October 23, 2105--Midcoast: Food Chain

It all began with Jill's garlic.

The seasonal people depart late September through October. The when depends on obligations "back home" and who has enough insulation to stay on into early November.

In our case we have little insulation. But if there is afternoon sun, the solarization heats the house so much that I've taken to wearing sleeveless shirts on sunny afternoons. And with our propane and electric heaters, our bed and bathrooms are always cozy, even if, as it does on some nights, the temperature dips into the 20s.

Leaving in stages eases the emotional transition that we feel as friend by friend people depart. Making it worse is knowing we are unlikely to see any of our Maine friends again until early May or June when the seasonal people regather.

As noted, the departure ritual starts with Jill's garlic.

Her family has been in seasonal residence in this part of Maine for decades, and through the years Jill, who is a master gardener, has had by far the best vegetable garden in all of Pemaguid. It is so varied and bountiful that she keeps her nearby neighbor (fortunately, we qualify) supplied with the freshest, tastiest, healthiest vegetables, from lettuces by the end of the spring, tomatoes mid summer, and carrots and beets a bit later.

Later still comes her memorable garlic. These are ready for harvesting in late summer and span the days just before she reluctantly leaves right throughout the time when we are forced out by the threat of freezing pipes. As so, we are well supplied with garlic during our final weeks. And thus we think a lot about recipes that feature garlic even though simply roasting it is a treat.

Memories of Jill and others linger with us as we take in the hoses, store the outdoor furniture, and need to pack up since added to Jill's garlic are hand-me-down foodstuffs from others who departed during the past three or four weeks.

All of us during our remaining time attempt to prepare meals that take into consideration the perishables that still stock our fridges and freezers. No one of us is so organized that by the time we leave there is nothing left that can't remain over winter.

And so, those who leave right after Labor Day pass along to those who plan to stay through September all sorts of good things. And then those late September/early November folks pass along what accumulated with them as well as that which remains from their own larders. There is this form of multiplier effect as the very last to leave inevitably have to figure out what to do with what ultimately will reside with them. It is good to have some year-round friends who are inventive cooks.

We inherited a freezer bag full of ham hocks from one friend who left two weeks ago as well as from her a half dozen frozen turkey cutlets (which Rona used to make turkey chili) as well as a frozen ham steak (still waiting for inspiration), a pound or so of frozen red cabbage (for which we quickly bought as an accompaniment a half dozen weisswurst), three dozen frozen soft-shell clams which promptly became spaghetti with white clam sauce, and lots of frozen egg whites and chicken stock. The stock is currently defrosting and will by tomorrow be an essential ingredient in butternut squash soup which we plan to prepare from the two squash bequeathed to us from a friend in Walpole.

As we didn't have a good idea about what to do with the ham hocks, in anticipation of our looming need to depart, we passed these along already to a nearby friend who plans to be here through Thanksgiving. She promptly used them to make two gallons of split pea soup, some of which flowed back to us. If only our dear friend who passed the hocks along to us was still in residence, some of Karin's soup would be back in her refrigerator awaiting a chilly evening for which it would be perfect.

That chilly evening I can guarantee.

August 22, 2014--Best of Behind: A Jew in Vermont

This was originally posted on October 3, 2007. Since then, my friend has made a significant adjustment. He pines less for Manhattan and takes pride in growing tomatoes--

To come to Vermont for a visit in the autumn to witness the leaves changing or in summer to get away from the heat of the city is a non-sectarian event. But to leave your roots behind in that city in order to live there permanently is decidedly something else.

My Jewish friend (who to protect him from himself will here be referred to as “he”) who moved up here eight years ago, put his condition this way as we sat in a vast meadow, having arrived at it after following an abandoned logging trail; sprawling on the cut hay grass and looking out over the broad Connecticut River Valley toward the White Mountains of New Hampshire—I cannot recall a more transporting vista or feeling more at one with nature—he said: “Every day, and I mean every day, I think about what I need to do to get back to New York City.”

