Fin Special

Escolar is surfacing everywhere. Nick Macioge is making it into his special white tuna roll at Fin in Lenox, Massachusetts. But the best thing about this roll is not the fish, it is the jalapeño salsa. Minced peppers, onions, lemon, lime and olive oil. According to Nick, the key to controlling the burn is to use peppers with uncracked skins. Next time I will try it on tuna tuna.

Berkshire Ferns

Trips to The Belfry were always happy occasions. Fresh air, vigorous activity, cold nights; fishing, canoeing, camping; shopping (hardware, groceries, tackle), building (new porch, new steps to the lake), wood fired cooking (both in the kitchen and outside). We loved those trips. We spent time with our grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, cousins and friends. And, without quite knowing it, we learned a lot. Grandfather knew the names and habits of every animal and most plants; he wanted us to know how to identify the things around us also.

Some of the education stuck, but not enough. I was perhaps a C student. Today, I might pass a test to identify animals but I would fail dismally to identify most plants. I don't know how Grandfather remembered everything. We have Google. With that resource in mind, I decided to learn which ferns inhabit my woods.

After an hour or so in tick land and several more on the computer, I can now identify, with a degree of confidence, seven of the eight ferns I found (I gave up on the fern at the top of this post). Given the similarity among many of the ferns, I suspect I will find more on my next field trip. The Connecticut Botanical Society was excellent. The USDA site was helpful but cumbersome.

Bracken Fern


Christmas Fern


Cinnamon Fern


Maidenhair Fern


Mountain Woodfern


New York Fern


Sensitive Fern


And finally, the mountain laurel I thought was ready to blossom a month ago, has opened up.

Wicked Haddock in Bellingham

Judging from the number of foot long hot dogs I saw cross the counter at the Rosewood Restaurant in Bellingham, Massachusetts, I have no doubt they made good on a promise. But the haddock was a knock out (and well worth the wait as it was made to order). A massive fillet resting on a mountain of sweet home made onion rings. A little salt and pepper and liberal amounts of malt vinegar and I was all set. Too bad the place didn't offer a decent house brewed iced tea instead of Nestea or the sugary bottled stuff.

Monk's Pond and the Burbank Trail

Kids from Namche Bazaar in the Khumbu region of Nepal hike a couple miles to school in Khumjung. They start 11,200' and end up at 12,600'. Flat landers like me were astounded by the sight of children in uniforms with bookbags joshing around. The altitude had already rendered us breathless. (Perhaps sherpas are fascinated by American kids skateboarding to school.) I thought about those kids this afternoon as I walked up the BNRC's mile and half long Burbank trail from Olivia's Overlook to the hardscrabble home sites at the top of the hill.



After the land was cleared for firewood or charcoal, it was farmed for the better part of a century until Anson Phelps Stokes bought it as a part of his Shadowbrook property. The terrain was rocky and steep in most places. From a twenty first century vantage, I briefly imagined life at a remote hilltop settlement with little other than impressive views in its favor must have been oppressively difficult. Then I remembered the joy of the kids from Namche on the way to Khumjung.



There was a lot to see and smell at walking speed. The rain yesterday amplified the damp leafy fragrance of the woods. Hemlock, moss, wintergreen, punctuated by a little skunk.



Mike concentrated on aromas beyond my ken. Most of the items he investigated were invisible. But he did discover an enormous pile of scat. Since its contents were entirely herbaceous, I suspected a moose but found no tracks to confirm the theory. I saw at least a dozen newts. Mike ignored them.

Olivia's Overlook on Memorial Day

"Hanging on by your teeth" has new meaning. The view of the Stockbridge Bowl from Olivia's Overlook was superb. Marketers everywhere were trumpeting the first weekend of the summer and the elements agreed: it was sunny, cool and still. A perfect afternoon for a walk in the woods. Or so I imagined.



The Berkshire Natural Resource Council has done an excellent job marking and maintaining the trails. Mike and I set off to the south on the Michael H. Walsh trail. After crossing a footbrige at the edge of the meadow, a large sign provided a map described the Walsh, Charcoal and Ridge trails in detail. It warned of "tricky footing" in some sections.

The Charcoal Trail was named for the pits used to make the charcoal used as fuel early in the industrial revolution. By the middle of the nineteenth century, most of Massachusetts had been deforested, and these hills were no exception. Now they have largely reverted to mature forest with tall oaks, maples, white pines and hemlocks forming a thick canopy.



