I waited a month, and then patience grew thin. I had to taste those lemons! We were leaving soon, and I couldn’t take off without making one last tajine with a twist of homemade pickled lemon.

I opened the jar to a nose-clearing waft. If you’ve smelled preserved lemons, you’ll know what I mean. . . . → Ramble More: Lamb Meatballs with Mint & Preserved Lemon]]>

I waited a month, and then patience grew thin. I had to taste those lemons! We were leaving soon, and I couldn’t take off without making one last tajine with a twist of homemade pickled lemon.

I opened the jar to a nose-clearing waft. If you’ve smelled preserved lemons, you’ll know what I mean. One friend likens the aroma to Lysol—an unfortunate comparison, as I’m sure the pickled lemon came before the household cleaner. But now we’re left with such associations, which really detract from the monumental scent of this lovely ingredient. So don’t be put off by your first whiff. These lemons are very good things.

We were entering that home stretch of last-minute meals and final BBQs before our departure. I was trying to rid the kitchen of ingredients, knowing we would be away several months. So I started pulling ingredients from the shelves and brainstorming ideas for a “kitchen-sink tajine” with a pound of ground lamb I had in the freezer.

I mixed the thawed meat with minced garlic, fresh garden oregano and mint, and a heaping handful of Ras el hanout. The meatballs sat covered in the fridge all day.

That night, I dumped a pile of sliced red and white onions into a drizzle of grapeseed oil in the tajine and fried until tender. I added sliced carrots and a jar of marinara sauce (I think any tomato sauce or fresh tomatoes would do), then plopped the meatballs into the mix and let everything steam in the tajine for several minutes. Then I added a few black olives, a pinch of salt and a dollop of Ras al hanout. When the meatballs had cooked through, I added more chopped oregano and parsley, one full lemon (cut into quarters) and a big glug of the lemon juice.

Served with rice.

There is something magical in the combination of lamb and mint, and it’s transcendental with the addition of homemade pickled lemon. But that’s just my humble opinion. You’ll have to try it for yourself and tell me what you think.

We drove west as far as we could, then turned south to Carmel. We parked the car, braced for the wind, and set our feet into the warm, white sand.

I took pictures of patterns on the beach,

lines and space,

. . . → Ramble More: One Day Along the Coast]]>

We drove west as far as we could, then turned south to Carmel. We parked the car, braced for the wind, and set our feet into the warm, white sand.

I took pictures of patterns on the beach,

lines and space,

shadows and light.

I joked about the photos being art. But when I look at them after the fact,

I actually like the sharp contrast of mid-day sunshine on objects in the sand.

This one looks like an island, but it’s really a mound of seaweed.

Then we drove farther south along the winding road, peering over the edge where rock walls tumble toward the sea. We stopped for vistas along the way.

We saw nothing in the distance,

but islands up close. And then we turned our heads to watch a California condor soaring past us in silence. What a head. What a bird. I had no time to take a picture, but Jerry got a quick shot that reveals the bird’s tag number: 4.

And then, not far beyond Big Sur, we spotted the only café we’d seen in many miles. It was too late for lunch—we arrived just as the kitchen closed—but we each grabbed a bag of chips and a drink, and we sat to the view. We chatted with a couple of Swedish tourists. They’re taking 3 1/2 weeks to drive the California coast from San Francisco to LA, plus several days in Hawaii. She’s turning 36. She’s dreamed of this trip since she was a child. And now, she said, she’s learning that Californians are are really nice and helpful and pleasant. They were loving this journey far more than expected.

We sat a while, watching the occasional car pass,

then turned back up the coast to do that drive in reverse. We made it back to the house just in time for sunset snacks on the back patio with a faint chill in the air and that satiated feeling of a good day done.

I’m sitting on this patio, sipping my coffee, listening to a few tweeting birds and watching the morning sun creep across the flora. This is a fecund place, this California yard. As the sun climbs higher, the yard is bathed in an extraordinarily sweet scent. It’s the tree that made these lemons. Right now, . . . → Ramble More: About Those Lemons….]]>

I’m sitting on this patio, sipping my coffee, listening to a few tweeting birds and watching the morning sun creep across the flora. This is a fecund place, this California yard. As the sun climbs higher, the yard is bathed in an extraordinarily sweet scent. It’s the tree that made these lemons. Right now, its fruits hang green but its flowers bloom and the bees buzz with diligence as they go about their business.

