drawing on inspiration; an appeal for beauty to abound

I see the words crème fraîche and pumpkin together in the same recipe title...

Vanilla beans are dispersed into a milky infusion of spices;

Someone mentions they are on to their next cookbook project;

Someone else expresses their love of Campari;

Intricate pattern and lace are carved out of newspaper;

Burrata tenderly torn apart on a plate of tomato juices and breaded eggplant takes me back to my first taste of this decadent cheese -- in my first real job post-college;

A pineapple fragmented behind the glass of a punch bowl, all graciously layered and brushed into life by the hand and sight of an artist;

Gathered ingredients for a simple vinaigrette suddenly look like they belong in a frame -- similar hues of pink, grey, and varying yellows and neutrals bring a torn seal, the wispy skin of a shallot, and a cutting board together.

Sometimes it is too tempting as an artist to spend so much time surrounded by inspiration that we neglect to put our own creativity to use. Inspiration is essential (and it's delightful), but there are times when the busyness of intake overwhelms all opportunities for output.

Just yesterday, one of my young art students sat at her desk bent over a colorful palette of oil paint. She had taken her canvas from its easel and rested it on her lap. Cross-legged, she cradled a little story of life and motion as it came into vibrant clarity through her touch. I was jealous, in the best of ways.

I am beginning to map out a series of artwork through sketch and watercolor application, and I can't wait to share it with you as it unfolds. (Even more so, I can't wait to begin its unfolding and be surprised, myself, with the parts of the process that I can't predict.) Process from start to finish on artistic endeavors is full of unknowns, and I love how often these things start out with one aim or goal in mind and then take on a life of their own. Or how they require life and action to begin even before any sort of end hope is in sight.



Last summer I spent a lot of time painting to get ready for an art show. The timing was burdensome and yet also perfect as I battled my way through the emotions of a break-up. Often times my energy felt sapped, and I wanted to be out in the sun doing nothing. Simultaneously, I wanted to be constantly within close reach of people so loneliness could be kept in check and silence wouldn't surface anything unwelcome. Many of us have been through this sort of thing, I know.

I stumbled upon some writing I had done in that time in my studio and thought I'd share a bit of the artist process that helped me move along, sometimes haltingly so.

In recent days, I have finally chosen to lift up a weapon of resistance to these doldrums, to the weight that keeps me burying my nose in my pillow as my body stirs to morning light. In daylight hours my paintbrush has become a sword wielded in defense of the nighttime emptiness deep in my belly, when a pillow pressed close and long against my body serves to temper the ache.

As subtle of a defiance and as mild of a fight as I have the strength to entertain, taking paint to canvas holds hope. I do not understand how it will help these days pass into a further-healed state, but I am aware that placing a slender piece of wood between my fingers, bristled end wet and coated in deep hue, emotes worthwhile action.

This small measure of being entirely and utterly surrendered reduces down to a basic routine: Fill water cup, squeeze bent small paint tube, select paintbrush tip. Smear colors together, reach, dip, apply to canvas. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. 

Rhythm helps my mind to ease and my breath to release. Rhythm seems so simple, an elementary, intuitive step. But daily rhythms of grace and renewal have been few in number. Of my own selection and impulses, their presence near me has diminished as I have turned and twisted and responded both wisely and foolishly to the unpredictable emotions of being utterly tender...

As I rise up and lay down, as I go to work and cook my meals, as dishes are washed and grief is forgotten in sweet pockets of genuine laughter, I’ll let time move forward. I will wait in hope and in forward motion. I will blink my eyes open at a new day and wonder if memories will be a little less raw in the coming hours. I will attend to my canvases and paint the beautiful details around me and appeal for Beauty to abound. It will again.

Maybe, just maybe, as I am inspired by the links at the beginning of this post and by the reminder and reflection upon putting my artist impulses into action, you will be as well. That is why I share this today.





