julia, dreams of terrine, and a glass of wine

It’s Friday night again and I am sitting in the leather recliner that lies on our new Pergo laminate floors.   Rheagan is swinging.  A glass of cabernet franc is sitting on the table next to me, and Pretty Woman is playing in the background.  No matter how many times I watch this movie, every so often I catch myself realizing the quality acting in this film.  It was such a heavy influence on my adolescence, yet I never really appreciated the skills of the particular artists.

 Gabriel is at work, selling wine, laughing, and telling stories about Rheagan.
I miss him.  I often wonder what our relationship would be like if we were home at the same time; I figure we would probably have no wine left in the house.  Right now I am drinking the remnants of a half bottle that a wine representative gave my sommelier to try. Only a small amount was missing from the glass receptacle, and after a week, it is still here. What does that mean?  For me, drinking a decent wine; at least I didn’t have to drink from the rack.  For Gabriel, since it was made from Truchard Vineyards, I suppose he will regret not drinking it sooner.

 For those who don’t know about “the rack”, it is the dusty wooden wine shelf in the corner of our dining room.  Last summer when Gabe was studying for the second level som exam, I went to World Market and bought a variety of wines.  He had to study, after all.  But now that he has succeeded with that stage of the exam, he has surpassed that quality of vintage.  I am stuck with it.  So, usually, on Friday nights when no one is around, I wistfully crack open that bottle, and suffer.

 Not tonight.  No, tonight I am drinking Palazzo 2007 Cabernet Franc, and loving every minute of it.  The dark cherry and earthy spices linger on my palate, and I dream of steak diane or liver with onions.  It’s been such a long time since Gabriel and I went out for a proper romantic meal, I am not even sure the last time I had either dish.  I miss French food.

 October could not come sooner.  In October, we will drive 121 with the top down, turn onto 29, and make our way to Yountville.  If we were there now, I would dine on duck
terrine with sweet tea glaze and cherries, rabbit sirloin with dates, and Persian lime sorbet.  I would hold my husband’s hand.  We would fall in love through food.  Although
I will miss Rheagan, it is has been a long time coming.

 For now, I will drink my glass of Palazzo, and patiently wait.  I wonder if Gabriel will bring home anything special tonight;  I’m dying to dream about what I might partake of next.

Summery sticky goodness

What is it about 106 degree heat that inspires me to make peach cobbler? Maybe it was the extended family reunion today; the German potato salad, bratwurst, and homemade banana pudding. Or just knowing that Texas peaches are now in season; when I was seven or eight, I would climb the peach tree in our backyard, my parents would make peach ice cream or peach pie, and the summer lasted what seemed like forever.

About a month ago I decided that I wanted my daughter to grow up eating fresh food. I would make pizza with fresh mozzarella, tomatoes, and garden basil. I would invoke my right to create an octopus linguine, with white wine, butter, and garlic. No Stouffers lasagna for us. No, I will layer lasagna noodles with veal Bolognese and ricotta. So, when I saw the peaches on display at the market, it was decided. Peach cobbler it was.

I will preface my enjoyment of the warm dessert with the declaration that I in no way trained in the culinary arts. While I do have a bachelor’s degree in Human Nutrition and Food Management, my education consisted of the more scientific side of things, and concentrated in Dietetics. And while I have always enjoyed my cooking, my sommelier husband at times offers suggestions to make things better, and will only ever admit that any meal is just “okay”.

Have you ever peeled peaches? I have never thought of such a thing. I am sure with that peach tree growing in the back, my mother had peeled peaches. But, I also remember a lot of canned peaches. My grandmother used to have them at the end of every meal: always present in a large bowl, in light syrup. Regardless, I used a peeler from the crowded drawer to pull the skin away from the juicy fruit. My hands became sticky as I sliced the flesh into small slices. I even made simple syrup using sugar and water.

The cobbler batter was formed from a recipe I found on the epicurious app for my i-phone. All I had to do was pour the batter over butter, and the peaches over the batter. Heat at 375F for 35 minutes. Simple as pie.

Let’s hope this trend is one to look forward to every summer.  Next year, even Rheagan can have some.