December 2014

DECEMBER 2014

The Giving Trees

Bad Luck & Big Bucks The Tale of the Too-Tall Tree Christmas in the Kitchen

EwEind Fs R the

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www.mountainhomemag.com

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Volume 9 Issue 12

The Giving Trees

By Linda Roller Woolrich employees and townsfolk are paying forward M.B. Rich’s 1930 gift.

6 If It Weren’t for Bad Luck…

By Roger Kingsley Three hapless hunters bag record book bucks.

19 Oh, Tannenbaum!

By Maggie Barnes The tale of the too-tall tree.

27 Dinner at the Kennedy White House

By Cornelius O’Donnell ...And books for friends who cook.

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Cover by Tucker Worthington; cover photo courtesy of Woolrich.

(This page, from top): by Bill Crowell; courtesy of Roger Kingsley; courtesy of Maggie Barnes; and by Deana Sidney.

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Heart of the Mountain

By Patricia Brown Davis Visions of sugarplums.

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Mother Earth

By Gayle Morrow Flour power.

w w w. m o u n ta i n h o m e m ag . co m

Editors & Publishers Teresa Banik Capuzzo Michael Capuzzo Associate Publishers Dawn Bilder George Bochetto, Esq. D e s i g n & P h o t o g r ap h y Elizabeth Young, Editor Tucker Worthington, Cover Design

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Contributing Writers Angela Cannon-Crothers, Patricia Brown Davis, Alison Fromme, Holly Howell, George Jansson, McKennaugh Kelley, Roger Kingsley, Don Knaus, Adam Mahonske, Cindy Davis Meixel, Fred Metarko, Dave Milano, Gayle Morrow, Cornelius O’Donnell, Roger Neumann, Gregg Rinkus, Linda Roller, Kathleen Thompson, Joyce M. Tice

By Holly Howell Our wine columnist sings for a sip.

C o n t r i b u t i n g P h o t o g r ap h e r s Mia Lisa Anderson, Bill Crowell, Bruce Dart, Ann Kamzelski, Ken Meyer, Tina Tolins, Sarah Wagaman, Curt Weinhold, Terry Wild

The Twelve Wines of Christmas

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Back of the Mountain

By Ken Meyer Dressed for the holidays.

S a l e s R ep r e s e n t a t i v e s Brian Earle Michael Banik Linda Roller Administrative Assistant Amy Packard T h e B ea g l e Cosmo (1996-2014) Yogi (Assistant) ABOUT US: Mountain Home is the award-winning regional magazine of PA and NY with more than 100,000 readers. The magazine has been published monthly, since 2005, by Beagle Media, LLC, 25 Main St., 2nd Floor, Wellsboro, Pennsylvania, 16901, and online at www.mountainhomego.com. Copyright © 2010 Beagle Media, LLC. All rights reserved. E-mail story ideas to editorial@mountainhomemag.com, or call (570) 724-3838.

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DISTRIBUTION: Mountain Home is available “Free as the Wind” at hundreds of locations in Tioga, Potter, Bradford, Lycoming, Union, and Clinton counties in PA and Steuben, Chemung, Schuyler, Yates, Seneca, Tioga, and Ontario counties in NY. SUBSCRIPTIONS: For a one-year subscription (12 issues), send $24.95, payable to Beagle Media LLC, 25 Main St., 2nd Floor, Wellsboro, PA 16901 or visit www.mountainhomego.com.

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Bill Crowell The flagship store sails on: the Woolrich company birthed a town and a tradition of giving.

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The Giving Trees Woolrich Employees and Townsfolk Are Paying Foward M.B. Rich’s 1930 Gift

By Linda Roller

T

hey are simply visually unforgettable. As you drive the main road into the little village of Woolrich, they stand as tall, silent sentinels, all the way to the center of town. At over eighty feet tall, these Norway spruce trees tower over all the houses, and even the company factory that gave the town its name.

According to David Becker, retail manager at the flagship store, the question most often asked by visitors to the outlet is about the trees—the Memorial Trees.

It was in 1936 that the Foremen’s Association bought Norway Spruce trees to line Park Avenue and, along with a Sunday school class that had been together for over twenty-five years, gathered to plant them. The reason for the memorial has been forgotten by many, but the bronze plaque near the beginning of this march of trees makes the reason for them plain. For these giants are a memorial to one man.

See The Giving Trees on page 8

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The Giving Trees continued from page 7

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That man was Michael Bond Rich, senior officer of the firm John Rich & Bros. By all accounts, he was the man responsible for much of Woolrich’s rise in the early twentieth century. He was instrumental in the development and procurement of new machinery, the expansion of the main plant and of satellite plants in McElhattan and Avis, and in developing the reputation of Woolrich as a leader in outdoor clothing for hunters and outdoorsmen.

He marketed the company’s traditional woolen products in new ways, as this country was developing a middle class that took vacations, traveled, and needed outdoor wear for recreating in the wilderness parks that were opening, as well as for hunting, fishing, and skiing.

Beyond the village that surrounded the company he managed, he was active on the Board of Directors of Dickinson Seminary (later Lycoming College), and on the board of the Lock Haven Normal School (later Lock Haven University).

He was a representative in the State House in Harrisburg for two terms.

A devout man, he was active i n t h e Wo o l r i c h C o m m u n i t y Methodist Church, as a Sunday school superintendent and trustee, and as a representative of the church on various state boards. He taught Sunday school at Woolrich for over twenty-five years, and it was his class that helped plant the trees. He was known as one of the most active Methodist laymen of central Pennsylvania. Simply put, he was a philanthropist, a public servant, and a strong businessman with vision.

One of his visions for the village around his company was to improve Woolrich for its citizens, and he used the upcoming centennial to further his dream. Not wishing to merely have a special program, by the late 1920s he spearheaded the development of the village. A beautiful large park with pavilions was developed. A concrete pool was built in 1928 and a new school See The Giving Trees on page 10

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The Giving Trees continued from page 8

in 1929. All was completed by the time of the centennial in June of 1930, where the founding family and the employees and residents of this progressive little village, filled with opportunities to work, worship, and relax, celebrated together. As the Lock Haven Express wrote in 1930: “The village of Woolrich has almost every modern convenience enjoyed by any large city...Houses are built singly, affording ample air and sunshine. A modern Graded school building of brick and steel construction was erected in 1929, with a capacity of 200 pupils.

An up-to-date general merchandise store, known as the Woolrich Store Company, is conducted for the convenience of the people of Woolrich and also is the headquarters for the post office.

A m o d e r n c e m e n t swimming pool, 50 by 150 feet, 7½ feet deep, to which a modern bathhouse has been added for the convenience of the residents of Woolrich, was opened for use July 1, 1929.

