The Wine Files: Uncorked and Unscripted

The Burial

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 07 Mar 2010 18:20:00 +0000

We buried Richard Adams in the garden, in the late afternoon of a February day.

I read a passage from Watership Down, the author of which our departed was named for, and my husband, also named Richard, read a page of prose he had prepared. Then there was nothing more to say. A wind swayed the branch of the tree above, causing a small brown bird to leave us. The bell of a bicycle was heard from the street some meters away. I saw that the top button on my coat had become loose.

Earlier that day, the Richard who is still among the living dug a small grave some distance from the house, where it is very still and quiet. I watched him pile earth on top of earth from the window in the dark parlor, where it was safe. I held Richard Adams in my arms. His body was cold and heavy. His fur felt soft in my hands.

Then it was time.

After the burial, we walked in silence to the house, where the stillness was even louder than at the grave. Richard went into his studio to view the finished work. I prepared dinner, and afterward we fed our beastly bellies with the flesh of an unknown animal. We drank the wine which we had bought from the little store.."a very good vintage, Madame"...We didn't speak of Richard Adams.

That night, I dreamt of running through the thick grasses of an unknown land. The sun beat down upon my back and I searched frantically, until at last I came into the coolness of underground. Weaving and scratching my way through the tunnel, I came upon a light, and passed through. This brought me above ground again, and into the heaviness of a human girl, whose body was now my own. I wasn't able to make use of the legs nor the tongue, so I crawled in silence until I reached the safety of a new tunnel, where inside, I passed back into my own rabbit flesh once more.

I didn't tell Richard about my dream. We ate bread and raspberry jam for breakfast, and drank coffee with cream. We did not speak of death or of life, or of sacrifices made. We looked at the painting in the room where Richard Adams had been a life, still. It is a beautiful painting, and it tells the truth. Many months, years later, it tells this truth, while I, simple in my parlor, speak of dinner and tea and loose buttons. I read books and hang laundry to dry, and worry over spilled wine.

But, sometimes, just before sleep, or while stirring a pot by the kitchen window, or when alone by the fire in our dark parlor; sometimes, then, I can think only of a small patch of earth in the garden, and the gentle, spiritless body buried beneath.

The 500 Blows

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 31 Dec 2009 17:34:00 +0000

I have spent a lot of time underground. In fact, I calculated today that in the year 2008 alone, I spent an estimated 500 hours on a New York City subway train, or waiting for one in a station. In 2009 I spent less time on the subway, as this was the year I moved to Paris. Yet, even so, there were many nights and days spent beneath the earth, both in America and in France. And I can't account for the hours. I sometimes feel as though they were stolen from me, or worse, deleted from existence.

My earliest train memory is of the Long Island Railroad. It was here where I spent some time as a child traveling with family on day trips to Manhattan from my uncle's home in Queens, and years later, from Rockville Centre. I remember most clearly the transfer station, Jamaica, where we would wait, my mother and uncle and I, for a connecting train. It was also here, as an adult living in Brooklyn, where my husband and I often waited patiently to transfer to the train that would, from here, screech its way into the small town where family lived. The total travel time of 90 minutes began at the Atlantic Avenue station in Brooklyn and ended in Rockville Centre, Long Island. At least it was above ground. Besides, these were fond memories. Especially the journeys of childhood. Then, the trains seemed to travel faster, and you had the sense of actually going somewhere. Somewhere exciting. Maybe you were going to see the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center, or to take a carriage ride in Central Park. Maybe there was snow on the ground outside, and in that split second of descent, just as the train is plunged into the darkness of underground tunnels, your window fills with white light, and this stays with you forever.

But then, you grow older. And if you should happen to work for a living and live in the city, you will probably spend a greater portion of time than you desire on a train. I certainly have. I know that I was most often going from home to this or that terrible job. I was sometimes meeting friends, or going to the market. I know that the journeys were necessary ones; I just wish they hadn't kept me in the dark for so long. But, if I try, maybe I can salvage some of the pictures from the black mass of time.

I have a still, deep, blue tinted recollection of a glimpse of the Brooklyn Bridge at dusk, a single moment I didn't realize at the time was imprinting itself upon me. I remember one summer evening sitting across from my husband, happily exhausted from a day at the beach. I wore my blue dress, which was damp at the hem, and the saltwater still burned on my calves. I also recall vividly that September afternoon when I was told my father died, and the excruciating 20 minute subway ride home. As an opposite train passed, I glanced out of the window and briefly met the forlorn gaze of a stranger, who is a stranger still. Then there are less significant memories. A forgotten bottle on the floor of the car, rolling involuntarily between the black boots of passengers. A tired advertisement for a credit card company. The red crease in the crook of my arm made by the bag I carried. A feeling of having left something behind. This must be what we call Time.

As time elapsed, those hours by train accumulated into a sense of heaviness and fatigue, much like a series of blows to the head. I grew weary. So heavy and weary, that when the last train left the station on the third of July, and I dropped my metro card into the trash as my husband pulled me along toward JFK airport, I felt the weight of 500 hours drop away. And then I slept. I slept going over the Atlantic Ocean without opening the window. I slept in an airport chair under the midnight sun of Iceland. The moment we arrived in our Paris quarters, I collapsed onto the bed and slept some more. For many months, I slept for a few hours in the middle of the day. People crept by, suspecting I was sick. No, I told them. I have just been on too many trains.

On this New Year's Eve, looking back in time is as important as going forward. I am happy where I am, and try not to worry too much about the future. I have learned, mostly the hard way, to value time. Perhaps this is just a part of ageing, or maybe it's the result of too much underground thought. I can't remember much about my subway travel or what I may have been contemplating during all those waiting hours. I imagine I thought about someone I saw or something said, what I would eat for dinner, how I would make it and where I would buy the ingredients, where I had been and where I needed to go next. I'm sure I thought I had plenty of time to do it all.

Like I said, I can't account for the hours. I just know they are gone.

The Odd and the Crazy

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 25 Oct 2009 15:01:00 +0000

"You have to distinguish between things that seemed odd when they were new but are now quite familiar, such as Ibsen and Wagner, and things that seemed crazy when they were new and seem crazy now, like Finnegan's Wake and Picasso." - Philip Larkin

A good friend of mine sent me this quote, and it seems particularly appropriate today, to the art world as a whole, and even the world at large. My husband, a classical realist painter, (who is also responsible for the beautiful photograph at left), wondered aloud yesterday evening if his latest paintings might be rejected for their somewhat morbid oddity. They are a series of beautifully rendered fowl, and parts of fowl. They are exquisite, though some are a bit eerie to behold, with their bodiless heads and wings, now resting flightless and soundless on fragile bones spread before you. They are birds whose heads and wings I see only briefly in life, before they are severed and tossed away, and I have never looked closely at them until Richard requested I buy our hens and pheasants intact at the market.

Sometimes he paints the entire body, as with our latest faison, but usually he paints only the head, wings, and feet, the body already having been made into dinner. Experiencing this act of looking closely at our food, a teaching of Michael Pollan among others, is important to us. If we can't look at the animals we consume, inspect every part, understand the value of the life they lived, how and what they ate, then see and consider them in death - how the feathers feel, how the neck becomes flaccid and almost pathetic in the hand - if we can't do that, well, then, what business do we have eating them? Thus, it is important to look, and therefore that eerie quality in Richard's paintings is there for a reason. It reminds us. It connects us to our food, and we can't look away from that. So I say to him, yes they are odd, but they are beautiful too. And the oddness has become familiar to me, because I see it, and I understand. This is part of what makes them great art.

What is crazy, and what always seemed to be so to me, is the blindness and complacency of man. People who accept whatever comes their way, be it a vacuum packed bird which led a life of imprisonment in a tiny cage wallowing in and eating its own merde, a dangerous vaccine, bad design, filthy sidewalks, propaganda to make them buy anything and everything, (you too can have fake eyelashes!) and of course, ridiculous, unskilled, very bad "art". An example which always comes to mind is Jeff Koons (who has never even held a paintbrush). So, hey, even though the world has given us masters like Degas and Rembrandt, who spent a lifetime learning the skills which made them great, why don't we just include in that category we call Art a large, inflatable pink rabbit? It doesn't matter that he didn't make it himself, or that it's absurd and insults your intelligence; it's art now! And you should pay a million dollars for it! Sadly, people do. They do pay, and they accept the crazy as the norm, because we have allowed a few marketing gurus and businessmen to tell us how to think. Now that's crazy. The truth is, Jeff Koons seemed crazy in the 70's and he seems crazy now.

