[Breakfast, January 2012.]

The tide has turned a little: it rained in the night and I woke up intermittently to hear the screen rattling in the frame as the wind tried to push its way into the bedroom. I dreamed strange dreams of the ocean and a wide, flat lake and turned over and turned over and turned over again … We leave for vacation in four days and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t counting the hours, at least virtually. The rain, plus vacation soon, has semi put me back to rights this week, and I am grateful.

The weekend was spent in Sebastopol, which felt like a vacation of sorts even though I worked a bit (cooking and photographing for an article, plus an enormous pot of cauliflower-leek soup). Saturday especially: for a warm, lazy, almost-hour we drank americanos at Hardcore Espresso and listened to funky Greek (I think) music and people and dog-watched and stretched out and felt the sun good and strong on bare arms. Then a swim and lunch at Gypsy Cafe, the replacement for the old Pine Cone diner and to which I was initially resistant because I like tradition and Main Street has changed so much as it is. But I’ve come around. It’s good. My first visit there I had a plate of sauteed chard, roasted tomatoes, poached eggs and toast, and this time we each had burgers (veggie for me) and sweet potato fries and I stole illicit sips of my husband’s beer when he wasn’t paying attention. Then a cinnamon cookie from next door, and a cup of coffee I didn’t really drink. REI, futiley, for a swimsuit. Another swim on Sunday afternoon.

I am pushing through the week. A yoga class tonight, hopefully, and chocolate cake for a mid-morning snack. I brought my lunch to work, which is leftovers – polenta with stir-fried red cabbage, onion, garlic and white beans – but of course all I want it something else though that want is non-specific. Maybe a bowl of fried brown rice? With cheddar?

In Maine we talked a lot about cooking, specifically finding motivation other than appetite to cook dinners night after night (and we all like to cook). They have it worse than me because they get up so much earlier – 5 a.m. a lot of the mornings – that by 5 p.m. sleepiness has settled in for the long haul and the thought of making dinner is probably the last thing they want to deal with. Except they do, of course, as most of us must no matter what time we get up, and so we discussed ways to circumvent the boredom of repetition (me: how much quinoa can I really consume in during the course of one week?) and also not spend three hours making a meal. Things like crockpots are employed to make beans from scratch (I am tempted, and still have some post-wedding Sur la Table gift certificates to use) or soup, a big pot of rice can be used in various ways throughout the week, sometimes beans on toast is just fine.

One thing they cook a lot of it is vegetable fried rice, because if you have leftover rice you can make it into another dinner. In fact, you might specifically cook a lot of rice so as to have leftovers for future meals. I am more the brown rice risotto type but one morning I woke up and as I brewed my cup of tea I decided to try it out for breakfast, though without vegetables because it was 9 o’clock and I wasn’t quite ready for the daily influx of greens. So I heated some olive oil in a frying pan, cracked in an egg and scrambled-cooked it, then added some leftover short grain brown rice and grated sharp cheddar cheese and black pepper and cooked it until the rice was warm and the cheese was melted. It hit the spot. I am now hooked.

Next time I plan to add whatever vegetables I have around to the mix: I probably will start with a chopped red or yellow onion, maybe some garlic, peas, spinach, a red pepper? The key I think is to scramble the eggs very lightly first, or at least to start them so when you add the rice the eggs are already cooked a bit; to add egg to rice coats the rice and is gloppy and sort of gross (in my opinion). You want those eggy scrambled bits to commingle with the rice (brown for me, and not basmati I don’t think). A garnish of scallions I bet would be delicious, and using Parmesan cheese too or instead of cheddar (I do sincerely love cheddar), and if you’re feeling decadent starting off with butter instead of olive oil would be nice. And make as many eggs as you’re hungry for – dinner may call for 2 per person. Plus if you switch up the vegetables incorporated each time it makes a nearly-new dish.

Today is grey and dreary but I can’t say I mind the rain for once; it’s possible a person can get tired of sun day after day. At least, we tire of repetition. Which is to say that the addition of fried brown rice to my dinner repertoire, while indeed a slight repetition of sorts, will serve as a welcome change to the polenta, the quinoa stew, the roasted sweet potatoes with black beans, the grinding task of coming up with something nourishing + wholesome + healthy + delicious every night. Not that I don’t love to cook. But you know …

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Tomorrow I go to Maine to visit Kurt and Emily, she of the biscotti pictured above and the delicious fresh-ginger ginger cookies sent for the holidays (no photo but trust me on this one). The last time I saw them in Maine was June 2010 for their wedding, and the last time I saw them in California was this past fall for my wedding, so, y’know, it’ll be nice to just hang around and talk about other things like … I don’t know … food.

Actually, we’ll probably talk about food most of the time. And the rest of the time we’ll be cooking it. I always learn something new when I cook with them — Kurt got me into red cabbage one February, and I feel foolish I’d never really tried it before I love it so much now — and I always leave filled with inspiration or at least a new way of looking at things. I forget that cooking with the right people is one of my favorite past-times. Too often I am solitary in the kitchen – or with a sous-chef to chop the garlic – gulping down water after a run and throwing the quinoa on to boil before jumping the shower. Vegetables are stir-fried quickly, a glass of wine is poured while the silverware is assembled, and dinner is served. We – or, to be honest, me – often see food as fuel around here, which it is, no doubt about it. I can be a terribly utilitarian cook. But given the opportunity I also like to slow it down and talk and experiment along the way.

So when I say I am very much looking forward to my week in New England that would probably be a bit of an understatement. I cannot wait, in fact. My bag is mostly packed, my books decided upon, my ipod fully charged. I’m looking forward to frigid mornings, the deep blue of the river across the street to accompany me on my walks, a new cat to meet and snuggle with, early bedtimes, an exhale into the quiet and peace that I always find there. There isn’t much planned other than to hang out (I hope this will help my poor legs to rest and relax themselves after all the prodding they’ve endured lately (chiropractors are fantastic but, ouch)) and, yes, to cook. Maybe some ice skating, too, if I’m lucky.

I hope to write a bit from there; New England has a special hold on my heart and it’s been far too long since I’ve made my way ‘cross country. But before I set off to Boston in the morning I wanted to leave a recipe for a soup I made the other night. I meant to write about it more poetically but I just got back from a swim and my mind, like my muscles, is all loose and warm and not so good for prettily stringing words together. But I will tell you that it was the exact thing I needed last night after an amazing, hard(ish) yoga class stretched my hamstrings to their edge and all I wanted after was shower, vegetables, sleep.

