Early Morning Sautéed Wishes & Rich White Wine Dreams

I was startled awake this morning by the horrifically traumatic, (when you are locked in deep avoidance slumber, traumatic as hell) screeching sound of thin metal fingers being drug against cement and a deep rumbling that reminded me of the sound a jet makes when it is taking off, thankfully there wasn’t a jet near my open bedroom window…….there was however a rather large man standing there in bright orange reflective gear dragging a large empty plastic drum. Casually yelling back and forth to his cohort while standing directly in front of my window, nothing but chilly and dew covered screen to buffer his way-too-fuck-early-in-the-morning noise. Dammit! I tried, fruitlessly of course, to nuzzle deep under the comforter while surrounding my sleepy head with every pillow on the bed but it was to no avail, I was wide ass awake, way before I wished to be and as I stumbled my cranky ass to the kitchen for my cup of coffee I let my fingers longingly brush against the chilly top of my much beloved stove, slowing my pace just enough to trace the dials and nobs with just barely awake tips of fingers, “What should I make for dinner tonight?” seven in the morning and I was already fantasizing about losing myself at my stove, the sounds of things blistering, smells building atop one another, my forearms and tummy warmed as I pressed my frame tight against the stove to reach the bubbling bits of whatever on the back burners. Awoken with a start…to say the least, (fucker is lucky I didn’t come flying through the screen and rip into his neck like some beast Lincoln would hunt) but soothed by the very idea of preparing a meal, even hours later.

Foggy and cold drive to work, the sidewalks and driveways damp with the thick and soupy air, fewer runners and dog walkers than I see typically on my way to work and as I turned onto one of the sleepy side streets I traverse daily my eyes were met with a chunky plume of smoke billowing from a smallish house nestled in the middle of the block. I cracked my window and my nose was met with the most delightful and comforting aroma, that of a wood burning fire. My thoughts went right back to my kitchen, what did I want to make, what other smells was I craving?

“Bacon”

“Chicken lightly dredged in seasoned flour the second it hits the hot pan full of bacon drippings”

“Caramelized garlic”

“Sherry as it bubbles into the pan breaking up all those bits of left behind chicken”

“Black pepper”

“Chicken stock”

“Butter”

“Parsley”

“A loaf of crusty bread giving off aromas of toast and yeast as it warms in the oven”

“Olive oil as it combines with delicate white wine vinegar and broken little pebbles of blue cheese before it is tumbled over sturdy ribs of Romaine”

I had my entire meal planned by the time my huffing little red Camry pulled into the parking lot at work and now, now I have all day to wander between the aisles in between the times I am assisting our customers, all that time to recall the richness of that dish, the savory elements and intensity of browned garlic after simmering in Sherry and stock….all day to think of which weighty, fresh, sexy and curvy white wine I will sip to accompany the meal, “Of my dreams” as it were. Possibilities, pondering and the promise of things to come….

Vouvray?

Friuli?

Macon?

Alto Adige?

Sonoma Coast?

This is the stuff my dreams are made of…… 

And the winners were

Pinot Blanc from Alto Adige and a gifted bottle of Sonoma Pinot Noir. 

Both wines brilliant with the super savory dish, each bringing
something needed and compelling. The Pinot Blanc with all its richness, nearly sappy texture, luxurious tropical fruit that tasted like it was sprinkled with citrus zest and faint toasty components added a lift and splash of vibrancy to the food and the Pinot Noir keying off the meaty, saucy and savory notes, maybe magnifying the salt a tad more than the Pinot Blanc but nowhere near as much as the Amontillado, (that I used in the dish) felt indulgent and for some reason, I was feeling that tonight....

The Littorai was lovely and had just enough sweet red fruit to enhance the bacon and frame this easy but extremely layered dish and I found myself slurping down an entire glass pretty damn quick. So the thing is, as wonderfully beguiling as the Pinot Noir was, it was the white I craved...and dove into once my plate was scrapped, rinsed and in the dishwasher. Took both, (okay I am ignoring the glass of Lustau Amontillado Sherry I had while cooking and the half...three quarters, of a glass I tried with my dinner, and the one I am currently considering with a handful of roasted almonds as a reward for a successful dinner) to appease me tonight.

