Contact us to receive our media kit with detailed marketing information. Preston Trading Post Fifty-Two Years Still Solid as Wood
What is Greg Drinking? - Rosso di Todi Umbria
“Blessed is he who has learned to admire but not envy, to follow but not imitate, to praise but not flatter, and to lead but not manipulate.” — William Arthur Ward
As I write this note, there is an “historic winter storm” rumored to be bearing down on the central and the northeast portion of US over the weekend. Depending on who you listen to, it will either be five to ten inches of snow or a nation-crippling ice-pocalypse.
I had planned to visit a friend of fourty-years who has a place located in the old steel factory up on Federal Hill. For anyone unfamiliar with the area, it’s a hip little neighborhood in Providence RI. inhabited by artists and top-notch Italian restaurants among many other great places to eat. He and I have one of those rare connections that if we see each other, where no matter if it was ten years or ten hours, we just pick up where we left off. One of those types of friendships. A blessing for sure. We had intended to get together for the day, surf one of our usual long and unbridled conversations, grab a bite to eat, and then I would head home to Old Saybrook after dinner.
My first response when learning of this incoming world-ending storm was to cancel or postpone, there was no urgency, of course right? The storm is supposed to wander in on Saturday evening, continue all day Sunday, and linger into Monday morning. Snow or ice? An hour drive to get back home. This visit would require a commitment. It has morphed from a day trip into two nights with no idea if it could be more than even that.
After he and I confirmed that there was indeed weather coming, I shot him a text about our plans. “I could either get snowed in alone or get snowed in with friends.”
He sent me a return text “I would come here, and we can cook some good food and chill.” If we lose power here in CT. you can always read an INK magazine.
Rona Mann - Greater Connecticut six07co@att.net - 401-539-7762
Jeffery Lilly founder / publisher
Thomas Adkins, Late Afternoon Winter Shadows, Oil, 16 x 20”
Anne McGrory, A Little Gold, Pastel/gold leaf, 16 x 12
Ken DeWaard, Late Night Schooners, Oil, 12 x 16”
Marc R. Hanson, Last Light, Oil, 12 x 12”
Jeanne Rosier Smith Corner Window, Pastel, 11 x 7”
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What is Greg Drinking?
Athletic Brewing Company
February can be a tough month. Still dark late into the morning and early in the evening. Dreadful weather with corresponding dreary moods. Yet how can we not LOVE February? Black history month is an important reminder to celebrate the important aspect of diversity to the national fabric. Plus we get to celebrate Mardi Gras, National Pizza Day and watch the Super Bowl. Yet the biggest holiday that occurs during the shortest month is undoubtedly Valentine’s Day. This month let us check in with a wine from the region where St. Valentine hailed from: De Monaco & Holland: Rosso di Todi Umbria 2020.
The goal to examine a wine from where the ‘Patron Saint of Love’ gained fame (and for the date-night adverse, deserved infamy) brought me over to Cove Ledge Package Store in the Stonington Borough. The ownership and staff there had recently been introduced to this vibrant red from a region of Italy that flies a little under the radar when compared to some of the other Italian DOCs you might know of (DOC meaning Denominazione di Origine Controllata, the Italian wine certification proving legitimate origin, quality, and agreed upon production standards.) Not knowing what to expect with regards to this particular region I started to do some precursory research. Basically Umbria’s wines tend to be either extremely simplistic (read natural and often gamey) or overly driven to commercialization and market trends. Yet this seems to be the sweet spot where old world soil and generational toil pays off.
The grapes for this particular offering are primarily Sangiovese (rounded out with ten percent split between Colorino and Malvasia Nera) and are harvested from soil that is a fertile swirl of clay, sand and gravel. The vineyard is located a few hours outside of Rome in the hilltop town of Collazzone, a wine region that has been filling carafes since around 396 BCE (only missing offering a toast to Saint Valentine by a hundred or so years!) With only a few acres more of planted vineyard space than my primary employer (Saltwater Farm Vineyard) you immediately see why the distribution of this particular wine is limited to shelves in stores that take the sipping seriously. The citizens of Umbria take great pride in the unofficial title of
being the oldest Italian tribe of the many that were lumped into Rome (and much later the modern Italian state.) Lorenzo De Monaco owns and operates the whole vineyard with extreme attention to detail. The farming is typically biodynamic in nature so you will be happy to know that great lengths have been taken to avoid chemical treatments and the like. The grapes are aged in a blend of amphorae (clay) and Demi-muids (larger oak barrels meant to soften the oak effect) to an astoundingly precise pitch point. Native yeast only
On to the virtuous products of the vines in question! My Irish eyes and palate were immediately drawn to the forest green wax and corresponding label, all in Italian so you will need to work with Google translate if you are looking for immediate answers. The cork exudes fennel and black liquorice. The legs (the imprints on your glass from the viscosity) hang on longer than the wait for a table with a view on February 14th. What that means for you the lucky imbiber is: medium plus body and an elevated ABV of 14.5%. Garnet color swirling and popping off of your tastebuds like pomegranate seeds and plum. This red has a ton of foundational structure from the perfect touch of tannins. One minute there is salinity reminiscent of a brackish brookstone and the next it is sifted cocoa. This wine would be a pleasure with pizza, great for grilled meats and super with ‘Sunday-gravy.’ You can serve it on date night this year or hold out until a meaningful anniversary because it is only getting better with age.
