Hedonia

Pompelmocello

Photo courtesy Anita.

If there's one thing I adore about the foodieblogosphere, it's how inspiration spreads like ooey gooey jam over the peanut butter-covered surface of the web. Stephanie drew sufficient inspiration from my previous posts on making limoncello to pursue a batch or ten of her own. When I saw Stephanie after her first foray into 'cellifying, she spoke of doing a grapefruitcello, and thus the inspiration came full circle.

Many of you may already be aware of my almost pathological aversion to orange, but I really adore grapefruit -- all varieties, from the face-twistingly sour to pleasantly sweet-tart. I love the complex bitter-sour-sweetness of its flesh.

Straight away I made my way to the farmer's market the following Saturday and found a booth bursting with glorious globes of various shapes and sizes. "So," I asked both naïvely and curiously, "which grapefruit has the best flavor in the zest?" They were stumped. So I grabbed an Oro Blanco and a couple pink-fleshed puppies and lugged them home.

Now, in my past few rounds of playing the 'cello, I've learned a thing or three. First, as stated before, Everclear (the 151-proof stuff; we can't buy the rocket-fuel 190 proof in California) is the way to go. Second, I like my 'cellos a hair on the bitter side, not so cloyingly sweet, so I use a grater rather than a Microplane to extract a little pith along with my zest. And lastly, I dial down the sweetness even a touch more by making a simple syrup with a 4:5 ratio of sugar to water, rather than a standard 1:1.

The Pompelmocello, as I dubbed it (pompelmo being Italian for grapefruit), was a success. Surprisingly flavorful, it started off with a bright, orangey note, after which a pronounced grapefruit flavor came to rise, tailing off with a pleasantly lemony finish -- the full spectrum of citrusy goodness. It was sweet without being too sweet, with an intruiging bitterness that tickled the sides of the tongue.

The 'cello plays on -- I currently have a massive batch (as in, almost five liters!) of limoncello going, a cuvee if you will of Lisbon lemons from Hillsborough and meyers from Potrero Hill. My standby recipe follows after the jump. Cin cin!

Math is hard

A couple decades ago, Mattel had the misguided vision to release a talking Barbie doll, one of whose onion-skin-witty quips has apocryphally been forever captured as "Math is hard. Let's go shopping!" This Barbie and I, we're, like, BFFs .

I decided to make another batch of Limoncello di Hillsborough, blessed as I was with another bag full of luscious yellow bounty from our friends' house. This time, I followed my own advice, and made a few modifications to the original attempt: I used thicker slabs of lemon rind with just a little pith attached, to lend a slightly bitter edge, and I used Everclear instead of regular 80-proof vodka, for a much-needed boost in alcohol content to keep it from freezing.

I was going for a double batch this time, and set the peels to infuse in two 750-ml bottles' worth of high-octane hootch for a couple weeks. After straining off the solids, I set to making my simple syrup. Referring back to my original recipe, I doubled the quantities of water and sugar, totalling 10 c. and 8 c. respectively. As I dumped them into a saucepan to dissolve, I thought, gee, that seems like an awful lot.

Looking back over the recipes I used as reference points for my own version, I realized that the proportion of 4 c. sugar to 5 c. water was meant for a double-batch, and that I had in fact halved that for my single bottle last time.

Oops.

OK, no harm, no foul. I simply used half of what now turned into three liters of sticky-sweet stuff. Now I had three liters of limoncello and 1.5 liters simple syrup. Did someone say cocktails?

Yes, friends, I can think of worse problems to have than finding yourself with a surplus of simple syrup in the fridge. And so don't be too terribly surprised to find the occasional cocktail recipe pop up on these pages over the summer.

Math is hard. Let's have a drink.

Oh, and the limoncello? It's, like, totally awesome.

Taste-off: Carneros rosés

Ah, summer. Long, lazy days basking in the sun ... oh, who am I kidding. At best it gets to 70ºF here. But there's one summer treat I do like to indulge in regardless: Pink wines.

Now, I'm not talking about your sticky-sweet White Zinfandel [shudder], though some would argue that a glass of that, over ice on a blazing hot day is not unwelcome. But again, see above about the weather.

