Up and down hills and stairs, through sidestreets that barely, but convincingly, straddle cars, past garbage piled on corners, over the endless piles of shit filling in the cracks in the cobblestones, the cracks in the soles of our shoes. We walked ceaselessly across Lisbon. There was always more to see, [...]]]>

Up and down hills and stairs, through sidestreets that barely, but convincingly, straddle cars, past garbage piled on corners, over the endless piles of shit filling in the cracks in the cobblestones, the cracks in the soles of our shoes. We walked ceaselessly across Lisbon. There was always more to see, but over the course of several days staying there I don’t know that we ever came close to making sense of any of it.

Situated at the mouth of the Tagus River and the Atlantic, Lisbon remains a city of eclectic intersections: old world and progressive europe, aristocratic avenues and drunkards’ piss alleys, a young artist’s haven and an old fisherman’s lonely nostalgia.

Even with its surface similarities to San Francisco – the ersatz Golden Gate bridge span, the cable car-like trams that wend their way through the streets – it proved a hard nut to crack. Parks were fairly empty, buildings sat broken and haunted, but at night the bars, restaurants and cafes swelled with people.

In the end, we learned to take pleasure in the simplest things: a bag of stellar cookies rich with egg yolks at Quinoa Bakery, a half-decent lunch from a seasonal menu at Kaffeehaus, and finally, after weeks, an honest to god plate of some fucking salad greens. It’s true, there is a little bit of San Francisco to this place after all.

Porto was our first stop in Portugal.  Our first impression was that we were no longer in Madrid – and that meant that things could only improve. But once we reached the [...]]]> I’m going to dispense with chronology, otherwise I’ll never put this stuff up. So let’s start in the middle.

Porto was our first stop in Portugal.  Our first impression was that we were no longer in Madrid – and that meant that things could only improve. But once we reached the historical center it quickly charmed us. I’d sooner spend 5 years in Porto than 5 days in Madrid. It’s a rough-and-tumble port town, like Naples, that’s past its prime but with a worn and weary elegance that’s seductive.

Porto is a very walkable city. Follow the narrow cobblestone streets past tumbledown art deco facades and you can wind your way up and over hills or jump on the streetcar and take it out to the mouth of the Douro River where it meets the Atlantic.

Lovely painted tiles, azulejos, lend character to almost every surface that isn’t covered with graffiti.

The food was marvelous in that there was flavor and it appeared to be cooked. Again, we had just come from Madrid. The pastries and confections rival french and italian for sheer variety and this flaky, buttery fan of dough filled with seasoned ground meat practically bears the impression of our satisfied smiles at the other end. We had our first taste of a dense and moist traditional portuguese bread at the Mercado do Bolhao and later that night enjoyed a simple, but lovely meal at Casa Aleixo where grandmas wrapped their arms around our shoulders and made sure we ate every last bite of alheira, octopus and pork.

We traveled up the Douro by slow, swaying train and stayed in the tiniest of towns called Pinhoa. Our hotel was more reminiscent of an industrial garage on the Balkan Riviera than riverfront in Portugal, but we were well fed and, really, for this trip, that was better than average.

One thing I was completely unprepared for was the language. The Portuguese spoken by locals sounded unlike anything I’d heard elsewhere, more measured and throaty than the slippery, rapid-fire tongue of their Spanish neighbors, like it was akin to some dialect in the Eastern Bloc. Thankfully, there’s always a bit of entertainment to find in language usage when traveling abroad. In past trips to Italy, we made acquaintance with the denim brand GAS, that offered underwear bearing the crystal-bedazzled label “GAS” on the backside. And the airport fast-food counter that beckoned customers with the slogan “Freshness is Protagonist!” On our train leaving Porto for Lisbon, we were amazed to find a package of dark choco-cookies called Filipinos. Is the name derived from a misinterpretation of girl scout Tagalongs as Tagalog? I have no idea. But one bite and it was clear the name was the most interesting part about them.

Of course, in San Francisco, summer is all about delayed gratification. Much of the season (and in most parts of the city…) we suffer the [...]]]> Everything seems open and attainable come summertime. The days grow long, the produce grows unruly, sweetly pungent and psychedelic with color. Life is pregnant with possibility.

Point Reyes

Of course, in San Francisco, summer is all about delayed gratification. Much of the season (and in most parts of the city…) we suffer the mist and fog and wind until it breaks for our two-to-three week “Indian Summer” in late September and October. The farmers markets suddenly don’t feel like sad postcards from exotic, sunnier climes. We shed our sensible layers of clothing. Some head to the ocean for some almost-swimming. Some head to Dolores Park to revel in the orgy of Riviera-like sunbathing and dive bar bacchanalia. Others aim for Golden Gate Park and the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival which bustles with a heady blend of dust, banjos, sweat, patchouli and fried foods.

