Homemade Pesto.

IMG_4353Is there anything that smells more like summertime than fresh basil?

Except maybe tomato vines, or cilantro? Or fresh cut grass…

But basil is right up there at the top of my favorites, so I picked up a big bunch of it at the farmers’ market the other day.  It doesn’t last long, once picked, so you’d better figure out something to do with it, and quick.  You can only do so much with it fresh before it’s no good anymore.  And so, as I usually do in the summer, I made pesto.

I love to make pesto.  I understand perfectly well that pesto can be made from anything.  That it’s not limited to basil or a certain kind of nuts, or really anything.  But I like for it to taste a certain way that is familiar to me and sort of comforting.  One of my familiar tastes of summer.

Here’s what I do:  I pick the leaves from a bunch of basil and rinse them, then I bring a pot of water to boiling.  When it’s boiling, I add the leaves and wait for the water to return to boiling, then let them boil for about a minute.  I quickly remove them from the heat, turn them into a colander, and run cold water on them to stop the cooking.  This keeps them nice and green in your sauce.  Drain the water well (and by this, I mean get your hands in there and squish it out).  In your food processor, add several cloves of garlic (this is an art, not a science, people.  You have to make it taste like you like.  But I do about 3), some good quality parmesan (though I usually go for domestic because it’s much less expensive per pound.  Save the good imported Italian stuff for when you are eating it straight with a nice red wine and can savor those little crunchy crystals…).  Chop those up nicely in your food processor, then add some pecans and do the same.  Next, add the basil, then a little sea salt.  Now, the fun part:  while your food processor is running, pour in olive oil until this chunky mixture turns into a lovely paste.  One you can envision smearing onto a baguette and then toasting.  Or onto chicken thighs as they are roasting.  Or, my favorite:  mixing into a batch of roasted zucchini, summer squash, and maybe peppers… heaven.  Take that pesto/vegetable mixture and heap it onto a pile of cool, crunchy Romaine for an amazing summer salad.

To recap the ingredients:
Basil

Fresh garlic

Parmesan

Pecans

Salt

Olive oil

Yes, that’s it.

Add a chilled Rose wine, and as far as I’m concerned, you have summertime, in its essence, on your table.

La vie est bonne.

 

* You’re going to have a lot of pesto, but that’s okay.  Buy those little tiny mason jars that are so cute, and that you’ve seen and yet wondered what on earth you could possibly do with them.  The pesto that you do not eat immediately will freeze beautifully in these tiny jars, topped with a thin layer of olive oil.  This will keep a long time in your freezer, and will allow you to remember what summertime tasted like, even in January when you think that it will never be summer again.

You’re welcome.

Juneau in August.

bella cran glacierBy what crazy accident of birth am I so blessed?

This is the thought that came to my mind in June, when I was making this trip to the Pacific Northwest for the first time this summer.  As our plane approached Seattle, I could see all the way down into California to Mt. Lassen and Mt. Shasta, on up to Mt. Hood in Oregon, followed by Mt. St. Helens and Mt. Rainier in Washington state.  Five perfectly formed volcanic mountains, n all their snow capped glory, for me to see.  Now, maybe for other people this is commonplace, something they are used to, but as for me, it made me catch my breath and whisper a prayer of thanksgiving.  And ask the question I posed above.

And here I am again, asking that same question.  The Pilot has been making this trip to Seattle and Juneau all summer, and while I was able to accompany him back in June while our children were at camp, this is the first time the kids have been able to come along.  For me, there’s just something about being able to share these experiences with my children.  From the perspective of homeschooling, of course, it is indeed a unique educational opportunity.  We saw salmon spawning in the rivers, bald eagles wheeling and calling out overhead, and saw the flukes of humpback whales as they prepared to dive, all from a boat on one of the channels that leads to Juneau.  We saw seals vying for our attention, swimming and playing near the pod of whales that held us enthralled.  We learned more about the natural world around us in one afternoon than we could in weeks of reading and studying.  But I think the true educational value goes beyond that.  I hope that their hearts were stirred by what we encountered yesterday in a way that will change them forever, make them more connected to why we’re here and what our place in this world is.  I realize that may not happen for them right now, but perhaps it will in the long run.  I know that I am changed by what I saw and experienced yesterday.