His wife, also Jewish, made a remarkable adjustment to their new life. Actually, a remarkable transformation. Really, a remarkable metamorphosis. She owns horses and cows and sheep and chickens and slaughters and butchers the latter to feed the family. She takes care of and rides the horses to the hounds (truely) and for hunting. Last year she had a moose license from the county and this year is allowed to “take” one doe. She seems to know everyone and all about every aspect of their lives—even of the usually stoical Vermonters. Jewishness does not appear to have been a problem for her.

He on the other hand knows nearly no one, can’t distinguish the front end of the horse from the rear (and doesn’t care to learn); has allergies to virtually all of Vermont’s wildflowers (which proves beyond DNA evidence that he is Jewish); and even the sight of anything that contains cheddar cheese makes him instantly nauseous.

There are, I suspect, other Jews in Vermont. For example, there is something that looks very much like a Jewish Center in Woodstock. But you would never know this from him. Though he holds a Hanukkah party every December and invites to it everyone who he knows or suspects might be Jewish (don’t ask how he makes that determination), even stretching his definition of what makes one Jewish, at its most attended there were no more than ten people who showed up—and, to drive home his predicament, I understand he invited potential members of the Tribe from every part of the state.

The few friends he has made (he calls them “acquaintances”) are worried about him. Even the non-Jews. Those are, truthfully, more concerned than worried—concerned being the gentile way to be worried. So, concerned or worried, they have through the years made many suggestions and offered encouragement about things he might do that they feel he would enjoy and that might make him become more of a Vermonter. Like get into serious recycling or heating his home with wood fires or organic gardening or throwing pots. Or even developing an interest in nature. Some, more radically, thought he might like skeet shooting or gourmet cooking. To them he said, “But I'm from New York. Guns are illegal and I always ate out."

And, he insisted, after getting into source separation where he divided his clear glass bottles from his green glass bottles and his coated paper from his newsprint, and so on, everything they suggested and urged made him think about illness, dying, and, what else, death.

“A Jew after all,” he would insist, “is a Jew.” Though no one within 50 miles of where he lives understood any of this, they did respect his right to think that way. Vermont, after all, prides itself on its openness to all manner of views and differences. It was the first state in the union, for example, to legalize same-sex unions. Do you need to know anything more?

“When I made a vegetable garden,” he moaned, “I was surprisingly good at it. In Brooklyn, where I grew up, there was hardly any dirt to stick a seed into much less a backyard that wasn’t made of cement. So what would I know about gardening? Organic no less. But when it came time to harvest my crop, every time I pulled a radish or carrot from the ground it felt like I was committing a violation against the Commandment ‘Thou shall not kill.’ I could almost hear them crying in pain.”

 I nodded in understanding. “And even worse was when I bought two of the latest high-tech wood stoves and tried to heat our house that way. To be environmentally responsible. I did well at that too, but when I had to clean the grate all I could think about was how all those mighty logs were reduced to a mere handful of ashes. ‘Dust to dust,’ as the sages said. It took me weeks to recover from the depression.” Again, I nodded.

“And then I threw pots, even though I never could figure out how what I was doing had anything to do with throwing.” This sounds promising, I thought. “But I had my problems with that too. Metaphysical problems.” I had no idea where this was headed. “Because whenever I placed one of my vases or bowls into the kiln they came out shattered. I turned them into shards. Just like the Zohar says. You know, that ancient book of Jewish mystical lore. How Cabbalists believe that the world was once a perfect vessel that became shattered, with the shards scattered everywhere. And that we Jews have a responsibility, Tikkun, to regather those shards as our contribution to healing the world. So there I was in the pottery shed making more shards all the while thinking I’m not carrying out my responsibilities. In fact I’m making an even bigger mess of the world!”

To this I had nothing to say and so he continued, “But what was worst was trying to become interested in nature. You’re up here now to see the autumn leaves. Fine. You think they’re a majestic and beautiful sight. And you are right. Before we moved here, when we would come for a visit that’s what I also felt. But now, when Nature puts on this display, all I can think about, again, is dying and death. This is the dying season. Call me crazy,” and I was beginning to, “but that’s the way I look at things in Nature. Yes, things bloom and are beautiful but very soon they start the withering and dying.”

