update from the northern state

Hats off to you guys, the vendors-farmers at the Westside Community Farmers Market here, in Madison. Second night of frost and this time, it was no superficial pat of cold. It was the real thing. A slap, a kick where it hurts. I knew it when I biked in the morning. My knuckle cracked.

So maybe hats on, farmers. And bottoms up. Or thumbs up. (Am I getting my cheers right? They’re awfully anatomical.) To the good crop, to your relentless efforts. Thank you.








Purchase photo 2081





Purchase photo 2080





Purchase photo 2079

the show stumbles on

There are some people who never act on skills that they have and then there are those who make way too much of skills that, even after much massaging and coaxing, never amount to much. I err toward the second, unfortunately. I pursue too much rather than too little.

Late this afternoon, I headed for the industrial penthouse space in my condo building to get ready for the studio art show that runs this Saturday and Sunday. How thrilled am I with this event? Truthfully, I’d rather be camping.

When I stayed in Pierrerue (a tiny village in southern France) some two years back, my dark cave of a room abutted the house of a painter. I loved her art. I make no comment on its worth, but I will admit that her paintings made me happy. (I brought a piece back home and it has made me less happy here, but I think that’s a statement about me and not about her talent; I’m not very adept at appreciating art out of context.) I asked her then why she did not display it, sell it, promote it. She shrugged her shoulders and said – I guess I don’t think I’m there yet. To me, she was holding back.

A person who blogs with photos doesn’t hold back. This blog, Ocean, pushes boundaries alright. Boundaries of sanity. Why would anyone, anyone post so much, so often? And then bring all those photos back again in the form of an art show?

Ed and I hung the photos and tomorrow and the next day I will sit by them and talk to people about book making and blogging and photo editing. And then I will go back to my own quarters, shut the door and look forward to my next project.



setting up

Alinea, the book, the author

The unexpected gift. The compliment, the pat on the back. The invitation that you never thought would be for you. Aren’t these magnificent?

It came in the form of a phone call several weeks back. Hi. We’re from Wired (the magazine). We’d like to send you an invitation to a champagne reception celebrating the publication of Chef Grant Achatz’s book, Alinea.

Yes! I’ll be there! (Oh, btw, when and where?)

I ate at Alinea two years ago (and wrote about it here). It was the most extraordinary (and most expensive) meal of my life. It could be that my blog post was spotted (they noted the camera). This was a party for loyalists and for the underground press. Apart from the blog, I fit into neither. Or, not they would know. I have been following the career of Grant Achatz with care and a lot of concern (about a year ago he was diagnosed with cancer of the tongue and the story of his treatment options is harrowing), continuously.

I think he is as close as we come to food genius.

Grant likes to say that he pushes the boundaries. I told him last night that I see him more as a person who releases people from a history of inhibition and restraint. We live in a world that tells us what to feel and how to feel it. We smell pine forests when we’re hiking and we taste good food at special dinners and we cry at sad movies and we laugh at funny stories. But mostly, we do one at a time and not a great deal of the other.

At Alinea, your senses take flight. You taste, smell, feel. Your eyes are entertained, your nose links smell with childhood memories, your mouth is bathed lavishly with beautifully orchestrated explosions of flavor.

You can’t do molecular gastronomy (that is what he does) badly. It only works if it is done with great precision and terrific imagination. How successfully is Achatz at pulling it off? After a meal at Alinea, the world is not the same anymore. You understand that your senses are screaming to be let loose, to bring you joy. And so you have new respect for food, for life.


And so on Wednesday afternoon, I take the bus to O’Hare, then the subway downtown. At the last minute, I find a room for the night. I don’t want the hassle of getting back to Madison in the middle of the night.

At 7 sharp, I enter the magical world of Wired. The magazine is holding a two week festival of innovation in Millenium Park. Normally it’s free and open to the public, but this evening, the pavilion is closed for this private event.

Inside, the light is blue, the people are mostly in black. Champagne and exotic drinks are mixed and handed out freely, generously.





I take note of the exhibits. Amazing. Beyond me, mostly. I’m not geeky enough to understand design brilliance, but it all looks sleek, exquisite, futuristic.









Grant is there, as are his assistants. There’s one small camera crew, but otherwise, it is more a party than a publicity event. I had made sure my camera and posting were okay, but it certainly is true that I was one of the few furiously trying to take it all in with my trusty Sony.





The chef looked even younger than in photos I had seen of him. To me, food greats are celebrities. More so than those labeled as such by, say, People magazine. I watch chefs with awe. There is something beautiful about cooking talent. Having worked in a kitchen with skilled chefs, I am even more impressed with what it is that they try to accomplish for those out front.

