Entries about hudson valley

I don't cook all that often, but I do have one favorite recipe: Take one of the world's most foremost culinary institutes, add a bunch of elite Manhattan chefs fleeing the city's astronomical rents, toss in acres of prime farmland, and finish with a slew of expert mixologists who favor locally-distilled whiskey and other spirits. Stir well to combine, and the result is the food and drink paradise known as the Hudson Valley, one of our favorite weekend getaways.

This is particularly true in the fall, that magical time of year when the bounty of the area's harvest graces restaurant menus and seasonal cocktail lists from Kingston to Kinderhook and every town in between.

It's a little over two-and-a-half hours from New York City to our favorite town in the Hudson Valley, aptly named Hudson, which is obviously about one-and-a-half hours longer than we can typically go in between meals. And so we usually stop for lunch on the way, this time at Tuthill House in Gardiner.

Of course, we didn't make a detour into Gardiner just for lunch: Tuthill House is part of Tuthilltown Spirits . . . which makes Hudson Baby Bourbon . . . which I like for its gorgeous bottles and cool labels and seasonal offerings like Maple Cask Rye and Fresh Pressed Apple Vodka . . . which made it the perfect place for lunch, a whiskey tasting, and a little shopping.

We snagged a table by the windows overlooking the falls, then got to work choosing a couple of seasonal cocktails: The Apple-y Ever After with apple-and- vanilla-infused gin, cinnamon, walnut, and egg white foam for me, and the Autumn Smash with Old Grandad, sage-poached local apples, sage liqueur, and cinnamon for Angel.

Lunch was inadvertently loaded with greens: A "whole head of lettuce" salad dressed with Castelvetrano olive vinaigrette and shaved manchego; Murray's chicken breast with pesto and Hudson Baby Bourbon chicken jus; and a tartine with frisee, walnuts and goat cheese.

This much healthy in one meal would not do, of course, so we ordered up an Orchard Gin lemon-thyme custard tart with stewed plums and meringue for dessert, to restore balance in the universe.

And then we did a whiskey tasting.

Or, rather, I shopped while Angel sipped.

Loaded down with tote bags full of booze, we noticed on our way back to the car that we weren't the only ones who might have overindulged at Tuthilltown.

Our next stop was at Golden Harvest Farm in Valatie to stock up on apples, pumpkins, and pies made from both.

Finally it was time to head over to Warren Street in Hudson, the bustling main drag where we'd rented an apartment for the weekend.

That evening Angel had planned a birthday dinner for me at Deer Mountain Inn in Tannersville. We kicked things off beforehand with a round of celebratory cocktails at my favorite spot in Hudson, the William Farmer Barroom.

We lucked out to find two seats at the busy bar, then consulted the "Field Notes" for our cocktail choices.

Soon it was time to head over to Deer Mountain. And while we were expecting a fantastic fireside meal, we were not expecting a swirling snowstorm . . . in October.

The bad weather actually made the dinner all the more romantic, snuggled up as we were with craft cocktails, comforting bowls of soup, decadent entrees of beef tenderloin and butter-poached lobster with pillowy dumplings, and a view of the storm outside from our toasty table.

After dinner we retired to the cozy bar to finish our cocktails.

And although the drive back down the mountain featured sleet, snow, and even tennis-ball-sized hail, I'd like to think this guy watched over us.

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CLICK HERE TO READ PART 2!

Day 1: Bourbon, Bombs, and Butterballs

This past October marked our third visit to the Hudson Valley. We'd made it through two prior visits without being savaged by bears or attacked by rabid raccoons. We'd survived a 22 35 48 mile bike ride and the indignity of bike helmets. And although we'd had some close calls, we'd never actually been confronted by a jackalope. Overall, I was feeling pretty confident that this whole weekend-in-the-country thing wasn't so bad after all.

That's because I am the type of person who loves the idea of salt-of-the-earth activities like hiking, camping, and taking in the charms of small-town America. I dream of holing up in a country cabin with no electricity or running water, at one with Mother Nature. I am enamored with travel experiences that harken back to a simpler, more carefree time when the pace was slower, our lives less complicated. But when these ideas become reality and I am faced with things like sleeping bags, beef jerky, towns with the word "turkey," "pigeon," or "goose" in the name, fishing villages that actually smell like fish, or any house without an ironing board, I flinch. (Angel jumps in the car, locks all the doors, and leaves skid marks.)