Pretty convinced there is never just one perfect wine
For one dish
But there are wines for specific people and I just know that poor Pinot Bianco from Terlan is so going to be my victim this evening. Kinda scrunched by my meal and soon to be pounded by my curious and yearning palate.          

Not Done With Me Yet

“Thank you Dear Heart, that was the best tastings of the year”-Walter

Big smile spreading across my mug as I stand face to face with a grumpy curmudgeon with twinkly, wine softened eyes and what can only be described as a smirk from ear to ear. Took one hell of a long time to get there with Walter and I, years of snapping back and forth, my brow furrowed and scrunched so hard, for so long that if felt bruised, eye rolling, big huffy sighs and the occasional storming off in a snit. Him picking at me, likely because he could tell it bothered me and me being woefully annoyed by the old fart that asked a million questions and grumbled if the free bread we put out for our tastings was cut in too big or too small pieces. Pain in my ass, Walter has been a pain in my ass for fifteen years and while it took me some time to discover it, he likes it that way…

“If you billed it as a Sam tasting it might get more traction” - Walter

In all the years I’ve known him not much has changed outside from the car he drives, used to be a Woody, and not a classic or restored one, it was busted to shit and I swear it had Flintstone foot holes for breaks. Now the bus is the preferred method of transit for the super slender, baseball hat wearing, furry faced, cheese snarfing, pate grubbing, new customer scaring cantankerous sweetheart that never misses one of my tastings….well other than the Champagne ones that he can’t quite afford to attend.

“Number seven really liked the liver!” - Walter

 I think it was around 2003, just after I came back from my first trip to Europe, when I noticed that Walter’s abrasion left me far less itchy than it used to. Not sure if it was the way I had changed after that trip, my new found confidence and much bigger voice that made him less irritating, or if my taking the trip, immersing myself in the foods and wines of France for nearly a month, had upped my street cred with Walter, but for some reason there were far fewer huffs and eye rolling about eight years into our somewhat forced relationship. But it wasn’t until I took over all the buying for our French wines that Walter started not only being way nicer to me, he started complimenting me, effusively. Very weird sensation I assure you, kind of like when you became an adult and your sibling/s tell you how much they miss you, not totally impossible to believe but you keep waiting for the Wet Willie or Indian Burn…

“That fucking paella was outstanding and your wine selection was miraculous!” – An excited Walter that pelted my shirt with spent bits of rice that came flying from his enthusiastic grill.

Almost always the first to arrive for my tastings, (thank you Long Beach Transit) Walter still pokes at me a little, questioning my spelling and pronunciation of French labels and regions, pointing out typos and errors on our tasting sheet with such vigor you would think he were getting paid for it…pain in my ass, but to watch his frail frame bounce up and down, hear him snarl into a glass after finding his particular brand of funk in the aromatics, watch those less initiated in the Art of Walter, back away looking slightly terrified as the bearded stick figure swings his arms about shouting, “That’s disgusting!!!” with utter and absolute glee, something I’ve come to not only adore, I down-right crave it, pick wines to ensure that happens at least once a tasting.

“If you knew how easy it is to quit you would kick yourself” - Walter

Upon hearing that I quit smoking….

“If you need to talk you know who to call. I am so on board with this!” – Walter

Walter has, somehow and for some crazy reason, become one of my most ardent and supportive fans at the store. He and I dig classic and rustic wines, wines high in acid and low in alcohol, wines that wear the accent of their homeland and, as it turns out, seems as if we’ve grown to kind of adore each other as well. Where there used to be eye rolling and huffing, there is now head shaking and laughter. Walter brags on me in a way that makes me terribly and wonderfully embarrassed and I find myself watching over and worrying about this crusty bastard far more than I could have ever imagined. I light up when he arrives, cannot wait to share my discoveries with him and dammit if that old bastard hasn’t gone and made me love him in some weirdly familial way….fucker.

