Cypress

Can we call the James Beard Foundation? Seriously, I want them on line 1!

You all have read my blog, and know I come from a strange religion, wore glasses as a kid, and hated the south for the small towned mindedness it exerted on my freewheeling soul. My wife now talks of moving to North Carolina...yeah, we live in Annapolis, I know it's not technically the north, but I have reticent feelings on going back home...

"You a Yankee now? Think you're better than us?" (Say it in Southern...cringing)

The south = my worst nightmare...cold sweats, nightmares, banjo music....ughghghgh!

Then we went to our mountain house. "The Hillbillies" my Swedish Grandfather called them...."Mountain People"...back in the day, Cashiers, North Carolina was never the bustling center of culture. Even the surrounding areas, you couldn't hope for much. Now you can see where this blog is headed. And I am eight years too late, as that was when Cypress opened. Cypress gave me hope, quelled my night sweats, it is the Ambien with a Valium chaser to my horrific flashbacks of ridicule.

The shit has changed, and I was the one who was small minded. Cypress is the beacon of hope that has helped open my eyes to see I am now 32, not 5 years old with glasses and unable to keep Christmas and birthdays. As I have changed so has everything and like the mountain terrain, Cypress is perhaps that seed that somehow sprouts into a beautiful tree growing off the side of the cliff. "How did that grow"? Everyone says? It had no chance...we have all killed more plants in our back yard with the best fertilizer and soil...how the hell did that tree grow?

Chef Nicolas Figel had a dream just like everyone I guess. He consummated that dream in Highlands, North Carolina...about 30 minutes from our mountain house on Lake Glenville. Listen, before I start telling you about his hopes and dreams let me just say he cooked for us, and we sat at the chef's table of sorts...an open aired kitchen. Between artful dances with his staff and sous chef as he cooked, he talked with us, shared philosophy, and got jazzed that we took pictures like Japanese tourists. We didn't ask him soul searching questions like Matt Lauer and Larry King. But what he told us, he spoke with his food. We said, "We would be honored to have anything you would fix us, you have Carte Blanche to make us what you like."

He makes peasant food from around the world. That is what drives my wife and me. Comfort food...the chef's eyes lit up when I told him my last meal on earth would be my grandmother's pot roast or Swedish Meatballs. That is my blog. I don't have much more to add. Chef inspired me through his example of cooking for "Small Minded Mountain People"...he said, "Hell, I'm taking a chance, maybe just maybe this place will fly".

He opened in 2002, and he stayed open through the "Twitter" and "Facebook" era...wireless, direct tv, digital...you get the point. A pioneer, a hero who makes me feel about this big when I think about how small minded I have been about where I come from.

We walked into the restaurant and the ingredient du jour was featured. Fresh Tilefish...clear eyes, red gills, julienned green papaya (How the hell did they get that into Western Landlocked North Carolina?). The dishes were completely complex, something reminiscent of any great James Beard award winning restaurant we have ever been to. However, that seems like such a left handed compliment. This was different, original, clean tasting and a concept we have maybe thought of in dreams, but have never seen it carried out.

Okay Okay...here's the deal, this is what Meghan had, in pictographical order:

Malaysian Coconut Dumplings filled with Spiced Beef on Grilled Mango














Tilefish Over Lobster Salad with Green Papaya, and a Mint Cashew Sauce














On to my dishes: Spanish Tapas; Calabras Blue Cheese, House Made Spanish Flatbread, Roasted Roma Tomato, Olives, Serrano Ham














Korean Hot Pots....Tomato, Thai Basil, and Mint Broth, Beef Jerky set with Smoking Oak Chips, Jasmine Rice and Fried Shallots (Oh my god, mini Onion Rings!)






































Not Pictured because we ate it too fast:

Lavender Ice Cream, Shortbread Cookies, Drizzled with Honey

Mexican Chile Chocolate Cake with Chocolate Sauce...this is a horrible description to the beauty we ate, it's like saying, "Yeah, the Mona Lisa is a picture of this plain looking lady from a long time ago." The slow burn on the back side of the throat as we ate this cake was amazing...holy shit...I wanted to be on television...in my mind we were on television...the meaning of finding this gem and the epiphany it gave me was something that comes around a handful of times in someones life.

A peasant food menu? A skeptic would say, "That's too many dishes...it's like a restaurant with 50 menu items, but only 3 things are palatable".

I'm sure they are the same skeptics who thought things in the south would never change...

God Bless you Chef Figel for giving me an insight to a bigger world.

Foie Gras Dogs, courtesy of Maiale

All hail the Salumeria!

