23. Cooking with Christie

New Year's Eve has always been an overrated holiday in my book. For years I ignored it by hosting a big open house on January 1, complete with a pot of black-eyed peas for good luck, of course. With 30 or so friends arriving on our doorstep that day, there was no way I could go out and party the night before. But more recently Bill and I have been going to Connecticut for the holiday to visit our friends Christie and Jay and I'm learning how to celebrate in style. Despite having to dodge snowstorms on each trip, I like this new tradition and hope it will continue.

Christie and I met in 1985 when our babies were baptized together in Dallas. Subsequently both of our families moved to New England and even though we live 400 miles apart our friendship has prospered. I-95 from Maine to Connecticut has become commonplace for both of us- no map needed. Up until their college years Christopher or Emily would usually be in tow and we even stopped for a visit on our way to Emily's first semester at GW.

Very early in our friendship Christie and I found we were both interested in cooking good, healthy and at times unusual food. We discovered the wisdom of Jane Brody together and have searched out many a recipe containing olives or capers. My cookbooks are filled with notations such as made this with Christie or recommended by Christie and I have a large pile of recipe clippings that she's sent me from the New York Times. Each of our visits has been a chance to experiment with something new or show off a recent success.

This New Years was no exception. On December 30 Bill and I headed down the highway to spend the holiday with Christie and her husband Jay. When we walked into the house savory rosemary pecans and spicy olives were awaiting us, with sherry and white wine to drink. Before much time had passed Christie and I began to discuss our New Year's Eve menu. We tossed around a few ideas and looked thru cookbooks and clippings. And we came up with a fabulous meal to celebrate the old and anticipate the new. Here's the menu:

Chicken with Capers and Lemons

Roasted Carrots and Parsnips

Green Goddess Salad

Strawberries and Pecans Flambe'

And of course, French champagne. Make that 2 bottles.

Below you'll find some recipes. As many of us enter the gloomy, bitter, dark months of winter, I recommend inviting a few friends over to share this meal, guaranteed to chase away the doldrums. Happy New Year!

Chicken with Capers and Lemons (serves 4)

Roasted Lemons:

3 medium lemons, scrubbed, thinly sliced and seeded

1 teaspoon olive oil

1/8 teaspoon sea salt or more to taste

Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper and arrange the lemons in a single layer. Brush lemons with oil and sprinkle with salt. Roast until slightly dry and beginning to turn brown around the edges, about 30 minutes.

Chicken:

Boneless, skinless, thinly sliced chicken breast halves, about 1 pound

1/8 teaspoon salt, or to taste

Freshly ground black pepper to taste

1/4 cup all purpose flour

2 teaspoons olive oil

1 1/4 cups fat free, lower sodium chicken broth

3/4 cup white wine

2 tablespoons rinsed and drained capers

2 teaspoons unsalted butter

3 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley, divided

Sprinkle chicken with salt and pepper. Dredge in flour to coat both sides. Shake off excess flour. In a large nonstick skillet, heat the oil over medium high heat. Add chicken and cook until golden brown, 2 to 3 minutes per side. Add chicken broth and wine and bring to a boil, scraping up any browned bits. Cook until liquid has thickened, about 5 to 8 minutes, turning chicken halfway.

Add roasted lemons, capers, butter, 2 tablespoons parsley and more pepper if desired. Simmer until butter melts and chicken is cooked through, about 2 minutes. Transfer to a serving platter, sprinkle with remaining parsley and serve.

Green Goddess Salad (we used a recipe from the New York Times, available online)

Sauteed Pecans with Strawberries Flambe' (from Bragg Pecans in Hondo, Texas) serves 4

1/3 cup pecan or other nut oil

1/2 cup packed brown sugar

1/2 cup brandy

1 cup fresh pecans

1 pound fresh strawberries, washed, hulled and sliced

1 quart vanilla ice cream

Saute pecans in oil with the brown sugar until sugar is dissolved and begins to bubble. Add strawberries and warm through. Add brandy, ignite, stand back and SCREAM! Allow alcohol to completely burn off and serve over ice cream.

22. A Funeral

The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God...

The Book of Wisdom

In my work as a church musician I find that I prefer to play for funerals rather than weddings. Before I am accused of being macabre, let me explain. Many couples come to Bar Harbor for "destination weddings" and treat the music for the ceremony as peripheral to the bride's gown, the flowers, the dinner and all that. Often the entire wedding party just seems eager to get to the reception afterwards and I end up feeling like the "hired help."

A funeral or memorial service is a different story, however. Music here is traditionally used to set a somber, soothing tone, and also allows mourners to recall memories of the beloved. But most of all it is able to express bereavement beyond words.

