5 second rule

You just have to go.

Getting away is getting more important.

To me, at least.

It matters less where we go than that we go.

A plane, a car, a train... it makes no difference.

It's the getting, the moving, the leaving, the arriving, the way a new destination looks. The light, the air, the wind, the colors, they wash away everyday stressors and samenesses. They thrust us out of our routine and push us back toward each other.

We went to Mendocino last weekend. The drive, on a Friday night, was long. Five hours, maybe. We stopped for dinner about an hour from our destination. "This place looks good," Colin said, parking the car in front of a restaurant. Turns out we were in Boonville, a small town I'd never heard of on Highway 128. 

We entered Lauren's. 

Look, I'm a planner. I always want recommendations before I go anywhere, try anything. And I'm starting to realize how silly this is, how limiting. Because everyone's tastes are different, and when you get a list of must-try restaurants and must-see sights and must-experience experiences, you end up with expectations than can be just as easily unmet as met. When you go blank slated, you just... flow. 

So I'd never heard of Boonville, or Lauren's restaurant, and Colin just stopped the car at a random point when our stomachs rumbled and we needed gas.

Serendipity stepped right in and did a magical little twirl.

Lauren's was friendly and real, unassuming and delicious. A teenage couple held hands across a table. A four-top of friends broke bread. Tattooed twentysomethings played pool behind our table. And the food was terrific.

I had the best salad I've had in months -- a simple thing with pears and arugula and local blue cheese. It wasn't original, or epic, but it tasted just exactly right. The kitchen made me a double (I've always want to say that: Make me a double!) because I was hungry and the salad sounded small. So when it came out, all large and substantial, I was thrilled, and it fortified me for the rest of the drive. I relaxed into that salad with everything I had.

We spent the weekend on the beach. Jutting rocks, wet sand, sea glass, fat droplets of intermittent rain. We returned to the room and let our socks dry before the fireplace, let the sand from our shoes muck up the carpet. (Sorry, housekeeping.) 

I kept staying back as we walked along the surf. I watched my family from a distance. I liked witnessing them from different vantage points, different perspectives.

I snapped the above shot of Alex approaching Colin and Andrew. The light there was surreal, an oldenlight, a light from another time.

And then the weekend ended, and we packed the car, and drove the twisty route back towards home, stopping once more in Boonville, my new favorite town.

But don't take my word for it.

Journey elsewhere, anywhere, wherever your car, your feet, your footsteps take you.

You just have to go.

What to do with your seasonal bounty -- video version.

What a pleasure to join the 21st century after all this time.

My friend Sean Timberlake, who runs the terrific website Punk Domestics, invited me and fellow Silicon Valleyite Paige Bayer of SV Local Market to participate in a live video chat. The topic? How to prepare and preserve the season's bounty. Happily, Sean chose ToutSuite Social Club, a platform and company that worked with him to record our conversation for posterity and share it with you online.

So kick back, click over to Punk Domestics (via this link or by clicking on the image above), and watch as weird veins pop out of my neck when Sean, Paige, and I talk about zucchini, figs, corn, raspberries, radishes, and cherries. I learned a huge amount from the two of them, and I'm sure you all will, too. As an added bonus, Sean was kind enough to fill his post with links to all the recipes we discuss in the video.

Enjoy!

The tree giveth, and the tree taketh away.

Plucking a ripe fruit from a tree is ridiculous. It's crazy, and it makes no sense.

How can something so pretty, that tastes so sweet, grow outside on a tree where anybody -- an escaped convict, a gangly teenager, a nun -- could just grab it and eat it without permission? Even a bird can do this. A stupid bird can just fly up to a fruit tree, stick its nose in the tree's business, and eat its wares. Then it can fly back to its little bird-family in its little bird-nest and pretend that nothing ever happened. If its wife sees apricot nectar dribbling down its feathery chin, the bird can totally lie and pretend it has no idea what she's talking about.

We have a single apricot tree in our front yard, and about a month ago, in a fury of fruity fertility, the tree burst forth with the ripest, juiciest, most perfumey apricots imaginable. We basically touched the branches and the fruit fell into our palms, like it was giving itself over to us completely for our own pleasure, and asking nothing whatsoever in return.

