An Epic Watermelon Day

Remember watermelon seed spitting contests? I know, it's hard to. Because if you're part of my generation, watermelons have been seedless for nearly half our lives.

But I do have dozens of memories of sitting hip to hip with my grubby-kneed sibs on the edge of the back deck hunched over slices of melon so big our faces were lost in them. I remember coming up for air and spitting seeds as the juices dripped down our wrists toward our elbows. I especially remember watching my dad stand over the sink and skillfully flick away the black seeds into the sink as he turned the melon flesh in his hands, yielding precious, giant chunks of seedless flesh for his lush saturday fruit salads. But these seem like almost ancient memories.

I can hardly think of a food I love more than watermelon, and to this day I could easily eat half a watermelon myself  (mostly because without the seeds, there is nothing to slow me down). Which is why, when I got a load of the whole watermelon sitting on a stool in the back pantry at Andras parents house yesterday, I nearly clapped with glee. It wasn't just the sheer size of it – easily 17 inches long, surely more than 8 kilos –it was its shape, fat and grooved, deep, dark green like a watermelon I remember from childhood.

"Now that is a watermelon!" I almost shouted, and ran to get my camera.

Andras nor his parents couldn't understand why I would want a photo of a watermelon sitting on a dingy stool. By now they are used to  me taking photos of well, almost everthing we eat, but a watermelon?

"A watermelon like this is nearly extinct in America," I said, with no facts to back up my hypothesis. 

"Really?" Andras questioned the source of my statement, but I had only this: I couldn't count the number of watermelon we'd eaten together in the last 4 years on 10 hands. Not one of them was anything but pale green and smooth, with one-dimensional rinds. Not one had a single seed, not even those wussy white ones that used to be there when seedless watermelon were new on the scene.

Sure enough, when we split this one open, it was brilliant pink, dotted with a maze of shiny black seeds, the kind that made the heart so precious, and the firm, seedless pale pink portion nearer the rind like the tender claw meat of the lobster, worth the work. 

"Where did you get this?" I asked. I was imagining a magical field somewhere, gilded in golden light, with enormous watermelon resting on the soil amongst endless chubby vines.

It turned out this watermelon came from the watermelon truck.

I'd heard about this watermelon truck once while eating melon with Andras back home. It was the Mr. Softee truck of his childhood summers, a regular neighborhood fixture on hot summer afternoons. There were no details attached to his stories, only that this truck piled to the heavens with dinnye (watermelon) would circle the neighborhood bringing the very best melons to your front door. Ah, the romance of a childhood in Europe.

The next morning, just before leaving for a long drive to Romania, Papa came running in the house to get me in a flurry of words.


Gyere. He said. Come. The Dinnye truck had arrived. I came running with cameras. 

I don’t know what I had pictured (a wooden gypsy cart pulled by a team of horses, perhaps?), but it wasn’t a 1988 Citreon hatchback with a loud speaker on the top.  But once I saw these seasoned watermelon traders in action, my disappointment dissipated. I watched from the sidelines, noting every detail. The way he picked the watermelon, held its weight, checked for the pale creamy spot on its underbelly. Then, like at a fine Pince (Vineyard), the merchant inserted a sharp, rounded knife and extracted a perfect cylander of plump pink melon, seeds, rind and all, for a taste. He held the knife out directly toward me. 

"Madame," he said. 

My teeth cut through the crisp, dripping flesh. Perfect. 

I can think of no finer culinary companion for an 8-hour family road trip than a Hungarian watermelon. We loaded it in the car, and hit the road east toward Romania, likely the very direction from which the watermelon came...

Back home, there's no dinnye truck on which to rely on for access to fine, fat watermelon. So in the sticky heat of the coming August days, take faith in your own watermelon-picking expertise.

~

How to Pick a Watermelon

1.     Look for a firm, symmetrical watermelon without cuts, bruises or dents.

2.     Look for a watermelon that is heavy for its size, full of delicious juices.

3.     Look for a creamy, pale yellow spot on one side that indicates the melon ripened in a field in the sun.

Wild Hungarian Plums & The Szilva Lekvar They Never Became

Veszprem, Hungary


Every year, we plan our trip to Hungary based on the seasons. We come in June for eper (strawberries). July for málna (raspberries) and meggy (sour cherries). October for körte (pears) and füge (figs). That we are here for plum season is a happy accident. And there is one plum in particular that has caught my attention — tiny purple plums that clustered on thin, tangeled branches like bunches of grapes.


