California, Here We Go.

We've been plotting and planning for close to eight months. We've been roommates with boxes and bubble wrap for about as many weeks. Address changes, car selling, new banks, lists and lists and lists, goodbye breakfasts, lunches and dinners, goodbye glasses (that turned into bottles) of wine – all of this, leading up to a moment. The moment we drive away from the City of Angels towards our new home, three thousand miles away in Richmond, Virginia. And that moment happened last Thursday.

It was so hurried and frenetic, nary a moment for goodbye tears or nostalgia. Which suited me just fine. Fred, Eduardo, Byron and I all loaded up in our little car, loaded with our life for the next few weeks - not without grandma Janie's cast-iron skillet and my bacon drippings. Ahead warp zillion! Ahead first to Phoenix, Arizona, where we were set to meet up with the legendary Chris Bianco, creator of what is purported to be the greatest pizza on Earth outside of Italy. And then what next? We were not certain. And that is the beauty. We are like Hansel and Gretel, eating those breadcrumbs all along the trail across this great country to find our way home.

After experiencing a wonderful dinner at Chris' newest iteration of Pizzeria Bianco (which you will be able to read and see all about on TasteSpotting soon!), we popped up bright and early to meet up with him at his cafe and 'test kitchen' of sorts, Pane Bianco. This is where his brother, Marco, bakes the loaves of bread and also where the mill lives. Yes, they grow their own wheat, have their own mill, and bake their own bread with their very own flour.

After a tour of the kitchen, dining room and mill, with tastes of biscotti here, and gelato there, Chris sat with us and talked about love and the beauty in everything, and what inspires him (of which food is but a slice). He talked about rectangles, triangles and circles (everything in Pane Bianco is on wheels). He then sent us on our way with hugs, a bottle of chilled rosé from his restaurant (the label is from a painting his father gave his mother ages ago, of a rose) and told us to pick out one of the loaves that had just come out of the oven – to pick the one 'that spoke to us.'

And on the road we went. To infinity: The Grand Canyon. Where we went to watch the sunset, crack open the bottle of rosé, and eat that beautiful fresh bread with some Italian cheeses we picked up in Flagstaff. And yes, the bread was remarkable – mouth-injuringly crusty on the outside, yet moist, airy and filled with beautiful air pockets on the inside – fundamentally satisfying in every way. I suppose Marco was right, it 'spoke to us.' All this while watching the sun disappear into the canyon. How remarkable was it? So much so that I have goose bumps even writing this.

The next morning we were up bright and early to get on the road again. We needed to make it to Albuquerque, at least. Which shouldn't have been too much of a challenge, but Fred wanted to amble. So we stopped at Meteor Crater, walked the dogs, looked around, took pictures. And then we were off again. Well, for about thirty minutes. When I noticed the car slowing considerably, I looked up and found that Fred had pulled off into a small town. And we were driving down the main drag: Route 66.

Fred turned to me and flatly explained (as though it was quite obvious), “I want to be standin' on a corner in Winslow, Arizona."

Oh, of course. Clearly.

We pulled over, leashed up the pups and went to find The Corner. It wasn't hard to find. After Fred posed for his obligatory picture, we began to wander and stumbled across none other than the 15th Annual Standin' on a Corner Festival. What are the chances?!

So we found a vendor selling Navajo Tacos on Fry Bread, wandered back to the car and had our lunch. As we sat in the sun, noshing this new kind of taco, I looked around and thought about Chris' words from earlier. I ruminated on unexpected beauty, I looked down at my pizza-shaped taco loaded with meat, cheese, tomatoes, green onion, lettuce and salsa with the fry bread confidently glistening with hot oil, I relished the love of Fred and our dogs on this singular adventure. I then looked up and saw a bird fly over (how amazing would it have been if it was an eagle?).

Take it easy? No problem.

And just think, only fort-eight hours prior we were watching the City of Angels disappear in our rear view mirror.

Navajo Fry Bread

Recipe adapted from The Pioneer Woman

Makes 6 breads

Ingredients

3 cups All-purpose Flour

1/2 teaspoon Salt

3 teaspoons Baking Powder (slightly Rounded Teaspoons)

3/4 cups Milk

 Water As Needed To Get Dough To Come Together

 Vegetable Shortening Or Lard For Frying

Directions

Stir together flour, baking powder, and salt in a medium bowl. Stir with a fork as you pour in the milk; keep stirring for a bit to get it to come together as much as possible. Add just enough water (about 1/4 to 1/2 cup) to get it to come together. Cover the bowl with a dish towel and let it sit for 35 to 45 minutes to rest.

When you're ready to make the fry bread, heat about 1 to 2 inches shortening/lard in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Grab a plum-sized piece of dough (or larger if you want larger fry bread) and press it into a circle with your fingers: place it on a clean surface and begin pressing in the center and work your way out, stretching it as you go.

When the circle is about 4 to 7 inches (however big you want it) carefully drape it into the skillet. Allow it to fry on one side until golden brown, about 1 minute, then carefully flip it to the other side using tongs. Fry it for another 30 to 45 seconds.

Remove the fry bread to a paper towel-lined plate and allow it to drain while you fry the other pieces.

