Golden Apple

Paris gave the golden apple lovliest-goddess-prize to Aphrodite. Why? So he could marry the most beautiful woman in the world. Thus began the heartache of the Trojan war. *sighs deeply* I never understood it. I never understood the big deal of the golden apple until I experienced Pomme d'Or in Grand Pre, Nova Scotia.

We visited the gorgeous Grand Pre National Park which features a museum with mini-videos of various aspects of Acadian life: one of costumed people reaping hay with scythes and building a hay rack; one of women spinning; one of men weaving green branching through saplings to form a fishing weir. In that video, the Bay of Fundy tide floods and recedes (off camera), and you see the people return to the weir to pluck the fish, waist-high, from the woven pockets. We saw the commemorative church that has a series of murals (picture below) telling the story of the Acadian diaspora and where a cat named Evangeline comes in every morning to rest on a blue pillow.

                                                    Men are being forced on a boat while the
                                                    women and girls (and cat) are left behind.

Outside the church, a path leads you to a reconstruction of an Acadian house, its back windows opening down slope across the salt marshes to the bay. Out front door is a thriving kitchen garden and an apple orchard. It was a drizzly morning, no one was near-by. I know because I glanced around before plucking the low-hanging fruit, a small red apple. I have never tasted such an apple, sweet and tart at once, its sugar calling me back for one more bite.

The Acadians were French settlers, so naturally they brought grape vines with them. The vineyard of Grand Pre takes advantage of all the conditions that allow grapes, apples, all crops to flourish.

Close your eyes.  Picture the color gold, real gold. Now infuse it with sunshine, and, at the edges watch the gold fade to pure light. Pour it in a pretty wine glass. (If you really closed your eyes, you can open them now.  Hey! OPEN THEM!)

Put your nose in the glass and inhale just the faintest smell of crisp apples, sweet and tart at the same time.

Sip. You’re tasting sweet apples and tart, with an alcohol conveyance, sliding over your tongue to the back of your mouth and down with just a hint of sugar calling you back. That is Grand Pre’s golden dessert wine, Pomme d’Or, the Golden Apple.

Turns out there’s an old law. Don’t you hate those old laws? Canada passed this law in an agreement with the US to protect Americans from the sins of liquor during Prohibition. Now you can’t get a couple of bottles of Pomme d’Or (calling you back, calling you back) shipped to the States. What’s that, you say? Prohibition was done away with almost 100 years ago? And you think a government might have changed the law? *sigh*

On our last night in Nova Scotia, we ate a delectable dinner at Chives in Halifax. I concluded my meal not with chocolate cake, not with pie, but with a glass of Pomme d”Or. It was a perfect dessert all by itself (although it paired deliciously with a bite of Steve’s coffee ice cream with caramel sauce), and I’LL NEVER GET TO TASTE IT AGAIN! Is this the definition of pleasure and pain?

                                                   Evangeline on her pillow in the church.
                                              This is how I feel after a glass of Pomme d'Or.

                                            (My sister took this picture.  :)  )
(This will be my last post about Nova Scotia, cheer or sigh, depending on your reaction to that. Next post will be about Squirrel Splat - and that’s not a pot pie.)

Eating in Paradise

I never knew much about Acadia, Nova Scotia, no more than that Longfellow's mawkishly sentimental poem Evangeline was set there because it says so right in the poem.  And, to be honest, I never really read much of the poem.  While we were driving the Cabot Trail, I downloaded it (oh, I LOVE my Kindle) and figured I'd have it read by the time we got to Grand Pre where the Canadian National Park commemorates the forced evacuation of the Acadians.  (Lousiana - Acadians - cajins:  oh, I learned so much on this trip! But I'm not spoon-feeding you; go look it up yourself.) Who  isn't familiar with Evangeline’s opening lines:

     This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in
     garments green, indistinct in the twilight. . . .
Sounds familiar now, doesn't it?

     Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table, Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tandark with
     home-brewed Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of Grand-Pre. . . .
There are orchards and corn fields, flax grows and fish are plucked, chest high, from the fishing weir.
It all gains flavor (heh, heh) when you're reading it while breakfasting on Strawberry Croissant French toast at the English Garden B&B in Indian Brook.

When he sees her, Evangeline's true love Gabriel, "knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of iron." My heart beat pretty loudly at a little restaurant outside Halifax where I ate seafood chowder in a broth so clear that you can't imagine how it holds all the flavor.

In Acadia (originally a translation of Arcadia, meaning paradise),
     Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and sunshine, Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and
     purple amorphas. Over them wandered the buffalo herds, and the elk and the roebuck; Over them
    wandered the wolves, and herds of riderless horses. . . .

It must have been a magnificent countryside indeed that can still produce the dinner I had at the Blomidon Inn In Wolfeville:
     Lobster chowder with the meat of two lobster claws floating in cream.
     Halibut caught five minutes before being poached in lobster broth with more lumps of lobster dotting its
     skin.
     A waffle with a large (FINALLY, someone realizes the inportance of a serving of ice cream sizeable
     enough to have some with every bite of its accompanyment), drizzled with raspberry sauce and smeared
     with chocolate ganache.

I can shed a tear when I read,
     Still stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow, Side by side, in their nameless graves, the
     lovers are sleeping.