Last week I played for the funeral of a 20 year-old boy from Mount Desert Island. Benjamin had been at a party, drinking, and wandered outside where he passed out and died from exposure. From reading his obituary I determined that life had already thrown this sweet young man some hard knocks and I was captivated by this line: He will be missed by his canine companions Zoey and Danny.

About half an hour before the service I walked into the church to organize my music. Already there were two pews filled with stone-faced young women, staring silently ahead, full of grief and disbelief. Gradually the church filled to capacity with friends and relatives of this lobstering family, who was now facing the unthinkable. I played Bach and Brahms. Despite knowing that these works were most likely unfamiliar to the listeners, I played them anyway, confident of their ability to offer solace and comfort.

Our rector Jonathan tackled the circumstances of Benjamin's death head-on. He did not mince words about dying and acknowledged the questioning of God that was surely going on among the congregation. Why did God not save Benjamin? How could God let this happen?

Most of us have wondered the same... I grew up with a theology which encouraged me to believe in an all-powerful, omniscient God. This God had his finger on the world and controlled everything. Tragic events were somehow "God's will" and good people were rewarded with loving families and material success. I started the painful, never-ending process of questioning these beliefs while in college. And I see now that one's theology is never concrete; it ebbs and flows, expands and contracts, with the experiences life provides us.

It seems to me that what I call God is with us, period. In the bountiful times, the ordinary times, the horrific times, the brokenhearted times. There is nothing or no one who can protect us from life or death. We live, with all that encompasses, and we die. In the tragedy of Benjamin's young death my faith allows me to be comforted in knowing that in that cold, dark woods he was not alone.

21. A Texas Thanksgiving

It's that time of year again- snow boots down from the attic, frost on my car windows in the morning, hardening ground underfoot, growing darkness on both ends of the day. The leaves are off the trees and now one can see the houses, barns and clutter that have been hidden all summer. All these signs point to the November-December holidays. As an exile in Maine I have always found Thanksgiving to be the most difficult holiday to be away from Texas. Not Christmas, you might ask? No, Christmas is mostly about work for me- there's no time to feel homesick.

It's turkey day that gets to me. After living in Maine for 16 years we have never established our own Thanksgiving tradition. Several times we have had friends over and often have been invited elsewhere. We've tried restaurants and have gone to Texas once or twice. But I just can't get away from the feeling that Thanksgiving is really about sitting around a big table with my family and stuffing ourselves with a Butterball bird and cornbread dressing.

All of this should take place, of course, at my family home in Lubbock, and therein lies a new wrinkle in this year's celebration. It has now been a year since I have been to Lubbock: the family home has been sold and my parents have moved to a suburb of Dallas. And despite agreeing with the Dixie Chicks' view of my hometown- Dust bowl-Bible belt-Got more churches than trees- at times I find myself longing for the wide open spaces, dazzling light, and big, big sky.

When I learned that Emily would not be coming to Maine for Thanksgiving I just couldn't stand the thought. So I immediately started searching for affordable flights and a Sunday sub and Bill and I made plans to head to Texas for a week. We stayed with my mom and dad in their retirement apartment in Irving, visited some friends, heard the Dallas Symphony and enjoyed sunny, warm weather. But most importantly we had Thanksgiving dinner around a big, jovial table, surrounded by family.

Last Decemeber I wrote about my struggles with Yankee stuffing and my frustration at trying to replicate my mother's cornbread dressing. Well, I had a hands-on lesson from her and now I can do it! The torch of hosting Thanksgiving dinner was officially and successfully passed to my sister Amy. It wasn't Thanksgiving in Lubbock, but it was close enough.

I suppose many of us in our 50's question some of the choices we've made: leaving home to go to college, moving to the big city of Dallas, finally settling down in Maine. I can't help but wonder what it would be like to have my parents hear one of my recitals, to see my niece and nephew on a regular basis, to enjoy family gatherings frequently instead of twice a year. (And yes, I know those get-togethers can be burdensome.) My career and a treasure trove of good friends and memories are here in Maine, but I am sometimes lonely for those blood-ties.

This fall I've become well-acquainted with a musical setting of Robert Frost's The Road Not Taken by composer Randall Thompson. For many children memorizing this poem is de rigueur in elementary school, but thanks to this wistful, poignant song I feel that I have at last, as an adult, heard the meaning of Frost's famous words.

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost

20. An Older Man

Today is my husband Bill's 76th birthday...and I find that it is giving me pause. Bill does not look his age and is unusually fit for a septuagenarian; nonetheless that is his age. I am 54.

