Tea & Cookies

An Adventurous Thanksgiving

2009-11-23T12:08:00.000-08:00

I like to think I’m a fairly adventurous person—I’ve climbed steep mountains and traveled to far off lands on my own. I know how to scuba dive and rescue victims of backcountry avalanches. Once I even took the controls of a small airplane (with an instructor looking over my shoulder). I like to try new and exciting things.

But I'm not adventurous in all ways. When I go to certain restaurants I always order the same thing. When I go on road trips, I stop at the same gas station every time (more on this later in the week). And when it comes to Thanksgiving, I like the same meal every year. You may call me a creature of habit, I'd say I'm a creature of ritual. I like my traditions—most of which I’ve created myself. My childhood didn’t come with much regularity, I've had to fill in the gaps.

This means every year I want the same stuffing (when you come up with your absolute favorite stuffing ever, why would you flirt with anything else?). I want my mother’s roasted root vegetables that gleam like jewels on a plate, and my brother’s mashed potatoes (I’m not entrusted with such things after the year I made potato paste). I’m not so attached to the side dishes, although there must be something green, and I do love the salads my brother makes with nuts and tiny cubes of diced apple.

As you can see, as far as I’m concerned, most of the Thanksgiving menu is set in stone.

[In my family, turkey is always up for debate: this year we’re having twelve people, only two of whom eat meat.]

I know people who shake it up, who try different things each year—deep fried turkeys, Caribbean-inspired Thanksgiving, Asian fusion meals with hoisin-glazed birds. That’s fine and I salute you, but come Thanksgiving I want to be with my family and I want to have flavors that are familiar and comforting. That’s what matters to me.

Except last year. Last year I flirted with change.

I blame it on Gourmet magazine, now gone and sorely missed (I’m still in mourning). They published a feature last fall on the four-hour Thanksgiving—how to throw a whole feast together in four hours. There was a cranberry sauce recipe that piqued my interest, a cranberry conserve with ginger, tangerine, and golden raisins.

Ginger, tangerine, and golden raisins—hello?

(It also had a stunning photo by Romulo Yanes, I love messy food photography.)

So last year—in addition to our tradition of my mom’s long-simmered cranberry sauce, and cranberry-orange relish—I tried the cranberry conserve. I made a double batch, because it sounded so good, and I ended up wishing I had made more. It was good—it was amazing, the tangerine flavor and ginger an unexpected but perfect partnership, the raisins chewy and plump. I distinctly remember standing in front of the fridge the day after Thanksgiving and eating it with a spoon.

This year I’m making triple the recipe—it’s my new tradition.

For those looking for Thanksgiving inspiration, here's our annual feast:

My very favorite stuffing

My mom's roasted root vegetables

The pumpkin soup we used to serve (until I realized no one cares about soup at Thanksgiving)

How about you? Are you adventurous or traditionalist when it comes to Thanksgiving?

CRANBERRY TANGERINE CONSERVE

From Gourmet, recipe by Ruth Cousineau

Makes about 1 1/2 cups (trust me, you'll want more)

I don’t usually post recipes that are not mine, but who knows how long the Gourmet archives will be available online. I have made a few tweaks to the recipe, but not much. I thank Ruth Cousineau for this wonderful recipe that will be part of my Thanksgivings for many years to come.

As Gourmet writes: “Throw everything in the pan, and voilà! Cranberry sauce. It’s just five ingredients simmering on the stove, but it tastes beguilingly complex. Tangerine juice and zest, fresh ginger, and plump golden raisins add a citrusy, spicy sweetness to tart, bursting cranberries.”

2 tight-skinned tangerines (I use Satsuma mandarins, organic since the skin is used)

3/4 lb fresh or frozen cranberries (a bit more than 3 cups)

1 teaspoon grated peeled ginger

1/2 cup golden raisins

2/3 cup packed light brown sugar (I use 1/2 cup plus a pinch)

Using a vegetable peeler or sharp knife, peel a 4-inch strip of peel, 1-inch wide, from the tangerine or mandarin orange. Scrape any white pith from the inside (not possible or necessary with mandarin oranges) and cut the zest/peel in tiny threads.

Squeeze both tangerines. You want 1/3 cup juice.

Add juice, cranberries, orange peel threads, ginger, and raisins to a medium saucepot. Bring to a boil, stirring until sugar has dissolved, and reduce heat. Simmer uncovered for about 15 minutes, stirring regularly, until berries have burst. Remove from heat and cool.

Can be made 2 days ahead and chilled.

The Soup Whose Flavor Was Kindness

2009-11-20T21:45:00.000-08:00

The last day at the old house, I woke up on a mattress on the floor of an empty room. I closed the window to my childhood bedroom, shutting out the view of the jasmine my mother had planted for me just outside. Each summer, the scent of blooming jasmine would waft in on the breeze. I loved that. But this was the last time I would close this particular window. I won’t smell the jasmine ever again.

I walked through empty rooms, footsteps echoing, memories following me like hungry ghosts.

I wrote a note to the little girl who will be living in my bedroom, and I hid it in the closet where she might discover it some day. Some day when she's learned how to read.

I went out into the garden, that ring of green that encloses the house making it feel private and quiet. Once you walked though the gate, you were in another world, a place I always felt safe and comforted.

I looked up at the fig tree, covered in unripe fruit. Someone else would be eating the figs this fall—if the birds didn’t get them all first. That’s generally how it goes.

I picked three figs, the three closest to being ripe. These I would take with me, one final taste of home.

I took cuttings of the pink rose bush, a fragrant old-fashioned rose with huge blooms that smell intoxicatingly sweet. I've never propagated roses before, but I know it's possible. Hopefully I can figure out how to get them to grow into a bush, a daughter of the one I grew up with. Though I can't imagine the blooms could ever smell so sweet. Some things cannot be replicated.

And I stood for a moment, trying to memorize the feeling of the sunlight filtering down through the wisteria vines. My mom planted the wisteria when we first moved in, twenty-four years ago. Now it climbs two stories, on vines thick and rope-like. Every year is has to be cut back or it would take over the house.

Then I took one last picture, of myself surrounded by all that green. The overgrown jungle of a yard I had grown up in. I remember the night I tried to sleep in the hammock, only to dump myself and my sleeping bag out halfway through. I remember the chickens we used to have and how I hated waking up early on weekends to let them out (no teenager wants to wake up early, ever). I remember hiding from my brother, hiding from the world, hiding my feelings for this scrappy bit of land that was always home.

Then I got in the car and drove away for the last time, tears running down my face.

I fully intended to cry until somewhere near Redding, three hours away. I was leaving late in the day and needed to cover as much distance as possible; it’s a long drive from San Francisco to Seattle. But something made me skip the exit that leads to the big highway. I had decided to go out of my way to stop in Petaluma at Della Fattoria, my favorite bread bakery and café. I often stop here when I am heading north, but I usually do it early in the morning. Their egg sandwich with olive tapanade, made with eggs from their own chickens, is my favorite road trip breakfast.

I wasn’t even sure I was going to stop—I didn’t have time. But when I found a parking spot right in front of the bakery, I took it as a sign. I dried my tears and dashed in to pick up some snacks and bread. It would be my last taste of Northern California.

There at the large, long table that I love so much was Kathleen Weber, the matriarch of the family who runs this bakery I love so much. I’ve been buying bread from her for ten years. She was just finishing a late lunch.

“What are you doing here?” she asked in surprise, and stood up to hug me. At this small gesture of comfort I crumpled and started crying all over again. Kathleen listened to my woes, patted me on the back, and sat me down at the table. Did I have time to stay for lunch?

I absolutely didn’t, but I was going to anyway. In the midst of crisis, no one turns away from kindness.

Before I knew it there was a bowl of soup on the table in front of me, and I was munching on a grilled cheese sandwich made of Mt. Tam cheese and sharp apple on Della’s amazing walnut bread. I sat there and chatted with Kathleen and her daughter Elisa, who helps run the café, and a friend of theirs. We ate and talked about inconsequential things, nothing life changing, nothing serious (though I may have tried to convince Kathleen to move family and bakery up to Seattle), but the food, the company, the laughter. It was exactly what I needed.

When I went to leave the café an hour later, Kathleen wouldn’t let me pay for my meal, even though I tried. She loaded me up with goodies for the road and gave me a hug and sent me on my way feeling that, if we are lucky enough to encounter such kindness when needed, the world must be a pretty okay place after all. Even on the day you leave your childhood home.

When I sit down to Thanksgiving later this week, I will be thankful for amazing people like Kathleen Weber, grateful for the kindness.

More about the wonderful Weber family of Della Fattoria

PUTTING THE PIECES BACK TOGETHER SPINACH SOUP

This isn’t the soup that Kathleen fed me at Della Fattoria, but it does the same job. The recipe came to me via a friend, Lalie, who made it when we were both living in Japan, far from home. I believe it may trace its roots to the Moosewood Cookbook, though their version calls for carrots and other things.

I hadn’t made this soup in years, and I had forgotten how wonderfully sustaining it can be. There’s so much spinach in here that it feels like it has to be healthy, and the potato gives it a flavor that is very vaguely reminiscent of (dare I say it?) potato chips. In the midst of a very stormy Seattle fall, it’s my new/old favorite. All I wish is that I had some of that great Della Fattoria bread. As you can see, it's sorely lacking here in Seattle.

I'm still trying to convince Kathleen to move north. She's the sort of person you want in the neighborhood.

3 medium potatoes

1 onion

3 cloves garlic

1 pound spinach (2 bunches)

3 cups water

2 tbs butter

2 tbs flour

1 1/2 cup milk

(you can substitute heavy cream for the above three ingredients if you'd like an easier/gluten-free option).

3 tbs salt

pepper to taste

Peel potatoes and cut into large chunks. Peel onion and cut into eights. Peel garlic. Add all three ingredients to a large soup pot and cover with water (about 3 cups). Since the soup will eventually be blended, you don't need to worry about cutting into small pieces.

Throughly rinse the spinach. I do this by submerging the bunches in a large bowl of water and shaking them vigorously while underwater. This should dislodge the grit. Pour out the first round of water and repeat until the water runs clean (2 times is usually adequate).

Then I trim the pinkish root bit off the spinach. The great joy of this recipe is that you can use the green stems.

Add the spinach on top of the potato/onion/garlic mix. It's not necessary for the spinach to be submerged under the water, but the rest of the vegetables should be. Cover the pot and bring it to a boil. Reduce heat and cook at a strong simmer until the potatoes and onions are cooked soft, about 15 minutes. The spinach should have wilted from the heat.

Blend the vegetables and the cooking water until smooth using an immersion blender or by transferring the mixture to a stand blender.

The resulting concoction will be brilliantly green. The color of an Irish field in County Cork.

If you wanted to make the soup vegan, I suppose you could stop right there. In that case, I might add some fresh herbs. The flavor at this point isn't bad, it's just aggressively green-tasting. As if someone cooked up and blended down their lawn. Herbs would take the edge off nicely (I'm thinking chervil, or thyme).

If you don't have vegan leanings, continue with the recipe by melting the butter in a saucepan, preferably one with a rounded bottom. Once the butter has melted, sprinkle the flour in slowly, whisking the mixture constantly so that the flour is evenly incorporated. You want it whisked smooth, no lumps.

Continue whisking the resulting paste over a medium heat, and slowly begin to add the milk, pouring in a small even stream. Whisk constantly, until the mixture loosens. If you continue to whisk over medium heat, the roux (that's what you're making) will begin to thicken. This should take no more than five minutes once all the ingredients are mixed.

Scrape the roux into the green soup mixture and stir or whisk to blend.

If you want to make this soup gluten-free, it's also possible to use heavy cream rather than going through the trouble of a roux. I did a test run with a small sample and the flavor was good. I cannot tell you how much cream to use, however, as I only did a sample. I'd add a cup, then proceed slowly, adding and tasting until you get to the point you like. If you are trying this route, you might want to use slightly less water, so the soup is still thick enough.

Add salt and pepper as you like. A tiny bit of nutmeg can be a nice touch as well.

Makes a big pot of soup—4-6 servings. I wouldn't try freezing this soup, as potatoes do not freeze well. Better you should share it with someone who needs it. They'll be grateful for the kindness.

Stalking Wonder: Sunset on Bolinas Ridge

2009-11-19T23:15:00.000-08:00

The one bright spot in this whole losing childhood home business, is that when I was in California, my best friend came home for a visit. I call her my best friend—she is my oldest friend—but the truth is we almost never see each other these days. She lives in New York, I am a confirmed West Coaster. When she flew in to SFO and I picked her up at the airport, we hadn't seen each other in three years.

Three years, that's almost negligent.

But that doesn't matter with a best friend. You start up again as if nothing ever happened, as if one of you had stepped out to use the phone. The rules that govern the time/space continuum are suspended when it comes to this sort of friendship. She is simply part of the fabric of who I am.

Sadly, we didn't get to see each other much. She was on deadline, I was packing, we were both crazy with no time to spare. But there was one thing we had to do—come hell or high water. Who knew when we'd see each other again? Who knew if we'd ever be in Northern California at the same time? With my mom selling her house, it's unlikely that our paths will cross in our hometown ever again. This was probably our very last chance.

We had to watch sunset on Bolinas Ridge.

When we were growing up, as soon as we could drive, the local ritual was to head up the mountain for sunset on a steep ridge that overlooks the small coastal town of Bolinas, to watch the sun slip into the ocean, the day come to a close. If I once told someone that Mt. Tam is my religion, this is what constitutes services.

My friend picked me up and we headed up the mountain, high enough that we began to see glimpses of the bay.

Climbing on winding roads.

With sheer drop-offs.

(Can you imagine we drove these roads as teenagers? Scary).

My friend was driving. I was taking blurry photos. And if there was a soundtrack to the experience, it would have been Don Henley's The Boys of Summer. For years I held onto the tape (yes, tape) from high school days, and would slip it in when we headed up the mountain (I have mentioned the nostalgia already, yes?). But who knows where the tape disappeared to...and who has a tape player anymore?

Soundtrack or no soundtrack, we were chasing the setting sun.

Soon we had reached the upper part of the mountain and could see glimpses of San Francisco, the city beginning to glitter in the growing dark.

We made our way around to the west flank of the mountain. This is the point where you become worried that perhaps you might have missed the sunset already, that you might have come all this way and been too late, but do not give up hope. The sunset is waiting for you.

We emerged on the western side of the mountain, where dry grass covers the slopes and the trees crouch in ravines. This is the symphony of Northern California—golden grass, dark trees, blue skies turning to pink, the vast ocean beyond.

If you're a local—as we are—you'll know where to pull the car over. You'll know where the path begins. You'll follow it. We did.

And you'll come upon a ridge with a view of Bolinas: the mouth of the lagoon there, the curve of Stinson Beach rising up to meet it, the point of Duxbury Reef stretching out into the ocean.

(The Bolinas cabin is down there as well; that too is now gone, it's too sad to even talk about).

The sun was setting into the ocean, and the fog was rolling in.

Seriously rolling, just a few yards away.

But a little fog was not going to dissuade us. We're Northern Californians, we're not scared of fog. We grew up in the stuff.

We sat down on the dry grass, and talked, and laughed.

We talked about things you can only talk about with a best friend. And oh how we laughed!

And we ate the dinner we brought with us, because that is another part of the Bolinas Ridge experience. There is only one meal you would ever think of having on Bolinas Ridge and that is burritos, straight up.

