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

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

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

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

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

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

Catch you on the east side.

       Print This!    

[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.

       Print This!    

[San Francisco, September 2011.]

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

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

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

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

Well I think it sounds nice …

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

(It’s nice to be known.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

       Print This!    

I wrote this post two years ago, and I’m re-posting today because whenever I sit down to write something about 9/11 I find I write the same things over and over again: It was a beautiful day in Washington; I remember that morning as if it were etched in glass; I couldn’t eat anything; Samer walked me home; the firehouse down the street hung the flag, for weeks, in mourning; the empty streets; we were so incredibly angry; we were so incredibly sad; it was the day everything changed forever. And so rather than repeat myself, I’d like to share what I was thinking about two years ago, and which is how I still feel — today, the tenth anniversary.

And I will never forget.

[Redwoods, Armstrong State Reserve, June 2008.]

Today, the day of days. How the sun shines on this western city as if we have been granted some sort of miraculous blessing and the sky — swept clear of clouds — is that bluest blue of almost-autumn. I am drinking a delicious americano with cream and clattering my spoon around a bowl of granola and yogurt. San Francisco this morning would break your heart and put it back together again it’s so beautiful.

One Tuesday in September, eight years ago today on a morning very much like this one, I woke up early — before the alarm even. I hopped in the shower and felt the cool breeze through the window: fall, in Washington DC, had come if only for that morning. I heard the phone ring but didn’t answer it (much later, I would pick up the message from my grandfather who had called from Jersey City just after 9 a.m.).

It was crisp and sunny — a peach of a day, an excuse in and of itself for sloughing off work and sitting outside, but I packed up my lunch and went to wait for the bus anyhow. A nice woman gave me her transfer and so I settled in with my free ride and a book and thought about my sweet little new apartment, the change of seasons, the sun. The bus went by the the White House and I looked up to see people standing on the sidewalks, heard a woman shouting something about planes crashing, and everything was changed utterly and forever.

Eight years ago on September 11, 2001 the world collapsed and turned in on itself and nothing has been the same since. Can it really be eight years? It’s hard to fathom sometimes — that life still bowls on at its usual pace and the sun rises and sets in its regular rhythm is both impossible and comforting.

Then, I lived in another city and lived another life. That bright Tuesday I came in to work to find the newsroom a frenzy of activity, the television shining like a beacon with its terrible images. Cameramen were rushing about and the phones were screaming; I went into the bathroom and locked myself in for a few moments, clasping my hands tight to stop their shaking. All day I couldn’t eat, could barely choke down the awful coffee we used to drink there. My friend walked with me through the deserted Washington downtown, miles up to Adams Morgan to another friend’s house where we made Annie’s macaroni and cheese, drank Sierra Nevada, and talked and talked, trying to make sense out of the nonsensical. Then I went home and cried as though there was no possible end to the tears. It was such a blank, awful night — the kind where, when you wake up the next morning, it feels like a terrible dream until you remember.

At first, time dragged. I marked every month. Each day was to be gotten-through. We walked around in a daze. Most meals I ate with my friends, when I could — simple things of pastas and roasted vegetables with green salad from the farmers market with lots of wine and talking — always talking — to try to sort out what had happened. What was still happening. We stayed up late and wondered and wished and made pots of soup. Fall turned into winter turned into spring turned into summer and then it was a whole year since and somehow we were still there, if a bit battered and heartsore.

Now, eight years on, the after-effects of that September linger but the pain has eased just the smallest bit. Life keeps going even in the face of such loss and anguish — and I am more grateful than I can ever express that it does. Perhaps this is the most fitting memorial to all we lost: that we can grab up the pieces and go on, that we can laugh at the silly sketches on SNL, that we can breathe deeply again, that we can fall in love, that the ocean crashes and burns along the jagged coast, that we wake in the morning with the ordinary-morning-feeling rather than filled with worry and dread — that life has returned to a sense of ‘normalcy.’ Back then I never, honestly, thought that it could.

