One of the greatest ways to move oneself out of a rut is to travel. And one of the greatest travel destinations in the world must be New Zealand. How lucky for me then, that we had an opportunity to spend three full weeks in the land of Kiwis and Lord of the Ring filming locations. Feeling creatively stagnant before this trip, I’m thrilled to be exploding with new ideas for poems, articles, recipes, photos, general life-plans. It helps that this trip came right at the beginning of the new year, when the excitement of New Year’s resolutions hasn’t worn off to grim resignation or shamed defeat yet.  I will eat less cheese! I will drink less wine! I will eat more leafy greens and less cream and more root vegetables! I will do yoga every day and some sort of cardiovascular activity at least 2-3 times a week! Right?! 

Of course, one must not attempt all these things when on holiday, that would be detrimental to experiencing the most a country has to offer, the totality of the national culture. So we’ve been on a hiatus from the grey, dreary weather as well as those pesky resolutions.

Thankfully, we were able to explore New Zealand, through hikes in the mountains and along the beaches, through restaurants and street food, farmers markets, grocery stores, and wineries. Though we weren’t  huge fans of most of the local beers, we did love some other things uniquely Kiwi.

For instance, at a local Saturday market, we were able to sample a whitebait patty, which seems to have consisted solely of eggs, butter, and tiny little briny fish. Fairly mild, it’s served on a buttered slice of white bread. Though it is not quite “gourmet,” it was delicious and savory, perfect for nibbling on while strolling in the hot New Zealand sun. 

When the heat turned into a heavy humidity that wouldn’t be stirred by the slightest breeze, I turned to Real Fruit Ice Cream. Advertised by wooden placards as we drove through small towns, it was irresistable in its cooling, frozen-fruit and chocolate-y way. I haven’t eaten an ice cream cone in years, and this was well worth a break in the fast! You are asked what ice cream you want (I chose plain frozen yogurt) and then a fruit (raspberries) and if you would like chocolate added (obviously yes.) Then the whole thing gets whirred up in a big stainless steel machine until its almost totally blended, leaving you with the tiniest bits of frozen fruit and chocolate chunks. Creamy purple goodness! 

There were lots of delicious morsels and great meals, including a three-course meal we created using only local New Zealand ingredients! It featured lamb three ways (meatballs, a braise, and roasted rack of lamb,) local cherries, potatoes, eggs, yogurt, herbs, greens, cheeses… It was fun to be able to reach for summer ingredients in January and not feel guilty! 

But now we’re home, and I’m back to making rich winter stews and using only canned tomatoes. Sigh. At least I have the memory of the warm sun and dramatic mountains to sustain me until we reach summer here, or I embark on another excursion. And thankfully this trip has provided me with bucketfuls of inspiration that will hopefully also sustain me creatively as well. 

We tend to hear revolution and think of historical wars within nations, like the French or American revolutions. It conjures up visions of battlefields and raised fists and shouts of freedom. In a way, these images could be appropriate for the Food Revolution as well– except we’re fighting to be free from the industrialized food system that is threatening our health, our environment, and our collective conscience.

But at the core of the word revolution is the word revolve, or “to turn over” or “roll.” This word comes from the Latin revolvere, or, “to  roll back” or “cause to return.” And here we see the true roots of the modern organic, local, sustainable movement– it is a return to a world where our food system is not being run by large corporations, super mega-markets, and fast food chains. A return to a world where people used to buy their food at the village market or grow it themselves. The Food Revolution embraces technology and innovation while remaining true to the principles of producing and consuming food that were standard from the beginnings of human existence. 

The Food Revolution is thus both a desire to return to our roots and a revolt against the destructiveness of our current and fairly recent industrial food system. The disconnect most people have from their groceries is something we’ve only really seen in the last few generations. The convenience of the modern supermarkets and the influence they wield is nothing short of amazing. 

We can enter a Safeway or a Lucky’s on any day of the year and find tomatoes, lemons, green beans, or shrink-wrapped packages of boneless, skinless chicken breasts. We’ve simply forgotten that the tomato or the green bean were once seasonal products and only available for a few months of the year. And just because we can get them in the dead of winter doesn’t mean that we should. They don’t taste as good and they’re more expensive.

