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October | 2026 The morning sun hits differently on the Italianate architecture that flanks the winding downtown of this quintessential village in the Hudson Valley. We take our turns tripping over the uneven bricks that were laid by someone over a century ago in a seemingly simpler world. We walk with our gazes upward, mesmorized by the stories we can almost hear the buildings whisper. In one hand we hold steaming cups of tea, our other hands remain intertwined, as they have since our last night of service. As though if we hold tightly enough, we may be able to pause this time. There is a quiet that blankets the town today, it is just within reach of the city and on the weekends people flood the streets like ants buzzing about the sidewalks, but today, on a Monday it feels like it is keeping its unspoken promise to offer us reprieve. The only sound interrupting our thoughts is the low hum of the street cleaners. The west side of the street is sprinkled with intermittent cars with huge yellow stickers letting them know they parked illegally, despite the cautionary signs that line the street. I feel this well of misplaced irritation rise within me, rules, why don’t people just follow the rules? We walked past a bagel shop that now occupies what was the “Hop House,” a decade ago. A beautiful old brick building, with floor to ceiling windows, the walls looked like a beer library with a deli at the rear. A lifetime ago, we walked into this space with two little kids in tow. Imagining a space of our own. We were full of the naivety of what it takes to make a space for someone else, to become woven into a community. To manage all the quiet parts of what you feel as the guest. We sat in the window and talked about unrealistic dreams that are actually possible when you are a bit over an hour from NYC, with an endless pool of people. This time we just walk past, we both look at the building, simultaneously take a deep breath. Not one of regret, but also not one of naive longing, one of deep knowing. The kind that settles into your bones. The kind that makes you wish you could go back, do something smaller, something quieter, something that allows for our hands to be steadily interlocked more than not. We leave downtown and wander the neighborhoods. I finally mutter what the silent tears that sneak from the corners of my eyes have been saying for years. I miss us. I miss the life we had, when we had each other. We have to find balance. We returned from New York convicted in finding balance in an unbalanced industry. But balance in hospitality may mean being a little less hospitable. Less time at Magpie. A few more “no’s” when the people-pleasing parts of us desperately want to say “yes.” Choosing, instead, to steady ourselves—and holding to that choice like a promise. And while the time away was a gift, we are excited to return to the mountain town we have called home for almost fifteen years. What began two weeks ago as a conversation with a chef about collaborating on a few pop-ups has, through many conversations since, grown into a partnership we are genuinely excited about. Sam Bretz (more about him here), comes to us from his hometown of Billings, after years spent farther afield, including as Executive Chef at Restaurant Beck in Depot Bay and time at Michelin-starred Kokkeriet in Copenhagen, Denmark. Together, we are shaping a new menu centered around share plates, a small collection of thoughtfully curated entrées, and, in the months ahead, some special coursed dinners. And so, as winter settles in—and with this new promise to ourselves in mind—we are going to begin a little more slowly. Magpie will reopen three nights a week, Thursday through Saturday, with hopes of adding a fourth night as we find our rhythm. Maybe three nights will allow for more gathering, more community, more familiar faces filling the room at once. We are looking toward a Magpie with some tables reserved, but more room for dropping in on a whim—for a drink and a few shared plates, or settling in and staying awhile. A menu that encourages both. Perhaps balance isn’t simply about doing less. Maybe it is about making more room—for spontaneity, for community, and for the things we want to hold onto, too. xoxo,
Kat
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