Poached

I like the idea of poaching. When a person or cookbook mentions poached fruit, I chuckle inwardly, envisioning myself with a rifle in the grocery store, taking out the pears and figs in someone else's cart. Really, I think Roald Dahl first introduced me to the idea of poaching in Danny the Champion of the World, my absolute favorite book when I read it in 4th grade. Danny didn't use a rifle, of course. The clever boy soaked raisins until plump, cut them, stuffed them with sedatives, sewed them up and then fed them to his nieghbor's pheasants. He hid, watching them fall from the trees, then stuffed them in a sack. I forget if he actually killed them or set them free somewhere else. Part of me hopes he killed them then simmered the plucked, trussed creatures in a wine reduction. Poaching on two fronts.

To poach something is basically just to cook it in liquid near its boiling point. Of course, to poach is also to trespass and plunder. I had no idea until just now, but it also means to sink into soft or wet earth when walking, to become soggy or full of holes when walking, or, in racket sports, to return a shot near the net that was intended for one's partner in the back court.

When done right in the kitchen, oh the glory. Eggs do not achieve a more tender state nor pears a more succulent texture.

I was cleaning out my fridge in preparation for a trip to New York. Stepping back to survey the damage, I tried to think of what concoction could employ my leftover, lay-about produce. Watching half a dozen forgotten Asian pears roll around my crisper, eyeing the almost-full bottle of wine, I decided that some spiced red-wine-poached pears were in order. I poured the bottle of wine into a pot along with leftover white wine syrup from the last time I poached pears, a small handful of sugar, a cinnamon stick, star anise, a few corns each of pepper and all spice and the last of the ginger from my fridge, peeled and simply sliced out of laziness. When it started to boil, I added my peeled, cored pears and simmered uncovered until tender. The tip of a knife should easily pierce the flesh, but cook according to your preference. I thought they were a bit too firm last time I made them, so cooked them until a little less resistant this time around, about 30 minutes.

When done, I removed the prettiest pears to sterilized jars and saved the uglier, just-starting-to-fall apart ones in a bowl (intended for almost-immediate consumption). I upped the heat in impatience and cooked down the wine until seriously reduced then poured the hot, thickened stuff into the jars to cover the pears. Cooking down the liquid is the most time consuming part, so some cooks (like the late James Beard) prefer to reduce the liquid to a syrup before adding pears. If canning, seal the jars with clean rings and new lids then turn upside down for at least two minutes. Out of laziness, again, I decided to skip a second sterilization and just store the jars in my fridge while on vacation.

Next I whipped up some heavy cream in a cold metal bowl (I love my small high-rimmed Rosle), opting for a whisk over my oft-used handheld beater so I could feel the cream thicken and come together. Just before it started to form peaks, I added confectioner's sugar and the scraped seeds from a vanilla bean, whipped some more, then added soft, beat cream cheese. Mmmm....

It wasn't quite thick enough to form quenelles (too much cream, not enough cheese), but the little football shapes make a great presentation when you can form them. The white cream is especially gorgeous drizzled with the garnet-red syrup. The spiced pears are a really tasty holiday treat and a great way to extend your enjoyment of December's produce. Spooning mine up, anticipating my trip to New York, I looked forward to eating more upon my return, completing the delicious cycle.

Breakfast Club

My brother flew up on Sunday, leaving the entire week surrounding Thanksgiving to loiter around Mama's house and even become quite acquainted with the 255 bus route to Seattle. I really wanted him and Wifey to stay at my apartment for a night, so we all met up at Pike Place Market on the Friday after Thanksgiving. The meeting venue was a terrible idea, but not mine. Seattlelites and tourists swarmed the market, soaking up precious sunshine vitamins, filling up time on a non-work day with family approved activities. Trying to walk through the interior stalls made me feel like a herding animal. Oof! And then we all got separated, so I missed the best part when Wifey was chased by a man with a mean-looking monkfish and shrieked so loud the whole market could hear. It was Wifey's first trip to Seattle, so the market trip was basically obligatory, but the produce vendors were lost among the overwhelming crowds and I wished we'd saved the tourist trip for another day. I was happy to head back to my apartment and watch the 2004 version of Helter Skelter (inferior to the 1976 version, just for the record).

In the morning, after I did some writing and Todd finished his prayers, we visited Top Pot for caffeine and cake, letting Wifey slept in. We dunked with fervor, favoring the blueberry bullseye over the cinnamon-sugar doughnut, lingering at our rickety table surrounded by books. Hunger tided over, we ventured to the grocery store to procure ingredients for a big American breakfast. Back in my kitchen, just large enough for the two of us to cook together, we leisurely prepared for the day's feast, lunch really for everyone but Wifey.

I set up two stations and we quickly fell into a pattern. Todd chopped a yellow onion as I scrubbed my little German Butterball potatoes. He chopped herbs as I flipped the quartered potatoes in hot oil, gently willing them to develop a reddish brown crust on each side. Todd cut up bananas and apples, coated them in plain yogurt, blackberry honey and cinnamon, and served them with apple-cinnamon granola on the side.

"How many eggs, Luce?" he asked as he fingered the large duck eggs in my fridge. I had bought them at the Ballard market the day he arrived, just before the homecoming lunch at Bastille. It's not so much a homecoming, I guess, as a visit, though I like to pretend that Seattle is my brother's home in part, even if only because I live here.

"Four or five," I said, peeking over to see how large they were. "Four," I confirmed, eyeing the eggs he hefted in each palm. We debated over the best bowl, and I assured him that the high sides of my small metal Rosle bowl would prove sufficient. The second egg had two yellow-orange yolks, each fully formed and then stuck together, leaving very little room for whites. The third egg was a twinsy, too! reminding me of an MFK Fisher quote. I declared it a good omen and was reminded of an MFK Fisher quote. "One of the most private things in the world," she said, "is an an egg before it is broken." Another favorite of mine is "first we eat, then we do everything else."

I removed the potatoes to the oven to warm, sprinkled them with plenty of salt and rosemary and wiped down the skillet in preparation for Todd's hand-whisked eggs. He went for lightness over richness and added a touch of water. I would have added heavy cream. He reserved salt for the end, saying it would affect the very structure of the animal cells and result in a toughly-textured omelet. I learn so much when he's around!

Having been declared the family omelet maker at the age of 10, I swirled the eggs around the buttered pan, adding a very generous amount of goat cheese and herbs when the eggs were almost cooked, then flipped the omelet in half and told Todd to summon Wifey. Todd removed sizzling turkey bacon from another skillet and we plated our all-American breakfast feast.

