Nova Clutch

Hudson Baby Bourbon Whiskey

It's a funny thing about babies. Many people have them, and to most they really are the miracle of life. They embody purity, unsullied perfection personified.

I don't have any babies, but thankfully this summer I was able to make some friends the proud owners of some Hudson Baby Bourbon from Tuthill Town. Charlie and Elly just bought their first home near Portobello in London as did Alex (right near Lancaster Gate) and to make their new homes warmer, they needed a new addition.

Hudson Baby Bourbon is made from 100% fermented corn from New York State. It's the first bourbon made in New York (most bourbons are made in Kentucky, but not all) and is made in small batches and numbered by hand. It truly is a baby – I actually gasped at how small the bottle was when I got my delivery of it – but don't let its size put you off its potency. My brother Ryan (who was very upset I didn't bring him one) got me into bourbons, namely a little Booker's, Blanton's or perhaps Basil Hayden's. Don't ask me why they all have "B" names. And although I don't mind a little bourbon and dry or maybe even a sour (I hope Ryan isn't reading this, he'd be so ashamed) I really go for it neat (phew, I think I redeemed myself). Even the hallowed Blantons doesn't work as well neat as the Baby. Huge on the nose, slightly alcholic but very caramel, the taste is smooth and has a strong maple flavor without too much sweetness. It shouldn't be couched with water or ice, this baby should be drunk neat, patted on the back and put to bed late at night.

Ryan, get out of rainy Scotland and get over to New York, and I'll get you a baby.

An onion goes in DUMBO

Although I am not one to promote the wanton defacing of other people's property, I am certainly less willing to draw a line in the sand and create an absolute definition of what we as community should consider art. Or for that matter, where our community's art should be placed. After all, each day we are faced with much more unsettling visual clutter on our urban landscape in the form of advertising and marketing campaigns designed to drive our consumerlicious society.

OK, let me get off my high horse for a moment and walk you up to what my actual point. The point is, there are very few times in the day when I see something that makes me stop, smile or feel connected. But it happened to me yesterday while walking down Water Street (at Pearl Street) here in DUMBO when I came across a stencil of an onion on a grey door and surrounded by various tags and marks. In all cases the names of the artists was a mystery, even with the guidance of Peter Sutherland and Revs' imprint of Autograf: York Citys Graffiti Writers (Powerhouse Books), I was helpless. I suppose I am a lot less street than I tell Natasha. But, back to the point.

Was the onion art? Were the tags art? Should I know? Should I care? What I do know is that I stopped to look, frame a photo and even notice the detail of each careful cut of artists blade into the stencil. The over spray, and the under spray that gave this flat piece dimension. Overall the onion was an interesting piece, skillfully drawn and composed, but certainly a lesser piece with out the brush strokes of the hastily painted door and the poetic stylization and drips of the tags behind it.

Brilliant art or rubbish, I didn't care, it moved me, as I believe it has moved the person who today was edging ever closer to the door with a roller loaded with beige paint. You better move fast before there is no longer a point to this entry.

A Sunday breakfast for one

As Natasha would be quick to tell you, I am not the food shopper in the family. Don't get me wrong, I love grocery stores, specialty shops, farmer's markets and those unattended roadside stands where you are trusted to drop your money in a can in exchange for just picked fruits and vegetables. However, I don't do the purchasing at places like our local gourmet hot spot Foragers, nor do I take the F train to Whole Paycheck Foods in Manhattan or the Water Taxi to the Red Hook Fairway. It has even been said I don't know how to place an order on Fresh Direct (I do, but that is just between you and me). In fact, I seldom get my butt over to DUMBO's version of the local deli, Bridge Fresh, to pick up the occasional avocado, arugula or carton of milk.

So, with Natasha on the last day of her two week blitz through England and France, and no real shopping since her departure, I was forced to do what I do best. I began to raid the cupboards, pantry, refrigerator and garden to flush out hidden or forgotten ingredients to create a meal to overcome a situation that Natasha would claim dire. After all, it is not about survival, it's about satisfying my hunger, taste buds and ego.

