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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“In the next 40 years we’re going to have produce as much food as was produced in [the] last 8,000.”
—Jason Clay, senior vice president of the World Wildlife Fund 

The above quotation was taken from Andrew Revkin’s March 3^rd post on his blog Dot Earth at the New York Times. The post’s title is “A Hybrid Path to Feeding 9 Billion on a Still-Green Planet.” In it, Revkin examines the issues of feeding many, many people, and, among other things, the role that genetically modified food might play. 

I admit it. I am one of those folks who is very skeptical about genetically modified food. But that quotation sure caught my attention.

Unfortunately, the dratted flu that I had spanned two weeks. It started at the end of week 7 and made its merry way into week 8. Therefore, I only made one batch of bread, and gave one loaf to my daughter Shannon. Next week I’ll do better. I’ve promised a loaf to Lee Gilman, who lives up the road and gives me a ride to the Food Pantry each month during the winter. (In spring, summer, and fall, I can bike.) And I expect Shannon will somehow get another loaf. 

At week 8, it seems appropriate to write a little about sharing and selfishness. I started this project as a response—a protest, really—to the extreme selfishness that seems to have hit the United States. We’re the richest country in the world, but somehow we can’t seem to find enough money for universal health care, education, public transportation, and many other things that would be good for both our society and the environment. 

My aim was simple—give at least one loaf of homemade bread a week—and except for the week when I had the flu, I have done that and more. In fact, since January 1, I have given away 15 loaves of bread. 

It has occurred to me that with all this bread giving, readers might come to the conclusion that I’m a regular Lady Bountiful, always ready to share, never selfish, never stingy. But this would be a wrong conclusion. 

Like many people, I have a selfish side as well as a generous side, and at times I have to really struggle with the not-so-giving aspect of my personality. For example, I love See’s Chocolates, which are not available in Maine and would be a special treat even if they were. I got a box for Christmas, and I got a box for Valentine’s Day as well. When I unwrapped that glorious box on Christmas morning, with four chocolate lovers watching, did I want to open the box and pass it around? I did not. Instead, I wanted to tuck it under my other presents and, when nobody was looking, spirit the chocolates into my office, where they would be hidden. 

Fortunately, my conscience nagged me. “For Heaven’s sake!” it said. “You share that box of chocolates. What kind of stingy example would you be setting if you didn’t open the darned thing and pass it around?” 

“Right!” I replied. Silently, of course. I didn’t want my family to think that I’d finally skidded around the bend. 

With only the slightest hesitation, I opened that box of chocolates and passed it around. Then came the second test. 

“Oh, no!” the family protested. “Those are your chocolates. And we know how much you love them.” 

Smiling falsely, I said, “Chocolates are meant to be shared.” 

And shared they were. The family behaved in an exemplary way. They helped themselves to one, and even when I left the box in the living room—rather than sprinting it to my office—they only took a chocolate when I offered them one. 

Lots of lessons here, that’s for sure. Lessons in sharing and lessons in receiving. What I have come to realize about my Let Them Eat Bread Project is this: Not only is it a protest, but it is also terrific spiritual practice to be in the regular habit of giving bread. I expect that generosity, like any other good behavior, can be encouraged, exercised if you will, until it becomes stronger and stronger. Then one day, it has become second nature. At least that is the hope.

The roads might brown with slush and dirt; the snow banks in our driveway might be so high that my husband, Clif, can no longer easily scoop the snow over them; and the snow might be up to the lower edge of our windows, but—glory be!—Monika’s hens have started laying eggs again.

In my little world, this is cause for great celebration. It means despite all the snow, spring is coming. The days are getting longer, and accordingly, the hens have begun laying again. Hens are sensitive to the amount of available light: the less light there is, the fewer eggs they lay. (Commercial coops get around this by providing artificial light.) So even though it doesn’t feel like spring is coming, Monika’s hens are telling me otherwise.

Then there are the eggs themselves—beautiful, varied in color, and with such bright yolks that they turn any batter a deep yellow. When I eat Monika’s eggs (or rather her “girls’ eggs), I feel as though I am getting a food that is not only delicious but also healthy. Additionally, I know Monika treats her girls well, and that gives me a good feeling. There are many different ways of being “a good eater,” and one of them is having a more compassionate attitude toward the animals that provide our food. With Monika’s eggs, I can eat without guilt. Her hens have plenty of space and have plenty of wholesome food to eat.

