Who knew? …that Troy has the largest farmers market in New York State.
Who knew? …that the market is in a gorgeous setting along the Hudson River.
Who knew? …that Troy is one of the most architecturally fascinating small cities in the Northeast.
Who knew? …that something so extraordinary was so close by. No airport, no TSA, no hassle, free parking.

We sure didn’t—at least not until recently, when friends introduced me to the remarkable farmers market on River Street in Troy. I’d been wanting to take Mary Anne ever since. I had also come away thinking that her Society for Commercial Archaeology buddies could hold an entire conference here. The buildings were every bit as interesting as the market, and the market was fantastic.

Troy, we quickly discovered, is a city built of brick—literally. Beautiful brick buildings from the city’s manufacturing heyday line the streets, one more interesting than the next. And many of those bricks were made right here in Troy. “Locally sourced,” as we’d say today.

We learned a little about that from an enthusiastic fellow selling Troy bricks. He seemed thrilled to give us a quick history lesson, and, trying to sound more knowledgeable than we were, we mentioned that we have bricks from the Hutton Brickyards in Kingston. He knew all about them.

And who knew that shirt collars were once a thing? You read that right — detachable shirt collars. From the 1850’s through the 1920’s, 90% of the shirt collars sold in the USA were manufactured in Troy. You could wash the collar and even the cuffs instead of washing the entire shirt every time they got dirty. Sounds beyond ridiculous now, but we don’t have to wash our clothes by hand anymore.

Officially called the Troy Waterfront Farmers Market, it’s a lively mix of farmers, food vendors, craftspeople, and musicians creating a street-festival vibe every Saturday, all year long. In colder weather, the market moves indoors to an enormous atrium nearby.

We had another educational mini-lesson about Wagyu beef from a guy who actually raises the cows that produce this amazing, and amazingly pricey, beef. He said he started this as an early-retirement hobby with a few dozen cows and now has a herd of more than 300.

We continued walking, passing stalls with brick-oven baked breads, pastries, coffee, eggs, cheeses and, most surprisingly to me, numerous distilleries with locally made gin, vodka, bourbon and rye. The street then opened onto a large square where we had another “Who Knew?” moment. In the center, towering over everything, was a huge granite monument topped by what looked like a Greek goddess. It turned out to be a bronze figure of Columbia, the female personification of America, holding a sword and a trumpet in The Call to Arms. The monument, dedicated in 1891, honors local soldiers who served in America’s wars. It’s hard to do it justice in words, but believe me, it’s pretty spectacular.

On the other side of the square, we finally reached the fresh-produce booths, just past the flowers and more varieties of sunflowers than we thought possible. Green beans, squashes and eggplant all seemed just-picked, and tomatoes in every variety and color imaginable. We came home with corn (how can you not at this time of year?) Our favorite was the Silver Queen, an all-white variety, and just as sweet and tender as you can imagine.

What we didn’t come home with was tomatoes. Specifically, Sun Gold cherry tomatoes. We have a bumper crop here at home this year from just four plants, overwhelmingly abundant. We can’t eat them fast enough it seems so I’ve taken to oven-drying some in small batches, or making the following recipe for cherry tomato confit, which is even easier.

There are so many ways to use the confit… in pastas, on bruschetta, as a topping for fish and chicken… really just about anything. This week we made a dish that is a less complicated version of Eggplant Parm and topped each piece with the tomato confit. Hope you enjoy this recipe.

Oven-Roasted Eggplant with Cherry Tomato Confit

Fill a casserole/baking dish with the whole tomatoes, no need to slice them. Season with a bit of sea salt and freshly ground pepper. Add enough olive oil to fill the dish about halfway. Add a few sprigs of thyme, rosemary or oregano along with a handful of whole peeled garlic cloves and place in the oven, preheated to 425° for about 30 minutes.

The tomatoes will have shrunk, burst and charred a bit, and will be floating in the oil, concentrating their fresh flavor. When cooled down store them in glass jars, cover with the oil and store in the fridge for up to a week or two. As a bonus, strain the excess oil using it for salads, pastas or whatever. And be sure to refrigerate.

You can even roast the eggplant at the same time, at the same oven temperature. Begin by trimming the ends off a small to medium-sized eggplant, about 1 pound. I solve the debate over skin or no skin by using a vegetable peeler and making stripes, removing about half the skin. Slice the eggplant into rounds about 3/4” thick. If your eggplant is farm-fresh, nice and firm, no need to salt beforehand. Simply brush the slices with a bit of oil, place on a baking sheet, season with salt and pepper and roast for about 30 minutes in the same oven at 425°. They should be nicely caramelized and ready to eat, no messy breading and frying involved.

Serve with a little marinara sauce, then top with freshly grated Parmesan or Romano, fresh mozzarella, ricotta or even a bit of smoked provolone. Return to the oven a bit to soften the cheese. To serve, spoon a generous amount of the tomato confit on top of the eggplant slices, along with the whole garlic cloves, and garnish with fresh parsley or basil.

At dinner, the creamy roasted eggplant topped with those intensely sweet tomatoes had us swooning. Not bad for a Saturday that started with a farmers market and somehow wandered through Troy bricks, detachable shirt collars, Wagyu cattle, Silver Queen corn and a bronze goddess named Columbia.

And all of it just an hour or so up the Hudson.

Who knew?

Summer has a way of slipping by before you know it. One minute it seems to be stretching out forever, the next you’re wondering how August arrived so quickly. Since our last postcard we’ve been making the most of it while we can, traveling from Southern California up the West Coast to visit family in Oregon and Washington, reconnecting with old friends, and as always, searching out local markets and cooking together.

When it comes time to plan a family dinner, all eyes usually turn in my direction, a role I’m happy to assume. This summer I found myself returning to one dish again and again, succotash.

Few dishes are more distinctly American than succotash. Long before the Pilgrims arrived, Native Americans were cooking fresh corn and beans together. The name comes from the Narragansett word msíckquatash. Over time, cooks added whatever the season offered, summer squashes, peppers, herbs—but the heart of the dish remains the same: corn and beans, simply prepared.

My mother, a born-and-bred New Englander, taught me what she considered the real recipe, handed down from her own mother. She was quite firm about the ingredients: sweet corn cut fresh from the cob, shell beans, always fresh, never frozen, and salt pork, not bacon. Try finding salt pork today, it might take longer than making the dish itself.

Given my years spent working in kitchens, I can’t resist “cheffing” it up a bit. A few extra vegetables, a handful of fresh herbs, a touch of butter or cream at the end. I love the way this simple dish can be elegant enough to accompany almost any fresh fish at a summer dinner table. Even so, every time I make this dish I think of my mother, and like to think she would approve, even with a few substitutions and embellishments. Make a big batch, the extra is great for breakfast topped with a poached egg, or turned into a frittata or strata for brunch.

Another thing I love about succotash is that it invites helping hands. Someone can shuck the corn, another picks the thyme, someone else to shell the beans or help dicing the vegetables. It’s no secret that everyone enjoys the meal a bit more when they’ve had a hand in preparing it.

One final tip comes straight from my mother. After cutting the kernels from the cobs, use the back of your knife to scrape the milky juices into the bowl. It’s a small step that adds sweetness and body to the dish. Here’s the version that’s become our favorite this summer, it feeds about 8 hungry guests.

6 ears fresh sweet corn
1 medium yellow onion, finely diced
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 medium zucchini, cut in 1/2” dice
1 bell pepper, red or green, cut in 1/2” dice (optional)
2 medium Yukon gold potatoes, cut in 1/2” dice
2 tablespoons fresh thyme, coarsely chopped
1 15 oz can lima, cannellini, or butter beans, undrained
(or the equivalent fresh cooked beans)
2 tablespoons cold butter
1/4 cup heavy cream or half and half
Salt and pepper to taste

Just barely cover the potatoes in salted water and cook until done, 5-10 minutes. Set aside reserving the cooking water.

Slowly saute the onions in olive oil until translucent.

Add the zucchini, thyme, corn, pepper if using, and continue cooking, adding a bit of the potato water as needed.

When the corn and squash are almost done, 5-10 minutes, add the beans and their liquid. Now add the cooked potatoes and enough of the cooking water to make a light stew, but not so much that it becomes soupy.

Simmer a few minutes then add the butter and cream to finish.

That’s it! Taste, adjust the seasonings, then let the succotash rest for a few minutes before serving.

Everything can be prepared in advance and sit while the fish is cooking. I’ve served this with cod (my favorite), scallops, haddock, halibut and salmon. Steamed clams make a festive garnish and paired with cod, you’ve got a meal worthy of an upscale seaside restaurant. Quickly sautéed cherry or Sungold tomatoes tossed with fresh parsley add a colorful summery touch.

You’ll notice I left out the salt pork. Apologies to my mother but I think for today’s tastes, the butter and cream provide enough richness. If you want, bacon can be used if no salt pork is to be found, but I’d blanche it first so the smoky flavor doesn’t take over.

