a sort of essay about the beauty I witnessed this morning.

If ever I doubt that beauty can exist in Los Angeles, I stand corrected. Watching a morning unfold as I did today was astoundingly graceful and I can only hope to describe it true to form.

I awoke this morning at 5:15 feeling rested and ready to start the day. This is probably due to the fact that I lumbered into bed at 9:30 last night, the weight of the last four days of constant going finally coming down on me. I slept like a log. It really was no surprise to me that at 5:15 I felt ready to go. I was hungry, but I ignored the grumbling in favor of a cozy bed and a library book and savored this extra time to do as I pleased. I'm currently reading "Prodigal Summer" by Barbara Kingsolver, the beginning of which is riddled with poetic descriptions of springtime beauty. As she described the different types of birdsong to be found in Appalachia, I realized that a symphony of chirping was beginning out my own window.

I decided to arise when the light through my window had brightened from little blue lines between the blinds to something warmer. It was 7:15. Two hours of relaxed reading bliss? Excellent. I walked to the second bedroom and peered through the curtains. I'm not sure what I expected to find as that window looks straight at my neighbor's stucco wall, but daylight was there, fresh and crisp, and in the sky there was a blanket of white and gray clouds. Fresh. Cozy.

I opened my front door and stood, looking through the screen. Birdsong now amplified, uninhibited by the sound barrier of the door. Washing over me. Beautiful. I opened my back door and stood on the landing. The morning is cool, fresh, alive. Still in my fuzzy robe and slippers, I padded out to check the seedlings. Tomatos: thriving. Lettuces: now have three leaves instead of two. Chard: far surpassing any of the chard I attempted to plant at the community garden. Hope that I have done something better the second time around? I walk a little farther, off of the cement and onto the little path I made with brick squares. I examined the buckwheat I planted, now sprouting everywhere, hoping it will improve the soil in my little dirt yard.

I'm startled by the sprinklers when they turn on; almost laugh out loud when I jump backwards in attempt to avoid getting wet. They interrupt my thoughts and they interrupt the peaceful sounds of the morning: the birdsong, the quiet hum of the highway, the occasional car. I realize that the sprinklers come on in sections, starting at the top of the yard, I am at the bottom. I think to myself that I've never actually watched them run before, and so this is good. Good to make sure they're all working, since at some point I'd like to plant vegetables in the dirt and it's nice to know that everything would be watered evenly. The buckwheat sprouts stand in contrast to the darkening ground, looking proud and green and prolific.

I turn my attention to my seedlings once more, leaky hose nozzle making me wonder if as much water is spilling onto the cement as is going into my watering can as I fill it. I water my seedlings, and as the buckwheat did they stand out against the darkened soil.

I head inside and turn my attention to breakfast, pulling leftover pancakes out of the refrigerator and heat them in the microwave. I remember that the blueberries I put in the pancakes were not so good, but I asked too much of them: I made blueberry lemonade with them twice and then not wanting to throw them away cooked them in pancake batter yesterday. They tasted mealy. I searched the cupboard for some homemade jam: I know there must be some in here somewhere, a Christmas gift from my aunt and uncle in New York. Aha! Behind the canned beans. Strawberry Jam, 2010. I find half of an avocado in the refrigerator and sprinkle some salt on it. I heat up water and make hot chocolate. I spread butter and jam on my pancakes.

Where to sit? I'm not through enjoying this morning, I decide. Besides, the kitchen table is covered with half-finished wedding invitations and the back door has a beautiful beam of light coming through it. The doorway it is. I really must invest in an outdoor table, as I've taken to eating more and more meals on my back step in the sunshine. I sit. I savor my breakfast (picking out the blueberries, apologizing to my taste buds and the berries that I tried to make their flavor last longer than it could), sip my cocoa, watch, and listen.