I started making a chard and white bean soup this fall with the last of the tomatoes, and I’ve moved on into winter with a variation of such but with the main ingredient being cabbage. My husband jokes that cabbage has replaced cauliflower as my favorite vegetable lately – and indeed they are of the same family – but I scoff at that. Cauliflower and I are tried and true, forever and ever amen. Still, I do love my cabbage. I’ve been stir-frying heads of green cabbage from Richard, who grows gorgeous things at Firme Farms, with a chopped yellow onion and lots of garlic and white beans plus some thyme or basil (dried) if I feel like it. Then I make a pot of polenta and pile it all on top and it is just! the perfect winter meal. (And come to think of it, perhaps inspired by my brother). The soup is very similar, but with more vegetables and in soup-like form; there’s onion, garlic, carrots, celery, white beans, cabbage, and a little chard, too. It’s nourishing and healthy and brothy and salty and full of good vegetables and damn, if I hadn’t eaten the last bowl for lunch I’d be slurping up some right now …

This means, of course, that I must make it for my Mainers when I see them. What kind of guest would I be if I didn’t cook dinner a few times? The rest of it hopefully we’ll cook together, with that brilliant view of the sunset outside the kitchen window to keep us company.

Catch you on the east side.

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[Vegan flourless peanut butter cookies, December 2011.]

Oh, I mean to write about these cookies before Christmas. They were set to be offered up as a beautiful alternative (or addition?) to the holiday cookie bundle: to dip delicately in a cup of tea sipped before the fire, to give away to best beloveds (or new friends), to munch upon whilst decorating the tree. And then … well, the days whisked by in a flash. I barely was able to give the kitchen a quick scrub before hauling these cookies, assorted edible gifts (roasted hazelnuts, smoked salmon from my guy at the farmers market), library books, extraneous pairs of shoes, and myself up to Sonoma County via the commuter bus on Christmas Eve eve. There was no time to sit down and write out a recipe, alas.

Which is not to say these are not killer cookies, or that you shouldn’t make them now in these baby days of the year. You should. And perhaps right now is after all the better time — we are rubbing the gritty remnants of 2011 from our eyes and gazing out at the new year full of hopes and plans (and some expectations too, no doubt). We need fortification for such dreams and imaginings, yes?

[Wildcat, November 2011.]

The day after Thanksgiving I went camping — backpacking, actually, if I am being specific. Which means you pack up a fairly large pack with warm clothes and food and fuel (and if you’re me a too-heavy book) and set out into the wilderness (or, ‘wilderness’ depending). It was just an overnight this time into the Point Reyes Seashore, and we ate very simply (the ‘chili mac’, a.k.a. Annie’s macaroni and cheese + a can of vegetarian chili a la Kurt and Emily), but it was magic to be out in the cool, clear dark. The fog was socked in when we got to the campground — we saw deer on the trail down shrouded in ghostly mist as they nibbled their dinners — but at some point I woke up in the night to see the stars stark and bright against the blackness. Oh for a night unmarred by streetlights! It was quiet except for the constant low roar of the ocean. Orion, I whispered, and squinted to see the Big Dipper, too. I am hopeless at constellations but these are the ones I can remember.

I hadn’t been out to Wildcat in a few years, but it remains one of my favorites as it has been from the beginning. It’s only six miles in or so, but it feels vastly removed. The very first time we went backpacking was out there, my brother and I, with a family friend who threw some hot-dogs and granola bars into our packs and forgot the stove. We ate them semi-raw for dinner (even in those pre vegetarian days I was slightly squeamish about meat) and drank tea that had been brewed over a driftwood fire and was overly sweet and littered with ash (still I think the best cup of tea I’ve ever drunk). The ocean thrummed on in its ceaseless way and we slept out without a tent, waking to skunks trawling the tall grass nearby in the morning. There wasn’t a car in sight. It was good enough that we fell in love on the spot and kept coming back and back again and then went to new places (Yosemite, Sheandoah, Maine). Backpacking = love.

But, there’s something special about your old familiar. That day in November we walked the trail from Bear Valley, hiking steadily along the miles we often run through in half the time, peeling off to the left just before Arch Rock and climbing up through the forest. Hardly anyone was about. We sweated and talked companionably, our conversation peppered with ‘do you remembers’, for the first time I’d ever walked that trail, at 14, was also with my old friend, now my husband. Don’t you remember how you forgot the stove? I asked, though he claims he doesn’t (and in fairness perhaps it wasn’t the stove but the fuel that was left behind to which I still must respond SAME DIFFERENCE REALLY). We’ve hiked and backpacked together that once and then twice — this summer in Yosemite — but this trip felt like a sort of full-circle thing. The first time we went out there together we were friends (and so young) with no inkling of what might come. The second time together on that beach we were married (but still friends), with 100+ jars of blackberry jam behind us as well as not a few life experiences. Suddenly (or not-so) what was old became new again.

If that makes sense.

So, these peanut butter cookies? I feel like they’re another example of something old that’s new again. We’ve all eaten pb cookies (maybe with j, maybe with chocolate?) so many times before no doubt; they’re nothing special. And yet … isn’t there something to be said for the tried-and-true familiar? Well, I will say it: there is. Especially when updated just a smidge.

I made these cookies first off because I was sending a massive box of goodies to the East Coast for my brother and sis-in-law, and needed to make them gluten-free. I’d sent Emily a batch of gluten-free ginger cookies around Thanksgiving, and while she loved them I wanted to do something else this time around. I made a lot of funny-looking flourless chocolate cake bites (which turned out more cookie than cake, unfortunately), some dried fruit-nut-chocolate candies, and flourless peanut butter cookies that were so good I had to hide them from my old-new-again husband. Then, because I was infected with some kind of baking mania, I made another batch — this time vegan, for my dad.

Vegan flourless peanut butter cookies? Don’t cringe. I think they might be better than any other version I’ve ever made (and I’ve made quite a few, with good results). Leaving out the flour makes the cookies crisp and light, yet there’s still heft here, and a bit of sweetness, a bit of salt. There’s peanut butter. The dough comes together so easily and quickly, too — unfussy. Straightforward. They are the same but different.

