Alpacas!

Meet Freckles (the little polka-dotted one) and her mom Semi. They live next door at Owl Ridge Alpacas. This family-run farm offers tours and alpaca education to our guests who wander on over for a visit. Baby Freckles has been sold, but I just learned that their most recent acquisition is a 4 week old alpaca. I can't wait to see it!

If you visit, you will also see bunnies, horses, the coolest bantam and other varieties of chickens, a rooster of course, and turkeys. They also have luxurious knitting wool from the herd and other alpaca-related items for sale. For more information, visit: www.owlridgealpacas.com

Pumpkins!

Went out for a couple of hours and returned to find these pumpkins artfully placed in the flower bed. The Great Pumpkin lives!

New cat--meet Dorian Gray

 Meet Dorian Gray (a.k.a.Purry)

This guy's been hanging around for a few months, but you know the rule: if you feed them, they belong to you. So, after few nips and a shot from the vet, he's now legal and ours. Turns out... there's a very good chance that's he is Purry, one of my neighbor's barn cats. I told Elam he owed me $110, but he replied "looks like you've got yourself a new cat!"

Derby Girl

What pollutes the air and the ground, exceeds the safe decibel limit and wastes gasoline but is fun, exciting, and REALLY BIG here in the Finger Lakes? The Demolition Derby, that's what!  

Drawing crowds of people and contestants from all around the area, the Trumansburg Fair's Demolition Derby is the qualifier for the NYState championships.  As I walked through the fairgrounds, I notice few people playing games, or riding rides and the carnival people all looked bored and tired. The ticket takers at the Grandstand are working up a sweat, though, because The Derby is by far the biggest draw.

When we were little, my dad took my sister and I to the Allegheny County Fair for the Demolition Derby. I can't remember if it was every year or just once, but the memory of it is burned into my brain. Seeing the cars line up, and hearing revving of the engines and the "10 to go" count, I am a little girl again, cheering, clapping, laughing, and making a fool of myself.

This year's Derby is special: I know some of the drivers. They are our neighbors from up the street, a dad and his sons. And one of them, Shawn, was driving our '93 Mercury Sable Wagon. "Be sure to tell us if you drive it in the derby next year" we said when we watched him drive it away, the transmission slipping and the back end sinking low over the wheel.  All winter, the car sat in the field with others awaiting its final fate until last week, when it appeared in front of his garage. Passing it every day I watched it become less of itself, stripped of glass, eviscerated, wire entrails leading from headlight sockets, hatch and seats removed and doors chained shut. 

A few days ago, Shawn flagged me down and pointed into the garage where it sat, reborn in a glory of blue and white zebra stripes and ready for the Derby. I got the giggles.

Back at the fair, and sitting in the third row, I watched as the old wagon fared well in competition and Shawn took a second place trophy.  The car was driven off the track (not towed as most others were) and maybe still has some life left in it. 

As I cheered for Shawn, conflicting thoughts were jostling around in my head: Who knew that car was such a tank?...OMG--this sport is so wrong on so many levels....We should never have sold that car....oh, yeah--I'm coming back next year!

Team Pride

Kevin took this picture of our neighbor's draft horses. A clear, blue Finger Lakes sky; a proud team at the end of their work day. Perfection. 

How Much Wood SHOULD a Woodchuck Chuck? or Can you say VEGETARIAN?

A common and abundant marmot here in the Finger Lakes is the woodchuck, a.k.a. the groundhog.  You see them burrowing under sheds and barns, poking around in the parks, and smashed beyond recognition on the highways. (How unfortunate when that happens on the first day out from hibernation!) They also like to live under big, old, front porches.

Our first year in the house, we gave permission to an Amish boy down the road to rid our property of the pests, and for a few weeks we would see him hanging around after chores. It was a rather surprising event when my in-laws were visiting. When my brother-in-law looked up from his dinner and said, "Uh, there's a guy in your front yard with a straw hat and he's carrying a gun?" and my response was "Oh, that's just Henry!" I realized how much our lives have been changed. I was willing to have someone do the dirty deed for me, and I wanted to feel okay about it. Us or them, right? I live in the country, and this is what we do. Top of the food chain, and all that?

