A Finger in Every Pie

In The Land of Meat 'n' Three or How I Lost My Heart At The Loveless Cafe

When last we saw our heroine, she was about to embark for the wilds of Nashville, wondering if, for the three days of her stay, she would be doomed to hotel breakfast buffets, conference boxed lunches and dining at evening with large groups eating "cutting edge cuisine" of the sort that just tries way too hard.

Something in her (or in me, actually) rebelled at that prospect, and I was determined to have at least one good regional meal.  I had done a bit of research before leaving New York, and had fixed on the Loveless Cafe as my one destination dining locale on this trip.  I would go whether others came with me or not.   

We landed in Nashville on a stormy afternoon.  Two colleagues (one of whom is my site director and therefore my boss) happened to be on my flight.  I proposed that they accompany me that very night to the wilds of Highway 100, to seek deep-fried bliss at the Loveless Cafe.  They eyed me with skepticism.  "We'll see," they said.  And a short time later, as I had just gotten installed in my hotel room, a phone call came.  "The others are waiting for us," my director said.  Our beloved former site director, who now works for our national office, had commanded us to appear with all haste where she and some other colleagues were dining -- at an Italian restaurant in town. 

Do I go to Nashville to eat Italian food?  I do not.  Do I, however, obey the commands of those who are higher up in the, ummm, hierarchy than I?  Well, yes,  at times I do; when I'm at a conference, at least one, and sometimes two nights out of three.    So my first night was spent at a perfectly good sort of so-called Italian restaurant of a certain kind.  I suppose if Italian-trendy-fusion were a category, this might be how you'd label it, since the pastas were combinations that no Italian ever invented, and the menu was full of popular dishes that would be anomalies on a true Italian menu.  But the food was reasonably good.  Even if the bruschetta weren't particularly authentic, and even if no Tuscan has ever made something called "Tuscan-Style Crab Cakes with White Bean Salsa," everything was just fine.  My cedar planked fish (another not-so-Italian specialty) was smoky and well-coooked.  Most important, the company was sparkling and the conversation, which centered around the the results of the election and its implications for public education, was fascinating. 

That was our first night.  On our third night, I had been commanded to find a restaurant for a party of ten that would suit everyone -- the healthy eaters, the hearty eaters, the drinkers, the live music aficionados, those who want to shoot the moon, those who don't want to spend too much.  Somehow I always get saddled with this completely impossible task at conferences, despite my helpless pleas that writing a food blog does not mean I know where to eat in a strange town.  I mean, it's hard to find a place that's decent for a party of ten here in NY.  So I got some recommendations and settled on a local place, a restored old house with live jazz and what turned out to be sort of mediocre food.   Again, it was the company that counted. 

The evening in between, however, I was determined to have my way, alone or accompanied.  I was going to go to the Loveless Cafe for meat 'n' three, a true southern institution consisting of a heavy, meaty, often fried main course, two rich side dishes and bread -- usually cornbread or biscuits.  It's the sort of meal that I can eat only once in a while, since its heaviness generally makes me feel as if I don't want to eat again for a month.  But every now and then, a craving for really good fried chicken arises.  And truthfully, really good fried chicken isn't something I know to be available in NYC. 

I rushed back to the hotel from a scouting expedition in town, since I was to co-facilitate a writing marathon the following day.  I was late, stuck in traffic, and my friends were waiting for me.  I'd called the restaurant earlier in the day to find that reservations weren't accepted for parties under 12.  During that conversation, everyone at the restaurant called me sweetie.  "No, sweetie, no reservations for groups under twelve.  But you know, sweetie, call us about an hour before you want to eat and we'll put your name on the list, okay sweetie? What's your name? Julie?  Okay, Julie sweetie."     It turned out to be a good thing that six of my colleagues wanted to accompany me, since the cab fares back and forth from Highway 100 were a bit daunting.  Split between seven of us, however, they were nominal. A few of my cohort were worried about the cuisine we would find.  I was honest; I told them that there would be no tofu on the menu, although I'd heard there were salads as well as vegetable plates.  Fortunately for them, they decided to come along for the adventure, and had a very good time indeed. 

The Loveless Cafe was quite a trek from where we were staying.  My colleagues mumbled a bit on the way out as we were stuck once again in some traffic.  And when we pulled up in front of the shabby former motel building, they positively looked askance at me. Yes, there were indeed some askance-type glances in my general direction.  But once we were seated at checked-gingham tables with hot biscuits, butter, homemade preserves, and waitresses who called us all "sweetie," their savage breasts were soothed.  Once we'd ordered (I'd long known that I was going to have the fried chicken, despite the fact that pit-smoked pulled pork, fried catfish and country ham all called out to me as well), my friend Ronni and I made our way to the shop, Hams 'n' Jams, which was still open to catch susceptible tourists (read: suckers) like myself.  I loaded up on kitsch and food, feverishly gathering mugs, t-shirts, grits and preserves, all to be somehow fitted into my luggage.  Sadly, I gave up on the idea of trying to shove an entire country ham into my suitcase and settled for some vacuum-packed slices.  We went back to the restaurant in time for our suppers to be set down piping hot in front of us.

That was some fried chicken that had to have flown down on its crispy little wings directly from heaven.  It was my holy grail of chicken -- the kind of chicken where it isn't just the coating that's crisp, but the actual skin is fried to golden crackly crunchiness, and yet underneath lies meat that is so moist, so juicy and tender that it defies cliché -- even the breast meat.  And, of course, it's seasoned to perfection, simply, nothing interfering with the pure flavor of chicken fried in what are probably ham or bacon drippings.  Or maybe just plain, good ol' lard.  (I'm sure you'll all be thankful to know that I refrained from buying a t-shirt proclaiming "Praise the Lard.")  Every now and then I looked up from my chicken to have another bite of perfect biscuit, or to fork up some creamily delicious macaroni and cheese or a mouthful of turnip greens in pot likker (G, a transplanted quasi-southerner, actually moaned when I told him I'd had turnip greens). 

Momentarily sated, I started making the rounds of the rest of my party.  Everyone was laughing, enjoying the food, the company, and the fact that we were doing something we couldn't and wouldn't do in our own home towns.  I tasted Debi's pit-smoked turkey, which was moist and smoky, but honestly not a patch on the fried chicken.  Melanie's fried catfish, however, was phenomenal, as were the hushpuppies that came with it.  Darshna tempted me with fried okra, addictive as candy, and exhorted me to let readers know that vegetarians would have plenty to eat at the Loveless, since she had just had a full plate of mac 'n' cheese, beans, greens, okra and other goodies.  Felicia let me taste her squash casserole, a special of the evening that was a salute to the way in which cream, butter and cheese make everything taste good.  Even those in terror of fried food, like my dear former director Linette, had found the special of pit-smoked stuffed chicken to be delicious without overwhelming her cholesterol count. 

