Bake Me A House

I'm rather enamored with my tiny gingerbread house.

Granted, it is a touch wobbly, the window panes didn't quite get an uniformly even bake, and the roof slates most definitely don't come together at the corners, but it's lovely all the same. The whole process was as Christmas-sy as it could be;  gingerbread dough baking in the oven as holiday movies played, walls and roof pieces cooled while chocolate mints were being made downstairs, and the entire thing constructed to the music of Burl Ives, Frank Sinatra and Sufjan Stevens. I wished I could have taken off work for some sort of "baker's leave" to make it all in one day, but I did make do with making, baking and building the spiced abode in stages. 

For best results, be sure to make your dough in the evening; the bubbling sugar and butter makes the ginger and cinnamon smell delightful. Multitask by sleeping and chilling the dough in the fridge so you are well rested and the dough is thoroughly frigid. That makes for good dough and a good arm work out when you roll things out.  Bake, and embrace the little bubbles that will crop up on your roof, walls, and windows; it won't look anything like Martha Stewart's photos in the tutorial.  Note: You'll use less than half of the dough you make, so envision a massive forest of gingered trees to surround your cottage, or some other sugared and gum-dropped fatality for the remainder.

Now, it's time to build. If you are anything like me, take about hundred photos that won't ever see the light of day, but you've just come to love those four walls, tiny chimney pieces and uneven roof slats so much you can't help yourself.

 

Now, Sunday mornings make for a rather lovely chance to put on an hour or two of Christmas music and ice your little house. It's preferable if snow is falling at this point, but it's not necessary. You can always replicate the fluffy white stuff atop your cottage's roof with some powdered sugar once you've line the windows and piped some shingles (and reinforced the cracks you are nervous about). 

There's a few more days until Christmas Eve, giving you time to create an army of some impressively decorated gingerbread men to leave for Santa. You've got about a pound of gingerbread to somehow dispose of, after all. 

Not My Monkeys

Several years ago, I was inspired to keep a quote book. Truth be told, I was intending on emulating someone I rather deeply admired and took the idea from him. Not that it was thievery by any stretch of the imagination, but it's become something I'm very glad I did (though that admiration has somewhat been redefined over the years). I collect the quotes I find in books and hear on podcasts. I'll jott down phrases spoken by friends and the famous, and anything other collection of words that tickles my fancy. Any and all are typed out on my phone, later to be transcribed into my handy little book. It's fun to flip through and see what struck me as impactful over the years.

There's a quote scrawled in the margins of the early pages of the dog eared quote book that seems inexplicably applicable to my adventures in India. I think I found it online, so it's veracity should be questioned but I like it all the same. "Not my circus, not my monkeys" my looped handwriting reads. I do think it is attributed to a Russian Proverb, but the quote kept popping in my mind during palace tours, car rides, and street wanderings while India. I suppose that could be read as a very prophetic and deep analysis of the cultural differences I was scrutinizing, but mostly it was because there are monkeys everywhere in India. Monkeys everywhere=monkey quotes. It's simple logic.

Granted, there could be a little more depth to that quote than I give it credit for. There's a certainly carelessness that accompanies me when I travel. Not that I abandon all sense of a schedule, but things just don't matter like they do back home. I guess that's where the "not my circus" part of the things may come into play, but the monkeys were actual monkeys and were nothing metaphorical. Running around on palaces, chomping on fruit in the middle of the road, and swarming the rooftops of all the neighborhoods; Yes, the monkeys made India pretty magical.

And while there weren't monkeys running around all the places we visited, India still maintained that magic...case in point, the Taj Mahal. There is something surreal about seeing one the proclaimed seven wonders of the modern world. Not that I was counting, but this was number three out of seven, soon to be followed by a fourth in the spring (I'll pretend readers are dying to know where that mysterious location will be, but you will just have to wait for that announcement). I do think since the spring of 2016 will cross off four out of seven, I might as well just make it to the next three. It would be a shame to just stop halfway, and never see the others.

The thing that is difficult to realize is that travel is like a virus. It's something you catch and its voracious appetite is only temporarily satiated when you book a trip but the craving only intensifies to consume more culture, experience new adventures, and taste new foods. I'm contemplating my time in India while chomping at the bit to get onto my next cultural meal. It's a vicious cycle. India held many adventures, and still maintains a mystery I didn't quite fully decipher during my time there. It's a place I'd visit again, though I don't think that chance will come for another couple of years...Maybe on a trip to see the seven world wonders for a second time.

Emily Eats India

Not that my globetrots are planned around my "epicurious" nature, but cuisine does seem to explain my inexplicable pull towards India. India has always been a brightly colored land I've been itching to visit. Crowded streets smoking with the curling steam of chai masala seems too good to pass up for someone completely lured in by food, culture, history and architecture. Though there are several countries on my "to visit" list, India always seem to find its way to the top five. So, when the chance to explore the alleyways of Delhi and the painted facades of Jaipur, I took it (obviously). The trip to India came via an invitation to a friend of a friend's wedding in Chandigarh, however the whole experience was a captivating slew of days that I doubt will come again in this lifetime. The sites and sounds and stories of the trip as a whole can be found on another post or two, but today's offering is all about the tastes.

