A Gypsy Chef

The B's

2012-02-20T11:25:00.000-08:00

Blood Orange. Bourbon. Balsamic...... and Bees

With plans constantly shifting and changing before me, and while Europe freezes over (even Mallorca got 5 inches of snow!!) I choose to hunker down in a sweet 72 degree California winter.

A lesson on Bee keeping with our very own new members to the Santa Barbara family. Pizza dough was left to rise in the warming drawer, and our fourth cup of Mariage Frere black tea was now finished for the morning. At 10:00 am, two young bee keepers came to the house to teach us the ways of Bee house-keeping.

After smoking the bees out with essential oils to calm them down, we disassembled the box and carefully searched through it's solders to find the queen. Worker bees carry pollen on their hind legs and litter the waxed comb plates. Glistening nectar shines up from bellow, and dreams come to surface of what we will do with our future supply of backyard honey...... Homemade chevre with honey. Morning toast with peanut butter and honey. Flatbread with sopressada, caramelized onions, rosemary and honey. Pear tarts with creme fraiche and honey. Moroccan mint tea with honey.....

By evening time, and while our counter tops were quickly being taken over by hands hard at work with flour and dough. Making the perfect size pizza base for their moment in the wood-fire oven. It was 5:00 in California and aperitivo time was before us.

In the wake of a serious citrus season in the California, we were left with far too many blood oranges, piled in baskets on the counter. A blood orange cocktail is made to go alongside our reunion dinner and honey bee conversations.

The B's

1.5 oz Quality Bourbon

1 c Blood Orange Juice

Dash of balsamic vinegar

Dash of lemon juice

Dash of simple syrup

Mix in a shaker (I'm super into this one!!) and adjust flavors to taste. Best serve over ice with a wedge of blood orange, on a winter night in California, alongside wood-fire oven pizzas at home.

Love and Light -Ash

Stillness

2012-02-02T15:42:00.000-08:00

Dear Breakfast Pizza,

You are unlike any other breakfast pizza. Perhaps even my favorite.

In fact, you may just put them all to shame.

With your thin crust of slightly crispy, yet slightly chewy semolina bliss.

Your perfect balance of parmesan and mozzarella, melted in harmony.

To your strips of beautiful bacon, essence of wood-fire, delicately baked eggs, and optional red pepper flakes.

You kinda rocked my world on Sunday morning...

I love you, Breakfast Pizza.

(And it's not just the juice fast I've been on for the past 3 days that's speaking. I swear.)

Yours, Ash

From Big Sur Bakery

....But then I met a bathtub.

Post-Brunch bath in a tree house of Big Sur, CA.

Dear Sweet Bathtub in the Woods.........

Forest Breakfast

2012-01-31T13:15:00.000-08:00

A good morning in Big Sur, California.

Breakfast in a tree house- Fresh granola and strong coffee, sliced baguette, plugra butter, French breakfast radishes, and fleur de sel.

Hands down, one of my favorite places on the planet. Driving Hwy 1 north into Big Sur from Santa Barbara should be on that master list of top 100 things to do/ places to see before you die. I even got to introduce it to a Swiss man, for his first trip to the California coastline. I think it was an easy sell.

Staying home for a couple weeks to revisit my dream board of cookbooks left behind. And to set up plans for upcoming adventures to Istanbul, Morocco, and cooking through Mexico, Belize and central America.

"Let the beauty we love be what we do" -Rumi

New Year

2012-01-15T09:19:00.000-08:00

The year 2011- Gypsy'd.....

India- Where 2011 began. A solo journey around spiritual highs. Swimming through chai tea and coconut chutney as the adventure unfolded in every unexpected way.

A year later now, and the smells and sights of India haunt me in ways I hope will never stop.

Flying through London and then Madrid, breaking a 4 months fast of Alcohol and meat with plates and cups full of fried fish, beer, and plates of cured ham...... de tox- re tox!

España, March 2011

Return to Morocco in March of 2011- Spring time in Morocco is something not to be missed. Wild poppies, mint tea, walnut forests, fish tagines, and camels.

A 3 day camel trek along the beaches of Essaouira

Magic of Marrakech

Springtime cooking in Vienna

Peggy Markel's Culinary Adventures. Sailing the Amalfi coast.

Vongole for lunch in Amalfi.

Life in Florence for the summer.

Fresh caught cod, chucks of ice, wild arugula, tart blueberries and testing out my sea legs as a yacht chef in Iceland and Greenland.

Home in California. Reunited.

Christmas and New Years in Jamaica..... Hello 2012. May you be awakening and deeply explored.

Much love. -Ash

Soursop

2011-12-30T07:23:00.000-08:00

This spiky, green, sweet and sour fruit grows in abundance in central America, Mexico, and Jamaica. It's family member, the cherimoya is one of my most favorite California fruits. The fruit has a creamy texture, reminiscent of bananas and coconut, and the flavor of tangy strawberry and pineapple. This has easily become one of my favorite ingredients, and meal accompaniments of Jamaica.

So the chef taught me how to make Soursop juice yesterday.

Whole, ripe soursop is roughly peeled with a knife and placed in a bowl with a dash (1/4 cup or so) of water. Squeeze and massage the fruit with hands for a couple minutes.

Strain the fruit juice from the flesh and seeds into a seperate bowl.

Grate fresh nutmeg into the fruit juice and whisk in 2 T sweet and condensed milk.

Soursop juice is a meal in it self. Thick and creamy, sweet and refreshing with that slight hint of nutmeg on the end.

I also have a scotch bonnet infused white rum sitting around on the shelf for the last week here, and the two of these together with a twist of lime make one hell of a fiery cocktail!

We will be serving them here for New Years while listening to this band playing live on the beach to bring in 2012 the Jamaican way.

Happy New Year!

x -A

Nutmeg Sins

2011-12-21T05:24:00.000-08:00

Tales of a carnivorous yogi.....

I was told to leave my belongings tucked under the seat of the car before leaving.
"Girl! This is doooowntown Kingston! You can't be walking round this market as a whitey with a bag full of money. Even if it ain't full of money! People only think one thing when they see you, round here. Ya hear?"

I heard. And left my things in the car while the chef and I shopped for food.

The market of Kingston is not unlike other markets in rural parts of the world, that I have been to. Tattered blue tarps strung up to block out the hot sun. Piles of empty coconut shells in every corner. The smell of urine and fermenting fruit rising up from the dirt path. Dogs, kids, and piles of colorful fruits and vegetables on display.
I find myself quite content in these markets. If it wasn't for the noticeably big, black, bra-less women in neon colored dresses, aprons tied snug under their bosoms, yelling at one another from across the aisles, then I could be anywhere in the world really- Cambodia, India, Greenland, or Morocco. It's all the same- people just doing what they need to do, with bare necessity, to sell goods and provide food to their community.

From the bright red hibiscus flowers (known as sorrel here in Jamaica), to whole Carribean nutmegs with their orange mace skin still dramatically wrapped around, and the constant smell of grilled chicken in the air, were all that reminded me that I am, in fact, in Jamaica.

A rasta'd man pushing a shopping cart full of garbage and goods stopped near me. I had been wandering down the aisles, while keeping close enough for the chef to keep his gaze on me.
"Where ya from, mon?"
He asked me with a large, stretched out smile. His rastas had been here awhile, I noticed, as they had begun to fuze and mat back together at the ends, while half of his hair was tucked up under a red, green and yellow stripped beanie on his head.
"Is it your first time in Jamaica, mon!?"
He un-tied a bright colored string bracelet from his cart.
"I will give you this for 100 jamaican dollars, mon." ($1.25US)
When I informed him of my not having money, he gave me the bracelet anyway.
"The green is for the jungle of Jamaica, the yellow for the sun, the red for the blood shed, and the black is for the skin of the people. Now you will never forget Jamaica, mon. Peace and love, sister."
Hit re-lit his joint and walked away. I felt as if I had just been given a blessing.

Our van was now full of our next week's worth of produce, all packed in their own cheap, black, plastic bags.
At the end of the day, having acquired much of our holiday provisions, we began our 3 hour journey home to the other side of the island. It was dusk, and the roads were busy with Friday night traffic. It was still hot and muggy in the car, so we stopped to get some cold Red Stripes beers for the journey home. The winding roads, framed by tropical jungle become increasingly narrow. The chef leans back to ask if I mind him lighting a joint -Welcome to Jamaica.
As it gets darker and darker, the locals begin to come out into the cool night along the roadside. Families play loud music outside their front doors, with full gangsta-style speaker setups, and fire up grills for throwing down some evening jerk chicken for hungry travelers in their cars. Smells of wood fire, cinnamon, scotch bonnet chilies, and that blessed nutmeg fill the night air. I hang my head out the window for a closer relationship with the cooking chicken legs and breasts....
Enough is enough!
We pull over at a jerk shack.

A quarter of jerk chicken, rice and peas (black eye peas) and festival (basically... a savory doughnut). I order without hesitation and wait my turn at the pickup window. A styrofoam container is filled to the brim with warm, spicy chicken, rice and festival. I sip a spicy Jamaican ginger beer from a plastic bottle while I wait.

As I dive quickly into this blissful aroma and tasty bits of tender chicken muscle, wrapped in spicy flavors only known to Jamaica, I am beyond happy. My plastic fork and knife are of the lowest grade of plastic, for a utencil sake, as they do more bending than piercing. Bits of rice fling off my plate and onto the laps of those around me, as I attempt to navigate my way in the dark, around this hot chicken leg. I quickly dispose of my not-so-handy utensils in the nearest overflowing bin, and move straight in with my hands. It's good. REAL GOOD!
I wipe the side of my mouth with the back of my hand and continue eating as if I have never eaten before. Drips of jerk spice splash onto my white tank top, and my sandals are glittered with rice. I stop for a moment and drop into where I am.

After waking up at 4:30 am this morning to practice yoga before the sun rises, reaffirming connection with myself and with the planet. I somehow end the day now by disregarding all consciousness towards my food sourcing, AND towards disposable waste management! Two things that I take pride in my everyday life as a yogi-chef.
So what is it that makes us switch off the bars of conscious consumption, and delicate ways towards the environment so quickly? Yes, I admit that my appetite is a force to be reckoned with, as I will do almost anything to feed the beast inside me that craves delicious food. And the "when in...!" mentality of traveling in new countries and wanting to integrate seamlessly with locals and their cuisine, is something that I believe strongly in. But regardless, I couldn't help but feeling at that moment, very satisfied and at the same time, very disappointed in myself.

So where is the line drawn for being a carnivorous yogi? I still don't know. But I woke up this morning with a gnarly chicken hangover. Sticking to juice and papaya today.... but I'll be back you beautiful jerk chicken, you.
I'll even succumb to humoring the locals as the white girl who shows up to a roadside chicken shack with her own set of bamboo fork and knife.

Merry Christmas from Jamaica....Yeh-mon!

Soul-Full

2011-12-09T16:28:00.000-08:00

Porto, Portugal

I boarded my 3 pm flight from Marrakech to Porto and said goodbye to the red soil of Morocco as I flew away to begin another journey.

A gypsy-soulmate-yogi that I met in India was galavanting around Portugal in his van. We decided to meet up.

Porto

I departed the plane and flew through Portuguese customs. It was raining. I was wearing Rainbow sandals (my favorite travel companion), jeans, a white tee shirt, Moroccan cashmere shawl, and a henna hand tattoo. My friend and I had not seen each other since India, last February, after we spent a 5-week intensive, teacher-training course together. A car horn sounded as a white and red van pulled up alongside the curb where I stood. Inside, a recognizable head of blonde rastas sat in the British driver's seat. It always amazes me how much a familiar hug can instantly make you feel at home again.

I boarded my new home for the week and we drove into the city. Being the true gypsy he is (much longer than I have been), his van is his home when it needs to be - a toothbrush surrounded by pencils and pens in the cup holder, a peacock feather and sexwax on the sill, stickers of Shiva and Ganesha on either window, a Tibetan Love & Kindness mantra taped to the dashboard (the one we were both given in our training. Mine is in my bag.)

We found a parking spot next to the river in the Historical District of Porto. And stayed for 4 days....

India- February

Portugal-November

Flashback February 2011: I had been sleeping in a tiny hut in Gokarna for 2 weeks by myself before traveling north to Goa for my awaited 5 week training. I entered the retreat center, my linen pants glued to my legs with sweat from 10 hours on Indian public transit. Walking to my room, I passed the pool, and standing at the edge of the pool was a merman. We became instant friends and sidekicks. Pulling out meditation cushions from beneath one another during 5 am pranayama class, just to lighten up the mood. Pouring hot candle wax on each others feet during late night kirtan. Or just organizing heavily competitive synchronized swimming routines in-between asana classes. Anything to keep each other laughing and playing while climbing high on a spiritual journey. Mint tea each night while we chatted about what "enlightenment" tastes like..... and recounting all the longing flavors of a cold beer and juicy grilled red meat that we were very much missing.
We knew then that we are in fact soul mates. Not the "we are gonna run off and get married and live on an island, making beautiful yogi-babies" kinda soul mates. We are, in fact, the kind of soul mates that can and will make amazing things happen around us. And a pair of soul-full, soul mates that can understand one another, and only when necessary, use words.

Our reunion in Porto was a bit of a spiritual and alcohol bender, in fact. We did practice yoga alongside one another once again, in lonely Portuguese parks and beaches, bundled up from the winter winds - our breath count completely in-sync. As it was in India. The nights of Portugal were spent with hands wrapped around a glass of port wine, and grilled sardines to cure hangovers still lingering from the night before. We chatted about life, love and the pursuit of happiness. What it really means to live yogically, and "should we switch over to cava now? Or hit up a late night regae bar?..... one more round of sardines, please. Obrigado." By day four of sleeping in a van, down by the river, not showering and aching kidneys, I decided enough was enough.... so we drove away from our headaches and into the mountains.

Up in a tiny village near Guara, Portugal. Not far from the boarder of España. We were guided by his teacher for 2 hours each day in a led asana and meditation, created by her, and derived from Sufi poems. Collecting chestnuts on their quinta property during the day, and making soups each night with potatoes and kale from the neighbors garden. With the hangovers far behind me now, I was now filled with inspiration for the power of soul and practice.

I left Portugal, my gypsy-man-friend, and my latest movable home for Spain on the 7th day.

Elephant rock above the quinta. Sign of wealth and luck.

Weeks later and I am still brushing out the rastas that formed in my hair. The thought of port wine brings a smile to my face..... and an instant headache. And my practice each morning is re-vamped in a reminder to connect with the soul, through asana, and through memories of Portugal.

Dates.Olives.Walnuts

2011-11-23T03:45:00.000-08:00

A much loved fig and olive tepenade transformed itself into something new this year in Morocco.

Well..... because of the Eid holiday, markets were closed and we couldn't get our dried Moroccan figs for the Spanish/Moroccan cooking class that day. Never a shortage of dates here in the Palmeraie of Marrakech.

A new tepenade is born!

-Moroccan Date and Walnut Tepenade-

1 c Chopped dates, chopped
1/2 c pitted oil-cured black olives, chopped
2 T extra virgin olive oil
1 T balsamic vinegar
Juice of half a lemon
1 T drained and rinsed capers, chopped
1 1/2 t Fresh thyme, chopped
1 T fresh cilantro, chopped
1/2 c toasted walnuts, chopped

Mix all ingredients in a medium bowl. Season to taste with pepper.
Note: The olives and capers should be enough for the salt. But add if you feel that is where the balance is found.

This is great with soft goat cheese, sheeps milk cheeses such as Manchego, or alongside braised chicken thighs, or your tagine of choice.

Bon Appetite!

Magic

2011-11-22T08:52:00.000-08:00

I say it over and over again, but it never losses it's essence to me. Morocco is magic.

Even in black and white, that magic of Morocco seaps it's way through every pore. I'm still very happy to be under your spell, Morocco.

Just finished another successful 10 day PMCA tour through Marrakech, Imlil and Essaouira. This group in particular was very special to work with. 7 attended yoga each day on various rooftops, to breathe in the prana and mediation while listening to herds of goats pass and calls to prayer in the distance. We read poetry at the table and made wishes in the walnut forest. All between working with our hearts and hands to dive head first into the cuisine of Morocco and it's people. A beautiful trip. Planting my footprint deeper and deeper there, and always hard to leave.

Till March, Morocco. Inshallah.

