Fresh Cracked Pepper

In Wired magazine’s Living by Numbers issue last summer, Gary Wolf wrote an article on what tracking every facet of our lives might look like. That feature’s play on the cover was what made me buy the issue in the first place, and I got a kick out of his precise record of everything from hours slept to milligrams of caffeine consumed. As he explained the degree to which “numbers are making their way into the smallest crevices of our lives,” I started thinking about my own relationship with personal data and how interesting it would be to have access to all these little statistics of life, from the mundane (how many cups of coffee), to the morose (how many hours spent waiting), to the pleasurable (how many hugs).

Trusting that others would find this equally interesting, Wolf started The Quantified Self, a website that tracks the release of web-based apps devoted to personal data gathering. This is all, of course, nothing new to athletes, who Wolf says are among the pioneers of this emerging culture of self-tracking. The training log has been a mainstay of the athletic world: an obsessive-compulsive’s (read: triathlete’s) best friend. Data made its way into my number-shy heart too, as triathlon revealed to me that everyone can learn to care about things they have no interest in if those things become useful to them. Perhaps this is obvious, but this is how it was for math and numbers when I tied them to activities I love.

This post marks the two-year anniversary of when I started reliably tracking my own athletic data. Maybe it’s more for me than my readers, who come looking for recipe ideas. But since my kitchen has cooled down (and shrunk!) significantly since relocating for a new job, I have other things to share right now. And as any multisport enthusiast can tell you, food and an active lifestyle are not only inextricably linked, but incredibly dependent on one another. (I’ve heard it said that the love of food is one of the chief reasons for getting into triathlon in the first place.)

On August 19th 2008, I started keeping track of my training (for my first marathon) on Runner’s World‘s Training Peaks-powered web log. I’d already trained for and raced my first Olympic-distance triathlon in the eight months leading up to that, but I don’t have those training hours recorded anywhere but on papers, long thrown away. On August 19th I became one of those people who goes out for a quick 4.62-miles, and logs 56.2 mile bike rides on the weekend. It was all about precision. Well, to a point: I stopped at just the basic record, forgoing elevation, calorie, mood, and meal trackers for somewhat of a more simplistic approach.

Still, it’s fun to look at the totals today, from the other side of that “can I do a triathlon?” experiment. It’s fun to look at all the memories, journeys, and goals, whether measured in miles, friendships, or bowls of popcorn and glasses of beer.

And so here it is, a probably-not-exact account of how my body kept busy over the last two years, not counting step classes with mom, walking to school or work, yoga, weight training, hikes with friends, snowshoeing with the hubby, or traversing new paths through Syracuse and D.C. No food. No recipes. Just numbers, glorious numbers.

Run: 1366 miles/257 hours

Bike: 2243 miles/168 hours

Swim: 57906 yards/103 hours

Race: 142 miles/17 hours

Since moving to California, I’ve become intrigued with Mexican cuisine. There’s a simple explanation for this new obsession: The serious dearth of authentic Mexican food in my hometown. (Carlos and Murphy’s anyone?) Even upstate New York blew me away with its variety of south-of-the-border-style fare. It was there I learned the pleasure of the tostada, and tasted what God had in mind when he created burritos.

And then, along came Southern California, taking me gently by the hand and saying, “little Canadian—how much you still do not understand.”

Though my first taste of horchata came in New Mexico, my first time making it happened right here in my new coastal home. I’d subsequently tried the creamy beverage in a few different tacquerias (to different levels of satisfaction), and I wanted to learn how to make the nutty refresher the old-fashioned way.

Consulting a version that included mashed strawberries from The New York Times, I forged ahead, omitting the berries and the crushed almond topping. The chef who created the recipe grew up on Mexico City and had authored a few books on the national cuisine, so I figured my horchata was in good hands.

I blanched and peeled almonds. (Trust me, next time I’ll buy them already blanched!) I soaked rice and cinnamon sticks overnight. I pureed and added sweetened condensed milk, that miracle of the canned dairy world. I waited. And then I strained. And strained and strained and strained, watching as precious drips of delicious horchata fell into the pitcher below. So far, so good.

It turned out as good as I’d hoped, though as with all experiments, yielded some lessons and future adaptations. It was far better than the overly sweet, pre-mixed version found at many taco shops, but not quite as good as the one we’d had in New Mexico with shaved ice. Next time I’d find a way to get shaved or crushed ice into my drink. Also, I found the final product too sweet. (Shockingly, the original article says that if you want it even creamier, to add a second can of S.C.M!! Ummm, no thanks, I’m not training for an Ironman—yet.) To counteract this, I’d add an extra cup of regular or evaporated milk to the finished product to “water” it down just a bit.