What's even crazier is that this is all a part of how we are deceived. If we could really see, awaken each day with fresh minds free of the burden of constant advertising, maybe we would look at an inflatable Koons toy and say, you're calling yourself an artist? Are you crazy?! Maybe we would be able to see the labor and skill that goes into art. Maybe we would always look at our food and think, is this good for me to eat? Is it right or wrong to eat this and why? From where did this animal come and how was it slaughtered? Is this chair I'm sitting in made well, and with skill? Do I value it? Or did I just accept it because it's the latest style? But I don't think most of the world can ask those questions anymore. Maybe it's what they've put in our water and all those packaged bags of salad and single slices of cheese. If we're too tired to slice our own cheese, well....all in all, a clever way to get us to quietly hand over our paychecks.

There was a time, I think, when people looked at the world around them; at the earth and the bounty it provides, at the meaning of learning a skill, of thinking for one's self. My grandmother knew how to raise and kill her own chickens. Most people now can't even butcher one. They think "chicken" is something they are entitled to, and comes in tidy plastic wrapped packages. The chair I'm sitting in needs to be re-stuffed and reupholstered, but only a cluster of fine upholsterers are left in the western world. That's because when we were all watching television, a large company decided to make cheaper chairs, fill them with Styrofoam and tell us cheaper is better. And everybody went for it. The companies profited, but did we? I think I'd rather learn how to build a chair myself to tell you the truth, or pay someone who still knows how to use his hands and make something solid.

As I sit down to dinner tonight at a table made by a person, not a machine, and I eat the flesh of a bird who was sold to me at a fair price from a farmer I trust, I would like to offer up a toast. Here's to those of you who value quality and beauty. To those who know how to draw an accurate figure, who know the skills of painting, who know how to sew, how to grow vegetables without chemicals, raise animals humanely, build a table, make a fire that doesn't have an electric switch. Here's to the people who make wine with terroir, write literature and music, hunt, forage, bake their own bread. To those who still value knowledge over reality tv, and therefore know how to spot the odd from the perpetually crazy. Here's to the ones who truly see, and know the parts equal a greater whole.

The Wine Files in Paris

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 12:20:00 +0000

I haven't been counting the days between then and now; that is to say, since I last wrote here, though I am well aware more than a year must have slipped away. Some of it passed quietly by with ease, and writing would have been no more than an unwelcome interruption to my delirious play, which for the most part took place in Soho in Manhattan. There has been bountiful laughter over many glasses of wine. Other parts of the year were not as kind - cruel, even. Thirty was difficult. Difficult, but generous too. I even made it to thirty-one relatively unscathed.

So, moving forward as we humans are wont to do, life has ushered me out of New York for a while, and I write to you from my fireside in Paris, France. The days have just begun to hold that certain coolness in the air from which a sweater lends only minimal protection, and everything is becoming very clear and clean to see and also to breathe. We are alert to a certain virtue of Fall, which gives us a little nudge to make haste, as the days are drawing shorter. My husband, Richard, and I can no longer count on those long days of a northern French summer, where it is light until 10 p.m. And each day is getting shaved a little more, drawing us away from the badminton court a little sooner each day, so that sometimes we become too wrapped up in our work and forget to go outside in time to play. Today was one of those days. I missed my light, my chance to play.

As I sit here by the fireside looking out onto the empty lawn (where we will surely play tomorrow!) I anticipate making my first tartiflette, a dish whose richness I don't really deserve after a sedentary afternoon in chairs. But I am determined to create and recreate every French dish I can learn here, and sometime around the hour of eight I begin to lay out my ingredients, procured twice weekly from my local farmer's market, and I survey the situation. This evening I have potatoes, heavily coated in a thick layer of mud, which I wash but don't bother to scrub. I have onions, I have creme fraiche and vin blanc, and I of course have lardons, which the butcher kindly diced into small pieces for me, despite the threat of the sharp knife dangerously close to his already badly wounded fingers (and this in itself warrants a whole other post which will soon follow). Lastly, and most importantly, I have a beautiful creamy morceau of Reblochon cheese, whose melting point has reached the sublime in culinary arts.

As I sip my Morgon, I can smell the fat and onions crisping atop their potato pillows. They are slowly submerged by a rich blanket of Reblochon, which leaves behind only its rind, creating a delicate crown of crust. The wonderful aroma is filling the first floor, and my Morgon and I are eager to take a peek inside the oven. To distract myself I practice the language of my new country, and Richard brings wood up from the basement and arranges the logs. I anticipate the warmth of the fire and reflect that I never had a working fireplace in New York. In the city, it wasn't practical I guess. I also didn't have Reblochon cheese, and a butcher never once offered to dice the lardons, had I been able to find them. I'm also quite sure that a bottle of Morgon would cost more than six dollars there, and wouldn't be available at the little market down the street.

Yes, things are certainly different here. What is the same is the passage of time, though I am less aware of it. I know we have a Fall with golden leaves, a pharmacy on every corner, and 365 kinds of cheese to choose from. And when I sit by the fire and try to remember all of their names, and smell the Reblochon bubbling in the kitchen, I can't say I miss New York at all.

The Old Vines Spoke of Home

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 30 Apr 2008 00:33:00 +0000

On the eve of my thirtieth birthday, a few short weeks ago, I dreamt that the world was enclosed by infinite darkness. I wept because I knew I would not see the sun again, and because now nothing would be able to grow. The soil, the essence of life, would no longer bear trees and fruit, but serve only as a vast grave. Then, the moon came out and tried to take the place of the sun, to light my corner of the world. I explained to the moon that it wouldn't work, because it was the sun that lights the world, and things must be as they always have been. When I awoke, none of this made sense and I found myself safely in bed, the sun I've always known peeking through the bamboo shades.

Looking back, I believe my dream revealed my fear of change at entering a new decade of living. I know that change is inevitable and essential, and life is constantly reinventing itself. Yet, people need constants; something eternal as the sun. I am excited at the prospect of my next thirty years-the experiences, new friends, wines, the uncertainty that is as exciting as it is terrifying. But along with these new years, these unknowns, I must also have some sound things to depend on.

Just as burgeoning possibilities will undoubtedly hold a future of happiness and exaltation, it will also unavoidably hold despair, anger,grief, chaos. There cannot be light without darkness. My husband is forever reminding me that beauty cannot be perceived unless it is contrasted by ugliness, as joy is more profound when we have known misery. These opposing forces are always in a state of flux. Beauty then, for me, often lies in what is constant. By constant I don't mean the monotonous, I mean the perseverance of the universe; the continuation of a lifelong dream; a fifty year marriage; a thirty year old vine, twisting it's way toward the sun. These are fundamental, and I am enamored by the faithful endurance of it all. I depend on and long for this kind of beauty.

This year, turning thirty, I wanted a wine that would somehow encompass all of these things. It needed to be complex because life is complex, but it also needed to be straightforward and unpretentious. It needed to show maturity, a sense of place, and have great depth. Most of all, it should show resilience and speak of the earth in which it grew.

As always, I needn't have searched long, since the wine I was looking for I found right under my own nose, harvested in local soil. The wine was Lenz Old Vines Merlot, 2001 vintage. I learned that the winery was founded the year I was born, in 1978, and the vines that produced the beautiful Merlot were as old as I am. So it was meant to be. And what have we to show for all these years, those vines and I? I have spent many days contemplating my faults, my achievements. The old vines, though, have been quite prosperous, and the wine showed every nuance of character I had been searching for. When I tasted it for the first time, I felt at home. Just as home feels, it didn't confront me with strange new tastes, or speak of exotic places. There was in its flavor more earth than fruit, and an elegance that demanded respect. It had weathered time, and now, lovely and graceful and mellow, it would tell me all about life on the North Fork. A beautiful journey under the sun and the moon and the rain.