Years ago when learning about Mario Batali, and his voyage to Italy in order to learn and hone the Italian Craft, I learned about his parents. They have a Salumeria in Seattle, and people line up outside of the store daily. Mario's mother as well as other meaty crafters will slice treats for the patient patrons and bring "strip mall" Esq samples around the line that oft winds its way around the corner.

I have longed to go, I have urged and begged friends making the trip to please sample their weirs. No one has even taken the bait.

Then came Maiale (My-All-Ay).

Last summer, in Rehobeth, Meghan and I found Billy Rawstrom, proprietor of Maiale. He was searing some of his sausages on a portable burner at a local Farmer's Market. Tentatively I sampled his creations. My mood was kind of down...rainy colder day at the Beach, not really into shopping, and when I heard "Chicken, Spinach, Red Pepper, and Sharp Provolone Sausage", I was kind of bored. I have had that sausage before (never with sharp provolone). And to be honest, it had always given me the shits, and the taste was a salty muddled flavor, blah!

Not this time. Fresh, clean...that sharp Provolone just killed it, and in a good way. He also had a North African spiced Lamb Sausage...bingo bango as dad would say. I took his card, and serendipitously kept it. A few months later, after we consumed the meat, talked about how AWESOME IT WAS and how we wanted more, I cleaned out my wallet. And there was the card...it had an email address, it had a website.

50 dollars later we just received a HEAP of different sausages shipped on dry ice.

Today we climbed the mountain, today we had the "FOIE GRAS DOGS".

It's a rich smokey meat bomb that needs a little and sweet to counter the savoury. We paired these meat tubes of love with a local grilled baguette, slaw of homemade green cabbage and carrots (mixed with a little honey, olive oil, salt, and pepper), then we thinly sliced a Granny Smith Apple and sauteed it with sweet onion (seared in olive oil), just enough to caramelize the sugars.

Paired with a local deli Mac and Cheese, and more importantly with a Petit Manseng (Charlottesville, Va, Whitehall Vineyards) and Aprihop Ale from Dogfish Head Brewery (you could go with a good IPA and/or Reisling or Gewurztraminer)...

www.mailaecuredmeats.com

I have nothing left to say except I finished the meal and ran to blog, it was that good I had to share.

An Ode to Special Friends...

Beef, Bacon, Dirk, and Alaina...

Now that is a hot title for a porno. Alas, read the title of my blog...you have to know it refers only to the special meat associated with the two aforementioned friends...wait a minute...that too could insinuate porno, damnit!

Well, doulbe entendres be damned, Dirk, and Alaina broughteth the Berkshire Pig and the glorious bacon and ham it provideth, along with a tasty steer comprising 70/30 ground beef...and of course, with good friends, they brought so much more.

The story of Dirk and Alaina Barth in our lives started at our honeymoon in the Ambergris Caye in Belize. Coincidentally, we all were married on the same day (in different places), and they showed up to the resort twelve hours before we were hit with two major tropical storms. I remember meeting them in the bar/lobby of our resort...they were checking email and fretting about the upcoming weather...I said something like, "Email and Weather.com isn't gonna save you here, we're going to town to explore and shop for a suitcase (ours busted on the flight in), wanna come?"

The rest of the friendship was cemented via duck and dive eateries and bars, one shady cigar shop (Dirk and I both swear the cigars were laced with Cocaine, Alaina just thinks we're both pussies), an even shadier place to buy a suitcase, and home made trash bag ponchos. In such instances we shared stories about our love for travel, eating, drinking, and in general having a good time through thick and thin. As the storms grew closer, we did too (amazing what booze, food, and shady establishments do for friendship).

The randomness of meeting complete strangers on our honeymoon, and the unlikeliness of remaining close and perhaps growing closer perhaps mirrors every danged thing that happens to me...Generally unplanned and random, yet somehow great!

True story, every time we get together, bad weather ensues for about a day...hence our most recent visit.

Unbelievably, Dirk and Alaina agreed to drive out to our mountain house 5 hours in order to stay overnight and leave the next day(due to work constraints). Alaina is in her second trimester (most of my friend's wives would have nixed that trip due to hormones and the general distaste that their husband would booze it up with MattyJ and his dad while she painfully watched sober), so her okaying the trip was unprecedented. And of course, as they drove in, torrential downpours had ensued. We had planned to go boating, and or hiking. Yup...Belize part two, except we couldn't all booze it up with abandon with the baby on board. Alaina is special, I cannot emphasize that enough.