Of all the stone fruits I adore, plums are my least favorite, thanks in part to growing up in a country where the fruits in most grocery stores have been whittled down to those that ship and sell well. Plums have been so unremarkable in my fruit-loving life that I can recall exactly three memorable plums: The first was one I picked directly from a tree, probably without asking, around the age of six. The tree in question belonged to our neighbors, the Weltes, and though I can't be sure the variety, the simple thought of having fruits grow on trees in your own backyard was transformative. The second, elegant sweet yellow mirabelles that I ate by the handful in St. Tropez two summers running, which are already gone from the trees here in Hungary. The third, the ruby-red fleshed Elephant Heart Plum, first grown in Sonoma County, California, a plum so spectacular that it is protected by the Slow Food Ark of Taste, lest it peril in extinction. 


There are over 2000 varieties of plums in the world, and, so I've read, at least 100 varieties grown in the United States alone. I've seen a handful of noteworthy ones in the biggest farmer's markets in New York and California, but these—these lila (purple) beauties I’ve never seen before. 

I run inside to consult Papa, and dig for his book entitled Fák (trees), the agrarian picture book that doubles as my guidebook to his backyard. I turned to the pages marked szilva. Plums. But when I explain, through András, what I’m looking for, I get a collective shake of heads from all parties.

“You won’t find that plum in a book.” András explains. “It’s a local plum. Wild.”

“So, what is it called?” I ask.

Kökeny Szilva

András smiles. Blueberry Plum, he translates.

It's a good description. Their color is deep purple-blue, with the same white bloom of a blueberry on its bush. 

I gather from the size of them, no bigger than the top digit of my thumb, there are only two things to do with them. Eat them by the handful ripe from the tree, or, turn them into preserves. 

Igen. Lekvar. Mamma says. 

Papa gestures his arms like an airplane. Aha, it is those that  same silva lekvar that didn’t make it back home with me on my most recent trip here in October, almost two years ago, due to the firm no liquids policy of the FAA (thought I maintain that lekvar is not a liquid). 

I feel a jam-making session coming on, and consider racing back to the yard to collect them all. Surely she doesn’t pit them first. I imagine she must cook them down, then pass them through the food mill, leaving all the pits behind. I explain, with gestures.

No. She shakes her head and charades herself pitting the tiny plum one by one in her chair in front of the TV. Bless her, she is a better woman than I. 

Suddenly, I’m quite tired, and the idea of pitting a few kilos of pici (tiny) plums seems like the work for another day. Besides, she has already put up several jars, plenty for spreading between our palicinta (pancakes) and over fresh kenyar (bread), and two extras she tucked aside for us to bring home (this time in our checked luggage). 

Of course, I recorded her method for another day, a time when it's my responsibility to keep the family in lekvar. I hope that day is a long ways away. 

If you come across a batch of special plums, here's Mamma's Recipe. This calls for sugar, required for the tart wild plums, but not for any sweet plum variety, which can be cooked down in its own juices until thick and sweet {I recommend the alluring fruit-lovers guide to all things preserves, The Blue Chair Jam Cookbook}. 

~

Szilva Lekvar

1 kilogram / 2 1/4 pounds tart plums, pitted

600 grams / 3 cups sugar 

makes 5 pint-size jars preserves

1. Combine plums and sugar in a large heavy-bottomed pot over low heat. Cook until completely broken down, stirring occasionally, about 2 hours. Puree with an immersion blender to desired consistency.
2. Can according the Ball canning guidelines (here), or pack in pint containers and refrigerate for up to 2 months. 

Hungarian as Apple Pie

We arrived in Hungary just in time for lunch, as we always do, and were met with the same meal that I’ve come to count on as the taste of Hungary.  Everything was just as I remembered it except now I am Anya (mommy) and Anya is Nagymamma or Mamma (grandma). This time the table was set with a tiny spoon for Greta, and before we eat, she is showered with the hugs and kisses of her Mamma and Papa (Grandma and Grandpa), aunts and an uncle who had waited 8 1/2 long months to meet her. 

The rest of our first day here was as it always is. Only, after lunch I took my nap side by side with Greta instead of András. And when we awake, groggy and hungry yet again, there, of course, is Nagymamma’s almás pite. Apple pie. The perfect soothing anecdote for seven sleepless hours on a plane.