Maybe the truest way to live in a world such as this one is to create hope every day and to hold on to love in all kinds of ways. It is not so difficult, really, only it can take some time — and how far we have come since eight, or even five, years ago. I believe fiercely there is beauty everywhere, including in the littlest of the little things — a perfect plum, a good run, a walk at the coast with an old friend, washing dishes with company, phone calls from a beloved sibling, a delicious heirloom tomato sauce — and true love and promise. The great gift I have been given is that I have learned to appreciate every day — even if painful, especially when joyous — for what it is: truth, freedom, the hope of peace. I know we are so very lucky be here at all.

Today, I am remembering. I am remembering life is so sweet and precious and must never be taken for granted. I want to scrape my plate clean, to lick up the last bits, to savor every drop, to find grace in each moment.

I promise I will always try.

(I will never forget you.)

Today is also a day for eating simple, nourishing things like roasted-vegetable soup and good bread or slow-roasted tomatoes with red onion turned into sauce to be draped over pasta. It’s simple, sweet, and wholly satisfying; if you have a bit of pesto in the fridge add it to your dinner, too. I made these in about an hour but if you have more time — and need the delicious smells of roasting vegetables to linger longer — turn the oven to 200 F and put in the pan for at least 2-3 hours.

Roasted Tomato Sauce, for quiet days

Olive oil
10 large roma tomatoes, halved lengthwise or 5 heirloom tomatoes, quartered, or a mix
1 red onion, coarsely chopped or sliced
oregano or basil

1 bay leaf

1. Preheat oven to 400°F. Arrange tomatoes and onion in a baking dish and douse well with olive oil and salt. Roast until tomatoes are tender and a little shriveled around the edges, stirring occasionally, about an hour.

2. In a pot, sautee the onion with garlic if you like, and add the tomatoes and 1/2 cup water and the bay leaf. Cook down over low heat until sauce is thick and the tomatoes and onion are melting, about 15 minutes. Add salt and pepper to taste, and the oregano or basil. Remove bay leaf.

3. Serve very hot over fettucine or spaghetti, making sure to well-coat the pasta with the sauce, with lots of parmesan.

[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

       Print This!    

**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).

[From the bay, June 2011.]

Strange days in San Francisco: it’s pouring down rain this morning (locals know what an anomaly this is; we’re solidly in summer now, and July looms in just a few days. So rain? Shouldn’t be anywhere on the forecast.) and I can’t run due to an inexplicable and frustrating shin splint injury. In other words: the world is a bit tilted today, and not just because my internal equilibrium got reordered after a sail last week in a little boat that swooped and swept around AT&T Park and under the Bay Bridge up to Pier 39, all of us clinging to the ropes at certain moments when the wind picked up and the boat went nearly horizontal, remarking on what a perfect! day it was to be out on the water.

Sweet, sweet Friday afternoon, post-work barbecue on the roof (I made mac + cheese), after a very long week, after cursing my existence due to unexpected and terribly painful shin splints, I was unexpectedly given the gift of that sail. I almost didn’t take it — I was limping around the office with an ice pack affixed to my poor, bruised calf, all woeful-like and thinking the only thing I wanted to do was to go home and lie on the couch feeling sorry for myself. But when you’re offered an opportunity to go out on the San Francisco Bay with your favorite person (plus a few others), you can’t not take it. Can you imagine? I’d never have forgiven myself. And it was gorgeous — “all sun and air and sparkle,” to quote my beloved Jack London, and pelicans skimming low above the water and the city shining in the blue-gold light of late afternoon like it was the only city in the world.

And so I put this here as a note to clutch on to when things seem bleak: don’t give in when initially daunted. This applies to spontaneous sailing adventures, life in general — and baking.