More exciting news! Monika has just bought chickens that will produce a dark, brown egg, adding to the already lovely variety of her eggs. And, she said that Clif and I could come to her place—Wildermirth Farm—to photograph her chickens, which we will do as soon as the snow melts and the mud dries.

Now, I expect some readers might be thinking: If eggs are such a thrill, then this woman spends too much time at home. And they might have a point. I do spend a lot of time at home. An average week might involve one trip to Augusta, twelve miles away. A big trip would be to Waterville, to Railroad Square Cinema, twenty-five miles away, and this is something my husband and I do only once or twice a month. Although we make exceptions for family and friends (after all!), we limit how much driving we do. As our awareness of peak oil and climate change has grown, the amount of time we spend in our car has lessened. How can we encourage others to conserve if we are not willing to do so ourselves?

Gone are the days when we would toot to the coast, fifty or sixty miles away, just for the heck of it. Nowadays, our world encompasses a three-mile radius, with occasional excursions (for me) to Augusta. Alas, Clif must drive to work in Augusta each day, and there is no public transportation available.

So we revel in local eggs as well as the library, fish chowder luncheons at the Congregational Church, chili challenges at the high school, and other local events. Do I feel confined? No, not really. My small world is interesting and engaging to me, and the computer keeps me connected to the larger world.

I’d like to end this post with a quotation from Carl Safina, author of The View from Lazy Point: A Natural Year in an Unnatural World: “If you look right, you can see the whole world from wherever you happen to be.”

This just goes to show where wonderful eggs can lead—to nutrition to peak oil to literature. That’s quite a journey.

This is what our little house in the big woods looks like right now. Snow, snow, and more snow. In fact, it has gotten to the point that when we shovel and scoop, we really don’t know where to put the snow. After the last storm on Monday, we decided it was time to stop shoveling so much of the driveway, that it would be fine if it were a little narrower. After all, we are into March, and sometime soon the big melt will begin.

As much as my husband, Clif, and I like winter, it is starting to get on our nerves. Enough snow, already! To console ourselves, we decided to host a brunch this past Sunday. (Lucky for us, it didn’t snow that day.) We invited my daughter Shannon and her husband, Mike, as well as our friends Sybil Baker and Shane-Malcolm Billings.

Clif is a waffle-maker extraordinaire, and for the waffle iron, he sets up a little table by the dining room table so that the waffles can be served hot off the press, so to speak. At first, sections of the waffle are shared, and the waffle plate has to go around several times before everyone gets a piece. But as appetites are sated, the waffles pile up, giving anyone who wants a whole waffle a chance to indulge. Real maple syrup, butter, and homemade blueberry syrup are always served with waffles. I usually make a chunky applesauce, too, and this time was no different. Home fries, chili eggs, and sausage rounded out the meal.

I must admit that although the food was good, the conversation was even better. We all like to talk about books, movies, and politics, and as the Academy Awards would be on that evening, movies were a major topic. Who would win the Oscar for best actor? Which movie would win for best picture? There was lively disagreement as we discussed our preferences and then our guesses for the actual winners. There was general consensus that The King’s Speech would probably get best picture (it did), that Colin Firth would win best actor (he did), and Natalie Portman would win best actress (she did).

Mike and Shane were rooting for The Black Swan to win best picture. I immediately said that I hoped it wouldn’t win, as this would only encourage the director to make more movies. (I am not a fan of the director, Darren Aronofsky, but I expect we’re stuck with him.) My choice was True Grit.

“But wouldn’t it be a thrill,” I asked, “if Winter’s Bone got it?”

And everyone, regardless of his or her preference, agreed it would be a fine thing for gritty, little Winter’s Bone to win. It certainly would have shaken up the stuffy Academy Awards in a way that Melissa Leo (Best Supporting Actress), with her “F-bomb,” could only dream of doing. It’s funny to think of how the Academy Awards are both poky and prestigious. There is no higher film honor, and yet on and on the show goes, with a mind-numbing procession of overdressed women, soberly suited men, unfunny jokes, and overwrought music. Yet clearly it is a thrill to win, both for those who are cool and for those who are fools.

