Tonic Water #5

Call it the Big Lebowski. As in naked, and big.

4 cups water
1/3 cup citric acid
1/3 cup cinchona bark
1 tsp sea salt

bring to boil, reduce to simmer, 45 minutes, then do as normal.


UPDATE: unsure if I used 1/3 or 1/4 cup bark.

A Nameless Campari Cocktail--"Once Upon a Time in the (Old South)West"

So we were invited to a party, a kind of high-end potluck that involved dramatic food creations by a variety of amateur foodies. And as usual, the email that came to me was ignored too long, until my pleading partner provoked me to reply. With virtually everything already selected, I promised to make the cocktails. No problem, I figured, with but a week to go. I have a half dozen crowd pleasers in my repertoire.

Or I could come up with one. I was harboring at the time a deep longing for Campari, which was absent from my cabinet and had been for some time. Why not make a Campari cocktail? Were there not a hundred easy variations on the Negroni? No problem.

But, of course, the eternal war between reason and experimentation raged in my brain. Reason always loses, and so I began mixing up various concoctions, trying to come up with some kind of Campari cocktail that would break the mold a little. But after a week, virtually nothing had come to mind.

But the best spur for invention is last-minute panic. Countless artists would  attest to the power of deadlines to inspire creation, although one might legitimately wonder how often this might result in genius rather than simply desperation. Given the difficulties involved in any act of creation, I suspect that genius is elusive enough to defy systematic analysis as to its prompts, let alone causes. But I digress. The point is that at the last minute, I mixed together the following:

1 part Campari
1 part lemon juice
1 part tonic syrup (lemongrass and cloves)
1 part sugar syrup
2 parts gin
club soda
garnish: lemon peel

It worked brilliantly. A bitter apértif balanced upon a fresh citrus sour mix. Sophisticated and playful, as if Renee Fleming chose to attend the party in a pink fur coat.

I was nonetheless apprehensive, and took several bottles of liqueurs to fall back on (Aviation, anyone?). But in the end, I shook up nearly 2 cocktails for everyone. It was a hit, and I was spared the embarrassment that comes from bringing the one dish no one touches.

Our first freeze

Our first freeze this year came early--November 12. It wrecked my squash and the last of the tomato plants (why I hadn't pulled them, I cannot really say). It also destroyed most of my flowering plants, including of all things the golden pineapple sage, which was just beginning to send up beautiful red flowers.

The arugula survived, as did the radishes. And actually my little seedlings of cold-weather plants appear to still be alive, if not thriving.

The temperature below the stairs is now 58 degrees. It climbed briefly back up to 60 after the freeze, but is otherwise holding steady.

UPDATE: within a week, the temperature below the stairs was back up to 64 degrees. Again, holding steady.

The fingers, they burn...

Autumn is and will always be my favorite season. The weather turns cold. Jackets and sweaters make their way from the closet to the dresser. The heavy duvet comes out, and sleep is suddenly more inviting. And the harvests! A season of peppers. The last of the tomatoes. Crisp lettuce.

There is also the smell and the sound of Autumn. It is football on in the background. Chicken bones and onions in water reducing on the stove. Leaves turn in the crisp air, and crunch underfoot on evening walks. And it all came out in fine form this past Sunday. Chicken stock with a heavy clove and pepper spice reduced on the stovetop while we made up pumpkin muffins and jalapeno jelly. A nice end to fall!

Jalapeno recipe is as follows:

about 20 jalapenos. chopped then blended, with 1 cup cider vinegar. Turned mixture into pot with 1 more cup cider vinegar, then added 4-5 cups sugar (recipe called for six). Boiled for ten minutes, stirring constantly. Added 3 oz. liquid pectin, stirred for one more minute. Ladled into ball jars and let them self-seal.

In a second batch, I mixed red jalapenos and orange banana peppers and used dry pectin, although I forget how many tablespoons.

My fingers burned for two days straight. Mean peppers this year.

Viña Eguía Rioja Reserva, Tempranillo

Not a bad $10 wine that we found at Whole Foods. Worth a stock for weekday quaffing, and for foods  that might take an earthy and mildly spicy companion.

Fall plantings

Out came the tomato plants. They were the victim of fungus and ultimately an early cold snap, which ended any hope that the late plants would yield some well-structured fruit. Alas! Nonetheless, I picked all the green tomatoes and have them on the windowsill. I doubt they will make sandwiches, but they will do in a sauce or cooked dish.

In place of the tomatoes I put down a split row of fennel and arugula. In the place of the tomatoes in Maia's plot I put down red lettuce. In place of the tomatillos, I laid down some carrots, although I am not at all convinced it will yield anything good.

The soil underneath the tomatoes was exceptional. Spongy and black. live worms rooting around.

The arugula I planted a ways back has produced immediate and beautiful salads for two weeks. It is a little thinned out at present, but I believe I can get lettuce for the week with no problem. My new row will hopefully produce when these plants are spent. As far as arugula goes, I will eat whatever I grow. It is a beautiful leaf. But it also reminds me how exceptional homegrown lettuce really is. Tender. Fresh. Delicious.

fall garden

In what might be termed a last gasp of futility, I fertilized the red peppers and tomatoes last weekend. With a kind of Pollyannish determination, I am trying to will my plants to produce one more harvest before the frost comes. The last batch was quite good, and so I was fairly convinced that an early November harvest might be possible.

This would be harmless except that it kept two large double rows occupied. Meanwhile, the arugula and radishes have sprung up. I am already enjoying a daily harvest of arugula which, combined with the last of my cherry tomatoes, are producing lunch-time salads. Delightful salads. With two more rows available, I could have another variety of chard, perhaps some more greens, carrots and radishes, and a welter of lettuces. And fennel. I'm sitting on a bag of fennel seeds that I really want to get into the ground.

And now we've had two unseasonably cold nights, dipping below freezing. I may be Pollyanna when it comes to my garden, but I'm not the village idiot. They are going to be mealy, and there is no real point in keeping them.

So they have another two days. On Saturday I will perform the massacre of red hill. I will leave the volunteer tomatoes in (they take up no real room, but will pull all the big plants. Then I'll prepare the beds and lay seed.

In my newly planted rows the chard is slow to rise. Coming much faster are several volunteer squash plants. Hopefully the vine borers are all dead from the cold.

Evolúcio Furmint (Tokaj) 2011

A little confession--I was uncertain what to make of the bottle because I did not immediately recognize Furmint. Combined with the clearly foreign spelling of Evolution, I half wondered if this was a proprietary or regional name of a blend. Perhaps this was the Hungarian version of a claret (only white, of course). Or maybe worse--a Frankenstein wine. After all, in an age when yeast is now being coaxed into producing synthetic sandalwood and vanilla, one can only imagine what small producers in Tokaj are doing in their spare time to compete with the Loire and Napa.

