In another world
I have decided that my life is quite dull, given the level of excitement that my new Bon Appetit magazine arrival stirs. With two young children (step stools, toys, and kitty cat) always under foot, I have little time to delve into a long, juicy read, so my one and only magazine has come to fill that need. I can at least hope to finish it, sometimes three times, before the next one arrives. I have decided it is my research for the homefront, feeding our bellies, advancing our culinary palates and keeping me very happy persuing one of my favorite past times, cooking and, of course, eating.
I usually read the magazine front to back, cover to cover, starting with the restaurant replies, but this month, sitting down exhausted with my mind still aflutter, I flipped it open to somewhere in the middle. And there it was. Heather John’s little piece about our foodie town, Portland, now dawning it’s new crown as the Drink Capital. I enjoyed this brief spotlight on our corner of the world for many reasons…who doesn’t enjoy a little spot light and if it can’t be on me, at least I live in the place, right? I love wine, particularly pinots, and most assuredly Ponzi pinots. I love beer and have now been sent on my own personal treasure hunt for beer treats. And, if motherhood has slid me down to the somewhat less hip side, at least I am somewhat hip by association by a place worthy of national recognition.
Portland is a fabulous place to live. Particularly, if you, like me, love to cook, love to eat, and have a nostalgia for the past, a time when life was simple, natural and slow. Slow food is rapidly becoming the norm. I recently signed up for my first CSA and am eagerly anticipating meddling with the fresh contents to fashion something fantastic every week. While I could go on forever about the benefits of living here, there is something missing, something Heather failed to mention, a natural continuation of what we already have, so obvious, I am shocked that it does not really exist.
How, in a place where apples and pears abound, flourishing in mystical beauty at the foot of Mt. Hood; where we love producing everything right from the source, can we not have Cider?
Just out of reach
We have beer polished with hints of appricot or berry, brandies of apricot or pear, but no cider. I have fond memories of the cideries of northern France. While a student in Canne, we traveled ever more happily from one farm to the next, sipping ciders in big stone kitchens warmed by large roaring fires and wood burning stoves, noshing on warm crusty bread and fragrant cheese. Hence, my longing for some of the sweet imbibe.
I have this dream that my husband and I will up and move to the Hood River area, aquire an orchard, start our own cidery, open a small restaurant…My sister, a seasoned triathalete even dreamed up a small foot race from orchard to orchard. She could do the running, I would provide, well the cider, and if need be, free medical care. And alas, that brings me back to reality, I am a physician, and happy to be so, but again, I don’t have time to read a book, more less pick apples or make cider.
Juicy
Will an apple a day keep the doctor away? Not for now at least, but maybe someday…
