Kale for Sale

Small Actions

2010-11-16T00:02:00.000-08:00

I'm not naive 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 I 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 they 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.

Maybe I am naive and signing petitions and declaring a commitment to thin air is useless. Completely useless. But naive 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

2010-11-09T21:25:00.000-08:00

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 spring of spice or gather wild fruit. Or simply appreciate this place where food grows.

The Vanishing of the Bees

2010-10-29T21:10:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-01T23:31:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-18T22:41:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-01T21:52:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-29T22:38:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-01T21:14:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-23T22:11:00.000-07:00

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?

2010-06-14T23:25:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-02T21:58:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-01T22:02:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-26T22:58:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-20T22:16:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-18T23:25:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-06T23:16:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-01T23:48:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-30T22:12:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-29T23:10:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-20T23:10:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-11T23:04:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-04T21:40:00.000-07:00

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

2010-03-22T21:55:00.000-07:00

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

2010-03-18T00:02:00.000-07:00

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

2010-03-09T21:07:00.000-08:00

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

2010-03-05T00:07:00.001-08:00

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

2010-03-01T13:07:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-26T23:12:00.000-08:00

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

Joel Salatin in Petaluma

2010-02-22T00:11:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-19T21:35:00.000-08:00

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

Haiku Friday

2010-02-12T21:50:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-10T21:33:00.000-08:00

"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

2010-02-05T22:13:00.000-08:00

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

To Go Ware

2010-02-03T22:25:00.001-08:00

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

2010-02-01T19:35:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-29T21:35:00.000-08:00

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

Haiku Friday

2010-01-22T21:13:00.001-08:00

Peeling satsumas
he cursed their thin winter skin -
anticipating.

Mountains Beyond Mountains

2010-01-16T19:58:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-15T22:36:00.000-08:00

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

Haiku ... Saturday

2010-01-09T08:29:00.000-08:00

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

A Few Of My Favorite Things

2010-01-05T22:41:00.000-08:00

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.

Local on Our Table - January

2010-01-01T22:26:00.000-08:00

Farmers' Market
Acorn Squash
Blood Oranges
Broccoli
Broccoli Blossoms
Brussel Sprouts
Cabbage
Carrots
Celery
Delicata Squash
Fuyu Persimmons
Garlic
Grapefruit
Kale
Leeks
Mixed Greens
Onions
Oranges
Pea Shoots
Quince
Rainbow Chard
Red Kuri Squash
Satsumas
Sweet Potatoes
Yukon Gold Potatoes

Back Deck Harvest
Lovage
Serrano Peppers

From The Freezer/Pantry
Jalapenos
Peach Jam
Slow Roasted Tomatoes
Strawberry Jam

Gleaned and Gifted
(From Someone Else's Yard)
Apple Jelly (Thank you Chris & Tracee.)
Bay
Canned Thai Hot Sauce
Canned Tomatoes
Grape Jelly
Lemons
Relish

Haiku Friday

2010-01-01T22:09:00.000-08:00

Seven winter squash
on an old green wood table.
Comfort food for spring.

Haiku Friday

2009-12-24T22:04:00.001-08:00

Picking a rosehip
the squirrel sat on the fence edge
eating the rosehip.

Merry Christmas All!

Haiku Friday

2009-12-18T21:40:00.000-08:00

Colleen from Doughgirl (check out those beautiful ginger chewies) sent this haiku link and it is now one of my favorites....

Haikus are easy
but sometimes they don't make sense.
Refrigerator.

Haiku Friday

2009-12-11T22:08:00.000-08:00

Barefoot in the rain
uncovering the kumquat,
Buddha's face is dry.

I Can't Support Monsanto

2009-12-10T22:58:00.000-08:00

After weeks of threatening, weeks of randomly timed complaining, weeks of wondering if I'm over reacting, today I took action. And my action was anti-climatic.

I cancelled my membership at our local NPR radio station. I listen to NPR a lot. Their schedule influences my schedule. The voices on the station are as familiar as family members. When I'm sick, the radio voices calm me. When I can't sleep, they lull me. It's odd but I love these people; at least I love their voices.

Some months ago however one of the shows began including Monsanto in its list of sponsors. Immediately I wrote the program. I received a fast response. I'd identified the wrong program, it wasn't them, they wrote, and I let the issue go. I saw a petition and realized other people weren't happy about Monsanto on NPR either. I signed the petition and let my membership ride.

But the Monsanto name didn't go away. A quick mention in the sponsor list turned into a five word sentence. I don't remember what it was. I would turn off the radio and break pencil led until the ad was over.

Now the single five word sentence sounds like three sentences. Maybe more. And in one of the sentences is the word sustainability and everything is verdant green fields and today I was done. My blood didn't boil or my heart rate increase. I simply knew I no longer wanted my dollars to support programming that created a frame in which Monsanto could paint a happy face I believe is false.

I called member services; it was easy finding their number. A young woman picked up the phone and as if I were ordering birthday flowers I requested the monthly auto debits to my account be stopped. She took the information, thanked me for the long time membership. She didn't ask me to stay or attempt to sell me on staying. But I had to tell her why I was quitting being a member, "I don't want my dollars supporting programing that promotes Monsanto."

She was silent. I considered she might not know who Monsanto is. Or she thought I was over reacting or she was making dinner reservations at Open Table while I talked. I'll never know. Maybe I am crazy. My meager monthly pledge is nothing against the sponsorship of Monsanto. It still feels good to stand up for what I believe in though.

And it doesn't. I remember the first time I pledged to NPR. It was a right of passage. I became part of a community of listeners and I was proud to belong. I'm sad to give that up, to not support the voices I'm so fond of.

But I can't support Monsanto.

Haiku Friday

2009-12-04T22:04:00.000-08:00

Eating in Pt. Reyes
a fox crawled beneath the gate
right across the road.

Homemade Sour Cream

2009-12-02T22:05:00.000-08:00

I grew up thinking the whole world drank Clover milk from surrounding dairies. The first time I saw another label I declared it false and went without rather than drink it. I've always been settled in my ways. And I've always loved milk.

Now that I've learned to make sour cream and its kissing cousin, creme fraiche, I adore it more. I say learned loosely, as if making soured milk requires detailed instruction, talent, as if the making requires study; it doesn't. And yet as simple as these recipes are, these simple foods have been a mystery. I didn't know sour cream was possible without buying it in a plastic tub. And creme fraiche, well, I believed it would never be possible at home. I was mistaken.

Sour cream is better made fresh. At least mine was.

Four Parts Cream
One Part Buttermilk

Stir them together and place covered in a warm spot for 24 hours. I put the bowl in the oven, kept the light on. A comforting thought through the night.

I used most of the sour cream for a holiday rabbit and the remainder, that precious remainder, went to a silkened carrot soup. Then I licked the bowl.

