A Loire valley cabernet franc, light and acidic, food-friendly, "juicy," just what Willie Gluckstern in The Wine Avenger said we should all drink when we tired of huge, California cocktail-cabernets.
By itself, underwhelming. Acidic, yes.
With food, faintly licorice-like. (I don't like licorice.) Retail, about $15.
Harrumph. Is a 2005 cabernet franc far past its prime?
You will find a little more about Domaine Dozon at Blog de Laure Dozon. Here -- if you will trust my translation abilities -- Mlle. Laure says that she is a fifth-generation family winemaker, and that she returned to her family's business after working briefly in industry and earning some sort of degree in studies involving food and agriculture (I am unclear on the phrase "un DESS en agro-alimentaire"). The domaine itself comprises 24 hectares ("ha") of land, most of it planted to vines older than 35 years, south of the city of Chinon, along the left bank of the river Vienne. The Vienne is a tributary of the Loire, and is not to be confused either with the French city Vienne far away to the southeast, nor with the Austrian capital Vienna, which is (confusingly enough) spelled Vienne in French.
There, bon! The main red grape planted at Domaine Dozon is cabernet franc, also called locally "berton." The white grape is chenin [blanc]. Laure's father, Jean-Marie, is still in charge of the operation and my guess is that Laure handles publicity and marketing in addition to any other duties. About fifty people showed up for the July 11th balade/picque-nique in the vineyards this July, for example, so successful a turnout that the domaine hosted another one in early August. If you go to Laure's blog, or to her flickr page, you can see her photos, and virtually accompany the pique-niquers on their balade (stroll). My, the day looked hot.
And by the way, as you are enjoying (or possibly harrumphing over) your glass of Loire red, don't forget the giveaway from CSN stores, running through noon this Friday. Should I publicize the winner's name? And how does one say "giveaway" in French?
Monday, August 30, 2010
Friday, August 27, 2010
Another giveaway (the first one was so much fun)
You may remember that last month I was lucky enough to be able to host my first giveaway, of a gift certificate good at CSN stores. This the online aggregate shopping site whose 200+ stores offer practically everything you can think of for home, garden, and office, from Corelle dinnerware to home bars to baby things to luxe products. In July, I asked my nice readers to tell me what they would likely shop for at CSN -- I said in my case it would be an immersion blender -- and then leave their emails to be entered into the drawing for the gift certificate.
For my second giveaway, I am able to offer a $55 gift certificate, good again at any of CSNstores' 200 sites. In order to enter into the drawing for this one, I'd like my nice readers to give me some blogging advice.
When I pick a winner in a giveaway, should I then publicize who it is? I didn't do so last time, because the people responding seemed rather private sorts. They seemed not to be jump-up-and-down, "pick me!" bloggers, interested in networking and link exchanges and so on. Some had blogs that obviously weren't current, some had no online presence at all. When you enter a giveaway, do you want to know, a week later, who won the drawing? Do you want the others to know it was you?
I'm just curious. Some bloggers are hugely thorough in the way they host a giveaway: they'll give you many chances to enter -- encouraging you to tweet it, become their google follower, grab their blog badge, and more. I suppose that approach attracts entrants who in turn enjoy being out there themselves, networking and blogrolling, and who would appreciate the further buzz of being declared the winner. But what about entrants who seem private?
What do you think? Give me your take, along with your email, and I'll put your name in the hat for a drawing of a $55 gift certificate good at CSNstores. This contest can only be open to readers from the U.S. and Canada, and it will last a week, until noon CST next Friday, September 3rd.
And I'll tell you what else I'll do. I'll offer a chance for another entry for anyone who visits either of my two other current blogs, and leaves a comment on any post there. One entry per person at those sites, please. They are Vellum (I like to review old books), and Best of Luck Placing it Elsewhere (I like to write, take photographs, and garden).
P.S. And I actually have used two Corelle serving bowls for twenty-four years, and yes, they are pretty, lightweight, and practically indestructible.
Good luck to all.
For my second giveaway, I am able to offer a $55 gift certificate, good again at any of CSNstores' 200 sites. In order to enter into the drawing for this one, I'd like my nice readers to give me some blogging advice.
When I pick a winner in a giveaway, should I then publicize who it is? I didn't do so last time, because the people responding seemed rather private sorts. They seemed not to be jump-up-and-down, "pick me!" bloggers, interested in networking and link exchanges and so on. Some had blogs that obviously weren't current, some had no online presence at all. When you enter a giveaway, do you want to know, a week later, who won the drawing? Do you want the others to know it was you?
I'm just curious. Some bloggers are hugely thorough in the way they host a giveaway: they'll give you many chances to enter -- encouraging you to tweet it, become their google follower, grab their blog badge, and more. I suppose that approach attracts entrants who in turn enjoy being out there themselves, networking and blogrolling, and who would appreciate the further buzz of being declared the winner. But what about entrants who seem private?
What do you think? Give me your take, along with your email, and I'll put your name in the hat for a drawing of a $55 gift certificate good at CSNstores. This contest can only be open to readers from the U.S. and Canada, and it will last a week, until noon CST next Friday, September 3rd.
And I'll tell you what else I'll do. I'll offer a chance for another entry for anyone who visits either of my two other current blogs, and leaves a comment on any post there. One entry per person at those sites, please. They are Vellum (I like to review old books), and Best of Luck Placing it Elsewhere (I like to write, take photographs, and garden).
