Finding Gold Among the Pine Needles

Autumn in the Pacific Northwest. A stroll in the forest, sun filtering through flaming vine maple leaves. Cushy moss and thick beds of shedded needles under the Douglas Fir. Wind whispering, birds calling. And a great big basket of chanterelles!

It was my first time mushroom hunting. My long experience buying chanterelles at the farmers market helps--I'm familiar with the variety of shapes and shades in which they come, the intertwining ridges that run underneath the cap and down the stem, the way the caps invert into distorted rippling cups, the puckering and contortion of a mushroom that has forced its way up under a log.

The first few minutes of hunting was a little discouraging, as I heard shouts of discovery from someone following right in my footsteps, picking a luscious fungus I'd virtually stepped over. Soon I found a few and my senses sharpened, picking out that certain shade of yellow, a little brighter than fallen leaves. I began to spot them capped with pine needles, thrusting up a thick layer of duff. I found rich clusters of them, and I gasped as I circled my fingers around a stem and burrowed them around it, into the forest floor. Thick around as a broom handle! A twist, a pull, a trim with my Opinel knife, into the basket.

There were 40 of us, spreading out in the woods south of Mount Hood. Bark, a Mount Hood advocacy group, orchestrated the outing. We carpooled out of Portland and into the wilderness along logging roads, passing hunters and ATV enthusiasts before spilling out into the forest, baskets in hand. Mark DesMarets, an experienced fungal enthusiast, advised us about the specimens we might find and the ecology of the mushroom. Amazingly, 300,000 pounds of wild mushrooms are exported from Oregon annually.

In view of that number, my two-and-three-quarters pound of fragrant, golden chanterelles doesn't sound too impressive. But piled high in my basket, curving stems spreading to undulating crowns, I found them magnificent. Likewise, a few hours later when a handful of them issued their savory juices in my skillet, along with butter, leeks, garlic, thyme and creme fraiche... magnificent.

Harvesting for Humanity

A gunmetal gray cloud cover hangs low over the Salinas Valley, obscuring the rugged Santa Lucia Highlands and shading a crowd of workers wearing hairnets and rubber gloves as they bend in a field, plunging knives into the stems of red romaine lettuce, pulling off tattered leaves and tossing tidy heads into crates. The awkward techniques and leisurely pace make it clear: this isn't an ordinary harvest crew. On this May Saturday morning, 60 volunteers are joining a bi-monthly gleaning event organized by Ag Against Hunger to supply fresh produce to food banks in the tri-county area and beyond.

Today, the glean team is harvesting lettuce from a field that was maintained all the way to maturity--nine weeks--and, now that prices have dropped, is no longer economically viable to harvest. Without Ag Against Hunger, the tilling, planting, pesticide spraying and watering which has nurtured this field since March would be wasted, along with a perfectly good crop of lettuce. Some Saturday mornings, volunteers engage in true gleaning: the age-old process of gathering produce after the official harvest has been completed and part of the crop is left behind due to size or cosmetic issues.

I arrived at 9 AM at the Ag Against Hunger warehouse in Salinas to find a buzzing crowd of all ages passing around a clipboard and filling out waivers. The parking lot proclaimed a broad demographic: a shiny Cadillac Esplanade, a dusty Jeep Cherokee covered with progressive stickers, a Prius, pick-ups, mini-vans and station wagons. Families with small children mingled with seniors. College kids swigged coffee from commuter mugs. Teenagers horsed around. After a quick orientation with Gleaning and Volunteer Coordinator Ananda Jimenez, and an invitation to find carpool companions, we piled into vehicles and followed a white 18-wheeler about 10 miles south on Highway 101.

Thanks to this 19-year-old organization, by noon our brief agricultural labors will be over and we will save 4200 pounds of lettuce from being tilled under. Crops rescued from the plow by volunteers make up only about 1% of the total fresh produce that Ag Against Hunger distributes each year. The balance is produce already harvested and processed that becomes unsalable due to price fluctuations. Ag Against Hunger's network of about 50 growers and shippers are grateful for the opportunity to donate this surplus to food banks and human services agencies and enjoy the accompanying tax benefits.

Visit Gleaning Stories to hear audio recordings of gleaners (including me!). Their mission is to collect and broadcast the stories of gleaners in the Salinas Valley.

