5 second rule

I know a place where everything's amazing.

I don't care how well-traveled you are, when you're ensconced in your own culture, you tend to stop noticing things.

I've been to lots of places: Europe. Africa. Mexico. The Middle East. I know what it means to see the world through foreign eyes, to feel my skin tingle when my plane touches down and new sights, sounds, and smells bombard my head. I know that excitement, that honor, of witnessing life somewhere else, and feeling my pulse quicken at everything, and nothing at all.

But when I'm home, I forget to apply the same sense of wonder to my own world, my own surroundings.

Everything's familiar, with softened edges. Colors look nice, but don't really sparkle. Smells can be good, but they don't intoxicate. It's just... home. And while I love home, and the world around me, I'm rarely thrust outside myself and forced to see it anew.

I had this chance a few weeks ago, and it changed everything.

A teenager from a small Swiss town joined our family for 2 weeks as part of an exchange program. At 6"3 and 17-years-old, this was no young child. But it was his first time in the U.S., so everything about this place was new to him.

He marveled at the size of the airport. The width of the highway. The tanker trucks whizzing by.

Couldn't believe the enormity of our refrigerator, and took a photo to remember.

When we ate out, he was utterly wowed by the free tap water in every restaurant, and each time a waiter filled his glass, he broke out in a huge, gleaming smile. "We have to pay for this in Switzerland," he explained. "It's incredible!"

He ate his first grilled cheese, his first sweet potato fries, his first true American hamburger.

We were on vacation for a few days, and so we drove him down the California coast, playing tourist alongside him. At the house we rented, we found an old record player and a beat-up Monopoly game. My kids taught him the rules (buy Boardwalk if you can, always collect your $200) while my husband slipped a Stevie Wonder LP on the turntable.

Can you imagine hearing Stevie Wonder for the very first time? The sheer joy of that man's inimitable sound?

When we hit the pier later that day and stopped at a gift shop, I pointed out his name on a mini California license plate, the kind sold on key chains in every American city, every tourist spot coast to coast.

Think about it: You've seen these things a million times. They're... chintzy. But to someone who has never seen his name on a mini-license plate, I'm telling you, his reaction was priceless.

When we returned to the Bay Area, we took him to San Francisco. Spent a few hours on Alcatraz, and ate a good lunch. Then we boarded a double-decker tour bus to circle the city.

The day was warm, and unseasonably calm. We settled in open-air seats up on top, felt the sun kiss our cheeks.

We expected the tour to take two hours, three max, but traffic snarled midway through, and the bus started crawling. One hour turned to two, two to three, and, finally, three turned to four. Deep in that fourth hour, we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge. The sun dipped low, the wind whipped high. Behind us, the city glowed pink. 

I looked at this young man, and I apologized. It had been a long day, and I was eager to get us all home. I knew he must be cold, and hungry, and exhausted. I certainly was.

"I'm so sorry," I said, more than once.

He smiled the first time I said it, but the second time he spoke up.

"I'm in San Francisco!" he blurted. "In California! In America! The Golden Gate Bridge is behind me, and the sunset is incredible. It's amazing!"

I relaxed. 

He was right.

It really was amazing.

 The next day, he and the boys were looking for something to do.

"Have you ever had lemonade?" I asked him.

"No," he answered. "What's that?"

"Go pick some lemons from the tree out front," I said. 

And he did.

I got down the citrus juicer.

And we showed him how to make his first lemonade.

We took a sip, and this time we all agreed:

It really was amazing.

Let me show you another way.

Day five of my guest teaching stint at Rancho La Puerta changed everything.

I'll tell you about days one through four at some point, probably, but chronology is over-rated and sometimes it's best to fast-forward. This time, we'll start in the middle.

Let me show you another way, said Barbara from San Diego, a new friend, a lovely soul.

And boom, just like that, the phrase drilled down deep. Etched in my bones, danced on my tongue, tickled my skin like butterfly wings.

Let me show you another way. 

We'd finished our hike, three miles, maybe four, as the sun rose over the Mexican hills. We stretched on metal bars -- first hamstrings, then calves, quads, hip flexors, backs. Then we turned, my friend Denise and I, to walk towards the dining hall.

