Masala Farm

by Suvir Saran

Strawberry Jam ¼ cup/60 ml vanilla bean paste, or 2 to 3 vanilla beans (depending on how plump they are); ½ tsp freshly ground black pepper

  Sweet Cherry Jam 1/3 cup/75 ml kirsch liqueur (add once the jam is removed from heat)

  Farm Yarn:

  u-pick, u-share

  Meg and Rob Southerland are the owners of Gardenworks, a berry farm in Washington County. In an effort to encourage locals to pick berries and to boost what they have to sell in the store, they offer this incredible incentive: Pick as much as you can in the fields, and you’ll leave with half of the bounty at no charge. The remaining half stays at Gardenworks to get sold at the farmstand. It’s a brilliant plan where everyone wins—especially the people who get to eat the berries!

  CHAPTER THREE:

  FALL

  Embracing Autumnal Transitions and Traditions

  Fall is fleeting here in the North Country. We only have until mid-October before the cold reality of the coming winter settles in for its six-month hold on the region. Short as it may be, these six weeks are positively blissful, filled with piercing blue skies, blazing foliage, and air scented with smoke from wood-burning fireplaces.

  Charlie and I strive to stretch each day to its maximum. I pluck the last tomatoes of the season from our garden, while Charlie and visiting friends plant fall bulbs (the gigantic earthworms get my skin crawling—they’re many times fatter than India’s scrawny variety!), and we make an extra effort to never miss the weekend farmers’ market. Though summer is our peak houseguest season, we still get many visitors, all hungry for autumn’s colors that only this part of the country can share. Nestled between Vermont’s Green Mountains and the Adirondacks to our west, we are lucky enough to get the best shows from both ranges.

  While we have plenty of Pippin apple trees on our property, we go apple picking elsewhere if only for an excuse to go on an indulgent leisurely drive through the countryside. Charlie even eases up on the gas so we can coast through especially stunning Rembrandt-like passes brushed with leaves of gold, amber, and burnished orange.

  I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that we deceive ourselves into pretending that fall will continue forever. The truth, however, is that the cold and bitter winter is just around the bend. So, between pressing cider and making pints of apple butter, we’re also ensuring that every chicken, goat, human, and structure on our property is braced for winter.

  We receive our final hay deliveries now, and they fill the farm with the sweet smell of dried grass and legumes. Making sure that our animals are comfortable becomes a top priority. Charlie inspects the goat barns for cracks that need to be sealed to keep the barn as warm as possible, while I tend to my hens and roosters, giving a keen eye to spots where we might need a heat lamp to keep the birds cozy throughout the cold months. We make sure our pond bubbler is in working order, for, unlike some who let nature take over and allow ponds to freeze, we like to keep our ducks and geese happy with a liquid (albeit cold) pool to swim in.

  Fall is the season of trimming—trees, branches, hooves, and coats. Leaves are raked into towering piles for composting. One of my favorite fall activities is shearing the sheep and Angora goats (shearing is one farm chore we always leave for the more experienced!). We deliver the thick and supremely soft fiber to a local mill for processing into roving and yarn. One of my goals is to learn how to spin my own wool, but for now we have it spun for us. Once I receive the thick twists, I can begin to imagine the sweaters and scarves that I’ll knit from it. To the amusement of many, whenever I’m in town on a Tuesday evening, I stop by the local “stitch and bitch” club down the road. Knitting and gossiping with the ladies of Washington County is one of my favorite cold-weather pastimes.

  While I’m practicing my purling, Charlie is preserving. North Country is blessed with many artisanal cheesemakers, and the last production of chèvre, that tangy fresh white pâté cheese, is made now. Charlie submerges crottins in Italian extra-virgin olive oil with fresh herbs, like verbena and rosemary, clipped from our garden. He adds a few peppercorns and red chiles and sets the cheese aside to cure. What a quick and amazing treat it is to offer guests a real taste of summer farmhouse life preserved to savor throughout the fall and winter. An olive oil–brushed and charred baguette is all you need for a heavenly snack or first course with a sip of something crisp and special from our wine cabinet.

