Easter

Like a good bunny, I was craving carrot cake.

The t-bar @ Breckenridge

 

 

The t-bar at Breck goes up to @ 12,000ft but that has nothing to do with the difficulty. Even after riding the t-bar for 20 years…it is bit of a challenge and a scene (everyone is cool or trying to look cool in the t-bar line). This is not a beginner’s lift and terrain off the t-bar is all expert terrain…granted there are easier routes down than Lulu & Contest Bowl).  Depending on who you ride with it can be a challenge for the most seasoned rider.  Guys look toward the outside and you have to implore “inside…inside!“…and then the bar comes quickly between you…and you are just happy to have avoided catastrophe at the start.  Only major geeks try to sit down…but that is the least of your problems.  A lot of times guys will brace against you, pushing their ski into your ski (at which point I just lift my ski up), but the encroachment can be even more subtle…the tail of their ski crossing over on to yours and effectively tripping you. On such rides I am uber-aware, because falling off the t-bar is not an option in my mind. If they fall…fine, but I am not going down with them. 

I know that snowboarders have a tougher time managing the t-bar than skiers. I know this not because I am a snowboarder, but because I ride the t-bar a lot and the ratio of snowboarders falling off the t to skiers is like 100k to 1. Generally they ride alone or with eachother. Snowboarders that can truly navigate the t-bar are rockstars in my book. There are some great snowboarders out there, and they have no problem with the t-bar. God bless them, and I prefer riding up the t with them than any bad skier pushing his weight, boots and skis at me…and let me tell you there are a lot of bad skiers attempting the t-bar.  They will tell you they are from Boulder, but really it doesn’t matter.  Sometimes skiers from Houston are better skiers than the ones from Boulder or Breckenridge. They have grown up coming to Breck as kids and now they are seasoned veterans on the t-bar.  It’s the ones who have the ego but no sense of balance that are the problems up there.  (I say “up there” because it is “up there” in the wind, in the elements at 12,000ft on a mountain in the winter.)

On any given day the longtime locals are in the t-bar line, and you can spot them miles away with their stance, confidence and ease at getting on the t-bar. There are quite a few of them in Breckenridge…the guys and girls who have skied here for 10-20-30 years, and this is the lift they ride. They are the ones who will heckle the ones who fall off the t-bar the loudest (because honestly you have no business being up there unless you can really ski or ride).  ”Back of the line” is what you never want to hear.  It means you have fallen off the lift and you need to gather your gear and yourself and wait in the long line again and re-attempt it…if you are recomposed and so inclined.  I’ve seen it happen 500 times, it isn’t pretty. So I was naturally hesitant when my husband said to our 7 year old: ”Ok Finn are you ready to ride the t-bar?” “Game on” our little guy effectively said.  And…he did just fine. 

 

 

Serendipity



In the fall of 2000 I opened a wine shop in Breckenridge, Colorado.  I had been on the US Ski Team previously…and I declared Breckenridge as the place where I wanted to plant myself and open a wine shop similar to the one room wine shops  I had seen while traveling on the World Cup circuit in Europe.  However, by the spring of that first year in business I was ready to get out of that two room 1880s Victorian.  I was a young entrepreneur with a previously fly-by –the-seat- of- my- pants lifestyle … I felt like a captive beast.  I had to get back to Europe…where I had spent so much time as a competitive skier.  So I enlisted one of my friends who was also a fledgling ski shop owner in town to go with me. I think it took 5 minutes to convince him we should buy tickets to Nice and then buzz around in a rented car through southern France and over into Italy. It was a wine trip. I had never been to those places and I was eager to explore.  Before I knew it tickets were purchased and we’d be off in less than two weeks! There was a pet shop across the street from my shop where I used to get supplies for my dog and Maine Coon cat.  When I told the owner (another young shop owner) that my friend and I were flying to Nice and then headed to Provence, the Cotes du Rhone, Tuscany and Piedmont on a whirl-wind wine adventure, she said:  “I worked harvest one year at Domenico Clerico…you should seek them out.“  I knew of that winery's stature and legendary quality and now I had a mission.

We arrived in Nice and sped down to Aix for lunch. In Avignon we had a dinner that lasted late into the night and ended with shots of Genepy with the owners.  We checked out the wine lore stones of Chateauneuf du Pape and observed the sign of Vacqueyras (akin to Hollywood) on its rolling hillside vineyards.  In a field next to a deserted chocolate shop a few miles up a dirt road outside of Gigondas, we enjoyed a wine and cheese picnic. Then we jetted back to the Cinque Terre where we hiked a bit, ate pesto in the timeworn fishing village of Portovenere and spent the night in Santa Margherita in a vintage hotel that could have been the setting for a classic old Italian romantic movie.  We had appointments to get to in Tuscany, so we kept up the mad pace down to Lucca, Pisa and into Siena.  We ventured around Tuscany for several days, exploring  the hilltop wine towns of Montalcino and Montepulciano  south of Siena and cruising north to the Colli Senesi and up to San Gimignano…before heading  northeast into Panzano, Greve and Radda in Chianti.  We had lots of espressos and biscotti!  We also had Ribolita and a few four hour lunches in family owned one room cafes while enjoying fantastic Brunellos, Chianti Classicos and IGTs. The Tuscan hillsides covered with vineyards and the small town squares had me believing I could move there. I envisioned myself chatting with the winemakers, shop owners and townspeople…and drinking wine in the afternoon until dinner was served at sunset.  But the end of our trip was calling and we had to get to Piedmont.

We drove 3 to 4 hours north along the A1 almost to Milan, took a left to Asti and continued into Alba. It was raining and overcast.  We happened upon a café with a dark and cozy basement outfitted with a chess table. Nibbling on a plate of local cheese and salumi, drinking Piemontese wine and playing board games and cards, we sat there for hours.  Later in the afternoon we wandered down the cobbled streets in and out of the local shops.  I kept thinking we’d find a wine shop with Domenico Clerico on the shelf, but after a few hours I was ready to give up.  We took one last right on to a small, narrow street towards the end of town and there was an unassuming little wine shop.  I had the sense that my friend and I were among the only visitors that shopkeeper had had all day. I looked around and didn’t see any Clerico. Deflated, I inquired: “Do you have any Domenico Clerico?” He seemed amused and he brightened up.  He told us to wait while he disappeared down into the basement.  He came back up with a bottle of 1997 Domenico Clerico Pajana and explained himself: he only sells Clerico to customers who ask for it. “If they just randomly pull it off the shelf I risk selling it to someone who does not know and may not care what it is.”  I paid him in Lira worth roughly $50 and left his shop thrilled about my purchase in so many ways: I had met an interesting and astute Alban, I had supported a small shop not unlike my own and I had found and paid a fair price for a bottle of wine from the producer I had been searching for.  

As the evening wore on, and we grew hungry again, we walked though Alba knowing it was our only night in Piedmont.  We strolled down the main street and neared its end, not far from the wine shop where we had found the bottle of Clerico.  As we turned to head back towards dinner in the center of town, a well dressed woman approached a dark building without signage.  We watched as she pushed a button to the left of the door … just as she did the door buzzed.  She pulled it open and disappeared down the steps in front of her.  We followed her lead and had one of the most amazing meals of our lives in a vaulted cellar in Alba.  From what I remember, it started with truffle flecked risotto, continued with Barolo braised beef and culminated with a divine semifreddo.  

In the morning we drove past Cinzano and along a mountainous route by the small rustic ski area of Limone and followed the meandering road back down into Nice.  On the final night of our whirl-wind tour we stayed in a simple hotel on a cliff overlooking Villefrance-sur-Mer’s idyllic cove.  

When we got back to Breckenridge, I ran up the steps to the pet shop and delivered the bottle of Pajana...it was my thank you for her wonderful recommendation. The quest for the bottle of Clerico turned out to be even more serendipitous.  My traveling companion soon became my husband…we were married the next year and spent our honeymoon retracing this trip but with better hotels and the inclusion of Lake Como!   

We have had our wine shop for fourteen years now.  My husband runs it and is there most of the time, but it is our shop together.  I do the purchasing and dream up and host special events.  I pay the invoices and the employees, etc. and I am back selling wine.  My wine sales job keeps me in touch with what is happening in the wine industry and it also allows me to live a bit more free form.  And, fortuitously, the distributor I work for represents Domenico Clerico.  Domenico has been to our sales meetings… I shook his hand and asked him about the blend on the Arte.  As a wine rep I sell many amazing wines and we sell a great variety of small production wines at our wine shop, including a few from Domenico Clerico.  Now when my husband and I travel to wine country we are treated with amazing winery visits from the relationships and connections we have made over the years. Nonetheless, that first trip as a newbie will always be first in my heart.  

 

 

Domenico Clerico

 

This post was submitted as an entry in the Monthly Wine Writing Challenge. The topic was "Serendipity". To learn more or to submit your own entry please go here:

http://thedrunkencyclist.com/2014/11/01/monthly-wine-writing-challenge-13-mwwc13/

Tweet about it with the hashtag:  #MWWC13

Crisp vs Cobbler...it's a no lose situation!

