Vignettes

Cool things have happened but while I had a half-written blog post for each floating around in my head, time passed and my thoughts dissipated into the ether. So instead, the past month, fast and dirty:

Beer paired dinner
Pic courtesy of Katie

After our incandescent experience last year, and with everyone's cellar close to overflowing with sexy beers, some of the brewery staff and various significant others decided to have our own beer paired dinner. We each brought a course and several exciting beers to consume in the best possible company. The fact that I can recall each course a month later speaks to the fineness of the meal.

Appetizers were bruschetta with chevre, sage, and balsamic-reduced onions with a rich "triple Tripel", and rare elk backstrap in a summer roll presentation with an herbaceous pale ale. Next was grilled peach, almond, and peppery arugula salad with a piquant selection of wild sours. Then over-the-top potatoes au gratin, the smoky bacon enhanced by a smooth porter on nitro. The main course was short rib sliders on a parsnip puree with extra horseradish, paired with a couple big brassy barleywines. We retired to the garage for a while to play ping-pong, let dinner rest, and drink lighter fare: week-old IPAs from one of the best breweries in the country, some delicate Berliner weisse, some easy-drinking pilsners. Dessert was salted caramel brownies with ice cream and the big guns came out to play: the bourbon barrel-aged quads, barleywines, and porters with their individual boxes and heady backstories. Dinner lasted a languid six hours, and we lined up thirty dead soldiers to photograph; hundreds of dollars worth of beer and a priceless experience.

The folks, doing the only touristy thing I permitted
Pic courtesy of Debs

I had been looking forward to my parents' visit for a very long time and it did not disappoint. As I'd hoped, they drove through Jackson from the airport, and having seen the kitsch shops and faux old-timey wooden sidewalks, did not require me to waddle around all the crowded hotspots with them. Instead of being tourists, they just fell easily into my routine: lots of reading, mountain biking, taking my spoiled little dog on runs, cooking great dinners, hanging out at the pub. We had some uncharacteristically late boozy nights talking about beer and life and real estate. Debbie was every bit the financial advisor/fount of wisdom I needed her to be, and Bill provided running commentary on, you know, everything. They met most of the really important people in my life and came away (I assume) with a much better understanding of why I can't pry myself away from the middle of nowhere Idaho.

Attempting to charge
Pic courtesy of Grand Targhee

Instead of racing Pierre's Hole again, I turned my sights on another Targhee race I knew would be less well-attended and that offered an obscene pay-out. It was a 25 mile XC and a long DH and the combined best placing on the same bike won the overall. I felt pretty good about that. Bill decided to race the XC too, to my delight, and finished strong, an impressive feat on a tough, high-altitude course, on an unfamiliar bike, after an extremely stressful summer. My fields were small and a little short on competition but I did spend the first half of the XC duking it out with a couple ladies. During the DH I had little confidence in a win after my humbling enduro experience but had a clean, fastish run and got to stand on top of the box for both races and the overall.

Teton Region High School MTB team (some of it, anyway)
Pic courtesy of Todd

Last weekend saw the first ever Idaho high school mountain bike race (hosted in Wyoming, ironically). The kids on our team are not only great riders, they're also some of the coolest, friendliest, most positive kids I've ever had the pleasure of hanging out with. We scored a good number of podiums, all from the middle-schoolers and underclassmen, which means the team is only going to get stronger. Almost two hundred kids participated and the atmosphere was full of infectious stoke. I was really happy to be a part of it. 

Now it's forty degrees and raining, with all reports indicating snow on the peaks. I am more than happy to put a great summer to rest and sally forth into winter.

La Gastronomie

I spent a rainy Saturday reading a Peter Mayle book purloined from Tyler's grandparents, and it transported me back to my parents' unrelenting Provencephilia and those hard-won seven days we took in the south of France each spring for several years. The book is so evocative of sunshine and light wines and hours devoted to each meal, busy marketplaces and alarmingly narrow roads and friendly, leathery locals, each trip an experience I probably didn't appreciate enough at the time but which has stuck with me in a very sensory way.

On the same day we attended a farm-to-table beer-paired dinner, taking advantage of an absent brewer's ticket. The brewery staff and significant others took over a whole table and I was happy to be friends with all of them. Teton Valley has a Slow Food chapter and a thriving locavore scene and the dinner was hosted in the weathered but architecturally inspiring barn at Snow Drift Farm, who provided the bulk of the produce. GTBC is not of the hop-aggressive Cali or Colorado breed; the head brewer and cellar master have a firm and affectionate grasp on classic Belgian and German styles, which are far more conducive to balanced and complementary food pairings. The cellar master, twenty-four but already resembling a high school history teacher, is the wunderkind of the brewery, deeply passionate and knowledgeable about any and all genres and styles of beer, and he led each course with an insightful discourse on the offering. The executive chef of the Four Seasons in Jackson introduced the food, eyes aglow with excitement at the produce and game with which he was presenting us.

