On Saturday, the night of the full moon at perigee, my husband, Clif, and I celebrated our thirty-fourth wedding anniversary. This year, we decided to do something a little special, even though thirty-four is not a landmark anniversary. Because of my breast cancer diagnosis in August, it has been a rather trying six months, not only for me but for Clif as well. Unfortunately, illness affects the entire family, not just the person involved, and I have felt so sorry for the strain this has put on Clif as well as rest of the family. But, my radiation treatments are over, my prospects are good, and this put us in a festive mood—ready, as always, to splurge on food.

I found out about Fuel Restaurant when I recently had lunch at Marché in Lewiston with my friend Sybil. (I wrote a piece about it for this blog.) It seems that Marché is a sister restaurant to Fuel, and the food—big, tender saucy crepes stuffed with ingredients—was so good that I was eager to try Fuel. (Except for a Monday night dinner, Marché only serves lunch, and Fuel only serves dinner. They are across the street form each other. Why the separation, I do not know, and I’m not sure I really care.)

Lewiston is about a half hour from where we live, and that was an added attraction—we did not have to drive very far. As an extra bonus, the Bates College Museum of Art was open that night, which meant that Clif and I could have an evening of art and food, a perfect combination for us.

Fuel bills itself as a “modern bistro…solidly based around French country food,” and that is certainly a fair description of the place. Like Marché, the décor is hip, arty, and a little dark but nevertheless very comfortable. On Saturday, Fuel was mostly full and quite noisy, and this is my only complaint. With all the bustle and loud conversation, Fuel was not a relaxing place to eat.

But, when the fresh garlic bread—pillow-soft on the inside and crunchy on the outside— and the cocktails arrived, all concerns about the noise vanished. After all, there’s nothing like a pomegranate martini, sweet and potent, to put a smile on your face and make the noise seem mellower than it is. Clif’s drink, a rum and ginger drink called Dark and Stormy, was not as strong, and a good thing, too. Someone had to drive home.

Before hand, we had decided to go whole hog, so to speak, with cocktails, appetizers, entrée, and dessert (shared!). Our appetizer, also shared, consisted of little Maine shrimp mixed with chorizo in a white wine sauce—the effect was sweet and spicy—and the sauce was so good that when the bread, shrimp, and chorizo were gone, we used our spoons to get the last of it.

Then came the main meal—for me, balsamic braised pork and for Clif, steak au poivre. The pork was so tender it really did fall off the bone, but incredible as it might seem, what I ate first were the Brussels sprouts (roasted, I think) and the chunks of sweet potato, all in that fragrant red-wine sauce. Clif said his steak was outstanding, another combination of sauce and meat, for which French cuisine is so famous.

Yes, we had room for dessert, a chocolate terrine—picture mousse solid enough to slice—drizzled with caramel and served with a small scoop of ice cream.

Readers, we ate it all, and while we were appropriately full, stuffed you might even say, we didn’t have a bit of indigestion that night.

The bill was a bit pricey, I won’t deny it, but this really was a memorable meal, one that I would never make for myself or Clif. Meat and sauces, however delectable, are not what I want to concentrate on when I cook. (There will be more about this in an upcoming post.) But if the budget allowed, Fuel would be a monthly treat, and indeed, there is a bar menu—only for the bar—that is considerably cheaper and worth considering.

When we came outside, the full moon—the brightest and closest it has been for eighteen years—shone on us, and we admired its beauty. Other patrons, seeing us gaze at the moon, did likewise.

And all the way home, the moon went with us, lovely and shining and throwing shadows on the road, fields, and houses.

Addendum: For reasons known only to the computer gods, the comments section for this post does not work. (On other posts, the comments section works just fine. What the heck!) Clif is working on the problem, but he remains baffled. If readers really feel a yen to comment, just leave one on the previous post. I’ll get the picture.

Our apologies!

Due to schedules that didn’t quite mesh, my daughter Shannon struck out for the second week in a row—no homemade bread for her. Instead, our friends Dawna and Jim Leavitt were the recipients of my weekly bread give-away.

In my post about clam dip and nostalgia, I wrote a bit about Dawna and Jim—how we’ve been friends long enough to watch each other’s children grow. My husband, Clif, and I met Dawna and Jim when we first moved to Winthrop, which means we’ve known them for twenty-seven years.

