A Stay-at-Home Order: Sketches on Dining In

(And Other Divertissements)

I'm writing this post especially for True Concord Voices & Orchestra, one of the many organizations for which I perform. While musicians are grounded until further notice, arts organizations continue to connect with their concert goers in innovative ways.  Introducing performers to deprived audience members in a more personal way, as in this post, is one such strategy.  If you are able, consider supporting one of your beloved local organizations during this difficult time.

Happy, Healthy, and COVID-Unemployed! Let's Ride! Except...I'm not.  Of all my pursuits, tearing around on a Ducati is the one most likely to result in medical intervention.  So I've made the personal decision to remain out of the saddle while hospital beds are at a premium.  All the time in the world. A fully operational Ducati. Those two states of being have not coincided in years.  I won't lie.  Some days, I'm tempted.  But for now, we sit.  And wait. And wait and sit. Just like everyone else.

My last ride, over two months ago, was, appropriately, to a ghost town. Yes, Fairbanks, AZ is an actual ghost town. Even in long ago early March, a picnic lunch was a sanitized and distantly social affair.  It was with genuine sadness that I declined my friend's offer to pack my lunch for me. Is that allowed anymore?

Photo by Excellent Friend and Motorcyclist Missy Blair

So what have I been doing?  Some things, like hand washing and toilet paper usage data collection, have become nearly universal.

Other activities feel fairly unique.  In an arguably questionable financial strategy, I bought a flute*. And a roof.  In the same week.  Most days, I run between the front yard, checking on Baby Hummerbird, who had his flight feathers removed by a cat-of-unknown-origin the day after he fledged, and the back yard, assembling the contraption-of-the-day in an ongoing feud to keep a neighbor's cat from assaulting my Lucy's Warblers nestbox.  (If you read only one of my silly trademark footnotes, let it be this one**.)  Mostly, the cat is winning, although Miss Lucy is still sitting on her three eggs.  Time will tell if the eggs are viable.

Many mornings, I get a two-wheeled wildflower joy fix by bicycling on The Loop.

If you know where to look, you might find an abandoned trail side orchard.

The bicycle lunchbox proves handy for roadside finds.

My motorcycle/bicycle risk assessment may not have been entirely accurate.

Empty grocery shelves***? Bring it! Cooking with what's on hand is a daily creative opportunity for any budget minded eater, and the extra challenge of pandemic limitations only has me - zing! - sharpening my knives with a gleam in my eye and sly smile on my lips. Dosa, stuffed zucchini blossoms****, beet-walnut dip, okonomiyaki (of a sort),  roasted red peppers, lemon frozen yogurt, lion's mane sopes, pickled mustard greens, Thai beef salad, homemade ricotta, "Ground Beet Gnocchi" (so named because the mixture of pureed red and golden beets makes for gnocchi the color of ground beef), lemon curd barquettes, and, in a nod to pandemic skill acquisition goals, hand patted tortillas - no tortilla press needed, thank you very much - have all hit my dinner plate in the past weeks*****.    If I am so inspired, I snap a photo. Usually, I just settle down and eat.

Add chives to your walnut beet dip, lest you mistake it for raspberry sorbet.

Red Pepper Acquisition Credit goes to Good Friend and True Concord Voices & Orchestra staff member Shawn Campbell.

Lion's mane mushrooms. Not foraged. This time.

New favorite cross cultural snack: rice with pickled mustard greens and salsa macha

During the heat of the day, I often turn off the stove and shelter in place with the Metropolitan Opera free Stream o' the Day, while firing running commentary back and forth with an ad hoc chat group. 