Today, January 6, it’s hard to imagine the trail ahead. What soups will I make this year? Will my enduring cauliflower obsession serve to well feed or rather bore me? What kinds of jam will I can this summer? Will the economy resuscitate itself? Will it rain in California this winter? Will I ever run again?

The same-old same-old, but viewed through the lens of 2012 which, yes, is new. There are more camping trips to to plan, more cookies to bake. Let’s go.

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[San Francisco, September 2011.]

Currently, slowly consuming a piece of cake I baked for a coworker’s mumble mumble th birthday — chocolate cake filled with chocolate ganache and frosted with coffee buttercream. It’s delicious, and immediately after I finish it I will eat a plum to make up for all the butter. No photo because to be honest it wasn’t one of my prettiest cakes, although what it lacks in appearance (a bit scruffy this time, especially after withstanding a packed bus ride) it makes up for in taste. Eating it reminds me of another baking project looming on my horizon: a wedding cake. Specifically, mine.

I’m getting married in a few weeks. Have I mentioned that before? Probably … though I tend not to dwell on it too much, preferring instead to put my head down and plow through the (seeming) mountain of to-do’s. That was the point of all that blackberry jam I just finished off in my little apartment on Sunday, and I won’t bore you with the details of how much I obsessed over what kind of jars (Weck), how large (about 5 oz.), to attach ribbons or not (not), could/should I make my own labels or farm it out (farm it out; I have neither time nor patience for such things right now). Though I claim I’m ‘not really a wedding person’, an enormous amount of mental energy has gone into planning what essentially will be a 6-hour event, with a few others sprinkled there in before and after — but one thing, strangely, I haven’t obsessed about at all is the cake.

And why should I? I have tried-and-true recipes courtesy of Alice Waters; I’ve baked two wedding cakes (technically three, since I went overboard for my brother’s wedding and baked two) in the past year-and-a-half, one of which was done in said small apartment kitchen; I bake so regularly I feel like it’s my second job. I do worry slightly about transporting it an hour from the city into the country — but I’ve delegated that delicate task to my very reliable brother and sister-in-law and I’m sure it will be fine. Anyway, what’s a little dented cake between friends?

This is what I’m planning: 5 tiers in 6,8,9,10, and 12- inch layers. The nine-inch will be chocolate cake filled with chocolate ganache (for fun!); the rest will be the 1-2-3-4 yellow cake filled with alternating ribbons of homemade lemon curd and blackberry jam. All will be frosted with vanilla-laced butter cream.

Well I think it sounds nice …

I know it seems rather nuts to want to bake your own wedding cake, but I’m looking forward to it. So much so that the second thing I said after ‘OK!’ to my true love’s ‘will you please?’ was ‘I mean, YES, but can I make the cake?’ True story. Fortunately for me, as well as for my guests, he wisely agreed, knowing how I am.

(It’s nice to be known.)

It also probably seems rather nuts to make such a large amount of cake but! There is a reason for it. You see, I am a big fan of leftovers. Big fan. So I’ve procured some of those (recyclable, compostable) take-away boxes and will send pieces of cake home with whomever wants some as the night wanes. I’ll probably be sick of cake at that point and will be glad to foist it off on my unwitting guests (or witting; some coworkers have already logged requests for slice size). Thinking of that cake being enjoyed and savored in the days after the party — of my guests taking home little bits of my appreciation and love for them — makes me happy.

I can’t wait to get to baking (soon, soon).

Speaking of leftovers, I’ve been cooking and not photographing some pretty delicious dinners of late, including a smashing chard and heirloom tomato soup with white beans I made in less than 20 minutes last night after surviving the horror that is the Powell Street Sephora (served with cheddar cheese quesadillas). Luckily I do have leftovers of that so I may photograph it properly and share the recipe soon. Over the weekend I made pesto and greens beans and stirred it into whole wheat spaghetti, with corn on the cob on the side. Sunday night, after making and canning 23 jars of blackberry jam and sitting in the sun for a few hours, I was properly exhausted and didn’t feel much like cooking — so I made mashed potatoes with buttemilk and scrambled us up some eggs with feta, spinach, and tomatoes.

But the best leftovers, lately, involves a carrot soup I can’t stop making. It comes by way of Joy the Baker, and is a slight step outside of my comfort zone. I don’t tend to like carrot soup — carrots in soup, sure, but not straight up carrot soup. It always turns out too sweet for my taste. This recipe, calling for coconut milk, surely would follow that pattern — but then all that fresh ginger made me pause. I’m pressed for time these days and my cooking is in a slight fallow phase as I churn my way through weeknight stirfries and beans on toast and the like — and I’m trying to shake myself out of it. I decided, why not, to go for the carrot soup.

Plus — have you seen the produce at Bay Area farmers’ markets right now? If you haven’t, I’ll tell you: fat heirloom tomatoes literally bursting out at their seams, piles of gorgeous and tender corn, little sweet beets, carrots in great bundles, summer squash (!), chard … Needless to say, we’ve got it good. So I’m trying to cook from it and to get inspired by it — because despite the slight ‘decision fatigue’ I’m experiencing, if there’s one thing I never fail to get excited about it’s cooking. And I’m excited about this carrot soup. I added a lot of chopped garlic and a few small potatoes, upped the ginger, slipped in a pinch of chili powder, and called it a day. It turned out firey (but not too) and smokey and not-too-sweet — perfect for fall, and Indian Summer too.

Soon, free-bird time again. But until then, carrot soup.

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[Blackberries, Sebastopol, September 2011.]

This past week or so has involved lots of blackberries. Loads. Some I didn’t pick and many I did, and I still have the scratches to prove it. There were also huckleberries, which are more time-consuming to gather but less prickly, as well as three chickens roasted by me, but I will save the diatribe about the vegetarian cooking meat yet again for another time. Let’s just say I am much less squeamish about it than I used to be and am reminded again that nights when I get to cook good, healthy, happy-making food for others are the best nights, whether or not I actually eat all of the food I make. (Also, I now have a really delicious — I heard — and reliable recipe for a roasted chicken.)

