To Wine and To Wed

Entangled grape vines lined the entrance to their eternity. I had visited Areus Inn earlier in the day, before the wine tasting and lunch and the peak of the heat. We hung paper lanterns over the bar and strung tiny lights through the trees and filled glass vases with dried lavender, the bride, her sister, and I. I wasn't entirely needed, but desperately needed to be present and useful. In the morning, the empty hills seemed peaceful, like the pause between preparation and final action. Like the time between doings when we just seem to be. Now, 5 pm and five wineries in, the crowd of people pulsed with excitement and anticipation. The doing time had come.

I saw the groom briefly to hand off the Okanagan ice wine, carefully transported across the border and passed along a relay line of hands. Without it, my hands were empty. The bride, of course, hid inside until her moment. We milled about until finally, every person in place, we sat beneath the sun with shining faces and fidgeting hands. We, the audience of their affection, watched the bride walk the grassy aisle toward her bearded beloved.

Oh, how we ladies love those bearded men.

Like two pillars, the pastor said, they stood apart. I liked that. I liked the wheat field altar and the church of rolling hills, and the sanctity of the sun. After the simple ceremony, we stood under the light-strung trees, sipping Mountain Dome brut, or Argyle if we were lucky enough to be in the bridal party, waiting until the shade crept over our tables before sitting down to dinner. Once tucked into our meal, the wine kept pace with the plates.

The Okanagan ice wine proved a perfect complement to the wedding cake, certainly the best I've ever tasted. Satiated, we let the sun set behind our backs, we allowed the light to slip between the leaves, beam briefly between the tree trunks and disappear.

I had come to Walla Walla for their wedding, but a little wine tasting proved the perfect side dish to the weekend entree. Bugs and I visited once before, quite the to-do two months back. We stayed at Girasol Inn where the breakfasts were large and the beds soft, perfect complements to a whirlwind wine tour. Budget Inn was more my speed for this solo venture. Poor bugs had to slave away at the same wine shop that employs the groom.

Back then, the highlights of our stay were Abeja, Buty and Waters. Waters winery is an essential stop when visiting Walla Walla, and I'm always surprised how few people in Seattle are familiar with it. For this second trip, I joined forces with someone a little more capable of driving than myself. Revisiting Waters was a must, and I was blown away by their Loess. At Northstar, we agreed on the Columbia Valley Merlot as a favorite, though it was the cheapest of the three Merlots offered and grown in the least prestigious vineyards. One more winery, my companion said, and then he said it again. Time ticked toward the ceremony, and my planned hour to "do myself up" was whittling down to 15 or 20 minutes. But Tru was worth it.

Tucked away downtown, the odd little tasting room occupies the back of a retail store, the entire set-up clearly aimed at ladies such as myself. Chunky, candy-colored belts dressed up displays and draping dresses lined the racks. I was impressed with the selection of clothing, clearly chosen with a playful attitude. And what better companions to a shopping spree than blanc de blanc, viognier and gewurztraminer? The bubbly lit up my mouth with a shower of fine, delicate bubbles, and tasted deliciously of green apples, but I thought it was overpriced at around $35. The frangrantly floral viognier was a steal, and I snatched up a bottle along with the gewurz. Undecided if I liked it or not, I couldn't deny that it was interesting. Really, it was weird as shit, with a petroleum nose and palate that wasn't sweet in the least. I needed to give it a second, more focused tasting.

Later, back in the fields, after dark set in and the elders went to bed, a live band set up by the pool and the newly weds danced to Red Red Wine. While some joined them, others stripped off their finery to dive in. Such a relief, after the hot dry day, the hours of drinking and social pleasantry. They baptized themselves in youth and abandon. Emerging from the pool, shivering and wet, they just drank more wine for lack of a towel and danced and embraced people until the whole party was a little damp. The night nodded yes, and eventually even the bride soaked her polka dots and pearls.

The celebration continued long after I left. I think it's still going.

Our Days Are Getting Shorter

I thought Sunday was the summer solstice, but wunderground.com said Seattle had one less second of sunshine. Glad to have done my yoga sun salutations on the correct day, I took a Sunday of solace away from its namesake, hiding inside to watch Harper's Island. The premature solstice worked just dandy for me, letting me play detective for a day. Though my murder mystery miniseries airs on Saturday nights, I've grown up a little since my SNICK days, and watch the show every Sunday afternoon on the nets. 

The June 20th episode, Snap (I love how every episode is named after the sound of someone dying), piqued my interest in a new theory so much, I had to rewatch the first few episodes to look for clues. I completely believe Sheriff Mill's last words to Abby before he died, namely that she's his daughter and that the sheriff didn't kill anyone. John Wakefield, the confirmed killer from seven years ago, offed the sheriff with his preferred method of slaughter, hanging. But what about the murders by other modes?