But the real wild card of late? An online nature sketching course.  Typically, my level of patience varies wildly by activity. Practicing the flute? I got this.  (Even when I don't.) Motorcycle maintenance? Zero Zen.  Sketching has been an unexpected new window into my labyrinthine mind. Each time I sit down to draw, I watch myself tracing a predictable emotional outline, from one point on the serenity scale to the other. The simplest shapes can be infuriating, and when I'm not consumed with the urge to throw my sketchbook across the yard, I am perplexed and curious why I can not replicate the uncomplicated contour of a heart shaped leaf.  Like Mozart, seemingly straightforward lines are deceptive, and can take a lifetime to render with the grace they hold within.  Each time I open my little pink thrift store art box and begin, I reach a pivotal moment. Do I give in to discouragement and frustration? Or enjoy the process of exploration and discovery? The choice - and it is a choice - which I must make anew each time I draw, is an undeniable struggle for me, the proportions of which I am a bit embarrassed to admit. I take a breath, employ the eraser, and start again. I got this. Even when I don't.

* Buyin' ain't practicin', it turns out.
** Important disclaimer! PLEASE do not EVER "rescue" wildlife without immediate and direct consultation with a licensed wildlife center. It is not only illegal, but often harmful.  See here for some preliminary advice.  (Currently, Mama Hummerbird is still doing the work of tending Baby Hummerbird.)  Readers will know I like birds, especially Lucy's Warblers. See here for more information on our special little warbler, and, if you like, scroll down to see various updates on my own nestboxes.  UPDATE: Mama Hummerbird is busy sitting on news eggs, so she has stopped visiting Baby Hummerbird. Baby Hummerbird has moved to a new temporary home: Tucson Wildlife Center
*** Teensy tiny confession: Now that my evenings are free, I volunteer weekly at my Tucson Community Supported Agriculture Group.  Who knew one day I'd be thanked for my service simply for handing out cabbages?  In return, I come home with a bag full of beautiful, fresh, and interesting seasonal produce. And? They have eggs, bread, meat, cheese, milk, and other items available for sale, too.  So, in volunteering for the essential business of food distribution, I'm also, admittedly, cheating. Take, that, COVID.
****Don't be tempted by complicated fillings or batters. Pop a piece of anchovy and a piece of cheese into each flower, and twist it closed. Dip them in a simple pastella (flour and water batter) and pop them into a shallow bath of hot high smoke point oil until golden. Drain, sprinkle with a bit of nice salt, and eat immediately.  You'll be airing out your kitchen afterwards, but something has to keep us from frying food every day, right? 
*****Thatsalotta dish washing.

Farm Fun and Associated "Recipe"

When the calfs are fed, dinner plates cleared, and the Alpenglow* shines on the mountains, what's a farm girl to do?**

Ride around the pasture, that's what!

Flutists always wear full face helmets, even if they are not quite as stylish on this particular motorcycle.

There's no need to rush home before dark when home and riding ground are one in the same.  Why not have a cool drink and enjoy the sunset, instead? It's easy to push the bike through the gate and into the shop.  The safety of my  summer "tiny house" is only a little footbridge away.

PBR: The choice of farmhands everywhere?  Certain activities DO pair well with certain drinks.

Recipe: Stroll over to the garden, and select the vegetable most in need of harvesting (in my case, kale).  Chop it into rather small pieces and saute/blanch/cook as appropriate.  Toss your result in olive oil, garlic, and chile flakes. Maybe add a touch of mashed anchovy (just enough to make one wonder), or a squeeze of lemon, or both.   Take a slice or two of day old baguette, and fry it in butter or oil - both sides! - until golden. Voila! You have a big, crispy crouton.  Top that crouton with your vegetable, a fried farm fresh egg (thanks, neighbors!), and a bit of cheese.  In the case of kale, might I recommend the Desert Red Feta?   Of course, if it's a lovely spring leek you have returned with, don't be ridiculous. Saute it in butter, toss in a splash of that lovely Alpine white*** you've recently become enamored with, and finish with a generous spoonful of the fresh cream you've skimmed from yesterday evening's milking.  Oh, and do trade the Desert Red Feta for some Wasatch Mountain Reserve.   Pop a dried date and a slice of Zwitser Gouda Reserve in your mouth for dessert.  Of course, if there are fresh market cherries in the house, have a few with the Farmhouse Gouda, instead.

