Blooms of Change

I've lived in this neighborhood for nearly 15 years. When the lease on my boyfriend's place mercilessly expired, we moved here. On full-sun days, his place was so dark, we dubbed his top floor apartment "the bat cave." I spent the next six months getting to know the area...and shopping for an apartment.

We found a sweet spot with a view of the lake, misty snow-capped mountains, and sunsets so beautiful, I'd drop everything and race home. Watching, transfixed, as the colors in the sky shifted from vibrant oranges and fire-glow pink, and receded into shades of sherbert. Eventually, the sky would yield to the moon, and a study of blues.

Just down the road was a blackberry patch, deep and lush. We'd fill 5-gallon buckets and then, after a quick check for bugs, I'd submerge the berries in vodka and wait 'til Christmas. In the dreary days of winter, inky blackberry vodka provided an instant infusion of summer.

The blackberry patch was prone to flooding, but I didn't mind. Penetrating the tangle of new growth to harvest the more seasoned branches, I'd slip and slide, wondering exactly how many layers I'd have to wear to avoid the thorns? Scratched and bleeding, my hands bore heavy stains and I'd chuck it up to "opportunity cost." The berries--and their many incarnations--were worth it.

But there will be no berries this year. That land is now home to a massive 200-room hotel. I watched as they hung the fake Greek-inspired trim--noticeably hollow from my vantage at a nearby stoplight.

A construction boom on a city-wide scale has eliminated most of the mom & pop shops. My favorite Thai restaurant shuttered years ago, and sits idle while developers secure the surrounding properties. Another massive construction project is inevitable.

They leveled the place where my friend Amy worked. And that 250-seat restaurant was turned to dust within a matter of days. The electronics store is now a prospering Whole Foods and that car dealership on the corner was overtaken by the hospital expansion. I feel like George Bailey in "It's a Wonderful Life," washed up in Potterville.

Lost in a sea of change, today I drove by a spot where that funky hotel used to sit. The Mexican cooks used to meet there every Thursday for salsa night. Ostrich-skinned cowboy boots and five-inch wide belt buckles replaced checkered chef pants and marinara-splattered tennis shoes. Emboldened by Tecates and tequila, we'd linger late into the night.

Lost in that memory, I was jolted into the present. In the shadow of a towering--and mostly vacant, glass & steel condo building, a sea of poppies waved gently in the breeze. Trying to get a closer look, I rounded block and quickly abandoned my car. Dodging ambulances and evening commuters, a simulated bird chirped my way through the crosswalk.

Philosophical and more than a wee bit sentimental, I thought about digging my heels in, and resisting the change swirling around me. Maybe...it's time to embrace something new. It's not a blackberry patch, but rooted in an unlikely spot next to the freeway, this brazen field of poppies was dancing in the wind.

Perhaps it's time to take a cue from them.

Facing My Convictions

Longtime family friends have a wedding on the horizon. Picture a large grassy knoll overlooking snow-capped mountains and sweeping views of the water. An intimate wedding at their island home, for fifty people.

Would I do the food?

I'm honored...and quickly agreed.

Over a series of e-mails, we hammered out the menu and now, a month before the wedding, I headed up to the island to see the space. Second refrigerator? Check. Coolers for ice? Check. Platters, bowls, the tent has been ordered...how 'bout flowers in these mint julep cups? (Goodwill fetish strikes again!)



Other than the usual home improvements gearing up for an event this size, there was just one obstacle: rabbits.

The resident coyote population hasn't been heard from in years, and without a dominant predator, rabbits were taking over the island! Father of the bride was experiencing a frustration on par with Caddyshack. Efforts to keep the budding rabbit population in check failed. Their landscaping was nibbled to shreds.

We watched as a family of rabbits came and went. The dog sat, unmoved. Father of the bride lowered his voice and confessed, "I shot two rabbits earlier today."

"What?"

"Right off the patio." He pointed 30 feet out. "Spotted them with my morning coffee and grabbed my gun..."

In less than an hour, I watched no less than a dozen rabbits graze on the yard. It's debatable whether his efforts would have any impact but I had to know, "Did you eat them?"

"No, they're full of worms." He thought for a moment and said, "I suppose that's why the eagles don't eat them either. They hunt fish, mostly."

Over the past several months, I've been trying to reconcile my animal lover vs. omnivore eating habits. Emboldened with a pioneering food movement spirit, I ask myself, "How can I eat meat, if I'm not willing to kill it?"

As a kid, my father hunted deer, pheasant, and quail. He'd arrive with his haul and line up the kids in front of the plunder for a photo. I have vivid memories of him polishing his riffle at the kitchen table, and even then my aversion was clear. You'd find me...inching into the other room.

For years, our freezer brimmed with fish and venison. Avoiding any "Bambi" protests at dinner, Mom supplied us with her customary white lie, "It's beef."





So here I am. Rabbits all around us and a willing hunter by my side. As if on cue, I spot two rabbits several yards away. Father of the bride says, "I can't shoot them."