But, in the end, nothing that exciting was occuring. Furmint is a cold weather grape, appropriate of course for Tokaj and its world famous noble rot. It is dry and acidic without being bracing. It lacks the distinctive aromatics of Sauvignon Blanc, and is much closer to Riesling in its complexion and makeup. DNA profiling has established Gouais Blanc as the (perhaps unwilling) parent of this grape. My initial uncertainty was largely due to native ignorance. While I had quaffed a few Tojak glasses in my day, I am not an avid drinker of dessert wine. I prefer Cognac to Brandy, and whiskey to port. After a sumptuous dinner, the sweet does not usually appeal. So I had never closely examined a bottle of Tojak, or bothered to learn the first thing about it.

Furmint produces non-distinctive aromatics, as far as I can tell. I would have confused the nose with any number of whites. But this makes the grape probably more of a blank slate. And when one is looking for a quaffable white wine to start with, or to accompany a mildly spicy dish, or just to drink on a hot day, this grape is an option. And the Evolúcio was a pleasant and affordable option to stash away and pop into the fridge when necessary.

the new porridge

After complaining in a previous post about quinoa in breakfast cereal, I am now forced to eat crow. I have indeed made a super-porridge that features quinoa. But the key is to disguise the quinoa, which frankly does not do much for steel cut oats. The secret is amaranth.

1/2 cup steel cut oats
1/4 cup amaranth
1/4 cup quinoa (organic red, preferably)

1/4 cup dried cherries (dried fruit of preference, actually)
1/4 cup sliced almonds
some spices--cinnamon.
1 tbsp. butter

Heat the butter and add almonds and cherries. Turn up the damn heat. When it starts to sizzle, add the grains (yes, I know neither amaranth nor quinoa is technically a grain). Add any spices you want at this point. Stir continuously while a kettle heats up 4 cups of water on the stove. When the oats start to smell nutty, add four cups of water.

There will be a lot of double double toil and trouble fire burn and caldron bubble when one adds the water. Just don't panic.

Cover. Once the water is boiling freely, turn off heat and set aside. Let it sit overnight.

If one is cooking it up immediately, then just simmer for thirty minutes, stirring occasionally. You'll know when it is done.

Amaranth is my latest find. An Aztec "grain." Adds both texture and sweetness to the porridge. Which is good, because the run on quinoa has meant that not even the DeKalb Farmers' Market has it in stock any more. It will clearly be a while before supply meets demand, or demand curbs enough to bring it back to the shelf. In the mean time, I am making an equal parts oats and amaranth breakfast cereal.

Tonic Water #5 "Sugar and Spice"

My latest tonic water concoction may well be my best. I've made a batch in anticipation of a neighbor's housewarming party. The base recipe is unaltered--3 cups of water to 1/4 cup cinchona bark and 1/4 cup citric acid and a pinch of salt. Then I added about four lemongrass stalks, chopped, a teaspoon or so of coriander, and a sprinkling of cloves. For the heck of it, I threw in the peel of 1/2 of a lemon. It was in the fridge, after all.

I macerated the lemongrass after a 60 minutes boil. Then I let it sit three days, transferred it to a carafe, and let it sit another three before double filtering it.

The yield was 18 ounces. (2 1/4 cups). Rather than use agave, I used sugar syrup. The syrup was about a 1 1/2-1 ratio. I put in about 24-26 ounces of sugar syrup, brought it to a simmer, and then shut down the heat.

The cloves are noticeable in the profile. I decided to go with sugar rather than the agave to make the mouthfeel a little more rich velvet. This is a tonic water for the winter months--possibly a Christmas version.

Some new plantings...

So, a fall garden. Long desired. Finally planted. I put down radishes in a small patch next to the lemon balm. Along the walkway I planted arugula and zanzabar spinach. Or some spinach varietal. Can't recall now, and perhaps it does not matter--the seeds came from a neighborhood friend and I'm not entirely certain she knew what they were. Swiss chard went in the second row in Maia's plot.

Volunteer tomato plants are now fruiting much more bountifully than my original transplants. Of course it is late for tomatoes, and I am in bad need of some fertilizer. I am committed to the fish emulsion, so I must go get it. The fall garden, at present, has the potential to outstrip my summer garden. Already I'm seeing what I believe are arugula sprouts. Ha! Or perhaps spinach. I cannot recall which I planted closer to the door. Too little time to record such things. But hope springs eternal. If I can grow a decent fall garden, it will bode well for a new year.

Now to write that book I promised my editor...

The case of the missing tomatoes

The wet weather has claimed my tomatoes, I fear. So too did an ill advised decision to try and train the tomato vines to a single vine. My more successful plants were allowed to bush out somewhat. Also, I had a reversal of fortune. The front planter put up an admirable show, but did not produce near the level of quality fruit as last year. By contrast, the tomato in Maia's corner has produced succulent cherries, tart and sweet with a fair pop. Last year, that plot was near dead. My amending of the soil clearly had the intended impact.

I fertilized the garden two days ago. 2 oz. on everything. Last of the fertilizer.

mysterious recipe

I'm cleaning out my office and found this:

1 gallon water
1 tbsp baking soda
1 tbsp veg. oil
1 tbsp dish soap (unscented)

A recipe, I suppose. Either for a delightful beverage or as a natural insecticide. I'll find out this weekend...

Tonic Water #4

I planted lemongrass this year, mainly as an ornamental. Its vigorous stalks and long, wispy leaves have come in so abundantly, that I must find more uses for it. So why not start with tonic water?

You could break pencils with those stalks

My tonic water has always featured citrus. Moving into the wintery months, I decided to jettison the lemon, lime, and grapefruit peel in favor of, yes, lemongrass. Granted, many recipes call for both, but I am becoming more and more the minimalist these days. Why confuse lemongrass with lime peel?

So I cut up a bunch of stalks. Eight total or so. I put them in water for a day. (As an ornamental they give me the same impression as prairie grasses. They sits well in the vase.) Here is the recipe I am using:

3 cups water
1/4 cup cinchona bark
1/4 cup citric acid
8 stalks lemongrass, chopped and lightly crushed under the handle of the knife
20 cardamom pods
1 tsp., circa, coriander
1 tsp salt (three pinches)

boil water, add ingredients, reduce to simmer. Simmer 45 minutes. Steep for an additional hour before removing to fridge for a three day soak. On Tuesday I will transfer to another vessel, pulling out all the big pieces. On Friday I will strain the mixture and add agave. Probably 1 1/2 cups to start, but I will update the post with the proper proportions.

UPDATE:

On Tuesday I filtered the water off of the lemongrass and cinchona. The lemongrass is wonderfully fragrant, but without the citrus pop that usually came with it. Coriander is still strong on the nose. Amazing how dominant coriander can be.

I lost a lot of water on this batch. the net is 2 1/4 cups. So I should start with 1 cup of agave and move upwards. Slowly.

Cellar Up

If the Department of Agriculture can gather stats correctly, it appears that middle income parents spend anywhere from $240,000-$400,000 on one child. And that's only through high school, so it doesn't include college, an all-expense paid summer trip to Europe, law or medical school tuition, a down payment for a house, etc.

So, by rough calculations, one child equals roughly one good wine cellar. I can now smile at my first grader across the breakfast table, and while she dedicates an abnormal amount of concentration on correctly spreading honey over every bit of surface area of her bagel, think "you are why I can't afford cases of 1998 Bordeaux or 2005 Burgundy, or California cult cabs."

