Yankee Magazine November/December 2015

Jeffrey Cirio and Emily Hoff in Mikko Nissinen’s The Nutcracker by Sabi Varga ©vargaimages

CONTENTS

features

56 ///

Christmas in Vermont

Looking for the ultimate holiday experience? Two towns in the Green Mountain State—Manchester and Woodstock—deliver Yuletide festivities for all ages. by Bill

Scheller

74 /// A

Blue-and-White Christmas

Holiday traditions may vary, but one thing is universal: the joy and warmth of family and friends coming together. by Naomi Shulman

78 /// The Natural

Meet New Hampshire’s Beatrice Trum Hunter, a pioneer of America’s healthy eating and environmental advocacy movements. by Edie Clark

84 /// Angels

Among Us

Yankee celebrates ordinary New Englanders who are making an extraordinary difference in others’ lives. by Ian Aldrich

88 ///

A Truly Miraculous Creature

The humble oyster just may be the key to rebuilding New England’s coastal ecosystems. by Michael Sanders

66 ‘Ordinary, Obscure, and Laborious’

The Trappist monks of Spencer, Mass., devote their lives to work and prayer in a community of kindred souls. text by Justin Shatwell, photographs by the Brothers of St. Joseph’s Abbey

p. 56).

Elegant holiday finery bedecks a parlor at the Hildene estate, built in 1905 in Manchester, Vermont, for Robert Todd Lincoln and his family.

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26 /// Merry and Bright

At Christmas, designer Kristin Nicholas’s antique Cape in western Massachusetts becomes a holiday wonderland of shimmering color and sparkling light. by Julia Quinn-Szcesuil

36 /// House for Sale

Steeped in history: Yankee tours a 375-year-old house on Old King’s Highway in Barnstable, Massachusetts. by Guest Moseyer Tim Clark

travel

44 /// Could You Live Here?

The town of your dreams: Salisbury, Connecticut, in the rolling Litchfield Hills, home to a vibrant and welcoming community spirit. by Annie Graves

50 /// The Best 5

Yuletide magic comes alive as New England towns don their finest illuminations. by Kim Knox Beckius

52 /// Local Treasure

Channel your inner Patriot and join the rebellion at the Boston Tea Party Ships & Museum. by Aimee Seavey

54 /// Out & About

Yankee ’s events calendar spotlights top holiday fairs and festivals across New England. compiled by Joe Bills

133 /// Yankee’s Special Holiday Cookbook

Flip this magazine to discover our third annual New England food awards, our 80th-anniversary holiday recipe collection, best apple pies, and more!

1121 Main St., P.O. Box 520, Dublin, NH 03444, 603-563-8111; editor@YankeeMagazine.com

EDITORIAL

EDITOR Mel Allen

ART DIRECTOR Lori Pedrick

MANAGING EDITOR Eileen T. Terrill

SENIOR LIFESTYLE EDITOR Amy Traverso

SENIOR EDITOR Ian Aldrich

PHOTO EDITOR Heather Marcus

ASSOCIATE EDITORS Joe Bills, Aimee Seavey

INTERNS Theresa Shea, Heather Tourgee

CONTRIBUTING EDITORS Kim Knox Beckius, Annie Card, Edie Clark, Annie Graves, Ben Hewitt, Justin Shatwell, Ken Sheldon, Julia Shipley

CONTRIBUTING

PHOTOGRAPHERS Julie Bidwell, Kindra Clineff, Sara Gray, Corey Hendrickson, Joe Keller, Matt Kalinowski, Joel Laino, Jarrod McCabe, Michael Piazza, Heath Robbins, Kristin Teig, Carl Tremblay

PRODUCTION

PRODUCTION DIRECTORS David Ziarnowski, Susan Gross

SENIOR PRODUCTION ARTISTS Jennifer Freeman, Rachel Kipka

DIGITAL

VP NEW MEDIA & PRODUCTION Paul Belliveau Jr.

DIGITAL EDITOR Brenda Darroch

NEW MEDIA DESIGNERS Lou Eastman, Amy O’Brien

PROGRAMMING Reinvented Inc.

YANKEE PUBLISHING INC.

established 1935

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CORPORATE STAFF Mike Caron, Linda Clukay, Sandra Lepple, Nancy Pfuntner, Bill Price, Christine Tourgee

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Prized

80

In Our Time A Most Unusual Gift of Love

Dear Reader,

The drawing you see above is called In Our Time. I created this in honor of two of my dearest friends. After writing the poem, I worked with a quill pen and placed thousands of these dots, one at a time, to create this gift for someone who is very much part of my life.

Now, I have decided to offer In Our Time to those who share and value its sentiment. Each litho is numbered and signed by hand and precisely captures the detail of the drawing. As a wedding, anniversary or Christmas gift for your husband or wife or a particularly dear friend, I believe you will find it most appropriate.

Measuring 14" by 16", it is available either fully framed in a subtle copper tone with hand-cut mats: outside mat is medium beige and the inside mat is burgundy, at $135, or in the mats alone at $95. Please add $14.50 for insured shipping and packaging. Either way, your satisfaction is completely guaranteed.

My best wishes are with you.

The Art of Robert Sexton • P.O. Box 581 • Rutherford, CA 94573

All major credit cards are welcomed through our website. Visa or Mastercard for phone orders.

Phone (415) 989-1630 between 10 a.m.-6 P M PST, Monday through Saturday. Checks are welcomed; please include the title of the piece and a contact phone number on check. Or fax your order to 707-968-9000. Please allow up to 2 weeks for delivery.

*California residents- please include 8.0% tax

Please visit my Web site at www.robertsexton.com

“...And when we grow old I will find two chairs and set them close each sun-lit day, that you and I — in quiet joy— may rock the world away.”

Finding Christmas

nce I believed that the holidays meant rituals of obligation: a Thanksgiv ing feast, and then with barely a breath in between, an almost obsessive need to bestow gifts. When my sons were young, I filled secret places with toys and gadgets, even making one final sweep on Christmas Eve for that “needed” stocking surprise. I thought that that’s where the magic happened, with their eyes wide in the bedtime dark (you might even hear Santa’s sleigh gliding beneath the stars), then the quivering excitement at daybreak when they found the living room transformed by prettily wrapped presents. Presents that a few weeks later mostly waited askew in corners of the playroom, their shiny newness already worn off. On to other things.

Nigel Manley’s Christmas unfolds across hundreds of acres of balsam fir trees that he oversees at The Rocks Estate in Bethlehem, New Hampshire (“A Tree Grows in Bethlehem,” p. 18). He sees children bending low to harvest their special tree—the tree that soon will suffuse their home with the scent of a northern forest. Christmas arrives, too, in the sacred quiet of St. Joseph’s Abbey, in Spencer, Massachusetts, where Trappist monks live in contemplation, work, and worship ( “A Life That Is ‘Ordinary, Obscure, and Laborious,’” p. 66). While their famous jams have been joined now by their ales, their lives are still as distant from the box-store frenzy as if they existed on a separate earth.

This Yankee issue understands that the magic has always been about the gathering—and that the gathering happens around food. This is where we find the heart of the holidays, no matter which ones we celebrate, or when, as long as we’re with people we care about, passing around the platters. And it’s not about filling bellies—there are a lot of ways to do that—but about keeping our loved ones close. A student of mine in Bay Path University’s MFA writing program, Kathleen Bourque,

wrote recently about a memory: “My kitchen will not rid itself of the stench of boiled cabbage. But if I listen closely, I can again hear the Clancy Brothers singing as we celebrate St. Patrick’s Day in my childhood home, while Dad carves the corned beef …”

Inside these pages—from a bourbon-brined turkey to apple pie to the best homemade foods in New England— the real story lies in the making of memories: the desserts cooling, the turkey browning, the table aglow with anticipation. Now with the shortening days, until it seems that daylight is merely an inter mission, we turn inward, to hearth and home, for sustenance. You can’t ever overindulge at this table. Years from now that sliver of pie, the sharp scent of balsam, the bite of crisp turkey skin, the aroma of rolls hot and buttery, will mingle with the laughter of friends and family, and you’ll return to a time when the magic was never hidden, just always there.

Mel Allen, Editor editor@YankeeMagazine.com

Senior lifestyle editor Amy Traverso dishes up some of her favorite recipes from our special food issue. Use the Yankee Connect app to find out more.

Victory Lap

With winter coming, there was one more short drive to take.

utting the truck away for the winter is a ritual, just as is getting it out in the spring. I don’t use the truck in the winter, one way to extend its already long life. The truck is a 1997 Ford Ranger, white with no rust. I bought it used, with a tender transmission and no gas gauge, to replace my husband’s truck, which had lasted 18 years after his death. I’ve grown to love this truck for its many uses. When I put it away in the late fall and roll the barn door shut, I know that I won’t see it again till warm weather comes. Keeping it out till the last minute is like stealing time. I like to use the truck until storm clouds carrying snow come over the hill and the first flakes start to fly.

Last November, I waited as usual, and when I felt the snow coming, I went out and started the engine. One other thing I do before I tuck it away: I take it on what I call a “victory lap” around the back field. It’s my way of saying goodbye to the field and the trees that surround it, before they take on their winter guise. And it’s also a way of celebrating one more year in the life of the truck. So I started off around the field. By this time, the ground is normally frozen or on its way to being so. But we’d just had a strange stretch of warm weather; as I approached the back of the field, the rear tires suddenly sank in and spun wildly. I put the truck in reverse and tried backing it up out of its self-dug hole. In my rear-view mirror, I could see a great spray of mud flying into the air. I went forward, which produced another fountain of mud. I did that, back and forth, mud flying, until I finally accepted that I was completely stuck, as far away from my barn as I could get. I got out to look: The truck was sunk to its axles.

Back at the house, I started making phone calls. I finally reached Brian, who plows my driveway and does many other important things for me. I sometimes call him Saint Brian. At that moment, he was busy putting his plow on for the coming storm, but said he would try to get over as soon as he could. A fine dusting had already come down, and the forecast was for a considerable accumulation. I imagined the truck stuck in the back field all winter, covered in snow and sunk in the frozen earth. That field can stay mushy sometimes into July. I felt a sadness at the thought.

I had to go to an appointment, so I held some faith that Brian could somehow liberate the truck and get it into the barn before the storm. I knew he had many things to tend to before snowfall, and many people who depend on him to keep their driveways clear. I felt stupid for taking that victory lap, for disturbing Brian from his work.

When I returned two hours later, the snow was about three inches deep and falling steadily. I didn’t see any sign of Brian and felt that he’d probably run out of time. I’d left my gloves in the truck and started to walk back through the snow to get them. As I walked past the barn, I suddenly saw faint tire tracks, now almost completely covered with new snow, leading into the barn. I peeked into the window and saw the truck safely inside, a shroud of mud weighing it down. Victory lap complete.

Edie Clark is the author of As Simple As That: Collected Essays

Order your copy, as well as Edie’s other works, at: edieclark.com

Stick Season

is the time between the leaves’ dropping and the first snow that sticks— a time that brings its own stark beauty and rituals.

he third of November brings us the first morning this season that’s truly cold, and with it, the understanding that the truth of what’s coming can no longer be denied. It’s 23 degrees and the wind is gusting as I head into the thin, uncertain light of chore time. I’m dressed in long underwear, gloves, and the butt-ugly hat I got at the secondhand store for a quarter. Penny tells me it’s not flattering, and she’s right, but I wear it anyway, if only because it serves as an emblem of my thrift.

The ice on the cows’ water trough is a half-inch thick, and I break it with a booted foot. I pull two bales of first-cut hay from the barn, wriggling my hands under the strands of twine that contain them and serve as built-in handles. I heave the bound bales over the fence, then duck between the top and bottom fence wires, shoo the cows away from the bales, and cut the twine to release the hay. I can hear Penny in the barn—first her footsteps, then the metal-on-wood sound of her milking bucket against the frame of the stanchion, where she leaves it while she collects Pip. The sun is rising over our neighbor Melvin’s field, but not having cleared the horizon, it looks as though it’s emerging from the ground itself, a crop that was sown and is now blossoming.

Walking back toward the house while Penny milks, I watch the sunlight slowly unfold across our woodlot. With the exception of a handful of stubborn holdouts,

CABOT

PHOTOGRAPH BY PENNY HEWITT

Cows on the Hewitts’ farm munch hay amid the season’s first snow cover.

the deciduous trees are leafless, and the roads are clear of even the late-season discounted-tour-bus leaf peepers. Two weeks ago, you could still see the buses pulled over at the scenic overlooks, discharging their camera-wielding passengers, and you couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for those folks, because peak was at least 10 days prior, and it was really something to behold. Best foliage season in years, actually.

Around here, people call this “stick season,” that post-foliage, pre-winter period that lasts from mid-October to the first sticking snow. I used to think of it as a bleak, bereft time of year, but I’ve learned to recognize a particular beauty in the leaf-bare landscape. I see the bone-colored birches and the wrinkled-bark sugar maples and the poplars with their greenish tint. The forest floor is covered in rusty leaves; the sky is ever-shifting among the infinite shades spanning white and black. The sun is rare this time of year, but that only makes us appreciate its infrequent appearances all the more.

Not long after the first truly cold morning of the season comes the first snow, and with it, the opening of Vermont’s rifle hunting season, which begins with a weekend reserved for hunters under the age of 16. Fin and Rye have been awaiting youth hunting weekend with something close to feverish anticipation: Guns have been cleaned, sighted in, and cleaned again. Ammo has been sorted, and debates have erupted over precisely how much ammo one should carry on a hunt. “I think five shells is enough, don’t you, Papa?” Rye asks, and I agree that five shells is probably enough. “I think I’ll take six,” Fin says, and that seems fine to me, too.

Truth is, at 12 and 10, my boys are already far more experienced hunters than I am. In fact, neither Penny nor I was raised with a working knowledge of firearms. Oh sure, early in my life, when my parents lived on a 165-acre homestead in Enosburg, Vermont, there was a .22 rifle, but my sole recollection of it is limited to an episode involving a raccoon, chickens, and, as family lore has it, my buck-naked father, sprinting in late-night darkness

toward the coop, where a triple chickicide was under way. I’m pretty sure the raccoon escaped injury.

Of course, having been raised in rural Vermont, I didn’t find the concept of hunting exactly foreign. My parents had settled on a remote, rarely trafficked gravel road; every November, the population of gun-rack-bearing pickup trucks passing our house would soar. We’d pass them along the roadside, often leaning precipitously over an embankment, or straddling a ditch halffull of fallen leaves and almost-frozen rainwater. As non-hunters, we felt an unspoken anxiety inherent in the sight of all those trucks, because with the trucks came the knowledge that dozens of hunters—some of them our neighbors, but many of them strangers— were stalking the forest surrounding our home, loaded rifles slung over their backs. Did my parents post their land? I can’t remember, but even if they had, it wouldn’t have alleviated our anxiety, because few of our neighbors did, and although we didn’t know much about guns, we knew that bullets travel too fast to make sense of “No Hunting” signs.

Having been reared primarily in suburban New Jersey, Penny’s upbringing was even further removed from hunting and firearms. Her parents didn’t own a gun, nor, to her knowledge, did the parents of any of her friends. Of course, given that her childhood coincided with a household gun-ownership rate of approximately 50 percent (it has since dropped to about 32 percent), there’s a high likelihood that some of them were gun owners; she just wasn’t aware of it. But whether or not there was proximity to firearms, there was no exposure to guns and therefore no familiarity.

It was against this backdrop that about five years ago Fin developed a keen interest in hunting. In hindsight, it shouldn’t have surprised us: After all, the slaughter of livestock for meat has been part of our children’s experience almost since they were born. And our boys have always seemed most contented when immersed in wilderness.

Indeed, one of our intentions for raising them in rural northern Vermont was precisely to instill in them an appreciation of the natural world, and it’s one of our greatest satisfactions to witness their obvious love of—and connection to— the flora and fauna around our home. But somehow, either out of naïveté or simple willed ignorance, we never imagined them or ourselves as hunters.

Fin and Rye stalked our land with homemade bows for more than a year, bringing home the occasional squirrel or chipmunk before we purchased their first gun. We’d seen where all this was leading: the bows and arrows, the squirrels, the endless questions about all things hunting, the drawn-out games of fantasy they played together, involving deer rifles fashioned from sticks and convoluted, ever-changing rules about whose land they were hunting on, how many deer they could harvest, and so on. And so we’d had plenty of time to get used to the idea of our boys’ owning a gun.

We never imagined that we’d be gun owners. It never occurred to us that our sons’ relationship with nature would be mediated by deadly force.

Our boys began hunting with homemade bows and arrows; the first animal that Fin killed was a red squirrel, brought down with a bow he’d made. We didn’t need to explain to him that any animal he killed would be utilized for food; that dictum had already been instilled in him through books and mentors. Still, when it came to hunting for food, my imagination ran toward grilled venison steaks and small roasted game birds, perhaps with a side of mashed potatoes or a pile of buttered rice. What I most definitely didn’t imagine, and yet felt compelled to experience if only to support my young son, was a scrawny haunch of fried red squirrel. (For the record, it was tough and chewy and did not taste just like chicken.)

Used to it, maybe, but still not entirely comfortable with it. “I can’t believe we’re even talking about this,” Penny remarked one night, in the midst of one of our many discussions regarding guns and hunting and how they fit into our preconceived notions of what sort of family we were. But the more we talked about it, and the more we observed the boys’ commitment, evidenced by hour upon hour of bow-and-arrow practice (along with their undiminished enthusiasm for the flesh of small rodents), the closer to comfortable we got.

And that, in short, is how I found myself rising at 4:35 a.m. (I’d promised Fin I’d set the alarm for 4:30, but five minutes seemed an acceptable cheat) on the opening day of Vermont’s youth hunting weekend, so Fin and I could be deep into the woods by legal shoot time. To thwart the potential complication of who would shoot first should a deer present itself, the boys had decided to split the weekend, even if it meant less time in the woods for each of them. I rose sluggishly, envious of Penny, free to slumber for another hour or more. And not just any hour, but that sweet, deep sleep of early morning, the one that grants you the luxury of arising fully refreshed. Or at least that’s how it seemed to me as I pulled myself out from under the cocoon of covers. “Good luck,” Penny mumbled, before rolling over to face the wall and descend back into the downy folds of her subconscious.

We’d gotten used to the idea of our boys’ owning a gun. Used to it, but not entirely comfortable with it. “I can’t believe we’re even talking about this,” Penny said.

We didn’t have good luck, at least according to the common under standing of “luck” during deer sea son. Although Fin and I had the good fortune of seeing two deer, neither presented a reasonable shot. Rye and I saw nothing but tracks, perhaps because we couldn’t bring ourselves to remain motionless for more than 12 minutes at a time. “I think I’d rather walk around and have less chance of getting a deer,” Rye replied when I mentioned that we might be better served by still hunting.

I understood what he meant. It was an amazing time to be in the woods: The light was creeping into the sky, and everything seemed caught in the suspension between night and day. It was nice to sit for a few minutes, sure, but it was also nice to move on, to feel the blood quickening in our veins, to practice the inward-rolling footsteps that, once perfected, would let us move silently through the trees.

The boys and I hunted regularly through the remainder of rifle season, but we never saw another deer. But no one seemed to mind, and besides, our freezers were already nearly full with the beef, pork, and chickens we’d raised over the summer months. As with most of our fellow hunters in 21st-century Vermont, the meat wasn’t essential to our survival, and we knew that this fact itself was deserving of our gratitude.

But the early mornings in the woods? The whispered conversations with my sons as night succumbed to day? The return home to the breakfasts of fresh eggs and fried potatoes that Penny had made in our absence? The warmth of the house as we stood by the woodstove with our chilled fingers outstretched? I suppose it could be argued that even these things weren’t essential to our survival. But it sure didn’t feel that way.

Ben Hewitt’s fourth book, The Nourishing Homestead: One Back-to-the-Land Family’s Plan for Cultivating Soil, Skills, and Spirit, was published this year by Chelsea Green. benhewitt.net

First LIGHT

Forty

A Tree Grows in Bethlehem

At The Rocks Estate, it’s as though a rural Downton Abbey has merged with Kris Kringle’s tree farm.

BY ANNIE GRAVES

wintry morning sun begins its climb on this early December day. All around, ridges streaked with snow remind us that we’re in the heart of the White Mountains, with New Hampshire’s highest peaks dominating the horizon. As pale light strikes the dark, perfectly pointed evergreens striping the hillsides below, with views of the Presidential Range beyond, there’s nothing in the quiet scene to hint at the liveliness to come. A landscape draped in dreams. Sixty acres of Christmas trees spread across the fields at The Rocks Estate in Bethlehem, New Hampshire. The promise of new snow hangs in the air. It’s the ideal spot for a movie-version Christmas-tree farm. At 4 Christmas Tree Lane, no less …

The Rocks Estate feels like a world apart anyway. Maybe because it dates back to the Gilded Age, when wealthy entrepreneurs like

John Jacob Glessner, who co-founded International Harvester, could assemble a couple thousand acres of property and build an estate so that his young son, George, who suffered from hay fever, could escape the Chicago summers with his family. In fact, the low pollen count and high-altitude air around Bethlehem were so celebrated at the time that it quickly became a turn-of-the-century resort destination.

So possibly it’s something in the air that accounts for the robust vigor of these trees, raying out in precise rows of spruce, balsam, and Frasier and Canaan fir, here at the beloved Rocks Christmas Tree Farm. Certainly the setting is extraordinary: an estate set in the midst of a Christmas grove. Fields of trees are offset by the beautiful European-style stone barn, a child’s playhouse, and the snowy outline of formal gardens, plus a gift shop (one of two) housed in the shingled 1903 Tool Building, where you can find tree ornaments, pet toys, and local crafts. Although the two original mansions

PHOTOGRAPHS BY MATT KALINOWSKI

no longer stand, 22 other buildings still dot the estate. A rural Downton Abbey meets Kris Kringle’s tree farm.

More probably, though, the trees’ good health can be traced to their guardian, estate manager Nigel Manley, a genial Brit from gritty Birmingham who has kept things growing at The Rocks since 1986. “I was originally hired to rake leaves and split wood,” he grins. “No one knew I had an agricultural degree.”

Lucky for him, when John Glessner’s heirs left the now-1,400-acre estate to the Society for the Protection of New Hampshire Forests in 1978, one of the stipulations was that the farm must always produce a crop—which up till that point the Society had accomplished by leasing the land to a farmer. But a year after Nigel came onboard, the farmer left, and the Society suddenly found itself scrambling for ideas.

“I learned everything on the job—I knew nothing about Christmas-tree

farms! We were planting 7,000 trees a year and we were out in the middle of nowhere. Who would come?” Nigel asks, still sounding bewildered. “We sold 12 trees that first year.”

He surveys the undulating acres of fields that today grow 50,000 trees, and shakes his head. “I can remember selling 100 trees and being so excited, thinking to myself, Where can we go from here? We can do 400 trees in a day now. It takes us all summer, with seven people working every day, to prune them.”

Flakes drift down as we walk the snow-covered road, past trees stacked and bundled like giant smudge sticks, waiting to be picked up. A snow-globe vista, as the falling flakes begin settling on the trees. The fields are crawling with candy colors—bright parkas and snow pants—and families are spreading out through crowds of fir and spruce, trying to decide which tree will hold their ornaments, shelter their gifts. On the weekends before Christmas, there might be 1,200 people combing these hills for the perfect match.

Here and there, a standing tree grabs the eye, already trimmed with glittery gold bows or ribbons, popping like the crowd extrovert. “Some customers like to decorate their tree in the field weeks before, to mark it and keep anyone else from taking it,” Nigel explains. As families wield the saws provided, trucks are circling, ready to pick up the cut trees. Most often, they’ll be loading a seven-foot balsam

Estate manager Nigel Manley has groomed these hills for almost 30 years.

On the weekends before Christmas, there might be 1,200 people combing these hills for the perfect tree.

fir, the tree farm’s equivalent of a #1 bestseller. “That’s the Christmas smell,” Nigel says. “That’s the New England scent.”

It is also, of course, the provoker of memories, this wild smell of the green outdoors that we bring into our homes at the darkest time of year. A scent that conjures indelible moments: of unwrapping a family ornament; of stringing cranberries and popcorn (one impossible to pierce, the other guaranteed to crumble); of lying under the tree and looking up through its branches at lights like tiny stars. And of the mysteriousness of wrapped presents, never as magical once they’re unwrapped.

All of this, too, awaits in the field. “It’s impossible not to get swept up into the joy of the season when you’re here,” Nigel says, for he and The Rocks’ welcoming crew are also busy crafting memories. There are horse-drawn wagon rides, roasting pits for s’mores, and 2,000 one-of-a-kind wreaths decorated by the staff’s five “Merry Wreath Makers.” The local kindergarteners plant trees that they nurture until they cut their own as sixthgraders. Yearly The Rocks joins forces with FedEx in the “Trees for Troops” program, providing free Christmas trees to American bases. At local inns, visitors can even choose holiday packages that include a Christmas tree and wreath from The Rocks.

Yes, Virginia, it is a long way from those first 12 trees, sold almost 30 years ago. But some things stay true. Out in the fields, on this cold December day, you can still see your breath hanging like a cloud. And although The Rocks sells 4,000 to 5,000 trees a year now, it still feels like a family farm, and everyone’s in a supremely good mood, which is one reason, Nigel says, why generations of families keep coming back.

In the crisp, clean cold, a steaming cup of cocoa warms the hands and mingles with the scent of fresh balsam. And a thousand Christmases are about to unfold around perfect trees cut from a hillside in Bethlehem.

More information at: therocks.org/harvest.php

Unsung Pilgrims

Everyone knows the famous Pilgrims—Governor William Bradford, Miles Standish, Priscilla Mullins and John Alden—but what about all the other, lesser-known Pilgrims?

Here’s the scoop on a few of our B-list forefathers and mothers.

BY KEN SHELDON ILLUSTRATION BY MARK BREWER

Isaac ‘Insider’ Allerton

The original wheeler-dealer, Allerton was among those responsible for repaying the Pilgrims’ debt to the investors who had financed their trip. Instead, he embezzled from those funds and was banished from the colony. A true survivor, Allerton nevertheless succeeded in business and ended up with houses in both New Haven and lower Manhattan, near where Wall Street stands today—which figures.

Francis ‘Boom-Boom’ Billington

While the Mayflower was still in Plymouth Harbor, young Francis—an “active” child if ever there was one—got hold of his father’s musket and fired it off, showering sparks near an open barrel of gunpowder, which could easily have blown up the ship. Later, members of the Billington family were found guilty of sedition, scandal, slander, and even murder. They were the family you didn’t want to live next door to.

Mary Brewster

Wife of William Brewster, the Pilgrims’ religious leader, Mary was one of only five adult women to survive the first winter at Plymouth and make it to the first Thanksgiving—which she had to help cook, of course. No big sur-

prise that one of Mary’s many descendants was Julia Child.

Stephen Hopkins

The Mayflower voyage was Hopkins’s second trip to the New World. His first ship, headed to Jamestown, Virginia, was wrecked off Bermuda. There Hopkins mutinied and narrowly escaped being hanged. He eventually returned to England and came back to the Americas aboard the Mayflower. In Plymouth, he established the first tavern, where he was fined several times for serving liquor on the Lord’s Day, overcharging for spirits, and allowing drunkenness in his establishment. The local Chamber of Commerce at the time voted him “Most Likely to End Up in the Stocks.”

Edward ‘Temper, Temper’ Doty

The “honor” of fighting the first duel in the New World goes to Edward Doty and Edward Leister, servants of Stephen Hopkins. No one knows what the dueling Eds were arguing about, but their punishment was to be tied together hand and foot for 24 hours. Doty spent the rest of his life in Plymouth, where he was known for his quick temper, appearing in court numerous times and managing to avoid public service of any kind—which is probably just as well.

Goodman & Browne

Working in the woods one day, John Goodman and Peter Browne took a lunch break and went for a walk with their dogs. The dogs saw a deer and chased it, so the men went after them. They got lost in the process and spent the night pacing beneath a tree—and ready to climb it—because they heard what they thought were “two lions roaring exceedingly.” No truth to the rumor that descendants of Browne and Goodman founded AAA.

Alice Mullins

This unsung heroine was married to shoemaker William Mullins, who brought 250 shoes and 13 pairs of boots with him on the Mayflower. (“But did you remember the sunscreen? No.”) Sadly, Alice died soon after arriving at Plymouth, but she nevertheless had a vast number of descendants, one of whom was Marilyn Monroe, who also had a lot of shoes.

Susanna ‘Me First’ White

A fortunate survivor of that first winter, Susanna had some notable firsts to her credit: first baby born in the new colony (while the ship was still in the harbor); first bride, a few months after her first husband died; and first person to say of Plymouth Rock, “That’s it?”

Cookies Made by Hands

Whimsical shapes just right for the holidays

t’s a mix of shadow play and cookie making … “It” is hand-cookie making, which can be as creative as you are and as traditional as you make it. Hand cookies in their simplest form are cut out around an outspread hand—and a child’s hand is the most convenient size for a cookie. But hand cookies can be much more than that: A butter knife can trace around thumbs and forefingers to make swans … and signs of peace and angels with beautiful wings …

Roll the dough out to about an eighth of an inch thick, and cut around your hand, or a child’s hand, with a butter knife … We make geese by closing our fingers and adding a neck and head coming out at the wrist. You can make a dog by tracing around the hand in the position for a dog-shadow picture.

The fingers of both hands can form the skirt and wings of an angel; put a round head where the palm ends at the wrist. Or you can make people by using your right thumb and two fingers for one arm and two legs and tracing your left thumb for the other arm. Use sunflower seeds, nuts, and currants for buttons and eyes and for fingernails and jewelry on the hands.

—“Cookies Made by Hands,” by Robin Hansen, December 1983

WE WERE RIGHT ALL ALONG

—Hubert Prior Vallee (1901–1986). Born in Vermont and raised in Maine, and known around the world as Rudy Vallee, he was a mix of Sinatra with a dash of Justin Bieber—America’s first pop star. His soft “crooning” style is said to have influenced Bing Crosby, Sinatra, and Perry Como. He toured the country with “Rudy Vallee and the Connecticut Yankees,” and in time his talents brought him to Hollywood. He died in California at age 85 and is buried in Westbrook, Maine.

