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At the end of their recent extended visit, my parents requested a trip to Carmel, where they've been spending the occasional weekend since the late 1960s. Not much has changed since then, which is what they love about it.Carmel is charming. Its beach is one of the prettiest in the state, and the faux English country cottages that line the side streets give it a cozy village air. But even the most most modest cottages now sell for north of $1 million, so behind its quaint veneer this former art colony is really an exclusive magnet for wealthy retired golfers.Perhaps this explains why so many of Carmel's restaurants seem cast from earlier decades. Like a septuagenarian who decides that she's tired of redecorating the living room every decade, Carmel has settled into a contented peace with its familiar, if slightly out-of-date, offerings. There are exceptions: Bouchée and its sister restaurant Luca will both look familiar to fans of contemporary California cuisine. But many favorite spots seem anachronistic.
That's not a criticism. We were all pretty well charmed by it. At Flying Fish Grill, we had excellent seafood prepared California-Japanese fusion style. With its wood-paneled room and slightly retro preparations (almond-crusted bass, fried wonton chips), Flying Fish had an early-90s feel. But it worked.
The Little Swiss Cafe goes even further back. This small, family-run breakfast and lunch spot serves homemade blintzes, apple strudel, liver and onions, "low calorie ground steak," and stuffed tomatoes. Scott said that the blintzes were the best he'd ever had. And we were all taken with the panoramic fresco (that's a panel in the photo above) of the Dutch countryside in the back dining room. Go check it out. It's a work in progress, and the artist, André Balyon, has recently started adding trompe l'oeil effects, such as a painted nail on one wall and a piece of duck tape on another.
This is for friends and family back home.Ok, ok. Enough with the cat. Back to the food...
Every year at this time, I like to revisit a challenge I set for myself when we first arrived in April, 2005. I made a list of all the foods that seemed essential to a happy urban life. I figured I'd feel at home in San Francisco once I knew where to find each of them.
Last year's answers are here. But seasons change, feelings change.
So true. Maybe my answers have changed, too?
Let's see...
1) A good pizza place that delivers
Aha! Now that the wonderful Gialina has opened just a few blocks away, who needs delivery?
2) Sushi within walking distance
Eh. Still Deep Sushi. Still pretty good. Still overrun with Bugaboo strollers.
3) Ice cream within walking distance that's just far enough away
Mitchell's is still very, very good. But if we walk just a bit further we can make it to the new Bi-Rite Creamery for some excellent salted caramel ice cream. I tip my hat to them: They knew that we were all suckers for the word "creamery".
4) A brunch place where you don't have to stand in line
My house. Seriously, it's impossible everywhere else.
5) Dim Sum, ibid
Ugh. Once more, I'm horrified that I said "ibid". I leave the original phrasing here to shame myself into never using it again. And I suggest getting to Ton Kiang early to beat the crowds. I'm also going to try to check out Joy Luck Palace this weekend. Will let you now what we find.
6) That place you recommend to visitors
Three: Slanted Door, Quince, and Bacar. With any of them, you'll leave feeling that you've had a proper San Francisco dining experience. Bacar might not be in quite the same league, but it's a crowd-pleaser with a great wine list and it's pretty easy to score a table.
I always send weekend visitors to the Ferry Plaza market because, you know, we live in a cult. And if Saturday night reservations are hard to come by, I'd send them to the food court at the Westfield Centre downtown because you can get Slanted Door food on demand and you won't see another mall food court like it.
7) That place with the young chef who just needs one good review
In a city with so many food writers, I'm beginning to question whether anything remains to be discovered. But down in Big Sur, the Big Sur Bakery and Restaurant is serving fantastic made-from-scratch food all day long, from their perfect jelly donuts in the morning to smoky wood-grilled wild salmon with succotash at night. And they're not getting nearly enough credit or attention.
8) The place with the rice pudding
Whole Foods in Palo Alto. Seriously, it's pretty good. Otherwise, it's my house once again, where I'm working on a terrific cinnamon rice pudding with apple compote for the book.
9) An Indian restaurant with puffy breads
Spice Hut in Menlo Park (and Newark, Sunnyvale, and San Jose). It's a chain!
