Slide Mountain is the highest peak in the Catskills. According to the New York/New Jersey Trail Conference website, the route takes roughly 4.5 hours and covers 6.8 miles of rocky terrain. Difficulty level: strenuous. Difficulty level in the month of January: stupidly strenuous.
I’d like to think of myself as an athletic individual. Compared to my childhood friends, whose choice exercise was “aerobics” for P.E., I did play team sports: volleyball, softball, and the like. On good days I was first base but only because I was the tallest amongst our tribe of Jews. What can I say? We were an artsy fartsy school. We were named after a tree. Athletics was not our strong suit. Marijuana and music was more our vibe.
When I got to college, I was behind the curve. I chose a traditional liberal arts school in New England where everyone either skied or sailed, hiked or biked. I was an urbanite from L.A, drowning in sea of Patagonia-wearing blue bloods. Stud muffins astounded, girls in pearls abounded. My childhood friend from Barnard once visited and was stunned by our sculpted demigods. “Are they real,” she asked. “I hope not,” I said.
Everyone exercised…all the time. If you weren’t scaling a mountain, you were worthless.
Nevertheless, it rubbed off on me. I even snagged a New Englander myself – my own personal mountain man. His sunglasses come equipped with croakies and everything. But I won’t let him wear them in public, at least not in the tri-state area.
And so, this is how I found myself climbing the tallest peak in the Catskills, on the coldest day of the year, wearing 10-year-old New Balances. Why? Because I’m a beast.
My gear for the travel upward was deemed unsuitable by my mountaineering boyfriend. On this rare occasion, I granted him full autonomy as my fashion consultant for the day. He decked me out, head to toe, until I was a walking billboard for outdoor activities. I’ve never felt more white.
When we got to the trail, he signed our names into the logbook.
“What’s that for,” I asked?
“In case we go missing and die,” he responded.
Awesome.
We went up, and up, and up some more. Through streams sheathed by ice and conifers encumbered by snow. The higher we climbed, the bitterer the cold became. After a few spills, my mountain man ripped a branch from a tree with his teeth and gave it to me as a walking stick. Clearly, he had also gone into beast mode.
“We’re almost there,” he repeated for the majority of the ascent. “I can feel it.”
“How can you feel it?” I screamed, “By sniffing for bear poop?”
My toes started to stiffen.
“We’re almost there,” he said
“You’re a god damn liar,” I said.
My toes started to crunch.
“I’m getting a little cold,” I said
“Pee,” he responded
“Sorry.”
“If you pee, you’ll warm up.”
“Here?”
“Yeah, mother nature’s toilet,” he said.
“What if someone sees me? What if I get eaten by a bear?”
“ We’ve only passed one other guy in the last two hours and the bears are sleeping.”
“Not true!” I responded. “The bear’s entire hibernation cycle has been thrown off by global warming.”
“Christ Jess. Just pee.”
I held on until my bladder began to rebel. I caved. I told him to turn around and cover me. I checked around for bear poop just in case. As a twenty-seven year-old woman of the world, I’ve accomplished many a feat. But peeing in the woods is not one of them.
Reluctantly, I pulled down my Carhartts (another borrowed item) and tried to think happy thoughts. A stiff wind blew. I persevered.
The outside world grew silent, the air still. With my bum exposed to the wild, I became one with nature. I felt like Thoreau on Walden Pond or Frost on cold Vermont night.
The woods are lovely, dark
And deep. But I have sandwiches to eat, and miles
To go after I take a leak.
After the deed was done, I was all smiles. The peak of Slide Mountain was something but nothing compared to a piss in the woods. I’d continue to wipe out on the descent - my mountain man catching flailing limbs as they went down for the count - but I was good. I had taken nature by the balls. Now all I need was a hot bath and warm meal to call it a day.
Boeuf Bourguignon
There is nothing that warms the bones like a braised slab of meat. The components for any braise are the same – a cheap cut of meat, a liquid medium and an array of aromatics. Because these dishes simmer for several hours, ingredients do not have to be top-notch making them ideal winter meals. It’s like soup – if you’ve got some flaccid carrots in the fridge, throw them in.
Bœuf bourguignon, also called beef burgundy, is a one-pot braise that is relatively inexpensive to make. Do not be fooled by the name, this is not haute cuisine. It’s peasant food. While measurements are provided, this dish is about feel. Do as the peasants do – throw in the kitchen sink, taste as you go and have sex in the barn after.
RECIPE
(Yield: 6 servings)
2 tablespoon canola oil
8 ounces dry cured bacon, diced
2 1/2 pounds chuck beef cut into 1-inch cubes½ cup all purpose flour
2 carrots, sliced diagonally into 1-inch chunks
1 yellow onion, diced
2 cloves of garlic, minced
1/2 cup brandy
1 (750 ml.) bottle dry red wine such as Cote du Rhone or Pinot Noir
2 cups beef broth
1 tablespoon tomato paste
1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves (1/2 teaspoon dried)1 bay leaf
4 tablespoons unsalted butter at room temperature, divided
3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1 pound frozen pearl onions
1 pound fresh mushrooms stems discarded, caps sliced
Preheat the oven to 350°F.
Heat the oil in a large, bottom heavy pot (Dutch ovens are best) and sauté the bacon until browned. Remove.
Turn the heat to high. Pat the beef dry and sprinkle with salt, pepper and flour. The flour will act as a thickening agent. Add the beef to the pot and sear in batches. You should hear it sing. Do not overcrowd the pan, otherwise the beef will steam rather than sear. The key to this step is to get a nice crust on the beef. Don’t fret about the crud in the pot. It’s good crud. If the crud starts to turn black, fret. When the meat is sufficiently browned, set aside.
Add the onions, carrots and garlic to the pot and sauté until softened. If the crud is starting to become worrisome, add a splash of water and scrape. Add the brandy. Use cheap, homeless person brandy. This is not the time for Remy Martin XO. Ignite the pot to burn off the alcohol. Be bold. Be brave. I recommend using a long match or, as I did in the Catskills, lighting a stick. Stand back, be a baller and watch the eyebrows.
When the flame has subsided, add the meat and bacon back the pot. Add the wine and just enough stock to cover. Add the thyme, bay leaf and tomato paste. If you don’t have tomato paste, use ketchup – God’s ultimate condiment.
Bring the braise to a simmer and place in the oven for one and half to two hours until the meat is easily pierced with a fork. Cook it low. Cook it slow. Don’t rush this dish. Play some Barry White and make sweet, sweet love to it. We’re using a tough cut of meat. We need to titillate that baby until she becomes tender.
Meanwhile, sauté the mushrooms in oil and butter until browned. Add to the stew. If using frozen pearl onions, add them to the stew before serving and bring to a boil. If using fresh onions (a recommended addition for you pros) please see side note.
Serve with a crusty piece of bread or roasted fingerling potatoes. Crack open a pinot noir – none of us can afford a burgundy – and get cozy with a mountain man.
If using fresh onions, place in shallow saute pan with water and boil until softened. Remove water, if not evaporated, and add a pinch of sugar to give the onions some color. The bottom of the pan will begin to caramelize. Add a splash of water and stir until the onions are golden brown.