The truth is, Angel and I like our "country" experiences to include artisanal cocktails, cashmere wraps, and refurbished farmhouses with heated floors and high-thread-count bed sheets. And we have found the perfect compromise in upstate New York's Hudson Valley: The area is quaint, charming, and bucolic, but with enough expat Manhattanites around to ensure that the whiskey in our drinks might be homemade, but by someone who first made $10 million on Wall Street so he could end up on a farm wearing steel-toed boots and overalls ironically.

Our first stop on the drive north was at Buttermilk Falls Inn in Milton, NY, which is home to the 40-acre Millstone Farm. As usual, the GPS did a bang-up job of getting us to our destination.

After beating my head against the dashboard a few times, we finally found the place, and we both agreed it had been worth the detour.

At least we found the place faster than this guy, who never even made it past the parking lot.

Millstone Farm produces nearly all of the fresh greens, organic fruits, vegetables, herbs, honey, and eggs used at the Inn's restaurant, Henry's at the Farm, and if all of this is not farm-to-table enough for you, then you are just going to have to milk your own cows next time.

We settled in at a table overlooking the lake and took in the lovely surroundings.

We both agreed that we couldn't pass up the day's special cocktail, dubbed the "Apple Butter Bourbon Ball," which is made with Maker's Mark Bourbon, a touch of Pastis, real maple syrup, and Millstone Farm's own ginger-gold apple butter, then topped off with a locally-made sparkling hard cider.

The name doesn't exactly roll off the tongue even before you've finished one, and so Angel and I referred to it as the "Apple Bourbon Butterball Turkey Bomb," as well as other various combinations of those five words.

For lunch, we enjoyed a creamy mascarpone and butternut squash soup studded with dried cranberries and garnished with fried sage, followed by a yummy flatbread with roasted Millstone Farm veggies and the decadent lobster mac & cheese.

And homemade chocolate chip cookies with a glass of cold milk for dunking.

The property at Buttermilk Falls is expansive, encompassing not just the restaurant, but also an inn, several freestanding cottages, a spa, a barn for weddings, numerous ponds and waterfalls, and the farm itself, which includes an aviary, an apiary, donkeys, and llamas.

On this particular day they were setting up for a wedding, but apparently no one informed the geese, and so this poor guy was given the impossible task of chasing them away. You know how a toddler in a high chair likes to fling things off the tray, watch you pick it up, then immediately knock it to the floor again? That was this guy with the geese.

We decided the explore the grounds, taking in the lovely views and emerging fall color.

We continued walking off our lunch by heading over to the goat and llama barn, which also included one very friendly donkey.

Before we knew it, it was time to check in at the house we'd rented for the weekend. As we'd done the year before, we chose "Creekside Manor," as we'd taken to calling it, as our home base.

Situated on four wooded acres at the end of a dirt road in the blink-and-you'll-miss-it village of Red Hook, Creekside Manor put us within easy driving distance of our favorite Hudson Valley towns, yet far enough from civilization to go au naturel in the hot tub if we felt like it.

When Esquire magazine names a bar in tiny Kingston, NY, one of "The Best Bars in America," you know you have to give it a try. And so, after settling in at the house and unpacking a bit, we gussied ourselves up, then set off for the Stockade Tavern, a Prohibition-style speakeasy located in a lovingly restored, 1880s-era sewing machine factory.

It was the wrong night for quiet sophistication: A music festival was in town and the bar was loud and crowded . . . with all sorts of folks.

Luckily, however, Angel managed to snag us a table for two near the front, insulating us from the scrum near the band.

I kept things simple with one of my favorite cocktails, a gimlet (this one made with Brooklyn's own Greenhook Gin), while Angel decided to try the Over the River, made with bell pepper-infused tequila, fresh lime, and green chartreuse, a French liqueur that's been made by Carthusian Monks since the 1700s.

Both drinks were delicious, and it would have been nice to have another, but our dinner reservations beckoned. And so we made the short walk over to Boitson's, a lively bistro and bar specializing in comfort classics like meatloaf, fried chicken, and prime rib.

