[Dinner, July 2008.]

Of course I love to cook, but sometimes I love even more when I don’t have to do so — say when I’ve woken up before 6a, worked most of the day, run 4 miles, and then using what remains of my energy to plug away on something else. Tonight I am very lucky to be sitting here with the classical music station pealing out into my clean-swept living room, swirling a spoon through a steaming bowl of my mom’s vegetable soup, and eating good bread and cheese for dinner.

The thing was: I cooked a lot (and I mean a lot) on Friday and Saturday. I didn’t even make things that were overly complicated, but I had six people coming over for lunch and I wanted to make great use of my Saturday market as well as a few delicious, seasonal fruits (plums, peaches) — so I did. There was not a scrap leftover, either, which was just as well because yesterday we skipped town in the afternoon and drove over the bridge into Marin County, with a detour through Samuel P. Taylor Park (bypassing the swimming hole, unfortunately, which I have heard from a reputable source was full of salmon; also, it was very warm, and a good swimming day).

[Tomales Bay, June 2008.]

I went for a bike with my friend out to Arch Rock, which is about 4.5 miles from the Bear Valley trail head in the National Seashore — I had already run in the morning after not a whole lot of sleep (see: Rome, mild obsession with) and really wanted not much more than to flake out on the deck with a gin and tonic and the dog. But! I am also nearly powerless in the face of a challenge (or even an encouragement; in this case, riding a bike in the almost-dusk out to the coast). I love riding bikes but rarely do so, which is a shame. I don’t love riding in the city, and what little time I do have to exercise I prefer to spend it running, or in yoga class.

So I was a little not-as-enthused as I could have been, but once we started out through the cool forest I wondered why I had ever not wanted to go. The trail is mostly flat except for a small hill leading up to Divide Meadow, and then downhill to the rack where we threw the bikes while we walked the last mile out to Arch Rock. Sometimes it can be grey and windy out there but sometimes it is balmy and clear, and you can hear the seals barking on the rocks out to sea. Last night was one of those nights. I craned my neck to see around the curve of the land to my left, trying to see Wildcat Camp where I’ll be camping in a few weeks, and thought about how I can’t wait to fall asleep with the sound of the ocean in my ears (and I also hoped it would be as warm and sweet as it was last night).

And though I’m thoroughly enjoying my quiet Monday night, I wish a little bit I was still out there right now watching the sun go down …

[Mom's soup, July 2008.]

But back to this soup: this is my mom’s special vegetable soup that she always manages to bring in to me when she comes for a visit (and sometimes, if I’m very lucky, she’ll tuck away a container into my fridge when I’m out of town and it’s waiting for me when I return). When I lived in Washington, DC, and would come home for a visit my first meal at home would often be a bowl of this soup — and I couldn’t wait for it. It meant so many things to me: California, my little hometown, the holidays, summer vacation, bittersweet homecoming because even though I loved a lot of my life on that other coast, I missed Northern California terribly.

I don’t have the recipe, and honestly, I don’t want it! I don’t think I could make it as well. The base is vegetable broth and tomatoes, and it’s full of good vegetables like: green beans, leeks, corn, garlic with some kidney beans and broken up fettucine to round it out. It smells wonderfully when it’s cooking, too — savory and sweet (from a dash of honey) all at once. It is home to me, and is perfect for tonight, when I’m sleepy and and nearly ready for bed. If only I hadn’t finished it all off in one go …

[Sliced, July 2008.]

Someday I hope to have a real kitchen, one with lots and lots of counter space on which to set all my (sparkling, unblemished, newish) various accouterments while I’m cooking. Then I don’t have to do what I just did: put a baking sheet on the (clean) floor after I took it out of the oven because what tiny bit of counter I do have was filled up with all the other stuff I’m working on. Someday I also hope to have more time, so I won’t have to do what I did this week: stay up late baking a cake, then run home the next evening to make frosting for it in the one hour I had between arriving home and leaving for book group, then come back and fill and frost it, then stay up way past bedtime pulling out my hair over a rewrite.

Still, looking back, even though I was the wee-est bit tired yesterday (even an iced Blue Bottle coffee with a hint of chicory, and perfectly sweetened, couldn’t fully alleviate the fatigue), I have to admit all the worry and rush was completely forgotten the moment I took a bite. This cake was worth every minute of lost sleep and mild angst that it wasn’t as beautiful as others I’ve made and I’d do it all over again (and again).

