Syllabub. The dictionary says, “See sillabub”. A classic English dessert of a certain era that graces the country dance tables in the novels of Jane Austen. Earlier this summer, I re-read the last Jane Austen novel partially written by Ms. Austen and finished by a contemporary author. Sanditon is a play on all the same […]Read More..
We sit down at the table. There are six of us: our friends Mark and Gina who helped the evening stay glued together, Eliza who has been the intern at the restaurant and farm for the last nine months, and her mother Trish, up for a visit. The old-wood table that Caleb built a few […]Read More..
I’ve waited too long to write. My memory seems to be not quite as it used to be. In the glory days of youth, I could remember faces, place names, historical dates, addresses (but somehow, never phone numbers), what I ate, drank, when, where, and why. I’m trying to remember that sunny day last week. […]Read More..
We have only a case of bottles left of our first cider from two seasons ago. They have been patiently waiting, or rather they have been doing what they need to do, and I have been not-so-patiently waiting for the time when we can disgorge them. The number of bottles has dwindled over the last […]Read More..
It’s the end of our vacation. Last day before the realities of running the restaurant during the holiday and winter season. Tomorrow and the next several days will be full of reservations, returning phone calls, waxing the dining room floor, painting the bathroom, making a soup, preparing ravioli, stocking wine. But today is Sunday, my […]Read More..
The tail edges of a tropical storm are decidedly un-tropical as the wind buffets the house and barn and a fine sleet falls, or is this hail? Could it even be snow? Luckily, the rainy weather this past November happened well beyond harvest. This year we picked grapes on September 18th, and apples mid-October. Last […]Read More..
First we were cooks and students of wine, then we were cooks, students of wine, and gardeners, then somehow we have become cooks, students of wine, gardeners, and farmers. While the restaurant is closed for our ritual November break, (what’s called stick season here in Vermont because all the leaves are gone and what is […]Read More..
A handful of warm days. It is strange to walk out the door and feel hot. The cluster flies have resurrected and swarm the sunny side of the house. While we’ve also had more rain and the ground is inconsistent at best, the air is like tinder next to a sulpfherous match. Even though the […]Read More..
I sit on the terrace under the pergola in the dying light. It’s mid-October and we’ve already had the first snow. I am loathe to relinquish this season, which is why I am sitting here watching the sky darken from color to black and white while the three-quarter moon is only thinly veiled by these […]Read More..
The last time I wrote here it was mid-summer. It is now mid-autumn. Good intentions once again gone astray. Wishing for the magician’s trick for expanding time. Our silence here may seem like we’ve been on a hiatus or sabbatical. Would that it were so. Hands dirty, backs sore, hungry, tired, and delighted. The most […]Read More..