[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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[San Francisco at dusk, January 2012.]

The other night after work I walked home because I’d sat still all day and my legs were twitching to move through the cool clear almost-dark. It was sort of a last-minute decision; I was waiting for the light to change on my way to the bus, looked over to the right, and saw the early-evening-but-not-yet-sunset light. My feet seemed to turn away from the clutch of commuters of their own accord, setting themselves firmly up the (slight) hill on Bush Street before I registered what was happening. I wasn’t sure where the walk would take me – having walked home previous times I’ve gone up the fairly dirty and unaesthetic Market Street before splitting off west into my neighborhood – but it didn’t much matter. I simply wanted to go.

It’s about two and a half miles from work door to apartment door (aka, home), which isn’t so long really. It felt even shorter as I hiked along past little shops and grubby, tucked-away bars with funny names, laundromats and dry cleaners and churches interspersed with various healing centers (this is SF, after all) and corner markets. I wondered a little over some of the names and thought that the apartment buildings looked so nice but would it be loud in this neighborhood? I thought about what I’d make for dinner. I clenched with anxiety over a few things but pushed them away. I tried not to obsess over did my ITB twinge as I passed the Chinatown gate or is that hypochondria and instead looked out over my city, blue in the waning light. The light in San Francisco is sort of magical I think. There’s nothing else like it.

California shimmers in the sun, it’s true, and has been particularly shimmery this month. Weeks like the ones we’ve had — drought worries notwithstanding, it’s a gorgeous spell of days that’s a sort of time out of time — are to be savored even as we anxiously eye the water table. When real summer rolls around, thick with fog and the drip-drip-drip of water from the redwood leaves onto the ferns, we’re more likely to closet ourselves away with tea and Mozart’s Mass in C- and lots of wool blankets and warm things to eat. Or maybe that’s just me. Summer of the heart? Oh, that comes at the most unexpected times here and we’ll take it when we can.

Right now is a strange season. It’s the very mid of mid-winters but the sun shines and shines relentlessly without even a wisp of fog. I know it is brilliant and gorgeous and polishing the rocks and sand out at Baker Beach, and along the coastal trail that winds from the Palace of the Legion of Honor (you can get a surprisingly good lunch there, just to note) to Land’s End even as I type this. We went out there on Saturday and lazed a bit in the sun and ate the last of the Christmas cookies from Maine and it didn’t feel one bit like January. All the way out to Ocean Beach past the Bath ruins and the Cliff House the sun burned with fierce purpose. The tide was out and the beach, when we peered round the blinding glare, was wider even than at its usual. I am projecting myself there today, would trade the olive trees outside the window for that empty and booming beach just for an hour. A girl can dream …

[Pacific Ocean looking Southwest from the Sutro Baths, January 2012.]

I was talking about San Francisco this morning with my mum-in-law as we ate leftover berry muffins. I kept getting up to put away dishes and gather up the stuff I needed for the day, always with an eye on the clock (though I ended up being late in anyway) and always with an ear tuned to the conversation. There’s so little I know of my city, though I have – and do – make attempts to learn more; I saw an old photograph of the Cliff House this weekend at the museum that has prompted this bit of San Francisco wistful nostalgia for how-it-was. Dirt roads and houses of ill repute and filthy gold miners swinging through town to spend their hard-scrabbled nuggets on whisky and all – I would take it for a week, just to see.

San Francisco was once: gleaming with hope and teeming with horses and trolleys. Ships sailed in and out of the bay and there was no bridge yet (if you have ever seen that Ansel Adams photograph, “Golden Gate Before the Bridge,” you’ll know how strange and different it would have been to our modern eyes accustomed now to seeing that great span). Way out at the edge of town, in what is now the Sunset District, the few people who did start building houses found themselves thwarted by sandstorms when they planted gardens. The tram line ran out there and the tracks were often covered by drifting sand; still, I bet for a kid it was a fantastic place to live. All that empty space along the beach for hiding out and rambling, whichever you chose.

We munched on our muffins and sipped our cups of tea and I could almost see it out the window. Many buildings in my neighborhood – one of which, sadly, burned in fire just before Christmas – are so old they have stood for over 100 years. I love that about the city, that there are still so many houses and structures that survived the great 1906 earthquake and devastating fire. I love that nature is so close here. Perched on the edge of the Pacific, I sometimes think when the earth gives another, inevitable massive heave we’ll slide right into the ocean with hardly a splash. In the meantime we marvel over raccoons in Alamo Square Park and hope to catch a glimpse of the coyotes near the Buffalo Pasture (err — I do) and take walks home that remind us that we humans should tread lighter on the earth. We are the impermanent part of the universe after all, and perhaps in 1000 years San Francisco will be deserted and sand will once again drift over the train tracks along with a wayward grizzly bear come down from the north.