And so you can imagine how thrilling it is to watch Grant do a cooking demonstration for us.

He walks on a small stage and says – it’s easy. There’s a misconception that it’s really difficult. It can be, but mostly it’s all small steps (what he doesn’t say is that it’s many many small steps)

He talks about the idea behind this plate: autumn. Memories for him of growing up in Michigan. It’s his favorite season. It reminds him of hunting with his dad, of being young and jumping in leaf piles, of the smell of leaves burning.

Quintessential fall, he says. And so I am playing with memory and playing with your past. It’s a search for emotional triggers.

Achatz puts together the components: apple cider gelee, granny smith apples, apple cider and pheasant breast. And herbs. He cooks it in a sealed pouch, then cubes the ingredients, cubes also a cooked shallot and then dips this in tempura.









Finally, he takes branches of fall leaves and uses them as skewers. The leaves will be burned, the aroma will be intense.









Grant laughs as he recalls the presentation of this dish at Alinea. Because we take risks, there are always consequences. So we’re lighting these leaves and sending them out into the dining room and there are ashes everywhere. The general manager had to deal with this as chairs were getting stained and clothes are getting dirty and you could just see all the people sending us their cleaning bills… and then the embers from the leaves! We had to tell people – don’t touch the fire! And as we burn maybe 100 of these per night the whole place smells like one big campfire. But then, you see that some people are so moved by it. They’re laughing, they’re crying with the memory of it – it goes beyond just the bite.





After the cooking demonstration, we are invited to sample some Alinea tid bits, assembled for us around the room. Lobster cracker with tapioca and fennel mousse. Sort of like a lobster cheetoh, Grant explains. His little boys love the stuff. As opposed to, say, the lavender pillows – they tasted those and bluntly said shampoo! Then, the Alinea concord grape, and the bacon (Nueske’s! I asked.) with butterscotch, apple and thyme. Then the recently legalized in Illinois fois gras inside a crispy cinnamon meringue and an apple thing that sort of resembled a gummy bear. And finally, roasted pumpkin with whipped maple syrup, smoked salt, sage and cereal. I may have gotten the details slightly off. But you get the idea. Autumn.













As we walk, watch, eat and drink, Grant Achatz is signing his book. We each get a gift of his beautiful tome.






I have to say that this is art at the highest level. The book is dense, thick, beautiful. A great gift to anyone with an interest in food. Not for the recipes (although there are those), but for the ideas, for the beauty of visualizing a daring performance.

This year, Chef Achatz won the James Beard chef of the year award. No surprise there.


At dawn, I retrace my steps to the El, to the bus, to Madison, to work. The book is at my side. I look at it as a reminder of great ideas. It’s a good thing to occasionally get close to the masters. They sharpen your own edge and push you to try harder.

where am I?

Good question. A blogger should reveal that much: where, where is her mind right now?

I’ll answer briefly: I’m at the moment in a Chicago hotel. The view out the window is lovely, thanks to the kind desk clerk who put me up there where it’s grand, in spite of the not so grand cheaphotels.com reservation (made minutes before my departure).

I should not be here. I should not grasp at fanciful threads of improbable stories, I should not travel for frivolous reasons.

Still, I am here. Tomorrow, at the very tail end of the day, I’ll explain. For now – here’s a photo of my evening walk to an event at Millennium Park.



Purchase photo 2078

California!

Big Basin Redwood Forest spreads from the summits of the Santa Cruz Mountains to the Pacific Ocean. Barely sixty miles south from San Francisco airport, it sits there like a teardrop of quiet on an otherwise crowded California coastline.


FRIDAY

Late on this day, 3:15 to be exact, we leave the park headquarters and start the climb toward the highest summit. At 2280 feet it’s no Everest, but it’s been a long day and we are loaded down with water, in addition to the usual provisions. Ed can take in a gallon in a snap if it’s a warm day and we noted that it is hitting the low eighties as we leave the car.

I’m not psyched for this yet. The quiet is disturbing. Initially, we pass a day tripper or two, but soon the path is soulless. Deserted. The air is so still that every snap of a dead twig sends a vibration through the basin.


Purchase photo 2077


But from the beginning, the forest is breathtakingly beautiful. I’d been among the redwoods before, but here, in the dry wild of the Basin, it is so palpably enduring that it makes you feel small, and that’s a good thing. And physically small, too: the trees are so up there in the sky that surely they are higher than most any other growing thing on the planet.



Purchase photo 2076





Purchase photo 2075









Purchase photo 2074



It takes us nearly four hours to reach the campsite on the summit. The sun dips below the horizon as we threw down our gear. It’s a backwoods campground (mere clearings to pitch a tent, nothing else) and we’d been told we’d have it to ourselves that night.

