California Street --
One hawk in the rain
preying on the wild rooftops
twenty stories high.
2 days ago
Haiku Friday
Packaged Garlic
A friend offered to teach me how to make squash raviolis. "Great," I told her. "I have plenty of squash." A complete understatement but she had no idea.
"I'll bring the rest of the ingredients," she volunteered.
She unpacked her bag of cheeses and noodley skins onto the counter. "What's that in the package?" I asked.
She held up a square of clear plastic the size of a condom wrapper. Sealed on either side, the package contained three cloves of garlic. "Isn't this cool?" she said. "They peel and package them in individual servings."
Now I know that packaging garlic into ticky tacky little packages is nothing in terms of the enviromental, social and health issues facing the world but in that moment I was ready to give up. But not without speaking my mind first. I felt my cheeks getting hot, my hair beginning to smolder.
After spouting off about Trader Joe's and garlic from China and where all the plastic in the world is going to end up, I regained my composure and offered garlic from Brentwood. In it's original skin. My friend graciously accepted and told me to peel it.
An hour later the squash raviolis were terrific. Candle lit table, laughter, seasonal salad and brussel sprouts.
I called my friend the next day to apologize - again. She admitted the garlic we used was really good. "It tasted," she hesitated. "Well, it tasted garlicy."
I nodded my head silently on the other end and allowed a small smile.
"But you've got to work on your delivery," she added.
Van Jones
Several months ago I had the privilege of seeing Van Jones speak to a large audience. The introduction he received told of an event where he had been on stage recently with Barack Obama. And that he was the brighter of the two stars. I was skeptical. Until I heard him speak.
Immediately I thought he is the next Martin Luther King. And today, the birthday of MLK, as I listen to the stories of MLK I continue to believe my first impression was accurate.
Here is a one minute video of Van Jones that restores or strengthens my hope each time I watch it. And I've watched it repeatedly.
Winter Salsa
Our downstairs, except for the kitchen is covered from floor to ceiling with plastic and blue tape while our ceiling is being somethinged. Retaped, refinished, Somethinged.
So I decided to cook. Not my usual mono-meal, squash in a bowl or brown rice with an egg. No. I decided to have every burner going while I stirred and flipped, griddled and mashed. Did I mention the pantry door is also draped and taped with plastic. Anything in there is off limits. More forced creativity.
And we had the best local meal ever. Upstairs on the bedroom floor. Watching the third season of Lost on a DVD due back tomorrow.
I mashed potatoes with milk and butter all from Sonoma County. Sauteed delicata squash that I'd under baked the night before. Quick steamed kale from the Sunday farmers' market. And I put together a winter version of salsa I'd dreamed of in the summer. It's took me until now to make it a reality.
In August and September I slow roasted peppers, pureed and froze them. Tonight I added the spicy cubes with a touch of water to tomatoes I'd also froze. Once the tomatoes, which had been roasted, with olive oil, garlic and sea salt, were partially thawed I easily removed the skins. That was it.
"Why's it so sweet," the cute guy asked.
It had to be the tomatoes. They were from the elderly man in Petaluma that grows them like they are members of his family. Buying them felt like kidnapping even though I was the one paying.
The cute guy also bought a roasted not-really-a-free-range chicken tonight and tortillas, both from the next county. Being mono-meal people though we layered one thing on top of the other into one bowl each and covered everything with salsa.
Yes, it was sweet.
The house is going to be taped up for a few days, which is fine with me. I'll cook.
California Citrus
The blue sky and bunches of radishes at the Sunday morning farmers' market had me nearly skipping. Not that I don't like winter, I do. In fact the fall and winter are my favorite seasons.
The lift in my step was nearly involuntary, as if a seed under my skin was busting out ready to bloom. And I couldn't help but enjoy the change.
Which partially explains the bags of citrus I came home with. I was captured by a round woman in an apron and one of them was clearly from the old country as my Grandmother would have said. And this woman with her unleashed pincurls kept feeding me citrus fruits. She was pronouncing names, telling me what each new fruit tasted like, handing me more, reaching into boxes, slicing, handing, talking about antioxidants, popping a slice into her own mouth, waving her knife around.
"Here. Taste." I had some variety of mellow something grapefruit in my mouth, a slice of yellow lime, a pink orange. "It doesn't taste like lime," she declared.
I shook my head, my hand filling up with peels. She was right. She thrust a piece of small orange fruit, a cross between a mandarin and kumquat at me.
"Eat the skin." Her knife stabbed the space between us. I didn't argue. My face puckered until I bit into the almost sugary skin and putting the other peels in my pocket I started filling a bag with the sour fruits.
Satisfied, but still talking the woman began poking pinwheels of oranges and lemons onto sticks and poking them into the sides of the boxes. And all I could think of were daffodils and the bucket of china lillies at the first corner of the market.
And I came home with some of everything. Buddha's hands and kumquats excluded. The only two things I knew the names of.
"They're from Fresno," I told my friend later, taking the bright skinned fruit out of their bags. Apologizing as Fresno is further than my 100 mile local zone.
"Fresno? You mean these aren't from Florida?!" She picked up a big grapefruit. "You can grow these here!? "In California!?"
I nodded remembering she's not a native and smiling let her excitement effect me too.
We had our own tasting party then, this one more slowly than my other and we discussed for awhile where in the world our food comes from.
Save The Whales
This morning on the radio we heard that Greenpeace is chasing a Japanese whaling fleet from a whale sanctuary in the antartic. The whaling fleet is planning on killing 1,000 whales for scientific purposes.
I immediately came downstairs and googled Greenpeace.
And then I signed this letter to be sent to the White House.
Another drop in the bucket but it felt good to do something.
Later in the day at the local coffee shop the cute guy and I signed a petition to give industrial raised animals more space on production farms. I shy away from wild haired people carrying multiple clip boards but my guy heads right for them. When he told me what she was up too I nearly knocked her over to get one of the clip boards.
I asked if the petition could be signed on-line but the short answer was no.
If you see anyone with a bunch of clipboards and ink pens clutched in their hand, check them out. You might be able to give your main course a little more breathing space before it ends up on your dinner plate.
(My hair is getting wilder every day.)
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