The New Normal

The new normal is city living.  It is ambulances screaming by at odd hours of the day, food fumes wafting through my apartment window, walking down the street for my favorite ramen.  The new normal is ocean drives and city views.  The new normal is slightly unconventional and unpredictable (therefore simultaneously scary and exciting).  The new normal is facing my fears.

The new normal didn’t happen overnight.  Instead, it crept up unexpectedly, and later than I thought it would arrive.  But I knew it had arrived when I woke up one Wednesday three weeks ago and realized the sadness had finally almost disappeared.  At first I thought it was a fluke – a day with no tears, gut-wrenching guilt, and an urge to numb my emotions with sugar-laden carbs.  But I coasted through one day, and then a second day, and then a third day without any tears, and I realized that the dawn of a new life that I had intentionally pursued and crafted – even having lived the framework of my new life for several months - had finally arrived.  

It didn't hit me like a flood or even like a wave, like the high of new love; rather, it was a sense of elevated evenness that might not have otherwise felt so remarkable if it hadn't been contrasted against months of mourning and grief.  It felt like the old (new) me was back.  

Falmouth from causeway to Mackworth Island, Maine.

It was only upon the arrival of the new normal that I  realized how much my life had changed in less than a year, the result of huge life changes that I had made in merely six months.  I had not only made the decision to get divorced, but consequently had moved to a new city and changed office locations (albeit at the same company).  Throw in a family life crisis, and frankly, it was a lot.  

And though, minus the family crisis, it was not without careful consideration that I made these decisions voluntarily.  Just the same I could have never anticipated how altogether these changes would initially wreak such havoc on my emotional (and physical) well being.  One life change can be hugely stressful, but three is triply stressful, even if they are changes intended to improve your life in some way.  But that is life, and it is these kinds of experiences that ironically make our lives feel so rich.

So, when I woke up that morning, experiencing joy and gratitude simply from the sun that was filtering through my bedroom windows, things suddenly felt new, and simultaneously normal. The new normal had finally arrived. 

It goes without saying that life is different than it was a year ago. Having once lived in a house in the country, I now live in an apartment in a city.  Having been a country club member, I am now a card-carrying Planet Fitness member.  Having had established friendships and a life in a community in which I lived for nearly 10 years, I am now in a new community making new friends.  

At the same time, my essence is still the same: I still enjoy my same morning routine of working out and eating oat bran; I still relish in me time; my heart still beats for the same kinds of passions and pleasures.  And though there are aspects that I miss from the old normal, it is the possibilities - those intangibles - in the new normal that I could never attain while remaining in the old normal, that which ultimately guided my decision-making in the end. As hard as it is (and hell, it really was so hard), sometimes you have to say goodbye to the old to usher in the new.  

"Being alive is a paradox."

“Being alive is a paradox, an ongoing mix of things that on the surface don’t always seem to make sense.  But voicing what doesn’t seem to make sense helps. It’s like an orchestra tuning up to play together. We have no chance of discovering the fullness of our inner music, if we don’t let the players in our hearts and minds and spirits tune.” 

– Mark Nepo, The Book of Awakening

In having lived in Portland now for just over three months, I have to pinch myself  every day because I love it so much – the energy, the people, the food(!), the architecture, everything.  Lately, I've been waking up at dawn to take my daily constitution (i.e., power walk) down Congress Street, to the water, back up Commercial Street, and through the West End and back to my apartment.  The sights, the sounds, the smells of the city – it’s a completely sensorial experience that makes me feel so fucking happy to be alive. 

Conversely, there are moments at the end of the day, when I'm reclined on my sofa, reading and/or listening to music, that I'll reflect on a foregone memory or experience and tears will suddenly well in my eyes.  Typically, it'll be over in a few minutes and the brush with sadness will be washed away with the tears.  This, quite ironically, makes me feel fucking alive too. And there is no shame, no guilt, because for me, it's a fleeting emotion that I clearly needed to deal with.  A big part of life is experiencing and feeling it all – the good, the bad, and the ugly.

The spontaneous tears are less frequent than they used to be, especially 6-9 months ago when all I seemed to do was cry, but they’re still there on occasion.  And it would be wrong to ignore them, to dull them somehow by distraction, or to otherwise feel guilty about feeling fleeting moments or sadness, because they’re a byproduct of an emotion that is very much alive in me. If I sanitized myself of that, I would be denying a big part of who I am and where I’m at.  

