The Catskill Chronicle

By Jude Waterston

I sound like a broken record. Each year, as winter finally fades and the weather turns warm enough for al fresco dining, I comment to my sister, Janet, as we  walk or drive through the city, “Throw a chair and a table onto the sidewalk and they’ll come.” Suddenly, every restaurant in town is thronged with locals and tourists alike clamoring to eat out of doors. No matter that dogs pause to do their business just feet from your seat or the homeless stop by to chat you up while requesting some change to procure their own cheeseburger and sweet potato fries.

I have it on good authority that many restaurants do not even bother to apply for the special license they need to clutter the sidewalks with tables and chairs, as the occasional Board of Health fine versus the tremendous jump in spring and summer profits outweighs the danger. And it seems to matter not if the place is serving top notch food or is a lowly diner or fast food joint. Throw a chair and a table onto the sidewalk and they’ll come, I say.

Frankly, I don’t understand the appeal. It’s not like Europe, where you are more likely to be sitting in a bucolic garden setting: tree boughs hanging overhead, ceramic pots filled with pungent flowers, and the sounds of birds filling your ears instead of honking horns, car exhaust, and people yakking loudly and obliviously into their cell phones.

Nor is it akin to the joys of eating outside in the countryside, as my sister and I do every chance we get when we are  weekending or vacationing at our house upstate in the midst of the Catskill Mountains. We are so unbelievably lucky to have found and bought a house that is completely set back from the road, totally secluded, and surrounded by woods on one side and a large field on the other. As if those factors were not enough, the original owners built both front and back porches onto the house. Neither was  finished when we first got the place, but we hired a good local carpenter to add sturdy, handsome railings all around and handrails to the stairs. Much improved from the original plain wooden platforms jutting from the foundation with no protection had one taken a wrong step, stumbled and fallen over the side, four feet to the ground.

On the first spring day warm enough to have lunch outdoors, Janet slid out from the bench opposite me at the picnic table on the back porch at the conclusion of our meal and said, “You finish your wine, and I’ll go in and wash the dishes.” We had just finished a repast of sliced pork tenderloin (with a crispy crust and palest pink center) that I’d marinated in soy sauce, fresh ginger, garlic, sherry, honey and miso paste, which I served alongside big tangled mounds of sautéed kale. Leisurely, I cleaned up the Scrabble game we’d played while eating and tried not to look too closely at the score pad a few inches from me. Trounced by Janet once again!

I looked around at the surroundings: the two huge apple trees not yet touched with buds, the verdant green trees and just-mowed lawn, various flowers swaying in the barest breeze. I listened to the wind chimes hanging behind me and the birds traversing the tree branches. And I thought about all the times over the years that we’d dined outdoors in friends’ backyards or gardens; on our own lawn on a picnic blanket; and on both the front and back porches, each  of which has its advantages according to the time of day and activity in which we’re involved.

One year, on a hot summer night, a small group of our friends sat around the table on the back porch, sharing a meal of salmon croquettes with homemade tartar sauce and a big bowl of spicy Asian cole slaw made with white and green  cabbages, carrots, and crunchy jicima. A  vase of flowers brought by one guest sat between our dishes. It held a gorgeous bouquet gleaned from his garden. His large chocolate brown dog – a mix of yellow lab and Irish setter – sat in the shade under the table at our feet. Suddenly, a bee appeared and everyone started fluttering their hands in an effort to divert it. The bee dove under the table, aimed its stinger, and plunged it into the dog’s rear. Before we knew what was happening, the 60-something pound pup had risen in panic and pain, violently hitting her head on the bottom of the table, nearly knocking it over as we grabbed at sliding glasses and plates. After the commotion, when she’d quieted down, I awarded her with her own bowl of coffee ice cream to ease the trauma.

Many a time, in the early evening known as the cocktail hour, we invited friends and their dogs over to sit out on the front porch for drinks and hors d’oeuvres,  or run and dig around the yard, respectively. The string of tiny, twinkling Christmas lights running along one side of the porch was plugged in and the calendula candles were lit to keep the mosquitoes at bay. Sometimes I made a big batch of margaritas, served with my chunky guacamole and piquant tomato salsa or a pitcher of red or white sangria laced with berries, orange slices and grapes accompanied by a selection of cheeses; cucumber cups filled with smoked salmon salad and garnished with pearls of salmon roe; and some tapas choices, such as tiny savory meatballs or steamed mussels on the half-shell served cold, topped with a tangy marinade of sherry vinegar, extra-virgin olive oil, minced parsley, capers, and pimentos.

Two summers ago, on the front porch and spilling onto the lawn, we celebrated the fourth of July with our very own private fireworks display conducted by two new friends we’d been introduced to by a long-time pal and her very dear old friend who Janet and I had come to know well. Before twilight, I laid out a huge spread of hors d’oeuvres in  lieu of a sit-down dinner: a chilled tomato soup garnished with tiny cubes of avocado and cucumber served in demitasse cups; fresh mozzarella, basil and sliced tomatoes from the garden served with crusty bread; stuffed mushrooms; a spicy cold Thai calamari salad; ceviche of scallops, and raw vegetables with a creamy, herby feta dip.  When the sky had darkened sufficiently, the fireworks began in earnest and, when they had finally fizzled out, we all ran onto the grass with lit sparklers that made glowing, swirling paths against the black sky. A patriotic cake frosted with white icing and studded with blueberries and deep red strawberries was served at the end of the festivities, an experience I’ll never forget.