Du r i n g t h e s u m m e r season thousands of people a va i l t h e m s e l ve s o f t h e opportunity to visit and picnic in the Woolrich Park, a natural park covering an area of 20 acres. A community church, constructed in 1868 and rebuilt in 1907, is the house of worship of the residents of Woolrich.”

M.B. Rich even wrote a history of Woolrich’s first 100 years. In this book, he detailed the development of the business (complete with balance sheets!), the growth of the community church in Woolrich, and the extended history of the Rich family. It includes the balance sheet of the firm as it incorporated in January 1930, a pivotal 10

step in the development of the company.

It was just supposed to be a complete history of the company that would continue on in his capable hands.

Instead, it provides a clear snapshot of a business and a community just before so many things changed. For M.B. Rich suffered a heart attack at the wheel of his car, driving copies of the book back to Woolrich, and was killed in the resulting accident just a few miles from the village.

His death was, no doubt, a hard blow to Woolrich, now newly incorporated, and to a small community. There could not have been a worse time for such a shake up. It was August of 1930, and, across the country, people were suffering the worst economic disaster in history.

The Great Depression was closing banks, decimating fortunes, and throwing millions of hardworking Americans out of work. The bread lines were long in the large cities. Tent cities of unemployed veterans of World War I were erected in Washington, D.C. and elsewhere.

No business could borrow money.

Sales of goods were falling. Though somewhat protected by a company with a prudent, conservative fiscal policy and manufacturing a necessary product, the owners, managers, and factory workers in Woolrich could not help but be worried by the news around the world.

It was in this time and place that M.B. Rich’s will was executed. And, in that will, $40,000 dollars (which is over a half million dollars in today’s currency) was given to long-time employees. It was an exceptionally generous act by a man who had always been generous with his time and all his resources. Very simply, it was a lot of money, given to employees, upon his death. Given the economic climate, most people would have taken a sudden windfall and put it away for a rainy day, a day that looked to be on the horizon.

That would seem prudent. Who could blame them for simply protecting their families and homes?

But the gift had a life of its own, for See The Giving Trees on page 12

Photos courtesy of Woolrich

Sentinel rows of towering Norway spruce, planted in memory of Michael Bond Rich (right), line the road to the Woolrich store and factory.

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M.B. Rich had given to many people 2717 www.senecalakewine.com throughout his life, and this final great gift engendered something else in this close-knit company family. They gave Our 34 wineries, situated half the money to the community around Seneca Lake’s deep waters, reside in an 2717 www.senecalakewine.com church, and records state that the excellent cool-climate remainder was used to “help the less growing region allowing fortunate and support the community.” for growth of delicate vinifera grapes like The employees gave the money Riesling, as well as red back—all of it. They did it because varieties such as Cabernet there were people that needed it Franc and Pinot Noir. more, and they were “doing okay.”

And, they did it through the church and through an organization founded January 16-18, 2015: after M.B. Rich’s death: the Foremen’s Association. Starting in the early 1930s, the Foremen’s Association took care of the improvements that marked the January 24, 2015: great centennial that M.B. envisioned.

The park was maintained, the pool kept in repair and operation. There was a fund for employees or members February 20-22, 2015: of employees’ families that needed a helping hand. The specter of want and fear that haunted other communities during the Depression could not find est. 19 6 a foothold in Woolrich. The company kept employees busy, even if the job was building more housing. The Foremen’s Association worked hand in est. 19 6 hand with the company to strengthen the fabric of the community. Together, they weathered the Depression, and by 1939 were fashioning the outerwear for est. 19 6 A Tasteful Experience!

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there was a new generation of the Rich family at the helm, and the partnership of generosity between the company, the Foremen’s Association, and the workers continued. John E. Rich, Jr. remembered the building of a community center, complete with a bowling alley and other forms of recreation for residents of the village at the church in 1949, with money from a trust fund from the Rich family. The association and the company took care of the trees, now growing at a rate of three feet per year. The trees quickly changed Park Avenue into a stunning entrance. The company owned a fifteen-foot right-of-way on each side, so the line of trees was maintained as a generally unbroken line. Driving into Woolrich was like a journey to a natural wilderness, as the wall of green hid the tidy houses, most built by the company, using the talents of their employees throughout the decades.

Karen Houseknecht, a longtime Clinton County realtor and resident remembers the sight of those trees as a child, when her mom and dad took them to see the trees in winter, and to see the Christmas lights in the center of the village. As a young realtor in the 1980s, she also remembers that the properties behind those trees on Park Avenue were in big demand.

Even though the houses were not big, everyone wanted to live in this village with schools, pools, parks, and See The Giving Trees on page 14

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The Giving Trees continued from page 12

recreation centers. It was the strong bond between the people that created a special place to live and raise a family.

In 1963, the name of the association changed to the Employees Beneficial Association, which more accurately represented the range of services provided by the organization. They provided for higher education in the form of scholarships, not only for employees themselves, but for dependents, for the families. Of course, the park, pool, and help for struggling families continued.

Ed Summerson, a long-time employee who worked his way up to the lead man in the cutting department recounted events planned like the annual picnic for employees and retirees at Knoebels amusement park. The company gave in like measure, by negotiating a contract for a new post office, built on company land. They then sold the land, at cost, to the church. That assured the community church and center with funding from a government lease as a steady stream of income that flowed back to the people in the village. As Ed Summerson concluded, “The Family Rich did more for this community than anyone realizes.”

All looked rosy for Woolrich in the next couple of decades, as they bucked the trend of factory closings and lost manufacturing jobs in the 1970s and 1980s that plagued most companies.

Woolrich clothes, always practical and designed for the outdoors, became an important fashion trend. Sadly, that time was not to last. The partnership of company and village was sorely tested in the 1990s, as the forces of changing tastes and globalization created drastic changes and created the toughest times that Woolrich had to face. At the same time, leadership in the plant was changing, and a new generation was thrust into the pain of closing plants and laying off or retiring workers that had been with the company for decades. Against this tidal wave of problems, both the company and the association worked to give employees 14

as much time as possible to find new employment before their plants closed.

Woolrich employees had months to make adjustments, not days or a couple of weeks. Severance packages were created, and both classes in the plant and opportunities for training elsewhere were the standard, not the exception.

But, for the first time in anyone’s memory, the workers had to be let go, and the pain for both the company and the employees is still felt today.

Conversations with current employees have a sense of wistfulness for the old days when a problem in this little village could be fixed right here.

It was during this time that the trees themselves were trimmed. Retail manager David Becker notes that this was for safety reasons, as the trees now blocked all visibility for postal carriers and people getting out of driveways to go to work—for an increasing number to a workplace that was not in the village of Woolrich. And the association could no longer maintain and repair the pool, which was a large, increasing cost. It closed in 2001.