Palisade Peaches

 

 

 

Palisade Peaches are in. Juicy, silky, divine. It is a delicious time of year in Colorado. Summer is officially here...and then soon enough it will be gone. In Colorado we usually get our first snow just a month from now. It is August, and time to soak in summer while we can.  Pies, cobblers, crisps and jams...there is a bounty of options to put summer on your table. Pies, to me, are a bit more time consuming...and sometimes I can't be bothered to make the dough for the crust. I don't know about you, but I get stressed out just thinking about ice water, chilled butter cut into pieces, an hour or two waiting for the dough to chill in the fridge, finding a spot to roll out the dough...and then cut it into strips to weave over the fruit.  Maybe, on a Sunday soon, you'll have all day to commit to the artistry of a beautiful pie. However, if you find yourself with the constraint of time and dinner is nearly on the table...make a cobbler or a crisp.  Deciding between the two is really a matter of assessing your sweet tooth.

 



 

 

There are some essential differences between a crisp and a cobbler. A crisp has oats, nutmeg and brown sugar...therefore aligning itself with the true sweet tooth maven.  Nonetheless,  the crisp will leave you absolutely charmed. There is something about wholesome oats and princely nutmeg when they are combined with brown sugar and warm, soft peaches and the right amount of counterbalancing salt. It is comforting deliciousness in a bowl. There is a rustic authenticity to the crisp, going after a childhood sense of simplicity that sweeps me to a summer cabin on a lake where tomorrow night I might make s'mores by the campfire. The cobbler is flour based with buttermilk (maybe some cream cheese), baking powder and generally less sugar. It is a tad more sophisticated in my mind...with a biscuit of sorts on top of the fruit that is decidedly less sweet than the crisp. The cobbler has almost a Southern charm with it's restraint and grace and buttermilk. It gives off the air of being a little more refined...like I should be wearing a summer dress, sitting on the front porch swing of an old Victorian home and enjoying it in the warm evening air. 

Served warm with a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream, the crisp and the cobbler reach a whole new level of decadence. Any sense of self-denial is thrown out the window I suppose...but really who cares? This is peach season...the time is here and now and ice cream elevates the enjoyment. The Greek yogurt diet can wait...jeans and big sweater season is just down the road. The crisp and the cobbler both aim to please, enchanting anyone and everyone who dives in. And they are...easier than pie. Get some while you can.

 

 

  Peach Crisp

 





 

Peach Crisp:

6 cups diced peaches

3/4 cup granulated sugar

3 tablespoons flour

1/4 teaspoon nutmeg

 

1 cup old-fashioned oats
1/2 cup packed brown sugar

3/4 cup flour

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/4 cup melted butter

 

Combine first four ingredients in a large mixing bowl, let stand for 15 minutes...until juices start to flow.
 

Preheat over to 400*.

 

Butter & flour a  13 x 9 inch round baking dish.  Bake fruit mixture for 35 minutes.

Combine oats and next three ingredients...then mix in melted butter. Sprinkle over fruit and bake for another 15-20minutes...until browned.

 

Serve with a scoop for vanilla bean ice cream.   Sweet indulgence at its best. Yummm!!

 

 

 Peach Cobbler

 

 

 

 

Peach Cobbler:

Preheat oven to 375*

 

5 cups diced peaches

1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

1/4 cup granulated sugar

1/8 teaspoon salt

1 1/2 tablespoons flour

 

Toss

Arrange in 13x 9 inch buttered & floured baking dish.

 

Combine in a food processor:

1 1/2 cup flour

1/2 cup granulated sugar

1/8 teaspoon salt

3/4 teaspoon baking powder

 

add in:

1/4 cup chilled butter  cut into pieces

1 teaspoon lemon rind

6oz 1/3 less fat cream cheese cut into pieces

add 1/2 cup buttermilk  until blended

 

spoon over fruit mixture

sprinkle with 2 tablespoons turbinado sugar

Bake at 375* for 55 minutes until golden brown.

 

Serve warm with vanilla bean ice cream.  Sink into the couch and enjoy!!

 

 

 

 

 



 Cobbler

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fraises des Bois

 

 

Wild Strawberries

 

 

"Strawberries that in gardens grow
Are plump and juicy fine,
But sweeter far as wise men know
Spring from the woodland vine.

No need for bowl or silver spoon,
Sugar or spice or cream,
Has the wild berry plucked in June
Beside the trickling stream.

One such to melt at the tongue’s root,
Confounding taste with scent,
Beats a full peck of garden fruit:
Which points my argument." ~Robert Graves

There is a rock in Hintertux...

"Memories
Of summer days so long ago
People in the places
That we used to know
Oh those memories.."