“It took a couple tries but I haven’t smoked in 10 years” - Walter

I confess to being a bit taken aback when I saw Walter’s name crossed off the reservation list for my tasting this past Friday. I wasn’t upset or hurt, in fact I assumed that he must have had some beer dinner, (big fan of those our Walter) or his finances were a little too tight to swing the $50 entrance fee. He can’t make them all and I get that but Burgundy, Red Burgundy, My Red Burgundy tasting? Struck me as odd but I quickly put it out of my head as the reservations started coming in fast and furious. Just days before the class my coworker and ex-customer Andy approached me, big, deep, chest-filling breath and “Well, you won’t be seeing Walter for a bit”….fuck.

So it looks like the 50 years before the 10 have caught up with my beloved Walter and Tuesday afternoon he underwent an 11 hour surgery to remove a piece of his cancer infected lung, and he knew about it and told none of us for months….asswad. I was wrongfully under the assumption that I was in the loop and junk, especially seeing as I have been privy to, “I’m on new meds so keep an eye on me” conversations with the 75 year old cheese eater. I was wrong, and I should have known better. Walter is Walter, a private man that shares only his passion for food and wine with me and after all the years it took to get that much, I have to say that I am very grateful to have it. I drove past the VA hospital on my way home from my Burgundy event, knew Walter was there, alone and all it would take was a slight left hand turn of my steering wheel. I let my fingers rest on my turn signal, my heart simultaneously pulling and terrified, my admittedly arrogant feeling of entitlement nearly enough but as the light switched from red to green I took my fingers of the rod on my steering column and went straight, driving past the hospital….no matter how much I wanted to go in and not only hug him, but tell him about the wines I had poured, which ones he would have loved but also maybe rescue the ICU nurses and assure them that the puny, foul-mouthed, bearded one was way more bark than actual bite….but I didn’t. In the end I had to respect Walter’s wishes to handle this alone. Hurts and I missed him more on that drive home that I ever thought possible.  

“Have you been to (Insert whatever new restaurant here) yet?!” – Walter

“So I’ve decided that Walter has to get better, and soon seeing as I have that Loire Cabernet Franc and Chenin Blanc tasting scheduled for the first Friday of 2013….and he needs to be there”- Me, talking, wishing, hoping and fingers crossed talking to my boss Randy. 

I’ve got in all kinds of amazing new wines Walter. More Chenin Blanc and Cabernet Franc than you can believe and dude, they are fucking brilliant. We need to taste them together kid….we aren’t done yet you and me Walter. - Me xoxoxox

(Walter's name has been changed because he is a grouchy old bastard that might just get mad at me for using his real one...asshole.) 

If I Were So Inclined....

I would be doing one of those jumpy-upy-downy things because we just threw down this...

                                                          (Well, the one with my name on it)

For a couple seats on here...

To here...

                                     (Um, Barcelona anyone?!)

Where we will rent a car and trek off to the humble little town that will be our home for two whole stinking weeks!

                                                                (Girona, Spain)



Where there will be...

And most of all....

Cannot freaking wait!

Grateful

“Onions, melted butter and celery” a wide grin spreading across my still sleepy face as I tugged at the thick comforter and wiggled out from under the covers, eyes squinting in the morning sun as I dug my toes into the thick bedroom carpet. Whenever I recall my mother’s somewhat elusive but captivating smile, I will forever think of onions, melted butter and celery because when I woke smelling those three things, it meant only two things, it was Thanksgiving and my mother was going to be genuinely happy. That was her holiday, the only one that didn’t point out how much we didn’t have or what she couldn’t afford to give us. A day devoted to two things she loved, cooking for her family and eating. 

