Today I turned forty-nine, and there’s only one thing I know for sure: I’m older than I’ve ever been.  I also like to think I’m wiser than I’ve ever been, though not as wise as I hope to someday be.  Which means, all in all, this is a pretty good day.

The air is warmer than it was last week, and people seem to be slowing down, in spite of the rapid approach of the Thanksgiving holiday.  Or maybe it’s because of the impending holiday.  Who knows?  One last chance to savor the soft air before we dive headfirst into celebrations that will manage to keep us so busy until the frigid air of January stops us clean in our tracks.  On my way to the community garden, I passed an elderly gentleman stringing Christmas lights about his yard while the sun shone in the bright blue autumn sky.  I heard a grandmother singing a hauntingly beautiful melody to a baby she cradled in her arms, rocking from one leg to the other, catching the warmth in her sunny driveway on our busy street.  I eavesdropped as a concerned citizen raised issues with a local political figure attempting to walk his dog in the park, unable to shed his duties even long enough for a quiet stroll.

It’s difficult to find words to share how much this all means to me today.  To be alive.  Suffice it to say, I feel lucky to live in this beautiful, diverse land called California, and even luckier to love and be loved.

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At the end of September, I went to BlogHer Food 09.  An entire day-long conference at the St. Regis in San Francisco just for food bloggers.  I didn’t encounter a bad attitude all day.  How many conferences have you attended where you could say the same thing?  It was incredible: smiles, hugs, laughter all around.  Maybe it was the fact that it was a warm sunny day in the city.  Or maybe it’s that all these people really love what they do.  Either way, I was somewhat stunned by all that niceness in one place.  Let there be no doubt: the food blogging community is one seriously generous group of people!

I decided to sleep in (it was a Saturday!) and skip both breakfast and a welcome meeting.  I hopped on BART at a reasonable hour and then walked three blocks to the hotel.  I noticed a huddle of policemen standing right outside the St. Regis.  Oh great, I thought.  Food bloggers must really be rowdy; am I going to like this at all?  Not even 9am, and the police have already been called!

Heading into the hotel and walking quickly toward the elevators, I was told to STOP PLEASE by a firm hotel employee.  Startled, I looked up to see a small crowd moving through.  Speaking a foreign language and dressed in suits to-die-for, it was clear these were high-level dignitaries, bodyguards, and various attendants.  It happened so fast.  They moved into waiting limos, the police dispersed, and elevator doors re-opened.  The employee apologized to me for the inconvenience.  Whew.  Food bloggers weren’t causing the ruckus!

Stepping out of the elevator onto the second floor, I walked right into the only person I knew at the entire conference, the amazing Cheryl Sternman Rule, who just might be the funniest writer I know.  She introduced me to several smiling food bloggers and the day spun out of control.  We cornered David Lebovitz for a moment.  I sat next to Zoe Francois of Zoe Bakes.   I laughed with Todd and Diane of White on Rice about fighting urban critters for cherished homegrown backyard fruit.  The Gluten-Free Girl’s baby gave me the biggest smile.  Did I mention that everyone was so nice?

I attended morning sessions with White on Rice, and with Heidi Swanson and Matt Armendariz on photography.  I’ve learned so much about my little embarrassing camera and how to use it since I listened to their advice and read my camera manual.  Just a little detail I had previously overlooked.  I will say that I pulled out my (Kodak!) camera once, and the blogger I showed it to was so mortified to be standing near me (with the Kodak in my hand) that I stuck my camera back in my bag for the rest of the day.  (Therefore, no pictures for you!)  Apparently it is cool to use expensive cameras, very expensive cameras, or a Polaroid or iPhone, but not a Kodak Easy Share.  Who knew? That’s my camera and I’m sticking to it, however uncool it may be, until I can stop dropping cameras in wet bread dough.  Because at that point I really do stick to it.

