Wine Review: Poggio Vignoso 2007 Chianti

Friday night I was the recipient of some bad news regarding my weekend, so, in order to cheer myself up, I went to a wine tasting near my home. There was a distributor there from "Small Vineyards," who was showing some of their Italian wines. Number two on the list was Poggio Vignoso 2007 Chianti. I can't remember the tasters notes for the wine but I don't pay much attention to them anyway.
For me the first thing I notice about a wine is the price. I think most Americans pay way to much for table wines and am loath to pay more than $10.00 for something that is just going to complement a meal. There are exceptions, but for the most part I try to keep my wine purchases under $10.00.
Now that that's established I try to stay away from wines that have a perceivable tannic effect. When I drink a wine I don't want any burn associated with a sip. Usually this comes in the after taste, most (cheaper) wines have it and wine drinkers know what I am talking about. I think the effect is a result in the tannic acids present in grapes, good wines are able to mask the burning sensation associated with it.
This Chianti did well and only a slight hint of burn was noticed. It was a robust wine, but not one that would overpower more subtle foods. Fruity tastes were present, but not overpowering. The wine was by no means sweet, but it wasn't bitter either. I appreciated the oak aging as the wine was not overpowered by wood, but did not have a generic steel taste either.
Overall this is a nice wine that will compliment a wide range of dishes, but will not steal the show. I purchased a bottle for $8.79. Then took it home and prepared Macaroni and Four Cheeses, along with some sausage that I simmered in a splash of the wine. The wine did not hide any of the four cheeses, and it brought out the flavors in the sausage rather than diminish it. Consequently, I would be somewhat confident pairing this with something even more delicate like trout or salmon. (I don't care for white wines). I like this wine for everything from a casual dinner party, to a hum drum Friday night.

Trout Fishing on the Guadalupe River

I spent this Christmas in Austin, Texas with my wife's family. I was excited to be there in the winter time because there is a tail water trout fishery about an hour and a half south of where I was that supposedly fishes very well in the winter months.

There is a dam on the Guadalupe river that forms Canyon lake. The water that comes out below the dam is cold enough for trout despite being at 30 degrees latitude. Texas parks and wildlife keeps the area for fly fishing only, and in the best area the rules are for catch and release with one exception over eighteen inches. Perfect conditions for a peaceful day on the river. I borrowed a vehicle and drove down on the Sunday after Christmas to entertain the southern trout.

My first stop was at Action Angler. A wonderful little fly shop owned and operated by Chris Jackson. Chris would please Izaak Walton himself. He welcomed me as a visitor and told me that the inspiration for his shop came from a little shop at Lee's Ferry. He sold me a few local flies and I paid $5.00 for access to the river from his private land. We chatted a little more and then it was time for me to get on the water.

I set up my 7'9" 3wt rod (which was probably too small for the river, but it travels well). And walked up from the bridge where Chris's trail hit the river. Texas is full of limestone and the river bed was no exception. At first glance the Guadalupe seemed to shallow and tame for trout, but there are several grooves and channels cut into the soft rock that make excellent places for fish to hide. I cast into and around these groves with a copper beadhead trailing under an elk hair caddis with a gray hackle.

I like to move quite a bit as I fish but I quickly found that the only way to move up and down the river was by walking in it. This was difficult as I had no waders or wading boots. Off came my shoes and I rolled up my jeans. The water was painfully cold, but not unbearable. The outside temperature was around 55 and I think the water was at about 45. The limestone river bed was covered with ridges, and these hurt my feet as I walked over them. I was able to move up the river for a painfully slow quarter mile or so, fishing the channels as I moved.

In the channels and grooves I got a number of non-committal strikes on the beadhead. Most of these strikes came in unlikely places where the water was still and where no one would suspect a fish to be. I came to a place where the water got more swift and trickled over some rocks. This a more likely trout habitat I fished here for about an hour, but only got a few soft strikes. I talked to another fisherman who had a very pretty cast while at the rapids. He had had a similar time, but had seen a good sized fish up the river a ways. I fished a little more, then walked back to where I had left my shoes and broke down my rod.

There is nothing like time on a river to quiet one's heart and so I spent another half hour there praying. The canyon where I fished was most beautiful and it was very nice to get a mid-winter fishing trip in. I think better of Texas after my trip and look forward to another winter trip to Austin for some time on the peaceful Guadalupe river.

Salsa

Every Christmas my family celebrates on Christmas Eve with a Mexican feast. It was for this feast that I began making salsa several years ago. It took me a few years to perfect this recipe. Some friends have requested it, so here it is.

