March in Maine is a dreary drizzle. Yesterday, it seemed to do a bit of everything outside—rain, sleet, and snow. The day was so cold and gray that I couldn’t bring myself to take my dog, Liam, for a walk, even though he was getting a little stir-crazy. Fortunately, with all that nasty weather, we didn’t lose our power. If I were the traveling sort and the budget allowed, Clif and I would hop on a train and head to North Carolina for the whole month. But what about Liam? That’s three strikes against heading south—I’m a homebody with a very modest budget and a dog. 

A friend, on hearing about my wish to catch a train heading south, has suggested that Liam be “trained” to be a good traveling dog. As vivid as my imagination is, it isn’t good enough to visualize Liam ever being calm enough to travel by train. No, Liam is a homebody, just like his person. 

But things looked better today. The sun came out, and the tops of the ice-coated trees sparkled against the deep blue sky. The icicles outside my window dripped constantly, and soon they will be gone until next winter. 

In my imagination, I could hear peepers in the little swampy pond up the road. I could hear the call of the loons as they returned to the lakes to raise their young. I could hear the ethereal song of the hermit thrush. So many things to anticipate! 

Therefore, in a rather celebratory, if premature, spring spirit, I made a white-bean spread for my lunch. I had two cups leftover from some beans I had cooked for a soup, and that turned out to be exactly the right amount for the spread. 

I could have consulted Mark Bittman’s How to Cook Everything Vegetarian, but I decided to strike out on my own. Success! I toasted some pita bread, put lettuce and a slice of tomato on each half, and smeared some of the bean spread on top of the tomato. 

After such a bracing lunch, why, I felt sure I could deal with the rest of March. 

White bean spread

2 cups of cooked white beans
1 clove of garlic
½ teaspoon of dried thyme
½ teaspoon of salt
Pepper to taste
Olive oil to thin the beans 

Raw garlic does not always set well with me, so as a rule, when I am adding it to an uncooked dish, I always dry-fry it in a frying pan. This mellows garlic’s bite, and it couldn’t be easier. Heat the pan, and when it is warm, add the clove, unpeeled, and cook it, tossing frequently, until a few brown spots appear on the skin. Then, peel it and use. 

Put all the ingredients except for the olive oil in a blender or a food processor. Add a bit of the oil. Blend. Add a bit more oil. Blend some more. Keep doing this until the spread is a consistency that you like. 

Naturally, there are variations on this theme of bean spread. A bit of lemon juice could be added. Fresh thyme or oregano would be much better than dried, but in the winter, fresh herbs in little plastic packs are quite pricey, especially when those herbs are not always as fresh as they could be. 

Until summer, then, I’ll use dried thyme, but fresh herbs will be as eagerly anticipated as the arrival of the peepers, loons, and hermit thrush.

In yesterday’s post, I mentioned making a chili-like dish with garlic sausage and black beans. Since it’s my own concoction, I thought I’d give the recipe, such as it is. I had leftover black beans, so the amounts are approximate. I would guess I used two cans worth of beans. As for the sausage…that garlic sausage—from Herring Brothers Meats in Guilford, Maine—is, in a word, incredible. It turned a good dish into something truly memorable.

For readers who don’t live in central Maine and can’t get sausage from Herring Brothers, here is my advice: Buy the best local sausage you can find. This dish will taste just fine with any sausage you use, but the better the sausage, the better the taste. (It’s just like cooking with wine. Where in the world did the notion get started that bad wine will produce a good flavor?)

1 tablespoons of oil
1 small onion, chopped
1 pound of very good local sausage (I used a garlic sausage)
Two cloves of garlic, chopped
Two cans of black beans, drained
1 (28 ounce) can of diced tomatoes, blended smooth (I did not drain the tomatoes and used the liquid in the can.)
3 tablespoons of chili powder
½ tablespoon of cumin
Red pepper flakes to taste. I used a good-sized pinch.

