Recently in Family and Celebrations Category

We were so lazy on Tuesday. Seriously, I don't know if there were four people on the planet having more trouble keeping their heads up than Tejal, Glyn, Stephen, and me yesterday. We were old dog lying in a warm spot on the porch lazy.

Tejal and Glyn had attended a going away to-do the night before while Stephen and I saw an A's game, stayed for the fireworks afterward, and indulged in midnight BLTs at Mel's. Naturally, we chose not to mount an elaborate Independence Day hullaballoo. I roused myself long enough to make a chickpea and goat cheese dip with some spicy olive relish, Glyn made burgers and some terribly yummy vidalia onion spread. Dessert would have been a no go had I not recently come into an enormous amount of strawberries.

I have a habit of buying huge qualities of fruit from roadside stands, despite the fact that as a member of two-person household, five pounds of nectarines are likely to rot before they ever get eaten. I recently fell prey to eight pints of very ripe strawberries for five dollars. I knew chances weren't great that I'd think of a way to use them before they went squishy, but darn it, I had to try. After two days, the berry smell that rolled out of the fridge when the door was opened almost knocked me down. It was time for action

I love how intimate and low-key Sonoma can be. Napa has big wines and striking architecture. Sonoma, at it's best, is more like a lovely afternoon in a friend's living room. Stephen's parents are visiting, so we're spending a few all too brief days soaking up the sun and the terroir in our favorite of the wine-growing enclaves.

We've said it often enough, but it remains true; Stephen and I aren't sure we'd see as much of our parents if we'd moved to, oh, Iowa. Filial affection has powerful attraction, but well-balanced, cool-climate pinot noir sings its own siren song. On this trip, we took them to a particular favorite destination, the Mayo Family Winery Reserve Room.

We first had Mayo wine in their tasting room on the square in Sonoma. Although we had little interest in the wine country tchotskes sold there, we were impressed by the intimate connection between the winemakers and their wine. Their careful blending and attention to detail make for fascinating wines and intelligent people who honestly care about what they're pouring.

Up the truly picturesque highway in Kenwood, the Reserve Room offers tastings of seven wines paired with small bites of food that go beyond slivers of cheese or chocolate served standing at a bar. The room is simple but bright, with tables and chairs and a frequently changing menu that chef Billy Oliver designs to showcase both seasonal produce and Mayo wines. Even though the pairings are serious, the atmosphere certainly isn't. You explore how wines compliment or contrast with foods, while sipping, laughing, and eating with your fingers. On our recent trip, the chef and Mayo's president Jeffery Mayo served us; they both wore shorts. Sonoma casual intimacy at its best.

In the tradition of giving Stephen things for which he is too old--em, not that he's old...

Last year: Zap Brannigan ray gun

This year: rice krispy treats

These chewy squares are serious birthday food, made just like on the side of the box, and sprinkled with coloured sugar.

6 cups rice krispies
10 oz bag of marshmallows
4 tbs butter
pinch of salt

In a large pot, melt the butter over a low heat. Once melted, add the marshmallows and salt and stir till melted. Take the pan off the heat and add the rice krispies. Stir till evenly coated. Then, scrape out into a flat tray and roll to shape. In ten miniutes or so, when the shape doesn't give easily, cut with a sharp knife and eat trimmings only (the real squares are for when Stephen gets here, it's his birthday!)

It took me a while to embrace my Southern heritage. Perhaps it is truly that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but after years spent trying to minimize my accent and be perceived as a generically cosmopolitan citizen of the world, pieces of my Tennessee self have become unexpectedly dear to me. For instance, I didn't love bluegrass music until I moved to Boston, and I didn't understand the glory of the iron skillet until I came to California.

In any of my grandmothers' houses, the iron skillet occupies a permanent spot on top of the stove. Used daily and rarely washed, they develop an onyx-black patina and a nearly nonstick surface. Combined with its near-mythic heat retention, suitability on a burner or in the oven, low price, and nigh-indestructibility, it seems strange that I could ignore such a cooking vessel.

Alas, I couldn't see these traits. I associated iron skillets with bacon grease, soggy vegetables, and bland, gray gravy. It was heavy, ugly, and hard to care for. It didn't seem to have a place in my modern kitchen. That is, until, one day last summer when I was craving a hamburger.

Lewis Black said that he watches the Super Bowl, not because he likes football, but because he isn't religious and humans need tradition. Personally, I enjoy all kinds of to-do, and I'll jump on almost any kind of event that allows me to get people together and eat certain things in celebration. Combine that tendancy with my love of sports, and it's hard for me to let a Super Bowl go by without some kind of beer-intensive gathering.