Forty-eight hours later, the fruit started to drop to the ground. Every time we'd step outside, we'd see a ring of apricots lying silently next to the trunk, looking sort of sad and yearning. So we'd gather them up and bring them inside and eat them with eager hands and greedy, pulp-sucking mouths.

Two days after that, the gig was up. The tree's leaves flushed green again, and there was no sign that any fruit had ever existed or ever would again. It was farcical, the speed with which this tree produced, pleasured, and withdrew its sticky riches.

Happily, last weekend, in a stroke of phenomenal fortune, our luck turned again. My friend Katy emailed me late Saturday night...

Can I interest you in apricot picking? 

Yes, Katy.

Yes, you can. 

...

Recipe for Apricot Oatmeal with lemon lavender glazed almonds

When apricots are super-ripe, they basically fall apart, and even breathing on them is too much for their delicate flesh. Best to cook something else -- oatmeal, say, and honey-caramelized nuts tickled with lemon and lavender. Then crown each bowl with fresh, ripe, unadulterated apricots, placing them face-up, ready, and prone.

Serves 4

2 cups old-fashioned oats
Salt
1 tablespoon butter
2 tablespoons honey
1 cup dry-roasted, unsalted almonds
2 teaspoons (lightly packed) lemon zest, divided (from 1 large or 2 small lemons) 
1/4 teaspoon culinary lavender, divided
8 small, ripe apricots, cut into quarters or eighths
Cold milk or cream, for dribbling

Bring 4 cups of water to a boil in a medium saucepan. Add the oats and a pinch of salt. Give a stir, reduce heat to medium-low, partly cover, and let bubble gently for about 10 minutes, stirring twice. Turn off the burner, cover fully, and let stand off-heat for 10 minutes.

Meanwhile, make the glazed almonds. Place a large, wide skillet over medium-high heat. Add the butter and honey, and when the butter melts, swirl the skillet a few times to combine evenly. Add the almonds, a good pinch of salt, half the lemon zest, and half the lavender. Stir constantly for one minute with a heatproof spatula until bubbly and glossy. Remove from the heat.

To serve, divide the oatmeal among 4 bowls. (I don't sweeten my oatmeal when I'm topping it with sweet fruit and nuts, but by all means, if you want to sweeten yours with brown sugar, maple syrup, or honey, go for it.) Scrape the caramelly almonds up with a spoon and divide among the bowls. (Don't neglect the sticky part -- rewarm the skillet to loosen the caramel, if necessary.) Top with the apricots, and sprinkle with the remaining lemon zest and lavender. Dribble with milk or cream.

printable pdf

{If you have leftover lavender, go ahead and make these lavender and mint ice cream sandwiches.}

Ripe Party at the Rustic Garden Bistro

Join us.

Outside.

In the garden.

Under the stars.

We will be serving a complete, 5 course meal from Ripe, followed by a potluck dessert buffet. 

We will drink festive libations. Talk about fruit. Commune with vegetables. Discuss life. Get to know each other. Share stories while we share a meal. Then I will do a reading and sign some books with the neatest handwriting I can muster. But please: make sure I don't drink more than one glass of wine. I am a Notorious Lightweight. Note the capital N and capital L. Now imagine them highlighted. And in 34 point.

Many thanks to my friend Kim Burnell, hostess for the evening. She's the owner of a home with what I understand to be a stunning edible garden in Orange County, California. And she's generously opening her garden for this special event on Saturday, July 21. 

If you live in the LA / Orange County area, or know folks who do, please pass along this invitation. While anyone may attend, you get first dibs. Bring a friend, or three.

Click the EventBrite link to get all the details and snag your ticket before they're gone. (Space is limited.) http://ripeinthegarden.eventbrite.com/

And if you don't live in Southern California, but you do like the idea of hosting a Ripe party sometime in the future, please let me know. I'm game to exploring similar parties in other cities. 

Let's talk.

Red Bull: Now at a farmers' market near you.

