What a day Tuesday, November 2^nd was! For progressive liberals (yes, that is what I am) it was very depressing, and there is no way to put a good spin on it. Nationwide, Democrats were trounced, and while they are far from perfect, the alternative is much worse.

Maine, unfortunately, followed the nation, and the new year will bring us a tea party-backed governor who, with a Republican controlled House and Senate, will be able to cause plenty of mischief. (Perhaps misery would be a better word.) For example, these are the same Republicans who decided, in their recent platform, that health care is not a right. It seems that only those lucky enough to afford insurance have the right to health care. And what about those who can’t afford it? Too bad for them. Better luck in the next life.

Now, I know this is supposed to be a blog about food and eating. Be patient. In the next post I’ll be getting around to food, and this post is relevent to what will follow. 

Since I’ve been diagnosed with breast cancer, health care is very much on my mind. The bill for the lumpectomy I had last month came to $15,000. That’s right. Fifteen thousand dollars for a relatively simple operation where I was in and out of the hospital in the same day. This charge doesn’t include any of my pre-op or post-op visits. It doesn’t include visits to the oncologist or the radiologist. It doesn’t include treatment. It was just for the operation.

I am one of the fortunate ones. My husband’s work provides excellent health insurance, and our out-of-pocket expenses have been minimal. Also, my husband’s contribution to this policy is affordable, much different from when he was self-employed, and we had to buy our own insurance directly from an insurance company. With that policy, the monthly premiums cost as much as our monthly mortgage payments, there was a high deductible, and only catastrophic illnesses were covered. Still, it was better than nothing. If my cancer had come then, even though we would have been in debt, we wouldn’t have lost our house paying for my treatment.

However, my thoughts keep coming back to those who aren’t covered through their work and who can’t afford to spend the equivalent of a monthly mortgage payment on health insurance. People have a right to health care, even if they are poor, and no Republican rhetoric can convince me otherwise. As far as I’m concerned, every human being on this planet has the right to health care as well as the right to have enough food, decent housing, clean water, and an education.

But here lies the problem: There are a lot of us, and our numbers keep growing. Unfortunately, Earth’s resources stay the same, and the more there are of us, the less there is to go around. With globalization thrown into the mix, jobs have become as scarce as resources.

I suspect many people haven’t really put the pieces together—that we live on a crowded, heated-up, polluted planet where corporations can easily move to countries with cheap labor. That the era of inexpensive oil has come to an end and thus a way of life that—let’s be honest—has been sweet. (At least for those living in rich countries.)

But I also suspect that deep down, most Americans know something is wrong, that the cost of living keeps going up, and there simply aren’t enough good jobs to go around. They might not be able to articulate exactly why this is so, but they know it all right, and it makes them feel insecure. And with this insecurity come fear and anger. (Author Sharon Astyk has written quite a lot about this.)

To put it bluntly, when people are afraid and angry, they often clench their hands into fists, both in their personal and political lives, and make bad decisions. Thus we get tea party candidates who win. In a way, I understand. When I think of the future, I am often afraid and angry. What in the world is going to happen to our species? Are we ever going to wise up and stop consuming so much, wasting so much, polluting so much?

So what can one middle-aged, non-affluent woman do in the face of widespread fear and anger amoung voters? The discouraging answer, aside from voting, is not much. But I have an idea, a scheme. It’s more than a bit gimmicky, but just thinking about doing it makes me feel better.

Stay tuned for Part II, where I outline my scheme.

As some readers know, in August I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I had surgery in September, and my outlook is good—right now I am undergoing radiation treatment, but I will not need to have chemotherapy.

But for all of August and most of September, I was not what you would call “a good eater.” Not surprisingly, I was very nervous during that time, and it affected my appetite. All I wanted was bland food—plain chicken, plain fish, poached eggs on toast. Even the thought of anything spicy made me a little queasy.

The end of August, when I had an MRI, was my nadir. While the test is not painful, for someone like me, who is claustrophobic, it is a misery. For an hour or so after the test, I felt dizzy and disoriented, and I was shaken for the rest of the day. It just so happened that around the time of my MRI, I was reading Man & Time by J. B. Priestly, which is, as the title suggests, a book about the human concept of time. The night after my MRI, I read the section about precognition and dreams, and when I went to bed, I wondered what in the world I would dream about. Cancer? Death? Loved ones who have passed?

No, instead I dreamt I was making chili for my friends. Nice spicy chili in a rich tomato sauce. When I woke up, I felt refreshed and hopeful. It seemed that my unconscious was telling me something, that soon I’d be back to spicy eating, that maybe, even, I’d be all right. Right then and there I decided that after my surgery I would invite some of my friends over in the fall for a chili party. It would be a dream come true, so to speak.

Last Saturday was the day of the chili party, and what a day it was! My husband, Clif, and I each made a batch of chili. He likes it hot, and he made his using four Jalapeño peppers from Farmer Kev’s garden. I like mine not so hot and used hot pepper flakes instead. Both batches had sausage and ground beef as well as lots of black beans and kidney beans. In addition to cooking we cleaned, we moved furniture, and we brought out spare chairs.

Over twenty people came to the chili party in our little house in the big woods. And of course everyone brought something—more chili, salads, wine, desserts, corn bread, garlic bread, apples, pies, and cider. A real feast and a real celebration for me. I even made a little speech, recounting my dream and thanking everyone for coming to share this special day with me. And readers, I ate chili. My friend Kate Johnson’s chili—smooth, smoky, and full of white beans.

But one of the best parts of the day was the surprise concocted by my daughters Dee and Shannon. Dee lives in New York, and together the sisters conspired for Dee to come home, unbeknownst to me, for the chili party.

On the day of the party, Shannon called around noon and said, “We’re in Winthrop, just up the road from the house. You and Dad go into the kitchen. I have a surprise for you.”

“How mysterious!” I said, but naturally we did as she asked.

As Clif and I waited in the kitchen, Shannon and Mike came into the dining room followed by—ta da!—Dee.

“Wow!” I exclaimed, and Shannon later recounted how gratifying my reaction was.

It truly was a surprise and a wonderful day. Chili with family and friends. A return to spicy eating. And a feeling of hope as I go forward with my treatment.

Since we live in a little house in the big woods, I can’t really have a proper vegetable garden. We bought this house many years before I got the urge to grow vegetables, and the time just hasn’t been right for us to move. (If we ever do move, then a house with a large sunny yard for gardening will be a priority.)

Thank goodness for vegetable stands, farmers’ markets, and orchards. Because of them, from July to December, I am able to buy a lot of local food. This year, before Stevenson’s Vegetable Stand on Route 202 in Winthrop closes on October 24th, I decided to stock up on crops that wouldn’t spoil quickly—squash, carrots, and potatoes. I also purchased a few things that I would need to use in the upcoming week, and also some sweet red peppers, which can be frozen if it looks as though they are starting to go.

When I got the vegetables home, I was struck by their beauty. My husband, Clif, and I arrayed them on a wicker chest in the spare bedroom, which also serves as a cold storage room if we keep the door closed.

As for next year, we are planning to buy a CSA share from Farmer Kev. We can’t decide whether we should start with a small share or go all out with a large one. But small or large, next summer much of what we eat will be coming from Farmer Kev’s garden.

In the meantime we’ll have carrot soup, and squash soup, muffins, and pies. Recipes will follow.

A day or two ago, my husband, Clif, and I were heating some soup for lunch, and we discovered that the cracker jar was pretty much empty. Clif is of the opinion that soup without crackers is not worth eating, but we had some choices. We could drive to Hannaford, which admittedly is only a couple of miles away, and we could buy a box of crackers. We could also bike to the grocery store. Or we could rummage through our cupboards and take stock of what we already had. We chose the last option and found a half stack of stale saltines as well as some stale oyster crackers.

Clif said, “Let’s do what my parents always did with stale crackers. Spread them on a cookie sheet and bake them in a 350 oven until the crackers are brown.”

This we did, and the crackers were pretty tasty. In fact, I liked them better that way. Baked and browned, they were very crispy and had a toasted flavor. So, chalk one up for Clif’s Yankee parents, a frugal couple who didn’t believe in wasting things.

