Why I Love Bernal, Part 17

When one lives in a city, it is easy to fall into a routine, much as one falls into a routine anywhere. Well, at least it is easy for me. There have been times when I have simply wanted to come home after work, the initial thrill of exploring new areas of the city having seemingly faded back behind my desire to relax at home with a book, a movie, good food at home with Marina.

But there is still much to see and do in San Francisco, especially when it comes to food and drink. Recently, Marina and I have started talking much more seriously about moving out of the city in the not-too-distant future. There are many factors for this. We both love small towns; Marina has lived in the city for ten years; we would love the space to have a garden; her sister and brother-in-law and nephew are moving to Santa Cruz in November, and her mother will likely follow.

This is still up in the air, but seems a probable destination. In the meantime, it has reinvigorated in me the desire to pay attention to and absorb as much of this city as I can. One project involves writing poems about San Francisco as a means of recommencing poetry as a frequent practice. The other project, more germane to this blog, is the continued experimentation with new bars and restaurants, because everyone likes to read about places to drink and eat.

We live in a corridor rich in food and drink, much of which I have not yet explored. I've written before about Pi Bar, Emmy's Spaghetti Shack, Specchio, and a few other places in the Valencia/Mission district, but this barely scratched the surface of our options.

Recently, a cocktail bar opened literally down the hill from us, right at the corner where Mission meets Valencia. The Royal Cuckoo took over the premises abandoned by a prior dive bar named Belinda's. As you enter the long, narrow room, you see a bar dominating the right wall, with shelves of liquors and mixers illuminated and glittering in contrast with the overall dim light. It is relatively dark in The Royal Cuckoo, but it isn't the I-can't-see-to-whom-I'm-talking-or-what-I'm-drinking dark, but the relax-and-savor-a-cocktail dark. Benches and chairs line the left wall, alternating with small wooden tables with short lamps. In the back--and this is a cool feature--instead of a jukebox, there is a list of records--by which I mean vinyl records--that you can peruse and turn in a request to the bartender. The scratchy sounds of a record player add a certain character to the music that blends perfectly, somehow, with the emphasis on cocktails over beer or wine.

There is a mellow vibe, with the red paint of the walls and the dark mahogany of the bar giving a warm feeling, although the second time we went there, on Friday night, it was somewhat busier than the first time, which was on a Wednesday night. People may be starting to discover the place, or maybe it was just a weekend phenomenon. I had delicious brandy sidecars on both visits. Marina tried one of their specialty cocktails, the red margarita, which was smooth and tasty.

On Friday night, after the cocktail at The Royal Cuckoo, we spontaneously decided to eat at El Patio, kitty-corner from the bar, and still just down the hill from home. I have walked past the place for years, but had never eaten there. It specializes in Salvadorean and Mexican food. I was keen on trying proper pupusas, as my only prior experience had been with the pupusas we bought from Whole Foods. We ordered cheese pupusas, a plate of flautas, garlic prawns, Coronas and corn chowder--which was so sweet and tasty that I could understand why some people have it for dessert. The pupusas were satisfying, loaded up with coleslaw and salsa. (The Mexican version of Judge Judy was on TV, which was fascinating to try to guess what the plaintiffs were complaining about so vociferously. I'm able to catch a few words in Spanish here and there--for instance, I was able to figure out fairly quickly that Marina had ordered the entrees for us--but for the most part, Mexican television is a mystery to me, as my ears don't work fast enough--the same holds true while watching a Mexican soccer game.)

Overall, I enjoyed the meal, although the light felt a little bit harsh against the white stone walls. It could be it is a place better to eat at during the day, when the shade might be a comfort against the sun, or the outside light from the window moderates the need for the overhead lights. I would definitely go back for the corn chowder or the pupusas, although the rest of the food didn't seem vastly superior to Puerto Alegre, which has a much cozier atmosphere.

Whiskey Or Whisky? Whatever Fills Your Tumbler.

From time to time, Marina and I have injected our food education with a little amateur mixology, because what's food without a good cocktail or a shot of something? Last year, for instance, on one of our most brilliant dates, Marina surprised me with a town car ride out to the Cliff House at Sutro Baths to attend a mixology mix-off between four bartenders from four of the hottest cocktail bars in the city. Think Battle of The Bands, but with cocktail shakers instead of electric guitars.