My original plan was to toss up that photo and just let you discuss it, but a bit of context may be helpful.

A few weeks ago, while at the farmers' market with my kids, I noticed two young women sporting huge Red Bull backpacks. They were handing out free drinks to the vendors.

"Hi, there! Would you like a free Red Bull?"

They were chirky and cute. People noticed. Some stared.

When I first saw them, I assumed they were there to market their product to actual shoppers, but no, their stated purpose was to be kind to the vendors alone. You know, give them a little lift on a long, hot workday.

But was it really?

My kids and I followed them around for a bit. The market is small, and crowded, and I was intrigued because branded promotional activity of this  sort never happens here. The vendors are the same folks week after week. I know several of them.

Had they asked the farmers' market association if they could have rented a stall or table, I'm not sure they would have been approved (though who knows?), but in simply walking around I'm guessing they couldn't be accused of breaking any rules. Also, they weren't selling anything, right? They were just giving farmers and vendors, who had probably woken up very early to make the long drive to San Jose, the generous gift of quaffable energy.

Some vendors accepted; others declined.

I was going to explain to my boys what a health halo was, but I didn't have to. They've lived with me long enough. "What do you think is going on here?" I asked.

My 10-year-old answered, after a beat. "I think they want people to see the farmers drinking Red Bull near all the fruits and vegetables. Then people will think it's healthy."

Smart boy.

In a surprising discovery, Red Bull's current marketing plan is posted online here, accessible through a simple Google search.

One of their 3 goals is to "Position Red Bull as an alternative to coffee." Another is to "Increase interest in Red Bull among males and females age 35 to 65."

Finally, this: "Through the following year, Red Bull has set a goal to increase revenue by 20% $6.22 billion. By gaining customers in a new demographic, as well as releasing a revamped campaign, Red Bull believes this is possible."

Psst, hey, new demographic: is it possible?

Are you thirsty?

Never Judge A Vegetable By Its Resemblance to a Hairball

Celeriac looks like something the cat coughed up.

And yet, anyone who has had the pleasure of visiting France will be familiar with céleri rémoulade, a cool-crunchy-creamy-tangy side often served with carottes râpées, or shredded carrot salad. Think about potato salad and coleslaw, then stop thinking about them and think about céleri rémoulade and carottes râpées instead. Now think about eating them on a horse. Now think about the Old Spice Man eating them on a horse. Whatever. Give me carottes râpées, give me céleri rémoulade, give me riz au lait (French rice pudding), and then get out of my way.

My love for this dish aside, I'd never bought a whole celeriac -- also called celery root -- to make it myself. Why? Because this is generally me at the market: Hmm, should I buy the bright purple eggplant, the gorgeous rainbow chard, or the terrifying-looking hairball? I rest my case.

But last weekend, I bit the bullet. And to my great surprise, eating céleri rémoulade in America is just as delicious as eating it in Paris, and making it takes only 15 minutes. It's even quite beautiful if you tangle it up with golden beets.

True, most of us can't eat celeriac while picnicking by the Seine.

But we can eat it while unloading the dishwasher, or sorting the mail, or reading the news, wide-eyed and sober, with the heaviest of hearts.

...

Recipe for Golden Beet and Celeriac Remoulade

I adapted this recipe from Nigel Slater, whose dressing offers the perfect balance of creaminess, tanginess, and je ne sais quoi.  Adding golden beets pumps up the salad's visual appeal and adds a second layer of earthy sweetness.

Serves 8

1 pound celeriac, about 1 medium
10 ounces golden beets (you can see I found a large one above, or substitute 2-3 medium)
Juice of 1 Meyer lemon (about 1/4 cup), divided
3 tablespoons mayonnaise
2 tablespoons Dijon mustard
1 tablespoon sour cream
1/3 to 1/2 cup finely chopped parsley, or a combination of parsley and chives (which I used)

Peel the celeriac and the beet(s). I used a peeler first but then switched to a knife about halfway through. When peeling the celeriac, remove both the outer brown skin as well as the light green layer under the peel (if yours has it).  Cut into chunks.  Shred, preferably with the medium shredding disk of a food processor, if you have one.  Transfer to a large serving bowl and toss with half the lemon juice.

