The Poetry of Earth

IMG_2636“The  poetry of earth is never dead….The poetry of earth is ceasing never.” —John Keats

I suppose the poetry of Earth thrums in all places, from the Pacific islands, where it is never cold, to Antarctica, where it is never hot.  But it seems to me this poetry is especially strong in New England, where there are four seasons, each with a definite chapter. I have lived in Maine for so long that I can visualize each chapter and remember the smells, the heat, the cold, the sounds, and the silence.

For a gardener, fall’s chapter is always a little sad. The flowers and the hostas are way past their peak and must be cut back. But as Johanna, from the blog Mrs. Walker’s Art and Illustrations, recently reminded me, “And indeed better look at the glorious colors of fall and give the plants their deserved sleep whilst enjoying the harvest! Nothing melancholy about that!”

Johanna is right—those glorious colors; the golden light that shines even on an overcast day; and the harvest—the squash, the apples, the pears, the potatoes. There is indeed nothing melancholy in all this. In fact, the crops in Maine have been so bountiful this season that we can rejoice to have such plenty while keeping in mind that other parts of the country are suffering from drought. Nationally, canned pumpkin might be in peril, but fresh Maine pumpkins are not.

Duly reminded of the glories of autumn, I decided to see if I could scrape together a bouquet for the dining room table. In the gardens at the little house in the big woods, there isn’t much left to choose from. But here again, another blogging friend came to the rescue—this time Eliza, from her blog Eliza Waters. She puts together the loveliest arrangements and uses material, much of it dried this time of year, that I had never considered for an indoor bouquet.

So out I went with my scissors. I snipped some sedum, which is still a vibrant pink. That was the easy part. To the sedum I added dried, curling ferns, the stalks of astilbe, and the seed heads from black-eyed Susans.

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While the results would never win a prize in a competition, I was pleased nonetheless with how the bouquet turned out. I had used what my gardens had to offer to bring a bit of fall inside.

It would certainly be a stretch to call the arrangement poetry, but with the help of a couple of my blogging friends, I have listened to fall’s poetry.

 

 

 

 

The Consolation of October

As it turns out, I had a nasty little flu rather than a miserable cold. By Friday night, my temperature was nearly 102, but the next day, Saturday, I felt significantly better. By Sunday, I was more or less back to my normal schedule. I even did some cutting back in the garden.

Unfortunately but not unexpectedly, Clif caught what I had—couples sure do like to share. But he should be fine by next weekend, when Dee is coming home from New York to help celebrate yet another retirement fête for Clif. (This should be the last one. Clif has certainly retired in style.)

Being sick, of course, is no fun, but I much prefer short and brutal over long and miserable. I have had colds stretch out for a week or two, with coughing at night to make sleep next to impossible. At least what I had was over in a few days, and a good thing, too, as there is much to do outside to get the yard ready for winter.

We still haven’t had a hard frost, but for the most part, the gardens and potted plants have had it. The coleuses have taken on a leggy, spiky look, and I hope to have them removed by the end of the week.

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The hostas have become yellow and curled, and yesterday I began cutting them back.

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The leaves of the evening primroses have turned a lovely red, and I’ll cut those last.

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The ferns, too, have had it and are curling back into themselves. I don’t clip the ferns. I let them take care of themselves, and this seems to work just fine. Each spring, they return in a vigorous burst of green.

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For a gardener, fall can be a melancholy time. The clipped plants give the gardens a shaved look.

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Soon all the garden ornaments will be stored down cellar, as we Mainers like to say. The patio furniture will come in, and the grill will be moved onto the lawn. How sad, bare, and lonely it all looks when this happens.

Good thing, then, that October is such a beautiful, golden month. It’s almost as if she were saying, “Yes, I know brown, austere November is coming, and after that the long cold of winter, but before it does, I’ll give you some deep blue skies and some blazing leaves as consolation.”

And indeed, what a consolation!