This notion of eating seasonally, even if we have access to produce from other far-off regions is by no means a new concept. The point is made quite clearly in a dialogue excerpt from Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment, first published in 1866: 

“…the way I see it, the great thing for getting on in the world is, always keep to the seasons; if you don’t insist on having asparagus in January, you keep your money in your purse!”

And while keeping money in our wallets certainly is at the forefront of our minds in this economy, we must also remember the costs we do not see every day– the costs to our health, our land, air, water, and animals. It can be so tempting to bury our heads in the sand and buy the Oscar Meyer or Smithfield Farms package of bacon instead of the pricier Niman Ranch or local farm stuff. But if you take five minutes and read just a little about what the big corporate pig farms do to their animals and how they are simply and blithely destroying the environment, you might just think twice about buying that “cheap” bacon. 

Click here for a short explanation of some of the issues surrounding factory farming from sustainabletable.org. This website is a fantastic resource for information on all sorts of issues relating to the Food Revolution. Take a few moments from your busy day to explore some of these concerns.

There are also some incredibly enlightening books out there that are very helpful in understanding our current food system. The most popular, and probably the best, is Michael Pollan’s The Omnivore’s Delimma. Click here for a synopsis. 

The Food Revolution is here. It is up to you to educate yourself and ask yourself where you stand. After all, it’s just food. It’s also money, the environment, our health, animal and laborer rights, a whole host of issues. But at the end of the day, it’s what we buy, prepare, cook, store, serve, and consume. So ask yourself– what exactly do you want to eat?

Needless to say, I thought it would be fun to kick off my informally-formalized independent wine education with a mini-tasting here in the house. With Chris otherwise engaged preparing us dinner, I started off with two whites I had picked up at Cost Plus that morning. From France I had the Louis Jadot Pouilly-Fuisse, a white burgundy. And my representative for California chardonnay was a Grundlach Bundschu from Sonoma. Both wines were from the 2007 vintage. I opened them up, gave myself some generous pours, and set about to write what I thought of them.

All of a sudden, I felt strangely nervous. Who do I think I am, that I can just presume to open some wines I know nothing about and then write what I think of them? What if I think it tastes like something that’s not really there? What if I don’t notice something about the wine that is painfully obvious to everyone else?

Why this sudden reticence? I’m certainly not one to shy away from speaking my mind, no matter what the subject. So it should be no different when it comes to my opinions about wine, right?

See, this is the funny thing about the wine world. It can be so intimidating to explore, with different people proclaiming opinions with an air of absolutism, magazines assigning points to “grade” wines and a plethora of different varietals and styles. Most of us simply don’t have the knowledge, time, or money to be able to give ourselves a thorough education in all the dizzying aspects of the art of enjoying and understanding wine.

Plus, isn’t the idea of taste subjective? I don’t care for the taste of peanut butter, but it might be your favorite foodstuff in the pantry! Additionally, two people can like an identical dish but for different reasons. So, couldn’t it be the same for our tastes in wine?

As our tastes vary, so shall our opinions. And if I think a wine tastes like hibiscus or seems flirty, that’s just my way of expressing a personal opinion. There shouldn’t be any reason to be shy about that.

Taking a deep breath, I sipped. Pen in hand, I boldly wrote my first impressions. The Pouilly-Fuisse was slightly sweet. It was crisp at first, then softened to something silky. It was pale. Light-colored. It had a fragrant perfume. And then came the chardonnay. It was so different! It was richer, golden-colored. It tasted like butter. It coated my mouth in a way totally unlike the French wine.

Excitedly, I sipped more. Chris jumped in, cautiously proffering his opinion as well. We were so taken with our new roles as wine critics that we forgot the whole tasting-in-moderation aspect of the wine tasting. Hm. I had planned on doing a red wine tasting that evening as well, but we polished off the last of the two bottles of white, I thought I might just postpone it for a day or two.

But we had so much fun! I liked writing about the wine — it made me think about it more, and enjoy it even more than if I’d just absent-mindedly sipped it. Wine has always stimulated conversations, daydreams, pleasures, and friendships. Too often it can also stimulate depression, discord, and strife. I think the balance can be struck not just in moderation, but in always remembering to savor and enjoy the experience of drinking– and feeling a little gratitude for the blessing that is wine.