Of course, many people can afford both. I'm not one of them, so I've been forced to live bottle to bottle my whole life. My sole holdings amount to a 1994 Pomerol, a 2001 Port whose name I can't remember, and a bottle of red table wine from Cadeuceus Cellars in Arizona. The last one is a horrible wine, or at least it was a horrible wine when I tried it a couple of years ago. I felt obliged to buy at least one bottle since I'd made the trip to their tasting room in Jerome. The pilgrimage is worth it, as Jerome is a fantastic landmark mining town, and the food there and in neighboring Sedona is world class (or at least at the top of its class regionally). Proprietor Maynard Keenan is threatening to make wine cool, and everything from his website to his bottle designs to his styles denote an impish originality. Too bad the wines are awful. I did not take tasting notes at the time, but I just remember floating gobs of jam. The wine had no center, no essence. But that is not to say that time will produce something extraordinary out of Arizona, and if it does, I can at least claim I was there at the creation, and brought a bottle home to stick in the cellar.

My cellar is really a cellar. I have begun temperature tracking it and, given that I am not storing anything serious in it, am not all that concerned about temperature control. I can never imagine having more than 300 bottles in any case, and about the time I clear 100, I will build a drywall container to try to maintain temperature control. As it is, the summer temperatures have never been above 75. While that is 20 degrees too hot for a real cellar, it's only for a few months a year. And better wines have been kept at worse temperatures.

So cellar on. I'll try to build up a running stock, designate some for long keeping, come what may. I am not a collector--I have no desire to stockpile cult bottles of overblown, overpriced wine never meant to be drunk. I want to age some ageworthy wines while keeping good bottles in the cellar for immediate drinking. Table wines will be held upstairs.

4th and Swift, redividus

It's been too long. After being seduced by Atlanta Midtown's glitzy Empire State South, I drifted away from what might be Atlanta's most inviting, stylish, and inventive restaurant--4th and Swift. But its style and invention is not of the nature of a Kevin Gillespie enterprise. Rather, it is what I had always imagined as a kind of bedrock for good dining, something I would always return to and be able to be both comforted and surprised. After all, it was 4th and Swift that awoke me to the possibilities of the Cherokee Purple heirloom tomato. And their tomato salads are still on the menu when I return today, yet I learn new heirlooms when I arrive. Could one imagine a devoted spouse carefully presenting a Wednesday night meal with such a coquettish grin?

We had a bountiful harvest at meal tonight. Woodfire grilled octopus. Corn chowder with Tybee Shrimp. Sea Bass. Waghu steak.

And most impressively, a Smith-Madrone Cabernet. Rare to find so cultish a cabernet, so artisinal a production, in the sticks. It has the ruby texture, a nose of mountain wildflowers, and a palate of chocolate over fruit, followed by a textured acidity. A wine of great beauty.

So long live the restaurants that do it right.

The Age of Arugla

Arugula is to garden-variety lettuce as Louis C.K. is to comics--impolite yet heartwarming, pungent and unapologetic. It goes by several names, not the least of which is "the rocket," which describes precisely where it's searingly peppery taste might take you, if you aren't expecting it.

The rocket romances Bolivia

I've been eating arugula now for almost a year on a near daily basis. I love it in my packed lunches because it is as close as I can get to being high at noon (at least without getting in some serious trouble). But only recently have I branched out from my grain-arugula salads into something a little different.

Last night we had a no-cook sauce pasta (courtesy of a nameless friend) featuring arugula. It was absurdly simple. Start with arugula, olive oil and microplaned parm (the good kind). Add the spaghetti and toss, allowing the arugula to wilt. Add lemon juice and zest and pasta water, let it settle while you get everything else together.

(Actually I'll have to check this recipe, but I believe that was how it went.)

Today I made up hot quinoa and made a hot arugula-lemon juice-olive oil-parm salad. It was phenomenal. One of the joys of working at home a day or two a week.

Michel-Schlumberger 2012 Pinot Noir

I am at an immediate disability to describe this wine. I liked it, and it appeared to have all of the characteristics of Russian River Valley pinot noirs that make them so fascinating. But it was the second bottle we opened and, the other one being a chardonnay, I had no basis of comparison. It had a ruby sparkle, and I recall earthy notes on top of a plate of fresh fruit. It also gave off too much heat. I think the alcohol sat at nearly 15%, making it boozy as well as intense. So greeting the Michel-Schlumberger was a little like meeting a drunk Amazon redhead at a bar and suddenly realizing that she's picked YOU.

It could be that Michel-Schlumberger was experimenting with pinot. The winery is located in Dry Creek Valley, an upper-Russian River appellation known more for its Zinfandel and Syrah than anything else. The winery and vineyards were established by Jean-Jacques Michel, and later joined with Jacques Pierre Schlumberger. The latter retired in 2011, and apparently new management has taken over--which means, as far as I can tell, well, nothing.

In any case, I am not impressed enough with the pinot to recommend buying it again, except at discount. But then again, I would need to try this wine against another pinot to be sure. And it certainly is a bargain if found at the right price.

Day 4 in Wine Country: Crossing the Vine Curtain

Our fourth day in wine country began much the same as every other day. We picked up coffee at the roasters. Deciding on a smaller breakfast, we chose croissants over the usual eggs and bacon at Cafe Sarafonia. Then we packed into the car and prepared to make our drive. But rather than turning left at the corner of Lincoln and the St. Helena Highway, we turned right. We were headed north and west towards the Alexander Valley and the Russian River. We were passing from one county to another. Crossing the vine curtain between Napa and Sonoma.

There are, of course, important differences between the two counties, beginning with geology and extending through winemaking traditions. But the same can be said for different appellations within each of the counties. Savvy winemakers understand the differences between Mt. Veeder cabernet grapes and those grown in Stag's Leap. The same is true for the Sonoma Coast and the hillside grapes in the Alexander Valley. So there is not an immediate way to differentiate Sonoma and Napa wines, especially when the arbitrary county line is the only effective marker between the two.

But not surprisingly, competition between those with the different addresses is stiff. It almost has an "eastside-westside" feel to it. The woman I had been forced to ride next to in the airplane had eventually pried out of me the fact that my destination after SFO was wine country. "Where are you staying?" she asked. "Calistoga," I told her, and intimated unwisely that we were visiting a few of the wineries in Napa. "We have better wine in Sonoma," she responded.

I'm not ready to concede so chauvinist a sentiment. Sonoma County has whatever syndrome one might ascribe to little brothers who can't measure up, no matter their successes. Truth be told, it was Napa vintners who shocked the world at the Judgment of Paris in 1976, and it is Napa cabs that sell for the highest prices in the world (save select Bordeaux First Growths). Napa is synonymous with fine California wine.

None of which means that Sonoma wines aren't better than Napa wines. In fact, that is largely beside the point. Napa and Sonoma do some similar things, and do some things differently. I don't really see why someone would have to choose, or to declare some kind of loyalty. An exploration out into Sonoma County and along the Russian River should not feel like we've loaded up a car full of Jets to take into Sharks territory, after all.