P.S. And I actually have used two Corelle serving bowls for twenty-four years, and yes, they are pretty, lightweight, and practically indestructible.
Good luck to all.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Summer light, summer heat, summer drink
There is nothing quite like the summer afternoon. The later afternoon, mind you -- the hours from about 4:30 to about 6:30 in June and July, when the angle of the sun subtly shifts, and green growing things and clouds and wind and people, too, all seem to pause and take breath, all look about a little more freely again after a long paralysis, a baking, of heat and light. You know how it was when you were younger and spent a summer day at the park or the pool or the beach. The early part of the afternoon was timeless, and glaring bright. You were very busy with sand or toys or water. But then there came a brief interregnum, perhaps only ten minutes -- it's hard to notice just when it is -- which changed everything. The sun shifted. Shadows grew. You might have felt just as hot and you might still have gotten a sunburn just as bad as an hour ago, but you became aware of how long you had been there. A sense of time returned. The youth of the day no longer stretched before you. The very place of the sun in the sky, radiating across that longer distance, seems to say "home" and "dinner."
The real evening hours, from about 6:30 until dark, are even better. There's a sense of mercy about this time. The abating heat, and all that summertime life slowing and stopping to rest, seems almost more miraculous, because more necessary and more designed, than its rising to activity in the morning. Declining light, still warm, fingers gracefully into yellow lilies and purple coneflowers and all their coolly swaying green foliage. It strikes up pale green and pale opal, a memory of noon, into distant treetops even as porch and garden fade into murkiness. It strikes up, pink or gray, into the last summer clouds drifting east miles beyond that. Cicadas rattle and buzz, and the last birds sing, and very late afternoon has become evening has become night. The fireflies come out. Then, sad to say, arrive mosquitoes and big stupid June bugs that fly right into your head. Nine o'clock. Time to go in.
The late afternoons and evenings of summer seem to me perfect. I'm sure it's a matter of taste. Some people prefer the gorgeous mornings instead, or other gorgeous times of the year, and all for good reasons. I know someone who likes rainy fall afternoons best, because she doesn't feel obliged then to go outside and Get Some Fresh Air.
There is one teeny, tiny problem with these gorgeous summer afternoons and evenings, and that is that those of us searching for liquid refreshment during them may find that wine, delicious as it is, is not nearly as thirst quenching as we'd like. What we must turn to on these hottest summer days is that blessed invention, dreamed up (legend says) at the St. Louis World's Fair in the hot summer of 1904 -- iced tea.
A Wikipedia article on iced tea will tell you that indeed the story of iced tea being popularized "or even invented" at the 1904 fair is an urban legend, iced tea appearing in cookbooks and on dinner tables, at least in the United States, as early as the 1860s. This same article will tell you all about the variations on the blessed and thirst-quenching theme. Among them there is plain black tea, poured over ice, garnished with a lemon slice, and sweetened with sugar or not. This is most restaurants' version of the tipple. There is Southern "sweet tea," black tea steeped and sugar added to it while hot, and then this concoction poured over ice. There is half and half or Arnold Palmer tea, a mix of iced tea and lemonade, which strikes me as a ruination of both beverages. There is "sun" or "refrigerator" tea, made by plopping tea bags into a jar of water and setting the jar in the sun or in the fridge until the water takes on a brown color. Which strikes me as a ridiculous notion. The whole point of iced tea surely is that it starts with brewed tea, which is to be had by bringing good cold water to a boil and then steeping tea leaves in it to make, um, tea. If that is too much effort, why not place the jar on the kitchen table over night in the dark, and call it "night tea"? Perhaps the suggestion there would be too off-putting.
Iced tea being so necessary to the coping-with of a midwestern summer, I offer my recipe. This is an heirloom from my family -- as is the glass pictured above, the last of a set that I grew up with, snapped here because one of these fine days I feel sure it is going to break and be lost forever -- and is the only version of the drink you will ever really need. (I honestly don't know too many people who know how to make it this way, except my cousins.) We are not Southerners, but our iced tea is properly sweetened; it's not half and half, but it does involve your squeezing a lemon into the tea, and not simply jamming a lonely slice onto the rim of your glass where it does no earthly good at all. I should have explained already that of course this is an iced tea you must make by the pitcher, juicing the fresh lemon, measuring the sugar, adding the water, and stirring fully. Before that, it is understood of course that you have already brewed your tea in the style outlined above, bringing a pan of freshly drawn cold water to a boil, adding the tea bags (and plenty of them), and letting it all cool and steep through the hot afternoon to downright manly strength. This is the gift and masterpiece of a careful hostess; it is not by any means that restaurant monstrosity touched on above, black tea sloshed over ice -- dull and dreadful, a mouthful of watery tannin -- and the idea of attempting to sweeten it by stirring a stingy packet of sugar into the jammed ice! Nor is it some sort of thing made by diluting with cold water a powder that smells intensely like a new box of crayons.
No. One must have standards. This is True Iced Tea. Imagine the voice of Family Guy's malicious baby Stewie instructing you, as he glares sideways through half closed eyes. "This is true Iced Tea. Do not make it improperly. Every time you make it improperly, I shall kill you."