In a big, deep frying pan, heat the oil. Add the onions and cook for five minutes or so. Add the sausage, either as chunks or broken up, and cook until done. Add the garlic, and stir for about a minute. Add everything else and simmer for at least 45 minutes. We ate ours on top of rice, but it would be fine alone, too. For those who like things hot—I do not—some kind of hot pepper could be added. We also had grated cheese on top. We used cheddar, because that’s what we had. A milder cheese, such as Monetary Jack, would be good, too.

Sour cream? Also a good addition. Unfortunately, we didn’t have any. Next time, maybe.

Addendum: We added leftover corn to the beans and sausage. (My husband, Clif, thinks it’s more photogenic this way.)

In Maine we are in deep winter. There is a heavy layer of snow, and our little house in the big woods looks as though it has been tucked in a big white blanket. Snow is on the trees, snow is on the hedges, and a thin coating of snow covers the driveway. All is cold and quiet, and I find it very restful, despite the shoveling that must be done.

On Wednesday night it snowed, but the clouds parted enough so that January’s full moon, the wolf moon, shone bright and clear. How beautiful it was.

A couple of days ago, I glanced at the fruit bowl and took stock of two small bananas that were beginning to go past the pleasantly ripe stage and were fast approaching the mushy stage. One thought immediately came to mind—banana muffins, which for some reason I like even better than banana bread. I think it must be the higher ratio of crunchy surface to soft interior.

For Mainers, there is no way bananas can even be considered remotely local. They need a very warm climate to grow. According to Mike Peed’s “We Have No Bananas,” a recent piece in the New Yorker, “[t]o bear fruit, banana plants need at least fourteen consecutive months of frost-free weather, which is why they are not grown commercially in the continental United States.” Even sunny Florida can’t promise “fourteen consecutive months of frost-free weather.” Visions of frost-imperiled orange trees dance through our heads nearly every year.

Yet conscientious foodies who live in the North East can eat bananas and only have a moderate sense of guilt. Once, on the radio, I heard the food writer Micheal Pollan state that of all the fruit that is shipped to the East Coast, bananas were the least environmentally damaging. Generally, they come by boat up from Central America. Now, if only companies could bring back the clipper ships or come up with solar-powered ships. A “green” foodie must dream.

In “We Have No Bananas,” Peed informs us that in the late 1800s, bananas were shipped in bunches that could be thrown “directly into the hold of [a] ship.” The variety eaten back then was Gros Michels, and they apparently not only tasted sweet and good but also had tough skins that didn’t bruise easily. Then, “when the bunches arrived in the stores, shopkeepers hung them up and, at a customer’s request, cut off the desired number of bananas.” Americans developed quite a taste for bananas, and by 1910, they were eating forty million bunches a year.

Today we eat a variety called Cavendish, supposedly inferior in taste and skin resiliency to Gros Michels. But they are able to resist a fungus called Race One, which decimated Gros Michels. Unfortunately, Cavendishes are being attacked by another fungus called Tropical Race Four, and as commercial growers pretty much only plant, ship, and sell Cavendishes—yes, that’s an example of monocrops—our banana-eating days will be numbered if they don’t come up with a variety that resists Tropical Race Four.

But let us turn our thoughts to happier topics. Let us turn our thoughts back to banana muffins. I made them the day I noticed the bananas were turning, and I served them for our dinner that night along with scrambled eggs combined with bits of leftover sausage and topped with grated dill cheddar cheese.

Simple but good on a cold January night.

Banana Muffins

1 egg
¼ cup of butter, melted
½ cup of mashed bananas, about two small ones
½ cup of milk
1½ cups flour, half white and half whole wheat is a good combination
½ cup sugar
2 teaspoons of baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon of cinnamon

Heat oven to 400°. Grease muffin tin. In a large bowl whisk together the egg, butter, bananas, and milk. Add the dry ingredients and stir only until the mixture is combined. Too much beating makes for a tough muffin. There should be lumps in the batter.

