Meg, will you cook dinner tonight?” My mother looks up at me from over her morning crossword.

Let me tell you something about my parents. They are what you call “foodies.” Basically, this means that if you serve them something tasty that was pre-made or that came in a can, they will make fun of you indefinitely. However, if you made it yourself from scratch and can give it a French-sounding name, they will at least be impressed, even if they didn’t particularly like it. These rules may apply only to their progeny. I couldn’t say otherwise.

“Why don’t you whip something impressive up for us, now that you’re a cook and all that?” My mom grins at me before hiding her facial expression behind her coffee mug.

“Yeah,” my father says. “What are your specialties these days, after having been a cook at Marble Point?”

“Um,” I say, thinking of the snow-cave full of food I once called my pantry on the Antarctic coast.

The thing about cooking in Antarctica is that everyone is very, very hungry. It’s cold – subzero cold – so you burn a lot of calories. The average person in Antarctica will put away about two to three times as much food as usual just to maintain body weight. I’ve witnessed grown men, gathered around in a Scott tent in Antarctica, happily eating butter off saltines. Plus, when I was at Marble Point Air Facility on the Antarctic coast, I was the only cook. No competition meant that my food tasted good. Example:

Pilot: “Aren’t these cookies kinda burnt?”

Meg: “No. They’re not burnt. They’re Cajun.”

Pilot: “Aha. Lightly charbroiled, eh? Cajun Cookies?”

Meg: “It’s the new trend on the market.”

Pilot: “What market?”

Meg: “I am the market.”

“Why don’t I make something a bit more ‘Maine’?” I tell my parents. “Something like fish cakes.”

“Fresh Atlantic salmon cakes?”

“Sure.” And so it was that, on Saturday afternoon, I found myself driving the hour or so to procure provisions for my mission – to make the perfect Maine fish cake.

My grocery list was nothing less than admirable: Maine potatoes, fresh Atlantic salmon, eggs from a nearby farm, and vegetables from our garden. I pull off the errands with an hour to spare. I am walking in the door, laden down with the groceries and congratulating myself, when I trip on our cat, the aptly named Buster. In the Meg’s-coordination-vs.-the-housecat battle, I don’t have a chance. The eggs break.

I say several things to the cat that, retrospectively, remind me of why I’m glad that we have neither parrot nor small child in the house. The cat, meanwhile, chins on the broken egg carton and purrs.

I set the surviving groceries on the counter and run next door to the neighbor’s house to beg for a few replacement eggs. I carry them back carefully in my sweat shirt pocket. I round the corner onto my front porch just in time to see Buster, perched on the kitchen counter, happily eating the fresh Atlantic salmon.

After throwing both the fish and the cat outside, I sit down for a moment to think. I know – the storm supplies, a cardboard box of emergency food in the basement that we have been sure to keep on hand ever since the Ice Storm of ’98. I dig through the dusty canned goods until I find what I’m looking for: canned salmon. I open the can and quickly put it into a dish before washing, rinsing, and hiding the empty can in with the recycling. My parents will never know the difference.

When my family comes home at the end of the day, my Maine fish cakes are done and ready on the table. Privately I think that what I am serving might actually be a “True Maine Fishcake.” I have eggs borrowed from a neighbor. I have salmon from a box of blizzard provisions. It might not all be farm-fresh, but in its own way, it’s more authentic.

“These are pretty good, Meg,” my mom says.

“Thanks for cooking,” adds my dad. “Nice work.” I sigh with relief, lean back, and take a self-satisfied sip of my blueberry wheat beer. My mom clears, bringing the empty plates out to the kitchen.

“Meggie?” I hear from inside. “Is this an empty salmon can in the recycling?”

Meg Adams, who grew up in Holden and graduated from John Bapst Memorial High School in Bangor, shares her experiences with readers each Friday. For more about her adventures and to e-mail questions to her, go to the BDN Web site: bangordailynews.com.