“The kids of today have taken over the music business—most of them very young. Simply because they write and jot down a few notes, they have the idea that they can write songs.”

LITT L E WOMEN

2nd

birth order of Louisa M ay Alcott among her four sisters

1832

year Louisa M ay Alcott was born

0

initial level of interest when a B oston publisher proposed to Alcott that she write a book “for girls”

1000 approx. number of copies of Little Women currently sold every month (it’s never been out of print)

22+ times the Alcott family moved in 30 years owing to financial constraints

You can get th ere from here.

70 days it took to write Little Women

147 years since Little Women was first published

OVER 50 translations of Little Women worldwide

$945

amount paid by Louisa’s father, Amos Bronson Alcott, for O rchard House in C oncord, M ass., where she wrote Little Women

30,000-50,000

number of visitors O rchard House museum receives annually

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compiled by Julia Shipley

The GUIDE HOME

THIS PAGE : The stairway in Kristin Nicholas’s home is festooned with her art, from the hand-painted walls to the knitted mittens to the embroidered pillow. OPPOSITE : Kristin loves to juxtapose rich colors, such as chartreuse with shades of red and turquoise.

Merry and

B ight

Inside the colorful world of designer Kristin Nicholas

by Julia Quinn-Szcesuil

he traditional white-clapboard exterior of Kristin Nicholas’s 1751 farmhouse, nestled in the rolling hills of western Massachusetts’ Pioneer Valley, betrays no sense of the boisterous visual party within. Outside, there are stone walls, weathered sheds, and pastures. But inside is a happy riot of color, with brightly painted walls, jewel-tone furniture, kaleidoscopic kilim rugs. It’s a fanciful place, an adaptation to the stark and stony winter landscape where Kristin and her family manage a flock of 300 sheep on their farm. “In western Massachusetts, from the end of November really until the end of April, there’s just gray everywhere,” she says. “For all those months you have to do something to make it joyful and happy.”

And so the center-chimney Cape in Leyden that she shares with husband

Mark Duprey, daughter Julia, and a bevy of animals isn’t just the heart of Leyden Glen Farm (whose atmosphere she lovingly calls a “circus”)—it’s a beacon banishing the early-winter darkness.

Color is Kristin’s signature statement, saturating all her creations: textile designs, oil paintings, pottery, knitwear, the hand-painted dining-room walls. When the holidays come around, her exuberant spirit is reflected in every corner, as is her decorating motto: handmade, colorful, cozy, and very, very sparkly.

“My holidays are about color and texture and making things,” says Kristin, whose latest book, Crafting a Colorful Home (Roost Books), was released early this year. “To me, that’s home—having a lot of handmade things around you.”

(text continued on p. 32)

OPPOSITE , CLOCKWISE FROM TOP : A nook off the kitchen gets a cozy boost from a collection of embroidered pillows and layered textiles; Kristin’s newest book; the artist at work, painting her hand-thrown pottery. THIS PAGE , TOP : Kristin & Mark’s 18th-century farmhouse is aglow with holiday warmth in the late-afternoon light.

Kristin’s husband, Mark Duprey, tends to their flock of 300 Romney sheep, raised for meat and wool.

CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT : Lanterns and a birchbark Christmas village further brighten the lively living room; vintage linens and Sherwin-Williams

“Tomato Red” paint jazz up an antique baker’s cabinet; Kristin uses leftover yarn to make festive holiday pom-pom decorations (go to YankeeMagazine.com/garland for instructions); a display of pottery combines Kristin’s own work with vintage pieces.

Our model is open: Mon-Fri 8-4:30, Sat 9-3

The holidays are also a breather for the family after the summer farmers’ markets and the autumn harvest. It’s a chance to savor time with friends in this tightly knit farming community, to recharge before winter lambing begins. Kristin sets an easygoing tone at Christmas, using armloads of greens from the yard, favorite sheepthemed decorations, hand-knitted stockings, and strings of twinkling lights (which stay up until April). Stacks of thick woolen afghans invite a put-your-feet-up mood. Nothing is fussy or hands-off—Kristin wants her guests to relax.

Her love of craft has deep roots. Smitten with fabric as a young girl in New Jersey, she loved the details in her German-born grandmother’s hand-embroidered sheets and afghans. At 13, she spent 50 precious cents at auction for a quilt so filthy her mother wouldn’t let her bring it into the house. With determined cleanings, the quilt was restored; it remains a treasure. Later, in college, she signed up for some textile classes and “the world opened up to me,” she says. Now she designs knitting and embroidery patterns, wallpaper, pottery, fabric, and a line of yarns. Living in a remote corner of New England, she’s had to adapt her business, welcoming students to the farm for classes and retreats, and teaching classes online through the site Craftsy. “I like to teach people that they can do this, too,” she says.

“I like to teach people that they can do this, too. It’s all easy. I have no patience for anything too fiddly.”

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How to Make Kristin’s Birchbark Houses

Using items found almost entirely in the woods (except glue, glitter, and cardboard), Kristin fashions whimsical holiday houses that she likes to give as gifts or keep for herself.

MATERIALS

n repurposed cardboard from cereal, butter, or cracker boxes

n natural materials: birchbark (from fallen trees, not live), acorns, acorn caps, moss, dried flowers

n multipurpose or wood glue

n glitter

1. From the cardboard boxes, cut a matching pair of square pieces for the front and back. Now cut 2 matching pentagon shapes for the sides of the house. Cut a length of cardboard for the roof and fold it in half.

2. Assemble a small four-walled house by attaching the cardboard at the seams with glue. Glue on the roof piece.

3. When the walls are dry, layer strips of birchbark siding onto the walls and roof, acorn caps stuffed with a bit of moss for a wreath, moss on the roof, and acorns for a footpath. Apply glitter for sparkle.

WILL MOSES

“It’s all easy. I have no patience for anything too fiddly.”

Every year, Kristin and her four sisters hold a post-Thanksgiving crafting party on Black Friday. Gathering materials in the woods, they invent fanciful creations, such as the tiny houses crafted from birchbark and recycled boxes that they still make every year. Using acorn “wreaths,” bits of evergreen adornment, and sparkly glitter, the homes would suit any woodland fairy.

It’s one festive way of staying connected to the land, even in winter. Kristin has always felt that pull. She loved her dad’s tales of childhood summers spent on his grandparents’ farm. “I thought it sounded fascinating,” she said. “I was sucked into the romanticism of it.” But it was Mark who enchanted her with tales of his country hometown. “In our first conversation he said, ‘I come from the most beautiful place in the world,’” she says. “So I knew it was pretty around here, but the first time I came, I fell in love.”

And so she has made a home here, where comfort and joy reside long past holiday season. A soft plaid blanket embellished with one of Kristin’s wool flowers waits to be draped on a lap; piles of pillows made from patterned remnants invite serious nesting; brightly painted lampshades reflect muted light. “It all adds another layer of warmth,” she says. “Color is really enveloping. It makes you feel safe and cozy and warm.”

To learn more about Kristin and to read her musings on design and farming, visit: kristinnicholas.com. More festive holiday decorating ideas at: YankeeMagazine.com/Décor

Ltd. Ed. Print “Christmas Eve Service” 7.5” x 13” $128

Julia Quinn-Szcesuil is a freelance journalist based in Bolton, Massachusetts. Her previous stories for Yankee include “At Home with the Queen of Cozy,” a profile of artist and writer Susan Branch (Nov./Dec. 2013).

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An Old-Timer on Cape Cod

This 1640 house in Barnstable, Massachusetts, is so drenched in history that you may even hear echoes of the first Thanksgiving.

Yankee likes to mosey around and see, out of editorial curiosity, what you can turn up when you go house hunting. We have no stake in the sale whatsoever and would decline it if offered.

BY GUEST MOSEYER TIM CLARK

drove to Cape Cod, hardly thinking about the fact that it was July 2, the last workday before the long Independence Day weekend. However, traffic was surprisingly light, and I crossed the Sagamore Bridge at about 11:30 a.m., in plenty of time to meet Bobbi Cox, owner and broker for Mulberry Cottage in Barnstable, at noon.

“It’s close to the road,” she warned me ahead of time. And why not? It was built around 1640, when the only traffic to be concerned about was the occasional war party of Wampanoags investigating the tall-hatted strangers who had shown up 20 years earlier in Plymouth, robbing Native burial sites of grain to keep from starving. Eventually the Pilgrims, as we’ve come to know them, and the local tribes made peace over a big meal. But that’s another story.

The road, now Route 6A, is also called Main Street, or Old King’s Highway, which gave its name to the National Historic District that was declared in 1973. It’s the largest in the nation, encompassing more than 1,000 acres and nearly 500 buildings.

Living in a National Historic District is a mixed blessing. On one hand, the owner of a property must get the approval of the local board for any changes to the exteriors of buildings and structures (including paint colors), fences and signs, and new construction or demolition.

On the other hand, it’s beautiful. And who wants to buy a 375-year-old house on Cape Cod in order to change it?

The house was built for Samuel Hinckley, one of the earliest settlers. Somehow he and his wife managed to stuff 13 children into a two-room halfCape (“They must have hung them on hooks,” Bobbi remarked), and until the early 1900s, it was called the Hinckley House. (I read that Samuel Hinckley is said to be an ancestor of three presidents: Obama and father and son Bush.)

That changed when the Beale family moved in and planted a mulberry tree in the front yard. It has been Mulberry Cottage ever since, even though the tree blew down in a storm decades ago.

The Beales were local landmarks. Louise Darwin Miller (Mrs. Arthur Beale), a poet and dedicated bicyclist, was famous for her daily 16-mile round trip from Barnstable to the South Shore and back, which she celebrated in verse:

No gas, no oil

Do I need!

No traffic cops to fear!

My pedal’s license covers all,

As across the Cape I speed!

OPPOSITE: Mulberry Cottage owners Bobbi Cox and John Powlovich. THIS PAGE, CLOCKWISE FROM TOP: The house and property offer a tasteful blend of old and new. A modern kitchen features worn brick walls; a spacious addition was built on the footprint of the original barn; the library and staircase retain many historic features, including wide floorboards.

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Bobbi Cox and her first husband, Bill, bought Mulberry Cottage in 1984, and Bobbi has made it a showpiece, preserving historic features (Indian shutters, wide-board floors, corner closets, a narrow staircase that winds around a massive central chimney) while adding modern conveniences such as a stateof-the-art kitchen, walk-in closets, and built-in bookshelves everywhere. In addition to 3,700 square feet of living space (five bedrooms, three and a half baths), there’s a spacious barn in back— a 1997 replica of the original barn—all on a landscaped lot of just under half an acre. It’s offered for $725,000.

There are too many treasures inside to describe, but I have to mention the museum-quality collection of wooden duck decoys belonging to Bobbi’s second husband, John Powlovich. John is the kind of collector who prefaces all his comments with “I’m no expert” and then demonstrates his expertise.

I could have spent all day at Mulberry Cottage, but Bobbi had other commitments, and I needed to get off the Cape against the inflowing tide of Independence Day tourists. But she generously gave me a brief auto tour of Barnstable, which seems to have the Nation’s Oldest This or the First American That on every corner. And of course there are heart-lifting glimpses of the ocean and the dunes of Sandy Neck a short walk from the house. Little wonder that Mrs. Beale wrote of the house:

The mulberry tree has grown so huge, The house was hard to find, But when we found the key-hole, And opened wide the door, All the rooms were smiling at us: The house that we adore.

For details, contact Bobbi Cox, Kinlin Grover Real Estate, Osterville, Mass. 508-420-1130 (office), 508-737-3763 (cell); bcox@kinlingrover.com. Read classic HFS stories from our archives at: YankeeMagazine.com/house-for-sale

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The GUIDE TRAVEL

Salisbury

BY ANNIE GRAVES

PHOTOGRAPHS BY ANNE DAY

nce in a while, the past rises up unexpectedly. It can happen in a flash—a taste, a smell, a look— to rattle our equilibrium and spark long-buried memories. It can even trigger a strange nostalgia for something we’ve never known. And it can happen on a hillside, deep in the woods.

The vertigo-inducing ski jump at Satre Hill, in Salisbury, Connecticut, does that. It’s a dizzying, 30-meter-long slope that has launched (literally) junior jumpers and Olympic hopefuls for more than 80 years. It brings shivers just standing at the bottom. Exhilaration, too. A reminder of days gone by, when thrills required actual skills—not the bungeejumping zipline variety.

Satre Hill says something about Salisbury, too—because the ski jump isn’t simply a daredevil dinosaur or a quaint village attraction, buffed up for tourists. The all-volunteer Salisbury Winter Sports Association (SWSA) keeps the hill’s tradition alive. It’s a source of tremendous community pride, and more than 600 locals have donated funds to spruce it up. Parents volunteer, families forge bonds, and kids learn to fly. That it also happens to be tucked down an impossibly picturesque Robert Frost–snowy road, not far from Salisbury’s Main Street, is just one more point for nostalgia.

Tucked away in Connecticut’s Litchfield Hills is a lovely town where it’s possible to take flight.

Spectators gather at the foot of the Satre Hill ski jump, with the town at their back, hidden through the woods not far behind.

The Setting

Salisbury is pretty, the way you’d expect a historic town in the Litchfield Hills to be. Preserved farmland and expansive fields surround the township, incorporated in 1741, which includes the artistpacked village of Lakeville. The Appalachian Trail snakes along its borders, and in summer hikers pushing toward Maine to finish the entire 2,168-mile trail are a frequent (aromatic, some say) presence. The streets are filled with plenty of broad, beamy antique homes, just the right number of shops to supply the essentials, and a handful of restaurants and bakeries to feed the weekenders. Plus a fine dusting of low-key celebrities to remind you that we’re only 100 miles from New York City.

“It’s a little too far to be a real commuter town,” says Richard Boyle, former director of the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, who has co-owned the Earl Grey B&B with his wife, Patricia, for the past 21 years. But it’s certainly convenient when you crave a city fix—or if you’re Meryl (Streep) Gummer, who chose this laid-back yet sophisticated town as the place to raise her family. “Salisbury is everybody’s little secret,” Boyle says.

Social Scene

Scoville Memorial Library anchors the south end of town; The White Hart, a 19th-century inn, secures the north. Both are nourishing places where you can dip a toe into village life.

FROM TOP : View from the grounds of The Hotchkiss School in Lakeville; Salisbury’s Congregational Church, a meetinghouse built in 1800.

Native stone lends weight to the nation’s first free public library—with museum curators, writers, and photographers popping in to give weekly talks. The White Hart sees its share of lively chatter in the Tap Room, lit by a crackling fire; the inn’s more-formal dining room was recently listed among Bon Appétit ’s 50 nominees for 2015’s “Hot 10” roster of best new restaurants. Neighbors gather for the holidays in front of the inn to light the Christmas tree and sing carols on the village green.

Scratch a little deeper, and you’ll find dramatic possibilities at Aglet Theatre Company—named for the doohickey on a shoelace—founded in Salisbury in 2005 to perform staged readings on “less than a shoestring” (so successfully that they needed a larger space in nearby Sheffield, Mass.). Plus, The Hotchkiss School, a renowned co-ed boarding school in Lakeville, opens its golf course, two Olympic-size pools, track, and skating rink to locals.

Eating Out

With dozens of books about gardening and cooking under her belt, Jacqui Heriteau brings a flavorful expertise

and “French ethos” to Country Bistro, the intimate café she runs with her daughter Holly, just off Main Street. A few blocks away, at the other end of town, Mary O’Brien’s homey Chai

walla Tea Room steams up the windows with endless pots of tea and earns raves for “Mary’s Tomato Pie.”

Side-by-side bakeries swell the village midsection: Sweet William’s, for early-morning cappuccinos and croissants, and Salisbury Breads, where rustic loaves warmed by rosy walls make a strong argument for gluten. Off the beaten path (but make a reservation), The Woodland in Lakeville is a favorite sushi-chic hotspot—the chef’s tuna crudo on a delicate whip of arugula is like a taste of summer in January.

Shopping

You really can get almost everything downtown, thanks to LaBonne’s Market (a mini Whole Foods) and the attractively old-fashioned Salisbury General Store & Pharmacy (from cold remedies to dish towels).

After that, it’s all fun and games: Peter Becks Village Store for sporty Patagonia clothing, or Prime Finds for upscale used home furnishings at bargain prices. You can pick up a first edition at Johnnycake Books, an antiquarian bookseller housed in a 19thcentury farmer’s cottage. “Salisbury has

FROM TOP : The Tap Room at the White Hart is a cozy place for locals to gather; Mary O’Brien’s tomato pie rounds out the menu at Chaiwalla Tea Room; Salisbury General Store & Pharmacy anchors a handful of pretty downtown shops.

been a destination for book collectors for almost 100 years,” says owner Dan Dwyer, who’s lived here since 1985; in the past he worked for CBS and wrote speeches for presidents.

Real Estate

“People start as weekenders, fall in love, and find a way to retire here,” notes innkeeper Patricia Boyle. In fact, weekenders make up 50 to 60 percent of Salisbury’s current population, depending on whom you ask. It wasn’t always that way. “It was the most affordable, accessible, and prettiest town [in the ’80s],” says Dwyer, who’s been active in town affairs, sold real estate, and even run for the state senate. “The real estate here is driven by the Wall Street economy. But you can still find places, if you look.” With its rural properties and well-off owners, Salisbury boasts the lowest property tax rate in Connecticut.

Resident Perk

At Satre Hill, the SWSA teaches ages 6 and up, with a Winter Ski Jump Camp during Christmas break and training from December to March. The Eastern National Ski Jumping Championships are an annual inspiration to all, and the February Jumpfest Weekend offers plenty of competitive fun in the 20- and 30-meter categories, plus ice carving and a Snow Ball Dance.

Getting Your Bearings

The White Hart offers airy in-town rooms; the Earl Grey B&B, Richard and Patricia Boyle’s stately 1850s Italianate mansion, overlooks the center of the village, with the largest documented Norway spruce in the country in their back yard.

For more information, visit: salisburyct.us; litchfieldhills.com; and nwctchamberofcommerce .org. For more photos, go to: YankeeMagazine .com/Sal

WOODSTO CK

If an authentic Vermont holiday experience is on your bucket list, look no further than Billings Farm & Museum. Discover how Thanksgiving was traditionally observed in their 1890 Farm House; from preparations, to the menu, to entertainment. Learn how Christmas was celebrated in the late 19th century and linger in the cozy kitchen as treats are baked in the woodstove. Try your hand at making historic ornaments. And don’t miss the wagon and horse-drawn sleigh rides (weather permitting). 802-457-2355.

BillingsFarm.org

“Casual Elegance” has been used to describe Jackson House Inn. Located just outside the perfect Vermont village of Woodstock, the Inn offers a balance of antique furnishings and

present day amenities. One of the most noted guest highlights is their locally sourced, farm-to-table breakfast. Served in a “chef’s table” approach, Rick describes each dish he prepares along with its local connections. After you’ve fueled up, hit Killington’s Skyeship gondola, just minutes down the road, or enjoy the area’s cross-country skiing, snowshoeing, dog sledding, snowmobile tours, and ice skating. 802-457-2065. JacksonHouse.com.

Picture this perfect Vermont getawaywake up at the cozy Woodbridge Inn, located minutes from Woodstock’s famous village green. Grab a tasty breakfast and fresh roasted coffee before driving 10 minutes to the Skyeship Gondola at the base of Bear Mountain/Killington. At the end of the day, ski back to your car and head to the Inn for their Soup Supper in front of the woodstove. Got a large group or family? Take over the Inn

with a “whole house” rental. Custom packages available. 802-396-0077.

Familyfriendly slopes, 30 km of groomed Nordic trails, and on-site

The Woodstock Inn & Resort is a true outdoor winter wonderland. Once you’ve had enough mountain air, come inside for some farm-fresh cuisine at one of the Inn’s restaurants. Or, delight your senses at The Spa, featuring a four-season courtyard, outdoor fireplace, and even a Japanese lilac meditation tree. If that’s not enough, check out their new Falconry Center, where professional falconers provide a hands-on encounter with these magnificent birds of prey. 802-332-6853. WoodstockInn.com

PACK YOUR BAGS

When You Go: Take time to meander through the town’s 30+ independently owned shops and galleries. Among the mix, you’ll find Vermont’s oldest book store, The Yankee Bookshop (Est. 1935) and the historic FH Gillingham & Sons General Store (Est. 1886).

Holiday Lights

BY KIM KNOX BECKIUS

ew England’s darkest season is filled with light. The coolest illuminations shine not only with electrical sparkle but with gigawatts of community energy and pride. Bundle up and take part in one or all of these five magical spectacles, and you’ll be able to check both “merry” and “bright” off your holiday dreaming list.

Lighted Holiday Boat Parade

As for any parade, spectators bring their chairs, they line either side of the route, they buy food and beverages, they cheer and applaud. But the looks on kids’ faces are the giveaway that this is no ordinary procession. For the 13th year, following the 6:00 p.m. tree lighting at Mystic River Park in Mystic, Connecticut, nearly two dozen wildly decorated dinghies, sailboats, and powerboats will cruise down the river from Mystic Seaport, their festive lights amplified by the water’s reflection. Reserve a room at The Steamboat Inn or a table at S&P Oyster Company or Red 36 far in

Yuletide magic comes alive as towns and cities all across New England don their finest illuminated displays. |

advance: These ultimate viewing spots are warm. November 28, 2015. mystic chamber.org/events/holiday-events

ZooLights at Stone Zoo

Stone Zoo in Stoneham, Massachusetts, will continue a 20-year tradition when it twinkles with more than 200,000 lights from 5:00 to 9:00 p.m. nightly. Animated displays, brisk carousel rides, and the chance to whisper wishes to the head elf himself at Santa’s Castle add to the enchantment. But nothing outshines the zoo’s prime attraction: animals. Snowy-white Arctic foxes, Canada lynx, North American porcupines, silvery barn owls … You won’t see reindeer fly (they’re resting up for their big night), but you can have your photo snapped with one of Rudolph’s sidekicks for a small fee. November 27–December 31, 2015. zoonew england.org/engage/zoolights

Lighting of the Nubble

Vocalists harmonize. A firetruck delivers Santa. Volunteers serve 60 gallons of hot chocolate and 6,000 home-baked cookies—all donated, all free. Divers surface, raising the underwater Christmas tree. But for everyone gathered at Sohier Park in York, Maine, the mostanticipated moment arrives at 6:00 p.m. on the Saturday after Thanksgiving. The countdown leads to a resounding “Ahhh!” as Cape Neddick Light, a.k.a. “the Nubble,” is outlined in razorsharp beams. A beacon of hope, it radiates into the new year. Can’t be there? A second chance to see the Nubble illuminated occurs during York Days in July. Or watch via webcam for the first time this year. November 28, 2015–January 2, 2016. nubblelight.org

A River of Light

When UK-born artist Gowri Savoor searched for a community to host a lantern parade in her adopted home state of Vermont, she found an ally in

Waterbury art teacher MK Monley. After coaxing 400 elementary kids to craft LED-illuminated paper lanterns in 2010, Monley says, “I swore I’d never do it again.” But after Tropical Storm Irene’s devastation in 2011, the community needed this whimsical parade, and today it’s a beloved tradition that’s grown into an even more festive celebration, with live band music and more than 500 glowing lanterns created by everyone from preschoolers to professional artists. You can make one and you can march, too. The 5:00 p.m. procession along Main Street concludes

La Salette Shrine Christmas Festival of Lights

“We want to be a place of welcome for people from all walks of life, all religions,” says Rev. Cyriac Mattathilanickal, director of the Retreat Center at La Salette Shrine in Attleboro, Massachusetts. And so began a tradition that’s now 62 years old: a free display of 450,000 lights—most now energy-efficient LEDs—drawing as many as 15,000 visitors between 5:00 and 9:00 p.m. on peak evenings. With concerts, Masses, a public cafeteria, a Chapel of Light flickering with 3,000 candles, and a crèche museum featuring 2,500 nativities from around the world, the La Salette community preserves the spirit of Christmas for generations of families. November 26, 2015–January 3, 2016. lasalette-shrine

.org/index.php/christmas

Check out our picks for best holiday festivities at: YankeeMagazine.com/ Celebrations

everythingnewengland.com

Yankee contributing editor Kim Knox Beckius calls Connecticut her home, but New England her backyard. Kim is the author of seven New England–based travel books, and she knows more local secrets than most locals, wherever she is.

OPPOSITE : Reflections of the Lighted Holiday Boat Parade shimmer across the surface of Connecticut’s Mystic River. THIS PAGE , FROM TOP : Maine’s Cape Neddick Light casts a welcome radiance across land and sea; the Stone Zoo in Stoneham, Massachusetts, bursts with the Christmas cheer of an old-time extravaganza.

with a bonfire. December 5, 2015. ariver oflightinwaterbury.wordpress.com

The Tea That Sparked a Revolution

A simple chest that once held dolls, clothes, and kittens

n the morning of December 17, 1773, a Boston teenager named John Robinson spotted a wooden tea chest half-buried in the sand. Along with more than 300 others, it had been dumped into Boston Harbor the night before by rebel colonists protesting “taxation without representation.” Destroying more than 90,000 pounds of East India Company Tea, this treasonous act in defiance of the British Crown became a battle cry of the Patriot cause. Knowing the risk should he be caught with it, John carried the chest home anyway, securing a rare memento of what we now call the Boston Tea Party.

Of the 340 chests tossed overboard that night, only two survived. (The other is at the Daughters of the American Revolution Museum in Washington, D.C.) Preserved within the Robinson family for generations, where it became a home for dolls, dress-up clothes, and even a litter of kittens, the chest’s story endured thanks to family pride and countless diligent retellings. Since 2012, the chest has served as the centerpiece of the reopened Boston Tea Party Ships & Museum. Backed by generations of oral and documented history, plus forensic analysis confirming the existence of not just the same saltwater found in Boston Harbor but periodaccurate wood and nails, the Robinson Half Chest (as it’s now known) is a

compelling piece of American history.

Today, the box, measuring just 10 by 13 inches, rotates slowly within a glass cylinder over the same body of water into which it was thrown nearly 250 years ago. To see it is to experience a unique thrill. “It’s a very significant object,” says museum executive director and vice-president Shawn Ford, “because it’s the tool, the symbol, on which the Patriots put

their hands and cracked open, and then poured the tea into Boston Harbor.”

And when you stand aboard a floating replica of one of those tea-bearing ships, you can’t help but hear the echoes of that act. The museum touches both the imagination and the senses. Its state-of-the-art graphics tell of the tensions leading up to December 16, and visitors are encouraged to incite their own rebellion by throwing floating, retractable “crates” of tea overboard with a hearty “Huzzah!”

helps tell the story of a nation’s birth. |

BY AIMEE SEAVEY

“Huzzah!” Visitors to the Boston Tea Party Ships get to channel the spirit of the colonial Sons of Liberty as they toss canvas-wrapped replica tea chests into Fort Point Channel.

But it’s the tea chest that packs the biggest historical punch (although the concluding film reenactment of the Battles of Lexington and Concord comes bullet-whizzingly close). Adding valuable color and shape to a familiar tale, Robinson’s chest gives new voice not just to the events of the Boston Tea Party but to the larger story as well—the story of the New England colonists who rebelled against the most powerful nation in the world, and won.

“I want people to leave here knowing that this indeed was the single most important event that led to the American Revolution,” Ford says. “Ninety percent of all the action, all the battles, all the bloodshed, happened here in Boston and New England.

“Philadelphia gets a lot of historic credit, but let’s face it,” he says with a smile, “Philadelphia did the paperwork.”

And it’s that sacrifice that Ford hopes visitors will remember most when they leave. “We gave up our lives here, and I think that’s the story that people leave here in awe of,” he notes. “Who of us today would throw away our livelihood, our savings, our wealth, our property, even tear apart our families, with no guarantee of success—in fact, with every guarantee of failure—just based on an idea? Now that’s an incredible story.”

And thanks to John Robinson’s boldness on that cold December morning, and the proud generations of Robinsons who followed, it’s a story being told more clearly and colorfully in Boston today than ever before.

Each year the museum, in collaboration with the Old South Meeting House, hosts a lively reenactment of the Boston Tea Party that we highly recommend. This year’s event is scheduled for Wednesday, December 16, 2015.

Out About

RHODE ISLAND

CHRISTMAS AT THE MANSIONS

NOVEMBER 21–JANUARY 3

Three magnificent Newport homes—The Breakers, The Elms, and Marble House—are filled with thousands of poinsettias, fresh flowers, evergreens, and wreaths. Trees are decorated, tables are elegantly set, and white candles flicker in the windows, all to create a magical holiday setting. Newport, Rhode Island. 401-847-1000; newportmansions.org

CONNECTICUT WINTERFEST & THE TUNNEL OF LIGHTS

NOVEMBER 27–DECEMBER 30

Ride the rails at the Connecticut Trolley Museum, either in a closed car or, for those hardy enough to brave the cold, in an open “electric sleigh.” Join the motormen in singing traditional carols as the trolley traverses the “Tunnel of Lights,” and later, warm up in the Visitor Center while sipping a steaming cup of hot chocolate and admiring the many model trains and displays. Check the website for the full schedule. East Windsor, Connecticut. 860-627-6540; ceraonline.org

MAINE GINGERBREAD SPECTACULAR

DECEMBER 12–13

The Opera House plays host to this delightfully competitive gingerbread-house contest, featuring castles, cabins, and everything in between, all constructed of gingerbread and assorted other confections. You’ll be serenaded by live music as you stroll past the magical creations and shop at the holiday bake sale. Boothbay Harbor, Maine. 207-6336855; boothbayoperahouse.com

MASSACHUSETTS CRAFTBOSTON HOLIDAY

DECEMBER 11–13

Featuring 175 exhibitors, CraftBoston Holiday at the Hynes Convention Center is a must-attend event for artists, collectors, and craft enthusiasts. Conveniently located in the fashionable, concentrated shopping district of Back Bay, this annual show is the place to find one-of-a-kind gifts, while meeting and supporting the artisans who made them and learning about fine contemporary crafts and craftspeople. Boston, Massachusetts. 617-266-1810; societyofcrafts.org

NEW HAMPSHIRE VINTAGE CHRISTMAS

DECEMBER 1–31

Celebrate the winter, the warmth, the light, and our collective memories of holidays past. Created by The Music Hall in partnership with Strawbery Banke Museum, this month-long, citywide program celebrates its 10th year with a diverse lineup of events, including readings, presentations, candlelight strolls, gingerbread houses, skating— and a taste of Broadway, as the Ogunquit Playhouse brings Irving Berlin’s White Christmas: The Musical to The Music Hall. See the website for the full calendar of events. Portsmouth, New Hampshire. vintagechristmasnh.org

VERMONT

THANKSGIVING WEEKEND ON THE FARM

NOVEMBER 27–29

Discover how Thanksgiving was observed at the 1890 Farm House at Billings Farm & Museum. Visit the parlor for the “History of Thanksgiving” program, plus don’t miss the cider pressing, horse-drawn wagon rides, and harvest and food-preservation activities for all ages. It’s also the last weekend of the season to see Billings’ farm-life exhibits. Woodstock, Vermont. 802-457-2355; billingsfarm.org

For more of the events you love around New England, turn to p. 118.

