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.

Fire Roasted Hamburgers

"Don't knead the meat!" As a kid, I thought the key to making hamburgers was in the formation. I was on the right track but headed in the wrong direction. I was working the patties into pucks. Great burgers, I learned, start with lightly formed patties using exactly as much pressure as needed for the ground beef to stick together, and not an ounce more. Grind some pepper and sprinkle some flakey salt over them and you are ready for the grill. Extra effort loses points.

The fire is every bit as important as the beef. Wood, not charcoal, is best. I have used maple, oak, beech, hickory, cherry, even buckthorn; stick to one species, the harder, the better. Build a fire to one side of the grill (I like the classic Weber kettle) and let it burn down to a short but active flame. Make sure the grid surface is clean and very hot before you start cooking. Arrange the burgers on the opposite side of the grill, away from the flame. Replace the cover with the vents open (I usually leave the lid slightly off center to increase the draft). Flip the burgers when the grid leaves a clear sear mark. (In her book, Cookwise, Shirley Corriher explains how protein sticks to the surface until it is cooked and then it releases--keep this in mind: if the burgers are sticking, they probably need more time.) Add cheese (recently I have been using triangles of Vintage Gouda and Emmental instead of a single square slice) and replace the cover. Once the cheese has melted, the burgers are just about ready. Rather than a slice of onion, try blanketing the burgers with chives.

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.

Jax Blue Plate in Boulder

Several days ago I was driving through an old Dallas neighborhood which had some of the same early twentieth century bungalows which give Boulder, Colorado a lot of its charm. In Dallas many of those old houses are being torn down and replaced by handsome new piles two or three times as large. In Boulder the small houses are beautifully preserved and carefully landscaped. Their owners clearly care as much about the space around their houses as the space inside them. Quality over quantity.

I love visiting Boulder. It is a cool town. A town, not a city. It is small enough to walk around comfortably. And it seems most residents do walk around. Many with dogs or kids or both. The place has a great vibe. Residents of Boulder may not feel it is important to upsize their houses but they have substantial expectations when it comes to food. Pearl Street is a fine place to stroll, especially if you are looking for a great meal. I have had several at Jax Fish House. Chef Rosenberg has a lot of fun fusing flavors from all over.



My most recent adventure started with one foot in Mexico and the other in Japan with the "Chimi," an ahi tuna sushi roll with a chimichanga crust. Since my companions were busy with oysters, I felt absolutely no shame in keeping it all to myself.



Chef Rosenberg must like working an Amerasian melange because the next dish featured Maine scallop ceviche on a bed of avocado cucumber salsa and topped with tobiko. It was mindnumbingly good. Then, with my feet firmly planted in on the eastern side of the Pacific rim, I devoured the so called Tuesday "blue plate" special (shown at the top of the page): New Zealand Blue Nose with a Thai curry sauce. My only complaint was the color of the plate. No blue.



The short walk to Jax had offered a quick trip around the Pacific. I had absolutely no plans for any other excursions that night, but it was not to be. France beckoned. One of my companions ventured forth and made an awesome discovery: a flourless chocolate brownie topped with crème brûlée. Mae was right: too much of a good thing is wonderful.

Apparently the powers at Jax have as tough a time with numbers as they do with colors: seven nights in a week but only four blue plate specials. No matter. They have all the important stuff right. I'll be back. It's on my route.

Merle's Door

Europeans understand dogs. Their dogs are typically well behaved. Dogs are welcomed in restaurants, and only American tourists seem to notice. In Merle’s Door, Ted Kerasote described the center of Chamonix where the local dogs congregated to socialize during the day before returning to their respective homes in the evening. They were well groomed, collar wearing, and registered. And they were enjoying the liberty, equality and fraternity guaranteed all French citizens.

Most dogs aren’t so lucky, at least not in the developed world. Our dogs may be well fed and thoroughly inoculated but they are nervous and behave poorly; often they are not able to be simultaneously happy and relaxed. Cesar Millan spoke of his grandfather’s farm in Mexico where all the dogs figured out how to fit in both in their immediate pack but also the larger community of people and other animals. They had jobs to do and were well adjusted. The village dogs I saw in Asia also seemed to get along well without much human interference. These third world dogs were filthy but happy. (The farm and village dogs should not be confused with the frightened strays scavenging around cities in the developing world—these truly are wretched creatures.) In Kelly, Wyoming, where Kerasote lived, the local dogs were free to come and go as they wished. And Kerasote’s dog Merle had his own door. And this, he believed, was the key to Merle’s success in becoming an equal partner in their life together.

Interspersed between the stories of Merle’s ability to learn, mature, and enjoy himself, Kerasote referred to a variety of experts, including Temple Grandin, Elizabeth Marshall Thomas, Douglas Smith among many others to find scientific evidence to support assertions based on his own observations of dogs in general and especially Merle. The book offers a lot of practical advice on how to understand dogs and what NOT to do to allow them to mature. But mainly, Merle’s Door is the story of a rare friendship.

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.

Keegans Ale and Le Canard in Kingston

Gout is a helpful companion. Earlier this month, we celebrated my brother's birthday at the Crab Claw in Saint Michaels, Maryland. I tucked into more blue crab than prudent and Gout came around the next day to remind me to behave. Several years ago in Venice, zuppa di fagioli prompted Gout to persuade me to remain within gimping distance of the Hotel Ala and not ramble off cross country. Thanks to the extra week, I fell in love with a city I might otherwise have dismissed as an interesting museum. Today Gout has focused my attention on the fine ale and rack of lamb I enjoyed yesterday in Kingston, New York.



The evening started around six at the small bar inside Keegans Brewery. A pint of Old Capital (Kingston was the first capital of New York) followed by a pint of Belgian style white beer. The Old Capital was refreshing (and glasses around the bar were refreshed regularly); the white beer was an eminently acceptable local beer but lacked the depth of Blanche de Chambly from Quebec. The vibe at Tom Keegan's place was one which craft brew joints everywhere would do well to follow: super casual and genuinely warm with a nice mix of music set low enough for normal conversation. Everyone seemed to know each other. No one objected to the peanut shells covering the floor.



Dinner at Le Canard Enchaine proved to be an ideal place to finish the day and conclude the week. Chef/owner Jean-Jacques Carquillat met us at the door and led us to a table in the bar. The mood was unabashedly happy. The rack of lamb was one of the night's specials and tasted great. It was served medium rare with a thick red wine sauce and accompanied by sauteed spinach and mashed potatoes. Now that I know where to find Le Canard, I plan to waddle back often.