#womensmarch (at Washington Monument National Monument)
Eucalyptus bark.
#california #smellslikecalifornia #winter (at Napa, California)
A winter’s day.
#california #sonomacoast #winter (at Jenner, California)
Uova.
#springcoyoteranch #westmarin #knowfromwhereithails (at Inverness, California)
#bestadever #loropianacashmere
A break in the rain.
#california #westmarin #winter (at Point Reyes National Seashore)
Tule elk, found only in #california.
#westmarin #nature #animalmedicine (at Point Reyes National Seashore)
Hike before the rains.
#california #westmarin #nature #peace (at Point Reyes National Seashore)
Winter evening.
#california #westmarin (at Point Reyes National Seashore)
Holiday season is best viewed
in my rearview mirror,
colored in the reds and greens
of childhood.
The baton pass
by the old year to the new
observed with quiet contemplation,
searching for hopefulness
in a world roiled
by heartache.
Comfort, reassurance, peace
found in the woods,
on the water,
in the kitchen
now sought
in a moldy leg of ham.
Situated amongst drying herbs and spices and
spiders’ webs lacing
dusty bottles of hoarded wine
hang various cuts of meats
in various states
of desirable desiccation.
Though unfounded
by years of spotty success,
their mere sight
inspires hunger,
expectation, excitement
for that first taste,
outweighing
trepidation,
fear of failure,
of being fouled again.
Like a passionate affair long cooled,
the shapely haunch was first
lavished
with attention, touch,
the finest provisions
and then left alone
to slowly twist in the wind,
almost two years hanging
by its hoof
in the back corner of a dark cellar.
Green furry mold scrubbed from flesh,
a dyed shearling coat
from a Warholian era
expunged with cool salty water
and patted dry
with the murmurings of tenderness
offered from a mother to child
cleaned of mud
after stomping puddles.
Feral aromas,
spongy texture,
sour flavors
just this side of acrid
now mirror my mood;
hopefulness ravaged
by an unknown fungus
among us.
The mind ricochets with self-loathing, recrimination
as tears flow
for the waste
of life,
of food,
of time.
New year’s beans and greens will be a pallid, lonely meal indeed. #prosciuttofail
Lois Lowry, 1983.
#newyear (at Inverness, California)
Recreational smoking in California.
#smokedsalmon #steelhead (at At Home in Napa)
Winter.
#california #sonomacoast #winterlight (at Jenner, California)
For Christmas’ sake, don’t call it fruitcake.
Two fingers fat and sooty with cocoa powder,
panforte is anything but lighthearted,
the name even proclaiming
in a powerful Puccinian baritone
its gastronomic brawn.
First concocted by kitchen wenches
in thirteenth century Siena,
this strong bread
was tucked into the pockets of marauding Crusaders
fortifying a wrath
undertaken yet again
in the name of god.
Once deemed so valuable,
its dense slices used as
catholic wampum
for payment of February taxes
to the insatiable nuns of Montecelso,
selling entry into heaven
for a sweet tithe.
While medieval Sienese painters
created Byzantine art
the city’s spice sellers,
the original pharmacists,
produced piles of panforte
with precisely seventeen ingredients,
corresponding to the number of districts
within the city walls of Siena,
each named for an animal or symbol,
but none for bread.
Nicknamed il Panpepato
pepper bread
from sneeze-inducing quantities
of black and cayenne peppers
mixed into the dough;
the spicy baked blocks
touted as a curative with healing powers,
gobbled by aristocrats and clergy and well-to-do
on high holy days and
under-the-weather days.
Hours, weeks, months
spent gathering ingredients,
scouring far-flung towns and specialty food markets
with a stained, scribbled recipe
subtly refined each December.
The cakes glint and glimmer with jewels
from my pantry:
hazelnuts from Piedmont,
white-as-sand Sicilian almonds,
baked figs from Calabria,
exotic citrus peels
Meyer lemon, yuzu, blood orange
laboriously candied by a Berkeley artist
with an English accent,
and chopped persimmons from the backyard
made holey by nature.
Spice its hallmark,
nutmeg and cloves are grated,
Tellicherry peppercorns, coarse salt and
cayenne peppers,
filched off drying stalks
hanging from kitchen cupboards
are pestled to rough powder,
like dregs from an expensive binge.
With just enough flour
to bind the baubles,
the batter is smothered
in a hotter-than-Hades, sweet sludge;
a melting pot of Vermont butter, cane sugar
and cups and of cups of honey
the hue of horse chestnuts
harvested from a neighbor’s humming hive,
traded for but one thick, chewy slice
of panforte. (at At Home in Napa)
Baskets of black trumpet mushrooms found on the wet forest floor, mostly hidden under thick-pile carpets of leaf litter, awaiting the sharp cut of my knife.
#california #mushroom #foraging (at At Home in Napa)
Winter solstice at the mouth of the Russian River.
#california #sonomacoast #wintersolstice (at Jenner, California)
Pig’s ear mushroom, to be roasted for soup.
#california #mushrooms #mycology #foragingfordinner (at At Home in Napa)
Bickering and pettiness marred the day prior,
even blackening a lovely drive to the coast,
the stresses of the last half year
bequeathing frayed nerves, uncivil tongues.
A big lunch in a small town
water buffalo ragu, tiny oysters, bitter chicories
culled from nearby farms
fueled conversation
and a drive further north.
A curvaceous seaside road traversed
in the dark for a mediocre motel meal
made fine
by a BYOB Meursault
tucked under the back seat
of the old wagon
for just such a predicament.
Cheap brandy and chocolate cookies and chamomile tea
brought to the room
by a doting waitress
further melted icebergs,
puddling into tears on the composite wood floor.
Swaying to old records
Johnny Mathis, Coltrane in Italy, Talking Heads
spun on a hipster player
by the light of a gas fireplace,
an orange crescent moon expending its strength
before collapsing into the ocean
exhausted by the plight of the world below,
tailing a trail of stars so bright I could no longer sleep
for fear of missing their spectacle.
First light at ocean’s edge
decked in heavy flannels and hunting boots,
heart lifted and hands full with
steaming green tea and smoldering green bud,
hands down
my favorite breakfast.
We wandered into the woods
taking care to keep track of each other
while giving wide berth
to privacy of thought,
to spiritual commune,
to rejuvenate and repair
and realign with gratitude.
The white noise of the Pacific
our audible compass,
baskets soon brimmed with mushrooms
cut at their bases
by an patined carbon knife,
which travels everywhere
I do.
Pigs’ ears and black trumpets,
chanterelles and hedgehogs,
cauliflowers and yellow foots
competed with carpets of candy caps,
their golden undersides
redolent of Vermont maple syrup
lavished on a not-too-short short-stack,
hands down
my second favorite breakfast.
Caked with mud and pine
and leaves and sticks
and pollen and spiders’ webs,
we’re eventually spit out of the forest
through the mouth of an old fire trail
giggling
tired
arms aching under the weight
of fungi finds,
fortified for the next chapter
until it’s once again necessary
to return to the woods
to avail ourselves
of Nature’s promise
for renewal. (at Sonoma Lost Coast)
Hedgehogs and candy caps, oh my!
#california #mushrooms #mycology (at At Home in Napa)