Jennifer Jeffrey, Writer & Editor

Two of the Most Beautiful Words

Henry James famously wrote that two of the most beautiful words in the English language are “summer afternoon.”

With a nod to that master of prose, I hereby offer two of the words that I find most beautiful: “Sunday drive.”

Like “summer afternoon,” the words “Sunday drive” conjure up notions of a carefree interlude. A Sunday drive is a drive with no specific destination, and all the time in the world to get there. It is the road less traveled, taken at a slower pace than usual, perhaps with a hand dangled out the window now and then to catch the breeze.

A Sunday drive on a Sunday afternoon at the height of holiday madness is a singular extravagance. Just last Sunday, as the Moroccan and I pointed the car towards Tomales Bay and away from the din of the freeway, we felt as if we were snubbing our noses at parking lot chaos and cash register lines that stretched out for miles.

While the rest of the world hustled and bustled, we drove towards clear blue sky and tufted grass and curved inlets of still, cold water.

The Sunday drive is a contemplative drive. It isn’t cluttered with chit-chat or burdened with worries. We breathed more deeply the farther we went; the roads were nearly deserted, save for the occasional biker who flashed by with an earnest, sweaty face.

We stopped at Hog Island Oyster Company around noon. We were the only people there. We sat at a weathered picnic table in peaceful silence and watched the sunbeams flicker across the water. We ate a pile of Sweetwater and Kumamoto oysters straight from the shell; we couldn’t even summon the interest to open the bottle of hot sauce that we took from the array of bottles at the counter. They were everything oysters should be: salty and slippery, bursting with brine.

Back in Point Reyes Station, we wandered through the back streets, reading old signs that had been pasted onto buildings in previous years. We sipped hot chocolate at Toby’s and tipped our faces to the sky.

Much later, we reluctantly turned back towards home, where dishes waited in the sink and a desk calendar showed a week festooned with appointments and reminders. There is always more to do, and a bevy of plans to be made and executed.

But for a few sparkling hours, we were happily lost in our Sunday drive.

Some Like it Raw

In virtually every writing project I’ve ever worked on, I’ve become fascinated with some obscure fact the project reveals. It’s like a rabbit-trail – a thoroughly pleasant one – that calls out a particular facet of a story or an idea and leads me to a discovery I might never have made otherwise.

Just a couple of weeks ago, as I sat down to write about my recent yogurt-making adventure, one such track presented itself. It began with a comment my father made when I called him to ask how to make yogurt in a Crock Pot. When I told him I was going to use raw milk, he proceeded to tell me about the outlaw status of raw milk in Oregon.

He told me that people in Oregon who want raw milk have only two ways to get it: either they can purchase “shares” in a cow, thus entitling them to consume the milk in any way they please, or they can buy it at their own risk under a “pet food” label.

I was instantly hooked. Making yogurt was great fun, but this raw milk story was even more fascinating. Together with my trusty assistant Google, I discovered that raw milk and anyone who peddles it are regarded as criminal in many parts of our country. I discovered a blog called Planet Raw Milk, which has loads of fabulous information. Here's the scorecard as it now stands: raw milk is legal in 28 US states, and illegal in the rest, including Oregon, Georgia, and Indiana.

I wasn’t unaware of the raw milk issue before; I just hadn’t fully comprehended what a big deal it was. Correction: what a big deal it is.

Just a couple of weeks ago, an independent farmer in Ontario had his life turned upside down when armed officers descended on his farm and seized some $10,000 worth of his equipment, plus computers, important records and a cellular phone. The agents then confiscated the milk, which they tested to prove that it had not been pasteurized.

Forget methamphetamines or cocaine! Let’s round up the farmers who sell raw milk!

Though this happened in Canada, it could just as likely happen here; with recent bans on foie gras and trans fats, might raids on raw milk farmers be far off? It is truly ironic, is it not: our food regulatory system allows and encourages grocers to sell alcohol, tobacco, and myriad products laden with artificial preservatives, dyes and toxic chemicals, but prohibits retailers in some states from selling raw milk on the off chance that someone might become ill from a naturally-occurring microflora.

We know for certain that many people will become ill and eventually die from complications arising from, if not directly linked to, the known toxins that are standard fare on grocery shelves, and yet the minute possibility that renegade bacteria might make someone sick is prompting police raids.

Police raids! Am I the only person who thinks that maybe, just maybe, law enforcement officials could find better ways to spend their time than hunting down organic dairy farmers?

I’m not suggesting that everyone should drink raw milk. I realize that drinking raw milk has inherent risks. I simply believe that people should be able to choose for themselves.

Michael Schmidt, the Ontario farmer whose farm was invaded, went on a hunger strike after the raid, vowing to consume only raw milk until his equipment was returned. I’m eagerly following his story, as is Tana; don't miss this link, which I got from Tana's post, which shows video footage of the Glencolton Farms seizure and has updates from Michael on his ongoing hunger strike. Riveting.

I wonder what the local fall-out might be in the coming weeks and months...?

Lettuce Now Sing Praises

We are a culture obsessed with turning back the clock; we spend countless hours and billions of dollars trying to recapture the bodies we had as teenagers; in our daydreams, we have taut, wrinkle-free skin.

Walk with me down the produce aisle, and you’ll see that our mania for youth has also infected our food choices.

