Stalking Wonder: The Solution

“For every action there is an equal opposite reaction,” that’s what I learned in school.

I’d like to think that for every problem there is a solution, but life has taught me otherwise. I now know there are things for which no answer exists. How does one solve heartbreak, grief, loss, death—or even a moment in life that feels overwhelming? Some things elude an easy solution.

But there is another thing I’ve discovered, and this I do believe. While there may be no ultimate solution to big life problems, there are small ones. There are things that can help you survive the experience. Baking a cookie is not going to resolve anything, but it might just help you get through the day. The next morning things will look different, perhaps more bearable. The solution is to find a way to move through it.

My solution, to my woes of last week, consisted of stepping back, of getting perspective—some might even call it “playing hooky.” I think of it as taking the top off the pressure cooker, letting the hot air escape. At a certain point you’re not doing any good by frantically, manically spinning your wheels (although I try, I really do try).

There's a mantra I developed, back when I was producing the literary festival that came to rule my life. When it all became too much and too out of control, when there were thirty million things that had to be done and only twenty-four hours in a day, I'd chant to myself over and over:

This is not brain surgery, no one is going to die.

It's not brain surgery, no one is going to die, and there is a solution out there—if only for the day. There's something that can be done to help get through it. The trick is in finding it, because the solution is ever-changing.

My solution, this time, consisted of a ferryboat ride to an island.



And Ethiopian takeout food, eaten with good friends.
I’m a great believer in the curative properties of ones favorite takeout food. This may be the sole reason I have not yet moved to the country. There's precious little takeout in the country.



The solution included a baby. The smiley-est baby you can imagine, who claps and laughs and has a different funny expression every two seconds. Babies are magic, as are little kids. I am always reminded how much smaller my life is, yet how amazing and intertwined all our lives are. How our parents sacrificed for us, how they loved us, how fierce and sad and beautiful the human experience is.



And at sunset my solution included a walk in the garden—an amazing garden. The first trip round the garden was with the baby in my arms, we stopped to look at the forest of raspberry bushes, ripe for the picking.



We even picked a few golden raspberries. A pastry chef once told me that of all the fruits I was a golden raspberry. I'm not entirely sure what that means, but I like it.



We looked at a forest of sage, the softest of purples. I wanted to curl up and sleep in that sage. I am so bone tired these days.



And we marveled at the beauty of a lettuce head, bolted in the heat. It is wondrous to look at.



There are blueberries in this garden, almost ready for scattering on cereal.



And red currants that have already hit their stride.



And the golden promise of grapes, later in the season.



There are lessons to learn in the garden, if only we slow down enough to notice. Like these flowers that I've always hated, which are rather striking when you look at them up close. Walking around a garden with a baby means you go slowly, you take your time, you notice there is beauty everywhere.



Even when it's a funny, odd-looking sort of beauty.



And sometimes beauty past its prime is the most interesting kind of beauty there is.







And later, when it was time for the baby to go to sleep, I returned to the garden by myself and lay on the dry summer grass as the sun went down, soaking in the quiet and peace. Have you noticed the quality of quiet in a garden? It's different, special somehow. I sometimes think I can hear the plants growing.

And I realized that in all this summer, I've not spent enough time with my feet in grass. I came to Seattle to have a slower, calmer life, but life speeds up on you if you're not careful. It's important to carve out time to be barefoot on the grass—whatever that means to you, wherever you find your solace.



My solace that evening came under the cherry tree, as darkness fell and the quiet of the garden soaked into me, and I thought about these trees and the island that have weathered many years and storms. Surely my problems are not so big, not insurmountable.



I left that night, after blueberry cobbler and vanilla ice cream served in a Peter Rabbit bunnykins bowl—which, for the record, makes one feel as treasured and cared for as a very loved child. I needed that.



As I walked to the car, the sky looked as if it was cracking open, as if the pieces were being put back together in a better, stronger configuration. It reminded me of a Hemingway quote I've always appreciated: "The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong in the broken places."

This I also believe.



And when the day was done, and I was on the ferry heading homeward, the city sparkled with possibility, drawing me back. My life is in that sparkling city, and for all the frustrations and challenges, it is a beautiful life. As beautiful as I can make it on any given day.

Thank you all for your sweet, kind comments on my last meltdown post. They were much appreciated—more than you can know! Happy weekend, friends. I hope you have a good one.

About Stalking Wonder: the project started Spring of '09, in an attempt to bring wonder back into my life and onto the site, to make the time to appreciate what is all around. Read how it started, or check out the full archives. Stalking Wonder posts go up on Friday. They may or may not have anything to do with food.

I baked you some cookies

There’s a thing I do, I’ve come to realize. When I’m rushing, when I’m disorganized and life feels out of control, when I have ten things I have to do and only time to do three of them, I put on earrings—more elaborate earrings than I normally wear. Sometimes I even dress up a little.