Saint Valentine has a legacy largely lost to Hallmark cards and bad boxed candies. He is the patron saint not just of love and courtship but also carries the honor of being invoked by beekeepers and people afflicted with bouts of fainting (talk about being swept off of your feet!) Regardless of how or whether you celebrate this mid-winter tradition, I know that the goal of promoting love and devotion to causes bigger than yourself was valid then and desperately important now. So let yourself enjoy the frivolity of having people that you love in your life be worth a gesture.
Gregory Post is a sommelier and manager at Saltwater Farm Vineyard, affiliated with Kingdom of the Hawk Vineyard.
By Madeline B
Photographs Courtesy of Rona Mann y eaudry gpyf
The story May wrote was actually an endearing poem called Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Nearly 2.5 million copies were distributed to Montgomery Ward’s shoppers that Christmas. And by the 1947 Christmas season, the poem was published as a hardcover book, and a 45-rpm record was made as well.
Un the the isn eve not
She is small but mighty here is a softness, a gentleness to her persona, and yet one senses that under the skin, there lies a fierceness of resolve.
y, , her steely blue eyes laser-focused on her subject; her work is a perfect reflection of these qualities.
In 1949 Gene Autry, known as the Singing Cowboy, recorded the song of the same name which was composed by May’s brother-in-law Johnny Marks. The song was eventually recorded by many other well-known singers including Dean Martin, Dinah Shore, Perry Como and Bing Crosby. It became the second most popular Christmas song just behind White Christmas. May went on to write two sequels to Rudolph the RedNosed Reindeer. And soon several lm adaptations of the beloved story followed.
nlike many artists who merely select the materials with which ey work because they prefer the ease of their performance or e way the finished product appears, this artist is different. She never afraid to let her materials take the lead, select her path, or en change the direction she had initially chosen. The materials are t innate tools of her work; they are partners in the total creation, and
d she has the utmost respect for wher r.
Ma the qui He rag “w me bec
e clay
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adeline Beaudry {pronounce bow-dree} has a deep passion for y, , acrylics, wool, and silk with which she works, moving ickly from one art form to another by whim and/or intention.
ing one
By 1964, the first televised puppet animation of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer was produced by Rankin/ Bass Productions. It featured Burl Ives as the voice of Sam the Singing Snowman, who narrates the story of Rudolph finding his way and eventually leading Santa’s sleigh.
er quiet beauty and soft-spoken manner seem to belie the ging passion that bubbles to the surface when she works. And works” is most definitely the correct word, for Beaudry doesn’t erely create like so many other artists, she attacks the canvas, comes one with the felt, bursts forth in her signature doll-makg, and when she is finished, she surprises and delights everye, even herself.
If y “m to e fini
Rh the qui
hode Island in W you must label her
r, , she would likely be categorized as a mixed-media producer” in the art world, but Beaudry seems eschew labels and categories, both as a creative and for her ished pieces. She maintains two studios, one on the coast of Waakefield and the other in Deland, Florida, in e Daytona Beach area. While this extraordinary artisan works ietlyandaloneinasmallspaceawayfromeverythingelse
Ma by unt art
It was a huge success and is still the longest running TV special in the history of television. In fact, nearly 60 years later, you’re hard pressed to find anyone from Baby Boomers to Gen Alpha who have not seen or heard a Rudolph production at least once in their life. “The single most important person to Rankin/Bass classic TV Special, is Romeo Muller,” says Official Rankin/Bass Productions Historian/ Biographer Rick Goldschmidt. “Romeo wrote the entire special and created all of the characters besides Rudolph. If it were
ietly and alone in a small space, away from everything else, adeline does not work in isolation. She is constantly guided her many and varied materials, not blank slates but entities to themselves, and because Madeline Beaudry is that kind of ist, she pays attention to this guidance and respects it.