Serve warm!

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Ham Hock & Lima Beans

Two years ago: Chocolate Sea-Salt Pie

Three years ago: Chicks with Knives at Test Kitchen, 2010

Four years ago: The Marked 5 Truck

I'm the Dog Walker.

Oddly enough, I've been to very few weddings. A lot of people complain about weddings, like they're a drag or something. I love them. I love looking at all of the people, watching the families interact, figuring out who knows whom, who tolerates whom, you get the idea. I love to watch the eccentric great aunt with her shaky, little hands, clutching her champagne glass smeared with red lipstick smudges around the rim and crumbs of God knows what permanently lodged in the corners of her mouth. I love the awkward little children, dressed up like adults, the boys looking miserable and uncomfortable and the girls loving their princess hair and dresses and all of the attention. I love watching the bride's second cousin flirting with the groom's best man's brother, and sneaking off to hook up after just enough champagne, wine and cocktails to chalk it up to 'weddings'.

I love the formality, the process. I love watching the groom's face, and see his eyes light up (or fill with tears) when he first lays eyes on his very soon-to-be-bride walking down the aisle toward him. And, at that moment, I always cry a little. I love how awkward they are. I love that as a result of how awkward they are, and how no one really knows anyone all that well, no one is really themselves; rather people take on a veil of anonymity. And pretty much everyone over indulges in some way or another.

I love wedding food. I love food in chafing dishes. I love the taco themes, or the tapas themes, the big-fat-Greek-wedding themes, I love choosing either the salmon or the roast beef. I love the over cornstarchy, congealed sauce that is poured over either one. I love the extremeley cooked carrots and green beans with mashed potatoes and gravy. And, of course, I love the cake.

It's wonderful that everyone dances (to all manner of bad music). Everyone laughs. Everyone cries. Everyone talks. Everyone eats and everyone drinks. Family and friends from all over the country, or even the world, perfect strangers, yet all thrust together because of another couple's union. And everyone at least pretends to be happy, jubilant even. Until they receive the next wedding invitation whereupon they complain what a drag weddings are.

It had been at least five years since my last wedding, until this past weekend. One of my clients was getting married. And she wanted her dog, Giovanni, to be in the wedding. To be specific, she wanted me to escort Giovanni to the wedding and make sure he made it down the aisle with his "grandfather" (the bride's dad).  An ordinary day. Giovanni is an awesome dog and I adore him. Giovanni is a Pug. It was a hot day: Giovanni mouth breathes like a Pug, is a tiny bit chubby, and does not love the heat.

I followed the wedding planners' instructions to the T: I drove Giovanni downtown at five pm and parked outside the venue.  We were escorted in by one of the planners; I then waited to hand him off to the bride's father at the proper time. Oh, did I mention Giovanni was wearing a tuxedo?  A snug tux at that--couldn't fasten the bottom button.  So here I am in downtown LA at 5 pm on what seemed the hottest day of the year with a chubby Pug in a tux.  After Giovanni's down the aisle promenade with granddad I was to take him and wait until the conclusion of the ceremony at which point the wedding photographer was going to get a few shots of the happy couple with Giovanni.  Then Gio and I were free to go.

Everything went as planned. Except there were no side aisles. So for the first few moments of the ceremony, I sat in the very front row, next to the VIPs and the parents, who must have wondered who this bold stranger might be. I quietly explained, “I'm the dog walker”, and they seemed relieved. So, Gio's granddad walked his daughter and her dog down the aisle and it was touching. As always, while everyone else was craning their necks to catch that first glimpse of the bride, I watched the groom's face, and could tell exactly when he laid eyes on her, in her dress, for the first time. And I cried a little.

After that, Giovanni was quickly handed to me and, while the ceremony began to hit its stride, I had to awkwardly duck back up the center aisle, the only aisle. The very aisle that still had the lingering scent of the bride's perfume as she had just walked down it not six seconds prior. And, of course, with Giovanni panting very audibly in his tuxedo. A graceful exit it was not.

Then, Gio and I were shown to a corner in the back of the reception area to wait for the ceremony to end. A couple of the caterers and staff were curious about what we were doing back there, all alone, no champagne. “I'm the dog walker," I told them.

Then, as fast as it began, it was over. And while Giovanni was photographed with his just married mom and dad, I waited by the front door of the venue with the valets. Then a woman stepped outside for some air and since we were the only non-valets standing there, she felt compelled to say, “Hi, I'm Evelyn, the groom's sister. Are you with bride or groom?” To which I confidently replied, “Hi, I'm the dog walker!”

And so, as the bride and groom went back inside to enjoy the reception, the meal, the dancing and the champagne with all of their family and friends, Giovanni and I hopped back in the car to head back to my house to relax. And man, was he happy to get that tux off.

Back at my place, it was dinner time. I fed the pups their kibble and Fred poured us a couple of glasses of Vino Verde to sip while we got to our Saturday night project: making ricotta, which was something I had wanted to do for a very long time – ever since I saw the recipe in Saveur six or so years ago and ripped out the pages. As the milk and cream were heating up on the stove, I told him about how it felt so strange to have been a part, in even the tiniest way, of one of the most important days in two people's lives, but to have been so very invisible. I wasn't really even there. And I didn't mind one bit – though a glass of champagne would have been much appreciated.