What you see above are last year’s results. The generous in-laws sent us a box, and then another, and for quite some time our kitchen bin was stuffed with lemons. So I pickled a bunch.

I made two types: classic salted, Moroccan style; and a spicy Indian version. Both recipes hail from Hunter Angler Gardener Cook.

I’d never done this before, but I discovered it’s really quite simple. After several weeks, you’re left with stuffed jars full of the pungent richness required of so many tajines and other recipes from that corner of the world.

Here’s the skinny:

Basic Moroccan Preserved Lemons
Based on the recipe by Hunter Angler Gardener Cook

Ingredients:
Lemons, enough to stuff a jar
Sea salt, enough to stuff the lemons

Wash and dry the lemons, then slice into quarters, almost all of the way through—but not quite. You want the lemons to remain intact. Stuff each one with sea salt. Squeeze lemons into a clean glass jar, top with more salt and cover with lemon juice. Seal the jar by simmering in hot water for 10 minutes. Keep at least three weeks before eating.

Spiced Indian Preserved Lemons
Based on the recipe by Hunter Angler Gardener Cook

Ingredients:
Lemons, enough to stuff a glass jar
1 part fennel seed
1 part cumin seed
1 part black peppercorns
1 part sea salt
Several bay leaves
Sugar to taste
Dried chiles to taste

Toast the fennel, cumin, pepper and salt in a hot, dry pan. (Toasting the salt is not necessary, although I did because I used a Cambodian salt that came straight from the beach without processing. I also find toasting adds depth to the flavor of sea salt.) Crush the toasted spices using a mortar and pestle.

Slice each lemon into eighths without cutting all the way through. Stuff with spice mixture, then jam the lemons into a glass jar. Add bay leaves and cover with lemon juice. Let sit for one week.

After a week has passed, squeeze all juices into a non-reactive pan and simmer. Add sugar and chiles, then the lemons, and continue to simmer for 10 minutes. Return lemons and juices to the jar, cover and keep closed for one month.

Truth out: these lemons remain in our refrigerator. I have not yet cooked with them, but I can attest the spices smelled wonderful while simmering in the pot. We are on the road now. The lemons await our return. I can also attest: the leftover toasted spice mixture tastes great on popcorn!

Stay tuned to find out what I did with the first Moroccan lemon we took from the jar….

Making preserved lemons (more than a month ago) with fruits from the California yard that grew the tree from which these beauties came.

Folks -

Just a quick post to let you know we are in transit. It’s been a long haul, these past few months, . . . → Ramble More: In Transit]]>

Making preserved lemons (more than a month ago) with fruits from the California yard that grew the tree from which these beauties came.

Folks -

Just a quick post to let you know we are in transit. It’s been a long haul, these past few months, and I’m way behind on stories here. I apologize for that, but I promise more to come as we transition from New Mexico to lands far, far away (Asia, North Africa, Europe…).

But right now, I’m indulging in a bit of California sun on a breezy patio surrounded by flowers and trees. I’m sipping a crisp, clean glass of white wine while nibbling on artichokes, olives and cheese. And I’m taking the next few days of rest. It’s a long time coming.

If all goes according to plan, I’ll meet you again next week in Phnom Penh. And, among other things, I will soon fill you in on these lemons.

Meanwhile, eat well and be happy.

Cheers.

It’s early, just as the sun begins to creep across the neighbor’s field and in through our bedroom window. We get the call. It’s time.

At least we think it’s time.

We thought it was time last night, when we drove north then east to care for a 3-year-old niece while her Mommy and . . . → Ramble More: Waiting for Baby]]>

It’s early, just as the sun begins to creep across the neighbor’s field and in through our bedroom window. We get the call. It’s time.

At least we think it’s time.

We thought it was time last night, when we drove north then east to care for a 3-year-old niece while her Mommy and Daddy spent the night in the hospital. We heated up bowls of Korean take-out, then settled on the couch to watch cartoons. That was OK.