 

Eating primarily Italian, Mexican, Chinese and French growing up, Indian food had an addictive introduction in college. With flavors and textures so uniquely different from what I'd been used to, Indian food quickly grew to be a favorite cuisine. The lovely Ms. C and I would haunt a fabulous little place in Provo, under the reservation of "Mr. Batman", mostly because  hearing "table for Mr. Batman" with a prominent Punjabi accent would put anyone in a fit of giggles. Ah, though college had provided an admirable introduction to Indian food, I don't think I was fitfully prepared for the real deal. Channa masala and dal tadka quickly soared to my favorite go to dishes. The creamy and spicy sauces swirled with roti or naan then chased down with a mango lassi seemed to be the stuff dreams were made of. I wholeheartedly dedicated my time in India to tasting anything and everything, mostly with rather pleasant results. I say mostly pleasant because a roadside stand owner did convince me to taste these metallic covered cardamom seeds and it took several sticks of gum, a good douse of water, and an hour or two to get the soapy, metallic, and oddly floral taste out of my mouth. You win some, you lose some I suppose. 

Proper mealtimes were always rather structured, wandering down to the first floor of a hotel for breakfast to mispronounce an order of parantha and dosa and inhaling a late lunch of curries and paneer stuffed naan. However, once arriving in Delhi, the street food was calling my name. I had cultivated quite the food list of items to try on my trip to India, and Delhi was marked as the place to get momos and kulfi off the street. The Chinese style dumplings were an easily delicious find and the quest for kulfi made for quite the adventure. After awkwardly navigating the ordering procedure and confused as to why the dense ice cream broken into bits to be doused with a sweet and creamy sauce, then showered with limp noodles, I was able to cross kulfi off my list...with mixed results. The oddly chewy frozen texture was a bit off putting, while the noodles took the "completely baffling" category by storm. Not something I thought I would have again, though I did break that mental agreement later in the trip. As a head's up, order the kulfi sans noodles; the texture of the kulfi is enough to keep your mouth occupied. 


Snacks were always discovered by serendipitous happenstance; warmed-by-the-sun lime orange juice outside of Raj Ghat, or a spicy bag of Lays Masala chips at a roadside stand, or the sickeningly sweet Panchi provoked after seeing advertisements plastered on every street corner. Snacks were a fun adventure, but it really was those curries and dals that I came to crave.

I've already delved into research of how to make such dishes in my own little kitchen, and although I did by best to pick up cooking tips and spices while here, I do think part of the appeal of Indian food is the India part....though I doubt that will stop me from making (and eating) my favorites when back in Salt Lake.

An Unexpected Thanksgiving

You  unknowingly pack expectations when you travel. It's usually the first thing I toss in my mental suitcase, along with headphones and my passport (things absolutely essential for any international trip). It's human nature to harbor expectations, with India as no exception. Tucked away in Northern India and tantalizingly close to the Pakistani border is a rather small city known for the religious site of the Golden Temple. Of course I was looking forward to every bit of my itinerary in India, but I didn't know how impactful certain experiences would be. My afternoon in Amritsar was one of those certain experiences.

The Amritsar visit coincided with American Thanksgiving; a holiday I adore. How can Thanksgiving be beat? It's a holiday based on history, family, and eating a meal so fantastic you look forward to it all year long which doesn't really hold a candle to many others. While this Indian trip certainly was once in a lifetime, I still felt a little pang of regret when that Thursday rolled around, without a morsel of stuffing or pie to be found. It was, however, a serendipitous twist of events that I still had my hands in flour, bent over the stove, and dripping with soapy water on that Thursday despite the fact I was on the other side of the globe.


Each day, the Golden Temple hosts hundreds of volunteers, all of which help to run the 24/7 kitchen that will give a hot meal and place to sleep for the thousands and thousands of people on a daily basis. Taking in this whole production was mesmorizing; people from all walks of life sat clutching a steaming silver bowl of chai in echoing rooms upon thin rugs which ran the length of the floor. Upstairs, families sat and talked as they ate dal, curries, and naan on spaces equally simple, but just as large. Rows of brightly dyed fabrics and bobbing turbans created splashing sea of color in the cement structure as bare feet stepped on floured floors where the naan was being made. From the windows below, you can see the mats and blankets of people who are curled up in the outer rims of the temple's courtyard, still sleeping in the morning sun.

