Italian-American

Someone said something to me a couple of weeks ago. I imagine the man with whom I had the conversation has long since forgotten about it. It wasn’t that easy for me. Something has been nagging at me. The words have been resurfacing again and again and each time they look slightly different as I try to make them more clear in my mind. For most people I know, a few simple words are easily forgotten. I have a history of festering on things, over-thinking and analyzing life’s tiny, seemingly insignificant details. That is the reason why, for two weeks, I’ve been brewing over this brief, to the point statement, said directly to me: “You’re not Italian-American. You’re just American.”

I’ve had many wonderful things to say about Morgan County since moving here in August. It is a beautiful place, and there are pockets full of posy to be found throughout the fabric of its land and people. But what kind of fabric is it? I grew up in a place that most resembles a quilt. Cleveland, Ohio and its surrounding suburbs are an excellent representation of America’s “melting pot,” image. The city is very much so made up of many colorful pieces from different backgrounds, different reams of fabric, different textile mills, sewn together by commonly sharing the ground, the air and the buildings of Northeastern Ohio. When I was learning about America’s “melting pot,” in grade school, it was easy for me to understand because I was wholly immersed in the simmering stew. While Morgan County is not without culture, it is overwhelmingly without diversity. With the exception of a few patches sewn on over the years, Morgan County is more like a blanket made of one solid piece of contiguous fabric. Its population is a people for whom their stories begin here. Morgan County is a place of origin, a two hundred year old family farm, years of tradition built right here within the county lines. This is a tightly knit culture of similar thread. It is less easy for air to flow between its fibers, and can often times be more smothering than it is breathable. This is something I tried to keep in mind while dealing with a twenty-year old man who was telling me how I could and could not identify myself.

He didn’t understand why I (among other “groups” of people) had to label myself differently, why I couldn’t just be an American. What I couldn’t seem to get him to understand is the separation between my cultural background and my nationality. I have traveled to Europe and Asia, to many cities and countries where they speak many different languages. Never once while I was chatting with other travelers hiking our way up Mount Vesuvius, or while enjoying the laughter of new friends over a plate of spring rolls in balmy, monsoon soaked Chiang Mai, did I ever introduce myself as “Italian-American.” While abroad and at home, if anyone asked me about my nationality, I’d tell them what I’ve always told them, “I’m an American.”

When it comes to my culture, however, the story is entirely different…almost. My ancestors never set foot on American soil until the late 19th century. My mother is a first generation American. The beauty of this place we know as the United States of America is the notion that people were at one time free to come and go, to take and leave. While many immigrants find themselves assimilating into what we all generally accept as “American,” culture, many hold tightly to their dearly beloved cultural and ancestral traditions as well. It doesn’t stop there. What we generally accept as “American” culture is not based in thousands of years of social and ethnic tradition, not even in hundreds of years. It has the global uniqueness of being a very recently developed culture, a one-pot recipe created from its 234 years of settlers, who systematically destroyed the culture that was already present on this land.

Someone joked to me one time that all McConneslville has to offer are beauty salons and pizza places. Isn’t it funny how a person who wants to define what is and isn’t purebred American also frequents a string of businesses based on a food product which is at its core…wait for it…”Italian American”? Our immigrants come and go, and take and leave. An Italian brought a thin, crispy crusted, coal baked pie topped with fresh tomatoes and gooey mozzarella recipe to New York City once, and now pizza is fully a piece of American culture. In turn, two Americans monopolized on a modified version of Germany’s tenderized, ground meat patties and began selling hamburgers at the very first McDonalds Restaurant. Those golden arches can now be found in Naples, the birthplace of pizza. If the man I was speaking with can gobble down pizza, burgers and beer (another genuine import), then I can call myself an Italian-American. In fact, there are so many words that could be placed before or after the common denominator in all of this—American—that help define pieces of my culture. Italian, Slovenian, woman, Christian, Midwestern, white…

While this man thought I was trying to separate myself from him, from what he considers his culture, he had no idea just how similar we really are. Calling myself Italian-American isn’t about separation, but rather assimilation, comparison, commonality. Just as Italian immigrants in the early twentieth century found comfort in their common label, I am finding comfort in my new home rooted deep in the rural, impoverished foothills of an old mountain range. My maternal Grandmother’s family is originally from Molise, a small province on the Eastern side of Italy. If the leg that fits into the boot shaped country were wearing an ankle bracelet, Molise would be one of its beads. It isn’t in deep Southern Italy, but is too far South to be Northern Italy. It is mountainous, cold in the winter and hot in the summer. What really struck me this week, and brought this entire internal argument full circle for me was a passage from Micol Negrin’s regional Italian cookbook, Rustico. She says of Molise,

“Constructing a meal along the lines of starter, first course, second course, and dessert is a luxury most Italians—and certainly most Molisani—couldn’t afford until after World War II. Italy’s historically impoverished regions—Molise, Calabria, Basilicata, Sicily and Sardinia—put little emphasis on the frills, focusing instead on dishes that best delivered nourishing sustenance at little cost.”

My great-Grandparents came from Italy’s Appalachia. They were poor, rural, living in isolated mountains, and historically so. The recipes that follow in the chapter of Rustico devoted to Molise include Beans, Cabbage, and Potato Soup with Garlic-Pancetta-Chili Oil, Grilled Rabbit and Sausage Skewers, and Sweet Chestnut Fritters. I have on more than one occasion met Morgan County natives who catch and enjoy rabbit as a main course, who grow their own chestnuts, and who have referred to themselves as “hillbillies” for enjoying boiled cabbage and potatoes for lunch. This is the stock from which I come, and now I find myself living in a place that perhaps wouldn’t seem so foreign to my foremothers and fathers. I am embracing the beauty of this place, and slowly but surely imparting a bit of my culture, knowing that I will leave in June with a pocketful of theirs. I take peace in knowing that even though this man doesn’t want me to call myself Italian American, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because the best part about being able to call myself an Italian American is the American part, where I can be who I want to be, and no one can take my simmering pot of tomato sauce, my set of bocce balls, my ravioli cutters, my Chianti, or the voice which is expressed solely with my hands. No one can take my heritage, Italian and American.