On a closing aside, a beautiful little space in San Francisco to find inspiration is at the corner of Gough Street at Oak. I popped in with my cousin on a quiet Friday morning at ten o'clock. At that point only a small table was occupied (by three middle-aged grizzly-bearded men in Carhartts sipping Blue Bottle, I might add). This place is pristine (a wonderful juxtaposition to the casual trio customers). That is the word that kept coming to mind, as natural light poured into the space, highlighting each intentionally placed detail. Beautiful lighting, rich fabrics, and authentic vintage decor, 20th Century Cafe has already received press for its interior design by the owner, Michelle Polzine.

We each ordered a cappuccino and split an irresistible slice of the Russian Honey Cake that sat tall and elegant on its cake stand on the corner of the bar. I will certainly be back to try the apple strudel and was left wishing this place was close enough to home to make a regular stopping point.





{In case you missed it, each of the sentences at the beginning of this post does link to a blog very worthy of your time. Promise.}

High time

It's awful to go without something perfectly good and healthy that you love. I do not enjoy becoming so devoted to one thing that all of life starts to turn in its direction. I can almost sense a funnel-like cascade as the planes that my relationships, my writing, my resting, and my other interests/priorities sit on tilt downward in unison toward a central hole that has swallowed them up. That deep, dark hole isn't so bad on it's own plane, but I've had to bring school to the smack dab center of my life of late.

I don't mean to paint this shift as being pure misery. I'm so grateful that I can say I've kept my sanity and maintained some peace-of-mind. If there wasn't an end in sight (now only two weeks!), you might need to be more worried about me.

As the weeks without finding time to blog slipped by, I resigned myself to waiting till after finals. After all, I've been making other sacrifices to meet my requirements; this seemed fitting too. But, I find myself here on Saturday night -- another weekend night, just me and my computer -- and my mind is whirring and my fingers are itching to type, so I'll watch the clock, but I'll also spill a little something out into the blogosphere. It's high time. I've missed this place.

I'm reading Molly Wizenberg's (a.k.a. Orangette's) book, A Homemade Life, and I'm sure that has something to do with my yearning for good words. She is a phenomenal writer, and I have been, fittingly, gobbling up each chapter that she vividly constructs through stories and recipes.

Whether or not you spend much time in the kitchen, I believe the autobiographical story she weaves through these pages is capable of thorough enjoyment. Her vulnerability is stunning. She does not hold back on the subjects of love and loss.

I received the book as a birthday present and am about halfway through. Surely, if guilt didn't hound me about doing anything but holding a paintbrush in my hand or researching female furniture designers of the mid twentieth century, I would be done with the book and working my way through each recipes by now.

There is one recipe that I already got to try. I brought the book, with a barely creased spine, on a mini vacation to visit my uncle and his family during Easter break. Being that our conversations and activities often fall into the category of food whenever I am there, I knew it would be fitting to share the book. That first night my uncle was scanning through it and spotted Molly's recipe for Custard-Filled Cornbread. Apparently another one of my uncles has a similar recipe that he loads up with raspberries, and so this uncle decided we ought to compare over breakfast the next morning.

It ended up being his comparison more than ours. It would have been too much for our small company to make two batches of cornbread, so we happily ate while he tried to jog his memory at the breakfast table and comment on the results.

I don't know what I'm missing from my uncle Jonathan's recipe, but I can tell you that Molly's is lovely. Surely, a kinder adjective can't be bestowed on creamy, slightly sweet cornbread served up with coffee and a pool of maple syrup while the morning sunlight is still strong. Lovely is just what it ought to be.



I can't make any promises of when I'll be back, but if I'm lucky, two whole weeks won't go by. If they have, though, you will encounter a different voice. One that is light and free and so ready for long conversations and lounging in the sun. I know the day will come. For now, I'm glad that I'll be able to look back and know that I gave my all in these last weeks of my last semester of undergrad.

And I love the times

I'm sitting in a crowded coffee shop in Lubbock, Texas, tuning out the loud conversations around me with a mix of voices on my iTunes. I'm escaping a little further.