Some people tasted the wine and were equally enchanted, while others didn't seem to notice it at all. This is the nature of quiet beauty; a whisper rather than a loud voice. I don't claim to be wise at thirty, far from it. What I know is this. There will be occasions when I will be titillated by the aroma of new oak and young, bright fruit. It is like being romanced by the moon, which has its time and place, if only to contrast the brilliance of the sun. For most of the days that remain for me, though, I will continue to seek out the beauty of tradition, here among these legends, these old vines.

DRINK LOCAL, NEW YORK!

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 07 Apr 2008 18:19:00 +0000

I have spent years supporting the concept of eating locally, so it is with heartfelt passion that I can now say, without a shadow of a doubt, that I support drinking locally, too. New York wines have officially earned my respect, my devotion, and my palate. From here on out, my focus and my consuming habits will mostly consist of grapes grown near home, just as it was meant to be (though the occasional French, Italian, and Chilean wines will be imbibed from time to time).

I have tasted, I have studied, I have compared, and I have read the writing on the wall. It said, "Great wines are growing right in your own state, dummy. Drink more of them, and tell people!" Why did it take me so long to realize this?

To be fair, it wasn't all my fault. I simply didn't have easy access to these NY gems. I read about them from time to time, but when I looked for them in stores all I ever found in the way of NY wines was Manischewitz. So, needless to say, I stuck to the French aisles. But I knew I was missing out on something, and I decided to dig deeper. Why were there only two or three NY bottles on store shelves? And why all the California stuff, anyway? Sure, there are some superb California wines, but there are also a lot of bad ones, primarily due to the state of mass vinification going on there. New York, by contrast, does not mass produce. Most vineyards and wineries here are small, family owned operations. This explains in part why they aren't showing up everywhere, since the production amount is relatively small. But don't let that fool you into thinking the world doesn't know about them. These wineries can boast of some prestigious international awards, I have recently learned. Fortunately, I have the opportunity to taste many excellent New York wines now, as my curiosity and my desire to drink locally led me to Vintage New York in Soho, where I am now employed. And since April is officially New York wine month, now is a fabulous opportunity to talk about what I think are the some of the best wines in the world.

I was informally educated and ordained into the world of New York wines by way of my job, where we sell New York wines exclusively (the first store to do so in the city). Initially, I suspected that half the wines would be very good, with the others being mediocre. Well I, like so many others, had a lot to learn. New York is the third largest wine producer in the country, and home to some of the world's award winning and legendary wineries such as the Lenz estate, Vinifera Wine Cellars, and America's oldest winery, Brotherhood. I have encountered very few bad wines so far, and dozens of outstanding ones. In fact, having enjoyed mostly French wines in my lifetime and having a palate that prefers Burgundy, the Finger Lakes wines are a perfect match for me. Generally, in both style and climate, New York wines are similar to French wines. So, if you prefer big oaky California Chardonnays and overtly fruity Cabernet Sauvignons, then NY wines may not be for you. However, if you tend toward the elegant, well, then you've come to the right place. I have much to say about my beloved state's terroir, too. Each region is unique, so just as a Riesling from the Keuka Lake area will tell of the shale that made up the sandy soil, a North Fork Cabernet Franc will whisper notes of herbs and spice and cool gulf stream breezes.

The Finger Lakes region, where award winning Rieslings and Pinot Noirs abound, boasts terroir comparable to Burgundy. The area's steep slopes provide excellent soil drainage, while the large bodies of water serve to moderate harsh temperatures. The often cool and damp conditions inspire grapes to produce more resveratrol, with the end result being wines more concentrated in the antioxidant. I am particularly fond of Dr. Frank's Rkatsiteli and Fleur de Pinot Noir.

On Long Island, the temperatures are warmer in summer, and there Bordeaux grapes dominate under a longer growing season. I am in love with the earthy, luscious Long Island Merlots as much as I am the dry, smoky Cabernet Francs. Long Island is known for its likeness to the Bordeaux region of France, both in the grapes planted there as well as the climate and terrain. I'll let you read more about that area from expert Lenn Thompson, whose blog, Lenndevours, is devoted to New York wines, and particularly the North Fork of Long Island. (Thank you, Lenn, for all the information and great reading you provide about NY wines)

Despite being written about in numerous publications including Wine Spectator, Food and Wine, The New York Times and others, I still think more needs to be done to promote NY wines on the east coast. We are in an era where consuming locally is more important than ever, and New York wines should be filling east coast shelves. It's the sustainable way, it's the logical and ecological way, and what's more, it's the most pleasurable way. If you're in the city or close by, don't take my word for it. Come by and taste for yourself.

Wines for the Equinox

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 26 Mar 2008 14:05:00 +0000

I never did get around to showing you what was in my Easter basket. Suffice it to say I was quite pleased, and even though we missed Easter vigil and mass (I was working) I did get to celebrate the holiday with a few Spring surprises that were much more fun than dyed eggs. Does a case of Dr. Frank's finest selections convince you that the Easter bunny was very, very good to me this year?

Admittedly, I have never been much of a lover of white wines. But if there is going to be a time to indulge in something different, the Vernal Equinox and the transition from snow to daffodils are pleasant reminders that Spring is a time for change and new beginnings. I began with a rarity-a Ukrainian grape that I wasn't familiar with before, and have Dr. Frank to thank for the introduction. You may remember from my previous post that Dr. Frank emigrated from the Ukraine, so the planting of Rkatsiteli was a natural selection. It makes a unique wine that is loaded with tropical fruit and a hint of spice. It is ever so slightly sweet, with a pleasing, snappy finish that rounds it all out. A stand out wine that also makes a very special gift for a wine collector.

I was a bit stand-offish at first when it came time for the Riesling, as I am not a fan of sweet. Well, my hesitation was all for naught. This Riesling isn't sweet at all, and due to the unique terroir of the region it is packed with minerals and slate. Crisp fruit, refreshing acidity, and subtle floral notes make it a delightful accompaniment to Easter dinner (which should include a leg of lamb, by the way). And speaking of lamb, I find that the relatively low alcohol content (usually 12%) in Dr. Frank's portfolio make them excellent food wines. They compliment, but they never overwhelm. Even the dry rosé, which is rather tart, paired quite well with a vanilla custard. In fact, all of the wines paired well with all of the food I tried them with. But, if I had to pick an aperitif wine from the bunch (oh, how my arm hurts when it's twisted this way) I would choose the Gewurztraminer. It marries perfectly well with many dishes, and is often paired with spicy foods, but I prefer to enjoy it all by itself. Call it a time to stop and smell the roses, as this Gewurtz is elegantly abundant in rose, with characteristic flecks of minerals and spice. It is a sensual wine with a long beautiful finish that lasts all the way to April - though I doubt my case of Chateau Frank wines will last that long. I can always renew my supply, and so can you, by ordering from Vinifera Wine Cellars. Or, if you're in Manhattan, simply stop by and fill your basket at Vintage New York.

Father of Vinifera, Growing the American Dream

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 20 Mar 2008 15:30:00 +0000

When Dr. Konstantin Frank emigrated from the Ukraine back in the 1950's, America, and especially New York, wasn't exactly a mecca for wine production. Most of the grapes growing in the Empire State were native labrusca grapes; mostly Concords made into juice and jams. Concords are certainly a New York gem, but was there room for more on the lush lands upstate that were so strategically situated at 43 degrees latitude? Indeed, there was. It took the spirit of a pioneer, the mind of a scientist, and the persistence of a man who didn't fear the cynics or the cold if they stood in the way of his dream. That dream, which began not so long ago, was the dream that brought vinifera grapes to the east coast.

Before Dr. Frank, New York was thought to be much too cold for growing traditional wine making grapes. The idea of drinking a good Riesling or Pinot Noir from New York seemed impossible-laughable, even. So when the thoughtful pioneer told others of his vision to plant vinifera and cultivate European wines, there were many who bemoaned the weather, insisting that it could not be done. They declared the vines would surely perish in the extreme cold. Tell that to a man who came from a place where, in his words, "Spit would freeze before it hit the ground." He wasn't about to lose heart over a much more moderate drop in temperature.