However, before I move on, I must confess this task was made easier through my biannual cleaning of the refrigerator. Please note that I stayed well away from the uncharted, frosty waste land that is the freezer. This is Natasha's territory, and if I had my druthers there would be nothing in there except for her ice cream, ice trays and a bottle of Imperia vodka.

While cleaning out the refrigerator I found a number of plastic bags and containers filled with good intentions, gelatinous grey compost and various preserves and pickled items that were anything but preserved. To my surprise, I counted a total of 24 jars of jellies, jams and marmalades that were either made by Natasha or given to us by friends and family nestled throughout the various shelves and door spaces. Sadly, they have been just sitting there since our moratorium on toast and a dedicated fitness regimen at the Fitness Guru here in DUMBO. They are now however neatly aligned and within categories awaiting a time when our fitness allows us to indulge once again.

I also found and kept in the back of my mind a sleeve of polenta from our last trip to Arthur Avenue, a Vadalia onion and a can of Muir Glenn fire roasted tomatoes. So, after a Sunday morning run over the Brooklyn bridge to the Staten Island ferry terminal and back with my neighbor DK, I thought I might reward myself with a good hearty breakfast for one.

Armed with my favorite iron skillet and a Global knife, I diced and cooked myself a treat befitting a king of his domain, or at least his until the queen returns. I sautéed the onions with a bit of large leaf Greek oregano from the garden, pan browned the polenta, cooked down the tomatoes with a bit of extra freshly ground black pepper and then finished it off with a fried egg. The egg was a little "touche" for Natasha who tells me I don't really appreciate the use of eggs like she does. Topped with a bit of fresh flat leaf parsley, also from the garden, and a cup of coffee made in our moka pot, I was set for well into the day.

Now it's time to order some food on Fresh Direct. Don't tell Natasha.

La Viarta Ribolla Gialla

Ribolla Gialla, a native Friulano varietal, is a seriously solid white that holds its own against flavorful, rich foods - and enough to make a believer out of even the most stalwart red wine fanatics. This particular producer, La Viarta, is situated in a miniscule growing region known as Prepoto, also home to eccentric and innovative winemaker Edi Kante. I had the incredible pleasure of visiting this region (and Kante's fantastical winery) a few years ago - the amazing wildflower honey and bright olive oil from which still linger in my memory.

By sight, this La Viarta has a wonderfully bright and characteristic straw- to greenish-yellow color. Pure Ribolla Gialla. By smell, our Ribolla turns up pears, apples and tropical fruit hints.

What's so delightful is the utter balance of full-bodied flavors; rich on the palate with apples, yellow plums, tarragon and undertones of pineapple and passionfruit, accompanied by wooded undertones - despite being entirely unoaked. Grown in a sandy, Eocene marl - for you and me, that means a mixture of clay and lime - which imparts that deep, intensely luxurious mineral finish. This Ribolla Gialla is hand harvested, aged in stainless steel and spends one month in the bottle before releasing its wonderful goodness to the outside world.

La Viarte also produces Refosco Dal Peduncolo Rosso, Schiopettino and Tazzelenge - mysterious varietals of the strange that I crave, but have nary a way to get my hands on this side of the Atlantic. That unto itself warrants a return visit to this obscure and wonderful corner of Italy.

Wine: La Viarte Ribolla Gialla 2005, Colli Orientali Del Friuli Azienda Agricoloa La Viarte, Prepoto, Italia
Varietal: 100% Ribolla Gialla
Recommended Pairings: Fritto misto, grilled shrimp, raw clams/oysters and seafood-based pastas such as squid-ink with calamari

Nom De Guerre Kennedy Jacket

Popped into Nom De Guerre last Monday, had a pleasant conversation with a nice bushy haired guy & walked out with this beautiful waxed jacket. Really nice subtle plaid pattern, belted around the waist & neck, corduroy collar, simple silver unmarked snap buttons & a two way zip - thats about all I needed. Spent the afternoon feeling like I'd just killed a man, "buyers remorse" I suppose - didn't go down too well on the domestic front either, due to the price - "price is relative" I said, this didn't work, 'Return it!" she said...... I held up the receipt - NO REFUNDS (genius) "OK, go exchange it for a small"
that was the last thing she ever said to me..........................

