Open House

At the end of our block on Bartlett Street, at the peak of the hill I used to scale and fly down on my bike, was a ruddy red brick, Georgian Colonial house. The Spolar Family lived there.

Mr. had a mustache, a beard and a hearty laugh. He was slightly shorter than Mrs. who was tall, thin and the first Marathoner I knew. They were really nice, had three cute kids, and went to the same grocery store, ballet teacher, and dynamo soccer field that we did. They were the only other family on the block who decorated with a Christmas tree instead of a menorah in December. And every year, I looked forward to their holiday party.

The Spolars were one of the only couples to send an invite addressed to the whole family. My mom, dad, brother, sister and I were all invited to their annual Open House. Kids were welcomed with open arms. Santa came. The food and liter Cola were great. And Mr. and Mrs. were cordial, gracious, and unphased by children running around their home every year.

I can still see my route upon entering their house. First, to the buffet table in the dining room which hosted the minty layered brownies that I had waited 365 days to bite into again. Then to the kitchen for a Coke. Next, upstairs to check out the action in the playroom. In my red smocked jumper I wasn't dressed for indoor hoops, so back downstairs to grab more brownie bars and cozy up under their Christmas Tree, waiting for Santa and a candy cane. I always felt at home in their house. And I don't think I ever really appreciated their hospitality until recently.

***

On Sunday afternoon, Peter and I were getting ready to open up our backyard and ultimately our house to some neighbors, friends and family for some good old fashioned fun. Peter had schlepped a truck load of apples back from Southern Illinois, Double G's famous press was getting a scrub down, and my pregnant belly was grumbling for cider.




A couple weeks ago, when I sent out the family-friendly invite, I neglected to do a count. And I kind of forgot that all of our go-to guests have kids of their own now. So on Sunday morning, when Peter asked me how many we were expecting, I started to panic. I ball parked. 20? 25?

By 3:30, we were nearing 40. Children were running around playing hide and seek in our back yard; there was ample man power quartering apples, smashing them, and pressing them into fall's sweet nectar; kids were lined up under the spout of the press to drink cider from its source; apples flew, crackers crumbled, and little hands got a little messier with each chocolate chip cookie. Even when the party and some leaves flew inside, I found myself just taking it all in and smiling. Mostly, because I saw how much fun all the kids were having, including Mary. And I thought this was just the way Grandpa Barry would have wanted it.

After this weekend, I'd like to think that I have a little Spolar in me. And I believe I have uncovered one of the secrets to a really great fall party - inviting the kids. The novelty of fresh apple ciders is made just for them. 

Lo.    

Cider's Story

Everyone knows that if walls could talk, they would have to a lot to say. The walls that frame our house have more than 70 years of stories to tell.

What you might not know though, is that if the mighty cider press could tell its tale - the one that spends it days and nights waiting patiently on our screened in porch for its seasonal shift - you would certainly want to cozy up for its musings. But since the old press remains on quiet ground, I'll take a stab and elaborate for it.

Like anything that my Grandpa built or bought, the cider press is as sturdy and steady as can be.

It used to live in the garage of 126 East Edgewood - my grandparents house. There it would wait. For the apple trees lining the yard to mature; for the fruit to grow and ripen; for the leaves to change; for the first fall breeze to knock a couple apples down. It would wait to hear the cars pull down the driveway, the laughter of the grandkids, and their dutiful picking, wheel barrow loading and carting of apples.

It would wait for my Grandpa to pull it out into the crisp autumn air and for all the generations to gather around. It would wait to dust itself off and claim the spotlight for one special day a year - to do one special job that only it knew how to do. That is, turn Red Delicious, Braeburn, Jonathon, Macintosh and Gala apples into liquid gold.

It had a way of easing up its mechanism for the younger generations and holding stubborn ground for the uncles. With Grandpa leading the charge, knowing its every secret, it would press the sweet apples down, down, down, squeezing the juices until they flowed from the sides and foam and froth seeped from its pores. It's succulent waterfall wouldn't dry up until each of the family's empty milk jugs were filled with its nectar.

Proudly, it would survey its work - the juicy fruits of its labors. Satisfied by the enthusiastic trade up from Coca-Cola to cider and the smiles on all the grandkids' faces, it would succumb to its scrub down and retreat once again to its little suburban niche where it would wait till next year.

After one cider season, the press' bath was a little more final and its wait a little longer. It patiently anticipating the sound of the cars, the grandchildren, and the apples. But life - football games, universities, school plays - got in the way. With the passing of time, it graduated from one role to another - keeping my grandpa company as he canned his vegetables, fixed things, and told him story after story about the love of his life.

A couple years ago, when my Grandpa passed and a new family moved into his house, the cider press went for a drive across the Midwest - from Pennsylvania to Illinois where it moved in with me and Peter. It didn't know its future and it missed its partner in crime.

I think it remembered me though when it arrived at our house. It remembered my chubby cheeks and my love for its foam. I think it perked up as Peter put its pieces back together and dusted a decade off. With its first press in a long time, it was rusty and tired, but with a couple practice turns, it found its rhythm once again. And I swear I saw it smile.

This year, it got to meet the next generation and show little Mary its might - all that it could do. It understood that Mary still favored milk over its masterpiece, but loved that she got a little taste of perfection.

When it comes down to it, Cider's story is simple. It brings people together, it bridges generations, it knows just what to do with a piece of fruit and it knows how to make food play the supporting role in its annual party.

And as long as its juices flow, it keeps my Grandpa close to me.

Lo.

Apple Rarebit Bites 

Ingredients:
Baguette
2 tablespoons butter, softened
1 Granny Smith apple, thinly sliced
1/2 cup blue cheese
1/4 cup sour cream
1 tablespoon Worcester sauce
1 tablespoon Dijon mustard
1 teaspoon honey
Cracked pepper

Directions:
Thinly slice baguette. In a skillet or on a baking sheet, spread butter. Place baguette slices on top, rubbing them in butter as you lay them down. Bake at 375 degrees for 10-15 minutes until lightly toasted. Set aside.

Mix together blue cheese, sour cream, Worcester, mustard, honey and pepper. Place an apple slice on each crouton and then place a dollop of cheese mixture on top of the apple. Broil for no more than 5 minutes, until cheese topping is lightly browned. Serve warm.

Creamy Watercress Dip

Ingredients:
2 bundles of watercress, cleaned and trimmed
Handful fresh parsley
4 chives
2 scallions
1 cup cottage cheese
1/4 cup mayonnaise
Juice of half of a lemon
Salt

Directions:
In a food processor, combine all ingredients. Add salt to taste. Serve with a variety of vegetables.