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Every winter, an insidious enemy hiding in plain sight attacks our cities. At least that is what our local politicians want us to believe…that snow is a stoppable enemy whose attack we can assail with taxpayer dollars and back breaking labor. Most snow storms follow a predictable pattern. The major meteorologists disagree until 24 hours before the “event,” at which time local news has near hourly coverage of the preparation of the salt soldiers, ready with their tanks and hand to hand assault weapons. The news teams attempt to warn us what time the battle will commence before giving neighborhood briefings as to the damages. If this isn’t a war, I don’t know what is.

The flakes in this latest attack started shortly before 11 a.m. eastern before progressing to full fledged white out conditions. The snow quickly took the upper hand turning roads to ice and trees to Ansel Adams photographs. The salt soldiers struck back with the mayor guaranteeing that 100% of city roads would be plowed at least once. Property owners, desperate to take back their asphalt and sidewalks, came out in droves. By the time I picked up Jake at 3 pm (after trudging a mile in snow up a hill…seriously), a few inches had successfully made it to the ground.

There are some who hate snow…who attack its very presence. I have one word for them. Florida. As for Jake and I, we had a great snowball fight. I got him to the ground and was bombarding him with snowballs as he laughed hysterically. A school bus driver rolled down her window and said, “that’s not fair.” I looked at her, the snowball in my hand and Jake on the ground. Jake and I laughed as my snowball hit its target. Snow 1. New York City 0.

On a crisp, blue-sky day in autumn, I took a walk with friends and guests in the Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge just 10 miles east as the crow flies from Manhattan.  The friends were people from my neighborhood I’d known for several years. The guests were unwelcome visitors from China, Japan and South America. I watched as my friend took a knife and slashed one of the guests. My friend was frustrated. “This actually does nothing. It will be back bigger and stronger in a few weeks.”

My friend, Michael, is a botanist for the City of New York, and his passion belongs to plants who shouldn’t be here. He calls them non-native, invasive plants, and some of them are downright insidious. “The Asian Bittersweet actually strangles native trees,” he says as he points to a tree with deep scars corkscrewing their way up the trunk. Someone had attempted to save this tree by cutting down the Bittersweet. Many other trees were less lucky, having succumbed long ago.

Plants native to a certain area have evolved for thousands of years to be in balance with their ecosystem. They will provide food for insects, birds and small mammals. It can chemically defend their turf from other native plants. They supply nutrients to the soil. But a non-native invasive shares none of these characterstics. Non-native invasives swoop in without predators and decimate an area’s diversity, leaving an area virtually deserted of natural flora.

Michael began his professional career teaching English in China and working aboard river cruises. He came back to the States and took a few jobs utilizing his bilingual ability. About two years ago, something sparked an interest that developed into an outright passion. Michael would spend hours studying plants, learning how to recognize them and how to decipher which ones were native and which ones unwelcome guests. He speaks with unbridled enthusiasm and reaches far into his now near-encyclopedic storehouse of New York City plant knowledge to identify, and, on this Sunday morning, teach.

“There are whole areas where native species are effectively gone,” says Michael. And this isn’t a New York City problem. Two centuries of global travel have spread plants throughout the world. Visitors to the American south have come across a rather noxious vine called Kudzu. Kudzu spreads over everything, literally sucking the nutrients out of the soil for itself. Where it lives, little else does. Cut it down, it comes back. Cut it down again, it comes back twice as bad. And Kudzu has been steadily marching north, some of it even making an entrance in New York, though as of yet it does not have a foothold.

In Earth’s past, about one or two non-native invasives would cross geographic boundaries and slowly begin incorporation into the environment. This changed when improved shipping, trains, and airplanes brought stowaway seeds far from their native territory. The problem was accelerated even further when tradesmen opened new markets for exotic plants. “One of the biggest problems with Asian Bittersweet is that it is kind of pretty…it makes a great Christmas wreath,” says Michael.

Even worse, many nurseries sell non-native invasives. Legislation is weak, and even experts don’t fully agree on the best use or destruction of these plants. Fire, which was all but banned in the United States 60 years ago, used to be an effective measure against invasive species. Now cutting and herbicdes are used with mixed effectiveness. Lack of funds, resources and clear cut guidelines about non-native invasives have helped to spread these plants and diminish native territory.

