The Novato Experiment

A Chylde is Born!

2006-07-26T10:33:00.000-07:00

Just a quick note to let you know that Flour Chylde is now open, as of 6:00pm yesterday. The walls are still bare, and they're still getting things set up, but the bakery case has lots of delicious items in it already.

I bought a mininature gluten-free lemon-coconut cake there last night. It was delicious; moist and lemony, and covered in a soft, fluffy coat of coconut flakes. Yum.

So if you're near Grant Street, stop by and welcome them to the neighborhood!

Address: 850 Grant Avenue. (415) 328-5522

New Reasons to Visit Grant Street

2006-07-18T13:19:00.000-07:00

New things are happening in Novato!

The long-awaited Trader Joe's is now open, so I only have to travel 5 minutes to replenish my supplies of Fage 2% Greek yogurt and TJ's sea salt-black pepper-lemon blend (with grinder built in!). Their produce selection is still largely non-organic and sourced from places far, far away from California, so I generally steer clear of that section, but their wine guy is cute and sweet, and last week he pointed me towards a Cabernet Sauvignon that happens to be made from one of my favorite winemakers, at a price that made me smile.

With the Trader Joe's came yet another Starbucks. I haven't been inside, because who would want to when Dr. Insomnia's is just around the corner on Grant Avenue? Not only do they know how to make espresso drinks (they know to ask if I want my cappuccino wet or dry), they also have a house-made coffee cake that is so moist and buttery and cinnamon-y (is that a word?) that I was absolutely crushed a couple of weeks ago when they ran out of it on a Sunday morning.

Grant Avenue is becoming more exciting all the time! Yes, I really said that.

The Novato Farmer's Market takes up much of the street on Tuesday evenings from 5pm-8pm, and although it doesn't attract nearly as many quality vendors as the San Rafael Civic Center, it is worth stopping by if you live in the neighborhood. Every week, a different band plays live music, and Roli Roti is there with their addictive roast chickens, which they pop into a bag with lime slices. Mmmm... Perhaps in time, we'll see more of the high-quality organic vendors here as well. My guess is that current demand for fresh organic produce in the Bay Area might be exceeding supply...

One of my favorite vendors at the Novato Farmer's Market is Flour Chylde, a Novato-based bakery that creates an assortment of delectable breads, pastries, and desserts, including a selection of wheat or gluten-free offerings. Up until now, they haven't had a storefront, but they are opening up on Grant Avenue later this summer, which will make a fabulous addition to the Old Town "scene."

You know how I love Kitchen. Their short ribs send me into rapture, and I've been known to sneak into one of their two counter-top tables for a quick bite when B is out of town. Now they've opened up Finnegan's across the street. It has a cozy pub-like feel, with framed pictures all over the walls and flat-screen TV's near the bar. The menu is a mix of expected bar food, like Irish potato poppers and giant burgers, with somewhat more sophisticated offerings like cherry-glazed pork loin and an antipasto platter with buffalo mozzarella and roasted red peppers. Their Cobb salad isn't the same as Kitchen's was when Kitchen was open for lunch - I couldn't wait to see if it might be! - but it is beautifully presented and quite delicious.

I keep on driving past the alleged site of the Novato Whole Foods, but alas - not a single scoop of dirt has been removed from the site. It seems that now their projected opening date is 2008, so we'll have to wait a bit longer.

But hey: things are looking up in Novato when, along a single street, one can find a perfectly-made cappuccino, a loaf of bread made with organic flours, a nice lunch and a fabulous dinner. I'd say that's progress!

Let Them Eat Soup

2006-05-24T14:19:00.000-07:00

When you're mostly confined to the house, your menu options are considerably limited. Hopping through a farmer's market on crutches with a swollen, throbbing knee is somewhat ill-advised, and so you resign yourself to not cooking with entirely local ingredients, even though it is Eat Local Month, and you had the best of intentions before The Fall. Given your inability to stand for long periods of time, you might even incorporate a pre-made thing or two into your recipes.

Like the beef broth in the French Onion soup recipe that you've been perfecting. Making beef broth from scratch is a commendable task, but one that requires far more planning and forethought and standing at the stove than your pain-addled leg will allow. And so you decide to buy organic, pre-made beef broth, and hope that the blogging community will forgive you.

The soup, incidentally, tastes no worse for the fact that its broth was made in some vast unknown kitchen in an unspecified location. In fact, the soup tastes heavenly. You've ordered French Onion soup from countless dining establishments in San Francisco, and have found most of them to be thin and flavorless, topped by a soggy raft of bread with a greasy slick of cheese clinging the surface. This seemed to indicate that the recipe was terribly to master, but now, knowing better, you resolve to never again accept a mediocre bowl.

Whether the soup is truly French or not, you aren't sure. Your amour has told you, with a shrug, that it is "not really French, bebe; you wouldn't be able to find it in most restaurants in France," but being American, and a daydreamer besides, you pretend that you didn't hear him, and take another rich, onion-y mouthful. He told you the same thing about French fries, insisting that they are actually from Belgium, but you didn't listen to him then, either. Whenever you are lucky enough to find hot, crispy frites, you dream of Paris, and while you eat your soup, you remember the countryside in Bordeaux, and you think: what's the harm in that?
French Onion Soup

2 tablespoons olive oil
2 sweet onions, sliced into thin rounds
2 tablespoons sweet butter
Freshly ground pepper
Freshly ground salt
1/2 cup red wine
1 1/2 quarts organic beef broth
2 tablespoons unbleached flour
1/8 cup water
3 thick slices of a good baguette
Extra virgin olive oil
1/2 cup grated cave-aged gruyere

In a heavy-bottomed pan, heat the olive oil over a medium flame. Add the onions and sauté for about 20 minutes, stirring every few minutes, until they are limp and translucent. I like it when some of the onions on the sides of the pan develop brown edges, because it adds a bit of depth to the flavor.

Stir in the butter, allowing it to melt and bubble up through the onions. Sprinkle liberally with salt and pepper. Add a generous glug of red wine; it will make a lovely hissing-and-steaming sound. Stir again, continuing to sauté for about 3 more minutes to allow the alcohol to evaporate. Add the beef broth and raise the heat to high to bring the mixture to a boil. Let it boil gently, uncovered, for about 10 minutes. Lower the heat to medium-low and place the lid on top. Depending on the type of pan you have, you may want to crack the lid just a half inch or so. Mine creates a powerful seal that doesn't allow liquids to reduce, and so I like to make a little gap to allow evaporation to occur.

In a small cup, mix together the flour and water to form a thin paste. Add a few tablespoons of the soup broth, then slowl incorporate the mixture into the soup.

Let the soup continue to simmer until it has reduced to about half of its original volume. Remove from heat. Ladle the hot soup into individual soup tureens, leaving about one inch between the top of the soup and the top of the tureen. With a pastry brush, brush both sides of the baguette slices with olive oil. Place one slice directly on top of each tureen of soup, so that the bread is floating on the soup. Sprinkle liberally with gruyere.

Arrange the tureens on a baking sheet, and place beneath a broiler. When the cheese bubbles and turns a fetching shade of golden brown, remove from the oven. Serve immediately.

Makes 3 individual tureens.

The Novato Update

2006-05-17T16:34:00.000-07:00

I'm not lost. I haven't moved away from Novato. I haven't been lounging on a tropical beach. I'm not fed up with blogging, nor any such thing.

I did, however, develop a case of Overcommitted-enza, in which I took on a bit more than I could handle in projects and responsibilities. For weeks, I've been setting the alarm clock for an ungodly hour, and sinking in to bed, exhausted, many hours later.

But that's okay. It's good, even. I'm all for periods of intensity, where much is accomplished, and the air is a-whirl with activity and motion.

I had another such week scheduled this week. But then... I went to a dinner party on Saturday night and had little accident. It involved a wet floor, some slippery sandals, and my right knee. I've spent the past few days lying about with my leg propped up, groggy with Vicodin, dreaming of running through grassy meadows. My enormous, puffy knee looks like a Jackson Pollock canvas. Today it's purple and yellow, with a tinge of green.

I'll be fine... the doc says that he thinks it will heal without surgery. He's going to keep an eye on it. In the meanwhile, I've got my laptop propped up on my, well, lap, and I'm cruising the blogsphere once again.

I've been in the kitchen a lot over the past few weeks ~ perfecting a recipe for French Onion Soup, feasting on fresh produce in a variety of salads, and creating a ritual meal for Sunday evenings at Chateau Novato. I'll write about all of that... soon. Just now, I need to find my crutches and hobble over to the medicine cabinet.

PS: That's my pineapple sage in the picture above. Isn't it pretty? The hummingbirds love it.

The Bachelorette of Novato

2006-03-14T11:30:00.000-08:00

My man is back home after five long weeks. He frequently travels far, far away for business - one week here, three weeks there - but this trip was decidedly longer than usual. When we first started seeing each other, and for quite a while after that, these trips were awful trials for me. I'd mope about, counting down the days until he returned and generally feeling blue.

I'm happy to report that I did not do any such thing this last time. Instead, I took full advantage of my long stretch of Alone Time. It would be quite accurate to say that I luxuriated in it. Every day, I asked myself: What do I most want to do today? I had no one else to consult; no one else's feelings to take into consideration. It was my time, and mine alone.

Of course I still had obligations. It wasn't like I had five weeks of vacation. I had my Monday all-day gig, my Thursday very-early-morning obligation, and various & sundry deadlines to meet. But there were hours, and pieces of hours, and evenings, and Sundays, when I could do anything I wanted to. And I did not mope, except for that one time, which hardly counts.

I'd like to tell you that I drove to the city every night and danced my bootie off, or that I shopped until I dropped, but my preferred indulgences are of a rather different nature. To wit:

I haunted my favorite bookstores and came home more than once with my arms full and my heart dancing with excitement over what I would find beneath their covers. I piled books on my bedside table and read until the wee hours of the morning, and picked up where I left off when I woke up, and it was absolutely delightfully selfishly fantabulous.

I made an enormous roast chicken every Wednesday. The first night, I ate it straight out of the roasting pan, while standing up at the counter. The meat was hot and juicy, the skin crackly. Sigh. It's not that I can't do that when B is home, it's just that... well... On the subsequent nights, I used the leftover meat to make chicken salad with butter lettuce & mustardy-tart vinaigrette; Thai salad with cabbage & peanuts & carrots and a lime-chili dressing; corn tortillas stuffed with shredded thigh meat and melted Cheddar.

I spent hours in the gym - because I could, and because I didn't need to go home - taking all the odd classes that had always looked intriguing on the schedule but that I never seemed to have time to try. Hip-hop, anyone? Or Capoeira, perhaps?

I wrote - wrote and wrote and wrote! - because I had nothing at all to distract me. Obviously, I was not blogging - the short form is not my specialty - but I got lots of ink on paper.

And in between stuffing my face with chicken, and gym-class-hopping, and writing, I left my clothes on the floor and took my sweet time picking them up. I left my dishes in the sink instead of immediately scrubbing them off. I took long baths. I played Liz Phair and Marcy Playground and REM very very, loud. I watched, or attempted to watch, all of the Academy-Award-nominated films. I learned the words to "It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp." I ate lots of chocolate.

But lest you become worried: I did not drink wine straight from the bottle. Not this time.

And now he is back, and I am glad.

Leslie's Plight

2006-02-28T15:03:00.000-08:00

Poor Leslie Harlib. I don’t know the woman, or a single thing about her, other than the fact that her name appears after virtually every one of the restaurant reviews in the Dining section of the Marin Independent Journal.

That this lone woman must review the majority of Marin County’s restaurants is tribulation enough in and of itself. That the paper didn’t have the imagination to concoct a pseudonym for some of her work, a la early Ruth Reichl, only makes her singular burden more unfortunate.

But a girl has to do what a girl has to do, and Leslie Plays Nice. She seems to live in Emily Post’s world of etiquette. She will not describe a dish in more downbeat terms than “a tad dry” or label an environment as anything worse than “somewhat uncomfortable.” Afterwards, she hastily writes about what was delicious or fun or hip about the experience, so as to balance out the negative vibes. Leslie is fond of adjectives; you’ll find “lavishly lush fondue” and a "funky marsh of a wild mushroom risotto” in Leslie’s world.