"They're like meat chips!" Wifey declared of the bacon, never having had it in any form before. I love the words that come out of her mouth, beautiful bits of humor and freshness. Their wedding was only the second time I met her and I have to admit that it was really hard to watch my brother marry a stranger. I'm so thankful for the opportunity to get to know her and to watch how she and Todd interact. She's family now, and I'm looking forward to more shared holidays and meals. More goat cheese, more monkfish, more meat chips.

Thanks to Todd

I always look forward to Thanksgiving, to filling up on food and family, but this year I anticipated its arrival with more eagerness than ever. My brother was visiting, heightening the occasion to new levels of affection and culinary competence. His presence is always a solace, an aid to my anxiety even when he purposefully annoys me, but I crave his comfort more than ever lately. After all the changes in our respective lives, his stability cures my near-constant aching. He's my always brother, our names spoken in succession when we were young as if we were not two but one. 

We met at Bastille in Ballard, where I had swarmed the farmers market with half of Seattle to procure fresh produce for the upcoming feast. There I waited, sipping on sparkling rose for lack of pen and paper, and waited, waited for the moment when he would walk in, blond hair, red beard, black eyebrows and perfectly my brother from head to toe, and grab me in a just-right sized hug. 

The waiting and anticipation, I think, extends his too-short stay. And the way I miss him now so much, after he is gone, is itself a lingering of his presence.

When Thursday arrived, the sun creeping through thick-slatted blinds in my mother's sewing room, Todd and Mama and I assembled ourselves slowly. The three of us, the core and heart of my family, sat at the kitchen table, a hub around which the rest of the house awoke and revolved out of sight, as they read Black Friday coupons and I the comics and obituaries, digging into a Costco pack of croissants. Todd cut out and handed me an ad for an Easy Bake Oven, always the thoughtful older brother. I listened to him and my mother discuss the price of Sonicare toothbrushes with complete earnestness. Tentatively fed, Mama and I ventured out for the mythical "last quick trip" to the grocery store as Todd and his new wife stayed behind to prepare for the day. Upon returning, we walked the dog through the wetlands near Mama's home. 

In the early afternoon we finally settled into our three separate stations in the kitchen, my mother armed with recipes, my brother with passion and I with my new knife skills, ready to together create Thanksgiving for a dozen people. I played sous chef, chopping vegetables for my mother's dressing, peeling potatoes for Todd's roasted garlic mashed potatoes and finally rolling out dough for my own impromptu pear-apple-cranberry pie and julienning celery root, parsnips and golden beets for my side of slaw. 

We spun around each other like three whirlwinds, each focused on managing our own projects but lending help as needed, my brother and I lost in my mother's maze of a kitchen. Hours flew by in minutes as we measured and sweated and stirred, my brother concocting a chicken heart dish and a cranberry relish, my mother simmering stock for the gravy, roasting one turkey as my step father deep fried another, and I loved them and pined over the dishes we stored on the cold porch, keeping my pumpkin cheesecake company. 

Guests arrived, walked into the kitchen, poured themselves wine and then quickly backed away. Later, of course with the feast laid out and the turkey carved, we couldn't convince the kids or parents to end their games. Todd's chicken hearts stole the show, at least on my plate. Our soon-to-be-step-sister-in-law looked on horrified as Todd and I popped the whole hearts into our mouths and his wife cut them daintily to ogle the anatomy. Halving one like a perfect textbook diagram, she pierced it with her fork and shoved it in Nancy's direction saying "Look, it's really a heart!" Nancy cringed in complete horror. These are the moments I treasure. 

In the Thanksgiving-themed focus of food and family, I have to remember that the latter is always changing. My step-sister and her two children recently moved from California and are living at Mama's house, my step-brother is recently engaged, my brother recently remarried, and I'm recently broken up. Bugs' parents and brother had joined our clan for the past two Thanksgivings, and I don't want to say that their absence this year left a gaping hole or anything, but they're certainly missed on some level and the whole affair felt different. There was a certainly a lower wine consumption, largely in part to Todd's and his wife's religiously-rooted abstinence. 

The grandkids went to bed around the time that Lacy and The D arrived for dessert, bearing pumpkin and cinnamon gelato. Mama and I drank port and we all laughed over lost games, and I ate seconds of both my cheesecake and pie. I'd take seconds on all of it if I could. Seconds on the cooking and clinking our classes in thanks, seconds on the hello hugs and good-by hugs, on Todd's chicken hearts and card games and the late bus ride home with tupperware.

Portland with Pops: Part 2 - The Bond of Books

While in Portland with my father, we paid a visit to Powell’s book store. There was never a consideration that we might not, but rather a large and looming possibility that we might not do anything else. I consider Powell's headquarters, "the city of books," the absolute epicenter of Portland. Founded 38 years ago, the new and used book retailer resides in a huge multi-story building that takes up an entire city block. There, I can get lost in the uber-literary blue room, perhaps find myself in the red room's travel section or indulge in the rare and out of print collections in the pear room. There's even a café with good coffee, tea and delectables where patrons are welcome to bring in unpurchcased books for perusal. I’ve spent entire weekends in Powell’s, sleeping in a car with the bookstore in clear sight. Like a book itself, Powell’s is a place of powerful potential.

 

On our Saturday in Portland, my dad and I shopped at the satellite stores in the Hawthorne district, saving the main store for Sunday. I spent a few solid hours and a very restrained $150 in the Home and Gardening store, which shelves cookbooks and food literature. I admit I went a little crazy with the food lit. 

Now, you’ve surely noticed, attentive reader, that I do not actually post recipes, at least not in any measured manner, but rather ramble about the inspirations and results of a meal. This is what attracts me to the genre of food literature, to the combination reference books and autobiographies of yesteryear written by the likes of James Beard, Elizabeth David and M.F.K. Fisher. 

In their books, food and words become intertwined to create an image. Through that series of images, a person emerges. It’s less an accumulation of measurements meant to help you recreate a meal. More a movie reel recalling the sources of ingredients and people that made a meal immeasurable, unrepeatable and unforgettable.

Some of my favorite examples of food literature are James Beard’s “Delights and Prejudices,” an autobiographical bildungsroman of sorts complete with the recipes of his childhood and travels, with details of food and places that existed a century ago; Thomas McNamee’s biography “Alice Waters and Chez Panisse,” which chronicles Waters’ romance with the food culture of the 70’s and how she planted the roots of localalized eating in America. Michael Pollan’s “Omnivore’s Dilemna,” is a fabulous read if you skip the introduction, and the most popular example food literature on the shelves today. 

