Monday, October 8, 2012

"Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold" ~William Carlos Williams

 
 

 
  
Nostalgia with Fruit & Jam
 
 
I love strawberries, sliced and bright red...heaped with bananas atop my Sunday morning French Toast with Real Maple Syrup from the East. It is a simple, bountiful breakfast...and it has always comforted me. Sundays at the breakfast table...it means family and a warm stove. It reminds me of skiing at Sugarloaf in Maine when I was young.




But the nostalgia cooking really kicked in when I was pregnant and has continued as my son gets older. At my home in the Colorado mountains I started craving dishes from my childhood...memories of the wood table I shared with my brothers...the flavors of my mother's recipes. The sage of her Pork Pie, the tomatoes and green peppers of her Spanish Rice...even the Chicken Pot Pie she would pull from the freezer for the babysitter on evenings when when she and my father would go out...all popped into my head vividly and I needed to get the recipes. I had to resurrect her Gingerbread House, her Cinnamon Rolls, her Buckeye Balls, her Apricot Bars, her Buckwheat Pancakes...her Strawberry Jam.




I grew up in a small seaside town in Maine, in a three story Victorian built in 1903, with my three older brothers. Our house had turrets, a secret passageway and a former elevator shaft...and there was always an array of jams in our fridge. There was raspberry jam for my mom and there were white jars of British orange marmalade for my father. But the strawberry jam was the only jam I ate...on toast or on p,b&js. I preferred things sweet and I never understood mint jelly. There was a dish my mother used to make for dinner...lamb with woody rosemary and it was always served with mint jelly. Everything about this dish was over the top for me....and the jelly was all wrong.


My mother made strawberry jam when I was little...from the farm fields on the other side of our rural, picturesque town. We would load up in the station wagon and head over to Jordan's Farm...to pick strawberries. There were rows and rows and we'd spend all afternoon on our knees picking...then come home with our bounty. Fond memories of growing up in a gorgeous town on the coast of Maine...with farms, fruit and simplicity. My mom would stand over the stove...pot boiling, stirring, steam rising, thick strawberry sweetness filling the house. She'd spoon off the bubbling foam and top each French jam jar with paraffin wax and stack them in the old cupboard of our home. It was a thinner jam than Bonne Maman's...and the strawberries were little and she left them mostly whole. It was a distinctive jam that I remember well....but I always wished it was a little thicker.

 


Dressed in jeans and LL Bean flannel shirts we'd go to Terison's Orchard to pick apples in the fall. I can't remember a more perfect moment in time than climbing those trees with my brothers in the crisp air of our youth....smiling, climbing, adventuring in the orchard. In the evening, after dinner, my father would have a piece of cheddar on a slice of the pie my mother had made from the apples we'd picked.



My brothers and I were raised as skiers. In the winter we'd travel the East in our big, red Suburban. We'd have competitions at Loon, Waterville, Killington and Stratton. Sometimes we'd drive all the way to Big Boulder in Pennsylvania. We'd travel like the Swiss Family Robinson...like a troop of skiers...with a cooler filled with my mother's homemade food. We'd pull into the parking lot, unpack our skis, boot and poles...then carry in the cooler and stake our claim in the baselodge. The big green Coleman stacked with frost white Tupperware containers sat like a homing device in the baselodge with my mother. It was a basecamp of sorts...a refuge from the sideways sleeting snow that would pellet our faces as we rode the chairlifts of the unforgiving East. There was fried chicken, deviled eggs and sandwiches...and lots and lots of baked goods. Cinnamon rolls, date bars, molasses, chocolate chip and peanut butter cookies...nestled between layers of waxed paper...sugar combined with the hearty warmth of flour, oats and butter. It was a treasure chest...like the black trunk my brothers would take to summer camp...filled with a sense of the comforts of home. Often there were apricot bars. The apricot center was my least favorite part of the bar. The chunky, tart, orange jam seemed like a bad trick, a hoax to get us to eat fruit, in the middle the oats and brown sugar layers I adored. We may not have loved everything she made, exactly the way she made it...but, we never went hungry. Looking back on it...it was a sort of edible oasis...in the Utopia of  my youth.




In high school my best friend and I would cruise with the top down in my brother's convertible... by the strawberry fields. We'd breathe deep the strawberry jam-filled air. Senior year my boyfriend drove a green Ford F-150. His extended family of aunts and uncles and cousins owned many of the farms in our town...including the strawberry field we used to go to when I was younger. One afternoon he brought a crate of strawberries for my mom and she baked them into a wonderful pie.


 
We had a plum tree in our yard and a pear tree. The plum tree was about the size of an apple tree and produced inconsistent fruit. Some years there was enough fruit for my mom to make a few jars of jam. The pear tree was tall...more linear than the plum tree, and I can't recall ever eating it's fruit. Eventually the plum tree got old and weak and infested with earwigs. The pear tree was hit by lightning and my mother commissioned an ex-boyfriend to bring his chainsaw and take it away. There had been fruit all around me as I grew up in Maine.
 
