[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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[This morning, December 2011.]

December 30th. We are tiptoeing up to the edge of the year and peering over its edge into the unknown. I’m slowly sipping my last Hardcore Espresso coffee for awhile — to savor it, you know — after my last swim of 2011, with my feet tucked into the blankets to warm them up after the cool of the pool water. It wasn’t terribly cold, but it’s damp and almost drizzly out there and even when you’ve busily churned through the water for a mile or so to get your muscles loose and warm it seeps in. Not in a bad way necessarily, but it’s good to dive back into bed for a little bit before greeting the rest of the day.

I always forget how much I love swimming. Or no — I forget how much I love swimming in Sebastopol. I’ve been here for a week (!) now, to celebrate the holidays and also just to reconnect with my hometown. I shopped local for the kids in my life — a recycling truck made from, of course, recycled materials was a big hit –, there was a Christmas Eve brunch at the new cafe in town, there was running into high school friends on Main Street, there was a yoga class in which I finally learned to do a headstand, there were countless double 8 oz. americanos. And there was swimming — three times at the outdoor pool downtown. It always is a bit of a trip to swim there, because that’s where I learned to swim when I was about 5 years old twenty-something years awhile ago. How many hours did I log there during my stints as a day camp counselor? My hair was probably the blondest it will ever be because of all that sun. As running and I are on a hiatus for the foreseeable future I’m rediscovering my penchant for lap-swimming, grabbing onto yoga with both hands, and reminding myself that sometimes you have to take a break from things you love so that when you can engage in them again you’ll appreciate them all the more. Running is my fall-back, my steady, but skimming through chlorine-tinged water, taking the turns at the end, feeling the quiet whooosh of air and splashing water as you slice your arms cleanly through it — well, I cannot ever complain about it.

(Sigh.)

[Christmas 2011.]

On Christmas the sun burned through the fog at the coast leaving it clear and warm. California is so dry this year; the mountains are lacking their usual (and much-needed) carpet of snow, the hills of Sonoma County are pale gold still rather than green. And yet a part of me cannot regret this stolen month of sun. The light has been incredible lately — a winter-light, a pale blue and white so different from the blazing white-gold of October and then November when it is less intense but still very autumn. In early winter there is most often buckets of rain — last year for Christmas we were housebound before the fire with cookbooks and cups of tea, which was its own special pleasure — and when December 25th is clear it is my favorite present.

We went out to Bodega Head, which seems to be the place for the traditional Christmas coast walk, and man was it ever clear. It felt like summer, if we ever got real summer here. (OK, I take it back; I’ve had lots of nice July days along the coast, it’s just in San Francisco things get a bit grim.) Seals (or sea lions?) were leaping and playing like dolphins out of the breakers, surely celebrating that gift of a day in their own fashion. The massive group of them barking at each other on the little rock island offshore were perhaps singing carols but probably just fighting for space (they were so loud). Near the end of our walk we squinted into the sun to see — yes — whales spouting out to sea, the flash of a tail. Just another day to the ocean’s creatures but to we humans: magic.

This year the holidays were very social with drop-ins by and to us and lunch guests and celebrating an engagement and Christmas Eve dinner with the neighbors. I cooked a lot — two roasted chickens with lemon and rosemary, cauliflower soup, two cakes, various batches of cookies, latkes for a mid-week meal, more –, not to mention the crazy flurry of baking and packaging that occurred the week previous, and ate a lot too. It was a golden stretch of days: the presents were all just right, given and received; there was lots of sleep, if the daylight hours were full up with things to do; there was so much sun; there was just enough cooking to satisfy my need to throw a party. At the end of this stolen week, poised to go back to the city, I am grateful good friends and family and a few days off. And for all that swimming, too.

[Brekkie, Sebastopol, December 2011.]

I do not have any dramatic resolutions for the new year, but there are always a few: to buy American-made as much as possible, to really make an effort to seek it out; to buy local; to keep on with the composting (last year’s vow, and I have stuck to it pretty well); to shake myself out of the cooking rut I fall into when extremely busy (though I do think I could happily eat quinoa and vegetables every single day it might get boring); to go on more backpacking trips; to be a better correspondent; to jump back on the freelancing bandwagon with more vigor; to take time to slow down and not perpetually give in to the rushrush; to get up 15 minutes earlier every day. Little wishes for 2012 but perhaps they are achievable for their simplicity.

2011 was so full I think I am still chewing it over. So many trips to Yosemite. So much activity. So many visits from my best-beloveds. So much baking. 2012 is already looking to be full of travels by me — to Maine, so soon, to Costa Rica, perhaps to Michigan — and I will be baking yet another wedding cake (not mine this time, thankfully) as well as many other things I’m sure. Today, poised on the cusp, I hope for new adventures and good conversations and more time spent with those I love. I wish you much of the same — and for anything else you’re hoping for.

See you next year.

[Cran jam, December 2011.]

Last night I was so tired from assembling and making — the industry of which took up most of the afternoon — that I stirred a pat of butter, a smidge of cream (!), and some bits of cheddar cheese into a pot of polenta and then ate a big bowlful topped with some leftover sauteed chard (the husband had beef stew, which I made from scratch. Another story for another time). Just polenta, just chard. I propped my chin on my hand and drank the last of the orange juice and thought about just how good polenta really is, even though I always cook it far less than the instructions call for, even though I don’t make it too often. I sifted through the New York Times and felt the press of a headache looming. I ate a piece of Guinness chocolate cake for dessert and spilled tea all over the floor. ?(Sigh.)

