All Hail Another Year of Jubelale

Given Anchor Brewing is gone, and along with it its annual Christmas Ale, it's good some seasonal winter warmers are continuing their traditions. Take Bend, Oregon's Deschutes Brewery, which has released its 36th edition of its Jubelale. This dark ale is long lingering and warming, offering aptly seasonal notes of chestnut and allspice and smoke. Think of Jubelale as one of those beers that teaches you how to drink it, moves your taste buds around to best accept its enveloping warmth. With surprising oomph for a mere 6.7% ABV, it's a strong ale that won't punch you upside your head if you drink two. Bring on the snow, or at least the ugly sweaters.

Not that the art for Jubelale is ugly in the slightest. In face, there's a contest every year for new art. The festive scene for 2023 showcases a design by former Deschutes Brewery employee, Ben Woodcock. Deschutes press release informs: "Ben worked at the Deschutes Brewery Portland Public House for nearly a decade where he served up tasty food and beverages as he made his way through graphic design school at Portland State University. During his time with Deschutes, he also created elaborate one-of-kind chalk art that frequently graced the walls of the restaurant. Today, Ben is a multidisciplinary artist, designer and educator in Portland who still creates unique chalk art for Deschutes at the Portland Public House." So that's a cool way to support the employee team and make things a bit more personal and personable. Which is what a good beer does, no?

Seven Seafood Courses Swimming

We finally got around to doing something we've always wanted to do, and I mean that two ways, as you soon shall see. To celebrate the season we decided to try to pull off a version of The Feast of the Seven Fishes. Of course it's odd to do this during lockdown, when the only ones feasting on the fish would be Chryss and me, but the most unusual of years deserves a fittingly strange fete. Note, while people like to act the Fo7, as I will be calling it, is something passed down from generations ago, as if Italian grandmothers smuggled heirloom recipes between their sweaty bossoms from the Old World, it actually started in the U.S. just over a century ago. What's more, if we were being traditional we would have done this on Christmas Eve, but we decided to make it a day's journey of seafood eating on Christmas Day itself. After all, we didn't have to worry about any of the non-meat-eating fasting pre-Christmas vestigial rules, not being dues paying Roman Catholic Church members, plus Chryss is pescatarian all the time anyway. Oh, and we opted to skip any course with pasta (too heavy--we've got all the fish to swim down our gullets!), or tomato sauce or even fra diavolo, and we opted to make it to seven seafood items and skip a seventh dessert course (panettone is just fruitcake with an Italian accent, you can't fool me).

The trick was coming up with a menu that was diverse enough and worked somewhat progressively, so we could keep eating throughout the day and spread out the food prep. That means Fish the First, was smoked salmon, the crazy good version from Cambridge House right here in Santa Barbara that Lazy Acres sells without fancy packaging by their seafood counter. You see that above, on little brioche toast circles Chryss artfully cut out and toasted in butter, as we figured this wasn't going to be indulgent enough otherwise. There's a dollop of creme fraiche below, a sprinkle of fresh dill above. Each one a salty, tender, creamy, bright bite. We were off to a good start.

Keeping it simple, around lunch we toted out the tins. To the left (above) you see Fish the Second, smoked clams, and to the right Fish the Third, Jose Gourmet Smoked Trout fillets in Olive Oil. There's also some Asiago with rosemary for a creamy cut to all the oily fish, and some kalamatas for a snap of brine. Without a doubt the trout was the star here--my guess is it's best to do something with smoked oysters, not eat them "raw" as it were. But we got caught discussing whether to go dip or chowder and did neither out of ease. Not that we didn't consume them all.

