Reflections of a "Private" Chef

So-today is my second day off in the last 5 weeks, outside of one day I took two days after spraining my ankle while trying to watch a late night meteor shower (I took on the nickname "Kankle" for the remaining weeks) . I am relishing being home: I read a magazine with my coffee, ate a proper breakfast~ok, brunch, I didn't get out of bed until 10:45. After 5 weeks and countless hours, I have noticed that the body does not respond the same anymore at 40 that it did at 30!  Summer has turned into fall.

I have mounds of housework to do, as I did not have the good fortune of finding a housekeeper to come help out as I normally do. They never do as good a job anyway. So, I have done the bare minimum, washed my stinky, stale, kitchen smelling clothes, knowing that a few loads a day will whittle the rest away. And I scrubbed my bathroom, and, well, that's about it.

Went yesterday to pick up some essentials, have my filthy car washed, and have my gray roots covered. Hair required a re-do and set my schedule back a few hours. I had to endure incessantly loud, classic rock for 3 1/2 hours, and by the time I left the salon, I thought I might hurt someone. Then, off to Whole Foods. Not much into shopping, an announcement came over the loudspeaker that they were tasting a flight of small production Italian wines. PERFECT!!!! I bellied up to the bar, which was packed with middle aged-elderly men, all jovial and welcoming. I nestled into the middle (upon their urging, of course!), and proceeded to have my glass filled by a very Italian, bohemian/hipster Johnny Depp doppelganger, who also proved to be extremely intelligent, passionate about his wines, and articulate. I ordered a round of olives to share with my ad hoc comrades, and enjoyed a passing moment of feeling "normal" again. After that, I negated to grab some of the very things for which I went there, but did leave with a case of Italian wine. Oh well. What one loses one gains in other ways.

I came home, and the boy next door arrived with a basket full of fresh garden tomatoes and basil, to which we would add my fresh mozzarella. I had a plate of charcuterie, nettle pesto, langoustines, and marinated artichokes. We popped open a bottle of the very Soave I had sampled an hour before. I could not stomach any more California wines after the last month! A lovely evening, the first I've had in many weeks, spent feeling like a normal person, in the quiet, easygoing fellowship of my dearest love.

That being said, I also am going through a bit of withdrawal.  I also created some of my most amazing dishes, pushed myself beyond my perceived physical and mental limits, and had some of the most gut wrenching laughs I've ever had, with my fellow cooks.  We wearily arrived every morning together, despite our puffy eyelids, sore backs, hips & legs, burns, and cuts, and were excited to create our installation art masterpieces over the course of sometimes 16 hour days.  We ate our humble meals together, usually while standing at our cutting boards. One day I had a hot dog and an ale for breakfast! 

Tomorrow, off to the coast. The sound of the waves and being next to the ocean, with no schedule to attend to, will surely continue the mend. Of course, we will pack a cooler!

And so it is. The life of a “private” chef.

Dreamy Weekend...Day Two

The overcast light cascaded gently through the linen curtains.  The faint sound of the ocean in the background hummed rhythmically.  Neither of us stirred, happily cocooned in our bed underneath layers of bedding, which included a Peruvian wool blanket.  Eventually, the Boy slid out of bed and ran a bath in the over sized soaking tub, within the bathroom that is as large as my own bedroom. Over the years it has somehow become "our" custom that I bring the coffee to the Boy while he enjoys his morning soak!  Not that I mind, he adores the pampering, and I well appreciate consistency.  I quietly descended down the stairway, looking forward to a generous full bodied cup of coffee, always done in the pour-over method through very fresh, finely ground espresso roasted beans both from an Italian roaster in San Francisco and one in Fort Bragg-a perfect blend of deep, concentrated flavor, without too much acid. I sipped mine in the comfy chairs of our bedroom's turret, in a relaxed, contemplative mood, perusing the fabulous book on pates and terrines I discovered (which I have subsequently purchased after a long search) .

We went to the kitchen to visit with our friend and to enjoy another cup of joe.  Not long after, it was unanimously decided it was time to have brunch.

I opened a bottle of Cremant de Alsace, while Daniel sliced into generous slabs the lion's mane mushroom we plucked from the tree in my backyard. He drizzled it with his own fresh pressed olive oil, fresh thyme, sea salt and pepper, and put it in the oven to roast to a beautiful golden brown. 
 

To accompany the tasty fungus, he perfectly soft scrambled some eggs, from our own hens, with just a tease of truffled brie. With a simple salad of garden greens, we had made a very satisfying first meal of the day! 
And, we delighted in staying in our lounge wear until well after one in the afternoon!

