orchard

In June, we planted a small orchard on the north side of our house. If five mature apple trees constitute an orchard. We like to think so. On the southside of the house we have ten apple trees planted, all in varying stages of age, eight we added to the property ourselves. Two of the trees, which are intertwined, have been here for longer than anyone on the hill can remember. All total, this seems to be at least the beginning of an orchard. And we've already ordered another six mature trees to plant next spring in the hope to surround our house with fruit trees, in the hope to surround our house in bounty.

Once, many years ago, after we were first married, we thought we might buy a house. We were living in the broad plain of the Champlain Valley in Vermont, beautiful rolling meadows that extend to the Lake. A small orchard house nestled in the middle of a forgotten apple orchard came up for sale and we became enamored of the little cape and the dramatically gnarled trees. Time and money were of consequence, and the time was not right for a little house in an orchard, but ever since then we have been partial to the thought. Sometimes, we are very nostalgic for the landscape and the life we might have had there. I have no doubt our time in Italy living, visiting, and staying in homes surrounded by vineyards and olive groves has somehow also informed this little dream. A table beneath a tree, a branch laden with fruit, a bottle of wine and two glasses, a wedge of cheese, a hunk of bread.....

Our new apple trees, Liberty apples, are full and the branches are bending with the weight of the reddening fruit. We've become a little melancholy as we approach the close of the growing season even though autumn is full of awaited harvest. We've begun to pick what's ready to fall off and collecting them in a basket and making a list of slightly bittersweet dishes we'll prepare with them: apple tarts, apple pies, a risotto with shrimp and apple, an apple brandy.....

sunday lunch in September

Sunday lunch started at 1 o'clock in the morning. We finished the last of the closing rituals at the restaurant, then packed ingredients for our lunch at home: carrot, dried figs, fresh salmon, green onions, a couple of potatoes, lapsang souchong tea, a bottle of Sicilian red wine, a lemon. As we turned out the lights and locked the doors, the village clock struck the quarter hour, the bell ringing through the crisp air, and we walked out onto our bricked terrace under such a brilliantly clear sky covered with so many stars it looked like a dark velvet shot through with diamond dust. Between the cold of the air and the sparkle of the stars, it was enough to take our breath away.

The weather radio threatened Frost Warnings, the temperatures dipping close to 30, perhaps the last night of the growing season. We were wrapped up in extra sweaters and coats and made hot mint tea to warm us on the drive home. We watched the thermometer drop as we drove out of town. We usually see a veritable ark of wild animals on that drive, mostly flocks of deer and naughty fox, but tonight, no one was about, only, sadly, the dead raccon left in the center of the road. Once home, we found a bagful of old sheets in the barn, and raided a basket full of curtain and tablecloth remnants from inside the house, and covered the eight raised beds in the garden. We did all we could to save the wild greens, the swiss chard, the German radishes, the still-ripening tomatoes. We worked quickly, this new cold seeping deep into our bones. We watched the sky for a moment, hoping for a shooting star, but fatigue overcame, and sent us straight to bed.

We woke up late, in time for strong, dark coffee. We built a fire in the woodstove. All those tender plants in the garden survived the night. Lunch preparations began. Grating the carrot and tossing with finely sliced dried fig, a little olive oil, salt and pepper. The potato got sliced in 1/8 inch pieces, skin on, and boiled until tender. Then a dressing mixed from dijon, olive oil, white wine vinegar, and the requisite s & p to taste. Caleb set up the wok with water in the bottom, then a little rack fashioned from wood pieces. He put the tea leaves in the water, then a layer of tin foil over the rack. This is where we would cook the salmon, or steam-smoke the salmon. A good friend had just told us about this recipe, and we couldn't quite remember what she said to do, and we couldn't raise her on the phone, so we improvised. The salmon was rubbed with a little Hoisin sauce, covered with ginger and scallion, then put in the wok, and covered until done. The cooked potatoes were set to soak in a little bit of dry Vermouth and we sat in front of the fire, the coffee having been replaced by white wine for our ritual aperitif, read the paper and snacked on hard cheese and cornichons.

When the salmon was done, we hand-sliced some Tuscan salame, and did the final toss of the still-warm potatoes in the mustard sauce, filled our plates with the carrot salad, potato salad, and the filet of tea-smoked salmon. Another splash of wine in the glass. The fish was incredibly moist and slightly fragrant with the lapsang souchong. We talked about how we might refine our recipe, strengthen the smokiness of the fish. The smokiness of the tea, the sweet of the dried figs, and the tang of the mustard remained on the palate. We considered eating the same meal again for our next lunch at home.

Recipe for Gently Smoked Salmon (adapted from The New York Times)
1/2 cup kosher salt, or as needed
1/2 cup sugar
1/4 cup oolong tea leaves, mixed with 2 tablespoons water
4 (6-ounce) salmon fillets
Freshly ground black pepper
Hoisin sauce
green onions(scallion)
chopped ginger
Extra-virgin olive oil, to drizzle.