The upstairs room slowly emptied after a time, only to be filled up again with hungry people and volunteers doling out dishes onto silver trays. I was profoundly touched at the thankfulness, humility, and gratitude I witnessed while in Amritsar. It wasn't communicated by words I could understand (my Hindi and Punjabi skill are nonexistent) but was so clearly demonstrated through actions that language became arbitrary.  The entire experience was beautiful in every sense of the word. Sunlight flitted through the upper room, basking a small group of naan making volunteers in a warm glow that was hazy from the flour and the curling steam. Six or so women chatted idly as they rolled out smooth balls of dough into  rounds of dough, later to be placed, flipped, and flipped again on the steaming hot plate behind them.

The day's only criticism was that it was the wrong day to wear black pants, but was easily overlooked.  I sat down on a low stool, crossed my bare feet in the powdery flour and rolled out round after round of dough. After a few dozen tries, I think I got the technique down, though I certainly wasn't as practiced as the women beside me. Next, immensely huge cauldrons of curried needed to be stirred as I watched a man pour out chai in 5 gallon tin cans as spiced steam made its spiraled escape out open windows. My flour dusted arms got soaked in soapy water as metal trays, bowls and spoons were tossed in troughs to be washed, then dried.  It was a day in the kitchen; one that I don't think I'll get again.

While I spent the morning and afternoon in the kitchen and filled with gratitude, the evening was a different matter. If you get the chance to see the Wagah Border ceremony, go. It's got an electric charge that rivals any sporting event I've attended, and the scent of popcorn is an oddly humorous contrast to the stern guides and the tight security. Be sure to join the flash dance party before the ceremony, and feel extremely patriotic for a country you've only been in for less than a week.

The Ugly Dumpling

I've had my eye on making dumplings for a quite some time. The whole process seems rather therapeutic; rolling out thin rounds of dough, spooning a tiny amount of filling inside and artistically folding each little half tightly before tucking it atop a floured sheet and under a damp towel...Not to mention the indisputable fact that potstickers are delicious and I'm a staunch believer in gastronomy therapy. This whole week had me hankering for dumplings of some kind,  so Saturday seemed the ideal time to test out my wrapper folding skills. Though I've seen the wonton wrappers in the grocery store and knew it would streamline my afternoon in the kitchen, there's something about making a meal completely from scratch. Yes, you could buy the frosting to schmear atop your cake, but it kind of feels like cheating once you've put in the effort to make the majority  of the edibles all by yourself. 

For potstickers, the ingredients are simple enough; basic elements mixed together to create something that is from it's foundation delicious. Salt, water, and flour was all the dough needed, in addition from a few minutes of kneading. Hands removed of ring and watch stirred flour from a knobby mixture into a smooth dough that tightened up quite nicely into a firm and solid ball. Ground chicken, loads scallions, spicy grated ginger root and a few other ingredients made up the filling and that's really all there was to it. 

Almost. 

The painstaking process of making these dumplings should have been thought out more thoroughly. A late breakfast Saturday had me skipping lunch and arriving home ready to tuck into a heaping pile of the crunchy yet juicy little dumplings. Although I did get my reward, it wasn't until I had rolled out dozens of evenly round circles of dough, spooned tiny bits of filling inside before folding the dough over and haphazardly 'perfecting' the crimping fold. A tray full of mostly proportional sized dumplings gently floured just waiting to meet their tasty demise meant we were getting closer, but weren't quite there yet. 

Then came the boiling and the frying and the agonizing wait until the entire batch had been rolled, filled, folded, boiled, and fried. Then, and only then, was it was time to eat. Albeit a little uneven and a tad bit ugly, were delicious. 

Sunday Driving

When the chance for a weekend trip up to Yellowstone comes you way, take it. Bonus points if the invited party brings Oreo's and all happen to listen to the same type of music as you do (it's a deceivingly long drive, and no one wants to be in a car where so called 'radio style music' is being played).  Cicily and I were classmates in college, (I was also her TA my graduating year, which could have made things weird but actually seemed to create the perfect storm for quite a friendship). Maybe slightly more fortunate is that Cicily lives a couple hours outside of Wyoming and had me at the top of the invite list for a quick trip up north. Of course, I said yes. 

After stopping twice for gas, once for 0.75$ twist cones at the Little America, and once more in the middle of nowhere to stop and shiver while you admire the waxing gibbous moon and enormity of the stars and all, you'll get in decently late in to Powell, Wyoming. Cicily's mom is the cutest and had the beds all turned down, complete with the whole mint-on-the-pillow deal. Saturday was well-spent wandering around Red Fort Montana, a charming little touristy town with the neatest candy store and a slightly endearing but dilapidated animal sanctuary; an obvious choice on how a Saturday afternoon should be occupied. 

However, Sunday really was the reason we made the trip (well, maybe for me...I'm sure Cicily loved seeing her parents and everything). Somehow, we dragged ourselves out of bed at a seemingly dreadfully early hour to drive into Yellowstone, but the early hour was well worth it (I'm no morning person, I suppose 6:30 isn't that early).  It's been a few years since I've had the chance to visit Yellowstone, but I'm convinced autumn is the ideal season in which to drop by. We had miles of roads to ourselves, lined with emerald pines that burst into golden yellows as the aspens hung onto their foliage before falling into more winter appropriate attire. All the crowds are gone, but the animals stick around, resulting in some pretty close bison encounters and even a roadside show of a couple grizzly bears lazily snorting around in the dirt. 

