Original Inspiration

In the infancy of adulthood, I moved from Dayton to the Hudson Valley, just up the river from "the city". New York City, of course. Back then, I would find myself waiting for the weekends to come, when my new dormmates, mere strangers with a common culinary school cause, and myself would hop on the Hudson Line train to Manhattan. Most of us didn't have money to spend, but it was the charge we got from jumping into the voltaic current of the city that justified the train rides. Rich himself grew up on Long Island, and then Westchester County, taking the New Haven Line in with his mates to exploit the adventures that lie in wait in that wild city of dreams. And in present day, this New Year's Day, while out in Westchester visiting family, Rich and I found ourselves on a train that ambled into the underbelly of "the city", where we surfaced in the main concourse of Grand Central Station with its aquamarine, celestial ceiling, old stomping grounds for the both of us, and a hub for countless people from around the world. The thrill of it, like that of any enduring piece of art, doesn't fail.

It was atypically windy and polar bear cold on January 1, which heightened the excitement as we hopped onto the subway bound for the East Village. I still have a thing for keeping my finger on the pulse of the culinary scene, and I had been waiting for years to eat at Win Son Bakery. A Taiwanese-American spot, low-key and casual, the restaurant serves scratch food with a tangible enthusiasm for what they do. We took the long way from the subway station and memories of rollicks-past materialized, resurrected by familiar blocks. We told stories, filling in some of the blank space from the time in our lives before we met. We entered the warmth of Win Son to wait in a line, as you're bound to for so many experiences that are worth your while in a bustling metropolis. Perfect! There would be ample time for reading the menu (as if I hadn't on the train ride in) and people watching: NYU students on break (likely awaiting the coffee + scallion pancake cure for their late night New Year's Eve), a duo speaking Russian (presumably Father and daughter), a young couple and a set of their parents (perhaps being introduced for the first time? How were they getting on?), and of course peeping through the pass, into the kitchen: a particularly jovial crew, flowing through service. I would have enjoyed working on that line back in the day, tickets amassing and plates being expedited, a playful and diligent dynamic all the while.

We circulated through the line, placing our order and briefly waiting to be seated, with just a moment to meet the group of undergrads standing next to us, "Farmers? From Ohio?!" Oh, all the places you'll go. We shared a scallion pancake, fan tuan, and a cream-filled bao, bent over our cozy two-top, quiet but for our expressive eye contact, confirming that we were both engrossed in culinary bliss. These are the sort of food experiences that are worth leaving your house for.

We ejected ourselves from Win Son to walk it off and talk ourselves out of cancelling our dinner reservation for the chance to eat more of Win Son's menu instead. As the city does, she presented one spontaneous opportunity after another: first a narrow book shop tucked in between apartments on a side street, then a chance encounter with a fantastical man in a woolen inverness cape covertly making a mold out of a plaque laid in the pavement near Union Square Park, and after stopping off for a delicious coffee, a second wind robust enough to blow us to the Museum of Modern Art. Talk about inspiration. To walk through halls of work, the likes of which my kids have recreated in art class and a Klimt painting, hung like baby-in-a(neglected)-corner of the fifth floor with no one in line to see it, but which I hung a print of in the farmhouse kitchen because it so transfixes me, alongside Rich, my art savant who maintains his childlike wonder of the beautiful things in life...what a moment to experience in a lifetime.

But then, spit back out in midtown, the day had been moving along all the while and the sun had set. But New York was not asleep. Of course it never sleeps for all of its lights which stand in for the sun and illuminate your way to what's next. And for us, it was our New Year's Day dinner at a place that's been around forever, an admittedly tame choice. Rich had never been, and I booked it a month beforehand out of sentimentality. Union Square Cafe was one of the first restaurants I got excited by when I leaned into my passion for cooking. The menu is designed around seasonal ingredients from local markets and wines from producers in the Northeast. Not to mention USC has a reputation for exceptional hospitality, where, counter to the culture of the industry, the staff is cared for as well as the diners, making for good vibrations.

The energy of the place was not posh or stuffy, but inviting and as warm as the ambient light which set the scene. And yes, the staff we mingled with were friendly and seemingly content. But cutting to the chase, each plate we ate validated our decision to keep our reservation. The same quality delivered hospitably was also apparent on our plates. We again found ourselves quietly savoring our food and making eyes: broccoli with pecans and pomegranate so maddeningly simple but exquisite, Rich's favorite throwback dish: spaghetti fra diavolo with perfect housemade pasta and a sauce that I have craved since, swordfish piccata worthy of keeping on the menu forever, and a creme fraiche cheesecake that we had a hard time sharing. Eating this meal reminded me that my first inspiration to convert from a chef to a farmer wasn't motivated just by the prospect of working outdoors instead of in(doors) or living a lifestyle that would allow me to spend my days with a hypothetical partner/family. It was actually the sheer excitement I got tasting locally harvested food, prepared with a real appreciation of the inherent, vibrant flavors and textures the ingredients have to offer when grown right down the road and plucked at peak, burgeoning ripeness. And the closer I got to the source of that local Hudson Valley food, the more I felt compelled to change gears.

Cooking (and eating) was my first love. It's alchemy, it's paying respect to the food that we get to eat and to the land and the people who grow it, it's an expression of love for the people you feed. But farming has introduced me to a level of intimacy with the land and a connection to the world that really satiates my spirit. Maybe the glass of Long Island orange wine after a thought-provoking day took me for a ride, but sitting across from this incredible person I share my life with, who I've made a life with, who I chanced to encounter on that farm on the Hudson where we both landed while pivoting from professional cooking and fine art and economic studies respectively, who fell for my tricks and imagined, then realized a farm and a family with me...it was surreal and life affirming.

It reminded me that I am here. Now. And I am so hungry to go deeper in and start another season, and face a new set of challenges. And oh, the places I've been, and oh that journey back to Grand Central after our meal, when we had to wait an hour for the next train to New Haven, and so we read each other fashion magazines in the Hudson News store and ran outside to see the full moon shining over the Chrysler building like a little cherry on top, or rather like a big apple on top :), and then watched the people coming and going and making their way to the end of the first day of a new year of life on this planet of ours, full of inspiration to be found and channeled into something great.

Thank you for reading.

If you would like to support my writing you can do so below: