For all of you who live in Hawaii, check out the new issue of Gourmet Magazine (Sept. 2007). The theme of the issue is Latin-American cuisine, which happens to encompass so many tropical foods and fruits that we have in Hawaii! There are recipes with papaya, cabocha squash (they call it by a Spanish name), soursop/guayabano and other things that we have there. It made me excited, because you usually look through those magazines and the produce is always peak-of-season on the mainland, but hard-to-find or very expensive in Hawaii. So, there you go. And, once again, Portland gets a plug, specifically for the taco wagons we have in town, two out of four of which are in my neighborhood. But, you know what? The one time I tried them, the cilantro was all sandy or something and there was an unnervingly grainy crunch in the greens that put me off. Maybe next time I'll try the stand that's next to the new juice bar trailer...

Sometime in July-07

I came to Victory Wine and Food (Division St. at 36th) with the intention of having a glass of wine and work on writing about another neighborhood restaurant—I didn’t expect to eat something there worthy of a blog itself. Their menu consists of classy bar food—small plates of meats and cheeses (impressive house-made pate, charcuterie, smoked fish, and meatballs). The chef, who apparently worked at Park Kitchen before this, stands behind the bar and casually prepares all this fabulous stuff effortlessly, dressed in a plaid shirt and vintage corduroy pants. I was leaning towards having some cheese (a changing cheeseboard), but opted to try the mussels, cooked in a saffron butter broth with homemade chorizo and thin slices of celery draped over them. They were maybe the best mussels I’ve ever had. And only $8! I had to restrain from mopping up the sauce with an ENTIRE baguette! I had a glass of Sancerre (Chateau Recogne) and a bit of Mas Amiel Port (strong!) and I was then good-to-go. I need to get back there. (Huge room too—great for a party! My birthday next year perhaps.) They’re closed on Sundays, but the chef told me that someone else comes in and does a supper club there every once in a while. I’m on the email list for that, can’t wait until it happens...).

The neighborhood spot that I was originally going to write about is in the wonderful little Clinton Neighborhood. A friend from work took be there, coincidentally, around the time of the Rose festival. The place is named “Bara,” or “rose” in Japanese. It’s housed in the first floor of a big victorian, off of 20th street. We ate on their lovely little patio, and I was impressed with everything. I said a while ago that the only thing my neighborhood really needed was a great little sushi restaurant, and this is it. Growing up on Kauai I’m incredibly picky about sushi. Hey, my best friend’s dad was a fisherman-- sashimi in their house meant cutting the ahi from the bone onto the plate in the kitchen sink, if not right on the boat. (Did you know that the origin of poke was actually finding a way to prepare the small bits of fish scraped from right against the bone?).

So I don’t eat farmed salmon, in a sushi roll or anywhere. That stuff is gross. And I can spot dyed ahi all over this town. I’ve eaten sushi at the many places that people rave about, and Bara is the first place that I’ve actually been satisfied at in Portland. The chef (who used to work at Masu) makes creative, California-style rolls (avocado, etc.), in an appropriate mouth-size with really fresh fish. We had sockeye salmon nigiri, a Las Vegas Roll, hamachi, and these really great green-lipped mussels chopped w/a spicy mayo and cooked in their shells as an appetizer. Yummy food, cute restaurant, great service. I like it. A lot. And the waitress told us there’s even a private tatami room in back for parties. Just like Kintaros...

Arizona 7-5-07

I just weeded through paragraphs of rambling about my amazing trip to Arizona, deciding to share only the highlights that hit my tastebuds:

1. Cowboy Ciao—restaurant in Scottsdale (hidden among the shopping complexes) with an unfortunate name but incredible food. Innovative Southwestern. Good wine too—my friends and I each ordered a flight (served in crystal). I got the Central (CA) Coast Chardonnay one. Good sips. We shared a “Stetson Chopped Salad,” served in a rainbow on the plate and mixed by the server (pink smoked salmon, yellow dried corn, green spinach, white cheese, dark red currants and brown toasted pumpkin seeds). Great salad. Unusual. Then we ordered the “Exotic Mushroom Panfry,” 7 types of wildish fungi sauteed in an ancho chili cream sauce (dark and rich and smoky!). Dessert was an (okay) bread pudding garnished with house made orange ice cream (really good with crystallized bits of orange), and drizzled with a brown sugar-butter sauce. Mmm...
2. Fresh salsa and avocado on everything! The waiter tried not to laugh when I asked if they had salsa at the Coffee Pot diner where we ate breakfast at in Sedona. That place was “home of 101 omelets.” No joke—they were all listed.
3. Watermelon Mojitos POOLSIDE at the Camelback resort in Scottsdale. Frozen watermelon blended with mint on a sunny day, what more could you ask for? A pool? Rum? You got it...paradise for a moment.
4. New Frontier Grocery Store in Sedona: Wonderful, beautiful new healthfood store. Just great food and great looking. Amazing deli/juicebar and prepared food section. They made lavender lemonade there! Salsa of course, salads, and these great mixed berry oat bars and other vegan pastries. A reggae band was playing out front the last day we were there.
5. “Baja Shrimp Cocktail”—basically a really good gazpacho with cooked shrimp and avocado cubes floating in it, served with lime and chips. This dish (also served poolside at Camelback) inspired my own modification that I made for a BBQ at my friend’s house this summer. They called it “Lila Love”:
-1 lb. Oregon bay shrimp (or other peeled, cooked shrimp, chopped into 1/2 in. pieces)
-4 small avocados, cubed
-1 T smooth salsa (can be jarred, whatever)
-1 clove garlic, diced
-2 limes, juiced
-chopped cilantro (optional—I didn’t have it, but it probably would make this EVEN BETTER!)
-Mix all ingredients in a bowl (lightly, not to blend the avo) & season w/salt & pepper. Serve w/chips.

I stood outside Park Kitchen early one Friday evening, gazing at the eclectic monthly offerings (chickpea fries, grilled shrimp salad, leek tart, terrine du jour). Park Kitchen has an excellent reputation in Portland (and, I believe farther than that), as being a restaurant of seasonal specialties, and as a real chef’s restaurant. It’s another head-to-tail place, where you’ll see something like tripe (or sweetbreads, or tongue) on the menu just next to something like pasta. I think at one point they were making their own hot dogs.
Anyway, I liked the look of things on that menu, and was about to walk in when a pretty woman from my yoga class (where I’d just come from) and her companion parked their Land Rover out front and came to look at the menu as well.

