Repas CG: The Aftermath... June 2

 Size does matter! At least when it comes to rabbits. In France, it's easy to become accustomed to the trade off to a smaller sized/more intensely flavored product. Chickens, pigs, even cuts of beef all are significantly smaller than what can be found in the States, but the quality is pretty damn good. One exception to this: rabbits.

 Katie mentioned this while prepping for yesterday's repas, which featured a rabbit roulade. While undeniably beautiful, the Devil's Gulch rabbits weren't what we had been eating in Charmé just a few weeks ago when she conceived of doing the dish for the first meal back by the bay. Be they from one of our neighbors or from the preferred butcher in Ruffec, they're just a bit bigger. So, she went ahead with the plan of stuffing them with bread crumbs, lemon zest, parmesan, toasted pine nuts, and various herbs, tied them up and seared them off, before a finish in the oven. For a little company, though, she browned the legs, then added white wine, thyme, Lucques olives, and lemon peel, braising them until tender. Tucking one beside the other, a mound of fresh sweet peas, and a few of the small carrots from our garden... A very nice plate, with some Beaujolais(Chénas) from 100 year old Gamay vines along for the ride.
 But, I've gotten ahead of myself... Before fully diving into summer, Katie wanted that classic taste of a French spring: morel mushrooms done in  white wine, butter, shallots, and thyme over her toasted brioche. Finished it with some crème fraîche, a glass of a Marsanne-Roussane blend on hand. With mushrooms meaty and firm, the brioche helped to cut the richness of the dish. From there it was on to a mound of frisée tossed in a whole grain mustard vinaigrette, a poached egg set on top, strips of crispy lardon over everything! Add a bunch of blanched asparagus beside it, and a glass of a firm rosé from the Minnervois... Mmmm.
 The cheese went from a mellow Boucheron to an intense Camembert, some arugula along with a Chinon(100% Cabernet Franc) joined in also. The "sweetie" was a cherry tart with toasted almond crust, a consolation for having to return from France before our Rainier tree could offer any ripe fruit. The cognac was notable in that it came from a female producer, Joan Brisson in Matha, a short drive from us. Solid producer, solid result, making for a good finish to the afternoon.

Recipes and Wine Notes available on request.

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

Spring Rains and Mushrooms...

 Suffering through a "tester" of white wine braised morels over toasted brioche(The things I do because I care! ), the first of what will hit the table for this Sunday's rabbit repas, took me right back to France.  Spring showers came and went almost daily in Charmé, demanding an extra log or two for the fire,  a splash more wine in the glass, and the chance to finish a book or two(or three). Each day though, rain would ease, clouds lift, and the sun would make it essential to get going. Into the garden that is, rubber boots in tow.
 The damp seemed to make everything more green, the flowers and blossoming fruit trees exploded, and there was no shortage of snails. Sorry to those without the taste for them, but we seldom miss the opportunity to add to Suzanne's collection cage, an old garde manger where the mass of shells go from shelf to shelf in ghost-like fashion, dusted in the flower that will help to purge. For those that know, and I don't claim to be one of them, there are also mushrooms. Never fails to amaze how they can be found in both quality and quantity within reach. Back here in the Bay Area, when the time is right, there are porcini in the Oakland hills, chanterelles up the coast, and even the afore mentioned morels in the southern Sierra.
 In our region of southwest France, there are chantrelles to be found, but cèpes(porcini) are the real find. Thick and meaty, beautiful cooked or shaved raw, cèpes are generously shared even if their locations tend to be kept... quiet. In the recent Brin d'Aillet, our village repas of a hundred or so friends and neighbors where spring garlic reigned supreme, stalks literally tossed  about the tables, one course acted as perfect statement for the season: omelets of contributed wild mushrooms, spring garlic, and herbs. With remarkable mushroom grower Bertarand Fradin in the village, the barn-based entity a short walk away, his shiitake and oyster varieties were used as well. An afternoon well spent, as we're looking forward to also this Sunday. Morels...

In Defense of Dirt...

