More Great Food Moments in Literature

Photo: flickr/Troy Holden

Flavorpill has a round-up of mouth-watering food moments in literature. In Moby Dick, for instance, Melville dedicates pages on the perfect clam chowder: “It was made of small juicy clams, scarcely bigger than hazel nuts, mixed with pounded ship biscuits and salted pork cut up into little flakes! the whole enriched with butter, and plentifully seasoned with pepper and salt.”

And who can forget Willy Wonka’s sweets? “Marshmallows that taste of violets, and rich caramels that change colour every ten seconds as you suck them, and little feathery sweets that melt away deliciously the moment you put them between your lips.”

Of course, Flavorpill’s list doesn’t begin to encompass all the great food scenes in literature, and if it was an attempt at the top ten, it didn’t quite make it. Here are a few more scenes that are worthy of consideration:

• The Book of Salt, by Monique Truong: “Quinces are ripe, GertrudeStein, when they are yellow of canary wings in midflight. They are ripe when their scent teases you with the snap of green apples and the perfumed embrace of coral roses. But even then quinces remain fruit, hard and obstinate–useless, GertrudeStein, until they are simmered, coddled for hours above a low, steady flame. Add honey and water and watch their dry, bone-colored flesh soak up the heat, coating itself in an opulent orange, not of the sunrises that you never see by of the insides of tree-ripened papayas, a color you can taste. To answer your question, GertrudeStein, love is not a bowl of quinces yellowing in a blue and white china bowl, seen but untouched.”
• Midnight’s Children, by Salman Rushdie: “On the thali of victory: samosas, pakoras, rice, dal, puris; and green chutney. Yes, a little aluminum bowl of chutney, green, my God, green as grasshoppers…and before long the puri was in my hand; and chutney was on the puri; and then I had tasted it, and almost imitated the fainting act of Picture Singh, because it had carried me back to a day when I emerged nine-fingered from a hospital and went into exile at the home of Hanif Aziz, and was given the best chutney in the world…the taste of chutney was more than just an echo of that long-ago taste–it was the old taste itself, the very same, with the power of bringing back the past as if it had never been away…in a frenzy of excitement, I grabbed the blind waitress by the arm, scarcely able to contain myself, I blurted out: ‘The chutney! Who made it?”
• Feast scenes in Redwall, by Brian Jacques: “The table linen was spread upon the orchard grass, with pretty blossom arrangements decking the fruit trees. Lanterns hung, ready to be lit by evening. Casks of strawberry fizz, October Ale, dandelion and burdock cordial and jugs of mint tea or pennycloud brew were placed in the tree shade. Scones, tarts, pies and pasties were there in abundance, alongside trifles, broths, oven-baked breads and delicate almond wafers.”

Oh, and the chocolate cake scene in Matilda? Makes you want to go find a rich chocolate torte to bury your head in.

What are your favorite food scenes in literature? Post as a comment.

My new Mother Jones articles of note

I haven’t given OATS much love over the past few months, but luckily, I’ve been writing about food elsewhere.  If you haven’t seen them yet, please take the time to read two articles of mine in Mother Jones:

• The Mary Poppins of Raw Kale? one Mission elementary school tastes change- About how a nutrition educator in San Francisco’s Mission District navigates the challenges of teaching low-income students about nutrition, and helps families eat healthier on a budget.
• Is Kombucha Really Good for You? Wherein I try to make my own kombucha, weigh the miracle brew’s health benefits, and attempt to ignore warnings of carcinogenic mold in my home experiment.
• Also take a look at some shorter posts: A Map of Crowded Cows and Are These Cupcakes Racist?

And, good news for those craving delicious, simple vegetarian recipes: I’ve been keeping a list of some great stuff I’ve been cooking up, and I am going to make a big attempt to add some of them to the blog over christmas vacation. Just don’t get too mad if I end up making another batch of cardamom truffles instead (recipe to come).