The times have been hard, to both company and village, both in the 1990s and again from 2008 to 2012, when another round of closings and layoffs occurred. But the gift of giving has been woven into the warp and woof of the community itself. When there is a food drive, the bins overflow with goods.

Care packages for soldiers? You can count on the employees of Woolrich to exceed the request. Leah Dole, director of creative marketing, says that even the turkeys given to employees for Thanksgiving are an opportunity to see the community in action. “At least half of the turkeys are given back by the employees...they simply turn them around to people less fortunate.” Half a pallet of turkeys that are bought to grace a Woolrich table go out to the greater local area.

Then there is the Sheep Tree.

Employees quietly make needs in the area known, and they are placed on

a tree. No names, just ages, sizes, and requests for toys. Leah says that no need goes unmet on the Sheep Tree, and people in need and children who would not see presents this Christmas get the warm delight of Woolrich generosity in their lives.

Some traditions continue. The park is still vibrant and well maintained, and the Employees Beneficial Association is still active. To meet current needs, they are involved with Heartland, the eldercare home that now fills the village school that M.B. Rich built in 1929.

As the current President of Woolrich, Nick Brayton noted, “The park is huge.

Companies don’t look after parks and improve them over time.” But, don’t look for a newspaper article on the giving. This is not for the press, this is not to boast. None of this is done for publicity, but done by the company, the association, and the people of Woolrich from the heart. It is a culture of giving, with both hands. As Leah said, it “makes me feel good to come to work and know you’re working with people who care about each other.”

And the trees? Still there, impressing all who travel to the little village in the woods, an enduring symbol of a great gift, given by many to each other and to the world around them. They are a huge symbol of community spirit.

Woolrich looks ahead, a bit battered by the rough and tumble of being a traditional manufacturing company in a global market just emerging from a very tough economic slump. The innovation of the company gives it a bright future, and the tradition of giving means that the brightness will shine on this area of Pennsylvania.

Perhaps Nick Brayton, one of M.B. Rich’s great-great grandsons, put it best. “Whatever happens, Woolrich will have the community’s back, and the community will have Woolrich’s back.”

Mountain Home contributor Linda Roller is a bookseller, appraiser, and writer in Avis, Pennsylvania.

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Ann Lusch

Heart of the Mountain

Visions of Sugarplums

By Patricia Brown Davis

C

hristmas can be a magical time for kids and their parents—a time when possibilities and dreams come together. It was always a big deal in my family, and with all of my relatives. We relished family time together—playing with the cousins and eating all of those magnificent dishes that appeared at the table—some just on December twenty-fifth. But plans don’t always turn out like you think.

I was a young parent, and when my first two daughters were born, like many of you, I began to imagine what Christmas should look like for them. I’d remember how great it was for me, and every year try to create in my mind the most beautiful setting I could imagine with the all-important visual: Christmas morning with the lights on the tree, as perfect as I could decorate it.

Since we had a small Christmas tree farm, I’d even scrutinize the rows and pick out my favorite, early in the season. Then there were the gifts that would make little girls’ eyes widen.

They had to be choreographed under the tree and tucked in the right places.

Because the girls were just a year apart, gifts had to be similar in content and mostly the same so they would not make comparisons.

The big wish from the girls that year was new baby dolls. That would 16

be easy to choose for a three- and fouryear-old. I went beyond by believing a doll carriage would be the perfect addition. Young parents didn’t have much money, so gifts were chosen carefully and sparingly.

On Christmas Eve I could hardly wait for the girls to go to bed. The fact that Santa would be visiting did not do a lot to help two excited little girls into settling down and falling asleep. But finally it happened. It was always so much fun to “play Santa.” I spent time arranging the various gifts from Santa among the other gifts. Finally I brought out the doll carriages and dolls and put one on either side of our tree. Visions of the perfect Christmas morning kept interjecting themselves into my plans.

The lights were turned out, and we went to bed.

Fairly early the next morning the girls awoke and called to us, “Can we go see what Santa brought?” A bit groggy, I wanted to stay in bed, but knew it would not happen on this morning of all mornings. I went into their room and hugged them and said, “Just a minute, let me go see if Santa was here.”

I scurried down the steps and turned the Christmas tree lights on, took one last look at my perfect setting, and hurried back upstairs. Putting on our housecoats, I told the girls to go

wake their father up so he could join us.

Finally the four of us ventured down the steps slowly, giving us all another look at the unruffled scene as we went. Exclamations of wonder and excitement went before us. Finally, we reached the bottom of the stairs. Then the two girls made a mad dash towards the tree—and the same doll carriage (they had sighted the same one.) They both made the carriage and the handle at the same time, grabbing it for dear life.

The buggy did what it was supposed to when pushed. It rolled forward as the two girls fell into it. The girls and the buggy shot into the Christmas tree— which fell forward on top of the girls, covering them, the doll buggy, and all of the presents. Glass ornaments splattered onto the floor and broke into pieces. Icicles whipped this way and that and later had to be taken off and totally rearranged, as did all of the remaining ornaments. One minute into Christmas and both girls were bawling up a storm.

Thus began Christmas Day that year. A proof of the statement, “If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans!”

Patricia Brown Davis is a professional musician and memoirist.

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O U T D O O R S

The Big Score: Hunters Frank Nero (left) and Raymond Singley turned their luck around.

If It Weren’t for Bad Luck...

Three Hapless Hunters Bag Record Book Bucks

By Roger Kingsley

M

y dad once told me about the time he and his buddies were conducting a deer drive.

Dad was one of the drivers, and the first person he came to on the watch line sat there with a jackknife scraping the weathered finish off the stock of his leveraction Winchester. Imagine that! Yeah, it’s funny, but that man’s refinishing priorities could have set the stage for a big buck, bad luck story. I’ve met three hunters over the years who shared their bad luck to big buck stories. Read on!

Many seasons ago, Frank Nero of Gillett, Pennsylvania, killed a nice buck, tagged it, dressed it out, then went back home to get his four-wheeler to ease the drag. When he returned, somebody had stolen the deer. That incident was

the start of how this man earned the nickname Bad Luck Frank.

In his everyday life, Frank was probably perfect, immaculate, flawless, foolproof, spotless, without faults, and beyond compare. But when it came to hunting or shooting, he was a walking case of blunders, mistakes, errors, oversights, slip-ups, and botches—and I’m just naming a few!