Proper Iced Tea
Bring 1 quart of cold water to a boil. As soon as it comes to a full rolling boil, turn off the heat and drop in at least 6 to 7 teabags, depending on your taste and on the strength of your tea. (I'm sorry but the ubiquitous Lipton is the weakest and most pallid of all choices, a circumstance made all the more unfortunate by the fact that it is so often the only choice on grocery store shelves. And I suppose a purist could measure in the loose tea of his choice, about 6 or 7 Tablespoons.)
Let the tea steep and cool. Remove the teabags, squeezing out their excess first. Pour the tea into a pitcher that holds about 3 quarts of liquid. You may make your iced tea after five or ten minutes if you are absolutely in a hurry, but do use a metal pitcher in that case, since scalding hot tea might crack your waiting glass or plastic vessel.
Cut a lemon in half and squeeze the juice into the tea, discarding the hulls. Add 1/2 cup sugar. Fill the pitcher with cold water until it is almost full. Stir until all the sugar is dissolved. Stir, stir, and stir. (Very important. Think Stewie: every time you fail to stir and dissolve the sugar completely ....) A few peels of lemon zest, taken from the lemon halves with a vegetable peeler before you discard them, may be tossed in now to give the iced tea an extra zip of lemon flavor.
Pour over ice cubes in individual glasses. Done. Perfection. You may double the recipe to make two pitchers, and you may add an herbal or fruit-flavored tea bag or two.
And you may drink it with anything you like. Notice how well its sugar, acidity, tannin, and thirst-quenching-ness all go with the grilled foods, or spicy, easy-to-make summertime Mexican dishes that are hard to pair with any wine.
Do have another big glass after dinner on the porch, as the tilted light of a summer afternoon-turned-evening strikes up into trees and clouds. and everything softens to coolness and rest. Only June and July and maybe a little of May give us these gifts. August tries, but in August we lose a full hour of daylight from the month's beginning to its end. Soon enough fall will come, and with it the appropriate hearty foods, and lots more wine, again.
The real evening hours, from about 6:30 until dark, are even better. There's a sense of mercy about this time. The abating heat, and all that summertime life slowing and stopping to rest, seems almost more miraculous, because more necessary and more designed, than its rising to activity in the morning. Declining light, still warm, fingers gracefully into yellow lilies and purple coneflowers and all their coolly swaying green foliage. It strikes up pale green and pale opal, a memory of noon, into distant treetops even as porch and garden fade into murkiness. It strikes up, pink or gray, into the last summer clouds drifting east miles beyond that. Cicadas rattle and buzz, and the last birds sing, and very late afternoon has become evening has become night. The fireflies come out. Then, sad to say, arrive mosquitoes and big stupid June bugs that fly right into your head. Nine o'clock. Time to go in.
The late afternoons and evenings of summer seem to me perfect. I'm sure it's a matter of taste. Some people prefer the gorgeous mornings instead, or other gorgeous times of the year, and all for good reasons. I know someone who likes rainy fall afternoons best, because she doesn't feel obliged then to go outside and Get Some Fresh Air.
There is one teeny, tiny problem with these gorgeous summer afternoons and evenings, and that is that those of us searching for liquid refreshment during them may find that wine, delicious as it is, is not nearly as thirst quenching as we'd like. What we must turn to on these hottest summer days is that blessed invention, dreamed up (legend says) at the St. Louis World's Fair in the hot summer of 1904 -- iced tea.
A Wikipedia article on iced tea will tell you that indeed the story of iced tea being popularized "or even invented" at the 1904 fair is an urban legend, iced tea appearing in cookbooks and on dinner tables, at least in the United States, as early as the 1860s. This same article will tell you all about the variations on the blessed and thirst-quenching theme. Among them there is plain black tea, poured over ice, garnished with a lemon slice, and sweetened with sugar or not. This is most restaurants' version of the tipple. There is Southern "sweet tea," black tea steeped and sugar added to it while hot, and then this concoction poured over ice. There is half and half or Arnold Palmer tea, a mix of iced tea and lemonade, which strikes me as a ruination of both beverages. There is "sun" or "refrigerator" tea, made by plopping tea bags into a jar of water and setting the jar in the sun or in the fridge until the water takes on a brown color. Which strikes me as a ridiculous notion. The whole point of iced tea surely is that it starts with brewed tea, which is to be had by bringing good cold water to a boil and then steeping tea leaves in it to make, um, tea. If that is too much effort, why not place the jar on the kitchen table over night in the dark, and call it "night tea"? Perhaps the suggestion there would be too off-putting.
Iced tea being so necessary to the coping-with of a midwestern summer, I offer my recipe. This is an heirloom from my family -- as is the glass pictured above, the last of a set that I grew up with, snapped here because one of these fine days I feel sure it is going to break and be lost forever -- and is the only version of the drink you will ever really need. (I honestly don't know too many people who know how to make it this way, except my cousins.) We are not Southerners, but our iced tea is properly sweetened; it's not half and half, but it does involve your squeezing a lemon into the tea, and not simply jamming a lonely slice onto the rim of your glass where it does no earthly good at all. I should have explained already that of course this is an iced tea you must make by the pitcher, juicing the fresh lemon, measuring the sugar, adding the water, and stirring fully. Before that, it is understood of course that you have already brewed your tea in the style outlined above, bringing a pan of freshly drawn cold water to a boil, adding the tea bags (and plenty of them), and letting it all cool and steep through the hot afternoon to downright manly strength. This is the gift and masterpiece of a careful hostess; it is not by any means that restaurant monstrosity touched on above, black tea sloshed over ice -- dull and dreadful, a mouthful of watery tannin -- and the idea of attempting to sweeten it by stirring a stingy packet of sugar into the jammed ice! Nor is it some sort of thing made by diluting with cold water a powder that smells intensely like a new box of crayons.
