We are out the door early today and heading for the mountains that border the Hudson River Valley. Yesterday, a couple that we met in Woodstock’s village center—also from Texas—told us about a wonderful German restaurant hidden in the depths of the Catskills.  They said we have to go.  They didn’t remember much. No street. No town. And a name they think is correct. After Googling Hofbrauhaus in the Catskills, I come up with a likely prospect on Trip Advisor.

Sunfrost Farms, Woodstock

Before we get a mile down the road, Michael pulls into the parking lot of Sunfrost Farms. What looks like a garden center to me is, in fact, a fantastic small market specializing in the most beautiful produce and gourmet foodstuffs.  I want to buy everything I see, especially the tiny Brussels sprouts that I am sure are wonderful; I can imagine their creamy oven-roasted salty goodness. The figs call my name. They even have smoked salmon with pastrami seasonings—I’m itching to try it. I ask Michael if he will eat it if I buy it.

“Haven’t you had enough salmon this trip?”

I guess that’s a NO. I replace the package on the top shelf from whence it came.

In Search of Lunch

Continuing on our journey north, after taking a left turn into a service station to buy gasoline, crossing the small highway to turn left at the Y is proving impossible.  The traffic is unending.  I look at Google Maps and tell Michael he doesn’t have to cross the highway, we can take the back way to our destination.  This road is much preferable to the highway, and once we reach Winter Clove Road, we curl and twist and climb up the mountain toward lunch.  For naught.  Nary a sign of anyone anywhere.  I Google the correct name of the resort restaurant from the sign out front.  It tells me little to nothing.

On the highway, we bump into a Hannaford’s Super Market and take the opportunity to buy more bleach and other needed non-food items.  Michael is waging war with mold and mildew and the smell that emanates from the plumbing in the downstairs bathroom—the one he has deemed “his.”

Barnwood Restaurant

A stone’s throw down the road, we see a parking lot full of cars—a good sign—and a sign that says Barnwood Restaurant.  Since German food has been taken off the menu, a light lunch is what we’re after, but not exactly what we get.  I wanted soup, but today’s offering is pork and bean—I can’t imagine it—so I settle for a taco salad. Fried clams are Thursday’s special—Michael can’t resist—and everything on his plate is so good he eats the whole thing.

“It reminds me of the clam baskets I used to buy in Massachusetts,” he tells me. My taco salad reminds me of Texas.

Thomas Cole Historic Site

The Thomas Cole Historic Site, at the northern end of the Hudson River Valley, is almost around the corner, and Michael has the address memorized from the information I emailed him. We pass the obscured entrance. Backtrack. Park. Walk.

Purchasing tickets for the 2 p.m. tour, we head toward the old yellow three-story house. The view from the side-wrapped front porch of the house is the view of my dreams.  So is this porch. The house is minuscule, considering it at times housed fourteen people.  The docent feels their most important find when they took over the house was Cole’s color wheel, found lying on his old studio floor. Today it is framed in gilt and placed in the center of the gallery wall—unlike any color wheel I have ever seen.

Thomas Cole’s Color Wheel / A 21st Century Color Wheel

The Art of Thomas Cole

The house has only some of his paintings—the new studio more—soon I am lost in the immensely detailed art of a self-taught, natural talent, also an idealist, who died too soon, and is considered the founder of the Hudson River School—not really a school—but an American art movement in the 19th century. It is fascinating to see how his work progressed, from sketches made in nature to quick studies in oil to the finished painting. He took what he saw in nature, then edited the undesirable, putting pieces together using the camera obscura…creating dreamy landscapes of the softest hues.

The art is amazing, and as I get nose-close to Cole’s brush strokes, I gasp, “My gosh, he used a tiny brush.”

My brushes are way too big…and he painted immense landscapes. Apparently, my canvases are way too small. Another docent tells me there is a DVD in the gift shop that gives instructions on how the Hudson River School’s painters wielded their brush. Dare I try?

Vinnie’s Farm Market

Michael informs me that since we had such a large lunch, we will have a light dinner. It’s his week to cook. He needs tomatoes and knows which fruit stand he wants to purchase them from.  The fruit stand is one of many that line the roadsides around here—the last vestiges of summer combined with the promise of autumn. I’m a fruitaholic and a vegaholich. Maybe I’m just a foodaholic. But I’ve become wise enough to know I shouldn’t purchase more than we can consume in a day or two, which isn’t much, and it isn’t my week, so I keep my hands in my pockets.

We pass by Vinnie’s.  Michael stopped here earlier this week. While I stayed in the car answering texts, he got out and made purchases. This time he insists I get out of the car. He wants me to experience what Vinnie’s is all about. I walk past the fresh produce to the overstuffed interior, where shelves groan under the weight of canned and pickled vegetables. And then there are the tables that are loaded down with every baked good imaginable. There is so much here; I wonder at the freshness of everything.

Feeling we shouldn’t have come in to merely gawk, we purchase unfiltered Sicilian olive oil, heirloom tomatoes—more tomatoes. Do we really need more tomatoes? And I wonder why September tomatoes in New York are sooooo much better than Texas tomatoes in high summer. We toss in some blueberries for a grand total of $27.

Back in the car, Michael tells me, “Last time Vinnie waited on me; this time, I think it was Vinnie’s son.”