 Dirt is good for you. A little dirt anyway. Took us more than a decade to see the ill affects of "cleansing" the nations youth(and adults) with anti-bacterial soap, thus rethinking that practice. The chemicals and additives that are allowed to be put into consumable products in this country are a bit spooky, all while eating live culture dairy products are strictly forbidden. A disclaimer: Just back in from France, and having saturated ourselves in the abundance of live culture dairy, we're now going through a bit of withdrawal. Who am I kidding... Climbing the walls for a piece of piece of stinky goodness(a... reblochon?!) that literally pops in my mouth on contact.
 Comme d'habitude, we buy and eat way too much dairy when we're back in Charmé, cheese of course, but also milk, yogurt, and even butter. Yes, the butter is alive! It does help to have a remarkable dairy farmer, Didier Moreau, so close his barn roof can be seen from the rear of our back field. Twice a day, morning and evening, he assembles the "girls" for milking. When we happened by one day's end to pick up a couple of liters, along with a kilo of his Dad's prized white asparagus, the milk funneled into waiting bottles was still warm from the cows. The smell was rich and sweet in the kitchen as two pots boiled on the stove with milk for the house. Katie passed on this, opting instead to head directly home to rennet, her cheese baskets, and the making of fromage frais.  (Interesting note: The rennet can only be purchased through a pharmacy, where precise care instructions are verbally given by the staff.)
 Good and good for you, all that bacteria doing the hard work to keep our bellies sound. When we came upon "live"butter at the Marché d'Aigre one morning, produced from a farm just outside of the nearby village of Villefagnan, we didn't hesitate to have a big chunk lopped off. Having the same rich silky texture we've come to expect in Poitou-Charente butter, there was also the added "medicinal" benefit. Even in France there's the need to be vigilant in securing a sound product, as seen recently by the rumblings out of Normandy(or more likely Paris) about discontinuing live culture camembert. So, clean up those farms that have become less exacting in their standards, tighten up inspections, but never let those gooey rounds fall prey solely to pasteurization. Otherwise... "To the baricades!"

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

Repas CG: The Aftermath... April 21

 A talented and passionate chef we know has long stated that he eats lamb only once a year. It is done in the spring,  when lamb is young and tender, and eaten in abundance; the memory there to remain for the full calendar cycle. So beautiful a thought, it has been one easily adopted. This past Sunday's repas was our occasion to embrace spring lamb, in this case in the form of delicate little chops. Tending to the fire we'd use for grilling later, allowed for catching guests as they entered the gate. Clustering in the garden has become a sort of welcoming ritual, greetings to the old and introductions to the new, Honey sliding in and out between legs seeking a hand to lick. There was some back in forth about what we'd managed to get in the ground before our upcoming return to France, as the early plantings(raddish, spinach, chard, etc.) give way to tomatoes: Black Krims, Striped Williams, Early Girls, and Jaune Flammes.

 Settling in, we had the benefit of extra hands in the form of talented young cook Laine(Italian trained in Piedmonte), along with our nephew Jordan, whose 12 hour surgical rotations probably looked pretty good after we had him in the role of serving and clearing. True to the season, Katie had radish, butter, salt, and bread waiting on the table, soon followed by plates of slender young asparagus, her fresh fromage fraiche, and Meyer lemon oil. Simple as it gets, and primed for a cold, bright white found in a Minervois blend of Grenche Blanc, Viogner, Muscat, and Marsanne. Pork soon hit the air, as the "cakes" of pig trotters that had been poached earlier in herbs, bay leaves, coriander seeds, and black peppercorns hit hot skillets. Even with a little cubed potato added, the richness of the dish made welcome the dressed water cress and fava beans. Old vine Grenache from Vaqueyras was poured, as is the habit accompanied by a bit of Syrah and Mourvedre for depth.
 In a flurry of smoke and tongs, lamb chops had their brief time atop the grill, care taken to ensure deep pink centers. Potatoes roasted in sea salt and cracked black pepper joined the plate, and fresh mint, thyme, parsley, and lemon zest set in olive oil was liberally spooned about. Unable to pass up delicate pea tendrils found at the morning's market, they too were grilled quickly, then tossed in a vinaigrette before joining the plate; smokey and warm, but still holding a nice crunchy bite. A Saint Joseph, 100% Syrah, provided the firm hand to handle the meat. So much so that I was reluctant to move on to a cru Beaujolais chosen for the cheese, yet...