(Mine is Cajun shrimp, which I realize is blasphemy in the burrito world, but it's also darn good; don't knock it until you've tried it).

And all around us, everywhere we looked, was beauty.

And the fog rolled in, but we kept on talking and laughing.

But we were getting pretty cold. A shivery kind of cold.

I didn't really care though. I was on my mountain, with my friend, and all was right with the world.

Then my friend said what one of always says when we're on the mountain:
"We're so lucky we get to live here."

But we realized we don't. Neither of us lives there anymore, not really. I can't even claim parental residence any longer. I'm still not sure how this can be true.

And just when we thought the sunset couldn't possibly get any more beautiful, it did.

About Stalking Wonder: the project started Spring of '09, in an attempt to bring wonder back into my life and onto the site, to make the time to appreciate what is all around. Read how it started, or check out the full archives. Stalking Wonder posts usually go up on Friday, they may or may not have anything to do with food.

Goodbye to the Old Kitchen

2009-11-17T14:41:00.000-08:00

My mom decided to move recently. She’d been thinking about it for awhile, but hadn’t planned on doing anything until next year (and between you and me, I wasn’t so sure it was such a good idea). Then things changed. All of a sudden next year became now. The house sold and she had three weeks to sort through and pack the contents of a home she’d lived in for twenty-four years.

And suddenly, I had to say goodbye.

This isn’t my childhood home, where we moved when I was fifteen. My high school days were spent here, and summers home from college. I remember driving out of the driveway for the first time all by myself, newly minted driver’s license in my pocket. There were family fights (there is a patched hole where my brother and I put the door knob though the wall in one of our tussles), and family holidays, and nights spent playing board games in front of the fireplace and listening to jazz on the old record player. There’s also a thicket of ivy where, each morning on my way to school, I used to hide the bicycle helmet my mom made me wear.

And then there is the kitchen.

I hadn’t realized how emotional I would be until I thought about the kitchen. This is where I taught myself to cook. The early lessons took place elsewhere, but this is where I made jam for the first time, and puff pastry, and where I threw my first dinners and brunches and parties. I remember sitting at the kitchen table, paging through an ancient copy of the Joy of Cooking. When I think of home, it is that sun-filled room that I think of most.

They say the kitchen is the heart of the home, and that is particularly true of this one. This was where we hung out—at the worn, round oak table we’d bought years ago at a garage sale. The south side of the kitchen was all glass windows and sliding doors and the light streamed through and when you looked out all you could see was green trees and leafy hillsides. It was an optical illusion, there are plenty of other houses in the neighborhood, but when you look out at the hills, all you see is green.

And then there was the stove. It was an old Wedgewood, gas-fueled and sturdy. The pilot light meant that the top was always a bit warm—the perfect temperature to put dough to rise or butter to slowly melt. On those rare winter storms, you could come in out of the wet and put your cold hands on the stove and feel like it was all going to be okay again.

I’ve never understood electric stoves. What do people do when the power goes out?

For years we said that, when the time eventually came to move, we’d take that stove with us (though honestly, I couldn’t imagine my mom ever not living in that house). My mom said she'd buy a replacement stove to leave behind, although I wasn’t sure that would be necessary. I've been fairly certain that whoever bought the house would tear it down. It was one of few humble houses in a neighborhood that had grown grand around us. I didn’t think anyone would want to live in a cozy house surrounded by a large, overgrown garden. I expected it to be replaced by a mini-mansion, complete with three-car garage, built out to within feet of the property line.

In all the hustle and bustle of a quick sale, the stove was forgotten, and by the time I brought it up it was too late. The stove wasn’t ours anymore. “What would you do with it?” my mom wanted to know. It was impractical—I know that. I’ve already insisted on hanging onto the wood-burning stove from my childhood home (another large, heavy, metal thing I don’t yet have a home to put in), my nostalgia should probably be kept in check.

But oh am I going to miss that stove. Oh do I wish there had been a way to keep it. Even now, the move over and done with, the thought of it brings me to tears. I’ll miss so much about that house (I don’t yet really believe it is gone), but the stove—the thing that could have feasibly been brought with—is the thing I mourn the most.

Though perhaps it is no accident that I fixate on these stoves. When I was a little kid we cooked soup on the wood-fired kitchen stove when the power went out, and got dressed in front of it in the winter when our bedrooms were cold. The old Wedgewood stove warmed my hands and coaxed my bread to rise and put forth the meals we gathered around as I grew to adulthood. They say home is where the heart is, but for me it might just be where the warm stove is.

Now, it’s gone.

The happy note in all this upheaval is that the house is not being torn down (thank you, recession). It’s been bought by a young family who understands its funky charm. They’ll make changes, to be sure, but they like the big yard, they don’t want a mini-mansion. They’re even resurrecting the old coop where we kept chickens when we first moved into the house, they’ve already bought the baby chicks. The wife is an artist and loves the light that floods through the windows. The husband is a local boy who grew up on the coast and played on the same beaches where my brother and I played. There is even a little girl who is going to have my old bedroom. Really, it’s all good.

But oh how sad it makes me, in the midst of all that good. One day, as I was packing, I started scheming on how I might somehow set up my mom and the father of the man who is buying the house (they run in similar circles, have even met once or twice). Perhaps if they started dating, then I’d have an excuse to stop by every once in a while. I don't want to live in the house, but it would be nice to be able to still visit.

Clearly I am going to be one of those people who make pilgrimages back to their childhood home every few years, to drive slowly down the street they grew up on, to try and peer into the yard where they once played.

Clearly I am too nostalgic for my own good.

But oh will I miss that stove.

The Joy of a Sharp Knife

2009-11-11T13:14:00.000-08:00

I grew up in a house with no sharp knives. None.

Let me repeat that: no sharp knives.

I think this was my mother’s way of trying to protect her kids. She thought if the knives were dull, we wouldn’t cut ourselves on them. To my knowledge, she’s never had any of her knives sharpened, not ever. Her approach to parenting was to keep her children far from perceived danger.

The downside of this is that I eventually had to go out into the world of sharp knives and didn’t know how to handle them. While babysitting one evening, I sliced part of my finger off. I still have a small spot that is missing its fingerprint. It’s such a distinctive mark that it probably disqualifies me from a life of crime.

Knives can be an intimidating thing, even to those who spend a lot of time in the kitchen. It was years before I got any decent knives, and even longer before I got the hang of caring for them. There are different types—some quite expensive—and it’s hard to know which way to go. Should I buy heavy German knives (Wusthof, Henckels, and more), or go for the ultra light Japanese knives? (Global, Shun, etc). And what about ceramic knives, are they any good?

Knives seemed like wine—a place where the neophyte is never quite sure she’s doing the right thing.

And yet, once I took the plunge and upgraded, the entire kitchen experience became a joy. Slicing is easy, dicing a pleasure, tiresome bits of chopping are dispatched quickly and with much less effort. You barely even cry over onions! There is such joy to working with a sharp knife.

I mention this because Thanksgiving is coming up, and that’s my cue to sharpen my knives. If I’m going to be spending a full day in the kitchen, I want to have the tools to enjoy my time there. This week I’m dropping my knives off to be sharpened (I use Epicurean Edge in Kirkland, WA). If I might be so bold, I’d suggest you do so too—and don’t wait until next week. Things get backed up at the knife store once everyone starts pulling out their carving sets in anticipation of roast turkey. You want to beat the rush.

For those of you who have yet to experience the joy of a good sharp knife, here’s some advice I’ve learned. I was scared of buying knives for many years. I wish I had gotten over it sooner.

Go to a store where you can hold and feel the knives. It’s almost impossible to know what style of knife is going to appeal to you. I like the heavier German-style knives, and I prefer Wusthof to Henckels, but I didn’t know that until I held them. Likewise, the 8-inch chef’s knife is perfect for me, the 10-inch was too big. Finding the perfect knife is like dating, you have to give it a whirl to see if the relationship fits. The good news is that there is a large and reliable supply of knives—and generally a money-back guarantee.

About that tang... For years the recommendation was that people should buy knives with a "full-tang." That means the metal of the knife goes all the way through and doesn't stop at the handle (you can see the tang at the bottom of the Wusthof handle in the picture below). This, apparently, is no longer the gospel. As my friend Matthew Amster-Burton pointed out to me, there are good quality knives that are not full-tang—and some knives you cannot see the tang though the handle. This was also echoed by the guys at Epicurean Edge—you can see on their knife advice page (and for those interested, Matthew has a great article about learning to sharpen knives in the Seattle Times).

When it comes to ceramic knives, there are plenty of people who like them. These knives are light, rapier sharp, and (reportedly) don’t have to be sharpened. The drawback, from what I’ve heard, is that if dropped a certain way you can break them. You also need to be careful not to use the knife to pry, slicing only. I’ve loved the sharpness of the ceramic blades I’ve used—and I love my ceramic slicer—but I worry they need a bit more care than I’m likely to give them; I drop knives on a regular basis.

Once you’ve decided on the manufacturer you like, check the lines they offer. Wusthof, for example, has several. Their “Gourmet” series is cheaper than the “Classic” series, but it’s not as well made. Ask to hold and sample the different lines, you will probably feel the difference. Don’t be entirely swayed by the cheaper price. A good knife is something you’ll have forever and use almost daily. It’s worth it to go for the better quality.

My advice is to buy your knives one at a time and slowly, avoiding the big knife sets that come with their own knife block (unless you can find a set with knives you know for a fact you'll use). My brother bought a large set, but there’s only really one knife that he uses on a regular basis (you can tell, the handle is shiny). Start with the basics, and don’t buy more until you find that you need them.

As far as the basics go, I don’t think you can go wrong with a paring knife and a chef’s knife (or santoku, if you prefer). That’s mostly what I use. You can sometimes find these two knives sold together (Wusthof offers a packaged deal for $130). I eventually added a serrated knife for bread and tomatoes. These three knives will serve you really well. They may be all you need.

Once you invest in better knives, make sure to maintain them. I have my sharpened usually twice a year (I never got around to it last spring, busy with manuscript revisions, and they are really dull now). I’ve finally invested in a ceramic honing steel, which I use between visits to the knife shop. I’ve read that you should hone your knife between every use, but I don’t do that. At the knife store they told me that every third use was okay. I don’t always do that either.

That small, eraser-like thing you see is used to clean the honing steel, when too much residue builds up from the grey metal shavings.

Mostly I would say, don’t put your knives in the dishwasher, even though they say you can, and do be careful of the nice sharp blade. Working with a sharp knife that is well suited to your hand is a joy. If you’re anything like me, you’ll wonder why you didn’t get better knives years ago.

But seriously, folks: get your knives sharpened before all the big holiday cooking fest. It’s something I am thankful for, every year.

When I told a friend I was writing about knives, she had this to say. I think it’s a perfect close to the topic:

For people who are average cooks like me, with little to no chopping skills, having a sharp knife is like chocolate: delicious, smooth, pleasurable—and makes you feel good no matter how crappy is everything around!

I think she’s right. A sharp knife is sheer kitchen joy. And if, like me, you have a problem spending money on yourself—the holiday season is coming up. I asked for knives two years in a row as birthday/holiday presents, and I have my brother to thank for heeding the call. Of course, now that I know what a difference they make, I kick myself for not running out and getting them for myself years ago.

Note: I mention and feature Wusthof here, only because it’s what I use. I’m not endorsing it, because everyone has different knife style. My friends who use the lighter Asian knives tell me I need to evolve and I’ll never look back. Perhaps they are right. One maker I would suggest people take a look at is Mac. This is the knife I grew up with. It’s light, easy to handle (especially for smaller, female hands) and gets raves from chefs and homecooks alike. It doesn't get quite as much press as the other Asian knives, but it's a cult favorite.

Food Finds: Kiwi Berries

2009-11-09T11:01:00.000-08:00

I’m ashamed to admit I walked past the stall at the farmers’ market the first time I saw it. I didn’t even stop to look. Maybe I was in a hurry that week, or just in one of those ruts I occasionally fall into, treading a deep path along the same route each day, reluctant to step off and try something new. I like to think myself adventurous, but sometimes I fail in that department.

Yes, kiwi berries—have you heard of them? I hadn’t.

The sign at the farmers’ market read: “These Are Not Olives,” and that’s what they look like—green olives. They certainly don’t look like kiwifruit. Kiwi are bigger, and have a furry brown skin on them. Kiwi berries (also called Hardy Kiwi) have a soft green skin that is edible—and sometimes, like here, they blush a little maroon.

You heard me right. You can pop kiwi berries in your mouth without all the fuss of peeling them. They’re all that great kiwi flavor, in a much handier delivery vehicle.

Though, actually, the flavor varies—there are different kinds of kiwi berries. Some taste like kiwi, sharp, green, and sweet. Some varieties taste more like guava, a tropical flavor. I’m still trying to figure out which variety is which, and which I like best. But I have yet to meet a kiwi berry that I didn’t love.

This time last year I was eating handfuls of them. They were my favorite snack while I was racing deadline with my book. There were a few days where I went through a carton (or two!) a day. What the heck, they’re loaded with vitamin c, potassium, and vitamin e. The seeds in kiwi also contain one of the omega-3 fatty acids. They’re way better than most of the snacks we're popping in our mouths these days.

And they are so cute—little miniature kiwi.

Hardy Kiwi originally come from Korea, Northern China, and Russian Siberia. They grow well here in Washington, and I’m seriously considering planting some vines (they need to be well-supported, I am told, with room to grow). I am a huge new fan of the kiwi berry.

Commercial production of kiwi berries is still rather limited, just developing. They’re incredible seasonal—as in, grab ‘em now, if you can find them. I mention them to you here mostly as a public service. If you are lucky enough to see kiwi berries for sale, do not be a dunce like I was. Step off that well trod path and give them a try.

That’s good advice in produce shopping, and in life. I’m trying to remember it.

Kiwi berries shown here are from Greenwater Farm, in Port Townsend WA. Purchased at Seattle's University District Saturday Farmers' Market.

The Comfort of Japanese Curry

2009-11-05T18:07:00.000-08:00

Oh people, I don’t know where you are this week, but here in Seattle it’s turned cold. Today it was even raining. I pulled out gloves from the back of the dresser drawer, unearthed scarves I haven’t seen in months, and started thinking about comfort food.

I’ve written before about how—due to the odd quirks of my life—Japanese food is where I go for comfort. What I haven’t told you about is Japanese curry—a mélange of carrots, potatoes, onions, and meat cooked until soft in a thick brown curry sauce that warms you up to the tips of your toes. It's not pretty—mostly brown and lumpy—but oh will it make you feel better after a cold walk home in the rain.

Now, before you start thinking of Indian curries, or Thai curries with coconut milk, let me say that Japanese curry is a different animal all together. It is influenced by Indian curry, certainly, but it has a different flavor. It’s not at all hot (even the hot version isn’t that hot). It is slightly musky and curry-like, and some varieties are even a bit sweet. In Japan, it’s considered classic kid food.

Like any kid, I’d say my [Japanese homestay] mom makes the best curry ever. I wish I knew how she does it. I know she occasionally puts grated apple in it (grated with a special, Japanese grater used for daikon). She might even use ketchup, I’m not entirely sure. I have to go back to Japan to find out her secret. I’ll let you know if I figure it out.

