The Flavor of Home

When I was growing up in Northern California I couldn’t wait to leave. High school was the worst of it. I was a little too serious, a little too brainy for California, and not nearly tan enough. My junior year the most popular girl looked exactly like a Skipper doll (Barbie’s younger, sportier, and slightly less buxom friend). She was blonde with a deep, dark tan. Suddenly brown was in, but the only color I ever turn in the sun is bright red. It was yet another sign that California was not the place for me.

And so I left, with scarcely a backwards glance. I went away to college, to an old school with brick buildings covered in ivy, tree-lined streets, leafy quads. It snowed there and I bought snow boots. Spring came with gusto, in a way it never had in California; the town was thronged with blooming lilac bushes. A bike ride in April meant coasting through wave after wave of intoxicating scent.

Then I went further, to Europe and the old city of Vienna. Here I fell in love with another world, another life. Somehow I felt more at home here than I ever had in California, more settled. I could feel the history. I wandered the city, parks, museums, the market. I learned another language. I made friends who were glad to talk about serious things, brainy topics. I sat in cafes and went to the opera. I thought about staying forever, I wanted to. I left promising I would return.

But instead I went to Asia, to a small town high in the mountains of Japan. There my brain was occupied trying to decipher a new language, a new culture. The mountains were breathtaking. In the summer I climbed them with my friends, in the winter I skied and snowboarded. Afterwards we soaked in natural hot springs and drank cold sake. I celebrated the harvest, the cherry blossoms, the return of the ancestors each August. I was happy there, at home amongst the differences. But I knew it was not my final destination.

And all through this time I traveled, looking for that feeling of home. I found favorite places around the world—a small harbor town in Greece; a lush island in Thailand; cobblestone cities in Europe; a friendly village in Fiji; a rugged peninsula in Ireland, windswept and beautiful. Everywhere I went I thought about staying. Was this place home? Could I live here? Should I stay? Though I left parts of myself in many places, I never did stay. I was often tempted, but never so much that I could not leave.

When I left Japan I returned to California, but I wasn’t sure I would stay. Other locations called to me—Colorado, Seattle, and always the whispered lure of Europe. But my boxes were in California, belongings I had not seen in five years. My mother was there too; my best friend was back for the summer. And so I went “home,” if only to regroup.



What I did not calculate was how it would feel to be back amidst the rolling hills of sun-bleached grasses, to see again the dark green oak trees, the craggy grey rocks covered in moss. I did not realize how the foliage would seem familiar—the sharp scent of bay leaves, the lacy fronds of a golden-backed fern. I was unprepared for how it would feel to again stand on a rugged coastline, the waves of the Pacific crashing below. I did not know that I would find home hidden in the spicy smell of a eucalyptus pod, the feel of fog in my hair, the bright gold of a native poppy. It was a visceral experience: Northern California lodged itself in my belly and my heart and I knew then that I was, finally, home.

This all came back to me as I drove north this weekend, to attend the wedding of a dear friend. I drove the back roads, through golden hills studded with oak trees. The green hills of spring are gone now, with their wild yellow mustard flowers. What is left is majestic and unlikely—rolling hills of gold, burnished under the summer sun. There is a peace I feel amongst these hills, a sense of wholeness. My past and my present, and my dreams of a future, all nestled in the lazy roll of the open California hills.



The hills I was driving through are not the hills of my childhood. My childhood hills of Marin are different now, the valleys I grew up in more settled, more civilized. Instead I am drawn north, to western Sonoma, where cows still seem to outnumber people and things still feel wild.

Ever since I returned to California I have been spending as much time as I can in Sonoma, exploring the backroads, sinking deeper and deeper under its spell. I have no doubt that one day it will be home to me, with its open hills and agricultural history—not to mention a burgeoning reputation as an area of artisanal food production (Della Fattoria, St. Benoit Yogurt, Spring Hill Cheese, Wild Flower Bread, Bodega Goat Cheese). There is something there that just feels like home.