“So what?” I ask Michael. “Survival of the fittest, right? What will happen if we let the non-natives win?”

Michael smirks, seemingly familiar with my brand of naiveté. After all, I am an outsider who until this day saw plants as green things, just ‘there’ in the background. I was unfamiliar with their back stories and their heroic fights to the death. Those things happen in “plant time”, over the course of a few seasons. There’s no dramatic video or pictures, no sounds to be heard. Just before and after pictures that, if you know how to look, show remarkable devastation.

“This matters if you’re a fan of diversity,” Michael says after some careful thought. “We are just beginning to understand all of the relationships we see here. What scares me more than what I know we’ll lose is what I don’t know we’ll lose.”

About halfway through the walk, one of my son’s friends spots an interesting plant peeking out of the ground. He asks Mike what it is. For the first time all day, Mike is stumped. He becomes obsessed with this new variety, unseen by his eyes. He opens a guidebook he always carries, but can’t find the answer. He takes notes and pictures and even a small sample that has fallen to the ground. Later that night, I receive an e-mail from him:

“It took a while to ID the mystery purple five-petaled woody vine. I checked three books and then had to consult with an expert. It turns out it was Chinese matrimony vine – a plant I’ve never seen before, but one which I’ve eaten many times. Its dried fruits look like orange-red raisins, and it’s frequently used in Chinese cuisine, especially nutritious soups. You can buy the fruits in Chinatown. Although it’s not native, its very uncommon in our area.”

During the hot summer months, the grapes of the Eastern end of Long Island plump up. The area becomes home to weekenders, those fortunate enough to have the resources to acquire a second property here, 80 miles away from the big city. They reside in small turn-of-the-century homes or converted strawberry-fields-cum-residential-development.

Long Island forks in more ways than one. To the south is the ritzy, glammy, over-developed Hamptons where the super rich build houses bigger than fortresses and chic Manhattan restaurants open outposts on the ocean. Big yachts. Big cars. Private estates. It is pretty in its own way, but almost all of the land is spoken for. Farms have long been replaced by stately lawns.

To the north is a different world, one that in many ways is connected to Long Island’s past more than its future. For now. There are still farmers here plowing the fertile land, a healthy mixture of sandy soils and maritime climate. A quarter century ago, vintners figured that Long Island’s climate and terroir resembled Europe and thus the first vines were planted here. Thirty plus vineyards later, countless awards and hordes of people have added to a growing mystique about Long Island wines. In the last decade or so, farms have been decimated in favor of residential development, similar to what happened on the South Fork many years ago. But for now, quaint New England villages, open spaces, farm stands, weekenders and vintners live side by side, as country as you get on Long Island.

By fall, many of the weekenders have returned home. They know full well what early fall brings: day trippers. Their minivans, Honda Civics, SUVs and low-end BMWs flood the North Fork every weekend in search of a little country hospitality and a very big pumpkin. The farms smartly take advantage of the cooling weather by offering apple picking, corn mazes and pumpkin patches. And this is exactly where I found myself last Sunday afternoon, stuck in miles-long traffic as day trippers blocked my path to the wineries just beyond the great Pumpkin Patch.

“This is frustrating,” said Jaime, eyes glossing over. Her second full day off in six weeks was being wasted. She heavily resisted the urge to jump on her Blackberry and work. Her grandmother sat patiently with Jake in the back staring out the window. She had not traveled very much in this area and had never been to a winery.

“Look at the porch on that house,” said Jaime’s grandmother quietly remarking about a colonial that looked as if it was plucked from a Kansas Farm circa Wizard of Oz and deposited here. “They sure don’t make them like they used to.” Jaime looked more frustrated, fearing her grandmother was just being nice. Jaime’s event planner side was rearing its ugly head. Things were not going according to plan. In fact with me, they rarely do. “The traffic is nice; we get to slow down and see things,” said Jaime’s grandmother as the odometer hit 15 for the first time in two miles. I briefly thought about using the oncoming lane as a passing lane, but thought better of it.

