I live close to downtown Beaver, but somehow I always forget it exists. When you live in the armpit of the county, you tend to flee to the usual distractions: Downtown Pittsburgh, the Strip, even Cranberry now that it has leveled up beyond Applebee’s.
But here’s the truth: Beaver isn’t just Sewickley for people with normal salaries. There’s genuinely interesting shit happening there.
My husband dragged me out of bed Saturday to grab breakfast at a local spot on the main drag that we had never managed to try. Hash N Smash. I had never heard a single thing about the place, even if the name alone evoked Marvel-esque promises of getting my gut absolutely wrecked.
Inside, it has the charm of a dive diner: a wall of license plates, scattered records, nostalgic cartoon murals from yesteryear, and… a bike. I did not investigate the bike or ask why it was there. I assume it’s a draw for someone. Their branding prominently features a burger, but it was breakfast time for me, so I went with the mushroom goat cheese hash because my tastebuds refuse to abide by normal flavors.
Most of the meal can be summed up as passable but lacking substance. The potatoes were perfectly cooked, my over-easy egg still had its silky yolk, but it all felt like it was missing something. Spinach? Onions? I don’t know. Mr. Noon enjoyed his veggie omelette while I stared at a giant plaque on the wall.
Where did they get this from?
This sent me down a rabbit hole. I always assumed Beaver County was named after the rodent (or, as my Canadian friend once joked, female genitalia), but it turns out the truth might have been way cooler. After wading through Wikipedia I couldn’t find much to corroborate the sign, except one line on Beaver River:
The river itself was either named for King Beaver (Tamaqua) of the Delaware nation that had migrated to the area in the late 1740s, or for the animal.¹
So not vulvas but debatable on the man or the animal. Anyway.
We finished our breakfast and, with the weather feeling unseasonably warm, decided to wander down 3rd Street. Almost immediately I spotted a shop that promised something for the wayward artist in me: Cord + Iron. Something about this place has the vibe of a hipster just past its prime. Inside, it’s packed with the kind of snarky gifts and early-2010s ephemera that millennials can’t resist, complete with plaid bunting and candles that smell like pine and student loan debt. I was delighted, and of course I found a few things to exchange my doll hairs for.
Still riding the high of contributing to the local economy, we headed to an ice cream shop we actually frequent: Blackbird.
Blackbird is owned by sisters Melanie and Denise, but the real gem of the place is their mother, Ingrid. Ingrid could sell ice to an Eskimo. I’ve never formally met the sisters, but every time I’m there, I run into their mother instead. She’s a German transplant who came to the U.S. with her husband fifty years ago, and somehow she convinces me to buy something every single visit. It’s not that she’s pushy. She just radiates the kind of genuine charm you only get at a Weihnachtsmarkt.
We spent fifteen minutes talking about her current project (felt Christmas trees), immigration, and how amazing Beaver actually is. By the end, she had convinced us to visit the bakery across the road. “Kretchmar’s. The owner comes in at four in the morning to make the dough.” For a moment, I wondered if Ingrid secretly works for the tourism board. Honestly, Beaver deserves better PR, and Ingrid is it.
I bought a Mexican hot chocolate at her suggestion, and then we were off to Kretchmar’s for bread. We spent the rest of the day wandering the old streets and walking along the riverfront, where I snapped a few quick photos of the area.
We eventually made our way home, carb-loaded and mildly bewitched, and I couldn’t help thinking: Beaver isn’t the poor man’s anything. I just never fact-checked a thing — same as whoever made that sign.
¹ Source: Wikipedia – Beaver River (Pennsylvania)
Read More
Ode to Liminal Space
My birthday is next week and I’m trying to wrap up as many projects as possible before the holidays swallow my attention whole. Between the hectic moments, finding any kind of solace outside feels nearly impossible. Today it’s raining, the wind cuts, and the evening...
Some Reasons Why
In the summer of 2022, I was walking along a road in my neighborhood when I spotted it — a farmhouse. And not the faux Joanna Gaines variety, but a real one. Over 3,000 square feet, built in 1900, complete with a spring house, tucked against a hill around a wooded...