P.S. We didn’t totally forget about neon signs or other Vanishing Roadside Americana after leaving California. Washington’s Olympic Peninsula has its own unique oddities scattered along the roadside, chiefly Sasquatch, also known as Bigfoot, a large, hairy, mythical creature living in the deep forests of the Northwest. And we did see this guy, carved, (perhaps chain-sawed) from an enormous tree trunk, along with others we sadly didn’t stop to document. We think they fit right in, in their own quirky way, with the same traditions Mary Anne documents in her Vanishing Roadside paintings.

Like many states, Washington has its own humorous brand of playful boosterism, with tall-tale exaggerations of things unique to the local economy. Quirky postcards of giant apples and salmon the size of a station wagon have a similar appeal as do vintage signs in drawing attention to the region.

And then… there’s the regional phenomenon, the geoduck (pronounced gooey-duck), a clam whose appearance is so absurd it invites every double entendre imaginable.

Scenic views of Mount Rainier are magnificent.

But if you gave us one postcard rack and a couple of stamps, we’d probably come home with Bigfoot, a giant salmon, and a geoduck that defies polite description.

That’s roadside America at its best—equal parts history, humor, and irresistible weirdness.

Regular readers (thank you all!) might remember our trip last summer to Niagara Falls where we joined a group of roadside preservationists at the Society for Commercial Archeology conference. Why? To celebrate, document and better understand the ever-changing quirkiness of the American commercial landscape and gather with other fans to discover otherwise unseen treasures that still exist.

The motels, diners, coffee shops, gas stations and especially the exuberant signs tell a uniquely American story. They vividly illustrate an optimism that sadly has largely disappeared in today’s more corporate landscape. Mary Anne’s been a member of this esteemed organization for 18 years, and when she first attended one of their conventions in 2014 she exclaimed, “I have finally found my tribe!”

This go round we were hosted at the fabulous Safari Inn in “beautiful downtown Burbank”. The 4 day weekend opening reception was held at the Valley Relics Museum, a North Hollywood warehouse packed to bursting with artifacts and all kinds of signs rescued from Los Angeles and the San Fernando Valley’s vanished roadside businesses. While most of us were enjoying burgers from the In-N-Out Burger’s food truck (surprisingly delicious for this first-timer), Mary Anne was racing around taking pictures and gathering inspiration for future paintings.

“Don’t crowd the resource.” We heard this repeatedly throughout the conference. A motto, even the golden rule for the membership of the “SCA”. Translated, “don’t rush in front of buildings or signs while others are taking photographs, it spoils the shot”.

There was plenty to take pictures of, but not as much as 30 years ago when they last met for their convention in Los Angeles. Drive-in movie theaters have vanished along with many of the motels and vintage signs that dotted the landscape back then. The klieg lights no longer announce movie premieres from the richly appointed and glamorous theaters of Hollywood and downtown LA. Instead they hang on in downtrodden, sketchy neighborhoods waiting for a wealthy benefactor with vision to find a viable way to keep the doors open.

Fortunately, we were treated to private tours inside some of these extraordinary theaters and believe me, they were jaw dropping examples of the opulent glamour and wealth that Hollywood generated in the 1920’s and 30’s. Baroque, Neo-Classical, Spanish Colonial, Art Deco to Moderne, they all found a home here, oftentimes in the same building! Even the poorest patron felt like royalty sitting in these lavish palaces, which I think was the point. Eventually as the neighborhoods changed, theaters that started with silent films, vaudeville, and then movie premieres, wound up showing kung fu flicks and porn to pay the bills.

This was quite a contrast to the wacky, over-the-top modernist-inspired designs we also visited that were one of the main features of the conference, “From Googie to Glamour”. These wildly futuristic, ultra-modern fantasies were dubbed, “Googie” architecture. Indeed they were goofy, but they thrived from the late 1940s through the mid-1960s, and were unmistakably Southern California style.

The Googie style of architecture was born in postwar Los Angeles, where the automobile had transformed the city and every business competed for the attention of drivers speeding by. Coffee shops became the perfect canvas for this bold new vision. Dramatic rooflines, soaring angles, walls of glass, and dazzling neon weren't just architectural flourishes—they were invitations to pull over for a cup of coffee and a slice of pie. Inspired by the optimism of the Jet Age and the Space Age, these exuberant buildings celebrated a future that seemed limitless. More than restaurants, they became roadside landmarks, perfectly capturing the spirit of an America that had fallen in love with the open road.

It was so much fun that our group was treated to a true coffee shop meal at Pann’s Coffee Shop in Inglewood, near LAX. And where else would we go for dessert when we were in that neighborhood? Had to be the famous Randy’s Donuts! They were so delicious that our organizers bought enough for us to have for breakfast the next day too!

We could go on, but it’s so hard to describe all the juicy locations and share the enthusiasm of our tour guides and fellow attendees. The historical background and depth of knowledge they shared was truly mind-boggling. Instead let’s have a look at some of the other sights that caught Mary Anne’s eye, and the moments that may soon find their way into future paintings.

On September 4, 2014, my friend Jen Dragon and I set out from Chicago on an epic journey across the United States, joining eighty riders for the annual Ride for the Relay along the legendary Route 66. Founded in 2006, the rally is equal parts adventure and devotion: a cross-country pilgrimage along the Great Mother Road to raise funds for the American Cancer Society. Of the eighty participants, nearly all rode motorcycles. Jen and I were one of only two cars in the rally, shuttling a flame-decaled 2001 Toyota across the country for a friend—hardly a Thelma and Louise Thunderbird, but sturdy and willing.

We gathered in Chicago near the elusive beginning of Route 66 beside Lake Michigan. Years earlier, my husband Richard and I had driven in circles searching for the official plaque. This time, I would find it, and photograph it, before we rolled west. Riders had come from eighteen states, most between the ages of fifty and seventy, men and women alike, many women riding their own bikes. Each morning began with a blessing of the road and a dedication to someone lost to or living with cancer. It was reverent, moving, and deeply human.

I dedicated my ride to our dear friend Claudia Ainsley, “Bubby”, whose legendary baked goods once filled our Kingston café, Bistro-to-Go, with warmth and joy. Her illness came swiftly and cruelly. When I first committed to this fundraising journey, I had no idea it would become a tribute to her. Now it felt essential. Claudia rode with me in spirit, mile after mile.

My love of the great American roadside began long before this trip. As a child, I spent summers on family road trips, staying at motels and eating at Mom ’n Pop restaurants across the country. Even then, I documented what I loved, saving souvenirs, creating scrapbooks, and keeping diaries that I still have today. By the 1970s, I began to notice that many of the signs, buildings, and businesses that had once defined the roadside landscape were slowly disappearing.

Wherever I traveled, I photographed, and often painted, these fading icons. Without quite realizing it, I was becoming an amateur preservationist. I also began collecting and writing the stories of these businesses, eventually sharing them through my blog. Many of these stories, along with my paintings and photographs of America’s roadside icons, can be found on my website.

After decades of watching this visual history erode, Route 66 stood apart. Here, preservation is intentional. Neon is relit. Motels are restored. Diners reopen. The Mother Road is not merely remembered, it is actively loved. That distinction matters profoundly to me as an artist. This road is a living archive, sustained by people who believe memory has value.

Day after day, as the landscape unfolded, we reveled in the wealth of roadside attractions: in Illinois, the Gemini Giant and Henry’s Hot Dogs; in Missouri, the giant catsup bottle, the Boots Motel, and the Wagon Wheel Motel. In Oklahoma, we met Dawn Welch at the Rock Café, the original inspiration for the Disney movie Cars. In Amarillo, Texas, we dined at one of the most entertaining spots on earth, the Big Texan Steak Ranch, and marveled at Cadillac Ranch. New Mexico delighted us at every turn, beginning with Tucumcari, home to the Blue Swallow Motel and a host of other incredible neon signs. Nearby Santa Rosa yielded three of my favorite Route 66 paintings: La Mesa Motel, Tower Motel, and Comet II Drive-In. In Arizona, we were “standin’ on a corner,” enchanted by the Wigwam Motel and the Jack Rabbit Trading Post, and awed by the Grand Canyon and the Painted Desert. Finally, we reached California and our journey’s culmination at the Santa Monica Pier.

I documented obsessively, three cameras, nightly journaling, knowing these images would later become paintings. Neon signs glowed at dusk. Abandoned motels whispered stories. On this road, the visual language I had been chasing for years revealed itself fully.

Then the unthinkable happened. At the Grand Canyon, my journal and iPad were stolen from the trunk of our car. I was devastated. The loss felt like the erasure of the journey itself, the death of a carefully imagined record I had planned for months.