One time while he was hunting his sister’s farm in Wisconsin, a 180-class buck walked out of his life when his inline muzzleloader misfired. And that was before he dropped the gun out of his tree stand. A few minutes after retrieving it, another buck showed up, and this time his muzzleloader ignited, but the crosshairs in his scope had been rendered cross-eyed from the fall out of

the tree, and he completely missed the deer. I could go on...and I’m going to!

One evening during deer season, Frank set his alarm to go off well before daylight, but he slept through it and didn’t wake up until after seven o’clock.

Fit to be tied, Frank leapt out of bed, gathered his gear, jumped in the truck, and headed to his destination—a massive oak tree eight miles from his home and about a quarter-mile walk off a dirt road.

He’s hunted that same spot for over twenty-three years. One time when he was bow hunting from that tree, a large eight-pointer came running up to him, and, when Frank came to full draw, both limbs on the bow snapped off the riser.

So, Frank was heading to his beloved oak tree when he pulled up to a stop sign.

That’s when he realized he had forgotten See If It Weren’t for Bad Luck on page 20

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If It Weren’t for Bad Luck continued from page 19

his bow. By the time he arrived back home, he figured it was too late to go to the oak tree, so he decided to hunt a neighbor’s property out back of his house. He just wanted to get somewhere, anywhere, as fast as he could so he could waste the rest of his so-called “normal” day.

Well, on the way, Franks spooked a buck, and, judging from all the rubs he noticed on the trees, he had just kicked in the front door to this buck’s bedroom. Sitting down at the base of a tree, he performed a mixture of rattling and grunts.

Nothing happened, but he sat there until he was cold and hungry.

That’s when he whipped out a bag of Ritz crackers.

Ripping open the noisy bag, he had just shoved a stack into his mouth when a buck stepped out in front of him. He grabbed the bow lying beside him, and, while choking on the crackers with the arrow screeching across the rest as he drew, he let the arrow fly and bagged the deer.

Frank says he doesn’t have a clue why that buck approached, because the wind was blowing his scent right to the buck. Well, I’ve got that all figured out. It’s because that buck—like Frank—was probably a walking case of blunders, mistakes, errors, oversights, slip-ups, and botches—and I’m just naming a few. Scoring 124-1/8 inches, Frank’s buck wasn’t bad for bad luck.

Bad luck started for Terry Bouck of Windham, Pennsylvania, when he found out he had to work one opening day of gun season. But, on his way to work, his cell phone rang. The voice on the other end said don’t bother coming in, because everything has been cancelled. Terry smiled, because that meant he could go hunting. But his smile turned sour when he suddenly remembered he didn’t have a license. So before he could go to the woods, he had to drive to Walmart to purchase one.

When he got there, the line just to buy a license was a mile long, but he pretended he was happy and stuck with it, while valuable hunting time slipped away. When he got back home, he discovered he didn’t have any ammo for his favorite deer rifle, which he’d had plenty of time to pick up at Walmart. But since he and Walmart weren’t hitting it off, he grabbed a different rifle and a handful of shells.

When he got down cellar to gather his hunting clothes, he discovered something else—a tomcat had used them as a signpost, and they reeked of cat piss! So now what? Well, he didn’t have anything else to wear, so he just plugged his nose and headed to a stand. Eyes watering, and stinking like the cat, he was only there half an hour when he looked up and saw the biggest buck ever.

Terry practically cleaned out the magazine of his 6mm shooting at the giant buck, but every shot was a miss!

Confused from the shooting, the buck changed course and ran back toward Terry, who finally knocked the deer down See If It Weren’t for Bad Luck on page 22

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with his last shot. Terry’s buck had a net score of 142-3/8.

Man, it’s a good thing that buck didn’t get away, because that would have been a CAT-as-trophy!

A gentleman hunter once told me about the time he shot at a buck and missed. When I asked him why he missed, he had a perfect opportunity to feed me a line of lingo, something like this: “Well, you see, the wind was blowing so hard that a twig got in the way, which I didn’t see because the sun was in my eyes and then my gun jammed!” But he didn’t. In fact, his answer was straighter than a gun barrel. He simply said, “I...was...shaking!”

Raymond Singley of Duncannon, Pennsylvania, was a shaking mess when he got his 142-0/8 record book buck, but it wasn’t from nerves. Close friends of Raymond report that the only way Raymond could ever tag a deer was if it was blind, missing a leg, or he hit it from a ricochet. So it was really no surprise when Raymond told me he didn’t get off to a very good start one opening day of a recent gun season.

He was ill for one thing, lost for another, and it was pouring rain. Now, most people who are under the weather wouldn’t be caught out in it, but we’re talking deer season here.

While Raymond was wandering around in the dark, in the rain, sicker than a dog, trying to find his stand, he suddenly caught a whiff of something, and he thought it might be a rutting buck that he just spooked.

Totally upset because he couldn’t find his stand, he sought shelter beside a large tree, and stood there holding on to one thing—and it was not his rifle, it was an umbrella. Not long after daylight, he peered out from under the umbrella, and through the pouring rain he saw a big buck. In the process of tossing the umbrella and getting to his rifle, the buck saw Raymond.

However—like Raymond—this super buck hadn’t gotten off to a very good start that morning, either, because he was not faster than a speeding bullet. Fortunately, Raymond got the deer. Unfortunately, he also got something else a few days later—a bill from the doctor who diagnosed him with pneumonia.

As an official measurer for the Boone & Crockett Club, I hear plenty of hunting tales. Some are happy, some sad, some far-fetched, and—like the ones told here—some filled with bad luck. Judging from the size of the bucks that these hunters eventually tagged, I’m beginning to think that having bad luck isn’t such bad luck after all. The way I see it, if these hunters didn’t have the bad luck, they might not have had much luck at all. How about you? Got a bad luck-big buck story to share?

A hunter and photographer, award-winning writer Roger Kingsley’s articles and photos have appeared in Deer & Deer Hunting, and Pennsylvania Game News, among others.