  We delay the final gathering of the herbs from our garden for as long as we can because, to us, this act truly signals winter to steamroll over our pathway of slate steps leading to the house. Charlie snips dozens of sprigs before the first frost gets them, bundles the bunches with twine, and hangs them upside down from coat pegs to dry in the mudroom. In the months to come, they offer a touch of country whimsy and an intoxicating fragrance. Nothing beats crumbling these home-dried herbs into batches of marinara for lasagna, a rub for a roast, chutney, frittatas, and soup. Our guests are always impressed to learn that these chic, charming bouquets came from our own little garden.

  In our kitchen, we continue to think locally as we cling somewhat desperately to the last of our garden’s offerings. Corn and squash continue to entertain us with their flourish, as well as strong and resolute broccoli, hardy herbs, and Brussels sprouts. Other than these brave few, the garden begins to wither away, reminding us about life’s inevitable movement from one season to the next. Our guest roster slows, and our calendar shows fewer visits from faraway friends. It’s nothing to feel down about, though, as late fall brings local friends back to our table, the friends who were occupied all summer long with their harvests and animals. Farmers and neighbors are eager to congregate around our dining table and hungry to eat, gossip about the season past, and share dreams of the spring to come.

  Just as we’re ready to accept our cold-weather fate, we get a final burst of Indian summer that gives us a temporary reprieve from the dipping mercury. Gardenworks, the local berry farm, gets a blast of late-season raspberries and blueberries, so even procrastinators like me get a chance to preserve. Even as the leaves fall and grass browns, the hills become invigorated by shocks of orange, this time from the thousands of pumpkins that sprout up throughout the area. Before we know it, fall’s first frost blankets the farm and nestles us into a cold, quiet stillness.

  Chai Cider

  When Charlie and I discovered that we had a plot of Pippin apple trees on our property, we were so excited that we couldn’t wait for the fall harvest. Untended for nearly a decade, the trees were wild and gnarly like something out of a children’s fairy tale. Lucky for us, their homely appearance didn’t affect the crisp, incredibly floral tasting, palm-size apples that sprang from the trees in September.

  We like to keep the cider in a saucepan on the stove on the lowest heat possible (or in the carafe of a drip coffeemaker on the warm setting). The result is a warm spiced-apple perfume that smells one hundred times better than any potpourri or scented candle. Cider is the absolute essence of the countryside in the fall.

  Makes about 4 qts/3.8 L; serves 8 to 10

  4 qts/3.8 L apple cider or apple juice

  ½ cup/100 g packed brown sugar

  ¼ tsp ground ginger

  3 apples (preferably Pippins or Granny Smiths), thinly sliced and cut crosswise into bite-size pieces

  1 cup/110 g halved kumquats or 2 small seedless oranges, sliced into eighths

  3 oranges, quartered and seeded

  3 cinnamon sticks

  2 tsp whole cloves

  1 tsp freshly ground black peppercorns

  3 Darjeeling tea bags

  Cognac or Armagnac (optional)

  Fresh cranberries (optional)

  Combine the cider, brown sugar, ginger, apples, and kumquats in a slow cooker.

  Wrap the quartered oranges, cinnamon sticks, cloves, and peppercorns in a large piece of cheesecloth and tie to prevent from opening. Add to the pot, and cook on the lowest possible heat until the apples are completely tender and soft, 2½ to 3 hours.

  Once you are ready to serve,
steep the tea bags in the hot cider for 10 minutes. Remove and discard along with the spice packet.

  Ladle the cider into mugs with a shot of cognac (if using). Top each cup with some of the apples, kumquats, and cranberries, and serve.

  VARIATION: STOVETOP CIDER

  If you don’t have a slow cooker, follow the recipe using a large pot over low heat and reduce the cooking time to 45 minutes to 1 hour.

  VARIATION: APPLE CIDER GLAZE

  A great use for any leftover cider, this glaze makes a delicious finishing addition to pork chops or a ham.

  Strain the leftover apple cider to remove any solid bits of fruit or spice. Measure the strained cider, then pour it into a saucepan and bring to a simmer over medium-high heat. While the cider warms, dissolve ½ tsp cornstarch with 1 tbsp cider in a small cup or bowl for every 1 cup/240 ml cider in the saucepan. Add the cornstarch slurry to the simmering cider and stir until it thickens. Remove from the heat and brush the glaze over a ham or pork chops, or store in an airtight container for up to 1 week. Reheat gently (don’t let it come to a simmer) before glazing.