Even if the weather outside exercises its maddening, grey subterfuge, I can still indulge in summer through food. One of my favorite ways is with a bread salad. As with many great but simple dishes, this starts out with slightly stale bread. I like to crisp mine briefly in the oven with fresh herbs, salt and pepper. I have the great fortune of working for Mariquita Farm who farm like painter-scholars, growing produce as beautiful as it is nourishing, and summer shows the farm’s work at its most painterly zenith.

Summer in a dish

Culled mostly from my Mariquita ‘Mystery Box’ this bread salad has roasted eggplant, heirloom tomatoes, basil, radicchio, baby artichokes and roasted cauliflower, dressed simply with the best olive oil and vinegar, and topped with burrata. Even if I can’t see the sun, I can taste it, and sometimes that’s all I need to feel good.

My first jelly – featuring the last of the Pink Pearls. A couple sprigs of tarragon, just cause. And a shit ton of sugar, which is not normally my taste, but I aimed for a classic british jelly my first go-round.

Note: for a clear jelly don’t get greedy and squeeze the [...]]]>  

My first jelly – featuring the last of the Pink Pearls. A couple sprigs of tarragon, just cause. And a shit ton of sugar, which is not normally my taste, but I aimed for a classic british jelly my first go-round.

Pink Pearl Apple and Tarragon Jelly

Note: for a clear jelly don’t get greedy and squeeze the jelly bag like I did (not what you’re thinking, deviant) or tiny bits of pulp will make the final product cloudy.

I suppose the flag carries different levels of meaning for everyone. For me, it always hearkens back to my youth, where the “Made in America” labels were prominently displayed on packages of tube socks or steel outdoor furniture.

For my ultra-patriotic neighbor, it probably carries several meanings, but in his [...]]]>  

I suppose the flag carries different levels of meaning for everyone. For me, it always hearkens back to my youth, where the “Made in America” labels were prominently displayed on packages of tube socks or steel outdoor furniture.

For my ultra-patriotic neighbor, it probably carries several meanings, but in his deeds as good samaritan on our street it certainly signals “Careful, poop on there.”

My little apartment garden doesn’t provide much for food as it does simple pleasures. 

When I see sprouts peek through the surface of the soil I feel like a scientist beaming at some feat of alchemical transformation, even though I know I planted the [...]]]>

My little apartment garden doesn’t provide much for food as it does simple pleasures. 

When I see sprouts peek through the surface of the soil I feel like a scientist beaming at some feat of alchemical transformation, even though I know I planted the seed only days earlier. The plant cycle is hardly as complicated as turning metals to gold, but it still invokes an aura of mystery for me that defies, well, nature.

I’ve already chronicled my nauseating joy with flowers. But let me repeat: golly, they’re pretty. And tasty, too. A few arugula blossoms on a slice of country bread smeared with a fresh cheese is as painterly as it is piquant.

Almost as exciting is the shift in the plant cycle from fading blooms to seed production. We’d never know it this year in wintery San Francisco, but summer is waning and my plants are keener at recognizing this. Though we’re always encouraged as gardeners to clip spent flowers to encourage more blooms, I’m making an effort this year to let some of the flowers go to seed so I can save it. I love seeing where the seeds develop and the systems each plant has devised to disperse their germ.

Chive flowers are tasty but you’ll notice a distinct crunch if you let them go to seed.

Chives

This Clarkia flowered its socks off for months, but I think the crown-shaped funnels the seeds slide down are its most striking feature.

Clarkia purpurea

Is there a more prolific plant than the Sunflower? I could keep throwing down seeds for years from just one seed head.

Sunflower

Once the husks fall away, the pellucid rice paper remains of this arugula plant are as worthy of a flower vase as the flowers that preceded them.

Arugula

Sidewalk chalk drawings are one those urban features, like paw prints to a tracker, that remind me, indeed, children do reside in this city. Of course, the great sidewalk transit system of strollers in some neighborhoods also do that, but unlike strollers, I brighten up at the sight of chalk [...]]]>

Sidewalk chalk drawings are one those urban features, like paw prints to a tracker, that remind me, indeed, children do reside in this city. Of course, the great sidewalk transit system of strollers in some neighborhoods also do that, but unlike strollers, I brighten up at the sight of chalk drawings. Somehow, they’re reassuring to me – like four-square outlines on asphalt, jump ropes, and steel playground structures. When a stick of chalk and a vast gray cement canvas can still call to a child’s imagination, well, I don’t want to get all Stevie Wonder, but I think that’s a good thing.But when those chalk drawings illustrate some dark and savage fantasy, as in this case, with what appears to be a child giving a golden shower to a helpless turtle-cat, I thank god for birth control.