Perhaps, knowing all too keenly the dearth of skilled food preparation in Marin County, she writes in hopes that more encouragement will fertilize this sparsely-populated soil.

Sadly, I am not so sunshiny as dear Leslie. Her recent review of Matsuyama in Novato made me dig my fingernails into my palms. B and I drove by there a few times after we moved to Novato, debating whether to stop or drive 30 miles into the city to sit at sushi counters that we knew and loved. We opted to drive, until one very cold night when we decided to pull over and give it a try.

We walked in to a square room divided by rice paper partitions. The person who greeted us suggested that we sit anywhere we liked. We chose one of the faux-wood-grain-formica-topped tables and sat down, eyeing each other nervously.

The menu was replete with the usual rolls – California, Dragon, Rainbow - and udon noodles in various broths. We settled on two soups, a tempura sampler and a nigiri plate, a world away from what we would normally order, with the hopes that we could gain a sense of what the kitchen had to offer.

Alas. Alack. The sushi was cold and tasteless, indiscriminate lumps of fish slumped over cold knobs of rice. The soups were thin and insubstantial. The tempura was the best dish, but even that was unremarkable. The floor around us was littered with stray paper chopstick wrappers and the odd grain of rice; several tables sat empty, piled high with the detritus of the previous meal, while we dutifully tried to eat ours.

The man I love just might be the most ardent sushi eater I have ever met, but that night he flicked the pieces about on his plate. After three bites, he could not bring himself to eat more.

When our sweet waiter came back to check on us, he asked if we wanted anything boxed up. “No!” We both said, in unison, and then, apologetically: “I guess we’re not that hungry tonight. So sorry.”

Ah, Leslie. I know you must have a mandate to Promote The Few Good Places Up Here, and for that I salute you. I just won’t go to any of the places you recommend. Alas.

Tagged by the 'ho

2006-02-26T21:18:00.000-08:00

The fabulous Joy tagged me for this meme, and since it has been a while (ahem!) since my last post, I'll do what I can to bore you silly with meaningless details from my life.

Four Jobs I've Held:

* Strawberry picker. What can I say? I was twelve years old. My knees still hurt.
* Checker at Food 4 Less. I was in college, trying to make a little extra money. I lasted all of 2 weeks. When I quit, the manager said: "But you were our fastest checker! We were going to give you a raise!" I didn't walk out; I ran. I still have a horror of large, overly bright grocery stores.
* Research assistant. Post-college, the follow-up to my senior thesis. Think lab coats and pipettes and cute pre-meds running around. Why did I leave that one? I'm still wondering.
* Restaurant manager. Have I mentioned that I recently gave this up? I'm still taking care of the wine list, and my feet still hurt.

Four Films I Could Watch Over and Over:

* Breakfast At Tiffany's. Here's to the joy of doing something you've never done before!
* Much Ado About Nothing. Sigh no more, ladies. Sigh no more.
* Shawshank Redemption. That Morgan Freeman: he's good people.
* Fargo. The accents, the plot, the wood chipper. Ya know what I mean, then?

Four Places I Have Lived:

I'm afraid I haven't lived anywhere terribly exotic. Like now. Is this a pattern? Am I stuck? Why did my therapist have to go on vacation?

Four TV Series I Like:

I watch so little TV that I honestly couldn't think of four. So here are three:

* Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. I cry my head off during every single show. It's my way of expressing the emotion that I too often keep bottled up inside. Those sick/bereft/courageous people need help! Look, Ty is coming to the rescue! He's so handsome! Ooh, he made that little girl a princess room! Her bed has a crown on top! *Sob*
* Grey's Anatomy. Once upon a time, I was going to be a doctor. Now, for one hour a week, I pretend that I'm dressed in scrubs and leaning over a operating table next to Patrick Dempsey. That's almost the same, isn't it?
* The Amazing Race. Joy and I have this one in common. The show last season didn't do much for me, mainly because they didn't choose my sisters and I to be one of the teams, plus the challenges were h-o-k-e-y. But one of my friends is in the upcoming season! Go, Tyler!

Four Places I’ve Been on Vacation:

* Paris. What can be said about Paris that has not been said already?
* The Burgundy region of France, in which I ate the most wonderful food of my life.
* Rome. The Sistine Chapel made me cry. We had maybe the best guide ever, and she brought the whole place to life with her stories.
* The Sonoma Mission Inn, just last week, which is all of 27 minutes from my home. I couldn't pull myself out of the bathwater-warm Watsu pool. There's music under the water! Music! Under! The water!

Four Foods I Love:

* Roasted Chicken, hot and crackly from the oven, preferably ripped apart with my bare hands and devoured while standing up.
* A huge scoop of 2% Greek yogurt drizzled with wild honey and toasted pine nuts.
* Tomatoes picked off of the vine and eaten while standing by the plant, salt shaker in hand.
* Michael Rechutti's Rose Caramels. Oh! I want one right NOW.

Four isn't nearly enough.

Four Websites I Visit Daily

* The New York Times. I'm not a fan of their premium content model, but they have a roster of damn good writers.
* Salon.com Even though I don't like the new design, I love their gutsy-ness.
* Maud Newton. 'Cause the only thing better than reading a book is reading about books.
* French Word-A-Day. If I'm going to live there some day, I'm going to have to be able to speak the language!

Four Places I’d Rather Be Right Now:

* In Paris
* At the ballet
* With my sweetheart
* In a beautiful dress

We Don't Want No Stinkin' Progress!

2006-02-15T18:45:00.000-08:00

The latest copy of the Novato Advance was flung onto my driveway at some indeterminate time this morning. When I bent down and picked it up mid-way through the afternoon, I noted a yellow square in the upper right hand corner that read: "Whole Foods Project Petition Sparks Letters To the Editor."

I should mention that I've driven by the alleged site of the Whole Foods project several times throughout the last couple of months, looking for signs of a construction site: a bright yellow Caterpillar, or a crew, or a mound of overturned earth at the very least. To my repeated dismay, I haven't seen a single thing. The Trader Joe's building is nearly complete, and now it seems that it was the lucky one that slipped under the radar.

Apparently, a minority of Novatoans (would Novato-ites be more poetic? I can't decide) have raised consistent and stubborn opposition to the project. Even though the developers have secured the venerable Book Passage as a tenant (be still, my heart!), the naysayers will not be silenced.

I regularly trek down to the Whole Foods in San Rafael for organic foods. It is a round trip of twenty miles, and I assure you that this matters to me. And so it was that I ran inside with the paper and eagerly leafed to page A-4, where the drama was explained in more detail.

Here, my fellow foodies, is the scoop: it appears that the Novato Whole Foods project is still being held up by appeals and petitions. The Letters to the Editor section showcased a tennis match of opinions. The main arguments against the project seems to be that the building will be "too high" and that the development will not be "in keeping" with the character of Old Town Novato.

Which all sounds terribly sentimental and might even be touching, except that Old Town Novato is a ghost town. It is dead. It is pathetic. To drive through it is to wonder at what might have been as one passes boarded-up storefronts and shabby liquor stores and the odd television repair shop. What character is in danger, I ask? What, exactly, is being lost? And where were these righteous opponents when the sprawling, mortifying spectacle of the Vintage Plaza took shape, with its Target and Marshalls and Starbucks and Costco all strung out in a terrible, endless row?

I want to be able to run to the store for a head of organic lettuce without having to drive thirty minutes. I religiously shop the farmer's market at the San Rafael Civic Center on Thursdays, but there is the occasional Thursday when I simply can't make it! And what then...?

The cost of a house in Novato is downright obscene, and there is no corresponding sense of civic pride. I feel like I got thrown back into some backwater country. I'm experiencing whiplash here, and to find out that the natives are still drumming to an old, tired beat is like a slap in the face.

The Advance reported that there is a signature petition taking place in front of Safeway and Albertsons to curry support for the Whole Foods opposition. I haven't seen it, because I avoid those places like the plague. But God help the petitioners if I do walk by, because I am absolutely furious, and I will not hesitate to give them a piece of my mind. The business climate in Novato is downright oppressive and claustrophobic, and bringing in Whole Foods is a much-needed step in the right direction.

Deep breath. I know: it's going to be okay. I'll be fine tomorrow. I will.

An Ode to the Blogsphere

2006-02-09T17:20:00.000-08:00

My blog muse is on a temporary holiday, and I have good reason to believe that she's seeing other bloggers while she's away. I say this because while my creativity might be ebbing, other bloggers are cranking out incredibly wonderful stuff.

If you're anything like me, you read many of the best-written blogs for the escapist aspect. As I sit in front of my computer, bleary and caffeine-deprived, I frequently imagine that there is a whole world of fuzzy-faced people with gorgeous produce and high-end cameras that are baking and foraging and making reservations at high-end restaurants for the sole purpose of my enjoyment. What a lucky girl I am! I'm in awe of people like Sam, who posts wonderful, entertaining entries every single day of the week, and jetsetters like Pim, who seems to travel the globe on a weekly basis. Ladies: however do you manage it?! I can scarcely make time for my bi-weekly mani-pedi. Your secrets, please.

Entertainment value aside, I find that blog recipes are infinitely more accessible than, say, a recipe in The Elements of Taste cookbook by Gray Kunz and Peter Kaminsky, a heartbreakingly lovely work which has sat untouched on my kitchen shelf for years. Recipes by bloggers tend to invite experimentation and participation; though they can be quite sophisticated, they generally aren't overly fussy. More and more of late, I've found myself turning to carefully written food blogs to answer the question of "What's for dinner?"

Just last week, I took posession of a beautiful organic cauliflower, snowy white and firm, with a lovely green-earth smell. As I pondered what to do with it, I remembered something I had read a couple of months ago. I summoned Google, and an hour later, I was re-creating Brett's Least Popular Recipe Ever: slow-roasted cauliflower with pounded anchovies. I followed his recipe to the letter, right down to the parchment paper on the baking sheet. The pile of sweet-tender, caramel-y pieces of cauliflower that came out of the oven were so delicious that B and I were jabbing our forks at each other to get the last bite. It was that good. Now B is gone on an extended business trip, and while I'm terribly lonesome, I have plans to make the recipe again and eat it all by myself.

But food blogging is about so much more than recipes. I must admit to having a girl-crush on Jennifer Maiser, who not only headed up the brilliant Eat Local Challenge last year, but also frequently posts on issues relating to big business, agricultural sustainability, and the increasingly complex puzzle that is eating well. Her recent link to an article about The Man Who Said No to Walmart and her thought-provoking post about voting with your pocketbook at large chain stores have all been incredibly inspiring to me as I ponder the sad plight of the Novato strip mall scene.

I think I saw Jennifer one afternoon last week, while I was sipping a cup of tea outside of Peet's on Fillmore Street. I wanted to rush up to her and blurt out my admiration for her outstanding work, but she was on the phone, and I didn't want to barge in. Another time.

When I need a soul-affirming reminder about the mysteries of the earth and the intricacies of this tenuous, fragile life, I visit Root Cap. Recently, RootCap says: "The promise of an illuminated freedom lies in the apprehension of organic truths. Truths that grow out of the ground like great oaks. Their vividness is our liberty; their flourishment our instruction; their fruitfulness the means for our love." See? Doesn't that make you feel happy?

And for those days when I'm worrying about suburban schoolchildren eating too much sugar, I found a blogger who writes under the moniker of McAuliflower. She has a Biology degree (just like me!) and she has a unique perspective on food and dining. Her post on fizzy fruit made me smile. Fizzy Fruit is going to turn kids away from packaged sweet snacks and on to the wonderful world of fruit... oh, joy! When I went to the Fizzy Fruit web site, the illustrations reminded me of the scratch-and-sniff stickers I used to collect in grade school. Grape, orange, cherry, and lemon... get the whole set!

I'm continually amazed and delighted at the incredible writing and photography out there. Keep writing, everyone, and I'll keep reading.

But could you do me a favor? Grab that capricious little muse of mine by the feather boa and send her home where she belongs, would you?! Thanks!

Finding Comfort Near the Sea

2006-01-30T14:58:00.000-08:00

I find January to be an unsettling month; a time of in-betweens, of anxious pauses and long moments of melancholy. The holidays are over, and spring is still just a dream. The rains come down, and people hunker inside their houses. I hunker inside, too, but I pace the floors, feeling strangely restless and cross. This is the season of waiting, of seeds burrowing deep within the ground, slumbering patiently.