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Bright Colors for a Gray Day

Yesterday was all golden light in central Maine. Today, just the opposite—gray, chilly, and rainy. Clif has started the first fire of the season in the wood furnace in our basement. (In the winter, we mostly heat our house with wood. In the fall and spring, we use either electric or propane.)

Today would have been a perfect day to make the first apple pie of autumn. Indeed, that is what I had planned to do, and I had invited our friends Judy and Paul to come share pie with us. However, along with the gray weather, we have an uninvited guest—a cold. Right now it is visiting me, and I have no doubt that it won’t be long before it visits Clif. Couples are good at sharing such things.

Therefore, this morning I called Judy to cancel our pie get-together, and I promised to reschedule when the coast was clear, so to speak. A cold is a minor illness, but why spread germs when you don’t have to?

To make up for the gray day and the cold, both inside and out, here is a picture of red dwarf snap dragons—such a plucky flower!—and a red leaf.

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I am reading Gladys Taber’s The Book of Stillmeadow, and I’ll conclude with the opening passage of the October section: “The special gift of frosty gold days comes now; time to lay down the household tasks and shut the door on routine. For every October, when I see the trees over the meadow, I think, ‘I shall not look upon her like again.’ And every October is different, strange with new beauty.”

This was true nearly seventy years ago, when the book was published. And no matter the weather or where the cold is, inside or out, it is true today in New England.

At least in Maine.

An October Day of Donuts, Falling Leaves, and Supper by the Fire Pit

Yesterday, Clif and I had many errands to do in Augusta, the city nearest the little house in the big woods.  To keep up our strength, we decided to fortify ourselves with donuts at Doc Hollandaise. Last week, Clif went there with his co-workers, and when he came home from work, he raved about the donuts.  As a donut lover—make that fanatic—I knew a trip to Doc Hollandaise would soon be in my future.

Doc Hollandaise is a breakfast place, and most days they are only open until noon. Along with the donuts, cooked fresh to order, they serve the usual delicious suspects—omelets, bacon, homefries, toast, and other breakfasty things.

But we were there for the donuts, and donuts were what we ordered. I chose a chocolate coconut donut. Rich and tender with flakes of coconut on top, it was delivered  warm, and the donut was so tender I had to eat it with a fork.

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Clif decided to go whole hog, so to speak, and ordered a maple bacon donut. It seemed to me that this was perhaps a step too far down the donut-topping path, but Clif liked it so much that he didn’t even offer me a bite. That donut was gone in a flash.

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In the interest of reporting for this blog, we ordered a third donut—cinnamon sugar—which Clif did share with me.  It was crisp and warm and had a lovely old-fashioned nutmeg and cinnamon taste.

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We spoke a bit with our server. She told us about the owner, Ann Maglaras, who uses buttermilk and kneads the dough with flour before cutting the donuts to order. Each batch only makes about twenty-three donuts, which means Maglaras frequently has to make more dough to satisfy the customers, who come in droves for those warm and wonderful donuts.

Duly fortified, we spent the rest of the morning doing our errands. Afterwards, we took a back road home, where I was able to see Maine October in all its glory—an old man sitting by a pile of burning leaves; the marsh grass burnished to copper; leaves coming down from trees in a flutter of gold. This was all illuminated by that clear October light, golden and at a slant.

After I got home, I swept the patio and wiped the outdoor tables. The day was so mild that I said to Clif, “Let’s have our supper by the fire pit.” Now that he is retired, we don’t have to save those activities for the weekend.

“Good idea,” he said.

“Let’s order Chinese food,” I suggested, “and end the day with another treat.”

“Sounds good,” Clif agreed.

And this we did, eating our egg rolls, rice, and chicken by the fire. The dog lay beside us, getting a treat now and then. (All right, getting a treat very often.) We listened to music—Talking Heads, Counting Crows, and We Might be Giants. The crickets’ fall song provided the backup.

We know, of course, that donuts can only be an occasional treat, and most of the time we will eat pears, apples, and grapes for our snacks. Ditto for the Chinese food, and tonight I’ll be making a fish casserole for supper.

