If In Rutherford, CA

My sister cooks at Rubicon Estate in Napa Valley, a wine venture of Francis Ford Coppola located in the former Inglenook mansion. That is about as far as you can get from the wine maker / farmer storing barrels in his barn. Rubicon has valet parking and a red carpet. When I got out the car, I couldn't help by sing, "It's a wonderful night for Oscar! Oscar, Oscar! Who will win?"

The ivy-over-stone chateau is imposing, sits of lush grounds, and houses a museum devoted to the Coppola family, history of cinema, and history of wine-making. (Trivia: The boat from "Apocalypse Now" is in the backyard. I kid you not.) It also has a coffee bar, wine bar, a really expensive gift shop, and a range of private and semi-private tasting rooms in varying grades of opulence. Depending on your appetite and budget, when you go to Rubicon, you can enjoy delightful hors d'oeuvres and small plates paired with the wines and prepared by yours truly's sister and the rest of the Rubicon staff, which includes a much-decorated and travelled chef named Kelly McCown.

When we were there, we got a behind-the-scenes tour of the small kitchen and also tasted their work with our wine flight: an excellent cheese board with accompanying fruit, super-fresh bean-and-olive salad, and a spicy quinoa dish that I am already trying to replicate at home. Even without the family connection, I highly recommend a visit to Rubicon if you're in the Napa Valley.

In the kitchen at Rubicon:

Communing.

I wish I had my camera this morning on a cool but sticky 8 miler that included 12 x :40 at 3-5K with 2:20 recovery. Sunset Parkway was rife with wildlife. I saw two red foxes standing on the side of the road. As I passed, I said, "Looking foxy," to which one replied, "Real original, idiot." Five minutes down the road, I came upon a rabbit. I slowed long enough to say, "Couple of foxes back there, Thumper," and he responded, "I like your style, dude." Then, down on Kimberly, I saw a turkey with four poults. The turkey -- believe it or not -- was the exact same turkey I out-raced last month. "No hard feelings," I yelled with a smirk. She replied, "If I didn't have my poults with me, I would -- GOBBLE!"

Wine Country Snack Attack!

In California, it's not just the sequoias that are huge. Check out these house-made fig newtons at the Downtown Bakery & Creamery in Healdsburg. Yummy. And if you're in Yountville, a stop at Bouchon Bakery will net you a TKO -- Thomas Keller Oreo. That's chocolate shortbread and white chocolate ganache, slightly larger in circumference than a moon pie. I was swooning so badly that I could not focus the camera.


(We have now been to the Bouchon Bakery locations in New York and Napa, and need only to visit the Las Vegas outpost to "collect all three.")

My Dearest Trauma Whisperer . . .

Based on true events at Vogelsang High Sierra Camp.

2008 or 1863?

My Dearest Trauma Whisperer,

Dinner is now over and the camp is quiet. The Colonel has commanded us to muster at midnight. We will be marching out of Vogelsang and into the valley below. I hope we do not encounter the enemy before sun up. I trust that your sleep will be less fitful than mine in the coming days. The men in camp are all lean and fatigued. But dinner's rare sustenance did give them some measure of temporary relief. In case I never said it before, I miss you my Trauma Whisperer. I longed to bivouac at this campsite beside you, to hold your hand and watch the stars shoot across the sky like shooting stars. But as we climbed the trail, and the rigors of elevation, granite steps, and swarming mosquitos ravaged the very core of your will, to say nothing of your milky skin and shapely calves, I knew the gods had cursed our connubial summit at the foot of Fletcher Peak. You were like a delicate flower shot out of a cannon into a raging bonfire and then set upon by tiny flower-eating beetles who were also fire-retardant. What must a man do in that situation when he sees his only love suffer so? I did only what every gentleman would do. I yelled: "Is that a marmot?" and when you were thus distracted, I plunked you cleanly upside the head with my shovel. One in the head, you know she's dead, that's what the provisioner who sold me the shovel said. If there is a nobler method, dearest Trauma Whisperer, I knoweth not. Rest with the comforting knowledge that your sacrifice has served to fertilize the soil of morale among this encampment to which I am now enlisted. Tired of eating pine cones and their horses -- "Give me a biscuit, not another side of Seabiscuit," as one Colonel surmised of their woeful dietary condition -- we butchered you instead. It seemed the only practical solution as the rocky, unyielding terrain repelled any attempt at digging a proper grave. You will be delighted to know, my sweet, that of all the world's great grilled meats, you are surpassed by none. You exhibited excellent marbling, you were meaty, not fatty, charring nicely on the exterior but fork tender within. Not gamey at all, not that I was surprised. That was never your style. Oh how my soul flutters at the thought of you in a braise, but alas, the regimental crockpot did not make it past Wawona. Know that your honor was chivalrously defended when an uncouth private suggested we salt cure one of your thighs, which he called a "hock." I invited him to fight immediately, and did not yield in my assault about his head and neck until he bellowed for mercy. He apologized to the entire camp and conceded that all of your cuts were choice, lean, and exceptionally taut. The cavalry developed a mild case of food poisoning following their attempt to make sweetbreads from your thymus gland, but the blame lies with an ignorant dilettante chef among them who wouldn't know Escoffier if he was ramrodded into his musket. Still, if our flank suffers tomorrow as a result, know that yours did not, as I have kept it for myself. I know it will make superlative jerky, the chewing of which will be my eternal gift to you. I must tend to the dishes now, my love, but I sense your presence bot within and around me, in that pot and that bowl, on that plate and just a little of you there on that spork. How I wish it could always be thus.

