Exodus

As the summer dwindles and we all realize that it’s days are numbered I look around and see that the season has left a distinct itch in the air. With all of the time spent floating down rivers, sailing junk ships, and feeling the tightness of sun crisped skin, the thought of exodus has invaded the city. It seems that we’ve all started to question what exactly keeps us in our urban world. I’ve heard plans of buying land in the country, seen tattoo homages to the woods, and cracked champagne over newly purchased boats. And in doing so, I felt equally compelled to run away into the sunset.

I can’t help but be reminded of Rousseau’s noble savage. Not because I’m as douchey as that sounds, but because I’m living out exactly what he wrote about. I can see how at home we all are around campfires, each of us enjoying our own form of childlike amusement without any worry or awareness of doing so. Which, truth be told, is a sight I rarely if ever see in the city. Rousseau explains this fact with his theory that society brings about the burden of pride into man’s life. He argues that pride is a product of our participation in activities that have nothing to do with human needs. That in our style, and desk jobs, and appearances at appropriate locations we have bred a culture of unnecessary comparison to others. In his mind, this leads to unwarranted fear and the fact that we take pleasure in the pain or weakness of those around us. Now I’m not saying I necessarily agree with all of this but I do think it’s interesting that in the country, lying under the stars or in the shade of a tree is simply enough.

Of course logistically I doubt that many of our dreams of escape will become reality; nor do I know how many should. The truth is that I’m surrounded by folks who do and make amazing/beautiful things here in the city and I would never want those to go away. There can be no winner in my theoretical debate. However, since it is only August that is coming to a close, there is still time for the us to indulge in the fantasy. I for one plan to scratch the itch for as long as I can. That, or until it makes a weird patch on my skin- whichever comes first.

An American Summer

Having grown up in California, I’ve always thought that I new what “The American Summer” looked like. In the states the season has a distinct element of depravity that European, tropical, or island summers just don’t have. A base level lackadaisical hedonism that for me is distinctly American. I’m thinking of untraceable poolside days and nights, lying on warm car hoods (mostly in parking lots) in the wee hours of the morning, dirty dirty hip hop, chlorine discolored hair, and dried splotches of chemical stickiness everywhere you go. I’ve always loved the fact that we’re the type of culture that has made blurry and muted dog days tradition. Hell, the closest thing we have to a classic summer cocktail is pouring vodka into a slurpy.

Yes, the perception was glorious while it lasted.

You see, I recently took a trip to New haven CT and I quickly realized that there is an entirely contrary version of Americana that exists on east coast. This buttoned up culture makes up for every ounce of apathy that it’s bastard west coast sibling has squandered away. Although the humidity worked against this perception; there, everything in sight felt bright and crisp. From the manicured “greens” (and they actually were green) at the center of each town, to the bright American flags that hung over homes so quaint it was hard for me to believe they weren’t sets, the east coast had a feeling of deep seated tradition in every aspect of how summer was lived. Pressed garments and summer hats were worn to eat lobster rolls, board boats, sit under stripped shore-side umbrellas all the while drinking beautiful and refreshing summer cocktails. Although I felt like a fish out of water, there was something very satisfying about taking part in activities that felt like they were what the country was built on. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll always be a dirty California girl, but seeing the loveliness of the summer customs that our country does have makes me want to import some of the traditions into my summers here. For now, I’ll start with my favorite of the cocktails that I had on the east coast; the Pimm’s Cup.

This awesome drink is crisp, delicious, and because it's so light you can drink it all day long. To make your own Pimm’s Cup simply mix equal parts Pimm’s, lemonade, and seltzer water. Then garnish the drink with orange slices and cucumber and you’re good to go. As you can see, we threw in a few strawberries too which I highly recommend if you have them lying around.

It’s in the details

As some of you may know, I recently underwent the house hunting process. It’s a battlefield out there and I’m glad I made it out with as few wounds as I did. The move wasn’t exactly a planned affair so at first I had no idea what direction to head in. Was it time for me to have a place of my own again? Could I move away from my favorite streets here in San Francisco? Would I be able to find a shared place that my life fit into?