A Day For Soup

Photo by Libby MacFarlane

The idea was rejoin at 8 for soup. It had been, after all, a thick, wet day made for thudding around in pajama bottoms and wool socks, a Sunday, the drizzle thin at first but then turning, after noon, into full, taut drops that smacked as they hit the pavement, creating networks of unrelenting puddles, so many that it had been a day to pull out rain boots too. After clutching ginger tea through the storm and making trips to several grocery stores, I had a pot full of raw vegetables, glistening carrot tops and leeks protruding out the top, so when I walked across the street, the woman who waited in her car when the light changed saw a hooded figure clutching a bounty full of dense green shrubbery exploding out of a witches brew-worthy vat, hurrying across Divisadero to her soup date.

Welcomed with flushed cheeks and candles and the warmth that emanates only from kitchens on such chill days in such high ceilinged Victorians, we washed first and laid everything out in its place, one of us taking photos because the carrots and the beans were just too radiant not to. Then shelling dappled cranberry beans, slicing leaks, dicing purple, orange, cream colored carrots, why wouldn’t one spend all of their resources on purple carrots? With their raspberry outer layers and sunset centers. Zucchini, the events of the weekend spilling out as we split sharp garlic into tiny pieces, a dream I had last night, the soccer game that was played one man down, making equal pieces of green beans through meditated cutting, puncturing the summer’s last tomatoes, readying them for their steaming fate, oh and someone spent a late October day surfing.

Spilling everything out, there were years when, pushing tomato juices into the pot along with everything else, when my relationship with food was far more complicated, and mine, sauté everything until it’s golden first, then add vegetables, then tell me what that was like, one tying a bundle of thyme, rosemary, parsley together with only a stalk of thyme is not an easy task, nor is running a race against yourself, but soup, so simple, everything melting together a little, the vegetables losing their edge, becoming less flashy and more mushy, becoming tempting and comforting and everything that goes well with wine and tea.

The last detail being torn pieces of basil, almond slivers, a little parmesan, the pistou, is that the same as pesto? It sure tastes that way. The week’s about to start, what a charming heap of flavor on top of the rich broth, a dash, the perk on your tongue before a deep nurture, no holding back, the conversation flowing up and out like steam, I am worried, that too shall pass, that will run together with other flavors, a mouthful of deep, soft, summer into fall soup.

Photo by Libby MacFarlane

Minestrone with Shell Beans and Almond Pistou

From The New York Times, published on September 28th, 2010

For the soup

3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

1 sprig rosemary

3 bushy sprigs thyme

4 parsley sprigs

2 leeks, white and light green parts only, chopped

2 garlic cloves, minced

1 medium zucchini or yellow squash (or half of each for color), diced

1 carrot, diced

1 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt

1/2 teaspoon black pepper

2 cups vegetable or chicken broth

1 pound fresh shell beans like cranberry or cannelloni, shelled (about 1 1/2 cups)

4 plum tomatoes (about 3/4 pound), diced

1/2 cup thinly sliced green beans

FOR THE PISTOU

4 cups fresh basil, packed

1/3 cup slivered almonds

1/4 cup chopped plum tomato

2/3 cup grated Parmesan

2 large garlic cloves, roughly chopped

1 teaspoon kosher salt

1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil.

1. In a large pot over medium-low heat, heat the oil. Tie rosemary, thyme and parsley in a bundle with kitchen string if desired (this makes it easier to fish out later). Add the herbs, leeks, garlic, zucchini or yellow squash, carrot, salt and pepper to the pot and sauté until the vegetables are golden, 10 to 15 minutes.

2. Add broth, shell beans, tomatoes, green beans and 4 cups water to the pot. Simmer partly covered until the beans are tender, 30 to 45 minutes. Discard herbs. Thin with a little water if the soup is too thick.

3. Prepare the pistou: Pulse the basil, almonds, tomato, Parmesan, garlic and salt in a food processor until basil is chopped and all the ingredients are combined. Drizzle in olive oil while the motor runs and continue processing until a paste forms. Serve the soup with dollops of the pistou, letting people add more as needed.

Yield: 4 to 6 servings.