All I can think of how still and quiet the forest is. Turn on the nature already!

Instead, Ed turns on the portable stove and we set about with our dinner routine.





By eight, the garbage wis neatly folded and put away and I am close to sleep, relieved at the sound of crickets. For the first hours of the night, they help kick the silence buzz from the head.

But at midnight, I'm alert again to the quiet. Except for an occasional crack and plop. I wake Ed. What’s that? Acorns falling. He’s right. All around us, acorns fall with a regularity that is comforting enough to push me back to sleep.


SATURDAY

We wake just before sunrise (6:30 maybe?). This is our ambitious day: hike back down, past headquarters then up again to another summit and then, all the way down to just a mile short of the sea. The rangers are dubious that we can pull it off. I guess our age shows.It’s a lot of up and down miles, and one leg of the trail is so steep that it’s recommended for horses only. But these people don’t know Ed. He’s a great climber and I am a great descender. Together, we sort of muddle through.




Purchase photo 2073





Purchase photo 2072






Purchase photo 2071






Purchase photo 2070



In a stroke of luck, we find a stream with water asking to be poured over the head, the upper body. Bath time. Of sorts. Refreshed, we continue.




Purchase photo 2069



And now it feels toasty warm. We’re walking the mountain ridge and there is little forest shade. We drink insane amounts of water. But it is pretty. The vegetation changes. The soil is different too. Sandy? Limestone? The morning scrub is a thing of the past. We are sweaty hot and our feet kick up dust.




Purchase photo 2068




Purchase photo 2067




Below, we see the goal: the coastline, with dense fog.




Purchase photo 2066




The good news is that we make it to the campsite by evening. The bad news is that it’s Saturday night and this place is close to California 1, the coastal road. The campground is full. Of high school aged kids. The chaperone looks at our tired frames and suggests meekly that maybe there’s a spot to pitch our tent around the bend, away from the sqeel of adolescence.

We find a place that’s okay. On a slope. Ed looks doubtful. I’ll roll into you. Let’s switch sides, you’ll squash me. We do. I roll. Never mind, we’re tired. We sleep 11 hours.


SUNDAY

We wake up cold. The fog is in from the ocean. The air is at least 30 degrees cooler. The dampness accumulates and drops down on leaves. The plop of acorns is replaced by the plop of fog.




Purchase photo 2065




Another ambitious day: hike down to the ocean, find water, please please find water, so that we don’t have to drink the undesirable stuff flowing past the campsite. Then, back into the mountains toward the falls and onto the next and final summit for an overnight.

The walk to the ocean is like a caress of luck: the fog lifts and drops, lifts and then drops with a final stubborn thump, but by that time we will have left the coast. For now, it is delightfully picturesque.




Purchase photo 2064





Purchase photo 2063



The trail runs past private property here and we note that old California superior growing season. I mean, this, at the end of September? And then a fresh bounty in February? Ridiculously spoiled.




Purchase photo 2062



The ocean has enough surf to bring out the men with boards. Like birds who ride the waves, they bob and wait for the big one. There are few big ones and so they spend a lot of time bobbing.




Purchase photo 2061



…while birds stick to the land…




Purchase photo 2060



…and tourists pull up on the road to get a glimpse of a California post card scene. Fog and all.










Purchase photo 2059



There is a horse campground here and we find a faucet outside. Thank you horse campground. We take gallons and gallons of the stuff, even though we are told that our last campground will have ready access to a drinkable stream. (Just fyi, don’t trust the park dudes on the subject of water; assume no water anywhere and you will not be disappointed.)



We climb up to the falls, past those magnificent, monstrously beautiful redwoods. Two thousand years old and going strong. Enduring major fires, and human foibles, they continue to stand tall. So very very tall.


For Ed, the best part of the park is the path next to the falls. Four of them – each delightful, unusual, mesmerizing.



Purchase photo 2058










Oh, but now we are tired. We unpack the tent by five, eat by six and fall asleep before 7. For twelve hours, we sleep. Okay, with interruptions. In the middle of the night, I hear delicate footsteps. Mountain cat? Fox? Wolf? What? Go back to sleep, Ed tells me. The noise stops, I sleep. Until the next one. The utter stillness is shattered. I hear the crash of a bigger mass moving through the dry twigs. Wait, they promised no bears. Ed? What the hell?? Quiet, he tells me. He snaps his fingers once, twice… The noise retreats. Go back to sleep. What was that?? Deer, obviously. Fine, but at night, it sounds like bears.

But we did spot deer. Twice. Black tailed, very people shy. Barely noticeable here, in this photo.