GUIDE

Holiday evergreens and poinsettias enhance the grandeur of the Great Hall at The Breakers, built in Newport, Rhode Island, for Cornelius Vanderbilt II in 1895.

BOB O’CONNOR (MANSION); DAVID J. MURRAY/CLEAR EYE PHOTO (PORTSMOUTH)

Vintage Christmas, Portsmouth, NH

vermont

by BILL SCHELLER

he table was splendidly set for Christmas Eve dinner. Red candles flanked a centerpiece of evergreens and flowers; napkins were tied with ribbons and holly. A cheery fire blazed on the hearth. But no dinner would be served, since this was Christmas 1912, preserved as if in amber. I was at Hildene, home of presidential son Robert Todd Lincoln and his family, tucked between the Green and Taconic mountains outside Manchester, Vermont. Although Hildene was the Lincolns’ summer retreat, they spent at least three Christmases here, and each December, Hildene’s curators deck the house in the style of a century ago. “We learn more every year about how people like the Lincolns decorated,” docent Melissa Smith told me. “We’re always striving for accuracy in portraying Hildene as it was at Christmas in their day.”

That portrayal even extends to the tree, a Vermont white spruce like the one that the Lincolns would have had cut. “In those days they preferred trees with big, open branches,” Smith explained, “so that they could hang ornaments within the tree instead of just on the outside.” Many of Hildene’s ornaments are period antiques; others, including strings of popcorn and cranberries, are old-time homemade baubles.

It was Christmas Eve throughout the house, where it seemed as though the family had just gone out. Cards lined a bookshelf; red velvet stockings hung over the parlor hearth. I ducked into a servant’s room and saw a tabletop tree. The butler had been wrapping presents in his bedroom. But Mrs. Lincoln must have been at home; carols, and a Bach toccata, floated from the thousand pipes of her Aeolian organ.

many vermont communities put on a show for the holidays, but two of those towns — manchester and woodstock — make an especially festive effort.

PHOTOGRAPHS BY JOEL LAINO

At the Woodstock Inn, “town crier” Eric Fritz and musician Kerry Rosenthal don vintage dress for Wassail Weekend caroling.

Built in 1905 in Manchester, Vermont, for Robert Todd Lincoln and his family, Hildene is decked for the holidays in Gilded Age splendor. The light-filled dining room features Georgian Revival architectural details and original family furnishings.

I was wishing that I could stay for

Many Vermont communities put on a show for the holidays, but I’ve discovered two—Manchester and Woodstock—that make an especially festive effort. Turning back the Christmas clock at Hildene is only one part of a celebration that ranges over several weeks throughout the twin villages of Manchester and Manchester Center. Woodstock’s festivities culminate in a mid-December weekend of music, firelight, and a horse-drawn parade.

Manchester Merriment and the area’s Christmas hospitality are the places where hospitality is the stock in trade. Fifteen area hostelries participate in two weekends of inn tours, each out to top the other in cookies and evergreens, cocoa and holly. My own base , where, as I sat in the charmingly decorated parlor, I learned just how popular Manchester has become in the weeks before Christmas. “We’re here for the second time,” said one guest to another in a decidedly Appalachian accent as the two sat by the fire, “but it seems that everyone we meet here is on their 12th or 13th visit.”

The man was from Kentucky, and his observation was seconded by innkeeper Frank Hanes. “People book way in advance,” he said, “and come here every year at this time.” No one at the inn was a skier, so the draw must be Manchester’s Christmas cheer.

I inn-toured my way between Manchester Center and Manchester, with a notable stop at the sprawling and spa(best snacks, with smoked salmon breaking in on the endless march of cookies), and finally Wilburton

. Here I discovered a Christmas tradition that started as something entirely spontaneous—something so gloriously loony that it never could have been planned or put on a program.

Because nobody could have come up

I was standing in the Wilburton’s great baronial salon, toasting myself by the fire (and, yes, munching cookies) and admiring a Christmas tree that looked as though a cadre of stylists had descended

on the inn after finishing with the White House. The truth, I soon learned, was even more remarkable.

“Do you like our tree? I’ll tell you how it gets decorated every year.” Melissa Levis, who, with her father and brother, Albert and Max Levis, runs the Wilburton, was standing with me alongside the cookie table, keeping an eye on her Cavalier King Charles spaniel (who, in turn, had his eye on the cookies). “Three women from New York State stay with us on ‘girls’ weekend’ trips a couple of times a year. Back in 2005, a few weeks before Christmas, they were sitting by the fire after a cocktail or two. The power was out, the tree was up, and the ornaments were still in boxes. One of them said, ‘Let’s decorate the tree.’ They did—and they’ve done it ever since.”

Santa’s Workshop

A sampling of Yuletide shopping destinations in Manchester and Woodstock, where you’ll find treasures big and small for everyone on your list … For more suggestions, visit Manchester & the Mountains Regional Chamber of Commerce (visitmanchester vt.com) and the Woodstock Area Chamber of Commerce (woodstockvt.com).

MANCHESTER

Manchester Designer Outlets

More than 40 stores, from Ann Taylor and Armani couture to Yankee Candle home fragrances and Yves Delorme linens—plus fine art, apparel, footwear, cosmetics, birdhouses, and everything in between, all in a series of authentically restored buildings. 800-9557467; manchester designeroutlets.com

Mother Myrick’s Confectionery

Everything to make your holidays merry and bright: chocolates, caramels, cookies, cakes, pies, hot-fudge sauce, pastries, and signature buttercrunch. 802-362-1560; mothermyricks.com

Northshire Bookstore

A favorite New England destination for book lovers, housed in a 19thcentury former inn, with

a café, kids’ floor, gifts, and stationery. 802-3622200; northshire.com

Orvis Company

Flagship store featuring the company’s renowned fly-fishing department, plus clothing, travel equipment, and more. 802-362-3750; orvis.com

Village Shops at the Equinox Neat white-clapboard houses, located across the village green from the Equinox Resort & Spa (195 rooms in 5 buildings, plus 5 dining options), featuring distinctive Vermont clothing, crafts, antiques, and fine sporting apparel.

WOODSTOCK

Collective: The Art of Craft Gallery featuring handwrought home décor, clothing, jewelry, and fine art in a variety of media, including glass, fiber, pottery, metal, wood, and paper. Housed in a

19th-century former flax mill on the Kedron River. 802-457-1298; collectivetheartofcraft.com

Farmhouse Pottery

Artisanal wares for kitchen and home. 802-774-8373; farmhousepottery.com

F. H. Gillingham & Sons General Store

Vermont-made cheeses, soaps, maple, specialty foods, home décor, toys, crafts, muck boots, and more—even a selection of musical instruments. 800-344-6668; gillinghams.com

Danforth Pewter

Lamps, jewelry, ornaments, kitchenware, gifts, and more, handcrafted in Middlebury, Vermont. 800-222-3142; danforthpewter.com

Yankee Bookshop

Vermont’s oldest operating independent book store (est. 1935). 802-457-2411; yankeebookshop.com

The “Twinkle Girls” got their name, though, by decorating themselves. I got to see the finished product: three plush reindeer, bedecked with big red bows, lollipops and candy canes, and tall furry hats on which gingerbread men defied gravity. Each outfit was festooned with flashing colored lights. You might say they … twinkled.

“The outfits started as gifts we gave each other,” said Pam Ogden, who with friends Julia Scarincio and Janice Blair were the humans beneath the reindeer. “We’ve been elves, giraffes—we even wear the costumes when we go to restaurants here. We have no problem being the center of attention.” And in 2014, Manchester made them just that: the lead float in the Lighted Tractor Parade, an annual tradition.

If a two-legged reindeer can carry a string of lights, so can a John Deere— or anything else with wheels. Tractors are just part of the rolling illumination on Manchester Center’s Main Street and its roundabouts, on a Saturday evening when everything from riding mowers to pickups, some towing elaborate floats, makes a stately, sparkling procession. And the twinkliest, most over-the-top display wins $500.

Two weeks later, on the weekend just before Christmas, I was back in town to ride the Manchester Lions Club’s Elf Express. There hasn’t been passenger rail service here for years—but elves, like their famous employer, exist outside of

OPPOSITE: In Manchester, Wilburton Inn co-owner Melissa Levis, center, with son Monty Singer and “Twinkle Girls” (from left) Janice Blair, Julia Scarincio (holding Jetson, Melissa’s spaniel), and Pam Ogden. THIS PAGE: A dazzling tree, decorated by the trio of “Twinkle Girls,” stands tall in the inn’s salon.

A merry group of Woodstock visitors enjoy a sleigh ride across the fields at Billings Farm, courtesy of Percheron mares Lynne and Sue, one of three draft-horse teams on the property.

time. Aboard vintage Vermont Railway cars, the Elf Express carries children, their adults, and a spirited troupe of elves on hour-long excursions enlivened by an original elf performance. As I waited to board the day’s first express, coach Jim Raposa—director of drama at local Burr and Burton Academy—explained that the elves are all BBA students, who each dedicate more than 50 hours perfecting their 15-minute show.

“We have a cast of 20,” Jim told me. “They put on the same show in each of the four cars; it’s all coordinated to recorded music piped from the central car.” Sure enough, as I sipped hot chocolate near the rear door of my car, I could watch our elves and the elves in the following car synchronize perfectly to the music, all at the same point in their story about looking for the popular children’s book character Christopher Pop-In-Kins.

There’s a fifth car, up front behind the locomotive, with no elves or riders onboard. But toward the end of the trip, its single passenger emerges. It’s Santa himself—and, back at the station in Manchester Depot, he’s joined by none other than the elusive Christopher Pop-In-Kins.

Sixty miles to the northeast, Woodstock’s mid-December Winter Wassail Weekend was in full swing as I arrived at Billings Farm’s capacious barn at the same time as Tom and Jerry. They’re a handsome pair of Belgian draft horses, chestnut in color, and they were just returning with a bundled-up sleighload of visitors to this premier model farm.

As I had in Manchester, I began my Christmastime stay in Woodstock with a home visit—this time to 1890 instead of 1912, and to a home far more modest than the Lincolns’ Hildene. The farm manager’s house at Billings Farm was nonetheless festively done up, its parlor tree decked out in handmade ornaments—“the kind the family might have seen in magazines,” I learned from docent Patty Arnison. “Just like now, magazines then were full of articles on how to decorate for Christmas.”

And although today’s farm manager doesn’t live in this period-preserved dwelling, he and his entire staff might

CLOCKWISE FROM TOP: Woodstock is nestled under a soft blanket of snow in this photo taken from the summit of Mount Tom; the Woodstock Elementary School Chorus sings noels at Norman Williams Public Library; Central Street downtown is all aglow.

easily have come by and tucked into a feast of pies and plum pudding—all the products of the great wood-fired kitchen range, and all arrayed on the diningroom table. There was even what Patty called a “Jack Horner pie”: two crusts, with prizes tucked between. “You pulled one of the ribbons in the top crust,” she explained, “and out popped a prize.”

Down in a basement room, visitors were crafting pomanders, those fragrant traditional ornaments made by studding an orange with cloves. I hadn’t made holiday decorations since Cub Scout days, but I think I did a creditable job and hope that my pomander found a place on the tree upstairs, just as in an 1890s magazine.

Leaving pomander-making to a bevy of newly arrived visitors, I headed into town, where my wife, Kay, and I had checked into the Woodstock Inn . Split logs no less than four feet long flamed up briskly in a hearth that toasted loungers in the big lobby, where kids scampered in and out of a “gingerbread” house the size of a garden shed. Upstairs, our own room’s wood fire was ready to light, but outdoors it was Woodstock itself that was alight with warmth and cheer. As we crossed the Green, heading for the first of several homes on the weekend house tour, we watched Wassail workers stacking logs into a tall hexagonal pyre, stuffed with tinder, that they would ignite at dusk.

Around the periphery, others were placing luminaries—candles set into translucent paper bags. There were, I’d heard, exactly 400 of them. I figured there was some significance to that number. “Why 400?” I asked one of the luminary men (who might, for all I knew, have been a local luminary). “Because,” he replied, “that’s how many it takes to go around the Green, seven feet apart.” I should have known. Vermonters are nothing if not practical and prosaic.

The houses on the tour, most of them facing the Green and backing onto the snowy banks of the Ottauquechee River, were hardly prosaic in the sumptuousness of their holiday decorations. New England–austere on the outside, they’d been remodeled inside to levels of luxury that would have scandalized their colonial builders. As

I heard one volunteer say as I slipped on my mandatory carpet-protecting booties, “If I were as old as this house, I wouldn’t look half as good.”

Woodstock’s village center, as old as those houses and looking just as good, was cinematically Christmasy. A highschool brass band played carols on the traffic island at the main intersection. A children’s choir sang at the triplearched entrance to the Romanesque Norman Williams Public Library

Swags of greenery framed the windows of cafés, where patrons warmed themselves over hot chocolate. Walking along Elm Street, I passed a man wearing a topper, and he seemed not at all out of place. Tipping my Borsalino, I said to him, “And I thought fedoras were old hat!”

Later that afternoon we secured the last spots aboard the Woodstock Inn’s horse-drawn wagon in Saturday’s key event, the Wassail Parade . Every vehicle in the parade was horsedrawn—and as the wagons lined up on the outskirts, I saw Tom and Jerry, from Billings Farm, impatiently tapping their hooves. Our horses were Duke and Dan, another pair of Belgians, each nearly a ton of muscle and resplendent in tack of gleaming silver and black leather. They were workhorses on a weekend lark. “I harvested 1,800 bales of hay with them last summer,” said their owner, Phil Warren, who had brought them over from New Hampshire for the event.

Alongside the wagons, the Belgians’ smaller kin carried riders dressed as Santa, elves, and characters from Lord of the Rings and Frozen . Like a procession headed for some medieval Yuletide fair, we clopped and lumbered into the center of town and back to the outskirts. “Wave to the crowds slowly,” Phil advised, “like the Queen of England.” Best of all, Phil asked Kay and me whether we’d like to take the driver’s seat with him as he made his way back through town toward Billings Farm. It was our own parade, though this time we held off on the royal wave.

Live performances are mainstays of Wassail Weekend. Among offerings of jazz, high-school theatre, and readings of Dylan Thomas’s “A Child’s Christmas in Wales,” our favorite was a set

of a capella numbers sung by a Bostonarea group called “The Sly Voxes,” on the mezzanine of Williams Library.

When it was over, we walked out to see that dusk had turned to dark. The luminaries were all lit and flickering against the snow around the Green and, perhaps because a few of the 400 had been left over, right up the library steps. On the Green, the Yule fire was collapsing into embers.

This season’s Manchester Merriment is scheduled for November 28–January 2; Woodstock’s Winter Wassail Weekend is set for December 11–13. More photos at: Yankee Magazine.com/Vermont-Christmas

Travel journalist Bill Scheller has been writing for Yankee and its family of publications for half of our 80-year history—most recently, “Finding the 1930s” (Jan./Feb. 2015). Bill and his wife, Kay, live in northern Vermont, 18 miles south of the Canadian border.

WHEN YOU GO

MANCHESTER

HILDENE

802-362-1788; hildene.org

MANCHESTER MERRIMENT 802-362-6313; visitmanchestervt.com

INN AT MANCHESTER 802-362-1793; innatmanchester.com

INN AT ORMSBY HILL 802-362-1163; ormsbyhill.com

WILBURTON INN 802-362-2500; wilburtoninn.com

ELF EXPRESS 800-362-4144; manchesterlionselftrain.com

WOODSTOCK

WINTER WASSAIL WEEKEND 802-457-3555; woodstockvt.com/wassail.php

BILLINGS FARM & MUSEUM 802-457-2355; billingsfarm.org

WOODSTOCK INN 802-332-6853; woodstockinn.com

NORMAN WILLIAMS PUBLIC LIBRARY 802-457-2295; normanwilliams.org

After Mass on Palm Sunday, sunlight streaming through the windows of the sacristy at St. Joseph’s Abbey catches the lingering smoke of incense, while a monk prepares for Holy Week services to come.

t begins in silence—a silence so deep it hums in your ears. Then, footsteps. The monks file in, saying nothing. If this were summer, sunlight would be streaming through the rose window at the rear of the church, bathing the sanctuary in glittering blues and reds. But tonight, at the dawn of winter, there is darkness; only a hint of moonlight filters in from the hallway. No one ascends the altar. The monks take their places in two facing pews, while the abbot and cantor stand in the space between them. A few lights above cast a puddle of illumination around the men, bestowing a passing brilliance on their white robes.

And then they pray. Many of their voices are old and harsh, but there is beauty in the singing—the kind you might see in a father calming an infant. It’s the beauty of a task done lovingly.

Vespers is an ancient tradition, one that has remained essentially unchanged since the 6th century. Every night across the world, Catholic monks

gather for evening prayer—a chain of faith unbroken over 1,500 years. It almost seems out of place here. Just miles away, the town of Spencer, Massachusetts, goes about its business. On Main Street, families grab a bite to eat at the local pizzeria, and teens gather listlessly in the parking lot of the Cumberland Farms. From the crest of the hill where the abbey sits, the lights of Worcester can be seen burning low on the horizon. The world these monks have left behind is ever at their doorstep. It doesn’t tempt them much, but none deny its influence. The world outside has changed drastically in the past 50 years, and the monks are changing with it. Slowly, deliberately, they are defining what it means to be a monk in the 21st century, searching for new voices to take up the song when theirs fade away.

Father Dominic remembers the day he first entered St. Joseph’s Abbey to begin his life as a monk. As he followed his mentor up the path to the monastery,

they passed before the statue of St. Benedict in the courtyard, his stone fingers pressed to his lips in an eternal “Hush.” When they reached the door, the older monk stopped and said, “This is the entrance.” Then he pointed to the cemetery beside them. “And that’s the exit.”

“And then he didn’t say another word to me. He took me to my cell and left me.” Dominic chuckles as he tells the story. That was 33 years ago. Since that day, he has called St. Joseph’s home, and he is now the abbey’s prior, or second-in-command. The monks here belong to the Cistercian Order of the Strict Observance (commonly known as the Trappists). They live cloistered lives, which means that they never leave the abbey grounds except in cases of emergency or absolute necessity. When they join the order, they offer their whole lives to the abbey. It demands no less.

If you were going to pick any place to spend the rest of your life, you could do much worse than St. Joseph’s. The monks built the monastery in the

1950s from stones they picked from the surrounding fields. It’s a handsome building, but not opulent, with a long, low-pitched roof that affects a humble appearance, as though the abbey itself were bowed in prayer. Old dairy fields spill down the hill for acres in every direction. To the north you can see the mountains of New Hampshire; to the south, the rolling expanse of Connecticut. At night, the stars are breathtaking.

The wind is cold as I follow Dominic through the abbey grounds. The leaves are off the trees, and a lone monk can be seen in the distance raking them into piles. Dominic wears an L.L. Bean jacket over his white robes to keep out the chill. Years of back trouble have left him with the hint of a stoop, but it doesn’t slow him down much. His voice barely rises above a whisper even when we’re alone.

As we walk through the abbey, Dominic notes all the things that have changed since he arrived. He points out the solarium where the monks keep their newspapers. In the old days, the

abbot would remove all the interior pages, leaving just the front and back, so that the brothers wouldn’t waste too much time with it. In the library, Dominic confesses that he still feels guilty sitting in the room’s cushioned chairs; when he arrived, monks sat only on stools. He laughs as he remembers the day they installed a multiline phone system: “The phone would ring and everyone would run because no one knew how to answer it.”

The core of the lifestyle remains the same, however. Trappists follow the Rule of St. Benedict, a 6th-century code of conduct. They are celibate and have no money of their own. They observe nine prayer services every day, the first of which begins promptly at 3:30 a.m. And despite some protestations, they remain vegetarian owing to the Rule’s

flesh of four-footed animals.” “We keep trying to remind the abbot that chickens have two feet,” Dominic jokes. He does this constantly. It’s a trait I found in all the monks I met. They are committed to the lifestyle, but they are not zealots. They understand how funny their lifestyle seems to the world outside, and they’re keenly aware of what they’ve given up to live it. Dominic doesn’t regret his choices. He says that the deprivation is part of the process. “The boundaries help us know ourselves better,” he says. By removing themselves from the distractions of society, they gain the freedom to concentrate on the deeper questions of existence. They spend much of their time looking inward, searching for a deeper understanding of their faith and listening for the voice of God to speak to them in the darkness.

Shortly after Dominic joined the order, his mentor gave him an exercise: He told Dominic to repeat a single psalm in his mind all day. Dominic

FROM LEFT : Brother Philippe lights incense in the sacristy; monks sing lauds (morning office, or prayer) on Ash Wednesday; following his ordination as deacon, Brother Emmanuel (left) greets a visiting priest, a friend from his seminary days.

By

removing themselves from the distractions of society, they gain the freedom to concentrate on the deeper questions of existence.

OPPOSITE : In the sacristy, Father Patrick prepares for Mass. THIS PAGE, ABOVE : Communion bread and wine await the start of a Mass in celebration of the 50th anniversary of Brother Conrad’s profession of solemn vows. BELOW : “Separated neither in life nor in death.” In the Abbey’s cemetery rest the Trappist brethren who have gone before, including those who served in the order’s Canadian communities in the 19th and early 20th centuries.

THIS PAGE : After six months as postulants (prospective candidates for admission to the order), Brother Charbel and Brother Micah are clothed as novices and received into the community. OPPOSITE : Brother Thomas leads a procession of priests through the Reading Cloister and into the church.

obeyed. Through his work hours and prayer services he examined those words from every angle. By the evening he was exhausted and asked his mentor how long he had to keep repeating that psalm. “Until you become it,” he replied.

This level of religious devotion isn’t for everyone, Dominic admits. Monasticism is a rare calling, and one that is being heard by fewer and fewer young people. Trappists aspire to a life that is “ordinary, obscure, and laborious”; that’s a hard sell to the Millennial generation.

When we reach the cemetery, Dominic guides me towards the rear. The rows of white crosses have gotten longer since he arrived, and the number of monks living within the walls has shrunk. The brothers built the abbey when they were flush with recruits following World War II, but now those men are reaching the ends of their lives. Only 61 monks remain here. Their median age is 70.

We stop at a large rock at the edge of the burial ground. The brothers moved to Spencer after their previous abbey had burned down. When they did, they exhumed the bodies that had been buried there; they rest here now. A small plaque on the stone reads: “Separated neither in life nor in death.”

Trappists are not hermits. The trials of their shared life form a bond that spans generations. They cherish their brothers—the ones they live with, the ones who came before, and the ones they pray will come after. When they plan, they do so with the next 100 years in mind so that others may enjoy the life they have. For St. Joseph’s that means preparing for a time when more brothers are finding the exit than the entrance.

Hidden on the far side of the hill, Spencer Brewery sprawls like a beached leviathan—a great, hulking rectangle of industry. The building is stateof-the-art. Inside it’s all white walls, floor-to-ceiling windows, and stainless-steel fixtures. Father Isaac looks terribly out of place.

Wearing his white-and-black habit, he sits behind a huge wooden desk that might have been salvaged from a Scottish castle. He hadn’t aspired to this. Before he became the director of the

most ballyhooed craft brewery to open in the past 10 years, he’d never had his own bank account or tasted a beer more exotic than Coors. He explains that he was originally brought into the project because he “understood craftsmanship.” He was a potter. “I don’t do much pottery work anymore,” he quips.

Like Dominic, he laughs easily and often. The absurdity of his situation isn’t lost on him, but this is what he was asked to do, so he obeys to the best of his ability.

Trappists believe that monasteries should be self-sufficient. The days

sometimes by greed.” He says there’s an inherent “conflictual element” between the business world and the monastic one, but it’s their responsibility to balance the two.

Trappists are taught that what they do in the workplace is as important as what they do in church. It’s almost like a proving ground. It’s one thing to be pious and peaceful in the silence of your cell; maintaining that peace when the monk next to you breaks the label machine and slows down production is something else entirely. “There’s always one more slammer coming down the road at you,” Isaac says. “So you just have to decide whether you’re going to be responsible for your thoughts or not.”

The brewery is a new venture for St. Joseph’s (it opened in 2014), but not for the order. Trappist monks in Belgium and Holland have been brewing for centuries, and their beer is celebrated as some of the best in the world. When St. Joseph’s announced that it would start producing Spencer, the first Trappist beer ever brewed in North America, the media swooned. A brewery couldn’t have asked for a better head start.

But for the monks, it’s not about the beer. Later, Father Dominic laid out the abbey’s financials in simple terms. As the brothers were growing older, their medical expenses were increasing, and there were fewer young men to work to pay them. Their other two companies (The Holy Rood guild, which makes vestments for priests, and Trappist Preserves, a jam company) just couldn’t carry the load. Beer offered a way forward.

when an abbey could scratch out a living from the fields is long gone, so most have turned to industry. They try to keep most brothers working at manual labor, but as their businesses have become more complex, inevitably some get sucked into white-collar work. One monk packs boxes; the next negotiates liability insurance and wrangles with distributors.

Isaac says that it can be challenging: “Doing business at the level I do it, an awful lot of it is about managing conflict motivated at least by desire,

Like Isaac, Dominic works primarily in administration, and it wears on him. No one becomes a monk because he’s interested in human resources. He says that when he joined the order, he had envisioned a life spent in the fields and had brought along only his habit, a pair of blue jeans, and his work boots. He’s made peace with his work, though. He knows why he’s doing it.

The infirmary was the last part of the abbey to be built. It’s a simple brick building with large windows that look out on the surrounding fields and the forested hills beyond. “We gave them

(continued on p. 101)

The monks here have found a place where they can pass their lives among kindred souls.

A BLUE-AND-WHITE CHRISTMAS

What if your faith doesn’t include Christmas as a celebration?

BY NAOMI SHULMAN

Illustration by Tim Tomkinson

was 7, and I was a Sugarplum Fairy. Standing backstage in my sequined blue tutu, I was awestruck—not by the spotlights, but by the hundreds of tiny colored bulbs on the enormous Christmas tree at the center of the stage. A teacher whispered frantically behind me: I was missing my cue. I tiptoed delicately toward the tree, the audience ahhh-ing as the band plinked out the familiar Tchaikovsky-inspired tune. But I barely heard the music and was only slightly aware of the other dancers around me. I was all about that tree, looming huge and sparkling. When my part was over, I’d take my place beneath it with the other children and spend the rest of the concert gazing up into the branches from below, drinking in its beauty.

We didn’t have a Christmas tree at home. My family was Jewish, one of a handful living in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom in the 1970s, and from the day after Thanksgiving till January 2, I was reminded of that fact everywhere I looked—because everywhere I looked was Christmas, and Christmas was emphatically not for me.

A few short years before, it was another Christmas concert that had first alerted me that I was an outsider. We kindergarteners were each given a small prop to hold—a candy cane, sleigh bells, a sprig of holly—and a few short lines to recite about them. “Here,” my teacher said, thrusting a menorah into my lap. “You will talk about this.”

Oh. I loved Hanukkah, of course— it was my favorite holiday. Eight days of presents, crispy fried latkes, playing dreidel for chocolate gelt—what wasn’t to like? But it did seem ironic to call Hanukkah the Festival of Lights when ours was the one undecorated house on

and state, so I—along with every other child in my public-school class— received hymn books that included just about every Christmas carol you can think of. I loved to sing, and I loved these songs—the vigor of “Joy to the World,” the pathos of “Little Drummer

gogue—two rented rooms, actually, above a pharmacy in St. Johnsbury. People hailing from Montreal, New York, and Philly filled the seats each fall for the High Holidays; together we represented the tiniest of tiny groups in an already-tiny place. If you didn’t know where the shul was, you’d never guess it; an unmarked door took you up a dark, narrow staircase to an open, creaky-floored, large-windowed space. Children fidgeted through Shabbat services, looking forward to the promise of challah and grape juice at the end; mothers kibbitzed in the kitchen as they prepped oneg shabbats and Yom Kippur break-fasts. Sanka percolated endlessly in a big silver carafe.

Eavesdropping on adults, I noted that the older the participants, the more Yiddish was sprinkled into the conversation. In our little Sunday school we used our Hebrew names— Chaim, Leah, Mordecai—and stumbled our way through the alefbet in

the street. Leaning my head against the frosted window in the backseat of our car, I loved looking at my neighborhood—from the quiet understated beauty of the clapboard houses, with a single candle in every multipaned window and an unadorned wreath on the front door, all the way up to the giant inflatable Frosty undulating next to the animatronic Santa singing Irving Berlin songs in his neon-lit sleigh. “Irving Berlin was Jewish, you know,” my dad might comment. “Then why can’t we have a tree?” I’d reply as we pulled into our own dark driveway. One year my mother hung a poster of the Tree of Life in Jerusalem. “Here’s your tree!” she sang out. It didn’t cut it. No tree. No stockings. No Irving Berlin, even. I watched it all unfold through the frosted car window, through glass.

There was one place where I participated, though. In Lyndonville, Vermont, in the 1970s, teachers played fast and loose with separation of church

Boy,” the quiet reverence of “Silent Night.” It wasn’t until I found myself inadvertently humming “We Three Kings” one Sunday afternoon that my Hebrew-school teacher—an Israeli expat with huge hair and a penchant for blue eyeshadow—raised an eyebrow. “Why are you singing that?” she said. “You can’t sing that. When they sing those songs at school, you stay quiet.”

And since my need to please outweighed my love of song, I did stay quiet. I stood with my mouth shut, staring into the middle distance, until the music teacher—a New York City–born back-to-the-lander—finally stopped the class and called me out. “Naomi, I’m missing your lovely voice,” she said.