My Franco-American parents were that way, too. I suppose it had something to do with growing up poor in Maine. From an early age, they learned to take good care of the things they had and to use what was on hand whenever possible. (They were also very generous, thus proving that frugality and generosity are not mutually exclusive.) My father was also a scrounge extraordinaire, and he passed on his love of scrounging to me.

Regrettably, I did not inherit my father’s knack for being handy. I am about as handy as our dog, Liam, and if we were both stranded on a desert isle, I don’t know how long we would last. Luckily, I married a man who is handy, but he has the unfortunate habit of whining whenever I come up with an idea for a project.

On the same day that we roasted the crackers, I told him that the time had come for him to make me a new container for the clothespins. The old bag was so torn that it wouldn’t be long before it would rip from its hanger and spill the clothespins on the ground. I had tried patching the bag with duct tape, a Mainer’s first line of defense when things fall apart, but that bag had defied duct tape and had continued to rip. We needed to proceed to Plan B.

I spied an empty laundry detergent jug and said to Clif, “If the top were cut off, two little holes could be punched in the side, and we could recycle the metal hanger from the old clothespin bag. Then, voilà, we would have a new clothespin container made from things we have on hand.” I handed him the jug and the old clothespin bag.

“Why does it always have to be me?” he whined, true to form.

“Here’s how it works,” I briskly reminded him. “I’m the idea person. You’re the handy one. You should be proud that you have these skills. You would not die if you were stranded on a desert isle.”

“Right,” he muttered, but he took the jug and the old clothespin hanger and made me a new container. Total time for this project? Ten minutes, max.

To say that I was thrilled with the results is an understatement. I was so pleased with the way the container turned out that I had Clif take a picture of it hanging on our line. Now, even though we are family with a modest income, we could have sprung for a new clothespin bag, just as we could have driven to Hannaford for another box of crackers.

But that was not the point. With both the crackers and the clothespin container, we used what we had on hand, and it gave me a great feeling to have done so. No new resources were required, yet we had what we needed in the end.

And the colorful afghan hanging next to our nifty new clothespin container? Made for me by my grandmother many years ago, when I was a teenager. Over and over, it has been washed and used, but this sturdy afghan looks nearly as good as it did when my grandmother gave it to me. My kind of afghan.

On Saturday, my daughter Shannon, our friend Alice, and I took part in a three-and-a-half-mile Walk for Hope to raise money for MaineGeneral’s Breast Care Program. According to an article about the walk in the Kennebec Journal, over 700 people participated and about $90,000 was raised. I think that’s pretty darned good for little central Maine, which is neither quaint nor affluent.

The day was gray, cold, and misty, but Shannon, Alice, and I had decided that as long as it didn’t pour, we were going to walk. So we made our way to the parking lot of Sam’s Club in Augusta, where the event started, to a big white tent with loud music, lots of people, vendors selling pink items, and a table with free hot drinks and Panera Bread cranberry bagels twisted to form the shape of a ribbon. While the bagels might have been a tad soft, they were just right for munching on the go before the walk started.

Thanks to Alice and her husband, Joel, we more than tripled our fund-raising goal, a modest $75. (I wanted our goal to be attainable.) We received a nifty pink insulated tote bag, which we of course gave to Alice.

The walk began with a very short rah-rah speech, and then we were off, hundreds of us walking down the road toward the University of Maine at Augusta and its nature trail. There is something special that comes from doing something good with a lot of people. I suppose it must stem from our tribal days. We certainly felt as though we were part of a tribe (and I mean this in the best sense), buoyed by good will, concern, and, while this might sound corny, love.

Little children walked, dogs walked, women of all ages walked, and lots of men walked. Shannon, Alice, and I were especially moved by how many men participated, and we reflected that breast cancer doesn’t only affect the women who have it but also their spouses and children. (I’m sure I’m not alone in feeling so sorry that this burden had to fall on my family as well as on me.) The men were all in good spirits, too, and when I got home, I suggested that perhaps Clif might like to come next year. He said he certainly would.

Despite the chill, despite the light drizzle, the walk seemed to pass by in a twink. Alice commented on how such things happen in the company of friends. Three friends. Seven hundred friends. Friends of all ages. Even some dog friends. A good walk. We’ll be doing it again next year.

