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Without a doubt my favorite restaurant in NYC, I have yet to strike out on a single dish and find myself going back at least once a month, without fail.
There was hardly anyone else on the trail. We trudged through miles of slippery, wet-concrete-like mud in the wrong shoes—a mistake we will never make again.
We had spent the night before anxious that we might get snowed in indefinitely, as the first snow of the season was quickly becoming a winter storm. We made it none the less, and spent a good half hour just watching and listening to the falls.
We took off our shoes and bounded down the dunes, the soft sand making us feel almost as if we were gliding. It’s a feeling I can’t even describe, it’s as close to magic as I’ve felt since I was a child.
There is a slight somberness in the air; a quiet during what is usually peak leaf-peeping season. I would sometimes find myself taking in some gorgeous view and, momentarily forgetting what year it is, wonder “is no one else seeing this?”.
We arrived to our campsite somewhat discouraged. Nearly the minute we finished building out our living space for the next few days, the skies cleared up into a gorgeous red, orange, and violet. There was a path near our site that led directly to the lakeshore, and it seemed to practically be calling out to us.
There seems to be at least one on each plot of farmland that line the back highways, and they all seem to have fallen apart in identical fashions. Why? And why are there so many?
A few months ago, Lauren and I decided to spend the remainder of 2020 volunteering on farms across the country that need help recovering during COVID, slowly making our way to the West Coast and back again. We spent the first part of October on a homestead in Mio, a very, very remote town in Northern Lower Michigan.
Cashew crema is nothing new, but it is always missing the tang and umami I look for with sour cream. The key to making the perfect sour cream substitute is lacto-fermentation.