The Essence of of Pie...

 

Enjoy what you have, enjoy what is around you.

 

 

 

 

My husband has always said that he grew up on pie.  He loves pie. His mother was a downhome cook (for lack of a more apt descriptor)...that is the only way I know how to define it.  He grew up in a small brick Cape Cod in Erie, Pennsylvania. Pretty much the same house as all of his neighbors...with slight personal modifications: an enclosed porch here, a garage there...shrubs, immaculately ( or not) kept lawns. Finite differences. It was, as they say, a modest neighborhood...and his mom still lives there. My husband was the seventh son...then his parents had two daughters. And his mother made pie.

 

My husband's mom had nine kids, I am a mom of one...and we share the love of making pie. I love the smiles it brings...the sweet home cooked fragrance filling the air...especially on a Sunday...when it is raining and you have read the paper, done your yoga and gotten all caught up. Sunday Pie Time. So I can see how my mother-in-law would want to do this several times a week...which according to my husband, she did.  It might be all legend...but I have seen her in action. She, like my own mom, likes to be in the kitchen. And...so do I.

 

In Maine, as a kid, I grew up around strawberries and apples and blueberries. But, I moved to Colorado after college...and here we are really into peaches. Palisade Peaches. The nectarines are insane too! My eyes have been opened to stone fruits: plums, pluots, nectarines, peaches. Yummmmmmmmm. Great pie fruits. My mother made a lot of pies...strawberry, rhubarb, blueberry, cherry, banana cream, chocolate cream...apple in the fall. Now, I am all about pie. The fruit. I think for many years here in Colorado...I ignored the local bounty. Maybe I have settled into living here (after 20 years) and what amazing native fruit is around me?  But more likely that not, it is because I have my own kid now...and my own childhood filled with pies...and memories of my own youth have come back.  I don't know. All I know is that I am all about the pie...with vanilla bean iceceam of course!  I wake up with flavors and ideas in my head...what I will bake from what is available at the market. And Palisade Peaches are in.

Palisade Peach Pie

 

 

 

 

I have always loved hearty baked goods...not your typical buttery crust...but something with oats...something with whole wheat flour...something with substance. I made this pie last night from a combo of recipes and ideas in my head. And as it turned out...this is my ultimate pie. And my husband, the ultimate connoisseur, was totally impressed. :)


For the Crust:

1/2 cup white whole-wheat flour

2 cups all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon sugar

1/2 teaspoon salt

4 tablespoons cold butter, cut into small pieces

1/4 cup reduced-fat sour cream

3 tablespoons canola oil

4 tablespoons ice water

Whisk whole-wheat flour, all-purpose flour, sugar and salt in a large bowl.  Add butter, then sour cream and oil. Sprinkle water over the mixture and mix with a wooden spoon until incorporated. Knead the dough in the bowl a few times. Turn onto a lightly floured surface and knead a few more times, until the dough comes together. Shape into a 5-inch disk, wrap in plastic and refrigerate for 1 hour.


Preheat the oven to 375*


Remove the dough from the refrigerator.  Roll the dough on a liberally floured surface. Keep picking it up and turning it after every couple times your roll until it is a little bigger than your rounds glass pie pan.  Try to get it into a round shape. Tuck the overhanging crust under, forming a double-thick edge. Flute the edge with your fingers.


Filling:

Remove the peach skins:

Boil water in a big pasta sized pot. Drop in 5-8 full sized peaches. 2 Minutes later scoop the peaches out and drop them gently into an ice bath. Let them cool for 1--15 minutes.  Peel their skins off. They should some right off...but you may need to use a pairing knife.

Slice peaches.

Mix together in a big mixing bowl:

1/2 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup granulated sugar
3/4 cup old fashioned rolled oats
1/4 cup all purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1 teaspoon vanilla

Whisk together.

Mix 1/2 of the mixture into the peaches.

Pour the second 1/2 of the mixture over the top.

3 Teaspoons butter... Break-up into small pieces and frolic over the top.

Bake for 40 minutes.

Serve warm with vanilla bean icecream.

 

Fig Frangipane...otherwise known as putting one foot infront of the other.

Black Mission Fig Frangipane...or Almond Torte

 

 

 



Rainy end of summer days. A tamed heart.  Times like these call for a faithful pair of jeans, some broken in boots, a few soulful songs on the playlist and the comfort of time by the oven.

 

 

 

 

 

I saw some figs at Whole Foods this week...and I couldn't resist.  They looked plump and soft, almost about to explode, when I touched them. Into my basket they went...along with some Palisade Peaches, Nectarines, Pluots & Lemons.  Some days I am better than others at resisting temptation...this was not one of those days. It was time to fill the basket...fill the void in my heart. No better way to brighten the day, I reasoned, than fresh, juicy, colorful fruit in season.

 

 

And nothing more comforting than the thought of these figs, in their prime, baked into a gorgeous almond frangipane...like a warm and sophisticated cookie with vanilla bean icecream melting into it. End to my dreary days and bring back the mojo!





 

 

Preheat Oven: 375*

 

Mix in a big bowl:

1/2 cup all purpose flour

1/4 cup white whole wheat flour

1/2 cup sugar

1/2 cup ground raw almonds...fine to a coarse flour

1 teaspoon baking powder

 

Mix in...and blend together til smooth:

1 egg

1/2 cup lowfat butter milk

1/4 cup skim milk

1 teaspoon softened butter
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/4 teaspoon almond extract

 

Pour into a prepared fluted pie pan.

 

Slice 6-8 figs and place them decoratively on top...
sprinkle with granulated sugar & a frolic of pink sea salt.

 

Bake for 40-45 minutes

 

Serve warm with vanilla bean icecream.

 

 

 

 

 



Red Plum Frangipane

 

Red Plum Frangipane

 

 

Preheat oven to 375*

Combine:

½ cup all-purpose unbleached flour

1/3 cup white whole wheat flour

½ cup sugar

1 teaspoon baking powder

1/3 cup whole almonds (grind in coffee grinder or food processor…not as fine as flour but w/out big pieces)

Mix in until smooth & fully combined with a wooden spoon:

1 egg  ( or ¼ cup egg beaters…I like to bake with egg beaters)

¼ -1/2  cup lowfat buttermilk

1 teaspoon vanilla
 

Prepare spring form pan with baking spray or butter & flour.  (I use a frittata/ tart pan with a removable ring…lends a decorative shape to the edge…bought it at Target for @ $15)

4-5 Red Plums, Black Plums or Pluots...or a combo. Pitted and sliced.

Pour batter into pan…press around the edges.  Then place sliced plums sideways in circular fashion…one ring around the edge and the one more for an inner ring.  Place the pieces in a design of your wish…but leave some space between each plum slice. Brush with apricot jam (gives the plum slices a shine).

Bake 35-40 minutes…until top is lightly browned. 

Serve warm with a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream! 

YUM!! J Send me pictures!!

How to Improve

 

http://www.nytimes.com/2013/03/07/books/sheryl-sandbergs-lean-in.html?ref=books&_r=0

 

http://www.newrepublic.com/article/112610/sheryl-sandberg-and-lean-folly-davos-feminism

http://www.nytimes.com/2013/03/10/opinion/sunday/is-there-life-after-work.html?partner=rss&emc=rss
 

 

I am always reading business articles... how to get ahead, who is leading the charge, who is at the top of their game...and what are they doing that makes them uber-successful. Successful women in business are particularly compelling to me and women in the wine industry inparticular. But I try to take in as many tips and ideas from entrepreneurs, men and women alike. The two women at the top of their game at Facebook and at Google have been in the news lately and while being injured I have had time to read a bit about them. I really liked the New York Times Book Review of Leaning In...It sounds like she has some great ideas for women in business and I should probably grab the book. I am always asking myself...how can I be better at what I do? What tips or ideas will help me to make my shops more successful? And as a wine sales rep...how can I be more competitive, how can I seal the deal, what can I do to help my customers be more profitable using my wines? "Showing up" is one that has been useful to me...but also being knowledgeable about my product and being intune with my customers needs while relaying a sense of urgency. The wine business is very dynamic...and you need to be on your toes. And...ultimately...how do I balance all of this with my family? Nonetheless, it rang very true to me that these two very compelling women (whom are getting a lot of press) are a small quotient of the real world and its issues ...and maybe not any happier than the rest of us! Still, I think we can learn from them.

Warrior on the t-bar



It was one of those days on the t-bar…crazy cold, hammering sideways snow pelleting your face, limited visibility, no one up there.  The kind of day the skiing is amazing, you have the mountain to yourself & you feel like a warrior.

People give me weird looks when I tell them how much I love to ski Breckenridge. “Brecken-fridge”  “Breckenwind” they say.  It was one of those days on the t-bar today…hammering snow, sideways wind & minimal visibility.  The kind of day when (even on a Saturday) you could ski right on the lift. The snow pelleted my face, I had to focus on my fingers and toes and keep wiggling them to keep them from becoming frostbitten and numb. I glided off at the top and skied past the patrol hut. Tho I could barely see the terrain, I knew it well. I knew where to turn to avoid the rocks that were hidden under the fresh snow and how to get in to the bowl through the maze of trees and inconsistent rolls and fall-line. Down Stampede and over to Queen. My ipod chirped ridiculously upbeat tunes and kept me company and kept me energized. I did not see a soul. My legs felt loose and in-tune with the terrain that was forgiving with the new 4-5 inches of powder. My turns felt effortless as my skis snaked down the steep pitch. Every run felt better….more electric, more confident. I skied down to town and walked down Main Street to my shop with my skis on my shoulder and my goggles still on. I was coated in snow. This morning was a perfect example of why I love to ski and why I love Breckenridge…my backyard for 20 some years. 

"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. 

 



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.