As we sat down to the table to eat our dinner of grilled pork tenderloin (with an amazing dry rub) and zucchini with Niçoise olives and homemade ricotta, I realized I definitely got my wedding fix. I got the vibe. I watched the families, the couples, the singles scoping out their next flirt target. There was champagne, and spicy margaritas. It was a taco theme, with mariachis and the whole bit. I did what most women who have not yet had their own wedding do (and have thought about since they were six years old), compare it to what they would do differently, take note of what worked, little details, décor, style, all of it. And before Giovanni and I left, I did get a hug from the bride and groom – which is actually pretty hard to get at a lot of weddings, with all of the hullabaloo. Especially for the dog walker.

Would I serve this dish at my wedding? Perhaps. But man alive, the ricotta that we made was out of this world. Light, airy, buttery, creamy, rich, and delicate. We ate it in everything for three days straight, until it was gone. We even ate it for dessert; a heap of it in a bowl topped with lemon zest, honey and almonds.

Zucchini with Niçoise Olives and Homemade Ricotta

8-10 servings

1/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

8 medium zucchini (about 3 1/4 pounds)—halved lengthwise, seeded and cut into 1/3-inch dice

3 lemon thyme sprigs

Kosher salt

1 teaspoon finely grated lemon zest

1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

1/2 cup pitted Niçoise olives, chopped

Freshly ground pepper

3/4 pound ricotta (here's how to make your own)

1 tablespoon fresh mint, chopped, plus a sprig for garnish

In a very large skillet, heat 2 tablespoons of the olive oil. Add one-third of the zucchini, 1 lemon thyme sprig, a generous pinch of salt and 1/4 cup of water and cook over moderately high heat, stirring occasionally, until the zucchini is barely tender and the water has evaporated, about 5 minutes; add more water if the zucchini starts to brown. Transfer the zucchini to a baking sheet to cool; discard the thyme sprig. Wipe out the skillet and repeat twice more with the remaining olive oil, lemon thyme, zucchini and salt, adding 1/4 cup of water to each batch.

In a large bowl, toss the cooled zucchini with the grated lemon zest, lemon juice, mint and olives. Season with salt and pepper and transfer to a serving platter. Arrange the ricotta over the zucchini, garnish with a sprig of mint and serve.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Poblano-Sherry Vinegar Mignonette

Two years ago: Classic Southern Fried Chicken

Three years ago: Wolvesmouth

Four years ago: Steak au Poivre

Country Mice

Right before we drove away from San Francisco, Fred's aunt, Jenny-King, told us about all of the wild blackberries, ripe and ready to harvest, growing all around the family cabin in Inverness. And though I am a total weirdo about almost everything fruit-related, I do love a blackberry. Perhaps it's their tartness. Jenny-King then went on to tell us about her recipe for a blackberry crumble that she and her girls loved to make each year when the berries are in season and growing rampant around the Inverness house.

She even made us a little kit with all of the crumble elements mixed together in a Ziplock bag. Just add blackberries. And butter. A stick of it.

And we were off. Driving north, headed toward Tomales Bay.

This was the part I was waiting for, the part I was really the most excited about. The little house tucked away in Inverness, Tomales Bay, Point Reyes, all very magical to me. I remember when Fred took me up there the first time, a few months into dating each other. He made a point to tell me that though it was a very special place for him, it wasn't for everyone. It was rustic, he told me. There was no television, no internet, probably no phone service. There were spiders. But it was a house that was a part of him, his family - the paternal side, and so also a little bit of his father who passed away some time ago. It was filled with good memories; memories of fishing and grilling oysters and board games – and blackberries.

Though those reasons alone would have made me fall in love with the house and with Inverness, it would have most certainly happened without them. I'll tell you right now that I am no camper. At least, I don't think I am – it's been at least fifteen years since I've camped (back in my late teens/early twenties, Paz, Spencer, Sam and I went camping on the beaches of North Carolina every Summer). The Inverness house is in no way camping, but rustic, yes.

Perfectly, beautifully, serenely, romantically rustic. And very clearly filled with happy memories of family, children growing up, dogs, friends, love, and fun. My favorite room is the kitchen. Its windows look over the Tomales Bay and it's very bright. It is filled with odds and ends that family members and guests have left over the years, a mishmosh of different sized wine glasses, cast-iron, old sippy cups for small children, wonky knives and my personal favorite, a boom box that plays cassette tapes. There is a Motown tape that I listen to over and over and over again each time I visit. And it never gets old.

During the days we wander around and collect cheese from the Cowgirl Creamery, Brickmaiden Bread, salume, duck eggs and bacon from the local Marin Sun Farms butcher shop, and clams, mussels and oysters, oysters, oysters from the Tomales Bay Oyster Company and Hog Island Oysters (because one just can never have enough). Then we drive out to Point Reyes, walk out to the tip of the world to the lighthouse and stand and look out over an almost 360 view of water before hiking back up over three hundred steps to begin the strikingly scenic drive back to town. Back in the cabin, we pour some local wine, make a cheese board, grill oysters on the deck, and retire inside by the huge fireplace listening to that Motown tape until we fall asleep in each other's arms, a little drunk, a little full, and extraordinarily content, blissful, with Smokey Robinson crooning (a little roughly as a result of that over-played tape) in our ears.

