Somewhere around mid-March, northeasterners go into winter denial. We shed layer after layer of clothing despite the fact that the temperature has flat-lined at late February levels. Counter-intuitive as it may be, this dependable phenomenon makes spring a prime hot drink season. By all means, wear your ultra-mini with your thick socks and Uggs (the inherent problems of this outfit I’ll leave to a more patient blogger), but when you find yourself shivering in the decidedly un-summer-like sun, don’t pop into a bar for a lime rickey; instead, cozy up with the ultimate in winter warmers, the hot toddy.

There is something endearing and comforting about the words “hot toddy.” This is a drink that your grandfather (and your grandmother!) loves, that might be carried around the neck of a St. Bernard, that emulates maternal remedies and a certain masculine sophistication. It is also a great measure of the character of a bar because the drink has so many variations. A quality hot toddy depends on the presence of a few quality ingredients—in my humble opinion, the basics are whiskey, honey, lemon and cloves, although tea is a nice touch—and the care with which it is made.

The hot toddy, sometimes called a hot whisky, is thought to be as Scottish in origin as it sounds, but the etymology of the word toddy is uncertain. Toddy may come from the Hindi word, tari (that ‘r’ is an alveolar tap; that is, it sounds like a quick ‘d’) for the juice of certain palm trees, which by extension also referred to the fermented wine made from this palm juice. Another possibility says toddy is a homegrown Scottish word, evidenced by an 18th century poem referring to “some kettles full of Todian spring;” that is, water from Tod’s well, which supplied Edinburgh’s water at that time. The logic goes that since whiskey comes from the Gaelic word for water, toddy was another tongue-in-cheek reference to something a bit stronger than that life-giving substance.

Of course, the origins of any drink matter little while you’re imbibing, and imbibe you shall, since I’ve discovered some of the best and worst hot toddies in the area.

A favorite JP haunt is the Alchemist, whose Hot Toddy is featured on the Winter Warmer section of the drink menu. The menu claims it is served with a cinnamon stick, but I’ve often gotten cloves, which are the more standard toddy brown spice anyway. The Alchemist’s hot toddy is just right, hot and served in a jiffy compared to the production that goes with serving this drink in certain other bars. Their menu also features another old classic, the Hot Buttered Rum, a deliciously caloric take on the hot alcoholic drink.

The South End’s Beehive is popular with those in the know and I’ve often heard touted the talent of the bartenders, and yet when I ordered the most stodgy and basic of warm drinks there, I got a tiny lukewarm mug about 10 minutes later. With the slightly jazz age slant of their cocktail menu, I expected more when I ordered a retro whiskey drink.

Wally’s Café was equally as unprepared for serving this hot drink, but their presentation was endearing. As a slightly dive-y, definitely boho, jazz destination, Wally’s bag is less the perfection of its cocktails and more the atmosphere and history of the joint. Thus, when the aging bartender took several minutes to carefully serve me lemon, honey and a shot of whiskey and then insisted that I put on my own gloves to transport the accompanying glass of hot tea to my table, I just kept tapping my foot to the hypnotic mid-afternoon jazz. The tea is a nice touch that few bars add, and at Wally’s it comes with guaranteed live music—365 days a year.

At the Joshua Tree in Somerville’s Davis Square, the hot toddy depends entirely on the bartender. One night, it featured an unidentifiable hot juice—still not sure if it had a little cider or if the sweet stuff was a bit of lemonade—with whiskey, honey, cloves and lemon. That special ingredient was nowhere to be seen a few weeks later, however, when the hot toddy was three parts honey to one part everything else. You might want to ask what you’ll be getting prior to ordering our subjective drink at this neighborhood standard.

The beauty of the hot toddy is that you can order it at almost any bar outside of the grungiest of dives (both the JP and the Financial District locations of J.J. Foley’s are unable to provide hot water, for example) and get a drink that says something about the service and attitude of that bar. It’s a drink that can catch a staff off-guard and demonstrate their knowledge or lack-thereof, and it will keep you warm in that misleading sunshine to boot!

By Anais Wheeler, Wcities Boston Contributor

I don’t know if you’ve heard the hubbub, but apparently, there is some sort of financial difficulty going on. And it’s not just the tycoons blubbering in their stock certificates anymore either, it’s actually affecting those of us beneath the income bracket made famous by Joe the Plumber. But before you give up your vacation time as fast as Edward Liddy can a retention bonus, consider the still-off-season getaways that are gentle on that Potential Layoff Fund.

Full disclosure: these two destinations are close to the heart of this blogger, serving as the backdrop for some formative (or dis-formative?) years. Despite my bias, though, outer Cape Cod and Midcoast Maine offer true respite from city life or geographically convenient adventure. This is the first in a series of two posts—this time, Provincetown.