Well — I was tired with good reason. The season is definitely upon us, yo. This year the number of holiday cards has reached astronomic proportions, and the truth is that I make each one by hand and then write them out and hand address (I do not advise this method, though it’s nice to sift through the photos I’ve taken throughout the year and choose a variety, all usually wild scenes of California. This year the selection was heavily weighted toward Yosemite in winter, but also Monterey and Point Reyes.) which, um, takes up a bit of time. And I’m sending 10 packages (actually — 11), which is slightly insane even for me. Tonight is the last night of baking for said holiday packages and the last should must be mailed tomorrow to reach its recipients by Christmas Eve. I’ve been to the post office three times today — OH I don’t really care to get into it — and I may single-handedly be keeping it open. (Or not; it was really crowded.)

It’s been chilly mornings here the past week or so. Not East-Coast cold by any stretch of the imagination (I find myself walking to the bus with my hands stuffed in my pockets and my shoulders perpetually hovering somewhere near my ears — don’t tell my yoga instructor! — thinking Did I really live in Washington, DC, for six years? And waited for the bus in the pre-7 a.m. darkness of January, when temperatures often dipped below 20 degrees? This is nothing. You wimp!), but pretty cold for San Francisco. We might not get a wisp of snow but we do get frost, and brisk air to turn cheeks pink, and nights when it’s chilly enough that the only thing to do is turn on the oven and bake something to add an extra shot of warmth to our apartments.

It’s also well into December which means baking has become the norm, at least for people like me who can’t help trying out new recipes for gingerbread (and gingerbread-apple upside-down cakes), revisiting old recipes for lemon tea cake, and digging out a long-neglected recipe for garlicky dog biscuits. It’s a time to wear fingerless gloves while making roasted vegetable soup and firing up the stove to make some seasonal preserves.

[Second round, December 2011.]

Is it time now to talk edible holiday gifts? Oh, let’s.

Last year was the Year of Candy-Making — you may find some pretty decent recipes here, in a story I wrote for NPR (I recommend the cranberry jellies) — plus a few cookies and of course the requisite and delicious cocoa-roasted hazelnuts. A few years ago I made a lot of citrus-infused sea salts, poppyseed bread, sugar cookies cut into stars (for more on good things to make and bake that ship well, I refer you to my 2008 Kitchen Window story here.). There are always mini loaves of something or other and usually a jar of preserved fruit (applesauce, but lately other things).

This year is the Year of Gingerbread and Butter Cookies and Cranberry Jam and Gluten-Free Baked Treats. If I can be honest, and I think I can, I considered skipping the holidays this year. Those 100+ jars of blackberry jam we made and canned this summer — not to mention that whole getting married thing — sort of wiped me out. I thought I’d send maybe just a tiny box each to my grandma and uncle containing their favorite homemade sweets.

But my brother isn’t coming home this year, the first time ever since he was born we haven’t spent Christmas together (sob!). And so of course I wanted to send he and Emily a box … and then I usually send one to my aunt and uncle in Vermont … and I have been meaning to send my beloved cousin some coffee … and then there are the Greeks in upstate NY who have two adorable little boys I’ve been dying to shower with gingerbread cookies … and so I started making up little baked goods menus and acquiring more Weck jars to fill with cranberry preserves and suddenly it’s four days before Christmas, I’ve mailed 9 packages, with the final two to be sent away tomorrow. At the near-end of it this doesn’t seem like such a big deal. But yesterday I definitely was feeling it.

(In truth I wish I had time and money enough to send packages away to all my far-flung friends — and to each one of you. I wish I could do the same for all my locals, too. Maybe one day …)

I like to send mostly homemade items, with 1/2-lb. bags of Blue Bottle Coffee added in for the coffee-drinkers and a few little carefully selected personal gifts sprinkled throughout. This year I made a double batch of my standard lemon tea cake in mini loaves, and a batch of Gramercy Tavern’s gingerbread, which calls for a cup of Guinness and is thus my new favorite. I baked maple syrup-infused butter cookies, gingerbread cookies, flourless chocolate cake bites, flourless peanut butter cookies, and dried-fruit-and-nut candies. I made cranberry jam, the last of which will go, along with a jar of hazelnuts and a loaf of gingerbread, to my coffee guy.

And like I mentioned — I’m nearly there. Tonight is the final push, with just a few more things to do. Then I will start thinking about the vegan gingersnaps I’ll bake for my dad when I’m Sebastopol this weekend, what I’ll cook for Christmas Eve dinner (roast chicken, I think, with roasted potatoes and cauliflower and perhaps even some brussels sprouts, a Guinness chocolate cake), and what I’ll bake for the Christmas desserts (pear-apple pie and a deep, dark chocolate cake). Oh and my menu for a wee dinner party tomorrow night, which I’ve decided shall be: small bowls of mushroom-barley soup, spinach souffle, a lemon-laden piece of baked fish, good bread and brie, little french green beans sauteed in butter and herbs, and a cranberry tart (we will wash it all down with champagne). ’tis the season, after all. I wouldn’t change a thing.

Now if only the post office isn’t quite as crowded tomorrow …

[Maple-butter cookies, December 2011.]

December feels like childhood: the cold, the crisp, the occasional fire-in-the-fireplace, the gifts secreted away to be later be wrapped neatly and presented with held breath, the early dark, an undercurrent of excitement and things afoot, the good smells of spices and butter browning in the oven. It’s a wish, no matter how futile, for snow and mountain hideaways. It’s old friends and home and wine with lunch and planning the Christmas dinner (or desserts, this year) and old carols on the radio. It’s the last bit of the year, a final chance to end it on a sweet note.

December is magic, any way you look at it.