Then came lunch.  You can read about our Bertolli lunch, the big stir, and the commentary during it – oh my, not what you would think – here and here.  I met so many wonderful writers and bloggers and photographers – famous ones, great ones, and brand new ones – at that lunch and during the breaks.  I watched Elizabeth Falkner convince otherwise socially acceptable people to put latex gloves on their hands and dig in chocolate boxes for corn nuts, cake, and pretzels covered in marshmallow and dark chocolate ganache.  You read that correctly: latex gloves, digging in chocolate, corn nuts.  I think you had to be there.  (But if you weren’t, check out this post.)

There was also a surreal cocktail party on the glam roof terrace (warm evening in SF!), with sumptuous cocktails, and with appetizers using Campbell’s Soup.  You cannot make this stuff up – all conferences need sponsors, okay?  Which is about when I gave out.  I hugged a few people, grabbed my swag bag full of Scharffen Berger Chocolate and other assorted goodies, tucked the business cards of my new blogging buddies in my pocket, and headed back to BART.  Yes, this is what I call work these days.  Read it and weep.

New Friends (in no particular order):

Black Girl Chef’s Whites

lettuce eat kale

In Erika’s Kitchen

brownies for dinner

Whining ‘N Dining

World on a Plate

Cook 4 Seasons

Eat Local Challenge

Gluten-Free Organics

Dana Treat

The Veggie Queen

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Ocean Beach

Pismo Beach Breakfast

Sailboat Slip in Sausalito

Jake Sailing

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Someday, maybe, if I am very lucky, I will understand why leaving NYC makes me feel as though I am being forced from the womb, or torn from my home.  After all, I’ve only been there three times, for rather short visits each time.  I grew up in Southern California, and always felt quite alien there.  But as soon as I am in a taxi or bus speeding from an airport into Manhattan, I can breathe peacefully.  My shoulders drop as my pulse quickens, and the rhythms of the City envelop me.  So when the chance came up last week to go for that third visit, I jumped, and two days later I was on the plane.

And NYC loved me back.  July weather is not normally so pleasant.  A friend said that I had brought Northern California weather with me, and so it seemed.  I didn’t break a sweat once, not even when walking briskly for 4 hours at a time!  It was so stunning out that I couldn’t bear to go inside to see a show, or even go underground on the subway.

How to explain that my feet have always known the way without a map?  Grand Central Station, Rockefeller Center, Central Park, The Met.  Everyone in a good mood this time, lucky tourists and locals alike.  Babies/strollers/moms/nannies everywhere.  Cigarette smoke.  The quick click-clack of high heels supporting incredibly-toned calves across uneven sidewalks.  Sirens, horns, questions, answers, fingers pointing, heads nodding.  Violins and boom-boxes.  Fountains and jackhammers.  A transfusion for my soul.

I dined at Tabla, finally, while overlooking a concert in Madison Park.  I grabbed a burger at Le Parker Meridien’s burger joint and ate in it Central Park with a friend.  I went to Virgil’s for the third time – for tradition’s sake, and thought the food was actually very good, though that may have been an effect of the second margarita – strongest margarita in the world, apparently.  I ate a 25 cent banana from a fruit cart while I sat on a bench in the middle of Hello Kitty sculptures.  I walked by Magnolia Bakery without going in.  There will just have to be a next time, and soon.

When I leave Rome, I sob in the taxi and whisper endearments in Italian as the buildings fade in the distance.  The confusing passionate lover I can’t bear to leave, but I know isn’t ultimately good for me.  When I leave New York City, strangely proud to be an American, yet frustrated at the long-distance nature of our relationship, I straighten my shoulders and lift my head, determined to make it all work out.  Some things just can’t be explained.

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Attempting balance, with a mid-life metabolism.  Doesn’t one cancel out the other?

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Last week, two loaves of Anadama Bread, no avocados. Really wanted to make one of these great-looking sandwiches (look near the end of the post).

This week, one avocado, no Anadama Bread.

Life can be cruel, that way . . .

And, no, I can’t just make another loaf of Anadama, are you nuts? I’ve got an Artos loaf on the way, and there are only so many times I can convince myself that my jeans are tight because they shrunk again.

