The Cabin – Pistachio-Crusted Salmon

In the early to mid-1970s when I was about seven my parents first rented a cabin with a handful of other families not far from Kutztown in Pennsylvania Dutch Country. Each family would get their own weekend about once a month throughout the year and we would go for a full week or two during the summer. Eventually my parents bought the property with their friends, and they continued to visit until just a few years ago. Little Flea Farm – as it was dubbed by the previous owners – was their escape from urban Philadelphia.

The stone building itself was old and rustic, built in the mid-19^th century. It was damp and musty, always in need of an upgrade. For example, in the 1980s, they finally replaced with a private line the old party line telephone service that we shared with neighbors in houses down the road.

The cabin had only two rooms, a downstairs living space with a trundle bed, small table, fireplace, and galley kitchen, connected by an open set of stairs to a bedroom on the second floor. When the whole family was there, quiet it was not. Outside was a large screened-in porch overlooking a big pond. It had a picnic table with uncomfortable benches for meals, projects, and all manner of games, as well as a chair or two and a hammock swinging from the rafters. This is where my two brothers and I did activities and fought (mostly about bacon) on rainy days when we could not swim or fish in the pond.

The pond, about a hundred or so feet in diameter with forest around its back rim, was the center of our attention. In the winter we skated on its frozen surface, always making sure to avoid the thin ice where the flowing water from the well filled the pond, and in summer, that’s where we spent virtually our entire day. We would swim from the shallow end to a huge red wooden raft that floated further out in the deeper water. We dove off the raft and pushed each other in. There was a rowboat that barely floated. One of us would row, probably in circles, while the others bailed water from the boat’s hull. I’m sure we weren’t wearing sunscreen and there was certainly no lifeguard; it was the 1970s after all. At night, when it was warm enough, my brothers and I laid mats on the porch floor and as we were falling asleep, the bullfrogs sang to keep us awake. During the day we tried to catch them at the far end of the pond under the willow tree. Our neighbors down the road warned us to watch our toes from the snapping turtles that were rumored to live in the depths, but to my knowledge none of these dangerous creatures were ever spotted by any of us city folk.

At one end of the pond a mason built two stone walls forming a “v” along the water’s edge and a set of steps that led to a small, shallow section of the water where the bottom was cemented over. That’s where we fished. The pond had two resident species of fish, both of which were of interest to us kids, especially my oldest brother, Lee. The bass, about a foot long, would swim in the deeper water taunting us. We dug worms and found grubs, but they never took the bait; I don’t think we ever caught even one, denying us satisfaction and our parents a delicious dinner. As much as the bass teased us, the sunfish gave us a thrill. We would ball up pieces of bread for bait, although a naked hook was often enough. Even though they were simple to reel in, it was only entertainment; they were not a desirable fish for the plate, so we threw them back. And being so easy to catch, we quickly got bored.

Most days at the cabin we took a family walk. Sometimes it was only a mile-long stroll to the start of the dead-end road after dinner, while other days it was a longer venture through woods and corn fields, no doubt encroaching where we did not belong. Sometimes we would find a box turtle munching on wild strawberries, see orange newts with brown spots crawling along the path, or spot deer in the distance.

One such walk was on a winding, overgrown driveway that followed a creek and ended at “The Glass House,” really just a normal home with huge glass windows on one side overlooking the flowing water. The “No Trespassing” signs every 20 feet along the dirt road were a sure sign that we weren’t welcome. But visit we did, not heeding the warning. The major draw for me on The Glass House walk was the abundance of toads hopping along the unkempt path. But that was not why we continued to go. We went for my brother Lee.

At some point we discovered that the owners – which may or may not have been a fishing club – had engineered shallow pools into the rapidly flowing water of the creek and then stocked them with brook trout. There were dozens of them in each of the man-made pools. It was too much for my brother to handle; he had to go fishing. Not fearing potential consequences of the law or at least an angry neighbor, and looking forward to a tasty dinner, my parents were not in the least bit discouraging. The fish were huge in my eyes, a foot and a half in length, and as fresh as can be, resulting in a satisfying meal for the adults.

When we grew older, my brothers and I stopped going with our parents to the cabin. In high school my parents would give me a choice; spend the weekend with them in a two room cabin or stay home alone in our house by myself. As any self-respecting teenager would choose, I enjoyed my freedom. In college, there were too many other things going on in my life, and so I rarely visited.

But as I got older the cabin slowly crept back into my existence. The first time my future wife Marci met my parents was on a weekend visit to the cabin, and a few years after that our kids, Jacob and Ariana, discovered that they loved to visit their grandparents there. We ate and played games at the picnic table, took long family walks, swung in the hammock, and swam in the pond. There were fewer frogs than I remember, and we forced our children to wear sunscreen and get tick checks before bed. The red wooden raft and rowboat were long gone, but my kids loved fishing from the stone wall at the edge of the pond. The bass still ignored us, but the sunfish, no smarter than before, were just as easy to catch.

A few years ago, it became too difficult for my parents to continue going to the cabin and they sold their shares. Over many years it was a place of sanctuary for them and holds many memories for me and now my children. Hopefully it will be the same for others in future generations.

Pistachio-Crusted Salmon

I would never eat the brook trout my brother caught at the cabin, and I’m sure my parents did not cook it with a pistachio crust. My father probably dusted the fillets in flour and seared them in a hot pan.

Nonetheless, here is a salmon recipe (in place of brook trout) that is quick and simple enough to make on a weeknight yet elegant enough to serve at a dinner party. Your guests will be impressed, and you will have put in little effort for such a great reward.

serves 2, about a half hour

2 – 4 to 6 oz. salmon fillets

½ tsp. kosher salt

½ tsp. fresh ground black pepper

1 Tbsp. chopped chives

1 Tbsp. Dijon mustard

1 Tbsp. maple syrup

1-2 Tbsp. mayonnaise

½-¾ cup pistachios, chopped

1. Preheat oven to 375 °F.
2. Sprinkle salmon fillets with salt and pepper and place on foil-covered sheet pan, skin side down.
3. Mix chives, mustard, maple syrup, and mayonnaise in a small bowl until well combined. Smear this mixture over salmon fillets.
4. Cover fillets with chopped pistachios.
5. Bake for 15-20 minutes until done (flaky and 145 ^oF at the thickest point). Place under broiler, if needed, to brown pistachios slightly, watching very carefully to make sure they do not burn.

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