I am going to leave you with a photo I took whilst waiting for the bus en route to my yoga class Saturday morning; it was probably about 8:20 and absolutely clear and sunny. This winter light is amazing and I am not going to take it for granted even when I’m stewing over the U.S. Postal Service and my inability to feel organized even when I am. It could be raining. It could be pouring. Often it is. Right now the forecast for Christmas day is calling for sun, sun, SUN and oh, best beloved, I am crossing fingers it holds so we can take our traditional morning beach visit. I know we need rain, and the mountains so desperately need snow, but for this stolen stretch of December days I will appreciate every last drop of sun while it lasts. I hope I can tuck a little of that into each box I mail.

It’s all so close.

This
Sky
Where we live
Is no place to lose your wings
So love, love, love.

~Hafiz

Lemon Tea Cake, adapted from gourmet.com

I’ve been making this tea bread for years now, because the first time I sent a loaf each to my grandmother and my uncle I got such rave reviews I just couldn’t make it a one-time thing. This has become the traditional sweet I send to them every year at the holidays. I used meyer lemons because they’re in season right now in California and my friend gave me an enormous bagful from her backyard tree, but you may use regular instead. And, UPDATE: USPS delivered my carefully-fashioned package to my grandma today, after I’d just sent it on Saturday. I take most of it all back!

2 large lemons
3 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 sticks (3/4 cup) unsalted butter, softened
2 1/2 cups sugar
4 large eggs
1 cup whole milk

Preheat oven to 325°F. Butter and flour two 9- x 5- x 3-inch metal loaf pans, knocking out any excess flour (or four mini loaf pans).

Finely grate enough zest from lemons to measure 2 teaspoons and squeeze enough juice to measure about 1/2 cup. Into a bowl sift together flour, baking powder, and salt.

In a large bowl, beat together butter, 2 cups sugar, and zest until light and fluffy. Beat in eggs 1 at a time, beating well after each addition. With mixer on low speed add flour mixture and milk alternately in batches, beginning and ending with flour mixture and beating just until batter is combined well. Beat in 1 tablespoon lemon juice and divide batter between loaf pans, smoothing tops. Bake loaves in middle of oven until a tester comes out clean, about 1 hour (45 minutes for the smaller loaves).

While loaves are baking, in a small bowl stir together remaining lemon juice and remaining 1/2 cup sugar until sugar is dissolved.

Cool loaves in pans on a rack 15 minutes. Run a thin knife around edges of pans and invert loaves onto rack. Turn loaves right side up and pierce tops all over with a thin skewer. Repeatedly brush lemon glaze over tops of loaves until all of glaze is absorbed.

Cool loaves completely before serving. Can be frozen up to one month wrapped tightly in foil.

Cranberry Jam, via 101cookbooks.com
Taste while cooking; if the berries are very tart you might want to add more sugar.

1 lb. frozen or fresh cranberries
3/4 cup sugar (plus more if needed)
Finely grated rind and juice of 1 lemon
1 small apple, peeled and cored

Rinse the berries, if necessary, then drain well and put them in a non-metallic bowl with the sugar and lemon juice. Leave overnight, turning once or twice.

Coarsely grate the apple and put it into a heavy based saucepan with the grated lemon rind. Strain in all the juice from the berries and add about 2/3 of the berries. Add 1/2 cup water and simmer for 20-30 minutes, or until the apple is very soft and the whole lot has thickened. Add the rest of the berries and heat through for 5-8 minutes. Pour into sterilized jars and seal tightly.

Makes about 2 cups.

This is the time of year when all I’m doing is making up lists — constantly, consciously writing lists.

Example 1: For a holiday party this weekend, things still left to pick up
Acme breads
small (compostable) plates
small napkins
clementines
non-alcoholic delicious beverages
beer
ice
small cups
lights
xmas ornament hangers
arugula

(This may seem like a lot of things, but trust me it is far, far less than it was.)

Example 2: For a holiday party this weekend, things still to make
gingerbread men (and stars, and trees)
blackberry jam thumbprint cookies
roasted red pepper-white bean hummus
cranberry punch (day-of)
mushroom pizza squares (day-of)

(The already-made list includes things like flourless chocolate cake bites, cocoa-toasted and sea-salted hazelnuts, 1 1/2 smallish cheesecakes with gingersnap crusts, chocolate and dried fruit and nut candies, a faintly sweet, nutmeg-spiced cake … which means this little list feels like nothing at this point.)

These two are manageable, nothing to get concerned about. But they represent only two of the lists I’m currently maintaining — there’s the gifts for immediate family list; the edible gifts list; the gifts (+ edible) to go into the send-away boxes list; the ingredients for the second round of holiday baking list; the ideas for Christmas Eve (and perhaps Christmas) dinner — and what about breakfast? — list; the holiday cards list; the work party baking + gifts list; the things I must grab for tomorrow night’s dinner list …

(And tucked away is the idea for another list, the post-holiday week long weekend of New Year’s Eve/Day list, which involves wee menus and plots for picnics on the beach and a visit to a little pub in Muir Beach on the first day of the year … oh, am trying not to get too much ahead of myself.)