Divide batter among muffin cups. I like large muffins with a big, crispy top, so I make about seven muffins with this recipe. However, you might like smaller muffins, and this recipe will make as many as a dozen. Remember, you are the cook, and it is your decision.

Bake for about 20 minutes, until the muffins are nicely brown.

I always let the muffins sit in the tin for five minutes before taking them out. It seems to me they pop out easier this way.

Before I get into the glories of rosemary, I want to write a few things about the recent Arizona tragedy and President Obama’s speech. (I’m sure readers know the details of what happened last Saturday in Arizona. No need to go into them here.) First, I was moved by the beauty and the eloquence of President Obama’s speech. Words do indeed matter, and his did a great deal to soothe not only a grieving city and state but also a grieving nation. Second, even though I’ve never been farther west than Indiana and have never seen Arizona, I felt as though their hurt was my hurt and their sorrow was my sorrow. A good reminder as to how even though we are a big country with many differences, we are the United States. Third, even though I had never heard of Gabrielle Giffords before the attack, I was rooting for her as soon as the news of the shooting came out, and this morning it cheered me to hear that she had raised her arm and opened her eyes. Fourth, and I’m happy to be able to honestly write this, even though I am a liberal Democrat, I would have felt the same way about Giffords had she been a Republican. 

I’ll end with a quotation from my friend Brian Hannon, who lives in Scotland. “We have a houseguest staying with us right now from Israel and she asked my roommate Katherine and I, ‘How is that Americans always talk about it being such a big place and being so different from each other, but then when I listen to you two talk about America, you always say We.’ And I said, ‘Because despite our differences, sometimes we’re just all Americans. It’s as simple as that.’” 

Now, onward to rosemary. First of all, it has such a pretty name, and that alone is almost reason enough to love it. But rosemary is more than just a pretty name. It has a clean, strong flavor that peps up a variety of food—soups, pasta, roasted vegetables, and cream cheese spreads. Because of its strong flavor, a little goes a long way, which turns out to be a strength rather than a weakness. This means that fresh rosemary, which comes in those rather expensive little plastic packs, can actually have a place in a frugal cook’s kitchen. Out of one small pack, rosemary can add flavor to a lot of meals. Finally—the cherry on the sundae, so to speak—rosemary lasts well over a month in the refrigerator. 

So let’s hear it for rosemary. It is my herb of choice for the winter, and I always have some in the refrigerator. (I also keep parsley, rosemary’s more modest sister, on hand. While it doesn’t keep quite as long as rosemary, it lasts longer than other herbs, and it is reasonably priced.) 

Yesterday was a snowy day in central Maine. As I indicated in yesterday’s post, I made a minestrone-like soup for our supper. How nice it was to have this after an hour or so of shoveling. There is something very fine about eating a hot, flavorful soup on a cold winter’s night. 

One word about the amount of beans used in this soup. I took two packs of beans out of the freezer—garbanzo and kidney beans. As it turned out, I had way too many kidney beans to use all of them in the soup, and tonight we will be having burritos with what’s leftover. So I threw in beans until I got a thickness I liked, and I did the same with some small pasta I had. (Yes, Shannon, I know you hate it when I do this.) So the amounts of beans will be an approximation. Remember, soup should be as thick as you like it, despite what the recipe calls for. 

Rosemary tomato soup with beans and pasta 

3 small carrots, peeled and chopped
3 stalks of celery, chopped
1 small onion, chopped
3 cloves of garlic, chopped
2 tablespoons of oil
1 can of diced tomatoes, 28 ounces
3 cups of water
3 cups (or so!) of beans—garbanzo, black beans, kidney beans, whatever! All would work well. My guess is two, maybe, three cans. Again, it depends on how “beany” you like your soup.
½ cup of small, uncooked pasta. However, I think macaroni would work well, too. Ditto for penne.
1 tablespoon of minced rosemary
3 tablespoons of minced parsley
Pepper to taste
Parmesan or Romano for grating when soup is done 

In a stockpot, heat the oil and add the carrots, celery, and onion. Stirring frequently, cook until the vegetables are soft, about ten minutes. Near the end, add the garlic and cook for a minute or so. Add the tomatoes and the water and bring to a boil. Let it simmer for at least forty-five minutes so that all the flavors blend. Add the beans and let them simmer for about ten minutes. Add the rosemary and pasta. When the pasta is cooked, add the parsley. If the soup seems too thick to you, add a bit more water. Then, pepper to taste and grated cheese when the soup is in bowls. 