Line the inside of a large wok with aluminum foil so that it comes at least 2 inches up the sides of the pan. Mix together 1/2 cup salt, the sugar, and tea leaves and pour into the base of the smoker or wok. Place a small baking rack and set on top of the spice mixture. (You may want to grease this in some fashion). Season the fish all sides with salt and pepper, then rub Hoisin on flesh side and cover each portion of the salmon with the chopped ginger and fresh green onion. Place the fish skin side down on the rack. Turn the heat to high (and turn on the exhaust fan above your stove), and when it starts to smoke, cover the pan tightly with a lid, reduce the heat to medium and smoke until cooked through, 10 to 16 minutes depending on the thickness of the fish. Drizzle the fish with extra-virgin olive oil. Serves 4.

wild vine-roasted squid

Some of the best things happen by accident. Or by serendipity. Last year, when we dug and pulled and cursed the wild grape vines from the edges of our property, we planted some of the vine stock, and the rest too gnarled and aged we cut up for grilling over or summer firewood. A pile of beautiful, torturous old vine sits in a pile under the shed attached to the barn. Yesterday, the fishmonger delivered some fresh squid, tubes and tentacles, to the restaurant, and we thought of that pile of grape vine and we thought of the squid. We knew it would be one of the first really cool autumn days of the season, and a fire made from that vine seemed the perfect compliment for the squid, some sausages and some aged mozzarella.

Rain came all morning, then blue sky started to show through at mid-day. Mostly cloudy, or mostly sunny? We wondered what the weathermen saw as the difference. We built the vined fire, cleaned and prepared the squid, a whole five pounds of it. We grilled the seafood until the edges were black with smoke and the air was thick with the perfume of roasting. We sat down to a lunch of our mixed bitter greens topped with pearl white beans, and then the vine-roasted squid mixed with a little crispy guanciale, a delicious cured pork not unlike pancetta. The flavors of a small glass of cortese di gavi, redolent of peach, apple and chalk white soil, wove into the taste of the smoky fish and salty pork. The sky darkened again, the day seemed to lengthen, then eventually, it was time to go into work.

--Deirdre

excursion--on the lake

There are magical places in this world. On the eastern banks of Lake Champlain is one of them. We make a pilgrimmage every year in September, right around our anniversary. It always seems to be raining, or about to rain, or there’s the scent of rain on the air. We arrive in the early evening. If the weather is still clear, we walk around the gardens that step right down to the water’s edge. Then we retire inside the great manor house, all brick and Tudor detailing and order cocktails to be taken in the Tea Room or Library.

We sit for a couple of hours, talking, reading, watching the sky over the Adirondack mountains through the big plate glass windows. The manor house, which is part of the wide expanse of land known as Shelburne Farms, has a restaurant, and while we’ve always heard very good things about the food, and they pride themselves on using as many local ingredients as possible, we’re never quite in the mood for the formal diningroom which is painted an elegant red with a black and white parquet floor and tall candlesticks on the tables. By this time it is usually raining, and the concierge at the house makes us a reservation down the road at one of the intriguing bistros we’ve heard about that’s a little closer to home.

This year, the sun came out for a brief stay while we walked around the stepped parterre. We’ve taken many ideas for our garden from here: the aborvitae, the tardiva hydrangea, the roses, the peonies. This time we saw the baptisia foliage, almost silvery with almost coin-shaped leaves and we noted the dahlias and other annuals spread through out the perennials.

Inside we ordered Campari and blended scotch on the rocks, and sat in the Library, first stopping in the Tea Room to admire a stately flower arrangement of hydrangea, baptisia foliage, Japanese maple, crimson lilies, and coral snapdragons. In the Library, we had a heated game of cards, and read from a small book published in 1908, Excursions Outside of Rome. I contemplated for a moment becoming a thief. Would they really miss this funny little time-worn book that would feel so at home on my bedside table? My conscience got the better of me, and we joked about the room being rigged with security cameras, or at least the gallery of white marble busts howling at the culprit who attempted to steal.

We watched a storm roll over the mountains and lake to lash the house. Lightening and thunder and heavy rain. We thought how nice it would be to just go into the restaurant to dine, then up to our room to read and fall asleep. Two hours or so passed, then we were on the road to a French-inspired bistro in a French-named village. We promised that next year we would stay overnight.
--Deirdre

excursion-north again

We drive north out of necessecity. A day with obligations, and we try to wedge a sense of frivolity between the hours. Shopping for a pair of black suede shoes imported from Italy, a lunch in a tiny Vietnamese café, a drive to one of Vermont’s jewels—The Shelburne Museum—where we want to see a particular exhibit that deftly combines necessity and frivolity, a show hanging twenty-five contemporary chandeliers, twenty-five ways to look at light, humor, and grace.

We succeed in forgetting we’ve had to work on this day. Electra Webb’s love letter to folk and decortive arts—the generous benefactress and mastermind behind the museum-- weaves through preserved historic Vermont buildings highlighting eco-design to the National Monument steamboat The Ticonderoga to her own personal collection of Corot, Matisse, and Degas. We circle through the chandelier exhibit suspended in the Round Barn, gazing at a huge mobile-like installation inspired by Calder and mesmerized by a fifteen foot confection based on a classical Empire-style fixture made modern by the use of three-thousand carefully strung golf balls.