But there were differences, and I have to admit readily apparent ones. The 128 North out of Calistoga wound between the mountain peaks and into a quiet Alexander Valley. Napa was not exactly bustling, but it was definitely more traveled. And better heeled. In Napa, the roadside is landscaped. Wildflowers all, but planned and pruned all the same. In Sonoma, the road was narrow and uninviting. The vineyards that surrounded it were much the same, but the valley beyond seemed more wild. The towns bore the same mark. The ostentatious wealth of Napa's small towns is conspicuously apparent. Sonoma's towns seemed more utilitarian. People lived and worked there. It had the mark of the agricultural community still upon it, and I strongly suspected that many of Napa's service labor force makes home in Sonoma.

Holding before the Crush

We had landed in the Russian River Valley a little early for our first appointment, and were looking for a way to kill the time. My goal had been to make it to Westside Drive, just past Healdsburg. This was the site of several groundbreaking vineyards and wineries that had begun, some thirty or forty years ago, planting pinot noir grapes. At the time, it was a decision fraught with risk. Clarets (and thier grapes) were the high point of sales and zinfandel was still the grape of choice in much of Sonoma. Pinots were disparaged as thin and weak grapes which, while they might thrive in the region of Burgundy back in France, were never going to produce world class wine in California. But several visionary winemakers began planting pinot noir nonetheless. And the results were heaven. The Russian River makes its famous left turn at Healdsburg, heading towards the Pacific. The cool ocean fog snakes up the Russian River Valley almost as far as Healdsburg, providing a cool enough setting to grow the famously finicky grape. And the rest is history. Whether one is tasting a lot-specific Pinot Noir or a blend from these vineyards, they produce interesting, complex, and delicious wines.

We tried to stop at Rochioli outside of Healdsburg, but the winery was not yet open when we arrived. Disappointed, we tried an adjacent tasting room that did not really fire the senses. This was a disappointing start to our Sonoma experience, and we rather dejectedly moved on, ending up at Gary Farrell's winery almost thirty minutes in advance of our appointment.

The pourer at Gary Farrell told us we could wait on the patio, and graciously gave us a glass of Chardonnay to sip on while we waited. (I was unaware that part of the appointment I had booked included a tour, so we were definitely on their schedule.) She must have liked us, because she gave us a different wine about fifteen minutes later.

French oak casks are used for three years at Gary Farrell

When the tour did come, it was informative. The tour guide had worked in the wine industry her whole life. We learned about the history of Gary Farrell wines (he was a pioneer in Sonoma), the buying of grapes, the crush, and the inner workings of a winery that produces a modest 35,000 cases a year. Although Gary long ago sold the winery to corporate America, it was apparent that the old ways had been respected.

Gary Farrell's wines were elegantly crafted. Well balanced, distinctive fruit, supple tannins. Steve Heimoff calls them age worthy, and I hope they are. I will lay a couple of bottles by.

After the tasting we drove down Westside road and just got lost. We stopped for lunch ... somewhere. The food was fresh and good. The waiters were stoned, I'm fairly sure.

That big building is a hop kiln

We ended up at Russian Hill. This was one of the early pinots we encountered in Chicago, nearly a decade ago, and so visiting the winery seemed necessary. The tasting room was situated on a hill overlooking the valley. It was gorgeous. The wine was very much what I remembered. An earthy, peppery pinot. A little fruity. But distinctive nonetheless.

We drove a different road back to Calistoga and ate dinner at Jolé, at the bar. We were delighted to meet a couple of locals there, including a gentleman who had been making wines in Napa since the 1970s. Of course, we didn't know that while we were sitting with him. All we learned was that he was the son of Polish immigrants. We talked about, of all things, politics, and children. He gave us his card when we left and it was only later that we learned that he was a vintner with a formidable reputation. It was probably for the best. I would have peppered him with no end of questions if I had known. And that would have spoiled our wonderful dinner.

One question I might have put to our new friend was whether the grapes really are better in Napa or Sonoma. He had farmed his whole life near Calistoga, so he doubtless had an opinion on the subject. But then again, to even pose the question to someone who spent their life in agriculture would be to admit outright that you are a rube. If you truly believe that a county line drawn by the state of California means a thing, then I have some beachfront property you might be interested in. So perhaps it is best to leave the vine curtain out of it.

Day 3 in Wine Country: From Spring Mountain back down the hill

The tasting trailer

After a picnic lunch at Smith-Madrone, we drove up the hill to the Behrens Family winery. Although Spring Mountain is a mom-and-pop place, Behrens does have a professionally landscaped garden, a beautiful view, and a dedicated tasting room. Well, tasting trailer. Their director of marketing is Robin Cooper, and she pours the wines as she unfolds the story of the Behrens Family Winery. The family history is complicated, and at times almost operatic. One confronts a bewildering array of names, both because several wineries operate off of the property, and because the winery itself changed names more than once. So, one might drink an Erna Schein, a Behrens and Hitchcock, or something with the word Drinkward in it and be drinking one of the Behrens wines.

OK then.

I chose to visit Behrens for two reasons. First, it was a small family winery, which appeals because they are not constrained by having to produce 10,000 cases of $20 pinot noir for the mass market. The small wineries can produce more distinctive wines. Second, the winery's reputation was for risk taking. They produced "rich" and "powerful" wines. This is usually a danger sign, signalling fruit bombs, but the welter of reviews online suggested that they made interesting wine. It is one thing to appreciate the hand-crafted elegance of Smith-Madrone; another, however, to be excited by experiment. My taste in most everything is driven by a terrible ambivalence. I lean conservatively towards tradition in my music, food, art, and wine tastes. But I am also attracted to the avant garde. The edge. Throw the rules to the wind. Take risks. Fail. This yin-yang between tradition and experiment informs an aethetic dialectic that keeps me confused about what really is beautiful. Or even just good.

Behrens was busy when we arrived. There were two different wineries running tastings (Behrens and some other one that operates on the space). But I should use busy in a qualified way--this was not the tasting room at Kendell-Jackson, with a long stretch of bar jammed with tourists just off the bus and "intimate tours" conducted every thirty minutes by some schlep. Or at least this is what I presume Kendell-Jackson's tasting room would look like--I've never been. Behrens-busy just meant that there was a terrace pouring going on and one in the trailer. We sat with a couple from Tennessee under the canopy and chatted about what we like about wine.

the gardens at Behrens

Robin (whom I recognized from her picture on the website), ushered the prior guests out of the trailer and told us she'd be with us shortly. I passed the time photographing the gardens. The midday heat was upon us, and the thermometer was quickly approaching the mid-nineties. This was a forty plus point swing from the morning, and I was beginning to regret my decision to forgo my fedora. So when Robin ushered us into the air-conditioned trailer, I suddenly felt sorry for the poor folks having their tasting on the terrace.