In the meantime, we are here. And when here we must fortify, and there are some days when oatmeal simply won’t do. Instead, muffins. I know it seems like all I do is bake and little else — I swear I have been cooking dinner nearly every night, even if very simple like last night which was just roasted potatoes and cauliflower and chickpeas with garlic and spinach and a piece of salmon baked in white wine and lemon juice and vegetable broth and then, YES, a chocolate-chocolate cake — but it is my wont it seems. Sunday morning I slid out from under the pile of the NY Times and whisked together a batter as quickly as possible using what I had on hand – the best muffins yet. I used a little whole wheat pastry flour here, some slivered almonds, more cinnamon than is usual, and brown sugar. They turned out dense and not-too-sweet and moist and a little crunchy and full of summer – perfect for this strange winter season and for meanderings of both body and spirit.

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[Vegan flourless peanut butter cookies, December 2011.]

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

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

[Wildcat, November 2011.]

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

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

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

If that makes sense.

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

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

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

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

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

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[First ever grown up tree, December 2011.]

The end of the calendar year is so close I can hear it tip-toeing behind me as it gently (or not-so) hurries me along into 2012. 2012. I’m trying to remember December 2001, ten years ago, and what I was planning for the holidays that year. I think we were still walking around in a blind daze, pointed only toward the turning into a new year that was going to be better, would have to be. Or December 1991 — I was in eighth grade, right? Probably my afternoons were taken up with basketball practice and my nights with piano lessons and homework. (That was so very long ago. I never imagined the things that have happened in between then and now.)

Sometimes it seems life rushes by so quickly it leaves us hardly an extra moment to catch our breathes. The holiday season is a perfect illustration of such. Cards — do/mail. Cakes — make/bake. Presents — find/wrap. And on and on.

But a way to s-l-o-w down the days, or at least to create a space to savor them, is to throw a party. And so on Saturday afternoon, we invited a mix of old and new friends, relatives, and little kids over to eat, drink, and enjoy the sunshine that spilled irrepressibly into our apartment from the moment we woke up at 8a (or so) ’til dusk settled in for the night.

[Part of the spread, December 2011.]

We ate a lot of things, some of which included

phyllo-vegetable cups
an enormous cheese plate with gluten-free crackers and Acme breads
hummus and carrots
caramelized onion + mushroom pizza squares
chocolate + dried fruit + nut candies
cheesecakes with gingersnap crust
a nutmeg-spice cake (and an apple cake)
flourless chocolate cake bites
butter and jam cookies
gingerbread cookies (aptly decorated by the little girls)

I poured bubbly and sparkly lemon water in equal measure, accidentally stirred still water into the cranberry-orange punch (oooops! — said with a very Rick Perry-like smirk, except that actually I felt rather dumb) but it still tasted nice, and thrilled to see all the little treats I’d prepared be happily eaten … nay, devoured. How I like to feed people, it’s true.

Alas I was too busy putting out more smoked salmon and crackers and such to take any decent photos, though I did lug out my big camera to snap a few shots here and there. That seems to be my life lately — I want to capture everything around me but more often than not I have just a few moments in between pulling a tray of cookies out of the oven and dishing up a sort of ersatz risotto of long grain brown rice and a medley of vegetables and cheddar cheese (topped with a fried egg) before shoveling it into my mouth and starting on my holiday cards. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: thank goodness for the iphone (and Instagram), even if the pictures aren’t quite as pretty as I might like them to be …

But anyway, the main thing is the recipes, no? And I have a lovely one today: for a buttery, tender, jammy cookie I made mostly to showcase that blackberry jam I canned this summer. The jam is delicious: not-too-sweet, nice and seedy the way I like it, full of whole and partly smashed-up berries. But the surprise was the cookie base, which, made with good-tasting butter, proved slightly addictive, especially when eaten Sunday afternoon with a cup of tea after the scrubbing the apartment within an inch of its formerly dusty baseboarded self.

So I know you might not have your own homemade jam for these cookies, and that’s just fine. Any berry jam will do (note: recipe for cranberry jam coming soon, as soon as I … err … take a proper photo of the jars I canned last week, and that would be wonderful here). These cookies, I will admit, did not turn out to be the most beautiful cookies I’ve ever baked, but man were they good. Lush with butter and plushy with sugar, they’re decadent little bites of holiday goodness with a hint of the summer’s long-harvested bounty. Sit down with one and you may even be transported back to August — remember August? It was warm and sunny, the perfect weather for lake-swimming –, and that glorious summer feeling, reminding us that indeed it’s possible to slow down for a moment even in these hectic days of baking, card-making, parties, and all else.

Tuck them into your cookie tins or bring a plate in to work for the office party and watch them work their magic. Or just keep them on your table at home, sneaking one or two in between stamping envelopes and swilling tea in an effort to stay awake. It’s the last push ’til the new year. These will help.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(I’ll definitely be doing this again.)

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[Kehoe Beach, November 2011.]