I baked twice this week — two dozen cupcakes for a coworker’s birthday, and then this behemoth for another’s — and I’m at it again with a dessert for tomorrow. I’m hosting a luncheon, and though I’ve heard people say well, it’s just lunch (isn’t that a dating service as well?), there’s never any ‘just’ about it for me. I’d like to reveal my menu (fresh produce from the market! fingerling potatoes! decadent appetizer plate!) but as a few of the people coming read this here site, I’d rather keep it a secret until after the last plate has been washed and put away. I can promise this: it’s going to be good, and I made a special trip to the Ferry Building yesterday after work to pick up … well, you’ll see.

In the interim, here is this cake, inspired by smitten kitchen’s (daring, amazing, inspiring) feat of wedding-cake-baking, wherein she raved over a particular yellow cake. I was a little worried about all that butter, buttermilk, and liberal use of eggs for which the recipe calls, but I thought it was time I tried something new; and you know, there was not a shred of disappointment I could muster up. I saved a bit of chocolate butter cream from the cupcakes I’d made the night before, and used that to top it off; the filling was a simple and light coffee butter cream. Try it. I’m just going to link to the recipes rather than post them out because yes! Still on a deadline! (and, err, making ice cream) but I will leave you with just the smallest piece of the heaven that was this birthday cake — until the next time.

[Birthday cake, July 2008.]

Vanilla buttermilk cake
Chocolate buttercream frosting
Coffee buttercream

[Cobbler, before the oven, July 2008.]

Well, that was an inauspicious 4th. I baked brownies, zipped up my jacket tight against the chilly breeze, wished for a sun that never made an appearance, and took them to a party where I ate: grilled veggie burgers, cupcakes, and quesadillas (not necessarily in that order). I had one (1) beer (Sierra Nevada) and eventually came home to eat more sweets and tumble into the couch to avidly watch three episodes of ‘Rome’ — I guess I have a thing for period dramas on HBO and elsewhere, because I am now hooked and impatiently awaiting the Netflix delivery of Season 2. During a break in the action we took our glasses of wine up the roof in an attempt to catch the fireworks but alas! It is San Francisco and July nights are foggy and cool. I could hear them thumping along somewhere near the bay, but I certainly couldn’t see them.

As I bemoaned earlier today, weekends seem to pass too quickly. Though I had some work-y type stuff to do, including cooking and photographing some dishes for a story I’m working on, there were also a few days of sleeping in, a few runs in the sunshine, a yoga class, lots of HBO, some socializing, some hours lazing on the couch — enough so, that I feel like I need about 10 more days to really sink into that weekend-feeling. But now it is Monday again, back to work again, back to racing to meet deadlines again. To help sweeten this return to reality, however, I have a nearly-whole cobbler waiting for me at home and rumors of a hot spell set to descend upon the Bay Area, bringing with it a few days of real summer.

I made two cobblers last year for Independence Day (when I lugged a lot of food up to Sebastopol and attempted to grill on a mini barbecue and drank vodka-lemonades with home made basil-infused syrup against the pressing heat); perhaps it’s becoming a July 4th tradition? And since cobblers have their roots both in England and early America (I just learned, thanks to our old friend wikipedia, that cobblers baked in a cast-iron pan are called ‘grunts’ or ’slumps’ which makes my weekend variety more than just mere ‘cobbler’) I think whipping one up around the 4th is mighty appropriate.

My Saturday morning farmers’ market yielded a lot of peaches, nectarines and blueberries, so I decided those would form the base of my cobbler, sweetened with just a bit of turbinado sugar (because my market was out of organic sugar in the bulk bin, darn it) and layered with some slivered almonds for crunch. The biscuits perched atop were thick and tangy with buttermilk (and thankfully not too sweet) and so simple to throw together. This recipe is bit more rich than the one I made last year but I think it’s a worthy option, though I the next time I’d try a teaspoon of vanilla and some lemon zest to perk up the topping and give it a bit more depth. But those biscuits do bake up wonderfully fluffy and light, and the fruit underneath melts into them just so …

At any rate, it’s hard to argue with a warm bowl of fruit and cake topped with ice cream (or whipped cream) — it just might become my (summer) weekend steady.

Summer fruit cobbler
I think any sort of in-season fruit would be delicious here — experiment! I plan to use blackberries later next month when they’re in season.

For the filling:
2 cups fresh or frozen blueberries
2 nectarines, sliced
2 peaches, sliced
1/2 cup sliced almonds
1 cup sugar

For the biscuits:
3 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
2 Tablespoons sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
12 Tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
2 cups buttermilk

Preheat the oven to 350 F. Slice the fruit and put in a cast iron skillet. Add the cup of sugar and almonds and toss well to combine.