To beef up my library, I bought MFK Fisher’s “How to Cook A Wolf” and Elizabeth David’s “Is There a Nutmeg in the House?”. Ethan Stowell’s Queen Anne restaurant How to Cook a Wolf inspired me to read it’s namesake, Fisher’s book. The book is not a cookbook so much as an instructional. Fisher's every wit is intended to help the reader preserve dignity in the face of poverty and hunger. Whenever appetite, Shakespeare's "universal wolf," scratches at the door, she has a menu for remedy. She takes such pleasure in food, and seemingly the economy of food, I wonder if hunger permanently heightened her appreciation. I know some deprivation always makes a sensation sweeter. For a comparison between past and present, I also picked up the anthology " Best Food Writing 2009," edited by Holly Hughes. 

What's in a book? Something so great. The words are the essence of the author’s work and toil. It’s not just a story, but a dialogue between writer and reader, rooted in time and place and then uprooted from its context when each new reader cracks the cover. The book becomes a capsule of sorts, the conquest of a period and a person. What's even better is when the author and reader can together  conspire in a new creation, perhaps something in the kitchen. 

 

Portland with Pops: Part 1

I took the train to Portland, eager to meet my father in the middle-ground city for a weekend. He looked surprisingly small in his fleece cap when he met me Friday night at the Amtrak station. He stood to the side, as I knew he would, out of the way of the pouring masses and the meeting people who clogged their path.

Every experience with my father, almost as far back as I remember, begins with a greeting in a place of public transportation. It's as if he met me at a bus stop when I was born, a small suitcase in my baby fist.

He looked small, as I said before. He'd lost weight, as well as the desire to throw it around. Our interactions are so different now that I'm an adult and he doesn't hold the power over me he once did. Nor does he want to. Trading small kindnesses, he gave me rye bread and blackberry honey, an amber comb suspended deliciously in the jar, in exchange for homemade apple sauce. On the drive into Portland, he picked up 60 pounds (plus a few higher quality pint jars) of honey for use in making mead. My father, Aleric, acts much as his name implies, which is to say he behaves as if accidentally and erroneously transported from a past era.

When I was young, from the ages of 9-11, and lived with him every other week, I had to become accustomed to an almost Amish method of living (at least for a child of the 80's). When the toothpaste ran out, we would go weeks sprinkling baking soda on our toothbrushes before he bought another tube. We had to whittle our pencils with kitchen knives. He taught my Girl Scout troop how to turn cream into butter, but I have distinct memories of pouring chunky milk on my cereal. When it got really bad, I would just switch to water. The worst part is, we really weren't poor. At all. He just thought things like toothpaste and pencil sharpeners and fresh milk were unnecessary luxuries. He still doesn't believe in hotel beds (always preferring a truck bed or a floor) and doesn't understand why the post office hasn't yet delivered any of his sweet moonshine to my doorstep.

Portland was kind of like a custody week, 13 years after such things existed for my father and I, but much more enjoyable. Of course we spent more time together and ate better than I ever used to on those old occasions. It was always odd to me that he thought he lost me, that he thought my mother took me away, when I spent so many nights in his supposed custody hungry and alone.

This time around, we stayed at his cousin's adorable house in southeast Portland, hiding inside as the rain and wind peaked in stormy delight. The sweet woman, who doesn't drink alcohol or caffeine or utter profanities, bought beer especially for our visit and seemed positively smitten with the resultingly boisterous conversation. The words and laughter and confidence of our companionship escalated and we stayed up chatting, our feet somehow tucked in together on the couch, until my father's bed time.

On Saturday the three of us ventured to Ocean City Seafood Restaurant on SE 82^nd. A review in The Mercury prompted me to go, and I ate the best dim sum of my short-lived life. We had to wait 15-20 minutes for a table at 12:30 on a rainy Saturday, a very worthwhile endeavor. Anxiously watching the carts pass by other tables, my father and I sipped our tea in expectation. The steam cart finally worked its way to our white-clothed table and the server displayed basket after basket as we pointed at random dishes, briefly conferred, and then stilled our grumbling stomachs with the winning fare.

First I dove into the tofu-wrapped veggies, juicy meatball-like mounds of bok choy, cabbage and other unidentifiable ingredients served with a soy-based dipping sauce. The pork shu mai disappeared so fast I barely remember that meaty moment of heaven, but we all made sure to savor the fantastic shrimp noodles. Rolling the fresh pasta around in my mouth, I delighted in their delicate taste and texture, the shrimp in no way rubbery. My father ate an inordinant amount of the pungently flavored rice, wrapped carefully in banana leaves. Hum bao melted in my mouth, the lightest, whitest dough hiding a sweet dollop of barbecue pork. My father interrupted my creamy scallops to blurt out "That's the most succulent potsticker I've ever had." Indeed, the large hearty dumpling hid a juicy interior behind the thick dough layer. I think it actually squirted at him. A salty sauce brought out the flavor.

For dessert, we dined on egg custard, superior to the runny versions I've had in Seattle, but slightly overcooked and served in too much phyllo dough. The real triumph was the sticky sweet sesame buns. I wish I could have sampled more dessert dishes, but there just wasn't room inside of me. On our way out, I longingly eyed the cart full of buns (so many buns!), some glazed, some with a crackly cover, wondering what delectables might burst forth upon biting.

Ocean City Seafood definitely won over our hearts and gullets. It's a pretty classy joint, decked out in chandeliers and nice fixtures, though you might not know it from the outside. From what I understand, dinner can get pricey, but we made out like bandits at $10 per person.

We digested over a wet walk through the neighborhood and picked persimmons from an inviting tree. Back in our weekend haven, we sipped on more tea with honey, relishing our sweet hot drinks together. Together and happy, I'm not sure why it took us so long to get here. Perhaps because we're both trying to make up for past mistakes.

Autumn and Apple Sauce

I stood on a familiar street corner the other day, listening to a song I hadn't heard in a long time and waiting for my turn to walk in a different direction. Suddenly overcome with a feeling of optimism and clarity, I knew, in a very definite way I hadn't been aware of before, that I had been given a chance to start over. Really, I had seized an opportunity and taken a chance and now I was back at the beginning of a path I began long ago, armed with new independence and an altered perspective. Yes, yes, Joyce coined the term "epiphany" so I could say this all in one sentence, but I guess that's not my style. I guess you'll have to put up with my ramblings.

It was a wonderful moment, a wonderful walk, and reminded me of my love for old things made new. Like canning and jarring fruit. I feel like it's one of those skills that gets recycled through society every couple generations so people can remember how to survive revolution, societal fracture or total apocalypse. This is my third year making and storing apple sauce, and I love creating it differently each year. Arriving in the same farmer's market each Autumn, I select apples to fill my crock pot with the mood of the season. It lets me contain in a pretty glass jar a fragile and distinct point in time.