To commemorate the feelings of completion, of fulfillment I’ve been feeling upon discovering the cultural traits I share with my fellow Appalachians, of course I had to cook something. Micol Negrin says, “The highlight of any Molisano meal is the first course, which more often than not mates pasta with beans, broccoli raab, bits of fried Pancetta, and chili…the most typical pastas are…cavatelli.” Just yesterday I bought a large, leafy bunch of rainbow chard at the River City Farmers Market in Marietta. Before I even read this passage, I’d decided to make a ragu of sorts, with the chard, great northern beans, fire-roasted diced tomatoes and lots of fresh garlic. This would sit happily atop a pile of homemade cavatelli, of course. While this dish is enthusiastically representative of my Molisani roots, only modified to fit my healthful eating habits, it is also made entirely with ingredients from not more than forty miles of McConneslville. I think that makes it enthusiastically representative of my time here. It is enthusiastically Italian-American.

Queen Honeybea’s
Whole-Wheat Cavatelli with Chard and Tomato Ragu
Serves 4

First, make the cavatelli:
2 cups of white whole wheat flour
1 cup of organic, unbleached all-purpose flour
A hefty pinch of salt
2 local, free-range eggs
12 ounces of 2% Greek yogurt

1. In a large bowl, toss together both types of flour and the salt. Make a well in the center and crack the eggs into it. Add the Greek yogurt, and with your fingertips, break the egg yolks and mash together the yogurt and eggs. Slowly begin rotating your fingers within the well, patiently pulling the flour mixture into the egg mixture. Continue this until you have created a moderately stiff dough that is not sticky. Add flour if necessary. Wrap in plastic and allow to rest for 30 minutes.
2. Unwrap the dough and place on a lightly floured pastry cloth or work surface. With a sharp knife, cut the dough into fourths. Then cut each fourth into fourths. You should have sixteen small pieces of dough. Wrap up the pieces you aren’t working with. Roll each sixteenth of dough into a long strip that is about ¼ inch in diameter. Cut into 1 inch pieces.
3. With the back of a rounded kitchen knife, a pastry blade, or a clean putty knife, pull each piece of dough across the work surface, starting with a large amount under the blade, and ending with a thin, curled round of dough. (See the photos below) You want to make sure you press the dough very thin in order to achieve the proper texture once they’ve been cooked.
4. Repeat this procedure with all of the dough. This will make enough for a main dish portion for four people.
5. Place the cavatelli on a lightly floured sheet pan, cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate until ready to use.










For the ragu:
2 TBS. extra virgin olive oil
8 stalks of rainbow swiss chard, stems and leaves
3 large cloves of garlic, thinly sliced
1 15 oz can organic, fire-roasted diced tomatoes (no salt added)
1 15 oz can great northern beans, drained
½ can of water
Large pinch of dried basil
Large pinch of dried oregano
Pinch of salt
Dash of black pepper
Pinch of red chili flakes (optional)
Parmesan cheese for serving

1. In a large skillet, heat the olive oil over medium-high heat. Separate the leaves from the stalks of the chard. Slice the leaves into ¼ inch slices, set aside. Dice the stalks into ¼ inch pieces. Add the stalk pieces to the hot oil and sauté, stirring often, for two or three minutes, until the pieces begin to soften. Add the garlic and stir constantly for fifteen seconds. Add the reserved chard leaves, and sauté, stirring, for one to two minutes until the greens begin to wilt.
2. Add the tomatoes with their liquid, beans, water, basil, oregano, salt, pepper and chili flakes. Bring to a soft boil, then reduce the heat to medium-low and simmer until the liquid has reduced to 1/3, about fifteen minutes. In the meantime, cook the cavatelli.
3. To cook the cavatelli, bring a large pot of salted water with 1 TBS. of olive oil to a boil. Drop in the fresh cavatelli and boil two to four minutes, until all the cavatelli are floating and when taste tested they seem to be done. Drain.
4. Top the hot cavatelli with a ladle full of chard ragu. Sprinkle with grated parmesan cheese, a drizzle of olive oil, or additional chili flakes.


Beautiful rainbow chard stalks.


Simmering ragu.


The finished entree, served with a slice of my first ever truly successful loaf of whole grain bread.

*Recipe variation: If you have no quarrel with white flour, and no qualm with ricotta cheese, you can make the cavatelli with 3 cups of all-purpose flour and 12 oz. of whole milk ricotta for a more traditional pasta.

Love from the Soil

Fall is slowly fading here in Southeast Ohio. Everyday someone buys the very last pie pumpkin off of a dusty wooden shelf at a local orchard. Each night more and more potato sacks appear, draped over delicate perennials like a small herd of winter scarecrows dotting the yards, gardens and picket fences of this rural metropolis. I have reaped and enjoyed the gifts fall has offered to me this season. My exploits have included pumpkin pie, roasted butternut squash and cauliflower, potato & turnip soup, and spicy apple muffins. As the days get shorter, and the survival rate of outdoor vegetables hanging on by a vine or a stem gets lower and lower along with the temperature, there is one of autumn’s delightful treasures which I will miss dearly until next August. I will spend the winter, spring and summer heartbroken and pining for sweet potatoes.

For me, sweet potatoes are like young love from the soil. They are the breathtaking gasp of being kissed for the first time. They are the delicate, nervous brush of one hand on another while sitting side by side in a dark movie theater. They are consuming thoughts and sleepless nights of wild and running imagination. The first moment I begin to fall for sweet potatoes year in and year out is when I smell them. Heaped into a basket, coated with dirt like ancient artifacts unearthed from tombs, they smell like I imagine the core of the Earth to smell. They are maternal and rustic, filling my nostrils with pungency and the stinging smell of broken ground. For my love to blossom and grow they must also be warm, freshly pulled from dry, sandy soil, retaining the virile heat that penetrates even the depths of the underworld where sweet potatoes lie, below the fauna and flora. A fresh sweet potato on a fall day is love at first sight, first kiss and thinking about the unthinkable.

A sweet potato’s possibilities are endless. One of my favorite ways to enjoy them is to simply roast them, tossed with olive oil, salt, pepper and rosemary. In fact, I often find myself in conflict debating whether or not to tamper with their naturally pleasing flavor by preparing or using them any other way. This season I took on a new challenge after being inspired by my close proximity to the American South (in fact, Southeast Ohio often resembles the American South and may in fact be the stitching on the seam of the Bible Belt). Baking with sweet potatoes was a new concept to me this season. Certainly I’d heard of sweet potato pie, but that’s really more custard than it is bakery. I decided to throw myself into the endeavors of using sweet potatoes in baked goods as I’d use bananas, pumpkin or applesauce. The results were successful, and took my teenage love of sweet potatoes to a whole new level. Within the stretchy nooks and crannies of a biscuit mixed with homey banana and cinnamon, the sweet potato became familial. I felt the comfort found in my thoughts and company of loved ones folded into the lumpy batter of sweet potato muffins, baked with the soft notes of ground rosemary. Finally, the new, subtle closeness of my relationship with my one and only sibling, my sister, could at best be expressed to me through tender, spongy bites of sweet potato cupcakes enamored with antique cardamom and topped with a dollop of fluffy caramel frosting.

