At the end of August I get the call. “The apricots are ready,” my mom says excitedly. I grab a few buckets, jump in my car, and drive the 100 or so miles from my home in Dillon, Colorado, to her place in Carbondale. We pile into her Subaru and wind a bit higher into the slopes above the Roaring Fork Valley. We wave as we pass our friends’ house, then park below their orchard, a century-old stand of apricot trees that sits at 6,500 feet.

The 50 trees here are old, and time has gnarled their branches. A weathered wooden ladder reaches into the canopy; the perfumed air reminds us of the jam making and baking that will (happily) occupy our time in the week ahead.

These days, grocery stores sell firm apricots the size of golf balls, but the soft, ripe fruit in these trees are the diameter of a quarter. It takes a while to fill a bucket, but the intense flavors are worth it. Other scavengers are around—birds, deer, even bears—and we give them plenty of space.

This orchard, which contains several apricot varieties, is believed to date back to 1915, and being here makes me think about the people who planted it, and what the trees have endured. Surely, there have been periods of extended drought and extreme cold, and yet, year after year, they continue to bring forth treasures.

“Fruit trees watch several generations go by,” says Michael Thompson, who, along with Jerome Osentowski, cofounded an organization called the , a nonprofit that maps and catalogs ancient specimens like these all over the valley.

Great old trees are not unique to Colorado or the West, of course. They dot the nation, languishing in plain sight in forgotten corners of cities and towns, and across rolling farmland. But in recent years—spurred by a renewed interest in things with rich stories and heritage behind them—there’s been a movement not just to save old trees but to propagate them for the future.

In New York City, Sam Van Aken, an artist turned farmer, planted a permanent heirloom “exhibition” on Governors Island called . The public site opened in 2022; the 102 specimens it comprises are grafted from trees—apricots, apples, pears, persimmons, cherries, and others—that once thrived across the city’s five boroughs. In total, they represent about 400 years of local agriculture.

Although most Americans get by with the fruit they find piled in grocery bins, that represents only the tiniest slice of what once freely bloomed. Take the apple. Our commercial, homogenized food system promotes varieties like the crisp but boring Fuji and Granny Smith because they are easily grown, universally accepted, and hardy enough to transport and store.

“There were once thousands of cultivated apple varieties, and now we’re down to hundreds,” says Vanessa Harmony, a tree propagator and the owner of Colorado Edible Forest in Glenwood Springs, which works in tandem with the Heritage Fruit Tree Project. “There are so many delicious fruits that could be lost if they’re not found,” she says.

That’s the role of organizations like ; Washington State University’s MyFruitTree, which works only with apples; and regional entities like Thompson’s Heritage Fruit Tree Project. Indexing each heirloom’s type, location, approximate age, fruit characteristics, and site history culminates in a written log and map of agricultural diversity. This information helps when experts are grafting clones to ensure that varieties aren’t lost to time.

Like Open Orchard in New York, Harmony, Thompson, and Osentowski have had a hand in creating a research site filled with fruit trees. The parcel, established in 2020, sits within an old orchard in Emma, Colorado, outside Basalt. It’s open to the public and will eventually feature informational placards, so visitors know what they’re looking at. Harmony helps maintain the old trees and the newly planted clones gathered from around the valley. “It’s become a living library for me,” she says.

Observing the trees through the seasons means Harmony can identify desired qualities—whether it’s the best-tasting fruit, tree hardiness, or something else. She can also send leaf samples out for genetic testing to determine exactly what kind of tree she’s dealing with. Sometimes that information yields an entirely new variety—or, rather, one so old that no one around today knew about it.

Thompson enlisted Harmony’s help with his favorite: a grand old apple tree he affectionately calls Mo. It was planted in 1910 and produces what Thompson considers the best apple he’s ever found for pie making. In recent years, this magnificent tree has suffered from blight, and even with thoughtful pruning its future is in question. Harmony has already grafted multiple clones from healthy parts of the tree. Those “Mini Mos”—two of which are planted in Thompson’s daughter’s backyard in Oregon, and two of which are doing well at Harmony’s nursery—are the next generation. “The tree will live on,” he says.

As for the apricots that leave my mom’s and my hands sticky with juice, our friends have largely let nature take its course. In the thirtyish years they have owned the property, Susy Ellison says they’ve had the orchard pruned only a couple of times. The trees, she tells me, seem to like being left alone. “You don’t want to fuss with them too much,” she explains, adding that they’ve been cataloged by the Heritage Fruit Tree Project.