Art gre
“Ev by l
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t quickly turned into a passion at an early age. Madeline ew up in Buffalo, New Yo y. . r, , so I grew up surrounded five family members who all had the habit, and I existed in a oud of their constant smoke. Because of it, I was always out of hool with respiratory illnesses, so on the way to the doctor’s fice, my mother would stop and buy me art supplies to make y..” The smoke lifted!
ork, the youngest in the family Y
veryone in my house was a smoker
In h wh she wo cen
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high school, Beaudry enjoyed taking several art courses, but hen she graduated and went on to State University College, r, , not exactly what you ould expect from a budding artist. “But all my electives were nter y..”
ed in art and ceramic art,” Madeline adds, “so I was happy
Finding just the right fit in a challen worked for a time at Abbott Labora ment, but a career in sales and the
Fin wo me
nging job market, Madeline atories, selling medical equiprequired traveling for sales lent
Burl Ives was the voice of Sam the Singing Snowman who narrates the story of Rudolph
Burl Ives with the snowman and Rudolph
True Love
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You’re Being Paged by
Rick Koster
THIS COLUMN BROUGHT TO YOU BY...
In the abandoned barn called my brain, where the pollen-chaff of age and misdeeds has crusted my hippocampus, I can no longer pinpoint details of certain past events with the scalpelsharp acuity of youth.
This is mildly interesting to me because, over the holidays, flipping through the channels, I came across a football game called the Union Home Mortgage Gasparilla Bowl, in which the North Carolina Wolf Pack administered a Battle of Frederickburg-style beating on the Memphis Tigers.
Or the other way around. I can’t remember!
I did not theretofore know of this particular bowl game, or who the Union Home Mortgage folks are, and I feel shame that I’m also unaware of what a “Gasparilla” is — although if it’s a fruit or a cocktail, it certainly sounds refreshing.
(EDITOR’S NOTE: as even minimal research by Koster would reveal,“Gasparilla” is an annual pirate festival in Tampa Bay. And also, apparently, a football game.)
What’s more important, though, is that I wondered, “When did corporations start sponsoring, well, everything?” Bowl games were prominent in this development, and I suspect many of the thousand or so bowl games each year came into existence recently — simply so corporations could have more things to sponsor. And then more!
At some point, some marketing brainiac, whose vision and intellect dwarfed the meager advancements of Don Draper, said, “I know! We’ll sell sponsorships for EVERYTHING!”
And lo, it came to pass. And it was Good.
By which I mean Bad.
For example, and per the Gasparilla Bowl, there seems to be no aspect of sports — particularly professional athletics — that goes without sponsorship saturation.
Announcer: “And that third down huddle by the Green Bay Packers was brought to you by Arnie’s Sliced Ham, the official sliced ham of third-down huddles in the National Football League!”
Announcer: “That walk loads the bases and that’ll do it for starting pitcher Wayne Bob Carruthers. The Braves are gonna go to reliever Josh Huckabee. This call to the bullpen is sponsored by Bradson & Sons Coffins, the official casket of Major League Baseball!”
Announcer: “And today’s breaking collegiate basketball pointshaving scandal comes to you courtesy of the DiNortoro Crime Family. If you’re looking to bet the over-under in tonight’s Iowa
A&M/Pittsburgh College of Smelting game, contact your local DiNortoro bookie!”
Another maddening extrapolation of this vast money-grab concerns network streaming services. My wife Eileen and I have budgeted, in our meager entertainment allowance, a few indulgences such as Netflix and Hulu. Unlike network television, which is free to viewers, we PAY to watch the streaming services.
And, for a while, the streaming services were free of commercial interruption.
Until they weren’t.
Recently, we noticed the episodes of our favorite series were being interrupted by ads. So, we’re paying twice, right? I realize
there’s some complex and heavily jargoned justification for this — a sophisticated corporate formula called “How can we get even more money?” — but it still sucks.
As a poorly-selling author and someone who also journalistically covers writers and publishing, I have to wonder when the slick advertising millipedes will start crawling all over the book business.
There are a few ways this could happen.