Prolific breeders, no matter how heavily they are hunted, their numbers sustain. For the farmers who still plow with draft horses, the risk of broken legs or ankles is not acceptable, and I respect that. I've seen Elam become so frustrated that he filled one of the holes with manure. Not effective management, mind you, but satisfying nonetheless.

Our second summer in the house, Kevin started rebuilding the porch. The mama-chuck who lived under it delivered a litter of 6 babies and the barn-dwelling mama had 5. We were overrun. If you have never seen a baby woodchuck, know that baby woodchucks are cute.  I mean, really cute in a kitten kind of way. Jake the dog managed to grab 2--and I felt awful about it--but the rest were free to roam the property, even running in very close to Kevin, who was under the porch with saws, hammers, and drills. Each day these babies would venture a few feet further out into the front yard. They feared nothing. 

Lately, I've had a front and center view of the critter through my kitchen window while washing dishes. Sitting up on its hind legs, it will nimbly pull the young plants and shrubs to mouth level and munch. This year they seem to like the "chicks & hens," pulling them out by the root, holding the dirt ball and eating. They also love tulip bulbs. First they eat the green leaves, then they come back and dig up the bulb. They decimated a small patch of crocuses which were just starting to show some color. The nerve. What a nuisance. We've got to do something!

No more hired guns, though, just humane traps set by our local pest-management service. Seeing the little furry red-bellied beasts up close, feeding from the tenderest spring growth, their black noses touching in groundhog greeting, we honor their over-breeding, their insatiable but gastronomically upperclass appetites, and their spunk. Once again, I'm conflicted. So I'll save a woodchuck. But just one.

Wave, Everyone!

wave |wāv| verb : move one's hand to and fro in greeting or as a signal

Anyone who has spent time on our porch notices the same thing about the people who pass by: Everyone waves. It's a simple gesture, warm and comforting, and an affirmation of presence that deeply touches me and those who tell me about it. It says "Hey, I see you there and I'm happy about it." Or, "Sorry I can't stop and talk, but hello nonetheless!" Or, "Hi, neighbor!" 

Horseback riders, walkers, truck drivers, Amish, and children all have their own style of wave. From a small, almost unnoticeable tip of the hat to a great wide arm flailing motion. From a buggy comes a tilt forward and a couple of fingers up, with maybe a slight side to side action, or a vigorous, shaky full hand. From behind the wheel of a large farm combine, it may be just a couple fingers raised off the steering wheel, or a salute to the brim of a hat, or a lift of the arm from the elbow. Sometimes it's a raised arm and a shake! 

 

What confounds me is that a wave always prompts me to stop what I am doing and wave back, without even thinking about it. You may be a stranger, but you are now part of my day, and I yours. Isn't that a lovely thought? Wave, everyone!

I'll take the B

As my 12 followers have probably noticed (and those of you who read my blog but don't publicly follow) I've been silent since the New Year. No reason, really. Not bored with writing but I am bored with winter. Seems like it has been a hard one this year. Windy. Cold. Lots of ice. I'm not certain that the weather map data will confirm those facts. It's more of a feeling, I guess.

Life has picked up a few paces with me being in school. Weekend classes began at the end of January, and I feel like I've been playing catch-up with my time ever since. I don't feel overwhelmed, but my brain cells are otherwise entranced in Swedish massage, body mechanics, kinesiology, muscles and bones. I'm feeling exhausted and exhilarated, absent-minded yet organized, buried under chores but ready to open for business. How I can feel all of this all at the same time? 

I'm amazed at how quickly I learn some things, yet how slowly I'm catching on to others. I'm learning how I learn. Visually? Kinesthetically? Auditorialy? A combination of all three? I'm reminded by my instructors to be patient. Confusion is good - it means that our brain is processing the new material, and it will arrive comfortably in the land of knowledge in due time. We had our first quiz in kinesiology over the weekend and I missed 3 out of 20. That's a B in the grade book and I'll take it.

PS:  Here's a picture of Pip hiding under a hosta last fall. She's our little outcast. Squeemish, timid, and lovely.