We gather our buckets and load them into the car. As soon as we close the doors, we’re enveloped by the thick and heady scent of apricots. We wave again as we pass the house and drive straight to my mom’s. There’s jam to be made.

Fruit Forward: Interest in Heritage Fruit Has Blossomed

Although the Heritage Fruit Tree Project is specific to Colorado’s Roaring Fork Valley, there are other organizations doing similar work around the country.

The biggest among these is the Historic Fruit Tree Working Group of North America. The serves as a national database and registry of historic trees and orchards.

Anyone interested in heirloom fruit, especially apples, should sign up for the University of Idaho Heritage Orchard Conference. The free monthly webinars are packed with info on subjects ranging from cider making to tree propagation.

New Yorkers (and those just visiting) can check out Open Orchard on Governors Island, where approximately 100 trees represent the bounty that once grew in the city’s five boroughs.

The and the are based in southwestern and western Colorado, respectively, and focus almost exclusively on apples. Both are intent on saving orchard culture as well as legacy genetics.

Apricot Snack Bars

There are a million and one jam-bar recipes out there, and this is mine—except that I use fresh fruit instead of preserves. The recipe works equally well with fresh and frozen apricots; you can also swap in seasonal berries or peaches and plums. What makes the treats so irresistible is the sweet-tart play of crust and fruit.

Makes about 12 bars

For the Filling:

• 3 cups apricots, halved or
  quartered, depending on size
• Âź cup sugar
• ½ lemon, juiced
• 2 tsp cornstarch

For the Crust:

• 1½ cups flour
• ½ cup old-fashioned oats
• ½ cup sugar
• ½ tsp baking powder
• ½ tsp salt
• ½ cup unsalted butter, chilled
• ⅓ cup full-fat plain yogurt

Prepare the filling by combining apricots, sugar, and lemon juice in a medium bowl. Set aside and allow to macerate at room temperature. (This step can be done in advance.) If fruit is frozen, allow it to thaw before macerating.

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Butter an eight-inch square baking pan.

Prepare the crust by stirring together flour, oats, sugar, baking powder, and salt in a medium bowl. Cube butter and add to flour mixture. Use your fingers to smear and incorporate the butter into the flour mixture. Add yogurt and stir. The mixture should be dry.

Add about 1½ cups of this crust mixture to the prepared pan, or enough to cover the bottom evenly. Press mixture down with fingers or use the base of a measuring cup until firm. Press a square of parchment paper onto the surface of the crust and then add pie weights (you can also use dried beans or rice). Par-bake for 12 minutes, until set but still soft. Carefully remove parchment and weights.

Stir cornstarch into the apricots. Pour apricot mixture over crust. Sprinkle with remaining crust mixture. Bake for 40 to 45 minutes, or until top is golden brown and fruit is bubbling. Remove from the oven, allow to cool, then cut into squares.

Amanda M. Faison, a writer and editor based in Colorado, is working on her first cookbook.

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Matt Vawter, chef and owner of and in Breckenridge, Colorado, has been to Chicago twice for the , often called the Oscars of the Food World. In 2018, Vawter was there to cheer on his mentor (and boss at the time) Alex Seidel when the Denver chef was nominated for Best Chef: Mountain. Seidel won that night, but Vawter missed the occasion: he had to fly home in a hurry for the birth of his daughter Sadie.

This past weekend, Vawter again flew in for the awards—this time as a finalist for the very same award. (The Best Chef: Mountain category is made up of the highest-performing chefs from five states: Colorado, Montana, Utah, Idaho, and Wyoming.) On Monday night, Vawter, his wife Christy, and a small team from Rootstalk were in attendance when Vawter was named the winner.

The distinct honor garners Vawter a pedigree that only a handful of Colorado chefs have earned. That glory becomes even more distinguished when you consider that only two mountain chefs, Vawter and George Mahaffey, who won the award in 1997 while executive chef at the Little Nell is Aspen, have been feted with a James Beard medallion. (Of note, in 1998, Keith Luce of Spruce in Aspen won Rising Star Chef of the Year.)

To have a . It’s no secret that Colorado resort towns are better known for their outdoor offerings than they are for their food scenes. Of course, there are good spots, but the best in the land? Not usually. Breckenridge, in particular, has long been known for its lack of variety and hearty supply of restaurants serving bar-style food. But in the past several years, Vawter and a small contingent of others have categorically been working to change the dining landscape.

