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 Knob Creek Single Barrel Reserve: Fetch your fighting trousers! As a big fan of bourbon I had already previously acquainted myself with Knob Creek. Their regular stuff is really very good, although I wouldn’t put it in my top tier and I think it’s generally a bit overpriced. When I was first introduced to the Single Barrel Reserve, I eyed it a bit skeptically, suspecting that (as things called “Reserve” tend to be) it would either not offer much different from the regular bourbon, or it would be somewhat nicer but also excessively more expensive.
Well, I’m here to report that not only does Knob Creek’s Single Barrel Reserve kick way more ass than their standard bourbon, it is also only $5 more expensive, which puts it solidly in the “totally worth it” category. It smells great—sweet and oakey—and tastes even better, with a really deep, intense flavor and slightly smokey finish that carries the flavor of roasted nuts with it. (Chestnuts, I think, although I could be full of crap.) A little bit of water or ice removes some of the awesome face-punching intensity of its 60% ABV and brings out more subtle aromas that will make you long for past eras when every man wore a 3-piece suit and top hat, every woman a matching corset and goggles and the next adventure was just a short flight on the back of a clockwork beetle away.
Ah, eggs. I see you there. Scrambled, fried, boiled, sometimes poached. Frequently depressingly overcooked and underseasoned. Did you know that after Bon Appetit did that big feature article on you, they didn’t even put your photo on the cover? No, they didn’t tell you, did they? Well just have a look. That’s right, that sticky bun that had less than a quarter page of writing dedicated to it got the top spot while you, eggs, who were third only to advertisements and shilling for celebrity chef sponsors in number of pages dedicated to you inside the magazine are relegated to some teensy text squashed onto the left-hand side, like the editors juuuuuuuust barely remembered at the last moment that your blurb was even supposed to be on the cover at all. It’s repugnant, I know.
But worry not, dear eggs, because I’ve got something to really brighten your day (and yours too, dear reader)! For you see, none other than the incomparable Vincent Price was a big fan of yours. And not just for magic! For eating too! In his book A Treasury of Great Recipes, he talks about the Javanese Omelette being one of his favorite breakfasts (and occasionally favorite dinners too). And I can do nothing but nod my head in vigorous agreement and say yes, it is so easy and so good that the Gastrognome and I now find ourselves eating it at least 2-3 times per week. Do you want to know how easy it is to make? Here–I’ll show you!
1. Finely chop a green onion.
2. Beat 3 eggs with some salt and freshly ground black pepper, 1 tsp. sambal olek (or other Southeast Asian hot sauce), and 1 tsp. water or milk.
3. Butter in pan!
4. Green onion in pan!
5. Eggs in pan!
6. Make an omelette!
7. Mmmmmmmmm.
The hardest part is really #6, since making an omelette can be pretty tricky. For the longest time my skills of omelette making were of the “yes, I always meant to just make scrambled eggs instead” variety. But this thing is so tasty that driven by the sheer desire for eating it all the time, I have managed to actually acquire a rudimentary form of proper omelette-making technique.
Yeah, that’s photographic evidence, direct from my skillet to your eyeballs.
But the eggs don’t just want you to eat with your eyes. They want you to eat with your mouth. So go make this bad boy, because whether it turns out as a perfectly folded and fluffy high-art omelette or a gritty, avant-garde scramble, the flavors will still invigorate your mind and soul with their mellow egginess, zippy kick of onion and the subtle heat of Indonesia. Yes, making your whole day better really is so easy.
In my zeal to eat as much fish as possible, finding new ways to cook it was becoming an issue. I suppose I didn’t have to cook it, but most of the fish I purchase isn’t what I’d call sushi grade.
 So baked, man It turns out that it’s perfectly legit to bake fish in the oven. Often I overlook the oven due to everything I make in it taking for freaking ever, but in fact this was just as speedy as on the cooktop.
Not to mention dead simple. Add seasoning, and bake at 400°F. Done.
Of course, I landed my fish on top of some basil leaves, and oiled the baking sheet to prevent sticking, but, that’s an exercise left to the reader.
Serve any way you choose.
 Bit o' Green I chose spinach and Sriracha.
Your munchies may vary.
Travelling. North it was. To a place. Seattle maybe? No wait! You weren’t supposed to know that! Professor will hit me!