The creme fraiche was as easy with ten thousand ways to make it online. It was art drizzled on the top of soup, an excuse to play with my food. And to have more.

As much as I appreciate milk and the elementary ways it can be transformed, sometimes it still goes sour. But I have a new recipe for that too. I learned it from a farmer. "Dilute the milk," the farmer said, "and pour it on the garden."

I can't believe I haven't done it before. It makes sense. Right? All that calcium. Given the amount of milk I loose it's not going to make a significant difference to the soil but it feels better than pouring even the smallest cup down the drain.

Especially when I love it so.

Local on Our Table - December

2009-12-01T12:43:00.000-08:00

Farmers' Market
Acorn Squash
Broccoli
Brussel Sprouts
Buttercup Squash
Butternut Squash
Cabbage
Carrots
Delicata Squash
Fennel
Fuyu Persimmons
Galeuse d'Eysines Squash
Garlic
Grapefruit
Kale
Leeks
Little Gem Lettuce
Mandarins
Onions
Oranges
Pomegranate
Quince
Rainbow Chard
Red Kuri Squash
Satsumas
Sweet Potatoes
Turnip
Walnuts
Yukon Gold Potatoes

Back Deck Harvest
Rosemary
Sage
Serrano Peppers
Thyme

Gleaned and Gifted
(From Someone Else's Yard)
Apple Sauce (Thank you, Olivia)
Bay
Lemons (Thanks, Ellie!)
Persimmons

Haiku Friday

2009-11-27T21:28:00.000-08:00

Even while eating
leftovers our mouths watered
for the leftovers.

Even red carrots
blended to soup were trumped by
the sweet potatoes.

Tara Firma Farm

2009-11-24T21:48:00.000-08:00

Saturday was one of those perfect fall days to romanticize the life of a farmer. The hills were commercial green, totem like hawks were perched at two mile intervals, black and white cows posed, chewing in fields. The oak trees hardly looked real and the rutted country roads would have cost extra anywhere else. The weather was warm, a Hollywood set. Unreal. We were heading north to visit Tara Firma Farm.

The cute guy's son and I barely had the car doors open when a nine year old popped out of a shed and asked if we wanted to see the baby chicks. As quick as he appeared he left, something about finding the ducks. "Close the door when you're done," he instructed, "so the chicks stay warm." I picked one up to my cheek making the mandatory cooing noises the scene required.

Outside again we walked through a hay scented barn, a hoop house of tomatoes beyond it, tubs of green fruit inside. We passed walls of uncarved pumpkins, scattered green watermelon. And not far away we came to the hogs; hogs trained to run toward us and ask if we brought them more pumpkins. They snorted and stretched in the warm mud at our empty hands. Starlets, every one of them.

Across from the hogs were turkeys; also trained to appear effortlessly happy. They modeled their fat breasts, stood on one leg, pecked at each other caringly. Neither of us breathed a word about Thanksgiving.

We met a father and son on the way back, film extras I was sure, walking back to their car from the pond, fishing poles in hand. "The casting was good," the father said.

I bought a dozen white eggs in the farm store as if I'd never seen white eggs before. "They're white," I exclaimed. "They're white." I was embarrassed even then but what can I say? They were white!

On the way out, and neither of us wanted to leave, I gazed longingly at the sloping blue farm house, the square paned windows, the white washed porch. I wanted to stay forever. Until I realized I'd tracked a bunch of mud into the car. Then I was ready to go home.

The romance hasn't ended though. The white eggs - almost as bright and good as Dad's. What a find.

Haiku Friday

2009-11-20T19:00:00.000-08:00

Egg yolks so yellow
I give thanks to eight red hens
Dad calls by first name.

Cotton Bag Revival

2009-11-19T21:36:00.000-08:00

I love my cotton produce bags and hope I never get amnesia and return to plastic. But the candid fact is I get lazy and deposit produce in the fridge in dry cotton bags and forget about them. It's not pretty. The greens wilt. Carrots wilt. I've even had radishes look anemic.

Two years ago I would have tossed anything less than crisp from the fridge. That changed when I got worms. I fed atrophied produce to them instead. But I'm being more sincere about not throwing food away now. Now I soak.

It's a miracle. Last night I reached for a bunch of kale purchased on Sunday. Sure, I hadn't dampened the bag when I'd put it in the fridge three days ago but jeez. I didn't expect the kale to actually wilt. It did. I cut the bunch of leaves in half, pressed them into a cold bowl of water and sat down to a hot bowl of soup.

Twenty minutes later the kale was as fresh as Sunday. Beautiful. I made salad.

I've had the same straightforward success soaking spinach, salad greens and chard too. Carrots however take more than twenty minutes to revive after an arid bout in the fridge but they crisp up nicely. It feels like a second chance.

And honestly, everything tastes as good as new.

Haiku Friday

2009-11-13T23:43:00.000-08:00

A blue plate of pears
he sliced with pierce pt. cheese wait
for my welcome home.

Butternut Squash Soup

2009-11-11T22:00:00.000-08:00

My winter squash obsession has become more refined. That's overstating it a bit though. Let's just say I'm learning the names of the different winter squash. To date I have nine varieties and know the names of eight. One I can't pronounce and one, the one pictured, remains unknown. This is progress.

I grew up on butternut squash baked in boat shaped wedges filled with butter and brown sugar. Later I discovered pumpkin raviolis in a buttery white sauce at a country restaurant with a chef named Pierre. I never ordered anything else. "I'll have the ravioli's," I'd smile returning the menu without a glance.

The last pumpkin ravioli I had was at that restaurant too many years ago. The restaurant, the dirt parking lot, I think they're both gone.

The next time I ate squash it came in a box. Butternut squash soup in a box. I'd add green curry, ginger. Top it with chopped cilantro. It looked good, thick, golden, like the baked squash I grew up with. But it didn't have the dense flavor I remembered. It was butternut light. Butter without the nut. That must be what happens when its put into a soup, I reasoned.

My reasoning was flawed. I made my own butternut squash soup last week. It was as densely flavored as I remember those butter filled baked boats my Grandmother served. It was better than boats. And nearly as easy as opening a box but without the resulting trash.

Even Pierre, I imagine, would sit on a bar stool, his white apron half untied and kiss his fingertips over a bowl of this butternut squash soup. This then is for him.

Wherever he may be.

Butternut Squash Soup

Three Parts Chicken Broth
One Part Butternut Squash
Thyme
Ginger
Peanut or Almond Butter
Serrano or Jalapeno Chili
Creme Fraiche

Peel and cut butternut into two to three inch crooked cubes and wedges. Add to chicken broth and cook on medium heat with a small bouquet of thyme. Add one teaspoon of minced ginger and one teaspoon of nut butter for each cup of broth. For a medium spicy soup add half a teaspoon of minced pepper for each cup of broth.

