What can I say? We're a couple of talented writers. (Get it? A couple. Ha!) Here's the story of Mr. FM's latest solo dinner with his folks while I was away in Washington DC.
The journey always begins the same way—in a rush. The truth is, I have a terrible habit of arriving 30 minutes late for just about every occasion, and try as I might, it’s a habit I can’t seem to break—especially without the help of Ms. Food Musings, who on this day, a Sunday, was back east visiting her best, closest and very pregnant friend, L. And so, having grown lonely in Ms. FM’s long absence, I promised my parents I would be at the house in time for a nice walk before dinner, and there I was, late, driving fast enough down the hills of Gough Street to feel intermittent touches of weightlessness, then weaving through the messy, construction-infested tangle that leads to Highway 101 before finally merging onto perhaps the greatest freeway in the world for those who are chronically late, 280.I have driven 280 more than any other freeway in my life, and I always feel a sense of tranquility on this fast and most beautiful of roads. With the speedometer reading 90 MPH, I took in the view of the Crystal Springs reservoir, glassy blue in the scar of the San Andreas; the hills, which on so many days, this day included, seem to be holding back a slow-motion ocean of fog; and everywhere the color green, a result of winter grasses being watered well into late spring this year by rain, rain and more rain.
Exiting at A. Road, I arrived at my parents’ precisely 30 minutes late. Dad was carefully flattening the grocery bags from his earlier trip to the store, where he had purchased fresh, wild salmon, the only kind he buys for reasons of both taste and health. On the counter were portabella mushrooms still brown with dirt, plump asparagus spears and a scattering of potatoes. Per protocol, Dad would take command of the fish and mushrooms, both destined for the hot coals of the grill, and my Mom would subdue the vegetables to perfection on the stove and in the oven. But first, a walk.
In years past, we would all go on walks together, but since my Mom’s recent hip replacement surgery (all went well), Dad and I have been the only ones keeping up the tradition. Ms Food Musings joins us occasionally, but is usually content to keep my Mom company while we’re out.
In truth, I don’t mind that it’s just my Dad and me. It’s a chance for us to talk about all the things we like to talk about, namely business and stocks, without boring Mom and Ms. Food Musings to tears. On this day, we talked about recent investments, all of which were going wondrously for Dad and wondrously badly for me (though they still hold the promise of someday delivering vast wealth. Someday…) I also rely on these walks for career advice and thoughts on life, and occasionally there is the new dwelling under construction to trespass upon, inspect and critique.
Returning to the house, we mixed a drink. Sometimes it’s a margarita, sometimes it’s a daiquiri made the authentic way, but more often than not - and on this day - it’s a Jack Rose. Made with apple brandy, grenadine and lemon - and always to the ratio my Dad swears by (8 parts base, two parts citrus and one part sweetener) - it’s a powerful drink both tart and sweet. Over the years, we have made Jack Roses with calvados, both vintage and non, but recently we have been using genuine AppleJack, the brandy that puts the Jack in Jack Rose and that is made only by America’s oldest distillery, Laird & Company, established 1780.
Drinks mixed and poured, Dad and I stepped outside to start the charcoal using his new chimney, which was purchased after the electrical starter broke, a fate suffered after roughly two years of use, just like all the starters that came before. The charcoal was Dad’s latest refinement, a mix of mesquite-laced briquettes and actual mesquite, and the result of both his engineering background (he likes how the briquettes slow the burn a bit) and his North Dakota thrift (briquettes cost a lot less than real mesquite). All of this took place in the Weber grill, the simplest money can buy, a now-classic bowl resting on a tripod of metal tubes.
Meanwhile in the kitchen my Mom modestly transformed the asparagus into perfectly steamed vegetables requiring only a touch of pepper once served to find completion. The potatoes, quartered and broiled, were coated in peasant-style Dijon mustard and a mix of herbs, the round mustard seeds visible, a simple looking dish full of complex flavors. On the counter sat my favorite dessert, an apple crisp, baked earlier that day and giving up its heat ever so slowly.
As dinner neared, I headed out to the wine cellar to find something old, something red, something French. My Dad, after years of haranguing from both me and my Mom, has finally installed racks in the wine cellar, formerly a pool dressing room and now considerably more useful, and this Sunday was the first time I saw the results. It’s a thing of beauty. I no longer have to risk grievous back injury – or worse, losing a bottle of 30-year-old wine to the hard concrete floor. Cheered by this turn of events, I selected a 1990 Chateau Angelus, St. Emilion, Grand Cru and walked back to the house triumphant.
Dinner was served. Conversation flowed. Everything was perfect, except for the vacant fourth chair, which would normally be occupied by a smiling, rapidly talking Ms. Food Musings. As you know if you are a regular reader of this blog, she is a Southerner through and through, and relishes telling stories and trading commentary over the day’s last meal. Without her presence, dinner was decidedly a bit more subdued than usual.
Finishing my final remnant of fire-touched salmon followed by a last, long drink of Bordeaux, I helped clear the table before the apple crisp was served, now cooled to warm and accompanied by cream both whipped and iced to create a grand, sweet finish. My Mom, still recovering a bit, announced she was headed off to bed, so my Dad and I made a fire in the living room, poured very small glasses of scotch, and attempted, unsuccessfully, to solve a few of the world’s great problems.
I left around 11:00 to end the journey much the way it had begun, running late and arriving significantly past the hour I had sworn I would be home by. And once again I missed Ms Food Musings. She would have gotten me home a bit earlier and would have sidled up next to me in bed and warmed me to sleep.
(sigh) Isn't he dreamy?
What a lovely account of a speedy/scenic drive & a relaxing visit/dinner with the 'rents! Of course, I already knew you have a way with words-- the toast before little brother's departure was so eloquent...& right on the money! I hope there will be more posts from Mr. FM!!
Posted by: Mom | May 25, 2005 at 04:03 AM
*swoon* that is very sweet :)
Posted by: clare eats | May 25, 2005 at 07:09 AM