Anyway, hello. It’s September. (It’s September???) It’s September, absolutely. And despite a 5:45 a.m. wake-up this morning, despite a terribly long, terribly foggy bus ride in from Sonoma County, the sun is shining in San Francisco today, I have had a deliciously strong Blue Bottle coffee from Jackson Place Cafe, and I think/hope I will be able to get through the rest of the day in one piece so that I can go home, bake chocolate cupcakes, and fling myself onto the couch to watch the Giants game before crawling into bed early.

Oh, lovely bed …

September means apples and blackberries — to pick, to eat, to jam or sauce, to bake with, to can. There are currently 100 or so tiny apples from the tree stored in my parents’ extra fridge (as an aside, I was glad to see this story in last week’s New York Times, the one I’ve been wanting to write for years, about the plight of the Gravensteins in my beloved home town) to be incorporated into a major event next month, and 80 small jars of blackberry jam neatly stacked in a closet in Inverness. I have about 20 more to go but I also think I have enough berries to manage it. I guess you could say I’m feeling good about the blackberries. (And the apples, but in the interest of the sanity I’m skipping the applesauce-making for now.)

Blackberry picking can seem daunting initially — the thorny vines, the hunting for fully ripe berries, the balancing on tiptoes to grab as many as you can — but it’s also somewhat meditative. It’s repetitive work, but because it’s not my everyday job (which is also repetitive) it doesn’t get too boring; because I’ve chosen to undertake the task it’s more fun than excruciating, which might be the word I’d use to describe it if I relied on berry-picking to pay my rent. Funny how that works. However, I will note that I will never complain at paying x for a basket of berries at the farmers’ market ever again. There’s a lot of time that goes into those pretty displays of fruit.

Out here in Northern California, the summer of 2011, we picked along the coast in Bolinas (foggy) and made friends with the horses at the farm there; we picked along the Inverness ridge (hot); we picked along the bike trail in Sebastopol late on a Sunday afternoon (sunny and just cool enough). We picked with adults and we picked with kids and I’ll go out on a limb here to profess that I think mostly everyone had a good time (the key is to quit before you get too tired/distracted). I estimate we picked about 20 pounds of blackberries in total, though as I am awful about measuring and also about being precise with recipes it’s difficult to say for sure. But — there were a lot of berries that went into the freezer. A lot.

Later, I turned all those berries into jam — masses of it. Me being me, I fretted over how well it was setting or if I’d have enough or if cutting down on the sugar was a good idea or if the mess all those berries made whilst they were cooking down was worth it. But I forged on anyhow — I poured and sealed and processed and tried to let the worry go. (To address the fretting: it set great once it cooled, cutting down on the sugar was a fantastic idea, and messes can be cleaned with just a little bit of extra effort.) I may be slightly crazy, but looking at my jars of jam marshaled into gleaming rows gives me an incredible sense of accomplishment, even if most (all) will be given away. Much like cooking meat, it’s about the doing of it rather than the actual eating of it that makes me happy.

[Breakfast, September 2011.]

Still — and I must honest even if it’s a bit of a brag — that jam tastes darned good, especially on toasted challah bread smeared with a little butter and alongside a 12 oz., double-shot americano from Hardcore Espresso (my new drink, dontcha know);.

[In Sebastopol, September 2011.]

One month ago we were in Yosemite — one month! It’s hard to fathom. I barely caught my breath before going on to the next thing but such is life. I am fortunate mine is made up of so many cooking projects (I cooked not a few good meals during the last week, as well as baked a gorgeous loaf of banana-cocoa bread among other things in addition to all that jam) and walks through the fields and swims in the pool downtown and good company around the table. The little things, of course, but as I’ve mentioned too many times to count, the little things are the ones that last. But they’re also fleeting — just like blackberries. You’ve got to catch hold of them while you can.

Things to do with blackberries:

Eat with Greek yogurt!
Turn into a vegan crumble
Fold into lemon cake
Incorporate into a summer fruit cobbler
Or

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**Canning/preserving instructions are available widely and will be further detailed by me at a later date … but if you choose to preserve the jam, it’s not that difficult (truly).

[Bridalveil Falls, Yosemite, February 2011.]

And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth.
- Raymond Carver

**

Yosemite in winter: quiet, still, white, the waterfalls full and pouring down, El Cap silent and chilly looming over the valley, Half Dome shimmering in the distance. For a brief stretch of lovely days we slept in and drank good coffee and hiked through the snow up the Mist Trail as far as possible, slipping a little on the icy parts, and had hot chocolate at the Ahwhanee and dozed in front of the great fires. It was perfect and went by much too quickly.

Sometimes I think: I can hardly imagine how things unfolded the way they did — all that time, all that separation, all that wondering if it would be worth it in the end? Then to know, absolutely, yes. To say it, too, after taking a deep breath, thrilling and terrifying both. You and me; there is a kind of comfort in it.

[Near Happy Isles, February 2011.]

Last night I stayed up late, way past my bedtime, stirring out-of-season basil into a pot of roasted potato-leek soup and baking a Guinness chocolate cake to take up north. The rain beat against the windows mightily and I ate a piece of cheese and took swigs of water to fortify myself while I cooked. It was chilly in my apartment but the oven had been on so it wasn’t too bad. I stirred and thought about making tea and stirred some more. I’m usually fast asleep by 10.30, and at nearly midnight it was a little late for me: Restless.

When I was in college and it rained I’d go for a walk on my school’s ‘mall’ to smoke cigarettes and listen to Joni Mitchell and miss California with every single bit of me. Now when it rains I wind my ipod into a plastic bag and wear an extra shirt and go out into the night, trying to dodge puddles and the occasional biker who glides silently out of the mist and away. Never underestimate the insanity of the runner: rain, sun, sleet, hail, snow, humidity — I have run through them all, and gladly so. I’m never the only one.

Back then, when I’d listen to Joni Mitchell (‘Blue,’ mostly), and smoke (my shameful secret), and count the days ’til I’d be going home for break, I knew so little about love. I was learning it though — I was learning that I loved California terribly, that I loved my family and didn’t like being so far away, that I loved my pup and wished he could come live with me, that I loved eating well (I blame the wretched dining hall food for this realization) and I might like to cook more, that I wanted more than what I was doing then. So much of being young seems to be biding time and yet when we’re young time is our most precious commodity, though we often don’t know it. Like happiness – like love — it can be elusive and perhaps if we were aware of its brevity it wouldn’t be so easy to waste it. That in itself is the gift.

