When your birthday is three days before Christmas and you grow up in the United States, there is very little you can do to separate the day from the ever-eclipsing holiday mayhem.  There is the inevitable dual gifting you’ve heard about, I’m sure, coupled with an incessant round of holiday parties that tend to fall on your birthday itself, negating any possibility of a romantic birthday dinner sans red and green cheer.  I’ve always been ok with this though, preferring to look at it as merely a challenge to make my party the party of the season- the one people still feel the hungover effects of come Christmas morning.  When I was in my more “free-spirited” phase, the parties would be laced with glow sticks and body paints with all manner of eclectic music punctuating the reverberating cacophony.  The problem with those parties lie in the fact that no one would really remember anything about them either during or afterward, much less the fact that it was my birthday.  Now that I’ve got a burgeoning reputation as a social maven to uphold, a bit more organization and thought goes into planning each fete, and this year was no exception.

I went with a Mad Men theme, if you haven’t seen the show you ought to.  It’s set in the early 1960’s and filled with a cast of advertising execs on Madison Avenue and their wives/mistresses.  I chose the period for the attire and cuisine, thinking it would be easy and fun to transport ourselves into that world. I didn’t bargain on the fact that everyone would really get into the attitude as well, which is what made it a resounding success.  As many of you remember and some of you can imagine, a major focus is on the cocktails- drinking on the job from morning ‘til night is de rigueur a la Mad Men.  I so wanted to find a seven or eight year old to bartend, since kids back then would frequently mix drinks for their parents, but I couldn’t get anyone to volunteer their child, despite the major résumé-building potential!  Instead my dear husband Jonas transformed himself into a downright dandy bartender adopting the persona of a confident boss mixing up a bourbon concoction for a coworker before a “meeting.” 

I wanted my food and drink to match what likely would have been served back in the day so I went the class and sophistication route (ha ha) with homemade cheese balls, bonbons, rumaki, Swedish meatballs, a Roquefort molded salad mousse, deviled duck eggs, and Waldorf salad. 

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A few years ago, starting in the month of February we purchased, gutted and remodeled our home with our own four hands (between Jonas and I, that’s four, right?).  We didn’t entirely plan on sub-contracting ourselves and consequently having to execute the whole nine, it just happened that every sub-contractor we hired kind of sucked and showed up late expecting lots of money.  Eventually it just became easier to hang the sheetrock, cut and lay the tile, cut and lay the hardwoods, engineer, fabricate and install the steel staircase, et cetera all on our own.  We typically started working when we both got off work, around 7pm.  We continued until midnight or more, went “home” to our previous residence that was about to sell, and started the whole thing anew the next day. 

Did I mention that we were also planning our international wedding, slated that May 24^th? And that our previous house had to hit the real estate market before it began its now ubiquitous descent (of which we were hearing rumblings, since I’m a real estate agent by day)? Yeah, there really wasn’t much of an option but to get to work, so we hit the hack saw hard those few months.  We hadn’t yet met the neighbors, but I could tell they thought I was something of an anomaly. I’d arrive at the house in Louboutins and pencil skirts but I’d come out shouldering 2×4’s two minutes later in coveralls spattered in paint and spackle. 

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One post and two recipes- I must really be getting into the holiday spirit of giving, folks!  It all went down like this:  right about this time every year I get so steeped in festive cookies, eggnog, holiday muzak and mall madness that I simply need a break from it all lest I should find myself menacingly brandishing a meat cleaver at the next poor soul who steps into my kitchen. 

 At this moment, I begin to dream of the greatest Christmas I ever had, spent sunning myself on a Mauritian beach far far away from the hullabaloo of snow-drenched streets and plastic manger scenes.  At the first inkling of burnout I head to the laptop and search out last-minute fares to somewhere, anywhere but here to escape to for the holidays, knowing full well that I will spend it here, because I’ve already decked the halls, wrapped the gifts, and planned the menu for the big day.  I start to reason with myself, Linda, you hate to travel during the holidays, plus Bentley is too young to appreciate Caiphirina’s on the beach and mama in a bikini anyway. 

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Dungeness crab cakes on pea sprouts with lemongrass kaffir sake beurre blanc

When daddy’s away, mama will play, you’d better believe it!  Jonas high-tailed it to Japan for work last week and left Bentley and I to our own devices.  The first thing I taught Bentley to do was jump on the bed. Every self-respecting 16 month old should know how to do that, right?  The next order of business on my list of infidelities? Cram in as much slithery slippery savory sexy seafood as possible over the week (and do so while watching all the chick flicks I need to catch up on since the last time he left town).  Jonas isn’t big into our fair friends from the sea with the exception of Ahi tuna, so it’s not easy to get my daily quota. 

edamame starter

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Chris Upchurch, winemaker, talks wine

If I told you that one of the most esteemed wineries in Washington state, rather the United States, was an idea hatched on a cocktail napkin many years ago, wouldn’t that make you love it all the more?  Many accolades have been bestowed upon DeLille’s wines, and while I’ve certainly been known to wax verbose about a big red or two in my day, for the purposes of this entry I’m going to leave that to Robert Parker and the rest of the big boys.  Instead, I’m going to give you a little insight into the history of this award-winning wine Chateau situated on a humble hill in the heart of Woodinville wine country. 

DeLille Estate

The great success story that is DeLille winery mirrors that of the life of Charles Lill, the beloved granddaddy co-founder of DeLille who passed away in 2008.  By all accounts, Charles Lill was a real gentleman and a hard worker throughout his topsy turvy life.  A descendant of Huguenots who fled persecution in France during the 17th Century, Lill ended up in a then-German controlled region of what is now called the Czech Republic.  During World War II, Lill became a Luftwaffe pilot, and ended up in the hands of the Soviets, confined to a Russian prison camp. 

He was treated with slightly more deference than his compatriots since he wore the Luftwaffe uniform, thus he enjoyed the special privilege of cooking for the Russian officers.  This position gave him the freedom to recognize an opportunity to flee the camp when he boarded a passing Swiss train one day while harvesting potatoes for the officers’ meals.  He escaped to Switzerland, and post-war, found himself in Munich where we worked as a statistician for the US government.  He was able to save just enough money to secure passage to Vancouver BC and eventually Seattle, albeit with only $20 in his pocket. 

He began rebuilding the great legacy bestowed upon him as a descendant of the DeLille family the second his feet hit the Seattle pavement as an insurance salesman.  Over the centuries, his DeLille family ancestors were hit with a series of life-shattering hardships, including losing land that was once a winery in a territorial dispute. They are obviously of hearty stock; Charles Lill proved yet again that a DeLille phoenix can rise from the ashes of war and strife, and in this case make some damn fine wine.  Lill’s hard work for decades allowed him to retire from business in the early 1990’s, however his son and a couple of friends had grand plans for Lill’s golden years. 

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There is something so romantic about tea-smoked duck.  Every time I hear those words I mentally transport myself to an ancient dynasty replete with silk robes, ornately carved furniture, and decadent feasts.  Tea-smoked duck originated in the Sichuan provence in China.  While I do not hail from Sichuan (or China) I think I must have in a former life, as it is a place that frequently inhabits my dreams. 

I have a hare-brained theory as to why tea-smoked duck originated in Sichuan.  Geographically speaking, Sichuan province is situated in a bowl, with the Himalayas to the west, the Quinling Range to the north, and the hilly Yunnan province to the south.  As such, the province is prone to fog.  It befits the region that one of their most internationally notorious dishes is produced from the creeping fog of smoking tea leaves, no? 

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