The Excesses of Spring

The word feast has many nuances of meaning, many of which I have been reflecting on for the past few months. One of these is a certain suggestion of excess; a tendency towards indulgence. It is that sizable slab of butter on your baguette; that third glass of Chianti; that generous ladle of cream on your rhubarb crumble.

This Easter I explored this immoderate aspect of feasting. My studies of the subject began early in the day and—I will steadfastly maintain—were no fault of my own. I had an opening shift at The Coffee Shop on Sunday. Given that it was a holiday, and Easter at that, I felt slightly resentful of my position. Any satisfactory Easter, I commented to a coworker, should begin not by sweating over espresso at 7 am, but rather with a refreshing mimosa sipped in the sunshine at 11 am. Sighing at the injustice of life I went back to my beans.

Eleven o’clock rolled around and I was enjoying a break and when another coworker ambled over and sat down beside me. He wasn’t working that day and we began chatting. Soon I was reiterating my thoughts on Easter mimosas, glad of a fresh ear to hear my woes. He stared at me, eyes glinting and beard twitching with glee. “The Braeburn has mimosas, right next door. Let’s go over. I’ll buy you one.”

I grinned back. “I have 15 minutes.”

And that is what started off the string of excess which characterized Easter Sunday. One glass of champagne and orange juice later I went back to work in a more amiable mood and spent the rest of my shift beaming benevolently at customers and producing ever-so-slightly wobbly latte art. The feeling of bonhomie lasted until I got home, at which point the booze was already flowing swiftly and I had no choice but to join in the toasting. Then there was dinner and accompanied by more wine and finally I finished the evening in style by polishing off my dad’s bottle of Rémy Matin in a fit of pique. He had irritated me by offering the last of his whiskey to my male friends and neglecting to give me even a drop. Simmering with feminist indignation I headed for the liquor cabinet and seized the bottle of cognac. Hah! That should teach him.

As for the main event of the evening, the lamb from Sea Breeze farm was as good as those cheeky smiles had promised: rich, juicy, and aromatic with the windswept freshness of Northwest meadow grasses. This final characteristic was deliciously framed by the sauce verde that I made to accompany it. The recipe for this most excellent concoction came, yet again, from Boss Man. It was as great a pleasure to prepare as to eat. And, after a day of alcoholic excess, the simple task of macerating fresh herbs together with mortar and pestle had a cleansing and invigorating effect on my bleary intellect.

Sauce Verde
2 parts parsley
1 part basil
1 part mint
1 clove garlic
Coarse sea salt
Anchovy fillets
Capers
Dijon mustard
Olive oil
Lemon juice

Finely chop the herbs and set aside. Using a mortar and pestle, combine the garlic, several anchovies, salt, and a smattering of capers and mash into a smooth paste. Add the herbs, a dab of Dijon mustard, and a generous portion of olive oil and whisk together well. Adjust the acid with lemon juice and season to taste with salt and pepper.