In the year of my life that I shared with A., we spent a lot of time in this area. A. had grown up in western Sonoma and loved the area as much as I do. A’s parents still live there, on a small spread of land they call the ranchlet. One of my favorite memories is of a hot August day when we made cider from the apples grown in the old orchard. We sat in the shade and cut wheelbarrows full of apples into pieces, feeding them into a hand crank grinder that chewed them up and then pressed the pieces until clear juice ran down the wooden trough into a pot waiting below. Western Sonoma has long been known for its apple products and cider making was old hat to the A. family, but I was in heaven and they indulged my newbie excitement.

And then there was the day that we showed up and A’s mom had baked a blackberry pie. Not only a blackberry pie, but a blackberry pie in June. I was mystified. Any coastal Californian worth their fog will tell you that blackberries only ripen towards the end of the summer. In June they are still in flower, their fruit barely formed.



These were wild blackberries, she told me, they ripen earlier. And she showed me the vines, down along the fence near the old horse stable. The blackberries were unlike the blackberries I know—less round, slightly elongated. But they tasted the same as I remember from my childhood: a tangy sweet berry, warm from the sun.

And perhaps that is how we know when we are truly home, when all our senses tell us, when what we see and smell and taste all come together. When I am in Northern California I know I am home—in the roll of a golden hillside, in the sweet pucker of a ripe blackberry, in the smell of fog as it gets tangled in the branches of a cypress tree. I may choose to leave again—there is a wide world out there and I do like to explore. But no matter where I go, no matter how far I roam, I know where my home is. One taste of a blackberry is all it takes to remind me.



SEBASTOPOL BLACKBERRY PIE
Blackberries were a staple of my childhood. They grow wild throughout the coastal areas of Northern California, threatening to take over. All the back roads in Marin and Sonoma counties have thickets of blackberry bushes alongside them. When I was a kid we were either doing battle with them in the garden, or feasting on their fruit. My brother and I walked around all summer long with our thumb and forefinger colored purple from daily blackberry picking. When I was in Sonoma last weekend I planned to stop at a secret patch of these early blackberries that grow along the Russian River, pressing a water bottle into action as a berry receptacle (for those wondering, a 1 qt. Nalgene bottle holds exactly enough for a pie—about 6 cups of berries). Regular wild blackberries won't be ripe for another month or so.



This recipe comes from A's mom (she's in charge of blackberry pies in the family; A's dad makes the apple pies). I love reading this recipe as you can tell she's made it a million times—it's brief and to the point. I am not much of a pie maker myself, so I don’t know how it stacks up to convention, but I have tasted the product and it is delicious—a pure and intense tart/sweet berry flavor, not muddy or pasty the way pies are when they have too much flour mixed into the filling (I like the cornstarch version, the tapicoa was favored by A's dad). Most important to me, this recipe comes from people I care about, people who shared their family with me. To me it tastes of home.

Filling:
6 cups berries
2 cups sugar
3 tablespoons cornstarch or 1/3 cup tapioca (quick kind)

Mix together and let set while you make the crust.

Crust (feel free to use your own recipe, but this is A's mom's recipe):
2 1/3 cups flour
1/2 cup melted butter
1/3 cup oil
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/3 cup ice-cold water

Mix together flour and salt. Make a "well" in the middle. Mix together butter, oil, and water, pour into "well" and mix into flour. Stir into a ball and roll out.

Bake—400° for 15 min, 375° for 30-40 min, until crust turns brown.

NOTE: Since you are not getting the benefit of a hands-on pie making session in a Sonoma county farmhouse with A's mom, here are some tips to help you along. A deep dish pie plate is best for this recipe. Make sure to cut the bottom crust with a 1 inch overhang around the lip of the pie plate. Once the top crust is in place, cut it slightly smaller than the bottom crust, then fold the bottom crust up and over (you can use a wee bit of water to make sure they stick). Crimp these together to make a seal or all the juice will come out of the pie, bubble over the sides, and you will have berry carnage in your oven. Bake on a baking sheet, just to make sure. Cut a few vents in the top.

I like to put any leftover filling in ramekins with a "hat" of crust (and if you're using a standard pie plate there will be leftovers—about 1 cup). Fill them only 2/3rds full and make sure not to bake them as long as the pie—10-15 minutes after turning down to 375° should be fine, just until the crust is cooked. While I am a purist with my blackberry pie, you could serve this with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. For me this is the taste of a Northern California summer.