The cure for anything is salt water – sweat, tears, or the sea. ~ Isak Dinesen

The other night at the gym I was grumpily pounding (or rather, lightly treading) away at the elliptical machine watching some mindless show or other, thinking about chocolate cake and baking with molasses (perhaps not at the same time, however), and just feeling good to sweat a bit, when I realized that I am not a very patient person. I try, truly I do — it seems each year one of my personal resolutions goes something along the lines of cultivate patience — but it’s hard for me. I can take a setback, but not for very long. I can have a cold, but I will still work and play and move through it. I get irritated if I can’t; it’s not really a word I entertain very often. Which perhaps is a good thing?

Anyway, as I sweated and pondered Sarah Jessica Parker’s dubious choices in footwear and thought about chocolate cake, and about baking with molasses, contemplated my impatience and wished to be anywhere else, the other, resounding thought that lately growls at the back of my mind was: I want to run.

Oh — I really, really do.

For the past six weeks or so (actually I know exactly how long it’s been: since June 19, when I ran 12 miles in less than two hours up and down the hilly backroads of Sebastopol through a sunny early morning) I haven’t run much. Sure I’ve gritted through a few six-milers here and there as well as one particularly awful 10-miler way back at the beginning of July because see above about impatience and inability to sit still and also denial, but for the most part I’ve been not running. It’s been … an experience.

See — I run. I run. Running is a part of me, inextricable from my blood and bones. It’s not just a thing I do; I rarely let a week go by without a run, and most weeks I run at least four times, in varying distances of four to sixteen miles (often much less, but you know). I run for health, mental, physical, and spiritual; I run to get outside; I run to feel good; I run to sweat and to feel better; I run to feel strong; I run simply to be: in the moment, outside, through fog and sun both.

I guess running’s kind of my thing. It has stood me through many years and many moves and many continents and coasts, my constant and my familiar. This spring I had a resurgence of energy and was running better than I have in years, and was on track to run a half-marathon at the end of July here in San Francisco (this past weekend, sob!) in less than two hours (small confession: I actually was planning to run the full marathon. Yes, I am nuts. But …!). I was cramming in 10-milers after work and sort of wishing I had time for more. It felt good. It felt damned good. I was racking up the miles and chasing faster times and on some days it like I was flying. It was sort of amazing.

But, you know. I probably was pushing it a bit too much. Then I foolishly ran in worn-out shoes (be you not like me, please, I beg you) and gave myself the worst case of shin splints I’ve ever experienced. I could barely walk, let alone run. I even went to a doctor! (I never go to doctors.) He, also a runner, told me I’d nearly given myself a stress fracture and hurt my poor muscles so badly I’d need to take at least a month off (though he, the lovely man that he is, did grimace in sympathy as he told me this). And so I have been not-running — not even for the bus! I am dutifully icing and ‘taking it easy’ and doing the gym thing and grinning and bearing it (sorta) but let me tell you: this is hard. Yes, it’s ‘only’ a couple months, but ask any runner what he or she feels when running is off the table for awhile and no doubt you will receive the same answer: I am going slightly crazy. I miss it. It is a daily absence. Also: whinge x 100.

So what to do? Turn to the kitchen, of course. As a way to corral myself into being patient, distract myself from the not-running, and also to make up for some of the grumpiness pain and disruption of routine creates (and to which I’ve unfortunately subjected those around me), there’s been some baking. (OK, yes, fine — when is there not baking? Still.) I’ve baked with my left leg propped up on a chair to give it a break during the worst of it, and I’ve baked after a bike ride around the neighborhood (slight bonus to not-running: you are forced to explore other avenues, which for me means a bit of bike riding which, yeah. I’m going to be keeping that one up.) when I was feeling a little better. I’ve baked chocolate cakes and cookies and banana-cinnamon muffins and caramel cake and a pretty sweet cherry pie …

… which is my way of saying after all that moaning about: here’s a recipe for you, at long last, that I hope you’ll make this weekend. Wait — are cherries still even in season? If not, tuck it away for next summer. Because honestly, this is the most delicious, the most decadently summery pie I’ve ever made and I wish I had made it more than once. It eased the disappointment, smoothed over the non-running grump a bit, and, wonder of wonders, helped me cultivate some of that elusive patience I’m always wishing for (cherry pitting is not for the faint of heart, but put on some Gillian Welch and let your mind go. It’s oddly soothing.). I’m learning to pin it down with me to stay for awhile; hard when my body wants to gallop on ahead fecklessly. I’ve been dreaming of running lately, that it’s easy and swift again, and that I can go farther than even I ever did. Pitting cherries, making pie dough, sifting sugar — it helps me stay in the present moment. And I am learning to bide my time … mostly.

I’m heading off to the mountains today with some of my favorite people, to sleep out under the stars and breathe that clean, dry air and drink (filtered) water from snow-melt and cook outside every night and s-l-o-w down. Pictures and stories upon my return.

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The other night I did something I hadn’t in far too long: I baked banana bread — err, muffins — from a standby recipe. I’ve been poking around ye olde blog a bit lately, trying to spruce it up a little and paring down, too — and realized a few things. 1. I haven’t been documenting my meals nearly as often as I used to (nor as often as I’d like) and 2. Some Many of my recipes definitely are worth a revisit.

It’s funny how it happens — you make something over and over and over again until you’ve almost memorized the quantities of ingredients (see: my vegan chocolate cake). You make it for friends, family, to send away. And then, you stop. You move on to something else or get distracted by the flash of the new and shiny. Or maybe you get bored — I do, sometimes, when I make the same thing over and over again, and after all there are so many recipes in the world and so very, very little time to attend to them all … You get the gist.

[Also worth mentioning: Does the tried-and-true make for a good story? Perhaps not. Yet the tried-and-true is thus because it is tried -- and also true. There's no shame in having steadfast recipes upon which to rely; I just worry sometimes that I'll tire my dinner guests (or baked-goods recipients) with the same old same old. Anyway, a little experimentation often makes things better; at the very least it makes them different — not always a bad thing. So occasionally I'll take an old faithful and turn what was once familiar, sweet, and true into something else — much like, actually, my current relationship (but that's another story for another time. Also another story coming soon: the gluten-free, to-die-for brownies I baked Saturday night. Who knew flourless could be so good?).]