We lingered over five courses with flawless pairings, light yeasty wheat beer with crisp vinegary greens and pickled turnips, Oktoberfest lager with 2-row barley (culled straight from the brewery's supplies) and the richest, most delicious rabbit I've ever had, warm raisiny Scotch ale with bison that tasted like the flame it was seared in as a dedicated sous chef crouched over the fire in the drizzling rain. The plates were beautifully arranged but not precious. Dessert was a sweet and sour Berliner Weisse paired with honey lavender panna cotta and a couple pieces of various fruit, each candied, grilled, or frozen to achieve its full flavor potential.

I love good meals for the food, but I also love good meals for that first forkful of each course, where eyes around the table pop from surprise and delight. A meal undiscussed and unappreciated is not nearly as wonderful. It occurred to me that most gustatory experiences I've had up to this point been have been with or enabled by my parents. Even if they weren't at the table with me, even if they were separated from me by hours or an ocean, I would still scurry back to them, literally or figuratively, and give them a play-by-play. My food upbringing has had such an influence on my life, and it is gratifying to know that I have found another place that celebrates food with people that are open to the experience.

Party on the "Farm"

This is a long one. Apologies.

Weekdays at Bosco Merrone are quiet, hot, vaguely disappointing. It's only the five of us, using up the supplies brought in from far-off stores, J and C and I washing dishes, reading, browsing the Internet, fighting the temptation to scratch mosquito bites. Work for the week consists of harvesting as many bamboo stalks as possible, pulling them free of blackberry thickets, stripping them of leaves and shoots with sickles, and dragging armfuls up over-grown horse paths back to the house, where presumably they will one day grace the roofs over the pool and patio. Every day, harvest bamboo and wash the dishes from every meal. It's thankless and there are few distractions. We consider our options and plan a premature departure for Sicily.Then suddenly Friday comes, and with it people. Mario and Gino and Nadia and Rosa are back, and Salvatore and his wife, and other friends besides. They all smoke and laugh and try to force Chrissy and me to form sentences, and bring in huge bags of exciting groceries, and cook. Meals always start after nine and the three of us finish toweling off the last wine glass at eleven thirty. On Saturday the gang (who of course stayed the night--where better to have a weekend-long party than a B&B?) dress their wrinkled bronze bodies with tiny swim cover-ups and then lounge and smoke and opine. Directed by Salvatore, we engage the disheveled yard in an epic battle: weeding, sweeping, washing, hauling, raking, killing spiders. It is hot and exhausting and satisfying, much better than endless bamboo, and we are rewarded with an excellent lunch of fried anchovies and eggplant pasta on the terrace, with eight of our closest Italian friends. And Kumar, of course. Dark Horse is gone for the weekend, so the guests can laugh about his watermelon addiction without him hearing.

We once again wash dishes and finish the day's work and "clean" ourselves in the pool because the water isn't working in our cabin. Then we read and nap and put on dresses, then are drawn back to the house like moths by the sound of karaoke blasted over the hills.

Yes, Italian karaoke. Soulful, boisterous, sincere. Suddenly, Bosco Merrone has a fully fledged festa on its hands. The gang has multiplied to maybe twenty, but because everyone is a noisy Italian, it feels like forty. We (even me) are persuaded to sing a round of Adele's "Rolling in the Deep" and then, after a gut-busting and wonderful dinner of Neapolitan pizza, fried risotto balls, ricotta calzonitas, and assorted cakes, the DJ throws out some Italian pop songs and it's Club Bosco. We dance our asses off, then are promenaded around by old men to samba, salsa, what have you. Except Jamie (beloved by all for her red hair and excellent Italian), who is monopolized by Marc Antonio, a nineteen-year-old whose mama wants him matched up with my cousin.

Cooking goes on until midnight and cleaning until two, and we fall into bed pumped to have been included.
Sunday brings another solid morning of yard work, and then suddenly it's all hands on deck for Sunday dinner, where huge families of paying customers materialize, demanding ice and spoons and bread in their incomprehensible language. Waitressing nightmare. Course after delicious course pass through our hands and I long for a taste. We are pinned for three hours straight, and then we are ordered to sit down and eat, and we gratefully comply. Lasagna, flank steak with delicious peppers, mussels, fried dough balls of anchovies and zucchini flowers, huge bowls of grapes and plums and the ubiquitous watermelon. Wine and anise spirits and espresso and more dishes to be washed and then we collapse with fatigue, at seven at night.