 Turns out the wine most asked about was in fact the last. Never doubt the power of a good beaujolais. Great vintage('09), fine region(Morgon), and a talented producer made for wine with a lot going on. Some triple cream here, a wedge of goat there, both oozing from being brought to room temp... Had to be reminded to put the coffee on. While up, opened a bottle of Park Borderies, a "single vineyard" cognac I've really come to enjoy. That said, our upcoming time in France will allow for me to replenish, as the long winter has found my cupboard wanting. Time to visit some cherished neighbors. But, not before strawberry and rhubarb compote was to be eaten, crème anglais pooling about the top, sugar topped butter cookies at the ready for dredging. As we fell into chairs out in the cool of afternoon shade, thought I heard Katie say something about wanting to do rabbit for the next go round. Somehow sounded good, full belly and all.

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

Headin' Back...

Ahi Poke

 Got sidetracked from a place long special to me. Never a good thing. Mostly the blame was simply to making too many right hand turns. (To France, that is.) Well, a good and very determined buddy finally helped me pull my head out of my... distractions, resulting in a sound left en route back to Hawaii. My family having lived there in the 1950's, we'd visit often until my eventual moving to the "windward side" of Oahu in a previous life. Good years were spent on Kailua Bay, the white powder of Lanikai Beach, pouring drinks over the Pali in Honolulu to keep it all going. When a few weeks kicking around Europe turned into a year, the way back got blurred. If living in Hawaii was magical, merely visiting became torture. Departure days arrived like a gut ache. The bread crumbs eventually got lost, more time was spent instead in Paris, Milan, etc.

 That was until a few months ago. Katie and I began on west Maui, my sister Dede's place set outside of Lahaina. Yeah, there were a few too many golf courses and the resorts of Kaanapali seemed to stretch forever, but with Molokai and Lanai just off shore it didn't seem to matter. When restless we'd escape up to Napili Bay, the sight of family holidays back in the day, seemingly unchanged were the simple bungalows and shuffleboard pads laid out long ago. After a day with Molokai at our feet, sea turtles creeping along and dolphins playing just off shore, we'd head to Fish Market Maui down in a line of shops on "the low road" in Honokowai. Strip mall spartan, the fish was none the less pristine, pulled whole , packed on ice from the beds of arriving pickup trucks. One day we strayed to the kalua pig, the smokey shredded meat the focus of the day's "plate lunch". Served with the requisite white rice, but slaw with strips of fresh pineapple replacing the traditional "mac" salad. Having secured fish for the grill, we'd stroll down to an organic market tucked behind the single room, wood slat Lahuiokalani Church(circa 1850). The market was pungent, no frill, and perfect, (Think Berkeley... Santa Cruz... 1970's.), fresh, ripe local produce easily found. Later with dark rum and lime in hand, we'd grill the fish as the sun slid between the two neighboring islands. If the hunger was too strong, we'd ease it with some poke: whatever fish that was on hand-ahi, ono, octopus-tossed raw with nori, green onion, and citrus or soy. So the days went. Not really the lazy, butts-in-sand types, we did a pretty good job of faking it. Neither could remember the last time we blobbed out, and yet we did just that. Oh, we met each sunrise in the water, and spent a good amount of time in it, but... food, beer, and naps all got their fair time as well. Holding tight to the "less is more"credo, we saved Hana, Haleakala, and the rest for the next trip.

Chicken break... Haleiwa

 Eventually the time came for the real Hawaii, an early flight to Oahu and friends. Doesn't matter where you go in the world, local is better. Mark, Robin, and Vaughna(Robin's Mom) made sure from the landing that we were welcome, leis and hugs in abundance. Any initial shock for Katie on decent seeing the industry and clamor of this island was quickly washed away as Mark sped us from the "town" side through a valley deep and dense in growth. Once spat out to the other side, the North Shore visible in the far distance, he skirted the emerald "ribs" of the Koolau range on past Kaneohe to Kailua and eventually to the sliver that is Lanikai. Settling into their "compound",  a discreet balance of Robin's Bali-leaning style and Mark's craftsmen gifts(30+ years a GC), we paid respects to the Mokolua Islands by way of a quick dip. Before long it was on to Buzz's, the thatched hut beacon sitting canal side as it has for... seemingly ever. Margaritas rimmed in li hing mui(Tart, sweet, and salty!) got us started, and seemed to arrive a little to easily. An ample breeze flowed, the sun bleached ocean stretched out across the way, while a steady flow of friends stopped to check in. Mid-day tequila lingered  as we mounted the "beach cruisers", the scented air welcome, as was a sound nap. We woke to the news of of a b-b-q invite, everyone bringing what they had a want for: teriyaki chicken, lomi lomi salmon, roast pig, etc. Mmmmmmm damn! There amidst some three dozen people that treated her like an old friend, my wife got that beautiful taste of Hawaii: warm, welcoming, and real.