One night last week the wind picked up a bit after work and I felt pretty chilly, wanting only wool socks and to turn on the oven. (An aside, the weather has been completely screwy here in the Bay Area lately: warm/hot and sunny, with clear blue skies now for over a week. I am not complaining) Also, I was thinking potassium because I was slated to run a half-marathon at the weekend and was craving lots of vitamins and protein in preparation. (Another aside: the amount of quinoa and tofu and vegetables I’ve been eating lately is out of control, and there seems to be no end in sight.) So then: banana muffins, but with a twist. I resurrected my once favorite recipe for banana bread and made a few changes, swapping whole wheat pastry flour for half of the all-purpose, adding a bit of cardamom, and upping the ante with melted butter instead of vegetable oil.

In a word: Perfect.

About that run — this past Sunday I woke up in the dark early-morning hours to run my third long-distance race in a year. It was a beautiful day — warm and sunny — and the course took us through Golden Gate Park down to the Great Ocean Highway for about five miles (endless, it seemed) before looping back into the park to finish. I must admit I did not train as well as I could have, and I purposefully was not running for time because of it. I must also admit that it was pretty hard, and today my muscles are still a bit sore (though not terribly so, and I am not terribly unhappy about it).

Around mile six I felt the first hunger pangs strike, and began fantasizing about what kind of food I would eat when I finished. When I do a long run, I almost always crave salt, and I knew I had a big bag of Kettle Chips Salt & Pepper waiting for me at home in the kitchen cabinet (what I would have given for a few as we rounded the turn at mile 10, with three+ long miles still to go!). I thought about what I’d have for brunch later on (eggs, toast, potatoes — filling things for my empty belly, maybe even a mimosa, COFFEE), and what I planned to make for dinner.

As I ran along through the miles, the Pacific Ocean crashing and blazing in the sun to my right, I began to think more elaborately: would an avocado mousse be strange or delicious? It had been a long time since I’d made any sort of soufflé; put that on the mental list for soonish. What kinds of things would I grow if I had a garden of my own (heirloom tomatoes, blueberries, strawberries — fruit! — potatoes, lettuces, herbs) and what I would make with them. I considered and discarded several options for the lunch and dinner parties I’m giving this weekend (both on the same day, because I am a wee bit nuts), which helped miles 8-10 speed by quite handily.

All of these were distractions to the burning question of why am I doing this to myself, again?

When I ran my first marathon back in October 2005, I ate what was probably my weight in Boca Burgers over the course of a few months. After I did a long run, often even before I took a shower, I’d slap one in the microwave, toast a bagel, strap an ice pack securely to my knee, then pile on cheese, avocado, and mayonnaise before devouring in about two seconds. On my longest excursions, on country roads that seemed to go on forever, I’d promise myself a smoothie, or a big pile of portabello mushrooms as a reward for logging the miles. Last fall when I was training for the Nike marathon here in San Francisco, I mostly drank chocolate milk and slurped down a bowl of hot, brothy noodle soup after long runs. Food became even more pleasurable because I was so hungry all the time, my appetite sharpened by my body’s exertion.

While 13.1 miles is certainly nothing much compared to 26.2, it still burns a lot of calories, and after the race was over I was predictably starving. I made my way home, showered, drank lots of water and a delicious soy latte, and went to beloved Zazie for brunch, whereupon I immediately ordered a mimosa with freshly-squeezed orange juice — orange juice that may well have been the most delicious orange juice ever consumed — to toast my run as well as the beauty of the day (80 degrees at least, people. Early spring has come to SF.). Then I ate a bowl of curried butternut squash soup, a poached egg, and potatoes. Satiated for the moment, I came home to pack up the peanut butter cookies and gluten-free brownies I’d made for a friend’s super bowl gathering. I may have had a banana-chocolate muffin.

Today I am still a bit sore, but the feeling of accomplishment lingers. I don’t think I’ll go for an avocado mousse anytime soon, but I have my eye on a green garlic soufflé that will be on an upcoming menu for sure. I surely don’t need to run a half-marathon to treat myself to decadent dishes, but I think they taste all the more delicious for the effort made to get there.

This recipe is quite basic, but if you use a lot of bananas it’s elevated to something a bit beyond the ordinary. Moist, sweet but not too, with a solid crumb from the whole wheat flour, a nice crunch from the walnuts, and a hint of richness from the butter, it’s a bread to soothe the soul — and nourish the hungry belly.

A trick to keep in mind is one I picked up ages ago; it’s both thrifty and practical: when your bananas start to turn — as they inevitably might — or you can’t stand the thought of eating any more, throw ‘em in the freezer to save for making banana bread at your leisure. I read somewhere it’s best to remove the skin before doing so, but I often forget to do this, and the bananas freeze up just fine skin-on. Defrost for about 15 minutes (the other night I put in the oven for about 3 minutes until they softened — careful, though, because you don’t want to cook them) before using.

Serve as is, or toasted with a bit of butter or margarine, and a hot cup of tea — pre-run not required.

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[This morning, October 2010.]

October 26. The year spins on, November looms just around the corner. And it is the most beautiful day today: From where I sit, I can see Tomales Bay shimmering blue against the dry hills and there’s not a cloud in the sky. I haven’t run in over a week (!) and have been definitely taking it easy and eating delicious little treats like the mini lemon tart from Miette (which I think is simply lemon curd swirled into a pressed-shortbread crust and is utterly delicious — note to self.) (And I’m running tonight. I think.) and vegan ginger cookies and brownies along with San Francisco-made ice cream (thanks, L + L). There’s also been a fair amount of cheese (though I must admit there’s often a fair amount of cheese) because it feels right and then there was that whole running 26.2 miles thing.

Not to belabor the running — because surely enough already! — but actually it’s related to food in a major way and here is why: When you run a lot, or bike a lot, or swim a lot, or play basketball a lot, or walk a lot, or or or, you’re very hungry a great deal of the time. At least, I was. It’s funny how just taking a week off from the higher mileages has already made a difference; of course I still have a good appetite and am eating lots of delicious things, but it’s not that ravenous hunger of the past few months.

Basically I’d simply wake up hungry every day; if I went for a morning run I’d eat half of a banana or half a Clif bar and swig a lot of water and then come back predictably even more starving and would have a glass of organic Kefir (Clover makes a few that I love, particularly the blueberry), a yogurt drink that always seemed to hit the spot, and finish the banana. No matter what time I ran, for proper breakfast I’d have a cereal that was high in protein, or maybe a peanut butter sandwich, or even an egg, if I had time to make one (fried, please, on toast with a slice of sharp cheddar cheese), forgoing my usual oatmeal because while it is my favorite breakfast, it didn’t always fully curb the hunger pangs.