No. One must have standards. This is True Iced Tea. Imagine the voice of Family Guy's malicious baby Stewie instructing you, as he glares sideways through half closed eyes. "This is true Iced Tea. Do not make it improperly. Every time you make it improperly, I shall kill you."
Proper Iced Tea
Bring 1 quart of cold water to a boil. As soon as it comes to a full rolling boil, turn off the heat and drop in at least 6 to 7 teabags, depending on your taste and on the strength of your tea. (I'm sorry but the ubiquitous Lipton is the weakest and most pallid of all choices, a circumstance made all the more unfortunate by the fact that it is so often the only choice on grocery store shelves. And I suppose a purist could measure in the loose tea of his choice, about 6 or 7 Tablespoons.)
Let the tea steep and cool. Remove the teabags, squeezing out their excess first. Pour the tea into a pitcher that holds about 3 quarts of liquid. You may make your iced tea after five or ten minutes if you are absolutely in a hurry, but do use a metal pitcher in that case, since scalding hot tea might crack your waiting glass or plastic vessel.
Cut a lemon in half and squeeze the juice into the tea, discarding the hulls. Add 1/2 cup sugar. Fill the pitcher with cold water until it is almost full. Stir until all the sugar is dissolved. Stir, stir, and stir. (Very important. Think Stewie: every time you fail to stir and dissolve the sugar completely ....) A few peels of lemon zest, taken from the lemon halves with a vegetable peeler before you discard them, may be tossed in now to give the iced tea an extra zip of lemon flavor.
Pour over ice cubes in individual glasses. Done. Perfection. You may double the recipe to make two pitchers, and you may add an herbal or fruit-flavored tea bag or two.
And you may drink it with anything you like. Notice how well its sugar, acidity, tannin, and thirst-quenching-ness all go with the grilled foods, or spicy, easy-to-make summertime Mexican dishes that are hard to pair with any wine.
Do have another big glass after dinner on the porch, as the tilted light of a summer afternoon-turned-evening strikes up into trees and clouds. and everything softens to coolness and rest. Only June and July and maybe a little of May give us these gifts. August tries, but in August we lose a full hour of daylight from the month's beginning to its end. Soon enough fall will come, and with it the appropriate hearty foods, and lots more wine, again.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Creamy Maryland potato salad
It is still mid-summer as far as I can see, no matter if the kids are back in school, and the boatloads of Halloween candy have arrived in the store and are sitting on palletts all over the receiving dock. Why yes, the stuff will all be two months old by the time the little ghosts and goblins exclaim over it dropping into their bags on a (likely) freezing cold night at the end of October! And by then, the Christmas cookies will already have replaced the candy behind-the-scenes ....
But this is still summer, and still the season for picnics and potato salads. The recipe for this one may look daunting with its immense list of ingredients, but it really isn't difficult. Simply separate, in your mind, the three basic tasks: fry the bacon; make the creamy dressing; and cook the potatoes and assemble the salad as you would any other. It comes from Of Tide and Thyme, by the Junior League of Annapolis, Maryland, 1995 (reprinted 2003). I have encountered this cookbook in two places: at the local Goodwill resale shop, where I bought it, and at the Chicago Public Library's main branch on State Street in the Loop. Who knew? Perhaps the Junior League had something of a following.
Assemble the immense list:
9 medium red potatoes
3 eggs
11 slices bacon (go ahead -- use a whole pound)
1/4 cup chopped onion
1/2 cup chopped celery
1/4 cup Italian dressing (optional)
minced parsley -- about 1/4 cup
And for the dressing:
2/3 cup mayonnaise
1 tsp prepared mustard
3/4 cup sour cream
1 tsp salt
1/4 tsp pepper
First, fry the bacon until crisp, and drain it on paper towels. Crumble and set aside.
Boil the potatoes and the eggs, and cool and peel both. Dice the potatoes. Remove the yolks from the eggs, set aside the whites, and mash the yolks in a small bowl.
Make the dressing: mix the mashed egg yolks, mayonnaise, mustard, sour cream, and salt and pepper. Set aside.
Chop the reserved egg whites and combine them with the potatoes, bacon, onion, celery, and the Italian dressing if using.
Now, the scrumptious coup de grace: fold in the sour cream dressing.
Chill at least two hours.
We didn't wait that long.
Yum.
Of Tide & Thyme
Friday, August 20, 2010
The celebrity-woman-athlete novelty wine (where is it?)
There is Caberlee and Coopernet, and Ernie Banks' 512 Chardonnay. Mike Ditka has a pinot grigio and a merlot, and Dick Butkus' picture is on the label of his Legends 51 cabernet sauvignon. Proceeds from sales of this last help benefit his foundation combating steroid use among teen athletes.