The first year, I added a little vanilla extract and fresh pepper and went heavy on the garam masala, creating an interesting but over-adulterated taste. I'm not sure what that says about my state of being in 2007, but I was definitely learning the process. Last year, I wanted a clean, slightly tart apple flavor, so I pared back the spices to a sole cinnamon stick and added some extra lemon juice. I kept the lemon juice and single cinnamon stick this year, but added extra sugar, ground cinnamon and ground ginger. The result? Addictively sweet, like something out of a grandmother's kitchen. It tastes and feels quite a lot like the gooey interior of an apple pie.

That is, except for the occasional string of peel. I like to do a partial peel; it leaves more of the natural nutrients intact and imparts a vibrant red color. I feel similarly about chicken skin and apple peel, in fact. I love them both in small savory amounts, but too much can distract from a dish or, worse, taint the texture of a meal in an unappetizing manner. Next time, I would like to "savor" the apple's skin a little less and employ my peeler a little more. One always seeks perfection in the next batch. 

As usual, I started the journey with a trip to the Capitol Hill farmers market. Lyall Farms had a great deal: 10 lbs. of fruit for $12. I loaded the scale with 6 lbs. of apples, enough for about a batch and a half of apple sauce, and then topped off my order with some hard Asian pears (perfect for poaching) and several small sweet potatoes. From the apple baskets I took equal amounts of Jonagold, a large tart tasting apple with an almost pear-like texture, and the small but juicy Braeburn. From another vendor I picked up a few crisp Golden Delicious to round out my blend with their mild sweetness.

Leaving the farmers' market, my canvas bags brimmed with fruit and the last of the season's salad fixings. I was excited to return next week for the gorgeous carrots (there were more than half a dozen varieties, all different shapes and colors), parsnips and potatoes for a root vegetable soup, and some fennel to serve with fish.

I washed just over 4 lbs. apples (as much as will fit in my crock pot), peeled off the majority of the skin, cored them, rubbed them with a halved lemon (not entirely necessary), and sliced them up thin. To the crock pot I added just over 1/2 cup of apple cider, the juice of half a lemon and a cinnamon stick. Four or five hours later, I returned home to a perfumed apartment. The rich fragrance of apples radiated out from my kitchen and down the hall, making my building warmer and more merry, or so I hope. I added sugar, ground cinnamon, ground ginger, and tasted. I decided that more sugar and cinnamon were necessary and added more bit by bit until I felt the concentration of sweetness and spice was just right.

When canning, you can reuse glass jars and metal rings, but you must use new metal lids. All are immersed in a simmering pot of water for ten minutes. Then I work one jar at time, briefly removing my materials to a clean towel, filling the jar with piping hot apple sauce so there is no about an inch of air at the top, and sealing immediately. Wipe up any drips with a paper towel or clean cloth; a clean lip ensures a good seal. When all the jars are filled, I place them in a steam basket set over boiling water for the second sterilization recommended by food safety experts. The basket makes it much easier to remove the hot, heavy jars. Some sources recommend turning the jar upside for at least two minutes after they are removed from the heat. Then they must simply be left in peace. Leave them on the counter and don't touch them, just listen for the satisfying popping sounds as the seals get sucked in. It is the sound of a successful kitchen.

I can honestly say I've been putting forth an incredible effort to break in my new kitchen. I love the idea of how much it's been used before me. The pull-out cutting boards, solid wood drawers and painted-over counters have so obviously been used and loved, been home and hearth to a factory of flavors. I love being a part of the changing tide of tenants to employ this oven, put the outdated ice box to some kind of use (I shoved a wine rack inside) spill spices on the floor, and scatter the table with dishes.

For the most part, at least the home and the people part, life right now feels as fresh as Fall's just-picked apples. Of course, I'm still readying for winter.

Pie in the Sky

When I invited Minty and Trevor, a newly-wed couple from Walla Walla, over for dinner, I knew to expect extravagance. Whether I prepare for it or not, the kitchen seems to come alive with the delight of delicacies whenever we entertain each other. They are more excited about food and wine than perhaps any else I know. Though each can be appreciated on its own, food and wine are practically inseparable in Minty and Trevor's approach to life. 

This philosophy isn't articulated so much as emanated. Their pleasure is simply apparent in the way they eat. Though married, meal and bottle provide a counterpoint one another, creating not just a meal but a a complex experience. The names of wine blends and the remembrances of recipes are never just notes or name-dropping, but the photographs through which we capture an evening spent together. I love exploring and discussing the sensations of cuisine with the two of them, and some of my most memorable meals over the past year have been shared with this wonderful couple. I was rich with anticipation as another dinner date approached.

I mentioned extravagance earlier, but I have to admit I chose about the least extravagant subject for study. I made pizza. We did however find a way to add as much class as can fit on a crust: truffle oil. Drizzled in the thinnest stream, a steady spiral of opulence, it brought out the earthiness of mushrooms, the gamey pungency of the prosciutto, the sweetness of the tomato sauce and the saltiness of the cheese. I think I'll name it The Anointed Pie and recreate it the next time I get a hankering for the cheesy cuisine. We made two pies and I must admit that this, the second, kicked the first one's ass. 

Minty and Trevor arrived at my new apartment with their darling former roommate Kris, who had made cheesecake cookies for the occasion. Trevor bore a bottle of wine in each hand: Yellowhawk Cellar's 2005 Sangiovese from Walla Wallas and Nipozzan's 2005 Riserva Chianti Rufina, also at least 80% Sangiovese by legal requirement. I ushered them into the kitchen, the location of the evening's festivities, and from there the evening stretched out in a leisurely series of topping discussions, cooking experiments and wine tasting. 

Shopping for ingredients at Trader Joe's a few days previously, I had been staring at the cheese section for a while, clearly entranced, when an employee asked me if I needed help. Using him as a sounding board for my indecision, I asked for his mozzarella recommendations. For pizza, he approved of the whole-fat chunk I held in my hand, but said he preferred a fresh mozzarella log, sliced in rounds and suspended in water.  I bought both. The fresh mozzarella graced the first pizza, along with a slightly spicy homemade tomato sauce, the mushroom medley, roasted garlic and slivered fresh basil. I followed the Joy of Cooking's pizza dough recipe, which produces a deliciously chewy crust. I was only disappointed that it didn't brown as well in my new oven as it has in the past. 

When I checked on the pizza after 12 minutes, a ghastly pool of liquid was forming in the center! Cooking the mushrooms had apparently prepped them to release liquid and the wetness of the fresh mozzarella only made the problem worse. I mopped it up with some paper towels and popped the pizza stone back in the oven for a few minutes, a successful salvage. We agreed that pie #1 was tasty, but the weighted-down center required fork and knife for eating and we each had only one piece and then held our appetites in check while the second pizza cooked.