When we first met (I was 27) and were in the early stages of our relationship we were both acutely aware of our age difference. We noticed that people stared at us and were confused by our physical displays of affection. But as time went on we grew comfortable with each other and didn't notice those looks so much, and then when Emily was born it just didn't matter. Being worried about what a stranger thought was the last thing on our minds.

For perhaps close to 20 years our age difference was not much of a concern. My employers and our friends never said a word and my family stopped mentioning it. Bill's health was, and continues to be, excellent. But at a recent gathering I introduced myself to a woman and as I turned to introduce Bill she blurted out And this is your father! I've become aware that a change is underway which will affect my life significantly.

I am familiar with the encroachment of old age, watching it in my parents and aunt and in numerous choir members and church friends. It can be a slow diminuendo- some forgetfulness, a bit of confusion, physical ailments large and small, loss of hearing, stiffness and aching joints, disinterest in going out- but over the course of a few years one does notice the changes. I am starting to see these things in Bill, gradually, and I say this not out of fear, blame or dread, but as a way of looking honestly at the future.

While in Ecuador this past summer Bill passed out 3 times due to the inability of his heart to pump enough oxygen thru his body. High in the Andes, there was no modern medical care and we did not really know what was happening. It was frightening enough that we had the what if? conversation. Funeral wishes and the like. Fortunately these episodes were a result of the altitude and not an underlying health problem. But I didn't know that as I struggled to keep my suddenly frail husband from collapsing.

Back to the birthday...of course we had a party. In 26 years of marriage I remember only one year that we didn't invite friends over to celebrate. This year it was a small dinner party and I served an old favorite, Chicken Marbella. And for the first time in several years I made the cake, which was over-the-top scrumptious. So here's the recipe, and for you foodies out there don't prejudge the combination of a cake mix, instant chocolate pudding and chocolate chips. Take this cake to a party and they'll think you slaved for hours.

Death by Chocolate

(from Southwest Flavor by Adele Almador)

12 ounces semi-sweet chocolate chips

1 3/4 cups milk

2 eggs

1 devil's food cake mix

4 ounces instant chocolate pudding

Mix cake mix, milk and eggs for 30 seconds.

Add pudding and mix at medium speed for 2 minutes.

Stir in chips.

Pour into a greased and floured Bundt pan.

Bake at 350 degrees for 55 minutes.

Let cool 5-10 minutes before releasing from pan.

This cake gets better with age, so make a day or 2 ahead of time. I served it with vanilla ice cream and a sauce made from frozen Maine strawberries.

Happy Birthday, Bill.

19. Dinner with the Homeless

Situated at 8335 feet above sea level, the beautiful city of Cuenca, about half-a-million strong, lies in the midst of the Andes in Southern Ecuador. Arriving by air, one peers out the plane window over miles and miles of red tile roofs. The intellectual center of this part of the country, Cuenca has for centuries been the birthplace of writers, artists, poets and philosophers. After being in crowded, polluted Quito it is a relief to breathe clean air and to be free of the heartwrenching child beggars tugging on your sleeve.

The old part of the city oozes charm and history and the cobblestone streets are lined with one small quaint shop after another- hatmaker, silversmith, dentist, grocer. Many of the people still dress in indegenous clothing, including Panama hats and colorful ponchos. I had the feeling that the 21st century had not quite made it in the door. The Tomebamba River winds its way through the city and on sunny days one can watch women and children washing their clothes here and then laying them on the banks to dry.

In the middle of the city is a large, traditional market containing dozens of stalls overflowing with fresh produce, meat and fish. Huge baskets of fresh blackberries, potatoes of every kind, slabs of meat hanging from the ceiling and cattle hooves artfully arranged are just a few of the market's offerings. Of course we gringos were afraid to sample much, but the place was hopping with regular customers on a weekday morning. In the midst of the crowds and hustle bustle I saw a young mother sitting on a staircase cradling her child, around eight years old, in her lap. The boy was handicapped, unable to hold up his head or focus his eyes, and near the mother was a beggar's cup. This scene stopped me dead in my tracks and I was frozen in place, seemingly incapable of either following my group or placing money in her cup. Finally, for fear of getting lost in the crowd, I turned to catch up with the others and to this day I do not understand why I did not give the woman a twenty dollar bill, or more. I regret it deeply.

For me, the high point of the choir tour to Ecuador was the time spent at La Iglesia de San Fransisco in Cuenca. A few years ago our conductor Ray and his partner David befriended the priest at this church, Padre Rigoberto Jara. At that time the church was falling into disrepair and struggling to keep its congregation together. Padre Rigoberto, a young dynamo, has brought the church back to life. The roofs are repaired, work has begun on the interior and there is a large, enthusiastic congregation. And he has begun an important mission for the area, a much-needed homeless shelter.

