blueberries, dreamy and otherwise

Every week I get about $32 worth of organic fruit and veggies delivered to my house. I love this for a few reasons - it's fresh stuff with one less trip to the market and I support a small, local business with a positive agenda. The easiest way to handle the whole thing is to have the delivery company fill the box with whatever they think is the best stuff available that week. You open your box and are surprised, pleased or disappointed depending on how you feel about its contents. I liked the game of this until I got potatoes 4 weeks in a row, had many lbs. of potatoes in my fridge and no desire for potatoes. Now I log on to the web site and "go shopping" to customize my weekly box.

Last week the service offered blueberries and my eyes glazed over, a happy, salivating state of catatonia. Blueberries are one of my favorite foods. I LOVE them. Some of the best berries available here in Los Angeles are from an organic farm in Big Sur. They usually hit the Santa Monica Farmers Market end of April/beginning of May. I stake them out and buy by the flat. I know it's too early for those berries, too early for any local, organic blueberries and I am committed to these ideas - local, organic all that good stuff - but blueberries! I bit. 2 boxes.

Now, maybe the web site said that their berries would be coming from New Zealand and I didn't pay attention. When I see these long-distance berries in the grocery store I snub them and their huge carbon footprint. But in my blue haze I either missed this piece of info or I let my eyes roll right over it, wanting to believe that somehow the delivery company had some kind of secret access to early blueberries. Anyway, I dumped one of the boxes into a bowl, gave a quick rinse, mixed in some yogurt, took a big bite... and they were terrible. Terrible. They tasted like they were made from wet splinters, like the Melissa and Doug wooden toy company made them, put them into a toy fruit collection that was then caught in a warehouse flood, after which I bought them at a steep discount because I'm cheap but then as some horrible form of punishment for buying discount toys I was forced to actually eat them.

There is a moral here and it's not a new one - eat seasonally. Eat locally. You know many of the reasons why it's better to commit to this. It's better for the planet, it's healthier for you. And you're less likely to wind up eating splinters.

A Blueberry Dream

This is my ideal summer road trip. Follow the blueberries. Start in Southern California working my way up the coast 'til I get to Washington in August and the gorgeous berries grown in the rich farmland north of Seattle. If you are ever able to stop in to the lovely co-op in Mt Vernon, Washington in August you will find some of the largest, sweetest, most wonderful blueberries you've ever had.

I swear to God my kids eat kale

I know nobody wants to believe that but it's true. They also eat spinach and chard. Not chopped up and hidden in something either. My kids eat greens sauteed in olive oil with salt. Sometimes even a little garlic. The easiest, most time honored, most delicious of preparations. How did I make this happen? I forced it on them. Yep, that's right. I made them eat it. And they hated it, at first. They probably hated me too, for a moment. But I gritted my teeth and threatened to run the television over with my car if they didn't eat them. So they ate them.

As they used to say on the Rocky and Bullwinkle show "I knew this job was dangerous when I took it." It's tough being a mother. You have to do all kinds of things you don't want to do. When it comes to kids and meal time and the introduction of new vegetables almost everybody has some battle scars. We care so much. We care that they eat, that they have enough but not too much, that what they eat is mostly healthy and that they associate good, comforting food with their mothers. When your kid looks up from a plate of kale with those huge, tragic eyes and says" Mooooom whyyyyyyy?" it's hard. It hurts a little. I feel guilty. The first few times I had to bite my tongue so I didn't say "never mind, you don't have to eat it."

There are a few cookbooks that will tell you how to be sneaky with vegetables. If that's your style and it works for you, great. I am of the "Because I said so" school. Here are my tips for getting your kids to eat green leafy veggies:

Introduce them for the first time when you are in a really bad mood. You will be so impatient by the time you get dinner on the table you won't tolerate whining and your kids will know you mean business when you say " Just eat it!"

Bribe them with ice cream, cake or some other favorite dessert. Be sure to save a big helping for yourself.
Alternatively, threaten them with the loss of a favorite toy or video game. I make my idle threats as creative as possible. I've mentioned the running the TV over with the car threat. I also enjoy saying I will take a mallet to the nintendo.

Pour yourself a big glass of wine and serve the greens with chicken nuggets. When there is something your kids like on the plate, and it's something small, you know both that they will at least eat something and that there is nothing under which they can hide the greens.

Greens are good and they are really good for you. They are also easy to prepare, at least one kind is available almost all year 'round and they are inexpensive. If you make your kids eat them 4 or 5 times, eventually they will come to enjoy them and as adults they might even choose to eat them. They will also be grateful that when they were children their mother cared enough to make sure they ate healthfully. Right? Right???!!

