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Drunkard Style

SERVES 6

First, drink 1 glass of wine.

1 chicken (about 3 pounds), cut into pieces

1 stalk celery, chopped

1 medium onion, chopped

1 carrot, peeled and chopped

2 cloves garlic, minced

½ cup water

2 teaspoons salt

½ bottle Chardonnay

Freshly ground black pepper, to taste

Preheat oven to 375°F.

Wash chicken. Put all ingredients into a large, heavy pot, and place in oven. Bake for 2 hours. Serve hot.

If you want thick gravy, remove chicken and vegetables from pot. Add 3 tablespoons cornstarch and ¾ cup water to hot broth. Put back into oven until thickened to desired consistency.

Bob’s Boston

Baked Beans

SERVES 6

2 cups dried Great Northern beans

¼ pound lean salt pork

1 medium onion, diced

1 teaspoon salt

½ cup light molasses

½ teaspoon dried mustard

1 tablespoon sugar

Pick over beans, discarding stones or debris. Rinse beans, then soak overnight in enough water to cover.

Next morning, drain beans. Fill large pot with water, and add beans, pork, onion, and salt. Boil covered until semitender, about 45 to 50 minutes. Watch carefully—water must be kept above beans in pot.

Preheat oven to 300°F.

Mix remaining ingredients with beans. Pour into a casserole dish. Bury pork in beans, leaving rind exposed. Cover. Bake for 4 hours.

SONOMA, CALIFORNIA, WAS A WORKING TOWN. Some camera-wielding tourists did visit on weekends, lured by the romance of the ancient Spanish missions and proximity of the local vineyards, but the town was so busy serving itself there was no time for it to become quaint, precious, or twee.

Cattle ranchers, vineyard workers, farmers, and shop owners used the streets and the parks as if they were extensions of their own homes. Teachers, professors, members of the religious community, and artists held proprietary feelings about the town. Aging hippies mixed with young malcontents; singers from the local chorale walked shoulder to shoulder with the rich local barons. During the golden seventies we moved from Berkeley to Sonoma. My husband and I had come to know the area by visiting our friends David Bouverie and M. F. K. Fisher, who lived there.

The town liked itself so much that it gave itself a party once a year. The summer fete was called the Ox-Roast. During the roast weekend, locals would crowd the town square, bringing their own victuals. (I don’t remember seeing anyone actually eating the ox that was cooked on a spit, which took ten strong men to turn.)

We moved to Sonoma during that annual celebration, and I phoned Mary Frances to learn if she planned to visit the public picnic. She told me she would not be coming that year.

Then I asked her to dinner in our new place. When I added that my husband would come and pick her up, she said she would be happy to come.

There was a chic cookery shop on the town square. The two men who owned the store, Gene and Dick, matched it perfectly.

They had an eastern vogue about them. They welcomed me warmly when I entered the shop. They’d heard that I was moving to Sonoma and they were happy to help me.

They supposed my pots and pans were still in boxes, and they had made a list of the best restaurants in town, which they were sure I would need. Most of my cookware was indeed still packed away, but I explained that I had invited someone for dinner that evening and that I would need to buy a few pots to use that night.

“You are cooking in pots you have not tried? Maybe your guests are not too keen on cuisine and they will never know.”

I said, “My guest is very keen on cuisine. Her name is M. F. K. Fisher.” “You mean …you don’t mean …Mary Frances Kennedy Fisher?” I said, “Yes.”

Dick looked at me as if I were Julia Child and had just flown in the door with saucepans for wings.

“You are going to cook for M. F. K. Fisher?” I said, “She has to eat also.”

“We’ve asked her to have dinner, but we’ve taken her to restaurants. We would never cook for her.”

Gene asked, “What do you plan to cook?” I said, “A cassoulet.”

They both laughed out loud. I defended my choice.