flowers have started falling from the trees. Although May brings many delights that are much showier than this delicate flower, I’ll miss the cheerful red fringe on the maple trees in my backyard.

Until I took a picture of a maple flower and then cropped the photo, I had never really examined this little flower. I had never noticed the wave of stamens, the burst of petals, the lighter center. Instead, I had seen them the way an impressionist painter might, a welcome dab of red in a landscape just beginning to show color.

The maple flower is a reminder for me to slow down, to look closely at what surrounds me. All too often I rush through my days, checking off one chore after another: Vacuum, make bread, tidy the kitchen, work in the garden, do laundry, write, type the minutes for the last library trustee meeting, bike to the food pantry to volunteer. Chores certainly need to be done, but there must be some kind of balance between doing and looking. Listening and smelling should also be added to looking. Perhaps a better word would be noticing. Or observing.

After all, what kind of life do we have if we are so busy doing that we never take the time to notice, to observe?  Whether you live in a suburb, in a city, or in the countryside, there is always something to notice—the changing of seasons; nature, even in cities; the weather; sun and rain and clouds and sky; other people; buildings; animals. There is so much to observe, wherever you are.

Best of all, you don’t have to have a lot of money to observe closely. This is something the greedy financiers, who have grabbed and ruined so much, cannot take away from us. Despite how much actual money you might or might not have, a life spent observing, looking, and noticing is a rich one.

I’m thinking it might be time to buy a magnifying glass, so that I can look even more closely at the little marvels all around me.

In our family, whenever there is a special event, the tradition is to cook a special meal. We all love to celebrate with food—no surprise there—and by cooking at home, we can have something especially tasty yet still be frugal. Our anniversary was last month, but because of the various schedules, Shannon and Mike couldn’t get together with us until yesterday.

We had planned to go to Shannon and Mike’s home in South Portland, but for our anniversary they bought us a special gift—a new rug for our living room—that needed to be transported in their larger car. Our little Honda Fit can hold quite a bit, but there was no way it could haul that rug along with a driver, one passenger, and a dog.

Now, Clif and I are a very thrifty couple. When we buy something, either new or second hand, we squeeze every bit of use out of that item. So it was with our living room rug, which we bought thirty years ago at Sears. I loved that red rug with its oriental design, and it was incredibly sturdy, withstanding kids, pets, and lots of company over the years. But all things have a lifespan, and so it was with this rug, which had become frayed, worn, and thin in many spots.

On Saturday, we rolled up the rug and brought it to the transfer station, and it was a bittersweet moment. I was sorry to see this old friend go, but I have to admit I was excited to be getting a new rug. (So excited that I forgot about a special dessert Shannon was bringing. Very uncharacteristic of me, and more about this later.) When you don’t get many new things, you really appreciate it when you do. And that’s the way it way should be. Between mindless consumerism and the life of of a monk there is a balance.

The new rug—shades of tan with a dark, almost Celtic border—looks oh so nice in our living room. Today, Clif and I have periodically taken a break from our work to admire it. We will have this rug for many, many years, and if it wears as well as the previous rug, it could possibly be our last living room rug. (Funny to think that way, but Clif and I have reached an age where this might be the case.)

For our anniversary meal, Shannon prepared one of the the dishes I love best—Cornish hens with a lemon, herb, and butter mixture tucked under the skin. The hens were moist and flavorful and because they were small, all of the meat was suffused with the herb butter mixture. We had baked potatoes, corn, and sour dough bread to accompany the hens.

Then there was dessert, which Shannon bought from Little Bigs in South Portland. The pastries are called CDs, short for “Cease and Desist,” and they are fried croissants dusted with cinnamon and sugar and cut into squares. The CDs have a hole, and they bear a striking resemblance to an insanely popular New York dessert that apparently must not be named. Hence “Cease and Desist.”  The CDs were crisp on the outside, flaky but not dry, and we promptly munched them down. Good as the CDs were—and they were very good indeed—I must admit that I remain loyal to donuts, one of my favorite desserts. But what fun to try something new that has become a craze in New York City and is now a craze in Portland. CDs have become so popular that Shannon had to order them three or four weeks in advance.

A visit from the kids, a new rug, Cornish hens, and CDs. All in all, a terrific day.