Evidence points to an accomplice, presumably John Wakefield's real child by Abby's mother. Several murders have been committed by someone in the wedding party, and I'm placing bets on Henry W. Dunn, the groom, ladies and gentlemen. The blood on his hands and cuts on his arms from episode 8, Gurgle, when he was "trying to save JD" have gone unexplained. JD was a convenient scapegoat for a while, but we only have proof of his childish, if occasionally violent, antics. I don't believe he ever killed or conspired to kill anyone, though Henry often harked back to his brother's suicide attempt, implying he had a death wish for more than himself. Perhaps more importantly, Henry's idea in Snap to distract Wakefield by throwing molotov cocktails at a car was absolutely ridiculous. It served to attract his attention to their escape plan, not distract him. The most logical plan would have been to sneak off into the night without blowing up objects along the escape route. The final piece that snaps the puzzle into place? Henry decided to have his wedding on the island, all a grand ploy for Abby to return and for Wakefield and child to seek revenge.

Reviewing early episodes, a few scenes take on added importance. Why did Uncle Marty come to the wedding with a gun and a suitcase of cash? He and Thomas Wellington clearly had unfinished business when he died. Mr. Wellington himself later gave the same suitcase to Hunter Jennings, who was murdered shortly thereafter. Money is a variable in this unsolved killer equation. We must not forget that the Wellingtons are loaded, and with Thomas, the patriarch, Katherine, the wife, and Richard, the lawyer, all dead, the money passes into the hands of the sisters, Shea and Trish. I suspect Shea doesn't have much longer to live, but surely her daughter, Madison, will be one of the few survivors. Madison has been referring to a "new friend" she met on the boat since episode one, and I suspect she has more of the mystery figured out than anyone else. In terms of heirs, that leaves Trish, who continually proves to be a very gullible girl. 

So gullible, she'd marry the murderer. 

Dim Sum Date

After a full lap around the rainbow rows of sake and candies, the live but lethargic lobster and geoduck, the mouthwatering mochi and miso pastes, I finally found her staring at a shelf of spices. 

"What are your best finds?" I asked eagerly, pulling my grocery cart beside Lacy's. She reached down and grabbed up bags of meat: pork belly, butt, fat back, and spareribs, as well as chicken feet and chicken carcasses. I had already picked up the spareribs, part of the week's "Philippines Special" and priced at only $1.99 per pound, just begging to be eaten for Sunday dinner, slathered with sticky homemade barbecue sauce and served up with the watermelon currently taking up half my crisper space.

"So are you going the barbecue route or the Asian route?" I asked, pointing at the ribs, quick to compare notes.

"Asian. I'm going to marinate it in miso." Lovingly eyeing her fat back, she said, "I'm going to make bacon."

Our eyes met and we inched closer together. "For BLTs!" We blurted in unison.

Just last week, we decided that this summer, once the tomatoes are just right, we're going to make the best, most lovingly-crafted BLTs ever. Lacy was over at my apartment, scooping up crab dip with my baked bread. She kept harping about my bread, incredulous that I'd made my own, even though it was just a dense baguette, nothing spectacular. For my mom's birthday, I'd gotten her a gift certificate to Cook's World, near the U-Village, and we finally cashed it in and went to a bread baking class not too long ago. I found I really enjoyed making bread. I would highly recommend the class to anyone interested. Anyways, last Saturday, Lacy told me that if I was competent enough to bake my own bread, I really had to make my own mayo. So we decided that I would make the bread and mayo, she would make the bacon, we'd go to the farmers market for the tomato and lettuce and then...with our powers combined...we form....Captain Planet!

Captain Planet, he's our hero, going to take pollution down to zero! This BLT just might save the world.

Back in the grocery aisle, I worked my way up to asking what was really on my mind. "What the fuck are you doing with the chicken feet?" It came out casually, like I had a whole list of possibilities in my head and just wanted to check recipe notes. Like I had some freaking clue why my favorite gourmand was buying three pounds of chicken feet. I stared at them in awe and disgust.

"I'm going to make chicken stock!" Lacy exclaimed, a quick glimmer in her wide eyes. "The feet make it so gelatinous." I nodded in understanding. "Gelatinous," she whispered again. "Just don't tell Bugs."

The beauty of it unfolded before me, like a flower. I hadn't made stock since the winter, when a satisfying weekend meant roasting chicken on Saturday night, then shutting myself inside with a few horror movies and stewing up the carcass on Sunday. On my second or third attempt, I found I preferred to skimp on the skimming, and let a fat layer develop when I refrigerated or froze the stock. The fat layer is actually supposed to protect the liquid, and it's easy to remove before cooking. Unfortunately, I ran out of homemade stock around March. And this time of year, a good homemade stock would really improve a spring-time spinach risotto or cream of asparagus soup.

I looped back to the meat case, hunting for the smallest packages of those crone-looking bird claws and breast plates. Since I was taking a while, checking the packaged date and price on every pound, a woman elbowed past me and I conceded her victory over the chicken section. I dropped back, eager to get back in the action. Her young daughter sat in the cart, eyeing me and pulling on her braids.

"Mommy, I want to eat the hands. I want to eat the hands with the fingers," she said, pointing at the package in my hands.