A New View

2011-11-20T08:01:00.000-08:00

-A Grand Entrance And A Green Market-

The fog parted at 8:00 am, and a familiar skyline appeared on the horizon. We had been traveling all night from Newport, RI. Breakfast was in the works, and I was bringing a cup of coffee up to the NY pilot aboard to help guide us in. There it was... a View I have seen a thousand times in movies and from an airplane or car, but this was different. An excitement rushed through all of us as we settled our gaze from the bridge of a boat to the Big Apple.

Arriving to New York by boat was really quite dreamy. My beautiful grandmother (Nonie, as I call her) loves to tell me the story about her mother, a 29 year old from Giswil Switzerland. Who explained to her own parents that she was leaving for America to start a new life. She did, arriving by boat to start that life, and settling down on a dairy farm in Southern California. Nonie fondly reminds me often that I must have some of her mother in me... with all this crazy galavanting across the world in new territory and stuff. I do hope so.

Incredible fresh chilies, lemon verbena, potatoes of every shape and color, crisp apples along side apple cider doughnuts, and everything else the Union Square Market could tempt you with in autumn. I got to roam and cook an epic meal on the boat with a brilliant and much missed chef-friend-soulsister-inspiration, Carrie. We rolled across familiar streets and jotted menu ideas down on tiny pieces of paper in the back of yellow cabs, and over iced coffees or Brooklyn lager. A whirlwind of a time in the Big Apple, but a tasty one as always.

Final meal at the Breslin before flying on a 10:00 pm flight from JFK to Marrakech..... let the magic continue to unfold.

x- Ash

What You Desire

2011-11-06T00:45:00.000-07:00

4:15 pm on Thursday.

The Osso Bucco had been braising for almost an hour now, and I was letting it go till 7:00 pm. Desirable anticipations of the sweet veal meat melting away from itself, in a pool of saffron risotto, set around an exquisite steeple of bone marrow. It will be beautiful. I mean, come on, what more could a party of 12 want tonight after a foggy Boston day!?

Lobster??
Wait, what do you mean you desire, lobster?

This is, in fact, exactly why I am here and offering up myself and my craft to do what I do best-- To cook what someone wants to eat. I honor that. So in that moment, standing in a large galley kitchen with swirling caramelized veal aroma around me, I did what any private chef would do. Traded kitchen clogs for running shoes, and apron for a purse, and down the dock I ran towards the main street of awaiting taxis.
I had been up making the perfect sofritto for my osso bucco since 9 am, and even my hair wreaked of simmering olive oil and sprigs of sage leaves. But I had just entered a whole new realm of chefing- the ultimate search and retrieve. Fresh local lobster is my mission, and I will succeed.

I quickly transformed into an aggressive machine that would do anything, and blow down anyone that stood in my way of getting my hands on a dozen Massachusetts lobsters. In mid-stride out of the yacht marina, my arm flew into the air and my gaze met that of a taxi driver. I was in.

"Boston Fish Pier, please" -I demand with an edge of girlish charm.

"Alright.... How you doin' today?' -my driver says to me as his eyes smile through the rearview mirror.

"I'm doing ok, my friend. But I am in an urgent and desperate need for 12 fresh lobsters, and I need your help. I need them fast, and I will pay you to keep the meter running while I get them"- I respond to my new partner in crime for Lobster mission 2011.

He picks up on my sense of urgency on the matter, and most likely smells the braised veal cologne I'm rockin'. He speeds up, and I fasten my seatbelt while digging out my phone from my back pocket.

I search for numbers of fish venders that now, at 4:30 pm, have all closed shop and gone home.
"OH, FOR F*** SAKE!!!" (my new English reaction to even the slightest bits of frustration, inspired by working alongside a handful of English sailors.) I say to myself while connecting to answering machine after answering machine.

I take notice that my choice of cab is a unique one- sharpie marker graffiti on the ceiling, "Nicole loves Vince!"-lovely. The front passenger seat is pushed way up and awkwardly folded forward. A bag of chips and empty soda cans littered the floors and seats. My dear sidekick has taken this journey quite seriously as we weave through 5:00 pm traffic and running red lights, while offering each neighboring car a horn of awareness to our urgent mission. Growing up with three brothers and a littered childhood of nintendo-created-urban-car-chasing games, I'm surprisingly comfortable in this illegal, lane jiving, lobster pursuit. My law-enforcement brother, may not be fond of this story though...

I'm dropped off at one place near the water front. He speeds away to pull an illegal U-turn and prepare for an easy escape. Closed. "Oh, bollucks!" (another handy English habit.) The tires screech as he comes to a stop before me. On to the next.

Only 6 live lobsters left in the tanks, and I need 12. The chef over hears my worry as I explain to the woman behind the counter that I will take anything made of lobster at this point- Empty lobster shells? lobster juice? jello? I'll take it, seriously. They have 12 that are already cooked, and they'll sell them to me. Perfect.

.... the phone rings. The party has dropped down to 6 people now... great I'll just get 8 lobsters then.
I inform the chef.
...Phone rings again- 4 people now.
"Oh for f*** sake!"

6 lobsters purchased.

Out the door. My driver makes eye contact with me from across the street. He points at me, as if to use some secret code language that only he and I know how to understand. Yes, my friend, I understand. Illegal U-turn and skid to the curb. I throw the lobsters in before me and tuck myself into the back seat. We did it.

While stuck in traffic on the way back to the marina, my partner in crime and I got more acquainted with each other.
He's from Haiti. So I then practice my french.
He inquires about my life as a traveling chef. I inquire about Haitian chicken recipes.
The meter reads $43. It's 5:45 pm

At the end of the road, I tip him for his kindness and support to my mission, and ask my sweet 280 lb Haitian taxi driver his name...
"My name is Desire."
"Desire?"
"That's right, Deeeesire. And you just give me a call anytime you want help with something like this again. That was real fun."
"Well, Desire. It has been a pleasure to work with you, i'm happy i met you tonight. Thank you."

Our Icelandic deckhand has an apron on and is preparing the ingredients for my rissotto. Other crew are aiding in my absence in the kitchen as well. The table is set for eight..... Eight? Yes, eight. 10 minutes later and it's nine guests. By 7 pm, it's back to eleven guests for dinner. Six had lobster, and the others osso bucco- a win win.

I made chocolate pots de creme with vanilla poached mandarins for the end of the meal. Saved the lobster shells for a future bisque, and saved Desire's number away in my wallet. At the end of the night, everyone was happy, and many desires were met.

Dodging lobster baskets en route to Manhattan!
x -A

Gone Gypsyn'

2011-10-18T21:13:00.000-07:00

When she calls my phone, an image of her standing in front of a busy Florentine street appears. With hands over heart, eyes closed, and a blissful expression upon her face.

While waiting for a cab outside of Piazza del Santa Crocce, on our way up to hear the Gregorian chants in Santa Michelangelo, I asked her a question- "Kim, how does Florence make you feel?" When she turned around to answer me, I captured her on my camera. That was 4 years ago, and I still have that photo on my phone.

I left Santa Barbara just days ago. I procrastinated till the final moments of my last morning to pack up my bag. The grey duffle bag (which doubles as my home most of the time) looks more like a black hole of doom to me now. In fact, at that moment of packing, I loathed that bag and all of it's tiny little zipper pockets and cobblestone proof wheels! It was all just too soon to leave.

Kim, my mentor and friend for the past 7 years, threw me... yet another..., going away party just hours before my flight. We drank California chardonnay under my final California pink sunset. Fresh bread with whipped peppers, feta and allepo chilies. Her handmade goat cheese alongside fresh strawberries. Lamb meatballs roasted in the wood fire oven, on warm corn salsa with aioli. She knows me well. Poetry was shared till the wine bottles had finished, and 6 pm came too quickly.

Arriving in Boston and settling into the work groove yet again. (note: provisioning a kitchen in your own country [ie: Trader Joes and Whole Foods!] is far more inspiring than the super markets of Nuuk, Greenland.) My first night spent with friends, dinner at The Butcher Shop, an apple cider rum martini (or two) at The Beehive, and hours spent shopping in South End Fromaggio (which sells Stumptown coffee!). The next day I received a poem from Kim-

IN A TREE HOUSE

Light Will someday split you wide open Even if your life is now a cage,

For a divine seed , the crown of destiny, Is hidden and sown on an ancient, fertile plain You hold the title to.

Love will surely bust you wide open Into an unfettered, blooming new galaxy

Even if your mind is now A spoiled mule.

A life-giving radiance will come, The Friend’s gratuity will come--

O look again within yourself, For I know you were once the elegant host To all the marvels in creation.

From a sacred crevice in your body A bow rises each night And shoots your soul into God.

Behold the Beautiful Drunk Singing One From the lunar vantage point of love.He is conducting the affairs Of the whole universe

While throwing wild parties In a tree house-- on a limb In your heart.

-Hafiz

Thank you Kim, for being my teacher of food and of love for the moment. Oh, and for throwing endless amounts of wild parties... from treehouse, to villa, to heart. I love you, and I will see you soon in Morocco! -Ash

Stay Hungry, Stay Foolish

2011-10-06T10:26:00.000-07:00

"Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life. Don't be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people's thinking. Don't let the noise of others' opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary." -Steve Jobs, 2005

Steve Jobs, a visionary of our lifetime, who's life was cut short at the age of 56 by cancer.

But his approach to life has been an inspiration. Thank you, Steve Jobs for taking us outside of the box, then shrinking the box down and putting a touch screen on it.

"If today was the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do?"

Living each day as if it was your last- This is why I embrace my life as a gypsy chef.

Choice & Eggs

2011-10-01T08:02:00.000-07:00

My ticket is purchased, and I am already touching the surface of goodbyes with my friends and family. My father finds new ways to ask me eachday how sure I am of needing to leave so soon. My mother wont even talk about the actual date that I depart, and friends have tried to cease every spare moment to cook or hike just one last time.
Santa Barbara has a way of putting on a damn good show that keeps you wanting more and more, but I know that it is time to go.

I found this write up in my journal from when I was living in Florence this summer. Even with the perfect vegetables, pink sunsets, and favorite faces that California has on display to keep me wanting more, I know very well that it is time for me to leave.

And this explains why....
x - Ash

-Written on July 12, 2011 in Florence Italy-

What is it about traveling?

This question posed in an email to me this morning from an old friend in Seattle. Quitting his desirable job to answer an urge, a calling, a gut feeling to travel again. One which comes from a place deep inside, that after awhile we can't shut off, as it keeps on yelling to be acknowledged. Is it the people, the places, the food? (Yes, my appetite is most definitely a key deciding factor in why I do almost anything.) But it's more than that, and it got me thinking today about, what is it about traveling?

I sat at my table, high in the sky of my Florentine apartment and pondered this question. My perfectly cooked soft-boiled eggs, toast and coffee there to segway me into the day. This. This is why I travel, I thought for a moment. Eggs is why I travel? No. But this moment is why I travel. I have no concept of what time it is right now. I have nowhere to be. And I want eggs for breakfast.

Challenge, change, desire, freedom- all come to mind when I think about my choice in lifestyle. But I know that it is bigger than that. While on skype the other day, my cousin from New York asked me what I was speaking, "Is that Australian?... or is that British?", he said. (Dear God, neither, I hope) ... but yes, my speech patterns, cadence, and even the choice of words have changed a bit. And all because, well, because they can. When I am out here, alone in the world, I can be whomever I want to be. I don't have to sound American if I don't want to, and I think subconsciously I have changed my speech patterns to fall somewhere in the middle of it all. Leaving people to question is she ...South African? Spanish? Welsh? Well, maybe.

It's the undefined existence, and the freedom to be, go, say and eat whatever you want, whenever you want. All in a way that is not selfish really. In fact, it is the sense of knowing what and when to do things in life that will make you a better friend, acquaintance, lover, sister, daughter, etc. Knowing how much of your authentic self you can deliver is an answer found within the self.

I travel because I know that I am supposed to. That I will have a veil lifted, a clarity and a sensitivity on the world that I will acquire no other way. Even at the expense of being a neutral being, unidentifiable by geography or accent. Regardless of how people will view my lifestyle or selfish choices to live my way, when I look in the mirror, I know who I'm looking at. And when I look at perfectly cooked soft-boiled eggs from the farmer at Saint Ambrogia market, which lie upon the crimson blue plate found in a Moroccan souk, and smell fresh brewed coffee laced with burning Indian incense from the living room..... This is exactly "What It Is About Travel."

Priorities...

2011-09-24T20:35:00.000-07:00

The three of us made a decision to take an adventure.

A decision induced by Anejo Tequila margaritas, hamburger- comas from Fathers Office, and the vibrational sounds of Icelandic techno music on my ipod. Decision made.

We shall go to Joshua Tree.

What to pack for an impromptu trip to Joshua Tree:

-Sleeping bags

-Red Stripe Jamaican Lager

-Fancy yogurt and granola for the morning after

-Shoes for romping

-Yoga mat

-Nikon, Leica, and Rolleiflex cameras

-Stumptown coffee and coffee-making accessories

-R Kelly Playlist on iphone

At 2:30 am the three of us woke up while sleeping at the top of a large rock above our campsite (a better view for sunrise, naturally.) It was the full moon that woke us up, as it screamed our eyelids open like a disco spotlight. Roaring thunder and streaks of pink and purple lightning drew our attention over the mountain to our right. Thick clouds covered the large, neon nightlight above, and drops of water began to fall. In agreement that this may not be the smartest place to rest our heads, we headed down to the camp site.

By 4:30 am after 2 hours of falling slave to the chinese water tourture of sparatic rain drops on my exposed face. I finally rejected the urged to find stillness and sleep. I wrapped my sleeping bag around my shoulders, chose a nice rock to lean up against, and sat up to watch the magical light show above.

By 5 am, we had all decided that enough was enough, and although we had neglected to pack a trusty tent (minor detail) we did in fact pack some incredible coffee. With headlamps on, we boiled water, ground beans, set up the single-drip cone, and let the chestnut-colored liquid fill our cups. The perfect cup of smooth, tight, and rich black coffee slipped into our sleepless bodies. The desert continued to put on a great show for us as the sun slowly started to show her face.

We packed up and drove out of the grey clouds, a sea of Joshua trees behind us now.

Priorities- Coffee or Tents? ............ coffee wins every time.
Thanks for the magic, J-Tree.

-A

The West Side of Things

2011-09-08T14:34:00.000-07:00

I've broken down some layers. Peeled away the skins of the onion, if you will.
I agreed to go cook on a boat in the Arctic Circle for 6 weeks of my life. At the end of a very long and diverse year out in the world, It turns out that I am not plenty of things, a sailor being one of them. Plus, cooking food in a moving kitchen is far from simple...easy... or enjoyable really (note: eating curry before sea sick- painful. Eating bananas- tolerable)
Encouraging my body and mind to work just as a chef- learning the nautical ways, cleaning fish at all times of the night and day, and wearing a life vest to shop for food. My right shoulder is twice the size it was a month ago (really need to start learning how to be ambidextrous in the kitchen...) My knees ache (really need to stop cooking barefoot!) And the grey color of my skin has finally started to find it's pink again. 16 and sometimes 19 hour days were spent in that galley. A 20 minute break here and there was found to sit on a freezing cold bridge deck and close my eyes in silence, shake my head in confusion, or throw a few punches at the side of the vessel.

But alas, I am home.

16 hours and 5 flights it took Zoe and I to find our way back to the sunshine state. Boarding a prop-job plane in the middle of Arctic-nowhere, Canada. We drug our belongings down a dirt path from the tender to the tiny airport. The town of 25 souls looks as if they are still sleeping at 9 am, and the layer of fog is thick. My bag, being the bigger of the two, as it is filled with a year's worth of goods and weather changing-options, is quickly cutting off the circulation to my hands.
An Inuit woman in her 60's appeared alongside me and offered to take my bag the extra 200 ft to the airport on the back of her quad (that's right... a quad). I took her shuttle service offer of Canadian hospitality.
We enter the airport trailer, and find ourselves face to face with the one and only airport representative. She took our passports, called another airport employee on the phone, and stared blankly into the computer screen which separated us.

"well...ah....I don't ah know..." She says with a strongly confused look.
"yeah... but ah there are just so many numbers on here" (referring to my passport.) This seems to be her first international passport processing ever.
She types a few lines on the computer.
I scan the room- instant coffee jar without a lid, powdered milk creamer spilt on the floor, 1 dirty mug, a filing cabinet, and a hand-written prayer to Jesus Christ taped to the wall next to the door.

