Small Actions

I'm not naïve and yet I also can't give up the possibility that taking action in small ways makes a difference. Although some days I do give up. I mope or buy a piece of plastic. I tell myself I don't care and I throw the plastic in the trash without a backwards glance. And then possibility, I don't know how, but possibility returns when I'm asleep and there it is waiting for me on the edge of the bed. It still surprises me.

So I've been signing petitions. The first was initiated by the Wildlife Action Center to request a ban of the fishing of bluefin tuna in and near their spawning grounds after the recent BP oil spill centered in their breeding grounds. If there are any still there, they deserve to be left alone.

Then I sent a letter to Hilary. It seems she wants to give corporate awards of excellence to Coca Cola and other bottled water companies. I agree with Food and Water Watch; What is she thinking?

The same day Food Democracy Now! sent an action alert titled, FDA cover up on genetically engineered salmon. Again I put my name to a letter asking, demanding, urging, begging, pleading for the FDA to not approve GE salmon; at least until there is transparent and independent studies done on their impact for an educated and unbiased decision.

Food and Water Watch took a different approach to their opposition of GE salmon. They drafted a letter to Barbara Boxer requesting she ask President Obama to deny approval of the 'experimental fish'. I joined them and sent a letter to her too.

And two days ago I took a stand and declared my commitment at Four Years. Go. A commitment to communicate, adopt, educate and create; a stand for a thriving, just and sustainable way of life for all. The wording reminded me of John Lennon and I wanted to hold hands with someone. Anyone. Everyone.

Maybe I am naïve and signing petitions and declaring a commitment to thin air is useless. Completely useless. But naïve or not I can't ignore the possibility, the smallest penny sized possibility that even such small actions can make a difference.

This Place Where Food Grows

I have tolerant friends. Really, I do. They've been patient as I've gone from rabid locavore, to igniting my hair on fire at the plight of farm workers; from talking about industrial food to simply serving them a pastured fried egg and letting them taste the difference. I've seen them exchange the look, eyes rolled up to their foreheads when I've cornered the conversation; gmo's, corn, the loosing game of plastic packaging. But I'm getting better. They would say, I've relaxed. I hope they would say I've relaxed. A little?

Now I've added a new obsession - listing the food I see growing. There's a lot of it. On a walk with a friend we saw still green figs, an orange tree as crowded as a World Series parade. She pointed at honeybees in the back of an industrial park, chickens behind a suburban home. We saw artichokes and rosemary growing through a front fence, an apple tree with a few remaining fruits. There were blackberries, grapes and sage. It was exciting, it was abundance, it was an awakening.

I've long pinched rosemary from the hedge on the corner and walked further for a few fresh leaves of bay. I've generally noticed a fruit tree here, another there and exclaimed over anything with a blossom attached; but food, I haven't been focused on food in the landscape. I'm not talking about gardens, I love those too; I'm talking about the wild edges, forgotten fruit trees, edible landscapes. I'm talking about front yards, back yards, the school yards, the parking lot at the library; I'm talking about the food growing along the paths that connect them. There's an entire menu out there I've overlooked.

And now I'm determined to name this free growing and previously discounted food, acknowledge it and yes, make a point of pointing it out to my friends too. I'm sure they'll want to know so they too can walk down the street and pinch a sprig of spice or gather wild fruit. Or simply appreciate this place where food grows.

The Vanishing of the Bees

Preserving fruit into jars for the season has come to an end and I left the kitchen to see the documentary, Vanishing of the Bees. To be honest I didn't expect much. I read the news, I know the story line; the bees are dieing, it's called Colony Collapse Disorder and there are different theories on the why. The movie told a bigger story though and damn if it didn't get to me; laughter, tears. I left knowing more than when I arrived.

I learned California almond growers upon facing a deficit of bee colonies in recent years imported colonies from Australia. There was footage of the bees on crates loaded by forklift into the belly of a jet. All those little bee suitcases. Kidding. Only about the suitcases. They really imported bees.

Then I learned honey from China is honey plus. It's some part honey with additional ingredients and sold as honey. There were oil barrels of the stuff; honey with lactose, honey with high fructose corn syrup. Which naturally makes it tough for US beekeepers to get a straight price for straight honey. It was another dilemma.

The Vanishing of the Bees is filled with dilemma, filled with drama. There were french beekeepers taking up their arms in the streets of Paris, an organic beekeeper fleeing a gmo corn monoculture to a friendlier farm in Vermont. There was a bonfire of bee boxes after a massive colony collapse, there was a hearing in Washington, DC; corporations not taking responsibility. There were genetically modified seeds impregnated with pesticides.

And there was heart. The big beekeepers in the documentary, competitors, were also friends. When their colonies began collapsing they began talking every day, became each others support. One admitted to talking to his bees. They went to France. They talked to beekeepers there. Their caring beyond business, beyond profits was apparent. As was their fear. Without bees we're all without more than another industry that can't survive.

In came the small organic beekeepers though. They weren't a complete solution but part of one. As were the people planting gardens to attract bees, people buying organic, people choosing products without gmo ingredients. There were as many pieces to the solution of the vanishing of the bees as there were to the problem.

It's a good film. Watch it if you can.

Local On Our Table - September

Farmers' Market
Ancho Cress
Apples
Arugula
Basil
Bell Peppers
Blue Potatoes
Broccoli
Butternut Squash
Cabbage
Cucumbers
Emerald Beaut Plums
Figs
Garlic
Heirloom Tomatoes
Hot Italian Peppers
Jalapenos
Leeks
Lemons
Melon
New Potatoes
Onions
Padron Peppers
Pears
Pluots
Spinach
Strawberries
Sungold Tomatoes
Tazee Peaches
Tomatillas
Zucchini

Back Deck Harvest
Epazote
Basil
Lime
Mint
Oregano
Parsley
Peppers
Thyme
Tomato!