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

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

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

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

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

The menu so far

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

Pumpkin pie
Apple-blackberry pie
Cranberry upside down cake

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

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

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

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

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I woke up from strange (seriously, strange) dreams to the sound of pouring rain, but miraculously the sun came out and is now shining so strongly I had to close the blinds. I am working from home so in the early-morning gloom I was particularly happy to remember the loaf of delicious Acme whole wheat walnut bread I’d picked up yesterday at the Ferry Building. (To eat with homemade blackberry jam, of course.)

So I made tea and toast for breakfast (I may have also had it for lunch) and left my pajamas on for awhile.

Then I carefully placed a flourless chocolate cake (or, a ‘Gateaux Victoire’) in its water bath to bake for a dinner party tomorrow night.

(Here it is post-oven.)

And I popped popcorn for caramel corn for my sweetie, because he likes it and because why not? I haven’t really cooked in a sort of leisurely way in a long time — and I even, gasp, pulled out my real camera, which felt very, very good — and Fridays are nice days for doing that in between all the editing. It was a bit of a massive work-week, and so I’m gently sliding into the weekend with some sun, some cake, and some more tea. There are two full days coming up to relax and enjoy.

The holidays loom. To ease the bite — or as an edible gift — consider making from-scratch caramel corn. It’s pretty simple, tastes better than anything you can buy, and is sure to please. It could even provide Thanksgiving-cooking sustenance if you can turn your thoughts there already. I’m trying to; the only thing I’m sure of right now is that I’ll be baking sweet potato biscuits and making cauliflower soup. But after all, there’s still a few more weeks …

For now:

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On Sunday the day rose up grey and gloomy and I heard the distinct patter of rain outside as I burrowed my head deeper under the blankets and reminded myself there was no need to get up early; weekend mornings, at least when I’m not going to yoga, are for sleeping in. So I did a bit — ’til nearly 9. It was delicious and I’d like to repeat that again very soon.

But after the New York Times was fetched from downstairs and tea was drunk and I’d half-way started on the Style section there was a niggling at the back of my mind. Pancakes, a little voice (whose?) whispered. You know you need to use up the rest of the buttermilk. The frozen blueberries in the freezer. Make pancakes …

So after a generous gulp of the rest of the tea in my cup I hopped out of bed — though at the same time I tried to be surreptitious; I wanted what I was about to do to be somewhat of a surprise –, put the kettle on for more tea (green this time; I’m off the coffee for a bit, though I do miss it), and hunted through the cupboard for vanilla, cornmeal, a pinch of cinnamon, sea salt. I sipped and sifted and added a good glug of vanilla with the classical station as accompaniment. I whisked a few eggs to fry up separately and lamented the lack of vegetarian breakfast sausage.

And so I cooked a batch of pancakes.

Saturday mornings were pancake-mornings when I was growing up; my dad used to make his special recipe — incorporating oats, honey and cornmeal — for pancakes almost every weekend, and we clamored for them when he was out of town. In season, he would pile in fresh blueberries picked the afternoon before from the bushes growing in the backyard; in the winter we would eat them plain, or with the last frozen bits of summer’s preserved bounty.

Alas, somewhere along the way, I lost my taste for the things. I am more of an oatmeal-eater, a whole-wheat toast smeared with peanut butter and jam sort of a diner, and I am usually not interested in eating a big breakfast of heavy, bready sweets. I’ll let the occasional egg slip in once in awhile, but my standard work-a-day breakfast is a banana, a cup of green tea (just lately), and a bowl of oatmeal with dried fruit (boring I may be, but at least I’m reliable).

But every so often I get seized with a breakfast notion. Perhaps the idea for cherry muffins if I happen to have a lot of cherries on hand, or vegan blueberry muffins, or browned butter banana bread with plums, or whatever. And even though I might skip pancakes or waffles on a regular basis I don’t mind treating myself once in awhile, especially when the kitchen smells delectable enough to lure unwitting fiances to the dining room, paper in hand.

And how did Sunday’s pancakes taste? Light enough for the pancake-averse and just slightly gritty from the cornmeal with a hint of vanilla and plump and juicy with blueberries. The buttermilk added delectable moisture (which is essential if one, ahem, wanders away for a few moments to set the table and returns to find her pancake a bit overdone) and its delicate tang balanced the sweetness of the berries. They were not especially beautiful, my pancakes, but even I, who typically avoids such things, couldn’t get enough.

We ate our pancakes with warmed maple syrup and spoonfuls of blackberry jam — the blackberry jam I swore I was sick of after canning all those jars, but the thing about that jam is that it’s really good and it’s difficult not to eat it. I wrote an article for NPR about it, in fact — publication date TBD — which had encouraged me to incorporate it into a few different recipes, including a gorgeous blackberry jam cake and a batch of lemon sorbet. I’m thinking the next time I make pancakes I might stir some jam into the batter, too — just to see.

This coming Sunday begins the massive cake-baking project so breakfast may simply be toast gulped down in a hurry. Then again, you never know …

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[Blackberries, Sebastopol, September 2011.]

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

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

Oh, lovely bed …

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

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

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

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

[Breakfast, September 2011.]

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

[In Sebastopol, September 2011.]

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

Things to do with blackberries:

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

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

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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