We went out for a walk on Sunday.  It was a lovely day and we weren’t alone.

As we turned onto the road with the horses, there was another, older couple ahead of us.  And then, after we stopped to say hi to the fillies, they were even further ahead of us.  We figured they’d never go in the same direction as us.

But then we turned onto another road, and then onto Goold Road, and yep, there they were.

The gentleman was smoking a cigar as he walked. It smelled wonderful and, though yes, it is bad for your health,  Goold Road is a great cigar-smoking walking road.

Goold Road doesn’t have a bridge out like Spangler, but like White Bridge, it may as well have.  It’s infrequently used and wonderful for ambling.

And it comes out next to an alpaca farm.

What could be better than that?

I have some catching up, of posts and photos, to do.

I’ve been having a lot of very early mornings lately.

And while I find them trying, they’re really good for taking pictures.

When I’m stressed out, I buy books.

And so, on the day before my surgery, I found myself in the cookbook section of the Strand.

I was looking for a copy of Nigel Slater’s Appetite to give as a going away present to an aspiring home cook, but what I was finding was a mountain of books I wanted.  There was I Know How to Cook, Momofuku and Ad Hoc at Home; Jim Lahey’s new bread book, Judith Jones‘ treatise on the pleasures of cooking for one, the surreal world of Heston Blumenthal and no Nigel.

So, I grabbed a classic Jamie Oliver tome for my co-worker, and, just for good measure, The Veselka Cookbook (complete with a recipe for my beloved Christmas borscht!) and for absolutely no reason (other than I’m a sucker for puffy book covers), Stephane Reynaud’s French Feasts for me.

On Friday, Isaac made us a beautiful pureed cauliflower soup while I lazed on the couch, trying to purge the anesthesia from my body as quickly as possible.  By Saturday morning, I was ready to get up and go again (I think they give you something when you have surgery to make you feel energetic and happy the day after), so we wandered down to the Tucker Square greenmarket.

The plan was to roast the last of the wee tiny beets and bitty little carrots from the garden, but we needed to supplement them with something.  So I grabbed a butternut squash, an acorn squash, a bouquet of sage, rosemary and thyme and a smoked duck breast.

Here’s where I divulge to you an embarrassing secret:

I have barely cracked the cover of French Feasts yet.  I think I’ve made it about 60 pages in. I’ve seen the soups and the chapter on interesting bits and not much past that.  The book is so engaging and witty and amusing and beautiful that I can only take it in small doses.  I read three pages and I’m starving.

So, I can’t say that our roasted vege and smoked duck salad was directly inspired by the book (in fact, I think it probably owes more to this post (We even have similar bowls. Target, Carol?) and the roasted vegetable salad at Frankies Sputino which is so delicious I can’t believe I’ve never written about it before), but I think it’s spirit informed our dinner.  I mean, honestly, would any good American girl decide, on her own, to combine herby roasted vegetables, delicate soft lettuces, pan-crisped applewood-smoked duck breast, a drizzle of really good, really old balsamic vinegar, wispy flakes of sea salt and a duck fat-fried egg on her own without being under the direct influence of someone French?

And so, if you find yourself already caught up in the winter vegetable doldrums, run out to your nearest bookstore and grab Veselka to help you with your beet blues and French Feasts for everything else.  Because, really, everyone deserves a little duck fat at this time of year.

Recently my mom told me that one of her friends likes visiting this site when she is stressed out.  She especially likes the macro shots. She finds them calming.

Well, I’m feeling a little stressed right now.  Last week we had a third round of very deep layoffs at work and my uncle died. On Friday I’m having surgery, again.

So, I decided to go out into the backyard to see if taking macro shots could calm me down. And you know what? It worked.

So thanks Patty!  I hope these shots bring you the same degree of placidity in viewing them that they gave me in taking them.

The map of Columbia County is littered with little roads that are public, and yet, ostensibly private, like Spangler Road.  And they’re perfect for walking.

We found another one last weekend, White Bridge Road, about three-quarters of a mile down Route 13 from the ridiculously picturesque hamlet of Old Chatham.

To get there you pass a spooky old graveyard and a mysterious little building set into the hill, filled with water that I think was maybe at one time a spring house (does anyone know?).

And then you turn right at the big ochre sugar maple and you’re lost in a world

of quiet horses, silently staring chipmunks

and a dirt road so infrequently used that fallen leaves have time to make lasting impressions.

White Bridge comes to an end when it intersects with Albany Turnpike, the old coach road.  Turn right again, and as you walk along the Turnpike, if you look closely you can spot an old mile marker in someone’s front yard.  When I pointed it out to Isaac he initially thought it was a bathtub Mary, then he saw “17 Miles to Albany” carved into marble with an elegant script.

Aside from the beautiful foliage and lovely horses, this walk has another advantage: It ends back in the center of town.  So, depending on your proclivities, you can either go to the left and cap off the brisk little walk with a little nip of something brisk at Jackson’s Old Chatham House, or, you can veer right and end your leisurely stroll with a leisurely cup of tea and a cookie at the Old Chatham General Store.

Happy trails!

I hate shopping for big things.