To the Pantry
Betty Anne Plum Conserve w/Rosemary
Emerald Beaut Conserve w/Mint
Flavor Grenade Plum Preserve
Flavor King Pluot Preserve w/Rosemary
Peach and Rose Geranium Conserve
Plain Peach Preserve
TaZee Peach Preserve w/Thyme
San Marzano Tomato Sauce
Strawberry Preserves

Gleaned and Gifted
(From Someone Else's Yard)
Figs
Lemons
Pink Pearl Apples

San Marzano Tomatoes

I've spent the summer canning. Obsessively. Pick a fruit. Any fruit. Okay, a local fruit. It's on my shelf. In a jar, in a syrup, a jam, maybe a jelly or a pickle. I've lost my fear of canning and for the first time I'm putting up everything. This week I'm on tomatoes. San Marzano tomatoes.

I would have passed the San Marzanos up at the farmers' market if I hadn't been told they were good. They look hot house, too shiny, too conformed, all the same size. They look like a chorus line, each one in the same costume. I shop for disheveled heirloom varieties. The lumpy, jowly varieties that are art when sliced in any direction.

The first time I sliced into a polished San Marzano I grimaced. Grocery store, I thought. Not a lot of meat or seeds, or, well, anything. It was nearly hollow. I tossed a few in a pan; with a little heat the skins came easily off. I worked them; but not too much, stirring, pulling out the peels. They became almost delicate.

Not expecting much I put a dimes worth on the end of the wooden spoon. The first taste I didn't believe. I put a nickles worth on the spoon, then a quarter. I was sure. The taste was sunshine. New sunshine. It tasted like the first part of the day when everything is still possible. It tasted pure, pure tomato, and it was love.

I've since slow roasted them, a few hours at 170, peeled back their skin, one half at a time and slid them directly into my mouth, the taste as brilliant as the inner mandala of an heirloom.

And I've turned the San Marzanos into sauce. It didn't take much; a warm pan, a food mill, they melted into sauce as fast as I could get them into jars and seal them.

Winter is going to be sweet.

Local on our Table - August

Farmers' Market
Arugula
Butter Lettuce
Cabbage
Carrots
Cauliflower
Cucumbers
Figs
Garlic
Grapes
Heirloom Tomatoes
Jalapenos
Kentucky Wonder Green Beans
Lemon Cucumbers
Lemons
McIntosh Apples
Melon
Nectarines
New Potatoes
Onions
Peaches
Pluots
Radishes
San Marzano Tomatoes
Spinach
Zucchini

Back Deck Harvest
Lime
Mint
Parsley
Serrano Peppers
Thai Basil
Thai Peppers

To the Pantry
Apple Cider Butter
Blackberry Jam
Figs in a Balsamic Syrup
Fig Jam
Nectarine Jam w/Balsamic
Nectarine Conserve w/Mint Infusion
Nectarine-Plum Preserve w/Rose Geranium
Peach Jam
Plum Jam w/Star Anise
Plumcot Preserve
Roma Tomatoes Squared
San Marzano Tomato Sauce
Slow Roasted Tomatoes

Gleaned and Gifted
(From Someone Else's Yard)
Beets
Garden Roses
Plums

A Fig Carton

I wish I'd come up with this idea. But I didn't. It's someone else's. Someone more creative than me. Someone who has perhaps eaten more figs, more smashed figs than me; and I've eaten my fair share.

This someone, I'd never seen her before, wouldn't recognize her if I saw her again, had an egg carton in hand. She was choosing her figs one by one, perfectly ripe, soft, pliable figs, placing them in the egg carton until there were a dozen. A full purple dozen. Brilliant, I thought. And I did it too, put my figs in a carton.

Another day I cradled a dozen apricots in another egg carton, because they too are tender, so easily bruised. The fruit a precise fit. And for a moment, only a moment, I thought myself creative too.

But really, it was someone else's idea.

I wish I'd stopped to thank her.

Local on our Table - July

Farmers' Market
Apricots
Arugula
Beets
Black Mission Figs
Blueberries
Broccoli
Butter Lettuce
Cabbage
Carrots
Cauliflower
Cherries
Cucumbers
Garlic
Jalapenos
Lemon
Little Gem Lettuce
McIntosh Apples
Nectarines
New Potatoes
Onions
Peaches
Plums
Pluots
Radishes
Tomatoes
Zucchini

Back Deck Harvest
Mint
Parsley
Rose Geranium
Thai Basil

From The Freezer/Pantry

To the Pantry
Apricot Jam
Blenheim Apricots in Rose Geranium Syrup
Blueberries w/Bay
Cherries in Syrup Syrah
Fig Jam
Pickled Beets
Sugared Blackberries
Sugared Raspberries

Gleaned and Gifted
(From Someone Else's Yard)
Bay Leaves
Plums
and more Plums

Planted
Tomatillas
White Nasturtiums

Specialties
Lavendar

I Love Beets

My husband doesn't like beets. He doesn't like them to the point that he has to tell me he doesn't like them each time I bring them into the house. And then he tells me every day they are in the house that he doesn't like them. He disassembles dinner asking, "are there beets in here?"

I love beets.

