Morsels - from Heritage Artifacts

Shallots are for babies.

Onions are for men.

Garlic is for heroes.

Main Entry: ar·ti·fact

Pronunciation: \ˈär-ti-ˌfakt\

Function: noun

1 a : something created by humans usually for a practical purpose; especially: an object remaining from a particular period

A highly collectible, unique piece of American folk art is the windmill weight. Dating to the mid 1800s, these ornamental pieces are classified as counterbalance or tail weights, and were used to counterbalance the weight of the windmill’s wheel. Many companies used the cast-iron weight as a trade symbol that could be recognized from a distance. Chickens and cows were immensely popular figures.

There are two types of windmill weight collectors: people who collect all types of weights, and folk art collectors, who limit their purchases to decorative counterbalance weights.

Today, weights are harder to find and more expensive than ever, as the market has progressively dried up since the folk art craze began. I found this wonderful cow, marked Fairbury, Nebraska, from an American folk art dealer in the Midwest. Circa 1860s, $2,250.

Heritage Culinary Artifacts

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lisa@heritageartifacts.com

On the first weekend of every March, while the majority of the country is gripped with Oscar-night fever, I take a silent road trip northwards to Portland, Oregon to attend an antique show, with the hopes of finding unique pieces for my Napa Valley shop, Heritage Culinary Artifacts. I particularly love road trips; the time away, alone is magical and, like the center yellow line my German road warrior leaves in her wake, it disappears all too quickly.

The nine-hour drive from Napa Valley was fueled with mugs of Jasmine Pearl tea with Meyer lemon I snitched from a friend’s prolific tree and gobs of honey from Sebastopol’s Bloomsfield Bees. Half a joint smoldered in the ashtray while I nibbled dried Calabrian figs and listened to a fascinating NPR show on composer Frédéric François Chopin and his longtime lover, George Sand. “What a repulsive woman Sand is! But is she really a woman? I am inclined to doubt it.”

George Sand (credit: Courtesy of the Musée Carnavalet, Paris)

The incredible pine-rich scenery through the frigid mountains between California and Oregon and the lack of cell phone reception meant I had nothing to do but think and observe. Mount Shasta was covered in snow and the sky was a brilliant Anaconda-egg blue. The only stop I made was at the Rogue Creamery in rural Central Point, Oregon, where I bought an enormous hunk of Rogue River Blue. They age the cheese wheels for a year and wrap them in local Syrah grape leaves, which have been macerated in Clear Creek’s Pear Brandy. It’s sweet, tangy and dense and begs to be accompanied by a hunk of Braeburn apple.

I arrived tired to downtown Portland’s mod Hotel Lucia, the whizzing of the road still reverberating in my ears. Or was that the homegrown? I shuffled slowly through the lobby, taking in the live jazz trio and the stark black and white celebrity photos by Pulitzer-prize winning photographer David Hume Kennerly, scattered throughout the hotel. The likes of Jodi Foster and President Bush smiled from the walls of the lobby, the elevator and my room. Surveying my tiny, but comfortable nook took three seconds. I tossed the plush robe next to the tub and crawled into a steaming bath. Delirium was interrupted by the arrival of a spicy shrimp and lemongrass soup from Typhoon, the hotel’s Thai restaurant. I pulled the cork on a bottle of 2003 Beaux Frères Oregon Pinot Noir, which I had dragged along, and hungrily consumed both in their entirety; the sweet, dusty fruit from the wine a perfect compliment to the extra spice I requested in my Tom Yum Kung.

A familiar early morning sight in the great Northwest: a thick layer of grayish clouds hanging low over the city. I bundled up in several sweaters and my thigh-high leather boots,

and walked the few blocks to the Pearl district, while sipping on a strong, dark Stumptown coffee. I followed the aphrodisiacal scent of baking bread to Pearl Bakery, its aroma a trail of scented crumbs. As I nibbled a roll studded with fig and anise seed, I spied an unfamiliar pastry and was told by the blond, young baker boy that it was a Gibassier. Its flavors instantly transported me to the bakeries of North Africa; orange blossom water, anise seed and candied citrus peel. It was inspired. (Good Lord, will someone please give me the recipe!? I’ve searched and searched!!)

I also picked up a couple of Pearl Bakery’s cookies stuffed with a dense fig filling for later. And was I ever glad to have an afternoon nosh! The antique show was a huge, freaky conglomeration of row upon row of both interesting and disturbing pieces to look at and sort through, sold by hundreds of dealers from around the country. Doll collections, pottery, primitive wood sculptures, cast iron and glassware collections compete for attention with mid-century furniture, farm equipment, religious icons, guns, jewelry and paintings. I wandered for hours, chatting up the dealers and managing to unearth a few treasures. Each piece offered is unique, and one-of kind. Thus, I only have one of them – so when they’re gone, they’re gone. If there is something that moves you, send me an email (lisa@heritageartifacts.com) and I will do my best to fulfill your desire.

