It's been a strange and wonderful transition from spring to summer this year, with recent nights dipping down into the 40s again. It almost feels like fall. Good for sleeping but not so good for the tomatoes, eggplant and cucumbers trying to make headway in the garden. This constitutes glorious hiking weather, the air so impossibly fresh that you are instantly energized. The woods are cool and damp, carpeted with moss and overrun with ferns so green they are almost neon. Pileated woodpeckers and yellow-bellied sapsuckers hammer away in the treetops; baby bunnies are living under our honeysuckle bushes; tiny freckled fawns gambol in the tall grass; great blue herons careen over the marsh; and at night the barred owl calls out "who-cooks-for-you? who-cooks-for-you-now?" It's pretty magical to be a creature among so many other creatures. I identified the one above as a Rosy Maple Moth (Dryocampa rubicunda). Its fuzzy orange body and lavender-tipped wings give it sort of a bridge-&-tunnel look, don't you think?
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Much is said about change—its inevitability, its power to engender fear...and transformation. I believe that if we don't create change, change will create us. When it comes at you, you can either wrestle it like a big slippery alligator, or just do your best to ride the wave. Nine years ago, when my husband died of cancer and I was trudging through the Slough of Despond in Los Angeles, change felt like the slow flaying of my skin. Three years ago, when I left my familiar life in New York City for the wilds of Sullivan County, change was like an enormous infusion of oxygen and optimism. Life is change, and that's never more apparent than when you live close to nature and really experience the cycle of birth and death that is constantly on display. Even the simple blossoming and wilting of a flower in a single day is a reminder. Life is short, my friends, and we must not waste a moment clinging to what we have already lost. The perfection and freshness of youth is one thing, the patina and widsom of age quite another. But they are two sides of the same coin, and of equal value.
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There are things to do in Portland besides eat. It's the perfect place to stop and smell the roses, quite literally. The gardens there are full of them, overblown heirloom beauties, the more delicate wild ones, and climbing roses draped over fences and arbors. We actually saw a huge tree that had been entirely and spectacularly overtaken by one of these! If you know nothing about Portland, you can always get a quick primer from Portlandia, the IFC comedy written by and starring Carrie Brownstein and Fred Armisen. We didn't ask any locals what they think about this wacky and loving spoof of their hometown, but I imagine they are secretly flattered. The show even coined the indie-ubiquitous tagline "Put a bird on it!"—a reference to the way the artisanal/locavore/crafts movement seems to think everything (coasters, t-shirts, cupcakes) can be improved with an illustration of a bird. Amusing. Anyway, there's no doubt that Portland is full of freaks, and I say that with full admiration. White dreadlocks, rococo tattoos and more than the average number of people muttering to themselves, not to mention an assload of Birkenstocks and Patagonia. Shades of my own hometown, Santa Cruz, California. The people-watching is good, as is the hiking and, believe it or not, the shopping.
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PDX is the code for Portland International Airport, and it's ubiquitous there as a shorthand brand, sort of like Manhattanites use NYC. We went there for some R&R&R—that's rest, relaxation and restaurants. We got very little of the former and plenty of the latter. What a gorgeous place! I discovered that it's known as "The City of Roses" because its climate—warm, dry summers and wet but mild winters—is ideal for these sometimes finicky flowers. All over town we saw lush gardens overflowing with fragrant roses and other blooms, tall grasses and incredible old trees. We stayed at the Ace, a slightly more quirky and rustic version of the one we stay at in New York, and I recommend it, especially if you don't mind rickety elevators, super-casual service and a Stumptown coffee outpost in the lobby. Even better, off the other side of the lobby is Clyde Common, a sweet place that describes itself as a "European style tavern," although I'm not really sure why. It's definitely the prototypical Portland-style farm-to-table eatery. The bar, run by cocktail king Jeffrey Morgenthaler, is not to be missed. We were instantly addicted to his clever new take on the Americano—a mix of sweet vermouth, Campari and orange oil that he carbonates and bottles himself. We will be doing that at home very soon, so stay tuned.
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Since leaving the city to live upstate full-time, I definitely do more online shopping. I support local purveyors as much as possible but that can be limiting and, as you know, I’m spoiled. I order my olive oil from here (hey, at least it’s not coming all the way from Italy) and my raw coconut oil from here, and I compensate for that in part by growing vegetables and foraging for wild edibles. When I learned recently about New York Mouth, a new online business that specializes in “indie food” and carbon offsets its shipping, I was glad to be able to support some local resources. It’s not about being virtuous, it’s just about doing what makes sense. They have put together an amazing selection of handcrafted, small batch products and they do a great job of packaging them into clever and creative collections that make fantastic gifts.
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We went to the 16th annual tractor parade in Callicoon yesterday (yes, exactly what is sounds like) and came across a stand selling raw local honey at the nearby farmers market. I love honey so much—its amber hues, its range of floral and earthy flavors, its dense sweetness—and, now that I've learned a bit more about it, I try to buy the least processed honey I can find. The next step, of course, is to start raising our own bees, and I think that's not too far off. We may try to do it on our roof so that we can avoid the whole electric fence/bear situation. These lovely people from Walton, NY, had brought a wealth of choices to the market: clover, buckwheat, basswood, wildflower, apple, goldenrod and raspberry honeys. Honey is the concentrated nectar of flowers, and its subtly detectable flavors reflect whatever blossoms are most pervasive at the moment it's made. Talk about terroir! The buckwheat is always a much darker color and has a pronounced muskiness that can sometimes be quite bold.
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It's kind of a cliché that you run the risk of being disenchanted when you meet your heroes. Depending on how high you've raised that pedestal, it may be impossible for anyone to meet your expectations. Or, someone's private persona simply may not match a carefully cultivated public image. So it was wonderfully reassuring to encounter the women of Canal House this week at ICE—their workshop was on writing and photographing recipes (and cooking them)—and discover that they are every bit as warm and wise as I had hoped. For those of you who don't know them, Christopher Hirsheimer and Melissa Hamilton are a food writing and photography team that produces Canal House Cooking, a gorgeous series of seasonal cookbooks that has defined a new space in the publishing world. In their past lives they both worked at Saveur, where Christoper was a founding editor and Melissa was director of the test kitchen. (Still a favorite of mine, this magazine was truly a revelation in its earliest incarnation.) They refer to themselves as "home cooks," but this is a bit like Einstein calling himself a professor.
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