 

 
Making jam is a new passion of mine. The Art of Making Jam!  It has reopened my eyes to the fabulous world of fruit. In my quest to learn more about making jam and fruit I have discovered a great deal: The scents, the textures, the unique and individual seasons, poetry that speaks of fruit, the histories, growing climates, even the natural pectin contents...and the glorious colors. Wild Maine Blueberries, Plums, Pluots, Nectarines, Palisade Peaches...and Strawberries! Italian Plums. Apriums. Quinces. Fraises des Bois. Black Mission Figs.

 


When will I get to taste a Damson? I am awed by the Damson. Apparently its skins have a gorgeous blue hue that were once used to die yarn in Great Britain...where the trees are mostly found. The Damson, I have learned, is very tart and requires sugar to be palatable...and therefore it is perfect in pies and in jams. While many of the old Damson trees were pulled up when sugar was scarce after World War II, many trees have since been replanted in the UK. And legend has it that Damson trees have been found growing wild in Oregon. There are many who adore this fruit. This history connects me to a romance I can not fully explain.  I can only say that it as a love of beautiful words and thoughts of a long ago time..and of a respect for a simple, sweet and colorful thing that grows from the land.  Most of all...thoughts of fruit, making jam, making pies...it all brings me to a happier (more poetic, more creative, more vibrant, more flavorful) place.





There is a poem that often runs trough my head...it is William Carlos Williams' poem: This is Just to Say. It is one of my favorite poems, particularly when it is plum season. I wonder sometimes what he meant when he wrote:


I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold


I prefer to think he had awoken early, before his wife, and left her a note...letting her know, sharing with her, how delicious the fruit was. I have read that some think it was boastful, rude and selfish...a confession of a man who ate her cherished plums.

 


Nonetheless, it is a poem that in some way captures the complexities of fruit...or our lives and our relationships. It is a multifaceted poem to me. It can be simple...so simple. Beautifully simple. Yet if you read it again...it can mean so much more. I first read the poem in high school. Back then it resonated with me when when my brother got mad at me. He was on some sort of self imposed, philosophical diet...and in general seemed irritated with the world.  When I accidentally dropped some of his precious fruit on the floor (while I was unpacking the groceries)...this was the end of the rope for him and I "was an idiot". Now it just reminds me of how irritated he was during that time...and how I tried not to irritate him. Which I more often than not did. But it also reminds me of being young and being a sister.


 
 


The poem is still in fresh my mind...when I am choosing fruit at the store and when I look at at a gorgeous pluot in our fruit bowl...next to the lemons. Now, it reminds me to cherish the fresh wonderful fruit in my house...in my life. Sometimes when I see a plum...I am reminded of my brother. When I see strawberries...I envision my mother in our old kitchen stirring the strawberry jam...and I can smell it. There are so many memories when I look at fruit today. Memories of my family and my childhood in Maine. What would life be...without jam on your toast, sans the tart and devoid of the idea of the plum? This new found passion is a bountiful awakening of nostalgia...and new experiences. My own jam. My own pie. My own recipes. Flavors for my own family to enjoy. 


 


Sunday, July 29, 2012

Why I love what I do...