I loved beets when the only kind I knew came from a can. I don't even know how old I was when I first saw a real beet. I was older still when I first cooked one. All the scrubbing and peeling to cook them has quite frankly made beets in a can seem like not a bad idea. I know they taste better fresh but they've been such a stubborn root to prepare. Until now.

I've learned to simply cook the whole beet in a pot of boiling water. I know, where have I been? It feels like I'm getting away with something it's so easy. With a little coaxing the peels slide off leaving the pure beet jewel. I happily stop right there and eat it. Maybe a dash of salt but it's not required.

Then I saw that Doughgirl was canning beets and I wanted to can pickled beets too. So I did.

And I served them for dinner last night making noises of deliciousness.

"Do you want to taste the brine," I asked my husband.

He dipped his spoon, tasted. Went back for a quarter teaspoon. A little more. I was silent.

"Okay," he said. "I'll taste one."

I hadn't said a word. I was holding my breath. I wanted him to like them but I didn't want him to like them too; I'd only canned three jars.

He put a beet in his mouth. Chewed. No spitting. He didn't exclaim. But before he'd finished swallowing, he was reaching for another.

I found the recipe at Saving the Season. Cider vinegar, brown sugar, star anise, cinnamon, cloves. It's a keeper!

What Makes A Farmers' Market Good?

 

It's wildflower season in the far reaches of Northern California, which is where we found ourselves last weekend. Rhododendrons the size of old redwood trees, well, not really, but they were huge. And blooming. Brilliant, each of them.

As much as I was charmed by the endless swaths of sweet peas, the foxglove, yellow lupine, buttercups, a single trillium, it was the Arcata farmers' market that was my favorite stop of the trip. It's had me wondering what makes a good market. Because all farmers' markets are not created equal. I recently left one hungry and empty handed.

One of my favorite things about a farmers' market, which was true in Arcata, were the small farmers. They drove pick up trucks, had hand lettered signs, where there were signs at all and each vendor was its own canopy of creativity. This was not a cookie cutter market but a morning gathering on the square, commerce, friends, food. This was art. There was music, benches, green grass. There were women selling raffle tickets to benefit the local breast cancer clinic. Top prize, a trip to Nova Scotia.

The produce was animated with color; the spinach more green than hundred dollar bills. The carrots bunched in rainbows of yellow, orange, red and white. The food was harvested but still growing. Even the eggs, one araucana green in each dozen, were romantic. The food was fresh in a way that could not be manufactured.

I like finding something new at a farmers market too; that one of a kind item that surprises me. In Arcata it was sand dune honey. It tasted of fog and salt; it tasted of wind.

I like a market with diversity, old farmers, young farmers. A market with character, that's honest; that celebrates a place. I like markets with real food, an extra handful of cherries, bright eyes and rounding that always ends in quarters.

What is it that makes a farmers' market good for you?

eaarth

I can't pronounce the name of the book, eaarth, either and I've heard the author, Bill McKibben, say it several times in interviews, "eaarth," he says, pronouncing the double a's with a gurgle. I can't explain it. Each time I can see him smile when he says it though and I held tightly to that image as I read the book. The man is optimistic and yet 50 pages in I had a post apocalyptic dream. Or maybe it was a hot flash. Either way it woke me up.

Which is the point of McKibben's eaarth; to wake his audience up to the subtitle of his book, Making a Life on a Tough New Planet.

He stacks up the effects of climate change, not thirty years from now, but changes occurring right now, one on top of the other and somehow, I don't know how, but somehow still gives the reader room to breathe. I kept picking the book up to read more. Bill McKibben's perennial optimism comes through. In one interview he sited his optimism as the result of working with young people. I loved that.

I also loved the last quarter of the book, Lightly Carefully, Gracefully. He writes about industrial farming, small farmers, farmers' markets, local food; my favorite subjects. He writes about community and being neighborly, which is good food anytime.

McKibben's good neighbor, Barbara Kingsolver, blurbs the book on the front cover.

"What I have to say about this book is very simple; Read it, please. Straight through to the end. Whatever else you were planning to do next, nothing could be more important."

I can't blurb the book better than that. It's not always an easy read but it is an important read.

Local on our Table - June

Farmers' Market
Apricots
Asparagus
Blackberries
Blueberries
Broccoli
Cabbage
Carrots
Cherries
Chioggia Beets
Garlic
Jalapenos
Kale
Leeks
Meyer Lemons
Nectarines
New Potatoes
Onions
Orange Blossom Honey
Peaches
Potatoes
Radishes
Red Beets
Rhubarb
Strawberries
White Peaches
Wild Arugula
Yellow Beets
Yellow Crookneck Summer Squash
Zucchini

Back Deck Harvest
Thyme

From The Freezer/Pantry
Tomato Sauce

To the Freezer/Pantry
Blackberry Jam
Black-Straw, Blueberry, Thyme Jam
Pickled Beets
Snow Prince Peaches in Lavendar Syrup

Gleaned and Gifted
(From Someone Else's Yard)
Arugula
Lemons
Radishes

Planted
Borage
Cayenne Pepper
Jalapeno Pepper
Lime Tree
Rosemary
Serrano Pepper
Thai Basil
Tomato
White Nasturtium

Specialties
Flower Farm Honey

Homemade Yogurt

I've been promising to do this for the last two years. People keep telling me how easy it is. Last Thanksgiving I memorized the recipe from my sister-in-law, repeating it from the mashed potatoes to the pumpkin pie. Did we have pumpkin pie? Yeah, I forgot the recipe too.

Then I found a recipe and two nights ago finally used it. Yogurt. My own crock of yogurt. And they, the people, my sister-in-law, they were right. Making yogurt is easy. I made another batch tonight.