But the road kept going, and so did we. Kindness appeared. The riders became family. By the time we reached Santa Monica, grief and gratitude had merged together. Route 66 does that, it invites reflection, connection, and a longing that doesn’t fade once the journey ends.

And then, after I returned home, a miracle occurred. A woman in Arizona contacted me, saying she might have found something of mine and asked if I could answer a few questions. I did, heart pounding. She lived in a small desert town near the Grand Canyon and had found my journal and my iPad lying together in a ditch by the side of the road. Hallelujah. My precious record of the journey was returned to me, intact.

Route 66 gives back what it takes. As an artist, as a traveler, as a human being, I believe that now more than ever. This road doesn’t just preserve history, it reminds us why preserving it matters. And once you travel it, part of you will always want to return.

It sure looked like a historic building, right down to the New York State historical marker standing out front. It sat right on the border between Woodstock and Saugerties, an intersection known to many old-timers simply as “The Four Corners” or to others as, “Shultis Corner”.

A closer look at the marker revealed that the history being commemorated wasn’t the building itself, but Glasco Turnpike, the road from the Glass Co. Works on the upper Sawkill down to the Hudson River.

The building itself was no architectural masterpiece. An old barn had reportedly been moved there from Poughkeepsie, and re-assembled sometime in the mid-20th century, giving it a patchwork quality. Yet, somehow it looked as though it had always been there. Wide-plank floors, weathered beams, and rough-hewn wooden posts gave it a comfortable, lived-in charm. Over the years it housed a variety of businesses and became a familiar landmark for anyone traveling on Route 212 between Woodstock and Saugerties.

Among the stories we’ve heard is that the Not Fade Away tie-dye operation once worked there, producing Grateful Dead merchandise during the band’s heyday. Like many Woodstock-area buildings, its history seems to exist somewhere between documented fact and local lore.

We had suspected something big was about to happen. Construction equipment had appeared in the parking lot and rumors were beginning to circulate. Still, nothing prepared us for the sight that greeted us when we drove by a few days ago. The building was gone. Literally—gone! A pile of rubble waiting to fill dumpsters.

And that is when we realized that while the structure may have disappeared, one of its most memorable chapters deserves to be preserved. For ten remarkable years, from 1996 to 2006, this unassuming building was home to Blue Mountain Bistro—a restaurant, music venue, community gathering place, and for many people, including us, a second home. What follows is a look back at that special era through photographs, menus, reviews, memories, and the stories of the people who were there.

Recently, we resurrected a scrapbook that Mary Anne had carefully saved, filled with menus, reviews, photographs, and mementos from those years. Paging through it, we were amazed not only by how much we had forgotten, but by how much fun we had entertaining ourselves and a community of people who quickly became friends.

The zinc bar was a focal point, along with the piano and the tapas bar, quite possibly the first one in Ulster County, long before tapas became a catch-all term for appetizers. Aside from food, music was always an important ingredient and Friday night jazz featured many of our areas top musicians, some scheduled and others who dropped in to join the fun. I can almost hear the sweet, soulful sounds of George de Leon on sax and Peter Einhorn on guitar, or Teri Roiger singing Ella with John Menegon on bass.

We’d almost forgotten that we featured belly dancing paired with exotic foods from the Casbah. “Cheaper than a ticket to Tangier” the promotion promised. Dance parties, Halloween parties, New Year’s Eve parties. We loved to have a good time!

Mediterranean food was our inspiration, all the way from Spain and Portugal to Turkey, Syria, Israel and back through North Africa. We loved recreating dishes discovered during our travels and sharing them through themed dinners, cooking classes, art shows and special events. There were mentions in Gourmet magazine along with many local publications. We even offered cooking classes for kids. Along the way, romances blossomed, engagements were celebrated, memorial gatherings brought people together, and countless friendships were formed around the tables.

The Bistro was also a place for community gatherings, fundraisers, and idea incubators. Plans for the Woodstock Jewish Congregation’s new home were cooked up in our dining rooms. People came for the food and stayed for the conversations and general “good vibes”.

Our son Chris had his own room upstairs and, after helping wash dishes and working the salad station, could often be found at the bar getting help with his homework from customers and staff alike. It was that kind of place.

Perhaps that’s why the loss of the building feels surprisingly personal to so many people. More than twenty years have passed since we opened Bistro-to-Go on Route 28, yet the memories remain vivid. The building may be gone, but for those who spent time there, the laughter, music, meals, celebrations, and friendships that grew are still very much alive.

We would love to hear your favorite memory, story or anecdote from the Blue Mountain Bistro. So leave us a heart below and click on the comment button. If you want to share it with fellow Bistro friends, please forward them this link TastyPostcards.substack.com. There’s no cost to sign up.

Thank you Woodstock and beyond for all the good times.

From the bottom of our hearts, Mary Anne and Richard

When Richard and I launched Tasty Postcards over a year ago, we were headed to an artist residency in France and trying to figure out how each of us would contribute to our bi-weekly “postcards.” I would naturally be the artist, while Richard — stepping into a new role — would become the writer.

It’s turned into a wonderful collaboration, much of it centered around our shared love of travel, art, and especially food. Which makes perfect sense given Richard’s lifelong career and passion as a chef.

But somewhere along the way, I began to feel as though I was simply “illustrating” our stories. I found myself wanting to share more about the artist’s experience while traveling — the act of seeing, observing, sketching, and trying to capture fleeting moments on paper. So today’s postcard comes from my perspective.

I follow quite a few sketchbook artists on Substack and love reading about how they travel with their supplies and manage to sketch or paint in all kinds of situations — crowded cafés, train stations, street corners, parks. I’ve spent years painting en plein air (outdoors), mostly in oils and watercolor, but that’s always been with the goal of creating a finished piece.

Sketchbooking feels different.

More immediate. More personal. More like visual journaling than formal painting.

With encouragement from the wonderful artist Dina Brodsky, I decided to embrace sketchbooking as a daily practice — a way of having conversations with myself through drawing and painting. There was just one important rule:

No tearing out pages you don’t like.

For a perfectionist like me, that felt slightly terrifying.

I began at the start of the year, excited to experiment with acrylic gouache after hearing artists Jennifer Orkin Lewis and Gayle Kabaker rave about it. I’ve admired their loose, fearless styles for years — both have created covers for The New Yorker — and I loved the idea of working in a sketchbook with more freedom and spontaneity.

So imagine my excitement when I discovered they were offering a weeklong workshop in Agadir, Morocco this September.

I immediately turned to Richard and said, “We’ve gotta do this.”

To his credit, he’s always been game to try creative adventures with me. It took a few days of gentle arm-twisting, but eventually he said yes. I wasted no time sending in our deposit and happily marked the dates on the calendar.

Truthfully, sketchbooks have been part of my life since my days at ArtCenter College of Design in Los Angeles. One of my first drawing teachers told us to buy ten little 5 x 7” sketchpads and carry one everywhere.

“Sketch anything,” he said. “Don’t worry about the results. You have to get the first thousand drawings out of the way before you’ll like any of them.”

I loved that idea. No pressure. Just draw.

That was more than fifty years ago now. Yikes.

Over the years I’ve traveled with sketchbooks, watercolor journals, postcards, palettes, brushes, and pens. Watercolor and simple pen-and-ink drawings have long been my preferred travel companions. I still love the purity of line drawings with no color at all — there’s something honest and immediate about them.

But this Morocco workshop pushed me toward something new: acrylic gouache.

I’d already fallen in love with traditional gouache in recent years for its rich, velvety colors and creamy texture. It has a boldness watercolor can’t quite achieve. Acrylic gouache, though, was entirely new territory for me.

So I bought a beginner set and started experimenting in the studio. Some of those paintings have already appeared here on Tasty Postcards. In many ways, painting in a sketchbook isn’t all that different from painting on canvas or paper.

What is different is trying to do it while traveling.

Suddenly you’re juggling paint tubes, brushes, water containers, pencils, sketchbooks — all while standing on a windy street corner or balancing yourself at a café table. Meanwhile the light keeps changing, people move through the scene, shadows disappear, and the moment you wanted to capture is already shifting into something else.

That’s the challenge — and also the magic — of painting from life.

How do you freeze a fleeting moment in time and translate it onto paper?

Honestly, I think that’s the question I’m most excited to explore in Morocco. Part of me worries I’m still too much of a perfectionist to ever become a true sketchbook artist. But maybe that’s exactly why I need this experience.

To loosen up a little.

To experiment more freely.

To stop worrying quite so much about the outcome.

And special kudos to Richard, who is approaching this whole adventure with a true beginner’s mind and a willingness to simply have fun. We’ll be sharing more from Morocco this fall, so stay tuned.

In the meantime, I thought it would be fun to share a few sketchbook paintings from our recent trip to Japan. I’m still experimenting with different styles and approaches, still learning what feels most natural to me.

But maybe that’s the whole point of a sketchbook.

You have to be willing to fail. Willing to experiment. Willing to surprise yourself.