An unusual Mother of Pearl and Sterling Silver-handled carving knife and fork hails from England and was produced by Sheffield. Set $125

I found a set of four copper pots. Each is quite heavy with a long handle and the linings have recently been re-tinned. The set of four is French, mid-1800s and ready to be loved by a good cook. $2,400

A duck terrine from France, which I’ve paired with Bakelite duck spreading knives from 1950s Japan. It’s perfect for duck liver mousse or pâté. It measures 7” by 5” and is in beautiful condition. Set $110

Several of my clients are professional chefs or serious home cooks, and always on the lookout for carbon-steel cleavers and knives. I found this heavy cleaver from an older gentleman who sells the most lovingly cared for tools and knives. It measures 14” from wood to steel and has a great weight to it. $95

Glass mussel plates from France 1950s, the likes of which I’ve never seen, were sourced from a very chic, older French woman. $85 each

A very unusual find is this Mexican pottery string holder of a woman’s face, weirdly reminiscent of my mother. It’s perfect for the kitchen counter to handily tie up roasts, the Chef’s hands behind the back, or a fragrant bouquet garni. Mexico 1950s. $225

I was floored to find a copper egg coddler with four copper eggcups. This is an incredible Art Nouveau piece from 1908 by Joseph Heinrich, who worked in both New York and Paris. It is in the shape of an egg, with the water warmed by a copper-encased flame underneath. I dreamed of preparing softly poached eggs topped with crème fraiche for breakfast in this piece of art. $395

I was tired, cranky and hungry and if I looked at one more artifact, I would have to be bound to the wall at the Oregon State Mental Hospital. I retrieved my travel mate from Portland’s sane, user-friendly airport and we immediately headed to Cafe Mingo on NW 21^st Street. I still get jazzed when I recall their signature thick ragù; slowly stewed, locally raised beef cut with Chianti and tossed over handkerchief pasta. I was surprised to see that the owners recently opened Bar Mingo next door. I lucked into a couple of corner bar stools and immediately tucked into a glass of 2006 Falanghina from Feudi di San Gregorio and a plate of octopus sautéed with green onion, garlic and lemon. The minerally wine married beautifully with the citrus and the briny flavors of the sea. Always a fan of the swine, we had a platter of decent charcouterie, but better was an intensely rich purée of chicken livers made with Marsala, anchovy, sage and capers, of which I still fantasize. Tiny polpettine, delicious lamb meatballs swimming in a light tomato sauce with oregano and mint, were washed down with 2005 La Spinetta Barbera, fragrant and earthy. We finished our wine with a bowl of Pasta Carbonara, with the emphasis on carb. (I am constantly in search of a Carbonara to rival that made with a salty guanciale cured from a 300lb. Berkshire beauty I recently butchered). While our original intention had been to graze at several restaurants, we happily stumbled back through Portland’s quiet streets to our hotel, completely sated.

I spent a few more hours the following day combing through the treasures and junque of the antique show, where I found a few more special pieces.

An orange pitcher immediately caught my eye. I love mid-century pottery and while this piece is unsigned, the lines and color scream California 1950s. It measures 8” high. $110

I was thrilled to find a rare pair of mountain goat horns, which were studded with silver and made into candlesticks. They are both unusual and elegant. Pair $425

I started bird hunting several years ago and am always on the search for fine leather scabbards and gun cases. The leather on this scabbard has a beautiful patina and can accommodate a rifle or shotgun. Made in Dallas, Texas in the 1930s by the Schoellkopf Company, it is marked ‘Famous Jumbo Brand,’ with its trademark elephant. ($225)

I was so excited to find this very well done painting of a Chinese man eating watermelon. Do I really want to part with it? I mean, truly, how wonderfully unusual. Early 1900s, unsigned, and in wonderful condition. $1400

And my last find of the day? A case of Pussy. From Italy, of all places. How does one put a price on Pussy?

I was antiqued-out. I couldn’t possibly look at another piece of ceramic, brass, wood or tin. I refreshed my eyes with a long walk along the Willamette River, which cuts through Portland and was lined with blossoming trees crowned in pink.

We headed across the Burnside Bridge for supper at Le Pigeon. Owner and Chef Gabriel Rucker was one of Food and Wine Magazines Best New Chefs a couple of years back.