"Why not?"

"The gun I'd need is too loud. The neighbors would be upset."

Ah, the neighbors! The lots were large, but yes, neighbors were clearly visible.

Minutes later, another rabbit approached the deck. With little encouragement, father of the bride dashed off to get his gun. I had handgun in mind, but what he produced was a long 22 riffle with a scope mounted to the top. A modern-era Daniel Boone, he gently opened the sliding screen door, splayed himself on the dining room floor and measured his shot.

Mother of the bride turned her back, but I forced myself to look on. Other than fish, this was the first creature I've ever seen killed.


A quick "pop" resonated through the air. It was a clean hit to the heart, right above the forelegs. But the rabbit didn't die. It scooted across the lawn in an erratic fashion, as if to scrape off the offender, and slid under the hedge.

I felt sick.

I thought it would die immediately, but nooooo! Cautiously, I approached the hedge. I laid on my stomach, trying to spot the rabbit hiding in the lurch, while father of the bride ran on the other side. By the time he caught up to it, the rabbit had mercifully died. He held it by the back two legs and I took a look. Oddly, it was the same size as my cat.





He laid the rabbit in the grass and riggor quickly set in. No longer like flesh, it was stiff...and fluffy. I took a couple photos and then the discussion began. What to do with the bodies? The current rabbit count was three. Dumpster at work? Burry them? What's the protocol?

The rabbits were bagged in a garbage bin. A decision about what to do with them...would wait for another day.

In the meantime, I wanted to know. What's it like to hold a gun? Without the magazine of bullets, father of the bride showed me how to raise the gun, and nestle the butt end just above my arm pit. Through the office window, I lined up the cross sight (+) on the taillight of his truck in the driveway.


I quickly learned, a steady shot with a gun is a lot like shooting photos with a long lens. The slightest movement makes a difference. He coached me on breathing. "Take two steady, deep breaths. Then another half-breath and hold it. Now take your aim."

Like a tripod mount, he explained the need to stabilize your shot. The gun was heavier than I expected and keeping it steady was difficult. What would I do in a life or death situation? "You could use a tree limb, or rock...anything will work."

And then he explained, "Most people think you squeeze the trigger, but you don't. The trick," he demonstrated with his palm facing me, "Is to squeeze your whole hand." (It sounded vaguely like Scott Bourne's photography tip: don't press the camera's shutter button, roll your finger across it.)

Lesson over, I crawled into bed with much on my mind. It's a shame the rabbits weren't worth eating and I found myself wondering, "What happened to the local coyote population?" Like anything without it's natural predator, the population was clearly exploding. I wrestled with uneasy sleep. Against all my previous convictions, today I had held a gun today AND witnessed the death of an animal. I came to plan a wedding!

Carpe diem?

Exploring the Link Between Food and Mood

Photo credit: Skinny Chef

For years, I have been struggling with a cyclical winter funk. Breezily dismissing the symptoms, I’d justify it, saying my normal outgoing self needed “down time.” Armed with a stack of books and an arsenal of films, I’d clear my dance card, pull a fluffy comforter high around my neck, and hibernate. Often, I was too tired to read and alternated between sleep and the drone of mindless TV. As the days turned into weeks, and the weeks—shockingly—slipped into months, alarm bells started going off.

What the hell?!

This is NOT normal.

I ran through a slew of possibilities. Seasonal Affective Disorder is quite common in northern climates. Or maybe I’m depressed? I went looking for answers…and it dawned on me.

I‘ve been researching the impact of early childhood nutrition and its impact on the brain. Maybe it was time to look at my own diet? I picked up a copy of “Food & Mood” and suddenly, things started to make sense.

Here’s what I found:

Your brain creates a hormone called serotonin, which regulates your mood. Commonly known as the "happiness hormone", when in check, serotonin is attributed to restful sleep, and helps moderate cravings for carbohydrate-rich sweets and starches. In fact, a critical step in managing symptoms associated with PMS, seasonal affective disorder, and depression is linked back to managing serotonin levels through nutrition. (The rising trend in anti-depressant drugs? Many of those drugs are designed to regulate serotonin levels. I chose to explore my eating habits first.)

Grumpiness and depression are brought on by low serotonin levels and dwindling energy reserves. This triggers cravings for carbohydrate-rich “comfort foods” like pastries, pasta, cereals, and breads. Once satisfied, the serotonin level elevates, and the cravings subside.

The problem? Fuel from these bad carbs is fleeting. Within a few hours, energy levels crash and the cycle—including the symptoms-- is repeated throughout the day.

I began studying the trends in my own eating behavior. For me, PMS and happiness equals a loaf of bread and a hunk of triple-cream Cambozola. Carb loading for serotonin? This made perfect sense. And I’d happily whip up a cake or a batch of brownies before I’d even think about dinner. Suddenly the reasons behind my bizarre eating habits were beginning to make sense.

Nutritionally, I was like a crack addict, constantly in need of a fix.

My drug of choice?