“You look so nice,” people will say. And they won’t know that I’m wearing the flouncy skirt because all the clothes I usually wear are in the dirty laundry. And the earrings? That might be because I haven’t had a chance to wash my hair that morning, or because I feel like I’m not doing a good job of everything I have on my plate. Or maybe the plate fell off the table and I’m trying to pick up the pieces and put them back together and I’m really hoping you don’t notice. So here, look at these pretty earrings instead.

I baked you some cookies. Here, look at these.



Because the truth is I have three half-written blog posts I keep on trying to finish, I have about a dozen more I want to write (there’s so much exciting stuff going on in the food world right now). But even though I've tried to finish them, nearly every day the past two weeks, I keep getting pulled away. The other night I sat myself down and swore that I wasn’t allowed to leave the computer until I was done—but I was so tired I just couldn’t keep it together and had to sleep.



The proof pages of my book manuscript are due tomorrow, all the last changes, and it terrifies me. A big box arrived on my doorstep yesterday filled with galleys of the book—a mocked up version that gets sent out for publicity and review. This confirmed three things for me:

1). I really do dislike the cover as much as I feared I would (that was a battle I lost).

2). There is no one besides me who will ever know what went into writing this book—any book. The sleepless nights, the years of research (yes, we’re into years now), the tears, the angst all comes down to splashes of ink on paper, a trifling thing really, that you can throw across the room or use as a coaster for your drink. That’s just funny.

3). This really is going to be a book, and it’s going to go out in the world and people are going to read it and as much as we’re supposed to want that as writers—people interacting with our work—it makes me want to run far away and hide in a cave and not come out until somewhere roundabout 2015.

I baked you some cookies. Wanna cookie?

And my house is a wreck, and I have family arriving next week, and my furniture from San Francisco is about to be delivered (when they give you a delivery window that ends on July 9th, do not believe them). I guess that means I’ve up and moved to Seattle—and as much as that feels right, it also freaks me out. I don’t have any old friends in this town, so what happens when I’m about to have a meltdown (witness: right now) and no one here really knows me well enough to know what will make it better?

I think I need a cookie.

I went to a social event last night—filled with Seattle food people, chatting, drinking, eating—and everyone had their cameras out and were taking pictures (because that’s what we food geeks do). When someone asked me why I wasn’t taking pictures, I ended up blurting out to a relative stranger that I’m exhausted and burnt out and didn’t have it in me; that I really need a vacation.

I’m getting one too, in about two weeks, but I'm not sure I can hold out until then.

Wanna cookie?



I cracked up a friend of mine the other day. He was complaining how the spa he likes to go to had closed, and the restaurant he had lunch at wasn’t as good as he had hoped, and something else I can’t even remember right now.

“So, first world problems, eh?” I said. He laughed at that, he loved it. First world problems—like when your table linens don't match, or you can't find the brand of soap that you like.

I’ve got some first world problems of my own these days, and it makes me feel low and miserable to even mention them. My book is going to be a book, I get to move to a city I love (let’s not talk, for a moment, about the other city I love; the one where my friends live), I even get a vacation, if I can manage to hold out that long. And yet it all feels overwhelming at the moment.

I had a laugh with Brett Emerson, at his gorgeous new restaurant Contigo, last time I was in San Francisco. We were talking about how sometimes, if you’re lucky and you work hard, your dreams will come true—restaurants, books, etc.

They will come true, and then they'll kick your ass.



I need sleep, I need to take care of myself better, I need to hold it all together, I need to stop crying, I need to water my garden before it dies, I need to do laundry (actually, I need to fold the laundry I’ve already done, so the next time I have to leave the house I don’t look like I just got out of bed). I need to put one foot in front of the other and just get through it. I need to hug a baby. I need to count my blessings. I need to get some perspective. I need to be grateful. I need to grow a thicker skin, preferably before the book reviews start rolling in.

I need a cookie. Maybe you need a cookie too.




APRICOT, ALMOND, CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES

These aren’t my cookies, I should first tell you that. They come from the Loobylu website, discovered and modified by my friend Rosie. I should also tell you that I linked to this recipe three years ago—a long and rambling post mostly about Bolinas that garnered me my very first blog comment from someone I didn’t know, and my first link as well. I remember how weird and wonderful that felt.

I haven’t made this recipe since then, but this past week the stars aligned and I baked cookies—something that happens about once a year—and these really are yummy. They got 100% approval rating from the folks who got to eat them—even the one who confessed she doesn’t like chocolate chip cookies (yeah, I don't understand that either).

And I must say, when it feels like you life is in tatters and shambles, it’s really nice that people at least like your cookies.

