Yesterday, I went to Hallowell—surely the only town in central Maine that can lay any claim to being quaint—to meet my friend Sybil for lunch.
The forsythias were in full bloom, a glorious burst of yellow.
We ate at a tiny pizza shop called Kennebec Pizza Company, which is on the main street.
Sybil has been to Kennebec Pizza before, and she raved about the bacon pizza. As luck would have it, bacon pizza was available by the slice. “It’s my favorite, too,” said the young man who was making pizza. “So I always have it ready.” Sybil couldn’t resist this pizza and ordered a slice. I did the same.
Let’s just say I was happy that I followed Sybil in her choice of pizza. The bacon, cut very fine, added a salty—but not too salty—smoked taste to this pizza with its crisp crust. I whipped through one piece, and I had to use extreme self-control not to get another one. (Susan Poulin, if you are reading this, you might want to make plans to stop at Kennebec Pizza the next time you are in central Maine. I know how much you love bacon.) The slices sell for $2 each, and if this isn’t the best lunch deal in the area, then it must come close.
Sybil and I talked about the usual things we love—movies, books, writing, our families. After we had eaten, we went for a walk by the Kennebec River, where we watched a pair of ducks—mallards, I think—-swim in the still, dark blue water. They were searching for their own lunch. I hope it was as good as ours.
The other day, when I was at the library making packets for our library expansion campaign, I said to Shane, one of our librarian extraordinaires, “It’s almost time for lunch. Today I’m going to have a toasted English muffin with ricotta, oregano, honey, and walnuts.”
“Sounds great,” Shane said. “Is this a lunch for friends?”
“No, just for me,” I replied.
Although this is an easy lunch to prepare, it does sound rather fancy, something we wouldn’t make “just” for ourselves. But in the refrigerator I had a smidgen of leftover ricotta, which I hated to throw away, and somehow the combination of ricotta, oregano, honey, and walnuts came to me that morning as I was doing chores. (I have an ongoing habit of daydreaming about food, which makes it extremely difficult to maintain a healthy weight.)
As soon as I came home from the library, I put my plan into action. I toasted the English muffin in the toaster—this could also be done under the broiler. After the muffin was toasted, I put the two halves into a small pan—an 8 x 8—and I spread 1 tablespoon of ricotta on each half. Then I sprinkled each half with some dried oregano—fresh, of course, would be best, but this time of year, fresh isn’t that easy to come by. (Don’t get me started on those pathetic “fresh” herbs that come in the little plastic containers.) Next came a swirl of honey on the English muffin halves. Finally, the pièce de résistance, 2 walnut halves on top of the ricotta, oregano, and honey. (Walnut lovers who are trim could use as many as 4 on each muffin half. Alas, this walnut lover is not that trim.)
I set the pan under the broiler for a few minutes, taking care not to burn the walnuts. I had to keep a sharp eye on those nuts. The amount of time it takes for a walnut to go from brown to burnt can be measured in milliseconds.
Here is what I got with the very first bite: the crunch of the toasted muffin followed by the smooth ricotta that was made both sweet and spicy by the honey and the oregano, topped by the rich, deep crunch of the walnut.
Pretty fancy for one person, but why not? Aren’t we worth it?
I took my muffin, along with some celery and carrot sticks, outside to the patio. As I ate, the dog begged for bites—which he got—the orange cat lay in the chair across from me, and birds flew from the trees to the feeders. It was lunchtime for them, too.
As I ate, I reflected on how Shane was right: This would make a nice lunch for friends, and I begin thinking of a summer luncheon, where I would serve these ricotta muffins along with a green salad and some fruit slices, perhaps cantaloup. The day would be sunny and warm, and we would eat on the patio, where we could admire the flowers in the garden and the deep green woods on the edge of the yard. For a drink, there would be freshly brewed ice tea. For dessert, homemade raspberry ice cream and perhaps lemon-frosted shortbread to go with it.