My lists are not organized on my computer — oh, if only — nor are they tacked up on the wall near my desk so I can observe, update, and amend them, nor are they kept in any kind of notebook or folder. Rather, they’re written on bits of scrap paper or in an old spiral book that I either misplace or file away, forgetting that indeed there is a list in there I might like to have a look at … I find little grocery lists folded into my wallet (brown rice, org. broccoli, tofu, almonds, laundry detergent was a recent one) or stuffed into my work bag to scatter like the snow we’ll never see in San Francisco when I pull out my bus card as I get on the bus. And yet I rarely forget anything I want to make or procure. Is it some sort of divine intervention? Or more likely my neurotic list-making brain also mentally files them away so I can never forget …

I like making lists during this time of year. It’s so much more fun than at any other time. Rather than a to-do of drop books off at the library, scrub the baseboards, take out the composting, my lists are full of delightful ideas such as lingonberry jam compote (??), look into making those nut/nougat cookie things you made last year [recipe copied out a cookbook in a store on Haight Street one chilly afternoon, so good luck to me if I can remember any more ingredients than the brown sugar], flourless peanut butter cookies — yes! Soon enough I’ll return to the humdrum weekday meals lists, but for now I’m trying to enjoy this time.

Also what I’m enjoying right now is soup. It’s cold here in San Francisco (I wore gloves today which for me = cold and yes, it is not as cold as East Coast-cold but it’s pretty cold for here). Last night I ate butternut squash + white bean soup prepared by my lovely husband of two months (today!), which is a testament to how much he loves me because he can hardly bear to look at orange squash without cringing (a childhood trauma involving rotted pumpkins in the garden is responsible for this), and the night before I ate a chard and white bean (theme?) stew made from the last of the chard from my guy at the market. I know it’s really time for kale but I’m still clutching onto that chard …

So when it’s chilly, I want soup. Also, when I’m busy with all the list-making and actual baking and wrapping up homemade jam and watercoloring my holiday cards I don’t have a lot of time to chop and dice. Soup is something that’s fairly easy, because you have to do a bit of work to begin with but then your stove does a lot of work to finish it off while you’re doing other things. Plus, if you cram it with vegetables, as I do, it’s nourishing, healthful, and yes and of course, delicious.

I made a cauliflower-leek soup for the first course for the Thanksgiving dinner, although we didn’t end up eating it that night because out of the woods (literally — OK, it was carried through from the neighbors’ house) emerged a gorgeous, creamy butternut squash soup that (most of us) lapped up quickly and happily. The following afternoon we planned to head out to the coast to sleep out for the night, but we first we ate cauliflower soup and grilled cheese sandwiches to fortify ourselves for the 6+ mile hike.

This is a simple soup, but it’s dreamy. Lots of leeks, garlic, and onions sauteed until soft, then a lot of cauliflower and good vegetable stock are added in. It’s all eventually pureed until smooth; no dairy here, yet it’s remarkably rich. I’m thinking of making another pot for the weekend, for after-party sipping and Sunday afternoon post-napping, when a few of those lists can be tossed — at least for this year.

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[Along the Pacific coast, November 2011.]

Why I Wake Early

Hello, sun in my face.
Hello, you who made the morning
and spread it over the fields
and into the faces of the tulips
and the nodding morning glories,
and into the windows of, even, the
miserable and the crotchety—

~Mary Oliver

I am thankful for this rainy day.
I am thankful for this beautiful state in which I live.
I am thankful for this good food, that I have enough when so many do not.
I am thankful for my friends and family.
I am thankful for sweet dogs.
I am thankful for the Pacific Ocean (and all the oceans of the world).
I am thankful for pumpkin-chocolate chip cookies.
I am thankful for KFOX (and classic rock in general).
I am thankful for my unfailingly nice and lovely husband who also never fails to make me laugh or fetch me a cup of tea in the morning.
I am thankful for that most of my meal today originated within 100 miles of where I sit right now.
I am thankful for my two wonderful San Francisco farmers’ markets, both within walking distance of my house.
I am thankful that I had a fun and awesome wedding and I am equally as thankful that it. is. over.
I am thankful for coffee (always). And also! Pots of tea.
I am thankful running and I are friends again.
I am thankful for possibility
I am thankful for Maine in winter and summer, too.
I am thankful for tomatoes in season, butternut squash pureed with maple syrup, and organic potato chips.
I am thankful for this life.

[In the woods, November 2011.]

* Today, Thanksgiving, is one of my one of my very favorite days of the year, mainly because it combines two things very close to my heart: food (and the cooking of it) of course, as well as the giving of thanks — or, really, the feeling grateful-for. Is there a better feeling in the world than gratitude? (OK maybe love, but that’s something better suited to February ruminations and anyway I sort of think the two are closely related.)

Some days I swear I wake up simply grateful to be, cozy and quiet tucked up in my comfortable bed with the morning grey-light filtering through the windows, knowing I have good food to eat for breakfast, and, if I’m particularly lucky, a Sunday morning New York Times waiting for me downstairs. I mean, of course there are those days I rise on the wrong side of the bed and burn my toast or drink green tea because I’m out of milk and there is just no way I can drink my coffee without milk or cream. Of course there are those days. But in general I know I have it pretty good and I try not to take it for granted.

This morning it’s drippy and softly grey in West Marin, and we are going to make a cup of delicious coffee and take the dog up into the woods through the pine trees and back down again down the trail with a view of Tomales Bay to the left. I’ll come home and pull out the sweet potato-tahini dip, the cauliflower soup, the smoked salmon, the roasted butternut squash. I’ll drizzle olive oil over the turkey and slip it into the oven, crack open a bottle of sparkling wine to mix with pear nectar and pomegranate seeds, nibble a pumpkin cookie, and cross fingers this next year proves just as delicious and full of surprises as the last.

Happy Thanksgiving.

*Wishing you lots of good food, friends, and family today and every day.