And then 11 a.m. would hit and I’d feel hungry again, still, always.

So enter the concept of elevenses, described by our ever-faithful wikipedia as such In the United Kingdom, Ireland and some Commonwealth realms, elevenses is a snack that is similar to afternoon tea, but eaten in the morning. It is generally less savoury than brunch, and might consist of some cake or biscuits with a cup of tea. The name refers to the time of day that it is taken: around 11 am.

I truly love the idea of tea — we uncouth Americans, of course, might know it as “dinner” or in some very uncivilized circles as “afternoon snack” (um, moi) — so it’s no surprise I love/d elevenses as well, all hobbit-y connotations acknowledged cheerfully. Elevenses and me, we get along like like peas and carrots, like cream and strong coffee, like black labs and Northern Californians, like the San Francisco Giants and Buster Posey, like gin and tonic, like … well, you see what I mean.

So what did I eat for elevenses? Toast, thickly buttered and with honey. Sushi, sometimes, from the place across the street from my office with avocado and cucumber. A bagel and cream cheese and tomato, either from my favorite coffee place or homemade. Just my lunch, early, which necessitated the later procuring of an avocado-and-cheese sandwich. Another bowl of cereal. A handful of raw almonds. Or granola. I ate a lot of granola for elevenses.

Granola, granola … we all (well, most of us) love it and its versatility — perfect with soy milk, or low-fat milk, or organic whole milk, or vanilla yogurt, or (my personal favorite) Greek yogurt, with fruit or without, ratio of oats to liquid dependent on the maker’s preference. A few summers ago I got on a granola kick and ate with soy milk and a sliced banana nearly every day; this summer before training really began I mostly ate oatmeal. Still, granola can really hit that sweet spot in between breakfast and lunch, and I like it especially with a lot of nuts and sunflower seeds, with a good deal of thick Greek yogurt and a drizzle of honey over the top just to make it extra decadent.

Life has returned to (somewhat) normal these days — training is over and my appetite has (mostly) settled down. But that whole elevenses thing? I think I’ll be channeling a bit of the Paddington Bear and won’t be giving it up anytime soon.

Nutty Granola

2 cups whole rolled oats
1/2 cup sliced almonds
1/2 cup chopped walnuts
1/4 cup sunflower seeds
3 Tbsps. pumpkin seeds
1/2 c. unsweetened shredded coconut
1/2 tsp. cinnamon
1 pinch sea salt
5 Tbsps. maple syrup
1/2 tsp. vanilla
2 Tbsps. olive oil
1 cup dried cranberries

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Mix all the dry ingredients together except for the dried cranberries in a large bowl. Add the maple syrup, vanilla and olive oil, and stir. Spread evenly on a baking sheet and bake for about 25 minutes. Check every 10 minutes and give the pan a good shake or a stir so it browns evenly. Be careful not to let it burn — remove when the oats are golden brown.

Remove from oven and let cool slightly. Add the cranberries and stir well to combine. Store up to two weeks in a tightly-sealed container at room temperature (or keep in the freezer).

[Birthday cake, sliced, October 2010.]

Friends, I did it. And it was HARD. Rain and wind and fog and no sun at all the whole way, not even a flash of it, and we started in the dark. But if it was so hard (oh, Lake Merced, let me not see you again for a long, long time, please) it was also amazing: Around mile 10 the course swept out of the Presidio and down past the Cliff House and suddenly there was the Pacific Ocean spread out before us like a flag with the waves crashing and churning onto the beach. I have run a decent amount of road races in various cities and each has its own particular specialness; for me, to run 26 (.2) miles in San Francisco, was a sort of belated homecoming (and oh yeah: there are way more hills here than, say, Washington, DC — but then again, the Pacific Ocean.) and it felt so. good. So even during the absolute worst parts (the pouring rain out at the lake; mile 23; that last 1/2-mile) I kept thinking about how very, very fortunate I am to live here — and it eased the pain more than just a little bit.

This is what I did: Sunday morning woke up at about 5:30 after 7 hours or so of sleep, gulped a lot of water, ate a bagel-and-peanut-butter with delicious jam from Maine (thanks E+K), made sure I had all my ‘gu’ stowed away and my timing chip safely affixed, left the house in the pre-7a darkness — and then I ran 26.2 miles. I ran. 26.2. Miles. I look at the number, and my knees ache, and my muscles are tight and sore, and my stomach is still slightly unhappy with me, and I know that I did it, but I can hardly believe it. Every time I get up, it hurts. When I walk, it hurts. (Almost) everything hurts! Still, my belated runner’s high persists and I found myself this afternoon contemplating doing another one at some point (sorry, mom). I felt this after I ran the Marine Corps Marathon, too, which was not nearly as brutal as this one and so I think I must admit I am a crazy runner type. There are worse things.

It never ceases to amaze me how hours and hours of running can somehow pass by in a flash — I remember some moments particularly, like the girl in front of me wearing all orange (including an orange tutu) and a sign that read Next to Giants, this is Torture, and that first hill around mile 5 going up to the bridge when I thought god damn I got 21 more to go of this. And suddenly it was mile 8 and I ate orange slices, and then it was 11 and people were screaming and cheering as we went into Golden Gate Park and I picked up speed and let momentum carry me a ways, and then it was half-way and my personal cheering squad materialized, and then it was 15 and I put my ipod on (first time in a race ever) and my funky little mix was just perfect, and then it was 16 and there were only 10 left and I saw parts of the park I’d never seen before, and then it was pouring rain along the Great Ocean Highway and my hands were so cold and I ate a Clif protein bar (peanut butter), and then it was 22 and my calves started cramping up so badly I could barely walk, and then it was the chocolate mile and I said to myself OK, finish this b**ch. You got it. (you find you talk to yourself a lot on these long runs), and then it was 24 and back on the highway with the finish in sight.

I looked at the ocean, then, and said to myself Remember this. Take it in and savor it all. Because, god, this city is beautiful. This place is so beautiful, even in the fog and wind and rain (in a way, the weather was fitting, since I have always run and trained in all sorts of weather — even snow in Norway, once, and the heavy heat of DC summers), and I am so lucky that my body, even if slower than it used to be, can do this, when so many cannot. I guess this is one of the reasons we do this: Because we can, and it is a way to honor that. To honor life. I thought about my cousin and gave her the last two miles, because she will never get to and I wish she could’ve at least had the chance. I pushed those miles hard. A nice girl picked me up with about 100 yards to go when I started fading, and we ran the last bit together, sprinting almost, and then it was done DONE, with my support team right there to hug me at the end. It was awesome.