It's spring break. That infamous week-long party that comes with college life, but I have this theory that my school scheduled it early this year just so we couldn't join forces with anyone beyond our fellow classmates. Not that I'm disappointed. I simply don't have any interest.

I've escaped from Abilene for a few days and that's exhilarating in itself. I'm sipping my fair share of my uncle's home-bottled wine and beer while playing soccer with his kids and talking with his wife about the endless family news that comes with having nine aunts and uncles. And now I get to be in a little coffee shop with the scent of espresso absorbed into the walls and half of a banana muffin on a plate before me. This is all indeed a luxury in a schedule that has booked my life with attending classes, working, studying for those classes, and interning online. I even got to go out for a run/walk this morning for an hour. Phew.

It's nice to have room to breathe.

Not that enjoyment is sucked out of life while in my regular routine. By no means. I love the art that I get to do for "homework," even if it does sometimes require energy I don't seem to have. I love bringing a new batch of photos into my photography teacher to hear his encouragement and receive his critiques. I love every single person I work with in my university's little Study Abroad Office. And I love the times I get with friends on the weekends and (very occasional) weekday.

Last Sunday afternoon happened to be one of those times. It was a beautifully sunny day and a friend was scheduled to stop by to cut my roommate's hair, so I decided to whip up something comforting, slightly sweet, and pretty enough for plenty of lingering-over.

I have been wanting to try the Nutmeg Doughnut Muffins in Molly of Orangette's recipe archive for some time now, but the timing never seemed right. For one, I was not raised with the concept of a "right time" for doughnuts, so that word in the recipe title kept throwing me. I loved the idea of the nutmeg and the look of powdered sugar dusted across the surface, but the word doughnut was always supposed to come with a cringe growing up. While I will surely act more graciously in the presence of those outside my immediate family circle, after my few rebellious experiences with them at childhood friends' homes, I, too, have concluded that doughnuts don't do much for me. Now and then I can appreciatively nibble on one, but they rarely spur a craving.

All that to say, last weekend I found myself scanning over this recipe and finding ways to trim it up a bit so it would leave me feeling less like the average doughnut does...greasy, heavy, and remorseful. Besides, I knew Molly's taste buds did not tend toward that direction either, so there had to be something to these muffins. I pressed on.

I used the last of my oat flour, which cut out a little of the all-purpose. I substituted coconut milk for the whole milk. And I cut back on the butter and sugar applied to the outside. What came out of the oven was delicious. It had a greater complexity to it than I imagine the original does, with ever-so-subtle scents of coconut and oats. Each muffin was light, fluffy, and cozy in all its nutmeg-y goodness. They didn't even need the powdered sugar coating, but I went ahead and put it on the tops of about half. It dressed them up a notch, and because I had cut two tablespoons of sugar out of the batter, the added sugar matched a mildly sweet crumb.

I better get over my "doughnut" word prejudice. Because I plan on sharing these with a lot more people.



Nutmeg Doughnut Muffins
Adapted from Orangette, who was inspired by Columbia City Bakery and adapted her own recipe from Kathleen Stewart of the Downtown Bakery & Creamery, Healdsburg, CA

Muffins:
2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
1 cup oat flour
2 ½ teaspoon baking powder
¼ teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon freshly ground nutmeg
¾ cup plus 1 Tbs coconut milk (substitute water for the additional tablespoon if using full-fat coconut milk)
2 Tablespoons buttermilk (or 1 Tbs plain whole milk yogurt/1 Tbs water)
1 ½ sticks (6 oz) unsalted butter, at room temperature
¾ cup granulated sugar
2 large eggs

Topping:
3 Tablespoons unsalted buttter
1 cup powdered sugar

Preheat oven to 350°F.

Grease 1-2 muffin tins (expect to make 12 muffins) or fill with muffin liners.

In a medium bowl, combine flour, oat flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and nutmeg. Whisk together thoroughly, and then set aside.

Combine coconut milk and buttermilk in a measuring cup or small bowl, and set aside.

