A few days ago, in the Portland Press Herald I read Avery Yale Kamila’s piece, “Vegan Food Goes Mainstream in Portland.” It seems that many of Portland’s restaurants are adding a vegan entrée to menus that traditionally have been heavy with meat and seafood. For example, Grace Restaurant is offering a “mushroom mac and peas featuring cauliflower puree, wild mushrooms, black truffles, and snow peas.”  

In a recent post, I wrote about how my husband and I had switched to a mostly vegetarian diet and how meat and fish would be saved for eating out or for special occasions. We are doing this for ethical reasons—it simply takes too much energy to produce meat. I also admitted that we would be keeping eggs, butter, and milk in our diet, that we wouldn’t be going completely vegan. But, fruit, grains, and vegetables would form the bulk of what we eat. 

Therefore, I am encouraged by this recent vegan trend in Portland restaurants, and I hope it’s not a fad that will just fizzle out. A lot of it will depend on how the food actually tastes. It’s all very well and good to be ethical, but if the meal isn’t tasty as well, then ethics will only go so far.  

However, I expect that Maine chefs will rise to the challenge of cooking vegan dishes that are both good for the planet and pleasing to the palate.

Last week, breaking a trend that my daughter Shannon did not like, I gave bread to her and her husband, Mike. I must say, they certainly earned it.

Last Friday we had something few Mainers enjoy—a blizzard with over a foot of wet snow, perfect for toppling trees and branches onto power lines and knocking out the power. As it turned out, my husband, Clif, had gone to New York City to attend classes, so I was home alone. Well, not quite alone—the dog and the two cats were here, but much as I love them, they are not a help when it comes to shoveling snow and the attendant folderol that comes from having no power. (We have a well, so no power means no water.)  

But midweek, Shannon—bless her—called and suggested that she and Mike should come stay with me Thursday night to help with shoveling on Friday. Since radiation treatment for breast cancer, I have not been my usual perky self, and I tire easily. By late afternoon, I start fading, and by night I’m very tired indeed.  

So Mike and Shannon came over. They shoveled the driveway. When the power inevitably went out, they helped bring water and the gas camp stove up from the basement. Mike put new batteries in the radio. They tended the animals—especially the dog—so that I could take a nap. 

We made grilled cheese sandwiches on the camp stove, and after lunch, we played “The Settlers of Catan.” We set up in the dining room, where the light is brightest, and actually had a pleasant albeit chilly afternoon. (We have a wood furnace, but without power, the fire must be small as the fan won’t run to disperse the heat. We don’t want an overheated stove pipe.) 

But the best part, when we were three-quarters into the game, was Mike’s quick observation: “A power truck just went by!” 

Oh, happy sign! Our road is a low priority when there is a widespread power outage, which there was last Friday. I had visions of no power for two or three days, of hauling water to flush the toilets, of heating water on the camp stove to wash dishes, of gas lamps at night. (This last item sounds more glowing and romantic than it actually is. The light is maddeningly dim, and I am slightly allergic to the lamp oil.) We are prepared for power outages, but I do not enjoy them. Pioneer woman, I am not. 

But where there is a power truck, there is usually electricity a short time later. We were even more heartened when we saw a tree-removal truck go up the road not long after the power truck passed. This meant a tree or a large branch had fallen onto the power lines, thus lifting Narrows Pond Road from low priority to high priority. 

An hour or so later, the power was back on. Among other things, we could flush the toilets, cook dinner on the kitchen stove, and go into the basement without having to use a flashlight.  

Shannon and Mike stayed with me until Saturday, just to be sure the power wouldn’t go out again. It didn’t, and along with the loaf of bread, I treated them to lunch at The Liberal Cup in Hallowell.  

A tasty ending to a messy, disruptive couple of days.

There is still snow in the backyard—the front yard is even worse—but today, sunny and windy, it felt as though spring might finally be on its way. It seemed to me that the clothesline was at last getting enough sun, and I took a chance and hung laundry on the line.

Few things cheer me up more than seeing laundry flap in the wind. Encouraged, I took some pictures, threw the ball for the dog, and clipped some prickly canes growing in a straggly bunch at the edge of my lawn.

By the end of the day, all the laundry had dried, and feeling festive, I decided to make bean burgers from Mark Bittman’s How to Cook Everything Vegetarian. Another success! So good that we’ll try grilling some of those bean burgers this summer.

Today, in the New York Times, I read a piece called “The Fickle Fashions of Food” by Jeff Gordinier. The piece focuses on food fads, when once upon a time, it was the height of sophistication to serve pasta salad as part of a buffet. (Full disclosure: I like pasta salad.) Next came Brie, served as an appetizer and considered oh so elegant. (Full disclosure: I like Brie.) For sophistication with chocolates? Godiva. (Do I really need to add that I like Godiva chocolates?) 

Well, fads come and fads go, and this is certainly the case with food. As primates, we humans are endlessly concerned with status and novelty, which are often twined together. Old-fashioned is hardly synonymous with hip, and while old-fashioned might be a compliment in some circles, it also has a dusty, poky sound.  

And let’s be honest—most hosts and hostess want to impress their guests with the quality of the food, and, yes, even the novelty. Plus, it’s just plain fun to discover new trends and perhaps add them to the family’s food repertoire. Once upon a time, Godiva chocolates and Brie were new to me, as were chorizo, prosciutto, and even tortellini.  

In fact long, long ago, pizza was new to me. I think I was ten or eleven before I tasted my first pizza. I remember thinking: Wow, that’s good! I won’t say pizza was exotic in central Maine in the 1960s, but it wasn’t exactly commonplace, either. My family didn’t eat it, and as far as I know, none of my friends did, either.  