“I can’t sing these songs, Mrs. Fried,” I explained. “I’m Jewish.” Thirty children’s heads craned on 30 small necks to look at me.

“So am I, hon,” she said.

Of course. I’d seen her at our syna-

dim winter light. The windows downstairs were lined with twinkling lights and gold tinsel ropes, but up here the lights in the windows were menorahs, placed on the sills to fulfill the mitzvah of pirsuma d’nisa , or “publicizing the miracle.” How many people noticed their quiet flickers, dwarfed by the blinking red-and-green explosion all around them? Oh well. That was what we had.

Well, it wasn’t all we had. A community so tiny has to have chutzpah to survive. Our congregation—which included my pediatrician, my orthodontist, multiple lawyers, several professors, and yes, my music teacher— might have been a dot of blue in a landscape painted red-and-green, but it was a vivid blue. It was the only Jewish game in town, so just about every Jew within a 50-mile radius played. Conservative, Orthodox, Reform—all were welcome. Crazy-haired, Birkenstocked hippies commingled with housedress-

It seemed ironic to call Hanukkah the Festival of Lights when ours was the one undecorated house on the street.

clad bubbies and beeper-wearing physicians. The furrier’s wife with the bleached-blonde hair smoked lipstickstained Virginia Slims as she chatted with the organic gardener, the one who stocked shelves at the natural-foods co-op. Here, no matter where we fit in our other lives, we were all of a kind. For a little while, anyway. When we walked back down that narrow staircase, back into the small downtown, Main Street was draped with red lights leading toward the apex of a golden crown. For lo, a king is born, but not our king. Not our holiday.

I came up with a strategy for music class. I started singing again, but I’d slide softly over lines like “Jesus is king.” No one would notice. When our class art project was making ornaments for our Christmas trees, I said nothing, gamely attaching bits of felt to a length of gold string. My classmates’ ornaments would hang on their trees. Mine was destined to hang on the fridge with all my other artwork.

I wasn’t passing, exactly, but I wasn’t sticking out, either. I was invited to enjoy the sights and smells and sounds along with everyone else, but it was like looking through the storefront at the toys inside, knowing none of them were for me. Through glass.

Years later, the fact that I was Jewish and that Chris, the man I eventually married, wasn’t came up on our very first date. We held this fact up to the light, examined it for a few moments, then put it aside, deciding blithely that it wasn’t a problem. Another Vermonter with liberal political leanings and two educators for parents? It didn’t feel like a stretch. Our marriage is technically mixed, as Chris hasn’t converted, but our home functions with only one religious tradition: mine. Our daughters are Jewish by law and by practice. Still, our girls don’t experience Christmas through the glass window as I did, because as soon as they were born, we began spending every Christmas at Chris’s parents’ house.

Here, finally, is the Christmas celebration I’ve always longed for. We drive up to Burlington through the snow to find a huge red-ribboned wreath

on the front door and tasteful white lights in a curlicue around the windowboxes. Inside is a riot of poinsettias and Advent calendars and small china crèches; the log in the fireplace crackles, with stockings hung just above. And yes—of course!—a floor-to-ceiling tree, resplendent each year with hundreds of glittering ornaments, some of them made by my own children, just as though the holiday were meant for them.

“Aren’t you lucky?” I say to them each year. “We celebrate our holidays here at home, and then we get to share Grandma and Grandpa’s holiday with them.” Christmas is theirs, I’m saying, not yours. That was my experience, and it would be theirs, too, I’d assumed. But for the girls, Christmas is a magic show, one for which they have a ticket. Years ago, when I looked up at that Christmas tree on the stage, I knew it was just a performance, just make-believe. Snuggled in sleeping bags, my children look up at their grandparents’ tree and know that they’ll wake up to bulging Christmas stockings embroidered with their names. They feel left out of nothing. They’ve gained entry into that world in a way that I couldn’t.

But then, I did.

Five years ago in early November, my mother-in-law, Eadie, fell down the stairs. At first we didn’t know whether she would walk again. Weeks of physical rehab made it clear that she eventually would—but not in time for the holidays, not that year. And so Chris and I, for the first time in nearly 20 years together, found ourselves purchasing a Christmas tree—which, as fate would have it, had been grown in my hometown in the Northeast Kingdom. The tree seller and I played a little Vermonter geography game: Do you know so-and-so? How about so-and-so? How’s his cousin doing? As I handed over the cash, I realized that I had no idea how to get the tree on top of our car, or how to care for it once we got it back to our in-laws’ house. Not my tree, I thought as we hauled it across the parking lot. Not my tree, I repeated to myself as we steadied it in its traditional place in my in-laws’ living room. Not mine, I con-

tinued, as my daughters and I began trimming it, lacing the lights slowly around the base and working our way up, carefully perching each delicate glass bauble among the branches.

But the relief on Eadie’s face quieted my inner monologue. Eadie had welcomed me into her family with nothing but openness and acceptance, and now she needed me. And what she needed me to do was to bring Christmas to her. And so the glass window has opened a crack, and I’ve found that the snowtinged trappings of the Christmases I so coveted as a child aren’t magic. Or rather, the magic isn’t what I thought it was: The glitter and the sparkle are simply window dressing; the magic is something else.

Last year, as I was putting a beef tenderloin into the oven for the Christmas Day meal, I flashed forward to a time that doesn’t feel far away anymore. One day my in-laws’ generation will be gone. And when they go, our annual excuse for Christmas will go with them. And I realize that I’ll miss it. Talking to our now-teenaged daughter, I said, “One day we’ll celebrate Jewish Christmas.”

“What’s Jewish Christmas?” she asked as she hung candy canes on the tree.

“While everyone else is celebrating regular Christmas, we’ll go to the movies and then get Chinese food,” I said, explaining to her the ancient ways of our people.

“That sounds kind of nice,” she answered. And it does, but not because of the movies or the Chinese food. It’s just the same as all other holidays: The point is to set time apart from the everyday and to spend it with the people who mean the most to you. Someday we’ll be eating General Tso’s chicken and watching a matinée. But as long as their grandparents are here with us, my family and I will be sitting beneath the tree with them, and that is its own kind of miracle.

Naomi Shulman is a freelance journalist based in western Massachusetts. Her most recent story for Yankee was “Nanny, Rose, and I” (Jan./Feb. 2015).

NATURAL The

by EDIE CLARK

More than 50 years ago, Beatrice Trum Hunter published the first natural foods cookbook in America. Now approaching 100, she’s still fighting to help people eat better and live without toxic chemicals.

ast fall, I learned that the author of the first natural foods cookbook in the United States lived in Deering, New Hampshire, a small village not far from mine. Further, I learned that she was 96 years old, still teaches nutrition classes, and lives alone at the end of a gravel road. I found that in addition to all that, she has published more than 30 books on food, the environment, toxins, and nutrition. Her most recent book, Our Toxic Legacy: How Lead, Mercury, Arsenic, and Cadmium Harm Us , was published in 2011, when she was 93. She provided Rachel Carson with research and sources that helped her to write Silent Spring. And she updated a chapter in

Adelle Davis’s Let’s Eat Right to Keep Fit book. Other than her books, I found little else on the Internet to learn more about her. To find out, I simply had to go find her.

The road in to Beatrice Trum Hunter’s house runs more than half a mile, single lane, straight but hilly, with trees bowing over the road like guardians. It curves past a big beaver pond and ends abruptly at a farmhouse and barn. It’s so quiet. But the door to the farmhouse opens, and a spritely woman descends lightly down the three steps to the grass and walks toward me briskly. Beatrice is a small woman with

photographs by gary samsom

delicate hands; she’s wearing a dress she made out of Indonesian cotton. She welcomes me as if we are already friends.

She leads me inside; her home is modest and utilitarian, but warm, with a pine-paneled kitchen and an eating area near a sunny window. Sunlight comes in through a glassed-in porch running the length of the house. She wants to show me the heart of her house: a pantry as big as a substantial bedroom, lined with shelves, loaded with gallon jars containing edible seeds and nuts, dried fruits and whole grains, much like the aisles of a natural foods store.

It’s October, chilly, and a fire smolders in her rotund woodstove. A large woodbox holds chunks of split wood. “Do you rely on this for heat?” I ask.

“Oh, yes,” she says. “I come down in the middle of the night and throw on a chunk.” We settle at her maple dropleaf table, she at one end, I at the other. I had much to learn about this pioneer of

natural foods, this constantly flashing yellow light of caution who has warned us for more than half a century of the dangers that lurk beyond the natural world.

I comment on her New York accent. “That never goes away,” she says. Beatrice grew up in Manhattan, where she met her future husband, John. He was 25 and she was 24. They both worked in public schools, where Beatrice taught visually impaired children. They spent their summers living in Mexico, but felt that they wanted to settle. A teaching colleague had a summer place in Hills borough, New Hampshire, and suggested that they go there and look around the area. The year was 1948.

“We came up on our Easter vacation. We were driving our old Ford Beach Wagon,” Beatrice says. “Once we crossed into New Hampshire, it was like the air had changed. Finding the house was another matter. We had to walk in with the mud coming over our shoes, city-slicker shoes, you know.

Well, I could see how beautiful it would be in the summer. They were asking $2,500 for the whole place, 78 acres with the house, the barn, the cottage, which used to be a blacksmith shop, plus an outhouse. Everything else was in a state of collapse. We said we’d pay cash, and so the agent said, ‘If it’s cash, I’ll let you have it for $1,800.’” The real-estate agent drove through the night to find the former owners in Vermont, who had defaulted. Using a bottle of whiskey for persuasion, he cleared the title.

Beatrice gets up and goes to the back room and returns with a scrapbook containing photos of the house when they first bought it. “It looked like a house that a child would draw,” she says.

They had a well drilled and installed plumbing and electricity; John built an outdoor shower. It took seven years, but the tumbledown place became their paradise. A new world was dawning.

John was handsome, and Beatrice was a long-haired beauty, sometimes compared to Nefertiti. “I had hair so long

I could sit on it,” she says. She touches her cropped hair, recounting that a reporter once noted that her hair looked as though she’d cut it herself. “My hairdresser was very offended!” she says with a laugh.

And so their lives unfolded in the little town of Deering, population 300 at that time, and 250 long miles from New York City. When they moved permanently to Deering in 1955, John’s mother, the well-known photographer Lotte Jacobi, joined them. A German Jew, she had fled the Nazis in 1935, to New York City, where she opened a photography studio.

“Lotte was like Marie Antoinette in the country,” Beatrice recalls with laughter. “But she did like it. We had a garden, but the way Lotte handled it, John used to joke that each tomato cost us about two dollars.”

They raised the roof in order to put in dormers and built a big porch on the sunny side of the house. “We realized that we could house and feed guests for much-needed income,” Beatrice

says. “We put in a pond for swimming and planted pink water lilies.” Outside the kitchen window, I can see the old “swimming pool,” the lilies still in bloom. “It’s like a Monet,” she adds, “gradually taking over the pond.”

The inn had no name. It needed none; it sold itself. The guests, many of whom were naturalists and photographers, loved it, despite its rustic nature and the absence of a phone: “We had a lot of people who wanted to get away from the telephone. We advertised, ‘No entertainment.’”

Beatrice prepared three meals a day, using only wholesome natural ingredients. Eggs and homemade muffins and popovers for breakfast, bread and soup for lunch: “We called it s oup du

jour because it was often made of something from the day before. Meat or fish for supper, vegetables fresh from the garden, fruit and cookies for dessert. I often made cheese-and-onion pie; everybody loved that.” She had a stone grinding machine and made bread from whole grains. Some people stayed all summer.

She cooked and she cleaned and she plumped pillows in the summer. Fall was for lectures, the winter for writing. She never had a best-seller, but her message was persistent: Toxic chemicals hurt both people and the environment. “We ran the guest house for 17 years, and finally I said to John, ‘I can’t continue,’” Beatrice explains. “By that time I was busy with lectures and teaching, book tours, always moving around. I had no time for myself or the guest season.”

Eventually, there came a divide. In their remote paradise, Beatrice and Lotte were laboring in their personal trenches, but John couldn’t settle. “He

OPPOSITE , FROM LEFT : A sampling of Beatrice Trum Hunter’s many books; Beatrice in her kitchen at home in Deering, New Hampshire. THIS PAGE , ABOVE LEFT : Two of Beatrice’s many research files. ABOVE RIGHT : When Beatrice went into a nursing home in 2008, she gave away most of her extensive library; pictured here is a portion of her remaining collection.

went from one thing to another,” Beatrice explains. “He never seemed to know what he wanted, but I did.”

In 1980, Beatrice and John divorced. She was 61 years old, and this was her great liberation: “John moved into town, and I stayed here. Whenever he came to see me, I’d stand in the doorway and cry out, ‘Free, free, I’m free at last!’ When I told Lotte that we were separating, she looked at me and said, ‘What took you so long?’”

Beatrice is like a jack-in-the-box, getting up and down, going upstairs to retrieve things to show me, and going out onto the porch, which houses the archives that she hasn’t yet donated to Boston University or the Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Study at Harvard. In winter she also uses this porch as her gym, walking the 40-foot length of it over and over, putting a yogurt lid down on the floor to retrieve at both ends.

But mostly, Beatrice is a writer, the the topics of nutrition and toxins being of great interest to her. She could hardly have foreseen it, but her early years steered her into this lifelong mission. When she was still in high school, “I began to realize that I was tired, my skin wasn’t good, my hair seemed straggly,” she says. She came across a muckraking book, 100,000,000 Guinea Pigs by Arthur Kallett and Frederick J. Schlink (published in 1933), that proclaimed that the American population was being used as guinea pigs in a massive experiment undertaken by manufacturers of foods and pharmaceuticals. The book became a best-seller. For Beatrice it was the point of no return: “It was a mindblowing book. It showed how unprotected America was.” She rearranged her life in response.

“The first thing I did was to cut out sugar,” she explains, “and then I began to use more whole grains and more fresh vegetables and fruits. I had rickets as a child. I was brought up on a terrible diet.” Soon, Mr. Schlink, as she still refers to him, became her mentor. He published Consumer’s Research, and he

asked her to write for him: “Ultimately I became food editor of Consumer’s Research. I was their food editor for over 20 years, until finally, after more than 75 years, the organization came to an end. They had depended solely on subscriber money.”

Though her books sound scientific, Beatrice is neither scientist nor nutritionist. But she holds degrees from Brooklyn College (B.A.), Columbia University (M.A.), Harvard, and New York University, and is a meticulous

pine, handcrafted by John and soft from time and constant use. “We wanted it to be low-maintenance and natural,” she explains.

While we talk, she brews a pot of tea, fills a small bowl with whole raw almonds, cores and slices a cherry-red Baldwin apple, and places the slices on a pretty plate. This is her idea of fast food—meals that are simple, just what she can handle at this age, but always nutritious.

It was in this same kitchen that Adelle Davis, who was, at that time, America’s premier health-food writer and the author of a series of cookbooks that began with Let’s Eat Right to Keep Fit , came to call, sometime in the late 1960s. She arrived unannounced, as Beatrice and John had no telephone. When Adelle arrived, Beatrice was making yogurt, which was a somewhat esoteric substance in America at the time. “Adelle was very interested, because she was a great fan of yogurt,” Beatrice recalls. “She wanted to learn my technique.”

researcher and comprehensive writer. What she writes, she intends to be understood by average people: “I’m self-taught. I’ve never hesitated to ask for help from reliable sources when I’ve needed it. What to call me? Call me a concerned consumer.”

Beatrice gets up again. “Maybe you’d like something to eat or drink?” She goes into the kitchen, and I follow her to offer help. “No, no,” she says, “I never accept help in the kitchen.” Her kitchen today is the same one that was so busy feeding all those summer guests: a long counter, worn through time, and where once was a flat-basined iron sink with hand pump, now sit a modern electric stove and a small dishwasher. John built the island counter for kneading bread. Everything is made of

Adelle had heard Beatrice speak at a forum in Peterborough, New Hampshire, on the deceptive practices that the food industry was using in packaging. “She came up to me after the talk, and she said, in her gravelly, beerbarrel voice, ‘You’re a gal out of my own heart.’” They became friends; Beatrice later wrote a chapter on meat for Davis’s Let’s Eat Right book and edited some of her manuscripts, without remuneration. “I considered it an honor,” she says now. “Later Adelle went through a lot of personal crises and became quite a drinker and a smoker. But I still consider her a pioneer in the field.”

Another like-minded union came when Beatrice met Paul and Betty Keene, the founders of Walnut Acres in Penns Creek, Pennsylvania, whose products were among the first commercially available organically raised foods in America. Beatrice corresponded with the Keenes, sharing ideas and innova-

(continued on p. 104)

OPPOSITE : A collage of photos and mementos in Beatrice’s bathroom. At top center is a portrait of Beatrice by renowned photographer Lotte Jacobi; other photo subjects here include Woody Allen, Rachel Carson, and May Sarton. THIS PAGE , ABOVE : When Beatrice bought this house in 1948, it was a Cape; additions now accommodate guests, archives, and wood supplies.

AMONG US

ORDINARY PEOPLE WITH EXTRAORDINARY HEARTS

BY IAN ALDRICH

The Weight of a Stone DAVE COTE

A bank of steel-gray clouds had just moved overhead as a dozen of us scrambled the final few hundred yards to the top of Owl Mountain in Maine’s Baxter State Park. It was pushing 10:00 in the morning, and over the course of three hours we’d hiked through thick forests, over small streams, and up a few rocky faces.

Most of us were strangers to one another when we began, but as we moved closer to the summit, the unfamiliarity faded away and conversations flowed easily. But then, at the top, a quiet came. Amid the clear views of Moosehead Lake and the southern side of Mount Katahdin, the casual lightness of trekking through the Maine woods on a late-spring day receded. The true mission of our trip was about to begin.

Silently, we shrugged off our backpacks and unearthed the stones we all had been carrying. They were of different sizes, shapes, and colors, but they shared this: Each one was marked with the initials, rank, birth year, and death year of a Maine service member killed since 9/11. Mine read “J.L.B., SPC USA, 1985–2008” for Justin Buxbaum, an Army specialist from South Portland who was on his third deployment when he was killed by non-enemy fire in Afghanistan. Dave Cote, the man responsible for bringing us on this nearly three-mile hike, waited patiently for us to place our stones together; each stone held a story of a person, a place, and those left behind. Then, atop the summit, we told the stories. And remembered.

Dave Cote wasn’t looking for a life-defining mission. Instead it found him, on Labor Day weekend in 2012. A native of Bangor, Maine, Cote was a 34-year-old Marine stationed in California when he joined a crew of Navy Seals buddies on a

hike up Mount Whitney. As Cote caught his breath at the top of the 14,500-foot peak, he watched his friends pull softballsize stones from their packs. On the rocks they’d written the names of fellow Seals who had died over the past year. They told stories about the men and women they were honoring, then left their memorials in mountaintop crevices.

“I thought it was so powerful and meaningful,” Cote says. “I thought that I could do the same thing in Maine.” A proud Mainer and a Marine major who’d served a tour in Iraq’s embattled Anbar Province in 2006, he saw an opportunity to create something dedicated exclusively to his home state’s fallen. “We make a promise to the parents—We’re not going to forget your son —but are we really doing that?” Cote says.

Dave Cote asks each family to select a stone from a place that was special to their loved one—a backyard, a favorite swimming hole, a treasured walking trail, a farmer’s field.

“It’s easy to put a name on a T-shirt or a name on a wall. What’s harder is to find out who these men and women are, the lives they led both on and off the battlefield. These were people who broke up parking-lot fights when people were getting bullied. They sent roses to their mom, or took a duty for somebody else. And you learn these stories and you become inspired.”

Several months after that hike up Mount Whitney, The Summit Project (TSP) was born, and on Memorial Day weekend 2014 Cote led 36 volunteers on the nonprofit’s first official hike up Owl Mountain. The project has grown ever since. Today, TSP leads two hikes each year: a weekend-long event in Baxter State Park over Memorial Day weekend and a second, smaller ceremony atop Acadia’s Cadillac Mountain in September. At its core, TSP honors any service member with a connection to Maine who has died, either on the battlefield or even after he or she returned home, since 9/11.

“The world changed on 9/11,” Cote explains, “and that’s the generation of service members who are now struggling to come back.”

Atop the peaks, hikers sit in a circle around the stones they’ve carried, and one by one tell about the life of the service members they’re representing. Some have a direct connection to the person they’re honoring; others are volunteers who learned about TSP and want to be involved. Cote has assigned stones to hikers as young as 14 and as old as 75.

The rocks are more than just markers; they’re symbols of each person’s life. As part of his work, Cote meets with the families and explains TSP’s mission. He asks them to select a stone from a place that meant something special to their loved one—a backyard, a favorite swimming hole, a treasured walking trail, a farmer’s field. For Justin

Buxbaum, the Army specialist whose story I told on Owl Mountain in May, his grandfather, Don Buxbaum, found a stone on a footpath near his home on Chebeague Island, where Justin grew up. “I’ve walked that trail a million times,” Don told me. “Then one day I was heading down to the water and just happened to turn my head and see this rock. It’s like it was waiting for me. The moment I saw it, I knew it was perfect.”

The story doesn’t end after the mountaintop ceremony; Cote wants to reach a wider community. It’s why some 70 stones live in a dedicated section of the Military Entrance Processing Station in Portland, which is open to the public. Throughout the year, memorial stones are also taken on the road and shown at schools, libraries, hospitals, and museums. At the Baxter State Park event in May, a team of motorcyclists, escorted by state police, carried the stones from Portland through downtown Millinocket, where Main Street was decked out with welcome signs. For Cote, these memorials possess the power to not just remind others of what’s been

lost but to maybe inspire people to also do something that has impact on their communities.

“These stones and these stories are what we’re honoring and using to sustain the memories we love,” Cote says. “And when we do that, these people whom we’ve lost can continue to influence us, to inspire us to make better choices for our own lives.”

A cool breeze moved across the peak of Owl Mountain as the 12 of us settled around the stones for the TSP ceremony. Over the next 20 minutes stories about those we’d come to remember poured out. A medic who lost his life to a roadside bomb in Iraq, an Army major killed in a firefight in Afghanistan, an adored younger brother who’d left two young children behind. Then solemnly we packed our stones back up and made the hike down.

It wasn’t until we had returned to Twin Pines Camp in Millinocket, which Cote had reserved for families and volunteers for the weekend, that the power of The Summit Project came into focus. There, on a big stretch of lawn with sweeping views of Lake Millinocket and Katahdin, the families— parents and siblings, grandparents and spouses—of the late service members awaited our arrival. Their appearance

At the mountaintop ceremony, TSP hikers place their stones in what Dave Cote describes as a “sacred circle” and share stories and memories of the men and women they’ve come to honor. BELOW : Army Specialist Justin Buxbaum, a South Portland, Maine, native who was killed in Afghanistan in 2008.

Use the Yankee Connect app to learn more about the work of The Summit Project and the veterans it honors.

revealed the everyday nature of the tragedies. Carpenters, teachers, and corporate executives—people you might easily pass in the supermarket or run into at the post office—they carried with them a silent but unspeakable loss. As hikers and families met, there were laughter and smiles, warm embraces, and a certain relief that came with the fact that after such emotional hardships, there was an event that celebrated the life that had been lived, not just lost. “For these families,” Cote told me, “this is the homecoming they never received.”

Beyond the remembrances, there’s also a healing that happens at TSP events. Grieving families share a moment with other grieving families to learn that they’re not alone. As things started to wind down, Cote remained at the far end of the lawn, consoling Don Rivard and his wife, Jane, who’d lost their son, Chief Petty Officer Robert Michael Paul Roy, two years before. Roy had served 16 years in the Navy, working on aircraft carriers around the world, and was stationed in Pensacola, Florida, when he was hit by a drunk

learned about Robert,” Cote said in a hushed tone. “We are inspired by him. His spirit lives on.”

After Cote stepped away, Don Rivard stood by himself and watched as his wife and daughter spoke with other families. Rivard’s eyes were red, and he kept shaking his head as he looked over at his wife. “I’m just hoping something like this can help her,” he said. He looked up. “What can you say? What can you do? But maybe this will help her to see that there are other folks like her out there who are going through the same thing.”

For more on TSP, visit: thesummitproject.org

Flower Power ROBERTA HERSHON

Roberta Hershon and Beverly Eisenberg were the kind of friends who fed off each other’s talents. Hershon loved to cook. Eisenberg had a passion for

had a bad word to say about anyone. She was the kind of person we all want to be. Everything was always great.”

Eisenberg maintained that attitude even when she was diagnosed with stage-four breast cancer in October 2004. Ten months later she died at the age of 55. For Hershon, her friend’s illness and death were devastating. As her best friend fought her illness, Hershon decorated Eisenberg’s home in Sharon, Massachusetts, with flowers in the winter, then spruced up her garden when spring rolled through. Even as her friend’s health deteriorated, Eisenberg treasured the plantings, and her mood brightened whenever she saw them.

“After she passed away, I didn’t know what to do,” Hershon says. “I felt like I’d lost my arm. And then one day I thought about the garden I’d made for her—how much she enjoyed it, being out there smelling the flowers, feeling the breeze on her face. I thought, What if I could do that for somebody else? ”

In 2007, Hope in Bloom launched. In the eight years since, Hershon’s nonprofit has installed gardens for people actively receiving cancer treatment. Projects range in size from simple indoor flower displays during the winter to more robust in-ground installations in the summer. Helping Hershon is a team of 850 volunteers across Massachusetts. The plants, the work, even the machinery when required, are all free to the recipients.

“When you’re sick, you have little choice,” says Hershon, who runs Hope and a small public-relations firm from her home in Dedham. “You’re told when to go to the doctor, what to do, and how to do it. You have no color in your life. Everything is a sea of white, from the doctor’s coat to the hospitals to the pills you’re taking. It makes such a difference to drive up to their house or look outside and see something

For Hershon, the work is also a way to honor her dear best friend. “She truly made the world a better place,” she says. “Every time we plant a garden, I believe Bev’s spirit lives on.”

For more on Hope in Bloom, visit: hopeinbloom.org

past eight years has planted gardens for people who are actively receiving cancer treatment.

A TRULY Miraculous creature

Can oysters help New England’s coast survive climate change?

BY MICHAEL SANDERS

One billion oysters.

The only place most of us ever see an oyster is on ice. It’s an expensive delicacy, a sensuous mouthful associated with the boudoir by way of the belly. If you live near the seacoast, your knowledge might extend to the names of a few favorite local oysters and the bodies of water in which they grow. In short, our only experience of the oyster, which has been around for 500 million years or so, is as food. Up and down the New England coast, however, in estuaries and harbors and university marine-science labs, researchers are beginning to see a far greater value in the American oyster, Crassostrea virginica, than as an amorous appetizer. Simply put, this creature’s intriguing and downright paradoxical characteristics make it a powerful candidate to help mitigate the effects of climate change while helping to rebuild our coastal ecosystems.

Let’s start with the intrigue. Oysters are remarkably good at filtering water, up to 50 gallons a day each when feeding. They consume plankton, algae, and organic matter, “cleansing” the water column of excess nutrients from various sources that can lead to damaging blooms, cloudy water, and lifeless bottoms. Their fixed life begins when they attach to a hard surface, preferably another oyster. Without this attachment, they perish. Unlike humans, whose growth rate is genetically predetermined, oysters grow only in the presence of sufficient food and save their energy by hibernating when the water turns too cold or otherwise unfit for their efficient operation. Aquaculture farmers, benefiting from science and long experience, have become accomplished at hatching oysters and then growing them to market size by attaching them to microscopic bits of clamshell. In Maine, the Damariscotta River estuary nurtures seven million or so oysters. Rhode Island, New Hampshire, and Connecticut also grow out a further tens of millions for the insatiable consumer. One of the world’s prime oyster grounds is the more than nine square miles of Wellfleet Harbor in Massachusetts, home to the largest self-sustaining oyster population in New England. So far, so good: We have an abundant, renewable resource keeping our coastal waters clean and supporting watermen.

Time for the paradoxes. The American oyster is either male or female, depending on its age. The first year, most spawn as males, but turn female and release eggs generally by age 3. At the raw bar, you’re probably consuming immature oysters, as growers try to bring them to market by age 2. You’re also almost certainly eating a farmed oyster, for with the exception of Wellfleet, “wild” oysters don’t exist anywhere on our coasts in numbers sufficient to supply more than the locals foraging for their own tables. And the youngster you consume might be infected with either of two prevalent oyster diseases—Dermo and MSX— with increasing mortality as the oyster ages (neither disease affects humans). Occasionally, one strikes with breathtaking virulence, such as Rhode Island’s 1995 Dermo outbreak, which killed more than 98 percent of the state’s wild oysters in just four years. We know from New England local histories and preserved shells that oysters can live for decades—and once grew to more than a foot in length on reefs so massive that they had to be dynamited when harbors and channels were built in the 18th and 19th centuries. But you won’t find many such specimens these days, or the reefs they grew on. Why? Because we’ve destroyed, built over, or polluted their coastal habitat, introduced diseases from other waters, and otherwise so altered the conditions for naturally sustaining populations that the only way they can survive now is with our help. Even then, we eat most of them before they’re sexually mature, further

“OYSTERS WERE THE KEYSTONE SPECIES OF THE WHOLE

truncating the natural breeding cycle. Although there are a few scattered estuaries that have a “natural set”—a regularly occurring spawning cycle in the wild—it’s very likely that without longterm human intervention the oyster will disappear from New England’s waters almost entirely.

So are oysters a quasi-endangered species—or what’s for dinner? And why does it matter?

One Oyster:

Urban Cowboy

Clad in rubber boots, Anamarija

Frankić and I race across the six lanes of Morrissey Boulevard in Boston’s Dorchester neighborhood on a bright morning in June. We’re headed down a slope toward a polluted, choked-off basin called Patten’s Cove. Franki ć , a marine biologist originally from Croatia, is slim and tanned from time

outdoors, her short dark hair swinging with each energetic stride, talking rapidly about her research at UMass Boston, whose waterside science building we can see perhaps a mile away across the marshy, muddy landscape.

We’re looking for wild oysters. Working with students and the community and with funding from the Schmidt Family Foundation, Frankić has begun habitat restoration experiments, the success of which will largely depend on the survival of native oysters. But first, she needs me to imagine what once was.

