I walked into the classroom on my first day of kindergarten, and all I could hear was screaming. Several kids clung to their parents’ legs and begged them not to leave. Some stood and sobbed in place. At the center of the room was the real show—a girl writhing on the floor and screeching loud enough to drown out the others; her helpless mom stood over her. I was in the corner, unfazed, taking everything in. “So THIS is kindergarten? This embarrassing display of hysterics is what my parents have been hyping me up for all summer? I brought out my special lamb book bag for this. What a disgrace.”

In addition to my lamb book bag, I had another unique accessory that day: a cast on my right wrist. I broke my arm over the summer when I fell off a swing set, and let me tell you, when I saw all the theatrics going on in the classroom, I thought, “Sheesh, I didn’t cry this hard when I broke an actual bone. If these kids want to be friends with me, they need to get it together.” Across the room, there was another girl standing calmly with her mom. Her name was Michelle, and she spotted me right away. Her mom recalls what she saw that day: “Taylor had a cast on her arm, and Michelle loves to help injured baby birds. Also, they were the only two quiet kids in the middle of all that screaming. I knew right away they’d be friends.”

Best friends, to be exact, and our bond hasn’t wavered in the decades since. Together we’ve celebrated birthdays and graduations and taken vacations. I was the maid of honor at her wedding, and I was there when she and her husband got their first apartment. We were fresh out of college, and the place was small with a galley kitchen and the fridge tucked in the corner of the living room. It had zero counter space, but that did not deter Michelle. She received a bunch of kitchen gadgets and cookbooks for her wedding and loved to use them. She invited me and her sisters over for dinner all the time. She tried many dishes, but our favorite was her paninis. Every Thursday I’d go over to watch our favorite shows, and Michelle would dig out her panini press and customize each sandwich.

Michelle improvised her recipe, keeping the ingredients simple. Turkey or ham, cheddar cheese, and tomato. She always bought the freshest rolls she could find, and we swore that was the secret ingredient. Curly fries were always the chosen side dish. We’d each get a sandwich tailored to our unique specifications—I always picked turkey and cheddar, nothing fussy. Then we’d pick a spot on the couch, or sometimes the floor, because there was no room in the apartment for a proper dining room table. We’d eat our dinner and watch a full lineup of shows while Michelle stood at the press in case someone ordered seconds. Panini Night on Thursdays became a beloved post-college tradition.

Michelle and her husband bought a house soon after that, and she was blessed with an actual dining room, tables and chairs, and newer, bigger kitchen gadgets. The dinner options expanded as well: Guests would pick up bread or a dessert and head over to eat. Michelle’s sisters would bring their spouses, I’d bring my own sister, and eventually Michelle had her first baby. What started as a small treat in that little apartment had grown, and there were now ten or more of us at dinner. No matter who was there, Michelle was the consummate hostess.

A few years later, I moved to Chicago to pursue writing and had a bevy of restaurants to choose from. I remember the first time I went into one of the popular spots and saw panini on the menu. I was elated, thinking only of Michelle’s famous sandwiches, and ordered one without looking at anything else. I was practically drooling by the time the server set it in front of me. I took a big bite—and was immediately disappointed. This panini had extras on it, like roasted red peppers and a little bit of pesto spread over the turkey. This panini was too fancy for me. Then my brother moved to Philadelphia and took us to his favorite hangout, and I ate yet another subpar panini. Every time I was let down, I texted Michelle: “Just tried a panini that was not yours. Do not recommend it.”

Meanwhile, back in Michelle’s kitchen, things were busy. She got serious about baking and ran a small cookie business for a time. She learned to tailor recipes around all her friends’ and family’s food allergies, making desserts that were no less delicious. Sometimes, when she’s working on a big project, or cooking for a party, she’ll call me over to help; no matter how arduous the task is, I agree because she says the magic words: “If you help me, I’ll feed you!” During one outing, we frosted four dozen cookies, and then I watched her casually bake three more cakes after that.

But Michelle does not only feed on barter. Every year, right before my birthday, I get a text from her. “What am I cooking you for your birthday?” It doesn’t matter if I already have plans; one of Michelle’s meals and a birthday cake she’s made from scratch are non-negotiables. When she texted me this year, my answer was automatic. “I want paninis!” Though we’re no longer eating in that tiny apartment without a table, the ethos established during those days sticks with me. I always come back to what’s simple, reliable, and never disappoints. I always come back to Michelle, who is still a balm for all of life’s crazy, who still nourishes all the baby birds around her. I’ve traveled all over and never found a better panini or a better friend.

This article originally appeared in the July/August 2026 issue of (585).

It’s a summer party, and everyone has a beer in their hand as they sit around the picnic table. This is great for some, but others want something a little different. That’s where sangria comes in. This simple punch with chunky pieces of fresh fruit soaked in a boozy brew of wine and spirits makes any seasonal event a little more festive.

Sangria became popular in Spain and Portugal during the Roman empire and was later introduced to the American and Caribbean colonies in the eighteenth century. Sangria gained even more exposure as a special cocktail at the 1964 New York World’s Fair at Flushing Meadows in Queens. Americans today fully embrace sangria as recipes are fairly easy and there are countless variations.

Chris Schmitt, tasting room manager at New York Kitchen in Canandaigua, has spent the last four and a half years in the wine industry and holds certifications from both the Court of Master Sommeliers and Wine and Spirit Education Trust.

“If it involves wine, especially New York State beverages, I’m your guy!” (585) magazine asked Schmit some questions about making the perfect summer sangria.