* Technically, it's not actually Alpenglow, but the warm low light on the moutainsides is beautiful enough to deserve a romantic name.

**Let us, today, look beyond the obvious answer of "practice her flute."

***Yes, you CAN drink white wine with cheese. Alpine wine with alpine cheese: if it grows together, it goes together.  (I found the 2016 Les Rocailles Apremont Vin de Savoie at our little wine shop, and it's been my go-to drink with cheese all summer.)

Blessed Event

I know, I know, I'm supposed to be writing about whether or not I actually made it to Baja this spring, and I was, I really was! Yesterday morning I was inspired anew, wrote quite a bit, and had planned to finish the post in the evening, after my Little Miss Muffet lunch of curds and whey*.  But I was unfairly railroaded. By this:

If you've been paying close attention, you'll know that this summer, in additional to my usual opera flutist duties, I'm moonlighting here.  But what may not be apparent is that the cow in the idyllic alpine photo above is in labor.  It was supposed to be cold and rainy last night (it was!) with up to a foot of snow in the mountains.  Good thing I took my mountain ride a few days ago, because even then, it looked like this:

And just a few weeks ago, the calf barn looked like this:

Dawn. Time to milk the cows. In the.... SNOW?

But I digress.  Point being, it sure would be nice for Clara's sake if she were to bring a calf into this world under a roof.  Thankfully, we had just that sort of place in mind for her. And we got her there without a minute to spare!

Because only moments later, a tiny cloven hoof began to emerge. And then another. And then the startled face of a being leaving one world and entering the next.

Welcome, Little One!

Oh, auspicious day! It's a heifer**!  Clara tended to her charge like only an experienced mama would, cooing in her gentle bovine way throughout the process.

Good job, Clara!

We decided to give mama and calf some quiet time. Besides, we needed to fetch some basic necessities for these two for the night. After all that, Clara must be hungry and thirsty.  When we returned there was a surprise waiting for us...

Twins!

*Not even kidding.  Leftover cheese curds + salt + pepper + garlic scapes + drizzle of olive oil = the lunch of cheese apprentice champions. They are especially satisfying after spending the entire morning, stomach growling, stirring those curds. These are the sorts of things cheese apprentices do. And eat.  And? The next day, once the curds have knit together, you can slice the loaf, fry the slice, and top it with roasted garlic scape pesto and roasted cherry tomatoes. Yep. You can.

**That's code for more milk. Which is code for more cheese!

Neither Zen Nor Art

My mother died, so the motorcycle didn't make it to Utah*, so I thought I'd do some things I usually don't because I'm busy motorcycling instead. So I'm planning a maybe backpacking expedition to King's Peak (3 days, 30 miles) and I need granola, so I pick some cherries and dry them, but I need some butter, too, so I have to spend three hours fixing my bicycle to get the butter, and then the chain gets jammed up anyway on the way to the store, and I never get the butter (way better than oil, by the way), but -look!- there's one of my favorite brilliant yellow birds**, dead in the middle of the road, and suddenly I turn back; I must carry the dead bird home in my bicycle basket (what am I, eight years old?), and it makes me cry and cry and...see?  This is why I hate fixing motorcycles*.  The End
*This really does all make sense.
**Yellow Warbler? Wilson's Warbler? I'm not sure.

Granola tips: Use whatever bits and pieces you like, but instead of plain oil, used browned butter or coconut or olive oil,  and instead of honey/sugar/agave syrup/whatever, use maple syrup. Put in the dried fruit after baking. Cook it low and slow, turning it over often.  If you want it "clustery," grind up some of your oats and coconut into flour and let your final mix sit for a few minutes before baking it. Then pinch it together into clumps before baking.  (See here for the method, but I think this recipe itself is too sweet.) Mom, however, in her final weeks, had a sweet tooth that never would have been obliged in earlier days. She requested I pour caramel all over her granola when I made it for her this spring.  She remarked candied orange peel would make a lovely addition, and she was absolutely right.