Jamie and I rally briefly to run hill repeats on the wicked kilometer-long driveway, where we can see the sun set over the mountain range. On Tuesday we're taking a night train (and ferry) to Sicily and I don't regret leaving early, but my biggest issue with WWOOFing here--the utter lack of real Italian experiences--was totally obliterated by this weekend. Forty-eight unalloyed hours of working, eating, laughing, singing, in some obscure hilltop lodge two hours from anywhere--what more could I ask?

Gorging Ourselves in Rome

One of Jamie's coworkers from her internship in Florence took us out to dinner with one of his friends, a fastidious Roman with all the arrogance one would expect. Ricardo drove us to a town south of Rome, and I relished the liberated Italian driving style that up to then I'd only witnessed as a pedestrian.

Dinner was a casual affair of plastic plates and paper tablecloth, but the food! Antipasti was a platter heaped with salami, prosciutto, magnificent mozzarella balls, lima beans, cold cuts, and crusty bread. Groaning, we somehow forced down a series of delicious homemade pasta entrees with mushrooms, tomatoes, and boar sausage. For dessert Ricardo showed us a tiny bar known locally for its warm sugary cakes and the dirty name given said cakes.

The next dinner was an about-face from the previous night's rustic fare. My cousins' parents were treating Chrissy to dinner, so we chose a little seafood place nearby because it received fresh, pungent deliveries every day.

It was a meal of decadence--we told the flirtatious waiter to take good care of us, and he complied. Plate after plate of antipasti arrived, amazing tartare and carpaccio, grilled octopus, slivers of squid with fennel, and a frightening platter of massive raw shrimp crayfish, and shellfish. We did the best we could and were rewarded with a plate of lightly fried fish, then little scoops of creamy risotto with calamari and shrimp. Somehow several bottles of crisp white wine disappeared...then Prosecco...and dessert came. Towers of fresh fruit surrounded cunningly-made sorbet bowls--walnut gelati was frozen in walnut shells, chestnut in chestnut shells, bitter orange sorbet in orange rind, and passionfruit in passionfruit shells. Of course Chrissy received a slab of tiramisu with a birthday candle in it, and we finished off with champagne and bittersweet chocolate. Reeling from drink and food, we made it home and counted it an excellent last night in Roma.And now we've done a complete 360 and are sunning on the porch of our tiny cabin in the hills, watching "Dark Horse" Antonio rumble by on his 4-wheeler. When he turns off the engine, the countryside is silent but for the wind.

On Eating Ungulate

A couple jars of braised elk, the fruit of someone else's hunting labor, were collecting dust in my cupboard. One night in need of a quick, grocery store-free meal with a jolt of protein, I unearthed the forgotten lode. With some trepidation CK and I eyed the jar, but the seal was still intact, so we each speared a piece of the tender meat and ate it. We waited the requisite twelve seconds and no violent stomach spasms ensued, so dinner was on!

Pre-prepared meat makes dinner a snap for flesh-phobes like us. Now it's become a game--how many different ways can we associate canned meat into our nightly repast? The elk, which was bagged somewhere in the Rockies, has now been subject to a variety of quasi-ethnic cuisines. It adorned tomatoes, okra, and cheesy grits, accompanied parmesan pasta with fried egg and yard spinach, and topped couscous in tzatziki sauce. Last night it was elk tamales with piquant pico de gallo, pepper jack, and pinto beans. (Oh how I love alimentary aliteration!)

Once a majestic free spirit roaming the wilderness, this critter now graces my table in various flavorful forms.

Now we've killed one jar but there are still a few more lurking in the back of the pantry. Suggestions?

Good Eats

warm weather brings with it outdoor dining and late night bull sessions. this week i and my favored coterie (housemate, her mate, my mate) collaborated on some more interesting dishes in honor of the changing of the clocks. saturday night we had grilled sausage on hard rolls with spicy asian slaw and sauteed onions, washed down with a growler of craggie's antebellum ale. on monday it was stir-fried bok choy and cabbage and pan-fried tilapia over couscous, and last night we did yet another riff of our favorite cheap entree: the epic salad, this time with arugula, strawberries, homemade croutons, avocado, goat cheese, and local eggs. and of course warm chocolate chip cookies for dessert. rumor has it that shrimp and grits are on the menu for friday night. who needs restaurants?

i-n-e-x-o-r-a-b-l-y

yesterday the founding fathers of the pisgah beard society led a caravan down to spa'burg and we rolled out the fat tires, with the sunshine cheering us on. croft's twisting trails stumped me at first but after an hour of frustration i remember how to ride the bike and started having fun, hanging on CB's wheel. we are all a bit out of shape but going slow means you can look at the scenery.

two really good songs i heard today: peter gabriel's cover of "the boy in the bubble" and "inexorably" by zoe boekbinder. go listen.

today the saint and i opted out of a road ride and instead built a little jump and a little berm in his pasture. i love playing with shovels.

i just made my first omelet. not perfect, definitely delicious. kiddie stuff, i know, but it's the small things in life...

only four or five more hours of work on the thesis and i'll have a rough draft.

spring break has been damn good so far.

