Cato's Republic

Cato goes tomatoes

"After several hours of exercise, the most vigorous hunter feels a need for rest; his face has been caressed by the early-morning breeze; his skill has served him well on occasion; the sun is about to stand at its peak in the sky; it is time for the sportsman to stop for a few hours, not because he is too tired but because instinct warns him that his activity is not limitless." The Hunting Luncheon from The Physiology of Taste, Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin, translated by M.F.K. Fisher.

My campaign manager has been keeping me on a diet of venison and peas. Yes, you read it correctly, venison and peas. You see, I have an allergy that makes me scratch, scritch and generally annoy. My constituents think I have fleas, but I don't really. My vet certified me clean. He decided I might have a food allergy and this diet is suppose to either prove or eliminate that theory.

So when I got the offer to attend a food and wine pairing at Ramekins in Sonoma, I jumped at it. You cannot imagine how dull it can be eating the same thing day in and out. My dinner companion was Peter Bacanovic the famous broker and Martha Stewart's walker until the scandal happened. Both he and I know about scandals, so it is easy for us to let our hair down and hang together. A food and wine pairing was the perfect venue for our friendship.

I sneaked away when my campaign manager was preparing my evening's dull repast. I am sure she wondered what happened as I had been so hungry of late that I'd made slobbering noises as I ate. I turned off my cell. Closed the door softly and ran to the end of the block. Bacanovic's Morgan was waiting. I hopped into the leather seat and we rushed to our dinner appointment.

What ensued was a terrific evening. Ramekins is a charming place and the decor and setup for the winemaker dinner cooking class was warm, inviting and the presentation informative. It also clued me in about sparkling wines and tomatoes, yes you read that right. Paired correctly with the right sparkling wine, heirloom tomatoes take on a whole new meaning in foods, particularly to a cat who does not eat many vegetables at all.

Let me tell you a little about the stars of the evening. The winemaker, Hugh Davies is the president of Schramsberg Vineyards. He is an affable man who could tell you more about sparkling wines than I know about catnip. Schramsberg has long history as a vineyard and the Davies family wines made history when Richard Nixon took a 1969 Blanc de Blancs to China to share with Zhou Enlai.

The Chef was Ryan Fancher the executive chef for El Dorado Kitchen in Sonoma. I have eaten his food many times and he continues to amaze me with the flavor combinations he conjures.

As far as I am concerned the focus of the whole dinner were on those tomatoes. The recipe is simple take Spanish sherry vinegar, extra virgin olive oil, salt, pepper and combine. Slice green zebras, Burraker's Favorite and a golden tomato (type unknown)to desired thickness. Lightly dress the tomatoes with vinaigrette. Combine shallots, arugula, salt, pepper and a little of the vinaigrette and sprinkle on the now very delicate tomatoes and lay them out on a bed of arugula. The smell is delightful. The taste is sweet and herby.

The next is the topper. Pop open a bottle of 1999 J. Schram Sparkling Chardonnay and enjoy. This made my forehead tickle and the back of my tongue sparkle. It has a long finish. The wine combined with the vinaigrette tomatoes made the finish very smooth. The color was golden. I couldn't tell you what the flavors were because my mouth was filled with tomatoes, tomatoes, tomatoes!

Schramsburg produces only 1500 cases of this sparkling Chardonnay a year. It is a blend of chardonnay (74 percent) and Pinot Noir (26 percent) grapes that are mainly grown in the Carneros appellation. Alcohol content is 12.5 percent. It was aged five years before it was released.

As planned Bacanovic's company added just a slight hint of personality disorder to the whole affair making the evening poignant, yet nurishing. I had no idea how much I missed my old life in New York City. We finished the evening with a fast drive up and over the Trinity/Oakville Grade and dropped into the Napa Valley at about 11 pm. At home, I scooped up the waiting venison and peas laid out on the kitchen floor and sneaked onto the foot of the bed about 11:30. My campaign manager was none the wiser.