Carbs.

That, teemed with the constant dose of sugar…no wonder I was in a sad state. My serotonin levels were completely out of whack.

“Food and Mood” summed it best “The secret is to use the right kind of quality carbs to raise serotonin levels, without causing a spike in blood sugar levels, and get your mood back on track.”

I’d been dealing with this problem for so long, when I read those words, I nearly wept. Not only had this book identified my classic symptoms, but a solution was close at hand.

The key?

Quality carbs.

Whole grains sustain energy and help regulate cravings for sweets. As an added bonus they also help you manage weight and keep blood sugars at moderate levels. (Research says a diet rich in whole grains also helps lower the risk for heart disease, diabetes, hypertension and possibly cancer.) Breakfast is also a critical component.* The book discusses this is more detail but let’s just say, it’s non-negotiable. And so is exercise, which helps regulate the blood sugar levels and provides an energy boost—without the calories.

I’ve stocked up on oatmeal, opted for whole grain pastas, and for my bread cravings, I’m now making my own. The publishers sent me a copy of “Healthy Bread in Five Minutes a Day” and I’ve been playing with that. While I’m not in love with the master recipe (needs more salt, the flavor’s pretty bland, and the texture leans towards “gummy.”), it my sparked my curiosity. I’m on the hunt for a delicious whole grain bread recipe…if you’ve got one, please send it my way!

Over the past few months, it’s been quite a journey, examining my relationship with food. I’ve got the lowdown on restaurants and noteworthy chefs coast to coast, but when it came to nutrition and knowing my own body? I was clueless. This has definitely been a turning point.

Here’s to feeling better!

-----
Side note: At this point, I’m not ruling out Seasonal Affective Disorder as another factor in my health issues. In the dark, dreary months of winter, our bodies suffer from a lack of Vitamin D, normally obtained from sunlight exposure. Getting outside—even on an overcast day--can help. Going forward, I’ll be exercising and getting outside more, but I’m not ruling out the need for a lightbox.

* Until recently, I’ve never made a habit of eating breakfast. As I learn more, I realize how critical breakfast is, and I’ve become a big fan of oatmeal and cereals. Just as I was figuring out the link between feeling better and eating better, I received a sample of the Nature’s Path line. Nutrition and sustainability are a major focus for Nature’s Path, and that had a lot of appeal. While I’d steer clear of the Nature’s Path granola bars (gut bombs) and toaster pastries (a la pop tart), the cereals were a happy find. I tried everything—including the gluten-free offerings. All of them were winners. My favorites were the flax seed cereals and any of the granolas. If you’ve got kids in the house, the kid-focused cereals (Granola Munch) and flavored oatmeals will make even the most finicky eaters look forward to breakfast.

Reflections on 2009

Late 2008, I was working as an analyst in real estate finance. The real estate bubble burst and what followed in 2009 was the worst recession since the Great Depression. My employer was a privately held company and while they hung on as long as they could, it was evident drastic changes were on the horizon. Eventually, they shed 30% of their staff, including me. (A second round of layoffs followed a few months later.)

I kicked off 2009 in a funk. Job prospects in my field were dismal. Within a matter of months, my condo dropped 30% in value. Without a job, I panicked and put my house up for sale. It languished in the declining market.

Well-intended friends asked about plans for my ‘round-the-world trip.

I laughed at the thought. “ ‘Round-the-world? I’m fighting for survival here!”

In just a few short months, I went from being secure and making bold plans for my future to mid-morning pep talks and consciously making an effort to get out of bed.

I attended mandatory training at the unemployment office. With a stack of “Worker Retraining” and “How to File for Unemployment” papers in hand, the counselor looked me in the eye and directed me to the nearest shelter providing free food. I navigated past screaming children and a waiting room full of false optimism, and threw up in the parking lot.

For the next two months, I hid under the covers and slept. Channel surfing through cartoons, I took my rage out on Curious George, “What the hell are you so happy about???” and secretly yearned for The Man with a Big Yellow Hat to help restore the pieces of my life.

My lifeline came in the form of Twitter.

Everything from the fascinating to the profoundly mundane mingled within my Twitter stream. It was comforting to see people going about the normal business of life...and eventually, I joined them.

I was still inching my way back when my friend Catherine suffered a debilitating brain aneurysm. Just two days after a fabulous dinner party, she was in intensive care with a ghastly post-surgery suture and swollen black eye the size of my fist. Her long blonde hair was in a lopsided do--half-shaved, and the other half in a gnarled, matted mess against the pillow. We spoke in hushed voices while a battery of equipment beeped softly in the background, and prayed the predicted seizures would never come. Six weeks in ICU plus two weeks in the hospital, were followed by months of recovery at home. (Related post is here.)

Suddenly, my worries seemed so very trite.

Still in my cartoon phase, I took a cue from Frosty the Snowman and put one foot in front of the other….


Looking back on 2009, I can honestly say it was the best year of my life--the good, bad and seriously depressing…I wouldn’t change a thing.