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December 5th-7th, 2014 Wellsboro, PA Friday, December 5th

Saturday, December 6th

All Day

All Day

Merchant Sales & Discounts 9:00 am - 7:00 pm Professional Dickens Portraitures Deane Center for Performing Arts 10:00 am - 5:00 pm Indoor Book Sale Green Free Library 3:00 pm - 8:00 pm Indoor Craft Show United Methodist Church 3:00 pm - 8:00 pm Indoor Craft Show Wellsboro Senior Center 4:30 pm - 7:30 pm Dickens of a Dinner Trinity Lutheran Church 5:00 pm & 7:00 pm Santa Express Train Excursion Wellsboro Junction 7:00 pm - 9:00 pm VESTA Craft Show & Sale Gmeiner Art & Cultural Center 7:30 pm Dickens of a Concert St. Peter’s Catholic Church

Merchants Sales & Discounts 8:00 am - 10:00 am Breakfast with Father Christmas Trinity Lutheran Church 8:00 am - 4:00 pm Indoor Craft Show Wellsboro Senior Center 9:00 am Wellsboro High School Dickens Choir Arcadia Theater 9:00 am - 4:00 pm Model Train Show St. Paul’s Episcopal Church 9:00 am - 4:00 pm Street Vendors, Street Musicians, Dickens Players 9:00 am - 4:00 pm Indoor Craft Show United Methodist Church 9:00 am - 4:30 pm Indoor Craft Show Fireman’s Annex 9:00 am - 5:00 pm Professional Dickens Portraitures Deane Center for Performing Arts 10:00 am Victorian Stroll Meet at the Deane Center for Performing Arts

10:00 am - 2:00 pm Pony Rides Wellsboro Riding Club

Event sponsored by: Wellsboro Area Chamber of Commerce 114 Main Street, Wellsboro, PA 16901 • (570) 724-1926 www.wellsboropa.com

This schedule brought to you by:

24

Indigo

10:00 am - 2:00 pm Alternative Christmas Fair First Presbyterian Church 10:00 am - 3:00 pm Open House Tioga County Historical Society 10:00 am - 3:00 pm Live Music & Refreshments United Methodist Church 10:00 am - 5:00 pm VESTA Art Show & Sale Gmeiner Art Center 10:00 am - 4:00 pm Indoor Book Sale Green Free Library 10:30 am HG Productions, “A Christmas Carol” Black Box, Deane Center 11:00 am HG Productions, “A Christmas Carol” Warehouse Theatre 11:00 am First Position Dance Studio Performance Street Stage 11:00 am - 2:00 pm Open House (w/ refreshments) Green Free Library 11:00 am - 2:00 pm Open House (w/ refreshments) Tussey-Mosher Funeral Home 1:00 pm - 3:00 pm Victorian Tea The Laurels 1:00 pm Santa Express Train Excursion Wellsboro Junction 1:00 pm HG Productions, “A Christmas Carol” Warehouse Theatre 1:30 pm HG Productions, “A Christmas Carol” Black Box, Deane Center 2:00 pm Victorian Stroll

2:30 pm First Position Dance Studio Performance Street Stage 3:00 pm Santa Express Train Excursion Wellsboro Junction 3:00 pm Wellsboro Men’s Chorus Arcadia Theater 3:20 pm Wellsboro Women’s Chorus Arcadia Theater 3:30 pm HG Productions, “A Christmas Carol” Black Box, Deane Center 3:40 pm Combined Chorus Sing-a-Long Arcadia Theater 4:00 pm HG Productions, “A Christmas Carol” Warehouse Theatre 4:00 pm Choral Evensong Service St. Paul’s Episcopal Church 5:00 pm Candlelight Walk for Peace Packer Park to the Green 5:00 pm Santa Express Train Excursion Wellsboro Junction 5:30 pm Tree Lighting Ceremony The Green 7:00 pm Santa Express Train Excursion Wellsboro Junction 7:30 pm Gallery at the Warehouse with Acoustic Pawnshop Warehouse Theatre (Classic Carols&Rock)

Sunday, December 7th

3:00, 5:00, & 7:00 pm Santa Express Train Excursion Wellsboro Junction 2:30 pm HG Productions, “A Christmas Carol” Meet at the Deane Center for Performing Arts Warehouse Theatre And much, much more! Impromptu performances, concerts, poetry, and skits will take place as the Christmas spirit moves throughout the community.

Won’t you make Dickens of A Christmas your celebration? Plan now to join us...you’ll have a Dickens of a Good Time!

Soldiers + Sailors Memorial Hospital

25

This schedule brought to you by:

SIMMONS-ROCKWELL 26

Courtesy of Maggie Barnes

Oh, Tannenbaum!!

The Tale of the Too-Tall Tree

By Maggie Barnes

Our

Anniversary

Saleabration continues through

“I

know exactly where the Christmas tree will go.”

It is an odd sentence to choke out in a whispered sob. But that is exactly how I said it, four years ago, upon walking into the living room of the next house for sale we were investigating.

A change in jobs required a move to the region overlapping northern Pennsylvania and southern New York. Husband Bob and I were on the second day of a two-day blur of available homes. In the golden light of an August afternoon, we were being driven up a steep hill while

the real estate agent issued a string of disclaimers.

“I hesitate to show you this house.

It’s a bit…different.”

The pause between “bit” and “different” was wide enough to drive a herd of cows through, and Bob’s curious glance caught mine in the side view mirror of the SUV. When pushed, the agent ticked off an itemized list of the challenges that awaited us.

“It’s an older house, kind of a throw-back style. It’s on a dirt road that is private, no municipal services, and there are only three other homes.

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Oh, Tannenbaum!! continued from page 27

It hasn’t been lived in for a while and,” he paused and dropped the vehicle into an even lower gear as the homes and businesses gave way to state land and forest, “it’s a little out of the way.”

When we dropped down from the road onto a banked gravel drive, the house was about as impressive as Miley Cyrus’s credentials to join the DAR. One story, overgrown field, no access from the road other than the driveway, which abruptly stopped at the door with no other option for exit besides backing up.

While Bob tried to get a bit of perspective on the degree of slant into which the house was built, I went in.

When he joined me a few moments later, he wrinkled his forehead at the sight of me stopped in the entrance to the living room as though nailed to the floorboards. Tears were threatening to spill at any second, and I looked out of breath. Before he could question, I turned to him and sobbed out my Christmas tree prophecy.

Then Bob turned his head. The entire front of the house was glass.

Floor to ceiling windows showcased a view of green-carpeted hills, cascading forward to a sky painted a blue from a child’s storybook. Hardwood floors, a brick fireplace that offered a buffer between living and dining areas, and a descending staircase filled his gaze.

Snapped out of his trance, he raised his hand and indicated the exact spot on the floor where a glistening evergreen stood in my mind’s eye.

Fast forward to a brisk autumn morning as we rolled down the interstate, congratulating each other on the brilliance of our plan. No more stomping our feet on the frozen parking lot of a local business, as we had for countless Decembers. We were going to cut down our tree for the upcoming Christmas, but schlepping through the snow comparing spruces was for amateurs. We were going in the fall, tagging our desired tannenbaum 28

in dry conditions and coming back in December for a fast cut and drag that would be surgical in its precision.

As we got out of the truck, I asked my beloved if we had a tape measure handy. His response is one of the entries in the “Great Book of Phrases Uttered by Husbands That Give Wives the Heebie-Jeebies.”

“Nope. I know how high the ceiling is.”