Other sports-themed wines, mostly from Event Wines, serve a similar purpose: they are a fun buy for the fans, they bring crowds to (and drive sales for) retail stores when the celebrity on the label arrives in person for a few hours to chat and sign autographs, and of course they help raise money for many good causes. What I find odd is that all these celebrity-athlete-themed wines feature men on the label, and are directed to men, or to women buying gifts for men -- I dare say, sometimes buying gag gifts for men. It's not a question of my wanting to see "equality" in novelty wines or anything like that. It's just that most wine buyers are women buying for themselves, and I should think that if Event Wines can do a roaring business with this line of product, they could do an even more roaring business with novelty wines marketed to women. And when I say marketed to women, I mean, talk to us about something besides breast cancer.
Think of the women athletes who could grace the label of a charity wine. Figure skaters. Gymnasts. Downhill skiers (remember Picabo Street?). The Olympic women's soccer teams and hockey teams who did so well in past years -- the details are not at my fingertips, but any market researcher able to put together wrestler Don "the Magnificent" Muraco's Flying Head Butt merlot, benefiting Usos The Samoan Family Foundation, could certainly think up a wine for Kristi Yamaguchi or Nadia Comaneci to sponsor. Then there are the sports of fencing, archery, or anything equestrian to consider. They are little known, but the image of a woman with a rapier, a bow, or a horse on a wine label is bound to appeal to any woman buyer.
Could it be that Kristi Yamaguchi's or, say, Peggy Fleming's fees would be far outside what Event Wines could afford? Could it be that these women and all others like them would have no interest in either wine or charitable giving, whereas Curt Schilling ("Schardonnay") and Mike Ditka really do have?
Image from EventWines.com
Other sports-themed wines, mostly from Event Wines, serve a similar purpose: they are a fun buy for the fans, they bring crowds to (and drive sales for) retail stores when the celebrity on the label arrives in person for a few hours to chat and sign autographs, and of course they help raise money for many good causes. What I find odd is that all these celebrity-athlete-themed wines feature men on the label, and are directed to men, or to women buying gifts for men -- I dare say, sometimes buying gag gifts for men. It's not a question of my wanting to see "equality" in novelty wines or anything like that. It's just that most wine buyers are women buying for themselves, and I should think that if Event Wines can do a roaring business with this line of product, they could do an even more roaring business with novelty wines marketed to women. And when I say marketed to women, I mean, talk to us about something besides breast cancer.
Think of the women athletes who could grace the label of a charity wine. Figure skaters. Gymnasts. Downhill skiers (remember Picabo Street?). The Olympic women's soccer teams and hockey teams who did so well in past years -- the details are not at my fingertips, but any market researcher able to put together wrestler Don "the Magnificent" Muraco's Flying Head Butt merlot, benefiting Usos The Samoan Family Foundation, could certainly think up a wine for Kristi Yamaguchi or Nadia Comaneci to sponsor. Then there are the sports of fencing, archery, or anything equestrian to consider. They are little known, but the image of a woman with a rapier, a bow, or a horse on a wine label is bound to appeal to any woman buyer.
Could it be that Kristi Yamaguchi's or, say, Peggy Fleming's fees would be far outside what Event Wines could afford? Could it be that these women and all others like them would have no interest in either wine or charitable giving, whereas Curt Schilling ("Schardonnay") and Mike Ditka really do have?
Image from EventWines.com
Or is it all just a matter of taste?
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Julia Child's "revelation" cucumbers
From Julia Child's French Chef Cookbook, where they are called Concombres persilles, ou a la creme -- parslied or creamed cucumbers. Why not both, I ask? These, I presume, are what Amy Adams as Julie Powell spears with a fork in Julie and Julia, as she raves, "these cucumbers are a revelation." The French Chef Cookbook is not the same as Mastering the Art of French Cooking, but it is drawn from the television show which had its origins in Mastering, which in turn of course inspired Powell's blog and the movie.
But we move on to deliciousness. It's perfectly simple. Think French, and pour on the cream.
To begin, peel 6 cucumbers, cut them in half lengthwise, and scoop out the seeds with a spoon. (I used only 3 very large cucumbers, reasoning that perhaps the vegetable was grown and harvested smaller in Julia's day, and so today's three equals yesterday's six. We are after all talking about the produce of 50 years ago. The recipe seemed to come out fine.)
Cut the cucumbers into lengthwise strips, and then cut the strips into short pieces. Toss them in a bowl with 2 Tbsp wine vinegar (I used white wine), 1 and 1/2 tsp salt, and a dash of sugar. Let them stand 20 minutes. Drain and dry on paper towels.
In a large heavy skillet, heat 2 to 3 Tbsp butter. Add the cucumbers and 2 Tbsp minced shallots or scallions -- I used yellow onions, which also seemed fine. Cook everything slowly, tossing frequently, until the cucumbers are "tenderly crisp but not browned."
Meanwhile, simmer 1 cup of heavy cream in a small pan, reducing it by about half. Mince 3 Tbsp parsley.
"Just before serving, toss the cucumbers with the cream and parsley. Turn into a hot dish."
And spear with a fork, and eat, and exclaim. These cucumbers are a revelation. If you want to see Julia herself prepare them, look up her old 1960s-era television show; this recipe, along with a few more for garlic mashed potatoes and a turnip and onion casserole, is a part of the sixty-ninth show, "Vegetables for the birds."
The accompanying wine -- a rich buttery chardonnay, perhaps? Better, a delicious sweet riesling? Your choice.
But we move on to deliciousness. It's perfectly simple. Think French, and pour on the cream.