With this win, Vawter has proven it can be done. He has shown that you can prioritize quality ingredients, careful sourcing, and exquisite hospitality in a town where folks sometimes show up for dinner in ski boots (not allowed at Rootstalk, of course).

When you drill down, Vawter’s success is not the case of being in the right place at the right time. He made this happen. Vawter is a hometown kid, who, after entering kitchens at the age of 14, fell in love with the creativity, the pace, and the culture of cooking. He graduated from Summit High School in Breckenridge, attended Colorado Mountain College’s Culinary Institute in Keystone, and apprenticed and worked under local chefs.

When Vawter was 22, he moved to Denver, looking for bigger and better opportunities. He landed at Fruition Restaurant, where he impressed chef Alex Seidel from the start. The two worked side by side for 12 years, and Vawter steadily made his way up the ladder. When Seidel opened Mercantile Dining & Provision in Denver’s Union Station in 2014, Vawter was a chef-partner. In 2019, he was named executive chef.

All the while, Vawter felt the pull of the mountains. He wanted to return, and he wanted to open a restaurant that would honor all the skills—cooking, yes, but also sourcing, plating, and learning the art of hospitality—he had garnered during his years at Fruition and Mercantile. (At the time, Mercantile was considered one of the very best restaurants in Denver, and it’s the establishment for which Seidel won his James Beard.)

In 2020—the pandemic–Vawter made the leap. He signed a lease on a historic house-turned-restaurant on Breckenridge’s Main Street and began building a team. From Mercantile, he brought with him chef Cameron Baker (who also grew up in the Breckenridge area and graduated from the same culinary program), Patrick Murphy, and Teddy Lamontagne. The team remains today and was in attendance at the awards in Chicago—screaming their heads off—when Vawter’s name was called.

In addition to plying Breckenridge with excellent food (Rootstalk is a high-end seasonal American restaurant with tasting and à la carte menus, while Radicato is more distinctly Italian), Vawter continues to hire locally as much as possible. He looks to the area’s culinary school and apprenticeship program for talent and believes in offering opportunities to grow.

There’s a lesson here for all big-dream cooks just getting started: you can do it, and you can do it in places perhaps not considered food meccas. Vawter said it best, just moments after receiving his medal: “When I wanted to go back to my hometown of Breckenridge, it was really about bringing home what I’ve learned, sharing that with my community, and creating a place where, hopefully, cooks don’t have to make that same decision I had to make 16 years ago.”

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Editor’s note: In spring of 2022, our parent company, şÚÁĎłÔšĎÍř, Inc. launched and partnered with 14 nonprofit organizations that share our mission to get everyone outside in support of a healthy planet. During this giving season, we’re hoping to raise at least $1,500 for each of our partners—a modest goal that is attainable with your help! Please consider a tax-deductible donation of any amount to the following organization. Thank you!Ěý

The Pre-K-12 food-based education model unfolds alongside traditional school subjects like math, science, and social studies, but it works to get kids outside in the sunshine with their hands in the dirt. “We’re also growing a child’s curiosity, sense of wonder, and awe,” Storey explains. “The simple acts of growing food can open the world, and that act can then be given to another.”

Case in point, the nonfit, which first took root in 2007, now has a staff of 33, and almost 35 percent of the full time staff are graduates of the program. “That is true systemic change, it’s a testament to the program because we have people who know what an impact it made on them and that they want to keep doing it,” Storey says. The program also offers 10 high schoolers paid internships at $15 an hour (this year 40 students applied for the 10 slots).

At the heart of Jones Valley Teaching Farm is the belief that school should be a dynamic experience. “Every child deserves an outdoor learning environment, to know the skills to feed a family, to be excited and curious about the world while learning subjects beyond worksheets,” Storey explains. Over the last 16 years, JVTF has become a national model for food-based educational programs and the nonprofit’s benefits are felt far and wide.

Raising a modest $1,500 for will allow the non-profit to sow 25,000 seedlings to distribute to 43 community gardens across the state of Alabama, helping to provide healthy, fresh produce to its neighbors. Please consider a tax-deductible donation of any amount to this incredible organization.