[Before, February 2011.]

The past ten years have taught me so much about love! The feeling of holding your best friend’s baby for the first time and seeing the look of pride and incredible peace on his face is the truest kind of love you can imagine. Seeing your brother marry a wonderful person and knowing how much they love each other — there is a grace to that, a special beauty, that I doubt I will ever feel again in quite the same way. Baking the fluffiest pouf of a coconut-pineapple cake for your parents’ 40th anniversary — that is the cheerfullest kind of baking, and the best savored. Or making soup for someone who is very ill — that is a bittersweet kind of cooking, but perhaps the most necessary.

I have learned that love is letting go and letting in and losing and sometimes so painful you can’t imagine why except only that you have to, and sometimes love is also so easy and sweet it feels like no trouble at all.

A few summers ago I wrote here

Sometimes love creeps in over the doorstep slowly and gently to land up at your feet with a shy smile. At others it sweeps in on a great booming rush of wind and sound, filling up a room with its presence until there’s nothing else to hear or see. At still others love arrives on a sunny afternoon by the water, the air blue and the sky bluer, with white wine and a mediocre dessert you hardly notice because you’re too busy noticing other things. And then sometimes — oh, sweet sometimes — love just is and you don’t know why exactly except that it’s simply beautiful and delicious.

And it’s all true. But still you have to take that plunge.

[Bridalveil, February 2011.]

Last weekend I took my biggest leap to date — far bigger than moving across country for school, far huger than breaking off an ailing relationship, far larger, even, than moving back home to California. My life will change intensely in ways I can’t even imagine just yet — and I don’t simply mean that I must learn to share closet space. Quite frankly this scares me a little bit, as perhaps it should. After all, I have always been the girl who, as Emily Bronte wrote, “walks where my own nature would be leading.” My independence is precious to me (not to mention, all that closet space!); for a long time I have walked by myself and have been content.

So last weekend when I took that proverbial leap I was glad I could see Half Dome almost every time I turned around. I leaned against it a bit in my mind. I’ve climbed it three times so far and at each I thrilled and worried (the cables! oh, the damned cables and the equally damned quarter-dome, always hiked in the burning sun) all the while pushing myself higher. Every time it was worth the effort and pain and slight trepidation for that sweeping view, the sweat drying on my arms as I stood so very close to the sky, the knowing I could do it, and well.

I guess life is a series of leaps — often you’re poised on that cliff above the Mediterranean and must decide whether to jump, to stay, or to go back. I always want to jump, to go forward, no matter the cost. Reminder to self: no matter the cost. In the end it is worth it, even if the ‘end’ is not what you initially expected.

So I chant to myself: Be open to possibility. Let it in. Be true and honest and real and sad sometimes, if that’s what you are. Be real, always. It’s the only way.

[Yosemite Valley, February 2011.]

After all, we have known each other for so long, you and me. When we were very small we looked for tadpoles in the pond up the hill and played with the dogs; when we grew up a little bit you took my brother and me out to Wildcat backpacking for the first time and we were hooked immediately, were In Love and only wanted more. In between then and now there have been sand dollars on an early morning beach, whole and perfect and like I have never seen before or since. There have been whales, turning and blowing in the sun out past the breakers, completely out of season. There have been countless cups of tea and letters through the international post and friendship — oh, a very lot of that as well as the other.

Life: You are funny and sweet and you do these things to us humans and we must only laugh and shake our heads and give in to the inevitable. Toujours amour indeed — as long as I got you and you got me, we can do anything. I know it in the very breath and bones of me. The rest is just the dishes-washing; no big deal.

And so we begin, and break into something new.

[Now to think about what kind of cake to bake -- and will Jessie really disown me if I bake it myself (quite possible) -- and can I really make and can 100 jars of Pt. Reyes blackberry jam by October (YES, emphatically, come hell or high water or both or none). Now to try not to immediately fall into the deep morass of wedding planning (and my brother just getting married last June!), to tell my friends, to freak out just a little bit but not too much because. Because of the rightness of it.]

Today it is very cold in San Francisco and they say it may snow tomorrow (!) and I feel grateful for hope and knowing and old friends and pretty rings and the reality that sometimes you have to do the hardest, biggest things to change your life — and everything turns out just as it should. As it must.

[Pots de creme, February 2011.]

All of which is a funny segue into a recipe for caramel pots de creme except when I made these last week all I could think after I sunk my spoon into my little Weck jar of custard was that it tasted of love — old love, and new love, and love always, in all its forms. They are plushy and smooth, winding flavors of deep caramelized sugar across your tongue — rich, but not overly so.

This recipe also is incredibly easy to throw together, and you probably have all the ingredients in your fridge right now. Maybe check? And then make this afternoon for the weekend.

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[Dad's birthday cake, February 2011.]

Oh, St. Valentine. Thank-you for giving me yet another reason to cook, though lord knows I need little excuse. This past weekend I cooked and cooked, starting on Friday and not really ending until yesterday afternoon and today I think I will cook again? My small curse and burden! But it’s What I Do — and what I love to do. And at the end of the weekend, despite feeling a bit exhausted, if my fridge contains leftover chocolate cream pie and sweet potato gratin and my many guests have departed full and happy I call the residual fatigue resoundingly worth it

Non?

For this evening’s entertainment I plan to open a bottle of wine, wash out my new, not-yet-been-used Weck jars (!) and stir up a pot of caramel pots de creme, quickly pan sear a handful of scallops and bok choy, assemble some sort of green salad. There will be bowls of asparagus soup made from the very first (and early) spindly spears of asparagus. There will be leftover smoked salmon from the farmers’ market. Dinner will be (hopefully) simple and delicious, but as usual the company makes the meal for the most part, and tonight I will have some very fine company indeed.

[Cows, Pt. Reyes, January 2011.]

Once, I wrote poems, back when I was more naive and perhaps more innocent and because I just couldn’t not. I wrote about my mother’s hands and the maple tree in the backyard of my house growing up and about the Pacific Ocean and the way I missed it, all that blue. My teacher in workshop said to me, But this is amazing — this image of cows near the sea, because you never see cows near the ocean. The juxtaposition is exactly right. And I thought, Haven’t you ever been to Northern California? Along the coast the cows look as though they could tumble into the water they graze so close. But I took the compliment, and happily so.