And then we wake up with the sun coming up over the bay. And we do it all over again, save for maybe picking one of the precious (and delicious) local restaurants for our one meal out.

I mean, come on.

This last trip up, we took my dad and his girlfriend, Dale, with us. We were a little nervous that they wouldn't think it was as magical as we do. But one step, maybe two, in the house and they were sold. And so we shared with them our Inverness experience. To the T. Including the magnificent blackberry harvest.

After the lighthouse afternoon and our lunch of oysters on the bay, both Dad and Dale were spent. Nap time. So Fred and I went on a hike to forage for those wild blackberries. In hindsight, I A) packed horribly (as I always do) and B) wore the absolute, complete wrong outfit for the mission. Why did no one tell me about all the thorny parts?! So my cute, rolled up pants, sandals, and cable knit sweater that gets pulls in it super easily were, perhaps, not the best plan. Cest la vie. We still got ourselves a bounty. Fred practically had to drag me away, saying something about saving some blackberries for other people in the neighborhood, or some such thing. I couldn't stop myself. Perhaps because, at that point, after all of the thorn pricks on my hands, arms and ankles, and clearly destroyed sweater, I was in it to win it - I had given in to The Experience.

When we returned to the house the old folks were just coming out of their nap haze. So I opened a bottle of rosé, made up a cheese board and put on the Motown tape (which Dad quickly changed to a classical music radio station). We then made a simple presentation of fresh, steamed clams (pulled from the Tomales Bay that day) with drawn butter and a crusty bread followed by a pretty classic dish of sautéed mussels with white wine, cream and garlic, all with a huge chopped salad. Which pretty much knocked Dale out.

And three remained.

So, we built a fire, opened a bottle of local Pinot Noir (a glass of rum for Dad) and I got to that blackberry crumble.

In our 'kit' from Jenny-King there were about two cups of Trader Joe's Ginger, Almond and Cashew Granola cereal, about a half a cup of flour, maybe a quarter of a cup of sugar, a few dashes of powdered ginger, and I'm pretty sure that was about it. Oh, some cinnamon?

So I preheated the oven (which is all lit by propane and runs about fifty degrees hot) to about 350. Put all of the rinsed blackberries in a deep cast-iron pan with a little lemon zest, sprinkled the 'kit' over the top, sliced up a stick of butter and scattered that over the crumble along with some brown sugar and put in in the oven.

Jenny-King told us we would know it was done when all the blackberry juices bubbled up through the crumble and the top was slightly browned. And she was absolutely correct. This was about thirty or so minutes. While the crumble was cooling, Fred put a little heavy cream and some sugar in a bowl and got to whisking.

The night was cool, the windows were open, the fire was roaring, the wine glasses were full, and the classical music played on as the three of us sat by the hearth scraping clean our bowls of fresh, hot blackberry-that-we-foraged-ourselves-from-the-property crumble, topped with fresh whipped cream.

And so once again, twice in one trip, a Cosmic Muffin moment. There was no where else I could have possibly wanted to be. Talk about perfection.

And now, now I'm back in Los Angeles. And it is go time. One month to wrap things up: my life of thirteen years, my friends, my job, packing up my house, and hitting the road with Fred and our pups for the long way home. The extended drive across the country, through the cities, towns, communities, restaurants and kitchens of our country, and specifically the South, until we pull up to our new house in Richmond, Virginia.

Are you ready for us?

Jenny-King's Wild Blackberry Crumble

Serves 4-6

*This is all approximate as I was not given an actual recipe. But winging it can be fun!

4-5 cups fresh blackberries

2 cups of Trader Joe's Ginger, Almond and Cashew Granola cereal

2/3 cup all-purpose flour

1/4 cup granulated sugar

1/2 cup light brown sugar

8 tablespoons (1 stick) butter, sliced

1 teaspoon lemon zest

2 teaspoons powdered ginger

1 teaspoon cinnamon

1/2 teaspoon salt

In a large bowl combine granola, flour, brown sugar, ginger, cinnamon, and salt. 

In a large bowl combine berries, 1/2 cup sugar, lemon zest and toss to coat. Pour berry mixture into large cast-iron or casserole. Top with crumble topping and evenly distributed slices of butter.

Bake until top is golden and fruit is bubbly, about 35 minutes. Serve warm.

Top with whipped cream or ice cream.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Cape Gooseberry Port Reduction Sauce

Two years ago: LQ@SK

Four years ago: Cheesy Creamed Corn with Cilantro

Less is More, More or Less.

I've always heard that it's wise to stop and check yourself in the mirror right before you walk out the door and remove one element of your outfit; the hat, the pin on your jacket, something. Since I am terrible at accessorizing – I never wear hats, belts or pins on my jackets or sweaters. Hell, I hardly even stray from solid colors – that concept seems to be non-issue with me in the fashion department.