My second agua fresca came about in a manner similar to the aforementioned milky nectar. I had ordered my first tamarindo in the very same New Mexico taco shop, and when I arrived in California, the tart drink was available everywhere. When I found a huge bag of fresh tamarind pods at North Park Produce (the place I was so lovingly mocked for my enthusiasm at tamales), I saw visions of icy glasses of tamarindo dancing in my head.

As I cracked open my first sticky-sweet tamarind pod, a substance I’d only ever seen before in jars and packets of paste, I was intrigued. The pod cracks and falls open easily between the pressure of your fingers, like a perfectly boiled egg. Beneath it, five or six hard beans, the color of dark chocolate, lie encased in a sticky, date-like substance. Holding all the beans together is a netting you must pry each pod from, as if it were a precious fish meant to feed 5,000.

Homemade tamarindo, as I’d soon find out, was no quick task. But I’d made it myself, standing over my tiny counter, in my tiny apartment just five blocks from the coast, freeing all that delicious paste from its netting and then cleaning it off each hard pod. I followed a random internet recipe loosely, using all the pods in the bag (instead of the prescribed 1/3 cup), and boiling them with a big pot of water and some sugar. I set it in the fridge to “steep” overnight, just like the horchata, before straining it through a sieve.

The process was therapeutic—I was alone. It was rewarding—the citrusy drink would last a week in my fridge, refreshing, especially mixed with some soda water and ice. The world of Mexican beverages, like the food, was just beginning to open before me.

Continue reading ‘agua fresca de la casa‘

Warning: This post contains a glut of pictures of yours truly in the act of eating. Apparently I’ve been in a narcissistic phase as of late.

Today marks the one-month anniversary of my Southern California residency. Despite the stresses of finding a place to live, starting my career, trolling Craigslist and Target for basic necessities, and hauling heavy furniture across town, life has been pretty good.

The weather has been colder and gloomier than the locals say they have seen “in decades.” I haven’t joined a gym, found a place to worship (other than at the ocean shore), or made a ton of new friends. I have also not been cooking much, unless you count assembling salads and spreading peanut butter into ribs of celery. But I’m grateful for what I have, and for the daily reminder to be patient and persistent in making the life I want to live.

That’s one thing I love about food. In the sometimes mundane rhythm of hours, food is that shot of newness into the day. It’s something to look forward to, to plan for. Whether its a perfect avocado from a new friend’s tree (I guess we do have a few new friends!), or discovering this state’s mammoth raisins, relocating has its charms. Though I definitely do not have my kitchen groove back yet (and I haven’t been since living in Syracuse!), I am truly excited about everything my new home has to offer.

The situation looked a little dire at first. We couldn’t find a little ethnic market like we had in Syracuse, and the farmer’s market seemed so much more hoity-toity than the Central New York Regional Saturday mash-up. But we’re getting there, thanks of course to Trader Joe’s (which I’ve now been fully indoctrinated by), and a small market across the street from us called Just Peachy with excellent produce prices. Then, the other weekend (thanks to Chowhound) we found North Park Produce, and its shelves of fun ingredients provided an afternoon’s worth of entertainment.

Pussy willow water, anyone?

I know I’d heard of labne, or kefir cheese before, but this is the first time I’ve bought it. It’s lower in fat than cream cheese, and much more tangy. It’s excellent spread on sandwiches, or on a cracker with some raspberry jam.

At this same market (where we procured fresh tamarind, dirt-cheap olives, two kinds of feta, and so much more) we also sampled some most delicious tamales. I might have tried a tamale or two before, but I remember them being soggy and unimpressive. These ones were wrapped perfectly in corn husks and packed with cheese and jalepenos, not to mention the perfect texture and steaming-hot fresh.

Just as I was staging this “authentic food experience” for Mark to capture  on his iPhone, two women unloading their groceries next to us started giggling at me. Feeling a little sheepish, I started explaining that I was from the East and how you simply didn’t get good Mexican there. They offered us some of their sticky-soft Medjool dates, and all was well.

Then last weekend, in L.A. for the first time, I was treated to two new food experiences. After our coffees from Intelligentsia (esteemed in the coffee community), we walked around until our stomach started growling. Though the famous Kogi taco truck was too far away to follow, we did have the opportunity to dine on fusion truck food — something the city is known for. Our truck of the moment? Calbi, which you can follow too at twitter.com/calbibbq.