Recipe: Christmas Dinner in Thirty Minutes or Less (The Feast of Three Fishes*)

Did you ever make pomanders as a kid? Remember how much those pokey cloves hurt your fingers? Clever adults use a lobster pick or other implement to poke pilot holes, first.

When you decide at 12:30 pm on December 24 that you’ll host dinner on December 25, you’re going to have to throw money at the problem. That means shellfish.  Since you’ll need to have grocery shopping, cookies for tonight, and cake for tomorrow all completed, and be showered (bonus!), coiffed (hah!), and out of the house by 4:00 pm to attend your Christmas Eve festivities, plan on making, rolling, and filling the Russian Cigarette cookies promised to your Christmas Eve hostess with one hand, while mixing up a cheesecake with the other. And I do mean this literally. The cookie crumbs that fall into the top of the cheese cake will be covered up by cherries, so don’t fret.   And because you simply can't survive one more year without those anise-seed Christmas cookies of your childhood, mix up a batch of those, too.  Oh, and cook an artichoke, so you don’t have to do it tomorrow. They take a while.  Finally, praise the deity of your choice with hearty song on high when your still warm cheesecake remains steadfastly in its pan, despite your 4:15 pm unscheduled tire squealing collision avoidance maneuver.  Don’t forget to pop the cheesecake in the fridge before the Sugar Plum Faeries do their dance, but let it cool to room temperature first.

Ready, set… GO!

T-30 min: Set a big pot with a few inches of water to boil.  Dump a half jar of the sour cherries you preserve each summer in a small pot with some of their juice, a bit of lemon, sugar, and cornstarch.  Set over medium flame, stirring as often as your hands are free of other things.  Rinse and section out king crab legs.  Waste 15 seconds or so pondering just how seriously big of sea beast this thing was,  then swear at it when its sharp shell slits your finger open.  Band-Aid, STAT!  Glass of wine, STAT! Do take a brief moment to savor the drama and excitement of it all.  The cherries are boiling now. After a minute or so of this, pour them - schloop! - into the nearest appropriate container.  Put it on ice.  The big pot is boiling now.  Sling the crab legs into it, and cover. Work in a snap and twirl to for effect.  Yank the leaves - pop! pop! pop! - off the artichoke you cooked last night, and smear the base of each one with a dollop of spicy, garlicky cream cheese.  Oh, right, you mixed up the cream cheese yesterday, too.

T-25 min: Pull out the crab legs from the pot and throw them into a colander whilst doing the "Gah! HotHot!" dance.  Dump and rinse the pot, avoiding a steam burn as best you can. If you forget to save a bit of the crab leg broth for two steps from now, you won't really miss it.  It was a bit too salty, anyway. Set the pot back on the burner, add olive oil, a lump of the garlic you prepped and froze earlier (because you hate prepping garlic on a daily basis), paprika, and slices of the Russian sausage “Babcia” gave you last night. Sausage is forbidden in the traditional feast of any number of fishes, but desperate people do desperate things, and, well... sausage!  Sauté for a full precious minute while you keep on keepin' on with those artichoke leaves. Dump a jar of tomatoes, that almost gone bottle of white wine at the back of the fridge, a quarter of the onion you were slicing for the salad (yes, you are also preparing a green salad), a bay leaf, and some cayenne into the big pot. Rethink. Take chances. More cayenne. Wish you had some spinach on hand to toss in at the last second, but don’t waste too much time here.  Bring to a boil, then reduce to the slightest simmer or less. You will come back to this later.**

T-20 min: Arrange the artichoke leaves artfully on a platter, put a caper on each one (because the jarred roasted sweet red peppers you found in Pilot Guy's fridge don't taste all that good, pretty as they may be), and sprinkle with smoked paprika. (Under the gun, you can do this incredibly rapidly. Trust me.) There. You have an artichoke sunflower on the table, should people arrive early.  Nuke butter with more of that frozen garlic in two little espresso cups, and set them on a platter with the drained crab legs. Oops! Pilot Guy is not equipped with crab cracking instrumentation. It’s easy to slit each side of the legs with kitchen scissors, but it will cost you two, possibly three, precious minutes.