Mix the dried ingredients together in a large bowl. Cut in the butter in pieces, crumbling it in until the mixture resembles coarse meal. Add the buttermilk, mixing just enough to combine. Drop the dough in an even layer over the fruit and place the pan in the oven. Bake for about 30 to 45 minutes until the fruit is bubbly and the biscuits and lightly browned.

Serves 8, preferably with vanilla ice cream.

[First g&t of the summer, June 2008.]

Aaaaaah. That was nice. I was only out of the city for a few days, but man, it was needed, and wonderful.

This weekend I: went to the beach; read the New York Times Sunday section, for once; learned to like brussels sprouts; remembered I actually do like peas, especially when they’re not overcooked, and turn up bright green against a plate; drank a lot of tea; baked and ate chocolate cupcakes; had home-grown plums that were the best I’ve had in probably a year; talked about urban gardening (and also hunting for your year’s supply of meat, but that’s another story); entreated an Israeli cat to sit with me; will now consider baking banana-bran muffins; played with a dog until we were both ready to drop with exhaustion, except then another one came along and we played even more (black Labradors and goldens just own me, I swear); laughed a lot; slept deeply and quietly; toasted my toes by a fire in the early morning; forgot for just a little bit that I live in a city.

I do love San Francisco — I was born here, after all, even if I was whisked away to Sonoma County a few days later — but I’m a country girl at heart. I need the still, deep quiet of the woods as I fall asleep and the clamor of birds when I wake up in the morning. I don’t think I’d even mind getting up with the sun (or rather, light, as this is Northern California and we’re often socked in with fog until well near noon) because the air would smell so good (as my friend and I discussed Friday night, it’s all bay leaves and good earth and water with a faint layer of salt off the ocean drifting in) and I’d probably go to bed early enough. I have a dream some day of living in a place where I can access the coast easily, with lots of trees and grass all around me, with stacks of books for reading and stacks of paper for writing on, and a radio tuned to the classical music station for inspiration and calm.

[Hemlock, Olema Marsh, Pt. Reyes National Seashore, June 2008.]

Sunday night, after a dinner that was so good for its simplicity (except for the roast beef, which I didn’t eat, there were mostly vegetables: a dish of steamed brussels sprouts and peas; roasted carrots and parsnips with butter; roasted potatoes; little Yorkshire puddings; leftover cheese tortellini for me; glasses of Ravenswood Zin) we went down the road a ways to pick what my friend called ‘thimbleberries’ and which I like to describe as a cross between a blackberry and a strawberry. Sweet, red, and, yes, somewhat resembling a thimble, they were growing in the wild tangle of trees and brush that hadn’t been cut back yet for the season. I love being in the woods when dusk is coming down; the birds are singing and calling to each other sleepily, and the world turns pale and grey against the trees.

We took the dogs with us and I must confess I was more occupied with talking to and throwing sticks for them rather than picking berries (not to mention, avoiding the poison oak). But luckily enough were procured so that when we walked back up the steep climb to the house we were able to add them to about a cup of mixed berries that had been left out in the kitchen to defrost, and then we made a sort of ersatz crumble (just the berries, no extra sugar, with a bit of granola and butter spread over the top, and then baked for 20 minutes). Along with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, a spoonful of those warm berries and oats almost helped me forget I had to go in to work the next day.

So tonight, in the spirit of summer, and with thoughts of vacation in not-too-long, I am making the first corn on the cob of summer, along with a a big green salad, slabs of tofu baked in a peanutty-lemon sauce, and roasted new potatoes with just one carrot sliced in half, and then lengthwise, drizzled all over with olive oil and salt. I like to roast the carrot until its edges get a bit blackened and carmelized; that’s when I know it’s done, and should be eaten in long, dripping slices. This weekend there are plans for a barbecue (brownies; veggie burgers; beer — it is always defined for me by the food I will bring), perhaps a visit to the Legion of Honor for the Women Impressionists exhibit, working on a few things due early (so early!) next week, and also a yoga class, because it’s been too long.

It will be a very city weekend, which will be nice. But you can bet I’m planning on a few nights camped under the stars (or fog, as the case may be) at the end of July, out at my beloved Wildcat Camp. This time I’ll have to up the ante on what things I cook — some vegetable fajitas, perhaps, or a more elaborate breakfast. I’ll stretch out in my sleeping bag and take a deep breath of that sweet, smoky, sea-smelling air and hope the next day will be full of sun (once, it was so hot we were even able to swim, letting the waves tumble and bruise us back onto the beach). I’ll chase skunks and watch deer and read whatever book I’ve decided to lug the 6.5 miles out there, and there will be no place in the world I’d rather be.

I love summer.

