Michael and Me—it could be a song, I think—currently, it is a sonata of days.  At noon it is cold and wet as we wind our way up into the Catskill’s, heading toward Hunter Mountain for an Oktoberfest celebration. The trees have been busy the past several weeks; the mountains are beginning to burn with the fire of autumn. Mellow golds and soft siennas fringe the hills while occasional pops of brilliant scarlet burn even brighter against trees that still cling to their summer green.

At the foot of the mountain, the mist is so thick that it borders on drizzle. I tell Michael we will probably return from this adventure very wet.

“So what?” says the man with a hat and hair shaved short.

Eating Potatoes- Drinking Beer

Undeterred, we walk toward the smell of sausages cooking and the cacophony of music and a multitude of voices. We think it is too early to begin stuffing ourselves and drinking beer, but when we look up and see a sign for potato pancakes, we know now it is a losing battle. I love potatoes—salty, crispy, creamy, stuffed, baked, boiled, fried, steamed, cheesy, whipped, mashed, grated, sliced, diced. I love potatoes in all their glorious forms.

Michael tells me that he likes the potato pancakes at Wurstfest in New Braunfels better. I like them both. These are thick and creamy on the inside, flecked with bacon, crisp on the outside.  Applesauce is the perfect refreshing foil. I even like the dark German beer—Spaten Oktoberfest.

Our next handheld course is another type of potato—Texas Tornado Potatoes (at a German festival in New York?)—a mound of spiral cut potatoes fried crisp and piled high, with nacho toppings of melted cheese, pico de gallo, and a drizzle of sour cream. Accompanied by more beer, I feel decadent.

Escaping from the wet, we find an empty seat inside the music hall and listen to oompah bands. We stand for the New York anthem, the German anthem, and the Star-Spangled Banner. All the while, we drink and eat, fighting over the last bite.