How Boitson's came to be is one of those only-in-New-York stories: The owner, Maria Philippis, named the place for her former Brooklyn landlord, Alexander Boitson, a Ukrainian-American World War II veteran whom she'd befriended. They kept in touch over the years, even after Ms. Philippis moved to the Hudson Valley, and when Mr. Boitson died in 2007, he showed his fondness for Ms. Philippis by leaving her enough money to pursue her lifelong dream of opening a restaurant.

We kicked things off with an order of butternut squash fritters drizzled with honey, followed by two orders of the over-the-top delicious reason why we came here.

I don't know why they had to take up real estate with those green vegetables in there, but when the meatloaf is this good, you can overlook an errant Brussels sprout or two.

It had been a jam-packed day filled with great food and drink, and we were pleasantly exhausted. And so we drove back to Creekside Manor and tucked ourselves into bed.

But not before checking for wild jackalopes out on the deck.

Day 2: Go Take a Hike

Angel and I are not what you'd generally call the outdoorsy types. We don't camp because there are bugs, and it gets cold. We don't hike because there are heavy backpacks, and it gets cold. We don't ski because there are broken legs, and it gets really cold. Also, all of these activities sound suspiciously like work. Don't get me wrong: We both love and appreciate the natural beauty of the outdoors. It's just that we prefer to take it in from a safe distance, such as from behind a large picture window beside a roaring fire with an Old Fashioned in hand.

But the weather on Sunday was so ridiculously perfect that even two city slickers like ourselves had to get outside.

We started with a leisurely drive over to the country club at Copake Lake, whose restaurant, Greens, specializes in local ingredients and a lovely view of the surrounding countryside.

There, we fueled up on brunch staples for the bike ride to come.

Well, brunch staples and split pea soup.

The enclosed terrace was open and airy, allowing a 360-degree view of the fall foliage and bright blue sky outside.

Inside, a wood burning stove and floor-to-ceiling wine racks create a cozy atmosphere for chilly evenings.

After lunch, we soaked up the sun on the patio for a bit before heading out.

As has become our habit, we rented a couple of bikes from Bash Bish Bikes, which is just a short drive from Copake.

We hopped on our bikes and then spent the bulk of the afternoon taking in the spectacular beauty of Taconic State Park, followed by a ride along the Harlem Valley Rail Trail.

When we got tired we tried playing possum, but this little guy beat us to the punch.

Afterwards, we decided to check out Bash Bish Falls, reportedly just a stone's throw from the bike rental.

Apparently, however, "a stone's throw" means something different out in the country, which I discovered when I realized that I'd walked all the way to Massachusetts to see these damn falls.

All I know is, next time I foolishly decide to go on a hike, I'm bringing my passport just in case.
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You know I didn't walk all the way to Massachusetts to not see a waterfall, so come along for Part 2, featuring waterfalls, a Dangling Deathtrap of Doom, and another apple-y cocktail, this one named for yours truly!

Back in Part 1, I'd just been duped into hiking my way across state lines to see some waterfall that was supposed to be just 3/4 of a mile away. (Apparently upstate New York is so close to Canada that they've actually just gone ahead and switched to the metric system.) Still, once we finally arrived, I had to admit that the falls were lovely.

To me and my blistered feet's utter dismay, however, we later discovered that we could have just driven there. Now that's my kind of hike.

Worst of all, because Angel declined to walk back by himself, pick up the car, drive across state lines to Massachusetts to pick me up, and then return to New York . . . I was forced to walk back, too.

That evening we were in need of some serious food and drink to recover from our interstate trek.

Our first stop was at American Glory BBQ, which was built in 1802 as a firehouse.

The current owner, Joe, presides over this downtown Hudson gathering place, doling out witty sarcasm and history lessons along with some damn fine BBQ.

I'd put American Glory on our list because I remembered having a fabulous Angry Caramel Apple martini there back in 2012. (Some people never forget their first love, or what they were doing when Kennedy was shot. I never forget a great cocktail.) Sadly, however, in the intervening years American Glory has updated its drink menu to better accompany its down-home BBQ, with a list of bourbon drinks served in Mason jars.

We started with a round of a bourbon-raspberry concoctions, which were quite good but lacked that apple-y fall flavor I was looking for, so I mentioned to our bartender, Chris, how much I'd enjoyed the Angry Caramel Apple last time we visited.

Chris apologized that the Angry Caramel Apple was no more, then left us to our drinks while he waited on some other customers.