Driving from geysers to waterfalls certainly leaves time for music and musings if you are in the car with a load of English/Humanities/French majors. Børns thumps out a beat in the background and discussions about literature and art seem to take the foreground before being paused for a photo op. in front of a billowing cloud of steam, or to lean out the window for a quick snapshot. We took the long way home to get a little more out of Yellowstone park, but it still seemed too short a visit.  

Despite the limited time we spent there, I was able to shoot some pretty stunning shots. Yellowstone makes it easy, being so picturesque. Dressed in grays and olives, I seemed to fade into the steamy swirls quite nicely, and the bison did well to graze in front of waterfalls or on rich amber fields...all making for some rather nice photos to remember the trip by (and to post onto Instagram, but that goes without saying). 

Needless to say, today's Sunday drive was quite lovely indeed.

Autumnal.

It's an under-utilized word, autumnal. Somehow able to capture that warm afternoon while simultaneously hinting at a chilly evening,  a single word is both all spiced with cinnamon and wrapped in a knit sweater. Exaggerating, I am not.  Maybe I'm prejudiced, but it's factual that fall is the best season. 

How could it not be? Complete with rich oranges, pureed root vegetable soups, and frothy chai, the food alone in this season takes the cake (cardamom and apple studded cake, that is). 31 days of haunting Halloween films, 2 birthday celebrations in the Cummings family, and roadside stands of Honeycrisp apples, striped squash and hayrides makes October very difficult to beat. 

Twenty three was a quiet affair, the 5th being tucked after sessions of Conference, and landing on a Monday. Family celebrations happen on the 4th, with a little shopping and a celebratory lunch with pops before the work day began. Such a grown up birthday, needing to go into work....though the flowers at the desk did help a tad. Wednesday was a social affair, with a hand picked guest list of those who would most appreciate sipping drinking cocoa out of tiny glass teacups and cooling everything down with pumpkin spice popsicles...I told you all there would be popsicles when summer time officially ended. 

While 22 was spend running around the Hagia Sophia, no matter where you are in the world, being home for the holidays or for birthdays is exactly where you'd like to be.

When it Rains in Coronado.

September demands a vacation. It's a transitional month, a 30 day split between summer as it slowly melts into fall. Naturally, California, the eternal summer, offered a lovely break before jumping into a new job and extended the summer month just a week longer. A late (but heavily delayed) flight brought me to LAX late Thursday, and the lovely Miss Emily was kind enough to pick me up at the airport. We'd been roommates at university before I bid a tearful goodbye and she left BYU for USC, (a fine trade I suppose) to attend graduate school. It's all very sad until I get to crash at her apartment and spend time with her in Los Angeles. Then it's pretty great. A couple of days full of friends and sunshine was a grand way to spend the weekend, before  hopping on a train at Union Station and headed south towards San Diego for some cousin time. 

Maybe it's because I'm trying to stretch summer just a tad longer, but it ended up pouring buckets on Tuesday. I suppose walking around the shops in Coronado sopping well was an adventure but I was ready for some serious beach time that day. Refuge was found in a corner coffee shop and a rad store until the worst of it was over. The up side of the whole affair was that Coronado looked beautiful when dripping wet, hence the photos. The rest of the week was spent with my little cousins, wandering the beach in the mornings, and staying up late talking. Thrift shopping in Utah doesn't hold a candle to the Salvation Army's and Goodwill's found elsewhere. Of course, an afternoon was spent at the beach though the kids wanted to go to the pool, but "Emily doesn't have a beach where she lives". Right you are, mister. Balboa park also made it into the itinerary, as did lunch at places only found in Coronado. 

 
The Salt Lake City airport greeted me back with monsoon like weather and a definite dip into fall. Armed with wool skirts and ankle boots found thrift shopping, I do think it's time to let summer go...although you can bet popsicles will still make an appearance part way through October. 

A Glut of Peaches

Cobbled, sliced, pie'd, pureed, crisped, jarred, crumbled, grilled, ice creamed, and caked; these peaches have been everywhere. It's a cruel trick of summertime. All season I bide my time just watching these orangey red beauties get bigger and bigger until all 400 of them need to be picked in a 3 day span. I take a taste of the Early Alberta's at the farmer's markets, but I know that I have my own glut of peaches that will be ready in just a few weeks. Hundreds of peaches slowly weigh down the branches so much it makes walking on the sidewalk difficult until they start to drop off the branches themselves. Then, it's time to pick. Peaches are best picked in the late evening, just as the sun sets and you can sit down on the grass and eat the biggest peach you found that night..still warm from the August sun. Juice drips down your face and off your elbow and your surrounded with boxes and boxes and boxes of peaches.