The other day I came across a Brene Brown quote that says, “We can’t selectively numb emotion. Numb the dark and you numb the light.”  I thought that was so poignant because many of us feel that in order to feel happy (the pinnacle of all emotions) we need to scrub away all sadness or all remnants of it, and that if allowing sadness to creep into our lives, there will be no room for joy or pleasure.  In actuality, it is the full range of emotions that are essential to the fabric of living an authentic life.  Diluted joy and self-convincing pleasures are not nearly as rich as the kind of joy/happiness that is felt when contrasted with sadness/anger/hurt, and all are inevitable and natural human emotions that should not be dulled or diluted. 

Sometimes crying at odd times doesn't "make sense," especially if you feel like your life is otherwise rich and full.  But it is the accepting of the paradoxes, the shades of gray, the complexities within us that provide us with the platform for growing and evolving.  By not accepting these paradoxes - these moments of unexpected tears or brushes with sudden joy and love - we are rejecting an authentic, genuine, sometimes messy life.  

Call me crazy, but a self-imposed sterile and safe life with no risk, no curiosity, no complications is inevitably a boring one.  I'll take a slightly flawed orchestra in development over an auto-tuned produced electro beat any day (though I do like my electro on occasion - but in my ears not as a metaphor to life).

Maine Beer Company's Lunch: The Soulmate of Beer?

I visited Maine Beer Company’s (new) digs in Freeport, Maine, over the long holiday weekend and I will say that it didn’t surprise me that the brewery, which includes a bustling little tasting room, lives up to the growing reputation of its product.  Before I go too far, I should mention that I only know about craft beer by way of reading about it and taking sips from my husband’s glass.  Being the curious cat that I am, however, I find myself intrigued by the craft beer movement.

What’s intrigued me about Maine Beer Company is its entire approach to its product.  From the bottle, which is taller and more slender than a standard beer bottle and therefore more akin to a wine bottle, to the crisp and clean-like-linen label, to the slogan “Do what’s right”, Maine Beer Company is all about quality over quantity, with nothing – from taste to image -- being sacrificed.  It's apparent that the product, the beer, sells itself, which is suggested on the label as being consumed within 90 days of the "stamped born date" as "[h]oppy beers do not age well."  Lunch, Maine Beer Company’s perhaps most sought-after American IPA, receives a world-class rating of a 97 by Beer Advocate, emits a delightful aroma of citrus and pine.  And though I’m no connoisseur, it is the most delicious-smelling beer I’ve ever set my nose on.  No exaggeration. 

After visiting the birthplace of Lunch, the tasting room of which is situated in a light and airy space where you can order all MBC’s offerings as well as some interesting mashups off a chalkboard, I was struck by how the space itself was a continued reflection of the company’s product with its white-washed walls, hand-carved taps, and large picture window where you can watch beer being made as you sip an IPA born yesterday and play a little game of Jenga with your friends.  All of this is comfortably flanked between a pastoral farmhouse setting and Coastal Route 1.  Ah, Maine - the way life should be.

Like Maine Beer Company, I am a quality over quantity person.  Take a look at my friends and you will see what I mean.  They can be easily counted on two hands and are all equally incredible people: smart, interesting, wonderful, and wise.  They all happen to have superior qualities to me, which I'm well aware of, and hope that through immersion their greatness will eventually rub off on me.   

Maine Beer Company is kind of like that knock-your-socks-off person you meet who’s almost too good to be true:  Smart.  Interesting.  Deep and also funny.  Humble.  Wise.  Attractive.  Fun to be around.  Refined but not snobby.  Can be found uptown or upta camp.  And bonus!  (Also happens to be quite sexy.)  As you probably know, this is a next-to-impossible combination, though of course it does exist.  Hey, just take a look at Lunch!  But when it comes down to it, many of us are a little intimidated by that knock-your-socks-off beer, person, or thing, and instead settle for what is easy, cheap, and ubiquitous.  Though my good friends aren't easy, cheap, and ubiquitous, I happen to go for this combination in my mascara (which is usually L'Oreal Voluminous, if you really want to know.) 