Rafting down the Rogue River

I hadn't planned on dawdling in Southern Oregon. Just drive my friend Debbianne to her new home in Williams, Oregon, and get on the road by noon the next day to complete my drive from Portland to Monterey, California.

But what do you do when it's gonna be another hundred-degree day and your lovely hostess says "a bunch of us are going to float down the river. Why don't you come?" Here's what I did--reflected on the matter for oh, five minutes or so, and concluded that life is too short and unemployment too precious to decline such an invitation. Shortly, nine people, two trucks, four kayaks and a couple coolers of icy beers were winding their way north along the very scenic roads to the Galice Resort, where we rented a raft and gear and got a shuttle seven miles up the river, all for about $90.

After slathering up with sunscreen and cinching our PFD's tight (that's Personal Flotation Device, of course) we slid into the water for a few hours of leisurely floating, paddling and the occasional class I or II rapid, punctuated by a few refreshing swims. Surrounded by rugged hillsides and fragrant pines, we saw herons, mergansers, osprey and a couple of small dark swimming mammals--mink, perhaps?

We pulled out at the Galice Resort close to sunset, to a classic rock soundtrack from the live band up on their inviting deck. A little tailgate party followed: cold beer, watermelon, and chips. What a lovely way to spend a scorching afternoon.

Thanks to Michelle, the aforementioned lovely hostess, organizer, driver, and kayak-den-mother. Here she is!

Scream Sorbet: Fruity Frozen Farmers Market Delight

Scream Sorbet is sharing the love at 17 farmers markets in the Bay Area: The love of true, pure, frozen flavors. Their mission is to make the best sorbet in the world, and I think they may be doing it! Imagine local, seasonal, mostly-organic fruit transformed, at the peak of perfection, into a dense, smooth, creamy scoop of frozen delight. Just fruit, sugar, water and--occasionally--pectin.

They are just beginning to usher out the vibrant winter citrus flavors (goodbye, Meyer lemon, Oro Blanco grapefruit, and lime-mint) and welcome the luscious flavors of summer (hello apricot, cherry-rhubarb, and strawberry). Some flavors know no season: chocolate (made with top-of-the-line Blanxart organic chocolate), cashew-caramel, pistachio. These nut flavors are astonishing: so creamy and thick, you'd swear a cow was involved.

Six flavors are featured at each farmers market, a teasingly small fraction of the 35 listed on the website. Many flavors are inventive, even visionary: I tried the coconut-lime-Thai basil and was dazzled by the interplay of tangy lime and herbaceous basil embraced by round buttery coconut milk. On my wish list: saffron-almond, coconut-lemongrass, beet-lemon, and pomegranate-blueberry. And the other thirty flavors.

They work the magic in an Emeryville catering kitchen and roam the Bay Area, from San Rafael to Monterey, where I was lured in by their very generous sampling policy, characterized by the following phrases: "anything else?" "try another" "here, try this."

Fort Ord: Mountain biking among the wildflowers

Seldom have I seen a valley as a hawk does. As I approached one of the many crests on a steep fire road in Fort Ord, a former military reserve now open to the public, a hawk slipped over me on the breeze. I turned to watch it coast down the length of the whole valley, curving from ridge to ridge like a skier, never once flapping a wing, just riding the drafts as they effervesced over the slopes. It cruised over hills faded from green to brown like worn velvet, smudged with lavender from the distant lupines, circled over a small wetland and gained altitude again, effortlessly.

The dense woods of Oregon, which I love, would never offer a show like this. The bird would appear briefly overhead and vanish behind dense boughs, its path a mystery. Each raptor would have it's own strategy: the California hawk glimpsing prey from a great distance and approaching with stealth, the Northwest bird employing lightning-quick reactions to nab a creature unseen until the very last moment.

Goats, goats, glorious goats

Henceforth,
no spring will be complete for me without a visit to Harley Farms in Pescadero, California--a goat farm and cheese factory nestled in a green and picturesque valley moistened by ocean fog. I'm sure a visit any time of year is nice, but what happens in the spring? Baby goats do, that's what. As of April 1st or so, 267 had been born. Goat fans can not only tour the farm, the fields, the barn and the cheese kitchen, but also pet endless (very friendly) adult and baby goats, and even, with the explicit consent of Harley Farms, pick up, hug and kiss the babies. And even--can you believe it--milk a goat!! I was in heaven for two hours, and that wasn't even counting all the free samples of fresh goat cheese I scarfed down in their little shop.