We shared a kimchi quesadilla (why haven’t I thought of that?!), a shrimp and a pork taco, seasoned with Korean spices. It was all delicious, and taken in on the street of Abbot Kinney, surrounded by hipsters in their full-sleeve tattoos and fluorescent cruisers, it felt very L.A.-esque.

I guess I have been doing a wee bit of cooking. At the same North Park market where we scored tamales and olives, I also bought a can of fava beans with cumin, and whipped up thislittle stew for us last night. You saute a few cloves of garlic and onion, add 3 small eggplants, cubed, stir in cumin and oregano, and cook until tender. At the end I added the can of fava beans, fresh mint, and a few drizzles of balsamic vinegar (you could use red wine too). Try it with pita bread, yogurt, and/or feta cheese.

Stay tuned for a post with some actual recipes in it (I know, it’s been ages!), starring the fresh tamarind I found at North Park, and more musings on this state’s excellent Mexican cuisine.

I took Mark out for his birthday four days early this year. No, I wasn’t rushing his advancement in age and wisdom. I simply wanted to treat him to one of his favorite things: excellent beer.

We managed to survive two weeks here without treating ourselves to one of this country’s finest breweries, and couldn’t hold out any longer.

So on an otherwise nondescript Monday evening, we tromped out to Stone Brewery, where gargoyles, chirping frogs, and every variety of ales and lagers waited. I felt immediately transported into some kind of Trappist monastery-meets-Midsummer-Night’s-Dream haze: in their extensive gardens, water trickled into ponds and fire bounced off slabs of stone. Revelry and tranquility cohabited the grounds as the evening rolled out one taste experience after another.

First order of business was dinner in what is properly called Stone Brewing World Bistro & Gardens. Mark ordered Stone’s own Oaked Arrogant Bastard Ale, and I chose the O’Briens IPA from California’s Alpine Beer Company.

Next came dinner. Once our server informed us that we realized were weren’t in fact limited to the “Meatless Monday” menu that was placed before us, Mark proceeded to order the Artisan Sausage Platter: Two locally-made sausages braised in Stone’s Smoked Porter, and served with herb roasted potatoes, braised cabbage and a side of stone ground mustard. I tasted his meal (twice!), and it was delicious. Something about it reminded me of the way the Forks Market in Winnipeg smells. Strange, but we can’t always control our taste associations, can we?

Despite the offerings of meat, I went with one of the Meatless Monday options: Tofu Yakisoba. It wasn’t life-changing, but it had a nice crunch of cashews mixed with chewy tofu, bright vegetables, and perfectly-chewy noodles.

And then there was dessert—one that made up for anything my (perfectly suitable) meal had lacked. I’d decided to take half my dinner home with me, and so had plenty of room for one of the BEST after-dinner indulgences I’ve ever had: Blueberry Blue Cheese Jalepeño Cheesecake. Yes, you heard that right.

I’ve loved cheesecake ever since I was little kid, and I was grateful to Mark for sacrificing his love of chocolate for this experiment (and on his birthday, too!) And it was a successful experiment, indeed: The small round of incredibly rich, soft, disappear-on-your-tongue cheesecake was accented with tiny flecks of green jalepeños and tasted ever so subtly of blue cheese. On top was a compote of blueberries and jalepeños preserved in syrup. The dessert had all of the flavor of the peppers formerly known as hot, and none of the heat. Each mouthful reminded me never to be afraid of unusual pairings.

After dinner we joined the brewery’s “DR.” Bill Sysak upstairs for one of his “Beer U” events. This one was subtitled “Sensory Evaluation,” and with his guidance we learned to properly taste about eight different beers. While the experience was far from being foreign to us, it was great fun to try such a varied line-up (including one that tasted like railway ties … in a good way!) We learned a bunch of interesting facts spanning everything from history to hops, and left pleasantly enlightened. I had no idea that San Diego was so well-known for its style of IPAs … one of our favorite styles!

The brewery offers an impressive list of weekly events including movie nights and beer pairings. Next time you’re in the area (if we don’t succeed in taking you there first!) be sure to check it out. If you love beer, don’t worry: There are no Millers or Budweisers in sight.

Stone Brewing Company/ World Bistro & Gardens
1999 Citracado Parkway
Escondido, CA 92029
760.294.7866

Dear Syracuse,

I regret not taking the time to say a proper goodbye. When I left for the bright lights of D.C., I bid you a brief farewell, and then let other things distract my mind (and stomach!) I wasn’t sure if or when I’d see you again, and so left the goodbye—as so many others in my life—pending.