In the course of those twenty-seven years, we’ve done a lot of things together. We’ve gone out to eat, gone to the movies, stayed at their camp in Ellsworth, had appetizer nights and dinners at each other’s house. We went to their children’s weddings, and they came to Shannon and Mike’s.

One summer, we toured the various lighthouses of Maine for one of Dawna’s photographic projects. (Both Dawna and Jim are fine photographers.) As part of the lighthouse tour, we went to Baker Island, surely the creepiest island in Maine, where the shabby, neglected lighthouse is surround by a fence. (Chain link with razor wire, I think.) Few people live on Baker Island, and the first thing we saw was an abandoned white house with one red flower growing beside it. Feeling as though I had wandered into county Stephen King, I couldn’t wait to get off that island.

But Monhegan Island, that mecca for artists, made up for Baker Island. With its soaring cliffs, its small hilly village where the houses slant downward, and the little forest, this island has a charm that can honestly be called magical. It’s no wonder that artists such as Rockwell Kent loved to paint there.

With a friendship of twenty-seven years, you have a history, one that just seems to grow richer and richer. Now, I love my new friends. They bring zest and energy to my life. But how nice it is to have been friends with Dawna and Jim for nearly thirty years!

There are two items of particular interest today.  

The first is from Yahoo’s Shine section—“What’s Your Recipe for Perfect Toast?”, a piece by Sarah Fuss about a subject that doesn’t (but should!) get much coverage. Toast, glorious toast.  

In our household, we never get sick of toast. We have it for breakfast; I often have it for lunch, with peanut butter; and one of my favorite light suppers is poached egg (ideally Monika’s) with, you guessed it, toast. 

I make most of the bread that we eat, and we have gotten so spoiled with the homemade bread that on the rare occasions when we do buy bread, toast just isn’t the same. It almost takes the zip out of our day because let’s face it—good toast provides a solid foundation. With good toast, anything seems possible. Good toast gives us the energy to sally forth and meet our challenges: Clif, at Maine Housing in Augusta, and me in front of the computer as I wrestle with words. 

Occasionally, I meet someone who doesn’t own a toaster. Inconceivable! How do they get by without toast? However, in “What’s Your Recipe for Perfect Toast?”, Sarah Fuss describes how ABC Kitchen’s Dan Klugger makes toast. Basically, he fries it in olive oil. Nothing wrong with this technique, which would produce an excellent dinner toast. But, in my mind, at least, proper toast is made in a toaster. 

There is one area where Fuss and I are in perfect agreement, and that is with butter. We both like to leave the butter dish out of the refrigerator—only in the hottest weather will butter go bad. And now it’s time for a major confession: Like Fuss, I prefer salted butter. As a cook, I know I am supposed to prefer unsalted butter, and I have tried to like unsalted butter. In fact, it’s what I usually buy. But somehow butter just doesn’t taste as smooth and as sweet when it’s unsalted. To me, unsalted butter is the bland, boring cousin of salted butter. 

The second item of interest is a cooking video from the New York Times. In this short video, Melissa Clark demonstrates how to make a beautiful and mouth-watering citrus salad. All you need is a very sharp knife and a variety of citrus fruit. A little olive oil and sea salt for a dressing, and you have yourself a lovely salad. Then, to make a good thing even better, feta cheese, olives, or Parmesan can be added.  

I’ll be making one of these salads soon. Very soon.

Yesterday was another gray drizzle. Today is even worse. Well, it’s March in Maine, and as I’ve previously noted, that’s just the way things are. (Note to out-of-state readers: Don’t plan a trip to Maine in March, at least not for the scenery.) But my friend Sybil Baker and I defied the dreary day and went on a road trip to Lewiston, Maine, about a half hour from where I live. First, to Bates College to see Bound to Art, a rare books exhibit, and then out to lunch at a snappy restaurant called Marché. As it turned out, the exhibit, lunch, and, of course, the company were such treats that the gray day didn’t matter at all. 

Sybil and I started with Bound to Art at the Bates College Museum of Art. This small but fascinating exhibit of illustrated books comes from the rare books collection held by the Edmund S. Muskie Archives and Special Collections Library at Bates College. Along with the wonderful illustrations—which included birds, anatomy, scenes from Dante’s The Divine Comedy, the bible, nature, even abstract art—what this exhibit showed was the astonishing range of illustrated books. Techniques such as woodblock, engraving, etching, lithography, and silk screen all produce very different looks, but I find beauty and interest in them all. I’m tempted to say the woodblock prints were my favorites, but then when I saw John Gould’s shimmering birds—hand-colored lithographs—I was smitten.  