Case in point: a few weeks ago (yes, I do realize I am still neglecting my little corner of the Internet; apologies all around, dear blog) I decided to bake banana bread because San Francisco was a bit foggy and windy, and you know what I like to do when it’s like that: turn on the oven and make something sweet and comforting. Also I had a few bananas not-so-slowly browning on the counter and it was one of those moments of serendipity — ripe bananas + chilly eve = banana bread — that can yield the finest results.

So I tripped happily about my kitchen slapping together whole wheat and white flours, a bit of brown sugar, some walnuts. I mashed the bananas well with a fork and stirred in the requisite amount of vegetable oil. I reached for the eggs to add in, too, but realized — there were no eggs! It was my own fault but I was peeved; how could I be out of eggs? And relatedly: why can’t I keep track of anything anymore? (Lists, it’s true, keep me organized but I find them so terribly bo-ring to create.)

But I decided to just go for it — I am, after all, a fan of vegan baking and have created quite a few concoctions that have turned out pretty spectacularly if I do say so myself (ginger cookies, chocolate cake, peanut butter cookies just to start) and I had the batter nearly finished. It would have been a waste to discard it. So on I forged, forgoing the egg and adding a handful of blueberries at the last minute and you know what? The loaf turned out great. Perhaps it was more dense without the fluffiness lent by the egg; perhaps it was a bit more sticky (but I like sticky). I was so pleasantly surprised that I actually wrote down the recipe so that I might make it again — for me, this is the true test.

It’s a simple recipe, and very forgiving as well as inclusive. Sometimes I like to add a few tablespoons of cocoa powder instead of chocolate chips just to give it that note of smoky-sweet chocolate without being overwhelmingly chocolate (although other times I do want that solid chocolate crunch), and I love to stir in a generous cup (or more) of those tiny, tender wild blueberries (I get ‘em frozen from my organic market). Nuts are a must, most usually walnuts but also slivered or sliced almonds or perhaps pecans. And the inclusion of maple syrup serves to give a hint of natural sweetness and works as a binder to hold the batter gently together.

It was best the next morning, toasted, and nibbled alongside a cup of tea. As I drink my coffee this morning I’ve a hankering for it, as my bowl of breakfast oatmeal has long since been digested and I’m experiencing the first ‘elevenses‘ hunger pangs while casting around for a snack idea that’s semi-healthful and also filling. Such a fine line, but I think this banana bread would do the trick nicely.

So here’s to forging on — through rain, through stupid injuries, through the summer doldrums, through a lack of eggs in the fridge. I shall try to make the best of whatever comes my way, hoping for more spontaneous sails, a speedy return to form, and more banana bread, as much as I can stand.

       Print This!    

[Sunday lunch, May 2011.]

I hosted a wee lunch party a week ago Sunday that I was proud of for two reasons: One, I didn’t go overboard, as often I tend to do; and two, I made vegan pesto.

My menu was:

To start: hummus (from my organic market), nice crackers, a few cheeses (brie, and maple-smoked cheddar), and honey-smoked salmon from the nice fish guy at the Fillmore farmers’ market

Then: cauliflower soup with garlic toasts

And: pesto two ways: one my delicious regular, with lots of good olive oil and parmesan cheese, and one a semi-experimental vegan version, tossed with spiral pasta and sauteed green beans and pine nuts; a big spring greens salad (via my mom)

To finish: vegan peanut butter cookies and a fluffy, three-chocolate-mousse cake from a Santa Rosa bakery, with strawberries from the market and tea (also, glasses of Korbel)

It was a lovely afternoon — sunny, because after all the prediction of rain didn’t come to pass, with the Bay-to-Breakers insanity successfully skirted and tucked away a few streets over and a yoga class earlier leaving me loose-limbed and calm. We drank and nibbled and then sat down to lunch at the new table; things are different now and things are the same, and it’s a nice place to be, this place that is San Francisco in May.

[From the market, May 2011.]