Corn Pancakes with Spinach, Goat Cheese, and Maple Balsamic Syrup

Think about a kernel of fresh corn. Imagine its coolness, its glassy surface and small firmness. The sweetest corn is just pale of butter yellow, so plump it wants to explode. You manage to wrangle it out of its dormancy within its stalk, shucking the papery peels into a brown bag on the front porch. All of the tiny tendrils keep cloying to the cob, refusing to relent this beautifully symmetrical art form to you. You finally get it as clean as it’s going to get, and you run your fingers down it because it’s as nice and easy as the warm evening all around. And think of the subtle pop this small entity makes when your teeth hits it; a tiny spurt of sugary juice, the crunch, the final realization that the tension of spring has finally burst and summer wants to melt all over you.

I couldn’t get corn out of my mind, succumbing to the smell of it at the farmer’s market or at roadside stands. My friend Ashly made a corn and walnut soup last week, and the taste of it lingered on my tongue for days. Tonight, I had to have corn. And Alice Waters had the perfect recipe for this cloudy evening. Taken from her cookbook Vegetables, the corn cakes offer inspiration for both sweet and savory dishes.

I opted for savory and made a meal of it. The fluffy egg whites made the pancakes soft and light, a perfect complement to the denser fresh kernels inside. Using fresh corn is the only option; don’t even think about canned.

After making the pancakes (see below), surround them in a bed of wilted spinach, top with crumbled goat cheese, and use a sparing amount of Maple Balsamic Syrup. Other options include topping the pancakes with jam, dousing them with honey and butter, or eating them plain.

Hot off the griddle

Corn Cakes (from Vegetables, by Alice Waters)

1 1/2 cups corn flour

1 1/2 t baking powder

1/2 t salt

2 eggs

1 T honey

1 cup milk (soymilk works great too)

4 T unsalted butter (I only used 1 Tablespoon and the pancakes were still delicious)

2 ears sweet corn

Remove kernels from uncooked corn. Combine the flour, salt, and baking powder in a bowl. On the stovetop, heat butter, milk, and honey until butter is all the way melted. Separate egg yolks from whites. Whisk the yolks into the stovetop mixture, and then pour the whole mixture into the dry ingredients. Add the fresh corn.

Whip egg whites until they form soft peaks, and then fold into the corn batter. Ladle onto a lightly oiled medium-hot griddle, making 2 inch pancakes. Makes around 18.

Maple Balsamic Syrup

• 2 T Balsamic Vinegar
• 2 t Maple Syrup
• 1 T sweet hot mustard
• Freshly ground pepper
• a pinch of cayenne

Miso Challah Buns in the Sandbox

San Francisco can be crowded, snobbish, dysfunctional, and even gritty. Part of what keeps me here is that it is a city of secrets, of overlooked perches and un-mined corners. The most exciting moments of living in a fixed place is when small discoveries are made, and the city reveals another flash of its mystique to only those who are continuously searching for the new, the next, the unexplored.

Before I get carried away, let me just say that my small discovery yesterday was by no means new to many people living in San Francisco. But for me it was just the kind of discovery I needed to remind myself why I am still living in the city by the Bay.  I finally made my way up to Cortland Street in the Bernal Heights neighborhood in search of a new fusion bakery and was startled to find a nook that seemed utterly distant from the cosmopolitan clamor of downtown or the hipster rush of the Mission.

Cortland is quaint and peaceful and has more of a small town feel than would seem possible in a city of 700,000. To the North of the street looms the green slope of Bernal Hill, and to the South lies the crowded valley and green hills of Daly City and beyond. Quiet churches, carefully tended used bookstores, and charming antique shops characterize the sleepy storefronts.

Best of all, there are dozens of food options in Bernal Heights that I’ve never even heard of. From Italian Vinotecas, sushi joints, local bakeries and delis, cafes, and The Wild Side West Bar, which I’ve always been told is a hidden gem, Cortland modestly reveals that despite its old-school charm, it has much to offer in terms of victual pursuit.