Now that's my kind of guy. Confident, not bothered by a little cold air, and definitely not ruffled by a few resistors (also known as nay-sayers, critics, know-it-alls, pests). He didn't have time to be bothered by all this, because he had serious work to do. Of course, the road was not always easy. (And how could it be? What great legends were made by trust fund babies living on the upper west side? I can't think of one.) His English was quite shaky and he was in a new country, vast and still unfamiliar to him. Despite holding advanced degrees, his first job in America was washing dishes. After that, he secured employment at the New York State Experiment Station, but again he was given a menial job. So, he did what he had to do until he could do what he was meant to do - and as you'll see, what he was meant to do was change the landscape of New York forever, and come to be called the father of vinifera for the east coast.

He had his eye on the Finger Lakes, where the pristine waters dipped into rolling green hills and plains. The lakes would cool the grapes in summer and temper the harsh winter winds. The locale was idyllic, and in time, Dr. Frank planted rows of vines that would soon become the wines of New York's empirical future. Things began to take shape when he met Charles Fournier, a French wine maker who believed in Dr. Frank's vision and hired him as a consultant. What the two men needed first was good, hardy stock. Rootstock, that is. It had to be something more robust than the native or hybrid vines. Something resilient that could withstand the cold and still thrive-a rootstock, you might say, that was more like Dr. Frank himself. Find it they did, and when this vigorous rootstock (sourced from Quebec) was grafted onto vinifera, it produced so many healthy grapes that the nay-sayers and critics were silenced for the first time in...well, for the first time. Hard to imagine, isn't it? Meanwhile, Dr. Frank's cup runneth over. He went on to establish Vinifera Wine Cellars in 1962, and turned out wines so elegant they knocked the critics' socks off - the same critics who said it couldn't be done. Well, not only could it be done, but he did it better than most. Not only did he do it better, but his heirs would later expand and improve the winery times three. If that weren't enough, he also inspired literally hundreds of future winemakers to plant vinifera in the region.

I like to imagine that first ounce of Riesling, scrutinized inside a beaker held with trembling hands. I can see the spark in Dr. Frank's eyes when he tasted that burst of beautiful yellow fruit, perfeclty balanced with the mineral acidity that is a mark of excellence. How he must have invisioned in turn the first splash that would soon be poured into a ready glass. Call it the splash of vinifera heard round the world, because today New York is the third largest wine producer in the country, with new vineyards cropping up in droves. Dr. Konstantin Frank showed us the way.

His heirs have improved upon and expanded the initial success. His son, the late Willy Frank, operated the vineyard and winery until his death at age 80 (and that is another great story, for another article.) Fred, his grandson, took the helm in 2006.

I could tell you about all the awards their wines have won, but the press has done that, and it is widely known Dr. Frank wines are not only extraordinary, but rival some top French Burgundies. They have been served at famed New York City restaurants and sold in little wine shops. They have been served at the tables of royalty and at the tables of the working class. They have been served at my table, and will be as long as the Frank family makes great wines.
Before trying Dr. Frank wines, I didn't even know I liked Gewurztraminer or Riesling. I suppose I'd never had such great ones. But, Dr. Frank showed me the way.

What inspires me as much as the wines is the fact that Konstantin Frank lived the true American dream. From the ground up, he built his future. It was a future crafted from hard work, perseverance in the face of adversity, and an impenetrable will. It was the kind of work done by someone who was not afraid to get his hands dirty. A dream built on integrity. The kind of dream we should all aspire to, and what should truly make an empire state have the right to call itself that. Otherwise, it's just a place with a large city and black suits.

In my next post I will share with you the Dr. Frank wines I have tasted, and explore some of my favorites.

Ale in the Afternoon

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 04 Mar 2008 22:22:00 +0000

I am passionate about wine, and will drink it to the end of days, however long they may be. Beer, however, I will drink on more than a few afternoons. I don't claim to know much about it. I know I like Chimay, Duvel, and Leffe, Spaten dark and Guinness. I am partial to ales, but lagers taste good to me, too. I even remember the first time I tasted beer and hated it, mistakenly assuming for years that all beer tasted like watered down horse pee (aka Budweiser). But I eventually found my way. I have since discovered that my taste for beers has a peculiar time frame in which it dictates enjoyment, and that beers are associated with certain people and emotions. First, I can only drink beer in the afternoon, because it is best in daylight, with or without food. I don't know the exact reason for this, but I believe it must be partly because I have reserved the night for that sacred beverage, wine. And I wouldn't want a beer with my dinner. I most assuredly would with lunch, though. There are calories to consider, yes, but that is a trifling matter to be worried about by the sort of women who care about whether their bras match their panties. I can't be bothered by these details.

I associate dark porters with a friend from college, and wheat beers with my old apartment on Normal Avenue. I associate pale beers with my father, together with light yellow flowers. This is the color beer he most often drank when he was living. Once, at age seven, he sent me a bunch of yellow flowers to cheer me up when my dog died, and I still have the little card that came with them, found inside a book years later. It had a sketch of yellow roses on it. Just wanted to cheer up my little girl. I love you, Daddy.

In high school he again sent me a bouquet of yellow flowers, which I dried and pressed into a book. (I have a habit of storing remembrances inside books, along with writer's guild certificates and photographs). Ten years later, I saved the yellow roses from his funeral and pressed them into the same pages. I could have sworn they gave off the faintest scent of polished wood and lager.

If my father were alive, he would visit me here in Brooklyn and we would walk down to the little German place I've grown fond of. He would order a light Spaten in a boot, and I would have an Optimator. Then we would sample the various sausages, and on our second round I would pull out the little card with the picture of the yellow flowers and show him how I'd saved it all these years. He would take it from my hand and laugh out loud - a big boisterous laugh - and we would talk about my childhood pet, Sandy. Later, I would show him the pressed flowers I'd saved, and we'd sort through the photographs and memories late into the day. We might even, should the mood hit us, toast to life's surprises over a Trappist. At least that's the way I imagine it would be.

You see, I love wine. But sometimes, it's good to have an ale in the afternoon.

What Was Lost

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 28 Feb 2008 04:15:00 +0000

Dear Reader,
With regret, I don't have any photos of glorious Carménère vines, deeply rooted in their soil on a rolling Chilean vineyard. I have not yet been to Chile, and therefore cannot supply an accompanying image to compliment my tale of this enduring grape. I live in Brooklyn, and the closest I can give you is a picture of a bottle of Carménère, taken at home - but that would be repetitive. And so instead, we will have to make due with photos taken from a recent winter's walk in my neighborhood, and perhaps glean from the stillness and beauty of trees and snow a sense of appreciation for nature's endurance.
I will share with you now, the story of my favorite grape; the legend of Carménère. If you like, and you certainly should, pour yourself a glass and get snug in your bed. Now close your eyes and I will begin.

Once upon a time, Carménère was the glory of France, being one of the six original noble grapes (the others are Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, Cabernet franc, and Petit verdot). Aptly named after its beautiful crimson color, it grew in abundance in the Bordeaux region, and found itself quite at home there as a blending grape as well as a lone noble grape, fit for a noble imbiber. It was the grape of kings and conquerors, drunk by Napoleon Bonaparte himself as he rode through the French countryside on his valiant steed!
Well, that Napoleon bit might be a tiny dramatization on my part. But this is a bedtime story, and I'm creating images to incorporate into your dreams. Now, where was I?

Oh yes, the noble grape was once rightly so, crimson and beautiful to taste. When in full maturation it was filled with the flavors of bright cherries and chocolate; wood and leather and smoke. And the name! Carménère. Say it aloud. Car men AIR. Isn't it lovely in the mouth? It has a Nabokovian beauty, with the triplet of syllables unfolding on the tongue as does Lo li ta, but with more feminine curves. Full and womanly is our Carménère.

