A Blithe PALATE

Up and Down the Silverado Trail, Part 2

Because we live in the Buckle of the Bible Belt, our wine choices are frequently limited; and the only way we can acquire certain wines is to order them from the vineyards when we visit -- because alas, most vineyards cannot ship to Georgia unless the purchase was made in the winery. Thus, there are specific stops to be made.

Our caravan of three cars (Jeff and Chris drove up separately) heads back to the Silverado Trail. Our first stop is Miner Family Vineyards. It's one of my and Hubby's favorite wineries; we are especially fond of their Simpson Vineyard Viognier and their Gary's Vineyard Pinot Noir. High on the hill, it overlooks a wide expanse of the Silverado Trail and the view from the tasting room terrace is breathtaking. Apparently, a crowd of others think so as well: the tasting room is over-crowded and the person behind the counter is harried and unhelpful. The most he can do is pour -- and frighteningly stingy pours at that! No matter; we simply take our glasses and head out to appreciate the view.

I wander towards the back of the tasting room, to one of my favorite exhibits in Napa. Lined up along one wall are seven large format bottles, each with a label describing its name and origin. A regular bottle of wine is 750 mL. The next size up is called a magnum, which is simply two regular bottles. The seven large format sizes are named after Biblical kings and figures: the jeroboam, equal to six bottles (known in champagne as a Rehoboam, it is named after a son of Soloman and Naamah); the Imperial (known as an Methuselah in champagne), equal to 8 bottles; the Salmanazar, equal to 12 bottles; the Balthazar, equal to 16 bottles and named after one of the Wise Men; the Nebuchadnezzer, which accounts for 20 bottles; and the Melchior (another of the Wise Men), which holds 24 bottles. Now, the next format up is a bottle called the Sovereign, which holds 25 liters, or about 33 bottles. Miner doesn't feature a Sovereign; what it features is a 36-bottle large format bottle it calls the Bigolemofo. It cracks me up every time I see it. Honestly, it would actually be worth owning a bottle equivalent to three cases just for the pleasure, when being queried, "What's a bottle like that called?" of answering, "Oh, that's a bigolemofo."

Our next stop on the Silverado Trail is the Regusci Winery. Regusci was one of the first vineyards Hubby and I visited; and we always stop by whenever we are in Napa. We love the winery and their Zinfandels (for which they are known) so much that we nearly got married at the estate. In fact, we were about five months away from the wedding when the events manager learned that Regusci's insurance prohibited weddings. Nestled in the Stag's Leap District, Regusci is a "ghost winery," one of the few remaining wineries that existed between 1860 and 1900, and survived the phylloxera infestation of the 1890's, and the succeeding blow of Prohibition. Originally known as the T.L. Grigsby-Occidental Winery, it was purchased by Gaetano Regusci in 1932 and the family has been making wine since in the beautiful hand cut stone building.

At Regusci, I am crushed to learn that the Zinfandel had been sold out for months and the next release isn't until October. The tasting room is full: it looks like the Miner Family Vineyards experience redux. I am not fond of the white wine they are pouring; but their merlot and cabernet sauvignon still impresses. The tasting room manager is dynamic and raffish, pouring flights as fast as he can talk; he's almost charming, but being the lone man behind the bar, he's too distracted to be genuine. A woman queries the manager about a wine club; his dramatic miming of a heart attack and quick dismissive shake of his head elicits laughter from some of the patrons; but it clearly embarrasses and hurts the feelings of the woman asking. The merlot suddenly feels diminished on my tongue. I'm astonished that a negative feeling can dissipate the wonder I've been tasting. But of course it makes sense: wine is as much emotional as food; how many wines have I tasted that were all the more remarkable because of the person with whom I was imbibing? I miss Linda. She used to work here, and had a quiet, steady grace, and warm conversation that made the tasting experience feel more like drinking wines with a friend than a sales pitch.

Chris departs and Kellie queries: "Where's he headed?"

"Back to the office."

"Why?"

"Because it's Friday and other people are working."

"But not us."

"Not us."