10) The place where you meet friends for drinks
I'm in a retro mood, so I'd say the Tonga Room or Top of the Mark.
11) The place that becomes "your place."
It's not a restaurant. It's all of Big Sur. Whenever I'm there, I feel like I'm living my California dream.
p.s. Many of you (my mother-in-law) have asked how the kitten is doing. He's doing well. So well that the little 3-lb. pipsqueak has usurped 18-lb. Clio as the alpha. I can't begin to explain it, though I do wonder if things might change once Elijah is old enough for a certain little snip-and-tuck?
Here's a story I wrote quite a while ago for Yankee about New England's most expensive top-secret inn. They finally published it a couple of months ago and I see that it's available online.
Just got back from Miami, where we celebrated Passover with my in-laws. There is a brief window this time of year in South Florida when the weather is just warm enough, just humid enough, just breezy enough. At night, the air smells like trumpet flowers. So despite the traffic and the sprawl and that ridiculous airport, I had a lovely time.
And you know what else? I like gefilte fish. All the Ashkenazis at the table turned up their noses, but I would've had seconds if I hadn't eaten so many matzo balls. My sister-in-law thinks I eat them to prove that I'm not anti-semitic, but the affection is genuine.
We also ate at Michy's. It was my second time, and, sad to say, not as good as the first. The dining room is so bold and sexy, with blue and orange walls and vintage mix-and-match dining room chairs painted glossy white (come to think of it, everything is sexy in Miami once you get close enough to the beach). But two of the lightbulbs in the chandelier above our table had burned out, which, in such a cheerful room, cast an oddly sad shadow. Our blue cheese and ham croquetas, so salty and sharp the first time, had lost their kick and oozed out into a bland, creamy puddle. The menu hadn't changed much since last summer and the overall impression was one of fatigue brought on by repetition.
On the plus side, it was a thrill to eat that ancient form of gazpacho made with bread, almonds, and grapes (Try it: It's quite easy to make and it never fails to wow a crowd).
The day before we flew back, we were adopted by a young kitten who followed Scott and his mother home from a walk. He was tiny and affectionate and seemed worth the trouble of paying for re-booked flights and last-minute vet appointments. Sometime we are inspired to do nonsensical things. It being Passover, we named him Elijah.
San Franciscans are categorical about food. We're like the shop clerks in High Fidelity, only our nerdy lists tend toward "Top 3 dim sum spots outside of Chinatown," "Most authentic taco," and "Best cootie-free hot dogs."
Yes, we are very fascinating.
One category, though, has left me stumped and frustrated: "What's your favorite restaurant?" Seems like an easy question, but I've found myself muttering something about oh, I like different places for different things and the food's so good at Zuni but the service is bad and Incanto is really good if you're not spooked by offal, CAV is a great wine bar, Universal Cafe is sort of the classic San Francisco restaurant, Spice Hut in Menlo Park has good Indian food and...
Well, no more. I have a favorite! I finally made it to Quince.
We had a perfect meal. I'm not overstating here. It was my mother's birthday and the staff nailed every detail. The greeting at the door ("Yes, your table is right here"), the personalized menu ("March 26, 2007 -- Happy Birthday Elaine"), the perfect Lillet cocktail, the fresh flowers, the little warm rolls. Quince is polished and warm, a well-oiled machine that accommodates improvisation and quiet moments of pleasure. It's Pac Heights elegance without fussiness. Swept along in comfort, you're fully primed to savor the food.
And the food! Cauliflower sformato, like a dense soufflé or mousse, was enriched with parmesan, an earthy-airy game of tag. There was a salad with the sweetest pixie tangerines and blood oranges layered with watercress and pistachio. Agnolotti dal plin were tiny little pasta purses stuffed with ground veal, pork, and rabbit. Three bites in, I was high on umami.
We ordered the cheese course. We had dessert (Mom's served with a slender candle) and blood orange tea. We talked and laughed and slowly landed. They brought our coats, pulled the car out front, and we smiled, sighed, and left.
It was a splurge. But the bill was an even $200. For three people, on a night of such happy indulgence, I can't complain.
I went to Rainbow House of Customer Service the other day (motto: "We don't bag your groceries on principle!"). Actually, it's a great store, just unfriendly.
