Of Bolinas, Brigadoon, and Baked Goods

Bolinas is the Brigadoon of Marin County. A little town nestled amidst rolling green hills, somewhere along the coast north of San Francisco and south of Point Reyes. Like the enchanted Scottish village of Brigadoon, if you don’t know where Bolinas is you probably won’t find it. And that’s just how the locals like it.

The difficulty in finding Bolinas is the work of the Bolinas Border Patrol, a semi-secret organization (no, I’m not a member, but I’ve heard stories). The Border Patrol is dedicated to one purpose: to make sure the signs that Cal Trans puts up, marking the exit to Bolinas from the highway, do not stay up more than 24 hours. Cal Trans puts up a sign, the Border Patrol takes it down. They put up another sign, the Border Patrol takes it down. I imagine somewhere in Bolinas there is a barn full of “Bolinas, turn here” signs, stolen over the years. Finally Cal Trans gave up and now the people who find Bolinas either went looking for it, or else they are terribly, terribly lost.



The town itself is a funny thing, a one street downtown that dead-ends into the water, a saloon that’s been in operation since 1851, a market/deli, one restaurant, and a cooperative health food store. I grew up not far from Bolinas and spent a lot of time here as a child. A family friend of ours had a house overlooking the beach and often gave my mom a break by taking us kids off her hands. We spent the two weeks we had chickenpox out in Bolinas, playing on the beach, digging for clams, raiding the window seat cupboard for board games, and falling asleep at night in front of the fireplace.

Of all the small towns in West Marin, Bolinas has changed the least since my childhood. It still retains the funkiness it had back in the 70s, before Marin County became one of the wealthiest counties in the country. I said this recently to a Bolinas local, a woman older than myself, and she laughed at me. “Bolinas has totally changed,” she said, and proceeded to tell a story, from her childhood, of playing on the beach and seeing the “one tourist,” who somehow straggled into town. One of her friends ran over to the tourist, dropped his pants, and proceeded to defecate in front of the man.

Yup, Bolinas has never been that friendly to outsiders.

But she is right, Bolinas has changed. Money has slowly filtered in and real estate prices have skyrocketed. Each weekend now brings several dozen tourists, more in the hot weather. High profile residents such as Susie Tompkins Buell have put the little town on the map by inviting friends such as the Clintons and Martha Stewart to stay at her Bolinas spread. At one point there was a fierce rumor going around that Martha was going to buy a place in town and the locals were up in arms for weeks. Even Prince Charles and Camilla came through Bolinas on their visit last fall. Among other things, Bolinas is home to Star Route Farms, Warren Webber’s pioneering organic farming company, where Camilla and Charles toured and had lunch.

Bolinas holds a special place for me because my mother rents a small cabin there, which she splits with a few friends, timeshare style. It’s a tiny place, on the opposite end from downtown. There are three small rooms and a bathroom, sparsely furnished with the odds and ends of furniture and dishes from garage sales and people’s attics (the Le Creuset cookware from my childhood that I had hoped to inherit has taken up residence here). The cabin may not be much to look at, but it is perched on a cliff overlooking the wide sweep of the Pacific Ocean. The waves crash on rocks below our cliff (slowly eroding it away), the sound of the ocean lulls us to sleep, and each day flocks of pelicans swoop by on the salty breeze.



I’ve spent some of my favorite times out in Bolinas: walks on the beach with my mom, small family Thanksgivings, weekends on my own with special friends (only the very special ones get invited to Bolinas). For a while I had a girls weekend out in Bolinas each year around my birthday—eight to ten of us crammed in, with lots of food and red wine and people sleeping, slumber party-style, all over the house. This little place is one of the best and coziest places I know. The phone never rings and there’s no internet connection. It is true that the house will one day fall over the eroding cliff and into the ocean (and it won’t be the first Bolinas house to do so), but until that day we’ve got one of the best views in town.

This weekend was one of my mom’s scheduled Bolinas weekends, but she is up in Seattle celebrating Alice. I had planned on going with her, but a clogged ear and lingering malaise from a flu/ear infection kept me home. I called my brother to tell him I wouldn’t be coming and he said: “Yeah, you can’t fly with a clogged ear, your head might explode—and these days that’s probably considered an act of terrorism.” So here I am, an unexpected free weekend and the cabin unoccupied. Bolinas, here I come.