All the babies are descendants of the first six goats acquired by Dee Harley over a decade ago. They are watched over by three guardian lamas, who instinctively protect their goat friends from predators in the fields. The babies stay with mama for about four days, then they are penned up together--separated by sex--and fed on re-hydrated sheep's milk as mama returns to the milking parlor for twice-daily milkings, at which she delivers about a gallon a day.

What else did I learn? A baby goat may nurse vigorously on your finger, but it won't hurt. A grown-up goat enjoys gently chewing on your clothes--they browsed on me like a shrub! A socialized goat really likes people and petting. Milking is hard--imagine getting a secure grip on a turgid water balloon and then coaxing the water out through a pinprick, a tablespoon at a time. I suspect carpal tunnel didn't originate with the typewriter, but with the domesticated dairy animal.

And the take-away advice: next time I'll choose gardening clogs over tennis shoes (they still smell like barnyard) and perhaps bring some knee pads, so I can kneel in the muck for maximum petting pleasure and picture-taking prowess.

A three-day visit to my home town of Portland, Oregon, and all I did was eat. Really. Thai food, bar food, fancy tasting menu, homey crepes. It was divine.

One highlight was a five-course lunch at Bleu, the restaurant of the Western Culinary Institute. Now, I don't need five courses at lunch, but at $14.95, I managed to put them away, having skipped breakfast in anticipation. My very accommodating lunch date agreed to go halvsies on everything, and most courses included two choices, so we covered most of the bases.

Soup: potato leek or butternut squash puree.

Salad: shaved fennel and red onion, (too) lightly dressed with orange, garnished with orange and blood orange, or butter lettuce with peeled cherry tomatoes (had they been canned? in any case, very nice! they absorbed some of the excellent dressing) and bacon.

Appetizer: salmon mousse with asparagus tips, awash in beurre blanc, or a charcuterie plate showcasing two kinds of salumi, with 3 mustards, sliced apple and cornichons.

Main: clams (5 of 'em) with wide noodles, seasoned with curry, or pork loin with curry sauce and lentils.

Dessert: chocolate souffle with creme anglaise, or creme brulee.

All this, plus a coffee, tea or soda--a screaming deal. While the food was neither transcendent nor sublime, it ranged from fair (the fennel salad, grievously under-seasoned) to delish (the salmon mousse) and nicely portioned. We cleaned our plates throughout, until we were met with the substantial creme brulee, which defeated us both and returned to the kitchen unfinished.

Perhaps we ate too much bread: slices of an excellent baguette, served with three kinds of butter: plain, herbed, and honey-saffron. This last was delectable, although I'd prefer to see it on the breakfast table, not with my savories. On the whole, I will gladly be trying more cooking schools.

Old San Juan, Puerto Rico

Visiting Old San Juan feels like visiting Europe, including the collision of heavy tourist traffic with stately old buildings. Narrow streets, statues, flocks of begging pigeons, wrought-iron railings--but huge American cars are squeezed onto the tiny roads. And it's hot and humid. With the occasional tropic downpour.

There are a few heavily touristed streets, but when you get off that oh-so-trodden path, it's quite charming. The whole thing can be walked in a day, with fortifications from the various street vendors selling deep-fried goodies, ice cream and exotic snow cones.

I had my first sesame flavored snow cone. It will be my last. Imagine thin sweet tahini over crushed ice. As always, I'm happy to have tried something completely out of my usual sphere, even though it will doubtless stay there.

A more reliable--and expensive--frozen treat is the Pina Colada, alleged to have been invented in Old San Juan.

Swallowed up by the internet

"The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page."

I found this quote on a bookmark, attributed to St. Augustine, and liked it. I thought I'd include it on my blog, and in a fit of compulsive behavior, I thought I should know more about this St. Augustine fellow before I quoted him. While not intending to procrastinate (do I ever?) it sent me up the garden e-path and down slippery virtual slopes with little satisfaction.

First Wikipedia. Seems that there are three St. Augustine's. I decided on another strategy: find the quote, note the attribution and deduce which St. Augustine was so wise.