Native azaleas and evergreens formed heavy undergrowth. The "swamp pink" was already in bloom and the mountain laurel was on the cusp.



Mike and I continued further into the woods on the downhill slope with ease. The ascent was where the footing got tricky. For Mike. Under most circumstances, Mike is game for any hike. He will gladly march through heavy snow in sub zero temperatures; he is fearless in front of black bears. But the carpet of dry oak leaves on a narrow, steeply inclined trail bested him. Even with his claws fully extended, he was unable to obtain any purchase. He slipped off the trail and began sliding down the slope on his back. He accepted my hand with the only tool he had left: his teeth. And he hung on as tightly as he could without causing me harm. I slid down beside him, picked him up and carried him back to the trail. Nothing doing. He aimed straight down hill and walked away, completely off the trail. I followed, eventually putting him back on the leash. We made our way back up the hill on an ancient diagonal track which I suspect was originally used to drag logs up to the charcoal pits.



I was not able to figure out the purpose of the rock columns. Druids maybe? Mike was totally disinterested.



He was, however, thrilled to be back on the ridge and in the sun. Haze obscured our westward views but not joy of sitting and enjoying them.

Once Every Other Year

The Japanese passion for cherry blossoms is strongest when the petals are released from the tree and drift to the ground. Gardens are landscaped around capturing that moment. The crab apple trees in my yard were not placed with such care. In fact, one of them blocks a fine view of October Mountain. But for one week every other year I am treated to such a riotous display that I am persuaded not to improve the view for the other hundred and one.

Berkshire Mass Transit Busses

The mass transit system in Hong Kong is among the most colorful and efficient in the world. In addition to the world class rail systems, both above and below ground, it has London style double deck busses, mini busses, ferries, and trams. The Star Ferry and Peak Tram have never ceased to excite me, even after three decades. Everyone in Hong Kong is familiar with the system and almost everyone uses it regularly. It is so good I could not imagine a resident not using it. I was dumbfounded several years ago when I met a not-so-recently arrived British expatriate who had never ventured below ground on the MTR. Perhaps I should have been more understanding.

I returned to the Berkshires about six years ago. Over that time I have seen the shiny blue BRTA busses crisscrossing the county. Until this morning, I had never boarded one. I needed to drop off a car at Hertz in Pittsfield and then return to Lee. Hertz was located near the Allendale shopping center and BRTA route 2/16 began there and terminated in Lee. Perfect. I would take the bus.

No one at Hertz knew where the bus stop was; I asked at least five people. Directly behind Hertz in the shopping center, a clerk at Big Lots advised the bus stop was along side the Big Lots building. At 10:40, right on time, the bus pulled up to the building. Before I could get on, however, I was advised to allow passengers to disembark first. A frail looking old dear, with dark glasses and black gloves, declined my offer of assistance. A couple of big dudes wearing shorts and sporting dreadlocks followed. When I stepped on I was the only rider. The bus was spotless. The only advertising posters inside were public service announcements.

The fare from Allendale to Lee was $3.30, or $1.10 per zone with each town representing a zone. The driver would not make change, but he would make conversation. He suggested that at the “intermodal center” on North Street in Pittsfield, I buy a pack of gum at the coffee shop to break my twenty and then pay the fare. Fine. Contrary to an NPR report earlier this week about increased mass transit ridership in Boston, LA and Miami: “No. More people are not riding the bus around here,” the driver explained. “Only the poor and unfortunate ride the bus; the rest just complain about gas prices but keep driving their cars.”

The NPR story emphasized how the economy in general and fuel prices in particular were compelling the new straphangers to use mass transit. A sad story made only more so by the observation that those still driving were benefitting from less traffic. No doubt unintentionally, this month’s Berkshire Living magazine validated the notion that riding the bus is for the “poor and unfortunate.” Nowhere in an issue dedicated to “green” living was there a mention of the excellent BRTA busses or routes throughout the county.

Peak Forsythia

The picture of my house on Google Earth is sharp. The outline of the roof is clear, trees stand out as individuals. It was taken on a day much like today. And at exactly this time of year. I know because there is a big patch of yellow at the end of my driveway. The forsythia. It peaked today. Last week it was still snowing; today it is in the eighties. Tomorrow the forsythia petals will blanket the ground.

