Cortland Apples & Bly Farm’s Ice Cream
It’s been a long, long drive and we’re completely relying on the GPS to guide us. We’ve just spent an evening in an inn at Mount Washington, in New Hampshire, and then took a very interesting ride on the cog railway up to the top of the mountain. The weekend is almost over and it is now time to head back to Boston.
Along the way, I spot a gentleman selling apples on the roadside.
When I tell Masood to stop and buy some, he regards me with the look that says, “But you don’t even like apples!” Being the sweet guy that he is, Masood pulls over on the roadside without saying anything. I remain in the car and just enjoy the moment—buying fresh fruit from this nice gentleman, looking at his pickup with crates in it, the huge “Apples” signboard.
Masood makes the purchase and, while he was busy taking money out of his wallet, the gentleman walks up to my window, smiles sweetly, and hands me a couple of apples to try. We wave goodbye and resume our journey.
Cortland apples have a hint of tartness and has tender, snow white flesh that naturally resists browning, making it an excellent choice for salads, kabobs and garnishes. I try to eat it on its own but couldn’t finish even one apple, maybe because this type of apple is best used for salads.
Ice Cream at Bly Farm
“Oh, let’s stop for some ice cream!” The sight of the signboard is getting me all excited to try some homemade ice cream. Masood is pretty surprised by my spontaneous food cravings. He is giving me that you-don’t-even-like-ice-cream look.
It’s late in the afternoon and we haven’t had lunch yet. As if unable to believe his ears, he asks me twice if I really wanted ice cream. Frankly, I just want the experience of eating ice cream in a place like this. I mean, back home in the U.A.E, we mostly have date farms and I’m sure none of them sell ice cream.
The shop itself is a fascinating structure for a tourist like me. It looks so cozy and friendly. It looks like something that I’ve only seen in movies or have read in books, where the author would describe a wooden cabin by the woods far away from the city.
We are the only customer when we arrive. We walk up to the window and peer inside. The wall is adorned with framed pictures of children, dollar bills, and some certificates. A pretty, young lady approaches the window and asks for our order. I order Black Raspberry while Masood chooses Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough, both small-sized cones.
For someone who eats one tablespoon of ice cream—and only when someone forces me to—this small cone was huge! But the ice cream is really good. It’s quite unfortunate that we couldn’t finish it. Had we known this is a single serving, Masood and I could have shared.
Bly Farm offers as many as 44 flavors of Bobby Sue’s Homemade ice cream, made in Freedom, New Hampshire. Other flavors include Grapenut, Maple Walnut, Frozen Pudding, Moose Tracks, Indian Pudding, Peppermint Stick, Lemon Chip, and Pumpkin.
We take our cones and walk around at the back of the ice cream shop. Another young lady arrives at the shop and chats up with the one who sold us the ice cream. By their casual conversation, it seems as if this is the sort of town where everyone knows each other.
Right behind the shop is a small farm. There are a couple of men who are working so I refrained from taking pictures. It’s such a peaceful afternoon in this gorgeous farm. I later learn that Bly Farm is run by Vince and Cynthia Blandini. The Bly Farm takes its name from Cynthia’s side of the family which has been farming since the early 1800s.
Vincent and Cynthia Blandini
620 Center St.
Wolfeboro, NH 03894
Farm Stand: May- Mid -Oct (9am-5pm)
Ice Cream Stand :
Spring – noon-6PM
Summer – 11AM-10PM
Fall – noon – 6PM
We do not buy any vegetables, no matter how tempting it is, because we are not cooking much during our stay in Boston. People start arriving at the ice cream shop. We hang around for a few more minutes then hit the road again.
Here’s a picture of me taking a photograph:
“Oh look, there’s an interesting antique shop! Let’s go take a quick look,” I squeal. I wonder if they sell vintage plates or cutleries that I could use as props for my food photography.
“You know what? Let’s just go home,” says the husband.