At the brunch, morning slid into afternoon. There was a pile of waffles on the plate (leftovers!). Most of the home fries were gone and so were the sausages. About half of the chili eggs remained (more leftovers!). We lingered over coffee, tea, and juice as the conversation swung to other topics.

Not a bad way to spend a cold, snowy day.

Tip for crunchy, delicious home fries: You need to get started the day before. Use a good boiling potato (I usually go with red ones), then peel, cut in chunks, and boil a bunch of them in a big pot. (No matter how many you make, you will never have enough, so cook a lot. Leftover boiled potatoes can always be fried two or three days afterward.) Let the potatoes chill overnight in the refrigerator, and then cut into pieces for frying.

On brunch day: In a frying pan—cast iron is best—on medium heat, melt some butter and add a little cooking oil so that the butter doesn’t burn. Slowly cook the potatoes in a single layer—I usually use three frying pans for a brunch—turning when the potatoes are brown on each side. The heat might have to be turned down a bit if the potatoes seem to be getting a little too dark a little too soon.

Food writing at the New York Times has taken some serious hits in the past month or so. First, it was Mark Bittman’s Minimalist columns, which had become my go-to source for food that was not fussy, not expensive, and yet delicious. Bittman, unlike other more demanding food writers and cooks, seemed to understand that even though life is busy, average people still deserved to eat food that was simple, good, and nutritious. Fortunately, Bittman is still writing for the New York Times, but instead of being featured in the Food section, he will be in the Op-Ed section, where he can focus on the various political issues that surround food. And, as a consolation to his fans, once a month he will write for the New York Times magazine, and I understand there will be recipes.

No sooner had I adjusted to life without the Minimalist, then I received a second punch: Pete Wells, who is the Dining editor at the New York Times, will no longer be writing Cooking with Dexter, an absolutely charming but snappy column about a dad cooking with his young son. Pete Wells is such a good writer that I would read most anything that he wrote, even if it was about baseball. (Well, maybe not about baseball, but you get the point.) His writing was funny and vivid and precise and warm, and he always had something to say.

His reasons for discontinuing the column should be of interest to everyone who cares about good food and nutrition in America as well as our society at large. Wells maintains that his job is so demanding that he feels he no longer has the time to cook with Dexter (as well as his younger son, Elliot, who is now on the scene.) Some nights, Wells explains, he gets home so late that all he has time to do is kiss the children after they’ve brushed their teeth. Fortunately, Wells’s wife works at home, which means her schedule is more flexible, and their children do indeed get nourishing, home-cooked meals, albeit not cooked by dad.

Wells almost sheepishly hastens to assure his readers that he knows he is lucky. He has a career rather than “just a job,” and that career is an interesting one that pays well. But unlike “the old days” when his own father worked, Wells is not home by 5:00 P.M., and this takes a toll on the time he spends with his family. Not only does Wells get home late, but because of technology, he is always connected to his job and therefore feels compelled to work even when he is at home.

If this is how a man feels about a job that many would consider a “dream” job, it’s not hard to imagine how workers must feel about jobs that aren’t quite as engaging. No wonder so many Americans are stressed and discontent. Then, of course, there are the people who don’t have jobs at all, who ironically might have time to cook but are on such a tight budget—perhaps even on food stamps—that all the joy is gone. Is it any surprise, then, that movements such as the Tea Party, with their tough talk and facile solutions, have gained such momentum and appeal? Right now, too many Americans are afraid, frazzled, and adrift—overworked or underworked—and definitely overconnected. (And, yes, I do make a distinction be “connected” and “overconnected.”)

In his last Cooking with Dexter column, Wells grapples with solutions “to get people cooking again.” He would be in favor of “a federal law that requires everybody to leave work at 5, as my father did. I’d vote for that. But then because somebody has to put dinner on the table by 5:30 or 6, you’d need another law that would prohibit more than one parent per family from working full time. I wouldn’t vote for that, even if it did get Americans back in the kitchen.” He also makes the case for good, nutritious premade food—fresh, frozen, processed—that can fill in when schedules are just too crazy for home cooking.