It was one of those moments where not having room for dessert filled me with regret.  Darshna, however, broke down and ordered the apple pie with lots of extra forks.  The one bite I could force on myself was simply extraordinary -- spicy and juicy with a fervently flaky crust.  Ever since Thursday night, my imagination has been occupied with how I can get back down to Nashville, purely in order to stay long enough to try everything on the Loveless Cafe menu -- including all the pies.  Even now, I'm hatching a plan for a long car trip -- perhaps during summer vacation, perhaps using the New Orleans Writing Marathon as an excuse to bring G in a southerly direction...

But although I could only get in one meal at the Loveless this time, I brought a bit of it home with me.  This morning we had (as pictured above) country ham and grits with red-eye gravy, biscuits and coffee in our new Loveless mugs.  You see, I had even broken down and bought biscuit mix at the Loveless store, despite my hatred of mixes.  And this morning's breakfast proves that biscuits from the Loveless Cafe's mix are just great.  They so far exceed the soap-powder taste of Bisquick and the spongy layers of tube biscuits as to be quite comparable to homemade, especially since you use fresh buttermilk in the preparation.  I'm not quite a southern girl in the way I make my biscuits -- I don't love them as much when they're those high-risers placed close together in the pan.  I give them space on a baking sheet, and even though they don't rise quite as high, I get more surface area, more crusty exterior, which is the part I love best.  The stone-ground grits I bought at the Loveless are fantastic as well, and the ham was salty and chewy as country ham should be, making a perfect red-eye gravy after only a few minutes of pan-frying. 

The one disappointment is the blackberry preserve, which was superb in the restaurant and is not at all that way in the jar.  I must have gotten a burnt batch, because mine tastes overcooked, more of super-caramelized sugar than of berries.  I may drop the nice folks at Loveless a line, and let them know how good everything was and is, despite the fact that we did have this one disappointment.  Just so they'll know who I am, I should probably sign my note with love from "Sweetie."

Bay Area Wannabe

The problem with going on a blogging hiatus is that the anecdotes and meals and treats start to accumulate until I can't bring myself to blog again, due to a frenzy of indecision about the next post.  That's how a supposedly short hiatus becomes an unintended silence of far too long.  We've been back from the Bay Area for a couple of seriously insane weeks.  It feels as if the moment we arrived back into New York, the portal to Hell yawned wide and swallowed us up, with an unending round of work and other obligations.   

All excuses aside, here's what I learned on my trip out West.  Don't let anyone fool you.  Those West Coast people have got it all over the East Coast in terms of the quality, freshness and sheer delectability of the food available to them.  The peaches and tomatoes taste like summer produce from an East Coast farmers' market -- times a zillion.   But how to take advantage of all this glory?  I figured the best way to conduct myself while I was there would be to pose as a Bay Area foodie.  After all, I had a wealth of great information from numerous local food blogs and their remarkable authors. 

So, after a week at my darling friend Pat's house in Berkeley, we laid in supplies at my dear pal Betty's house in the Mission, where we parked ourselves for another week while she and her kids took over our New York digs.  There we grilled sausages and crepinettes from the Fatted Calf, just like Dr. Biggles.  I cooked Marin Sun Farms eggs for my breakfasts, as if I were Sam -- that is, when I wasn't having a Saturday morning Ferry Plaza Farmers' market Mexican breakfast with Sam at the Cocina Primavera stand justly lauded by Jeanne and by Brett.  I stopped by Poulet on an almost daily basis so we could keep sampling Shuna's desserts.  We went to Mitchell's over and over again.  G was torn between his Grasshopper Pie milkshake and one made with Kahlua Cream ice cream and oreos, but I simply couldn't figure out which coconut ice-cream I liked better, buko or macapuno -- just like Stephanie.  We went to Zuni Café for the roast chicken and bread salad (like Joy! -- and many another SF food lover) and to Tartine for sandwiches and pastry and to El Farolito at all hours (like Joy again)  and the El Tonayense truck for tacos and quesadillas.  We took a day excursion to Copia and ate a tasting menu at Redd (like Jen, and like Joy yet again).  We ate pupusas at La Santaneca and chaat from Vik's at least twice, and a had a stellar Thai dinner at Be My Guest with my cousin Matthew, who, having married into a Thai family, knows how to order much better than we do.  I had a gorgeous dinner prepared by my lovely friend Lea and her family in San Rafael.   We stopped at Rainbow Grocery for incidentals and I went to the Ferry Plaza Farmers' market three times within a single week.  And all the while I tried to pretend that I never had to go back to New York, to work, to produce that tries its best but just doesn't quite hit the ecstasy zone, even in summer.   

At some point I awoke to the reality that I would indeed have to return home, and so I worked hard to remember all the things I love to eat on the East Coast -- aged Cabot Vermont Cheddar cheese (which, incidentally, we saw on several West Coast menus); thick, dark, Grade B organic maple syrup; the many kinds of wonderful apples that will appear shortly in my local farmers' market.  I thought about smoked fish from Russ and Daughters and Zabar's, pastrami from Katz's,  Eli's bread, Shackburgers and cheese fries and frozen custard at Shake Shack, dinner and cocktails at the Bread Bar. 

Occasionally we did some things that weren't directly related to food, or at least to eating -- walking in the Marin headlands and the Presidio, talking to our dear family friend Steve at his stunningly beautiful store Dandelion, exploring new neighborhoods, spending a few days in Calistoga, taking long drives, hanging out, laughing, watching DVDs with friends.  We went to the Edible Schoolyard, where Pat's daughter goes to school, and I thought about what kind of school I might like to run if I ever decide to use the credentials I'm getting in the terrible, horrible, no-good, very-bad administration program.

But I just couldn't leave all that good West Coast food there -- and so I've comforted myself with all of the delicious things we managed to bring home with us.  Despite the insanity that is our New York lives, I've been extending my vacation by continuing to pretend to be a Bay Area Foodie.  In addition to all the jarred and bottled and boxed foodstuffs pictured below, I carried home a variety of sausages from the Fatted Calf (frozen to survive the flight),  eight Blossom Bluff Orchards peaches (individually wrapped to avoid bruising), Acme bread, Tartine brownies and the Meyer lemons I stole from Pat's backyard in Berkeley.  Fortunately Homeland Security has not yet decided that peaches or sausages might contain explosives -- other than their incredible flavor, of course.  I was nervous before we got on our plane.  There was the case of wine we were putting in checked baggage, but all the food was coming with us in my carry-on.  "If they try to take my food from me, I'm not going to go easy," I warned G.  All came through without a hitch, however, and so the other night I was able to made G quesadillas for dinner, using Fatted Calf chorizo along with some pepper jack and cilantro.  They were very good, it's true -- but we missed washing them down with the bottled Mexican Cokes that we found at all the tacquerias in the Mission, made with real cane sugar instead of corn syrup, and tasting like Coke is actually supposed to taste. 