On the way to Healdsburg

Still harvesting grapes on Hwy 128 in the Alexander Valley Vineyards.

Grapes with red leaves at Hanna Winery.

Balsamic Moon

"Harvest grapes when they are dry, as soon as the new moon comes, if you want good wine and fleshy fruit; if you want small grapes, harvest when the moon has waned and shrunk: for the less moon you have, the less wine you will obtain and the paler it will be; so that at the bottom it will appear watered. Do not harvest grapes between the two moons, either at the waxing or the turning, or the wine will play the same trick on you...In those two phases of waxing and turning, never pour wine into casks or transfer it."

Leone Battista Alberti, poet and painter (1404-1472). Balsamic phase or waning crescent of the moon in the Napa Valley.

On Vox: Signs of fall

"Corn is crammed in every corner and many a wine jar is fragrant with ancient vintages. Here, when Novembers are past and winter soon to come, the rugged pruner brings home the tardy grapes."

» Read more on Vox

Res rusticae: the vintage

As to the vineyards, the vintage should begin when the grapes are ripe; and you must choose the variety of grapes and the part of the vineyard with which to begin. For the early grapes, and the hybrids the so-called black, ripen much earlier and so must be gathered sooner; and the part of the plantation and the vineyard which is sunnier should have its vines stripped first. At the vintage the careful farmer not only gathers but selects his grapes; he gathers for drinking and selects for eating.. So those gathered are carried to the wine-yard, thence to go into the empty jar; those selected are carried to a separate bucket, to be placed thence in small pots and thrust into jars filled with wine dregs, while others are plunged into the pond in a jar sealed with pitch, and still others go up to their place in the larder. When the grapes have been trodden, the stalks and skins should be placed under the press, so that whatever must remains in them may be pressed out into the same vat. When the flow ceases under the press, some people trim around the edges of the mass and press again; this second pressing is called circumsicium, and the juice is kept separate because it tastes of the knife. The pressed grape-skins are turned into jars and water is added; this liquid is called lora, from the fact that the skins are washed (lota), and it is issued to the laborers in the winter instead of wine.

Written by Roman Marcus Terentius Varro in his 80th (approximately 37 B. C.) year for his wife, Fundania, who had just purchased a farm. It is intended as a practical manual of husbandry. His work is usally coupled with de Agri Cultura written by Cato the Elder. At present the whole of the Napa Valley smells of wine as the harvest is on.

Tickle me cato

  "It was starting to snow when I walked inside, into the tendrils of club warmth and reefdive rhythms. Past the cheap door muscle and detectors. Past the throbbing translucent panels where a woman stripped to the waist met my eyes and smeared herself against the glass for me to look at. Past the stoned and strobe-lit dancers, the recorded hallucinations and the chemical smiles. All the way in, I worried at it, like a wolf with a limb caught in a trap."

I'd been resleeved in who knows what, but I could see that it was bright red. I'd woken up alone. I'd found a note in my hand. A hand that was more the texture of carpeting and still effervescent red. Where was I? Was I home? How many centuries had it been?

And then the memories came crashing in. Earth 2030, my presidency at its zenith. My popularity soaring. The prosperity of the nation at an historical high. Then the assassin's bullet struck me in the chest. The pain from the gunshot ached once again.

The note in my hand said I would meet my envoy in this club. Looking for a likely suspect, I passed a mirror. At first I didn't recognize the model of the sleeve. It was red. In fact, I was so bright, compared to the rest of the club, it hurt my eyes. "Hey wait a minute, I recognize this. The kid next door had one," I said aloud to no one in particular. Then I was on the floor. Clutching my belly. Flipped to my side. Then suddenly stood up as if seized by some horrible, unexplainable tic. I was laughing uncontrollably, moving to hysteria. Then I was on my belly, again pounding the floor next to the heels of a gyrating dancer. I could not stop laughing.

Tickle Me Elmo. I was breathless they had resleeved me as Tickle Me Elmo. It was horrible. What would my constituents think?