Riding in the New Year

Our traditional New Year's Eve celebration is watching a bunch of movies, creating and enjoying a fabulous multi-course meal, and drinking lots of wine. Just the two of us. Well, three if you include our warm and comfort-seeking dog named Jake. Temperatures were mild enough to start the evening on the porch stoop and drink a cocktail, the barn and shrubs ablaze in sunset.  Most of the meal was sourced locally: a standing roast from High Point Farms, a creamy soup of leek and rutabagas from Country Side Produce, chocolate ice cream from Cayuga Lake Creamery, wine from J. R. Dill and bubbly from Lucas Vineyards. It was another perfect evening.

Early in December we made reservations for a New Year's Day trail ride at Painted Bar Stables in Burdette. Neither of us having ever been on a horse, we nervously made our way into the stables, all the while getting safety tips and riding instructions from Erika, the owner. I was to ride Dozer, a sharp looking chestnut gelding. Duchess, a solid paint palomino mare, was saddled for Kevin. We mounted, and with my stomach in my throat, I gingerly directed Dozer to the trail head and I stopped. I can't do it, I thought I said to myself, but Erika--ever present and alert--heard me, and made a suggestion. "Hum a tune, and you'll get over your fear. And don't forget to breathe. The horse will sense that you are nervous, then he'll get nervous. Oh, and don't micro-manage the horse. He knows how to walk through the mud and ice. Just gently suggest what you want him to do." I did, and he did, and all was well.

Creekside, my fear took over again, but with kind encouragement from Erika and the other riders, I kept calm, leaned back and let sure-footed Dozer manage the slope into the water. Slow and steady. That wasn't so bad. All in all, it was lovely ride on a mild winter day through corn fields and meadows, and I can't wait to go horseback riding again. Perhaps this will be a new tradition for us--riding into a Happy New Year.

Crisp, Clear Autumn

Crisp, misty mornings. Clear, cold nights. Autumn can be surprisingly stunning, with every turn in the road a new, perfect picture: a frost covered, sparkly carcass of a black bear; a narrow band of low clouds over the lake; the whitish, translucent ice of the milky way; a shooting star.  I love the mornings this time of year. The mist and fog make everything soft and light.

My morning drive is often an obstacle course of road-crossing mammals. One week, I counted 6 different species, including a red fox and a coyote. A few days ago, though, a large black cow appeared out of the mist. Slowly, steadily it stepped out of the brush, stopping and looking in my direction, the fog swirling around its hefty outline. Fortunately, I was able to stop. When one cow finds a hole in the fence, and you can be sure the others will follow. I put the truck in reverse, and backed it into the owner's driveway only to be met by his camo-covered, ski-masked, gun-wielding son riding a 4 wheeler.  I'll never get used to seeing guns up close, particularly first thing in the morning. Cow, I pointed. In the road, I said. Cow? not a horse? he asked through the knitted muffler. (see, this happens more than you think!) I repeated --cow-- pointing up the road to nothing. The beast was gone, as if it were an apparition.

Closer to home, the willow tree still holds its green leaves but our maple trees are bare. One of them exposes the Baltimore oriole's nest, suspended on the end of a branch over the road. I can't tell you how many times I stood in the middle of the road watching that oriole fly in and out--right there--yet I've never been able to see that nest. Bluebirds and mockingbirds are feeding on seeds and berries while fighting off the bluejays, and Canada geese fly so low you can hear the whoosh-whoosh of their wings as they pass overhead.

While I crunch through the frozen grass, I take in autumn's crisp, dry breath, and keep watch for the return of the short-eared owls. Their moth-like flight and piercing eyes will be my entertainment for the winter. Until then, I soak up the ever-changing light, keeping my eyes open for the next beautiful thing.

Many Hands Make Light the Work

"The ovens are off!" proclaimed Mary, "We're two hours early!"

Last week, under torrents of rain, I trekked through the puddles to Mary's house to help her and her crew wrap baked goods for the Ithaca Apple Festival. Mary's booth is one of the most popular at the annual event, and people return specifically to purchase her goodies every year. The entire operation is quite labor-intensive with the majority of the work--baking and wrapping--having to be done at the last-minute by Mary. Helping her are some local girls, and her sisters-in-law, mother-in-law, daughters, nieces, and me.