So I’m back to say thank you for (among many other things) nurturing my love of food. Some people will be surprised by this, especially my friends and fellow eaters in D.C., New York, and L.A. But you, quiet Syracuse, gave birth not only to this blog, but to many of my culinary discoveries and triumphs. It wouldn’t be right to leave without paying tribute to you and your surrounding Upstate lands.

Looking back over those early entries, newly transplanted to your Northeastern soil, I can’t help but smile at all the firsts I experienced with you: cooking my first free-range chicken, en cocotte, making the foods I missed the most about home (like this coffee cake), and perfecting my never-the-same-way-twice granola method. You’re where I had a unique gift of time: time to learn to bake a proper loaf of bread, time to experiment with homemade energy bars until they were good enough to share, time to ferment things like kefir, kombucha, and kimchi. Time to try things like triathlon, which upped my need for tasty fuel.

I’m going to miss a lot of things about you. First-time experiences, like fall apple-picking and sauce-making.

And though everyone’s promised unparalleled farmer’s market here in California, all your little gems, tucked away in alleyways. Shops like Samir’s on East Genesee Street, where we bought fresh halwa, cheap olives, and excellent cheese of all varieties on a regular basis. (When I asked at an international grocery store where we could find fresh halwa in San Diego yesterday, the clerk pointed us to the packaged stuff—boo!) Oh yes, and the Oriental House of Syracuse on Erie—the only good thing the boulevard had to offer—where we found this syrup that was better than any bottled ginger beer out there. (Add it to soda water and you’ve got your brew!)

My new farmer’s market might be five blocks from the coast, but I’ll miss my weekend trips to your Regional Farmer’s Market, where we could stock up on free-range bison meat—something I have yet to see here—and where I got the ingredients for my first adventure in canning. And the Syracuse Real Food Co-op, a tiny place that was always bright and welcoming and only a few blocks away? I’ll miss that too, where I could always discover cool new everyday ingredients like this slab of tempeh.

And, of course, your restaurants. You may not have the French Laundry or an Alinea, but you have Eva’s for perogies almost as good as my great-grandmother used to make. You have Lao Village for deliciously fresh Thai. And you are home to our mainstay, Alto Cinco, which I never posted on, but who’s burritos and beer fueled my first triathlon.

You delivered so many new experiences, like eating a whole fish at China Road (a restaurant I stupidly only visited once), and my first life-changing BBQ at the oft-patronized Dinosaur—home to many pig-out nights with friends (exhibit A) and family (exhibit B).

And your little hole-in-the-walls that only friends could turn you on to, like the Mexican restaurant in the back of a Tipp Hill bar called Steve’s and the greasy breakfast joint, Mother’s Cupboard in Eastwood. It’s these little spots that made me feel at home in your streets in a relatively short period of time.

Yes, North County San Diego is pretty. The ocean is a nice thing to wake up to, and I wouldn’t trade that bike ride for a thousand walks down Euclid. The temperature here is a calm glass lake to your turbid temperatures, and there’s more variety being near to a big city than I’ve yet had the chance to explore. But it’s not home here yet, and while I’m in that frame of mind I wanted to thank you for all the unexpectedly memorable experiences you provided. You were a stop along the way, but also a signpost, and I will look back on my time with you as I do all the other great places I have known.

With fondness,

Jen

In my last post, I managed to sneak a bit of food-talk between paragraphs of moving-onset nostalgia. I shared my last D.C. supper, as well as a random sample of the meals that welcomed me to California. I shared the wild fun of cleaning out a freezer you’ve occupied for three years, and my worries of falling back into road trip temptations.

And I promised there would be more. Traveling across this vast country is a food-lover’s joy ride: as with souvenirs and roadside stops, everything is tinted with kitsch. Food is no exception. Along our NY-PA-OH-IN-IL-MO-OK-TX-NM-AZ-CA trail we’ve found Cheese Barns to rival Wisconsin’s and all manner of fried eggs, flattened burgers, and iceberg lettuce salads. Thank goodness we haven’t bought, stopped at, or eaten any of it.

Our first real respite from McDonald’s (yes, we gave in to the Egg McMuffin’s seductive power, but it was so early and our bellies so empty!) came at the hands of our friends Bill and Emily. Everything at what they called their “Love Fest” was fresh, local, and organic: There were curried empanadas, sun-dried tomato polenta triangles, and cheese to snack on after the ceremony. For dinner, fresh salad, cold-smoked pork, and wood-fired chicken were served.