I have the recipe, from Mark Bittman, How To Cook Everything, memorized.

Heat a quart of milk to boiling and cool it to between 110 and 115. Whisk in half a cup of yogurt and keep the mixture warm for six to twelve hours.

I didn't believe it either. The hardest part was buying a cooking thermometer. I chose the least expensive.

To keep the mixture warm I used an old crock with a lid, tied two dish towels around that and put it in the back of the oven by the light, which I kept on all night - the light, not the oven. I did turn the oven on low for a few minutes, maybe five, before putting the crock in. To make the space cozy.

It all worked. The cute guy and I ate it up. From the crock. Plain. We couldn't stop.

And there's still part of me that doesn't believe how easy it is.

Underground Jam

Last Sunday I scored. In the smallest of antique stores; hardly bigger than my kitchen. I mean small. In this tiny store, with one pathway leaning from the front door to the back, which opened onto an expansive green field, there was half a case of wild blackberry jam on a faded red stool. Nicasio wild blackberry jam was printed in block letters on crooked sticky labels.

"She picks the berries down the road," the owners' friend said. She waved out toward the field. I didn't see blackberry bushes but I grabbed two jars; hugged them to me. It felt almost illegal. It probably was illegal, buying jam from some one's Grandma.

But really, I can't think of a better way to purchase a jar of jam. Berries down the road is the way jam is meant to be.

Kumquat Preserves

It happened last summer. When the kumquat season was come and gone. I spotted a jar of preserved kumquats at the Cowgirl Creamery in the Ferry Building.

Ten years ago I'd never heard of a kumquat. And it took a me a few years after recognizing them to try one and another couple of years after that to relax enough to like them. I remember everyone saying, watch out, they're sour. Be careful. Ha.

Kumquats aren't that sour. And the skins are sweet. Once I realized this I was hooked. I adore kumquats. The first juice of sour, the next bite into the sweet skin. They are alive with flavor.

I used a weeks worth of coffee money and bought the jar of preserved kumquats. Back at the office I spooned them over plain yogurt and ate each spoonful slowly. I wanted to eat kumquats and yogurt every day. Forever. It was then, rationing two preserved kumquats and one tablespoon of syrup to each bowl of yogurt so the jar would last that I promised, I swore, I would make my own preserves when the kumquats returned.

Now that I have, my insides smile each time I see them on the pantry shelf. I don't want to eat them. I mean I do, but I want to ration them again. I want to look at them, and at the same time sit down and eat an entire jar. My mouth waters in anticipation. It's crazy the things I get excited about.

Here's the recipe I used for the kumquats. I liked the addition of honey and I added sprigs of thyme too.

As much as I appreciated buying that first jar of kumquat preserves it's such a good feeling to be able to can my own.

Rhubarb

Rhubarb season always bring memories of my Grandfather. He'd pick me up from kindergarten in his red and white truck. Lady, the collie dog, would meet us in the driveway at home, at the end of a forever row of eucalyptus trees, the song of red winged black birds through the open windows. I remember it as if it were yesterday. The red winged black birds still sound the same.

Later, in junior high, when he was driving a purple jeep, and I could walk to school, he taught me to make rhubarb pie. At first he made the crust, instructed me on the filling and with each successive pie he was further from the kitchen. Until the pie came from the oven; then he was first at the table.

All these years later, lifetimes really, and he's been gone more than a decade, I've not made a rhubarb pie. I honestly don't remember how. But on Sunday I improvised a stewed pot of rhubarb, adding flavor as I went.

The rhubarb, a squeeze of lemon juice, confetti ribbons of zest. I added candied ginger because I had it. Grandpa would never have considered it. And because I don't love sugar, like he did, I sweetened the pot with wild blackberry honey. And half a basket of strawberries. He adored a good strawberry.

With a bit of water the rhubarb cooked to a sauce, the consistency of pie filling. I ate it from the pot. Until it cooled. Then I spooned it, the biggest spoon I could find, over a bowl of meyer lemon yogurt.

If Grandpa had been able to taste it, he would have been first at the table. Even with the ginger.

It seems like such an old fashioned food, unfortunately forgotten. But a guarantee that it's not commercial. I like that, that I find it, unbunched, loose, on a small farmers fold out table, priced with a paper and felt pen sign.

How about you? Do you eat rhubarb?

Local on Our Table - May

Farmers' Market
Apricots
Asparagus
Blueberries
Broccoli
Cabbage
Carrots
Cherries
Early Peaches
Fennel
Garlic
Grapefruit
Kale
Kumquats
Leeks
Little Gem Lettuce
Mandarins
Micro Radish Greens
Mixed Baby Greens
New Potatoes
Orange Blossom Honey
Potatoes
Radishes
Rhubarb
Spring Onions
Strawberries
Swiss Chard
Wild Arugula
Yukon Gold Potatoes

Back Deck Harvest
Thyme

From The Pantry
Last of the '09 Canned Peaches
Last of the '09 Peach Jam
Last of the '09 Canned Pears
Tomatilla Sauce
Tomato Sauce

To the Freezer/Pantry
Kumquat Preserves

Gleaned and Gifted
(From Someone Else's Yard)

Specialties
Happy Girl Kitchen Kimchee
Nicasio Wild Blackberry Jam

Local on Our Table - April

Farmers' Market
Artichokes
Asparagus
Bok Choy
Broccoli
Cabbage
Carrots
Fennel
Grapefruit
Kale
Kumquats
Leeks
Little Gem Lettuce
Mandarins
Mixed Baby Greens
Mizuna
New Potatoes
Orange Blossom Honey
Peas
Potatoes
Radishes
Ruby Red Grapefruit
Spring Onions
Strawberries
Wild Arugula
Yukon Gold Potatoes

Back Deck Harvest
Mint
Thyme

From The Freezer/Pantry
Jalapenos
Peach Jam
Tomatoes

Gleaned and Gifted
(From Someone Else's Yard)
Lemons
Oranges!