I became spurred recently to try to defend what I do for a living and explain why I am not on a plane to protect women’s rights around the globe. This journey in defense, has helped me to define why it is that I (as a wine shop owner & wine rep) have surrounded myself with wine and made a living doing so…beyond the fact that it can taste so good. Yes, wine has transported me to the land where it came from, and to a conversation I once had and to the person I once shared the bottle with. It has reminded me of the grapegrower and the winemaker I had met…and made me recall the cellar and the tasting room where I first tasted it. Wine has worked its way into my heart and into my life. It has been an ongoing education, a romance of sorts. Wine has connected me with inspiring/passionate people...and has been a grounding link to my community.
Not long after I started to drink wine, it instilled in me a search for a wine well made, but more than that, a wine with a story…one that I could share with friends…one that made my experience unique. My first job in the wine industry was for a small distributor that represented boutique producers of small production wines. It was a fledgling company and they were eager to educate their sales reps. I was given Adventures on the Wine Route by Kermit Lynch. I would be representing /selling his portfolio...and, I was told, this was the best way to learn about what I'd have in my bag....and adeptpty explain to buyers why these wines were worthy of their consideration. This was not KJ (that sold itself). I had to know the grapes, the regions, the winemakers, their techniques....and their raison d'etre. Within the first year of my new job…they took all of us to Napa, Sonoma, Los Gatos and Santa Cruz to meet the winemakers and see the wineries that we represented in Colorado.
On the trip, I was introduced to John & Tracey Skupney, owners of Lang & Reed Winery. Their house was just a few blocks from the quaint, northern Napa town of St. Helena. Their two gazelle-like Salukis…bounded in and out of their open California ranch style home and lush backyard. The Skupneys could not have been nicer, more relaxed and more normal. They had named their winery after their two young sons. As they relaxed in their home they seemed to glow with pride. They spoke about their children, their wine and the life they had built. They fell in love with Cabernet Franc in a village in the Loire Valley of France where they had made lifelong friends with a winemaking family in Chinon. To me, the Skupneys seemed to be quintessential down-to-earth winemakers. Their passion for Cabernet Franc made them more “workhorse” than “showboat” to me somehow. They had a fondness for  a grape and a village and friends in France...which inspired them to make Cabernet Franc based wines in California. They were an anomaly in the Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, Chardonnay and Pinot Noir centric United States. To me, they were a romantics with passion and faith. They made me fall in love with Cabernet Franc too.
John Komes, a big bear of a guy, greeted us at Flora Spring, his family’s winery. He commanded everyone’s attention with is loud jovial voice…and his squinted eyes twinkled. John instantly charmed our group. He pied-pipered us around their impressivly beautiful winery and introduced us to his sister, Julie Garvey. When John spoke about his sister I could feel the respect he had for her. It was genuine and heartwarming. We went out into the vineyards with Julie’s husband, Tom (vineyard director at Flora Springs). It was clear by the business-like way Tom took us out the vineyards that this was his domain. He was a diligent farmer who knew his land and seemed well-versed in viticulture. He discussed trellising and vine spacing and seemed very in-tune. Flora Springs, to me, was run with enthusiasm, respect and familial love.
The next day, in Sonoma, we drove in our rented mini-van up a hidden, tight, dirt road. Trees scraped the side of the van as we squeezed thru the tiny corridor of the heavily forested, lower part of Sonoma Valley and climbed up and out of the woods into the view of a vineyard at the top. We arrived at Laurel Glen. The vineyard sat up overlooking the valley below and you would never know it was there. (I am sure I could never find it again, unless I had an appointment and specific instructions on how to get up to the gorgeous vineyard on Sonoma Mountain.) Patrick Campbell, appeared on metal crutches and was noticeably disabled from childhood Polio, yet he beamed with pride as his stood in his vineyard. He spoke with conviction and intelligence and made no mention of his disability. He deeply cared about his vineyard and his passion for winemaking was apparent. Patrick Campbell defined himself. He shook his head as he looked over to his neighbor’s unkempt vineyard and talked about how he thought his neighbor was mismanaging his land. He thought his neighbor was making poor choices by not paying attention. "Just look at his vineyard,” he commanded. The way the vine rows were set up didn’t help their exposure on the mountain....it was an unfortunate waste of land, he opined. When we walked into the winery I noticed empty egg cartons and he explained that egg whites were used in the fining process…to take out tiny unwanted particles from his wine. To me, Patrick Campbell's message was clear; make the most of what you have, pay attention, make intelligent decisions, work hard and take pride in what you do.  We tasted his rich, layered and lovely Cabernet, thanked him for our visit and headed back down the hill through the forest. 
We arrived at Marimar Torres’ house and winery for dinner. She was petite, friendly and charming…and full of energy. Marimar had beautiful olive skin and thick, black, curly hair. She spun us around the winery, pointed to the vineyards and then ushered us next door to her house. She made dinner al fresco…cooking while we enjoyed the beautiful evening sipping her chardonnays and pinot noirs. I scanned the glorious, panoramic view from her modern home that fit snugly into the hillside. We dined extravagantly at her large, outdoor farmtable under the porch roof with unobstructed views of the vineyards surrounding us. She laughed when she told us about the silverware (with Lufthansa & Swiss Air emblems). Each knife, fork and spoon at our table settings was taken, she confessed, from firstclass flights to Europe (presumably from trips back to Spain to visit her brother and father and her famous, Spanish, winemaking family). Here was her winery in the Green River Valley, a sub-appellation of the Russian River Valley and a small microclimate with no neighbors in view. She spoke pridefully of her a daughter. I was awed by Marimar…a single woman raising her own daughter, making wine far from her family’s roots. She had created a life for herself a in a land all her own….and she fed her guests with silverware stolen off airplanes! Marimar was wild and cool…and a fabulous cook. She pulled off a spontaneous, easygoing and delicious dinner for all 10 of us. As we drank her Don Miguel Pinot Noir (named after her father), I cherished the evening. The sun had set and the warm breeze seemed to gently hug my skin.

