Cabin part 2 (Saturday)

It’s breakfast now. Or should be. I’m not a huge breakfast person even though “it’s the most important meal of the day”. Who the hell coined that phrase? It’s complete bullshit. Consider: if you skip dinner – your stomach will growl and you will be unable to sleep. If you do this for several evenings, you will become prone to road rage, yell at your children, and beat your dog until you finally break running mad down the street looking for a poor, slow animal to tear off it's flesh and eat it raw. But if you skip breakfast, you just have to hang on until you grab a sandwich at lunch. I digress.

I’m on the back porch sipping Peet’s coffee. This stuff is crack cocaine in a mug. I should really photograph my Peet’s at all the places I’ve traveled over the world with it, but there are so many Peet’s freaks, I’m sure that’s been done. Peet’s probably has a travel photo shrine on it’s website. They really do roast some good joe, and it tastes even better out here. It’s a relaxing, easy morning. It’s early enough in the day that the August heat hasn’t taken hold. I’m drawn in by the sounds of the breeze dancing through meadow weeds, the soft gurgle of the brook, the buzz of horny dragonflies, and my boyfriend and his mother screaming over each other. No, she’s not here. But unfortunately, his cell phone reception is just great here. 4 bars! He’s taken to talking to his mother on speakerphone. I’m not sure why. Perhaps so he can multitask and move around the room. Perhaps he is part of a conspiracy to slowly drive me insane. They both subscribe to the tragically common belief that when speaking on a cell phone, one must elevate the volume of one’s voice in direct proportion to the geographic distance between the callers. A cabin in the woods gives one a sense of disconnectedness. He’s compensating for that isolated feeling by shouting. Not to be outdone by her offspring, she screams back. Thank God we’re not calling from Costa Rica. Their screams are discussing women’s professional tennis. Long Russian names sound even more mellifluous when mother-in-law belts them out in a Tagalog accent. Birds call in the distance.

I should stop boyfriend bashing now. I can hear him banging around the kitchen. I smell cinnamon, butter and a hint of vanilla. He’s making French toast. I love him.




Lunch
We’ll we ain’t having lunch cause we’re still full from breakfast. We’ll probably eat something after our walk to the lake. Chris is working the ice cream machine. He’s hovering over the machine and cackling like one of those evil brujas in MacBeth. I’m back on the porch. Sitting out here shirtless awash in sunscreen recalls childhood summers in Hawaii. Except I didn’t ever sit still then, and I certainly didn’t have this fuckin’ brilliant Vinho Verde! Vinho Verde (“green wine”) is a simple, everyday wine from Portugal that will probably never make a splash in the U.S. because it lacks the buttery and oaky qualities that Americans prefer in their whites. It's an unsophisticated, and eminently drinkable. It’s described as green wine, not because of the color of the wine, but because it’s to be drunk so young. It’s farmer’s wine, summer wine, picnic wine, and perfect on this porch in this meadow. I love this shit.



The nose is almost too subtle. It takes me two big whiffs before I get a clean sense of it. I get mild grassy notes. Maybe even a grainy scent like wheat - but the fact that I’m sipping this in a wild meadow makes me suspicious of my nose. There’s something floral in there too and very light honey. Grass flavors come back in play when I taste it along with fruit flavors – nectarine and the sour notes of grapefruit and lime. The sour takes over the finish in a surprising and strong but pleasant way- like a firm pat on the ass. Chris (on a break from dairy witchcraft) says that he tastes sour green apple, and the wine has an effervescent quality reminiscent of champagne. I think he just wanted to say ‘effervescent’. It’s a pretty dry and light bodied wine that I would pair with lots of vegetarian foods – salads, grilled veggies, hell this will go well with the leftover guacamole in the fridge. If we haven’t finished the bottle, I’ll try it with the pesto and angel hair tonight.

Since I’m sitting outside, I sneak Michelle out for a supervised walkabout. Chris is apprehensive about letting her outside. He’s afraid that the wolves will get her? Michelle pokes about the grass, occasionally perking up for the movement of a moth or cricket. She walks over to the car and appears to be making out with the bumper. I go in for inspection. She’s licking up splattered bug corpses off the grill. I suppose she’s entitled to her own culinary exploits. Chris yells at me and I bring her inside.

Chris Seems Happier than the Cat


Late afternoon
We go on a nice long walk, along a creek, through meadow, forest and marsh, trespass through a Christian camp so we can lay out on their dock and have staring contests with large bright green frogs. Chris notes that on this trip we have experienced every four letter word that starts with d and ends with ck. Duck, deck, dock and dick, we’ve seen it all in the last 12 hours. Ah, the joys of homos in the woods. I want to sunbathe naked and skinny dip, but fear I will unsettle the pre-teen chapter of the "There But For The Grace Of God Go I Society". We lay on the dock. I watch a hawk patrol for fish. I watch the rise and fall of Chris’s stomach and the smooth line of his hip bone as he sleeps.