But treats add spice to life, and in moderation, they are good for the soul, if not the body.

Another Look at Squirrels: From An American Year by Hal Borland

The bird feeder, sans squirrels
The bird feeder, sans squirrels

If you feed birds, chances are that you consider squirrels to be nothing more than a nuisance.  Indeed squirrels eat so much seed that it is often difficult to keep a feeder filled, especially a small one.  While I have no particular grudge against this furry animal who, after all, is just trying to make a living, I am very mindful about the cost of sunflower seeds. Our budget simply does not allow for replacing the seeds that the squirrels whip through with such astonishing speed. I compromise by spreading seed on the ground—some for the squirrels as well as crows, mourning doves, and, yes, mice.

Recently I came across a writer—Hal Borland—who also had some sympathy, and even empathy, for squirrels. According to Wikipedia, Hal Borland “was a well-known American author and journalist. In addition to writing several novels and books about the outdoors, he wrote ‘outdoor editorials’ for The New York Times for more than 30 years, from 1941 to 1978.”

In An American Year Borland writes about baby squirrels by his home. “Our baby squirrels were down on the ground today, for the first time. After that initial venture from the nest, they came out each morning, gaining confidence by the minute….But even on the fourth day they still descended the tree tail downward, in the manner of a black bear cub.”

Borland then goes on to describe how gradually the babies learned to go down head first and how cautious and frightened they were when they were on the ground. But Borland concludes, “From now on they’ll be coming and going many times a day. The mystery is broken. They have found the ground. The world is theirs—for a time.”

Even though I have lived in the woods for over thirty years, I have never been lucky enough to see baby squirrels venture to the ground for the first time. How I would love to see this!

Borland, with his beautiful, precise prose, reminds me yet again what an observant layperson can bring to nature writing. But better still, he reinforces my belief that when you look closely at the natural world, you can gain not only knowledge but also sympathy for the creatures who are struggling to earn their keep.

To my way of thinking, this sympathy can only be a good thing, especially when you consider how quickly we humans are driving so many animals to extinction.

For now, anyway, the squirrels are thriving. Next spring I’ll be on the lookout for baby squirrels leaving the nest.

And I’ll definitely be reading more of Hal Borland, who was introduced to me by Gladys Taber, in one of her books.

A Day at Local Breweries for Himself and a Day at the Beach for Me

Yet again, Clif celebrated his retirement, and this event was orchestrated by our son-in-law Mike, who arranged a Maine Brew Bus tour of several local breweries in the Portland area.

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Raise the glass high

 

While Clif and Mike had a jolly afternoon sampling beer, Shannon, the dogs, and I had our own jolly afternoon on Crescent Beach in Cape Elizabeth. (Shannon and I are, ahem, decidedly unenthusiastic when it comes to beer, which means that an afternoon on the beach appeals to us far more than an afternoon drinking beer.)

Like Popham Beach, Crescent Beach State Park is relatively undeveloped. No condos or shops crowd the beach, and it is a lovely slip of sand, water, waves, and rocks. There is an inn by the beach, but it is back far enough to give the seaside plenty of breathing space. Crescent Beach doesn’t have the grand sweep of Popham Beach, but it is nevertheless one of my favorites.

From October 1 to March 31, dogs are allowed on the beach, and the five us had a splendid, sparkling time of crashing waves, gleaming rocks, warm sun, and blue sky.

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Beach grass by that lovely slip of beach

 

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Shannon and the dogs on Crescent Beach

 

Shell and foam
Shell and foam

 

Wood and shell on sand
Wood and shell on sand

 

After the beach and breweries, we gathered at Shannon and Mike’s for pizza and homemade apple crisp. It was a finest kind of day.

On this Bright October Day

On this bright October Day, when the sky is deep blue and there is a nip in the air and there is no better place to be than Maine, I bought forty pounds of squash and ten pounds of potatoes from Farmer Kev. From beneath my friends’ apple trees, I gleaned nine pounds of apple.