The second time around, I baked the olive-oil-brushed crust for a few minutes before adding sauce and toppings, a step that produced a sturdier pie. Though I love generous portions of tomato sauce, I spread my layer a little thinner than usual, then covered it with generous handfuls of the shredded whole-fat mozzarella. Next I added uncooked slices of portobello and crimini mushrooms, a sprinkling of pine nuts, thinly sliced prosciutto and, atop it all, a snowy grating of parmesan. The cheese melty, the meat crisp, the mushrooms dry and just-beginning to brown, I pulled it from the oven about 15 minutes later, added slivered fresh basil and ran a thin slow stream of truffle oil around the the circumference of the pizza, spiraling inward toward the center. 

Yes, you can slice up heaven with a pizza cutter. 

While on the first tasting I didn't exactly love the Yellow Hawk, it blew me away when paired with our Anointed Pie. We tasted the two wines back and forth, agreeing the Italian paired better with the garlicky pizza and the Washington wine with the truffled one. 

Satiated, the four of us sat at my little kitchen table, transformed from its usual window-side quietude into a suddenly uproarious cove for company, and we opened the third bottle of wine. We caught up on med school applications, law school accomplishments, sibling weddings and career-paths, restaurant reservations and my newest hobby, burlesque. They were coming back to Capitol Hill the following night to watch my burlesque recital, the crowning performance of a 6-week dance series and the opening act in a night of boylesque strip tease. I was girlish and giddy, to say the very least. 

If gastronomy and lust seem to be steering my direction in life, can I just say I'm in gastrolust? It's all energy, fueled and expended, over and over again in infinitely endless menus and dances. I've been glad to try some new hobbies lately, make some new friends, experiment with new toppings so to say, and glad to fall back on the friends familiar enough to be family. My cozy new apartment is proving itself well-suited for friends and food. Nothing else seems more essential in my life right now, and I'm so excited for the shared meals and stages yet to come.

The Market, The Move, The Moment

My final free Sunday in my old apartment I woke up to rain against windows and a cat content to watch from the sill, her ears alertly perked, drawn eyes peaceful, the perfect being. I stayed in my pajamas for hours and lazily alternated between daydreaming and scrawling pure blasphemy in my journal. Reading back over it, one either has to laugh or take it quite seriously. There are no other options, perhaps ever. 

Though mildly disappointed when the rain stopped, I took the opportunity to venture to the sparsely-attended farmers market, the ground wet and the tents wind-whipped, the vendors crossing out old prices and issuing "rainy day deals." I returned home, and I think this was the last day it still felt like home, with some delicious donut peaches and white nectarines, a perky salad mix and a fragrant tomato. All beautiful, but they amounted to much less than my usual bounty. I wanted a big hearty salad but wasn't sure how it would come together. 

Though always a somewhat improvisational cook, I've been taking the experimentation to new levels since Bugs left the dinner table. I’ve been making some seriously sloppy salads, creating crazy ingredient combinations in the least-pretty of presentations, and I’ve been absolutely loving it. After caramelizing a batch of onions that Sunday, I decided to make use of the frond on the bottom of my pan and thought "Why not make a roux-inspired dressing?" So I upped the heat and poured in a glug of whatever wine was open on the counter, something called The Boot I think, whisked in a quick flour-butter paste, a touch of sugar, salt, pimeton de la vera, a splash of balsamic vinegar, and took a taste. Weird, crazy, but good. Rooting around in the fridge, I found some goat cheese, perfect for forking crumbles over my mish-mash salad, but why not stir a little into my saucy concoction for some added creamy goodness, and by that I mean fat? The sauce took on a milk chocolatey texture as I rapidly stirred in the goat cheese with a wooden spoon. After it cooled a bit, I used my hands to toss the mixed greens with the gooey mixture. The salad received thick slices of ripe red tomato, a topping of caramelized onions and, of course, more goat cheese. It was gloriously messy, almost resembling the Wednesday taco salads served at the deli by my work. Parting with any previous expectations of presentation, I savored the taste of crisp greens, juicy tomato and my strange but decadent dressing. 

It was just the fuel for the newspaper-crinkling, box-filling, bending and lifting, cleaning, and general destruction that is moving. Since I've had both apartments for the month of September, I've been simultaneously destructing and creating, employing opposite processes in separate locations, both intimate enclosed spaces, just 12 blocks apart. I've bought a few new things, but I'm mostly working with old materials, trying to build a new home with the ashes of another. 

I had a wooden arm and hacked it off with an axe. Now I carefully whittle away the jagged edges into a new, hopefully useful, shape. My new home is an extension of myself, like a prosthesis I found and fastened on. In many ways it's a weird amalgamation of every place I've lived before it. The sticky kitchen cabinets are as welcoming as a California beach house, the floors as familiar as a barefooted dance party. 

Cooking for myself is so unlike cooking for someone else. In large part, the new freedom I feel in the kitchen comes from the new but very basic premise that I only cook when I’m both hungry and in a mood to cook. Dinner time used to be defined by the clock. It used to be defined as the time when Bugs' keys unlocked the front door and the cat proffered up her skinny belly for a rub down and my timer was simultaneously blaring and I was burning myself on my cast iron pan. He would approach the kitchen tentatively, looking for a kiss, which I would give him reluctantly and then rush to plate the meal while hot and he would open the wine he brought home from work. 8 on weeknights and Saturdays, 7 on Sundays. That was dinner time. It meant a routine, an interaction of players, a shared space and the satisfaction of feeding someone else.

 

I'm in another place entirely now. And perfectly happy to be digging around in the fridge at 8:20, whereas before I would have been stressed to serve dinner so late, feverishly tossing together ingredients while he sat hungrily on the couch. Maybe my own hunger is much easier to tame than my imagination of someone else's growling stomach, but feeding myself recently become both more satisfying and more relaxing. 

After looking in my sparse fridge and becoming dance-inducing joyous at the sight of a lemon, I decided to cook up some potatoes (Desiree and Maris Piper from Olsen Farms), haricot vert, an egg, and throw them around in a bowl with a mustardy-vinegrette, lots of parsley, a can of tuna, and some finely diced onions. I normally would have used shallots, but didn’t want to journey to the store, was hungry and also pretty excited to simply throw together my farmers market finds and the few random ingredients that made their way from my old home to the new one.

 

I don’t know if it had anything to do with the transition from a gas to an electric stovetop, but my first egg in the new kitchen was wonderfully undercooked instead of the usual ones done just beyond perfection. I was going for something soft boiled, orange yolk moist but firm, a not-yet-crumbling texture. My whites were set, but my yolk was the consistency of a poached egg, much more jiggly than I was expecting and held in place by a thin but strong membrane.