In her commercial kitchen located just off the main house, she produces hundreds of fruit pies, pumpkin pies, pecan pies and shoo-fly pies; banana bread and pumpkin breads; white, wheat and raisin (iced or not) breads; sticky buns; apple dumplings (pictured here), apple goodie and apple crisps; oatmeal, chocolate chip, and pumpkin cookies; Angel-food cakes; and whoopie pies (hers are hands-down the best in the area). Once everything is wrapped and labeled, we pack it all on to trays or into banana boxes and pie chests. The men, arriving after chores, load everything into a large trailer for delivery the next day. The whole process is repeated again the following day.

Often working only by the light from a gas lamp, I cherish the two evenings I spend there with her family reveling in the friendly banter, the laughter, and the unmitigated cooperation. The girls busily work at assembling and cleaning, and share the most unpleasant and arduous tasks without prompting or complaint. Everyone has a job to do, and seems to know exactly what needs to be done and when. Floors get swept and scrubbed, trays are carried and stacked. Older children tend to the younger, even putting themselves and their siblings to bed. Fussy children get pulled aside, soothed, fed, and entertained. Chaos one minute, and in the next, everything is clean and in order. Many hands, do indeed, make light the work.

This year, we all got a chance to sit down and put up our feet as we peered through the windows for the first sign of the truck's headlights on the hill. Elam returned from Ithaca with an empty trailer--a sign of a very good day at the festival--and I got a ride home in the buggy!

Leading the Team

For months now, I have been telling my neighbor Elam that I wanted to help him bale hay, thinking the experience of back-breaking, sweaty work would do my soul some good. While he is always more than happy to laugh at me, he obviously gave the request some serious thought.  As I watched his youngest brother Levi drive a team of 4 draft horses past the house with the baler and two wagons trailing behind (one of which was carrying his young son), Elam knocked on the kitchen door.

We're baling straw tonight, he says. Just a few times around the field, that's all. Want to help? This is your chance to drive the horses, feel the power of the team as they make their way around the field. Kevin can take pictures, and you can show all your friends at work! 

DRIVE THE HORSES? I've never even been on a horse. You would really let me to that? Oh, no. Not tonight, I hear myself say. We have guests. I've got dishes to do. I need a few days notice to prepare for this. 

After a few minutes of cajoling, he leaves to continue his work without me, not wanting to force me into it. Kevin looks at me. He's disappointed too. I tell him the truth: I'm too scared. But he assures me it will all be fine. It will be fun! What an opportunity! This is your chance, Michele! Go for it! 

So I do. Donning my blue overalls (I mean, what DID I buy those for anyway?) and a long sleeve shirt, I trek out to the back field just as he's getting ready to start. After about two seconds of instructions and a snappy "giddup" we're off, with little Elam Junior on my lap, and Kevin documenting every second of it. A friend of ours remarked that Elam must really trust me. I've been thinking about that trust and his self-reliance, confidence, and spirit of community. How can any society survive without those things?

The ride was bumpy, but what a rush! I did it.  Elam helped with the turns. Little Elam Junior sat quitely. Levi stacked the bales. Kevin ran along by my side and took pictures. I was leading the team and no one got hurt.

Hay Fever!

The smell of hay is the scent of summer. For the past couple of weeks, we've seen an epidemic of hay fever.  Anyone who keeps livestock (or grows alfalfa for people who keep livestock) is baling hay, loading hay, and transporting hay. Alfalfa is agricultural perfection. It is raised and baled on the farm, fed on the farm, and spread as manure on the farm.

Watching the weather (make hay while the sun shines!) becomes an obsession because one good rainfall, at the wrong time in the process, can destroy the crop. Rain is a blessing and a curse. Timing is everything. There's so many acres to cut and only so much time to cut it before the first rain drop falls. The sky darkens. The clouds threaten, and still they cut. They windrow. They bale. They sweat. They plow in the dark, headlights (if they have them) illuminating the clouds of chaff, methodically and deliberately until the last bale is loaded onto the wagons. The filled wagons dot the landscape in every direction. 

