Chile-nectarine Smash

We drank a lot of things on the river. A lot a lot of things. Beer (homebrew, cheap, fancy), white wine, rose, all kinds of reds, margaritas, champagne, vodka on ice, jello shots (do you drink jello shots? anyway), gin and tonics, and as much water as was necessary to keep us hangover-free. The highlight of all the dranks, though, was Haley and Simone's chile-nectarine smash. This thing is divine - sweet and spicy, cool and hot, summer in a glass. Is it as delicious when not imbibed while sitting on a pool float in the sun and water, surrounded by redwoods? Tonight I'm going to find out. I'm pretty optimistic.

Chile-nectarine Smash

• 1/2 a nectarine, sliced
• pinch of sea salt
• 2 oz aged rum
• 1 oz fresh lime juice
• 3/4 oz chile-honey syrup

Gently muddle the nectarine slices in a shaker tin, then add a pinch of salt along with all the liquid ingredients. Add ice cubes and shake until chilled, then pour the liquid and cubes, unstrained, into a glass and garnish with a nectarine slice and serrano chile wheel.

Chile-honey syrup
Slice 1 serrano chile into 1/4-inch segments. Combine 1 cup of honey and 1 cup of water in a pan. Heat to a simmer, add the chile slices, then remove from the heat and cool. After 30 minutes, strain out the chile segments (Genevieve note: or don't!). Makes enough for about a dozen cocktails.

UPDATE: This finally happened, on Sunday night, and it was delicious! I need to get some rum that isn't Bacardi left by someone at our house after a rager, but even with the standard booze it's a delicious drink. Spicy and sweet and tart and eminently quaffable.

Russian Riverpalooza 2013

July has been kind to me. I spent a week floating on a river, then went to Palm Springs and baked in the heat while poolside at YxYY, and then I slept for a week when I got home (not really, but kind of). I have no groceries in the fridge, and our apartment is a mess, but there's a big dent in my pillow. My cats have been really happy with the cuddle time.

On the river we swam, floated, cooked, drank, laughed, read, applied sunscreen, and ate and ate and ate. There were flotillas, spicy cocktails, boozy popsicles, midafternoon gourmet river snacks, homemade tonic and Spiritworks gin, a game of dinner table telephone, a slightly ill bulldog puppy (Duncan!), a shark pinata, a slip and slide, a giant ice cream sundae, epic dinners, late night dance parties, pies of all kinds, hot tubbing, epic sangria, fireworks, cranky neighbors, sparklers, breakfast biscuits, birthday headware, and a lot more. It was a lot. A good lot. A lot of good. Photo retrospective below.

The best part, of course, was having lots of people I love around me, and seeing them love each other. New friendships came out of the week, I think - at the very least, there was a very high laugh-per-minute ratio. My stomach ached from laughing for days afterward. And I got to celebrate a big birthday in a very happy place.

The supplies. We may have overshopped.

Prepping for fireworks.

River fireworks. Happy birthday Amurica!

Our first flotilla 

Trust fund

My old boss has a Robert Downey Jr/Robert Duvall movie filming at his house in Massachusetts right now. Both the company blog post and the Boston Globe article on the situation are precious. His house, from what I remember, is lovely. The Godine office, on the other hand, was always a chaotic jumble of books and manuscripts, old computers that should have been obsolescensed a decade ago, and David's typewriter in pride of place on his desk. We were usually behind on rent, and it always felt like the end was nigh, but someone he always found the money to pay the printer, the authors, the landlord. From my understanding, it was usually family money that came through. When I see him, David always asks if Google is ready to buy his company yet. Not yet, I say. Oh well, he says, at least you can buy me lunch.

From the Globe:

Someone sticks their head in and informs the couple that Robert Downey Jr. has picked a Godine Publishing coffee mug to use in a scene, over 18 other mugs. “That’ll be great publicity!” Sara says. 