I also find it wonderfully odoriferous, and that's not a euphemism for stinky. Rainbow has the same slightly sweet, earthy smell that all natural foods co-ops have, and I'm trying to tease apart the components. My best guesses are below, but if any of you are out there, please vote! I'm serious about this.
One part bulk local honey
One part cheddar cheese
One part carob (do people still eat that?)
One part cardboard
One part something grassy-grainy. Groats? Quinoa? Spelt?
One part cedar bath products
One part crystal deodorant sticks (okay not really)
One part bok choy
One part unsulfured dried apricots
When I meet new people, I'm often reminded that my job can sound pretty living-the-dream-ish.
"You get paid to write about food?" they ask. "How do I get that job?"
What they're thinking is that I spend my evenings eating free meals in restaurants, then roll in to work at noon to dash off a few hundred sparkling words. In reality, I never dash off sparkling words and I rarely eat free meals. I have a long commute and spend most of my time at a desk trying to edit other people's words to preserve their style while also fitting the story to the magazine. It's a balancing act. There's a lot of typing and filing and detail managing and scheduling. When I'm not doing that, I'm in the test kitchen trying to get my recipes to work. That can be really, really fun. But it can also be frustrating. Why did the pork shoulder take 8 hours to cook today? It only took 5 hours yesterday. We can't give a "5 to 8 hour" time range. So we do it again the next day, all day. And again. Some recipes just take a while to get the kinks out. Sometimes I tear my hair out.
Oh, poor me. No, this is not to complain. I like my job very much. What I mean to say is that, at the end of the day, you know, work is work. You have to perform. And there isn't any job out there (is there?) that takes you to some perfect, unearthly non-job realm. Once you accept that, you can make the most of what you have. That's why I feel compelled to explain all this to strangers, if they're interested. Most aren't. They're probably perfectly happy with their jobs and just making conversation. But sometimes I need to remind myself.
And there is plenty to be grateful for. Case in point, a recent night that lived up to all my food writer fantasies. It was a dinner at Chez Panisse, hosted by Chronicle Books to celebrate the release of A Pig in Provence by Georgeanne Brennan.
Events like these can really blow my brain. I don't go to many of them, mostly for a lack of invitations. Also, Bay Area foodie types have to wrestle with all kinds of "dime a dozen" anxieties. I know I do. So there's the attempt to out-groovy each other at gatherings. One look at the crowd brought out my most prim and disapproving inner New Englander. Oh you all think you're so special with your embroidered tops and your berets, going on about the extra daylight and how Sonoma is just like Provence. I'll show you by wearing this cheap and unremarkable sweater. And furthermore, I vacation in Maine, where you can't swim in the ocean cause it's THAT COLD. And we eat food from cans and casseroles made with French Onion dip.
Actually, that last part isn't true. Maine is beautiful, but I'm a Cape Cod person. But the point is...what was it? Oh, that you have to find your way.
Of course, once I started talking to the nattily attired folks at this party, they were lovely. And really interesting! The food world attracts true humanists in the best sense. Liberal Arts types who were never able to pick a proper major and so chose a field that lets them dabble in history, science, and the arts. Food people usually have good stories to tell, and they can be warm and wonderfully carpe diem about life.
So it was a swell evening, once I got over myself.
But I am left with one question: How does Chez Panisse get away with doing just one menu every night? You show up, they hand you a short and beautifully illustrated list of four or five courses, and that's what you eat. No choices. Just one menu.
Now, I do understand that the restaurant is ground zero for the California Cuisine movement. I appreciate that they did it first and that we have them to thank for supporting the early goat cheese makers and baby lettuce growers who went on to become Laura Chenel and Chino Farm. What would we be without them? I am on my knees and bowing at the altar, believe me.
But this is a restaurant that attracts some of the most talented young chefs in the country. Their alumni go on to do great things. So couldn't they, I dunno, juggle a coupla different dishes? Is it just a charming conceit?
I question whether it's so charming anymore. It's one thing when Chez Panisse was just a little cafe with a former Montessori school teacher and some friends banging out dinner every night. But how long does one rest on one's laurels when other players have taken the ball and run? I know, I know, the café has a regular menu, but the main restaurant is the marquee player.
