Tag Archives: nature
Tale of A Thanksgiving Past
The Saveur folks who fashioned the roast turkey and gravy recipe I decided to use must have been thirsty. Thanksgiving eve found me standing over a simmering broth of turkey neck and giblets, two pounds of chicken thighs, mirepoix, apple brandy and 2004 Cascina Degli Ulivi Gavi. Measuring the portions became most significant during the liquid additions: one for the roiling rich broth, two for me.
Thanksgiving proper we spent the morning driving north to Houghton Lake through spotty snow showers. We sang Over the River and through the Woods even though we weren’t going to grandmother’s house and truly didn’t know the words. Such are traditions. We arrived under a cloud of sparrows peeling away from a bare oak in the yard. They drifted off like a leaf twisting in the wind. The Lions game was on an appropriately fading television signal, I watched the first half and set the turkey into a brine of salt, garlic, ancho chile and cider. Dinner was venison chili. A euchre game broke out. Drinks were cider and a warm, darkberry fruitleather bottle of Castle Rock 2005 Mendocino Zinfandel that was strong enough to sneak up on us.
The turkey went into the oven Friday at 11:00 a.m. A layer of carrots, celery, apples and onions propped the bird up in the roasting pan. A bottle minus a largish glass of Gavi went in along with a stick of butter. There was no shame in drinking Gavi before noon though when it came time to make the gravy I realized I had drunk the wine that should have been reserved. The slight lapse meant nothing since there were more bottles of wine in a box in the breezeway. Further measuring was executed with a perfect bottle of 2005 Domain de la Pepiere muscadet and more apple brandy. “This is one hell of a gravy!” I declared. I soon realized how true it is that a little booze turns you into the person you really want to be and a lot of booze turns you into the person you really are. We all went to bed early.
Saturday morning was a rebirth. We spent the morning hiking the Gahagan Nature Preserve near the small town of Roscommon and spent some minutes at the AuSable River hoping for a glimpse of the otter family I had spotted early one morning in August. A group of float hunters quietly passed us. Each of us silently acknowledged the chance meeting at river’s edge. In the afternoon we felled a dead maple tree in the swamp behind the cottage. It landed directly on top of a fragrant balsam fir no doubt crushing it dead yet filling the surrounding area with the unmistakable scent of tranquility.
The swamp had stiffened in the cold. Snow turned amber from the tannins in the fallen leaves as we trampled a trail out, grunting and snorting like elk. There is nothing like carrying an eighty pound hardwood log on your shoulder over unbalanced terrain to build up a thirst. Rehydration was accomplished first with water, then cider, finally red wine.
A bottle of 2005 Mas Saint Joseph Les Cypres opened magnificently and drank even better. It was full with dried plum and cherry but not sticky and neatly finished with twigs. I was bursting with the hearty glow of cold weather exercise and woodstove heat. This bottle was too good to last in these environs and so near my glass.
Next the 2006 Carchelo Jumilla struck intense with chewy fruit reduction. The Idiazabal cheese was gone and salted peanuts couldn’t cut it, but a dose of sparkling water could. It now tasted like succulent pomegranate seeds and I decided it was still too intense to be called a spritzer.
This new juice and some small tokes in reverence to the spiritual customs of the latest Bohemian culture invigorated me enough for a midnight trek back into the swamp where for a long time I stood, listening to the wind push delicate clouds beneath the radiant moon, doing my finest impression of a pine tree.
Camping last summer
Unpacking the car in the humidity was sticky work. The damp air made me think of wine. The cabin was dark and cool with a poured cement floor and a small countertop we covered with food and drinks. Dinner would be roasted whole chickens and garden fresh pesto but not before a paddle across the deep blue water of Devoe Lake and into a backwater choked with lily. The backwater ended at a portage to the river proper where startled trout shot like squat arrows upstream beneath the canoes. The trout made me think of wine.
Before we reached the shelter of the cedar bank behind our cabin, four thirsty doe emerged from the woods. They drank and watched us paddle toward them and then leapt back into the woods when we were close enough. We grounded the canoes for the night. I rinsed my sweaty face in the cold water of the Rifle River and ascended the bank to eat.
A bottle of Cascina degli Ulivi Monferrato Nibio was opened while the pasta boiled on a camp stove. Though the sun had fallen behind the high birch that surrounded the cabin the air was still thick with heat. The Nibio knew no better. It could be thick too, thick with grapes and a sweetness that wasn’t really sweet but the memory of it, thick as it was and drinkable and even a healthy sip behind roasted chicken and pesto.
When the sun rose again we were in a meadow casting to slow rising trout. The tall grass behind us sparkled with dew. Warblers sang morning songs. Then a car spot and a long paddle down the river that was deep and sandy when it wasn’t flowing over gravel beds. The river made me think of wine.
It was a fine, long day and back at camp we devoured whitefish roe and smoked salmon on cream cheese and crackers. A crisp Duval-Leroy was popped. The cork was lost in the woods. The champagne was notably dry and clean and gone before the small tins of caviar. A Clos Roche Blanche Sauvignon finished the job. Out of the cooler it was tight and thin grapefruit. It warmed and bloomed into liquid applestones and yellow butterflies. Our backs ached in a satisfying way and we floated for a moment looking down at ourselves. We were obviously having fun.
Four pounds of Delmonico were thrown on to a white-hot grill. An Altos las Hormigas Malbec filled glasses. Rich and plum-fruit forward the Malbec synchronized with fat bites of steak. A Caprese salad built from homegrown basil and heirloom tomatoes tasted foolishly delicious after all. We slept like royalty on bare mattresses.
We spent the next day touring the Au Sable State Forest through Jack Pine wilderness, ate lunch at a south branch access noisy with drunken midday paddlers, and patted an orphaned fawn named Lucky. A Houghton Lake pizza dinner later we gathered fallen cedar for our last campfire.
2003 Duboeuf Fleurie Domaine des Quatre Vents made the rounds. Perhaps a bit too subtle for camping wine it nevertheless drank quite easily and offered aromas of purple flowers and cherry skins. The wine made me think of wine. A bottle of Chateau D’Oupia and a fire late into the night finished us off. The D’Oupia added pepper-spice to an assortment of olives and comradeship. Down at the cedar bank our canoes set for the morning and one final adventure. In an upstream pond two loons cried out into the night.
