Eating life alive (on a toasted buttered bun)

It's a cold, damp day - whiskey weather, I call it - and while I could be sulking at the fact that it's almost June and I'll still be wearing my long underwear to bed tonight, I'm fending off the bone chill by cooking in my camper.  This afternoon I harvested six big stalks of rhubarb from the patch alongside the farmhouse.  I mixed together a sugary, buttery crust from my mom's classic rhubarb bar recipe and topped it with the gooey mixture of chopped rhubarb, sugar, flour, and egg.  It baked in my tiny camper oven for 40 minutes while I prepared my dinner, and filled the space with warmth and sweet scents and the memory of home.  I'll take the bars to a farm potluck I'm attending tomorrow, proud to share this gift of myself, my family, and my farm.

My friend Sarah once said to me, "KJ, you eat life alive."  I took it as a compliment and a command.  This last week, I feel like sunk my teeth into a big juicy chunk of life here in Maine.

While I am loving life on the farm, cozy nights reading by the fire in the yurt at night, the peace and solitude of living in the meadow, I've always been an itchy little bug, eager to explore my surroundings.
One of the reasons I most love my location here at Black Kettle Farm is that I get to live in an area of rural farmland, winding roads through thick woods and rolling hills of pasture, but I'm also close enough to a handful of awesome little cities where I have access to the things that I always loved about living in New York.  Last week, I went to a farmer training workshop and potluck, saw one of my favorite authors read at a great independent bookstore, went to a bar for live jazz, had a date a newly opened noodle bar, and took a Nia class.  All the things that make me tick.

On Sunday, I randomly picked a destination from my hiking guide, hopped in the car, and drove 90 minutes north to Reid State Park, at the end of a peninsula in mid-coast Maine, near Bath.  The skies were overcast and it rained as I drove up Route 1, but by the time I reached Reid, the sun had come out, and I was rewarded with a beautiful day for exploring.  Since I'd arrived early, I nearly had the place to myself and I walked along the sandy beach, marveling at the expansiveness I felt in myself, in this place.  Once my sneakers had filled with sand, I gave in and kicked off my shoes, letting the bitterly cold and foamy ocean waves touch my toes.  I slung my fleece jacket over my shoulder and let the sun warm my skin.  Goldfinches flitted about and plovers scurried alongside me on the shore.  I gave myself a little kick for not thinking to bring a picnic for myself - this would have been the perfect place to settle in with a book and a few snacks for an entire day.  But I wandered until my stomach told me it was time to go.

Luckily, I recalled that my friend Ron had recommended a place not far from where I was, Red's Eats, which often tops the list for "Best Lobster Roll in Maine".  I drove to Wiscasset eager and hungry.  No surprise - it was Memorial Day weekend and the place was overrun with tourists, but I sucked it up and dealt with the crowd.  On the flip side of a 40 minute wait, I sat down to enjoy my lunch: a heap of sweet lobster meat on a toasted buttered bun, with melted butter on the side, an order of coleslaw and a root beer.  I left the place with my annoyance abated and my taste buds sated.

It goes without saying, but what I'm really coming to appreciate more and more as I chomp my way through Maine is that so much of what makes food good is about the quality of the ingredients, and you just can't compete with local.  Most days in my camper, I make an omelet or an egg burrito for lunch.  We get our eggs from a CSA workshare member or from neighboring farms, and I cook them with chives I clip from our herb garden.  Each time I cook the eggs, I remember those Julia Child videos about how to cook a perfect omelet.  I rarely mastered it when I was living in Brooklyn, buying my eggs from the natural grocer down the street.  But when I cook these eggs in my camper, they are effortlessly perfect.  Fluffy and beautiful and tasty.  And so, sure, there are many factors in making the perfect omelet - the cookware, the heat, the technique.  But really, when it comes down to it, it's all about the egg.

I feel such immense gratitude for my life here these days - the deliciousness of the food, the beauty of the place, the unending sense of discovery.  My friend Adrienne said to me the other day, "It sounds pretty good to be you right now, KJ."  And I concur - it ain't half bad.