Farmhouse and The Farmhouse

Aug. 3-7

Joanna e-mailed the gang in Coventry and said we’d be there sometime between noon and one, “unless Harry gets his sorry ass lost again.” 

We took a route that mostly followed state highways, almost all of them two-lane blacktops.

I think we were on the Interstate system for a total of five miles.

Even so, we made it on time.

We stayed at a big farmhouse, the home of Joanna’s sister and brother-in-law. It was an inn with an award-winning restaurant several years ago, so it had room for all the people who were stopping there.

Besides Joanna and me, visitors included another of her sisters with her husband, their two sons, who had flown in from Chicago and Philadelphia, and their daughter, who lives in central New Jersey and came to Vermont with her parents.

She also brought her two dogs, which travel with her just about everywhere. She had lived in the Philippines for a few years and brought the dogs with her when she moved back to the States.

We spent three relaxed days in Coventry. Meals were huge and included meat and vegetables grown on the farm.

One meal had three different species of birds—roast chicken and turkey, and a duck in a Cantonese dish that is usually made with chicken. With chicken it’s called mung gai. 

A key ingredient is a tasty form of tofu called bean curd thread in English. I don’t know the conventional transliteration of the Cantonese name, which sounds like “foo jook” (rhymes with “book”).

We also ate bok choi grown from seeds taken from the Arizona garden of one of Joanna’s daughters-in-law.

Joanna’s is a big family. There was one story about the experience of one of Joanna’s nieces, when she was called for jury duty. During jury selection, someone asked if any prospective jurors had a relative who was a teacher. The lady raised her hand. 

Later: “Anyone related to a lawyer?” Her hand went up.

Then: “Anyone related to a doctor?” Her hand rose again.

They called her into a sidebar. “This isn’t a joke.”

No, it wasn’t. The lady herself teaches elementary school. One of her uncles—the one, in fact, who owns the farm in Coventry—is a lawyer. Two of her uncles are eye doctors, and the brother of an uncle by marriage is an orthopedic surgeon.

My main exercise over the three days was to help build a chicken coop. 

Actually, I carried a few tools from the barn to the construction site and then held a few boards up till they were anchored in place. I also drank a beer or two. 

Another day I helped draw the chicken wire over the roof. I drank a beer or two.

At some point we lifted four-by-eight plywood sheets and laid them on top of the chicken wire.

The wire hangs down to cover any gap that may be left between the wall and roof. It’s not to keep the chickens in but the varmints out.

I was surprised that there might be gaps in the walls. This is Vermont. Winters are serious up here.

Then I learned that the chickens in this coop are being raised for meat, not for eggs. That means they’ll be in the freezer long before winter comes. 

It wasn’t a lot of work, so maybe it was the country air. Coventry has almost three times the elevation that I’m used to. Anyhow, after only three or four beers a day I’d be ready to conk out by 10.

It was good Vermont beer, mind. I had brought a dozen cans of Otter Creek IPA and another dozen cans of Harpoon.

We left for Burlington on Friday morning. We pulled up to the hotel, another Comfort Inn, around two. 

We didn’t expect to check in. Turning rooms around between guests isn’t as efficient now as it usually is. Most places are having trouble recruiting housekeeping crews. 

We haven’t been getting rooms cleaned every day. That’s no problem. We can pick up clean towels and anything else we need at the desk when we come back from dinner.

Oddly enough, though, this time we were on a floor that had already been treated. So we were good to stay.

I looked for places to have dinner and found Duke’s Public House, only about a quarter mile from the Comfort Inn.

We’re in South Burlington, suburban sprawl country, but we could actually walk to a restaurant with craft beer. 

Now, this is when Harry got his sorry ass lost again. I had done a quick run on Google maps to learn how to get to Duke’s. Of course, I misread the map.

I led Joanna past several malls of big-box stores and walked far longer than we were supposed to go. Then I had to admit I was lost. We walked back to the hotel.

I phoned Duke’s. Somehow, I had gotten the names of the local streets mixed up. Indeed, the pub was in walking distance. Just walking in a different direction.

Second try brought us there in a few minutes. 

It was a little disappointing. The menu I had seen online was nothing like the abbreviated lists the waiter handed us. 

We managed to find something that looked all right. Joanna found one of her fallbacks, grilled salmon. I had a burger with lots of stuff on it and a garlic mayo, which wasn’t bad.

The beer list had two craft names, Switchback and one other.

No indication of what. It turned out that they were both unfiltered IPAs. They were familiar and good.

I made the mistake of ordering a third ale at the bar and two cans to go. Joanna and I shared the third ale over a slice of cheesecake.

By the time we got back to the hotel, I was so done in, that I lay down and only got up to brush my teeth and went back to bed, sometime around 9 p.m.

Saturday we went to downtown Burlington. 

Joanna wanted to see the University of Vermont campus, where her son Brian graduated. It was about a half mile from the hotel, but we almost got lost there too because so much of it was under construction.

Then we made our way another half mile or so into town. It took a while to find a place to park.

We found a spot on Main Street near a bakery called August First, on the corner of Main and Champlain. We shared a scone there. Actually, we bought it so I’d have a chance to use the restroom.

Then we walked uphill to a colorful part of town called the Church Street Marketplace. This is a stretch of several blocks of a city street that has been turned into a pedestrian mall. 

There are shops, bars, and eateries of various kinds on both sides and kiosks set up in between. It’s not unique, of course. But this kind of thing is always fun.

We sat at the upper end for a while to watch people walk by. We’ve done that kind of thing many times in many places. Even without a beer in front of me, it was fun just to watch and relax.

We went back to the hotel for a short break and to zero in on a place to have dinner.

We had seen a lot of bars and brewery tasting rooms in Burlington, but few were serving food we wanted for dinner. Google turned up one that looked promising, The Farmhouse Tap and Grill, which describes itself as “farm-to-table gastropub and world class beer bar,” on Bank Street. 

We went back to town and parked in almost the same spot as before on Main Street. It was a walk of two blocks up Pine Street and one and a half on Bank to The Farmhouse.

Joanna had the Summer Chicken Dinner, a roasted leg and thigh served with collard greens and cheese grits. I took a little taste of all three. 

The chicken and the grits were good. But here we were, up north in true Yankee country, enjoying some of the best Confederate collard greens that either of us had ever eaten.

I stuck with a couple of standard favorites, oysters on the half shell with an IPA and steamed mussels with a Belgian style ale.

The IPA, from a Vermont brewer called Hill Farmstead, ran about 6 percent ABV. It was very fragrant, with a strong citrus aroma and flavor. It had a fine bitterness.

The Belgian, whose origin I failed to record, was also good, with that strong spicy edge (cardamom or clove, I can never decide which) that Chimay ales have.

I’m back in the hotel. It’s after 11. I’ve run out of beer and am reduced to drinking water. 

Be well, all.

We’re going to Albany tomorrow to see what’s between here and there.

Harry