T-15 min: Meanwhile, Pilot Guy is making fondue from a kit. Scorn the kit, but admit the ingredient list is suspiciously…. fondue like. Imagine that! His maneuver is approved.  Fire directives at him: toast bread cubes! Not too much! Cut up the apples we got at the orchard! (Oops, never posted about the orchard run.)  Set out olives and pickles! No, not those, these! Go! Go!  He complies with a knowing smile, sweet man that he is.

T-10 min: The cherries are cool. Maybe too cool. Nuke for 10 seconds. Chicken out and remove them at 8 seconds. Unmold the cheesecake pan side, but leave the cake on the pan bottom, because you just don’t dare at this point. Set it directly on the cake stand, instead, and pour the cherries on top. Allow them to spill over just so. My God, but those are good. Put the whole thing back into the fridge, and be good and smug about it, because you were clever enough to re-position all the space hogging beer bottles earlier today. Ta da! Should the slightly too soft cake collapse later under the weight of the cherries when you’re doing battle with a stuck fridge drawer, no matter. Tomorrow you can slap the creamy heart of the leftovers into martini glasses, poke in a Russian Cigarette, call it parfait, and pretend you meant to do that. My God, (again), but that is good.

Disaster recovery plan

T-5 min:  Finish a simple salad of greens and thinly sliced radishes and onions. Have at the ready the nice vinaigrette your friend made and gave you for Christmas last week, and also that speech your mom makes every single time about how the French eat salad***, since she won’t be there to make it herself. Pop bread in to warm.

Ding Dong! Pop the champagne cork, snap a hasty photo, and high five with Pilot Guy.  You did it!

Not a pretty photo, this is purely for documentation. It's the only course that got photographed, so you'll just have to believe me on the rest of it.  Thirty Minutes or Less does not include time for food styling or even proper exposure settings.

*A hasty version of the southern Italian tradition of La Vigilia, or “Feast of Seven Fishes,” in which seven or more seafood dishes and/or fishes are served before Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve.  With a little more thought, surely we could work in the other four?  See below for the two fishes I haven't explained yet.
**Start with the fondue, artichoke sunflower, crab legs, and champagne. When it’s time to move to the table, crank up the heat on the big pot, while Pilot Guy clears the dishes. Throw in a heap of mussels and little neck clams. You bought every last one from the store yesterday. <tap tap> Yep, they're still alive - don't prepare dead ones! The clams go in 1-2 minutes ahead, as they take a little longer. When the shellfish open, retrieve and toss the quarter onion, pour the shellfish and spicy rich broth in a big wide bowl, sprinkle with fresh herbs, and serve with crusty, warm bread and that green salad. 
*** Make the dressing: a proper vinaigrette of shallots, mustard, salt and pepper, and oil and vinegar (never balsamic!) in the bottom of an overly large bowl. Cross the business ends of your salad tossing and serving devices in the bowl, and place your plain greens – nothing else! – on top. Okay, thinly sliced onions and radishes are allowed, but nothing else! Not like those ridiculous American salads.   (Optional: insert discourse on composed vs. tossed salads here.)  Oh, wait, sometimes blue cheese crumbles are permissible as well, especially if you want to combine the cheese and salad courses, but nothing else!  Salad is eaten last, not first!, and gets tossed just before serving. Unless, of course, you're eating it with quiche, in which case, it may (must!) be eaten with the quiche, but that's another set of rules. See how the greens don’t get soggy while waiting?  Salad and pasta can never be over-tossed! (To be fair, that’s my own personal addition to the system, and by this I mean no amount of tossing will be too much. Toss! Toss! Be sure to appoint someone else for this particular part of the rite, then hover over the victim and correct his technique.  Ditto for cake and pie serving.)  P.S. Mom’s way really is the best way!