“All I could think about during that yoga class was having a glass of wine!” I turned and said to her as the bar bustled behind the glass in front of us.

“I’m glad I had one before class!” She replied with a smile, “it made those poses a little easier to hold.”

It was kind of funny, all things considered, that we both came from the Pearl’s temple of yoga (and vegan restaurant attached, no less), dressed in workout clothes to this meaty little restaurant. It’s all about balance, I guess.

I walked in and tried to hide my outfit and backpack by sitting at the far end of the bar (it’s so casual here, that in all honesty, no one really noticed what I was wearing), and was pleased to find that an acquaintance of mine was bartending. This sprightly friend let me taste a few wines, and with the help of another waiter’s (unsolicited, but appreciated) two cents, I settled on a white Rioja—round, smooth, full of fruit, with a clear lemony color. The perfect spring sip.

I wasn’t starving (which was lucky, because this is a “small plates” place, where you have to order a few to get full, and even bread is one of those, so you have to pay for that too), so I decided to go for it. See, sometimes when I go out, I seek out fresh, interesting vegetable dishes and salads, OR, I just want to get straight to the point with meat and dessert. This was one of those times. [One of my most memorable meals was at Roy’s Kihei, with a few crew guys from the music tour I was working on. I walked in late, and ordered filet mignon and a chocolate souffle. One of the best meals ever. ‘Nuff said.]

I ordered the tripe. I’ve never had tripe, but I’m slowly making my way through the bits and pieces of the edible animal (sweetbreads—check), and decided it was time. Serious foodies love this stuff, so here I go. Prior to this, I’ve only seen tripe in menudo at the post-ceremonial gatherings of my Mexican extended family, and have always been deterred by it’s pale, honeycomb appearance. But this was Park Kitchen, I put my trust in the chef, and I was fortunately pleased.

This dish was comprised of veal tripe (smaller, delicate and lacy), shelled spring peas, julienne carrots, morel mushrooms, and hand-rolled pici pasta, all in a shallow bowl of rich earthy brown sauce (mmm...stock and mushrooms). The presentation was delicate yet homey (the morels and tripe had a similar texture and look). It tasted like the inside of a pot pie. Well, a gourmet Park Kitchen fantasy pot pie. The elements were there. It was delicious.
I followed this perfect portion with a warm ginger-rhubarb galette (fruit filled pastry, like a personal pie), topped with candied ginger and cardamom whipped cream (LOVE anything sweet with cardamom, especially coffee cake). I sipped a tiny glass of Quinto do Infantado 10 year tawny port to finish it off. I definitely selected well, and was fully satisfied. The woman that I befriended on the barstool next to me who ordered lightly—the leek tart and some sort of grapefruit poundcake--was clearly jealous.

I find myself deeply frustrated and at last overloaded with all of the FOOD around me. I serve it all day. Working in a restaurant (a good one), I graze on it all day too. After work, I often want to go out to a restaurant for something to eat. The only magazine I subscribe to is Gourmet, so that’s what I have around my apartment to read. The books I’m reading right now happen to be “Hope’s Edge: The Next Diet for a Small Planet,” and Gael Greene’s (famous NY restaurant critic) memoir, “Insatiable.” On my days off, I want to cook and go to the farmer’s market, and often find myself at New Seasons grocery store at least twice a week. It’s too much. I’m bored already.

When I worked in retail (fashion), I couldn’t get enough time for the food stuff. What I thought I wanted to be doing was working in a restaurant (well, owning one really). And here I am. I care more about the buzz on what’s opening, what the innovative chefs are doing, how Greg Higgins is flying from Portland to New York city to make an appearance at the “Chef’s Gone Wild” event benefiting City Meals on Wheels (which, coincidentally Gael Greene helped to start) this summer. One of my managers came in to work this afternoon proclaiming “I will bet...I’d put money on Rocket being named the Oregonian’s Restaurant of the Year.” He was boasting it like some self-proclaimed prophet. I just stood there (stewing). Duh. Hello! When I HEARD about the concept for Rocket months (actually about a year) ago, I knew it would be a big deal. The chef, his connections with the food world (coming from Noble Rot, which I read about in Gourmet before even thinking about moving to Portland), and the innovative concept (molecular gastronomy, blah blah blah). When I heard that the building built to house it (the “Rocket Building”) was platinum LEED certified (one of a few in the nation), and read that Leather Storrs (the chef) planned to put a garden and chicken coop on the roof, I knew that the place would be like no other. And finally, when I applied for a job there (knowing, based on all of the above factors, that it would be buzzworthy) and took in the view for myself (more than 180 degrees—best view in Portland, of both the downtown skyline AND Mt. Hood on a clear day), I knew that it would be this summer’s hot spot. Or, at the very least, the most talked about restaurant in town. Which, it is. A friend who works there just told me that the New York Times is flying in this weekend to review it. What did I tell ya?

5-19-07
I flipped through the latest issue of Gourmet magazine this evening, stopping to glance over a full-page recipe for “Berry Bliss Cake,” which was essentially an ad for Kraft products. Pictured was a “lifestyle expert” preparing this simple dish from instant or frozen ingredients such as Cool Whip, Jello pudding and pound cake. I was insantly filled with conflicting feelings: attracted to the picture-perfect cake, and it’s simplicity but found my nose cringing with my newfound disdain for all foods artificial. Yuck—frozen food, instant pudding, corn syrup...all of a sudden, my thoughts turned to memories of being a kid, making jello...I learned to cook with that kind of stuff. My earliest memories of “cooking” on my own were of putting bologna and “lil’ smokies” sausages in the toaster oven. Hey, that stuff was good!

What are we (the newly enlightened to whole and natural foods) to do when we have kids? I eat quite healthy now, and have nothing instant or artificial in my pantry (except maybe polenta, and ramen). But what happens when my kids have a birthday party, or need treats for a school function? Will it all be from scratch? No Duncan Hines cupcakes? It’s odd, because thinking of this, it becomes apparent that kids or no, I haven’t had any family-style functions in my single life in the past year. No reason to bake treats for a group, no sweet teeth to please (except my own, of course...). I wonder if when the healthy have kids, most prior good habits fall to the wayside in the way of convenience. I mean, my mom was a macrobiotic at one point, next thing she knew, us kids were getting fast food for dinner every Thursday on “town day.” Just like the way a parent finds themselves listening to their 9 year old’s cds in the car... saccharine all around...