Robin walked us through a history of the winery that unfolded with each new wine. Her presentation was well scripted--clever and informative. This was someone who loved the wines she poured, and whose affection for the winemakers was genuine. It lent itself to a nice conversation in the trailer as we enjoyed pour after pour. We learned along the way that the husband-and-wife team that ran the winery had originally owned a restaurant, had started this as a hobby, and that they had been able to turn their attention full time to winemaking after Robert Parker had announced that Behrens' wines were "the next big thing."

Uh oh. Parker is the critic that everyone loves to hate. His famous 100 point scoring system and taste for big fruit favored the New World over the Old, the fruit-forward wine over the tanic-and-acid, and has prompted more than a few winemakers to urge more than a few grape farmers to delay the harvest, over-ripen their fruit, and otherwise make their wines bigger and bolder. Parker's oversized influence has, according to some wine writers, contributed to a "dumbing down" of wine by the creation of a mass palate. As more and more winemakers try to impress Parker, the argument goes, wine becomes standardized. It tastes more like every other wine and loses its sense of "terroir," or place.

I'm not sure I buy the argument. The development of a larger market for wine would necessarily include the production of large-scale, inexpensive quantities to satisfy its burgeoning middle, but that would only seem to multiply the niches of anti-Parkerites out there. I am investigating this phenomenon now, and will post on it later.

But I digress. If I rewind back to the trailer at Behrens, to Robin's announcement that Beherens wines were once (some ten years ago, I believe) christened by Robert Parker as "the next big thing," I can report that I felt the mental equivalent of a fight-or-flight response. I detest jammy wines, especially when they come advertised as claret. I associate Parker with jam, so now I was associating Beherens with it. And this doubtlessly colored the rest of my tasting. Association is a powerful phenomenon, and I could not get over the fact that the fruit was now just a little too big. The alcohol a little too high. These were hot wines. Not quite jammy, but definitely big.

But then we tried the Cab Franc. This is a wine that I have never tasted properly. The grape usually finds itself rounding out a Bordeaux in my glass, rather than standing alone, so I didn't know what to expect. And it tasted ... vegetal to me. Almost stewed. But these are words typically used to describe Cabernet Sauvignon grapes that have soaked up too much water and nutrients on the valley floor. But if a Cab Franc is supposed to taste different, then, well, vegetal might not be the word to describe it. All of which is to say, I was tasting the wine expecting a Cabernet Sauvignon. Which is like tasting pork when you think your tasting steak and then complaining that the flavor is not rich enough.

By now I was confused and petulant. Each wine we tasted came from a different winemaker somehow associated with Behrens. The $100 Cab Franc reminded me of V8. I was losing patience even with the labels, which were small paintings and sported names like "The Road Les Traveled," a tribute apparently to Les Behrens's favorite poet, Robert Frost. Except with the bad pun. ("The Road Les Traveled.")

I honestly have no clue what this was.

I'm fairly certain that the marketing director was losing patience with us as well. The couple who shared our tasting was quite nice, but knew absolutely nothing about wine. The woman kept telling us how much she loved the stories, and it was clear after several wines that they were not going to buy anything. I didn't think we would either, but we ended up leaving with six bottles.

Which, I think, was fitting. The wines were creative. Feisty. Surprising. This was the experimental side of the wine world. Even if the mess of labels, absence of adequate branding and occasional lack of focus was annoying, it was still intriguing.

We made our way down Spring Mountain, hit Lava Vine, and then collapsed back in our room. We had a big night planned at a fancy Yountville eatery, but after drinking too much wine at Jolé while we ate our nightly helping of Padrones peppers, we decided to stick to Calistoga and put the car keys on the shelf.

Day 3 in Wine Country: Smith-Madrone triumphant

Curly, the official winery greeter

Our third day in wine country began much the way the others had. The weather was almost sweater-worthy. The fog obscured the mountains around Calistoga. We pointed the car south on the St. Helena highway, picked up some picnic items in St. Helena, then took the right turn to head up a narrow, windy road to Spring Mountain. Our destination: Smith-Madrone. Finding the winery was a bit of a challenge, but the directions the winery provided us were helpful ("when in doubt, turn right!"). Smith-Madrone is a working winery with no tasting room, no dedicated pourers, and about as little pretension as one might imagine. We parked the car in what looked like a parking ... area and were greeted by an English setter (I think). He led us down the walk to the winery. Stu Smith, one of the two owners, was up on a ladder tripping the hedges. "That's Curly," he told us. "The official winery greeter." I knew it was Stu Smith because of his distinctive facial hair, a full beard and walrus mustache. He eyed me steadily from the ladder. "Are we expecting you?" he asked. Indeed you are, I replied. "Then Curly will take you around the way," he said. Then he went back to work. Curly was as good as his word. Stu's older brother Charles was in the winery, working when we pushed open the enormous sliding door and stepped inside. He turned and greeted us, and asked if we could wait a few minutes. We assured him it was no problem. "Let me pour you something," he said, and promptly poured a glass of Chardonnay for each of us. We walked out, past the holding tanks, and into the vineyards, which start literally right outside the winery's doors.

Hillside vineyards

The vineyards at Smith-Madrone sit on a steep slope. The mountain loam seems fertile enough, but the tough vines look dry and haggard. They practically scowl at you from the roots. The Smith brothers used drip irrigation to establish the vines but now dry farm the vineyard. So the roots dig deep into the mountainside in search of water and nutrients. If the Chardonnay in our hands was any indication, the minerality was apparent, as were subtle flavors past the usual Chardonnay tropical fruits. Here were wines of complex flavors and a round quality.

Charlie, meanwhile, had opened up the doors and called us back in. Curly trotted along after us. We talked for a few minutes, getting to know one another, before Stu came in for some reason or another. He talked briefly with Charlie, who introduced us all around. The Smith brothers were particularly keen to learn that my wife was from western Canada, as part of their clan was located out there. They all talked briefly about how beautiful Banff was. "Watch out for the elk during mating season," my wife said. "They have been known to go after cars." Stuart Smith was unimpressed. "Not if I have my gun," he remarked. If the boar's head on the wall was any indication, we had stumbled across an avid hunter. 

the tough mountain vines

Stu left to go back to work, and Charlie began pouring other wines. Smith-Madrone is famous for their Riesling, which may well be the best in North America. That, of course, is a loaded claim for which there will be no definitive proof, but even the great Steve Heimoff, whose affection for Sonoma County vineyards is no secret, pays homage to the Smith brothers' grapes. I loved the Riesling. It is a wonderful wine, pairable with spicy food, and good on a hot day when a sip or two brings memories of drinking from a mountain spring, with that hint of limestone especially in the back of the mouth. 

As if we needed any reminder that this was a working winery, or that it was the owner who was talking to us, Charlie kept having to take phone calls during our visit. They were always quite short, and it allowed me a chance to take photographs or pet Curly, who had taken up residence under the casks. We tasted the Cabernet and the new Cabernet reserve--Cook's Flat, which is only the fourth varietal that Smith-Madrone produces. It is also four times the price of their Cabernet. This is a wine made for collectors, not for drinkers. It was noticeably different from the Smith-Madrone cab, both by its elegance and range of flavors.  It carries the promise of ageability, if that is even a term. I am obviously out of my depth here.