You Can't Have Cabin Fever Til February

Despite my protestations, I've now decided to prepare for road season. Because the only thing worse than a road race is getting dropped in a road race.
Fortunately, around here doing long rides is like sliding into tepid bathwater. Pretty easy.
Except, certainly not in temperature. It's really cold.
And also not in exertion level. It hurts something awful.
So the only way it's actually easy like stepping in the tub is that there are lots of nice people to join you. Wait. I don't mean to give the wrong impression of my social life. I hereby retract the analogy.
But what I'm trying to say is road riding is easy right now because a: there's damn snow all over the trails, b: there's damn chocolate all over my house, and c: other people (usually St. Marie the Enabler) want to do long rides too.
What was my point? Oh yeah. I'm totally taking a train to Seattle after I graduate. 86 hours, $260, nothing better to do.
Or maybe my point was that grits are even MORE amazing if you toast the corn meal first. Thanks, Baker Bill.This is why I won't be riding Long Branch anytime soon. Pic by Dan Bennett

Status Quo

I've tried to blog a few times, really I have. I planned on writing about the fabulous girls' nights out and socializing, or about the therapeutic runs in the forest, or how Bennett Gap is awesome, or how 30 Rock is high-larious. But each time boredom knocked me on my ass. Well, not anymore! I shall overcome the boredom to relate a little bit of my incredibly ho-hum life.
-CarolineAlexisTinaDecosimo and I indulged Squirrel and raced his silly 8am collegiate cross race at Hendo. But I use the term "raced" in the loosest possible manner. At Nats I was as fit as I've ever been (on a bike. High school sports trump all.) I rode the wave through the Boone cross race and came out feeling like a cocky BA. But, a month of pastries, trail runs, and hang-out rides later, I STRUGGLED yesterday. But I'm okay with it (slightly sheepish...a little embarrassed...but none the worse for wear). For now, racing is not important. Because everyone knows the best biking chicks are OLD. Except Emily Batty and Rachel Atherton, i.e., my faves.
-The Super Fab Fun-Time T-Shirt party lived up to its name. No photos, because they'd be too incriminating.
-New roommate and I get along perfectly.
-Running is wonderful.
-So is riding. But only when it's nice out.
-Spent a Sunday baking cookies, surfing the web, cookin' grits and okra with the Saint, and watching The Office. And NOT cross racing. Life is good.
-Now I'm going to go play floor hockey. Yay, sports.

Adventures After Nationals

What's a girl to do after her team achieves the highest, most bad-ass honor one can achieve in collegiate mountain-biking?
Cook a Mexican casserole, of course.
I usually cook one of maybe four different things (grits, roasted root vegetables, stew, quinoa) so I thought I'd step out on a limb and try something exciting. I ignored the recipe, which suggested kidney beans and Monterey Jack, and used:
sauteed onions and garlic (first step in every durn thing I cook)
tomatoes
chilies
tortillas strips
queso fresca (This is kind of "cheese 101", but SO delicious)
black-eyed peas
So actually this isn't a new and exciting dish at all. I use most of these ingredients all the time. But it's presented in a different way, and isn't that half the battle?

My Mexican casserole was divine. St. Marie gave it his pain face of approval.

Bawk

today in agricultural ecology we processed chickens. by processed i mean this: to this. it was the most hands-on i've ever gotten with a critter, besides bashing brook trout to death and tearing the legs off grasshoppers.

we were at busy bee farms where a teacher from my high school and his wife raise cows and chickens for eatin'. today happened to be chicken-processing day. happily i discovered that i don't get queasy when watching the blood pump out of a still-kicking chicken's trachea.

it was kind of an amazing experience. the stuff i did: catching, scalding, plucking, eviscerating. i never got around to cutting anyone's throat but i think i could've with more time. luke, the only manly member of our class, went to town on some poultry. but then, he attended west henderson high. what else would you expect? everyone was kind of quiet and reverent as they went about their work and nothing smelled bad. it felt intimate and respectful.

god i'm such a suburban dork sometimes.

dunc and i bought one of the chickens and named her maude. maude will be joining us for dinner on friday night. probably roasted.