Yes, perhaps this could be considered in the vein of Nero fiddling while Rome burns, but hey, with a good cocktail, the burning of the city just looks festive. And there's nothing wrong with applying a little erudition to things one likes. Look at High Fidelity. No, seriously, look at it, if you haven't. Great film, especially with a glass of something.

In the spirit--so to speak--of educating ourselves, we signed up for a Whisky Primer class at 18 Reasons, the local food/drink education center of the Bi-Rite Market. It was taught by Peter, the author of a terrific blog, The Casks.

Here's an amazing thing: if you put twenty or twenty-five people around a long wooden table for a class, and then add samples of five different whiskeys, the class loosens up rather quickly. Who knew?

As an example, compare one of the notes I wrote at the beginning of the class--"single malt-only barley, made in one distillery"--with some other examples I wrote at the end--"you can spell it whisky or whiskey; they won't punch you in the face either way" and "when I win the lottery, we will take a Scotch tour. In Scotland."

Here are some of the other fascinating things we learned:

--To be called bourbon, it must be aged two years in a brand new barrel made from charred American oak. This isn't necessarily because of a scientific need for new barrels each time, but because the cooper's union wanted it so, which guarantees a lot of work for barrel-makers. Yes, coopers have their own union, which I think is just terrific.

--As whiskey matures and ages, as atmospheric conditions change and the wood of the barrel expands and contracts, a bit of the spirit evaporates, which is called "the angel's share." Don't tell me that's not brilliantly poetic. No wonder writers drink.

--Scotch from the Isla region is aged for at least 10 years in ex-bourbon casks on the beach--now you know where the bourbon barrels are sent by the coopers. How picturesque is that? I'll tell you: 8.77 out of 9.

Here are my (obviously subjective) impressions and descriptions of the five whiskeys we sampled. We had them in pairs, the first two, the third and fourth, and then capped with the fifth:

1) Eagle Rare 10 Year Old Bourbon
--Spicy and hot, sweet on the front of the tongue, spicy on the back of the tongue. The taste and the heat of it lingered the longest of any of the samples--although that could be that my taste buds dulled as more and more whiskey washed over them. Water mellowed the kick of it by quite a bit.

2) Sazerac 6 Year Old Rye Whiskey
--The difference with rye from bourbon? Much more rye, and I could taste it. I tasted rye bread, olives, and onions, and the phrase "Deli Whiskey" came to mind. Heavier on the tongue, and I preferred the bourbon.

3) Powers 12 Year Old Irish Whiskey
--This was the only triple-distilled whiskey. The rest were double-distilled. As a result, it was purer, lighter, and mellower. It had a light and fruity taste, and was probably my favorite of all we sampled. All the more reason to travel to Ireland some day, perhaps as an addendum to that Scotch tour.

4) Balvenie 12 Year Old Doublewood
--From a family owned distillery from the Speyside region of Scotland, matured first in ex-bourbon casks, then in sherry casks. The family does everything but farm the barley. Someone shouted out that it tasted like chocolate, which totally influenced my reaction, which was akin to reading the Introduction to a classic novel, which I never do. Oh well. (You can see the loosening up of the tone of my notes at this point, can't you?) It was warm, coiling up in the throat like a dragon, and mellowed well with water.

5) Laphroaig 10 Year Old Scotch Whisky
--This is the one matured in casks on the beach, which makes it famous for "pungent, maritime tones." I think this is the brand served at Ben's wedding. It is smoky, powerful, with a taste of peat. It was paired with a piece of dark chocolate, and I loved that, which says a lot, because I am generally not a fan of dark chocolate, which is usually too bitter for my liking.

All in all, it was a wonderful evening, very informative, and intoxicating--intoxicating in the sense of knowledge gained, I mean, and the accompanying sense of power. What did you think I meant?

A Dark And Stormy Vegetable Night

6:30 p.m. Night had fallen on San Francisco. The truck was parked on a side street in the Dogpatch, a block away from the Hell's Angels Clubhouse, merchandise stacked up in big bags on the curb, shadowy people checking off names from a list on a clipboard. Cars were parked helter-skelter as people braved the darkness to get their fix . . . of farm-fresh vegetables.