(585): It’s summer and everyone is planning outdoor parties with beer and cocktails. But sometimes a well-meaning guest will bring a bottle wine that isn’t really the best. I’ve heard that this is the wine we should use for a batch of sangria. What do you think? Do people need a special kind of wine to make this classic warm-weather drink?

Chris Schmitt: You don’t need a special wine for sangria. It’s a great way to “dress up” a bottle you aren’t crazy about, though you can certainly use any wine you already enjoy. If you have a bottle you’re not fond of, another trick is to turn it into a spritz by adding seltzer or sparkling wine.

(585): Can you share an easy recipe for our readers?

CS: I can share a recipe for my white sangria! 

(585): What about our friends who don’t drink alcohol. Can they enjoy sangria with nonalcoholic wine?

CS: Absolutely! My favorite NA wine is Wölffer Estate’s Petit Rosé from Long Island. If you’re looking for alternatives to peach schnapps, try peach juice or a peach simple syrup. To follow the recipe exactly without the alcohol, Ritual Zero Proof is a great NA spirits brand to look for. I also highly recommend checking out AltBar in Rochester. They specialize exclusively in nonalcoholic products, where you can enjoy a mixed drink at the bar or buy bottles to take home.

(585): Finally, any recommendations on what kinds of appetizers, snacks, or entrees pair well with sangria?

CS: Sangria is one of those drinks that goes with just about anything, but I would recommend a nice charcuterie spread by the lake on a hot summer day!

New York Kitchen features a constantly rotating selection of local wines, beers, spirits, and nonalcoholic options, available by the flight, glass, or in cocktails. Learn more: nykitchen.com.

Chris Schmitt’s Summer Sangria

Ingredients

•  1 bottle of any dry or semidry white wine (if it’s a dry wine, think crispy white wine like Pinot Grigio or Sauvignon Blanc)

•  1/4 cup of peach schnapps

•  1/2 cup vodka or gin

•  Lemons, limes, and oranges

•  1 can of Sprite or ginger ale

Directions:

Mix wine, schnapps, vodka/gin, and fruit in a large pitcher. Let the fruit sit in the mix for 12–24 hours. After you have waited for the fruit to marinate, add ice and enjoy!

This article originally appeared in the July/August 2026 issue of (585).

As if the bright red exterior and sign with a cartoon wiener dog holding a red hot three times the size of his body isn’t prominent enough, the sound of customer chit chat is: “I love it here; this is so cute; it’s always been my favorite; just look at this dog.”

And no, I am not wearing a shirt that reads “shower the place with compliments!” They are all natural responses, but is that really a surprise? Dogtown has been a Rochester staple for twenty years, and that’s no accident. Owners Fran and Peg Basile knew exactly what they were doing when they opened the joint.

I told my mom I was reviewing Dogtown for this issue, and she started talking about how I used to play with the owners’ kid; that we lived down the street from them, etc. I remember none of this, but it was a cute full-circle moment. I also started to think about how that kid probably got a lot of free hot dogs.

Regardless of all that, Dogtown is in no way new to me. I’d say it became a “spot” for my friends and me in my early twenties. My brother and I would end up there so often that we got Dogtown gift cards from our parents once or twice. What drew us in was the veggie menu—it’s a dream. The establishment has the perfect mix of everything you’d hope for. Picture a casual hot dog and burger joint but make the menu so inclusive that there’s literally something for everyone—that’s Dogtown.

The downside to a lengthy menu means it’s harder to pick which items to review. Arcade D. has worked at Dogtown for the past four years and has a couple recommendations: the Greek Stray and the Coyote.

I usually grab a Junkyard Plate with veggie chili, so I am excited to try the different dogs. I order each one with a veggie dog instead of a Zweigle and really appreciate that you can swap the meat out for practically any option on the menu.

Starting with the Greek Stray—aesthetically, it just looks fun, like a party hat, and the colors pop. The mix of tomatoes, pepperoncini, kalamata olives, feta, and onions has me drooling. It is covered in tzatziki sauce that oozes out the sides ... it is unique. I don’t think you can get anything like it anywhere else, and I am absolutely obsessed with it. So. Much. Flavor. If you like gyros, get this hot dog, hands down.

The Coyote with cheddar cheese on top melts in my mouth. Wow. When Arcade told me it had sour cream and salsa on it, my honest first thought was “ew.” I am not sure what to expect, but I am blown away. I cannot believe how good the sour cream tastes with the dog. Never would I think to try that combination. Jalapeños rest atop the cheese, but the sour cream softens the zip from those just enough that the spice isn’t overwhelming. 

This is probably a good time to mention the bread—the best I’ve had with a hotdog. Not a roll, not soggy, not too soft, not too crunchy—just fluffy, airy, perfectly crisped fresh French bread.

I also tried the Bernese Mountain Dog (and may have biasedly picked this one for the name). This dog is more of a classic in my mind, but still so good. It is covered in perfectly cooked mushrooms (not too soft or stringy) and layers of melted Swiss cheese—I recommend this one if you’re new to the wild world of unique hot dogs, as it’s a safe starting point.

For sides, I go with french fries and mac salad. I’m a “cover your fries in ketchup or mayo” girl, but these don’t need sauce to enhance the flavor. The homemade macaroni salad is an effortlessly classic win—and I’m picky about mac salads.