From the beginning there was California: the west, the sea, the rocky mountains. And so I would say California was my first love, because you always have to have one. Also it could be my brother, but California is the easier one to say. Then I had a dog, after longing for one for most of my life; he was not a perfect dog but he was mine, and for a time there were not enough hours in the day to contain all that joy (even when he chewed through my library books and countless shoes). Then, also and always, there was reading; I stayed up late with flashlights, by nightlights, by moonlight and could never get enough. Still can’t. Writing comes next after that, because it follows in line. And then …

What is love — truly?

I know:

Love is staying up late to bake, because you promised and also because you want to. It’s sifting through piles of letters, to remember. It’s going on red-eye flights to make cross-country visits, even when you’re tired down to your very bones. It’s making a wedding cake. It’s spending the day in New Jersey and talking about the past, and all those who came before. It’s sending wee packages near and far, filled with good tidings and lemon cookies. It’s the glass of salt water I was given the night of the marathon when I was so, so sick and nothing helped except that and just you being there. It’s the way the sun fell down through the trees one afternoon in August, the cool wooden bench hard against my back and the dry grass bending in front of me in the wind, all the world gone still and silent and golden. It’s a knowing, when the rest fades away.

I cook for love, I write for love, I certainly — and on a regular basis — bake for love. My stories are never as interesting as I might like to believe, but they are mine, and on I keep telling them even so.

[Brownie, February 2011.]

So then: last week I made gluten-free brownies for a friend, and we trooped over to their house after the race in the hot, quiet afternoon laden with beer and peanut butter cookies and these rich, amazing, completely wheat-free brownies. Somehow I dragged myself up the (several flights) of stairs to be greeted by the dog and a flurry of hugs; the city spread out before us all the way to the East Bay, shining in the sun. We drank beer and watched football (sort of) and ate brownies and I sat on the deck feeling grateful for the day, for my friends, for the weather, for the earlier run.

I felt especially grateful the brownies turned out so well, though. They were damn good, even sans the flour (you just never know — you know?). I was glad my little attempt had worked out; I’ve made brownies many times in the past of course, but had not much delved into the mysterious world of gluten-free baking. Fortunately it was not nearly as scary as I’d anticipated.

On this Valentine’s Day I give them to you, because they are delicious and you deserve something delicious on this day (and every day). If you don’t need to omit gluten from your diet, use regular flour here instead but please do keep the ground almonds. Those, plus all the butter and melted chocolate, comprise a chewy, decadent, utterly blissful mouthful. Make these for your loved ones, for your particular someone, for your office, for yourself. They’re the perfect treat to have today (and yes, maybe even every day).

Today tastes of love and its promise, and chocolate, too. Out I go into the salty, wind-blown city to see for myself.

** My wish for you today is that you will always have love, and that you will always remember what it is. It is so many things, yes. But mostly it is true and right and good and kind and exhilarating and home.

So dearest Valentine: I hope your day is as sweet and delicious as you.

And

so comes love

let it go – the
smashed word broken

open vow or

the oath cracked length
wise – let it go it
was sworn to
go

let them go – the
truthful liars and

the false fair friends
and the boths and
neithers – you must let them go they
were born
to go

let all go – the
big small middling
tall bigger really
the biggest and all
things – let all go
dear

so comes love

(e. e. cummings)

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[On the table this morning, January 2011.]

Sunday afternoon post-pint (a Smithwick’s), I made rice pudding. And you know, I don’t really love rice pudding. I mean, I don’t mind it, though I definitely wouldn’t call it one of my Favorite Things. But when someone gets excited about a particular dish — in this case, my bf — especially one that’s pretty easy to make, I can’t not do it. I love to cook, sure, but even more I love to feed. I just have to cross fingers that none of my beloveds ever asks me to make something such as, say, homemade ravioli (having no pasta maker would make it a bit difficult to create from scratch), or a complicated, hours-long casserole requiring meticulous chopping. (Though, err, didn’t I make a wedding cake last summer?) Otherwise it’s all fair game.

An item about this rice pudding: it came about because I was reading Red Sky at Night (the Book of Lost Countryside Wisdom), by Jane Struthers. An unexpected find, this is the kind of book you didn’t know about but always needed (chapters include How to Navigate By the Stars; How to Find Your True Love — note, ladies, on Christmas Eve silently bake a tiny barley cake and he will come into the house at midnight; How to Prepare a Proper Tea); it’s the kind of book that as I perused it in the pub — with one eye on the Eagles game, though ahem I am not really a football person — I thought of at least three people to whom I must give it.

Anyway, of course there’s a whole section devoted to food, including how to make such wonderful things as a Ploughman’s Lunch (did you know — as I did not — that the Lunch actually originated in the 1960s? It seems such an old-timey thing. Though if you live in the Bay Area, why, you’ll never need to make a Ploughman’s Lunch yourself when you can simply hightail it over to the Pelican Inn for one of the best you’ll ever eat.), Christmas cake, and rice pudding. Obviously this book was written by a Britishwoman, and has a decidedly English slant. This obviously means I love it. I wanted to make almost everything. Immediately.

But her rice pudding recipe unfortunately seemed off: It called for just three tablespoons of rice and a pint of milk — this was supposed to feed 2-4 people. Perhaps there was a typo? Still, it was too late to turn back and I was clear on what the rest of my afternoon would involve. And what better way to procrastinate on a deadline than by doing a bit of cooking?

I dredged up an old rice pudding recipe from the depths of memory (the last one I made — and I remember this quite clearly — was on a snowy, frigid mid-winter night years ago in Washington. I’d spent the afternoon sledding and tromping around in the very welcomed piles of snow in Rock Creek park with some friends, and later invited them over for an Indian-inspired feast after we’d all warmed and dried ourselves off. I think I made some sort of cauliflower-cashew dish, probably a curry, and a big pot of coconut-rice pudding infused with lemon oil.) and assessed what kind of ingredients I had on hand. The great thing about rice pudding is that you don’t need much, which was fortunate because I only had access to

brown Basmati rice
milk, both whole and reduced fat
brown sugar
vanilla extract
nutmeg

And not too much else.