On Saturday, my husband, Clif, and I—along with our dog, Liam—drove to South Portland to visit our daughter Shannon, her husband, Mike, and their dog, Holly. Before I go any further, let me make it perfectly clear that visiting with Shannon, Mike, and Holly is reason enough to go to South Portland, or SoPo, as it’s called. However, not long ago, a Frosty’s Donuts came to SoPo, not far from where Shannon and Mike live, and let’s just say that Frosty’s makes the trip even sweeter.
I have been a donut hound for many, many years. Oh, how I love donuts. But good, fresh donuts are not that easy to find, and, no, neither Dunkin Donuts nor Tim Horton’s has fresh donuts. (Once upon a time, Dunkin Donuts had fresh donuts, and each store employed bakers. But those days, alas, are long gone.)
However, Frosty’s, located in Brunswick, Freeport, and South Portland, make their donuts daily, and they are fresh, fresh, fresh. Melt-in-your-mouth fresh. So fresh that two of their raised glazed donuts—my favorite—can go down quick and smooth and leave you wanting a third. Because Frosty’s sells out of donuts so quickly, we are rarely in Brunswick or South Portland when they are open. Therefore, sometime last week, I casually wrote in an email to Shannon: “How about picking up some donuts from Frosty’s when we come down?” And Shannon, being a very nice daughter, agreed to do so.
The day was beautiful, and the trip flew by as donuts, donuts, donuts called to me. We always go to SoPo the back way, through Monmouth, Sabattus, Lisbon, Durham, and Freeport. The road twisted and turned, and lawns and fields were a bright, spring green. With daffodils and forsythia in bloom, Portland was a blaze of yellow, and finally we made it to Shannon and Mike’s home, where a box of Frosty’s donuts was waiting for us.
“Do you want some iced tea?” Shannon asked. “I just brewed it.”
Perfect.
Then we settled in her dining room for donuts and iced tea. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a Frosty’s donut—probably 5 years—but they are just as good as I remembered. There are new owners since I last went to Frosty’s, but they sure have mastered the art of making donuts, which is not that easy. Clif and I have made donuts at home, and we have had very mixed results, with more than our share of “lead sinkas,” as we Mainers put it.
“Well,” I said to Clif on our way home. “Frosty donuts need to be a SoPo tradition. We’ll pay our fair share, of course.”
“Of course,” Clif agreed.
And as we usually only go to SoPo once a month or so, the donuts won’t be too much of an indulgence. Besides, there are so many wonderful parks and walks in the area that we can head out with the dogs as soon as we are finished and walk off those donuts.
This year, in Maine, spring is certainly dragging its heels. The weather has been cool and the skies rather gray. I’ve begun hanging laundry on the line, but I have to plan carefully, keeping a watch for rain as well as following the weather reports. Still, the ice has melted from the swampy swamp up the road, and the peepers have begun singing their spring song. They are joined by the quacking wood frogs, and the two voices join together in pleasing harmony, one high and ethereal, the other deep and steady.
In my gardens, all the perennials seem to have survived the cold winter, and the bright green of the new growth is always a heartening sight. Irises, lilies, phlox, and liatris will soon be joined by balloon plants, hosta, and sweet woodruf. In some ways, early spring is my favorite time in the garden. While it’s true there are few blooms—instead there are various shades of green—everything looks so new and fresh, so full of promise. The slugs and snails, a huge problem for plants at the little house in the big woods, haven’t come out yet. Ditto for the Japanese beetles, and this means the plants can grow freely without the menace of munching, marauding jaws.
Between the gardens and the yard, there is much work to be done, but I don’t mind a minute of it. I love being outside, and, to me, time spent outside is always good, even if it involves hauling wood or raking or tending the gardens. It’s funny how work outside is so much more enjoyable than work inside.
During this busy time of year, before it is really warm enough to use the grill, it’s handy to have plans for simple meals for those fine days when yard work takes precedence over cooking. Not long ago, I stumbled across a neat little trick, a two-for-one crockpot meal, and both turned out so well that I’ll be making them again soon.