The day of our concert at La Iglesia, which was to be a benefit for the shelter, Ray, David and I went to the church a couple of hours early to check out the performance situation (specifically the keyboard!). There we met Hugo, a generous and enthusiastic young man, who was loaning us his keyboard for the concert. He had recently graduated from the university in Cuenca, where he studied music. Hugo was eager to demonstrate the possibilities of the keyboard and I asked him to play something for us: to my surprise he launched into a passionate, virtuosic performance of a Chopin etude.

Ray, David and I were then invited by the priest to his private quarters for tea and cookies. The four of us sat around a plain table, struggling to communicate across a significant language barrier. Padre Rigoberto's gratitude was palpable and I was touched at his offering of hospitality, a true example of where two or three are gathered...

And then it was time for dinner. The choir had arrived and I'm not sure if any of us knew that the meal was to be at the homeless shelter, adjacent to the church. We climbed a rickety metal staircase to the dining area, where I witnessed innumerable acts of mercy and kindness. A tiny old man, shuffling up the stairs, was afraid of our presence and tried to turn around and leave. One of the workers gently took his arm and guided him back into the room, refusing to let him go away hungry. The servers and the homeless were often on a first-name basis and there was genuine concern that everyone was getting enough to eat and would have a safe place to sleep that night.

Yes, it was awkward and uncomfortable, sitting in the midst of these homeless men and women. Even if we'd spoken the same language, what does one say in this situation? Some were gregarious and others would not even make eye contact. As the simple but nutritious meal was served Ray rose from his chair and asked the choir to sing a blessing- Peter Lutkin's The Lord Bless You and Keep You, which they had learned in Spanish. This is a beautiful, traditional benediction with a glorious, extended Amen that even under "normal" circumstances can bring listeners to tears. But it was so much more in this setting- a rare and extraordinary bridge between strangers and across borders, an affirmation of the human spirit.

How does one perform after an experience like this? Somehow we did- the church was packed and some of our dinner companions even came to listen. When we performed the songs from Ecuador the audience members joined in, singing at the top of their lungs, swaying, clapping. Padre Rigoberto was ecstatic and even Hugo came up to me afterwards and said Hey! You're not too bad!

This city and these people are thousands of miles from Maine. Many lack the basics of sufficient food, adequate housing and medical care. The choir did raise some much needed cash for the shelter at concerts in Brunswick and Cuenca, and we brought blankets and towels from the US. That is important; it is critical. But there is more: with our music we fed their spirits, their souls, and that is important, too.

18. Homage to Spencer Pond

A couple of weeks ago Bill and I returned from our annual pilgrimage to an old sporting camp on Spencer Pond, a small body of water near the majestic Moosehead Lake in northern Maine. For the eighteen summers we have been going there it has been a great place for me to indulge in my favorite sports of gentle hiking, canoeing and, most of all, reading. There are six cabins, each with its own personality, plus another for the owners who live there from May thru November. Surrounded by paper company-owned land and an hour from the nearest town, one must traverse a dusty, bumpy gravel road for twelve miles to get there, always prepared to dodge lumber trucks driving fully loaded down the middle of the narrow roads.

For all these years Spencer Pond has been my get-away before starting the busy fall schedule. And one of the things that makes it so enticing is that the cabins are primitive: no electricity, no running water, plumbing "out back." They each have two gas lamps (barely OK for reading), oil lamps in the bedrooms, hand pumps at the sink and a woodstove. Somehow the absence of modern amenities takes a huge amount of stress off my shoulders, as do the screened porches overlooking the lake.

We first went to Spencer Pond in 1992, when Emily was seven. We stayed for an entire week and what a luxury that was! Emily was a curious child and loved the adventure of being out in the woods. She spent hours everyday in the swing that hung between two enormous pines, lost in her own world of imagination. As she approached her teenage years a trip to Spencer Pond became less appealing, unfortunately. What? A week alone with Mum and Papa? No friends, no TV, no radio? Occasionally we acquiesced and let her stay with a friend, but I missed her presence desperately. To her chagrin she came down with mono one year right before our scheduled trip and of course she had to go with us. Not only was Spencer Pond the perfect place for her to rest and recuperate, that time away with her was a precious gift to me.

One might think that all those visits would run together and in a way they do, but there have been some stand-out memories. Quite a number of years ago, when my parents were in better physical shape, they and my aunt went with us. We stayed in the largest cabin and immediately discovered that the plumbing situation was going to be a problem. And then there was the issue of Aunt Dot and her purse: here we were, literally in the middle of nowhere, and she wouldn't leave her purse in the cabin because there was no lock on the door. So there goes Dot, traipsing around the woods with her purse in hand. At one point we finally convinced her to leave the purse in the cabin while we took a walk, and upon our return she was just sure someone had taken some of her money!