When I finally jumped off the pity party train, it was astonishing to see what happened. Beginning in the spring, I dove head first into a number of projects and continued that frantic pace well into the winter. (In hindsight, it’s clear I was trying to reclaim my wounded ego.)

I had a powerful yearning for community…and that became a central theme in 2009. In a town known for the legendary “Seattle freeze,” could I really make a difference? The idea began to build momentum. What began as dinner here and there, eventually mushroomed into the first International Food Blogger Conference, a documentary screening & panel discussion, speaker events, and a 90-person communal potluck!

While my plans are uncertain for the new year, if 2009 is any indication…brace yourself! It’s going to be a wild ride!



Life’s a great big canvas, and you should throw all the paint on it
you can. - Danny Kaye




Traca’s 2009 highlights:


– Dinner for New Orleans Chef John Besh, organizer

- Americana Community Potluck, organizer

– Artisan Beef Institute’s Seattle Tasting Series, organizer

– International Food Blogger Conference, co-founder

– Fearless Writing Workshop (San Diego, CA), attendee

– End of the Line exclusive Seattle screening & panel discussion, organizer

– Lunch with Michael Escoffier (August’s grandson), hosted by Sur La Table owner Renee Behnke

- Outstanding in the Field Dinner prepared by chefs of SPUR, attendee

- Artisan Butcher field trip for chefs, organizer

- Umami field trips (rhubarb & strawberry) with Jon Rowley & Kate McDermott

- Herbfarm Restaurant farm visit & dinner

– Ventana Restaurant, consultant and opening PR

– Canning Across America Project, founding member

– 3-day Northwest Sustainability Discovery Tour (Portland, OR), attendee

- Named a “Foodie to Follow on Twitter” - Seattle Magazine

– FoodSnap: Food Photography workshop with Lou Manna, attendee

– Coffee Fest, attendee

– Photographer Scott Bourne’s lecture on Previsualization, organizer

– American Lamb Board’s Lamb Jam, judge

- Interview with Momofuku’s David Chang

- Dubbed “Food Guru” - Edible Seattle

- Interview with Will Write for Food author Dianne Jacob

– Culinary Institute of America’s World of Flavor Conference – Street Food & Comfort Food (Napa, CA), attendee

- Lunch with Saveur co-founder Dorothy Kailins

– Taste TV’s Seattle Luxury Chocolate Salon, judge (2008, 2009)

- Cooking demo, Queen Anne Farmer’s Market (my first!)

– Theo Chocolate’s 3-part Chocolate University, attendee

- Coffee from the Grounds Up, 9-part lecture on coffee, attendee

- Chef’s Collaborative Summit, attendee

– Lunch with author & New York Times columnist Mark Bittman

- New blog series: Books that Paved the Way

- Serious Eats, photo credit

- Travel & Leisure, photo credit

– Tasty Awards, judge

- Food News Journal, Best of the Blogs [December 18, 2009]

A Moment with John T Edge

On my list of lifetime goals, an invitation to the prestigious Worlds of Flavor Conference figured prominently…and at long last, I was on my way.

Weeks before the conference, I studied the speaker lineup. The list read like a proverbial who’s who of chefs, writers, and anthropologists. Among the culinary luminaries, I was particularly interested in one person: John T Edge.

John T ranks high among my favorite writers and I’ve been collecting his work for years. His writing has appeared in numerous publications, including Saveur, Southern Living, The Oxford American and he currently writes a monthly column for the New York Times called “United Tastes.” In 2009, he was inducted in the James Beard Who's Who of Food & Beverage in America.

John T is also director of the Southern Foodway Alliance where the demand for their annual Southern Foodways Symposium is so high, spots have been awarded by lottery. (I have it on good authority that begging for admission will get you nowhere….)

My admiration for John T goes beyond anything I can properly express. His writing is like a well-seasoned cast iron pan, richly layered in both past and present, reverent with a sense of place.

At the Worlds of Flavor Conference, I worked up the nerve to say hello…and stifled a hint of Beatle mania-style giddiness whenever he walked by. While there were several near misses, eventually I gave up…and succumbed to a rare bout of shyness.

On the final day, I was standing in the back of the room, listening to a particularly moving speech by Jessica Harris. As her speech concluded, I wiped sentimental tears from my eyes. John T suddenly appeared next to me and said, “Did I miss it?”

A moment later…he was gone.
---

John T Edge at Watershed Best [Photo credit: Yvonne Boyd]

For this fourth installment of Books that Paved the Way, I reached out to John T by e-mail, holding my breath while I hit “send.” His gracious response left no doubt that my respect and admiration was well-founded.

John T's Most Influential Books:

White Trash Cooking by Ernest Matthew Mickler --

At first glance it's a campy sendup of working class white folk cookery. But look closer and you'll see the influence of Agee and Evans and their masterwork Let Us Now Praise Famous Men.