Pure Blue & Full Count

Woke up Saturday morning feeling like the pits, I almost couldn't leave the house, so I summoned all my courage & called a cab to take me into work....arrived 30 minutes late & quickly hopped on the net to ask wikipedia the symptoms of a mid life crisis.....ticked all the boxes bar one & then spent the rest of the day contemplating my existence. The wife phoned me during the day & I explained my predicament........she arrived to pick me up after work & swiftly whisked me off to Blue in Greene - problem solved. Whilst I tried on some jeans she flashed her blue Citibank debit card at the cashier & the transaction was complete. Mid life crisis my arse - I'm only 35.
So I walked out of there with a lovely red thick cotton 'Full Count' T- Shirt, a pair of 'Pure Blue Japan XX-007' jeans & most importantly, a new lease of life.

Organic Nectars Agave Syrup

I went to the Fancy Food Show the other week and I have to say that although, yes, I ate my around the Javits Center, I was unsatisfied. The only things that really stood out were Izze and Metromint, and that was because they large, bright and well-considered stands. The rest of the products just merged into one jumping-on-the-all-natural-bandwagon blob. And strangely enough, most people had meatballs. Are meatballs making a comeback? Perhaps.

That was until we came across Organic Nectars. I have been buying their products for a while and generally use their dark agave nectar instead of refined sugar. But they had a new product launching at the show: raw dairy-free organic gelato. OK, sounds a little earthy-crunchy, I know, but bear with me. As at Pure Food and Wine , their ice cream is sweetened with agave syrup and the creaminess comes from soaked pine nuts, making it really rich and very smooth. If you don't believe me, you'll have to try it. But all that good-for-youness comes with a price; $11 for half a pint to be exact.

A weekend in New Tripoli

A lot of my friends like food as much as I do. It's one of the things that bind us together. But I've been to dinner parties where the level of food competition and ardour is so persistent that it turns a regular meal into an ordeal. And I don't like that. Our weekend in New Tripoli was full of people that like to eat, and we certainly cooked a lot, but it was extremely easy and natural. And I liked that.

Out little trip was to our friends' friends' farmhouse in New Tripoli, Pennsylvania. We went up there because Darren had planted some grape vines on their land and needed some strong backs and weak minds to help with some vine labor. Michael obliged, I picked gooseberries as I have a strong mind and a weak back. But the wonderful thing about the weekend was that although it was food-centric, it was completely relaxed and easy.

On Saturday morning we woke to wonderful homemade scones with jam made from fruit they grow on the farm. We then went over to Hartman's Butcher to get provisions for dinner as they close at 12pm. The steaks we had that night (pictured) were probably the best I have ever had home-cooked. Ridiculously thick and juicy, thoroughly marbled and unbelievably flavorful, there's a reason why they are so good. Hartman handpicks the cows, brings them to the store, slaughters them himself and cuts up the steaks right there. This is extremely fresh meat, and Lord, does it make a difference. We also got some of his homemade hot dogs which we are going to try out another night.

While the boys were shovelling rocks around the base of the vines, the girls tended to the gender-specific (and to us, far more pleasurable) task of baking a cherry pie. I had seen the cover of Gourmet magazine with their "best cherry pie" boast, and had decided it would be a good idea to tackle it. On the way back from Hartman's we stopped in at Schmidt's Berry Farm where we picked 7lbs of blueberries each and some sour cherries for that cherry pie.

I have to say the cherry pie recipe was flawless. If you follow it exactly you will get a slightly unwieldy dough, but if you persist it really is worth the work. The filling has ground tapioca in it which stops the cherries from becoming soupy, the filling is not too sweet and the pastry held up well to the shape but was still wonderfully crumbly. I particularly liked the mini-heart shaped one we made, I know, how quaint.