Last night I used my very last sweet potato of the season to make a tray of crispy oven fries, mixed with matchsticks of local Yukon Gold potatoes and tossed in salt, pepper, cinnamon, chipotle chili powder and granulated garlic. They were exquisite, and I had to stop myself from eating the entire tray with my meal. While I’ve been seeing the signs, receiving the passive messages, and getting the hint as the nights become frosty and the days turn to simply hours of sunlight, it is still sad for me to believe my seasonal affair with sweet potatoes has come to an end. I can, at least, take comfort in knowing that next August, after taking a long, lonely winter for myself, I’ll be able to fall in love all over again.


Sweet potato muffins, waiting to hit the oven, topped with dried tart cherries.


Queen Honeybea's Sweet Potato Cupcakes with Fluffy Caramel Frosting.


Pinwheel smears of sweet and salty frosting, dotted with dried tart cherries.


A homemade gift box containing a Sweet Potato Cupcake for a dear friend.

Send love, send sweet potatoes, and next fall, remember to buy local.

Pinwheels of Pumpkin

At first, it was an unusual request. After all, Americans typically don’t stray from their well established food standards. For birthdays that usually means a 9 inch round, two layer cake of some favorite flavor, covered from top to bottom with fluffy, sugary frosting with the words “Happy Birthday so and so…” piped across the peaks and valleys of hand smeared butter cream. This is usually accompanied by waxy pink and yellow candles, and a frosty scoop of ice cream. Cake and ice cream, that’s how we do birthdays. So when I asked my co-worker Andy what kind of cake he’d like me to make for his birthday, the response was surprising. He said, “Pumpkin roll.”

I’d never made a pumpkin roll before, in fact, I wasn’t even really sure how pumpkin rolls came about. I always imagined some sort of fairy-like magical wand being waved over a pumpkin sheet cake and some cream cheese and after a little poof of sparkling dust, it would transform into a delightful pinwheel of pumpkin sponge cake twirled with smooth, white filling. Pumpkin rolls were intimidating. Naturally, the original source of a pumpkin roll for me had always been a holiday craft show, a Christmas bazaar, or a church bake sale. I didn’t inquire about their ancestry, their humble beginnings, or their maturation process into Thanksgiving’s version of a Buche de Noel. Until now, that is.

I knew Andy was going to be a slight challenge. He told me early on, when I was talking endlessly about my love of all things pastry, that he didn’t really care for sweets. He passed on my boss’s chocolate sheet cake, and when pressed for his favorite baked treat in order to commemorate the day of his birth, he responded honestly, truthfully, and as I’d learn, from his heart. Andy’s favorite dessert has always been pumpkin roll. His mother used to make it for him. After she passed, his sisters would make it for him on occasion. It was nostalgic for him. What better way to celebrate a birthday, really, than to enjoy the delicately spiced crumb of earthy pumpkin cake that reminded him of so many birthdays before?

I’ve heard at least once a week for the past four weeks of how much Andy has been looking forward to the pumpkin roll I’d promised him. As I found myself bent in half at the waist, one eye closed, squinting tightly as I slid my frosting spatula gently over the pale orange batter, making sure it was perfectly level in the well buttered jelly roll pan, I was reminded once again of how much food is tied to memory, to our hearts, to joy, to comfort, and to feeling. Food is our great constant. We all need it, and in our common need, we’ve constructed an infinite number of cultures and traditions based around it. Someone, somewhere, took a little round gourd and some farm cheese and turned it into a curly pastry that delights our eyes, noses, fingers and tongues. It reminds Andy of his mother, and today it’ll be celebrating the fact that we’ve all had the great fortune of having our friend Andy with us another year.

Happy Birthday Andy. Enjoy.




Queen Honeybea’s
Perfect Pumpkin Roll

1 cup, plus 2 TBS. organic, unbleached all purpose flour
¾ tsp. baking powder
¾ tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. ground cinnamon
½ tsp. freshly grated nutmeg
½ tsp. ground ginger
½ tsp. salt
5 organic, local, free range eggs
1 cup organic, unrefined sugar
1 tsp. pure vanilla extract
1 cup organic, pureed pumpkin (canned or made fresh from local pie pumpkins)

1. Pre-heat the oven to 375 degrees. Butter a 12 x 18 inch jelly roll pan. Line with parchment paper and butter again. Set aside.
2. Sift together in a medium size bowl the flour, baking powder, baking soda, ground cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger and salt.
3. In the bowl of an electric mixer, combine the eggs and sugar. Beat on high speed until the mixture is pale, pale yellow, thickened, and swirls like a velvety ribbon into the bowl when you remove the beaters. On low speed, beat in the vanilla and pumpkin puree.
4. By hand, fold the flour mixture into the egg mixture until all ingredients are incorporated.
5. Pour into prepared jelly roll pan, using a straight edge spatula to spread the batter out evenly.
6. Bake for 15 minutes at 375 degrees, or until the edges are slightly brown and a toothpick inserted in the center of the cake comes out clean.
7. Remove from the oven and cool on a wire rack for five minutes. In the meantime, prepare a clean kitchen towel dusted generously with powdered sugar on a cooling rack large enough to hold the cake. After five minutes, with one rapid motion, invert the pumpkin sheet cake onto the sugared towel. Peel off the parchment paper and allow to cool 5 more minutes. Dust the top of the cake liberally with powdered sugar, then gently roll up along with the towel, from the 18 inch side. Let the rolled up cake and towel set on the wire rack until cool.


Cream Cheese Filling
12 ounces organic cream cheese, softened
4 TBS. salted, organic butter, softened
1 tsp. vanilla
½ tsp. almond extract
1 ½ cups powdered sugar, sifted
Pinch of salt

1. In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream together the cream cheese and butter until well blended and soft. Add the vanilla and almond extract and beat until incorporated.
2. Gently beat in the powdered sugar and salt until smooth and creamy.