That's when I saw her -- my contact. A woman, of course.There was no way they'd use a man, knowing what they did about my background. Abandoned by a marauding, unneutered Siamese before birth. Ripped from the paws of my feral mother as a kitten. Raised in a bread bowl on the kitchen table until I was too big for the table. My ambitions steeped by my campaign manager, who thought I was the smartest kitty in the county. No, it was a woman. Some urban executive aunt, a secret-service caretaker for the doddering former President Bush. You could tell by the red dress she wore. An understated beauty in a custom-grown clone sleeve, something from early 2006, something mannish and puerile. A Republican operative. No doubt about it.

"Welcome back to Washington D. C., Cato-san. Are you comfortable?" I was afraid she would reach out and tickle me starting the whole spastic effect over again.

"Comfortable, I look like a fucking toy! How comfortable would you be if you burst out laughing and did the most contorted and giggly lap dance right there in front of everyone. You've resleeved me as a fucking, exhibitionist toy with unholy sexual overtones."

I stopped for a second and examined my sleeve closely. "In fact, I'm an intact male again. Not neutered at all!"

Exactly, Cat-san, we want to you to be potent. To possess your natural killer tendencies for your run as President of the United States. You did such a good job the first time around and it has been such a long time since any Republican has held office. Not since Mr. Bush's daughter, Jenna Welsh Bush, held it. It has been 50 long years."

"So you're running Tickle Me Elmo for office of the President of the United States?" I was aghast.

"Yes, we believe the voters are just tired enough of the Democrats they'll go for a bright red toy instead. We think you will make an inspiring candidate, Cato-san. And we think you will do everything we ask because you are so grateful that we saved your cortical stack before you died completely."

As a Siamese-cross, I am able to absorb and process environmental detail at speeds normal humans cans only dream about. I could hear her thinking and I did not like what I heard. Looking around, I could hardly contain my anger at being resleeved in the ungodly red carpet. I wanted to reach out and remove her cortical stack with my claws, but i had no claws. I tried to hiss but all that came out was a giggle.

"Who are you?" I snapped.

"It does not matter who I am, you know who I represent," she said deftly skirting the question.

"Is this a solo act or do I have a running mate?"

"Cato-san, you have been shelved so long you do not realize that the President of the United States is a hereditary office. You will rule absolutely, with (she covered her smile) an iron hand."

"And what former Bush do I resemble? Who's gonna claim me as an ancestor, Barbara Bush?" Suddenly it struck me, the spastic giggling began all over again. I fell to my knees doubled over. Unbelievably, I walked myself across the floor with my feet, all the while, pounding away with one red paw as if some awful joke was contained inside my body. It was waiting to explode sending shards of Tickle Me Elmo into the dancers.

Yes, I knew the Republicans needed me and there was nothing I could do about it.

My apologies to Richard K. Morgan, author of Altered Carbon and Woken Furies. There is much here that I have lifted, all indicated in italic. Homage to Tickle Me Elmo TMX.

On Vox: The vintage

XXIII. Have everything that is needed ready for the vintage; let vats be cleaned, baskets mended and pitched, necessary jars be pitched on rainy days; let hampers be made ready and mended, spelt be ground, salt fish be bought, and windfall olives be salted. Gather the inferior grapes for the sharp wine for the hands to drink, when the time comes. Divide the grapes gathered each day, after cleaning and drying, equally between the jars. If necessary, add to the new wine a fortieth part of must boiled down from untrod grapes, or a pound and a half of salt to the culleus. If you use marble dust, add one pound to the culleus; mix this with must in the vessel and then pour into a jar. If you use resin, pulverize it thoroughly, three pounds to the culleus of must, place it in a basket, and suspend it in the jar of must; shake the basket often so that the resin may dissolve. When you use boiled must or marble dust or resin, stir frequently for twenty days and press down daily. Divide the must of the second pressing and add equally to each jar.

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