I don’t have to go to Japan to make curry though, for that I only need to go to the Asian grocery store. The same brand of Japanese-style curry base that my homestay mother uses is available there. It’s a funny thing, as many Japanese adaptations are, and goes by the name of Vermont Curry. What a state in New England has to do with it, I don’t know. When I asked my Japanese mom, she told me there are apples in the curry and that there are apples in Vermont and that is the connection. I cannot vouch for this logic.

No matter the name, this is how you make Japanese-style curry. I don’t care if it comes from Vermont or Yokohama, it’s good.

You start by chopping some onion and potatoes. Then you cut some carrots, and here I do as my Japanese mom does—she cuts on the diagonal, rotating the carrot as she cuts it. You could chop it in cubes, and it probably would taste exactly the same, but out of nostalgia I do as she did. I think this is mostly an aesthetic decision, to make it look prettier. She always told me that people begin to taste food first through their eyes, so appearance is important.

You can make Japanese curry by simmering the vegetables and meat in a pot, but lately I’ve been using a pressure cooker—as my Japanese mom does. I'm secretly scared of the pressurized pot and fear it might explode all over my kitchen, but it cuts the cooking time down from about forty-five minutes to fifteen. That's fifteen terrified minutes I spend cowering in the hallway outside the kitchen.

Once the curry has been prepared, you eat it with rice. It’s traditional to serve it alongside fukujin-zuke or rakkyo pickles (so very yummy). This is a standard Japanese meal, served at restaurants, lunchrooms, and cafeterias across the country. You don’t grow up in Japan without consuming your share of curry.

While curry rice is by far the most popular, I must admit that curry udon is my favorite—those thick, chewy wheat noodles. If you’re a Japanese kid (and in some small way I am, or I got to be one for a few years), this is the taste of home, the food your mom made, and the best way to end a cold, dreary, wet day.

Hope wherever you are, you’re staying warm and dry!

JAPANESE CURRY
Serves two, multiply as needed

1 cup chopped onion
1 1/2 cup chopped potato
1 1/2 cup chopped carrot
1 1/2 tbs oil (I use olive, simply because I use olive oil to sauté most everything)
4 oz beef (I like a thinly sliced stir-fry style of beef, but cubes are fine as well; you can also use pork, but I think beef is better).
3-4 cubes curry roux, House Vermont brand is my favorite
udon noodles or rice, as preferred. 1 1/2 to 2 cups per person, as desired (this usually means about 1 cup uncooked rice, 1 1/2 cups if you're really hungry).

In a large pot or pressure cooker, sauté the beef in oil on high heat for 3-4 minutes. Add onions, carrots, and potatoes, stirring to coat the vegetables in oil. Cook for an additional 5 minutes. Add enough water to just barely cover the vegetables (about 2 cups, or a little less depending on size of your pot).

At this point, if you are using a pressure cooker, put the top on and seal. Bring to full pressure boil and release steam vent. Vegetables and meat should be cooked though at this point. Let pot depressurize and open. I find this takes about 15 minutes.

If you are cooking in a stew pot, let the vegetables and meat simmer until soft and fully cooked through. This will take up to 45 minutes.

Once the vegetables and meat are cooked, add the cubes of curry roux and let dissolve over low heat. How much curry you use will depend on how strong you want your sauce, and how soupy you like it. If serving with rice, you’ll want it to be less soupy; udon noodles can take more of a broth (though I like my noodles on the less soupy side, as you can see in the photos above). Start with 3 cubes of curry, let dissolve completely. Taste, and add more as needed.

Serve hot with cooked udon noodles or rice.

This is what the roux looks like.

What To Do with Too Much Chard

2009-10-30T00:09:00.000-07:00

What happens when one foolishly plants forty chard seedlings, which all start to produce like gangbusters? You get a lot of chard, that’s what. What does one do with a lot of chard? Some of you were asking that question after my last garden post. I was asking myself the same question somewhere around June.

Chard, for those of you who are not familiar with it, is a green that’s halfway between spinach and kale: it’s a little more sturdy and strongly flavored than spinach, not nearly as tough as kale. It holds up to a bit of cooking, but not too much. Chard will wilt and get tender quickly, but it has a center stalk that usually needs to be removed (I often put it into a different dish—slivered and tossed into sautéed vegetables, for example). It’s chock full of vitamins as well. We should probably all be eating more chard.

But what to do with it—and what to do with so much of it?

Chard is great in soups, or sautéed briefly with garlic and tossed into pasta. I hid pounds of the stuff in frittatas (I told you that frittata was good for cleaning out your fridge). You could chop it and stir it into lentils, into polenta, into rice with fresh herbs.

But perhaps my most frequent use of chard this summer was a recipe for chard tzatziki that I found a few years back on Simply Recipes, Elise Bauer’s fantastic website. I make this recipe with almost embarrassing regularity, all summer long. Over the past few years, chard tzatziki has become a firm favorite.

If you haven’t made the acquaintance of tzatziki yet, it’s a Greek yogurt-based dip that traditionally includes grated cucumber and garlic. It’s one of my favorite summer snacks, served with bread, pita, or rice crackers. This version swaps out the cucumber for chard, which is a brilliant move.

First you have to drain the yogurt you plan to use, in a colander lined with paper towels. The yellow-colored whey will collect in the bottom of the bowl. This you can discard.

I like to do this the night before and let it sit in the fridge. You could use the thicker Greek yogurt, but I still like to drain it. The less liquid in the yogurt, the thicker your tzatziki will be.

Then you take a big bunch of chard, remove the stems, and quickly blanch or steam the greens. You want them to be wilted just very briefly. Take the greens out and place them in a colander (I use the colander I just took the yogurt out of). You want to press and squeeze all the liquid out of the chard. I start off in the colander, using the back of a spoon or spatula, but I end up using my hands in the end. You'll have to wait for the chard to cool to do this. A huge bunch of greens will wilt down into one well-packed little ball.

Chop the cooked chard into very fine bits. If you leave it in larger pieces, it will be less pleasant to eat.

Stir the chard into the yogurt, where it will look brilliantly green against the white background.

Add a little lemon juice, garlic, cayenne pepper, and olive oil (I often leave the oil out without any loss of flavor or texture). I also sometimes give the mixture a whizz with the immersion blender, if I haven't done a good job of chopping my chard, or if I want a smoother mixture. I like some chunk to it, but big pieces of chard are unappealing and get stuck in your teeth.

The resulting mixture is kicky with garlic and the tang of yogurt, the chard mixes through and makes it a healthy dip. I've been known to eat quite a bit at one sitting, which you can do with impunity as there's nothing in there that isn't good for you. It's a great substitute to some of those cream-based dips. You won't be giving up any flavor.

If you use rainbow chard—as I have here—the red veins of the leaves will bleed a little into the yogurt and over time will turn it bit pink. It won't impact the taste at all, but use white-stemmed chard if you are bothered by this.

Most happily, it uses up a goodly amount of chard. And when served with bread, pita, or "pita chips," it makes a great snack. Not a bad thing to bring along to a work party, when your friends are opening up a pizza restaurant. That's where this batch ended up.

To be honest, I don't follow the recipe when I make chard tzatziki any more. I use a big bunch of chard and a large container of yogurt, and add the rest of the ingredients by taste and feel, but the original recipe is on Elise's site. Give it a try—especially if you have a bunch of chard on hand. I don't think you'll be disappointed.

Chard Tzatziki, on Simply Recipes

Stalking Wonder: The Garden

2009-10-12T23:09:00.000-07:00

I haven’t yet told you about my garden.

I’ve been gardening since I came to Seattle, two summers ago. That first summer I took over the neglected beds alongside the house. The soil was awful and it didn’t get much sun, but I did the best I could. At the end of the season I got raspberries, cherry tomatoes, handfuls of herbs, and one batch of pesto for my labors. I was hooked.

I didn’t tell you about my gardening last summer, it was too sad. I wanted more growing space, so I reclaimed a bit of land at the bottom of the hill that is my backyard. It was covered in buttercups and I didn’t realize what a hotbed it would be for slugs. I went out of town and came back to nibbled stubs. Some I couldn’t even tell what plants they had been; all identifying characteristics had been eaten off.

I knew then that I needed someplace else to garden. I had outgrown the space available.

Luckily Seattle has a system of community gardens called P-patches. Any city resident can sign up for a community garden plot in one of 68 different community gardens. There are 3,800 urban gardeners planting and tending P-patch gardens throughout the city.

And as of this summer, there are nearly 2,000 people on the waiting list.

I signed up for the wait list some time ago, knowing it would take a season or two for my time to come. This spring I received an email that a plot was available for me. I was thrilled.

That is how, in April, I was confronted with a flat blank canvas of dirt—ten by twenty feet—freshly plowed. This was to be my garden.

I’ve never had such a situation. I’ve been confined to window boxes or bits of raised beds. I’ve had to work around limited sunlight, poor soil, and other restrictions. What should I do with this wide open expanse? Should I plant melons or corn or teepees of beans? Should I grow potatoes or tomatoes? Perhaps I should plant the whole thing with basil and make batches of pesto. It was rather overwhelming, to tell you the truth.

I tried to pick foods I would make good use of, that I like to eat. Growing things like onions doesn’t make sense for me—they take forever to mature and are pretty cheap to buy, I didn’t want to tie up my space. Instead I planted what I thought I'd get most use out of—lots of greens and tomatoes, beans and peas, radishes and arugula, cauliflower, broccoli, and four kinds of strawberries. I liked to imagine the niecelets picking strawberries in my garden.

In the beginning it looked awfully bare, the tiny plants spaced so far away from each other. You need a bit of imagination to plan a garden. It may look sparse now, but think of the plants jostling for space. Gardening is the most optimistic, hopeful activity I know. What other hobby requires such initial investment without any chance of immediate payoff?

There is a leap of faith required. Not so much for the little plant starts—those you can see, but what of the seeds? It's almost fantastical that you stick these small bits in the ground, water them, and go away. The idea that the next time you come there might be a tender green shoot sticking out of the earth seems like a stretch.

Granted, it doesn't always happen, seeds sometimes fail, but more often than not they grow, and this very fact feels like a miracle. Babies are not the only miracles of life, sometimes a small plant sprouting out of the earth can feel equally wondrous.

The radishes are always the first, that gratifying bit of red poking up out of the ground. Radishes are quick to sprout and exceedingly reliable. Soon I was bringing handfuls of them—red and white—back to my house to be grated into salads and sliced up for sandwiches. This seed I had pushed into the earth was feeding me.

Not long after the radishes, the strawberries started coming on. I’ve never grown strawberries before and planted four varieties—Rainier, Quinalt, Seascape, and Tri-star. I don’t mean to brag, but that first berry I tasted may be the best strawberry I’ve ever tasted. Supermarkets like to push those massive berries, but there was more flavor in one of my small garden varieties than in a whole basket of storebought.

There’s something empowering about growing your own food—even a little bit of it. So much of what we do these days is abstract, not connected to anything that feels real. I spend my days pushing around words on a computer screen and rarely have anything tangible to show for it. I don’t make anything useful, anything that can feed or clothe a person. The fact that I managed to produce radishes and strawberries felt amazing. It made me happy.

The other rather amazing thing about gardening is that it puts your food in stark context. Do you know how many yards of strawberry plants it takes to make up that green plastic basket you buy at the market? Do you know how much ground space and time it takes for a head of cabbage to mature—the same cabbage we then buy for $.79/lb? I was astounded at the calculations. People talk about sustainable food being more expensive, but after a season of growing it myself I’d say it’s not expensive enough. Not expensive enough to pay for all the hard work, labor, and water that farming requires. Most of us have it easy.

That’s the reality of growing our food—hard work. But there’s a magical side of it as well. The beauty of seeing droplets of water on a leaf of kale.

The anticipation and promise of green tomatoes.

The first handful of peas.

The plants that volunteer their services—this one is a potato that insisted on joining in the fun. I didn't plant it, but I didn’t have the heart to pull it up.

The glory of the most beautiful broccoli you’ve ever seen. Gardeners feel like parents—their progeny is the most beautiful ever (except when a neighboring gardener has better, then you experience true and hot garden envy, a serious problem I discovered this year).

Before I knew it, I was lugging home a garden basket filled with greens every time I went to the garden.

And trying to figure out what on earth to do with so much chard. I bought one small container of chard starts, but it had forty seedlings and I couldn’t stand the idea of leaving some to die. I planted all of them, and had chard coming out of my ears all summer long. I was harvesting a bunch this big every two to three days (and donating some to the food bank as well). 2009 will forever be known as the summer of chard.

By June I stopped buying greens entirely, and was racing to keep up with what the garden was producing. I may have overdone it on the greens front, between the kale, collards, and all that chard. I froze some, gave others to friends, donated a bunch, and made a note that next summer I should diversify my plantings. It is possible to have too much of a good thing, especially in a garden in August.

There was heartbreak in the garden this summer as well. I made the acquaintance of the flea beatle and his nasty handiwork. My lovely arugula (and mizuna, and peas, and radish tops) were reduced to lace.

There was also abject failure in the garden. The peas and beans never really grew up the teepees I built for them. I made two teepees so the niecelets could play in them, but the peas didn't cooperate, the beans didn't grow much at all, and three cucumber plants disappeared overnight. Can't win them all, I guess.

I learned lessons this summer, garden lessons. Those volunteer potatoes developed fruit. For a second I thought maybe there weren't potatoes at all, maybe they were eggplant that would grow and get big. When one of the "fruit" fell off I cut it open and it looked like a tiny eggplant. Then I learned that this is how potatoes reproduce from seed. Most gardeners start their plants from cut up old potatoes that have begun to sprout, but this is their natural method of reproduction. I hadn't known that before.

I also learned that it's awfully hard to go out of town if you're a gardener—you won't want to leave your plot, and the garden will run away from you if you turn your back on it. I never did catch up after my trip to Canada.

But mostly the garden was a joy, and quickly became my favorite place to spend the long summer evenings. The day had cooled by then, the shadows were getting longer, and I weeded and puttered and harvested and was happy. Gardens are such peaceful places—a deep peace and quiet not easily found elsewhere. To watch the honeybees and butterflies flit about vegetables and flowers that you yourself planted, is a joy that words cannot fully capture. Time slows in a garden, light becomes liquid, and even a messy, unweeded garden (as mine often was) is beautiful.

Forget the flea beatles, this summer I was bitten by the gardening bug. To watch the transformation of a small plot of dirt into something beautiful, something that feeds me and my family, where flowers bloom and butterflies and bees cavort, felt like joy. My garden was far from perfect—I suspect they all are. I'm not the most organized gardener, and towards the end of the season things got away from me entirely, but the process, the work, the beauty, and the yield, felt profound.

I'm hooked, and already planning for next year. Just please remind me not to grow quite as much chard.

About Stalking Wonder: the project started Spring of '09, in an attempt to bring wonder back into my life and onto the site, to make the time to appreciate what is all around. Read how it started, or check out the full archives. Stalking Wonder posts may or may not have anything to do with food.

In Praise of Purslane

2009-10-02T14:33:00.000-07:00

Do you know what purslane is? I didn’t until recently, though I’ve likely been seeing it for years and not knowing. Purslane is a stealth green: some people praise it for it’s extraordinary amounts of vitamins and minerals, others will tell you it’s a weed. In fact, purslane ranks as number seven on the list of invasive weeds. My mother tells me she spent years trying to eradicate purslane from her yard, never knowing it was edible—tasty and nutritious.