They are handed out to neighbors and mailmen, carried to coworkers, and pawned off to anyone who will take them. 400 peaches are a bit much for 3 people to eat, no matter how many peach pie recipes there are. Then, they are carefully counted (to compare with last year's crop) and the peach production begins.

I can only eat so many peaches right off the tree, so several dozen are carefully sliced into mason jars to be eaten in the far away months. Others are sliced thin and dehydrated, frozen for smoothies, or pureed into fruit leather. The others meet there end in some sort of breakfast, lunch and/or dinner option. Delicious when sliced in a bowl swirled with a little cream, or nestled in a crumbly oat topping, two by two the peaches started to disappear. Peach crumble, peach cobbler, and peach cake each took and few out of the boxes piled up in the garage until only a few dozen remained.

I'm a sucker for early morning light and peaches nestled in flour and sugar (but who isn't?)

And just like that, the peaches are gone. The trees are bare, with leaves that won't be green for all that long. It's an official end to summer. The nights have gotten a bit cooler and the last few peaches are stashed as a fleeting souvenir to the days in the sun. Fall and winter will come, spring will hint at the upcoming peach season with pinky white blossoms and the wait resumes; tiny green pods will slowly grow bigger and bigger, slowly turning orange and blush red, and the branches will slowly droop, until it's time to do it all over again.

A Little Tart

Have I mentioned my love of food puns? This might be the first on the blog, but a few minutes in a grocery store will get the "pun times" rolling. Lame introductory paragraph aside, this weekend was a little bittersweet, but ended with a little tart...quite literally. A week up in Park City with the family was the sweet part; days at the pool, adventuring in the Olympic Park, enjoying a scrumptious Italian dinner, and a float down Provo River proves that point. Though we'd all love Sister C. to be there, she decided to be in England for the past year and for the next six months. I don't really feel that badly, but it was a bit bitter because we had to celebrate her birthday without her the day after our Park City escapades had ended. Psh, not only did she miss the family vacation, she missed her birthday! Not really, we sent the party to her. Bless the people in England who are willing to not only have her over for cake, but make her a classic British dinner, and show her the little film of her friends and family wishing her a happy birthday. England did treat her right, though I'd rather have her in America.

The second dose of bitter was sending sister L. off to college. Though I'm not entirely convinced she's old enough to be in at a university, I suppose that's what happens to smart girls after high school. Perhaps to console myself (or my mom, it's a toss up really), a little fruit tart seemed to be in order. Though it's kinda cute to send photos of the cat as my new roommate to the sister down at school, the reality of the cat actually being my roommate is a touch disheartening.

This is just a preview to the long awaited peach season. I can't wait. 

Because breakfast should be delicious and pretty...and basically dessert

Though the fruit mosaic atop buttery shortbread didn't quite alter that reality, it didn't make anything worse. It does make me sad to see my little sister grow up, I am jubilantly envious she'll be staying up late, eating too many Oreos, and making friends she'll keep through the years. I like flipping back in my journal/sketchbook to reminisce a little bit...though college barely ended, it seems like another chapter of my life (and provides a good reminder that I was still a little foodie, even when on a college budget).

Popsicle Me Pretty

Naturally, life's latest purchase was a popsicle mold. Forget grown up decisions and plans to be made; a popsicle mold was clearly an essential purchase.  I’m pretty sure it's come up in 98% of the conversations I’ve had in the past 2 weeks…making this mold pretty vital to my social life. You’d be surprised to know how well I can awkwardly segue into announcing my purchase. “Are you going to that thing on Saturday?” “No, but I did make mango swirled yogurt pops last Saturday….here’s a picture. Look at my picture. Do you see my picture? Love my picture.” 

An embarrassingly long time was spent researching what mold would be purchased. Yes, you are correct. Not only did I recently purchase a popsicle mold I am ecstatic about, I also spent double digit’s worth of hours research which popsicle mold I would be ecstatic about. Research happened to pay off because: this. 

See? Gorgeous. Combined with the recent DSLR purchase, popsicles were obviously the focus of all my photos this week. I'm sure I’m not the only one who adores seeing amber honey slowly whirled into creamy white yogurt, and judging by how quickly these pops seem to disappear from the freezer, I know I”m not the only one who likes nibbling the frozen creations. Most of my experimentations are also healthy or something which is wonderful because who can feel bad about eating fruit and yogurt? Unless you eat all 10, but still that wouldn’t the that horrid. 

So far, all pops have been wildly successful. The horchata pops weren't that pretty but the cinnamon created a nice little ring at the top and bottle that was slightly spicy and gave some texture to the creamy pop…though if we are judging delicious-ness based on yummy bits, the graham cracker lime crust of the key lime pops had to be the winner. Those disappeared quite quickly.