Two deer darted in front of our van the next morning as we drove up the steep road of the Mayacamas Mountains through the fog to Adler Fels Winery. We were high above the valley floor of Sonoma. A crazy, Tudor style castle, in various states of re-construction, loomed before us on a cliff. David Coleman, owner of Adler Fels (a tall, thin man), came towards the van as we arrived. The scene seemed straight out of a Scooby Doo Mystery. It was comic and bizarrely surreal. We entered the castle and gazed out the huge windows of living room. The fog blurred the view. Somewhere beneath the thick fog was The Valley of the Moon. Several of us took turns hitting golf balls off a makeshift plank that David Coleman had wryly constructed on a ledge adjacent to the castle. Valley of the Moon, would have golf balls from Adler Fels to reckon with…not hail. I could picture the land owners below...befuddled, even struck, by the balls. It was random humor for sure, but still fun to hit golf balls off into the unknown. Across from the castle was the winery and labeling room. I knew Adler Fels made Gewurztraminer and a couple other varietals, but I was surprised by the vision before me. Dozens of different labels lined the shelves on the wall…like the sticker shops of my youth. Leaping Lizard, and several other labels with gimmicky names (Coyote Creek, etc) were waiting to be put on bottles and shipped to specific markets...including California, Colorado and beyond. This was a wacky, wine branding, factory with creative business intentions.
Paul Hobbs met us at Kunde, where he was making his wines. Kunde was established and conservative and seemed like the total antithesis of Adler Fels. It almost felt like we were back to reality. Paul was youthful and classically good looking with dark curly hair and an athletic glow. I was assigned to take pictures…and not one came out. I was totally smitten with this winemaker…who, sadly enough, was married to an Argentine woman and had a young daughter. Though he didn’t own a winery, he had vineyard contracts with some of the best plots in Napa and Sonoma and he was making wines in Argentina too. He was obviously well-connected and well financed. The wines we tasted were outstanding, flavorful representations of California’s heralded vineyards.
We cruised two hours south and passed a Ferrari shop as we arrived in Los Gatos. Testarossa Winery, owned by Rob and Diana Jensen, sat up on the hill just above the high end restaurants and shops of town. The winery was a gorgeous sight…it was state of the art winery and sat in front of the renovated original that had been built in the late 1800s! They had a gifted winemaker and made elegant wines from small plots and single vineyards throughout the central coast of California. Rob was a former collegiate bike racer who was known as “Testarossa”, or “Red-head” during his time spent in Italy. Ferarris, a passion for cycling, silky, artful Pinot Noir and Chardonnay sourced from top vineyards, a prestine winery in a glamorous town...how  could you not be charmed? 
Our last stop of the trip was at Bonny Doon Winery, just north of Santa Cruz. We drove straight up steep Icecream Grade into the tropical rainforested woods to the hobbit-like winery. Randall Grahm  part philosopher, winemaker and mad scientist and one of the original Rhone Rangers/owner of Bonny Doon, greeted us with wild hair and mismatched clothes. I had previously read the newsletters Randall had written.  They were sent out to Doon-ians (his followers and fans of his wines).  Therefore, I was familiar with his intriguing pontifications about his wines and winemaking ideals. He used French, philosophy...even invented words, to capture his profound and passionate ideas. These newsletters were works of art in themselves. One of my brothers, a Latin major and Art minor at Dartmouth, seemed to have a similar inventive and creative mind….and I was reminded of him when we met Randall. I felt an instant familiarity…like I could understand Randall…or at least it felt like I could appreciated him more, because of my brother. I also loved Santa Cruz, a surfing seaside town with a crazy roller-coaster and a very liberal UC college on the hill. I had spent a summer there recently, studying Russian History and Creative Writing. The aforementioned, combined with the whimsical, artistic labels, pastiche-ly named wines, well-made Rhone varietals and blends...and domestic resurrection of esoteric European varietals, drew me in to the wines of Bonny Doon.
This trip was my introduction to California Wine Country and its storied winemakers. They were colorful and passionate…they were the Canterbury Tales of my initiation into the wine world. Learning about these small wineries became the launch-pad for my continuing quest for small production wines with a story. The winemaker’s personality, the place where wine comes from… the history of the land and the winemaking traditions or modern techniques, are all a big part of what makes wine so interesting to me.
This winter, my love of wine inspired me to get on a plane to go see the vineyards of the Cote d’Or. It seemed like the mecca to me, and I needed to go. Jeremy Seysses of Domaine Dujac endeared me with his cherubic face and his young family. I was impressed with how he spoke with his father and how he seemed to gracefully direct Dujac into the modern era, while maintaining the traditions of his father’s revered winery. What pressure that must be! Didier Chevillion, winemaker at Dupont Tisserandot, was a former chef and rugby player and by marriage was brought into the domaine. They were gorgeous, nuanced wines, layered with spices, earth, and delicate berries. Being a former chef had seemingly helped him in defining his style as a winemaker. I toured Domaine Faiveley…now one of the largest land owners and old guard of Negociant Burgundy. Patrick LeFlaive chauffeured me, in his speedy and sporty, black sedan, around the vineyards of Puligny-Montrachet and Chassagne-Montrachet. He stopped several times so I could take pictures and touch the dirt of the renowned Le Montrachet vineyard. The trip culminated with my old friend Dee introducing me to her husband, Alex Gambal. Last year Alex (an American expat who owns his own domaine), became the first non-Frenchman to purchase land in Batard-Montrachet! We tasted through his wines in tank and talked about the challenges of the recent vintage and various techniques he was incorporating into his winemaking regime. We discussed the benefits and risks of whole cluster fermentation. He handed me two bottles to pack in my luggage. Sitting on a beach, I revelled, is no comparison to this!