Finally changing our clothes, we set out for a quick drive to our favorite resale barn, which has everything from meaningless junk to the occasional flow blue china, leaving empty handed this time.  A misty rain had ensued as we made our way onto the wharf in Point Arena, hoping to score some fresh caught local seafood, as we have done many times before.  While we waited for the boats to arrive, we conversed with the local fisherman and met the fish and game officer and his dog.  Soon, the boats arrived-with the first harvest of sea urchin for the season!  Bummer, we could not score any...even more of a bummer, it all goes to Japan!
After returning to the house, we opted for some afternoon yoga and a nap.  Upon awakening, it was time to think about dinner!
We snacked on some thinly sliced Iberico pork~a true treat of perfectly cured tenderloin of boar, fed only acorns.  Along with that, I whipped up a lemon caper aioli to enjoy with some smoked salmon.
Dinner that night was a risotto made with the braised pheasant legs from the night before, and some tiny little, perfectly tender brussels sprouts from the garden. With it, we enjoyed a 2009 Clos de Caillou, and fondly thought how much our french friends that make the wine would enjoy this place, and this dinner.

Reflections of a Dreamy Weekend-Day One

 Like a child eagerly awaiting Santa Claus' arrival, I arose with the dawn to compose the provisions for our weekend respite; a brined wild pheasant given to us by our huntsman neighbor, a voluptuous lobe of foie gras purchased before the recent prohibition, rabbit confit (our own rabbit, of course), a lion's mane mushroom plucked from a tree in my back yard, some rich matsutake pheasant stock made from the bounty of mushrooms we foraged the previous weekend, the last piece of my well aged smoked pork country pate, a crock of homemade duck rillettes, a couple dozen eggs laid by our hens that very morning, a bevy of preserves from our larder, and a few bottles of treasured wines, pulled from deep within the cellar.

Like the above mentioned child, we pulled out of the driveway giddy with anticipation. For the next five days we would be hidden away, nestled on the pacific coast in our dear friend's impeccably restored Victorian manor, with nothing to do but anything we should fancy--which for us is a lot of cooking, drinking, hiking, reading, relaxing, conversing, and romancing-the list being in no particular order!

We embarked on our journey, navigating the winding roads through the dormant winter vineyards, reverently passing though the silent majestic redwoods, eventually entering the cool and briny coastal intermediary. Our first ocean breath found us unencumbered by our tribulations.  We had left them behind, scattered about along the preceding path. Along the stoic coastal precipice we meandered our way north.

Pulling in the driveway is always like passing through the mists of Avalon, where nothing changes, as things are perpetually idyllic. Deer cautiously peeped at us from the corners of their eyes.  The precocious donkeys greeted us with their amusing snorts, eying our bags for possible treats. 

We unloaded, organized our gourmet "staples" into the refrigerator, and proceeded up the staircase to choose our room, one of two master suites. We could choose either the rear garden view, with its bright and cheerful winter white walls, coral coloured accents, asian woven tapestries, and Marcel Breuer Bauhaus chairs; or the ocean view room, nestled into a cozy turret, with Sicilian wool woven rugs and bedspread, aptly appointed in soft blues and greens.  We chose the latter for varieties sake, as we usually stay in the garden room. To feel as though we weren't merely visiting, we immediately unpacked our clothes into the French walnut mirrored armoire, and hid our bags from sight.

Once settled, we returned downstairs for libations.  With its familiar smell of fresh baked popovers and the faint remnants of the morning's finely ground coffee, the kitchen warmly greeted us.  We joined our dear friend, the lady of the house, for some Champagne before she left for dinner with friends. We would be dining alone that first night.

We chose a bottle from the well appointed enoteca: 1990 Domaine de la Chanteleuserie Bourgueil, a rustically perfect choice to go with our simple supper of pan seared wild pheasant breast, potato puree, and broccollini, with a lovely pan sauce fortified with a spoonful of roasted pork demi I packed for good measure.  While we dined, the legs of the pheasant slowly and fragrantly braised on the back of the stove in the remnants of a bottle of white Bordeaux we found in the refrigerator and our pheasant and matsutake stock...another meal in the making.

After dinner, we made a pot of tea and sat in the parlor, playing with the collection of Venetian masks that comprises the west wall, next to the fireplace.  We discussed all of the choices for the day to come, of which the possibilities were endless.  The only thing for sure was that we would set no alarm. The reveling had begun!