On Indian Lake

To celebrate America's birthday, James and I explored a lake of hers in Upstate New York for the weekend. We arrived Saturday in time for a quick lunch of hotdogs and hamburgers before our kayak trip across Indian Lake. Having not worked my upper body adequately in some time, I immediately felt the burn spread across my back from shoulder to shoulder. Cold water splashed on my legs as my rowing partner cut through the water in front of me. The air was crisp and delightful to breathe in. After a mile of paddling... left, right, left, right, we docked our canoes and headed to the top of the mountain on foot. 

The men said this was one of the easier hikes in all of Indian Lake, and the one with the best views. To me it hadn't felt very easy, but I made it nonetheless. The last 100 yards were nearly vertical, but with some reassuring words from myself to myself as I struggled for breath, I made it to the top and snapped this photo.  

The view after our hike. 

Once our energy was restored, we set out for the bottom, accompanied by a young family- a baby girl in her Dad's backpack carrier and a voracious bulldog. Three children were on their way to the top with springs in their steps and smiles on their faces. A short distance away we rowed to a series of cliffs, and I mustered the courage to jump off not once, but twice. The minute my feet left the cliff, I felt a moment of panic that I might die when I hit the bottom. Moments later I emerged from the cold water, unharmed and relieved.

 For dinner, James made homemade chili and grilled corn over an open fire using his Dutch oven. The women had wine, and the men had beers as we tucked in to hearty, cheddar chopped chili served with tostada chips. We walked to the fireworks in town and grabbed a spot on the hill just in time for dark to fall.  Before the firework display, a few youngsters released a lantern in to the air. I found it lovlier than the fireworks that followed but it was a fitting spectacle for Uncle Sam. 

Sunday we woke exhuasted, and sore, but embarked on another momentous day. James and my uncle went on a hike that ended in fishing, while my aunt and I went to a charming little beach. After swimming, reading, and a short snooze, we visited some antique stores and were inspired by the skill of local artisans and their creations. Grilled pizzas were dinner with a slew of toppings - assorted peppers, onions, yellow squash, zucchini, and pancetta. I snuck in an additional swim as the sun was setting on the dock. We will be returning, and often, as I have been won over by the allure of the lake. 

We adjusted our route home to pass through Lake Placid and watched some young hockey players skating on the ice where the Americans defeated Russia in the 1980's Olympics despite the incredible odds. After a ski lift and an elevator ride, we stood atop the launch pad for the Olympic Ski jump. Overwhelmed with admiration for America's athletes and the beauty of her lakes, we drove home grateful. 

Scenes from Sunday (3)

Our family makes a habit of getting together in between the major holidays. While we gather and feast on Thanksgiving, at Easter, and Christmas, the months in between require their own kind of celebration. We convene for cold cuts and pizza served on paper plates. No preparation is required; we just show up and break bread.  My late grandfather used to sit at the head of the table, and my grandmother would make him a plate. My grandmother replaced him at the head of the table and my father would make her a plate. Although they have both gone home, together, they're never really that far. We still eat our cold cuts and think of them fondly. 

My grandparents used to store their vehicles in the garage,  as a garage is intended. They took extra special care of all their possessions, likely a product of their humble beginnings. When James and I moved in, we opted to park the cars in the driveway and use the garage for gatherings. A dart board, mismatching chairs, antique bar, hotdog and popcorn machines are the only provisions. With the arrival of spring, the garage is opened and James has been cooking more than usual; his favorite method of preparation is barbecue. We took our dear cold cut night outside and served up an assortment of salads, grilled meats, and vegetables.

Assorted antipasti.

Charred London Broil drizzled with melted butter and grilled chicken with garlic/olive oil over crostini.

Grilled corn.

I woke to the smell of smoke as James began his pork ribs and beef brisket at 7am. He had already been to the grocery store to pick up more ingredients by the time I wandered in to the kitchen for a coffee. We cleaned and prepared all day in anticipation for the grand reveal of Nonny and Homer's garage.  First we had antipasti: olives, prosciutto, capicola, artichokes, and provolone. Every half hour thereafter, we had another course. James has an issue with moderation when it comes to mealtime. Grilled chicken with garlic and oil as well as London broil drizzled with melted butter were served on Italian bread, beefsteak style. Few folks outside of New Jersey have such a thing, but we relish in the wonder of grilled meat atop crusty bread. 