Strawberries and Cream

It was so simple I feel silly really, writing about it. But I can't get it out of my mind. Strawberries bought from the farm in Santa Cruz. Organic strawberries. From the girl that always has me smiling. Her mother helps on Sunday mornings. Sometimes. Selling strawberries, artichokes, blackberry jam. How I love the blackberry jam. Swanton Berry Farm it's called.

That's how it started; this simple idea from a friend. I bought the strawberries. Carried them to the birthday celebration, whole, in our big red bowl. Each berry flower-side-up and a layer on top, upside down for pinching. We voted to slice them. A quiet moment in the kitchen. Slicing, tasting. Mouths silently watering.

And then I poured on the cream. Thick, pearl white cream.

Saved the empty jar for little girl nosegays. Returned the strawberry baskets to the farmer.

Strawberries and cream.

Not a thing wasted. So simple I feel silly.

Food, Inc. on PBS

I was too late to get tickets to the conversation this evening, Inside the Hen House, which was moderated by Michael Pollan. The event was sold out. "We are recording it," I was assured on the phone. "And it will be posted on our website." The next best thing, I say.

I came home instead and there was an email from Michael Pollan. (I'm on the list.) He was sending a reminder--- tomorrow night, Wednesday night, PBS will be broadcasting Food, Inc. at 9 PM.

And the news got better. The movie will be streamed, the entire movie streamed, for a week beginning Thursday, the 22nd through the 29th. That's my ticket. I want to see it again. I could do without certain parts but the good outweighs them.

When Food, Inc. first came out the cute guy and I made a bet in which I said I would give him $20 for every person we know who went to see the movie. I could see him picturing a new main sail, a jib sail. The man wants new sails.

To date I owe him $20.

But the bet is still on. And somehow this seems wrong, routing for the wrong team, betting against myself and still here I go. Watch the movie, leave a comment. And I'll give the cute guy $20.

He'll be so excited.

Appreciations

1 - Going to the Sunday morning farmers' market in the rain. Great parking and easy access at every canopy. Okay, a couple people with umbrellas under the canopies are dangerous but otherwise access is a breeze. And everyone says, thank you for coming out. And means it.

2 - Spooning St. Benoits Meyer Lemon Yogurt straight from the returnable mason jar. The cream at the top is like lemon pudding. But better.

3 - Stopping at the Master Gardeners tomato starts sale in the bank parking lot yesterday. Did she really say they sold 4,000 starts? In three hours?

4 - Eating Rio Zape beans from Rancho Gordo. I don't know why they taste so good, but they do.

5 - Sharing a Marin potato pizza at Picco's with the cute guy and having asparagus cut like confetti added on. The perfect spring pie.

6 - Watching the movie Sweetgrass. Beautiful. Some rough patches. But still beautiful.

7 - Reading a Homemade Life by the popular blogger, Orangette. I ate it up. She is popular for a reason. Smart, funny, young and heartfelt. And so very delicious.

8 - Listening to An Organic Conversation with Helge Hellberg. I liked the first show I downloaded. The second show was better, the third better still and now I'm simply in love with them all.

9 - Having frozen jalapenos to cook with all winter long. And spring.

10 - Using organic cotton produce bags because they feel good and get even softer with age.

Marin Bee Company

I get excited about the funniest things these days; a couple of weeks ago it was finding the first asparagus at the farmers' market, last week it was eating it picked from a friends backyard. This week? This week I happened upon a truck load of bees.

The cute guy was putting gas in the car. I was staring off towards the vacant building next door. There were a few people in the parking lot walking with arms outstretched, stepping carefully; gingerly describes it best, each carrying a wooden box. It was strange. They watched the box in their hands as they walked, from the back of a truck towards a car across the lot, as if the box might spill and then they deposited their box in the trunk.

And I knew. They. Had. Bees.

I held back from running but I was at the truck before a dollars worth of gas clicked off on the pump. It was stacked end to end with boxes of bees. "I brought sixty boxes this time," the man in charge answered a woman at the back of the truck.

She had an English accent and saw my hesitation as I got close. "They're quite gentle," she offered. She stepped forward, put her finger on top of a box until a couple loose bees crawled on her. We both watched them, smiling. I thanked her and got closer.

One car left, bees secured in its trunk, another arrived and the English woman smoothed a blanket in her van. Her box was held outward across the parking lot too, all of us watching until it was deposited as gingerly as the others.

The next man in line looked like a casual Friday banker. "I have three daughters," he told me. "We never get stung and the bees pollinate the garden." He took away a box for each girl.

Then there was a man with an empty box beneath his arm. He traded it for a full one, held with two hands, arms outstretched. "I raise pastured chickens in Sebastopol," he told the cute guy who had by now joined me. He invited us to the farm, "the next time you're up that way," he said. He deposited his box of bees on the floor of the front seat of his Honda, his dog watching from the back. We all shook hands and left too.

And another car pulled into the lot.

Next year, I promised. New year I'll be ready for some bees too.

SALMON NATION

I've had the same conversation twice this week. First with my mother on the phone and then with the Muse over dinner; over a hot bowl of kale and potato soup.

