Priorities...

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

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

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

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]

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?

Sail Away

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

"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