Dogtown makes a homemade vegan mayo I have to try, so, naturally, I order a veggie burger. The mayo makes the sandwich, and I really appreciate that the roll isn’t grainy. (Hint: after trying the mayo, I would 100 percent ask for it on the side with fries!)

On the meat side of things, hot dog options are just as endless. There are sausages and other sandwiches such as Reuben, Philly cheese steak, and grilled chicken breast to try. The biggest hit, though, is the Junkyard Plate. Customer Nat Kabba moved to Rochester six years ago from Chicago, and Dogtown is the only place he’ll go to get one.

“Once I found out about this place, we never went anywhere else,” Kabba says. “The way I like to get a plate is with beans, mac salad, potatoes, and, of course, cheeseburgers; then you’re good to go. Everything’s so good, it’s not even just one thing that makes it stand out. It just sits right with the body, and it tastes so fresh all the time too.”

Another customer, Jim Dillon, chimes in and shares his favorite order as well: “My go-to is the Boston Terrier; it has bacon and baked beans—it’s delicious. I love the different choices here, and the food is just really good.”

Dogtown has rotating specials throughout the week: one for Monday through Wednesday, a special vegan deal on Thursday, and a different special for Friday and Saturday.

“It’s pretty even—people who come for veggie stuff and people who come for meat,” Arcade says. “Before I worked here, I would always get the same dog every time: the veggie Chicago Bulldog. It was my go-to, but I can’t eat it anymore because I’ve had it so many times! I do really like the Jindo without the bacon as well.

Plates are hands down the most popular menu items, but in terms of dogs, the Cincinnati Red, the Golden Retriever, and the German Shepherd are customer favorites. They’re all pretty popular, but those three are a league above.”

Aside from the food, what can’t go unnoted are the dozens and dozens of pictures of dogs (and a few cats) lining the interior walls. Some of the photos have been up for twenty years. Anyone can bring in a picture of their pet, and staff will add it to the collection. (Yes, I’m bringing in a picture of our doggo, Jesse Bear).

Dogtown is open Monday through Saturday from 11 a.m. to 10:45 p.m. There is plenty of free parking, ample indoor seating, and a nicely lit patio for warmer days. More information is online at dogtownhots.com. 

Dogtown

691 Monroe Ave.

271-6620

dogtownhots.com

This article originally appeared in the July/August 2026 issue of (585).

My daughter’s strawberry-blond waves bounced to the melody of “This Must Be the Place” as she twirled in front of an oversized mirror. The four women seated beside her chuckled at the show they were getting “for free.”

I shot the table a nervous smile as I spooned silky hummus into my nine-month-old’s mouth. I couldn’t believe my luck. It’s not normal to go to a cool new restaurant—with your kids—and feel totally relaxed.

Leading up to the night, I texted three different people to see if they could watch our kids. My tactful approach was to go out early so no one would be on the hook for our chaotic bedtime routine. But, between social calendars, travel, and mysterious work obligations, no one took the bait.

Plus, I was leaving town at the end of the week and had a deadline for this article (oh, the logistics), so I made the game-time decision to pick up my girls early from day care and bring them along for my dinner visit.

I take my kids out to restaurants a lot. Heck, I reviewed Ristorante Lucano when my daughter was two weeks old. I don’t expect coloring pages and special kids’ menus, but it’s good to know if we’re going to be a spectacle when someone decides she wants to convert an empty booth into her clubhouse for the evening.

And I know we can be a lot. We can be loud. But over the years, I’ve found a handful of tried-and-true places that have blessed us with bathroom changing tables.

Carmella’s was not on our shortlist. If anything, I had flagged it as a lovely place for an adult night out with my husband.

Located right in Pittsford’s Schoen Place, the interior was designed by the same woman who dreamed up the interior of Patron Saint (see our last issue), and I was lusting after it. It’s all luxe blush-hued seating and oh-so-on-trend burl wood tables. And it’s a wine bar, which I kind of have a thing for.

Nothing about this place screamed kid friendly.

In preparation, I did what I always do: research the menu. So when I picked up my toddler from day care, I told her we’d be going to a place with potato chips and waffles. This was for her but also for me to figure out the items I wouldn’t have to fight her on. She seemed into it.

My husband met up with me in the parking lot, and we exchanged glances. “If they’re too much, you should stay, and I’ll bring them home,” he offered.

“It’ll be fine,” I replied, which was also an affirmation to myself.

When we sat down, our server brought us water in a plastic cup with colorful designs on the side. The simple gesture put my mind at ease. These were definitely not the first children to step through the doors.

As my husband and I looked at the wines—more than twenty by the glass, ranging from classic Super Tuscans to a sparkling rosé from South Africa—my toddler yanked something from behind my back. To my chagrin, she was collecting all of the terra-cotta pillows from our banquette and piling them into a nest.

At least we were the only people on this side of the dining room.

I quickly ordered a glass of Txakolina, a tart, slightly effervescent white wine from Spain, and placed an order for olives ($6) and potato chips ($11) before running back to my car to grab the Highlights magazines we keep in the seat pocket.

When I returned, she was happily munching a mountain of crisps with ribbons of pink prosciutto layered in. Tiny vinegary peppers sat on top like cherries on an ice cream sundae.

“You’re just in time,” my husband cheered. Our server placed a stemmed glass on the table, then poured from a clear pitcher, called a porrón, that looked straight out of Dr. Seuss.

Everything was going to be just fine, I told myself. And then a party of four women sat down across from us. 

I ordered what was probably too much food and collapsed back in my seat. My oldest was now in the middle of the dining room, dangerously close to the nice people who had just gotten here, examining an arched mirror that had to be at least seven feet tall.

