Farro with Chanterelles, Hazelnuts and Parmesan Cheese

 Barbequed Kumomoto Oysters with Opal Basil Butter

Lemon Cucumber and Heirloom Tomato Salad

 Fresh Figs Stuffed with Truffle Tremor Goat Cheese

I’m not sure how long it has been that I have been dreaming of going hunting for edible mushrooms. A decade maybe? I’ve read books and studied. I even own my very own copy of the essential book, Mushrooms Demystified (by David Arora), but until now, have never identified anything other than the standard LBM (Little Brown Mushroom), a rotting lobster mushroom, a few sulfur shelves, and one, lone morel. I’m too timid and paranoid to go it alone – to rely on a book and my own life-confirming heartbeat to determine if a mushroom is edible. But I love mushrooms and I get so excited whenever I can find them at the farmer’s market or gourmet store; pine mushrooms, miatakes (“chicken of the woods”), blue foots, hedgehogs, porcini makes me so happy. Even the common shiitake, portobello and button mushrooms have a warm place in my heart. Sautéed with a little butter and olive oil, garlic, a pinch of salt, some fresh herbs like savory or lemon-thyme, and squeeze of lemon or splash of brandy, and you have something warm, unctuous and satisfying. I even save my mushroom trimmings in the freezer, and when I have a big bag full, I make mushroom stock. It’s heartier and more flavorful than vegetable stock and perfect for gravies and soups. Mushrooms provide maximum flavor with such minimal effort. So, when my new BFFF’s (best foodie friends forever), Cathleen and David, invited me to join them on their annual chanterelle hunt in Humboldt, I jumped at the chance. And now, finally, after years of waiting, hoping, praying – I finally learned how to hunt the little bastards down myself.

The evil Doctor Jagermeister and Senior Patron nearly thwarted our plans of an early departure to the coast. Fortunately, I arrived armed and loaded with pastries and caffeine to rouse my two compatriots from their alcohol induced slumber. With pedal-to-the-metal, we made it to the Arcata Farmer’s Market just in the nick of time to rescue 17 dozen oysters from certain death at the jaws of some stranger with a far less discerning palate and not nearly as appreciative of good food as the three of us. The Wayward Chef saves the day (yet again). The farmer’s market brimmed with baskets of brightly colored heirloom tomatoes, rainbow chard, peppers and winter squash. Live music bellowed over the square as people chatted, and ate, and walked. After collecting our goods from the market, we headed off to Trinidad to check into our cabin and begin our hunt.

After our delayed departure, farmer’s market visit, and a long, relaxing lunch of wonderful cheeses, fresh figs, heirloom tomatoes, and sourdough bread, we outfitted ourselves with pocket knives, bags, and cameras and set off to begin the first of the weekend’s hunt. Pulling into a shaded spot off of the highway, David parked and led us up a path. Actually, “path” is a slight exaggeration. A machete would’ve been helpful to work our way through the brambles and brush. We came to a small clearing; a large, rotting tree stump loomed in front of us. “Chanterelles love rotting tree stumps, this area has been really good to us before”, David told me. I followed his and Cathleen’s lead, pushing aside ferns and sticks, pawing through the soft blanket of pine needles. “David, there are fresh cuts here”, Cathleen pointed out. The evidence of cut chanterelles littered the area; someone had been there earlier in the day and cleaned it out. “Found one!”, Cathleen shouted as she pushed away leaves and dirt. I hopped over to her spot, looking over her shoulder as she pulled out her pocket knife and gently pried it from the soft earth.  I was awestruck. The chanterelle had a thick, meaty top and stem. Variegated veins ran along the underside of the cap and its flesh was a pale peachy-orange. David had found a few more and pointed them out for me to pick. “If you find one, look closely because where there is one, there’s bound to be more”, he said.  But after those two, there weren’t anymore to be found and we decided to head to another spot. We worked our way back down the mountain and jumped into the car. I was excited but I wasn’t sure whether to taper my enthusiasm just incase all the chanterelles in Humboldt County had been picked already.