Shyness simply cannot mix with unbridled enthusiasm. And so, I vowed that night to dispense with my hesitations and embrace this magical world of wine and words, sans fear.

Mix butter with herbs, garlic, and freshly grated parmagiannio reggiano, slather it on a baguette, and you’ve got the makings of a delicious garlic bread. Mix butter, lemon zest, and chopped capers to take an ordinary filet of fish to a restaurant-worthy entree. Or mix butter and honey to server to guests so they can dress up biscuits at brunch. 

It takes almost no time to whip up a batch of flavored butter, and yet the end result always elicits praise and satisfied lip- smackings of delight whenever I serve some up. It’s awfully fun to create new ones to go with whatever I’m cooking that day, and I do secretly love getting the compliments from my pleased guinea pigs I get to practice on. 

The other night we were having a small barbeque, and I’d just picked up some incredible corn from the farmers market. I decided to make up a new butter to go with our Southwestern-themed dishes to give our farm fresh corn some pizzaz. 

I like the clean tasting quality of fresh herbs, so I used some chives for their crisp sharpness and some cilantro for some Latin bite. I also used a heavy hand with the smoky chipotle chili powder , and since I use cayenne in just about everything, I applied a few liberal shakes of that too. 

Chives and Cilantro: fresh, organic, grown in California

Slathered on our in-husk grilled corn, it was pure heaven. It took five minutes to make and it elevated the meal to an even greater status. Next time perhaps I’ll add a finely chopped and seeded habanero for even more heat. For that is the fun part about flavored butters– they’re almost impossible to mess up and so easy to enjoy! 

When cooking, putting together a meal to be shared among ourselves and others, it is often the smallest touches that spark a smile. Though our busy modern lives have cut down on our time to prepare and even to eat our meals, it’s almost always possible to add a little extra touch that can turn our ever-present need to eat into something much more special.

Southwestern Butter

2 Sticks of softened (room-temperature) butter

1 small handful of chives

1 small handful of cilantro

1/2 – 1 teaspoon cayenne pepper

1 – 1 1/2 teaspoon chipotle chili pepper

Finely chop herbs. Add to a bowl with the softened butter and mix well with a fork. Make sure the butter is very soft, otherwise it will not incorporate well. Mix in spices as well, adjusting if you like more or less heat. Add salt and pepper to taste. Be careful is you use salted butter– you may not need to add any salt at all! 

Leftover Southwestern Butter is great on toast too!

* A note about recipes:

Unless I am baking something, I tend to shy away from using exact measurements or following a recipe exactly. If I am making something totally new, I’ll canvass multiple recipes of the same dish to get the general gist of it. My recipes that I post here should also be used as guidelines–feel free to substitute something if you feel it might work. After all, how else do you think those master chefs create new dishes!

*A note about ingredients:

I always try to use organic ingredients from local sources whenever possible. It’s always worth the extra effort to seek them out or just a little more money to know that what we eat is better for our bodies and the environment. More on this soon.

And though I do love wine now, somehow its never occurred to me that I would actually enjoy wine tasting. So the wine country remained a far-off place in my mind — something for tourists or people with suitcases full of money to spend on huge crates of Pinot Noir. 

But then the other night we were at Chris’ parents house in the North Bay, and we tried some delicious wine that was a blend of Syrah and Cabernet Sauvignon. The winery was in Sonoma County, and all their wines were apparently just fantastic. As Chris had some business to attend to in Santa Rosa, we thought it might be nice to drive the extra twenty minutes and cruise by this land of delightful grapes. 

The resulting adventures have sparked yet another time, money, and imagination consuming passion of mine. This post marks the beginning of a series of posts about our experiences in Napa and Sonoma Counties and other wine country locales. There will be posts about biodynamic and sustainable wineries, local restaurants and shops, wine varietals, tastings, tours, bottling, and more. I hope to take you on the trip with us as we explore and learn more about wine and the lives of those who live among the grapes. Hopefully it will prove interesting, whether you are a certified oenological expert or a wine neophyte, or even if you’re somewhere in the middle, like myself. And if you don’t like reading about our adventures, well, at least we’ll have enjoyed some good wine.