My guess is there’s as many ways to make an apple pie in Hungary as there are in the U.S. But there’s only one way I like it back home—all butter crust, big chunks of tart apples coated in cinnamon, and topped with a thick slab of sharp cheddar— and only one way I like it here in Hungary. That is Nagymamma’s way.

Her apple pie is a different thing all together from any pie I’ve ever known. It is thick layers of tangy, tart apples cooked musty sweet like apple butter between two thin layers of soft whole wheat dough, with the characteristic graham flavor I’ve come to equate with the taste of András' home. Like most sweets in this household it feels wholesome, almost healthy, fruit picked from backyard trees enrobed in a graham crust. It’s the kind of thing you might enjoy with cheese (say Trappista, from the Trappist monks of Hungary’s hills) as a light dinner (since the large meal here is consumed at noon), or with coffee and milk for reggeli (breakfast) the next day.

Luckily, Nagymamma has the foresight to make a batch big enough for both.

Early on our second day, we run out of what at first seemed an endless plate of almás pite. And we are restless. It’s cold here, for the family, a respite from the 104 degrees of mid-July; For us, a surprise. We’ve packed for high heat, and our gauzy summer dresses are off-limits in the house of a grandmother who is always after us to bundle up, wear slippers on the bare floor, cover our necks lest we get the hiccups. There’s not the right light for making pictures of all the fruit trees brimming with each imaginable variety of stone fruit. Even laundry is on hold, since my mother-in-law, like most Hungarians, still relies on the sun as her dryer. So, there’s nothing to do but bundle Greta in the wool pants and cap her Nagymamma knit for her, and bake.

I hint that I’d like to learn to make Mamma’s almás pite. Out comes her book of hand-written recipes. I examine it, trying to imagine how decagrams translates to something usable in my kitchen vocabulary.

Around me, people pass Greta from lap to lap.  Old friends and cousins come and go, talking in what seems (in my limited Mgyar vocabulary) to be great length about the simplest topics, each family member weighing in with words that seem too long to mean what they do.

When the conversation looses me, Greta and I steel away to the garden and make ourselves at home in the blackberry bramble, 5-years thick. The berries are merlot black, jammy. And if perfectly ripe, they ooze a juice that gives us away when we return, my fingers stained from picking and a little inky ring around Greta’s tiny mouth, still in a pucker of pleasure.

It is there that I get the idea that we should add blackberries to the almás pite, to make it seasonal. Apples are, afterall, a fall fruit. I tell this to András. He translates.

Papa shakes his head. Apples are in season here. András tells me, translating his parents rebuttal.  Only a few blackberries are ready, he says (though Greta and I have just eaten them). Most of them need a few days.

But okay, Nagymamma agrees. We will add szeder. Blackberry.

While András goes for a long run with his oldest friends, Greta and I go to the garden with Nagymamma to pick fruit. First, she collects the apples that have fallen to the ground. Nothing is wasted here. Then another kilo that come easily from the tree. 

Then blackberries, I remind her.

Igen. Szeder. Yes. Blackberries. 

Inside, I set up the computer to Google translator, put Greta in a pouch on my back and line up my recipe booklet side by side with Nagymamma’s to start recording.

40 decagram flour

2 kilos of alma. Apples.

I taste them. They are sweet, just subtly tart, and they remind me of jonagolds.

What type of alma? I ask, in a blend of Mgyar-English. 

I type the word variety into the translator and she examines the result. Fajta. 

 Nyári Piros. Mamma answers.

She writes the words in my notebook.

I repeat the words with her. Nyári Piros.

Then I type it into the computer to translate. 

Summer Red.

A summer apple. Indeed.

How strange they must think my ideas, my insistence that we add a handful or two of szeder to the perfected almás pite. How ridiculous to think my ideas about seasonlity aren't shared here, here in a culture where almost every family outside of large cities still, in large part, lives off their land. Here, in a home where almost everything I've ever eaten is grown by their hands. I try to apologize.

Bocsánat. Sorry. Most értem. Now I understand.

Nagymamma smiles her constant, unjudging smile.

We finish making the pita, Mamma, Greta and I. We rub the butter into the graham flour to coat it like an American apple pie dough. We add sour cream, egg yolk. We roll it thin, coat it in the warm apple butter stained pink from szeder. We cover the filling with another layer of dough, prick it with a fork and set it to bake.

Fifty mintues later then the pie comes from the oven. We cut it into squares, dust it in powdered sugar. Family members emerge from every corner of the house and the pile on the plate disappears. Five minutes later, András sister and sister-in-law, Dalma and Szophie come back to the kitchen praising me, my silly idea redeemed.