Smokestack Lightning by Lolis Eric Elie --

A history of barbecue in America, masquerading as a road trip. Smart and well-observed, this catalog of essays and photographs shines a bright light on unheralded pitmasters across the South and beyond.

Gumbo Tales by Sara Roahen --

We all love the city of New Orleans. We all want to be situational New Orleanians, with easy access to fat oysters and fatter po-boys. Roahen is the outlander with whom you can identify, the nose beneath the gumbo curtain.

Southern Food: At Home, On the Road, and in History by John Egerton --

The reigning tome in the category. Elegantly written, generous and inclusive, and cognizant of how race and class define what we eat and with whom we eat, Egerton's book remains relevant as it closes in on the quarter-century mark.

American Fried by Calvin Trillin --

He started out exploring race and various American dilemmas. Trillin has continued that tack, while writing some of the best prose on any damn subject. Along the way, he's made brief detours into the world of food. American Fried, from the 1970s, was his first collection of food writing. It's a brilliant hymn to local eats and local people, with prose that still leaps off the page today. (In his most recent piece for the New Yorker, Trillin wrote of poutine, and managed to craft a paragraph that referenced both cheese curds and teenage circumcision.) In other words, the man is a gimlet-eyed genius.

Sharing Our Strength

This post is in conjunction with Share our Strength, Oprah.com and the 12 Days of Sharing campaign to end child hunger.

Jennifer Perillo has organized an all-star team of bloggers sharing their favorite holiday recipes, and a drool-worthy list of giveaways (the Wusthof knife set is calling me!) Check out these fabulous recipes in the Virtual Cookie Jar and please, drop a donation in the bucket. One in four children are hungry in America.


As a child, the financial state of my family ebbed far more than it flowed. We were in serious jeopardy more than once. I’d like to think I was oblivious to the trouble, but it was difficult to hide. Constant worrying manifested itself physically. My mother suffered from bleeding ulcers and ongoing back problems most of my life. Hurt and frustration turned to anger and individually, we comforted ourselves the best we could.

My brother and I earned extra money by delivering newspapers. He took the morning route, and I covered afternoons and weekends. Winters, he shoveled snow for money, and I sold Girl Scout cookies to secure a free trip to camp.

In the early years, my mom was on the career track. That came to an abrupt end the summer I was six. I was at the babysitter’s house…and fell from a tree. I dropped 16 feet and landed on my back. Rushed to the hospital, they did exploratory surgery, checking for internal bleeding. E-rays confirmed a broken vertebra in my back. I was hospitalized, and then strapped in a brace for 6 months. Before I left the hospital, I also contracted the chicken pox. My mother was forced to quit her job and nursed me back to health. From that point on, babysitters were out of the question. Mom worked only while we were in school, and never in the summers.

I’ll never forget the day I rode my bike to the bank. Depositing funds from my paper route, the teller passed my savings book across the cool marble counter and I proudly checked my balance. My entire savings had been wiped out! The teller offered little explanation other than, “The numbers don’t lie.”

I cried all the way home, falling into my mother’s arms, wailing, “The bank stole my money!”

After the sobbing subsided, she explained what happened. We shared a joint account and in desperation, she withdrew the money to pay taxes on our house. There was no alternative. I was 10, maybe 11, but I’ll never forget that look on her face. I can’t imagine what went through her mind. Embarrassed and ashamed, she vowed to pay me back, somehow.

We knew lean times….but we never went hungry. I’m sure it was close sometimes.

After my humble background, my life in food seems quite ridiculous sometimes. While foodies debate the merits of grass fed vs. grain fed, fair trade vs. locovore and declare “I’m so over pork belly and truffles.” The fact of the matter is, these are choices of luxury.

When there’s a rumble in your belly and the cupboards are bare…the situation becomes dire. I know. Our house in the suburbs with the perfectly manicured lawn hid many secrets.

In the richest country in the world, hunger is far more prevalent than you might imagine. And that is why I’m proud to join Share Our Strength’s mission to end child hunger in America.

Can you help?

With Share Our Strength’s buying power, $25 can make a significant impact. Skip one night out on the town and donate to a worthy cause…The price of one entrée, can help end child hunger.





****

Chocolate Crinkles
From Christmas-Cookies.com

When times were flush, mom made these Chocolate Crinkles. Rolled in powdered sugar, they expand when baked, creating snowflake patterns against a chocolaty background. Mom would pack them in shirt boxes, lined with tissue. Stacked in our garage through the frozen Midwest winter, the cookie-laden boxes would last for weeks. My brother and I became quite stealthy, sneaking into the garage for “just one more…” Word of warning…drifting powdered sugar may leave tell-tale evidence on your chest!


Makes about 72

1/2 cup vegetable oil
4 ounces unsweetened chocolate, melted
2 cups granulated sugar
4 large eggs
2 teaspoons vanilla
2 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup confectioner's sugar

Stir together oil, chocolate and granulated sugar. Blend in one egg at a time until well

mixed. Add vanilla. Stir flour, baking powder, and salt into oil mixture. Chill several hours or overnight.