When Time is on Your Side, Bacon (and other things) Happen

I’ve voluntarily given up my annual spring motorcycle camping trip in favor of solitary confinement to a practice room.   No winding my way northward with Li'l Burro on the Utah Backcountry Discovery route, nor overshooting my migration destination with the Ducati, perhaps finally exploring Bear Highway in Montana, no, no, not me.* But as small consolation, I’ve found much can happen in my kitchen, while I’m in the next room practicing the flute.

It all started this winter, when I scored almost two gallons of fresh, raw milk from our CSA.
Heat and culture the milk, then go examine at length the difficulties of keeping your 5ths and 3rds in tune in E-Flat major.  Milk magic happens on its own.

Add some rennet, then enjoy G Major as a reward.

Cut the curds, drain the whey, press the curds, and go work on the crazy technique you learned back in NYC.

After several days of drying, turning, and brining, you’ve got Bach’s Brandenburg 4 in your pocket, and a nice block of Eating On Two Wheels Greek Style Cheese. (That’s feta, to you and me.)

Fermenting vegetables is even easier. Sprinkle them liberally with salt or brine them, weight them so they stay below the surface of their liquid, step back, and allow the local population of microbes do the work for you.  By the time you’ve re-learned the Stravinsky part you haven’t looked at in a decade, which, admittedly, takes a few days,  you’ll have a spicy radish and root kimchi.  Or curtido, that lightly fermented El Salvadoran slaw one simply must have along side a pupusa.

Operation Curtido Test.  The fancy set up in the photo is wholly unnecessary, but I was only too happy to receive this little birthday gift.

Unlike canning, from which, if you don’t follow the directions exactly, you just might experience the neurotoxic paralysis of botulinum, albeit with a particularly youthful facial complexion, when fermenting, the good guys always win!

Then there’s the adorable little “ginger bug,” a siren song for wild yeasts everywhere.  She’ll be the starter for a half gallon of ginger beer in a day or two.

People, please. I know it’s a hack job, but you get my point. I’ve no time for Photoshop, only time for bacon.

I don’t (yet!) have a temperature and humidity controlled space for fermenting, oh, say, salame (yes!!), but… look what I can do!

RECIPE
Take the Community Supported Agriculture humanely raised pork belly out of your freezer.  Carefully** measure out some curing salts and seasonings, lovingly rub that belly with the mixture, and let it rest comfortably in the fridge.  Don’t come out until you can play the tricky bits from Strauss’s Rosenkavalier.  There are a lot of tricky bits.

Take the belly out, drop it in your good neighbor’s smoker, go practice for a couple more hours, and…

Ding! Practice break!  If you are anything like me, the rest of the story will proceed along these lines:

The delicious smell wafting towards me sparks a wild kitchen circle dance, carving knife held high in the air.  But it’s difficult to slice meat whilst leaping around, so gaining control of my hysteria is paramount. I cut a slice, then reverently lower my weapon.  “Sweet Baby Jesus,” I whisper to myself.  “Bacon happened.”

No good can come of this newly discovered culinary superpower.

But there is still one thing left to do...

Sizzle. <taps watch> Sizzle.

Blessed be the steady supply of Grandpa-Good tomatoes at the Santa Cruz River Farmers' Market

Although it may appear otherwise, I do still ride motorcycles. This picture is not from today’s ride, when, after flying by the Sheriff at twice the speed limit, I sat up quickly, hoping to look like an innocent mushroom hunter***, but from a Kitt Peak ride back in March. Thanks to the good "Olive and Emilie", who I met at the top, for the photo!

References
Milk - The Surprising Story of Milk Through the Ages, Anne Mendelson: I checked this one out of the library years ago, and have wanted my own copy ever since. I finally plunked down real money for it, and, more importantly, allotted it space on my very small bookshelf this winter. Fascinating information, some recipes, and interesting little kitchen experiments, too.
Dry-Curing Pork, Hector Kent: A purely self-serving gift from Pilot Guy. Clear explanations regarding both “how” and “why.”  I expect to put this book to heavy use.  Features photos of cheerfully smiling people wielding butchering knives in a field.
The Art of Fermentation and Wild Fermentation, both by Sandor Ellix Katz, aka “Sandorkraut”: The former is an absolute Bible, or “in-depth exploration of essential concepts and processes from around the world,” the latter a small book focusing on actual recipes. I absolutely love this guy, and his philosophy on food, life, and community.  Visit him and a useful support forum online.