Sandbox Bakery, on Cortland between Gates and Ellsworth, is run by chef Mutsumi Takehara, who garnered her gourmet touch from both Chez Panisse and Slanted Door. The baked goods are made fresh daily and in small batches. The reason I voyaged over the hill to find it was that the premise–a Japanese French Bakery–enticed my fetish for all things fused and hybridized. With it’s off-the-beaten path location and this unique mixture of cultures, I had to go see what Sandbox had in store.

What surprised me was that it is not a sit-down place, not even sit down for a second with your coffee kind of place. There are no chairs or tables, and the tiny space reveals just a simple glass counter with baked goods and a side counter with coffee accoutrements. Pastries included the normal French arrangement of scones and croissants, but what makes this place special are the Japanese-inspired delicacies.

After admiring a bun filled with red-bean paste, I opted instead for the savory Negi-Miso Challah Bun. Delicately filled with scallions and miso and glazed in Sesame oil, this made the most perfect flavorful snack that I will definitely return to. I also bought some gingerbread when I noticed that threads of fresh ginger were poking out of the rich looking rust colored cake. The “normal” gingerbread was just as delicious and unique as the exotic-seeming morning bun, so Sandbox proved itself to be a place for classic and twisted treats. Creative fruit tarts with goat cheese and bush berry or yuzu marmalade with sage definitely caught my eye, and certainly made me want to return for a second visit.  See their complete menu here.

Sandbox is reasonably priced as well; not nearly as steep as nearby Tartine (though I still claim Tartine is the best bakery in the world). My only qualm was the coffee situation. Why offer two different local roasting companies for the same price? Sandbox has both De La Paz and Ritual Coffee and they make each cup individually for only two bucks–I guess South of Cesar Chavez can really pay off–but there didn’t seem to be a need to split roasting loyalty for the same type of beverage. The decision will probably only end up confusing people and making newcomers to the SF coffee scene feel inadequate for not being able to choose.

I stuck with De La Paz’s rich silky brew and happily munched on fresh gingerbread all the way up steep Gates Street back to Bernal Hill. As I reached the top, the view of the lurching streets of San Francisco spread out before me and the sun shone on this Southern side of the city, reminding me why Bernal Heights may just be my new favorite spot.

Autumn’s Apple Crisp

In fall you must make Apple Crisp.

I did not always know this. As much as I rely on apples now, I was not someone who grew up eating them very often. I remember apple slices and applesauce­–segmented or resurrected varieties of the fruit­–but not the whole entities. I also remember considering apples somewhat boring. Standard, sweet, and forever the same. And then I moved to Vermont and realized that maybe, though I liked apples well enough and my childhood meals were comparatively well-balanced and healthy, I had never really eaten a good apple.

I learned the importance of the Apple Crisp doctrine during college in Vermont, where apples predominate the food triangle during autumn; they appear in barrels and baskets, stands on the roadside, bubbling in warm pies, and pretty much overtaking every possible cranny of the state. Every fall I would gather with friends and show up at Happy Valley Orchards, an orchard run by my friend Tommy Heitkamp’s family, to load Cortlands, McIntoshes, Honey Crisps, and Galas into brown paper bags.  We would peruse aisles of short apple trees and pluck the apple of our fancy off of low branches. Sometimes a bite out of an apple would reveal its inferiority and it would be tossed to the ground. You could eat as many apples as you wanted while picking. We climbed trees to get the most tempting fruit and sometimes a picnic would even take place at the roots of a tree, with brie and bread an probably chocolate.

The apple of Ms. Bullion's eye

The affair was usually a misty one, and on one occasion I remember dashing inside the small wooden commercial space to escape burgeoning drizzle. No trip could conclude without the purchase of apple cider donuts and a pitcher or two of cider.

And always, when we arrived back to campus with pounds of apples, their skins taut and still dewy, there was a Crisp to concoct. I have no memory of recipes being used; Crisps and Crumbles are nice because they thrive off simplicity, fresh ingredients, improvisation, and vanilla ice cream. A cold day and some fall colors don’t hurt much either. We would eat the Crisps by the spoonful, not bothering to separate the steaming dessert into bowls.

