[Breakfast, January 2012.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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[San Francisco this morning, February 2012.]

Today: the sky a sweet, deep blue, warm for February. I am eating an orange. Trying to write an article. I just got ‘adjusted’ and now my right ankle is buzzing away not unpleasantly (I hope this means healing is occurring) and in a few hours will take the bus north across the bay to Sonoma County. I am exhaling. Sort of.

Lately I’m looking for inspiration wherever I can find it — in a new book, in a slew of flourless baking recipes, in my green tea leaves (swear), in cookbooks, in my memories of the clouds in Maine — and while it can be slow going sometimes it’s there if I just look around. Truth is, I’ve been feeling a bit bogged down with the day job and the endless routine of it all, leaving me feeling quite flat. There have been more nights than I should admit when all we’ve had for dinner is leftover (cabbage-chard-white bean) soup and grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches, or vegetarian ‘sausages’ (and, ahem, chicken-portabello sausages), roasted fingerling potatoes, and a salad. Good, nourishing stuff sure, but not necessarily fodder for dreamy food writing (or blog posts).

Still, despite my slight winter malaise, I am mostly always cooking even if I’m not always writing about it. I did just bang out two pieces for NPR, publication TBD, which jostled me out of my rut a little even though it’s kept me quieter here, and last Saturday cooked for a laid-back dinner party after a long, lazy afternoon at the beach. Come to think of it, that afternoon really did wonders for my mental outlook despite my blasted achilles tendon: a good catch-up with old friends, lots of photography talk (if Emily is my cooking soul mate Randy is surely the photo equivalent), a pint at the Station House, a black lab to play with, and dinner to make. It wasn’t fancy – my dinners so rarely are these days – but it was good.

[Kehoe Beach, February 2012.]

[Also good was Saturday's weather. I mean, look at that beach! The weather out here right now is insane, in a good way.]

I roasted a chicken with lemon and onions and tomatoes and made a big pot of mashed potatoes (with buttermilk, and lots of butter), a salad, a chocolate cake, and a chard gratin. Oh, have I not mentioned this chard gratin before? A travesty. This was a product of poring over cookbooks in Maine a few weeks ago, specifically Alice Waters’ The Art of Simple Food. As the title suggests, most of the recipes contained therein are incredibly simple (yet incredibly good), sometimes to the point where you’re like … this is a recipe? I’m just roasting a butternut squash and pureeing it with some broth and calling it ‘soup.’ No matter; I look at recipes more as inspiration points anyway, and I certainly got inspired by that gratin.

As you may or may not know (but really how could you not?) I love chard. Love it. I know it’s not to everyone’s taste, but, oh, there’s something about it. Nice and (naturally) salty with fluffy leaves and pretty white or red-and-yellow stems, it cooks beautifully in soups and stews, just on the stove with some garlic to pile on top of polenta, in my mom’s amazing pesto-potato lasagna, etc. etc. Yet a chard gratin I’d never tried and so it was an obvious choice. In Maine we used 1 bunch chard and 2 bunches of kale and I’d do that again; last weekend I used 3 bunches of chard and it was, as my octogenarian friend Josie might say, utterly divine.

I don’t have a photo because, well, I was cooking all that stuff I mentioned above. I’m planning to make it again next week for a small dinner party (which, err, may be nearly the same menu repeated – our secret), but I hate to wait that long to share the recipe because it’s the sort of thing you could make this weekend for your own dinner party or just because. It takes about 15 minutes of active work and then another half-hour in the oven which to me seems a small, and fair, price to pay for the result. One of the best parts about this recipe is that it’s easily doubled, probably tripled, too, and you can fool around with using different kinds of cheese, or bread crumbs, or greens, or whatever. (I’ve already made some adjustments such as eliminating the butter.) Get, you know, inspired with it. I know I will.

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[Winter beach, January 2012.]

In Maine, where my toes are chillier than usual and the clouds seem tangible (and puffy) enough to hold in your hands. The clouds here are different than anywhere else I’ve seen them: arranged across the horizon in great billows rather than wisps. The sky this week, clear for the most part, has been the purest, brightest blue, turning the river across the street into shifting shades of indigo and then grey when a storm comes on. I took a walk-run yesterday morning to the end of the street and back; the ice in the river whispered past creakily on its way out to the coast as I tucked my hands deeper into my pockets. The landscape is so different from what I’m accustomed to, but there is that same wildness, that same edge-of-the-land stillness I so love about California. If not for my truest love for the West I think I could see myself living here (well … maybe. There’s that whole deep-freeze thing.).

