Alexis deBoschnek is known to the internet at large as a skilled host – and I can personally attest that she lives up to the hype.  At her family farm, late last month, I joined with a group of 20 or so incredible women, to celebrate the "fall kick-off" with Icelandic Provisions - one of the only dairy brands I'll happily buy from, and a truly excellent skyr maker. Tres chic, upstate!

Balancing a plate of late season vegetables and my fork on one hand, and my purse and my scarf in the other, the entire group of us stared up the mountain as our jaws all went slack. Out of the fog, Alexis' horses thundered down the mountain and into the lower pasture, their home for the night, right across from our little patio.  Thick legs driving heavy hooves, resonating down through the ground and up my spine, shaking loose the sensory memory of our own horse in Hawaii, doing his own run through the fog and down the mountain, a million years ago and a million miles away.  The vibrations shook the earth. The smell of fog on torn grass. Home.

That's what I’ll remember.

Everyone else?  I worry they'll remember me losing my footing on the deck, and landing with a resonant thud that shook the house with easily as much force as the horses' evening traverse. I hit the ground face-first, right into aforementioned plate full of food.

This wasn't a discreet slip – one second I was standing, and the next I was flat on my back on the deck, with my entire plate of food painted over me. My sweater, my jeans, my purse, my scarf – and in the less likely places – my hair. Under the waistband of my jeans. In the grooves of my belt.

Hello world. Nice to see you. I hope you like yogurt?

Here's the thing – I've never seen so many women leap to help someone at once, all sweeping me up off the patio and into the kitchen where a small army with napkins and water began cleaning every fold of my sweater, every spot on my jeans, my purse, my scarf, my hair, the folds of everything, the little places I didn't even know I had, until It was just Alexis and I and a couple of wet napkins scrubbing away at a difficult spot in my belt.

In what seemed like three seconds – what must have been a record time to go from being absolutely slimed to being photo-ready – I was upright, unthinkably clean, and back to dinner – just in time for the speeches and introductions.

By late afternoon, the mountain had disappeared into low fog. The garden was still green, but full of deep burgundy, red, hot-pink zinnias, and yellow leaves peeking out from the trees. Fall slipping in, before summer had fully exited..

It was blooming, browning, changing color, and disappearing into the mist all at once.

We chatted, picked at the buffet, and made bouquets from the garden.  I've had a lot of personal upheaval this year, and the group assembled was like new air – many friends of friends, but no one so close to me that they had seen any of the dystopia this year has been.  I could be here now. It was crucial, and not a feeling I often get from a sponsored dinner, where things can so easily turn awkward and clumsy for me.

I don’t have a photograph of the horses. I was too busy watching it happen, swept up into memory. I did have the sense to get a picture once they'd settled, and I'd broken away from the group and gone off solo to spend a little time with them.

Dessert- I ate this one, instead of wearing it.

From there, It was a quick hop over to the Delhi Chamber of Commerce mixer, where I got in just as things were winding down – hugged friends, hugged friends-of-friends, hugged goodbyes, and headed back out – blink and you'll miss it.

Fall is relentlessly social in the Catskills. Everyone is opening something, harvesting something, cooking something, hosting something, or setting up a tent in a field.

A couple weekends later, we took Maison Bébé to the Belleayre Fall Festival. Pop-up season means endless loading and unloading, punctuated by the best socializing of the year. We love meeting so many of you – our favorite part of this company.

Babes and Lu are completely unimpressed by my fall social calendar.

They don't care who is having an opening, who is hosting dinner, or which harvest festival we're attending. They care that I have been out too often when I should be on the trail with them, or curled up with them, or feeding them. Especially feeding them.

The fall leaves have been outrageous, and we're trying to make the most of it.  Three times a day on the rail trail, and when the weather agrees, we have secret spots deep in the hills where they can go full-tilt Dalmatian and run at top speed.

Running is not a casual thing for dalmatians – distance running is what they're bred for. The breed can do 50 miles without breaking down.  I always get a little worried that they'll try something like that one day, and just never come home, but the breed was also built for loyalty. They won't leave me behind, even if I am a terrible runner and just slow them down.

There is a brief stretch every fall when everyone in the entire Western Catskills seems like we're outside together – a last hurrah before the cold settles in. Every weekend is filled (and we're open all weekend, so the calendar is tricky!), The house is full, the shop is busy, the girls are impatient, the leaves are red, and our kitchen in particular can turn into a high-volume restaurant.

I'm exhausted, and fulfilled. I fear the cold, but I love the season. And at least I'm not covered in yogurt.

xx
Remy