We head next to Chimney Rock Winery, which is right next door to Regusci. It used to be a golf course before the owners planted Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, Chardonnay and Sauvignon Blanc where the front nine were located (the back nine holes were transformed into fields of Cabernet Sauvignon in 2001). The Cape Dutch-inspired architecture is inviting and cool; Jeff is a member of their wine club, so we have the reserved tastings. Kellie falls for the Elevage, a Bordeaux-style blend; I am thunderstruck by the Elevage Blanc, a meritage style blend of Sauvignon Blanc and Sauvignon Gris. I have been enjoying the white wines today for some reason (it's hot out?) but this one...this one is something special.

This will be the last vineyard on today's schedule. Kellie has a spa appointment in an hour; I am feeling the effect of Thursday night's hard play and aching for a nap before dinner at Angèle.

Outside on the terrace, we sit under the wisteria covered pergola.

Up and Down the Silverado Trail, Part 1

Friday

Good friends have arranged a private tour and tasting for us at Robert Sinskey Vineyards. Founded in 1982, the vineyard was meant to be a retiring physician's hobby. As it seems with all things wine and food, the line between pastime and obsession is breached and today the vineyard includes 200 acres and a vineyard estate in the Stags Leap District. From two rooms where giant steel tanks dominate, we are led through the cellar caves, a rabbit warren lined with French oak barrels, hoses and pumps. In the cave's library, the walls are lined with shelves and bottles, all tied down with copper to prevent them from falling in event of an earthquake. While we admire the rows of wine, I murmur to Kellie: "I need a library like this one." One of the cellar crew -- I think his name is John -- comes running up to our guide with a pitcher of wine which he proceeds to pour in our glasses.

"Try this. This is the 2005 Vandal Vineyard." It's one of their noted pinot noirs, and this one is not due to be bottled until later this year. He had simply drawn some from a barrel to taste and wanted to share the experience with those of us wandering in the cellar. It's a very fruit forward taste, very pungent.

"Son of a..." Kellie murmurs quietly, taking another sip. Kellie can cuss like a sailor. When she's rendered speechless, it generally means she's impressed.

Later when we try the 2001 Vandal Vineyard pinot noir in the tasting room, I'm made vividly aware of the differences. The vintage we tasted in the cellar is coltish and explosive; the 2001 is softer, refined. We love both.

Jennifer, whose card reads, "Token Southerner," is warm and friendly, sharing with us her love and passion for wine. She leads us through a flight of the vineyard's releases. Kellie and I are both red wine lovers; but it's hot today and the Vin Gris is so lovely, so clear and sweet on our tongues. Jennifer's from Atlanta by way of Charlotte; and a year ago, came out to Napa, and never left. (Obsession.) Who doesn't envy her? She is so enthusiastic about the wines that we, too, fall in love with them; to the tune of two and a half cases.

Within the tasting room at Sinskey is the demonstration kitchen where Maria Helm Sinskey, the vineyard culinary director, teaches and cooks. She was one of Food and Wine's Best New Chefs in 1996 and an acclaimed chef at Blue Light Café, Sherman House, and Plumpjack Café. Her cookbook, The Vineyard Kitchen: Menus Inspired by the Season, was published in 2003; my copy is dog-eared and worn from countless readings. She is teaching a class while Kellie and I taste wine; at one point, she steps from behind the curtain to grab a bottle of wine. She sees us and says hello with a friendly smile. I can't help myself.

"I love your book," I tell her. "I forgot to bring it for your autograph."

"Come back!" she says cheerily heading back to her kitchen.

Kellie snorts. "You were ready to pee yourself."

I've said it before: take your movie stars, athletes, and musicians; they do not interest me. But let me stand before a chef - and one I admire - and I become a blithering idiot.

We leave Sinskey far later than we anticipated; due to meet friends for winetasting at other vineyards in forty-five minutes, I hustle Kellie off to lunch at Tra Vigne. Luckily for us, one of the cross roads connecting the Silverado Trail to Route 29, the other main vein of Napa Valley, is right around the corner from Sinskey.

At Tra Vigne, we are seated outside; the weather is utterly glorious. Everyone has been telling us that it has rained nonstop in California -- we see sunny skies and feel a crisp 73 degrees. Tra Vigne is one of my favorite stopping places in Napa Valley. Kellie orders the lattuga e mozzarella (limestone lettuce, buffalo mozzarella, olives, oven dried tomatoes), and I order a bowl of the spring pea soup to start. Then we follow with, respectively, the pizza, and the maltagliatti con battuto alla toscano, wide pasta ribbons with a meat sauce. What I love about Tra Vigne is how well they make comfort food. My favorite dishes there involve meat (usually rabbit or duck) and pasta. Once, on a visit with Peggy, I was so bowled over by my pasta that I ceased speaking to her for the duration of lunch just so I could enjoy the sauce, the rabbit, the ragu. Unbelievable.