Thank you all, so much, for your support — virtual and otherwise. I swear it does help, to know you have a little cheering squad behind you.

I’ll leave you with a slice, by way of my own virtual thanks, of my delicious birthday cake (Alice Waters’ chocolate cake recipe, o’course; and please do make it, and as often as possible). Tonight I’ve put my running shoes away for little while and am stretching out my deliciously sore muscles and drinking lots of water and eating mom’s vegetable soup (and buttery little lemon-poppyseed shortbread cookies, homemade in Maine) resting my exhausted body and feeling grateful that I was able to run all that way. I am lucky, and I know it.

Back soon.

ps: Here is the Chronicle article about the race. It was the 2010 Nike Women’s Marathon and if you ever consider doing a marathon, I highly recommend this one. The support is amazing along the way (think happy and energized volunteers despite the rain, music every few miles, lots of food), and the course is absolutely beautiful, winding through a lot of gorgeous parts of San Francisco (and despite the early hills there are surprisingly a great deal of flat parts). The race also benefits the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society, an extremely worthy cause. And while the run is open to both men and women, it’s really geared toward women — which is a pretty cool thing, not to mention you get a PINK finisher’s t-shirt and a pretty pretty necklace from Tiffany’s. (Though also to note: it’s very popular and you have to enter your name into a random drawing to gain entrance.)

Tomorrow I am 32.

Tomorrow I am 32 and I am not, for once, baking my own birthday cake, though it is often my wont and wish to do so — no, this year will be spent drinking lots of water, carbo-loading, crossing my fingers for the Giants to win the first game of this next playoff round, and obsessing about Sunday’s 26.2 miles to be run so awfully early in the morning.

For, OH, the marathon. It is all I can think of right now — fearfully, and with great excitement. The forecast here in San Francisco has changed from sun to fog with possible rain, and though I envisioned running along the Great Ocean Highway in the wild, hot sun with salt drying white in funny tracks on my shins, I know it is far, far better to run in cool temperatures. And how pretty the bridge will look with the fog misting about its columns. Maybe I will catch sight of a few pelicans winging purposefully out to sea, like I did the time I ran a half-marathon four years ago, and the fog will burn off after all.

Oh, the marathon. Despite my hip that aches so deeply and inexplicably, despite my nerves, despite all else — I am impatient for it, eager for the camaraderie that comes with these things, the anonymous companionship of 20,000 (!) others slogging along with you, in pain and exhilaration. Into the quiet morning I shall go, solidly 32, belly full of chocolate cake, to run past the Transamerica Building (and perhaps even my office, for I work a hard stone’s throw away) with the Financial District still and nearly empty for once, and down along the bay and up through Seacliff into the park, and back ’round Lake Merced for the last four miles (I hear they are the longest slog of the long slog), and then … and then by 12.30 pm on Sunday it will be all over. I will cry and cheer and get fetched home for food and later will finally open that delicious bottle of rosé I’ve been saving since I bought it in Sonoma two (!) months ago.

It is my birthday present to myself.

But wait a minute — back to birthdays. And also cake. I have this funny thing about birthdays wherein I often end up baking my own cake/s, or throwing my own party (very happily so, I will add). See, please, a few years ago — for 29 — when I had a little wine and cheese party with a friend of mine who shares my birthday; we drew an eclectic collection of friends to my apartment (some of her law school friends, some friends I went to kindergarten — and earlier — with, an old college friend, new San Francisco friends) and stayed up late but not too drinking wine and eating fancy cheese and the madeleine cookies I for some reason thought would be a good idea to bake. We also ate cake — three of them: a coconut-pineapple (my most asked-for birthday cake, still), a chocolate with chocolate butter cream, an opera cake, sliced into thick wedges and piled high with strawberries. I’d stayed up late the night before baking. This seems to be a pattern for me.

See also my last year in DC, when my brother had me stay the night in a wonderful old farmhouse b+b near Wheatland Vegetable Farm in Virginia, where he was working and finishing out the growing season. We ate a late and delicious dinner (his treat) and I woke early on my birthday to eat fluffy scrambled eggs and pet the malodorous dogs. After, I came back to the city to cook — I’d decided, darn it, that what I wanted most to do for my birthday was to cook a birthday dinner and invite my best beloveds and so, I did.

The thing is, I love cooking, I wrote to a friend in California before the party. Love it. And I love throwing parties. So, what would make me happy would be to have a little dinner party for my birthday and I even know what I would make: a soup of wild mushrooms and herbs; onion foccacia and rich cheeses; pesto or some sort of baked-in-the-oven dish; some kind of green; chocolate cake, to finish. And drinks beforehand, and champagne also, and wine. Simple, but nice, and what I would really like to do seeing as how I won’t be sunning myself in Hawaii or washing my feet out at Keyhoe Beach with the dogs.

I think my friends thought I was slightly crazy for cooking a big meal on my birthday (I mean, it was my birth-day), but it was so sweet and satisfying to make Amarula martinis (I was on a kick with those for about six months — they are deliciously deadly, imminently sippable) and crack champagne and nibble cheese and eat the food I’d made. Those days … What better than to indulge myself in the thing I loved best? Birthdays might be a little bit selfish, after all.

For my 26th, I remember, there was

1.
-foccacia: one onion, one olive (?) with basil and tomato and fresh mozz
-hummus
-cheese and crackers

2.
-roasted garlic and tomato soup

3.
-mushroom/asparagus risotto
-green beans with garlic and lemon
-spinach/greens salad with almonds

4.
-a variation on something called a ‘Cuban Opera Cake’

We all had so much fun.

Birthdays, birthdays. One year I was in Scotland (bliss). Last year I was in London and saw the Tower (and shivered over poor Anne) and went for high tea (and a pint later). Sometimes I worked and went for dinner after; sometimes I cooked; once I was in California similarly obsessing over a marathon and went to Goat Rock in the bright sun to chase the seals. (I may have to cook belatedly this year, after the miles are logged and the shoes stowed neatly away for a little while). This year will be smaller and sweeter — I will go to the farmers’ market; I will have an early dinner at Greens; I will eat chocolate cake; I will read Dylan Thomas; I will go to bed early, in nervous trepidation, clothes laid carefully out for the morning’s early start — and I think that will suit me just fine.

