Category Archives: Small Town

“Morty’s”

Leave a reply

My daughter Kerry and I, along with her husband Kenyon, began getting together regularly after my wife’s death. They’re farmers, so March through November was their working season, and winter a time of rest. Thursdays were our usual night for dinner, gaming and laughter.


On one such Thursday, they told me about a guy that ran a food truck, a “roach coach”, and how he was retiring from the business. All of his fans were heartbroken, and said in particular they would miss his “Morty Burger”.
On another Thursday, the kids talked about pumpkin season, and the desire to get a “donut robot”, a machine to produce “cider donuts”, a real attraction at apple orchards and cider presses throughout our part of the country. The cider donut is a seasonal favorite, and of course it coincides with cider season, which is late fall, after apple picking. Typically they’re the same as an old-fashioned cake donut, but cider is used to make them in place of water.
Part B of the backstory is about Kerry’s infatuation with grilled cheese sandwiches. Or, I should say, the making of gourmet grilled cheese sandwiches. She threw a grilled cheese party using a gas griddle and a pop-up out in the corn field, and offered a dazzling array of breads and a mind-boggling list of cheeses and other ingredients for you to concoct the grilled cheese sandwich of your dreams.
She and I have both had experience in the food service industry, so perhaps the rest was a foregone conclusion.

As we laughed through dinners and snickered through rounds of Rumikub, we fantasized about a new “Morty’s” that featured exotic grilled cheese sandwiches instead of “Morty Burgers”. It was an idle dream until the donut topic came up.
You see, it just so happens that in one of my lives I was a baker for Dunkin Donuts. Yep, the real thing. Back in the 80’s, when you could look through a big window into the kitchen, and see the donut magic happening before your eyes. I hated the commercial (still quoted to me today) that showed a DD manager arising at 4 a.m., sleepily chanting “Time to make the donuts.”. This ad drew my ire because the manager actually breezed in at 7 a.m., the END of my shift. From 11 the night before until the rise of the sun, I would crank out 240 dozen donuts and fancies in every shape, along with brownies and muffins. When the manager walked in and asked for a coffee, that display case was chock full!
“We can do better than a “donut robot”.”, I said. “We can have the real deal!”

In the spring of 2021, they hosted an event at the farm, “The Outstanding In Our Field Festival”. At the festival was the taco truck. Ty’s Taco-ria, to be exact, an RV modified into a food truck. The concept was so close we could literally taste it, and the dream of a concession on the farm ignited a spark.

Kerry, in the green jacket, and Kenyon, in the black coat, in front of Ty’s Tacoria at the Outstanding In Our Field Festival.

Dreams and fantasies slowly were replaced by real questions and speculations. Casual searches for potential food trucks led to the discovery of a local woman in a home bakery business who had a concession trailer to sell. Just fifteen miles away, offered by an acquaintance, and at a fraction of the price of those we’d browsed for. The time was right, we decided, and this trailer could be had for a song. So they bought it.

“Morty’s”, at its new home.

The little shack on wheels didn’t look like much from the outside, but inside it was in fine shape, equipped with a large 3-bay stainless steel sink, a commercial exhaust hood, high-capacity electric wiring to its own breaker panel, and gleaming white walls and ceiling.

And here it was, Morty’s was real. Real, but far from ready. There were a number of things we’d need to do; install an electric outlet in the barn with enough capacity for a rolling kitchen; rework the self-contained water system, eliminating the 12-volt pump and replacing old fresh- and grey-water holding tanks. The “tiny kitchen” challenge was on; how to fit a full-size bakery kitchen into a travel trailer.
Accustomed to an 80-quart floor mixer, I had to compromise to an 8-quart tabletop model. The substitute for the cavernous donut fryer would be a funnel cake fryer, designed for concession stands. We needed refrigeration, but not too much, and opted for dorm-sized fridges; one for sandwich prep, and one for beverages.
We hit our first snag: the fryer was backordered, and still a victim of post-pandemic supply chain problems. It would not arrive until late August. It would be just in time for cider donut season. The updates followed: pushed out until September, then hoping for October first.
We were told by local codes enforcement that we would need an exhaust hood fire suppression system installed (commonly called an “Ansul”), a costly delay. We needed an electrical inspection, too. Summer faded into fall, and the fryer finally arrived in October. Before opening we’d need an inspection by the state health department, to acquire a foodservice permit.
We scrambled in hopes of salvaging something of the season, with only three good weeks remaining. Somehow, we were compelled to get the inspection and permit and throw ourselves into opening, if for nothing other than our own sense of making up for lost time, and getting some use out of this shack.
It was a very bumpy three weeks, but invaluable, in that it showed us where the bugs were in our operation. By spring of ’24, we were ready to renew our permit, and hit the ground running for Memorial Day weekend.