…
Well, the narrator blew it and already told you the destination. And undermined the whole Odyssey thing even more.
Yes, I was headed to Seattle, a city already known and discovered by my old travelling companion, who shall be known as my brother. As in family.
We agreed to meet and catch up on the happenings since last we parted ways.
Long ago I visited this place. It was grey. Dreary.
 Apparently they've never heard the phrase, "tone it down" Not this time.
For the first time I was able to see the mountainous sides of the valley, the snow-capped peak of Rainier. Sunlight. Not rain. Clearly hell had frozen over, along with the river Styx, and Cerberus was neutered.
Until the next day. But that’s beside the point. Because there was beer, beautiful surroundings, and good family, friends, and friends soon to be family.
 It was goddamn cold outside though... In an effort to do that catching up we talked about, broseph and I popped into one of the myriad of new Tom Douglas establishments, Brave Horse Tavern.
 Only a few grains of barley were harmed in the making of this bar I recounted the journeys taken in the previous week: wineries, forests, foodstuffs and fun. And that accursed game. But drink constantly we could do for only so long, and thus, a dinner out was planned at Crush.
 Tuna Crudo with delicious things  Lamb with more delicious things The food was memorable, even if I can’t remember what the accouterment was with each platter, and the atmosphere, FABULOUS, although, I guess most of Capitol Hill is. Or so I’m told.
Sadly, I also had to return home.
The Odyssey aside, a funny thing happened. When I returned home, it no longer felt like home. It felt, foreign. Wrong. Like I didn’t belong.
I think, in some life, I was a west-coaster.
Maybe it’s this one…
Heroes. They did stuff. Let’s watch!
…
The morning on which we were to part ways finally arrived. The crew had been spectacular, but no longer did we have the same destinations in mind. The crew would travel east, in an attempt to return to their origins. I, however, was not ready to leave.
The locals talked of a large port farther south known as the Port of Saint Francis, or as they pronounced it, “San Francisco.” I’d yet to learn all the nuances of their language. It was there we finally parted ways. While they set out that day for home, I was not to depart till the following.
I, however, found the dwelling of a friendly native who claimed she knew me in a past life. This concept of past-life confused me, but I was not about to pass up free room and board for an evening.
 The view wasn't bad either With little else to do, I explored the area. Large port was an understatement. Tall buildings, shops, an entire underground transportation system; it was nearly as far from home as I could imagine. Getting intentionally lost, I found a rather downtrodden area where the inhabitants must have burned an incense that could only be described as “pipeweed.” I assumed you needed some sort of local identification to procure such an item.
Happily, I stumbled across a friendly looking inn that reminded me of home.
 I know those things At this place known as Pi, a large piece of bread was slathered with a red sauce and cheese, and served with a choice of draft beer, a beverage with which I was intimately familiar. I couldn’t help but have a couple extra beers.
 Beer. So many choices. And it makes so little difference Particularly after the helpful staff informed me of at least a half-dozen places within where I simply had to take nourishment. Alas, I had not time to visit them all.
 But I did have time for a beet salad That eve, my innkeeper friend decided I must meet some people. She brought me to a pub where the local game was known as Flip Cup. Clearly, I was never destined for a clear-headed morning.
The next day, after starting out the wrong direction on the transportation system, I found the vessel which would take me north. North to visit a one-time traveling companion.
…
Yeah, it doesn’t sound like The Odyssey anymore. Big woop wanna fight about it? Find out how it ends next time on “Will You Just Shut Up Already!”
I suspect you feign interest in our heroes at this point, but I don’t actually care. So, here’s more.
…
I curse this game. It brings nothing but regrets to the morning. Thankfully, again it was determined to have another day of respite from travel. We decided in fact to split up and canvas the area, and meet again later to discuss the finer points of the day. I personally chose to wander the shore.
 Purple mountains majesty? I have lived my entire life within a mile of water, but never saw shore so dramatic on the Lake of Erie.
 Shiny It was breathtaking in all senses of the word.
As mentioned, we would regroup that evening. Another local inn was chosen at which to dine: Terrapin Creek Cafe.
 I think I'll have all my tuna ahi'd Long had we heard stories of raw foods from the far east, but not combined with ingredients from other places. A delight to behold and benosh.
Rest we did, but not before that accursed game robbed us of sanity yet again.