I notice Kellie staring behind me and smiling from time to time; so I take a peek. Seated at the table behind us are three nattily attired and insanely cute old men. Septuagenarians at least, we discover that they are old friends who met every Friday for lunch at the restaurant; they live part time in San Francisco and Napa; and one of them is familiar with our corner of the world, having been sent to Ft. Benning in 1943. Once there from the Royal Highland Regiment, in kilt, he found to his shock that American officers did not have their own personal batman (valet). Jeff and Chris call to let us they've arrived, so we murmur our quick good-byes.

We head back to the Silverado Trail.

On the way.

Thursday

The day began inauspiciously: running late, corrupted spreadsheet files that needed to be restored, and endless meetings. Kellie had secured seats for us on an earlier flight to San Francisco so I called Wendy and told her to move our reservations to an earlier time. Surprisingly, Kellie and I managed to leave the office early enough for the airport. Unfortunately, my stomach overruled my head and I suggested stopping by Alon's to pick up sandwiches for lunch so we could bypass the joke that steps in for food on Delta. End result: we missed check in time for our flight by 5 minutes. Theoretically we could still have made our flight but Kellie's not into rushing or running, especially during vacation. So we booked ourselves on the later flight and I called Wendy again to tell her to change the reservations for the third time.

Seated in the airport concourse with other stranded and waiting travelers, we ate our sandwiches.

Kellie: "This is a great sandwich."

Me: (still feeling guilty and glum that I made us miss our flight): "Enough to miss our flight?"

Kellie: "Heck, yeah."

You always want to travel with gastronomically minded people. Always.

Karma rewarded Kellie for her easy-going attitude when we got on our later flight. Given a middle seat in the exit row, she was settling in when a gentleman came to the aisle and asked her, "Would you like to switch seats with me?" He handed her his boarding pass for seat 4A. Apparently the man wanted to give up his first class seat to sit next to the woman in the aisle on Kellie's row. We're still not convinced they were married (to each other) despite the wedding rings.

Kellie: "Well I'm not stupid! Thanks!" She grabbed the boarding card and threw a quick look of pity at me, in the middle seat of the exit row across from her. "Sorry hon!"

Then she disappeared behind the Magic Curtain where Delta makes an effort at customer service.

At SFO, we found our luggage quickly and take the shuttle to pick up our rental car. I suppose Karma wanted to give me something too, because we ended up with a Ford Mustang. For $11 a day. Then the hotel upgraded us to a suite overlooking the city.

The sandwiches that made us late? Definitely worth this...

-----------------------------

We meet up with Wendy and Mark at Oola. Wendy has been telling me about their chicken and foie gras ravioli. Kumamotos are available and we can't resist ordering a dozen oysters; our waiter recommends the 2001 Ici\La Bas pinot noir. Two bottles eventually find their way into our glasses as we work our way through appetizers -- the torchon of foie gras encased in port gastric for me; seared ahi draped over sliced hearts of palm for Kellie; and butter lettuce salads for Mark and Wendy. Kellie and I follow Wendy's lead in ordering the famed chicken and foie gras ravioli for our entrees. Imagine a bowl of foie filled wonton ravioli swimming in a chicken and truffle stock. Delectable? Yep. I would have preferred a smidge more savoriness, but for one not normally able to have access to such food, there can be no complaining. Mark orders the baby back ribs: drenched in soy, ginger and cilantro, the meat is falling off the bone in succulent chunks. Kellie tells me later that had she known him better, she would have asked to trade. Dessert is a slice of the flourless dark chocolate cake that we all share. As we are leaving, our waiter Philippe, tells us that a group of New Zealand purveyors is hosting a party downstairs to showcase their wines and foods, including lamb, mussels and fish. He invites us to join the party.