I tried my best to restrain my “mom voice” and, as sweetly as I could muster, coaxed her with chips and olives. She ignored me, spinning in front of the mirror and dancing toward the neighboring table.

“It’s really a shame she’s not more social,” one of the women laughed. I apologized for interrupting her meal, and she shrugged it off. She was a teacher and called my daughter adorable. I felt my anxiety fall away. 

Maybe it was the wine or the fact that our other dishes started arriving, but I started to genuinely enjoy myself.

The hummus ($17) arrived in a shallow bowl, garlicky and bright with lemon, crowned with colorful cherry tomatoes, crisp cucumber, and radish slices. It wasn’t fussy. It was just good, which I would later learn is the entire point.

The owner, Joseph Lapi, built this menu backward, starting with the wine. He’d spent decades understanding how drinks and food speak to each other as the wine director at RPM in Chicago. Instead of chasing trends or copying what worked elsewhere, he’d simply built a menu around what people like to drink and what classically pairs well with it. Rather than showy small plates that are designed to impress, Carmella’s menu is comprised of delicious bites you’d want with a glass of wine at 5 p.m. on a Wednesday.

But that doesn’t mean that they’re boring or tired dishes.

The prime beef meatballs ($18) came next. Lapi later told me they are his grandmother’s recipe but with his own addition of ground pork so they stay tender through a long braise in the sauce. They were nothing like the Instagram version of fine dining—just good, baseball-sized meatballs, the kind that make you marvel at how large they are. We cut them up into eight or so pieces, and my kiddos devoured them.

Then came the chive waffle topped with polanco golden ossetra caviar, salmon roe, and crème fraîche ($29). It could have been precious. It also could have been $80. Instead, it was playful, like someone had decided fancy didn’t have to mean fussy.

This was the real departure from what I’d been seeing everywhere else around town. Not caviar service as a ceremony but caviar as an ingredient. Potato chips with good prosciutto. Smoked salmon rillette on an everything-spice tart shell ($17). High-quality, fun stuff at an accessible price point that wasn’t stingy on portion sizes.

My youngest mouthed for another bite of hummus. My husband reached for a stray chunk of meatball. And I understood: This place wasn’t trying to prove anything to anyone.

After the baby fell asleep, I moved her to the car seat and ordered another glass of wine. I listened to the new table beside us ponder the different menu options aloud. “The hummus is delicious,” I offered. “You should definitely get it.” My husband and I finally caught up on how our weeks were going.

We bantered about who’d finish what. I claimed the last of the rillette and snapped a picture of it split open, just to see how the kitchen layered all that flavor (red onion, cucumber, and dill) under the perfectly piped mousse.

And what’s better still is that nobody made me feel like I was committing a crime by bringing my kids. My four-year-old didn’t need instructions on how to eat a caviar waffle. She just ate it.

She understood that good crunchy chips and a tin of Italian olives were worth her attention.

That’s what Carmella’s knows that other places don’t. Dining out is about the people you’re with, not about picking the perfect place, ordering the memorable thing, and “performing” during a meal. When everything’s already been thought through—the wine, the food, the space—you can just be there and relax.

So call up your friends—the picky ones, the ones who are too loud—and invite them out for a drink. There’s abundant parking at Schoen Place, so you don’t have to stress about that.

Go drink bubbles after your boat ride on the canal. Wear sandals. Laugh boisterously. You don’t need permission, and Carmella’s won’t make you apologize for it, either.

Carmella’s Wine Bar

3 Schoen Pl., Pittsford

267-7158

carmellaswinebar.com 

This article originally appeared in the July/August 2026 issue of (585).

When it comes to tourism, the days of rushing through a checklist of must-see attractions are being replaced with “slow travel.” People are choosing to spend more time in one place, experiencing a destination through meaningful moments—and that includes where they stay.

I recently had the opportunity to embrace this approach while visiting several distinctive bed-and-breakfasts in Penn Yan, just an hour from Rochester, in the heart of the Finger Lakes. Owned by transplants who fell in love with the area, these homes are nestled between Keuka and Seneca Lakes. Each has its own character and style along with authentic connection, warm hospitality, and a relaxed pace. In a digital world where we’re often distracted by devices, these B&Bs invite guests to slow down, look around, and truly take it all in.

Trimmer House

145 E. Main St., Penn Yan

trimmerhouse.com 

Owning a historic house and caring for it was always part of the plan for Vic and Mary Cottengim, innkeepers of the Trimmer House. In 2023, after a three-year search, a Queen Anne–style house captured their hearts, as did the rolling hills, farmland, and welcoming community.

Built in 1891 by David Orville Trimmer, a wealthy champagne salesman, the home was restored and operated as a B&B from 1997 to 2018. The Cottengims took over with a goal to preserve its history.

“We want this to be an 1890s experience, but it’s not meant to feel like a museum,” says Mary. She encourages guests to make themselves comfortable throughout the house, from the formal parlor to the music room, where a working 1901 player piano serves as a magnificent conversation piece. The five guest rooms are outfitted with four-poster beds and antique furnishings selected by the couple. Other special details range from stencil patterns on the walls to stained-glass windows; even the original doorbell is intact.

Always surprised by whom they meet and why they travel, that connection with guests is the couple’s favorite part of running the B&B. Conversations from around the breakfast table to the front porch often stretch for hours. “What starts as a group of strangers quickly feels more like a gathering of friends, even family,” says Mary. “People who think they’ll keep to themselves often end up joining in … they melt into it and share.”

