Foods From Afar – Deck the Halls at Seneca Lake

The fall foliage has given up its colorful cloak, leaving the trees gray skeletons of their former selves. From early Friday morning, London and I drove west under a gunmetal sky. Our destination was the middle of the Western shore Seneca Lake for the Annual “Deck the Halls” Wine Festival. Participants purchase passes that allow a wine tasting, paired with a small bite, along with an ornament to adorn an accompanying wreath at each of the 35 participating wineries. At every stop, we were usually allowed 3-5 tastes in addition to the sweet or dry parings with the food, meaning in total, we have approximately 350 wines to taste over the course of three days. Cheers to that!

The Fingerlakes Wine Region has a unique beauty. Slowly slanting hills escalate from both sides of the lakes. From the North, one cannot see the Southern tip, but you can easily see the West side from the East. At this time of year, the grapes have already been harvested, so the vines are bare, still trussed in manicured rows. Most wineries along the trail boast broad views from decks and windowed vistas where we took a picturesque reprieve from the bustle of the tasting rooms.

There are a few grape varietals that appear more commonly on menus in the Finger Lakes than other places. One such, Cayuga, a hybrid of Schuyler and Seyval Blanc, produces a balanced acidic white wine. The bright, lemon or white grapefruit flavors moderate the sweetness. Wines made from Cayuga are usually served chilled, and the medium mouthfeel could stand up to fish, or for me, enjoyed in warmer months with sun and a grill.

Even if we split the task evenly, and even if we spat out every wine we sipped (we did neither), the tumult of tasting will tire even the toughest taste buds. There were however, some memorable highlights to the weekend. Three Brothers was our favorite winery. They feature four separate experiences. We moved from Passion Feet, a down-to-earth barn environment with fruity, sweet wines, to Stony Lonesome, more traditional, almost an Italian feel room with granite countertops presenting dryer and more complex wines, to Bagg Dare, an Appalachian back yard with rusting car parts and wood pallets decorating the walk, pouring semi-sweet wines and back woods vibes, finally War Horse Brewing, all 1950’s WWII “We can do it!” and “We want you!” posters with hard ciders and on-tap beers.

While there were many delicious wines, the one that stood out the most for us was served hot. The mulled wine was a combination of red and white house wines, mulling spices, brown sugar, and a splash of brandy. Spices lit up my nose as I swirled the wine in my glass. Initial sweetness came as expected, but the light burn from the brandy hit he back of my palate, evening it. The liquid felt thick in my mouth and left a warming trail down my chest as I swallowed.

The entire weekend was an intoxicating soiree. We accomplished sampling every winery on the list, collecting ornaments and memories from each, and wine from a select few.

Graham’s Gastronomy – The Inevitable End of a Jack-o-lantern

The breeze that only a month ago cooled, now chills as you walk down the street. On front porches, the wilting, orange forms of carved faces beckon the change of seasons. The poor, mangled vegetation sits in wait to become either food for local fauna, garbage, or worst, a splatter on the street. These ash-encrusted pumpkins have lost their culinary value, but my former jack-o-lantern, lit with a flashlight, now lies in pieces, at 400⁰, and lightly slathered in butter and salt.

                To me, pumpkins are the harbinger of fall. The ubiquitous use in coffees and baked goods, more often than not as a flavored syrup, only serves to dilute the delicate nature of the gourd (although those that know me have seen me guilty of ordering the sugar and spice laden latte). A cloud of steam fogged my glasses as I opened the oven door to reveal the roasted slices. Having cut them smaller, the numerous edges had caramelized, which would provide a darker color and richer flavor to the final product. As I scooped the flash from the peel, the pumpkin had become soft and pliable in my hands, but not sticky or gunky. The work bowl of my food processor was filled and emptied multiple times as the blades rended the cooked flesh into an unctuous puree. As though I was baking cookies, I couldn’t help but sample the supple, dark orange pulp the stuck to the spatula.

                It was intentional, leaving out spices from the cooking process, as I wanted as pure of a pumpkin flavor as I could to leave open as many culinary doors as possible. To this end, not all of the former jack-o-lantern was pureed. I was challenged to compose a pumpkin salsa, and so the slices destined for that dish were removed early and cubed. Crisp apple played the role of tomato and sweet onion was substituted for white or yellow. The subtlety sweet pumpkin brought more of its vegetative nature to the mix, the entire salsa having a crunch akin to a slaw which topped shredded chicken for dinner.

                The next morning, the puree was dolloped into a bowl and whipped with two eggs, milk, cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger and a dash of salt. The resulting thick, yellow-brown soup smelled of bread potential, but that would be another day. Once the pad of butter’s sizzling aroma turned nutty in the hot pan, the egg mixture was poured evenly in. With the slow wrist rotation of omelet creation, the concoction congealed and with a flip, the frittata was finished. A spoonful of honey-infused greek yogurt graced the center, it’s cool, creamy, tart flavor contrasting with the heavy, spiced pumpkin. Both mingled and melted in my mouth as I melted into the couch, lounging in a weekend breakfast.

                I was inspired by the egg and pumpkin combination, so for dessert the next day, I used the creamy fat from eggs yolks with the literal creamy fat of half and half to make a crème brulee. After the dairy had finished cooling from its steep in spices, it was combined with pumpkin, sugar, and egg yolks. Soupier than before, I was tempted to dip bread into the mixture, foregoing the custard in favor of another breakfast, but the 300⁰ oven with a water bath won out. After 30 minutes of cooking and another 30 of cooling, I dusted the shimmering skin of the custard with sugar. I find the ‘click’ and ‘fwoom’ sound of a culinary torch satisfying, so to the hissing of the bubbling, caramelizing, sugar. Once allowed to harden, my spoon penetrated the surface with the accompanying distinct crack. I could feel the smallest slivers of pumpkin through the silky crème along with a slight crunch from the burnt sugar as my tongue pressed against the roof of my mouth. Who knew that ghastly face would eventually bring a grin to mine?