Szeder Almas Pita. Szeretem. I love it.

Jó. Nagyon, nagyon jó. All agree. Good. Very, very good. 

~

Hungarian Blackberry Apple Pie

filling

2 kilos / 4 1/4 pounds tart-sweet apples, such as Jonagold

1 handful ripe blackberries

250 grams / 1 1/2 cups sugar

1/2 teaspoon cinnamon

1 lemon

crust

400 grams / 2 2/3 cups graham or whole wheat flour

100 grams / 1/2 cup sugar

1/2 teaspoon baking powder

pinch sea salt

250 grams / 9 ounces / 2 1/4  sticks butter, in pieces

1 cup sour cream

2 egg yolks

serves: a crowd (about 25 bars)

1. Peel, core and slice the apples. Add them to a pot with blackberries, sugar, cinnamon and the zest of 1 lemon. Squeeze the juices of half the lemon over the top, straining the seeds as you go. Cook on low heat until the apples break down.
2. Preheat the Oven to 175 c/ 250 F. Meanwhile, whisk together graham flour, sugar, baking powder and salt. Work the butter into the flour with your hands (or pulse together in a food processor) until the butter coats the dry mixture and resembles a coarse meal. Stir together sour cream and egg yolks and blend into the dough with a fork until it just comes together.
3. Use your hands to gather the dough and knead it slightly in the bowl. Divide the dough into two portions, one slightly larger than the other.
4. Roll out the first portion of dough on a lightly floured surface to create a rectangle just large enough to cover the bottom and up the sides of a 12 X 17 X 1 inch / 32 X 44 X 2.5 cm jelly roll pan or your closest size similar pan (a 1-inch sided baking sheet works well). Spread the filling over the dough. Roll the remaining dough until large enough to cover the top. Don’t worry if some pieces of fruit are left uncovered or the dough cracks in places.
5. Prick the dough all over with a fork and bake until cooked through, about 50 minutes. Cool 30 minutes. Cut into bars; dust with powdered sugar and serve warm or at room temperature. 

Hudson Valley Strawberry Picking + A Lesson in Strawberry Propagation

{early bloomers, 'florence' cultivar}

I’ll be the first to admit I still have a lot to learn about gardening. It would help to read up on the truths learned from the gardeners that have gone before me, but it's much more fun (and memorable) to learn as I go, successes and failures alike well-earned.

My first garden trials began around the age of 6. That was the year that the strawberry plants that crept up under the fence from our neighbor's yard stopped producing fruit. It was one of the great tragedies of my childhood.

I had no idea what caused this misfortune to my budding farmstead, but this I knew, we would have strawberries again. One truth guided me: each fruit has a seed from which it came. So, I started collecting the tiny strawberry seeds from our Saturday shortcakes and planting them —  plus whole berries and bitten off caps for good measure—all over the yard. I guess I was never destined to uncover the great mysteries of science. When they never grew, I cut my losses and started planting peach pits instead.

~

Last weekend, when I admired our neighbors Cal and Mary's new hanging strawberry plants, they offered us their runners. I accepted enthusiastically. Though, it dawned on me, I still didn’t really know a lick about propagating strawberries. You don't buy strawberry seeds in the stores like radishes and carrots. I did know that once you have an established plant, growing strawberries is pretty easy. One plant quickly sends out runners and multiplies into three or four, proved by my hearty patch of fragaria vesca (alpine strawberries) in our city plot that started with just two tiny plants several years ago. So creating our own prolific patch from a few runners upstate, I assumed, was easy as easy as strawberry pie. Throw those babies into some soil and poof, fresh berries all summer long. 

Before I had a chance to read up on my latest agricultural theory, Cal brought over 10 leggy runners.
I habitually put herb cuttings from my garden, like basil, and chocolate mint, in big Ball jars of water on the counter until they grow roots, then give them or replant the rooted offspring in the soil to great success. I assumed the strawberry runners would work the same way. They looked healthy and robust, so I tossed them into an enamel tub with water to soak while I did some reading.

Imaging my disappointment when I read (on the BBC Gardening Guide, a trusted source) that to propagate a strawberry plant, you must first plant the runners in a pot or the ground while still attached to the mother plant. Then, when the offspring have hearty roots and new growth, cut them from the mother and transplant.

Oops.