But: Maine. It snowed in the night and we woke today to sun pouring through the windows of the upstairs rooms; utterly gorgeous. A bluebird day* for real and especially special because I’ll never see one of those in San Francisco. We went for a swim at the Y (Kurt played basketball) and coffee in town and will cook and bake later — Emily, delicious appetizers and bread and drinks and icecream; Kurt the main meal; me a chocolate-hazelnut torte — a bit for my last night. I am leaving tomorrow and I … don’t … want … to go, though I miss my husband and it will be good to come home to rain and the 49ers game and my little comfortable things around me and not only in a suitcase.

We’ve eaten well this week as I predicted: sweet potato enchiladas with homemade enchilada sauce, the best marinated and fried tofu and roasted cauliflower and carrots and some sort of scrumptious miso? dressing I must get the recipe for, beans from scratch and brown rice, mushroom risotto and an addictive brussels sprouts salad with grapefruit dressing, a decadent dinner at Trattoria Athena where we drank a bottle of the wine we so loved in Greece lo these many summers ago and I ate a piece of tiramisu that, yes, was probably the best I’ve ever had. And I’ve been inspired, as I knew I would with new cookery ideas, the impetus to step outside my comfort zone a little bit, to delve back into cookbooks more particularly to make such things as an easy and astonishingly delicious chard-kale gratin that tastes perfect alongside a fluffy pile of buttermilk-mashed potatoes or even a quick saute of garlic and chickpeas and greens …

[Along the Kennebec, January 2012.]

I like to do that choose-a-word-have-it-be-your-year’s-intention thing each year if I can. Sometimes it’s easier than others. Last year’s word was ‘peace’ but after getting engaged in February and planning a wedding in seven months there wasn’t a lot of ‘peace’ of mind for awhile. (Though, if I’m honest, there was peace in other areas; so, win some, lose some I guess.) Now it’s well in 2012 and around the first, when I decided to attempt to find a word, I couldn’t land on one. None felt right, nothing fit. Maybe 2012 will be the Year of No-Intention-Word, I thought, but still … I hoped something would come to me.

And then today! it did. From this old, lovely house in Bath where I type this, my toes just slightly on the side of freezing even wool socks, Fotis the grey-and-white cat asleep in a pile on the bed behind me, the San Francisco classical station streaming over the Internet to keep me company whilst I work, my hands warm in fingerless gloves, and a cup of tea steaming to my immediate left, I have found at last my word: make. It makes so much sense.

‘Make’ surely could’ve been last year’s word but I shall consciously apply it to this year instead. Always I am making: food, cookies, little cards, plans. But this will apply too to new friendships; books; others things I can’t think of at this moment but which probably are mostly food-related (of course). Like: make new dishes. Open up the cookbooks more. I can broaden my scope every night, make dinner less of a chore and more of a learning experience and then hopefully new things (dishes, ideas, a more cheerful attitude) will come out of that if nothing else. That gratin I made on Sunday in a riff from Alice Waters (‘The Art of Simple Food’) was so good and easy – why don’t I ever even open that one too much? I forget to make the time (get it?) to do that. I must make sure to open my mind up a bit more in casting about for new recipes. Cookbooks, even if I never strictly follow the recipe, serve to jumpstart the creative process for me. Remember this. And other things.

And then there is this, which I may just adopt for my 2012 motto: You have your whole life ahead of you. You will always have your whole life ahead of you. That never stops and you shouldn’t forget it. — Bill Bryson

(I love that.)

There also are almond butter cookies.

[Almond butter - + other stuff - cookies, January 2012.]

Thanks to Emily I’ve delved into the world of flourless baking and am finding it a new challenge and a pleasure. I’ve come up with a pretty decent recipe for gluten-free brownies as well as a decadent chocolate cake and ginger cookies, and am realizing there are many treats out there that are naturally flour-free (pots de creme, custards, rice puddings, milk chocolate puddings and the like). But the best, the best, recipe I’ve encountered and then developed a bit is for flourless peanut butter cookies.