A few weeks ago at my shop, with my trip to Burgundy still fresh in my mind, Andrew Murray stopped by. He wanted to taste me on his wines…Rhone varietals from Santa Barbara. I was familiar with his wines, I had read about him and had previously carried them in the shop. We chatted like old friends, about great Rhone producers like Cuilleron, Chave and Vins de Vienne. We had a common background…the love of wine and passionate, small production winemakers. He told me a story...of how he fell in love with wine.  It was on a trip through Europe with his family when he was in his teens.  They were in Burgundy and had found the wines to be too light.  At the famous Michelin 3 star restaurant L'Esperance (in the heart of Burgundy), they asked the waiter to recommend a wine that might have more flavor. He recommended a Rhone blend.  Andrew  was impressed with what he tasted. As he finished his story he poured me a a taste of his wine named "Esperance."  It was blend of Rhone varietals made in his hometown of Santa Barbara, California. The wine was rich, and full bodied and wonderful.
I am always on the search for a unique wine with a story. Is the winemaker pushing the envelope, showcasing his/her ideals, or protecting a long held tradition? The epic bottle (and the acquisition or dream of such) for me, is the handcrafted, articulation of this. Sometimes it can be more general…like a legendary vintage. When the 2000 vintage of Bordeaux was released, I went to luncheon where these wines were being poured. Even though I had been a vegetarian for 15 years or more, the lore of this vaunted vintage compelled to eat lamb! Wine has inspired me to be a more creative and enthusiastic cook. I have made delicious meals created especially for a specific bottle. I have spent all day at the stove making Coq au Vin for a Domaine de Montille Nuits Saint Georges Aux Thorey 2005, and a rosemaried Boeuf Bourguignon to go with a Chave St. Joseph 2007. I have made an earthy mushroom risotto with perfectly poached and lightly herbed salmon for a bottle of Chorey les Beaune 2009 from Alex Gambal. My husband and I have savored these wines and enjoyed these meals at our dinner table…and experienced gastronomic bliss. I have surprised us both with my entertaining skills. I am propelled to experience more and share them with family and friends.
I have found, that there is so much that goes into making a distinctive bottle of wine…clonal selection, vineyard location, soil, microclimate, vintage variation, and then there is cork choice, label design and keeping your vineyards resistant to pests. Not to mention luck and skill. Is the winery organic /sustainable/biodynamique? Again, is the winery or winemaker pushing the boundaries of preconceived ideals…or resurrecting the traditions of old? What makes this wine unique? What is the story of this wine? There is always something new to learn in the dynamic world of wine. It is intellectual, debatable and it has kept me up at night researching…eager to learn something new…something I was curious about (a grape, technique, region or winemaker I’d never heard of… or a new trend or controversy). Every time I learn something new I feel better prepared to discover, discuss and understand even more. It is continual. If I have met the winemaker, sipped the wines from barrel at the winery, walked through the vineyards, and have experienced the personalities, and the backgrounds and the philosophies behind the winemaking…the wine is more profound to me. As I travel and taste and search for new wines, my passion deepens and grows.
Beyond that, I have learned about business along the way. These winemakers, and others in the wine industry, have taught me to work hard, be savvy, aware and creative, and deliver a quality product. They have shown me what following your passion, and confidence in what you do,  can achieve.  I built my wine shop as a place to come for your nightly bottle, much like a bakery for your daily loaf of bread. As I help a customer (a regular or someone new) find a bottle…we discuss what they are hoping to find (a grape varietal, specific style, something for a nuanced dish or something for a special occasion) we also discuss what is going on their life (where they are from, what they have done that day, what happened at work, the fires nearby, the lack of snow, the epic day on the mountain, the race they just won, the recent surgery they had, their new job, the guy they might marry, their daughter who just had a baby, the crutches they need after surgery that we are happy to lend them). While I search for wines with a story (a great winemaker, a great vintage, or a wine from a grape or a place they have never tried) often the greatest stories come from my customers. Because we serve wines by the glass too…you can sit down with an old friend… share a moment with some wine and cheese at a slowed down pace.
So for me, wine is about community too and creating a space to talk and share thru the milieu of wine. I may not be flying off to Afghanistan or on the front page of the paper…but I feel like I am bring something bright to my community. I have followed my passion and I try to share it with others. I started my own business (as a female at the age of 30) and I hope that this might show young boys and girls that they can do it too. One of my goals is to arm my customers with an interesting bottle of wine…so they can bring it to their table and start a conversation about the wine that ends up being about something greater.