A barrel in the storage room

"I don't like to describe a wine before you taste it," explained Charlie, apropos of nothing in particular. But it was thrilling to taste a wine that didn't have a paragraph of praise written by the winemaker instructing the taster to find "kiwi, strawberry, and hints of passion fruit" followed by a palate of granite and a "touch" of asphalt. It reminded me of how poor my palate really is, but it also allowed me to explore and expand it. What struck me immediately and has stuck with me ever since my first taste of their wines was just how elegant and, well, European, they tasted. Charlie and Stu prefer balanced wines, not the heavy fruit bombs lobbed into the market by the unthinking producers searching for strong Robert Parker reviews. I got the distinct sense that the Smith brothers make the wine that they want to make. Reviewers be damned.

Curly in the vines. Chewing on a rock.

We shook hands at the end of the tour. Although another group was waiting, he let us hang around to talk about our respective childhoods and, of all things, the Civil War. He wrote down a few of my book recommendations. We said our goodbyes. Charlie told us both to come back to the winery if we were ever back out in Napa Valley.

All of which sounded quite good.  We walked up the hill to the winery's picnic spot. Curly dutifully trotted after us. As I trained my camera lens on vines and olive trees and circling red-tail hawks, I couldn't help but feel like I'd seen something special. As Stu said to us, "once you've seen the top of Spring Mountain, nothing else compares." It was definitely a hidden part of Napa. Perhaps not too hidden, but away from the investment bankers and oilmen who prowled the tasting rooms looking for $1000 Cabernets to show off and the half-in-the-bag bridal parties coasting the wineries in slender sundresses before the big send off. It was quiet up here. And the wine was ... beautiful.

The view from Spring Mountain

Spring Mountain invoked for me memories of growing up in the cattle country of southern Arizona. The Smith Brothers could easily have been ranchers and the community of Sonoita back in the 1970s probably bore a lot of resemblance to Napa, at least in terms of the characters it attracted.  But the economic dynamics were worlds apart. Cattle take more resources than grapes, and that industry was doomed for the small producers, at least in the water-parched desert where 15,000 acres was needed to run 500 head of cattle. When the federal government contemplated tripling grazing fees in the 1980s, the last of the small ranchers headed out, and ranches became land-investment properties for the über-wealthy. Corporatization has also taken Napa and Sonoma. But small producers still have a niche to fill, so we still get to enjoy Smith-Madrone wines. And we are better for it.

Fertilized

Simple record of fertilization. 2 gallons on tomatoes and peppers.

Wine Country 2013: up and down the Silverado Trail

We arrived Thursday, late-afternoon, and fought the vicious San Francisco traffic out of the bay, through Oakland and Berkeley and countless other Bay area cities until we had passed the last of the tolls and were skating quietly towards the northern mountains. The cool air followed us in, even if the fog moved more deliberately. We arrived directly on time at the Farmstead Restaurant for our reservation at 7:15 p.m. We wouldn't have needed a reservation, although the restaurant was plenty busy. The Farmstead is what passes for a family restaurant in the affluent town of St. Helena. It is warm and inviting, unsupervised children run around in the garden, and everyone seems happily intoxicated. On wine, of course, from the Long Meadow Ranch winery, which runs the restaurant. The food is comfort food, which in St. Helena translates into superbly crafted meals, although the portion sizes are too big and they are served on oversized plates. And so passed our first night in Napa--sitting on a garden terrace surrounded by plum trees trained on trellises to resemble grape vines, a lush set of garden rows sporting melons and squash and tomatoes and peppers and cucumbers a stone's throw away. We finished off the evening by driving to Calistoga and dropping in at the Hydro Grill for a nightcap.

Day 2 was low key. Calistoga sits at the north end of Napa, tucked into the hills where it is a little cooler than the valley. It is also more relaxed than the affluent environs of St. Helena, or the over-the-top luxury appointments of Yountville. We took a walk around the town, ate a big breakfast at the local diner, hopped into our Toyota Camry and drove the Silverado Trail to Rutherford to visit the Elizabeth Spencer tasting room.

At the Elizabeth Spencer tasting room

We had chosen Elizabeth Spencer because it was one of the first good wines we had ever tasted. Our old friends at the Chicago Wine Merchants shop in Lincoln Square had, over ten years ago, first introduced the neighborhood to fine wine, hosting unpretentious tastings and offering expert advice when asked. We were serving lamb one night, and Gerard (may he rest in peace) suggested we go with an Elizabeth Spencer pinot noir. At the time, the winery was only six years old and the two wine makers who owned it--Elizabeth Pressler and Spencer Graham--were better known for their work at other wineries. We were immediately impressed, and we have never forgotten them.

Nor did they disappoint us in person. We began the tasting with a Russian River Valley Chardonnay that was so elegant, refined, and flavorful that we were instantly converted to the grape. I've always been contemptuous of chardonnay. If it wasn't slathered in oak, then it seemed austere and almost sour. I had no use for it. But this grape was different. Complex, buttery, mild fruit, toasted almonds. We swooned. In fact, the entire tasting was brilliant. Elizabeth Spencer makes elegant and beautiful wines. They are sometimes a bit too big for my taste, but somehow the winemakers can make big seem elegant. We joined their wine club, which amounts to an expensive commitment to drink at least a case of Elizabeth Spencer wines every year, and will more than likely result in more.

From the succulent Sinsky garden

We wandered back to the Silverado Trail and dropped by the Robert Sinsky winery. They have a spectacular tasting room flanked by organic gardens and vineyards. They serve small plates with the tastings. The winemaker is apparently also the photographer and he composes some pretty pictures (which one can find on the website). Our pourer chatted about changes in the valley over the past few years, and recommended we stop by Lava Vine on the way back to Calistoga. "If you ever need a reminder that at its heart Napa Valley is an agricultural community," he said, "Lava Vine is the place to go." He was right. The vintners are the pourers at Lava Vine. You can only get their wines through their tasting room, which is in a barn and is dog friendly. The vintners are California-relaxed, chatty, and the tasting fee is only ten dollars, waived if you buy a wine. (Of course, this latter policy is the industry standard.) Upon hearing that Jan was a musician, one of the vintners came out with an autoharp. We would learn later that they regularly book musicians and comedians in their small storage room. These people were really having a good time--that much was obvious. There was so much conversation, in fact, that we only made it through three wines before we had to run back to Calistoga for an appointment. The vintners told us to come back tomorrow rather than pay up front.

Getting down at Lava Vine.
That thing is an autoharp.

That night we went for dinner at Bouchon, Thomas Keller's place in Yountville. I was underwhelmed. It seemed a high energy food mart more than a restaurant. The steak on the steak frites was slathered in onions. Preparation was otherwise flawless. But boring. We were frankly more moved by the appetizers we had at Jolé in Calistoga, which consisted of Pádrones chilies perfectly prepared in olive oil and sea salt, and a few cheeses (all local). The bartenders are knowledgeable, affable and the crowd much more laid back. It is likely Calistoga's best restaurant, although the chef up at Solbar is louder and gets more attention. We'll take Jolé.