He made mussels two ways, first with a traditional marinara and second in white wine, lemon and garlic. Once the slurping subsided and all that remained were shells, we had grilled corn, pulled pork, brisket, and ribs. I can not help but hope Nonny and Homer are smiling affectionately on their little garage filled with family, laughing together and overcome by nostalgia. As the sun went down we had fruit crumbles, apple, pear and blueberry, with ice cream. And cannoli. There were so many leftovers, we got together the day following and did it all over again.    

A blueberry tart with vanilla ice cream. Beautiful sweets like these will be available this June at 2Sweet. 

Scenes from Sunday (2)

It has been over a year since we moved back home from Washington and Sundays have become mini celebrations on repeat. I won't protest the opportunity to indulge in togetherness when the world becomes increasingly complicated and often just sad. Have you watched the news lately?

This weekend marked my first trip safely taken to and from Atlantic City, all by myself. My sense of direction is less than impressive, much less. And I much prefer to be in the passenger seat when going anywhere really. It leaves more time to daydream and nap if the ride is long enough.

The drive down was warm and oddly pleasant. The music played on with just me behind the wheel. And the gal from Google maps as an extra precaution. Besides the cupcakes I made for the Bachelorette party flying off the seat when I made a turn too quickly, the trip was seamless. I arrived earlier than the other girls traveling up from Maryland so there was time to wander. I made friends with a few seagulls who desperately wanted a bite of my pizza.

We ate, danced, drank, and then ate more of course. My hips did not move anywhere as easily as the lovely Latinas in the bridal party, but I made the most of it.  Awoken by the sun peering through the hotel window, we snacked on cupcakes and cake pops for breakfast before hitting the boardwalk for some shopping and priceless people watching. While I will attempt to withhold any judgement, it is well worth your while to stop and peer at the characters on the Atlantic City boardwalk. What an experience.

Sunday arrived and I made the journey back home. The angel of the road helped me navigate on four hours of sleep and a coffee. James had risen early to get Palms at mass and to pick up picnic tables for the patio from Home Depot. He had been wanting them since we saw them a week prior. With all the time we spend outside grilling, they are the perfect additions. He began smoking the brisket hours before any guests were to arrive. I pulled up the driveway to smiling, sun burned faces and the smell of charcoal. Everyone comes with full hands and empty bellies on Sunday. Just follow the smell of smoked meat. 

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James made five courses or so; I lost count eventually. For starters there were barbecued chicken thighs on the Weber charcoal grill, a favorite of mine and a staple at our barbecues. Assorted pasta salads, stringed Syrian cheese, crunchy Italian bread, chips and salsa and lots of olives. We love our olives from Fairway. Next came hot dogs, followed by pork ribs, and then beef ribs as if there was not enough food had already. Dad made his spicy grilled potatoes and some toned down potatoes for rest of us who prefer not to ignite our palates in flames. We finished the mains off with a smoked Brisket a few hours after the initial course. No other way to ring in spring.

To celebrate birthdays in April, Nana brought along a cake laden with freshly whipped cream and strawberries. The men played darts while the women chatted over coffee. After cake, oysters were shucked. You heard correctly. After the cake, the men made room for oysters with horseradish. While I am not a huge fan of them myself, I admire the laborious effort that goes in to preparing oysters. Dad toted some battle scars on his hands but not so much to deter him from holding our youngest attendee. 

She fit in the palm of his hand. 

Our Daily Bread

I shared a meal with two dear friends from college this past Sunday. It was the perfect suburban getaway for gals living and working in the Big Apple. We gathered wood from my parents' backyard so we would be able to build a fire later that day. Next stop was Fairway Market for ingredients: a big baguette, three types of cheese (New Zealand Cheddar, Pepper Jack, and Fresh Mozzarella), fresh basil, some cream, chicken, and vegetables for a tossed salad. It took us realistically three to five minutes just to navigate the big basins that comprise the olive section. Angela picked sun dried tomatoes, I grabbed an olive medley, and Mary tracked down half sour pickles to accompany the bread and cheese. Groceries- check. We snuck in some munchkins and coffees for the ever so brief drive home.  I am of the belief that there is always time for a Dunkin run.