We’re still sitting on the porch when Robert Downey Jr. walks up from the yard. “Hi,” he waves. He talks with us for a few minutes, mentioning his two boys, a teenager and a toddler. I ask if he’s having fun with the film. “I don’t have a trust fund,” he says. “I gotta work for a living.” I think, I hope, that he is kidding. 

David mentions that he in fact does have a trust fund. “We should talk,” Downey says with a grin.

He goes off, and David notices a guy carrying trays headed for their driveway. “Here comes the food,” he says.

The madness of possibilities

All the below is from The Sisters Brothers by Patrick deWitt. It's about San Francisco during the gold rush, and it's not hard to see the parallel to our technology gold rush here and now. A great, greedy heart!

"I wonder if you two have had the pleasure of dining in our fair city? But no, I would know if you had, for your faces would be bloodless, and you would be muttering ceaseless insults to God in Heaven."

Charlie said, "I paid twenty-five dollars for a whore in Mayfield."

The man said, "You will pay that same amount to simply sit at the bar with them in San Francisco. To lie down with one, expect to put up a minimum of a hundred dollars."

"What man would pay that?" I asked.

"They are lining up to pay it. The whores are working fifteen-hour shifts and are said to make thousands of dollars per day. You must understand, gentlemen, that the tradition of thrift and sensible spending has vanished here. It simply does not exist anymore. For example, when I arrived this last time from working my claim I had a sizable sack of gold dust, and though I knew it was lunacy I decided to sit down and have a large dinner in the most expensive restaurant I could find. I had been living on the cold ground for three straight months, surviving on trout and pork fat and more trout. My spine was twisted from labor and I was utterly desperate for some type of warmth and pomp, a touch of velvet, and damn the cost. So it was that I ate a decent-sized, not particularly tasty meal of meat and spuds and ale and ice cream, and for this repast, which would have put me back perhaps half a dollar in my hometown, I paid the sum of thirty dollars in cash."

Charlie was disgusted. "Only a moron would pay that."

"I agree," said the man. "One hundred percent I agree. And I am happy to welcome you to a town peopled in morons exclusively. Furthermore, I hope that your transformation to moron is not an unpleasant experience."

Down the beach a half mile I noticed an enormous pulley system made of tall timbers and thick rope set back from the waterline; this was being used to run a steam-sailer ship aground. A man in a broad-brimmed black hat and tailored black suit was whipping a team of horses to turn the winch. I asked the chicken man about the purpose of this operation and he said, "Here is someone with the same ambition as Smith, but with brains as well. That man in the hat has claimed the abandoned boat as his own, and is having it dragged to a sliver of land he had the foresight to buy some time ago. He will shore the boat upright and lease out its quarters to boarders or shopkeepers and make himself a speedy fortune. A lesson for you men: Perhaps the money is not to be made in the rivers themselves, but from the men working them. There are too many variables in removing gold from the earth. You need courage, and luck, and the work ethic of a pack mule. Why bother, with so many others already at it, piling into town one on top of the other and in a great hurry to spend every last granule?"

"Why do you not open a shop yourself?" I asked.

The question surprised him, and he took a moment to consider what the answer might be. When it came to him, a sandess appeared in his eyes and he shook his head. "I'm afraid my role in all this is settled," he said.

I was going to ask which role he was referring to when I heard a noise on the wind, a muffled crunching or cracking in the distance, followed by a whistling sound cutting through the thick ocean air. One of the pulley ropes had snapped, and I saw the man in the black suit standing over a horse lying on its side in the sand. That he was not whipping the horse informed me it was dying or dead.

"It is a wild time here, is it not?" I said to the man.

"It is wild. I fear it has ruined my character. It has certainly ruined the characters of others." He nodded, as though answering himself. "Yes, it has ruined me."

"How are you ruined?" I asked.

"How am I not?" he wondered.

"Couldn't you return to your home to start over?"