The delights pictured here are culled from a number of wonderful days.  The luscious Recchiuti chocolates come from one of the Ferry Plaza visits, of course.   Then there was our day at Bouchaine Vineyards (in the Carneros region of Napa) with their winemaker Michael Richmond, who also has his own label, Amethyst, that he grows "in his backyard," as he puts it.   G and I received what felt like a very preliminary taste of an education in California wines from Mike, who spent several hours giving us other tastes as well.  G lost count sometime around the point when Mike was siphoning us some sips from the twentieth barrel or so.  As our senses were heightened by taste after taste, Mike enlightened us about not only grapes and their harvest and fermentation, but barrels, their woods and degree of "toast" and the impact that all of these factors have on the resulting wines.  Needless to say, we've begun to appreciate wine in a whole different way these days.  And the bottles that we managed to get back on the plane (we did have to put them in checked baggage, very carefully packed) are all the more precious for our newfound knowledge. 

But of all the days that deserve at least one post of their own, the most memorable would be my afternoon with June Taylor, our own era's virtuoso of preserved fruit.  We were staying in Berkeley, as luck would have it, literally a block away from Ms. Taylor's Stillroom.  When I realized how close I was, I screwed my courage to the sticking-point and called.  I expected to talk with a receptionist, an assistant -- almost anyone except Ms. Taylor herself.  But it was she who answered the phone, and invited me to come for a visit that very afternoon.  When I got there, I saw that indeed there were no receptionists or in fact, anyone other than Ms. Taylor and a young woman, her one assistant.  Small is beautiful indeed at the Stillroom.  I sat on a high stool, drank a proffered cup of green tea, watched and listened.  Ms. Taylor made small batches of apricot sauce in huge pots, bottled them and talked to me of preserving and conserving in both the immediate moment and in the larger sense of what life brings us:  the web of relationships, passion, work, education, and history.  We spoke of the moments that children remember and carry inside always -- of mothers who make something delicious just for them.  We talked about connecting with farmers and other producers, so that the continuum of nourishment is human and not relegated to a factory production line.  We talked of our mutual sense of desire to share knowledge with others -- but to see also that they find their own sense of how to create what they like, rather than relying solely on someone else's expertise and taste; to see that these ways don't die out despite the forces in our world which seek relentlessly to industrialize those things which should still be done by hand. 

Our conversation began with the apricot sauce -- something that Ms. Taylor was inventing right there, right then, so as not to discard the excess of liquid produced by a particularly juicy harvest of apricots.  Almost everything can be used, she said.  And I heard the echo of my mother, and the resonance of my own upbringing -- the eggshell swiped clean with a finger so as not to waste any of the precious egg, the chicken carcass used for stock, the meat and vegetable juices saved to flavor soups, the re-used vanilla bean stuck in the the sugar jar.  So you see, my afternoon with Ms. Taylor wasn't just about jam (and indeed, as she herself will tell you, she doesn't make jam, but rather marmalades, fruit butters, and conserves).  My time with her was about preserving and conserving -- the preservation not only of the fruit but of artisanal ways with it; the conservation not only of foodstuffs, but of the land, the resources and the people who labor to produce them.   

June Taylor is the sort of person you want to learn from, you want to know, and you want to spend time with.  If and when I'm lucky enough to be in the Bay Area when Ms. Taylor is giving a class, I will run and not walk to sign up for that experience.  And we certainly plan to be spending more time in the Bay Area.  G loves it there, for many reasons more than just the tacos and the ice-cream.  I'm lucky enough to have great friends and good colleagues there.  So perhaps some day, perhaps in five years, or in ten, I'll be doing more than just pretending to be a Bay Area foodie. 

California Dreamin': Meetings With Remarkable Bloggers, Again

Even before I wrote a post about having met up with Molly, Jen and Shuna, I had, of course, had a number of other meetings with remarkable bloggers.  I just hadn't called them that.  So instead of calling this "Meetings With Remarkable Bloggers, Part II" as I had originally intended,  I'm going right back up there to the title bar and striking "Part II"  through and adding "Again".  Damn.  Typepad won't let me do a strikethrough on the title bar, and I'm an HTML idjit who won't take the time right now to figure out if it's even possible.   I'm still on vacation, by the way, and have been very busy having fun, laughing with friends, spending copious amounts of time with my best beloved, and eating and drinking well.  Too busy to blog, in fact, but I'm going to do a quick "drive by" since one of the highlights of my trip occurred 9 days ago.  I'm in danger of forgetting even more details than I already have.  Sadly, none of my pictures of the evening in question can be put up, lest I offend fellow bloggers -- or the management of the restaurant, since the food pics came out even worse than the people ones. 

About a month ago, I emailed Shuna, letting her know that G and I were going to come to the Bay Area in early August.  I had mentioned our planned trip during our dessert excursion, and Shuna had asked me to tell her when our plans were firm.  A lovely chain then ensued, where Shuna contacted a bunch of Bay Area food bloggers, Sam contacted a bunch more, and Sam then took over and coordinated a dinner at the Helmand in SF, so that I could meet some of the food-blogging community.  How incredibly nice was that, I ask you.   It was an absolutely delightful evening.  It was only our second day of vacation, and we were just getting acclimated.  What better way to do so than among strangers who immediately treat you like friends? 

The food at the Helmand was very good, but the company was even better.  Shuna picked us up at our Berkeley hideout, and together with Kat drove us across the bridge and to the restaurant.  Our talk was lively, and they both had lots of great recommendations for our stay in the area -- especially when they heard of G's devotion to tacos.   We were the first group to arrive at the restaurant.  Shortly thereafter, the Bunrabs appeared, Recchiuti chocolates in hand (thank you!).  Suddenly food bloggers and their camp followers started pouring in from everywhere:  Amy and her husband Lee, Catherine, Jen, Derrick, Anita with beau, and finally hostess Sam, bestowing lovely homemade amaretti on all comers.