~ Van Morrison

When I was 15 and again the next summer when I was 16, I went to Austria for the summer to ski and train as an athlete on a glacier. There was a group of us in our teens...6 or 8 skiers from the U.S... without a chaperone. We were in Hintertux, just outside of Mayrhofen in the Tirol. We were skiing from the Zillertaller Gletcherbahn...training with a German ski champion. It was a place straight out of a dream...an unblemished village. Our hotel was the traditional Tyrolian lodge...brown and white with flower boxes overflowing beneath each window. I subsisted on spaetzle, cucumber salad, French fries and apfelstrudel from restaurant on the first level of the hotel. Big white down duvets like huge pillowy clouds embellished the beds in our rooms.

When I flew open the windows in the morning I could look down on the furry cattle, with Edelweiss embroidered collars, strolling by. The gentle chiming of their bells filled the alpine air as they made their way through the village and up into the pastures above town. Mountains reached into the sky above the rolling hillside, rivers flowed past, wildflowers bloomed, hikers ambled by. I was a young girl from Maine, there for the summer...soaking it all in while at the same time trying to figure out the world. I had to get along with my fellow campers, try to live passably with my roommate, maintain my own independence, dance deftly at the Rathskellar...and navigate the boys from Minnesota in the other camp.

After skiing every afternoon I would go on a walk through the small village and take a right onto a trail.  I followed it for a ways...until the trail led to a bridge and crossed a river and headed up from there. I never crossed the bridge (as far as I remember), instead, to the right there was a large rock that hung over the river...and that was where I would perch myself. It was a great spot. The sound of the river rushing under me was exhilarating and it was completely away from everyone and everything. It was the perfect place to collect my thoughts...to think about what happened that day on the slopes...contemplate what I was doing wrong with my pole-flip...ponder what I should say to the Minnesota boy who wanted me to go to Kitzbuhel with him.  I would sit there for hours some days before heading back to the picturesque hotel at the base of the mountain. Hintertux, our hotel...my rock. It really was beautiful...like living in Heidi's hometown.

I still think about that rock from time to time...mostly when I am being nostalgic for my youth and the choices I have made along the way that have made me who I am. The rock was my beacon of light...my calm in the storm...my own place. I was in Europe, far away from home...but I felt grounded there. In my memory, it is a favorite spot that I hope to get back to some day.

I have a few other favorite spots that I can visit more often... one is the beach at the end of my parents' road in Maine...another is this cabin not far from where I live in Colorado.

In fact, the cabin is just down the road...and I cross country ski there a lot in the winter too. Rarely when I am up there do I see anyone.

 

This spot is about 3 miles up... you can reach it by hiking, biking or skiing up in the winter. Along the journey to this spot I do a lot of thinking.  I figure out what I am going to say to someone who has posed a problem, I think about my next business plan, my family, our finances...our latest dilemma.  There is always a dilemma isn't there? This is my sanctuary...my calm, my peace and quiet, my Narnia in the woods...the place where I work it all out.

 

I get the same feeling of clarity when I am at my parents' beach... when I look out into the ocean. Saline air, a boat slowly sailing by...ducks following their mother all in a line, it is the simplicity of the moment that calms my soul.

 

 

 

Today I took my 7 year old son up to the cabin. It was heart warming and wonderful to share this favorite spot with him. It felt full circle. He is the summation of a lot of my thoughts in years past..."Who do I want do I want to share my life with? Will I ever be blessed with a child? How do I get there?" I got lucky...and I have a husband...and a son now. Dreams really. So lucky to have them. Such an understatement. Really not sure how I got here. If I close my eyes...the breeze is in my hair, my knees are all the way bent so that my butt is touching my heels, my arms are wrapped around my shins.  My feet are balancing/teetering/ gripping the rock above the river. I am in Hintertux.  I am still 16.

 

 

 

Something about these favorite places seems to slow down time...the journey up to them...the time spent at them just seems to go by slower. The world, and my time on it, is not whizzing by. I cherish these favorite spots...and can only think that if one day I can not physically get to them, they will still be places I can go to in my mind...a mental oasis like the rock in Hintertux forever in my heart.

 

 

 

 

 

Summer

 

 

Three 7 year old boys stayed at our house last night….had pizza, made s’mores down the street… rode their bikes back at one point for more marshmallows … and returned just as the sun set. They watched Tintin, played air hockey and got ready for bed…and after an hour of restlessness they asked if I’d read a book to them.  I read Time of Wonder about a summer & a storm on an island off the coast of Maine.  All three boys slept on the bottom bunk and had pancakes this morning.  

The genial simplicity of summer when you are seven.