If only I could relax into it with greater ease. I feel a sense of shifting, of undefined changes swirling in the not-too-distant future. I toss; I turn; I wonder.

Around noon today, on my way back over the bridge from the restaurant where I spent the morning taking inventory and placing orders, I impulsively turned off at the Alexander Avenue exit. The wind was blustery, and the driving rain made a mockery of my windshield wipers. I had a distinct urge to be in view of the ocean.

I remembered reading a review about a restaurant in Sausalito called Fish, and decided to stop by. When I dialed 411, the man who picked up the phone told me to drive to the far end of the yacht dock area on Harbor Drive. Sure enough, there it was, tucked into a rather obscure corner.

The space is open and bright, with high ceilings and polished wood tables. Chalkboards on the wall display the specials. There is much on the menu that begs to be sampled, but as I was by myself, I couldn’t order with my usual abandon.

I settled on a cup of New England style clam chowder and a salad made with grilled calamari. “Fresh from Monterey Bay,” the man at the counter told me. “Small and delicious.”

While I waited, I sat near a crackling fireplace and looked out at the ocean, taking solace in its vastness.

The clam chowder was warm and full of potato chunks. The clams were pink and bouncy. I dumped the whole packet of oyster crackers inside and happily munched away.

My salad arrived just as I was finishing the soup. It was served in a deep bowl, a pile of baby greens tossed with shredded carrots and pomegranate seeds, all dressed in a perfectly balanced vinaigrette. The calamari lay across the top, purplish-red cone-shaped bodies with tangled tentacles like miniature fountains. They bore tiny black flecks of char from the grill. They were tender, with the slightest bit of chewy edge. They tasted of deep, dark water and the mysteries of the sea. I finished the entire bowl. I nearly picked it up and licked it at the end.

And drove the rest of the way back to Novato feeling the slightest bit more hopeful.

High on the White Stuff

2006-01-11T15:48:00.000-08:00

The month of January finds many of us craving simple, healthy foods after the indulgences of the holidays. Sam at Becks & Posh has created a low sugar challenge, while Molly at Orangette is finding respite in the humble cabbage.

Meanwhile, the New York Times is running a series of articles on the rampant spread of diabetes in the United States. Diabetes is a truly devastating disease. I would guess that each of us have been affected by it in some way, whether directly or indirectly. And those effects are growing…

Each of the NYT articles has made me feel a combination of sadness and anger. A couple of things in particular have jumped off the page and smacked me in the face:

“Type 2 can often be postponed and possibly prevented by eating less and exercising more. But getting millions of people to change their behavior…will require some kind of national crusade.”

And this quote from a Dr. Thomas Frieden, the New York health commissioner: “

I will go out on a limb, and say, 20 years from now people will look back and say: 'What were they thinking? They're in the middle of an epidemic and kids are watching 20,000 hours of commercials for junk food.' "

And yet another sad fact:

Patients have trouble securing a reimbursement for a $75 visit to the nutritionist who counsels them on controlling their diabetes. Insurers do not balk, however, at paying $315 for a single session of dialysis, which treats one of the disease's serious complications.

The Times series has made it very clear that diabetes isn’t going to go away. Its causes are embedded in our culture, and we must figure our way out of the illness we have created. I personally have no doubt that refined sugar and highly processed foods in general have played a huge role in the spread of this disease, and yet most Americans are still acting as if they’re harmless, the equivalent of striking up the band while the ship is sinking.

I was in the Novato Target yesterday to pick up toilet paper and bottled water, and decided to take a stroll through the food section. I was greeted with an end-cap display of variously flavored chips in enormous bags; just behind those, an entire row was dedicated to soda of every flavor you can imagine. Candy bars now come in “family packs,” as do microwaveable snacks of every kind.

It’s so easy! Just grab it and go…

The pharmacy is conveniently located just to the right of the ice cream cooler. Your local mega-store is, after all, committed to being your partner in diabetes care.

Getting off the white stuff is a true challenge in suburban communities like Novato. If you live in Novato, you will have to drive farther than you might like to find healthy food choices; you might, like I did, have to tailor your schedule in order to hit farmer’s markets and other places where fresh, local food is available only at certain times. You’re going to have to be creative. And you’re going to have to cook a home a fair bit.

Eating healthy in the suburbs isn’t hard in the way that climbing Mount Everest is hard, but it is hard in the sense that it is an everyday thing that you must be diligent about. If you don’t plan ahead, and you’re coming home late, and you’re starving, and every hundred yards you see another drive-thru sign winking out of the darkness at you, what will you do?

We have not designed our communities with health in mind. Instead, they are full of quicksand-like traps made of white sugar and refined flour. They are minefields of pizzas to go and chicken in a bucket.

I worry that eating right on a consistent basis isn’t happening because isn’t practical for busy working parents with kids. Or for people with limited mobility. Or for people who are just stressed out and over-committed, which is most of us at least some of the time.

So how much of this is our collective responsibility? And how can we help suburbia to become healthier?

Tagged with: SHF # 15 + Low Sugar

Christmas in Novato, Part Two

2006-01-04T21:50:00.000-08:00

I will return to my growing obsession with the plight of suburban communities, just as soon as I finish posting my Christmas pictures.

As you can tell, we ate quite well on December 25th. Dined like kings, you might say. I left off at the cheese course in the last post... Here is the rest of the menu.

Christmas Dinner:

• Duck Roasted Two Ways:

1) Glazed with freshly squeezed orange juice, black tea and honey, with a clove-spiked orange in the cavity while cooking

2) Marinated for 36 hours in a paste of white miso and black mushrooms, and wrapped in a lotus leaf

• Tarragon Potato gratin w/ Gruyere & crème fraiche

• Brussels sprouts shaved and sautéed with toasted hazelnuts and tossed in a maple-syrup butter

• Orin Swift's 2004 Prisoner

• Mario Perelli-Minetti's 1998 Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon

May I simply say that the duck was so extraordinary - both of them, but especially the miso-marinated one - that we were quite literally silent as we ate. I am now besotted with duck. I plan to try a confit next... and perhaps a rillette, or a proper pate. Ah, the possibilities!

If you haven't yet made brussels sprouts shaved, then you must try it immediately. The flavor is entirely different than when you leave them whole. I love them pretty much any way, but this dish was superb. If you need inspiration, Boulevard is serving them as a side with some of their entrees this season.

Other thoughts: the 2004 Prisoner is delicious, but the 2003 was better.

Dessert Course:

• Panacotta infused with mulling spices and drizzled with a light apple-caramel sauce and toasted walnuts

• Gingerbread bread pudding topped with cognac-macerated cranberries and finished with a vanilla crème anglaise

The gingerbread (made by Adam, whose genius in the kitchen cannot be underestimated) was the most incredible gingerbread I had ever tasted. Dark as chocolate cake, so moist it melted in the mouth, rendolent of cloves with the gentle kick of ginger... it tasted of Christmas, pure and simple.

By the time we finished, it was nearly eleven. We eat well on a regular basis, but this day was so over the top that we all looked at each other at one point, spoons in hand, and burst into happy, contented laughter. It wasn't so much that we had eaten a tremendous volume of food - each person only had a few bites of each dish - but the flavors were so intense, and the combinations were so delightful, that we felt immensely satisfied.

Ants notwithstanding, it was a tremendous way to usher out 2005. Happy New Year, everyone! May you be blessed with happiness and love in the coming months.

Christmas in Novato, Part One

2006-01-02T19:01:00.000-08:00

The holiday season this year was about staying close to home. It was enjoying the company of family and friends; it was going to bed early and sleeping in late; it was sipping cups of tea while watching the birds outside peck away at the seeds in the feeder. It was playing fast and furious games of Dutch Blitz; it was lighting candles and playing Johnny Cash on the iPod; it was watching Johnny Depp on Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and shouting, all together: "Mumbler!"

It was being thrilled and grateful that, for the first time in three years, I was preparing Christmas dinner in my own kitchen instead of greeting guests at the door of a restaurant.

Here it is: an assortment of pictures and a menu.

Breakfast, Christmas Morning

• Pomegranate mimosas

• Marco Polo tea from Mariage Freres

• Poached eggs served over buttered English muffins w/ dill Hollandaise

• Smoked Salmon w/ freshly cracked pepper, caper berries and creme fraiche

Mid-day Meal

• Shallot consommé with sage, thyme and chantrelle mushrooms

• Salad of shaved fennel, Fuji apple and red radishes with Dijon vinaigrette

• Sautéed foie gras with a fig-balsamic chutney

Late Afternoon Nibbles

• Roasted chestnuts, served hot

An Assortment of Cheeses:

• Point Reyes Blue
American Cow's Milk Blue Cheese, Full Flavored And Creamy
• Le Grand Rustique
Camembert Style French Cow's Milk Cheese, Semi-Soft Smooth And Creamy
• Pecorino Stagionato
Italian Sheep's Milk Cheese, Semi-Firm, Nutty and slightly herbaceous
• Dutch Gouda
Nut-like flavors with an open body and is semi-soft to hard in texture

• Fresh grapes, red and black

• Cuvee of marinated olives

It was also battling an ant infestation. To keep it real.

We Are The Suburbs

2005-12-14T17:05:00.000-08:00

Unless you’ve been living beneath a rock, you’ve read at least one story in the past couple of years about America’s growing obesity problem.

I honestly didn’t give the issue much thought until recently; I don’t have children, and I was raised by a mother who didn’t allow processed foods in the house. Weight simply wasn’t an issue in my family. We lived on a farm, and spent a good part of every day on outside chores. Weeding and chopping wood and feeding the animals were such effective calorie burning measures that we scarcely had enough meat to cover our bones.

When I lived in San Francisco, the scarcity of parking was incentive enough for me to walk nearly everywhere… walk to a movie, the grocery store, the dry cleaners. I was out and about – moving around – much of every day.

Then I moved to Novato. And now I understand what all the fuss is about.

Like many other suburban communities, Novato is composed of a loose network of strip malls and shopping centers with mega-store anchors. Safeway and Bell Markets dominate the grocery landscape. There are dozens of Mc-Burger-Junior places, countless pizza joints and many large chain restaurants. The fact is that is just plain difficult to eat in a healthy, conscious way in this town. And forget about walking to do your errands... everything is so spread out that it makes driving everywhere an absolute necessity.

I’m not writing about this issue to harsh on Novato, or to be negative, only to open the discussion about the real issues facing suburbanites.

These aren't just the musings of a spoiled former city dweller; these are complex problems that have contributed to a shocking nationwide increase in obesity and its related diseases. Just try to find a quick, healthy lunch in Novato when you’ve got 30 or 45 minutes. You’ll have to be creative; there aren’t any places that I’ve found with anything to grab and go, so that leaves the organic sections of the grocery markets. Sadly, most are anemic displays with shriveled vegetables and fruit that looks like it fell of the truck on the way to the store.

Safeway has been remodeling their stores with ambient light and fake wood crates and “rustic” signage to give the stores a more healthy feeling, but most of the goods are the same old chemical and high-fructose-corn-syrup laden junk wrapped up in pretty packages.

After several years without even considering a Whopper, I’ve succumbed to the drive-thru window four times in the last four months. That might not sound like much, but it was probably more trans fat than I should have had in 10 years. It made me wonder: what if I was a working mother with hungry kids in the back seat? Would I have the energy and time to drive up to Petaluma or down to San Rafael just to access more healthy options? I might some of the time. Other times, I quite likely would not.

It seems that a group of Novato residents had similar thoughts 18 months ago, and formed the Novato Healthy Foods Coalition. Take a look at their web site, and click on the Survey Results. Check out the fact that 32% of Novato residents have a household income of between $101,000 and 150,000.

I would wager a guess that much of the money in those households that is earmarked for dining, groceries and entertainment is being spent outside of Novato. And that adds up to quite a chunk of change.

In 2004, The NHFC launched a letter writing campaign in 2004 to bring Whole Foods and Trader Joes to Novato. It seems that they have succeeded. Trader Joes is under construction, and the plans for Whole Foods were just approved.

