A few days after Thanksgiving, Sam and I found ourselves at Elmwood Cafe reading books and drinking giant soy mochas out of ceramic bowls. I'd been flipping through Lucky Peach magazine and the article On Perfect Moments caught my attention. In it, Daniel Patterson talks about searching for perfect moments and how they pop up when you least expect or plan for them. Since he's a chef, he frames the discussion in terms of cooking with fennel and how most cooks don't think to use the green fennel buds that haven't flowered yet. He says, "What appeals to me about these fennel buds is how they reflect this idea of paying attention, of recognizing perfect moments. Right now is the only moment that fennel plants will yield this particular flavor."
For the past few days and for the remainder of the weekend, I'm house-sitting at my mom's house. Hallelujah. I'm amazed at what a little change of scenery can do for a girl. And before I get into that and the magic I've created with a few blood oranges, I want to thank you all for your comments on the last post. I feel so lucky to have such amazing readers, friends, and family. Thank you one hundred times over. Onward: Remember how I used to live at my mom's place before moving into the city? She lives about thirty minutes north of San Francisco in San Rafael, a beautiful but sleepy sort-of suburb. It's great to be back hanging out in the blooming backyard, snuggling with her dogs, catching up with bad gossip magazines, watching cable (such a luxury now!), feasting on homemade lasagna and brownies, and getting a good night's sleep. I'm actually really nervous to go back to my place on Monday, but I know I need to face my life there, too. There are changes to be made and conversations to be had. Oy. You know what makes facing life just a little bit easier? The bottle.
This recipe is the result of a convergence of two obsessions: Rancho Gordo beans and Tessa Kiros, the lovely and talented writer and cookbook author. She's of Finnish and Greek-Cypriot heritage and has wandered the world, detailing her experiences and memories through food. Recently, my dad gave me Falling Cloudberries for my birthday and I've been slowly leafing through it each night, wishing it'd never end. The photos are just dreamy, and the recipes are both evidence of Tessa's heritage (classic finnish meatballs with lingonberry jam, stroganoff, and moussaka) and a postcard from her travels (spinach and truffle pies, champagne risotto, and lemon vanilla jam). It's one of those books where it's truly hard to decide how and where to begin. Lucky for me, the decision just showed up on my desk with a bag of colorful Christmas lima beans.
I'm always the weather skeptic: when friends and coworkers are going on and on about a looming storm, it's always me that assures them the weather channel is sensational, and people have nothing else to talk about. Just grab your raincoat and call it a day. But this week we had some legitimately major weather in the Bay Area. When I saw businesses putting out sandbags and the commute slowing to a crawl, I gave in and held my tongue. Now generally people turn to comfort foods like soups, stews, or cheesy casseroles when the weather forces you indoors, but lately I've been craving simple salads--a little color amongst the gray, gloomy days. There's this wonderful Mediterranean restaurant back in Marin called Insalata's and they serve the best fattoush I've ever had. After trying it a few times, I set out to duplicate it, and have come pretty darn close with the recipe I'll share with you here in a minute. The nice thing about fattoush is, regardless of the season, you can find most of the ingredients in your local market. And I love that, with the addition of baked pita chips and garbanzo beans, it's a nice meal in and of itself. Oh, and most importantly: the fresh, citrusy dressing brightens up even the gloomiest of days.
Thanksgiving is here, my friends. I know this isn't new news--if you're anything like me, you've been making and revising lists, running errands, and having a drink as soon as it's socially acceptable to do so. For the past few days, I've been house/dog/teenage sitting at my Dad's house. And Lincoln, their sweet chocolate lab, was a rescue dog so he doesn't love being alone. For some, this would be a burden. But I've used this as an excuse to hunker down and do some writing, go on long Lincoln walks, take some photos around the neighborhood, and make hot spiked cider in the evening while lounging on the couch catching up with back issues of The New Yorker.
Well, food blogging has brought about many firsts. I look at food differently, often thinking about how to plate it and how to capture the light just perfectly in a photo. I read recipes differently, always pausing to think about adapting them to my own interests and taste. And last but not least, I look at dishes and linens much, much differently. Even if I'm eating alone and in a rush, I still always set a place for myself. There's something depressing about standing in front of the TV or perching on the edge of a chair at the counter. I always put out a nice place mat and silverware, and there are usually flowers on the table. The aesthetics of a room, table, and a place setting is important if you think about eating as a sensory experience and not just a habit or necessity. Now I'm not talking fine china and stemware with each meal. I'm just saying the presentation of food matters. So I've been very aware of dishes, napkins, linens, and antique silverware lately. And during the past week, Heath Ceramics has come into my radar. I was having coffee and a macaron at Cibo in Sausalito and noticed their beautiful dishware. After a little investigation, I realized it was Heath, and I'd just read how Chez Panisse uses Heath Ceramics for their dishes and serving ware. I promptly hopped online and discovered they've been around since 1948 and, low and behold, the U.S. factory is in my backyard. I knew what I had to do: the next morning I woke up and headed over to investigate. And that's when I found the plate.
In the Bay Area, we often have an Indian summer. It descends each year around this time. And each year, I always wonder why it's heating up as we ease into September. Just when all the fall clothes pop up in store windows, when the morning light begins to change, and when you feel like you should be making soup--it's damn hot. And with the heat comes my kitchen lethargy. Rather than cooking, I find myself putting things together instead: salads with tomatoes and squash from the garden, sandwiches with cold cuts and lots of mayo and crisp lettuce, simple pastas with olives and shaved Parmesan, my infamous rustic Mexican pizzas (if you're lucky, more on that later). So in the summer, I like to make this pesto and keep it in the fridge to have readily available when cooking sounds as enticing as changing a flat tire. Now before we get to the recipe, you may be asking yourself, 'wait a second. I thought Megan lived in San Francisco where it's rarely above 75.' Well, I've lied to you. Probably not a good tactic so early on in our relationship. I actually live right outside the city, about 8 eight miles North, in Marin County. I live on a wide street with big leafy oaks in a very large house with a pool, two back yards, a circular driveway, lemon trees, and a box garden.