But rice pudding is fairly uncomplicated. I think most are made with white rice, but brown worked just fine here and actually I think I prefer it as it’s a bit chewier and also made me feel ‘healthier’ because it’s a whole grain. I added some tangerine zest because there was a bowl of them on the table, and a little bit of extra vanilla just because. You can eat rice pudding hot or cold — most people, I think, prefer it cold — but I like it warm, when it’s just congealing into a porridge-y mass, though not hot.

It’s been cold in San Francisco, clear and bright. I have no complaints, but it’s a change from the usual 50-60 degree constant that marks this city year-round, give or take the occasional 80+ ‘heat-wave’ days a few times a year. So I’ve dug out my deliciously cozy cashmere gloves, am wearing my old winter coat from the East Coast days, and am trying to keep my toes warm with extra wool socks. A bowl of warm rice pudding slipped down mighty easy on Sunday afternoon as I tucked my feet under me while reading the paper (and YES, did some research for an article). I almost didn’t mind the chill.

If you try this recipe, experiment. Add some almond extract or sprinkle bowls just before serving with toasted pistachios or crushed walnuts; swap a cup of coconut milk for the milk, or make it totally vegan with soy milk (or a mix of coconut-soy). I still don’t love rice pudding, but I think I’m coming around. It seems like the perfect thing for cool winter evenings: simple comfort for these darker days of the season. I’m happily digging in.

Rice Pudding, from all over, with my adaptions

1 cup brown basmati rice
2 cups water
1/4 tsp. salt
4 cups whole milk
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/2 tsp. pure vanilla extract
1/2 tsp. nutmeg
2 tb. butter

In a large, heavy saucepan, combine the rice, water, and salt. Place over medium-high heat, and bring to a simmer. Reduce the heat to low, cover, and simmer gently until the water has been absorbed, about 15 minutes. Add the milk and sugar, and stir to mix. Cook, uncovered, over medium heat for 30 to 45 minutes, stirring frequently, until the rice and milk have come together into a kind of creamy porridge.

Remove the pot from the heat and add the vanilla, nutmeg, and butter. Stir well until butter is melted. Scoop the pudding into a serving bowl or individual cups, and press a sheet of plastic wrap against its surface to prevent a skin from forming. Chill.

[Near Barre, Vermont, June 2010.]

An ongoing list in no particular order:

1. Days at the beach
2. Light nearly ’til 9p
3. Soft serve ice cream
4. Swimming in the Russian River
5. Swimming in the pool downtown
6. A foggy July 5 at Ocean Beach
7. Blueberries
8. Gin and tonics when it’s hot
9. Lots of rooibos tea when it’s cold
10. Peaches
11. Blueberry pie
12. Marathon training
13. Golden Gate Park at dusk
14. Cherries
15. Basil
16. Tomatoes (!!)
17. The promise of Indian Summer
18. Time off
19. Trips to Vermont
20. Swimming in the Atlantic Ocean
21. Eating dinner outside
22. ICED COFFEE
23. Baseball season
24. The World Cup (every 4 years, but still)
25. Slow, hot August afternoons
26. Camping trips
27. Corn on the cob
28. Santa Cruz
29. Champagne in the park
30. Picnics
31. Waking up early on weekends with the light
32. Happy – if tired – farmers at the markets
33. Planning fall trips
34. Daydreaming about Greece
35. The red quinoa salad with feta and mint I am apparently addicted to and can’t stop making (and eating)

… etc.

[Maine, Father's Day, June 2010.]

Quinoa, actually, marked June for me. I made a whole lot of it in various kitchens and there seems to be no end in sight. You know how some summers are distinguished by particular dishes that you make over and over again because they just hit something just right? (Last summer for me, I think, was the Summer of Roasted Beet Salads. The summer before that was the Summer of Roasted Fingerling Potatoes + Carrots and From-scratch White Beans with Heirloom Tomatoes.) This summer is turning into the Summer of Quinoa Salad. I couldn’t be happier.

My trip to the East Coast last month was a glorious whirlwind of family and dogs and wedding parties and World Cup games and hardly sitting down, it seemed, for more than a few minutes at a time. Except for a few wonderful meals here and there — the first night at my aunt’s house in Barre, she made me a delicious pasta dish with red peppers cooked in cream (!) and from-the-garden steamed asparagus, and I won’t even start on the Greek-inspired meal we ate in Maine at a restaurant that fed us dinner even before they’d opened to the public, complete with a proper, much-missed frappe that had Emily and I sighing over Spetses — there was a lot of rushrushrush. And all that rushrushrush does tend to stimulate the appetite. Thus this quinoa salad.

I came up with the idea en route from Vermont to Maine on an early Sunday morning (it was honestly pretty early; we were on the road by 7.30 a.m., even lacking in good coffee). Though I do like pasta, I’d eaten it every day for the previous four days, and my body was screaming for protein-vegetables-less carbs please. Quinoa came immediately to mind because a) I love it b) I love it c) it’s a gorgeous vegetarian-friendly whole grain loaded with good things like a lot of protein. Plus, did I mention I really love it?

Radishes! I thought aloud as we sped through New Hampshire bound for the coast. Definitely with chopped mint. Oh and feta. Feta for sure. I wanted some healthy crunch of fresh vegetables, a punch of lemon, the creamy swirl of tahini. And it was summerhot — all you really want when it’s like that is raw vegetables and cold salads. So then …

Once in Maine it was, like I said, too hot to do anything really except to go straight to the beach — which, being reasonable people, we did. We took sandwiches and a towel each and flung ourselves into that frigid water for a few minutes before devouring lunch and stretching out for an hour or so before the thunderstorm hit. We talked about wedding-things and life-things and cooking-things — the kind of stuff you talk about when you haven’t seen each other since February. A sailboat lolled gently just offshore and I thought again that while California owns me heart and soul Maine ranks pretty darn high in my affections. (It’s those piney woods, you see. The green fields. The rocky coast. The pale blue light.)