But it wasn’t without a fight; the drama that ensued over the Whole Foods project was Shakespearean. People literally came out of the woodwork with objections. One afternoon, as I was flipping through cable channels, I found the local access Novato channel. They were showing one of the community meetings regarding the WF Project. One woman got up and expressed her opinion that the store would create “vertical sprawl.” Vertical sprawl? Are you going to lose your view of Chevy’s? Or am I missing something here?

Whole Foods is not a cure-all; it is simply one store, and it has its flaws. I'm not naive enough to think that this is the Big Answer. But I was truly astounded by the backlash that this project created .

In following the story, I’ve become somewhat obsessed with what makes a community vibrant & exciting & healthy. The suburbs are full of amazing, creative people with money to spend, so there is no shortage of incentives. Did anyone read the November issue of 7x7 Magazine? They had an outstanding piece in there about the urban planners who are envisioning the new neighborhood area on Folsom Street, east of SoMa. They, and many others both in the US and certain European countries, are dedicating a great deal of brain power to this notion of dynamic, integrated communities. Now if they can direct some of their energy towards the suburbs, we might be able to see some healthier patterns emerging in the coming decades.

Grocery stores with healthy food options are only one piece of the puzzle. I’ll write more about some of the other aspects next time.

Just Leave the Money On the Nightstand

2005-12-08T09:55:00.000-08:00

Numerous small towns in Northern California seem to get it. They know that their job is to be quaint but intriguing, the perfect blend of rustic charm and indulgent opportunity. They know the value of a wink and a smile, of the irresistible lure of a warm storefront and a sparkling promenade. They know that to nurture yoga studios and bakeries and independent bookstores is to keep their citizens entertained and amused, so much so that they don’t have to flee elsewhere to get their needs met on a regular basis. They understand, in short, that they should be places where locals and jaded city dwellers and dreamy travelers alike come to spend their money.

Sonoma gets it. Petaluma gets it. Mill Valley and Healdsburg get it. Napa Valley obviously gets it in a very big way.

But despite playing host to multi-million dollar homes and shiny automobiles of the most expensive sort, Novato simply doesn’t get it.

For the past umpteen number of years, while surrounding communities have populated their downtowns with a mix of pubs, clothing boutiques, art galleries and restaurants, Novato’s downtown has sported the same tired mix of dusty antique stores and second-rate jewelry shops, with just as many boarded-up windows as actual businesses.

In my exploratory forays downtown, I’ve repeatedly cringed upon stepping into a Grant Avenue storefront. I wonder: have these merchants EVER walked into a bookstore or boutique or café in San Francisco? Have they even once considered the art of arranging merchandise? Have they ever taken a class in the gentle seduction of the pocketbook?

Not once, not twice, but many times over, I’ve heard stories about how hostile Novato is to new business. About how the review process is petty and harsh, about how many prospective businesses have given up rather than beg for affection. About how she makes eyes at every fast food company in the world, but turns a cold shoulder to more interesting businesses. About how notions of a vibrant, livable community are right near the bottom of her list.

The result is that while her neighbors have progressed from kissing to cuddling to shacking up with their citizens, Novato has become a hollow bedroom town. A town to which people come home to sleep, but not to play or dine or shop. A stubborn artifact of a town, clinging to its remembered roots as a rebel cowboy outpost, apparently not counting the loss of untold dollars to people who simply shudder at its pinched, closed-in, repressive ways, who would far rather drive a few miles in either direction to spend their money in a place that welcomes them with open arms.

Novato is the housewife who has long since tossed away her negligees and walks around in a stained t-shirt with a cigarette hanging between her lips. Love me the way I am, she snarls. And we try, oh, we do. But she isn’t exactly the stuff of our dreams. She’s been in bed with Costco and Target for so long that she isn’t good for much more than the occasional blue-light special.

But the rumblings of the new millennium might be making Novato think twice. And her change of heart can be attributed in no small part to a lust for good, healthy food.

Oh, yes. This is a juicy story: more about that in my next post.

The Day The Network Died

2005-11-30T09:50:00.000-08:00

Three weeks ago today, my Verizon DSL stopped working. I turned the modem off and then on again, restarted my computer, and waited for everything to come back up. It did not.

And so I made what was to be the first of more than a dozen phone calls to Verizon DSL technical support. After waiting on hold for nearly an hour ("Your call is important to us! Please stay on the line!"), I finally reached a live technician, who prompted me to restart the modem several more times and plug and unplug a variety of cords. Thirty minutes later, we hadn't made much progress.

"I'm not sure what the problem is," he finally confessed. "I think maybe your modem is broken. So I'm going to put a new one in a box to you. It should be on your doorstep in 48 hours."

48 hours later, a new modem was indeed sitting on my doorstep. Unfortunately, despite its shiny wrapping, it couldn't connect to the internet either.

By the second week and the 11th or so tech support phone call, I felt like I was trapped in another dimension. Work and correspondence were piling up; I had to drive to the library to wait in line for a chance to jump online and send important messages. I spent countless hours on hold with Verizon Technical Support, and subsequently screamed, raged, and threatened; but all to no avail. On one of the last phone calls, I finally broke down. "I've got to get back online!" I sobbed to the poor technician. "This is absolutely ridiculous!"

He apologized, yet again. And then he revealed what the problem was: "Hey! I just noticed something!" he said. "It looks to me like you cancelled your DSL service two weeks ago!"

"Excuse me?"

"I see it right here."

"You see me CANCELLING MY SERVICE?! Are you seriously telling me that I made a telephone call to CANCEL MY DSL?"

"It's right here. Yes."

"Then can you kindly explain why on earth I've been calling EVERY SINGLE DAY for the last two weeks to figure out why I can't get online?"

He assured me that my DSL could be up and running once again... in just 10 days.

AFTER I blew the poor man's ears to shreds, and AFTER I threw the phone across the room in utter and total frustration, THEN I breathed deeply and made a pot of green tea, and FINALLY I called Comcast and asked them how long it would take to get high-speed internet service.

"We can have you up tomorrow," they said.

I was back online on Thanksgiving, which made me very thankful indeed. A few days later, I've finally caught up.

And now, when I see those Verizon commercials showing the network for their cellular phone service, I think: that so-called network is made up of cardboard cutouts! They aren't real at all...

Oh, the taste of bitterness.

Pairs Well With Delight

2005-11-03T09:59:00.000-08:00

On his web site, winemaker David Phinney claims that The Prisoner was the result of luck. And that may be true, but oh, what a charmed roll of the dice it was when he tossed together a few different varietals to make this fabulous blend.

I heard about this mysterious wine a few months ago, when a girlfriend was giving me a detailed account of her date the previous night. It seemed that she had been wined and dined by a gentleman who bought "the last bottle of The Prisoner" at a certain posh restaurant. "It was the most amazing wine," she gushed. "And the most fabulous night!"

I didn't give it much thought; after all, I taste wines all the time as a part of my job, and most are frankly unremarkable. Even with its vaguely disturbing image by Goya on the label, how good could this red blend be?

But then, because the name is catchy, I decided to look for it the next time I was out wine shopping. And wouldn't you know it - I couldn't find it. Seems that the 2003 had been whisked away by rabid Californians. "Flew right off the shelf," one wine store purveyor told me. After that, I had to have some. That's right - I'm just your average American consumer - tell me that something is hard to get, and I simply MUST find a bottle.

Shortly thereafter, just by chance, I invited our neighbors over for a small dinner party (for which I made a version of Philippe Jeanty's famous Tomato Soup en croute). Now this neighbor just so happens to manage one of the largest wine stores in San Francisco. And he just so happened to walk in the front door with a bottle of The Prisoner in his hand.

The man deserved (and got) a hug! But still: I didn't honestly believe that this would be a super-special wine - I just wanted to be able to say that I had tasted it. Make that your average "entitled" American consumer. Sigh.

But this wine... oh, baby. The nose was full of dark chocolate and mint and black cherries. It was big and blowsy and voluptuous in the mouth, redolent of star anise, violets and blackberry jam, the liquid equivalent of rolling around naked on a mink blanket. Did I mention that I liked it? It was so yummy that I begged B to track some down for me. And he did - in New York of all places! - where they obviously don't know what they're missing.

And now I see that the 2004 has arrived, so I no longer have to hoard my stash. Hurray! Raise your glass!

A Good Time Was Had By All

2005-11-01T14:50:00.000-08:00

Of the parties I've done in recent months, the latest one was the most fun, simply because I've learned my lesson about planning ahead and allowing ample time for cooking. The party was Sunday night, and I insisted that my co-host/chef Adam drive up to Novato the night before so that we could brainstorm one final time, and then have the entire day Sunday to cook. The last time we did a party together - for twenty-odd people back in February - we were terribly disorganized. Our menu was in flux for days; Adam had never been to Novato before; he got lost en route and didn't arrive until an hour before the party started. To say that we were frazzled and cranky would be a severe understatement.

This time, we were prepared. Late Sunday night, we dove into a pile of persimmons, pomegranates, plums and oranges and poured bottle after bottle of wine over the lot of them. I added a few shots of Amaretto and Cognac to round out the flavors. We crashed hard and got up early Sunday morning. Adam and B made a final run to the San Rafael Civic Center Farmer's Market for a few last-minute items. Then we looked at our cooking schedule, and launched in on chopping, dicing, peeling and roasting. While we worked, we snuck sips of sangria and cranked up the music and told jokes. Remember last time? We said. When we were about ready to strangle each other?

At the aforementioned party in February, we passed small bowls of popcorn dusted with rosemary and sea salt, to be munched in between sips of champagne. We decided to repeat the popcorn starter, only this time with a brick-red spanish paprika that Adam procured from an un-named source. This paprika was like none other I had seen or tasted: we kept sticking our noses into it for whiffs of the sweet-smoky spice. With frites as my inspiration, I twisted sheets of black paper into cones, and we filled them with red-tinted popcorn for guests to enjoy as they arrived.

For starters, we filled black bowls with marinated Spanish olives; we served empanadas filled with chevre, sun-dried tomatoes and capers; whole mushrooms sauteed in olive oil with fresh garlic; a golden torta of potatoes and eggs; a crock full of rich, creamy salt cod. I had created a 4-hour playlist on my iPod of Tito Puente and Tania Maria and other Latin-inspired music, and the music flowed in perfect tempo with the sangria. Our guests were imaginatively dressed; from a gorgeous Matrix-like creature to a couple arrayed in vintage pilot costumes, our Ghost Chairs overflowed with eye candy.

And then, a moment of panic: As I leaned over the sink to wash a few prep dishes, my bare sandal-clad toes came into contact with something wet: uh-oh. I looked down to find water dripping out of the cabinet below the sink. The rug beneath the sink was quickly becoming sodden; I opened the doors to find that the plumbing beneath had become disconnected. Thankfully, it was an easy fix. I sopped up the water with bathroom towels, and hoped that no one noticed.

And then it was time for the piece de resistance of the evening: two pans full of paella. One was composed of red meats, including sausage and chicken; the other was studded with mussels and salmon and huge scallops. Several people crept into the kitchen to watch as Adam made a soffrito, then dumped it into bowls and filled the paella pans with rice and broth; finally, the vegetables went back into the rice, and the meats were arranged over the top, and the pans went into the oven. The aromas mingled in the air - paprika, saffron, sausage, salmon, manila clams - a blend of fish house and spice factory, rendolent of old Spanish streets and an apron-clad grandmother bent over an ancient stove. Would Brett have been impressed? I hope so.

At one point during the evening, one of the guests pulled me aside. It was someone I had only just met, a friend of a friend. "This is amazing," he said. "Most of the time, people just throw Doritos into a bowl and call it a party. This takes me back to my childhood, when people actually cared about the food." Right then and there - it was all worth it.

My sweetheart lured a few of our party guests outside with Cuban cigars while Adam and I fiddled over the last course: Chocolate Death. This was an example of true collaboration: we began with the notion of chocolate. I suggested brownies made with a blend of my favorite chocolates, plus a dose of dark vanilla and a hint of cinnamon. Adam upped the ante, suggesting that we dip the brownies in chocolate ganache and coat it with... something. Together, we created a mixture of brownie crumbs, Sharffenberger cacao nibs and pulverized chipotle pepper. And voila: Chocolate Death. Looking for all the world like coffee-colored hockey pucks, these were dense black wedges of bittersweet, faintly smoky heaven. We thought they might be too dense for people to finish, but they quickly disappeared.