Derrick chose wonderful wines, and I had a chance to talk to some bloggers I've long admired.  I was seated next to Amy, and we talked about what it's like to have "food-blog feelers" from places like the Food Network, who are intrigued by your blog but then actually ask if you don't also have a story about feeding a dying loved one since it's more dramatic than your quite authentic tales of food and fellowship and family.  The Bunrabs talked eloquently on a number of subjects, including good ways to get rezzies at hard-to-reserve restaurants (G: [long suffering sigh] "We can eat at your French Laundromat if you want to.  I just hope they don't expect me to wear clean clothes").  Jen told me about her tasting menu at Redd, where we had a reservation a few days hence.  After the meal, a large group of us repaired to Naia for gelato, where I got to hear even more Bay area food gossip.  It was simply lovely to meet bloggers as gorgeous and clever as their blogs, like Catherine and Anita.  I was sad to miss those who couldn't make it -- Dr. Biggles, Fatemeh, Joy, Cookiecrumb and Stephanie (whom I fortunately caught up with later, at Cowgirl Creamery). 

Big thanks once again to both Shuna and Sam, for giving me such a great opportunity  -- and thanks again to so many great Bay Area food bloggers, for sharing their community.  Proof of the power of blogging -- it doesn't have to make us sit alone in our little cubicles, as our loved ones are wont to fear.   Instead, it can cause  us go out and play in the sunshine (or in the kitchen) with like-minded folks. 

More Bay Area chronicles to come (possibly): in the Edible Schoolyard, lunch at Vik's Chaat House, adventures in Napa, Ferry Plaza Farmer's Market with Sam, in the stillroom with June Taylor, Copia, Redd, Bouchaine Vineyards, dinners with friends in Berkeley and San Rafael, lots of excellent taco trucks and shops, Mitchell's ice-cream, Munchies candy store in Sausalito...and who knows what today may bring? 
 

Meetings With Remarkable Bloggers

Obligatory disclaimer about a post which, as is often the case, should have happened a while ago:  I'm WAY behind. On everything.  But as I look around me, taking a gander at a few other blogs, I realize that pretty much everyone else feels exactly the same way all the time.  I'd very much like to find someone on whom to blame this feeling, so if you can think of anyone, please let me know. 

That being said, it's been ages since I had meet-ups with three quite wonderful bloggers, one of whom is known to me quite well, one whom I had the pleasure of seeing for the second time (this time in her city, not mine), and one who was new to me and utterly delightful.  And I've been meaning to write at least a bit about these meetings for some time, and am only just getting around to it now.  So finally, in chronological order,

Tale #1:  Seattle Sojourn

Quite some time ago, at the tale end of my Cascade Mountains retreat, I had a day to spend in Seattle.  Who would be the best possible person to a) recommend some great places to go on a free afternoon in Seattle and b) to be one's dining companion in that fair city later on into the evening?   Yes,  I know you know.  None better than Molly, the darling doyenne of Orangette.  Since it was a Friday, she had to work, but kindly allowed me to drop my bags at her office and then made maps for me to have my own little walking tour.  Following her suggestions, I walked to Salumi, where I'd long dreamed of going and which was a perfect walk from Molly's office.  I waited happily on line to buy a gorgeous, drippingly delicous porchetta sandwich (which is long gone, of course) and a salami (which still resides in my fridge, waiting for an occasion of some sort or other, since it apparently lasts a long long time).

I then made my way to Elliott Bay Books, another brilliant Molly recommendation, where I proceeded to spend the greater part of my afternoon, even sacrificing time at Pike Place Market (books win out, even over food) in order to lose myself in a big, beautiful, wandering, multi-storied, multi-roomed, funky, independent bookstore-cum-cafe, the likes of which really doesn't exist in NYC, to my ongoing dismay (it's true that there are independent bookstores in NYC, of course, but all of them are missing something -- atmosphere, selection, a café, a certain bookstore je ne sais quoi.  My favorite is probably the HousingWorks Used Bookstore, which has the best atmosphere -- but a somewhat limited selection, since they sell only donated books.  Why is it that the books I buy at bookstores like these and lug home in my suitcase are always better than other books?  I try saying to myself that I don't need to add 15 pounds to my luggage, I can order these on Amazon or buy them at the dreaded B & N, but somehow or other I always buy good books when I have an afternoon to browse in an independent bookstore and leave my money there.  So far, this is what I've read in my haul from Elliot Bay Books:  Perma Red, Resistance, and Truth and Beauty, each of which was, in its own way, so remarkable and so compelling that I had trouble returning to the world when I was done).   

From there I walked up to Pike Place Market, stopping along the way to buy a slightly extravagant mud-silk kimono jacket (one of those purchases that you make, knowing it costs more than you'd like to pay, but secure in the knowledge that if you don't buy it, you will keep remembering its beauty, perfect fit and suitability-for-many-occasions and gnash your teeth in regret later on).  I meandered in the market, buying luscious local apricots but forgoing the seductive-smelling doughnuts, since Molly and I were to meet for drinks and then hook up with Brandon for a what turned out to be a perfectly lovely meal at the Boat Street Café.  Although Molly and I have only met once before, and we have about a generation between us in terms of age gap, we seem to have no trouble chatting an afternoon away.  After all, when you both find writing, food, work and love to be utterly compelling topics, time flies pretty fast.  And there are always personal histories woven in, so no one needs to resort to recently-viewed movies.  Take it from me, Molly is every bit as dreamy, smart, funny, and elegant in person as she is on her blog. 

Our dinner, too, was marvelous -- as was Brandon (and yes, Orangette readers, he IS worthy of your treasure -- if indeed a worthy suitor exists).  We shared plates, talked, laughed, and then they took me on a little driving tour of some favorite Seattle spots before leaving me at the airport to catch my red-eye flight.   It's a glorious thing to see a city through the eyes of those who love it and know it well, even when it's just for a day.  You know your hosts have done a particularly excellent job when you begin ruminating on the cost of living in that city, as compared to your own much more expensive and population-dense hometown, and noting the "For Sale" and "For Rent" signs as you peruse the various neighborhoods.   Thanks so much, Molly and Brandon. 

Tale #2:  Of Cell Phones and Cellophane Noodles

It's my great pleasure and privilege to call myself friend to the adorable and talented Jen, aka Bakerina, who is deserving of more praise than I can find to heap upon her.  Out for drinks, in for cooking and baking, on a shopping crawl, it's all better when Bakerina's there. 