This is a big subject and one very close to my heart. I could probably write two or three posts about this, but for this particular one, I want to share some brief thoughts about Wells’s aversion for  “a law that would prohibit more than one parent per family from working full time.”

Wells, of course, is right. Nobody wants to be told she must stay at home, whether it’s part time or full time. We’ve been there before, and it caused plenty of neuroses and frustration and anxiety. Some people, women as well as men, have a great desire to work outside the home. They might want to be a teacher or an engineer or a plumber or an editor or a librarian or a social worker. As long as the job fits the “right livelihood” category, there is nothing wrong with wanting to work outside the home full time. In fact, there is something very right about it. After all, there is work in this world that must be done.

And then there are the people who just get plain antsy staying at home. Let them go out and work full time, too.

But what has happened, following the usual laws of backlash, is that we now have a society that encourages nobody to stay at home, and as often is the case with backlash, the cure is as bad as the disease. Homes in neighborhood after neighborhood are empty and lonely during the day. People—like Wells—rush from work to home, and they feel as though they never have a spare moment to rest or create.

But what choice do most people have? The costs of housing, fuel, higher education, health care, and transportation have become so great that it’s extremely difficult for households to flourish on one income. And while not all people might like to stay home, I expect many would, if given the chance, so that they could raise their children, cook, grow gardens, knit, play the piano, paint, have a part-time business, volunteer in their communities. Well, you get the point.

While we certainly don’t want to require anyone to stay home, we could arrange things that would make it possible for those who want to do so, for both men and women. Universal health care would be a good place to start because without health care, you can’t be free, and private insurance is very expensive, indeed out of reach for many families. (My husband and I know this first hand from running our own business.) From there, on we could go to public transportation, even in rural states like Maine, so that families could get by with one or perhaps even no cars. Then, to affordable universities.

Yes, we would all have to pitch in together to make these things possible, but who knows where this might lead? People might even feel as though they have time to cook with their children again.

Recently, I met my friend Esther Bernhardt for tea and coffee at Barnes & Noble in Augusta. While I always buy new books from our local bookstore—Apple Valley Books in Winthrop—I must admit that I really like meeting friends at the Barnes & Noble Café. It is inexpensive, the cookies aren’t bad, the tea is very good, the Café is quiet, and they don’t care how long you stay. Additionally, it’s a central location for me and for many of my friends. Nobody has to drive very far to get there.

As it always does when Esther and I get together, two hours just sped right by. We chatted about many things, but, as it so often does, food nudged its way into the conversation. And so did gift giving.

Esther has six children, all of whom are married, and she has many grandchildren, too. (I’m afraid I can’t remember exactly how many. I think there are fifteen or so. ) Yet this generous woman buys Christmas presents for all of them and wishes she had a bigger budget so that she could buy even more. She also buys presents for her daughters-in-law. Heck, Esther even buys presents for me. (Because of her long, close friendship with my mother, who died several years ago, it almost seems as though we are family.)

One year, one of her daughters-in-law decided that what she really wanted for her birthday was a nice, home-cooked meal. I suspect Esther’s daughter-in-law, like most of us, has a house full of knickknacks and thought that a meal would be a perfect gift. She knew just where it would go, and she wouldn’t have to worry about dusting it. And most women—at least the ones I know—are thrilled to have someone cook a meal for them.

“So that’s what I did,” Esther said. “I made the meal special. I printed a fancy menu of what I’d be serving and used that for a birthday card. We had courses, and the soup course was your cheddar cheese soup, which my daughter-in-law loves.”

Another daughter-in-law caught wind of the dinner, and when it was time for her birthday, she also chose to have one of Esther’s home-cooked meals.

“For her, I made my fish dish, a family favorite.”

“Fish dish?” I asked, immediately interested.

“Simple but delicious. I buy thick pieces of fish, usually haddock and coat them with flour. Ahead of time, I have made a simple cheese sauce, like one used for macaroni and cheese. I fry the fish until it’s barely done, and place the fish in a big casserole dish. I pour the cheese sauce over the fish, and then cover the whole thing with croutons. I bake it in a 350° oven for twenty or thirty minutes, until the sauce is bubbling and the croutons are brown. You don’t want to overcook the fish. Then, I serve it with a salad, some bread. Potato or rice.”