For breakfast, the menu reflects the couple’s love of history and cooking, with dainty salt cellars and vintage knife rests at each place setting. Favorite dishes include lemon posset, custard cream served in a lemon shell that dates back to sixteenth-century England. They also love serving an open-faced version of croque madame with a Dijon-thyme béchamel sauce.

Los Gatos

1491 Rte. 14A, Penn Yan

losgatosbandb.com

Over at Los Gatos Bed and Breakfast, owners Charles and Rebecca Franks are natural storytellers, and both are full of personality and passion for their property. Their goal is to make guests feel relaxed and at home. Ever the ultimate host, Charles has even been known to play chauffeur for his guests.

Originally a private home, the property was transformed into a B&B in 2004, and the original owners named it Los Gatos after their California hometown. Today the solar-powered B&B includes three quaint guest rooms inside the main house, including a suite with a private balcony and separate sitting room. For those looking for a more rustic stay, two adorable log cabins with updated modern comforts are available from April through December. When guests are not exploring the region, there are plenty of welcoming spots to unwind, including a sunroom and a large deck outfitted with rocking chairs, fire pits, and a gazebo that gives way to a tranquil view.

When it comes to the gardens, Charles says things truly come alive in spring as flowers bloom and fruits begin to bud. Fall is when they enjoy the fruits of their labor. The couple grows everything from squash and spinach to elderberries, pears, and strawberries, and even maintains a mini vineyard of grapes used to create their own blended grape juice.

In the kitchen, thirty rotating flavors of homemade jam are displayed, with combinations ranging from cherry pecan to raspberry jalapeño, offering a preview of what’s to come at breakfast. Specialties include blueberry lemon clafoutis, a light, fluffy pancake with fresh blueberries and walnuts, and a Dutch apple baby, a German pancake. Both are especially good with the Franks’ homemade syrup.

Aubergine Bed and Breakfast

311 Clinton St., Penn Yan

aubergineinn.com

Arriving at Aubergine Bed and Breakfast feels like stepping into a storybook. Built in 1869, the home showcases striking Second Empire architectural details, including a mansard roof and distinctive round windows with what owner Christine Pyanoe affectionately calls “wooden eyebrows.”

Originally from the Jersey shore, Christine spent summers camping on Keuka Lake, where she was drawn to its beauty, wines, and warm community. A former French and Spanish teacher with a passion for antiques and entertaining, her dream of owning a Victorian home became reality when she retired in 2014 and moved into her current home. Renovations, a master’s degree in hotel management, and certification as a wine specialist followed, ultimately leading to her title as innkeeper, a role she’s adored for more than ten years. She’s also a garden enthusiast, and the fruits and flowers she grows play a central role in her business.

This B&B offers three guest rooms inspired by the owner’s favorite destinations: France, Italy, and the Finger Lakes. Antique furniture, teapots, collectibles, and seasonal décor are arranged throughout the first floor.

She calls herself “Concierge Christine” and loves helping visitors plan their time in the area, whether recommending restaurants and wineries or hiking trails and lake activities. “Guests can’t believe how much there is to do here,” she says. “It’s very gratifying when I hear my suggestions were spot on.”

Given her wide-ranging background and interests, it’s easy to get lost in conversation. One evening, I wandered downstairs for tea and found myself sitting with Pyanoe by the living room fireplace, trading stories and feeling inspired by her travels, accomplishments, and lifelong love of learning.

In the morning, a hand-written breakfast menu is displayed on a pineapple-shaped chalkboard that may list challah French toast or crustless asparagus quiche. Guests also enjoy Pyanoe's homemade yogurt bar with fresh berries, honey, and nut toppings.

The Laurentide Inn

158 Main St., Penn Yan

thelaurentideinn.com

Located on Main Street, the Laurentide Inn stops visitors in their tracks—a grand Greek Revival–style home with stately white columns that rise two stories from the front porch. Built in 1820 for William Morrison Oliver, a lieutenant governor of New York, it remained a private home until 1989, when it became the Fox Inn.

In 2018, Marla and Tracey Hedworth, both with backgrounds in hospitality, became the home’s current owners. After nine months restoring and renovating the building, they opened it as the Laurentide Inn.

Described as a modern take on a traditional bed and breakfast, the chic interior is spacious, with historic details like ornate fireplaces, vintage candelabras, and parquet floors. Stylish seating invites guests to linger, while a pool table adds a playful touch. The four suites are sophisticated and charming.

The couple’s love of cooking and hosting extends beyond the inn. Tracey became a brewer, and they converted their historic carriage house into Laurentide Beer Company featuring in-house beers, New York State wines and spirits, elevated pub fare, and live music. Larger groups can book the post-and-beam-style carriage house loft above the brewery. It comes with a full kitchen, dining room, and living room.

Breakfast is served bistro-style in the solarium, with up to four rotating entrée options and playful callouts to the region. “You are in wine country; start your day off properly” with a mimosa of the day or opt for the brown-bag breakfast, “I am saving my calories for wine,” which includes a freshly pressed green juice, banana, and homemade granola bar. Even the signature buckwheat pancakes tell a local story, serving as a clever tribute to the time Penn Yan held the world record for cooking the largest pancake.

This article originally appeared in the July/August 2026 issue of (585).