First, think about all the classic authors and titles that fall under the Public Domain category. I’m not an intellectual property lawyer — and I’ll probably need one if I screw this up — but, boy, does this seem like ripe territory for the Greed People. Herman Melville, Virginia Woolf, Lewis Carrol, William Shakespeare, Emily Brontë, Mary Shelley, Charles Dickens, William Faulkner, Bram Stoker, the Brothers Grimm, Agatha Christie, Dashiell Hammett, Jane Austin, Ernest Hemingway, Franz Kafka: all these writers and more have books that are in the public domain.
Yes, there may be a few roadblocks to wholesale exploitation of these titles by advertisers, but I’m betting the Greedsters will figure out a way.
BOOK: “Bud Light presents ‘The Pickwick Papers’ by Charles Dickens”
PITCH: “Nothing goes better with a honeycomb-faceted tale set in 19th century London concerning that tense and ongoing Jarndyce and Jarndyce lawsuit, with themes of love and inheritance spasming through the prism of multiple wills, and including characters named Nemo, Mr. Tulkinghorn and Hortense, then an icy cold Bud Light!”
BOOK: “Bayer Aspirin presents ‘The Sound and the Fury’ by William Faulkner”
PITCH: “After spending quality with the wealthy Comson family, which gradually crumbles under the composite weight of members beset by such traits as promiscuity, rage, impulsiveness and mental instability — all rendered in Bill Faulkner’s inimitable stream-ofconsciousness style — chew up a few Bayer tablets and feel better!”
I can also foresee highly specialized sponsorships within books as individual properties and not simply those under public domain. You’ll be reading along, breathless as you follow a brisk narrative path — and suddenly the page text will be broken up with an important message.
THE NEXT PARAGRAPH IS PRESENTED BY DURKER’S PREOWNED AUTOMOBILES.
Or maybe the author him- or herself gets in on the game.
THE FOLLOWING METAPHOR WAS CRAFTED BY JANIE-PAM POGGNER, AUTHOR OF THE BOOK YOU’RE READING RIGHT NOW, AFTER A HEARTY BAGEL FROM ELISEO’S BAKERY. If any or all of this happens, and I have an idea it will, what I’m really hoping is that the genuine giants of bestsellerdom will hop on the bandwagon.
And I’d be first in line to buy a book with a cover that reads:
JAMES PATTERSON PRESENTS A JAMES PATTERSON NOVEL WRITTEN BY JAMES PATTERSON FROM AN IDEA BY JAMES PATTERSON … and then I’d realize, at that point, the cover design didn’t allow any space to print the actual name of the book. But that’s all OK. We’ll read it anyway. It’s by James Patterson!
(REAL EDITOR’S NOTE: In last month’s “You’re Being Paged” column, we neglected to identify Lyndon French as the photographer of the image of “Angel Down” author Daniel Kraus.)
James Patterson
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he Old Cider Mill was built in 1830, and the orchard property originally went down to the Connecticut River. My husband Lee and I purchased the Chester place during COVID, and after putting as much money as sweat into it, we traded it in for a sailboat and the liveaboard lifestyle with our two dogs, Sampson and Sully.
Before we set sail from Florida to cross the Mona Passage, we had every component, mechanical, technical, and electrical system checked, tweaked, and rechecked. After two months, all heads, all refrigerants, air conditioning, water, bilge pump, CO2, and smoke detectors, fire extinguishers— all up to snuff. Rigging, through hulls, bow thruster, winches, windlass, water maker, engine, alternator, GPS, Garmin, VHF, Insurance—check. Once everything was ready, my sister, Kimberly, joined us for our inaugural voyage. We left on April 1. April Fool’s Day. What could go wrong?
Nothing on the initial crossing —it was textbook perfection: flat, calm, clear, and cool. We docked at Brown’s Marina in Bimini, Bahamas. In the night, the winds picked up. The water hit the transom so hard when the current ripped in that it sounded like we were banging the keel on the ground. We weren’t. Terns carried on boisterously. The water was so brilliant that the Terns appeared blue-bellied as it reflected on them. A waiter serving food to a nearby picnic table on shore was swarmed by dozens of them, hoping to steal a fry or catch a fallen morsel. The waiter was oblivious and deft, the birds got nothing.
After clearing customs with ourselves and the dogs, we walked a short distance up King Street and down Queen Street in the south end of Bimini. What looked like scars from Hurricane Dorian in September of 2019— still many and deep— were a testament more to the poverty level than to Dorian, as it barely swiped this island. The first impression reminded me vaguely of Haiti, where I visited after the 2010 earthquake. The dilapidation of buildings, the worn paint and makeshift bars and shops, school children in uniforms, and a few stumble-down drinks in the bar.