So we start eating and drinking again. By the time we are finished eating, it is 2:00 am and Wendy's car keys have gone missing. The cab ride back to the hotel is less than five minutes. Kellie's knackered and out the minute her head hits the pillow; but I'm wide awake, sitting at the window overlooking Union Square.

Being in San Francisco again makes me weepy. I've missed living and working here in ways I can't describe; it's Thursday night and the city is vibrant in ways incomprehensible to the miniscule Southern town where I now reside. Sometimes I think I've forgotten to how to breathe.

Foie Fear

At first, Hubby was reluctant to try the foie gras. We were in the restaurant at Chatêau Sully, where we were staying while visiting Normandy. I eat foie gras like a fiend when I'm in France. It's readily available, superbly made and being a culinary patrimony, isn't widely regarded as evil. Sometimes, I feel guilty ordering it stateside. Whatever: I was there and I had a glistening round of foie gras and brioche in front of me with Calvados jelly.

I proffered a bite. He looked at it unhappily, noting in low tones that he didn't like paté.

"It's not paté," I told him. "It's foie gras."

He took the morsel and bit down. He looked surprised. I understood: he was expecting the taste and texture of liverwurst (or worse). Instead, what he ate was a creamy, firm and seasoned bit of heaven. Washed down with sweet Sauternes, he was converted.

______________________

I have a lobe of foie gras in my fridge and it is mocking me. I have no idea what to do with it. When Jamie offered it to me yesterday, I jumped at the chance thinking, I can sear it, I can make something. But the fact is, I think my ICDT problem just reared its ugly little head again.

I leave tomorrow to go to Napa with Kellie. Whatever I do today is going to have to be quick. If I had time, ideally I'd love to try and make a torchon as described in The French Laundry Cookbook, but this is a four day process. For the last three years, I've read and re-read this chapter, hoping some day that I can muster up enough courage to try and make a torchon per Thomas Keller's instructions. Though Jamie gave me the lobe at his cost, it's still a good chunk of change. Unlike other kitchen adventures where disposal can be done somewhat easily, the idea of trashing any portion of the foie seems unnatural. I don't think I have the chops to pull this off.

One of my favorite restaurants in Atlanta is The Food Studio. I've eaten there since it opened. I've mentioned before that I'm a huge fan of pastry chef Gary Scarborough's Lemon Basil Bombe. Their new American cuisine isn't "groundbreaking," per se, but it was in this restaurant that I first discovered cioppino; drank my first Viognier; and ate truffles for the first time. I used to eat there so frequently (ah the single life) that I became good friends with the staff, including the then chef de cuisine, David S. David has since departed, and I wish he hadn't, because during one of our conversations, David promised to teach me how to make a torchon. I no longer have a phone number to call to wail, "David! What do I do with the foie?"

Jamie's preferred method of eating foie is to sear it. While I'm not opposed to eating foie this way, I'm much more partial to a torchon. The amazing Jocelyn at Kuidaore wrote about making foie à la Keller's recipe recently. When I say amazing, I mean it: she makes high end cooking look exquisite and deceptively simple. But we know it's not.

So here I am with a beautiful lobe of foie and I haven't the foggiest what to do with it. I'm seriously intimidated here.

What the hell am I going to do?

But the Sun Also Rises

It's hard for me to stay grouchy because it's not my natural state. After the bitter little vent last night about missing out on Italy, I was immensely cheered today by the convergence of three things:

1. In the mailbox today were six new books including My Life in France by Julia Child, which I've been dying to read, and five cookbooks. It's really hard to be grumpy when I have a collective three hundred pages of color photos and recipes to read.

2. A shipment of macaroons is coming from Gesine Prado. One day, I will have these famous and oh so delectable French macarons by Ladurée and Pierre Hermé that I hear so much about. In the meantime, I eat almond macaroons and I turn to Gesine for my fix. I don't bother making my own macaroons anymore. It's too easy to call and order a box.

3. Jamie called today and told me he had a lobe of foie gras and did I want it? Should anyone be this stupidly happy about a pound and a half of fat?

Now, what to make with the foie?

The Moment Passed.

The opportunity to visit Hani in her medieval town in Umbria has passed and I am heartbroken.

"But you knew you wouldn't be able to go two months ago," Greg says, by way of consolation.

"Yes I knew, but I hoped all the same," I tell him, despondent.