One week, both chicken thighs and Hunt’s diced tomatoes were on sale. The tomatoes were seasoned with rosemary and oregano and came in 14.5 ounce cans. Meal number one couldn’t have been easier. (So easy that I’m not going to give a formal recipe for it.) Place 8 chicken thighs in a Crock-Pot, add two cans of the diced tomatoes, a teaspoon each of garlic and onion powder, and let the whole thing simmer until the chicken is tender—high for about 4 hours and low for 7 or 8 hours. Fresh onions and garlic could be added, but I wanted to see how it would turn out with minimal intervention. The chicken was all that it should be—succulent, tender, and nicely flavored by the tomatoes.
To reduce the amount of fat, I had removed the skin from the chicken. This was a very good idea because just before dinner, when I removed the chicken from the Crock-Pot, I noticed a lovely tomato stock was left behind, and it wasn’t swimming with fat.
Was the stock good enough to save? A quick taste told me that indeed it was. Here was the making of a soup for another meal. I have a large refrigerator, and there was room enough for the Crock-Pot’s stoneware crock, which meant that the next day all I had to do was remove the crock and put it back into the Crock-Pot base to begin the second meal. (I could also skim off what little fat there was, which rose to the surface when the broth cooled.)
Below is the basic recipe for the soup, but need I add that this is just a starting point, that other vegetables—onions, broccoli, zucchini, mushrooms—could be added? That rice could be used rather than pasta? There are so many ways to make soup, which is one of the things I love about it.
As I’ve noted many times, our youngest daughter, Shannon has her birthday on one of the coolest days of the year—Earth Day. I would be lying if I said this was planned. As with most babies, her birthday was completely serendipitous.
In the spirit of Earth Day, we decided to incorporate recycling into at least one of Shannon’s presents, and I had planned ahead for this. I am a chocolate hound, and my tradition after Valentine’s Day is to go to Rite Aid and stock up on sale candy. A particularly good find—75 percent off—was a heart-shaped box filled with turtles—chocolate, caramel, and nuts, one of my favorite combinations. After I ate the chocolates I thought how much fun it would be to recycle this pretty box for Shannon’s birthday.
Shannon loves homemade peanut butter cups, and most years we make some to give to her on her birthday. The heart-shaped box had a plastic tray for the turtles that was perfect for the peanut butter cups. Then, I thought, how about making a paper heart to go over the chocolates, one that would be printed with C & L Chocolates? My husband, Clif, agreed this would be a good idea, and on Saturday, we put our plan into action.
I mixed up the peanut butter mixture, and Clif, who has much better manual dexterity than I do, formed and dipped the chocolates. He also made the paper heart with our own name brand—C & L Chocolates. When we were done, we were very happy with the results. Not only were the chocolates tasty—we tested a couple, of course, just to be sure—but Clif did such a good job with the peanut-butter cups that they looked, well, almost professional nestled in the tray.
We weren’t the only ones who thought the chocolates looked professional. On Sunday, when Shannon opened the box, she said something along the lines of “How nice!” Then she did a double take. “Did you make these?” she asked.
Yes, we admitted, we did.
“At first I thought they were commercial,” Shannon said. “But then I could smell the peanut butter, and I knew they were homemade.”
Were we pleased? You bet we were. Pleased as punch, as the saying goes.
There were other presents, bundled in a pretty canvas shopping bag, but this was our favorite. We also cooked a special meal: For appetizers, grilled bread, the first of the season, served with sliced oranges and pineapples; for the main meal, an orange-rosemary roasted chicken, baked potatoes, and glazed carrots; for dessert, cupcakes and mint-chocolate chip ice cream.
The only missing element was daughter Dee, who lives in New York, but she sent a lovely gift—an oven-proof wok from Cuisinart’s green line.
So happy birthday, Miss Shannon! And happy Earth Day!
Yesterday the New York Times featured two of my favorite food writers—Mark Bittman and Michael Pollan. In his piece, “Pollan Cooks!,” Bittman writes about Pollan’s new book, Cooked: A Natural History of Transformation. (I’ve already reserved my copy through interlibrary loan, and I expect it is a book I will want to add to my own collection.) Bittman also interviewed Michael Pollan, who makes a clear and convincing case that we, as a nation, were healthier when we ate mostly home-cooked food.