What to say? These cookies are absolutely addictive. I made a batch a week ago and brought them on the plane with me, restraining myself from devouring them all. Of course, once here, they didn’t last long and so I made another round yesterday with special tweaks that I think made it the best version so far (and which I’m saving for an article, but I promise it’s worth the wait). I just devoured one, in fact, with my lunch. I will make some again very soon to send East to my grandma for her birthday, to make it special (OK, will stop now). From a spare ingredient list — 1 egg, almond butter, sugar, baking soda — comes a thing of beauty: chewy yet light at the same time, not-too-sweet, rich with nut nutter … these cookies are all good. Every single bite.

As is Maine, and my time here. I am so loathe to go but know real life beckons with its own particular goodness … back soon, for sure.

*Bluebird day: The most gorgeous day imaginable. A bluebird day is a bright, sunny day after a fresh snowfall the night before.

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[Thanksgiving dinner, November 2011.]

This year, Thanksgiving weekend involved a lot of time outdoors and that’s perhaps the thing I’m most grateful for in these waning days of 2011. But of course all the other stuff was grand, too. Dinner was lovely — all turned out well, even the last-minute chicken I roasted with olive oil and herbs rather than a turkey — and we ate prodigiously but not to the point of over-doing it. There was butternut squash soup, and cauliflower soup, sweet potato-chard gratin, homemade biscuits, upside-cranberry cake, pumpkin pie from a pumpkin that was so creamily, custardily perfect I’m making another one tonight, and an apple pie. There was champagne and many cups of tea and good conversation and rain at night which cleared during the day, allowing for walks in the woods, sleeping out by the sea with the sound of the waves to lull us to sleep at 8:30 p.m. (when it gets dark at 5:30 there’s only so much reading you can do by flashlight), and foraging for mushrooms up the road. We read and meandered and I cooked a lot and it was as good and simple and right as I hoped it would be.

[Up the ridge trail, November 2011.]

Yesterday afternoon, before packing up to return to the city, we took the dog for a walk on a path that winds steeply up through a thick brush of greenery. Thought it hadn’t rained in a few days the Northern California coastal fog was omnipresent nearly every morning, blanketing the grass with water and making it seem as though inside the dim green forest things would never dry out again. My pants and hiking boots were soaked after just a few minutes and the muddy black lab who constantly bumped my shins in his mad dashing about after sticks ensured I would remain so for the duration. No matter; that’s why we lucky modern-era dwellers have washing machines, yes? Banana slugs carpeted the narrow trail and salamanders crept shyly alongside it (I say ‘shy’ because they are; pick one up and he will rest in your hand a moment before gravely and unobtrusively beginning his attempt to escape) and the air was full of birdsong and the good damp smells of the forest.

[Chanterelles, November 2011.]

This is the sort of environment that is perfect for mushrooms. And, consequently, mushroom picking.

I’ve never picked any before, though I’ve often meant to. It seems a science, or at least an all-day endeavour. I just read a story in the New Yorker about foraging, and how the truly diligent use dogs to sniff out truffles (my dog companion, though I love him dearly, is not one for doing what humans ask him to do) and spend hours tramping through field and wood. It’s enticing, romantic, and slightly dangerous; you definitely want to get the right sort, i.e. don’t confuse the ‘death’s cap’ mushroom with the benign morel or you’ll pay a terrible price.

In the spirit of honesty, I’ll tell you that my effort yesterday afternoon was more of the lazy-girl variety rather than that of the hard-core aficionado — when I wrote ‘foraging’ what I really meant was that I was told there were chanterelles growing nearby and so I went and picked ‘em. Not that I wouldn’t have been happy to further muddify my clothes — I rarely mind getting dirty –, it’s just that in this case it wasn’t necessary, time was waning, and anyway, who am I to turn down the prospect of hauling home a bunch of ‘wild’ fungus for the price of 10 minutes hunting around? So on the way back down the trail we stopped in the old horse corral, the dog dog firmly ensconced himself in the brackish pond (did I mention he is not very obedient?), and we scuffled through leaves and grass and pulled chanterelles.

A few things before I get to today’s recipe:

1. I’m spoiled. I live in what I consider to be one of the very best cities in the world, perched on the edge of the Pacific and run through with fog and sea breezes and accessible beaches from which you might see dolphins on an October weekday afternoon. We have delicious coffee stands on nearly every corner. Most of the buses are electric. People are terribly nice, if a bit flaky at times, and I could (and do) go on and on and on about the produce.

2 … and yet, I long for the woods, the out-of-doors, the more wild places. Leaving creates an almost physical ache; the woods and fields of the northern counties are where I feel most at home. I love the city, yes, but I am, I must admit, more of a country girl at heart.