For weeks I truly felt like a refugee; knocking on endless doors only to find hoards of equally desperate/displaced individuals begging to inhabit spaces that I can hardly refer to as apartments. It’s amazing how your perception becomes warped when you join the multitude of ‘soon to be homeless’ individuals. I started justifying absurd scenarios … of course it is reasonable for me to construct a Japanese inspired floor unit that would function as a desk, dinner, coffee, and bedside table. It was clear that having the refrigerator in the living room is actually a convenience and wanting windows that open is for bourgeoisie bitches! I’ll spare you my thoughts on the slew of shared apartments I forced myself to look at because I could write a book on the frightening situations that exist behind so many SF doorways.

That being said, the second I walked into my new abode, the crazy that had been flowing through my veins instantaneously disappeared. It was as though I’d been given an antidote to a deadly disease. Looking back, I wondered what it was about this place that made it so immediately right for me. There are the obvious creature comforts that come to mind, yard, washer/dryer, hardwood floors, etc. However, I know those aren’t the things that caught my heart. I happen to be the type of lady that cares more about the crown molding and awkward built in cabinetry. I love my nonfunctional fireplace, and questionably designed light fixture infinitely more than the dishwasher. Even though I can’t claim that the windowpanes are 100% airtight, the old rippled glass make me feel warm and cozy without functionality. I have a freakin pull toilet for Christ sake, who gives a shit if the heating works? I realize that for many people this thinking is ridiculous, but it’s my brand of ridiculous and that’s exactly what makes it home.

Milk Maid

A few weekends ago I went on a little getaway to Full House Farms in Sebastapol. Driving into the town Adam and I had to laugh at what an active (drugged) little town Sebastapol is. For miles down the main drag Lifetime Movie esq wooden billboards announced the towns plethora of community events; the fire fighters' pancake breakfast, the bowling leagues' square dance, the girl scouts' bake sale, the apple festival raffle, etc. Equally hilarious and disturbing, the quaint town couldn't have been more contrary to the real deal of a farm house that lay before us.



Full House Farm produces goat dairy products, runs an extensive horse program, has spectacular fruit and vegetable gardens, and as if that weren't enough, built two rental properties for us city folk to enjoy. The adorable two person cottage not only has amazing views and a nice hot tub it also comes with eggs from the farms' chickens, local bread, wine, and the privilege to harvest fruits and vegetables from their gardens.



It's nuts. Christine Cole, the woman who runs the farm, is a total bad ass. She's happy to either have no interaction with her guests or to give them a complete tour of the gardens and the animals. We of course choose the later. We met the chickens, horses, hounds, and my personal favorite the GOATS!







At the end of the tour Christine offered to let us try our hand at milking. After showing us the drill, she warned us that milking is an acquired skill and that we shouldn't feel badly if we only get a drop or two because many most first timers walk away zilch.



Two cups of fresh goat milk later, I was officially pronounced a goat milking machine! I'll chalk it up to my German heritage but also admit that Willow and I did have a special connection so that might have had something to do with it.

King Condiment

I'm not going to spend anytime in this posting justifying my opinion. Taste preferences aren't the type of topic that I enjoy debating, so I am simply going to state that mustard is above and beyond my favorite condiment. I love all kinds; horseradish, dijon, german, honey, garlic, chinese. However, what takes the crown for me are spicy mustards that are capable of doing a number on your sinuses. The type that you don't taste as much as get hit by. That is why when I recently got together with friends to make mustard from scratch I was insistent that the Grandmother provided recipe fit that bill. Now having a fridge full of the finished product, I can assure you, it does! It is the perfect accompaniment to sandwiches of all varieties and as a base for salad dressings it's extraordinary.

The recipe we followed was particularly interesting because it uses seasonal fruit (think peaches, apples, apricots, or pears) as it's base. The majority of recipes use vinegar as their main base and all this recipe does is place a steamed and then blended fruit underneath that vinegar layer. While I can't give away the exact recipe we used because it was a family heirloom, I've adapted a recipe below to closely resemble our blend. The fruit (in our case pears) gives the mustard a nice and unexpected complexity. I'm sure if you give it a whirl you will have equally delicious results.