Instead, we went for a quick walk on the beach shielded with more than trash bags this time, though Dirk and I thought about fashioning out some old ponchos for posterity sake. Armed with random nostalgic stories and some good cigars, Dirk said, "Though it's shitty weather, I can see why this place is special". After about 45 minutes of soggy walking we headed home.

Prior to embarking on the soggy voyage of Gun Point (the coined name of the point our house is located on), we had planned an election of eatings. Dirk and Alaina had purchased a quarter of a steer and a quarter of a Berkshire Pig from the local 4-H in Ohio (where Alaina is from). It was like being on Iron Chef with the secret ingredient of "4-H MEAT"! Literally I was excited about planning this menu for about 2 weeks prior.

The Menu:

Fresh Guacamole, Red Pepper Cream Cheese Dip, Truffle Mousse Pate, Cheese, Homemade Cheese Dip, Fresh Roasted Peanuts, Homebrew (Dogfish 60-Minute IPA Clone, Sam Adams Cherry Wheat Clone)

Farm Burgers (Sweet Beautiful Beef, Alfalfa Sprouts, Herbed Goat Cheese, Toasted Onion Roll, Topped with a fresh Hen's Egg laid at my parent's friends house)...and the most beautiful thick cut Berkshire Bacon...some of the best I have consumed. It was like candy, sweet sweet candy.

Parmesan Truffle Fries

Swedish Sunday Cake (Much like Strawberry Short Cake with fresh Whipped Cream

And Snoots....and more beer....prior to his first snoot, Dirk said, "What's a snoot?"

Snoot: The coined phrase for a shot of liquor, and a requirement for all guests to partake in upon their arrival (excluding pregnant women and teetotalers).



After such a wonderful dinner we all engaged in some card games, watched dad go into an epileptic fit as UNC beat DOOK, and proceeded to imbibe more. The girls all went to bed and the guys had "Man Town Campout with Gas Passing Action" on various homemade cots, couches, and air mattresses. The testosterone was magical, there were no complaints about cigar breath, "drunk leg", or snoring. Even awaking at 6:30am due to my mother and father's incessant need to eat breakfast that early could not keep me down.

For breakfast...Russet Potato Truffle Hash, Pan Fried Berkshire Ham Steak, and Easy Over Eggs

Oh God...I pause, grasping for words. I could go on and on and on. I still have visions of taking that steak and sopping up the creamy yellow yolk.

As Dirk and Alaina packed up to go (leaving the bacon, what great friends, woulda snuck it out of their bag had they not), we got a call from our caretaker that the dirt road was washing out. Knowing the road and the detours, dad and I set out as escorts in his pickem' up truck(man town in full effect), steering our friends to safety!

Two hours later the downpour subsided and the sun came out.

Seriously?

Yet somehow, we keep and remain friends with these really special people. Good friends hardly come often, and we find ourselves more and more frustrated that as we grow older, it's harder and harder to find people willing to look outside of their own worlds to share a laugh, dinner, similar interest, crappy ass hike in the rain...or even their Berkshire Pig and Special Beef. Yet here they are, Dirk, Alaina, Beef, and Bacon...

Matty and Meghan...

Cheers!

The Mountain House...

I feel like such a turd every time I tell people, "We're going to our "Mountain House" this weekend, yeah, it's located in the Smokeys, it's our family's house." But that's what it is. My grandfather is a legend and when looking up the phrase "American Dream", his picture sits next to it.

Born in Tuberculosis Era Sweden, he lived through a lot of shit. His dad died of T.B, leaving his mom to raise he and his brother. 8th grade education, yadda yadda yadda, immigrated to Canada, then to Florida, eventually to North Carolina, he stepped into so much shit along the way and always smelled like a rose.

Thusly, this house is his legacy and testament to a lot of who he is and was. It's located on a lake, next to a couple of ponds, and I've been going there since I was four. Oh could I bore you with sentimental stories of learning how to fish, crashing my bike while humming the "A-Team" theme song while careening down a mountain road...

But what I find even more compelling is that I have gotten to be part of something so special all of my life. I get to sit there and pretentiously say things like, "Oh we'd so like to get to our mountain house more, but it's just such a far drive"...and inside I laugh about how absurd that sounds, and how I'm not meaning to be absurd at all. It's like a big guard saying, "There is something bigger to this, the smoke and mirrors of saying, "Mountain House" is just to distract you from the bigger picture of what this place is." It's the part of me that never grew up, or old, it just grew along with me. Everytime we go, I get giddy for all of the nothing we actually get to do. The smell of the woods floods my mind with magic nostalgia and all of the things in my mind's eye blurs with color and pleasure.