How times have changed. Is there a ten-year-old child in central Maine who hasn’t eaten pizza? If there is, then that child is certainly in the minority. 

But novelty can also become ridiculous. The current trend of putting bacon in everything, from chocolates to cupcakes strikes me as just plain bizarre. And please keep in mind that I am someone who loves bacon, who could easily eat half a pound of thick, crisp strips and then idly wonder about eating a bit more. But bacon has its place, and in my opinion it’s not on cupcakes or in chocolate.  

So what’s a foodie to do? In the comment section of “The Fickle Fashions of Food,” a writer called “Paladin” wisely noted, “Some of what’s good in every decade is good in any other.” 

Paladin is right. And my way is to be open to it all—the old-fashioned and the new. Some things I will like; some things I won’t. Some food, such as Brie, will never go out of style in our household. Some food, such as clam dip, will even make a reappearance. Some trends I will reject. I will never put bacon on a cupcake. But bring it all on, and I will at least consider it. 

What I hope to never become is a food snob, which is what can happen with an undue concern with trends and novelty. Snobs drain the joy out of whatever is they are snobby about, be it food, fashion, or art. And food without joy is dismal indeed.

Here are a few pieces on the Internet that might be of interest to readers.

First, from the food writer Mark Bittman, who fasted last week to protest proposed budget cuts to the food stamp program as well as other programs that help the poor. In the opinion section of the New York Times blog, Bittman has written several pieces, all worth reading, and one of them includes a great link to the Center for American Progress, which gives some interesting facts and figures about budget cuts and tax breaks for the wealthy.

Second, a sweet little piece from the Bangor Daily News about migrant workers in Down East Maine and how those workers are builidng “bridges with food.” (I just love that idea!)

Finally, wonderful writing from Fran Claro’s blog, The Italian Pantry. Her description of pizza rustica made me long for some, and the weaving of the Easter palms reminded me of my Catholic girlhood in Maine. This was a ritual in our house, too, albeit not as fancy as what Claro describes. And, darn it all, we never made pizza rustica, either. We just had plain old ham.

Yesterday, my husband, Clif, said, “I wish wedding anniversaries happened more than once a year.”

I could see his point. On Sunday, Shannon and Mike came over to our house to cook us something special in honor of our thirty-fourth wedding anniversary.

Oh, the food they made: puff pastry cheese straws; sausage simmered in wine and spices; homemade tortilla chips; curried pancakes; pork moo-shu; plum sauce; and rice. For dessert—a layered parfait consisting of pound cake pieces spread with raspberry jam, whipped cream mixed with lemon curd, and strawberries.

Clif and I ate and ate. Maybe it’s just as well we only have one wedding anniversary a year.

For our family, March has two events that perk up an otherwise dreary month—the first is my husband, Clif’s, and my wedding anniversary and the second is the beginning of maple syrup season. The fourth Sunday of March has been designated as Maine Maple Sunday, and on that day, Clif and I always like to go visit a sugarhouse where the precious substance is being made.

This year we went to Mike’s Maple House, which is off the Holmes Road in Winthrop, right around the corner from us. (Had it not been so cold and blowy, we could have walked.) We went midafternoon, and cars were lined along the side of the dirt road, a little squishy despite the chilly weather. No surprise that there was a crowd. Mainers are crazy about maple syrup, and they prefer the real stuff—strong and sweet with an intense maple flavor.

The sugarhouse, a good-sized brown building, was an easy trip down an equally squishy driveway. The sugarhouse had steam pouring out a vent in a cupola on top of the roof, and alongside the driveway were stacks and stacks of wood used for boiling down the sap. By the side of the building is a huge barrel—one that can hold forty gallons—with a gallon maple syrup jug sitting next to it. Yes, readers, this is how much sap, collected from maple trees in the spring, is needed to make one gallon of maple syrup. A very good visual.

Inside the building, visitors could witness the birth of maple syrup. A huge wood-fired evaporator dominated one side of the room, and between the flames, visible through cracks in the wood box, and the steam of the evaporating sap, it felt as though we were in some kind of alchemist’s workshop. In a way, I suppose we were, with maple syrup rather than gold being the product. The sweet scent of sap filled the sugarhouse, and when combined with the smoky smell of the fire, the effect was intoxicating, producing a nearly irrational desire for maple syrup products.

A table, of course, with such products was set up on the other side of the room. But before whipping out my checkbook, I spoke to Mike Smith, the genial, outgoing owner, and his equally friendly children, Christy Andrews and Ryan Smith. Christy was handing out samples of vanilla ice cream topped with maple syrup, and Ryan was tending the evaporator.

Mike told me that unlike last year, this was a good year for syrup, and he expected to get at least 125 gallons. (Go ahead. Do the math and figure how much sap needs to be boiled down to get this much syrup.)  Mike has been boiling sap since he was small, and for years his family did it for home use. Now Mike makes enough to sell. One year, with the help of an old farmer to collect the sap, he and his family made 210 gallons of syrup. Mike mentioned how his oldest boy has caught on with making maple syrup, and that his youngest son was catching on, too.

Good! May the Smith tradition of boiling sap continue for a long, long time.

Before leaving, I bought four maple whoopie pies—I can’t get away from them, and I’m not sure I want to. The whoopie pies were made by Steve’s Snacks Bakery in Skowhegan, Maine. I also bought a jug of extra-dark maple syrup. While both Clif and I like any grade of maple syrup, even the light, we prefer the rich, dark amber syrup.

I’m thinking I might save this syrup for dessert, to be combined with roasted walnuts and then ladled on vanilla ice cream. So good! And then perhaps invite our friends Diane and Sybil to come over and share the treat. Shannon and Mike could be included, too, if they are free. There is plenty to go around.