No, rather, I am referring to the pretty, pert and sometimes petulant rosé wines so popular in Europe yet all too often overlooked stateside. The French and Spanish are particularly fond of these wines, especially as a complement to summer lunches. I remember steaming-hot days in Barcelona, sipping rosato wines, almost unbelievably dry and crisp and redolent of ripe strawberries and pears.

Clearly, I'm not the only one with an appreciation for these lovelies. Paul at Champion Wine speaks directly from my own heart:

"...The word hedonist is often used to describe red wines that taste more like pancake syrup than wine. In my world, rosé is the definition of hedonistic – crisp, refreshing, light and lively. The kind of wine that sings – an echo of the setting sun, an instant reminder of warm weather and days outdoors...."

Did someone say hedonistic?

And so, after a recent trip up to wineries up in Carneros, we came back with a carful of gem-like pink bottles, just dying to be sipped. But though Paul states that pink wines are meant to be enjoyed and not analyzed, I couldn't resist staging a little taste-off with a few good friends.

Carneros, for those not local, is the region spanning the southern reaches of both Sonoma and Napa counties, hugging the northern boundary of San Francisco Bay. Because of its proximity to the water, it enjoys a cooler, foggier climate, and so is ideal for grapes that require less intense conditions. Chardonnay and Pinot Noir are the primary crops here.

A word about the tasters:

Donna and Dennis have a penchant for northern Italian wines, particularly those of the Piemonte region, having spent a fair amount of time in that area. Jim would step over his own grandmother for a good Barolo. Matthew isn't partial to any one region of varietal, though I would venture to say his is the most sensitive schnozz among us. DPaul, historically, had a thing for big zins, but lately has turned to lighter wines. And me, I've long been a pinot-holic (well before that movie), and have only in the last few years introduced whites, much less pinks, into my repertory.

I would categorize us all squarely in the camp of wine consumers rather than wine afficionados. Still, we know what we like. And so, armed with three chilled bottles, some crudely scribbled-upon paper bags and a scoring sheet lifted from a website, I coerced my friends into some comparative analysis of three rosés, all produced within a few miles of each other.

Limoncello di Hillsborough

While the state of California was in the grip of the worst freeze in recent history, and citrus producers up and down the valley were suffering catastrophic losses, I enjoyed a bumper crop. Our friends Donna and Dennis had recently moved into a gorgeous house in Hillsborough, complete with a petite but prolific lemon tree in the back yard. One night, they brought us a paper shopping bag full of them.

Some were ready for use right away; others were still on the hard side and would benefit from a little quiet time in the corner, extending our enjoyment. Over the next couple of months, I made spaghetti al limone, chicken with fennel and lemon, a monster batch of preserved lemons and lord only knows how many vodka tonics. And we still had a mountain of the things left over.

I practically had to make limoncello.

I've been meaning to do so for quite some time. I've often been inspired to do so by my good friend Anita, a fine 'cellist in her own right. She's made not only limoncello but a seriously heady bergamocello, an ethereally perfumed Buddhacello (from a Buddha's hand citron) and a difficult-to-name bloodorangecello, as well as any number of other interesting concoctions (such as a seriously complex nocino that I am still enjoying precious sips of, sparingly, two years later).

At its most basic definition, limoncello is simply the combination of a lemon-infused neutral liquor mixed with simple syrup. It's less a recipe than a technique or, as I often think of such things, an equation. Algebra.

L=(((((v*p)+z)*t)-z)+(s+w))*t

To wit: Limoncello is the product of lemon zest and vodka of a given proof, left together for a quantity of time, after which you strain out the zest; to which you then add a simple syrup of sugar and water and let it rest again for a period of time to mellow and blend. How much of each of those variables is what drives your final product.

Le beaujolais nouveau est arrivé

As you almost certainly know (especially if you read my post of the same title as this on ThisNext), yesterday marked the arrival of beaujolais nouveau worldwide.

Beaujolais nouveau is not something I get terribly excited about. I have always found it to be cloyingly grapey, overly fruity and with some bizarre notes in the bouquet, like overripe bananas or bubble gum. (I can't tell you how many times I've seen "Jolly Ranchers" included as a descriptor for the flavor.) I don't really consider myself a true wine snob (trust me, I'll drink almost anything), but I have some limits.