To begin, peel 6 cucumbers, cut them in half lengthwise, and scoop out the seeds with a spoon. (I used only 3 very large cucumbers, reasoning that perhaps the vegetable was grown and harvested smaller in Julia's day, and so today's three equals yesterday's six. We are after all talking about the produce of 50 years ago. The recipe seemed to come out fine.)
Cut the cucumbers into lengthwise strips, and then cut the strips into short pieces. Toss them in a bowl with 2 Tbsp wine vinegar (I used white wine), 1 and 1/2 tsp salt, and a dash of sugar. Let them stand 20 minutes. Drain and dry on paper towels.
In a large heavy skillet, heat 2 to 3 Tbsp butter. Add the cucumbers and 2 Tbsp minced shallots or scallions -- I used yellow onions, which also seemed fine. Cook everything slowly, tossing frequently, until the cucumbers are "tenderly crisp but not browned."
Meanwhile, simmer 1 cup of heavy cream in a small pan, reducing it by about half. Mince 3 Tbsp parsley.
"Just before serving, toss the cucumbers with the cream and parsley. Turn into a hot dish."
And spear with a fork, and eat, and exclaim. These cucumbers are a revelation. If you want to see Julia herself prepare them, look up her old 1960s-era television show; this recipe, along with a few more for garlic mashed potatoes and a turnip and onion casserole, is a part of the sixty-ninth show, "Vegetables for the birds."
The accompanying wine -- a rich buttery chardonnay, perhaps? Better, a delicious sweet riesling? Your choice.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Good news! They're making lamponcella in Swisher, Iowa
Sometimes you do find out the danged-est things.
My family has strong links to beautiful eastern Iowa, thanks to an aunt and uncle and cousins who moved there almost forty years ago. Cedar Rapids and Iowa City are the collective family stomping grounds, with excursions to Kirkwood Junior College (for a horse show) and Riverside ("future birthplace of Capt. James T. Kirk") an exciting part of more recent reunions. It so happens that among the small towns in the vicinity is Swisher, from whence a cousin took his bride many years ago.
Imagine my amazement, then, to look over some promotional materials for Cedar Ridge Distillery, maker of whiskey, rums, brandies, gin, vodkas, grappa, lemoncella, and "lamponcella" liqueurs, and see that the company address is actually Swisher, Iowa. My goodness. It brings back memories of long car trips through cornfields and soybean fields under glaring summer suns, of stalwart looking but sometimes decayed mid-western farms beside I-80, of the slowly rising, forested hills approaching "the River" -- the Mississippi has no other name, once you get close to it -- and of arrival in small, hilly towns where the houses are neat and old, the shady gardens full of summer color, and everything looks just slightly, interestingly ajar because you know this is someone else's home and not yours.
But about the lamponcella. I can't do better than to quote the promotional materials.
My family has strong links to beautiful eastern Iowa, thanks to an aunt and uncle and cousins who moved there almost forty years ago. Cedar Rapids and Iowa City are the collective family stomping grounds, with excursions to Kirkwood Junior College (for a horse show) and Riverside ("future birthplace of Capt. James T. Kirk") an exciting part of more recent reunions. It so happens that among the small towns in the vicinity is Swisher, from whence a cousin took his bride many years ago.
Imagine my amazement, then, to look over some promotional materials for Cedar Ridge Distillery, maker of whiskey, rums, brandies, gin, vodkas, grappa, lemoncella, and "lamponcella" liqueurs, and see that the company address is actually Swisher, Iowa. My goodness. It brings back memories of long car trips through cornfields and soybean fields under glaring summer suns, of stalwart looking but sometimes decayed mid-western farms beside I-80, of the slowly rising, forested hills approaching "the River" -- the Mississippi has no other name, once you get close to it -- and of arrival in small, hilly towns where the houses are neat and old, the shady gardens full of summer color, and everything looks just slightly, interestingly ajar because you know this is someone else's home and not yours.
But about the lamponcella. I can't do better than to quote the promotional materials.
"Lampone" is Italian for raspberry. Cedar Ridge Lamponcella is the raspberry companion to our very popular Lemoncella. To create this sweet, intense raspberry liqueur, we start by soaking tanks of fresh raspberries in triple-distilled 192 proof spirits. This "geist" [a German word?] is then distilled again to create an awesome raspberry eau-de-vie [French for water of life, i.e., fruit-based brandy]. This eau-de-vie is then added to tanks of sweet raspberry puree, resulting in 64-proof liqueur. Cedar Ridge Lamponcella can be served straight up, be mixed 50/50 with Clearheart Vodka [the company's own] to make a beautiful, tasty raspberry martini, or drizzled over cheesecake or ice cream for a delicious dessert. (64% alcohol/vol.)
It sounds excellent, although I think there is a mistake here in declaring the same number, 64, represents both the alcohol content and the proof of the final product. And I would have excised the adjective awesome, which is practically meaningless now.
Still. Minor quibbles. And they say their Clearheart Vodka has been praised in the New York Times, by cocktail editor Colleen Graham. "Perfect and spectacular," she said.
And all in Swisher, Iowa! I feel as if it all redounds to my credit, somehow.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
2009 William Cole Vineyards sauvignon blanc
Columbine Special Reserve, Casablanca Valley, Chile
strong "New Zealand" aroma -- is this gooseberry?
grass -- kiwi peel -- something like very faint cigarette smoke --
mouth puckering acidity -- somewhat hard (even chewy?) finish
I do like my sauvignon blancs to be as New Zealand-ish as possible. It seems I can never find one as bursting with grapefruit as I'd like -- the hunt for them is akin, in the sphere of white wines, to my hunt for an agreeable chianti among the reds (I want them as horsy and gamy as possible).