Let me show you another way, said Barbara.

Gently, softly.

If you're a parent, like me, you correct your kids all the time. Feet off the table, napkin on your lap, stop chewing with your mouth open. Clean your fingernails, pick up your socks, walk the dog, finish your homework. The words fly out in a torrent, brisk and rushed, with no thought to tone. It's just what we do: we say what's right, what's best, what we need to convey. 

If you're not a parent, but a kid -- I don't care how old -- you've heard this from others. Call me more often, stop working so hard, get more rest, be nice to your sister. They're commands, all, and we flow through our days issuing them, dodging them, being caught in their wake.

The meaning is clear: I know what I'm saying. Do this, do that, my way, the right way.

Let me show you another way.

When Barbara uttered these words, Denise and I were turning the wrong way. We both lack a sense of direction, and for the first four days of the trip we'd walked a longer loop after our hikes to head towards breakfast. We'd get lost, and eventually someone would set us on the proper path. We had no clue there was another, shorter way.

And Barbara could have said anything to correct us. Turn this way, perhaps. Or why are you going that way? It's over here. This way's quicker. You're heading in the wrong direction.

But she didn't. Instead, she touched my elbow, just barely. 

Let me show you another way.

She knew her way was better, smarter, quicker, closer, but in choosing her words, using phrasing so deliberate, so nonjudgmental, she stopped me cold.

Epiphany.

I got home a few days ago.

My son Alex was helping me cook. He grasped the knife.

My instinct, my gut would have blurted: No, not like that. Like this. Watch how I do it. Listen to me. I need to teach you. Learn from me. Pay attention. Be more careful.

But I didn't.

Let me show you another way, I told him.

And I did.

...

Recipe for Jeera Spa Water

Last week I was the guest culinary instructor at Rancho La Puerta, a spa in the heart of Tecate, Mexico. Clean living, exercise, the outdoors, and health are its raison d'être, and to that end, filtered water is the primary beverage. At each meal, glass water bottles generally sport fresh herbs and occasionally small fruits from the site's organic gardens. 

Before my trip, I'd interviewed a friend who lives in South India for my yogurt book. She'd told me about jeera water, a common drink in which cumin seeds are steeped in water to create a kind of tea. It's a health tonic, easing digestion and promoting hydration and wellness.

I returned from Mexico and immediately combined the two influences: herbs from my garden, toasted cumin for added flavor and depth.

You can keep drinking plain water. But let me show you another way.

Makes 1 bottle 

1-1/2 teaspoons whole cumin seeds
Fresh garden herbs: such as mint, tarragon, parsley, cilantro, thyme, or a combination
Filtered water

In a small, dry skillet, toast the cumin seeds (called jeera in India) for 2 to 3 minutes over medium heat, shaking the skillet so they don't burn. Cool briefly.

Stuff a few handfuls of fresh herbs in a tall glass water bottle. Using a funnel, add the toasted cumin seeds. Fill with filtered water. Drink immediately, or refrigerate and continue to top off the water as you use it. I actually enjoy it at room temperature and find I drink much more when it's tepid.

If you have trouble remembering to stay hydrated, try this.

printable pdf

Let's get fizzy.

In 1998, Colin and I attended the wedding of our mutual friend Alex. After the beautiful outdoor ceremony, we went inside to stuff our faces, dance, and enjoy the reception. It was a great night, as weddings tend to be.

But this one broke with tradition, massively, when it came to wedding favors. No engraved M&Ms, tiny bottles of bubbles, or pastel-colored Jordan Almonds for this couple. Alex and Jodi had spent the weeks before the wedding brewing their own beer, and they sent home bottles with all their guests.

Maybe in 2013 this doesn't surprise you. Maybe this is a "thing" now, in places like Brooklyn or Portland. But back in 1998, I can assure you: it was pretty epic.

Other than Alex, I'd never met anyone bitten by the homebrewing bug until I crossed paths with Emma Christensen, a writer and editor who moved to the Bay Area in 2011. Turns out, Emma and I had similar educational biographies. I'm a Haverford alumna, and she's a Bryn Mawr grad. (They're sibling colleges in Pennsylvania.) Years later, we both attended the Cambridge School of Culinary Arts in Massachusetts, though I preceded Emma by several years. Though we'd never met in person before setting foot in a Sunnyvale, California coffee shop, we became fast friends.