Now I am living in Northern California, a more temperate environment. Today was still and warm, hot even, and the evening could be enjoyed without a sweatshirt. And yet July was like late March in most other places. The skipping over seasons and then retracing steps and having bouts of summer during January, wintery days in July, autumnal days in August, and spring where fall is supposed to be definitely messes with my senses.

But signs of Autumn still make their way into the scene. The man who was selling strawberries and watermelons out of the back of his truck on Harrison Street is now selling pumpkins. Halloween decorations drape themselves over the elegant Victorian facades in my neighborhood (a very fitting architecture for Halloween, I will say). And apples have reappeared at the Sunday farmer’s market. Right now the Galas are still sweet but the Fujis are small and super crisp, the way I love them the most.

Back to where I started: Apple Crisp. I made a rather successful one yesterday, though the apples I used were picked by someone else. We stayed the weekend at the Goat Farm in Tomales (see “Grazing at the Goat Farm Gala”).  Just like in San Francisco, the temperature reminded me much more of early Summer than mid-fall.

In many ways, the farm was actually undergoing spring. A new layer of grass crept through the dead remnants of a dry summer and cast a chartreuse veil over the hills. Baby goats (baby goats!) ran here and there, cuddling up in corners of the pen or munching ecstatically on hay. In the morning, the sun slowly warmed away a velvety layer of fog so it looked as though the cloud dissipating from the barnyard was illuminated from within. Grass stood tall under an echelon of due, almost appearing electric in the slanted sunlight.

Autumn had also sunk its teeth into the farm, as strange gourds decorated counter tops and pumpkins rested precariously on railings. My visit this weekend had no plans, except that we were going to a barn dance (and we did), we would probably make an excellent meals (check), and that I wanted an Apple Crisp. As I sat down to make the dish, I couldn’t help yearning for a cold nose and flushed cheeks from Northeastern air. Hot apple cider doesn’t necessarily taste the same without at least a frost, and I worried the Crisp would be similarly unfitting for the warm evening in store.

Yet one bite of the Crisp yielded complete satisfaction. The brown sugar, oats, and butter turned into a textured, tasteful topping. Different apple varieties melded together and offset each other’s distantly tart flavors. A dollop of vanilla ice cream melting rapidly over the whole affair prompted a predictable second helping. For a couple of spoonfuls, I was back under the fragile, fiery leaves of Vermont’s autumn.

Simple Apple Crisp

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Butter an 8×12 pan. Chop 4-6 apples, preferably different varieties. Gravenstiens and Granny Smiths supposedly make great Crisps, but I used neither. Toss apple slices with 2 tsp of fresh lemon juice.

For topping, combine:

• 6 Tablespoons Butter
• 1/2 cup whole wheat flour
• 1/2 cup oats
• 1/2 cup brown sugar
• 1 tsp cinnamon

Layer apples into the pan and cover with the topping. If you want, you can also add some additional pats of butter onto the top of the Crisp. Bake for an hour, serve with vanilla bean ice cream.

A Late Summer Sweet with a little S and P

My friend Leif Hedendal, a masterful underground chef with sharp blue eyes, a soft voice, and wit so dry it’s almost hard to detect, recently asked me to help him with an event. After working at restaurants such as Greens and Citron, Leif (pronounced “life”) decided it was time to leave the establishment and set off on his own culinary path. By cooking at underground dinners and supper clubs, catering events, and experimenting with the chemistry of flavors in his own kitchen, Leif has made a name for himself in the East Bay and San Francisco.

Some of his flavor pairings sound exotic and daring, and sometimes his deftness with the most simplest of dishes, such as Grilled Tahini Califlower, reveal his true prowess in the kitchen. The event he catered recently- the one where I served appetizers, opened wine bottles, and had a genuinely good time with both servers and party-goers alike- was for a company’s celebration of an installation exhibit in Hayes Valley.