A conventional baler throws the tied bales into slat-sided wagon with a powerful thrust machine called a kicker (or maybe that's a thrower?) and are piled up every which way. The bales in the Amish steel-wheeled wagons (which are flat and open-sided) are stacked neatly then pulled to the barn by a team of draft horses, creating a rumble that you first feel, then hear. As our neighbor's team quickly turns the sharp corner into his driveway, I've never seen him lose one bale. One of these days I'm going to help make hay, and Elam's offered to let me lead the horses--they know what to do, he says. Can you imagine me out there in the blazing sun driving the team? I've never even been ON a horse!

During this month's hay-making season, we have cows grazing in the field next to us. At night, by starlight, you can't always see them but you can hear them crunching on the grass, the young bull wailing in the night for no one's apparent pleasure but his own.  Perhaps he has hay fever too.

Keep singing!

Right now there's a Northern Mockingbird outside the window, feverishly and relentlessly singing to impress his mate, who just arrived in our yard today (he's been singing for about a month.) Driven by instinct, he settled in and kept singing. Night after night, a male barn swallow roosts beside his egg-filled nest, even after his mate has been missing for a week and the clutch is lost. Two winters ago a snowy owl made our town his home for 4 months bringing birdwatchers from miles around to observe and record his every move and pellet expulsion. What makes this place so right for them?

But, there's more. Always more. While cleaning up the remains from another spectacular peony bloom, I hear Kevin say "Here's Michele, I'll let you talk to her." On the other end of the phone line was our friend David from the market around the corner. One of his customers reported having a sandhill crane in their front yard. A sandhill crane just up the road? Could it be? I couldn't pass up the opportunity to see one this close, so I dropped the broom, the clippers, spritzed myself with bug-spray (thinking we would be trudging through a field), grabbed the binoculars, jumped in the car and picked up David along the way.

Okay, so up the road was about 3 miles, but in farm country, that's still in the neighborhood. I was half expecting the bird would turn out to be a Great Blue Heron. I was so wrong. As we pulled into the driveway, there it was, its red-patched head a beacon in the green grass under a small tree. It was no more that 20 feet from us, foraging on the ground below the backyard bird feeder. We didn't even have to get out of the car. It made no reaction to our being there. The property owner stood by, shaking his head. He never expected to be feeding a bird like this! Every few minutes, the bird would let out a loud, prehistoric-like clucking squawk. We were thrilled.

The crane has been there for about a week now, strutting around in the yard like a pet, and there is no telling how long it will stay or what attracted it there in the first place. The general area is perfect habitat for a sandhill crane, and so is the neighbor's yard next door, and the yard across the road. Why did it choose this particular yard?

Like the birds, we have chosen one place from a thousand in which to land. We're safe, well fed, and industrious. But which bird are we? The dependable migrant who stays the course year after year? Or the errant who has temporarily lost its way and must survive on wits and instinct? Or the wanderer who stays for a while, and moves on? No matter. For now, it feels right to settle in and keep on singing.

You Just Never Know

Pure joy for a mother of three is having a whole bowl of fresh strawberries to herself:  Not the unwanted, mushy leftovers she usually gets, but the juicy, sweet ones served just for her with a dollop of whipped cream and with fresh flowers on the table. 

Words can't describe the taste of late spring, and the lines at the farm stands attest to our green-starved appetite. In our breakfasts this month, we'll incorporate asparagus, Swiss chard, rhubarb, and strawberries in savory custards or stuffed herb crepes, and the strawberries on their own or baked into a sweet little cake or tart.  But even though we pay extra special attention to our breakfasts, we never know what detail or event will make a traveler's visit memorable. Often it has nothing to do with us or the food.

One morning, our neighbor Mary had the opportunity to meet a guest from Maryland and they were surprised to discover they had a connection through milk.  As it turns out, the company Mary contracts to buy her organic milk is the same company the guest buys at her local market. Both recalled the story to me later, smiling. Saying, but not saying, how small the world is. How satisfying it was to put a face with a product, a family with a bottle of milk. 

We hear stories about waking to the sound of a horse-drawn plow plodding along outside the bedroom window; curious heifers running to the fence, pushing each other and vying for the front spot for a photo op; exhausted parents on a weekday getaway eating breakfast in their pajamas; sitting down at breakfast to find the other guests are your best friends from your post-college years; planning a whole day of wine tours only to plop down on the porch and go nowhere for hours; seeing a barn swallow nestling leave the nest; catching the purple light just before sunset. 