From my doorstep I can see the balconies of my neighbors. Not a one has stirred. I can see the top of the tree that grows in front of their house. It is in bloom. It is the same kind of tree that grows outside the kitchen of my parent's house, and the yellow blossoms have an intoxicatingly sweet smell. Something like jasmine or honeysuckle. A woodpecker drums away. A large black bird flies determined across the cloudy sky. A swallow alights from the sweet-smelling tree. An ant climbs among the fibers of my fuzzy blue bathrobe. The cool air bathes my face with the most gentle of breezes, almost like the morning is inhaling and exhaling around me. I get the feeling that I'm camping, except I'm here, eating breakfast on my back step, in a suburb of Los Angeles, and the freeway is within walking distance.

The morning has blossomed before me. I am glad I took the time to experience it.

an alternative to coffee

Ok so I love coffee. But I don't love coffee's after-affects, you know the palpitations, the increased nervousness...once I weaned myself off I realized that I'm a much less anxious person without all of the caffeine. But I missed the routine of drinking something warm and rich in the morning. Tea is too thin, and I tried Miso Soup (as touted by one of my favorite blogs here), but I have a sweet tooth and miso just didn't cut it. Although it is delicious and very good for you.

So I've gotten into the habit of making hot chocolate every morning. Not from a mix, but from cocoa powder. It's delish! Here's my "recipe":

Fill a mug 1/2 way with just-boiled water.

Put at least 1 1/2 heaping spoonfuls of cocoa powder into the mug. Stir well.

Add a squeeze of local honey.

Bare Bees Honey in La Verne, CA
Find 'em at your local farmer's market!

Fill the mug the rest of the way with milk. I've been using whole raw milk and have noticed none of my previously experienced lactose-related tummy troubles. For those of you afraid of raw milk - I've been drinking it for a few months now and have been perfectly healthy. This is purely anecdotal, but I'm pretty sure that one is more likely to get sick eating out at a fast food joint/restaurant than drinking raw milk from a reputable source. So try it! :)

Haha and no, I was not paid to advertise for any of these companies. I just think they're great products and wanted to include some pictures! :)

Now go enjoy a cuppa hot cocoa!

Our County Fair Date.

J and I vowed not to miss the LA County Fair this year, so we scheduled our fair date so far in advance we could hardly sleep the night before from excitement. Yes, we are a couple of little kids when it comes to events like the fair.

And the fair did not disappoint! We were awed by the handicrafts: quilting, home brewing, baking, and oh, the art! Photography, sketches, incredible pictures made with pressed flowers. Plenty of inspiration to go and get creative.

J got all nostalgic in the vendor section (his family used to sell their hand-blown glass at the fair), remembering (and then eating!) his favorite tri-tip sandwiches - two of them - and delicious chocolate fudge.

Being the great husband-to-be that he is, J sat with me through an hour-long organic small-scale gardening class, no hints of boredom on his face. We even discussed building a worm-composting bin after the talk, while ogling kookaburra and wallaby in the Australian Outback area.


We contemplated going down the giant slide, shrugged it off due to the slight embarrassment we (I?) felt about acting child-like in public (even at the fair! shame on me!) and then decided having children is a must so we can have society's permission to engage in such naive fun.


And now comes the part of the fair I was most excited about...the animals!! Pigs, goats, sheep, cows, chickens, ducks, rabbits bees oh my!! There was a beautiful vegetable garden that the bees, whose working hive was on display within Plexiglas, were out pollinating.

We finished off our day with some beer tasting, shopping (yes, we got suckered in on a couple of products), and a romantic ride on the Ferris Wheel.  An excellent fair adventure.

  old woman holding a baby wallaby in it's "pouch"

goats are my favorite farm animal ever.

 after traipsing around, we relaxed with some award-winning beer

yes, that is a deep fried snickers bar and some chocolate covered bacon. yes, the bacon was surprisingly good. yes, this went against everything I've learned about good quality eating in the past year.  but whatever. you only live once. 

 ferris wheels are for lovers. 

Happy fair-going! 

<3

M

What it's truly all about.