A few weeks ago, as I set out for a Saturday mid-morning market ramble, it occurred to me that maybe Jen was there at Union Square too, and we could, perhaps, meet up for a nosh and some prattle.  I called her, and left a message on her cell phone.  A few minutes later I felt my phone vibrate, but I'd missed the call.  The message, however, said that she was indeed in the neighborhood at her favorite yarn haunt, and would return to the market to meet up with me.  Somehow or other we kept missing calls.  I finally realized that my phone was not ringing -- and neither was hers.   It seemed that yet another monster corporation was conspiring to ruin our day.  But we were victorious, finally just leaving message after message that said things like "I'm on the West side of the market, at Mountain Sweet Berry Farm.  It's 12:00."  Or "I'm approaching the market from 17th Street.  It's 12:10."  And finally, "I'll meet you at the Coach Farm stand at 12:15."  We had triumphed over the hellishly evil technology that seeks to rule ever more of our lives. 

We swaggered across the street to Republic (which, for some reason, I always think of as Revolution -- maybe the red star logo?)  for glasses of restorative basil lemonade and bowls of noodles, to finally have our chat.  To spend time with Jen is to laugh, to swap horrors and victories, and to feel truly heard and understood.  Add all of that to someone who's endlessly erudite, witty as all get-out, and has a real gift for putting things into perspective, and you've got yourself one hell of a friend.  I know, I know.  I am a lucky girl. 

Tale #3:  Just Deserts*

The email subject line said "are you around this weekend?".  It was from none other than Shuna Fish Lydon, phenomenal author of eggbeater and pastry chef par excellence, who had come to NYC and wanted to know if I were game to meet up.   I have long been an admirer of Shuna, whom I find fascinating and extraordinarily moving as a writer and photographer, as well as a consummate teacher of all things culinary, particularly in the realm of the sweet. 

Shuna suggested that we meet at Room4Dessert.  I was excited both to meet her, and to have an eating adventure into the realm of molecular gastronomy, which amuses me but about which I take a kind of "now kids, don't try this at home" attitude.  After all, it's only a bit over a year ago that I got my humble little ice-cream machine.  I'm not really set up for a pacojet. 

Shuna was standing outside the restaurant, wearing the eggbeater t-shirt.  We went in and sat at the long bar -- which, incidentally is the only kind of seating the restaurant offers.  It's a lot of fun to go to a dessert restaurant with a pastry chef, since you'll get to taste almost everything.    We tried two of the dessert "glasses", which had layers of various tastes and textures, and three of the tasting plates, each of which were composed of four little things in various sorts of precious little dishes, bottles and cups. 

After we left the restaurant, we walked and talked for a while.  It was Shuna's perspective on the food we'd shared which really helped me to understand what they were doing -- and not doing -- at the restaurant.  When she talked about her disappointment that at this time of the year, there was so little fresh fruit on our plates, I thought about the connection between food and values (I know I've been writing about that a lot recently).  Through much of what she said, I saw that what we value on our plates is easily a metaphor for what we value in our lives.  Do we sacrifice freshness for convenience?  Value innovation over quality?  Look for novelty instead of authenticity?  Create luxury at the price of ethically produced food? 

Later we spoke of teaching, and found ourselves united in our contempt for scripted curricula; my experience has been in public schools and universities, and Shuna's in the world of culinary classes, where some of her employers wanted her to teach from a script rather than from her experience, her instincts, and what she knows to be true -- which is what all real teachers should be permitted to do. 

What I'll say about the evening is that I enjoyed Shuna's company far, far more than I did the desserts -- which isn't nearly enough praise for Shuna, since the desserts were fun but didn't knock me over.  Of all the many things we tasted, there was really nothing there that made me feel I'd have to go back to this restaurant to get another taste of this or of that.  But I would certainly enjoy more of Shuna's company -- and I hope to next month, if schedules collide, when G and I visit the Bay Area again this summer for a couple of weeks. 

So ends this installment of Meetings With Remarkable Bloggers.  With any luck, it'll become its own category...

From Sleeping Lady

A few photos to show where I've been lucky enough to be spending time recently.  For the past few years, I've served on a national team of  educators.  Since we come from all over, our meetings take place in different parts of the country.   Here are some views of the glories of Washington State.

Driving through beautiful Wenatchee State Forest.

    This splendor awaited me each day last week, as I stepped outside my cabin...

...often on my way to a lovely dining room nestled by mountains, next to the gurgling Icicle River, with outdoor tables under huge old trees where kingfishers swoop, and woodpeckers and hummingbirds take their nourishment, too.

I've never had food served "cafeteria-style" that was as beautiful or delicious as this.  The resort's chef takes a great deal of pride in his meals, clearly. 

Some of our salads and other produce came from this organic garden.

My days were filled with thought-provoking work meetings and presentations, but I managed to get in some walks and even a much-needed massage.  I returned home very much aware of my great good fortune in being able to work with a group of inspiring colleagues in a such a glorious place.   Next year my term of service with this group will be over.  I'll very much miss the company and the talk, formal and informal, as well as the beauteous settings. 

In The Snow

"He stood still, and loved it. Its beauty was paralyzing beyond all words, all experience, all dream."
    - Conrad Aiken, Silent Snow, Secret Snow

We've been snow-deprived this year.  Some perhaps congratulate themselves on having escaped a more bitter winter; we here at AFIEP have bemoaned the lack of snowy weekend walks, amazing icicle cascades on the rocks in the park and in the tunnels under Park Avenue, and a city that finally slows itself down under a rush of white.  We did have that so-called "biggest ever" snowstorm earlier this month, but it was gone so quickly.  It just didn't satisfy the yen we've had for frosted landscapes and crunch underneath our boots.    G has felt especially bereft of winter; you'd think a Baltimore boy would have a hankering for more heat, but it's just the opposite.  Although he loves Baltimore itself, he's a hardy specimen who has no affection for the balmy and sometimes sultry climate in which he was raised.  He craves the cold. 

So our recent vacation was a welcome antidote to the creeping suspicion that our winter is just a little too (globally) warm.   When friends and acquaintances heard that we were planning to spend a week shared between Montreal and Vermont, they all asked right away if we were going skiing.  Skiing certainly may have its joys, but we just wanted snow, cold, beautiful landscapes, hearty, wintry meals and the sense of being far away from NY.

Vermont was our stopover point to and and from Montreal.  We made our customary Central Vermont rounds, especially on our return journey -- pancake breakfasts at Eaton's Sugarhouse, a lovely dinner at Ariel's, a bit of shopping at the Baker's Store/King Arthur and the wonderful food co-op in Lebanon, New Hampshire.   

