The Barn

{photo by lily odare}

This week I've disappeared to one of my favorite places on earth -- to the cool shelter of the little barn that lured Andras and I to our house in Hurley, NY about this time two years ago. We've put endless hours of work into the house and yard, and it finally, magically feels like home. We escape the city to swing in the hammock under the old apple tree as often as we can, but this week I'm here without Greta and Andras and instead with a team of five amazing creative and dedicated gals shooting my new book, Mostly Vegetarian. 

I couldn't think of a more peaceful place to turn a year's worth of writing and recipes into beautiful, artful images to fill the pages of the book. Behind the lens is Yunhee Kim, one of the most talented, masterful photographers I know. There we are, crouched in the even afternoon light that floods the barn floor as I style, and she shoots platefuls of my favorite foods. We're wrapping this half of the shoot tomorrow, and after I put up my feet and rest a wee bit, I'll be back with more. 

{Escapes} Apple Picking in the Hudson Valley

stone ridge, ny

Today’s the first day of autumn, so there couldn’t be a more perfect day to tell you about this orchard upstate that I’m kind of crazy enchanted with. I admit, I’ve been falling in love with orchards since I was toddling along the fallen Jonagolds at the Edward’s Apple Orchard in Popular Grove, Illinois. But this orchard, I swear, is not like any I’ve ever seen before. It’s not enchanted in that coiffed-Donna-Hay-picnic-between-the-rows-of 200-year-old-trees kind of way. No, this is more of a fell-down-the-rabbit-hole-and-something-is-not-quite-right-but-I-kind-of-like-it way.

It all started with a rustic “Mr. Apple: Organic Apples” sign that Greta and I have been passing on Route 213 most Sundays of our tenure as weekender’s upstate. That’s when we take our Sunday drive to the High Falls Flea, while András is back in our half-finished house working on any number of un-baby-friendly projects. The sign pops up just after the sign for Hopshead Craft Beer Market and just before the sign for the Northern Spy Restaurant, other country intrigues, but with oft a sleeping baby by my side, I’ve never stopped. Until…

For the last two weeks, my mom’s been in town watching Greta while I cook and write, which has given me the inspiration and courage to explore every number of country curiosities on weekends. She’s been the best sport imaginable, smiling away the day in a house with no bath, scarce supplies and a film of fresh sawdust on sills and floors following every weekend project. We’ve really resurrected the old farm girl in her. She’s even adopted a bit of the infectious free-spiritedness in the air up here. And in perfect timing, since you need a little farm girl (mixed with a little Woodstock) in you to enjoy the bare, un-commercial beauty in Mr. Apple’s Orchard.

There, up a long gravel drive, is another sign to pull up and honk. We did. With Greta on my hip and mom at my side, we exchanged hellos with Mr. Apple before we set forth with a nary a rule to collect a bagful of his double-fist-sized Macs.

Thanks to the rains and hurricanes, and the rot of the apples that fall to the ground, and absence of pesticides, there are bugs. And oddities. But what I love about this orchard is this: You are the only apple pickers. And for the half hour or hour that you’re there, these trees, this orchard, is yours. There’s no crowds, no rules, no hay bales. Just land dense with trees, branches packed to their very max capacity with crisp, juice-laden apples. 

You'll find the black blemishes characteristic of wildly grown apples, but with a little scrubbing, beneath them is gleaming red and good flavor. 

With those apples, we’ve had an almost nightly baked apple for our supper sweet. We’ve have had heaps of peeled macs simmering in our sole copper pot for sauce. We’ve made apple-turnip-and-carrot mash for Greta’s lunch and grated apples over our morning oats. Until there were no more.

“I have to admit, I was skeptical about these apples,” mom said, as we finished the last of them. “But they have the most incredible flavor.”  

The next weekend, we convinced András to come picking. For the sake of research and Mom (and András, who likes a tidier Sunday outing) we picked instead at the Stone Ridge Orchard, on the same stretch of Route 213. Here, for the same prices, we found pretty rows of trees dotted with crisp, bright red Romes, sweet-tart Empires and fat Cortlands for cooking. Here there were families, babes in backpacks, Boy Scouts, pies for sale and rules for picking. Here, if you wanted, you could have a hayride, or a hike along their long path that spans the rounded landscape lined with youthful, healthy trees.

And back at home, without a doubt, the lush apples in our bag of loot are going just as fast.

Just a stone’s throw from the NY State Thruway (87) are two very fine orchards, both worth a trip from the city. Here’s how to find them, and more details on what you’ll find there:

Stone Ridge Orchard

3012 Route 213

Stone Ridge, NY

www.stoneridgeorchard.com

Though not organic, the Stone Ridge orchard uses Integrated Pest Management, which means they spray non-chemical solutions to control bugs. Look for a lad called Shane, who can tell you just about anything you need to know about those apples---which ones are ready and what they taste like, the history of the orchard and why we should all go and pick in the name of saving that lovely land. As it turns out, some developers have outright offered to buy the land to develop it into a strip mall. Exactly the kind of thing that has no place on a country road. Elizabeth Ryan, who owns Breezy Hill Orchard and leases the Stone Ridge Orchard, is bound and determined to save that land. And I’ll put at least half dozen bushels on her if that will help. For more information, check out the Friends of the Stone Ridge Orchard website or Facebook page to help save the orchard.

Now picking: McIntosh, Rome, Empire, Cortland

Mr. Apples Orchard

25 Orchard Street

High Falls, N.Y

http://mrapples.com/

(845) 687-0005

(845) 687-9498

What he calls Organic Style apples, or low-spray, meaning he sprays in the spring only, before the bud of the fruit arrives. His website boasts: Chat with Philip Apple while you taste the magical airDon't mind the bugs in Mr. Apple’s magical air, whose presence means reduced exposure to pesticides for you.  His trees and his apples, fancy or not, are just right. Wash the apples well with organic fruit spray before peeling or eating. 