And then, too soon, it was over... B and Adam and I sat down with the last of the sangria and talked over the high points of the night. We high-fived each other over the best dishes, and talked about how to make other ones better. We felt a little melancholy - all that dreaming and shopping and planning, and suddenly it was in the past tense.

Which is why - but of course! - we will do it again.

The Best Part of Having a Party is Planning for It

2005-10-28T10:56:00.000-07:00

Since I moved to Novato, I've developed something of a party habit. As with most ah, habits, it's expensive and stressful, but oh, what a rush! My main influencers are a good-sized kitchen and a real dining room table - two things I haven't had in ever-so long. They entice me to write up menus and draft invite lists, and I can't seem to stop. So far, I've had small dinner parties for four or six; luncheons for eight; and larger-scale parties for twenty-plus. Each and every time, as I'm running here and there, trying to find an obscure ingredient or handing over my debit card yet again, I think: this is it. I'm going to take a break from entertaining. Then one week later, I'm plotting another.

A few weeks ago, I started dreaming about a grown-up Halloween party, with a sort of Day-Of-The-Dead theme. Then I started sketching out menu ideas. I was thinking October, cold night, lots of people... hey! We should serve paella! Ironically, when the Spanish Catholics marched through Mexico, they effectively folded the Day of the Dead into All Saints Day. . . so that works, right? Sort of?

I called Adam, and we started to hatch a plan. After a long conversation over beer and tacos, we had a menu. Adam will bring paella pans. I will buy bottles and bottles of Tempranillo. We will cook all day and the party will be at night. To my surprise, nearly 30 people responded to my invite to drive out to Novato for an evening, so I've been pacing around the house for the past couple of days, listening to Antony and the Johnsons and Tom Waits while I ponder where to place the red roses and black paper flowers and how to arrange the chairs.

I dressed up the light fixtures with black lace and scraps of silk and tulle, like a Spanish mantilla. I'm not sure if this picture really captures it, but it creates a very old-world look. Yesterday, I got a haul of autumn fruit from the farmer's market yesterday for a big batch of Sangria. I'm contemplating a rich, thick hot chocolate, and I've started to soak a big hunk of salt cod for baccala.

Last night I could hardly sleep thinking of everything that could go wrong. What if the paella doesn't turn out? What if there isn't enough sangria? What if nobody has a good time? Thank goodness for Tylenol PM.

We Now Return To Our Regular Programming

2005-10-22T15:04:00.000-07:00

I was working on a post about a meal I had during my recent visit to Portland, when it hit me: I haven't posted about Novato in quite a while, and, well, the name of my blog is The Novato Experiment. I guess you could say that I've been stalling a bit, trying to figure out how best to write about eating in this town...

At the beginning, I thought that I'd be reviewing places to eat within the confines of Novato, but thus far, I've only found two restaurants, maybe three, that I want to visit again. That seems like slim pickings to a girl who spent the last six years in San Francisco, and who relished the idea that she could put on her sneakers and find a fabulous meal within three to five blocks.

So there isn't much to write about Novato restaurants, but the question remains: what are people eating around here? I've been increasingly fascinated with this question. I've criss-crossed this area looking for clues, and have run into a host of other issues along the way. What happens when people have to drive miles to get to a good grocery market? What happens when there is a fast-food restaurant on every corner, but no place to buy a decent sandwich without driving an extra 10-15 minutes? And remember: this is Marin County we're talking about here, the fabled yogurt-and-granola capital of California!

Is Novato an exception? Well, yes: these problems don't exist in San Rafael or Larkspur or Corte Madera. But I would guess that there are communities like Novato sprinkled all over California that are similarly challenged.

So I may have been avoiding the subject of The Suburbs, but no longer. Bloom where you're planted, the old saying goes, and I'm going to do just that. I'm going to write about some of the things I've discovered during my voyages across Novato, and I'll occasionally report on a wonderful restaurant in Petaluma or San Anselmo or Ross... and I'll tell you how my own habits have changed, and how I've had to think a whole lot more about meal planning and suburban sprawl and the challenge of eating responsibly even though I'm surrounded by farmland.

And now this former City Girl is going to make herself a cup of tea and walk outside into the gorgeous fall morning and contemplate whether or not she should carve a pumpkin.

The Satisfaction of Disastrous Biscuits

2005-10-14T14:05:00.000-07:00

This is the recipe printed on the tiny brown card that accompanied the biscuits at BLT Fish:

Cheddar & Chive Biscuits

Flour: 1 1/2 cups
Baking Powder: 2 teaspoons
Salt: 1 teaspoon
Cayenne Pepper: 1/4 teaspoon
Shortening: 3 tablespoons
Butter: 3 tablespoons
Chopped Chives: 1 tablespoon
Sharp Cheddar: 1 cup
Cream: 1 1/4 cups

Mix together the flour, baking powder, salt, and cayenne. Cut the shortening and butter into the flour mix. Do NOT overwork. DO leave the butter and shortening in small pieces.

Toss in the chives and cheese. Toss in the cream, stirring just until mixture comes together. DO NOT mix too much.

Bake at 375F for 15-17 minutes.

And yes, the CAPS were a part of the printed instructions. So charming! So quaint! Such a perfectly perfect thing to give out at a fancy-schmancy restaurant.

Naturally, I had to make them MYSELF. Quick: does anyone see anything wrong with this recipe? I didn't hear any alarm bells when I read through it, but perhaps that is because I haven't made biscuits for, like, YEARS. I can't even remember when I last made biscuits.

So anyway. I rustled up all the ingredients, and got to work, dreaming of that wonderful dinner while I grated cheese and chopped chives. As I poured the cream into a measuring cup, I thought: Gosh darn it all, that is a LOT of cream. A cup and a quarter? Whoa! There is a baby calf out there somewhere who is missing out on dinner! But I just forged on ahead, and poured the whole amount into the bowl, stirring just once or twice so as to not OVERMIX.

And then I had squidgy, splooshy, vanilla-colored muck. Is this what biscuit dough usually looks like? I thought to myself, feeling a stab of PANIC. I don't remember it being so...gloppy. But I went ahead and scooped roughly spherical blobs onto a baking sheet, and stuck it in the oven, hoping for the best. Prior to embarking on the recipe, I had a vision of surprising my sweetie with a plate full of floury, biscuit-y goodness. I had even purchased a nice bottle of maple syrup to pour over a wedge of Plugra butter, all the better to replicate our lovely New York dinner. But alas.

Inside the oven, the cheese and butter got all warm and happy, and melted into the cream, and the lot of them had a fun, oozy bubble-fest. Not long after, I opened the oven door to discover a baking sheet full of chive-studded saturated fat, with nary a biscuit in sight.

My prized recipe was a SHAM! I grabbed the card off of the counter and read it again, this time with a scornful eye. Since when do you put nearly as much liquid as dry ingredients into a recipe that also contains fat that will melt during cooking?! This recipe was supposed to make biscuits, not SOUP! And what about all that cheese and cream that I just wasted? Waaaahh.

But secretly, I was glad. Because, you see, that last post was all so sweet and fuzzy that some part of me didn't want the biscuits to turn out. It would have been a ghastly chore to write about the Perfect Biscuits that reminded us of a Perfect Dinner, and how comfort food truly is comforting, yadda yadda YUCK.

So they were a disaster, and that turned out to be good news in the END.

Eating Across New York, Part II (with apologies for the delay)

2005-10-08T13:18:00.000-07:00

I meant to write Part Two right away, but then I had a whirlwind week, during which I impulsively decided to head right back out of town, this time to Portland, Oregon. That's what happens when you haven't had more than one day off in a row for two years - you get a little nutty when your schedule opens up. Now I'm home again, and the dryer is spinning with fresh, clean clothes, so I can finally getting my head back into blogging and other important things.

Like that dinner in New York. The one I mentioned in the last post. It turns out that visiting New York the week following Labor Day was an inspired choice, because the city was relatively empty. Relatively meaning that one can find a parking spot in 25 minutes instead of an hour, and that the wait at Serendipity III is 1 1/2 hours instead of 3.

But we felt grateful, we truly did, and sent silent thanks to the hordes of New Yorkers who, we imagined, were swarming the Hamptons, no doubt sipping gin and tonics and immolating their bodies beneath the last rays of summer sun. Grateful because their absence left coveted restaurant seats wide open.

Over lunch on Thursday, a good friend told B & I that we simply must check out B.L.T. Fish. He had dined there for his birthday, he told us, and it remained one of the best meals he had eaten all year. A tour of his Madison Avenue salon left no doubt as to his impeccable taste, and so his endorsement was all we needed to hear. But it was a Thursday night, and our friend expressed grave doubt that we would be able to score a reservation. "You're looking at two, three weeks out," he said, in a mournful tone.

But we were on a roll that week, having scored virtually every reservation we had hoped for AND a parking spot two blocks off of Broadway as we hustled to see The Phantom of the Opera. So we decided to toss the dice once again, and told our cabbie to take us to 17th at 5th. It was about 8:30 when we arrived, and we found ourselves walking into what looked like a fish shack transplanted from Coney Island. B bit his lip. "Interesting," he said. "Not quite what I was imagining, but who knows?"

The predominant colors inside were white & red & navy, a definite nautical feel enhanced by hanging lanterns and a huge, glossy fish - a marlin, perhaps? - mounted on one of the walls. Food was coming out of the kitchen in red plastic baskets lined in wax paper; the walls were hung with chalkboards upon which the latest offerings were scribbled. It looked like an adventure, and the menu was interesting enough, but we couldn't help feeling like were missing something. We remembered grumblings we had heard about another of Laurent Tourndale's places, BLT Steak, and wondered if we had made a mistake.

When our waiter came to ask us if we wanted drinks, B leaned over to him. "Is this... it?" he asked. The waiter grinned. "No," he said, pointing to the ceiling. "There's an upstairs with a more formal restaurant. Totally different menu."

"Can we go up there?" We chorused.

"Hold on," the waiter said. "It's usually packed, but this week is kind of quiet, so... just a sec." He returned in a moment. "We've got a table for you."

We rode up with the hostess in matchbox-sized elevator. When the doors opened, we were released into a long rectangular room with a vaulted ceiling made of glass. It put me in mind of an English conservatory. A table in the middle of the room held an enormous bouquet of flowers and silverware and carafes and things. The kitchen was at the far end, open to view, gleaming white. Bright, sparkling white. We were led to a table with a curved, booth-like seat and a birds-eye view of the kitchen. Color me happy!

Seconds after we sat down, an amuse of salmon terrine with country bread was delivered to our table. The bread was sharp and hard around the edges, a terrible hazard to the soft insides of the mouth, but the terrine was silky smooth with a subtle hint of smokiness. While we sipped our drinks, our server proceeded to explain the concept of the restaurant: the daily selection of whole fish can be ordered by the pound; prices per pound range from $29-35. Offerings range from Dover Sole to Chilean Turbot to a red snapper fried "Cantonese Style," one of the restaurant's signatures. Cuts of other fish (black cod, halibut, salmon) are offered with a choice of tantalizing-sounding sauces like ginger ketchup or tomato-tarragon hollandaise. The sides are served a-la-carte, and are centered around simple preparations of in-season vegetables.

But there were only two of us, which made ordering something of a challenge.While we deliberated between many appealing choices, a boy in an apron came to the table with a small wooden tray. "Cheddar-chive biscuits," he smiled, and pointed to a small white crock. "With unsalted butter and pure maple syrup." This was unexpected, after the salmon, but who would decline a fresh biscuit? We dug into the knob of butter with our knives and spread it, and the syrup, inside warm bites of flour and cheese. A funny thing, those biscuits. I have enjoyed incredibly complicated treats from kitchens all over the place, but nothing has ever seemed so right as those hot biscuits. Sometimes the best surprise is utterly simple. As we stuffed our mouths, we noticed a tiny little card printed on brown paper propped on the tray; I opened it to find the biscuit recipe inside. Insert a gusty sigh of contentment.

To start, we chose sardines grilled with bacon and bits of tomato and herbs. The sardines were pleasingly fishy, with the sweet acidity of the tomatoes as a perfect foil. The grilled octopus salad with bergamot oil was another inventive pairing, but then I'm a huge fan of Earl Grey, so I couldn't be anything but thrilled.