  Arvest Apple-Craisin Chutney

  While apples are definitely a hallmark of upstate New York’s autumn harvest, they were also a delicious part of my growing up in India. “An apple a day” was a rule that my mother and my maternal grandmother followed religiously—at least while apples were in season. Every morning at the breakfast table, my grandmother, Nani, would begin the ritual of peeling and slicing an apple. She’d hand out the slices one at a time, to my brother, my sister, and then myself, followed by whoever else might be joining us that morning. She’d continue this way, passing out apple slices like a Vegas card dealer, until each family member had eaten the equivalent of one crisp, juicy apple.

  Makes about 2 cups/475 ml

  3 tbsp canola oil

  3 to 6 dried red chiles

  1½ tsp fennel seeds

  1 tsp cumin seeds

  ½ tsp sweet paprika

  3½ lb/1.6 kg tart, crisp apples (like Rhode Island Greening or Granny Smith), peeled, cored, quartered, and thinly sliced crosswise

  1½ tsp kosher salt

  ¼ cup/50 g sugar

  2 tbsp white wine vinegar

  ½ cup/75 g craisins

  Heat the canola oil with the chiles, fennel seeds, and cumin seeds in a large saucepan or frying pan over medium-high heat until the cumin is browned, 2 to 2½ minutes. Stir in the paprika and cook for 15 seconds, then add the apples and salt and cook until the apples get juicy, 3 to 4 minutes. Stir in the sugar, vinegar, and craisins, then reduce the heat to medium and cook, stirring often, until the apples are soft, sticky, and deeply golden and caramelized, 35 to 45 minutes. Taste for seasoning, transfer to a plastic container, and refrigerate for up to 1 week, or ladle into dry and sterilized jars and can according to the manufacturer’s instructions.

  VARIATION: SAVORY-SPICY APPLE-CRAISIN CHUTNEY

  To add a savory and spicier taste to the chutney, add 1 tbsp ground coriander, ½ tsp cayenne pepper, and ¼ tsp asafetida (see Farmhouse Basics) to the oil along with the other spices.

  Bread Pakoras

  Bread pakoras are a wonderful breakfast treat. Growing up in India, I was lured from bed on many mornings by the scent of them frying in our kitchen. Essentially a slice of bread dipped in a spiced chickpea batter and fried, these are one of my favorite breakfast treats to make for visitors.

  Makes 12 pakoras

  4 cups/960 ml canola or vegetable oil, plus more if needed

  1½ cups/140 g chickpea flour (besan)

  ½ tsp baking soda

  1 large red onion, very finely chopped

  1 jalapeño, very finely chopped (seeded and deribbed for less heat)

  1 cup/40 g fresh cilantro leaves, very finely chopped

  1 tbsp chaat masala (see Farmhouse Basics)

  ¾ tsp ajwain seeds (carom seeds)

  ½ tsp Garam Masala (see Farmhouse Basics)

  ¼ tsp cayenne pepper

  ¼ tsp ground turmeric

  ½ tsp freshly ground black pepper

  2 tsp kosher salt

  6 slices white, whole-wheat, or multigrain sandwich bread, halved diagonally

  Tamarind Chutney (see Farmhouse Basics) or ketchup for serving

  Heat the canola oil in a deep frying pan or medium saucepan (if using a saucepan you’ll only be able to fry one pakora at a time) over high heat to between 350°F/180°C and 375°F/190°C on a digital thermometer. You should have about 2 in/5 cm of oil in the pan; add more as needed.

  While the oil heats, whisk together the chickpea flour, baking soda, onion, jalapeño, cilantro, spices, and salt in a large bowl. While whisking, gradually pour in 1¼ cups/300 ml lukewarm water until you have a thick batter.

  Dip a bread triangle into the batter, making sure it is nicely coated on both sides, and carefully slide it into the hot oil. If you’re using a deep frying pan, repeat with another bread slice (take care not to overcrowd the pan, otherwise the pakoras will stick together). The bread should float to the top immediately and be surrounded by lots of tiny bubbles. Drizzle 1 tsp batter over the top of the bread and baste the top with hot oil to set the batter. Fry until golden brown, about 5 minutes, and then carefully flip the bread slice over and fry the other side until golden brown. Using a kitchen spider or slotted spoon, remove the pakora from the oil and set aside on a paper towel–lined plate to drain. (You can keep the fried pakoras warm on a baking sheet in a 250°F/120°C/gas ½ oven while you wait for the remaining pakoras to fry.) Dip and fry the remaining bread slices, and serve warm with chutney on the side.