If you were beginning to think--gee, you really didn't make anything, did you?--let me introduce you to Fish the Fourth, a Mexican-style shrimp cocktail from a Rick Bayless recipe and Fish the Fifth, a crab Louie salad. That shrimp packs a kick, cooked and then marinated in fresh lime juice, to be finished with Tapatio and white onion and avocado and cucumber and cilantro and a jot of olive oil. And, yes, ketchup. The only approved use of it in our house. The crab salad had a bit of a kick too--some Sriracha in its mix of Veganaise and lime juice, and then tomatoes, capers, more avo(!) and Bibb lettuce. Given the preciousness of crab (both it's light if delightful flavor and that it was the most expensive per pound thing we bought) it was hard not to try to just eat all of that first and then enjoy the salad after, to be honest. This course was around Happy hour time, and it went perfectly with Buttonwood's unusual Hop On White, that's Sauv Blanc dry-hopped. So smells a bit like IPA, tastes like grapefruit and lemon.

Fish the Sixth was mussels in Pernod cream, sauteed with leek, fennel, red bell pepper. The last of the Hop On went into the cooking juice we of course devoured with spoons after. Don't ask me how, but I forgot to put a crusty loaf of bread on the shopping list, but we wisely remembered we had Alexia truffle fires in the freezer, so heated those up and suddenly it was moules and frites. Perfect with the mightily potent Gulden Draak Belgian ale we'd been hanging out to for evidently just such a Belgian occasion. We really did not do the Italians proud with our Fo7, I have to shamefully admit. But we ate well.

So well that we threw in the towel for the day. (A beach towel, given all the fish.) Fish the Seventh waited for dinner the next night, a gorgeous filet of Coho salmon that we did in very much a throwback style, adapting a recipe from Beverly Gannon's Family-Style Meals at the Hali'imaile General Store. That's what she calls a take on dynamite scallops sauce for sushi, again with some Sriracha, scallion, Veganaise, miso, splash of veggie stock. It's a rich kick and keeps the baked fish marvelously moist. Alongside are coconut-green-curry green beans and jasmine rice given a bit of added flash with cilantro stems, fresh ginger, and a spritz of black sesame seeds and dried seaweed (we actually bought in Ireland--don't tell the Italians, or the Hawaiians...) atop, too. 

So we made it--seven fishes, four meals, two days. No apologies. Well, maybe only to the things that used to be a-sea but now are a part of me. I appreciate their tasty if unwilling sacrifice. And if we ever get to do this again with actual other people to feed too, there will be pasta.

Strong Spirits for the Holidays

Santa has it hard, children. If you believe he visits all the houses around the world in one night, realize that it's a task as tricky as completing the torturous drive west on the 10 freeway from Santa Monica to downtown on a Friday night under 20 minutes. Even if you just believe he's Mom or Dad, "Santa" still has to buy the presents, wrap them up, and place them under the tree without waking you.

Want to read the rest then do so at KCET's Food Blog.

We 3 Wines of Christmas Are

You don't have to be Scrooge to think Jacob Marley is a terrible Christmas spirit. Indeed, one of the great joys of the holiday is there are so many appropriate tipples to savor this time of year, as there are so many traditions to celebrate. Here's a peek at just three ideas for some right time, right place pairing for the holidays.

Want to read the rest, then do so at the KCET blog.

Hard to Swallow Traditions

It's been years, but for years Christmas Eve meant the traditional Slovak supper in my family--turns out it even has a terrific name, Stedry Vecer. (No, he wasn't a linebacker for the Lombardi Packers, wise guy.) Also turns out our version wasn't the same as the traditional ones people have posted on the web now--those all talk about a fish dish, but we didn't do that. No, for the most part our meal was all about the mostly inedible. Which seems fitting, as so much of being Slovak seemed to be misery--this is my mom's side of the family I'm writing about, the one that doesn't say, "Have a good time," when you're out the door to do something fun, they intone, "Just be careful." Remember, the Slovaks are the poor peasants in the Czechoslovakia divorce.