Crimson and leather, curves and literary allusions...it all seems so romantic. And it is! It is a romantic grape not because of its natural beauty, though, dear reader. It is because of its loss that is has grown beautiful. Loss, as in all great tales of romance and survival, is what compels us to go on. And now I've reached the sad part of the story. If you need to refill your glass, go ahead.

The abominable plague of 1867 that ravaged European vines, the dreadful phylloxera, blighted France and the rest of the continent, and doomed our poor grape along with the others. France was in despair, as you can imagine, with vineyards wiped off of the face of the country. Families were uprooted, the economy was in crisis, the land was left ravaged and vineless. The future appeared bleak, much like these barren Brooklyn trees you see, leafless in the stark February sun.

To add despair upon greater despair, our beautiful Carménère was particularly afflicted by the unrelenting pest, and by the end of this savage ordeal had completely been obliterated from France. It was a very sad time, indeed. But like all times of loss and despair, it eventually came to an end. Phylloxera was ultimately rid from Europe by way of a helping hand from America, whose rootstocks, when grafted onto European vines, rendered them resistant. (I won't go into detail on this matter, but it is a wonderful story of nature's wrath and bounty, so I encourage further reading on the subject.) The plague was over, and wine vines thrived once again! Well, all but one, that is. I needn't remind you which.

And so it was that France made it through a time of great hardship, but not without suffering the loss of our heroine. The country carried on, but our lady Carménère was quite forgotten. She was thought to be buried deep in the Earth's dark tombs for dead vines for many, many years.

Until, that is.....until ONE DAY!!

(at this point I've no doubt stirred you from your cozy pillow, so it would be a fine time to refill your glass again)

Okay, we're getting to the good part. We must journey into a foreign land! Quite far away from our native France, we arrive in the country of Chile. Why, French isn't even the national language, can you imagine? And yet, we will find something French here, after all. Something we thought buried and put away for a long, long time. Now, those of you who know this story, don't spoil the surprise. Just hold your horses.
There, in Chile, masquerading for 150 years as though a debutante at a very long ball, our Carménère is found alive! In the disguise of Merlot, at that! Of course, the Chileans hadn't noticed. Why should they recognize a French ghost, who happened to look almost identical to their well established Merlot grapes? And however did it get there?! It was quite a journey. In fact, not only had our precious grape been mistaken for Merlot in Chile, but she was later found hiding in Italy, too! She had found a way to survive. Of course, things like ships and men certainly helped, mind you. And the adequate growing conditions in these foreign climes, they also certainly played a role.

But what's important is that the sun had not set on our Carménère, after all. The promise of days to basque in the light and warmth, bearing fruit of the most succulent nature, was sound. What was once lost, had now been found.

Carménère is thriving in Chile to this day, and grows in a small part of Italy, too. Even a portion of France still boasts of some vines. And I can't promise anything, but it is whispered that it may be making something of a comeback in Bordeaux in the future. We shall see. For now, it is time to sip and dream, dream and sip. Take in the flavors and aromas of the most romantic grape, with the most romantic story of them all.

The end. Fin. El fin.

But wait! I wouldn't be a very good storyteller if I didn't give you something to think about for tomorrow. I suggest you savor these affordable Carménères while you ponder the loss, the rebirth, and the eternal....

Lan Zur, Concha y Toro, Terra Andina.

Seven Questions, Two Languages

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 21 Feb 2008 20:43:00 +0000

In light of blogosphere commaraderie, fellow blogger Mimi, of French Kitchen in America, has passed along a questionnaire. It was in French, originally, but I have followed her example and answered in English. I hope other bloggers(well, anyone really) will join in the exchange. If nothing else, it's a good excuse to procrastinate working on your screenplay (see left).

Le dernier livre que j’ai savouré

Nabokov's Speak, Memory (from which title I derived my username - Drink,Memory). This will be my second reading. Before that, I was reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

Le film qui m’a le plus transportée

There are several films that have changed me by inspiring me to be a filmmaker. All of Truffaut's films, many Eric Rohmer films, and of course Wes Anderson and James Ivory. I love The Golden Bowl and The Remains of the Day. The films that have touched me on a deeply personal level, and that I can relate to most, are Lost in Translation, The Hours, Bed and Board, and The Science of Sleep. As for documentaries, which also have had great impact on my life, I think The Future of Food and Mondovino are legendary.

Le plat que je mets au dessus de tout

A woman in love with food cannot truly answer this question, I think. But as of today, I would have to say a grass fed filet mignon cooked black and blue with pommes frites and creamed spinach. And of course a bottle of Fitou. Or maybe Boeuf Bourgignon. Maybe Oysters Rockefeller...

Mon plus souvenir des 10 dernieres années

My wedding day

L’instant beauté que je préfère

Seeing the sunset over the Paris skyline. Walking through Prospect Park in Fall. Light shining through the bright green veins of the most beautiful bunch of Swiss Chard.

L’endroit où je me sens le plus moi-même

My home in Brooklyn, and the place I go to write, which isn't physical.

Mes petits moments de bonheur

The few minutes of lying in bed when I wake up in the morning, listening to the sound of my husband making coffee, then smelling the wonderful aroma that fills the apartment. The sun setting over the Verrazzano. Drinking wine on the front stoop with my best friend. Drinking wine. The feeling of anticipation before a surprise. A horse's warm breath on my hand. An amazing meal. Listening to a favorite song. When my husband touches my cheek. The aroma of my neighbors cooking. Swimming in the sea. Daydreaming.

Other bloggers: Please let me know if you decide to answer these in reply so I can link to you!

Before a Rain

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 18 Feb 2008 21:41:00 +0000

It was an afternoon of mixed weather and emotions. Warmer air right before a winter rain; the depression of low, heavy clouds born from the false promise of expectation. I sorted through many old photographs and took a few new ones. I sat at my desk to write, and got up again. I opened all the windows, but soon had to close them against a rush of damp wind. There was a sense of urgent waiting.
At last, the rain did come, and somehow lifted my spirits in its wake. I warmed the chill out of the air with a baked comfort dish of egg noodles and English farmhouse cheese, while listening to The National.
Just before that rain, though, I poured the last of a cheap red table wine I'd used in last night's soup. A wine I can't say has any merit at all other than its place in my life when I took a moment to sit by the window and wish it could be Spring. That is all. There is no need to name the label; it would only bring me scorn. It made me appreciate last night's Carmenere, and it bookmarked this day as one where I expected rain, and hoped for better things to follow. I guess we all do, sometimes.

A Little Something for Yourself

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 14 Feb 2008 20:43:00 +0000

So this is St. Valentine's Day, the designated holiday of love and all the frills that go with it, like romantic dinners and lacey lingerie and red paper hearts...or maybe diamonds if you like that sort of thing. It is an occasion for roses and chocolates, and valiant attempts to serve one's wife breakfast in bed whether she wants it or not, and whether she's awake or not. Well, maybe that last bit was too specific. Not that I didn't appreciate the valiant part.

I like Valentine's day enough, though I have to admit that all those sweets make me a little queasy just looking at them, much less eating them. I am fond of a French pastry now and then, but enough is enough. Who eats those boxed confection-esque rubbery things they like to call "chocolates"?? I don't know of anyone, but don't tell Whitman's that.
In fact, if I'm going to eat chocolate it better contain no less than 70% cacao, and not be smite with goo and white sugars and other such nonsense like milk. That's right, I'm a no nonsense kind of girl when it comes to chocolate. I like the hard stuff and I like it raw. Ooh, that was kinky....but you know what I mean. Get yourself or a loved one an Ithica Chocolate Art Bar, or some Scharffen Berger Chocolate, or some of these lovely Dolci.

Better yet, snuggle up with the rich taste of a mouth watering Carmenere. If love wasn't in the air before, it will be when you taste this beautiful red, whose deep flavors practically gush onto your palate and make you forget your own name. Now that's what I call a love for all ages. And if no one rings your bell, so to speak, with a bottle or two...well, there's nothing wrong with doing a little something for yourself. At a wine store near you: Lan Zur Carmenere, Chile, 2005 vintage.

