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Every fall I remember what it was like to come as a
child to this place that has been my home for almost 25 years. I live in the old Spaulding Orchard farmhouse.
It’s the first home my husband and I bought, and likely will be our
last. It wasn’t our first choice, but after being entwined in this
place for so long, it’s hard to think of living anywhere else. Since the earliest days of our engagement, my husband
and I dreamed of building a log cabin in the woods. By the time Peter was
in his junior year of dental school at the University of Illinois at
Chicago, we’d started sending for brochures. We compared various
companies and sketched floor plans. Our dream log home was a carrot at the
end of a long stick: a reason for Peter to study hard, and for us to live
frugally. It’d be a while after Peter graduated until we
could realize our dream, though. First there’d be several years of
paying off student loans and starting a practice. So when we found out the
Spaulding family wanted to lease a bungalow on their farm, we grabbed the
opportunity — even though it’d be months before we’d move
in. We’d mostly enjoyed living in Chicago, but the
previous winter had been horrific. For more than three months, the streets
and alleys were so clogged with snow that I, pregnant, had to park blocks
away in a hospital lot, trudging down the middle of the street with bags of
groceries and a toddler in tow. People wore buttons that spring boasting
“I survived the winter of 1979.” As graduation and dental
boards loomed, Peter’s class became frenzied: faculty, students, and
patients had missed so many days and appointments because of the weather,
there was a real danger they wouldn’t finish their clinical
requirements on time. Since my Chicago Symphony commitments were in
afternoons and evenings, I began spending mornings chauffeuring retirees
and children to the dental school for Peter and a couple friends. A
frightening experience with a late-night car breakdown in a very scary
neighborhood made moving to the country seem even more desirable. It was heaven. The house was actually a bit smaller
than our old apartment, but had a huge tree-filled yard. There were
beautiful woods and a creek across the road to explore, everything so
peaceful and quiet that often the only sounds were birdcalls and wind
rustling through the trees. Sitting on the porch that fall with our newborn
son, watching the surrounding woods begin to flame with the brilliant
changing leaves, we knew we’d come home. One of the biggest reasons it felt like coming
home was that it was so familiar — and not just familiar, but
special. For as long as I could remember, I’d been coming there in
spring for asparagus and summer for peaches. But fall trips to the
Spaulding Orchard were what I really anticipated: a yearly ritual as
closely linked to autumn as cooler weather and starting school. As mom
drove past the farmhouse, heading to the sheds and barns behind, I could
hardly contain my excitement. There were piles of pumpkins, and apples
everywhere: in bushels and boxes, piled on wagons, and heaped in the
mysterious contraption inside the huge shed. If no one was around, mom
would tap the horn, and Geraldine Spaulding would walk over from the
farmhouse. “Would you like some cider?” she’d
ask, smiling down at me. That was it: the moment I’d waited for.
She’d pull a cone-shaped paper cup from the nearby dispenser, filling
it from a jug of cider just pressed in that giant contraption. To this day
I’m not sure why it was so wonderful. Was it just because it was a
free sample? I only know I wasn’t alone in loving it: I’ve lost
count of the number of people who, learning where I live, mention those
cups of cider.
By the time we moved into the bungalow, however, the
cider and produce were gone. Mercer, Geraldine’s husband, had passed
on, and their children had moved away. The orchard was cut down, the land
leased to a neighboring farmer, and eventually sold to become Panther
Creek. Geraldine lived alone in the farmhouse. We saw her every day and
visited her frequently. Three years later, her children persuaded her to
live with her daughter in Florida. Several months later, our accountant said we
needed to buy a house, telling us how much to spend. Peter and I looked at
each other. The old farmhouse and its two-and-one-half acres listed for
almost the exact amount he’d mentioned. A log cabin was still
appealing, but the Spaulding Orchard was home. Two phone calls and 48 hours
later, the farmhouse was ours. The Spaulding Orchard was a big operation in its day,
a local landmark. Even though it’d been out of business for almost 15
years when we bought it, another decade would pass before people stopped
showing up for apples and cider. Over the years, we’ve heard dozens
of stories — one just last week — from folks who’d worked
there. The family had left some things behind when we moved
in: old furniture, pictures, a roll of cider labels — and that old
metal paper cup dispenser. Even though it doesn’t serve a purpose
anymore, I just can’t throw it away. It belongs here — and so
do we.
Send questions and comments to Julianne Glatz at
realcuisine@insightbb.com.
CIDER SAUCE
1/2 cup minced shallots, preferred, or onion 1 tablespoon bacon fat or unsalted butter or the fat and browned bits left in a pan from
sautОing or roasting the meat 1/2 cup applejack or calvados, or an additional 1/2 cider 2 cups unpasteurized apple cider 4 cups unsalted or low sodium chicken stock salt, pepper, and cider vinegar to taste
If using the skillet/pan in which the meat or poultry
has cooked, pour off any excess fat so that only a thin film remains.
Otherwise, melt the bacon fat or butter in a large pan over medium-high
heat. Add the shallots, stirring until softened. Pour in the applejack and
increase the heat to high, scraping up all the bits and browning on the
bottom. Add the cider and chicken stock and boil, stirring frequently,
until the mixture is reduced to a syrupy glaze, 15-20 minutes. Season with
the salt, pepper, and vinegar. Serve over grilled, roasted, or
sautОed poultry, pork, or smoked pork. Variations include whisking in 1/2 cup heavy (not
ultra-pasteurized) cream and/or removing the finished sauce from the heat
and whisking in 4 tablespoons chilled unsalted butter cut into bits and
whisked in a few at a time. 1-2 tablespoons cracked black peppercorns can
also be added. Makes about 1–1 1/2 cups.
This article appears in Sep 20-26, 2007.