COOKING KALE AND OTHER GREENS

Many people suggest boiling your greens in water a few minutes ( less for more delicate greens 5 minutes or so for kale) before you saute. You can do this but you don't have to. What you do have to do is wash each leaf individually. Little bugs love to hide in the leaves.

Wash each leaf from a large bunch of green. Separate the leaves from the stems. You can use your knife or your fingers to do this. Chop stems. Roll leaves up like a loose cigar and thinly slice, then cut each roll down the middle.

Heat olive oil in a large saute pan. When hot but not smoking add the chopped stems ( watch out for splatters as your stems are still a bit wet from their wash) clamp on a lid so the stems steam a bit from the water and cook for a few minutes. If using garlic put it in and cook for 1 minute. Add the leaves and a few pinches of salt. You can put the lid back on for a minute or two to steam these leaves a bit. Cook until wilted the way you like it. Taste it. Some people like them still crunchy, some really soft, it's up to you.

End of a soft, dreamy era - Shabby Chic on Montana Ave in Santa Monica

Ever since I was a kid I liked decorating my space. Bedroom, dorm-room, first tiny apartment, second tiny apartment, first tiny house, as long as I had something to play with I was happy. When my first child was born we lived in a 450 sq ft house in Venice. While my son was in the bassinet in our room for the first 3 months or so, he soon out grew it and we out grew sharing a room with a baby. We didn't have a lot of options so we put his crib in the one bedroom and turned the "dining room" into our room. There being no room for a table, for the next 3 years we ate every meal in bed. My son grew, the small house filled with toys and I had nothing, not an inch to call my own. I would have been happy with a closet but people who built tiny beach cottages in 1928 apparently didn't need closets because we had virtually none.

In my case desperation became the mother of my own invention and - I put up a shelf. It first started at Christmas. We didn't have room for a tree but I needed something to decorate. I put a shelf up and had a wonderful time arranging and rearranging my favorite 6 Christmas ornaments. I had a tiny plastic tree, a miniature fireplace with a disheveled plastic Santa figurine tumbling out of it and little sugar cube sized wrapped presents. It was a tacky, red and green sentimental cheese fest and I loved it because it was safely away from my baby and it was MINE. When the Holidays were over I packed away my Christmas goodies but I carried on with the shelf. A small Buddha sat smiling among flowers and shells. A favorite, sustaining book about motherhood, Anne Lamott's Operating Instructions, was added. The Buddha was surrounded by lovely stones friends gave me and even got himself more comfortable on a tiny rug given as a gift for the shelf. Having this small private, perfectly curated space was a saving grace. Filled with beautiful, meaningful objects it was a place to be creative, a place to rest my eyes and an alter of remembrance.

Of course what I really wanted was a whole house like this. I wanted room after room of beauty, comfort and meaning. Magazines and decorating books fill my shelves. I love this kind of stuff. Female porn is a good name for it and through the years I have had different decorating fantasies . One of them involved copious amounts of money spent at Shabby Chic. For a long time I loved Rachel Ashwell's vision, that combination of English country house rumple and bright, beach house chic. It looked so effortless, so family oriented but still so feminine. Her rooms, painted white and filled with soft chairs printed in a tea-dyed florals, were places my boys could race through while I looked up from my cup of tea, smiling serenely, still feeling like a woman, bathed in natural light. I wanted the space and the money to make that image my life.

The Shabby Chic brand had a powerful influence on home decoration. Here in LA I have been in house after house done, at least in part, in the Shabby Chic style and the line for Target brought the style everywhere. My own favorite chair in my living room was bought years ago at a Shabby Chic summer parking lot sale, where people used to line up at 4am for the 7am opening. And now the store is closing. A tough economy, changing taste, probably a whole host of reasons.   Even though I haven't been in the store in a little while it's sad to lose something that was part of my image of successful, tasteful, grownup life.

UPDATE -
I am happy to report that as of September 2009 Rachel Ashwell has reopened on Montana Avenue. You can  read all about it here -
http://rachelashwellshabbychic.blogspot.com/

From fabulous to happy; Bazaar and The Village Idiot

I was a little worried about my first trip to Bazaar, Jose Andres' place in the SLS hotel on La Cienega. I thought it might be too "Beverly Hills" or too "Young Hollywood." When I go out I'm looking for fun and I love anything truly glamorous but I'm also over 40 and I'm over bullshit. When we walked in at 8 last Friday night the place was half full with a pretty nice cross section of Angelinos and a few tourists. The energy was good, people were dressed up. It was nice, stylish, glam - though the baboon art is a little silly. I like that there are several tables for cozy parties, a few booths for bigger groups and a long table right down the middle to mix and mingle.