30 minutes pass and my ticket finally prints out. The printer is now too hot and won't print Zoe's ticket. Fear that one of us may not make it out of the hell-hole settles in. I help fix the printer and a light at the end of the tunnel reappears. A pickup truck drives our bags the 400 ft to the plane. (in fact, I think it was driven by the same Inuit woman in her 60's...)

Zoe and I have seats 5A and 5B- the last row in the plane. 3 other passengers join us on the 12-seater plane to Pangnirtung, Canada. The captain eases our fears during turbulance by directing our attention to the mountain range to the right which is famous from the 007 James Bond movie.
Yeah, whatever..... now back to acknowledging my final moments of life, as my imagination plots how to survive a plane crash in the Arctic....hhhmmm...

4 more flights like this later, and we arrive in a familiar place- LAX. It even smells good! I wore a pair of Italian leather sandals for my whole traveling day with the knowledge that the west coast life was closer and closer. I landed, hugged my mama for the first time in a year, watched LA taco stands feed lines of hungry Californians, felt my body thaw, and went to sleep without any plans of breakfast to be made in the morning.

My American battery will be recharging for 6 weeks or so before repacking that dang bag and returning to the endless queues of mass public transportation. Once again living in the open question and feeling alive in the unknown. But it is true that nothing and nowhere can make a Californian feel this good than to truly be on the West side of things, and to finally be "home."

3 Hours Off

2011-08-09T14:41:00.000-07:00

The guests had all left for the day in large SUV's with packed lunches from my galley. I had a nap, fed the crew, and was driven to shore for some necessary reconnection with Mother Earth.

Our small tender pulled up to the tiny harbor of a tiny sea-side village in the middle of, who knows where, North Iceland. The fisherman were busy, at 10:30 pm, on the last of the days catch. I agreed with one fisherman to buy 25 pieces of the brilliant green and purple translucent scaled fish, still stiff with rigor mortis.

A giant glacier sat atop the large mountain in the foregrounds, and a few colorful houses splashed the seaside landscape. 1 road. 1 restaurant. 1 gas station with only 2 gas pumps. It's 11 pm, the sun is still searching for a place to set. I go for a walk.

Wild cotton, purple volcanic rock, soft green moss, fresh water springs. A quiet moment to myself on top of a hill, gazing down at the rough ocean bellow. Gratitude.

A brisk jog back towards the fishing dock, moving my legs in a way that is far from natural to me now.

After picking up my Mackerel from the boat dock, the fisherman offering his gift and declining my Krona payment, and heading back to the boat. 12:30 pm now and the guests are heading to bed. Squatting on the back deck of the boat, Jess and I cleaned and filleted 25 fish in the middle of the night. We threw the heads and spines back into the sea of which they came from. Our work space lit just by the hint of remaining sunlight and the lower boat lights which shine into the blue water bellow us. Barefoot with our pants rolled up and knives working away, we chat about the endless possibilities of mackerel in our near future.... broiled with maple and soy atop udon noodles with avocado and cilantro. Smoked with french-style potato salad. Lets just keep a few whole to grill with lemon and olives.

I still can't remember how to spell or pronounce the name of that sweet sea-side town in north Iceland. But it was the best day off I've had in a very long time.

The Wave

2011-07-29T18:18:00.000-07:00

I count at least 12 different waterfalls from the view of my galley window, and the glacier capped mountains melt away in the summer sun of Iceland. My Anti-sea-sick wrist bands are cutting off a bit of circulation to my hands, which are busy chopping onions and carrots for the soup. My stance is wide and knees bent as I guide my body through coordination of riding the boats movements over the waves. From my cutting board, I can reach the stove, sink and trash can with just a slight abdominal twist to the right or left. The boat slows down as we enter a small cove, and the vibration from the engine shifts a bit to that of a lowering anchor. Steady in my process of crew and guests lunches while still getting comfortable in a foreign kitchen. Day 3 in Iceland and in a fully stocked kitchen (like fully, as in we have at least 3 supermarkets worth of items logged into nooks and crannies of this one boat). Adapting to yet another shift in my life- going from skin tight white summer dresses and Italian leather sandals to Icelandic cashmere boat uniforms and winter-lined wellies.

The galley door swings open, Sanders (the first mate) has a bucket which he swings onto my counter- "Hey gypsy! They have already caught 5 of these big guys.... Happy cleaning!" he says in his Dutch accent, flashing a big smile, and turns to leave the room. Looking down into the bucket are 2 HUGE fresh cod, still gasping and twitching for a drop in saltwater." Wait a minute there buddy!", I call as I drop my knife and grab a scarf to chase him out the door onto the back of the boat. One after the other, guests pull up cod from the cold ocean bellow, as if the fish were just begging to be lifted from the waters. With a swing of my chef-wand (....a promise to make the crew fish and chips, plus a secret portion of fresh blueberry ice cream) and a bat of the eyelashes, it is agreed that the fish will be cleaned by our local Icelandic representatives Ottur and Disa, and thankfully not by me. I return to my galley, walking slowly along the outside of the boat. Hands tucked in to the pockets of my apron. I allow myself to take a moment for a few deep breathes in, and out.
In and out.
The clean, cold air enters, and a fortifying and revitalizing sense of self settles in.......... I am in Iceland.... Iceland!! I am reminded that although my slow morning moments over strong coffee have been replaced with 20 hungry mouths to feed. And my yoga practice is now a thing of the past. I have found again my title as chef, and I have jumped on a wave (so to say) with intention to inspire others through the eyes of food, and to keep me out here in the world. Living the only way I know how to live.

~A Menu for Iceland~

Cod carpaccio with lemon oil and Icelandic arugula.

White bean and barley soup with kale and wild thyme.

Fresh Ice cream made from the blueberries on Disa's farm.

The sun never sets here, but I must find time to sleep. Good night.

Independence[Day]

2011-07-09T08:01:00.000-07:00

I missed celebrating Independence Day 4 days ago. I had traded my American ice cream cake for a large copetta of fresh mint gelato in the company of a man and sat in a Piazza of Florence versus a hot asphalt avenue of a California block party. Though I did think fondly of it as I skimmed through favorite food blogs, as images and recipes for cold cranberry cocktails and butterscotch popcorn, to whole hog barbeques, corn…. Hamburgers…. Red bikinis… and cocoa bars alongside hand churned ice cream, came to mind. All strung a together to give me a sense of being almost… dare I say it? Homesick.
But I am not writing a post of nostalgic American summer traditions. I am writing about freedom.

I am writing about an adventure. About a bag with my things in it, and only my things. A passport with my name on it, and only my name. The ability to go where I want, when I want, and with my hair up or with my hair down. A phone number which 5 individuals have. Limited Internet access. Helmet or no helmet?

I have come to realize that this life is a choice. And in choosing how to live in it, I choose to live it alone. And that sense of space, air, and unknown around me brings more authentic pleasure to my being than words can describe.

Sweet Darkness, by David Whyte

When your eyes are tired
The world is tired also.

When your vision has gone
No part of the world can find you

Time to go into the dark
Where the night has eyes
To recognize it’s own.

There you can be sure
You are not beyond love.

The dark will be your womb
Tonight

The night will give you a horizon
Further than you can see.

You must learn one thing.

The world was made to be free in.

Give up all other worlds
Except the one to which you belong.

Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet
Confinement of your aloneness
To learn

Anything or anyone
That does not bring you alive

Is too small for you.

He arrived unexpectedly. Bought me flowers. And has loved me more than any man may ever love me. Such authentic expression and exchange. Devotion, if you will. To a girl. A girl without a home, and no want for one. With one bag of things, her things, and only her things. I admit that for the past 4 years (very primitive years of loving mind you) I have been seriously plagued by a love affair with geography. I have been in love, on a few occasions - on the right, we have the perfect man, and on the left, we have a perfect, purchased ticket to freedom in the form of a foreign country. A choice to imprint stamps on my passport, instead of my heart. I’ve considered the insensitivity of this within myself. Why I have chosen to not leave bread crumbs, in my wake, like travelers used to do.

I dropped him off at the station. Unknown when I will see him again. I walked with a fierce step, maybe even a slight gallop, through the herds of church-gazing tourists. The heat of July rising up from the cobblestones. I walked as fast as I could possibly walk. I could not get away fast enough. With each step, nudged by a slight breeze, I had transported myself to an enduring recollection, one of riding on the back of an Indian motorbike. Long, curly hair caught up in a helmet-less wind, a wind that wicks away any and all hot, dead or negative energies on your body. Weightless and worriless, you ride from curve to curve, allowing the wind to clean you and bring you alive.

I returned home, pressed the flower between a large book which read: “Made in Italy, Food & Stories.” The stem and green leaves stuck out of the bottom like that of the green legs of the wicked Witch of Oz beneath the white house.

I made a coffee, took a shower, sat in a white linen robe and felt genuine happiness in the silence and aloneness around me. I swam in that feeling for hours. I still have not opened the book.

Sail Away

2011-07-07T05:54:00.000-07:00

There are few things as romantic to me, as the sight of a raising sail in the Mediterranean sea...

...That is except for the 7 hot, Italian skippers awaiting the boats return to the harbor on the last of our 8 days out at sea. Now THAT... that is a pretty dang romantic view, if I've ever seen one.

Aperitivos, anyone?

Seduction by Lemons

2011-06-28T14:38:00.001-07:00

"I don't have blood in my veins, I have lemon juice" - says Luigi, 77 years old.

The owner of 5 % of the town of Amalfi, he says. And when you look up at Amalfi from your sailboat in the ocean, you glance up at a "green eye" in the middle of architecture clustures which grow up the mountain side. That lush-lemony patch is Luigis, along with thousands of other trees beyond the city center. Just a 15 minute walk up the one road of Amalfi.

"When I am in the Lemon grove, I feel like someone" he says with his crooked smile. His large, dirt-crusted hands graze over the lemon trees and tenderly clean the dead leaves away. Luigi is number 8 from a family of 13. He tells us stories of growing up in the lemon grove. His family lived in one room together, and when his parents wanted some time alone they would get lost in the lemon trees. "Sono stato concepito nel limoneto!" - I was conceived in the lemon grove! Followed by an infectious laugh and crooked smile.

He tells us of the unique Amalfi micro-climate and it's perfection for the life of lemons....

"When the winds come from the north and meet with the winds from the south, with the protection of the neighboring mountains in the valley, the winds make sweet love and create the perfect climate for lemons"

...Wind sex and lemon babies- Now If THAT isn't passionate then I don't know what is!

-Spaghetti a Limone-
1 1/2 packs of Spaghetti
1 Large Shallot- finely chopped
3T butter
3/4 c cream
4 L lemons- juiced
The zest of 1 lemon cut off in thick strips
The zest of one lemon grated fine
1/4 c grated parmigiano
Parsley-chopped

Place the thick strips of lemon zest in the boiling salted pasta water. Like a strong tea, let the pasta water become infused with lemon essence. Cook pasta till just al dente, no longer. Reserving pasta water.
Saute shallot in butter, in a large skillet over med-high heat. Add cream and lemon juice and reduce. Add hot al dente pasta, fine lemon zest, and grated cheese. Thin the pasta and sauce out with pasta water, until it is your desired consistency. Finish with chopped parsley and fresh cracked pepper
Note: This recipe serves 8 as a main course, and is best made with lemon offspring from wind relations off the Amalfi Coast of Italy. Just sayin'...

In my first experience of Amalfi, I can honestly say that the citrus there is unlike any I have had before. As a California native, I have never experienced a shortage of tasty lemons in my life. The sight alone of a meyer lemon can easily take my breathe away. From my first Amalfi gelato limone, tangy and sweet (and best enjoyed with your eyes closed.) To the lovable, sip-able, marry-able (!) limoncello and everything with essence, zest, slices, and juice in between. I found myself trying to find balance in my being with the sway of sea legs bellow me, and at the same time allowing myself to dizzily float away in an Italian cloud of lemony love.

Currently hibernating in a Florentine nest above Santa Croce. Writing menus, drinking black tea with rose petals in a silk robe, and practicing yoga on a Moroccan rug.... the love and light of life in Italy. x -A

The Art of Strudel

2011-06-14T23:31:00.000-07:00

Don't bother me. I'm strudeling...

My first full day off in awhile. My friend Vince in Vienna hooked me up with his chef sister Barbara, who on her day off set up the perfect "how to" strudel day. It was epic. I have never strudled that hard and for that many hours before....

-Strudel Recipe-
Recipe written and taught by Chef Barbara Weissbacher

250 g flour
3 T oil
dash of vinegar
150 ml warm water
pinch of salt
Mix the flour and salt in a bowl. Add the oil, the vinegar and gradually the lukewarm water. Knead the dough until it's silky-smooth and no longer sticks to the sides of the bowl. Divide the pastry in two and form into balls. Coat each ball lightly with oil (just brush on with your hands) cover and let rest for at least an hour- you can just put an upside down bowl over the top of the dough which rests on a plate-
Spread a cloth out over a table and dust well with flour. Lay a pastry ball in the center of the strudel cloth and dust with flour. Flatten the edges of the pastry ball (a "pastry hill" is left in the center of the strudel dough) then stretch the flattened edges by pulling lightly, so that "frills" are formed. Coat the backs of your hands with flour, place the pastry on the tem and carefully stretch it out by gentile stretching and pulling. Work from the center outwards. Gently stretch the dough until it has acquired more or less of a square shape and evenly translucent appearance. Cut off the thick edges and coat the pastry with melted butter. Spread desired filling over one third of the thin pastry. With help from the cloth, fold the sides of the pastry inward. Then from the filling side of the pastry, roll the pastry over itself. Place strudel with seam-side down on a covered sheet pan (use only the cloth to fold and pick up, not your hands.) Brush with melted butter and bake at 200 C (375 F) for 30 minutes.

Fillings such as classic apple, with cinnamon and toasted bread crumbs. Caramelized cabbage and ham, fresh strawberries on top of velvety curds, scented with vanilla and lemon zest. Sour cherries from her uncles farm. And anything in between...

Traditional strudel dough is stretched, by hand, on a strudel cloth. Your chosen "strudel cloth" is one that should be at least 3x the size of your desired strudel, and should be of a flexible/fairly thin fabric. Also, your strudel cloth should not be washed during strudel season. This seasons the cloth, if you will, keeping it floured and ready for any and all strudelling needs...... how many times could I possible say the word, strudel, in one paragraph!?

Pulling the dough delicately with soft tips of your fingers or knuckles from the middle out, making it thin and velvety. There is just something so sultry about pulling soft dough with floured hands. This is a kitchen meditation to me, and I can do it for hours and hours.
It is said that you should be able to read a newspaper, or preferably a love letter, through the dough. Seems I am fresh out of love letters at the moment.... but will surely get right on it for next time!
Reading through a stain glass strudel dough sounds awfully romantic though.

France has the Pastis. Morocco and Spain have the Pastilla. Borek in Turkey...... and Austria has the strudel.

Best eaten the day you make it. Warm out of the oven, crisp and flacky pastry dough. At that moment in time, there was no where else on the planet I would rather be than at that table, with those people, and a plate of incredible fresh strudel. A highlight to my short life in Vienna, and the strudel cloth that was given to me by Barbara at the end of our day together, will be caring on the essence of Austria that my day of Studeling created.

Till we meet again, Vienna.....
Off to the Amalfi coast to eat lemons, swim in grottos off Capri, and test out my sea legs for cooking in a galley of a sailboat. xo -A

Memories of Sand

2011-06-05T02:07:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite memories to date.
I am neck-deep in cooking meals here in Vienna. The 5 minute-sneak-attack-thunder storms that crawl their way through Austria at the moment are making my food shopping excursions very interesting....
Needless to say, I have had almost no time to write... or practice... or sleep... But the amazing woman that I work for in Morocco has had some sweet time. And she took me down memory lane with THIS great post (via Elephant Journal)
Enjoy! x -A

Tickled Pickled

2011-05-30T01:16:00.000-07:00

I feel an uncontrollable urge to pickle everything right now....

Master Quick Pickle Recipe (Adapted from Momofuku Cookbook, David Chang)
225 ml Water- piping hot from the tap
125 ml Rice Wine Vinegar
6 T Sugar
2 1/4 t Sea Salt
(I added coriander seeds and fresh chillies to mine)
Mix all ingredients together and pout over prepared vegetable or fruit.