And so you can imagine how thrilling it was when, just a few minutes later, Chris surprised me with his brilliantly boozy take on apple pie -- on the fly, and on the house! -- which will henceforth be known as the Tracey Apple. (The exact recipe remains a secret, but think bourbon, a touch of cinnamon syrup, one muddled Granny Smith apple, and a dash of chocolate bitters.)

It was ahhhhmazing.

It was all I could do to tear myself away from Chris' good company and his creative genius, but pasta awaited. And so we hopped over to Ca'Mea, an intimate northern Italian spot directly across the street.

There, we feasted on mussels, rigatoni Bolognese, and homemade chestnut-flour gnocchi.

We should have headed home after that, but it wasn't quite midnight and there was a chance American Glory was still open. They weren't, but they let us in after-hours anyway because we are good company, and even better tippers.

While chatting with Chris and Joe, Chris's lovely girlfriend Katie, the marketing manager at the nearby Hunter Mountain ski resort, joined us after what had clearly been a very long day at work. Apparently still in work mode, Katie somehow convinced us -- within 10 minutes of meeting her -- to drive up to Hunter Mountain the next day to see the near-peak fall color and check out the resort's "Scenic Skyride" as her guests.

Maybe it was Katie's enthusiasm and charm, or maybe it was that second Tracey Apple of the evening, but little did we know that we were in for the (sky)ride of our lives.

Day 3: Blubbering Heights

The next day we planned to poke around Hudson's dozens of antique and vintage shops, then grab a quick lunch before heading off for Hunter Mountain's Scenic Skyride. We meandered up and down Warren Street until we came upon Mexican Radio, the cheery-looking upstate outpost of a NYC spot we'd been meaning to try.

Over chips and salsa and frozen margaritas, we plotted out the route to Hunter Mountain, figuring it would take about half an hour to get there. And it would have, if the road to Tannersville didn't have more twists and turns than an episode of "Game of Thrones."

The mountainous drive ended up taking nearly twice as long as expected, which meant that we had just minutes to catch the last Scenic Skyride of the day. That turned out to be the best thing that could have ever happened to us, because up until that point, we didn't really know what the Scenic Skyride actually was.

What it was, as it horrifyingly turned out, was a detachable chair lift (yes, "detachable," which doesn't exactly inspire confidence), minus the fluffy bed of snow underneath to break your fall if the cables were to suddenly snap, or a mustachioed villain were to cut them with a comically oversized pair of scissors. Just a few thin cables and a slippery bench stood between us, and a grisly end on the jagged rocks below.

Had we known that the Scenic Skyride was actually a Detachable Deathtrap of Doom, there is no way in hell I'd have gotten Angel aboard that thing, and I wouldn't have been too gung-ho myself. But our new friend Katie was young and adventurous, and I couldn't bear the thought of her finding out that she'd actually befriended a couple of wrinkled old fogeys who were both afraid of heights. And because we were running so late, we had just seconds to make a decision: Either board the Dangling Tramway of Terror or risk insulting Katie by failing to take her up on her kind offer. And so I grabbed Angel's hand and pulled him onto the next bench, throwing caution and common sense to the wind.

It took approximately 3.3 seconds, or 2.5 feet of air between the chair and the rocky ground, for me to realize that I'd made a huge mistake.

The chair began to climb up the side of the mountain, higher and higher, with a sudden, sickening jerk at each detachment station that triggered an immediate fight-or-flight response, neither of which was useful at 3,200 feet. Instead, I focused on wrapping my sweat-soaked hands around the safety bar, and keeping my sweat-soaked feet inside my ballet flats, and reassuring my sweat-soaked husband that people hardly ever die on chair lifts, or at least they do so only rarely, and I hadn't heard about one on the news lately so maybe -- just maybe -- we wouldn't die after all.

But probably not.

As we neared the top, the valley now a vibrant carpet of red, yellow, and orange below us, I forced myself to open my eyes and take a peek.

It was spectacular.

For the same reason that airplane landings make me much less nervous than take-offs -- if anything goes awry during landing, I figure I'm headed down anyway -- the trip back down the mountain was somewhat less terrifying, and even Angel managed to open his eyes for a bit when we were close enough to the ground to jump if we needed to.

As the Skyride neared the station, we catapulted ourselves off that bench like a guy who's been shot out of a cannon, then staggered about before finally dropping to our knees to kiss the sturdy pavement beneath our feet.