[Cake for a barbecue, June 2008.]

Update: still sickish, though somewhat improving. Thanks for all the well-wishes! Crankiness level is reaching astronomical proportions, however; please send help. And chocolate.

I’m a creature of habit, it’s true. Sometimes, in the interest of creativity, or just plain boredom, I try a new recipe — even if I have one on file I’ve used lots of times before, because I feel like I Should. And, as in the case of last year’s pineapple upside-down cake, I can regret it, and wish I’d stuck with my old familiar. If I get stuck in a rut (and it’s quite clear I do, with all of my cupcake-baking, and simple stirfries of chickpeas and greens, or easy tomato sauces, and and and) perhaps it’s not so bad if the results taste so good.

Case in point: I volunteered to bake a dessert for our work barbecue this week, and so decided, what with all the cheap and delicious stone fruit coming in to the markets, I’d make my classic summer fruit upside down cake which came to me by way of williams-sonoma.com in the original form of a cranberry upside-down cake. There’s just something about this cake that lends itself to all sorts of permutations: it’s simple, buttery, and manages to be airy and rich at the same time, laced liberally with vanilla and lightened with a bit of cake flour. It’s the perfect base for any sort of fruit — I’ve also made it with cherries and last summer used nectarines and plum slices (this time I used white peaches and nectarines). Left to rest overnight, the fruit settles more comfortably into the cake, and the butter-brown-sugar layer binds it all together ever so gently.

Unfortunately, there were no leftovers.

Other things we ate (and yes, this was at work because San Franciscans are, as my coworker said, the wee-est bit food obsessed): grilled pork loin, grilled chicken, Kosher hot dogs (OK, I didn’t eat this), veggie burgers, veggie sausages, grilled corn with garlic-butter, grilled asparagus also with the garlic-butter, fruit salad, green salad, cookies, sangria, various potato and pasta salads, fresh vegetable platter, chips and guacamole.

This pesky cold does not seem to have affected my appetite too much, although with that kind of a spread you really do have to eat lightly out of self preservation.

[Summer fruit cake, June 2008.]

Today in the city the air is slightly smoky, a result of the fires burning up north and possibly even to the south as well. I would like to close my eyes and imagine that I am camping out at Wildcat, or just sitting round a driftwood fire after a good dinner, but all I can really do is hope the firefighters so bravely battling the flames will be OK, and that the fires are out just as soon as possible. Summer in Northern California is so dry, and is often marked by wildfires. I doubt I’ll ever get used to it.

Ironically, the first time I ever went camping, in the Armstrong redwoods, it rained. Nevertheless, my brother and I were so excited to sleep out-of-doors (those backyard nights spent in tents were of course very fun, but it was the backyard) we didn’t care (my parents might tell a different story). That weekend wasn’t just a drizzly one, either; the rain picked up during the night and we woke up to a waterlogged tent, muddy ground — and the most beautiful, ethereal mist drifting through the trees. I’ll never forget that; the sun is lovely, and a dry, crisp morning lovelier still, but there is something magical about being in the woods in the rain. Sounds are quieter, the birds are calmer. The water makes drips slowly off the trees and the sky feels closer.

[Sun through the trees, Armstrong Redwoods State Natural Reserve, June 2008.]

Most of my subsequent camping and backpacking trips have occurred during better weather (in truth, the outdoors is a bit less magical when your sleeping bag is sodden and you’re slogging along through the mud), though on one trip to the Yosemite back country we hiked through snow (in early July!) and woke up in the night to the soft patter of rain on the tent. Some summers I have been lucky enough to camp along the coast during a heat wave, which means swimming in the freezing ocean if the surf is not too rough. An afternoon spent on the edge of the Pt. Reyes National Seashore, after a good 6-mile hike in, with a container of freshly filtered water and a book is something I can never get enough of. There are few things that make me happier than to sleep early and wake with the sound of the Pacific thrumming in my ears, that quiet ocean roar against the sand (of course, I’ll also take the wind in the high mountains as an adequate substitute).

I’ve been to the redwoods and West Marin (and the Sierras) for camping trips more times than I can count, but each time I go I feel as though I learn something new. A trail may be more rocky, a meadow more smooth, a tide pool laid bare for exploring, a tree tipped over unexpectedly. At home, I may bake a favorite recipe twice in one week, but each time it holds its own surprises (in the case of this particular cake, I’d never used that fruit combination, and it bears repeating).

So this creature of habit can’t complain too much if her little repetitions are so satisfying — also see: summers at the Santa Cruz Boardwalk riding the Giant Dipper over and over (and over) without ever getting sick of it — whether they concern camping, or cakes.