Coastal Living 2, part i

On Thursday, I went back out to the coast for New Years in Gearhart, OR with Jon, Pat, Storm, Mike and David. This is the time of year that Portland lies under a shroud of bone-chilling rain and heavy skies for weeks, with no end in sight. Mike and I left at 11 am, on Highway 26. 35 miles into the drive, as we started climbing into the mountains, we drove through the cloud cover and arrived in a winter wonderland, with bright blue skies, snow capped fir trees, and honest-to-god sunlight. Postcard worthy. Approximately 2 miles later we hit a patch of ice on the 2-lane highway, spun around twice across the entire road, and slid back into a guardrail. Were we hurt? Nope. Was the car damaged? Not at all. Once again, I have Matt Lauer and the Today Show for thank, because Wednesday's segment on Winter Driving while I was doing yoga in my living room reminded me that when there are icy conditions you can steer, and you can break, but you can't steer and break at the same time. Storm and David left a bit later and got held up by an accident involving 3 cars and a tree a few miles past the site of our earlier ice capades. Never forget that Oregon is a fickle mistress. This is what was waiting for us in Gearhart:

My friends Matt and Kelly, who now live in LA, have the cutest house in the cutest town that boasts one of the prettiest beaches in Oregon. I always thought I was more on the "mountain cabin" end of the either/or spectrum when it comes to vacation homes, but the house on B street is making a good argument for coastal living. Victor is now under the impression that every 4 days he gets a trip to the beach.

Christmas on the Coast

Just got back from spending the Christmas weekend in Manzanita, on the Oregon Coast, with old friends and new friends. So very pleasant and relaxing, I think I can finally appreciate Christmas' charms.

When not perched on a sofa looking at this...

I was sitting at a table eating this...

MNF

A confession that may perpetuate my singlehood: I don't like sports. More specifically, I don't get sports. I was born without the gene that allows one to follow the movement of a ball through space and time by the force of human will and strength. I like the idea of sports and I like the conviviality that watching sports cultivates. I love foods associated with watching sports both in homes and in bars: nearly every year for the last decade I throw a Superbowl party and serve food based on the competing cities' cuisines. And since I do love commercials, the entirety of sports programming is not lost on me. But short of understanding the significance of when an orange ball flies through the air into a mesh hoop, or when a baseball lands in a mitt without hitting the ground, I am lost. And although football eludes me most, I have been faithfully watching Monday Night Football for the last 2 years, thanks to Laura Ohm.

Laura is probably the best cook that I personally know. She's a baker by trade, and a master of French, Italian, and Chinese cuisines as well as the gamut of everything that can be canned or otherwise put-up. But in my opinion her real gift is in the purest interpretations of American regional cuisines. And there is no better showcase for her talents than during the months of September through December, when every host city of a Monday Night Football game, whether friend or foe, is honored with a glorious supper. Last week, the Bears were at Minneapolis, though the menu of Polish Ring Sausage with sauerkraut and mashed potatoes:

There are probably 12 MNF suppers per season, and I try to make it to most. But here's the thing: after 38 years of life, after hosting at least a half dozen superbowls and after 2 years of spending nearly every Monday night in autumn at Laura and Fred's for MNF, I still have no idea how the hell you watch a football game. None. I sit there: I watch. I watch them move and stop and go back and move again in slow motion. I watch them huddle, watch lines and scratches come and go from the screen, watch coaches cover their mouths with playbooks as they talk into their headsets. I have tried to absorb the fundamentals of the game through osmosis, but it's useless. So perhaps my honorary seat in Laura and Fred's livingroom should go to someone who is football literate, but I won't abdicate without a fight. And there's always the possibility I will learn to love the game. I am a goddam American, after all.

Travels

I was in New York last week. Despite the freezing weather I loved being back there and I wish I had planned a longer stay. I did a poor job of taking pictures, most of them are of my friend Julia's dog, Mookie. The only food related picture I got was of this overgrown wasted elf mawing down his McDonalds after SantaCon 2010.

I didn't make it to most of my eating destinations, just let the day and whomever I was with dictate the menu (which I find to be infinitely less stressful or disappointing) and ended up eating amazing kimchi-tofu stew in Koreatown, prunes poached in red wine with mascarpone at Frankies, handmade sliders with American cheese at the soon-to-be RIP Stoned Crow, and overhyped but nonetheless tasty meatballs at The Meatball Shop. But the best thing I ate while I was in New York was at Gottino, a little Italian wine bar in the West Village. And that thing was crostini with a big knob of soft homemade butter beneath 2 fat oil-packed anchovy filets. Fat, salt, chew, cure, perfection. Please note that when I die, I would lie these served at my funeral.

Meat Party

My pig, rather, my pork arrived today. The chest freezer is a layer cake of beef, lamb, chicken necks, frozen dog meals, squid, and now pork. I'm not quite sure how I'm going to go about the process; I wish it could be organized with such randomness that whatever I grab when I close my eyes and reach in is what I'll be preparing next. But at this point it would take a concrete mixer to achieve that kind of variety. I believe this means I will be entertaining more...or else selling great cuts of meat out of my garage for cheap. Call me if you want a deal.

AFV

On many Sundays, my friend David comes over for dinner at 6, and AVF at 7. AFV, in case you forgot, stands for America's Funniest (home)Videos. It's been on the air for 21 years. It's hilarious 67% of the time. I'd never watch it if it weren't for David, but now it's a part of what I consider to be the perfect Winter Sunday: wake up and go for a run, read the Times, plan dinner, take Vic to 1000 acres, cook dinner. David comes over for AFV, and when he leaves I watch whatever is on AMC or HBO (right now it's Zombies). Not all of these things get to happen on a Sunday (today I missed the run, the paper and the park), but if David and AFV happens, it's still a good Sunday.

Tonight we're still celebrating Hanukkah. I almost lit the candles, but I can't find the menorah (Yes I still have one, mom). I made braised cabbage (actually, pressure cooked then roasted cabbage), broiled lamb chops with parsley salsa, and potato-sweet potato latkes cooked in duck fat with sour cream and pear butter.

I know, I really have to work on my table settings: a lacey placemat does not a mis en place make, but I was tired of the white tablecloth. Working on it.

Look What I Made!

Home-cured guanciale. For one week it steeped in a salt-sugar cure, for almost two weeks it hung in the fridge. Then, after the first frost, it went in the garage for another 3 weeks.

Tonight I decided to cut it down and try it out. It's pretty salty, and quite mineral-y, but after sauteing some with olive oil and garlic and adding it to braised brussels sprouts with sherry vinegar, butter, and a little honey, the salt and funk melded perfectly. What a great way to spend this 4th night of Hanukkah, enjoying my own cured pork.