Cook until squash is soft, remove thyme bouquet. Blend with an immersion blender and add salt to taste.

Serve topped with a circle of creme fraiche.

(Please note all measurements are approximate as I've yet to refine that fine art.)

Pomegranate Honey

2009-11-07T22:25:00.000-08:00

The mushroom lady recharged my kitchen life. Neither of us had any idea at the time. I was eavesdropping, she was sharing a recipe, I asked a question, and, well, my kitchen life has been recharged.

The recipe is an old remedy for a sore throat or cough soother but I've used it for anything but. "Put pomegranate seeds and some skin into honey. Leave it on the counter for a few weeks and put it in the refrigerator," the mushroom lady said. "It will last a year."

We looked at her disbelieving. "Put a spoonful into hot water," she continued. "Drink it. You'll feel better." At this she held her throat. Smiled. "Feel better."

I left with a beet red pomegranate.

At home I separated seeds into a jar, hesitantly added bits of skin and poured honey over it. A few days later the honey was a thick liquid; not exactly honey like. The seeds were red as ever though. I tasted a few. And then a few more. And a few more after that. You get the idea.

My jar of pomegranate seeds and honey was gone in a week and a half.

Out of necessity I added the mixture, minus the skins, to kale salad as it was the only honey in the house. The kale and pomegranate seeds, earthy and sweet tastes, they were meant to be together. The red seeds were sparklers against the dark green kale.

Then I baked apples and needed a thimble of juice in the cored out center of them. Adding dried figs first I spooned the pomegranate and honey into the apples. I topped each with a teaspoon of plain honey. Another success.

I also pour the honey and seeds onto plain yogurt. I love the crunch of the seeds, the thread of juice from the fruit. I love the color, the simplicity. I love that the mushroom lady passed the recipe along.

I'm making more tomorrow. A lot more. My kitchen life would be so dull through the winter without it.

Haiku Friday

2009-11-06T21:56:00.000-08:00

Bursting from its skin,
a gifted pomegranate
is received gently.

Local on Our Table - November

2009-11-01T23:20:00.000-08:00

Farmers' Market
Acorn Squash
Brussel Sprouts
Buttercup Squash
Butternut Squash
Cabbage
Carrots
Cilantro
Delicata Squash
Fennel
Fuyu Persimmons
Galeuse d'Eysines Squash
Garlic
Jalapenos
Kale
Kohlrabi
Leeks
Lemon
Limes
Little Green Onions
Mint
Musquee de Provence Squash
Onions
Parsley
Pears
Pomegranate
Potatoes
Quince
Radishes
Rainbow Chard
Red Kuri Squash
Red Onions
Satsumas
Sweet Potatoes
Tomatoes
Tomatillas
Turnip
Walnuts

Back Deck Harvest
Oregano
Serrano Peppers
Thyme
Tomatillas

Gleaned and Gifted
(From Someone Else's Yard)
Apple Sauce (Thank you, Olivia)
Bay
Eggs (Thanks, Dad)
Lemon
Persimmons

Froze
Slow Roasted Tomatoes

Haiku Friday

2009-10-30T22:14:00.001-07:00

Coming home tonight
the sun sunk, moon rose, cars sat.
One egret flew south.

Party Trick

2009-10-27T22:25:00.000-07:00

I've come up with a new party trick. Well, it's not new, actually quite old and probably thought of as a chore in it's day but I like it. We pull butter from a bottle of cream.

What could be easier? I pour a bottle of cream into a bowl, grab the whisk, hand it all to the person nearest the kitchen and ask them to whisk. The bowl gets passed around.

One friend told a story of making mayonnaise in Africa while she whisked. Which led to someone else's stories of collecting mushrooms in Germany and someone else's memories of mushrooms in Vermont. And then there's the person, this could easily be me, but this time it was the Takeout Queen, who had never seen butter being made.

"Don't you have to add something?" she asked.

That person has the most fun. Because the transition of cream to butter is a small miracle. It's the fuzzy caterpillar to a butterfly metamorphosis. Mothy white cream turns in the blink of an eye, once the turning actually happens, to the color of a yellow daisy, the color of breakfast, the color of all that is good in the world; it turns butter yellow at the same time it leaves behind it's milky beginnings. Butter. Meltingly sweet fresh butter from cream.

I've yet to see someone not smile at the turning, at the lump of gold found in a returnable bottle. And then I serve the bread. Even the most delicate among us takes up the butter knife and with a singular purpose, not one at a time, everyone reaches knives and elbows into the butter balancing huge nuggets back to their bread.

It's there in the breaking of bread, of bread and new butter, the reaching and full mouths that no one feels like a guest any more; it simply feels like everyone is at home. That's my favorite part.

Haiku Friday

2009-10-23T22:51:00.000-07:00

Smelling the apple
she winked and took a bite.
It was good, she said.

Righteous Porkchop

2009-10-17T00:09:00.001-07:00

The first time I heard anyone talk about industrial pig factories it was Robert F. Kennedy, Jr. What he described was so unfathomable I reasoned it must not be true or he was exaggerating. Or something. The speech was likely made at the same time the author of Righteous Porkchop, Nicolette Hahn Niman, worked for Kennedy at Waterkeeper Alliance as a staff attorney and head of a national campaign to combat pig factories.

Maybe I haven't been paying attention between the time of that speech half a dozen years ago and two weeks ago when I picked up Righteous Porkchop. I thought the pork industry had cleaned up its, please excuse me, cleaned up its shit for all I heard about it.

They haven't.

Righteous Pork may change that. NHN spends the first half of the book describing her work with the pig factories and the people and communities who worked alongside her. Which is why I didn't want to put the book down. It's not all pretty reading but the people and communities affected by the factories are.

In some ways the story is an unfolding drama. I found myself more than once, okay, a lot, routing for the local communities but NHN also shows the corner the factory owners have gotten themselves into and I couldn't help but route for them too; that they can find a way out. No one is having a good time.

There's a little bit of spying; quite a few bad politicians. There's a guy hired by the pork industry to tail NHN to community meetings. Eventually someone does have a good time and there's romance too.

The later part of the book visits industrial chicken and fish, factory dairies and beef. Did you know that it's a widespread practice to feed factory hens red dye to make the yolks of their eggs yellow? I had no idea. I also learned the correct terminology for the animals on a dairy. They are not all cows.

There's a lot to learn from Righteous Porkchop. It's a smart book with history.

My only criticism is Niman Ranch beef comes across too precious in Niman's telling. In one example she praises a retailer for carrying Niman beef, overlooking the foreign imports in their produce department. That would have been fine but she goes on to knock the produce department of another retailer that doesn't carry Niman beef.

And I loved this book. It's an important read revealing the truth that corporate meat producers don't want us to know. It's to their benefit to keep us ignorant. Righteous Porkchop changes that though, one knowledgeable page at a time.