In my past months of wrapping my head around learning to speak Spanish, French, Arabic, and memorizing Sanskrit. There is really no way in hell that I am going to retain ANY German at this point, while here in Austria. Which is really fine because almost every Austrain I've met here speaks at least 3 languages, and their english is surprisingly far better than mine. When I found a fantastic little Cookbook and Spice Shop near my house in Vienna, one that even has English Cookbooks! I stocked up. Moro Cookbook, A Month in Marrakesh my always "go to" favorite Chez Panise Cafe Cookbook, and the playful Momofuku Cookbook by David Chang. There is nothing quite as pleasing to me than to have those paper pages pass my hands while my eyes fill with the most inspiring text and recipes. It's like plugging in the cord to my chef battery, and re-entering the kitchen with a fresh bag of tricks.

The Asian food outlets here in Vienna are mind blowing! I can get authentic Vietnamese, Japanese, Korean, Thai, and Indian products here so easily. And in the land of lush Austrian pastry's, I chose a sesame doughnut filled with sweetened mungbean paste from the Vietnamese shop each day. One that has me quickly retracing the steps in my mind through the streets of Hanoi.

An Artists premier party was scheduled for 10 close friends of the family I work for. With my new bed stand book being the Momofuku Cookbook, I had Ssam on the brain for days! A hot griddle was set up in the middle of the table and around it, decorated was various bowls of scallion ginger sauce, black bean chilli sauce, pickled mustard sauce, thin sliced Austrian beef, fresh scallops, tofu, and pickled papaya, fennel and cucumbers. Chopsticks navigated their way across the table to fry bits of meat, grab a rice ball or a scoop of coriander udon noodles. A crisp French Chablis made it all come together, and the sounds of The Editors played in the background.

In 2 1/2 weeks from now, I'll be packing up my things here and heading to the south of Itlay to assist on this sea bound adventure with my Fairy Foodie Godmother, Peggy. I've got bikini's, boat shoes, and pickled beets.

With love from Vienna X -A

Chef Shoes On

2011-05-25T00:01:00.000-07:00

I've moved to Vienna.
Wait... let me rephrase that- I have been moved to Vienna.
3 weeks ago, on a Friday, I was asked to cook and teach yoga to a couple on holiday in Mallorca. By Sunday I had packed a bag and moved to Vienna with them as the families private chef.

At the usual whirlwind pace that I tend to flow at in life, I have jumped right into the creative chaos of living in a new city with a full on daily job. June in Vienna brings sun that shows her face in between the century old buildings, outdoor art exhibitions and wild asparagus.
These beautiful, thin, tender green stems and bundled together at almost everystand at the Nachtmarkt- my daily playground. Steamed with lemon zest and cracked pepper, topped with a poached egg, rain of Spanish sea salt and a sprinkling of Austria's aromatic hazelnuts. Lunch in Vienna is served.

Crusty Bits

2011-05-08T23:50:00.000-07:00

The best bits....
That bottom layer of the paella pan where the rice comes up in a olive oil fried, crispy spanish crepe. Dip it in the remaining aioli left in the bowl, like the perfect potato chip. Just nothing else like it.
A Sunday roadtrip across the island of Mallorca to hike the trails from Deia to Soller, and a paella from the heavens. Easy to call this place home.

As usual on my current life path, I will be relocating yet again. I have been hired as a families private chef for the month of June in Vienna Austria. I've just returned to Mallorca today after a week trial in the beautiful city of Vienna. I'll be here for 10 days to pack up my things and to cater a yoga retreat by this inspireing yogi.
Why do I ever unpack my bag in the first place...?

Camel Nights

2011-05-07T18:02:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite photos of our first night on beach Camel Safari near Sidi Kaouki, Morocco.
.... My thighs hurt just thinking about it.

Ginger Rain

2011-04-16T11:01:00.000-07:00

I had never been in the desert when it rains before. This was a first.
The dark clouds moved into the Palmeria in Marrakech, and I watched the palm trees fix their leaves firmly to the rights side of my window view. The ginger colored sand and dirt darkened in color as the rain fell. A hot date with a hammom, a pair of soft leather baboush to cover my cold toes, and a dinner of warm tangine never felt so good. The tangine is a traditional Marrakech dish made only by men- lamb or beef are cooked on the bone, in a clay vase buried in Hammom ashes. It's different than a well known tagine which has more of a steaming effect while cooked over an open fire.

My recent trip to Morocco was one with a familiar scent. Bits of India still lingering on my skin, words, and the yoga classes that I lead each morning on rooftops under African sun. The reconnection with Morocco and it's beautiful people was an easy one, like bumping into an old friend. And the organized chaos when stuck in a traffic jam out of the airport of trucks, bikes, camels and donkeys felt comforting and alive again.

"Moroccan woman have delicious hands" - Our beautiful chef, Bahija says as she tosses hot barley coucous with her bare hands. We season finger-fulls of appropriate spices into our slowly caramelizing onions and raisins which will top the 2 hour-steaming couscous. Bahija and Peggy pick up the finely ground powder and hold it at a slight angle above the onions. With a quick twitch of momentum in the wrist, the cumin, cinnamon, ginger and turmeric come raining down like a fine mist. Touching every exposed onion in sight. The steam sends up clouds of spice. The ginger burns your nose sightly as it rises back up.

3 weeks of warm Barley bread, rose scented aragon oil, 100 year old Moroccan rugs, spontaneous 3 day camel safaris, oranges dusted with cinnamon, goats in trees, and ginger rain in the dessert of north Africa.

Didn't think I would write these words so soon... but.... I am, yet again, boarding a plane tomorrow.
More soon..... x -A

Red Tassels & Sweet Carrots

2011-04-03T04:50:00.000-07:00

“Paradise runs under the feet of mothers” – An Arabic saying from the Koran

Morocco hosting the latest space for transformation, cultivation of new awareness, and a feast of the senses. Assisting this Culinary tour again, for the second time in the past 6 months. The Marrakech air blanketed me like a warm duvet as I departed my flight and walked along the familiar tar mat. Going from a beach hut with bucket showers in South India, to a 5 star Moroccan Riad in an oasis outside of Marrakech in just a matter of days. Jnane Tamsna has been a home to PM Culinary Adventures for the past 10 years. Saffron yellow walls dotted with traditional sacred-style of keyhole doorways, hand woven Berber rugs sached through hallways lined with tea lights, and sugar-like spring carrots laced with preserved lemons in my chicken tagine. A truly special place that authentically speaks the language of Morocco.

The traditional architecture of Morocco has lured such an intense curiosity in me, more than any other country. Dars and Riads are scattered throughout the tiny streets within the walls of the old city-The Medina. From the outside, Marrakesh life captivates you in it's controlled chaos in an instant. Parting the clouds of motorbike exhaust and aromatic street food smoke, as you wind through narrow streets framed by dusty blush colored walls. A Riad (translated as; Paradise Gardens) is a traditional Moorish house in Morocco. A home that is sectioned off into 4 interior gardens within the Riad walls, with rooms opening up to the center. Plants such as Hydrangea's and Plumerias are capable of growing within the security of Riad walls, and a fountain or water feature pierces the middle like a strategically placed sun dial. It's that Magical contrast of being in a whirlwind of chaos and then instantly in a serene Paradise Garden, that to me, is the enticing beauty of Morocco.

Preserved Lemons

5-6 small organic or meyer lemons
Sea Salt (about 3-4 T per lemon)

Cut the lemons from top to bottom in quarters, but not all the way through. Basically a cross, all the way down, but still attached. Stuff each quadrant with approximately 1 Tablespoon of Salt.
Put 5-6 lemons (however many will fit) into a glass jar and seal the jar tightly.
Leave lemons on the kitchen counter for 3 weeks. Turn them upside down, then right side up every day.
Can keep for up to 1 year in the pantry or refrigerator.
Avoid using metal to scoop the lemons out of the jar.

I must say though, that regardless of how easy it is to get lost with yourself in a place like Morocco, I am still being haunted by the "what's next??" part of my life. Closing the chapters of India, and soon on Morocco, I feel a weight in my chest of anticipation and unknown.... I fell upon this quote that I had tucked away from my India journey. Reading it's words over a cup of mint tea, I chose to let go yet again, an to succumb deeper and deeper into the spell cast upon me by the city of Marrakech...

"Be patient towards all that is unresolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves like locked rooms and like books that are written in a very foreign tongue. Do not seek the answers, which cannot be given to you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will find them gradually, without noticing it, and live along some distant day into the answer." -Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a young poet

7 days

2011-03-30T05:34:00.000-07:00

Wdnesday- India

Friday- London

Sunday- España

Tuesday- Marrakesh

Made it to Morocco from India in 7 days. With necessary stop overs in London and Spain to properly re-introduce me to the world of meat eating and beer drinking. My clothes continue to smell like incense, and beach sand still lingers about my backpack from an Indian journey that continues to shape the path I now walk.
A love affair with Mother India is sure a hard one to get over. I shall heal my yearning heart with layers of Ras Al Hanout, rosewater, and smooth Moroccan wine...

February??

2011-03-10T00:14:00.000-08:00

The month of February is overrated anyway! So I "chose" to skip it all together in terms of blogging.

Actually, I am just neck-deep in my Yoga Teacher Training course in South India. Therefore writing anything about yoga, breathe, body, mindfulness, yada yada... Is strictly prohibited from this blog at the moment. When I have minutes away from a shala or book on pranayama and meditation, then I slip my mind into daydreams of life at a cutting board. A weighted chef knife in my right hand, wafts of fresh sage and thyme that lay resting in a small glass to my left, an opened bottle of Gin awaiting my assistance to mix with tonic, and a beautifully butchered lamb shoulder resting on crinkled brown paper. Ok, I do believe it is officially time to leave this life as a sober vegetarian!!

I did have one moment in Mysore last month where I was able to cook alongside a local woman for the day, and subtly remind myself of that empowered pulse in my veins for the love of making food. I relaxed myself in a haze of warm ghee smoke that rose from the pan, and freshly ground cardamom that could only speak the language of India.

Cucumber Dosa with Coconut Chutney
Jeera Rice with Cabbage and Cashews
Roasted Eggplant and Cilantro Curry
Plantains fried with cardamom and jaggery
Gulab Jamoon (Indian doughnuts in rose syrup)

I'll post some recipes with proper measurements when I can get back to Spain... or California. But at the moment I have 1 more week to breathe Indian air, drink up the haze of a rising sun from the meditation shala window, and cultivate a plan to bring one of these chai wallas back with me....

A beautiful mantra given to me by a friend last month in Kerala

Om Harim Shrim Klim
Maheshwari
Bhuvaneshwari
Anapurnayei
Swaha

Meaning;
Seed sound, the great illusion. All that is form.
Seed Sound Abundance, The energy & Power of Life.
The Great Goddess
Goddess of Earth
Goddess of Food & Nourishment
An offering into the sacred fire. Dissolving the illusion of separation between "I" and "Thy."

I will really miss you, India.

Banana, Coconut, Yoga. Repeat.

2011-01-23T01:43:00.000-08:00

I was the first to arrive by 6:00 am to my new Yoga Shala in Mysore. The new kid has to be extra on time for her first day. I kicked my rainbow sandals off under the bench that I sat cross-legged on, and faced the door to my new space of education, alignment... and maybe some torture. Slowly over the course of the next 15 minutes, 10 practitioners emerged from bicycles, rickshaws and motos out of the dark morning light. Each individual sat on a respective bench, tucked their legs into lotus and closed their eyes. Not a single individual gave me a little "good morning!" wink, nudge, half smile... nothing. They moved over the pavement almost motionless, AND to top the strange behavior... they all wore matching tee shirts. The teacher opens the door. I grab my displaced flip flops and place them at the end of the perfect shoe line next to the shala door, as I enter the realms of unknown.

As the new kid, I sit in the front row to receive special instruction on whatever I just signed my life away to here. The row of folks behind me begin to chant in unison, then they each get up and begin a designated practice. I can feel the movement behind me as these cult-yogis whip through sun salutations. My curiosity is killing me, as I am just focusing on seated leg lifts and toe points. Baby stuff! So I slip a little eye over the shoulder maneuver to take in some of the chaos behind me. Before I can even focus my eyes on a moving yogi, I am blindsided by my straight-faced, no nonsense, yoga teacher- "focus on your breathing, keep your eyes on your practice, how can you master a pose that you are not thinking about? Think about it. And breathe." Caught cheating the first day. Great.
A breakfast is provided to us after the pranayama meditation class. I sat there in half lotus, suppressing tears of pain as my hips burned and feet turned a cold blue color. Pressing my hands harder in mudra, and trying to focus on anything but the severe discomfort in this 30 minutes from hell... I began to think about this soon to be breakfast hour.
"What will they serve us!?"
"My tuition was awful expensive... this must be good food then!"
"I need a chai.. like whoa"
I hear a motor running close to the shala walls- "mmmm...banana cashew smoothies, I bet!"

30 minutes finishes and I unwind my cold, limp legs which slap down on my mat like dead pieces of meat. And continue my daydreams on breakfast outside the Shala's Door of Doom. Feeling light headed, and avoiding an obvious limp (gotta impress my fellow yogis with my fierce, first day strength) I exit the shala to find my breakfast- A perfect row of small 3" by 5" foil containers lay in a perfect line on the outside bench. A brown spotted banana lay atop each.

"You've got to be joking me?"

I soon find out after my first practice that it is highly recommended for all students to consume 1 cooked vegetarian meal a day (provided in the tiny foil box) and 2 meals of 10 to 15 bananas each, followed by plenty of young coconuts to replace our water. Ok, now you've just gone too far Mr. YogiGuruSan!!! What am I supposed to focus on in class if it's not the next meal to follow??
...om shanti...

First week down in my intensive banana, coconut, yoga training alongside the matching tee shirt, silent-Sally, yogis from around the globe. My body aches, my ego is suppressed, and my intrigue heightened. I'm in awe of how this teacher can bring awareness in, and push me to levels I've never explored before. But damn straight, I'm sneaking some onion dosas, palak paneer, papaya lassis, and cardomom pastries in this yogi diet mix!

You can take a chef out of the kitchen. But you can never take the foodie out of the chef!

Flash of Enlightenment

2011-01-03T00:37:00.000-08:00

When on a yogic journey through India, with dedication to practice with as many yoga elements that cross your path, you do whatever it takes to tap into all offered realms of yogic enlightenment. Whether it be on a dirty rooftop in the hot December sun, or in a blissed-out yoga studio above the crashing waves to a tone set by a beautiful Mumbai woman. Every practice is unique and worth the time, energy and rupees paid. But sometimes when opening yourself to all forthcoming elements, you can get yourself into a yogic-pickle that might even test your willingness to be enlightened in the first place...
While shopping for my yoga philosophy books in the tiny beach town in South Goa, I struck up in conversation with a tiny, old Indian man named Krishna. A native to the area with stories of his childhood and yoga studies from 12 years onward. We chatted about the push of Westerners whom come to the south in the winter and teach yoga for high prices, and all the tourists that show up for some fluffy, Eat Pray Love experience of a lifetime. In my quest to explore my journey and avoid that "fluff" I felt it was a worthy attempt to spend $4 the next morning on his 9 am drop-in yoga class.

At 8:30 am I had walked over from my strip of beach to the next, and at 9:10 Krishna had woken up, and arrived outside his house with a toothbrush in hand to greet his solo standing student of the day. the water tank on the rooftop had overflowed, thus a spare bedroom in his house would host as todays studio space instead of the normal rooftop space. A small mattress on the floor in the corner of the room was offered to me as a base for my yoga mat to lay on, I considered for a moment as I am currently open to all styles of unique practicing techniques.... but denied the offer and laid my mat across the cement floor. The mattress was cleared from the room, along with the cockroaches that nested beneath it. He checks his hair in the mirror and then a 15 minute "warm up" was instructed to me by Mr. Krishna- head to the right and left, feet to the right and left, hands to the right and left... and so on. And yes, for 15 minutes. We stumbled along into poses/asanas, all of which were randomly linked together and held for odd amounts of time. I was deep into my considerations of what the hell kind of Yoga is this...?? But in my quest to remain open, I let the confusion run off my back. A yawn slipped from my mouth (out of pure boredom) which lead dear Krishna into a 5 minute lecture on how yawning is an important release in the yoga world, and how we should not be ashamed of this, but embrace it and let it out..... ok, whatever. Om Shanti.

His phone rings, and he answers it.