So what happened was: I went to the store to get the fixings for a pumpkin pie — the evaporated milk, the canned puree — and left with a carton of Clover heavy cream and a small (organic) sugar pumpkin that I roasted last night and turned into my own puree. I can’t even explain myself — going rogue for the fun of it, maybe, or something else — but looking at the ingredients in the evaporated milk made me cringe a bit because I don’t know what they are exactly. And I thought that surely there was an way to do this that doesn’t involve pre-tinned squash and strange liquid (like — what is evaporated milk, right?). The early settlers didn’t cook with that stuff, so I figure I don’t need it either.

(Or is it that I just can’t really do anything the easy way (my coworker told me it’s a sickness, this need to cook everything with ingredients in their most basic state and maybe it is)? That I like to try new things? Or more so that I’ve been wanting to do a pumpkin pie from scratch for a long time? Whatever — apparently this year is the year.)

This is the extra effort it took: I cut the pumpkin in half, scooped out the seeds (then washed them, and they’re currently soaking in salt water to roast later) and the string-like stuff while my husband cringed in the other room. Then I placed it cut side down on a foil-lined baking pan and roasted it for about an hour until very soft. After I removed it from the oven and let it cool a little, I stripped out the flesh and used my stick blender to puree it smooth. To me that doesn’t seem like too much work, but then again I was also cooking dinner and baking a double batch of cornbread so roasting the pumpkin was sort of the the easy part of the evening …

I don’t know. I like to cook, is the thing. D asked me last night if it’s the act of cooking I like or rather the result that is so satisfying but the truth is that it’s both. I love projects and I like to make things and I like to see them tangibly; I like relying on myself to get things accomplished and creating something from not-too-much. Last night when I was scraping out the pumpkin, turning it in my hands and wrangling the slippery spoon to get out as much of the pulpy guts as I possibly could it just felt right. Perhaps that’s the best way to explain it: When I cook it just feels right.

So the pie. The pie the pie the pie. The recipe for it is a conglomeration of a few I obsessively sifted through came upon online, some of which called for creme fraiche or sour cream instead of the evaporated milk and some of which called for heavy cream. I decided to go with the heavy cream option as those eating it lean more toward having a penchant for the sweet rather than the tangy, plus o, delicious, cream helps lead the filling into the land of the custardy (which I like very much). I upped the brown sugar component because I like the deeper, darker note of sweetness it imparts and didn’t go overboard with the spices so they wouldn’t overwhelm that nice, mild pumpkin taste. And a tablespoon of cornstarch! Is genius.

I almost made the pie in a graham cracker crust but when I caught myself wondering if I could make the graham crackers from scratch — in the spirit of the whole from-scratch-no-really pie mania — I reigned myself in didn’t even look up a recipe (next time). So instead I went with my tried-and-true butter-and-flour crust because I didn’t want to bring in too much newness on this very traditional (well, sort of) of holidays (and also because I was afraid I would actually bake graham crackers myself and I’m cooking quite enough already).

The bits I liked best about this: roasting the pumpkin is so very easy especially if you’re already baking something (or cooking something else; you can simply fit it into your working culinary list of the moment). You can puree it with a stick blender, mash it, or force it through a sieve to get it as smooth as possible (my sister-in-law also recommends putting it in cheesecloth to drain overnight in the fridge) but if you use the recipe below, putting all the ingredients into a blender will take care of any lumpy pieces and soothe the anxieties of any loved ones who would prefer to not know from where their pumpkin puree came (if said loved one has an unholy disgust for orange colored squash because of some childhood gardening experience blah blah blah — ahem).

And it’s nice, you know? to not have more cans to toss in the recycling bin (just the skins and pulp to toss in the compost pail) plus you can avoid the weirdness that is evaporated milk if you so choose. But best of all it’s just really neat to be able to turn that pumpkin (above) into this (below).

Really, it just feels right. And I’ll leave it at that.

(I’ll definitely be doing this again.)

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[Kehoe Beach, November 2011.]

Right — it’s November. The light, when the sun is shining, looks a lot like that photo above. I’m crossing my fingers very tightly (not when I’m typing, though; that would make things difficult) for sun next Thursday so we can slip away to Kehoe for a Thanksgiving walk before the cooking madness begins, but as of now the forecast is calling for showers. I’m still packing up my backpack for our proposed trip the following day, though, as I believe in the power of positive thinking. And anyway, what’s a few raindrops between hard-core camping types (if my brother is reading this he’s laughing at me because I typically wimp out and draw the line at backpacking in the rain, especially when — ahem — one’s tent is meant more for summer camping than fall/winter)? Oh, but pretty please: I haven’t been to Wildcat Beach in eons (read: a few years); my hiking boots need a workout; I’m longing to sleep out under the stars near the sea; come Friday I’ll be in desperate need of some physical activity after all the feasting.

For yes, the feasting is upon us. In November, regardless of light, regardless of weather, my thoughts turn inevitably to Thanksgiving, which I like to call ‘the cook’s holiday.’ And indeed it is a holiday for cooks — most of you reading this have probably been planning your menus for weeks now — or at least those who like to cook. A day off from work where the main activities are cooking, gathering, and eating? Sign me up.

I’ve been cooking and baking rather determinedly lately — not unhappily, mind you, just with a one-track mindset of get ‘er done. I’ve churned out several batches of pumpkin chocolate chip cookies, a batch of vegan peanut butter cookies, a dozen or so lemon meringue cookies with the two egg whites I had leftover from baking a flourless chocolate cake, said flourless chocolate cake (recipe soon), vegan chocolate cupcakes with chocolate buttercream, pesto two ways (with cheese and without), a delightful cabbagey bean soup, a few serviceable vegetable stirfries with fried tofu … Today I’m working at home so am baking two loaves of pumpkin bread and gluten-free gingersnaps for the first time (to send East to the half of the family who’s celebrating Thanksgiving in Maine). I wish I could say this is a precursor to the craziness known as ‘Nicole’s holiday baking’ but it’s really just the norm for me. I don’t really need to wax poetic about it; we need to eat, I like to bake, and so I bake and cook and so it goes.

