All That Jazz

I’ll admit to having the strangest week ever.  Well, not ever ever, but ever.

Part of it must have to do with the fat, thick white asparagus spears tasting faintly of walnuts flown in from Holland and poached in butter to appear then on my plate.  Another part has to do with a single black Oregon truffle.  And of course we’re talking fresh porcini and blond morels, also Oregon-ites, that deepen the flavors of everything that they make contact with.

Sort of Terri Lynn Carrington and her interpretation of “Money Jungle.”

But more visceral.

And what’s strange is what’s unspoken, untasted, and hidden beneath the surface.




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