This boy is a serious talent and the dining room is entirely comfortable; long communal tables and a bar with high stools wrapping around the small, open kitchen. I would eat here at least once a week if I were a Portlander. We sat in the corner at the bar, watching just three people put out plate after plate of dead-on food. We plied the Chef with glasses of wine and he kept passing back little delights. And to drink? The wine list had dozens of bottlings from around the world I debated ordering. With a nod to having only one liver, we settled on a white Burgundy and a Barolo from Piedmont. Long, succulent razor clams, recently liberated from nearby waters, were topped with good bacon, celery root and frisée. I adored the crunch of the grilled flatbread, cleverly slathered with beef tongue and caramelized onions. Pig’s feet with foie gras, cipollini onion and egg was an explosion of rich, complex flavors. The duck breast was dense and served rare with crêpes, chestnuts, and Swiss chard.

As I was seated in front of the Chef’s watchful eye, I was positively mortified that I could not finish the duck, but I was completely sated long before it arrived in front of me. We boxed the bird and left it in the hands of a gentleman we encountered upon our return; three sheets to the wind and clearly in need of a protein fix. I’ve had the pleasure of eating at Le Pigeon several times and the menu is always intriguing and ever changing, depending upon what’s in season close to home.

Sunday afternoon, we finally left the warmth of our hotel room and had a late breakfast at the bar at the highly recommended Café Bijou. A great selection of teas, strong Portland coffee, freshly squeezed grapefruit juice frothy with pulp, and soft French-style omelets plump with locally sourced ingredients made for a memorable breakfast… ‘er… late lunch… and readied us to spend hours perusing art, design and architecture tomes on the fourth floor of Powell’s Bookstore, the second largest in the country.

Glassy-eyed, we emerged from Powell’s at dusk into pouring rain. We huddled against the brick buildings of the Pearl District for shelter from the showers as we made our way to Andina. The Peruvian restaurant, alive with Sunday supper diners, radiated a warm glow from its windows onto the street. Shaking off the weather, and found two corner seats at the bar. A bottle of icy cold Martin Codax Albariño was paired with plates of Manila clams with chorizo; wild mountain mushrooms wok-fried with onions, tomatoes, soy sauce, garlic, and ají; heaps of fresh asparagus grilled and brushed with olive oil; and piquillo peppers stuffed with cheese, quinoa and Serrano ham. The Empanadas Caseras de Carne, flaky pastry filled with slow-cooked beef, raisins, and Botija olives, were impressive. Like a crazy person who always buys a copy of Catcher in the Rye when it’s spied, I reflexively ordered a platter of Jamón Serrano, delectably aged 12 months. The bartender was dynamite and indulged our desire for spice by bringing small bowls of sliced, fresh Habanero chili, which we showered on almost everything.

I had to myself the earthy, marinated beef heart kebobs, served with spicy salsa de rocoto, as my dining partner, not prone to indulge in innards nor organs, dismissively waved them off. The cured tuna loin with garlic oil and avocado-tomato salsa criolla continues to capture my imagination. By the time the last bites of grilled octopus kebobs with rocoto and caper chimichurri were devoured, we had drained the final sips of the 2000 La Rioja Alta Viña Ardanza Reserva, Rioja the Somm had rightly recommended.

When we finally emerged from the nearly emptied dining room, the steady rain had changed to a fine mist, sobering us on the brisk walk back to the hotel.

Rising with the sun, we tossed our bags into my car, now packed to the gills with my Portland booty, and headed toward Pearl Bakery for a final fix. We picked up half of a gorgeous 4lb Pugliese to enjoy at home with several, now compensatory meals of salad greens during the week ahead. But no matter the thoughts of abstention now, because the warm ham and Gruyere croissants were dense and meaty, disappearing as quickly as the buildings of Portland in my rearview mirror.

Arrived in the little east-bum-fuck town of Dunsmuir, California after a four hour, late afternoon drive from Napa, looking forward to several peace-filled days of wintry fly-fishing. Road-tripped as I always do: accompanied by local NPR bizarro stations, a mug of green tea, long phone conversations with old friends, half a joint in the ashtray, and a basket full of food and wine. My host is in his early 60s, and a fly-fishing guide-guru. I found him a couple of years ago as he is also a sculptor and I wanted to buy a couple of his pieces for my shop. Two of his ceramic fish, inspired by the beauties in the Upper Sacramento River, now adorn a wall at Heritage Culinary Artifacts.

Ceramic fish created by fly-fishing guru and sculptor Fred Gordon for Heritage Culinary Artifacts.