Sometimes, people will go for what’s a little below them because it has the dual effect of temporarily boosting their egos while also expending no intellectual or emotional energy on their part, which is not always a bad thing, though it is usually accompanied with temporary gratification and ultimately leaves them kind of bored and under-stimulated in the end.  To get to the thing that knocks your socks off typically takes a little extra work, a bit of effort, some hustle and flow.  Take MBC’s Lunch, for example.  It can be hard to find at your typical corner store, is rather pricy at $6 a bottle, and might be confusing to the palate at first, which is why many of us go for the easy-to-get and often underwhelming Budweiser; the overrated and oversweet Pumpkinhead Ale (just because it's seasonal doesn't make it better); or PBR, the beer that everyone knows and everyone makes fun of, but will still hook up with, because hell, cheap ass is still ass.   

Though my friends would receive similar ratings to MBC’s, I actually happen to have a beer palate of a five year old, which is why you will likely find me sipping on any sudsy low-end light beer, if my preferred drink of choice -- a vodka tonic -- is not available (though if you know me really well my ultimate preference would be chocolate cake).  So, let's be real here -- who am I to write about Maine Beer Company's Lunch?  All I can say is that I know a good thing when I see it. 

Why I Like the Big K (Where Image Isn't Everything)

Despite the narrow aisles and low ceilings, constructed for a time of skinnier people and skinnier carts, Kmart feels simultaneously spacious and airy and at the same time, from a different era.  You go there not because the prices are lower (like Walmart) or for its snazzy, trendy wares (like Target); you go there because there will be no lines, no people to run into from work, but also likely no pocket-sized Pizza Hut/Dunkin’ Donuts/Starbucks (which is neither unfortunate nor fortunate, I suppose).

At Kmart, there happen to be fewer shoppers sporting SpongeBob PJ pants and slippers, screaming kids, and the current common cold du jour than the Walmarts and Dollar Trees of yore, though it is not to say that the store doesn't cater to a humble group of folk.  At my local Kmart, for example, there happens to be a high percentage of Franco-American senior citizen shoppers with their polyester pants and carts stocked with whatever cleaning products that happen to be on sale, which provide a certain familiarity because they happen to remind me of my own late Franco-American grandmother.  
 

Nevertheless, while I am never particularly jazzed by the stock of goods that Kmart has to offer (things like storage bins and shampoo always seem to be just a little inflated in price and there is no particular flashy gimmick, such as the promise of a nice stash of new Essie nail polish or trendy, one-season-only apparel freshly hung on the clearance rack), there is something warm and fuzzy about the Big K, and what can I say? I am a real sucker for the warm and fuzzy.

Typically, the soundtrack at Kmart brings me straight to the late 1980s or 1990s, playing ballads from Heart or Celine Dion or even Amy Grant (I believe "Baby Baby" happened to be playing the last time I was there), and it makes me want to head straight to the coloring book aisle and pick out a little something for my former 6-year-old self. 
 

 

In its glory days, the Kmart I used to go to was a bustling destination complete with a well-stocked music department, not to mention Walkmans galore.  But the especially exciting feature at the Kmart from way back when was its in-house cafeteria, which, if you could get past the cloud of cigarette smoke, lent a delightful little reprieve to the end or middle of the Big K shopping experience.  They had every fatty, processed, nutrient-devoid dreamboat snack you could want: hot dogs, chicken fingers, French fries, various cream pies, your standard stash of handy-sized chips, and a nice selection of fountain sodas (including, I believe, Mello Yellow).  The cafeteria abutted the hair product section, which was next to the cosmetics section, which meant that the Caboodles (remember those?) were somewhere mixed in between.  How I remember this is no matter, but I loved my Caboodles almost as much as I loved my perm. 

But back to 2013.  I found myself wandering the aisles this past Saturday, well, because I needed some laundry detergent stat and because Kmart happened to be next to the record store where I picked up some Seals & Crofts (summer is when I crave the smooth '70s tunes).  And while I was there it occurred to me how grateful I was to be able to have the freedom to aimlessly wander the aisles of Kmart on a Saturday, but also how grateful I am that there is such a place in 2013 that is neither flashy, nor hipster, nor bottom-barrel cheap, nor particularly relevant, which is, quite honestly, really refreshing.  

 

With its underwhelming aesthetic and lack of identity, Kmart is a kind of unassuming and safe haven, much like Empty Nest (that everyone used to watch but everyone apparently forgot about besides me, it seems), or maybe it’s just where I like to spend a random hour on a random Saturday afternoon, simultaneously out in the world while also away from it.  We all need a little of that in our lives, I think.

Image credit: Pinterest

Just a lovely April weekend.