To assemble:

1. Carefully unroll the cooled cake, taking care not to rip or tear the sponge.
2. Gently spread the prepared filling onto the inside roll of the cake, distributing it evenly over the whole surface.
3. Carefully, using the towel as a guide, re-roll the cake around the cream cheese filling until tight and the end seam is along the bottom of the roll.
4. Cut the cake into two pieces and wrap each piece tightly in plastic wrap. Chill for at least two hours.
5. Just before serving, combine 1 TBS. powdered sugar, ¼ tsp. cinnamon and ¼ tsp. freshly ground nutmeg in a sifter. Sift over the top of the pumpkin roll for a snow like garnish. Enjoy.

For other crazy people who celebrate their pets' birthdays.

Just a quick post with a recipe and some photos. I feel as though I haven't been posting enough recipes lately, so I'm going to try and supplement each week with at least one recipe.

This week my little kitty turned three. There was no cake, no ice cream and no clown involved. She is a particular little bugger, and her birthday could only be celebrated with the few things she really, truly enjoys. It was surreal to me at first when I became a "cat person," that cats don't engulf every speck of any food-like substance to be found around the house. My family always had beagles, which required keeping all foods above counter level, under lock and key, and often in the presence of strict supervision. I have a plethora of stories stemming from the wonderful dogs we've had throughout the years. Our first dog scaled the six-inch wide ledge of a staircase leading to our basement to tear into and consume an entire bag of chocolate chips. We still don't know how she did it. My nephew, Henry the beagle, pushed the lazy susan open once and pulled out a bottle of cooking oil. He dragged it out of the kitchen, into the carpeted living room and chewed it open. To this day, my Mother keeps a throw rug over that oil stain. Needless to say, my family has many entertaining stories about food and our animals and their relationships with one another.

Rosie was a little strange, to say the least, as I realized that she didn't want to eat everything in sight. In fact, she eats very little outside of her alloted 2/3 cup of dry cat food per day. There are a couple of things she really enjoys, though, so what better way to celebrate her birthday than to serve up a plate full of her favorites. This included a salmon patty for her love of canned seafood (tuna nad salmon), a hunk of torn up multi-grain bread (she loves carbs, like Mom), and some crushed up Heinen's brand Organic Animal Cookies (she loses her shit when she hears that bag opening). Just for kicks, I threw in some lettuce, because she loves to devour any and all things green, like flower leaves and spinach, and a few bits of potato thinking she'd like to try it. It was a success, and as suspected, her first point of attack was to lick the Greek Yogurt off the top of her salmon patty (because she's a dairy kind of a girl). I left the plate out for her to much on all night, and can only hope that she knows how much I love her and how grateful I am for what she does to keep me sane. Happy Birthday Rosie.


Queen Honeybea's
Rosie’s Birthday Salmon PattiesServes 4

2 six ounce cans of sustainable, all natural wild Alaskan salmon (boneless and skinless)
¼ cup whole-wheat bread crumbs
2 TBS. ale & spice honey mustard (or your favorite kind of mustard)
1 egg, lightly beaten
½ tsp. salt
¼ tsp. ground black pepper
1 tsp. parsley flakes
1 tsp. dried dill
Extra-virgin olive oil for the pan
4 thin slices of local sharp cheddar cheese (Athens Own Wisconsin Cheddar is what I use)

1. In a medium size bowl, empty the cans of salmon and using a fork, flake into very small pieces. Add the whole-wheat bread crumbs, mustard, egg, salt, pepper, parsley and dill, and mix until well combined. Using your hands, form 4 well packed patties.
2. Heat about a tablespoon of olive oil over medium to moderate heat in a large skillet. Swirl the oil around the pan to coat. Brown the salmon patties well, on both sides. Turn the heat off, and put a slice of cheese on each patty, cover. In a few minutes, the cheese will be melted and bubbling and the patties are ready to serve.

I served mine with a dollop of ale & spice mustard, a baked local Yukon Gold potato, and a green salad made with local lettuce, local tomatoes, local carrots, goat cheese from Hiram, Ohio and a grainy-mustard balsamic vinaigrette, and a slice of homemade buckwheat bread.

Reinvestment and Recovery

Every once in a while I find myself needing some time off. I suppose that’s why we’ve structured “weekends,” into the minutes, hours and days that compose each year of our lives. This week at work was exhausting, yet simultaneously rewarding. As I’ve been slowly but surely settling into my role at the Learning Center, I’ve also been slowly, but surely defining it. I am the first of my kind at the Morgan County Learning Center, which means I’ve been writing the story, script and manual of exactly what an AmeriCorps College Access Guide should be achieving there. This hasn’t gone without great direction and persistent suggestion from my supervisor, but for the most part, I’ve been volunteering the forty hours a week, of which as a functioning adult member of society I am expected to perform work for wages, flying by the seat of my pants and crafting the part which I’d like to play for the residents of Morgan County. This week, the pants came off. I am done crafting a well polished job description, and have accepted my role as jack of all trades. I am here to ensure the success of the Learning Center. I am here to ensure my own growth and development as an individual. I am here to ensure the success of Americans, the working poor, the middle class, the wealthy and all those who fall invisibly outside of those distinctions. I am here to help and be helped. That describes my job to a tee.

The need for help in Morgan County, and Appalachian Ohio is overwhelming. It often seems like the grubby fingers of the consistently overlooked and exploited will clamor at anyone and anything that pays attention. Yet clamoring doesn’t always yield a surmounted obstacle, but could and often does end in struggle with no gain and no energy left. The Edward M. Kennedy Community Service Act allowed me to come here, under one condition: America will pay my living expenses, if I expend my time and energy for others to live. Although working to make higher education more accessible doesn’t yield a high “life and death,” daily scenario, I do know that what I do here can mean the difference between barely getting by and living happily for students who find themselves enlightened and therefore pursuing happiness. I’ve been working harder as I’ve become more comfortable in my job. I put in extra effort, knowing full well that many before me have also put in extra effort and as it goes with clamoring, Appalachian Ohio always ends face down in the mud. I can’t change the tidal ebb and flow that keeps these hills and valleys tied to the gravitational force that is abject poverty. I can, however, be wise with the time I’ve been given here and smart with every choice I make in order to provide the most energy for our collective clamor to the top. Friday was pay day. What did I do with my biweekly living stipend this week? I took off exploring the region that has graciously hosted me for the past three months, and reinvested my paycheck in the delights of South Eastern Ohio’s local luxuries.