“Oysters were the keystone species of the whole New England area,” she explains, “and we’ve lost 90 to 95 percent of them. Native American legends talk of walking across oyster reefs and flats to get from island to island, and we know from the middens [the piles of oyster shell, many 20 feet tall and once found all along the New England shore] that it was a super-abundant

species. Today we have hardly any left—and we eat the toddlers!” To drive home how much we’ve lost, she quotes from the U.S. Oyster Census of 1880, which recounts that a single Wellfleet schooner in a fleet of many landed 1.5 million oysters in one day in 1877, representing 30 percent of what the area produced all last year.

We arrive at the cove’s edge. It’s low tide, and bottles and plastic trash litter the shore, which is mostly mud and rocks. “This area has the highest [level of] degraded water in the whole of Boston Harbor,” Frankić observes. “It’s almost like a sewer.” She walks out some way in ankle-deep water, bending to pluck an empty oyster shell from the muck. She waves it as her voice rises: “Historically, oyster reefs were spread along the New England coast like coral reefs, supporting our coastal system, its water quality and biodiversity, mitigating against erosion and stressors, like when

you have too much nutrient or acidity changes. Oysters respond to that.”

Frankić speaks of oysters as almost a collective being: “Like they’re picking up signals from the environment and from each other, signals we can’t interpret with all our technology.”

For example, when nutrients such as nitrogen—from agricultural or sewer runoff or animal feces—flow into areas where human structures, including piers, wharves, yacht clubs, and sea walls, have blocked or diminished the tidal flows, they can stimulate plankton growth, which in turn can cause vast algae blooms that subsequently consume all the oxygen in the water.

In such “hypoxic events,” fish and other species perish, and eventually the algae die, too, falling to the bottom, where they smother what’s growing there to create the lifeless, oxygen-poor muck that lies below much of Boston Harbor.

Oysters, however, can sense this rise in available food and accelerate their growth. Present in sufficient numbers, they consume the excess nutrient, in the process incorporating nitrogen and phosphates into their shells and removing them from the environment. Frankić pauses, then bends to retrieve yet another open—dead—oyster. “Since we announced that there are oysters here, I feel like people are collecting them. It’s illegal to harvest anything except soft-shell clams all around here,” she says, her arm sweeping to embrace

the whole harbor. She explains that immigrants to the area bring their food traditions, including foraging, with them, often not knowing how deadly red tide and other shellfish diseases can be: “Like so much, it’s all about education. We found cholera in some samples here. Not a good thing.”

When, however, a body of water is home to millions of oysters, Franki ć explains, “they create a kind of microclimate that becomes not just micro but regional.” Oysters on the bottom build three-dimensional structure, not only providing the ideal place for newly spawned young to settle, but, as every fisherman knows, a place for fish and the things fish eat to congregate, mate, hunt, nest, and thrive. “When you think about why New England in the past had such amazing fish stocks,” Franki ć notes, “it was because they were supported by estuaries that had salt marshes, oyster reefs, and eelgrass beds.”

NEW ENGLAND AREA, AND WE’VE LOST 90–95% OF THEM.”

ABOVE , FAR LEFT AND FAR RIGHT : Under Beades Memorial Bridge, at the edge of Patten’s Cove in Boston’s Dorchester neighborhood, Anamarija Frankić checks rehabilitated oyster beds for growth. CENTER : Savin Hill Cove–site of the first Biomimicry Living Lab project, funded by the Schmidt Family Foundation— at low tide, with UMass Boston in the background. Savin Hill Cove and Patten’s Cove share the same body of water, divided by Morrissey Boulevard.

Twenty minutes later, we’ve walked the whole stretch of cove, finding dozens of shells but not a single living oyster. “Last time I was here,” Frankić recalls, “I counted 156.” She stoops, frowns, and straightens abruptly. “Hey!” She points to a rock at the water’s edge, with an oyster about the size of a silver dollar attached to its side. I approach, and her fingers delicately trace the ridges of the shell. “That’s a thin shell, very young, very unhappy from the pollution. But alive!”

This project—part of a larger, international effort that Frankić leads called Green Harbors—began with the removal of 19 tons of debris and trash from this urban cove in 2013. This summer’s work is mapping, establishing baselines for various water-quality and biodiversity parameters, and further cleaning.

Frankić’s ultimate vision is of floating islands built of green materials, functioning, like the salt marsh that was once here, as silt traps so that the surrounding oyster beds she’ll plant

out to fingernail size in a hatchery), which they must sew into fine-mesh plastic trays that they’ve made up as part of their winter education. It can take up to three years for the oysters to reach edible size; members of previous classes will move their juveniles, which have overwintered here in deep water, to larger mesh trays before all move to prime summer feeding grounds: raised steel racks planted firmly in the mud of Great Salt Bay.

We walk the length of a long dock dotted with small groups of oyster gardeners clad in lifejackets and sipping from coffee cups; Morse stops to exchange news after the long winter. Finally, we climb into a moored boat.

“The class has the same principles as a community garden,” Morse explains,

us are Alex and Jim, two eager newbies, who’ll haul the lines.

Morse snags the line of the first rack and runs it through a cleat, then hands it to the two men. “Haul away, boys!” he calls over his shoulder. Their enthusiastic response sets the boat rocking wildly as a wire box the size of a lobster trap comes abruptly half over the rail, showering everyone with frigid water and tendrils of deep-green kelp. Grunting, Morse hauls in the 50-pound box filled with mesh bags, each holding one gardener’s crop, then moves on to the next. More racks come aboard, some with mysterious dents and tangled lines. “You never know what you’re going to find,” he says. “Lines all twisted and knotted up from winter storms.”

An hour later, the last rack recovered, the whole crew piles back into their vehicles and heads off to Great Salt Bay Farm & Heritage Center, where the first-years will count spat, then sew them into their very first bags. The old-timers dump their bags, discarding dead oysters, then washing the

can thrive and, in turn, rehabilitate the water. She foresees her students having a living laboratory to track how the oysters affect water quality, to record what plant and animal species come, and to witness the rebirth of an ecosystem.

One thousand oysters: the oyster garden

Dana Morse works for the University of Maine Sea Grant system as an educator and outreach resource for aquaculture programs. Always looking for ways to help residents learn more about their coast, he turned to an idea that had begun some years ago in the South and that has gradually spread from Oregon to Maine: oyster gardening.

It’s a warm June afternoon at the Darling Marine Center in midcoast Walpole, and I’m meeting Morse and this year’s class for an event unofficially called “Oyster In.” New gardeners will get their first spat (baby oysters grown

“with master gardeners instructing novices on how to grow food. It’s just that it happens to be oysters—quite unusual, rarified, and fairly exotic, much more so than even the most heirloom of tomatoes or foreign of squashes.

“They get beautiful oysters, but it’s as much about engaging with the environment. There’s the sit-down education, where they learn about biohazards and invasive species, but then they have to actually build some of the equipment they use.” He nods towards the groups around us. “Friendships grow.”

We clamber into a battered aluminum skiff and motor out into open water, heading towards Lowe’s Cove, where the bags were stowed the previous fall in water deep enough that winter ice wouldn’t crush them. Morse, in fisherman’s overalls and thick gloves, is at the helm. We tie up to a buoy attached to a heavier line running on the bottom, with racks of mesh bags tied off at intervals. With

live ones to get any accumulated marine crud off them before putting their crops into larger mesh bags for the summer growth season.

Based at the farm is the Damariscotta River Association, which, in the person of Sarah Gladu, has largely taken over the program. She’s a good teacher and opens my eyes this day to yet another gift of the oyster. “Everyone talks about hands-on for kids,” she remarks, surveying the motley, mostly older, crowd, “but it’s equally important for adults. Oyster gardening is handson, full-body engagement. People slip in the mud, get wet, get cold—there are all kinds of ways of being engaged. And they do become marine stewards, and they do get interested in the water quality of this estuary.”

A tractor and flatbed trailer arrive, the bags are stowed, and then it’s time for a mile’s stroll down to the bay through salt meadows filled with goldenrod and milkweed and purple

OPPOSITE , CLOCKWISE FROM TOP : Midcoast Maine’s Great Salt Bay Farm & Heritage Center property, in Damariscotta, includes a wildlife preserve; oyster spat grown at the Darling Marine Center; float bags containing young oysters; in Maine, Dana Morse pulls up bags of last year’s oysters that have overwintered in Lowe’s Cove’s deep water.

“NEW ENGLAND HAD AMAZING FISH STOCKS BECAUSE THEY WERE SUPPORTED

BY ESTUARIES THAT HAD SALT MARSHES, OYSTER REEFS, AND EELGRASS BEDS.”

loosestrife. As we wait for the tractor on the shore of the lease site—a clamshell-shaped cove filled and emptied by the tide—I talk to John Swenson. This lanky, grizzled retired engineer was in the second class and has carried on ever since. I’ve watched him since we started the day, and he seems to be a leader, moving with experience from task to task and bringing others along with him.

I look at the group, most in rubber boots, gathered in clumps and chatting amiably. “These people, they’re mostly retired, from all walks of life,” Swenson notes.

He looks around. “My group had a retired IBM executive, a UConn professor, a body-shop owner. There are a few couples, but it’s mostly men in their fifties and sixties looking for an interesting way to get out on the water. It’s not onerous: Move the racks once a year; every two weeks clean off the marine life that sticks to them, summer through fall. If you have to miss, there’s always someone who’ll clean your bags for you.”

And why 1,000 oysters, the maximum gardeners are permitted? “That’s about what a family can eat in a year,” Swenson replies simply. “Of course, you get to be pretty popular.”

One Hundred Thousand Oysters: “Oyster Steve” Has a Secret

“Oyster Steve” Patterson, shellfish field manager at Roger Williams University in Bristol, Rhode Island, is also a marine educator who works with oyster gardeners. Unlike in the Maine model, however, Patterson’s oyster gardeners only babysit their oysters, giving them up at the end of each season to be planted in restoration beds to repopulate Rhode Island’s waters.

We’re barreling down a back road in Patterson’s pickup, his Lab, Lila, leaning in from the back seat now and

then to lick my ear. We’ve entered a marsh wilderness about an hour from Bristol. He tells me that I might want to roll up my window for the next bit, and we enter a stretch where marsh grass and brambles screech against the truck’s sides as we bounce through big ruts before finally pulling up in a small clearing. We don hip waders, and he hands me a walking stick. “To keep you upright,” he says laconically.

Earlier, in his office, Patterson had started my visit with a question. “Do you know,” he asked, bushy eyebrows raised above a classic sun-touched Irish face, “that our oysters have a secret?” By “our,” he meant oysters spawned at the RWU hatchery. He’d taken me through Rhode Island’s 1995–99 Dermo disaster and what followed: the search for tiny reservoirs of survivors to breed for repopulation.

Eventually, it was successful, so much so that the spat quickly outgrew the lab’s capacity to feed them. Working with world-class aquaculture expert

(continued on p. 108)

In Bristol, Rhode Island, Steve Patterson of Roger Williams University examines an oyster “crown”: several individuals joined upright on a substrate, an indication of healthy growth.

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A LIFE THAT IS ‘ORDINARY, OBSCURE, AND LABORIOUS’

(continued from p. 73)

the million-dollar view,” Dominic says. Inside, the oldest of the monks receive around-the-clock nursing care. Speakers broadcast services from the church so that those who aren’t well enough to walk may still participate in the rituals that have been their life’s work. Dominic explains that the worst thing they could think of would be to send these men to an assisted-living home. If you devote your life to the abbey, you should be able to spend your last days here.

So far, Spencer beer has been well received. If its success continues, the income should be enough to meet their medical needs and to provide future brothers with enough money to keep the abbey going for decades to come. That’s enough for Dominic. “I know God is real and my brothers are real,” he says. “There is something of the vocation enfleshed in my brothers. If I live present to them, if I’m available …” He pauses for a long moment as he searches for the right words, then looks up and says simply, “That works.”

At 34 years old, Brother Charbel stands out from his aging brothers like a rose amongst thistles. He has a dreamer’s eyes—deep blue and fixed on the middle distance—and his speech is punctuated with long pauses as he ponders his thoughts. He grew up in the Internet age but was never enthralled by it. “I was the only person in my community without a cell phone,” he says. “I just was happier, more joyful, without too many buzzing gadgets and distractions. For me, when [technology] gets overused, everything seems to become fragmented.” He explains that he was drawn to monasticism out of a desire to live “a singlehearted life” where he “could focus on the things that really matter.”

I ask whether he worries about what the abbey will look like 40 years from now. When he’s old, will there be someone to take care of him? “It’s a great

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incentive to pray,” he says with a smile. Charbel admits that he sometimes tries to run the numbers in his head—how many monks and how much money do you need to run this place? —but he never gets far with it. You just can’t approach this lifestyle from a quantitative angle, he says. It takes “a kind of naked faith and trust to even be called here.”

Ultimately he shrugs and says that the abbey could burn down tomorrow. He has faith that God will find a place for him, no matter what happens. So he puts those thoughts aside and focuses on his prayer. He says he’s comforted by the teachings of the ancient hermit monks who wrote that by leaving the world, you could come to love it better.

“When you go deep into your heart, into the heart of Christ, it’s that very separation that unites you with all,” he says. “Sometimes out of the corner of your eye you get a glimpse of the reality of that. And you know it’s true if it humbles you, if it makes you gasp.”

After Vespers, Father Dominic walks me to my car. He guides me through the

darkened church, pausing a moment to bow before the altar. Outside, there are few lights to dim the brilliance of the stars above. He wishes me a safe journey and walks back toward the abbey to join his brothers for the evening meal. In the time we spent together, I was struck both by how tired he looked—how heavy his burdens seemed to weigh on him—and also by how even when speaking of the abbey’s greatest challenges, his voice was tinted with an “awe-shucks” kind of humor, as though life were a comic opera he was thoroughly enjoying.

As Dominic walked away, I was reminded of a story he told me. He once came upon an aging brother who’d spent his life in the order. He was leaning on his rake and staring off across the hills in thought. He turned to Dominic and said, “Father, what a privilege it is to live with someone till the end of their life.”

The monks here don’t see their lifestyle as a burden. They don’t think of what they’ve given up as a sacrifice. They feel as though they’re lucky to have found this place where they can pass their lives among kindred souls. At first, it’s hard to imagine why anyone would choose this life, but when you strip away the habits and the icons, the history and the religion, you see these monks not as odd. They’re simply brothers, living for one another, here atop a hill.

Yankee contributing editor Justin Shatwell is a freelance journalist whose work explores New England’s unique history and culture. His recent stories for Yankee include “The Right Home” (Jan./Feb. 2015) and “A Place Just Waiting to Be Painted” (July/Aug. 2015). justinshatwell.com

The abbey’s Trappist Preserves brand of all-natural jams and jellies was founded in 1954 and is today a thriving business, featuring a line of some 30 flavors.

THE NATURAL

(continued from p. 83)

tions. It’s important to remember what most Americans valued in the 1950s: DDT, which had been used during World War II to control the insect carriers of malaria and typhus, was promoted now as a pesticide for all those new lawns and for farms as well. Processed foods were overtaking fresh foods from the farm faster than crabgrass. Organic farming was considered un-American, maybe even Communist.

In that climate, Rachel Carson also came knocking on Beatrice’s door, also unannounced, in the late 1950s, before the publication of Silent Spring. “I was very much involved with the pesticide problem at the time,” Beatrice explains, “and when I was speaking before garden clubs, I found that they really didn’t want to hear about pesticides—they wanted to know what to do instead. So I began gathering information for a book I called Gardening Without Poisons. I was also writing letters to the editor of the Boston Herald on the problem with pesticides.” A friend of Carson’s clipped the letters and sent them to her at her home in Silver Spring, Maryland. Soon after, Rachel Carson and Beatrice, two diminutive Atlases against these giant corporations, became correspondents.

Rachel Carson wrote to Beatrice in January 1958: “She said that she found my material very interesting. And then she wrote, ‘I’m sure I could find the documentation of what you have been writing but it would be much easier and quicker if you could supply them to me.’” Beatrice sat down and the next day sent back an eight-page, typewritten, single-spaced letter to Rachel Carson, listing 75 sources on the dangers of DDT and chlordane—a Google listing before there was Google.

“Carson was struggling with cancer at the time,” Beatrice recalls, “but she didn’t want that known publicly, so she got a wig, and then her book came out in 1962. She was interviewed on CBS; I still remember the reporter. He starts off with something like ‘Are you the little woman who has created all this fury?’ You know, condescend-

ing. Later they wanted to present both sides, since many of their sponsors were chemical companies. So they brought in the head of research at American Cyanimide. He looked fierce, like the Grand Inquisitor sitting opposite this very pleasant, gentle-looking lady in the wig. He was nasty and aggressive, and she simply sat there, very calmly, giving the facts. In the end, she won hands-down because he became the ‘hysterical woman’ and she was the voice of reason.”

Rachel Carson died in 1964 at the age of 60. Adelle Davis died 10 years later at the age of 70. Beatrice is still here to process this time of turmoil in American life, when a curtain opened

the use of antibiotics with farm animals, these are all much bigger than before and very formidable.”

Beatrice is only ahead of the wave in her thinking and in her writing. Otherwise, she is considerably backward: She owns neither a computer nor a cell phone nor any other “newfangled” devices. She finally had a hand-medown phone installed in the 1980s; it’s concealed inside a cabinet at the bottom of her stairs. She relies on handwritten correspondence to keep up with her friends, who live far and wide. “People call me a Luddite,” she notes, “but that makes me feel proud.”

In 2008, Beatrice resided for several months in an assisted-living facility. “I was sick and didn’t think I was going to make it,” she explains. Having learned a lesson from Lotte, who never threw anything away and left Beatrice to deal with all her weighty possessions, she got rid of most of what she owned, including her books and cameras: “I gave them all away. Fortunately, I didn’t sell my house.” She recovered and returned to her home.

and people realized that toxic chemicals were taking a toll on people and nature. “Our consciousness was raised,” Beatrice concludes.

Beatrice Trum Hunter’s The Natural Foods Cookbook was published by Simon & Schuster in 1961, the very first natural foods cookbook published in this country. She based a lot of it on her cooking for those summer guests. In 1964, Houghton Mifflin published Gardening Without Poisons, which had first been published in 1961 by a group of gardening enthusiasts. “I’ve always felt that I’ve been before the wave,” she says now, sitting in her spartan home. “I never thought I’d live to see supermarkets with whole foods. I’m amazed at the number of people who have written to me to tell me how I’ve changed their lives.

“So in that way, it’s great, but in the other way, the industrialized approach to agriculture, monoculture, GMOs [genetically modified organisms], and

Beatrice’s voluminous correspondence, including that with Adelle Davis and Rachel Carson, is contained in 43 cartons on file at the Howard Gotlieb Archival Research Center in the Mugar Library at Boston University. When I went to explore some of those letters, the groaning cardboard boxes were wheeled in to me on steel carts. Each year, Beatrice continues to add boxes to the collection. All her books, many now hard to find, are in the collection at Radcliffe’s Schlesinger Library on the History of Women in America.

Beatrice is an inveterate recycler and proud of it. “My friends call me the Great Recycler,” she says. Anyone who receives a letter from her will find it inside an envelope saved from other correspondence, cleverly turned inside out to be used anew. Often, her letters are written on the backs of requests for donations or subscription renewals. When others complain about junk mail, she delights in the opportunity it presents. She uses the insides of billing envelopes to make origami birds; the pages of old magazines become small boxes, a skill she learned in kin-

“i’ve always felt that I’ve been before the wave. i never thought i’d live to see supermarkets with whole foods.”

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dergarten. She gathers flower petals and leaves from her land and presses them into botanicals—beautiful portraits of her woods, which she gives to friends. She keeps Lotte’s archives at the Dimond Library at the University of New Hampshire, organizing and sorting whenever a friend can drive her there. “There’s always plenty to do,” she says.

Seven years ago, she turned in the keys to the last in a long line of Volkswagens. She can recite all the colors and models, beginning with a dark-

green microbus and ending with a red semi-automatic Super Beetle. “The last one actually had a heater that worked,” she boasts. “I used it until prudence told me it was time to stop driving.” She exists in her secluded place in the forest with the help of friends and neighbors who visit and take her shopping. But there are long stretches of time when she’s alone. “Being here, I’m never bored; I feel totally comfortable,” she says. “I hear people talking about cabin fever; I can’t understand it. I’m not a hermit, but there are great pleasures in solitude.”

Everyone wants to know Beatrice’s secret to a long life. She doesn’t find it remarkable: “It’s not genes. My mother lived to be 80, and my father died in his 70s. Keeping busy is important, and it doesn’t always have

everyone wants to know beatrice’s secret to a long life.

“Keeping busy is important,” she says, “and it doesn’t always have to be serious. A sense of humor helps, as does being adaptable.”

to be serious. A sense of humor helps, as does being adaptable.”

Beatrice has three nephews she’s very fond of, but no other family. In many ways, her friends are her family: “I always felt that I was dropped by gypsies into a family with whom I had nothing in common. We all find our families after a while, and I’ve found a number of wonderful mothers, fathers, brothers, and sisters!”

While excluding sugar and processed foods from her diet has perhaps helped extend Beatrice’s life, what sustains her is her writing: “I never could separate work from play, and to me, writing is like breathing. Writing is a lonely occupation, and I think being alone is wonderful in terms of having quiet. Even if the telephone rings, to me it’s like a great big crystal chandelier being shattered. And time goes by so rapidly when I’m writing. I look at my watch and I can’t believe it, how the time goes by.”

A small plane drifts overhead. Crickets chafe in the late-afternoon sun. Beatrice is out on the porch again, this time looking for an article she wrote in 2012 for Price–Pottenger’s Journal of Health and Healing on the dangers of antibacterial soap, which has only recently come under attack. Once again, ahead of the wave.

Beatrice sees her time in assisted living as a rehearsal for the inevitable. What’s odd is that she sees the passage of time in reverse, now that she’s back home: “I found that when I was there, I thought about everything in short little boxes. But now that I’m home, I find I can think in a broader way, much further into the future.”

Beatrice is a woman of great humor who loves nothing more than a good laugh. Despite her mirthful outlook, she maintains the hope that the deadly serious messages that she’s been putting out there all these years can still take hold. A woman who hasn’t eaten sugar or processed foods since her earliest years, a woman who has retained vigor and beauty and who takes pride in rejecting the new world—you might say she’s the living example of how to live well and long. Naturally.

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A TRULY MIRACULOUS CREATURE

(continued from p. 94)

Dale Leavitt, his boss, Patterson started an outreach program to find oyster gardeners who owned a coastal tidal property and dock to which a floating tray holding 6,000 to 10,000 spat could be attached. Today, more than 100 gardeners are spread over coves and ponds and inlets from Bristol to Block Island, taking babies the size of a little fingernail in early summer and returning almostone-inch adolescents in late fall for planting in restoration beds. “The survival at one inch,” Patterson explains, “is 70 percent, versus almost nothing if they’re smaller. In two years, I think we had maybe 100,000 oysters to plant. To date, our gardeners have raised six, seven million oysters for restoration.”

Patterson wades into a tidal pond. Low tide has exposed the shore, and I can make out thousands of oysters in shallow, mounded ribbons, imagining how many thousands more still lie underwater. (I also understand the utility of the stick, which I use as a lever when I sink up to my ankles in mud.) Patterson reaches down and pulls up what looks like one of those court jester’s hats, with triangles of material rising in a ring. Except that it’s entirely the green-beige of algae, and each triangle is a six- to eight-inch oyster jutting straight up from a surf-clam shell about the size of his hand. I’ll travel the length and breadth of New England’s coast for this story, but never again will I see oysters this large—longer than my hand and with deep wells on the cup side.

“It’s called an oyster crown,” Patterson says, handing it to me. “They grow straight up like that until the base shell dissolves, and then they become singles. There are a lot of things you see here that you don’t see anywhere else.” He points to another super-sized oyster, this one with a much smaller juvenile attached: “Here we have a natural set. And since these oysters survive past adolescence, and most of these are 6-year-olds, you can actually see what an oyster reef looks like at low tide. Let’s find you a banana oyster.” And he does,

eventually, its shell curving gently, a full foot long and two or three inches wide.

As Patterson searches, he talks about the reef’s biodiversity, how this former dump site now shelters more than half a million oysters—and all the species drawn by them, from the raccoon whose tracks we followed in, to the blue heron who flew off as we drove up, to the much smaller creatures living on and around the reef.

“I have underwater photos,” he says, “showing thousands of glass shrimp grazing on the algae growing on an oyster shell’s surface. I call them my rabbits.

oysters,” she adds, “and we’re one part of it.” Her husband shrugs. “It’s not hard,” he says, “and maybe if we get the oyster back, we get shrimp. Maybe someday I’ll see flounder under the dock.”

Patterson’s secret? “We’re not allowed to say our oysters are immune to Dermo,” he told me, and I can hear the wink in his voice, “but let’s just say they show a marked ability to live in the presence of the disease, and that they pass this on to other generations.” These Roger Williams University oysters are the descendants, now several generations strong, of the survivors of that 1995 outbreak—and this reef, teeming with life, is proof that they might once again thrive on their own along New England’s coast.

Five Million Oysters: If You Cultch It, They Will Come

Because then, of course, we get our carnivores that come in to eat the rabbits: all sorts of crabs, lobsters, flounder, tautog, oyster toad fish, silversides.

“And ocean fish come in to lay their eggs. I very often find eggs in our restoration sites. Historically you had estuary fish like striped bass that don’t spawn in saltwater, they don’t spawn in freshwater; they look for those saline zones where their babies have a place to hide so they don’t get consumed so quickly.” Those saline zones, of course, are the oysters’ preferred waters.

Two hours later I find myself in the comfortable living room of a retired couple from Pittsburgh, Gene and Joyce Corl, near Wakefield, looking out on Segar Cove. They’ve proudly shown off their dock and its rack of oysters. “We love what we have here,” Gene says. “This is a way to help out. You’re contributing.” Joyce nods, looking at her husband. “It’s such an amazing story, the

A few years back, the EPA gave Wellfleet, Massachusetts, a failing grade for water quality where two creeks flowed into the harbor. “Moderately to severely degraded” from too much nitrogen, parts of the harbor were turbid and anoxic, plagued by periods of naturally occurring nutrient overload. “Several consultants proposed spending up to $60 million over many years to pay for the installation of a new wastewater management system,” recalls Curt Felix, at that time vice-chair of the town’s wastewater-management committee. This for a town of about 3,000 year-round residents. “And then a former Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute scientist suggested oysters.”

“Oysters aren’t just filter feeders that purify water,” Felix explains enthusiastically. “As they naturally eat algae— where nitrogen is bound in the plant matter—they remove it from the water, which, together with dissolved minerals, makes their shell. So they not only help restore nutrient balance and make the water clearer, but they also reduce the ocean’s acidity with the calcium carbonate in their shells, like Tums— ocean acidification being another problem associated with global warming.”

A diminutive, fiftyish fellow with the stringy build of a runner, Felix speaks in

This rhode island reef, teemng with life, is proof that oysters might once again thrive on their own along new england’s coast.

full paragraphs, pausing in between to gather his thoughts before the next burst. With his background in marine biology, I’d imagined that he’d been a valuable asset in convincing the townspeople to fund a project that, as he said, “had never really been tried on a large scale, and which we all were going to pay for.”

It turned out that the Massachusetts Audubon Society had done a pilot oyster-reef restoration project in the harbor with promising results, while Dr. Frankić had supervised a graduatestudent thesis project there as well. The scientists and Wellfleet’s shellfish constable surveyed 14 acres of inner harbor and in 2011 laid down clamshell near the town pier, taking advantage of Wellfleet’s well-established natural set and cultching to jump-start a large oyster population that would filter water coming from the degraded creeks. They get the shell—surf clam—free from a processing plant in New Bedford that’s happy not to have to pay to dump it.

“At first, they used to pile the shells on a barge,” Felix explains when I ask how cultching works, “and shovel them over the side by hand as the barge puttered along. Then they got the bright idea of repurposing a road-sanding apparatus” that usually sits on the back of the truck and throws sand out in an arc behind it.

On this early-summer day, we’re standing by a primitive wheelhouse stuck onto the back of the barge, which is moored to the town pier at slack tide. A truck eases up to the edge above us, then dumps a full load of shell down into the spreader’s maw. At the helm is Andy Koch, Wellfleet’s shellfish constable. Koch is stout about the middle, but tall, with hands like spades and feet just as large. Felix casts off, and we motor out to the first cultching grounds. Koch idles the boat, and Felix hustles to start the spreader motor. Then we move slowly forward as shells begin spewing out the back of the barge to settle in a thick ribbon on the bottom, providing not just a happy place for spat to settle but the foundation and structure for, over time, the growth of an oyster reef. Then back to the pier, where another truckload waits. Koch will make this trip when the tides are right for several hours each day over 10 days to two weeks.

“The oysters spawn,” Felix says, “when the water gets above 68 degrees here, about the first week of July. So in June we have to get ’em all in, the shells. The oysters spawn, and spat results, little tiny things floating around looking for a rough surface. They’ll attach to other oysters, so you have a multiplier effect. If you maintain a critical minimum population, it can be self-sustaining.”

“It’s like you put your money in the bank,” Koch puts in, “and our harvest is the interest. I was a fin fisherman, and fishermen know that structure is life. If you have structure on the bottom, you can have gold. Small fish hang out, crabs and little shrimp live and reproduce, and then it takes off from there— small minnows, striped bass, move in at high tide. You get menhaden hanging around the reef. We even had turtles— hundreds of rare diamondback turtles.”

So what actually happened? “In the last three years,” Felix says proudly, “we managed to produce a 70 percent reduction in nitrogen, with an oyster population that went from a couple thousand to more than five million. We’ve had tremendous success.” Instead of tens of millions of dollars, the total cost of the project has been less than $250,000, with water quality now rated excellent, and species whose presence had diminished in recent years—terrapin turtles, bluefish, menhaden—frequenting the project area. One notable visitor who spent two days directly over the site was Katharine, the tagged great white shark whose coastal peregrinations have fascinated so many.