Sunday, March 11, 2012

1995: My Village of Breckenridge

I knew the winter of 1994/1995 was going to be my last skiing on the World Cup. I had been on the team for six years and I was ready for a change.  I had been competing since I was 5, but in the last few years it had become a more intense game.  My sport, Freestyle Mogul Skiing, had recently become an Olympic sport. When I was younger, making Nationals was the goal…but now The Olympics were on the line. Albertville, France was going to be the 1st Olympics for Freestyle Mogul skiing.    My focus became making the Olympic team. I was 22 and my teammates and I were all gunning for the games.  I spent summers at Mt. Hood and falls training in Breckenridge, Co, preparing for the World Cup selection events that would decide the Team. The announcement was made in Lake Placid, NY after the final qualifying event earlier in the day.  I was left off the team.  1st alternate they said.  I remember feeling very left out, a pit in my stomach and incredibly sad.  There were six of us who were in the final selection group and now four of my teammates were chosen and going to the Olympics, but not me. I was so close, though I would not be allowed to travel to Albertville in case someone got injured.  These were the four, no one else…an elite group that did not include me.

Two years later there was Lillehammer.  The Winter Olympic Games were moved up so that it would be staggered with the Summer Games…two years apart.  This was the perfect opportunity I was told, “You are in the prime of your career.”  But, the field was narrowed and we were told, “Only three athletes will be going to Lillehammer...there is not much room in the small Norwegian village.”  I made the podium (3rd) in the Blackcomb World Cup (a qualifier) that year, but my teammate had beaten me in two out of the three qualifying competitions that had pitted us head to head. They took her instead. 

The gravity of being 1st alternate twice had set in.  I knew the next year (1995) I was ready to be done. I was tired of training all summer and all fall and travelling all winter long. I was tired of living out of a duffle bag.  I was tired of the focus, the head games and the loneliness on tour. I wasn’t great friends with any of the other women on the US Team. Why would we be?  We were pitted against eachother...for spots on the US Olympic Team. It was my reality every day on tour. So, I spent most of my time with the US men and with friends on other national teams:  Maz from Australia and Marianne from Norway.  They were great friends, great comrads as we traveled around Europe...
I trained one last fall in Breckenridge, where my brother ran the local freestyle program.  I had been coming here for the past few seasons to get ready for the winter and the World Cup Tour.  In addition, every season we had a World Cup in Breckenridge.  And I loved it there. It was quaint and Victorian and reminded me of the ski villages in Europe.  There was a cozy coffee shop with outrageous muffins! And another with a view of the mountain where laid back, locals hung out pondering their next adventure.  Some seemed to be there all day, just watching the snow fall out the snow glazed window and content to stay warm inside. It had a bookshelf too…overflowing with used/interesting books and big comfortable chairs. There were high-end restaurants and wonderful shops with beautiful clothes. It felt like home. And it was where I wanted to be.  I had made friends there and I had a serious boyfriend. There was this real life I could live there… yet it was just out of grasp. I knew I no longer wanted to spend my life on Tour, but I had one more season to compete.  My boyfriend and I drove up to Yellowstone. And though this aggravated my brother, I didn’t care.  This was my new life.  I was going to return to this new chapter at the end of the season.  This was going to be my new home in the West.  I wanted to check it out and I was eager to start to live it. I felt connected to a place and a life worth living there.

I made the World Championships in La Clusaz, France that last season.  There were four spots and I finally had one.  My parents and friends pointed out that if it was an Olympic year…I would be going.  That didn’t ring true to me. It wasn’t an Olympic year and I wasn’t going to the Olympics…it wasn’t the same.  I knew it and I felt it. Nonetheless I had never been to a World Championships either.  It was an exclusive group… we all had made it!  We got new uniforms, a bag of paraphernalia from the town and my parents flew over to see me compete. I called a payphone in LaVita, Colorado and waited for my boyfriend (who was really into his new logging profession in the middle of nowhere, Colorado) to pick up.  “I am here.”  I told him, “Yes, I am here.  I miss you though, I wish you were here. My parents are here...we sat outside and had a pizza and a glass of wine. I’m not feeling great…the place is cool...there’s lots of snow and a beautiful little French ski town.  I love you.  See you soon.”  Unfortunately, it turned out to be a really weird course.  We had a ton of snow before the event and in traditional French style, the course was skier made.  It was old school.  On top of that I wasn’t feeling great…my stomach was upset and I was not on top of my game.  My performance was less than spectacular and before I knew it, it was over. 

There were more competitions that season on the World Cup Tour…we went to Japan, to Norway and to Germany.  I made sure to walk through each village and enter as many beautiful buildings and churches as possible. Maz and I went to dinner and enjoyed the local foods and we checked out the shops.  This, I knew, was my last season and I didn’t know if, or when, I’d be back to Europe. I’d been coming to these idyllic villages for six years.  Now I envied the people who lived there…the people who had a life there.  “What would it be like if I lived there?”  I would imagine, “What would I do for a living? What house would I live in? Would my children be skiers?“  I was ready for my own village…my own home back in Breckenridge.

I finished out the 1995 season with the best results of my career. I made finals at most of the competitions and was ranked 11th in the World for the 1995 season.  At Nationals, I qualified to ski on the US World Cup Team for the next year.   I told them I was done, I was moving on.

My brother had offered me a job…to help coach his team.  I agreed to do it…enthusiastic for my profession and my new life ahead.  Upon return my boyfriend dumped me.  I was heartbroken, crushed, confused and lost.  But, working for my brother, I found, was totally encompassing. I am not sure I envisioned what it would be…but I knew I was qualified.  I jumped in full force and helped train the athletes on his team. They had come to him with the goal of making the US Team.  My brother had built what was known as the mecca for mogul skiers: “Come train with me. Give me your undivided attention and time…and I will get you far… as far as you can go.”    It was intense and a total immersion into skiing. And it was probably what I needed.