“And you have yourself a pretty good meal,” I added, and Esther nodded.

I’ve been thinking of that fish dish, which sounds so good. Clif and I have an anniversary coming up, and Esther’s fish dish is a likely candidate for a special meal. I’ve also been thinking about gifts from the heart and the kitchen, gifts made by hand. About how such gifts don’t have to be expensive to be loved, anticipated, and appreciated.

What these gifts require is the most precious thing anyone can give, and that is time.

Do I really need to add that I hope readers will be cooking and making presents for those they love? No, but I’ll do it anyway. It never hurts to be reminded.

On week 6, I gave a loaf of bread, as usual, to my daughter Shannon and her husband, Mike. I also gave one to Beth and John Clark, friends who live in Hartland, Maine, about an hour north from us. This means we don’t see them nearly as often as we would like. Selfishly, I wish all the people I care about lived close to me, ideally within walking or biking distance.

Beth is a professor at Husson College in Bangor, and John is Hartland’s librarian extraordinaire. (Hartland has a very small library, which means John is the library’s only employee, and he does pretty much everything by himself, with help from volunteers, of course.) They are also both fine writers, and my husband and I have been friends with them for nearly twenty years.

Not long ago I received an email from Beth, and she wrote something along the lines of, “Let’s celebrate the end of your radiation treatment. Come to Hartland, and John and I will take you and Clif out for dinner in St. Albans. Then, afterward, we can go to a dessert murder mystery theater.”

Dinner, dessert, and a mystery theater to celebrate the end of radiation treatment? All right! And I responded, “Yes, please!” just as fast as my little fingers could type.

Figuring that Beth and John’s generosity deserved something in turn, I decided to bring them a loaf of bread as well as one of our much-coveted Good Eater Desk Calendars. This I did, and the Clarks were duly grateful.

We ate at the Sunrise Restaurant in St. Albans, which serves homemade yeast rolls and, among other things, mounds of fried seafood, even when you order the small portion. In other words, our kind of place, and being true to my Good Eater moniker, I ate every bit of food on my plate.

Then, it was on to St. Albans Town Hall—a lovely old building complete with a chandelier—for an utterly delightful evening. The event was hosted by the Hartland-St. Albans Lions Club, and the play was Murderous Crossing performed by the Levi Stewart Theater Group, a twenty-five-year-old troupe that draws its members from “the Corinna area.” The play was good, silly fun, and the actors pulled in members of the audience to participate in the murder mystery.

Desserts, gloriously stretched out on long tables by the entrance, were prepared by the “Chatterbox Club ladies of St. Albans.” Readers might sense that here we have wandered into Garrison Keillor territory, and they would not be wrong. But as Keillor himself has intimated, there is something lovely and worthwhile about events, big and small, put on by volunteers and amateurs. (And I mean this in the best and truest sense.) These events bring richness and texture to a community as well as mirth and merriment, and usually for a price that can’t be beat. (In this case, $6 for the play and 50 cents for each dessert.) May such events never go out of style, and may there always be people willing to put in the hard work necessary to make them possible.

And, oh, I wish I had had a little camera tucked in my bag to take photos of the Chatterbox Club ladies and their desserts. With their permission, naturally.  It would have been perfect for the blog. My husband, Clif, has a good camera, but it is big, and we don’t always bring it with us. In fact, we didn’t that night. We are seriously considering getting a little one to keep in my bag, even though it seems excessive to have two cameras.

Now, on to week 7. I am sorry to say that I did not give any bread away on week 7. First my husband, Clif, had the flu, and then, as couples often do, he  kindly shared it with me. I figured nobody would want bread coming from our “plague house,” and to be truthful I just didn’t have the energy to make any. This particular flu was nasty and took the wind from our sails for an entire week. (Yes, we both got flu shots in the fall.)

So, I will need to add a qualification to my Let Them Eat Bread guidelines: It is acceptable to skip a week because of illness. The goal is still to give away 52 loaves of bread in 2011, and as of week 7, I had given away 14 loaves of bread. By hook or by crook, by yeast and by flour, I mean to get to 52 loaves.