In True Brews: How to Craft Fermented Cider, Beer, Wine, Sake, Soda, Mead, Kefir, and Kombucha at Home (Ten Speed Press, 2013), Emma presents an accessible and stylish primer for the homebrewing enthusiast. Though homebrewing does require a small, initial investment in some special equipment and ingredients, Emma breaks down the process itself in friendly terms, with plenty of step-by-step photos, troubleshooting guidance, and clear, fluid prose. Best of all: the recipes are all geared towards small batches, meaning 1 gallon or less. You don't need an extra attic for supplies.

I know people who are obsessed with kombucha, and these folks probably don't know how easy it is to make at home. Same with kefir. (I think Whole Foods is getting plenty rich off of these two drinks, in particular.) For each recipe in True Brews, you do need to buy a starter culture (something called a Scoby in the case of kombucha, and kefir grains in the case of kefir), but many of them can be reused, and the techniques themselves aren't difficult to master. Let's be clear, though: homebrewing is a skill. Plan for a bit of trial and error. 

Emma and I both sold our cookbooks at a local bookstore last month. I was selling Ripe, but now that I'm writing my own book about a fermented food (yogurt, as you know, is fermented), I was curious to see who would stop by Emma's table.  What does a homebrewing aficionado look like? Would they all be super-alternative? 

Nah. They were everyman and everywoman. Folks went bananas over Emma's book, and their enthusiasm for the ins and outs of fermented drinks was contagious.

If you know anyone bitten by the homebrewing bug -- whether we're talking alcoholic beverages like beer, wine, mead, hard cider, or sake, more traditional health tonic-type drinks like kombucha or kefir, or even naturally-fermented homemade sodas (which rely on something called champagne yeast) -- you'll want to introduce them to this book. And if you yourself are looking for a new hobby and want to master a new skillset, give True Brews a look. Most towns have a brew shop which can set you up with equipment and supplies, and Emma also lists online sources in the back of the book.

Have you guys ever tried homebrewing?

Today I was a fallow field.

Today I was a fallow field. 

Outside, undisturbed, I sat sun-drenched. Book open, eyes drifting. First I saw a printed page. Then, the inside of my eyelids.

I may have dozed.

Twice.

We always go, don't we? We wake, eat, scurry, work, greet -- (hello, goodbye) -- drive, cook, clean, read, kiss, yawn.

At night, for some of us, sleep doesn't come. Gears turn in endless loops, our tape-deck caught on autoreverse. Our off-button's cracked, our on-button jammed, stuck, locked into place.

We are plots forever planted.

Rain, sun, sprout, grow, tend, pluck, and then, before we look up, before we draw a single, cleansing breath, the cycle starts anew.

Except last week.

Last week everything screeched to a sudden, terrifying halt.

Trauma. Drama. Soul-crushing, horror-gazing, disbelieving, heart-searching, peace-rending, body-aching, car-chasing, fear-numbing halt.

And then.

A forced re-set.

(For us, the lucky ones.)

Today, for an hour, I sat in the sun. Listened to the sound of nothing. Didn't let my body move. Absorbed the rays of solace, peace, and warming calm. Told inner voices shhhhhhh.

Today I was a fallow field.

Tomorrow?

...

Recipe for Golden Frittata with potatoes, peas, and parmesan

I had in my head a frittata-vision, eggs sun-golden, peas emerald, potatoes ruby-red. So I made it, for you. This is perfectly lovely hot or warm, but it's especially outstanding at room temperature. This means you can make it ahead, and then go outside and forget about it, and everything else, for a good long while.

Serves 4

4 medium new potatoes, unpeeled, scrubbed
4 eggs
1 egg yolk
1 tablespoon heavy cream
1/8 teaspoon dry mustard
1/8 teaspoon turmeric
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1/3 cup fresh English peas
3 tablespoons freshly grated Parmesan cheese
Handful pea shoots or tender spring herbs, for scattering

Set the potatoes in a small pot of cool water. Bring up to a boil. Simmer until tender, about 10 minutes, give or take. Cool completely. Slice thickly.