He shook his head. "Yesterday I saw a man leap from the roof of the Orient Hotel, laughing all the way to the ground, upon which he fairly exploded. He was drunk they say, but I had seen him sober shortly before this. There is a feeling here, which if it gets you, will envenom your very center. It is a madness of possibilities. That leaping man's final act was the embodiment of the collective mind of San Francisco. I understood it completely. I had a strong desire to applaud, if you want to know the truth."

"I don't understand the purpose of this story," I said.

"I could leave here and return to my hometown, but I would not return as the person I was when I left," he explained. "I would not recognize anyone. And no one would recognize me." Turning to watch the town, he petted his fowl and chuckled. A single pistol shot was heard in the distance; hoofbeats; a woman's scream, which turned to cackling laughter. "A great, greedy heart!" he said, then walked toward it, disappearing into it. Down the beach, the man with the whip stood away from the dead horse, staring out at the bay and the numberless masts. He had removed his hat. He was unsure, and I did not envy him.

Take me to the river

It's been a big week! A historic week, with the SCOTUS shutdown of DOMA and Prop 8, the Texas abortion bill debate and filibuster, and an epic Pride weekend. Despite being much more a cheerleader than a participant in current events, I'm EXHAUSTED from keeping up with the news. It's taxing.

As a result, I'm very ready for the vacation that starts tomorrow, a week on the Russian River with dozens of my favorite people. I've been making lists upon lists, waking up early to grab my phone off the nightstand to send myself a reminder email, and making enough pizza dough to feed a horde. Which is exactly what I'll be doing starting tomorrow. See you on the other side!

Simone & Haley's wedding

 Pride celebrations

Ready for the river

Through the wringer

This week has been something, hasn't it? Inspiring and gutting and tense and sleepless and celebratory. I think this New York Magazine article sums it up:

It’s become clear this week that objective facts of Americans' lives — that some of us are in loving, committed relationships with someone of the same gender, or that some of us have needed an abortion at some point, or that some of us have had a racist or sexist supervisor make our lives a living hell — are still contentious. Our everyday experiences are up for debate. The burden of proof is on women and gay people and nonwhite Americans to justify their lives, to explain to those who have never felt this sort of powerlessness or discrimination that it’s very much real. 

Some people want to get married and some don't, some need to get an abortion and some thankfully don't, some are able to walk around their cities at night unafraid and others have never known what that feels like. What blows me away about all the discussions this week - the Voting Rights Act, SB5 in Texas, gay marriage - is how often people discount others' experiences. I don't actually know what it's like to be unable to marry my partner, or to have my right to vote undermined, but when someone tells me it hurts, or that they are afraid, or alienated, or hopeless, I believe them. I understand the horror that the pro-life camp feels, I think; if I felt the way they did and believed what they believed (science be damned), I'd be horrified too. But I'd still give others the choice to live their lives as they need to, because while their experience is not my own, I acknowledge that it is just as real and valid as mine. It's amazing how many people - legislators no less - don't seem to see this empathy as desirable or necessary.

It's been a baffling week, but an invigorating one too. And so we continue.

How does our garden grow

Every once in a while, when I remember, I see what's new at The Yellow House. The woman who runs the blog updates it sporadically, but she's a lovely writer and her recipes are simple and inspiring. Her recent post is about the pleasures of growing greens, and I nodded my head along with each sentence. This year I scrapped my usual ambitions of warm weather vegetables (though Mike stepped in and planted those anyway) and stuck with leafy greens: butter lettuce, chard, mizuna, a few types of arugula, and whatever other seeds I saw at the store.

Salad greens are always renewing themselves, and so I can make a week's worth of small salads with a bunch of kale from the store filled out with greens from the garden. My favorite fixings these days are fresh corn sliced from the cob, avocado, pistachios (we bought a giant pre-shelled bag, a glorious thing), some white beans, and croutons made from toasted homemade bread. Yesterday I picked up fresh chickpeas to throw in tonight; they're a pain to shell but look like neat little green brains.

I took these photos in harsh midday light, so apologies for the shadows, but I had to share anyway. We dote on this garden, and I fiddle with it - replanting this, moving this here - pretty much every day. It is our baby, our food baby.

