Travel

Fast away the old year passes. The excitement with which we welcome the new is resoundingly optimistic. What is it about stepping into the future that fills us with such hope? Meanwhile, the older I get the quicker the time goes. It's like it has a new momentum, a special determination to slip away from me. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream. I will not be daunted. I will grab each moment and ride it, bucking and swaying, into the golden sunset. I can scarcely believe that it's been two years since I launched this blog, a true labor of love. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for your support. As I humbly say, without you, I'm nothing. For 2012, I am resolving to remain curious. To keep learning and evolving. To welcome new people, places and things. To eat, drink and be merry. To stay fit. To cultivate strength, resilience and endurance. To cherish what I have. To be patient and kind (with myself and others). And, to echo one of Woody Guthrie's 1942 resolutions, to "dream good."I hope this weekend brings you further opportunity to chill, space out, hang and unwind. Here are some links to help you while away a few idle hours. I wish you a celebratory New Year's Eve and a very delicious 2012.
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We came. We cocktailed. We conquered. I feel hungover this morning, but not from drinking. Last night's event was both energizing and exhausting, and I think we can say it was an unqualified success. More than 200 people turned up at Warby Parker's Holiday Spectacle Bazaar to visit Best Made Company's pop-up shop and sip Glutton for Life cocktails made with foraged ingredients and Stranahan's Colorado whiskey. Although I think of myself as a bit of a grumpy misanthrope at times, I was deeply happy interacting with all the lovely people (old friends and new) that stopped by my little makeshift bar to sample the evening's three specialties: The Nutty Professor, Pining for You and Drunken Indian Lemonade. The mood was very festive and everyone really seemed to be having a good time, especially after a cup of the Johnny Appleseed Punch.
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What a week. Did I mention I am making my first personal appearance for Glutton for Life? My dear friend Peter, he of Best Made fame, asked to me to participate in one of three evenings he is hosting at the Warby Parker Holiday Spectacle Bazaar, a SoHo pop-up happening (for lack of a better word) featuring stuff to eat, drink, buy, see and learn. It was initially pitched to me as a hands-on workshop for a couple dozen people, where I could talk about whatever I wanted—oh, and there's a whiskey sponsor. So mixing cocktails seemed like a no-brainer. Then, to put my own little upstate spin on things, I decided to use foraged ingredients. This seemed to pique everyone's interest. Done deal. Then, I find out they're expecting upwards of 100 people. And I stop to consider that the dead of winter might not be the very best time to forage for ingredients. Um, time to regroup.
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Thanksgiving is two weeks away and this is no time to bury your head in the sand and pretend like it's going to sort itself out. I'm a big control freak advocate of advance planning and you know deep down it really does help prevent all those 11th-hour meltdowns and kitchen hissy-fits, not to mention mediocre meals. Just give in to your inner Martha (the ultimate Higher Power) and get organized as hell. It's all about making lists, my friends! Devise your menu; compile your recipes; pull together your shopping list (checking the pantry to make sure you have those items you're "sure" are there but haven't actually seen in a year) and then make a schedule—yes, a schedule—so you'll remember to start brining the turkey days in advance, and so you can prepare everything possible ahead of time (stock, pie crust, etc). It's a highly tactical operation.

Before you move on to the rest of this post, please check out the photo, above. It's from last Thanksgiving. I've been hoarding it all year so you could see how our turkey turned out. Not bad, eh? Of course I've cropped it so you can't really make out where all the bits of skin stuck to the side of the way-too-small aluminum pan and tore off, but still. Read on to find out how not to have that happen...
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This past weekend's journey upstate toward the Vermont border yielded not only a lesson in black Angus cattle, but two gallons of raw cow's milk, some irresistible cider donuts and a couple of award-winning cheeses from the very beautiful Consider Bardwell Farm. (Those of you who have been reading this blog for a while may remember a mention of their cheeses way back when.) The 300-acre farm was founded in 1864 by the fortuitously named Consider Stebbins Bardwell, and became the the first cheese-making co-op in Vermont. Now owned by Angela Miller, literary agent to some of our most beloved culinary writers; her British husband, architect Russell Glover; Chris Gray; and master cheesemaker Peter Dixon, Consider Bardwell Farm makes cheese with the milk from its own herd of 100 Oberhasli (Swiss Alpine) goats and from neighboring farmer Lisa Kaimen's herd of 30 Jersey cows. Rotational grazing on pesticide- and fertilizer-free pastures guarantees sweet, nutrient-rich milk that is also antibiotic- and hormone-free. The farm's 6 cheeses are made by hand in small batches and aged on the grounds. No surprise, then, that they have repeatedly won awards at important cheese competitions here and abroad. All this to say, emphatically, Consider Bardwell's cheeses are divine.