Derived from the name of the festival, Parsons Farm’s Outstanding Snack Shack opened for the season, and the rest is history. I work The Shack Friday, Saturday and Sunday, making a variety of donuts and serving up The World’s Best Grilled Cheese sandwiches!
We’re offering cheese quesadillas and Nathan’s Famous all-beef franks as well, and the typical compliments of chips and beverages.
Our motto: “Bring us a better grilled cheese sandwich, and we’ll eat our words.”

I’m having a great time, though it comes to an end next weekend, as it will be our last for the season. The Shack has a self-contained water system that won’t work after freeze-up, and a seasonal permit, so I’ll need to say goodbye for the winter.
Some things just stick with me, I guess, and though it has its own name, I still refer to the Snack Shack as “Morty’s”. Each day I arrive I call out, as if The Shack and that long-gone, unknown and mysterious man of inspiration might hear me, “Good morning, Morty!”. And check out the name on my chef’s coat.

That’s all for now, from the land of Happily Ever After.

Keep in touch.

Paz (a.k.a. Morty)

Watch the magic:

https://www.facebook.com/100009552813044/videos/2304815893239053

Mud Season

3 Replies

Juney In The Mud

St.Patrick and the Easter Bunny have their work cut out for them if they want to reach the door of our house. Better be wearing some muck boots.

My house is around 1130 feet above sea level, and up around 1200 feet is Engleville Pond, and a few feet higher is the Corporation Pond. They are situated right across the road, perhaps a half mile away. Well, water runs down hill, you know. The main water line from Engleville Pond, which is actually a reservoir for the village drinking water, runs right past my house and on to the water tower another mile and a half away.

When I first moved here, there was a faucet sticking out of the ground out by the shed. One day when I was enjoying the thrill of home ownership, in this case replacing my deep well pump 70 feet below us, I noticed the trickling, leaking faucet was still running. Well, it turns out that it was a tap from the big water supply line. I guess when they put it through here and tore up Mr. Baker’s property, they offered folks a tap from the line. Mr. Baker raised pigeons and kept a couple of farm animals such as a cow and turkey, so the water supply was welcomed.

About ten years ago, the guys from the village came by and asked if I still used the spigot out back. Turns out they were looking to reduce leaks in the mainline between the pond and the water tower. I assured them I could get by without it, and civic-mindedly agreed they could shut it off and remove it.

Ever since then, especially in the spring, we have quicksand in the driveway. I don’t mean mud, I mean quicksand. Real quicksand like in the movies where it sucks people in to their imminent demise. One year I thought I’d fill the “soft spot” with some solids, to build it up. I sank about a half-dozen bricks into the muck, and they disappeared out of sight. Haven’t seen them since. A few more rocks and wheelbarrows full of gravel all met with the same fate.

Over the weekend, I was out in the driveway, trying to squish flat all the ridges and ruts in the quicksand before May comes along and dries them out and turns them into curbs. A long time ago, almost twenty years now, I guess, I had Pomella Brothers come over with their backhoe and dump trucks to work on the driveway. I had them sink drain tiles in it, from the center, draining out to the ditch at Engleville Road. This seemed to help a bit when there was four inches of stone on the driveway. By now, it’s difficult to pick out the areas where the stone laid. In a few places it’s still gravely, but there’s a sort of swirl shape that leads to the quicksand hole, like gravel circling slowly down Earth’s drain.

When we first moved here, I presumed this was just a brief spring melt-off thing. We’d place planks at the top of the driveway so one could proceed to the back door over a boardwalk. After the boardwalk sank into the quicksand, I realized the problem was a bit bigger.

Finally, I called the village and asked if there was anything they could do. My cellar looks more like a koi pond, and has frogs living in it. I almost reported my daughter missing, thinking she sank into the mud, until she showed up later in the day. We were missing a couple of cats, too.

Well, digging up the main line to prevent the mud in my driveway was not something the village was enthusiastic about. More accurately, it took several minutes for the guys (I was on speakerphone) to stop laughing enough to talk to me.

No, they really had no way to check for leaks underground. If interested, I myself could personally buy the $38,000 ground-penetrating radar system used by large municipalities for just such occasions. Otherwise, they suggested, perhaps I should relocate the driveway to the other side of the house.

Oh, and by the way, I was reminded, I would need to call Pete, the local codes enforcer.

I am required to have a permit to build a boardwalk or a koi pond.

Quicksand holes, fortunately or unfortunately, depending on your perspective, are not regulated by the local authority.

 

Stay dry, and wipe those feet (and paws)!

 

Paz

The Game

1 Reply

Where my niece Michele went to high school, she was in a class of 1,300.

Family had reservations, appointments for commencement. An hour’s window during which our progeny were scheduled to cross the stage in a mass-production graduation machine. I believe the entire commencement took something like eight hours.