I cradled it in my hands, making it shimmy and shake then watching it still itself. The texture was delicate but the color was so fucking brilliant, as if I held the smallest of suns in my palms. I reveled in it and then I squished it. I let the thick sticky yellow mess run all over my hands and melt into the salad bowl, all over my cooked and mustardy potatoes, my lemony blanched little green beans. I wiped as much as I could into the meal bowl and then licked my fingers. I licked the webs between my fingers. I licked my open palms, tongue spread to absorb as much as possible. Then I licked my lips.

 

It was a good egg.

Lawfully Loaded

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Coming Clean

I'm licking my plate and coming clean. Dinner's done and I'm in a food slump, a recipe recession, truant from the kitchen. Meals just don't mean as much to me as they did a few short weeks ago. I have so many notes waiting to be turned into posts: a Washington meritage wine tasting, a bottle of Cayuse and dinner with friends, food and cocktail notes on Spur, pizza and wine reviews of Delancey, the list goes on. I look at them and I think "Who cares? Not me. Not right now." Each experience seems absurdly long ago, almost as if lived by another person, as I eat a 4-minute meal of seared sashimi. 

Admittedly, It's quite good. I whisk warm sesame oil into a concoction of soy sauce, dijon mustard, sherry vinegar and brown sugar. I pour it over golden-on-the-outside-deep-pink-on-the-inside sushi-grade tuna, letting the sweet tangy sauce pool in my slightly curved plates. It keeps hunger at bay but something remains empty. Maybe the problem is that I don't fill up like I used to. 

Instead of laboring in the kitchen and then lingering over the table, I take off my workday and my to-do list and my worries about tomorrow and I take off my clothes and dance through the apartment. When tired and calm and ready, I bundle back up and sit down to write, feverishly filling pages in my journal and actually (YES!) returning to my broken-winged-bird of a novel. I'm feeding Alis and Eric, my beloved characters whose lives become intertwined as the world prepares for first contact with an alien race. It's a young adult sci-fi! And it feels more satisfying than a night spent making mushroom and truffle risotto or beef Bourguignon.  

As much as I love cooking, it doesn't seem a priority when the maitre d' checks the nightly ledger to find a single reservation. Party of one. The server reviews the night's specials and "Oh, yes," my one patron gushes. "The beans sound fabulous. What beer would you recommend? Oh, the Guinness that's been in the fridge since St. Patrick's Day? That's a lovely selection," my dear patron says, and I sit down beside her, simultaneously relishing the speedy satisfaction and chiding the consumption of easy processed foods, bought cheaply for lack of love and integrity. The criticisms, though, like the meal itself, are quickly eaten and cleaned, taken out with the trash.

Many weeknights it would take me the full 2 hours between arriving home and waiting for Bugs' arrival to prepare our dinner. Usually, though, I would cut down on that by spending at least a half day every weekend on meal planning, bookmarking recipes, shopping for ingredients I could double up, and sometimes (if I was really good or if entertaining was involved) doing prep work in advance. Nonetheless, food has been a commitment, a serious chunk of the pie chart.  

Now I sit at my computer or, better yet, dance. Those seem to be two things I can only do wholeheartedly when no one is watching. I go to bed early and wake up early, at Benjamin Franklin's suggestion, but I don't feel any wiser. At least I'm well rested and ready for work. Ready to approach the day as it approaches me, to sidle my toes up to it, braced in their new shoes, and either spit in it's face or laugh as the wind blows the spit right back into mine. 

Maybe I'm just hungry for a meal I can't yet cook or order at a restaurant. Yes, I think a grand meal awaits me, and in the meantime I'll keep eating and dancing and writing and waiting to be made full. 

Riesling Recess

I could play a montage in my head of last week. In fact, I have been. I've been letting the cool, occasionally rainy days parade back and forth in my head, then forward and back like a slideshow gone awry. Tuesday, one of the tamer nights, included a Riesling tasting at another couple's home. Bugs also wrote about the tasting at bottlevariation.blogspot.com, so visit his blog for another, perhaps more serious and studious viewpoint, but please note that he stole some of his best lines from my tasting notes. Harrumph. Ahem. Here we go. 

We were served poached salmon atop a salad of greens, strawberries, goat cheese, pecans and a delicate roasted garlic vinaigrette. To start, because that's what an evening is, the commencement of the night, we sipped on Chinook's 2008 Cabernet Franc Rose. The peppery, strawberry-driven nose complemented the salad, but the palate, with its tart zing and berry sweetness, wasn't quite subtle enough for the subdued salmon. We waited for others to show up to pour the Riesling, the bottles all brown bagged and numbered, waiting in a quiet queue to be sampled and spat. 

The first, Australian Margaret River's 2006 Leeuwin Estate, greeted our glasses with a pale hay color, but the overwhelming smell of petrol made us shrink our noses. The attack was absurdly acidic, like warheads, but as the surprise wore off I picked up on green apples, sour peaches, a slight yeastiness and even a juiciness on the mid-palate. Overall, though, the $18 wine was too austere. I rated it a 6 and it received an average score of 5.2.

Next, Donnhoff's 2007 Riesling looked like diluted pineapple juice or an old metal shined up. It was sweet like honey and I found myself craving a bite of spicy Thai or Indian food to contradict and somehow satisfy the sweetness on my lips. I could drink a whole bottle of this stuff, but thankfully I limited myself to a glass. The tropical fruit, coconut and melon flavors were fun, but the fruit was subtle. Sweetness dominates this lick-your-lips wine. At $24 and 10% alcohol content, this wine was a worthy pleasure. I rated it a 7.5 and it received an average score of 6.6.

Substance's 2007 was a decent offering from Washington State, though it didn't induce the same level of mass-merriment as Germany's gift to the table. I picked up some fun citrus on the nose, but overall the wine was less expressive. Translucent in appearance, it tasted of tart kiwi, white grape juice, and had an orange and pineapple finish. Though beautifully balanced between sweet and acidic, it tasted cheap, cheaper than $18. I rated it a 6.5 and the group gave an average score of 5.5.

Mr Rigg's 2006 Watervale Riesling, another Australian number, smelled of petroleum and Haribo's raspberry candies. You know those ones with small wax and sugar dots stuck to the outside of a gummy berry? Yes, those! It tasted surprisingly of pineapple juice with vanilla vodka. I would know. We detected granny smith apple and sweet grass, but it was the hints of saline and oyster shell, as well as the firm acidity, that saved it from being cloying. I rated it a 7, the group a 5.5, and I think this is a good buy at only $12.

Domaine Marcel Deiss' 2007  Riesling from Alsace was floral and pretty, but somehow got stuck with the dreaded term "palatable." It smelled like a kitchen with bread rising on the counter and a pot of geraniums on the sill. Tart, with a slightly puckering attack, the pale wine revealed bright highnotes of apricot and pineapple. I rated the $25 wine a 6.5 and it received an average score of 5.8.