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View of the VOG during a walk, Captain Cook, Hawaii

Okay, so I’ve been quiet for a while.  What happened was this: we went to Hawaii.  We had a wonderful time.  I can’t even show you any great pictures, however, because the Big Island had a terrible layer of VOG (the volcanic ash “smog” from the latest eruption) while we were there, making the ocean-view home we rented turn more into a see-that-gray-down-there-that’s-where-the-ocean-is kind of view home.
On our last day, the clouds and VOG lifted, and we suddenly had the very impressive view that had been there all along.  But we were too busy rushing through the checkout checklist and loading up the car to get to the airport to even snap one picture.  Isn’t that always the way?  How many times have you heard that story?  Ahhh, the tropics.  That’s part of why I love them.  Completely and utterly unpredictable (okay, maybe I could have guessed there was going to be a VOG problem, since this last eruption started a year ago), thus making the times when the tropics hit that delicate place between too hot/wet and blissful perfection something of a Holy Grail for me.

I used to be in the travel industry, meaning I spent lots of time in places during the “off-season,” the only time anyone gave great deals to industry people – supposedly to make up for the lousy pay.  Which means I’ve waded, in hip-high water, across brand-new parking lots at fancy resorts, passing overturned palm trees on my determined way to find breakfast during a monsoon.  I’m somewhat of an expert on the size of flying cockroaches at resort areas on the coast of Mexico during August.  And let’s just say that the rainy season in Costa Rica is really, really, rainy – they aren’t kidding.

That’s why a little VOG didn’t scare me, people.  The air index said the air was “good” quality.  But then again, I don’t have asthma.  I wish my spouse didn’t either.  But my spouse does, which nearly necessitated a flight home on the second day.  Fortunately, the inhaler worked pretty well if it was taken twice as often as normal, so no one flew home early.  Unfortunately, the inhaler lowered my spouse’s immune system, thus giving all the airplane germs a wonderful place to play.  And now, three weeks later, we are all almost well again, from what we are convinced was something as bad as the swine flu (no drama queens here, at all).  Yup, one, two, three, we all had our day (okay, many, many days) of play dates with the germs.

Add that to all the craziness that one must put up with after taking a vacation, all those things that lined up waiting for my return, doubling or tripling in size and certainly urgency, and you have me, no blog posting for a month, wondering when I will ever have the energy to attempt coming home from a vacation again.  (It’s not the vacation that kills me, you see, it’s simply coming home from vacations that is harmful to my well-being.)

I relaxed enough in Hawaii to have that wonderful, gee, why is my life so complicated at home feeling upon my return.  Why is there so much clutter?  Who needs this many clothes?  Why do I live somewhere where a heater is necessary? Doesn’t that happen to you, too?  I love that feeling!  Other than the fact that of course one pays a bizillion dollars to stay in a gorgeous ocean-view 4 bedroom house with tons of windows overlooking banana, mango, papaya, and breadfruit trees that somebody else is paid to take care of – just a little detail, I assure you – I’m sure I could make my life that simple here, too!

The point is, well, I don’t really have a point, as I’m sure you could tell.  But I’m back, diving deeper into the craziness of it all.  And tomorrow, I’ll tell you about a very exciting piece of that craziness!

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Yesterday was one of those magical days that comes about as a result of sublime weather, perfect company, and supremely fresh and simple food.  I made my first visit to the Belmont Farmers’ Market in months.  Our garden plot has kept us well-fed during the winter months with plenty of greens, so I had no reason to go in search of other vegetables.  But Spring has definitely sprung in California, and that means the same thing April has always meant for me here: strawberries!  Gorgeous, sweet, red-ripe strawberries, and the season will last until fall.  And asparagus.  Slender and green, cooked just barely enough, tasting of the goodness of earth – made even more precious because the season for asparagus does not last so long.

I went to the market for strawberries, but of course returned with a full bag of food.  Who could resist that asparagus?  The leeks were enormous enough to make me laugh, fed as they were by plentiful rains, for a change.  And the Russian fingerling potatoes from Capay Organics – there was no way to resist.  Well, not if you are at all like me, anyway.

