Step by Step

In the last month, I’ve been walking. A lot. I’ve been lucky enough to spend a few of my nutrition rotations at a place right here in West Seattle. So every morning, I leave my house in comfy pants, my comfy Dansko clogs and an umbrella tucked into an outside backpack pocket (in case of an unforeseen deluge), and walk 35 minutes up two humungous hills to work. I love it.

The sun has begun to put on its pretty sunset show earlier and earlier. Now, if I stay too late at work, I walk home in the twilight. At the top of the highest hill in West Seattle, I begin to walk down… down… down …with a view of the Olympic Mountains backlit by pink and sapphire. The view of the city stretches out before me opposite those twilight colors, trying to compete with its own sparkling lights and the space needle’s orb glowing orange.

With the darkness coming so early, my days find me inside from four o’clock until bedtime. I don’t know how many times Mark and I have said to each other after a five-thirty dinnertime, “it feels like midnight!” There isn’t much room to spread out inside the bamboo hut, what with one bedroom and one living/kitchen room and a thinnish wall in between. We end up spending our dark evening hours with our noses in books, our faces in computer screens, or squinting at magazines in the poor reading light. I’m feeling the need to rebel against the darkness. It’s time to get out.

So I’ve been walking. More. I put on a heavier jacket, my Danskos, and leave the umbrella behind like a good hearty Seattlite. With all the hills, winding back streets and bridges, our part of the city is perfect for urban hiking. I set out right as dark falls and climb up streets that belong in San Francisco. I wind around roads that are only traveled by those who share its address, I breathe heavy as I use my legs to carry me to places both physically and mentally distant. I breathe. I gaze at the panoramic view of Seattle in the fog. I feel the mist slowly and surreptitiously soak my forehead and eyebrows, and I dream.

After dark all the houses are lit from the inside. Big picture windows that frame living rooms and warm kitchens glow into the darkness, allowing anyone to peek into their secret world. Tonight I walked by a mansion of a home, strung with colored Christmas lights. I could see their Christmas tree all in white lights inside. At another home, lit from within, a long paneless window revealed a complete dinner scene – with grandpa, mom and dad and two kids sitting around a long table, serving salad out of a large bowl. I also peek, with some amount of guilt, into the grandest of homes, to get a glimpse of their modern furniture and perfect lighting. I feel transported, taken out of my body and away from my life to enter the worlds of others. I can imagine stepping onto their plush rugs, sitting on their pristine furniture, sharing a meal around a perfect table. I’m a Pisces, so I’m doomed to be a dreamy sort, I know. But if I cannot dream and escape then I cannot create something greater for my life. As I imagine what could be, I create it and bring it to me in some way.

About a year and a half ago, when I first began spending lots of time here with Mark in West Seattle, in those dark cool evenings I would walk up those hills to 35^th Street, as it afforded the most spectacular view of the port and the skyscrapers of downtown. For some reason I was drawn to those hidden residential streets around 35^th and Harbor Avenue below. They were quiet, labyrinthine, and felt to me, well… dreamy. I admired the modern homes with their tall narrow design, to take advantage of space vertically because horizontal space was so precious. I pictured Mark and myself in one of those homes, with a view of the city laid out like a giant photograph in some coffee table book. I could feel it, rising in my chest.

About a year later I would walk again on those streets, on another urban hike on some lazy summer day and find a spacious modern home, empty and for sale, that I labeled ‘dream house’. Whenever I was feeling depressed, or when Mark and I would be feeling feisty and hopeful about the future, we would drop by the dream house and peek in the windowed front door. It was magical, it was for sale, and it was entirely out of any price range we could imagine…but it was somehow ours.

A few weeks ago, after months of online searching in the For Rent ads, I stumbled upon a notice for a place that looked spacious, full of light, and within our price range. The address read 35^th Street, West Seattle.

It was the first place and the last that we looked at in our search for a new home. We signed the lease last Saturday after a visit and a chat with our landlords who live upstairs in the house. She works in organic gardening. He’s an architect who loves cycling. They both exude a kind and loving energy for people and for their home.

In two weeks we’ll be moving up to 35^th, to the top of the hill, where our evening glass of wine will be shared with the lights of the city, the ships going in and out of the port, and the Sound with her wet fog and chill. We’ll gaze out the windows of our living room onto that view, warm light stretching out into the darkness.

Maybe a passerby, on her walk, will guiltily peek inside our not-so-perfectly furnished dining room on the hill and dream about living way up high.