Two more poses are instructed. Then he decides it's time for a break- lay down and rest. This corps pose was held halfway through the practice for a solid 10 minutes. I was too busy counting the splattered mosquitoes on the wall to properly relax into a tranquil state.

He gets up and goes to the kitchen to pass something on to his wife.

He returns with a kitten to show me.

We proceed into seated postures and spinal twists to near the completion of our... of so interesting... practice. While on our sits bones, facing one another, I mirror him by crossing my right leg over my bent left leg. I get myself situated in this familiar pose, Adha Matsyendrasana, stretched up and twisted my spine towards the center of the room. My gaze swept across my teacher who was in the same pose, facing away from me. His barely there shorts were hiked up to guide him into a deep spinal twist. And there before me, in my quest to expose myself to authentic Indian expression, was my FLASH... of Enlightenment. My gaze quickly ran from Krishna's escapee at the base of his shorts, up to the wall to find a blood-splattered mosquito and clear my mind from what I had just witnessed. While suppressing a laughter of tears, I packed up my mat, said goodbye to my momentary Guru, and left his impromptu Yoga Shala of Enlightenment.

Enlightenment Lesson #37 - Always focus your Drishti (focal point) on a spot on the floor, not a moving or live object of any kind..... and choose yoga classes with caution from now on.

Only thing left to do in order to cleanse my thoughts from this experience is to eat. 1 plate of 50 cent Masala fried rice from the toothless man in the red cart by the beach.... hold the eggs , please.

2011- And another year as a Gypsy! Om Namah Shivaya.

Om Shanti-Shock

2010-12-17T04:30:00.000-08:00

I've arrived in a different world, a different country, and a different time zone.

They say India is the best of the best, and the worst of the worst. The bright and beautiful, yet dusty and dirty. Land of financial and spiritual wealth, and the poorest of poor. A land that many come to find something, or to be found by something greater. Or just a place to be challenged.
There are many ways to find challenge in our lives, but in India the challenge begins when you step off the plane. Nothing is to be expected in India, and everything will rock your senses and invade your comfort zone here.

And it did.

After a few days of experiencing all the dimensions of New Delhi in the many shapes of lowest of lows and highest of highs, I booked it south. Now I find myself in South Goa, in a proper Indian summer and just in time for Christmas.

Unlike many of my previous global adventures with paths paved along my way with jamon legs, California pinots, fish sauce, German beer, Bahamian lobster, and Pacific Northwest microbrews.... I have chosen a different approach to this present 3 1/2 month adventure. My focus in India is that of my strength, my soul, my purpose, and my yoga practice. In setting that intention for myself, I have given up meat and alcohol for this journey. I've placed a significant emphasis solely on my physical and spiritual practice, and for the first time IN MY LIFE, not on the food. There will be no title change from Gypsy Chef to Gypsy Yogi or anything crazy like that.... just a little test for myself. And I do have sources on standby with suckling pig and an IV of sangria to bring me back to life once I return to Spain in spring.

As this is a very strong journey for me all together, it is the very first that I have chosen to do truly alone. I've come to India- the country that notoriously brings up all that is hidden inside you, and as a single female. If I don't find strength and empowerment from this journey, then I really don't know where the hell else to find it!

One of my favorite poems to regain focus, light, and grounding, and by a powerful woman at that...

-WILD GEESE-
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

from Dream Work by Mary Oliver
published by Atlantic Monthly Press
© Mary Oliver

Namaste, Ash

Gracias. Merci. Chokran. Thanks.

2010-11-26T01:41:00.000-08:00

I am unbelievably Thankful for my life.
Like I am really, really, really, ridiculously grateful for my existence. And right now more than ever- I have an amazing and supportive family, some damn fine looking friends all over the globe, refined taste buds, healthy joints and muscles, a working passport, and a desire to experience this beautiful life.

Tips on creating a Thanksgiving experience Spain:
#1 Find fellow Americans... or just those who have visited the states in the last 10 years, thats fine too.
#2 No need to pre-order a turkey. They won't run out.
#3 Thanksgiving must be celebrated on Black Friday because no country, other than yours has Thursday off work.
#4 Everyone else in the world thinks that a "pumpkin" and a "pie" should never touch.
#5 Suggest a reenactment of the Pilgrims and Indians on Thanksgiving Day- Separating the group in two, place half on a boat at the beach and the other half (the native Mallorquins, naturally) on the sand, in loin clothes, carving arrowhead jewelry and such. Come together. Trade gifts. Sit, eat and give thanks.

Happy Thanksgiving!
A photo memoir of some of the most incredible and transformative table experiences:

I find myself living for moments at the table. From country to country, table to table, friends to family, I am completely infatuated with the power of a group of people breaking bread at the table. Images from Italy, California, Vietnam, Morocco, Seattle, Spain, Chicago, Laos, France, Bali, etc. All share one thing in common- A plank of wood, elevated above the ground, scattered wit empty wine bottles, crumpled napkins, bread crumbs, and tales of life, love and happiness. Thankful for the table.

.... And at this very moment, I am extra Thankful that India has not only granted me a visa for my 3 month visit, starting on Tuesday. But That it has also accepted me into a Yoga Teacher Training in Goa this February. I'll do my very best to keep you updated on my gypsy adventures on that beautiful continent... Cheers!

Kamar

2010-11-12T01:58:00.000-08:00

... Arabic for "Full Moon"
Kamar, is the name of a woman, and is also used as a compliment from a man to a woman with an exceptionally glowing, beautiful face. I love that.

The moment I stepped off the plane in Marrakesh, I was welcomed with warm African winds carrying a night scent of diesel, cumin, and orange blossoms. I was intoxicated with affection for Morocco within moments, before my feet even touched the soil. The PMCA Culinary Adventure that I assisted was the perfect segway to indulge my senses and officially place Morocco on my list of places to long for.

Once I float down from this cloud of rose water, saffron threads, and sweet dates dipped in milk, then I will give you the full Moroccan break down. And until then, pour yourself a glass of mint tea and throw a wish to the great Kamar.
-Ash

Alpujarra

2010-10-29T05:32:00.002-07:00

Ferrierola is a small village in the Alpuharra mountains of Andalucia. A tiny community of 26 people, 1 large and tranquile German Shepard, 3 natural water sources-Fuentes, 1 cafe, 1 bar (which is the same place actually), at least a dozen stray cats, and a beautiful guesthouse by the name of Casa Ana.
8 guests came for a week of Spnaish cooking, and a glimpse into the life of a peaceful mountain village.

Many beautiful creations were made at Casa Ana- Cheastnut soup with chestnuts harvested from the trails around the village. Almond cake with figs poached in cava. Seafood Paella cooked outside on a wood fire. Lamb shoulder stuffed with saffron rice and pistachios. Ajo Blanco- cold almond soup. Roasted rabbit with quince. And a chorizo with fried bread tapa, that when enjoyed with a mountain landscape can all of a sudden make all the problems in life just slip away, right down with a glass of crisp Albariño.

Garlic Pan-Fried Bread and Chorizo
Serves 6-8
7 oz soft chorizo sausage, outer casing removed
4 slices country bread, cut thick
Extra Virgin Olive oil
3 garlic, thinly sliced
2T parsley, chopped
paprika to garnish
Cut the chorizo sausage into 1/2” thick slices. Cut the bread, with its crusts
still on, into 1/2” cubes. Add enough olive oil to a large, heavy bottom skillet
so that it generously covers the bottom. Heat the oil, add the garlic, cook
30 seconds or until lightly browned. Add bread cubes and pan fry, stirring
all the time, until golden brown and crisp. Add chorizo and pan fry 1-2
minutes, or until hot. Use a slotted spoon, remove bread cubes and chorizo
and drain on paper towels. Turn into serving bowl, add chopped parsley
and stir. Garnish the dish with a sprinkle of paprika and serve warm.
Accompany with toothpicks so that a piece of sausage and a cube of bread
can be speared together for eating.

Buen Provecho!

Mercado

2010-10-27T15:08:00.000-07:00

The central mercado in Malaga is where Kim and I shopped for 2 days in preparation for this culinary adventure in the Alpujarra mountains of Andalucia. Fish so fresh the rigor mortis still present. Incredibley vibrant manderine oranges with shiny, green leaves that call you forth and demand attention. Plump green pears with red wax-tipped stems. Aisles of ornamental jamon legs. Bright orange wild mushrooms..... Hard to find anything wrong with life when surrounded by this desirable botany. Oh, and the pre-market churros y chocolate that opened their arms to me in the early morning light. You're just too damn hard to resist, España.
Shockingly, I am still procrastinating on that detox...

Figs & Lamb

2010-10-23T06:00:00.000-07:00

Ok… and aioli.

Or “alli oli” as they say here in Mallorca. I just really couldn’t bring myself to put the word up there in the title. I just finished a month in spreadable-garlicky-bliss, and can successfully say that I have personally consumed enough aioli to feed a small country. So much so, that by the last week I was outwardly stating before each meal, that I would not be eating anymore aioli. Then promptly being the first to raise a hand at the passing waiter and yell- “mas alli oli por favor!” And successfully dragging the last piece of toasted Mallorcan brown bread across the cleaned clay bowl. I’m about ready to legally change my middle name, or at least name my first born after this Godsend of a foodie wonder. I don’t care how many times, or in how many different countries and cities I’ve had it in- the beautiful Balearic Island of Mallorca makes the best damn aioli on the planet. Hands down.

The best thing to cut through all that pleasurable fatty goodness is… roasted lamb- of course. Well, and suckling pig (lechona), but lets just focus on the lamb for now, shall we? Es Verger is a family run restaurant just up the mountain from the city of Alaro. A woman in her 70’s pushing 5’2” stands in front of a large wood burning oven, and pushes and pulls large oval pans filled with lamb shoulders and succulent juices. All with her long, hooked stick, and a pretty face beet-red from standing by the fire for the last 7 hours. She was breathtaking, in my opinion.

3 hours, 4 bowls of aioli, 4 lamb shoulders, and a bottle of house vino tinto (to also assist in cutting through the excessive fat consumption,) it’s no wonder why this country has a mandatory nap mid day. We barbarically piled our completely cleaned, lamb shoulder bones atop one another, as if a prized carnivorous trophy. And ordered cortados (espresso cut with milk) as we laughed out loud, drunk with gluttony. It was raining as we walked past a pack of sheep down to our car, the restaurant still buzzing behind us with Mallorca’s Sunday best. One of my favorite days to date.

It’s the figs on this Island that really get my juices bubbling. As a Californian, I do love my mission figs, and I peer out my Santa Barbara window everyday in August to check in with that there tree. But in September here in Mallorca, my favorite type of fig is unveiled. A couple named Pepe and Angela whom own a sweet little shop in the Santa Catalina Market, take pride in their Higos De Mallorca con Anise. Dried figs, pressed into beautiful fat disks, massaged by Angelas hands with Anise liqueur, wild fennel, and honey from Pepe’s bees. I got Kim Schiffer and Peggy Markel to join me my last week in Mallorca, and I think enough dried figs were purchased to put Pepe and Angela’s first child through college. Excessive weight fare on AirEuropa- 60 Euro.

With figs in tow, a ceremony to initiate aioli into it’s own food group-done, and a small village town of Ferreirola in the Alpujarra mountains on the horizon. Falling deeper and deeper in love with España.

Sevilla

2010-10-03T11:10:00.000-07:00

Recently introduced to a beautiful place by the name of Sevilla.
A city of 1 euro tapas in perfectly crowded and smoky bars. A city of cobblestone streets too small for cars. A city of divine passion, exuding a feeling in motion known as Flamenco. A city spoken of as 'The Gypsy City'. A city that took my hand as I entered it's walls.... no, actually it cradled me in it's Spanish nook for the entirety of my stay. I have never experienced anything as powerful as this city before. I can genuinely say that everything I wanted from this city, I got. And I got it on a platter of gold- Sultry, Spanish, Seville gold actually. This was the first time in all my travels that I felt like the city itself was actually taking care of me. A truly beautiful experience.

A powerful, traveling, yoga teaching, gypsy, wonder woman friend of mine was also in Spain working on a retreat center. She and I met up, rented a Smartcar from Malaga (which by the way, would move more efficiently if you just punched out the floor and ran Flintstone-style in that thing!) and 2 1/2 hours later and we were in Sevilla. We enjoyed heart-shaped sticky, sweet Palmeras with our cortados at La Campana. Baños de Arabes- Turkish baths tucked under ground in a maze of candlelight and Moroccan lanterns. Spent time wandering through Triana- the Gypsy city within the city. Was encouraged by cosmic Sevilla forces to buy a pair of 3" red high heels, and easily broke them in over the course of a 10 hour night galavanting and dancing through the streets of lopsided cobblestones. And was completely consumed by the intoxicating trance of a Flamenco experience, which not only brought me to an unexpected emotional state, but also had me walking away from that building with numb hands and feet as I still tingled with amazement.

The amazing thing about Sevilla, was how feminine it made me feel. I had superwoman powers there, and although I am obviously not a Spanish woman myself (which breaks my heart everyday...) the city of Sevilla made me feel sexy and goddess-empowered. It was as if women ruled the show there, like this city was made special for them. My friend and I sat at cafe tables and tapas bars, and almost every single time had an incredible conversation and connection with women, local and foreign. One pair of ladies from Ireland talked with us for an hour, and then handed us a pair of U2 tickets for that evening to a sold out show. Just because they felt connected to us and our journey. That stuff doesn't just happen- Super Powers, i tell you!
I started to notice in particular, the vast amount of Virgin Mary dedication in the city. Images of the Madonna were ardorned all over the walls of bars and cafes. Mary was dressed in a velvet cloak, or a soft blue head dress and placed behind the altar of churches, where the crucifix would be. I was raised catholic and the sight of Mary has always been a sense of peace and comfort to me. Her story is that of a strong woman with a beautiful soft face, and I loved seeing her there, like the governess of beauty and feminine power looking over this incredible Spanish city.

Ave Maria.... Sevilla Sevilla.

Alpkase

2010-09-17T11:02:00.000-07:00

My latest adventure begins in Switzerland. I have never been to this country before, and it is the one that I have the closest family connections to- which is why I have started journey here… and accompanied by my older brother and 79 year old Grandma. A desire to connect with our roots in a curiosity for my family history, this has brought us to Giswil. A small village nestled somewhere in between Lucern, and Interlakken. Farmland for those in sync with the slower, simpler pace of life. Half of the town shares the last name of Abacherli- which I also share through the branches of my family tree. The single commercial grocery store offers cheese made by local farmers, hand knitted wool socks from a neighboring home, and milk from the dairy which you can hear the bells from as you exit the store. This is the village that my great grandmother, at 19 years old stood proudly on the soil and made the dedication to herself to board a ship and go start life in a foreign country- America.

My German-speaking Swiss grandmother has held our hands in making transactions and interactions with locals fluid and easy. While we have held her hands down narrow European stairways, and up steep mountain trails to witness the glory of this spectacular landscape. One that she has not seen for almost 20 years, and one that she assumed she would never see again.

A trip up Fronalpschtok via train, ski lift and by foot on clear and cool September day, we followed signs for “Apkase”- Alp Cheese. A round woman with rosy cheeks and rubber boots on her feet, greeted us at her front door. Then escorted to a space bellow her house where she makes and stores the cheese from her cows. 7 francs for a half a pound of beautiful summer-milk Alp cheese. I walked my wedge of Swiss-bliss from the hands of the farmer, through the moist pasture, past the cows that created it, and down to the bottom of the mountain. I was so happy that my whole body was zinging for hours to come.

16 days of strong cheeses, cold cuts in the sunshine, Post-hike Alp mac n cheese (with applesauce), plum Kuchen, Apple kuchen, warm Lebkuchen, weak beer, strong schnapps, and the best tasting milk and butter I have ever had. 2 days left here, and then on to the next….. How do you say “DETOX” in Spanish??

Bali Belly

2010-08-15T21:43:00.000-07:00

I have no sisters. I am the related friend to 3 amazing brothers. But I have found many sisters in life already. I'm talking about those women you meet and instantly feel like youve already shared a life with them. Emily is my sister, my gypsy soul-sister. If we had past lives, then Emily and I were probably fellow Mayan Medicine women in Guatamala, or maybe we met skinning kangaroos as Aboriginals, or maybe we just ran in the same meerkat group. Whatever it was, that deep connection we have welcomed me to Bali last October. She strapped me to a motorbike for 3 days, with nothing but a bikini, cut offs, a sarong (which you really can wear 12 different ways- I tried em all) and an ipod on a Tom Petty repeat as we cruised through tiny villages in the hot Indo heat. After that tour of Bali beaches with my long lost friend, I arrived back to Ubud with a helmet head of salted dreadlocks, a very unique sunburn from sitting on a motorbike for 3 days, and a deep love for my sisters home on the island of Bali.