Bedtime wasn’t.

She cried when it was time to wash her face and brush her teeth. She cried when it was time to find the right nightie. “I want Mommy,” she said through big, watery tears. But then she flashed me a little smile and asked for a story. She didn’t want Gramps, she didn’t want Uncle Jerry. She wanted the only other girl in the house. “I want you,” she yelled, as she grabbed my hand and we trotted off to her bedroom.

I didn’t read much; instead, she told me stories about the spectacular power of volcanoes. She told me how hot they are, and that she would never jump inside of one because she might get burned. Once, she said, a volcano went into a barn and scared all the chickens. It tried to burn the horses, too. And then the volcano turned into a cow!

We said good night, and she quickly drifted into sleep.

Then Mommy and Daddy came home—no baby. Not yet.

But things started to move again this morning, and this time, it might be for real.

For reasons unknown, the other morning I wanted tapioca. I hadn’t made it in a long time. And now it suddenly seems appropriate for the times. It’s sweet, calm comfort food in the truest sense of the phrase. This is a Southeast Asian version I’m talking about, no eggs but creamy coconut and a topping of toasted sesame, mint and fruit. I like it best with mango, but strawberries do just as well. We had a package in the freezer, and we had fresh mint leaves poking through the garden soil.

Years ago I taught Southeast Asian cooking at an Oregon community college, and a version of this was included in the recipe packet. It’s such an easy dish, suitable for breakfast or dessert. It’s mild on the stomach, good for new moms and moms-to-be (as well as new big sisters). And the soft tapioca pearls are easy to swallow, appropriate for palates young and old.

Coconut Tapioca

1/2 cup tapioca pearls
1/2 cup coconut milk
1 1/2 cups water
1/4 cup palm or white sugar (more if you want a sweeter dish)
pinch of salt
1 cup chopped fruit
handful of chopped mint leaves
1/4 cup toasted sesame seeds

Rinse the tapioca pearls under cold water and drain well. Pour into a saucepan with water, sugar and salt, and bring to a boil. Stir constantly (the tapioca burns easily on the bottom of the pan) and cook until tapioca pearls turn translucent. I have found the cooking time varies dramatically depending on the type and size of tapioca as well as altitude. You’ll know it’s done when the liquid is absorbed and the tapioca has become gelatinous while still maintaining some of the pearls’ shape. Taste, remove from heat and stir in coconut milk. Let cool until the mixture is firm. Top with fruit, mint and sesame seeds. Serve chilled or at room temperature.

I believe this is how many memorable recipes are born—of accident, of unintended consequences. As you might know, we received a tajine for Christmas, and I’ve had great fun concocting new dishes. We did well with lamb, apricots, prunes and almonds. We didn’t do so well with chorizo and chickpeas (it wasn’t bad, just . . . → Ramble More: The Peanut Butter Accident]]>

I believe this is how many memorable recipes are born—of accident, of unintended consequences. As you might know, we received a tajine for Christmas, and I’ve had great fun concocting new dishes. We did well with lamb, apricots, prunes and almonds. We didn’t do so well with chorizo and chickpeas (it wasn’t bad, just not the consistency I’d imagined). And this whole Great Moroccan Experiment has prompted me to preserve a couple of jars of lemons—homegrown Meyer lemons from the in-laws’ tree—in two distinct styles: plain Moroccan with salt; and aromatic Indian with spices removed after one week, fried, then returned to the jar for another month of sitting. (Stay tuned. I’ll blog about the lemons when they’re ready.)

So I began last night with grand plans. I even thought of cracking open the Moroccan lemons and giving them a try. It’s time. They should be ready. But then I got lost in a slew of emails, and the hours passed. By the time I reached the kitchen, I just wanted to cook and eat—not enter another phase of the tajine trials.

I had Alaskan cod, thawed and waiting. I had spinach, onion, garlic, chile and fresh lemon (from a friend-of-a-friend’s tree in Arizona). And I had parsley, oregano and thyme from the garden.