I can’t imagine how you could be that close to some of the earth’s most amazing creatures and not have your heart, some part at the very core of you, moved beyond words…

So I’ll back up a little to the basics of how we got to that place.  Here I am again, in Juneau, Alaska, in the summertime, tagging along on one of the Pilot’s trips.  It has a very different feel to it than last time I was here, due in part to the fact that last time there was a Native Heritage celebration going on and the town felt more connected to its native roots, with both the good and bad that come along with that.  This time, the town was quieter, more connected with the intense beauty of the natural world around it instead.  The salmon are running right now, and I saw more than one person carrying a freshly caught, freshly cleaned salmon, wrapped up and cradled like the treasure that it is.  Impossibly green, the mountains around us rose into the crystalline blue skies, which was another of yesterday’s astonishing gifts since most of the time it is cloudy and rainy here.  The cruise ships weren’t docked on a Monday morning, so I had the town to myself, without the usual press of cruise passengers hurrying to shop and dine, as I walked around looking for a place with green tea and Wifi.

We had flown in from Seattle the night before, and after spending a little time in the local saloons (yes, they call them that) and making a late night stop for tater tots (not kidding, and they were delicious), we turned in for the night and woke up early to begin a morning of hiking for everyone but me.  I chose cafe sitting and people watching instead; I love my family, but sometimes I just need my peace and quiet.  But then, early afternoon, we met back up and caught a shuttle to the docks outside the town of Juneau, where we boarded a boat called Big Mike and met our curmudgeonly boat captain.  He then took us, at a brisk clip, out into the channels around Junuea in hopes of seeing whales.  We were assured that we would see some, either humpback or orcas, possibly both.

We were not disappointed.  Whales were everywhere.  I truly had no idea what to expect, thinking that I wouldn’t really be able to experience these enormous yet gentle creatures; they are underwater and I’m, well, not.  But then I saw the telltale spouting above the water of our first whale for the day… my reaction, completely involuntary, brought me out of my seat and caused me to squeal with delight.  All of us onboard (save the captain, who was obviously very jaded to the delights of whale watching) ran outside the boat’s cabin to try to get a better look.  As it turned out, there were about five of the cetaceans, hanging out together because that’s what families and friends do.  They would surface together, and five moisture-filled puffs of air would suffuse the air above the water.  They would spend a little time milling about there, giving all of us time to ooh and ah and snap photographs, and then you would see the “hump” of their backs flex and bend, followed by their tails lifting out of the water as they prepared to dive.  This was followed by several anxious minutes (at least for me) as we waited for them to return, keeping our eyes glued to the spot where we’d last seen them but knowing that they could come up anywhere.  Thankfully, they came up repeatedly, and we were able to watch them for at least an hour.

At one point, they were so close to our boat that I could hear one of them groaning in some sort of communication with his friends.  Wouldn’t you love to know what they were talking about?  Because I know that they were talking.  I just know it.  I’m not one of those arrogant humans who thinks that we have the corner on the market on communication.  No, these guys were enjoying their day, just like we were.  Who knows- maybe they were watching us right back!

But as they moved around us in their quiet choreography, our group became progressively more hushed.  What had inspired leaping and shrieking in me initially gave way to a more meditative state of mind, and I didn’t want to talk or even really to take any more photos.  I just wanted to revel in the feeling of something larger than me, something that would get me out of the crazy swirl that my thoughts can sometimes be and certainly have been lately.  The ocean always does that for me, but this took it to a new level and I sensed my body and mind slowing down, as I felt the ocean and the whales inhaling and exhaling right along with me.

For the first time in a long, long, time, I. Just. Breathed.

The best part?  At one point I glanced at my children seated behind me, and I could see from their faces that they were feeling the same things that I was, even if they didn’t have the words to give those feelings voice.  And that is the most valuable type of education that I could ever give them.

Learning how to be.

Learning how to breathe.

 

 

 

Dinner with friends.

Caviar and Sprats.
On the left are Riga sprats with thinly sliced lemon and parsley, and I think some butter. That is not marmalade on the left, but caviar of some type. But you probably knew that. I have to take a deep breath before eating either one, but they certainly look lovely.

I put this post into the “What we’re cooking” category even though it’s not about my own cooking.  I think it counts, though, because we were very much enjoying someone else’s cooking, and especially since we were enjoying it with them.  Food is always so much better when you are sharing it with good friends, and then when you’re sharing it with friends and sharing a few bottles of really good wine- well, that takes it to another level altogether.