I arrived at dusk looking forward to my quiet solo dinner on the deck with a view of the river in its wintry splendor… Instead, the old man prepared for me a supper of roasted rainbow trout he caught from his slice of the river, and a venison stew from a recently hunted buck he scored.  I brought him good beer (and old Barolo for me), as well as dense polenta bread and perfectly ripe washed rind cheese (from Ireland, of all places), and a salad of bitter Italian greens. We finished with a box of chocolate covered figs from Calabria, (which were gifted to me), along with a tour of his pottery studio. We spoke of our lives, our travels, and hunting.

I nestled into my warm loft bed with flannel sheets situated above the blazing fireplace, the doors wide open to better listen to the rush of the river I will be fishing early in the morning…

Unquestioned reverence has been paid to the wines of France for much of wine drinking history. Their superior perch and hierarchy in the world of wines was accepted often as fait accompli.

Then there occurred a wine competition that stood that deeply held notion on its head. The Paris Wine Tasting, also known as the Judgment of Paris, was held in Paris on May 24, 1976 and organized by British wine merchant, Steven Spurrier. Nine French wine judges were invited to blind taste top French Chardonnay and Cabernet Sauvignon against their California counterparts. Spurrier sold only French wines, believing them to be superior to wines produced in California.  But when the scores were tallied that afternoon at Paris’ InterContinental Hotel, it was the 1973 Chateau Montelena Chardonnay from Napa that finished first among the whites, beating out the highly touted 1973 Domaine Leflaive Puligny-Montrachet ‘Les Pucelles’. The 1973 Stag’s Leap Wine Cellars Cabernet Sauvignon, also from Napa, was the chosen winner from the ten red wines tasted, besting both 1970 Haut-Brion and the 1970 Mouton Rothschild, both First Growth wines. As one aggrieved Bordeaux chateau owner reportedly told Spurrier, “You’ve spat in our soup.”

Prominent members of France’s wine industry were outraged and banned Spurrier from participating in their famed wine tasting tour for one year. Reporter George Taber of Time Magazine published the results of the competition, making public American wine’s dominance over the French.

The impact of the Paris Tasting was revolutionary. Deep damage had been done to France’s long-assumed mantle of wine superiority. France, no longer afforded blind trust by the wine buying public, was forced to reevaluate and reconsider ancient winemaking traditions and habits. And the reputation of American wines, specifically those from Napa Valley, had been immediately transformed. Besting what were formerly considered to be the finest wines in the world, the glass was now more than half full for the future of American wine.

The San Francisco Wine Tasting of 1978 was a re-tasting of the same wines from The Paris Wine Tasting. With an entirely different set of judges, Stag’s Leap again won first place. In a 30^th Anniversary re-enactment of the Paris Wine Tasting, Stag’s Leap achieved second place.

Prior to the Paris Judgment, Stag’s Leap Wine Cellars was largely unknown outside of Napa Valley. Established in 1972 by winemaker Warren Winiarski, Stag’s Leap Wine Cellars 1973 Cabernet Sauvignon was the first wine produced at his new winery, achieving instant international recognition. The winery is best known for their Cabernet Sauvignons, designated as CASK 23, S.L.V., and FAY.

A bottle of 1973 Stag’s Leap Wine Cellars Cabernet Sauvignon resides in the Smithsonian National Museum of American History.

Interested in scoring a bottle of this historic drink - or other collectible wines? It’s up for auction this Saturday, 10 April.  Check out WineGavel’s auction (www.winegavel.com)

Arrived in the little east-bum-fuck town of Dunsmuir, California after a four hour, late afternoon drive from Napa, looking forward to several peace-filled days of wintry fly-fishing. Road-tripped as I always do: accompanied by local NPR bizarro stations, a mug of green tea, long phone conversations with old friends, half a joint in the ashtray, and a basket full of food and wine. My host is in his early 60s, and a fly-fishing guide-guru. I found him a couple of years ago as he is also a sculptor and I wanted to buy a couple of his pieces for my shop. Two of his ceramic fish, inspired by the beauties in the Upper Sacramento River, now adorn a wall at Heritage Culinary Artifacts.

Ceramic fish created by fly-fishing guru and sculptor Fred Gordon for Heritage Culinary Artifacts.

I arrived at dusk looking forward to my quiet solo dinner on the deck with a view of the river in its wintry splendor… Instead, the old man prepared for me a supper of roasted rainbow trout he caught from his slice of the river, and a venison stew from a recently hunted buck he scored.  I brought him good beer (and old Barolo for me), as well as dense polenta bread and perfectly ripe washed rind cheese (from Ireland, of all places), and a salad of bitter Italian greens. We finished with a box of chocolate covered figs from Calabria, (which were gifted to me), along with a tour of his pottery studio. We spoke of our lives, our travels, and hunting.