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What a wonderful bounty! Next week, I’ll be stocking up on more of Farmer Kev’s vegetables. And, I’ve got a lead on where to glean some pears.

Autumn is finally here, and how I love it.

Bring on the Chicken Casserole, but Hold the Canned Cream of Mushroom Soup

IMG_2435A week or so ago, when I was reading Gladys Taber’s Harvest at Stillmeadow, I came across one of her original recipes for a chicken casserole. She listed the layered ingredients: Cooked chicken; carrots or peas; rice or potatoes; tomatoes; cheese; and bread crumbs. So far, so good. But then came the dreaded ingredient—canned cream of mushroom soup.

I know. Gladys was a cook of her time, just as we are cooks in our own time, but canned cream of mushroom soup is a step back that I cannot take. My own mother was a fan of this canned soup, and although she was a a terrific baker, she used cream of mushroom soup with an alarming frequency in her main meals. Even as a child, I didn’t like it, and my heart would sink when I learned that dinner was another one of my mother’s concoctions, which all revolved around the canned cream of mushroom soup and usually had noodles, some kind of protein, and canned vegetables.

The worst was ground beef, macaroni, Veg-all, and cream of mushroom soup. I can still picture it. I can still remember the taste. And it turned me off casseroles for a long, long time.

Lately, though, I have reconsidered my anti-casserole stance. If they are made with real ingredients, say, a white sauce or a homemade gravy rather than a canned soup, then casseroles can be pretty tasty. They are also economical, using up the last bits of cooked chicken, carrots, and potatoes from a previous meal.

So with Gladys’s recipe, I began to think about substitutions for the cream of mushroom soup. I could make a garlic and parsley white sauce, which is tasty over fish as well as a good binder for casseroles. Or, I could get clever and make a gravy from a stock simmered in a slow-cooker, leftover from a meal featuring chicken, potatoes, and carrots. If I were really clever, then I could cook extra vegetables and have pretty much everything I needed for the casserole the next day.

And that is exactly what I did. On one day, I cut up plenty of Farmer Kev’s carrots and potatoes, and filled the bottom of the slow-cooker, taking care to leave enough room for the little chicken, which weighed about four pounds. (This was a by-guess-and-by-golly type of thing. I just peeled and chopped potatoes and carrots until I had a goodly amount.) I added a cup of warm water and sprinkled salt, pepper, dried thyme, and sage over the vegetables. The chicken went on top, and I sprinkled more salt, pepper, thyme, and sage over it. I also minced a large clove of garlic and sprinkled that over the chicken. (Onion could be substituted for the garlic.) On went the cover, and voilà, in five hours cooked on high, we had a lovely chicken dinner.

When it comes to vegetables cooked with chicken, Clif shows little restraint, and I knew that if I wanted enough potatoes and carrots for the following night, then I would have to Employ a Strategy. This I did, with biscuits, thus ensuring there would be plenty of vegetables for the casserole. After we were done eating, I poured the stock into a bowl and tucked it in the refrigerator.  I also did this, of course, with the leftover chicken and vegetables.

The next day, this casserole went together pretty darned fast. No, making a gravy from stock is not as quick as opening a can of cream of mushroom soup, but it doesn’t take that long, and it sure tastes better. I skimmed the chicken fat from the top. (Sorry schmaltz lovers, but I prefer butter. Must be the Franco in me.) In a saucepan, I heated the stock and strained it. In another saucepan, I melted four tablespoons of butter and whisked in four tablespoons of flour. I poured in the hot stock, whisked and stirred, and within a few minutes, I had a delicious gravy for the casserole.

A word about the tomato in this casserole. Initially, I wasn’t sure if I wanted one or not, but as I had a beautiful ripe tomato, courtesy of Farmer Kev, I decided to add it. I’m glad I did. The acidic tomato added a pleasant tang to the smooth chicken, vegetables, and gravy mixture. When the fresh tomatoes have gone by and I make this casserole again, I will add a small can of diced tomatoes, drained.