Still, Thanksgiving is special, yes? I’ve written many posts about cooking the vegetarian Thanksgiving meal, so this time ’round I think I’m going to direct you to stuff I’ve done previously just because, as I mentioned, there’s a lot of cooking to be attended to in the moment and I’m feeling a wee bit pressed.

This year there will be four vegetarians at the table — slightly thrilling for me, as for the first time in a long time I won’t be the lone turkey abstainer. I’m going back and forth as to whether or not I should do those delicious roasted and stuffed acorn squashes — pros: easy to make ahead, they’re a wonderful vegetarian main dish; cons: I’m already doing a sweet potato gratin that could serve as the vegetarian main — and I think tomorrow’s farmers market will decide that for me. I’m going with tried-and-trues this year, as is sometimes my wont, and as always the meal will be very vegetable-heavy.

The menu so far

Assorted cheeses + crackers
Sweet potato-tahini dip with sliced apples
Smoked salmon from the farmers market

Pumpkin pie
Apple-blackberry pie
Cranberry upside down cake

In terms of suggestions for your vegetarian entrees or vegetable side dishes, I point you toward:

My vegetarian Thanksgiving story published on NPR a few years ago
… and Thanksgiving on the lighter side, also via NPR
Some vegetarian appetizers
Some more vegetarian main dishes

And of course if you need any tips, I’m only an email away …

While you’re plotting and planning and maybe even starting to cook already (!), might I recommend making some pumpkin chocolate chip cookies? I’ve made these twice in a week to make up for not making any all throughout this long and lovely fall — a real travesty, as these cookies are strangely addictive and delicious. I love them for their cake-like texture and the balance of brown sugar against the pumpkin puree; the chocolate chips give a bit of texture as well as, well, chocolate which is just the thing. May I admit I have eaten a handful, still slightly warm, with my morning coffee before 10 a.m.? But they would also go nicely with a pot of tea or a glass of milk any time. They will well fortify you through the upcoming ‘cook’s holiday’ — and beyond.

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The one and only time I went to Ireland I ate (vegetarian) baked beans, cheese toasties, fried eggs, mash. We had glasses of gin and orange at a pub near our hostel and and later that night stuffed pillows into our ears to drown out the cheerful snoring of our room mates. We drank tea and also Jameson later and smoked cigarettes in the Temple Bar and ordered pints of Guinness even later than that. It was cold in July. I wished for warmer sweaters.

Ireland — as I’ve written about before — has a certain hold on my heart, even though I was there so briefly, and just the once. Sometimes I like to think it’s because a few relatives originated there (a great-grandmother I think, perhaps others); that heritage, filtered down through the generations, has made me wish forits green hills and grey, churning sea though in reality I’ve hardly explored the country at all. Either way, I’m often plotting and planning to go back, and reading as many books by Irish writers as I can in lieu of a visit.

It’s tempting to romanticize Ireland — The emerald mountains! Slipping into a pub for a pint! Reels upon rousing reels played long into the night! Slices of thick soda bread spread with sweet butter! Roaring fires made from peat moss! — but the truth is far more complicated. For every soothing Altan song about horses and misty mornings, there is Christy Moore’s biting commentary about displacement, and early U2′s political manifestos set to music. There is the lingering aftermath of the Troubles. There are the roads described as “a purposeless fragment of highway built to make the starving work for their welfare shilling.” There is — as Nuala O’Faolain wrote — “Ireland’s tragic history of emigration and depopulation.”

But Ireland, oh, Ireland. It’s a beautiful place nonetheless — perhaps even more so because of its past, and I cannot help but appreciate the place for it. Even in my two short days wandering the Dublin streets I was captivated; there was a bitter wind off the water that made me wish, even in summer, I’d brought a scarf, and the sun only came out here and there, but I couldn’t complain because there I was — at last. To me, Ireland is late-night pints and sitting in a park outside the writer’s museum, a bus ride down winding roads with flashing views of an iron-grey sea, tree branches that brushed the windows as we passed by. It’s a country of rain and sun and Gaelic street signs and whiskey. It is complex, and endlessly fascinating, and despite all my mooning on over Greece, it is a place I terribly wish to visit.

I often bake a small something in commemoration of St. Pat’s — ‘amateur night’ though it may be (dubbed thus by a wise friend long ago and it’s true; I may stick to my tangerine juice tonight, thanks very much) — and this year I made a loaf of the Barmbrack (bairín breac) I first experimented with a few years ago. This time round, I must admit, I didn’t have quite all of the ingredients on hand for which the recipe called, and so substituted regular raisins for the golden, and a bit of ginger for the allspice — fine, I think, since this loaf is traditionally baked at Halloween and not for St. Patrick’s Day. But little matter, really.

Little matter, too, that last night when I slid the loaf from my cranky oven that it seemed stodgy and too heavy. I feared straightaway something was off — the yeast rise perhaps affected by the rain, or that I’d put too much flour into the batter whilst kneading it. It seemed a bit tough, and bit too doughy, though I didn’t want to bake it any more lest it burn; why the …? G-d bless it (or worse), I probably muttered, because the waste of ingredients + loss of time = a grumpy me — me! who loathes to waste even a precious second of the hours in the day. However! This morning I awoke to a clear, crisp sky and a decent-looking Barmbrack after all and so I lugged it into work with a small pot of blackberry honey (from Sebastopol), a small jar of blueberry jam (from Maine), and a bit of butter (from Clover), sliced it up prettily, and watched my coworkers devour it, leaving just a scrap left as I write this at nearly tea-time. So.