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Brad Leone might have come of age as ’s test kitchen manager, but YouTube is where the chef-outdoorsman has really made a name for himself (See: ). Known for his off-the-cuff, breezy approach to cooking and grilling (look Ma, no shoes!), Leone has garnered a fan base that is far less about the polish of the finished dish and more about the experience of cooking, grilling, foraging, fish, clamming, or… you get the picture.Ěý

Today, Leone’s influence widens even further with the launch of his own and two more shows: Makin’ It! and Local Legends. To debut the projects simultaneously is oh, so Leone—when he does something, he does it big. The unrelated shows will, respectively, tackle the science of cooking and the commingled adventure that is food, culture, and community. For anyone familiar with Leone’s zany style, neither will feel like a conventional cooking or food show.

Given Leone’s penchant for the outdoors, it’s no surprise that the shows are timed with the launch with the summer grilling and camping season. Leone spends a lot of time in front of a grill and over a cooking fire, and he surely has an arsenal of tools. These are his must-haves:

1. Long, simple all-metal tongs. They needn’t be expensive, but they should be heavy-duty enough to pick up whatever needs picking up—grilling grates, red-hot coals, heavy pot lids—and, of course, dinner. A good pair of tongs will last you, but all the better if you have a variety of sizes to choose from. We recommend the .

2. All three sizes of the —a tool for every type of food from whole fish or veggies to burgers. A sharp-edge tempered steel spatula is the tool of choice. Shameless plug aside ( to design a line of cooking tools), these flippers will quickly become indispensable.

3. Steel wool. To clean gunked-up grill grates, cast-iron skillets, really anything that needs a good scrub. To avoid bristles shedding, you need only apply slight pressure. Rinse (including the inside of the lid) and thoroughly dry.

4. Mini leaf blower. This helps if using fire (it helps get wood or charcoal get there). All we can say is know your surroundings (and your local fire restrictions) before blasting the bejeezus out of a flame.

5. ´Ü˛šâ€™ałŮ˛š°ů. Not a tool in the conventional sense, but this Middle Eastern spice blend (usually some combo of dried oregano, wild thyme, marjoram, sesame, sumac, and salt) is “An absolute workhorse that complements summer ingredients magically.”

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In the barbecue world, sauce preference is as divided as the epic pork vs. beef debate. . And in South Carolina, where Rodney Scott first opened in Charleston in 2017, sauce preference is practically a declaration. As Scott writes in his book, ($29.99, Clarkson Potter, 2021), “Just look up a map of South Carolina barbecue sauces. You’ll see that the regions are divided by sauces. Some are mustard-based, some have a lot of ketchup, some have a little ketchup with vinegar and peppers, and some are like mine, mostly vinegar and pepper.”

When Scott first opened his barbecue spot in 2017, he drew a line in the sand: His family’s vinegar and pepper sauce was the only sauce he served. ”It’s universal to everything,” he explains. “It’s my go-to or my game changer if I screw up or something needs a little pop.” There were times when customers pushed back, Scott recounts a time when a family from Kansas City ordered, took a look at the vinegar sauce, and went across the street to buy a bottle of KC-style BBQ sauce from the grocery store. They put it on the table and merrily made their way through the meal. “I stood there and stared at it, and said ‘we’re gonna fix this someday,’” he says. Now several years in, and with six locations spanning South Carolina, Alabama, and soon to be Tennessee, Scott serves four sauces, but none are more precious to him than the original.

As simple as the recipe sounds—white vinegar, lemon, black pepper, cayenne, red pepper flakes, and sugar cooked over heat—the mixture acts like an elixir in the sense that it both seasons and aids the cooking process. “We take the vinegar sauce—we call it Rodney’s Sauce—and baste [the whole hog] and let it cook through. If you want more of it, it’s on the table,” he says. “The goal is to have the vinegar cook all the way through. It’s tenderizing and doing its magic while cooking.”

Scott, who cooked his first hog at the age of 11, grew up making this sauce at his family’s store in Hemingway, South Carolina. “I was the sauce stirrer,” he laughs. “My dad or mom would add the pepper while I was stirring and I’ll tell you what, if you didn’t stir, that burner would scorch. You had to keep that spoon or whisk going around to make sure that pepper was always moving. If not, there was gonna be trouble.” The Scotts made the sauce in a massive stockpot right next to the barbecue pit, but you can make it in a saucepan on the stovetop.