The kitchen department, however, is another story entirely. I like to throw a lot of different elements into most of my dishes. Admittedly, they can get very busy. I think it's because A) I always try to move ingredients through my kitchen with regularity, hence adding that shisito pepper or a splash of orange thyme-infused vinegar before it goes bad, and B) I'm very curious about flavor and texture combinations and really like to experiment. And let's all admit it; neither of these are bad intentions or bad applications.

But when I think about the chefs and the foods that most inspire me, and when I think about a quote I have mentioned here countless times, about simplicity being the hallmark of genius, I wonder why I don't practice it more often in my kitchen.

I mean, must I add shiso butterto a grilled steak? Do I really need to add sherry to tuna casserole? Is it necessary to make my own almond meal to add to a classic pie crust in lieu of sticking to the straight-up all-purpose flour? The answer is, of course, no. I will say, though, that while I have experienced my share of flops with these twists, I have stumbled upon great success equally as often.

But at Summer's peak, when all of my very favorite produce has hit its stride and is as perfect as it could ever possibly be, why gild the lily? So lately, I have had a lot of tomato sandwiches for lunch. That means, soft white(ish) bread, good mayonnaise, salt, pepper (generous portions of all) and big, thick slices of tomato. That's it. No basil, no bacon, no lettuce, nothing to distract from the celebrity of that tomato.

And corn. During this time of year just cut it from the cob and eat it raw with a little salt and pepper. Maybe even toss a little fresh tomato in there, too. Keep it simple. Listen to the corn sing her (his?) solo. Less is more.

More or less.

Which brings me to the bowl full of fresh, ripe avocados on the kitchen counter staring me down a few days ago. I have really been wanting to make that whole egg-baked-in-the-hole-of-the-avocado-half thing I've been seeing all over Pinterest and whatnot. But then I stopped myself... 'Don't cook it, for crying out loud. Keep it simple.' And so I listened to me: I kept it simple and I kept it raw. I made a cold soup and I let the avocado sing. And her voice was smooth, soft, clear and bright. Kind of like Sade, actually.

For now I think I'm going to keep on keeping it simple in the kitchen, but try to incorporate hats into my wardrobe.

Chilled Avocado-Cucumber Soup with Buttermilk

Serves 2-4 (depending on whether it's served as entree size or appetizer size)

Ingredients

1 ripe avocado

½ cup buttermilk

1/2 cucumber, peeled and seeded, plus some julienned pieces for garnish

1 tablespoon cilantro, plus some sprigs for garnish

sea salt

1/4 of a shallot, diced

¼ tsp cayenne pepper

juice of half a lime

½ cup – ⅔ cup water

black pepper

Toasted pepitas for garnish

Instructions

In a blender mix together the avocado, cucumber, buttermilk, cilantro, salt, shallot, cayenne pepper, lime juice, ½ cup water. Blend until completely smooth and then check for consistency. If you want a thinner soup add more water.

Pour the soup into two glasses or one bowl. Cover with plastic wrap and chill in the refrigerator for at least one hour before serving.

When the soup is ready to serve, dice the remaining avocado. Garnish the soup with avocado chunks, julienned cucumber, pepitas, cilantro, salt and pepper. Serve immediately while it is still cold.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Heirloom Tomato & Fresh Basil Frittata

Three years ago: Grilled Salmon with Market Relish over Jasmine Rice

Slab City

I don't know why but lately, for no good reason, I have been waking up way earlier than I ever have before. It's very discombobulating to have my day, routine and schedule change so radically. All because of three little hours. It makes the concept of when a day starts and ends get all blurred. Naps start to feel necessary. Bed time becomes earlier. The light is all different. Cooler.

I have always been envious of 'morning people' – someone who wakes up with the sun, makes a pot of steamy hot tea served up in a precious ceramic mug, bakes some fresh scones or biscuits with DIY jam (gross), homemade butter or honey from the bees in the backyard, sits in the misty garden with the hummingbirds and butterflies and all the while poring over the New York Times, The New Yorker or The Oxford American. All before eight o'clock. But I have officially never done anything even remotely close to that in my life. Rather, I wake up closer to eight, get out of bed closer to nine, make coffee, not tea (but I do have a number of precious ceramic mugs), and after feeding the dogs, sit down at my computer, in whatever room I deem my office on that particular day, and get to one form of work or another. And I will neither cook nor eat for hours. I do try to get out to the garden at some point each morning to see if there are any new tomatoes to pluck from the vine. That makes me extremely happy.

But last weekend, when I randomly popped up at six-thirty ayem, I came closer than ever to realizing that romantic vision mentioned above. I got right out of bed, fed the dogs, made a fresh pot of strong coffee, which I poured into a precious ceramic mug, and started playing with my mom's pie crust recipe. You may recall, I made that tart. I've actually had that pastry dough recipe for years, but have always both feared and revered it. As a result, I have never attempted it without my mom's 'help' (and by 'help', I mean that I stand there, feigning interest, while she makes it herself (and by the way, my mom is totallythat morning person I described above)).

Well, I think because work kept me completely strapped to my house this past weekend, and I was feeling all puffed up like a peacock after my tart triumph, I decided to keep on baking. And so, after the tart morning, for the next three mornings in a row I continued with the baking, and inching closer to my dream of being that fetching, productive morning person.