Back at the dock, Frankić, who comes down to Wellfleet for periodic monitoring with her graduate students, shows me the cultch sites. “If you look at Wellfleet Harbor on Google Earth,” she says, “it looks like a giant womb. It’s made for spawning oysters.” We’re walking a narrow strip of beach opposite the long finger of pier that juts out into the harbor, and Frankić is pointing to the muck that during the 2013–14 winter storms covered millions of oysters, killing them and putting a dark cloud over the project. “I cried when I saw this the first time,” she tells me, “but that’s nature. You never know what’s going to happen. So this summer, we try again: cultch and see what happens.”

Demonstrating the extraordinary resilience of this enduring species, though those storms killed about onequarter of the stock, by fall 2015 following a successful summer spawn, that number was back up to just under four million, the harbor water sweet and clear.

A Billion Oysters

Oysters clean our water. Oysters create structure for biodiversity. Oysters sequester pollutants. Oysters put fishermen to work. If a two-acre plot in Wellfleet Harbor can grow five million oysters in just two years, imagine what such plots could do in 10 years, 15 years, a generation: a billion oysters strategically deployed up and down the coast.

In 2010, New York landscape architect Kate Orff entered a national contest looking for ways to protect Lower Manhattan from rising ocean levels and storm surges—the kind that Hurricane Sandy would bring two years later. She proposed planting oyster reefs offshore in huge swaths to absorb and deflect such follow-ons to climate change. Her idea, called “oystertecture,” won first place, and a federally sponsored program is now getting off the ground on Staten Island.

A final note: Many of the researchers I interviewed rarely eat oysters. “If I were raising white rhinos or ivorybilled woodpeckers because I found a few,” Patterson says, “and all of a sudden we had 500 of them, I wouldn’t advocate eating 250 because we have so many. We don’t exactly advertise what we have, because people would come and help themselves. It’s not illegal.”

So the next time you’re at your favorite raw bar with a dozen Pemaquids or Wellfleets or Matunucks glistening on their beds of ice, say a small prayer of thanks to this magnificent mollusk. So delicious, yes, but so good to us and so good for our environment, a truly miraculous creature.

Michael Sanders is a freelance journalist and the author of Fresh from Maine: Recipes and Stories from the State’s Best Chefs. For Yankee’s May 2014 issue, he wrote about “Jenny’s Day,” when volunteers gather once a year to shear the sheep on Maine’s remote Big Nash Island. tableartsmedia.com

through a series of editorial features, social media and events. See what we’ve been up to.

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Yankee Magazine joined The Vermont Cheese Council for a day of celebrating locally made food products and the artisans behind them at The Vermont Cheesemakers Festival in Shelburne, Vermont. Yankee’s Senior Lifestyle Editor Amy Traverso and Associate Editor Aimee Seavey were on-site to lead cooking demonstrations and tastings featuring favorite recipes from the magazine. Per capita, Vermont has more cheesemakers than any other state; and more than 40 of them were on hand at the event to offer hundreds of local cheese, wine, beer and food products. We can’t wait for next year’s event.

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CONNECTICUT

THROUGH DEC. 31: MYSTIC, 36th Annual International Marine Art Exhibition. Recent works by more than 100 artists from around the world, and in a variety of media, are showcased at Mystic Seaport’s Maritime Art Gallery. 860-572-5388; mysticseaport.org/ maritime-art-gallery/

NOV. 7–8: WESTPORT, CraftWestport. Now in its 40th year, this gathering brings together the fine contemporary craft offerings of more than 175 artists and craftsmen. Enjoy specialty foods, take a chance on a raffle, and more, all at Staples High School. 845-3317900; craftwestport.com

NOV. 20–DEC. 6: SALISBURY, 3rd Annual Sea Festival of Trees. A maze of sparkling holiday trees, stage and ice-skating performances, visits with Santa, a giant gingerbread house, gifts, treats, and more highlight this 17-day holiday wonderland at Blue Ocean Event Center on Salisbury Beach. 978-462-2512; seafestivaloftrees.com

NOV. 22: STAMFORD, UBS Parade Spectacular Stepping off at noon from Summer Street downtown, the UBS Parade is one of the largest helium-balloon processions in the country, featuring favorite characters, award-winning marching bands, and fabulous floats. stamforddowntown.com

NOV. 27–28: MYSTIC, Field Days . Visit Mystic Seaport for fun 19th-century games on the Village Green, including hoops, stilts, and graces. Explore exhibits, ride a horseand-carriage through the village, and climb aboard the world’s last wooden whaleship, the Charles W. Morgan . Try your hand at candlemaking, discover the autumn night sky under the Planetarium dome, and more. mystic seaport.org

NOV. 27–DEC. 12: SOUTH WINDSOR, 5th Annual Gingerbread House Festival Extravaganza . Follow the spicy aroma of gingerbread to Wood Memorial Library & Museum and discover magnificent candy-covered creations, brought to life by local artisans and bakers. Many are for sale, along with other holidaythemed gifts and treats. 860-289-1783; wood gingerbread.org; woodmemoriallibrary.org

DEC. 1: WOODBURY, Glebe House Christmas Festival . This shopping bazaar will inspire you with original gift ideas as you tour the charming 1750 Glebe House, decked with wreaths, lights, and garlands, many of which are also for sale. 203-263-2855; theglebehouse.org

DEC. 4–5: BETHLEHEM, Christmas Town Festival . O, little town of Bethlehem … where thousands make the post-office pilgrimage so that their cards will arrive as if by way of another historic village. At festival time, the town green is transformed into a unique shopping experience, with 70-plus vendors offering fine crafts and good food. Enjoy musical entertainment, kids’ activities, hayrides, photos with Santa, and more. 203-266-7510; christmastownfestival.com

DEC. 6: HARTFORD, 35th Holiday Home Tour

Visit several gorgeous homes in greater Hartford, including the historic Isham–Terry House and the 19-room Mark Twain House,

all gussied up for the holidays, complete with floral accents and seasonal décor created by the area’s talented florists. Plus live music performed by local instrumentalists. 860280-3130; marktwainhouse.org

DEC. 12: WOODBURY, 21st Annual Holiday House Tour. Tour five buildings of various designs and ages, including the town’s historic one-room schoolhouse. Register in advance for discount tickets. Proceeds benefit local charities. 203-263-3623; womens clubofwoodbury.org

DEC. 17: NEW HAVEN, Holiday Extravaganza: A Classical Christmas . Join the New Haven Symphony at Woolsey Hall on the Yale University campus for a seasonal celebration sure to lift the spirits. 203-865-0831; newhaven symphony.org

DEC. 31: HARTFORD, First Night . A multicultural, artistically unique, and alcohol-free New Year’s Eve experience, with professional musicians, artists, performance groups, and exhibits at varying venues across the city— plus fireworks at Bushnell Park. firstnight hartford.org

MAINE

THROUGH DEC. 6: PORTLAND, “Rose Marasco: Index.” For more than 35 years, Rose Marasco has been photographing Portland and its surrounding communities, building a catalogue that is diverse in both subject and technique. Featured here at the Portland Museum of Art are photos of Maine’s grange halls, as well as images made in her own home as part of a decade-long series, Domestic Objects 207-7756148; portlandmuseum.org

NOV. 7: YORK, International Women’s Club of New England Holiday Fair. Finish your holiday shopping early! More than 70 vendors offer crafts, jewelry, antiques, and more at Village Elementary School. Proceeds benefit local charities. iwcne.net

NOV. 14–15: BANGOR, Maine Harvest Festival. At Cross Insurance Center, celebrate all that is local and farm-fresh with a series of demonstrations and tastings by Maine chefs and cookbook authors, along with live music, wine and beer samples, and a screening of the film Growing Local 207-561-8300; maine harvestfestival.com

NOV. 21–DEC. 31: BOOTHBAY, Gardens Aglow! Coastal Maine Botanical Gardens launches a spectacular winter lights display, a holiday village, refreshments, and gift shopping. 207633-8000; mainegardens.org

NOV. 27–29: ROCKLAND, Festival of Lights Santa arrives by boat to kick off the festivities, which include the lighting of the world’s largest “Lobster Trap Christmas Tree,” special sales and refreshments offered by downtown merchants, a parade, horse-drawn wagon rides, a bonfire, caroling, and much more. 207-593-6093; rocklandmainstreet.com

NOV. 28–DEC. 6: PORTLAND, “The Nutcracker.” Maine State Ballet brings the beauty and joy of the season to the Merrill Auditorium stage in a classic presentation. 207-842-0800; mainestateballet.org

DEC. 3–27: BANGOR, “It’s a Wonderful Life .” The Penobscot Theatre presents a musical stage adaptation of Frank Capra’s iconic holiday movie tells the familiar story of George Bailey, a good man who glimpses how different the world without him might have been. 207-942-3333; penobscottheatre.org

DEC. 4–6: BOOTHBAY HARBOR, 30th Harbor Light Festival . From the Festival of Trees at the Opera House to the Christmas Fair, from the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Claus by boat to a live nativity and plenty of sweets, raffles, and more, Boothbay Harbor does Christmas right. boothbayregiongardenclub.org

DEC. 5: FARMINGTON, Chester Greenwood Day Don a pair of earmuffs and pay homage to the town’s beloved inventor with a parade, contests, horse-drawn wagon rides, a polar-bear plunge, live performances, and a visit to the Historical Society for a peek at memorabilia from the town’s earmuff-manufacturing heyday. 207-778-4215; franklincountymaine.org

DEC. 11–13: OGUNQUIT, Christmas by the Sea Celebration. This charming village is a perfect locale for seasonal festivities, as evidenced by its roster of events, including a parade, storytelling, musical entertainment, tree lighting, craft fair, wine tastings, visits to Santa’s village, and more. 207-646-2939; visitogunquit.org

DEC. 11–13, 18–20: PORTLAND, Magic of Christmas Concert. Merrill Auditorium presents the Portland Symphony Orchestra as it celebrates its 90th anniversary with cherished traditions of the season. 207-842-0800; portland symphony.org

DEC. 31: BATH, Paul Revere Bell Ringing. Sing out the old and ring in the new—it’s a New Year’s Eve noontime tradition as folks gather at Hallett’s Clock across from City Hall to sing “Auld Land Syne of Bath” (words on the website if you want to practice!), followed by bell ringing and refreshments. Bring your party hats and noisemakers! 207-442-7291; visitbath.com

MASSACHUSETTS

ONGOING: NEWBURYPORT, From High Seas to Safe Harbors . A new exhibition at the Cushing House (the Museum of Old Newbury) chronicles the city’s maritime history during the Golden Age of Sail. Learn the stories of ships’ captains and their families, and view treasures from their voyages. Open by appointment after October 31 and during the winter, until tours resume in May. 978-462-2681; newburyhistory.org

THROUGH NOV. 29: GLOUCESTER, John Sloan: Gloucester Days . The Cape Ann Museum exhibits 35 paintings created by “Ashcan School” artist John French Sloan during five summers spent in the region. 978-283-0455; capeannmuseum.org

NOV. 6–8: BOSTON, Christmas Festival . In addition to the great shopping opportunity presented by 300 master craftsmen gathered at the Seaport World Trade Center, see top chefs create gingerbread masterpieces, to be judged by a celebrity panel and sold, with proceeds benefitting an area nonprofit. 617358-5000; bostonchristmasfestival.com

NOV. 7–8: FRANKLIN COUNTY, 21st CiderDays

Celebrate apples in all their varied splendor with two days of orchard tours, cidermaking, tastings, workshops, and much more. See the website for locations and schedule. 413-773-5463; ciderdays.org

NOV. 13–14: REHOBOTH, Folk Art & Artisans Show . This annual event at Francis Farm draws 70 exhibitors displaying their finely crafted wares just in time for holiday shopping. 508-252-3031; carpentermuseum.org

NOV. 20–22: PLYMOUTH, America’s Hometown Thanksgiving Celebration . The history of Thanksgiving is brought to life as Pilgrims, Native Americans, soldiers, patriots, and pioneers climb out of the history books and onto the city’s streets for a parade representing the holiday’s chronology, as well as a harvest farmers’ market, historic village re enactment, food festival, concerts, and more. 508-746-1818; usathanksgiving.com

NOV. 25–DEC. 20: LOWELL, “It’s a Wonderful Life: A Radio Play ” The heartwarming holiday classic is performed as a 1940s radio show, with sound effects performed live on the Merrimack Repertory Theatre stage. 978-654-4678; mrt.org

NOV. 25–29, DEC. 2–JAN. 3: SPRINGFIELD, Bright Nights at Forest Park . Experience one of the region’s largest light shows, with more than 600,000 orbs illuminating the threemile route. Drive with the radio tuned to the musical simulcast as you observe the various holiday scenes. brightnights.org

NOV. 27–28: WEST TISBURY, 19th Vineyard Artisans Thanksgiving Festival . This shopping extravaganza at Agricultural Hall is the largest annual art show by islanders. Meet the crafters and buy one-of-a-kind and handmade items, including sweaters, soaps, leather and vintage-material bags, wooden cutting boards, and more. vineyard artisans.com

DEC. 4–6, 11–13, 18–20: STURBRIDGE, Christmas by Candlelight. Experience the magic of a candlelit New England township while learning about the history of Christmas traditions at historic Old Sturbridge Village. Take a horse-drawn sleigh ride, sip hot cider, sing carols, and more. 800-733-1830; osv.org

Until

DEC. 4–6: FALMOUTH, Holidays by the Sea . This charming seaside town embraces the season with Friday-night caroling at Nobska Lighthouse in Woods Hole, followed by a weekend that includes a pancake breakfast, raffle, the arrival of Santa by brightly painted trawler, a 5K “Jingle Jog” with runners in holiday garb, and a tree lighting on the village green. 508548-8500; falmouthchamber.com

DEC. 11–13, 18–23: CAMBRIDGE, Harvard Square Holiday Fair. Two locations this year: the first weekend at the Atrium upstairs at 50 Church St.; the second in the lower hall at St. Paul’s Church, 29 Mt. Auburn St. It’s a juried fair featuring great gift items; admission is free. 413-625-9779; harvardsquareholidayfair.com

DEC. 17, 20: BOSTON, Bach Christmas . Join the Handel & Haydn Society at New England Conservatory’s Jordan Hall for a trio of Bach holiday cantatas, including the beloved “Sleepers Awake.” 617-266-3605; handel andhaydn.org

DEC. 31: CHATHAM, 25th First Night Celebration

The town’s annual New Year’s Eve festivities include more than 70 performances and events townwide, including kids’ activities, community suppers, and more. firstnight chatham.com

NEW HAMPSHIRE

NOV. 7–8: STATEWIDE, Open Doors. This annual shopping and touring event encourages rambling. Download the tour map and plan your outing, meeting area artists and crafters in their studios, sampling local products, and overnighting at a charming historic inn. nhopendoors.com

NOV. 11: TROY, Fall Family Farm Day. Savor the season with a hands-on experience at scenic East Hill Farm. Milk a cow, groom a pony, collect eggs from the hens, and enjoy arts and crafts activities and a campfire for making s’mores. Reservations are required. 800-2426495; east-hill-farm.com

NOV. 14: CHARLESTOWN, Harvest Dinner

This all-volunteer operation is both a yearend cele bration and a major fundraiser for The Fort at No. 4, a living-history museum highlighting 18th-century life on the New England frontier. Featuring homemade and locally sourced foods, live music, a silent auction, and other festivities. Reservations are required; visit the website for details. 603826-5700; fortat4.org

NOV. 22: GREENLAND, 25th Annual Craft Fair & Pie Festival. A pastry spectacular, serving up some 550 delicious pies at Greenland School. Enjoy the luncheon café, the works of more than 100 crafters and artisans, music, and a raffle. greenlandwomensclub.org

NOV. 28–29: LACONIA, Lakes Region Holiday Arts & Craft Fair. Gift buying is easy with 75 exhibitors presenting a wide selection of items, including jewelry, gourmet foods, décor, quilts, handbags, photography, and more at Opechee Conference Center. Live music, good food, and a raffle benefiting animal rescue round out the fun. joycescraftshows.com

NOV. 28: NASHUA, Holiday Stroll . This muchanticipated annual event includes a candlelit walk led by Santa Claus, the lighting of the city tree, food vendors, a snowboarding rail jam, and other diverse entertainment. downtown nashua.org

DEC. 5, 12: CANTERBURY, Christmas at Canterbury Shaker Village . Celebrate the simple delights of the holidays with a candlelight stroll through the village or a ride in a horsedrawn sleigh, along with a play, a magic show, caroling, craft activities for the kids, and the “Gingerbread Spectacular.” 603-783-9511; shakers.org

DEC. 5: MANCHESTER, Santa Claus Shuffle Road Race & Christmas Parade. It’s a sight to see as runners decked out in Santa gear sprint, walk, or shuffle their way to the finish line near Veterans Park, where the holiday parade steps off soon after. milleniumrunning.com

DEC. 5–6, 12–13, 19–20: PORTSMOUTH, Candlelight Stroll at Strawbery Banke. Find your holiday spirit as you visit the homes and buildings of historic Strawbery Banke Museum, meeting costumed reenactors. Enjoy the sounds of caroling, the sight of thousands of handcrafted decorations amid the flicker of candle lanterns, and the thrill of a horse-drawn sleigh ride. 603-433-1100; strawberybanke.org

DEC. 9–20: PORTSMOUTH, “Irving Berlin’s White Christmas: The Musical .” The Music Hall presents the Ogunquit Playhouse production of Irving Berlin’s classic about a pair of World War II veterans who take their successful song-and-dance act to a Vermont lodge, where two beautiful singing sisters catch their eye. Featuring well-known standards including “Sisters” and the perennial favorite, “White Christmas.” 603-436-2400; themusic hall.org

DEC. 12: BRETTON WOODS, 3rd Annual Mountainfilm World Tour. Filmmakers and enthusiasts from around the world converge at the Omni Mount Washington Resort to celebrate mountain life. Subjects range from extreme sports to environmental awareness and everything in between. 603-278-1000; omnihotels .com/hotels/bretton-woods-mount-washington

DEC. 12–13: WHITE MOUNTAINS REGION, Inn to Inn Cookie Tour. Journey from inn to inn on a self-guided tour, enjoying holiday décor and sampling their signature sweet treats along the way. Collect recipes for your favorites, and know that event proceeds benefit local nonprofits. 603-356-2642; countryinnsin thewhitemountains.com

DEC. 31: WOLFEBORO, First Night Celebration Purchase a button at one of several area venues and locations for admission to the family-friendly activities running from afternoon into evening. Plenty of music, games, and crafts, plus a parade, culminating in a fireworks display over Lake Winnipesaukee. firstnight.wolfeboro.net

RHODE ISLAND

ONGOING: NEWPORT, Newport History Tours

A joint partnership of the Newport Historical Society and the Newport Restoration Foundation, November and December offerings include “Discover Colonial Newport,” “Rum and Revolution,” “Golden to Gilded,” and, of course, the “Holiday Lantern Tour.” Tours are on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays; check the website for schedules and locations. 401-8418770; newporthistorytours.org

NOV. 6–8: PAWTUCKET, 20th Fine Furnishings Show. More than 50 exhibitors and 80 artists and crafters gather at the Pawtucket Armory Arts Center, where you’ll see works ranging

• springfieldmuseums.org

from traditional to modern, along with new products, demonstrations, door prizes, music, and more. 401-816-0963; finefurnishings shows.com

NOV. 7–DEC. 31: PROVIDENCE, “A Christmas

Carol.” A family holiday tradition returns to the Chace Theater stage. Grumpy, greedy Ebenezer Scrooge is inspired to change his ways when visited by three Christmas ghosts. 401-351-4242; trinityrep.com

NOV. 20–DE C. 20: WOONSOCKET, The Polar Express. ’Tis the season for a magical adventure onboard this 90-minute train ride departing from Depot Square, inspired by Chris Van Allsburg’s Christmas classic. 401495-1213; blackstonevalleypolarexpress.com

NOV. 27–29: FOSTER, Christmas in the Valley Holiday Craft Show. This juried arts and crafts show held at the Foster Country Club boasts unique handcrafted items and fine art, along with live music, a raffle (bring a nonperishable food item to donate in return for a free raffle ticket), restaurant specials, and a Sunday visit from Santa. christmasinthevalleyri.com

DEC. 3–6: WICKFORD VILLAGE, 30th Annual Festival of Lights . Stroll the historic village amid holiday lights as the shops stay open late for the season. See Santa arrive at the town dock aboard the Sea Princess ; then it’s on to the tree lighting, caroling, hayrides, and more. wickfordvillage.org

DEC. 3–6, 11–13: PAWTUCKET, Holiday Show

A cooperative of more than 60 artists comes together each year to present the Foundry Artists Association’s holiday show at the Pawtucket Armory Arts Center. Featured items include ceramics, handmade books, fine fiber art, hats, handbags, unique jewelry, and food. foundryshow.com

DEC. 5: NEWPORT, Bowen’s Wharf Annual Christmas Tree Lighting. Bring the whole family to see Frosty the Snowman, Santa, and Mrs. Claus during an evening of Christmas cheer. Don’t miss the carol sing-along and the tree lighting—plus, leave time time for shopping, as local merchants stay open late. bowens wharf.com

DEC. 6: CRANSTON, Christmas Open House. Both the Governor Sprague Mansion and the Joy Homestead will be decorated in Victorianstyle holiday finery: with vintage ornaments and collectibles at the Mansion, and in the simple style of an 1800s family farm at the Homestead. Enjoy music, homemade cookies, and holiday beverages, too. 401-9449226; cranstonhistoricalsociety.org

DEC. 6, 12, 13, 27, 29: LINCOLN, Candlelight Tour at Hearthside . They call it “the house that love built,” so what better way to view Hearthside than by the romantic flicker of candlelight on a crisp winter’s evening. 401726-0597; hearthsidehouse.org

DEC. 18–20: PROVIDENCE: “The Nutcracker.” Festival Ballet Providence brings a timeless classic to the Providence Performing Arts Center stage. With beautiful sets, elegant choreography, and world-class dancers, the familiar tale of Clara and her prince appeals to young and old alike. 401-421-2787; ppacri.org

DEC. 20: WESTERLY, Christmas Pops . The 200-member Chorus of Westerly joins the Pops Orchestra in their annual salute to the season with two concerts at George Kent Performance Hall, featuring traditional favorites such as “Sleigh Ride” and “White Christmas.” chorusofweste rly.org

VERMONT

THROUGH JAN. 3: SHELBURNE, Thirteen artists were paired with Vermont Land Trust properties for one year, and from that pairing comes a harvest of artworks in a variety of styles, on display at the Shelburne Museum’s Pizzagalli Center for Art & Edu cation. 802-985-3346; shelburnemuseum.org

NOV. 6: RUTLAND, “Buddy Guy.”

Theatre welcomes six-time Grammy winner and Lifetime Achievement Award recipient Buddy Guy, a bona fide blues legend. His new studio album, Born to Play Guitar songs dedicated to his old friends, including B. B. King and Muddy Waters. 0903; paramountvt.org

NOV. 20–22: BURLINGTON, Craft Vermont. This premier juried show of fine Vermont crafters returns to the Sheraton Conference Center, where numerous booths showcasing one-of-akind pieces in aromatherapy, baskets, ceram ics, art, furniture, glass, jewelry, and more are sure to delight. vermonthandcrafters.com

NOV. 27–29: PUTNEY, Craft Tour. Make your way to the studios of 26 artists, and see first hand where unique objects and fine art are created amid the region’s inspirational beauty. putneycrafts.com

NOV. 28–29: BARRE, 35th Winter Festival of Vermont Crafters. Some 120 artisans gather at Barre Municipal Auditorium, offering quality items just in time for gift-giving season. Free admission, raffles, and a visit from Santa, too. 802-426-3221; greaterbarrecraftguild.com

NOV. 28–JAN. 2: MANCHESTER, Manchester Merriment. All kinds of holiday fun: special inn tours, cookie tastings, champion shop ping opportunities, and much more. Plus, don’t miss the Lighted Tractor Parade, and if you’ve got kids, it’s all aboard the Lions Club’s Elf Express vintage railway cars for musical performances by Santa’s helpers. 802-3626313; visitmanchestervt.com

DEC. 1–31: MANCHESTER, A Victorian Christmas at Hildene. Tour the beautiful country estate that was once home to Robert Todd Lincoln while it’s decorated for Christmas circa 1912. Sights, sounds, and scents of the season abound. 802-362-1788; hildene.org

DEC. 5: PLYMOUTH NOTCH, Coolidge Holiday Open House . The quaint village is the backdrop for this Christmas tradition, featuring the bedecked birthplace of President Calvin Coolidge, old-time music, sleigh rides, craft demonstrations, kids’ activities, lunch, and more. 802-672-3773; historicsites.vermont.gov

DEC. 5: WESTON, Christmas in Weston. Visit with Santa at the Vermont Country Store, ride in a horse-drawn wagon, and take advantage of plenty of tempting foods for sale, plus shows, music, and caroling throughout downtown, culminating in the lighting of the town tree at dusk. westonvt.com

DEC. 9–13: BURLINGTON, “Winter Tales.” The Flynn Center hosts the 11th installment of this winter story event, featuring brand-new tales from members of the Burlington Writers Workshop, poetry by the Young Writers Project, and songs written and performed by Patti Casey. 802-863-5966; flynntix.org

DEC. 11–13: WOODSTOCK, Winter Wassail Weekend . Music, home tours, and dramatic readings set the stage for the Wassail Parade, a production featuring some 50 horses and riders decked out in holiday costumes and

QUINTESSENTIAL HOLIDAY SEASON

Make your holiday season a little brighter this year! Enjoy the most wonderful time of the year with live holiday music in our Front Lobby, step back in time at the Town of Stockbridge’s Annual Main Street at Christmas Recreation or get cozy and cuddle by the fire with a warm drink. There’s no better place than the Berkshires to celebrate the season.

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MASSACHUSETTS

period dress from the early 19th century. 802-457-3555; woodstockvt.com/wassail.php

DEC. 20: BURLINGTON, Winter’s Eve Celebration . Step back in time for an evening of fun at the homestead of Ethan and Fanny Allen, complete with dances and live music at the 18th Century Tavern, historical demonstrations, hands-on crafts, and a lantern-lit tour, complete with historical reenactors. 802-865-4556; ethanallenhomestead.org

DEC. 31: LUDLOW, Family’s New Year’s Eve. At Okemo Mountain Resort, enjoy ice skating, snowtubing, snowshoeing, mountaincoaster rides, horse-drawn wagon rides, cookie decorating, and fireworks. Families can ring in the New Year with a DJ dance party, and still get the kids to bed early enough that they’ll be awake and ready to hit the slopes in the morning. okemo.com

Call ahead to confirm dates, times, and possible admission fees.

To submit an event online, go to: YankeeMagazine.com/submitevent

To find more events in your area, visit: YankeeMagazine.com/events

Corrections

In our Sept./Oct. issue, our “Wicker Furniture” contributor is Robert G. Pushkar (p. 61). Also in that issue, in “The Pride of Storrs, Connecticut” (p. 133), the UConn women’s basketball coach is Geno Auriemma. Our apologies to both gentlemen for the misspellings.

The Pelatiah Leete House is one of the earliest surviving dwellings built in Guilford, CT in the early 18th century, by Pelatiah Leete, the grandson of Guilford founder, and Connecticut governor, William Leete. It is one of only a handful of properties in Guilford that is included on the National Register of Historic Places. In 1781, during the American Revolution, the Battle of Leetes Island was fought across the road from the house and its surviving 1705 barn, and Simeon Leete, who lived in the house at that time with his wife and three small children, was mortally wounded near the conclusion of the battle. He was brought back to the house, where he died, at age 28, the following day. His gravestone is around the corner from the house, on land owned by the Leete family since 1661, and an annual celebration of his life is held every June on the Sunday nearest June 19, the anniversary of his death date. The Sixth Connecticut Regiment of the Continental Line performs musket drills and live firing at the event, which draws numerous neighbors and townspeople.

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(Required under Act of August 12, 1970, Sect 3685, Title 39, United States Code.)

September 22, 2015: Yankee-Bi-monthly, published at Dublin, Cheshire County, New Hampshire 03444. Published by Yankee Publishing Incorporated. Publisher: Brook E. Holmberg., Dublin, NH. Editor: Mel Allen, Dublin, NH. Owners: Christina G. Bell, Dublin, NH: H. Hansell Germond, Dublin, NH: Melanie G. Germond, Dublin NH: Rachel T. Germond, Dublin, NH: Judson D. Hale Sr., Dublin, NH: Beatrix T. Sanders, Dublin, NH: Cornelia T. Trowbridge, Dublin, NH: James R. Trowbridge, Dublin, NH; Philip R. Trowbridge, Dublin, NH.

Average preceding 12 months: Press run: 343,352. Paid sales through dealers: 26,514. Paid/req. subscriptions: 261,200. Total paid: 287,715. Office use, etc: 5000. Total distribution: 294,811. Returns from news agents:48,541. Total: 343,352. July/August

2015: Press run: 333,067. Paid sales through dealers: 23,596. Paid /req. subscriptions: 259,244. Total paid: 282,840. Office use, etc.:

6,128. Total Distribution: 290,678. Returns from news agents: 41,933. Total: 333,067.

I certify that the above statements made by me are correct and complete.

Brook E. Holmberg, V.P., Publisher

“Moon over Mt. Monadnock”

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‘Dear Santa …’

Verner Reed’s photographs preserve moments large and small of how New Englanders lived 60 years ago.

hen Verner Reed (1923–2006) came upon this group of children gazing into the window of a toy store along Boston’s Washington Street at Christmas in 1955, he captured, unmistakably, a little girl’s wonder and ever-hopeful yearning. He titled it Christmas Reflections, Boston, 1955, and it became one of some 26,000 prints and negatives that eventually joined Historic New England’s Verner Reed photographic collection (1950–72).

During his lifetime, Reed pushed himself to master as many creative endeavors, it seemed, as possible. He became one of the most accomplished photographic chroniclers of New England, with his shots featured in numerous newspapers and national magazines, including Life. He was also

a furniture maker, a silversmith, a jewelry maker—as well as a farmer and even for a while a restaurant owner in Stowe, Vermont. But his enduring legacy remains the photos he captured as he roamed Boston’s streets and as much of off-road New England as he could find. Historic New England offers a glimpse of Reed’s special eye for detail at its website: historicnewengland.org/collections-archivesexhibitions/online-exhibitions/verner-reed

—Mel Allen

Since 1994, Historic New England has been the keeper of a collection of more than 2,000 images of New England life, mostly glass-plate negatives, amassed by Yankee founder Robb Sagendorph in the 1960s. See more shots from the collection at: historicnewengland.org

Christmas Reflections, Boston, 1955

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Yield: 6 servings

Put the water, cloves, and cinnamon in a 2- to 3-quart pot and bring to a gentle simmer over medium-high heat. Add the tea and turn off the heat. Steep 5 minutes. Remove the tea and strain the spice water into a serving bowl. Discard the cloves and cinnamon. Add the orange juice, lemon juice, and sugar to the tea and stir. Stir in the brandy, whiskey, or cognac (your choice). Serve hot, garnished with a lemon slice.