The best part of sitting down to witness my friends’ vows in the 30-degree-and-humid heat, however, was the “Sapphire in Bloom” cocktail I got to nurse in my adorable Ball jar glass:  a blend of Bombay Sapphire gin, St. Germain Elderflower liqueur, honey, soda, and fresh herbs over ice.

Back on the road. I wouldn’t think about food so much if driving weren’t so mind-numbing. Of course we embarked well-equipped: a recording of my Grandpa reading The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, and enough RadioLab podcasts to earn a BSc with.  But after a while, the hum of the road sort of lulls you into a trance. And we all know what goes well with that state of being: food, in all it’s munchy, boredom-reducing glory.

I’m just glad I packed good chocolate (for sweet cravings) and carrots (for crunch). One thing this adventure has made me more appreciate of is my mother’s ability, rest stop after rest stop, to provide ample sustenance to a family of five on our long summer trips. It’s a little easier to bulk buy for a family of five than two, but the memory of a cooler full of her lovingly packed sandwiches has made my mouth water more than a few times on this trek.

In place of towing our mothers along (and mine’s so small she might just have fit!), we moderns have Yelp, the wonderful on-the-road food finder. Between the wedding victuals and what I know awaits in California, Yelp helped us lasso down dinner in Oklahoma and New Mexico. On our way from Springfield, IL to Amarillo, TX (where we’d be greeted in the morning by locally-roasted coffee, fresh bagels, berries, granola, and yogurt at the home of one of Mark’s former babysitters), we found this little Pho shop just outside of Oklahoma City. It didn’t hold a candle to Pho 14 in D.C., but its house-made broths of noodles, shrimp, bean sprouts, basil, and thin cuts of beef truly satisfied.

Part of the fun was getting pho in Oklahoma, of all places, where they apparently have to explain what pho is on the sig—so much different than living in a city where whole suburban complexes are devoted to the cuisine. You’ve got to hand it to them for at least trying to expand beyond Outback Steakhouse!

Yelp also delivered us into the hands of this wonderfully kitschy (this time in a good way) Tacqueria at 415 Lomas Blvd NE in Albuquerque, NM. Reviewers raved about their “old Mexican” cuisine, service, portions, and prices. We pulled up in a small gravel parking lot next to a mechanic shop, and unfurled our crunched-up, Jetta-ed bodies into the 34-degree New Mexico afternoon.

We plunked ourselves down in the tiny dining room, which looked like it once catered to fried-egg eating, coffee-sipping morning laborers. The stools were topped in faded blue pleather, and behind the open counter at least four each of cooks and waitstaff moved. I don’t even remember if the place was air-conditioned (which it probably wasn’t) due to the agua fresca that was soon placed before me. I chose the tart tamarindo (you guessed it, tamarind), while Mark sipped on a sweeter horchata made from ground almonds, barley, spices, and sugar.

Now I’m no expert in Mexican cuisine (CA, here I come!), and I don’t know what the heck “old Mexican” is supposed to mean, but I was impressed with my choices: a ceviche tostada, a crispy corn tortilla topped with ceviche-style shrimp, fresh lime juice, cilantro, and tomatoes, and two tacos, one langue (beef tongue), and the other adobada (pork). These two came with ample toppings and loads of fresh cilantro. Mark had a platter brimming with all kinds of goodies I can’t now remember.

My guess is that this more traditional style of Mexican is just simpler than a lot of the food I’ve been introduced to so far here in the U.S: tofu burritos a la Syracuse’s Alto Cinco, for example. I’ve had some pretty bad Mexican here (a soggy, greasy, and warm taco salad in Nixa, MO comes to mind), but it’s the kind of food I’m always hunting for. This tacqueria provided a hearty and fresh, cheery and prompt meal to two weary travelers. Whatever kind of food it is that they serve, I’m a fan.

One state away from our destination and with help like this, the report looks good: I’ve managed to stave off cravings for kettle-cooked chips, Nibs, and Twix bars at bay with ease. Sure there have been more sodas than usual, but for me as long as it’s got “diet” (or even better, “zero”) in the title, it passes the test. Sure there have been indulgences (wedding cupcakes, post-Grand Canyon soft serve), but what’s not to celebrate when love and breathtaking views show up?