This statement, when coupled with our mutual desire to attain “one honking big Christmas tree,” should have been an indicator of what lay ahead. (On a related note, I am sure the Captain of the Titanic slapped his First Mate heartily on the back and said, “That iceberg don’t look big, son! In fact, cut close to it and we will use the shavings to make margaritas tomorrow.

Good night!”)

Selection of our tree was a true team effort. I would attempt to gauge its shape and fullness. Bob would stand beside it, calculating its height by raising his arm over his head and doing the math based on his personal stats. Through this highly scientific method, we tagged a beauty estimated in the neighborhood of twelve feet tall.

Perfect.

On the appointed day, deep into the holiday season, we returned, chopped the tree down, and dragged it between us to the truck. We decided to forego the shaking and binding that the tree farm offered. To be honest, neither of us can recall now why we did that. (I think it’s the residual shock suppressing our memories, but I digress.) The tree snuggled comfortably inside the eight-foot bed, with a dainty section of about a foot jutting over the tailgate.

“Drat! We miscalculated! It can’t be but nine feet tall!” I jammed my gloved hands into my jacket pockets and turned to Bob with a scowl. “That’s going to look pretty stumpy in our front room.”

Bob was quiet, the usual sign that his brain is analyzing the situation like an MRI on caffeine.

“It’s just fallen deeper into the truck bed than I thought it would. It’s still at least ten feet tall and, either way, it’s ours now. Let’s go.”

At home, we propped open the front door, dropped the tailgate of the truck, and hauled that evergreen into the middle of the living room floor.

And that’s when it happened: the moment our kids refer to as the “Magic Morphing Christmas Tree of 2011.” I prefer to remember it as the moment I turned to my husband and demanded, “Just how tall do you think you are?”

The beast, for that is surely what it had become, obscured the living room floor for a solid five feet from side-toside and a mind-blowing fifteen feet from bottom to tip. It was an endless mass of forest green boughs. I swear to you I heard it growl. One of our cats had ventured out to investigate and when the tree did its “Creature from the Black Lagoon” impersonation, she dropped her ears flat, hissed like a busted boiler, and shot back down the stairs.

I wanted to go with her.

“Babe? Did somebody swap trees on us?”

Bob rolled his eyes and said, “Yep, that’s it, Mags. There is a band of tree swappers who must have hung off an overpass on I-86, grabbed our tree and replaced it with this Sequoia. Call CSI: Kings’ Canyon.”

Our usual tree stand looked like something from the Barbie Playhouse when we tried to jam it on the stump of the trunk. I could see the blue-eyed MRI cranking up again and a trip to the garage produced a large bucket, a couple of bricks, and a sack of sand, all remnants from the extensive remodeling we had done.

The tree was nearly impossible to subdue, and the fact that it smelled like every good childhood memory you

ever had did not negate the fact that it was stabbing me a hundred times a minute. On the count of three, the tree went up, up, up and into the bucket and down. The down was not near as impressive as the up, and, to my horror, the evergreen from hell bent at least two feet of its crowning points against the newly painted ceiling in my dream home. Had it been metal-on-metal it would have made your teeth hurt to listen to. The needles cut a delicate pattern into the beige paint and came to rest at a painfully cockeyed angle, causing the entire tree to list fifteen degrees to port.

The rest of the day is a blur. It took us four hours, two additional stump trimmings, three bags of sand, and enough high-gauge fishing line to hog-tie a sumo wrestler to secure the tree. The two of us fell onto the sofa in an exhausted pile, silently surveying the wreckage.

Chunks of hacked-off boughs and trunk littered the floor along with yards of fish line and bailing twine. About a half gallon of water had sloshed out of the bucket at one point, bringing with it enough wet sand to nest a family of pelicans. A paltry box of ornaments, more than adequate for all of our past trees, looked like it would, maybe, cover the top third. If we put a string of lights on every available bough, confused pilots would overshoot the Elmira Corning Regional Airport and try to land DC-9s on our deck.

“You know,” Bob gasped between gulps of air, “I think the natural look is the best for this Christmas. Less showy decorations. Maybe just an arm’s length of garland and some pine cones. What do you think?”

I nodded, being unable to form words. My lungs had crawled out my mouth to see what the heck was going on.

My face felt perforated, like someone was going to tear it off a college bulletin board advertising for roommates.

When I could, I squeaked, “Is this a Scotch pine?”

Bob rocked his head no.

I was crestfallen.

“I was hoping that would be justification for a glass of Dewar’s.”

The MRI had enough juice left for one more calculation.

“Actually, Honey, it’s a rare species. A ‘Bourbonite.’

Yep. And I believe tradition dictates a glass of Maker’s Mark for toasting it.”

He may think he is only four feet tall, but I still love the way his mind works.

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Mountain Home contributor Maggie Barnes works in health care marketing and is a resident of Waverly, New York.

29

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WELCOME TO

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heat gets a bad rap these days, doesn’t it? Despite (some say due to) 10,000 years of cultivation, the venerable grain has found itself on one of those lists of things to be eschewed. From those who have fullblown celiac disease, which is an autoimmune form of wheat gluten intolerance, to eaters with wheat allergies and gluten sensitivity, wheat is currently shunned, perhaps through no fault of its own, by millions.

Gluten is wheat’s natural protein and is the substance that enables your holiday baked goods to hold their shape.

You’d think that for as many years as I’ve been baking I would understand the science of it all.

I don’t.

The gist of it seems to be that when you’re mixing up a batch of sugar cookies or a loaf of pumpkin bread, the glutens are stretched. They form small air pockets, which are inflated by the gasses in the leavening agent—typically baking powder or baking soda. The shortening, butter, or other fat used surrounds the gluten, containing the stretch; baking solidifies the shape and texture.

There are a variety of wild and domestic grains in the genus Triticum, which are typically considered to be wheat, including durum, spelt, kamut, and faro. Winter wheat, the kind grown in Kansas, is planted in the fall, goes dormant in the winter, and is harvested in the spring. Northern states use spring wheat—it’s planted in the spring and harvested in the fall. Those wheat types are divided into six classes such as hard red winter, soft winter, or hard spring. The hard/soft designation refers to the kernel. A soft winter wheat is, for instance, lower in protein and is appropriate for making cakes and pastries. A hard white would work well for yeast breads.

Most packaged all-purpose wheat flour available in the grocery store is a blend that works pretty well for home baking needs.

Professional bakers would be more discerning and select for, say, yeast bread, a hard spring or hard winter wheat with a 12 to 14 percent gluten content.

Gluten-free grains include amaranth, buckwheat, quinoa, millet, oats, and teff. Flour can be made from all of those and, with some tweaking of traditional wheat-based recipes (you’ll want things like xanthan gum, potato starch, and arrowroot, and the cookbook Babycakes Covers the Classics by Erin McKenna), delicious baked goods can result. One of my winter projects is going to be a gluten-free homemade pasta.