If I can be honest with you — and I can, I know — I will admit I’ve been neglecting my little blog of late. Poor blog! We’ve been together for so long, and there’s no way I am quitting it anytime soon, but oof. I feel like asking it please, pretty please, not to eye me so reproachfully (it does. I can tell). I also sort of feel like writing a dear blog letter, though that sounds dreadfully boring;however, if I did, it would go something along the lines of:

Dearest, loveliest, favoritest and best corner of the Internet that is my hidey-hole and my writing practice and my space to chronicle the meals I’ve cooked and the cakes (and cookies) baked —

Well, I’m not perfect. Sometimes I’m so hungry that I don’t take a minute (or five) to take photos of dinner. I mean, come on! Half the time I’m cooking said dinner in my sweaty running clothes after whipping through six miles and then hopping back and forth from kitchen to living room to check out the score of the game (socks have been UP lately, which makes me happy, but, blog, you probably don’t care as much about the state of Cody Ross’s footwear as I do) while gulping water. Then there’s the whole showering part, the giving a massive hug to the fiance when he comes home part, the playing with my new iphone part, the trying not to let the (brown, Jasmine) rice burn part, and all the while I’m still starving and need to EAT IMMEDIATELY as soon as dinner’s ready and so, no, I don’t always stop to take an artful photo and I’m SORRY but I have a LIFE and why are you giving me a guilt trip and –

OK, let me try again:

Dearest little patient friendly spot here at this particular URL,

ps: I’m baking a cake on Wednesday! I will photograph it to hell and back! You will be proud of me!

Also, blog, life’s been jam-packed lately. I’m not complaining, but I’m just mentioning this by way of explanation. I think baking that cake last month wiped me out bit. Or perhaps it’s all the tiny (and not-so) decisions that come along with planning a major life event that must be made within the next few months. Or probably also it’s the various and sundry deadlines that must be met and projects that must be completed and and and. Or it could also be all the running — I’ve been upping the mileage lately when I can because it just feels so good to be outside in the crisp spring air, sun or no, and because a little miracle happened to me this winter in the form of iron supplements (because, err, I’m a vegetarian who probably doesn’t get enough) that’s done wonders for my pace and endurance.

But yes, I miss you. I miss us. And I’m gonna make it up to you.

[Pesto for lunch, May 2011.]

Last weekend’s lunch was a decent start. Sure, basil is the just the barest bit out of season, but when I was chewing over a potential menu I wanted mainly to make something that is (pretty much) universally liked as well and do-ahead-able and simple. And I really do love pesto. So two batches it was — one with cheese and one without, and I decided to swirl it into spiral pasta because that’s pretty and a little different, with a bunch of green beans and toasted pine nuts to give the whole dish a little something extra. And so we had heaping helpings of pesto, and an enormous, vegetable-filled salad, and it was just right for spring — very green, very fresh, very sunny somehow. We were filled but not stuffed, and that’s the best kind of lunch to have.

I love to make pesto because it’s quick to throw together and I usually have all the ingredients — parmesan, olive oil, garlic, pine nuts, basil — on hand. It’s also versatile. If, for example, you don’t have pine nuts, you could try walnuts or almonds. If you can’t find basil, parsley works well in a pinch, and spinach is even better. You may go light on the olive oil if you like it less oily; you may omit the cheese if you want to go the vegan route.

Well, I love parmesan. I do! Very sharp cheddar, brie, and parmesan are probably my top three cheese choices. But this is not about cheese, it’s about vegan pesto. And let me tell you: vegan pesto is great, surprisingly so. The secret is to add a little lemon juice and/or zest in place of the cheese, and to play around with the amount of oil and that lemon juice to create a consistency that will stand up sturdily to pasta, or toast, or whatever you like. It’s certainly not boring, which I was afraid it might be. You could do a combo of various fresh herbs, or a basil-spinach (or a basil-parsely?) to punch things up a bit; you could add more garlic. Either way, you’ll probably not miss the cheese — and coming from someone who loves her traditional pesto perhaps more than is rational (and who’ll gladly pile on more parmesan after filling her plate) this is high praise indeed.