I decided not to talk about dormancy and regeneration and the promise of spring. After all, I was headed back to New York in a day and a half to my restaurants and cable TV, so I tried a different tack--“But maybe this is a good thing. I mean maybe what you are observing in Nature is to put you in touch with elemental things and thereby inspire you to make every moment count.” I only half-believed this, but I was trying my best to be a good friend.

“And tell me what will I be doing with all those moments that I’ll be counting?” He swept the horizon dismissively with his hand.

For this I didn’t have a ready answer and said to him, in part to change the subject, “Look at those clouds over the mountains. Aren’t they magnificent?”

“Clouds. Smouds. To tell you the truth, right now I could go for a nice pastrami sandwich.”

Amen, to that, I thought.

July 9, 2014--Weight of the World

We needed some crushed rock to fill empty patches in one of our garden paths. I went to the contractor's yard where we bought some last year. I brought an empty five-gallon bucket since it comes loose and has to be shoveled into something to be able to transport it.

It was a hot morning and I took my time filling the pail. When topped out I attempted to lift it and slide it into the back of our station wagon. Last year it was difficult, this year nearly impossible.

"This weighs a ton," I grunted to Rona who was getting out of the car to help me hoist it.

"Not exactly," she said, always the literalist.

"It feels like one, but if it's not a ton, then how much does it weigh?" I gasped.

"Maybe 50 pounds."

"Could be," I said now soaked with sweat.

"Maine is pretty much solid rock," Rona noted. "I wonder how much the whole state of Maine weighs."

"I'm not sure we can find that out but I do remember some years ago when Googling that I stumbled on how much the entire Earth weighs."

"How much?"

"I don't remember the specifics but we can look it up when we get home."

Which we did.

"It's an amazing amount," I said. "I don't know how to translate it into a number, like x-gazillion, but the actual number is 13,170,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 pounds.

"How do they know? I mean determine that?"

"Good question. Let me see if I can find out."

"Making it particularly complicated," Rona added, "the Earth's not made of a single substance. I remember from high school Earth Science that there's the mantle, the molten core composed, I think, of iron and so forth."

I turned to Scientific America for guidance, believing it was my original source some years ago.

Sure enough, from March 2004, "How Can the Weight of Earth Be Determined?" which begins with a version of scientific metaphysics--like, what is weight anyway?

If you weigh yourself on a bathroom scale, the article noted, and you're 190 pounds, on the Moon, because of its smaller mass, you weigh only one-sixth of that. And then in deep space you'd weigh nothing at all. And for that matter, neither would Earth.

So where does that leave you? Actually nowhere useful because the issue is not how much the Earth (or you) weigh beyond our solar system but right here on, well, Earth.

So how do we figure out how much Earth weighs on Earth?

As you might imagine there are fancy, mathematical ways to do this (which I used to but no longer understand), or one can use that bathroom scale in an unorthodox manner.

Open the bathroom window, preferable one on at least the second floor, and throw the scale out of it. Count how long it takes to hit the sidewalk. Then measure the distance from the window to the street and with these figures you can compute the acceleration (g) of the scale. The answer you will get is 9.8. meters per second (s^-2)  Knowing this value of g for Earth's surface, along with the gravitational constant G and the 6,731-kilometer distance to Earth's center, you have enough information to calculate Earth's mass--it will be 6 x 10²⁴ kilograms.  Or, 13,170,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 pounds.

When I explained all this to Rona (I mean, attempted to), she rolled her eyes up in her head and said, "Can we just go to the quarry now and get the crushed rock we need? I mean . . ."

June 23, 2014--Midcoast: Gardening

We've been here seven days and have already made three trips to Moose Crossing, the funky-named garden center 15 miles north on US 1 past Waldoboro.

Rona's last year's perennial plantings for the most part made it through the harsh winter. Just how harsh we heard on Friday at the farmer's market from Mrs. Chase, who makes the best pies in the Northeast (which means anywhere), who told us how her husband managed to keep the house warm all winter.