We are fortunate enough to have friends on many continents (I love that) and from many different backgrounds, so saying that our Ukrainian friends fall into the “Most Interesting” category is no small thing.  But they are definitely that.  They are interesting in so, so many ways, beginning with the dinners that they serve.  These people know how to host a dinner!

This is how it goes:  You arrive at around 6:30 and are nearly immediately seated at the dinner table, which is laden with cheeses, a platter of cucumbers, tomatoes, and chopped fresh dill, a plate of cold cuts from an Atlanta institution called Patak Meats, cooked mushrooms of some type- either cooked in sour cream and covered with cheese, or wrapped in pastry, a platter of Olga’s homemade pickles, another piled high with Olga’s homemade bread, and if you’re lucky, that beet salad made with unrefined sunflower oil that might convert even the most diehard of beet haters.  Sometimes caviar and smoked fish.  And of course there’s wine.  There’s always wine.  I’ve learned to sip very, very slowly and remain constantly vigilant against Oleg and his stealthy pouring; apparently, he is opposed to empty wine glasses and takes his job as glass filler quite seriously.  And for the next 2-3 hours, you will sit and eat all the delicious things that have been piled on that table, and you will talk.  World politics is a favorite topic, with the Pilot and I often playing the role of avid listeners as Olga delivers passionate discourse on topics such as the state of the Ukraine.  She had me in tears the other night over the current situation; they have family still in that country, after all.  Olga’s passion is countered only by Oleg’s calm, quiet demeanor as he gently suggests that she take a moment to calm down with a cigarette (they are Europeans, after all) out on the balcony.  She always takes his suggestions.  This time, I joined her.  Sans cigarette, of course.

Literature and history are also favorite topics.  Did I mention that these friends are highly educated, both having trained as engineers at the Kiev Polytechnic Institute?  And then immigrated here when the Soviet Union fell apart, where they worked hard to learn not only a new language but a new career, or two?  They are both brilliant and fascinating, and this makes for incredible conversation when you add my equally brilliant husband into the mix.

After you’ve spent 2-3 hours enjoying the cold cuts, vegetables, and cheese, it’s time for the main course.  Yes. The main course, at 9 p.m.   I learned this when I traveled to that part of the world back in the 90s:  Don’t be fooled by the copious quantities of food in front of you that this is all there is.  And certainly don’t fill up, because there will be more food, and lots of it.  And you will miss out if you’re already full.

The other night, the main course was a stuffed cabbage dish called golubtsy.  It’s a classic Ukrainian dish that’s also made by Russians (but PLEASE do not mention that around Olga these days) and it is filling and delicious.  It consists of cabbage leaves filled with meat and rice and then cooked in a pot on the stove till everything is tender and the flavors blended.

Served, of course, with more wine.  And more conversation.  And then, usually by around 1 a.m., when I can’t even imagine eating another bite and can barely keep my eyes open, I manage to get the Pilot’s attention and suggest that it is quite possibly time to head home, against the pleas of Olga that “It’s early still!  You can’t go!”  coupled with the hint of a dessert that is yet to be served.  I have yet to be able to eat dessert at their home.  But I always leave completely satisfied, filled to the brim with friendship, good food, and the promise of the next time that we will see this lovely family.

 

Juneau, Alaska.

IMG_4325 Before this past month, I’d never been to Alaska before.  Now, I can say that I’ve been twice.  Twice in the span of 4 days, but twice nonetheless.  When you’re tagging along with aircrew, flying along on their routes, you get a lot of time in the air and enough time on the ground to feel rested before you’re back in the air again.  As for that time on the ground- you’d better make the best of it.

But the time in the air, coming in to Juneau, is something spectacular.  The route goes from Seattle, up over the mountains of British Columbia, and then in to the Juneau airport.  If you’re lucky enough to have a clear day, you have a view of the most pristine expanse of snow-covered peaks that I’ve ever seen.  Untouched by humans, or at least untouched for a very long time- it’s a true wilderness that you fly over, and it lifts my heart to know that there are still a few places that we humans haven’t messed up yet.  For the two hours it takes to go from Seattle to Juneau, you get a macro view of this extraordinary stretch of the Coast Mountain range of British Columbia. And then, as you begin the approach into Juneau, you can start to see the details of that expanse of wilderness- a glacier here, a waterfall there, the channels along this coastline where the ocean cuts into the landmass.  It is these channels that make Juneau so remarkable in many ways; the word that comes to mind is extreme.  The mountains are high, the channels are deep and narrow.  There are no roads in or out.  You do not go to Juneau accidentally- you have to want to go.  It gives the place a strange energy, this isolation.

