Potato Gratin

Our friend Richard (on the far right) passed away this summer. I heard about his tragic death when I turned my cell phone on around midnight of August 15th. I had just landed on the tarmac of Oakland airport and was returning home from vacation because my grandfather was about to die. The day after grandpa died, I went to the service for Richard. I was having a rough time so when they invited people up to talk about Richard or relate a favorite story about him, I didn't go up and say anything. I meant to relay the following vignette.

We were hosting a dinner party at Halcyon Court several years ago and many people from Kermit Lynch wine merchants were coming over, including Richard. Richard was a jolly gourmand with an appreciation of many fine things in life, including Potato Gratin. He arrived and came into the kitchen, my usual post during dinner parties, to say hello. He glanced at the potatoes I was slicing on the mandolin and with delight apparent on his face inquired: "Are you making potato gratin??" I smiled and assented. He watched as I buttered the LeCreuset Gratin Pan and added some minced garlic. "With garlic??" I smiled again and nodded. He watched as I layered the pan with thin slices of potatoes, and then sprinkled salt, pepper, and a few shavings of nutmeg. "And nutmeg??" I grinned again. And then with the gusto of life and the joy that gratin brings, Richard said "Oh, I LOVE YOU!" The evening was great, although between the wines and rich food I have only fuzzy happy memories of the rest of it. And now, when, as tonight, I make potato gratin, I think fondly of Richard.

(cover layered seasoned potatoes with heated cream and milk, and then shmear sour cream on top and bake for an hour and a half at 300, plus 30 minutes at 400)

(the picture is from the dinner before our friend Erin's amazing wedding in France, where Richard was the only person to plow through the disgusting, although very French, Andouiette sausage. what a champ!)

Trumer Sluts, for the record

I love Trumer. It's so refreshing and delicious. Just thinking about it now makes me thirsty. It's like Snickers -- it's really satisfying (I'm just talking about the great branding motto, not actually suggesting that Snickers is anywhere near as satisfying as Trumer) . Luke brought a keg of Trumer up the Sky Fourth of July party a couple of years ago. It was primo. The Fourth was so hot that all you could do was fill up a pint and plop down in the shade. Trumer, for those sadly not in the know, is a pilsner style beer that is brewed in Salzburg, Austria and now in Berkeley, CA, USA, planet Earth. It rocks.

The thing about Trumer, though, is that it apparently breeds low lifes. There has been a proliferation of Trumer sluts lately. Oh, you all know who you are. Don't pretend that you don't. A prime example is Paloma. I had never seen her drink a whole beer before in my life until Matt and I and Amy started bringing Trumer up to Sky. Now, it's hard to catch her without a mostly empty bottle in hand or trying to steal a less empty bottle from the clutches of one of the rest of us or from another Trumer Slut, like Chris or Lore.

Just in case not everyone know who you are, I'm here to out all you Trumer Sluts. Well, at least all of you that are caught on the digital film (is that even called film anymore?) that currently resides on my computer (photo credit to Mica Muskat and Cameron De Palma):
Ok. Matt isn't technically a Trumer Slut since he purchases most of that which is consumed up at Sky, but look at the expressions of longing on those two other Sluts...
Now Chris is definitely a Trumer Slut. It looks like he's been thrown under the truck here, but really, he's just hiding out so no one steals his first sip. Or the next, or the next, or the next, or the last...
Yeah, Maya's one too. She poses like she isn't, but it's all an act. Look at the professional guzzling...that's no joke. (And again, notice the jealous gazes of the unTrumer-ed onlookers).
And here is perhaps the most impressive or the saddest evidence yet. Yes, Katie (Katy? Kate? Our fact checking department attempted to confirm the correct spelling of her name but Val and Mica apparently have an early Friday night cut off...much like the Texas Criminal Court of Appeals) apparently likes a little Trumer action, but does she really need to get the little ones hooked at such a young and tender age? The look of pure Trumer joy on Sarah's face is understandable, but a little precocious and disturbing at the same time.

There are more. Previous posts in the archives have Trumer Slut-a-licious picutres of Val and Paloma both knocking a cold one back. But the rest of the pictures are on matt's computer and its up the stairs so I can't be bothered. Perhaps I'll add an addendum later.

And no, although I SHOULD be paid for this post, I haven't been. Now, please excuse me while I go check the supplies in the fridge...

The Harvest Moon Has Set

Yesterday was the last day of harvest. Picking in November is a novelty for Sky. Generally when harvest lasts into October, it's note-worthy. November? Unheard of.
It was atypical in many ways. The leaves had all fallen off the vines and we were picking late harvest from the old vines. I've never seen the vineyard naked and full of fruit at the same time. The crew was small -- Lore, Matt, Jesse, Chris, Paloma and me -- and we sought an elusive bunch of grapes so we wander in groups of one, two or three throughout the various blocks. Although the vines were loaded down with fruit, we picked only a bunch or two from the vines. Personally, I had no idea what we were supposed to be picking. Late harvest is dessert wine so we were looking for the sweetest grapes to ensure that there would be some residual enough sugar after fermentation. We were instructed to pick bunches that were raisony and had shriveled grapes, but weren't too dried out. And nothing with plump grapes. And nothing that was too picked over by birds. And nothing that was pink. And nothing that didn't smell right. And nothing that didn't taste good. We had 14 boxes to pick and it took hours. And I'm sure I didn't pick one bunch that actually met the specifications. Not that any one person could agree on what the specifications actually were. Needless to say, it was a typical sky deal.

After a mellow and light lunch of chanterelle mushrooms and humbolt fog grilled cheese sandwiches, we headed down to crush.

It was a particularly fun crush. We set up outside and crushed our quarter ton. The grapes, despite being undoubtedly all wrong in the vineyard, magically were transformed into awesome looking late harvest. Barely any juice and super high sugar. Matt got to fulfill a life long dream and vinify the grapes in a traditional manner as old as the zinfandel grown in Croatia back in the day (whichever day that was) (zin used to be thought to have come from the Primitivo grape in Italy, but was recently proven through DNA analysis to actually come from Croatia. Exonerated from any connection with La Famiglia).



I'm feeling a little post-partum but also relieved. Another harvest here and gone. Now we just wait with anticipation and anxiety to see the results of all the hard work and in two years we can assess the success of the endeavor. If it turns out well, I'm sure it was from my skilled eye at picking which bunches would lead to perfection. If it's a disappointment, it must be someone else's fault. I'm just saying, that's all.