So why choose? Why not admire them all? I lingered over Clare Leighton’s The Farmer’s Year: A Calendar of English Husbandry (wood engraving) and Brian Hanscomb’s Cornwall: An Interior Vision (copper plate), as well as John Gould’s birds. 

From there, it was on to Marché, on 40 Lisbon St. in Lewiston. I had never been there before, but Katherine Stefko, the curator of Bound to Art, had recommended it, so off we went. 

And we were very glad we did. The late great Julia Child seems to be Marché’s patron saint. In Salon bleu—a blue dining room with one massive dark wood table surrounded by many, many chairs—a flat screen T.V. showed a young Julia Child in what must have been an early cooking show. The volume was turned off, but what a pleasure just to watch that woman slice onions. 

Marché’s lunch menu includes soups, salads, and sandwiches, but I was there for the crepes, and so was Sybil. On Marché’s website, it reads: “Each crepe is made from Julia Child’s original recipe.” 

These are not empty words. I don’t remember the last time I had such incredible crepes. In Quebec, I think, many, many years ago. The crepes came just the way I like them—gloriously thin and stuffed to the gills with sauce and ingredients. In my case, tender shaved steak and sautéed mushrooms, and in Sybil’s case, chicken and white beans. Juicy. Tender. Flavorful. I ate every bit of mine, and Sybil finished hers, too. 

Was I too full for the dessert crepe with Nutella and (real!) whipped cream? I was not. Sybil had one bite, and I unabashedly gobbled down the rest. 

And here’s the really amazing thing. Two crepes and two drinks came to $14, and if this isn’t the best lunchtime deal in Maine, then it sure must come close. 

Marché has two dining areas— Salon bleu and an adjacent room with conventional tables and seating arrangements. Because all the smaller tables were full, Sybil and settled at the massive table in Salon bleu, and we’re glad we did. Across from us sat a young woman, hugely pregnant, and her mother. With gusto, they ate crepes and soup and more crepes. 

We struck up a conversation, and I asked the young woman when she was due. 

“Anytime,” she said, smiling serenely. 

“The contractions are 20 minutes apart,” her mother added. 

I actually felt my eyes fill with tears for this young woman who was in the early stages of labor. What better way to get ready for new life than to have crepes at Marché?

No, the day didn’t seem gray at all.

In today’s New York Times, I came across an article about a man named John Wells and Field Lab, his desert homestead in Texas. Although food is mentioned—especially the olive and beer bread baked in a solar oven—the article is more about lifestyle than cooking. Namely, one man living off the grid, scrounging for materials, all the while doing it creatively and sustainably. My kind of article, which shows an alternative way of living that uses rather than abuses technology. 

Of course, not everyone can live in the desert. There is simply not enough water to support a large population. However, Wells has rigged up gutters and a water tank designed to glean every bit of water that does fall in this arid land. 

Then there is the matter of low taxes, an attraction for Wells. Last year, he paid $86. This sounds great. After all, who likes to pay high taxes? But there is a price to be paid for everything, including low taxes. It is my understanding—with Paul Krugman as my source—that the schools in Texas are a horror, ditto for social services, and the state is running a huge deficit. 

But these are only medium-sized quibbles, more cautionary notes than criticisms. Wells has a blog, which I’ve bookmarked, and the accompanying photos are terrific. (Before moving to Texas, Wells was a fashion and catalog photographer.) Also, the slide show that goes with the Times article is very good. 

So kudos to Wells for finding a way that gives as much as it takes, a way that can be an example of how we can go forward and still live comfortable, satisfying lives. 

We need more pieces like this.

Incredible as it may seem, last week I did not give a loaf of bread to my daughter Shannon. (So far, there have been no complaints, but I’m waiting.) Instead, as promised, I gave a loaf to Lee Gilman, my Food Pantry buddy, who very kindly gives me a ride to the Food Pantry during the cold months when I can’t ride my bike. Even more kindly, she told me that she would be happy to give me a ride year round, that she enjoys my company. It was certainly high time to give that woman a loaf of bread. 

Lee Gilman lives about a mile up the road from me, and it’s a lovely if hilly walk. The lovely part is going across the causeway that separates the Upper Narrows Pond from the Lower Narrows Pond, two clear bodies of water that look more like lakes than ponds. 

