|Old School Chicken Piccata|
In Spring, things are different, though. The winter rains--no matter how few--magically turn the landscape into a patchwork of rolling green hills, incredibly lush and tempting, the wildflowers bedazzle the landscape, first with the bright orange poppies, shocking waves of yellow mustard, and then later on, seemingly endless streams of blue lupine. Along with those famous California blue skies and sunshine, grazing cows and sheep, and winding country roads, there's nothing we want to do but get into the car and spend the better part of an afternoon roaming the back roads, taking pictures, and working up an appetite for Sunday dinner.
Sunday dinners haven't always been top on my list. When I was very young and my father very strict, Sundays would drag on forever; there were no children's programs on the television, no friends to play with, and no places to go. Later, after my parents divorced, I spent weekends at my grandparents's house and after Sunday dinner--at noon, mind you--we'd pile into my grandfather's big brown Oldsmobile and ride off in search of adventure. I lived in Colorado at the time, so there were many Sunday drives to the mountains, then when we tired of that, my grandfather would drive us to see the new model homes in the housing tracts that were becoming ever more popular, to the mall on the other side of town for window shopping, or to a museum or historical site that had been of particular interest.
There was no hurry on Sunday and he'd drive slow enough so we could enjoy the scenery and people watch along the way. Sometimes we'd play games, looking for unusual license plates or models of cars, but mostly, we'd listen to my grandmother's stories, or sometimes, the radio, until my grandfather would decide to take that next turn, the one that would take us back home.
Sunday supper was at 5 p.m. sharp and consisted on nothing more than reheating the afternoon meal, smaller portions, but, second helpings of dessert--if there was enough to go around.
Mr. B and I are far more casual when it comes to Sunday dinners. During the winter, we like roasting or braising somewhat large cuts of meat or whole chickens, long and slow, until the house is filled with the smells of our cooking and our appetites are stoked by the anticipation. In the summertime, however, Mr. B will man the grill while I make salad and slice bread. Sometimes, mostly between the seasons, I'll cook old school suppers, meals not in our usual rotation, but dishes seemingly from another place and time, but still well-loved by both of us.
This past Sunday, after walking through meadows richly scented with wildflowers and fresh earth, after I'd trounced over fields of chamomile until the heady aroma threatened to overtake me, after we stopped at a little winery on the edge of a neighboring town and sipped our glasses of wine as we gazed over the landscape, I returned to my kitchen to pound out the chicken breasts and cut fresh herbs. It was almost dinner time and I decided to surprise Mr. B with chicken piccata.