We have been inundated with deals marching forward and falling by the wayside in need to rescue. We have been sundered under the tempest ridden skies of What the Market Wants to Hear. I do my soldierly duty but I can't restrain the resentful thought, "I'm not curing cancer." I'm a corporate whore at my best and a paper pusher in the down moments; and my refusal to take my life and make it my own have cost me the chance to sit in a sun drenched moment with my sister. Am I a chickenshit?

"I can put you on a flight to Italy but I can't go with you," Hubby tells me over dinner. He knows that I get anxious around April, that I get desperate to move, to leave the continent, to roam, to feel a moment's freedom. We have plans to spend a week in Oregon in early summer and his time is limited before he goes on temporary deployment.

"I've already told Hani I can't go so she's got other guests coming," I tell him glumly.

I'm down and I don't want to cook. I don't find any particular solace in the things my hands and my brain find so familiar. I made dinner in ten minutes tonight; a hanger steak grilled quickly and with bare seasonings; a salad tossed with ginger dressing. A utilitarian meal to go with my ascetic sensibility.

I look at Hani's pictures and read her blog about living in Italy and I am sad not to share that experience with her. I so enjoyed my time with Kaly in London earlier this year and I had hoped to repeat the experience with another sister. If Kaly is my introspective morning of quiet rumination and literate laughter, and Souris my gurgling, adventure filled afternoon, Hani is the star-filled twilight of a life less ordinary.

My good friend Kellie has unwittingly provided me with the escape to this malaise. We leave on Thursday night for a weekend in Napa, that she may indulge her Bacchanalian thirst, and that I might indulge a deep seated love for the place. I am hopeful I will recover my food senses once I am back on the Silverado Trail. Hubby is not going; but I will have the companionship of a dear friend to eat, to drink, to scatter about the day, to live life as it is meant to be lived: with friend, with food, and with wine.

Every April has been so; and Providence willing, every subsequent April will be the same.

SHF #18: Frangelico Honey Panna Cotta

I am on a serious sugar high right now.  Or maybe it's not so much a high as drunk on sugar?  See, the last two days have involved some serious sweets.  First, there were bite sized desserts for Stephanie's Blog Party (more on that later) and today, there's Sugar High Friday #18, hosted by Chandra at Lick the Spoon.  Sugar High Friday, as we all know, is the brainchild of the Domestic Goddess and it's a great reason to indulge my sweet tooth one Friday out of the month.  So for Chandra's designated theme, "Liquor is quicker!" we're presenting desserts infused with liquor.

Our colleague David was in town again and in a passive aggressive manner worthy of the best teenaged girl, invited himself to dinner on Wednesday.  Okay, it's not really that bad.  He asked Greg to find out if I would cook and ... huh.  It does sound that bad.  No seriously, when I found out David was coming back, I asked Greg if he thought David would like to have dinner with the group before Greg could do his middleman thing.  So high school.  Anyway, it being the normal hot disgusting weather that precedes a hot disgusting summer in the deep South, I didn't want anything too heavy for dessert on Wednesday night.  My sister Kaly had raved about a vanilla panna cotta (we give Martha Stewart her due for the original recipe) she'd made the weekend before.  It sounded great; but not being a fan of plain vanilla panna cotta, I substituted wildflower honey for the sugar.  Yummy.  It was perfect.

So when I was thinking about what to make for SHF #18 today, it seemed appropriate to tinker with the recipe and add in some of my favorite liqueur:  Frangelico!  Result?  Seriously heady stuff.  Only don't do what I did and eat three in row without thinking because it was so refreshing I forgot about the alcohol.  Sugar Drunk Friday, I think.

WCC #4: Zucchini Fritters with Egg and Caramelized Onions

Sara from i like to cook, and Alicat of Something So Clever are the co-hosts of Weekend Cookbook Challenge. The challenge? Make a cookbook recipe that matches the month's theme and blog about it; the theme of this fourth edition is Easter Breakfast & Brunch.

I absolutely love brunch. It's my favorite meal of the week. Depending on what's happening, Saturday or Sunday brunches are usually à deux, or with a large group of friends. When it's just the two of us, Hubby makes elaborate dishes, like cinnamon raisin waffles with maple cream cheese, coupled with perfectly crunchy bacon ("The secret is to cook it over low heat."). I make the coffee. If there's a group, it become more elaborate; the last brunch party was a panoply of all the sweets I could cram into one meal.