My plan was to head out of town early Saturday, to spend the entire weekend writing, sleeping, reading books, and walking on the beach. That was the plan, but I was waylaid by baked goods—or, more specifically, by a working oven.

I mentioned in an earlier post that my oven is on the fritz. Though I am becoming adept at toaster-oven baking, every couple of days I turn the oven on, just for kicks, to see if it will work. When Saturday dawned rainy and gray, and the oven miraculously lit at first try, I took it as a sign that I must bake and pulled out the mixing bowls.

On the agenda were Chocolate Apricot Nut Cookies, by special request of my friend Kevin. He had loaned me his swanky Mac G4 powerbook when my ibook decided to play dead and I promised I would make his favorite cookies by way of a thank you. I bought all the ingredients but the oven would not cooperate and Kevin got an IOU, until such time as the gods of fire decided to bless me again (or my super-slow landlord made it to Home Depot to buy a new stove).

These cookies came to us via our friend Rosie, who is a wonder at finding adorable and delicious things online. She is, after all, a hip, smart, funny, and sweetly snarky "library and information science specialist” (yup, that’s what they're calling them these days). Sign up for her weekly newsletter and you too will share in her wealth of knowledge and research know-how, not to mention sheer Hello Kitty cuteness.

This was my first time making the recipe, which is off the Australian crafts website Loobylu. I have sampled the finished product, however, and that Kevin is no slouch in the taste department—these cookies are great. Crisp and chewy, with crunchy almonds and fruity sweet apricots, and a mix of white and semi-sweet chocolate chips (Rosie’s genius contribution), they are definitely drool-worthy. I’m not going to post the recipe here, but this link will take you where you need to go.

My only caveat is this: definitely go with a mix of white chocolate and semi-sweet on the chocolate chips (half and half). Also, I thought that 2 cups of chips were too much. I wasn’t able to incorporate all of them into the batter (and Rosie and her sweet hubby are off swanking it up at Sundance, so I couldn’t call for an SOS). This wasn’t a huge problem as I was happy to munch on the 1/4 cup of chocolate chips left in the bottom of the bowl. I also baked them in a brownie pan, as I didn’t feel up to spooning out individual cookies, and I don’t know if I would recommend that. Cut into squares each piece was almost too rich with fruity, chocolatey goodness. But something tells me Kevin is not going to complain.



Part II
In which our heroine actually makes it out of the house.

When Sunday dawned clear and bright, I had to make a beeline for Bolinas. I threw some food in a grocery bag, grabbed my computer, a book, and copies of the Sunday paper from the past two weeks (I am woefully behind). I splashed some water on my face and, jamming a baseball cap on my unwashed head, I jumped into the car. No shower, no primping, this is Bolinas after all.

After so much rain, each clear day feels like a tiny miracle. The Golden Gate Bridge so crisp against a backdrop of blue, the hills of Marin beginning to emerge green from their winter cloak of dry brown grass. I turned off the highway at Mill Valley and saw a woman wearing shorts (brave soul), and my cell phone rang with a call from Quaz, my oldest and bestest friend, saying she was going to be in town for work this week and was I free on Thursday. The dear girl is now the New York editor at a swanky SF-based magazine and I don't get to see her that often. The acacia trees were beginning to bloom into delicate yellow balls of fluff and already the day couldn’t be better.

The twists of Panoramic Highway took me over Mt Tam, past the man selling fruit and nuts from his pickup truck, another sure sign of spring. There were hawks circling lazily on the air currents off the ridgeline, and new foliage beginning to unfurl on the oaks and redwood trees. Ferns grew thick and leafy in the damp ravines, and rivers, swollen from the recent rains, ran a milky chocolate brown. It had hazed up a bit by the time I made it over the mountain, but the first broad vista of the Pacific always takes my breath away.


Oh Marin, I do love you. Despite your recently acquired wealth (and accompaning obnoxiousness), your beauty always knocks me to my knees.