So, what do you do with 30 hours in Juneau, Alaska, which is what we had (twice)?  You get out and enjoy nature, whether that is through hiking, whale watching, or glacier walking.  You do not try to stay in town, because you will run out of things to do long before your 30 hours is up, I promise. There isn’t much to this town, and most of what there is caters to the many cruise ships that stop here each and every day.  Imagine the daily ebb and flow of people arriving, and then leaving, via these huge ships that pull into port.  Many of the shops cater to these people coming in- resort wear and sandals in a place that rarely gets above the 60 degree mark?  And I don’t need ANYTHING made of fur… Yes, nature is the reason you come to Alaska, not the shopping or the coffee.

And so seeking opportunities to enjoy nature is what we did. Fortified by a lunch consisting of the freshest halibut and salmon I’ve ever tasted, paired with a view of the mountains and the seaplanes coming and going, we took the tram to the top of Mt. Roberts for some hiking.  Mt. Roberts is just one of the many mountains that cradle Juneau, and the word extreme does indeed describe them all, so taking the tram up to 1800 feet and then beginning your hike is the way to go.

I thought I was in shape before attempting this hike.  As it turns out, I am not.

But, I gasped and panted my way towards the peak, and the view as we progressed along the trail towards the summit was the reward for my hard work.  It was nothing short of spectacular.  From high up on Mt. Roberts, we could see up and down the channel to the snow capped mountains that are on all sides.  It was a clear, relatively warm day for hiking, a rarity in this temperate rain forest, and many others were out taking advantage of it as well, which somewhat allayed my fears of bears, moose, and other wildlife that call Alaska home (that old joke about only having to out run the other person, not the bear?  Yes, that came to mind).  The only wildlife we saw, which I am thankful for, were the bald eagles wheeling and calling overhead as they caught the updrafts coming off the mountains.  I love animals, but I don’t like the idea of riling a grizzly.

In any case, I only made it halfway up the 6 mile round trip trail.  When we got to the snowy parts, I decided that I’d hiked quite far enough, and parked myself on a ledge to enjoy the view while the Pilot hiked on to the top (he has a bit of an obsession with completing things.  You can’t stop halfway!!  I do not share this belief, thankfully, and stopping halfway suits me just fine).  From my vantage point, I could enjoy the beauty of the place, feel the sun and the breeze on my skin, and watch the canoes of the Alaska native population as they approached for a festival celebrating their heritage, which was happening while we were there.  The lupines were in full bloom, the sky blue, the air cool but the sunshine warm; what better place could there be just to sit and enjoy life?

That evening, we enjoyed Alaska in a very different way.  I’ve already mentioned the native heritage celebration that was going on, and I count myself very fortunate to have been able to watch the parade of all the different groups through town as they headed for the opening ceremonies.  Though I have no idea what was going on, really, I do know that it was all part of that very human need to celebrate where we’ve come from and who we are.  And I understand the beauty of it; the colors of each group on their button blankets, their furs, their unique adornments spoke to me.  The parade was followed by a meal of more halibut, which has now become my favorite fish.  The stuff is like candy!  So sweet and tender- just don’t get in the way of its natural flavor and you have my attention fully.  Fully.  And then some.

And then to the Alaska Hotel for its bar.  You have to have your priorities straight, you know.  I’m not much of a drinker, having a two glass limit at all times and all.  But for people watching and good conversation, and if you’re lucky, some live music by characters that look like they are straight off a movie set only they aren’t, this is your place.  Neither the hotel nor the bar have seen a remodel since, well, ever.  Built in 1913, it looks exactly the same as it did in 1913, and in my opinion, that is not such a bad thing.  If you find yourself in Juneau, go here, if for no other reason than to marvel at the beards that you will find.  I can’t say this emphatically enough.