(2b. I am making my peace with this for the moment.)

3. I like to cook with new-to-me ingredients.

4. I sincerely love all kinds of mushrooms.

5. Last night I was able to bring the woods into my little urban kitchen because of those chanterelles, and that to me is argument enough that I should go ‘foraging’ again.

[In the woods, November 2011.]

The Sunday after the Thanksgiving holiday is always a bit strange. If you still have leftovers from the feast you’re sick to the teeth of them and possibly are sick of eating in general. And yet, you need to eat for health and nourishment and perhaps even a few pangs of hunger, too. One year I created a quinoa, mushroom, and spinach chowder to counter the post-long weekend blues (and which served as a nice antidote to all the previous days’ slight over consumption).

Last night I made a pot of barley, white bean, and chard soup (with a salty, tomato-y broth) for our dinner and decided that mushrooms on toast would be the perfect accompaniment. Not being very familiar with chanterelles I didn’t know how they would taste — update: slightly floral, and very buttery and tender — but knew I should cook them very simply so we could really taste their flavor. So what I did was, I melted some butter in a frying pan, cleaned the mushrooms and sliced them not too thinly but thinly enough, and then gently fried the slices in the butter, adding a splash of white wine near the end. I toasted whole-grain bread and spread some slices with a bit of butter and some with a bit of brie and piled the mushrooms on top. I ladled bowls of soup and poured out two glasses of the white wine and we sat down to eat.

Silence. Then — wow, I can see why these things go for $16 a pound!

Now, I can’t condone spending that much money on what is, essentially, you know, fungus. But if you live near a place where you can go hunting for them yourself … or you come across a parcel that’s on sale … or know someone who might generously invite you over for a late lunch of a chanterelle-infused omelet … jump at the chance. And remember to cook them simply. Tonight I’m planning to lightly sautee the rest in some olive oil and toss them with whole wheat linguine, peas, red onion, lots of black pepper, and a cheddar-cream sauce (I’m out of parmesan, though that might go better) with more white wine. If I can’t have the woods outside my back door I can at least have a little of that feeling in my kitchen …

Mushrooms on toast you can make with any mushrooms, wild or not, self-obtained or from the grocery store — woods not required. Just be sure to cook them until they’re soft and melting, and invest in a good loaf of hearty bread to shore them up. Like beans on toast, I consider this the ultimate (and easy) comfort food, perfect for the in-between holiday lull.

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[Near the lighthouse, June 2011.]

Sunday was this really gorgeous day of sort of meandering about and doing all the things I like to do. I woke up (very) early. I read the Sunday Times. I baked blueberry muffins. I went for an 8-mile run. The sun came out. I drank a rather large coffee. I went ‘cross the bridge over to the Marin Headlands and walked around in the strangely humid afternoon and then went to Sausalito to catch some sun and was treated to an ice cream (!). I watched the end of the Giants game and drank a Full Sail Pale Ale. I ate roasted cauliflower for dinner and went to bed on the early side. I don’t know — it was just a day. But it was magic.

Also magic is this sun — San Franciscans, have you been outside? I want to eat up this afternoon with a spoon, preferably after I douse it with chocolate sauce. I am going to run and run later down through the park and along the ocean and back up again before the fog comes in because California in June, when it behaves itself, is nothing short of amazing. Then I will make veggie burgers with lots of avocado and cheddar cheese and baked potato and sweet potato fries for dinner.

For my lunch today I ate leftovers — leftovers I am stretching out for as long as I possibly can because they’re the best kind of leftovers: crunchy red quinoa coated with sharp-sweet pesto and swirled with lots of vegetables, whatever you have that’s good and green and fresh. It’s my new favorite thing and it’s so easy; you can eat it warm, as we did last night, or cool, as I did earlier. You can add more or less pesto as you like, skip the green beans or stir in an extra handful. This protein-rich, incredibly addictive two-pot meal I surely will make again and again — probably next in two days, when my current store has run out. I can’t help it.