Chicken Casserole with Homemade Gravy
Adapted from a recipe by Gladys Taber

Ingredients

  • 2 cups of leftover chicken, cut in chunks
  • 1(1/2) cups of leftover potatoes and carrots, cut in small chunks
  • 1 large tomato, cut in chunks.
  • 1 cup of grated cheese
  • 2 slices of bread, torn into small bits for bread crumbs
  • 2 cups of chicken stock—add milk if there isn’t quite enough
  • 4 tablespoons of butter
  • 4 tablespoons of flour
  • Salt and pepper to taste

Directions

  1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees.
  2. Layer the chicken on the bottom of a large casserole dish.
  3. Put the potatoes and carrots on top of the chicken.
  4. Add the tomatoes.
  5. Sprinkle with the grated cheese.
  6. Pour the gravy onto the casserole.
  7. Top with bread crumbs.
  8. Bake for 45 minutes or until the casserole is bubbling hot.
  9. Makes 4 to 6 servings.

Directions for the gravy

  1. Skim off chicken fat from the chicken stock reserved from the slow-cooker meal you made a night or two before. (If shmaltz is your thing, then save it for the roux. If not, discard it.)
  2. Heat the stock in a large saucepan.
  3. Strain it into a bowl and then measure to be sure you have 2 cups. Add a little milk if you don’t. Return the stock to the saucepan and heat until very hot. (The hot stock will make the gravy come together more quickly.)
  4. In another large saucepan, melt 4 tablespoons of butter (or a combination of butter and chicken fat).
  5. Whisk in four tablespoons of flour and stir until the mixture bubbles a little.
  6. Pour the hot stock into the roux. Whisk and stir until thickened. The gravy will be done when it leaves a line on the back of a spoon.

 

 

Clif Has Retired

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Clif at Doc Hollandaise. Picture taken by Megan Spencer.

Yesterday was Clif’s last day at work. His wonderful co-workers, who had fêted him royally last week, treated him one last time. They took him out for brunch at Doc Hollandaise, which makes homemade donuts to order. (Was I jealous? You bet I was! Now that Clif has retired,  we will soon be going to Doc Hollandaise for donuts.)

Retirement is one of those milestone events that makes a person think. For over forty years, Clif has worked at one job or another, all of which have revolved around social services. He worked for the state as an honest-to-God social worker. He worked as a computer programmer for various nonprofits. Finally, he worked as a database administrator for Homeless Initiatives at Maine State Housing. He’s been laid off twice, once right before Christmas when the children were young.

None of these jobs were what you would call high-paying jobs. Clif, like so many people who work for the state or for nonprofits, wanted to work at a job that qualified as right livelihood, as the Buddhists might say. Clif wanted to do good work, to make a difference, to help people. And he did. (Those who like to inveigh against state and federal workers should take the time to look at countries that don’t provide social services.)

Yesterday was also a wild tempest of a day, with a rain that was, well, lashing. A friend told me that she measured over five inches of rain. Readers, that is a lot of rain to fall in one day. In Portland, streets were flooded. Farther north, my cousin Carol posted pictures of flooded streets in Skowhegan, which is snug against the Kennebec River. People lost their power—thank goodness we didn’t—and branches large and small came down.

One large branch, in fact, came down at the little house in the big woods.  When you live in the woods, such things happen from time to time. We were just grateful the branch came down on our fence rather than on our roof.

The fallen branch
The fallen branch

So on his first day of retirement, Clif is going to play chainsaw man. He’ll take care of the wood and inspect the fence to see where it needs mending.

Clif inspects the damage
Clif inspects the damage

 

Sherlock conducts his own inspeciton
Sherlock conducts his own inspection

And after that? There are projects galore around the house to keep Clif busy. He also plans to work part time as a computer consultant for nonprofits, where he will continue with the good work that he has done for all of his adult life.

But most important, there will be trips to Doc Hollandaise for donuts.

 

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