In Quebec, we were delighted by the snowy beauty of the landscape.  I looked at the good boots everyone was wearing, and noticed that no-one seemed particularly bothered by the cold.   "People adapt to conditions," G admonished me gently.  "It's not like NY, where snow throws everyone into a panic and shuts down the city."  G was in his element in Montreal -- so much so that we looked at the ads at realtors windows and marveled at the excellent prices for real estate and rentals.  "What about the plan to move to San Francisco?" I asked.  I guess that's our current criterion for a good vacation:  we have such an extraordinarily wonderful time that we fall in love with the place, and decide we want to live there. 

Montreal made some pretty compelling arguments for moving, I must say -- among them being the fact that we did not encounter a bad meal or even a mediocre snack while we were there.  It seems to be one of those cities where fresh, well-prepared food is simply the standard, even at a small nondescript place that one stops into by chance, for lunch or a "little something".   At one such place, G's request for a lemonade (in the middle of winter, no less) was met with a fresh-squeezed citron pressé, garnished with both lemon and lime slices.  In another, a tiny creperie, we were surprised by the good carrot-ginger soup as well as the delicious crepes.   The chill from a long walk from the Plateau district to Vieux Montreal had us wandering into a tiny, rustic chocolate shop, where the proprietor and I cobbled together enough Franglais between us to be mutually understood.  It was not the least bit posh, not at all like the gleaming minimalist chocolatiers in the Plateau.  The proprietor was an older woman who delighted in my poor French, assuring me that I had a lovely accent, and pressed sample after sample of her homemade chocolates upon me.  At one point she put her arm around my shoulders and declared "I like you," with a dear smile.  G's heart was won when she poured him a tall glass of what he declared to be one of the best hard ciders he'd ever had.  And my tiny cup of hot chocolate was aficionado stuff -- pure and intense, a chocolate hit for a serious dark chocolate lover. 

And our planned meals were excellent as well.  Montreal's winter dinner menus didn't seem to include much chicken or beef while we were there; they were weighted much more heavily toward pork, lamb, duck, lots of venison and other game.  This was an interesting and delicious change for us.   Friends and bloggers had recommended Au Pied de Cochon and L'Express, where our dinners certainly did not disappoint.  We had to try the smoked meat and fries at both Schwartz's and the Main (Schwartz's easily won that competition, as I had expected it would).  Another planned excursion came from a brief correspondence with  Marcy Goldman.  She had, with complete serendipity, sent me an email telling me how much she likes this site.  I happened to read her email while in Montreal, Ms. Goldman's own stomping grounds.   Quick quick quick I asked her for pastry recommendations, and she suggested that I try Au Kouign Amann.  Our bites there were ambrosial, all the way from the eponymous layered butter-and-caramel pastry to G's chausson au pommes, as well as the housemade dark chocolate truffles that I'm enjoying even as I write. 

Dinner on our last evening at tiny La Colombe was perhaps my favorite meal of the trip.  Although it was a four-course table-d'hote meal, I ordered one of the a la carte appetizers, not realizing that I would still be served the requisite four courses.  But the meal was beautifully timed, and I was able to manage it all quite happily.  My special appetizer was the foie gras served with pain d'epices and a sauce described as being of honey and spices.  Not fond of sugary sauces, I worried that the preparation would weigh too heavily on the sweet side for me.  But the skill of the chef was evident from the first bite.  The foie gras itself had a crisp crust and a salt edge which balanced the subtle, not-overly sweet dish.  It was perhaps the best foie gras preparation I've ever had.  We then both had a light, peppery cauliflower soup, which was followed by a salad with some smoked mackerel for me, and wild boar terrine with apricots for G.  He's not a big eater of terrines and patés, but claimed that the wild boar gave him a positively Proustian moment by causing him to recall the liverwurst sandwiches of his childhood.  We forbore mentioning this to the chef.  I thought the terrine was delicious, as were our plats principaux.  G had a pork filet with parsnip purée which was quite good.  But I had the stand-out entree, a côte de cerf, which turned out to be a lusciously thick, tender,  rare and flavorful venison chop, served with an outstanding risotto of black rice.  Our pleasure was completed with a blueberry-almond cream tart and a luscious chocolate marquise.  The waiter must have relayed our praise to the chef, who nodded and smiled at us through the window of the open kitchen.  I had the idea that he didn't want to venture his English, much the same as I felt about my halting, translated-in-my-head French . 

The true stand-out of our vacation, however, was our marvelous hotel, Auberge de la Fontaine.     The Auberge is beautiful, facing the lovely Parc de la Fontaine.  It's also located in the Plateau district, where there are many contemporary and charming shops as well as what seems like most of the best restaurants.  All of the restaurants we chose from recommendations and reviews turned out to be within walking distance of our hotel. 

We were fortunate enough to have one of the inn's most charming rooms, spacious and attractive with a large terrace facing the park (the picture at the top of the post is the view from our terrace) -- not to speak of an in-room double Jacuzzi, quite welcome during the afternoons of days filled with long snowy and icy walks.  A good television (which helped us avail ourselves of both "South Park" and "Law and Order" in French) and an excellent sound system were among the accoutrements.  When we go back, which we undoubtedly will, we hope to have the same room in spring or summer whether, and enjoy the lovely terrace even more. 

Each morning we came downstairs to an abundant breakfast of freshly baked croissants and pains chocolats, fresh fruit sliced and in fruit salad, as well as to eat out of hand, cheeses, patés, yogurt, hard-cooked eggs, cereals, breads, and usually a specialty like sugar waffles or an egg-and-spinach dish as well as some homebaked carrot bread or date squares.  This far exceeded the meager offerings we've encountered at most mid-level B&Bs, which usually seem to broadcast that someone said to someone else "oh yeah, we have to put out breakfast for the guests" -- an afterthought at best.  The Auberge's policy is to keep an open kitchen downstairs, meaning that up until midnight you can help yourself to coffee, tea, and snacks: cookies, crackers, and the cheeses, patés, fruit, and baked goods left from breakfast, if you wish.  We didn't avail ourselves of this to any excessive degree, since we were eating copiously outside the hotel -- but it was delightful to be able make ourselves tea and have a tiny bite on a couple of occasions.   More than anything, we just liked the policy, which speaks to the friendly, open nature of the Auberge in general. 

G's feeling that we still hadn't had quite enough snow must have been heard by an unseen power from above.  As we made our way home from the second Vermont leg of our trip on Saturday, we ran into a major blizzard.  It was cold and crisp, mysterious and beautiful as only a drive in the whirling snowfall can be.  We didn't even mind that our progress was so slow -- until we were re-routed.   So many cars skidded and piled up all over I-91 (no fatalities, and no serious injuries either, fortunately) that we were sent south on Route 5, to rejoin I-91 quite a while later.   Sadly, by the time we hit Massachusetts, the snow was almost gone. 