It's the shenanigans my dad and I have pulled, "Feats of Strength, Who can Knock Down the Dead Rotted Tree"..."My dad's black eye from drinking too much and hitting his eye on the deck railing" (how do you do that?)...my Grandfather giving me life lessons through our daily walks...taking my wife and sharing such a special place in my heart...it has been my Walden Pond...and as I pack our bags for our trip this weekend, the colors start to blur, and the smell of goodness starts to fill the air.

Food..

Terrible always comes in threes right?

And it's been a shitty year last year right?

First my father-in-law, next Meg's grandmother...

And then my cousin Kate. Lord, c'mon, I guess you can take the older ones, it stings like hell, but seriously? You gotta take the one who just graduated college?

Yeah, no rhyme, no reason. Slick icy road, spun out car, traumatic brain injury, close curtain. I briefly grieved, sobbing in my living room by myself. Thank god for our puppy who licked away my tears, thank god for our kitten who purred her little heart out to make it better. And I've remained stoic, and angry, yet accepting this is what happened. C'mon...seriously?

With heavy hearts and armed with a good cookbook (Molto Mario, James Beard Award winner...don't leave home without it), we headed to North Carolina to provide some reprieve. My Aunt Linda and Uncle Paul share the same birthday, and painfully, their birthday is about 2 weeks after their daughter died...ugh.

But you know how the Jacobs do...and since you read my blog, and if you wonder where I get my kindred spirit, look no further than my father, and his brother Paul. When in need, drink...celebrate...lottery, funeral, birth? Drink more! Their birthday was coming up? Well...let's....

So we cooked from the soul...an old Italian standard one pot meal...Chicken alla Vin Cotto (Chicken in cooked red wine), Cheese Bomb Polenta, Arugula Salad with Fried Goat Cheese Balls (thank you Carla Hall), and a yummy orange/Grand Marnier vinaigrette, and Orange and Olive Oil Cake with a Grand Marnier reduction.

My favorite part of the meal was the hand holding prayer before we broke bread. My Uncle Paul always did that before good meals. He is such a GREAT cook...he always says the BEST prayers hinging on sincerity mixed with some great theatre...his wife Linda is a great artist and potter and has made us some of the nicest pieces for our wedding and for Christmas...and their daughter Kate could bake...man could she bake some good stuff. I shared that Meghan and I channeled Kate, putting all the love we could into their early birthday meal.

Grief really has no bounds, and I'm not sure how to grieve especially at this tragedy. And I guess sometimes grieving doesn't deserve tears. A thoughtful meal, a holding hand, or a listen to someones prayer. In our case, on that very day, we laughed, ate, drank, and came together to celebrate what we had.

A Weekend of Luck...

Life gives the ebb and flow of tragedy, triumph, good luck, bad luck...

Last year, ebb...no flow...bad luck...not good luck. Anytime someone goes to the hospital in my family I casually say, "Okay, looks like another funeral to attend eh?" Call me a morose motherfucker. But that's how I see it...if it's your time, you're generally not ready. We don't make plans to die or check out, or get sick for that matter. Henceforth, you see why I enjoyed New Orleans so (err, too) much.

But don't forget that tragedy is part of life's great adventure, the great story we all get to live in triumph as it all passes us. There is plenty of SUCK in life, but goddammit there is plenty of good stuff too.

Enter our most recent weekend.

Set the scene...two days off...gala to attend...some errands to run...so here we go.

Saturday was like the epic deal day. Seriously, there are some days when you go to the store and they bend you over without any lube. You know you're getting soaked, and you just take it. But there are days like Saturday...

On our way to pick up our new Breville Elite Juicer, we take our Cuisinart Wine fridge hoping for a return. We received the wine fridge for our wedding, 11 bottle capacity. Within a year, it burned out, got replaced for free and upgraded to a 12 bottle fridge. Burned out as well...sat in the basement for 6 months and pretty much exceeded the warranty send back rule.

Two words....CRATE AND BARREL...okay, three. Register here for gifts...they took our crapped out wine cellar, and upgraded us to a 16 bottle fridge..no cost...SCORE! Fuck Macy's is all I have to say...worst and dumbest employees we have ever dealt with...they put the IN in INCOMPETENT. Move on from the wrath...walk slowly, deep breaths...ok.

Breville Juicer, check, fruit, veggies...check, new wine fridge, check...tux pants altered and some new AWESOME fox head gold studs with ruby eyes for my tux shirt...check (Thank you Mary Ellen for such a BEAUTIFUL gift for my birthday, they were her husband Mike's...so it's an honor).