We went in search of Coconut Brian’s, a bar serving adult beverages in fresh coconuts. We turned left onto Queen Street and found a bar where locals sat in the dark, and music blared from within.
“I don’t think so,” Lee said.
Fair. It was our first outing; our comfort level had not yet been calibrated. We walked a few yards
down the road in the opposite direction. A young man invited us to buy a beer from him. Two other young men sat behind an old wooden table at the upper edge of the beach. On the table stood a variety of booze bottles and a few partially full mixers. A cooler held Kalik’s, the local Bahamian beer. We availed ourselves and sat on the beach in lounge chairs in awe of the blue water. It looked entirely fake, pool-like.
We continued walking and found a legitimate beach-side bar. The dogs were a draw wherever they went, being uncommon among the residents. A man approached me, the smell of booze emanating liberally, and tried to speak to Sully, but his speech was so garbled it was unintelligible. Something about a joke and a millionaire. He grabbed at me, and I side-stepped his clumsy attempt. I think if I pushed him even slightly, he would have landed in the sand. He grabbed at me again. Maybe he was trying to stay upright, perhaps it was something more. I swatted his hand and walked away.
In the morning, the colors continued to awe, the layers of greens, azurs, and aqua waters, the buildings in pinks and blues, yellows and lavenders, and the murals painted there. Pure color-porn. The gusty forty-mile-an-hour winds thwarted our cruising for a day or two. We remained at
Brown’s Marina instead of anchoring out in a nearby cove. It was conducive to exploration by a golf cart, which we rented from one of the many vendors within walking distance of the marina. Cruise ships come in at the north end daily, so renting a cart early ensured we’d get one.
We piled in, Kimberly, Lee, and I, Sampson and Sully. Driving up King Street was so bumpy that the dogs nearly toppled out. We passed the pastel-pink market and the
white horseshoe-shaped craft center, where vendors were opening their small shops, by the gas station, which was little more than a fuel pump set in a dirt, crescent-shaped pull-off, behind a chain-link gate. The storefronts were indistinguishable from one another, looking for the most part unoccupied, never mind open for business. Conch stands and bakeries, shops selling Bimini bags and clothing, liquor stores, and barbecue kettles dotted the road until we reached the north end.
We passed through a stone arch of regal proportions and entered World Resorts. It clearly caters to the cruise ship and mega yacht clientele; the shops were high-end and pricey. A few hotels, a casino, and a valet parking lot rounded out the scene. It was like we had entered a different country, not driven seven miles down the road. Further on was a gated community with gorgeous homes, which we could only catch a glimpse of through the gate. I was told that World Resorts, which was also building the high-end homes, would not employ any locals. Not for hospitality, for building, for anything.
We circled back towards the authentic side of the island. Conch dishes are a mainstay; cracked conch is like fried clams, conch salad is akin to ceviche, and conch fritters are like clam cakes. We stopped at Joe’s Conch Stand. It was early yet, not quite 11:00, so we were the second party to arrive. We ordered conch salad because…well, when in Rome, and fried fish, snapper being the catch of the day. While we waited, I walked out onto the sand spit encompassed by a wall of conch shells. A man strategically placing pink-bellied shells on top of the wall told me to watch my step. The land I was standing on was nothing but a pile of conch shells covered in sand.
At the edge of the shore, standing unde an umbrella, was an older gentleman shucking conch. Behind him in the wat was a fenced-in area. Next to him was a long table under which two rows of conchs were corralled.
“That”hesaidpointingtothefenced er ter
That, he said, pointing to the fenced area, “is jail. And that,” he said, pointin to the row of couches under the table, “ death row y. y.
T . Not funny .” It was funny
om the bar
estaurants, helping the economy eam.Thecr the bar and dining area as people started coming in a steady str ruuise shi had disembarked, and tourists in rented golf carts filled the streets, shops, bars, an r y.
Toourists bought newly vacant snail house from the shucker and, with sharpies avai able fr r, , scrawled their name or message on them. Some conchs were add to the wall, some were placed around ng “is es ilr a ded toanearpulpsoitdoesn’tchewliker
Our salads arrived along with the fish. Th together with the minced onions, comple diced conch. Conch is tough; it needs to b ruub I c w
emented the teeny-tiny d ips nd he citrusy tang of lime, y, , be finely chopped or beaten bberThesnappercameout , D whole and crispy to a near pulp so it doesnt chew like rubber. The snapper came out y. . It was a bit dry; the lemon wedge helped some. I’ve been. I’ve seen. I’ve tried. I’m good.