The film Eat Pray Love came out in theaters this week. An intriguing true story about a successful Manhattan woman in the post- divorced stage of her life. She chooses to flee her world as she knows it in search of self-discovery and awakening her hunger for life, spirit and love again.... In Italy, India and Bali.
Two things deeply affected me during this 2 1/2 hour movie- First of all, there is NO freaken way that she can fit all those clothes for a whole year in those 3 very different countries, into one duffle bag! (Welcome to the current anxiety of my 7 day countdown to packing my bag for the next ___ months of my life abroad...) And second, within the first image of Bali landscape on the big screen, I started to cry. Now this is nothing new, for I am fully equipped with a very sensitive emotional response mechanism for nostalgia, and beautiful things in general.

Last October I bought a ticket from Vientiane, Laos to Bali for one week...... I stayed for one month, and I cried as I flew away. Yes friends, food and familiar things are all left, but it's more about what that place had done for the spirit that brought on these kind of tears. The portal that it opened up deep inside me, and now leaving with no idea how to fill this exposed space. Bali is a very strong and intense place, known as an energy vortex on the planet where things just seem to happen, and they did. It opened up quite a lot that I had never allowed myself to feel, and it sent me away feeling raw, vulnerable, connected, and at peace. Bali is not known as a culinary haven, by any means, So I switched my normal focus from food, to that of the spirit and strength.

The island of Bali is so unique itself that it makes complete sense why it has this power to transform you. Bali is the one island in all of Indonesia that is not Muslim. The classic Hindu rituals are displayed openly- handmade baskets with offerings to the Gods containing rice, gold paper, flowers, banana slices, and coins, are placed on the ground with special prayers and a quick sprinkling of water off Plumeria petals. The papaya tastes like flowers there. All visible wood and stone is intricately carved and created. Monkeys live amongst the people. Sunsets resemble melted rainbow sherbet. The coffee tastes like dirt. The ginger tea tastes like heaven. And Nasi Goreng can cure a quizy Bali Belly or heal a Bintang hangover.

-Nasi Goreng-
Bali-style vegitable fried rice or noodles with prawn chips and a fried egg

1 shallot
1 garlic
1 red chili (seeded)
1/2 teaspoon shrimp paste (belacan)
1 teaspoon palm sugar
1/2 tablespoon soy sauce (kecap manis is ideal)
8 oz. overnight rice (or make the rice 2 to 3 hours before)
1 fried egg
2 tablespoons oil
Prawn chips

Break the overnight/leftover rice using the back of a spoon so they don’t clump together. In a wok, toast the shrimp paste on low heat until it becomes dry and aromatic. Toasted shrimp paste should be somewhat powdery and appear like tiny granules. Fry an egg and set aside. Using a mortar and pestle or a mini food processor, blend the shallot, garlic, red chili, and toasted shrimp paste. Transfer the blended flavoring paste into a small saucer. Heat up a wok and add oil. Add the flavoring paste and stir-fry until aromatic. Add the rice into the wok and stir well with the flavoring paste. Add soy sauce and palm sugar into the rice and continue to stir-fry and make sure that they are well blended with the rice. Dish out, top the nasi goreng with the fried egg and prawn chips, and serve immediately.

There have been many mixed reviews on the film Eat, Pray, Love so far. I liked it, personally. I tend to not have high expectations for films in general, but I did enjoy the movie. And frankly, if a Julia Roberts film about pasta, prayers, beautiful landscapes, and the greatest duffle bag on the planet, can all make more woman travel alone in the world- then I give the movie nothing but good reviews. And if nothing else, then the movie helped remind me how blessed I am to have a working passport, global sisters, and travel size tissues.

Love and Eggs

2010-08-03T12:26:00.000-07:00

My first trip to Italy was 3 years ago. It was in the middle of summer, in a small town named Crosia. I had traveled for 12 hours from Tuscany to Calabria to attend a dear friends wedding. She-American, he-Italian, they- crazy in love.

The town was hot. The cars and doorways small. The wedding was breathtaking. And that panini of melon and salami that I enjoyed on the beach was irresistible. A wedding in Italy should be a "must" for all to experience. A gastronomic gathering of the senses. My memory is spotted from that evening- I remember wearing a black dress. I remember cramming into a tiny Fiat and chasing the scooting newlyweds down a spiraling hill from the chapel to the restaurant. I remember being seated for 12 courses but only making it to 8. I remember an Italian duo singing Hotel California at the reception. I remember wine....and grappa. But most of all, aside from the octopus salad (maybe course #5...?) that really had me succumbing to Italian powers, I retain pure blissful images of my friend's face that night. And the happiness that surrounded all of us there.

Well, my beautiful Italian-American fused couple are back in California. So we made lunch.

Peaches and Nectarines with Opal Basil.
Salad of Red Quinoa, Harrisa, and Fried Chickpeas.
Frittata of Sweet Onions and Cherry Tomatoes.

Frittata is a simple and beautiful way to enjoy a meal. Breakfast, lunch or dinner- frittata is acceptable. I tend to not get too crazy with my frittata combinations; one or two vegetables, a fresh herb, plenty of parmesan, and maybe some pancetta if I'm feeling sassy. Hot or cold, its one of my favorite ways to eat eggs.

Frittata with sweet onions, torn basil and cherry tomatoes

Salt and Pepper
12 Organic Eggs
2 ounces Parmesan, grated
1/2 a medium Brown Onion- or 1 torpedo onion (which I used), chopped
2 T Olive Oil
¼ cup Basil Leaves, torn
8 Cherry Tomatoes, cut in half

Preheat oven to 400 F.
Whisk the eggs, Parmesan cheese, and season with salt and pepper. Add olive oil to an oven-proof skillet. Heat over medium heat. Add onions and cook till just caramelized, about 3 minutes. Add egg mixture to the hot skillet. Stir eggs gently with wooden spoon. Continue cooking until eggs are starting to set on the edges. Place skillet in oven for 8 minutes, or until the center is set but not brown. Remove from oven. Remove frittata to warm plate. Cut into wedges and sprinkle with tomatoes, remaining basil and some fresh parmesan. Enjoy!

I'm planning to reconnect with Italy in many ways this next year. Renting a space and working at a restaurant in Florence for winter. Living on a Tuscan farm in early spring, consuming my weight in gelato...... and budgeting it all by eating only frittata for the next month.

Finito...

Skillz

2010-07-26T13:06:00.000-07:00

L'Arte de Cappuccino.

This Santa Barbara July-Gloom has me sitting under my down comforter, eating oatmeal with warm apricots, and blogging about hot cappuccinos......Ah, summertime in California.

Transport

2010-07-12T19:48:00.000-07:00

I just took my first long train ride in the US. I spent 24 hours on the Amtrack from Portland, Oregon to Santa Barbara, California.

Now mind you, I have endured my fair share of public transportation on this planet: I've exercised a Eurorail pass on damp, un-air-conditioned trains from Calabria, Italy through Oberstoff, Germany. I've mastered the New York Metro. I've yogicly curled myself into the fetal position on the coach window seat of many a 10+ hour flight. I've burned my shins on the hot tail pipe of a Balinese motorbike. I've shared a minivan with 27 Cambodians, when only 17 seats were available. And I recently took a train from the lush and sunny landscape of Oregon through the Summertime coastal fog of Northern California.

I actually love overnight transportation because how else are you going to sit front row and witness the sun fall into pink clouds, then rise again over a beautifully foreign landscape? And all without the need of controlled substances, and loud techno on the beach of an island in Spain!..... not that I've ever endured such chaos for a blissful sunrise and a freshly baked Spanish pastry or anything. But I really do love watching the trek from point A to point B pass by me. When I told my friends and family that I was taking a 24 hour train ride home versus a 2 hour flight, the reactions were that of shock and discomfort. My experience was everything but shocking- quite nice actually. I made friends with strangers, read my book, watched the beautiful landscape pass, and stretched out in a seat that can fully accommodate a 5'11" girl. Far from some past traveling escapades I've endured.

It all reminded me of the many travel experiences I have had over the years- A special 13 hour bus ride in Vietnam this past September, in particular. I typed up this email to a friend on my phone while on that little venture....

It's 6:40 pm on Sunday- I have just boarded a sleeper bus from Hué to Hanoi. 13 hours, with 1 stop for dinner. We bought this ticket this morning from our hotel that we stayed one night in (Hué is pretty damn boring.) for $10 we get a nice sleeper bus, individual seats with blanket, pillow and complimentary water. The pictures in the add show a lovely seat, fully reclined with a soft red blanket, and a white sheet turned down at the corner. Another image of the bathroom on board, clean, big with pretty light fixtures. The whole thing screams "Smooth Sailing!" and for only $10!!!

So as a smart traveler, you ask all the right questions, look the receptionist dead in the eye with serious intent to get what your about to pay for, check out on time, etc.... And somehow you still get totally screwed over!!!
I'm currently laying on a half reclined, vinyl bed ( that's right, vinyl...) of an old bus- probably built in the 80's. The window drapes are a fowl yellow color, stained and torn. The pillow provided was probably white at one point, now it shows little reminders of all it's past visitors. What blanket? What bathroom? The aircon only works on my side (window side) so Julie has her arm draped over my stomach to keep something cool. It smells like chicken feet and lemon dish soap. If there was padding in this seat at one time, it's gone now. The woman in front of me has been playing the same Vietnamese slow rap song (think LLcool J, circa 1998) on her cell phone speaker over and over again There isn't enough light to read (and therefore i write email drafts, and daydream about a shower...) our bathroom stops will most likely include: popping a squat in a bush, or popping a squat in a hole in the dirt. The creaks, squeaks and over use of horn & brakes are all subtle reminders that you are in fact.... on a shitty bus for 13 hours in the middle of Vietnam.

{Oh, We just got a flat tire. We're pulling over.}

:: 1hour later ::
Other than the really cool lightning show outside the left window- my night is gonna suck!! There is no way that I am taking off my shoes. I'm sure I'll contract some creepy ringworm from sweating and sleeping on this chair. And thank Buddha that I actually bought a tiny neck pillow. At least Julie and I fully stocked up on coconut crackers and banana chips before departing tonight....sustaining happiness by means of coconut.

Other than this present moment, I'm doing great! And I'm sure Hanoi and all its delicious street food offerings will be awesome, and worth the journey.

More soon,
- Ash

P.S. The trip took a total of 16.5 hours. We got another flat tire around 3 am. Then they dropped us off in the rain at the wrong station in Hanoi- we had to then take 2 crazy motos to our hotel, in the pouring rain. Ah, the joys of being a filthy backpacker! I'm currently looking into flights for the remainder of my trip.... And maybe some Vietnamese Valium ;)

Sent from my iPhone

(view from my window in Hanoi, September 2009)

But for a moment with a proper Bahn mi sandwhich from lady in the old quarter of Hanoi, or that rocket fuel-like Vietnamese iced coffee I had every morning, or a glass of warm house beer with an ice cube on a crowded street corner of such a fabulous city - Yes, I would gladly choose that bus over the fancy leg room of an American train any day.

Holy Curd

2010-07-01T10:15:00.000-07:00

Ahhhhh.....

The sigh of relief, as I finally settle down from a chaotic month. I catered a handful of parties, cooked for a large family for 5 days, a wedding of over a hundred guests, work at the restaurant, preparations for Spain and Morocco, and somehow gathered in a few "cool points" with friends whom have already forgotten that I live here. And I ask you this- who in their right mind would offer to cater a wedding for 100 people, outside, on Solstice Saturday, when I don't have any space in my volvo (due to all of my belongings still residing in the trunk.....minor detail), and I have no kitchen...? Thankfully I have good chef friends and family that let me rent equipment and kitchen space to make the day possible. I am forever in debt to them, I swear.

So I've retreated up to Bend and Portland for the next week to hike, play, eat and breathe before going back down to Santa Barbara to do it all over again. I am a HUGE fan of taking time out of life to re-charge. I think I'm even starting to figure out the balance of working hard and playing hard in life. The Pacific Northwest summer is the perfect escape for me to plug in my cord- strong coffee, dry sunshine, scenic utopia, endless trails and bike paths, a pastry by the name of Ocean Roll, and a plethora of ruggedly handsome Mountain men. Yeah, you can just hook me up to an I.V of that, thank you!

The last time I retreated was when I was in Big Sur in early March. My mom and I met there to celebrate our 25 years together (my birthday.) I am obsessed with Big Sur. I have been for a while now. I rented a friend's shack in the woods, way up above Highway 1. A potbelly fireplace, lofted bed, creaky wood floors, and a bathtub buried in the dirt under the redwoods. I took 4 bubble baths in 2 days.... The best part though was Clovis, the owner of my little shack. Clovis has lived in Big Sur for 50 years and she sent me home with stories of the California coast, an appreciation for bathing outside in winter, and a bag full of her limes with a recipe for Clovis's lime curd. It's now July, and I still can't stop making this curd. Just to dip summer strawberries and peaches in it, or fill a tart crust and top it with meringue, or just do as my mother and I do and ladle spoonfuls of this tangy-Goddess-of-a-dip directly into your mouth. God bless the curd!

Clovis's Citrus Curd
1 1/2 cups fresh lime or lemon juice
1 cup sugar
6 eggs
1 cup heavy cream
whisk together all the ingredients in a medium saucepan. cook over low heat, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon, until the liquid is thick enough to coat the back of the spoon.
I love that this recipe is with heavy cream and not butter (as most curds are). I think it gives the curd a unique richness and milky coloring.

At the moment, I am strongly considering making a large batch of lemon curd, setting up a table in the sunshine, on a street corner here, and selling it by the cupfuls to these Oregon Mountain men. That's my kind of holiday vacation. Happy fourth!

Kumquat

2010-06-09T13:45:00.000-07:00

The culinary chaos is flowing full steam now. I have booked up most of my summer with catering, private chef gigs, restaurant jobs, and fundays with friends. I have also booked my ticket out of here- a fundamental ingredient for happiness in my life. I am truly ONLY happy when I have a flight booked to take me out of California to somewhere new. This flight is taking me back to Europe, to a fresh and new adventure that will begin on August 31st.

But in between now and then, I am fully dedicated to getting completely blissed-out on Santa Barbara sunshine and finally attacking my ever growing list of "must cook" recipes.

I was housesitting a few weeks back in this gorgeous house near the old Mission in Santa Barbara. I drank tea every morning in the courtyard, read my book next to the fireplace in the kitchen, and ate with friends in the garden. I grazed the fruit trees for what was left over from citrus season. I found a tiny kumquat tree that was tucked in the shade out back. I gathered a hefty handful with plans to make kumquat ginger marmalade. I changed my mind when I got word from my momma that she was coming up on her day off for a picnic. Our night was consumed with cheese, date cake, a bowl of local cherries, 2 bottles of Sancerre and Rose, and a couscous salad with kumquats and lemon basil.

Summer Couscous with kumquats and lemon basil
1 cup Hand-rolled couscous or Israeli couscous, cooked according to directions.
2 Persian cucumbers, sliced
1 c green beans, blanched and cut in thirds
6-8 kumquats, thinly sliced
1 1/2 T Meyer lemon juice
1 T rice wine vinegar
6 T Olive oil (try to use a strong, green olive oil)
2 T chopped lemon basil
1 T chopped mint
1 T chopped Italian parsley

Mix first 4 ingredients together in a large bowl. Whisk lemon juice, vinegar and herbs in a small bowl and slowly add olive oil while whisking. Pour vinaigrette over couscous mixture and season well with salt and pepper. Eat it in the garden- highly recommended!

I worked for a few years as a cheese monger here in Santa Barbara at one of my favorite little gourmet markets downtown- C'est Cheese. I owe so much of my awareness to quality ingredients such as olive oil, charcuterie, chocolate, salt, olives, and of course cheese, to this sweet little place. And that is where I found this couscous with red peppers, by Les Moulins Mahjoub. It was fantastic! If you can't get this specific couscous, then just use Israeli couscous and cook it with a Chile de Arbol in the water. I'm thinking that a sprinkling of French feta over the top would have been perfect for it too.