Ingredients:

* 1/4 cup yellow mustard seed
* 2 Tbsp. black or brown mustard seed, heaping
* 1/4 cup dry mustard powder
* 1/2 cup water
* 2 cups vinegar (white, apple cider, red wine - you know what you like)
* 2 cups steamed and blended fruit of your choosing
* 1 tsp. salt
* 2 garlic gloves, minced or pressed
* 1/4 tsp. ground allspice
* 1/4 tsp. dried tarragon leaves
* 1/8 tsp. turmeric

Preparation:

In a small bowl, combine mustard seed and dry mustard. In a 1- to 2-quart stainless steel or nonreactive saucepan, combine remaining ingredients. Simmer, uncovered, on medium heat until reduced by half, 10-15 minutes. Pour the blended fruit into the mustard mixture and once blended add the remaining vinegar mixture. Let stand, covered, at room temperature for 24 hours, adding additional vinegar if you wish to thin the mustard. Process the seeds and mixture in a blender or food processor until pureed to the texture you like --this can take at least 3 or 4 minutes. Some prefer whole seeds remaining, others a smooth paste. The mixture will continue to thicken. If it gets too thick after a few days, stir in additional vinegar. Scrape mustard into clean, dry jars; cover tightly and age at least 3 days in the refrigerator before using.
Makes about 3-4 cups.

The Limoncello Started It

As you know, I regularly get together with a group of friends and make a variety of liqueurs and mixers. It was about a month ago, while I think we were desperate for Spring to arrive, that we made a batch of Limoncello. The lovely lemon liqueur that was so bright and citrusy that we got to dreaming … Wouldn’t it be amazing to gather our friends for a fun formal affair? An event where we could create a menu that celebrated springs bounty and get everyone in their finest cocktail attire?

Well, we didn’t dream long, because before I knew it, we had mailed invites for 40 and were gathering more dishware than any of us thought was possible. Three weeks (and an ungodly amount of group emails) later, the night was upon us. The tables were gorgeous with mixed dishware on simple white clothes, cut up spring fabrics for napkins, mason jar water glasses, and some foraged (wink wink) flowers and we had ourselves a bash. I rarely admit to feeling this way, but this time I have no problem saying that the night was spectacular. This is because everything went off as planned, but because of how much everyone enjoyed themselves and the fact that you could feel our guests were caught up in the spirit of the evening. I was busy as could be that night so I didn’t have a chance to snap photos however, here is a quick picture of the most important element of the night, the menu:

We served:

Fava Bean Crostini
Rock Crab on Micro Greens
Wild Salad with a Pear Vinaigrette

A Trio of Tarts
Pickled Carrots

A Citrus Coconut Ice Cream
Orange Walnut Crisps

And of course we finished off the evening with our homemade Limoncello. Cheers to Spring!

The Welcoming Gene

It has taken me a long time to come to terms with the type of host I really am. You see, I like to think I'm super chill, with a "time together is all that matters" vibe, when the reality is, that nothing could be further from the truth. I can't help it, I'm Joel Kleinman's daughter and I'll be damned if you visit me and don't have battle wounds to show for it. For me, a good trip is filled with unexpected settings, great food, a mishap or two, and of course a lot of booze and I work to make sure that my guests are guaranteed all of these things when visiting me. So when planning the itinerary for my brothers recent visit, I was shocked to find one place that actually had the possibility to meet all of my criteria; the Tourist Club in Marin. It was perfect. Those of you who live in the bay area might know about this German Chalet in the middle of Muir woods that servers Beer and has beautiful decks to drink it on. You might also know, that people tend to be put off by the Tourist Club because their website isn't the most welcoming. Their weekend schedule is irregular and since they are a private club they make it very clear that they have no problem turning you away no matter where you've hiked from. Furthermore, they have a long list of rules: no dogs, no parties over 7, no outside booze, etc etc. I could see where others might be fazed by this attitude but I didn't even bat an eye when reading the info. After all, these people are GERMAN. They don't have the welcoming gene and you can't let this stop you from enjoying their company. So off we went in search of good beer and bad service.