 Strawberry season made it natural to puree and swirl with vanilla bean yogurt, and juicy ripe mangoes from the Asian market were practically made to be spooned with yogurt and frozen. The orangey color just blended so beautifully it was too much to not put on Instagram….and these red berry pops are too pretty to not ramble on about online. 

Oh, and by the way....all make for fab breakfast fare. 

Can I Have S'More?

A little (personal) history lesson is required before this post is read. The M & M twins are the hooligans I grew up with. Though I had blond blond blond hair as a kid, we tried to convince strangers we were triplets. Obviously M & M were twins, but I'm sure my blond hair was a dead giveaway, but that didn't stop us from our façade. Triplets or not, our collective childhood was spent in the outdoors, whether that be out in the neighborhood on bike rides or weekend camping trips with our families. Though we were happy to explore the neighborhood creek and golf course, camping was much more adventurous (plus, there was fire).

This week was a slice of nostalgic childhood, as sister L and I joined the twins' family for their family reunion campout. Their family is basically my family, so it was peachy to see my pseudo aunts and uncles again. It had been a while.

Though we had packed a tent, it's more fun when you sleep outside under an inky blanket of stars. Softball, volleyball, s'mores, and full on swims in freezing snow-run off were some highlights of the long weekend, which made the trip perfect. Somehow, food always taste better when you are camping, and when you are sitting at home you wouldn't even consider dipping your toes into water that cold, but that inhibition somehow that dissolves when you are out.

Don't be deceived: this water is very pretty, but is freezing cold. That didn't stop anyone from finding a spot deep enough to prove that you too could submerge yourself in icy run-off.


It's nice to unplug and be away from it all, with nothing to distract you from being with people you grew up with....except maybe having another s'more or two.

Farmer's Markets: A Guide

Dozens of little fruit and vegetable stands crop up in the oddest places in the summertime. Chalkboards profess the dates of when you favorite fruits will be in season, and if you are anything like me, you’re tickled at the prospect of wandering rows of beet filled baskets. (I don’t even like beets, but they photograph splendidly well. See below.) Summertime is certainly a season of excellent kitchen experiments. Last week’s apricots were marvelous into an oatmeal crumb bar, and this year’s strawberry season made for many a’ pavlova (and about 4 dozen jars of jam).  During other seasons, the idea of eating locally is always a fantastic idea, until I remember that I live in Utah, and I wouldn’t be able to eat rambutans ever, and a myriad of other tasty things. That being said, I give an honest effort to cook seasonally during the summer time. And farmer’s markets make it that much simpler.

Crunchy and marshmallowy meringue, tart creamy lemon curd and fresh berries. Yes, please. 

I’ve had my fair share of markets and that life trend doesn’t seem to be slowing down.  In college, I looked forward to summertime Saturdays, and not for the reasons you might suspect. You may think college was about wild parties in the summer time, but that has never really been my jam (black current is truly my jam, but that's another post). Regardless of the hour I was up on Friday, I made sure I was up early enough to beat the heat and walk a handful of blocks to the local market, toting well-worn recyclable bags. Naturally, I’d snag breakfast at the Kolaches place on the way to the market (very convenient). 

Even when abroad, I’m a sucker for any sort of outdoor market, especially if there is food available. I had a full on food freak out when I first encountered the spice bazaar in Turkey. I walked away with significantly more in my stomach and with considerably less in my wallet. 

The Provo markets weren’t as spectacular as in Turkey, but after my grownup job, I’m now in spitting distance to the Salt Lake Market: a glorious realm of cheeses, local honey, pastries, pressed cider (in the fall), and salsas which line the paved sidewalk. Combine with bunches, bushels, baskets of local produce and you’ve got yourself quite the farmer’s market. Though a visit to the market is an activity itself, there’s a bit of a guide I follow as I peruse my options.

Step one: I always bring cash, but in two sets. One set is the predetermined amount I am willing to spend. Your second set is for emergencies. Emergencies like “it’s the last week for black currants” or the adorable 4 year old that wants to know if you’d like some buttermilk pancake syrup. This is only to be used in emergencies.

Step two: Buy what looks good, then hit the web. Luckily, a few hip food sites are into the whole eating locally deal, so they will already be featuring recipes for asparagus in early spring, or cherries in July. If all else fails, I’ve never been too upset I’ve had to eat a bucketful of blueberries instead of finding a buckle recipe that tickled my fancy. 

Step three: Go early. You'd think this was because it's blasted hot in the summer (true), and that you want your pick of the crop (also true), but mostly it's so that you can browse all morning while you eat a strawberry handpie AND be there to snag an empanada for lunch. Win Win. 

Oh and one more thing- enjoy the market while it lasts, because as fun as holiday baking is in the winter, it's not the same as browsing the rows and rows of a farmer's market. 

Apricots and America (but mostly butter)

Happy Fourth of July and stuff, America. For the C. family, that means a couple days of good ol' American tradition; BBQ's, parades, fireworks, and sweltering in the heat of July. It's all good fun. Because all us working people had the 3rd off, 2015's celebrations included a heavy dose of nostalgia as we made the trip up to Brigham City for a day at the pool...just like old times. I went there all the time as a kid, so coming back some 14 years later was a flashback straight out of my childhood.