This is how James Joyce described Barmbrack, in a short story from The Dubliners: “The fire was nice and bright and on one of the side-tables were four very big barmbracks. These barmbracks seemed uncut; but if you went closer you would see that they had been cut into long thick even slices and were ready to be handed round at tea.” Yes please. I should like this for tea at least once a week, for it is sweet but not too, hearty enough to support a piece of sharp cheddar if you decide to go rogue, and just the right of substantive to eat for breakfast if you’re sick to the teeth of oatmeal (just this week, swear).

And indeed that’s just what I’m off to do with the few crumbs remaining. I shall toast a little toast to Ireland, the green land, the beloved country — and hope that one day soon I shall see it again.

(Also consider an utterly smooth and delicious Guinness chocolate cake — for today, or any day, or preferably even every day.)

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

– W.B. Yeats, The Lake Isle of Innisfree

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[Pacific Ocean, McClure's Beach, December 2010.]

The holidays this year were lovely, weren’t they? At least — I hope they were for you. For me they were an amazing blur of friends and family and afternoons at the beach (one, in that clear, grey ethereal light that is so awfully perfect for taking photos; another in wind and sun and crashing blue) and a long hike and lots of food and hometown friends and a Boxing Day lunch that was so jolly and funny and fun. It was a golden stretch of days: the presents were all just right, given and received (though, ahem, minus two sweaters due to picky me); there was lots of sleep, if the daylight hours were full up with things to do; there were just enough dry days to counter the storms; there was just enough cooking to satisfy my need to throw a party.

On Christmas it rained and rained, so we didn’t go to the beach after all though I managed to squeeze in four miles early, which helped with the stuffing-with-selves to follow. Later, after a glass of wine, after snacks, and while my mom cooked dinner, Emily and Kurt and I sat in front of the fire reading cookbooks (me, the Canal House summer issue; she, The Kitchen Diaries; he, One Big Table, and if you own a copy please check out the eggplant recipe on page 534 — but that is another story for another time) drinking tea and talking about food and my heart just about exploded in joy. What can I say? The small and sweet is everything to me.

But now I am sick, and though the sun shines beautifully in San Francisco I am in the throes of a cold that just won’t quit, despite my best efforts to thwart it with medicine and tea and plain old going to bed early. I have more to recount about a wonderful visit with wonderful friends and the whirlwind new year’s eve dinner we cooked for eight — but as I have two looming deadlines in a matter of days as well as a rapidly depleting box of tissues I think I shall save that for when I am feeling more on the up and up. Still, know that recently there has much cooking, much feasting, much laughing, and much thinking about 2011. And as is the way of these things perhaps detailing a few hopes for the coming year would not be amiss …

For the next year, I have chosen my word and it is peace. Meaning: I want to cultivate more peace in my life, inwardly and outwardly. I want to rest in the space between the moments and I also want to rest in the moments. It came into my head as if bidden last week out at South Salmon Creek when I was sitting and looking out at the ocean (pictures to come tomorrow); the ocean, the Pacific specifically, always grounds me and reminds me to take a deep breath, to slow down, to be. So often I am running around running or pitching a story or reading New Yorker articles while careening to work on a packed bus and figuring out what I am going to make for dinner in the one hour I have in between exercise and the next thing — and man, that is no way to live. Our lives are busy and over-planned and just full (and this is good, I’m not saying it’s not, just — it is good to take a break, too) that we forget to breathe. So: peace. I aim to seek it more in my life during 2011.

Other things:

Make some new soups. Easy, yes. But you have no idea how often I make my quinoa-mushroom stew, or a cauliflower-leek-sometimes-with-potato soup, or a Potage Jacqueline … These are my standards, my fall-backs, my favorites. I don’t want to mess with good things. But I would also like to add to my repertoire.

Travel somewhere new, for vacation. Breaking news: mostly when I travel it’s to visit beloved friends. I got no regrets. I know I will travel thus in 2011 as well. But I would also like to go somewhere absolutely new-to-me, or at least where I haven’t been in awhile — on the high end of the scale is Tahiti, owing to a recent read recounting the history of the Mutiny on the Bounty; more practical is Big Sur, where, if you can believe it, I’ve never been. Must remedy!

Waste more time. Err … I know this sounds counter-productive to productivity. However, I want and wish to ‘waste’ more afternoons at the beach, linger long over coffee, go out to breakfast on a whim, spend a day driving to the end of the (California) earth to look for whales just because, go to bed early on a Saturday night because it’s deliciously decadent to do so.

Use less plastic. My friend Carolynn currently is at sea studying plastic pollution in the South Atlantic Ocean. She is an inspiration to me, and I want to be more mindful of the amount of plastic that enters and exits my house (as well as tin, aluminum, etc.). I do a good job of cooking from whole foods and buy a lot in bulk that I store in re-used glass containers, but I know I can do better.

Relatedly — Compost. San Francisco has made it so easy for us, and I have no excuse other than I hate fruit flies and sometimes I am lazy. But I know I can conquer both of these issues. It’s way past time.

My other little hopes include things like run at least one half-marathon; read new-to-me-authors; read more biography; go backpacking in Yosemite this summer; write more in-the-letter-box letters; swim in the San Francisco Bay (and swim more in general); create new recipes; cook more from the farmers market only; and some other mundane things I won’t detail.

You?

[After, Inverness, December 2010.]

