Welp, the “Sandpoint Eater” has been eating everywhere but Sandpoint lately; and, truth be told, I’ve been missing my usual local haunts. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve settled into my favorite eateries, and perched on a stool for a late-afternoon libation. But sometimes life — and family — pulls us down the road, and that’s where a lot of my recent stories come from, too. Alas, I’ll be home most of November and already have lots of lunch dates on the books.
Last week, the road led me six hours southeast to Butte, Mont. My college-aged grandson, Zane, was having a birthday, and I wasn’t about to miss it. His cousin Alden joined me for the ride. We met up in Coeur d’Alene for our long-planned road trip. I count myself lucky to have grandkids who still enjoy hanging out with their Mimi. It made the long miles feel like a treat rather than a trek.
When we pulled into Butte, there was no question about where we’d celebrate: Lydia’s Supper Club. If you’ve spent any time in Butte, you probably know it — or at least have heard stories about it. Lydia’s has been serving Meaderville-style Italian food for generations. It’s one of those timeless restaurants where the lights are just a little dim, the waitresses call you “honey” and complimentary first courses — like handmade ravioli, spaghetti and sweet potato salad — are served on family-style platters meant to be shared.
I’m not the only one who loves Lydia’s; in fact, about 10 years ago, Anthony Bourdain stopped there on one of his Montana episodes — and for good reason. Lydia’s isn’t fancy, but it’s pure, old-world comfort. Their spaghetti, steaks and even the chicken are legendary, and the homemade ravioli tastes like it was hand-rolled in Nonna’s kitchen.
For me, though, it wasn’t just about the food — it was about the memories. I’ve celebrated birthdays, anniversaries and reunions there over the years, and this night felt like a full-circle moment. Introducing the grandsons to this iconic eatery was both nostalgic and fulfilling, and Alden declared it the best steak he’d ever tasted.
I’ve been loyal to Lydia’s for 50-plus years, and I well remember when there were many similar restaurants in the area; sadly, all but Lydia’s are now just fond memories.
This week I’m off on another adventure — a short trip north to Nelson and Ainsworth Hot Springs, which might include a quick stop in Creston, for its local Poutine Month, celebrating Canada’s beloved comfort food of crispy fries topped with squeaky cheese curds and rich brown gravy.
Every region of Canada puts its own spin on it, so I’m curious to see what Creston’s chefs are serving up. How could anyone resist that? Maybe I’ll even bring home a new recipe or two to try out in my own kitchen. Nelson’s just a hop and a skip beyond, and those northern neighbors (still!) welcome us with open arms.
I’ll be home for most of November, watching the unpredictable fall season. There’s already a chill in the air, making the mornings crisp and the evenings perfect for soup and shawls. I don’t make shawls, but I have already been simmering stock pots of soup (including a gallon of split pea soup that I portioned into single servings and delivered frozen to the birthday boy in Butte).
Around this time every year, my snowbird friends start packing up and heading south — some to Arizona, some to California, others to wherever the sunshine is brightest. Snowbirding is always on my winter list, yet to be fulfilled. I always feel a twinge of envy, but also a quiet appreciation for those of us who stay behind to enjoy the slower rhythms of fall in North Idaho.
One of those dear friends stopped by before leaving town and handed me a basket of homegrown pears — one of my absolute favorite fall fruits. Pears are such an underrated treasure: tender, sweet and fragrant when perfectly ripe. I’ve been thinking about what to do with them, and I think I’ve landed on the perfect plan: I’m going to bake them up in puff pastry, with a bit of sugar, butter and love.
The result is simple — golden parcels that puff and crackle in the oven, filling the kitchen with a scent that makes you forget about winter for a moment.
I love baking on a chilly afternoon. Maybe it’s the nostalgia (that my family says I’m famous for), or just the comfort of making familiar foods and recalling fond memories to warm me up.
If you’re not yet a snowbird and packing up to wander south, here’s a cozy (and fragrant) baking project for the weekend. All you need is a few ripe pears and store-bought puff pastry. To the rest of you, there’s solace knowing that no matter where we wander, we all find our way back home.
Baked pears on puff pastry
These are a lovely fall dessert, served as-is or with a dollop of whipped cream, vanilla ice cream or a drizzle of (my favorite) caramel sauce. Serves 4.
Line a baking sheet with parchment paper. Roll out the puff pastry slightly and cut into 4 equal rectangles. Place each rectangle on the prepared baking sheet. Cut each rectangle slightly larger than the pear halves (about 1 inch wider all around).
Peel and halve the pears vertically. Carefully scoop out the cores. Fill each hollow with finely chopped pecans.
Mix cinnamon and sugar in a small bowl. Brush the tops of the pear halves with melted butter and sprinkle generously with cinnamon sugar. Place each pear half, core side down, onto a puff pastry rectangle. Crimp the edges of the pastry around the pear with a fork or your fingers. Make several thin vertical slashes on the pears so the sugar and butter can seep into the pears.
Use the trimmed pastry corners to cut out small leaf shapes. Score veins into the leaves with a knife. Arrange the leaves on baking sheet with pears.
Brush all exposed pastry (including leaves) with beaten egg.
Bake for 20-25 minutes, or until pastry is puffed and golden.
Check the leaves after 10-12 minutes — remove them early if golden brown to prevent overbaking.
Once pears are tender and pastry is golden, remove from oven. Transfer to a cooling rack and loosely cover with foil. Let cool to room temperature before serving.
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