A word to the wise: Depending on how much heat you like, you can adjust Rodney’s Sauce to your liking. Cook it per the recipe, let it cool completely, and then store in jars. Then, Scott says, “If you let it settle and skim off the top, it’ll be milder, or you can shake it and get all the heat.”

For the recipe for Rodney’s Sauce, click here.

For Rodney’s grilling rules, click here.

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If you know barbecue, you’ve likely heard of Rodney Scott and his famous pit-cooked meats. And even if you don’t, all you need to know is this: Scott cooked his first hog at the age of 11 and he’s never looked back. With decades of experience and six locations of spanning South Carolina, Alabama, Georgia, and soon to be Tennessee, this man is a bonafide barbecue expert. Here are his three rules of the home grill:

1. Food safety first. Don’t leave anything out too long. Stay mindful of what you’re doing as you handle it. There are gauges and thermometers for a reason.

2. Don’t grill too close to the house and walk away. Things can happen [Strong can attest to this: His family’s roadside barbecue spot in Hemingway, South Carolina, burned to the ground in 2014 and his Charleston location had a pit fire in 2017.] I like to make sure the grill is away from the house. If it is close, get a grill mat to avoid sparks getting on the floor boards.

3. Have fun. Don’t let the pressure of that critical visitor steal the joy out of what you’re preparing. You’ve got your music going, you’re outside grilling, you’re having fun. Even if you’re burning it, it’s fun—just add extra sauce.

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Rodney’s Sauce

This recipe makes a lot—1 gallon to be exact—which enough if you’re cooking a whole hog. If not, you can easily half the amounts. This is a great, versatile sauce to have on hand, and it keeps, refrigerated, for eight weeks.

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Confession: I’ve never been much of a hammock girl. At the family lake house in Minnesota, a dreamy, old-school ropey one used to beckon from the lakeshore with the water lapping nearby. Every summer as a teenager, I’d hop in, hoping to be lulled to sleep, but within minutes, I was bored, antsy, even slightly seasick from the light sway. Years later, the first thing my daughters like to do on camping trips is scout trees on which to hang our slippery, nylon hammocks like colorful cocoons. But when I climb in, even with my husband and girls nearby, boredom (and that gentle sway!) sets in fast.

My attitude changed in May 2021, after dear friends invited us to their cabin in Twin Lakes, Colorado. Tucked behind the house and beyond a gigantic wood pile, they’d strung a 6-person hammock (I didn’t even know this was a thing!) in a stand of lodgepole pines. Rather than the cradle-ish style of most hammocks, this one—at 170 square feet—looked more like a trampoline or a triangular sun screen. Suspended about four feet from the ground, you enter through a slit in the middle, before flopping onto the taut mesh surface.

That weekend was largely spent, shoes kicked off, on the hammock. We laid on our backs and looked at the sky through the trees. We curled on our sides and sipped coffee. We lounged on our stomachs and clinked to happy hour. We sat cross-legged and played cards. We talked, we laughed, we connected. With three corners attached to sturdy trees, the hammock didn’t sway. I felt buoyant, almost weightless, and blissfully relaxed. This, I thought, is a feeling worth paying for.

As soon as we got home, I bought my husband the for Father’s Day. Now, as a family, we anxiously await hammock season. We string it up in May (unless it’s still snowing) and don’t take it down until late October (unless it’s already snowing), and subsequently spend an inordinate amount of summer in its embrace. My kids take their books outside and read on it, they clamber on with friends to eat drippy snow cones and popsicles, my husband and I lie on it in the evenings and catch up. Our dog even seeks the shade it provides from Colorado’s blazing sun.

Come summer, if you can’t find me, look on the hammock.

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By any measure, Diana Bush is a seasoned pastry chef. She earned her degree from the Institute of Culinary Education in New York City, and went on to intern at Eleven Madison Park and to work at NoMad, two Michelin-starred restaurants in Manhattan. After that she headed up ­pastry programs in Paris for more than four years. Then she moved to Kremmling, Colorado, a town situated 7,313 feet above sea level, and came face-to-face with the realities of baking at elevation.

