[Summer pasta, August 2008.]

Oh, hello, summer you sweet old thing. How I’ve missed you. I think San Francisco has missed you, too, because the whole city seems in the last few days to have turned into a shining, blue-white, golden afternoon of pure sunlight and warm breezes. I don’t even care what the calendar says (true fall begins in a few weeks? Pshaw), because I know what I feel and I feel like it’s definitely summer here in the city. I’ve even worn a skirt each of the past two days! I plan to soak up every last drop of this gorgeous sun and wind and did I mention the sun?

Alas, I’m leaving for Maine early tomorrow morning — another wedding, a visit with my brother and his girlfriend Emily, a brief family trip to Acadia National Park, and then to Rochester for yet another wedding celebration — and how hard it is to tear myself away. I’m not really as jet-setty as this schedule may imply (really!) even though I was just on the East Coast for a week, and am heading that way yet again in November — no, I swear I love you San Francisco. I just have to leave every so often I guess. And in the meantime, I’ll enjoy your wonderful weather with every little bit of me.

But to backtrack: I got home Saturday night and in the few days I had off before returning to the daily grind (though I must admit, with my morning Blue Bottle and possibly even a pastry now and then, it’s not so much of a grind as it is completely awesome) I lounged about the backyard in Sebastopol entreating the cat to spend time with me while I drank cold lemonade and ate potato chips. I pretty much just read and talked and slept and got a bit of a suntan and generally engaged in as much sloth as possible. My mom cooked some good dinners and we drank some wine and it was a the perfect way to usher in (sweet, sweet, sighed-over) Indian Summer.

My favorite part? Had to have been Sunday lunch, outside, and totally slow food in honor of the weekend’s conference. The basil was from a pot in the backyard, the tomatoes from the neighbors (and of course, they were simply marvelous), the wine from Sonoma, just an hour away. The breeze was mild, the food divine, the birds called to each other from the redwoods and the cat wound his way around our ankles. It was perfect.

I don’t have an ‘official’ recipe for this cappellini al pomodoro but this is what I do when I have an abundance of late-season tomatoes: I boil up a big pot of water with a dash of salt, and then I throw in either spaghetti or some of the thinner stuff. Meanwhile, I coarsely chop some tomatoes and in a big frying pan dump in a few good glugs of olive oil in which I sautee maybe 6-7 chopped cloves of garlic (more or less, it’s all up to you). When that’s going well, I dump in the tomatoes along with a liberal dusting of salt and pepper, and cook it all on medium heat for about five minutes (the key for me is to sort of wilt the tomatoes rather than get them too saucy — if you know what I mean). A few fresh leaves of basil (or oregano, if you’ve got it) added just at the end, and swirling the hot pasta with this delicious stew right before serving makes one of my very favorite late-summer — or fall — meals. You must have lots of Parmesan on the side and maybe even should cut up some more of those fantastic tomatoes to be sprinkled with salt and pepper to round out the plate.

Hey summer! Will you promise to stick around for a few more weeks so we can hang out when I get back in town? If you do, I might bring along some stories about the misty sea-coast and wooden boats and reunions with old friends and a cold ocean and hopefully not too much rain to make it up to you. Pretty please — you do know I love you so.

[The Mediterranean from the ferry, August 2007.]

One night last summer I stood on a rock above the Mediterranean, looking across the rim of the world. My brother had just jumped into the ocean; he yelled at me to step off the land and into the water, too: come on, it’s totally safe, it’s warm, come on come in. The sky slipped into the blue hour (or really, the blue-gray hour), that last little bit of daylight when the sun drops lower down the horizon and shimmers through the clouds and everything is soft and still. I waited.

Now, I knew it was OK. He’d jumped in and I could see it was absolutely marvelous — I also knew that I would jump (as I love to jump from rocks into lakes, or oceans, or swimming holes in Samuel P. Taylor Park). But I hesitated. The water slapped gently against the rocks. The sun slunk ever lower and a few birds winged their way across the hills. I felt that nervous, trembly feeling in my legs and stomach that really is more anticipation than anything else — and still I waited.