All the planning in the world couldn't make these things happen. As innkeepers, we savor these experiences and aspects of our life. Our house is a comfortable respite for those who are willing to treat themselves to it, and serendipity takes care of the rest. You just never know.

Bob's Retirement

Our neighbor has a team of six draft horses that he employs for almost every field job on the farm. And he is rewarded for it.  If you compare a horse-plowed field of alfalfa to one plowed by a conventional tractor, you will find the ground is softer and the alfalfa growing taller in the horse-plowed field, the hooves have turned and aerated the soil while the rubber tires packed it down. And though the baling is slower and more labor intensive, the operation is quieter and creates less air pollution. From a neighbor's point of view, this is a good thing.

Bob, who is about 16 years old, is Elam's favorite horse, and they have been working together for about 10 years. Their relationship is one of mutual respect, this nearly one ton horse built for work and the straw-hatted farmer who depends on him. Bob is a natural leader within the team, dependable and often the hardest worker. When the team is grazing in the pasture, you call Bob and he comes, and the others follow. But, they always allow him to enter the barn first.

But even Bob's discipline goes to the wayside when given the the opportunity to flee. One morning, as I drove past the farm on my way to work, I see the team charging down the driveway towards the road, and I quickly realize they are not harnessed. I stop, and Elam motions me to pull the car into the driveway to block them.  I do it, thinking to myself the insurance company will never believe this if I even live to tell the story. But it works: all six horses turn on a dime, and gallop back to the barn. I am momentarily amazed at their dexterity. I wave, satisfied that all is well (and that my car is in one piece), and pull into the road. But, seeing another chance,  they all turn again and this time pass me in a thundering cloud of dust. Elam jumps in the car, and we follow them up past my house. They turn into the field at full speed, the tops of their heads barely visible at the treeline. We stop. Watch. After a few big sighs and some quiet cussing, he asks me to get his brother with his riding horse, and he goes running after the team who are, by now, out of sight. I drive back down the road to his father's house, pick up two of his brothers and a saddle, and back to Elam's to get the riding horse. Mary comes out of the house, smiling, hands me a plateful of cookies, and we're off again to catch up to Elam, the brother riding his horse like a rodeo cowboy. Another neighbor arrives, I am relieved and start for the office again. All ended well, I learned later, and our guests were giddy after watching the whole episode from the front porch. Not only was I late for work, but I had a good story AND cookies!

Besides Bob, there have been other horses we've known: Maude, another favorite, who died unexpectedly after a long, hard day of working in the heat.  Joker - the lazy troublemaker and instigator of the above incident, who was sold off and with good riddance. And the beloved Pet, retired from driving the buggy, and who just this week became a new mother at a nearby family farm.

I have watched Bob lower his head to be petted by the tiny hand of Elam's young son. A little nudge from Bob and a big smile from the boy, I was amazed at the gentleness displayed by a beast of solid muscle whose head was bigger than the two year old. Lately, though, Bob's been halting in the middle of a job and getting tired more quickly.  Elam feels now is the time to retire him, before he's too old for anyone else to want him. Before he gets hurt and before difficult decisions must be made. So, Bob will be put to pasture by a friend who is taking him to Wisconsin. He'll be King Bob, a family pet and retired draft horse. No more leading the team, he'll be living a life of fresh grass and kind spirits. Happy retirement Bob!

It's a Piece of Cake

At 1:00 on Easter Sunday afternoon, I poured myself a glass of wine, and sat down on the front porch to enjoy the warmth of the sun. That feels so good after a cold winter.  Things were under control:  Our nephews, ages 6 and 4, were watching the movies the Easter Bunny brought them. Their baby brother was fed and fast asleep.  Their parents had been gone for two hours already, off for wine tasting and an overnight stay at the Belhurst. A long overdue, and well-deserved break without the kids. Piece of cake, I thought, the next 24 hours will be a piece of cake. 