We located Katie shortly thereafter and prattled on about how wonderful the view had been and how kind it was of her to invite us, figuring that if we jabbered on long enough, our legs would finally stop shaking and she'd never be any the wiser.

I'll never know if it was because she felt like celebrating the end of a long workday or because she could actually hear my knees knocking together, but Katie mercifully suggested that we head into town to get a drink. Angel and I nearly tripped over ourselves in our frenzy to get to the car, and we followed Katie down the mountain toward Tannersville and another American Glory BBQ.

There, we got to chatting with the bartender, which is how we discovered that, astonishingly, she'd already heard about the great success of Chris's Tracey Apple drink at the location in Hudson, and was working on a version for the Tannersville branch. Word really does travel fast up in them there mountains!

We'd never been west of Hudson before, and Katie was eager to show us around. She thought we'd particularly like a newly renovated arts-and-crafts style lodge called Deer Mountain Inn, so we piled back in the car and once again followed her lead.

Tucked between Catskill Park and Kaaterskill Wild Forest and set on 168 wooded acres of its own, Deer Mountain Inn was originally one of two summer cottages built in the 1880s for the Colgate family. (It's also rumored that the property once belonged to the Catskill's most notorious Depression-era gangster, Jack "Leggs" Diamond.) It didn't take more than a few seconds to realize that Katie was dead-on when she surmised that I would love this place.

In fact, I'm not even sure "love" is a strong enough word.

Inside, the country-chic theme continued, with worn leather sofas, dreer-antler chandeliers, and fireplaces in every room.

Adding to our good fortune, Deer Mountain Inn's resident mixologist, Darren, was behind the bar, shaking and stirring an assortment of almost-too-pretty-to-drink seasonal cocktails with whimsical names like the Harvey Went and Got All Banged Up and the Vote for Pedro.

On this day, we decided on the General Custer Invades Oaxaca, made with Xicaru Joven mezcal, Ancho Reyes ancho chile liqueur, and lime, and the Fig + Honey, made with cava, grapefruit, caramelized fig, and peach bitters.

It had been a long day of heart-stopping terror, and that evening we decided to reward ourselves with an elegant dinner. And so we set off for Terrapin, a stylish American bistro housed in a Baptist chapel dating back to 1831.

We started with a couple of Terrapin's excellent cocktails, the sour cherry bourbon Manhattan for Angel, and the pumpkin martini with a nutmeg-sugar rim for me.

I don't always order martinis, but when I do, apparently I down them like I'm an extra on "Mad Men."

When the waiter came, we barked out orders for every comforting item on the menu, seeing as how we'd miraculously survived a harrowing near-death experience on an unforgiving mountain: Pumpkin ravioli with oven dried tomatoes and brown butter-sherry sauce! Butternut squash soup with coconut and lemongrass! Braised beef short rib gratinée (luxuriously topped with caramelized onions and a melted gruyere crostini)! Teriyaki sockeye salmon over mizuna greens and crispy leeks!

And an apple crisp to share.

Of course, we should have eaten dessert first. Life is short . . . especially when you spend it riding ski lifts.

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Flannel sheets, cashmere socks, crackling fires.

Turtlenecks, tights, chunky scarves.

Toasted marshmallows, hot cider, caramel apples.

Pumpkin patches, piles of leaves.

Cozy. Crisp. Colorful.

I love fall.

And it's hard to think of a better way to spend a fall weekend than being holed up together in a cozy little cottage deep in the woods.

Well, unless that weekend includes lots of food and wine. Which, you know, my weekends sometimes do.

We decided to return to New York's Hudson Valley, which has been named one of National Geographic Traveler's Top 20 Must-See Places on its "Best of the World" list for its scenic beauty, artsy vibe, and trendy, transplanted-from-NYC restaurant scene. Yes, you might still see folks in flannel and overalls here, but don't panic: They're just hipsters from Brooklyn who've moved to Hudson to make artisanal goat cheese and small-batch pickles.

Our autumnal adventure began, as it did the last time around, at the Culinary Institute of America, which is home to one of this country's best cooking schools, along with several student-run restaurants.

The most elegant of these is Bocuse, a $3 million classroom where students recreate the quality and ambiance of a Michelin-starred French restaurant, at half the price with twice the nice.