Undeterred, I left the runners in their tub with water over the week while we headed back to the city. When we returned, the runners all had 1/2 to 1-inch roots growing into the water and new, healthy leaves. There's hope for them yet. We planted them in the soil that day, and I promise to report my findings back here (and to the BBC).

Since we won't expect them to fruit until next summer, we were thrilled when G's friend Ruby and her parents invited us to go strawberry picking at Kelder's Farm, part way between our house and theirs.

{josh + ruby, kelder's farm, route 209}

There's plenty of u-pick farms in Duchess and Ulster counties, a perfectly drivable distance from the city for folks who want to taste strawberries straight from the vine. And I highly recommend you do. This four quart bushel below, picked by our budding homesteader (with lots of help from mamma) was mostly gone in a day, piled on top of whole wheat waffles for breakfast, stirred into Greek yogurt with a sprinkling of brown sugar for dessert and eaten up by the handful every hour in between.

{greta, kelder's farm, route 209}

Don't miss out. Go forth, and pick. Here's where: 

Kelder's Farm

Route 209

Kerhonkson, NY 12446

(845) 626-7137

Farm market, U-pick Produce

Saunderskill Farms

5100 Rt. 209

Accord, NY 12404

Apple Grower, Roadside Stand, Cider


Oh, and by the way. strawberry plants only produce fruit for about 5 years. If yours stop producing fruit one day, don't go planting peach pits (that doesn't work either). Let those runners run and give new life to your patch.

you say tomato, i say to-ma-to

{photo by john kernick}

In most parts of the country, there's still time to plant tomatoes. just a little. you could beat the probability of paying three dollars a pound for your summer stash by just a tiny, thin little hair if you put in some seedlings in your soil today. or maybe even tomorrow. need some inspiration? check out this photo of the wonderous world of heirloom tomatoes by photographer john kernick. the full photo accompanies Andrea Reusing's musing on the beloved tomato sandwich in her new book,  Cooking in The Moment, one of this season's very best. 

confessions of a weed grower

{greta, two coves community garden}

I have a confession to make. My garden is a stage 4 disaster zone. Somewhere between writing this article for Mothering Magazine about gardening with babes, and picking our first radish, Greta outgrew the Moby wrap, started exerting her desire to be on the constant move, adamantly opposing any activity relating to riding against my chest while I pulled weeds. She's riding the fine line between barely sitting and crawling, a girl almost on the move with no time anymore for the sweet sway of my movements lulling her to sleep. 

Earlier, when she was, I eagerly planted rows of strawberries, lettuces and kale, spinach, radishes, and for good measure, a haphazard sprinkling of of Save the Bees flower mix. That was fairly easy, with 5-month-old Greta in her pouch, her arms yet too small and tucked into my chest to cause a wake.

Recently, we were away from the garden for almost two weeks and when we returned and I saw the mess that had become of it, my heart sank. That night Andras saw sadness in my eyes that I couldn't explain. This place of peace and perfection in my former life was now overgrown with weeds. I felt like I was looking upon a home I had built with my own two hands, now abandoned. 

In that moment in the garden, I learned two of life's harder parenting lessons. First, as a mamma, you have less time, which at times makes it imperative to weed out the unnecessary. Maybe its too much to run a business, rebuild a house, cook our meals from scratch and grow our own food in cultivated rows. Maybe instead of growing eight varieties of tomatoes and seven kinds of lettuces, one or two would do.

Second, this is the beginning of me learning to live with imperfection, in the garden and elsewhere. To embrace the chaos, and watch this garden become an environment for Greta's enjoyment and learning, not mine. 

Now that she's sitting and crawling, I can sit curious Greta amongst the wild flowers (indistinguishable from either the edibles or weeds) and let her pull and touch whatever she wishes. It's not perfect, but our girl knows the smell of fresh mint and lavender. She knows the taste of a strawberry we grew ourselves, and of carrot puree made from scratch (even if it took a near-epic excavation to find those carrots beneath it all!)

We won't have a tremendous amount of food from our garden this year. It's is no longer a place of accomplishment, but humility. Of forgiveness. Of letting go. It's a place for a new kind of peace--probably a more lasting one --the peace of excepting life just as it is, and seeing the beauty in every imperfect detail. 

the gardener of invention

{kristen + pocket the chicken, kerhonkson, ny}

By their very nature, gardeners tend to a resourceful bunch. I love that about them. And urban or rural, if you've got the itch to grow, you'll likely find any place possible to house your seed and soil. Most recycled wood containers—think milk crates, old sand boxes or a bookshelf turned on its side (above)—make pretty good starter raised beds (and chicken playgrounds), and will save you bunches on building costs. With a little creativity, you can grow wide, grow tall, or even grow up a wall (check out Apartment Therapy's great post on vertical gardens). Just grow. Grow any way at all.