Lastly,  Maximin Grunhauser Abtsberg 2007 Spatlese Riesling from Mosel stole the show. Divvied out into our glasses, the syrupy wine shone a darker yellow than those previous, an opaque light gold, like sun reflecting on water. After the harshness of the Australian wines, we welcomed the mild petroleum nose (expect Bugs, who noted a disappointing small of sulphur). It only made the tropical fruit flavors, risidual sugar and fruit acidity more complex. Indeed, it had the best balance of all the wines, and a price point of $35 to prove it. The low 8.5% alcohol content surprised me, but I suppose that's how great wines are made. I licked my teeth, trying to savor it. 

Clearly, I need more Donnhoff and Mosel in my life, more sweet yellow sun colors, more acidic tropical fruit tastiness. I'd like to devour great quantities of these wines from large opulent goblets, but of course that would be terribly indulgent, too terrible to do unless I shared it with you. So, next time, perhaps? 

Next time, next time we all murmured as we embraced and beelined for the door, Bugs bellyaching and me trying to hurry him home. We took a taxi back to Capitol Hill and fell into our bed of routine, each of us careful to set alarms and be asleep by 11, careful to wake up on the right side of the bed and tip toe through another dream-like day. Careful to again eat and drink ourselves into a slumber of domesticity. I look back on Tuesday and wonder if I'll ever sleep in the same bed again. 

CA Cemetery

I'm waiting for my big chance to man the emergency exit, but as many times as I've read the pamphlets and eyed the overhead roof where the oxygen mask pops down, I'm glad it won't be today. In my head I picture myself with a whistle, commanding women to cast off their heels (who wears heels to the airport anyway?) and reprimanding anyone trying to salvage overhead luggage. My inflatable vest's blinking light beams hope for the needy and underaged flyers, though our feet are secured on dry land, probably somewhere in Oregon's Willamette Valley. I'm sure the dream is better than reality. I'm sure my own oncoming emergencies aren't nearly as planned-for or well-executed. 

The plane touches down and I gear up, ready to fight my way through LAX to meet the Queen B curbside. Fighting, it turns out, isn't required. So I wait my place in line politely, containing myself until I'm safe inside the Queen B's hive of a car. Hugs, then driving, and finally, when reality sinks in and we can't contain our excitement, screaming and an impromptu stop at a Cuban restaurant for mojitos. Back at her place, B and I quickly fall into our old routine: horror movies, frozen yogurt, reading side by side with noses buried in books, talking excitedly over drinks, and more horror movies. 

Letting the hours drip slowly into languid days, we bask on the beach, getting sand between the pages of our paperback books. The late afternoon wind chills our arms and whips our hair, so we keep our bathing suits on and head back to her apartment for a soak in the jacuzzi. This is vacation. After 5 days, we drive south to Orange County.

Entering Irvine, I lose myself in the wasteland. I know these roads and stout 1-story businesses are some one's neighborhood spots, some one's salary, but it's someone else, and I can't see any beauty in this washed out, hazy concrete town. This is the real return, and always bittersweet. Years ago I used to fly in to John Wayne airport with my backpack, looking for my dad in the crowd, back when he was allowed past security. Mildly depressed, missing Seattle, but relieved to be away from school, I approached these trips tentatively. Yet here I am again, backpack in tow. 

"It's someone else's cemetery now," I think, driving down Beach Blvd. The said cemetery sits across the street from a Wienerschnitzel and a Walmart, and I remember wandering through its white stones and manicured grass when I was 16. I would actually prefer walking through it to driving past it, but the Queen B and I zoom toward PCH on a hunt for In-N-Out. Animal-style really is what a hamburger's all about, but that's not my cemetery either. 

In Seattle I can at least limit myself to eating Dicks only a few times a year, but I doubt I would have the same willpower if I lived walking distance from an In-N-Out. Wait, what am I talking about? Nothing in Southern California appears to be walking distance from anything else. Except the cemetery, from which the dead can cross the street to purchase 99¢ corn dogs and rolls of toilet paper. 

Saying good-bye to B is hard. 

I spend the next 3 nights on my brother's couch, the faux suede surprisingly comfortable. The birthday card I sent him hangs on his refrigerator, the door's single decoration held in place by its single magnet. I read my inscription several times before opening the fridge to look for salvageable food. Joy of Cooking sits open on his kitchen counter. He brags about owning an older edition, one with descriptions and drawings on how to skin and cook a squirrel. Don't ask me what a lawyer needs with a recipe for squirrel. His car is broken and we walk to the grocery store, over overpasses, under underpasses. I admire that he's the only person in Orange County who walks. But I'm still confused. 

"Why do you still live here?" 

"I doubt I'd find another place that has all the elements I'm looking for." It sounds too thought out, like something our father would say. 

"What elements?" I wonder, noting the lack of earth, wind, fire or water on the freeway. 

I don't get a response. 

I'm lost in Super Irvine, the over crowded but amazingly stocked Persian grocery store. Todd waits at the meat counter, a number in his hand and his eye on today's low low price of beef tongue. The lamb shanks and shoulders look good, I say. I have a great lamb recipe, I say. It may take four hours, but we can wait, eat late, pass the time. Todd nods, doesn't hear, orders the beef tongue. I've had beef tongue twice, both times at Quinn's, and had since sworn it off. The dry, frail, falling-apart meat required heaps of mustard, and I relished my side of cornichon pickles more than the main dish itself. 

Back home we unburden our backpacks of their low-cost bounty. Todd boils the tongue with halved lemons and onions, allowing the meat to tenderize and soak up some flavor and acidity. After an hour and a half he removes the skin (remind me to buy that boy a good paring knife) and chops it into manageable chunks.

Meanwhile, I caramelize two onions in a large skillet and we set up a board for a game of Stratego. Todd has a tendency to cry out "You've sunk my battleship!" whenever I successfully kill one of his army. Don't be fooled, but the box boldly states that Stratego is not a war game. The bombs, marshals, lieutenants and spies suggest otherwise. 

The onions salted and sweated, I remove the cover and up the heat, browning them with a little sugar. We add the beef, browning the tender meat before adding bell pepper and squash. In retrospect, I would have cooked the bell pepper with the onions, caramelizing them from the beginning. We worried that there wouldn't have been enough room in the pan to properly brown the meat, but we should have just removed the veggies when sweet and slightly burnt and then incorporated them again at the end. Ah well, the roughly chopped tomatoes hit the pan last and we use their acidic juices to scrape up the frond on the bottom of the pan. We scoop the hash into Todd's familiar, glazed ceramic bowls and eat while blowing up each other's scouts, detonating each other's bombs and capturing each other's flags. Actually, Todd captures my flag. Five times. 