Top that off with a new find called "Punk's Backyard Grill" for lunch, and we were rockin. By the way, Punk's Backyard Grill serves all the local fresh stuff and made to order with a sick selection of microbrews. Hell, they even have beer tasting/pairing classes. The owner makes his own brew, so there is your seal of approval!

Got home, unpacked all the new goodies, went for a 4 mile trail run with the dog and got ready for our gala. The gala was absolutely spectacular and an honor to attend. Our bosses were really nice to invite my wife and allow her husband (me) out in public...I even got to change underwear, shampoo, and shower...epic. Phenomenal party band playing anything from Michael Jackson (the black years) to Black Eyed Peas. So you're reading this and saying, "sure you had a great day, things went your way, good for you".

You're damn right good for us because here is the kicker..."Mr. Buzz" started kicking in, and they made the announcement that the silent auction was closing in 10 minutes. Like any good husband I requested the ability to scout a few of the items to see how much damage they could do.

And I found the 5-night, 6-day trip to Chile...the Andes mountains, to a posh little ski resort valued WAY MORE than it had been bid on. One flick of the wrist and bid number was chicken scratched as the highest bidder. With minutes to go, the CMO of the hospital outbid us and I said to Meg, "No way we can win now"...at that moment he looked back and said, "Oh my god...you guys are bidding on this? Oh, I'm so sorry, go ahead, we've been, it's lovely, you all take it"...

When the dust settled our little bid number stood alone, and we were high fiving each other at the randomness of winning a trip to Chile...such luck...such fortune.

Our night and entire weekend has become known as "The Deal Weekend"...just when you think there is no customer service left, or kindness, or cooler side of the pillow, your faith gets renewed. The little things, so lovely, so great. And by the way, did you see how great my wife looked in that dress?

NOLA, The Yin To My Yang

In fantasies I pretend I'm Tony Bourdain. I drink, I swear, I pillage monstrous amounts of bad for you food thinking, "Yeah, I'm pretty invincible, look at Tony, he used to be on heroin, and look at him now!"

And then my belly kicks in (saying eff you sick pack abs), and the fact that I'm not 20 anymore, and I think about having kids, and the fact that I'm married and responsible, and that the world is about more than just me. Drunken swashbuckling and swearing can't be an everyday occurrence...hedonism has its bounds...and for me, the bounds stop at a creeping 36 inch waist and a wife who really adores the time we spend and remember together...something I always cherish and adore.

Enter New Orleans...

Fucking laid back, people who aren't plussed when you tell them how great their food is (cause it's kinda like rockin a hot wife on your side, you know you got it). There is sunshine there, it's half damn tropical as you're blowing down St. Charles on the streetcar packed like a sardine with a goofy smile on your face in the middle of February.

Bloody Mary at 11am in the French Market (oldest open aired market in the U.S.) after you nursed your wicked hangover with a freezy drink and some street jazz? Why the hell not? The fact that I was half buzzed cruising through this market with my wife and a fistful of cash and some raucous street food (battered and fried corn anyone? Crawfish pie?)....don't mind if I do. Commenting to my mother-in-law, "It's 1pm, I'm half drunk and buying shit, life is good", cannot be wrong...all with a goofy ethereal grin.

Our trip to New Orleans was planned as the epicurean adventure for my wife's belated unmentionable 30th birthday. The icing on the cake is that we have a friend who is from New Orleans, and her folks happen to have a spare condo in the Garden District that is open to anyone who wants to visit. Literally, they met us at the door, showed us around, gave us the keys, and left. When I told my friend we were once offerred a place in NOLA but we had to pay, she said, "Obviously they aren't really from down here".



And that is New Orleans. You read about the pride, the stubbornness to stay through Katrina, it's easy to condemn and make your ivory towers judgements. But it's so much more than a post hurricane ravaged Sodom and Gomorrah. It's a place that says, "Yeah, we may eat and drink too much, but fuck it, we will die anyway, get me another drink". It's a town of kindred spirits and a reason I felt so at home. Let your freak flag fly, wave it proud, but be kind, be good to each other.

In a world with so much repression, so much show and tell with no substance, New Orleans embraces the bad and the good and lets things be what they are. So apt to judge the pleasure we find in social interactions beaten into us by the puritanical principles of old. "Needing Jesus, or religion, or solace from the sin"...when merely all we needed was solace.

In food, drink, and extremely good company we found our solace. This month however, I found the gym, and the diet....

Oh New Orleans, how I love you...if booze and food had no calories, now that would be something.



I so hated wearing this fucking glittery crown...