Ah, I don't know. Fact is, the meal was wonderful. It is always wonderful. The service is perfect. And when I think of the ten most memorable meals that I've had since moving here, two of them happened there. I may try to resist the Chez Panisse mystique, but I have to admit that there is a sort of alchemy that happens in that dining room. People become their most charming, contented, big-hearted selves. Maybe that happens best when we're not choosing and debating and I'll-split-this-with-you-if-you-get-the-ravioli bargaining.
Love was in the air last week. I was talking with a friend about marriage. Specifically, happy marriages. I was saying how much of it is luck. She said, "What about you? What about what you did to make your luck?"
I don't have an answer for that. It reads to me like the cockiness that precedes the swift kick in the ass. So I keep my head down, feeling grateful for this solid, delicate thing. I don't look too far ahead and fear even talking about it too much.
I was looking ahead, though, on Wednesday night, while we were having dinner at Mijana in Burlingame. They make their own fresh pita, and I knew Scott would appreciate that. Only later did we appreciate what a stroke of genius it is to head out of the city for dinner on February 14. Easy parking, easy reservations, no attitude, no inflation.
We were sitting on the banquettes eating pita (crisp outside, soft inside) and great falafel (crisp outside, soft inside) and savory beef kebab (tender all over). I noticed a group in the corner, 3 couples, early 50s. The men were clustered on one side of the table and the women sat opposite, leaning in to each other and away from the men. It was like a junior high dance. Everyone was having fun. Cheeks flushed, eyes bright, laughing. It was a holiday gathering, just not a romantic one.
It's a silly holiday, of course. But...is it possible to avoid the "oh you again" sinkhole? I have this allergy to couples who refer to each other as "this one," as in, "This one spends so much time on the toilet, I had it engraved!" No, we hope for Alice and Calvin, not Alice and Ralph.
It's hard for me to say this, but I think I'm done with Zuni. For now, at least.
This is a big deal (for me). I have long counted the restaurant as one of the best reasons to live in San Francisco. I love everything about Jody Rodgers' approach to food. Her love of ingredients, her perfect technique, her fluency in all things local and seasonal. Just when I think I know something about food, I look at her menu and come across a dozen things I've never seen before.
Her cookbook is the best one in my collection, the one book I'm committed to cooking through in its entirety. If you were trying to learn great technique and could buy only one book, I'd tell you to get that one.
But I am so tired of having every perfect meal bruised by bad service. So I'm giving it up for a while.
Last night, we went in for a celebratory dinner. Our friend Jessica has just landed an amazing new job, and another friend Julia was visiting from New York. There were 5 of us: not a small group, but not a logistical challenge, either. We were happy and a bit more spendy, a server's dream. Ours was friendly (and to be fair, they've gotten much friendlier of late), but we had to repeat our orders three times before she got it all down (and she still forgot an appetizer). We had to ask for water twice, and we didn't get it until halfway through the meal.
These are small points, I know, but this is an expensive restaurant. And my experience has been that it's consistently disappointing in many small ways. I can't get over the disconnect between the level of care that goes into the food and the lack of care expressed by the servers. Two weeks ago, I went for my birthday and our server disappeared for so long that we had to flag down the busser for drinks, for refills, for clearing, for dessert menus, and for the check. I'm fine with doing that at a casual place, when I'm not paying $100 for dinner. A girl has her limits.
So that's that.
But...uh, I've only been there one time for brunch. Maybe the daytime staff is better?
We went to dinner at House of Nanking Monday night with our friend Rob, who's in town from Boston. Rob is a hard-core food nerd, the sort of person who will fly to Japan to try a restaurant. Next to him, I'm devotionless. Then again, Rob makes more money than I do.
Rob loves House of Nanking, and so do I. Some people–mostly blowhard Chowhound types–sneer and call it a tourist trap. But if you're coming from any place other than LA, New York, or Vancouver, this seems like exceptional Chinese food, brighter and more layered, and yes, somewhat Californicated. I love the fresh herbs and the fried sweet potatoes and the squid with vinegar sauce.