My brother’s philosophy of coaching was to lead by example most of the time: come up with a tactic, show them how to do it and then help them perfect it. I skied with the athletes all over the mountain, every day.  I built the course with my brother and I skied the run 500 times with the athletes I was coaching.  When I was the athlete there had been “rest days” and “travel days.”  Now there was the token Monday off.   The patrollers knew me, the alpine coaches knew me.  I was part of the Breckenridge Mountain Team.  But, beyond that I was skiing better than ever.



By the time the World Cup stop was in Breckenridge, Co I had already skied more than I ever had in previous seasons.   I was at the top of my game.  I took runs down the course with my athletes…and my former World Cup coaches muttered that I should still be on the World Cup Team.  They said I was skiing better than ever. Though I quietly knew it, I also knew that being on Tour wasn’t working for me.  This was my new home. 
The Pro Mogul Tour came to Breckenridge about a month later and with my brother’s urging , I entered.  To me, The Pro Mogul Tour didn’t have the best athletes…but there was money and egos involved. The competition was held in a different format than the World Cup too.  No longer was I skiing on a course all to myself….with just me and the judges at the bottom critiquing my form.  This was duels. Two skiers race down side by side on the same course. It is a race, but it is also judged…for technique in your turns and in the quality and magnitude of the tricks you do off the two jumps.  I was ready to go.

A few people mentioned to me that Patty K would be coming…and while her skills were not as good as mine, they said, she was intensely competitive. Her husband put on the Pro Tour and she had won the overall for the past few seasons. There were others to contend with too…but that was all I needed to know.  I had been coaching my athletes and had been telling them to keep things simple and focus on their own game.  This was my game now.  And I was chomping at the bit to put it into action: “Don’t ski too much on the two days before the competition.   Make sure you are well rested.  Make sure you have inspected the course.  Know the turns, know the jumps. Keep it fresh. Be the first one out of the gate. It is your competition to win. Have confidence in your skills. Your quick feet and fluid style can’t be matched.  You have done the homework.  Now just let it rip. Hands up in the frame of your vision, keep your pole plants simple and quick…flicking forward. Be early on the absorbtion on the face of mogul and ready to extend on its backside. Get squared up for the top air, lift your chest on the take-off and focus your eyes down the hill. Throw a crisp, clean move.  Land with four points at the same time…your feet solidly below you, plant both poles out in front.  Keep it clean through the middle section and carry your speed. Get ready for the bottom air. Throw it big and race to the finish. Fake the turns if you need to…just get there first.  Put your hands in the air. You’re the Champion.  It works every time. “
And it did.  I won. And I won the two other Pro events that season. Patty and her husband insisted that my friend and I go out to California to the last Pro Mogul event of the season.  They said it would help secure the competitions for the women on the Pro Tour the following year.  So we left Colorado in the late spring and headed further West to Tahoe. We drove for 20 hours or more…excited to just get on the road. When we arrived we were told that the women’s event had been cancelled and they asked us if we wanted to stay and cheer on the men. We took off for the Napa Valley instead.
I fell in love. Not as much with the wine…but with the lifestyle… the seemingly mellow, effortless tempo and the beautiful California days. This is how I want to live!  The winter had been cold and snowy.  Some days we were on the mountain from 7am til 6pm…building courses and critiquing athletes.  This was relaxed and the food was delicious. We went to San Francisco, to Santa Cruz, to Big Sur and down the coast to L.A.  When I got back to Breckenridge a few weeks later, I was ready to embark on my new career.  Within a week I landed my first job as a waitress. I read everything I could about wine. 

Monday, March 5, 2012

Beaucoup de Neige in Chamonix!


Chamonix 2012
 


It is like a second home...the Alps of France. And there comes a calling every now and then that compels me to return to the place that I adore. I arrive in the village and the shops and the shopkeepers...the restaurants and the innkeepers, fill me with warmth and comfort. Here is that simplicity of life that I long for, or maybe it's just what I have grown to appreciate. I buy a crepe with creme de marron and bananas and taste its happy sweetness. This simple transaction (the fact that I placed the order in French, got what I wanted and paid in Euros with ease) is pure wonderment to me. It is the art of the everyday...in France. This is the moment I have been dreaming of for months...years. The crepe is just as I had envisioned and for a moment I am a kid again...back to simple pleasures...and wandering thoughts. I head back to my apartment...just a left hand turn and a few doors down from the heart of the village.


When I wake up and open the French doors and step out to the balcony into the crisp, cold mountain air, it feels feel clean, sharp and pure. My face and hands tingle. The cold air travels down my back...and to my toes. French press coffee is much stronger and in my mug, as it warms my palms, it looks dark and murky. It is still dark in town but the sun is making its way up over the mountains. It is almost 8am. I look up at the cloudless sky...it is simply, breathtakingly, gorgeous with its pink/blue morning hue. The moon is still lingering. The village is fresh with snow. Behind the old, sturdy buildings the mountain rockfaces climb. These mountains stand as bold architecture defining and framing the town. It is then that I realize I am living an alpine morning in Chamonix...certainly life lived at its most beautiful. The ski day is ahead...