My friend and I took the pink couch and began ordering. My first Manhattan, with bourbon the way I like it, was good. The soda water in her drink was flat so she sent it back and the second drink was better. We ordered several things off the Tapas menu. By far the best, as well as the most interesting things we tried were "in the can." The scallops were SO good, with small blanched olives and wonderful light olive oil. The crab with raspberries was beautiful and the meat itself was supper fresh. My girlfriend didn't love the sweet fruit and crab combination but I thought it was delicious and I appreciated that it tasted like something new and different. I was disappointed in the "grilled flat bread." There was nothing wrong with it but I was hoping it would be really special and instead it just seemed like a few pieces of toast.

So far so good. We drink. We eat. We're happy. We want to step on to the terrace for a few minutes. Before we go outside we get our waitress and the busboy and tell them we're "going right out front." We show them where we are going to be. We assure them we would not leave a restaurant without paying the bill. We all giggle at the absurdity of this idea. We tell them we want to order some desserts. We watch as they set a dessert menu down for us. We watch them put napkins on top of our drinks, which included a completely full Manhattan. We note that the place isn't full and there are seats for others, otherwise we would worry about our table and hesitate to hold a table at all when people are waiting. We listen to them tell us it's fine to go outside, that no one will clear our table. We go outside. We are there for 1o minutes. We come back - everything is gone and 4 strangers are sitting at our table.

We are not happy. We look for our waitress, don't see her and make our way back toward the kitchen to find her. We find her and ask what happened. She, instantly defensive, says"I didn't see you. I thought you left." We have a little conversation reminding her about our previous conversation. She insists on making it our fault and we are really not happy. We ask for the check.

Now, what should have happened here? I know the answer to this question not because I'm an unhappy customer but because I've been a waitress and I've managed a small business. The waitress should have said something like - "Oh my gosh. I'm so sorry. Let me help you find some seats and I'll replace your drinks right away." Simple. Did I mention that the restaurant was mostly empty? Did I mention that while there was a good crowd in the bar it was in no way standing room only at what was now 10:30 on a Saturday night? A crowd I couldn't relate to or food a bit too precious I half expected. I got neither of these things. Bad service I certainly did not expect but sadly for us, and for this fun, stylish place hoping to make it in a tough economy, that's what I got.

So - What's a girl to do? It's only 10:30 and we're ready to go. After all that I wasn't in the mood for another scene. I wanted a place I knew I'd be well taken care of even if the floor was a little sticky. We went to The Village Idiot on Melrose and the rest of the night was happy.

Full disclosure - I've known fabulous Amie behind the bar since she was 4 years old. I got the hug I needed after Bazaar. But even if this wonderful creature weren't there I would still love this place. It's the closest thing LA has to a New York corner restaurant. Lots of regulars, good wine, lots of beer. It's got good food, too, and though the bar is crowded it's the kind of place where the guys make sure the ladies have a seat. We met some fine people from Wales and we stayed 'til they turned the lights on.

Things are not always as they appear

I took this picture because it looks like my son is taking a moment to be grateful for his Udon. I am trying to teach my children the habit of gratitude. When I saw him doing this I thought, "Hey! Look at that, it's getting in there." When he looked up after I had snapped this shot he informed me that he had been praying that Best Buy would be open after dinner so he could get a Pokemon thing for his nintendo.

2 bowls of soup

I know - this isn't a picture of soup. But these looked so beautiful at Joan's today I had to show you.

Over the weekend I had 2 bowls of soup. The first, on Saturday was at Joan's on Third, a family favorite. My son got to choose our lunch place. He picked Joan's because he loves their insanely good grilled cheese sandwiches. Then he read a comic book in the car on the way over there, got nauseous, ordered the sandwich anyway but couldn't eat more than a bite because he was car sick. I had ordered a three salad plate, trying to be slightly healthier than I might have been because I had dinner reservations that night. But that gorgeous sandwich was just sitting there. You know the rest.

Back to Joan's soup. It was green bean. It even feels weird writing that. Green bean soup. I love the lemony carrot and the lentil but Saturday's menu said green bean and that's what my husband ordered. And it was....fine. It certainly tasted like green beans, and fresh green beans too but still, it didn't really work.

That same night I had another green soup, this time at dinner at Rustic Canyon. Spring Green Garlic. The color was amazing, the flavor, eh. So I thought about this. Two good restaurants, two bowl of just okay soup. Why? Here's what I figured out. If you wouldn't eat the vegetable as a puree, it won't make it as a thick soup. Carrot, potato, broccoli, spinach, squash, cauliflower; each of these, with a bit of butter, or oil, a little salt a little pepper, maybe a bit of cream (the same things you would put into a soup whose primary ingredient was the vegetable) are delicious pureed. Green bean puree? Green garlic? No.