Yesterday, Hannah and her human, Claire, came over for lunch. Hannah is a puppy my friend Claire recently adopted from the local Humane Shelter, and we both decided it was time to see how she would get along with my dog, Liam. With her black face, slender tail, and orange and black brindle coat, Hannah is an elegant girl. Claire thinks she’s a mix of boxer and Great Dane, but Hannah also has webbed paws, so who knows? One thing is certain: Hannah is the calmest, mellowest six-month-old dog I’ve seen in a long time. Quite different from Liam at that age; he was a Tasmanian devil.

Because yesterday was a workday, lunch had to be simple, and I made grilled cheese sandwiches, using homemade bread and a Maine cheddar. I also served a purple cabbage and yellow carrot coleslaw with a cider vinegar and brown sugar dressing. We had apples for dessert. (The cabbage, carrots, and apples were all local.)

The day wasn’t exactly fine, but it was warm enough to sit on the patio in my fenced-in backyard. From time to time, the wind blew a golden spray of pine needles and leaves onto the lawn, and Claire and I would stop our conversation to admire their flickering radiance.

I brought out the camera to chronicle the backyard lunch, but unfortunately the batteries stopped working after only a couple of pictures, which means I got a shot of Hannah and of the plated grilled cheese sandwich framed by the red leaves. Unfortunately, I didn’t get Claire. (And, no, the plate on the red leaves was not a Martha Stewart moment. It was a completely accidental setting.)

Claire and I chatted away, as we usually do. And the dogs? They hit it right off and had a fine time running around the backyard.

Lunch was over all too soon, and “Bring Hannah again,” I said to Claire as she left.

“I will,” Claire said.

Even though Claire assured me she’d be happy to have grilled cheese sandwiches anytime, I’ll have to come up with a few more simple lunches.

Christine Muhlke’s short piece from last week’s food edition of the New York Times magazine makes so many important points that all who are interested in food should read it. Muhlke describes how the food movement is spreading and then honestly comments on the elitist aspect of it. 

But, she also illustrates how despite the elitism, the food movement has been embraced by ordinary folks with ordinary incomes as well as by ordinary folks with below ordinary incomes. It seems that all over the country, people are growing, making, preserving, and cooking food. 

And not just in the country. Urban farming is on the rise, and according to The Atlas of Food by Erik Millstone and Tim Lang, “$500 million worth of fruit and vegetables is produced by urban farmers worldwide.” Go urban farmers! 

Muhlke also writes about the shocking fact that the city of Detroit is truly a food desert. It doesn’t have any chain supermarkets, and “90 percent of food providers are places like convenience and liquor stores.” But wonder of wonders, farming has hit Detroit, and those beleaguered but scrappy citizens are growing, cooking, selling, and, just as important, forming a community. 

Yes, the C word. Community. Muhlke ends with “As Carlo Petrini, the founder of the Slow Food organization, told attendees at Slow Food Nation in 2008, ‘Happiness and pleasure involve depending on others.’” 

It sure does. And Muhlke’s piece certainly gave this old foodie happiness and pleasure.

Regular readers of this blog will know that Farmer Kev (aka Kevin Leavitt) is an extraordinary young farmer (nineteen years old) in Winthrop, the town where I live. His energy, enthusiasm, and dedication to farming would be impressive at any age and are even more impressive in one so young.

He has a vegetable stand at the Winthrop Farmers’ Market, and during the growing season, our produce comes mostly from him. Readers, I swear that his vegetables taste better than vegetables from other stands. Especially his garlic and his delicata squash. Somehow, Farmer Kev has the touch.

Anyway, last spring, the editor from Maine Food & Lifestyle magazine asked me if I would write a piece about Farmer Kev. This I did, and it has been published in the current issue (#11), which is available at many bookstores in Maine. By the by, my husband, Clif, took the accompanying photos.

Do pick up a copy if you get a chance. Maine Food & Lifestyle is a very appealing magazine that chronicles Maine’s food journey, from restaurants to home cooks to artists. It’s worth subscribing to, if the budget allows.