 
I tell myself I cannot know this place if I just see the lower level of town. I am a skier and this is what I came here for....to ski the Alps and ride the daunting trams. They are intense, engineering miracles, regal into the rock. I am here to ski in this amazing place...to master my turns on the foreign snow. There are compatriots around me and it's easy to make a friend to ski with...because, though I do not speak the same language, I come from a common thread...a love of the mountains and the stunning, glorious sky...the snow and the perfected, high speed turn. I ride the lifts in the sunshine and feel warmed...look around. The tram goes by in the distance. It looks cool against the unblemished, deep blue sky. I know I am lucky to return to this place and I do not take this for granted. I remind myself to think about where I am....how lucky I am. It has been years since I was last here, so much has happened in my life since then, and so many times I have thought about my return to Chamonix.
 

I ski down...feel electric with my energy...feel the precision of my turns and the thrill of the undulating terrain under my feet. I am ready to ride the tram into the rock...though my breath shortens and I become more aware. I am arriving at the top of a jagged rock that pierces the sky and there is no turning back. Suddenly there is no friend at my side...just me and the mountain and the legendary steep terrain. This is no elevator. I peer over the edge to see the village below...the seemingly tiny village. I cannot see the people down there, but I know they are there. They are shopping for milk and drinking a cafe au laits. The sky is now a deep Azure blue and it rises from the top of the mountain range that surrounds me. It is the same blue sky I know so well in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado...where I am from. But the mountains here take up more of the sky, they are sharper, more rugged, a mountaineer's dream. They are softened slightly buy the pure white now that rest on them and they are contrasted by the intense blue sky that heightens their beauty. Edna St. Vincent Millay comes to mind as I take in the panoramic view of where I now stand. She stood atop Mt. Battie above Camden, Maine…saw mountains, islands in the bay, the thin line of the horizon and the vastness of the sky.(*Renascence 1917) I grew up in Maine and this poem has always resonated with me. Now it is clear to me why. There is nothing like standing at the top of a peak, looking around and taking in all that is around you. The sheer power of that is overwhelming. Across the vallee I focus in on the massive Mont Blanc. Its rolling light blue/green glaciers vaguely come into view...then, the sharp needle rock of the Aiguille du Midi. This is my chance. Soak it in.

While I love this place, I do not live here...and I do not know when I'll be back. I click into my bindings, make sure they are secure and push off...down the piste., each turn perfectly laid. My skis, like slippers, are comfortable beneath me. Today they are extensions of me. I make several laps. Each run my legs become more fluid, more in tune with the slope and I don't want to stop. I take one last run...gliding down the trail, arching my skis and feeling the dynamic rhythm of my spontaneous turns. I am no longer a competitor, there are no coaches critiquing my style, I can do what I want. Years of training and discipline have given me the skills...and now I am free to play.  I started skiing when I was was three and started competing in freestyle skiing when I was five.  When I was fourteen I won the Junior World Championships in Orcierres Merlette, France.  By the time I was 15 I made the US Ski Team and started traveling around the globe. We'd leave for France in November, have Thanksgiving dinner at Pizzaria 2000 in Tignes, and our first competition of the season a few days later. Throughout the season we'd compete in Austria, Germany, Finland, Sweden and Italy. Somehow I always felt more at home in the resorts of France...Tignes...and La Clusaz, La Plagne and Morzine. You could say that the French Alps have been instilled in my soul. Nonetheless, I have done the homework that has translated into an ability to ski any mountain aggressively and artfully. Now I define what is good...where I will ski, how I will define my day. This sense of freedom gives me an uplifting jolt of energy. I make a quick turn, then lift my skis over a tuft of powder with confidence and ease and make a mellow sideways hockey stop finish. This is an awesome day.

Skis on my shoulder, ski boots on my feet, I walk into the village. My body is contained by this inner balance...tired muscles and an uncluttered mind. The people are still there in the village...and most likely have all had lunch. I notice that I am hungry. to my right there is a cafe, a perfect spot in the apres-midi sun. No one is sitting outside. I however, think it is the perfect temperature. I am warm from my day on the mountain and my walk down to town from the tram. The wicker chairs have a gentile shape to them...my legs are thankful. I order a pizza and a demi bottle of Vin de Savoie. The waiter looks at me with what seems like a hint of respect, though I can't be sure he has ever skied. He brings my wine and pizza and I relax enjoying this moment in town. Wine in my hand...and a thin crust, French mountain pizza...I revel in how everything tastes so good.  Food always tastes better when you earn it. And somehow this all connects me to this place...Chamonix, my second home.

My thoughts shift back to the waiter...maybe he has a kid the same age as mine? I don't know. My son is four with an unbridled zest for life. He is everything I dreamed he would be and more. I picture him now, sitting there, across the table, looking at me...eating a crepe. He turns and talks to my husband, his father, and giggles. His smile lights up everything around him. I pull out my tiny French cell phone. With the time change I know it is too early to call...but I do anyway.  I hear my voice and my son's on the answering machine and I can picture them, my husband and son, on the other side of our house, peacefully sleeping in bed.  Next time, I think, when my son is older, they will join me. They will love it here.