Trust me, I will be taking my own advice when I am back there again in a few weeks.  But I will be purchasing a bear bell.*  That way, hopefully I don’t have to outrun anybody.

 

* Whether they work or not, it will make me feel a little better.  And make my mom feel better, too.  She’s even more concerned about bears than I am.

IMG_4308

IMG_4339

L’été, il est arrivé.

IMG_4212Translation:  Summer has arrived.  And for me that means fresh vegetables, in abundance.  I think that this is my favorite time of year to cook!  Until autumn arrives and I get to pull out my Le Creuset and make a beef bourguignon again… But for now, this is my favorite time of year to cook!  Last night’s dinner consisted of sauteed zucchini and squash, with a little onion and garlic and bell pepper, finished off with with fresh thyme and basil from the garden.  Served over quinoa with a generous amount of parmesan, with a salad of cucumbers still warm from my mom’s garden, tomato, and goat cheese with olive oil.  I really don’t need anything else (though I’m certain that my Texas family were wondering where the meat was).  Heaven.

We followed all that with a fresh blackberry cobbler; I was actually going for a clafoutis-type dessert, but I don’t think I quite achieved it in this gluten free version.  I will have to try again- less flour, more egg.  But it was delicious nonetheless.  I should have taken a picture, but I didn’t have time.  It didn’t last that long.

Fresh zucchini and blackberry cobbler?  Yes, summer has indeed arrived.  I’m ready for my travels to be over for a while so I can get to our local farmers’ market and get into my kitchen!  My vagabond soul is actually ready to settle in for a few weeks!

I’ve got some cooking to do.

Paris. A love letter.

IMG_4154Ah, Paris.  La Ville Lumiere…

I think that, at last, I’ve forgiven you. I feel that we’ve made up, or at least a one-sided making up has occurred.  I realize you are completely indifferent to me, but I don’t care.  It’s been far too long that I’ve been annoyed with you, and I’m so happy to have reconciled.  Because even though I claim to be indifferent to your charms, it’s not true:  I am just as in love with you now as I was when we first met.

Why have I been so angry for so long?  I felt that you had let yourself go a little.  Gotten a little out of control, a little untidy and unkempt.  And while these things may be true as well, there is so much more to you that I haven’t been able to see in my headlong rush to be clear of your city limits in recent years on trips to France.  This time, though, I didn’t just drive your perepherique on my way to rural France.  This time, I took a train straight into your center, and experienced your beauty the way it should be experienced:  On foot.  Silly me, what was I thinking, judging you by your airport and your (horrific) traffic?

I should know better than that.

The things I dislike about you are still true.  You are not well-organized or efficiently run.  Your metros caused a near meltdown in my teenaged daughter when her ticket refused to work.  She took it as a personal affront, which I understand.  I’ve taken many things about you as a personal insult as well.  Many parts are crowded, and your metros take the idea of filth to new heights.  Come on, now, would it hurt to do a little sweeping up?

But your beautifully planned out streets, thank you, Baron Haussmann, are like nothing else in the entire world.  I see that now.  Your boulevards, especially when the sun is shining like it was this last week, are like no place else on earth.  I see that now, too.  The history that has happened on your soil, the art, music, and poetry that has been inspired, it all makes me feel full to overflowing.

Maybe it was seeing you with new eyes.  Maybe it was being with a group of young people and feeling their energy, or perhaps it was having a guide to walk me through your extraordinary spaces and tell me about the things that can’t be seen at all.

Whatever the reason is, I think that a serious love affair has been rekindled.  And I can’t wait to get back to you again.

Little flower.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

 

The following is a poem by Isabella, as part of our Adventures in Writing exercises.

 

Little flower

Fruit so sour

Since you’re still not grown.

Now you’re all alone.

Other flowers are all wilted,

Very bent and very tilted

Past their prime

You have time

To shine like the evening sun.

Everyone you will stun.

Little flower

How they’ll glower

When you are a leafy jewel.

Leafy tendrils into spools.

Velveteen petals

Sunlight settles

In drops of dew,

Reflecting blue

Of the early morning sky.

The wind’s small sigh

Ruffles through your leaves.

A small petal, it thieves.

Down comes a hand

Around your thin waist, it lands.

A gentle pluck.

A careless tuck.

“You, I will take,

A nice centerpiece, you will make.”