I made it to the super-secret, unmarked Bolinas turn-off and headed towards town. Usually I skip downtown, preferring to drive directly to the cabin, but today I stopped. Bolinas was as it always is: filled with crusty-looking characters, dogs roaming where they like, longhaired children full of life and laughter and dirty faces, women in wading boots and mismatched clothing, and men with paint on their clothes (artists or carpenters, take your pick).

There was a drum circle in full swing at the community center, the People’s Store was bursting with organic produce, and the "Free Box," a leftover from the hippy West Marin of my childhood, was open and available for rummaging, (though, on a modern note, a sign says they do not take computer equipment). I risked serious Bolinas insider points and certain looks of derision from salty locals to snap a few pictures, then hopped back into the car and headed for the cabin—passing a modest three-bedroom house, without ocean view, on the market for a cool 1.2 million dollars.



The view from the cabin was unchanged, waves crashing on rocks at low tide. I wrote for hours, the lull of the ocean and the cry of shorebirds my soundtrack. Late afternoon I went for a walk on the beach, taking the free access trails that crisscross the town, cutting through private land and open meadows, passing others out for walks on this rare clear day. There are always people walking in Bolinas. It's one of those places where people make time to walk.

Bolinas is also finger wave territory, a special category of place for me. Finger wave territory are those small towns and communities where people wave to each other, even those they don't know. When driving past someone in a car, you lift your finger off the steering wheel to acknowledge them as you pass. People in Bolinas finger wave, and insiders (even semi-insiders, such as myself) wave back. You can tell the city folk at a glance. They never wave.



The beach was rocky at low tide, a sparse scattering of kids and dogs and serious tidepoolers. Whips of bull kelp lay tangled on the shore, reminding me of how my brother and I menaced each other with them as children.



Shells and sea glass and smooth beach stones littered the shore, and the sun sank low until its thin light was captured in the reflection of the tidepools, held there in water, suspended.



I walked back along the bluffs overlooking the beach, passing driftwood sculptures, woodcarvings, and a couple of chickens roaming loose. The scent of cypress trees and wood smoke hung on the sea breeze and the cabin beckoned, with a stunning view of sunset, a hot bowl of hearty pasta sauce, and the promise of a wood fire.



And that’s the magic of Bolinas, how a day filled with small nothings could be so full, so complete.

PASTA PUTTANESCA, PLUS
Adapted from the Silver Palate Cookbook, by Julee Rosso and Sheila Lukins

This is one of my very favorite cookbooks: it got me through college and gave me the salad nicoise that's made me locally famous. It's still probably one of the cookbooks I would take with me to a desert island. This recipe is a classic puttanesca, which I've made heartier by the addition of extra veggies. (yes, apparently I am in training to be someone's mom). Because even ladies of the night need their nutrients.


2 cans (2 lbs. 3 oz each) peeled plum tomatoes packed in juice
1/4 cup olive oil
1 tsp oregano
1/8 tsp red pepper flakes
1/2 cup black nicoise olives, or kalmata
1/4 cup capers
1/2 onion, coarsely chopped
1 1/2 cup eggplant, cut into medium cubes
1/2 cup zucchini, cut lengthwise and thinly sliced
4 garlic cloves, peeled and chopped
4 anchovy fillets, finely chopped
1/2 cup Italian parsley
2 tsp salt

Saute the onion and garlic in the olive oil in a saucepan. Add the eggplant and zuchini and saute briefly. Add the tomatoes, coarsely chopped, and enough of the can juices to achieve the level of sauciness that suits your taste. Add the oregano, red pepper flakes, olives, anchovies, capers, and salt. Continue simmering until the vegetables have softened and the sauce thickened a bit. Serve over penne with grated parmesan cheese.

And on the subject of good pasta sauces, Catherine at Food Musings has two I'm wanting to try: one with pancetta and another with olives. If you haven't discovered her yet, click on over. Her's was the first food blog I found and I was instantly hooked. She's fun and funny and is responsible for my recent addiction to food from Burma Superstar (their sour vegetable soup is the gateway drug, beware!).