In fact, the Lower Narrows Pond is very deep in spots. Once I jumped off a float, and down, down, down I went, expecting to spring up when I hit the bottom. Except I never hit the bottom. When the water became very cold and my ears started to hurt a little, I decided I better head back up to the surface. Good choice. Later, looking at a depth chart, I saw that where I had jumped the water was 100 feet deep, and at its deepest, the Lower Narrows is 106 feet. 

A glance at a Maine government lake survey of the Lower Narrows Pond provided me with additional information, some of which I didn’t know. For example, I knew about the eels, minnows (they are in every lake in Maine, it seems), perch, and bass. I didn’t know about the salmon and the lake trout, and I certainly didn’t know about the freshwater sculpin. I admit it—I’d never heard of freshwater sculpin until I read the survey. Then, among others, there are the pickerel, white suckers, and hornpouts, this last one sounding like a hobbit name from The Fellowship of the Ring. 

All that life beneath the surface of a “pond” that covers 255 acres. (The Upper Narrows covers 279 acres and is only 54 feet at its deepest.) And there is more life, of course, some of which can’t be seen with the human eye. Then there are my favorites—the ducks and the loons and a rascally beaver dubbed “Bucky” by my friend Jim Leavitt. 

Bucky is quite the enterprising fellow. Being a beaver, it is his job to dam things, and he takes his job seriously. Bucky (and his family) lives at the far end of the Upper Narrows Pond, near where Jim lives, and Bucky has decided that it is his duty to dam the culvert that goes under the causeway separating the Upper Narrows Pond from the Lower Narrows Pond. Let’s just say that when the water on the Upper Narrows started to rise, the humans living on the Upper Narrows were not impressed. 

Down came the dam. Up went another. In Elmer Fudd fashion, the humans decided to show Bucky a thing or two. They blocked the culvert with a thick wire mesh. No problem for Bucky. The mesh just provided a stronger support for the beaver to wow the humans with his damming artistry. And, in Bugs Bunny fashion, Bucky even nipped a few pieces of pressure-treated wood that some homeowners had left on their lawn. 

And so the battle continued for quite a while. I am happy to report that the humans did not resort to killing Bucky and his family, and I think Bucky eventually gave up. I’ll be seeing Jim this weekend and will ask him how it all ended. (Or if it has ended.) 

Right now, of course, the Upper and Lower Narrows are frozen. I drove to Lee’s house to deliver the fresh bread, but yesterday, a fine, sunny March day, the dog and I took a walk to the causeway to see what was going on. 

We didn’t see fish or loons or Bucky. What we saw was an expanse of  gray and white rimmed with dark green trees and some houses and cottages.

Meanwhile, we are all waiting for spring.

On March 5^th, the New York Times featured a piece written by Isolde Raftery about the upswing of young farmers in this country. While older farmers are still a majority—“farmers over 55 own more than half of the country’s farmland”—there is a keen interest among young people to start farms of their own. “Garry Stephenson, coordinator of the Small Farms Program at Oregon State University, said he had not seen so much interest among young people in decades. ‘It’s kind of exciting,’ Mr. Stephenson said. ‘They’re young, they’re energetic and idealist, and they’re willing to make the sacrifices.’”

Exciting, yes, but—and there is no other way to put it—the obstacles are daunting, ranging from the high price of land and equipment to not being able to afford health insurance to not even being able to find mentors. Incredible as it may sound, for young farmers, “people their parents’ age may farm but do not know how to grow food. The grandparent generation is no longer around to teach them.”

Isolde Raftery’s piece raises so many important issues that it’s hard to know where to begin to address them. In brief: Universal health care, as I’ve noted in past posts, would solve one piece of the puzzle, and a big one at that. I’ve written that without health care, you can’t be free, and there is no better illustration of this than with young farmers, who simply cannot afford insurance, the ticket to good, consistent health care in this country. It still astonishes me that a significant part of the country regards universal health care as some kind of socialist plot. What about no health care at all? What is that called? I have a few descriptions, with disgraceful and disgusting leading the pack.

Then there is the cost of land and equipment. Apparently, there is money for education. In 2010, for this very purpose, the Department of Agriculture gave out $18 million to young farmers around the country. This is good, but it doesn’t buy or lease land. It doesn’t provide necessary equipment. One solution might be a redistribution of farm subsidies so that grants and low-interest loans could be available to new farmers. (Recently in the Times, Mark Bittman wrote about redirecting farm subsidies.) However, I am sure the mega-farms would mount a ferocious resistance to any redistribution of money.