Our main course was rolled to the table on a cart, looking for all the world like an enormous mound of salt. The server expertly whacked at it with the side of an enormous silver spoon, and it began to split into chunks, revealing the delicate color of the New Zealand Pink Snapper inside. She slid the fish onto a separate tray, and then carefully de-boned it, all the while maintaining utter calm and cool under our gaze.

The fish, oh. It was tender and moist, with silky-sweet flesh that slid across the tongue. The flavors of pink peppercorn and star anise that were blended with the salt crust were ever-so subtle. We alternated bites of the fish with forkfulls of English peas and spoons of artichoke gratin. The gratin was a bit milky, but everything else was so perfect that we didn't much care. When we finally allowed our plates to be cleared away, we shared a grilled summer peach accented with vanilla bean ice cream.

Not a single item was stacked or friseed or julienned. It was the kind of meal that you might find in the countryside of France or Italy: straightforward preparations of ingredients served in simple containers without fuss. Like magic, they seem to transcend technique to become magnificent versions of themselves: glorious sardines, octopus, snapper, peas, artichokes and peaches, independent of a certain reduction or seasoning blend to make them taste anything other than what they are. And that was what made the meal so special; without seeming to try, it surpassed so many more complicated renditions of other meals that we have shared.

And of course, the atmosphere and the service added immeasurably to the experience. It is no small thing to have a fine-tuned staff, as I well know. The right server-diner chemistry is a combination of luck and mood and timing, and so it is truly remarkable that we felt like every single person we encountered that night, from server to sommelier to every other individual who visited our table, was warm and engaging and fabulous. Seriously, this almost never happens. But it did on that random Thursday in New York.

Which is why we felt, as we spilled back into the empty street, like two very lucky individuals. I was conscious of the biscuit recipe tucked inside my handbag, and of the man by my side who, whenever he notices that I am excited by a menu, closes his and says: "You choose. Order whatever looks good to you, and I'll be more than happy to share it with you."

For that, and for so much more, I have many reasons to celebrate.

Eating Across New York, Part I

2005-09-14T10:11:00.000-07:00

New York City makes me feel acutely aware of the human condition. Just last week, even before the doors of the airplane opened to release us to the outside, it seemed that the entire cabin drew in a collective breath. Our eyes narrowed. Our chins lifted. One could almost hear the sound of armor being gathered, of shields clinking into place. And then, suddenly, we were thrust into the roiling mass of humanity, a potent Darwinian stew that contains at least one representative from every single country and ethnic group in the world.

The drive to Manhattan is a maze of concrete and brake lights. The sprawling, blocky outline of Queens suggests insolence and dogged determination. The heart of the city, when it comes into view, is not so much majestic as defiant. Weaving through its gargantuan grid of streets and avenues, one doesn’t look up so much as forward and down, so as not to step into a hole or a garbage bag or a street vendor. It is a gritty, sprawling, un-pretty city, where you might realize that your teeth have been clenched for hours on end without you being aware of it.

It is positively wonderful.

Especially if you like to eat.

And eat we did, for one extra-long week. We traveled from one end of the city to the other, asking everyone for tips on where to go and dialing reservation lines with our fingers crossed. It was exhilarating, though full of difficult choices, as there are far more wonderful places to visit than we had time for. I did discover this: that wine lists and tomatoes are very different things in New York and San Francisco. East Coast tomatoes, even farm-fresh heirloom tomatoes, do not taste even remotely like the red and yellow sun-candy that I regularly enjoy in California. And wine lists, even those at very swanky joints, are not what they are in the Bay Area. We are indeed blessed to be within stomping distance of some of the best grape juice on the planet. Thankfully, there is much else that is divine.

Over the course of the week, we devoured enormous corned-beef sandwiches and a bowl full of crunchy pickles at Carnegie Deli, and laughed when the waiter said, when I requested a few of the pickles to take home, "but you already ate all-a-those!";

We sucked down an entire glassful of Frozen Peanut Butter Hot Chocolate at Serendipity, which tasted even better after an hour-and-a-half wait;

We ogled Sarah Jessica Parker and her man while we waited for our table at Babbo, which helped to make up for our bewilderingly blank, passive server who spoke in a monotone and who, when asked for suggestions, shrugged his shoulders like a surly adolescent being interrogated by his parents;

We felt immediately warm and happy inside the Gramercy Tavern, filled as it was with aromatic herbs and flowers and a fun, witty staff;

We had a charming dinner at Café Boulud, made even better by the fact that I was invited back to tour the kitchen (so big and white! so many people! such a young chef!);

We enjoyed a lazy, mid-morning repast of tea and croissants at Fouchon (not at all like being in Paris, but still ever-so enjoyable), and scurried back later in the week for dark chocolate bars and sucre candi.

And that is not all. There were other meals savored and other personalities of note spied upon and whispered about, but I shall save the meal I enjoyed the most until Part II, when I will write about the flavors and scents that I am still dreaming of.

Leaving... on a Jet Plane...

2005-09-01T09:31:00.000-07:00

I'm off to get my Big City fix in the grand dame of the USA - New York!

I'll be dining my way across the city, so I hope to be suspended in a state of bliss for most of the visit.

I'll have renewed energy to tackle Novato when I return.

I am the Rachael Ray of Novato

2005-08-25T11:56:00.000-07:00

I must confess that I've never watched the much-derided Rachael Ray, and so I am sadly bereft of passionate feelings about the woman.

I was, however, delighted with Sam's idea of miming Rachael in her quest to eat out for three meals on $40, especially since I'm trying to get more familiar with Novato. And so I had every intention of seeking out obscure lunchtime diners and becoming the quirky girl with the camera in her hand, but alas: work has been intense, and I am planning a long-awaited trip to New York, and so I didn't exactly devour Novato in the way I had planned. I'm also posting this 5 days AFTER the deadline, so I hope Sam will have mercy on me.

That said, this is what I discovered in the course of my adventure.

ACT ONE:

I am not a breakfast person. The first thing I do after I get out of bed in the morning is to put a kettle of cold water on the stove. While the water heats up, I wander into the bathroom to stand in front of the mirror and look for new crinkly bits around my eyes. I turn on my computer and strike awkward stretching poses. When the tea kettle sings, I brew a pot of something exotic, most likely from Mariage Freres. My current favorite is Casablanca, but that might change by tomorrow...

I like breakfast food, just not at breakfast time. I don't generally feel hungry until well after 11.

But in the spirit of this experiment, I sought out spots for muffin-espresso-eggy-ish places, and discovered a wonderful bakery in the old town section of Grant Avenue called Skully's. Skully's has an assortment of delectable pastries and heavenly freshly-baked bread that you can take home with you to make French Toast for Sunday Brunch. They are committed to using the highest quality ingredients, and it shows. On my "40 dollar day", I choose a plain croissant ($2.25) and a single cappuccino ($2.25). I leave $1 in the tip jar.

Grand total: $5.50

ACT TWO:

Now I'm waking up. The day is progressing, and I have a million things to do, not enough time to sit down for a proper lunch, but I'm STARVING. Must! Eat! Now!

As it turns out, Novato has a plethora of taquerias and Mexican markets. I will not, shall not, think about my favorite places in the Mission. I will take what Novato has to offer, and I will LIKE it, gosh darn it!

Tamales sound like just the thing. And where better to get them than Quezada Market at the corner of Rowland and South Novato Boulevard? They have both chicken and pork today, so I ask for one of both. The man behind the counter blushes and smiles when I order in a flurry of pseudo-Spanish and stilted English. I ask him for extra red sauce, and he quickly obliges. I note that Quezada has a fantastic assortment of dried chilies. I'll be coming back to stock up on supplies for Mole Sauce.

The tamales are $1.50 each. On my way to the counter, I grab a can of young coconut juice out of the cooler.

My total? $4.23.

I rush home to devour them, and I am not disappointed. The masa is tender and moist, and the filling is spicy and delicious. I'm up to $9.73 now, which leaves with an embarassing bounty for dinner. I have plenty for an afternoon snack, but no time to indulge. I've spotted a Double Rainbow ice cream parlor in the Vintage Oaks Plaza, but don't have time to stop.

ACT THREE:

Kitchen recently announced an early Prix-Fixe menu, which is only $15 between the hours of 5-6pm. $15 bucks! Seriously, how wonderful is that? Word has it that they came up with the idea to attract the Farmer's Market crowd that gathers on Tuesday evenings, and it has been an unqualified success.

Eating at 5:30 is something of a trial, but I'm up for it tonight. The meal begins with cauliflower soup, silky with slightly nutty overtones. I might have wished for it to be a few degrees warmer, but the flavor is excellent.

A grilled skirt steak is next, a bit chewy but with nice grilled bits on the sides. It is accompanied by arugula with red-skinned potatoes and a white nectarine. Desert is strawberry ice cream, the color of pale pink rose petals. I enjoy a glass of Franus Cabernet with each delectable bite.

My total is $25.98.

I may not come from an Italian family, or have a 8 cookbooks to my name, or have a television show, but I HAVE eaten well in Novato for $40.

Apple Pie in the Afternoon

2005-08-24T10:41:00.000-07:00

The past few days have been terribly hectic, and now I am playing blog catch-up! I still have to put up my contribution to Sam's fabulous event "Be Rachael Ray for a Day" - check out that picture! What a supah-fox! My Novato version won't be nearly as glamorous, but it was great fun in any case.

But first, the apple pie report. On Thursday morning, I made a batch of pie dough and wrapped it in plastic to chill for a bit. In my opinion, pie crust should be buttery and flaky, full of flavor and substantial enough to handle a mountain of hot, juicy filling. I don't use shortening in mine; it's all butter, cut into flour until the texture resembles itsy-bitsy pea gravel.

I like to use two different kinds of apples in my pies to create a well-rounded final product. For this pie, I used a mixture of Gravenstein and Pink Blush. The Gravensteins were firm and heavy, so dense that you wouldn't want to be dozing beneath the apple tree when one of these decided to fall. They literally crackle and crunch when you bite into them, and their juice is tart and bright. The Pink Blush were larger, but considerably lighter. Their flesh is almost airy in comparison, and the flavor is mellow, almost pear-like.

I stood at the kitchen counter, humming to my favorite playlist of R.E.M. favorites, peeling and coring and chopping. I had the windows open, and the boy who mows the lawn was working on the back yard, and the smell of fresh-cut grass was heavy in the air. I kept inhaling great lung-fulls of it, trying to hold on to those vibrant green molecules of scent. I had this moment, then, as I stood there with my apron on, knife in hand, of great happiness. And then I had to giggle, because it was all so Desperate-Housewives-ish. Not that I feel desperate, or anything close to it, but the combination of the suburban setting, and the apple-pie-making and all just set me off...

Maybe you had to be there.

Anyway: I had intended to follow this recipe for my pie, but at the moment when I was going to put those gorgeous chopped apple pieces into a pan to simmer, I simply couldn't do it. I re-read the recipe, felt inspired again, reached for the pan... and couldn't put the apples in the pan. It seems that I have a severe phobia of overcooked apples. I do not like applesauce, and I kept thinking: why would I simmer these apples and THEN tuck them between their blankets of pie crust and cook them some more?! They will taste like apple mush, and then I won't be able to eat my pie!

And so I reverted back to my old ways. I tossed my crisp apple pieces with fresh lemon juice, cinnamon and sugar, and let them sit for a moment while I rolled out the dough. I didn't have any cassia bark or white pepper on hand, and besides, now I was back on a familiar track, and so I let all of those exotic ingredients fall right out of my head. The apples went into the pie pan, and the top crust was nestled over the top, when I remembered that she had sprinkled lavender water over the top of her crust and I felt that I should at least do something to make this pie different from the usual. And so I pulled out a bottle of rosewater (!!) and sprinkled that over the top of my crust. Hmmm.

Moments later, it was bubbling away in the oven, filling the house with an apple-cinnamon smell. I think I enjoy the aroma of baking more than baked goods themselves. When it was golden brown and the juices were oozing out the top vents, I took it out and proudly displayed it on the counter so that B would congratulate me the second he walked through the door. Which he did, of course.

I quite firmly believe that pie should be eaten within 3 hours of coming out of the oven for maximization of the flavor-texture ratio of buttery crust to warm filling, and so we each devoured a big slice of it in short order. The rosewater, incidentally, could not be detected.

