Cowgirl Creamery

Three or four years ago we made a trip out to California for the wedding of a niece. It was one of those first trips without expensive and opinionated children along and we had a great time. On our final morning in Sebastopol, my sister-in-law helped me shop for a travel picnic at Whole Foods. I was simultaneuously introduced to two cheeses: Humboldt Fog from Cypress Grove and Mt. Tam from Cowgirl Creamery.

Later that day, as the airline staff passed out revolting and inedible sandwiches (not just my opinion as it turned out), I unpacked my picnic and was soon the center of attention and envy of at least seven rows of seats in each direction. That it replaced airline food was only one of the factors that made that picnic indelible--the other was the cheese.

Back in Wisconsin I rushed to my local WF for more, only to be told that Mt. Tam is only shipped in cold weather so that it arrives in good condition. Starting in October I pestered the cheese staff about every two weeks, and at least some of them seemed just as anxious to lay hands on some Mt. Tam as I was. The Humboldt Fog became an occasional treat and source of mystery--how do they get it to ripen backwards from the outside in?--but Mt. Tam was never available. Eventually, like a best friend breaking the news about an old boyfriend, the cheese staff told me there would be no Mt. Tam for Wisconsin cheese junkies. I moved on, but I did not forget.

If this seems a bit melodramatic for the subject of cheese, I only want you to understand why, last week at WF, the sight of a cake of Mt. Tam (MT TAM!) actually caused my heart to speed up, and even more significantly, caused me to pay an outlandish price in these lean economic times, to take some home with me. I am babying it a bit--making sure it gets to the right temperature for eating. I did have to taste a wedge to determine that it was not at peak ripeness yet. My husband pointed out that it doesn't look good enough anymore to set out at Thanksgiving. I laughed and laughed--what made him think I was going to share? In fact, didn't the death threat if I were to come home and find it gone tell him anything?

I look at it this way--whatever I paid for it is still cheaper than the plane ticket to California would have been, had it come to that. Although I did go on the website, and the creamery tours look mighty tempting---plus we have relatives in the area. I am sure we are overdue for a visit.

Cooking

The antidote to many things, cooking is the perfect activity on a cold November weekend. My usual approach is to make a recipe more or less as written the first time unless there are obvious flaws, like ingredients I don't like. I tried a couple of new things this weekend with mixed results. Our CSA bestowed many sweet potatoes this year and I am not a huge sweet potato fan unless someone else has deep fried them to crispy crunchiness and provided some sort of tasty dip. I was on my own with the sweet potatoes this weekend, so I researched the cookbook library. The next best thing to frying, which I don't do well, was cooking several pounds of SPs whisked through olive oil on cookie sheets in a 500 degree oven, with a corresponding pan of five red onions, cut into rings. The result was supposed to be golden puffed SPs with a complementary melted onion component. I should have been suspicious when the recipe specified that the onion rings should not touch each other more than necessary. That many onions (4 actually--I was already anticipating the problem) were more of a heap than a layer. Total cooking time was to be 25 minutes on a side and the first 25 minutes went pretty well, although there was no puffiness to be seen. I flipped everything and slid the pans back in the oven exactly as specified (flip SP pans top to middle, and back to front, leave onions on bottom rack). I set the time to 20 minutes and it should have been 10. When the timer went off, I pulled out a really burned mess. Unless the final five minutes is when the sweet potatoes separate from the carbon char and puff up into golden slices, this recipe was a failure. To add insult to injury, the house still smells faintly of burned sugar.

The other recipe was one I got out of Friday's newspaper and it was totally worth stealing the paper out of the lunchroom before the workday was quite over. I won't bore you with the details, but it is a soup that involves sherry, brandy (I used pear brandy--necessity being the mother of invention--"didn't we have anything cheaper?" asked my husband), 30 cloves of garlic, potatoes, gorgonzola and 2 cups of heavy cream. I served it with micro greens as a garnish and fresh wheat bread on the side. Oh My God.

Tonight we had the antidote, and this is an improvisation:

Drizzle a tablespoon of sesame oil in a non-stick 9x 13 pan. Place a 2 lb salmon fillet in the middle, skin side down. Surround the salmon with a bunch of lancinate kale, de-stemmed and shredded. Smear 2 teaspoons each of freshly grated ginger and garlic on the fish and drizzle Tamari over fish and greens. Cover with foil and bake at 350 for 20 minutes. While the fish is cooking, make white rice (sticky rice would be good, but I didn't have any). Uncover the fish and add 2 cups of fresh spinach, and salt and pepper. I am partial (okay, addicted) to Penzey's Roasted Szechuan pepper salt blend, but it is not essential. Re-cover and bake another 10 minutes. Remove from oven, flip fish and remove skin. Add 2 cups fresh arugula and cooked rice to whatever proportions look right to you. Mix everything together (fish will break up and rice will soak up pan juices). Serve with more Tamari at the table.

