The Secret to an Autumn Table: A Story from Bedford

Last October, the first chill of the season swept through Bedford. The roses on the trellis were giving way to rosehips, and the air had that unmistakable hint of woodsmoke that says autumn has truly arrived. We had friends coming from the city for dinner, and as I was creating the menu, I wanted the meal to reflect the season and where we were.

So I tried something different. Instead of a grand centerpiece, I scattered what I call souvenirs of the season. We placed on each plate tiny branches with acorns attached from oak trees on the property, paired with a sprig of rosemary from the garden. A silk ribbon ran the length of the table, not in a straight line but looping and meandering like it had a glass of wine before sitting down. The children had carefully collected thistle heads from the meadow earlier that day, and those went into a tall jug at the far end of the table. I collect small ceramic vessels everywhere I go, so I filled them with more sprigs of rosemary and placed them around the dining room filling the air with its scent. Imperfect, wild, a little lopsided—and exactly right.  

My husband is English, so he was attracted to Bedford, not only because it’s only an hour outside of Manhattan, but because of how the stone walls, rolling hills and dirt roads reminded him of the English countryside. As reference, I ran a bold tartan runner draped across a faded embroidered floral cloth. Plaid on flowers! It’s like putting Fred Astaire and Mick Jagger on the same stage—you’re not sure who’s leading, but somehow the duet works. The tartan reined in the roses’ romance, and the florals softened the tartan’s graphic nature until the whole thing felt like a conversation in harmony.

And because every table needs a bit of history, I pulled out an antique set of Alain Saint Joanis silver, chipped onyx candlesticks I found during a girls’ trip to Greece, and a large French ceramic floral platter I picked up for $10 from a vintage shop on Shelter Island. These old souls gave the table a little gravity—the kind of patina that reminds you dinners like this have been happening for centuries, even if the menu changes.

The food followed the same theme: farm-fresh but a touch unusual. There was roasted delicata squash, its halves stuffed with chestnut-mushroom ragout from Rochambeau Farm (we also got the roast beef from there), a salad of chicories tossed with persimmons and hazelnuts from the John Jay Homestead Farm Market, and a silken celeriac-apple soup made with orchard fruit from our apple picking haul at Harvest Moon Farm & Orchard. At the center of it all sat a spiced rye loaf from LMNOP Bakery — dark, fragrant with orange zest and cardamom, the kind of bread that makes you want to tear it apart with your hands before the butter even hits the table. That one loaf alone seemed to anchor the meal, its crust cracked like autumn leaves underfoot.  For dessert, we poached pears in spiced cranberry juice. It’s the easiest thing and is my secret to making the house smell amazing when people arrive. Served with vanilla ice cream, it’s a refreshing and light something to sweet to end a meal.

Here’s the truth no one tells you: the strongest autumn table isn’t the one drowning in gourds and glitter, but the one that makes people laugh, sigh, and linger. When the air outside is gold, you don’t always need to prove it with twelve centerpieces (not that I’m against a grand setting!). A few thoughtful, slightly rebellious touches—rosehips instead of sunflowers, plaid on florals, spiced rye instead of pumpkin pie, silver spoons that remember other hands—are enough to hold the whole season in their quiet poetry.

That evening, as the candles flickered against our antique spoons and our guests clinked glasses of cider, a friend leaned in and whispered, “This feels like the woods outside just wandered in.” I smiled, because that’s the real secret of an autumn table: let your story find its way onto the linen.

And truthfully, it was evenings like that - moments when table, food, and family folded into each other so naturally - that inspired me to create a homeware line of my own. I realized how something as simple as laying a table could change the way a night unfolds: a ribbon, a rose, a favorite spoon, or a warm heel of rye transforming dinner into memory. Setting a table is never just arranging plates - it’s an act of care, a way of saying to the people you love, this moment matters.  And with so many wonderful farms and bakers at our doorstep here in Bedford, each table becomes a kind of thank-you note to the place we love.

Written by: Vi Rowshankish, Founder, Deux Pigeons