Searching for flavor

In my first class of Freshman year of college-- a class called Classical Cultures, where we studied Plato, Aristotle, and the like-- my professor, a Jesuit, read the eighteen of us bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Honors students the opening passage from the introduction of Alice Waters' The Art of Simple Food:

"... I was searching for flavor, not philosophy, but what I found was that the people who were growing the tastiest food were organic farmers in my own backyard."

Now really, this whole thing seems absurd. A priest, in a suit, reading us a passage from a cookbook I'd never heard of. In a Philosophy & Classics course. Except that priest became one of my two closest mentors, that class became my inseparable, devoted group of friends, and that cookbook became both a love and a wealth of knowledge. Not unlike the other two, I suppose.

Two years later, I was halfway through an intensive Physics sequence of summer school, and my friend suggested we go eat our way through the City. We started at Mama's Cafe with a Norwegian omelet and French Toast, wandered over to Tartine for coffee and lemon tart, and ended up in Berkeley at a restaurant Jennifer had said she'd heard of. I had no idea where we were going, let alone where we were, so we arrived at 8pm on a Sunday-- her in jeans and a top, me in black leggings, flip flops, and a J. Crew sweatshirt. She asked if they had space for two, and they asked if we had a reservation. We said no. Within five minutes, we were in the upstairs dining area-- a treehouse, cabin-y sort of place-- cozied up between a wood-paneled wall and a young married couple dressed to the nines. I ordered the lamb-- the most melty, delicious lamb of my life-- and had a glass of red wine. So thank you, Chez Panisse, for not being too snobbish or inaccessible for a couple of curious college students. For being the most unassuming, perfect end to a day full of incredible eating. And for being one of the more memorable meals of my life-- if not only for the deliciousness but also for the laughable fact that I ate at Chez Panisse sans reservations in refined sweats.

Norwegian omelet from Mama's Cafe

Lemon Curd Tart and Espresso from Tartine

I had no idea this was the restaurant, the food culture, or the lifestyle I had been less-formally introduced to during my first timid weeks in the Bay Area, nor did I ever realize that I'd be making my home in this same wonderful region. Little did I know that the idea of searching for flavor, not philosophy pervades throughout my life: friends, careers, classes-- and obviously, eating. Things taste better, moments feel more perfect when they're unplanned, impromptu, organic. The standing dates I have with my housemates for dinner on Mondays and with ten friends for pub trivia on Wednesdays? Those are some of my favorite parts of each week. But the impromptu weekday breakfast with a friend visiting from out-of-town, the spontaneous texts, the weekends where the four of us decided to shove two couches together, binge on a box of leftover Halloween candy, and watch Modern Family for hours on end? Sometimes, they're even better. Moments like that create philosophies I hold. And here's the funny thing about being almost-23 and single: I'm putting myself into categories of things I like and hoping it's somehow original. All of a sudden, I'm very aware of who I am. Not just how I look, or how I'm perceived, but the kind of person I'm becoming.  I can't really philosophize maturity, nor can I search for philosophy. I'm just looking for it in the details... searching for flavors, for enjoyable moments, for spontaneity and wow-I-can't-believe-we-pulled-that-off kind of hysterical moments. The fun stuff.

Best weekend ever.

Weekend Roundup from November 5. Hard to beat a weekend that starts like this:

Fresh tomato sauce

Because carboloading pasta needed to be jazzed up a little

(with something that had no butter, protein, or fat, according to my Runner's World plan)

My best attempts to use up the remnants of that CSA box by halving this recipe:


1.5 lbs heirloom tomatoes
2 Tbsp. olive oil
1/2 white onion
1 small clove of garlic
small bunch of stubby carrots
pinch of salt


1. Blanche and peel the tomatoes by cutting a small X in the bottom, dropping them into boiling water for about 30 seconds, and ladling them out. Rinse under cold water, and peel back the skin. (This proved difficult for craggy heirlooms, so I re-blanched a few times.)


2. Squeeze the seeds out over a strainer/bowl. Reserve the juices and tomato pump. Coarsely chop the tomatoes.


3. Mince the onion, carrot, and garlic.


4. Sauté the carrots, onion, and garlic in the olive oil over medium heat. Add the tomatoes and bring to a simmer for 30-45 minutes. Add salt to taste.


Note: Mine was carrot and onion-y, which I think was delicious-- just not your typical pomodoro sauce, that's all.

Direction.

My wonderful roommates bought me my first-ever massage as a post-marathon treat. The massage was booked for 3:45pm at a yoga studio an hour away, near the beach. As my workday quickly dwindled, a plan slowly unfolded. 

I started training for this marathon at almost exactly the same time I started dating someone. I guess it's fitting that both ended within a day of each other. I finished the marathon and thought, "What now?" The answer? I have no fucking clue. I lack a little direction right now, but that doesn't mean I'm not going to run around aimlessly. I'm infamous for my inability to relax. Not since I was conceived, my mom says, have I been able to sit still. I'm trying to be at peace with this whole ebb-and-flow thing, be okay with the fact that I'm actually going stir-crazy though I need to relax and let my body recover. Massage, beach, sunset... then rushing back home so we could go out to the bar for trivia like we do every week.

After my massage, I had a magazine, my MCAT book, and a decent craving for a hot cup of coffee. But instead of looking up beachside cafés, instead of a Point A-to-Point B direct route, I would just drive. I decided to follow the traffic, hugging the coast until I hit a nice little strip mall with a Starbucks inside a Safeway. I splurged on a Salted Caramel Mocha, got a bar of spiced chocolate, and treated myself to a sunset on the beach. I found a break in a chain-link fence and a sign that said, "WARNING: Dangerous cliffs. Do not go beyond this point." Damn right I took that as an invitation.

 I started on the cliff, overlooking the ocean. I didn't want to get my massage-oiled feet wet and sandy. But soon I found myself sans ballet flats, clambering over boulders down to the beach, welcomed by a scruffy fisherman and equally scruffy dog who ran up to me barking, like he had been waiting for me. Five times in a row.

I keep thinking about blogs and how certain people only like posts with a unified theme. A central topic that has subtexts and develops throughout the paragraphs. That's not what this is. My thoughts aren't cohesive. I've only got photos. Lots of them.