The Lake


Me, Fording the Creek


We walk back to the cabin when I say I’m hungry. We pull out the guacamole and since we finished the Vinho Verde, I open up the bottle of 2005 Bogle Vineyards Sauvignon Blanc. It’s pleasant but I’m biased from my morning wine pleasure. Compared to the unoaked taste of the Vinho Verde, I feel like I’m licking a two-by-four. There is strong oak on the nose along with a light peach scent… it conjures up blossoms more than the fruit itself. There is also something pleasantly creamy in the scent. Peach and oak are again the prominent flavors when I taste the wine. The oak is too strong. It’s like this wine needs to scream, “I am Californian! I am oaked!” But the peach is pleasant and there is a fun sour finish reminiscent of orange zest. I’d certainly drink this again, but wouldn’t go out of my way to buy it.

Half an hour later, Chris presents me with a bowl of homemade strawberry ice cream. It seems nearly sinful to sit with my bowl on the back deck. The thermometer reads 84. The ice cream starts instantly to melt. I spoon and savor. The texture is not like ice cream. This is due to the lack of gum found in processed brands as well as our substitution of half-n-half for whole cream (the store was out). I adjust. If I think of this as ice cream, I will be disappointed in the texture. But if someone told me, ‘you have to try this regional brand of iced fruit treat’ I would find it marvelous, and I do today. The strawberry flavor is fierce and fresh and a little too icy. The cream has a crystallized ice texture that I find refreshing and pleasant once I stop comparing it to the creaminess of Haagen-Daz. The fruit is whelming and beautiful. I want more and more. It’s time for a nap.

Late late lunch
Brunch has a name. This in between meal doesn’t. It’s 6:20pm, we could call it an early supper but supper is still ahead. I’m not hungry. Chris wanted meat. I made steak quesadillas with the leftover steak, bell peppers, onions and some tortillas and cheese. Admit it, at this point you want me soooooooooo bad! Even leftover steak needs a red wine, so I open our third bottle of the day (sooooooooo bad!), a Spanish Borsao Campo de Borja 2004 red. It’s a rock star pairing. It’s strong enough to match the obscene fat of the steak and cheese. But this wine would stand up on it’s own just fine. A spicy nose (Cinnamon? Clove? And… no way… Chinese 5 spice? I must be drunk) with notes of blueberry jam. I’ve never had blueberry jam. I don’t know if they make blueberry jam. But that’s what comes to mind. I don’t normally notice or comment on the color of a wine… I don’t know what to look for. But this wine has a beautiful ruby-plum color. Chris says the nose reminds him of “maraschino cherries, but in a good way”. Whatev.

It’s yummy. The tannins are significant but aren’t overly chalky. Berries are strong on the palate but not jammy like the scent. I get dark berries with a mild leather note- as if you mashed blackberries, blueberries and cherries in a leather bowl. I’ve never done that either but I would if it brought as much pleasure as this Borsao with a steak quesadilla. Viva Espana!

And Viva the experience we had on this wonderful getaway... Thank you Claudia for giving us this opportunity.

The Cabin (Friday)

Chris and I have been doing a lot of independent travel this summer. He’s gone to the east coast for two weddings, I went to Chicago to compete in the Gay Games. We need some special time that’s our own- just ours- together. We put Michelle in the carry box, load up the car with wine and summer produce, and drive 5 hours northeast to Claudia’s cabin.

Claudia and I used to work together running a teen service center at Balboa High School. Her family has a cabin near Mt. Lassen National Forest- if that means anything to you. Even to NorCal folk, that rarely rings a bell. The truth is, the cabin isn’t near anything… which is exactly why I love it there. Claudia’s frugal grandmother bought a nice parcel of forest land with a creek running through it when Pacific Gas and Electric was dumping property for a few dollars an acre. Over a generation or so, Claudia’s family built a very simple and perfect getaway. It’s not much to look at from the outside, but the surrounding land is beautiful, and inside it offers the comforts of an indoor firepit, decades of hand me down furniture, Mexican blankets, old novels and stacks of magazines from the 70s and 80s. You can feel a family’s love in here. You need to bring meat to cook and wine to drink. You need to sweep the floors, shake out the rugs, find shade in summer and bundle in winter. Other than that, there aren’t really chores or worries. You read a little, walk a little and cook and drink to pass time between naps. I’ve been there with Claudia a few times and she always tells me that I can come up here whenever I want. I finally am taking her up on that offer.


Chris and I try to do a little preplanning for the menu, so that we have what we need and not too much more. I want tri-tip steak. He wants to bring the ice cream maker. An ice cream maker. For just two people. I roll my eyes but only on the inside. Fresh ice cream, why not. This is why we don’t camp. We’ll be in and out in 48 hours. We pack 6 bottles of wine.