It was like eating mouthfuls of summer, and we pushed away our plates with sighs of contentment.

She Wore A...

2005-08-18T15:08:00.000-07:00

I've been playing around with infusing my own vodkas this summer, and so when I saw Stephanie's announcement for the inagural round of The Blog Party, I decided to let you all in on some of the fun I've been having.

I've randomly seen chunks of fruit soaking in jars of vodka at various places in the City over the years; during the dot-com madness, there was this fabulous spot in {then} hot hot hot South Park called Infusion that specialized in infused vodkas: Pineapple. Ginger. Lychee. They may still be there, but the last time I stopped by, the scene was so sadly diminished from what it once was that I had to exit straightaway. But I digress.

I've never been terribly inspired by infused vodkas. I was, however, over the course of several evenings spent in the Hemingway Bar at the Ritz Paris, charmed and delighted by the head bartender there, Colin Peter Field. To call him merely the "head bartender" doesn't do him justice. He mixes the most incredible cocktails, creates an atmosphere that combines comfort with glamour, and is a fabulous person besides. Every drink that he serves to a lady is accompanied by a fresh flower - a rose, or an orchid, or some other delicate hothouse bloom. Two years ago, he wrote a book called The Cocktails of the Ritz Paris, which occupies an enviable spot on my cookbook shelf. Whenever I rifle through the pages, it inspires a rash of brie-and-brioche-scented daydreams.

The last time I picked up the book, I happened to flip to page 106, where Colin describes the Raspberry Beret, made with vodka that he infuses on the premises with fresh, ripe raspberries. I remembered having that drink, and loving it. And, wait: raspberries are in season. 'Nough said. The following week, I procured a bottle of Chopin and a pint of organic raspberries from the farmer's market and proceeded to drop them into the bottle, one by one, just as Colin instructs. Actually, I poured about 1/3 of the vodka out first, to use with something else, because I thought that the raspberries might take up a bit of space. Interestingly, the entire pint went into the bottle without any perceptible rise in volume.

I set the bottle back on the cocktail cart, with no small amount of anticipation, and peeked at it every day to see if I could discern a change. Within about 3 days, a faint rosy hue began to hover just above the berries. Within one week, tongues of bright pink were curling towards the surface of the bottle. I was very, very excited.

Colin says to wait 3 weeks, but after 2 weeks, the vodka was the color of deep fuschia, and I was dying to try it. And so, late one night, I poured a generous stream of the stuff into an ice-laden martini shaker, shook it very hard, and poured it into a chilled glass.

It was, dear reader, everything I was hoping for. *insert contented sigh*

I'm now working on my second batch, this time using Ciroc. The picture above shows the progress after 8 days. Isn't it gorgeous?! And no, I haven't been sneaking any premature sips. I poured half of it into another bottle and tossed in a big fat vanilla bean. Possibilities abound...

This tastes incredible chilled, just as it is, but I was in the mood for something different yesterday, and so I pulled out a jar of sugar that I had been saving for something special. A few months ago, I realized that one of the big, bushy plants around the house was a pineapple sage, and so I plucked off a bunch of leaves, whirred them up in the food processor, and stirred them into a cup or so of sugar. It smells wonderful, and beautifully rounds out the berry notes.

Jennifer's Raspberry Beret*

• 1 tablespoon pineapple sage sugar
• 1/2 ripe orange, peeled
• 2 ounces raspberry-infused vodka
• metal shaker
• ice cubes to fill shaker about 1/2 full

In a shaker, muddle the orange together with the sugar until the orange is thoroughly macerated and the sugar has blended in with the juice. Add the ice. Pour the vodka over the top. Shake vigorously. Strain into a chilled martini glass.

Sip slowly for maximum enjoyment.

*With a shout-out to Prince, from whom this name was surely derived. You da man.

Ain't No Pie Round Here

2005-08-16T10:53:00.000-07:00

I did not make apple pie this weekend.

Friday and Saturday nights at the restaurant were both harrowing. I ask you: why don't people arrive on time for their reservations? Why? When you make a 6:30 res on a busy weekend night, does it even occur to you that arriving at 6:55 with only part of your party is not good form? Or that, when you finally march to the host stand and announce that you are ready to sit down at 7:20, that your breezy tardiness has a direct effect on the diners whose reservations were made for later the same night?

I want people to be happy, I truly do, but when you insult one of my servers to the point that she is in tears, you shake your fist and threaten to leave a bad review, and you don't want to listen, only talk, how I can I make things better?

The highlight of the weekend occurred at about 10:20 on Saturday night, when one of the runners dropped a tray full of sizzling hot crabs right in front of a table. Garlic butter, anyone?

Suffice it to say that by Sunday I was not in the mood to putter about in the kitchen, and I had no heart for trying out restaurants that would likely disappoint. And so, on both of my nights off (Sunday & Monday), I ditched Novato and fled to the City for sushi. There is nothing quite so comforting as sitting down at a much-beloved counter in front of a familiar chef who delivers piece after piece of amazing fish-flesh. That, and a chilled glass of sake close at hand, will cure just about anything.

I am much better now, and the apples are still waiting, and I shall attend to them soon.

Promises of Apple Pie

2005-08-12T10:03:00.000-07:00

Thanks to Inc. Magazine, I discovered a new blog this morning! It's called Cracked Cauldron Spillings, and details the adventures of two women whose dream it is to open a bakery in Oklahoma City.

Check out Wednesday's post on Lemon Apple Pie. Oh. My. Goodness.

I confess that I am somewhat vain about my pie-making abilities. When I was 12 years old, I spent the summer pefecting pie crust, and to this day I do believe that I make one of the best pies around. But this post has inspired me to update my trusty apple pie recipe... but I'll need to find some cassis bark and lavender water first.

Sounds like a perfect project for Sunday! Details will follow.

The Green Prickly Things That Grow in the Desert

2005-08-09T09:05:00.000-07:00

My expectations for dining out in Novato are on a precarious slide. I've reached a point where I'm just happy when a place looks clean and my tummy doesn't hurt afterwards. Actually, I've been cooking at home a lot more than I did when I lived in the City, which is a decidedly good thing. I've also been trolling every blog and restaurant review site out there in hopes of finding a hidden gem, but the good spots all seem to be in Petaluma or San Rafael or other places outside of my 'hood. And so I've been straying... but more on that later.

My most recent Novato experiment took place at Cacti Restaurant, where I was accompanied once more by the fabulous Adam. Cacti is housed in a whitewashed, Spanish-looking building on Grant Avenue that was formerly a church. The double doors are tall and weather-beaten; walking in, we felt a rush of anticipation. The hostess led us to a table in the middle of the dining room, where we could watch the movements of the kitchen through the oblong cubbyhole that also serves as the counter where plates are put up.

We sat for about fifteen minutes before anyone greeted us. There were only about eight other tables seated in the whole place, so it didn't seem to be an issue of busy-ness so much as one of miscommunication - the two servers on staff each thought that we were assigned to the other. This little joke was relayed to us when they both approached the table at the same time. Unfortunately, the ambiguity continued throughout the evening; one took our drink order, while the other one returned to ask if we wanted appetizers.

We began with margaritas, which were served in oversized glasses of the sort you find during a summer sale at Pier One - clear glass at the bottom that gradually becomes a bright shade of cobalt blue towards the wide, jutting rim. They were cold and not too sweet, nicely accented to shards of salt, and we hunkered over our straws and chatted about the Very Important Things that were happening in our respective restaurants of employ - server gossip, menu changes, the horrible customer who came in over the weekend and threw a fit in the middle of dessert...

A runner delivered our starters, consisting of mini tamales and chips, salsa & guacamole. The tamales were arranged like spokes on a puddle of reddish-brown sauce. They were tender and soft, if a bit gummy on the outside. The sauce had a hint of pepper and a vaguely sweet flavor that cried out for more attitude, but we were hungry, so it worked. The chips were crunchy and salty, and though the portion of guacamole was small, it was simultaneously creamy and chunky, without any of the funky "off" avocado flavor that some guacamoles suffer from.

Our starters were long since finished as we sat, talking on and thinking every few minutes that someone might come by to clear the plates or perhaps take our entree orders. We wiggled our straws into the bottoms of our margarita glasses, searching out the last bit of tequila.

Adam watched my eyes dart accusingly around the room. "Our standards are awfully high," he said ruefully. "We're kind of hard to please, being in the industry and all."

"Maybe," I sighed, "but we aren't exactly being difficult customers. I mean, we're just sitting here, waiting for someone to take our order."

After a few more minutes, our server returned - which one was it this time? - with pad in hand, ready to hear what we wanted next. We decided on the Filet Mignon Enchiladas and the Mesquite-grilled Salmon.

Both entrees were, when they arrived, perfectly pleasant. Let me point out two highlights. The first was that the salmon wasn't cooked through, but rather had a moist, rosy center - I love that. I hate it when salmon is cooked through and tastes like dry mush in my mouth. Second, the black beans that were served on the side of both dishes were cooked to perfection. Not too hard, not too soft - firm, yet plush cushions of bean-y goodness with a hint of smoky spice. Mmm.

The enchilada was decent, but didn't make any kind of specific impression. A shrug, if you will. Ditto with the rice. We decided to skip dessert. One of the servers eventually returned with our check, and we went on our way.

This was not a bad dining experience (see note above about expectation level). The service left much to be desired, but then again - everyone has an off night. Admittedly, we didn't order some of the more interesting things on the menu - chips and guacamole are not exactly the test of a chef - and so I think that Cacti merits another try. I already know that it won't be in my top 50, or even 100, but it just might fit the bill when I'm hankering for a margarita and something spicy close to home.

Cacti Restaurant
1200 Grant Avenue
Novato, CA
415-898-2234

A Tale of Two Eggs

2005-08-04T14:02:00.000-07:00

I grew up eating eggs gathered from a ramshackle henhouse, which was located just a few steps away from our kitchen door. The variety of eggs produced by our chickens never failed to amaze us. The shells ranged from creamy white to sand-colored to cocoa-brown - including our favorites, the blue and green ones from the diminutive Bantams. We were lucky indeed.

And so it is that I go through the world still seeking eggs that taste like those did. I buy all sorts of eggs labeled "organic" and "free range", and sometimes I love them, sometimes I don't. There doesn't seem to be a science to it.

Last week, at the San Rafael Civic Center Farmer's Market, I found beautiful brown eggs from Santa Rosa, sold by two positively adorable gentlemen with rough, knobby hands and enormous smiles. One dozen large brown beauties: $3.25.

I was so happy to have these wonderful eggs that I decided to treat them special. One morning when I didn't have any urgent chores, I dreamed up a little breakfast indulgence for myself. For starters, I poached two of the eggs - using this method from Elaine Corn over at Sally's Place, which is genius - it works like a charm, and I shall indeed toss out my poaching cups forever.

Next, I split an English muffin and put a few bits of fresh butter on top and stuck them under the broiler. Then I mixed 1/4 cup of creme fraiche (made myself last week, easy and fantastic) with a handful of chopped dill, a squeeze of lemon, salt and freshly ground pepper.

I slid the eggs onto the toasted English muffins, and drizzled the dill-creme fraiche over the top. And then I grabbed a fork and knife. The muffin was crusty and warm; the egg white was springy and soft; the yolk was light yellow on the outside and dark and golden on the inside, where it oozed ever-so-slightly.

I was, for a few moments, in heaven.

I suppose it is no surprise, then, that the eggs were gone in short order, and I ended up running to Safeway a few days later so that I could duplicate my poached-eggs-on-toast success for my sweetheart, the morning after he returned home. I will write more about my feelings about Safeway later. Suffice it to say that I found Safeway brand organic eggs - $4 a dozen - and ran back out.

For our breakfast, I used the last two Santa Rosa eggs and two of the Safeway eggs. Cracking the eggs side by side, I was astonished at the difference in the look of them. The Safeway egg yolks were pale yellow, in stark contrast to the deep orange of the Santa Rosa eggs. The whites of the Safeway eggs were thicker and firmer than the Santa Rosa eggs. The whites of the local eggs were runnier and also slightly cloudier, the cloudy factor due to the fact that they were fresher, and therefore contained more carbon dioxide.