Cape Cod juts out from Massachusetts like the twirl in an otherwise stodgy mustache, and Provincetown is the twirliest part. Many Bostonians know this little town as the site of some infamous weekend of debauchery—perhaps during their Carnival, which occurs every August—but Ptown has more to offer than beads and (dare I say?) BJs.

Provincetown in early spring is austere; there is a hush over the usually bustling town and a sleepy quality to the businesses that are open. As a former Provincetown service-person, I can attest that what’s known locally as “Augustitis” hits the help hard—and it hits in June. But this time of year, people are glad to see you. Ptown’s main drag, Commercial Street, is ridiculously dense with shops, restaurants and bars, but only the true necessities and the real troopers are open all year round.

Try the Provincetown Inn for digs almost literally at the tip of the Cape. Offseason prices are an excellent value, and you’ll find yourself using the word “buffet” (that’s a verb) throughout your stay; with the town’s breakwater a matter of feet away, the elements are evident here, but the center of town is a fair walk away.

For a more rarefied feel, head to the Anchor Inn, the location of which is imminently convenient if not quite as poetic. The Anchor Inn is just out of the center of town on Commercial Street, with harbor beach access. The hushed lobby is attended by a solicitous staff, and the rooms feature fine old four-posters and fireplaces (until June!), increasing the rooms’ cool-weather desirability.

The few restaurants that remain open represent a spectrum of options. For a great menu and wine list, try The Mews, which is on par with Ptown’s best restaurants all year round. Our inside connection, Erik, a cabbie for Mercedes Cab and real live townie, notes that The Mews offers an off-season two-for Thursday; two entrees, that is, for the price of one. Fanizzi’s offers mid-range standard New England fare, good for a late lunch of chowder or crab cakes. The dining room juts over the beach and the paneled windows frame a harbor panorama looking toward Boston and the South Shore; the light of the place during a rain storm is ineffably romantic.

In fact, there are many unspeakable, take-your-breath-away Ptown moments. Over Presidents Day weekend this year, Provincetown blossomed with unbelievable February weather. On a long weekend from Boston, we wandered about in sweaters—sweaters!—throughout the day Sunday. The weather was nice enough that we walked east on Commercial Street through the East End’s Gallery District, past the Cape Inn (another cheap year-round option, but dingier than the Ptown Inn), and out Snail Road (carefully crossing Route 6) to the dunes. The small driveway entrance there leads to a mile of shifting mountains of sand, eventually flattening to reveal the “ocean side” of the Cape, where the real buffeting happens. Our walk led us along the paths (careful of the vegetation, which is fragile) about half-way to the ocean, where the dunes fell away in front of us, the dune shacks appeared and the wind started to howl. These dunes are beautiful in every season, but the subtle Spring giving way to life is gasp-worthy.

This area, as well as the bike paths through the dunes out Race Road and through Beach Forest are National Seashore, meaning these areas are protected from development. This time of year, you often have to put on your game face to enjoy these areas, but the takeaway is worth it, red dripping nose and all.

After all this wholesomeness, remind yourself why Provincetown’s famous by stopping into the Governor Bradford, a grimy-but-great restaurant/hotel/bar in the center of town. Everything that’s anything happens at The Bradford in the winter, and you will likely get your fill of town gossip along with your warm Jack and Coke. Afterward, check for bands or events at The Pig (formerly the Squealing Pig and sister bar to the Boston location), or The Vixen. If you have TOO good a time, call my friend Erik to give you a lift in his Mercedes Cab.

If you have TOO good a time, call my friend Erik to give you a lift in his Mercedes Cab

In the morning, fight off that headache with a cup of darn good coffee from Joe or a full breakfast a touch out of the way at Chach .

On your way out of town, swing by Marine Specialties, a town landmark, which carries everything from old American Airlines china (don’t believe me? It’s been there for ages) and Provincetown calendars to feather boas and half-price Seven jeans.

By Anais Wheeler, Wcities Boston Contributor

In the spring of 2008, I joined together with a few friends, scrabbled together 500 hard-earned American dollars and bought six months worth of produce. We weren’t stocking up for potential food shortages or readying ourselves for the revolution—we had invested in a farm share. A farm share is a bulk purchase from a farm that participates in Community Supported Agriculture. Generally, the purchaser of a farm share (sometimes just called a “CSA”) receives a weekly batch of produce or other farm products in exchange for a lump sum at the beginning of the farm’s growing season.