The green bean / soup combo is a lost cause for me. They were always what I picked out of vegetable soup as a a kid and I'm just never going to like them in there. But I would be interested in trying the green garlic as a broth. With a real hit of white pepper, perhaps the tiniest amount of lemon but making sure to preserve the delicacy, it might be spring in a bowl.

my son decorated his own Birthday cake

berries and butter on the west side/Huckleberry opens

I am a bakery addict and there's a new dealer in town. One with some the best stuff you've ever had. God help me.

Like other butter-fat loving west-siders ( yes, there are some of us who care more about frosting than being a size 0), I have been waiting through a long, often comfort-less winter for the opening of Huckleberry, the new place from the lovely people who own Rustic Canyon in Santa Monica. Huckleberry opened on time (amazing in itself, I think the people at the Santa Monica building permit dispensary must have been regulars at Rustic Canyon's beloved Saturday Morning breakfast crush) and, serendipitously, on the anniversary of the publication of Mark Twain's The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.

The place looks good and more user-friendly than the wine/breakfast bar at RC. So far the lines have been just as long but are slightly more navigable, with some wiggle room and several staff members behind the counter to take your order. All the goodies are temptingly laid out so if you're on a diet I don't know how you could possibly stand in the line and get out of there with your calorie count in tact. I was theirs when I parked my car.

The food is wonderful and everything is taken to it's zenith. Not content with chocolate pudding, Huckleberry's is chocolate truffle. The bread-pudding oozes its flavorings. I think the eclairs are the best in town. And thank God they're filled with actual pastry cream and none of that obnoxious whipped cream that has no business being anywhere near pate choux. Zoe Nathan, so much more than the head baker, has a big smile and equally generous spirit that shows in everything she makes - her whole body says "I am a person who really loves what I do. Here, I made this for you. Enjoy!" I love that kind of energy. I want to feed on it, take it into myself, offer it to others. But here's where I run into trouble. When I get charged from a photograph or a painting - great, I am thrilled and inspired and happy. Beautiful writing - same thing. A gorgeous dress, a great piece of music, this amazing spring we're having here in LA. All so good. But when I get to literally feed on this kind of energy? Oh - my glutenous soul. This is why, with Huckleberry having been open all of 3 weeks, I can tell you what the dough-nuts, scones, the chocolate truffle pudding, the bread puddings, flat breads, eclairs, caramel bars (sweet, salty heaven), the cake, the lemon pouffe thing, the cinnamon pastry, and the coffee cake all taste like.

One of these days, before I actually eat everything I order, or maybe even before I order everything I see, I may remember that too much food, especially rich food like this, doesn't always make me feel so good. I might remind myself that since I don't eat every bite of everything I am wasting money when I put the remains of 3 things into the trash. That I will feel better if I choose one thing instead of several, that neither the food nor the restaurant are going to disappear tomorrow, I can comeback and have something else another time. But so far - no good. I have gained 2 lbs since Huckleberry opened and it's largely their fault. Okay - it's my fault but imagine if you were a shoe addict and the worlds greatest shoe boutique opened in your neighborhood. And nothing was over $5 ( this is the other problem with bakery addicts, our fix is cheap) Opening my mouth for yet another bite of some kind of goodness I can only say "yes." This is a place that celebrates the gooey, the buttery, the lip smacking "yes" of food. In a town of "no's", hell in a world of "no's" right now, the yes only a dough-nut can bring can save your life.

Now, Huckleberry does have a few problems. First it is so crowded. The lines were a pain at Rustic Canyon (or an opportunity depending on your perspective, hence Huckleberry itself) so crowds are no bad thing for the owners. And I really like these people, I wish them so much success. But the Saturday morning lines are annoying and difficult, especially when I've got my kids in tow. Twice now we've gotten there, some of us hungry to the point of crabby, wanting to order from the full menu and sit and eat - not a chair to be had. Eating in the car is a pleasure I save for myself, it's a crumby mess when done as a family. And, of course, making things harder, not just here but in the grand scheme of all things, are those people who refuse to adhere to the unwritten code of getting a table in these situations, those wretches who are responsible for the breakdown of a truly civil society, those who take a table before ordering. The owners have tried to rectify this problem with several signs but as this kind of behavior has everything to do with bad manners (or, perhaps a sad, miss-placed sense of entitlement) and nothing to do with signs I have no doubt it will continue ( oh, I am such a scold.) If you are really hungry, and some of your party are wiggly, nice as the idea of a great brunch at a casual place after Saturday's soccer, baseball or ballet is, I've got to advise that you stay away weekend mornings after 10am. At least until the economy gets worse. Then, if you can afford it, have at it.

Places like Huckleberry, even with the small problems, give me so much pleasure. So, go. Have a treat. Enjoy it. Wherever you live in Los Angeles, it's worth the drive. Truly a driveable feast.
www.huckleberrybakery.com