I have been thinking about this swim lately, because … well, I miss Greece (and Spetses), always, but I remember that tremulous, excited, scared feeling of just before as if it were yesterday. Sometimes things are hard because they just are, and sometimes they are hard because of a whole other complicated slew of things, and sometimes they are hard because there is a lot of care, and love, involved — those I think are the hardest ones of all. Change is most always good, but on the edge of it sometimes you feel like you’re on that rock above the water, about to jump, but a little scared to do so even though you know you will be just fine.

You know I love to cook for others – it’s my way of showing affection, of taking care of, of being there in the most simple and vital way. I’ve been cooking for two for an age — I will not say how long, but some of you know of course — but for the foreseeable future I will be cooking most of my meals seule (unless, of course, I have dinner parties which, of course) which I’m well used to, but sometimes it’s lacking that little something. Luckily, though, I do like my own cooking pretty well because I think I shall just continue on making my big batches of soups and stir fries and things and learn to concoct exotic things with my leftovers. It could be worse, obviously.

As I think back on the time I spent with my particular someone, I have to remember the very first thing I ever cooked for him: a soup, because he was sick. This was in a little basement apartment I shared with two friends for one year in college, when I made big, messy pots of soup with whatever vegetables were on hand (potatoes, almost always, carrots, all the healthy things I could think of). My room mate’s boyfriend teased me about my soup-making. This was serious if I was going to all the trouble, he said. So I made my soup and I brought it to campus, where he lived, and maybe I also brought one of my very vegetarian vegetable-dyed sweaters (or wore it) and that, really, was that.

Over the years we have shared many, many delicious meals together as well of course as many other things, and my little wish tonight is that we will eat together again someday down the road — wherever in the world we happen to be.

(In the meantime, I foresee a lot of roasted cauliflower and bread and cheese and impromptu soups for me, and also? If you ever want to come over, please call. We’ll eat. A lot.)

In Greece last summer, poised over the Med, I hesitated. I waited and I looked across the sea, empty and booming, and I shifted around the rocks that cut into my feet because I was ready, but only just. My good friend took photos from the beach behind me and my brother laughed up at me and I felt safe even though I didn’t know how deep the water would be (would I hit the sand?), or how cold, or how long it would take me to swim back to the beach. For a second I considered turning around and scrambling down the rocks, but then I looked over the sea again, and I took a breath, and I leaped.

[Baltimore this morning, August 2008.]

I think I may have feelings for Baltimore.

Wait, come back. I still love San Francisco — no, really, I do. But I’m sort of falling in crush with another city by the bay, and it’s making me all gushy.

I know. I know. I’m not leaving California anytime soon — I’m definitely swoony in love with the Bay Area and Pt. Reyes and San Francisco and and and (oh yeah, did you know? Is it obvious?). But after spending a few days in Charm City, I have to think: huh. Baltimore. Who knew?

Pretty much all we did was talk (and talk … and talk) and walk around and eat ice cream sundaes and ride the water taxi and sit on the roof deck and eat really good food and talk about wedding dresses and lounge in a hammock on said roof deck and reminisce and talk about new things and old things and college and writing and dratted editors and really? It was pretty much a perfect few days. The weather was marvelous — almost cool, and with little humidity — the company of course sublime. I love my West Coast life to be sure, but I also miss my friends East.

[The table before dinner, August 2008.]

Monday night, H cooked a dinner party. I was sous chef/occasional dishwasher (basically, I kept her company and poured the wine while she stirred the sauce and set the table). She made: fresh pasta with a home made red tomato sauce that I forgot to get the recipe for and now I regret it because it was so good; roasted asparagus drizzled with olive oil and a bit of parmesan cheese; cannoli with sliced strawberries. I cut up some heirloom tomatoes and buffalo mozzarella and layered them all with some basil and olive oil and it was just delicious. We drank red wine and talked about politics with the three who made the trek up from DC, and ended up telling stories on the roof deck until well past bedtime (I’m on vacation, though, so there’s really no bedtime for me these days).