Meanwhile — yeah, what I said earlier. Me and the blog are soon going to be likethis. Molasses-infused french toast is coming up next — swear.

       Print This!    

I have a favorite, reliable, go-to, standard (etc. etc.) cookie recipe that never fails me: an oatmeal-chocolate chip. When I ‘need’ to make cookies and am pressed for time, I make these — they’re buttery and addictive, the oatmeal sort of caramelizes during baking and there’s a tiny hint of salt to counter the sweet. I throw in chocolate chips liberally, because it feels right and because, also, chocolate. My friend Lesli calls them the ‘make everything better’ cookies and truly so they might be — I have carted them round near and far and they hold up sturdily in packages mailed across the country. In short: I love ‘em.

But sometimes you want something different; you want something else. And so it was on a sunny afternoon in West Marin a few weekends ago, the weekend of dog-sitting and running in the Seashore and looking out for owls and general moaning on about how ready I am to leave the city already and live out there ad naseum and infinitum. It was later on Friday and there was about an hour left between the end of work and the time to take the dog for his walk. You know, an in-between time when you feel just the barest bit out-of-sorts because work’s not yet done for the week but the weekend hasn’t quite started.

So. What I do when I feel like that, or just funny in general, is to bake — in this case, cookies. And that day I baked not my regular old standby cookies, mind, but something else. Something new. I scanned the empty-ish cupboards, jumped on 1010cooks, and found it: a recipe for a vegan peanut butter cookie that I was sure would tide me right up and over the afternoon slump and into two whole days off.

[Spring, April 2011.]

Of course Heidi Swanson’s 101cookbooks.com was one of the first food sites I read way back when. Of course. It’s not hard to see why — she’s a vegetarian, cooks with whole and whole-grain ingredients, has an extensive vegan recipe collection, and creates and cooks healthful dishes that are not only good for you but taste good — things I try to do myself as well. She presents them all with disarming ease; this is food you can whip up for a weeknight dinner or serve with a flourish to luncheon guests. I’ve done a riff on her peanutty noodle salad for years and have been itching to try that browned butter spice cake — perhaps as muffins — ever since she published it in January.

Plus, she’s a Californian and takes beautiful photos (of food, yes, but also) of this area — thus, she’s a girl after my own heart. I visit 101cookbooks regularly for inspiration as well as information and constantly refer to it when I’m at a loss for what to cook for dinner. I’ve gifted copies of her first cookbook, Super Natural Cooking, and just received her recent Super Natural Everyday in the mail last week; it’s waiting patiently for me on the kitchen table to be delved into immediately upon returning home tonight when I’ll finally have a few minutes to savor it appropriately.

I loved these cookies. I loved that they’re vegan, but you can’t tell that really except for you don’t feel weighted down by butter after devouring a handful (let’s be honest: cookies made with butter can sometimes do that). I love that they come together in a flash and are rich but not-too-sweet; I love that they’re ever so slightly crumbly but not so much as to be annoying. I’m thinking — yes, these might just become my new favorite, my new reliable, my new go-to, my new standard (etc. etc.)., and not just because I usually have the ingredients on hand at all times.

That afternoon I made a cup of tea and took a plate of cookies out on the deck to sit in the sun, poking at the dog with my feet and taking deep breathes of that good, sea-sharpened air. The weekend loomed full and delicious, the cares of the previous week slipped away. New standard, indeed.

UPDATE:
I read Super Natural Everyday last night from cover-to-cover and now must implore you to buy this book. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt so very inspired by a cookbook; the words, photos, and recipes will stick with me for a long time. It’s simply gorgeous, through and through.

       Print This!    

[In Golden Gate Park, March 2011.]