Still, beaujolais nouveau is tradition, and I do sort of get caught up in the frenzy and festivity of the whole affair. I also figured that there had to be no small amount of diversity between producers. So off to Plumpjack I went.

Predictably, they had the vins nouveaux, three of them, positioned at the endcap to greet you as you enter the store. I chatted with one of the fellas there about it. He steered me to the Georges Duboeuf as the fruitiest of the bunch. Duboeuf is the biggest producer and the only one I've ever had, so I wanted to try something a little different. Of the other two, one had more earthy notes, and another was most like a pinot noir in profile. As the notion of earthiness on a young and fruity wine kind of scared me, the latter is the one I tried: Domaine Ruet.

The good news: No banana/bubble gum/Jolly Rancher flavors here. In fact, had I not known it was a beaujolais nouveau, I might in fact have thought it to be a pinot noir, albeit not a very good one. It even had a bit of tannic structure, which is completely unusual. But, it lacked more than just fruit forwardness. It lacked a little bit of everything. The nose was simple, grapey and a little plummy; on the palate it was just ... wine. It wasn't exactly bad, but it had little to recommend it other than its complete and utter innocuousness. It did pair well enough with delivery pizza, though. Oh, and the best part? Screw top, baby.

Drink me: Plumpjack 13-year bourbon

It's easy to forget, when you're firmly esconced in your own happy bubble of culinary joy, that mediocrity fills the world like so much styrofoam popcorn. The one surefire way to burst that bubble is air travel. For when you are on the plane, the universe of diverse and wonderful consumables is suddenly and horribly narrowed to a meager selection of subpar goods supply of which, in Soviet-era style, is prone to running out even before demand has been given the opportunity to arise.

Coming home from New York, wedged in a middle seat, I sought succor in the form of Jack Daniels to numb the psychic pain of the trip and help make the time pass faster. (This is another thing about air travel -- the eerie extension of time, as if the fuselage of the plane is some kind of time machine with the preternatural power to turn hours into days. Small wonder I always feel years older when I deplane.)

Now, DPaul and I like us the bourbon. A lot. Having been to Kentucky something like 500 times, we have had the occasion to visit a few of the distilleries, like Maker's Mark and Labrot & Graham (producer of Woodford Reserve). Many distilleries are in idyllic spots* full of natural beauty (fresh mountain stream water is, you see, a critical ingredient), peppered with quaint and country-fied cottages and cabins. Yes, it's all very Disney, but they do cultivate a marvelous image of old-fashioned booze-making.

(Photo: DPaul Brown)

Drink me: Gerolsteiner Sprudel

I'm crazy for this stuff.

I of course picked up the sparkling mineral water habit in, where else, Italy. The Italians take their water very seriously indeed. No doubt this has roots going back to ancient times, as the Romans obviously went to great lengths to transport water into their urban centers, building elaborate and very sophisticated aqueducts to transport the stuff from way up in the mountains. (Of course, these same aqueducts were ultimately the downfall of ancient Rome, but that's another matter altogether.) Water to them is more than a mere beverage; it's a birthright.

I loved seeing the Italians go to their local spring source with empty bottles, filling up and taking it home. Depending on your tastes -- sparkling or no, more or less mineral flavored -- there are different springs to go to. In America we seldom go further than the tap or the fridge. In Italy it's not uncommon to go for many miles out of town if you have a particular liking. Of course, many people also simply buy it bottled at the local store, avoiding the rigamarole.

Curiously, my cousins buy sparkling water, yet they leave it uncapped in the fridge, where it goes flat. I never asked why, but I surmise they must like the more mineral flavor of the sparkling water, but not really care for the actual bubbles so much.

I, on the other hand, have always had a strong penchant for bubbly things. I like my water sparkling, with delicate, steady effervescent, and with a pronounced mineral flavor. And Gerolsteiner fits the bill perfectly. Of course, I also like Pellegrino, Acqua Panna and other Italian varieties, but this stuff really works for me on all levels. Best of all, I can buy it by the case for chump change at Trader Joe's.