First we talked about voting with our forks, the usual conversation I have with either of them, but then both times, the conversation wound it's way to the idea of how we have other choices too, choices to vote with our purse. Not buying something new but in places where we're already spending money and where a different choice might exist.

I thought the Muse was going to hit the table with her fist as we went on about it. She got that let's make change kind of a look. And then cleaned her bowl of soup with the last bite of bread. First things first - food and then change.

Mom didn't hit her fist on anything, not that I could hear anyway, but I could tell, she had her fist in the air with that let's-do-it-gesture too.

This is what I did. This is for my Mom and the Muse.

I applied for and received a SALMON NATION Visa card. It has a big red jumping, I swear it's smiling, salmon on the front and bigger blocked letters spelling out SALMON NATION.

It's not a huge change, it took all of five minutes to print, fill out and fax back the application, but really, those are the changes that work best for me. Five minute changes. My best changes have all been small but that's why they last. I hardly notice them.

A percentage of income from the SALMON NATION Visa card goes to Ecotrust to help grow a SALMON NATION. And honestly, I don't know the due diligence of that equation, but I'd rather have even a penny go to SALMON NATION and support communities working together to improve watersheds than have the same penny go to a Bank of something. Plus it feels good to pull the bright red salmon from my purse and hand it over.

As good as kale and potato soup.

Indian Valley Campus Organic Farm

So many years ago, more than I want to tell you, I took a class on an organic farm, at the Santa Rosa Jr. College. Bob Cannard was the teacher. I ran into him again last year at Bioneers, he was talking about farming, the same common sense, use what you have philosophy of the last time I'd seen him. Except everything he said was new again, as exciting as the first time I'd heard him. He talks a lot about dirt, taking care of the dirt, where the dirt comes from, how important the dirt is. He's teaching again, or maybe still, I haven't followed him closely. He teaches interns at Green String Farm in Petaluma; a wide expanse of a farm with rolling hills of vineyards as a back drop, a real old wood barn, chickens and a farm stand open year round. It's worth seeking out.

Last week I found myself at another organic school farm, this one younger, on the campus of College of Marin at Indian Valley. The student tended rows of turnips, lettuces, beets, and kale reached from the open space land that cradles the entire campus to a soccer field that caters to joggers, bike riders and dog walkers, not a person with a ball to be seen. And the first thing the farmer did when he walked through the gate, you already know, he picked up a handful of dirt and brought it to his nose. He seemed to relax then, the feel of dirt on his hands, the difference between the classroom and the garden. He reached for a calendula, handed it to the first person beside him, another and another, I had one too. Orange and yellow calendulas, no two the same and I never knew they could grow in such variety.

He with the dirt on his hands was Steve Quirt, the planner and teacher on the farm, our tour guide for the visit. He's another farmer, like Bob Cannard, who knows the importance of dirt. And Wendy Johnson, also a teacher at the farm, we didn't have her pleasure but it's impossible to know about the farm and not know about Wendy. She was there in the impossibly silver artichoke plants and the fava beans, magenta blossoms. Deep, saturated magenta. She's the same Wendy Johnson of Green Gulch Farm, and the author of Gardening at the Dragon's Gate, a big green book I've entered through a hundred different gates or often while beating back the weeds looking for a damn gate.

The farm at Indian Valley has a farm stand of sorts too but the hours appear random. It's either open or it's closed. A shaded roof and plywood tables. If there's class I suppose, and vegetables to be picked, enough to actually sell, it seems they sell them. How perfectly wonderful for the neighborhoods nearby, the communities of people on foot, what a bit of magic to bring home a bag of peas or a pair of artichokes from so close to home. From school. It's their secret garden. (Don't tell anyone you read it here.)

And while they're there, neighbors meeting again or for the first time, at the cyclone gate near the metal sink with a hose running in it, I hope someone invites them to pick up a handful of the dirt, bring it to their nose and, yes, take a smell of it. Maybe you will too, if you find yourself the next time at a farm, letting the dirt fall slowly, in dusty drifts through the text books of your hands, appreciating it for everything we eat.

Office Building Composting

A co-worker stood at my office door Monday afternoon, "What do I do with these," he asked, an empty cup of yogurt in one hand, crumpled paper napkins in the other. I tapped the cup to be sure it was plastic, resisted disposing of them for him.

The entire office was lost after lunch though. We were in our first day of mandated composting and there were twice as many waste baskets in the kitchen than there had been on Friday; all courtesy of the building management. The new waste baskets were adhered with bumper sticker instructions and there were laminated and illustrated instructions to guide us too, but it was still confusing.

The morning had been a breeze. "Coffee cups go in the compost bin," I told everyone, "lids in the landfill." I got a funny look. "The garbage," I clarified. "Lids in the garbage." We were off to a good and caffeinated start.

Then there was a cereal box that landed in the compost. I took it out and put it in the recycle. An hour later it was back in the compost. I left it but took out a biodegradable spoon and washed it for reuse.

I thought I was five shades of chartreuse buying biodegradable utensils for the office but in the world of composting and recycling they are relegated to the garbage. They don't breakdown in compost and they aren't recyclable either.

"The plastic cup goes in recycling," I told my co-worker. He was licking his biodegradable spoon. "That you can reuse." He looked skeptical. "And the napkins, in the compost."

"This is confusing," he said walking away.

Another co-worker, the one I'd pegged the least likely to compost, told me about his Grandmother's system. He told me about guarding the bucket of food scraps until it was full so he could carry it to the pigs. "I loved it," he said. And then he tossed his coffee grounds in the compost like a pro.