Whisk the remaining lemon juice, mayo, dijon, and sour cream and scrape over the vegetables. Top with the herbs and toss through. I actually didn't need salt and pepper, but season, if desired, to your liking. Serve immediately.

printable pdf

Tomatoland

I hear some of you gnawing on crisp fall pears.  Gnaw, gnaw, gnaw.  Chomp, chomp, chomp. It’s kind of annoying, actually.  For while you’re pearing, wearing fleece v-necks, simmering stews, and bobbing for apples, it's 97 degrees here and I'm still in Tomatoland.  Would you mind holding the door open while I hustle through with this skillet?

Thanks.  And now, as a reward for your act of fine courtesy, for your gesture of politesse, I shall offer you this gold-tinged side.  It's one you'll want to make before the sun fully sets and the gray clouds roll in.  If your tomatoes still cling to their waxy green vines, twist those suckers off like you mean it and grab a few big onions from your pantry.

Cause we can talk about tomatoes all we like, we can write odes and poems and sonnets to them, but the real star of this particular theatrical production is actually a giant, twirling morass of onions that has been caramelized into submission and kissed with a sprinkling of powdered sunshine, or, as they call it in India, turmeric.

I know summer's long gone for many of you, and I do want to be sensitive to your whereabouts, wherever those whereabouts may be.  (Where are your whereabouts exactly?)  If you're over tomatoes, if they're as dead to you as a schoolyard bully, if your weather's too brisk and your rains have come in and you've moved on emotionally to pumpkins and roasts and hay bales, please don't despair.  I hereby grant you special dispensation to crisp up cubes of butternut squash and toss them on the onions and the beady little couscous, in the tomatoes' stead. 

And next year, when the summer sun rises anew, you can enter Tomatoland refreshed and revived, and there I'll be, holding the door open, waving you through with a nod and a smile.
...

Recipe for Israeli Couscous with turmeric, caramelized onions, and tomatoes

A beautiful, sunny side open to infinite additions -- I was tempted to toss in olives, feta, even cubes of lamb -- this dish will brighten up your kitchen, or perhaps your entire zip code.  Makes a terrific potluck offering, too.  The onions will take about 30 minutes to cook, so plan accordingly.

Serves 6 to 8

2 cups Israeli couscous 
Kosher salt
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
3 large yellow onions (Spanish or sweet), halved and sliced
1 tablespoon brown sugar
1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar
3/4 teaspoon turmeric
1 pint cherry tomatoes, halved

Drop the couscous into a large pot of rapidly boiling, salted water, and cook like pasta, until al dente, about 7 minutes.  Drain and rinse briefly under cool water.

Meanwhile, caramelize the onions.  Heat the olive oil in a large, wide skillet over medium-high heat, then add the onions and 1/2 teaspoon salt.  Saute, tossing occasionally with tongs, for about 15 minutes.  Sprinkle in the brown sugar, balsamic, turmeric, and 1/4 teaspoon more salt, and continue cooking, and giving a stir or two, over this assertive heat for 5 more minutes.  Then reduce the heat to low and cook, tossing frequently, for 10 minutes longer, or until very soft, glisteny, and sweet.

Stir in the cooked couscous, top with the tomatoes, and serve warm, or at room temperature.

printable pdf

Unhinged

The question wasn't directed at me, but I responded anyway.  "I'll try one," I said, palm open as I walked towards Grace, a woman whose name I learned only after she handed me a fresh-from-the-tree pistachio.  Though I'd eaten pistachios for decades, this was the first time I cradled one still in its pod, and I felt a little protective of it, as though it were alive.

The outer casing was tender, rubbery.  I pierced it with my thumbnail, a gentle act that nonetheless cleaved it in two, causing the skin to slacken and unfurl.  Inside -- now the middle layer -- sat the hard, familiar clam-shaped shell, which I unhinged with a snap. And there it was, the prize: barely green, with rosy cheeks, the nutmeat blushed, like I'd caught it in an act of transgression.