Enjoy, enjoy!

Given that the weather isn’t too cold, January is one of my favorite months, with February a close second. December and Christmas are fun but hectic, and for me, January is a time to settle in, cook (of course!), do a little organizing, and take walks with the dog.

The light in Maine in January is so clear that the sky seems to be an impossible shade of blue, and unless a storm is coming, there are usually few clouds. If there are clouds, they often settle low on the horizon, and at dusk they are illuminated with colors ranging from orange to red to lavender to black. Sometimes a dazzling combination of all four.

In the afternoon, after chores and writing are done, I bundle up, wearing a hat crocheted by my grandmother, down gloves, and plenty of layers. The dog—Liam—is a Sheltie, and he is naturally bundled up, always ready to go.

In rural central Maine, the landscape is not what you would call breathtaking or beautiful or dramatic. Still, there are pleasures to be had. On the way up the road, we pass a little swamp, covered by a skim of gray ice and quietly waiting for warmer weather. Just past the swamp is a large field, white with snow but dotted with the brown fringes of Queen Anne’s lace and other plants that have gone by.

Up the hill we go. I’m happy to say that despite surgery and radiation treatment, I can still pop right along without losing my breath. Liam, of course, is in the lead, and would gladly run up the hill, if he were allowed to do so. One of our nicknames for him is Liam Lightfoot.

In one of the houses on the hill lives a golden retriever named Sadie. She always barks a greeting, and Liam answers in kind.

When we crest the hill, we come to the part of the walk that my husband, Clif, and I have dubbed “the tundra,” a broad, broad field where the wind gathers force as it blows, making the day seem at least ten degrees colder than it really is. We hurry on, the wind nipping at us, around the corner, but I always take time to look at the expanse of sky over the field.

On this road, there are expensive houses, modest house, and in-between houses, and this mix is one of the things I love about central Maine. The dog and I go by a long, low stonewall, a patch of second growth forest, in its tangle-wood phase, and turn around after a mile or so. When we come back down our road, I look for the large patch of dried fern stalks in the woods not far from our house. With their little brown clusters at the top of stiff stalks, the dried ferns almost look as though they are growing in the snow, and they cast dark lines that appear both casual and planned.

After the walk, my cheeks are cold, and I am ready for my usual snack—popcorn, popped in a kettle on the stove. When the popcorn is popped, I settle on the couch. The orange cat is on my lap, and the dog is beside me, waiting for his share of the popcorn. Outside, the sky gets darker and darker. While I have my snack, I read either the New Yorker or the New York Review of Books.

Then it’s time to make dinner. Yesterday, after my walk and snack, I decided to make squash soup, using one of Farmer Kev’s acorn squashes, which he kindly gave to me this fall. Actually, he gave me quite a few, and I’ve stored them in the spare bedroom, which, with the door closed, is an excellent cool place for them. In the fall, when I got them, they were dark green. Now they are orange, but still perfectly good.

And what to make with the soup? Bran muffins, made with Maine maple syrup. This is a meal that takes only an hour or so to prepare, is very nourishing, economical (even if you don’t get free squash), and tasty. It’s a variation on a carrot soup that I often make, but the squash gives it a more mellow taste.

Hot squash soup on a cold January night. Very satisfying indeed.

Squash soup

1 acorn or butternut squash. Cut the squash in half, scoop out the seeds, and place the squash face down on an oiled pan. Cook at 350° for an hour or so, until the squash is very soft.

While the squash is baking, prepare the soup base.