The idea behind the CSA is a mutually beneficial relationship: the patron is a member of a community that is benefiting from the farm being in his or her community, so that patron agrees to invest in the farm and share in the risks intrinsic in each growing season. If the growing season is a poor one, the patron receives less for his or her investment; if the growing season is strong, then the farm can provide more farm-fresh goodness in exchange for that initial lump sum. The advantage of the CSA to the farm is clear: it receives money for produce that may not even be planted yet, and is able to plan its budget based on this up-front income. But what are the advantages to the purchaser of a farm share? What are the disadvantages? Looking back at our “investment” this season, we reflected on just these questions.

First, the cons. Accustomed to wandering through grocery aisles with shelves bulging with diverse and out-of-season offerings, none of us were used to centering our eating habits on what was currently ripe. We encountered all kinds of new queries. How can we manage to eat five pounds of cabbage in one week?[1] What is that mystery vegetable that smells like celery and looks like a shrunken head?[2] What do we do with just three small units (Heads? Sprigs?) of baby bok choy?

Most of the time, I enjoyed being forced into some sort of mindfulness regarding my eating habits. However, in August we started to receive pounds and pounds of root vegetables: beets, turnips, potatoes, onions, carrots and more beets. At the same time, Boston was chortling with glee as it pumped the temperature up to outlandish heights. Ninety degrees? In a city better known for the epic depths of its sidewalk slush? My apartment during this period was unbearable, with its flat asphalt roof and lack of a cross breeze. Still, we had root vegetables piling up on the counters, so we were forced to turn on the oven, cranking the apartment’s temperature up to something roughly equivalent to that of the fourth circle of hell. This was not a point at which I was feeling warm and fuzzy toward the farm share. In fact, if I saw another locally-grown parsnip, why I…

The inconvenience of the calendar was my main complaint about our CSA. It turns out that, in New England, most vegetables ripen in the summer (who knew?), so the bulk of the total produce we received came during these stifling months. This would be great if we had access to a root cellar in which to store potatoes until November, but shockingly, my third-floor walk-up doesn’t have this basic convenience, so the arrangement made for some heavy eating during the hot months.

Another participant in our CSA was distressed by the distance of our farm from Boston. In Boston, most CSA farms are outside the 495 belt around the city; our farm (Red Fire Farm) is 71.4 miles from my apartment. To me, used to eating bananas from Honduras and potatoes from Idaho, 71.4 miles is practically my living room, but it’s true that it’s a bit out of the way to be considered my “community.” Still, if the goal is preserving agricultural land in the vicinity of that great eastern belt, Megalopolis, I would argue that a farm in Granby, MA, is the right idea.

The pros, however, have me convinced to repeat the experience in 2009. The farm share encourages the idea of community in more ways than one. We found ourselves asking each other over to “Farm Share Dinner” each week instead of simply getting together to divvy up the goods. Sometimes we had too much of some vegetable or another to do away with it ourselves and were forced to invite non-farm sharers over to help consume it. The boyfriend and I talked farm share with acquaintances who had their own, and planned dinner parties around it. We introduced friends to purple potatoes and sold them on garlic flowers. The farm share made me think about what I was eating, a welcome change.

Finally, in terms of sheer cost-effectiveness, the farm share is a great investment. For the amount of fresh produce we received, our $125 per person contribution was a pittance—well worth it in terms of simple poundage and quality to cost. We received weekly shares from June to October, and bi-weekly shares until December. The produce augmented our grocery shopping and encouraged us to cook from scratch more than we normally would, ultimately saving us money.

For our CSA, we picked up at the local co-op where we already sometimes shopped; many farms that provide shares to Bostonians have drops at local health food stores, while others provide delivery services. We used Red Fire Farm, which has drop locations in Jamaica Plain and Cambridge. They offer produce shares, flower shares and fruit shares. The price of the share is based on a sliding scale. Parker Farms drops off in several Cambridge and Somerville locations. They offer meat and egg shares in addition to the standard produce share. There are many online locations to learn more about CSAs—start with a Google search, and go from there. This forum on Chowhound mentions several farms offering CSAs.

If you aren’t so into the cooking at home aspects of the farm share, there are tons of local restaurants using these same growers to provide them with local, sometimes organic, produce. One excellent option (if you can get a reservation) is Ten Tables.

Boston is very cutting-edge when it comes to local food—the idea fits in well with our much-touted Yankee self-reliance, so check out what your neighbors are doing with that famed rocky landscape.

Gorgeous shot!

What could be more quintessential in autumn in New England than picking apples and pressing cider? Escaping from the bustle of Boston, we drove north on an early October weekend, through New Hampshire and into Vermont on 89, that hilly, winding highway that is one of the only ways to get (still north but) west at over 40 miles per hour in northern New England.

During my childhood, my family had a plethora of back-to-the-lander friends, and my memories of pressing apples took place at Wayback Farm, where the cider press was building-sized and used conveyor belts to sort the apples before they were crushed and squeezed. While collecting apples was fairly hard work for a nine-year-old, the actual pressing was effortless and not a little fascinating.