A few more days and everyone on our floor will be a pro too. And the people in the other 25 floors in the building will be pros and our families and friends and people we talk to on the street will become compost pros.

I sent the building management a thank you note. And then I went to see if there any more utensils in the garbage to pull out.

I've got to come up with a better utensil solution.

Marin Sanitary Service Tour

Saturday I toured Marin Sanitary Services and hid behind my camera with tears. I'm blaming it on the acacia in bloom, but honestly, it was the tour leader.

The tour was probably standard with the huge exception that ours was led by the Chairman of the Board, Joe Garbarino. Joe is 77, retired and he wore white tennis shoes.

We started in the area where plastic, paper, cans and bottles are sorted. "This stuff gets in the ocean," Joe said pointing to plastic bags, "and oh the trouble it causes. If only you could see it." He gestured like he was tossing stale bread to the seagulls. "At least in the landfill," he added, "it stays there and doesn't get in the water."

We walked to the next warehouse with a pit the length of one side. "This is what goes to the landfill. It's what's left when everything recyclable comes out." There were a couple of couches, some mattresses.

Someone near me said, "You really can't reuse a mattress. Can you?" No one replied. We were scowling at the pit of future landfill.


Next door was the warehouse where cars and trucks drive in to unload. Undeterred, Joe stopped in the middle of the floor and told us about using oil based paints that are brought in. Cars and trucks drove around us. "I have it dumped in the bottom of the dumpsters. We just keep painting and repainting them." He waved at a wall of color patched dumpsters. "The dumpsters aren't going anywhere and it keeps it out of the landfill." Joe was my newest eco hero. I took a few pictures.

Half way through the tour we passed bails of old carpet padding. "A woman picks that up." Joe pointed. "I don't know what she does with it." He paused considering the possibilities. "I'll have to ask her."

At the furthest warehouse, this one open ended, Joe bent down and picked up a couple pieces of metal. "This one," he said, waving a license plate in the air. "It's worth .16 cents a pound. This one," he held up a piece of what may have been a bed frame, "it's worth .09 cents a pound." And then he tossed them into separate bins. If we hadn't been there he would have continued sorting. Instead we kept going.

"We smash cars here and over here we can shred a tree." Then, and this got me too, Joe pointed to what was left of an old oak tree. "This one came down this week in Glenwood." We all stopped and considered the sawed pieces of tree. I considered how Joe knew about the tree. And then I hid behind the camera until the tears passed.


At the furthest yard where old appliances are gathered for scrap metal, Joe pointed out a three story wall poured entirely from left over cement. And then he showed us a hill of compost made from food waste. He scooped up a double handful and encouraged us, "Smell it," he said smiling. "It smells good." He extended his arms and he was right; the compost smelled good.

And for some reason that still makes me cry.

I'll never think of garbage the same again.

Local on Our Table - March

Farmers' Market
Asparagus
Cabbage
Carrots
French Breakfast Radishes
Grapefruit
Green Garlic
Kale
Kumquats
Leeks
Little Gems
Mandarins
Mixed Greens
Oranges
Potatoes
Rainbow Chard
Red Kuri Squash
Ruby Red Grapefruit
Spring Onions
Sweet Potatoes
Yukon Gold Potatoes

Back Deck Harvest

From The Freezer/Pantry
Jalapenos
Slow Roasted Tomatoes

Gleaned and Gifted
(From Someone Else's Yard)
Aracuna Eggs
Lemons

Haiku Friday

There are more blossoms
than branch on the neighbors tree
promising sweet plums.

Joel Salatin in Petaluma

I had dinner last week with Joel Salatin, the farmer highlighted in Michael Pollan's Omnivore's Dillemma and featured in Food, Inc. Joel was two tables away and there were at least 100 other people also having dinner with him but if I leaned forward I could see the two chickens on his tie.

The event was a benefit for the CSA members of Tara Firma Farm of which I'm only an occasional, but excited, customer. The dinner of chicken, pork, butternut squash, beets, chard, salad greens, was entirely from the farms' harvest.

After the meal Joel talked about farming and being the lunatic farmer. He told a story about Gandhi's four steps for a revolution. "First they ignore you," he said. "Then they say you're crazy." He paused and looked around the room. I squeezed my husband's hand and we shared a look. I often feel like the odd person at the table.

"After that they fight you, and then you win." He made it sound easy.

"Right now, big ag, Monsanto, they are pushing back," he said and continued to talk about Michelle Obama's organic garden on the White House lawn. He'd had dinner with the White House chef, Sam Kass, and the story the chef told was that the organicness of the first garden was the cause of many upset calls throughout Washington. Joel threw his arms in the air pantomiming chaos. "Organic?"

He went on to talk about his farm and his neighbors farms. He told another story about a drought year and the fact that his farm stayed green. "Joel gets more rain," his next door neighbor told a friend. Joel shrugged his shoulders and reiterated a point he'd made earlier; "We see when we're ready to see."

"He doesn't get more rain, does he?" I whispered to my husband.

He shook his head no.

The talk ended with questions that could have gone on for hours. "If grass fed cows sequester carbon, why isn't that happening on a large scale?" "Is organic better than non-organic?" "What can we do to make a difference in our school lunch programs?"

He answered each question as if it were the first time he'd done so and ended the evening with this, "May your children call you blessed." I looked at my husband with wet eyes. He winked.

And then I came home and wrote a thank you note to the White House for the organic garden on the front lawn. Thanks to Joel Salatin and Tara Firms Farms I appreciate its crazy message of hope more than ever.