I nestled into my warm loft bed with flannel sheets situated above the blazing fireplace, the doors wide open to better listen to the rush of the river I will be fishing early in the morning…

Wrapped warmly in cowboy hats, fur coats and leather pants, my fellow passengers and I disembarked our small plane in Bozeman, Montana. We were greeted by a crystal clear, ice-cold morning a few days before Thanksgiving.  The taxidermy we passed on the way to baggage claim, proudly exhibited throughout the tiny airport, presciently foreshadowed my trip.

A friend with whom I hunt bird in northern California invited me to spend the holiday hunting in Montana.  His family, living just outside of Bozeman and hunters all, gathered me at the airport and hosted me in their comfortable Arts and Crafts bungalow.  My host had driven out from Napa Valley and allowed me to load his car with my traveling booty, bypassing the hassle at airport screening sure to be brought on by my ‘contraband’: a case of mature California and French wines, washed-rind cheeses, Japanese and Chinese teas, Meyer lemons, Maldon salt, shotguns in their leather scabbards, butchering and hunting knives, and several different types of ammunition.

The scenery in Montana is breathtaking. After fetching me, our small group drove for an hour through its vastness of hills and plains, observing its big sky, and listening to the wail of country music from the local radio station. The sporting life is woven into people’s daily routine, and into the understanding of their position and their role within nature. I spotted a white SUV, one side covered in dried blood. Being of Italian descent from the east coast, and having spent a chunk of time in southern Italy, I just assumed it was a Mafia hit. It was patiently explained to me that a deer or elk had been put on the roof rack and had bled down the side of the car and frozen there.

We arrived at media mogul Ted Turner’s ranch just after noon.  The Flying D is an 113,613-acre ranch located in southwest Montana just north of Yellowstone National Park. Like all Turner ranches, the Flying D is operated as a working business, relying on bison and hunting as its principal enterprises.  Two handsome cowboys, both of whom were sporting dreamy chaps, Stetson hats and thick drawls, greeted our group.  We loaded into an old jeep equipped with a wench on its open trailer.  Even at midday, it was cold.  We were after a bison.  About 500 heads a year are culled from Turner’s ranch by sporting enthusiasts and those wanting to fill their freezers for the winter ahead. These enormous beasts are ear-tagged with varying colors depending upon their size.  The ‘harvesters’, to which we are referred, pay a fee determined by the size classification of the desired animal.  We drove through the hills until we came upon one of the many roaming herds.  My host, a fantastic shot, used a bow and arrow to quickly put down the 800-pound animal, considered a mid-sized bison.

The cowboys immediately got to work, expertly eviscerating the bison and leaving its astonishingly enormous, steaming entrails for the hawks and ravens circling overhead.  They strung up the animal by its front legs on the wench and drove us back to our car, unceremoniously depositing our harvest, hide and head intact, into our trailer.

We had hours of work ahead of us and only a few of remaining sunlight.  We rigged a pulley to the old barn, located on the property where we were staying, and hoisted that huge, heavy beast off the ground.  We began by sharpening our knives and carefully skinning the bison.  After several hours of slowly cutting and peeling back the skin, a pile of black hairy hide lay beneath the still-warm carcass.  The sun had dropped behind the mountains across the valley.  Despite the warmth of the flesh, my hands were frozen, my fingers stinging from the cold.  Nature would provide the evening’s necessary refrigeration.

Over a fine dinner of roasted pork loin, smoked chipotles, and a 1985 Mondavi Cabernet, we discussed how Americans, carnivores to the core, hold strong, often vehement reactions to hunting. We debated our country’s collective disconnect to the meat on our table and how that meat is actually raised.  I have always been a passionate cook, devoted to the notion of seasonality and locality, which provided the initial incentive to hunt.  My hosts were anxious for me to bag my first game:  a white-tailed deer.  Having only pursued birds, I was curious about my gut reaction to killing a larger animal.  But yet, as I nestled under soft flannel sheets, listening to the frigid wind howl, I concocted a recipe for a future venison stew.

Not uncommon in hunting circles, we rose before dawn.  I brewed an enormous pot of Jasmine Pearl tea with Meyer lemons and good Montanan honey to wake and warm us while we butchered the bison.  The enormity of the creature was only realized as we were butchering the immense

loin, the strapping legs, the barrel-like chest.  It was hours of laborious work, made less tedious by the freshness of the animal and the sun’s slow ascent, warming the frozen, peaceful valley spread out at eye-level before us.