Tomorrow I am 32. What comes next.

**

I know I posted this last year but I feel it is appropriate for any and every October birthday — and so here it ’tis again. I shall read it each year on my birthday, swear. Dear Dylan Thomas, you have part of my soul.

Poem in October

It was my thirtieth year to heaven
Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour wood
And the mussel pooled and the heron
Priested shore
The morning beckon
With water praying and call of seagull and rook
And the knock of sailing boats on the webbed wall
Myself to set foot
That second
In the still sleeping town and set forth.

My birthday began with the water-
Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name
Above the farms and the white horses
And I rose
In rainy autumn
And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.
High tide and the heron dived when I took the road
Over the border
And the gates
Of the town closed as the town awoke.

A springful of larks in a rolling
Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling
Blackbirds and the sun of October
Summery
On the hill’s shoulder,
Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly
Come in the morning where I wandered and listened
To the rain wringing
Wind blow cold
In the wood faraway under me.

Pale rain over the dwindling harbour
And over the sea wet church the size of a snail
With its horns through mist and the castle
Brown as owls
But all the gardens
Of spring and summer were blooming in the tall tales
Beyond the border and under the lark full cloud.
There could I marvel
My birthday
Away but the weather turned around.

It turned away from the blithe country
And down the other air and the blue altered sky
Streamed again a wonder of summer
With apples
Pears and red currants
And I saw in the turning so clearly a child’s
Forgotten mornings when he walked with his mother
Through the parables
Of sun light
And the legends of the green chapels

And the twice told fields of infancy
That his tears burned my cheeks and his heart moved in mine.
These were the woods the river and sea
Where a boy
In the listening
Summertime of the dead whispered the truth of his joy
To the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide.
And the mystery
Sang alive
Still in the water and singingbirds.

And there could I marvel my birthday
Away but the weather turned around. And the true
Joy of the long dead child sang burning
In the sun.
It was my thirtieth
Year to heaven stood there then in the summer noon
Though the town below lay leaved with October blood.
O may my heart’s truth
Still be sung
On this high hill in a year’s turning.

- Dylan Thomas (b. Oct. 27)

And for reading all that — a reward:

Coconut-pineapple layer cake, long-ago adapted from gourmet.com

For cake layers
2 1/3 cups cake flour (not self-rising)
2 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup milk
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla
2 sticks (1 cup) unsalted butter, softened
1 1/2 cups sugar
5 large eggs, beaten lightly

For filling
a 28-ounce can crushed pineapple in unsweetened juice
1 tablespoon cornstarch
a rounded 1/4 cup sugar

2 2/3 cups sweetened flaked coconut (a 7-ounce bag), toasted golden
and cooled

Make cake layers:
Preheat oven to 350°F. Line bottoms of 2 buttered 9- by2-inch round cake pans with rounds of wax paper. Dust pans with flour, knocking out excess.

Into a bowl sift together flour, baking powder, and salt. In a glass measuring cup stir together milk and vanilla. In a bowl with an electric mixer on medium speed cream butter 1 minute and add sugar in a steady stream, beating until light and fluffy, about 4 minutes, scraping bowl occasionally. Beat in eggs, a little at a time, beating well after each addition, until pale and fluffy. Stir in flour mixture in 4 batches alternately with milk, beginning and ending with flour mixture and stirring after each addition until batter is smooth.

Divide batter between pans, smoothing tops, and bake in middle of oven until a tester inserted in center comes out clean, about 30 minutes. Cool cake layers in pans on racks 10 minutes. Run a thin knife around edge of each pan and invert cake layers onto racks. Remove wax paper carefully and cool cake layers completely. Cake layers may be made 5 days ahead and frozen, wrapped in plastic wrap and foil. Thaw cake layers in refrigerator 1 day before proceeding with recipe.

[Fuel, September 2010.]

Here is Indian Summer: sweet blue light at the beach on Saturday afternoon, happy dogs and the smell of bonfires, digging toes deep into the sand, the waves crashing and sparkling in the sun. Then the next day: clear skies from 7a on save for a pea-soup fog along the coast, dense and drifting, with lots of happy surfers entering the churn. Later after 19 miles — the park, the trees creaking in the breeze, the liters of water, the hot sun.

Fall makes me want to go places — that cool wind, that sky, that slanting light that all of a sudden is fall-light and not summer-light. For now it is fall absolutely and terribly, despite the 80-degree temperatures, despite the stellar forecast, despite my bare arms, despite my lingering tan. On Saturday I saw winter squash at the farmers’ market, and the apple seller is back for the duration.

(I didn’t buy any cider.)

Twice I’ve been to the U.K. in autumn: once, six years ago, to London and Edinburgh and the Isle of Skye; last year to London/environs. A few times I’ve been to Maine, to feel the air turn heavy with the chilly promise of winter; one October I went to Vermont to watch the leaves burst red and gold and fall thickly to the ground. Sometimes I’d be in California for a few days of this stolen season before going back to the still-pressing humidity of the East Coast.

But this year — this time — I’m not going anywhere. All I’m doing is running and running and eating good tomatoes and sitting in the sun for a few stolen hours here and there. I’m baking brownies and eating veggie burgers and thinking about fall soups (carrot-fennel, maybe, or butternut squash-pear) and Thanksgiving dishes and chewing over story ideas. I’m not spending enough time reading the NY Times on Sundays but I am catching up on my New Yorkers, finally, and also a few books. California has got me for a good long while it seems.

Oh fall: yeah, here you are yet again, winking behind a scrim of sun and salt, belying the darker months to come. You make me hopeful and melancholy at the same time (and g-d damn the infernal birthday blues, cropping up right on schedule as per usual). You make me nostalgic for old loves and cultivate new ones. You are too many apples and pots of applesauce to be canned and stored neatly away. You make me homesick — for all the old familiars, and for places I haven’t yet been. You make me want to gather up everyone I love and miss and take them all to Yosemite, to Glacier Point at dusk (remember), and go eat pizza after in Curry Village. You make me listen to a lot of Bruce Springsteen and then, Beethoven. You are golden and blue and sometimes white-gold and shorter days too soon. Way, way too soon.

Right.