As the time of the asparagus is painfully brief, the Bavarians celebrate it to excess for the entire fortnight or so. You know the magical time is at hand when the ladies begin whispering its predicted arrival date over their baskets at the outdoor maret in the fresh May mornings. 

“Perhaps in the next week or two, leastways that’s what Frau Meier said.”

“Really? Well, I’ve heard from Hanna that Frau Beck said it might be in as little as five days!”

Chefs and home cooks begin dreaming of recipes both new and old, and debate the merits of the arguably most perfect preparation of these tender white stalks.

Though it is possible to discover green asparagus here, it is far more likely that you will encounter the more delicate flavor of the white variety. You can find either type year-round in the grocery super-store, but you’ll have to be content with the tinny, slightly off flavor and mushy texture that comes from  canned produce. No, best to enjoy the Spargel like a true Bavarian: seasonally, locally, preferably with hollandaise.

Ah yes, the hollandaise. While the pale yellow sauce may have originally been a French creation, I have no doubt that the Germans would take the lead in any competition of the hollandaise-making persuasion. They consume it with a staggering variety of dishes; over meats, chicken, fish, potatoes, “foreign” foods like dolmas or Spanish rice, and vegetables, of course including the near-holy asparagus. In fact, most Spargel enthusiasts will argue that a simple presentation of lightly steamed asparagus, with salt, pepper, and a generous ladling of smooth, rich hollandaise is the ultimate way to enjoy the perfection that is Spargel-zeit. 

This magical two-week mini-season is truly feted. Every restaurant of any decency will offer a special separate menu, the Spargel Karte, in addition to its regular menu.  The Spargel Karte can have as few as three or as many as thirteen items on it, all dishes featuring the glorious white asparagus. Asparagus soup, asparagus salad, asparagus pizza, asparagus with local fish, asparagus with eggs and ham, and of course, asparagus with hollandaise. 

Home cooks and hausfraus will scour the local markets every morning searching for the finest most delicate spears. Once they’ve selected their favorites, they’ll scoop them up in kilos. With a glass of crisp riesling, or a small mug of beer, the glorious Spargel is the toast of spring. 

And then, as quick as it began, the asparagus begin to disappear from the markets, and the Spargel Karten become scarcer or with fewer selections. The time of the asparagus is over, and the Bavarian, sated and peaceful, begin to gear up for morning hikes and afternoons at the local swimming pool. The brief summer of Central Europe is at hand, hot and sticky and full of sun. Bearing the standard every year is the mighty and glorious asparagus. 

I’m not sure exactly when I stopped caring about shoes so much and started caring about kitchenware. It didn’t happen suddenly, but one day I noticed it had been a year since my last shoe expenditure and I still didn’t have and money in my savings account. Where, pray tell, was all my money going?

I glanced around my cluttered kitchen and and spied the new magnetic knife rack we had yet to install. I saw the jars of anchovies and capers lined up next to a plethora of vinegars and oils. I thought of the new tea strainer nestled in the drawer, alongside the new egg timer and the new cheese grater. And then it dawned on me: I had unconsciously traded in Jimmy Choo for Cuisinart!

Not that I don’t still adore gorgeous footwear, but I’ve acquired a deeper love for all sorts of culinary tools and specialty ingredients. It’s clearly where much of my money is going. And if Macy’s Union Square’s Shoes on Two is heaven for a shoe junkie, the its kitchenware equivalent is Kamei Housewares and Restaurant Supply on Clement Street.

If you owned a Chinese restaurant and you wanted to set up the entire kitchen and dining room for not a lot of money, this is the place you would go. They have ridiculously low prices on everything from flatware and plates to pots, pans, salt shakers and sake cups. The enormous space is positively packed with narrow aisles just exploding with everything you could ever want for your kitchen. 

And trust me, I want it all! I never leave without spending at least $40. Even if all I came in for was chopsticks, you’d better believe I’m coming out with a zester, a deep frying ladle, some tupperware, and maybe even a new serving platter as well. It’s simply impossible to describe the overwhelming sense of joy and excitement I feel when wandering the aisles of Kamei. Perhaps this makes me seem like a bit of an obsessive food-gadget nerd, but it cannot be helped. 

Though I may not necessarily need all these wonderful tools, I feel more relaxed and confident in the kitchen, just knowing they’re nearby. And you know, come to think of it, i don’t need sexy stilettos either. But strangely enough, I feel more confident and relaxed in them as well. Funny how that is.