The restaurant is named after the French gastronomic giant Paul Bocuse, who has held trois étoiles, the highest accolade from the Michelin Guide, continuously since 1965, and in 2011 was honored as “the chef of the century.”

I was barely inside the front door, and already I knew I was going to like this place.

We were seated at a comfortable banquette with a view of the spacious, bustling kitchen, which is always fun for us, since our own kitchen in the city has exactly enough room for one stove, one refrigerator, and one fork that we are forced to share.

While we waited for our drinks -- a glass of Pinot Noir for Angel, and a classic Hemingway daiquiri with bitter orange for me -- we played around with the electronic wine list and cheeky cards left on the table for our amusement.

Or our embarrassment, as the case may be.

I started with a classic 1975 recipe from Paul Bocuse himself, a decadent black truffle soup topped with a mound of puff pastry so buttery that it literally melted into the soup when I poked it with my spoon.

It is of course impossible to top a soup made from the world's most expensive mushrooms and pot-pie crust, but the Arctic char with garlic scapes and shishito-pepper vinaigrette was a good runner-up.

Angel decided to try the butter-poached lobster with sweet corn puree and chorizo broth, followed by the olive-oil poached halibut with zucchini blossoms.

Yes, that's two dishes poached in fat. Next time, he'll save the kitchen the trouble and just have a bowl of whale blubber.

While our entrees at Bocuse were classic French preparations, the desserts were anything but. Angel went all molecular with the rum cake with chestnut vermicelli and tangerine ice milk. Oh, and liquid nitrogen, bien sûr.

I chose the "modernist lemon bar" with lemon curd, coconut ice cream, and tamarind sauce, which was downright boring by comparison. Maybe next time they can light it on fire?

Finally, out came an assortment of macarons and other miniature delicacies, perfect for tucking away in your pocket for later.

After lunch we took a look around campus before rolling ourselves out to the car.

We then headed north to the tiny hamlet of Elizaville, where the house we'd rented for the weekend was hidden in the woods and accessed by a private, unpaved road. That probably sounds great to most people, but to New Yorkers like ourselves, it sounded like a cross between "Friday the 13th: The Final Chapter" and "The Hills Have Eyes."

But any reservations we had quickly faded away when we stepped inside the front door. The house was bright, airy, chic, and comfortable.

And, we happily noted, it was rustic without being too rustic. Glass doorknobs and claw-foot tubs, we can do. Mounted moose heads, and we have to check out early.

Best of all, huge, wrap-around windows allowed us to enjoy the view without having to actually go outside, which greatly reduces one's risk of being mauled by bears or punctured by deer antlers or whatever else happens when you leave the city for a weekend.

We had a few hours to kill before dinner, so we spent the time acquainting ourselves with the house and unpacking. Angel claimed the second master suite for his own, hoarding all the coat hangers for himself and hanging a sign on the door which read, "NO GIRLS ALLOWED."

Before dinner we took a short detour to Rhinebeck, a charming little village dating back to 1686. Originally called Kipsbergen by its Dutch settlers, Henry and Jacob Kip, today Rhinebeck boasts interesting shops, upscale restaurants, and an underground -- literally -- wine bar called the Shelter.

Tucked away below street level underneath the town's former hardware store, the Shelter is a speakeasy-style bar offering "spirits, tapas, and refuge."

All three sounded good to us, so we cozied up on one of the oversized leather couches near the fireplace and ordered up my new favorite cocktail, the "5-finger" milk punch with applejack, allspice dram, Chinese 5-spice, mole bitters and, of course, milk.

The drink was perfect for an October evening, with fall spices, bitter chocolate, and apple brandy mingling in the glass and warming our bellies.

After finishing our milk punch, we headed north to the tiny town of Saugerties for dinner at Miss Lucy's Kitchen.

Although it was 8:30 on a Saturday night, the town was practically deserted, and as we exited the car I suspiciously eyed a small pack of teenagers coming down the sidewalk.

As they drew closer, I whispered to Angel, "Do you think it's safe here?" But before he could answer, the group had come upon us, with one of the little urchins calling out to me, "Oh! I love your shoes!" Fine. I guess our hubcaps will be safe for another night.

As soon as we entered the restaurant, we understood why Saugerties was deserted: The entire town was apparently gathered at Miss Lucy's for dinner. Or at least that's how it felt when 50 pairs of eyes simultaneously turned to look when we walked in. "City slickers," I could tell they were thinking. "You can always tell by their fancy shoes."