Lastly, I come to the brewpub responsible for two out of three of our dinners in this wild and colorful town. It’s our last night in Arizona, and in Flagstaff, home base for our daily hikes in the Canyon and Sedona’s red rocks. I sit typing at one of the Grand Canyon International Hostel’s open windows, where the noise of mid-week revelers is broken only by the sound of trains rumbling by every hour.

Usually Mark and I like to try new things, whether it’s a new restaurant or recipe. Besides a few signature dishes and favorite restaurants, when it comes to food, we generally don’t like to repeat ourselves. That is, unless we find something that just works, like post-hike dinners on Flagstaff Brewing Company‘s patio. Beer seems to be on our minds more than usual here in Arizona: our first night in town we ate and watered ourselves at the Lumberyard Brewing Company just down the street from the hostel, where we had their decent IPA, nachos, and a surprisingly good Black Bean Hummus Reuben.

After logging about seven miles in the hot sun on the Grand Canyon’s south rim (and the previously mentioned soft-serve!) we happened upon FBC. We were ravenous, and so after briefly glancing over the menu, found ourselves a seat on their courtyard patio. I had a Greek Salad with some of the most garlicky dressing I’ve ever tasted (which again greeted me this morning!), but Mark’s Black and Blue Burger was the to die for meal of the evening — if it doesn’t clog the arteries, first! A black peppercorn-crusted patty topped with blue cheese, two onion rings, and chipotle mayo? I’m just thankful he let me have two good-sized bites. That’s love.

After our hike today along Oak Creek (near Sedona), and upon agreeing that the Flagstaff evening scene was considerably cooler than Sedona’s, we came back for more. You can’t say we didn’t try: we scoped out two other restaurants, but none of them appealed to the patio-happy delirium we’d experienced the night prior. Back we went. This time, as you’ll see pictured above, one of us decided to try the Pear Burger (a roasted pear and blue cheese burger drizzled with balsamic glaze), while the other went for the house-made Black Bean Burger with avocado, tomato, and roasted green chiles. I’ll let you figure out who ordered what.

Arizona surprised me, I must say. It really has so much more going for it than sketchy immigration policies, and the white hair and golf courses I expected. A real wilderness culture, not to mention some darn good beer and burger action, lives among its red canyons and hot pine forests.

Maybe, when California rests from courting me, I’ll come back for a little bit more.

“Whirlwind.” “Roller coaster.” “Bittersweet.” None of the moving clichés are right. Each time, packing feels like something vaguely familiar—something I should be good at by now but for some reason am not.

For all the times I’ve moved, I really should be a pro: At 20, loading up two decades into a U-Haul in my parents’ driveway; at 23 to the apartment where I’d live alone for the first—and only—time; at 24 to a mountain lodge and back; at 25 from a ex-boyfriend’s house to a friend’s sun-room and then to Vancouver; at 26 to Upstate New York with my new husband; at 29 to D.C. for yet another solo jaunt.

Orange-zest sticky bun heaven (Pannikin, Leucadia, CA)

That pile of boxes—life squirreled away in cardboard—brings as many puffs of nostalgia as it does dust. Piles of papers and coins, clothes to give away, friends to see—so many lasts. It’s not fun being so well-versed in goodbyes.

Not that I’m unhappy: As many of you know, I’ve just landed what I can fairly call a dream job at a triathlon magazine in San Diego. It all happened so fast: an email, a telephone call, and a fly-out interview. Back in D.C. I wrapped things up, re-connected with my similarly jet-setting husband, and packed the Jetta for Syracuse.

How does one keep a food blog at a time like this? Not well, I’m afraid. But bear with me: Southern Californian delicacies are on the menu for the next season of freshcrackedpepper.

Curry mussels (Café St. Ex, D.C.)

For now then, the story of how one food-loving wanderer eats her way west.

While in San Diego for my interview, the coast established itself as a mecca of bee pollen/hippie cuisine, flirt-worthy sushi, and orange-zest sticky buns on the ocean (pictured above).

Back in D.C., I had to choose a place for my “last supper” in the city that had been so good to me (bike accident battle scars aside!) I thought back fondly on all the cupcakes, ethnic morsels, and new experiences (like brewing beer for the first time) D.C. had offered. Indeed, it was more than just a six-month stopover between Syracuse’s ports and San Diego’s harbor: it was a satisfying sojourn in and of itself.

Spinach Salad with Cocoa-Balsamic Vinaigrette (Café St. Ex, D.C.)