Pre-heat oven to 350 F.

Drop teaspoonfuls of dough into confectioner's sugar. Roll in sugar; shape into balls. Place about 2" apart on greased baking sheet. Bake 10-12 minutes.

*****
Update: This post was profiled on Food News Journal's Best of the Blogs, December 18, 2009.

Home

Summertime in Seattle is a mind-blowing experience. I've lived here since 1995 and you would think that by now I'd be accustomed to the jaw-dropping views of Mount Rainier with its perpetual snow cap, soaring eagles, and purple mountains. The fact of the matter is, for me, that's a typical drive into the city...and I never tire of it.

July was an incredibly busy month. Thankfully, my camera never leaves my side, and my memories are safely captured on a stack of SD cards. (No time to edit photos, I just keep buying new cards. So far, I've managed to fill up two 8 gig cards and a 4 gig!)

Between an intense travel schedule, a handful of clients, more events than I can count, and a major project on the horizon, I desperately need to slow the pace down.

Finally, I am home.

My luggage is half unpacked, I've got a mountain of e-mail, and frankly, my car looks like I've been taking up residence in it. But all that can wait.

Today, I joined friends for coffee and took a leisurely trip back home...detouring by way of the farmer's market. Wandering among the stalls, taking time to notice changes in produce...there's some thing soul-satisfying about being at the market. Fortunately for Seattleites, we have plenty to choose from (35 in King County alone!).

A few snaps from today...

Happy Trails....

For years, I've been wanting to send this post:

I'm poised and ready to update my out of office message: Gone traveling, don't know when I'll be back. Drop me a line sometime....

Traipsing across legendary spice routes, I'll send dispatches from the road... filled with stories about the people I meet. In words and photos, I'll tell their tale, daring to capture their essence. Then I'll close my note...destination unknown, signed simply, Happy Trails....

***
I gleaned through my possessions. Donated everything I could part with. And for the last 18 months, I've purposely acquired nothing that wasn't a book...or previously used. Eventually, each new item that entered my house, felt like a burden.

Justifying my pauper lifestyle, I reminded myself, "I'm leaving."

Then I was laid off from my job. When the shock wore off, I was actually happy. This was a sign! Passport at the ready, I put my house on the market and prepared to bid Seattle adieu.

But fate had another plan....

Before my eyes, I watched the economy go from bad to worse...and within 6 months, the value of my home dropped nearly $100,000.

Sadly, I'm going to kiss that trip good bye, for now.

A Place at the Table

Summers in the Midwest, we'd make the annual trip to Michigan. My parents met and married there, but moved after their first child was born. (My parent's first child, Tracy, died just weeks after he was born. My dad woke up, checked on the baby...and he was blue. He passed from a little understood phenomenon called crib death. The subsequent scrutiny and family pressure drove my young parents to seek a new life...elsewhere. In case you were wondering...my name, Traca, is a derivative of his name, Tracy.)

Memories of summer vacations in Michigan, are followed by a wave of nostalgia and visits with Grandma Derby. We weren't related, but she was the woman who nurtured my mom and provided a respite during her younger days. No trip was complete without a visit to Grandma Derby.

Like my mom, I learned a lot from this woman. The adults would gather around her table--the round one in the kitchen with a plastic table cloth. Flesh slightly damp from the hot, humid air, you learned not to move your arms around much, being forced to peel the tablecloth from your arms first.

As the adults caught up on family gossip, Grandma Derby always left a seat for me. She'd fix my cup with milk, coloring it with the barest hint of coffee. Feet swinging from my seat, I'd sit and listen for hours, silent as could be. I learned quickly. The moment I made a sound...my father would send me out to play.

Happy with my place at the table, I practiced being invisible.


im⋅print⋅ing
rapid learning that occurs during a brief receptive period, typically soon after birth or hatching, and establishes a long-lasting behavioral response to a specific individual or object, as attachment to parent, offspring, or site.

- To impart a strong or vivid impression of: "We imprint our own ideas onto acts" (Ellen Goodman).

- A distinguishing influence or effect: Spanish architecture that shows the imprint of Islamic rule.


Since my early years, I have been imprinted by my place at Grandma Derby's table. I dream of experiences like TED, where the brightest minds come together over food and discuss ideas. I read about artist salons and daydream about conversations with writers, artists, poets, chefs, farmers, architects, politicians, activists....

The film "A Partner to Genius" was another influence. Architect Frank Llyod Wright and his wife Olgivanna built their home, Taliesin West in the Arizona desert. There, apprentices would live and work on the property. Olgivanna was intrigued by the idea of developing young architects both in their work and the arts. Saturday nights, the most influential minds of their time came for dinner. Later, they built a theater to include performances.

Those influences have stuck with me, and provide the driving force behind everything I do.

People ask me, "When do you sleep?"

Answer? When I'm too exhausted to go on.

