I retrieve the chicken salad from the refrigerator and begin to assemble our sandwiches—white bread for Michael, a crusty baguette for me. Packing the picnic lunch in a tote, I tuck in a container of delicious Castletraveno olives. Turning to Michael, I tell him that we need to stop by the Cub Market and get chips, drinks, and dessert. I also break the news that our destination has changed. Instead of the Fanny Reese State Park on the river, we are heading to the mountains and then to New Paltz.

New Paltz

We get to New Paltz first. It is only 11:00 am, and Michael sees a sign for the Huguenot Historic Site.  We ease our car into a parking space by several antique cars, making our way to the visitor center.  It is Wednesday. It is closed—on Wednesdays only. Of course.

The words spill out of my mouth before Michael can open his, “And yes, Michael, I didn’t check. It’s Wednesday—who’s closed on a Wednesday?”

The morning is lovely. The street quiet. Its charm beckons. The signs explain a lot. This tiny area of New Paltz was preserved due to the remodeling and expansion of an old Huguenot home in the 1890s; preservationists were not happy. They formed the Historic Huguenot Street Society to keep it from happening again.

I know the Huguenots were French, but still, I need to know more. Luckily I carry an electronic encyclopedia in my pocket; it even has an app for Huguenot Street. In a nutshell, like the Puritans, the Huguenots fled their native land due to religious persecution—a never-ending tale. Strongly attached to John Calvin’s beliefs, a French Protestant Reformer, they were persecuted by the Catholics and ranked nearly 2,000,000 by the time of the Saint Bartholomew’s Day massacre in Paris during the late 1500s. In the early 1600s, a group of Huguenots left France for southwest Germany, finding safety in die Pfalz. Later still, they immigrated to the New World, purchasing 30,000 acres from the Esopus Indians, founding New Paltz.

Wandering on our own is possibly better than being led in a herd.

A Picnic at Minnewaska State Park

Our stomachs begin to grumble, so we head for the mountains—convertible top, down—and Minnewaska State Park, where there is a promise of picnic grounds and hiking trails.

The roadside boasts stands of trees that tell us autumn is definitely here—others say not so fast, let’s hang on to summer just a while longer. I ask Michael to stop so I can take a picture of autumn.  I scramble to my feet, standing on the front seat of the car, and snap away at fall foliage. Convertibles do have their advantages.

The park is lovely, but all of the picnic tables are in the sun and face the parking lot—not the picnic spot of my dreams.  We gather walking sticks, cameras, our lunch and head for the lake, opting to sit on a rock overlooking both the lake and a hiking trail to enjoy the promised chicken salad.

It is my week to cook—I am in charge of dinner—so I break the news to Michael that he may see the chicken salad again later this evening.

We wind our way down back roads, trying to get lost on the way home, but getting lost is harder than it sounds.  All roads lead to some highway we have become familiar with—or town.

Chicken salad—with the reddest, ripest tomatoes you have ever seen—is on the table by seven.