Here’s what I did: I made harissa with a few extra ingredients (soaked a big handful of New Mexican red chile pods in boiling water; then blitzed with five small cloves of garlic, a tablespoon each of cumin and coriander, a pinch of salt, an inch of peeled ginger, an inch of peeled fresh turmeric). The thing is, I cook by mood; and my mood often shifts mid-stream. This can be annoying, and it can be exciting. I could feel myself drifting away from North Africa and heading more toward Southeast Asia, then veering back again.

I fried a sliced onion in the tajine and added the fish (cut into bite-sized pieces), about a cup of the harissa mix, half a cup of chopped herbs (the parsley, oregano and thyme) and a good pour of water so there was just enough liquid for everything to simmer. After a few minutes, I added two big handfuls of baby spinach and the juice of one lemon. I tasted. It needed something… but I couldn’t quite pinpoint what. So I asked Jerry.

He stuck a spoon into the simmering stew, and that’s when the accident happened. He’d been munching on peanuts for the previous few minutes, and when he took a spoonful, it was like adding a dollop of peanut butter to the tajine. He tasted, and I watched his eyes.

“Peanut butter!” he said. “That’s what you need! Because that tastes amazing.”

Whaaaaaaat? No, that wasn’t what I was thinking. But then again… it made sense. I mean, peanuts fit into all sorts of North African stews and Southeast Asian curries, thereby marrying those two culinary moods. So I grabbed the jar (chunky, organic, no additives, no sugar, no-nothing-extra) and stirred a few dollops into the tajine. Yum. I added a little more. And then we decided the whole concoction needed just a little sweetener, so we shaved a bit of palm sugar into the mix.

That, dear friends, was one tasty tajine. And I never would have thought of adding peanut butter had Jerry not been snacking before tasting.

Happy accidents, indeed.

Apricot blossom, hanging on.

Well, hello, Spring! Welcome to our yard. You’re sneaky, and you caught us off-guard. We’ve been so engrossed in this thing called WORK, we haven’t had a chance to fully absorb you yet. Just a few more days, and we will be free from this task (oh please, . . . → Ramble More: Dear Spring:]]>

Apricot blossom, hanging on.

Well, hello, Spring! Welcome to our yard. You’re sneaky, and you caught us off-guard. We’ve been so engrossed in this thing called WORK, we haven’t had a chance to fully absorb you yet. Just a few more days, and we will be free from this task (oh please, oh please, I hope), which has taken far too long.

Pretty pink nectarine flowers.

I’ve seen you coming. I’ve watched through the windows, and I’ve noticed little signs on my bike rides and runs. I knew for sure you’d arrived when, one day, I suddenly realized an absence of snow geese and cranes. Even the crows are fewer now. And then: that troupe of female red-winged blackbirds, descending upon our tree, scaring all the locals, filling the yard with chatter.

More than 100 female red-winged blackbirds feeding at our tree. They came, they ate, they fled.

But, Spring, I worry you’ve come just a little too soon. It still gets chilly at night, and you know what happens if your flowers freeze. Remember last year? No fruit.

And I fear for the butterflies and bees. We’ve seen many in our yard so far, but…. what happens next year? And the year after that?

Chinese chives, poking up.

I admit, I’m liking our salads these days: fresh green onions, savory and chives. (And that breakfast tortilla w/melted white Irish cheddar, shallot, parsley and rosemary—yum!) By next week, we might even have young arugula leaves.

Peach blossoms…soon.

But, Spring, you are setting all manner of records this year; you’re even drawing new maps. I’m concerned about where you’re heading with this. We love having you here—but you’re freaking us out.

So tell us, Spring: what do you have planned for us?

A fried fish served at a restaurant in Sepon, Laos, near the old Ho Chi Minh Trail, in a region that was sprayed with herbicides during war.

In the past seven years of research on unexploded ordnance (UXO) in Laos, we’ve often wondered about the safety of foods we’ve eaten and encountered . . . → Ramble More: Dining with Dioxin]]>

A fried fish served at a restaurant in Sepon, Laos, near the old Ho Chi Minh Trail, in a region that was sprayed with herbicides during war.

In the past seven years of research on unexploded ordnance (UXO) in Laos, we’ve often wondered about the safety of foods we’ve eaten and encountered along the way—the daily diets of Laotians who live in the aftermath of war. How did/do all those bombs affect the soil and crops? How did/do all those herbicides sprayed linger in the food chain?