We were buying a mystery bag of vegetables from a small, organic family farm near Watsonville, Mariquita Farm. This is not the first time we have dabbled in Community Supported Agriculture, which is a growing trend--so to speak--where you can subscribe to a certain farm and receive regular deliveries of fresh vegetables. We signed up for one briefly last year, but the trouble was, the boxes were so full of vegetables, and not always perfectly fresh vegetables, that we were barely able to make a dent in the harvest before it spoiled. [Marina: This time we took advantage of the farm's one-off winter "mystery box" offers through their Ladybug Buying Club. Unlike our previous CSA foray, this time everything was super fresh, with heirloom varieties to boot.]

The bag was as big as my torso, and while my workouts may tend to focus more on stationary bike work and sit-ups, that is still saying something. The challenge we faced was what to make with all these vegetables, preferably something more interesting than just making a gigantic salad. It was a rather daunting task, to be sure. [The impressive quantity of veggies combined with limited time for freshness wasn't the only challenge. There were more than a few legumes that we couldn't even identify with confidence. Granted, iceberg lettuce was one of the few veggies on offer during my childhood - but Devin was equally stumped. Thankfully the farm provided an online list of "mystery box" contents, and eventually we identified all of the mysterious greens. The farm also kindly proffered recipes for less common items, and informed blog with veggie wisdom.]






Now, clearly there could be good salads made from the ingredients that included two kinds of radicchio, gem lettuce, onions, scallions, parsnips, beets, chard, sorrel, and cabbage, but what were we to do with the sizable heads of broccoli romanesco and two pounds of potatoes? In my past, I've often bought potatoes and cauliflower and broccoli and started out eating them enthusiastically, only to lose interest and find a bag of said vegetable months later in less than stellar condition.

The trick, clearly, was to trick other people into eating their vegetables. We invited my sister, Marina's cousin Seth, and Seth's girlfriend Amber for dinner. As it turned out, we also tricked Rosie by putting her to work with us in an elaborate preparation that turned out quite well.

We settled on a gratin dish with the romanesco, potatoes, cheese, panko bread crumbs and a sauce made of sauteed onions, chicken broth, and flour. The mere fact that we were cooking something with the word "gratin" in it made me feel very accomplished. [Our ultimate creation was a mash-up of Epicurious recipes, farm recipes, and my vaguely-remembered experience making bechamel sauce in Spain for gratin-like dishes. Bechamel, I was reminded, can be a great way to simulate creaminess with a relatively low amount of fat.]













The pictures above show a step-by-step review of the dish coming together, skipping the actual mixing of the broth, onions and flour, and sparing you the picture of boiling potatoes, which as earthy as it sounds, is not exactly an artistic photo when it isn't set in some homely country cottage hard on a choppy sea.

It was actually quite easy, with enough hands at the battle stations. We put down a layer of broccoli romanesco, then slices of potatoes, with salt and pepper, scattered cheese, panko, and half of the sauce spread liberally over the top. We then repeated that layer, and shoved the whole thing in the oven, and after about half an hour, voila! We produced the crisply golden-brown dish pictured above.

We must have done something right, because at the end, when I offered to split the last little portion of the dish with someone, Seth took me up on it. You don't ask for seconds if you don't like the dish.

Now if we can just figure out what to do with the parsnips.

Chile Nights in New Mexico: Taos

The town plaza in Taos is approximately one half the size of the plaza in Santa Fe. Consequently, the blog about food in Taos will be about one half the size of the blogs about Santa Fe. Symmetry like that is the hallmark of high literature. I'm just saying.



The Monday night we drove into Taos was chilly and clear. We were staying with Marina's mother's ex-husband Jeff, who drove us in to the downtown for dinner, where we went to the historic Taos Inn to dine at the Adobe Bar. It was a small room, white walls and timbered-ceilings, just off the lobby of the Inn. We arrived before the start of an open-mike night, so we got a table easily.

It was good, trusty bar food. I had the burrito with chicken, because it was New Mexico. To drink, I had a beer. Obviously.

While I can't say it was the best I've ever had, that is not to say I didn't enjoy it. The simplicity of a burrito makes it wonderful. You know what to expect. It's like fast food in that consistency, yet still being actual food--and yes, I support the ban on toys in Happy Meals in San Francisco (note the ban only applies to Happy Meals that don't feature fruits and vegetables, which is not too much to ask). McDonalds is not food. McDonalds is inane and stupid cultural drivel that makes us fat and unhealthy.