Haiku Friday

2009-10-16T19:28:00.000-07:00

A deep sea-blue bowl
filled with dry farmed tomatoes.
The last of the year.

Gravenstein Apples

2009-10-12T21:58:00.001-07:00

I love the city. I really do. But when I take a few days off I want to hit the country. Which is how the cute guy and I spent a long weekend. We headed north. To apple country.

We drove through Sebastopol to Graton, up to Cloverdale and over to Booneville. And each time we passed apple farms, there were two near our camp, I remembered picking apples with Mom.

I remembered her pulling on to the side of the road, two wheels in the field. It was before there were fences, orchards as far as Christmas. "Come on," she'd say. "Let's get apples." And I'd pick as many from the ground as I could carry. "They're Gravensteins," she'd sing, which meant nothing to me except Gravensteins made her happy.

Yesterday Gravenstein apples were the main headline in the Sunday paper. I recognized the farmer in the front page picture. We've laughed together. I've taken more than one slice of apple from his hand.

The article explained that the apple growers aren't picking the fallen apples traditionally used for juice. There's no where to take them. The US apple juice market is sustained by China. It's cheaper.

I didn't read further but I did come home with cotton bags of apples. Picked from a growers wooden boxes at the farm. A farm with a black dog carrying a yellow ball. A farm with a big rabbit and three red hens.

I read the names of the apples; Northern Spy, Sierra Beauty. There were more varieties than there are holidays. I could see them in the field, on the trees and the ground. I could happily smell them but couldn't help wondering, will the apple fields be there the next time? Or will we need to go to China to buy them off the farm?

Haiku Friday

2009-10-09T15:55:00.000-07:00

Her palm pressed the knife
slowly through the round of cheese.
I was next in line.

Worm News

2009-10-08T23:17:00.000-07:00

The cute guy and I visit the humane society regularly. We flirt with cats and cruise the dogs. And then we go home. To the worms.

Worms are the best pets. They don't leave hair on the couch or need to go on walks. There's no barking, no grooming. And their poop is succinctly contained. It's even good for the garden I've read.

Not that I've put worm poop on the garden. I used the liquid run off last year. In the beginning it was a green revolution. I saturated the lawn with my version of worm tea. And then the roses began to turn yellow, drop leaves. The pepper plants began to perish. Which I thought meant everything needed more of the undiluted, unaerated worm bin runoff I called tea. (Yes, I should have read something first. Anything. But I was excited.) The yard is still recovering and the liquid from the bin now goes down the drain.

But the worms, the worms are flourishing. I've done nothing but feed them our produce skins and trimmings since they arrived a year and a half ago. This summer they ate everything from the kitchen plus the back yard bad apples.

When I need an animal or farm fix I dig in the worm bin. Not long ago I was in a recurring I want a plot of land funk and lazily raking through carrot tops in the bin. With the headlamp turned on high I flipped the shell of half a melon and nearly peed my pants. I was Faye Ray in the hands of King Kong. There were hundreds, it seemed like thousands, of worms knotted together beneath the rind. I had no idea.

Did I say they were big? They were really big.

I snapped the lid back on the bin; checked it twice. And gave getting a cat some more consideration.

The cute guy suggested a second worm bin. I'm liking his idea.

Day Old Bread

2009-10-07T22:33:00.000-07:00

I saw Novella Carpentar do a reading this week from her book, Farm City. She's our current household hero. The cute guy and I loved the book and the urban farm on squatted land but mostly she's our hero for her generous heart that came through in the story. And again tonight at the reading.

Novella's reading and the book I'm currently reading, Righteous Porkchop, have me thinking about farming, past and present. My Grandparents and Great Grandparents on both sides were farmers. Ranch farmers. Between them they had cows, sheep, turkey and chickens. I grew up thinking every one's grandparents came from one ranch or another, had animals and grew food.

One Grandfather could grow anything. Even from his wheel chair he grew prize tomatoes in barrels and baked apple pies. The other collected bags of day old bread from the bakery in town. He fed it to the cows, the dogs. We ate some too.

Dad still gets day old bread from a bakery down the road and feeds it to his doghouse chickens and a pair of crows that recognize his truck. They meet him at the old ranch and start in on the bread in the back of the truck. And then a mile as the crow flies they beat him home where they finish cleaning up the crumbs. "Crazy crows," he says.

The last time I saw him he gave me two loaves of old bread. "It's still good," he said. It felt soft, there was no mold. It was in plastic with a tie and I remembered liking the brand when I ate packaged bread. "Thanks, Dad," I said and put the loaves in the car.

If I had chickens or a dog I suppose I would have fed them some, it's in my blood, but there's just the two of us, the cute guy and I; we had toast. And I have to admit, Dad was right, the bread was good.

Not as good as Farm City or Righteous Porkchop but almost. A little homemade strawberry jam and they'd be equal.

Haiku Friday

2009-10-02T23:38:00.000-07:00

Lost in Chinatown
looking for lotus moon cakes,
someone calls my name.

Seeing Plastic

2009-10-01T23:29:00.000-07:00

Have you ever had one of those experiences, I'm sure you have, when you think you're doing one thing and then realize there's something else going on? And yet whatever you were doing had to be done before your eyes could adjust to the next thing. I've had a few of those experiences, this week.

The first was with the camera. I carry it every where and act like I know something. Until I realized this week the camera is the one that knows what's going on. It's teaching me how to see, as slowly and repeatedly as if I were relearning the alphabet. I point it, shoot and look to see what's there. It's like finding a ship in a bottle each time. And the camera gets it all; the light and the reflections of the light; the shadows and the threads. It gets the tiny black bugs and dust and patterns and vastness of everything. And I find beauty I'd overlooked and wonder, where have I been?

Which is how I feel about the next two small awakenings - where have I been? First, it's been a couple of years since we produced more than a tortilla chip bag, occasionally a big tortilla chip bag, of trash a week. This week though I realized the meat I buy is vacuumed packed in plastic. It's beautiful grass fed, organic, happy animal meat. That was all I could see. I never saw the plastic. That's the piece that gets me - I couldn't see the plastic.

The second eye opener had me cancel the Sunday paper delivery. To say I love the Sunday paper is an understatement. I make it last all week and can't wait to get on the bus for the hour commute to read it. But it's delivered in plastic. A blue plastic sleeve that I must admit makes me smile in anticipation. So much so that I've kept a blind eye to the plastic part. But you know what, I can walk or ride my bike to the store on Sunday to buy a copy. I can stop at the store on the way home from the farmers' market and buy a copy. A copy that doesn't come in plastic.

Although maybe I'll keep the last blue plastic bag and each Sunday put the store bought copy in it for the anticipation factor. I doubt it. The anticipation will change as will old habits of buying meat in plastic. I hope the camera never stops teaching me how to see though. I don't want to miss anything.