What I didn’t know then was why these eggs were so much better than our eggs back home. Now I know that it wasn’t that they were German, its that they were from chickens raised in an entirely different way from our industrialized process. Chickens here are crammed into wire cages, kept under flourescent lights and stuffed full of antibiotics and feed of questionable origin. Even our “free range” or “cage free” chickens rarely see sunshine or grass as they’re packed tightly in huge barns. The pastured chicken, common throughout Germany and the not-so-distant past in the United States, eats a mixture of organic, chemical-free feed and grass. They’re allowed to forage, move about individually, eat yummy grubs, and lay their eggs in peace. This is why their yolk is so rich and why their flavor is so exquisite. They’re what eggs are supposed to be.

Organic Free Range Eggs

Now, I know these eggs don’t just exist in Europe. They can be found here, right here in Northern California. At least I hope so. I’ve tried the farmer’s markets in the City, and though I’ve found organic free range eggs, they’re still not quite it. I have to go to the farm, find the source itself. The egg quest has begun. 

The best place to start seems to be Petaluma, a po-dunk town in the North Bay that is everything agrarian and quaint. It also used to be the “Chicken Capital of the World.” The other day, Chris and I were up there, randomly, on a mission to find some cherries from a roadside stand. Our mission had proved, er, fruitless and we were headed back on a one-lane highway home. Suddenly I spotted a small, hand-painted sign stating “Eggs for Sale” in red paint. I instantly perked up and we turned around in search of the driveway. 

A few passes up and down the highway and we finally discovered a gravel lane with an even smaller sign, this time with just “Eggs” written on it. A short way down the lane led us to a narrow dirt driveway, marked with a sign with just a red painted arrow on it. At last here we would find some really truly farm-fresh eggs!

We passed a few languid cows on the way in, and then we were rapidly greeted by five very vocal little dogs. Exiting the car, we spied a healthy vegetable garden with a handful of ducks waddling about. We heard the chickens before we saw them. Squawking and clucking, there they were, milling about in the coop. Utterly enchanted, I turned to Chris and breathily exclaimed, “Oh, Honey. How darling. Let’s move out here and get some chickens!”

Being the imminently more sensible one of the two of us, Chris just smiled and went off in search of the proprietor of the lovely little farm so that we might purchase our eggs. I wandered about, daydreaming of my own vegetable garden and year-round sun. Rather quickly though, we soon realized no one was home. We circled the property, admiring the rusty farm equipment and an old trampoline by the fence. As the yappy dogsn hadn’t ceased yapping since we’d arrived, and no one had answered our calls, we ascertained that we were alone, wandering around a stranger’s property, and utterly eggless. 

First the cherries and now this! Disappointed, we piled back in the car and headed back on the long road home. Chris rationalized that we could always come back another day, or try to track down their phone number. Glumly, I agreed with him, but I couldn’t help feeling like a kid who’d been promised an ice cream cone only to find the ice cream parlor was closed. Sure, they’d re-open the next day, but I wanted my ice cream now! 

This is what beautiful, fresh, delicious, humanely-produced eggs will do to me. Though I haven’t found them yet, I feel very certain to very soon. The egg quest shall continue. 

You were not invited to this picnic.

But I will take your hand

lay you down 

and feed you cherries

overly ripe and bursting

deliciously mushy

almost rotten.

Feasting on bittersweet kisses

full of cream and honey

You can close your eyes 

And I will sit beside you.

offering nothing

but salty ground-up stories

Regurgitated memories 

that will only last so long

before you will want a cigarette. 

And then I can dance

naked sunshine

chilling my arms

that were so freshly oiled 

with love.

But you’ve lost the button on your coat

eaten by the grass

freckled with weeds

Not soft.

So I will sit beside you 

And soothe your aching mind

with sour cherries…

A look of longing patience

mottled and piercing…

We can finally go back. 