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.

chopped

{a fifteen minute lunch} to make, chop the contents of your CSA box or veggie drawer. peppers, green beans, spring onions. add hard boiled eggs. torn mozzarella. salt. pepper. olive oil. enjoy.

Eggs So Pretty {An Easter Story}

I love everything about eggs. Their golden yolks that nurture with fat and flavor, their silky whites that transform into luscious meringues, their fragile shells in pale blues and greens, tans and browns. I love the way the shells crumble into a million pieces, how they look sitting up tall and proud in an egg cup, or poached and perched, yolks oozing over a frisee salad. But in our big world of bold colors and flavors, the egg is still a fairly humble ingredient.

So at Easter time, I always find it remarkable how magnificent they can look painted. These painted eggs got their beauty in the patient and talented hands of my friend George McKirdy, owner and pastry chef of Astor Bake Shop, our favorite neighborhood haunt. Years ago I worked for George in the pastry kitchen of Café Boulud, and was thrilled when he turned up again down the street behind the big, open windows on the corner.

I've learned so many things from George {how to make the world's best coconut macaroon, to forever love the combination of passion fruit and chocolate, and that a financier never, ever goes out of vogue} but in a sense this is my favorite ~ that with a little tender care, the humble, everyday egg can become something spectacular, something that glimmers with alarming beauty.

That is the message of Easter. That something bare and unadorned ~ an egg, a life, a soul ~ can be transformed by the gifts of patience, grace, and love.

{Happy Earth Day!}

{photos by Dasha Wright and Robert Jacobs}

Up north, we wait a long time for garden season, but this year the wait seemed even longer. Last summer, as my belly grew round with the babe, I spent hours and hours tending our small community garden plot, laughing with wonder as the little one inside me kicked and squirmed. When I finally met our giggly girl, Greta, I couldn't wait to take her back there to see our garden with her own blue eyes. 

She was born in November, and the garden sat under a pile of snow for months on end. We'd walk by often during these long winter days, checking for peeks of green, but still the snow fell. 

Finally, five months to the day after Greta was born, we got a rare April day so warm that we headed outside with her hands and feet bare. As she is everywhere in life, she was eager, engaged, reaching out for everything with her curious hands, delighting in the textures and colors of the world around her.  I was thrilled that this place I love seemed just as full as wonder and discovery for her, with more curiosities to offer her than anything she'd seen inside four walls.

We spent that day at the house of our friends Robert and Dasha,  both photographers, who captured Greta's first earth day on film in their own sprawling gardens ~  those first moments as her bare feet touched the soil, her tiny hands reaching for the green shoots of spring onions, and even the I'm pooped mamma tears that ended our garden play-date before I wiped her muddy toes and tucked her into the corner of their plush couch for her afternoon nap. 

It's a rare child who doesn't delight in the texture of warm, damp earth between their toes, the dance of poppies nodding in the wind, and the close attention of their parents sitting side by side with them in the soil.  I wrote about how and why to make your garden a special place for your babes in Mothering Magazine, but in case you missed it, here are my favorite three tips for gardening with a child of any age:

Schedule Garden Time
kids thrive on schedules and predictability.  Schedule a time each day or week to spend in the garden with your child.  Your little one will recognize it as a special bonding time and place where you work as a team to grow healthy foods together.

Build a Food Vocabulary
Babies and young children love the sound of their mother’s voice.  Talk to them while you garden; explain what you are doing and give names to the tools you use and veggies you grow, helping them build their nutrition and food vocabulary season by season.

Designate a Bed In the Garden
No matter how young your little gardener is, pick a patch of soil just for them where the rules and rows of gardening don’t apply. Throw caution to the wind and let your littles dig and experiment at their whim, giving them a sense of independence and pride in what they grow.

There's never been a better time to get started gardening as a family than on Earth Day. You don't need a sprawling garden or any fancy gardening gear, just a few seeds, and a pot, and a little one you love. For more tips on getting started, here's my post on five gardening basics {click here} to grow on. 

Happy Earth Day!

* Special thanks to Robert and Dasha for sharing their little oasis and beautiful photographs with us. *