Local On our Table - October

2009-10-01T22:20:00.000-07:00

Farmers' Market
Bosc Pears
Butternut Squash
Cabbage
Carrots
Cauliflower
Chard
Cucumber
Eggplant
Fennel
Figs
Green Beans
Jalapenos
Kale
Kohlrabi
Leeks
Lemons
Limes
Little Gems Lettuce
Northern Spy Apples
Padron Peppers
Pears
Plums
Potatoes
Quince
Radishes
Red Onions
Sierra Beauty Apples
Spinach
Sweet Potatoes
Tomatoes
Walnuts
Winter Squash
Zucchini

Back Deck Harvest
Black Cherry Tomatoes
Rose Geranium
Serrano Peppers
Shiso Leaf
Tomatillas

Gleaned and Gifted
(From Someone Else's Yard)
Apples
Cherry Tomatoes
Figs
Hamburger
Lamb Chops
Rosehips
Sunflower Heads
Tomatoes

Canned

Froze
Slow Roasted Tomatoes

Flowers
Statice

Kale Salad

2009-09-27T21:25:00.000-07:00

We've had next to nil kale in the house for the last year but in the last two days we've gone through three bunches. This latest obsession is a result of the visiting cooks at the Pt. Reyes Farmers' Market. Yesterday the cook was Zen chef Edward Espe Brown of the Tassajara bread and cookbooks and How To Cook Your Life movie. He made a killer kale salad.

Ed Brown is irreverent and gets off track a lot, which adds to his charm. And he seems to make up what he's doing as he goes along. I love that. Nothing was measured, he tasted with his fingers, put whatever the audience didn't finish on the tasting plates back into the bowl and never once missed a beat.

And he used his hands to mix everything. "Hands are meant to be handy," he instructed.

After making the salad twice now my hands are, as he promised, "happy."

Ed Brown's Kale Salad

1 Bunch Kale
Salt
Honey
Balsamic Vinegar
Ginger
Garlic
Pepper Flakes
Lemon

Optional -
Red Pepper
Apple
Pumpkin Seeds
Aged Smoked Gouda

Leaving the long vein in the leaves slice the kale width wise to thin ribbons of confetti and salt liberally. With both hands squeeze the salt into the kale, mixing and squeezing for several minutes until it's juicy and bright green. Ed calls this, "hand frying."

Pour in honey, approximately two to three tablespoons. Add balsamic vinegar generously. Mix again with your hands. The kale holds up admirably to the handling. Taste and increase amounts as desired.

Mince garlic and ginger and be irreverent with the amount, adding more than you believe necessary. Continue hand mixing and tasting, also adding chili flakes.

The juice of one or two lemons can be the finish. The salad is delicious with not another ingredient. But Ed Brown went on, dicing an apple he'd picked from his yard. He broadcast pumpkin seeds into the salad and the square confetti of a red pepper. He remembered a wedge of aged Gouda hidden in a brown bag and tossed some of it in too. All delicious.

I replaced the chile flakes with a fresh jalapeno and had pan roasted walnuts and a pear for the optional ingredients. I left the cheese and red pepper out. And the salad was just as good as Ed's.

I can't believe my Grandparent's only fed the kale to the chickens.

(Added Note: My Aunt sent word after reading this that chickens actually ate a different kind of kale. It was a field kale she wrote, strong and tough. My Grandparents weren't missing out after all.)

Haiku Friday

2009-09-25T21:44:00.000-07:00

Underground sunshine
wedged and served on a white plate --
plain roasted orange beets.

Corn Zipper

2009-09-23T22:07:00.000-07:00

This is a funny little post but it's important given the season. It's about corn.

I have a thing about corn. Mostly about how corn is grown but that's another story. This story is about putting up corn in the freezer for winter meals. For the last two years I've been cutting corn from the cob and it's a mess. The knife blade is straight, the cob is round; the two simply aren't great mates. Kernels fly around the kitchen, some rows are cut off too close, some aren't. But I've persevered.

Until now. I was gifted with a Kuhn Rikon Corn Zipper. It's a marriage of a potato peeler and a cheese slicer made especially for corn. The blade is curved. It glides down the cob. Brilliant.

I've got twice the amount of corn in the freezer than before and we're eating half of it before I have a chance to get it in the freezer.

I'm just getting started.

Calabacitas
This is my take on a recipe from the cute guy's Dad who uses canned corn and peppers. (Which has never stopped me from eating too much of it.)

1 Diced Small Onion
3 Coined Zucchini
1 Minced Jalapeno
1 Cup Corn Kernels

Saute onion until soft. Add the zucchini and jalapeno. When zucchini is barely pliable, approximately five minutes, add corn. Cook another three to five minutes being careful not to overcook the zucchini and serve with hot tortillas, eggs and salsa, eat alone or as a side dish. I start eating it before it gets to the table.

Coastal Clean Up

2009-09-22T00:02:00.000-07:00

I think about volunteering a lot, but I never do it. The days are like untamed dogs that drag me along. But a friend called and asked if I wanted to pick up trash at the beach. I said, yes. It sounds like an easy yes. It wasn't. I really wanted to stay home and make jam.

I had no idea we were to be part of the International Coastal Cleanup Day organized by the Ocean Conservancy. We were given two bags - one for garbage and one for recycling. Then we were instructed to complete a survey by keeping a tally of what we picked up, which threw me into a spin. How in the heck are you supposed to pick up trash if you have to be tallying with a bowling score pencil the whole time. I didn't have enough pockets or the right glasses. My friend nudged me. "We'll estimate at the end," she whispered.

Then we stepped onto the beach and there was no trash. The shore actually looked pristine; sand, rocks, water. There was fog. I wondered where we were going to find trash, if I should stop and buy more canning jars on the way home.

It didn't take long though and my friend found a plastic bottle; the only one of the day. Then I found a lid for a plastic bottle. She found a candy wrapper, I found a piece of styrofoam and we barely stood up straight again until our garbage bags were full. Once our eyes adjusted to see trash it was everywhere. Mostly in bite size pieces.

There were a lot of plastic bottle lids and a lot of tiny styrofoam pieces. I nicknamed them snowflakes because they were impossible to pick up although we did. I'm not sure it mattered there were so many.

And somewhere between picking up an old plastic ball and a potato chip bag I forgot about the jam and realized I was having fun. Fun talking to the other people also picking up trash. Fun talking to the people on the trail not picking up trash. Fun being outside and seeing a result to our labor.

The most unexpected surprise though; I see trash everywhere now. And I name it as if I'm going to have to tally it with a short pencil. Then I have this weird reflex - I go to pick the trash up on the street like it's still my responsibility. Until I remember I don't have my work gloves on.

Next year, if not sooner, my yes will be an easy one.