*Prepare for neglect, dear flute, because August, you are mine!
**This is no time for eyeballing it, because, if you goof, you’ll stand a chance of enjoying either nitrite toxicity or botulism.  Get yourself an accurate gram scale, if you don’t already have one from, uhhh, other pursuits.  I didn’t trust my aging kitchen scale, but Pilot Guy’s mad scientist laboratory includes, among other things, a three foot wide photo printer, a 3D printer, and a scale once owned by the former U.S. Nuclear Regulatory Commissioner.  I’m pretty sure that means it’s good for these purposes, too, so long as all traces of plutonium have been removed.
***I came up empty on the mushroom hunt, although I only allowed myself a ten minute foray at one favorite spot. But – rain in June, twice?? – it’s unheard of. The season is off to an early start!  Regarding the sheriff, I guess he was texting. Useful Lemmon Tip: Once you know where he is, you know where he isn’t.  Yeeee-HA!

The Morning After: Holidays 2014

So yeah, the holidays are over, and I feel a bit like this leftover cake. A bit weary, a little melted… where did the time go??

Triple Chocolate Mousse Cake, the morning after.

I’ll tell you where.

On Thanksgiving Tuesday, I made a pot of gold, or, if you insist on being specific, a pot of turkey stock.  On Wednesday, I poached a 14lb turkey in it, transforming that pot of gold into something even better. Pot of platinum?  Pot of gold, squared?  At least! I browned that bird in a roaring oven on Thursday, and, as we sat down to eat, swore I would never cook a turkey any other way again. After the gravy and, later, the soup, I strongly encourage you to slowly boil the quarts and quarts of liquid gold you still have left as long as you dare. If you hold out for a supersonically savory syrup and freeze it in an ice cube tray, you will have veritable neutron bombs of turkey-ness at your disposal.  Handle them with the care and respect they deserve.

Gratitude: Life has been a pot of gold in 2014. I hope that you were able to find genuine gratitude for something, big or small, no matter how the pendulum of life swung for you this year.

For Christmas I had important tasks at hand, like making teeny tiny camel spritz cookies and a couple pounds of peppermint bark, eating gingerbread men before getting around to decorating them, and building the aforementioned Triple Chocolate Mousse Cake.

The crushed candy canes were the sleeper hit: sparkly pretty in the low light of an elegant dining table, with a zingy crunchy contrast to this immensely dense finale.

I won’t tell you what I made for Christmas Eve dinner,  but Pilot Guy has touched my heart with his little dinner inspired po-em, simultaneously supplying you with a whimsical hint:

I know a place where food magic abounds
where faeries queue up for their sugar plums, without making a sound,
where tri-colored beagles, each one to a cup, sprinkle nutmeg on nogmugs, then line them all up.
A place for pork tummies to get pampered just so,
why, they're swimming in sour cherries, wouldn't you know!
And apples of earth, taters by name, are sliced so thinly, you'd think it insane.
Through each spudwindow, the next you can see, shaped into a cake, quite perfectly.
Sprouts from the host of EU, here don't get neglected.
They're sliced and sprinkled and perfectly toasted.
Were it not for the myriad other delights, they'd steal the whole show, they are so out of sight.
In case you were worried about leaving the table, without a sweet bite, as if you were able,
there is a confection, just out of view, so dreadfully sinful; if only you could...
wield a utensil, just one final time...
to top off the evening, chocolate and cream!
It's impossibly sultry; so intimate, so deep,
anyone with a soul is brought to a weep...

Do try to guess the menu!

At the very least, surely you can tell it was no small wonder we hauled our still full bellies up Blackett’s Ridge on Christmas Day.