Needless to say, Royal Market abounds with a certain charm. It’s bright and shiny, yet strangely mysterious at the same time. The black leather jacketed proprietor stands heavily behind the register, either yelling into his cellphone or thumbing his way through last week’s Moscow Times. Little Russian ladies squeeze past each other in the narrow produce aisle, poking at the leeks, potatoes, and onions. And of course there’s the young people of the neighborhood, brought out here by the cheap (for San Francisco) rents, perusing the incredible variety of jams, cookies, and naturally, liquors. Each Russian market is different in its own small ways, which just adds to the unique allure of them all. 

So for years I have been a happy advocate of these small markets, gleefully parading around my tiny culinary discoveries. Most of my friends and roommates over the years respond with indulgent smile and mild pats on the back, as if to say, ” Yes, yes Kitty, it’s very wonderful. Can we please go to Whole Foods now?” So imagine my slightly confused delight when my boyfriend Chris burst through the door late one evening with a huge paper bag of groceries and a beaming smile, fresh from his first solo adventure at Royal Market. As it was past nine PM and he was rather late for the dinner I’d planned to make, I thrust my hands on my hips and greeted him with my best withering stare. 

“Hi honey, I know I’m late, I’m sorry. But look, I was down at that Russian market you love and I got you a surprise! It’s awesome! The guys at the store were so friendly and cool, and they said that this was the best dinner ever!”

Relaxing my stance a bit, I moved towards the kitchen to see what he was unpacking. Salami, brie, a Spring Hill pepper jack, and a bottle of cabernet came tumbling out of the paper bag. This was my surprise? We had four different cheeses and two kinds of salami in the fridge already — though one can never have too much of either, it still seemed a bit anti-climactic, as far as surprises go. I returned my hands to my hips. 

“No Kitty wait! When I was chatting with the owner, I mentioned our trip to Eastern Europe, and he said I just had to try this before we went, so I know what I’m getting myself into. And then he made me buy this awesome stuff to go with it. So this, Baby, this is going to be great!”

With a triumphant flourish, Chris reached into the bag and produced his surprise. Of all the I’m Sorry For Being Late presents he’s come up with, this one was truly a unique surprise. No flowers or chocolates here, no way. Chris likes to push the envelope on creativity and he certainly succeeded this time.I looked into his eyes, then looked at his proud purchases sitting on the counter, then back to his face again (I can never look into those hazel-y green eyes without swooning just a little.) I couldn’t possibly restrain the laughter that burst out of me. Strong and stalwart they stood: a jar of pickled herring and a bottle of Russian Standard vodka. 

Seeing that my laugh was one of enjoyment and not one of ridicule, Chris set about making us a grand smargasboard of cheese, salami, and herring. With the bottle and some shot glasses in in one hand and the heaping platter of of goodies in the other, Chris’ grand entrance just made me laugh even harder. I felt the need to warm him just a bit, however. 

” You know, this is a very Eastern European snack. Herring is beloved in Germany, Russian, even places like Sweden and Norway. You know I’ve grown up with it, due to my German mother and all, but I’m interested to see how you take to it. It’s kind of an acquired taste for most people. ” Though I didn’t want to dampen his spirits, I also didn’t want him to be disappointed if he didn’t care for the briny, fishy, vinegared flesh. Undeterred, he replied,

” Well, I’m German and Polish, so it’s gotta be in my blood or something!”

And with that, Chris took his first bite of traditional pickled herring. After a few seconds of thoughtful chewing, my fears had been laid to rest as he smiled broadly and exclaimed,

“Wow. That’s exceptional! It’s slippery and briny. Really interesting flavor all-around. Hey, I bet it’s awesome with the vodka!”

Never one to shy away from a bit of high quality vodka, I heartily agreed. “Na zdorovye!” And so we ate and drank our way through a blissful Russian evening. Which, I might add, would not have happened if Chris hadn’t have stumbled upon my beloved market and let himself be taken in. For perhaps that’s the reasonwhy I hold these markets so dear to my heart– going into one for a while to do a bit of shopping isn’t the end of the adventure. When you have a real conversation with an owner or an employee, when you let yourself try something unusual, something authentically different, you are actually experienceing the thrill of the new that we usually only experience while travelling. The whole experience throbs with adventure. 

As both of our family histories are tangled up throughout Germany, Austria, Poland, and the rest of Eastern Europe, Chris and I feel a sense of kinship with our Russian neighbors in the fogged-in avenues of San Francisco. After all, the taste for herring is in our blood.