  RECIPE NOTE: DOUBLE-DECKER BREAD PAKORAS

  This is my absolute favorite way to use leftover mashed potatoes. First, season the potatoes with a pinch of cayenne, some chaat masala, lime juice, chopped jalapeño, and chopped cilantro. Spread a few spoonfuls between two slices of bread and press firmly to seal. Dip the sandwich in the pakora batter, and then fry it. Wow, what an amazing snack.

  Farm Yarn:

  The Weed We Grew to Love

  When we moved into the farmhouse, I knew right away that I wanted to have an herb garden, even though I had never gardened before in my life. Charlie and I set out and bought an assortment of lovely herbs, from summer savory to lavender to several varieties of basil, mint, oregano, and thyme. We planted everything along a slate stone path that leads up to the side entrance of the house, and it was a cook’s dream—for awhile. Then we were invaded by weeds, especially one particularly invasive weed that Charlie, no matter what he tried, couldn’t get rid of. It grew and grew and couldn’t be eliminated, so Charlie did some research. His findings were shocking—this weed, the one we cursed and pulled from the ground in handfuls, was also known as bishop’s weed, or Ethiopian cumin, which was another term for ajwain, small striped seeds commonly used in Indian cooking!

  Our bishop’s weed wasn’t exactly the same as the ajwain variety used in Indian foods, but like Thai basil is to globe basil, it was similar enough, and we were excited about our discovery all the same. In Indian cooking, ajwain is often used in veggie stir-fries and combined with chickpea flour to give batter a bitter, thymelike flavor. Discovering this herb was just another sign that we were meant to live in this turmeric-colored farmhouse.

  French Onion Soup

  My vegetarian French onion soup is unapologetically deep and robust thanks to onions and shallots that are caramelized until intensely browned and frizzled. Red wine, port, and vegetable broth bring layers of sophistication to this simple soup, though, as with many recipes, the end result can only be as good as its individual parts. Our Parmigiano-Reggiano is the real deal, garlic is often from a local grower, and the olive oil is good quality. No onion soup is complete without the requisite Gruyère-laden toasts dunked into each bowl just before serving. Be sure to make a few extra cheese toasts for each serving—in my mind, they’re the key ingredient to great French onion soup!

  Serves 6

  2 tbsp unsalted butter


  1 tbsp olive oil

  ½ tsp freshly ground black pepper, plus more if needed

  ½ tsp Herbes de Hebron or herbes de Provence

  Red pepper flakes

  3 medium red onions, halved and thinly sliced

  2 large shallots, halved and thinly sliced

  1 tbsp kosher salt, plus more if needed

  3 garlic cloves, finely minced

  ¼ cup/60 ml port

  ¼ cup/60 ml red wine (preferably a Merlot or Merlot blend)

  6½ cups/1.5 L warm vegetable broth, plus more if needed

  2 cups/480 ml water

  1 small Parmigiano-Reggiano rind (optional)

  1 baguette

  Extra-virgin olive oil

  1 cup/100 g grated Gruyère cheese

  Heat the butter with the olive oil in a large Dutch oven or soup pot over medium heat. Once the butter is melted, add the pepper, Herbes de Hebron and anywhere from a pinch to ¼ tsp red pepper flakes, cooking the spices until fragrant, stirring occasionally, 1 to 2 minutes. Stir in the onions, shallots, and salt and, once the onions are just starting to brown around the edges, after 3 to 5 minutes, add the garlic. Reduce the heat to medium-low and cook, stirring every few minutes, until the mixture is deeply browned and crispy, about 40 minutes. (If the mixture begins to get too dark and the browned bits are not scraping off the bottom of the pot, splash the pan with a bit of vegetable broth to loosen the browned bits, using a wooden spoon to scrape them up and into the mixture. Don’t turn your back on this mixture—it can go from caramelized to burned in a short time—like risotto, it needs your attention.)