The air is soft outside, a wind off Lake Champlain and gray, scuttling clouds. The flower gardens are still in bloom, our favorite an allée of multicolored zinnia. I’d forgotten about zinnia this year, and failed to plant any. Caleb says that he likes the flowers best when viewed from faraway, and through a slight squint. In that way, it’s like looking at the Matisse hanging in Ms. Webb’s re-fabricated New York apartment diningroom.

Audubon is at the end of my hike across the musuem campus. In the Vermont House, a perfectly maintained relic of Vermont stone and wavy glass, twenty-four of the sixty Audubon prints in the collection hang. We look at southern ducks and little birds perched in magnolia trees. The color is fine, and the lively expressions of the birds make me think I’ve walked by chance into a private aviary. The only difference is that the rooms are quiet, just like it’s grown quiet outside, our particular autumn silence. While the air outside is full of cicada and cricket-song, the birds have gone south leaving us without their chatter and laughter.

As the museum closes, we stand briefly beneath an obscenely laden apple bower and steal apples, biting into the soft, aromatic flesh that is both tart and sweet as the light begins to fade into evening.
-Deirdre

frost grapes

We have a small vineyard. A very small vineyard. On our south facing slope of meadow we have planted 10 frost grape vines, vines wrestled, hacked, and hewn from the stone walls on our own property. It is rather miraculous, or "a good sign" as Caleb says, that these hoary vines have actually taken root and sprouted tender green leaves. "Frost" grape is the vernacular for wild Concord variations, grapes for jams, jellies, and rustic juice best picked in our northern clime after the first frost so they acquire a certain sweetness. We pick our wild grapes in early autumn to make schiacciata con l'uva, a flatbread studded with the black fruits, rosemary, anice, sugar, and brushed with olive oil. It is traditional to use grapes like these with seeds for the texture.

In addition to our wild-cum-cultivated grapes, we have planted some red and white varietals hardy to our zone: Marquette and Frontenac gris. We also have a mystery vine that is marked a white grape, but is ripening red. These grapes are all good for table grapes and for making wine. The vines twine up the pergola/balcony covering our terrace with leaves the size of a large dinner plates that rattle and rustle in the breeze heralding the inevitable autumn weather. This will be the first year for picking these grapes to make wine. We will buy from market the additional fruit we need, and try our hand at this experiement, or folly, depending on how you look at it.

We prepare to order more vines for next spring, to make a committment to the plot of field we've cordoned off for the purpose of growing grapes. We peruse catalogs from two nurseries here in Vermont. The Marquette is a grand-son of Pinot noir, light and fruity with spicy notes and the Frontenac Gris has a yellow-grey fruit, hence the name, that has an air of tropical fruit. This appeals to our wintered sensibility. We like the exotic thought of pineapple and banana.

I think that 50 plants will be enough to start. I calculate that we can make one bottle of wine from each vine, more or less. These vines, along with some red Frontenac and maybe St. Croix from Quebec for a rosato, would be the core of the vineyard. We are told they are a "sure thing". But we yearn to hedge our bets on a wild card: Nebbiolo, that austere and noble breed from northern Italy named after the winter fog. If they can grow these grapes in the Alps and extract elegant and light wines, we think we might have a very slight chance.





--Deirdre

turkeys in the straw

We have been absent for several days. Last weekend was swallowed by our preparations for a wedding dinner at the restaurant, then we recuperated Labor Day. And Tuesday. And Wednesday. We almost feel rested. And now the seasonal loop will start all over again.

The last few days have been marked by nothing much. Long episodes reading books, a movie. Brief efforts at making a meal, sort of making the bed. Mostly, we have been watching the turkeys that have spent the summer in our meadow. The two hens that joined us in June have now become three, and the second brood has hatched and waddle and gobble in the long, dried grass after their caretakers. Sitting in a chair outside listening to crickets, they sneak up behind us and startle with their garbeled voices. They come closer and closer to the house, or weave their way through the young grapevines planted last summer. They investigate the compost, perching grandly on the edge of the rather utilitarian black compost bins, then they go to the upper meadow and visit with the neighbors hens.

Down the road, we see another flock and think they are our turkeys, until we get a closer look. We see three toms preening and stretching across the road to meet a deer in an upper pasture. We stop and stare at each other. The turkeys and deer stand close together eyeing us. No one wants to be the first to leave.

With the turkeys living so close, we know the fields are safe from the dreaded fisher cat and coyote, though some nights we hear the coyotes call. Now that September is upon us, soon the air will change, and long-toothed critters will leave the edges of our wild Chateauguy forest and hunt close to our houses. The neighbors chickens already have extra protection with their underground chickenwire fence, and our cats will stay in. But where will the turkeys go? Will they stay in the meadow and take their chances? Or will they roam on, until the fishers and coyote have gone to ground, and they can return to the meadow resplendant in their feathered fall coats and fancy tails.