A sketchbook is less about perfection than discovery.

Which, now that I think about it, feels a lot like life itself.

I look forward to sharing more of the journey with you here on Tasty Postcards.

It’s been hard to stop thinking about our trip to Japan. It started working its magic on us before we even arrived and has lingered long after we returned home. How does one follow up such an experience?

Apparently, we’re not the only ones wondering.

I received an email this morning from Yotam Ottolenghi, the Israeli-British chef, restaurateur, and prolific cookbook author. (Full disclosure: he also sent it to several hundred thousand other subscribers.) It was about his recent trip to Japan. Turns out we were there at the same time.

No, we didn’t run into each other, although that would have been fun.

We did, however, meet a few years ago at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City. The occasion was the launch of his book Sweet, a dessert cookbook honoring his early years as a pastry chef. I had long admired his work and featured many of his recipes at Bistro-to-Go over the years so I was very excited to see him in person.

The reception was held in the museum’s lavish Versailles galleries. Guests were encouraged to dress in period costume for what was billed as a “Feast of Versailles.”

Unfortunately, my wardrobe contained absolutely nothing suggesting 18th-century French aristocracy.

Not one to let a minor detail interfere with a good theme party, I improvised.

I arrived as a sultan, a visiting spice merchant from vaguely defined points somewhere in the Far East. We assembled the outfit from an Indian sherwani-style tunic, a flowing orange shawl, pajama trousers, and embellished it all with a bit of bling from Mary Anne’s collection. The finishing touch was a repurposed neck brace transformed into a bejeweled turban.

As we arrived it was clear that very few of the guests had observed the suggested attire with the same enthusiasm.

Needless to say, I stood out.

Ottolenghi spotted me almost immediately and, following his talk, made a beeline for our little group. We had a nice chat— one chef to another, I like to think. Looking back now my attire was absolutely absurd but he was entirely gracious and incredibly charming.

The pastries, meanwhile, were extravagant and fully worthy of Versailles.

But I digress. Japan was the subject.

Like Ottolenghi, we arrived armed with lists. Everyone we knew who had visited Japan had recommendations: where to stay, what neighborhoods to explore, the best ramen, the best sushi, the best hidden cocktail bar. Pages and pages of must-sees and must-eats.

In the end, many of our favorite experiences never made a list. In fact, wherever we wound up was amazing whether it was on a list or not.

We never did run into Ottolenghi. I suppose he had a different list.

Like us, he ate sushi and ramen and convenience-store onigiri from 7-Eleven. Somehow we both came away wondering how it was possible not to have had a single bad meal. Japan seems to have a way of making everyone feel as though they’ve discovered something special, something meant just for them, even while thousands of others may be having the very same experience.

Maybe that’s part of what stays with you.

We spend so much time searching for something exceptional—the best bakery or coffee, the perfect bowl of ramen, the place no one else yet knows about. Our search is fueled by all the ratings, lists and stars that guide us. Good. Better. Best. Sorry we didn’t make it to everything on our list.

But in Japan, excellence practically seems like a given.

There seems to be an unspoken understanding that everyone should simply try to do things well — whether it’s preparing sushi, sweeping a sidewalk, packaging a sandwich at a convenience store, or running a tiny ramen shop with six seats and a line out the door.

Not perfection exactly.

Just care.

Maybe that’s why Japan lingers in people’s minds long after they leave.

Even Ottolenghi, apparently.

We were eating sushi for breakfast in the crowded Tsukiji fish market in Tokyo when our son turned to me and said, “You look like you’re channeling your inner Anthony Bourdain Dad, untucked white shirt, sunglasses, slurping oysters and knocking back toro nigiri at 9:00 in the morning”.

We laughed and then I flashed back to my first date with Mary Anne. It was many years ago at Japonica, a small sushi restaurant in Greenwich Village, New York City. I had chosen this place hoping to impress her that I had spent time in Tokyo, and maybe sound cool tossing around a few words in Japanese with the waiters.

Something must have worked — we’re still together 43 years later. And Japanese culture has had a profound influence on us. Our first home in the Hudson Valley was a beat up old barn, turned into a house in an earlier decade. When we renovated the master bedroom, we chose a traditional Japanese tatami design, with a futon mattress, and shoji screens for the closet doors.

This trip to Japan felt like a return of sorts. I had never quite found the time to come back, and now we were meeting up with Chris and Sarah, our son and daughter-in-law, who live in Oregon. We had created our own itinerary — a long list of museums, gardens, tea rooms, coffee shops, flea markets. Many artists, architects and chefs have been inspired by this culture. And we were looking forward to having some more of that magic rub off on us.

And of course, we came to eat.

With sushi, our experiences ran the full spectrum — from high-end tasting menus to neighborhood spots and everything in between — and we never had a single bad bite. That morning at Tsukiji Market may have been a high point. We moved through crowded stalls sampling sushi, sashimi, and yakitori for breakfast, shoulder to shoulder with people from all over the world. It did feel, I have to admit, a bit like an episode of Parts Unknown.

What stayed with me wasn’t just the quality — sushi wasn’t precious. It was everywhere — on conveyor belts, at stand-up counters, tucked into train stations, even in supermarket cases — and it was all good. For a brief time, it felt almost ordinary, just something people ate without thinking too much about it.

Ramen had been high on my list as well, lodged into my memories in a special way, as the ultimate comfort food. I had shared my love of ramen with Shin-san, my Japanese tutor, who lived just outside of Kyoto. I had shared with him how much I loved ramen and we laughed as I told him about learning, years ago, to loudly slurp the noodles. He had promised to take us to his favorite place in Kyoto when we came for a visit.

It was a small ramen shop, tucked between train tracks and a bridge. It was beyond plain, the kind of place you might walk right past if not for the line out the door. Following Shin-san and his wife, we squeezed inside and sat on chairs that felt more suited to a kindergarten classroom. In what seemed like nothing flat, bowls of steaming noodles were set down in front of us and we joined in the communal slurping, Shin-san was beaming as we picked the bowls up finishing the deeply satisfying broth. Ramen, and I’m not talking about the cheap packages popular in college dorms, has developed a kind of mystique, along with a cult following devoted to finding the “perfect bowl”. It’s even caught the attention of French chefs, like Jacques Pépin, and why not?

Another day, we ducked into a train station to get out of the rain and stumbled into a sleek, modern, architectural place specializing in ramen and gyoza. It turned out to have an honorable mention in the Michelin Guide. It couldn’t have been more different, yet the experience was just as satisfying, just as accessible, and surprisingly affordable.

As a chef, I found something reassuring in that — that something so seemingly simple could be executed at such a high level, across such a wide range of places, without losing its soul. Over nearly three weeks in Japan, the “perfect bowl” always seemed to be the one I had most recently eaten.

Back home in our own kitchen, I’ve been trying to capture that “perfect” bowl of ramen. They’re always delicious, but they never quite measure up. Even so, it reminds me of where we’ve just been. Sometimes that’s enough.

But it wasn’t all sushi and ramen.

We spent time admiring temple gardens and landscapes that were familiar from the iconic ukiyo-e woodblock prints — travelers crossing bridges, cherry blossoms at their peak, ordinary moments, captured and held in place and time.

Looking back at our own photographs, I had the same thought. What had been everyday scenes just days before were already beginning to slip away. Memories forming almost as quickly as we were making them.

One of my goals in revisiting Tokyo was to find the neighborhood where I once lived. It seemed important. So one afternoon we set out with the address in hand, written on the back of one of the letters that my mother had saved. I was sure I would remember what it looked like, that something would click, that I would be transported back in time.

It didn’t happen. “But Google Maps says it’s right here!”

We stood there looking around at an entire neighborhood full of newish five story buildings. Gone were the humble two story dwellings from my time there. We were tired, disappointed and lost — lost in time. Nothing looked familiar.

After a while, we moved on.

The last stop on our trip was further south, the island of Shikoku, the smallest of Japan’s major islands, and the least visited. Everything there moved at a different pace, slowed down, sort of like we felt, echoing the trip itself. It was as if we were delving deeper into Japan simply by relaxing more. We did some of the same things, walking through parks and smaller museums. And of course eating sushi, and ramen’s cousin “udon” — a specialty in Takematsu, the town where we were staying.

One of the highlights of our adventure was taking a ferry to Naoshima, a small island almost entirely given over to art, created by the Benesse Art Site. It was a warm, sunny day. We rented e-bikes (recommended), cruised all over the island and marveled at how a formerly polluted industrial wasteland has been transformed into a cultural center and art mecca.

In all our time in Japan we never had a bad meal, and that included the rainy night we stayed in at our Airbnb and had takeout from the local grocery store.

The selection was as amazing as the sushi was fresh. In fact, it was so good we went back the next day when we found ourselves too exhausted to venture back out after a long day.