Sunday I ran a lot and came home sweaty and starving, as tends to happen. I slapped on the ice pack to deal with a pesky shin splint twinge (the ITB, remarkably, seems fine but a shin splint …?!), toasted some bread, and fried up some mushrooms and a veggie burger. Oh — first I had some chocolate milk, which I have never much liked and never drank as a kid, but which is sometimes the only thing I can stand after running for three hours; the stomach is a bit complainy and wants nothing at all (but you have to eat). So I had the chocolate milk to coat my poor stomach and stretched out my protesting legs and wondered, again, why we do this (this running) except for that I know, and I will know even better in three weeks when the marathon is over. Running is a strange beast, at least for me — I love it, and it’s essential to me as air, but it also can sometimes be the source of my greatest frustration. Too slow, too achey, too tired, too this or that — if I’m not there mentally, as what happened on Sunday morning, I despair and grimace and groan. On the other hand, it can sometimes be the source of my greatest joy — last week, for example, I pushed through 22 miles and it wasn’t so bad and I didn’t throw up and I had a lovely lunch cooked for me after and a beer and it was magic.

That’s how that goes.

If fall for me is characterized a bit by the wistful, the wondering, it is also characterized by running. Five years ago right now I also was training for a marathon (the Marine Corps, in DC) and was also in California, though in Sebastopol, where I logged my solitary miles on the back-roads near my parents’ house, catching my shorts on blackberry bushes and thoroughly mystifying the white horses in the field on Watertrough. A fall race — be it marathon, 1/2, 10-miler, 5k — is the best kind of race: summer’s heat is mostly gone and you have hours of daylight still to train in. You feel like you’re ready for winter somehow, if you can get in a fall run.

So I ran, and it wasn’t the best though it wasn’t the worst, either, and had some chocolate milk and then ate the veggie burger. And you know — there’s really not much else I can ask for (except maybe for no injuries to materialize between now and Oct. 17. Crossing fingers.). I reminded myself that not every run is a stellar one, felt the air fresh and sweet again against my forehead, remembered how the ocean looked at 9.30 a.m., ghostly in the fog and dotted here and there by the intrepid surfers. If running can get me out of the house early on a Sunday to see all of that — not to mention give me an excuse to stuff myself with a veggie burger — I think it’s worth the hip aches and exhaustion and unceasing appetite and everything else.

Anyway — here it was a sunny weekend, hot and still. It became fall. I went to the beach and drank some beer with old friends and ate a veggie burger, and it was enough.

How I do a veggie burger

Stuff you need:

- toasted bread or bun
- mayonnaise, mustard, ketchup
- some mushrooms
-some lettuce or spinach (but romaine, crisp, is THE BEST)
- cheese, lots
-ripe avocado slices
- few slices red onion
-thick slice tomato, if it’s a good one
-VEGGIE BURGER, semi-defrosted: I like Gardenburger mostly — the grillers or the porto mushroom ones — or a Boca Burger

Get everything together and liberally slather the bread/bun with mayo/mustard/ketchup. Slice the mushrooms thinly and sautee in a little bit of olive oil. When they’re nearly done, turn heat down and add the burger, gently pressing and flipping every so often so it’s cooked all the way through. You want it to sizzle a bit. Meanwhile slice the onion, tomato, avocado, etc. When burger is done, plop on the bread/bun and pile on the cheese and mushrooms. Add the veggies. Add the top piece of bread and press down firmly. Cut in half. Devour.

[The ubiquitous apples from Inverness, August 2010.]

The sun is shining. I have a tall glass of iced coffee. It’s Friday.

It also, and all of a sudden, feels like fall. Well, just a little bit. (And maybe not all of a sudden, given this ridiculous summer.) Not ready! I tell myself, but in truth am I ever ready? Probably not. At any rate, I’m still wishing for a few canoe rides down the Russian River, sun burning down hot onto my head and turning my arms ever browner (this may yet be possible due to the mysterious and wonderful phenomenon that is Indian Summer in Northern California). Yet despite my wee reluctance to bid summer adieu there is a something something about fall that makes me want to cook — things like carrot-fennel soup, yeasted sugar cake with caramelized apples (a la Deborah Madison), roasted vegetables with toasted barley, big pots of spicy sauce made from late-season tomatoes — and sit in front of a fire, and drink red wine.

These are all wonderful things to do.

So to that end I have been cooking a bit more lately than usual, and going afield to new-to-me farmers’ markets to take advantage of September’s bounty (San Franciscans: my recent favorite is the one on Stanyan just on the edge of the park on Wednesdays from 4-8p. Last week I bought an ear of blue corn which I’ve never seen anywhere else. And lots of stone fruit. And beautiful, beautiful chard.). Last weekend I cooked myself a pasta feed to carbo-load the night before an enormous run (19 miles before noon on a Sunday and damn, I think/hope I can do this marathon after all), which involved whole wheat penne and lots of soy meat products (delicious, truly), heirloom tomatoes, summer squash, and red onion.

Last night I had a friend over for dinner and cooked very simply; we had: broccoli-chard soup (with a few tiny potatoes thrown in for heft, and leeks), a carrot-beet salad with sesame seeds, hummus and bread. Easy stuff, but deeply soul-satisfying on a chilly September eve. And the night before that I was seized by the idea of a brown rice ‘risotto’ whilst at work and so came home to make just that, with lots of veggies including leeks, red onion, mushrooms, carrot, chard, spinach, peas, faux sausage, and cheddar cheese (recipe soon). Tonight I will have the leftovers and roast a cauliflower on which to sup alongside.

[Fruit crisp, September 2010.]

The risotto night I also — looking for an excuse to turn on the oven, dontch’a know, and heeding my stomach’s rumblings after an early 8-miler — cut up a few peaches and an apple into my slightly cracked but still serviceable red bowl, threw in a handful of blueberries and dried cranberries, a few bits of flaked coconut, and some chopped walnuts, and laced the whole mess with cinnamon and ginger and a good drizzle of maple syrup. Crisps seem to be just what I want these late summer days.

Running makes me hungry. I mean, I’m always hungry most of the time, but running makes me particularly famished and because of this GD marathon training I’m even more particularly famished than is the norm. I crave vegetables — raw or roasted; it makes no difference — salty things like potato chips (always my downfall), chocolate milk for the post-run sensitive stomach, lots of cheese. Sometimes I eat two lunches — one early (a bowl of quinoa soup, for example) and one a few hours later (a tangle of whole wheat spaghetti with pesto, say), with a hearty dinner to follow later on. I can’t seem to get enough protein. I can’t ever say no to snacks.