These days purslane is making a comeback. You can sometimes find it at farmers’ markets, and maybe even in the cracks of your own yard. Purslane does well in poor and compacted soil, and is able to tolerate drought well. These days, we should probably all be taking a second look at this “weed.” The ancient Greeks loved it, as did Medieval cooks and gardeners. Purslane is recommended in Chinese Medicine to help various ailments, and has more Omega-3 fatty acids than almost any other vegetable. Weed or not, purslane is a powerhouse.

This summer I found purslane at the farmers’ market, and I grew some in my garden as well. I discovered that I like the slightly lemony flavor of the fleshy leaves and stems. I was sad I hadn’t planted more. Purslane easily takes on the flavor of whatever it is served with. I can imagine it tossed Asian-style with sesame oil and a shot of soy sauce; with garbanzo beans in an Italian vinaigrette; or chopped up finely in pico de gallo. I haven’t yet cooked purslane, but I read about how the Greeks toss raw purslane into the roasting juices from meat, where it wilts like spinach and thickens the sauce through it’s mucilaginous characteristics.

(Gah, isn’t mucilaginous the grossest word ever?)

My favorite way to use purslane is in this salad, the recipe which comes from Jon Rowley, a local Seattleite who has spent his entire life searching for flavor. This quest has taken Jon near and far, and though he’s a quiet and modest man, he’s got some great stories to tell (if you want to read one, I love this story of his marriage to Kate McDermott and the compost gifts their guests brought). Most of all, Jon knows good food—be it the seafood the Pacific Northwest, his search for a perfect peach, or a humble salad of greens some people call weeds. I’m lucky to have met him, and lucky that he is generous in sharing his knowledge, passion, and recipes.

Jon’s salad is a simple thing—four ingredients: purslane, tomatoes, onion, salt. The first time I made it I thought it might need some olive oil, or maybe some lemon juice. When I tasted it, however, it really was perfect on it’s own—the flavors completely balanced. It’s been my go-to salad all summer long.

In addition to purslane, you want some tomatoes—those perfect late summer tomatoes just dripping with juice. Grab them while you can. They won’t be around for much longer.

The kind of tomatoes that leave a sopping mess on the cutting board. A delicious sopping mess.

Add a bit of onion, chopped finely.

Sprinkle a little salt over the whole thing and toss together. That’s it—the easiest, perhaps healthiest salad ever. But you won’t eat it because it’s healthy, you’ll eat it because the purslane is refreshing, the tomato makes you think of hot summer days, and the onion binds it all together with a little spritely kick. You’ll eat it because it makes you happy. And then you’ll go on the hunt for more purslane. I know I did.

If you want to hear more from Jon Rowley, you can follow him on Twitter (@oysterwine) or check out his gorgeous food and market photos on Flickr. He’s also featured in an episode of the new food and travel show with Gourmet Magazine editor Ruth Reichl: Adventures with Ruth (premiering Oct 17th). The second episode is titled Jon Rowley’s Seattle.

And for those aspiring bakers, Jon’s wife, the lovely Kate McDermott, is an accomplished and award-winning pie baker. You can sign up for her pie baking classes in Seattle (and one this month in Chicago) or follow her on Twitter (@katemcdermott) for tempting pie chat. Kate is a true master of the art, and passionate about it. When Ruth was in town, Kate taught her the way of pie.

JON ROWLEY'S PURSLANE SALAD
This is a very loose recipe, feel free to adjust to your preferences

3 cups purslane leaves (detach from stems unless the stems are small and easy to chew)
2 cups chopped tomato
1 tbs minced onion (or more, to taste)
Salt to taste

Cut the tomatoes across the midsection, halfway between stem and tip. Squeeze the tomatoes over the purslane until much of the seeds and juice have been expressed. Use this as a dressing for the leaves. Chop the tomatoes, making sure to scrape any remaining juice/seeds into the bowl with the purslane leaves. Add the tomatoes, onion, and salt to taste. Toss and serve promptly.

Thank You

2009-09-30T23:43:00.000-07:00

Oh, you dear, dear people. You amaze and humble me. I’ve often said that I have the best blog readers in the world (not that there is a competition, mind you). That statement has never felt more true than in the past two days.

Thank you so much for your comments on my last post. I loved your sweet stories of passions, lost and rediscovered, your kind words, your encouragement, your commiseration, your sense of humor. The comments you’ve left have both moved me to tears and made me laugh (the woman who said, Go be a Twttering goat-farmer if it makes you happy, cracked me up). You are amazing and I feel lucky to have this small connection to so many wonderful people. If ever I doubt that kindness and grace exist in this world, I will come back here and read your comment stream.

I want to answer each one of you, because it means so much to me that you took the time to write. I know that people don’t always go back and read for comment responses (and I’m not always the best at responding), so I’m going to do so here in this post. My gratitude is just too big to fit in that tiny comment box.

Here we go—

Kat—thanks for the hugs. I think I’m in need of that recharge you mention (onsen, anyone?). Hoping to find one soon!

Francesca—thank you so much for the incredibly generous words. I'm considering cutting out your comment and posting it above my writing desk, for days that lack inspiration. You are so kind.

Hopie—wise words, indeed: “People fall in and out of love, even with their dreams!” (and I hear you about the dream/reality of living abroad). Thanks so much.

Rituparna—wow, you are so sweet to say that. I’m glad you’re taking the food and life idea and making it your own. Thanks for your kindness and good advice.

Tanita—ah, how well you know me! It’s true, my friend. Good of you to point it out. And thanks for sharing your story with me. We must move away from the soul-destroying. I’m glad you seem to have found a balance in doing what you love.

Angelina—what good perspective, thank you for sharing your experience and thoughts. It’s funny the ties we develop, isn’t it. It’s amazing, really—and I feel the same when sites I read go dark for awhile. I miss these people I don’t even know. PS. shall I call my new blog “The Noble Goat Farmer?” :-)

Alice—you’re right. I think some mixing it up is in order. Good advice. Russian food, here we come!

Laurie A-B—such good advice from K. Cashmore, thank you! And thanks for the thoughts on “other people.” I should know by now that’s a bad comparison to make. I LOVE the image of you putting the right book in the right set of hands. That’s magical.

TKW—I think you may have hit the nail on the head: computer-free days are definitely needed! Going to implement something like that soon. Thanks!

Michaela—thanks, for the wisdom and the flowers. You're one of many who have mentioned The Artist's Way. I should unpack my copy...it's around here somewhere.

Danielle—yes, my blog is seasonal and wants its hibernation period! All joking aside, that's a very good point. The wisdom of nature, we've gotten so far away from it.

Tamara—good point about repetition, hadn’t thought of that before (I like to knit while watching TV, makes me feel better about the watching:-)

Kristen—I like that definition of success! I think I’ll adopt that for myself as well.

Heather—good advice, thank you. I think some museums and art galleries are in my future!

Britt—thank you, especially for letting me have unswept floors (I’m assuming this exemption covers not vacuuming as well:-). Sometimes things just need to be let go of, I think. Trying to learn to accept this. Thanks.

Knitsnwovens—wise words, indeed, especially from someone dealing with much of the same. Best of luck with your hobby/job as well!

Barbara—glad you liked the flowers, I think they’re so beautiful. Thanks for the suggestions (I’m three chapters in on Confessions of a CMB). You’re right, of course, Twitter doesn’t replace blogs, but it does distract bloggers!

Katieleigh—I hear you about marketing writing, not quite the same, eh? Glad you have some other creative outlets.

Brandi—thanks for the sweet words, I like the social aspect of it as well. Maybe that’s why writing is feeling hard these days—too lonely!

Ellen—oooh, good advice. Maybe I need to back to pen and paper. These days I’m hating the computer so much. Good luck with the PhD program, I can only imagine how that might take the joy out of things!

Whitney—what a lovely image of you falling for your city again. Thanks.

Jennywenny—it’s a dilemma, isn’t it? Best of luck with finding the answer that is right for you, and thanks for the kind words.

Beastmomma—thanks for your suggestions, and congratulations on your marriage! I do think I will write more about books, and more about other people. I’ve gotten bored with myself!

ChezUs—thanks for your lovely response (and glad you like the flowers, I hadn’t realized how gorgeous dahlias could be). It sounds as if you’ve found the right answer for yourself. I can only imagine it took courage to strike out and leave the corporate ladder. Thanks for sharing.

Cicero Sings—thanks for your kind comment (one of many you’ve been so nice to leave me over time!). I will look up that writing farmer. Isn’t it funny how a taste of reality (cooking for 70) can take away any bit of romance:-)

Emma Wallace—good point, even chocolate cake gets old. Sounds like you have a very healthy outlook on the ebbs and flows. Going to try and adopt one for myself.

Aran—how fun it would be to have you in Seattle! I was actually supposed to travel this fall, but just didn’t feel like I had it in me. Going to need to recharge closer to home. Come visit, please!

Izzyw—thank you so much, for the kind words on the blog and the validation of the idea of stepping back from it all. Might be the sanest thing to do right now:-)

Genie—it was great to see you Sat as well! Sorry to hear you’re wrestling with the burnout also. Think we need to go hiking on Tam and let it all blow away.

Janine @ Rustic Kitchen—you’re right, we are lucky to have these options at all. Incredibly lucky. Thanks for sharing your story. I think you book sounds wonderful! I’ll be the first in line to buy a copy when it comes out—farmers’ markets are just about my favorite thing ever!

Mrs. B—thanks, my friend. This new life thing—can we just get there already? The journey is taking forever! Come on up and let’s find us some goats:-) Jenifer—love the plate analogy! I tend to be a generalist as well. May need to add some more plates. Keep me on my toes!

Karen—sounds like a great balance. Clearly, I need to get out more :-)

Katrina—VT, Maine, or a café in Mississippi all sound pretty good to me about now. Want a partner? :-)

Anon—ah yes, I remember training for things like that, when it takes over everything else in the world. Thanks for the reminder. Ebbs and flows.

Dmatthews—sage advice, thank you. Think I’m going to be listening hard for my own answers. Hilda—yeesh, post-production on films sounds worse than writing books. I love the story of your escape and adventure. That’s wonderful!

Fleur—oh my goodness, thank you for your comment (for a first time commenter, you hit it out of the ballpark!). Maybe I just need to adjust the balance, as you say. I would love to read your dissertation, when you’re done. Best of luck with that—and thank you again for your very kind words.

Lisa-Marie—brave or stupid, it’s a toss-up on any given day!:-) I have absolutely enjoyed what I’ve written here, it’s just the pressure feeling like I ought to be doing more that is hard. But I love imagining you cooking for your friends—thank you so much for sharing that!

Kate—so nice to meet you as well. I was inspired by the weekend, and by people who have found ways to successfully work the work into their lives. I’m still sorting it out, I think. Hope to get there too :-)

Elspeth—good idea on the part-time. I may be following in your footsteps! I’m glad you found a good balance for yourself.

Elaine @ Messy Kitchen—thanks so much, your words are very calming to one who does not feel calm these days. I’m going to try and adopt a similar perspective, try to find what works for me.

PaintEater—(great name!) I loved hearing your story of how you recalibrated your life. I think I might be at a similar point myself. Thanks for the brave example, and for the encouragement to question. You are MUCH wiser than you think!

Laura (What I Like)—they have a dahlia garden in SF? How did I not know this? I must check it out. GG Park is next to my house there. Thanks for the tip.

Vickie—I love your comment: “Blogging, like good manners, will never go out of style.” Thanks for the great advice. I appreciate it!

Chickenless Chick—ha, too funny! (the nooooos). I love the garden analogy, that’s perfect. Time to put this raised bed to sleep for awhile. Not sure if Twittering goat farmer is in my cards, but boy did it get a laugh out of me. Thanks for that!

Kickpleat—oh my dear, you know all about doing work you love. Yes, let’s talk when I get back. Over a nice meal and drinks. Might need to make a weekend of it! Xox

Anon—Year of the Goat? No, I haven’t—but I will. Thanks for the encouragement. It sounds as if you figured out what the right decision was for you. So glad for that.

Brooke—oh yes, I can relate to that! The new adventure is always more appealing than what’s already here. Thanks for the encouragement, it means a lot. And best of luck to you with the new/old business :-)

Dana—I was so surprised to hear about you giving up the business, but it seems like there is an ebb and flow to everything. Trying to learn to accept that. Yes, let’s walk soon! Xox

E—well of course there are more important things than blogging (world peace comes to mind:-). But I do believe that food—how we grow it, cook it, rely on it, gather around it, nourish our families with it—is incredibly important. Food, water, shelter—isn’t that the three most basic needs? (imported chocolate does take it to another level, however). Sounds like you’ve found a good balance. I’m looking for mine.

Laurie—very good perspective, thank you! I do try to explain this to my friends: just because I love my job, doesn’t mean that my job sometimes sucks (doing self-employed taxes comes to mind). I like your attitude. Thanks for sharing!

Briana—I know, hearing everyone else’s stories is being so helpful to me. Sometimes you just have to know that you’re not the only one going through it. Hang in there, maybe together we can make it

Marilyn—I can well imagine restaurant burnout, I think it’s 10x worse than regular burnout. We are lucky, this is true. Just have to find the right balance. Xox

Annapt—“I love my work, no matter how much it frustrates me,” that’s a great quote—and I agree. Think I just need the balance you were talking about. More walks in the woods. Thanks so much for sharing your story. I love imagining you underlining your biology books (I was looking at mine confused:-)

Allison—“passion is a lot harder to come by than I grew up believing.” Amen to that: harder to find, and harder to keep. Thanks for the kind words.

D—thanks. Your description reminded me of how wonderful it was to start a blog, to write about what I am passionate. Need to get back to that feeling. Hoping I can. Enjoy the process, the blog journey is filled with lovely serendipity and pleasure.

Allie—thanks so much. That Helen is such a talent, isn’t she? Was great to get to hang out with her.

Cookie baker Lynn—I think “sabbatical” sounds much better than “flaking on my blog.” I might have to adopt that term instead. Thanks!

Lindsay—very good advice. I think I will try to shake it up and be less structured, as you say. My tea party may become a tapas party—lots of little bites!

Megan—clearly, I need more Nutella in my life. That would solve all problems! But I think you’re right. It’s an ongoing challenge. Thanks for the encouragement, it means a lot!

Annabelle—I had a Scottish friend who used to say, “Tea is the way forward.” I think she’s right. And time off never hurts either. Thanks!

Sprouted Kitchen—I know, I’m overwhelmed by all the wonderful comments. Everyone is so kind.

Connie—what wise words. Yes, time to hold babies and look at the ocean. I think your professor was right, and I think you are very kind. Thank you.

Leslie in CA—aren’t the flowers lovely, I was so lucky she gave them to me. Thanks for your nice words on the blog. Twitter isn’t the same, but it’s awfully addictive. Not much on depth, as you say.

Lisa (dandysugar)—I like your idea of a “breather” (sounds so much more pleasant than a “break”). I know the book as well, must dig it out and reread. Thanks for your kind words and for sharing your dance story—I can definitely relate!

JovianSky—your wisdom belies your years! Thanks for the advice, I think you’re right, and you have a great attitude about it. Thanks for sharing.

Kendall—long but good! I loved hearing about your acting, and your father’s advice. Sounds like he’s given you some very good guidance. Best of luck with your future acting adventures. I hope you can strike a balance that is right for you.