Our dear west coast friends, Susan and Jay, accompanied us one year. They stayed in their own cabin, but we cooked all our meals together. And they were marvelous! Susan and Jay are two of the best cooks I know and we took camp cuisine to new heights. Jay was very excited about trying his luck fishing and spent a lot of time out on the dock casting a rod and reel. One early morning I was reading on the porch when Jay quietly peered through the screen. Julia, I have a little problem here. He showed me his upper arm and a fishing lure with a large hook was stuck there. Ouch. I quickly proved to be no nurse, so Bill and Jay went to awaken Bob, the owner. He roused himself from sleep and managed to extricate the barb, saving Jay a trip to the ER, at least an hour away.

Showering is a challenge, too, but one I eagerly embrace. The first step is to heat up about 2 1/2 gallons of water on the gas stove and then transfer it to a shower bag. As you bathe you must be judicious with this water, closing the clamp when you don't need it. You cannot stand and enjoy the hot water flowing over your back for minutes and minutes as you might in a modern shower. Bill has been slow to learn this and on at least two occasions I have heard screaming profanities coming from the shower stall and a request for his swimming trunks. Covered in soap and shampoo he's had to make a run for the lake to dive in and rinse off.

Getting away like this every year gives me some perspective not only on my life, but on our collective lives. Coming back to "civilization" I am acutely aware of the waste we indulge in: food, water, energy. I am reminded of the futility and impermanence of our materialistic culture. And most painful of all I witness myself participating in all this, swept along by the influences around me.

I like the simplicity of life at Spencer Pond and I like who I am there. Every year I strive to bring that person back with me: a woman who takes time to watch the birds, have a leisurely cup of tea, write letters, walk in the woods, pray. I return to the "real world" with life on a schedule, bills to pay and a balancing act of commitments every day. I have yet to find a workable balance between the quiet I crave and the work I love.

Our time in the north woods this year was especially poignant as our friends who own and manage the cabins, Bob and Jill, are retiring. A search for a new manager is underway and I hope the right person is found. But something tells me that Bill and I are going to take a year off and explore somewhere new- for some inexplicable reason that just makes sense to me. If that is the case I know it will only be a short suspension from the beauty and peace I find in my pilgrimage to Spencer Pond.

17. Dining Alfresco

Here in Maine we are in the midst of an unusually uncomfortable hot spell. After breaking out in a sweat from a simple walk down the block I try to remember the interminable winter with its endless snowstorms as well as this year's June and July with days and days of rain. And when I voice a complaint about the heat people often say Aren't you from Texas? You should be used to this! But the truth is one usually deals with the heat in Texas by turning on the air-conditioning; in most cases that is not possible here. And after a week of 90-degree plus temperatures and equal humidity everything is hot. Even the pets stretch out under the ceiling fans and move as little as possible.

Finally, though, we can eat outdoors on the balcony without wearing a sweater! Despite the sultry house I look forward to preparing a cool meal and dining alfresco after the sun drops below the maple trees. Here's the perfect menu after practicing all day in a hot church or doing paperwork in my sweltering 2nd floor office, and you never have to turn on the stove or oven:

Mediterranean Tuna Salad

Chilled Canataloupe

Hearty Bread with Real Butter

Sauvignon Blanc

I'll include the recipe for the salad, adapted from the August issue of Eating Well.

1 can beans (make it easy and use whatever you have on the shelf)

2 cans water-packed tuna, drained and flaked (5 to 6 ounces each)

1 red bell pepper, finely diced

1/2 cup finely chopped onion (red or Vidalia is nice)

1/2 cup chopped fresh parsley, divided

4 teaspoons capers

1 1/2 teaspoons finely chopped fresh rosemary

1/2 cup lemon juice, divided

4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, divided

Freshly ground pepper

1/4 teaspoon salt

8 cups mixed salad greens

Combine beans, tuna, bell pepper, onion, parsley, capers, rosemary, 1/4 cup lemon juice, and 2 tablespoons oil. Season with pepper. Combine the remaining lemon juice, oil and salt in a large salad bowl and add the greens, tossing to coat. Divide the greens among 4 plates and top with the tuna salad.

I generally have all these ingredients on hand and am lucky to have these herbs in my garden. Make sure the cantaloupe is perfectly ripe and the wine a little dry, then ENJOY! A scoop of sorbet or a piece of chocolate tops it all off nicely.

Bon appetit!