Baltimore seems to me a city built out of bricks, and marble. I love that people used to turn out en masse to wash their steps; it was a point of pride and ownership to take care of them. The whole city feels so neighborhood-y, old and so real at the same time, full of history and water. I even love the corner bars (though I’m sure lots of residents don’t); it reminds me, a little, of Jersey City where my parents grew up and where my grandmother still lives, so perhaps that’s why I felt so comfortable there. I’m not packing my bags and moving anytime soon, but I’m glad to know my heart has room for other cities, other places; my Northern California blinders are firmly in place, but I’m trying hard to peer round the edges.

Now I’m in DC for a few days, with a side trip to New Jersey tomorrow to visit various grandmothers as well as hopefully a friend who moved there recently from Mill Valley. I’m crossing my fingers the good weather holds out, and I can catch up on a few dearly missed hours of sleep before I head back to California this weekend. I will be glad to be back in my windy city again, but when I’ve been so thoroughly charmed by another, at this moment I can’t say I miss it too much.

[Pears from Gary, August 2008.]

It’s a good thing the Olympics are nearly over, because to be honest, I can’t sustain this lifestyle for too much longer. The other night, I found myself up until nearly midnight watching gymnastics which, let’s face it, is not as exciting as swimming (swooooon!) or even track and field, and really I don’t even think I much like gymnastics (though as a kid taking lessons I loved the uneven bars). Yet there I was, up way past my bedtime watching them leap and fling themselves about, carefully listening to the commentators explain the rules of the tie-break. As I said to my coworker, it’s like an addiction. I clearly can’t help myself.

Fortunately this Olympics-obsession has not translated into my neglecting the kitchen, although I have been eating out a bit lately (a new wine bar on Tuesday night, dinner with my parents at my local Thai restaurant on Wednesday, too many fries and a veggie burger and a gin and tonic last night at a bar on Fillmore with the girls). I’ve made a few good dinners of baked tofu and risotto, pan-fried broccoli and salad, even some baked goods.

Awhile ago I wrote an essay about foraging for blackberries and apples in my parents’ backyard in Sebastopol; I went on (and on) about the pies I make, the jams, the this and that. I should also have mentioned, perhaps, that in addition to the bounty in my own childhood backyard I am often a beneficiary of neighborly generosity — in a recent case, some plums from the neighbors across the street, and a bag-ful of pears and tomatoes from the neighbors right next door.

The tomatoes were ripe and juicy, picked fresh and sweet, but the pears … oh, those pears. They were absolutely beautiful and tasted even better which was unsurprising, really, given that the guy who grew and tended them is pretty much a master gardener (of course he’d deny it, but when I peek through the fence on my visits home, ogling not just the cute dogs but the squash and other vegetables in their field, I know). I cut them up and swirled them through thick yogurt with a drizzle of honey and a sprinkle of cinnamon; I ate them out of hand, quickly, with juice running down my arms; I piled thin slices atop chocolate cake; I made a pear-nectarine crumble.

[Before the oven.]

I think pears are perfect for August. They’re also around in the fall, and I’ve made quite a lot of fall-appropriate things with them — an upside-down cake, for example, or tucked into apple pies and strewn through salads — but here are they are in the very latest of late summer, yellow and glorious. As the month stretches and yawns into its final days (I know true summer extends well into September, but after Labor Day it just seems so … over) pears can bridge the gap between late summer and early autumn with their sweet, soft splendor. Lately I’ve been eating just as much as I possibly can.