Plus, a burrito is just so nicely contained. It's like a sandwich, but without a crust.

A burrito and beer in New Mexico on a Monday night. It just fits.

And on the Tuesday morning of our departure, I took a stand. I had been avoiding all the traditional traveling favorites of mine this whole trip in favor of what seemed more authentically New Mexican. On Tuesday morning, I said, "Let there be french toast," and there was french toast, Cinnamon Swirl French Toast, and it was really, really good.



As they say, a picture is worth a thousand words, so I will leave it on that note, a picture of perfectly delightful french toast on a Tuesday morning. Marina and I were eating with a charming woman named Jimmy, an old friend of Marina's mom, and the three of us had Doc Martin's restaurant--back at the Taos Inn--pretty much all to ourselves. It was a cold but sunny morning that seemed to epitomize New Mexico for me, stark blue sky above sandy adobe walls.

I had coffee, of course.

Chile Nights In New Mexico: Santa Fe, Part Two

It was once said of Hamlet:
"[t]hough this be madness, yet there is method in it." Something similar can be said of New Mexico: "Though this be desert, yet there are bagels in it." Sunday morning, we breakfasted at Linda's boyfriend David's apartment, where there was delicious hickory-flavored Cafe du Monde coffee from New Orleans and a cornucopia of bagels from Bagelmania. In a just universe, you can't call your restaurant Bagelmania without being a maniac about bagels, and bagel maniacs tend to produce good bagels.

Fortunately, this is a just universe, or at least it is just when it counts: at breakfast. There was lox, peppers, onion, different forms of cream cheese, some with scallions--I think that's what it was, but I could be wrong. In any case, it was delicious. [Marina: It should be noted here that my friend Linda is from New York, and like all good New Yorkers, knows how to do bagels right, with the full spread. There was a Green Chile bagel flavor in deference to our presence in Santa Fe, and it might have been quite good, but the notion offended my classist bagel tendencies. I have always taken bagels seriously, by the way. I'm the girl who doggedly searched most of Europe in the 90s for a decent bagel, before Europe was finally bagel-vangelized this past decade.]

Also, we nearly convinced David's children that pumpernickel bagels taste like chocolate. I've never been clear on what exactly pumpernickel is. Once I stopped confusing it with the Scarlet Pimpernel, I was left with the impression that it tastes like pumpkin or liverwurst. I'm pretty sure it doesn't.

SUNDAY AFTERNOON:

After a sojourn north to the Pojoaque reservation to watch a local tribe celebrating the Feast Day of the Virgin of Guadalupe, a fascinating blend of native dancing and costumes with Catholic imagery and sprays of pine needles, we met two of Linda's friends at a BBQ bar named Cowgirl in Santa Fe.

To go with a delicious nut brown ale from Santa Fe Brewery, I chose an appetizer of Chicken Wang Dangs, thereby violating my lifelong principle of preferring to have my tongue ripped out rather than eating anything called "Wang Dang." They were quite greasy and hot, and I couldn't finish them, but they were totally acceptable, although as always with chicken wings, I couldn't help but feel like I was leaving food behind because of the meat that stuck to the bones. You never get as much food as you think you will, because you always forget about the bones until you take your first bite. [I had the posole, which is New Mexican stew with hominy, and the hearty and spicy dish was perfect for a California low-lander adjusting once again to the high altitude, cold and wind of northern New Mexico.]

The waiter, dressed in jeans and flannel, kept coming over to ask, "Who's ready for another whiskey?" As no one was drinking whiskey, that is apparently a standard Santa Fe greeting. I think I could love this town.

SUNDAY NIGHT, PRE-PRANDIAL DRINK:

Prior to meeting Linda and David for dinner, Marina and I wandered around the twisting, narrow side streets off the plaza in Santa Fe, past the cute yet pricey shops, until, like Odysseus without the benefit of being lashed to the mast with a crew with their ears plugged with wax, we heard the siren call of The Matador [or as Devin is too nice to say, I dragged him down there. One can only endure so much tasteful art, adobe architecture and wide-open, big-sky landscapes for so long in a single day.]:





























The Matador, a (literally) underground punk bar in Santa Fe, was appealingly dark and grungy, with one narrow bar and no tables. Clearly, the only thing to do was order shots of Patron silver tequila, which arrived in pint glasses. If that's not edgy and awesome, I don't know what is. However Linda later pointed out that a New Yorker who spent time in real punk rock clubs, the Matador is not a totally legit punk bar, because all the tattered posters on the wall for concerts were neatly framed. Still, salt, lime, tequila, on a cold December evening. You can't argue with that. Plus, the bartender gave us our drinks and then totally ignored us. See? Edgy.