As dawn brightened our eyelids, we set out anew and stumbled upon Cade. Here again they made the wine that we developed such a love for, but claimed to produce it via new farming techniques.
 Do want After seeing the view and relaxation grotto, it was clear we did not care how the wine was produced, but more importantly we just wanted to stay and stare at the scenery.
Alas, we could not stay. Rather we had to say our goodbyes, as I would soon leave the group to journey on my own. In an epic display on our final evening together, the skies blazed forth in an unprecidented farewell.
 No...words... …
Will our heroes really part ways? Does anyone even care anymore? Regardless, stay tuned to Epicurious Whores for the continuing saga!
Our heroes awake after a long journey through Napa…
…
Alas, dawn did arrive, greeting us, and instilling us with the cottony maw usually reserved for the clouds. It was deemed a day of rest from our travels, and thus we spent it relaxing and exploring the area around inn at which we stayed.
That evening however, there was need to discover. A tip from a fellow traveler told us of a place not to be missed: K&L Bistro. Apparently they could do things with nominal foodstuffs that were illegal in other territories. Thus we gathered and set forth, this time equipping ourselves with a Garmin star-chart, would that we not get lost in the unfamiliar channels.
Indeed a throng of meats and vegetation were thrust upon us, most notably for myself the belly of the boar.
 The belly of the beast Nothing quite like this exquisite combination of melty fat and crispy meat mixed with the odd round lentil (so they called it) had I ever consumed, and will ever consume. Twice did I see the great light burst forth to collect me to the heavens, only to be revived by sips of red wine to allow the blood to again course through my veins.
Other of the crew, much wiser than myself had the pasta.
 Far less cardiac arrest Alas, again the day would end too soon, but rested from a smaller amount of exploration, we were able to set off anew the next morning. Or, we would have, if that obnoxious game would not again have commenced at the inn.
Traveled we did to an area that looked surprisingly familiar, as if the villas of the Mediterranean had been scooped up and dropped in front of us.
 IT'S A TRAP We felt almost at home for a time, as they explained the intracacies of moving this:
 I heard it through the grapevine To this:
 Double, double, toil and trouble And finally to this:
 Roll out the barrel From which essentially we would consume.
Ferrari-Carano it was named. They informed us their product could be found throughout the world on the shelf of any goods purveyor, unlike many of the places we visited before.
The sun soon dwelled high in the sky, informing us that it was time again to find sustenance, although for myself, the boar still sat quite heavily in my gut. No matter, there would be no whining.
We happened upon a town square which housed several dining establishments, but the crew’s choice was Bistro Ralph.
 Our potato runneth over A tiny, white-brick-walled French-styled establishment with a long bar and few tables, it was again a place of the locals: most everyone who walked in and out would find someone they knew, and discuss daily matters over a small glass of wine. No matter to us, as not being locals, we were embraced as visitors but left to our own devices.
Soon after we were again thirsty, and found respite.
 Casual enjoyment Here, the beverage was only served, but we were assured that facilities for crushing and fermenting (new activities we had recently learned about) were elsewhere and could be visited. But not today. No matter, for all we wished was a few minutes to sit outside and relax before our grueling journey continued.
Not much farther was another stop, a place known as Williams Selyem.
 Tie a yellow ribbon... They were again happy to pour, discuss and indulge us weary travelers. It seemed to be a pattern with the multitude of places visited. Why they were so eager to welcome us still is a bit of a mystery. However, it could be due to the rather large amounts of this ruby liquid we purchased to bring home to our friends and family.
Another evening would pass, complete with yet another tournament; the sirens of the table called yet again. Alas, this would be one aspect of the journey remains questionable.
…
Surviving the sojurn through Sonoma, where will our heroes travel next? Don’t change that address bar!
We rejoin our heroes after cramming sea things and local cultures, and beverages into the appropriate receptacles.
…
Awake we did the next morning with fuzzy recall of this dawn’s eve; upon return to the inn, the ale continued to flow during tournaments of some ancient game involving long sticks and colliding spheroids into pockets strategically placed on the sides and corners of a table. A few natives were rather unamused by our raucous behavior.
Regardless of our state, the journey was yet unfinished. To reach the vineyards of Shafer by 9 bells was our charge.
 The fog was less ominous than it seems Quite kindly, the proprietors of the establishment gave us a full tour culminating in refreshment for all. In this strange region, wine is in fact safer to drink than the water, akin to the beer where us travelers from whence came.