As an extended family, we have kept busy since they arrived on Friday afternoon. We had make-your-own-pizza night, and ate the hot and gooey creations outside on the porch. We hoofed over to the dairy farm next door, pet the draft horses, and let the baby calves suck on our fingers. We played with kittens. Lots of kittens. We collected duck eggs from a barn, ate a picnic lunch and went to the Children's museum. This morning we flew kites (boy, that Easter Bunny was right on!) under perfect conditions in the field across the road. And all of these activities were interspersed with bike riding and playing in the dirt, and with a little brotherly wrestling thrown in.  The baby, who is 8 months old, watched and laughed, cried, drooled, and chewed on anything you put in his little hands, including a plastic tablespoon. That was his favorite diversion of the weekend.

At some point, however, the calm ceased and we were quickly outnumbered. Discipline and restraint went out the window.  We had no choice but to put everyone in dad's Big Suburban and go for a ride to the playground. But these kids just don't wear out.  On the way home, hovering just above the radio and the road noise were their chants, in stereo,  of "I want ice-cream." The answer of "after dinner" was getting me nowhere.  I had to outsmart them. I had to restore order and authority. Then it came to me. We pulled in the driveway, and I promised a surprise if they went right in and sat down.  "Today," I announced, "we are having dessert BEFORE dinner."  I think I saw, between their cheers of joy and chocolate-covered faces, one little spark of surprise, or was it a quick assessment of the trouble they would be in if their parents knew? Kevin pulled out the largest soup bowls we had, and offered not only chocolate ice-cream, but pudding and crumbled oreos as toppings. To our surprise, not only did they finish their ice-cream, but both boys ate all of their rigatoni, 2 helpings each mind you, without any challenge at all. We did it.

Not having children ourselves, I always wonder how parents get through it. But with a few fleeting moments of self-confidence and by thinking on our feet, we managed. And we had fun. The boys had another memorable weekend at Aunt Michele's and Uncle Sonny's house in the country. Loving these 3 little guys, watching them grow and discover the world.  That is a piece of cake. Chocolate cake, with whipped cream, and cherry on top.

Keep A Goat Employed

Before we opened the B&B we had lots of ideas on what it was to be. It had to be a place where we would like to stay. A home that reflected not only our tastes, but who we are. A home where the innkeepers share their stories, converse over breakfast, help with travel details, but leave you to your privacy. The location of our house, rural and bucolic, is attractive to travelers who want to get away from the city but we also see guests who simply want to experience something different. 

The smallest details often make the biggest impressions.  And for us, that is our guest soap. I never thought much about soap, I suppose, but as innkeepers we considered the following: What if someone has allergies? How could we choose one standard scent? Do we want bars or liquid soap? Which is easier to clean up? Is there a way to incorporate something local here and help a small business? Enter, serendipitously, our friend Marty. Turns out his cousin Charleen raises goats on a farm in Darien Center and (you guessed it!) makes goat milk soap. I called her. Guest sized bars, she said, are no problem. I'll send you some samples.
 

Shortly thereafter, we received a small, sweet-smelling package from Harper Hill Farm containing little paper envelopes of beautiful scents.  Oh. My. Goodness. The variety of colors and aromas was overwhelming, but we managed to choose about 8 of our favorites. Even better, however, was how these soaps felt when you put them under water. They almost melt. Aromatherapy and moisturizer in one small little bar. 

The thing about small-batch soap is it's REAL soap, rich in natural glycerin. No detergents, synthetic colors, artificial foam boosters, petroleum or alcohol. An added bonus for us? She uses lard and milk from her own pigs and goats, herbs from her garden and as many local ingredients as possible. Perfect. 

Guests will find in their rooms a variety of scents from which to choose, and we encourage them to take their bar home with them. They may also purchase full size bars here.

As innkeepers, these unexpected friendships we make along the way become part of our home, to be shared with those who stay with us.  Small businesses have a friendly face behind them and most likely a good story as well.  So we help keep a goat employed. Buy goat milk soap!

What's for breakfast?

Here at our house we are committed to using as many locally produced ingredients as possible. It's is easier than you might think, really, because our region is abundant with small, family-owned farms that promise free-range, Farmer's Pledge, or Certified Organic wares. We enjoy the challenge of creating tasty items that guests will find unique and memorable.