After settling in at home, we chopped and chatted. Munched on bread, olive oil, and too much cheese, if there can ever be too much cheese. Next came the main course, creamy pesto over fettuccine with chicken. We never really made a dent in the salad which is to be expected when there is bread and cheese to be had. Olives count as vegetable intake though, right?  All the while, we had refreshing conversation. Scratch that. Let's call it what it was - a frantic vent session. It was also refreshing though,  long overdue, and entirely necessary.

It had been quite a while since we were all together in one place, probably since graduating actually. Granted texting and email allow for people to stay quite connected these days, but still pale in comparison to interaction face-to-face. Actually hearing what it's like to LOL together. We covered a wide variety of topics. Put girls in a room together and this is bound to happen. Guys, parents, jobs, friends, body image, weddings, dreams, fears; you name it and we probably discussed it. The pressure we either self impose or feel from others to succeed, to have everything all at once. Our desperate attempts to prioritize goals all the while trying to remain grounded and calm. How we fall short of the staying calm part. Thus is early adulthood.

It is characteristic of our generation to expect a lot, and quickly. I think Charles wrote "Great Expectations" about us. Sounds about right. By 24, we feel like we should have it all mapped out. The next decade if not more carefully delineated in a step by step list. Who we'll marry and where we will be professionally and geographically. There are external factors at play, too.  Mothers with baby fever asking about grandchildren or at the very least checking in on the latest adventures in finding a mate. Friends walking down the aisle and siblings enrolling in grad school.

While all of our concerns vary slightly, there is a common need for reassurance. A quote or a consoling gesture is often enough to quell anxiety. I discovered I am not the only one who Googles "inspiring quotes" when I feel disconcerted or lost. The right quote can typically calm my nerves for like an hour, or at least distract me enough that I forget what provoked anxiety in the first place. Needless to say I am quite frequently in search of the perfect words of reassurance. Some daily bread for my soul. I have no problem finding and eating actual bread, obviously.

Robert Louis Stevenson was on to something here:

"The best things in life are nearest:  Breath in your nostrils, light in your eyes, flowers at your feet, duties at your hand, the path of right just before you.  Then do not grasp at the stars, but do life's plain, common work as it comes, certain that daily duties and daily bread are the sweetest things in life." 

The girls and I discussed lighter topics once we got through the rough stuff. Football, country music, and the anatomy of the perfect S'more. We grabbed skewers, jumbo marshmallows, Reese's cups as well as Hershey bars, and roasted them as the sun went down. For a moment, we huddled around the fire, forgot about expectations and indulged in the here and now, the path of just right before us.

Scenes from Sunday

Sun·day  ˈsəndā,-dē/

noun  1. the day of the week before Monday and following Saturday, observed by Christians as a day of rest and religious worship and (together with Saturday) forming part of the weekend.

Sunday: a day to rest, reflect, and  indulge. All without the guilt one might feel on say a Wednesday or the pressure to be out and about, characteristic of a Saturday. Sundays are like little slivers of heaven, where you can do what brings you to a calm, happy place. That comfort zone is entirely subjective and varies from person to person, but there look to be some consistent trends during the autumn months. Apple picking, prayer sharing, family meals, football watching, and afternoon naps. 

There is something scandalous about sleeping late. I feel like valuable daylight is wasted when lingering under the covers too long. But on Sunday, it is pardoned. Stomach grumblings eventually ensue. The coffee pot is on, and the pancakes are mixed. Chocolate chips and shredded coconut are added for a twist. A dollop of whipped cream delivers the knockout. The dishes even get done on the spot- a rarity.

Comfortable clothes worn to account for the crisp breeze. Windows open, sun shining through. Chit chat and jokes exchanged in the truck en route to DePiero's, a gem of a farm not too far from home.

At home, two things are on: football and a mammoth pot of sauce. Yells echo from the living room and it's obvious Daddy's not pleased with the Giants. He thinks they may go 8-0. Hopefully, not. At commercial breaks, the sauce is stirred and the aroma fills our home. Hot peppers are sautéed too; as I write my nasal passages have been cleared and my eyes are running. Pasta is served and too much is eaten. Soon after, everyone slips into a brief (or not so brief) nap. It's Sunday, remember, so this indulgence is encouraged.

For dessert, there are donuts and coffee. We break into more chatter, in between big bites of fluffy sugared goodness. More football and snoring...

Nothing extravagant happens, but the time together is special enough. It's the little things that matter,  the scenes from Sunday.