"We heat with wood and even have a wood-burning boiler for hot water. Usually winters he shovels out the ashes four, maybe five times. This year," she said with a broad smile, "he needed to do it eleven times. Can you imagine, eleven times!" It was clear she thought they had been through an adventure.

A few days earlier, it was with trepidation that we went first to the waterside gardens immediately after we arrived to see how things had fared.

The blue and white Lupine were fully two-feet tall, in extravagant bloom, bending in the wind off the bay. The Delphiniums planted in the center of Rona's rambling perennial border looked as if they had expanded three times since the early fall while the Foxgloves were feeling a bit unhappy. "Maybe they're too close to the Lupine," Rona mused, "The sun gets blocked. They need lots of sun."

But the pink Obedients were anything but obedient as they had naturalized north and south way beyond the boundaries Rona had set for them.

"Looks like I'll need to do some dividing," Rona said, quite pleased with herself as she looked out over her flower beds, "I know just where I can place what I don't want in the beds." Her gaze and gesture swept across the full expanse of her garden kingdom.

"Shouldn't we unpack the car and get settled? We haven't even looked in the house to see how it made it through the winter. There could be all sorts of . . ."

"Stop right there. I don't want you bringing any of your New York anxieties up to Maine and into the house. That's why we're here--to shelter ourselves from all that and to take on the peace and solitude and to . . ."

"I'm with you," I cut her off, "I agree with all that. But how come the garden always comes first and the house second?"

"You'd have to be a woman to understand."

She turned away to wander among her Roses of Sharon (doing very well) and her Dasante Blue Delphiniums (also exploding with new growth).

Rona's comment about gender and gardening caught me by surprise, but through the years I had noticed that almost all the gardening I've witnessed, note witnessed, was done by women. In fact, at Moose Crossing I don't ever recall seeing a man alone pulling a cart full of annuals. Yes, men lug along those rubber-wheeled carts but always, in truth like me as well, trailing a step or two behind while their wives select a Pink Astilbe (False Goatsbeard) or a Red Vein Indian Mallow. Their role, our role, is to try to patiently be of assistance until we can get back to our tool sheds and chain saws.

A couple of days later, after we had in fact ventured into the house (all was as we had left it), settled in, restocked the pantry and refrigerator, and Rona had divided and relocated some of her Obedients, I asked about "this business of women and gardens."

"I imagine you must also be thinking about women, or girls, and their horses."

"As a matter of fact, yes. That too. Do you think it's . . ."

"Rustic things?"

"Sounds possible. But I don't understand the women connection. Why you guys, I mean women, are so attracted to rural matters while we guys would rather spend our weekends lying around watching baseball on TV."

"And it's not because the men work for a living and need to decompress over the weekend and women stay at home, take care of the kids, do the cooking and cleaning so that getting out into the garden is a natural extension of that."

"Well," I said professorially, "in a lot of native societies women do the gathering while the men do the hunting. The gathering being looking for edible plants and roots and tubers. I suppose, a version of gardening."

"There could be some hard-wiring going on," Rona conceded. "But nowadays everyone is working, not that many of us do any gathering, and so clearly there's something else going on. I agree."

"Glad to hear that. What's going on?"

"I'm getting to it. We were up at Moose on Thursday and the place was really busy. It's prime planting time here. We have a short growing season and if new plants don't get into the ground in the next few weeks, they'll be goners by next spring, and not one person shopping for plants was a woman. Like you, there were men trailing along, schlepping wagons full of plants."

"And the meaning of all this is?"

"Simple--women are more connected to nature because they have the natural capacity to bear children and in most societies, even here, have the primary responsibility for raising them. I hope this doesn't sound sexist. What do feminists call this, Essentialism?" I nodded. "Gardening must somehow be related to these DNA-driven female capacities."

"I won't tell some of our friends what you're saying. I don't want to get you in trouble."

"I'm OK with this analysis. But there's at least one more reason."

"Which is?"

"We're just smarter than men about what's important. What sounds more important to you," she winked, "making and maintaining a garden or drinking a six-pack while watching the World Cup."

"I can tell you what the Brazilians would say."

"You mean the guys, right?"