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!
