the oddity of my kitties

I have two cats: Bear (formerly Jacques) and Mimi. Mimi is more like most cats. She is playful and loving one minute, finnicky and jumpy the next. She is adorable and tiny, though, and we love her. Then there is Bear. First of all, he needs species re-assignment surgery, because I know he would say he is a dog born in a cat's body. He needs constant love and attention. He lays on his belly all morning and evening in the entry way in hopes that one of us will come by and lovingly stroke his tender underside. He sleeps on our feet, chests, faces at night, and when he feels like he is done with our sleepy time, he stands on us and licks our faces or meows until we are awake. He is big and loud and he bounds around the house like a golden retriever. Is there any way for me to express the special place these animals have in my heart? Probably not. But I just love them.

Bear and Mimi, bird-hunting from our kitchen window.

Slow down, food!

P and I visited Slow Food Nation this weekend. This was basically a glorified farmer's market with a huge community garden in the middle. It was fun to see lettuce growing with City Hall in the background. It also made me realize how citified I have become since moving to SF. The fact that seeing some growing things in mounds of dirt in the middle of a concrete jungle excited me was...sort of sad.

I grew up in suburbia where the closest I got on a regular basis to seeing things growing was the grass on my front lawn. But I can't recall ever being stirred when seeing a garden or other such place before now. Somehow, the earth's power to spring forth beauty and nourishment was not foreign to me then as it is now. I have this sad longing for the days when I lived a little closer to nature. Close enough to smell the ocean on the wind or to ride my bike through a field of golden grass. I feel it like a hole in my heart.

I did, however, have the best ham sandwich ever (with espresso mayo!) and bought some beautiful baby shitake mushrooms, three gorgeous ripe Meyer lemons, a tiny disc of creamy organic goat cheese, and some glorious peaches (see cobbler debacle below). I sat in the sun with my best friend in the world, observed (and discussed) some of the more outrageous attendees, and felt, if only for a little while, more connected to the planet and to myself. Not bad for a Sunday outing!

adventures in cooking and baking

I have made some interesting food discoveries in the last month. I have always been an adventurous cook. My mother-in-law praises my risk-taking in the kitchen, but that's probably because she spent the last 30 years cooking for picky boys who tend to like boring food. :-) Anyway, to start with something that turned out well, a few weeks ago I came home determined to use some of the extra food in my fridge. This always incites the riskiest risk-taking in cooking for me. I had some left-over mashed potatoes, some bulk hot Italian sausage, some very ripe tomatoes and a few other random ingredients. This I turned into a sausage and tomato ragu with cannellini beans over a mashed potato pancake. It was marvelous. The ragu was deep-flavored and fresh-tasting, and the pancake was crispy on the outside and creamy in the middle. Marvelous.

Then, just last night in fact, I decided to make a peach cobbler to make use of the 5 beautiful white and yellow peaches I had picked up at the farmer's market on Sunday. I was making an "easy" cobbler, where instead of cutting cold butter into a dough, you simply make a batter and pour over melted butter directly into the baking dish and don't mix. Then you pour the fruit over the batter and, theoretically, the batter will rise to the top and turn golden brown. Well, everything was going smoothly until my adventurous streak kicked in. I was simmering the peaches in sugar and lovely Meyer lemon juice, when I thought "Hey! What about a blueberry peach cobbler?" I had just bought some organic frozen blueberries and thought I would add a few to the mix. No no no no no. Such a travesty. I basically ended up with a cobbler that looked like squid ink with some kind of fish guts in it. Wow. It was horrifying. Please, don't ever try this at home.

The nice thing about taking risks in the kitchen is that they really aren't risks. There is nothing at stake but our breakfast/lunch/dinner/dessert, and I always learn a lot. Especially from the mistakes. Plus, cooking puts me in my zen place. I can come home having had a terrible day and cooking gives me everything I need. I can think through the day's dilemmas, or I can choose to focus on the food and not think about them. I can cook an old stand-by and feel confident and experienced, or I can delve into new territory and see where the recipes take me. And then there is the satisfaction of being able to cook tasty, nutritious food for myself and my partner. Food that comes from my heart and says "I love you" much more than words can.

Will post the ragu recipe soon!

look, ma! I'm bloggin'!

Never blogged before. Nevertheless, I am currently feeling a tremendous amount of blog-pressure about blogging. Which is why I didn't do it until now. What is a blog supposed to be? Who is going to read my blog? Do they kick you out of the blog club if you aren't clever and witty, and if you don't put something interesting in at least once a week?

Is this meant to be a diary that the whole world could (presumably) read if they wanted to? If so, this will be a horrible diary, because I can't even write some things in the one that everyone can't see. So there is no hope for honesty in the one that's posted on the internet.

Should this be a place where I rant about the things that piss me off like SUVs and misogyny? In that case, this would be a very negative space indeed. A pestilence-filled cyber world. It might be nice to leave that venom somewhere, but I then would feel awful for those who happened upon this tragic blog in their web-browsing.

Ahh, blog.
This was fun.