I came up with this hodge-podge as I so often do when I’m staring down the fridge, starving and bored with the usual and wanting to use up the miscellany. This time I had basil (pesto, of course), a bit of spinach, some green beans, half a red onion on hand. My immediate thought was to make a pesto-pasta sort of thing but honestly, I only eat pasta about once a week because while it’s easy it doesn’t always satisfy me. Or rather — I’m obsessed with quinoa, as we all know, so my next thought was to make a pot of quinoa, toss it with homemade pesto, slow-cook the vegetables with some chickpeas, and hope for the best. Would it be odd? Maybe. Yet I had a feeling …

Bless that feeling — my intuition turned out to be right on. This has fast become a new summer(ish)(and yes, I am calling ‘summer’ in San Francisco ‘summer(ish)’ for the duration, given the mercurial weather here) staple. I can’t wait for the tomatoes to come in, because I’ll use them here later in the season, and I might just go crazy and throw in some chard, too. Quinoa, often called a ‘super food’ because of its high protein count, to me is super because it’s so versatile as well as being healthfully delicious and simple to make. I cook it probably twice a week or more in various permutations, and never tire of it. But you can read more about that here — in the meantime, quinoa + pesto = summer(ish) love. Also, dinner.

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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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[On the table this morning, January 2011.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

And not too much else.

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

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

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

Rice Pudding, from all over, with my adaptions

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

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

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

[Dinner, quickly, November 2010.]

I had planned to do a post today about vegetarian main dishes appropriate for the holiday table, but all that has fallen by the wayside because on Saturday night I had a dinner party, and at that dinner party I served something I must tell you about right now immediately because it was simply so good. Actually, more like good x 100. If you can imagine.

It comes by way of the reliable smitten kitchen: a gratin of thinly sliced sweet potatoes and wilted greens baked with a healthy heaping of Gruyere cheese until bubbly and hot. I do love a gratin — who wouldn’t, with all that cheese? — though I haven’t made one in ages; for some reason when it came time to prepare the vegetarian, gluten-free option (I also roasted my second Zuni chicken, to great success and few leftovers) my mind fixed on the idea of sweet potatoes, preferably in a bath of milk and cream, and wouldn’t give it up.

I had initially thought about making sweet potato soup (instead, I decided to save it for Thanksgiving) and a spinach souffle to cozy up with the chicken. Maybe a big pile of those gorgeous green beans at the Fillmore market and some sort of green salad. But the more I thought about it the more nervous I got about basing a souffle on a flour-less roux (I’m not yet well-versed in substitutions) and started mentally casting around for other options. She’d linked to a post about the gratin in a recent piece and I kept coming back to the idea — but then I’d have to switch up the soup plan (can’t have too much of the same flavor). Back-and-forth I went (I mentioned I’m slightly obsessed with cooking lately?) until finally I accepted my fate and bought two pounds of beautifully grubby sweet potatoes, loads of spinach, and crossed fingers my ersatz roux job would work out.

It did.

This recipe is delicious. I know that’s a terribly overused word in food writing but — we all have different concepts of what constitutes ‘delicious’ and I think no matter your interpretation this dish will exceed all expectations. Is it the Gruyere? The use of seasonal vegetables? The way the ingredients bind together in a sort of dreamy, fall-inspired harmony that would transition nicely into winter as well, easing us into this most hectic time of the year? Whatever — if I hadn’t already lined up my vegetarian option for Thanksgiving this year I’d be making this, despite doing so just a few days ago. I’d like a piece of it right now, actually. Oh! I’ve just remembered I have one portion left for my dinner tonight! Yet another thing for which to be thankful.

I’ve made some adaptions to the original recipe — swapped spinach for chard, used milk instead of cream and actually added a bit more — but the basic principle remains: Wilted spinach. Sauteed onions. Thinly-sliced sweet potatoes. Lots of salty, gooey, melted swiss cheese. Happiness on a plate — for vegetarians and meat eaters, both.

The rest of my menu came together just fine, as often happens once you nail down a few important dishes. I cooked for a good part of the day: Sweet potato dip; cauliflower-leek soup; the sweet potato-spinach gratin; bread salad a la Zuni; apple-carrot-fennel-slaw; salted, rosemary-ed, and roasted chicken with potatoes and tomatoes; green beans and shiitake mushrooms and shallots; chocolate cream pie. I didn’t take many photos (see: blurry dinner table above); it was one of those nights when being in the moment took precedence (not to mention it gets so dark so early these days.) The memories will suffice.