SUNDAY NIGHT DINNER AT MARIA'S

What do you get when you go to a restaurant that has been running since the 1950s and literally wrote the book on great margaritas? Brilliant sopapillas, obviously. Yes, the margaritas were excellent, and they offered a great price on a 3-tequila flight [one silver, one reposado, one anejo. I enjoyed getting schooled by David who offered insights into tequila versus mezcal, and why Patron is over-rated. Oops! My favorite was the reposado.]

Yes, the food was also tasty. [I had the chicken adobo cooked in chile spices, a bit too spicy but quite tasty. Devin had chicken tostados, I was rather impressed at his boldness given I'd always perceived tostado-eaters as advanced.]

But what I remember most are the sopapillas, the light and fluffy pastries drizzled in honey that could put beignets to shame for amazing desserts.


For one thing, they don't have the danger of powdered sugar, and if you don't think powdered sugar is dangerous, you haven't tried eating a beignet under an air conditioning unit going full blast in Fort Collins, Colorado, in the middle of summer. Trust me, you don't want to know what I've seen in my life.

MONDAY BREAKFAST:

On Monday, we were set to drive north to Taos, which I will describe in a later blog. But before we left, we needed a hearty breakfast, which was to be found in the heart of Santa Fe at Cafe Pasqual's. I assume it is the heart of Santa Fe, because it is near the plaza, and because that is the area where I spent most of my visit. If I was there, it must be the heart of Santa Fe.


Words can't do justice to the breakfast burrito I had there.

The first exposure I had to breakfast burritos was in Missoula, when Ben, Vaughn and I would trek twenty yards across an autumnal walkway on campus to Mama Zoola's, where we would order hot bundles of scrambled eggs, hash browns, and onions, which, when seats were not available there, we would port back across the way to Knowles Hall, tracking muddy water and crumpled leaves into the lobby.

Now picture that brilliance infused with a kick of chile, wrapped in a tortilla seared ever so slightly, and you get this:



The other reason why I'll always remember Cafe Pasqual's is that it features the world's tiniest bathrooms and hallways. Seriously. There is a main door into a small 'hall', off of which are the doors to each restroom. I almost literally filled up that hall. I felt like Alice in Wonderland, or Gulliver in the land of the Lilliputians. You couldn't open the door to the men's bathroom without having the door to the dining room open at the same time.

As a final Santa Fe culinary note, I went to a local bookstore, bought gifts and a hot chocolate, which I drank on a bench in the wintry plaza on a lazy Monday morning with an accordion player doing his thing. That was quite peaceful and lovely.

Next, on to Taos!

Chile Nights In New Mexico: Santa Fe, Part One

New Mexico, a state slathered in Christmas, desert sun, and colonialism. Marina and I took a trip to Santa Fe and Taos from last Saturday through Tuesday, and saw a lot of all that. But this blog is about food, so we're not going to tell you anything about that other stuff. At least, not here. You'll have to look for my other blog to read about that. Shameless plug? Yes.

But if you were feeling a bit depressed over missing the desert sun shining against colonial buildings where Indians sell intricate artwork, right across the Santa Fe plaza with the monument to "Federal Soldiers who died in battle against Indians," you'll be glad to know I've finally convinced Marina to share her thoughts on our culinary traveling. [Marina: Yes, here I am, at last contributing to a post! New Mexico is a foodie mecca, and I'd been craving another visit for a fix of posole, sopapillas and anything involving chiles, so it was great to be able to introduce Devin's virgin Montana palate to these delicacies.]

SATURDAY LUNCH:

Driving north from Albuquerque (which has a Weird Al Yankovic song named for it but is surprisingly not the capital of New Mexico), we chose to shun the direct route of I-25 and take the Turquoise Trail on a scenic winding route through a resurrected coal-mining town of Madrid--no, pronounced the other way.