So it was a great meal, except for, well, me. You know how when you think you've probably offended someone, but you're not sure, you end up looking for ways to apologize without actually apologizing? That would be our dinner.
Rob got married last May in Las Vegas. We flew out for the wedding, but on the way out, I felt a cold coming on. By the next morning, I was feverish, aching, stiff-necked, and acutely sensitive to light. One long 6 a.m. trip to a walk-in clinic later, all we knew is that I probably didn't have bacterial meningitis. But they didn't know what it was.
I went straight to bed, dragged myself out for the ceremony, and left halfway through the reception. Photos show me glassy-eyed and bloated. Every step sent shooting pains up my back. I sent Scott out for the after-party and stayed in bed for another 24 hours until I swallowed a handful of Motrin and stumbled out once more for a pre-scheduled interview with a chef I was hoping to profile in Sunset.
If you ever find yourself driving down the Sunset Strip at night wearing dark shades to shield your eyes from the light, you'll be a Man, my son! No, actually, you'll know that Las Vegas is just about the worst place to be sick with light-sensitivity. But the chef had set aside his one day off to meet with me. He had invited other chefs over for a barbecue, just so I could talk to them. I couldn't miss it.
Unfortunately, Rob and Anna had scheduled a casual "farewell dinner" for their guests at the same time. And Scott, who is typically such a loyal, savvy, wise man, told them that I couldn't make it, not because I was in bed with the typhoid, but because I had to go "hang out with a chef." Maybe he said I had an interview. But he definitely didn't explain how bad it was, how much effort it took for me to make the appointment, how I really had no business being out of bed and around other people. So it looked like I was blowing them off, at their wedding.
Hence my greeting to Rob the other night: "Hey! It's so good to see you! Gosh, I think I haven't seen you since your wedding when I was so sick! Remember that, honey? The viral meningitis I had?"
During dinner: "So how's Anna? Oh, that's so cool that you're going back to Vegas for your anniversary! Maybe we could meet you there. Because I'd really love to finally get to enjoy the city, since I was so sick the last time we were there and really couldn't do anything except go to your wedding and do that interview that I was required to do. For work."
On departing: "Hey, it was so good to see you again. Let us know about Vegas! I'd love to be able to go there when I'm not sick and really celebrate with you guys."
Before we moved out here, a friend made a point to warn me about California h0t tub parties. She had spent a year in San Francisco during the dot-com boom and said that most of the cocktail parties she went to usually ended with a bunch of n@ked people in a hot tub.
Huh.
We haven't been to any n@ked hot tub p@rties (though, to be fair, we haven't been to that many parties). But we suddenly have a hot tub at our disposal and we hosted our own little party last night. For 2 other people, with clothes.
How did we get a real California hot tub? My parents–who are retired and like to escape the New England winter–are subletting an apartment here through the end of March. They arrive in a couple of weeks. That apartment comes with a backyard hot tub and a wet bar, and it's empty for now. Can you say "party house"?
Actually, our idea of a party house is to tiptoe around the apartment, careful not to drip water on the wood floors, while hooting "Party house!" just loud enough to get a rush without alerting the neighbors upstairs. We drank some Prosecco and ate microwaved gyoza from the freezer, then kicked back in the tub until we saw three big raccoons hulking across the yard. The house is on the Mission side of Noe Valley, so we figured that these were Mission raccoons and not to be messed with. We tried making scary noises: "Hey! Pfft! Shoo! Shhhht! Ffft!" We wondered if they'd try to get in. "I'll hold them under the water until they die," Scott said.
Eventually the raccoons got bored with us and went over the fence to bother someone else. Maybe find a real n@ked hot tub party. We got out and went back to our house with some pizzas from Gialina, my favorite new place.