Meanwhile, in a large bowl, whisk the eggs, yolk, cream, dry mustard, and turmeric. Season generously with salt and pepper. Flip on the broiler with a rack about 5 inches from the heat source.

Heat the olive oil in a 9-1/2 inch cast-iron skillet over medium-high heat. Add the potato slices, and crisp on both sides until nicely browned. Add the egg mixture, the peas, and the Parmesan. Cook, lifting up portions of the frittata as it sets, swirling a silicone spatula around the edges to keep everything nice and loose. You want the liquid eggs to flow towards the edges and then slip underneath so it begins to set first in portions, and then all around. After about 3 minutes on the stove, transfer the skillet to the broiler. Broil, watching carefully, until puffed, golden brown, and set, 1-1/2 to 2 minutes only.

Remove from the oven. Cool to room temperature, if desired. Add the pea shoots or herbs just before serving. (If they sit too long on a hot or even warm frittata, they'll wilt.) Cut into wedges.

printable pdf

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?

Tasting Oregon: land of freekeh, cow parsnips, and verjusette (pt. 1 of 2)

Last weekend, Travel Oregon invited me and about 20 others to experience the culinary scene both within and beyond Portland's borders. Disclosure: they paid for everything.

My hope is that even though my expenses were paid, I can still provide meaningful, informative food coverage of some locales worth visiting. I try to be thoughtful. I try to approach these experiences with a critical eye. But whether I've succeeded is ultimately for you to determine yourselves.

Below is a key to my photos, which appear in the slide show above. In a follow-up post, I'll introduce you to some local artisans and their food crafts, and give you my sense of this changing, growing, youthful, and very quirky city -- warts and all.

Frame 1. Lovely Mt. Hood on a clear September day. Kayaks drifted. Trillium Lake sparkled. Flowers flowered.

Frame 2. A picnic bench at Penner-Ash Winery (15771 NE Ribbon Ridge Road, Newberg, OR). Dusk. I wanted to lie on that table, flat on my back, and gaze at the sky.

Frame 3. Powell's (flagship: 1005 W Burnside, Portland). I wandered the 68,000 square-foot bookstore, then got lost walking back to the hotel even while using the turn-by-turn on my phone's GPS. This is not unusual for me.

Frame 4. Dinner at St. Jack (2039 SE Clinton Street, Portland), named 2011 Rising Star of the Year by the The Oregonion. Highlights included the crispy-salty frites, chicken liver mousse, and...

Frame 5. ...a dessert of plums and vanilla poached pluots.

Frame 6. I like tea. This is no surprise. Portland is home to a fine little shop called Steven Smith Teamaker (1626 NW Thurman Street, Portland), which I'd toured back in 2010. Pictured is one of their herbal bags (Meadow?). I'd like to tape it above my desk, for art. It's prettier than what's up there now, which are some crappily framed postcards I bought when I was 17.

Frame 7. Dr. John Kallas led us on a leisurely forage through the woods and took care to point out several leaves and berries that would cause hemorrhaging and instant death should we consume them. I'd had romantic visions of piling a wicker basket high with chanterelles, or pretty twigs, but there was something equally pleasant, and less taxing, about listening to him speak knowledgeably about huckleberries, thimbleberries, baneberries, and cow parsnips, the lower stem of which can be peeled and eaten like a banana. I bet you did not know this.

Frame 8. A foraged salad at Timberline Lodge (27500 E Timberline Road), a ski lodge founded in the 1930s in the throes of the Great Depression under Roosevelt's New Deal. If you're an architecture buff, you'll enjoy this place and its historical importance. There were a lot of old people milling about, but that didn't faze me because a) I enjoy old people, and b) I was fed a salad of smooth yellow violet, indian paintbrush, wild ginger, tiny tomatoes, bush berries, huckleberries, and verjusette. I swear I did make any of that up. Executive Chef Jason Stoller Smith knows how to make food plucked from the forest taste like it came right from the earth. Oh, wait.

Frame 9. He also knows how to make ice cream threaded with pineapple weed, which pairs especially well with peaches and something he casually refers to as vanilla-olive oil powder.

