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Cross my heart and hope to die
Wednesday, January 29, 2020 at 12:44AM 
On October thirty-first of last year, TG and I were almost midway through our eight-day tour of New York and New England.
We spent that day in Sleepy Hollow, New York, with a brief foray across the Tappan Zee Bridge to Nyack for lunch.
While in Sleepy Hollow we hung out at -- where else? -- Sleepy Hollow Cemetery.
And what a cemetery it is. I avoid cliché like the plague -- it's okay to snicker right there; I did it on purpose -- but there's no other way to describe the place. It's out of this world. Beyond my wildest dreams. Almost too good to be true.
I could rhapsodize further but you get my drift.
The weather was semi-unusual for the Hudson River Valley on the day before November: rainy and nearly seventy degrees.
But the rain was little more than a nuisance; not long after we arrived, it stopped altogether. It fell in earnest for a short while later, but that's part of the larger story, so wait for it.
(I carried an oversized golf umbrella all day anyway, and it came in handy more than once as a walking stick.)
If you ain't Dutch you ain't much
On the same property, preceding Sleepy Hollow Cemetery but merging so seamlessly that you're barely aware when you've stepped out of one and into the other, is the Old Dutch Church and Burying Ground.
As you might imagine, it is filled stem to stern with some seriously old graves.
Also there is a collection of wooden shoes.
When we arrived at the cemetery, never having been there before, we proceeded down a road to the right, where said road forked just past the entrance and a small parking lot.
It was obvious that the road to our left allowed foot traffic only, and we wanted to ride around for a few minutes to get the lay of the land.
Besides. My mouth was hanging open but I couldn't speak. TG has seen this before; he knows what to do. He drives until I say stop.
We hadn't driven fifty yards before we turned onto a small rustic bridge and beheld this scene:
click to embiggen
Stop, I said. I was nearly hyperventilating with joy as I got out of the car. It was autumn in New York and I was there. The temperature was what it would be if Goldilocks were a meteorologist, and nature's bright fashions were breathtaking, and even with the sound of rushing water, the air was saturated with quiet peace.
It was ... well. It was Sleepy Hollow Cemetery on the last day of October.
I should confess at this juncture that prior to our trip, I may have been under the impression that there was only one Sleepy Hollow Cemetery in the Northeast. Most people probably think the same, if for no other reason than that of Sleepy Hollow's fame as the setting of Washington Irving's The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.
But that turns out to not be the case.
There is another -- much younger -- Sleepy Hollow Cemetery in Concord, Massachusetts, three-plus hours by car from Sleepy Hollow, New York. It is there that such nineteenth-century literary luminaries as Louisa May Alcott, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Henry David Thoreau are interred.
I am sad to say that on this trip, we didn't make it to Concord. We didn't even make it to Harvard Yard, although we were a mile from it for an entire day. Massachusetts calls for eight days -- or more -- of its own and unless providentially hindered, in a different autumn we'll give it the attention it deserves.
At any rate, having turned onto the charming little bridge -- the photo below is of the view from the other side of the car -- we soon realized that beyond it lay a newer part of the cemetery.
click to embiggen
Since I was there to see old graves, we returned to the parking lot, visited the office to secure a map, and set out on foot to explore the part of the cemetery that doesn't allow cars.
After we'd wandered for at least two hours, marveling and studying and graving and snapping pictures -- including at the grave of Washington Irving -- raindrops were once again falling on our heads.
I was hungry so a plan was quickly formed to go and have a cozy lunch, then come back to Sleepy Hollow later. The forecast was for less moisture in the afternoon.
But there's more to the story than that. When the subject of food is introduced in conjunction with me, you know that's bound to be the case.
I had done a great deal of research before our trip regarding the location of the best places to have breakfast for lunch. Because nine tenths of the time, that's what I want.
Pull over and back up
I'd picked out at least three places with stellar reviews in the Nyack area, and we'd eaten at one of them the day before, with spectacular results.
That was the day -- October thirtieth; I haven't told you about it yet -- that we spent at Kensico Cemetery in Valhalla, New York, five miles from Sleepy Hollow.
We traveled over the Tappan Zee Bridge from Tarrytown to Nyack on both days. And on both days, the sky and the water were the same silver-gray color as the bridge.
Wouldn't it have been awe-inspiring to see the storied Hudson River on a sparkling day in autumn? I agree. But we didn't. We couldn't see it at all. The riverbed may as well have been filled with RC Colas and Moon Pies, or dancing neon pool noodles.
So on the next-to-last day in October, the day we spent at Kensico -- stay with me -- we made our first trip across the bridge to Nyack, to have lunch at Strawberry Place.
I'd picked Strawberry Place because the reviews on TripAdvisor were overwhelmingly positive. Also I liked that it's a tiny hole-in-the-wall type of establishment, as opposed to a chain. When we arrived I went straight to the back of the long, narrow space, where there was a table for two set in a window.