Alas we could stay only long enough to procure a small amount of the life-giving elixir before a new group of travelers appeared and would be given the same treatment. No matter, press on we must, to an ethereal, mystical place known as Opus One.
 Life, stored in oak Oft mentioned is the legend of Opus One, a venture between god and god alike. Only stories had we heard of the place where deities clashed to create this ruby-red liquid meant only for those dwelling among the mountaintops. Not long could we stay: for consuming this nectar would clearly damn us (admittedly, the older vintage nectars certainly out-shined the newer).
A rumble echoed through the vessel as we continued on our journey. Hunger ravaged our stomachs and swoony heads. The troops demanded sustenance greater than the dry, tasteless biscuits served to “cleanse the palate” at the previous establishments.
A small village appeared ahead. In this village resided what was known as the “Farmstead.” Their claim to local ingredients only intrigued us: how can one get local ingredients in late October other than winter gourds?
 Let not the equipment sway you Our worries proved idiotic as the foodstuffs were so incredible, there was not time to journal them before we consumed with unabashed pleasure. There was time, however, to note down the coordinates for a return trip.
Sated, the journey continued to a place known as Flora Springs, where there was flora, but little spring.
 Much flora No matter, they also concocted their own refreshment. So proud they were of their recipe, they presented us with the “Flight of Trilogy,” taking us through nearly 10 years history.
Alas, the hospitality proved to overstimulate, and our swirling heads needed to find an inn in which to rest for the evening.
 Farewell to the day Surprisingly, the crew revived again as ale began to flow, and the ancient game tournament commenced yet again. I reveled in their new-found excitement, but dreaded the coming of the dawn.
…
A bore boar you say? The tail tale continues after these messages.
I know, it’s a faux pas to apologize for faffing about and not writing. Particularly to the blog one resolved to write on at least once every two weeks. But, you know what, I don’t care.
I’m sorry baby, I didn’t mean it. I’ll do better next time.
Part of what has been taking up my free time set aside for gastro-correspondence is that I have taken up the hobby of home brewing. That is, I now make bootleg alcohol in the closet of my kitchen here in Cleveland. Delicious, hoppy, malty, booze. In a bucket.
It turns out that there’s a lot of steps to this process. Easy, yes. Lots, yes. And after consuming about a case of your hard-earned product, one does not simply walk into Mordor remember all those steps.
Yeah, I could write it down all lo-fi style. But I’m just not hipster enough for a Moleskine and Ticonderoga #2. Nay, I require something a bit more digital.
So, the project that REALLY has been drinking my free-time (ha!): Brewver. Please note that it is hastily hosted, and may ignore you on any given occasion. It’s merely what we in the software biz like to call a “community technology preview.” And frankly it’s barely that. The idea is to get some people clicking on it, find the bugs, request features, and generally get it into a stage that works before I start actual, real hosting.
What is it you say?
Well, for now it’s just an online brewing recipe database. But the plan is to slowly morph it into a complete brewing community where we all can exchange information and ideas. A “minternet” if you will: social networking for beer.
At this point (like I) you may be asking yourself, “Self, it’s 2012, everything has already been done, doesn’t this exist already?”
Well, probably. But I haven’t found it executed to a proper medium-rare. Quite raw actually. And unlike sushi, raw, uncooked software isn’t something I enjoy.
So, dear readers, try it out, especially if you’re interested or into home brewing. I need the feedback on what I’m missing and what would make it great.
Also, don’t put any data in you expect to keep just yet. I’m constantly adding new stuff and changing things that may make things unstable.
No, it’s not the beating of a hideous heart you hear, but rather the glugging of delicious Bloody Marys. As it turns out, no less than the great Vincent Price was a huge fan of the drink, which (at least according to his cookbook A Treasury of Great Recipes) he particularly enjoyed before lunch, while contemplating the ferns in his garden.
Since it is nearly January and we find ourselves in the midwest, there are few–if any–ferns for us to contemplate, but the intrepid gastrognome and I decided to try out Mr. Price’s recipe none-the-less.
 Enjoying several apparently leads to unsteady photography. It has a slightly higher ratio of vodka, lemon juice and black pepper than versions of the drink that I’ve seen and made before. I approve. The gastrognome approves. Indeed, this beverage is… (cue spooky music) most amusing.
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