I have the good fortune of knowing some of the brightest minds of our time. And if you knew me, you'd know...I have fantasises about bringing everyone together for dinner and a sharing of the minds. There are many opposing forces: geography, money, schedules, venues, blah, blah, blah.

But I chip away at my dream, one event at a time. Whether it's a food blogger conference, an Americana potluck in the roasting facilities at Stumptown Coffee, a trek to an artisan butcher for a demonstration in beef cutting, or I grab "America's Disciple of Flavor" for an umami lesson in the middle of a strawberry field, the important thing is...what did you learn? And I constantly ask myself: how can I bring people together for a shared experience?

For me, that's a life well-lived.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.

White Lightning Wanderings

Map Quest says the trip can be done in 90 minutes. En route? For me, double that...at least. In my family, we call that: The Wander Factor...

As a kid, my dad would load us into the family car and drive. Destination: Anywhere. On an old school version of Twitter, the CB radio chattered most of the way. My dad would jump on the CB and ask for advice: Where to eat? Points of interest along the way? Inevitably the trucking community would heed the call, providing us with the regional highlights.

Growing up, my dad and I were on opposite ends of the spectrum. His handle was "White Lightning," a moniker earned by a love of speed and his giant white convertible with red leather seats. I, on the other hand, leaned toward a slower pace, observing countless details along the way. From my earliest memory, I was dubbed "Penelope Pit Stop."

Destination Anywhere trips were the best. We'd pull off for lunch at a roadside stand or truck stop. Dawdler that I am, I was always fascinated by the comforts of home in the middle of a semi-truck oasis: showers, phones, music and apple pie.

Sliding into a booth at the diner, my brother and I were endlessly amused by tableside jukeboxes and wooden peg games. My ritual order: a juicy patty melt, no fries, and a rootbeer with a side of cream. Those squat amber glasses were perfect for "black cows" ...a poor man's version of a rootbeer float.

Although White Lightning and Penelope Pit Stop rarely saw eye-to-eye, we both developed a love of exploring. Driving through the Midwest farmland, we'd pack a stash of sugar-glazed carrots. I'd spy a horse farm and if the timing was right, dad would slow, and pull up the gravel drive. He'd say a few words to the farmer, then call me out of the car with the "all clear" signal. I'd step up to the fence and lure horses with those sweetened carrots. Laying my palm flat, the first cautious horse would approach, and eventually muzzle the carrot from my hand. As a horse nut, this was my idea of heaven!

Over the years, my brother and I have collected hundreds of similar stories. This was a classic experience: On a trip to Disney World, my dad befriended a trucker (via CB radio). Before long, we both approached a designated mile-marker and pulled off the road. I watched, incredulously, as my brother was lifted into the cab of an 18-wheeler. Following the truck for several miles, we chatted with my brother on the CB, Smokey and the Bandit-style. We passed the truck and gave the classic tug gesture, laughing in surprise as the horn blared "Dixie."

Heading out on one of my dad's classic road trips, and the kids would cry, "Where are we g-o-i-n-g?"

Dad would respond, nonchalantly, "To see what we can see..."

Highways, back roads...roads to nowhere, getting lost was half the fun. Dad was quick to reassure us, "You're never really lost, as long as you've got gas."

It was always an adventure.

The other day, I was at a roadside diner. I bumped into a man sporting a lady's sun hat. Fastened 'round the brim were fresh flowers and series of buttons. I commented on his hat. He paused for a moment, and then began describing the significance of each pin. "This is for my son who is serving in Iraq. Next to it, is my pin. I'm a Vietnam Vet. And this...Save Our Farmlands." He plucked a purple-grey rose from his hat and offered it to me.

Friends of mine are astonished by the random people I meet. But if you knew my dad? That's just par for the course....and it's a tradition I'm happy to carry on.

White Lightning? Thanks for instilling my love of wandering.

xoxo-
Penelope Pit Stop

When Trouble Comes

(Note: This piece was written during the first week of March. You’ll find an update at the end.)


As a kid, I’d often return from my afternoon paper route and find my mom on her knees, meticulously scrubbing the floors. One look at her…and instinctively, I’d head in the other direction!

My mom hails from a generation of women who were raised to marry, have a family, and spend their days nurturing the brood. Growing up, we were a fiercely independent bunch and things didn’t exactly go according to plan. But there’s something about cleaning, and keeping her home neat as a pin, that is deeply satisfying to my mother. Today, even though both my parents are retired, my mother still irons every stitch of clothing--well-starched, with a razor sharp crease. On Tuesdays.

The rhythm of cleaning soothes the soul.

Gruff and full of bravado, my father ruled the roost…without question. My mother had plenty to be upset about…and despite her reoccurring back problems and bleeding ulcers, she was often on her knees. Her temple of absolution comprised of a bucket of cleaning supplies and a worn out toothbrush for the smallest crevices.

Growing up, a visit to the neighbor’s house went hand in hand with apologies for their less-than-tidy house. Our house was famous for being fastidiously clean. Concealed by the burning stench of bleach, it was a home that reeked of hurt and heartache.