Haiku Friday

They're dried grapes, he said
putting raisans in her hand,
short stems still attached.

Haiku Friday

This haiku is from my friend Ellie. She sends haiku to me with stories of her cats, invitations and reviews of books that someday I'd like to read.

Fragile minute hand
tinier than a needle
pushes me along.

The Green Police

"It's criminal," I said. "People go to Walgreens, buy an item encased in plastic, the cashier puts it in a plastic bag, they walk back to the office, a block and a half and then throw the bag away." I couldn't stop.

"They use the bag for less than five minutes and it will be in the landfill for thousands of years and this is the world we're leaving our children."

He smiled. I smiled back with a polite reflex.

"Did you see the Super Bowl commercial," he asked. "The Green Police?"

"I don't have a television," I answered.

"You don't have a tele...." He didn't finish the sentence. "You sound like the Green Police."

"I know," I said sitting down. I didn't need a commercial to tell me that. There was no place to hide.

"I'll send it to you."

Here it is; the Green Police. You've got to check out Plastic Boy.

All I need is a badge, my bicycle helmet and with a pair of green shorts I'm there, which is as funny as it isn't.

Haiku Friday

Back and forth he shapes
the dough into tortillas
the size of his hands.

To Go Ware

This afternoon I got on the elevator with a woman from a higher floor. She was a professional with black boots, a button up coat and smartly tied scarf. And along with her leather bag she was carrying a three tier stainless steel food carrier. It was the first thing I noticed.

I know the rule about not talking on the elevator but I couldn't help myself. I smiled. "Do you like your food carrier?"

There was no hesitation. "Yes."

I stifled a cheer.

Does it hold soup?"

"No." My disappointment must have showed. "You could put soup in a container and then put it in there," she offered, giving the carrier a swing as the the elevator doors opened to the lobby.

Not a great solution but my enthusiasm would not be flattened.

"Will restaurants or food counters put food in it to go?"

"I haven't tried yet," she said following me out of the building, turning to walk down California Street.

I wanted to stop her, to suggest that we go to the nearest food counter right then and ask, "Would you please put my salad in here?"

But I went the opposite direction. And then I turned to take another look. This was the first tiered food carrier I'd seen in the city which is an endless parade of plastic in plastic. The stainless steel stood out but didn't flash. It had good lines deserving of a second look.

And for a minute, cable car bells ringing, I didn't see the plastic in plastic that is the norm. And I was happy.

Local on Our Table - February

Farmers' Market
Asparagus
Beets
Blood Oranges
Broccoli
Cabbage
Carrots
Delicata Squash
French Breakfast Radishes
Garlic
Grapefruit
Kale
Leeks
Little Gems
Mixed Greens
Mushrooms
Oranges
Radishes
Rainbow Chard
Red Kuri Squash
Spring Onions
Sweet Potatoes
Yukon Gold Potatoes

Back Deck Harvest
Lovage
Sage
Thyme

From The Freezer/Pantry
Jalapenos
Strawberry Jam
Tomatilla Sauce
Tomato Sauce

Gleaned and Gifted
(From Someone Else's Yard)
Aracuna Eggs
Lemons
Rosemary

Haiku Friday

He ate two summer
apricots canned in a jar.
The rest are for me.

Haiku Friday

Peeling satsumas
he cursed their thin winter skin -
anticipating.

Mountains Beyond Mountains

With the news of the recent devastation in Haiti I keep thinking of a book I read several years ago, Mountains Beyond Mountains, by Tracy Kidder. It's on my list of all time favorites.

The book is about a doctor, Paul Farmer; you've likely heard of him. It focuses on his work in Haiti and his building of a hospital there. And it's a bigger story than building a hospital. Paul Farmer relies on the community, trains doctors and nurses. He's a diplomat, a fund raiser. He does house calls; I think he even gets married during the course of the book although how he had time I can't remember. The man doesn't stop.

The details of the story have faded but I've not forgotten the work Paul Farmer initiated in Haiti, the way he empowers the people he comes in contact with, the young doctors and nurses who are carrying on his work while he introduces it around the world. I've not lost the feeling of awe.

Paul Farmer's organization started in Haiti, but now worldwide, is Partners in Health. Their hospital outside of the capital of Haiti was not damaged in the earthquake and they've been providing medical care as far and fast as they can since. They are the first place I turned when I heard the news as I knew they would be immediately on the front lines of relief. And like so many organizations they are in need of help to continue providing care.

With the bad news coming out of Haiti, Mountains Beyond Mountains, is a story of good news happening in the country. So many years after reading it I still feel like the people of Haiti are my next door neighbors; as if they are part of my community. It's a story that replaces borders with compassion and the power of one person to inspire others by example.

If you haven't read this now may be a good time to pick up a copy. It's a very good read and as relevant as ever as Haiti looks to rebuild and the world looks to help.

Haiku Friday

At seven a.m.
the sky was an aria.
Bravo, she whispered.

Haiku ... Saturday

The smell of grinding
coffee beans bites at my nose.
I jump out of bed.

A Few Of My Favorite Things

Wrinkled heads of new cabbage chopped into cabbage salad with celery salt and carrots in nickels and dimes.


Cold mornings at the farmers market when the egg lady slips a dozen eggs into my canvas bag. "I feel like a drug dealer," she whispers. "Don't let anyone see them. "


The San Anselmo community garden watching flocks of reggae sounding wild birds eat the remaining high hanging persimmons.


Learning that brown sugar is a mixture of molasses and regular sugar and that I can make my own.


Receiving a homemade t-shirt with Chicken Plucker quilted across it.

It's already a good year.