Of Serendipity and Cliché: Wine Country 2013

Trips to wine country are perhaps a rite of passage for the American bourgeoisie. Affluence, after all, brings with it certain responsibilities, and traditionally that has been a greater appreciation for the arts, for fine dining and intelligent conversation, and of course for wine. All of America caught the bug more than a decade ago, and the explosion of wine culture followed.

It really was wine culture that exploded. It was not just that people drank more wine--although they did. But it was much more. Suddenly people expressed interest in grapes and clones and terroir and vintages. The shopping market wall full of labels both graphically funny and austerely intimidating became an object of curiosity and exploration. And most promisingly, strange and arbitrary rules were probed and questioned. My favorite was the old saw "whites with fish and foul, reds with meat" was abruptly disproved one day more than a decade and a half ago when my then-girlfriend announced that it no longer applied. "They don't say that anymore," she informed me. "They say to drink what you like with what you like." I never asked her who the "they" were. I didn't drink wine at the time. But in retrospect, that was an amazing moment. Somebody, somewhere, was telling the consuming public that they needed to develop their own palates and their own ideas.

And develop them we did. About the time that the movie Sideways appeared, wine was everywhere. Tastings were commonplace. To be able to talk about wine in a sophisticated way--to understand the difference between a Rioja and a Rhone, or why the Languedoc-Roussillon was France's most exciting wine region--was, well, cool. No longer the province of just the snobs, wine culture became about craft and style. One could enjoy it, marvel about its subtleties, and never stop learning about it. And it helped usher in interest in craft beers and craft cocktails. Perhaps even the slow food movement. I'm a little sketchy on the timeline, but the case can be made for wine driving interest in food. Why not?

Yet it took me nearly ten years after my first interest in wine developed to make my own pilgrimage to wine country. Forsaking a year's of savings, my intrepid wife and I cast out into the perilous wilds of Napa and Sonoma counties to see what all the fuss was about.

The Curse of Temperance

Temperance, at least in its non-ironic form, would seem a virtue. Certainly for weather, where temperate climates attract swarms of humans. I certainly pine for temperate weather when the hottest and coldest days are upon us. But this summer, in the middle of July, I find myself wishing it were hotter, more humid, sunnier. I would like to sweat my body weight every day. I want to feel like a salty heap.

But why? Why? After all, am I not enjoying the morning walks with my dog, feeling chilly in a t-shirt? Am I not enjoying seeing 70 degrees on the coke sign thermometer outside my downtown office? Am I not pleasantly surprised when I wear a hoodie all the way home without realizing it? (That one does require a modicum of explanation--my office is sometimes air conditioned to sub-arctic levels, and I put the hoodie on in my office. Then I went home, and realized, half way, that it was still on.) So why? Because my tomatoes are not coming along. We are in mid-July, and I've had only a few beefsteaks and a few handfuls of cherries. The vines are not fruiting. The fruits are not growing. By now in any given year, my diet consists largely of tomatoes. Tomato sandwiches, tomato salads, tomato just because. I now fear that this will be a lost year.

The peppers are slow to ripen too. I have only two that have begun to ripen past green. My major discovery this year was that pepper plant branches have to be supported, lest the heavy fruit weigh down and rip them off. And i did have them staked--just not properly.

The hot weather will come, no doubt. Until then, we slog along in wet and cool weather. My heart goes out for the poor farmers who have lost their crops. I know my little garden has suffered through, of all things, mild temperatures and lots of rain.

Fertilizing the garden

Fertilized the garden. Yesterday. It has been tough to get to this because it has been so wet. Everything is coming along fine, although I lost a branch on a pepper plant. Too heavy, I s'pose. The squash borer is slowly threatening my summer squash plant, although I have now gotten at least six squash from it and more are coming. We've made one casserole and grilled up the rest. So I can't really complain.

You can kind of see one pepper that is ripening here

The tomatoes continue to sit, and the fruit is not ripening. This is the coldest, wettest summer I've seen since I moved to Atlanta. Whoever thought I would complain about rain! The upside is that I haven't turned a hose on in weeks.

The sunflower my daughter grew. It stands ten feet tall now

Lettuce

Garden Update

The lettuce is bitter. It was bitter a good two weeks ago, sadly. Now it is inedible. I would say it has bolted, but it looks like it is bolting. Such is lettuce. I knew I planted too late, but did so anyway. It was good while it lasted. I'm considering letting it bolt and trying to collect and save seeds.

First tomato is in--a black cherry!

Peppers are gangbusters. I'll give them another three weeks before there are too many to count.

I've picked about five cucumbers. Excellent varietal choice this year.

Summer Squash #2. I picked the first ripe squash a week ago. Grilled and eaten. Delicious. More coming. So far, no vine borers...

Blueberries are trickling in too. My daughter happily shared the bounty with our neighbor's boy, who is only a couple of years younger than Maia. The bounty was only eight or so, but they both seemed to like it.

I haven't watered in well over two weeks. Summer rains have been prodigious.

Tomatoes abound!

Caring for the garden

The garden is on autopilot now. With the bee balm fully in bloom the bees are out in force. I presume they are pollinating everything.

The squash looks healthy, but I could have sworn we had a beautiful squash growing that appears to be gone now. That is weird. I would imagine that pests would eat it on the vine, leaving some behind. Or it could be that it stopped growing. Insufficient pollination? Insufficient flowering? That stupid bore beetle everyone keeps warning me about?

I fertilized yesterday. Used two gallons of Neptune's Own organic and fertilized all of the rows, the hydrangea and the petunias.

First cucumbers are in. I believe it was the Diva, but I have been too lazy to check and see whether it was the Jade or the Diva. Quite tasty. Made a salad with it.

the gin, the tonic, and the garden

I've been researching gin and tonics this week to try and figure out the best way of using my tonic water. It's been arduous. But then again, I suffer for my art.

There are two versions of the gin and tonic that I make. The first is The Quencher, and it works something like this:

1 part gin
1 part tonic syrup
5 parts club soda

If I do this with 1 1/2 oz. parts, then I'm looking at a very tall drink--nearly 12 oz. of fluid on top of a whale's share of ice. I don't bother garnishing this, but it'll take a squeeze or two of lime or lemon, should one want. The Quencher is perfect for touring my extensive gardens, especially when the black krim is beginning to fruit.

The Black Krim shows progress

Velvet Underground?

The second version is The Standard:

2 parts gin
1 part tonic syrup
4 parts club soda

This makes a standard gin and tonic--as close as I can get to what it tastes like when I use Schwepps, Q, Fever Tree, or what have you. In short, I believe this is the correct recipe to create a gin and tonic that you might order at a serious cocktail bar. And The Standard is not just a modified Quencher. Parts should be measured with a 1/2 or 3/4 oz. jigger and it should be served in a traditional highball glass. To order a double is, inappropriate. Garnish is not necessary, but lemon peel is nice. So too is this cucumber, with Hendricks gin.