This past weekend I was in Phoenix where it was hot during the day but cool and dry at night, the stars fanned out across a clear sky sparkling like starfish. We drove through the desert, past cactus and Creosote bushes, to Sedona, where the red-rocked cliffs loomed large. It felt like summer: dry and hot and blazingly sunny with the deepest blue sky. Strange, then, to read about an earthquake in Japan that roiled the ocean into a massive wave of destruction; there were a few creeks and rivers in Arizona that we passed by but otherwise the landscape is dusty and empty of water.

Sometimes unfathomable things happen in the world — the earth heaves and groans and the oceans swell to unreasonable heights and wash away buildings, boats, people. And there is nothing for it other than to wonder; things are unexplainable but they are no less intense for our inability to comprehend them. All the while I was away this weekend one word tickled at the back of my mind: lucky lucky lucky to be so safe, so far away from danger. Such a small thing, really, but then again it is every thing.

I remember in 2005 after the terrible tsunami that ravaged much of Southern Asia I felt helpless, impotent. I wanted to donate money to the Red Cross and so I did, but I had so little; would it really make a difference? But I couldn’t do nothing. And so with my friends an idea began to form, in part inspired by the election fundraisers of the previous fall: a benefit party, with all proceeds donated to the Red Cross and earmarked for tsunami aid. About six of us pooled our resources and sent out many emails and came up with a simple menu. The day arrived and we cooked lots of pasta, made bowls of salad, opened many bottles of wine, slid pans of apple crisp into the oven, and hoped for a crowd.

All these years later, I’m still humbled and honored by the turnout — I think we drew over 30 people, and all came bearing cash and smiles and a hearty appetite. The meal may have been simple — spaghetti with pesto; penne with red sauce; garlic bread; green salad; baked fruit and ice cream — but the goal was clear: to help, even in some small way. And of course a way to appreciate the luck of our existence — as it often is — is through gathering together simply to be together, to be grateful for it.

Amazingly, life spins on — in Japan, in Southern Asia — despite everything. And we, the fortunate ones, can help and we can mourn and mostly we can keep going, no matter what. We can make soup, feel the sun shine down hot and heavy, look out over an immense valley bordered by mountains and hope only for this — peace and gentler days ahead, all throughout the world.

All weekend I did feel that yes, I am so lucky. I hope never to take it for granted.

* Tonight I’m going to prop my eyes open (4:15 wake-up this morn) as long as it takes to make this soup for dinner — I made it last week with farmers market potatoes and a bunch of lovely leeks; it’s not fancy, but it’s comforting, nourishing, and leaves me feeling exceedingly glad simply to be alive. As I chopped the garlic, I remembered I had gathered a few bay leaves on my last foray to Inverness and. I knew they would be exactly what this soup needed to transform it from mere week-night dinner to something much more enticing. This soup is still mellow and smooth — with all those potatoes, how could it not be? — but hints of water and trees. It is of and from the forest, which beckons with all its unexplored beauty and mystery.

(Of course, you may make it without bay leaves, and it will still taste hearty and delicious.)

       Print This!    

[Monterey, January 2011.]

(Very) Occasionally I wish I still lived on the East Coast, mostly because of the snow. There were some — if fairly rare — winter days when DC was blanketed with great swathes of white and there was nothing to do for it but to stay inside and huddle up close to the radiator and sit in my orange stripey chair by the window with a cup of tea and read and read. The buses couldn’t run, Metro was shut down, hopefully I’d have enough provisions in the house — and time would slow and stop. It was too cold and wet to do much outside except maybe tromp through the un-plowed streets of my little neighborhood to get a coffee or visit friends; mostly I used those days as excuse to stay in and take some time off.