For Now, There is Wine

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 08 Feb 2008 19:19:00 +0000

Some people have suggested that this blog tends toward an air of melancholy. It probably won't help,then, that this post concerns burial grounds. These images were made over the Christmas holidays when my husband and I were on one of our daily cemetery walks. Much of my family now rests there, and thus it has become a typical gathering point, incidental to our holiday time down south.

It is a beautiful cemetery, in fact, and my mother, who is mercifully still among the living, resides nearby and takes her evening constitutionals there. (I use the word 'constitutional' to refer to the most genteel of southern promenades, this being a cemetery in Georgia)

For me, these grounds hold the forgotten moments and unsaid words of people I once knew. Language is essential to life, so now that there are no more words, only the silence of death, it is much like simply not knowing someone anymore - we can no longer communicate. The novel has been read and the writer has stopped writing. When I visit the graves of my father and my grandparents, I can't help but think of all the pages that might have been torn out or maybe never written; added at the last minute or simply misread or misplaced. It is a peculiar feeling. All of the little tombstones are the periods at the end of a single final sentence, black and white and permanent.

If only a comforting hand on the shoulder in the gap of someone's absence, a certain wine, well loved, may remind of us the pleasures of life; art, beauty, enjoying the physical as well as the cerebral.

I remember sipping glass after glass of Montepulciano with my mother, as we talked late into the night.

The table wine enjoyed over a long dinner and big plans.

One day I will have nothing more to say; for now, there is the elixir of life and language; there is wine.

From Poland to Brooklyn, with Love

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 06 Feb 2008 20:42:00 +0000

My husband informed me, in the most diplomatic way, that I was going to have to "cut back a bit" on my"cooking expenditures." Not something a lover of French foods and specialty ingredients likes to hear, to say the least. What, no black truffle oil? No oysters? Well, then I'll starve! (an obvious joke on so many levels) But my love for exotic mushroom blends and rare cheeses was going to have to be put on hold for a while. I was going to have to become more frugal. Just thinking about all of those noodles, those insipid potatoes...it filled me with sadness.

He told me to learn to be happy.

My grandmother left me with what she said were life's essentials: a reliable road map, and a good cast iron skillet. I was beginning to see that she was right. The map reminded me that all I needed to do was a little exploring, and some research. I don't want to sacrifice flavor, and I refuse to sacrifice our health, so I've turned to the past, as I am prone to do, to figure out a gourmet budget.

The first foods that came to my mind were cabbage, onions, and potatoes. Cheap, yes, but they can only take you so far. Where these ingredients did take me, however, was on a walking tour of my local Polish and Russian food stores. I live in an area of Brooklyn that is replete with ethnic diversity, with shops and restaurants to match. Walking south on fifth avenue from 72nd Street, I pass many Middle Eastern stores, Norwegian delis, Italian and Greek grocers and restaurants. I have overlooked, however, the Polish and Russain spots. On a snowy Sunday afternoon, with visions of pierogi in my head, I found them.

The Polish have a way of creating flavorful dishes using inexpensive ingredients. In February, I can't think of a more satisfying meal than a hearty bowl of hunter's stew and black bread with butter. I decided to try the local restaurant, Polonica, to sample some traditional fare before embarking on my own experiments. So, we faced down the cold wind and made it to the tiny eatery on Third Avenue. Inside the yellow warmth of a space that felt like a grandparent's living room, we were greeted by a gracious and friendly customer who offered up his table; an elderly man who was dining alone by the window at a table for four. The crowd was all Polish, so we were the only ones speaking English that night, except for an obliging waiter. We tried the kluski with meat and the Keilbasa, accompanied by a large variety of cabbage salads, sauerkraut, and a side of kasha. Huge portions meant lunch for the next day, and we totaled $26.00 in all. Now that's eating cheap in New York. We'll be back I'm sure, but I wanted to cook this food myself.

Inside a Russain foods store on 84th street, I discovered jar after jar of pickles, and an array of smoked fish. There were potato pancakes, cabbage salads and beets, kasha (buckwheat grains) and traditional rye bread. I rediscovered the pierogi, and found a nice selection of kefir. At the counter, pre-made ground chicken patties, sauerkraut-filled dumplings, and potato cakes smelled delicious. The kind man who ran the shop explained each item, and I wanted to sample them all (and did). Once home, having spent half of our average grocery bill, I set to making pierogi filled with mushrooms and cabbage, and others with potatoes and cheese. It's a wonderful fast food to have on hand, so I made a lot of them for the freezer. That evening, I broke out my grandmother's iron skillet. Sticking to the basics, I made a simple but savory dish of stewed cabbage, mushrooms, and onions with a large helping of another culture's invention: Middle Eastern Labne, which is a cultured cheese that is basically a cross between sour cream and cream cheese. (The Polish would use sour cream, so I suppose you can substitute, if you must.) It was so rich and satisfying, we were both surprised at how inexpensive and easy it was. Accompanied with an affordable table wine like this one, and maybe a slice of homemade Russian rye bread with nutritious grassfed butter, it is a frugal feast. You know I'm mad about feasts.

Full and delighted with my newfound vegetarian entree, I turned to Richard, 99 cent wine glass in hand. "I wonder what the poor people are doing tonight? Oh, right....that's us."

To make it yourself:

Cut up, just any old way, about a half a head of green cabbage. Dice two large portabella mushrooms or any variety you like, so that you have about a cup full. Slice a large yellow onion. Put the vegetables into a cast iron skillet if you want to add a small amount of iron to your food, or if not, use stainless steel. Add any fresh herb you like, but I prefer a few sprigs of thyme. Using at least a tablespoon of butter, sautee until soft, adding sea salt to taste. When the vegetables are cooked to your satisfaction, serve with a large dollop of labne, creme fraiche, or sour cream. Goes well with rye bread and a healthy spread of grassfed (local if possible) butter. Serves 2 adults.

Coq Au Vin Fit For A... Mouse

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 30 Jan 2008 15:40:00 +0000

We stayed up later than usual, watching Truffaut's first masterpiece, The 400 Blows, and sipping Black Box Merlot (which is a stable everyday red, and most economical.) I had been intermittently tip-toeing into the kitchen to investigate a noise, which is probably why I still don't know why the number of blows was 400.

Initially, I suspected the faint sounds I heard were nothing more than something settling in the sink - the only remains from the delicious Coq au Vin I made earlier. Well, it wasn't. The noise maker was not a soiled copper pot or a soaking bowl. It was the tiny brownish-grey cousin of a previous house guest.

Regular readers may well remember the notorious and late Mr. Jingles. He is not to be confused with this mouse, however, who has absolutely no drive or ambition and is the shame of the Jingles family name. He shall remain nameless until it can be solidly concluded that there is in fact a familial connection.

I know why he came, though, and it wasn't just to frighten me into the safe haven of the divan, too scared to let my feet dangle. It wasn't just to remind me that no matter how high and mighty I think I am, what with my fancy French cafe au lait bowls, that I still live in Brooklyn. And so do a few mice.

But really, the main reason for this lesser cousin's visit was that I jinxed myself. I announced, "I am making a Coq au Vin that is going to change the world. This Coq au Vin will be so scrumptious even the mice will come out of the woodwork when they smell it." Ha ha. Ha. Ha. Well, I brought it on myself.

I suppose I can't blame him. The aroma that wafted out of the kitchen was too much of a temptation for any man, let alone a little mouse.

This is the way you do it. Coq au Vin sans mouse:

Gather a nice bird such as a capon, rooster, or organic chicken. (I used chicken), several handfuls of fresh thyme, parsley, and bay leaves, a pound of wild mushrooms (or whatever you find and like), 12 to 16 ounces of organic bacon, unsalted butter, sea salt, chicken stock, flour, a bottle of cheap red wine, and Brandy.

Rinse and pat dry the bird, then cut it into pieces, taking care not to mangle it like I did the first time I butchered a bird. Cut into pieces, separating the legs, thighs, wings, and breasts. Set gizzards aside. Save the spine and any bones, fat, or meat for later, when you make a soup.