I took Saturday for myself, needing not only a short break from work, but also a break from my life. I needed to be nourished, replenished and re-inspired and sometimes my soul needs to work on that alone. After a chilly morning run, seeing the fuchsia sun smearing color across the blue eastern sky, I showered and dressed well, just for myself. Trusty cooler in hand and favorite Buddha tote over my shoulder, I got in the car and headed for the first place that comes to mind when I require an unique remedy for soul nourishing—The Village Bakery & Café in Athens. It was just the place to kick start this day of reinvestment and personal recovery. At a small, round café table I found myself seated in one of two charmingly mismatched chairs with a cup of steaming coffee and a tenderly moist pumpkin-apple muffin pulled halfway apart exposing its delicate crumb on a small plate in front of me. It was cozily warm, as the wall that was becoming fast friends with my left arm was abutted by ovens on its opposite side. The interior of the bakery is painted butter yellow, and the available surfaces are all campaigning for you to eat well, with posters, murals and memorabilia donning words like “Slow Food,” and “Locavore.” There at my table, taking up my small nook on the market side of the small agri-bistro, I paged through a cookbook I’d brought and sipped my coffee to the serenading cinematic like sound of Billie Holiday. Moments like this, however, do not only exist for mere seconds in the mind of a film director. They can be found and had, with an understanding of simplicity and a keen sense of satisfaction.

After leaving the bakery blissfully content, I assumingly headed to the arms of another love, which brings great passion to my heart on Saturday mornings—the Athens Farmer’s Market. My Chuck Taylor clad feet must have tread the same path at least four times, canvassing the “T” shaped market for inspirational produce, of which it is never lacking. The red lining of my Buddha bag soon found itself in close quarters with orange, purple and yellow carrots, burgundy red leaf lettuce, the clammy dampness of a freshly pulled sweet potato, a dozen baby bell peppers ranging from yellow to green to aubergine, and crunchy, exotic Asian pears. I picked up two slices of Crumbs Bakery’s famous market pizza to deliver a slice to my neighbor who is newly in love with said pizza, and one for myself for Sunday lunch. A pinched bundle of purple sage caught my eye, a basket of dusty fresh Yukon Gold potatoes, and a half dozen cooking onions would all marry happily together in the French Lentil soup inspired by the initial color wheel of carrots. Finally, a chocolate, cherry, chocolate-chip cookie from Crumbs would serve as my late afternoon dessert on a sleepy, warm drive home.
Crumbs Bakery's amazing pizza.

Two more stops in Athens followed. The Farmacy, located conveniently in town and stocking all things local, organic, natural and good-for-you, is where I regularly buy Aladdin’s multi-grain flatbreads, made in Cleveland, Ohio and irregularly decided to pick up a bunch of organic bananas, as I’ve never eaten them before. A short drive down State Routes 50/32 to just within the limits of Albany, Ohio there stands the Athens Bulk Food Depot. The cookbook I was paging through, jotting a shopping list as my moistened fingertip flicked page after page, is a book about baking whole grain bread. My latest ambition is to perfect two things: a perfect whole-grain loaf of bread, and a whole-wheat muffin base, from which many more delicious muffins may evolve. I took a basket, which by the end of my perusal through the narrow, fully stocked aisles was, as expected, full and dislocating my shoulder. I picked up a ten pound bag of King Arthur Artisan bread flour, which I could’ve bought at Kroger, but by buying it at the Athens Bulk Food Depot, the graciously friendly owner and his wife got to keep more of my money. In addition to the infant sized bag of flour, I invested in a few new discoveries from the chapters of my bread book: toasted wheat germ, buckwheat groats, and non-fat dry milk. Upon checking out, the owner of whom I spoke so fondly, had a momentary crisis with the cash register and apologized profusely for keeping me waiting, to which I replied, “Please, take your time, I’m not in a hurry.” He smiled, let out a relieving scoff and said, “Well, you’re unusual then.” I thought about that the rest of the day.

Not finding myself tied to a day planner, in constraint with time, or a slave to a schedule, I was able to find the kind of joy that some people believe only exists in Christmas songs and on television, in stories and other fictional makings. I had nowhere to be and no certain time to be there, wherever it was I was going. I had the time and the desire to take moments for what they were, enjoy nothing but the happenstance of my surroundings, and take my time. After leaving the Bulk Food Depot, I took the long way around, going out of my way for a beautiful drive from Athens to Middleport, Ohio down State Route 681. My partner and I used to take Saturday drives on this road, for its beauty and its isolation. Like in Morgan County, the homes of Meigs County are privy to the space between. Even homes that are not great expanses of farm land sit on property that stretches for acres and acres. We’d always pass one farm, an Amish farm, where a hand painted wooden sign would warn speedy travelers of cinnamon buns, homemade bread, and whoopie pies at a roadside stand within the next mile. We always stopped and bought something, not because the baked goods were particularly delicious or that we had some ulterior motive behind investing four or five dollars in the handicrafts of Amish women. We stopped because we had four or five extra dollars, and because of the rural space between, we couldn’t imagine this small family saw much business in their curbside confections. There was always some sort of nostalgia involved in stopping for Amish baked goods, in buying something made from scratch, by hand, and not wrapped in an industrially manufactured plastic bag containing a company logo and an ingredient list a mile long. I passed that farm on Saturday for the first time in probably three years. There was a homemade wooden sign with hand painted letters, but now it read “82 Acres for Sale,” and the farm house and roadside stand were abandoned and already being reclaimed, along with the rough, hilly fields by the weeds. While we’d all like to blame the government, or the banks, or the head-honcho types we imagine to exist in the world that looms above our heads and out of our reach, I think each of us can bear some of the burden of blame for our economic troubles. We don’t buy our bread from roadside stands any more. We buy it in those corporate plastic bags, with a corporate list of ingredients, from a corporation like Wal-Mart where eight people are making a million dollars a minute thanks to shoppers like us. You can’t point your finger at Wall Street CEOs like Michael Duke (Wal-Mart) when your other hand is pushing a cart in his store.