I should mention, that the Tourist club is generally described as a hike in location. They have a parking lot but they discuss that as only being there for truly lame and helpless individuals and encourage you to take 1 of 2 hikes to their property. Your choices are, a challenging hike clocking in at around an hour and a half, or a moderate hike lasting only 30 min. I choose the later because if a German person says a hike is hard, it’s definitely a torture trail and we were there to have fun. We go to the described trail head right off of Panoramic Highway. It is beautiful. We see the woods descend into the ocean and off in the distance San Francisco's radio tower. The trail takes us about 20 yards below the highway and back the direction that we drove in. We hike for about 15 minutes before we start to wonder when exactly the path will separate from the highway and descend down into the woods. We continue and by minute 25 we are sure that we have taken the wrong trail. There is no way that a Teutonic nature lover would knowingly lead us along a glorified sidewalk 60 ft from the street. After hikers assure us that we are indeed headed in the right direction we forge forward. Right around minute 35 we strangely pop back onto a spot on the highway that we had driven past three quarters of an hour earlier, we look down the street and sure enough, we've hiked to the tourist club parking lot (enter mishap) which totally insulted my hiking sensibilities. The funny thing is, that walking from the parking lot the true treachery begins. You are forced to descend down one of the steepest walkways I've ever been on knowing that once you're drunk you'll need to get up this trail. Needless to say, once the club came into sight I knew it was all worthwhile. It truly is a traditional Bavarian Hut with hand crafted wood detail on every corner. As we sat there with our pitchers of beer and beautiful surroundings I couldn’t have been happier, knowing that even Papa would be proud of the adventure I'd drummed up for my bro. Oh and for those of you who are curious, the beer is the real deal too.

This is not a food blog

For months now I've been reading nothing but John Cheever and Raymond Carver, and of their work, only the shorts. Perhaps it is because shorts are the candy of the literary world. These little treats that you consume quickly and that ultimately leave you wanting more. It's not that one isn't enough, it's just that that having had one perfect little bite doesn't stop you from wanting another. Anyway, I know that what kept me bound bouncing back and forth between these two authors was the similarity of their points of view and how uniquely American their work feels. Like equal and opposite characters, both write straightforward stories about the sadness and loss of everyday people. Funny, dark, candid pieces that make you want to do nothing but drink and smoke. Like suburban chroniclers on opposite sides of the track they give you moral-less stories of people you already know. Without pretense or trickery both authors write with a blunt realism that to me lies at the heart of American literature.

For those of you that don't know John Cheever is a product of the east coast/old guard world, writing about the upper/middle class, while Raymond Carver is from the next generation of west coast authors that focus more on the lower/middle class. What I realize is that by reading these men as a pair and seeing the disparity between east/west, rich/poor, old/new, that I was also able to see that they have captured what is common amongst these worlds. What Carver and Cheever make clear is that no matter where we are, and what sort of life we lead we are surrounded by incongruity. In their work the drunk and the reformer, the ignorant and the educated, the spiritual and secular, simply are. These counterparts are never put into conflict with one another, rather they exist side by side easily and without judgment. It is this acceptance of duality within everyday existence, that makes their work so tangible and addictive. I think it is also why their stories are able to make me feel at home in the chaos of the city. I could go on but instead I'll just urge you to remember them next time your looking for a good read.

An Ex-Lyer

Back in November, my good friend Jen of Eve invited me to an olive brining class at in Oakland. I was excited but had no idea what to expect. I have done my fair share of pickling but have never considered olive brining before. So off I went to the Bio Fuel Oasis co-op(I know stay with me) dreaming about the jars of bobbing little spheres that would soon be in my fridge. To my surprise the co-op is located in an adorable little brick gas station built in the 50's to resemble a pagoda. It was a building I passed often while living in Oakland, however, in my time it sat sad and abandoned with a bad paint job and shady characters in it's midst, so it was nice to see it being taken care of. Once inside, the olive lesson began. Of course there had to be some bad news before there was good. We learned that almost all of the olives sold in stores are cured with lye. Lye is a corrosive alkaline substance(I only partially know what that means) that will basically screw you up. The chemical is not only produced in mercury vats and transfers mercury to the foods that are produced with it, contact with lye can also cause everything from chemical burns to blindness. MMMMMMMM, who's hungry for olives? The real frustrating part of the predominance of the lye procedure is that the old world methods for brining olives may require patients but are incredibly simple.

Ok, so just to be clear the goal of brining is simply to remove the insanely foul/bitter flavor from a fresh olive to make it edible. As the chef that taught the class (and had studied cooking with italian grandma's in the countryside of italy) reminded us numerous times, olive brining is super straightforward. Follow one of these methods until your olives don't taste rancid; that's all there is to it. The first and oldest method we learned is my favorite although it isn't exactly practical for city. This is a salt cure which entails putting an equal quantity of salt and olives into a sac and hanging it up on a tree. Every day you simply go over and shake the bag, and three months later you have olives. Awesome right?