The population of Rochester surged in the 1920s, fueled by a rapidly expanding industrial base that spanned industries from optics to photography and precision engineering. People came to the area for work and stayed to raise their families, lured by the promise of a comfortable, upwardly mobile middle-class life. The city’s building pace doubled between 1920 and 1923 to keep up with the housing demand, and new neighborhoods within walkable distances to manufacturing sites became incredibly desirable.

The houses along Nunda Boulevard near Cobb’s Hill were part of this growth, designed for a growing professional class seeking space, greenery, and a sense of permanence just beyond the city’s center. Originally developed to meet the housing demand for employees of the Gleason Corporation, the neighborhood still stands as a clear example of what early suburbia and community looked like in the Rochester area.

The Gleason legacy

William Gleason came to Rochester from Ireland in 1855 and founded Gleason Works in 1903. The company manufactured machines, tools, and systems for producing, finishing, and testing all types of gears, with a particular focus on bevel and cylindrical gears. Gleason Works thrived during this period, due in part to the rising demand for gears used in bicycles and automobiles. As the company grew, it required a larger facility, and in 1905 Gleason built a new factory on University Avenue, the same site that remains home to Gleason Works today.

His daughter was Kate Gleason, one of the first women in the US to study mechanical engineering and a pioneering business leader. She began as a bookkeeper with the company at just fourteen years old and later played a critical role in guiding and growing the company during its critical growth years. Beyond her business acumen, Gleason was a vocal advocate for affordable housing and community development. Gleason Works was likely influenced by Gleason’s approach to supporting the workforce. Her impact continues to be recognized at the Kate Gleason College of Engineering at Rochester Institute of Technology, the first engineering college in the US named for a woman.

Building a community

Architect Carl Schmidt of the architectural firm of Gordon and Kaelber was enlisted by Gleason Works in the 1920s to design and build the houses of Nunda Boulevard, a street just two miles away from its factory. Ultimately, forty-one houses were built by Gleason Works as housing for its workers, with the corner brick homes designed for management and the others for “non-management” residents.

Schmidt’s houses sold for between $8,000 and $13,000 and were a collection of Greek Revival and American architectural styles. The single-family homes varied in size, most offering three to four bedrooms and 1,500 to 2,500 square feet of living space. The homes along Nunda Boulevard are among the few in the Rochester area built on a true boulevard-style street, featuring a grassy green strip, or “mall,” down the center that offers residents a charming off-road space to walk dogs, play, or connect with neighbors.

Coming home to Nunda Boulevard

Penfield native Leah Wojda always pictured herself back in Rochester. After living in Cleveland, Gettysburg, Atlanta, and Alexandria, she found herself drawn back by familiarity and family.

When she returned in April 2024, she began searching for a home almost immediately, navigating a fast-moving market where decisions had to be made quickly. At first, she gravitated toward mid-century modern homes in the suburbs, but something didn’t quite fit. “I loved the character of the houses,” she recalls, “but wasn’t in love with the neighborhoods.”

Nunda Boulevard offered both.

At first glance, the house she ultimately chose didn’t stand out. “It photographed terribly,” she says. “It looked like a brown square box and lacked the charm of other houses I was considering.” But stepping inside revealed a different story. Where others might have seen limitations, Wojda saw possibility. “I could just see what I wanted to do. I didn’t want a turnkey house; I wanted something I could make my own.” She made an offer the same day.

What followed was an ambitious, deeply personal renovation, one that unfolded during a particularly emotional chapter in her life. Shortly after purchasing the home, Wojda lost her mother, a loss that subtly shaped both the pace and the meaning of the work that followed. For several months, she stayed at her mother’s home nearby while overseeing a full-scale transformation of her own.

“It took about seven months,” she says. “I did everything—new windows, insulation, floors, doors. Everything.”

Yet despite the scope of the renovation, the home’s original character remains intact. Much of the trim, casements, and overall structure date back to the 1920s, offering a foundation that Wojda was careful not to erase. Instead, she approached the house with a philosophy that feels both modern and intuitive: Honor the past but don’t feel bound by it.

“I don’t think you have to match the inside of your house to the outside,” she explains. “I like the character, but I also wanted it to feel like me.”

That sensibility is evident throughout the home. Walls have been opened to create flow between the kitchen and dining space. An awkward diagonal entry was removed entirely. A former attic door has been repurposed. Even structural limitations, like a necessary beam or chimney column, have been embraced as design elements rather than obstacles.

Wojda’s aesthetic leans toward mid-century modern, but the home resists any single definition. Much of what fills the space is deeply personal: a chair that belonged to her mother, artwork from local and regional artists, pieces collected over time rather than purchased all at once. “I’m very sentimental,” she says. “If I like something, I just like it.” 

That philosophy extends beyond the interiors and into the way she experiences the neighborhood itself. Like many residents of Nunda Boulevard, she quickly discovered that the appeal of the street goes far beyond its architecture. From holiday traditions like an annual visit from Santa emerging from the woods of nearby Cobb’s Hill Park to informal gatherings along the boulevard’s grassy median, the neighborhood retains a sense of continuity that feels increasingly rare.

“People love this neighborhood, and once they move here, they stay here,” she says.

Less than a year after moving in, Wojda is still settling into the rhythms of both her home and the neighborhood. There are still projects ahead, but the groundwork is firmly in place. And like so many homes along Nunda Boulevard, hers now carries both history and a distinctly personal imprint, proof that even within a century-old neighborhood, each chapter can feel entirely new.

This article originally appeared in the July/August 2026 issue of (585).

In Western New York in the 1790s, food was not simply what people ate. It is how they survived and how they made meaning in an unstable world. 