1 large carrot, diced

2 large potatoes, diced

1 small onion, diced

1 clove of garlic, cut in large pieces

2 cups of water

½ teaspoon of dried tarragon

½ teaspoon of cumin

½ teaspoon of celery seed, if you have it

¼ teaspoon of white pepper

Salt to taste

A tablespoon or so of oil

Heat the oil in a large soup pan, then add the carrot, potatoes, onion, and garlic. Cook and stir for several minutes, until everything is sizzling nicely. Add the water and spices and simmer until the vegetables are very soft, about forty five minutes. (The soup base and the baked squash should be done roughly at the same time.)

Into a medium-sized bowl, scoop the baked squash from the skins, and mash the squash with a fork. Add the mashed squash to the cooked vegetables in the soup pan. Blend, using an immersion blender (my favorite way!), a food processor, or a blender. If you use a blender or food processor, the soup will have to be blended in several batches. You, of course, will need a bowl to hold the blended soup before returning it to the soup pan for its final heating. When the soup is blended, add salt to taste. Also, at this point it will be very thick, and you will want to add more water, in small batches, until you get a thickness you like. It could be anywhere from a ½ cup to a cup of water.

Oyster crackers go well with this soup, as do homemade croutons.

Yesterday, I decided to take a break from brooding about the past elections to check my refrigerator and see what food needed to be used before going bad. Among other things—we have a very big refrigerator—I found milk that was near its fresh date; a hunk of feta from Pineland Farms in New Gloucester, Maine; and a piece of organic cheddar. I also had broccoli, eggs, and tomato. Quite naturally, smooth, cheesy quiche came to mind, and if real men don’t eat quiche, then what fools these men be!

As a guideline, I used Craig Claiborne’s Quiche Lorraine recipe from an old New York Times cookbook, and this is what I did. I very lightly steamed 1 cup of broccoli and then chopped it. I also chopped one tomato, complete with skins and seeds, which my husband, Clif, and I don’t mind one bit. I crumbled ½ cup of feta, grated ½ cup of cheddar as well as ¼ cup of Parmesan. Finally, I minced one clove of garlic. I put all these ingredients into little bowls and lined them up so that I could feel mise en place.

Then, in a little mixing bowl I beat 1 egg, and blended it, along with 1/8 teaspoon of white pepper, into 1 cup of milk.

Next came the crust, which I whipped together. (While I was doing this, I preheated the oven to 450° F.) I rolled out the crust, put it into a 9-inch pie pan, and using a fork, I poked holes all around the raw crust. Into the oven it went for 5 minutes.

After it came out, I put the chopped broccoli and tomato onto the slightly-baked crust. I sprinkled the chopped garlic on top of the vegetables. Next came the cheeses. And finally the egg mixture. Very, very carefully, I put the full pie pan into the oven and baked it at 450° F for 15 minutes. I turned down the oven to 350° F and baked it for another 25 minutes or so, until the top was nicely browned and the whole thing was set. A knife inserted half way between the center and the edge should come out fairly clean.

And what were the results of “a this and that kind of quiche”? Success, mostly. I must admit that the garlic tasted sharp and that Clif and I, in turn, tasted it all night. So here are some possibilities.

The garlic could be sautéed in a bit of oil, and the tomatoes and broccoli tossed in at the end so that they are all mixed up. This might take the edge off the garlic. It also might add more oil than necessary to the quiche, so only a small, small amount of oil should be used.

The clove of garlic could be dry roasted in a fry pan. To do this, take a small fry pan and heat over a medium heat. When the pan has warmed, put in a clove of garlic with the skin on. Then, watching constantly and shaking frequently, fry the garlic until a few brown spots appear on the skin. But watch carefully. The line between brown and burnt is very fine indeed. This process takes some of the “bite” out of garlic and gives it a more mellow taste. Once the clove has cooled, it can be minced.

Or, finally, and easiest, leave out the garlic. Between the broccoli and the feta (and the cheddar) there are plenty of strong tastes, and I plan on trying this quiche without garlic next time. Then maybe I’ll try it with the pan-fried garlic. Because despite the sharp taste of garlic, this was a quiche definitely worth making again. On purpose, even.