Cars, houses, kayaks, ranges.  I obsess over whether or not “the one’” we have settled on is really the best.  Is there another car with better gas mileage and a cheaper price out there?  Could we have bought a house for the same amount but without so much dampness?  Should I have waited another month to buy my kayak? Would it have been on sale then?

But our recent shopping trips to replace the dead oven have been smoothed considerably by our discovery of Emperor Restaurant on Wolf Road in Colonie, conveniently located across the road from Albany’s only Sears store.

One of the things we were both sad about when we embarked on our Upstate-Downstate adventure was the end of our near-weekly Asian noodle-themed brunches.  One weekend pho, another another jap chae, mee goreng, ramen or a great steaming bowl of pickled mustard greens and pork in a Chinatown basement.  We knew this ritual would end, but it was worth the sacrifice.

So as we were cruising along on I-90 I suggested we have lunch at this generic Thai place I took my mom to once, years ago, just after I had graduated from college and moved to New York.  It might not be the best, but it would scratch that Asian noodle itch.

Boy has it been a long time since I paid attention to the restaurant microcosm populating Wolf Road (for those not familiar with the shopping landscape of the Capital District, Wolf Road is lined for probably 2-3 miles with malls, strip malls, Olive Gardens, sub shops and Pier Ones) because that Thai restaurant seems to have been gone for years.  In its place is Emperor’s and its Hong Kong cuisine.

We were skeptical.

There is a lot of bad Chinese food in upstate New York.  But, as Isaac reasoned, if they had taken the time to put a neon sign advertising Hong Kong-style noodle soups in the window, it was worth a shot.  Isaac started with tripe in black bean and pepper sauce, I had squid in chile sauce and they were both delicious–pleasantly chewy, perfectly seasoned and far more food than either of us needed.

But we powered through, finishing a pleasantly mild dish of sauteed mustard greens and two huge bowls of almost-better-than-they-should be soups.  My chicken and wonton noodles were gorgeous.  The wontons are delicate, homemade and the broth balanced, light and deftly seasoned.  Isaac’s duck and pork noodles were deliciously fatty (in a good way) with big chunks of crispy-skinned duck and real roasted pork (none of that neon-pink edged manufactured stuff at Emperor).

On our second trip we started with a sampler of dumplings (it was, after all, Dumpling Fest down here in the city).  The massive veggie dumplings had a beguiling flavor that Isaac pegged as curry, while I was smitten with the chive dumplings.  And then we both fell even deeper for Emperor when our server said we could add noodles to any of the tofu soups on the vegetarian menu.  Isaac tried the mustard greens, which were good.  But I really hit the jackpot with the pickled cabbage soup, the unlikely love child of Polonica’s sauerkraut soup and Lan Zhou Hand Pull Noodles’ vegetable soup.

Emperor has its drawbacks, the service is slow, the decor is ever so slightly depressing, but the quality of the food far outstrips these minor concerns.  People queue for hours (myself included) in the freezing cold just for a bowl of Momofuku’s good (but not that good) “ramen“.  So hicksters of the world unite!  Giant bowls of steaming, noodley goodness await you at the intersection of Sears and IHOP.  Enjoy.

Emperor’s
10 Wolf Road
Colonie, N.Y. 12205
518.591.0628

Our electric oven caught on fire.

I didn’t even know this was possible.  But there I was, standing in the kitchen staring at a giant fireball in our oven which was emitting noises I have only ever heard in a sci-fi film.

I was preheating the oven so I could roast the half-dozen free oysters my fishmonger had given me (free oysters!) and then I was going to make clam chowder.  I quickly shut it off and watched the coil cool from white to blue to yellow to orange to red and then back to black.  It was obvious to me that we would not be using that stove to make dinner.  I looked around at all the perishable seafood sitting on the counter: Oysters, clams, scallops and a brick of frozen flounder.  I called to Isaac and we came to one conclusion; we still had to cook. So Isaac started a fire in the wood-burning stove and I pulled out my gorgeous, fire-engine red Emile Henry dutch oven.

With a small hesitation I set the pot down on the stove and added a few shards of bacon.  And then we waited.  Ever so faintly we heard a soft, sibilant sizzle, and then it turned into a roar.  It was working!  The bacon cooked!  Then I added leeks and garlic and potatoes and carrots and herbs, and it cooked, too! And then the clams opened and the stock came up to a boil! And then I added the frozen flounder and, well, yeah, things ground to a halt.

The flounder had been bought months ago on a weekend when we stayed in the city.  We meant to cook it, but it never happened, so into the freezer it went.  It eventually thawed in the soup, but the texture was horrid–tough, spongy, approximating a bike tire.  So I pulled it out, but oh boy did that flounder give it’s all.  The broth was delicious and fishy in just the right way.  It was a beautiful medley of oyster¹ and clam liqueur and flounder and herbs.  It was a chowder I will never be able to recreate, right down to using scalded milk made thick and luxurious with a dollop of leftover marscapone.  We will never have this chowder again.