Yesterday I made the food that is to sports and beer as turkey is to Thanksgiving-- buffalo wings. The process was simple, albeit a little messy, as deep frying tends to be if you don't own a splatter guard. The chicken wings get cut up and deep-fried in 350-ish degree oil.

When they're cooked through and crispy, the wings are briefly drained and tossed with spicy buffalo sauce (a straightforward production of Frank's or Louisiana hot sauce, butter, and some extra cayenne if you're a bit of a masochist).

Since I cut up the wings before the game started, the whole frying and tossing part took me about half an hour, meaning it was a perfect distraction from the traditionally lame Half Time Show. I served them up with homemade blue cheese dressing and some carrot and celery sticks. Honestly, they were easy enough that I don't understand why I've had so many terrible, greasy, too-sweet or wierdly sticky wings in restaurants and bars.

Mine were crisp and spicy, delighfully messy, and pleasing in that visceral way that only really tacky food can be. There seems to be something special about the combination of peppery, vinegary sauce cooled off with a slather of blue cheese. Or maybe people just like to eat with their fingers. Either way, they were a perfect fit for this particular to-do.

(Added bonus: Don't Glyn and Stephen look manly eating wings and watching football?)

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Crostini with white bean puree, roasted tomatoes, almonds, and smoked paprika.

Glyn, master of the flame.

Tejal corrupting little Milton.

The duck, oh so smoky and covered in a spicy-sweet glaze, dripping with tasty duck fat.

Glyn carving, the second in a series (see the Thanksgiving pictures).

Juices, again.

Tarte Tatin with lime cream.

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Once all the hard work was done, we could fix our plates and get down to eating. One of the ways you know it's Thanksgiving is that all your food touches.

Can't pose. Chewing.

After the feast, it is traditional to lie very still so as not to be crushed under the weight of one's own stomach. With the starchy goodness of mashed potatoes, butternut squash, homemade egg noodles, and dressing weighing us down, we did this for quite a while. Later, when we could move, we had a little more starch in the form of pumpkin pie and upside-down pear cake.

And now, I'll finish up this very drawn out Thanksgiving coverage with some embarrasing pictures:

I'm from Tennessee. In Tennessee, it is acceptable to pronounce the word "pie" as "piaaahhhh." When you've been drinking wine for a couple of hours and you say the word "piaaahhhh" in a comically exaggerated fashion, it looks like that.

Is she trembling in fear or shaking with joy? The world may never know.

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Our turkey came out of the oven as firm and brown as if she'd been sunbathing on the Isle of Capri instead of roasting in San Francisco.

The roasting pan was covered in yucky looking but yummy tasting drippings. (Sidenote: I love that the French call the brown bits stuck to a pan "fond." It's so much more elegant sounding than "drippings.")

The turkey also yielded a large quantity of intensely flavored, amber-colored juices.

Tejal luuuuves juices.

I made a roux with the fat and drippings, added some of my 2 1/2 gallons of turkey stock, the reserved juices and some white wine to make the gravy. I also added some of the wine directly from the bottle to myself. Lucky for my reputation, no one got a picture of that.

It was Glyn's first Thanksgiving, but nevertheless, he was in charge of carving the turkey. He did an admirable job. We all told him that he had progressed far up the ladder of American Maleness with that single, classicaly macho act.

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Did someone say something about a Turkey?

My employers gave us all a Diestel Family Turkey Ranch Turkey as a holiday gift. Whitney and I found her slippery bulk especially amusing because it was quite early in the morning. She (I know it was a she because the packaging identified her as a hen) grew up happily, ranging free at the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. I requested a 12-15 lb. turkey, but she had grown to a healthy 18.26 lbs. Good because, more free turkey.

Problematic because, my small-ish roasting pan and apartment oven meant that she was just a bit cramped.

Also, she was filled with the traditional super gross bag of giblets. Which got brined, because I forgot to remove them before her soak.

After brining, she recived a full cramming of aromatics up her, um, nether end.

Then into the oven she went. The first time I tried to put her in, the oven rack was on the second to lowest position. She bumped into the top coil and sizzled a little, a distressing sound when you don't expect it. Even when I lowered the oven rack she still filled up almost every inch of oven.

Then it was time to wait.

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We began our Thanksgiving feast with the Traditional Tracing and Coloring of Hand Turkeys. We were thankful for the bounty of colors that even a small box of crayons offers.

Our first course was a communal tasting of the Jones' Soda Regional Holiday Pack. First we tasted the Smoked Salmon Pate, an activity which Tejal undertook with admirable stoicism:

I, however, was more demonstrative in my distaste at the combination of artificial sweetener, smokiness and fish:

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