The only time I have really eaten fresh truffles was at A Voce, a restaurant near Madison Park, where we celebrated a birthday of mine one October. Me, the Frenchman and my mom. We ordered pasta - I think it was tagliatelle, and slices of white truffle were shaved over the bowls as we watched, after the whole truffle had been presented to each one of us, first, for a good sniff.
It was wonderful.
I didn't ever think we'd have our own truffle, all to ourselves, but then came Instagram and forager-farmers I follow (@primordiafarm), and a picture of a handful of black truffles, and a casual question, from me. Fast forward. Today the four-ounce truffle above was delivered to Brooklyn, packed in an insulated bag, with dry ice (also some extra nubbins, which I grated into some butter and stirred into silky mashed potatoes for dinner).
The truffle is an anniversary gift for the Frenchman, and it turns out he really is the one appreciating it this snowy weekend, as I have such a horrible cold that I. Can. Smell. Nothing. Cruel timing. But while I was making the compound butter below he said the whole house smelled of truffles.
I am hoping for a miracle before Sunday and before we run out of truffle. Their aroma does not last long at all, and they must be used quickly. Also, no heat, please. Grate, microplane, or add at the last minute to hot or warm dishes. This coaxes out the aroma, and that is what truffles are...
Oh, the eggs. I've always read that the eggs will absorb truffle-perfume if kept with it in a sealed jar (which I used, post picture) - though I think that the heat in cooking the omelette or souffle or scrambled eggs will probably do the truffle-smell in,
We shall see.
The snow has started to fall, and tomorrow the world will look and sound and seem very different.