This trip, too, involved friends who have embraced farm life. We arrived at their farm on a beautiful Saturday morning. The leaves were peaking, and the hills were mottled with those autumn reds and yellows that make this area a favorite weekend destination at this time of year.

Image courtesy of Christopher Read.

Apple mush makes good pig feed. Beer not so much. Image and happy drunk pigs courtesy of Benjamin Polloni.

In no time at all, we had grabbed cement buckets and set to work on a few trees. The trees hadn’t been pruned in years, and picking from them proved difficult and occasionally painful. (I came home with an especially attractive scratch under my eye in addition to the many on my hands and arms.) Our efforts were augmented by a friend who had spent a season picking olives in Italy; he suggested shaking the trees over tarps, but our tarps were too small, and the ground too uneven, so we settled for using a rake to shake the small apples free from the branches. This resulted in cascades of hard little crab apples landing on our backs and heads, as well as winding up in impenetrable undergrowth. Not only did we pick our own apples, but we helped the deer with their share.

I have no yard in the city, let alone an apple tree, and it’s easy to forget what wild apples can really look like. Many of our specimens were a mottled brownish red, and with the random lumpiness, they looked more like little roasting potatoes than the platonic ideal of an apple we’re used to at Whole Foods or Generic City Co-op.

Someone had heard that a truck-bed full of apples would make 10 gallons of cider, so we stopped when it looked like ten gallons worth, and set about setting up our borrowed hand-crank cider press.

There she is: our spectacularly high-tech apple press (and our first five gallons of cider). Image courtesy of Benjamin Polloni, 2008.

This apple press was probably made from a kit, like this one, but the terribly enterprising of you, dear readers, could probably design your own. It’s a simple hand crank, with a slatted round receptacle. Insert a porous bag in the slatted receptacle, crush the apples into the bag through the hand crank (harder than it sounds). When the bag is full, attach the disc-shaped press to the drill-like thingie (technical apple-pressing term, obviously). Spin to press and squeeze the juice from the porous bag. It drips through a hole on one side of the base, and into a small pot. It would probably be a good idea to have some cheesecloth to filter out seeds and skin before you pour into your storage container (we used several 5-gallon glass carboys, but you could also use a bunch of gallon jugs).

Hand-cranking is hard work. Image courtesy of Christopher Read.

Mmm…apple mush ready to be squeezed into cider. Image courtesy of Benjamin Polloni.

That Saturday, we pressed almost ten gallons, but found that the truck bed still looked much the same (that is to say, full of apples), so the Boston portion of our crew vowed to come back in the light of the next day to finish the job. We did, and pressed a total of 15 gallons by Sunday afternoon.

The Boston crew sticks with it: Chris Read, Ira Gooch and me, giving those apples what-for. Image courtesy of Chris Read.

…while everyone else gets distracted…building barns and such. Image courtesy of Benjamin Polloni.

We took a couple of gallons to drink fresh, but the rest of our cider is still sitting in its carboy, bubbling away. In a few months, it will be delicious and alcoholic. For more information about how to ferment cider, check out Leeners, which has information about pressing cider as well as fermenting it.

If you aren’t so lucky to have friends with unkempt trees that need picking, there are lots of orchards around that you can pick at for a fee, and some with presses that won’t give you nearly the workout that ours did.

Russell Orchards in Ipswich, MA, offers apple picking all season, as well as delicious apple products – try the Apple Cider Donuts – and occasional entertainment.

Also, try The Big Apple Farm in Wrentham, although pick-your-own for 2008 is finished.  You can still buy apples and apple products in the store there. During the summer months, they also have pick-your-own blueberries and raspberries.

Or, check out Red Fire Farm in Granby, MA, where you can press your own cider each year at their Fall Feast. This farm also offers a CSA for pick-up in Boston locations, which offers a nice infusion of locally-grown veggies all summer and fall for what turns out to be a very reasonable price.

Driving back to Boston with our cider securely buckled into the back seat, we knew that in a few weeks, the trees would be brown and the wind would be howling. Our cider will be even better then, hot and with a cinnamon stick. 

Fulton Street, Sunny San Francisco

The cops are coming, ditch the forks. Ditch the Forks!

1. “…we even got a secret handshake”

2. vocal harmonies

3. complete disregard for release date

4. See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pastiche

5. Lael IS Hip Hop

6. “de markee on a wee mo day hala ba dee bop, ba dee boo day”

7. Two mentions today of “bangin’ on the bathroom floor”

8. Lael: “shhh…too loud”

Ha-ha! This is the official photo accompanying Wcities’ guide to dining and drinking in Singapore. We like it because it really makes you want to eat, eat, eat and drink, drink, drink.

Party this Friday at Tantrum!