Thanksgiving's Pissed!

Seems as if I ruffled some feathers, as Thanksgiving has passed on a memo demanding equal time. Guess the recent attention Christmas got was too much to ignore, and so turkey-day wants a shout out. Cool, I don't play favorites. (Unless... it's absolutely necessary, of course.) But, in truth I have no issues with Thanksgiving, and had quite a remarkable run that week. Could grumble a bit about the extra week, a challenge ultimately to liver and waistline, yet will chalk that up to attrition. Count me as one better aware to check the calendar in the future, start prepping the belly say about... Halloween. There was also the issue of the "tree", normally a December 1-January 1 thing. Extra time with the scent of pine in the house is never a bad thing, and the good people of Delancy Street were, as always, helpful. Grateful too, as we ended up taking the absolute specimen of a "Charlie Brown" tree, rendered necessary after little Honey G decided to "lift leg" it. The least we could do. Could go on about how my lovely talked me into buying the first non-living tree in 11 Christmas's, or the fact that my female dog does actually lift her leg(More of a yoga pose, if you break it down.), but I do plan on speaking about food soon. So... Thanksgiving.
 Try as I might, it's hard to find one missed note. In-laws flew in without a hitch, Thomas made the voyage from the Carolinas, all in safe and without pain of holiday travel. As it was the-day-before-the-day, we started with lunch at Chez Panisse, where the food, service(You rock Liz!), and distinct holiday air was just... perfect. With all due respect to the remarkable and intimate experience of eating "downstairs", the café is such a damn fine way to go. Tucked away for a  few hours, conversations buzzing, food predictably solid is an excellent way to not miss the outside world. The rounds through the neighborhood had been made earlier collecting the next day's food stuffs(Monterey Market, Magnanis, The Cheese Board), leaving little else to do but linger over warm figs, espressos, the last sip of wine.
 The next day was predictably busy, spent creating traditional fare somewhat... untraditionally. Katie took one of the two Mary's Farm birds(about 12-14 lbs. each), broke it down, emmersed the legs in duck fat to confit. (She just happened to have 5lbs. of duck fat in the fridge!) Next she made a roulade of the pounded out breasts, filling with crispy lardon, a rough chop of herbs, lemon zest, some roasted chestnuts, and gruyère. In place of the "stuffing", she opted for a panade, that massive fluffy bread thing of shaved fennel, onions, stock, and some oven roasted Early Girls jarred earlier in the Fall. Oh, and more gruyère!!! Slow roasted roots(turnips, parsnips, yams, along with cubed butternut, Brussel sprouts, and whole garlic) were laced with balsamic. Whole acorn squash made it into the oven as well, then scooped to plate, hit with salt and olive oil. Meanwhile, Thomas fired up a few gallons of peanut oil in the driveway, and produced one hell of a good fried turkey. Had never had it, and could before be counted as "a doubter". It was... excellent, a testament to his methodical and diligent preparations. Perfectly browned, tender and juicy meat, and friend Alan's Volvo(parked uncomfortably close) emerged without scratch nor singe. Plates became as crowded as the table with the necessity of some usual elements(creamy mashed potatoes, fresh cranberry sauce with toasted walnuts and tangerines, Parker House rolls, etc. The wine on this very American holiday was of course... French! Tested my in-laws with that one, but the Saint Joseph(100% syrah) from a talented trio in the northern Rhône, nailed it. Well enough that I doubled down with a Droughin Côtes-de-Nuits for good measure. Afternoon turned to evening, a sky in deep oranges and reds as the sun dropped behind the Golden Gate below. Speaking to those of Kate's family unable to be present, talk was of the first snow falling beyond their Minnesota windows.

Tomales Bay Oyster Co.(Est.1909)

 Desert(pumpkin pies and brioche bread pudding with chocolate ganache-a little sweet potato purée snuck in there somehow) was put on hold to stroll the neighborhood a bit, get a better view of the colors. We were drawn to the yard of a cottage nearby strewn with big blocks of marble and other stones, mixed with stalks of swiss chard, herbs, and kale; remnants of a "kitchen" garden. Kate's dad Rod has put his gifted touch of retired surgeon's hands to use in sculpting, and the conversation was struck up easily with the "stone cutter" out sipping post meal coffee on the front porch. Typical to Berkeley, there was no hesitation to his inviting us in for a look about his studio/home, the humility of his self description exposed by a space cluttered with the remarkable pieces of a talented artist. The visit further lifted a fine day, as we made for home, to dessert, coffee, and cognac.
 The remaining weekend played out like a Huell Howser montage. A large breakfast became ritual, Brown Sugar Kitchen and Betty's among them. Requisite visits included Muir Woods, Alcatraz, Union Square for the skating rink and Gump's, Buena Vista for an "Irish" or two, and of course a spin through the wine country. When not digging into left overs, dinners were slipped in at Terzo(the City), Dopo(Oakland), among others. Perhaps my favorite, though, was the last, as we packed wine, rib eyes, plates, and silver en route to Tomales Bay. The Sunday morning drive began set in deep, tree top fog, the feeling tepid until the first rays of sun emerged just about Point Reyes Station. By the time we plopped sacks of oysters on the waterside picnic table, fired up the grill, and cracked a beer, the sky was blue and cloudless. (Just as I planned it! Right?) Kids and dogs alike played in the mud flats, explored the inlets. Music with a French-African vibe flowed freely while the families-bikers-locals-tourist all blended, sharing aid on getting b-b-q's going, and techniques in ways to pop oysters. It was one of those day's when visitors lean towards moving. As we embraced Thomas later that evening at SFO, little doubt was present that the weekend had been full... satisfying.