Guacamole
The first food that I prepare at the cabin is guacamole. Not that toothpasty bullshit that they serve at so many taquerias and Tex-Mex chains, but real guac with real flavor. The kind that bites you back. I make it to satisfy a craving for both ritual and taste. I first had real guacamole when Claudia made it for us at this cabin on our first trip here. In the bowl, real guacamole should look like it has the consistency of aquarium gravel. All the ingredients including the avocado should be finely chopped and mixed and should stand on their own. It should never be smeared or blended- just hand mixed. I start a fire in the backyard pit. I’m not messing around here. I want to fire roast the jalapenos and chiles before dicing them. I teach Chris how to chop avocado in the skin; cut the fruit in half lengthwise, pull out the seed (reserve it) then use a paring knife to cut a grid into each half fruit. Use a spoon to scoop out the chopped fruit. I usually chop it a little more to get nice, fine pieces. We cut up four avocados, put them in a large bowl and then juice two limes over them. The seeds go in the bowl as well. Claudia has told me that this will prevent the avocado flesh from turning brown. I think it’s the acid in the lime juice that does that job, but I’m not about to defy my Mexican friend when it comes to Gaucamole. Half a large red onion and two tomatoes are diced and tossed in. Shakira’s nasal vibrato belts from the cd player. She’s not Mexican, but the sounds match the labor nonetheless. Here’s where I cheat… just a little bit. I add about ¾ cup of store bought salsa verde. The jalapenos and chiles are just about ready. We peel ‘em, dice ‘em and add ‘em in. Salt, pepper, mix-mix-mix and there you got some bad ass guac. It tastes fresh, potent and spicy… a little to spicy for Chris but he’s a spice whussy. It’ll taste even better in about an hour when all the flavors begin to meld.



I had a simple notion in mind when I started preparing dinner. Grill the tri-tip and red bells over some low burning pine wood embers, serve it with tortillas, caramelized red onions and a biting young Argentine cab.



Focused. Basic. Elegant.

But like an adolescent drawn to cheap make-up and gaudy accessories, I must press on, flourish, create. The slow cooking of barbequed tri-tip puts too much time in my hands. I could take a walk. I could ride the bike. I could sit on the banks of the brook, dangling my feet in the cold water. Or… I could prepare an egg wash and a bread coating and deep fry!

At a party the other night, an innovative caterer served the usual panko coated fried calamari. Accompanying it, were fried breaded circles of uncertain origin. I grabbed that first. My eyes opened, my lips puckered and I almost squealed out, “Lemon!” Meyer lemon. It’s sourful joy. I force feed some to the sassy Korean-Am grad student near me and she agrees. “Brilliant!”

So I try to replicate it up here. Except the local mom-n-pop doesn’t carry panko, so I make do with “Italian Flavored” bread crumbs that come in a Pringles-like can. I wash and bread some thinly sliced lemon circles then drop them into a skillet of hot olive oil. They brown beautifully. The lemon chips accomplished, I turn my down home batterin’ skills to some okra that I purchased at the farmers market earlier that day. I’m about to start on the fresh figs but Chris does an intervention. Easy! Breathe! Put down the spatula! I simply caramelize the red onions.

I have one more project, though. I have basil and some gorgeous cherry tomatoes. I de-stem the tomatoes and drop them in a sauce pan. I add lemon juice and sugar. I sauté over low heat. Then the creative part. I deep fry the basil (unbattered- I haven’t fully lost my mind), lifting out crisp dark green leaf chips. I let them sit before crumbling them into the cherry tomato compote. Then I add a few tablespoonfuls of the basil infused olive oil. This shit is gonna win some awards!

The tri-tip is finished and dinner is served. I look at the table and realized that I’ve cooked enough for six.

We dig in. We fold grill-warm tortillas around rare steak slices with red bells and onions. A piece of heaven in a bread pocket. The lemon chips and okra are just okay. The lemons are too bready and sliced too thickly. Next time I will use crushed panko. The okra is fine but the southern flavor doesn’t pair well the Latino focus of the steak fajitas. The cherry tomatoes… ah, such a near miss! I put 4 teaspoons of sugar into the compote when 1.5 would’ve done nicely. They are too sweet to be a worthy vegetable side dish. However, Chris and I agree that this sweet version would be a phenomenal served on top of grilled salmon. I’ll try that next time.

Our wine is Veramonte Cabernet Sauvignon 2003 from the Maipo Valley in Argentina.
Chris says the nose is stronger than the palate, but the flavor has a great balance of acids, tannins and fruits. My taste buds are shot from all the flavors on the table. I do notice however that the strong tannins cut right through the fat of the tri-tip. After a bite of steak- especially the crispy piece from the outside- and a sip of the cab, I can close my eyes and melt into a near nirvanic food state.