"We don't eat that shit," the woman muttered and wheeled her cart past, packed safe with chicken breasts and bread. Watching her go past, I felt like I had a secret, an alchemist's formula to transform garbage into the gourmet.

Uwajimaya is truly an adventure. Shopping at Seattle's home of "quality Asian grocery and gifts since 1928" is one of my favorite Saturday outings. Best of all, it's inevitably preceded by a lunch of dim sum. Today, Lacy and I tried out Jade Garden. Though more than a dozen people waited outside, and twice that inside, we were lucky to get seated right away. When the waiter called out an opening for two at an otherwise occupied table, we jumped at the opportunity.

Our stomachs growling, we previewed the treasures in each basket on the steam cart. Pointing at this and that, Lacy and I ordered to our "heart's desire," knowing that the shu mai, ginger pork dumplings, barbecue pork buns (hum bao), and sticky rice wrapped in leaves would barely add up to $8. We still desperately needed an order of walnut prawns, and when we finally hunted them down, they were delicious! The shrimp had a crunchy exterior, mimicking the slightly candied nuts, but the inside was cooked to perfection, not at all rubbery.

Feasted and full, we trotted over to Uwajimaya to fall in love with their imported goods and abundant produce. Hours later we emerged, cradling our bags back to Lacy's car, full of treasures to unpack and savor, gawk at, and get giddy on.

A Spring Supper, Rare

I was as capricious as the poppies and peaceful as the peonies. After my Sunday trip to the Capitol Hill Farmers' Market, I was looking forward to a very herbaceous dinner. I found chervil! Though I'd eaten it, I'd never seen it for sale before, since it doesn't last long after being picked. I also took home a beautiful head of butter lettuce, intending to eat it that night. I devised a plan walking home through Cal Anderson Park.

After unpacking my bounty, I picked a little sprig of chervil and stuck it in my mouth. I was surprised by the tickle of mint, the waft of anise! It looked so delicate though, like a little fern or baby cilantro leaves. Inspired and conspiring, I took my now-empty bag back out into the world and found exactly what I wanted at the grocery store, filet mignon on sale. Have you noticed that, thanks to this recession, it's on sale quite often? Back at home, the steak received a salty massage, and sat happily in the fridge while I watched the latest Harper's Island episode. More on Henry Dunn's bloody hands later.

For dinner, I pan-seared the small but thick steaks for about 4 minutes on each side, let them rest for a few minutes, then rolled the edges in dijon mustard, followed by freshly chopped chervil, chives, and parsley. I dressed up the butter lettuce with a nice lemony, slightly mustardy, very herbaceous dressing. Spring was served.

Bugs and I even watched Weeds while digging into our bright green, crusted brown, and juicily pink plates. The new season just came out on DVD, and two discs arrived on Saturday. Aside from instant gratification, the best thing about Netflix, or whatever movie-in-the-mail program you might subscribe to, is the streamlined decision-making process. There's no flipping through channels, no getting sucked into mediocre television. Yes, there's certainly the opportunity for a mind-numbing evening trance. But it cuts to the chase, right to story time.

Speaking of story time, back to Harper's Island. I'm not a big TV person, but this is my show. Mine. It's the only show I watch on my own, that I don't share with my boyfriend, Bugs. I'd really recommend it to anyone who loved Agatha Christie's "Ten Little Indians." It's just the sort of one-by-one murder spree mystery the doctor ordered. My doctor. The one I'm not insured for. Spoiler alert, I think we must seriously reconsider the character Henry Dunn. He may be redeemed in the June 13th episode, but in general we should always be weary of characters whose family members have died in unexplained accidents. Those accidents will be explained by the end of the show, but so far we have no inkling how Henry and JD's parents died. Consider the sons suspect.

Before Bugs came home from work, and between Harper's Island and the 1976 version of Helter Skelter, I also prepared dessert, rhubarb pie. It was my first cooking experience with rhubarb, quite fine and tasty, but I know I can do better next time. The filling was thick and deftly played sweet against tart, but my store-bought puff pastry did not have quite the right texture for pie crust. Bugs and I downed dessert in minutes, with a healthy side of strawberry ice cream, but I know rhubarb has had it's finer moments. The New York Times has three veryLink intriguing rhubarb recipes on their web site. I can't wait to try the duck curry!

I was happy to finally use the rhubarb, since it had sat, unloved, in my fridge for a week or so. I bought it the day my father flew into town, and I fully intended to cook a rhubarb cobbler during his stay. He talks sometimes of his days cutting rhubarb, when he was just a kid visiting his dad in Oregon for the summer, let loose with a machete and actually paid to spend the day outside. They're the kind of stories that seem to be happier, more nostalgic as he ages. My dad and I used to make a good bit of cobbler, too, when I would visit him for the summer in California. He had an apricot tree, and come picking time, we'd be making tart cobblers and jams in his little kitchen. Somehow time slipped by when he came to visit over Memorial Day weekend, and the rhubarb waited patiently for it's day to come. Sunday seemed just right.