Garnish: thin lemon slices

1 cup brandy, whiskey, or cognac

1 cup sugar

Juice of 2 lemons

1 cup orange juice

3 bags black tea

1 stick cinnamon

6 whole cloves

6 cups water

selves—just keep it in a ceramic pitcher on a warming tray or in a slow cooker set to low heat.

ahead of time and let guests serve -them

This November 1959 recipe was such a hit in testing that it has become a go-to party drink for our editors. The combination of tea, citrus, spice, and spirits is both -warm ing and refreshing. Plus, you can make it

-HANDS ON TIME : 15 MINUTES

TOTAL TIME : 15 MINUTES ;

Yield: about 2 pints

WITCHES’ WREB

are nicely caramelized, about 30 -min utes. Add the vinegar, sugar, and -cran berries, and continue cooking until the cranberries have split their skins, about 10 minutes. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

minutes; then stir, reduce the heat to medium-low, and continue cooking, stirring occasionally, until the onions

Let the onions cook without stirring 5

Heat a large skillet over medium-high heat and add the oil, then the onions.

Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste

2 cups cranberries

3 cup sugar

2 pounds sweet white onions, sliced very thinly

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

sweetness makes the dish.

Few chefs are more deeply connected to New England cooking than Jasper White. In November 1991, we asked him to produce a menu of Thanksgiving sides, which he did with serious attention to the historical record. Knowing that cranberries and onions were widely eaten in colonial America, he combined them into this sweet-savory condiment. Be sure to let the onions caramelize fully—their

-HANDS ON TIME : 15 MINUTES

TOTAL TIME : 55 MINUTES ;

C RANBERRY– NIONO JAM

SAUCE S & DRINKS

Yield: 6 to 8 servings

with the whipped cream. Sprinkle with gingersnap crumbs. Slice the cake crosswise and serve immediately.

¼ cup of heavy cream with the cream cheese, sour cream, granulated sugar, and vanilla. Beat until smooth. Spread a bit of the filling between two gingersnap cookies and set them, standing on their sides, into a -stan dard bread-loaf pan. Spread filling on another cookie and press it onto the stack. Add another layer of filling and a cookie. Repeat until you have 9 or 10 cookies across, depending on the width of your pan. Repeat this method to create 2 more rows. Cover the bread pan with plastic wrap and refrigerate at least 6 hours and up to 1 day. Whip the remaining 1 cup of heavy cream with the powdered sugar to form firm peaks. Transfer the cookie stacks to a serving platter and frost generously

In a medium-size bowl, use a handheld or standing mixer to combine

Garnish: gingersnap cookie crumbs

3 tablespoons powdered sugar

cream cheese

(Neufchâtel)

1 8-ounce package reduced-fat

1/4 cup plus 1 cup heavy cream

ish gingerbread wafers, such as Anna’s brand (available at Ikea) or Nyåkers, are ideal. But regular store-bought -ginger snaps are fine.

N ote: For best results, buy the best gingersnap cookies you can find. Swed -

Inspired by a July 1947 recipe, which called for stacking gingersnaps with whipped cream, cream cheese, maraschino cherries, and walnuts, we opted for a loaf cake in the style of the classic chocolate icebox cake. It can be easily doubled for a large crowd and looks gorgeous when sliced.

cake is the holiday dessert of your dreams!

Attention, non-bakers: This no-bake

-HANDS ON TIME : 20 MINUTES

PLUS AT LEAST 6 HOURS CHILLING ;

TOTAL TIME : 20 MINUTES

ERBREADGGIN CEBOXI

Yield: 8 servings

Just before serving, make the topping: Use a standing or handheld mixer to whip the cream, powdered sugar, and hazelnut liqueur into medium peaks. Spoon a bit of whipped cream over each slice of pie and sprinkle with chopped hazelnuts.

Pour into the prepared shell. Bake until the filling is set and a knife inserted into the center comes out clean, 45 to 50 -min utes. Cool completely on a wire rack.

Meanwhile, heat your oven to 375°. Line a pie shell with parchment paper or foil and fill with pie weights or dried beans. Bake until the edges are golden, about 20 minutes. Remove the weights and parchment and bake an additional 10 minutes. Remove from the oven and cool. Reduce the heat to 350°. In a medium-size bowl, whisk together the pumpkin purée, cream, eggs, brown sugar, cinnamon, ginger, and nutmeg.

1/

4 cup cider vinegar

1/

(see “Note,” below left)

36–40 gingersnap cookies

1 1

3 tablespoons granulated sugar

Flute the edges and prick the bottom with a fork. Chill 20 minutes.

Roll out the chilled dough on a lightly floured surface to form an 11-inch round. Transfer to a pie plate, pressing the dough into the corners.

Preheat your oven to 350° and set a rack to the middle position. Make the crust: In a medium-size bowl, stir together the flour, sugar, and salt. Use a pastry cutter or fork to cut the butter cubes into the dry ingredients until the pieces are about the size of a pea. Then use your fingers to rub some of the butter into the flour so that it forms flakes; the mixture should look like cornmeal with lumps in it. Stir it into the toasted hazelnuts. Sprinkle in the water and vinegar, mixing with a fork until the pastry begins to hold together. Gather it into a ball, press into a disc, and wrap in plastic wrap. Chill at least 30 -min utes and up to overnight.

1/4 cup coarsely chopped hazelnuts

1 tablespoon hazelnut liqueur

2 tablespoons powdered sugar

1 cup heavy cream

FOR THE TOPPING:

1/2 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg

3/4 teaspoon ground ginger

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

2/3 cup firmly packed light-brown sugar

2 large eggs, lightly beaten

1 cup heavy cream

2 cups plain pumpkin purée

FOR THE ILLING:F

1 teaspoon white or cider vinegar

3–4 tablespoons cold water

3 tablespoons finely ground hazelnuts

8 tablespoons (1 stick) cold butter, cut into cubes

1/2 teaspoon table salt

1 tablespoon granulated sugar

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

FOR THE C T:SRU

Corby Kummer riffed on classic pumpkin pie with multiple variations, including Pecan Crunch, Marble Cheesecake, and this charmer. It’s fully recognizable to -tra ditionalists, but adds a pleasing aroma of hazelnuts to keep things interesting.

In our October 1995 issue, food writer

Yield: 8 to 10 servings

Pour the cranberry filling into the prepared baking dish (or ramekins); then top with the cornmeal batter. Bake until the topping is firm and just beginning to turn golden at the edges, 25 to 30 minutes. Serve warm, with ice cream.

high heat, bring the apple, cranberries, 1 cup of sugar, and 1 cup of water to a boil. Reduce the heat to a simmer and cook 10 minutes; then remove from the heat and let sit 15 minutes. Meanwhile, make the topping: In a medium-size bowl, whisk together the flour, -corn meal, baking powder, and salt. Add the egg, oil, milk, and lemon zest, and stir just to combine.

In a 3- to 4-quart pot over medium-

inch baking dish or 8 ramekins. Set aside.

Preheat your oven to 350° and set a rack to the middle position. Grease a 9x13-

Yield: about 3½ dozen

Preheat your oven to 350° and set your oven racks to the lower and upper third position. Dust the counter with flour and roll the dough out to a 3/1inch thickness. Use cookie cutters to cut the dough into desired shapes; then arrange on cookie sheets and transfer to the oven. Bake until cookies just begin to turn golden brown, about 20 minutes. Remove from the oven and let cool to room temperature. Meanwhile, melt the chocolate in a double boiler. Dip a corner of each cooled cookie into the chocolate and set on a piece of waxed paper until the chocolate firms up, at least 30 minutes, depending on the weather. Store in airtight containers on layers of waxed paper.

In the bowl of a standing mixer (or in a large bowl, if using a hand-held mixer), cream the butter and sugar on medium speed until blended. Add the flour and beat until the dough comes together (it will look crumbly at first). Gather the dough into a ball, and knead twice; then press it into a disc and wrap it in plastic wrap. Chill at least 30 minutes and up to overnight.

7 ounces semisweet chocolate, finely chopped

2 1/3 cups all-purpose flour, plus more for work surface

3½ cups (12-ounce package) cranberries, fresh or frozen 1 cup granulated sugar 1 cup water

1 large firm-tart apple, such as Granny Smith or Northern Spy, peeled and diced

FOR THE ILLING:F

Puff-Up” recipe, from which this cobbler draws its inspiration. It was a tasty dish, but we liked it even better when we added apples in the filling and cornmeal in the topping.

Irene Young of Melrose, Massachusetts, won $3 in March 1947 for her “Cranberry

1 cup firmly packed light-brown sugar

2 sticks salted butter, softened

Chances are you have everything you need to make these tasty bites in your kitchen right now.

Who can argue with a cookie that calls for just four ingredients (three if you skip the chocolate)? We found this one in our December 1948 issue and tweaked the proportions so that it worked with contemporary ingredients (flour and butter have changed through the years).

TOTAL TIME : 1 HOUR 20 MINUTES ; -HANDS ON TIME : 30 MINUTES

BROWN-SUGAR READBSHORT

Yield: 8 servings

a decorative frill around the edge and dust the pie all over with nutmeg.

serving, pipe whipped cream to create

Beat the heavy cream to form stiff peaks. Set aside ¼ cup of the whipped cream to decorate the pie. Fold the rest of the cream into the filling; then pour it into the pie shell. Refrigerate until firm, at least 2 hours. Just before

tic wrap pressed into the surface so that it doesn’t form a skin. Refrigerate until the mixture cools to room temperature, about 1 hour (you don’t want it to get too firm).

Garnish: freshly grated nutmeg

YankeeMagazine.com/ Pie-Crust )

(for a recipe, go to:

1 prepared graham-cracker crust

1 1/3 cups heavy cream

1/4 teaspoon table salt

1/2 cup granulated sugar

3 large eggs, lightly beaten

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

2 tablespoons whiskey

1 envelope (1 tablespoon) unflavored gelatin

Pour ¼ cup of the milk into a small bowl; sprinkle the gelatin over it. Let stand until the gelatin softens, about 10 minutes. Meanwhile, in a 2- to 3-quart sauce pan, combine the remaining ¾ cup of milk with whiskey and vanilla. Set it over medium-low heat. Whisk in the eggs, sugar, and salt, and cook, stirring continuously, until the -mix ture reaches 160° on an instant-read thermometer. Watch the mixture -care fully so that it doesn’t curdle. Remove it from the heat and stir in the gelatin to dissolve. Transfer the mixture to a medium-size bowl and cover with -plas

DESSERTS

1/4 cup plus 3/4 cup milk

Yield: 10 to 12 servings

and bake until the top is browned and the dressing is cooked through, about 45 minutes. Serve hot.

Add this mixture to the crumbled cornbread along with the reserved bacon, pecans, and thyme. In a small bowl, whisk together the stock, bourbon, and egg. Pour over the cornbread mixture and toss to coat. Transfer to the prepared baking dish

We love chiffon pie and think it’s time for a chiffon revival. These gelatin-fortified puddings, folded with fluffy whipped cream, produce incredible textures. And they’re great for non-cooks who don’t feel like baking. (Hint: You can use a storebought crust here.) This pie tastes like a glass of creamy eggnog and is based on a wartime Thanksgiving recipe from November 1942. Yankee’s food editor at the time, Marjorie Mills, wrote, “It departs a bit too much from the traditional for our taste, but it’s a delectable -concoc tion.” We’re glad you broke with tradition, Marjorie. This one’s a winner.

Gingerbread Icebox

Cheesecake (recipe on p. F27)

Creamy Pumpkin Pie with Hazelnut Crust (recipe on p. F26)

Brown-Sugar Shortbread

(recipe on p. F26)

Crumble the cornbread in a large bowl and set aside. In a large skillet, cook the bacon over medium-low heat until crisp. Drain it on paper towels, reserving the fat in the pan. Add the onion and celery to the pan; season with salt and pepper. Cook, stirring often, until the onion is translucent, about 6 minutes.

Preheat your oven to 350° and set a rack to the middle position. Butter a 9x13inch baking dish and set aside.

1 large egg, beaten

2 tablespoons bourbon

1 cup reduced-sodium chicken stock or turkey stock

2 teaspoons dried thyme

1 cup chopped pecans

2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

1 teaspoon kosher salt

2 large stalks celery, diced

1 medium-size onion, diced

4 slices thick-cut bacon, sliced

1 1/

1/

1 loaf day-old cornbread (for a recipe, go to: Yankee Magazine.com/cornbread )

Butter (for dish)

ON–PECANBBOUR DRESSING

Yield: about 12 servings turkey with 5 cups gravy

While the turkey is resting, make the gravy: Set the roasting pan with the drippings over two burners on your stove and set both to medium heat. Add the remaining Basting Sauce and whisk in the flour. Cook, whisking -continu ously to pick up any browned bits from the bottom of the pan. Add the stock and cook, stirring, until the gravy is thickened and smooth (if needed, run it through a strainer). Season with salt, pepper, and bourbon. Carve the turkey and serve with the gravy.

drippings in the roasting pan. Let the turkey rest 20 minutes before carving.

until the skin is golden brown and a thermometer inserted into the thickest part of the breast to the bone registers 160°, another 1½ to 2 hours, depending on the size of your bird. Remove from the oven and transfer the bird to a -carv ing board; tent it with foil. Reserve the

the saucepan, along with the maple syrup. Do not boil. Tie the turkey’s legs together with butcher’s twine. Place the turkey, breast side down, on a rack in a large roasting pan and brush the cavity with half of the Basting Sauce. Pour 2 cups of chicken or turkey stock into the bottom of the pan. Cover the turkey with tented aluminum foil; just pat it down over the meat (no need to seal). Transfer to the oven and reduce the heat to 325°. Roast 1½ hours; then remove the foil and flip the bird breast side up and baste. Return it to the oven and roast, uncovered, basting with Basting Sauce every 30 minutes or so— and adding stock to the pan as needed to keep the drippings from burning—

Eggnog Chiffon Pie

(recipe opposite)

Cranberry–Apple Cobbler (recipe on p. F26)

Now make the Basting Sauce: In a small saucepan, melt the butter over low heat. Put bourbon and pecans in a blender; blend until smooth. Add to

Remove the bird from the brine, and drain and pat dry. Let the turkey sit, uncovered, 30 minutes at room -tem perature before roasting. Discard the brine. Preheat your oven to 400° and set a rack to the lowest position.

The evening before you roast the turkey, mix the water, salt, bourbon, sugar, garlic, and bay leaves in a lobster pot or other container large enough to accommodate the bird; stir until the salt and sugar have completely dissolved. Place the whole turkey in the brine, breast side down, and move it around a bit to expel air from the cavity. Place the container in the refrigerator (if brining outside, remember to add ice and secure the lid). Let the turkey rest in the brine 12 hours.

1 tablespoon bourbon

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste

4 cups reduced-sodium chicken stock or turkey stock

1/2 cup all-purpose flour

FOR T HE GRAVY: Drippings from the roasting pan Remaining Basting Sauce

4 cups reduced-sodium chicken stock or turkey stock, divided

Remove the giblets and neck from the bird, saving the neck if you plan to make stock (for a recipe, go to: Yankee Magazine.com/Stock). Set aside.

gallons cold water

/

FOR T HE BRINE: 1 12- to 15-pound natural turkey (see “Note,” above)

N ote: This recipe works best with a natural, untreated turkey. If you’re using a kosher or pre-brined turkey, skip the brining step.

It’s hard to imagine more companionable flavors than bourbon and pecans, and although both may have their roots in the South, they suit a New England -Thanks giving menu when added to dressing, turkey, and gravy. Inspired by a recipe from November 1980, we brine a turkey overnight in a bourbon-infused solution, then roast it with a basting liquid of butter, bourbon, pecans, and maple syrup.

PLUS AT LEAST 8 HOURS BRINING ; -HANDS ON TIME : 45 MINUTES

TOTAL TIME : ABOUT 3½ HOURS

TURKEY & GRAVY

BRINED ON–PECANBBOUR

Cranberry–Onion Jam

(recipe on p. F27)

Spoon ½ cup of the sauce into a small bowl. Add the egg yolks one at a time, beating well after each addition. Add this mixture back to the sauce and stir over low heat until the sauce is smooth and thick, 3 minutes; don’t let it boil. Remove from the heat and add the lobster. Pour the mixture into a medium-size casserole dish and -sprin kle with the topping. Transfer to the oven and bake until golden brown, 10 to 15 minutes. Serve hot, garnished with minced chives. Yield: 4 to 6 servings

Preheat your oven to 350° and set a rack to the middle position. Make the -top ping: In a small bowl, stir together the butter, crackers, paprika, and cheese. Set aside. Next, make the filling: In a large skillet over medium-high heat, melt 3 tablespoons of butter. Add the sherry and boil 1 minute. Add the lobster, stir, and remove from the heat. Strain the juices from the skillet into a liquid measuring cup (reserving the lobster). Set aside. In a 3- to 4-quart sauce-pan over medium-low heat, melt the -remain ing 5 tablespoons of butter. Add the flour and cook, stirring, until the -mix ture looks smooth and glossy. Stir the half-and-half into the reserved lobster/ sherry mixture; then whisk that into the butter/flour mixture. Increase the heat to medium-high and simmer, stirring continuously, until the sauce thickens, about 3 minutes.

Garnish: minced chives

4 large egg yolks, lightly beaten

2 cups half-and-half

3 tablespoons all-purpose flour

2 cups (12 ounces) chopped cooked lobster meat

This dish is inspired by the original Lobster Pie recipe from The Publick House in Sturbridge, Massachusetts, which we ran in the October 1949 issue. -Unapologeti cally rich and unforgettably delicious, it’s a cele bration food that every New -Eng lander should make at least once.

-HANDS ON TIME : 25 MINUTES

TOTAL TIME : 40 MINUTES ;

LOBSTER PIE

4–6 tablespoons ice water

1 1/2 teaspoons white or cider vinegar

1 large egg yolk, lightly beaten

10 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, diced

1 teaspoon table salt

2 cups all-purpose flour, plus more for work surface

FOR THE CRUST:

Yield: 8 servings

work surface dusted with flour, roll out the bottom and top crusts. Line a pie plate with the larger crust and spoon in the pork/potato mixture. Add the top crust and flute the edges. Brush the top with milk and prick with a fork. Bake until the crust is golden brown, about 30 minutes.

Stir in the egg and vinegar; then add the ice water a tablespoon at a time until the dough holds together. Work the mixture into a cohesive ball; then divide it in half (one half slightly bigger than the other). Press each half into a disc, wrap in plastic, and chill at least 30 minutes and up to 2 days. Meanwhile, make the filling: in a medium-size skillet over medium heat, combine the pork, onion, salt, and water. Simmer, stirring often, until all liquid evaporates, 15 to 20 minutes. Stir in the spices. Add the potatoes and beat to combine. Preheat your oven to 400°. On a

2010. (We streamlined the technique and changed the spices.) Serve hot, warm, or cold (with mustard)—it’s delicious at any temperature.

They’re simple, cozy, and flavorful, and a great way to make use of leftover mashed potatoes. This version was inspired by the 100-year-old family recipe of Raymond (“Moose”) and Penny Despres, whose cooking we featured in January/February

Meat pies are a staple of Acadian cooking, particularly around the holidays.

-HANDS ON TIME : 50 MINUTES

TOTAL TIME : 1½ HOURS ;

MEAT & SEAFOOD ENTRÉES TOURTIÈRE (FRENCH CANADIAN PORK PIE)

Yield: 10 to 12 servings

1/

1

1/4 cup dry sherry

3 tablespoons plus 5 tablespoons salted butter

FOR THE FILLING:

2 tablespoons grated Parmesan cheese

2 teaspoon paprika

2 cup crushed Ritz-style (butter) crackers

2 tablespoons salted butter, melted

First, make the crust: In a large bowl, whisk together the flour and salt. Use a pastry cutter or fork to cut the butter cubes into the dry ingredients until the pieces are about the size of a pea. Then use your fingers to rub some of the butter into the flour so that it forms flakes; the mixture should look like cornmeal with lumps in it.

1 tablespoon milk

3 cups mashed potatoes

teaspoon ground cloves

Cook, stirring continuously, until the sauce thickens and bubbles. Remove the saucepan from the heat. Add the blue cheese, mustard, Worcestershire sauce, and pepper; stir to incorporate. Spread half of the sauce over the potatoes; then sprinkle with half the Parmesan cheese. Layer the remaining potatoes over the cheese and cover with the remaining sauce. Sprinkle with the remaining Parmesan. Bake until the potatoes are tender and the cheese on top is golden brown, 45 to 50 -min utes more (you can run the dish briefly under a broiler for extra browning, if you like). Serve hot.

1/

1/

12/

FOR THE TOPPING:

the prepared dish and set aside. In a medium-size saucepan over low heat, melt the butter. Add the shallots and cook, stirring, 1 minute. Add the flour, stir or whisk to blend, and cook 2 -min utes. Add the milk and buttermilk.

Arrange half of the potato slices in overlapping rows in the bottom of

Preheat your oven to 350°. Lightly grease a 9x13-inch baking dish.

3/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese, divided

1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

2 teaspoons Worcestershire sauce

2 teaspoons mustard (Dijon or brown)

2 1/2 ounces blue cheese, crumbled, divided

1 cup buttermilk

1 1/2 cups whole or 2% milk

2 1/2 tablespoons all-purpose flour

3 shallots, minced

3 tablespoons salted butter, plus more for the pan

6 large Yukon Gold potatoes, peeled, sliced 1/4 -inch thick

Mary Lou Carlson of Bothell, -Washing ton, was one of 17 winners of our October

BUTTERMILK–BLUE CHEESE

1988 “Great New England Cook-Off” for her fresh take on potato casserole. Like many “gourmet” recipes of the era, it had a laundry list of ingredients, so we cut it back while preserving the rich flavors of the blue cheese, mustard, and Worcestershire sauce.

3 tablespoons of the cooking oil over the kale and toss with the lemon slices and garlic. Serve warm or at room -tem perature. Yield: 8 servings

1 1/2 pounds fresh kale, stem ends removed, chopped

3 large cloves garlic, thinly sliced

1 lemon, very thinly sliced

1/3 cup all-purpose flour

Olive oil (for frying)

1 tablespoon plus 1/4 teaspoon kosher salt

food. Mary served hers with lemon wedges on the side, but we love the beauty and mellow tartness of fried lemon slices. The oil in which you cook the lemon and garlic becomes the dressing for the kale.

Fill a 5- to 7-quart pot with water to a depth of ¾ inch. Add 1 tablespoon of salt. Set a steamer basket into the pot and bring to a simmer over mediumhigh heat. Meanwhile, pour the oil into a medium-size skillet to a depth of ½ inch and set it over medium-low heat; bring it to a temperature of 300° to 350°. In a small bowl, stir together the flour and the remaining ¼ teaspoon of salt. Toss the lemon slices with the flour mixture to coat. Add the lemon slices to the skillet in two batches and cook until golden brown, 1 to 3 minutes. Remove and drain on paper towels. Add the garlic to the pan and cook until golden brown, about 1 -min ute. Remove and drain on paper towels. Reserve the oil. Put the kale in the steaming basket with the simmering water and cook until just tender, 7 to 9 minutes. Drain and transfer to a serving bowl. Drizzle

Buttermilk–Blue Cheese Potato au Gratin

(recipe below)

Kale with Fried Lemon & Garlic

(recipe opposite)

Lobster Pie (recipe on p. F22)

We featured Mary Codola’s Italian -Amer ican cooking in our “Great New England Cooks” column back in December 1984, long before kale became the go-to power

-HANDS ON TIME : 35 MINUTES

TOTAL TIME : 35 MINUTES ;

KALE HITW RIEDF ONMEL & CARLIG

Preheat your oven to 400°. Lightly grease a 9x13-inch baking pan and arrange the potatoes in it. In a small bowl, stir together the maple syrup, vinegar, salt, and pepper. Pour over the potatoes; then sprinkle the butter pieces evenly over all. Cover the pan with foil and bake 25 minutes. Uncover the pan and baste the -pota toes generously with the liquid. Cook, uncovered, basting thoroughly every 15 minutes, for 45 minutes longer. Sprinkle the pecans over all and baste one more time; then bake until the potatoes are shiny, glazed, and lightly browned, 15 to 20 minutes more. Serve hot. Yield: 8 to 10 servings

1/2 cup chopped pecans

3 tablespoons salted butter, cut into small pieces, plus more for the pan

Freshly ground black pepper, to taste

1 teaspoon kosher salt

2 tablespoons cider vinegar

2/3 cup maple syrup

3 pounds sweet potatoes, peeled and sliced 1/3 -inch-thick

casserole, a subtle counterpoint to the maple syrup’s sweetness. The idea came from a March 1939 story on Vermont maple culture that included dozens of recipes, including one for sweet potatoes steamed in maple syrup and vinegar. Our version calls for regular basting, which builds a tantalizing glaze, and pecans for crunch.

Vinegar is the secret ingredient in this

Yield: 8 to 10 servings

Shake well until the mixture is fully blended, about 10 seconds. Taste and add more salt if desired. Toss the -dress ing with watercress and currants until lightly coated.

Put the oil, vinegar, mustard, honey, salt, and pepper in a small jar or other container with a tightly fitting lid.

2 large bunches watercress (about 8 ounces each), washed, dried, large stems removed 3/4 cup dried currants

¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

½ teaspoon kosher salt, plus more to taste

2 teaspoons honey

1 teaspoon Dijon mustard

2 tablespoons apple-cider vinegar

6 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

In 2003, we consulted with historians at Plimoth Plantation and asked writer Jane Walsh to devise a menu using ingredients that would have been served at the first Thanksgiving meal. We prioritized deliciousness over strict authenticity, but we did use currants, which grew wild in the area. Likewise, watercress might have been available if the frosts had held off. That formed the basis of this simple salad with a tangy cider vinaigrette.

Garnish: about 30 small sage leaves

1 clove garlic, halved

1 baguette, cut into 1/-inch-thick3 slices

2 egg whites, beaten to firm peaks

8 tablespoons (1 stick) salted butter

3 ounces cream cheese

4 ounces sharp Cheddar cheese

Casserole) are best left to memory, but this quirky appetizer from December 1974 caught our eye. The cheese sauce is leavened with egg white so that it toasts up, a bit soufflé-like, on rounds of French bread. A fun alternative to cheese twists.

In the 1960s and ’70s, we ran readersubmitted recipes in a regular column titled “My Favorite Recipe.” Some dishes (Kidney Bean Relish, Liver & Rice

-HANDS ON TIME : 30 MINUTES

TOTAL TIME : 45 MINUTES ;

HOLIDAY C EESEH PUFFS

Yield: 8 to 10 servings

Sprinkle the flour and paprika over the mushroom mixture and stir 1 -min ute. Slowly add the chicken stock, -stir ring continuously; then increase the heat to medium-high and simmer 20 minutes. Stir in the cream and reduce the heat to low; cook 5 more minutes. Add salt and pepper to taste, stir in the chopped thyme, and serve hot, -gar nished with fresh thyme.

CWATER RESS–CURRANT ALADS HITW

Yield: about 30 pieces

Bake until puffy and browned, 10 to 15 minutes. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Arrange on the prepared baking sheets, coated side up. Press a sage leaf into the center of each slice.

mering water. Add the Cheddar, cream cheese, and butter, and melt, whisking continuously until creamy. Remove the bowl from the heat and let it sit 5 -min utes to cool. Now fold in the egg whites in two batches. Dip one side of each bread slice into the cheese mixture.

Preheat your oven to 400°. Line 2 -bak ing sheets with parchment paper. Set a double boiler over a pot of -sim

In a 5- to 7-quart pot over medium heat, cook the leeks in butter, stirring often, until softened, about 6 minutes. -Gen tly stir in the potatoes and mushrooms and cook, stirring occasionally, until the mushrooms give up some of their liquid and shrink in size, about 8 minutes.

Garnish: Fresh thyme

2 tablespoons chopped fresh thyme

2 cups light cream or half-and-half Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste

1 quart reduced-sodium chicken stock

2 teaspoons ground paprika

2 tablespoons all-purpose flour

1 pound (about 8 cups) assorted mixed mushrooms (see “Note,” p. F19), sliced

1 large Yukon Gold potato, peeled and diced

4 tablespoons salted butter

1 medium-size leek, thinly sliced

N ote: Wild mushrooms, such as -por cini, morel, and chanterelle, would be delicious in this soup, but they’re very expensive. We had terrific results using a simple mix of sliced button, cremini (“baby bella”), and shiitake mushrooms, all sold in our local supermarket.

with her husband, Steve, in Gorham, N.H., in 1997, and has been bringing “locally sourced, funky fine dining” to the White Mountains ever since. This recipe, from Jan./Feb. 2002, extracts big, earthy flavors from just a handful of ingredients and can be served puréed (as originally presented) or chunky. These days, we prefer the latter.

Chef Liz Jackson founded Libby’s Bistro

Melt the butter in a 5- to 7-quart pot over medium heat. Add the celery, carrots, and onion and cook, stirring occasionally, until translucent, about 6 minutes. Sprinkle the flour over all and stir 2 minutes. Add the chicken stock a bit at a time, whisking as you go, until you have a smooth base. Add the milk and cream and stir to combine. Purée the mixture in batches in a blender (or use an immersion blender) until smooth. Return to the pot over low heat and sprinkle the cheese over the liquid, a handful at a time, stirring -con tinuously until smooth. Season to taste

1 large carrot, peeled and diced

1 stalk celery, diced

5 tablespoons salted butter

Louise Andrews Kent was a well-known writer of cookbooks and fiction in the post–World War II era. Under the pen name Mrs. Appleyard, she wrote witty tales, bookended by recipes, of life in Calais, Vermont (look for them in used-book stores —they’re terrific reads). We ran the recipe for this zesty, creamy soup from The Summer Kitchen in June 1957, the year it was published. In testing, it required very few updates, a proven classic that’s even more delicious the next day.