 We left the pool late, snagged some great fried chicken at Maddox, and stopped off at one of the many fruit stands that dot the highway. If that isn't an American afternoon, I don't know what is.

I love those roadside fruit stands. There's something about purchasing fruit that's a little blemished, piled in well worn baskets, right next to the orchard. I'm a big fan of grocery shopping (where else can you ogle at so much food?) but the pristine rows of fruit isn't as charming as the roadside markets and stands. Being early July, apricots are in full swing here, which meant baking something truly lovely for our firework picnic the next day.

Inspiration struck. Apricot & strawberry bars. Though they're not exactly bright red, white, or blue, somehow these bars were still very appropriate for the holiday. I riffed off a recipe for apricot bars I had found online, but added a couple twists. A little lemon zest to brighten up the shortbread, brown sugar instead of white for an extra caramelly taste, and a schmear of strawberry jam below the pitted fruit because that's what was in the fridge. (Sidenote: A few weekends ago, the C. family got gobs and gobs of strawberries and spent loads of time jam-ing and jar-ing, so adding strawberry jam to the slightly tart apricots was an obvious addition.)

Layer shortbread, jam, sliced apricots, and an oat crumble, and test your patience. You'll need to wait while the bars bake and through one agonizing cooling session. Ah, now your patience as been rewarded: Square, package, and tote to the park. Eat while enjoying the scent of bugspray and fireworks in the air, if at all possible.

The Eternal Taco Tuesday

I had a roommate in school that loves tacos. I say this in current tense because she will never stop loving tacos I also don't say this phrase lightly. She loves tacos. In fact, an often repeated roommate conversation was about how much we wished that the taco emoji was a thing, because that would be directly relevant in 77% of our conversations. (Sidenote: apparently the taco emoji has come to pass and will soon be available. Win.) This roomie is now in Texas having adventures without me, but more importantly, is now eating tacos with out me. As an attempt to keep our taco Tuesday (read: Wednesday, Thursday, twice on Friday) tradition alive, fish tacos were a must for this week's menu. I may not be in Texas, but I can make my own fish tacos. More importantly, sister L. was out of town this week which meant that fish tacos could rule the menu for the week. Seafood loving is out of her comfort zone, so I took full advantage of her being gone...both in the kitchen, and with her closet.

If I learned anything from a taco loving roommate, it was that all you needed was some really good sauce, corn tortillas, avocado and some sort of protein...bam, tacos. The college-ness of our tacos varied from missing somewhat crucial ingredients, but somehow "tacos" made with a meat and a few different kinds of salsas and verdes were pretty great at 12:30 AM. Especially when this roommate came back from visiting Texas and returned with carefully packaged jars of "That Green Stuff": it's spicy, slightly textured from some sort of blended pepper, green stuff. It was poured onto many a tacos, and also eggs. And roasted veggies.And pasta. And toast. That green stuff goes well on nearly anything.

I composed a non-college version this week: Blackened halibut, topped with lime crema and a cilantro/cabbage slaw rounded out for some dynamic flavors for this batch of tacos. I also recommend serving these with twice as much avocado as you think necessary, because avocados help make the world go round (basically). I seasoned the fish with cumin, paprika, quite a bit of cheyenne for kick and some garlic salt to mirror the garlicky vinegar I tossed the slaw with. Oh yeah, they were that good.

Taco Tuesday should be everyday.

I make my own Pad Thai

I consumed a ridiculous amount of Pad Thai in college. Just around the corner from my last apartment, there was an excellent Thai restaurant that my roommates and I frequented....frequently. We would run over to celebrate the important things in life, like birthdays, good test scores, and Tuesdays. Pad Thai was there for engagements, and break-ups, and cancelled television series. I love you, Pad Thai.

You would think that eating so much Thai food in college would eventually dampen my love of curries and mango sticky rice. Not so. I think my love of Thai food comes from not knowing such foods existed. Though mom is an excellent cook and dad is quite the foodie, I somehow missed out on dishes from regions other than Mexico, Italy, or France. Granted, this girl loves tacos and a good baguette, but I'm pretty confident could happily live off of dumplings and rice swaddled in spicy coconut sauces. My logic is basically this: because I didn't eat it growing up, I need to make up for lost time.  

This week signals a break through in my Pad Thai consumption. A co-worker shops at this Asian market in West Valley and you know that's we did on our lunch break on Thursday. I tried to not food-geek out too much, but just know I was unsuccessful. I might have slightly frightened my co-workers when I got exuberant over steamer baskets but they'll survive

I had my arms full of mung bean sprouts, rice noodles, kefir limes, and other Pad Thai essentials (plus about 5 of those amazing yellow mangoes) a store clerk handed me a basket while I mentally thought "Oh good, now I can buy even more things and look less ridiculous".

