Maple Jelly is Amazing!

THE LAST TIME I visited my aunt and uncle in Connecticut, Mint and I were encouraged to stop by a neighbor's house known by another more yummy name: River's Edge Sugar House. Mmmmmm... that winter morning, along with my Aunt Kathy and my cousins, Paul and Adam, we pulled up the Sugar House driveway to find the place disappointingly quiet.

We stomped through the snow to peek at the horses out in the yard nearby, assured by Kathy their owners were friends of hers and wouldn't mind. As we were turning to leave--a noise in the woods! We all stopped. It moved closer and we started off, quicker this time, as a man with a rifle bounced out of the trees, yelling after us, "Hey, how are you!"

In this post, the role of Man with Rifle is played by friend Bill Proulx, who is also the owner of the aforementioned horses and (of relevance to this post) the River's Edge Sugar House. He is is also a purveyor of fine maple products, the man who has converted me to 100% real maple syrup, and, this past weekend, the man who sold me a $6 glass jar of homemade maple jelly.

Maple jelly makes a tasty sandwich!

Maple jelly, by the way, is a-mazing. I imagine it requires very little extra sugar to make, since the maple syrup used to make it is already something like 60% sugar itself, and might I add it pairs up ridiculously well with peanut butter. Want some? Well, my jar is gonna be empty pretty soon, so I'll just give you this:

River's Edge Sugar House - Pure Maple Products & Local Honey
326 Mansfield Road (Rt. 89); Ashford, CT 06278
(860) 429-1510 | www.riversedgesugarhouse.com

(You know you want some.)

The Mystery Snack

IT'S A MYSTERY. I attempted to get my uncle to tell me what was in the little plastic bag, but he wouldn't budge, offering only, "I think you'll like it." That's decent logic, I'll admit, but then again I always think my mom will like pine nuts. Fortunately for the both of us, she frequently reminds me that she's violently allergic to them.

Myself, having no food allergies or broad distastes to speak of, and certainly not being one to turn down free snacks, I accepted the little plastic bag of dried goods on my way out the door of my aunt and uncle's house. When I later found myself alone and hungry on my Amtrak ride to New Haven, I rummaged through my bag and pulled out the mystery snack.

Mostly, I was bored. I definitely wasn't hungry. I had a huge brunch followed, on account of early afternoon train and plane departure times, by a huge lasagna lunch with my family in Connecticut just a few hours ago. This back-to-back meal "event" is explained by the simple fact that earlier in the weekend my aunts Eileen and Kathy had made two lasagnas, and as of Sunday afternoon no lasagna had been consumed. Have lasagna, will eat, I always say. Have two lasagnas, one will travel back to Brooklyn with me in my suitcase. True story. I really say that.

Since I couldn't eat a frozen lasagna on the train, I decided to pass the time with this bag of something. My first guess had been some type of crunchy, cinnamon baked business, but I should have known better. That would have been too predictable. The "Willimantic Co-op" sticker on the bag suggested something altogether odder. Still, I was expecting crunchy when I popped the first piece in my mouth. Imagine my surprise to find: chewy!

What is it?

Dried apples, maybe apricots. Cinnamon. Those were both pretty clearly involved, and I'll admit I was pretty disappointed. Here I'd been hoping for bizarrity in a little plastic bag and ended up with boring old dried ap--woah! Spicy! Cayenne pepper! Well, I'll be damned! As the slow burn hit me, my mystery snack finally lived up to its hype and the flavor whisked me away to... no, I was still on Amtrak. Sigh. But if my uncle will own up to his purchase, perhaps I can tell you where to find this spicy, mystery deliciousness.

Going to the Country, Gonna Eat a Lot of Mexican Food

Eat Records
124 Meserole Avenue
Brooklyn, NY 11222
Official Myspace Page

Eat-A-Pita
Grand Central Terminal
New York, NY 10017
212-297-2500
Official Website

Chuck's & Margaritas
1498 Stafford Road
Mansfield, CT 06268
860-429-1900
Official Website

MY COUSIN ADAM is getting confirmed tomorrow (think: Catholic version of a Bar Mitzvah, only without the big party or super-long ceremony), so I'm headed up to Connecticut for the weekend. That means errands in the morning, a train in the afternoon, and Connecticut by nightfall. Of course, today's sustenance will follow in exactly the same path.

First thing this morning, finding our shelves finally void of the Turkish coffee we discussed a few days ago, I stopped into Eat Records while running errands to grab a cup. I've passed the tiny, hole-in-the-wall record shop/coffee shop/cafe/music venue guided by indie scene beacon Todd P many a time, but I've always kept walking as my caffeine loyalties lie with Cafe Grumpy and Ashbox. Used vinyl loyalties? I have none.

What Eat Records would look like full, at night

The coffee was decent (costing a buck and some change), the records looked old and/or new, and there were a few well- and/or poorly-dressed kids hanging around. Pretty much what I expected. Not much space to sit and use a laptop, though there were certainly a few tables available to occupy for such a purpose, so I can imagine the place gets filled up pretty easily on a weekend or whenever Todd P is selling tix for some impossible to find Greenpoint gig. So, Grumpy and Ashbox--fear not, this morning's infidelity means nothing. It was just a cup of coffee. I will return to you both soon. Kisses.

Suitcase packed (yes, loaf of banana bread included), I set off for Grand Central in hopes of arriving in time to find a bite to eat before running to my 4:09 train to New Haven. Deciding against dragging my suitcase through the always-packed Grand Central Market, I descended instead to the Dining Concourse and found the falafal-tastic Eat-A-Pita. For $6 (GCT is convenient, but not cheap) I had a delicious pita stuffed with falafal and much hummus. Not too shabby; a standout among other options.

The burrito barn beckons...

From New Haven, my uncle Frank and I drove up and through Hartford, arriving to meet my aunts Kathy and Eileen, uncle Tom, and cousins Paul and Adam outside Ashford, CT at the triple-level Mexican super-barn, a.k.a. Margaritas. I'll say this much: if you're in eastern Connecticut and looking for a gigantic Mexican steakhouse, look no further.


In the past I've enjoyed enchiladas the size of my head. This time, I gave the fish tacos a try. I'll go back to enchiladas next time, or perhaps the plates of sizzling fajitas that my cousins always enjoy, or perhaps the nachos my uncle ordered that showed up the size of a sombrero. All are more satisfactory options. Regardless, don't bother going on a full stomach, don't forget the margaritas, and be sure to get a table in the top-tier hay loft. Because if you haven't eaten Mexican food in the rafters of a barn in the Connecticut woods, you haven't lived.

MIKE EATS NEXT TIME: Coffee, nah; pita, yah; margaritas, you betcha.