     List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest; List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of
     the happy.
Mournful and happy.  *sigh*  I'll no longer be eating
sweet beet risoto (Restaurant Le Caveau at the Grand Pre wintery)
or
seafood fritters, crisp on the outside and meltingly delicious on the inside (same place)
or
lobster salad that must have contained an entire lobster on a fresh roll (Grand Banker in Lunenburg).

No more scallops sauted to a caramelized crunch (Anapolis Royal, little German restaurant, not the one by the amazing Historic Gardens, but the one waaay down the street).  Won't be able to sneak a sweet (oh, so sweet) apple off the tree at the National Park in Grand Pre. 
Who loves Acadia now, eh?

My Summer Vacation or How I Ate My Way Up the California Coast

It asll began in Las Vegas. We flew out to attend the wedding our our own best man from 41 years ago. Our friend Karen offered to put us up. Karen not only gave us shelter, she loaned us her car. She not only loaned us her car, she fed us. There was breakfast every morning. She made English Toffee to take to our son (most of it made it); she made us a lemon meringue pie. On our last evening, she prepared an amazing crab-stuffed white fish smothered in a white-cheese sauce. It was matched with homemade French bread and garlic asparagus. Because somehow, magically, the pie had already disappeared, she whipped up a cheese cake served with ripe raspberries.
The next day saw us driving from the San Francisco Airport towards Monterey. Midway and hungry for lunch, we pulled off the highway. There we were facing a Subway. No, I don’t think so. Then we saw Lieu’s, a little, independently-owned Chinese place. We know you’re in a good ethnic restaurant when we have the only white faces in the place. Inside were round tables where families wer enjoying a succession of beautifully presented dishes. It was all I could do not to spear samples as the waiters passed by. The owner explained that they were serving their Father’s Day meal. Steve decided on prawns with peppers, and I enjoyed simple chicken with vegetables. This place served notable food but was, in my mind, more noted for the attention of the owner and the congeniality of the other patrons who told us it was the best Chinese restaurant within 100 miles. We rolled out of there and continued down the coast.

Steve’s sister, Judi, is a world class Italian cook. World Class. Also, she likes to cook large breakfasts for people. While I was able to restrain myself at breakfast time, I totally broke down at a dinner party where she served salad, pasta with marinara sauce, chicken cacciatore and an unbelievable scrumptious eggplant casserole involving ricotta cheese and half and half. (She rationalized to me that it was okay because she used non-fat half and half.) (recipe from The Barefoot Countessa) She wouldn’t be caught dead having a dinner party without dessert, so she put out two, yes, two kinds of chocolate cake as well as Oliallieberry Pie, a local delicacy using a blackberry-like fruit. (You were jealous at two chocolate cakes, and now you can hardly stand it, can you?) After a couple of dinners out and a final morning involving steak and eggs, we waddled to our car and headed up to Davis.

We began to starve to death around noontime and veered off one of the Pleasanton exits. I was looking forward to a salad, but all we found was Jim’s Country Café. Who knew we’d get amazing hamburgers and more amazing French fires? I know I should be embarrassed to mention that I almost finished the French fries, but I’m not editorializing here; I’m just reporting.

ur son and daughter-in-law live in Davis. We were only spending one night there before going to Sonoma for the weekend, so we went to my favorite little café. I can happily report that there I got salad at last, a beet, goat cheese and butter leaf lettuce salad. Man, it made me feel like I could almost fit into my clothes again.

Saturday morning, the four of us drove to Bodega Beach. We stopped at a little fish place, and what do you order at a fish place? David and I split our orders of fish and chips, and prawns and chips. Yes, it was fried, and at this point, I’m saying it with my chin (and my belly) jutting forward.
We stopped to look at the ocean, drove to the redwood forest and took a walk, flooded with the aroma and with the trunks spiring up like giant stalks. That worked off at least 100 calories, right? It’s good thing because when we arrived at the B&B, the hostess served us tea and homemade scones with clotted cream and homemade strawberry jam. That evening she recommended a restaurant within the grocery store Fresh. All I could put into my tummy was a basil-chicken salad with pine nuts accompanied by a glass of un-oaked chardonnay. Pretty darned tasty and not too filling, leaving room for the homemade shortbread left on the B&B's sideboard.

Saturday morning was wine exploration time. Lunch in the park at Healdsberg consisted of left-overs from the Fresh plus a piece of asparagus quiche, a slice of bacon, bakery bread and a cinnamon cake in the baggie the hostess gave us at breakfast. Sadly, the morning’s yogurt, honey and granola torte wouldn’t go into the take-away bag. It was amazing, and you can find that and other of Jackie’s recipes at www.melittastationinn.com . Jackie trained as a chef, and the price of the B&B was more than worth her kitchen miracles.

A couple of more wineries led us to Somoma’s city square. We’d made dinner reservations at Le Solette, aa Portuguese restaurant. I’d never had Portuguese food before, and I may never have Portuguese food that matches this. David and Dana had the Portuguese caldera, a fish stew very like paella with large prawns, clams and mussels. Steve had the evening’s special, a Mediterranean sea bass with olives and potatoes. I had the most delicious baked sea bass served over kale and sweet corn. OMG, that’s all I have to say about that.

A final breakfast of oranges in caramel sauce (ooooh, so much better than it sounds), an egg casserole made with cake crumbs served with poached, organic pears and zucchini bread. I pondered the reality of returning home to breakfasts of plain yogurt and a banana.

After breakfast, we drove back to Davis and the following morning packed up our 3 pounds of Las Vegas, Ethel M chocolates and flew home.

Oh, gods, I love vacation.