Simply put, when we cook at home, we use better ingredients than is commonly found in most commercially-prepared food. We use fewer chemical additives—if any—as well as less fat, sugar, and salt. We tend not to eat fried food because it takes so much time and is so messy. (I can attest to this. I love fried food, but the only time I get it is when I go out to eat, a couple of times a month.)
Perhaps just as important, home cooking, which includes meals for family and friends as well as celebrations throughout the year, nourishes the spirit as well as the body. When we come together for meals, we slow down, we talk, we connect. My own special memories of eating seldom include restaurant or commercially-prepared meals. Instead, those memories tend to revolve around going to the homes of family and friends, sitting at their tables, eating what they have prepared, and talking about all the things that concern and interest us. The food can be very simple—I recently wrote about eating egg salad sandwiches in my aunt and uncle’s kitchen—but when we come together to share a meal in the home, something very special happens.
My point is not to diminish the many fine restaurants we have in Maine and the talented chefs who devote their lives to cooking good food. Nevertheless, I think that eating out should be an occasional treat rather than a daily event. Once upon a time, way back when I was a child, this was the norm, and we were healthier as a result. (I’ve also written about this.)
So let’s hear it for home cooks, for both women AND men getting back into the kitchen to cook, cook, cook. Yes, it takes time, but why not spend some of that precious commodity cooking rather than watching TV or sitting in front of the computer? And either before or after dinner, as the days get longer and warmer, you might want to fit in a walk or a bike ride as well. If you do these two things, you just might find that you are hardly watching any TV and that your waistline is beginning to shrink.
I have many things to write about in the upcoming weeks: two wonderful, frugal Crock-Pot meals for the price of one; an exploration of Franco-American food and the lack thereof in Maine restaurants; a review of a terrific book—Best Food Writing of 2012; the celebration of spring and our backyard and our patio.
But all these potential posts have been superseded by the terrible incident at yesterday’s Boston Marathon. Whoever is responsible, this much is clear: The event was an act of terror, one of destruction and fear. People were killed and maimed at a celebratory event that encourages people to push their physical limits.
What drives people to do such horrible deeds? That I certainly can’t answer. There is a dark strain in humankind, one that finds pleasure and even power in inflicting pain on others. To reflect on this, as there is unfortunately ample opportunity to do, can lead to a kind of despair.
As an antidote to the despair, there is a quotation attributed to Fred Rogers: “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.” Who knows if Fred Rogers actually said this? In the end, it doesn’t matter. At yesterdays explosion, many, many people hurried to help, and that is always heartening.
But for me, in hard times, my chief solace lies in nature, in its beauty and vitality and serenity. In its completeness. So here is a picture taken in our backyard in mid-April. The backyard is small—perhaps a half-acre—but it borders a big woods that flickers with birds and other creatures. As I’ve observed before, the backyard feels as though it is cupped by the hand of the forest, and above is the beautiful sky.
This picture is in honor of those who are suffering because of the explosions at the Boston Marathon—to the families of those who have been killed, to those who have been maimed, to those who had to flee in terror.
Yesterday I headed to the big city, to Portland, the Babylon of Maine, to celebrate my daughter Shannon’s birthday. As is our tradition, our friend Kate Johnson joined us for lunch. We all look forward to these thrice-yearly gatherings, where the birthday girl gets to select the restaurant. This year, Shannon chose Petite Jacqueline, a restaurant I had never been to, and it had such good food at such reasonable prices that I am tempted to choose it when we celebrate my birthday in September.
With its yellow walls and banquette seating, Petite Jacqueline really does have some of the feel of a French bistro. (There are tables and chairs as well.) On its website, Petite Jacqueline bills itself as serving comfort food—and this is certainly the case—Hamburgers are on the menu as well as mouth-watering, hand-cut fries. The food is neither fussy nor pretentious, but at the same time, there is a certain elegance to it. This combination of simple but good paired with elegance gives the restaurant a comfortable feel. There is nothing stuffy about Petite Jacqueline, and for a relatively small restaurant, there is a surprising amount of elbow-room, always a plus for me as I hate being crowded.
