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.

September 16, 2015--Tomatoes

Coming home after an early morning walk on the rocks circling Pemaquid Point, on the front porch Rona, seeing something, asked, What's that?"

"What's what?" I said.

"That bag," she pointed,"Over by the front door."

"I have no idea. Pick it up," which she did, "What's in it?"

Peering into the bag Rona said, "Tomatoes. A bag of tomatoes. And look, a few green peppers." She held one up for me to see.

"Tomatoes? Peppers? The peppers especially look wonderful." I smelled one, "Right from the garden. Who do you think left them here?"

"I have no idea," Rona said.

September 1, 2104--Midcoast: Too Much Nice

Again yesterday morning when we pulled up to our house, hanging from the latch on the shed door was a bulging plastic shopping bag.

"Ken," Rona said. I knew what she meant.

Peering into it, Rona said, "This time it's full of peaches, broccoli, and zucchini. Ken is amazing."

"Indeed he is," I said, feeling Ken's affection.

He has a large vegetable garden and we are beneficiaries.

Rhubarb comes early, shortly after we arrive for the season, and then, not long after, are his wonderful squash and string beans; and next, after the peaches and zuccs, another round of rhubarb and then giant butternut squash, which we use to make a hearty soup that is perfect when the fall weather sets in.

Usually when we are done with coffee at the diner, on Rona's seat, there's a bag from Ken. If we skip breakfast, Ken comes by and quietly hangs a bag on the shed door.

And occasionally, from our up-the-road neighbor, Jill--a very talented gardener--there might be a package waiting on the front deck with all the ingredients but olive oil that we need to make pesto--the basil and garlic right out of her overflowing garden.

"You know it's about to be September 1st," I pointed out with a shrug of resignation.

"September 1st? You're losing me. I thought we were talking about Ken."

"We were but it also means we only have about two months left before we need to head for the city. Before long it'll be too cold for us to stay here without the cottage being insulated."

"I know. But why does Ken's bag of veggies make you think about that? It's supposed to make us happy, not depressed."

"It does make me happy, and though all his and other's niceness is half the reason we want to be here, getting used to too much niceness will disarm us for when we'll be back in New York. One can't expect that there. Nice is not much of a virtue in the city. And unless we get used to less nice we'll be at a disadvantage back in town because it will make us vulnerable. Still needing things to be nice."

"You amaze me sometimes."

"Amaze you?"

"All the things you come up with to make you feel bad."

"I don't . . ."

"Yes, you do. You're very creative when it comes to anticipating in advance everything that can go wrong." I shrugged again. This time with a hint of apology. "You go from Ken's vegetables, which is such a wonderful thing, to worrying that his being giving leads to your imagining, anxisizing about how his generosity is a bad thing." She sighed. "Sometimes you are just too much."

"I just think I'm trying to be honest about my feelings. Isn't that something you always tell me you want me to do?""

"Yes, yes. But soon you'll again be telling me how Ken keeps bringing us firewood so we can keep the place warm so we won't have to leave so soon also upsets you."

"Not upsets me, but has the effect of disarming me emotionally. I mean I love it, but aren't you afraid that this kind of generous friendship can have some negative consequences when we're back in our dog-eat-dog environment?"

"I don't want to allow myself to think that way. I'd rather live taking things as they come. Enjoying the wonderful way life is here and then doing the same thing in the city. Which has other virtues. I mean we do enjoy being there, right?" She paused as I didn't respond immediately. "You do, don't you? I mean want to spend time there?"

"Yes, yes."

"And soon, closer to the time when we have to leave, you'll be reminding me about how during the winter many of our friends walk by our place after a storm to see how the house fared, letting us know not to worry. They even . . ."

"I know, send us photos to reassure us that all is well."

"And that presents problems for you?"

"It shouldn't, right? And all the other nice things that are too numerous to mention."

"I'm not going to tell you how to feel. I'm out of that business."

"And I'm glad for it."

I looked out over the bay. The tide was running in as if there were rapids in the water. It was another glorious day.

"Maybe," I said, "I should put all this on hold--my obsessing about niceness--until at least the end of the month. When we'd have only a month to go."

"How about holding off until mid-October? After your birthday. Better, until late in the month. After our anniversary."

"I can't commit to that, but I think I can hold out until I'm officially a year older." I smiled.

"That would be a nice present . . . to me."

"In the meantime, what should we do with Ken's broccoli?"