Dave's Salsa
2 (14.5oz) cans of whole or diced tomatoes.
1/2 bunch cilantro
2 cloves garlic
1/2 to 1 whole onion (to taste)
a few green onions
2 Jalapeños (taste these before putting them in to gauge their spiciness. You don't have to use Jalepenos, my favorite peppers are the ones from my neighbor's garden).
Salt
Pepper

Put the tomatoes into a blender. Chop all fresh ingredients and place in the blender. Add salt and pepper to taste. Puree using the blender until all ingredients are very finely chopped. Check the taste and add more ingredients as needed. Remember that the salsa will taste a little more spicy at first than it will after sitting for a few hours. Pour in a container with a lid and refrigerate for a few hours before serving. As time goes on the flavors will blend together and the salsa will taste better and better. When refrigerated and sealed the salsa will keep for over a month, but it will separate so shake well before serving.

Home made salsa is a sure bet to impress your guests, and it is so easy to make. I hope that you won't feel the need to buy generic canned salsa ever again after trying and perfecting your own salsa. Enjoy.

Chimichurri

A few weeks ago we went to a bring-your-own-meat barbecue at a very nice house with a spectacular outdoor kitchen and backyard.  I love bring-your-own-meat because everyone brings something different.  I always try to "crank it up a notch," thanks Emeril, at these things, so that everyone is jealous of my food.  For this Barbecue I made Chimichurri skirt steak.  Chimichurri is a latin meat sauce that I learned about in Steve Raichlen's book, How to Grill.  The following recipe is featured in the back yards of Argentina.  It came from Raichlen's book but I've modified it a bit.  Again, I can't recommend the book enough.  It's perfect for people like me, who are more interested in technique than recipes.

Chimichurri Sauce

1 bunch (the packet you get at the grocery store) Flat leaf parsley.

1 bunch cilantro

1 small plastic box mint leaves.

3 clove garlic or more depending on taste and how strong the garlic is.

Salt (to taste)

Pepper (to taste)

Red pepper flakes (the kind you put on Pizza)

A dash of Cayenne Pepper gives it a nice bite and I'd like to try putting a little fresh horse radish in but haven't yet.

1/2 Cup Olive Oil

1/3 (Or more) Cup White Whine Vinager

1/2 Cup water

Preparing the meat

Chop everything and process or use a blender (like me) to puree.  

Skirt steak works very well but you can use any thin, marbleized cut.  I'd also like to try the sauce with Chicken.

Butterfly the meat so that it is as thin as possible, then work it over with a meat tenderizer mallet.  (I don't have one so I use a cheese grader.)

Pour a thin layer of sauce in a glass pan, then put a layer of meat down.  

Cover the meat with sauce and put down the rest of your meat.  Cover this with more sauce.  Save 1/2 to 1/3 of your sauce to pour on the meat at serving.

Let the meat (refrigerated) sit in the sauce all day (the longer the better) until it's grilling time.

Grill the meat with the sauce on it to your liking.  (I recommend as rare as you can stand it.)

Serve the meat smothered in the reserved sauce (remember to get it out of the refrigerator when you start grilling.

Side dishes can be anything, try black beans and rice.  A hardy Wine, like Merlot or Cabernet Sauvignon goes well with the dish.   There are some delicious wines from Argentina.  Impress your guests with a wine from the same region as your cuisine.  Which you can get in most any decent wine vendor including some grocery stores.   Of course good beer goes with anything. Enjoy, and let me know how your barbecue adventures go.

We are the Children of the Eighties

A friend of mine gave me this poem when we graduated high school. For some reason, I've held on to it all these years. I am now facing simultaneously, and for the first time; my thirties, a serious career and fatherhood. The poem is a sort of call to action, a who are we, and where are we going. I wonder if the author, who has escaped into anonymity, is proud of what we have made of our times. We eighties children are prone, over the next ten years, to take over everything. The Baby Boomers are retiring in droves and more and more it will be left to us to run things. Are we up to it?

We are the Children of the eighties.
We are not the first "lost generation," nor are we today's lost generation;
In fact, we think we know just where we stand-
Or are discovering it as we speak.

We are the ones who gave Malibu Barbie crew cuts with Safety Scissors that never really cut.
We collected Garbage Pail Kids and Cabbage Patch Kids and My Little Ponies,
and Hot Wheels and He-Man action figures and thought She-Ra looked just a little bit
Like I would when I was a woman.

Big Wheels and Bicycles with streamers were the way to go,
and sidewalk chalk was all you needed to build a city.
Imagination was the key.
It made the Ewok Treehouse big enough for you to be Luke
and the kitchen table and an old sheet dark enough to be a tent in the forest
You world was the backyard and it was all you needed.