I love sitting in a window, on a rainy day, to eat breakfast.
We studied the menu. I don't remember what TG ordered but when my eyes focused on a dish named Fall Foliage French Toast -- it was on a seasonal insert shoved into the regular menu -- I knew to look no further.
I asked for scrambled eggs to go along with it, and hot fresh coffee. This would be our main meal of the day.
Here's where it gets really good. The waitress, who was kind and attentive, delivered our orders.
When she put my plate in front of me, I came berry close to telling her that she'd brought me the wrong thing.
I'd ordered French toast! But I could not see any French toast on my plate.
Now that I study that picture, I see an edge of bread peeking out from beneath the berries and banana and yogurt and granola heaped upon it so high that the challah French toast foundation is all but obscured.
In addition to a glut of strawberries -- duh, Strawberry Place -- and perfectly ripe banana discs, there were blackberries, raspberries, blueberries, and peach slices. Heaps and piles of them. The creamy yogurt and crunchy granola on top were ideal companions for the succulent fruit and thick, soft, sweet grilled bread.
Second verse not the same as the first
So on the next day -- October thirty-first -- hungry and being rained upon at Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, the memory of Fall Foliage French Toast at Strawberry Place was like a magnet pulling me back.
click to embiggen
Forget about the other places I'd scoped out. This was a known quantity. Don't mess with success. If it ain't broke, don't fix it. Go with what you know. These were my arguments.
So back across the Tappan Zee Bridge we went on yet another pea-soup day. Back to Broadway in Nyack. TG dropped me off and went to park.
As soon as I stepped inside Strawberry Place, I could tell our dining experience was not going to be the same as the day before.
For one thing, our table at the back window was taken. And so were all of the ones along the long exposed brick wall, and so was the lone table in the front window.
That left one of several tables in the middle, between the wall tables and a long counter. I hate sitting in the middle, exposed on all sides. I always ask for a window table and am willing to wait for it.
I sat down and tried not to be negative, although I was full of misgivings. At least I knew how delicious the Fall Foliage French Toast would taste. But our kind, sweet waitress from the day before was not there. We were waited upon by a young man who seemed nice if a trifle aloof.
I ordered the Fall Foliage French Toast and coffee without consulting the menu. Knowing how generous the portion of French toast and fruit and yogurt and granola was going to be, I skipped the scrambled eggs.
In due time the young man put our meals in front of us. Once again, I did not recognize mine as being what I had ordered.
Whereas the day before I had not been able to see the French toast, today I could see almost nothing BUT the French toast.
Oh, there were a few strawberries and some banana. There was a drizzle of yogurt and a sprinkling of granola.
But the raspberries had gone rogue and there was nary a blackberry. The blueberries were out of town and the peach slices were conspicuous only in their absence.
Bewildered, I wondered whether it would be appropriate to whip out my phone and show our server the picture of the same menu item I'd ordered just the day before, which looked like it came not only from another restaurant, but from another planet.
But even though both dishes cost the same and yet were completely different quantities, that struck me as petty. So I didn't.
Morose and feeling cheated, I ate my Fall Foliage French Toast version two. It didn't take long. It was good. It just wasn't as good. Which for some reason made it seem bad. And that made me sad.
Oh how the flighty are fallen
I know; I'm a problem child.
For the rest of our trip -- and beyond -- I talked about the Fall Foliage French Toast Failure to anyone who would listen. A few days later, at the Deluxe Town Diner in Boston, I was telling our server about it (because I wondered if they could whip me up some Fall Foliage French Toast). I even showed her the picture.
click to embiggen
She assured me that the same thing happens there all the time. Different cooks yield different interpretations of the same dish. Or as I have concluded, some cooks are generous with toppings and others are stingy.
TG got to the point that, when he'd see me getting wound up again about Fall Foliage French Toast, he'd intone: Let it go, baby. Let it go.
And of course he was right. And for the most part I've listened; I haven't talked about it for a while now, until I decided to tell you.
But what I couldn't understand was how an experience could be so perfectly incredible one day and sink to such inglorious depths only twenty-four hours later.
I'm happy to report that the Fall Foliage French Toast incident was one of only a few minor disappointments to blight our truly delightful and wonderful trip, which was memorable in every good way.
Still, I learned a lesson.
Lightning doesn't strike in the same place in the same way twice. Especially not two days in a row.
When -- out of nowhere -- you're handed an experience so sublime that it will forever remain a glittering jewel in your mind, recognize that fact and move on. Don't try to recreate it.
Go in a different direction and have a new adventure next time. It may not be as fabulous as the first but at least it will be fresh.
As for me, I went back to the well and it was all but dry. I won't be making that mistake again.
Cross my heart and hope to die.
And that is all for now.
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Happy Wednesday :: Happy Week