Ingredients recap:

For the pie dough:

1 cups of flour
1/2 teaspoon of salt
6 tablespoons of shortening
1/4 cup of cold water

Combine the flour with the salt. Cut in the shortening until the mixture is crumbly. Add the cold water and stir until the ingredients form a ball. Do not over mix or the dough will be tough.

For the quiche:

1 cup of broccoli, lightly steamed and chopped
1 tomato, chopped
½ cup of feta, crumbled
½ cup of grated cheddar
¼ cup of grated Parmesan
1 clove garlic, minced. (This could be optional. Or, if  you like things really strong, try a bit of onion.)
1 egg, slightly beaten
1 cup of milk (I used whole milk)
1/8 teaspoon of white pepper
Pastry for one-crust nine-inch pie

Using the methods described above, make and bake the quiche. Crusty French bread, a green salad, and some white wine would make a nice accompaniment. Hell, with enough white wine, the sting of the past election might not feel quite so bad.

Last Saturday, my daughter Shannon and I were out and about. We went to a craft fair at Halldale High School, and after the fair we decided to have lunch at the snappy A1 Diner in Gardiner. We parked the car on the main street, and as we headed for the diner, we noticed a young woman had set up a farm stand on the sidewalk.

Naturally, Shannon and I stopped. We chatted with the young woman—Dalziel Lewis—and found out she was leasing land, growing vegetables, and selling them. She has called her enterprise Dig Deep Farm, and offers a CSA program.

“How are you doing?” I asked.

“Not too bad,” she answered. “But I have to have a part-time job.”

Yes, it is hard for local farmers to make ends meet. In the course of the conversation, I found out that Lewis doesn’t have health insurance, but she hastened to add she was thinking of purchasing some.

That would take care of any profits she might make from farming. Yet again I reflected what a help it would be for local farmers, for all small businesses, if this country had universal health care. While I personally am in favor of a single-payer system like Canada’s, there are other ways of providing universal health care, and, at this, point, any of them would be so much better than what we have now. (I am hoping that Obama’s plan will make a real difference when it finally kicks in.)

However, the day was too fine, and Lewis was too perky for us to brood long about health care. I bought five pounds of carrots—a mixture of yellow and orange—and I’ll soon be making a creamy carrot soup with tarragon and cumin.

Then, it was on to A1 Diner, where I had a BLT on wheat bread—thick and chewy—and a side order of hand-cut fries, crisp on the outside with the perfect amount of give on the inside. The best fries in the area, I think. (Sorry, Bolley’s!)

But best of all is the feeling of community at the diner—the friendliness of the staff, the friendliness of the customers, the view of the street from the booth. This diner not only has good food but a sense of place. Gardiner, like most of central Maine, might not be quaint, but it is certainly alive—a place where a young farmer can sell her vegetables and a place where a diner can eat and watch the comings and goings on the street.

Creamy Carrot Soup with Tarragon and Cumin
Serves four

Oil
4 cups of chopped carrots (about six large carrots). Use a food processor, if you have one.
2 potatoes, diced
2 large cloves of garlic, chopped
I medium onion, chopped
1/4 teaspoon white pepper
1 teaspoon dried tarragon
1 teaspoon cumin
3 cups of water
Salt and pepper to taste

In a large soup pot, heat enough oil to barely cover the bottom. Add onion and garlic and cook for a couple of minutes, stirring pretty much constantly. Add the carrots and the potatoes and cook for three minutes, stirring frequently.  Add the water and spices, and simmer the vegetables until they are tender, about twenty to thirty minutes. Puree the soup in either a blender or a food processor. An immersion blender works well, too. With 3 cups of water, this is a very thick soup. If you prefer a thinner soup, then simply add more water. Season with salt and more pepper, if you wish.