In hindsight, maybe it was a little bit of a weird thing to do over July fourth weekend. When it was so hot. In the middle of Summer. To have the oven on so very much. My dad has always told me that timing is not my strong point.

I think it was on Instagram where I recently saw an arrestingly beautiful, almost graphic image of a pie. It was called a 'slab pie'. And, not because I wanted to eat the pie, but because I wanted to make something that was that beautiful, I knew what I was going to do. So, again, I woke up bright and early, fed the dogs, made coffee and poked around the kitchen to see what I had in the way of the pie department. Pie because, of course, I had 'mastered' the dough. I had blueberries and I had white peaches. I had sugar, cornstarch, lemon, cinnamon. I had it all. So I started with blueberry. A blueberry slab pie.

I have to admit, I was pretty proud of that first pie. It was so beautiful and smelled so good. And it was out of the oven before nine ayem. But, since I don't really eat cooked fruit, as soon as it cooled, I wrapped it up and took it over to Doug and Kendra. But not before I took pictures. I did save one piece for Fred, of course.

The next morning, I fed the dogs, brewed a pot of coffee and decided on a peach slab pie. But this batch of dough came out slightly different. And so the pie came out very different. It smelled the same, and I hear it tasted just as good, but it was not as pretty. Or, I should say, not as perfect. It was like Eric Stoltz's character in Mask, Rocky Dennis: beautiful, golden and perfect on the inside, but dealt a raw deal in the looks department. The peach pie just needed a chance to show what is was made of.

Early on the third morning, after my new routine, I went back to blueberries, and worked extra hard on the aesthetics. I even made a little pastry heart to go on top. I think this one was the prettiest, but the dough was never quite as perfect as pie number one. Consensus was that all three were equally as yummy; they just had varying degrees of pretty. For this, I felt really good.

After all of this talk about slab pie, Fred made a joke about how we were in Slab Pie City. It got me thinking. I've heard about Slab City before, and seen pictures of it. It's a no man's land in southeastern California, near the Salton Sea. It has been referred to as 'The Last Free Place on Earth'. It is decommissioned and uncontrolled. There is no running water, electricity, or sewers. It has become a home for several thousand campers, or 'Slabbers', some retired, some impoverished, and almost all want to be off the grid. Similar to the initial photo I came across of the slab pie, images of Slab City are bright, colorful, stark, graphic and arresting. And also, like Slab City, slab pie has no rules: no pie tin, no set shape or size, no set fillings. It is sort of off the grid.

I imagine the residents of Slab City awaken with the sun. And though, I would guess theirs is a morning ritual that does not exactly mirror the one I painted above, I like to think it's equally ethereal and just as romantic.

As for me, I'm still waking up unusually early. But I'm no longer confused. I know just what to do with my morning and the day that unfolds beyond it.

Slab Pie

Makes: Varies, but I cut mine into 2 9” X 5” pies

Ingredients


Pie dough


2 cups blueberries,
or peaches (chopped), or cherries (pitted), or whatever fruit you'd like

1/4 cup granulated sugar

1 tablespoon cornstarch


1/2 teaspoon cinnamon


pinch salt


1 lemon, zested and juiced

1 egg, lightly beaten


1 teaspoon white sanding sugar

Preheat oven to 400°F.


Lightly flour a clean surface and roll dough out into 2 14”x 6” rectangles, about 1/8-1/4 inch thick.


Transfer dough onto a parchment lined baking sheet.


For filling: Place all ingredients into a large mixing bowl and toss together.


To assemble: Fill one side of dough with filling, leaving a 1/2 inch border around the edge. Lightly egg wash perimeter and fold the unfilled side over. Firmly press edges together with a fork and score the top of the pie to allow steam to escape while baking. Brush top with egg wash and sprinkle with sanding sugar.


Bake for 40-45 minutes or until golden brown. Allow pie to cool for 20-30 minutes before cutting and serving.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Heirloom Tomato & Fresh Basil Fritatta
Two years ago: Yerp: Part 5. Barthelona! (Part 1).
Three years ago: Grilled Salmon with Market Relish over Jasmine Rice
Four years ago: Pimiento Cheese

A Project, of the Sweetest Kind.

My word! Everything is so crazy right now. Work has hit some random fever pitch, my chores have stacked up and are looming, I haven't had any time to make my weekly batches of pimiento cheese or deviled ham salad for Lindy & Grundy, Fred and I are going on a vacation tomorrow, which means my packing agita began days ago, and, oh my GAWD - I had to remove a large tick from a dog (ticks are one of THE scariest things in the whole world to me). 

Mercifully, there is always light and growth. Right now those very elements are springing forth in the literal sense: the sun is bright and strong, and all things produce are exploding in my garden and at the market. The bounty of all of the new, and unusual produce, has helped to quell the lack of carbs allowed in my world. Because when things feel this funky, I really just want a big bowl of pasta served with a massive chunk of bread on the side. In their stead I have eaten many 'creative' salads, and an inordinate amount of cheese and almonds. The cheese and almonds are the closest snacky thing I have found to satisfy my salty, crunchy cravings (read potato chip desperation).