C U @ the ) ...

...meaning "see you at the moon", except that I couldn't seem to make Typepad give me a good symbol for moon, so I used that little parenthesis.

"See you at the moon" is one of the slogans of Baltimore's famed Papermoon Diner (this link does not provide a full menu, which is pages long, but merely a sample.  Actually, here's a more complete link).  I've been hearing about the Papermoon for quite awhile.  As a matter of fact, I've been repeatedly told that I didn't know or understand what a diner was, since I'd never been to the Moon.   Fortunately, I was granted the opportunity during one of our recent "Hey!  We have a car!  Let's get out of town!" weekend jaunts, this time to DC and Baltimore.  The trip was mostly in order to see and hear this beloved band for the second out of three times in a week, groupies that we are.  We also had a chance to stay at this funky venue for a night, have a brief lunch at Lexington Market  (crab cakes! cream of crab soup! Polack Johnny's Hot & Spicy Sausage! Ocean City-style fries!) and to visit the Baltimore branch of G's family. 

I'd proudly introduced G to my favorite Blue Benn, and we discovered the sadly and hopefully only temporarily defunct Farmers' Diner together, but G kept telling me that although they were great, they weren't *real diners*.  According to the G definition,  a real diner must be open 24/7 (except maybe for Thanksgiving and Christmas) and you have to be allowed to smoke. This, of course, means that many states in our great nation no longer have "real" diners.  If these states were to realize that their all-night egg-and-hash joints no longer fit into the G definition of authentic dinerhood, would that be enough to change state legislation around smoking in public places?  It remains to be seen.  Perhaps there could be a special amendment or clause for 24-hour diners...

Of course, the Papermoon does have non-smoking rooms.  But the counter and the area around it are sacrosanct to the crowd that enjoy a cig with their coffee after one of the beautiful omelets or quesadillas, or their famous meatloaf.  The food doesn't stray far from a reasonably standard diner menu, but the quality is stellar.  I ordered an old favorite that's not easy to find even at diners these days:  the patty melt, a burger with fried onions and cheese on grilled rye bread.  G had a "porky burger" with cheese and bacon, and we shared some quesadillas, since obviously we were going for the total pig-out.  Everything was good, really good -- the salsa with the quesadillas tasted of several different chiles, the burgers were fresh and tasty, and the fries were so recently out of the basket that we couldn't touch them for several minutes.   Our iced teas were refilled with whenever we wished, another diner courtesy that is becoming more and more of a rarity.

I may have to say that as much as I loved the food, as much as I want to go back and order all the things I didn't have, I might enjoy the environment even more than the food.  Someone had a lot of fun creating this place.   I've been to many a restaurant that was filled with old toys and/or found-object art, but this is without a doubt, the apotheosis of the form.

The place is not without its idioyncrasies, including a lengthy list of "rules" inside each menu, which are all composed of different disemboweled children's books.  There's no talking to the line cooks behind the counter, there's a $5 minimum during busy hours and a $3 plate-sharing charge -- which is certainly unusual for a diner.  Another rule specifies "no crybabies" but there are plenty of toys around to distract even the crankiest sensibility.

I suppose you could come to the Moon in a bad mood, or have a bad time, but it's hard to imagine.   You have to like diner food, and you've gotta enjoy kitsch, so if a ceiling fan with Barbies chasing action figures in twirling perpetuity is not your thing, maybe you shouldn't go to the Moon.

Papermoon Diner
227 W 29th St
Baltimore, MD 21211
(410) 889-4444

...with great appreciation to all those whose Papermoon images were borrowed for this post...

Oh, The Horror

It was like a bad dream.  Less than 48 hours had passed since my return from the glorious Southwest of these here United States, Santa Fe to be exact, and I had already met up with friends twice at places that pass for Tex-Mex/Mexican restaurants in New York City -- at their behest, of course.   I guess it's summer and people want margaritas -- I can't really think of a better excuse.

It's true what they say.  You can't go home again; or for  a more literal interpretation, going to places where food originates turns you into a snob about that kind of cuisine once you DO go home.

For example, to your left is a sopaipilla.  Perhaps you knew that already, in which case this paragraph is for the uninitiated.  At many, many restaurants in the Southwest, these puffy, flaky, crunch, doughy pillows of fried bread are brought to your table along with your entree.  Tortillas are good with chile; so is cornbread.  But a piping hot sopaipilla elevates your   bowl of red or green to a whole new level. 

Trust me, there weren't any of those babies at Mary Ann's (shudder) on Monday afternoon, or at the (hah!) Santa Fe Grill in Park Slope on Tuesday night.  To be fair, it wasn't anyone's fault, really.  My teaching partner suggested that we meet at the Upper East Side Mary Ann's for our planning meeting.  This suggestion was really in order to make it convenient for me, since I live only 12 blocks away.  It was pouring down rain, so after our meeting I ordered some take-out and brought it home to G.  We agreed that oatmeal has more zip than Mary Ann's enchiladas.  The next night some girlfriends suggested the Santa Fe Grill for our Brooklyn drinks date, and I just didn't have it in me to come up with an alternative.  So I quietly went along with the cruel irony of it all.   I did have a slightly better quesadilla there at the Grill, but anyone who has had recent contact with actual salsa and real green and red Chimayo chiles would simply sneer. 

I'm having a bit of trouble wiping a tiny, microscopic sneer off my face as I write this; maybe what all our mothers said was true, and my face has frozen this way.  Doesn't really matter about the sneer, as long as my mouth still opens so that when I go BACK to New Mexico later this summer, with G in tow, I can shovel in as much food from the Plaza Restaurant as humanly possible.  The Plaza, a humble dineresque venue right on the central plaza in Santa Fe, serves marvelous food at (surprise!) diner prices.   

Carefully peruse the picture to your right.  I know it looks sort of like a big mess, but it's actually only part of the wonderful plato combinación that I consumed on one of my days in the actual town of Santa Fe.  Most of the time I was at a lovely resort/retreat/conference center about 25 miles from Santa Fe, where the food was delicious -- much of it organically grown on the premises.  It was a bit spa-like and austere, which was fine.  The only problem was that there was nothing even vaguely Southwestern about the soy-glazed salmon, quinoa-millet pilaf and sauteed vegetables that we ate with some frequency over the week-long stay.  I managed to wangle my way into  Santa Fe 3 times (I was like a kid at camp, begging to go to town) and I ate at the Plaza twice.   I stumbled upon them my first time in town and suddenly remembered that I'd read a glowing review in Roadfood, so my choice for lunch was set. Now I absolutely crave their food, but I'm back in NY, where people seem determined to subject me to the likes of some kind of nasty faux texxy or mexxy or who knows what, but nothing good. 