Sara and Alicat sent us forth to make an Easter brunch featuring recipes from our cookbooks. I'm pretty sure everyone out there has a dazzling array of cookbooks that we use haphazardly; so I loved the idea of trying a new recipe. As it happens, I was visiting Dad in Orlando so a family brunch to spend time with my cousins Nellie and Terri had been planned. I forgot to pack a cookbook, but coming from a food obsessed family, this was not a problem: Terri's bookcase was crammed with cookbooks, including Brunch, the Perfect Weekend Treat by Jennifer Donovan. Scanning through, I found this recipe: zucchini fritters with egg and caramelized onions, which looked great in the photo. It showed so much promise -- the ingredients, the directions, and most of all the picture. Sadly, models aren't the only thing that look great on paper only to disappoint in real life.

I can't say this recipe knocked me over. The tastes and the textures were okay; I would have been more pleased if the fritters had been crunchier (maybe I didn't use enough oil; imagine that: living in the South and not using enough oil for frying?!) or tasted more like zucchini, instead of an Egg McZucchini (seriously they looked like egg McMuffins only with zucchini bits). The only thing that I really liked on the plate was the bacon and that wasn't part of the recipe (it was Hubby's recipe).

We grew in number from five for brunch to seven because Nellie invited two more (she had enough sense to let me know so I wouldn't have a repeat of the multiplication episode), and this exposed another downside to the dish: there's no way to keep the fritters crispy and eggs warm enough without being overcooked if you're making this dish for more than two.

"It's like making Eggs Benedict," Terri noted.

Frankly, Eggs Benedict would have been easier. I'm going to have to try this recipe again, with some tweaks. I'm sure there's something worthwhile here. Still, having brunch with my family, and especially Dad, was wonderful; I treasure whatever moments I get with my family, even if it's over an okay meal.

Don't forget to check out the roundup and see what other great Easter Brunches were held.

The Faberge Rose Trellis Egg Cake

Last year, Emily from La Dolce Vita hosted a food blog event called "In the Pink," for breast cancer awareness. At the time, I toyed with the idea of making an elaborate cake based on Peter Carl Fabergé's "Duchess of Marlborough" egg, a jeweled oeuf clock in guillochéd pink enamel, studded with precious jewels. Rose cut diamonds formed numbers to encircle the egg, and a sinuous diamond serpent marked the time. Greg, at the time, ever blunt: "I'm sorry, that sounded completely insane." Um, hello? We've been friends for how long? You and Kellie talk to me every day for 9 hours?

My plans were thwarted by a few things: (1) I have a day job; (2) I couldn't find a 3-D egg shaped mold; and (3) I couldn't figure out how to make such a cake. So instead I made a pink coeur à la crème to honor my dear Annie.

But I couldn't shake the idea. I have a very soft spot for Fabergé. It comes from a long standing interest in the Romanovs.

Carl Fabergé was the preminent court jeweller to Czar Alexander III, and then later, to his son, the ill-fated Nicholas II. His workshops produced some of the era's most lavish jeweled objects, most famous of which are the Fabergé Eggs, and in particular, the Imperial eggs, which were made for the czarinas. The eggs contained often elaborate and clever "surprises" (I'm told that "easter eggs" on DVDs and video games derive from the Fabergé Egg surprises. Anyone know for certain?)

The tradition began in 1888 when Czar Alexander III presented his wife, Czarina Marie, with a white enamel egg on Easter, a significant holiday in the Orthodox Church. When opened, the egg revealed a golden yolk. Within the yolk was a chased gold and gilded hen with ruby eyes. The hen's back lifted to further reveal a replica of the Imperial crown with a ruby. So delighted was the Czarina that the Czar then established the annual commission. When he died in 1894, his son carried on the tradition, presenting his mother (Marie) and his wife, Czarina Alexandra with a Fabergé egg every Easter, until 1916. The precise number of Imperial eggs varies between fifty-four and fifty-seven. Other eggs originally identified as "Imperial" (that is, made for the Czarinas) were later reclassified as eggs belonging to other rich and famous patrons, like the Nobels and Consuleo Vanderbilt, Duchess of Marlborough. A number of unique eggs were made for Barbara Kelch, an heiress.