The familiar image of the colonial table: simple bread, a roast, a pot left to simmer, does not hold for long once you look closely. At living history sites like Genesee Country Village & Museum in Mumford, that myth gives way to something more complicated: a food system shaped by trade, migration, labor, and global exchange.

“People think it was all homegrown and isolated,” says Michele Crew, GCV&M’s manager of foodways and village life. “Like rabbit stew and nothing else.”

Even in the 1790s, Western New York kitchens were already connected to wider networks. Sugar, coffee, spices, and other imported goods moved along waterways and trade routes, reshaping what rural households could access and imagine as local.

Food wasn’t static or simple. It was layered, shifting, and shaped by movement and power. In the same region, the Native American food system existed on entirely different terms.

Settler foodways: migration, scarcity, and market change

In the decades after the American Revolution, Western New York became a corridor of rapid settlement. Families from New England arrived seeking farmland. Pennsylvanians and Marylanders moved in from the south. The Genesee Valley became a place of hope and uncertainty in equal measure.

Early settler diets reflected necessity more than preference. Food was seasonal, perishable, and tied to daily labor. Eggs were used quickly. Milk spoiled without preservation. Gardens dictated the rhythm of meals as much as appetite.

Corn became one of the most adaptable staples, appearing in porridges, cakes, and puddings. Fruit arrived in brief waves—currants, raspberries, early stone fruit—then disappeared. Meat was present but inconsistent, often preserved through salting or smoking. Other foods were also preserved through salting, smoking, and pickling. In settler households, the largest meal was typically eaten at midday, when work paused, and evening meals were lighter.

Near emerging towns and trade routes, diets expanded. German settlers brought sweet-and-sour combinations. Scots introduced oatcakes. New England influences arrived as baked beans and familiar baked goods. But there was still no unified American cuisine.

The first widely circulated American cookbook would not appear until 1796, and even it leaned heavily on British models. Most households cooked from necessity rather than instruction.

“You’re working from memory,” Crew explains. “There’s no system to fall back on.”

As settlement expanded, food became tied to land ownership and market production. Families were not only feeding themselves but also producing surplus crops and wild goods such as timber, firewood, maple syrup, game, fruits, and herbs. Land was cleared quickly, and roads expanded. By the early 1800s, turnpikes began linking rural settlements to wider markets. The region shifted from subsistence farming toward participation in an emerging economy.

But that shift did not make food easier. It made it fragile in new ways. A failed crop was not an inconvenience but a crisis. A delayed supply chain could reshape an entire season.

“Everything takes longer than people expect,” Crew says. “Everything is by hand.”

Food was labor, and labor set the tempo of life.

Indigenous foodways: continuity, care, and shared responsibility

At Ganondagan State Historic Site in Victor, food follows an entirely different logic.

“Daily life surrounded food,” explains Angel Jimerson, a cultural educator and member of the Heron Clan of the Seneca. “That was part of the schedule every day. Making sure there was enough food for everyone.”

Time was measured through food, not as isolated meals but as continuous practice. In the longhouse, cooking centered on one pot used throughout the day. Food was added as it became available. Soup was the base. Corn, harvested in summer and stored in cribs, anchored the system. It was processed into bread, dumplings, or flour and mixed with water to sustain the pot.

“We were soup-based people,” Jimerson says. “You add water, you add things. Whatever was there went in.” Meals were not events but ongoing maintenance. Someone was always tending the fire. Hunting, fishing, and gathering continued year-round, ensuring continuity rather than surplus.

Even through cultural disruption, food systems remain grounded in continuity. Knowledge is passed through practice and memory. But by the late eighteenth century, that continuity was increasingly under pressure. Land loss, forced displacement, and shifting trade systems altered access to traditional foods. Sovereignty over land and resources weakened. Even seeds became objects of protection and resistance.

White corn, central to Haudenosaunee identity, was and is carefully preserved across generations. “Our seeds are still here,” Jimerson says. “Our songs are still here.”

Two systems, one landscape

By the end of the eighteenth century, Western New York held two food systems in the same geography, shaped by different logics. 

Settler foodways were tied to land ownership and market expansion. They moved toward variety but also toward dependence on trade and supply chains. Meals reflected adaptation and constant adjustment. Haudenosaunee foodways were grounded in continuity, shared responsibility, and long-term planning. Food was not separate from life; it is how life was sustained collectively over time.

They existed side by side but not equally. One expanded through settlement and infrastructure. The other persisted under pressure and resilience. Yet both required extraordinary labor. Both depended on knowledge and systems of care that modern food culture often obscures. What connects them is not similarity of diet but the intensity of effort required to eat at all in the same place.

A settler household and a Haudenosaunee longhouse might both have access to ingredients like corn, fish, or fruit. But what those foods meant, and how they functioned, differed profoundly.

“We don’t think about flavor the same way,” Jimerson says. “It’s not the point.”

The real story of food in 1790s Western New York is not simply what people ate. It is what it took to eat at all: the labor, the knowledge, and the systems of survival embedded in every meal.

This article originally appeared in the July/August 2026 issue of (585).

The Rochester Red Wings has a mouth-watering philosophy when it comes to the endless list of food offerings at ESL Ballpark.

“Food is fun,” says Jeff DeSantis, the Triple-A baseball team’s general manager of food and beverage. “People love the experience of coming to the ballpark and trying a variety of excellent food.”