Miss Lucy's might look like a simple country restaurant, but what came out of the kitchen was anything but simple: Everything from a martini made with house-infused persimmon vodka, to pan-seared scallops with butternut squash risotto, to a perfectly roasted pork chop with Sriracha-honey glaze, to a bracingly spicy ginger margarita, was sophisticated, well-thought-out, and, most importantly, absolutely delicious.

After swooning over every bite of our first two courses, we knew we couldn't pass on dessert. So we decided to share the harvest crisp, which was bubbling over with apples, pears, and quince and topped with a decadent brown-sugar ice cream.

The next day we planned to bike a section of the Harlem Valley Rail Trail to make up for the crimes against moderation we'd committed at Miss Lucy's. A paved trail reserved for pedestrians and bicyclists, the Rail Trail was built over the New York and Harlem Railroad, which ran from New York City to Chatham, NY in the mid-1800s. Eventually all 46 miles of the railroad track will be paved, but for now it's just 16 miles, accessed at the various abandoned railroad stations that once served the railroad commuters. We'd biked one of the shorter sections on our last visit to the Hudson Valley, and were excited to take on a longer stretch this time around.

But first we had to fuel up . . . and at least one of still had to wake up.

Although it took us a bit out of our way to the blink-and-you'll-miss-it town of Milan, I insisted that we fuel up for the ride at Another Fork in the Road. Owned by chef Jamie Parry, who cooked at NYC's Tribeca Grill and Montrachet before heading north, Another Fork is a "finer diner" known for sourcing virtually all of the ingredients for its carefully prepared dishes from the local farms surrounding the restaurant.

The sun-drenched room is quaint and cozy, with a chalkboard menu, mismatched chairs and pillows, and simple votive candles serving as decor.

We started with an order of the patatas bravas, which were slathered with a spicy, mayo-based Sriracha sauce. Now Angel's awake!

Next it was on to the biscuits with mushroom gravy (and a couple of eggs thrown on top for good measure) for me, while Angel kept things spicy with the curry scramble with caramelized onions and cilantro yogurt.

After breakfast we headed over to Taconic State Park, where we picked up our bikes and took in the glorious day.

The only thing scarier than a field of sunflowers is a field of dead sunflowers.

Soon we were ready to tackle the trail, so we wrangled the bikes into the back of our SUV and drove 10 minutes south to the tiny town of Millerton, which serves as one of the trailheads for the Rail Trail.

Our plan was to start at Millerton Station and bike 10.7 miles south to Wassaic Station, then ride back to Millerton, for a total of just over 21 miles roundtrip.

The ride started off innocently enough, as we pedaled easily past woods and hills and ponds, the sun warming our faces as we rode.

It turns out, though, that biking is a lot like exercise, to which I am allergic. And so my narrative of the 21-mile ride went something like this:

Mile 5: This is really fun!
Mile 10: I have to pee.
Mile 15: I can't believe we've biked 25 miles!
Mile 17: I really have to pee.
Mile 18: I can't feel my legs.
Mile 19: I'm going to need a donut cushion for the rest of my life.
Mile 20: I'm just going to lie down in this pile of leaves now.
Mile 21: I can't believe we biked 29 miles!

That evening we showered, slathered ourselves in Ben-Gay, then headed off to dinner at Mercato, a comfy, candlelit spot in Red Hook.

After biking 33 miles roundtrip, I'd clearly earned a bowl of gnocchi . . . and a bowl of penne.

Or, more precisely, goat cheese gnudi with local Lacinata kale pesto and penne with smoked pancetta, spicy tomatoes, and fresh cream from Ronnybrook Farm in nearby Ancramdale. And maybe a few bites of Angel's homemade fettucine Bolognese.

Mercato is warm and welcoming, which is probably no surprise given that the chef is Francesco Buitoni, a seventh-generation member of the Buitoni pasta-making and Perugina chocolate-making families.

After three bowls of pasta, it was time for dessert. Someone had to make sure the chocolate was good, too.

We also ordered the cheese plate. I'm telling you, that 39-mile bike ride really took it out of us.

As we enjoyed our desserts, the chef came by to say hello and share some amaro on the house.

As you can imagine, we slept like logs that night. That's what happens when you go on a 44-mile bike ride.