The trouble is, we know very little. Precious few studies have examined food safety in Laos, particularly in areas that were sprayed with Agent Orange and other chemicals. Researchers note a distinct lack of funds to study these issues.

But a series of news stories about dioxins in the past month prompted me to examine and write what I could about these toxins in Laos—yet another legacy of the US bombing campaign 40 years ago. That story is now in The Faster Times.

A view of the mountains along the border between southern Laos and Vietnam, in an area that US forces bombed and sprayed with herbicides.

Kids fishing in Sepon, near areas that were sprayed with herbicides. They are using a boat made from a fuel drop tank jettisoned by US forces during war.

A view of the Ho Chi Minh Trail today in Attapeu province, southern Laos.

A villager fetching water from a river along the old Ho Chi Minh Trail in southern Laos.

Just a photo of oranges I have loved and hoarded for quite some time. I had asked Jerry for a picture of citrus to go with a story I’d planned to write about the history of orange juice (a new-ish invention, relatively speaking), Fair Trade farmers in Brazil, and the fungicide fiasco that has . . . → Ramble More: Orange Light]]>

Just a photo of oranges I have loved and hoarded for quite some time. I had asked Jerry for a picture of citrus to go with a story I’d planned to write about the history of orange juice (a new-ish invention, relatively speaking), Fair Trade farmers in Brazil, and the fungicide fiasco that has added scrutiny to the breakfast table.

But in truth, I’m a little overwhelmed by other tasks, and a little underwhelmed by the idea of writing a serious think piece on oranges right now… someday I will do it. For the moment, however, I have my head wrapped around other critical issues that will come to light soon enough.

So, for now, you get a pretty picture of oranges in a blue bowl. Just looking at that picture makes me happier than thinking about writing about all the complicated stuff.

Enjoy.

Would you like guacamole with your dim sum? Tortillas with your hotdogs? Apparently, this place has it all.

We laughed when we spotted the shop while waiting for a red light. But it shouldn’t surprise us—everywhere we look in Albuquerque, we find funky things. We find little shops (like the Dhaka Bazaar) and eateries . . . → Ramble More: Funkytown]]>

Would you like guacamole with your dim sum? Tortillas with your hotdogs? Apparently, this place has it all.

We laughed when we spotted the shop while waiting for a red light. But it shouldn’t surprise us—everywhere we look in Albuquerque, we find funky things. We find little shops (like the Dhaka Bazaar) and eateries (like the new Moroccan/Tunisian restaurant on Central or the Mexican/Greek spot I’ve passed a hundred times) that reflect a vibrant, if eclectic, mix of cultures in this town.

For myriad reasons, we are still home, still in New Mexico, still finishing obligatory tasks before embarking on our next travels. But that’s OK. It’s life, and we’re rolling with it. We’ll get there.

Meanwhile, we’re thinking of taking a multi-ethnic tour of home: traveling for a day or two or three through this city, stopping at all the funky little places we’ve passed from the roadside that have sparked a curiosity about what’s inside. I’m certain we could eat for days, just up the road from home, and feel as though we’d traveled across the globe.

I’m reminded of an assignment I gave my class last fall in Missoula. One day, I asked the students to spend a few hours in a situation or place that made them feel uncomfortable, out of sorts, off their beaten path. I asked them to watch and listen, think and write. I’d done the same thing with my class in Burma, a few years earlier. Some students ate new food, others sat at a bar whose clientele was not of their usual style. I think what most of them found was the same sensation I find in travel: a jolt to the senses, a heightened awareness of everything around me. As soon as I land in another country, I walk the streets. I visit the markets. And I sit for a long while with my notebook and pen. I see the world in ways I never could, if I always stuck to the same routines.

We can do that sort of exercise 10,000 miles from home. Or we can do it in our own backyards. The trick is to break the patterns we create in everyday life. I believe we see more that way.

How many places can you find in your neighborhood that don’t fit your usual routines? Where can you go and what can you eat?

Perhaps a plate of tacos served with chopsticks?

Why not.