I handed Grace a few bucks, thanked her for the experience and the education, and took a small bag of fresh pistachios home from my local market.  Then I slit, unfurled, unhinged, and popped them into my mouth, one after another after another. Their flavor was subtle, their crunch, muted, because they hadn't yet been salted or roasted, which is how they're nearly always sold in stores. 

And then they were gone, and all that was left was a tower of spent husks and shells, and a dusty mess to wipe clean and erase.

And then I thought, I need to get out more.  I need to go where the pistachio trees grow, and pluck one from its gnarly branch myself.  I need to visit an avocado orchard. I need to sit under a Cretian olive tree.  I need slurp noodles in Japan and eat felafel in Israel.  I need to go to Morocco, and wander aimlessly through a spice market and eat couscous and tagine and b'stilla.  I need to get to India.  Argentina.  Singapore.  Laos.

Who's with me?

Roots

Going home is strange. 

There comes a time, when you're so involved in your own life, and your own nuclear family, that you fully define yourself within the parameters of your present: your kids, your job, your friends, your community.  Many days, it's easy to believe that's all there is.

But then there are your roots.  And depending on where you live now, and where you grew up, there may be a wide geographic gulf between the two.

My roots lie far away, deep on the opposite coast, where my parents, siblings, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins all lived.  I alone veered west.

So there's always a shift, a readjustment, when I return home each summer.

For starters, when I wake up in my old house, I'm instantly aware that I'm a daughter. It catches me off guard that I'm actually someone's kid.  How utterly novel!  An hour or two later -- that's all it takes -- California starts to recede, and New York, and my past, take center stage.  

One morning last week, while back in my hometown, I took a walk. Without quite realizing it, I come upon the secret passageway -- a narrow stretch of dirt, wooded on either side, that connects two different neighborhoods, and one that I crossed many times, warily, in my youth.  As I walk through it this time, looking this way and that, I get the same adrenaline rush I did when I was young.  What if there's a creepy man in the bushes?!  What if I get kidnapped and no one knows I'm missing?!  What if I wipe out, crack my head on a rock, and spontaneously die, never to be seen again?!  When I emerge through the clearing, three minutes later on the other side, I am sweating, and victorious.  I did it!  I traversed the secret passageway!  I am the most powerful person in the history of the world!

I return home, nibble a plum, and I realize, almost by accident, how lucky I am.  New York, it turns out, is a pretty cool place to have roots.  I adore California, really adore it, and I don't plan to leave, but my roots are definitely in New York, and like it or not, they run very, very deep.

I sigh, finish my plum, and go upstairs to make my bed.

Learn!

There are two kinds of people in the world: 1) those who want to eat the scones in front of them and then go merrily about their very responsible, orderly lives, and 2) those who want to photograph their scones, then write about them, then eat them, then make more, then write about those, then photograph them.  Then make more.

I fall squarely in the first camp.

Kidding!

If you're a food blogger, or someone interested in learning a little more about the craft/art/mania that is food blogging, or food writing in general, or if you want to explore travel writing, or photography, or Northern California, or see what shoes I'll be wearing next weekend, you may want to attend the Book Passage Travel, Food & Photography Conference coming up in Corte Madera.  

I'll be speaking on a food blogging panel with the intelligent and talented Amy Sherman from Cooking with Amy and the sage and knowledgeable Dianne Jacob of Will Write for Food.  (Have you not bought the new version of Dianne's food writing handbook yet?  And why not?)  Our three hour session will cover all aspects of food blogging, and I'll be leading a special hour-long breakout on basic food photography and styling techniques.

Here's the agenda for the three and a half day meeting, and here's the full list of conference faculty who will be speaking and presenting.  The conference website reads: "The faculty includes publishers, magazine editors, photographers, travel essayists, food writers, restaurateurs, guidebook writers, and more. There are hours of informal interaction between faculty and students during lunch and in discussions that often last late into the evening."

Of course, you can always just sit home and eat scones by yourself, and that's cool.  But eating them with me would be fun, too.