The menu included Deconstructed Gazpacho (hallowed out Dirty Girl Tomatos with a spoonful of fresh garlicky gazpacho in each one), a Chantrelle Mushroom Galette, and crostini withfigs with fresh chevre. The most unique, and arguably the most successful, dish of the night arrived in the form of a provocative and somewhat controversial dessert. After arranging sliced tomatoes, tiny sweet strawberries, pluots, fresh mint, and fresh basil in a bowl, Leif spooned salt and pepper ice-cream from Humphrey Slocombe onto each plate followed by a thin drizzle of olive oil. The combination seemed to encompass all of summer, and the salt and pepper ice cream is truly, and maybe surprisingly, spectacular. An original pairing and one I will miss as strawberries stop appearing and tomatoes all but disappear until next summer.

Grazing at the Goat Farm Gala

Moments after we’ve arrived the primary concern becomes the lack of a corkscrew. We are on Toluma Farms near Tomales in West Marin (see on map): eight friends, four who have been best friends for years and haven’t been all together in awhile, and four others who are related to or dating the original group (I belong to the latter category). The occasion demands sumptuous cuisine, cocktail attire, and close quarters. The party is to take place in Cory’s small yet classy trailer, a space that reminds me of a boat’s interior with its wood-paneling and tight turns. We’re all here, Cory’s finishing up his daily goat-feeding duties, and so far, despite two cases of wine patiently awaiting consumption, no amount of investigation yields a corkscrew.

 After one experiment with a bottle of rosé and a butter knife, Tom and I take decisive action and drive back to town to buy a wine key. On the way I spot blackberries on the side of the road. We find what we are looking for at the general store and tear back to the stretch of road lined with blackberry bushes. Picking berries is something I’ve been wanting to do all summer. Minus an occasional small strawberry, my childhood was not full of berries and pies as many are. Colorado provides peaches and plenty of greens, but berries don’t often survive the arid climate. Amidst the bountiful bushes in West Marin, I eat more than I pick and still we fill an enormous tupperware with ripe violet fruit to take back to the farm with us.

 The farm sits on a low hill and has several shabby sheds, a dazzling white wooden house, the goat barns, and Cory’s quaint mobile abode that still sits on four large wheels. Exploring around the house, I find a garden and a trail winding up to the top of the hill. Cory comes out and offers to show us all around. We’ve been waiting for a tour and I’m excited to see the goats. “Let’s go see the babies, they are more interesting,” says Cory after a brief stint meeting grazing mothers in a pen closer to his house.

 “Hey kids” and they are running up to the fence nosing through wire. The light flat like the bottom of a bowl, the kids nuzzling and bleating, nothing around but dusty brown hills and sheds tucked into them. Goats, unlike most farm animals, actually take interest in you when your approach them. These little ones bleat like it’s a competition and push at the hands we’ve rested on their foreheads. They are named after cheeses like Cottage and Gruyere and they nuzzle us in search of food. In the bigger barn, there are billy goats with wispy beards and even a peacock who struts arrogantly away from us. He is molting and his feathers beam only a hint of their normal brilliance.

 We trail back to the house and set up tents on mounds of sweet hay. Four ducks waddle by in tuxedos and sound their concurrent alarms, racing from the next calamity and rushing into their squat house. Hay everywhere. Earth. Sweet summer potatoes sunbathing on mountains of dirt. The wind whips and then sinks as dusk takes, and then the sky becomes a darker blank.

 We sneak into the back bedroom and pull out dresses. All four guys wear ties and collars and us ladies have violet, fuchsia, gold silk dresses and earrings. In some ways we’re a stark contrast to the bucolic landscape, but the formal dress validates the air of celebration and sense of romance floating through the farm tonight. Tom even has a vest. His suit was once his father’s, and it’s tailored in British fashion and therefore rather snug. We are eight twenty-somethings, most of us live in the city, and we are standing around on a Saturday night in formalwear on a farm sipping Manhattans. I couldn’t be happier.