The third version is The Bitter Pill:

2 parts gin
1 part tonic syrup
1 part club soda

Mix ingredients in a shaker, add ice and shake vigorously five or six times. Strain over a highball glass packed with ice. You can also "layer" the drink by shaking it without club soda, pouring over ice in a highball glass and then adding the club soda.

The cucumber in perspective

Tonic Water #3

Some major changes on this one. The most important is that I am soaking the cinchona bark chips without pulverizing them. In order to get more from them, I am steeping the chips longer in hot water before transferring the mixture to the fridge.

cinchona in the raw

Here is the recipe I used.

20 caradamom pods
1 tsp coriander
1 grapefruit peel
2 lemon peels
1 lime peel
1/4 tsp sea salt
1/4 cup cinchona bark
1/4 cup citric acid

I brought the mixture to a boil, covered it, then simmered it for forty minutes. Then I let it sit for a good three hours before transferring it to the fridge. I am going to let it steep for two days before transferring it to another vessel and then let it sit two more days before filtering it out.

Then I'll decide how to sweeten it. I am leaning towards agave syrup. It produces the cleanest tonic I've yet made.

The Jethro Tull Experience

Jethro Tull can refer both to the famous British farmer or a British "progressive" rock band. Both had big hair, which gives them some connection. Both enabled big business as well, perhaps unwittingly. But I'm not sure how much further that connection goes, having never heard even one of the band's songs.

Jethro Tull is also the name of a flower hybrid, a fluted coreopsis. It is a hearty southern plant that grows a brilliant yellow fluted head. I have two that I planted in my garden, neither of which has done horribly well. Both are somewhat disease prone, and I, being both a conscientious organic gardener and decidedly lazy, have neglected to treat them with some insecticide.

Until now. I finally dropped some 3 in 1, which I detailed in another post. It is my sincere hope that this makes the Jethro Tull blow up, as I quite like the flowers. They also last a week or more as cut flowers, which makes them wonderful to pair with herbs, miniature roses, and other small flowers for bud vases.

Big hair, big style

UPDATE: since this post seems to be attracting traffic from real gardeners, any advice on controlling disease or helping the plant thrive would be most welcome.

The Rose and the Black Krim

I broke down and bought some 3 in 1 and treated my knockout roses, miniature roses, and Jethro Tull. 3 in 1 is this ugly milky concentrate that does not mix well with water. So I really don't know if I got enough into the soil, or if it all went into the last plant that I treated. Which is good news for the Jethro Tull, and the knockout roses closest to Doug's house.

The Black Krim is starting to flower. Given that I'm not allowing my tomato plants to vine out like I did last year, I'm anxious about fruit production, especially after the squirrel's share is calculated.

the Krim flowereth

Countdown to 40: beyond the margarita

Notwithstanding the classic beauty of the margarita, it is time to invent a new cocktail with tequila. Tanteo's jalapeño infused tequila presents an intriguing opportunity. Smooth and spicy. A favorite of ours is this riff on an old fashioned:

1 1/2 oz. Tanteo jalapeño infused tequila
squirt of agave syrup. I would guess 1/2 tsp.
two stopper-fulls of chocolate bitters

shake with ice. Then splash some pineapple syrup in and shake again. Pour over a single big ice cube and serve.

The next stage is to substitute fresh pineapple for the canned juice, and to treat the drink essentially like an old fashioned. muddle the sugar and pineapple and chocolate bitters, add the tequila, shake, serve up or on a single cube. I would also consider muddling the pineapple without agave syrup, depending on relative sweetness of using fresh juice along with pieces.

Countdown to 40: stirred, not shaken

In a series of posts, I plan to reflect on aging, the distinctive possibilities of midlife crisis, and the existential angst that either rises or dissipates with the approach of a significant landmark.

We start with expectations. There are distinct memories that everyone has, a reservoir upon which we draw as we move down the uni-linear path towards the final resting point. These memories, for me, have been about expectations that I had, at one point, and expectations that I have now. It occurred to me tonight that the expectations I had in my twenties, approaching thirty, are so distant that they feel a lifetime away.

It is worth mentioning that I am speaking in small terms. If I had, in my late twenties, asked what a perfect evening might look like, I doubt I would have had the same expectation as I do today. I honestly cannot even posit--or recall--what it might have been at that point. But I don't think I respected food or drink enough to understand what I do today, or to appreciate it.

that's stirred, not shaken, Mr. Bond

So let us begin with the Martini. After tonight, I will never again in my life shake another Martini. A Martini should be served stirred, not shaken. Tonight I took 3 oz. of Greylock Gin, 1 oz. of Noilly Prat dry vermouth, two dashes of hopped grapefruit bitters, and stirred it with one big ice cube. I could have stirred it with several smaller ones for a colder drink. We were short on ice, suffice it to say. But the result was a wonderful martini--a complex and beautiful drink where the flavors might play off of one another in a delicate manner. So, stir the martini.

mesquite laced charcoal

The martini launched an evening of cooking. I grilled a 2 1/2 inch ribeye, properly salted (4 seasons mix of salt-black pepper-garlic salt-cayenne) and basted with a southern concoction--oil and butter, thyme pepper red pepper apple cider vinegar mustard and ketchup. Flipped constantly on a 500 degree mesquite wood grill for nearly 17 minutes. (Quick note: the steak could be rarer, I know. But I'm cooking for the family, including my six year old daughter.)

I cooked with a gin and tonic at my side. The tonic was my honey cinchona syrup blend, which is refreshingly bitter and a wonderful aperitif. We had Grayson Cellars Lot number 10 with dinner, which included potatoes and beets. We followed it with home made ice cream--piña colada--and baklava fresh from the DeKalb Farmers' Market.

the proper color for a gin and tonic

A perfect evening. I am currently finishing it off with redemption rye in a snifter, sitting on my back deck. And reflecting on how at thirty, this would not necessarily have registered as a potential beautiful evening, and certainly not the perfect Saturday evening. Things change.

The Whoppers Are coming in

Fertilized the garden today. 2 gallons of fertilizer went on the blueberries and the tomato plants. Also fertilized the begonias and the summer squash.

The summer squash is beginning to come in. The plant looks healthy. My lettuce is producing beautifully. Enjoy it while it lasts--my best is that two weeks more is about as much lettuce as I will get.

Tomato report. The transplants all did quite well. Only the Juliette cherries did not survive. I'm not sure what happened, except that the stalk broke at its base. Given that the plant was not top heavy, I have no idea what precipitated this. I staked the plant immediately, but it is worth pointing out that none of the other plants required staking at this point. The leaves have all since wilted, but the stalk still appears to be alive. I'm monitoring it daily.

The Black Cherries were the first to fruit. That planter has always produced beautiful tomato plants, with thick, Jack-and-the-beanstalk-style trunks and multiple vines that I train up the light pole (and whatever plant grows around it).

The Whoppers and the Beefy Big Boy plants are beginning to bear fruit. They are quite pretty, and my guess is that we are three weeks from potential harvest here.

Planting dilemma. The lettuce will doubtlessly bolt sometime in June. I have to decide whether to let the space remain fallow until the winter garden is planted, or try and bring up something else in the meantime.