Blue, blue, brilliant blue. That’s what the sky in central Maine has been for the past week or so. The weather has been cool at night but warm during the day, warm enough to sit on the patio when I eat lunch. Between that blue sky and the swirl of yellow and orange leaves as they fall on the lawn, the colors are so dazzling that I can hardly focus on my lunch or the book I am reading.

The cool nights, of course, mean fires in the wood furnace in our basement, which is how we heat our entire house. This, in turn, reminds us of the wood that still needs to be stacked. Over the weekend, my husband, Clif, and I made good progress with the woodpile. We are now down to two cords waiting to be stacked, and we have four cords in nice orderly rows not far from the cellar door, where we bring in the wood. It’s a satisfying feeling to survey the stacked wood and to know that we won’t have to worry about heat for the winter. And if there is anything cozier than wood heat, then I haven’t felt it.

Other household duties have included washing the bedding—blankets, quilts, and bedspreads—and hanging them out to dry. Another homely pleasure is watching the laundry flap on the clothesline. It is actually a triple pleasure. First, the visual delight; second, the satisfaction of knowing I am not using fossil fuels to dry my laundry; and third the wonderful, fresh smell that no artificial dryer sheet can ever reproduce. (I wonder if there is a national “hang your laundry outside” month?)

In between hanging laundry, stacking wood, and sweeping leaves from the driveway, Clif and I managed to sneak in a couple of bike rides last weekend, and one of them included a trip to Tubby’s. It is still warm enough to eat outside at the tables, and a surprising number of people were doing just that. (However, Clif and I were the only ones who rode our bikes.)

Soon it will be too cold for ice cream outside, but Tubby’s Restaurant will be opening in three weeks or so. We got a sneak peak at the progress, and with the white wainscoting and tiled entry way, it looks as though Skip Strong, the owner, is doing his usual wonderful job with layout and design. Tubby’s in Winthrop could be a poster child for how to take an older, unattractive building and remodel it so that it is appealing and inviting. A good lesson in this age of strip development and hasty construction. What a waste to tear down all those ugly buildings, and with Tubby’s, Skip Strong has shown that we don’t have to do so.

After ice cream, we came home for more wood stacking. As the sun set, the air became cool. What kind of dinner for a fall night? When I was at Whole Foods in Portland last Friday, I bought a small ham steak—no nitrites, no nitrates, no antibiotics.

“How about ham and eggs?” I asked Clif.

“How about a ham and potato casserole with cheese sauce?” he shot back.

I was just teasing him. I had promised him the ham and cheese casserole, and when we came in from stacking wood, he peeled and cooked potatoes while I made the cheese sauce and cut the ham into small pieces. Into the oven it went, along with one of Farmer Kev’s delicata squash—cut in half, seeded, brushed with canola oil, and sprinkled with a little brown sugar along with a dash of salt and pepper.

A cozy meal for a fall night.

Ham and potato casserole with cheese sauce

Seven or eight large potatoes, peeled and cut in bite-sized chunks
7 oz. of cooked ham steak, cut in small pieces
1 cup of grated cheddar cheese. (The sharper, the better.)
2 cups of milk
4 tablespoons of butter
4 tablespoons of flour
Salt and pepper to taste

Cook the potatoes. When they are slightly tender but not yet done, start making the sauce. Melt the 4 tablespoons of butter in a medium saucepan. Stir in the flour and let the mixture sizzle a bit. (But don’t let it burn!) Gradually whisk in the milk and then with a wooden spoon, stir continuously over medium heat until the sauce is thickened and the sauce leaves a clear line across the back of the spoon. Add the cheese and stir until melted.

By now the potatoes should be done. (If not, set the sauce aside and wait until they are. It shouldn’t be long.) In a large mixing bowl, combine the potatoes, cheese sauce, ham, and salt and pepper. Pour into a large casserole dish. A couple of pieces of bread, torn into small breadcrumbs, are nice on top. Cook in a preheated 375°F oven for 30 minutes or until the  mixture is bubbly.

Note: For a vegetarian meal, slightly steamed broccoli could be used instead of ham.