It's looking great these days, isn't it? It'll take a little bit of time for everything to fill in, and there's always more (mulching) to do, but it's a place we want to spend as much time as we can - at least until the fog rolls in. The cats agree; they spend their days outside now, sitting in the sun, chasing butterflies, rolling around in the dirt, or curling up against me if I nap on the bench. You're welcome to come on over, anytime.

Don't overwork the dough

It's always seemed to me that those who like to cook and those who like to bake are very different people; one relies on improvisation, the other follows the rules; one estimates, one measures precisely; one says let's see where this takes us and the other replies oh, I know where we're going. Someone might be able to pull off both cooking and baking on occasion, but they know in their heart which way they go. I am very much a cook. Most of my past baking attempts have been meh at best, because I substitute one thing for another, chicken out of using enough butter, or take the instructions to rest the dough as a suggestion instead of a requirement.

I've pushed my limits a bit over the last few years by brewing beer, which is largely a precision game, and lately I've even been baking bread. Bread fits my fancy because while you definitely need to do what the recipe tells you, you also need to feel the way the dough is going and make a judgment call: more flour, less flour, has it doubled yet, and so on. I've occasionally pulled simple things off - breakfast goods, or an olive oil cake - but anything that comes with a "do not overwork the dough" or "let the dough rest" warning has scared me off.

This weekend marked a huge step forward for me - I made a galette, which required a flaky crust. I just needed to get over my butter aversion and, you know, not overwork the dough. I used this rough recipe, which turned out a fantastic strawberry nectarine galette.

I like to think this marks a bit of a breakthrough, the ability to give in a little bit to rule and tradition, to recognize that there are processes in place for a reason and I don't need to wing it all the time. For instance: I'm embracing a certain level of domesticity, even though my gut is yelling at me to get there and rage while I'm still in my 20s (less than a month, argh). I am finally taking the advice of absolutely everyone in the world and eating less and exercising more to lose weight (galette notwithstanding) instead of coming up with weird workarounds that I thought would apply only to me. (I was the skinniest I've ever been in college while eating only chicken fingers and drinking only Diet Coke. I was also 21 and stressed out of my mind.) I've finally, to the relief of my credit cards, started a budget. Sometimes it's nice to follow the rules.

Especially when it comes to baked goods.

Ephesus

Gardening. Baking bread. Making cocktails. Oh, and working. Right. These are the things I've been up to lately, and it's them I blame for the fact that it's been ages since my two previous posts on our Turkey trip, on Istanbul and Cappodocia. But better late than never, right? Right. Especially for you history buffs, because Ephesus was very, very historical. You're going to love it.

Stork nests (everywhere) atop an old aqueduct in Selcuk

Ephesus is the reason we came to Turkey in the first place. My dad very much wanted to go to Syria (which, thanks to our Irish passports, was technically doable), but the recent violence and general melted-down-y-ness made that infeasible. Pa Brennan, being a resilient man, researched where else he could find a similar caliber of historical and archaeological wonder. In Ephesus, it turned out. But because my brain is not one to hold onto facts and dates unless they're part of a good story (and even then I'll likely fudge them for dramatic purposes), I'm going to gloss over some details. Such is life. If I can say one thing, though, it's that I highly recommend you read up on Ephesus yourself, or even save your pennies and book yourself a flight. It's that good. But don't go in the summer, because it's hot and packed with tourists. Even in April it was hot and packed with tourists, though manageably so. The glorious white marble that looks so pretty in pictures reflects the sun, so you wind up as sundrunk as a leathery lady on the beach with a reflector tucked under her chin.

We flew from Cappadocia to the closest airport to Ephesus, in Izmir, and hauled ourselves and our bags onto a local train that was chock full of people. We squeezed ourselves in, sat on our bags, and watched the sunny Mediterranean landscape go by. Rolling hills, vineyards, low dusty trees - it could have been Italy, or Napa, with mosques. It was definitely lovely.

A peace treaty. Of scarves.