For some reason I thought we would just slip in and I would grab some cool aloe drink and call it a day, so I didn't bother with a cart or anything. I should have known I would have walked out with bags brimming and dying to run home to make Pad Thai (read: eat the entire recipe that should feed about 8 people).

I tackled making dinner that night, but regretted not getting ingredients for a double batch. I sautéed veggies in garlic and coconut oil, but cooked them oh so lightly. I love Pad Thai where it still feels fresh and kinda crunchy. The cilantro on top certainly helps with that as does a squeeze of lime.

The dish was a hit with me and the family which is an added bonus I guess. I'm glad it was met with rave reviews but I've never been awesome at sharing. I did eat this bowl and subsequent bowls of Pad Thai with chopsticks because I have difficulty pacing myself with a fork. Be glad a poorly lit photo was taken before the bowl was licked clean.

Just like Mum

This weekend was spent down memory lane as I came to Holladay to nanny 2 of the 3 kids I spend quite a few summers with. They have gotten older, and no longer run to see what surprises I had in my big Mary Poppins bag. Which makes me sad...I enjoyed those little science and art projects almost as much as the kids did. I did have a project or two planned but this time around, the weekend was a quick blitz of soccer practice, soccer games, and track meets. Though I've enjoyed the rain Utah's recently been swimming in, the sunshine made for a great afternoon outside. Egg drop contests and shadow art will have to wait however, tired kids with busy schedules demanded a more relaxed weekend of cookie baking. I estimate about 7 dozen's worth of both sugar cookies and chocolate chip. The thick sugar cookies with sour cream icing made for a quick breakfast on Sunday (unbeknownst to me) but the real stars were of course, the classic chocolate chip. 

I had tried to make chocolate cookies like my mom had a few times but didn't get it quite right until I watched her from start to finish. Missing from the margins but present in her memory are little additions to the recipe that make all the difference. Make sure you cream the butter and sugar for a 'good long while '(no precise timing here, a good long while is determined by texture and color), add the chocolate chips and flour together instead of in batches, and upping the flour content are just a few secrets that resulted in my sub-par recreation attempts. You would think that following the worn recipe exactly would yield cookies just like mom: not quite. But I've tinkered with what I've seen and made an adaptation or two for myself. 

As good as mine are, the old cliche rings true; there's something about your mother's cooking. That something very well could be excellent cooking skills paired with nostalgia. These cookies have been around for years of my life, and structured  my childhood afternoon snack. A favorite family story involves elementary aged older brother J coming home from school one day to a plate of chocolate cookies. A cookie in hand and one in his mouth he asked my mom "mom these are really good, but next time, can you have them warm when I come home?" Cute. 

I'm much less picky. Warm, cooled, half-baked, or even the raw dough, these cookies are excellent. And according to Emily Ruth, make an excellent dinner. 

Pretending to be a Grown-up

I always wondered what would happen after I graduated from my university. I was flustered, and a bit lost without school. School has always been the natural progression of my life. Elementary school evolved to the junior high (which did wiped out my self confidence), but was incrementally gained back during high school. Soon enough, I graduated with a pretty good sense of who I was, but without a direction of where I was going. And school was gone. 

But now that day I thought would never come has come….and gone. When I was little, I thought college was always this far off date that I thought I would reach when I was old. At 22, let me tell you that you don’t graduate college when you are old. You graduate and then the world really opens up to you, presenting limitless opportunities. How daunting. 

Just one beauty of my walks to work

So now what? 

 I decided to get my feet wet in the grown up world, acquiring an internship with a pretty grown up company in Salt Lake City. I wear tailored pants. I take company lunches.  I even have an ID card with security clearance and everything. But to let you in on the secret, the key to being a grown up is pretending. I never thought I would thank my vivid childhood imagination and role-playing Harry Potter skills into my early twenties, but I do. As it turns out, these skills as a kid have really come in handy as you try and pretend to play grown up.  Pretending to play Harry Potter was a little easier, but there isn’t much difference in the skill set.  

 I realized this fact of life as I helped younger sister #2 helped register for classes. It was late, she was stressed out, and proclaimed that she wasn’t ready to go to college. But that’s the ticket, the unpreparedness of it all. Being grown up doesn’t come with a handbook of rules, just loose guidelines from friends and family…. and frantic Google searches. Apart from that, it’s mostly an unwritten book for you to scribble all over.    

For now, this page of life is turned to playing grown up, but not too seriously. As far as I’m concerned, this time is meant for adventure. You have your whole life to be a grown up so I intend on a couple practice runs with several adventures in between. While my paychecks don’t have to go toward payments and bills, they are carefully stashed away towards my adventures. While work is very grown up (but still fun), what everyone doesn’t know is that lunches at my desk are spent looking up flights to south east Asia and research about mango sticky rice.  

 And I most definitely keep fruit snacks inside of my bag