Finally, the lack of mentors. Readers unfamiliar with food and farming issues might reasonably wonder what in the world Raftery means when she writes that “people their parents age may farm but do not know how to grow food.”  Many of the mega-farms in this country specialize in corn and soybeans, much of which is then used as sweeteners and fillers for the processed junk food found in our supermarkets. Mark Bittman asserts that indeed there is not enough fresh food grown in the United States to provide everyone with the recommended amount of fruit and vegetables for a healthy diet.

I’m not ashamed to admit I have a soft spot for young adults in general and for young farmers in specific. (I’ve written about Kevin Leavitt, a young Mainer with a passion for farming.) Unfortunately, right now much of the older generation in this country appears to have taken a rather hard attitude toward the younger generation. There is much talk about the deficit, but what about the cost of higher education, the lack of affordable health care? And the really, really big one looming over them all: climate change.

Around the country, it’s mostly just huffing and puffing. All the while, the older generation selfishly holds onto as much as it can. Hell no, we won’t share.

It’s time for a change. A real change. After all, isn’t it the job of the older generation to nuture the younger generation?

And need I add that we really, really need young farmers?

Addendum and correction: In the New York Times, Mark Bittman’s recent column in the Op-Ed section provides hard numbers as to how corn in the United States is used—40 percent for ethanol and 50 percent for animal food. I had thought a higher percentage was used for high fructose corn syrup, but I was wrong. Still, the larger point—that corn isn’t grown directly for human consumption—is correct.

My daughter Shannon and her husband, Mike, live in a very small (but cute!) apartment. Like most people in this country, Shannon and Mike have more than enough “stuff,” especially after their wedding last summer. Therefore, when birthdays roll around, my husband, Clif, and I try to back off the amount of “stuff” that we give, not only to Mike and Shannon but also to our daughter Dee, who lives in her own small (but cute!) apartment in Brooklyn, New York.

Being a family that loves books and movies and food, Clif and I usually come up with birthday gift bags that include a DVD, a book, and a homemade treat that the birthday person especially likes. When Mike had his birthday last month, we included these usual suspects in his birthday bag. But Clif and I also wanted to give something else that wouldn’t involve stuff, and we decided to make up our own certificate that would entitle the holder—that would be Mike—to a ticket to the movie Inspector Bellamy, showing at Railroad Square Cinema on March  5^th as part of their MIFF in the Morning film series. As bagels are a big part of the film series, the certificate also included a bagel and coffee. Then, for the grand finale, pizza at Grand Central Cafe after the movie.

Grand Central Cafe, just across the parking lot from Railroad Square Cinema, has a brick oven fueled by wood rather than gas, which is used by so many pizza places with brick ovens. I understand why restaurants would prefer gas—it’s easier to handle, both as a source of heat and as a method of cooking. Perhaps it’s my imagination, but it seems to me that pizza cooked with wood heat is crisper and has a smokier taste than pizza cooked in a gas oven. (It would be interesting to do a blind taste test to find out if this is true or if it is wishful thinking.)

Yesterday, being March 5^th, was the big day for bagels, the movie, and pizza. The ever environmentally-conscious clan Graves/Mulkeen carpooled in the Honda Fit to Waterville for bagels, movie, and pizza. Clif brought his camera so we could get a few pictures of Grand Central Cafe. I also had a chance to talk to James Bannen, one of the pizza chefs.

I learned that James has worked at Grand Central, off and on, for about two years. The owner, Elise Rich-Colton, taught him how to cook pizza in the wood-fired brick oven, and James refered to her as “the master.”

“How long did it take you to learn?” I asked.

“A month to make consistently good pizzas and another month to get the hang of juggling orders.”

A large perfectly browned Caveman pizza, which featured chicken, sausage, pepperoni and several kinds of cheeses, came to our table. Clif and Mike, both pizza hounds, ate most of it, but Shannon and I each got a piece, too.

While Shannon and I like pizza, we could never be called pizza hounds, and we, in fact, shared a roasted veggie trio sandwich made with brick-oven grand bread. But that pizza looked so good that we couldn’t resist having a slice. And I think it’s fair to say that James has reached the master stage of making pizza. If there is better pizza in Maine, then I haven’t had it.

Now, if only Grand Central would make calzones with a chocolate hazelnut filling. Life sure would be good.