Then we went snowshoeing in Santa Fe….



…where it was rather cold.

On the way, I dashed in here, in hopes of finding this guy. I didn’t, but I slipped a note in the café’s mail slot.  For the record, Lunch at Tre Rosat in Silver City was notably good.

On the way back, we splurged  - one whole dollar each! – to view a roadside attraction I’ve driven past countless times.  No, I can’t possibly tell you what it is.

Then another hike in Tucson, where, strangely, it felt, but wasn’t, even colder than something-teen degree Santa Fe.

That same evening, we quietly greeted 2015 with fireside fondue and wine, while battling out a Scrabble sudden death tie breaker and watching snow fall in the desert.  Remarkably, I have a Scrabble photo, but no snow in the desert photos. See here for some from our last snow, in 2012.

You may have noticed that my holidays were suspiciously devoid of any sort of two wheeled activity. First, there was that incident at the end of October that kept me from riding for a my final week in AZ.  Then  - whoosh! - I was in Miami. Then – whoosh! (again) - I was back!  And ready to roll!  Sadly, the Ducati wasn’t quite so ready. I dutifully connected her to the charger the day before my planned ride, failing to realize – oopsy! - that electrons were not gaily skipping from pig tail connector to battery**.   So when the starting gate opened… well, we weren’t starting. Then – whoosh! (again again) – back to Miami! Then – whoosh! (again again again) – back to Tucson!  But that high maintenance Ducati insists I pull her tank to investigate and hopefully restore electrical integrity***, and there was no time, no time, what with the pumpkin cakes with caramel cream cheese frosting, pork bellies, beagle parades (really!), Santa Fe fine dining****, and, oh yes, the December work schedule of any musician.

And now  - whoosh! (again again again again)… I’m back in Miami.

But just for a week! (Impending whoosh!) And when I return, there will be time!

God, but I miss riding. Little things unexpectedly tweak my heart. Yesterday, mind elsewhere, I saw a rider on the street out of the corner of my eye do that iconic motorcycle slouch thing that I and surely ever other rider often do when waiting at a light: leaned back, spine curved, right hand on the thigh, left foot on the ground.   The impact of this brute force attack of nostalgia startles me, catches me off guard. It is a wholly unpleasant jolt to my psyche.  I rode how many thousands of miles this summer? Seven? Eight?  Still, these dry spells unsettle me.

I freely admit this is quite possibly my most boring and disconnected post since I started writing in 2007. (2007? Really?) Which is saying something.  Yet I’ve told myself I will not get up from this laptop until I hit the “publish” button, proofreading and obsessive editing be damned.  No doubt this hurts you, dear readers, even more than it hurts me, so I apologize.  I miss writing my little stories and I’ve no idea why I’ve lagged during the past couple of years.  This, too, has been unsettling.  So, like a literary New Year’s resolution public weigh-in, I make this promise to you: By the time we reach  - let’s not be too ambitious! –  Valentine’s Day, I’ll have told you what happened in October, what I did last summer, and have published the first of a “Back Burner” series, either about the 2012 Baja reprise trip via Two Wings, or Grand Bahama on Two Wheels*****.  How’s that?

Ready, set... publish. <click>

*Recipe Continuation: As the final coup de grace, you just might make your stuffing in a casserole dish, using turkey fat to sauté your mirepoix, and some of that liquid gold to moisten the bread cubes you dried out yesterday.  Slap a turkey back on top of it while it cooks, for extra yum. Then cram it (the stuffing, not the casserole dish), still hot, in the bird, after they both come out of the oven. You will be have done the impossible: made delicious (and safe!) in-the-bird stuffing, without  overcooking the turkey in sacrifice.   Sneaky, huh?
**Explains that malfunction vest at the North Rim, eh?
***Nothing at all like the good natured Kawi, who only asks that I pop off the seat.
****The cauliflower velouté was the surprise best-in-show at dinner for two at the Coyote Café.
*****Finished on time. But barely!