How beautiful are these scarves? And pricey, which is why I won't be getting one anytime soon. But so, so pretty. Just ignore the zombie model who wants to wear beautiful textiles while eating your brains.

I draw this to your attention case you were taking notes on what to get me for my birthday/Christmas/Thursday.

The company's description is a little overwrought, but the concept is good, assuming they execute well: 

Each season, A PEACE TREATY travels to a particular region and seeks out local village artisans to re-define an accessory, designing limited edition pieces in style unique colorways. Each jewelry or scarf collection resuscitates ancient handmade textile and metalsmithing techniques that are at risk of extinction. Working with craftspeople in nine countries and injecting life and trade back into local economies, A PEACE TREATY employs artisans with above fair trade wages and invests in creating income generation opportunities for out-of-work artisans, disabled, widowed and marginalized women. A PEACE TREATY artisan projects and partnerships are situated in Pakistan, India, Nepal, Turkey, Afghanistan, Bolivia, Peru, Ecuador and the US.

And this, in case you were wondering, is how I justify my rampant consumerism. 

Gimme that music

Today I realized I can not only use music streaming services (currently using Google Music like the good tester I am) to check out new hip bands that I'm not sure I'll like - or new albums from old hip bands that I'm not sure I'll like (cough, Daft Punk, cough) - but also to listen to classical music. Since I never know where to start on classical music but absolutely adore it, a whole new world has opened up to me. Next time you see me, feel free to send some suggestions my way.

For now, going with some safe choices from my kidhood. Holst's The Planets, here I come.

Tomayto tomahto

I am in love with this series of maps documenting how Americans pronounce certain words. As a New York/New Jersey native who has lived in New England and now lives with a Texan in California, I adore keeping tags on who says what and why.

My favorite so far: syrup. I had no idea I was in the minority here with searup, but the map don't lie! What is wrong with the rest of the country?

I'm also on the long sandwich divide, as Central Jersey goes with subs, heros, AND hoagies. (Hoagie Haven 4eva!) I love that Wisconsin also shares the New England-ism of calling a water fountain a bubbler (bubblah in the local parlance, really), and that you can track Floridians' Northeastern roots.  Of course Mary, merry and marry are three different things! And damn right, New York is the city, and always will be to me.

Baby starter kit

Hat tip to Besha for posting a link to this article on Finnish maternity boxes, which the government provides for all expectant mothers who want one. Aside from providing a jumping-off point for mothers to provision up for their baby's arrival, it also allows the government to promote healthy/positive parenting behaviors, like placing the baby in the box for sleeping instead of in the parental bed. I'm sure it's not cheap, but 75 years in it seems to have been hugely successful in lowering infant mortality rates and, I'm sure, also lowering parental anxiety levels. If you can afford a fancy crib, great; buy yourself one. But if you can't, the cardboard box works just fine, and you've got a mattress, clothes, and other supplies to boot. It also serves to funnel people into the national healthcare system.

I'm sure if the government tried to implement this here in the US there would be wingnuts railing against it, but it seems like an elegant solution to me. Hell, I'd be in for an adult starter kit, if it existed. I'm still trying to figure out how to sew on lost buttons over here.

Grain to glass

As I've mentioned before here, our friends Timo and Ashby have started Spirit Works Distillery (check out their blog as well), and we've had the chance to check out their impressive space. Their gin is also impressive, by which I, a gin plebe, mean tasty and alcoholic. They just posted a video going into a bit of detail about the distillation process. It's interesting to compare to beer brewing - it makes homebrewing look as simple as baking a Betty Crocker cake. Timo and Ashby are incredibly good at what they do.

Grain to Glass from Spirit Works Distillery on Vimeo.

Howl

Saturday my brother participated in HOWL! Festival in New York, a shindig in honor of Allen Ginsburg. He was assigned a big piece of canvas on the fence around Tompkins Square Park to paint as he pleased, and he did an ode to breakfast. How great is this?

You can check out more of Ian's art on his website.