So: Thanksgiving. I’m ready. I hope you are, too. If you’re looking for a few more ideas, here are some resources to help prepare your own vegetarian additions to the Thanksgiving feast:

My recent NPR Kitchen Window story, heavy on the vegetables, lighter on fat: Thanksgiving Dinner with a Lighter Touch

My post last year: Thanksgiving Sans the Bird

The vegetarian Thanksgiving story I wrote for NPR, November 2008: A Vegetarian Thanksgiving

Vegetarian Thanksgiving in the New York Times: via the Well blog

The SF Chronicle’s vegetarian Thanksgiving round-up: with lots of photos

And for fun, a Thanksgiving piece I wrote for my erstwhile column, “Common Walls,” in the San Francisco Chronicle: A small apartment Thanksgiving with all the fixin’s

But seriously — make this gratin.

* A vegetarian Thanksgiving menu follows the recipe, rather lighter on the cheese, but still very delicious.

Sweet Potato and Spinach Gratin, adapted from smittenkitchen.com

This is listed as serving 12, but the six of us made fairly short work of it, with just a bit leftover. I told you it is good.

Serves 12

1/4 cup (1/2 stick or 2 ounces) butter
1 small onion, finely chopped
2 pounds spinach, stems removed
Pinch of freshly grated nutmeg
2 cups whole milk
2 garlic cloves, minced
2 tablespoons flour
2 pounds medium red-skinned sweet potatoes (yams), peeled and cut into 1/8-inch thick rounds
1 tablespoon dried basil
1 tablespoon dried thyme
Fine sea salt
Freshly ground black pepper
1 1/4 cups (about 5 ounces) coarsely grated Gruyére cheese

Prep greens: Cook onion in 2 tablespoons butter in a wide 8-quart heavy pot over moderately low heat, stirring, until softened. Add the spinach, pinch of nutmeg, and salt and pepper to taste and cook, stirring, until wilted. Transfer greens to a colander to drain well and press out liquid with back of a large spoon.

Make sauce: Combine milk and garlic in small saucepan; bring to simmer; keep warm. Melt two tablespoons butter in a medium heavy saucepan over moderate heat and stir in flour. Cook roux, whisking, one minute, then slowly whisk in warm cream/milk and boil, whisking, one minute. Season sauce with salt and pepper.

Assemble gratin: Preheat oven to 400°F. Butter deep 9×13 baking dish. Spread half of sweet potatoes in the prepared baking dish. Sprinkle with salt, pepper, a quarter of the herbs and a 1/4 cup of the cheese. Distribute half of the greens mixture over the cheese, then sprinkle salt, pepper, a quarter of the herbs and 1/4 cup of the cheese over it. Pour half of bechamel sauce over the first two layers then continue with the remaining sweet potatoes, more salt, pepper, herbs and cheese and then the remaining greens, salt, pepper and herbs. Pour the remaining sauce over the top of the gratin, pressing the vegetables slightly to ensure that they are as submerged as possible. Sprinkle with the last 1/4 cup of cheese.

Note: My sauce was a bit less than what I expected, possibly because I used cornmeal instead of flour. I added an additional 1/2 cup or so of milk after I’d assembled the vegetables to make sure there was enough liquid.

Bake gratin for about 1 hour until golden and bubbly, and most of the liquid is absorbed. Let stand 10 minutes before serving.

Note: I baked this in the morning and then let sit for most of the day to free up the oven. While the chicken rested, I reheated for about 10 minutes. It was perfect.

Vegetarian Thanksgiving –> One whole meal

Use those quintessential fall vegetables — butternut squash or a pumpkin — here. I’ve chosen to highlight squash as the centerpiece of the vegetarian table because — while I do love a nice polenta-stuffed acorn squash with homemade sundried tomato pesto — I like to keep things simple and if not easy, then easier. And this is pretty darn easy.

1 large butternut squash or pumpkin, halved with seeds removed
olive oil

1. Oven to 350 F. Lightly oil a baking sheet, and then lightly oil the cut halves of the squash. Place cut-side down and bake for about a 1/2 hour, or until soft (check occasionally to make sure it’s not too soft).

2. Remove from oven and put, cut-side up, in a baking dish. Serves 6.

With tomato-bean “salsa”

1 can black beans, or 1.5 cups prepared dried beans
1 onion, chopped
2 cloves garlic, sliced
2 tomatoes, coarsely chopped, or one small can crushed tomatoes
1 bay leaf
dried basil or oregano
olive oil

1. Sautee the onion and garlic in olive oil in a heavy saucepan over medium heat, about 5 minutes. Add the bay leaf and herbs, and cook about a minute more. Add the tomatoes and reduce heat to low. Simmer a few minutes to let the flavors blend, then add the beans. Stir to combine and simmer on low about 5-10 minutes, adding a little water or red wine if you have some open (and I hope you do).