Do you have a favorite volunteer job or one you resisted and then liked? Did you participate in the coastal clean up on Saturday?

No Impact Man - The Movie

2009-09-19T22:03:00.001-07:00

It's been a long time since I've cried at a movie. But that's exactly what I did last night watching the new documentary, No Impact Man. Not crying really but weeping, appreciation and laughing tears. I fell in love with the whole family it's about; Colin, Michelle and Isabella.

While I was aware from news bites that there was a guy in NY that had given up everything (I never considered what he was gaining) I didn't read his blog or follow. Then Beth at Fake Plastic Fish had an interview post with the guy, Colin, which had me take notice. After that the Green Phone Booth posted a review of his book. I was interested.

I went to the movie with a friend who has never carried a canvas bag; not unlike Colin's wife, Michelle. While I learned new low impact tips from him I was his choir in the audience. More importantly, Michelle related to the audience that had yet to hear the siren's green call. Her distaste for worms, choice words for bike riders; her melt down at giving up caffeine. She spoke from the beauticians chair getting her hair colored and from her air conditioned office at Business Week sucking on ice. And then she cooked her first dinner. We were all changed.

On the way out of the theater my friend asked, "Do you think the growers would refill the plastic shells I buy berries in if I return them to the store?"

I tried not to cry again.

The big ahhh factor is their daughter, Isabella. She was a mimicking sprite; as happy in the dark as she was in the garden.

Admittedly I was biased toward the documentary from the beginning as Colin shopped for local food with flour sack towels and cloth produce bags. He spoke all my favorite things about sourcing food from near by. But he didn't overload our plates with food. He moved on to transportation, household cleaning products, cosmetics; the source of our power. He polished himself up for politics, volunteering, for talking to audiences. And while people were watching him, he was listening to the people doing the watching. Which is where he earned my final respect. He didn't flinch at the truth of criticism but neither did he give up in the face of it.

If you see this movie ( here's the schedule) I'd love to know how it impacts you. And take a friend. You'll want to talk about it at the end.

(Also posted at the Blogging Bookworm.)

Haiku Friday

2009-09-18T20:46:00.000-07:00

Sunday afternoon -
ten jars of strawberry jam
on the pantry shelf.

Raffles!

2009-09-15T23:04:00.000-07:00

I won a raffle once. And my mouth fell open. Then I couldn't stop smiling.

I would love to win the upcoming CUESA raffle, a year of dining out. I'd fall over if I did.

It's become tradition, if you can call three years a tradition, that I gift a friend with a ticket for his birthday too. And then wish until I'm blue his is a number that's called.

And while I'm wishing I'd love to win this raffle too. It's a benefit for Soul Food Farm, a chicken farm that recently suffered a fire. The raffle is put together by Bi-Rite in the city. There are great prizes, really great prizes, but I can't get past the year of ice cream. Truthfully I'd be better off not winning this.

But it's such a good cause I'm trying anyway. I had Soul Food Farm chicken for the first time a week before the fire. It was the real deal - chicken raised on the pasture. In spite of the fire the farm is moving forward - with a lot of love and help from their friends.

Chicken does not get better than that. Except, maybe, if you ate it with ice cream.

Here's how to get a ticket .

Late Summer Soup

2009-09-14T23:09:00.000-07:00

The cute guy and I had a spontaneous party yesterday. We were real. The guests were imaginary. It was the soup that spurred us on.

First we gave Gretchen a seat at the table because it was her tomatoes that I'd slow roasted and added to the broth. The cute guy gave her the yellow bowl. Jesse got the next seat for the huge red carrots that were impossibly sweet for being so big. We decided to invite the entire Rancho Gordo crew after that for the Yellow Indian Woman beans that gave the soup it's heartiness. They got the party rolling.

I remembered the turnip man. He wore his trademark overalls and sat on the stairs without complaint; drank his soup from a cup. The only thing he said was, "Nice you used the greens too."

We invited the guy with the Bolinas beard that once demonstrated making kohlrabi salad with garlic, olive oil, lemon and salt in Pt. Reyes. He'd sold me the leeks I'd used. Nodded his head in approval at the first spoonful. And David Little, the potato man; it would not have been a party without him. We love those potatoes. He got the big blue bowl.

I nearly forgot the woman from Petaluma I'd bought the walla walla onions from. "They're sweet," she'd said, mimicing taking a bite of one. She was right, the onion didn't make me cry. We included the guy that sells roast chicken from the truck at the table too although only the carcass had made it's way into the broth. In fact I gave him my chair and a soup bowl from Cattlemans.

My friend Ann from Brentwood and her son arrived and we raved over their garlic. "No one else grows it as good," we told everyone. She smiled eating with our only silver spoon.

The last guests were Uncle Don and the cute guys pink wigged cousin. They had loaded him up with backyard jalapenos and I had loaded up the soup. "Have another bowl," the cute guy kept saying. I offered to send them home with some. They declined.

Instead everyone showed up again tonight for the leftovers.

So good.

Haiku Friday

2009-09-11T23:59:00.000-07:00

Coming home too late
we snack on apple slices
sitting in the dark.

Summer Sunflowers

2009-09-09T22:58:00.000-07:00

I can't remember the last time I bought flowers or the last time I enjoyed a bunch as much as the sunflowers I brought home Sunday. They're lemon yellow sunflowers, cut before they've had a chance to make seeds. The centers are thick with deep yellow petals and even the buds are beginning to burst with yellowness.

There's something about the way they stand in the vase, their heads held ready, not in prayer but in praise of the day, that makes me happy. As if at any moment they're going to break into a song, a bit of morning gospel or early evening Motown. I swear they have personality. There's one that stands differently, hangs back, refuses to face any direction I suggest. I've decided it's the prettiest back of a sunflower I've ever had.

I've thought about this before, this natural season of flowers. How their seasons mark the passing time; paper whites after Christmas, then tulips and ranuculus for my birthday. How the field flowers, rainbow asters, calliopsis and sweet williams don't bloom until after the last cap and gown has been stored away.

And how sunflowers any other time of the year, except now, when the sun has changed; has put on some blush; how only now do sunflowers seem right. Against all this late summer light.

Sunflowers for the Conscious Shopper's caring that made my day.

Haiku ... Saturday

2009-09-04T20:38:00.000-07:00

Eating toast and jam
and watching sun on the leaves -
one white rose remains.