I love a good weekend spent in the nest, where I can get caught up on housework, dig out the clutter in my closets, and experiment with new recipes for a Saturday night meal – all, of course, at a leisurely yet bustling pace.  (It sounds contradictive, but you know what I mean, right?)

Since completing my 21-day cleanse a couple weeks ago I have introduced grains back into my diet, but otherwise have predominantly maintained the eating regimen.  (Full disclosure, though:  I did enjoy my first Gifford’s chocolate-chip ice cream of the season on Easter Sunday.  And yes, it was amazing.) 

They say a habit (good or bad) takes 21 days to develop, and during the cleanse I realized that I could actually give up certain foods I never thought I could cut out of my diet, like refined carbs (Crackers! Croutons!  Candy!), for example.  Now, with the exception of off-beat cravings for Popeye’s fried chicken and homemade brownies (of which I will still allow myself to indulge in on occasion, because let's just be reals here), my desire for non-inflammatory alkaline foods (green vegetables, etc.) has come to satisfy my in palate in ways I never thought possible, which is still just crazy to me, but alas.  In addition, I’ve continued my morning ritual of drinking freshly made green juice because it makes me feel amazing and energetic and quite frankly because now I don’t want to start my day with anything else.  Oh, how I love the power of habit, especially when it's a positive one!

Leading a healthy lifestyle is easy and fun when you’re around people who share the same interest, and I'm very lucky that way.  Having my husband’s new business partner and his wife over for dinner was particularly enjoyable because they are gluten free (and have been for years).  It was a fun challenge to marry a plant-based meal with a gluten-free one.  For starters, I made Kris Carr's Crazy Sexy Kale salad, a delicious salad made by “massaging” the tough kale leaves along with avocado and red peppers, finished with fresh-squeezed lemon and cayenne pepper and oil (which I actually replaced with a few splashes of balsamic vinegar since the salad would be moist enough with the 1.5 avocado).   I kid you not when I say that it was kind of orgasmic, which I used to say about chocolate cake, and I still think that, but now I might have to relegate this kale salad to that category as well.

 

For the main dish, I made a vegetable lasagna, of which the “noodles” were thinly sliced summer squash and zucchini, and kale and walnut pesto.  As I cut into the dish, I warned everyone: “This may not be my greatest culinary achievement yet” fearing that it might be a dreadfully boring amalgam of bland stewed vegetables.  Thankfully I was wrong – it was flavorful and rich tasting and also a huge hit, paired with my guests’ delicious homemade gluten-free garlic rolls.  I capped the meal off with a tofu and avocado chocolate mousse sweetened with fresh Maine maple syrup and honey, which I will definitely be making again.  (Only problem was the recipe made only four tiny ramekin-sized servings.)

And today is Sunday, my favorite day of the week.  No schedule; no commitments; PJs until noon. Just the way I like it.

Simple Sunday Soup

It is fall here in Maine, and I spent a dreary Sunday nesting as I often do on days like these. 

The world outside my window.

This generally includes making a big meal that will provide a few leftovers for the workweek, along with a couple different kinds of vegetables.  While cooking so much food is generally a bit of a production, doing so alleviates a lot of stress of planning and time preparing lunches during week.  Since it was such a cold and dreary day, I had a strong hankering for soup, in particular, a lighter version of a curried squash soup I had eaten at a restaurant earlier in the week. 

While most of the food that I make is healthy (okay, so I may be guilty of baking an apple pie on Friday night loaded with Crisco), I find that some recipes dubbed as low-calorie, vegetarian, vegan, etc. wind up severely lacking in the flavor department, which, let's be honest, can make eating in such a manner a bit boring.  Well, this recipe I found for curried cauliflower soup delivered in a big way: it has a nice kick, a subtle creamy texture, and is both filling and satisfying.  By far one of the best ("healthy") soups I’ve ever had, and bonus -- it was so easy to make! Also, doubling the recipe didn't seem to affect the proportions at all. 

CURRIED CAULIFLOWER SOUP

(from Vegetarian Times)

• 2 Tbs. olive oil
• 1 small onion, chopped (1 cup)
• 1 medium tart apple, such as Granny Smith, peeled, cored, and coarsely chopped (1 cup)
• 1 Tbs. curry powder
• 1 clove garlic, sliced (1 tsp.)
• 1 large head cauliflower, chopped into 1-inch pieces (6 cups)
• 4 cups low-sodium vegetable broth
• 1 tsp. honey or agave nectar
• 1 tsp. rice wine vinegar (Note: I used balsamic vinegar here, and it lent a nice flavor.)