Emma—oh, I hear you on the grad school thing. I never wrote as little, creatively, as I did when I was doing my MFA. I wrote papers about other people’s writing, but none of my own. You’re right about creatives, I think. No one else can really understand. Best of luck to you with the program. In many ways it was a relief to finish mine.

Lynne—thanks so much for the link. I took a look and you’re right. There are so many fears and ways to sabotage. Thanks for your insight!

Bansidhe—thanks for the advice. I think you’ve got the system figured out (and some lovely hobbies). I’m going to be taking a page from your book soon.

Kellybeth—thanks, especially for the confession that some days you can’t stand to face the yarn. Made me laugh, and feel better. Glad to know I’m not the only one!

Meaghan—thanks, my dear. You are very sweet. Isn’t that money/time balance a funny thing=when you cut back you have time and sanity, but fewer funds. I might have to just tell my deadlines who’s boss. Thanks for the encouragement!

Leah—that's great, and how wonderful that you've found the thing that you love to do. It will be curious to see if that shifts over time. I love writing, but I'm beginning to realize how much I love not writing too!

Literarygeek—there is so much fun and joy to be found in blogging, that bursting with ideas and excitement feeling is so much fun. Enjoy the process! I am sure you will.

Irene—thanks for mentioning the Proust quote, that's a lovely analogy, and thanks for the kind words. Sending hugs back to you!

Alisa—you dear thing, thanks so much for writing (and glad you like the noodles!). I have the same feeling, but mostly it's goes: when I grow up I want to have a site as cool as Heidi/Molly/Shauna. You are very kind, and thanks also for the Frey link. This writing is a funny thing, no? Can't live with it, can't live without it! Thanks again.

Ibteda—thanks for sharing such an inspiring story of going after what you love. I'm sorry if you don't feel like you have the muse in you right now, but I am sure you will find it again. Perhaps we all need to step back and recharge from time to time. I hope you find your peace. You are an inspiration for your courage in following your passion!

Anon—yes, cupcake bakeshop was wonderful (and I'm not even a baker). I suppose I have been melancholy lately. Burnout sometimes does that to a girl, I'm just trying to find my way through, to find balance. Writing a book throws things out of wack! Will tell more about it soon, I promise. Thanks for your kind words.

Julie—good point, sometimes we do fall out of love. I can't imagine not writing, however. Think my challenge is a matter of balance. Working on it. And thanks for weighing in, writing as a job does change things.

Anna—glad to hear that other people can blow hot and cold about things as well, thanks!

Di—oh my dear, I'm sorry to hear you've been through the wringer as well. I hope as life rolls forwards you will continue to feel less shattered (oh do I know that feeling), and I'm glad if this site was able to give you some small solace (and Shauna, isn't she wonderful?). Thanks for sharing your story. Sending you all the best as you build a life in your new city. May you bloom there, beautifully.

Denise—thanks, dear. I do think I need to mix it up, find a better balance, and if worse comes to worse, I'll have some tasty goat cheese!

Alvia—thanks for sharing your story and helpful links. I love your phrase: life has a way of going unchecked. It sounds like you are listening to those small voices. They do tend to guide you right. Thanks again!

That’s it, folks (for the moment). Thanks so much for sharing your stories with me. I loved hearing more about all of you. Your generosity buoys me up; you make me want to be a better blogger. Seriously.

Doing What You Love

2009-09-28T00:36:00.000-07:00

Last weekend in Seattle, I walked up to the “Ask a Master Gardener” booth at the University District Farmers’ Market. I wanted to ask a question about leaf mulch.

Yes, people—compost is my new obsession. More about that another time.

The friendly women staffing the booth commented on the flat of raspberries I was carrying, and suddenly we were talking recipes and I was writing down the address for this site. I don’t usually talk about my blog, but I mentioned raspberry curd and when they asked how to make it I realized it was safer to send them here than to try to remember the proportions on my own.

Turns out that one of the women reads the site regularly—one of the nicest readers ever—and she jumped up and gave me a hug (thanks, A!) and we proceeded to have the best conversation—about food and gardening and Seattle. It was a real pleasure.

She also, in the nicest way possible, mentioned I haven’t been posting very often. And she’s right, I haven’t.

It’s not that I don’t want to post—I do. I have things I want to write about, to share. But I have to admit, I’m going through some stuff. There’s been some life/family upheaval that makes things feel like the ground is shifting under me, but I think there’s something more. I think it has something to do with doing what you love.

Doing what you love should be a good thing, right? Who hasn’t dreamed of taking their hobby and turning it into their business? But what happens when that act of joy becomes the thing you wake up to every morning—the thing you have to do? Or, even worse, the thing you dread doing?

Our hobbies are hobbies because we enjoy doing them. If ever that changes we give them up and go on to something else. But what to do when the hobby becomes a responsibility? How do you cope when your joy becomes your job? How do you stay inspired, stay creative, how do you keep up the momentum?

I’m not entirely sure, I’m trying to figure it out. The more writing becomes my work, the more arduous it sometimes feels. I’m not sure how to retain that bit of wonder that made it so special in the first place. I don’t want it to become the thing I dread. When I first started writing about food it felt dizzying, thrilling, like falling in love. Now I’m afraid I’ve hit the seven-year itch.

And I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, I know how many people would LOVE the opportunity to do something they are passionate about for work. It is a dream, truly. Perhaps I should just suck it up and keep my petty problems to myself (my journalist friends would laugh at this quandry—"shut up and make your deadlines"—but they're more pragmatic than I; they never tried to be creative writers in the first place).

I do know this: after two years spent writing a book, the last place on earth I want to be right now is in front of a computer. These days I’m seriously thinking of chucking the whole thing and taking up goat farming (You only think I'm joking). I've considered going back to teaching, gardening, anything but writing.

And I’m not the only one.

Well, perhaps I am the only one considering goat farming as an alternate career (don’t you think I could learn to make good goat cheese?), but I’m not the only one trying to figure out how to keep the spark alive.

This weekend I was fortunate to attend the first ever BlogHerFood conference, and maintaining momentum was definitely a topic of discussion. I was relived to discover that I wasn’t alone in my ennui. Blogs have been abandoned, people have migrated over to Twitter, where they can chat all day long about food and cooking without the concentrated work that writing a post requires. Some people say Twitter will be the end of blogs, that we’re evolving to a new platform (I have certainly succumbed). Some days that feels true.

I don’t know what the future holds. The one thing I know is this:

I love this little place I come to, this virtual tea party. The people who read this site and leave thoughts and comments are so dear to me. I never could have predicted how much the site would change my life, open my world, bring with it fascinating people: fellow bloggers who’ve become friends, readers who feel like friends, sweet comments from around the world, kind notes in my inbox, and a woman at the farmers’ market who jumped up to hug me. It means so much to me, truly. I don’t even have the words to say. I am a better person for it, and I am grateful. More than you can know.

So perhaps you could do me a favor, if you don’t mind. I’d love to hear about what you do that you love—be it hobby, job, or dream—and how you keep the spark alive. Whether it's cooking, writing, a relationship, or underwater basket weaving—do you ever run out of steam with the things you love? What do you do to avoid/get over the burnout? Do you take a break or plow through? Is it better to churn out something uninspired, or wait for inspiration to strike? Have you taken a pleasure and turned it into a job? (and how did that work for you?). You can even tell me what you’d like to see on this site. I’d love to hear. These days I’m looking for inspiration.

But mostly I want you—and the dear, sweet woman at the farmers’ market—to know that it’s not that I don’t want to be here. I do. I’m just trying to find my way back.

The flowers here were grown by a fellow gardener in my community garden plot. She devotes half of her allotment to them, it's what she loves. I wonder, does she ever get dahlia-growing burnout? I can't imagine anyone could get tired of flowers, but it's never been my job. You don't know until it happens to you.

The Flavor of Indigo Blue

2009-09-16T16:32:00.000-07:00

I honestly don’t know where the time has gone. Somehow the end of summer swooped by and flew off without me. Here we are in September and I’m not sure where the days disappeared to. It’s a mystery.

But I am sorry to have been absent. Life started spinning like a top and it’s been hard to keep up, especially in the end of summer. We are all trying to squeeze it in, trying to soak up the sun and the warmth and the endless possibilities of a late summer day, before the leaves begin to fall and the rain comes and we have to head inside and hunker down.

To be honest with you, I’m ready for some hunkering. As much as I don’t want to give up the long days of sunlight, there’s part of me that yearns for routine and schedule and newly sharpened pencils in the beginning of September. I like the scarves I’ve been wearing this week, and the new red jacket I bought myself. Fall’s not so bad—not bad at all.

Happily, we have plums and pears to smooth the transition, and gardens are bursting with late-summer goodness. My friend Knox has two huge shiso plants in his garden, beautiful red shiso that is going gangbusters; I have a plant myself. What to do with it? This is what we were talking about the other day.

I wish I could explain exactly what the Asian herb shiso tastes like (it's also called perilla, silam, deulkkae or tŭlkkae, depending where in Asia you are). I’ve tried and failed. You can’t apply the usual words to the flavor of shiso. It’s not spicy or sweet or tart or bitter. Shiso tastes like nothing else I know, deep and mysterious; it is the flavor of indigo blue.

Shiso comes in two varieties—red and green—and is often used in savory dishes. In Japan it is served with sushi and sashimi, tempura-fried, or used in salad dressings. It also gives the characteristic red color and flavor to umeboshi, the Japanese pickled plums.

But what to make with my red shiso? I had to think awhile until I hit on the perfect thing: plum-shiso sorbet.

And that is exactly what I did, gathering some of the Santa Rosa plums that are so gorgeous right now. I steeped the shiso in a simple syrup and blended it all together. The result was a brilliant pink-red sorbet that tasted deep and mysterious. It was mildly sweet, a little tart, with the fragrance and flavor of shiso that is indescribable.

It is the flavor of indigo blue, now staining my bowl and heralding the very end of summer. It’s a taste to hold onto as the seasons change. Gather the sweetness while ye can.

PLUM-SHISO SORBET

In making up this recipe I consulted with my frozen dessert bible—David Lebovitz’s book The Perfect Scoop—for inspiration. If you like ice cream and sorbet, you should consider adding this book to your library. I don’t think you’ll regret it.

1 lb (4 cups) ripe Santa Rosa plums, pitted and cut into eights.

1/2 cup sugar

1/2 cup water

2-3 tbs fresh red shiso leaves (use 3 tbs if you really like the flavor of shiso, as I do)

In a medium pot, put the pitted plum pieces and mash them with a potato masher, a fork, or just use your hands. Bring to a slow simmer and cook on low heat until the plums have cooked to a uniform sauce with no lumps and the color from the peels has infused the mixture (25-30 minutes).

In a small saucepan, simmer the water and sugar until fully dissolved. Add the shiso leaves and continue to simmer 15 minutes.

Add the sugar/shiso mixture (leaves included) to the plum mixture. Blend, using an immersion blender or in a stand blender. It’s okay if there are flecks of shiso in the mixture.

Allow mixture to cool completely, chill in the fridge, and process in an ice cream mixer according to directions. When finished, remove from mixer and put into a freezer-safe container. Freeze until ready to use. Remove from freezer and allow to soften slightly before serving.

Clean Out the Fridge Frittata

2009-08-19T02:21:00.000-07:00

I probably shouldn’t have told my guests that the dish I was about to serve them is called “Clean Out the Fridge Frittata.” It’s not the most appealing name. I had planned to keep it to myself. Really, they didn’t need to know.

I blame it on the fact that it was a picnic, and thus informal. When you are eating dinner with your shoes off and your bare feet in the grass, any number of things might happen. You might be lulled into telling your guests the lowly name and humble beginnings of your dinner dish: Clean Out the Fridge Frittata.

But really, it is the most useful of recipes, especially in the summer when you may have a garden that's pumping out greens at an overwhelming clip. Or you might fall under the spell of summer produce at the farmers’ market and overbuy, as I often do. Or you may have to use up your perishables because you're going on vacation and don't want to come home to a soggy mess.

The solution to all of these problems: Clean Out the Fridge Frittata.

It’s a simple thing, more of a ratio than a recipe (and while we’re on the topic, have you read Michael Ruhlman’s new book, Ratio? You should). You simply sauté some onions—red, yellow, or green, or any combination of the three. Whatever you have in the house.

Then you add some vegetables. Greens are a shoo-in: spinach or chard (I’d steer away from kale or cabbage). I like zucchini, although I prefer mine made into matchstick slivers with a mandoline. That way they melt into the frittata and don't call attention to themselves (and don't get soggy).

You can even use those vegetables that are almost beyond the point of no return. Bring me your sad summer squash, your limp greens, your onions about to shoot sprouts: they will all be welcomed and made to feel at home in the Clean Out the Fridge Frittata.

You can even thrown in the odds and ends of bunches of herbs, either from the market or from your garden. Parsley, chives, oregano, tarragon. green garlic (use rosemary only sparingly and without other herbs).

Saute all the vegetables until they are wilted, mix with eggs, grated cheese. Pour the whole thing in a quiche pan and bake until set. Easy peasy.

The best part of this recipe—in addition to clearing out your fridge and using up a goodly amount of vegetables—is that it’s great summer food. You can eat it cold for lunch the next day, you can wrap it up and take it on a road trip or to the cabin. And if you have to fly, it’s a far sight better than what most airlines are serving these days. You might find that you too come to love Clean Out the Fridge Frittata.

This particular frittata got wrapped up and taken to Seward Park for a dinner picnic, which is almost as good an idea as Clean Out the Fridge Frittata. Imagine a dinner party where you invite all the interesting people you don’t see nearly enough, but with the added benefit of not having to clean your house. It’s genius, I tell you. Throw in some blankets, some grapes, salad, bread, cheese, a bottle of wine, and cookies or cupcakes (or in our case, both!) and you have the makings of a very fine evening indeed.

As an extra bonus, when at last it gets dark and you have to pull yourself away from the park and your friends, you’ll have a much cleaner fridge to come home to.

I'm my world, that's never a bad thing.

CLEAN OUT THE FRIDGE FRITTATA

Serves six

This recipe is more of a structure, flavor-wise you can take it in any number of directions. Try mushrooms, Monterey Jack cheese, and fresh thyme; go Greek with spinach, tomatoes, kalmata olives, and feta cheese (don't saute the tomatoes, add them afterwards); or stick to the classic with broccoli and cheddar. The permutations are endless and delicious. Here’s the ratio for a basic greens version, but by all means get creative—potatoes, peppers, whatever sort of vegetables you need to use up.

2 cups sautéed vegetables (mix of onions, greens, fresh herbs, etc; about 6 cups prior to cooking)

1 tbs olive oil, for sautéing, plus more for greasing the quiche pan

6 eggs, beaten (you can get by with five eggs, if you're short one or want to cut back)

1 cup cheese, grated, plus more for topping

1 1/2 tsp salt

pepper to taste (I go for six revolutions on the pepper grinder)

Preheat the oven to 350°

Sauté the vegetables in the olive oil, starting with the onions, adding the greens (cut into rough ribbons) once the onions are limp. Add the salt and any fresh herbs you may be using. Sauté until wilted and soft.

If the vegetables give off a significant amount of water, place the cooked mixture into a mesh strainer and press to remove the liquid.

In a large mixing bowl crack and beat the eggs. Add the vegetables, grated cheese, and pepper.

Pour into a well-oiled 12-inch quiche pan or cast iron skillet. Bake at 350° until the center has set and no longer jiggles if you shake the pan. There may be some minor browning around the sides, this is fine.