In my little school (yes I know I’m old and we’re talking about the last century, but it was 1977, not 1877) we had a graduating class of about 65 students. We all knew each other quite well.

When we were shopping for The Ark, one of my criteria was that the school needed to be fairly small, like mine was. My wife’s class was bout 300 kids, if I recall. I liked the idea that a kid, especially if a kid had a little trouble, could not be lost in anonymity.

In Sharon Springs, the graduating classes had an average of slightly less than 30, until Ryan’s class came along. All of a sudden there was a mini baby boom, and there were 45 students starting that year! The school had to scramble to get another teacher, and establish a second classroom for the grade.

Fast forward about 20 years, and now daughter Miranda and her family live just north of us, in the big town of Canajoharie. Canjo is a bigger school, by my standards, and I think the classes are a bit larger than a hundred students.

Grandson Max plays for Canjo’s basketball team, which meets each Saturday for intramural games with neighboring schools of similar size. I had a good time on a recent Saturday, taking some photos at the game, trying for a Sports Illustrated shot. Number 32 is Max.

The game was against Mayfield, the school across the lake from my own alma mater. The gym where the game was held has the kind of bleachers that fold flat against the wall. Attendance is good at basketball, and there were probably more than a hundred spectators from the two schools. Still on the small side, you’ll notice the benches of Mayfield and Canjo hold barely enough students to make a second string.

Max drew a few fouls, and made some baskets. I don’t have the stats. It was a great thrill to watch them play. I played a little hoop in school and loved it, and all three sons played for Sharon Springs. (Daughters preferred soccer and softball). There’s something a bit timeless in school sports. At least basketball. How much can change, really? The game looks the same now as when I played, though I’m sure our uniforms were better looking.

 

dsc_0934

The Crowd Rises

Alas, after an all-out effort and a lobbed shot at the buzzer, The Cougars could not rally against Mayfield, and the game was lost. The teams lined up and passed one another, shaking hands and declaring “good game”.

So close.

So close.

Until they meet again.

Take care and keep in touch.

Paz

Family Farm Day 2016

Leave a reply

August 13th was Family Farm Day in Schoharie County, and we headed for daughter Kerry’s farm, about 3 miles from home. She and beau Kenyon operate the Parsons flower and vegetable farm, selling both at their farm stand and at local Farmers’ Markets.

Mom & Dad’s main job on Family Farm Day is to bring the Cooler Corn, for serving Corn-on-a-stick! It’s called Cooler Corn because of the easy prep, using your picnic cooler. Shuck the corn and toss it in the cooler, boil enough water to cover the corn, pour it in the cooler and close the lid. Twenty minutes later, you have perfectly-cooked hot corn on the cob!

Corn-on-a-stick

Corn-on-a-stick

Kerry & Kenyon are very fun people, and aside from promoting Healthy & Local, Family Farm Day is a bit of a circus atmosphere, with games, activities, prizes and food sampling. The most popular by far is the Corn Toss, where contestants throw whole ears of corn and try to land them in bushel baskets. Inside each basket is a label (actually a paper plate) that indicates the prize you’ve won (if any; last year Kenyon labeled one “Loser”. It was funny, and most folks got prizes anyway).

This is the day you’re encouraged to play with your food! For youngsters (and wanna be youngsters), there’s the Vegetable Art Table. Most popular this year was the construction of Zucchini Cars, closely followed by creation of Vegetable People.

Of course food is a big part of Family Farm Day. There were tastings and samplings, and even the Pampered Chef representative on hand. The peach salsa was a big hit, and everyone got corn on a stick.

Carrying contests were arranged, whereby the contestant needed to carry as much as possible. First there was the Pickle Carry (pre-pickled cucumbers to be exact). The winner managed to carry 64 pickles over the course. Not bad for six-year-old arms!

The Corn Carry was a different matter, and attracted older attendees (like teenagers). We didn’t count the number of ears carried, we were too busy laughing at the contestants!

Surrounded by beautiful flowers, fresh vegetables and lots of friends and family, what could be a better way to spend a day?

Check with your Farm Bureau or Cooperative Extension to see if your county has a Family Farm Day! We’re already looking forward to next year!

Take care, and keep in touch.

 

Paz

Pancake Season

Leave a reply

Breakfast Time

Breakfast Time

I live in upstate New York, and we’re surrounded by sap houses. Those are the places where Maple sap is boiled down to that best-of-nature treat, Maple Syrup.

Maple syrup is made from the sap of the Sugar Maple, a tree which grows throughout the northeast United States and eastern Canada. Virtually all of the Maple syrup comes from this area.

So I don’t know if folks do this elsewhere, but around here spring means Pancake Breakfasts at the firehouse. Why? I’m not sure where the tradition started, but it’s a tasty one.