Just typing the word, couscous, has me chomping at the bit to get to Morocco. October can not come fast enough. I feel incomplete without this adventure under my belt. And until then... I'll just sit outside, eat couscous salad and stare at the details of my flight confirmation email.

Thai Moon

2010-05-27T22:36:00.000-07:00

I want this cappuccino in the morning.

But alas, It's in Bangkok off a small street near Koh San Road. So I'll just have to find another one that looks this good, and in my general area.... of California.

I just love how clean the line of dark espresso is around the white foam. It kinda looks like the full moon we have here tonight, huh?
This cup made me so happy when It was delivered to my table all shiny, foamy and caffeinated. I was a wreck at the time, exhausted from sweating and traveling all day. I took this photo because I had no one to share my excitement with at the moment. I remember just staring at it in Aw, for a good while. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. And to take a sip was like taking its virginity. So I just stared for awhile, and then I indulged.

well, thats all I have to say- Full moons and Thai cappuccinos. I'm happy with that.

Grapefruits & Goodbyes

2010-05-16T10:10:00.000-07:00

I spent a bit of time in the great state of Texas last year. Austin, Texas to be exact. I went out there with a friend to visit a music festival, drink sweet tea and cheap beer, and get my years fill of pulled pork. I've always fantasized about being a Southern girl- with a cute little twang, debutant stature, and family heirloom recipes for fried okra and peach cobbler. But alas, I am a Southern girl from the great state of California. San Fernando Valley, California to be exact. A SoCal girl who awkwardly can't wear high heel shoes, has an heirloom recipe for dijon chicken from her Irish Grandma, and opts for saying words like "Ciao!" "Adios!" and even "Peace Out!" (yes- an embarrassing residual from high school...) instead of Goodbye. But I do think I have some real Southern blood in my veins- I wear rustic leather boots with jean shorts, I love lard, I proudly use the word "y'all" whenever possible, and I honestly admit to enjoying a good queso dip (even though I know well, that queso dip isn't really cheese at all.) But most importantly is that some of the most genuine, inspiring, and closest relationships I have in my life, have all come from those great Southern states. So I am pretty convinced that I am attracted to these folks because I am just one of them, thats all there is to it!

I was back to Austin a few months after my first visit to dabble more deeply in the food scene. Pulled pork Sandwiches from Iron Works BBQ, Gingerbread pancakes from Magnolia Cafe, crepes and cupcakes from Airstream trailers, crawfish boils, cheap beer in personalized koozies, softball sized grapefruits and peaches, and breakfast tacos with an endless bowl of queso dip on the side. But best of all, the city is filled with the scent of smoky BBQ, and the songs of constant live music all day! And no matter how hard the humidity is weighing on your chest, or how bad it is to tame the mass of curly hair that has tripled in size- happiness is found in the city of Austin.

My friend Sean and I traveled back and forth from Santa Barbara and Austin last summer in search of live music and good eats in each others cities. We camped and hiked up the California coast, stopping at hippy bakeries and seeking out quality coffee. And I introduced him to my favorite cocktail alongside California Oysters- The Greyhound Proper. Quality Gin mixed with fresh grapefruit juice, over ice, with a candied grapefruit rind. He jumped right on board with the lovers of Greyhounds, and soon we were drinking sweet Texas grapefruit juice and gin, out of mason jars in the Austin sunshine.

Greyhound Proper-

1 1/2 oz Plymouth Gin
5 oz of fresh grapefruit juice (Texas grapefruits... of course)

combine all ingredients in a cocktail shaker with ice and shake well. pour over ice into a highball glass and serve with candied grapefruit peel. Enjoy!

I got to spend a day with Sean just this past weekend while he was in-between flights on his way to New Zealand. He sold his belongings, moved out of Austin, packed a backpack and is moving to New Zealand for a year of adventure and unknown. I love it when people make choices to take charge of their life and independence like that. To answer the call deep inside you that just wants to run to a far away place, filled with nothing and no one familiar, climb a mountain, sleep in a van, think, read, acknowledge, be, and just breathe in your own existence. Traveling alone is the most rewarding thing I have ever done for myself, and I know it will be for him too.

So I dedicate this post to Sean. And his adventure of a lifetime. To answering those questions, walking those trails, and creating those stories that will shape his life forever.

When you travel,
A new silence
Goes with you
And if you listen
You will hear
What your heart would
Love to say.

May you travel safely
Arrive refreshed
And live your time
Away to its fullest
Return home
More enriched and free
To balance the gift of days
Which call you

And most importantly- May you bring me some quality farmstead cheese, and arrive back with a ferocious appetite for Barbeque and Greyhound Propers. Bon Voyage and Good Luck, Sean!

Bend for Breakfast

2010-05-05T10:02:00.000-07:00

Sparrow Bakery in Bend, Oregon February 2010.

I woke up this morning with a sore throat, dizzy head, achy arms and legs, and this pastry on my mind.

So, does that mean that all the late night sangria, mid-day beers and bottomless breakfast Bloody Marys I enjoyed in New York, this past month, may have had something to do with my current discomfort? Definitely not! And I'm also sure that my "Welcome Home to California!" fresh strawberry margarita escapades with friends in the warm Santa Barbara sunshine had NOTHING to do with my sloth-like physical state at the moment... And for the record, I really do think that I am the only happy, healthy, 25 year old on the planet whose liver looks like a shriveled, yellow kitchen sponge after just 3 days of enjoying my youth. Once my liver has decided to take a holiday from processing my toxins, my immune system quickly follows and thus leaves me here. At home. With a luke warm cup of Throat Coat tea, and a pyramid of bed-side vitamin C and Ricolas.

But I really did wake up thinking about how much fun I had in Bend a few months back, and how cozy and wonderful my trips to Sparrow Bakery were. The first image is one of the infamous Ocean Roll- croissant dough, sprinkled with freshly grated cardamom, cracked black pepper and sugar before baking. It is, hands down, one of the BEST breakfast pastries I have ever had! After touching my Pacific Ocean again yesterday for the first time in 6 weeks, I can completely understand why a city in the high desert of inland Oregon would name their prized pastry, the Ocean Roll- Because it induces pure bliss.
Oh, and the croissant breakfast sandwich with avocado and a poached egg was equally as good. Do keep Sparrow Bakery in mind if you ever make it up to Bend.

I will say though, that having just dabbled in the first of our summer strawberry season, it is going to be a great one! I'm totally and completely prepared to gorge on everything strawberry for the next few months.... just hold the tequila please.

Here is something that i am looking forward to making as soon as I can get out of my pajamas. Enjoy!

Strawberry Frozen Yogurt (adapted from David Lebovitz)
About 1 quart

1 pound (450g) strawberries, rinsed and hulled
2/3 cup (130g) sugar
1 cup (240g) plain whole milk yogurt or greek yogurt
1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice

Slice the strawberries into small pieces. Toss in a bowl with the sugar and vodka or kirsch (if using) until the sugar begins to dissolve. Cover with plastic wrap and let stand at room temperature for 2 hours, stirring every so often.

Transfer the strawberries and their juice to a blender or food processor. Add the yogurt and fresh lemon juice. Pulse the machine until the mixture is smooth. If you wish, press mixture through a mesh strainer to remove any seeds.

Chill for 1 hour, then freeze in your ice cream maker according to the manufacturer's instructions.

Homemade

2010-04-23T15:58:00.001-07:00

Been eating out a lot in New York and Chicago. But I have thankfully had some wonderful opportunities to cook with some incredibly talented foodie friends of mine too. Here are a couple little shots of my favorite homemade moments from these past few weeks.

In New York, I made the Italian marscapone cheesecake with bitter orange marmalade that I learned to make in Italy. I served it to friends at our annual Urban Family Easter celebration. Our meal included a gorgeous ham glazed in Dr Pepper and mustard, melted leeks over burrata, Orzo salad with peas and mint, horseradish deviled eggs, and this tart. A tart that we ate for breakfast alongside our cold-brewed iced coffee for the next few mornings.

After waking up to a cloudy day in Chicago, an impromptu breakfast in our pajamas and slippers was in order. I awoke with a ferocious sweet tooth (surprise surprise...) and my cure was in the shape of pancakes- Oatmeal buttermilk pancakes. With stewed prunes in a sauce that reduced to a rich honeyed caramel, and topped them with marscapone. We also had two duck eggs left over from making fresh pasta the day before. These sunset colored beauties were poached and topped on a potato hash of collard greens and lamb chorizo. We gathered our cameras to geek-out over perfect morning light, gold pancakes, and blue chairs. Our coffee was cold by the time we stopped shooting and laughing. It was totally worth it for a good morning with a much missed friend.

I head back to my mountains and ocean of California in one week.

Noodles

2010-04-14T06:46:00.000-07:00

My relationship with noodles… or pasta, has changed a lot in the past years of my life. The whole chicken noodle soup thing never carried over in our house as kids, so I didn’t grow up with an overwhelming fondness for the boiled dough. In fact, it was Campbells tomato and rice soup alongside a mandarin-lime natural soda that nursed us back to health when a head cold or stomach flu came into town. Now my mother was a fantastic cook mind you, and she did throw down some hand-made whole wheat noodles for her soups every now and then. But with 4 home-schooled kids, a dog, a holistic practice out of the house, and a thriving garden to tend- just open a can of go-to Campbells soup, mama! And still to this day, post-culinary school and with a healthy knowledge of the sodium content in a small can of Campbells, I still crack open a can of congealed, pink, salty, tomato base with plenty of water logged white rice grains. And not only does it heal me, but I love it.

Now, knowing that pasta, and noodles in general, are considered the “ultimate comfort food,” I only felt that this boiled egg and flour mixture was merely a bland vessel to carry hearty Bolognese, tangy pesto, or sweet peppers and sausage to my mouth. I would have opted for any number of these sauces, served in a large bowl with a hunk of crusty bread. Just let me be alone with my sauce…. but of course, in the manner that all food prejudices should be crushed- I moved to Italy. I made and ate fresh pasta prepared with quality egg yolks and semolina flour. I was left with a perfect pasta that accompanied the sauce and dissolved on my tongue. It was then that my idea of noodles as comfort food changed.

I must admit though, that my spaghetti Bolognese bowl of comfort has been properly trumped by a steaming hot bowl of pho, bun, or ramen. Thick vermicelli rice noodles, alongside shredded pork, spiced fish meatballs, fried baby eels (being my favorite in Hanoi) or crisp tofu topped with fresh shiso leaves and mint, and swimming in a pool of spicy aromatic broth…… Need I say more to convince you of it’s power? I was in South East Asia for 3 months, and I had a bowl of steaming hot noodle in beautiful broth for at least one meal a day. Even in the haze of humidity, I was to be found sitting on a small plastic stool, curbside, with my knees to my chin, ordering a hot bowl of noodles and broth.

A photo montage of the bowl sized comforts in Cambodia, Vietnam and Laos

Vietnam

Cambodia

Laos

I recently dabbled in a bowl of comfort here in New York’s East Village, by the name of Momofuku ramen. Ramen noodles topped with slices of pork belly, shredded pork, scallions and a poached egg. All floating in a tantalizing broth, and served with my very own bottle of siracha hot sauce. I sat there, alone, at the bar of a crowded NY hotspot with my bowl of bliss and a lychee slushy, getting high from the flashbacks of Asian curbside soups. I was so entranced by this bowl that I even started to imagine that the wafts of loud conversations and Indie Rock music was actually buzzing motorbikes and songs of a non-understood language. The yolk broke open and gave the soup a richness that I had never experience before. I would have freaken’ crawled in the bowl and splashed around if it was at all socially appropriate. But I went to bed that night, feeling like this bowl of noodles had just healed me. It had not only transported me back, but it made me as comfortable with the same nostalgic appeal as the tomato rice soup that mom delivered to my bedside when sick. Needless to say, spicy Asian noodle bowls are the chicken noodle soup of my existence.

Definitely check out Momofuku if your in Manhattan or pick up the cookbook here, for a great glimpse into the genius of David Chang. And a couple of great noodle recipe from my friend's Carrie & Andy here and here. Enjoy!

Ode' to Breakfast

2010-04-03T06:45:00.000-07:00

I have a strong love for all things breakfast.

I'm the type that goes to sleep excited to wake up for breakfast. Like every night. Whether I'll be in the mood for fluffy pancakes with maple butter, simple oatmeal and brown sugar, a cup of coffee and a scone, or a hangover curing breakfast burrito, I'm anticipating it's arrival into my life before I even shut my eyes.
I have been taking pictures of my favorite breakfast moments, and perfect cups of caffeinated bliss for years now. And I've been following food porn blogs like Simply Breakfast for quite some time.

So here is the start to my Ode to Breakfast, an ongoing post from the archives of my favorite meal of the day.

Amsterdam, Netherlands. March 2008

España

2010-03-31T09:03:00.000-07:00

I have been away from Spain for 2 years now. I think about it often though. Very often.

I had lunch today, here in Manhattan, with an old friend from my life back in Palma de Mallorca. We played catch up for hours, filling in all the missing gaps in our 2-year hiatus from one another. Sitting face to face in an über healthy, hippy, vegan café in Union Square. We sipped kombuchas, barefoot, at a large communal wood table. Our bodies still zinging with juicy post-yoga vibes. Quite American of us indeed, and very far from our old Spanish ways. Our conversation danced from life as of late to life way back when. From albondigas and paella, to tofu and quinoa. Remembering tasty moments of croquetas de bacaloa, tortilla Espanola, gambas al ajillo, café con leches, and jamon, jamon, jamon….

I would have paid BIG money at that moment to have one of those hemp-wearing, new age, crystal worshiping employees change the Om-Jaya-Shiva-Yaya music to European Techno, and to have my macrobiotic bowl doused in a boat-load of garlicky aioli. Ah, to be back in Spain….

Much has changed in life since leaving the island of Mallorca, for both of us. Our tight group of friends have all scattered themselves across the globe, and our favorite little café where we would congregate to spill our lives out in tales over a cappuccino, has since shut it’s doors for good. Life is a trip, and the cards it deals you can be so captivating and yet so paralyzing at the same time.

My dear friend reminded me of how precious this life of ours really is- the past, the present, and the future that it holds. How living in the moment is the only time we have, and it really can be the best part of our lives. To expect the unexpected, and to always find the time to relive the memories that still make us smile. I don’t take enough time to do that because I’m just “too busy” for appreciation all the time- Gotta change that.

Almost 2 years to the date, we’ve gone from toasting glasses of vino tinto around my dining room table, to clinking glasses of fermented hippy tea around a large wood table on a different continent. The table allows an outlet to pour out joy, sorrow, advice, concern, laughter, and nourishment of all forms, from one part of the world to the next. And the table -la mesa- hosted us on a sweet trip down memory lane. A trip all the way over to España.

-Tortilla Española -
(what I always make when my Spanish meter is running low)

1 1/2 cups oil
2 1/2 pounds boiling potatoes, peeled and cut into 1/3-inch dice
2 1/2 cups chopped onion
1 tablespoon coarse salt
10 large eggs

Heat oil in a 12-inch nonstick skillet over moderate heat until hot but not smoking and add potatoes, onion, and half of salt. Cook over moderately low heat, stirring occasionally, until vegetables are very tender but not colored, about 45 minutes. Drain vegetables in a large colander set over a bowl and cool 5 minutes. Lightly beat eggs in a large bowl. Gently stir in vegetables with 1 tablespoon oil, salt, and pepper to taste.
Return 1 tablespoon oil to skillet and add mixture, pressing potatoes flush with eggs. Cook over low heat, covered, 12 to 15 minutes, or until almost set. Turn off heat and let stand, covered, 15 minutes. Shake skillet gently to make sure tortilla is set on bottom and not sticking to skillet. Invert tortilla onto a large flat plate and slide back into skillet, bottom side up. (Alternatively, especially if top is still loose at this point, slide tortilla onto plate first. Cover it with skillet and invert tortilla back into skillet.) Round edge with a rubber spatula and cook over low heat, covered, 15 minutes more, or until set. Slide tortilla onto a serving plate and serve warm or at room temperature.

This recipe is best enjoyed with a long lost friend, a cold beer, and doused in a boat-load of garlicky aioli.
Bon Provecho!

In Love

2010-03-26T07:48:00.000-07:00

With a bagel.

And with a pizza.

