Sorry, Grendel

I recently made a pate in which I left Grendel at home in his watery redoubt. Everything (leg of pork, no additional fat) was chopped a mano. I took, as Frost says, the path less traveled. He was right. I'm better for it.

This terrine was the equivalent of a bearded, long-haired, flannel shirt, blue jean, muddy boot wearing dude from Michigan (wait, I just described myself).

It wasn't that I was scared of Grendel, or his Mother, though the last time I brought her out to play she nearly devoured the fingertip of a close friend. They're both ravenously hungry, those two.

I am attempting to describe a terrine's texture. It was something like riding a jeep up a mountain trail of switchbacks and boulders. It was rugged, chewy, a little scary.

And the Armagnac. It was like tandem sky-diving with a tuxedoed waiter holding flutes of champagne.

It was too boozy, but tasty. Guiltily so.

This video is from a Seattle food blogger event last weekend orchestrated by the inestimable Keren Brown.

I will try and post the other videos from this event, though my slow computer crashed my browser just trying to look at the still video on her blog, so bare with me.