When in need of soothing I go grocery shopping; it is my therapy – it grounds me. Whenever I stumble across a brand new food anything, I buy it. And I rarely have a clue what I will do with my new Precious, even by the time I'm back in my kitchen. So last week, while aimlessly navigating each aisle of Whole Foods, mostly just to pick up some healthy lunch snack while out running around, I was suddenly face to spear with bright purple asparagus. And this, my friends, I had never seen before.

Thus, a project was born. Of the sweetest kind.

I raced home, put on my cozies, poured a glass of Moscato (needless to say, wine has been ushered back into diet headquarters) and sat down to poke through my brand new copy of Vegetable Literacy for an idea. I wanted something simple. I wanted something clean. I wanted something light and bright and fresh. And I wanted to incorporate the sixty-two degree egg that I have been besotted with of late. I read that purple asparagus (asparaguses? asparagi?) have less fiber and more sugar than other varieties. So I knew I wanted to bring an acid onto the palate with this dish. And things just all came together. As things tend to do. Or not.

This is a fun and versatile dish. You could serve this with brunch, lunch or dinner. It – at least the asparagus – could be served cool, with warm egg, to play on temperatures, or have the whole thing warm, depending on your whimsy. This arrangement creates a wonderful journey for the eyes, with the bright colors and textures. The aggressive spears of asparagus topped with the soft, sensual, gooey ephemeral egg. The little drizzle of the vinaigrette add that tiny pop of pink. That and the smattering of the bright green bits of basil keep your eyes busy for longer than you'd expect.

And theydo say, 'you first eat with your eyes', no?

Here, in the apex of Spring, I highly encourage everyone to plant something right now. Whether you are able to cultivate a garden in the ground, in containers, or you have a few little plants of basil, thyme or oregano on your kitchen windowsill – or how about Sea Monkeys? Remember them? Watch it (or them) grow and use it to enhance your day, your spirit and your food.

Roasted Purple Asparagus, Red Wine Vinaigrette, 62 Degree Egg

Serves 2

1 pound asparagus

3 tablespoons plus 1 teaspoon olive oil, divided

Sea salt

Freshly ground black pepper

1 teaspoon coarse prepared mustard

1 tablespoon red wine vinegar

2 eggs 62 degree or soft poached

A few basil leaves, chiffonade

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. If the asparagus spears are thick, peel the stalks and cut off the tough stem ends. If thin, snap off the bottom where it breaks easily and trim the ends.

Toss the spears with 1 teaspoon olive oil to moisten, season well with salt and pepper, and lay them in a single layer in a baking dish or sheet pan. Roast the spears, turning them once every 10 minutes, until tender and colored in places, 20 to 30 minutes.

Make the vinaigrette. Combine mustard, vinegar and 1/4 teaspoon salt, then whisk in the oil. 

Lay the asparagus on two plates. Top with eggs. Spoon the vinaigrette over all and finish with freshly ground black pepper. Delicately scatter basil leaves across the plates.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: The Pikey

Two years ago: Meyer Lemon Relish

Three years ago: Let's Talk About Text, Baby

In Like a Lion...

Today is the first day of Spring. I love Spring. Who doesn't? What's not to love about Spring? But, in all honesty, if you stuck an ice pick at my temple and forced me to pick my favorite season, I'd have to come clean and say that Spring is not my absolute favorite season of all the glorious seasons. But I do love it.

What I love most about Spring, other than the extraordinary, floral scent in the air, the flowers blooming and making the landscape a rainbow of beautiful colors, the longer days, being able to show off a little skin again, the new produce at the market, getting back into the garden, rosé, getting back into the grilling, Fred's ice cream, or even the Lillet, is the promise of New. The promise of change, growth, new life, new chances, do-overs, new opportunities, and, I must confess, Lillet. I kid. Sort of.

Every Spring, I see those little blossoms bursting forth with new life, to become big, bold beautiful flowers, with gusto as though it's never been done before nor will ever be done again. And, realistically, for that flower, it has not and it will not. That naivete, that wholesome, honest, holistic and true naivete is what I love about Spring. The world is my oyster! Again!

And this Spring, I feel, holds extra promise. Some change is afoot. Something is brewing, but I'm not quite ready to spill the beans, yet. Soon... soon.

The onset of Spring also means Easter. Now, as I've mentioned before, Easter for me has never been about religion. Up until two or three years ago, all I knew was that it was when little baby Jesus came back to life. Then a friend illuminated me for the better part of Easter Sunday, over Bloody Marys and peel and eat shrimp, about the whole elaborate, biblical deal. Which I don't really recall. So many details. And, around Easter, I also think of Passover; my favorite Jewish holiday. 

As a small child, I recall Easter meaning waking up that Sunday morning and going through a very minor search of clues to discover my Easter basket. I just got in touch with my mom to find out if that was the case, to which she replied, “The Easter Bunny left the basket out for you. HE used to put the basket in unusual places. Are you implying I had something to do with it?” 

So there's that. 

