Yesterday (Saturday, the 11th), we biked to the wineries. Myself, Anne and our friend Zack. This was an event that we had been wanting to do for some time and only ended up doing as a result of our panic that Summer was in its death throes. The ride was about 18 miles there, but we got off the trail too early and added nearly five more to that. The
Burke-Gilman Trail runs through Seattle, beginning at 11th street in Ballard and ending above the Northern finger of Lake Washington at Bothell. From there it is replaced by the
Sammamish River Trail, which continues to the wineries accompanied by the Sammamish River, whose banks are crowded with small bungalows and scrappy boats. Both trails are
rail trails, conversions of unused railroads, which make for very evenly graded paths.
It was a gorgeous day, luckily for us. The ride was relaxing and surprisingly easy. We rode into our usual winery destinations, starting at Columbia Winery. I am a member there, thanks to my mother, and enjoy two free tastings for four people each time I go. We were joined, via her car, by Zack's girlfriend, Jamie.
We brought various farmer's market fare to eat. A baguette filled with olive oil, basil and garlic. A creamy spreadable fromage with truffle salt in it. Some fontina cheese. Plums, various berries, heirloom tomatoes and lentil sprouts. It was decadent and delicious. We got our tastings at Columbia, our heads humming with wine, then we headed across the street to Chateau Ste. Michelle.
Anne walks with determination near the plants of her Spanish ancestry. Here, at Ste. Michelle, the grounds are much more exciting and decorative. They even have a stage for the big name bands of yesteryear to play such as Crowded House; Steely Dan; Earth, Wind and Fire and Chris Isaak to name a few. And they have fowl. Ducks, geese and peacocks. The vines on the property are decorative only, as the real grapes are grown in more sandy, loamy soil on the other side of the Cascade Mountains. As such, these grapes are a little sour...
... as can be seen in the above picture, in Jamie's face.
There are the ducks, which seem to piss Zack off, or at least make him uber-serious. This is our second eating session, because drinking wine is a task that famishes.
And the following are some of the fowl we encountered.
The ride back was less invigorating than the ride there. We were beat. And there was a football game at UW's stadium so the trail became inundated with drunk, inconsiderate sports fans. We walked our bikes the last mile for this reason. Our final mileage was sitting at about 41 miles. We swelled with pride before succumbing to exhaustion and finding bed.
Imagine France without yeast. Or say, any other place wherein good things are had. The wines, the breads, the dipping vinegars. The flavor imparted upon baked goods is palpable, it is the identity of the thing. To take it away from that bread or roll or bun is to be left with not only an uninspired and airless slag of grain, but also one without that thick and succulent je ne sais quoi flavor. To leave it out of wine or beer is to leave them out entirely, to be left with grape juice and soda. Vinegar, pivotal in most common condiments, is the most unavoidable though, seconded only by soy sauce. Try to go to a restaurant and order around these obvious obstacles. Forget Chinese. No more casual sushi (not only the problem of soy sauce here but also the vinegared rice). You'll have difficulty eating Italian too and most salads are out of the question. You might even go home and attempt to hobble together a ketchup or mayo analogue, in hopes that you could carry it along in a to-go bottle and again enjoy slathering fries in dip. It won't be the same though. You'll notice the unfettered joy on the faces of your devil-may-care companions as they swallow down goblets of wine or pints of beer, getting it on their upper lips or spilling it down their faces, and smiling as they lick it or wipe it away and go after another handful of sweet potato fries in curry ketchup or pesto mayo. You'll know. And you'll cordone yourself off at the bakery, investigating only the scones and the cookies, the muffins and cupcakes (all the while you wanted something savory). You'll take to the internet on fruitless searches for those yeasty borderlands (does rindy cheese have yeast? which restaurants use liquid aminos?) and come out less informed, more confused and in want of all those things you can't have and all the stuff you aren't sure of. Then you'll pull the vodka from the freezer (as it is distilled and filtered) and make a drink. These are the facts and my impressions upon denying it past my lips the last weeks.
Just over a month ago, after completing three fruitless months of a gluten-free life, I got my food-panel blood test back. Yeast (brewer's and baker's) among other less dramatic items showed up as an allergy for me, which I hadn't ever considered previously. A daily fact of my life, from nutritional yeast to wine and beer to vinegars and kombucha, had to be eliminated for an indeterminate period of time. It is still indeterminate, but there has been marked improvement in the state of my digestive system, in the state of that overraw length of piping from throat to gut. And that is where I stand, or sit, or lay. I've friended distilled alcohol and lemon juice. I sigh less when my friends eat things I can't. I am attempting creativity in the kitchen in the face of this adversity, and when all is said and done, it is a hell of a lot easier than divorcing gluten. We've become great friends again. Absence makes the heart grow fond, and the stomach grow wanton.