 Over the next twelve hours, we taste fluffy cheeses, crisp radishes, two tarts, lemon cucumbers, butter whipped by mistake. Corporeal carrots. Swiftly cooling coffee on the porch. Blackberries with Hannah’s homemade goat cheese. Blackberries with Humboldt Fog goat cheese. Figs and ripe apricots. Salad made from perfectly fresh greens. Grilled eggplant, zucchini, sweet smoky peppers. Red, orange, yellow, green tomatoes.

Fresh Ingredients

There’s no way to recount everything we eat. Suffice to say it is an array of the freshest food available; Northern California in all it’s delicious glory. Hannah had worked the farmer’s market stand in San Francisco in the morning and brought a case of fresh vegetables. She makes wonderful salsa with tomatoes, peppers, carrots, and cilantro, which was even better the next morning with breakfast.

 

I will lay out some more highlights:

• Tom’s combination of radishes, sea salt, and butter (new to me but apparently a common favorite)
• An excellent salad with purple carrots and delicious lettuce from Marin Roots Farm
• An incredible pluot galette made by Nick as well as his heavenly Angel Peach Pie (click here for the recipe) with perfect peaches, almond meringue crust, and homemade whipped cream
• An egg scramble in the morning with squash, tomatoes, onions, and peppers alongside rosemary and thyme roasted farm-grown potatoes

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

California wine, Belgian beer. Immobilizing Manhattans.

 At night we grow rosy-cheeked from the cold (or was it the wine?) and stand out on the porch smoking and staring out into so much darkness. It’s not an overly eventful evening, just full of laughter and the most profound sense of contentment.  Just before midnight we take a tipsy hike to the top of the hill, looking for the stars that are unfortunately masked in fog. It is so quiet, the moon the only being besides our group. Back at the bottom of the hill I sink into a bed on hay that perfumes our tent with sweetness.

In the morning after an extended breakfast (see above) and several cups of coffee we take one more walk up the hill to look around in the daylight. It’s weird hiking up the same trail when I can see around me. It’s less imposing and adventurous and mysterious in the sun. The hills seem parched by the summer and so many months devoid of rain. The farms and cattle make the landscape look less post-apocalyptic, but I still feel as though I’m in a world entirely distinct from my normal consciousness.

 Right before we go a group arrives to tour the farm. The large house lingers in the midst of the compound, windows empty and new. The farm remains unfinished, but it will soon house the owner’s family from San Francisco on the weekend and holidays. Both doctors, the owners bought the land mainly to preserve it and carry on with its traditional small-scale agricultural production. Hannah, who helps manage the herd, is starting a line of goat-cheese bearing the farm’s name. Each jar comes with a hand-drawn picture of a goat and she hopes to start selling them at the farmer’s markets in San Francisco and Marin.

 We pull out of the farm on our way to the promise of sun at Dillon Beach. There’s a cool breeze and we sail past the blackberry bushes, still laden with their tart souvenirs. There’s coastline to explore, Hog Island Oysters to seek out, windy roads to trace, a city to return to. Part of me wants to stay longer and wake to milk goats.

Nick, Nora, Tom, and Cory

The Marriage of Mushrooms and Scallions

As a vegetarian, mushrooms have become one of the staples of my diet. They are plump and meaty when sauteed, deliciously flavorful when grilled, soft and silky in soups. Mushrooms transform omelettes into feasts, and veggie sandwiches into more than satisfying fare. Toss a medley of wild mushrooms onto a flatbread with fresh rosemary, caramelized onions, and fontina cheese and impress any gourmand.

I chanced upon the Ferry Building Fungus festival back in November, and was offered a variety of shortbreads and candies made with mushrooms that exude the buttery sweet smell of caramel. Mushrooms are diverse; at the same Ferry Building farmer’s market there’s one stand called Far West Funghi with mushrooms of all different shapes and sizes, most resembling either forms of underwater flora or the tentacles of alien creatures. I wouldn’t call mushrooms beautiful, but they are most certainly mysterious. For anyone who can’t leave meat behind, I dare you to try eating mushrooms instead of meat for a week and see if you aren’t satiated. 