I woke Thanksgiving morning thinking of her, or thinking of onions, melted butter and celery and no longer that sleepy faced 8 year old wiggling out from under the sheets on the bed that she and I shared, it still filled my heart and in truth, brought a quick flood of tears to my eyes. Just as quickly as that tiny storm of missing took hold of me it left and I was there alone in my bed, my gown up bed that I have shared with my husband for 45 years, (okay, maybe a few less but some days….feels like at least that long) alive and thriving in this life I could never have even begun to imagine. A mother, a wife, a wine specialist, a friend, a sometimes writer and the thing that might have made her most proud, a pretty damn good cook who may have just found a bit of her passion for food and cooking over a pile of diced aromatics, a pan of milky and sweet smelling liquid, the steadying shreds and soothing feeling of thick carpet between my toes while my tummy bounced about at the very idea of an entire day of genuine smiles, mouthwatering aromas and plunging my three tined fork into that perfectly fluffy pile of boiled and beaten potatoes. 

Thanksgiving. A day of reflection, indulgence, reverie, patience and deep breaths. Long, slow cooking, hours of enticement and interaction, laughter and annoyance. A day once dedicated to bounty and thanks but now, sadly, simmered down to the obligatory family dinner and rushing out to trample people just hours after professing your gratitude for the things you have. Weird holiday that, but one that thankfully fills me with the sweetest of memories. The shuffling into the kitchen in the “big ugly house” helping my mother set the thick and icy bird into the sink as she cursed, (um, ever wonder where I got my potty mouth?) and hissed that the “fucking thing won’t be thawed in time” knowing that the second she drifted off I would be pushing one of the tall backed chairs from the dining room into the kitchen, lifting and huffing, making sure not to have the sturdy legs scratch or scrape the floor too loudly, my toes digging into the sides of the decorative and puffy fabric as I balanced myself reaching for the knobs on the faucet as I enticed our familial turkey into readiness for the oven with a slow stream of just-warm water. Hours, I would stand there for hours, slow trickle of water my soundtrack, fingers shriveled and forearms weary as I flipped the giant bird this way and that, trying to ensure that the second she shuffled to the sink in the morning, heavy flannel nightgown brushing against her dry skin…(another aromatic memory), pudgy fingers poking, judging and deeming the bird suitable for stuffing and that smile…it would start there and get wider with each one of her little kitchen victories. In her kitchen, when she truly felt like it was hers, that woman was my hero and to this day I am not only in awe of what she was able to do, with so little, she was and will forever be my hero, one that smelled of chopped onions, celery and melted butter when she smiled.

Of course she was with me the second I woke Thanksgiving morning, which is as it should be right? We reflect and remember on a day dedicated to being grateful and revolving around food, how could I not think of my buttery smelling, nightgown wearing grinner? Had to, she was there but it was the smell of my own sheets, the coffee that had brewed and was beckoning, and my jammies redolent with my aromatics that flipped those covers off my sleepy frame and drew me to my kitchen. The pans cold, my chosen red color, no bird resting in the sink, the eyebrow over my left eye raised as I pulled the butcher paper wrapped bacon and Styrofoam housed eggs from the fridge, the smells from my Thanksgiving kitchen as my son slept in his room for the first time, on that day, in four years. I knew how he would feel waking up, the way his toes would sink into the carpet as the wisps of bacon and toasted bread pulled him from his slumber, beckoned him to the woman in the kitchen in jammies, holding a plate of proudly prepared food, bearing a grin that can only come with the pride that is being his mother….of what I was able to make to satiate him. Never understood my mother’s Thanksgiving grin until she was long gone, there are very few things that I regret but not telling her how magnificent, (and I just typed mag-nis-a-fent which was how I said that as a kid, always made her laugh and just now, made me tear up a little….fuck I miss her)  her Thanksgiving was. How she made me ache to be like her, do what she did, create and inspire, bring joy and absolute peace with something as simple as onions, melted butter, celery and a genuine smile…