5-1-07

As I loosened my tie (seriously) and removed my coffee-stained “bistro” apron late Sunday afternoon at work, I contemplated my attendance at a dinner party that I’d been invited to that evening. It was to be hosted by a friend of mine from the restaurant, who, motivated by any excuse to make “shabu-shabu” (dressed in a full-length cotton kimono, no less) declared the evening’s theme “Asian.” I figured that the term would be applied loosely since, this being Southeast Portland, there would most likely be no actual Asians present.

I am normally more than enthusiastic about any sort of dinner party, but I worked all weekend, and felt like I didn’t have enough to bring. However, because I heard that one of the city’s buzzworthy young chefs might be in attendance, I didn’t want to miss out. I did think ahead on this, and in the event that I might go, I had made some Chi Chi Dango (coconut mochi) on Friday night just in case.

Mochi treats, particularly Chi Chi Dango, like many Japanese confections, are often made with artificial food coloring, to give sweets their pink color, and pickles that fluorescent yellow. Standing in the baking aisle at the grocery store, however, I couldn’t muster the purchase of liquid chemicals to add to my cooking. So, I concocted a natural alternative. The mochi recipe was to be layered, so one part, at least, could remain naturally white. For the other, I boiled a beet in a little water (which I used later for beetroot salad), and used that beautiful fucshia juice in place of the water in half of the batter. It made the mochi a fabulous dark red, but I admit, when soft against the off-white layer, it bore an unsettling resemblance to body fat. Or steak. One person at the party (while enjoying it) compared it to “raw fish.” Ahem. Anyway...it was definitely well received, and quite tasty. Everybody loves mochi.

On to the next course: appetizers. I was in a time crunch, but my pantry did hold a start—rice wrappers for spring rolls. Desperately flipping pages of all of my cookbooks and magazines for a recipe, I found none (nor directions for turning the rigid wrappers soft), but drew on my own taste and memory to develop a dish. I zoomed up the street on my vintage bike to the grocery store, on a mission for fresh Oregon bay shrimp (in season as of 2 weeks ago), plump, flavorful, tiny, and best of all—cooked. I had some cilantro, so I thought “mint,” and intended to put something else in (carrots? cucumber?) but lost track of any other ingredients as I frantically searched for bean sprouts. That’s what I wanted to use for the bulk of the salad rolls, but after scanning the entire produce section (twice) in vain, I finally asked someone, and a clerk told me that “there was a fire.” At the bean sprout factory? Odd, but I had no time to ponder that one. Onward, I wondered, “what is filling, fresh, and flavorless?” ICEBERG LETTUCE!

It took me a minute, standing there before the mound of lettuce, to accept the fact that I was actually about to buy and prepare conventional iceberg lettuce (never thought I’d see the day), the archenemy of the organic movement. But, it’d do the job, so that’s what I did. And, my friends, those babies were dee-lish. Everyone was impressed. So here’s the recipe:

Lila’s Springtime Rolls
3/4 lb cooked Oregon bay shrimp
1/4 c chopped cilantro
1/8 c chopped spearmint
1/2 lime’s worth of juice
1 t sambal chili sauce
head of iceberg lettuce
grated carrot (optional)
thinly sliced cucumber (optional)
rice spring roll wrappers
salt

Mix the shrimp, lime juice, herbs and sambal in a bowl with salt to taste. Thinly julienne the lettuce. Soak the rice wrappers, about 4 at a time in a pie dish or skillet filled with warm water for about 3 minutes. Here’s where things got experimental: without proper directions, I took the wrappers out one at a time and dried them on clean dishtowels laid all over my kitchen to blot off the moisture. It worked fine. Take a little of the shrimp mixture, place it in a line about 3” long a bit off center (closer to you rolling it), top with a mound of lettuce, and fold/roll away from you once, tuck the sides over, and finish rolling. Repeat until mixture is used up. Serve the rolls with warm, homemade peanut sauce (recipe I used is in the Joy of Cooking). Enjoy!

P.S. Drinking primarily riesling and/or plum wine all night is always a bad idea.

3-11-07

At the end of the long thick plank of a wooden bar, I sat in the shadows by myself. A glass of ’03 Pineraie Cahors on my left, White Haven New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc on my right. I took alternate sips of each as I savored every bite of my tasty little dinner.

I stopped into Noble Rot last tonight because my friend was working. Late in the afternoon, I took one of the last open seats at the bar, all the way down, where the food comes from the kitchen. In front of me stood two huge jars: one full of marcona almonds, the other of house-marinated olives. It wasn’t even six o’clock yet, but the room was sufficiently low-lit to urge on the start of an evening of solid wine drinking.

“The Rot” divides their wines by the glass into flights based on themes or regions, which is always entertaining. For my first glass I debated between that Cahors, from a flight of such, and a Barbera. As mentioned, I decided on the former, which was slightly stronger and more to the point than the slippery, cool Barbera. A little bit more, shall we say, “saturday night.” Glass in hand, I studied the specials board up on the wall to my left, and my gaze immediately got caught on the first item: Rabbit Cassoulet (for only $13). Slightly weary of rich food (as French cuisine is prepared in the restaurant in which I work), I ordered it anyway. The last time I sat down to a dinner of laupin was when I was actually in Paris, over a year ago.

I asked for a little wedge of some type of triple-cream cheese that looked a like camembert, and I spread it all over little rounds of soft artisan bread. The restaurant was busy, and I enjoyed sitting there, planted in my little spot in the corner, legs a bit road-weary from exploring the neighborhood all afternoon. I browsed through the first few pages of the Wine Spectator, perfectly content listening to music and the orders being called to the kitchen.

That cassoulet was divine. It turned out to be quite delicate for a traditional dish like that. The rabbit was first prepared confit-style, imbuing a fantastic smoky flavor in the meat. It was shredded, slightly crispy, and set amongst beans and vegetables (cubes of turnip, celeriac, and arugula) in what was more like a broth than a roux based sauce. I ate it slowly and deliberately, stretching out the dish’s deliciousness with my little pieces of bread. And wine.

When I finished, definitely satisfied, the chef, an acquaintance, came over and asked me about my meal, followed by the question, “is there anything you DON’T eat?” I paused for a second, and answered, “not really, except maybe sweatbreads, tripe...offal.” “All meat?” “Yep.” He approved, and walked away, returning about ten minutes later with a gift of short-rib ravioli with two sauces—creamy blue cheese and a bordelaise. Topped with crispy shallots. I felt lucky. But overly stuffed. Like a goose on a fois gras farm. My friend brought me a glass of dessert wine (a Tokaji, I believe). I sipped the golden liquid from a tiny antique glass. When it was finally all gone, and I felt at the height of my most cosmopolitan, most Parisian, I said my goodbyes and stepped out into the night. Then I walked to catch the bus.