Last summer, a close friend and neighbor hosted her first annual outdoor bar-b-que for me, Janet, and another friend. She is the only person I know who grills morning to night from springtime to September, refusing to use the hot stove for anything during those warmer months. She rarely entertains, but was cajoled into doing so when our mutual friend commented dryly, “I think you owe us a dinner after knowing all of us over a decade!”

The picnic table was gaily set about fifty yards from the house. Cows owned by the farmer next door sauntered by on the hill above us. There was a little table set up where we could choose our alcoholic beverage of choice and, after we’d armed ourselves, we took seats around the picnic table.  The hosts’ two dogs and a visiting pup sat nearby, hoping for scraps. We started the meal with a selection of cheese and crackers, olives, and dips. Then on to simply grilled chicken, which was the perfect foil for butter-slicked corn on the cob and a refreshing Italian panzanella salad I contributed, made with chopped cucumbers, red onion, juicy heirloom tomatoes, celery, basil, and crusty herbed cubes of bread doused with fruity extra-virgin olive oil and red wine vinegar.

The summer has begun in earnest. Back in the city, the sidewalks are congested with tables and chairs packed with hungry citizens. Here in the country, I await each and every opportunity to dine al fresco, whether with friends, or with Janet with whom I have to endure many Scrabble or Big Boggle losses at breakfast, lunch, and the cocktail hour. Word games almost always accompany our dining experiences. It’s a small price to pay, I suppose, to be able to dine amidst the birds, fragrant flowers, evening breeze, the glowing light of dusk, and even the distinct howls of coyotes baying at the moon.

Thai-Style Squid Salad

Serves 2 as a main course or 4 as an appetizer

½ cup fresh lime juice

1 tablespoon rice wine vinegar

1 tablespoon Asian fish sauce

1 tablespoon sugar

1 tablespoon minced peeled fresh ginger

1 teaspoon salt

1 red, yellow, or orange bell pepper, cut into thin strips

1 kirby or ¼ of an English hot house cucumber, skin on, cut into thin strips

¼ cup thinly sliced scallions

¼ teaspoon Asian chile garlic sauce or chili pepper flakes

3 tablespoons chopped fresh mint

3 tablespoons chopped fresh Thai basil (or sweet basil, if Thai is unavailable)

3 tablespoons chopped fresh cilantro

1 pound cleaned squid sacs and tentacles, sacs cut into ¼-inch rings

In a large bowl, stir together the lime juice, vinegar, fish sauce, sugar, ginger, salt, and 3 tablespoons water. Add the bell pepper, scallions, chile sauce, mint, cilantro, and Thai basil. Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Add the squid and cook for about 45 seconds until opaque and tender. Do not overcook. Drain immediately and place in an ice-water bath for 1 minute. Drain well and add to the vinaigrette. Toss the salad and refrigerate for 20 – 30 minutes. Remove the salad from the fridge 10 minutes before serving. Toss again and adjust seasoning. Serve, if desired, with sliced avocado seasoned with fresh lime juice and sea salt.

Scallop Ceviche

Serves 4 as an appetizer or 2 as a main course

This colorful and beautiful appetizer is versatile as well. Fee free to substitute red or orange bell pepper for the yellow; and add diced avocado or tiny cubes of cucumber to the ceviche. It can be served piled into martini glasses or as a salad course over greens.

For marinade:

¾ pound (7 or 8) sea scallops

¼ cup fresh lime juice

¼ cup fresh orange juice

1/3 cup fresh lemon juice

For ceviche:

Juice of ½ large lime

1 teaspoon orange zest

½ yellow bell pepper, seeded

2 scallions, white and light green parts, thinly sliced

1 medium ruby red or pink grapefruit

2 heaping tablespoons chopped fresh mint

2 heaping tablespoons chopped fresh cilantro

Salt and pepper to taste

Rinse scallops and pat dry. Carefully slice each scallop horizontally into three discs and place discs in a shallow bowl. Pour orange, lemon, and lime juices over scallops and chill, refrigerated, for 3 to 5 hours, until opaque. Drain scallops and discard liquid. Place scallops in a clean large bowl. Slice the bell pepper into matchsticks, then stack and cut the matchsticks into tiny cubes. Slice off the top and bottom of the grapefruit and stand the grapefruit cut-side down on a cutting board. With a very sharp knife and rotating the fruit, slice off the skin and white pith. Slice the grapefruit into segments and cut the segments into thirds. To the bowl of scallops slices add the orange zest, lime juice, bell pepper, scallions, cilantro, mint, and grapefruit. Season with salt and pepper and toss well. Serve immediately or keep chilled for up to an hour.