We met up with friends last Thursday for dinner at The Front Porch, a newish Caribbean/Soul Food restaurant in the Outer Mission, which is just a 20-minute walk from our house. We didn't have a reservation (only large parties get those), and were told to expect a 45-minute wait. The crowd was mostly twentysomething, lots of Mission Youth and budding yuppies. It was noisy and crowded and my first thought was, "I'm too old for this."Yes, too old. This year, my imminent birthday feels like the brick wall in one of those car crash tests. I guess that makes me the dummy? Or the car? In either case, it's clear to me that I've exchanged one phase of life for another. The upsides? Some more stability. Better understanding. We don't have to feel silly about enjoying our dinner-and-Cranium nights. We can take vacations that I couldn't swing 8 years ago. But these thirtysomething birthdays have their own challenges. We begin to face our fears of middle age, and try to forgive ourselves for not hitting all the marks we thought we'd have hit by now. I was ruminating along these lines when our friends showed up. "Let's go in to the bar." said D, who is not facing a birthday and isn't too worried about her age. And so we stood around, cocktails in hand (can't remember the name, but mine was cider, lemon, pomegranate and very good), like we had every right to be there. Of course we did. Silly me. We weren't even the oldest people in the room. As for the food, the fried chicken was good, but not my favorite. Though juicy and crisp, it lacked flavor. I like my chicken quite salty and peppery, with a bit of buttermilk tang. This was milder.I did love the creamy grits with crab, lemon, scallion, and chiles. A good dish for sharing, since it's so rich. But very comforting on a chilly winter night.
Long time, no blog. Turns out that "write about the book while also writing the book" plan was too meta for me. Instead, I'm going to go back to a more general approach. This is just a little online journal, after all.
So...now that it feels like winter, even in California, let's pay a visit to the islands, shall we? Scott and I spent the holidays in Hawaii, specifically Oahu, Kauai, and Maui. I now take you to Mama's Fish House in Pa'ia, Maui.
This is the view from the dining room. Someone recently told me, "The thing about Hawaii is that it delivers." It's true. It's everything I had hoped it would be, and how often does that happen?
This was my lunch, the Pua Me Hua Hana special: Mahimahi sautéed in coconut milk, Kalua pig, grilled banana, Molokai purple sweet potatoes, poi, tropical fruit (lilikoi, papaya, star fruit, mango, rambutan), and fresh coconut. All that, and I didn't have to sit through a bad luau. I even liked the poi, which should be familiar to anyone who grew up eating Cream of Wheat. Same pleasant, slightly bland, slightly creamy profile, but smoother.
Apple varieties in our house thanks to the Ferry Plaza farmers' market:
1) Pink Pearl (yay!)
2) Melrose
3) Rhode Island Greening
4) Granny Smith
5) Gravenstein
6) Connell Red
7) Cortland
8) Empire
9) Jonathan
10) Philo Gold
11) Arkansas Sweet?
12) Bramley Seedling
13) Ashmead's Kernel...
...and one or two others I can't remember at the moment. Scott made little sticker labels for each apple so we can keep track. I'm tasting and taking notes, trying to create a comprehensive apple comparison chart.
Meanw
hile, I did the first round of testing on an apple challah recipe. The loaves came out looking really beautiful, as seen here. But I took them out of the oven too soon. The insides were still soft, which made them collapse, and putting them back in the oven couldn't do anything at that point to restore the shape. But I like this general idea: you roll the bread up like a cinnamon bun, rather than braiding it. I'll try it again with a little less egg and oil, and cook it at a lower temperature. Hopefully that'll solve the problem.
We were in New Mexico recently, where I lived for a couple of years in my twenties. It was beautiful, restorative, delicious, and unbelievably green. They've had more rain than usual this summer -- more than the ground can absorb, actually, so there have been problems with flooding. But it was also edenic. Imagine that dramatic landscape in shades of sage and grass and blue. Every time you turn around, your mouth drops.
One of the best moments was returning to Leona's of Chimayo for lunch. If you ever make it to New Mexico, do not miss the opportunity to eat there. Fantastic carne adovada, great tamales, fresh tortillas, and Leona herself, surrounded by grandkids.
Even though Leona's is a destination restaurant with a popular mail-order business on the side, it's still run out of the same little ramshackle stand next to the Sanctuario. You'd still get wet if a hard rain came down at the right angle. Not much seems to change in New Mexico, and that's a nice thing.
So here's an apple you probably won't find on the east coast: the Pink Pearl. Isn't it pretty? Like the Gravenstein, it's a summer variety, which means we're now at the tail end of the season. Sigh.
The breed is popular with apple enthusiasts, but because it bruises easily and doesn't keep well in storage, it never made it to the supermarket shelves.