Chez Gautier Cooking School: http://www.chez-gautier.com

A White And Very Cold Christmas

A few years back, wanting that true holiday vibe, Katie and I spent time back in Minnesota at her family home on Christmas Lake. (Yeah, on Christmas Lane too! Can't make this stuff up.) On the eve, the "little, littles" had been tucked in, toys assembled and distributed about the tree, making it time to seal the deal: Create sled tracks on the roof!!! Carefully fueled with Christmas cheer, we tied butcher twine to cross country skies, shimmied out onto an upstairs porch, then ran two (reasonably) perfect lines over a rooftop heavy with fresh snow before strewing about bits of carrot tops and the odd piece or two of charcoal. Oh, the faces of those kiddy winkles in the a.m., eyes saucer large, breaths held in deeply, were just... Well, worth any amount of layers my skinny behind needed to make it through the visit. So it was that we again made the trek for perhaps what might be the last year for the youngest of this large group to believe in Santa.

A few fresh inches.

 It didn't disappoint, with snow, cold, expectant children, and good eats all in abundance. A heavy snow fall right before my arrival made for a gorgeous winter scape, the 9 degree temperature would prove to be a relative high point. Little did it matter, as I was snatched from the airport bar, prepping for the chill, by brother-in-law Thomas who had just flown in as well. Off to Megan and Andy's for a round of make-your-own delicious pizzas, and the tone was set: warm houses, full plates, and fuller tables crowded with family. There would be long braises, from hen legs in white wine and fennel on Christmas Eve to spicy pork shoulder over fork-mashed turnips and celery root following an afternoon of skating on Lake of the Isles near downtown Minneapolis. Talk of pheasant or quail for Christmas dinner, spurred by the uncovering of a large stash of classic glass cloche in a storage space, yielded to a beautiful roast "beast" of about as many pounds as the twenty of us lining the long table. Thanksgiving-like were the accompaniments, plates groaning in abundance, the exception being a request of "lemon snow" for desert. (Very much like iles flottantes, light, airy, and tart with citrus.

Pork!!!.

 Being in the cold does not mean being inside, as evidenced by a morning of snow shoeing around The Arboretum; that magical arm of the U of M that gave the world the Honey Crisp apple. Getting out tends to make you hungry, though, and knowing there was a pot of chili stewing down(black beaned, thick in dark beer, roasted garlic, and habaneros) makes for a welcome retreat home. Thomas played the role of pied piper of good whiskey, knowing just which should be gifted to whom; a bottle of bourbon here, some single malt there. It made house hopping that much more interesting, although guilt has it's grip on me as I look over at the Four Roses Single Barrel which followed me home unopened. (Think it may have to remain that way until we reconvene in the spring at the Cottonwood Ranch to address a growing problem with wild turkeys.)

"Where's that warming hut again?"

 And so it was that we concluded the visit with that all so rare, and very much appreciated, quiet New Year's Eve. Some sparkling and nibbles at Sarah and Steve's where niece Emma and her friends, talented musicians all, were gearing up for a night of playing. Then, on to Megan and Andy's for crostini of walleye(what else!), lemon, and cilantro, and Cornish game hens roasted with root vegetables. The next day in need of lim stretching after so much family time, I made the modest stroll a couple of miles to a watering hole on nearby Lake Mennetanka. The barman noticing my arrival by foot asked, "You walk here?!" When I confirmed this, he shared with me that it was -10 degrees, much colder with wind chill. Nothing much to do but thank him, and back up my Guinness with a short Jameson's. A good time it was, but siting there hearing someone speak of it warming up enough later in the day to snow, I received a text photo from friend Mark of his Lanikai Beach. A reminder that they have Christmas in Hawaii too.

Chez Gautier Cooking School: http://www.chez-gautier.com