The beef tongue exceeds all my expectations. The meat is tender and tastes of lemony-oniony brightness, the vegetables are soft and sweet, but the blackened bits, my favorite part, crackle with flavor. We settle into the couch, the generous guest bed, and watch TV with our feet on the coffee table, chatting through commercials and sometimes during shows. Our distant and recent pasts hang in the empty space between us, ominous, waiting to be spoken about in fits and starts. We begin in small, carefully spaced intervals. This is why I'm here, in my hometown. Otherwise the distance between our voices, far-reaching tentacles they may be, is never fully traveled. 

The Harvest Vine

I know it's been around for a while, but people have been begging me to go to the Harvest Vine recently. Not with them. They go without me and then rave about it, begging me to follow in their stomach's footsteps. I admit it's a romantic destination and there are few in my life who would romance me. Few meaning one. So on Friday night, specifically chosen as "special date night" since I was to flee the following morning for a week-long vacation to California, Bugs and I walked out of the apartment holding hands and wearing dress shirts to catch a cab to our 8:30 reservation. 

"I'm so glad putting a nice shirt on over jeans means dressing up in Seattle," Bugs said as the cab pulled up. 

"I'm so glad we live in a neighborhood where we can walk to the corner and catch a cab in a minute."

As cool a couple we may be, I stumbled a bit in my heels when exiting the taxi, and I swear the (older, richer, more fashionable) patrons sitting on the porch watched my stumble and then cast their eyes to the floor when we entered. Inside Harvest Vine, however, exists a different world of comfort. 

Yes, forget about interrogating eyes and heeled hipsters with your fashionable food (such is the world when one leaves Captitol Hill!). Our server whisked us down a stone stairway, through a labyrinth of small rooms that made the good-sized restaurant feel hidden and intimate. Sitting just an iron-worked bar away from the booze-filled one (why do I always envy the bar patrons at nice restaurants, who I envision as both spendy and spontaneous?), Bugs claimed the wine list first while I ogled the food menu, revisiting friends' and family's recommendations in my head. At times I do wish someone would bring two wine menus for our table (and yes, sometimes I do get so impatient I ask for my own). Bugs has to pore through it, cover to cover, like his Neal Stephenson novels. He commented on the abundance of Lopez Heridia wines, a tasty Rioja producer, and of sherry. Most of the wines were a double mark-up, pretty standard, though some topped out at triple retail. 

Our friendly and handsomely bearded server brought us a palate cleanser of apple and fennel sorbet with fennel and parsley oil. Green and sweet like good wheatgrass, the sorbet was somehow creamy and crave-worthy as well. I arouse from my last green spoonful, wondering if food might be the fast lane to heaven. 

I assented to Bugs' wish to order the 2005 Muga Reserva Rioja, though he grumbled a bit that the 2004 was unavailable. A delicious decision at $55, and not a bad markup from $25 retail, we loved analyzing it while waiting for food to arrive and then observing the changes with time and food pairings. 

"Who will taste?" The wonderfully bearded and helpful man asked innocently. Bugs simply frowned his mustache a bit, fully prepared for the seriousness of the ordeal, and raised a pointed finger like a student affirming his presence in class. 

"Yes, him," I said, deferring to the expert at the table, though I do enjoy the first taste when I select the wine, or better yet, when a taste is offered to both of us like at our neighborhood favorite Table 219. 

From his askance glance as the waiter uncorked the bottle to his screwed up face as he tasted and discerned the quality, I loved him, like I only love my Bugs. One of the truly special things about date night is admiring your lover in public. 

The nose on the Muga smelled of cherries, blueberries and eucalyptus, the latter fulfilling a broader sense of the herbal, medicinal and alcoholic. 

"A little coconut," Bugs whispered, his nose buried deep in the glass, lifting his thick-rimmed glasses. And then I smelled it, too. Was it a subtle note, only obvious once pointed out, or powers of persuasion? Almost impossible to know in the wine world because in such a land citizens are often engaged in some stage of drunkenness.

Focusing again, I felt the smooth dry mouth feel, running my tongue through the broad tannic background. It finished black, with hints of soil, dark cherries and cocoa chalkiness. As the alcohol and medical smell faded, the acidity of the fruit broke free. I felt citrus on the back of my throat and a pleasing astringency on my tongue. The rich tannins, sharper acids and alcoholic sweetness all balanced on a hair. 

The Guisantes y bee gedarte, fresh peas with Marcona almonds, burnt lemon vinaigrette and ash-rubbed cheese arrived at our table. Though the flavors I forked up eagerly were bright and delicious, I would have preferred the peas just a little more plump and crisp, less cooked, but the nuts almost made up for it with their crunchy texture. Indeed, the dish hinged just as much on texture as it did on taste. Bugs, not usually a nut fan, commented on the spectacular almonds.

"That's because they're texturally important," I responded, savoring both their snap and sweetness. The ash on the cheese brought an essential bitterness, balancing the peas, baptized in their oil and lemon bath. I mopped up the last of the grassy olive oil, staining the bread and table cloth green. And so our waiter presented us with clean plates and forks! Such a surprise after Corson Building, where I paid twice as much to eat four times as many courses on the same dirty plate.

Next we ordered the clams with bacon, onion confit, chorizo and cream sauce ($10). The smoky pork slid around and over the juicy clams, the tenderly-textured dish rendered spicy by the onion and chorizo compote. Though it didn't pair the best with our Muga, the pork and seafood plate evoked a spiciness in the wine that we otherwise would not have noticed.

"I like how the waiter isn't pouring our wine," Bugs confessed, leaning over the table. I'd noticed it subconciously and greatly appreciated the lack the service, too. Of course, just then a gentleman (not our server! not on my watch!) must have overheard us, thinking we were sarcastic, and promptly filled our glasses. We really weren't being sarcastic! We just like to swirl our wine, really. Please let us fill our glasses at our own speed. At least the lights dimmed. Mood lighting is always better with bacon. Or is that the other way around?

I was then served and immediately devoured the blood sausage, which I later recounted in great detail to my very German and very blood-sausage-loving Oma. The crisp black exterior gave way to a rich but delicate interior, entirely reminiscent of bread pudding or a soft bread stuffing delicately flavored with fennel and nutmeg. 

For dessert we ravaged an Espellette pepper chocolate flan, the spiciness just warming the creaminess and sweetness, further flavoring our 1989 Colheita by Porto Kopke. 

As one of the last tables lingering in the stone-walled wine cellar of Harvest Vine, we said goodbye to the romantic lighting, rich food and surprisingly cheery air, leaving the stones to grow cold with the night. When the 11 didn't come, we hailed a cab (it took a little longer than on the hill) and made our way back home to say our goodbyes to each other and do anything but let the bed grow cold like stones.