Red Wings general manager Dan Mason has called the downtown stadium "Rochester’s greatest restaurant,” and he may be right. The “classics” remain, of course: hot dogs, hamburgers, french fries, chicken fingers, popcorn, and peanuts. But there’s so much more.

“You can come to seventy-five home games this season and enjoy a different entrée every time,” Mason says. “People remember what they ate much longer than who hit a grand slam or pitched a shutout.”

The Wings understand that, as a minor-league club at the mercy of its parent club (the Washington Nationals), the roster is ever changing, and the wins often take a backseat to player development.

“The game is a huge part of the experience, the focal point,” Mason says, “and food and beverage are the second piece to that. When we moved here in 1997, we decided to make food and drink a huge part of the fan experience, and we’ve been evolving ever since.”

This year’s additions to the lineup include a half-chicken dinner, specialty calzones each Wednesday, and a BBQ Sundae, which is mac and cheese, pulled pork, baked beans, coleslaw, and a dash of barbecue sauce, topped with a cornbread skewer.

Of course, nothing says Rochester like a “garbage" plate—hamburgers or hot dogs with macaroni salad, home fries, and meat sauce—and it’s a popular item at the Home Plate concessions booth.

There are also boneless wings, mozzarella sticks, and hot soup for cold nights, rotated throughout each home stand. Chicken noodle, New England clam chowder, and broccoli cheddar are very popular. “We had chowder when the Worcester Red Sox came to town in May, and we sold over twenty gallons for that series,” Mason says.

Jambalaya and fish fries are offered on specialty nights throughout the season. Mason says jambalaya is probably the most eagerly awaited item on the menu. “Fans clamor for it,” he says.

One of those fans is Pat Brown of Greece. A season ticketholder for three years, he’s a “huge fan” of the jambalaya and trash can—basically a smaller Home Plate in a cup.

“I love the specials they run,” Brown says. “Having different options available every day is fantastic. It means I’m seldom getting ‘the usual.’”

You wouldn’t expect linguini and clam sauce at a ballpark, but that luxury item has been offered. So have turkey legs and even a full turkey dinner, stuffing and all, for the annual Christmas in July promotion.

The Wings front office spends much of the long offseason brainstorming for new items to offer once the ballpark opens the following spring. “We see what other teams are doing and what the trends are,” Mason says, “but you have to know your own market. How can we take dishes unique to Rochester and put our own spin on them?”

Which is why the club doesn’t just sell hot dogs; it also has a foot-long Bruce Dog, named after the team’s beloved canine bat retriever (read our spring 2025 (585) Kids issue online to learn more about Bruce) complete with hot sauce and diced onions. And it is why it has partnerships with some of Rochester’s most popular, longstanding companies. Zweigle’s hot dogs (red or white), Salvatore’s pizza, and DiPaolo bread are served daily, and Coca-Cola has been a longtime partner.

“There’s nothing more Rochester than having a Zweigle’s hot dog at ESL Ballpark,” Mason says. “And nothing tastes better.”

Sandwiches are another popular item at the ballpark, and again, variety is king. There are a Black Angus half-pound burgers, Philly cheese steaks, Philly chicken steaks, Buffalo chicken steaks, fried chicken sandwiches, and Alto’s Italian Sausage, named after Red Wings legend Joe Altobelli.

“The Red Wings make fresh food right here at the ballpark, and it’s super delicious,” says Rochester’s Kelli Marsh, co-owner of the Roc Holiday Village. “The variety they offer is exactly what you want when you come to a ballgame.”

Mary Blasko has been a Red Wings season seat holder since 1986, when the team was still playing at Silver Stadium on Norton Street. She agrees the variety is king at ESL Ballpark (formerly Frontier Field).

“I sometimes have a hard time deciding if I’m going to visit Black Angus for a burger, Roc Nacho for chicken or beef nachos, or Altobelli Deli for a sub,” she says. “The chef, Keith Hillock, always has great specials.”

The ballpark includes nine inline concession stands, and around twenty portable booths. There are also three main picnic areas, four party suites, and two dozen rental suites.

The food is prepared in a spacious kitchen off the concourse. At about 3,600 square feet—the size of two average houses combined—the kitchen can handle heavy demand. DeSantis says that when the Red Wings pack the stadium in midsummer, his staff of more than 250 can cook 2,000 hamburgers in a single night, all made fresh. 

There’s no shortage of desserts, either. Cotton candy and ice cream are popular old-time staples, but so are the newest additions—raspberry funnel cakes, ice cream nachos, and Red Wings gelato. “We are constantly evolving,” Mason says.

Fans need something to wash all this good food down, and they can choose from sodas like Coke, Diet Coke, Sprite, and root beer but also pink lemonade, raspberry iced tea, and bottled water. Michelob Ultra and Bud Light are on tap, as well as fifteen craft beers, including Blueberry Ale, Cosmic Krush NEIPA, Highland Lager, Red Wing Red Ale, and Scotch Ale.

The Wings remain dedicated to the community, which is why the team invites nearly forty nonprofit groups to the ESL Ballpark to run the registers for certain games, bringing a percentage of profits back to their organizations. Last year, those organizations earned more than $200,000 in commissions.

If Mason has any doubts about the importance of good food at the ballpark, those thoughts are quickly dispelled when he ventures into the community during the offseason. “They don’t ask who’s batting cleanup or who our best pitcher will be,” Mason says. “They all want to know what new food and beverages we’ll be offering in the new season. It’s something they look forward to and we look forward to.”

This article originally appeared in the July/August 2026 issue of (585).