3-2-07
Way up on Northwest 23rd and Vaughn Street, far past all of the shops and twinkling lights of Nob Hill, is a little restaurant called Filberts. Yes, like the hazelnut. It is a little nut: a little nugget of delicious, tender goodness sheltered from a tough outer shell of the surrounding industrial zone, freeway on-ramps, and budget hotels. Inside the door of the cottage is a cozy room with warm colored walls, and an equally warm staff that invites you in as if they’d been expecting you at a dinner in their home. It’s quiet, tiny, and intimate, and the food is equally comforting.

Subtle and unpretentious, I felt like what we had to eat there was just the best of what someone (well, a highly skilled, professionally trained someone) might put in front of you if you were having dinner with them at home. Everything was just really good—nothing too showy, nothing too salty (you know how, you go out, and something really pops in your mouth, the flavor is huge, and you go home, unable to get enough water down your throat, realizing, that in fact it was just REALLY salty? I feel like this happens a lot with French food and sauces).

We started with mussels (undoubtedly from waters somewhere very close) in the classic white wine butter broth—so plump, so fresh...dare I use the word...succulent. They really were. We began to wash down our feast with Brooks Willamette Valley Pinot Noir, decidedly the only choice to accompany the diversity of flavors that we intended to devour (sea, land, garden, dessert tray).

I could not resist the Carlton pork chop, which, upon ordering, I was given a short exposition on how the chef prefers to cook them medium rare, being that they come from
a town only a short drive away, and that there’s yet to be any concrete evidence that consuming raw pork will cause illness. I agreed to the preparation, because, hey, if that’s how the chef says it’s to be done, that’s how I want to eat it (although when it did arrive, it appeared fully cooked to me). It came out beautiful, thick cut, over atop a bed of tiny parsnips and ham hock, delicately cubed into the exact same size, with strips of lovely fennel. All of that was over this delectable caramelized cake that they called a “carrot rosti,” basically shredded carrot with shallots and seasonings, formed into a little patty and browned on the outside. The combination of the sweet root vegetables with the savory salt-pork flavor was perfect. Perfect. I do believe that I had the best thing on the menu, though my friend’s trout was delicious as well—pan fried light and crispy. Despite the fact that it was served with black-eyed peas, ham, and shiitake mushrooms (an interesting take on the southern combo), I was impressed at how the fish maintained it’s crispy crust throughout the meal.

We finished with the best creme-brulee I’ve ever had (I have to admit, I haven’t tried TOO many, because normally I don’t care for sweets of the custard persuasion). It was more creamy than custardy, smooth and silky. There was a tiny little portion stuck to the side of the ramekin when our smiling server came by to clear our plate, and she sweetly encouraged us to eat this last bit--what she called “the angel’s share” (or something equally whimsical). I love how the staff appreciates the food so much, that, like a good friend, they can't help but tell you to go ahead and finish that last spoonful.

I have to give snaps where snaps are due--to the Heathman Restaurant for turning out a dish that was by far, one of the best meals I've had in months. What was this mouthwateringly delicious, perfectly cooked and delicately textured dish, you ask? Black miso cod--the fish at the height of freshness, skin on top to further seal in the juicy flavor, large, silky flakes that were as smooth as butter on the tongue, in a miso-white wine broth. In this broth were halved sections of whole baby bok choy, steamed and soaking in the juice (with a slight firm crunch remaining in their cooked stalks). Four perfectly plump, shelled mussels sat surrounding the cod, straight from Willapa bay to the plate, via a little dip in a hint of white wine (the taste was just faintly present). I love black cod when it's cooked this way, I know they do it at Nobu, and a few other fine restaurants, and it is just SO GOOD. With a dessert of the Heathman's Chocolate Gourmandise (warm flourless chocolate cake, smothered in rich chocolate sauce), that's a meal that takes you to heaven and back. Seriously, I was by myself eating that cod, and I stopped between bites, to sigh and say "wow," looking at the plate in disbelief, in awe that something could be SO GOOD. Don't know how else to describe it. But that chocolate dessert--yesterday a man at the restaurant called it "better than excellent." You can't get more complimentary than that.

2-15-07

I trudged home through the rain today, carrying groceries in a bag and on my back. The weather was coming from every-which-way, and I got tired of getting wet inside the bus-stop. So I just started walking. No umbrella, I just let the drops soak my jacket and mat my unbrushed hair. At least I only live 8 blocks from the grocery store.

Anyway, I have a little sinus/cold thing, so I wanted to buy ingredients for a soothing soup. And for cornbread. I can’t seem to get cornbread right, ever, despite the fact that I love it—this time it was too metallic and dry. Maybe it needed sugar? Or butter? The soup I made was great however—perfectly brothy, hearty, and easy.

The origin for this recipe sprang from the necessity to use up a bunch of wilting arugula in my refrigerator. I bought it for salad, and was hesitant to cook it through, which I’d never really tried before, but I figured, “hey, it’s green, it’ll be good.” It turns out that when matched with a more powerful spice (like spicy sausage), the peppery-ness of the arugula just disappears and it becomes mild and soft like spinach.

Having the arugula, I naturally thought “Italian,” (I had some parmigiano too, which I ended up not needing due to how flavorful the soup turned out). I looked up some soup recipes, and found one for the Portuguese “Caldo Verde,” which is mostly just Portuguese sausage, broth and kale, or another dark leafy green. So, with that simple recipe in mind, here’s what I came up with:

Rained-out Spicy Soup

1. In a pot, brown 1/2 lb loose (or uncased) spicy italian sausage (I used pork, but you could use chicken, just put some olive oil in the pan first, just make sure it’s the spicy one). The sausage I get from my grocer has a lot of garlic in it, but if yours has none, add 1 large clove of minced garlic with your sausage.
2. When browned, remove sausage into a bowl (spoon out, leaving the grease in the pot), and set aside.
3. Reheat grease in pot, add half of a medium-sized onion, diced, and brown over medium heat. When browned, turn down and cook until almost clear.
4. Add 4 cups of chicken broth (one of those organic boxes), and raise heat
5. Return sausage to pot, along with 1 can of (rinsed and drained) Great Northern, Canellini, or other white bean, sea salt and pepper to taste (I threw in a whole teaspoon of alae`a salt).
6. Bring briefly to bubbling, then reduce to a simmer for about 10 more minutes.
7. Add chopped arugula (1/2 to a whole bunch, stems and all—1 inch pieces), and when that wilts, give it a stir, and your soup will be ready. Soothing, savory, spicy, and nutritious!
Serve topped with a little parmigiano if you like, and bread on the side (probably focaccia, or ciabatta, or cornbread if you get the craving like mine!)

