Like Max in “Where the Wild Things are” my nights are sailing into days and the days into weeks. In this quasi-delirium relief comes not in salvation, but salivation.
The thoughts of delights to come keeps me perky, and I have decided. The first dinner when I leave here will start with roasted marrow bones on toast. Marrow bones are a gluttony so delicate and so satisfying that I think they weigh in well above foie gras.
I was checking out this recipe, a shortened of Fergus Henderson’s at London’s St John. It will be accompanied by a very fine dry Riesling from Alsace, Weinbach or Zind Humbrecht perhaps, or if I am feeling particularly mad, a bottle of Clos Ste. Hune.
No, a bottle of Clos Set. Hune it will definitely be. It’s been fifteen years since I tasted the 1990, and like l’Oréal, I’m worth it.
And Ste. Hune? Well, she was a sixth century nun during the Frank era in ancient Burgundy. Born into to a “famille noble mais désunie“, she was banished to the kitchens, then married of to a “noble brutal“. Preserving her chastity, Sainte Hune got herself to a nunnery and dedicated her life to God and menial tasks. She died c. 700 around the age of 100.