Local On Our Table - September

2009-09-01T23:52:00.000-07:00

Farmers' Market
Apples
Asian Pears
Broccoli
Cabbage
Carrots
Cauliflower
Cucumber
Fennell
Gravenstein Apples
Kale
Leeks
Limes
Little Gems Lettuce
Little Green Onions
Melons
Mint
Peaches
Pears
Pink Lady Apples
Plums
Potatoes
Quince
Radishes
Red Onions
Spinach
Tomatillas
Tomatoes
Turnips
Zucchini

Back Deck Harvest
Black Cherry Tomatoes
Lovage
Oregano
Parsley
Serrano Peppers
Shiso Leaf
Thyme
Tomatillos

Gleaned
(From Someone Else's Yard)
Bay Leaves
Jalapenos
Pears
Roma Tomatoes

Canned
Peach Jam
Poached Pears

Froze
Apple Juice
Corn
Slow Roasted Tomatoes
Tomatilla Sauce

Flowers
Sunflowers

The State of Your Bacon

2009-08-31T21:18:00.000-07:00

The Renaissance Woman sends me articles and comics she cuts from magazines. I love their torn edges, the off center folds. I love getting an envelope with a handwritten address and a postage stamp.

A couple of days ago she sent an article from Time Magazine titled Getting Real About the High Price of Cheap Food. The first paragraph, which was placed solo in the sky portion of a full page photo, a black cow grazing in a brown field, read like a little farm fairytale. Except it was even scarier.

Here's it is, by Bryan Walsh:

Somewhere in Iowa, a pig is being raised in a confined pen, packed in so tightly with other swine that their curly tails have been chopped off so they won't bite one another. To prevent him from getting sick in such close quarters, he is dosed with antibiotics. The waste produced by the pig and his thousands of pen mates on the factory farm where they live goes into manure lagoons that blanket neighboring communities with air pollution and a stomach-churning stench. He's fed on American corn that was grown with the help of government subsidies and millions of tons of chemical fertilizer. When the pig is slaughtered, at about 5 months of age, he'll become sausage or bacon that will sell cheap, feeding an American addiction to meat that has contributed to an obesity epidemic currently afflicting more than two-thirds of the population. And when the rains come, the excess fertilizer that coaxed so much corn from the ground will be washed into the Mississippi River and down into the Gulf of Mexico, where it will help kill fish for miles and miles around. That's the state of your bacon — circa 2009.

Like all good fairytales there is a happy ending to the article though. It's this; the opportunities we have, three times a day, to choose better food. For ourselves, our neighbors, the pigs, fish and for our pretty planet.

Haiku Friday

2009-08-28T00:06:00.000-07:00

A gnarly quince tree
twisted around the brick wall.
Crows caw heading home.

Grilled Peaches

2009-08-26T21:40:00.000-07:00

I had an awakening last weekend. It happened after dinner, after the sun had set and dusk had settled in. Dishes were still on the table but we served the final course around them. Maybe they were moved to the side. I don't remember and honestly I'm sure no one noticed. The lake was pink, the air warm, the big dragon flies had come and gone. We were intoxicated on the sky and everything it touched.

I enlisted the cute guy, gave him a plate of halved peaches, a spoon full of olive oil and asked him to grill. He acted like he'd done it before, this cooking of fruit, pulling the peaches from the heat as they frayed at the edges, their skins slipping off. I sliced them into bowls, juice everywhere. And covered them with cream.

The only sounds were our spoons against the bowls, the unseen crickets and then someone asked, "Is there more?"

And I appreciated for the thousandth time and the first time again the sheer beauty of simplicity.

Haiku Friday

2009-08-21T10:53:00.000-07:00

Eating figs on the bus
I trash the stems in my purse;
heavy as the fog.

Packaging

2009-08-20T12:41:00.000-07:00

Every canvas bag I own is packed with books and a pantry of food for a few days away.

In a spontaneous moment however I purchased a plastic container at the farmers' market. Olives. I had to have them but managed to convince the seller I didn't also need a plastic bag.

He was skeptical.

I was firm.

And he was right; the container leaked. The cotton bag will come clean though.

Not to worry.

The Cove

2009-08-16T22:09:00.000-07:00

Dolphins are like ice cream; most people love them and seeing one is as good as dessert. I've always wanted to hug one. Which is why the movie we saw last night, The Cove, was so disturbing. The movie uncovered and documented the hidden slaughter of dolphins in a cove of a Japanese city that upon first glance appeared to also love dolphins.

The city however was ground zero for the capture and sale of dolphins to the big business world of theme parks. It's the thousands of dolphins that don't make it to the stage that are packaged as meat, high mercury meat, and often labeled as whale, which commands a higher price. Unbeknownst to the public a good portion of dolphin also found its way into school lunch menus.

The film plays like a James Bond movie. There's bad guys, good guys, high tech cameras, cameras hidden in rocks; there are jagged cliffs, guarded tunnels and tails everywhere. I had to remind myself to breathe more than once. The sailor guy and I rotated between slouching lower and lower in our seats to sitting on the edge of them. One couple walked out.

Eating dolphins is one thing, depleting the oceans another but battling for first place in the list of disturbing was the politics that cover up the dolphin harvest.

Taking a broader view the film was a microcosm for many arms of our food system that are hidden and guarded; protected from view. It was about the world and not only Japan.

The good news however was the film itself. The effort, experience, community, commitment, knowledge and technology that went into making it were amazing. And when the crew wasn't running undercover they found time to laugh.

I love that. It gave me time to sit up and breathe.

Is the movie playing near you?

Haiku Friday

2009-08-14T08:44:00.000-07:00

Three gems of lettuce
unused on the bottom shelf;
the week nearly gone.

Art Food

2009-08-10T23:38:00.000-07:00

I don't think anyone has left on vacation this month. The farmers' markets are jammed. And with good reason. Forget carbon bites or food miles, forget taste and local economies; the markets this month are a visual destination.

I stopped on Sunday before I left the market to consider if I'd bought any food at all or if it was all impulsive food for my eyes.

I had handfuls of candy pears, three in each one. "Have a taste," the vendor insisted. I didn't care what they tasted like. They were miniature sculptures, Rodin's with a stem.

There were french prunes in my bag that inspired a vision of pheasant feathers, the whole bagged bird, burgundy roses, falling petals, hydrangeas and grapes so heavy on a table it sagged.

I had one pink lady apple, the first, chosen in a scented cloud of lavender. The basket of figs I'd filled myself was already almost gone. I'd bite into one, study it, the maroon and purple of it, and because it was prefect, picked before it was too soft, but only moments before, I'd stand in the center aisle, people coursing on either side and I'd practically pour the rest of those colors, their winey sweetness into my mouth. I should have bought more.

There were the tomatoes; sungold tomatoes, beads of sugary sun, a rope of summer jewels. And a musky red Russian tomato with deep green cheeks, "Paul Robeson, it's called. He was an opera singer," the grower sang. I wanted them all.

There were Gravenstein apples I couldn't resist for their freckles, eggplants purchased for their purpleness. I carried a rainbow of radishes, blue potatoes, orange cauliflower, raku stained Asian pears, elephant heads of garlic bursting from their seams. And three hand held squash blossoms. Three twisted, concubine orange squash blossoms.