After all of that manual labor, we all jumped into the hot tub starting with prosecco, two bottles of Girard Sauvignon Blanc and a bottle of rosé. Needless to say we were somewhat wobbly when we got out of the hot tub into the kitchen. We ate the stupendous steaks with a phenomenal brunello and a Cabernet Sauvignon from St Supery in Rutherford, because we hadn't drunk quite enough yet. It was a rather indulgent end to a wonderful weekend.

Hermit Cookies from Cape Cod

Seldom do childhood memories hold up when revisited as an adult. Trees are smaller, cellars less scary and television shows not quite as funny. However, during a recent visit to my family's Cape Cod retreat, my memory theory was blown out of the water by the humble hermit cookie. Up until now the only baked confection that has stood the test of time has been the Nestle's Toll House cookie, and that's because like People magazine, they are always hanging around someone's house tempting you to take pleasure in something that is so good, and yet so wrong.

However, as I see it, the hermit cookie is a wholesome Cape Cod tradition that reflects the region's Puritan roots and approach to life (although its true history a bit of a mystery). Keep it simple, honest and when you actually allow yourself to enjoy life, only get crazy enough to make the moment special without pushing it to the realm of sin and regret. In the case of the hermit, we are talking about flower, salt, cinnamon, molasses and raisins and a bit more mixed together and baked to perfection. And indeed, Cottage Bakery in Orleans, MA got this combination right as I was overwhelmed with a flood of sensory flashbacks from the moment I walked through the creaking white wooden framed screen door and started breathing in the mix of slightly musty salt air with fresh baking. There they were sitting on baking sheets and neatly offset behind the low counter glass. I'll take two, four, no six! With the color of milky coffee, these little beauties are slightly glazed and dotted with just the right amount of soft raisins to reward every bite with the full bodied richness of molasses and a hint of cinnamon. Needless to say, it took all of my strength to share these chewy little time machines with the rest of my family.

Bisson Ciliegiolo Rosato (Rosé)

I've always harbored a secret fantasy of finding a rosé that is a perfect meld of white and red. Despite endless "rosé is the new black!" editorial, hopes have been dashed when blush wines reminiscent of wh*te zinf*ndel materialized. And that's nobody's idea of a good time.

That said, "sheer delight" sums up Bisson's Ciliegiolo (chee-lee-AYE-geò-lo), made from a rare, unique grape cultivated in northwestern Italy's Ligurian coastline. While Ciliegiolo is rumoured to be a distant relative of Sangiovese, little is reminiscent of its lineage.

This particular rosato is on the darker side of pink. Natasha and I enjoyed our crimson beauty with a summery ratatouille. Bisson recommends an optimal serving temperature of  61˚F (16˚C), but a brief spell in the refrigerator beforehand does the trick. On the palate, Ciliegiolo is ripe with intense fruit flavors of cherries and forest berries and a touch of tartness, complemented by an enduring, minerally finish. Aged entirely in stainless steel, this fermentation process imparts a fresh and lively acidity.

In addition to tasting amazing, this wine is also a feat of acrobatics - which lends even more to its charm. Artisinal winemaker Pierluigi Lugano has done his part to lovingly preserve increasingly rare, indigenous varietals such as Ciliegiolo. Cultivation is truly a labor of love and done by hand, as it is one of the world's most absurdly impossible grape-growing regions. Gravity-defying gravely hills give way to steep slopes high above the Mediterranean below, where harvesting machinery is simply out of the question.

I'm very curious to try a Prosecco - also from Bisson - that I just picked up, which should make for a perfect, summery roof deck aperitivo. Stay tuned...

Wine: 2006 Enoteca Bisson Ciliegiolo, Golfo Del Tiguellio, Liguria, Italy
Varietal: 100% Ciliegiolo
Recommended Pairings: Summery vegetable dishes scented with fresh herbs such as thyme, marjoram, basil; grilled mahi-mahi, shellfish and delicate cheeses