My intentions for taking State Route 681 to State Route 33 through Pomeroy to Middleport were imbedded in the little rumbling in my stomach, the CD mix of Appalachian music fiddling through my speakers and my desire for feeding my soul—or rather, soul food. I decided after the market that I’d have a meal at a restaurant I used to frequent often when I lived in Athens full time. Millie’s is a comfort-food haven, nestled along a country road, off the heavily beaten path of State Route 7. It’s a seat yourself kind of a place, where they’ll bring you a menu, but most people order from the eight or nine offerings written on a white board you can barely read from your table. One of those offerings comes with two sides for $7.95. When I started going there, the price was $6.95. Only a dollar’s worth of inflation through America’s Great Recession isn’t too bad. I sat myself in the farthest booth, this time carrying my book Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver. Shortly after getting my coat off and bedding into the bench seat, a smiling waitress brought me a menu and a tightly wrapped bundle of silverware in a starchy paper napkin. She immediately asked what I was reading, and through friendly conversation and an
explanation of the basic premise of the autobiographical story, she added that Millie’s gets as much food as they can from a local market, and often their eggs still have feathers on them when they go to crack them into your omelet—my kind of joint. My meal at Millie’s was a treat. Crispy skinned rotisserie chicken, tangy and salty collards cooked to mush with bits of smoky bacon, and a bowl of sweet, creamy macaroni salad comprised an eating experience I haven’t been able to enjoy for awhile.

Recently, upon returning to restaurants and dining establishments I used to thoroughly enjoy, I’ve been experiencing a sort of lack-luster disappointment as I dug into the foods I used to love to eat. My sausage sandwich at the Bob Evans Farm Festival left an unpleasant aftertaste in my mouth. The smoked, pulled beef brisket from Millstone BBQ didn’t please my palette the way it once did, and a crock of Chicken ‘n Noodles from Bob Evans was utterly offsetting. After eating whole, natural, local foods almost exclusively for certainly the past three months and even longer to a lesser extent, these foods didn’t taste good to me anymore. I could taste the preservatives. I could taste the mechanized process by which they were made. It didn’t taste good. My meal at Millie’s tasted good. As I pulled off bits and pieces of juicy, silken white meat from my chicken breast, I could hear women in the kitchen yelling orders back and forth. This little country diner serves up Appalachian Ohio soul food, situated just close enough to West Virginia to serve Southern favorites like collard greens and soup beans, yet Ohio enough for spaghetti and meat balls, and lasagna. They also make homemade pies, crust and all, with fresh ingredients. The apple has always been my favorite, and for the first time in my entire acquaintance with Millie’s, I passed on the pie for the cookie waiting patiently in my car. And while a Bob Evans situated on a busy street corner in a suburb, adjacent to a medical office, a drug store and two other corporate chain restaurants can claim to be “down on the farm,” Millie’s is just down the road, there are still feathers on their eggs, and Millie and her staff, and the local farmers who supply her restaurant got to keep a good percentage of the $8.12 I spent there on Saturday.

I drove home, back through Athens, stopping to pick up my Snowville Creamery milk and half & half and another cup of coffee at the Village Bakery, before heading back through the hills to Morgan County and my little McConnelsville home. The drive was lazy, sleepy and warm as anticipated, and I sipped my coffee and took small, gingerly bites of my chocolate, cherry, chocolate-chip cookie I’d been dreaming of all day long, so as to make it last longer. Crumbs Bakery has their non-dairy, no-egg chocolaty confection crafted to perfection. The center is chewy, the edges are crisp, and dried tart cherries, just barely plumped from the surrounding cookie dough, serve as delightful surprises throughout. The cookie made it twenty minutes, interchanged with sips of steaming pungent fair trade coffee. I made it another twenty minutes to my front door, where I was wearing the satisfaction of my day across my face in the form of a contented smile. It is safe to say that I am ready for another week at work, another day of paperwork and meetings, of filing reports and serving students. The weekend served not only as a recovery of my own sanity, my own spirit, but also a reminder that the work I do and the money I spend are America’s Reinvestment and Recovery Act. I try to eat locally, spend locally and serve locally. Thus far in my life, nothing else has so eased my conscience and brought me so much joy. Remember, take time to enjoy your life, to know yourself, and always buy, shop, and eat local.

Nostalgia

As we begin closing the windows, putting up our storm doors, battening down the hatches for the winter weather we are all keenly aware will be arriving soon, the sense of comfort, shelter and protection that comes along with autumn in Ohio has been making me reminisce this week.

By nature I am an introspective person. I let feelings and emotions thrive and flourish within me. I am a keeper of memories, safeguarding my past and the history of my family. I have been accused of over-thinking things, of worrying too much, of obsessing. I like to brew over my thoughts while I perform somewhat mindless tasks. I am also a planner, an organizer, and a slave to my own schedule. I like to think of my home and life as a nest. I’ve built it, I tend it, I patch it up when it begins to fall apart, and at the end of the day, it is my favorite place to be.

I think this is why I love preparing food so much. Crafting a meal requires a dedicated balance and interaction of all these qualities. It begins with an idea. This is where my mind flourishes, pouring over archives of food photos I remember seeing as I paged through a magazine, recipes I remember reading, and what I’d like the overall effect of the meal to be. I sort through what I want to accomplish with this meal, and how I will set about achieving that goal. Then, once an idea has been roughly established, it follows with a plan. I like to make lists—a list of what I will serve, a list of what ingredients I need to make those things, and a list of what ingredients I’ll need to buy and where I will buy them. Creating a meal is a task close to perfection for anyone who fancies themselves a planner. Finally, there’s the execution. There are vegetables to chop, fruit to peel, meat to trim. These are the somewhat mindless tasks I enjoy so much because they allow my mind to wander, and my obsessive nature to come out and thrive. There always seems to be some complicated task, which challenges me, but also allows for a great sense of pride—a feather in my cap, or rather, in my nest, a photo to hang on my wall. Freely flowing among all of these components of a caringly prepared meal is one thing that shelters and comforts me—nostalgia.

It started on Monday of this week. Something persuaded me to buy two bunches of collard greens at the Athens Farmers Market last weekend. I’d been craving them. I think this has something to do with fall weather and fall foods. Collards are a cool season crop, and come in nicely in the temperate Appalachian spring and fall. I fixed them the only way I like to eat them—braised with biting vinegar and tender black eyed peas. I scooped a large dollop of dangling greens, dotted with tiny pieces of sautéed orange carrots and creamy white onions, into a small bowl. Perhaps my favorite part of collard greens followed, as I dipped up a ladle full of their pot liquor and poured it over them, exposing a mound of soft, myrtle, wilted greens and precariously perched black eyed peas. That was my dinner, accompanied by a piece of whole-grain corn bread, baked in my cast iron skillet. I used the golden, butter crusted bread to absorb all remnants of pot liquor once my greens were happily eaten. The coziness of a pot of slowly simmering collards always makes me think of the first place I’d ever eaten them this way.