I've been in New York City now for only 6 days and I'm already in Love. Ok, I'm a cheap date. This I know. But I have truly never met a bagel like this before. It's special. And it lives just across the street from where I'm staying. Which basically means that this bagel practically stands out my window throwing pebbles and serenading me to come join it in a beautiful morning embrace of scallion cream cheese, followed by a food coma and a cup of coffee. My love drug of choice- Whole wheat everything bagel (warm and fresh out the water bath) lathered with creamy, fluffy scallion cream cheese. Slightly crisp on the outside, and perfectly chewy in the middle. Happiness achieved. For the girl that has never really been "in to" bagels in her life, this relationship is a big deal. I seem to always pass a date with a bagel for a blueberry scone or bran muffin romance instead. But this bagel, Ess-a-Bagel, has taken the lead role in my breakfast bliss..... and will probably take the lead role in the extra 5 lbs of body weight gained this month.

Now, for this pizza........ wow!
Bizarre love triangle, you say? A bagel, and a pizza in 6 days? Yeah, I must be pumping out an extra set of foodie pheromones this month or something. The pizza and I met just last night. I stood in line at Artichoke for 20 minutes at midnight for this slice of Heaven. A steaming hot wedge of pizza was sliced to my order and placed in a togo box for $4. I walked it home, flirting with the aromas that wafted from the warm box. This slice of happiness, the size of my forearm was thin crust (New York style,) perfectly chewy, and slightly charred on the bottom. The way I like it! It's topped with a heavy hand of creamy artichoke hearts, garlic, spinach and cheese. Think of warm, spinach and artichoke dip on top of pizza- GENIUS!

Other than pizza and bagels, I have been enjoying this city for all the other joys that it offers. Drinks and appetizers at this and this classic New York establishments. Incredible dinner here- Grilled bacon with sauerkraut and horseradish cream? Yes please! A long awaited Momofuku meal here- skate with preserved lemon and yuzu, old bay fingerlings, and spicy aioli. And my favorite homestyle, cozy little joint called Northern Spy- A kale salad of butternut squash, almonds and pecorino that was oh, so perfectly balanced.

And I still have a healthy few weeks of edible opportunities to come! That's if I'll ever get over the bagel and the pizza...

On the Horizon

2010-03-14T15:47:00.000-07:00

I'm a Pisces- Total dreamer.

Dreaming up my future is a full time job, and one that I love to have. When people ask me where I'm off to next, and my answer consists of at least 12 countries on 5 seperate continents, even I start to wonder if the dreaming is at all reality based. But then when the ideas start to actually fall into place, I begin to realize that it might really be possible to live the dream afterall.

Currently dreaming about....... Morocco.
I shouldn't say current though, because I have been lusting over the land of flavorful tagines, warm African winds, and colorful spices piled in perfect pyramids for years now. I want you, Morocco!

I recently got to spend time with two of my senior mentor chefs- Kim Schiffer and Peggy Markel
Both of which have significantly paved my way in the food industry, and have inspired me daily in my quest to live and travel through the art of good food. Peggy came to Santa Barbara recently to visit her dear friend Kim, and to teach a Moroccan cooking course. One that I got to participate in! After a meal of chicken tagine with preserved lemon and olives, baked eggs in a pool of aromatic tomatos, and lemon curd with pistachios- I was closing my eyes and releasing myself to the Pisces brain of Moroccan dreams yet again.

Peggy and Kim both teach cooking courses in on this beautiful planet. Kim has a course in Andaluicia, Spain. And Peggy has courses in Italy, Morocco and India..... And my current goal in life is to attend all of them. Ok fine, I'll start with Italy, Spain and Morocco and see how it goes from there.

I highly suggest you check out all of Peggy and Kims adventures here and join me this fall!

And untill those dreams pan out the way I want them to, I'll be wandering around the Big Apple for the next month of my life with these cool foodie friends of mine. I leave tomorrow morning, and I am quite ready for my taste buds to be rocked in the epicenter of good food. It's like traveling the world in one city! I'm hungry for you, New York.

I made a cake

2010-03-07T09:32:00.000-08:00

I made a chocolate cake.

This chocolate cake was for a job in fact, so i did not eat this chocolate cake. But I do need to talk about it.

I hate chocolate cake. In fact, I've hated chocolate up until maybe a few years ago. Yes, my Swiss Grandmother has questioned our relation over this issue in the past... But I do believe that my negativity towards the love of cacao (especially in cake form) stemmed back from my childhood. Way back when going to a fellow 6 year olds birthday party at the park ended with a big Costco or Vons shiny chocolate cake. All dressed up in a circus of neon piped frosting, confetti sprinkles and a fatty star-tipped chocolate boarder (at least 2 inches high) that amazingly would never melt in in the hot sun for 5 hours! I would sit on my little park picnic bench, swinging my little legs around bellow, and observe my fellow 6 year olds while still basking in my supreme glory of hitting the piñata much harder than the boys. One more adjustment to my obnoxious party hat string while I waiting for this apparently VERY highly anticipated birthday cake. The effects of these cakes were lasting on me. This dry, crumbly "cake" that was apparently just a glorified vessel for the 6" of frosting that lay on top of it. I remember these cakes coating my mouth in an abnormally greasy way, leaving an uncomfortable film around the entire inside of my mouth for hours. Why was there SO much excitement that surrounded such a terrible dessert! I couldn't understand it- so I gave it up, and hated chocolate from there on out.

Then I moved to Europe and had proper 70% dark chocolate in Austria- SOLD!

So this cake is one that I tried a few months back when my senior Chef, Kim made it for a party we were catering. I took some home, and it stayed moist for almost a week! I have never had a better tasting chocolate cake before in my life.

I was frosting this cake yesterday morning at home, in my slippers, with a large cup of Stumptown café au lait and Long Distance Runaround by YES playing on my stereo. And I thought abound how my fondness for chocolate cake has really changed. But it really does take THAT one chocolate cake to do it. And this one is THAT. Literally- the chocolate cakes name in the cookbook is "That Chocolate Cake." And it really is.

Check it out in The Essence of Chocolate cookbook by Scharffen Berger. It'll make you as excited as a 6 year old in the park. Without the awkward-fatty-film-coated mouth thing...

Remembering Zibibbo

2010-03-05T08:57:00.000-08:00

2 years ago to the date, I was interning at a beautiful restaurant in Florence Italy. Zibibbo is her name.

I had come back to Florence after spending 6 months living and cooking in Palma de Mallorca, Spain. I had been working for a supremely bitter, clichéd, French chef in Mallorca (you know the type.) And this man really did make it his current life goal to make his fresh little American intern miserable, cry (which he never did) and hate food all together. That’s right- he tried to make ME hate FOOD! I was so surprised that someone would try so hard to make my life passion-less, that by the time I reached Florence, I had a mighty guard up to protect myself from any supremely bitter, clichéd, Italian chef that I may encounter there. I found everything but.

This tiny, home-style restaurant owned by Benedetta Vitali was every bit of the bandaid I’d needed. And it was entirely the European internship that I wanted from the beginning. I walked into this restaurant with creaky wood floors under my feet and the smell of sweet onions and garlic stewing away in golden olive oil. I was welcomed every morning at the restaurant for my shift with a “Bon Giourno Ashley, cappuccino?” and greeted every evening for my second shift with a “Buona Sera Ashley, macchiato?” After exchanging genuine smiles, I respond “Si, Gracie!” I remember Zibibbo as a place that kept me smiling, kept me tasting new things everyday, kept me highly caffeinated, asking as many questions as my heart desired, and had me going to bed with sore feet and a passion for food again. I will forever be in debt to Benedetta and the crew at Zibibbo for reminding me why it is so important to love food and to love what you do.

Benedetta just came to Santa Barbara 2 weeks ago, and I had the privilege of cooking with her again. We danced in the kitchen making butternut parmigana, stuffing Cornish game hens with pancetta and dried apricots, and topping the classic Zibibbo mascarpone cheese cake with bitter orange marmalade- the same that I was making just 2 years ago on far away, Italian soil. Her graceful nature, happiness with food, and familiar smell of Italian cigarettes on her clothes had me re-booting my passion for cooking all over again, just like when I was back in Firenze. I left that night feeling truly high, happy and missing my long lost Italian life more than ever.

Its funny how just a 2 year gap in your life can feel more like a past life, and so easily untouchable. That life I lead way back when…. when I had replaced my common English words with those that made you want to skip while saying them. When gaining 10 lbs in Italian pastries, whole milk cappuccinos, and multiple gelatos a day, was without a question entirely intentional. When hearing “Ciao Bella!” on every street corner from old, round, balding, short Italian men felt like the most genuine flirtatious compliment I’d ever received. When rolling out long sheets of silky pasta dough for hours could get you totally, and romantically blissed-out.

Benedetta was a beautiful reminder of my past life, and of that piece of my soul that needs to be reignited directly someday soon. Italy and I are, and always will be very, very, very compatible with one another. We just understand the real fundamentals in living a quality life- caffeine, gelato, and ego stroking by strangers.

Oh, and plenty of pasta dough romances.

A sense of home

2010-02-14T09:05:00.000-08:00

Santa Barbara, California.

I’ll never get tired of the feeling I get when saying this city’s name.

Santa Barbara.

I’m flooded with a warm feeling, and a sense of peace. No matter where I am in the world, I can just say the words- Santa Barbara- and I instantly smell oak trees, hear mission bells, taste cherimoyas and fresh figs, and feel the warm Santa Anas with a slight saltwater edge on my face. It is a wonderful place to call home.

I have been wandering in and out of this sweet little town, nestled between mountains and sea, for a few years now. In fact, I think my friends have thrown more “Welcome Home Ash!” and “Bon Voyage Ash!” parties for me than they have Birthday parties at this point…. there is a reason they call Santa Barbara the Boomerang, and it just keeps on pulling you back in!

A perfect example was this morning at our beloved Saturday Farmers Market. I have been feeling a bit…..um, restless…… since returning back from my Bahama/Pacific Northwest adventures. I know it sounds strange for a girl to feel a little unsettled when living out of tetras-stacked boxes of belongings in her Volvo for months at a time! But even though I will always feel rooted in this town, to some extent, I currently feel very ungrounded. Needless to say, a trip to the Disneyland of colorful produce, friendly faces, and sun filled crowded aisles could not have come at a more appropriate time for me. And it instantly made me want to spread my roots into this California soil again!

Yeah, that was until I reminded myself that a rented room is $800 and a cocktail is $10 here!! – ROOTS RETRACT!!!

My first bite into a ripe avocado sample was like transporting myself back in time. Isn’t it great how food can be a time machine? I freakin’ love that! I filled my cart with rainbow chard, red carrots, local dates, lavender honey, blood oranges and tangerines, and a bunch of bright orange flowers (for the dashboard of my Volvo, of course) and practically skipped back to my car.

A favorite little SB farmer’s market breakfast salad, perfect for a sunny California Saturday in February.

-Citrus Date Salad with Orange Water, Raw Honey and Mint-

1 blood orange, segmented
2 tangerines, segmented
1 Cara Cara or Navel orange, segmented
3 Medjool dates, julienne
Raw honey (lavender is my preferred)
Orange flower water
Fresh mint leaves

I like to supreme the orange segments, or you can peal the ends and the outside, and then slice across the circumference into ½ inch slices. Place the mixed citrus slices on a large white platter, alternating colors. Sprinkle sliced dates. Drizzle honey, and a bit of orange flower water. Then finish the salad with a few torn mint leaves over the top.

Ah, Santa Barbara. It does feel good to be home…… for now anyways.

Sippin' in Seattle

2010-02-03T14:56:00.000-08:00

I recently spent 2 weeks in the tasty city of Seattle. My first time there, in fact. And why is it that I have not been here before? Why have none of my foodie friends not scooped me up sooner and taken me to the Urban pathway of creative cafes, green landscapes, green buildings, green minds, cool kids, bike friendly roads, AND ....did you know that the coffee flows like wine here!? um.... I think I'm in love with you, Seattle.
No better way to play in a city that has my name ALL over it, then with one of the best tour guides in town! Charlie-Funday-Lane is someone that has been calling me up there for over a year now. With his sweet barista job at Stumptown, home kitchen equipped with all the fixens to tear it up and cook together, and the ability to geek out on a pizza menu or a photo shoot of a cappuccino with me. Our other CA friends joined us for a great weekend of gluttonous happiness in the rainy city. We ate dinner at this Vietnamese restaurant, that had me closing my eyes and sitting back down on a tiny plastic stool curbside in Hanoi from just 2 months back. Crispy Crepe Bliss! And sandwiches from here, I got down on the crabcake, bacon, romesco on brioche bit of happiness. The next day we grubbed on french dips and tuna tartines from this awesome spot, that was just speaking my language! And of course.... we stopped for a cup of coffee in between each meal... or more.

The best day in Seattle though had to be the day that we woke up to sunshine. We boarded our bikes and cruised through the city in lightweight jackets and sunglasses. We made it to Salumi in Pioneer square for a much anticipated lunch. Housemade lamb sausage sandwich, with roasted peppers, sweet onions on buttered ciabatta bread. I want their logo tattooed on my body....
We stopped for an Americano, road home just in time to change out for a yoga class, then went off to finally have dinner at Delancy. A caesar salad of grilled radicchio, preserved meyer lemon, shaved grana, garlic breadcrumbs, and plenty of anchovy goodness. Followed by wood-fired pizza topped with pepperoni and fennel, and a pint of local beer. Yeah, I was pretty damn happy.

But nothing makes a trip to a new city better than the beautiful gifts made by a great friend. This picture is from my first night in Seattle- 10 pm and I had just arrived from cooking in the Bahamas for 2 weeks. By 11 pm we were digging forkfuls of homemade pecan pie straight from the center, and drinking cups of warm black french pressed coffee. Now THAT is friendship! And a delicious one at that. I have missed Seattle since the day I left it, and I look forward to more recent trips of delicious dabbling, two wheeled lovin', blissful coffee drinking, and missed friends to come.

The Year of the Gypsy Chef....

2010-01-28T11:06:00.000-08:00

I've made a change in my life. After spending the last 3 years of my early 20's traveling through and living in 15 different countries throughout Europe, SE Asia and the States, I've decided to make the change of adding a delicious travel blog to my life! In fact, I have chosen to not only have a blog, but to dedicate this entire year to being an un rooted, schedule-less, home-less, priority-less, car payment-less, traveling gypsy chef! That will go anywhere and do anything (::some reservations applied::) for damn good and tasty food. I chose to imprint this fancy little title on my life right about the time.... hhhmmm.... I got on my flight from Thailand back to the States in early November. I felt a strong and powerful burn in my chest that grew fast and made me want to run through the Bangkok airport screaming "BUT I'M NOT FINISHED YET!!!"
And I'm not..... in fact.... I honestly don't know if I'll ever be "ready" to stop traveling, experiencing, changing, and floating through this game called life. But I do know that for this next year of hovering from one new city to another, I will be eating well, laughing hard, and remaining open to these opportunities that make my heart and soul happy and satisfied.
Thus this blog is here to keep you informed on my ever changing world of beautiful chaos. From my past trips, current adventures, favorite images, new recipes, and general updates- you can check in and get a sense of what it's like in the shoes of a Gypsy. Enjoy.

A Gypsy Chef

The B's

Stillness

Forest Breakfast

New Year

Soursop

Nutmeg Sins

Soul-Full

Dates.Olives.Walnuts

Magic

A New View

What You Desire

Gone Gypsyn'

Stay Hungry, Stay Foolish

Choice & Eggs

Priorities...

The West Side of Things

3 Hours Off

The Wave

Independence[Day]

Sail Away

Seduction by Lemons

The Art of Strudel

Memories of Sand

Tickled Pickled

Chef Shoes On

Crusty Bits

Camel Nights

Ginger Rain

Red Tassels & Sweet Carrots

7 days

February??

Banana, Coconut, Yoga. Repeat.

Flash of Enlightenment

Om Shanti-Shock

Gracias. Merci. Chokran. Thanks.

Kamar

Alpujarra

Mercado

Figs & Lamb

Sevilla

Alpkase

Bali Belly

Love and Eggs

Skillz

Transport

Holy Curd

Kumquat

Archives

Thai Moon

Grapefruits & Goodbyes

Bend for Breakfast

Homemade

Noodles

Ode' to Breakfast

España

In Love

On the Horizon

I made a cake

Remembering Zibibbo

A sense of home

Sippin' in Seattle

The Year of the Gypsy Chef....