Having cut and wrapped most of the meat to be shipped home, we piled into a spacious pick-up truck, complete with requisite gun racks, hunting dogs and antler sheds, and headed into the mountains to hunt bird. I felt like a teenager again: drinking beer, gnawing on homemade jerky and listening to old rock-n-roll at high decibels.  It was bone-chillingly cold, but the big sky was bright blue.  We hiked the open fields for hours, the crimson corn and wheat stubble yielding few opportunities to shoot but plenty of amazing vistas.  Just before sunset, we stumbled upon a covey of Huns, or Hungarian partridge, and bagged just a small one.

As we arrived back to the house, I noticed a pile of birds lying on the porch.  I sorted through pheasant, partridge and quail; their colorful bodies frozen solid from the outdoor temperatures.  We walked inside the house, warmed from the constantly stoked fireplace, as an enormous cast iron skillet was being removed from the oven and the cork pulled from an older Williams Selyem Sonoma Coast Pinot Noir.  A wild pheasant pie with foraged mushrooms was to be enjoyed for dinner, its savory aromas making me wild with anticipation.

Early Thanksgiving Day, I rose before the sun, layered up and met my hunting partners. The three of us hiked to an enormous valley at the base of a mountain range, its peaks topped by snow.  It was beyond cold.  I was deeply chilled and already wondering how I was going to maneuver my frozen fingers into pulling a trigger.  The wheat field was crunchy beneath our feet, but it had not yet snowed. As the light grew, it slowly warmed me, defrosting my purple hands.  The only sounds were cows moaning in some far-off pasture. We didn’t hike for long before we noiselessly crept into a dried-up riverbed and peered into the next field, eyeing a five-point buck.  God, he was beautiful.  It was so quiet and peaceful. I was in a reverie. The shot ripped through my dreams.  I was unprepared.  It seemed so inappropriately loud.  Its violent noise ricocheted endlessly off the surrounding mountain ranges.  The buck went down quickly, soundlessly.  Behind him, we were surprised to see a yearling doe, once hidden by the larger buck, staring straight at us.  I had a tag for the doe, but no time to get into position.  I gave the nod to the gentleman who put down the buck.  The bullet went through her tiny neck and she collapsed immediately.  Bittersweet.  The final vision I have of my Montana Thanksgiving is watching my two bundled hunting partners drag the eviscerated deer, steam rising from the opened bodies, across the frozen valley as the sun slowly rose from the mountains behind them.  The rugged beauty of that landscape remains with me.

I returned from Montana on Thanksgiving afternoon.  My ‘big feast’ consisted of salsa and chips and two iced-cold Belgian ales at the Bozeman Airport.  I sat and looked out over the planes to a not-so-distant mountain range.  I was pleased to return home.  I felt so tired and dirty.  I desired nothing more than a huge salad to counteract all of that Montanan meat, and a hot oily bath to warm my chilled bones and clean the distinct scent of butchering from my chapped skin.

A few days later, my bison meat and whole doe arrived in northern California.  Days later, along with a couple of friends, I would process much of the bison into beautiful fresh sausages for winter suppers.  But I wanted a different experience for the doe.  I put on Coltrane and lit all the candles in my little kitchen.  I sharpened my knives and shooed the cats into the next room.  I placed the deer on my dining table.  I had already skinned and cleaned her under Montana’s big sky.  A yearling, she was so small; more reminiscent of a large dog.  I butchered her slowly, carefully, taking care not to leave one trace of the prized, sacrificial meat behind.  Her bones were roasted and used to make a dense, glistening stock.  I recalled my hunting partners telling me young doe are hugely revered for their tender, sweet meat. I cut two slices of beautiful red loin and seared them off to rare in a hot cast iron skillet.  The meat tasted minerally, like a fine French wine.  With a little sea salt and a glass of Cabernet, it was quite rich and decadent.  Truly, an undeniable American Thanksgiving.

Arrived mid-afternoon into the little chic airport in San Sebastian, a truly charming town on the northern coast of Spain.  We dropped our bags and declaring ourselves famished, we walked the seaside promenade and grazed: eating tapas and drinking wine, eating tapas and drinking wine, repeat. Mushrooms were in season and we gorged on an enormous platter of morels and locally foraged chanterelles studded with foie gras and paired with white Rueda.  Heavenly.

San Sebastian is a beautiful town; very wealthy, very Catholic, with tons of great food.  The area is graced with an interesting mix of people: well-dressed older white people and hot young surfer dudes sprouting dreads, who descend on the town from around the world, looking for the perfect wave.