The last night of our trip was spent at a traditional ryokan, complete with an onsen streamside at the bottom of a steep canyon. It felt like the right way to end—soaking our tired legs in the mineral waters, letting everything settle.

Maybe we’re still letting it settle.

Back home, we’ve been looking through photos, trying to piece it all back together. We covered a lot of ground: the meals, the conversations, the small moments that didn’t seem important at the time.

We went to Japan for many reasons—for art, for food, for memory. For a while, it all felt almost ordinary, like it was just part of everyday life.

But it doesn’t stay that way.

The details begin to drift. What’s left is something harder to pin down.

Standing there at Tsukiji that morning, knocking back toro nigiri at nine o’clock, I wasn’t thinking about any of that.

It just felt like a good meal.

Like that first night, all those years ago.

Here we are, in a hotel room in Takamatsu, Japan on the island of Shikoku, on the final night of our three week adventure. We’re celebrating our first anniversary of Tasty Postcards and toasting with a glass of sake. Kampai! We had fully intended to do more than one post during our time here, but honestly we’ve been so on the go and the time has flown by so fast, that it was now or never. Believe me, there’s a lot to unpack and we’ll share more about this trip when we get home. And our feet will have had a moment or two to recover from all the walking we’ve done. Our first day in Tokyo we logged in over 22,000 steps! Frankly, we’re a wee bit tired!

But not too tired to share a bit about why we came to Japan at this particular time of year - Sakura! Cherry Blossom Season.

In Japan, they take this season to the next level. Cherry blossom everything, everywhere. And believe me, there are cherry trees everywhere — not just in parks, they’re tucked into narrow side streets, in front of towering office buildings, alongside railroad tracks, literally everywhere where there’s a speck of soil, even in many places where it seems they’re growing out of the sidewalks.

People gather in viewing parties, picnics large and small, under and around the flowering trees. It was raining the first day we ventured out, and there were even groups of people gathered under the trees with umbrellas. This yearly tradition is deeply woven into the culture and celebrated in festivals across the country. It also heralds the arrival of cherry-blossom-flavored everything: ice cream, sake, floral-colored rice balls on skewers, Starbucks sakura lattes, flavored Kit-Kats, the list goes on.

We arrived in Tokyo on April 1st, with dreams of experiencing the blossoms in full bloom. Unfortunately for us it was cloudy, rainy, and windy, and we both worried that we might have missed it —if by morning the blossoms would all be on the ground. We had dreamed about this trip for years, planned for months, and were finally here. Mary Anne, especially, had been looking forward to this moment for as long as I can remember. Like many things surrounded by this much hoopla, I tend to be cautiously skeptical, although I do confess I enjoyed the limited edition “Sakura Bloom “ gin we found a few days later in a grocery store.

At long last, on day three, we found ourselves in Shinjuku Gyoen National Garden, a fifteen-minute walk from one of the busiest train stations on the planet. We marveled at all the activity around us as we were gently showered with soft pink petals. And just like that, everything shifted. The rain had passed, the sun was out, and there were cherry blossoms everywhere, on the trees, drifting through the air, carpeting the ground. The park was filled with people, and somehow we had managed to claim a bench at the edge of a wide meadow, surrounded by trees in full bloom.

The park was alive. Cameras, everywhere. Families pushing strollers, groups of office workers, couples, tourists, everyone gathered by the trees. Tarps and blankets spread carefully on the ground, shoes arranged neatly at the edges. Picnic baskets open, revealing bento boxes like so many tiny jewel boxes.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many people taking pictures at the same time, adjusting angles, stepping back, forward, framing branches against the sky. Smiling faces tucked into the blossoms. People taking selfies alongside strangers offering to take pictures for one another. The smiles were not just for the camera, it seemed as if everyone was truly in a state of rapture.

Mary Anne was completely in her element. I watched her move through it all, camera in hand, noticing the details others might pass by. The way the light filtered through a cluster of blossoms. Children chasing petals like butterflies. Women in full traditional kimono moving through the crowd.

And we joined in. It was impossible not to. At some point, the line between observing and participating disappeared. We were taking pictures, laughing, asking someone we didn’t know to take ours, and returning the favor. For a moment, it felt like everyone was connected by the same simple impulse, to hold onto something beautiful, even if it only lasted for a moment.

Like the blossoms themselves, I had the realization that these moments are fleeting.

Whatever skepticism I arrived with drifted away with the fallen petals. What remained is a shared kind of joy that doesn’t need translation. And as I watched all of this unfold, I realized that maybe this is exactly what we came here to experience.

A place where strangers smile at one another, where people pause to appreciate something that belongs to all of us. Where, without quite realizing it, we become part of the scene we came to see.

Maybe it’s more than just the blossoms.

Out of the blue, I’m reminded of a class I took in college, “Landscape Appreciation.” I enrolled hoping to boost my anemic grade point average, thinking it would be an easy “A”. And it was. The professor said as much on the first day, “Just show up”. But over the course of the semester, he offered something more. In a series of simple slide presentations, he shared how in urban environments well designed public spaces can provide something we all need, whether we are aware of it or not. A moment to be with ourselves and with others in a way that brings us together, a shared humanity.

Sitting in that park, I began to understand what he meant.

It’s easy to feel awe standing alone on a mountaintop. However, not everyone can get there.

But a park belongs to everyone.

And for a few hours, under a canopy of blossoms that may already be gone, we all found our way to the same place of beauty and wonder.

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Small Helpings: A Food and Memoir Workshop

What do we remember when we eat the food we love? What do we create for ourselves —and for others — one meal at a time?

This is the short description of a workshop I’ve signed up for today with Abigail Thomas and Darien Gee. How could I not? It fits so perfectly with what we’ve been trying to do with our Tasty Postcards here on Substack. It’s also perfectly aligned with what I would consider the driving force that has inspired and kept me in kitchens for so many years. Food. Our memories around food are such a powerful force. They transcend all cultural divides. From your mom’s chicken soup, to the fabulous meal you had on your anniversary twenty years ago, we all share memories of food from our past.

Whether it’s a wedding, a birthday, or a memorial, it often seems what we remember is what was on the table. As a chef, the most rewarding compliments came when something I had made reminded someone of a meal from their past. Maybe it was the Roast Chicken Grand-mere on the Bistro menu that brought them back to their own grandmother’s kitchen? It was never about the complexity or technique. It was almost always about the memory it carried.

Back to the workshop. The instructions are to bring a favorite recipe as inspiration for some of the exercises. I’ve got a book full, literally, but where to begin? I could start with what’s right in front of me, but sometimes what’s close at hand actually leads much further back.

Further than I expected.

I left college after three and a half years, realizing that nothing I had learned had really prepared me for the life I wanted to lead. The problem was, I didn’t have a clear idea what that life might be. What I did know was that I didn’t see it anywhere around me. Full disclosure, this was also the era of “tune in, turn on, and drop out.”

I had the sense that I would have to look beyond what I had already seen and experienced. At the time, I was reading Hemingway, Jack London, and Steinbeck, writers who seemed to live adventurous lives on their own terms. I wanted some of that.

Until that point, any “traveling” I had done only happened in books, real travel took money which I had very little of. How to make this happen and fast? Coincidentally, through a friend of a friend I got wind of a great way to actually make this happen. Legally. This was no scam, just hard work. With a bit of luck you could get hired as a deckhand pushing barges up and down the Mississippi River. The work was hard but it smacked of adventure, just what I was looking for. This was the deal…you worked for 30-45 days straight, living on the boat, room and board included. Six hour shifts, twice a day. Work—eat —sleep — repeat in today’s shorthand. That was it for a month or more. The best part besides the money was the food, it was rumored to be legendary as the cooks were usually from New Orleans.

I got lucky, was hired on and the rumors turned out to be true. Three squares a day. One morning it was country ham ’n eggs with grits, biscuits and red-eye gravy, the next it was fried brains with bacon and eggs. Imagine waking up to buttermilk pancakes with molasses, hash browns, chicken fried steak and eggs. And this was just breakfast. I was eating foods I’d only heard about, and plenty I hadn’t. It seemed like just about everything we ate had a story attached to it.

It was a real eye-opener for me, a young suburban-raised college boy thrown in with this crew of good ol’ Southern boys.

One morning the fog was so thick we pulled over and tied up along the riverbank. The next thing we knew the cook had hopped ashore. We could barely see him but he soon returned carrying a large trash bag. With a huge grin he announced he’d gathered polk salad greens and we’d be seeing them for dinner that night alongside fried chicken with all the fixin’s. The fog lifted and back out on the river it seemed like everyone had a story about polk salad. All day long people were arguing, good naturedly, but passionately, about what I don’t remember, but it all started with those greens.

Oops! The instructions were to start with a recipe. I only got as far as “food and memoir” and look where it took me, back to a foggy riverbank 50+ years ago, watching a cook emerge from the brush with a bag of wild greens and a story none of us would forget.