Tonight I go East, late-night. I haven’t taken the red-eye (thankfully) in quite awhile, but for some reason I’m sort of looking forward to it. There’s something about those mid-night hours on a plane: lights off, most everyone sleeping, the country passing beneath you. If I can’t sleep, I like to think about all those houses, all those other lives in the middle of the night. I’ll look out the window and wonder at all the lights on, the cars moving silently — from my vantage point, at least — along the dark roads. Why are there so many people driving at 3a? Where are they going? Or coming from? Are they, too, unable to sleep even with a glass of milk warmed on the stove (note: this works for me most times)? What are they thinking about as the sun starts spreading its light over the horizon?

So my bags are packed with wee gifties and a good loaf of bread and a pretty dress to wear to a wedding tomorrow; I have a stack of magazines to catch up on; I have warm socks for curling up into on the flight. I hope I resist the allure of JetBlue’s direct tv service and can shut my eyes for a bit so I am not wholly exhausted when I arrive tomorrow morning in Virginia — but isn’t that what coffee is for?

I’ll be sure to tuck a little container of this crumble into my carry-on for the ride, too.

[Pear-nectarine crumble, August 2008.]

Pear-Nectarine Crumble, a loose recipe

3 pears, peeled and sliced
1 nectarine, sliced
1/2 cup sugar
1/2 tsp. cinnamon
1/4 cup flour
1/2 tsp. baking powder
1/4 cup sliced almonds
1/2 stick butter

Preheat an oven to 350 F. Cut up the fruit and add 1/4 cup of the sugar. Add the cinnamon.

In a bowl, stir together the flour, remaining sugar, baking powder, and almonds. Cut in the butter with a fork until the flour mixture resembles coarse meal.

Spread the fruit in a smallish baking dish and cover with the flour mixture. Bake for about a half-hour to 45 minutes until the fruit is bubbling and the topping is lightly browned.

Vegans: sub 1/4 cup vegetable oil for the butter

[Lunch, August 2008.]

Last night I dashed home from the gallery, where I’d had two (small!) glasses of sparkling wine in quick succession at a closing party, so I could meet my friend for a late dinner. We made: a shallot, broccoli, and potato soup simmered in a bit of vegetable broth and seasoned with fresh basil and pepper and then whirled into dairy-free silkiness with my trusty hand blender. Along with a green salad, lots of toasted bread piled high with brie and avocado slices, and a piece of still-warm chocolate cake it was a simple and satisfying supper.

This morning dawned grey and cool and though the sun struggled, it was unable to make an appearance; now, at 5.30, I don’t think I’ll see it today. I made the rounds at the market (haul: 5-grain bread, corn on the cob, lots of little potatoes, a cauliflower, strawberries, summer squash, delicate and spindly green beans), drank a lot of coffee, went for a 6-miler in the park, and turned up home around lunchtime chilly and starving. I kept thinking about that avocado from the night before: perfectly ripe, creamy and melting. Since I had two more on the counter that felt just as perfectly ripe there was nothing for it but to attempt a reprise.

So I sawed off a piece of bread from my new loaf and toasted it for about a minute (I like it just a bit crispy but never hard enough to shatter), smeared it with butter, and stacked it with as many slices of avocado as could fit.

I read New York magazine, listened to the Thistle and Shamrock on NPR for the first time in much, much too long, remembered how nice it is to steal an hour of an afternoon to eat lunch, properly, at the table with a glass of cold orange juice and the wind rattling the windows just enough to make you notice but not enough to be annoying.

After, of course, a bit of leftover cake and finally reading the New Yorker article about marathoner Ryan Hall (and about distance running in general, really; did you know there weren’t even speciality running clothes until the 1970s?). It was a good thing I’d already done my run for the day because I wanted to get right out there and run at least 20 miles even though it’s been almost three years since i’ve run that long. However, it definitely galvanized me for the November half for which I’ve registered; it will be good to run across the Gloden Gate Bridge again in the early morning.

And now I think a cup of tea will ease me into the rest of the evening …