I’ll let you know how it turns out.

Keystone State Press Award-winning columnist Gayle Morrow, former editor of The Wellsboro Gazette, cooks locally—and organically—at the West End Market Café.

32

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FOOD

&

DRINK

Deana Sidney

Suzan Richar

Poulet Chasseur with Couronne de Riz Clamart (an elegant French version of chicken and rice), which Jackie Kennedy served during her White House years.

Dinner at the Kennedy White House ...And Books for Friends Who Cook

By Cornelius O'Donnell

I

was browsing through some almost elderly cookbooks the other day and came across a recipe and— “bing”—I knew that I’d be making it for a holiday dinner. Not only will it be a perfect side dish for roast beef but I could see it with roast pork or veal or seafood and what about chicken? It’s practically perfect.

The recipe in question is for a rice

dish and I found it in a 1998 book by Letitia Baldrige called In the Kennedy Style, Magical Evenings in the Kennedy White House. The book’s recipes are by the White House Chef René Verdon.

I call the recipe “Holiday on Rice” because I cannot resist a pun, but Mrs. K. (or her staff) called it Couronne de Riz Clamart.

I’ve varied the ingredients and used

brown rice instead of the long-grain white version. Actually, using basmati rice will be my first choice. Both of these are very 2014; and I suggest two canned tomatoes or even sun-dried babies, minced and seeds removed instead of the plum tomato in the original. I mean, a good tasting tomato in December? It’s not happening.

Use a Bundt pan or ring mold, See Dinner on page 38

36

37

Dinner continued from page 36

lightly buttered, for this, and unmold and fill the center with the baby peas for the final presentation.

Couronne de Riz Clamart 2 tsp. unsalted butter, plus more for the dish ½ c. each red and green bell peppers cut in tiny cubes 3 c. cooked brown rice or basmati rice (or long-grain white) 2 large eggs, beaten ¼ c. (or a bit more) freshly grated Parmesan cheese, preferably Parmigiano Reggiano 1 c. low-sodium chicken or vegetable broth 2 Tbsp. chopped fresh Italian parsley 2 canned plum tomatoes (Muir Glen fire roasted), chopped (note: you could also use the equivalent fine chopped sun-dried tomatoes) ¼ tsp. each kosher salt and fresh ground pepper 1 c. frozen baby peas* In a skillet, melt half the butter over medium heat and add the peppers. Cook, stirring often, for about 5 minutes or until softened and very lightly brown.

Alternatively steam or microwave the peppers until they soften. Reserve. (Do this ahead.)

In a bowl, gently stir together the rice, eggs, Parmesan cheese, chicken stock, and parsley. Stir in peppers, tomato, salt, and pepper. Generously butter a 1-quart tube mold or Bundt pan, packing down gently with a spoon.

Bake in a 350-degree oven for 25 minutes or until lightly browned. Remove from the oven and let stand 2 minutes. Invert serving platter over the top of the mold and turn out rice mixture. Toss peas with the remaining butter; spoon into the center of the ring.

Makes 6 servings. *Place frozen peas in a small sieve and run very hot water over them until they defrost and warm.

Need a Present for a Friend who Cooks?

For many years the food writer in me would compile a list of cookbooks that readers might consider buying for relatives and friends who enjoy their time in the kitchen.

Of course one can always ask Santa and hope you’ll find the volume of choice under your tree.

This time around I’m keeping my recommendations down to two books that I literally flipped over. (You should see the scuffmarks on the ceiling.)

First, there’s the new Mark Bittman book (he of the See Dinner on page 40 38

39

Dinner continued from page 38

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New York Times) called How to Cook Everything Fast and subtitled A Better Way to Cook Great Food. It’s a shame that the flowers have gone to bed for the winter, as the heft of this book would make a great place to press your favorites. Soon-to-be favorite recipes fill the—wait for it—1,000plus pages. Each recipe is complete on facing pages, and even without my specs I can read them. And the pages lie flat. Glory be!

As with Mark’s many other books, the ingredients seem to be available at a good supermarket.

And the instructions are clearly presented. Many recipes combine oddly appealing twists on old favorites. I cite Tortilla French Toast as one example. He has written it with the classic combination of egg dip, sugar, and maple syrup and then added two variations: RosemaryParmesan and Cinnamon-Orange.

And, as one who’d like to make French toast for a crowd, I liked his suggestion for using a roaster over two burners to make eight slices of toast at a time. But the book is filled with tips, making this not only a good source of ideas for quick meals, but a dandy book to read. But not in bed.

A Classic Food Writer Here’s a name that—in England at least—is as revered as James Beard, Julia Child, and Marcella Hazan—and from about their same era. Elizabeth David was an Englishwoman who spent WWII in Egypt and before and after the war in many countries surrounding the Mediterranean. She returned to a Britain where food and ingredients were severely rationed. Her first cookbook, not surprisingly titled Mediterranean Food, was published in 1955 despite the rationing and was quickly followed by French 40

Country Cooking, French Provincial Cooking, Italian Food, and Summer Food. All of them are still in print.

Penguin eventually published them in paperback, and I snapped up these inexpensive gems. But these were the quirkiest recipe books I’d ever seen.

The titles of the recipes were followed by a paragraph listing the ingredients.

Notice the word paragraph. No easyreading listing here.

No matter that I had to make my own listing and double check to make sure I listed everything.

The recipes, most of them easy for the beginning cook that I was, were inspirational. I’d often tuck a book in the glove compartment or in a jacket pocket for reference as I roamed the aisles of the market.

I opened the mailbox the other day to find the latest mail-order book catalog from Daedalus books.

Smack on the front cover was a book I didn’t know existed: At Elizabeth David’s Table, first published by Ecco in the U.K. in 2010. I was on the phone ordering it in minutes. It’s the best $10-plus-shipping I’ve spent in a long time. And I couldn’t agree more with Jill Norman (another respected English food writer), who opined in the introduction: “Elizabeth’s recipes make you want to cook. The aroma of a dish and its colors spring from the page.” All this without smell-a-vision or, back when the books were first printed, photos.

This new volume has beautiful, luscious illustrations of most of the dishes. Hurrah!

I’ve already spent many happy hours reading the book. The preface is by ex-Gourmet editor Ruth Reichl, obviously a fan of Ms. David. And, as you skim through the book, I think you or your gifted friend will become instant fans. And between the recipes are some great essays by the author who has been dubbed by many to be the Greatest Food Writer of the

20th Century. Who wouldn’t be seduced by such little miracles as her “cheap and comforting” lentil soup (two versions included)?