I’m looking forward to the workshop.

Before the Internet, information moved slowly. Planning a trip involved scrutinizing a few maps, buying as many traveler’s checks as you could afford, and figuring out the rest along the way. The best advice came from other travelers, often found sitting outside American Express offices, reading their mail and looking for a friendly face. Instead of texts or emails, messages were left on bulletin boards in hostel lobbies. If you wrote home, it was on thin blue aerograms.

I first arrived in Tokyo in the early 1970s, virtually penniless, having spent the last of my meager funds on a haircut and a cheap suit in Hong Kong. Now, looking back, I’m amazed at how little preparation there was.

The plan was simple. I would meet a friend who had already been there for several months, find a way to teach English, and save enough money for a plane ticket home.

My qualifications were simple as well, the haircut, the suit (“Do I look like a teacher now?”), and the fact that English is my mother tongue. The idea was that I would converse with Japanese businessmen who had studied English in school but rarely had the chance to speak it.

That was the plan, anyway.

A year and a half later, I finally left, having exhausted every extension and renewal available on my tourist visa. Somewhere along the way, I had become completely enamored with Japan.

One of my earliest memories is sitting in a noodle shop with my friend Michael. We ordered ramen. When it arrived, he picked up the bowl in one hand, chopsticks in the other, and began loudly slurping the noodles. He looked up, saw the expression on my face, and we both burst out laughing.

As the laughter faded, I looked around. Sure enough, everyone else was doing the same thing.

Between slurps, he explained that it was considered the polite thing to do in Japan. I tried to get with the program—after all, when in Rome—but the laughter kept getting in the way. The ramen was delicious, and over time I ate many more bowls, eventually learning to slurp along with everyone else.

I’ve been re-reading some of the aerograms I sent home from that first trip, my mother saved them all. Impossibly thin blue paper, filled with cramped handwriting crowding every inch. Looking at my Tokyo address written on the back, it’s hard not to think about how much has changed

This time my arrival will be very different. Reservations have been made, itineraries mapped out, even a transit pass loaded onto my phone. It’s tempting to think that in the midst of all this efficiency, something will be lost. Maybe some of the uncertainty.

And yet, the anticipation feels greater this time.

I’ve been studying Japanese online with a tutor, and after several months on Zoom, we’re planning to meet in Kyoto, near where he lives. Knowing my fondness for ramen, he has promised to take us to his favorite spot. He apologized in advance that it might look old, humble, even a little dirty on the outside—which, he assured me, is always a good sign.

In the meantime, I’ve been making ramen at home, eating quietly and politely, the way I was raised. I suspect that will change once we’re there. After all, when in Rome…

No matter how much we plan, or how much we remember, we never really know what will happen until we arrive. In those moments, the years between then and now, may simply fall away.

And I have a feeling it will be impossible not to laugh with that first slurp of noodles.

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I have a tremendous admiration for writers. But I’ve never really considered myself one — I’m an artist. Over the years I’ve done plenty of writing and always enjoyed a kind of free-wheeling style — nothing too formal or structured, just something that feels friendly and conversational.

When Richard and I created Tasty Postcards as our focus for an artist residency in France, part of the fun was that we could each do our own thing. Richard could finally flex a long-dreamed-of muscle and become the writer, while I would happily take on the role of “artist-in-residence.”

So far that arrangement has worked pretty well. A few days after we publish a postcard, we usually start talking about what might come next. When we’re traveling that part is easy — there are always so many moments that spark our curiosity and feel worth sharing. And when we’re home, we’ve been pleasantly surprised at how many ideas still seem to find their way to us.

Recently, we read a thoughtful post by Abigail Thomas and Darien Gee, who reminded us that a writer should feel free to write about absolutely anything. “We’re telling you this: if you can write—just for yourself, just for ten minutes—please do. Give yourself a moment to tell the truth and breathe, and know that your words matter. That’s both liberating and a little daunting.”

As we were tossing around ideas for our next post, we found ourselves circling a question that has been quietly in the background for a while. We’ve always shied away from anything overtly political here. There’s plenty of that elsewhere. Even among friends there’s often an unspoken agreement not to get too deeply into it — the conversations can be upsetting and it’s hard to know where they lead.

Our focus has always been to highlight the small moments of wonder, the joys of travel and adventure, and discovering what makes life more fulfilling. But month after month we’ve been assaulted with disturbing and upsetting news. It raises an uncomfortable question.

Are we tone-deaf? Is it frivolous to keep writing about food, travel, and adventure when there’s so much suffering here at home and in the rest of the world?

So, what to do? What can we do? What we do know is that sharing kindness, creativity, and small moments of beauty are part of what nourish us. We feel this and need this, personally and collectively.

Mostly we hope that this space remains a place where we can discover and celebrate the beauty of this complicated world we all share. This doesn’t mean we won’t still be marching in the streets to make our voices heard, but our focus will continue to be the small moments that bring us joy.

We’d love to know how you’re handling these challenges? What brings you inspiration and provides hope? Please share with us in the comments.

Last week I got a library card. I know that probably doesn’t sound like such a big deal. There were no passport stamps, no TSA lines, and better yet, no money exchanged. But I considered it a powerful act.

Books were my first passport.

A little background. I grew up reading the usual books marketed to young readers of my era. I longed to live as boldly as the Hardy Boys, or as full of adventures as the Rover Boys. I laughed at the absurdities observed by James Thurber, imagined prairie life with Laura Ingalls Wilder, wandered grimy London streets with Oliver Twist and David Copperfield.

I braved the Yukon with Jack London and journeyed to India with Somerset Maugham. School suffered. After all, how can algebra compete with Rudyard Kipling or Ernest Hemingway?

Then came adulthood. Somewhere along the way, my reading narrowed to menus, invoices and headlines. The urgency of running restaurants pushed novels to the side. My library card expired. I barely noticed.

It took a phone call from my brother Bob to wake me up. He happened to mention he had to return a book to the library.

The library.

The word stopped me. I felt quietly shamed and embarrassed. I hadn’t set foot in one in years. It seemed so quaint, old-fashioned, inefficient even. After all, I can download a book in minutes, have one on my doorstep tomorrow.

But wait, when did I start defaulting to easy?

In the kitchen, the easy way out was never an option. We did things the old-fashioned way. So what if it took more time? The results spoke for themselves and we felt better about ourselves in the process. I’ve spent a lifetime believing good things take time, attention, intention.

In kitchens, in travel, in life.

Why should reading be any different?

Instead, I walked into our local library. I walked out as a card-carrying member, book in hand.

It felt quietly radical. It was not delivered to my inbox or front door. No money was exchanged. Instead, I bumped into a neighbor I hadn’t seen since last summer. Returning home, I was reminded that not every journey requires speed, convenience or a tracking number. I settled into a comfy chair, watching it snow and began my next journey…

No passport required.

In the midst of the unrelenting and appalling news that each day brings, I was reminded of a line by Thomas Paine,“These are the times that try men’s souls”. A bit dramatic, but lately it doesn’t feel exaggerated. The gray, windy, and bone-cold winter hasn’t helped. Some days I even struggle to summon the courage to bundle up and go for a walk.

It was against this backdrop that I decided to try my hand at baking bread, sourdough to be specific. Bread baking has a bit of a reputation for being therapeutic and I needed a lift. So I turned to flour.

In all my years of running kitchens, I never baked a loaf of bread. My excuse was always the same, I was too busy. Bread-making belonged to bakers. My strengths lay elsewhere. Nothing gave me greater pleasure than making soups or coming up with a dinner special utilizing the odds and ends left over after a busy weekend. The results and gratification I derived from cooking were usually realized in hours, not days.

Bread doesn’t work that way.

Sourdough demands precision and patience. Ingredients are measured in grams, not in a handful of this or a pinch of that, a way of working which has not been my strong suit. Bread is different, the dough tells you when it’s ready. Sourdough is not so much a recipe as it is a practice, a relationship. It’s alive. It must be fed. It responds to warmth and neglect in equal measure but with different results.

My first attempt was focaccia, a little warm-up act I told myself, something I could knock off in an afternoon. Well, old habits die hard. Off I went… this should work… I’m not letting that stop me… and so on. I won’t embarrass myself by detailing the many mistakes I made along the way. Suffice it to say, the birds didn’t mind the result, a dense, cheerless slab that was a humbling failure.

I decided I needed help. Luckily my good friend Steve has been baking focaccia for years and recently has turned his attention to sourdough. His results were impressive, and delicious. He invited me to watch him and take notes. He even shared a bit of the sourdough starter, the essential magic that makes it happen. Our time together was well spent, I soaked it all in.

In times like these, that seem uncertain and out of control, there is comfort in something so elemental, flour and water. Through careful attention and patience, I began to feel hopeful. Somehow, hovering over a bowl of dough, turning, folding and struggling to keep a consistent temperature, I started to trust the process, even while tending to something not entirely under my control.