Depending on the day of the week, breakfast is either four courses (weekends) or serve-yourself continental style (weekdays). Our weekend breakfast features fresh fruit, local yogurt, a savory entree, and dessert (yes! dessert for breakfast!). Many venues in the area will offer strawberries, cherries, currants, apples, pears, plums, berries and a few surprises. During blueberry season, we head down the road and load up our buckets with the best blueberries around. We find freshly picked berries to need little enhancement, and so we feature them drizzled with blackberry sauce or with a dollop of whipped cream. When fruit is in abundance, jam making takes over the kitchen, providing the fresh taste of summer for us and our guests all year round. Our property, too, provides a limited yet useful source of fruit, herbs, and flowers for the breakfast table. I'm an early riser, so each morning I put on a pot of coffee and step outside for snippets of posies and herbs while the birds are chirping and the guests are still asleep.

Quite often guests will rave about the yogurt, which is produced about 2 miles down the road. Jersey cow milk, which has a higher fat content than Holstein, gives it a smooth and creamy texture. We add a topping of granola or grapenuts from the local market and a drizzle of honey or maple syrup. Yum.
 

Breakfast entrees are savory, rather than sweet, and feature happy hen brown eggs with yolks the color of ripe apricots. We are always on the lookout for flexible recipes we can adjust according to the produce available, but our vegetable custards, herb crepes stuffed with spinach and feta, bacon-onion tarts, and shirred eggs have become our signature dishes.  No-nitrate bacon, Canadian style or thick-sliced from, share the plate along side goat cheese (chevre) medallions or straw potato cakes, both golden brown and crunchy.  The feta and the chevre come from Lively Run Goat Dairy in Interlaken. This small farm, and others in the area, are making wonderful, small-batch cheeses rich with freshness and aged to perfect sharpness. We hear the cheese makers may be developing a Cheese Trail. Wouldn't that be cool? We think it could be the next big thing in the Finger Lakes.
 
Last, but certainly not the least, is dessert. We keep it fresh and seasonal. Strawberry cake, blueberry cobbler, buttery little tarts and pies...we love serving this part of breakfast. This time of year, while fruit availability is lean, we'll be baking local maple syrup into a walnut pound cake glazed with more maple syrup. Our testers (friends, neighbors, etc) gave us a thumb's up on this new recipe.

Weekday breakfasts are just as substantial and fresh but with a few changes. Self-paced and casual, guests enjoy toasted home-made English muffins and jam, fresh fruit of the season, and muffins or sweet cakes.  Our lemon pound cake with its rich, dense crumb is one of our favorites for weekday guests.

Whether guests will be wine tasting, hiking, or traveling to their next destination, our breakfasts will fortify their journeys and sustain them until dinner. Often is the case, however, where they go no further than the front porch, sitting down and listening to the birds, enjoying the garden, or catching a cat-nap. We hope they are satisfied enough to wonder "What's for breakfast....tomorrow?"

Green In Winter

What's fresh at the market?

Sprouts--alfalfa or broccoli or radish--a nutritious "crunch with a kick" for topping just about anything. Spinach--lush and dense and grown in real dirt, under real sunlight. Not the paper-thin, hydroponic leaves of the type generally available at the grocery store this time of year.

One of our favorite local markets, just down the road and around the corner from us, is Country Side Produce. These farmers always manage to surprise their regular customers with something new. We stop in for happy hen eggs, jersey-milk yogurt and cheese and we find little bags of freshness, so unexpected yet so welcomed in these snowy and cold winter months. In December, we gave up on seeing anything but squash, potatoes and garlic - when suddenly there appeared greens of a variety that are (as the owner explained) grown right there on the farm and able to withstand a freeze or two. Then, just as suddenly, they were gone. No apology for the short supply. No promise of more. A few weeks later, spinach appeared and it, too, disappeared quickly. This week we have sprouts, and baskets of sweet, juicy organic citrus from California (okay, not local, but a taste of sunshine and worth every penny.) Today, there were jugs of maple syrup made at a nearby farm.

Sure we can go to the supermarket and get any thing we want, any time we want it. But this is more fun, probably more nutritious, and it definitely tastes better. We eat what's in season and what's available. We know who grows our food and how they grow it. By doing this, we support our local economy and our neighbors in the process.

Upstate New York winters are snowy and gray. But with local farmers who are willing to be creative and productive for their devoted customers, this year we have some green (and orange) mixed in.