Place butter in the bowl of a stand mixer with the paddle attachment or in a large mixing bowl with an available electric beater. Beat until the butter is soft and creamy. With the motor running pour the sugar in a steady stream (or in small, gradual portions with the electric beater). Continue beating, scraping down sides, until the mixture increases in volume and lightens to pale yellow. Look for it to become light, fluffy, and creamy, like frosting. Then add the eggs, one at a time, until everything is just combined.

With a large spatula or wooden spoon, mix a fourth of the flour mixture into the butter mixture. Add a fourth of the coconut milk mixture. Continue to add the dry and wet ingredients alternately until everything is just incorporated. Do not overmix.

Spoon the batter into the cups of the muffin tin. Bake until they are just turning golden and a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean, about 25-30 minutes.

When the muffins are cool enough to handle, prepare the topping by melting the butter in the microwave or on the stovetop and measuring the powdered sugar into a deep bowl. Using a pastry brush, lightly brush the top of one muffin with butter and turn it upside down into the bowl of powdered sugar. (You may brush the whole surface with butter and roll it in powdered sugar if you prefer.) Shake off excess sugar and serve.*

These kept well for me for another two days, though they need to be in an airtight container. Also, Molly mentions that the batter can be kept in the fridge, covered, for up to three days.

No Ordinary Cookie

I have something a.ma.zing to share with you today. It comes in the form of an innocent little cookie and looks quite unremarkable sitting on its cooling rack fresh out of the oven.

Come to think of it, the poor dear is still not much to look at twenty-four hours later. But let's not be superficial.



Molly has raved about this cookie recipe, and when Molly raves about something, my head starts nodding in agreement before I even take a bite of my own replication. She's a sly one in that way.

So, these little buckwheat cookies with the crunch of raw chocolate have been filed away in the back of my head for a while, and they finally came into being last night. The nibble we all agreed to take last night was pleasant enough, but today their flavor is deeper and yet gentler. The buckwheat isn't so abrasive, and the cocoa nibs have released their aroma throughout the crumb.

You might get some strange looks when you nonchalantly ask someone, "Do you want a buckwheat and cocoa nib cookie?" But if they've got any sense in them (okay, and an ounce of adventure), you'll have many pleased palates before you.

Now here's the recipe I just know you're itching for...

Buckwheat Butter Cookies with Cocoa Nibs

A Bicycle

Even though I do not live in a particularly biker-friendly town, I often wish I owned one.



Since moving into my apartment a year and a half ago, a charming old bicycle has leaned against the side of the building where I climb the stairs to our door. At first I looked at it longingly, but then I started to notice dust and cobwebs settle and coat the surfaces. Apparently it didn't do much pedaling.

Recently, my roommate and I were walking up our stairs together and she mentioned, "Oh, that's my bike."

"Your bike?!"

With a giggle she said, "Yeah, but I can't use it. I put a lock on it and forgot the combination."



Today I was walking home with my chin tucked down into my scarf and my sleeves pulled down into my fisted hands and noticing how everything around me matched. The tan bricks stacked into buildings, the stringy parched grass, the cracking dirt, and the few remaining fall leaves, now as crisp as Coffee Crunch Bars (which are amazing, by the way).

And then there was the bike. Muted to the hue of old red velvet by its collection of dirt, but still providing a pleasant contrast to its landscape, it welcomed me home.

I'm grateful for some constants in life, even if right now one of them is a bicycle whose immobile back wheel keeps it stationed at the foot of my staircase. At least it's pretty to look at. At least it's got some color.

Recovering Quite Well

My Saturday took a turn for the worst when I pulled a baking sheet of crisp, blackened grape tomatoes out of the oven. I had patiently waited almost three hours and had been enjoying the garlic-y smell filling my apartment, when I decided to take a peek in the oven, just ten minutes before the timer was set to go off and, to my horror, encountered the scene described above. Crisp. Black. Pathetic looking charred bits of tomato and garlic sat in pools of olive oil.

