eggbeater

Live, from The Farm, it's Shuna fish.

here i am.

it was great to wake up way after 4 am today. and watch babette eat, slow and methodically, a baby rabbit after our walk Saturday evening, and {me, myself} eat 2 fat and supple figs from the fig church, and see an entire bowl of Santa Rosa plums on the dining room table, and notice an orchard ladder next to a few fruit trees, and look down on the Napa River at dusk, and look forward to a day of nothingness interspersed with long walks with the dogs. especially after a week of 10 hour baking days starting at 5 am.

farm departure snapshots /in the rearview mirror

large hares bounding slowly, their long bodies arching long and wide
scent of mowed grasses, dry and sharp underfoot
abu & babette's ears, flapping in tune with each other and four foot dance trot
a clear, dark outline of one deer, stilled,
    and I stilled as well, viewed in secret, between levee and vineyard
a sense that isaac was on our walks with us
the Napa river, shallow but calling my name
    from way way down ravaged river walls
one extra ordinarily grand Great Blue Heron startled by our morning walk,
    lifting off immediately, unfurling fantastic wings tucked, and flying, unbelievably, through the river's fallen trees, up up, and disappearing
mosquitoes who will stop at nothing, including socks and bug spray and trousers, to sting me
an almost full moon casting thick silvery moonlight
    and drafting clear shadow outlines of barns and tree canopies

one Royal Blenheim apricot ripening slowly
guiding those I love through a place I love
hundreds of swallows dipping and swooping
    over an orange-golden field at dusk

glimmering dried grasses swaying, rocking
adult quails followed by dozens of tiny quailettes,
    their tiny head dresses trilling faster than the speed of sight!
babette, arched and exhilarated, tail curlique as a scorpion,
    at the prospect of catching a squirrel on the levee
seeing smoke on the horizon that is really topsoil upset by one tractor
barely ripe tomato, eaten, from the summer garden
morning skies viewed through Live Oak and Redwood tree branches
inviting people into the fig church
explaining cardoons to Easterners

tiny bunny, dead, at abu's feet
ground shadows of hunting hawks
listening to the wind before it arrived
eating green almonds
spending a Friday morning with my favorite 78 year old farmer
    and feeling the morning go from cool to hot in few hours   

cutting open green walnuts, still liquid where the nut meat should be
calamine lotion legs, hot pink exposed under summer shorts
    the scent of calamine like camp and grandmothers
an itch that is hot with unbearable-ness
having time to catch up on old New Yorkers
laughing aloud at Jay Raynor with no one to hear me but the dogs
bright sky, bold green grape leaves, dark vineyard in trellis-land:
    a three layered painting of opposites, at the same time
dusty shoelaces
sunscreen and still and Irish face reddened
bug bites galore
the quiet of nothing all the day long

a valley of light long after sunset
coyote skat filled with cherry pits
countless acorn hats
inpenatrable black walnuts and their finely dollhouse sculpted interiors
finding the old tractor
dense fuzz of young peaches
green figs camouflaged
one lemon gifted to a friend
seven days without music, or news
late nights with books in hand
long talks with faraway friends
burrs in furry friends' ears
a bird-stripped elderly cherry orchard

going out to eat at Ubuntu and then having more dessert at Redd!
visiting friends at Fatted Calf
mint chocolate chip ice cream from Three Twins
running into the most beautiful man/pastry chef, Gary Rulli, at The Oxbow Market {falling into his green eyes}

cooling the little farm house down with night air
green blackberries reaching out, waterless creek
skyscraper tall eucalyptus trees
freshly painted barns
rabbit warrens everywhere
coconut perfume breeze through fig trees
walking far far away with the dogs
babette stalking, leaping and bounding in tall dry grasses,
    psyching out small, hiding, frightened mammals
abu playing a game with me at dusk,
    running in wide circles, like hide and seek.

remembering
memory,
a silent movie of every visit, every stay, every walk with the dogs,
    every sleepover, every intimate moment,
a whirlwind romance,
a deep friendship,
a geography where my roots lay claim
love.

where my heart is, here.

bunny breakfast.

this here is proof that dogs, when allowed to be dogs, are not vegetarian. baby bunny.

I've seen a lot of rabbits at the farm lately. the older ones are pretty brave, leaping across the road in front of the dogs, here and there and everywhere. but the little ones aren't as fast, unfortunately.

babette, the small female dog, is an excellent hunter. she's fast and can run over 40 mph under the vineyard watering hoses and trellises. abu, babette's slightly larger half brother, isn't as fast. I found him with this baby rabbit though, at the end of our morning walk. it could be that babette gave her prize to abu, or that she found baby bunny and ran it straight to abu.

every stay at the farm is different and I see changes in the dogs as well as other creatures who live and visit depending on more factors than I would know how to see, determine or reason why. this visit will be remembered by bold hares and dusk skies filled with raptors. everyone is hungry. most especially the mosquitos, who couldn't be happier about my stay.

abu n babette in the tall tall mustard grasses

one year ago today

I took this photo.

at the farm.

and tomorrow

I hope to take some more like it.