There was talk of meeting Marina's friend Linda in 'MAD-rid' at a biker bar, but having woken much earlier than a decent hour, then starved by the delights of air travel, we were way too hungry to wait that long. A bend in the road brought us to the Cedar Point Grill, and we cut across six lanes of traffic to get there. No, there weren't actually six lanes, but we were hungry enough that it felt that way. [I was skeptical, but it was open. Hey, you never know.]

In the middle of nowhere, you run into family-run places like this, which I think is part of why I do love traveling and this country. John Lennon was playing on the stereo when we walked in; the ceiling was decorated with long chains of paper rings like I used to make in school; pictures of Kokopelli decorated the walls. [It was quaint, but not promising for culinary fireworks.]

"Ooo, fish and chips!" I exclaimed, on opening the menu.

"No."

"But . . ."

"No. You can't come to New Mexico and eat fish and chips."

I couldn't find a compelling argument against that theory, so instead I ordered a New Mexico Open Face sandwich, complete with chile and pictured here:


Chiles would be a predominant theme of my meals throughout the trip, which were therefore quite warm. Let's just say that if I had had any sort of head cold or congestion before the trip, it would have been incinerated. [Devin was very brave to at least temporarily give up his fish and chips meme, while I delighted in a well-executed plate of huevos rancheros.]

I've always wondered about the expression open face sandwich. I had this half-formed idea that it meant a sandwich cut in half and presented so that you saw the 'face' of the sandwich instead of the crust, the honest soul of the sandwich turned to the light. As it was, I was perplexed. Can you call it a sandwich if you have to eat it with a knife and fork? But regardless, it was tasty, and the onion rings were surprisingly good.

From there, we drove on to the Mine Shaft Tavern in "MAD-rid." The greatest T-shirt slogan I've seen in some time was there: "We Don't Have A Town Drunk. We All Take Turns." That says a lot about a Tavern that had a bull wearing a Santa hat on one wall and a refurbished coal-mine museum outside. More on this little town--which I think is the best little town I've ever seen and which practically demands a short story collection of its very own--elsewhere. I was beer-thirsty by this point, and the Mine Shaft had a good selection.

I almost selected a beer from Odells in Fort Collins, just because I had been to that brewery and because it wasn't New Belgium--not that New Belgium isn't fabulous. So I chose a local beer, Santa Fe Pale Ale, and I was quite glad I did. As with fish and chips, Denver-area beer was the past, and Marina and Santa Fe beer were the present and are the future. [awww.]

Drinking beer in a New Mexico tavern in the late afternoon while the sun sank towards the bristly hills seemed very apt. I'm not sure in what respect it was apt, but once I figure it out, I'll let you know in a popular short story or poem. In the meantime, just take it as read that it was apt. The point is, I was drinking beer with Marina in New Mexico, and in March we are going to Mexico to see the whales in a lagoon, and it is all perfect and something I would not have done without her, so that is one of the better beers I've ever had, I would have to say.


SATURDAY NIGHT:

We piled in Linda's car and entered the heart of Santa Fe, taking a quick drive past the Christmas-lit Plaza and winding up at the Rio Chama Steakhouse, across the street from the Capitol building.

The building was a cozy labyrinth of white-adobe walls, tan wooden floors and beams, with different dining areas tucked around each corner. We settled in a comfortable bar area, quiet and peaceful on a Saturday, in three big chairs around a table to the side of the fireplace, where we enjoyed appetizers and drinks.



Santa Fe was celebrating a 400th anniversary; it would have been rude of me to decline a margarita in a souvenir pint glass, right? Exactly. It was the perfect pairing with fried calamari, and the capstone to the spicy food from earlier that day. [I had a "margarita old-fashioned" which nicely blended the requisite margarita with the old-school cocktails that I usually prefer.] It was a grown-up, warm place - and a good way to wind down after our travels.

Culinary Landmarks On The Road Of Life

If people question whether I am a sophisticated, big-city adult, I shall look scornfully at them, disdainfully brush invisible dust off of my immaculate shirt-cuffs, and count off the following points in a dramatic-yet-suavely-amused manner:

1) I belong to a wine club;

2) Marina and I have successfully hosted our first Thanksgiving dinner;

3) I can now whisk my own whipped cream, and as God as my witness, I will never use Reddi-Whip again;

and 4) I have baked pumpkin bread all on my own.

