Tonight I had two exquisite friends at the Sabine Farm. Tonight, my onomastico (I claim both John the Baptist and the Evangelist), I made supper from coniglio in umido, some superb mashed Yukon Gold potatoes with parmiggiano, mixed greens salad with homemade Green Godess dressing. Dessert was panetone and prosecco, about which I have many stories. After, there were choices of grappa di moscato or Chambord.
Here is a shot of the pan in preparation:
And on the plate!
I think larger images are available by doing a right click and a view image.
The preprandials consisted of, for one of us, one of my Bombay Sapphire martinis, and elsewise, a very good pinot grigio. We had an amuse gule of smoked salmon and capers on water crackers with a touch of Laphroaig. The wine for the main course was a ’98 Cohn Cab. With the panetone we had prosecco by Zardetto.
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That looks waaay good, padre! You have any recipes you’d like to share?
Yes, please print recipes. Yummmm.
Sounds like an excellent new column for The Wanderer! Possible titles: “Fr. Z’s Kitchen,” “The Sabine Kitchen,” “In the Kitchen with Fr. Z” … the possibilities! ;-)
Tough life, eh Father? I’ll have to visit you come spring :)
Why stop at only two Johns, Father! I claim each and every one of them. We are blessed with the most common name among the saints, don’t you think? And the good Lord knows, we humans can use all the help that we can get! Pax!
Fr. Z, I think the time has come for you to write and publish your cook book, “COOKING WITH FR. ZEE, paradise for the palate” Since you are an accomplished photographer, writer and cook, it seems it is begging to be written. Maybe the Wanderer or some other organization would cosponsor it for a cut on the profits – I am sure the blog readers as well as many on COL would be interested in purchasing it.
Billie Chiricuzio
Any priest who appreciates island scotch is #1 in my book!!
Panettone? Prosecco? Grappa? You speaka my language!
As for Italians and potatoes…
Father, years ago I lived in Florence (oltr’Arno) with a landlady whose Venetian boyfriend trod cautiously one day into my room, which overlooked a vegetable garden, balancing a plastic plate. On it were two orange slabs, carefully cut and steaming. He told me they were an American delicacy — patate! — but they came from the Veneto. He nearly wept at having no idea how to cook them, had reduced their predecessors to ash, and so he wanted to know if it was alright to boil them. Would I taste them? I tasted them: they were sweet potatoes, not Yukons, but I was touched that he, lucky scion of generations of exceptional cooks, would come to me for culinary advice about the humble potato.
I told him to mash them with butter, orange juice, and a bit of salt. He was overjoyed.
Did you catch the bunny on the farm?