The Pancake Breakfast is an event, a meal, a community gathering and a great fundraiser for volunteer fire departments.

The Ames Firehouse

The Ames Firehouse

There are a lot of small communities around, and the Pancake Breakfast is the event that brings them up the hill from Canajoharie and down the hill from Sharon, west from Sprakers and east from Salt Springville.  It’s kind of like the spring cotillion for all the villages.

Everyone Turns Out

Everyone Turns Out

So we stand in line with all the other folks that braved the February weather to get to the firehouse at 8:30 and get tickets. The line snakes around stanchions strung with yellow plastic link chains. We wait patiently with our tickets in hand, as a volunteer looks for groups to fill tables.

“A three? Anyone with a party of three?” and the lucky winners are whisked away into the dining room (which is also the meeting room and the all-event room for the firehouse).

Volunteers, with their Fire Company shirts and STAFF emblazoned on their backs become line cooks, servers, bus boys,  and waitresses as what seems like the entire town cycles through the annual feeding frenzy.

Firehouse garage

Firehouse garage

Patiently Waiting

Patiently Waiting

The meal is served family style. We sit at a table for twelve, the three of us seated with total strangers. No wait, they’re strangers, but not total strangers. We may not know their names and homes but we know they are “of us”. They live in our towns and plant the corn that feeds the cows that produce the milk that feeds the children.

Volunteer Firefighters become Restauranteurs

Volunteer Firefighters become Restaurateurs

Family Style

Family Style

Here there is a teacher. There is our veterinarian. There are Sheriff’s Deputies and snow plow drivers, ladies of the Auxiliary, Rotarians, school kids, moms & dads.

Community

Community

The cars keep parking and the lines keep growing. By threes and fives we’re escorted to our seats, plied with orange juice and coffee and real maple syrup.

Stacks and stacks of flapjacks, an unending stream, plates filled automatically when they’re empty. Piles of sausages, sausage gravy, platters of bacon, buckets of butter, home fries, eggs.

We gleefully fill the makeshift dining room and we eat together the most important meal of the day. Nay, this is one of the most important meals of the year!

Sure, we could stay home and make pancakes. We could go to Denny’s. Service may be faster or prices may be lower.

But here, we’re doing something a little more. We’re not just raising money for the fire company, for hoses and boots and ladders and training.

We’re also showing, by our presence, our commitment to one another, to our communities. To the volunteers that respond to that dreaded sound, the fire siren. For the men and women that will be there, at my house or yours, at 3 a.m. in February in fifteen-degree air if need be.

They’re not paid. Receive no benefits, no pension, no health insurance. They risk their safety for the sake of others. For us.

Besides, where else can you eat breakfast with the mayor, the Sheriff and your retired teacher at the same table?

Take care and keep in touch,

 

Paz

Merry Christmas Mr.Potter!

Leave a reply

Frank Capra’s It’s A Wonderful Life is one of my favorite Christmas movies.

It’s all about connectedness, about one person’s effect on others in this life. To some folks it’s a nostalgic return to a time when much of America was dotted with small towns like Bedford Falls, the fictional setting of the movie.

For me, it’s a reminder that I live in a place like  Bedford Falls. A place like Andy Griffith’s Mayberry.

Our Courthouse

Our Courthouse

Like George Bailey in the movie, when I walked into our humble little post office on Saturday, Maria called out “Good Morning, Scott!”. As I left I bade her “Merry Christmas, Maria!”, and she returned the greeting.

Our Post Office

Our Post Office

In the Stewart’s Shop, the regional convenience store chain, I’m served by Stacey, whom I’ve watched grow and mature since before school age. To her, I’m “Mr. O’Connor”.

Also to the many children I coached at Youth Baseball. More kids than I remember, and I must admit I don’t always recognize them twenty years later. To them, sometimes I’m “Mr. McGuire”, (some of my kids have alternate last names), or even simply “Coach”.

Down at Sunnycrest, browsing the greenhouses for flowers or buying wood pellets, they even recognize Chuy the Wonderdog, welcome to walk around the place with the owner’s dog.

Taking the trash to the Transfer Station, I see Carl every week. A classmate of my son’s, he also took up flying radio-controlled planes with us for a while.

The Transfer Station

The Transfer Station

One of my favorite small town moments was when I met one of our neighbors, Tony, as I was exiting the Stewart’s shop. My daughter dated his son in high school. A chance you don’t get every day, I greeted him with “Good morning, Sheriff!”. It felt like I was in a Gunsmoke episode.

Our Firehouse

Our Firehouse

Sure, lots of people know the Sheriff or have coached youth sports. Folks far and wide are known by name in their local haunts, from Starbucks to Subway. You don’t need to live in a small town to be surrounded by friends and neighbors.

Big town or small town, it’s being with those we cherish that really matters.

Merry Christmas!

Paz