2. Pour the tomatoes and beans over the squash and return to the oven to keep warm.

With polenta and pesto

1 cup polenta
3 cups vegetable broth or water
1/2 cup pesto

1. Bring the water or broth to a boil a heavy saucepan. Slowly add the polenta, whisking to combine, then reduce heat to low. Keep on low for about 10 minutes, stirring often.

2. Stir in the pesto (add more if you like). Fill the butternut squash halves with the polenta, and serve immediately. (If not serving immediately, cover with foil and return to oven to warm. You can definitely make this earlier in the day and gently reheat before sitting down to dinner.)

With wild rice and mushrooms

2 cups wild rice
4 cups vegetable broth
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 medium yellow onion, chopped
10 mushroom (shiitake or crimini work well here)
1 bay leaf
1/4 cup white wine
olive oil

1. Put the broth and a dash of olive oil in a heavy saucepan. Add rice and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer, covered, until water is absorbed.

2. Meanwhile, sautee the onion and garlic over medium heat until softened, about 5 minutes. Add the bay leaf and salt and pepper to taste and cook a few minutes more. Add the mushrooms and cook a few minutes until beginning to soften. Add the wine and cook until mushrooms are soft.

3. Remove bay leaf. Add the mushrooms and onions to the rice and stir well to combine. Pour the rice over the squash and serve immediately. (Again, if making in advance, cover with foil to make sure the rice doesn’t dry out if you put in the oven for a bit.)

Green beans with zucchini squash and fresh corn

1 1/2 pounds green beans
4 small zuchini
fresh corn from two ears
1/4 cup fresh basil
olive oil

1. Wash and slice the zucchini into thin circles, then halve. Wash and trim the green beans, and cut into third. Cut the corn off the cob and reserve, and wash and coarsely chop the basil.

2. In a large saute pan, heat as much olive oil as you’d like (I start with about 2 Tb. and add more as needed). Add the squash, and keep heat on medium high, stirring frequently to make sure it doesn’t burn. Reduce heat to low as the squash softens, adding a little more oil or water if necessary, then add the green beans. Cook for a few minutes, then add the corn and the basil and stir to combine.

3. Cook over low heat for about 5 minutes to let the flavors blend, and for the vegetables to reach desired consistency (I like mine pretty soft, but it’s all personal). Season with a little salt and pepper, and serve.

Serves 6.

Roasted fingerling potatoes

If you can’t get fingerlings, small yellow or red potatoes, quartered, will also work.

25 fingerling potatoes, or 15 small red potatoes (or a mix of yellow and red)
5 cloves garlic
olive oil
salt

1. Preheat the oven to 375 F. Wash the potatoes, scrubbing well (do not peel). In a large baking dish, spread out the potatoes. Press the garlic, and add to the dish along with enough olive oil to coat. Add a sprinkling of salt.

2. Swirl the potatoes, garlic, oil and salt around with your hands, turning the potatoes as necessary to coat well. Put in the oven and bake about 45 minutes, until pierced with a fork.

Serves 6.

Baby spinach salad with walnuts, clementine, and lemon

Salad on the Thanksgiving = essential. I need raw vegetables to go along with all the delicious (but heavy) traditional dishes.

Baby spinach (I am deliberately leaving off an amount here because how much you’ll use depends on how many people you’re feeding)
2 clementines, peeled and seperated (or one small can mandarin oranges)
1/2 cup walnuts, chopped

1. Toss the spinach with the fruit and walnut to well combine.

For the vinaigrette:

1 Tb. lemon juice
1 tsp. finely chopped lemon zest
1 shallot, finely diced
salt and pepper
5 Tb. olive oil

1. Combine the lemon juice, zest, 1/4 tsp. salt and shallots in a small bowl. Let stand 15 minutes.

2. Whisk in oil and season with pepper to taste. Taste, then correct the balance, adding more oil if necessary.

3. Pour dressing over salad and toss well to coat.

[Near Barre, Vermont, June 2010.]

An ongoing list in no particular order:

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

… etc.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Ocean Beach, July 2010.]

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

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

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

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

Californians: our time will come.

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

Quinoa Salad with Feta and Mint

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

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

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

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

[Redwoods, August 2009.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tahini sauce for eggs, or whatever else

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

1 Tb. olive oil
1/2 tsp. salt

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