When In Salem, Do As Witches Brew: Bourbon

I am a firm believer that the best travel days are the unplanned ones. I prefer the barest of provisioning, a skeleton of an agenda, and hopes for happy stumbles to plane tickets, scheduled dinners and fuss.

Last weekend I went to see my college roommate in Boston. She’d been working too hard and needed an excuse to play outside the city. We went apple picking in Ipswich and stumbled upon a chowder festival, then went lobster-roll hunting and fell upon a party in Salem, Massachusetts.

Turns out that for the entire month of October, Salem is a Halloween festival for adults. The cobblestone streets running the length of downtown are filled with vendors selling witches’ hats, reading tarot, and yes, offering the ubiquitous street-fair kettle korn (I cannot resist it’s power). There are bats in the trees, men in capes, and the ghosts of the women who were killed for sorcery in the late 1600s. Don't believe me? Go feel the vibe for yourself.

I love Halloween, but as it turns out, I'm a bit too prim to dress up the way so many women do. Gone are the days of my Tattinger Girl and Sex Cat costumes. The last time I tried to hedge my bets with cute (Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz), my boyfriend's ex showed up as Rollergirl and I won the frump award. No thanks.

To put ourselves in the mood, we signed up for a dungeon tour led by an enthusiastic Australian in a top hat. Spoooooky. With time to kill, we hopped on our brooms and flew over to the Salem's central hotel, to get our Octoberfest on.

After wading our way through the weddings thick with coastal Mass accents (no, they’re not joking), we relaxed at the bar. Within minutes, two witches sat on the stools next to us. They had long black and green hair, hats with blinking lights, and long black dresses. They carried small cauldrons of something, and my drinking partner couldn’t help but inquire, “Whatcha got in that cauldron?”

“Eye of newt. Would you like one?” Witch 1 asked.

“Yes, please,” said my friend.

We unwrapped and sucked on our crisp chocolate balls, not sure where this conversation would lead. They began:

“We Halloween in Salem every year,” said Witch 2. Some summer, others winter. They Halloween; these women were living my dream.

“We’re up from Philadelphia for the weekend. We’re old high school pals," added Witch 1.

Soon we were talking about jobs, kids, and where one could get a good deal on a witches hat in Salem. They ordered 2 bourbons on the rocks.

And then Witch 1 removed a packet from her frock, added something to her drink and mashed it down with a spoon. “You never know if a bar will have good mint, so I bring my own,” she explained.

If you want a Halloween potion done right, best to make it yourself.



Bourbon Drinks
from Cocktaildb.com:

Mint Julep

Boston Sour

Manhattan

Hot Brick Toddy

American Grogg

The 3 Year Old Egg: Apples and Onions

I recently had a friend visit from Boston. She, like many before her, was brimming with enthusiasm to visit New York. Couldn't wait to walk around Central Park in the fall, yada yada yada.

But was there any way to avoid Brooklyn? It would mean an extra hour on her trip, the BQE, and, with all due respect, it ain't Manhattan. No matter what the Slopers and the BillyBurgers tell you, when visiting for the weekend, Manhattan's where you want to be. Yankee cheer to you.

So I asked the Catholic Brothers if my friend and I could bunk there for the weekend, as they had an extra room and we had an aerobed. "Yes!" they cheered, knowing full well that I'd make it up to them in meals. I brought a box of goodies, including five pounds of slab bacon, duck, lamb and ribeye, thanks to Pat at Pat LeFrieda Meats.

All was well, and everyone woke in the morning with happy thoughts of what bliss a full refrigerator would bring. The taller of the twins whipped out his "Just Add Water" Bisquik mix, I began thickly slicing bacon, and my Boston friend mmmmmed with anticipation in the corner of the room, which is her specialty.

And then one of us (me) flew too close to the sun. I spied a dozen eggs in one of the vegetable drawers (admittedly, an odd place for a dozen eggs). I grabbed the eggs from the refrigerator, held them high and asked, "How does everyone take their eggs?" Twin Tall told me to put them down. "But why?" I asked.

"Because they've been here since I moved in, three and a half years ago."

On the one hand, ew, but on the other hand, fascinating. I was in the presence of 1300-day-old chicken eggs. Since my friend and I spend the better part of our time contemplating what happens to our very own 36 year old eggs, this was something of great interest to us. We exchanged looks, and she, a scientist, asked that I reveal the eggs.

I opened the box, and we all peered in. The hint was in the heft; the package was as light as, well, an empty package. Over the course of 1300 days, these little orbs had exhaled all they had; the eggs evaporated all their liquid through the shell. I was holding a dozen egg shells, with nary a blowhole between them.

We marveled, as one does with science. And then we sat down a fine breakfast of Bisquik pancakes and bacon.


Apples and Onions
This weekend, I was a houseguest of upstate friends in Staatsberg, New York. The she of the couple is a great cook, as one might expect when one is born to an Italian mother and a Jewish father. (To not cook would send all kinds of relatives spinning in their graves.) She and I share a love of food and cooking; she's one of the only people who cooks when I visit. I appreciate this like you read about.

Plus, every time I visit, she teaches me something new. This time, to accompany her pork roast, she made a simple dish of "Apples and Onions" at her husband's request. After the roast was in the oven, she cut an apple and an onion into wedges, tossed them with a little oil and seasoning, and put them in a roasting dish to cook alongside her pork.

The dish was simple and divine -- my favorite kind. It will accompany all my future pork dishes. Try it; you've got to do something with all those apples you've got.