WIth yout pink portable tape player, Debbie Gibson sang backup to you,
and everyone wanted a skirt like The Material Girl and a Glove like Michael Jackson's
Today, we are the ones who sing along with Bruce Springsteen and The Bangles perfectly,
and have no idea why.

We recite lines with the Ghostbusters and still look to the Goonies for a great adventure.
We flip through T.V. stations and stop at The A Team, and Knight Rider and Fame
and laugh with the Cosby Show and Family Ties and Punky Brewster
and "what you talkin bout Willis?"
We hold strong affections for The Muppets, and the Gummy Bears,
and why did they take The Smurfs off the air?

After School Specials were only about cigarettes and step-families,
The Pokka-Dot Door was nothing like Barney,
and aren't the Power Rangers just Voltron reincarnated?
We are the ones who still read Nancy Drew, and the Hardy BoysThe Bobbsey Twins,
Beverly Clearly and Judy Blume, Richard Scary and the Electric Company.

Friendship bracelets were ties you coudn't break, and friendship pins went on shoes,
preferably hightop Velcro Reebox - and peeged jeans were in,
as were Units Belts, and layered socks and jean jackets and jams
and charm necklaces and side ponytails and rat's tails.
Rave was a girl's best friend; braces with collored rubber made youcool.

The backdoor was always open and Mom servedonly red Kool-Aid to the neighborhood kids-
never drank new-Coke.
Entertainment was cheap and lasted for hours.
All you needed to be Princess was high-heels and an apron;
the Sit'n'Spin always made you dizzy, but never made you stop;
Pogoballs were dangerous weapons
and Chinese jump ropes never failed to trip someone.

In your Underoos you were Wonder Woman, or Spider Man or R2D2
and in your treehouse you were king.
In the eighties, nothing waswrong.

Did you know the president was Shot? Star Wars was not only a movie.
Did you ever play in a bomb shelter? Did you see the Challenger explode,
or feed the homeless man?
We forgot Vietnam and watched Tiananman Squair on CNN
and bought pieces of the Berlin Wall. AIDS was not the number one killer.

We didn't start the fire Billy Joel. In the eighties we redifined the dream, and those years defined us.
We are the generation in between strife and facing strife, and not turning our backs.
The eighties have made us idealistic,
But it's that idealism that will push us and be passed on to our children -
The first children of the twenty-first century.
Never forget: We are the children of the eighties.

I hope that I haven't just stollen anyone's intelectual property. Wow what an anti-eighties idea. If you know the author of this please let me know so that I may give her (I presume) credit.

Instantaneous Summer

There is a profound difference between a "surfer," and someone who can ride a wave.  I barely fit into the latter category.  Since I was a kid though I have always been fascinated by surfing.  Due, perhaps to my first experience with Rock and Roll, the Beach Boys.  I learned how once, on a family vacation as a freshman in high school, and surprisingly took to it pretty quick. Alas, the break here in Southern Arizona is usually less than adequate for surfing, thus I was given little opportunity to practice.  I did rent a board a few times over the years during trips to California.  

Last week we visited Oahu, and I, as a Walter-Middy surfer, would have been loathe to miss out on a chance to  surf the famous "North Shore."  Through a very Hawaiian style arrangement, I hooked up with Doug the surf instructor.  (Literally, OK yaa, drive up the coast about 4 miles, then when you pass the Chevron station, look for this van, it's got surfboards on it.)  I'll let his website describe his credentials. He was exactly what I needed as he catered the lesson to my specific desires. I highly recommend him to anyone going to Oahu.  Interested patrons can book via telephone and avoid the cultural experience I had.  Though truly I would not have wanted it any other way.

I followed him further North and East to a little used beach where he went over some basics with me before we paddled out.  The day was beautiful, just some high, wispy clouds.  The break was perfect (for me), at between three and six feet high.  There was one surfer in the water.  A leather skinned Hawaiian who looked to be around 50, but I wouldn't have been surprised by 40 or 60.  He had a long beard that turned from black to white.  Long hair that had been matted into strings by saltwater.  He wore no rash guard, and probably little sunscreen.  His board was so unremarkable that I can not even remember what color it was.  I wish I had a picture.  He was out surfing when we paddled out.  And he remained there when we left, exhausted after more than two hours.  Doug spoke with him and he invited us to surf with him, then offered a few tips on the tide, and the break.  I got up on my first wave (with a little help from my instructor), then struggled on a few before catching the hang of it once again.  Some of the waves were easy, walkers that did little more than catch the board and bring me about half the distance to the shore.  Others were high (maybe six feet), mighty rollers that broke more than once and tossed me around easily.  I had a blast.