Now picking: McIntosh, Golden Delicious

A Dose of Authenticity

{parade, Hurley, NY}

If life always went as planned, we would have spent last weekend on a little island off of Seattle, celebrating the marriage of two of our dearest friends. It was to be our first real (much needed) family vacation since baby Greta was born, and a long overdue visit to the West Coast which always brings us both a sense of breath and space to handle all this busy city throws our way.

Every time I passed the wedding save the date magnet on the fridge, I imagined walking through quiet streets hand in hand with András (something that happens less now that our hands seem always occupied with the tiny one), Greta tucked against my chest, exploring and inviting the authentic.

The night we were to leave, we spent 6 hours on the tarmac at JFK with Greta in our laps. She ate dinner and fell asleep in our arms and slept like a dream until the captain declared our flight cancelled (don’t ask!). Then she smiled the whole way home in the cab at 1 AM as if we had all just had a very grand adventure. When we woke up the next morning in our own beds, we spent a couple minutes feeling sorry for ourselves and then headed north to a little house in Hurley, NY.

I don’t think I’ve told you all about this yet.

Smack in the middle of writing my book and waiting for baby, we bought a tiny 1930s house in Hurley, New York. Yes, we are gluttons for chaos. It wasn’t so much the house we fell in love with as much as it was the 200-year-old barn.  We imagined turning it into a summer kitchen (for me) and woodworking shop (for András) and a giant grown up playroom in the lofty second level, a project that now seems light years away.

We’ve spent a good few dozen weekends up there, between deadlines and monumental occasions (Greta’s birth) and family visits and birthday parties, tearing down walls and ceilings, painting and priming (and by we, I mean mostly András). We are inching toward our version of country chic, looking out the kitchen window at the empty barn that brought us there.

Usually our weekends there are sweet but storied, full of unexpected obstacles. We eat off of paper plates (gasp, not very green of us, but we reuse them when we can!) and cook every single solitary meal on the little grill I bought András last year. We laugh. At ourselves and each other.  At the absurdity of it all. At Greta bouncing up and down in her Johnny Jump up, her little feet landing over and over on the one small patch of clean, polished wood floor among the mess and mishap we’ve accepted as home.

There is a checklist for this house. There is a deadline. But we don’t live by it. Especially not on a weekend when we’re broken hearted to not to stand by as two people we love make the biggest commitment of their life.  Instead, we gave ourselves a vacation in our own house.

{plant sale, Co Rd 7}

That weekend, I washed freshly picked asparagus in our brand new farm sink. We went to opening day of the Kingston Farmer's Market, and chanced upon a roadside plant stand selling raspberry plants for five dollars. 

{vintage tub, From the Grapevine antiques, Hurley, NY}

We gave our baby girl her first outdoor tubby in an old enamel tub, a gift from our neighbor’s antique shop. We ate the season’s first strawberries and planted our raspberries and walked around barefoot. 

{cucina, woodstock}

We let Greta explore every inch of dirt and grass on her hands and knees and sit in her papa’s lap and eat off his plate at his birthday dinner at Cucina, in Woodstock. 

{lunch: pretzels, Twisted Food, radishes, Migorelli farm, goat's milk ricotta, Acorn Hill Farm}

We cheered for the local Memorial Day parade. We took afternoon naps all together and ate our meals directly from the cutting board on a table made of 2 X 4s. We held hands and let our arms swing up and down between Greta’s singing “Thank you for the world so sweet, thank you for the food we eat…”

We traveled back in time. 

~ 

If you and the ones you love find yourself in the Hudson Valley instead of Seattle or somewhere further off, consider yourself lucky. Here are some places you can get yourself a dose of authenticity.

The Kingston Farmer’s Market

Kingston, NY

The finest of small town farmer’s markets. Get everything from cassis to freshly baked breads, strudels and pies, radishes and greens, wild mushrooms and game and not to be missed sweet, goat's milk ricotta from Acorn Hill Farm. And while you’re there, drop a dollar in the hat for The Queen’s Galley, the organization responsible for feeding all the Hudson Valley’s hungry.

Migorelli Farm Stand

Route 199 and Route 9, Rhinebeck, NY

This 80-year-old fruit and vegetable farm grows over 130 different varieties of fruits and vegetables. They are a regular fixture at both our local market on 14^th street in Astoria and the Union Square Green Market, but it's twice as fun to buy direct from the stands that flank their fields. 

Twisted Foods Pretzel Roll Factory

Rosendale, NY

Bring your tie-died T's and drive slow as you pull into sleepy Rosendale. If you blink, you’ll pass right by Twisted Foods. This place isn’t fancy; they save the fancy for their four types of pretzel rolls -- Chewy, polished poofs of salted dough shiny from their baking soda bath, with an addictive chew and substance.

Gills Farm Stand

Route 209, New York

Somehow, I don’t entirely mind paying the steep prices to keep a 6^th generation family farm in business. The Gills own most of the land around Hurley, and sell their seasonal goods by the handful and bunch. Right now you’ll find the last of their asparagus and spinach, season’s first strawberries and the best selection of starter plants from white aubergine to green striped tomatoes that a gardener could wish for.

Cucina

Woodstock, New York

Cucina is a restaurant with a menu and décor so fine it belongs in any big city, but thankfully it sits on a quiet perch in a rambling restored farmhouse just outside Woodstock.  Minutes from the arresting Ashokan Reservoir (where we city folk get our water), it is sleek by country standards, or any standards. But the food is fresh and fantastic. Service is gracious (even accommodating messy little fingers) and the whole experience is altogether inviting.