My Dinner with Elizabeth I can’t resist a story about my one and only meeting with Elizabeth. She was not a good traveler in her later years, and would come to the States and only stop in Manhattan and in San Francisco, where she stayed with an old friend. Another San Francisco friend invited Elizabeth, her host, a couple of other food-folk, and yours truly to a dinner at his place high on a precarious hill overlooking the Golden Gate.

To get from the street to Alan’s front door was a climb best left to a mountain goat, but the house and the view was worth the effort. And so was the dinner.

The guests arrived breathlessly, and they marched into the kitchen and were given a libation. Ms. David knew the others, but not this Corningite. Alan made the introduction and then remembered he had a copy of the recipes we gave away at store demonstrations. She opened the folder to a recipe I had for bruschetta— essentially a piece of toast rubbed with a cut clove of garlic and brushed with olive oil, then toasted. We made it in the microwave using a specially treated piece of Corning Ware cookware. When this was preheated, empty, in the ”zapper,” the coating on the underside of the dish became very hot and made the upper surface a griddle. In my book, bruschetta could also be topped with finely chopped morsels of red ripe tomato and a sprinkle of Parmesan, which I did.

It’s Not Bruschetta! She Exclaimed

“Bruschetta is simply garlic toast,” she pronounced, in an I-suffer-fools-badly voice. Her outrage was mitigated by a second glass of Alan’s wine, and by the end of the evening, sitting next to me, she was purring like a well-fed pussycat. I was captivated.

Consider the suggestion and, who knows? You may get a bowl of David’s lentil soup to clear away the cobwebs on New Year’s Day. Chef, teacher, author, and award-winning columnist Cornelius O’Donnell lives in Elmira, New York.

41

Darren Johnson

The Twelve Wines of Christmas Our Wine Columnist Sings for a Sip

By Holly Howell

O

n the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, a Riesling for the roasted turkey.

And it was from the Finger Lakes, which made me incredibly happy. After all, Wine Enthusiast magazine just named New York State the Wine Region of the Year! And Riesling is rockin’ it. There is no better wine for the big feast. Blessed with lots of great acidity and luscious fruit flavors, Riesling is a must for your holiday pantry. This is way more practical than the partridge in the pear tree thing.

On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, Two Tasty Tawnies.

As in Tawny Porto, the sweet fortified wine made in Portugal. There are lots of different styles of Port wine, including the Ruby (which is younger and more red in color), and the Tawny (which is aged longer and more caramel in color). The Ruby versions pair wonderfully with dark chocolate, but the Tawny versions are the best with gooey, nutty desserts. Or better

yet, try them with hearty blue cheeses like Stilton and Gorgonzola. As the weather outside gets frightful, these wines become more delightful.

On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, Three French Reds.

I am an Old World girl at heart, and am proud to admit that I have a knack for collecting some of the classic reds of France. Give me a Bordeaux, a Burgundy, and a Chateauneuf-du-Pape and I am apt to stop my constant yapping and go into a quiet and pensive appreciation of what is in my glass. I have a feeling that is what my true love was hoping.

On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, Four Calling Birds.

And they keep repeating, “Don’t open any expensive bottles after twelve midnight.”

This is a very important rule for wine lovers, and one of which I constantly need to be reminded. Pour the good stuff early on, when your taste buds can actually appreciate it. I have stationed that

birdcage right next to my California Cult Cabernets.

On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, Five Golden Rings!

What on earth was he thinking?

On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, Six Kitty Catnips.

Surprisingly, wine is not the only thing I love in life. No, I am not crazy about catnip. I am crazy about fluffy felines, and I keep myself surrounded by them. They love the holidays, too, and this is the gift that I offer them, just so they stay out of my wine.

On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, Seven Sublime Chablis. And I am not talking about the three-liter boxes. Real Chablis wines are like magic, and are produced from vineyards that grow from one of the earth’s most ancient ocean beds in the northern part of Burgundy, France. These wines are usually unoaked, and show a pure expression of the mineral soils where they See Twelve Wines of Christmas on page 48

42

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Twelve Wines of Christmas continued from page 42

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are produced. The top ones come from seven Grand Cru villages: Bougros, Blanchot, Les Clos, Grenouilles, Les Preusses, Vaudésir, Valmur. Try a bottle with oysters this holiday season. And pray that the French may someday forgive those crazy Californians for putting that precious wine region’s namesake on a cardboard box that was a field blend of grapes. They knew not what they did.

On the eighth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, Eight Bottles Sparkling. I would have killed him if he’d forgotten these. After all, the holidays just aren’t the holidays without a little bubbly. My favorite festive fizzies include French Champagne, Alsatian Crémant, Spanish Cava, German Sekt, Italian Prosecco, Asti Spumante, Aussie Sparkling Shiraz, and American Alka Seltzer.

On the ninth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, Nine Vinho Verdes. Even though these crisp, quaffable whites are made for warm weather, I cannot refuse them in any season. And you guessed it—there are nine specific villages in northern Portugal that make the best ones. They are: Baião, Paiva, Ave, Sousa, Monção, Cávado, Lima, Amarante, and Basto. This is truly turning out to be a very geeky Christmas, and I am loving it.

On the tenth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, Ten New Wine Glasses. Because that is exactly how many I broke this year.

On the eleventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, Eleven Elegant Eisweins. Also called ice wines, these luscious nectars are made from late harvested grapes that have frozen on the vine. Should I mention that a good percentage of this gift came from the cool climate of the Finger Lakes of New York? No, you already knew that.

These wines are mandatory accompaniments to all holiday cheesecakes and pumpkin pies. And late night mistletoe kisses.

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, Twelve Wooden Wine Racks. Thank goodness, because I was running out of space (see previous paragraphs). Wine must be stored on its side in a wine rack, or upside down in the case in which it came. You always want to position the bottle so that the liquid wine is touching the cork, keeping it moist and expanded so that it doesn’t dry out. Unfortunately for my true love, this gift was tough to wrap.

In return, my true love is getting exactly what he wants.

A new tie.

Wishing you all much heartfelt giving and receiving this holiday season!

Holly Howell is a Certified Specialist of Wine (by the Society of Wine Educators) and a Certified Sommelier (by the Master Court of Sommeliers in England).

48

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B A C K O F T H E M O U N TA I N

Dressed for the Holidays Photo by Ken Meyer

A

friend and I were out on the local National Audubon Society Winter Bird Count last New Year’s Day. Our route took us from Wellsboro toward Heisey Run, and along the way this lovely scene appeared on that frosty morning. Its warmth, simplicity, and elegance was stunning, and it seemed to make a beautiful statement about the lives we lead in this rural place. ~ K.M.

50

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