The birthday girl
A friendly but intense server told us about the specials, one of which was English pea soup. Being Franco-American, I am very familiar with pea soup, but I had never heard of English pea soup, and it seemed a little odd for a French-style bistro to be serving English pea soup. On the other hand, maybe it was done in the spirit of multiculturalism, which I am always in favor of.
“What is the difference between French pea soup and English pea soup?” I asked the server.
“I don’t know,” he admitted.
So I decided to order the soup, and as soon as the server brought it to me, I could immediately see the difference. This English pea soup was bright green and puréed. French pea soup, at least the one I am used to, is made with dried split peas and ham or salt pork. It is yellow and thick with texture, almost like a porridge, and the ham gives it a smoky taste. This green pea soup, on the other hand, had a fresh—one might even call it green—taste with an onion undertone. I ate every bit of it and could have eaten more.
English pea soup
Shannon ordered the hamburger, which came with those delectable fries, and Kate got the sandwich au fromage, which featured brie and apricot preserves and came with a side salad. Both said their meals were delicious.
Along with buying the birthday girl lunch, we like to give presents, and Kate brought Shannon The Smitten Kitchen Cookbook. (If you are unfamiliar with this terrific blog, then don’t hesitate to check it out.) Shannon has been wanting the cookbook for sometime, but Kate, who lives out of state, did not know this. Perhaps, I joked, Kate received psychic emanations from Shannon: “I want the Smitten Kitchen Cookbook.”
Whatever the case, Shannon was very pleased with the book, and we were all very pleased with our meals at Petite Jacqueline.
Kate’s birthday is next, and I can’t wait to see which restaurant she will choose.
Wherever we go, we always bring our good appetites and our bonhomie.
The gang of three, with Kate being a little squeezed out
At a recent foodie gathering in Brunswick, I met Laura McCandlish, a journalist who writes about food and who has worked for Public Radio. (She also has a very snappy blog called BalitmOregon to Maine.) When Laura found out I was a fifth-generation Franco-American, she asked if she could interview me for an audio documentary contest she plans on entering. As I was born in Waterville—which has a big Franco-American population—Laura suggested we meet there so I could show her the Franco section of town—the South End. I agreed, but I did warn her that the South End wasn’t the same as when I was a child. However, Laura wanted to go there anyway so that I could reminisce, and to the South End we went.
For readers unfamiliar with Maine’s history, here’s an extremely brief account of Franco-Americans in Maine. In the 1800s, during the Industrial Revolution, New England factory representatives went to Quebec to seek mill workers, and they were extremely successful. Workers, and eventually their large extended families, came in bunches, hoping to do what immigrants have always done—make better lives for themselves and their families, who were extremely poor. Many French Canadians settled in Maine, where factories once abounded, and to this day, Waterville’s Franco-American population stands at about 40 percent. (French Canadians also settled in northern Maine, but that is a different story, and one I won’t go into here.)
For French Canadians who came to work in Maine factories, there is unfortunately a chronicle of discrimination, intimidation (the Klan was huge in Maine, and they marched against Catholics and Franco-Americans), language suppression (French was actually outlawed), and in Waterville, at least, voter suppression. Franco-Americans were second-class citizens, and they certainly knew this was the case. However, times change, situations improve, and the grip of the dominant culture relaxes.
Laura was interested in all of this, but as food is one of her central concerns, she also wanted some information about Franco food. I took her to the South End’s Shewin Street, once home to Vielleux’s Market, the small grocery store where my parents did all their grocery shopping. The market is gone now, as are all the tenement buildings that were around it, and although there is a green park (or ball field) down the hill from where Vielleux’s once stood, the place has a lonely, blasted look, quite different from the vibrant neighborhood I remember.