1. Heat oil in large pot over medium-high heat. Add onion, and sauté 5 to 7 minutes, or until soft and golden. Stir in apple, curry powder, and garlic, and cook 2 minutes more, or until curry powder turns deep yellow.

2. Add cauliflower and vegetable broth, and bring to a simmer. Cover, reduce heat to medium-low, and simmer 20 minutes. Cool 20 minutes, then blend in food processor or blender until smooth. Stir in honey and vinegar, and season with salt, if desired.

Old Man Camp

I am not planning on having children any time soon, if at all, but if I could I would like to adopt a small camp of old men as my children.  Usually when I see an older man who happens to strike me of the kind who might fit in my camp, my outward reaction goes something like this:  “Ohmygod, he is so adorable.  I want to adopt him.”  Meanwhile, my internal reaction is that my heart melts, my tummy aches a little, and the world slows to a snail’s pace.  (If you saw the old man in the movie Up, and have any kind of heart at all, you know what I’m talking about.) 

And if I didn’t have a fear of rejection and/or otherwise didn’t think the execution of it might not go quite as I envision it in my head -- this would include my camp of old men playing checkers and watching WPRK in Cincinatti reruns, entertaining me with funny stories of the good old days, and going out to breakfast at 7 a.m. (because that’s what old people do) -- I might consider making the proposal.  An added bonus – and I’m being completely picky here -- would include their insistence on helping me out with some light household chores like doing laundry and emptying the dishwasher. 

Today, during my morning workout, I spotted two perfect candidates for my old man camp.  They were decked out to the nines in camp-type attire just to walk the college track.  Five-foot-tall wooden walking stick?  Check.  Fishing hats?  On their heads.  Decorated t-shirts from some tourist attraction (location unidentified)? Keeping them warm.  Tiny, six-inch boombox (complete with handle) playing Roberta Flack’s “Where is the love?” You bet!  This last detail was what melted my heart into pure gold because of the beautiful dichotomy of two old-thyme Mainers not listening to some old-folky Conway Twitty or Shelby Lynne, as one would expect (which would’ve still been adorable and dandy, BTW), but rather taking their morning constitution jamming to some sweet old-school R&B.  These men knew how to do it right.  Let's just say it was a sight for sore eyes on a Sunday morning. Complete with smile and a friendly hello, Clifford and Lou (my invented names for them) were the men for me. 

You may ask why I don’t envision a camp for old ladies too, or even a co-ed camp, and to be honest, I’m not quite sure.  While old folks, in general, get my heart strings, I have always had a particular soft spot for the old men.  Something about their way just speaks to me, I suppose.    

So if you know of any old men who are adorable, good natured and fun, and are in need of a granddaughter-type figure, you know who to call.

"Life is too short to wake up in the morning with regrets." - Anonymous

Last week my high school classmate, Sylvan, passed away from a horrific snowboarding accident.  While I hadn’t seen Sylvan in many years, I, among the rest of his peers, I'm sure, remember him as the nicest guy in school who always had an enthusiastic smile and a friendly hello whenever you passed him in the hallway.  He was friendly to anyone, never seemingly motivated by the need to be popular or well liked.  Sylvan was just kind, with a genuinely sunny disposition and a positive outlook every time I spoke to him. 

I remember the first time I met him as a high school freshman, after having just moved back to town in the middle of the school year.  I recall thinking what a strikingly handsome guy he was with his bleach-blond hair, dark eyebrows, and big toothy smile.  I also remember being surprised at his easy friendliness for such a good-looking guy, because good-looking guys aren’t usually so nice. 

During our junior year, I got to know Sylvan better because he was part of the “basement crew,” a small group of us who partied in my basement.  He liked to affectionately call a few of us girls “Baby” during our parties, and we teased him for it.  I instinctively remember my friend Kate and I saying to him in our drunken stupor, “Sylvan, stop calling us baby,” and he would say back, “I’m sorry, Baby!  I’m sorry!”  “It’s okay, Sylvan,” I remember saying, adding teasingly, “Just don’t do it again."