Robert Hass, my current favorite poet out of Northern California, meditates on the wildlife and horticulture of the region, often mingling his personal experiences with the landscape he reflects. This poem digs into both the mood of the foggy autumn day and the shadowy, musty body of the mushroom

Fall

Amateurs, we gathered mushrooms

near shaggy eucalyptus groves

which smelled of camphor and the fog-soaked earth.

Chanterelles, puffballs, chicken-of-the-woods,

we cooked in wine or butter,

beaten eggs or sour cream,

half expecting to be

killed by a mistake. “Intense perspiration,”

you said late at night,

quoting the terrifying field guide

while we lay tangled in our sheets and heavy limbs,

“is the first symptom of attack.”

 

Friends called our aromatic fungi

“liebestoads” and only ate the ones

that we most certainly survived.

Death shook us more than once

those days and floating back

it felt like life. Earth-wet, slithery,

we drifted toward the names of things.

Spore prints littered our table

like nervous stars. Rotting caps

gave off the musky smell of loam.

-Robert Hass, Field Guide

The pairing of mushrooms and scallions is a veritable marriage; the spice and delicacy of the onion combines perfectly with the depth of the mushroom. In particular, I find that portobellos and brown crimini mushrooms pair sumptuously with scallions. Here are two recipes that use both, one with a classic Japanese flair and one with a Mexican tilt.

Mushroom Udon Noodle Soup

I’ve had a horrible head cold and this, besides oatmeal and apple sauce, is literally the only thing I’ve eaten for five days straight. Adjust the amount of pepper flakes and ginger according to your liking, and even drop an egg in if you want a little extra protein.

• 1/6 a package of uncooked Udon
• 1/2 cube vegetable bullion
• 1 T soy sauce
• 1 garlic clove, roughly chopped
• 1 T ginger, roughly chopped
• 2 scallions, chopped
• 5 baby bella mushrooms
• a handful of baby spinach
• 2 tsp aleppo pepper flakes
• black pepper

Cook udon in a pot of boiling water for 6 minutes, then drain and run under cold water and set aside. In a pot, boil two cups water. When boiling, add the veggie bullion and soy sauce along with the ginger, garlic, pepper flakes and mushrooms. When mushrooms are soft, add the spinach, scallions and noodles, stirring until spinach is soft (about 1 minute). serves 1-2

Portobello Mushroom Tacos

• One portobello mushroom cap, thickly sliced
• fresh thyme
• shredded white cheddar cheese
• Two white corn tortillas
• 2 scallions, chopped
• 1 clove garlic, diced
• hot sauce
• sliced avocado
• fresh spinach
• 1 lime

Sauté garlic in a bit of olive oil. Add the mushroom and thyme and cover; let steam for seven to ten minutes, or until mushroom is juicy and tender. On a separate skillet, melt cheese and scallions on the tortillas (better if you don’t use butter or oil but instead just put tortilla directly on skillet and cheese will melt). Prepare spinach and avocado, and assemble everything into the two tortillas when cheese has melted. Top with hot sauce or salsa of your choice and fresh lime juice. Serve with strawberry mint margaritas (see below).

Minimal Space: The Twitter Chef

Behold, the anti-blog. Maureen Evans takes recipes and condenses them to fit Twitter’s 140 word limit. Her recipes resemble riddles at first, but after a moment’s observation they are relatively easy to decode.

The exercise in brevity reminds me of creative writing exercises we did in workshops. The teacher would force us to shrink our precious paragraphs into a couple of sentences. The result? Most of the time I would realize how little I was saying to begin with. Shrinking does not always mean decreasing in value, and in Evan’s case it appears she’s packed a whole lot of content into just a few lines. It takes ingenuity to convey meaning without taking up a lot of leg room. Maybe Twitter isn’t so redundant after all…

Check out her recipe posts on Twitter or by reading Take 1 Recipe, Reduce, Mince, Serve in The New York Times.