Frame 10. Picturesque McCurdy Farms orchard (2080 Tucker Road, Hood River). The pears here grow in bottles. I'm not kidding. They grow inside bottles. More on that next time.

Frame 11. Here is a pear. I do recognize that this one is not, in fact, growing inside a bottle.

Frame 12. This man is making burgers on the roof-deck of the Wieden+Kennedy Ad Agency, which  handles accounts for Nike, Kraft, Target, and (dingdingding) Travel Oregon. The building itself is crazy-ridiculous and security guards about the same age as my kids are apparently keeping all kinds of corporate secrets very safe. I'm glad they were there protecting me, too, since I was very busy eating sliders.

Frame 13. Sliders! These are the beef ones from Chef Gregory Denton of Metrovino (1139 NW 11th, Portland). They had a fancy sauce. (The menu actually said "fancy sauce.")

Frame 14. A close-in, mildly disorienting look at a gorgeous freekeh salad with toasted hazelnuts, pickled cherries (!), and borage flowers (!) from Chef Scott Dolich of Park Kitchen (422 NW 8th, Portland). Freekeh is a grain. Borage is a flower. They are both real things.

Frame 15. Dark chocolate-dipped caramels with sea salt. I dipped them myself. More on those next time.

Frame 16. And this is the real spirit of Oregon right here. There were 3 unscripted moments in the trip, all on the last day. Passing this sign while boarding my flight home was one of them. You'll have to wait for the other two.

Go on now.

Get out of here.

Is Your Body Craving Antioxidants? You Need Soda.

Stuff like this used to make me mad.  I'd see it and think, how on earth can a company get approval to slap "antioxidant" on a soda simply by injecting it with vitamin E?  Isn't there some law, or international treaty, banning this type of thing?  And then I realized, maybe I'm wrong.  Maybe the problem's with ME.  After all, I do know basic logic.  It's easy, and super, SUPER fun.

Watch and learn:

If antioxidants like vitamin E are good for me AND Diet Cherry 7-Up has vitamin E, THEN Diet Cherry 7-Up is good for me.

Also:

If Diet Cherry 7-Up is red AND cherries are red, THEN Diet Cherry 7-Up has cherries.

Also:

If roast beef is red AND Diet Cherry 7-Up is red, THEN Diet Cherry 7-Up has roast beef.

Also:

If Jergens Replenishing Vitamin E Lotion has vitamin E AND Diet Cherry 7-Up has vitamin E, THEN Diet Cherry 7-Up has Jergens Replenishing Vitamin E Lotion.

It's all starting to make sense now.  Let's play more.

If Diet Cherry 7-Up has a picture of a cherry on it AND I chalk a picture of a cherry on my driveway, THEN I can drink my driveway.

Also:

If cherries grow on trees AND Diet Cherry 7-Up has cherries, THEN Diet Cherry 7-Up grows on trees.

And finally:

If antioxidants may help prevent cancer AND Diet Cherry 7-Up has antioxidants, THEN Diet Cherry 7-Up may help prevent cancer.

And this last conclusion, of course, is the one we were being led to all along.

Nostalgia

When was the last time you had a root beer float?  If it was more than 3 years ago, that's just sad.

Why is it that foods that brought us such great pleasure in our youth so rarely make an appearance in our adulthood?  Is it because they're unhealthy?  Made by people who have since moved on to the great beyond, or to Florida?  Or is it because we simply forget about them?

Here are a few of the foods I relished as a person less old than I am now.  Foods I genuinely loved.  Foods I thought of as I fell asleep, that made my heart do backflips, that made me absolutely love being alive.

1.  Cinnamon toast.  I'd slather on the butter from the edges to the center, so any butter left on the knife would rest right in the bulls-eye, melting into a little crater.  The cinnamon sugar was premixed McCormick, from the spice aisle, and I always accidentally shook on too much. 

2.  Butterfish.  My maternal grandmother, Eve, always served butterfish, sturgeon, and lox on Sunday mornings.  We'd have bagels and cream cheese, too, and little cherry tomatoes from her garden.  I have absolutely no idea when I last ate butterfish. 