I've viewed, today, while I could perhaps have been doing something more productive, about a dozen sites that purport to be authorities on quotes. I tried searching for the above quote, and another recent favorite: "write drunk, edit sober" which I recently saw attributed to Hemingway, but a google search reveals Mark Twain to be another source. And while I found nothing on these two excellent philosophies, I made a survey of a number of websites, which I share.....

www.bartleby.com links to a number of useful resources, including dictionaries, thesauri, encyclopedias, and a huge range of complete original sources, ranging from the Bhagavad-Gita to Cicero to W.E.B. DuBois. The selection seems to be restricted by the expiration of copyright: for example, the most recent non-fiction anthology they offer is Modern Essays, edited in 1921! Similarly, there are gaps: F. Scott Fitzgerald is represented only by This Side of Paradise. Nonetheless a rich resource, but it didn't resolve my question.

www.quotationspage.com was cluttered and clumsy. I was quickly put off after a few failed searches.

I decided to try a control quote, something more universally recognized. At www.quoteland.com I searched for "to be or not to be" and the site utterly failed me. A blank window appeared, without explanation, within the website's graphic framework. Useless.

Yahoo offered a directory of quote sites. www.wikiquote.com--that sounded promising! But again, no luck. It came up with vast quantities of quotes related by one or two random words, from such unlikely sources as "Family Guy" and "Grey's Anatomy." Pass.

www.quotations.com--they're for sale! No. Way.

www.quotations.about.com, part of the About.com empire. Lots of lists, curated by a single guide, no search function. Pass.

In conclusion, I cannot substantiate that the above quote was by St. Augustine, much less which St. Augustine, nor do I know whether it was Mark Twain, Ernest Hemingway or another who wrote drunk and edited sober. While some of these rejected sites may offer better results with some in-depth study, hey! this is the internet. I want it fast and easy. I was sorely disappointed

I did find a few resources I'll return to:

www.Bartleby.com, while it failed in this hunt, seemed to be very useful, including such valuable resources as Strunk and White's The Elements of Style, and the potential of endless reading if I ever end up on a deserted island with only a single website.

www.ipl.org is the Internet public library! That rings my bells. There's a subheading: librarians' Internet index: websites you can trust. Hallelujah. And apparently we can submit questions to reference librarians. Perhaps they can substantiate my quotes. I'll be returning to this one.

www.madehow.com has nothing to do with quotes, but it is super cool. Seven volumes and searchable, with detailed explanations of how all kinds of things are made: tires, temporary tattoos, holograms, coins. Another bookmark.

Granted, this is about neither food nor travel, but about the travails of writing and especially fact-checking. If anyone has a reliable resource for verifying quotes, please! Share it with me. And I promise to return to my intended topics on my next post.

Escape to Carmel Valley

Sometimes travel isn't measured by the distance or the time spent, but by the sense of escape attained. That's what Saturday was like for me.

An author speaking at the Carmel Valley Village library caught my eye, so at 9 AM I embarked on a gorgeous drive, heading south from my parent's house near Monterey over the Laureles Grade and into Carmel Valley. It was clear and warm, with sculpted clouds accentuating the far-flung landscape. Looking at a map, I realized that Carmel Valley Road runs roughly parallel to Highway One: the two roads embrace Los Padres National Forest, so I was viewing the back of the coast range, the back side of Big Sur. No wonder it was fabulous. Winter rains have left the grasslands brilliantly verdant and wildflowers are beginning to bloom. An orchard of still-dormant, gnarled mossy trees rose above a blanket of mustard flowers. Rugged mountains (yes! over 4,500 feet) soared up from the valley floor, a patchwork of oak and scrubland and rock and meadow.

It reminded me of Malibu: the wild terrain tamed by a few roads, the panoramic views, the multi-million dollar homes. It seems like the immense wealth actually does infuse the air out there--I could smell it and taste it. Wineries, horses, tennis courts, and those palacial houses, scattered in the wilderness. Vanity vineyards--small residential plots of grapes--dot the terrain. A store displayed statuary of a massive scale: marble columns, enormous fountains, carved animals.

All the rampant wealth notwithstanding, it's a place of rapturous beauty on a spring day. After the library event, I strolled, I had a coffee, I popped into a few stores and then concluded with... a spontaneous photo safari! Mix is a store with a couple of acres devoted to large-scale imports for the garden from Southeast Asia. After a recent photography workshop, I was eager to try some of my new tricks on their photogenic merchandise.

An hour of photography, half an hour from home, was a low-budget vacation. It was the sense of leisure, more than the activities, that I carved out of a pedestrian Saturday morning that left me feeling refreshed and transported, having had a brief window into the lives of folks just over the hill, in a destination predictably embraced by the Beautiful People.