A toast to moving on, and moving up, and the power of visualizing the life you wish to live. May I see you all around our dining room table in the coming year, sharing a meal in a home, lit from within.

Ginger Chocolate Almond Granola

Fall has been good to us lately. I seem to remember much more rain this time last year. There were more dark and cloudy days. On my morning runs along the bike trail, I’d see so many sodden red and yellow leaves stuck like papier mache to black pavement. This morning the leaves were wet, but only because of the dew of the cold October mornings we’ve had. Little rain, more blue skies to act as the backdrop to those technicolor leaves.

There was quite a bit of blue today, and the sun, in it’s low angle, peeked out from behind a few fluffy clouds to illuminate the yellows and oranges. It’s funny how each season has its colors. Spring is rose and yellow-lime green from new buds, with hints of violet purple from the crocuses. Winter is deep pine green, if you live in the Northwest, with lots of grey from clouds and foggy mornings. Winter is also white, as some mornings you may look out the window and find that a cloak has been pulled over your front yard. Our whiteouts come not from snow, but from a marine fog that will never let you forget where you are. If you don’t touch the waters of the Sound that day, the Sound may reach out and touch you.

Fall has many colors to give, but the ones that pop up everywhere are school bus yellow, orange and brick red. Fall also gives us smells. Today while jogging along the trail, admiring the confetti of leaves and low sunlight, I smelled cloves. Sometimes there is a mild cinnamon in the air too along with the chill. No wonder this time of year we turn to spices with hearty, deeply-colored foods to make our meals - orange pumpkins, profoundly green kale, and orange-red foraged mushrooms like chanterelles and the lobster variety I saw at the market. We incorporate the smells… spicy pumpkin pie with cloves and cardamom, cinnamon, allspice and nutmeg too. The spices have also found their way into my kale and root veggies. Their piquancy wakes up your tongue, warms your mouth with a low, slow heat. A penetrating, sustained heat that is surprisingly subtle, despite is power.

The most attractive of all the warming spices is surely ginger. It’s my absolute favorite of all the spices that we associate with fall and winter cooking. It’s actually a rhizome, not a seed as most spices are. We can use it dried and ground, or peeled fresh and grated so the powerfully hot juice runs out with the pulp. China grows more of this rhizome than any other place in the world, but we import lots of it from Jamaica too. Yes, unfortunately it’s not a local food. It’s one of those exotic ingredients that we’ve come to see as quite normal here in the US. Like chocolate and coffee, we don’t really produce much, if any, but we enjoy it in abundance.

So on this cold, dewy October morning with Mark still asleep in bed, I decided to make a batch of something spicy and warm. I love granola. I love ginger. Why not combine the two? This recipe is so simple. I don’t know why everyone doesn’t make their own granola on a weekly basis. The fresh stuff is so great, and you avoid having to buy the stuff from the boxes or bulk bins that use extra oils and way way too much sugar. It takes 30 minutes, from start to finish. I added almonds, honey and maple syrup, and then some chopped chocolate. Divine.

My feet are freezing against the cold kitchen floor, and the windows are fogged from the cold outside – but the heat of the oven will fix that. The oats and almonds are toasting and the smell of ginger is wafting into every room. I have nowhere to be but right here, stretching my neck toward the windowpane to watch the sun peek out.

This to me is Fall - hearty and warming food, the oven on early to heat the house. We’ll let the rain come eventually and the greyer skies too, but for now I'm having my Fall.


Ginger Chocolate Almond Granola

This is almost too decadent for breakfast! I enjoy using a candied ginger from Trader Joe's that is uncrystallized, so it isn't gritty and too sweet like crystallized ginger can be. Green & Black's chocolate is fantastic if you can get it, in this recipe I used the 72% baking bar. If you can't find this particular brand, try to get chocolate that's organic and fair trade. This granola would make a great dessert served with some honey-sweetened yogurt and black cherries.