It all began with baby carrots. Pretty, perky and orange, we couldn’t get enough of baby carrots in the nineties. We piled them on relish trays and carried packets of them to the office, happily crunching our way through mountains of the tiny spears. Did we care if they were, in fact, the succulent cores of older, wiser carrots? We gobbled them up until our cuticles turned orange, or at least until we couldn’t stand the sight of them any longer.

We’ve moved beyond baby carrots, but we’re still enamored with other nubile young vegetables. Whole Foods recently introduced packages of miniature green and yellow courgettes and green sugar peas, a medley that can be steamed and brought to the table in minutes. So tender! So precious!

I confess that supple skin and radiant flesh have turned my head a time or two. I’ve succumbed more than once to fetching heads of baby cauliflower peeping out from purple-green coverlets; I’ve often been charmed by the wiles of a tiny artichoke or a tender baby beet. Youth and beauty are hard to resist.

But don’t even try to tempt me with baby mixed greens.

Happiness, Thy Name is Caramel

I have recalcitrant sweet tooth. I detest sugary drinks; I’m not tempted by cakes or cookies; I rarely order dessert, unless someone else is going to eat most of it. I find, after a bite or two of even the most delicious sweet thing, that I can’t eat any more. The only exception to this, until recently, has been chocolate. Chocolate is my sweet of choice – the more bitter, the better – and I take great delight in discovering new and wonderful permutations of the cacao bean.

But there's a new player in town, intent on wresting my affections away. Chocolate, meet your rival: Caramel.

It started innocently enough, about a year and half ago, with an oddly-shaped candy from the Recchiuti counter at the Ferry Building Marketplace. When I bit into the speckled oblong shape, a smoky rose-infused caramel sauce gushed into my mouth and flipped my taste buds upside down. I went straight back to the counter. Over the next few months, my obsession continued, fueled by the slightly burnt, floral flavor of the sticky filling. I couldn’t get enough.

Then I discovered caramel with salt. Fran’s Sea Salt Caramels. Recchiuti’s Fleur De Sel Caramels. I’ve been making my way through two jars of Henri Le Roux’s Salted Butter Caramel Spread for the past few weeks. Thick as paste, the spread is studded with bits of toasted almonds and hazelnuts, with a buttery finish that lingers in the mouth. Bliss.

At my holiday party last Saturday, I filled a pot with rose-infused caramel sauce and surrounded it with cubes of Granny Smith apples on wooden skewers. The idea was that people would take a skewer, swirl it in the caramel, and pop it into their mouths. Imagine, if you will, a room full of smart, tasteful  sophisticates who suddenly descend upon a single spot in the room and jostle one another to get closer to the goods.

As one person exclaimed: “I want to take a bath in this sauce.”

Yesterday, I took my caramel fixation one step further with a cupcake. On a tip from Catherine, I discovered that Kara’s Cupcakes on Scott Street makes a chocolate cupcake with a liquid caramel center, topped with a chocolate ganache and sprinkled with fleur de sel. Oh, yes they do.

I tried the Fleur de Sel and also the Chocolate Velvet, and I have to say that if the frosting on the Chocolate Velvet was put on top of the Fleur de Sel cupcake, it might be the absolute perfect cupcake ever.

And that’s saying something, from a girl who has to be persuaded to eat something sweet.

Any other caramel tips? Feed me!

Deskbound in early December

For as long as I can remember, my tonsils have been the barometer of my internal weather system. My mother repeatedly dragged my younger self to the doctor's office sporting tonsils the size of grapefruits, usually accompanied by a fever and a raging sore throat. Miraculously, my tonsils were never removed, and all these years later, I've grown rather fond of them.

Whenever I have a particularly strong negative emotion - anger or hurt, for instance - my tonsils immediately make themselves known. Like two tiny hearts tucked into either side of my throat, they tighten up and beat furiously against my neck.

Though medical science generally regards tonsils as vestigial organs with no vital function, for me they serve as an early warning sign that my immune system is under stress. They'll begin to tingle, ever so slightly, and I know that if I don't slow down and increase my Vitamin C intake, I'll end up sneezing and coughing a day or two later.

My tonsils have been doing a fair bit of twittering over the past few days. I've been scrambling to finish the cookbook manuscript that was due on December 1st. Blessings to Meghan at Ten Speed, who graciously agreed to give me another week. The words are all starting to blur together now, and I've lost my perspective on whether this or that headnote is witty or boring or insightful. It's nearly done, hurray!

Not only has the cookbook been gobbling up my time, but other projects have also lingered on and stretched into more work than I had anticipated. On top of everything else, I hosted a holiday party on Saturday night for about 30 friends. Thank heaven for my dear friend Adam, a personal chef whom I collaborate with on all sorts of projects, for doing most of the cooking that night. We brought out 8 courses, and we nearly collapsed afterwards. It was all amazingly delicious, though I was too busy that night to actually eat. I won't detail the whole menu, but I can report that I'm happily munching on the leftovers this week, including Moroccan-spiced meatballs and North African winter stew.

Last night, prompted by my tonsils, I gave myself the evening "off" and had my pajamas on by 7:00 pm. I took a long bath, and nursed a glass of wine, and spent some quality time with Petra. I was fast asleep by 10:00, and felt much better this morning.

Several weeks ago, I deluded myself into believing that I would be basking in extra time in December, in which I would cook and catch up with friends and shop for unique gifts for my family. Ah, me. Maybe some other year...