-HANDS ON TIME : 35 MINUTES

TOTAL TIME : 45 MINUTES ;

VERMONT CHEDDAR SOUP

SOUPS, SALADS & S TARTERS

Mushroom, Leek & Potato Soup

(recipe below) Maple & Cider-Glazed Sweet Potatoes

(recipe on p. F20)

Yield: about 16 doughnuts

the heat to maintain a steady -tempera ture. Check it periodically with the thermometer. Transfer the cooked doughnuts to paper towels to drain. If desired, toss them in cinnamon sugar when they’re cool enough to handle. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Gather the scraps and gently press out again as needed to use up all the dough. Fill a Dutch oven with oil or -short ening to a depth of 2½ inches. Set over medium heat and bring the -tempera ture to 375° (check with a -thermom eter). Working in small batches, cook the doughnuts in the oil, turning once, until puffed and golden brown on both sides, 2 to 4 minutes per side. As you fry, you may need to reduce or increase

With your hands, gently press the dough out to a ½-inch thickness and cut into rounds using a doughnut cutter or two biscuit cutters (a large and a small).

In a large bowl, cream the butter and sugar with a standing or handheld mixer until fluffy, about 1 minute. Add the egg and vanilla and beat until glossy and pale yellow. Add the potato and buttermilk and beat until smooth. Add the flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and nutmeg and beat just until evenly -com bined. The dough should now be fairly easy to handle, but still a bit sticky.

Cinnamon sugar, for dusting (optional)

Vegetable shortening or vegetable oil for frying (see “Note,” left)

1/2 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg

1/2 teaspoon table salt

1 teaspoon baking soda

1 teaspoon baking powder

Generously dust your counter with flour (the recipe is calibrated so that the dough can absorb this flour without getting dry). Turn the dough out onto the counter and flip to coat with flour.

2 cups all-purpose flour, plus more for work surface

1/4 cup buttermilk, at room temperature

1 cup lightly packed mashed russet or Yukon Gold potatoes (see “Note,” above)

1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract

1 large egg, at room temperature

3/4 cup granulated sugar

3 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened

Feel free to just use leftover mashed potatoes, though, provided they aren’t flavored with garlic, chives, etc.

Note: The drier your potatoes are, the lighter your doughnuts will be, so we bake or microwave them, rather than boil them. Running the cooked spuds through a potato ricer gives a fluffier texture. When it comes to frying doughnuts, we find that melted vegetable shortening produces a crisper crust.

Among them: Puff Balls, Fried Shoestrings, and Maine Chowder. But those doughnuts tempted us across the generations and stand the test of time.

in Bethel, Maine.”

Puffs

on p. F20)

“the busy wife of a very busy country doctor

In May 1937, two years after Yankee’s founding, we ran a story called “Aroostook’s Hundred Recipes,” which offered a full century of dishes from Pearl Ashby Tibbetts,

TOTAL TIME : 1 HOUR 20 MINUTES ;

MAINE POTATO DOUGHNUTS

Yield: 8 servings

20 minutes. Remove from the oven and let the eggs sit 10 minutes; then remove them from the pan and serve warm.

Add the mushrooms and salt and cook, stirring occasionally, until the -mush rooms give up their liquid and begin to brown. Remove from the heat. Crack an egg into each of the bread cups and add a teaspoon of cream to each. Divide the mushrooms evenly among the cups. Top each with a -tea spoonful of grated Parmesan and bake

Meanwhile, set a large skillet over medium-high heat and add the oil.

6 to 8 minutes. Remove from the oven.

Preheat your oven to 350° and set a rack to the middle position. Cut the crusts off each slice of bread; then use a rolling pin to lightly flatten each slice. Take a standard muffin tin and brush 8 of the cups with some of the butter. Gently press a slice of bread into each of the buttered cups, draping the corners as needed. Brush the bread with the remaining butter. Transfer to the oven and bake until lightly toasted,

Parmesan cheese

3 tablespoons (approx.) freshly grated

3 tablespoons (approx.) heavy cream

8 medium-size eggs

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

12 ounces sliced button mushrooms

4 tablespoons olive oil

3 tablespoons salted butter, melted

8 slices soft white or whole-wheat bread

and pretty, a great meatless brunch staple.

TOTAL TIME : 1 HOUR ; -HANDS ON TIME : 30 MINUTES

BAKED EGGS & MUSHROOMS IN TOAST CUPS

Yield: 12 servings

Transfer the buns to the prepared baking pan, leaving space between them. Cover with plastic wrap and let rise until doubled, about 45 minutes. Heat your oven to 350°. Bake the buns until golden brown, 30 to 35 -min utes. Cool in the pan 20 minutes. Meanwhile, make the glaze: Whisk together the powdered sugar and halfand-half. Set up two cooling racks with waxed paper beneath. Transfer the buns to the racks. When lukewarm, drizzle the buns with glaze. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Ruth Stocks of Atlanta, Georgia, won $1 for this recipe in Yankee’s June 1954 reader recipe contest. Her version called for cooked eggs in a cream sauce; we prefer them baked in toast “shells.” They’re rustic

the cylinder crosswise with a sharp knife to make 12 buns.

Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface. Lightly grease the -mix ing bowl with butter; then return the dough to the bowl, turn it to coat it with butter, and cover with plastic wrap. Let rise until doubled in bulk, 1 to 1½ hours. Meanwhile, prepare the filling: In a medium-size bowl, stir together the butter, brown sugar, and cinnamon with a fork. Set aside. Butter a 9x13-inch baking pan. Punch down the risen dough and turn it back out onto the floured surface. Roll the dough out into a 12x15-inch rectangle, with the long side facing you. Spread the filling over the dough, -leav ing a 1-inch border at the top. Roll the dough up from the bottom to make a cylinder, pinching the top to seal. Slice

still feels sticky, add more flour, 2 tablespoons at a time.

the dough becomes cohesive and smooth, 4 to 5 minutes. If the dough

medium and continue kneading until

In the bowl of a standing mixer, whisk together the flour, the -remain ing 4 tablespoons of sugar, and the salt. Replace the whisk with a dough hook and add the liquid ingredients. Mix on low speed until the dough comes together; then increase the speed to

Make the dough: In a medium-size bowl, stir 1 tablespoon of sugar into the warm milk. Sprinkle the yeast over the milk (don’t stir) and let it sit 5 minutes to activate yeast (it should look foamy). Whisk in the butter and egg.

2–3 tablespoons half-and-half

1 cup powdered sugar

2 tablespoons ground cinnamon

2 cup firmly packed light-brown sugar

4 tablespoons salted butter, at room temperature

1/

FOR THE ILLINGF AND GLAZE:

1 teaspoon table salt

4 cups all-purpose flour, plus more for work surface and as needed

1 large egg, at room temperature

6 tablespoons salted butter, melted, plus more for bowl and baking pan

1 packet (2¼ teaspoons) dry yeast

1 1/3 cups warm milk

1 tablespoon plus 4 tablespoons granulated sugar

FOR THE UNS:B

Over the decades, Yankee has featured hundreds of recipes from talented New England home cooks. These delicious buns are one example, adapted from an April 1980 recipe by Mabel Gray of Putney, Vermont. We streamlined the original, but the result is true to Mabel’s tender, easy-to-work dough, stuffed with plenty of cinnamon and brown sugar.

-HANDS ON TIME : 35 MINUTES

TOTAL TIME : 3½ HOURS ;

CINNAMON BUNS

BREAKFASTS & BREADS

Cinnamon Buns (recipe below)

Maine Potato Doughnuts (recipe opposite)

worth of recipes, we sought out classic flavors: chocolate and spice, pumpkin and sage, citrus and cranberry. Our menu had to feature distinctly New England dishes, calling on traditional fare such as hearty soups and richly delicious pies. But we also wanted to tailor each one to appeal to modern sensi bilities (and time restrictions). And so we bring you 21 fresh-butfamiliar recipes from our kitchen, each a reason to celebrate the season.

December, from the turkey and sweet potatoes at Thanksgiving to the roasts and cookies that anchor the Christmas table. Looking back over nine decades’

o other time of year is as festive or as rich in food traditions as November and

YEARS OF Holiday Favorites

In honor of ankeeY s’ 80th anniversary, we’ve mined our archives for the best seasonal recipes from the 1930s to today.

Brined Bourbon–Pecan Turkey & Gravy (recipe on p. F23)

Bourbon–Pecan Dressing (recipe on p. F24)

Looking for more iconic New England recipes like these? Each issue, Aimee profiles a classic Yankee dish in her “Recipe With a History” column. We’re looking for great stories that capture the spirit of our region. Got a favorite you’d like to share? E-mail editors@yankee pub.com and put “Recipe With a History” in the subject heading.

liq

Webb House Damask wallpaper courtesy of Adelphi Paper Hangings, LLC

Preheat your oven to 400° and set a rack to the middle position. On a floured surface, roll out one disc of dough (freeze the other disc for later), working from the center, into a 10-inch circle, about 8/1 inch thick. Carefully transfer the dough to a pie plate and press into the sides. Drape any excess crust over the edge; then fold under and crimp. Use a fork to prick holes in the bottom of the dough. Line the dough with foil and fill with dried beans or pie weights. Bake 8 minutes. Remove the weights and foil carefully; then continue baking another 5 minutes (the crust will still look pale). Remove from the oven and set aside. Reduce the oven temperature to 350°. Using a box grater, grate the apples down to the core. Transfer to a medium-size bowl and stir in the lemon juice and sherry. In a large, heavy-bottomed skillet over mediumhigh heat, melt the butter; then add the apples (with their liquid) and the sugar, and cook, stirring, until the -liq uid begins to boil. Reduce the heat to a simmer; then continue cooking, -stir ring occasionally, until the apples are tender and most of the liquid evaporates, about 10 minutes. Remove from the heat and let cool 10 minutes. Meanwhile, in a large bowl, whisk together the eggs, cream, cinnamon, nutmeg, and salt. Stir in the apple -mix ture. Pour the filling into the crust; then bake until the custard is set but not browned, about 35 minutes. Let cool on a rack 30 minutes; then serve warm or at room temperature.

¼ teaspoon table salt

¼ teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg

¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon

1 cup light cream

3 large eggs

2/3 cup granulated sugar

2 tablespoons salted butter

3 tablespoons dry sherry

3 tablespoons lemon juice

2 large firm-sweet apples (about 1 pound total), such as Pink Lady, peeled and cored

2 large firm-tart apples (about 1 pound total), such as Granny Smith or Northern Spy, peeled and cored

½ recipe Double-Crust Pastry, prepared and chilled

All-purpose flour (for work surface)

HAND - ON TIME : 50 MINUTES

TOTAL TIME : 2 HOURS

MARLBOROUGH PIE

Yield: 8 servings

Reduce the heat to 350° and bake until the topping is golden brown and juices are bubbling, 50 to 60 minutes. Let cool on a rack at least 45 minutes before serving; the apples stay very hot for quite a while, and the pie slices better if you give it a chance to set up.

Put the pie on a baking sheet and bake on the bottom rack 15 minutes.

Carefully transfer the dough to a pie plate and press into the sides. Drape any excess crust over the edge; then fold under and crimp. Fill the crust with the apple mixture, then top evenly with the streusel. (Press down a bit to make the topping as even as possible.)

Preheat your oven to 400° and set a rack to the lowest position. Make the streusel: Stir together the pecans, flour, brown sugar, and salt in a small bowl. Add the melted butter, and stir with a fork until small clumps form. Set aside. On a floured surface, roll out one disc of dough (freeze the other disc for later), working from the center, into a 10-inch circle, about 8/1 inch thick.

In a large bowl, toss the apples with the sugar, brown sugar, cornstarch, lemon juice, and salt. Set aside.

Note: You may prepare the dough in advance and refrigerate it for up to five days, or freeze it for up to three months. Defrost it overnight in the refrigerator before using it.

Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and knead three times, or just enough to make it cohesive. Don’t overmix! Gather the dough into a ball; then divide it into two pieces, one slightly larger than the other if you’re using both crusts for one pie. Press each piece into a disc and wrap them in plastic. Refrigerate 30 minutes.

In a medium-size bowl, whisk together the flour, sugar, and salt until well combined. Sprinkle the butter cubes over the flour mixture, and use your fingers to smear them in. Stop when the mixture looks like cornmeal with some pea-sized bits of butter remaining. Sprinkle 6 tablespoons of ice water on top, and stir with a fork until the dough begins to come together. If needed, add 1 to 2 more tablespoons of ice water.

6–8 tablespoons ice water

18 tablespoons (2¼ sticks) chilled unsalted butter, cut into small cubes

1 teaspoon kosher salt

2 tablespoons granulated sugar

2½ cups all-purpose flour, plus more for work surface

DOUBLE-CRUST PASTRY

7 tablespoons salted butter, melted

¼ teaspoon kosher salt

½ cup packed light-brown sugar

1 cup all-purpose flour

½ cup pecan halves, chopped fine

FOR THE STREUSEL TOPPING:

½ recipe Double-Crust Pastry, prepared and chilled

All-purpose flour (for work surface)

¼ teaspoon kosher salt

1 tablespoon lemon juice

2 tablespoons cornstarch

2 tablespoons firmly packed light-brown sugar

¼ cup granulated sugar

1½ pounds (about 3 large) firm-sweet apples, such as Pink Lady, peeled, cored, and cut into ½-inch-thick wedges or slices

firm-tart apples, such as Granny Smith or Northern Spy, peeled, cored, and cut into ½-inch-thick wedges or slices

TOTAL

APPLE PIE WITH CRUMB TOPPING

Sharp cheddar cheese (for serving)

In a large bowl, toss the apples with the sugars, lemon juice, cornstarch, -cinna mon, nutmeg, and salt. Set aside. Preheat your oven to 425° and set a rack to the lowest position. Unwrap the larger disc of dough. On a floured surface, roll it out from the center to form a 13-inch circle about 8/1 inch thick. Transfer to a pie plate and press the crust into the sides, draping any excess over the edge. Fill the crust with the apple mixture, making the pile a bit higher in the center. Set aside. (If it’s a warm day, transfer to your refrigerator to chill while you roll out the top crust.) Unwrap the smaller disc of dough and roll out as before into a 10-inch circle. Transfer the dough to the pie. Using a sharp knife, make two 3-inch slashes in the top crust, to let steam escape. Fold the bottom crust up over the top crust and crimp to seal. (For a fancier look, cut the dough into even strips and arrange in a lattice pattern, as we did here.) Brush the crust all over with milk. Put the pie on a baking sheet and bake on the lowest rack 10 minutes. Reduce the heat to 350° and bake until juices are bubbling and the crust is golden brown, another 40 to 50 minutes. Let cool on a rack at least 45 minutes before serving. Serve with a wedge of sharp cheddar cheese.

Milk (for brushing crust)

1 recipe Double-Crust Pastry, prepared and chilled

All-purpose flour (for work surface)

¼ teaspoon kosher salt

¼ teaspoon freshly ground nutmeg

¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon

1½ tablespoons cornstarch

1 tablespoon lemon juice

2 tablespoons firmly packed light-brown sugar

¼ cup granulated sugar

1½ pounds (about 3 large) firm-sweet apples, such as Pink Lady, peeled, cored, and cut into ½-inch-thick wedges

1½ pounds (about 3 large) firm-tart apples, such as Granny Smith or Northern Spy, peeled, cored, and cut into ½-inch-thick wedges

HAND - ON TIME : 50 MINUTES

TOTAL TIME : 2 HOURS

DOUBLE-CRUST APPLE PIE

land as apple pie. Following are three of our ritefavo variations—classic doublecrust, crumb-topped, and custardfilled—all from The Apple Lover’s -Cook book . Each starts with double-crust pastry. If you need only one crust, just freeze the other half for future baking.

All are delicious. So this year, when planning your holiday menu, why not try all three? Wherever you live, your holiday celebration will be as New -Eng

crisp and apple pie all in one package.” Another elegant, -long time favorite in New England, Marlborough pie, boasts an apple-infused custard flavored with lemon and sherry.

lifestyle editor Amy Traverso named her recipe for “Apple Pie with Crumb Topping” her favorite, calling it “the best of apple

In her award-winning Apple Lover’s Cookbook, Yankee senior

of all things sweet, savory, and covered in gravy. Prized dishes will vary, but one thing is certain: After the feast (but before the nap) there will be apple pie for dessert. Apple pie is so beloved in our communal culture that it’s earned its own emblematic idiom (“as American as apple pie”) and consistently beats out contenders like pumpkin and chocolate cream as the nation’s favorite. That’s especially true in New England, where orchards are plentiful, and tradition calls for a wedge of local sharp cheddar to be served with each slice. Our love of apple pie reaches deep and permanent places. That’s also why we don’t mind when a little historical digging reveals that neither the pie nor the apples are native to our region. At first, the only apples in America were crabapples, so all the sweet apples we enjoy today had to be imported, bred, or otherwise cultivated. It’s likely that the -motiva tion for growing apples was hard cider, but apples were also used in cooking. During medieval times, pies were prized for being hearty and portable, but they also tended to be savory and were baked in nearly inedible shells known as “coffins.” Improvement came with better ingredients. During the 16th century, butter and cream made the pastry more palatable, and later, the increasing affordability of sugar meant that sweet and fruity pies, like apple, were primed for popularity just as 18th-century cooks began -bak ing them in earnest. Before long, a dish with centuries of history behind it had found a welcome home in the New World. And, like most American foods with European roots, regional variations were plentiful. Although deep-dish, double-crust beauties filled with -fra grant apples, cinnamon, and nutmeg are the you-know-what of many a baker’s eye, they’re not the only apple pies in town.

ach holiday season, dining-room tables across America begin their month-long showcase

by catrine kelty

BY AIMEE SEAVEY food and prop styling

prized PIES

Our devotion is deep and true:

Whether it’s made with crust, crumb, or custard, apple pie is essential on any holiday table.

photographs by heath robbins

opposite: dancing lion artisan“ chocolate bars”

“Lavender Mustard”

“Simply Smoked Salmon,” Cheshire Garden

Boston Smoked Fish

“Spicy & Garlic Dill Pickles,”

clockwise from top: Fox Point Pickling Co.

More photos of the winners at: YankeeMagazine.com/ FoodAwards

cheshiregarden.com

Suggested Retail Price: $5 per 8-ounce jar

Founded in 1986 by Ralph Legrande and Patti Powers, Cheshire Garden’s line of organic, small-batch farmstead preserves and mustards make good use of their annual crop of berries, stone fruits, vegetables, and herbs. Of special note is their Lavender Mustard, which includes local wildflower honey and lavender harvested right from Legrande and Powers’ own hillside, giving the mustard a subtly sweet aroma and flavor.

WINCHESTER, NEW HAMPSHIRE

LAVENDER MUSTARD

CHESHIRE GARDEN

fattoadfarm.com

Suggested Retail Price: $14 per 8-ounce jar

Hastings run a small goat dairy that’s producing a deliciously unique line of goat’s-milk caramels with a wonderfully subtle tang. Their jarred caramel sauce comes in a handful of tempting flavors, such as Vermont Maple and Cold Brew Coffee, but we’re especially smitten with the Salted Bourbon, which boasts just the right amount of Kentucky straight bourbon and a pinch of sea salt. Drizzle on ice cream, fruit, or even cheese for a sinfully sweet treat.

At Fat Toad Farm in central Vermont, husband-and-wife team Judith Irving and Steve Reid and their daughter Calley

BROOKFIELD, VERMONT

SALTED BOURBON CARAMEL

FAT TOAD FARM

SAUCES

georgehowellcoffee.com

Suggested Retail Price: $14.50 per 12-ounce bag

George Howell revolutionized New England’s coffee scene when he opened his first café in 1974, bringing the more -asser tive West Coast roasting style to Harvard Square. Forty-one years later, he’s still at it, blending and roasting coffee beans, as for this wonderfully balanced espresso blend with pronounced fruit and chocolate notes. Perfect in a latte or cappuccino, great in a gift basket.

ACTON, MASSACHUSETTS

ALCHEMY ESPRESSO

powellandmahoney.com

Suggested Retail Price: $5.99 per bottle

A Jack Rose cocktail combines equal parts grenadine, Calvados, and fresh lemon juice. It’s a lovely holiday drink, made lovelier with the application of this all-natural grenadine flavored with pomegranates and orange-blossom water. Powell & Mahoney makes a line of 18 all-natural mixers perfect for holiday entertaining.

SALEM, MASSACHUSETTS

TRUE GRENADINE

POWELL & MAHONEY

For David L. Davis, a gift of homemade marmalade for friends in 2009 has since grown into a business that now includes more than 15 varieties of marmalades, jams, and preserves. Our favorite, Berries of the Woods, is a jam made with raspberries, blueberries, and blackberries. Packed with large chunks of whole fruit and the perfect amount of -sweet ness, it’s great spread on toast, swirled into oatmeal, or even spooned straight from the jar.

NORFOLK, CONNECTICUT

BERRIES OF THE WOODS

HILLHOME COUNTRY

foxpointpickles.com

Suggested Retail Price: $9 per jar

Zared Goldfarb makes delicious pickles, full of zingy flavor. His fiery, spicy dills are a head’schile dream. But it’s the exceptional crunch of these spears that really turned our heads, crossing the line from tasty to addictive.

WARREN, RHODE ISLAND

SPICY & GARLIC DILL PICKLES

PICKLING COMPANY

FOX POINT

carrsciderhouse.com

Suggested Retail Price: $15.99 per bottle

We love Carr’s version, made with heirloom apples grown on a family farm in the Pioneer Valley. Its bright, fresh flavor adds a sweet-tart finish to pancakes or yogurt, and it’s a great addition to a cider doughnut or muffin recipe.

Boiled cider is a New England tradition, a concentrated hit of apple that’s produced in much the same way as maple syrup.

HADLEY, MASSACHUSETTS

APPLE CIDER SYRUP

CARR’S CIDERHOUSE

hillhomeproducts.com

Suggested Retail Price: $8 per 8-ounce jar

jams & preserves

GEORGE HOWELL COFFEE

Suggested Retail Price: $6.95 per box onestofoods.com

vadeboncoeurnougat.com

Suggested Retail Price: $14.95 per 3 bars

Didier Murat gives American nougat a good name. Using the traditional European technique, he crafts each bar with the help of a copper cauldron and wooden molds to produce a soft and chewy candy that all but melts in your mouth. We love the almond–orange peel variety for its addictive combination of citrus and nuts.

Under the name Vadeboncoeur (French for “go with a good heart’’),

VERGENNES, VERMONT

ALMOND–ORANGE PEEL NOUGAT

VADEBONCOEUR

dancinglion.us

$16.50 per 8-piece assortment

Suggested Retail Price:

Lion master chocolatier Richard Tango–Lowy offers an impressive line of chocolate bars from his New Hampshire shop/café, featuring ingredients such as Himalayan coarse salt, crispy almonds, candied citrus, and cayenne. Don’t want to choose?

Making good on his commitment to “chocolate as art,” Dancing

MANCHESTER, NEW HAMPSHIRE

CHOCOLATE BARS

ARTISAN

DANCING LION

An elegant tasting kit features squares of eight different varieties.

BRIDGEPORT, CONNECTICUT

MASALA CHAI ICE CREAM

TEA-RRIFIC!

Suggested Retail Price: $11.95 per 6-piece assortment chocolatesprings.com

In flavors like rosemary, ancho chile, and “Hint of Cinnamon,” husband-and-wife team Jesse and Jane Ciccone began Onesto (Italian for “honest”) as a way to deliver small-batch crackers that aren’t just flavorful and crisp, but also gluten-, dairy-, and preservative-free. To start, try the classic Sea Salt, topped with just the right amount of salty crunch.

NEWBURYPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

SEA SALT CRACKERS

ONESTO ARTISAN CRACKERS

castletoncrackers.com

Suggested Retail Price: $14.99 per three 6-ounce boxes

Suggested Retail Price: $10 per pint tearrificicecream.com

Chocolatier Joshua Needleman is a master of infusions. He packs his fruit-, champagne-, and teainfused chocolates full of clear, recognizable flavor without ever crossing into the perfumy. His creamy ganache centers and quality chocolate coverings add up to bonbon perfection.

LENOX, MASSACHUSETTS

BONBONS

CHOCOLATE SPRINGS

Mario Leite produces an entire line of tea-infused ice creams in flavors such as chamomile and ginger matcha. It’s a supremely specific niche, but one taste will remind you that few things pair with cream and sugar as well as tea. All the flavors are delicious, but the chai sings with flavor and is a perfect match for holiday desserts such as gingerbread and chocolate.

SWEETS

Thanks to a hand-cracked finish, Whitney’s Castleton Crackers are as known for their rustic look as they are for their tasty variety of flavors. Using unique ingredients such as maple, rosemary, and Vermont farmstead cheese, each all-natural batch would make a worthy addition to any cheese plate, but we especially love the Toasted Sesame Seed Graham Crackers, with hints of brown sugar and maple syrup.

CASTLETON, VERMONT

WHITNEY’S CASTLETON CRACKERS TOASTED SESAME SEED GRAHAM CRACKERS

larkfinefoods.com

Suggested Retail Price: $8

wich the Espresso Chip with ice cream.

Use the Yankee Connect app to go behind the scenes at Carr’s Ciderhouse.

chocolate springs “bonbons”

we began bringing interesting products back to the office to taste and compare. whenever one of them made our eyes light up, we put it on the short list.

opposite: Cato Corner Farm “Hooligan”

Landaff Creamery “Landaff”

Graham Crackers,”

“Toasted Sesame Seed

Whitney’s Castleton

Prosciutto,”

“Local Del Duca

Daniele Foods

“Crottina,”

Blue Ledge Farm

“Bear Hill,”

clockwise from top: Grafton Village Cheese

Lark’s catchphrase is “Cookies for Grownups,” and that’s the perfect description for these three tasty flavors of buttery shortbread. Eat them solo or pair the Burnt Sugar–Fennel with cheddar and the Salted Rosemary with smoked meats or fish, or sand -

ESSEX, MASSACHUSETTS

SHORTBREAD TRIO

LARK FINE FOODS

baked goods

bostonsmokedfish.com

Suggested Retail Price: $8 per 4-ounce package

with—but not overpowered by—pecan smoke.

to Matt Baumann’s excellent smoked fish. A former tax -attor ney, Baumann changed careers in 2012, experimenting with different wood smokes and -doz ens of brines before perfecting his recipes. The result: delicate, succulent fillets, perfumed

A chance tasting at a Boston farmers’ market introduced us

SUDBURY, MASSACHUSETTS

SIMPLY SMOKED SALMON

BOSTON SMOKED FISH

danielefoods.com

Suggested Retail Price: $5.99 per 3-ounce package

Silky, sweet, and delicately salted, Daniele’s Local prosciutto line is made with pork sourced from New England farms and has a superior flavor and texture. Serve it at a party with cheese and fruit compote, or wrap it around poached dried figs.

BURRILLVILLE, RHODE ISLAND

DANIELE FOODS LOCAL DEL DUCA PROSCIUTTO

meat & fish

Suggested Retail Price: $12 per 6-ounce wedge graftonvillagecheese.com

It’s made with sheep’s milk and expresses that extra level of richness without any of the strong flavors sometimes associated with sheep’s-milk cheeses. Excellent in fondue.

This alpine-style cheese has the sweet, nutty flavors of a Comte or Gruyère, with a wonderfully silky texture.

BRATTLEBORO, VERMONT

BEAR HILL

GRAFTON VILLAGE CHEESE

Suggested Retail Price: $19.99 per pound landaffcreamery.com

LANDAFF, NEW HAMPSHIRE

LANDAFF

LANDAFF CREAMERY

Suggested Retail Price: $6 per round blueledgefarm.com

The flavor is grassy and citrusy, creamy, and simple. Wonderful with honey.

and painters in the Champlain Valley, tending a herd of 100plus goats to produce beautiful cheeses like this small disc, aged three weeks, whose dense white paste turns runny under the rind.

Like many great New England cheeses, Landaff was born of an effort to preserve a family farm. Doug and Debby Erb based the recipe on a traditional Welsh cheese, using milk from the dairy operation that his parents had started. Made in New Hampshire, the cheese ages in the caves of Jasper Hill in northern Vermont, where it develops its buttery, tangy, slightly sharp character.

hardt are farmers, cheesemakers,

Hannah Sessions and Greg Bern -

SALISBURY, VERMONT

CROTTINA

BLUE LEDGE FARM

catocornerfarm.com

$28 per pound

Suggested Retail Price:

To call this cheese “stinky” isn’t an insult. Hooligan is made to be pungent—a soft, creamy, twomonths-aged cheese washed in buttermilk and brine to create a slightly crystalline orange surface and strong aroma. You’ll taste mushrooms and grass and crave a pint of ale. It makes a terrific grilled cheese.

COLCHESTER, CONNECTICUT

HOOLIGAN

CATO CORNER FARM

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

In that spirit, we hope you’ll enjoy these treats, organized into six categories. Serve them at a party or give them as gifts to others.

Early on, we decided not to organize the awards around a single bestin-category winner. Choosing just one jam or goat cheese would lock up those categories, preventing us from bringing other, equally worthy products to light. Frankly, there’s too much good food out there to paint ourselves into that corner. Think of these as “awards of excellence,” rather than an either/or competition.

Traveling around New England, we surveyed farmers’ markets, gourmet shops, festivals, and supermarkets—and began bringing interesting products back to the office to taste and compare. Whenever one of them made our eyes light up, we put it on the short list.

hree years ago, we launched these food awards to highlight the delicious cheeses, chocolates, jams, charcuterie, and other specialty foods that we saw coming to the market with increasing frequency.

Our guide to

the best artisanal cheeses, chocolates, jams, cookies, pickles, and other worthy New England edibles

Photographs by Heath Robbins Styling by Catrine Kelty

typography by Anderson Newton Design

Cranberry Apple Cobbler, and more!

Creamy Pumpkin Pie with Hazelnut Crust,

Plus!

OUR FROMFAVORITERECIPES ’SYANKEE80 YEARS!

FLIP ME OVER!

The Best Turkey You’ll Ever Make

Apple Pie: 3 Easy and Delicous Recipes

Editors’ Picks for Best Local Foods