I had been anticipating the process of slow roasting tomatoes all week long. It was so disheartening seeing my sheet of parchment paper slide off my baking sheet and into the trash carrying every last tomato and garlic clove, that I immediately felt restless, like I needed to go on a good, long walk or something. Well, given that it was mid afternoon, and these days that means it is 90-something degrees outside, I chose to remain in my nicely air conditioned apartment and redeem the situation with my next tomato project.

I watched these tomatoes faithfully as they slowly baked in a bath of olive oil, oregano, salt, and pepper. Even though they ended up taking longer than the other tomatoes, with the time set aside for them to cool at room temperature, and I wasn't able to get around to eating them, they were well worth the wait.

Molly suggests these tomatoes be eaten on toasted baguette slices with Bûcheron, or another aged goat cheese, which I agree sounds divine (though there's no chance of me finding Bûcheron in Abilene, Texas). Tonight, however, I just needed something quick and filling, so I spooned a bit of the saved oil into a skillet and poured two beaten eggs over it to make a thin, simple omelette flavored with salt and pepper. Folding the omelette into a bowl, I dished out two tomatoes on top and lightly grated Pecorino Romano over it all. Oh yum.

All that to say, my Saturday was thoroughly recovered. With the richly flavored olive oil and slowly baked tomatoes tucked away in my fridge, I forgot (almost) entirely about the $3.20 of tomatoes and garlic in my trash.

Recipes:
Slow Roasted Tomatoes*
Pomodori al Forno (baked tomato dish)

*I am still posting this recipe because I will be the first to admit that my oven is to blame, not the recipe. Last semester we had problems guessing the correct temperature based on what we were cooking versus what the dial said...I just forgot about that when I moved back in, and it took this incident to remind me.

Thoughts and food

Today it is thoughts first. Then food. After all, this is my first blog entry, and I think you deserve a little introduction.

I discovered my first delightful food blog about a month ago when I stumbled upon Molly's Orangette through a series of links. I was instantly hooked. Not only is she a talented writer and cook, but she transports me home to the Pacific Northwest. You see, I'm a roaming college student who is currently in the state of Texas this particular school year. I knew I could easily subtitle my blog something like "the culinary adventures of a college student," but when it all came together that idea was set aside. Regardless, I would like to emphasize the adventure it truly is trying to find good ingredients in this barren land of West Texas!

(I also felt like sticking the "college student" line in my header would earn me some grace regarding my haphazard collection of kitchen tools, tight budget, etc.)

The most important thing to me in stepping into this endeavor is to address more than just the relationship of baking soda with lemon juice but the relationship between people and food. It is undeniable.

I'm not going to lie: food gives me sooo much pleasure. The way balsamic vinegar tickles my tongue as it rolls off the leaves of spinach salad. The way the smell of granola fills the whole house as it toasts in the oven. The way a simple apple crisp with a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream can taunt me as its warm and cold contents marble and inevitably disappear from the bowl.

I have been so spoiled by the good food I have enjoyed in my life.

And that's where I pause with this blog and ask, "why me?" Why do I have the privilege of going on about fresh bread, homemade pesto, and chocolate cake? The answer to the why isn't so important as not forgetting the abundance in which I live and being humbly grateful for it all (especially when I'm in the grocery store longingly staring at the most expensive bottle of olive oil).

As much as I want this to be a light, enjoyable blog with tantalizing recipes and beautiful pictures, I do strive to take seriously the gift of food. I hate to eat on a full stomach, even when it's the last crumbs of my mom's banana rum bread because something about that cheapens the act of gratitude. It also perpetuates a natural attitude of immediacy, which, though widely embraced in the West, I would prefer to avoid.

I am sure I'm not alone in this search for balance as a food blogger (and consumer), but it will likely continue to come up in my writing as I process life through challenging risotto recipes, daring salad combinations, and every possible variation on the scone. And hopefully I'll know when to stop and pick up my journal or a book when the flour runs low, or I'll know when my stomach's only pretending to grumble because it wants to distract me from the mountain of homework I have to do.

Bear with me, dear reader. This is a lifetime work in progress. I do not practice what I preach all the time, but I do believe what I say here with all my soul.