And I want sweets. Now, I am as appreciative of a good dessert as nearly everyone out there, but my usual habit is to refrain except for special occasions or, you know, Thursdays. But man does ice cream taste good on Sunday nights after a long run; I go back for seconds and sometimes thirds. I sneak bits of chocolate in between my first and second lunches. And I’ve been making fruit crisps at least once a week, heavy with stone fruit and topped with good oats and a smidge of butter to turn gooey and soft in the oven. Decadence.

It’s all golden light here lately, even if the nights come earlier and the air is cooler than I might like. But I’m going to savor these days as much as I possibly can. If you need me, you can find me out on the trail — or in the kitchen.

Maple-Oatmeal Fruit Crisp
This is the kind of recipe that’s impossible to write because I never pay attention to measurements when I’m making crisps — I just make them. So I encourage you to play around with this — i.e., you can double if you want more topping, or use only oats, or etc. — though I’ll put down the approximations as I best remember them.

To fill one 8-inch square baking dish.

Filling:
2 peaches or other stone fruit, pitted and chopped
1 small apple, peeled and sliced
1 cup blueberries, raspberries or blackberries, or a combination
1/4 cup dried cranberries
4 tablespoons chopped walnuts or almonds
1/4 cup unsweetened flaked coconut
4 tablespoons sugar
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1 tablespoon flour
maple syrup

Topping:
1/4 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 cup rolled oats
1/4 cup sugar
4 tablespoons butter
maple syrup

Preheat oven to 350 F.

Mix the flour, oats, and sugar together. Cut in the butter, working the mixture until it resembles coarse meal. Drizzle in a bit of maple syrup.

In a large bowl, mix the fruit, nuts, coconut, sugar, cinnamon, ginger, and flour together and stir well to combine. Drizzle with a few tablespoons of maple syrup to taste.

Spread the fruit in the baking dish and cover with the topping. Bake for about 30-40 minutes until fruit is bubbling and topping is … crisp.

It feels like like spring a little bit – today, which is smack in mid-February (though, I will note, it’s just one month until the official first day of spring), probably because of the birds. I woke up to them chirping madly away at 8a, and stretched luxuriously under the covers, unfortunately wide-awake slightly too early for a Saturday (I fell back asleep for another hour). Now, as I sip my freshly brewed Blue Bottle, a swath of sun lays golden and sweet across my reading chair and still they are singing gladly on from the light pole outside my window. Perhaps they’re calling the sun back? Yesterday was gorgeous with warmer temperatures than we’ve felt in awhile, but today the rain is supposed to descend again and I will enjoy these few stolen hours until it does. I swear, though, that right now the main bird-sound I hear is a blue jay — one of the obnoxious, raucous, plumy-proud sort that loves to hang out in redwood forests on a spring-summer weekend, screaming down into the quiet trees though I live on a fairly busy street in a fairly major city.

(I do love when nature seeps into city life and in this city, it happens pretty frequently though it can be a little disorienting.)

This morning I ran 8 miles. I didn’t really mean to, but I hardly went at all the last week due to rain, and I was set for a big dinner, and I wanted to get moving (yoga is gonna feel so good tomorrow), and, well, sometimes I just do stuff like that. A few weeks ago when I was in Sebastopol I ran my old marathon training route up and down the winding back roads and then back again in the sun just to see how it felt. It was a hot day and I hadn’t had enough water but it was so good to be out there. I tried to remember how long it had been since I’d last done it — two years? maybe more? — and not much had changed, really, except maybe the old white horses that used to look at me curiously were not there in their field and more apple trees were cut down to lie grey and leafless on the bare ground (it truly hurts my heart to see them). I had to walk the parts I used to walk (perhaps a tiny bit more, now) and when I climbed the the last hill I had that old feeling of holy crap, there are three miles still to go.

I can’t believe how much I used to run; that fall I ran probably 9 miles four or five days a week, with a rest day or two, and then a long run of 10 miles or more building up to my longest of 21 miles two weeks before the race. Most marathon training programs tell you to work up to the extra long distances over four months or so; I did the accelerated ‘program’ (meaning, I just started running more than usual without a strict plan) in two months with I think a week off when my grandfather died and I went to New Jersey. Madness. And yet, I finished in 4.5 hours and was back running a week later. Sometimes I miss those days, a little bit. I could never do that now and I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing. I don’t know if the body is made to be pushed so very hard and far and yet … and yet. There are few things that compare to a long run — I love that scoured-out, absolutely tired feeling at the end of it, when I’m sweaty and starving and somehow euphoric.

So today I ran a very lot and then I came home and ate banana bread.

[Banana bread, February 2009.]

Really it was the only thing to do. And it’s rather easy to keep on slogging away when you know you have a sweet reward just a few miles down the road.

I have a very fine banana bread recipe which I’ve posted here before, but lately I’ve been making a new one. It’s not nearly as health-conscious but, boy, is it delicious (I’ll blame the butter. And the chocolate chips.). I made it as a trial a few weeks ago for my coworkers and I think it barely lasted an hour; I made it last weekend for my guests and we gobbled it up over the course of just a few days with the two of us left fighting over the last slice on Monday morning. It’s more of a banana cake than a banana bread, but as you bake the batter in a loaf pan you might as well just go along with that whole ‘bread’ concept that, especially since it largely consists of fruit (think of the potassium!), makes you virtuously pat yourself on the back and think about how very healthy you’re being.

Well, it’s a nice thought anyway. I suppose it’s true that if you left out the chocolate chips (oh but why?) it’d be a little bit better for you (substitute some blanched almonds perhaps), or swapped in a cup of wheat flour for white (this makes for a denser, chewier crumb which is a pleasure in and of itself) this ‘bread’ might live up better to its name. But really, it’s so good as-is: simple, moist, and run through with sweetly scented bananas. This is a bread-cake fit for beloved visitors and family members, all; it’s a bread-cake just right for brightening a rainy Monday morning at the office; and it’s exactly the bread-cake you want to eat after coming in just a bit wind-whipped and exhausted (and hungry) from a run.