The farm is where I go to remind myself that I am whole.

No matter what is happening or not happening in my life.

I never look at this gift

and think it's there because I deserve it.

I remember that this gift is grace.

And that like all gifts,

it could disappear at anytime

but that does not mean that I could disappear at anytime.

This is an important distinction.

It means that no one can decide my fate without me participating in the decision making process, unless I am physically incapacitated, which I am not.

As I said to a friend of mine tonight,

"I am letting the thoughts run through me but not let them to run me off the road."

For in all crises, in all departure, there is confusion. One must cycle through hundreds of conversations to try and make sense of the most recent one.

It's a strange fact.

But after all the ticker tape there can be pattern, and then,

answer.

Or at least an answer you can be comfortable with wearing.

For a spell.

It's like a spell. A faerie ring. The dance is so joyful, ecstatic, and then it's exhausting and you're treacherously bound to the movement, pushing on beyond all physical limits.

i would like to remember you as you were

pretty and decorated and mine

a space I created from a long neglected one

~

I'm glad,

and grateful,

that memory plays tricks on us.

Going to the farm month after month, season after season, year after year,

means I can always see it anew.

More Claude. Bisous!

Claude, aka Potato

Octopus Braise

The other day I caught one of my favorite preparations from the restaurant on film digitally: braising octopus. Michael is passionate about where these animals come from and he works hard to keep its preparation consistent. I love watching it start to finish and it's my favorite dish to order or suggest to friends who come in.

Octopus is easier to mess up than it is to make delicious and tender. I've worked with chefs who are good at both destroying and honoring this incredible creature. Some say it's outcome has to do with the size of the animal but I disagree as I've had both young and mature rubbery octopus. I think, as with all ingredients, animal or not, it has to do with understanding the molecular make-up of the ingredient's flesh, skeleton and its natural habitat. A collard green likes to be cooked longer than spinach because it grows in harsher conditions and its leaves are much thicker. Some citrus peels needs a lot of blanching before candying, while another needs none.

I have some conflict with eating octopus because I have always felt related to the sea and all the creatures who live in water. When it comes into the restaurant I try to send my thoughts its way. But I was excited to have my camera to photograph some of the process the other day, because these animals are so magnificent.

When I work with chefs who treat their menu ingredients with respect I can appreciate their food much more, and conversely, make desserts which follow their savoury thoughts that much better.

Working in a restaurant is building a relationship. It's hundreds of relationships and it's one, all at the same time. One of many is the relationship we all have with the myriad of ingredients and those people who get them to us from land and sea.

As I've begun to document, photographically and with words, the daily life of the kitchen I call home, I see there are layers and layers of life going on every second, every minute, every day, with every aspect and every person and every action. It is not possible for me to tell all of these stories, I am not omniscient. I am merely attempting to give you a glimpse, a peek from the inside and to the inside, with as much respect as possible.

For more photos of the octopuses and their braise preparation, check them out on flickr.

::woof::

How To Compost In Your Own Home/Apartment!

When I see little tricks people use in their homes I steal them away. And I share! I love sharing. Sharing is caring. Do I sound like a Pollyanna? No matter, think what you like, hoarding great ideas is not in my nature.

Last year I had the pleasure and honor of seeing the kitchen and partaking in a homemade bread lesson with a humble but brilliant gentleman and his observant, well spoken daughter. This fellow, we'll call him The Wrangler, lives in an apartment. It's not a New York or Parisian apartment in that the kitchen is an actual room and not an idea, but it is an apartment nonetheless. It is not a house with a backyard.

But this space is not a negative one. It is full of life and projects and comfortable chairs and warm scents.

And Mr. Wrangler has hundreds of worms in his apartment too! You don't smell or hear or see or sense or know of them until you're let in on the secret. It's amazing. He's brilliant. (I should mention that I also had the delightful opportunity to gaze in at Marc's worm friends as well.)

Just think, you could get a nifty black box with some hardworking creatures and have you some deep dark soil in mere weeks, and be as smart as these fellows...

If you don't live in a city or state which makes composting part of its citywide garbage collection system, VERMICOMPOSTING might be just the ticket for you...

Check out this thorough article written by Nicole Spiridakis on this very intriguing subject in the SF Chronicle!