Google's spy cam was not sharp enough to show the mailbox polo hits, however. Or which hero scored the winning blow.

Tyringham Cobble

Tyringham's cobble has old rock on top of newer rock. I thought perhaps this might have been caused by a receding glacier. After all, Long Island and Cape Cod are massive moraines so the ice sheet had once covered this area too.



Not so, the old rock at the peak is pre Cambrian while the sandstone outcrop at a lower was formed somewhat more recently.



This morning's jaunt on the Tyringham Cobble was an interseasonal joy. Winter has passed but spring has not yet arrived.



The air was still and crisp, the ground was frozen, most of the snow was gone but the buds were still hibernating. Once the rain arrives and the frost is out, the fields and trails will be soup for several weeks.



Quite a few parties agreed today would be a good time to walk the two mile circuit: when I arrived at the Trustees of Reservations parking lot there was one car; by the time I returned an hour or so later it had been replaced by seven others. Most seemed to walking up the gentle slope or perhaps over from the Appalachian Trail. They may have found the path down challenging.

Easter View on South Mountain

Easter Sunday seemed like a good day for a hike. Early morning light suggested it would be fine; temperatures in the teens suggested otherwise. I had planned on an outing at the Tyringham Cobble. An ascent of South Mountain in Pittsfield proved to be more inviting. The view was inspired.

Change for Good

Coins are pests. Every day, I accumulate more spare change: on counters, on top of furniture, between cushions, in drawers or on the floor and in the console, cup holder or some hard to reach spot in the car. Coins gather like dust, only dirtier and slightly more valuable. But not much. Nothing costs a penny. Even pennies cost more than one cent. Savvy merchants and restaurateurs have abandoned the 99 cent ruse and rounded up to a full dollar. Few bother to pick up pennies (unless with a vacuum); when cleaning drawers, some people would sooner dump the random coins in the trash than touch them.

Banks no longer want to handle them either. When I went to Lee Bank with a sack full of coins to run them through a coin counter and convert them to greenbacks, I was advised the bank did not provide that service. The teller recommended I make change at Stop & Shop instead. When pressed further, I was given flat coin rolls: the bank would accept full rolls of coins if I counted them myself.



Stop & Stop installed Coinstar coin counting kiosks several years ago. At first I thought they were great. Then I learned there was a catch: there is an 8% service charge. Eight percent. If I were to calculate what my time was worth, it would be an easy decision to simply dump the entire bag of coins into the hopper and give Coinstar its due. But I am too cheap. I find it galling that I am compelled to pay a retail establishment to count the cash I am willing to tender there. So I compromise: I let the machine count the pennies and I take the time to sort out and put the silver coins in their respective rolls. Now when I spend those rolls, I am asked to sign them like a check.



Recently it occurred to me that the coin changing machines could be deployed to dispense BerkShares, a scrip honored by Berkshire County merchants and restaurants. They are sold to consumers at a 10% discount to US currency but can be redeemed at the face value of US dollars. As such they offer a monetary incentive to support local enterprises. Since I shop or dine at many of the places which accept BerkShares and settle the bills in dollars, I would be happy to convert my bags of coins to BerkShares at face value. I can get rid of loose change, support business in the community and use some really cool money. The BerkShare discount could be divvied up between the BerkShare organization, the merchant housing the coin counter (Guido’s or Lee Bank, for example), and the owner of the kiosk. Balances of less than one dollar could be returned as change or donated to worthy local causes. In a small, and perhaps attractively subversive way, this puts small change to good use.

Sunday Thrill on Monument Mountain

Route 7 northbound out of Great Barrington, Massachusetts is steep enough to merit two lanes going up hill on the east side of Monument Mountain. The posted speed limit is 50 miles per hour. I have been passed by guys on crotch rockets doing at least twice that. One friend who rides a Japanese wannabe Ducati claims to have done 130. He covered the mile and a half stretch to the Trustees of Reservations parking lot in about 45 seconds. If he were to complete the trip to the summit of Monument Mountain, he would be obliged to do so on foot and it would take at least another 45 minutes (longer at this time of year). I will not claim that reaching the peak on foot is as much of a rush as the high speed ride, but it is thrilling nevertheless.