Serve either hot or cold. Some salsa on the side (depending on what herbs you’ve used) does not go amiss either.

Stalking Wonder: Summer

2009-08-14T11:11:00.000-07:00

I rained yesterday here in Canada, the first proper rain in what feels like months. All this week you could feel it, the shifting of the seasons. Summer is coming to an end.

I know this may not yet be the case where you are. Perhaps you have months of Indian summer yet to come. But if new seasons come from the north, as they do in my hemisphere, I’ll sadly sound the warning: summer’s almost over.

No, I want to say, not yet. That’s what I thought when I saw the first Back to School display in a store (in the end of July, no less). No-no-no-noooooooo! I don’t want it to be true. Although I love the fall, it is perhaps my favorite season, I’m not ready for summer to end.

So here is to summer, in all her glory and graciousness. She is the most generous of seasons, with sunny days and ripe bounty. Here’s to berries and lemonade and picnics and hammocks. Here’s to bare feet and boats and swimming in the lake. Here’s to long evenings and shooting stars and peach juice dribbling into the crook of your arm.

Here’s to summer, I hope you’ve gotten your fill.

I hope you have good memories of the summer. I'd love to hear them, if you care to share. Here are some of mine.

Summer 2009:

Berry crisps that stained the Le Creuset pot blue

Dinner picnics

Kim Ricketts’ lemonade

P-patch gardening

Fort Worden & blueberry ice cream

Sorrel tart

Salted licorice ice cream

Zucchini noodles with pesto

Blackberry curd

The taste of the first strawberry I grew

Watermelon with the niecelets

The summer of chard

Bicycle skirts

Surviving the heatwave (Seattle should never be 103°)

Delancey

Flying kites

Fresh raspberries outside my door

Niecelet birthday picnic at the pier

Volunteer Park wading pool with Jaime

Upsidedown tomatoes

Homemade popsicles

Blueberry basil smoothies

Sour cherry jam

Permaculture weekends at the farm

Manuscript edits and meltdowns

Hiyashi-chuka cold noodles

Tea and chocolate at the Barefoot Gallery

Green beans in Ginnie’s garden

The summer that went too fast

About Stalking Wonder: the project started Spring of '09, in an attempt to bring wonder back into my life and onto the site, to make the time to appreciate what is all around. Read how it started, or check out the full archives. Stalking Wonder posts go up on Friday. They may or may not have anything to do with food.

A Homemade Life

2009-08-11T21:49:00.000-07:00

I think you’d have to be under a food blog rock to have not heard that Molly, of the ever-lovely site Orangette, published her book earlier this year. You probably know that it’s called A Homemade Life: Stories and Recipes from My Kitchen Table, that it made the New York Times bestseller list. Many of you have probably read it and know how wonderful it is.

I wanted to write about it when it first came out—because, indeed, I devoured it and enjoyed every bite. But I was bogged down in my own deadlines and couldn’t really do it justice. The other thing, I must say, is that the value of this book has only grown on me. Through time I’ve realized how much I will be relying on this book in years to come.

First off, I should tell you that this isn’t a proper review in any sort of sense. Molly is a friend of mine, I can’t possibly have much perspective here. But I can tell you this: everything that is lovely about Orangette is here in this book. Molly has a way of waxing rhapsodic over food and flavors and the details of life that is utterly captivating. It’s her prose that has, over the years, caused me to give second chances to quite a number of foods I had decided I didn’t like. Chard, kale, cabbage, and Brussels sprouts have all been welcomed back into my life due to Molly’s descriptions and recipes; no one romances vegetables quite like her. I’ve realized it’s not that I dislike these foods, I just dislike them when they’re not cooked well.

That is the other thing about Molly, she has impeccable taste. She is the sort of person who will spend weeks and months and even years, trying different versions of recipes and tweaking them until she gets them exactly where she wants them—until they are perfect. I have none of this patience, so I am happy to take advantage of her hard work and use these recipes that are perfect, right from the start.

Of all the food blogs I read and admire, I cook the most from Molly’s. Her recipes have yet to steer me wrong.

This is the enduring payoff of her book. You will sit down to read it and you will fall under a spell. Her stories will take you deeper into her world—trips to Paris, first love found and lost, a family of food-lovers, holidays and summer evenings around a table, unspeakable loss, and unexpected love coming from a surprising quarter. The stories will sweep you away, as Molly’s writing is wont to. Even my mother, who doesn’t cook and has little interest in food, enjoyed Molly’s book and found herself in tears at her prose.

But this book is both a storybook and a cookbook—not one of those narratives that have recipes marking the end of the chapters. There are about fifty recipes tucked into this storybook, and they’re impeccable Molly recipes. Once you are done reading, you will be pulling it off the shelf more than you can imagine to use the recipes. You might just splatter a bit of milk or egg on one of the pages (which will make you feel awful, because the paper quality is gorgeous, but you will think that Molly might just approve of your enthusiasm).

Not only will you use the book, you will find yourself recommending the recipes to other people. To the friend looking for a perfect banana bread recipe—try Molly’s versions with chocolate and crystallized ginger; to the colleague wanting a sinfully rich chocolate cake that’s not too hard to make—try the chocolate cake Molly made for her wedding, it was amazing. These days I get a lot of my books at the library, but this book is one to buy and keep in your kitchen. You’ll get good use out of it.

Yes, it’s true, I am trying to cut down on the books in my life. I just packed up an apartment and I was ruthless. I got rid of cookbooks, which is always painful. I even got rid of books written by friends of mine and inscribed to me (though I cut out the inscription page so there’s no chance of them finding the copy for sale at the library fundraiser and seeing it was mine; if the inscription was lovely and mushy, I kept the page). But not Molly’s book, Molly’s book I will be keeping.

The English artist and textile designer William Morris once said, “Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful.” Molly’s book, I can honestly say, is both. I know I’ll be savoring my copy for years to come.

SUMMER BOOK CLUB:
The fact is, I have a ridiculous amount of friends publishing books right about now. It's lovely, really. All these folks who have been working hard for years are now seeing their words go out into the world. I'm so happy for them.

This means, however, that I have a lot of books to read. I'm going to be posting about those that are food-related, and thought I would put up at list, in case you might want to read along with me. My own summer book club, if you will (I realize summer is nearly over but I am in denial; humor me, will you?).

I don't know about you, but as much as I love reading (and I do love reading, adore it, really) I sometimes need a little push to get out the door these days. Too much of my reading is done online. So consider this a shove, if you're looking for one. Come, read with me!

Aug 19: Farm City, by Novella Carpenter
Aug 26: The Ramen King and I, by Andy Raskin
Sept 2: The Perfect Fruit, by Chip Brantley
Sept 9: Fat of the Land, by Langdon Cook

MOLLY'S BANANA BREAD, with Chocolate and Crystallized Ginger
From A Homemade Life: Stories and Recipes from My Kitchen Table.

Molly is a huge booster of banana bread, with numerous recipes on her site. I’m sure she’d want me to share a little with you.

6 tbs unsalted butter
2 cups unbleached, all purpose flour
3/4 cup sugar
3/4 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
3/4 cups semisweet chocolate chips
1/3 cups finely chopped crystallized ginger
2 large eggs
1 1/2 cups mashed banana (about 3 large ripe bananas)
1/4 cups well-stirred whole-milk plain yogurt (not low-fat or nonfat)
1 tsp vanilla extract

Set rack in center of the oven and preheat to 350°

Grease a standard loaf pan with butter or cooking spray.

Melt the butter in a small bowl, either in the oven on using a microwave. Set aside to cool.

In a large bowl, whisk the flour, sugar, baking soda, and salt. Add the chocolate chips and crystallized ginger. Stir well to combine and set aside.

In a medium bowl, lightly beat the eggs with a fork. Add the banana, yogurt, melted butter, and vanilla, and stir to mix well.

Pour the banana mixture into the dry ingredients and stir gently until just mixed. The batter will be thick and somewhat lumpy, but there should be no unincorporated flour. Scrape into the prepared pan and smooth the top.

Bake until the loaf is a deep shade of golden brown and a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean, 50 minutes to 1 hour. If the loaf seems to be browning too quickly, tent with aluminum foil.

Cool the loaf in the pan on a wire rack for 5 minutes. Then tip it out onto the rack and let cook completely before slicing (if you can do this, you’re a better person than I am).

Zucchini Noodles with Pesto

2009-08-09T12:41:00.000-07:00

I think "diet" might be the word I dislike most in the English language, at least in its common usage. It runs a tie with snorkel (say snorkel three times fast and you’ll see what I mean). Though perhaps rather than usage of the word diet, I should say misuse.

I hate that this word has come to mean changing your eating habit around so that you eat things you’d never eat otherwise in order to simply to lose weight. We all have diets—it’s the food we eat every day. If you’re anything like me, sometimes that diet is healthful, and sometimes it may verge into territory that won’t win you any blue ribbons from the nutritionalist, but it’s still your diet. It’s what you consume, every day.

My diet has been edging into that lack of blue ribbon territory lately. I’d like to blame it on the book and the stress of deadlines, but that’s just not the case. I was fine with the structure of working every day, it was once the book was over and I remembered how much I like ice cream that was the problem. The fact that Seattle’s artisanal ice cream maker, Molly Moon's, opened an outlet close to my house might have had something to do with it. The discovery that they make salted licorice ice cream pushed me over the edge.

But I don’t believe in crazy diets. I do believe in balance, however, and if my diet is going to include ice cream, it must also include vegetables, in prodigious amounts.

Enter the zucchini noodles.

I first heard about this idea of zucchini noodles when I did my raw food experiment last year. I even wrote about them then—tossed with ponzu, sesame oil, and chili sauce—but I’ve got a new version that’s my current favorite.

To make the noodles you simply run a zucchini across a mandoline, it takes mere seconds. Zucchini are plentiful this time of year—bursting out of gardens and cheap at the farmers’ market. People are practically giving them away. There’s a joke that locals in the country lock their car doors in August because if they don’t they might find bags of zucchini stashed in the back, some desperate gardener hoping to send their veggies off to a good home. This zucchini recipe is a very good home.

You take handfuls of basil, which is also plentiful this time of year, and make a loose pesto. I call it a loose pesto because it’s a loose approximation of a pesto. There’s no cheese or pine nuts, just basil, olive oil, garlic, and salt.

This wasn’t done intentionally. The first time I made this dish I didn’t happen to have any cheese or pine nuts in the house and so I left them out and found that in this preparation I didn’t miss them. The result is a knock-you-over-the-head-with-basil sort of a flavor that I like. And if you’re trying to counterbalance the effect of ice cream, maybe less cheese and nuts is not such a bad thing.

The final ingredient is oven-dried tomatoes, which pack a ridiculous amount of flavor into a small, shriveled red thing. I dry a case or two of tomatoes each August/September, until they are wrinkled but still a bit moist, and I store them in ziplock bags in the freezer, shelling them out over the course of the winter to perk up soups, stews, and sauces. The trick is to ration them so that they last until the end of summer when good tomatoes are available again. We’re almost there and I still have half a bag full. I think we’ll make it.

Slice the tomatoes up and add them to the zucchini and pesto. You could also use fresh tomatoes and that would be lovely as well, but take my advice and oven-dry a few sheets for yourself. I guarantee you’ll be glad you did.

Then toss the whole thing together, add salt and pepper to taste.

You could take this dish in a number of directions, and over the past week I have. One day I added a few kalamata olives, cut into small pieces. Another day I shaved some parmesan cheese over the top. You could add feta cheese and make it a bit more Greek.

I wasn’t going to write about this dish, but when I ate it three times in four days I figured I owed it to you. It’s the best of summer in a bowl. You might just get that nutritionalist-approved blue ribbon to boot, but that’s not why you’ll make it again. At least that’s not why I do. I make it because it tastes good, as every diet should.

Zucchini Noodles: a loose recipe

I have to admit I never use a recipe for pesto, I simply tweak it until it pleases my palate. I’d recommend this method as well, but if you need some handholds, here’s a basic outline.

Two medium-sized zucchini or one large one (but not those crazy baseball bat zucchini), about four to five cups.
One large bunch of basil, leaves removed from steams (about 3 cups)
Garlic, 1-2 cloves (start with one, add a second if you find you want more garlic flavor)
Salt and pepper, to taste
1 cup dried or fresh tomatoes, sliced (if dried) or cut into chunks

Run the zucchini over a mandoline to create “noodles.
Put basil and garlic in the bowl of a food processor (you can chop by hand, if you don’t have a food processor, it just takes a bit of time). Process the herbs while drizzling olive oil in though the feeder tube until you see the consistency change from chopped to smooth, (somewhere between 1 to 2 tbs. of oil). Add salt and pepper to taste (I’d start with 1/2 tsp of salt and add more if you like).

Toss all together. Eat immediately.

Stalking Wonder: Vacation

2009-08-07T13:55:00.000-07:00

I'm on vacation this week—though I had a full post written for you. It's a long post, with lots of photos, and it simply overwhelmed the wonky island internet system here. The internet systerm that I have to go into town to access in the first place (which means I have to leave the deck). I tried and tired to get the photos to upload, but they stubbornly refused.

I think life is telling me something.

So instead I'm giving you this one photo today, and hope that it's enough. This is the view I think about all year. This is the place I long to be. On the island, horizontal, reading a book. It's my slice of heaven.

You can read more about the island here. About its farms and even its blueberries. You can see what the sunrise looks like, and the rocky beach. If I spend the year looking for wonder, the island is where I find it. Every time.

As for me, I'm heading back to my book. I always overdo it on books. This time I brought one for each day I'm here. But two days in I've read two books already, so I'm doing fairly well. I also slept fourteen hours the first night. I'm pretty proud of that.

I'll be back next week with long, proper posts. Until then you can find me in a hammock or on the deck. I'm not searching for anything this week. I've got everything I need.

I hope you do too.

Where is your slice of heaven? Where is the place you long to be? I'd love to hear about it, if you care to share.

The Best Broccoli in the Market

2009-08-02T23:49:00.000-07:00

“This is the best broccoli at the market!”

I had to smile. Not just because the gentleman standing next to me at the Alm Hill farmers’ market booth was rather attractive and well-dressed (sports coat on a Sunday morning), but because I'd never heard anyone speak of broccoli with such enthusiasm. Broccoli isn’t something people usually get excited about.

“It’s true,” he told me conspiratorially. “I’ve tried all the different vendors here and this is the best. It’s amazing.”

Now, when someone tells me broccoli is “amazing,” I take note. Broccoli is often healthy, virtuous, or good for you. It’s so rarely amazing.

Poor broccoli, its nutritional benefits are so touted that I’ve come to think of it almost like vitamins. Whenever I feel myself indulging a bit too much in bread and cheese and chocolate, I throw in some broccoli to balance things out. In my diet, broccoli has become the great equalizer. It’s not fair, but it is true.

I wasn't planning on buying the broccoli before the suit-jacketed gentleman recommended it to me. To me it’s a fall/winter vegetable, and these days I’m on a summer salad kick. I want things cool, crunchy, refreshing. Steamed broccoli just doesn’t sound appealing, I don’t care how virtuous it is.

In my world, broccoli is something that must be cooked—cauliflower too. I don’t like them raw. And in the summer I don’t much like cooking. It’s hot and I’m just as happy tossing cubes of tomato with basil and fresh mozzarella and calling it a day. I want to nibble on sugar snap peas and thinly sliced radishes. I want snappy string beans. I don’t want soggy cooked vegetables. Try me in October and I’ll feel differently, but not right now. Not in August.