Then off to the sailboat we went, finding warm weather even on the bay!  People walking across the Golden Gate Bridge in shorts in April!  We stopped to pick up some fresh fish to grill on the boat and some sourdough bread.  (My sourdough got tucked into the refrigerator at home to rise slowly until our return – warm weather was calling us out of the house, now!)  I roasted the potatoes at 400 degrees with a little olive oil, garlic, and sea salt until tender.  The asparagus got the steam treatment until al dente.  I made a quick sauce: olive oil, diced garlic, thyme, green onion (the white part only, at first, then the green parts tossed in at the finish), chopped and seeded Roma tomato, salt, a few glugs of champagne, then a bit of butter thrown in to thicken the sauce at the end.  The sauce was poured over the fish, while we toasted Spring in all its perfection.  The food was so fresh, it needed nothing fancy – no long stewing, no heavy spices, no recipe.  The meal ended with those sweet strawberries dipped in creme fraiche.  This is sailboat cooking.  Spring food.  My heart was full of gratitude, for I felt like a king (or queen, as you wish).

The day was so perfect, that as we were leaving, I began to wonder if it was just the champagne giving life that rosy glow.  I snapped a picture.  No, it wasn’t the champagne.  The camera could see it, too!

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Try, if you will, to ignore my least-favorite-kitchen-tile-in-the-world, and focus instead on Le Pingouin.  Okay, he’s not French.  At all.  He just reminds me of a French waiter I once met.  Or made up.  Nonetheless, he is truly wonderful and we love him.  (He puts bubbles in our water and whistles when he’s done!)

This January (month-o-resolutions), I got overwhelmed by the toxic waste that is being produced by our leftover and used-up technology.  Yes, the very technology I sit in front of right now.  And I don’t know what to do about it.

When we had an old tv to get rid of last year, I searched around and found a company that swears they dispose of e-waste properly.  I then gave them a donation to keep up the good work.  But do I have any idea if they were the real thing?  Or do they just (under cover of darkness) send it all to China to be melted down into rivers of toxins?  I have no way of knowing.  And that depressed me.  Not to mention how much it depressed me to realize I hadn’t turned out to be a reporter for 60 Minutes, hunting down those bad boys.

What the hell does this have to do with a penguin, you ask?  (Very good question.)  I decided that I simply had to more about things I could control.  Places where I could make a difference.  Things I had talked about, researched, but never quite made the full commitment to doing.

We already eat pretty seasonally and locally, for the most part.  I grow as much as possible of our food, and I grow it organically.  We are so unbelievably blessed with fresh local premium produce and the places to buy them.  I mean, for god’s sake, it’s California!  Right now in the middle of winter, meyer lemons are dripping from the trees around here!  (Yes, I know that hurts some of you very deeply right now, walking around in sub-zero temperatures.  So I’ll move on.)

Back to The Penguin.  One easy, ultimately money-saving thing I can do to make a difference in the world.  The Penguin has stopped us from buying bottled carbonated water.  And we drink a whole lotta carbonated water.  We had long ago stopped buying bottled non-fizzy water and we use stainless steel water bottles instead.  With the filtered water coming from our refrigerator door, that was a no-brainer.  But giving up our carbonated water?  That was too hard.  Too much sacrifice.  We aren’t noble enough for that.

Turns out we don’t have to be saints to make a difference.  Now we have The Penguin, a top of the line carbonator, using glass bottles (because if I was going to do this, I wasn’t going to do it half-way, although it’s a cheaper option and certainly better than buying filled bottles at the store).  Our recycle pile has become a mere shadow of its former self.  I love it.  We love it.  We make about 6 to 8 bottles a day.  A 20 ounce fill from our refrigerator door and two pushes on le pingouin’s beak and a bottle is ready to drink.  90 seconds, maybe?  No plastic to recycle.  No gas used driving to the store.  Worth giving up the precious countertop inches.  The Soda Club (club in name only, no membership required) even has a door-to-door exchange policy for the empty carbonators.

One resolution down, crossed off the list.  Without attaining sainthood.  And it’s not even February.

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