Winter in my particular part of the U.S. is very different from the other side of the country. I could say winter in Northern California is awful — and indeed sometimes it is; I think right around this time last year I was droning on about the endless rain — but then I’ll go outside for a minute, like I just did, and it’s about 60+ degrees and sunny. California is quite mercurial, and its seasons so often turned around (solidly in the 50s for much of July, for example), that you can get a suntan right in the middle of January while the rest of the country is digging out of snowbanks. On Saturday I ran for hours and hours in the park and along the ocean in the cool sun and it was splendid, a gift of an afternoon. How-ever could I complain about that?

But, err, sometimes I do wish a little bit for an excuse to do nothing, hence the subsequent yearning for a bit of snow. Time, time: I need and want more of it these days and it’s become my most precious commodity (well, except for good coffee of course). So perhaps I should find some real wintry weather to force myself to flake out?

[In Pacific Grove, January 2011.]

Oh, but then I wouldn’t see beautiful things like this — the ocean crashing away on a sunny Sunday morning! Though I might have a fondness in my nostalgic heart for February visits to Rochester, NY, or weeks in freezing Maine, the Pacific Ocean in winter sun is a thing of unparalleled beauty. I only want more and more of it.

A few times a year I have an almost physical longing for spring, heightened on days (like Sunday) when the weather behaves very unseasonably and foreshadows what’s to come. I feel the warming wind coming off the sea, see the bright sun blazing down on the green hills, feel that anticipatory energy that heralds the growing season and time of light — and I get impatient. Can you feel it? There’s only a few more months until Daylight Savings Time (March 13, not that I’m counting — much), and I know I’ll be ready.

I am feeling that wistfulness today, during this time when night descends so early even if the days are warm. The light is still bright, true, but in a different way. The Bay Bridge looks chilly and uncomfortable as the blue hour descends, and the headlights of cars blur sharply as they pass over it. I want to eat soup (and I have: a brown rice-lentil spinach I made last night) and sandwiches stuffed with melted cheese; I want to wear the warmest sweaters and tall boots and lounge inside in front of a fire.

Still, the sun calls (as well as other things), and I find myself unable to really sit and stay with all the Things to Do. This means I’ve been cooking a lot of quick and fast meals that don’t involve spending too much time in front of the stove but which are still pretty (well — very) healthy and delicious. I do think I ate quinoa almost every day last week; something I will make again and again (with documentation next time) is this: a huge pot of red quinoa to go along with a stir-fry of garlic, spring onions, lots of shiitake mushrooms, thinly sliced strips of tofu, spinach, and broccoli, all mixed in together with a ginger-soy dressing that sparkled with lime juice. (I really couldn’t stop eating it it was so good.) I’ve also revisited that saving grace of the harried cook — the oven, which I used to roast an enormous pan of cauliflower, brussels sprouts, and button mushrooms (those + some soy protein constituted a fast and delicious dinner).

So if my meals lately have not been particularly glamorous, they have filled and nourished me quite well in these funny, summerish days that constituting mid-winter in San Francisco. All I want to eat (and eat) is a lot of protein, a lot of whole grains, and a lot of vegetables — so, I am. There has been baking, too (g-d forbid a week goes by without it), things like red velvet cupcakes, chocolate chip cookies, oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, coffee cake …. but mostly I’ve been throwing together fast and furious things that will feed me quick in the hour between Y and Z.

To that end, one of those is this simple stirfry I made the other day with the last of the vegetables I dug out of the drawer (I woefully neglected my farmers market for weeks — no more) and some leftover tofu. It took about 15 minutes to put together (that long mostly because of making the rice) and is something certainly which will make it into my regular rotation no matter how much time I have (or have not). All I did was cook together a few sliced mushrooms, a red bell pepper, 1/2 an onion, some cauliflower florets, and cubed tofu, doused in a citrusy tamari sauce. It was perfect.

So I mustn’t long for snow (my orange stripey chair, however, is another story). It’s a beautiful day here in this funny, foggy city where we take every sunny hour we can get — and happily so. Somehow I must store up this time for next summer, when I’m scarf-swathed and wishing for a day at the beach …

       Print This!