Surfing for me is a kind of romantic fascination.  At its heart, I believe that surfing is just another pursuit of wilderness.  I am a square, I'll never be a surfer, it's just not in me.  But I am attracted to that Endless Summer lifestyle.  Roaming around, looking for adventure, that's what I really want, and I really believe I'll get it one day.  The Beach Boys are all dead.  They died when they recorded Kokomo.  The people who held them up as rebels and icons are now collecting their pensions, and strapping their grandkids into car seats in Volvos. Surfing is another extreme sport.  Capitalized upon the same as the NBA and the NFL.  But that old Hawaiian, out there on some unnamed beach.  He personified surfing.  He wasn't out there to conquer, or show off.  I am sure he could have handled much bigger waves, he was just there.  Surfing lives.

That old man helped me, a wobbly-footed square, catch wave-riders' Nirvana for just an instant.  We had been out for a while, and I was more than a little tired.  I had just paddled back out after a particularly dynamic wave outmatched me, tossed me off the board and shot saltwater up my nose with migraine inducing force.  The next wave was large and powerful, it gathered speed fast.  I was going to let it pass under me, and wait for a more tame wave.  But the wave caught me and took me with it.  I was either going to ride this one laying down, or try and get up.  I struggled, faltered, and rose.  I was up and doing all I could to remain so when I looked to my right and there he was.  A little closer than I was comfortable with surfed the old Hawaiian.  He perched on the wave like a statue, his hair flowed in the wind, and I swear I saw him grin.  We surfed in unison, the shore in front of me, the wave over my head behind me, and the zen-master on my right.  It only lasted a second or so.  The wave bucked and I was tossed into the drink.  He surfed on.  But for that instant, I was a surfer.

I don't know who the old Hawaiian was.  But he exists in my mind as the pope of surfing.  He is out there now, dancing on small waves and big, offering advice to the young bucks, sitting on his board watching the rain storm hit the mountains.  Surfing.

Why I didn't choose Usain Bolt for my team at recess.

I am just back from the track.  I was working on speed and endurance today.  My legs ache, my shins hurt and my knees are tender.  After my fourth set I wanted to quit, but I made myself stay, and do one more.  As many of you know, I have been training hard lately in order to become a better sprinter.  Thanks to these guys, a lot of hard work and a whole bunch of ice, I am getting there.  So I was particularly interested in the mens' 100 meter event at the Olympics.

On Saturday morning the world watched in amazement as Usain Bolt shattered the world record in the 100 meters with a blazing time of 9.69 at the Beijing Olympics.  (At least the part of the world not held captive by NBC, who had to wait up much past my bed-time).  He coasted the last 15 meters or so.  For everyone in the world, doing challenging things requires perseverance, determination, patience, bull head-ed-ness etc etc.  Now us normal people, the ones with goals like running 300 meters in 45 seconds, or a 21 minute 5K, becoming a 1 or 2 handicap golfer, shooting 50 percent from 3 point range, or batting .300, recognize that there are people in the world like Lebron James, Tiger Woods, Michael Phelps, and Usain Bolt.  I call them genetic lottery winners.  But Lebron, Tiger, and Michael are different from Usain:  Tiger is simply better than the rest of the PGA tour.  But he has never decided on the 14th hole, that since he was 6 or 7 strokes ahead of the field, he'd just goof off for the last four holes.  Likewise, while Lebron may dial down his intensity during a blowout, he would never mail in a performance just because he is the best player on the court.  Furthermore Phelps would not have been satisfied with 2 or 3 or even 7 gold medals, he knew he was competitive in 8 events, and he went out to win all eight.

Dick Marcinko, the fearless, leader of the hardest of the hardcore Navy SEAL Team 6 remarked in his book, Rogue Warrior that when choosing recruits for the most elite of the elite he never chose the guys who excelled in the Physical Fitness Test.  Instead, he chose the ones who barely passed.  Marcinko did not want the guy for whom everything was easy, he wanted the one who struggled and fought for everything he had.  This is a true, tested warrior.

In this country, no grade school athlete ever laces up a shoe without hearing about our great teacher John Wooden.  Wooden taught us that at the end of the day, it is not the scoreboard or the clock that defines success, but it is a simple question:  Did I do my best?  No body respects the athlete who, upon seeing that he is beaten, gives up.  Did Mr. Bolt behave differently?  Despite winning the event handily, and setting a world record, I cannot help but observe  that Usain Bolt failed to do his best.