In 1989, an exhibit of Fabergé Eggs was held in San Diego. It was the (then) largest gathering of the eggs since 1917 and the end of the Romanov dynasty. I spent five hours (yes, hours) wandering through, utterly delighted to see in real life what I had been poring over in books for years and years. It was one thing to read about the craftsmanship of Hans Wigstrom and Michel Perchin; quite another to actually see the eggs, the sheer size of some of them, the exquisite carving and chasing, the precious materials and jewels, the delicate ivory miniatures, the clever concepts and the masterful execution. Living in DC, I had the great fortune to routinely visit the five Fabergé eggs housed in the Lillian Pratt Collection at the Richmond Museum of Fine Arts; the two at Majorie Merriweather Post's Hillwood House; and the two in the Walters Museum in Baltimore. My favorite place to visit, however, was the Forbes Museum in New York. Malcolm Forbes had been an avid collector of Fabergé and came to own fifteen ("Eggs come by the dozen!" he crowed after picking up his eleventh egg in 1985, making his collection significant by one more than what the Kremlin possessed) among them, notable masterpieces like the 1897 Coronation Egg and the 1898 Lilies of the Valley Egg (a favorite of the ones he owned; my personal favorite, the 1895 "Pansy" Egg belongs to a private collector). When the entire Forbes Fabergé lot was sold to Russian entrepreneur Victor Vekselberg in 2004, I felt conflicted; on the one hand excited that so many eggs would be reunited and present in Russia; and sad because I could no longer visit them in New York. Still, it does mean that a trip to Russia is in order; because in addition to the twenty-six owned by the Kremlin and the Vekselberg Foundation, there are two recently discovered Imperial Eggs -- the Karelian Birch Egg and Czarevitch Constellation Egg, both made in 1917 -- and neither delivered to their proper owners because the Romanovs were executed in July of that year.

As this is Easter weekend, I thought an egg cake appropriate; and why not indulge my previous hope to make a Fabergé Egg cake? Of course, I was much less ambitious and discarded my original plan to make the frighteningly complicated Duchess of Marlborough Egg, and chose the delicately pretty (and less complicated) Rose Trellis Egg to pay homage. The egg was a gift in 1907 from Czar Nicholas to his mother. It is currently in the Walters Museum in Baltimore. The cake itself is vanilla pound cake with cream cheese frosting; unfortunately the silver dragées which were to stand in for the rose cut "diamonds," did not arrive this week, so once they come in (hopefully before Sunday), I'll finish the cake properly.

Happy Easter!

Multiplication

I'm traumatized.  And short-circuited.  For the first time ever in my cooking and entertaining life, I am at a complete and utter loss.

Kellie:  "Call the post, 'Multiplication.'  Like how x pounds of chicken times y pounds of meat times 50 people equals near disaster."

Greg:  "Write the factual events."

1 tent.  Five tables.  Forty chairs.  Ten pounds of chicken.  Three pounds of ground pork.  Six pounds of flank steak.  Four pounds of salmon.  Eight pounds of pasta. One pound of pesto.  One pound cake with cream cheese frosting.  Two pumpkin cheesecakes.  Fifty chocolate mousse and lemon mousse tarts.  Forty chocolate dipped strawberries.  Four cases of beer, twelve bottles of wine.  Forty confirmed guests (the delay to Sunday cost us ten guests) and enough food to accomodate several more.  One lunatic, ably assisted by two long-suffering friends.

Kellie:  "Multiplication.  So many meanings.  Being so close to Easter, the bunny theme is appropriate.  Given how people multiplied last night."

Greg:  "Remember the end scene in 'Wallace and Gromit and the Curse of the Were-Rabbit' where they populate the bunnies on the estate and rabbits start popping up all over the place?"

The horror.  The horror.

Sunday, noon

The rented tent and the tables on the lawn look great.  I've decided I want to own a tent because it really sets the mood for a festive event.  It also keeps people outside, on the damn lawn, and not wandering inside through my house when I'm prepping and cooking.

Everything is ready to go.  I'm pretty confident that I'll be able enjoy the party because I've got everything planned to the minute.

Alas.  Hubby has remarked more than once: "No plan survives first contact."