Back to my plato combinación.  On that fateful first day in town, I had a challenging morning of shopping from the independent vendors on the Plaza (spending wa-a-a-a-ay too much money on quite a few items of very beautiful jewelry that would cost the earth here in Gotham but were very reasonable in Santa Fe).   I was in need of fuel.  After all, I still had more shopping to do:  blue cornmeal and chilies and cooking ingredients as well as other little souvenirs.  So I ordered this meal, which was comprised of what you see in the second photo (perfect chicken enchilada in green chile, cracklingly crunchy chile relleno filled with hot molten cheese, yummy rice and beans and salad garnish); what you see above left:  a carnitas taco with two sauces; and the heavenly sopaipilla at the top.  It was all wonderful, and I took plenty of leftovers back to the compound (I mean the resort) with me.   

Oh, and when it came to deciding upon what to drink, I took a leaf out of Heidi's book.  A while ago in her beautiful blog 101 cookbooks, Heidi mentioned iced tea made of jamaica (aka hibiscus) flowers.  So when I saw "Jamaica-lemonade cooler" on the menu at the Plaza, I knew just how I would cool down.  What a treat.

I have no recipes for you yet, but I did bring back lots of ingredients.  Whatever I come up with, it can't possibly taste as good as the bright hot dry weather, the endless sky, the mesas, and the dramatic scrim of the Sangre de Cristo moutains.  Santa Fe,  I miss you already, and I'm coming back...

Vermont Odyssey: The Farmers' Diner

"Eating is an agricultural act."
        -- Wendell Berry

Consuming our food is, of course, the final moment in the chain of events that brings comestibles to our tables.  Unless, as in the immortal short film "Toast", it all ends up in the trash anyway.  The vast majority of us are not involved in food production, and as a result probably feel somewhat isolated from all the other links in this chain, whether we live in cities, towns or rural areas.  But wherever we find ourselves on the continuum of food,  we are certainly consumers.  So perhaps what we can contribute is to be conscious consumers, who begin to give thought to where the food comes from, who makes it, how long it takes to get to us, and who benefits. 

Of all the eateries and other places we visited during our recent trip to Vermont, the one most worthy of mention is The Farmers' Diner in Barre.  I lifted the Wendell Berry quote above from the diner's placemats.  This diner is worth knowing about not just for the superior quality of its food, but for its philosophy as well.  The diner was started as the brainchild of Tod Murphy, who decided that a diner could be a way of supporting sustainable agriculture for local family farms.    Between 65 and 70 cents of every food dollar spent at the Farmers' Diner is for food raised within 70 miles of the diner.    Murphy knew that there were a number of  high-end, destination restaurants in Vermont that boasted the use of local produce, but none that had local food as their mission while serving high-quality yet affordable food to the community's working people (as well as lucky tourists like us).    The reason why the number remains stable at around 70% is because you can't really get orange juice or bananas grown in Vermont.  And if they tried to create their own brand of organic local ketchup instead of using Heinz, the price of a hamburger (made with natural beef from a local farm, served on organic bread) would have to jump at least 50 cents.  So a balance is struck between affordability and the diner's mission. 

But on to the food.  Unlike our other favorite Vermont diner, the Blue Benn in Bennington (where we stopped on our way up North), the menu at the Farmers' diner is quite simple.  It's a diner menu, with breakfast all day, soup, salads, burgers and sandwiches for lunch, and big old layer cakes and pies under plastic bells on the counter.  It's the quality of all the food that sets it apart. 

That's the notorious G, cutting into a platter of French toast made with organic cinnamon raisin bread, drenched in Vermont maple syrup, and sided with crisp bacon from the diner's own smokehouse, not a mile down the road.  When the diner's creators realized that it might became difficult to find enough ham, bacon and sausage to fill the diner's needs, they purchased Vermont Smoke and Cure, a little smokehouse that operates out of the back of a Shell Station in South Barre.  They also sell their products in markets and by mail order, and from our sampling, they are well worth purchasing. 

Our wonderful breakfast also included my less photogenic plate of hash, beautifully poached eggs, organic multigrain toast, and maple sausage.  But our newly-minted love affair with the Farmers' Diner didn't end there, because we returned the next day for lunch.  You see,  G's parents have recently moved to a town only about 20 miles from the diner.  And in Vermont, no-one thinks anything of going 20 miles for breakfast --- at least not on a weekend.   So we can look forward to future visits;  I have to try the burger, purely in the interest of research of course. 

This time, we did it as two legs of a trip -- we had breakfast there on our way to an overnight stay in Burlington, and lunch on our way back.  The lunch trip got factored into our return itinerary after we'd sampled the goodies at breakfast.   For lunch we both had the blackboard special, a barbecued tenderloin of pork sandwich, again from the smokehouse.  The sumptuous portion of meat was bathed in a spicy chipotle barbecue sauce and served on a wonderful fresh soft white roll.  It came with a side of fresh, crisply delicious fries.  I had a huge glass of the best chocolate milk ever, which the menu proudly announced was from the Strafford Creamery.  When G tasted that, he decided to get a shake, which was also better than just about any within living memory.  What dividends there are to eating locally!  You can cut down on fossil fuel emissions by not importing far-away food, AND have the best milkshake of your life.

We purchased bacon, small packages of boneless ham to give as gifts, and an 8 pound half-ham on the bone, all under the Farmers' Diner label.  These finds were from the remarkable food co-op in Lebanon, New Hampshire, a town which is a possible site for another Farmers' Diner.  We go to the food co-op whenever we're in the area for great deals on local cheddar cheese and our favorite grade B maple syrup -- but now the Farmers' Diner products give us a whole 'nother inducement to shop there.  Of course, you can buy the products at the diner and the smokehouse too, subject to availability.  I followed the culinary advice of one of the waitresses in the diner, and when I cooked my ham last night, I gave it only a slathering of   maple syrup before letting it cook slowly for a couple of hours.  It was without a doubt the finest ham I've ever made -- and the side dishes of roast vegetables and corn pudding with chilies and Vermont cheddar weren't too shabby either. 

Mr. Murphy and the rest of the diner's team plan to open a "pod" of satellite diners, first in Vermont, and eventually branching out with successive "pods" in other parts of the country.  We found this out by eavesdropping when a large group of adolescents, perhaps on a trip with a school group, came in to eat lunch and hear some of the diner's history from one of the partners.  It can only be hoped that they have great success, especially if the first Farmers' Diner is any indication of the quality of future branches.