I can vividly remember one year having the meal at my grandmother's house in Dunmore, PA (that's right, they didn't even rate Scranton itself, but one of its suburbs). I felt sick beforehand, so barely ate, but my guess is it was an anticipation-born illness, as I didn't want to face the meal. For it's not just a meal, it's religion and superstition wrapped in a lovely Christmas bow. My grandmother and mother were super-Catholic--Baba's church was a mere 4 minute walk out her back gate, even, that's how close to god she was--but that didn't mean a bit of Slavic voodoo didn't run in their genes. Back when I lived within driving distance of her house and would still come home for holidays my mom would put her statue of the Blessed Virgin in the window to watch out for me.

Coming from a legacy like that, it's no surprise that the dinner's components were more about symbolism than taste. It kicks off with something I now know is called oplatky (notice while Italian is a language of grace and beauty, Slovak is a language of dumpling-lumpy consonants) and looks like a communion wafer but it's rectangular, maybe 2 by 4 inches, and stamped with a Nativity scene. You get to put honey on it, so it tastes like sweetened cardboard and if you're lucky your piece is the one with the baby Jesus. You get it served to you, I'm not kidding, on a bit of straw, to symbolize Christ's humble birth. The straw could be the tastiest part of the meal. (They do let you drizzle a bit of honey on it. Yes, that makes it sticky cardboard.)

I'm not sure of the order of the middle courses, four of them that lined-up any way spell gastronomic disaster. To be honest, there was one good part of the meal, mushroom soup, although I'm not sure how they made the stock (no meat, remember?) and I didn't start paying attention to cooking until I went to college and had to feed myself and by then learning the mysterious ins-and-outs of the Stedry Vecer were out of the question. I do know my mom would use dried mushrooms actually shipped from the Old Country, which truly seemed old to me, full of things beyond my young life at the time. So that was good. But pairing it with a mix of sauerkraut tossed with ripped up poppyseed rolls (poppyseeds being a Slovak staple--it might be the closest they got to a spice) was a bit perverse. Seems from the web that the mushroom soup itself in other traditions had the sauerkraut, so it was "nice" of my ancestors to pull it out and give you a separate dish to dislike, a deconstructed sauerkraut sandwich.

Then there was pierogi, that Eastern European dumpling that has all sorts of expressions in that area of the world. The kind passed down in my family, however, perhaps should never have been expressed. Super-doughy, they lacked any sense of lightness something a cross between a pasta and pastry should have. For filling, since they weren't starchy enough, the choice was potato. For a crowning touch, they got slathered in brown butter, but I think there was even flour in that--we're not talking the light napping of a brown butter and sage you might find with your gnocchi. We're talking cannonballs of carbohydrates. My guess is they symbolism here is "don't enjoy food, it's fuel."

For the last of the main course components also could be something lovely, but the ingenious Slovak cooks figured out a way to make it something disgusting. It was sort of a quiche, but made with cottage cheese. And I don't think anything else in it--maybe onion--but it just had a mushy texture and a bland taste. The one thing my mom could always pull off in the kitchen was great pie dough, but that wasn't enough to save this dish.

Dessert was fruit, and you can imagine how exotic an orange might be to a Slovak (now I've got them in my backyard, so stop on in, Baba!), and whole nuts you got to crack open, which as a kid is a blast. Of course we didn't have an ornate nutcracker, but the element of danger (don't get your finger in there!) and the opportunity to break something with impunity always seemed like a good deal. It was also good to take your time with your nuts, using that extra pick tool a dentist might wield to get out all the walnut, slowly, as the candle awaited.

For, on Christmas Eve, while most children dreamed of Santa and loot, I dreamed of learning I wouldn't die during the next year. For after dinner, a single white taper makes its way from diner to diner, and each person gets to light the candle and blow it out. If your smoke goes straight up, that means good luck for the coming year. If it blew downward, that meant bad luck, and perhaps the worst luck of all, no luck at all. What could be more Slovak than this: "Merry Christmas, your candle just told you you're going to kick the bucket next year"?

So maybe I didn't want to eat as that candle waited at the end.

And now that Baba's candle and my mom's candle and my dad's candle have all blown out, I miss these meals, miss hating them, miss their bitterness that knew more than I still want to know.