Memory, I realize, can be tricky and unreliable, but here is what I remember of Vielleux’s Market. Somehow, it is always summer, and it has just rained. On the sidewalk, there is a line of wooden crates filled with fruit—cantaloup, peaches, bananas—and their scent mingles with the smell of the wet pavement. The market is a swirl of people: dusty-legged children in brown shorts run in for Popsicles and candy; skinny women, with their dark hair in pin curls, come for Pepsi and cigarettes, and older women, large and serene in their bright mumus, shop for bread and bologna. Lee, the owner of the market, is in back at the meat counter, and my father is ordering our meat for the week. As my father orders, he munches an uncooked hot dog that Lee has given him, and they talk and talk as Lee slices meat and wraps it in white paper. In the front, neat and tidy, is Christine, the cashier. My mother calls out the prices of the food she’s buying, and Christine rings in the prices. The small counter is overflowing with food. My parents were ardent grocery shoppers, and I come by my good eater moniker quite naturally. Both parents grew up in poverty, and food meant a lot to them. Neither of them ever starved, but they never had quite as much to eat as they wanted or exactly what they would have liked.
The market was small and the variety was basic. There was no fresh basil or parsley. Cilantro? What was that? There were carrots, potatoes, celery, and apples. Cereal, flour, baking powder, and sugar. Cream horns, bread, and turnovers. Dried spaghetti and macaroni. And Spam, Spam, Spam. As well as other staples, of course.
Some of what I’ve written in this post I related to Laura, and some of it I have expanded on here. I am much better at expressing myself in writing than through conversation. (Laura, if you are reading this, then feel free to use whatever you want.)
In an upcoming post I’ll address a question I have asked many times. That is, where are all the cafés serving tortière pies? And what, exactly, is Franco food?
We are a family that loves soup. We can happily eat it one, two, three, even four nights a week, and a good thing, too, as we live in a state where it is cool enough 9 months of the year to eat soup. (If June is rainy, the way it often is, make that 10 months.) Soup also pairs very well with my cooking style, which tends to be a bit improvisational at times. I am happiest when I can tinker with a dish and add a little of this and a little of that as well as make some substitutions based on what I have in my larder. Because I have been cooking for so many years, the results are at the very least edible, and sometimes they are even “pretty darned good,” to quote my Yankee husband, Clif.
Therefore, when my cousin Carol recently told me about her Anything Soup, I was extremely interested. It’s a squash-based soup made with onions and chicken broth, and from there the variations are many. Carol agreed to email me her instructions so that I could post them on this blog. Carol wrote, “In a 2 qt saucepan sauté 1 medium onion, 2 stalks of celery and 2 sliced carrots until celery and onions are softened. Add one can chicken broth, 1/2 cup cooked and mashed buttercup squash and 3/4 to 1 cup of vegetable pasta or vegetable spaghetti broken into smaller pieces. Salt and pepper to taste. Cover and cook until pasta is done. This is the base of the soup. I have changed it up by adding one or all of the following when I add the pasta. You could add any vegetable you like. Great way to use up leftovers.
2 Tbsp tomato paste
1/2 cup frozen chopped spinach
1/2 cup shredded cabbage
1/2 cup cooked turnip
1/2 cup black beans
leftover cooked chicken”
Yes, indeed, and in my freezer I had 2 cups of cooked squash, the last from Farmer Kev’s garden. Because I had more squash than the recipe called for, I decided to increase the other ingredients so that we would have even more soup. I liked the idea of black beans, and as I had plenty of dried beans waiting to be soaked and cooked, I decided to go with them. I also had some kielbasa—bought on sale—in the freezer, and I decided to go with that as well.
When Carol and I had talked about the soup, she had mentioned that the tomato paste gave the soup a bit of an Italian taste. Well, I thought, why not go one step further and add some oregano? And how about some garlic, too? (I wasn’t kidding when I said I like to improvise.)
Readers, the results were so good that even though I have only made it once, this is one of my favorite soups. In fact, it’s tasty enough to buy fresh squash at the supermarket especially to go in this soup, and I’m tempted to try canned squash to see how it will turn out. The soup is slightly sweet, but not too sweet. It has a rich, full flavor, and it is thick enough to be called a stew. It is smooth and nourishing, just the thing for the end of a busy day full of chores and meetings.
Thank you, Carol!
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Notes From the Hinterland 