Bush’s first attempt at a cake (for her sister’s wedding, no less) collapsed. She fiddled with the recipe until it came out right, but for the first time in her career she was made to realize, Ohhh, this high-altitude thing is real. And it’s true: the higher you go, the lower the atmospheric pressure becomes. At 3,500 feet, bakers begin to notice the impact. Doughs rise faster; often the air is drier. And water, which boils at 212 degrees at sea level, boils at lower temperatures as elevation increases. Since launching her brand more than two years ago, Bush has fine-tuned her technique by reducing leavening (baking powder, baking soda, yeast) and increasing hydration (milk, water, butter). “There are so many variables that there isn’t one rule to fit everything,” she says. “But I do everything precisely. I measure in grams, and I make a record of it if I change anything.” The result: Lumi’s delivery boxes are replete with chewy ginger rye cookies, exquisite sticky buns, flaky kouign-amann complete with sugary air pockets, and an array of other treats.

In Jackson, Wyoming (elevation 6,237 feet), Kevin Cohane, of James Beard–­nominated , laughs when asked about baking calamities. “We have failures all the time. Macarons were the worst, so much so that we gave up on them,” he says. As for the rest of Persephone’s goods (which include croissant-dough cinnamon rolls, banana bread swirled with Nutella, and ­cheddar scallion biscuits), Cohane, who trained at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris and has been baking at altitude for well over a decade, can look at just about any recipe and know what needs tweaking. “On the pastry front, we don’t make any adjustments in terms of liquid, but I halve the leavening,” he explains. For bread, he increases the water or milk to compensate for dryness.

Two states to the south in New Mexico, Andre and Jessica Kempton of , which has locations in Taos and Santa Fe, know baking at 7,000 feet. “Things up here have less air pressure pushing down on them,” explains Andre, the head baker. “If you’re dealing with breads, doughs, batters, cakes—those will rise quicker, and there might not be enough structure in the gluten to hold it up, so it collapses.” Andre, who bakes a few hundred long-fermented loaves each day, underscores the importance of knowing the alt­itude you’re baking at—and calculating whether modifications need to be made. Case in point: compare the atmospheric pressure at sea level (14,000 PSIA, or pounds per square inch absolute) with your location and you can figure how long it takes for dough to rise. For example, in Taos, Andre contends with a PSIA of 10,000 (or about 30 percent less air pressure than at sea level), which is equivalent to “a 30 percent reduction in rise time,” he explains, pleased to have an equation at the ready. Ultimately, he concedes, baking at any altitude is an art, one that’s ultimately about experience, feel, and flexibility.

Tip Sheet

Intimidated by baking in thin air? You’ve got this—just tie on that apron and heed these experts’ advice.

On practice: “It’s trial and error. There’s no specific technique, so don’t go wild googling the perfect recipe [for your elevation]. Just bake. If you burn something, it’s fine.” —Agostina Alvarez, Tina’s Bakery, Park City, Utah (7,000 feet)

On combating dryness: “Banana or pumpkin bread—things that have a fruit puree—release moisture as they bake. Another thing: I brush my cinnamon rolls with a sugar glaze right when they come out of the oven to lock in moisture.” —Diana Bush, Lumi Baking Co., Kremmling, Colorado (7,313 feet)

On consistency: “If you don’t have a scale, buy one and use it on the metric setting. Everything is easier in metric.” —Kevin Cohane, Persephone Bakery, Jackson, Wyoming (6,237 feet)

On slowing the rise: “A cool rise [placing unbaked loaves in the fridge or other cold place] will slow the process, and time won’t be as much of a factor.” —Andre ­Kempton, Wild Leaven Bakery, Taos and Santa Fe, New Mexico (6,969 feet in Taos)

On asking questions: “If you’re nervous and don’t want to screw things up, don’t be afraid to talk to a local baker. Email or volunteer at a bakery where they know what they’re doing. Most bakers are happy to share.” —Daniella Luchian, Sierra Bakehouse, Truckee, California (5,817 feet)

On going small: “I do a lot of mini loaves and Bundt cakes, because they’re smaller and they rise, set, and bake a lot faster, so there’s less chance of them collapsing or drying out.” —Bush of Lumi Baking Co.

On temperature swings: “If it’s summer, we use way less sourdough starter. In winter we use more. It’s nerve-racking, but follow the swings and adjust as you go.” —Kempton of Wild Leaven Bakery

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The Pisco sour’s froth is as white and fluffy as powder snow, making it the perfect post-ski cocktail. Limey, tangy and potent, this drink is easily whipped together with just a few ingredients and a simple recipe. Or, for a vegan-friendly Pisco option, try the Pisco punch.Ěý

Après-Pisco Sour and Pisco Punch

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