To make m
atters worse, Pink Pearls are homely on the outside, with dull yellow-brown, faintly blushing skin and an uneven conical shape. I almost skipped over them at the farmers market myself. But they have a secret: inside, they're positively vampy, with shockingly pink, sweet-tart flesh. Even the blooms are bright pink. The fruit is crisp and tastes of raspberries and lemon custard. In fact, I baked some Pink Pearls in a galette with raspberries and they were a natural pairing.
The first Pink Pearl was hybridized in Northern California in 1944 from another red-fleshed variety called "Surprise," which, in turn, probably descended from an ancient breed of red-fleshed Turksh crabapples. "Surprise" apples were beautiful, but sour; a plant breeder named Albert Etter came up with with Pink Pearl as a way to breed more sweetness into them. So I'm giving thanks to him and to the farmers who keep these heirlooms in circulation.
We have been living through interesting times this past month. Remember that proverb, "May you live in interesting times"? Apparently Robert Kennedy quoted this "ancient Chinese curse" in a speech in South Africa in 1966. Only it turns out that there is no such curse, or at least, not in China. The only known Chinese proverb related to this sentiment reads, "It's better to be a dog in a peaceful time than be a man in a chaotic period." I'm sure it sounds more graceful in its original tongue.
Anyway, we've weathered some interesting times in recent weeks, most poignantly 
with the recent and much-too-soon death of Scott's uncle Ron Magram, who had a lot to teach us all about finding meaning in difficult times.
We've emerged in relatively good shape, and last week I got some very exciting news indeed. Remember that book proposal that I mentioned? Well, if all goes according to plan, my first cookbook -- everything you ever wanted to know about apples and more (that's not the title) -- will be published in Fall, 2008 by W.W. Norton. If it goes a little slower than that, it'll be more like Fall, 2009.
My editor (I have an editor!) has encouraged me to not worry too much about the dates at the moment, but I've been diving in these past couple of weeks. Hence this photo. It's an apple Dutch baby pancake I made this morning. Good (and pretty, no?), but too much flour in the batter. I think I'll get it right in the second round. There's also some cinnamon rice pudding with apple compote in the fridge. I need to figure out some sort of food distribution scheme because it's piling up.
From here on out I'm going to use this blog as a journal to record what I'm learning as I work on the book. This project is going to take a while and the incline of the road ahead is daunting from this angle. Especially since I'll be writing this on the side (though not in secret). Bird by bird, as they say. Or, in my case, apple pie by apple pie. This is the good side of "interesting."
I feel like a very lucky bunny because I got to spend this past weekend at one of the most beautiful spots in the West: Boulder, Utah. Or, more specifically, the Hell's Backbone Grill, a small restaurant right on the edge of the Escalante National Monument.
The story of this place is so great that even the condensed version draws you in: Two friends from Flagstaff, Blake and Jen, who divide their time between catering gigs and cooking on river rafting expeditions, decide to open a restaurant. Blake is a Buddhist, and they agree to run the place by the principles of Right Livelihood, with organic, place-based cuisine and an emphasis on 
local ingredients. Fair wages, recycling, all that good stuff.
Just one catch: The restaurant they find is in a tiny town in the middle of a wilderness, 4 1/2-hours from Salt Lake City, the nearest grocery store more than an hour away. There are 100 or so residents in Boulder, and most of them are devout Mormon ranchers. At first, no one will apply for the jobs they've advertised. And they can't get a liquor license.
They try reaching out. They meet with the town council, listen respectfully, and throw an ice cream social for the whole town on 4th of July. Six years later, the restaurant is thriving. After a slow start, they've become an integral part of the community (and finally have that license). Now they draw their own fan base to the town (during my stay, I met people from L.A., San Francisco, and Australia). Most importantly, they make the best biscuits I have ever had in my life.
I can't wait to go back. For more of the story (and the biscuit recipe), buy this.
Spotted on the menu this past weekend at Prather Ranch's booth in the Ferry Plaza market.
At the end of their recent extended visit, my parents requested a trip to Carmel, where they've been spending the occasional weekend since the late 1960s. Not much has changed since then, which is what they love about it.
