I have come to realize that almost anywhere you travel in New York that is not New York City is referred to as upstate.  In this case, upstate was the Finger Lakes region.  I was compelled to visit after reading about the farms and wineries producing bushels of local flavor.  I fell in love with Trumansburg, a sleepy town about 20 miles outside of Ithaca, where Seth and I stayed at a B&B.  I sometimes fantasize about moving up there to an old cottage and being an apprentice at The Piggery or another nearby farm.  Saturday mornings would be spent at the Ithaca Farmer’s Market and afternoons making jam or ketchup or pickled beets.  I would have a craft room and a bike with a basket.  But then my city side kicks in.  Thanks to the greenmarkets and CSAs, much of what is grown on New York farms is available here in Brooklyn.  My 20 quart stockpot works just fine in my tiny kitchen.  And when I need a nature fix, upstate is just a short drive away.


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