Nevertheless this was very good -- a pretty successful return from the field, you might say. (Although to be fair, the quarry came to me, via a salesman's sample.) And which William Cole winery are we talking about? There is the William Cole vineyards, owned by William and Jane Ballentine, that makes cabernet sauvignons in Napa Valley's St. Helena, and there is the William Cole vineyards, owned by Chilean native William Cole, that makes all sorts of wines in Chile's Casablanca Valley. He is the one who names some of his wines "Columbine," after the software company he used to run in Colorado, whose state flower is the columbine. Ah, there we are.
So good with a hot summer night snack of crackers and fresh mozzarella cheese. Retail, about $10. Even better.
strong "New Zealand" aroma -- is this gooseberry?
grass -- kiwi peel -- something like very faint cigarette smoke --
mouth puckering acidity -- somewhat hard (even chewy?) finish
I do like my sauvignon blancs to be as New Zealand-ish as possible. It seems I can never find one as bursting with grapefruit as I'd like -- the hunt for them is akin, in the sphere of white wines, to my hunt for an agreeable chianti among the reds (I want them as horsy and gamy as possible).
Nevertheless this was very good -- a pretty successful return from the field, you might say. (Although to be fair, the quarry came to me, via a salesman's sample.) And which William Cole winery are we talking about? There is the William Cole vineyards, owned by William and Jane Ballentine, that makes cabernet sauvignons in Napa Valley's St. Helena, and there is the William Cole vineyards, owned by Chilean native William Cole, that makes all sorts of wines in Chile's Casablanca Valley. He is the one who names some of his wines "Columbine," after the software company he used to run in Colorado, whose state flower is the columbine. Ah, there we are.
So good with a hot summer night snack of crackers and fresh mozzarella cheese. Retail, about $10. Even better.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
2004 August Kesseler spatburgunder (pinot noir)
Let's decipher the very plain German label.
The year 2004 and the name in big print, August Kesseler, are self-explanatory. The bottom of the label says "pinot noir," which also helps.
As to the rest, including the fine print laid out sideways around the back of the bottle. Erzeugerabfullung means bottled by the producer, which is Weingut (winery) August Kesseler. Qualitatswein: legally this is a middle-tier quality of wine, made under more stringent conditions than a table or country wine, but under less stringent conditions than a Qualitatswein which has also earned the right to call itself either a Qualitatswein bestimmter Anbaugebiet (QbA), wine from a guaranteed specific place, or a Qualitatswein mit Pradikat (QmP), wine of guaranteed place and special characteristics.
It's trocken (dry), from Assmannshausen, a village in Germany's Rheingau noted for its -- guess what -- red wines made from spatburgunder (pinot noir). This word incorporates both the German spat, meaning late, and the word burgundy, which is of course the French province that is pinot's home. "Late" refers to the grape's habit of ripening late, although Ron and Sharon Herbst tell us that Germany also grows another variant of pinot noir which ripens early and is called Fruhburgunder (The New Wine Lover's Companion).
My notes:
russet-purple, autumn leaves color
cedar scent
silk feel
plum juice, plum skin
tiniest bit of earth or smoke
I'm told, and reading in books confirms, that the spatburgunders of Assmannshausen are vinified in the French style, that is, they are meant to be light, delicate, and subtle, and not the roaring California grape jelly bombs that pinot lovers now complain about. Indeed, it seems a German pinot noir can't help but be delicate and subtle, since Germany's climate and the mountainous terrain of its grape growing regions gives pinot the long, cool growing season it needs. Pinot is the fragile, frustrating, siren grape. If it can struggle slowly to some ripeness without giving up the natural acidity which balances sugar levels, gives interest, and eventually helps the wine age in bottle, then it will come through at its best. And pinot, at its best, comes from cool, hilly places: Burgundy, the Rheingau, Oregon, the cool coastal valleys of California. Elsewhere, in hotter, flatter lands, including elsewhere in California, intense heat and sunshine send any grape's sweetness zooming up to boring plushness in no time, wiping out its acid levels and resulting in, well, the "California style" -- dark color, high alcohol (all that fermented sugar), and unctuous jamminess.
This August Kesseler was not at all unctuous, was instead very lovely. (A customer at Ye Olde wine Shoppe once got irate with me because I used words like "lovely" and "nice" to describe a wine. "That means nothing to me," she fumed. However, I only used those vague words because she had already told me she knew nothing about wine and so didn't want to hear any jargon like "acidity" or "tannin." That too "meant nothing to her." How on earth do you describe a wine, or any product at all, to someone who forbids the use of language? "Well you old battle axe, it's not chocolate milk"? But one mustn't alienate the customer.)
Yes, lovely. It seems to me that with a little experience you can begin to distinguish a good wine from a more commonplace one -- and even here, we are not talking about $30 or $50 wines, although Kesseler languished on the shelf at $25 -- by the way a good wine tastes almost like a food. Wine writers will gabble about wine being a food when they are trying to defend its not being a drug, a depressant, a mere alcohol delivery system. They'll cite studies about its healthful properties and so forth. But a good wine is foodlike in another way. It can be as interesting as a food, can seem to have the varied tastes, textures, and aromas of something solid. It can tempt you back for sip after sip just for its own sake, not at all for mere purposes of study and cogitation. And if the alcohol levels are normal, rather than California jam jar style (there is a wine called Jam Jar, a sweet syrah), your head will stay nice and clear too, and you'll be able to enjoy your actual meal into the bargain.