Several years ago I had the wonderful experience of spending a weekend in the mountains of rural, Eastern Kentucky; in the city of Hazard, down Lott’s Creek, to be exact. While my collards were somewhat different, being prepared without salt pork, and dressed with olive oil and low-sodium chicken stock instead, the tanginess of the apple cider vinegar is what really takes me back. I was sitting on a wooden bench, Styrofoam tray in my hand with a cup of greens and a hunk of grainy, salty cornbread on the side, listening to a bluegrass band, lovingly cradled by two mountainsides. It was fall in the mountains, and I was in the company of a dear, sweet friend I only had the privilege of knowing briefly before God carried her home just after Christmas the same year. Collard greens always make me think of her. I like to think of myself as an adopted Appalachian sometimes. While it isn’t part of my heritage, I’d like to think it’s a part of the culture of who I am today.

Then came Wednesday, when Cleveland Scene Magazine released their “Best of Cleveland,” list. I was browsing through the fan and staff picks, seeing mostly expected results, until I came across an unusual category: Best Place to Experience your Grandparents’ Cleveland. Immediately the title of the article had me thinking about my own grandparents and the Cleveland they knew. Then I read the staff pick for this category: Frank Sterle’s Slovenian Country House. A very contented smile came across my face as I immediately began to remember Mother’s Day lunches and family birthday gatherings. It made me think of my paternal Grandmother, the only Grandparent I ever got to know. While I think most would say that her style of “Grandma,” was somewhat different than the stereotype of what we expect grandmothers to be, I can honestly say that now I understand and appreciate who she was and I don’t begrudge her that at all. Just reading the name of the restaurant made me remember so many things about her, most not even associated with Sterle’s. I didn’t see her very often, so one of my last memories of her is from my cousin Laurie’s wedding (which happened to be five years ago this month). When the DJ kindly obliged my family’s repeated request and played a polka, my Grandmother who was in her eighties danced with my Aunt Joanne, slowly, carefully and mechanically making all the correct steps. I’ve heard stories of how she used to love to dance polkas. I remember catching her out of the corner of my eye as my father practically dismembered me, whipping me around the shiny wooden floor. That was the only time I’ve ever danced with my father, and the last time I saw my Grandmother dance.

As always, food lives on like a flame in my memory, around which some of my fondest thoughts warm their hands. Sterle’s serves food like my Grandmother used to make, making it, for me, a perfect selection on how to experience your Grandparents’ Cleveland. I am not alone in thinking, and missing my Grandmother’s breaded city chicken, and pork chops, her home fried potatoes, browned and soaked with lovely bacon fat, and even her homemade creamed spinach, or fresh green beans dressed in vinegar and slivered onions. The Slovenian half of my heritage was never as fully developed as the other half, which I’m about to entertain. That doesn’t mean it isn’t there though, or that I don’t still strongly identify with my Slavic roots. I have heavy limbs, dark hair and blue eyes and I’m tall and broadly framed. I know those traits didn’t come from my short, petite Italian relatives. They are the things I see in the mirror every day and every day I’m reminded.

Finally there was Friday. Friday was the culmination of the mood of memories, autumn and cooking I’ve been experiencing this week. I had invited a friend over for dinner, and being the person I am, a meal rich in local foods, prepared in a healthy manner was in order. There is one thing I seem to make once a year, every year, in the fall—Butternut squash ravioli. There is something so delightful about the smooth, velvety pockets of pasta filled with creamy, nutty squash and a hint of fresh nutmeg. They speak of the comforts of fall, and for me, making ravioli hits home. My maternal Grandmother made homemade ravioli. We’re Italian, so of course she did. Before I moved to McConnelsville, my Mother and I were going through our kitchen drawers looking for any of my cooking utensils which had been mistakenly thrown in with hers while I was living with my parents. In one particular drawer where my Mother keeps very obscure things she never uses, I found a set of ravioli cutters. There was a large size, and a small. They were round, with crimped metal edges and worn, beveled wooden handles. When I asked about them, she told me they were my Grandmothers. Then she took them from me and put them in my box. She knew that nothing would’ve made my Grandmother happier than to know that I would use them, instead of letting them sit, sadly in my Mother’s kitchen drawer.

I carry in my heart so much unwarranted regret when I think about my maternal Grandmother. I want so badly to have known her, to have been her willing apprentice at pasta making and vegetable canning, to have known what her arms felt like when I hugged her. It isn’t my fault that I don’t know these things. She passed away three years before I was born. Thanks to my parents, I carry her with me everywhere I go. I feel her presence every time someone asks me what my middle initial stands for. While I know she might’ve been skeptical of the rich brown, grainy whole-wheat flour I used to make my paper thin sheets of ravioli, I also know that she could feel my palms bearing down heavily on the handles of the ravioli cutters, using my fingertips to guide and roll them, pinching closed the little pillows of seasonal American flavors. My heart feels near to her every time I make things the way she made them, as though I can feel her hands on my hands, directing me. The ravioli I made with her ravioli cutters on Friday were utterly perfect, so honestly reflecting my spirit in their preparation, ingredients, flavors and execution. They were the best I’ve made.

Cherry Orchards

Grasshoppers scampered, jumping after my lightly treading footsteps startled them from one rough blade of dulling green grass to another. The coarse edges of drying greenery scratched softly against my toes as I meandered slowly through a tenderly cleared field, dotted with giant rolls of hay, looking like tightly woven skeins of yarn, planted heavily all over the terrain of rolling hills and dipping valleys. The late autumn sun baked my skin, and I basked in it, worshiped it, let it warm my flesh to the touch. Blue sky was laid out above me, a vast tapestry with wavy, lazy, wisps of pale white clouds stretched out from end to end. Just out of reach was a stand of apple trees, an orchard within an orchard, roped off and marked with a hand written sign forbidding adventurers and admirers from picking the heavy hanging, brightly pink hued fruit that dangled from the low lying branches. For the first time in my life, I bit down gently on the white tipped ends of clover petals, feeling a trace of sugary water tickling the tip of my tongue. The gently blowing wind pulled and tugged at strands of my hair, hanging down, dancing light footed against my neck. Unexpectedly, I had one of the most truly unforgettable experiences of my life.