*This recipe serves two for dinner with some leftovers.

2-10-07
Semi-sunny Saturday morning: I woke up with explorative energy, and decided to catch the bus to one of my favorite little Portland neighborhoods—Mississippi Street. I began with a perfect latte from Albina Press (you know, the kind they always used to make at all the decent coffee shops in Seattle), with the fern pattern on top. I want to learn how to make those, to master that technique of delicately swirling the espresso foam and the milk. (The guy who made this one apparently won second at the U.S. barista championships.) I stayed at Albina Press for a little while, people watching and then scanning the scraps of New York Times left behind by charitable subscribers.

After that, I strolled down Mississippi as it woke up, passing couples with dogs, running kids, moms pushing strollers, and hipsters freshly rolled out of bed. Moxie Rx was open, and I could not resist the temptations sitting in this kitsch little food trailer’s window: homemade muffins, pastries, rolls with brie and apple. It was all laid on vintage plates with 50s linen and doilies—picture perfect and delectable. The woman who runs the place also has a couple of made-to-order specials listed on cute little plaques, and drinks like berry smoothies and steamers (spiced apple cider, orange-chili-Mexican cocoa, spiced maple milk).

Although I had already resolved not to eat a heavy brunch this weekend, I could not resist her Cheddar Biscuit—a handmade buttermilk biscuit baked with a cheddar cheese top, sandwiching applewood smoked bacon (or smoked salmon), fluffy herbed and scrambled eggs, folded over a little slice of provolone. It was a bundle of heaven, wrapped perfectly in a piece of waxed paper. All buttery and savory, wrapped up like that, the breakfast was reminiscent of a McDonalds breakfast biscuit. Truly, I mean this only in the most complementary of ways, because, growing up, the “bacon egg and cheese biscuit” was one of my most favorite things. I eagerly anticipated the days (about once a week or so) when we woke up early enough for my Mom to take us through the “drive-thru.” And, with my whip-thin frame and insatiable adolescent appetite, I always ordered two breakfast sandwiches (an Egg McMuffin to accompany the biscuit). I played a lot of soccer then.

2-6-07
There’s nothing like an orange in the dead of winter. A bright, oily, firm one; full of color and heavy with juice. Especially right at this moment, when everything is dry, dry, dry, and cold. When the trees are brittle and skeletal, and there’s a thin layer of gray dust on the sidewalks. When the sky looks that way too, and my own skin feels as if it’s cracking like shale.

This is the time that I appreciate an orange like no other. Never before in my life have I particularly cared for oranges, I suppose because I previously just took them for granted, like apples or milk. But here in the Northwest, I’ve begun to take notice of them—on menus, in the market, and have slowly been filling my fridge with them (I’ve been fortunate, because of my renewed employment with an organic produce company, to obtain a variety of freebies).

While home on Kauai in January, one of the things that I most looked forward to and enjoyed, were the tangelos off of the tree in my Mom’s front yard. My favorite fruit, the tangelo. Nothing is juicier. And with very little acid, it produces the most mouthwatering juice. I swear that they taste better the closer to the time that you pick them too, so I’d walk out and pick them in my pajamas in the cool air of the morning before I juiced them for breakfast. Never have I felt bitterness towards the strict agricultural laws that keep plant species out of, and in, the state of Hawaii, until I left Kauai without any fresh fruit in my bag. How I would have enjoyed those tangelos up here in Portland...

The first citrus to come into season on the mainland (I assume that all of this fruit is coming from California) were the Meyer lemons (used on menus in a sauce, or a dessert like cheesecake), then Satsuma oranges on salads. These days, I’ve seen and tasted blood oranges, minneola tangerines, and just plain old navel oranges, which, when organic, are positively bursting with flavor right now. In the winter, their juice is so life giving—just the perfume that explodes while peeling them awakens dulled, doughy senses.

Because of their vibrancy, I think, citrus is abuzz on many tongues around here—I’ve heard of friends returning from road trips to California with gifts of treasured fruit from southern farms. And someone recently mentioned a new fruit in the market here, called the “citrus cocktail”—some hybrid that takes the most desirable elements from lemons, oranges and grapefruit (thanks to a hard working Willy Wonka of the plant world out there).

The other evening, no doubt after eating some snack accompanied by orange slices (slices of orange are so perfect with or after anything heavy or fatty—meat, cheese, etc. I’ve heard of them being brought out unadorned as the closing course to a hefty Italian meal), I picked up my copy of “A Moveable Feast,” and found that even Hemmingway deemed citrus fruit worthy of writing about. He wrote of his experience living in Paris in the wintertime, “The fireplace drew well in the room and it was warm and pleasant to work. I brought mandarines and roasted chesnuts to the room in paper packets and peeled and ate the small tangerine-like oranges and threw their skins and spat their seeds into the fire when I ate them and roasted chesnuts when I was hungry...sometimes when I was starting a new story and could not get it going, I would sit in front of the fire and squeeze the peel of the little oranges into the edge of the flame and watch the little sputter of blue that they made.”

I thought that I should note that the very DAY after writing that last blog, I ate a cheeseburger. I had a craving for one too—must have been the repeated description. The burger I had, while decent, was probably the best meal of the 5 slopped in front of my friends and I at the Roxy diner on Southwest Stark Street late that night. Well, not THAT late, since the Roxy is one of, I think, only two 24-hour eateries in this “city.” And a bad one. The group I led there were my friends and their two kids, who were probably too young to be in the company of the Roxy’s clientele. Basically, it’s a place where street rats go to sit for a couple of hours once they’ve scraped enough together for a bottomless cup of coffee. Smelling more like a soup kitchen than a diner, the scene would have fit in somewhere in the movie Beetlejuice. At least the place is wise enough to be too dark to see the food (unfortunately not the cook), and who knows what else. It took about 45 minutes to get our food, with about 3 other tables in the place, and when it came, the waitress spilled half of the gravy off of one of the plates onto my friend’s jacket. Next time I'm hungry late, I best just go to Safeway. Well, enough of that.