I settled on Café St. Ex in the U Street neighborhood, for their cute street patio and the great food I’d had at their sister business, Bar Pilar. Our meal of mussels, salad, and a Fried Green Tomato B.L.T. was summery and simple, a good memory to part on. In the very near future, I’ll be experimenting with how to incorporate cocoa into my balsamic vinaigrette.

And their sweet potato fries with just a touch of sweet-salty cinnamon? For those I might be willing to endure a humid D.C. summer. Although I’m sure the West Coast will have a suitable contender.

Fried Green Tomato B.L.T. (Café St. Ex, D.C.)

Back in Syracuse, eating quickly became a mindless task in a long list of to-do’s. Canned baked beans and back-0f-the-freezer discoveries were supplemented with the summer’s first corn (decent, though no sweet ears of late July) and the generous grills of good friends. I think beer might have supplied a higher percentage of my daily calories than is advisable, but my triathlon friends (not to mention all those boxes) helped me keep the negative effects to a minimum.

We set sail yesterday for our cross-country adventure, flung back into the arms of McDonald’s (recommended for their free wireless only), Starbucks (for the only suitable road coffee), Chipotle (yum), and friends along the way (rhubarb ice cream—thanks, Kristen!) After tonight’s quick stopover in Springfield for our dear friends’ wedding, we’ll join up with old Route 66, John Steinbeck’s “Mother Road,” and be on our way to the Texas panhandle.

More to come.

Contrary to the do-it-yourself ethos I usually embrace on on this blog, over the next few weeks I’m going to feature some products that have won my urban 9 to 5 heart—one that is often too busy to sweat away over multiple-step bread, edible heirloom cookies, or even my favorite summer salad.

As much as I’ve cherished how resourceful it feels making certain breakfast staples yourself, over the past six months I’ve realize how thankful I am for the commercial luxuries of modern life. Processed foods might be evil, but I’ve come to appreciate the less-processed (but still packaged) ones among them for the respite they bring. Besides, after a long day, tough run, and hours spent applying for jobs, who has the time to slaughter a chicken?

First up: this Al Fresco Sweet Apple Chicken Sausage I picked up on a whim the other day, my nostrils full of the scents of summer barbecues. At only 160 calories and 7 grams of fat per link, these babies deliver 14 whole grams of lean protein—just what I needed after a tough 35-mile cycle this morning with my local riding group.

After postponing tonight’s dinner date to tomorrow, I faced a solo supper. And as another near-perfect weekend slipped away, filtered like evening light through the tree branches, I began to ponder the plate: Burritos with that frozen tempeh I needed to use? Salad with the lettuce I didn’t want to spoil? A new twist on the tomato-asparagus omelette I’d had for a post-bike brunch?

The answer was sausage.

My neighbors had been grilling all afternoon, and I wasn’t going to let them have the best of my cravings. I ripped open the package, doubtful as usual of this type of stuff, and popped a link under the broiler. Then I pulled out the brown lentil-and-white bean mix I’d cooked up last week, part of which were made into the hummus that exploded all over my bag after my unfortunate altercation with a taxicab. Inspired by a recent tapas brunch with Mark at the Bethesda Jaleo, I poured olive oil into a pan and sauteed a small onion and a clove of garlic with some sage. Then I dumped in a few spoonfuls of the legume mix, and stirred away, as if making hash browns. But it needed something green … the kale I’d just bought at Glut would do! In it went to wilt among the beans.

I took the black-tinged sausage out of the oven, piled some of the bean and kale mix on the side, and topped it with fresh lemon and some chili flakes. As soon as my meal’s potential started to waft towards me, I ran upstairs to grab my “lesser” camera. Just in case it was as good as it looked, I wanted a record. Luckily for fresh cracked pepper, it was.

The sausage was surprisingly healthy-tasting (I have friends who question me on whether something can taste health!), its maple-syrup sweetness not overbearing. As the sausage casing gave way with a yielding snap, I was reminded of why my vegetarianism will only ever be of the pseudo- variety. And since this article on vegan ultra-runner Scott Jurek came out, my athleticism no longer justifies my consumption of animal protein.

Regardless of why I gave in to the sausage (craving, taste, or whim), hopefully the shot of protein will help offset last week’s fatigue. What causes tiredness anyway? An unexpected bout of excitement that eventually must give way to everyday life? Sleep patterns? Boredom? Lack of iron or protein? All I know is that I can’t figure out why some weeks I feel like a slug in Savasana, and others like a caffeinated cheetah.