I am my mother’s daughter.

Trading mop for whisk, I find solace…and celebrations in baked goods. As I scoop, and then gently sweep the flour, there too is a rhythm. I am comforted by the whir of beaters as they scrape the sides of my metal bowl, and wonder at the alchemy…as I incorporate dry ingredients into wet. Smooth and repetitive, I zest orange after orange, watching the flakes cascade to the bottom of the bowl. And on occasion, essential oils from juicy citrus defy confinement, creating a fine mist on nearby countertops.


Sift


Whisk


Stir



Mama gets on her knees. I break out the beaters.



Last Monday, I had a glorious dinner party. A festive bunch of bloggers gathered in an undisclosed location for a meal that was truly memorable.

Before I could capture the moment, I received some devastating news. My dear friend Catherine--who had just been at my dinner party, was suddenly struck by a horrific headache. Thankfully, her husband Ken recognized it was far more serious than a headache, and within minutes, whisked her off to the hospital. They waited in the emergency room for over an hour. When she was finally seen by a doctor, things took a rapid turn. A scan of her brain showed a ruptured blood vessel, known as an aneurysm. Often fatal, fortunately, they caught it in time.

Catherine was transferred to another hospital where a leading expert waited to perform surgery. During the nine hour procedure, they discovered a total of two aneurysms and managed to clamp them both.


Now the waiting game begins.


She’s in intensive care for at least the next two weeks while doctors monitor her closely. Like an earthquake, her brain is experiencing “aftershocks” called vasopasams. The hope is that these aftershocks will not lead to another “earthquake” or worse, a stroke.

On my first visit to the hospital, I was stunned to find my friend, head partially shaved, hooked up to a battery of tubes, with a mouth that drooped a little when she spoke, and a black eye the size of my fist. But she was alert, and called people by name. After what she went through, this was a victory.

I think about Catherine often. And I think about the preciousness of life. Just days ago, she was laughing and enjoying a fantastic meal.

And now, the long road of recovery begins…..

Today, I took solace in the form of an Orange Butter Cake, baked in a sunshine yellow bunt pan. The cake, light and fluffy with an oozing, and a not-too-sweet glaze symbolizes sweetness…and hope. At this point in her recovery, Catherine’s ICU doctors tell us she’s burning over 5,000 calories a day.

Maybe…just maybe…she’ll be up for seconds.



ORANGE BUTTER CAKE


INGREDIENTS:

2 cups plus 2 tablespoons flour

1 teaspoon baking powder

1/4 teaspoon salt

1 cup butter -- room temperature

1 1/2 cups granulated sugar

2 eggs

3/4 cup orange juice (I use fresh)

3 tablespoons orange zest

1 teaspoon vanilla1 teaspoon orange extract


FILLING:

2/3 cup orange marmalade

3 tablespoons Grand Marnier


GLAZE:

1 1/2 cups confectioner's sugar -- sifted

3 tablespoons Grand Marnier (I used fresh orange juice)

1 tablespoon unsalted butter -- melted

1/2 teaspoon orange extract


DIRECTIONS:

Spread butter on bottom and sides of tube pan or layer pans. Dust evenly with flour and tap out excess flour. Be generous with greasing and flouring indentations if using a decorative Bundt pan. Or, grease and line with parchment paper.

Position rack in center of oven and preheat to 350 F (325 F for dark pans).

Sift together flour, baking powder and salt. Set aside. With electric mixer, cream butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add eggs one at a time, beating after each addition. Alternately, add dry ingredients and juice, beating after each addition. Begin and end with flour. Scrape down sides of bowl and beater. Stir in grated orange zest and extracts.

Spoon batter into prepared pan(s); level top.

Bake in preheated oven 50 to 60 minutes for a tube cake , or 30 to 35 minutes for layers, or until top is golden brown and cake tester inserted in center comes out clean.

Cool in pan(s) on wire rack about 10 minutes. Run knife blade around edge of cake. Top with plate or cardboard disk, invert and lift off pan(s). Cool cake(s) completely.


Filling:

In a small bowl, blend orange marmalade with liqueur. To fill layers, set one layer on cardboard cake dish or flat plate. Spread evenly with marmalade-liqueur, top with second layer.


Glaze:

Beat together all glaze ingredients. Add more juice by the drop to thin, more sifted sugar to thicken. Glaze should drip heavily from spatula. Spoon over tube cake, allowing glaze to run down sides. Or, spread glaze over top of layers.

****

Update:

Shortly after I wrote this post, the intense pain, and nausea from the subsequent medication forced doctors to place Catherine on a feeding tube.

Now recovering at home, Catherine spent a total of 7 weeks in the hospital. Her parents flew in from New York and have decided to stay on, indefinitely. They’ve rented a home to be close by.

At this point, she’s susceptible to seizures, and requires 24 hour supervision.

Doctor’s orders: No alcohol or driving for one year.

***
Related Post:

A Back Room Taste of Mexico
(includes photo of Catherine)