I had a bistro burger at work today. It was exceptionally juicy. I have to admit, a hamburger is pretty tasty when the bun soaks that in. But I think I’ll keep my burger quota to one every 3 months, since they seem to fill me up for that long.

12-13-16 : Burgers

I had previously thought the proposition preposterous, but maybe the removal of trans-fats from New York IS necessary. People are eating too many burgers! I opened the New York Times Dining Out/In section today, and on the second page, the “Off the Menu” column is headed “Burgers, Burgers, Burgers.” It mentioned two new restaurants, one is basely called BRGR, and the other, Burgers & Cupcakes (sickly, I’ll bet this second one will be hugely successful).

Even world-class chefs at the height of the culinary avant-garde are putting burgers on their menus. Wasn’t it Daniel Boulud who recently made infamous the $60 burger? Only in Manhattan (or, maybe Tokyo).
The other night, I walked back into the kitchen at work in one of the finer French restaurants in Portland (our chef is a James Beard award winner), and the place smelled-no-reeked like a burger joint! Our bar menu has a hamburger on it, and I would say that it’s by far the most popular item. And not only are the customers consuming them—everyone, from the skinny cocktail waitresses to the unctuous managers—eats them on their break.

I guess that all of this surprises me because of the FACT (based on nutritional analysis, doctors warnings, etc. etc.) that fatty ground beef is detrimental to your health when consumed on a regular basis. And that vegetarianism, and veganism, and the increase in eating fresh food has grown. Maybe it’s a gustatory rebuttal to the cultural movement towards healthy eating, and widely released films like “Super-Size Me” and “Fast Food Nation.”

Yes, there might be something heartily (and heavily) satisfying about biting into a warm cheeseburger (though I can hardly speak to this, as I cannot remember the last time that I had one, but I think it may have been some time this summer). The burger is so basic—beef and bread, and maybe that’s comforting. In the chilly east, and here up north, there isn’t the widespread consumption (or availability) of sandwiches like there is on the west coast for grab-and-go eating. So, for that, they have the burger.

I find this all slightly disappointing, especially from restaurants which turn out so many other delicious, innovative dishes. It’s a bit of a sellout to make a burger, in my opinion, in order to feed Americans with an appetite for little else. And that’s just it maybe—it’s SO American.

When I moved to Portland, I made a friend with whom I’d try out different restaurants around the city. He was my foodie buddy. At one point, he was heading out on an East Coast trip to photograph cities he’d never been to (I think it was “6 cities in 7 days” or something). Anyway, he asked me “what do you think is the signature food of New Yorker?” I thought, “easy--the pizza slice.” And when he asked me about Oregon, suggesting salmon, I argued that no, it’s the burger.

I hadn’t seen so many burgers on so many menus, or heard so much burger talk in my life as when I arrived here. Two days ago, the Oregonian ran a story about the Midwestern fast-food drive-in chain Sonic, and it’s arrival and subsequent popularity here. The concept and the food (burgers and tater-tots) are a 1950s throwback, but somehow the chain is gaining momentum nationally. I find this disturbing, in the face of rising childhood obesity, and in spite of all of the knowledge that we possess of the nutritional values and health effects of food.

Burgers are even creeping into the arena of masterful ethnic cuisine. The aforementioned “Off the Menu” column mentioned a new burger place called “Stand,” opened by the same man who co-owns Republic (Asian soups & noodles), and Bond Street (sushi). And the restaurateur who ran Nirvana, a now closed high-end Indian restaurant, high above Central Park, is opening something called Nirvana54, serving Indian food AND burgers.

I guess, with their mass appeal, and relentless popularity, burgers will always remain in style, despite innovation and the availability of fresh, healthy food. Let’s face it—when models and actresses are asked what their favorite food is, the coolest ones answer “a burger and fries.” Whether that answer is truthful or not, we usually like them better for it.

Well, weeks have past since my houseguests have gone, and still, I have not written about all of the delicious bites that were had! A couple stand at the forefront, so these I will describe in brief:

Dinner at Nuestra Cocina: On Halloween night, my family and I sat down at this little nuevo-mexican restaurant up division street from my apartment, owned by the husband of the daughter of a friend of my stepdad. whew! So we sat at this little place, with few expectations, except for it to be reasonably good (the chef/owner, Ben Gonzales has received much acclaim for his cooking, and recently collaborated with famous Mexican chef Patricia Quintana and Philipe Boulot on a special fall dinner at the Heathman Restaurant).

As we looked over the short paper menus, we were presented with our drinks—fresh margaritas, in small cups filled with chunky lime pieces and ice. I’m not sure what kind of tequila they used (I think it was sauza though), but that was the BEST margarita I’ve ever had—on a cold fall night, in Portland, of all places. D-licious. Freshly fried chips, tangy salsa...mmm. Then, it is very much a blur, but there were shared bites and sips of everything: pumpkin soup--spicy and warm, crab tacos, steak tacos. We were not talking, but we were smiling—that food was SO incredibly good. It was savory, and flavorful, and rich, but not too rich. Perfectly seasoned, nothing too salty. My entree was their special, cochinito pibil—a thick piece of pork, braised until it just falls apart, in a pool of black beans—oh my god, it was SO GOOD. So filling, but so good. Everything was exceptional. The best mexican food I’ve ever had, probably.

Pizza: My mom and I had two incredible pizza eating experiences while she was here, and appropriately so—she loves pizza, and I’ve been waiting for someone to come along who’d enjoy these places with me. The first was Ken’s (of Ken’s Artisan Bakery) recently opened artisan pizza restaurant on East 28th street (a.k.a. restaurant row). We got there after 7, and there was a full bar, AND a line, with a wait of an hour. We put our name in, walked around the block and returned to enjoy a glass of wine on a couple of high stools, providing the perfect view to oversee everything that came out of the wood-fired oven. In addition, there were piles of greens as salads, and atop pizza crusts (they’ve got a pizza that is basically covered in a baby arugula salad after it comes from the oven). The food was gorgeous, and the place was warm in atmosphere and attitude, which I love. I also love short but great wine lists, one of which they had. So we ordered a yummmy antipasti plate, with roasted curried acorn squash, red pepper bruschetta and other roasted vegetables, and shared a chewy, delicious cheese pizza.