We passed another house that had an old pickup truck from the 20s parked in the back. Even Jakob looked up from his videogame to say “cool.” Another 10 minutes, only half a mile. We started noticing people’s mailboxes. Many were plain, but some were fantastic pieces of art, whimsical containers whose utility seemed wasted at just delivering bills.

Finally, we spotted the source of the traffic holdup. A large pumpkin patch had been acting like a black hole, sucking in the surrounding cars in a never-ending vortex of traffic. The rules of physics seemed to be suspended here as cars were parked everywhere and on both sides of the street. People crossing and cars parking had backed up the traffic for five miles. Just beyond, the open road returned. Within no time, we were at our first winery, the traffic a distant memory.

First up was Pugliese Vineyard in Cutchogue. The grounds were very pleasant with a small lake and outside seating. Wineries are very peculiar when it comes to tasting fees. Many outside of touristy areas are free for all tastings. Others charge a fee to taste a certain number of wines (usually $3-$5). Others offer only flights, groupings of wine from which you cannot deviate (which is the most frustrating kind, because I may want two wines from flight A and two wines from flight B). Pugliese offered four tastings for five dollars and you were allowed to pick whatever wines you wanted to taste. Jaime lit up like a Christmas tree when she discovered they made five dessert wines. Her decision was made (she skipped the red port).

She tried the late harvest Riesling, Late Harvest Gewurztraminer, Late Harvest Niagara and white port. I tried the 2007 Riesling Pinot Grigio, Sangiovese (Chianti) and Cabernet Sauvignon. Their Riesling was a great table The Riesling, not too dry or crisp or sweet…very balanced and, because we both like it so much, able to be paired with most anything (I am not always in favor of paring wines exactly correctly…if you like something, drink it). The Sangiovese was really something special. It had great balance and was smooth with a wonderful aftertaste. We took both. Jaime and her grandmother enjoyed the Late Harvest Riesling. The Niagara and Gewurztraminer were ok, and Jaime did not like the white port.

Next up was Peconic Bay vineyards, a three-minute minute trip up the road on the North Fork. There are about 10 wineries within a few miles of each other, making for a fun day. Though, if you plan on hitting a lot, get a limo or a designated driver. Peconic Bay was busy when we arrived and we had to wait for fresh glasses. These glasses, unfortunately, were quite hot and skewed the wines a bit. They charged for flights or by the taste ($3 per taste). Jaime and her grandmother drank Polaris, a $45 dessert wine they loved. It was a great dessert wine, not too syrupy and perfectly sweet. We were all impressed. Peconic, interestingly enough, sells its Chardonnay and Merlot by the Magnum (equivalent to two bottles or 1.5 liters). The rest of the wines were just ok and we actually did not purchase anything there.

Finally, we hit Laurel Lake Vineyards. We had stopped there this summer and enjoyed the Riesling so we came back to buy more. I felt happy I had showed Jaime’s grandmother a variety of wineries. We were hungry now, and it was off to lunch for us.

This trip happened in part because of the Cooperage Inn, a restaurant we had discovered accidently in July. The décor was country and the food comfort and wonderful. Jaime immediately thought her whole family would love it. We had checked the time the restaurant opens. What we hadn’t checked was whether there was a fall festival happening on the restaurant grounds. There was.
A maze of people filled the parking lot. Outside, the lawn was occupied by pony rides, hamburgers, a hay playground and a live band. The sunroom, in which we had eaten in on our previous visit, was replaced by a buffet line. They were still serving food inside the restaurant, though, and we managed to score a table.

Traffic and festivals had delayed our travels. Now it was nearing 7 PM and we were on our way home. The sun disappeared behind a cloud and left behind finger clouds that rippled its way across the sky. A rainbow of colors danced as darkness neared “You know, the atmosphere is ruled by the same laws as water, thermodynamics. That looks just like a wave,” I said to Jaime who appeared very disinterested. I turned to her. “I’m sorry about the traffic and not being able to eat on the patio,” I said. She smiled and looked at me. She looked relaxed, something I have rarely seen from her lately.

“The sky is really beautiful…and right now I don’t care what made it that way,” she said.