I am hoping this will help scour last night's meal from my arteries.

Confidence

It is such an elusive quality, confidence. It isn't aggression, or bravado. It is really hope, in its strongest form. We overuse it these days--"give us an estimate and then tell us your percent confidence in what you just said." It is nothing but a wish transformed into numbers--10% confidence, 75%, how certain are we that our prediction will come true? On Sunday I projected a wish to a friend, with 100% confidence. I told him that I was certain (and I was) that he would see another Wisconsin Spring. I told him that he could contribute a guest blog entry to my CWord blog because I would not presume to write about the reality of living with Hepatitis C.

Last week he voted. This week he is dying. All of my confidence cannot float his lifeboat to May and make my prediction come true. I wish it could.

Cinema

I don't like repetition and seeing a movie once is generally enough. I made an exception tonight for "The Professional" which I have seen a couple of times. That is one fine movie in a genre I don't usually watch the first time. Natalie Portman is great, and the supporting cast is flawless.

Combo

It is such a fifties word, "combo." As in jazz combo, not a band, but something else, more casual. I thought of this word on Monday night down at Mickey's Bar. This is not a place we go often, but with new ownership and a promising chef, maybe we should. Anyway, Monday is a bad night to go out, and a good night to stay home in the "leisure wear," watching what there was no time to watch on TV over the past week. We were out because our friend the painter (profession), guitar player (hobby), and former cab driver (source of actual money) is playing a regular Monday night gig at Mickey's and we said we would show up. To make sure we did, we arranged to meet mutual friends, and that worked far better than the Monday night notation on the calendar for the past three weeks.

The band set up in a corner of the bar, chatting with each other and customers. Our guitar-playing friend walked over the to table to acknowledge that he learned valuable guitar lore from my husband, in addition to how to shave. Apparently that made a whole new look possible at age 22. The place was pretty full for a Monday, I thought, but what do I know? I am usually at home in leisure wear at that hour/day of the week.

The line-up was interesting: in addition to our friend, there was the documentary filmmaker on keyboard, the guy with a past (and a voice) on harmonica, and the attorney on stand up bass. And then there was the music--blues, French cafe music, folk standards. The guitar player's landlady was tapped for some harmony, and (lead by our table, I think) the whole bar joined in for The Sloop John B. The musicians seemed to enjoy the singalong, though I noticed they trotted out some original stuff immediately after. We didn't know the words, but it did not prevent some from humming along with the chorus.

We left reluctantly, but still past our Monday night bedtimes, and as we walked home, my husband said, "what did you think of the combo?" I was stunned that he had pulled that dated word right out of my head. So it made me wonder, "what is the difference between a band and a combo?" It must be that corner of the bar, remembrance of shaving lessons, singalong, multiple genres, fun, casual musical experience that makes us think of a combo. Maybe also the fact that they have no name, as well as no record deal, and no cover charge. No more bands for me--from here on out, it is combos all the way.

Crossroads

Pre-election jitters--how to manage? I really don't remember ever being this nervous before. Of course, in retrospect, I should have been at least this nervous last presidential election, but I couldn't believe we (as a population, as a citizenship) could be that stupid. We were.

I am taking nothing for granted this time--especially the political where-with-all of my fellow citizens. The unfortunate thing is that I still have only one vote, and one voice, and not too many venues to exercise it in. This is one, but I suspect I am preaching to the choir. In the case of my blood relatives, I had better be preaching to the choir.

So, what I am doing to manage pre-election anxiety:

Took two sick days last week and laid on the couch catching up with two weeks of newspapers--also started a couple of books. Watched no TV.

Thought about the possible places I could move to if things don't happen as they should on Tuesday. I have had a number of spontaneous offers, but I believe all of the potential hosts don't really think we can elect a Republican again, so they feel safe making the offer. I hope I don't have to disabuse them of that notion by showing up at the door with a suitcase.

Ate bacon. 'Nuff said.

Watched my husband move 3000 pounds of stone for a raised kitchen garden in back of the house.

Made three cakes in one week.

Thought about a vacation in Norway with my Republican aunt--that's how much I love her!

Donated money for pizza for the Obama workers during the last four days.

Made mac and cheese with a whole head of roasted garlic in it, along with a pound and a half of good Wisconsin cheddar.

Reviewed the hate mail being generated by the Republicans in the final days, took Tums to combat the outrage--sad to say it was ineffective.

Let's get this election over with, let's make history, let's do the right thing, let's move forward. And for God's sake, let's do it before I move up a clothing size.