But I had to try the best broccoli in the market. I’m a sucker for a personal endorsement, and he was wearing a suit jacket on a Sunday in the Seattle suburbs. You had to give credit for that. I got in line and filled my bag with the baby broccoli flowerets; I’m no dummy.

And you know what, he was right. When I got this broccoli home and tasted it—washed but not otherwise cooked or prepped—it was practically sweet. I ate bunches of it raw, without dressing of any sort. It was the best broccoli I had ever tasted.

Which just goes to show you that the guy in the suit jacket on a Sunday morning might know a thing or two. About broccoli, at least.

RAW BROCCOLI SALAD

I said that I don’t like raw broccoli, and for the most part that’s true. This salad is the one exception. I do like raw broccoli when it’s chopped in little bits and jazzed up with an Asian-style dressing. I eat this salad a lot. It’s good even with broccoli that isn’t the “best broccoli" in the market. Maybe you’ll like it too.

2 cup broccoli

1 tbs + 1 tsp rice vinegar
2 tsp soy sauce
1/2 tsp sesame oil
3/4 tsp sesame seeds
1/4 tsp crushed red pepper flakes (optional)

Wash and chop the broccoli, including the small leaves if they are not too bitter. Peel the bigger steams, if the skin is tough. You want to chop them rather fine. Like this:

Put the chopped broccoli in a medium-sized bowl and toss with the remaining ingredients. You can skip the red pepper flakes, if you prefer, or add more if you like things spicy.

Stalking Wonder: The Solution

2009-07-24T17:59:00.000-07:00

“For every action there is an equal opposite reaction,” that’s what I learned in school.

I’d like to think that for every problem there is a solution, but life has taught me otherwise. I now know there are things for which no answer exists. How does one solve heartbreak, grief, loss, death—or even a moment in life that feels overwhelming? Some things elude an easy solution.

But there is another thing I’ve discovered, and this I do believe. While there may be no ultimate solution to big life problems, there are small ones. There are things that can help you survive the experience. Baking a cookie is not going to resolve anything, but it might just help you get through the day. The next morning things will look different, perhaps more bearable. The solution is to find a way to move through it.

My solution, to my woes of last week, consisted of stepping back, of getting perspective—some might even call it “playing hooky.” I think of it as taking the top off the pressure cooker, letting the hot air escape. At a certain point you’re not doing any good by frantically, manically spinning your wheels (although I try, I really do try).

There's a mantra I developed, back when I was producing the literary festival that came to rule my life. When it all became too much and too out of control, when there were thirty million things that had to be done and only twenty-four hours in a day, I'd chant to myself over and over:

This is not brain surgery, no one is going to die.

It's not brain surgery, no one is going to die, and there is a solution out there—if only for the day. There's something that can be done to help get through it. The trick is in finding it, because the solution is ever-changing.

My solution, this time, consisted of a ferryboat ride to an island.

And Ethiopian takeout food, eaten with good friends.
I’m a great believer in the curative properties of ones favorite takeout food. This may be the sole reason I have not yet moved to the country. There's precious little takeout in the country.

The solution included a baby. The smiley-est baby you can imagine, who claps and laughs and has a different funny expression every two seconds. Babies are magic, as are little kids. I am always reminded how much smaller my life is, yet how amazing and intertwined all our lives are. How our parents sacrificed for us, how they loved us, how fierce and sad and beautiful the human experience is.

And at sunset my solution included a walk in the garden—an amazing garden. The first trip round the garden was with the baby in my arms, we stopped to look at the forest of raspberry bushes, ripe for the picking.

We even picked a few golden raspberries. A pastry chef once told me that of all the fruits I was a golden raspberry. I'm not entirely sure what that means, but I like it.

We looked at a forest of sage, the softest of purples. I wanted to curl up and sleep in that sage. I am so bone tired these days.

And we marveled at the beauty of a lettuce head, bolted in the heat. It is wondrous to look at.

There are blueberries in this garden, almost ready for scattering on cereal.

And red currants that have already hit their stride.

And the golden promise of grapes, later in the season.

There are lessons to learn in the garden, if only we slow down enough to notice. Like these flowers that I've always hated, which are rather striking when you look at them up close. Walking around a garden with a baby means you go slowly, you take your time, you notice there is beauty everywhere.

Even when it's a funny, odd-looking sort of beauty.

And sometimes beauty past its prime is the most interesting kind of beauty there is.

And later, when it was time for the baby to go to sleep, I returned to the garden by myself and lay on the dry summer grass as the sun went down, soaking in the quiet and peace. Have you noticed the quality of quiet in a garden? It's different, special somehow. I sometimes think I can hear the plants growing.

And I realized that in all this summer, I've not spent enough time with my feet in grass. I came to Seattle to have a slower, calmer life, but life speeds up on you if you're not careful. It's important to carve out time to be barefoot on the grass—whatever that means to you, wherever you find your solace.

My solace that evening came under the cherry tree, as darkness fell and the quiet of the garden soaked into me, and I thought about these trees and the island that have weathered many years and storms. Surely my problems are not so big, not insurmountable.

I left that night, after blueberry cobbler and vanilla ice cream served in a Peter Rabbit bunnykins bowl—which, for the record, makes one feel as treasured and cared for as a very loved child. I needed that.

As I walked to the car, the sky looked as if it was cracking open, as if the pieces were being put back together in a better, stronger configuration. It reminded me of a Hemingway quote I've always appreciated: "The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong in the broken places."

This I also believe.

And when the day was done, and I was on the ferry heading homeward, the city sparkled with possibility, drawing me back. My life is in that sparkling city, and for all the frustrations and challenges, it is a beautiful life. As beautiful as I can make it on any given day.

Thank you all for your sweet, kind comments on my last meltdown post. They were much appreciated—more than you can know! Happy weekend, friends. I hope you have a good one.

About Stalking Wonder: the project started Spring of '09, in an attempt to bring wonder back into my life and onto the site, to make the time to appreciate what is all around. Read how it started, or check out the full archives. Stalking Wonder posts go up on Friday. They may or may not have anything to do with food.

I baked you some cookies

2009-07-23T10:52:00.000-07:00

There’s a thing I do, I’ve come to realize. When I’m rushing, when I’m disorganized and life feels out of control, when I have ten things I have to do and only time to do three of them, I put on earrings—more elaborate earrings than I normally wear. Sometimes I even dress up a little.

“You look so nice,” people will say. And they won’t know that I’m wearing the flouncy skirt because all the clothes I usually wear are in the dirty laundry. And the earrings? That might be because I haven’t had a chance to wash my hair that morning, or because I feel like I’m not doing a good job of everything I have on my plate. Or maybe the plate fell off the table and I’m trying to pick up the pieces and put them back together and I’m really hoping you don’t notice. So here, look at these pretty earrings instead.

I baked you some cookies. Here, look at these.

Because the truth is I have three half-written blog posts I keep on trying to finish, I have about a dozen more I want to write (there’s so much exciting stuff going on in the food world right now). But even though I've tried to finish them, nearly every day the past two weeks, I keep getting pulled away. The other night I sat myself down and swore that I wasn’t allowed to leave the computer until I was done—but I was so tired I just couldn’t keep it together and had to sleep.

The proof pages of my book manuscript are due tomorrow, all the last changes, and it terrifies me. A big box arrived on my doorstep yesterday filled with galleys of the book—a mocked up version that gets sent out for publicity and review. This confirmed three things for me:

1). I really do dislike the cover as much as I feared I would (that was a battle I lost).

2). There is no one besides me who will ever know what went into writing this book—any book. The sleepless nights, the years of research (yes, we’re into years now), the tears, the angst all comes down to splashes of ink on paper, a trifling thing really, that you can throw across the room or use as a coaster for your drink. That’s just funny.

3). This really is going to be a book, and it’s going to go out in the world and people are going to read it and as much as we’re supposed to want that as writers—people interacting with our work—it makes me want to run far away and hide in a cave and not come out until somewhere roundabout 2015.

I baked you some cookies. Wanna cookie?

And my house is a wreck, and I have family arriving next week, and my furniture from San Francisco is about to be delivered (when they give you a delivery window that ends on July 9th, do not believe them). I guess that means I’ve up and moved to Seattle—and as much as that feels right, it also freaks me out. I don’t have any old friends in this town, so what happens when I’m about to have a meltdown (witness: right now) and no one here really knows me well enough to know what will make it better?

I think I need a cookie.

I went to a social event last night—filled with Seattle food people, chatting, drinking, eating—and everyone had their cameras out and were taking pictures (because that’s what we food geeks do). When someone asked me why I wasn’t taking pictures, I ended up blurting out to a relative stranger that I’m exhausted and burnt out and didn’t have it in me; that I really need a vacation.

I’m getting one too, in about two weeks, but I'm not sure I can hold out until then.

Wanna cookie?

I cracked up a friend of mine the other day. He was complaining how the spa he likes to go to had closed, and the restaurant he had lunch at wasn’t as good as he had hoped, and something else I can’t even remember right now.

“So, first world problems, eh?” I said. He laughed at that, he loved it. First world problems—like when your table linens don't match, or you can't find the brand of soap that you like.

I’ve got some first world problems of my own these days, and it makes me feel low and miserable to even mention them. My book is going to be a book, I get to move to a city I love (let’s not talk, for a moment, about the other city I love; the one where my friends live), I even get a vacation, if I can manage to hold out that long. And yet it all feels overwhelming at the moment.

I had a laugh with Brett Emerson, at his gorgeous new restaurant Contigo, last time I was in San Francisco. We were talking about how sometimes, if you’re lucky and you work hard, your dreams will come true—restaurants, books, etc.

They will come true, and then they'll kick your ass.

I need sleep, I need to take care of myself better, I need to hold it all together, I need to stop crying, I need to water my garden before it dies, I need to do laundry (actually, I need to fold the laundry I’ve already done, so the next time I have to leave the house I don’t look like I just got out of bed). I need to put one foot in front of the other and just get through it. I need to hug a baby. I need to count my blessings. I need to get some perspective. I need to be grateful. I need to grow a thicker skin, preferably before the book reviews start rolling in.

I need a cookie. Maybe you need a cookie too.

APRICOT, ALMOND, CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES

These aren’t my cookies, I should first tell you that. They come from the Loobylu website, discovered and modified by my friend Rosie. I should also tell you that I linked to this recipe three years ago—a long and rambling post mostly about Bolinas that garnered me my very first blog comment from someone I didn’t know, and my first link as well. I remember how weird and wonderful that felt.

I haven’t made this recipe since then, but this past week the stars aligned and I baked cookies—something that happens about once a year—and these really are yummy. They got 100% approval rating from the folks who got to eat them—even the one who confessed she doesn’t like chocolate chip cookies (yeah, I don't understand that either).

And I must say, when it feels like you life is in tatters and shambles, it’s really nice that people at least like your cookies.

I tweaked the original recipe—following Rosie’s modification of half semisweet chips and half white (all white would be too sweet, I think). I’ve also upped the salt quotient, and might do even more. Towards the end I began to sprinkle some flakes of Maldon salt on top of the cookies, and that was really good as well.

Oh, and this time I used a bit of whole-wheat flour, because I hadn’t checked to make sure I had enough while flour before starting the recipe and ran out partway through. So if you want to sub some whole-wheat flour in, I give you my blessing. Maybe you too are a ditz and run out of ingredients halfway though baking projects. No, I’m sure that you’re not.

And finally, I knocked down the amount of chocolate chips called for—because it is simply not possible to fit 2 cups of chips in. Trust me, I tried. There’s not enough dough to bind them. But if you want to buy 2 cups of chips and eat up the excess, far be it from me to judge you; I’d probably just join you.

1 2/3 cups regular flour

1/2 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon salt, more for sprinkling on to

3/4 cup melted butter

1 cup packed brown sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1 egg

2/3 cup white chocolate chips

2/3 cup semi-sweet or milk chocolate chips

3/4 cup chopped almonds

3/4 cup dried apricots, chopped

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

In a medium bowl, stir together the flour, baking soda, and salt. In a large bowl, stir in the butter and sugar until smooth. Beat in the egg and vanilla. Stir in the dry ingredients until well blended, then add the chips, almonds, and apricots.

Drop dough by rounded teaspoonfuls onto an unprepared cookie sheet. Sprinkle salt on top, if desired. Bake for 10 to 12 minutes in the preheated oven. Cookies should be golden brown. Remove from the baking sheet to cool on wire racks.

You don't want to make these too big, because they really are quite rich. Trust me on this one. You also don't want to overbake them, as I did the last batch. If you do the apricots get too chewy and stick in your teeth and you will be sad. Trust me on this one too.

Stalking Wonder: Kids on Farms

2009-07-10T17:22:00.000-07:00

I’ve written before about the Farm Tots program at South47 Farm, an organic farm just a stone’s throw from Seattle, across Lake Washington. During the summer months the farm runs a program where children can come with their parents (or their aunties/uncles) and learn about the farm. Each week has a different theme and there are crafts projects, wagon rides, crops to be harvested, goats and chickens to be fed and pet.

But the thing I think is even more wonderful, is the subtle impact this program has. These kids—many of whom come regularly—are growing up with a farm. They get to see the crops come into season, they get to pick them. They learn that once the fresh blueberries are gone, we have to wait a whole year for them to come back in season again. They know what the plants look like coming out of the ground.

Why do I think this is important?

Last winter I asked my oldest niece—now four—where she thought oranges come from. I was planning to tell her about California, where her grandmother lives, and about the acres of orange groves and how intoxicatingly sweet they smell when in bloom.

My niece, however, had already figured it out for herself. “Oranges come from Trader Joe’s,” she told me. And she’s right. For better or for worse, that's where her oranges come from.

But there’s a whole story behind those oranges: the trees in the fields, the fruit pickers, the harvest. A slew of people work hard to produce that orange, which my brother then buys and brings home to his daughters. There is hard work, sweat, and hope in the food we eat: hope for a good harvest, hope for a fair price. Nobody goes into farming because it’s an easy or safe job. At the same time, it is one of the most important jobs around.

I’ve mentioned before that I’m taking a six-month permaculture class, and finding it amazing and exciting. Last weekend, in one of the lectures, my teacher asked this question:

What would you do if the delivery truck stopped showing up at the grocery store?

This is part of the reason I take my niecelets to the farm—and part of the reason I have a garden this year. I think it’s important to know where our food comes from, what it looks like, how it’s grown. This is the stuff of life, our lives.

But beyond all that, the farm is just a wondrous place for kids. They love being there.

And perhaps the most wondrous thing of all is that, after playing and running about the farm and getting to harvest their own vegetables, kids feel an investment in their food, an ownership, an excitement about it.

In all honesty, it's the only way I know to get a two-year-old to eat a turnip.

South47 Farm, Redmond, Washington

Friends with Benefits

2009-07-01T11:44:00.000-07:00

“Friends with benefits” is the phrase that came to mind after I tasted what is, hands down, one of the best things I have put in my mouth this year. Not those kinds of benefits (mind out of gutter, please). I’m talking culinary benefits, which is nothing to scoff at. Not when a dish like this is in the offing. The benefit I’m talking about is fresh, free sorrel, and a recipe that might make your head spin.