It strikes me that bread is not that different from travel. You plan, you prepare, you wait. Bags packed, routes mapped out, reservations made, still what unfolds often has a logic of its own, something worth all the effort even though it’s not always predictable.

Oh, by the way, my first loaf of sourdough bread turned out close to perfect which is not always guaranteed. That first bite of warm bread fresh from the oven felt like a little miracle! Good enough to turn those winter blues into some clear blue skies.

I’ll be baking again soon.

In the meantime, I’m curious, what’s your recipe for turning winter blues into blue skies?

I’m almost embarrassed to say I wasn’t originally going to write about our most recent trip, but then I realized that would be me editing, silencing myself, and that felt somehow dishonest. What’s up with that? So, I started asking myself, why is this trip different from all our other trips?

We just returned from a beautiful resort near Playa del Carmen in Mexico. It was warm. I don’t need to remind anyone that it’s been arctic-level cold here in New York, the kind of cold that makes even the most devoted homebody dream of bare feet and beaches. This trip delivered exactly what we craved, long walks on the beach, swimming in the ocean, and the warmth of the sun. The food that we expected to be just okay was genuinely fantastic, thoughtful, fresh, and generous.

So why the hesitation?

It was a timeshare.

We’ve had a long, complicated relationship with the model. We loved that it forced us to take time off when we were running a restaurant and otherwise might not have. We loved the flexibility, being able to swap weeks and land somewhere new. What we didn’t love was how similar so many of the places felt, beautiful but oddly interchangeable, too large, isolated and sealed off from their surroundings. And then there was the pressure, to buy more, upgrade, invest again. The multitude of offers which inevitably ended up trying to squeeze more money out of us.

And yet, we had a good time.

That’s the confession.

We imagine ourselves to be wanderers, travelers of a different type. We like markets, small streets, museums, conversations that happen by accident. Resorts don’t offer much in the way of “real life,” at least not the kind we like to seek out when we travel. For better or worse, they are comfortable, if isolating. You are well cared for, and also held at a distance from the local culture.

But sometimes, especially after long stretches of work or during winters that seem to stretch on endlessly, we simply want to wake up without an agenda. To read good books. To eat without planning. No hassles. No cars. Nothing but unscheduled time.

This trip forced me to reconsider something I’ve quietly held onto for years, the idea that rest and travel are somehow opposing forces. That travel must involve motion and discovery, while rest somehow lacks curiosity.

What if rest is simply a different form of travel?

Our days fell into a gentle rhythm. Walks along the same stretch of beach. Coffee in the same spot, long afternoons with a book. In that slowness, I noticed how travel is sometimes about pace. We don’t have to be doing all the time, sometimes “being” is enough.

But beneath that ease lay another reality, the people who made all this possible. The staff who arrived before dawn, some commuting up to two hours by bus from small villages to be there by 6:00 a.m. The maids, kitchen workers, drivers, many earning low wages, yet grateful for jobs that didn’t exist before the resort arrived. Workers in the hot sun raking seaweed on the beaches all day long. The upside and downside living side by side, inseparable. Like so many things, it revealed itself to be more complex than the glossy ads suggest.

That awareness didn’t ruin the trip, but it did deepen it. Travel can reveal layers not seen, whether we acknowledge them or not. Comfort can be complex, as can our responsibility as part of it.

We left Mexico feeling restored, and perhaps a bit more aware. The wanderer in us didn’t disappear. We realized we don’t need every trip to deliver “authenticity” in the same way or to prove anything with our itinerary.

What this trip gave us was permission. Permission to rest without apology. Permission to see that sometimes travel is about immersion, and sometimes it’s about pause.

Maybe the real question isn’t why we travel, but what we need, what we’re seeking when we do. I often seem to look for answers and wind up coming back with more questions. In the end, we’re also aware that these are first-world questions, but mostly we’re just grateful to be doing what we do.

I’m curious how others navigate this. How do you balance the urge to wander with the need to rest? When has “doing nothing” turned out to be exactly what you needed?

Artist Notes:

For as long as we’ve been traveling together, one of my favorite things is to bring my paints (traditionally watercolors) to capture whatever is unique about each “place”. Almost all tropical landscapes have an abundance of incredibly colorful plants and flowers. This trip was no exception — here are a few of my favorites.

I’ve also loved drawing and painting people at the beach, so when we saw this amazing crew of rakers dispatching mounds of seaweed from the beach each day, I knew I had to capture them. (see opening image) In case you’re wondering what those greenish mounds are behind them, they are long mossy throws of sandbags that they’ve installed to help mitigate sand erosion. And we thought shoveling snow back home was hard work!

This was the title of an article that good friends recently forwarded to us. It was written by a couple they met with a serious travel ethic. In it, they explored the idea that planning a trip can be its own journey, a discovery phase that is an adventure in and of itself. Much more than a checklist of places to see, the planning becomes a conversation with possibility, it takes on a life of its own.

This idea resonates with us as we’re planning a trip to Japan in the spring. Coincidentally, we’ve been meeting people who’ve recently returned from the places we’ve been dreaming about, eager to share their excitement and travel tips. We’ve immersed ourselves in everything Japan, watching endless YouTube tours, travel blogs, mapping out trains, being guided through parks filled with cherry blossoms to quiet little shrines, and even peeking down alleys lined with yakitori stalls. We’ve been eating ramen and sushi, learning about miso, drinking sake on cold nights. All this has contributed to a rough outline of an itinerary, but what that article really helped us to see is that our journey has already begun.

I was in Japan back in the 1970’s, which seems like a lifetime ago. Before the internet this kind of planning simply wasn’t possible. The extent of my preparation was a haircut and a suit I bought in Hong Kong so I could pass myself off as an English teacher. All I wanted was to make enough money to buy a one-way plane ticket back to the States. Somehow Tokyo snagged me, the food, the people, the order amidst the chaos, it didn’t happen overnight but it grew on me. Something clicked, and I wound up staying for a year and a half to find out what”it” was.

Times have changed. I’ll probably get a haircut, but I won’t be packing a suit this time. Instead of teaching, I’ve been learning, studying Japanese with online classes, tutors and a handy phone app. Along with learning how to order sashimi, introduce myself and ask directions I’ve made a friend, Shin-san, my tutor, who hopes to meet us in Kyoto, where he worked for many years. A fellow retiree, his journey is seeing the world through the eyes of his many students.

So yes, our journey has already begun. The so-called “work” of planning has been anything but work, our armchair traveling and curiosity have widened our views of what’s possible.

Still, not everything can be planned. Some moments will arrive unannounced, even uninvited, just like they always have. Who knows, they might be the ones we remember the most.

I just returned from a short escape to the Berkshires, easy peasy, no airplanes, no security checks, no rushing, just slow, peaceful surroundings and lots of quiet. It felt as if I’d stepped into a different world. A big thanks to Mary Anne for gifting me this peaceful getaway, a chance to hit pause and be still.

The destination was Kripalu, a healing arts and yoga center just up the road from Tanglewood. It was an opportunity to tune out the relentless news updates, take a long peaceful exhale and take in the quiet contemplative atmosphere. The agenda was wonderfully simple, retreat and renewal, do as much or as little as you like. The yoga classes and workshops were taught by extremely knowledgeable and accessible instructors, many had been there 20-25 years! There were fresh, clean nourishing meals that complemented and sustained everything. In short, there was nothing I had to do unless I chose to do it.

Given the New Year it was also a chance to look back, reflect where the past year had taken me. Mostly I experienced a quiet sense of gratitude for all that happened and tried to square that with things that didn’t happen, or happen the way I had wanted. Looking forward, I made no grand resolutions, just to be more aware of what’s needed in each moment, then choose accordingly. If there were any goals to achieve it would simply be to carry this awareness into an “ordinary” day. Being still can be harder than it might seem. But silence is not the same as empty, every moment doesn’t need to be filled or every question answered. Sometimes stillness can be the space where we hear questions we didn’t know we had.

I’m always on the lookout for anything new and interesting in the food department and I was not disappointed. I thoroughly enjoyed the uncomplicated, nourishing, and thoughtfully prepared meals, despite the cafeteria setting. Mostly vegetarian, definitely global, I detected macrobiotic influences from Japan, bold aromatic flavors from India, richly spiced foods of Indonesia, somehow all balanced with that Mediterranean sensibility that makes me feel right at home. In the end it felt less about picking a favorite cuisine and more about eating with intention, Feel Good Food, in other words. I definitely brought back some new inspirations for what to make for dinner right here at home.

One of the soups I had reminded me of this white bean and kale soup featured in our cookbook. This wonderfully versatile recipe can be a template, greens and beans basically, quick, easy and healthy. The white beans provide a luscious creamy texture while chard, spinach or even cabbage can be used in place of kale. Try finishing with a spritz of lemon juice and zest to wake up these wintery flavors.