The two methods that we tackled in class were water brining and salt brining. For the water brine all you do is take olives, score them (which just means slicing them as you see in this pic) or crush them with a rolling pin, and then put them in a jar with water. Breaking up the olives just helps them to release their bitterness. Change the water daily and in 8 weeks they should be ready to season. The batch that we did in a water brine were green (less mature) olives. When using the water method you should be ready to see the olives turn a browner green when they oxidize in the areas that have been scored or broken. At first this bothered me but when I started to think about the green olives I purchase in stores, I realized they all have that sort of camouflage coloring and I decided to let the perfectionism go and love these little guys anyway.

Now in my opinion the salt brined olives were the real star of the show. Basically, take ripe olives and put them in a jar with a brine of 8 ounces of salt per gallon of water. Let them hang out in a cool place for a week. At that point rinse the olives off and change the brine to a 1 pound of salt per gallon of water ratio. Let those be for 15 days and repeat that process until your olives taste like olives, which took about 7 weeks total for me. At that point season them with whatever your pantry provides. I used balsamic vinegar, olive oil, lemon, chillis, thyme, rosemary, garlic, and honey and they were delicious. The only change I would make is to leave out the olive oil next time. It coats the olives in a way that is to greasy. Oh, and in terms of where you get raw olives..... look around you. Here in Northern California olive trees are everywhere so most people that do this go out with buckets and forage them in open spaces and friend's backyards. I've already spotted some trees that are perfect for picking but that info I'm not willing to share. You'll just have to go out and find a tree of your own.

Tonic it is .....

A few weeks ago I was at the east bay restaurant Pizzaiolo and ordered their Gin with homemade Tonic. To my great surprise a lovely reddish brown drink was set before me. The drink was unbelievable, earthy and complex but amazingly refreshing. It did have that unmistakable Tonic flavor but was worlds away from the Schweppes that I'd gotten used to. After a few weeks of not being able to get the drink out of my head I decided to tackle making homemade tonic of my own. A little internet research led me to a number of recipes that I decided to blend and hope for the best. Most of the ingredients were fairly simple to find (lemongrass, allspice, limes, oranges, lemons, agave) except for the Quinine, which I was forced to order from a hippie website . Even though you won't ever see a total or receipt if you order from here, I promise you it is legit and Quinine powder will come your way.

With all the ingredients assembled before me I couldn't help but contemplate the origins of Tonic water. It seems like somewhat common knowledge that Tonic has been used for hundreds of years as an anti-malarial and digestive, but with the fixings sitting on my table I felt truly sentimental for the great history that this drink possesses. It turns out that Tonic was first used to treat Malaria in Rome in the early 1600's. A Jesuit priest had been exposed to this bark in Lima where tribes referred to it as "quina-quina", which roughly means "bark of bark" or "holy bark". He then shipped the Quinine back to Rome where the first versions of Tonic were born. It wasn't until the 1800's when the Brits got involved that people started to mix their medicinal quinine tonic with gin to make it more palatable, and thus truly created the beverage we consume now. With the historical knowledge under my belt I was ready to create a batch of my own, so I teamed up with two friends and made it happen.

The actual cooking was fairly simple. Throw all of the ingredients in a pot, bring them to a boil and let them cook for about 20 min. The somewhat tricky part comes in the filtering process. All of the recipes that I had read suggest using coffee filters but that proved next to impossible for us so after some trial and error we went with a series of cloth filters. First running the mixture through cheese cloth, then a gingham like fabric we had on hand, and finally a cotton sheeting to finish the process. Once that is done you simply mix agave or sugar or whatever other sweet element you choose into the liquid and you end up with a beautiful frothy brew the color of amber. Pleased as could be, we filled our jugs and mixed our drinks and dove in for a taste. With our first sips we looked at each other somewhat surprised. The bawdy drink we had in our hands tasted remarkably like a flavor we knew ..... that's right, Tonic! I should say this drink is not for the weak palated. It's strong and tangy but of course that is precisely why I'm going to have a very hard time going back to the bottled variety. Here is a link to the recipe that I used as my main guide. I encourage you to make a batch and experience this hearty beverage for yourself.