Mike, my hound, is extremely indulgent. He always forgives my absences (sometimes extended) and has submitted to being spirited across oceans and continents (he was born in Taipei sixteen years ago). For the past several days, he has ridden shotgun while I have made my rounds. Long hours in the wagon with only short pit stops. And all he asks is that he be allowed to clean the dishes and go for interesting walks. Since both benefit me, you might think I would repay his kindness more often. Last night he scored some leftover steak and today we tackled a big hill. I reckon I still owe him, but I am moving in the right direction.



Hiking up and around Monument Mountain is an excellent way to spend a couple hours. The paths are challenging but well marked and maintained. The the oaks and pines form a nice canopy so undergrowth is minimal, but there is lots of mountain laurel. Outcrops of ledge are punctuated with seams of marble and flint. The views from the peak are superb, extending in all directions from several different lookouts. From the parking lot, I prefer to follow the trail north and make the steep climb up, then complete the circuit by following the gentler slope down to the west and return to the lot from the south.



Monument Mountain has been attracting visitors for hundreds of years: Nearly 200 years ago William Cullen Bryant wrote a poem about a Mohican woman who leapt from a cliff (a cairn in her memory resulted in the name of the mountain). Years later Nathanial Hawthorne and Herman Melville were introduced there; Melville was already writing Moby Dick, their mutual admiration was so strong that Melville dedicated his masterpiece to Hawthorne.



Today the mountain attracted a few hearty souls. We saw several groups of two or three hikers; one couple was accompanied by a four legged yearling blond. Mike made her acquaintance and was feeling fine. New snow had fallen so the trail was not as slick as it would become after having been packed and frozen. I followed European alpine fashion and walked with a pair of poles: they were a boon on the way up and a life saver on the way down. When we arrived around 2:30 the snow had stopped falling and there were patches of blue sky. I hoped we might have clear skies by the time we reached Squaw Peak.




We were on top by 3:30 and had fine northeasterly views of Stockbridge and Lee. Two hikers approached from the south and warned about a snow storm coming from the west. They did not stop to admire the view to the north. A wiser soul would have joined them for the trip back down. I was more interested going forward and looking out over Alford, Great Barrington and Egremont.



Mike was an intrepid hiker as long as he was convinced his footing was sound. That excluded foot bridges and rocks. Back on the leash, he was happy to follow and crossed the foot bridges and stony ledges without resistance. Now it was important to keep him on a short lead to eliminate lengthy inspections of interesting trees, boulders, nooks and cranies. The snow squall to the southwest was less than five miles away, so we had little time to get off the peak and back on to the wide gentle slope trail half way down the mountain. Hoping to avoid being caught in a white out on a trail with white blazes, we made haste. The wind came up and it started snowing soon after we began our descent. It was 4:30 when we arrived back at the car, now covered with new snow. Mike was thrilled to have spent the afternoon in the woods and I was thrilled to have seen the winter landscapes from the top of Monument Mountain and escaped a blizzard on the way down.

Berkshire Bar Burgers

Great Hamburgers in Pittsfield, Lenox and Lee



There is no better place in Berkshire County to get primed for a hamburger than the intersection of North Street and Linden in Pittsfield. Mark Papas mans the charcoal grill at The Lantern (455 North Street, 413-448-2717). His exhaust fan delivers an aromatic invitation to purchase more effectively than any billboard, print ad or radio spot. The 6 ounce burgers are formed by hand and grilled on an iron grate. They have all the appeal of the best backyard burgers, they are available year round and they can be accompanied by Bass, Blue Moon or Sam Adams on draught or about a dozen others in bottles. The Lantern Bar and Grill has been in Mark’s family for decades. It has a comfortable lived-in vibe with cool jazz on the sound system and a collection of oil paintings and photographic portraits on the walls.



The best burger in Lenox is at Bistro Zinc (56 Church Street, 413-637-8800). Chef Michael Stahler gives every bit as much attention to his burgers as he does to any of the other dishes on his eclectic menu (Shepherd’s Pie made with shredded duck confit and Pei Moules Frites are also on the lunch menu). The 8 ounce patties are made from fresh Angus beef, topped with Tillamook cheddar cheese and two strips of Jones Cherry Wood Smoked bacon and a couple of tempura batter onion rings. On the side you have a choice of either a mountain of fries or a mixed green salad. The bar at Zinc has been a hip place to hang out for the better part of a decade. True to form, it has an impressive selection of French brandies and single malt whiskies. For the burger and beer patron, there is enough on tap or in bottles to satisfy.