My 2011 new year’s day breakfast consisted of oatmeal, tea, a sliver of chocolate babka, and lots of laughter with my lovely visitors before heading off into the rain to the Pelican Inn and a day of adventure. Recipes that are intrinsic, and which can’t really be written down. But on December 30th, I made an unexpected batch of cornmeal pancakes (or rather, as the recipe titled them, pioneer pancakes) that turned out to be some of the best pancakes I’ve ever eaten — will that do for these first days of the new year?

Kurt and Emily had gone camping out at Wildcat Camp in Pt. Reyes (YES I wimped out and didn’t go and YES I fully expect and am prepared to deal with the ribbing throughout the coming months — though I did do 8+ miles to Arch Rock, darn it.) and I was in Inverness overnight so they planned to stop by on their way back to Sonoma County. It was pretty cold, so they packed out early, about 6a, which meant they turned up hungry and ready for breakfast around 9-ish. They were also bearing maple syrup which of course necessitated pancakes. And though I’m not a big pancake-maker I was happy to oblige. We took down an old bread baking cookbook, perused the fridge for ingredients, made a pot of coffee, and fried up a pile of cornmeal pancakes.

I can’t say exactly what made these so good — the addition of cornmeal? The splash of vanilla? The tang of plain yogurt? Going ‘off book’? — but doused in a healthy heaping of warmed maple syrup and paired with a big pan of feta-and-oregano-laced scrambled eggs I think I served the hungry travelers well. Me? Well, I was hungry because these pancakes simply tasted so good: light yet rich, with a good, gritty texture from the cornmeal, and soaked through with syrup. We talked of Maine and boats and travels and gardents while the dog sighed contentedly under the table, dreaming his doggy dreams, the sun shone bright and cool, and there were days left still of vacation.

Oh, make these quick to keep that feeling going as long as possible.

Cornmeal Pancakes

Unfortunately I don’t have the exact recipe in front of me as I type, and I went ‘off book’ anyway, so please excuse the ‘dash’ of cinnamon/ginger as me not remembering the amount. It’s all to taste, really. We also added about a cup of sliced cranberries to half the batter, about which I was skeptical and later was proved emphatically wrong. They were delicious. Blueberries would also work marvelously here.

1 1/4 cup cornmeal
1/4 cup flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
2 tablespoons brown sugar
1 teaspoon salt
dash cinnamon
dash ginger
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
2 cups plain yogurt
2 eggs
butter for the pan

Whisk together the dry ingredients then add the wet and stir well to combine. Batter will be lumpy and thick. Heat a skillet or frying pan and add a good amount of butter (or oil, though butter of course is … delicious). When pan is very hot, drop the pancake mixture by generous double-tablespoon-fuls (we used a ladle — very exact) and fry until the underside is golden brown, and the top side bubbles a bit. Turn the pancakes over and continue frying until well browned.

Serve hot with maple syrup.

But that was not the same snow,” I say. “Our snow was not only shaken from white wash buckets down the sky, it came shawling out of the ground and swam and drifted out of the arms and hands and bodies of the trees; snow grew overnight on the roofs of the houses like a pure and grandfather moss, minutely -ivied the walls and settled on the postman, opening the gate, like a dumb, numb thunder-storm of white, torn Christmas cards.*

Christmas Eve, and the house is full of presents and cakes and cookies and quiet. When I was a kid this night was one of the best of the year: sugar-saturated and full of a kind of anticipatory pleasure that was almost (almost) better than the next morning when we ripped into our neatly wrapped packages. The Bike Year was my favorite, I think, though the year I slipped a little beribboned kitten under the tree for my mom comes in a close second. That morning I’d taken my dog out to Salmon Creek with my friends for a run; it was a cool, clear December — the day itself the only gift we wanted — and the mist burned off along the back roads as we drove out to the coast. I think I was home before 10a, kitten in tow, which means we must have left before 8; it was a true gift of a day, then, to have sun so early.

This year it is forecast to rain and rain, which may thwart my family’s traditional beach walk though as it’s my sister-in-law’s first visit at Christmas we have decided we must! go anyway. Custom demands it. Certainly there will be challah French toast for breakfast, with lots of maple syrup and equally as much coffee, and maybe a pot of homemade hot chocolate for sipping-on during the flurry of unwrapping. I will make my usual calls East — to upstate New York; to Washington, DC; to New Jersey; to Florida — and sit in front of a fire for awhile at some point. I hope there will be a glass of wine.

The holiday crept up on me this year — or rather, it leapt, and here it’s just a week before the new year. How on earth … ? The Solstice came and went quietly; I sadly missed the lunar eclipse due to San Francisco’s infernal fog layer (and rain). But there were new, lovely things this year despite the suddenness of December: lots of homemade candy, a party in a beautiful adobe house in Sonoma that was built in the 1800s, making eggnog (err — blech) from scratch, sending even more holiday cards than in the past, baking lemon cream pie instead of chocolate for holiday gatherings.

And so on the night before I cannot help but to be grateful for this last year, for as quickly as it passed me by, it gave me so many wonderful things, not least of all a wonderful sister-in-law who is like the sister I always wished for, and not most of all the knowledge that if I have to I can run 26.2 miles at once (though, please, let me not always have to). Not to mention I learned that I can cook a really fine turkey. Many, many other things, too, most too sweet and small to really detail. (Though of course: the Giants and that whole golden October thing. And Point Reyes, always. And my wonderful friends. And and and.)

Oh life. You continue to inspire and amaze.

I post bits of this every year and every year I can’t help but do so again because it is so beautiful, so sweet and true and perfect:

Looking through my bedroom window, out into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steady falling night. I turned the gas down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.

*(Dylan Thomas, “A Child’s Christmas in Wales”)

May your holidays be as close, as holy, as warm and lovely.