To my taste buds, the local eggs were richer and creamier, and had a more complex flavor. But is that simply because I already had a predjudice towards them over the ones from Safeway? I don't know. I've been hunting around online to find out what the difference in yolk color means, and every site I've found has said that color is related to diet - lighter yolks come from a diet high in wheat, barley or cornmeal, while darker yolks indicate yellow corn or greens included in the diet. All the sites I found said that the color does not influence the taste.

Does anyone else have a clue about this?

All I know is that the Safeway eggs have since languished in the refrigerator, and today I handed back my empty carton to the man in the plaid shirt and bought another dozen of my favorites.

I'm glad that Safeway is starting to carry a few organic items - and that someone at the end of that carton of eggs is making a living - but I have a hard time getting over my deep-seated loathing of large supermarket chains. And so I have a twinge of guilt, which I suppose will go away when I decide to bake something and use the Safeway eggs up so that they aren't just sitting there, neglected...

Organic For the People

2005-07-28T19:44:00.000-07:00

I often tell people that letting me loose in a farmer's market is like giving a gambling addict a ticket to Vegas. I spend all the money I have, and then head to the ATM for more. That was certainly true at the Ferry Plaza Market down on the Embarcadero. Just thinking about it, with its myriad temptations and delights, makes me sigh.

That said, I am very happy about the Farmer's Market situation up here. There are numerous markets in Marin, offered at different times throughout the week, so that if you miss one, you can hit another. Here is the list I've compiled thus far:

FARMER'S MARKETS IN MARIN COUNTY

Sunday - 8am to 1pm - San Rafael Civic Center (year around)
Sunday - 10am-1:30pm - Sebastopol Downtown Plaza (May through October)
Tuesday - 4pm to 8pm - DeLong Avenue in Novato (May through October)
Wednesday 12-5pm - Tamalpais Drive @ Hwy 101 in Corte Madera
Thursday - 8am to 1pm - San Rafael Civic Center (year around)
Thursday - 6pm-9pm - Downtown San Rafael @ 4th Street (April through September)
Saturday - 2pm-5pm - Walnut Park & Petaluma Boulevard
Saturday - 9am-1pm - Point Reyes Station (June through October)

It makes me happy to know that all that wonderful produce is so accessible. I do have pangs of sadness over the fact that I can't slip into Recchiuti for the Rose-Caramel truffle that I adore, and that if I want a hunk of my favorite cheese from the Cowgirl Creamery, I have to drive up to Point Reyes to get it. But these are minor quibbles - and not having those places so handy has saved me quite a chunk of change.

I've put myself on a Market budget, in fact. I did it for a couple of weeks as a lark, and now it has become a game. Before I go, I stop by the bank and withdraw 2 twenties. That's it! You simply cannot imagine how much stuff 40 bucks will buy. When I recall that ridiculous article by Julie Powell in the NYT last week, proclaiming that buying local and organic is out of the price range of most people, I scoff.

Each week, I literally have to take a trip to the car halfway through to unload, and then go back for more. This morning, at the San Rafael Civic Center, I got a dozen large brown eggs, fresh flowers (including the artichoke flowers pictured to the left), baby beets, swiss chard, pluots, grapes, herbs, pink chard (gorgeous!), enough basil and garlic for a bowl of pesto, baby squash (look at those blossoms! How adorable are those?!), sweet white corn, arugula...

AND a croissant to get me started. 40 bucks, people. That's awesome.

Strip Mall Sushi

2005-07-24T21:02:00.000-07:00

It was hotter than Hades here today. I feel sticky and limp. Tried to take a nap in the late afternoon, but just ended up tossing around, the exact opposite of a refreshing snooze. The sun finally went down, but the breeze is sadly absent. Not that it matters much; I can't open up the doors and windows for more than a few minutes at a time, because we don't have screens on them yet, and the bugs here are monstrous. I've spent hours in the pest repellent section of the local Target. Call me paranoid, but my love is out of town, and I don't fancy waking up in the middle of the night all by my lonesome self to find an enormous spider marching across my leg.

Heat. Bugs. An almost-empty house. I fear this will be a long week.

So I had a hankering for sushi tonight. To be entirely clear, this hankering is a regular occurence - I could eat raw fish every night of the week, but as I work at a restaurant most nights, I don't go out for sushi as often as I would like to.

I'm a huge fan of Hiro's in Petaluma - beautiful art, wonderful sushi chefs, lithe young waitresses in sexy black outfits - but tonight I thought: there must be sushi in Novato. And I shall find it, by golly. So I hopped on Google and found a listing for one not far away - Taki on Ignacio Boulevard. I hopped in my car and drove down there to find... a low-slung strip mall, anchored by a tired old Safeway, like some relic from 1976 that should have been razed to the ground long, long ago. But I was undaunted; there is nothing I like better than discovering a gem hidden inside an otherwise dismal setting.

I marched inside and headed straight for the sushi bar. There were two chefs behind the counter, both bent over their work. A polite young man took my order for a cold Asahi, which I sipped while I watched and waited. And waited. After about 10 minutes, one of the chefs looked up and told me that it would be "a while" before he would be able to take my order. No problem there. The problem was that the longer I waited, the more I noticed things that made me uneasy.

The sushi bar was cluttered with bleachy-smelling hand towels and discarded chopsticks. Orange flecks of tobiko were scattered like sand, the remnants of meals long finished. To my right was an empty room with rice-paper doors and floor cushions; the low-slung table in the center was a mess of bottles and rice. Worse yet, the fish in the case in front of me had a lackluster quality; much of it was in small, pathetic bits, as opposed to large, firm pieces.

I wanted to leave. I felt fidgety and sad, wishing I could bolt, but I had a beer in front of me, and I know what it feels like to be on the other side, when people sit down and look around and head for the door. And so, while I waited for the sushi chef to get back to me, I decided to order only two things, two entirely safe things, and for that to be the extent of my meal. He finally did get back to me, nearly a half hour after I sat down, and took my order for a spicy tuna roll and a salmon skin hand roll. Ah, me.

They were served alongside a mound of bright pink ginger, the awful dyed stuff that makes me cringe. I cringed. Then I ate my spicy tuna, gulped my beer, chowed the hand roll, and left.

There may not be sushi in Novato after all.

Culture Shock

2005-07-20T10:37:00.000-07:00

When I lived in San Francisco (past tense! sob!), my relatives at home would wonder if I was safe. "Are you really happy living in such a big city?" my grandfather would ask. "When are you going to move back home?" I assured him that I was happy, and that the chances of me moving back were slim indeed.

The thing is: San Francisco never felt like a big, scary city to me. Each neighborhood had it's own quaint charm; I could walk the streets at night and only run into a person here or there. If I ran out of half-and-half for my tea, I could dash out the door (in my pajamas, no less) to the little store half a block away and be back before my tea got cold. If I needed screws or paint or duct tape, I went half a block in the other direction to get them. There was rarely a wait. People recognized me. I waved and said hi to people all day long.

Moving to the suburbs, the experience is quite different. Everyone lives in their own separate world here. You have to drive everywhere; there will be no dashing about in my pajamas here, I'm sad to say. The stores are enormous. I can't imagine ever seeing the same person behind the checkout counter, as there are so many counters and so many employees that it would be impossible to actually get to know anyone.

I feel more afraid and alone here than I ever did in the city.

What is this nonsense I've heard about small-town America?

A flawed perception, that. The "small town" is inside the big city.

Of Friendship and Dinner

2005-07-07T10:37:00.000-07:00

My friend Adam is wonderful for more reasons than I can count. When I told him that I was moving, he not only offered to help, he insisted upon it. "I'm great at moving," he said. "You absolutely must let me help."

Considering the fact that 1) I'm NOT great at moving, and 2) Adam has an SUV, how could I refuse?! And so it was that we ferried countless bags and boxes across the Golden Gate Bridge in his aforementioned vehicle, which seemed to mysteriously expand each time to hold far more than I expected.

One afternoon, hot and exhausted from the loading and unloading, we went on a mission to find some food in downtown Novato. It was about 4:30, and we were famished. We walked up and down Grant Avenue, past antique stores and coffee shops, hoping to find something interesting. Keep in mind that Adam and I are both in the restaurant biz, and both of us are OCD about food. One of my greatest worries about living here is the apparent dearth of good restaurants.

And then: we spotted a little place that looked promising. The word "Kitchen" was scrolled across the front in red letters, and the menu, posted outside, looked like something one might find in my old 'hood in the City. *sniff*

Alas, it wasn't open until 5:00, and so we decided to get a beer while we waited. Across the street and up one block, we found a bar with darkened windows and an unlit neon sign. "Go on in," drawled the man smoking on the front step. "It's allll-right."

We took deep breaths and stepped inside, darting worried glances at each other, as the smell of old beer assaulted our nostrils. Be brave, I mouthed to Adam. We each grabbed a stool and waited for our eyes to adjust to the dim light. On tap: Budweiser and Bud Lite. When Adam ordered a Guinness from the girl behind the counter, she looked confused. "It's my first day," she explained. He pointed to the cooler, where beer in bottles hung out. I chose an Anchor Steam.

To our left, a threesome was playing dice. Every few seconds, a terrifying cracking sound announced the slam of the dice cup against the wooden bar top. The stools to our right remained empty until two men strolled in and sat down. One ordered a Kahlua and cream. The bartender looked dismayed. "There, honey," the man coached, pointing at the display of liquor bottles behind the counter. "Over one and down. That's right. Now pour some of that into a glass with ice and add some cream." She looked relieved.

We gulped, rather than sipped, and were delighted to exit back into the natural light once again.

We strolled into Kitchen at 5:02pm. We were a pathetic sight: crumpled and limp, our skin coated with moving grime. I could tell that the nice man who approached us felt a bit apprehensive. He might have pegged us for the type who sit down and whine to each other about the prices and leave. "Time to show him that we know a thing or two," I whispered to Adam. And so we deliberated over the wine list, secretly gratified to see his expression change ever-so-slightly when we chose a nice bottle.

Disclaimer: given the fact that it has been a couple of weeks since this meal, during which time my head has been abuzz with moving boxes and organizational systems, my descriptions will be far more vague than is my custom.

We began with an appetizer of warm almost-melted cheese - a type of brie? perhaps a camenbert? - I don't remember exactly. It was warm, it was soft, it was delicious. There were some nice olives with it. I felt myself start to relax.

A spring risotto was next, a palette of white studded with the vibrant green of freshly shelled peas. The rice grains were soft and tender; unlike heavier risottos that are rich and creamy, this one was brothy and light.

We shared a pork chop entree. I'm not a huge fan of pork for the reason that good pork - raised by Niman Ranch, for instance - is generally so lean that it tastes dry and muscle-y. While Adam polished it off, I attended to the enormous pile of crispy-fried onions that we had ordered as a side. Mmmm. For desert, we clashed our spoons into a butterscotch pot-de-creme. It was just enough; light and caramel-y, not overly sweet. We walked out pleasantly sated, with enough energy to remove the rest of the boxes out of the vehicle.

A few days later, I did some browsing online and found that Kitchen got a review from Michael Bauer! Who knew that his royal highness would venture up here to dine and dish?!

Now I have hope. A thin strand at best, but better than none at all.

Cry, my beloved city

2005-07-06T11:03:00.000-07:00

I am leaving my beautiful Presidio Heights apartment for a 3-bedroom ranch style home in a quiet neighborhood 29 miles north of San Francisco.

I am moving to Novato.

I might have never known that Novato existed if it were not for the fact that the love of my life purchased a home here, and we have decided to set up house together. And so here we are, two people who love cities and everything about them, moving to a place where the vehicle of choice is a double cab pickup truck. One of our neighbors has plastic gnomes on the lawn. Really and truly.

The local chamber of commerce tells me that the city of Novato is the second largest city in the county, but to my mind it is more of a geographic region than a city. Novato is a part of Marin County, which means that it must have at least a few interesting things going on. This loosely drawn saddle of land encloses a population of roughly 50,000.

Make that 50,0002.

At a certain point on Highway 101, a large green signs says: Novato, Next 7 Exits. Seven exits?! This is what you can see from the freeway: McDonalds, Burger King, assorted gas stations, and the faint outlines of strip malls. I fight back the rising sense of panic in my chest.

I sobbed through a box of extra-soft tissue as I waved goodbye to the City by the Bay. Now I must compose myself and figure out logistics.

Like: where do people eat around here?