It all started with my friend Knox, who is known for his brilliant ideas (he is Mr. Soup Swap, after all). He’s also the guy who transformed a bare backyard into an amazing landscape of colorful and edible bounty in under a year.

Every time I come to visit I get to poke around the garden and see what’s new. It could be unusual fruit trees (medlars, anyone?) or a box that allows for stacking of potato plants, or a rabbit house with strawberries growing on the roof. Or it could be a clutch of sorrel plants that won’t stop producing.

“Do you want some sorrel?” he asked me as we eyed the plants that were going gangbusters.

“Sure,” I said. “What do you do with it?”

I’ve grown sorrel before, but I wanted to know what Knox does with these tart and lemony greens. The only thing I've ever done is make soup.

“I make the tart.” He said it like I should know about this tart. Like everyone should know about this tart.

I had never heard of a sorrel tart. Have you?

The tart comes from Deborah Madison who got it from Richard Olney, which is some serious culinary pedigree. She says this recipe is the reason she grows sorrel. Knox says it’s the reason he grows sorrel as well. And it’s the reason I’m going to be planting a lot more sorrel in the future.

Knox gave me a bundle of greens and I spirited them home and tried my hand at the tart. It’s a fairly simply thing: eggs, cream, some gruyere cheese. I used a 12 year aged gruyere I’ve recently become hooked on. There’s a red onion as well, sautéed down until it’s soft, and the pile of sorrel leaves.

The sorrel leaves are even better if prepped by a little wee one. The niecelets have discovered the salad spinner and love playing with it. I now have the driest greens in three states.

The thing about sorrel is that you take a nice pile of lovely greens, and once you cook them they turn into something that—to quote Bridget Jones's Diary— looks like “green gunge.” Sorrel melts into a sopping brown/green mess. This, I have discovered, is not such a bad thing—although it's not very pretty to look at.

As I was cooking the sorrel and the onions, I began to think that the tart might be good with some wisps of prosciutto mixed in (if you’re the sort of person who goes for that). It would bump up the umami flavor. When it was fully baked and served, however, I changed my mind. This tart needs nothing but a fork; it’s deeply savory, in a way not common in vegetarian cooking. The onion and sorrel are a perfect match for the gruyere, the crust is flaky. It was one of the best things I’ve tasted this year, hands down.

My mother was in town that week and she loved it too—loved it. We wrapped the second half of the tart up and took it with us for a weekend on the Olympic Peninsula with the niecelets. Halfway through the weekend, my mother looked at me and said, “Do you think we should bother sharing the tart with the girls? I’m not sure they can really appreciate it.”

What can I tell you—it’s good. So good I’ve been begging sorrel off friends of mine. Shauna and Dan have a big plant about to go to seed and let me gather some leaves. My community garden has some in the shared herb section that I've been eyeing. And my most recent email from Knox told me I could come and get more from his garden (“If you need some stop by and get some...you know where it is!”).

Friends with benefits, indeed.

Not only is he generous, my friend Knox is also quite clever. He sautés the sorrel in butter and then freezes it, in individual plastic bags, so he can have this tart year round. Genius. I plan to do the same. Perhaps you should give it a try as well. Trust me on this one, a friend wouldn't steer you wrong.

SORREL TART
From The Greens Cookbook, by Deborah Madison and Edward Espe Brown
I don’t usually post recipes taken from cookbooks, but as this recipe was given to Deborah Madison by Richard Olney, I figure I’m just passing it along as well. It’s really too good not to share.

Tart Dough

1 cup flour
3/8 tsp salt
4 tbs butter, chilled and cut into chunks
1 1/2 tbs vegetable shortening
2 1/2 to 3 tbs cold water

Put all ingredients except water into the bowl of a food processor and process until the texture is small and crumbly. Drizzle the water in slowly until the dough comes together in a ball. Don’t process more than necessary. You can alternately do this in a bowl with a pastry cutter.

Roll out the dough and press into a 9-inch tart pan or springform cake pan, pricking the bottom with fork tines. Freeze the empty shell. Once fully frozen, bake the shell in a 450° oven until beginning to color.

NOTE: my tart dough shrunk a bit, and bubbled slightly on the bottom despite having been pricked. Next time I’ll try baking with pie weights.

Tart Filling:

4 tbs unsalted butter, divided
1 large red onion, sliced thinly
1/2 tsp salt
6-8 oz sorrel leaves (I used about 7 oz)
2 large eggs
1 cup heavy cream
2 oz gruyere cheese, grated (I use an aged gruyere, 12 years)
Pepper to taste

Preheat oven to 375°

Melt 3 tbs butter in a medium pot or pan and add the onions and salt. Sauté about 10-15 minutes, until the onions are soft and stewed. Set aside. In a new pan, melt 1 tbs butter and add sorrel. Cover and cook until the greens have wilted, about 4-5 minutes. Allow both the onions and the sorrel to cool.

Whisk eggs and cream together in a large bowl. Add the sorrel, onion, and half the cheese, stir to mix. Add pepper, as desired.

Scatter the second half of the cheese over the pre-baked tart shell. Pour the filling on top. Bake in the center of the oven until fully set (40-45 mins). The final tart should be well colored. Serve hot or room temperature.

Stalking Wonder: Farewell to 7th Avenue

2009-06-26T18:26:00.000-07:00

Oh, friends, I’ve been absent round these parts. Once I turned in my final manuscript for the book, things got busy. There was all the life maintenance deferred during deadline, and my mother’s 70th birthday—which I think you’ll agree deserves some celebrating. And there’s been the minor problem of having run out of space on my hard drive and being unable to download photos, but mostly there was San Francisco and 7th Avenue to deal with.

Yes, 7th Avenue. Isn’t seven a nice and lucky number?

Nine years ago this month, I moved into San Francisco. It was the height of the dot-com era and housing was hard to come by. Open houses drew forty to sixty people, some of whom showed up with checks already written for the first six months of rent. Others offered to pay more than asking price. At one open house I was given a questionnaire that put the sorority rush process to shame.

I was lucky, I was offered two houses (apparently I'm good at sorority rush). They were both in the neighborhood I wanted, both in my (limited) price range, and I turned them both down. My friends thought was crazy. "You don't know what it's like here now," they told me, "you've been in Japan a long time. You might not find anything else in your price range. The city has become expensive."

“They just weren’t right,” I told them. I wasn't being picky, I just had a feeling my house was still out there.

That was Tuesday. On Wednesday I read the listing for 7th Avenue.

I started calling it “my” apartment before I even saw it, before I even talked to the women who were looking for a housemate. I just knew. When they asked me to meet them on a weekend morning I agreed, though the last thing I wanted to do was go into the city where I had been working all week.

Ten minutes into the conversation they started talking about me as if I already lived there. “Do you want me to take a walk around the block while you discuss it?” I asked them.

“No,” they said, smiling broadly. They knew too.

That is how I ended up in the big Edwardian flat, half a block away from Golden Gate Park and on a direct tramline to my office at the publishing company. That is how I met Meg, still a dear friend, and how I fell in love with the fog as it rolls over the Sunset District and gets tangled in the tall cypress trees in the park. I could see the tops of those trees as I lay in bed, and at night I could hear the foghorns. I had grown up a stone’s throw away from San Francisco, across that red bridge, but it was exciting to be living in the city at last.

The flat was huge—two living rooms, two fireplaces, a formal dining room with big, fancy double doors that rolled shut with the sound of thunder. It was built in 1910 and all the doors were made of solid redwood. If you had to take them off the hinges—as you do to get furniture in or out—and you happened to drop one of your toe, you'd limp for a week and a half.

As lovely as it was, it was also inexpensive, a rare thing in this city of high prices (I won’t tell you how inexpensive, it would pain you). The landlord hadn’t raised the rent in over a decade. We took this seriously and made a point of bringing in roommates for whom this would be a boon—teachers, students, those working in nonprofits, arts, social work. The city had become expensive while I was gone, very expensive.

In the beginning there was a gang of us living there. I was delighted to be living with people, after seven years of living alone, and loved the rituals that developed. Wednesday night, without fail, was West Wing. On Mondays we sometimes went to very bad movies (we may or may not have smuggled beer into the theaters, which may or may not have made the films better). Sundays were often spent on the couch of our downstairs neighbors, where I discovered that the only thing better than watching Sex in the City with girlfriends, is watching it with gay men.

We were all fairly busy with our own lives, but the times together were fun. I remember one evening when, after a few drinks, we realized the dog needed to be walked (yes, there was even a dog who napped all afternoon in the sunny patch on the dining room). We bundled up and headed to the park in high spirits. There we rolled down grassy hills, laughed madly, and enacted our first game of fantasy baseball where we pretended to pitch an imaginary ball, running the bases in the ball field while the imaginary crowd went wild. Then we put on heels and spent the rest of the night drinking sangria in a tapas bar.

There were parties too. Holiday parties, birthday parties, a fondue party where I nearly burnt the house down (don’t ask, it’s embarrassing). The dining room had high wainscoting around it and on top of the ledge were twenty-five small votive candle holders. When we had parties the candles were lit and the whole room simply glowed. In those moments I felt rich and drunk on life.

It all seems hazy and golden now, those days of twenty-somethingness. It wasn’t always rosy. There was heartbreak, jobs lost and found. There were mismatched roommates and dirty dishes in the sink. It was life, with its pleasures and hard knocks. But on days when the knocks had been particularly hard, there was this house to come home to, and often a friendly face to chat with while curled up on one of the sofas. There were cups of tea and glasses of beer and conversations with neighbors on the stoop. At the best of times, it felt like a family.

I went to grad school while living here, writing papers late into the night, and I started my freelance business here. My roommate bought me a teapot to mark the occasion—and the tea strainer you see in the banner photo above. She explained that I no longer needed to take my tea with me in a commuter cup. I still remember how very odd it felt that first morning when everyone went off to work and I stayed home. Can I really do this? Am I allowed?

Over time there were fewer roommates. When Meg moved out I took over the second bedroom as my office, working in a room that was drenched in golden California light every afternoon, so bright I had to buy curtains so I could see the computer screen. There was a year and a half where it was only me living there, though I never liked it. The house was big and rambling, meant for people; it felt lonely to be there alone.

That was the year I got sick and started this blog. I spent days at home, staring out my window at the treetops in Golden Gate Park, watching the wisps of fog curl like tendrils. When I felt strong enough I cooked for friends, who came over for dinner when they were done with work. My friend Cheyenne and I once spent an evening immobile from exhaustion—her from a demanding job, me from illness—lying on neighboring sofas, staring at the flames in the fireplace.

Then, when I began to feel better, I decided to leave. I never thought I was moving away permanently, I simply decided to go to Seattle for the summer. It was to be a break from San Francisco, nothing more. Then I would come back to this city I love, to a house that had become home. I never thought Seattle might be longterm.

But life has a funny way to making up its own mind. I did come back, but I left again, and then again. For the past two years I’ve been here only sporadically. I’ve come and gone, and it’s come to be that I have two homes—one on 7th Avenue that contains my furniture, another one in Seattle that (usually) contains me.

When I moved to Seattle the younger sister of a friend of mine moved into 7th Avenue, staying in one of the empty bedrooms. She’s in her twenties and excited about living in the city. The first weekend her friends came over. I heard them laughing in the bathroom as they got ready to go out and I smiled. I remember those first dazzling days of living in San Francisco, the sheer giddiness of this beautiful city. When they left I told them to have fun and I meant it. They will have fun, and they will have hard times, that’s just the way it is. But I know she has a home to come back to at the end of the day. Sometimes that makes all the difference.

I spent this past week packing up my furniture, my books, the artwork I had left behind when I went to Seattle. As I wrapped glassware and candlesticks I remembered the times—good and bad—the parties, the conversations, the meals and cups of tea and jokes shared around the dining room table. This place has been my home, but it increasingly doesn’t feel like home anymore. When I come back now it feels like visiting a college dorm or first apartment.

Ah, yes. I remember that time in my life. It was good, but it’s over now.

The furniture I packed this week—things that were swaddled in blankets and lifted onto a truck—is coming to Seattle. It will be put into a garage to wait until I’ve found my next home. I don’t know where that is yet. Sometimes it scares me, this leap of faith I’m taking. I love San Francisco and I loved my life there. It is and always will be home. But sometimes it’s good to leave home—not easy, but good.

At least I hope that it is. I hope that it will be for me.

As for 7th Avenue, I’m not turning in my keys just yet (did I mention: seriously amazing rent deal?). It’s a hard world sometimes, I might need to run home again. I’m glad it’s still there; I’m grateful.

Thanks, 7th Avenue. I was lucky, indeed, to have found you. I hope to be lucky again.

Stalking Wonder: The Picnic

2009-06-05T09:49:00.000-07:00

Isn't that photo glorious? I should have saved it for the end of the post but I couldn't resist. It's too happy, and happy shouldn't be put off. You've got to grab happy whenever and wherever you can.

For me these days, happy is a picnic. The weather has sorted itself out, the gardens are thriving, the days are long and warm, and I can think of few things finer than eating outdoors with friends and family. It's picnic time all right.

I recently had the extreme pleasure of being included in a picnic that was wonderful in every way. A beautiful garden, where we ate under a cherry tree already festoon with tiny green fruit, next to a lilac bush still hanging onto the last of her blooms. We were surrounded by daisies and lavender and all manner of beautiful plants and flowers. It's a magical spot.

And then there was the food. Gorgeous lettuces plucked from a garden (by a wonderful new gardener) and dressed in homemade ranch dressing with buttermilk from a local farm. A potato salad with asparagus and morels and a basil dressing (wow), chicken and ribs right off the grill, cookies and wine and the most amazing dessert. It truly was a feast.

But more than the food—which was outstanding—were the people. Friends old and new, some met that very day. A conversation that dipped and wove its way through stories and laughter and strong opinions. The sharing of thoughts and hopes and experience, and even outrage sometimes, as the sun arched across an impossibly blue sky and headed for the horizon.

It reminded me of a quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson that I've always loved:

"I wish that life should not be cheap, but sacred. I wish the days to be as centuries, loaded, fragrant."

That day was.

And I did what I love to do. I nestled my glass is a hollow in the lawn and lay on my stomach with my toes in the grass and I listened to a conversation that contained whole worlds in it. Wisdom and experience and humor shared—and I was reminded that we humans are tribal creatures, not meant to live alone. We survive best when encircled by bonds and relationships and connections. Some people get this through their family, some people create a family of friends, drawing people close and forging the ties that will sustain them. That day we felt like a little tribe, out in the garden, sharing our lives and our loves and our food together under a generous sun.

It was the very best sort of day.

And in the end we had flan with rhubarb compote—the most amazing flan made by an amazing woman, topped with dulce de leche she had carried back from a trip to Argentina. It was so delicious that we all fell silent as we ate it.

But for me that day was not about the food—as wonderful as it was. It was about the people, the connection, the time spent together in a glorious garden. The feeling of community, of communion, of good things beginning to grow.

Don't you think you should try having a picnic soon?

Photo of yours truly, in her favorite habitat, by the lovely Bonne Vivant

Don't think I'd leave you high and dry without recipes:

Danny's potato salad with morels and asparagus and basil vinaigrette
(I loved this dish)
Viv's incredible flan de queso (your life may never be the same)
Shauna's buttermilk ranch dressing (inspired by Cookiecrumb)
Rhubarb compote

Happy weekend, friends. I hope you get a picnic in soon!