It’s funny how at night, you forget that deer are people shy. They seem, for once, mightier than you, there in your lightweight tent and your REI sleeping bag.


MONDAY

And now we must hurry. The goal is to meet my mom downtown SF for lunch and then dinner. We have more than three hours of hiking, a two hour car ride, a very much needed half hour for showering and a half hour BART commute to get through.

Our last trail is labeled strenuous, but it seems like a breeze. Our water supplies are depleted, our food bags are near empty. Lighter backpacks! Three hours and we’re done.

The forest remains as beautiful as the day we first walked into its fold. And why shouldn’t it be? I would hope that two thousand years down the road, it will be as lovely as on this day.



Ed, at the base of Berry Creek falls




Ocean author, hugging the smaller tree



My mom waits for us at the BART station downtown. We stroll (rather late) for a lunch salad (one misses salads when camping). The hours roll along leisurely now. The rush is done...





We take a cab down to Fisherman’s Wharf, for an early evening walk along the water’s edge.



Purchase photo 2057



She is almost 85, and she is a character. No, I’m not like her. I am a whisperer. She speaks with authority. I know no one who is like her. If, momentarily, I felt chastised by her formidable presence, it is a thing of the past. Today, she is determined to make this a memorable evening of good food. She knows I admire good kitchens and she has researched the dining options. She tells us that the hot off the press top pick remains Gary Danko.

I give Gary Danko an A+ for this evening. Here’s why: the food is, indeed wonderful . That’s perhaps predictable. You’re not number one if you can’t get your food stuff together in this culinary epicenter (I would say northern California is, indeed, a culinary epicenter, spoiled that they are by a generous clientele and fresh produce year-round). Lobster pieces on melon balls, pickled cucumber and mango. Corn chowder with Dungeness crab and pancetta biscuit. Salmon in crusted horseradish and mustard sauce… Mmmm…


But beyond that, their set price menu gives you total choice. You buy three courses, you get three courses. Any three courses. You want three seafoods? Go for it. Three apps? Yours.

And then, most importantly, there was their treatment of us. Picture this: my mom is wearing her bright red fleece to keep warm, her tennies to keep comfortable, her peasant cap because she likes the fashion statement, and a huge Obama button because she believes in the man. Ed, well, he’s in his best Ed garb: the black t-shirt I once bought him in an attempt to make him blend into the background. Me – I stuffed a sundress into my backpack at the last minute. Imagine the wrinkles. Oh, and my well worn ballet flats. For comfort on tired feet. We were, well, different.

The staff couldn’t have been nicer. The maitre d’ came up several times and commented on Ed’s hearty appetite (he wipes plates clean of all sauce with bread routinely) and my mom’s political leanings. We were not quiet (for God’s sake, my mother can’t hear “quiet”). We raided the menu of all the choice dishes. We drank, between the three of us, only one bottle of wine and it was hands down among the cheapest. A dry New Zealand Riesling.

We were treated like royalty.

Danko, you have the best staff in the world.

The cabbie who took us to the Bart station was eerily the same guy whom we had flagged to get us to Danko. An older guy who hated the East Bayside. My mom could have made mincemeat of him for that (she’s loyal to Berkeley). But they parted friends, especially once he told her he was soon packing his bags and moving to Italy.

My last memory of the evening is of listening to them pass words in Italian to each other -- of the mamma mia, mangia mangia type (neither claims to know more).

At the BART, we go one way and she the other. I leave her, content that she is exactly where she wants to be, doing exactly as she wants, dependent on no one, forging her way ahead, unencumbered by the caring for others which had so weighed her down, especially when we lived in Poland.

Before dawn, Ed and I head back home, to the Midwest. By late afternoon, I'm in class, teaching.

from California: not eaten by a bear

The hiking shoes are packed now. The dust of the dry California hills is scrubbed off (at least from the body if not yet the clothes), a post-camping dinner in downtown San Francisco with my mother could not be more different than Curry in a Hurry, made in 7 minutes with boiling water in a pouch, eaten in the dead silence of a redwood forest the night before.

I have a handful of hours before I need to catch a flight home. Please accept this brief Ocean post for now and log in tomorrow, and the next day for some tentative answers to the question that bugged me no end before we set out – why do people insist on camping in the wild, when there isn't running water within miles? Not even in the form of a babbling brook?

Only one photo for today. From this morning's hike, when the sun was just beginning to pierce through the cool air of a foggy dawn.



Purchase photo 2056

camping on the coast

Treat this like an “out to lunch” banner. I cannot post. I am in flight to California, then hiking in the Santa Cruz Mountains just south of San Francisco.

Three nights in the dry wilderness.

Aren’t you jealous?

I’ll be back on Monday. I hope. Stay happy.