A finer pizza devouring experience can be had at the beautiful Nostrana. Walking through the glass doors in to it’s rustic/industrial expanse is transcendent—it doesn’t feel like Portland. It feels somehow glamorous, with a hint of Italy and maybe San Fransisco. Despite the restaurant’s size, you can see their wood-fired oven from the front door, and this mammoth is the center piece for the whole place (the bar is great looking too—with sky high shelves of wine as a backdrop). It’s rustic and modern at the same time, and the food is fabulous. As their business card states, Nostrana means “local” in italian, and their menu evokes this in every way. The pizza that we had was decorated with wild mushrooms—chanterelles and others, almost with a little bit of a truffle taste, and perfectly chewy crust. I had to order a side of their polenta, which they have ground especially for their restaurant. Served with gorgonzola and a bit of oh, what was it, marscapone? Anyway, it was amazing. They have a bistecca a la fiorentina, florentine steak served with arugula, one of my favorite dishes, which I will order next time. Our salad was slightly dissapointing, albeit accurately described on the menu (“simple, undressed”), it was just lettuce and carrots in a bowl with oil & vinegar on the side—a humble statement, but boring. If it had onions in it, it’d basically be the salad that you get in every standard restaurant in Argentina.

The wine that I had there, also good, a Barbera, was served a bit too warm. I’ve never felt that complaint before, but it noticeably affected the drinking experience. I’ve had a red too cold before—as it is sometimes at Bar Acuda in Hanalei. Apparently, wine temperature is a subtle art, and while ideal temperature is not necessarily expected, it is certainly appreciated. I mean, no one wants to sit at dinner watching thier glass of pinot noir sweat on a rainy winter night.

Pancakes: During the third week of November, I think I ate pancakes four times. Gluttonously and happily. We had a banana-pancake cook-off, I won in the taste category, and my friend won for presentation (his smiled). We had huckleberry (tiny, blueberry like things, sweet & tart) pancakes at Genies down the road, and those were awesome. Soft and thick, but with crispy outsides. Mmmm. And I made turkey bacon, in the oven, so easy, and actually, super tasty! But not as tasty as the strips of pork belly that the cooks sneak up to me at work...

So much to blog, so little time!! What's up with the month-long breaks between blogs, you ask? My lack of an internet connection, and most recently, a constant stream of wonderful houseguests to keep me more than busy.

Here in the Kingdom of Lila, the last of our visiting dignitaries departed this morning, leaving memories of many a good meal behind (in my mind and in the size of my thighs!). I must say, it was difficult to choose between all of Portland's excellent restaurants when it came to what I wanted to show people and what I had an appetite for. Because restauranteurs here take "local" and "seasonal" incredibly seriously, what's growing is what's on the menu, and that means rich stuff--hearty root vegetables, and meats like pork, rabbit and duck. You're hard pressed to find a salad that's much more than mixed greens right now, and when a friend came to the Northwest with a craving for salmon, it was impossible to satisfy. Here the good restaurants won't serve salmon if it's been frozen, so when I called 4 different places, they all told me some variation of "sorry, it's not in season." Which is definitely admirable, albeit slightly frustrating. This is also a bit hard to get used to for most people, because in many places in this country and around the world, you can get any food at any time (it just has to be flown in from somewhere). But once you get used to eating food at the peak of it's season, you lose your appetite for the mediocre.

This past week, between delicous meals out, my friend and I collaborated to make what we deemed the best dinner of the week. We spent saturday morning at the farmers market, where we snacked on woodfired pizza (made right there in that oven-trailer) with lamb, leeks and chanterelle mushrooms, a yucatan chicken tamale, and caramel-pecan pie, sampling tastes of sauces and ciders along the way. We admired all of the intersting squashes and enormous root vegetables that are out right now--carrots, parsnips and such. Brussel sprouts were piled high, stuck to the stalks that they grow on like big war clubs, and all kinds of colorful variations of cauliflower (orange 'cheddar', purple, green). The mushrooms were out in mass supply--mounds of golden chanterelles, dusted with the dirt that they're found in. We sampled some wild ones that the farmers call "fried chicken"--savory, smooth round disks. We bought some of those, and my favorite, maitakes (the ones that look like grey coral heads, and taste so meaty). I already had a bunch of roots that I had bought a couple of weeks before, so with those and some shallots, we were set.

We bought some fresh free range chicken legs/thighs from new seasons (3 big ones for less than 5 bucks, I might add). We rubbed those with olive oil, hawaiian salt, red and black pepper, topped that with sprigs of thyme and rosemary (from the bush in front of my neighbor's house). We layed the chicken in a roasting pan atop a bed of sliced onion and golden delicious apples, and baked it until crispy. It was soooo moist and delicious!! I roasted a pan of the root vegetables--yams, parsnips, turnips, celeriac (celery root) with some quartered shallots, and olive oil and rosemary--that was so good too!! THEN we sauteed the mushrooms with shallots and that was just the perfect match for the other two. Such a yummy, savory winter meal. I ate the leftovers for lunch yesterday and impressed myself again. I think I'm still stuffed. mmmmmmmm....

10-29-06

Sometimes, I’m filled with so much love for where I live. This afternoon, I rode my bike up Clinton Street, beneath tall trees with leaves falling in colors of every shade of fire—red, yellow, orange. It was sunny, cold and crisp, and piles of them were accumulating beside curbs, under tree trunks, and anywhere the fall gusts couldn’t completely sweep them away. As I rode I saw a family with two little kids, stomping around in the piles and throwing them over their heads with a laugh (just the way I only saw this kind of thing in the movies when I was a kid).

The beauty of the changing leaves in autumn is one of those things in nature that truly belies description. I’ve stood beneath a few trees in the past few days, gawking in awe of their majesty, and the vibrancy of their color (at the same time trying to take pictures of this with my cell phone, of course with no success). I love color, especially the deep ones, so for me this season is by far my favorite.

I headed up to the grocery store (New Seasons to be specific), 10 blocks up from my apartment. I’m especially lucky living so close to the best supermarket I’ve ever known (I’ll argue with a die-hard Whole-Foods shopper any day—well wait, us lucky Portlanders are the only ones who have New Seasons), and almost the same distance from the People’s Food Co-op, one of Portland’s favorite health food stores (with a weekly farmers market outside, I might add). So, anyway, it’s Sunday evening, always a fun time to go to the market—people are shopping for the week, all the samples are out, recipes are being discussed, and one of the workers even let me taste the black bean hummus I was asking about before I bought it. Their slogan is “The Friendliest Store in Town.” Oh, AND there are piles of pumpkins, squash and apples outside the front entrance of the store right now. I think that truly, the greatest thing about that store is their commitment to local products—so much in there is, and all of the produce is labeled as to its origin. Rarely is there ever any foreign produce, and most of it comes from the Northwest. One thing that I needed to get was rosemary, but I was reluctant to buy it, since I know I’ve seen it growing in my neighborhood.