I tweaked the original recipe—following Rosie’s modification of half semisweet chips and half white (all white would be too sweet, I think). I’ve also upped the salt quotient, and might do even more. Towards the end I began to sprinkle some flakes of Maldon salt on top of the cookies, and that was really good as well.

Oh, and this time I used a bit of whole-wheat flour, because I hadn’t checked to make sure I had enough while flour before starting the recipe and ran out partway through. So if you want to sub some whole-wheat flour in, I give you my blessing. Maybe you too are a ditz and run out of ingredients halfway though baking projects. No, I’m sure that you’re not.

And finally, I knocked down the amount of chocolate chips called for—because it is simply not possible to fit 2 cups of chips in. Trust me, I tried. There’s not enough dough to bind them. But if you want to buy 2 cups of chips and eat up the excess, far be it from me to judge you; I’d probably just join you.

1 2/3 cups regular flour

1/2 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon salt, more for sprinkling on top

3/4 cup melted butter

1 cup packed brown sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1 egg

2/3 cup white chocolate chips

2/3 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips

3/4 cup chopped almonds

3/4 cup dried apricots, chopped

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

In a medium bowl, stir together the flour, baking soda, and salt. In a large bowl, stir in the butter and sugar until smooth. Beat in the egg and vanilla. Stir in the dry ingredients until well blended, then add the chips, almonds, and apricots.

Drop dough by rounded teaspoonfuls onto an unprepared cookie sheet. Sprinkle salt on top, if desired. Bake for 10 to 12 minutes in the preheated oven. Cookies should be golden brown. Remove from the baking sheet to cool on wire racks.

You don't want to make these too big, because they really are quite rich. Trust me on this one. You also don't want to overbake them, as I did the last batch. If you do the apricots get too chewy and stick in your teeth and you will be sad. Trust me on this one too.

Stalking Wonder: Kids on Farms

I’ve written before about the Farm Tots program at South47 Farm, an organic farm just a stone’s throw from Seattle, across Lake Washington. During the summer months the farm runs a program where children can come with their parents (or their aunties/uncles) and learn about the farm. Each week has a different theme and there are crafts projects, wagon rides, crops to be harvested, goats and chickens to be fed and pet.

But the thing I think is even more wonderful, is the subtle impact this program has. These kids—many of whom come regularly—are growing up with a farm. They get to see the crops come into season, they get to pick them. They learn that once the fresh blueberries are gone, we have to wait a whole year for them to come back in season again. They know what the plants look like coming out of the ground.



Why do I think this is important?

Last winter I asked my oldest niece—now four—where she thought oranges come from. I was planning to tell her about California, where her grandmother lives, and about the acres of orange groves and how intoxicatingly sweet they smell when in bloom.

My niece, however, had already figured it out for herself. “Oranges come from Trader Joe’s,” she told me. And she’s right. For better or for worse, that's where her oranges come from.

But there’s a whole story behind those oranges: the trees in the fields, the fruit pickers, the harvest. A slew of people work hard to produce that orange, which my brother then buys and brings home to his daughters. There is hard work, sweat, and hope in the food we eat: hope for a good harvest, hope for a fair price. Nobody goes into farming because it’s an easy or safe job. At the same time, it is one of the most important jobs around.

I’ve mentioned before that I’m taking a six-month permaculture class, and finding it amazing and exciting. Last weekend, in one of the lectures, my teacher asked this question:

What would you do if the delivery truck stopped showing up at the grocery store?

This is part of the reason I take my niecelets to the farm—and part of the reason I have a garden this year. I think it’s important to know where our food comes from, what it looks like, how it’s grown. This is the stuff of life, our lives.

But beyond all that, the farm is just a wondrous place for kids. They love being there.















And perhaps the most wondrous thing of all is that, after playing and running about the farm and getting to harvest their own vegetables, kids feel an investment in their food, an ownership, an excitement about it.

In all honesty, it's the only way I know to get a two-year-old to eat a turnip.

South47 Farm, Redmond, Washington

Friends with Benefits

“Friends with benefits” is the phrase that came to mind after I tasted what is, hands down, one of the best things I have put in my mouth this year. Not those kinds of benefits (mind out of gutter, please). I’m talking culinary benefits, which is nothing to scoff at. Not when a dish like this is in the offing. The benefit I’m talking about is fresh, free sorrel, and a recipe that might make your head spin.

It all started with my friend Knox, who is known for his brilliant ideas (he is Mr. Soup Swap, after all). He’s also the guy who transformed a bare backyard into an amazing landscape of colorful and edible bounty in under a year.

Every time I come to visit I get to poke around the garden and see what’s new. It could be unusual fruit trees (medlars, anyone?) or a box that allows for stacking of potato plants, or a rabbit house with strawberries growing on the roof. Or it could be a clutch of sorrel plants that won’t stop producing.