If you can find August Kesseler spatburgunder from Assmannshausen, snap it up, but do be careful about serving temperature. It must be just cool enough -- too cold, say straight from the fridge, and it becomes thick, sluggish, and grainy-gummy, too warm and it turns harsh and spiky, as do all warm red wines. Take your bottle from the refrigerator on a warm summer day, pour the wine into a glass, and let it sit for fifteen minutes. That should be just about right.
Retail -- originally, $25; alas, now $9.99 on the closeout rack. No one is going to plunk down serious money for (triple threat) an unknown German red.
For more on German wines, you might consult the blog Schiller Wine, especially the article on Walter Schug's journey from Assmannshausen to California's Carneros AVA.
The year 2004 and the name in big print, August Kesseler, are self-explanatory. The bottom of the label says "pinot noir," which also helps.
As to the rest, including the fine print laid out sideways around the back of the bottle. Erzeugerabfullung means bottled by the producer, which is Weingut (winery) August Kesseler. Qualitatswein: legally this is a middle-tier quality of wine, made under more stringent conditions than a table or country wine, but under less stringent conditions than a Qualitatswein which has also earned the right to call itself either a Qualitatswein bestimmter Anbaugebiet (QbA), wine from a guaranteed specific place, or a Qualitatswein mit Pradikat (QmP), wine of guaranteed place and special characteristics.
It's trocken (dry), from Assmannshausen, a village in Germany's Rheingau noted for its -- guess what -- red wines made from spatburgunder (pinot noir). This word incorporates both the German spat, meaning late, and the word burgundy, which is of course the French province that is pinot's home. "Late" refers to the grape's habit of ripening late, although Ron and Sharon Herbst tell us that Germany also grows another variant of pinot noir which ripens early and is called Fruhburgunder (The New Wine Lover's Companion).
My notes:
russet-purple, autumn leaves color
cedar scent
silk feel
plum juice, plum skin
tiniest bit of earth or smoke
I'm told, and reading in books confirms, that the spatburgunders of Assmannshausen are vinified in the French style, that is, they are meant to be light, delicate, and subtle, and not the roaring California grape jelly bombs that pinot lovers now complain about. Indeed, it seems a German pinot noir can't help but be delicate and subtle, since Germany's climate and the mountainous terrain of its grape growing regions gives pinot the long, cool growing season it needs. Pinot is the fragile, frustrating, siren grape. If it can struggle slowly to some ripeness without giving up the natural acidity which balances sugar levels, gives interest, and eventually helps the wine age in bottle, then it will come through at its best. And pinot, at its best, comes from cool, hilly places: Burgundy, the Rheingau, Oregon, the cool coastal valleys of California. Elsewhere, in hotter, flatter lands, including elsewhere in California, intense heat and sunshine send any grape's sweetness zooming up to boring plushness in no time, wiping out its acid levels and resulting in, well, the "California style" -- dark color, high alcohol (all that fermented sugar), and unctuous jamminess.
This August Kesseler was not at all unctuous, was instead very lovely. (A customer at Ye Olde wine Shoppe once got irate with me because I used words like "lovely" and "nice" to describe a wine. "That means nothing to me," she fumed. However, I only used those vague words because she had already told me she knew nothing about wine and so didn't want to hear any jargon like "acidity" or "tannin." That too "meant nothing to her." How on earth do you describe a wine, or any product at all, to someone who forbids the use of language? "Well you old battle axe, it's not chocolate milk"? But one mustn't alienate the customer.)
Yes, lovely. It seems to me that with a little experience you can begin to distinguish a good wine from a more commonplace one -- and even here, we are not talking about $30 or $50 wines, although Kesseler languished on the shelf at $25 -- by the way a good wine tastes almost like a food. Wine writers will gabble about wine being a food when they are trying to defend its not being a drug, a depressant, a mere alcohol delivery system. They'll cite studies about its healthful properties and so forth. But a good wine is foodlike in another way. It can be as interesting as a food, can seem to have the varied tastes, textures, and aromas of something solid. It can tempt you back for sip after sip just for its own sake, not at all for mere purposes of study and cogitation. And if the alcohol levels are normal, rather than California jam jar style (there is a wine called Jam Jar, a sweet syrah), your head will stay nice and clear too, and you'll be able to enjoy your actual meal into the bargain.
If you can find August Kesseler spatburgunder from Assmannshausen, snap it up, but do be careful about serving temperature. It must be just cool enough -- too cold, say straight from the fridge, and it becomes thick, sluggish, and grainy-gummy, too warm and it turns harsh and spiky, as do all warm red wines. Take your bottle from the refrigerator on a warm summer day, pour the wine into a glass, and let it sit for fifteen minutes. That should be just about right.
Retail -- originally, $25; alas, now $9.99 on the closeout rack. No one is going to plunk down serious money for (triple threat) an unknown German red.
For more on German wines, you might consult the blog Schiller Wine, especially the article on Walter Schug's journey from Assmannshausen to California's Carneros AVA.
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