After I left the store, I walked my bike as I keenly eyed every yard for that aromatic plant. I saw a couple, but they’d either been pruned or were too much a part of lawn decoration for me to steal any. I doubted that I’d find any as I turned the corner to my block and saw two huge plants, basically growing wild, and just went and helped myself. I felt like an urban forager, and very proud for it too. These days I’m so into saving money on things that I can get for free (side note: walking to work this morning, I had to kick myself when I saw that my neighbors had a pile of “free stuff” outside, amongst which was a brand-new, plastic wrapped scrabble game, when just two days ago I bought myself one...).

Back gushing about the wonders of Portland and it’s local food supply...So, I’m making this bean dip with pita chips tonight for a snack, and bought the most authentically Greek looking pitas I could find. When I brought them home, I checked out the package, and their made HERE by a Greek family—even better! And, you know, the Nancy’s organic yogurt that I eat every day (and I did living in Hawaii too), which is possibly my favorite food, is so fresh here that when I buy it in the store, it doesn’t have an expiration date for about a month or something. It’s amazing how much better it is here too, which is saying a lot. Okay, enough about that...my family’s coming to visit tonight and I have to cook and clean. But I can’t wait to show THEM all of the local delicacies of the Northwest!

*If anyone’s a little jealous about all this fab food, here’s a leveler: it’s 4:30 in the afternoon and getting dark already!

Oh faithful readers, I'm sorry, for it has been too long. No, I haven't gone on a spiritually demanding fast, or even on a master cleanse--I've just been eating a little of this, a little of that, being quite busy and not really tasting anything of note.

Well, wait a minute. A foodie friend of mine came into town a few weeks ago, and made sure to provide a blog-worthy taste experience to break the drought. He (and other friends of his), took us out to Jake's Famous Crawfish, easily Portland's most famous restaurant (it's been around since 1892, a year younger than my college). So we had a FEAST of seafood (it was so rich and good and filling that at one point I felt like a goose being force-fed for fois gras).

We started with deep fried calamari (you see, that doesn't sound like anything special at first, but EVERYTHING they do here is the best of the best, so naturally, it was some of the best calamari I've had--so tender and perfect). We also had coconut shrimp, and seared ahi with a cucumber seaweed salad that was quite good. Then crispy salads before the entrees: I had Alaskan salmon (they give you about 5 detailed choices for salmon, with descriptions of origin, method of fishing, etc), with a huge pile of dungeness crab on top and buttery mashed potatoes. My friend got as he claims "the best dish" of the night--halibut cheeks (the precious tender melt-in-your-mouth rounds of white fish), in some amazingly rich sauce. My mouth is actually watering a bit thinking about that one...THEN, we continued with dessert--(it's one of those old fashioned places (wood paneling, old American oil paintings, white table cloths) which came out on a tray to drool over before you ordered. We got a sampling of apple crisp, key lime pie, and chocolate mousse. Each was perfect, of course.

That meal kicked off a week of occasional gluttony, with another friend in town and late nights of wine drinking, prompting late night hunger pangs. Apparently, there are only around 2 24 hour eateries in Portland, one of which is the disgustingly greasy "Hot Cake House", embarrassingly close to my apartment. Over priced and questionably cleaned--stay far, far away. We hit up the Doug Fir one night--an old diner/motel turned bastion of portland uber-hipness. Their interior's been photographed for international design magazines, but their menu is slightly random. I was pretty happy with my croque monsier though: salty cheese melted over a ham sandwich.

THEN there's all the stuff I've been sampling at work, all fattening of course. Housemade gnocchi in browned herb butter, pumpkin pancakes, clam chowder, pork sausage, eggs benedict...scones, spice cake...this has got to stop. When it's cold and rainy all I want is breakfast food. Next time I'll write about the healthy stuff. Well, one thing we do have on the menu is a northwest salad: arugula, apples, pears and hazelnuts--very tasty since apples and pears are at their peak ripeness right now. Oh, I accomplished one of my small goals: Yesterday I learned how to make a cappuccino. Check.

Water

Many would say that water has no taste. However, though it does have a neutral pH, I would have to argue that water, in it’s many forms and containers, does indeed taste VERY different from one source to the next. I noticed immediately when they began to dump chlorine into the well that supplies water to Kilauea town. Up there on the North Shore, we used to have a reputation for the best water. Not anymore. These days, I can hardly take a sip from the sink—far from refreshing, it now tastes like a chemical cocktail. In high school, we used to talk about how the yummiest water oddly came from the locker rooms by the P.E. field. Maybe it was some mineral in those old, cold pipes, but that stuff was great. Maybe they should bottle that stuff—it definitely tastes better than a lot of bottled water out there, like Arrowhead or Calistoga. My favorite, of course, is Fiji, and this summer, I developed a fondness for Evian, probably because it was always around.

But, alas, the days of free flowing bottled water are over for me, and I returned home to the conundrum of how to have a solid supply of distilled water in my apartment at all times. I used to use a Brita filter, but, I think the water is a bit too gnarly from my tap, and you can still taste it’s alkalinity even after it’s gone through the pitcher. Things like coffee and tea, actually all cooked food, tastes better with better water. Ask good bakers—they only use purified water in their bread. I bet the same goes for great kitchens. So anyway, on a budget, without a car, or the desire to haul a 15 gallon bottle up 3 flights of stairs, I had to think creatively about how to get water home. What I found was that, you can refill a single plastic gallon at my grocery store’s distilled water dispenser for about 40 cents. What a deal! So, to get it home, I go for a run, come back to my building, pick up 2 empty gallon jugs, run to the store (12 blocks away), then carry back the full jugs, one in each arm, doing bicep curls along the way. Pretty good huh? That one solved two problems: needing water, and not having any hand weights. So, I have my water, and I’m on my way to sexy arms.

Some days though, there’s nothing that compares to sitting at a sidewalk cafe table with a notebook and a glowing green bottle of Pellegrino mineral water. A treat I have to give myself from time to time, especially on these beautifully golden Indian summer afternoons...

*Just an aside: a friend recently told me that while I was out of town she went on a first date with a guy who talked to his water at the dinner table—not blessing it, just talking to it. Bizarre, but I think he got this from that movie “What The Bleep Do We Know?” It was produced in Portland...go figure. Needless to say, that first date was also the last.