Further down county in Lee, you find tasty burgers at Moe’s Tavern (10 Railroad Street, 413-243-6637). But you will need to look hard for them because Moe’s is all about beer. Tavern keeper Josh Cohen’s latest tally is over sixty craft brews in bottles and five on tap (numbers he hopes to double in the near future). Moe’s has been in business for just a few months and has been bucking conventional wisdom by offering little of the ordinary (Budweiser, Miller and Sam Adams are available but move slowly; Coors never crossed the threshold) and lots of the extreme (like Stone Brewing's Arrogant Bastard and Dogfish Head's 120 Minute IPA). He also offers fresh burgers and locally made hotdogs. The Sliders hit the spot. There are three hand formed 2 ounce patties on potato flour buns with basic fixings. That and a bottle of Blanche de Chambly and I'm good.

Berkshire Blue

Barbara Kingsolver has written a new book, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. She has followed up on a theme her friend, Gary Paul Nabhan, developed several years earlier in Coming Home to Eat, namely eating foods which are produced locally. This comes naturally to some. For most, however, the idea is so novel that Nabhan and Kingsolver find wide audiences for their observations on the challenges faced and lessons learned when they committed to eating local.

Nowadays most places which produce food specialize: they make a lot of one thing and little or nothing of everything else. Almost everyone takes this for granted. Organizations like Berkshire Grown are doing their best to raise awareness and promote the benefits of locally produced foods. But they face huge challenges when markets like Guido’s and the customers who shop there, very sympathetic audiences indeed, demand a much wider variety of products than can be supplied locally.

The truth is we want both. We want the local producers to succeed because it makes us feel good. But what we really want is a huge assortment of choices and year round availability. And we assume what we want is not local.



Perhaps this explains why when Guido’s has a dozen blue cheeses, among at least 100 other cheeses, they don't bother to point out the obvious: that Berkshire Blue is "Berkshire Grown." Stilton gets a detailed placard, as do many other notable cheeses. Hidden among them is Berkshire Blue. No introduction necessary, apparently.

Berkshire Blue is made two miles from Guido’s Fresh Market in Great Barrington; the dozen Jerseys cows which produce the milk it is made from graze eight miles up the road at a farm in Alford. You can’t get much more local than that.



Michael Miller started making blue cheese in 1999, after learning how at the Willett Dairy in Somerset, England. For the past nine years, each week he has been aiding and abetting nature in transforming hundreds of gallons of raw, unpasteurized milk into wheels of blue cheese.

It is a hands on, time consuming process, beginning with the cows. They are milked one at a time. Michael is licensed to transport milk: he collects it early in the morning, transports it to the dairy and starts making cheese immediately. Once at the dairy, however, nothing is rushed. On the first day, Michael brings the milk to temperature slowly, then adds starter cultures followed by two blue moulds and finally rennet, an enzyme which causes the milk to solidify. Before the day is done, he will separate the whey (which is returned to the farm and fed to pigs) and transfer the curds to 66 molds. Over the next two days the molds will flipped regularly. When the molds are removed, the wheels of cheese are transferred to a brine tank where they will soak for 12 hours. Michael calls this "giving the girls a bath." The "girls" are allowed to dry for several days and then placed on pine planks where they will age for the better part of two months.



Wine makers talk about "terroir" and their desire to allow the wines to express the characteristics of soil on which the grapes are grown. Some cheese makers have also adopted the word. Michael doesn't believe terroir plays a significant role in Berkshire Blue. More important than the land are the quality of the cows, the grass they eat and the milk they produce. He recognizes that the cows' diet changes with the seasons and this will change the consistency of the cheese. But as an artisan cheese maker, he adheres to the same recipe and adjusts only time and temperature to achieve optimal consistency.



Michael recommends serving any cheese at room temperature. The wedge I had for dessert tonight was a deep yellow punctuated with pockets of sage colored mould. It was firm, the flavor was very mild and fit perfectly with a glass of Hardy's 2002 Botrytis Semillon.

I suspect when he embarked on this adventure, Michael would have been happy to sell all of his cheese in Berkshire County. But there wasn’t enough demand. So, like all ambitious cheeses, Berkshire Blue headed to the big city. In 2001, she (after all, Michael does refer his wheels of cheese as "the girls") was awarded a silver medal at the World Cheese Competition in London and the following year she won the gold there. Since then she received many other awards. Now Berkshire Blue is distributed nationally. She alao maintains a discreet presence in the Berkshires.