I defy you to find anything less than adult and sophisticated about those achievements. See? You can't. And that's because these are all awesome culinary developments.

In order, then, a recap, full of pictures to make you hungry. If I make you hungry, you'll keep reading. That's how I figure it, at any rate. After all, who doesn't love food?

WINING FOR DINING



Whenever we go to Santa Cruz, we stop by the Bonny Doon tasting room to buy a bottle of Calvadoon apple brandy, or better yet, two bottles, because I have a strong taste for the warm fire of golden apple brandy. The last time we went, I was offered a discount if I would sign up for a quarterly wine club. How could I refuse?

Well, obviously I could have refused by saying no, but I didn't choose to.

How could I refuse wine that comes in bottles whose lids feature an alien?

Some would argue that the newsletters that come with the wine are bit much--I couldn't tell you what it means to say that a wine is "fine-boned, lithe and feminine"--but they are fun, the wine is terrific, and the names are great. This most recent shipment featured two bottles of Le Cigare Volant. As the label states, "it is named in honor of the cigar-shaped alien crafts banned from landing in the vineyards of Chateauneuf-du-Pape by decree of the village council in 1954." A wine named for an incident in which a village deemed vineyards worth defying an alien invasion would have to be good!

And the bottle of Le Cigare Volant en foudre that we opened for our home-cooked (or mostly home-cooked) Thanksgiving dinner was certainly as fine-boned, lithe and feminine a wine as I've ever had.

THANKSGIVING DINNER

Thanksgiving has always been a meal cooked by other people. Well, no more! Marina and I organized a successful and small Thanksgiving dinner with my sister and Marina's mom and friend Tim.

It seemed like an intense undertaking until we realized we could order some of the dishes in advance. We ordered a small natural boneless turkey breast roast, mashed potatoes, stuffing and rolls from Whole Foods, which provided a surprising customer service delight. I had an initial problem with the online order changing my requested pickup date from Thanksgiving Day to the day after, which would not be terribly useful. When I called the store, not only was I assured that it wouldn't be a problem to pick it up earlier, but the woman I spoke to reviewed my order and advised that given the type of turkey we ordered, it would be best to pick it up on Wednesday night to allow it to thaw properly in the fridge. And when I went in to pick up the order and get the rest of the ingredients for what we would make ourselves, every employee was cheerful and helpful despite the chaos swirling around them.

The turkey needed to be roasted in the oven. I learned it can be a smattering mess to snip off the netting at the end, and that turkey can take a long time to cook. Overall, though, it turned out quite well. We also had roasted butternut squash--the instructions for which, having said to toss the squash with the other ingredients, gave me only a momentary confusion before I realized it didn't mean to flip the squash up in the air. In addition, there was a salad of green beans and slivered almonds, brandied cranberries, cheeses and salami and olives. Pictures will describe it best. Overall, it was a wonderful day, lasting 8 hours, food, drinking, and Wii-playing in a great big celebratory outburst, in mellow fashion.






All I need to say in addition was that Tim's pumpkin-pecan pie with hand-whipped cream was sublime. Seriously, the best dessert we could remember having.

WHIPPING CREAM

Speaking of hand-whipping cream, after seeing Tim do it, Marina and I wanted to replicate it. When we started, pouring whipping cream into a steel bowl and attacking it with a whisk, we thought we must have neglected something yeasty to solidify it. But we kept at it, tag-teaming the arduous whisking and churning, and all of a sudden, the liquid cream frothed up into something light and foamy and more-or-less solid, without the need of steel cans and propellants and what have you. Very liberating.

PUMPKIN BREAD

Yes, I have learned to bake, too. Okay, it was from a kit, but there was a heck of a lot of mixing involved, especially when the bread mix had to be combined with the oil, water, pumpkin and eggs until it was just moist. I wasn't sure what that meant, so I just kept stirring in portions of the bread until it blended in to the rest of the ingredients. A great workout for the arm, I have to say.

As it was baking, I kept sticking in a toothpick, expecting it to come out clean. I thought this meant absolutely no crumbs or hints of chocolate, until the peanut gallery advised me this was not the case.

I was quite happy with the outcome!