In a large pot, brown the meat in about 2 tablespoons of butter with skin on, until all sides are a light golden hue. Remove and place in bowl. Rub with sea salt and black pepper.

Add the bacon to the pot and cook until done, then put the chicken pieces back in the pot.

Add the ¼ cup of Brandy. Make sure your sleeves are out of the way and your hair is tied back, and light a match just over the liquid. A flame will shoot up, and eventually die down. Watch in amazement.

Add the bacon and gizzards, bouquet garni (the herbs, tied together), red wine, and cover with chicken stock so that all the meat is submerged. (average 2 cups). Bring to boil, lower the heat to med low and cover. Let simmer for about an hour for a chicken, or up to 2 hrs for a larger bird.

In a small bowl, mix together a few tablespoons of butter and about a 1/4 cup of flour. Add this paste to the pot to thicken the sauce, leave off the lid, and let it cook down a bit. You may need to add a bit more flour, little by little, if it isn't thick enough for you. I put about 1/2 cup of spelt flour when all was said and done.

Saute the mushrooms in butter, and when the dish is ready to be served, ladle them on top of each serving.

Check for a mouse.

Demi Tasse to Wine Glass

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 24 Jan 2008 01:03:00 +0000

I am both a morning and an evening person. I always seem to miss seeing the sun rise, but I enjoy those hours shortly after; fresh hours of anticipation before the sun makes it to his noon perch, changing soft, subtle light into a full spectrum that reveals all. (I am not an afternoon person. It must be the unfavorable lighting.) Mostly, I love morning because I love my morning coffee. And coffee belongs to the morning. Afternoon and evening coffee drinkers just don't know enough about wine, or they would realize there is a time for everything under the heavens. For me, that means coffee in the morning, espresso in the afternoon, and wine in the evening. (note: wine is allowed to break all rules of time, obviously.)

Time is of the essence, but so are the coffee beans. My mother suffers from chronic coffee deprivation, as she can't seem to get a good cup. She waits for a visit from me, and does all of her coffee drinking then. It isn't that she can't grind beans or use a French press. It isn't lack of skill, or pixie dust. Good coffee is made from beans that are of good quality and have been roasted very recently (same day or at least the same week) and preferably, locally. This preserves freshness of flavor. Basically, you aren't going to find it at Starbucks or your local grocer. I've yet to find beans fresher, tastier, or more artfully rendered than the ones I purchase at Oren's, but Gorilla Coffee is a close second, and because it's close by it is the coffee I drink daily. Read more on the Oren's web site if you want a short education in achieving optimal flavor, and how to properly grind the beans. They know what they're doing. I am a mere consumer. As for the brew method, I prefer a thermal French press made by Bodum, but I have been known to enjoy a good percolator.

Next, the pouring of the cup. For me, it's nothing but the coffee and whole milk from Ronnybrook Dairy. Less than whole fat milk makes the coffee weak and dreary, and half and half or cream is too strong. Whole, creamline milk is just right. It is simply divine, and it has become so integral to my coffee drinking that when I can't have this milk, from this dairy, I just drink my coffee black. All other milk is the equivalent of water for chocolate.

After an interval of less than optimal light, we reach the late afternoon, when it is surely a good thing to sip a little afternoon pick-me-up known as the espresso. I can't afford a good machine, so a good second choice is to make a stovetop version, Italian style. I own a Brikka, and have had nice results as long as I buy fresh espresso ground specifically for a stovetop machine. It's easy to use, and fills the brief moment of time when the New York city skyline warns that the day is already over again by 4:30, and rush hour is among us. Yes, the espresso will do wonders for barreling down subway stairs at 6:00, or stealing cabs from slowpokes. And then of course there is always that mad rush from subway door to stairs coming out of the station, because if you aren't one of the first ones out (and I always am) you'll be forced to move sardine-like up the stairs, some one's rear much too close for comfort.

All of this caffeine has made me thirsty for a glass of red. After all, I am an evening person, too...

Sweet Orange Queen

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 04 Jan 2008 18:32:00 +0000

The Persimmon. Bright orange queen of winter fruit, and abundant all season long. I eat them like candy in December and January, and I couldn't resist photographing my recent afternoon delights. The persimmons in the photo are of the Fuyu variety, which I prefer for their firm skin and rotund shape. I know, it all sounds very sexy.

I'm sure they're full of vitamin C and supply a healthy dose of lycopene, much like tomatoes do. But I just love them for their taste and their looks...it's a rather shallow relationship, I must admit. I know there are other fruits in winter, like figs and clementines, and a few apples, but I can't imagine why anyone would eat them when Persimmons are around. In fact, I would consider such a person to be mad as a March hare, two months early.

Persimmons can be made into fanciful desserts and drinks, but a person of sound mind and appreciation for the sweet orange queen of winter knows to bite right into the succulent flesh and enjoy. I would say more, but you get the picture.

Mulled Over (Again)

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 05 Dec 2007 18:02:00 +0000

I have a way of not being able to let things go. My husband (pictured at left) hates this quality, and feels it is bad for my health. I often replay the past, and mull over all of the what if thens and the way we were, thens. I remember them all. They are like my secret candy.

Sometimes, though, my husband enjoys my mulling, as long as it involves an element of vindication.
I have an excellent recipe for that.

Lately, I've run into a string of bad luck with discount table wines and past grievances among friends. Yet, I can't bear to let them simply drift back into oblivion. I want to make my experiences worthwhile. They are part of my past, and therefore part of my identity.

I have poured out a disappointing Pinot Noir into a copper pot. To that pot I add a handful of cloves, a cinnamon stick, some sugar, star anise, a tangerine peel, and a few shots of Brandy. A perfect mulled over concoction, its warmth is encouraging on a snowy day. The wine won't go to waste, and it may even be redeemed in what my husband calls the Persistence of Memory -of Memoree, he means. A little forgiveness, when mixed with time and patience, goes a long way.

The Day Before December

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 29 Nov 2007 19:55:00 +0000

On this day, I walked among gold and orange trees, and knew that I would soon miss the Fall. In the evening I drank a Cotes du Rhone from Avignon, that Provencial town of my early twenties. It was a Kermit Lynch selection I happened upon while browsing the shelves of a small wine shop near the park. The wine was captivating and elegant with musty earth, and also slightly wild, making me wrought with nostalgia.

Mr. Lynch probably understands that he bridges a vast ocean between Southwestern France and the palates of American French wine lovers. I'm certain he is well aware that he induces dreams of rusticity along cobblestone streets; olive trees and horses grazing in rough terrain. He must know, since it is impossible not to be awash in all of these visions when you open a bottle of a Kermit Lynch wine. He is the bridge that makes it possible to cross the Atlantic on a ship of dreams, and taste the essence of a certain place.

But he may never know that he is also the bridge between me and a former version of myself. A self that I can nearly see when I taste a certain Rhone wine. But like a dream, this vision of me is always out of reach, as though my eyes are half closed against a bright sun that obscures the trees and makes a haze of color from yellow leaves. I long to hold onto this glimpse into my past; embrace it and linger for a while. I want to take the Mediterranean and the apartment with the heavy wooden door and the blue coat I wore and bottle them, too, before they slip away. In the present, it is the last day of November. Time is persistent, so I must be content with my memories. Just a taste of then, until the bottle is empty. It will have to be enough.

Capon and Pinochle

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 28 Nov 2007 21:13:00 +0000

I meant to post this last week, but Thanksgiving was not so long ago. This year, my husband and I hosted the holiday for the first time. We were a small gathering of four, and not one of us were related. It was a beautiful thing, not being relatives on Thanksgiving. It was relaxing, entertaining, and a joyous occasion. Thus far in time and in my memory, it was the best.
My husband did more cooking than I did, somehow, impressing us with Brussels sprouts cooked with pancetta, herbs, mushrooms, and chicken stock. But it was I who cooked the capon! Of course, my ex was attending, and he assumed the capon was a subtle comment on the men in my life (a capon, if you aren't informed, is a castrated male) . Touche. But still, this bird was an excellent choice for the four of us. Not too big, not too small, with leftovers for soup the next day. It was moist and flavorful despite not having been brined., and I'm beginning to think brining may be overrated. I simply salted the rooster well, tucked a fair amount of local butter under the skin, and doused him with fresh rosemary, sage, and thyme. I stuffed the inside with a simple stuffing and more herbs, and added a sprinkling of juniper berries.