The "Moks"

 Island life tends to begin early and finish the same. With the water just down the way, we'd get wet in the morning, then succumb happily to one of the only "house rules": coffees come with Bailey's. Not normally one to drink my sugar(Preferring to eat it.), it quickly became an addictive morning staple.  Add some fruit, maybe a slice of toast, and off you go. Go we did... Hiking up to the WWII "pill boxes" over looking... well, damn near everything; Kayak out to the twin islands; Up to the North Shore before daylight, grabbing hard boiled eggs and great coffee at the old Kalapawai Market(since 1932), filling in what room was left in our bellies with sushi as it was being made in a shop just opening up on the "Kam" Highway near Pupukea. (It was 7:30.) Later that day, browned, tired, and left hungry from the salt water, we tore into chickens roasted whole in a dirt lot in Haleiwa; paper-bagging cold beers. It's not complicated this place, neither the life nor the food. Fish is easy to find, sure, but be it in "country" or outer islands farmers and ranchers are putting out everything from produce to chickens to beef. You want to short cut it, try something like The Habachi in Kailua, a tiny(400 sq. ft.?) spot producing most anything you might want to toss on a grill: fish, marinated meats, kabobs. Pained that my beloved Andy's Drive-In(est. 1957) had closed, the plate lunches we found at Fat Boy's didn't disappoint. (Garlic chicken!) The restaurants over in Honolulu didn't figure in to our plans, and how could they with Mark's daughter Alycia, a very talented local cook is spoiling us (On her day off!!!) with dinner on the lanai. Even after humbling myself paddle boarding at the Kaneohe Bay Yacht Club, the reward of ahi sandwiches and Heinekens seemed a just reward. Sun kissed, well fed, and somehow fit(despite having eaten my body weight in rice), it still hurts to leave this place. But, at least now, I'm sure of the way back.

"Teri" Plate!

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

Repas CG: The Aftermath... March 3

 Had a great meal Sunday! From an early a.m. hunt for blossomed branches to the last bit of "backyard lemon" tart, all fell very well into place. (Not just saying that because both entailed some neighborhood... "foraging".) The only thing to stray off line was the weather which burned off nicely from an early damp chill to a warm Spring afternoon; kept the fire I'd built from getting a match until long after guests had made their way home. Having offered an amuse to guests of the last repas, Katie once again slid in a surprise: black dates filled with fresh, young goat cheese, wrapped in lardon. Love the comment by one guest who stated matter-of-factly, "Doesn't everything taste better wrapped in bacon?!" Yes, yes it does! Short a wine because of this, I fished out an Alsatian pinot blanc from the cupboard, it's light fruit and acid filled in nicely.
 From there, plates of artichoke were passed out, each with their own little "pot" of aioli. (True to one of Katie's mottos, "You can't have enough mayonnaise!") The Meyer lemon used to steam was subtle, as was the mustcadet sur lie that was chosen.  Missing our Suzanne in Charmé, Katie used her as muse to inspire a savory crêpe of braised leeks and escarole with slices of blood orange and toasted hazelnuts. To be fair, Suzanne seldom fusses; a tall stack of crêpes dressed in butter and granulated sugar would suffice. Still, she was in mind and conversation as we tore into these, a 100% roussane from Domaine Alary(11th generation) in the glass. Tamed by a long "bath" of hearty red, the thick and tender short ribs were then stacked atop mounds of fork-mashed parsnips and celery root, whose earthy finish rose from the butter and cream. Chose a Cahors for this, wanting a real chewy, stain-your-teeth Malbec. Dirt, licorice, dark berries! No Argentinian elegance here. Bold and blue went the cheese(St. Agur), along with an... adolescent goat from the Loire. Rounded out just a bit for this with the usual Rhône Valley quartet, led mightily by Grenache. The weather still playing tricks meant tender hearts of romaine instead of the increasingly elusive little gems. (Katie just laughs, "They're in the market when there good and ready.")
 Having shouldered through several versions of the tart during the week(The burden!), must say Sunday's was just right. So fresh were the lemons, the resulting juice was really pronounced. Thus, Katie ended up cutting it a bit with a fold of whipped cream, easing the sharp hit below the ears without taking away from the fruit. Walking out later with guests, the late afternoon sun mocking my fire preparations, saw the first sprouts of green reaching from the rows of radish and carrots planted a few days before. With spinach and chard already well on their way, guess it's about that time. Not long before tables will line the garden.