“Do you want some sorrel?” he asked me as we eyed the plants that were going gangbusters.

“Sure,” I said. “What do you do with it?”

I’ve grown sorrel before, but I wanted to know what Knox does with these tart and lemony greens. The only thing I've ever done is make soup.

“I make the tart.” He said it like I should know about this tart. Like everyone should know about this tart.

I had never heard of a sorrel tart. Have you?

The tart comes from Deborah Madison who got it from Richard Olney, which is some serious culinary pedigree. She says this recipe is the reason she grows sorrel. Knox says it’s the reason he grows sorrel as well. And it’s the reason I’m going to be planting a lot more sorrel in the future.

Knox gave me a bundle of greens and I spirited them home and tried my hand at the tart. It’s a fairly simply thing: eggs, cream, some gruyere cheese. I used a 12 year aged gruyere I’ve recently become hooked on. There’s a red onion as well, sautéed down until it’s soft, and the pile of sorrel leaves.

The sorrel leaves are even better if prepped by a little wee one. The niecelets have discovered the salad spinner and love playing with it. I now have the driest greens in three states.



The thing about sorrel is that you take a nice pile of lovely greens, and once you cook them they turn into something that—to quote Bridget Jones's Diary— looks like “green gunge.” Sorrel melts into a sopping brown/green mess. This, I have discovered, is not such a bad thing—although it's not very pretty to look at. 



As I was cooking the sorrel and the onions, I began to think that the tart might be good with some wisps of prosciutto mixed in (if you’re the sort of person who goes for that). It would bump up the umami flavor. When it was fully baked and served, however, I changed my mind. This tart needs nothing but a fork; it’s deeply savory, in a way not common in vegetarian cooking. The onion and sorrel are a perfect match for the gruyere, the crust is flaky. It was one of the best things I’ve tasted this year, hands down.

My mother was in town that week and she loved it too—loved it. We wrapped the second half of the tart up and took it with us for a weekend on the Olympic Peninsula with the niecelets. Halfway through the weekend, my mother looked at me and said, “Do you think we should bother sharing the tart with the girls? I’m not sure they can really appreciate it.”

What can I tell you—it’s good. So good I’ve been begging sorrel off friends of mine. Shauna and Dan have a big plant about to go to seed and let me gather some leaves. My community garden has some in the shared herb section that I've been eyeing. And my most recent email from Knox told me I could come and get more from his garden (“If you need some stop by and get some...you know where it is!”).

Friends with benefits, indeed.

Not only is he generous, my friend Knox is also quite clever. He sautés the sorrel in butter and then freezes it, in individual plastic bags, so he can have this tart year round. Genius. I plan to do the same. Perhaps you should give it a try as well. Trust me on this one, a friend wouldn't steer you wrong.



SORREL TART
From The Greens Cookbook, by Deborah Madison and Edward Espe Brown
I don’t usually post recipes taken from cookbooks, but as this recipe was given to Deborah Madison by Richard Olney, I figure I’m just passing it along as well. It’s really too good not to share.

Tart Dough

1 cup flour
3/8 tsp salt
4 tbs butter, chilled and cut into chunks
1 1/2 tbs vegetable shortening
2 1/2 to 3 tbs cold water

Put all ingredients except water into the bowl of a food processor and process until the texture is small and crumbly. Drizzle the water in slowly until the dough comes together in a ball. Don’t process more than necessary. You can alternately do this in a bowl with a pastry cutter.

Roll out the dough and press into a 9-inch tart pan or springform cake pan, pricking the bottom with fork tines. Freeze the empty shell. Once fully frozen, bake the shell in a 450° oven until beginning to color.

NOTE: my tart dough shrunk a bit, and bubbled slightly on the bottom despite having been pricked. Next time I’ll try baking with pie weights.

Tart Filling:

4 tbs unsalted butter, divided
1 large red onion, sliced thinly
1/2 tsp salt
6-8 oz sorrel leaves (I used about 7 oz)
2 large eggs
1 cup heavy cream
2 oz gruyere cheese, grated (I use an aged gruyere, 12 years)
Pepper to taste

Preheat oven to 375°

Melt 3 tbs butter in a medium pot or pan and add the onions and salt. Sauté about 10-15 minutes, until the onions are soft and stewed. Set aside. In a new pan, melt 1 tbs butter and add sorrel. Cover and cook until the greens have wilted, about 4-5 minutes. Allow both the onions and the sorrel to cool.

Whisk eggs and cream together in a large bowl. Add the sorrel, onion, and half the cheese, stir to mix. Add pepper, as desired.

Scatter the second half of the cheese over the pre-baked tart shell. Pour the filling on top. Bake in the center of the oven until fully set (40-45 mins). The final tart should be well colored. Serve hot or room temperature.