On the drive back, the rain pelting the windshield and the river nearly obscured by water drifting slantwise across the road, we stopped at the local garden and Emily hopped out to pick fresh mint. At home Kurt picked greens and radishes from the garden out back. And it was Father’s Day so we cooked — the quinoa salad, with lots of chopped red pepper, some spring onions, cucumber, radishes, lots of feta; baked halibut; a salad of greens from the garden — and had my parents over for dinner. We talked about wedding-things and life-things and cake-baking-things and the oil spill — the kind of stuff you talk about when you can finally sit down and catch your breath for a bit after a long drive before the madness begins again.

A few days later I made the salad again, just to have for when more people came to stay at the house if they might be hungry (which did indeed happen and the salad did indeed get eaten, sometimes topped with slices of ham. Ahem). Then when I came home to California I made it again because I just liked it so much, and then I made it yet again last weekend because I just had to.

So yeah: I’m addicted. It’s clearly my 2010 summer thing. Maybe it will become yours, too.

[Ocean Beach, July 2010.]

Here we are right smack in the middle of the year already. July slid in on a wave of fog and it is socked in here in San Francisco with no end in sight. Last night I ran in 55-degree weather into a strong headwind; I saw a girl wearing gloves as she sped past me. Everywhere but here it is hot — hot like stay-indoors-with-the-fan-on-and-air-conditioning-if-you’re-lucky-eating-cold-watermelon hot. But here — here we shiver and wear winter sweaters and make pots of tea. What a funny place California is. And how I love it.

Luckily I have my new favorite salad to tide me through these long chilly days, though I might tonight turn the oven on and revisit two years ago with a batch of roasted vegetables just because I need an excuse. Every year I forget how July is in this city and every year I (slightly) curse my choice to live here … but soon enough we slip into August, and then September, and then white-gold October, and then, oh then, you don’t want to be anywhere else.

I gotta remember this. In the meantime: scarves. Sweaters. Wool socks. Very hot coffee. Soup for lunch. You do what you have to.

East Coasters: make this quinoa salad. It will help.

Californians: our time will come.

(And dear summer, I do still love you no matter what.)

Quinoa Salad with Feta and Mint

Note: Vegans, omit the feta. It will taste just as delicious.

1 1/2 cups red quinoa (white is fine, though I prefer the red or black here as it cooks up a bit firmer, which is better for a salad; you could also do a combo of both
1 red onion, chopped
5 radishes, sliced and chopped
1 cucumber, peeled and sliced into rounds, then quartered
1 red pepper, diced
2 carrots, peeled and grated
1/2 cup chopped walnuts (I crumble them in by hand)
1/2 cup dried cranberries
3 Tablespoons tahini
2-4 Tablespoons lemon juice
splash olive oil
salt and pepper
1 cup crumbled feta
1 cup (approx.) mint, finely chopped

Make the quinoa: add grains to 3 cups of water and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to simmer, put on the lid, and let cook until all the water is absorbed. Pour into a large bowl and set aside to cool a bit.

Meanwhile, chop the vegetables and mint. When the quinoa is pretty cool — about room temperature if you can wait that long — add all the vegetables, walnuts, dried cranberries tahini, lemon juice, olive oil, and salt and pepper. Stir well to combine. Add the feta and stir. Add about one-half of the mint, stir and taste, adjusting seasonings if necessary. Add more mint as you like and sprinkle some over the top before serving.

[Redwoods, August 2009.]

The end of summer is always sort of a difficult time — oh sure, I know there is a month yet until the fall equinox, and if we’re very lucky Northern California will be blessed with its usual spate of hot, sunny weather that could stretch all the way into October. I know this. I know. But still there’s that sort of wistful, final-days ache around the heart that is not so easily mediated by iced coffee or going to bed early.

But there are redwood forests and pine forests, too, and weekends in the mountains with wine and cheese that help to distract a bit. There are tomatoes — gorgeous, glorious tomatoes bursting with red ripeness that I eat over the sink so the juice doesn’t run down my arms and onto the floor — and fat bunches of spinach fairly begging to be pureed into vegetable soups. There are picnics and kisses from sweet dogs and old books re-read that become new again. There are days yet to be spent at the beach, or along the back roads of Sonoma County where the blackberries are spilling over fences and apples are nearly ready on what remains of the orchards there.

And there are eggs, both for breakfast and for dinner. Somehow it helps to bridge the gap.

I don’t know what it is: maybe I’ve been lacking in protein consumption (all that cheese I’ve been eating surely has done something, though?), but lately I’ve been wishing for eggs a lot — softly scrambled through and through in a bit of butter, organic and as fresh as possible, please, from my farmers’ market. I’m tucking in feta or cheddar, wilting in spinach or shredded chard, and lacing them liberally with oregano or basil. I can’t get enough.

The other night I made the eggs pictured above, scrambled quickly with feta, spinach, and an heirloom tomato. I piled them atop a piece of wheat toast and read Gourmet, sighing at the feeling in the air: summer, gone too soon (or nearly). I thought about how next time I might like to saute some leeks until soft before adding the eggs, and that helped a little. Then I spooned on some tahini sauce which helped even more.

Another thing I find I can’t quite get enough of is this tahini sauce/dressing I make for salads and couscous alike. It’s fragrant and tart with lemon and just salty enough to satisfy even me. The nutty sesame seed flavor is one of my very favorites; I first tried it on eggs this spring in Rochester, when Lena and I cooed at the baby and sat long at the breakfast table drinking strong coffee and eating cookies. It might sound strange to put tahini sauce on your scrambled (or fried) eggs, but please believe me that it’s absolutely delicious. In short, to use my favorite French cliche, tahini adds a certain je ne sais quoi and dresses up even the most basic permutation of egg you could think of.

So then: fall, I might not be completely ready for you but c’mon and do your worst. My fridge is stocked with delicious vegetables to eat and I will visit my friendly egg seller on Saturday morning to replenish my stores. If the sun shines more desperately in these waning days of August I will find even more excuses to be outside. And I will remember that this next season brings sweet apples and tart, brussels sprouts, pretty pumpkins, and a self-imposed challenge to learn how to poach an egg once and for all.

Summer will be back before I know it; in the meantime I have my little comforts. I hope you do, too.

Tahini sauce for eggs, or whatever else

1/4 cup tahini
3 Tb. lemon juice
2-5 Tb. warm water

1 Tb. olive oil
1/2 tsp. salt

Whisk all ingredients except the water together until smooth. Add the water one tablespoon at a time until the sauce is pourable but not too thin.