5 cups old-fashioned rolled oats
1 cup raw almonds
2 tablespoons unhulled or hulled sesame seeds
1 - 2 tablespoons whole flax seeds
3 teaspoons vanilla extract
1/4 cup honey
1/4 cup grade B maple syrup
1 teaspoon sea salt
1 tablespoon dried ground ginger
1 - 2 tablespoons fresh ginger, chopped
2 teaspoons cinnamon
3/4 cup uncrystallized candied ginger, chopped finely and loosely packed
1/5 cup dark chocolate, chopped, 70% or higher

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. In a large bowl, stir together first four ingredients. sprinkle in the vanilla in drops while stirring. Then add the honey and maple syrup, and stir to coat all the dry ingredients well. You may have to really work this for a bit to get all the clumps out - but if you like clumps, just add more honey and don't stir as much. Once all the dry ingredients are coated, put in the dried and fresh ginger, cinnamon and salt. Stir well. Place mixture on a large baking sheet with raised sides, so your granola doesn't slide off and make a mess. Bake for about 20 minutes, stirring halfway through. The granola should be brown and golden all the way through (stirring once or twice during baking will allow even toasting.) Cool the granola completely - and I mean totally, otherwise the chocolate will melt all over the place... but hmmm, maybe that's a good thing... so go ahead and add the candied ginger and chocolate. Serve it up with vanilla soymilk. Yum.

A Weekend of Apples

These perilous days of September.  The sky too achingly blue, too clear, like blue bottle glass, the low angle of the sunlight giving warning.  This day may be the last, but tomorrow could be too.  We don’t know what will steal it away so quickly, or when or where we’ll feel it, but we know it’s coming.  The perilous days, more exciting to wake up to because we know they are so fragile.  Is this our last day of perfection?  Will it all be gone tomorrow?  It’s now or never.  We feverishly squeeze in our bike rides, our weekend trips, our plans to have friends over for dinner on the porch.  Between two jobs, the lazy days of summer I’ve worked all away– so I suppose these will be my lively days of September. 

The apples are here.  The blackberries are giving a mighty push to squeeze out the last of their fruit, and the plums have come and gone.  It seems just yesterday that Mark and I, laughing and jumping like kids, reached and climbed up into the trees to grab Rainier cherries.  But cherries are early summer, befitting for a plush bright fruit, sweet and colorful as sunshine, holding promise of the sweet and painted days to come. 

But apples, well they’re a much different story. 

I’ve been in denial about the summer being gone, protesting loudly like a frustrated toddler whenever Mark would muse on its passing.  “No, it’s NOT gone,” I’d say near tantrum.  But oh, now that the apples have come, I accept with solemnity and grace, much like the solemn apple itself. 

I pick them up from the ground, scattered around the baseball fields near our house.  I pick them up, one by one, as if they are the memories of summer days, fallen from the tree of August.  They are small, some ruddy and streaked with brown sunspots and others green on one side and rosy on the other.  They are smooth and warm from the sunshine.  They fit like worry stones in the palm of my hand.  I fill my sack, and then pluck the last of the blackberries from the bordering bushes, scratching my arms and staining my thumb and forefinger a magenta juice.  I work slowly, peacefully, with an inward-turning energy that appears only with the approach of Fall.

This will be the weekend of apples.  

Before our weekend trip, I take the apples and salvage what I can from their bruised and worm-eaten flesh.  They are sweet and tart.  I put them in a cast iron skillet skin-on along with the blackberries, add honey, butter and cook them into a rustic compote that we have for dessert over vanilla ice cream.  We then toss a few Granny Smiths, a Pink Lady and a Gala into our bag for the trip.  These will go with us, hiker-friendly food for September.

The next morning we drive north excited to camp and excited to trek for miles in nothing but wilderness.  The sun is shining.  Before long we hit the Skagit Valley, known for its abundance of just about everything – blueberries, strawberries, and yes, apples.  It was about lunchtime when I spotted the road sign ‘Tourist Activities’ which I typically ignore… but after those words was written ‘Winery.’  Sold.  Even if the wine wasn’t great, there would be a place to picnic and have sandwiches.  At the end of a long gravel drive, there was not only a winery, but another building with simple signage: Apples. 

Along with the sips of blackberry and apple wine, the pinot noir and the sangiovese, we bought apples - sour Gravensteins so tart they made my cheeks hurt.  But what we really wanted (and were so tempted to make off with when the owner’s back was turned) were these incredible Japanese dessert apples, called Akane.  They were growing on a single tree, right outside the door to the apple shed.  “That is the most photographed tree on the property” said the owner.  Well, if we couldn’t have a taste, we could have a picture, which surely is worth a thousand Mmmmm’s. 

So we will take a bite with our eyes, my friends, which we forget can be just as beautiful and rich as the taste experience itself.  

The apples disappeared from our backpacks, one by one, all weekend long.  They saw glaciers, mountain tops and waterfalls.  The trip was exhausting as we hiked for miles, all under those incredibly blue skies while suspending belief that these days would soon be gone. 

Hold fast with me, take a bite and savor a bit of September.