There, just miles up a winding country road, is an old Orchard and a kind hearted farmer who is proud of his land, and his living. It was just by chance my friend Betsy and I decided to take a leisurely drive up State Route 669, heading North from Malta to Deavertown, in Morgan County. Well, perhaps not by chance. There is a barn on this road I had passed once before. It is an old wooden barn on a farm beautifully placed on a hilltop, and on the face of this barn is an enormous plaque of Our Lady of Guadalupe, holding her hands in prayer, blessing the tiny mountains and faithful farmers within her view. I fell in love with this barn, and decided my friend Betsy would love it also. I also knew there was an orchard on this road, further on past the immaculate rural vision. I’d learned of this orchard just weeks ago at the Athens Farmer’s Market, where one of the men working the market stand was wearing a Morgan Raiders t-shirt, and knowingly I inquired about the location of the orchard itself. We drove past the sloping gravel drive at first, thinking that the last thing either of us needed was more apples, but something stopped my car and brought to us a consensus that we really ought to stop. Treacherously backing the car up a tiny, blinding hill, we zipped back just far enough for me to make a sharp little turn into the drive marked by a sign reading “Apples,” and “Cider.”





I cannot exactly explain the events that followed our decision to backtrack, and take the time to explore a little piece of Morgan County’s vast patchwork of agricultural heritage. There is a spirit about Cherry’s Orchard that simply cannot be put into words. The land itself hums, it buzzes and hums, like far off singing, like distant voices joined in joyful song. The driveway is lined with multitudes of flowers, plants, trees and shrubs. Red zinnias caught my eye from the road, and a flowering vine fully loaded with pink bell shaped blossoms coiled about a trellis serving as a welcoming frame to an always open door. This farm was bursting with bright pinks, purples and blues which are not usually found in the heat of passionate autumn. The colors did not stop upon entering the small building which serves as the farm stand, but rather were almost painted from outdoors to in, taking the form of jars filled with vintage, cellophane wrapped hard candies, baskets of apples ranging from shiny candy red to verging on neon green, to deep orange jars of pumpkin butter, to a vast palette of jars of golden honey—orange blossom, buckwheat and wildflower each a different shade. From a door in the back of the farm stand emerged a kind eyed farmer, donning a scratchy white beard and charming, yet worn and functional straw hat. We complimented him on the breadth of beauty that was his farm, and he gave us one of the greatest and most simple gifts we’d ever been given. He invited us to take some time and walk around the orchards, to explore and take photos and enjoy the land.







The contrasting complexity and simplicity of life on Cherry’s Orchard seems so idealistically satisfying. We walked up a gravel coated country lane, where tracks worn in by years of traveling pick-up trucks and tractors lead us up and over a hill, and back to an old barn neighbored by a patch of Fuji apple trees. The only sounds that surrounded us were the soft buzzes of happily working bees, the orchestral pangs of grasshoppers, and haphazard chirps and melodic refrains of songbirds. That and the barely noticeable mechanical click of my digital camera, as we snapped dozens of photos, breathing in the countryside, the harmony and hospitality and the effortlessness of each other’s company. The grove of yet to be picked Fuji apples was full of large, crisp fruit with rosy skin and picture perfect droplets of slowly dripping morning dew. Just beyond there were vast, mowed fields and rounds of packed hay scattered about the rising and falling ground. I put my nose up to the warm, dry, coarse grass, bundled tightly together, and took in a deep breath of amber colored, earthy aroma that brought me back to my days as a small child, running through a corn maze and making my own scarecrow at a fruit farm near where I grew up. I leaned gently against the bale, and laid my hands upon the curve of its scratchy voluminous body and felt my spirit resting deep within me, content and sighing, happy and warm. There are times in life when my spirit soars, full of excitement and wonder, and I feel like my feet could be lifted from the ground at any moment. I love those times. There are also times in my life where my spirit feels tucked in, comforted and safe, sweetly sleeping, barely breathing and content. With the slowly baking hay bale warming my thighs, my feet nestled into hearty sprouts of clover, and my eyes cast upon land that can only be described as belonging to both Heaven and earth, this was one of those times, and I might have loved it even more.





We dawdled in the fields, were in no hurry to win any race in the alleys between rows of squatty apple trees, and lingered, loitering amongst bunches of royal purple Concord grapes. We shared laughter, and moments of silence when the magnificence of the farm stole our full attention. We felt the smooth bark of apple trees between our fingers, the pock marked skin of slick, early lemons, and the comforting heat of an ember-glowing sun upon our cheeks. We tasted nutty buckwheat honey, crisp and juicy Winesap apples, and the lip sucking sweetness of biting, cold pressed cider. By the time we made our way back to the farm stand, we’d discovered that we’d spent more than an hour drifting about the plush, fertile landscape. We loaded our arms up with apples, garlic, peach butter, honey, and a pocket full of hard candy, kindly paid and appreciatively thanked the farmer for his gracious and unforeseen hospitality, and drove away contently deeper into the temperate, fall kissed mountains of Morgan County.



I was reminded today that life is too short to take any experiences we’re fortunate enough to have for granted. There isn’t a video game or movie or television show created that can generate the same kind of feeling within me that this simple visit to a farm on a Sunday morning gave me. There isn’t a book that can be read, a class taught, a song sung that does justice to the energy that flowed like life through my veins as I stood, eyes closed, against the hay bale at Cherry’s Orchard. There is no comedy or drama that can portray the emotions I felt. I could spend a thousand Sunday mornings in church and never have the same peace in my soul that was brought to it today as I sat pleased and at ease among the tall stems of red and yellow zinnias. While there is no harm in doing all of these things, just don’t forget that beyond your door, just out your window, just up your road, a world exists that many people drive by, pass up and ignore during the monotonous routine and obligation of our everyday lives. Don’t take the perfection of freshly picked apples, the quiet simplicity of a living, breathing hillside, or the complexity of a well run, walking, living farm for granted. It’s fall. Get outside and lay your hands on Ohio’s robust, round apples, scrape your palm on the gnarled knob of a great terra cotta pumpkin, and taste the sweetness of brusque, cool cider, chilling your insides. If you live in or near Morgan County, Ohio, go to Cherry’s Orchard and ask if you can take a walk. You’ll lose yourself and be wishing you’d never be found again.