The next day was on the cloudy side and a bit chillier than the warm temps we'd enjoyed the day before, so it was time for snuggly sweaters.

I am sure Angel intended this photo as an homage to all those times I've belted out, "Wagon wheel, watermelon" in a bar somewhere. It works surprisingly well when you don't know the words.

With the skies holding the possibility of rain, we scrapped our plans for a walk along the Hudson and instead decided to return to Rhinebeck, since we'd been too busy downing milk punches on Saturday night to do any shopping.

On our way to Rhinebeck we stopped at Migliorelli's picturesque farm stand to buy some pumpkins.

Along with mini-pears, apples, cider, and a couple of jars of Migliorelli's homemade tomato sauce.

(Later, after I'd harvested all the seeds for roasting, Angel surprised me by carving up the largest pumpkin of the bunch in honor of Chloe, my beloved kitty who passed away last year. And yes, that's a power drill.)

After the pumpkin patch it was on to lunch at Terrapin, which is housed in the gorgeous old First Baptist Church, built in 1825.

Terrapin's bartender is a master mixologist, shaking and stirring ingredients like house-made cherry liqueur, ginger-infused moonshine, and fig-infused cognac into perfect-for-fall creations, like this sour-cherry bourbon Manhattan for Angel and the spiced caramel apple martini for me.

I started with the beer and cheese soup, made with India pale ale and aged cheddar, while Angel decided on the macadamia nut tempura calamari, which was served with a spicy-sweet pineapple dipping sauce.

For the main course, I decided on the mizuna salad with teriyaki sockeye salmon, crispy leeks, and a fantastic sweet onion-soy vinaigrette, the recipe for which is probably more closely guarded (and contains just as many addictive substances) as the one for Coca-Cola.

Angel went with the shredded flank steak quesadillas with huitlacoche, which are delicious little fungi that grow on ears of corn. Think of them as corn truffles.

After lunch we explored the town a bit.

By which I mean, "scoped out restaurants to try on our next visit."

Rhinebeck is home to the Beekman Arms, which is America's oldest continuously operated hotel. The Beekman was built in 1766 and hosted troops during the American Revolution (the 4th Regiment of the Continental Army conducted drills on its front lawn).

Aside from renovating the rooms in the 1980s, little has changed here since the 1700s. Well, except that guests are no longer required to list the number of horses they brought when they check in.

Next, we made a scary stop at Oliver Kita Chocolates.

The hand-made confections here are gorgeous, and come in inventive flavors like lavender and lime, banana and bee pollen, and honeycrisp apple.

Even the chocolate-covered Oreos were decked out for the season.

Soon it was Happy Hour, or close enough. Several local spots looked enticing, but the drinks we'd enjoyed over lunch at Terrapin had been so good that we decided to return to the adjacent bar, called Red Bistro.

This time, though, we each tried something different, which turned out to be the gooseberry mojito for Angel, and the tart-but-sweet pomegranate passion martini for me.

We'd planned to stay in that evening with a bottle of wine, a couple of pizzas, and a nice, long soak in the hot tub. I wasn't willing to pick up at just any pizza joint, though. Tucked away in a courtyard behind Rhinebeck's main street is Pizzeria Posto, which is known for its Neapolitan-style pizzas baked in a wood-fired oven imported from Modena, Italy.

We ordered up two pies and got to chatting with the owner. For future reference, it is maybe not the best idea to distract someone whose head is inside a 600-degree oven.

When we told the owner we had a 25-minute ride back to the house with the pizzas, he wisely recommended that we order a spare to eat on the way home. I'm just going to assume that's because the pies smell so enticing, and not because my reputation precedes me.

The pizzas were perfect, with a puffy, blistered crust, garden-fresh herbs, and local fennel sausage, then finished with a generous drizzle of olive oil while still hot from the oven.

We'd brought along one of our favorite bottles from our trip to Napa, the Freemark Abbey Bootleg, a delicious blending "mistake" only available at the winery, and redolent of fall with its black cherry, black currant, and blackberry aromas.

We devoured the pizzas, then hopped into the tub for a moonlight soak, helped along by an assortment of candles we'd found scattered about the house.

As we sipped and soaked and chatted, we agreed that it had been a pretty perfect weekend: Good weather, great food, fun cocktails, and fuzzy sweaters.

And no one got mauled by a bear.
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