I explored this lovely small, wealthy coastal town by bicycle.  I haven’t been on a bike in years and my ass was so sore.  Perused the antique shops and boutiques, situated along the ocean.  Beautiful pottery and richly textured textiles grabbed my attentions.  Found a cute local surfer boy smoking a fat spleef and joined him seaside.  I then met my girlfriends for lunch at an outdoor cafe. The restaurant was situated right on the dock.  We sat under the blue and white striped awning and looked out over the harbor.  The octopus, sardines and langoustine we feasted on were pulled from the Atlantic that morning. We drank sangria and spoke about buying a flat overlooking the harbor. We recuperated from our long lunch on the beach and went swimming in the warm sea, watching the surfers just beyond the break catch waves.

Friends sent a car and driver who picked us at sunset.  We meandered through the hills, arriving at a lovely Michelin-starred restaurant for dinner in the countryside. Drank ancient Rioja and ate the best pigeon of my life in this 400 year old dining room.

I’m craving a salad.

The next day, after a breakfast of almond croissant and coffee, I bodysurfed for hours under the warm Basque sun, then crossed paths with another cute local smoking a bit of hash. He shared. I bought us both the creamiest coffee gelato and we sat on the rocks overlooking the harbor, communicating in our broken bits of languages.

Indeed, this wouldn’t be a bad place to retire.

My travel mates had read about a wonderful restaurant on the water that was several hundreds of years old, and we drove through the hills to find it.  There was an enormous hole in the middle of the restaurant floor.  We looked down and saw the ocean below; a spotlight shining on submerged pens of lobster and langoustine.  The old lady who owned the joint worked the ancient pulley to hoist up the baskets. We chose our crustaceans and they were sent to the kitchen to be grilled.  We started with snails, platters of Iberico ham, white asparagus (in season!) and razor clams. We drank Albarino and Rioja until we were giggling. A truly great last supper in Spain, and we didn’t sit down until 10:45, but then, I am a late eater…

We had lunch and a walk in the lovely town of Biarritz.  I bought piment d’espelette for the cured ham and sausages I make at home.  We bid adieu to Spain and flew back to Paris.

The Basque coast is truly lovely; its architecture, gardens, fountains, and the people were so warm and kind.  I’m not one to just lay on a beach, but was glad to have a couple of relaxing days after the sights, sounds, smells of the first two weeks in Morocco.

Walked along the beach of the Atlantic coast off of Morocco at sunrise this morning, looking at the light come up on Casablanca’s mish-mashed skyline, while trying to get my bearings and re-set my internal clock.  Upon arriving last evening, we had a long leisurely supper at an outdoor restaurant;  essentially an enormous deck carved into the cliffs above the crashing waves.  We ate platters of freshly caught branzino, grilled over the open fireplace, and lobsters laden with black roe, pulled from the waters that very morning.  Our glasses of chilled Moroccan rose kept being refilled by a solicitous waiter, while we watched the German and Italian tourists smoke, laugh loudly and gorge on languostines.  Today, my small group departed Casablanca, climbing into a large car for a drive through the Moroccan countryside.  I was surprised how green and lush it was; expecting desert and sagebrush rather than rolling hills and farm land.  We stopped halfway between Casablanca and Fez and climbed through ruins from early Roman inhabitants.

Arrived in the magical city of Fez.   The truly lovely Palais Jamai Hotel is a former presidential palace and is situated in the hills, overlooking the Medinas; one dating back to the 9th century and the other the 14th.  Sitting on my balcony looking out over the city, listening to the call to prayer, sipping a sweet mint tea and smoking a hash/tobacco cigarette scored from the taxi driver in Casablanca, I was immediately transported to another time. The smoke in the hills across the way isn’t from burning garbage but from the kilns which are constantly stoked to fire Fez’s famed pottery, ceramics and tiles.  Comprised of hundreds of tiny labyrinths, Fez is an abundance of sights, sounds and smells of the Middle East.  Goat’s heads, cow’s tongues, snowy white tripe and live chickens being weighed on old scales compete with vendors passively hawking pastry, dates, vegetables and caftans.

Our darkly handsome and knowledgeable guide, Hicham, led us to mosques, Roman ruins, synagogues, palaces, potters, rug makers, tanneries.  Walking through the tiny alleyways, littered with cigarettes, animal dung and pieces of food in varying states of decay, it often felt as though I had stepped back into Biblical times.

We dined in hidden ‘riads,’ the former homes of the very wealthy, which now housed spectacular restaurants, bars and hotels.  One evening found us walking through the darkened labyrinths, completely at a loss as to where we were.  Hicham guided us through the dimly lit alleys, now rife with scrawny, screeching cats, and showed us to an elaborately carved, huge wooden door.  He rang the bell and bid us goodnight.  The door swung open and an older, impeccably dressed Moroccan welcomed us.  It truly over the top.  Buried deep in the Medina, this riad was once a spectacular home home with a gorgeous main room, resplendent with ornate Arabesque tile work, fountains, and Islamic lighting. The bar was one of the chicest I’ve seen.  The tiny dining room was perfectly appointed and dinner was flawless: Moroccan salads, lamb, local Cabernet Sauvignon.  The proprietor gave us a tour of one of the salons.  The rooms were inviting and lovely.