2:00 pm

Kellie shows up to help me.  I send her outside to put tablecloths and votives on the tables.

"You crazy person!  You have tablecloths for rented tables?  Did you make them?  Weave the cloth?"

"No...I didn't have time."

She shakes her head and goes off to set the tables.

Amanda calls; her husband has just left for his new post and she's down so I ask her to come over and join the party. 

"Six o'clock," I tell her.

She decides to come early and help me.  Like me, she's unable to resist the lure of cooking for others.

Kellie comes back in.  "What are we doing for napkins?"

"Oh, I sewed some last night -- "

"SHUT UP!"

I smirk and hand her a stack of paper napkins.

5:30 pm

We started cooking in earnest around 4:30, getting appetizers ready.  I finished pounding chicken breasts into a flat, uniform style (for faster and more even cooking) with my handy-dandy All Clad pot, swearing in between every two or three whacks and yelling, "I need a mallet!" 

The first guest arrives on time at 6:00.  We're "Go."  Chicken breasts are pre-cooked on the grill pan, then placed in a warm chafing dish with Marsala and mushroom cream sauce.  Flank steaks are quickly seared and sliced.  The salmon dishes are the easiest:  in and out of the oven with their marinade in 12 minutes.  The pasta salads go out along with a small green salad.  By 6:30 the line forms at the buffet table.

6:45 pm

Kellie and I turn off our respective burners.  Amanda puts aside her cutting board.  The food is out on the patio table and people have made their way around the buffet.  Everyone's sitting and eating at the tables under the tent.  It's still light out, and cool, perfect outdoor party weather.  I almost feel like I've finally managed to throw a grown up party -- everything looks pulled together.  No weird last minute emergencies.  The three of us are done cooking and ready to walk out for a plate of our own and a seat under the tent.

6:46 pm

Eighteen people show up on the lawn unexpectedly.

6:47 pm

Hubby told me that he had invited extra people, which was fine since I had accounted for an extra ten in food prep.  However, they in turn invited others to join and no one tells me.  I was expecting an additional nine; not eighteen.  And then the ultimate nightmare reveals itself to me:  there isn't enough food on the buffet.

6:48 pm

The staggering horror sets in.  The burners go back on and the chopping begins again in earnest.  There's enough food on the table to cover some of the new guests.  But we need more dishes.  Kellie mans the range grill and we throw on more chicken and flank steak.  Amanda makes a caprese salad and denudes the remainder of the indoor basil plant.  I prep to make a linguine with white clam sauce because it's (1) filling to make up for lack of other items which have already been consumed; (2) I have all the ingredients at hand; and (3) it's fast.

We cook and cook and cook.  Some people, lacking a distinct sense of timing, come in to make requests and inquiries.  I think to myself, "I am cooking!  I am cooking!  Go away!  I can't give you recipes right now!"

A dear (unsuspecting) friend, comes into the house with a request from one of the other guests.  "He wants ketchup, mustard and chopped onions."

"Really?" I respond without breaking stride, hot pan hitting the burner.  "Tell him to go f#$& himself."

Blessedly, my friend laughs.  "I'll tell him."

Those who come in to thank us for the food, to offer help, or to say hello are much more welcome. 

8:15 pm

Everything is out on the table including desserts.  Because we hadn't planned to cook for so many people, dinner moved right on into dessert making. 

When it's all over, Kellie, Amanda and I simply stare at each other, survivors of a collective trauma none of us can discuss quite yet.  We speak in hushed tones, as if we have encountered an unspeakable evil whose name cannot be mentioned.  Amanda leaves to take care of her dogs.  Kellie and I try to grab some private time under the tent with a plate of linguine.  We have no interest in talking to anyone.  We just want to eat and share our mutual psychic pain.  The tent under which we are sitting is apropos though more in the circus sense than the festive sense.

Then I survey the scene before me:  people gathered around the buffet table, laughing and talking, obviously enjoying themselves.  The whole point of the party was to introduce old team members to new team members and to give everyone a place to relax after a long day of practice.  Friends I get to see once a year or every few years stop by to say hello and to give me a hug.  It's a relaxed scene.  Wasn't this what we intended?

Kellie:  "I think this was very successful."

More people, more fun.  Multiplication.  Good times.

But I am still traumatized.