I've been trying to buy as many of my groceries at the farmer's market as possible lately and have found myself in a slight conundrum - which sellers to buy from. With some, it's easy. There's one guy who sells honey. Buy his honey. There's one guy who sells bread. Buy that bread.

But when I get to the fruit and vegetables, it's a toss up. I wander around the stands a few times, waiting for the perfect produce to jump out at me and scream "pick me! pick me!" as if one grower's crookneck squash could really be that different from his neighbor's. I've thought about buying from the grower who is the closest, or who is the most organic. But I haven't really felt like asking all of them detailed questions about their farming practices, or doing the math to find out which one uses the least amount of gas to get to Myrtle Ave. every Fri. night.

And then my coworker gave me the "well...duh" answer I needed. I was blabbing at the breakfast table about how I've been buying from the farmer's market and I get stuck wandering as I try to figure out who to buy from and she simply said just buy from the people who are the nicest. I mean, let's think about it. What is the most basic point of the farmer's market anyway - to foster community, to bring consumers a step closer to the land they live off of, and to eliminate the middle man between the farmer and the hungry farmer's market goer. Does it not make sense to buy from the people with whom you could forge a relationship? Alright, so maybe one guy's produce is a little bit more organic (whatever that means) than the next guy (or gal's). But who cares if the next gal is someone you look forward to seeing every Friday night? I mean really!

I got to thinking about the time I gushed about the farm-fresh chicken I brought home (and then had to figure out how to get it off the bone! spoiled by boneless-skinless all my life...eek) and I realized that I really look forward to seeing the chicken farmer and his wife (whose names I now wish I knew, and will ask the next time I need eggs. Or chicken). They are familiar faces, and they provide me with something I really need - food - with no gimmicks, no song and dance, just a smile and a nice to see you again.

And then there's Sam, the fruit guy with whom J bonded over plums. We can't go to the farmer's market without stopping by Sam's stand, sampling all of the plums we've already tried before and chatting it up with our pitted-fruit pal. And he always slips us a new variety, gratis, just for being loyal. Or maybe just because he likes us. Regardless - thanks, buddy.

J, thanks for remembering what is important - the people. As I got all caught up wondering how organic Sam's plums were, you were asking his name. I'm glad I'm marrying you.

Like my parents always said: Let's keep it simple.

to shake the hand that slaughtered your chicken.

My roommate has it right, sort of. In response to the exuberance I exhibited over my recently bought farm-fresh chicken breast, she point blank turned to me and said, "I've just got to say, M, you're WEIRD!"

Weird, maybe. By certain definitions, yes. Unconventional? Probably a kinder adjective. Whatever I am, it doesn't change the fact that I'm making an effort to shop more locally, more sustainably, more "insert buzzword here."

The beauty of my farm-fresh chicken find is that I had just read about the joy of raising chicken to eat in Barbara Kingsolver's book Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. In her book, Barbara describes her family's experience as they move from the burbs of arid Arizona to a farm in rural Virginia. They make a pact - give up all food whose source is unknown or shady. Their goal was to improve their health, the economic health of their community, and to cut down on their dependence on fossil fuel. They end up growing most of their own food. Written by Barbara, renowned novelist, with additions by her husband and eldest daughter, it describes the family project with plenty of grace, humor, and facts. A great read.

So when I drove up to the Sierra Madre Farmer's Market that meets on Wednesdays from 3-7, I was elated to find more than the usual fruit and veggies. Chicken! Eggs! Mushrooms! Woot! And to think I almost drove past it, as it meets in a parking lot off the main road. I was like a kid in a candy store. I brought the bird home and popped it in the broiler Julia-Child style - brushed with butter and sprinkled with herbs. To know that my chicken was raised just a few miles away and lived a happy little free-range chicken life made savoring it much more enjoyable. Knowing that my money went towards a family enterprise made savoring it much more enjoyable. Thank you, Rivadeniera Farm.

Adventures in local, sustainable, farm-fresh are turning out to be quite rewarding.