Walking through the labrynths of Fez, I gained a new understanding of and appreciation for the Islamic arts;  detailed and incredibly intricate, with each color and symbol corresponding to a particular meaning.  Tile work, wood carvings and vivid paintings are to be found behind every  doorway in the ancient city.  The entire city of  Fez is ringed by a huge wall which has holes in it throughout, allowing the compressed mixture of sand and earth the ability to breathe; expanding and contracting depending upon the season’s weather.  Swallows have taken up residence within these thousands of holes, so the old city is filled with bird life.  In the early morning, I rise and swim alone in the magnificent pool, which overlooks the Medinas below.  The swallows dive over my head, sipping the waters, their voices prominent throughout the gardens.

I bought a seriously beautiful pair of earrings.  They’re early 1800s, long and dangly, and sterling silver.  I never buy jewelry, but they moved me.

I had a Hammam for the first time… but certainly not the last…  Is its origin Turkish or Moroccan??  The debate continues.  I was sent into a very hot steam in a large, traditionally tiled room and had the place to myself.  I walked the room for twenty minutes, sweating and thinking about how blessed I am… friends, travel, the sights, sounds, smells of Fez. A lovely dark haired woman with almond eyes retrieved me just before I turned into a puddle.  She laid me face down, naked, on a large marble slab.  She fully massaged me with eucalyptus oil and then bathed me in warm water.  She then took a hard, black loofah and roughed up my skin.  Then, she bathed me again.  I was then instructed to turn over; she repeated the entire process.

Then she washed my hair.

And oiled my entire body.

It took everything I had not to ask her to marry me…

Sat in my little shop working all morning, but I needed a break and wanted to be outside enjoying this spectacular day.   I grabbed my pruning shears, blew out the candles, turned up the volume on Yo-Yo Ma to make the place look occupied… and made a run for the exit.

There is a now-defunct museum next door to the Marketplace where I have my shop.  It was called COPIA:  Center for Food, Wine and the Arts.  Beautiful, enormous, modern building of glass and stone situated on an embankment atop the small Napa River.  Julia Child had a namesake restaurant there.  Lots of weird food-related exhibits, wine classes, and black-tie galas were held in the building.  I taught classes and attended many seminars and dinners there over the past few years.  The museum was supported by many of the local, prominent wineries. But their largess couldn’t help when COPIA closed its doors this winter with a $78 million deficit.  The building is surrounded by incredible organic gardens, the entrances of which are now padlocked and posted with huge ‘No Trespassing’ signs.

I walked to the museum next door, kicked off my heels at the entrance to the gardens and scaled the fence.  It was quiet and beautiful, but now neglected.  The irrigation to all of the vegetable beds had long been turned off and all of the edible plants had gone back to seed.  There were flowering weeds in all shades of color.  Birds were playing everywhere and dozens of fat yellow butterflies touched on all of the tall fennel plants.  I picked a few sunflowers, standing as tall as I, now in bare feet.  I walked past beds and beds of lavender, in full bloom and humming with bees.  Roses galore burst in the sunlight, scattering their spent petals on the walkway.  There were dozens of fruit trees, heavy with plums, peaches, apples.  I picked a peach, still warm from the sun.  It was slightly hard and under-ripe, which are my favorite.  The fuzz was stiff, and there wasn’t any cloying juice or dense sweetness, just the essence of the peach and its acids.  I sat under the laden tree and ate several.  I began to walk back to the fence to find my shoes and heard a rustle in the garden ahead of me.  I was surprised, as I assumed I was completely alone on the many acres.  In a shaded garden glen, I spotted a man crouching in front of an enormous turtle.  Really, the largest turtle I had ever seen.  The stooped man was feeding bright yellow flowers to the reptile, who had its head turned up to the man;  its mouth wide open to the delicate treats, as if smiling.  I felt as though I had fallen down Alice’s rabbit hole.  I asked him if the turtle lived in the gardens and if he was here tending to him.  He laughed and said that he brings his turtle to the garden to feed him, as ‘Alex’ loved dandelion flowers and the now untended garden was full of them.

He began to rattle off the turtle’s origins, age, Latin names, etc.  But by this time, I had already turned and was headed back down the warm gravelly path, sticky with peach fuzz and loaded with sunflowers.

Beautiful break.

Back to work…