3.  Soup nuts.  My paternal grandmother, Sarah, used to serve her soup with these puffy, crispy bread pouffs marketed as soup nuts, even though they weren't nuts.  The last time I ate, or even saw, a soup nut was probably in the 80s, when Dexy's Midnight Runners ruled the airwaves.

4.  Grilled Muenster sandwiches.  I used to play with Laurie, Dougie, and Marc, three siblings who lived up the street from me growing up.  Their mom made these melted Muenster sandwiches, and cut them up into cubes.  Have you ever tried a melted Muenster sandwich?  You should.  I think you'd really like it.

5.  Big League Chew.  I don't actually miss Big League Chew, but I do remember shoving an entire pack in my mouth at once. How I didn't choke and die is beyond me.  I should probably be dead right now.

6.  Date Nut Bread.  This I've had, and made, recently. Oh my god.  It's just so good. Here's the recipe.  You'll see.

7. Baked apples.  It's the wrong season now, of course, but a baked apple with cinnamon, butter, and cold cream (not Noxzema) (remember Noxzema? Does anyone still use Noxzema?) was better than pretty much any dessert of my youth.

8.  Sarah Bernhardts.  I was just talking with cookbook author Jennie Schacht about these recently, because she and I grew up in the same hometown.  It turns out that she actually knew the family that owned Jesperson's, the bakery that turned out these insanely addictive chewy almond macaroony things with a hard chocolately cap.  I'm not doing them justice.  Words fail me.  They still haunt me.  Now I'm depressed.

9.  Fiddleheads.  Steamed, with butter and salt. 

10.  Coconut Froz-Fruit.  When I first met Colin, I made some comment about how I needed a coconut Froz-Fruit, and he was like, "What's a Froz-Fruit?"  WHAT'S A FROZ-FRUIT?  Really, Colin?  What's a Froz-Fruit?  Tell me I'm not alone in this particular obsession.  I mean, I'm not alone.  I'm not. 

I'm definitely not.

Fantasy

In my current fantasy, I quit my job and spend my days writing not for magazines, or websites, or cookbook publishers, but for Steven Smith Teamaker.  I went to this soothing little shop recently in Portland, and I'm quite smitten with their whole tea vibe/genre/mystique/aura. 

Each individually-wrapped tea sachet is numbered by blend, and has a funny, pithy little saying.  Steven Smith, listen up: I can write funny, pithy little sayings!  I'm even saving my tea trash for inspiration/research.  No, I'm not saving the spent, soggy leaves, just the colorful sleeves your teabags (sorry, sachets) come in, with instructions like:

"Bring filtered water to 190 degrees.  Steep 3 minutes while practicing ikebana, or Japanese flower arrangement."

That was on the full leaf, antioxidant-rich  #72, with white peony tea leaves, Egyptian chamomile petals, and Chinese osmanthus flowers.  Osmanthus flowers!

Or how about these instructions, which appear on the Lord Bergamot, an Earl-Greyish tea (#55):

"Bring filtered water to a rolling boil.  Steep 5 minutes, while pondering the Earl's affair with the Duchess of Devonshire."

I think I could do this, too.

Let me try...

For mint tea, I would write:

"Bring cheap tap water to a rolling boil.  Steep, while you make the kids' lunchboxes.  Don't forget the ice packs or they'll get food poisoning and die, especially if it's 110 degrees and you've used mayo.  Sip, and picture your feet in Bermudan sand, a minty mojito in hand, convincing yourself the Bermuda Triangle is just a hoax, and that you'll probably be perfectly fine."

Or, for a full leaf black tea, how about:

"Bring water to a rolling boil.  Steep while you wonder why you're not funnier, and why you seem to be making more typos than usual.  Brew a second cup.  Maybe the caffeine will help you focus?"

Now let's try green tea:

"Bring filtered water (I'm only saying this because Smith Teamaker says this, but do most people really use filtered water for their tea? I don't, but maybe I should.  Is something wrong with me?) to a very hot, tea-like temperature.  Steep, while you think about why you don't lift weights, even though you're really  weak, and, let's be frank, you're really not getting any younger."

Steven Smith Teamaker, I'm not making fun of your tea.  Quite the contrary: I've developed quite a fondness for it, especially the Kandy (#23).  I like your style, your humor, and, well, your tea.

I can do this.

Call me.