Faithfully yours,

Lance

If In Napa, CA - III

Angele Restaurant is squeezed into what appears to be an old boathouse in Napa's historic district. It's the place to go for casual, classic French bistro food. The restaurant is relaxed and charming -- exposed beams over a zinc bar, a terrace on the river -- and the food is dynamite. I was a big fan of the "Plats de Campagne" -- country dishes served family-style. Three of us ordered the cassoulet (house-made sausage, ham hock, duck confit, and cellini beans) and it came out in a large, hot Le Creuset dutch oven. Cassoulet is a humble, yet glorious dish, but is incredibly time-consuming to prepare. I always order it when I see it on the menu. Angele's version is excellent, the best I've had since I visited Bistro Jeanty several years ago. Their artisan cheese platter is as delicious as you would expect. The crispy sweetbreads with sunchokes and Swiss chard were lusty and robust. For dessert, the pot de creme is luscious.

Into the River

I devoted one morning of our vacation to some aquatic cross-training, agreeing to jump in the river and wrestle a fearsome Carneros napagator that had been terrorizing my sister and her neighbors. I was able to subdue him with a couple of moves I learned growing up on the bayou and watching old Tarzan serials. Afterwards, I got in some open-water freestyle. I figured it would come in handy should I enter a triathlon this summer.

If In Napa, CA - II

Boon Fly Cafe -- breakfast barnstormer.

If you get out on the Carneros Highway (the southernmost route between Napa and Sonoma) and it's early in the morning and you're hungry, I would encourage you to stop at The Boon Fly Cafe. It's right off the highway in a sleek red barn. It's on the property of the Carneros Inn, a Seaside-ish resort with colorful cottages, narrow streets, and steep rates.

Donuts.

The Boon Fly would not seem to encourage non-resort diners. A fence partially obscures the cafe from the highway and, if you make the right turn, you find yourself on what looks a studio backlot with limited parking. But do not let that deter you. Park anywhere you like, walk into the "contemporary rustic" dining room, and tell them to send the bill to Cottage 314.

The kitchen.

The Boon Fly makes donuts to order -- cute little old-fashioned ones dredged in cinnamon and sugar and warm to the touch. They're about the size of an Entemann's powdered donut. You can get them by the dozen or 4 with a cup of coffee for $6. Your sweet tooth temporarily sent to the sidelines, you can move onto more savory fare. I recommend the Boon Fly Benedict -- housemade pain levain, thick-sliced ham, poached eggs slathered with jalapeno hollandaise, and hash browns. The hollandaise had just the right spike and they cooked the eggs perfectly.

Boon Fly Benedict.

Of course, you would not be faulted for ordering Poppa Joe's Eggs in a Hole -- griddled sourdough bread with two fried eggs in the center. You could also go with fruit and yogurt or steel cut oatmeal, but why?

Carneros Foot Tour

A long flat road, snaking between the Napa River on one side and marshy sloughs on the other, presented itself at the terminus of our drive west from Yosemite. My sister lives in a camp (not a van) down by the river, and we stayed with her for the remainder of our vacation. That allowed me two mornings of dead-flat, out-and-back running, the morning air infused with the scent of wine grapes and eucalyptus (several strands of eucalyptus trees lined the road), the view extending past marsh, slough, and vineyards before reaching a mountain-rippled horizon. I did about 5 one morning and 6 the other, some strides mixed into both. Not so bad considering they came after evenings spent eating and drinking to excess.