A friend of mine used to tease me about running: Nicole, what are you running from? he’d question when I’d tell him I’d dragged myself up early to go before work. Oh now! I’d reply. Maybe it’s what I’m running toward instead of away! I’m not sure if either one of us was ‘right’ — some days I wonder why I do log such long miles, except then I do and feel so good I just know; I like to joke I’m not training toward any race right now except perhaps my sanity — but when I think about a thick slice of this pain au banane waiting for me on my kitchen table, ready to be smeared with a good bit of butter and devoured, I can’t help but pick up my pace and point my well-worn running shoes toward home and a fortifying slice. Some days maybe that’s all the reason I need.

Banana-chocolate bread, adapted from williams sonoma

Vegans, do I have a loaf for you! Well, soonish anyway.

6 Tbs. (3/4 stick) unsalted butter, at room temperature
3/4 cup sugar
3 very ripe bananas, coarsely mashed (about 1 1/2 cups)
3 eggs, lightly beaten
1/2 cup buttermilk
1 tsp. vanilla
2 cups all-purpose flour (or one white, one wheat)
1 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp. freshly grated nutmeg
1/2 tsp. cinnamon
1/2 tsp. salt
3/4 cup chocolate chips

Preheat an oven to 350°F. Grease and lightly flour a 9-by-5-inch loaf pan.

In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the flat beater, beat together the butter and sugar on medium speed until creamy, about 1 minute. Add the bananas, vanilla, and eggs and beat until smooth. Add the buttermilk and beat just until combined.

In a bowl, stir together the flour, baking soda, baking powder, nutmeg, cinnamon, and salt. Add the flour mixture to the banana mixture and beat just until combined. Add the chocolate chips. The batter should be slightly lumpy. Scrape down the sides of the bowl.

Pour the batter into the prepared pan. It should be no more than two-thirds full. Bake until the loaf is dark golden brown and dry to the touch and the edges pull away from the sides of the pan, 55 to 60 minutes. A toothpick inserted into the center should come out clean. Let the bread rest in the pan for 5 minutes, then turn the loaf out onto a wire rack and let cool completely. Cut into thick slices to serve. Makes one 9-by-5-inch loaf.

[Dinner, November 2008.]

Buttermilk mashed potatoes. Chickpeas with garlic and spinach. Roasted cauliflower and carrots. I can think of fewer things that can make me happier on a wind-blown Tuesday eve in San Francisco — and it’s what I ate for dinner the other night.

I’ve been a bit cranky this week, probably because it’s been foggy and chilly since I got home and my cab ride Sunday back from the airport cost a lot more than I thought it would (hate that). I’m a little jetlagged, though going to bed gloriously early has helped for sure. That dinner the other night did wonders to remedy the grump — and the best part was that there were enough leftovers to make another meal out of it. This meant that last night I extended my run an extra two miles — easier to stretch it out to six when I know I don’t have to cook dinner when I get home — which also did wonders to remedy the grumpy-bearness of it all.

Just thinking about that pile of fluffy, cloud-like mashed potatoes waiting for me in the fridge carried me across the last bit of pavement, up the hill past Alamo Square Park and down again, then up the stairs to home, to a hot shower and cranberry juice and lots of water. I almost wanted to dive into that pillowy pile of potatoes, in fact, so much did I anticipate my future dinner.

[Mashed p's, November 2008.]

I don’t often make mashed potatoes, and when I do, I usually lace them with soy milk and olive oil or margarine. This week, however, I decided to let myself be a little less healthy. I had some leftover buttermilk from that red velvet cake and so I swapped that for the soy milk. And then of course since I was going in that indulgent direction I added a good pat of butter and let it melt into the potatoes until the whole pot was salty, soft, and incredibly satisfying.

(So basically, in terms of proportions, I used 5 small new potatoes, peeled, quartered, and boiled until tender. Then I added about 3 Tb. of butter and a 1/2 cup of buttermilk and stirred very well to combine. A little more salt at the end and served extra hot.)

As my cauliflower obsession continues apace it was only fitting I roasted a half a head of the stuff until caramelized and crispy. I dug out a slightly wilted carrot from of the vegetable drawer (trying not to go to the store this week until I can get to the f. market on Sunday) so I threw that into the pan as well (a wise decision). Then I sauteed my last can of chickpeas with a little spinach and garlic to round out my dinner plate. Simple, comforting, and exactly what I wanted.

But now — darn it — I’ve eaten all the leftovers.

So, I’ve done it. Or at least I’ll try to do it. By “it” I mean committing to NaBloPoMo for November, which means I’m going to post something here every single day until the end of the month. Gulp.

Well, I shall make a decent attempt at least. I was on the bus last night on my way to my friends’ place for wine and pumpkin cupcakes and her fabulous macaroni and cheese (please believe me when I tell you we all had been waiting for that stuff all day, it is that good) and I was struck with a bit of inspiration (yes, the 31 bus will do that to you, apparently) — why not be a little crazy in November and blog every single day? We’ll see how much I regret that moment of feeling inspired in a few weeks.

Wish me luck?

[Breakfast this morning, November 2008.]

In the spirit of such recklessness, I ran 14 miles today in the rain. I decided I wouldn’t after all do the half-marathon I’d signed up for — and which takes place tomorrow — because I hadn’t trained enough, but for some reason this afternoon I thought it would be a good idea to throw caution to the wind and just see how far I could go. There have been some frustrations this week, most of which too boring to go into, and when I woke up today to rain I couldn’t bear to have my plans for a long run thwarted, too.

So I laced up my shoes anyway and set off through the cool green of the park. Fairly quickly I was soaked through, my shoes squishing comfortably as I plodded along trying to avoid the puddles. As I leaped over one just past the De Young I may have shouted “red velvet cake!”; luckily (I think) no one was around to hear me because … well, I fear I may have sounded a bit insane. I made it down to the Great Highway to see the ocean crashing away in all its grey-green splendor. The sea in the rain is a beautiful thing, and I haven’t been out to see it in far too long; this, then, made it all worth it. A few seagulls perched on the beach wall and we regarded each other as I ran silently past, stopping every so often to wring water out of my shorts.

I hadn’t planned to run quite so long — and in the rain no less — but fortunately I’d well-fortified myself beforehand with a sturdy breakfast. I made a strong pot of coffee and toasted a piece of my very favorite whole-wheat walnut bread which I then spread with pesto. I fried an egg, piled it on top, and sat down to contemplate my day from the comfort of my dining table with my book — and maybe that’s when I decided not to take this rain business sitting down. We have many more wet days in the immediate forecast but I think when I remember that churning ocean and empty, clean-washed beach I might to not mind so much.

Time will tell.