On Saturday we went range shopping.  I think we found one, a Kenmore with two ovens and five(!) burners.  But, we still had the fire hazard at home, and so once again, we cooked with wood.  This time faux Pot au Feu² and mustardy sauerkraut over dumplings.

I know that some people would use a broken stove as an excuse to eat out, but I’m resisting. I’m actually enjoying this, it’s the most fun I’ve had cooking in months.  The rhythm and pace are slow and leisurely and it connects me to the past.  At one time, cooking with fire was the only option for getting dinner on the table.  It gives me lots of time to listen to baseball games on the radio, to warm my toes, to read, to knit.

But don’t get me wrong, I am happy that at some point soon we’ll be back to cooking with electricity³.  But, I think that at least once this winter, on an especially snowy day when the world becomes slow and quiet, I’ll reach for my clay pots and cast iron skillets again and bend over the fire to stir and taste.

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¹ I did in fact end up roasting the oysters on top of the wood-burning stove. I tucked them in tight to a cast-iron skillet and then wrapped it in two layers of tin foil. I let them cook on top of the stove until I heard the hiss of liquid hitting hot iron.  Then I carefully cut open the foil, let them cool slightly and then we ate them in great greedy gulps.  It turns out that roasted oysters are awesome, and we saved the liqueur for adding to the chowder.

One note, if I were to do this again (and I really want to do this again!) I would recommend using an enameled cast-iron skillet.  The oyster liqueur that ended up on the bottom of the pan reacted a little strangely with the metal.

2 Faux Pot au Feu. Cook a few handfuls of flagolet beans that have been soaked for six hours in their soaking liquid. Add more water as needed until the beans are done. I read in The Country Cooking of France that to test flagolets for doneness, blow on them,  If their skins delicately burst, they’re done.

Brown two beef leg cuts in canola oil in a clay bean pot, marmite or dutch oven and remove.  Add a sliced onion and lots of garlic.  Add 12 quartered mushrooms, 1 bay leaf, a sprig of rosemary, a teaspoon of beef demi glace and a tablespoon of tomato paste.  Cook until brown and sticky.  Deglaze with vermouth.  Add a few small, peeled turnips, pale beets (chiogga or yellow) and two handfuls of peeled baby carrots.  Add the beef back in and cover with water.  Cover the pot and cook until tender, between one hour and two (depends on your beef).  Reduce the broth, season and add the beans.

Serve over gnocchi or spaetzle, barley or rice with sauerkraut braised in juniper berry and mustard-scented vermouth.  Pass very strong mustard and sour cream at the table.

³ You would think that as a “foodie” I would use the dead oven as an opportunity to switch to gas, but, honestly, I really like our current electric range. It’s so consistent and easy to clean.

P.S. If you’re a fan of Twitter and for some reason feel compelled to know more about what I eat for lunch or shop for at the Greenmarket, you can now follow me at http://twitter.com/theheadhen.

It’s really hard to leave town when even going to the gas station is this beautiful.

Isaac and I took a walk down Spangler Road on Saturday.

We had seen on a map that it cut a handy transverse between two main roads with flimsy shoulders and had a “Bridge Out” warning.  Roads with bridges incapable of carrying cars generally make for good walking.

Little did we know that Spangler Road is the prettiest road in the whole world.  It passes a very well-manicured horse farm populated with lots of curious horses and a few silly dogs.  And then you go around a curve and you come to this:

This is what is commonly known as the Spengler Bridge.  It was built in 1880 by the Morse Bridge Co.  It still has a wooden deck.  It crosses the Kinderhook Creek and I now love this bridge entirely.  It is so graceful and beautiful and the fact that it still stands fills me with awe.

After gawping and gawking at the bridge and its view we carried on and then we came across this:

The prettiest hill in all the world.  The colors are natural, I didn’t manipulate them a hue. And from the top of the hill we could hear the most godawful racket.  My first guess was the hunt, but no, the barks were different from a fox hound’s, so then I thought beagles.

We walked on and came to another road.  The sound was definitely louder there, so we went searching.  A few hundred feet into the road we found a distinguished, white-haired gentleman with a giant horn whip and handsome green Pinks.  We asked what all the noise was and he said “Beagles! Let’s go find them!”

So off we tramped into the woods and soon enough the brush began to rustle and with a mighty noise, a few dozen beagles popped out.  They were muddy and tuckered, but their tails were still wagging and they were still sniffing, sniffing, sniffing everything.  We watched them for a few  minutes and then the master called “Pack up! Paaaack uuuup! PAAAACK UUUUP!” and the hunt was over.  We followed the beagles and the hunters back to their cars, were offered a beer, made some new friends and were invited to a formal hunt.

We couldn’t make it this weekend, but I remember going beagling once when I was a kid. It was such a good time, and I can’t wait to do it again. Plus, I was so cowed by all the noise and wagging that I neglected to take any pictures.

So then we said goodbye to our new friends and headed home to make chowder.  More on that later.

Fall is definitely upon us.

This weekend I pulled the eggplants and summer squash out of the garden.

Isaac raked.

I filled the birdfeeders.

We bought bulbs.

The air smelled good and fall-y and was loud with migrating geese.

I can’t wait to make stew.