For the wine: we had a pinot blanc with our pre-dinner cheese platter, brought by our new friend, who is either a. a pure genius and a cheese savant b. psychic, and therefore knows I love triple cream goat cheese and parmesan more than any other cheeses, especially procured from Murray's or d. has good taste and is dating my ex, who shares my fondness for certain cheese plates. I bet you'll never guess.

We moved on to the reds with Masciarelli Montepulciano, an old Italian friend I used to buy by the case...and didn't realize I had missed so. After a nice long walk to the water, we were pleasantly surprised by a sweet potato pie that was brought by Fresh Direct. Sauternes was sipped, but being us, when we moved into the pinochle game, many more bottles of red wine were opened and consumed.

I'd like to say we were all winners at the end of the evening, though Fate dealt me too many low cards. At least the food, wine, and company were all excellent, and I assure you the only castrated member of the party was stuffed and nestled in a pot, still warm.

The Dirty Seven

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 27 Nov 2007 21:53:00 +0000

The WGA strike drags on, and it is a David and Goliath battle for writers. In this case, Goliath has mutated into a network of money-lusting tyrants. And it isn't just about writers anymore. This strike is about everyone who works for a living, really. It is a demonstration by a group of people who are standing up for what's right, even though it means they may have to suffer for it right now. It is a reminder that we live in a capitalist society, and sometimes capitalism gets out of hand. It is a simple call for justice. It is humanity, united, pointing to the truth. Think about this: millions of people are supporting the writers in this strike. It is a mere handful of men at the very top who don't want to share. That should put things into perspective. Look up the word GREED and you'll find this list of names:

News Corp

Time Warner

Disney

Viacom

General Electric

CBS

Sony

The Pen is Mightier, But the Writer Still Gets Screwed

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 16 Nov 2007 16:20:00 +0000

Where there is a person with ideas, talent, and a way, there are always going to be hundreds of more people waiting to capitalize grossly, (and I do mean grossly) from those ideas, exploit talent (and often claim it as their own), and do everything in their power to make the way that much more difficult, if not impossible - unless they happen to be pocketing most of the profits.

That is the way the world turns. Writers have for a long time been undermined, taken advantage of, and undervalued in the Hollywood system. But it doesn't end there. It's pretty difficult to be a writer at all these days. Even film writers in the indy world are never credited the way a director is. After throwing much of your soul into a script for months or even years, it is all too often unrecognizable once it hits the screen. So, creative interests aside, writers should at least be paid fairly. But it is usually the producers and the studios who profit handsomely from the work of writers. Why do we do it at all?

We write because we are writers, and that's what writers do. But we don't have to write as victims, silenced by the voices of studios and unfair contracts. It's time we write our own contracts, and make our own deals. The strike in progress is a simple attempt to be paid a fair percentage of what big execs are reaping from writers' work. I am brimming with pride that writers are standing up for themselves. As an aspiring screenwriter, it gives me hope that maybe these writers will make a difference, bring change to the studio system, and pave a smoother road for the next generation.
Show your support here: WGA.ORG

My Favorite Mistake

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 13 Nov 2007 22:37:00 +0000

My favorite mistake made by my grocer, that is. This week my trusted source for game birds accidentally replaced my pheasant with a beautiful pair of Hudson Valley Moulard breasts, aged seven days and vacuum sealed to lock in their succulent flavor. At first I was angry at this thoughtless mistake. I wasn't in the mood for duck, even if it was a Moulard. But I am a reasonable customer (most of the time) and decided not to cause too much of a fuss. I kept the misplaced duck and together with my husband, we made one of the best dishes of magret de canard au poivre I have eaten in years. I plucked bits and pieces from a few recipes I scavenged online, and winged the rest. The amazing result is detailed below.

1. Begin with the breasts of a Moulard. Rinse and pat them dry, and let them come to room temperature (no longer than 30 min).

2. Score the fat with a sharp knife, down to just where the meat begins and the fat ends. Score the fat all over. This is very important, so don't skip this step. Next, brush a thin layer of olive oil on both sides, and season generously with sea salt and coarse black pepper.

2. In a heavy skillet (iron is best) sear the breasts skin side down. This takes from 5 to ten minutes. The fat should be drained off into a separate bowl as it becomes rendered. Do this, pouring off the fat, until the skin is dark brown and crisp to the touch. Save the fat.

3. Turn the meat over so that the skin is facing up, and put into a 400 degree oven for about five minutes, or less if the meat isn't very thick. Don't overcook! You should be able to see blood.

4. This is crucial: allow the meat to rest. Remove it from the iron skillet and put it on a board or plate so that it doesn't continue to cook. It may be loosely covered with foil if you like, while you make the sauce.

For the au poivre sauce:

1. While the duck is resting, melt some good quality unsalted butter in a sauce pan. About 1 to two tablespoons, depending on the amount of sauce you want. I use 2.

2. Add to the butter a handful of peppercorns, two tablespoons (or a bit more if you like) of the rendered duck fat, and about 2 to 3 tablespoons of Brandy. Let it just come to a boil so that most of the alcohol cooks off.

3. Lower the heat and add heavy creme. I don't measure, but I add about 1/4 cup or less. Let the color be your guide. you don't want a milky taste. If you add too much, add more Brandy, fat, and butter and reboil. If you have to substitute half and half, you can add a pinch of flour at the end to thicken.

4. Add a pinch of salt to taste.

Slice the breasts thinly, at an angle. Some blood will run off, and you want to add this blood to the sauce, stirring well. Place the meat on plates for service, then pour the sauce over the meat, and serve with seasonal greens. I like mixed greens like chard, Tuscan kale, and spinach. Just keep it simple, steaming them together with a bit of the duck fat. You can use the iron skillet for this if you wish, so you don't have to dirty another pan. Add salt and pepper and voila.

Magret from a moulard is exceptionally flavorful, with a slight earthy quality. With a creamy au poivre sauce it is the crown jewel of winter game dishes. I ate this rich, tender meat and slept like a baby, nestled under the cozy down of a different bird.

Enjoy with a good Bordeaux, Syrah, or even a Carmenere. Duck can stand up to full bodied reds, so anything you'd have with a roast will be fine. A Burgundy will bring out the cream sauce. Or, you could even go with a complex, rustic Loire valley or a Languedoc wine. I'll be trying it with them all.

I am suddenly no longer in the mood for pheasant.

A Writer's Strike (a blogger's lament)

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 12 Nov 2007 22:16:00 +0000

As you may already know, WGA writers are on a well substantiated strike at the moment. Apparently, I have been on a strike of sorts myself lately - one that involves not blogging. (Yeah, this is supposed to be a clever joke.)

On the bright side, this means I am devoting more time to a script, and to cooking delicious local foods like magret de canard au poivre and apple and leek hash. Yet, I can't say I don't feel guilty. I have received letters of thanks and compliments from strangers:readers of the blog who actually appreciate me for writing it. And what do I do? I go for weeks without making a proper entry. So, thanks a lot to all of the people who wrote to me in appreciation - thanks for making me feel like a louse; an empty shell of my once content-rich self.

Getting back on track: I have been sampling a multitude of Rhone wines recently, and I continue to find good overall value in 2005 bottles. August (which, by the way, is the best restaurant in the Village, if not all of NYC) has an excellent pick among their well crafted list. It is Costieres et Soleil, Plan Pegau, Laurence Feraud, 2005. A balanced, food friendly, typical Rhone. It is reasonably priced, and worth ordering more than one.

When you do go to August - and you must - try the melt in your mouth venison (not at all gamy)and the savory, heart stopping tarte flambe. When the magazine launches, I will post a link to my review of August in Gotham Digest.

In the meantime, I must get back to writing for the screen. I can't say for sure when I will be able to post again-I am job hunting too, you see. I guess you just can't count on writers to be consistent all the time. But trust me on the venison.