White Bean and Kale Soup
Serves 6–8

This recipe can serve as a blueprint for many types of bean soups, minestrones, or other chunky mixed vegetable soups. The broth, made by cooking the beans, is the main source of liquids. Carrots could also be added for color, but often I like the simplicity of the green and white ingredients for this, which I usually make in winter. It’s delightful as a vegetarian soup, but bacon, sausage, and ham are all welcome non-vegetarian additions, as is chicken broth. At the end, garnish with a splash of good olive oil, a bit of grated pecorino, and a few croutons for a hearty winter meal.

1 lb dried white beans
2 qts water
several sprigs fresh rosemary or sage
1 bay leaf
4 tablespoons olive oil
2 large onions, coarsely chopped (about 3 cups)
leek, white and ligt green parts, sliced thinly into rounds (about 1 1/2 cups)
4 ribs celery, strings peeled, sliced (about 2 cups)
2 tablespoons minced garlic
2 large Yukon Gold potatoes (about 1 1/2 lbs), peeled and diced
1 large bunch lacinato kale, ribs removed and chopped
grated pecorino, for serving
croutons, for serving
salt
pepper

Rinse beans and let soak in warm water to cover for an hour or better, overnight. Drain and cover with 2 qts water, season with salt, add rosemary and bay leaf, and simmer until beans are almost done, about 1 hour. Remove bay leaf and herbs. Let stand while preparing the rest.

In a large soup pot, heat olive oil and gently sweat onions, leek, and celery over medium heat until onions are translucent, 8–10 minutes. Add garlic and continue cooking for another couple of minutes. Now add beans and their liquid and potatoes. Bring to a boil and simmer, uncovered, until potatoes are almost done, 15–20 minutes. Add kale and simmer another 8–10 minutes. Check seasoning and adjust, adding more water if the beans have absorbed all the liquid or if you feel it’s too thick. I sometimes puree a small amount of the beans at the end and add them back to the broth to give the soup a creamier texture.

Chef’s Note
Add a ham bone or a piece of Parmesan rind with the beans if you like. Adding diced bacon, sausage, or pancetta while sweating the onions if you would like a heartier version.

Around this time every year, the “Best of” lists start rolling in, the top ten books, best restaurants, best movies and so on. When someone asks me, “What was the best thing you ate this year?” I usually pause. For me, the best meal is often the one we’ve just finished, an evening with friends when we all agree it’s been far too long and promise to gather sooner next time.

We’ve had some wonderful meals and meaningful trips this past year, but ranking them never feels quite right. What stays with us instead are the moments around them, the conversations, the laughter, and just being together with friends, old and new.

In a couple of short months, it will be nearly a year since we began sharing these notes on Substack. We’re honestly surprised by how much this practice continues to nourish us. Tasty Postcards has become a way of paying attention and of slowing down long enough to notice what might otherwise slip by. In doing so, we’ve found that being grateful is something we are present to every day.

So instead of a top ten list, we simply want to say thank you.

Thank you to those we’ve shared meals with, stories with, and time with. Thank you to this community for reading along, for being curious, and for making space for reflection. Thank you for the ordinary days that can feel like gifts when we pause long enough to experience them.

Tasty Postcards has given us a shared practice that has enriched us beyond what we imagined. For all of that and more we are incredibly grateful.

Wishing you peace, warmth, and many good moments in the year ahead.

I’m sure I’m not the only chef with a book that looks like this; torn, stained, barely held together, but never abandoned. This seemingly modest volume, La Technique, by Jacques Pépin, opened up a whole new world for me. He showed me how to make a perfect omelette, fix a broken mayonnaise, bone a rabbit, and clarify a stock for consommé. It wasn’t just the recipes, it was a way of thinking, clear, patient, precise, and it became my bible as I learned the skills and confidence to execute countless preparations. From stuffing and trussing a veal breast to folding a proper cornet en papier to decorate a wedding cake, whenever I had doubts about how best to handle an unfamiliar situation this incredible resource was my go-to place.

I never had the honor of actually meeting him, but he’s always felt like a wise uncle, one who patiently showed me how things were done, and why. He made me believe I could do it and do it well. Whether you knew him from his presence on television or through the pages of his many books, he encouraged a generation of chefs to take pride in their work, and in our profession. He is the very antithesis of the raging chef stereotype, calm, generous and always encouraging. He came of age before the world of celebrity chefs, cookware stores, and cooking shows.

He once lived in our midst here in the Hudson Valley, fishing for trout, skiing up at Hunter Mountain, hanging out with the enclave of French expat chefs in the late ’60’s. In his memoir The Apprentice he recounted that it reminded him of the mountain towns he grew up in, near Bourg-en-Bresse, an area famed for it’s gastronomy and distinctive namesake chickens. I just missed a chance to meet him when he taught at the French Culinary Institute in NYC. He came on board after my time there as a chef instructor. Somehow these fleeting connections have always made me feel as if I actually did know him.

Merci et Bonne Anniversaire Chef!

How a chef handles eggs, in their infinite variety of preparations, has always been a benchmark. It demonstrates with startling simplicity whether you have what it takes to master the craft of cooking. To watch Jacques Pépin make an omelette, from cracking the eggs to turning it onto a plate is truly a masterclass in simplicity.

Simple Jacques Pépin–style Omelette

• Ingredients: 3 large eggs, pinch of salt, 1 tbsp butter, fresh herbs or grated cheese (optional).

• Method: Beat eggs lightly with a pinch of salt, don’t overwhisk. Heat a nonstick or well‑seasoned pan over medium‑low heat and melt the butter until foaming but not browned. Pour in the eggs and using a spatula, stir gently at first, then let the eggs set while tipping the pan so they cook evenly. When almost set but still soft on top, add herbs or cheese if you like, fold the omelette in half and slide onto a warm plate. Finish with a gentle pat of butter if desired.

• Tip: Low heat and patience — technique over force.

As I sit down to plan holiday meals to share, I find myself trying to find dishes that feel festive and elevated, yet remain approachable enough to make at home without stress. How to strike that balance? After all, the holidays are about celebration and connection, not just a culinary tour de force. In my years as a chef, I created dishes that people wouldn’t ordinarily or easily make at home, offering something unique enough to justify dining out. That often meant crafting special occasion meals, but also everyday comfort foods that had a little something extra going on, a subtle, unique twist.

Take a simple roast chicken, for example. It might sound basic but paired with sautéed mushrooms, chunky bacon lardons and glazed pearl onions it becomes “poulet rôti grand-mère”, or chicken like grandma used to make, (if she happened to be French). A sprinkle of truffle salt on roasted potatoes, or a drizzle of brown butter with sage on butternut squash, Voila! Break out your holiday candles and a festive tablecloth, little touches like this give a sense of occasion without hard-to-find ingredients or hours in the kitchen that could be spent catching up and celebrating with friends and family.

Mary Anne swears that it’s the sauce that elevates many a dish from ordinary to special and I have to agree. The extra touch of the right condiment or sauce can certainly make all the difference. Who doesn’t want a little extra gravy on their turkey or au poivre on their steak?

With that in mind, here’s a festive suggestion that can brighten just about any holiday dish. It’s colorful, flavorful, and wonderfully versatile, perfect alongside a cheese or charcuterie platter, roast chicken, turkey, pork, ham… in short, almost anything except seafood. Make a big batch, spoon into fancy or mason jars, and you’ve got a great homemade holiday gift as well.

MOSTARDA DI FRUTTA

This is a sweet, savory and slightly spicy condiment made with fresh and dried fruits, popular in Northern Italy. Don’t let the name scare you away, it’s a wonderful addition to any table and comes together quite quickly. It’s an especially great condiment for the holidays because of all the colorful fruit. And it keeps practically forever refrigerated in a glass jar so all the more reason to make a big batch.

Ingredients:

4 cups diced crisp firm apples and/or pears
1 cup dried apricots, halved or quartered
1 1/2 cups dried cherries and/or cranberries

Liquid:

1½ cups sugar
1 cup white or apple cider vinegar
2 cups water
Optional: a few bay leaves or a sprig of rosemary if you like

Method:

1. In a large stainless steel pot, combine sugar, vinegar, and water with a pinch of cayenne and the bay leaves, bring to a simmer

2. Add dried fruits and simmer until plump, about 10-15 minutes

3. Add fresh fruits and simmer until cooked through, about 10 minutes more

4. Mix in 3-4 tablespoons of Dijon and coarse mustards, or more to taste

5. The final consistency should be syrupy, similar to honey, thick and glossy.

   Fruits should be soft but still hold their shape. If needed adjust the thickness by reducing the liquid or adding a bit more water if the dried fruits have absorbed everything.

6. Let cool and transfer to clean glass jars for storage. Yields about 6 cups

   Happy Holidays , Richard & Mary Anne