dinner for nine

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I am trying to remember this meal. My home-picked rabbit simmering on the stove all day—wine, stock, onion, with a little savory and marjoram. We drank a nice little Coteaux du Vendômois rosé, made from Pineau d’Aunis, with a beautiful color, and an amazing floral bouquet, and a steely unfloral taste. Guests arrived between five and six, bearing scallops in cream sauce, and a dried-tomato sauce and chèvre, and a fine loaf of home-baked bread. Also, we had some herbed and oiled garbanzo beans. We finished off a few eccentric ends of bottles of wine. Made a fire in the back-yard, and sat around until dark, when the last guests arrived.

We set in on the back deck. The rabbit, over wild rice, with a pleasant, typical Côtes du Rhône. Then the goat leg, oven-roasted, with small potatoes, green-beans, and a pair of Aglianicos. Forgetting the salad, next was chocolate mousse with coffee cream, in martini glasses, and a claufoutis. Then most of us left, and there was a little fire-sitting, and some whisky.

A remarkably simple meal. I think I say that partly because there was so little running around, so little actual cooking to do once everyone had arrived.

My 28th birthday. Not bad.



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