What a perfect weekend. Swimming, followed by yoga with a thunderstorm soundtrack. Running, yard parties, and a new bra. An impromptu Turkish picnic. A long ride, “chewy” coffee, and a conversation with a much-loved cousin. A slow afternoon eating Spanish tapas for one, and later sipping wine with wonderful housemates.

Whatever tomorrow brings, my arms are open.

(Stay tuned for the next “product placement” post, coming to a cracked-up blog near you.)

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Product: Al Fresco Sweet Apple Chicken Sausage

Ingredients: Skinless chicken meat, pure maple syrup, evaporated can syrup, evaporated cane juice, dried apples, salt, lemon juice, water, spices, natural pork casing.

A weeknight dinner with a friend last week was colored in shades of green: Armed with key lime cupcakes I managed to lure her out to the Maryland boonies. She followed in a healthier suit, offering fresh, local asparagus.

I began to plan out the sustenance for our evening, but I didn’t have to think very hard. As soon as she mentioned her seasonal stalks, a recent Runner’s World recipe for naan bread pizza sprung to mind. Its unique fusion of an Indian staple, pesto, ricotta, and asparagus caught my eye. The fact that I already had half the ingredients on hand sealed the deal.

She arrived on a May evening almost warm enough to want to keep dinner an no-oven affair. But I wasn’t about to change the plan just because of a little sweat. We opened the windows, and as we snapped the stalks at the point of tenderness and chopped basil, began our many-weeks-in-waiting catch up session.

The frozen naan came from a darling Indian grocery store on University Boulevard—the very same one that ended a recent quest for small eggplants. I had turkey bacon in the freezer as well, and had picked up ricotta on my bike ride home. The recipe called for pesto, but my local grocery store isn’t quite so posh, so I bought fresh basil instead. I wasn’t sure what the block of cheese left in my fridge was exactly (Pecorino? Provolone?) but it was whitish and tangy and I was sure it would do.

The three mini, triangle-shaped pizzas came out light, crisp, and with a creamy pizza bianca base minus all the fat. I devoured my turkey-bacon topped variety, whereas my companion chose an asparagus-heavy vegetarian version. The pizzas were surprisingly filling, but left just a corner for tea and cupcakes on the front porch.

Satiated, we bid the day’s light farewell from the refuge of my blossoming front yard. We talked about our futures in journalism, immigration, family, and of course, relationships.

Yesterday another, less ambrosial occasion for the pizza arose. On my daily, 9-mile commute to work, I had another run-in with a car. Yes, another. It had happened just a few weeks before when a woman made a right turn into my bike lane without signaling. Yesterday’s event was practically a carbon copy, only this time it was a taxi driver (who had apparently signaled), and there was a large container of hummus involved.

There’s nothing like starting your day off with tears, embarrassment, and exploded hummus you got up early to make. Not to mention the family of new bruises and scrapes etched in the shape of tire tread across your shin. I was shaken up all day, and despite ice, my ankle and lower leg ached until sleep arrived to take pain’s place.

After work I took my bike for some minor break tweaks at a downtown bike shop, and, still car-spooked, hopped the metro home. Dinner that didn’t require too many new ingredients or a recipe was definitely in order. I stopped for asparagus, and had dinner ready as fast as you can say “I hate cars.” (OK, I might have said a little more than that, come to think of it.)

I laughed when I found out that asparagus it’s rich in rich in bone-building vitamin K, said to protect the body against fractures. I guess that casual dinner last week was more than just a delivery method for fresh spring flavor.

I smiled again when I sat down to eat and opened up the book I’m reading (subtitled “Confessions of Cooking for One and Dining Alone”) to find that the next piece was about a woman who decided to eat asparagus every day for two months one spring. I leave you with her words:

How to be an asparagus superhero

Begin at the first hint of asparagus in your area.

Pick asparagus in the early morning while it is still dewy, or find people who wake up on dewy mornings and pick it for you. Have some coffee.

Eat the first piece raw. Test your biceps.

Week One: Cook the asparagus unadulturated for as long as possible. Keep some eggs and starches—rice, pasta, bread—around, and just enough meat to use as a condiment, like some bacon or a jar of anchovies.

See how fast you can run, how high you can jump. Alone or in company, use your fingers. Have plenty of fluids. Pee regularly. Tell everyone you never skip a day. Eat to impress.

Week Six: Just when you think you cannot be a superhero any longer, break asparagus into bits and hide it inside things.

Week Seven (The End): Roast one last time. Squeeze lemon to finish. Finish.

-Phobe Nobles, from Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant. Riverhead Books, 2007.

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