Try as I may, I can only vividly remember one basket. It was filled with pastel-colored, plastic eggs stuffed with jelly beans, foil-covered, hollow chocolate bunnies, little plastic toys, Cadbury Cream Eggs (my favorite, favorite, favorite), all tucked into giant tufts of that neon green plastic grass inside of a stripey wicker basket with a handle.

If you think about it, the whole Easter basket thing is really cool. I think I want one this Easter. You hear that, Bunny?!

As an adult (with zero religious affiliations), Easter doesn't mean whole lot. It's on a Sunday, and that usually means brunch and a crossword. That's always special. But I was curious about what others, like me, think about in regards to Easter. In the food realm, of course.

I heard a lot about Peeps. A lot of folks were also all about the chocolate. Some jelly beans. One person said rosé (good on ya). And a lot of ham. I say Cadbury Cream Eggs. But then I remembered a radio interview with Nigella Lawson I heard years and years ago. You know what she said? Lamb. I like that. And come to think of it, though, it doesn't seem like it would make mountains of sense since I don't entertain on Easter, or go places where one is entertaining me, I get it. Somehow, I get the whole lamb thing.

So to sum it up, I'd say Easter makes me think of chocolate things and lamb things. It's funny, I have never been a chocoholic. I did not grow up with dessert as an option, and I never order dessert when I dine out. I have never had the sweet tooth. More of a potato chip tooth, I'd say. But for the past six months, I have really been enjoying a small, sweet treat a couple hours after dinner.

Whether it's a chunk of chocolate, a cookie, a couple of bites of pie or cake, a salted caramel (or twelve), I have relished that after dinner sweetness. And unlike the potato chip, I have absolutely no problem in the discretionary portion department.

This means there has been a sudden boost in the baking department of my kitchen. Come to think of it, the very last post was all about chocolatey cupcakes. It was my first chocolate. Dessert. Chocolate. Baking. See?

Maybe this Spring there will be a burst of baking in my kitchen. Maybe I'll finally master Bread. I know I've said that one before, but I can say it again, because it's Spring. And anything is possible. Do-overs, start overs, start agains, go forward, go back; it's all new.

And until I'm ready to let my cat out of its bag of intrigue of all things new brewing in this camp, I will leave you with this impossibly decadent, delicious, rich, sweet and salty, caramel-y, chocolate bomb of a dessert. Make it for yourself. Make it and give it to friends. Make it for Easter. Make it for Spring. After all, this is the time. The world is your oyster. Your salted-caramel-cocoa-brownie oyster.

Salted Caramel Cocoa Brownies with Walnuts

Makes 16 brownies

Caramel


1/2 cup granulated sugar


4 tablespoons unsalted butter (or salted, but then ease up on the sea salt)


Heaped 1/4 teaspoon flaky sea salt (or 1/8 teaspoon table salt, more to taste)


3 tablespoons heavy cream

Brownies

Nonstick vegetable oil spray

1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, cut into 1 inch pieces

1 1/4 cups sugar

3/4 cup unsweetened cocoa powder

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

2 large eggs

1/3 cup all-purpose flour

1/2 cup walnut pieces (optional)

Make caramel:

Set a square of parchment paper over a medium-sized plate. Lightly butter or coat the parchment with a spray oil, just as an added security measure.

In a medium, dry saucepan over medium-high heat, melt your sugar; this will take about 5 minutes, stirring if necessary to break up large chunks. By the time it is all melted, if should be a nice copper color; if not, cook until it is.

Remove from heat and stir in butter. It may not incorporate entirely but do your best. Stir in cream and salt and return saucepan to the stove over medium-high heat, bringing it back to a simmer and melted again any sugar that solidified. Cook bubbling caramel for a few minutes more, until it is a shade darker.

Pour out onto parchment-covered plate and transfer plate to your freezer. Freeze until solidified, which can take anywhere from 20 to 30 minutes.

Meanwhile, or when your caramel is almost firm, make your brownies:

Preheat oven to 325°.

Line an 8x8x2 inches glass baking dish with foil, pressing firmly into pan and leaving a 2 inches overhang. Coat foil with nonstick spray; set baking dish aside.

Melt butter in a small sauce-pan over medium heat. Let cool slightly.

Whisk sugar, cocoa, and salt in a medium bowl to combine. Pour butter in a steady stream into dry ingredients, whisking constantly to blend.

Whisk in vanilla. Add eggs one at a time, beating vigorously to blend after each addition. Add flour and stir until just combined (do not overmix). Stir in walnuts. 

Assemble brownies: When caramel is firm, remove it from the freezer and chop it into rough 1-inch squares. Gently fold all but a small amount of caramel bits into batter. Scrape batter into prepared pan, spreading until mostly even. Scatter remaining caramel bits on top. 

Bake until top begins to crack and a toothpick inserted into the center comes out with a few moist crumbs attached; about 30 minutes.

Transfer pan to a wire rack; let cool completely in pan. Using foil overhang, lift brownie out of pan; transfer to a cutting board. Cut into 16 squares.

Printable recipe.


One year ago: Rustic Cremini Mushroom Soup with Chives & Basil Oil
Two years ago: Nutter Butter Cookies
Three years ago: Fresh Mint & Pea Soup