While I regrettably didn’t stay in touch with him through the years, I am not surprised by the fanfare that has surrounded his unexpected and tragic passing, but am nevertheless amazed by it.  So many of his peers – close friends, acquaintances, and classmates  -- have all have risen to mourn the passing of a young man who left the world decades too soon, who was not only in the prime of his life but who ironically happened to have been killed doing something he loved so fearlessly and passionately.  Sylvan was living life to the fullest.

I know I am not alone as I reflect on Sylvan’s kind spirit and my short-lived memories of him from high school, but also on the kind of legacy that he left at such a young age.  I’m sure part of it has to do because of the tragic way his life was taken, but primarily I believe the fanfare ensuing from his unexpected death is the result of Sylvan being such a great person – the kind of rare individual who was friendly and kind to every person he met, never in order to gain something from it, be it friends or popularity or attention, but because he was so goodhearted and genuine, because quite simply that’s the only way he knew how to be.  While this is my perception of Sylvan based on knowing him from high school, I can only imagine that this rare quality had only ripened as he grew older and matured into a young man.  I’m sure that in his late 20s, Sylvan was an even better version of himself than when he was a teenager. 

All of this has gotten me reflecting on not only the kind of legacy we leave behind when we die, but also about the importance of living your best life every day.  “Life is short, and it is also long,” as my best friend CB says.  While having this awareness can create inner struggles with achieving the balance between a seemingly short life and a long one, we must find ways to indulge in life’s pleasures and continually seek means for self-betterment and self-growth for the long run. 

I believe the ultimate path to pursuing both is to look at the bigger picture, which I believe to be the gift of life.  Every day, every week, every month is a gift of life, don’t you agree?  If you were to die tomorrow, how would you live your life today?  Probably the fullest, most meaningful way possible, right?  That’s how Sylvan lived his life, and how we need to remind ourselves to lead our own lives too.  

The Power of Flowers . . . Wild Ones, That Is.

I'll be the first to admit it.  I'm not the kind of gal who likes receiving flowers.  I actually usually get kind of annoyed when I do.  I know -- that's a real bitch of a thing to admit to . . . but it's true.  There's something so planned and contrived and orchestrated about the whole flower thing that I just can't get excited about it.  To me, it's one of those generically romantic things that rubs me the wrong way, kind of like weddings, which I also am not fond of.  (I actually really think weddings are a real waste of energy and money, but that's for another day and time.)

Besides, flowers from a florist are way too expensive to last only a week.  What really charms me is something special and original, like, I don't know, a big cylinder of Cheese Balls or something.  But that being said, I actually do love flowers, particularly the kind that spring from the wild and brush against your legs when you're taking a walk on a summer morning or that catch your eye at the farmstand, such as these beauties that I picked up for less than four bucks earlier this week.

They might've been the prettiest bouquet I've ever seen, probably because they were so natural resting in water, held together with a rubber band just waiting for me to pluck them from the wooden crate.  They didn't try to be prettier than they were; there was no pretense in their packaging; there was nothing planned or contrived about them -- they just were.  These are the kinds of flowers I love -- the ones that symbolize the unexpected pleasures of life, rather than the planned ones.  Kind of like life.  Because some things are better unplanned.

All-Americana Fare

Though it may be a somewhat unexpected combination, lobster and homemade popovers suggest a certain kind of Americana in my book.  A welcome departure from the traditional summer BBQ fare, it was a perfect meal for a low-key dinner on the eve of Independence Day.
  

Homemade Popovers

I absolutely love popovers, but I had never made them myself before, probably intimidated by their supposed tendancy to prematurely deflate during the baking process.  But by following the directions closely from this classic recipe from The Gourmet Cookbook, they turned out to be divine -- perfectly puffy, flaky, and tender all at the same time.  Pared with fresh lobster that I bought pre-shucked at my local fish market and steamed broccoli, it was delicious and uncomplicated, and one that felt appropriately celebratory in that all-American kind of way.  Happy Independence Day!

Local Loadie

This evening's dinner was a salad made entirely with local fare: smoked Maine shrimp, wet goat cheese with rosemary, fresh baby spinach, sugar snap peas, chopped tomatoes, and broccolini.  It was deliciously satisfying, healthy, and took no more than ten minutes to prepare.

















It's so easy to eat foods that are healthy and locally grown this time of year, one of the dozens of reasons why summer (especially in Maine) is just so great. One of my favorite places to shop for local goods is Barrels Community Market in Waterville, Maine. All their offerings are either grown, baked, or produced here in Maine, all for very reasonable prices.  Love it.