All of it art but only temporarily so. We're eating it all way too fast.

What's beautiful on your table ~~this month~~ today?

Haiku Friday

2009-08-07T22:50:00.000-07:00

Smiling, she says,
"So hot, we picked past midnight."
Lucky moon, I think.

Bee In The Borage

2009-08-06T23:24:00.000-07:00

Do you ever have moments in the garden when the things you usually think about go away? And you don't notice that they've gone away?

I had one of those moments last night. At the community garden. I was on the ground studying the one violet blossom on a plant of blue borage thinking about what I should make for dinner.

And a bee literally dropped into the frame. Maybe I heard the approaching buzzing but I couldn't tell you for sure. I was on top of the good luck mountain - a bee in the borage. I clicked for another shot. The card was full. Ecstasy to despair in less than a second.

The miracle though, the bee hung out collecting honey. I made room on the card.

The bee buzzed from one flower to the next, repeatedly going upside down in each one; uninterested in the other 100 volunteer borage plants in the garden. He seemed to be inviting me to witness his slow dance on the flowers.

And I was lost in the music of it; the buzzing the quiet, the buzzing. The world was one half bloomed borage plant growing in a cement crack and a honey bee.

Which is likely why I didn't the hear the big dog that came up behind me until it barked. Jeez. I jumped, the bee flew away and the little woman on the end of the leash drug the dog away.

It was time to think about dinner again.

Urban Bird's Nest

2009-08-02T23:22:00.001-07:00

This would have never happened if I hadn't been riding my bike. Or needed milk from the store. Or happened upon the sidewalk as the landscape worker reached into a trellis of bougainvillea and pulled out the nest.

He reached in, grabbed the nest in his heavy gloved hand. He'd done this before, I could tell; he threw the nest to the ground. Continued his work of pruning.

"Can I have that, please," I pointed. "Can I have the nest?" He bent down, held it out. "Thank you," I said putting it in the basket of my bike.

The nest is constructed the way I dream of nests with twigs, some mud, a single stem of redwood tree. But it's also made with street trash, a gum wrapper, straw wrapper, a bit of plastic and the cottony butt of a cigarette. There are three colors of printer paper edgings laced and sewn with twist ties, threads, yarns and a mysterious amount of string.

And there is a dead baby bird, beak, feathers and down still in the bowl of its urban made home.

I'll not dream of nests the same way again. I'll look for them instead in the litter on the walk, the small pieces of trash discarded on the street. And I'll wonder if I'm happy the birds are reusing what they find or if I'm so sad I look away and throw the nest to the trash too.

Local on our Table - August

2009-08-01T10:44:00.000-07:00

Farmers' Market
Armenian Cucumbers
Asian Pears
Avacado
Blue Potatoes
Broccoli
Cabbage
Carrots
Cauliflower
Corn
Cucumber
Eggplant
Figs
Freckles Lettuce
French Prunes
Gravenstein Apples
Green Beans
Lemon Cucumber
Melons
Mint
Nectarines
Parsley
Peaches
Pears
Pink Lady Apples
Potatoes
Radishes
Red Onions
Spinach
Strawberries
Tomatoes
Zucchini

Back Deck Harvest
Black Cherry Tomatoes
Lemon
Lovage
Mint
Parsley
Serrano Peppers

Gleaned
(From Someone Else's Yard)
Apples
Lemon Cucumbers
Meyers Lemons
Pears

Canned
3 Medium Jars Brandied Peaches w/Rum
12 Small & 3 Medium Jars Peach Jam
11 Small and 3 Medium Jars Strawberry Jam

Haiku Friday

2009-07-31T09:26:00.000-07:00

Eating strawberries
from a blue bowl with pancakes,
the back lawn turns brown.

Rose Geranium Apple Juice

2009-07-28T23:11:00.000-07:00

The easy thing to do would be to go to the corner store and buy a jar of apple juice. But I had something else in mind. The cute guy and I picked apples from an old tree down the road, maneuvered around the bags of them on the kitchen rug for a week and then for two hours I quartered, cored, cubed, fed, encouraged, skimmed, wiped, poured, quartered cored, cubed, fed, encouraged.... you get the idea.

The cute guy helped clean up - I must have good karma from a past life. When the compost was cleared there were two quart sized mason jars of juice. Sweet elixir. Worth every minute.

Rose Geranium Apple Juice

5 to 6 Pounds of Apples
1 to 2 Fingers of Ginger
8 to 10 Mint Leaves
4 to 5 Rose Geranium Leaves

Quarter, core and feed apples through juicer. Add ginger, mint and geranium sparingly, or more bravely if the mood strikes between rounds of apples. Taste and adjust. Repeat. Makes approximately one quart.

I created this combination accidentally last year, experimenting with what was growing in the backyard. This spring I replanted rose geranium, with another pot of mint specifically to make it again.

The apples partner with the ginger and mint immediately. The rose geranium remains it's own character, adding fragrance, a hint of roses. Its flavor is nearly imperceptible, a whisper. Leaving you wondering.

Wonderful.

As much as I covet this juice fresh it was nearly as good frozen and thawed for a rainy day remedy.

Haiku Friday

2009-07-24T06:23:00.000-07:00

Nine sweet yellow plums
gleaned from the muse for my lunch.
A few more each year.

Cucumber Salad

2009-07-21T23:01:00.000-07:00

The cute guy and I went stealing apples last night. Not exactly stealing, we had permission. But it sounds more fun to think we were getting away with something. The reality is we opinionated too loud to be competent thieves. I thought he picked the apples too green and he thought I harvested them from the ground with too many worm holes.

The vacationing homeowners offered anything ripe in their garden in addition to the apples . We carried home twenty pounds of fruit for juicing, a few green and two lemon cucumbers and several stalks of celery. Their tomatoes weren't quite ripe.

We were without fresh food after a long weekend camping which made whatever leftovers or gleaning harvest from an empty house and our own back deck exactly what we would have to eat. The challenge was on.

I made cucumber salad.

2 Diced Green Cucumbers
1 Diced Lemon Cucumber
3 Stalks Celery Cubed
1 Medium Heirloom Tomato Diced
1 Minced Serrano Pepper
1 Tablespoon Each Minced Lovage, Parsley and Wild Arugula
1 Teaspoon Minced Mint
Sea Salt to Taste

Combine everything in a favorite bowl and stir with a slotted spoon. Serve right away or refrigerate.

My only regret was I didn't have leftovers. And that the vacationers weren't going to be gone longer!

I have a few more cucumbers. Any ideas for quick salads? Chile uses them for juice and sorbet. Both of which are entertaining but it's salads we really want on the table this week.

Haiku Friday

2009-07-17T00:30:00.000-07:00

This late summer night -
A green hummingbird in pur-
ple bougainvillea.