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This weekend's visit to Washington County, on the Vermont border in upstate New York, was a blur of rolling hills fading from green to gold and bare silver birches gleaming against the turquoise skies. What a delight it was to stay at our friends' comfy old farm house, sleeping in green flannel sheets and heading out in the morning to get fresh raw milk from the neighbors' cows. My dear friend of nearly 30 years married into this farm at a time when her husband was getting ready to sell it, and she had to cry copious tears to prevent the sale. Thirteen years later, they've just purchased some black Angus cattle, a naturally hornless Scottish breed much used in beef production and, together with another farmer, are going to produce grass-fed beef. In her inimitable style, my friend Sarah has decided to start a cooperative to team up with other local beef producers so they can offer the consistent quality supply that the biggest and best markets require. Their first meeting was on Friday, and G and I were very interested to see what it was all about. But first, we had to meet the cows...
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This weekend, we're heading north to visit friends who have a farm near the Vermont border. They've just bought a load of Angus cows and are going to start producing grass-fed beef. The weather is meant to be clear and crisp and I'm so looking forward to being outdoors and exploring the area a bit. Last time we were there it was springtime and I bought the most gorgeous bag of emerald-green fiddleheads. I'm sure good things are in store, and I'll definitely write about them next week. In the meantime, I leave you with some entertainment recommendations, a list of resources that will have you surfing the far corners of the web,  and a gentle reminder that the holidays are right around the corner. Let's all get a jump on things, shall we?
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G's short film Aftershock was screened for an all-Chinese audience in Queens a couple of months back, and we took advantage of the occasion to have lunch and do a little shopping in the neighborhood. Before we moved upstate, we lived on the Bowery in Manhattan, on what was essentially the edge of Chinatown, but that does not prepare you for the immersive scene you find in Flushing. All of a sudden Chinese is the spoken language and your white face stands out, though no one gives you a second look. I hope I don't sound like too much of a rube when I say it feels like being in a foreign country. But this is a good thing! It was so exciting to be able to explore and discover just a few subway stops into this outer borough. We had read about Sky Foods, a newly opened 36,000-square-foot supermarket that stocks food from China, Taiwan, Thailand, Vietnam, the Philippines, Korea, Japan, Indonesia, India and Singapore, so that was definitely on our list. And we decided to have lunch at Fu Run, a place specializing in Northeastern Chinese cuisine, most notably something called the "Muslim lamb chop."
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It's nearly impossible to take advantage of everything New York City has to offer: Central Park, the Frick, Smorgasburg, the Highline, Barney Greengrass, Eataly, the Apollo, Broadway, Chelsea Market, the gallery openings, the cocktail bars, the amazing boutiques—I get overwhelmed just thinking of it all. Despite weekly visits, now that we no longer live in the city, I feel as though I have fallen woefully behind. There is so much I simply can't see and do; maybe I have time to read about it, maybe not. So when G surprised me with tickets to New York City Ballet, I was absolutely thrilled. I wanted to start the evening with an early dinner at Boulud Sud (Daniel's latest), but it was fully booked and we were downtown anyway, so we had a quick (delicious) bite at Otto. (Mario was there—in his orange clogs, natch.) And then it was up to Lincoln Center, to the David A. Koch Theater (yet another robber baron buying respectability), and Jewels, a work in three parts choreographed by the legendary George Balanchine, seen above.
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The Rat brought the boat alongside the bank, tied it up, helped awkward Mole safely ashore, and swung out the picnic basket. The Mole begged to be allowed to unpack it all by himself. He took out all the mysterious packets one by one and arranged their contents, gasping Oh my! Oh my! at each fresh surprise. from "The Wind in the Willows" by Kenneth GrahameWould it shock you to know that the word "picnic" actually derives from the French word "pique-nique"? It dates all the way back to 1692, although I imagine this was a tradition that first began with Joe Caveman gnawing on a wooly mammoth bone while perched in some bucolic spot far from the reach of the saber-tooth tiger. Whether pique-nique is actually based on the verb piquer (to pick or peck), with the rhyming nique meaning "thing of little importance," is in doubt; the Oxford English Dictionary says the word is of unknown provenance. This fresh-air practice reached a new height of popularity after the French Revolution, when royal parks opened to the public for the first time and the newly enfranchised citizens chowed down on hallowed ground. As much as I love to spread a blanket in a meadow, there's also something to be said for staging a picnic at home—on your own lawn, on the living room floor, or even (gasp) in your bed! All you need are a big, beautiful cloth, extraordinary fixings and the right companion.
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