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

The Aftermath... January 27

 New Years Eve has never quite done it for me. May have something to do with having worked so many of them over some 30-plus years in food, but... The idea of capturing so much in one evening, that's a lot to expect. A while back Katie and I began a twist on it: a dinner to welcome the new year, in January after all the dust has settled from the holiday craze. So it was on a Sunday recently that we gathered with guests for the first repas of the new slate, a chance to celebrate what we intend to be a good year. Now my wife has long stated, never making a secret of it, that her food is not "precious". Unwavering is her approach that it should be simple and clean... embraceable. For this meal, she did the opposite.
 Oh, it did begin easy enough as people lined the table set beside a warm fire: an amuse bouche of two perfect Miyagi oysters, tapped lightly with a mignonette. Then she dressed up a soup of puréed cauliflower with Brussel sprout leaves fried in olive oil, and topped in local salmon roe. For these, a rich, yeasty crèment was poured. Bubbles, clinking glasses, and laughter to mark a fresh calendar. Switching to an even Rully, it was on to a lightly warm salad of shaved turnip, yam, beets, and carrot tossed with strips of crispy salmon skin and handfuls of lightly tossed watercress. Earthy, crunchy, and sweet were the vegetables balancing the salted fish flavor of the skin;  a sort of bacon of the sea.

 Logs were added to the fire, and the soft winter light demanded candles be lit. A surprisingly layered and structured Saint-Peray (considering it was 100% marsanne) by the talented Rhône Valley trio at Les Vin de Viennes was chosen for the lobster to come, having really enjoyed their syrah at Thanksgiving. By now you may have noticed that whites ruled the meal. A novelty for us, but true to the menu. The lobster tails were sliced into fat rounds, plated, and hit with a bit of a Meyer lemon beurre blanc. Claws were cracked and added to the plate, as were a soft scramble of eggs hit with a grate of truffle before being put back in their shell, mounted on course salt. Found myself pausing mid way through this, a moment to take in the richness of the dish, elegant yet balanced. More wine was needed, giving me a chance to platter the small "legs" which a guest had discretely asked about. Soon, with seemingly the whole table rendered silent except for the cracking and sucking noises, I had to laugh that we hadn't thought of adding them before. A lighter turn was made to a bright sauvignon blanc from the Loire, young goat and sheep's milk cheeses were chosen with this in mind, as the plates of little red leaf lettuces arrived. (The hoped for "little gems" proved too elusive at the morning's market.)

 The mood tends to dictate the length of the repas, and this one stretched good and long. It was in part why we decided recently to move the start time closer to the middle of the day, so guests wouldn't feel the need to rush back home having to prepare for the coming Monday. Kate's fluffy and moist olive oil cake arrived, tangy and sweet candied tangerines spilling over the whipped cream top, a cooked down dark rum pooling about the plate. Yes to coffee, cognac, and another log! This will be a damn fine year!!!



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

Big Game Eats!

Decided to jump squarely on the bandwagon for last Sunday's game. Gone are the days of the blue-collar Raiders teams of my youth which had me attend my first game newly born(à la Frank Youell Field) set squarely in a picnic basket. So it was we took the high road(the high San Rafael Bridge actually) to George and Amanda's in Mill Valley for some quality eats and a game to match. Now, being in Marin did inspire to dress up the normal football fair, so much the better. Early on it was cold Heinekens, smoked salmon, shaved red onion, and homemade mustard, to go with one remarkable "guac". That got us through the "What the hell?" segment comprising the 1st half.
 As the game quality progressed, the food did too. Katie did a seafood chowder(sea bass, rock fish, clams, scallops, prawns, etc.) which was joined by a Puligny-Montrachet. Pizzas soon started to flow: smoked mozz and nettles, fresh pesto, and lastly a "margherita" with fresh mozz, washed down by some Willamette Valley pinot. Having abandoned the table as the close score demanded a better vantage point, we reconvened for a round of second guessing the refs, final play calling, and dessert: neighbor Claire's rosemary shortbread, and my wife's olive oil cake with candied tangerines. (A re-make from last week's repas. Had to have it again, and soon!) More red and a crackling fire found us beside the hearth, contented full bellies helping to overcome the game's outcome. Sort of.

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

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