A short drive down the road, we pulled over to another spot. There were six parked cars and I was certain that meant that some lucky dog had gotten to all the chanterelles before us. But, per usual, the universe was out to prove my sourpuss attitude wrong. Within ten feet of the car David and Cathleen scored, big time. A ledge leading to a trail proved to be just the right combination of moisture and redwood compost to make for fertile ground. Chanterelles peaked out from underneath the ledge and just as David had said, where there was one, there were many. He would point out one and I’d set to digging it out. I’d look up from my spot and my eye would catch another, and another, and another. This is what I had been waiting for! All three of us worked our way down the wall of dirt plucking chanterelle after chanterelle. We dispersed across the surrounding hiking area to scour for more. It seemed like every two minutes either David or Cathleen would holler that they’d found one.  But to my untrained eye, finding chanterelles on my own was still elusive, so I followed closely behind and picked where they pointed. Twenty minutes into our search and we had unearthed over a pound of mushrooms. “That should be enough for dinner” David said. I didn’t want to stop looking. I tried to exercise my psychic powers, to see if I my ‘gut instincts’ would lead me to them (no luck). I dreamed of stumbling upon a big patch of peach-colored heaven and filling my bag.

There’d be more hunting tomorrow, I reminded myself. I was determined to find some mushrooms on my own! But now it was time to head back to the cabin and eat…

 All mushrooms are edible – once.
~Anonymous

The history of clay pot cooking runs as rich and deep as civilization itself, from ancient times to present day and from Indonesia to Egypt. Even the United States has its own history with earthenware. ‘Boston’ Baked Beans, originally a native American dish, were cooked in earthen bean pots. Traditional micacious pots of the American Southwest Indians have a cult status all their own. But clay pot cooking is getting a renewed look as of late as chefs such as Deborah Madison and Richard Olney extol the virtues of these earthen wonders in their cookbooks. Steve Sando, founder of Rancho Gordo Heirloom Beans in Napa, readily admits to his obsession. He’ll use any one of his eighty-plus bean pots on a daily basis. Tom Wirt, of Clay Coyote, recently launched a line of clay cookware and believes that as people make more conscious food choices, they’ll want cookware with a conscience too. On a recent walk through Sonoma, Paula Wolfert quipped “of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world…” upon stumbling upon the new store, Bram. Bram, the Egyptian word for a clay pot, is dedicated entirely to clay pot cookware from around the world. The timing and location couldn’t be more auspicious as Wolfert’s latest cookbook, Mediterranean Clay Pot Cooking, (Wiley, 2009), is due out this fall.

What fuels such an emphatic following? Enthusiasts claim that clay pots lend a taste of the earth to whatever is cooked in them; a “fingerprint” of the clay, Wolfert calls it. La Chamba, the jet-black earthenware from Columbia, is smoked in rice husks, imparting a smoky flavor into the pot’s contents. Mineral qualities are said to infuse into the dishes cooked in the clay pots from Egypt, Morocco and Mexico. Micacious clay pots are said to lend a “sweet” or “balanced” quality to whatever is cooked in them. As well, clay distributes heat evenly and then holds its temperature making it ideal for cooking low, and slow, and developing flavor; whereas, cast-iron or steel pots continue to heat up unless they’re moved away from their heat source. Enthusiasts often describe feeling an almost ‘primal connection’ to their food when they cook with clay. Although Wolfert is quick to dismiss the notion that clay pot cooking is anything more than a niche market for an impassioned group of cooks, some might beg to differ…

Just as we pull into the dock at Newport Beach, I receive a message through my blog that reads, “Hi, just watched the yacht pull in! The shopping is pretty lousy down here – believe it or not, but there are a few places. Let us know if you need any help!”. I email back, my first question being how did they find my blog and the yacht I was on?

“We watched the yacht come in, it’s such a pretty yacht! We googled the name. We’d be more than happy to take you out provisioning and show you around!”. Oh my god, an offer to help? I have to explain to them that a “little trip to the store” for me involves somewhere along the lines of 3 or 4 grocery carts and can be upwards of 40 to 50 grocery bags! “No problem”, they say, “we love food – it’ll be fun and we have an SUV that you can load it all into!”. Not one to turn down some extra hands – I jump at their offer.

I’m thrilled, of course, that someone has found me through my blog and wants to meet and show me where to provision! So, I tell the crew, who of course, give me a really hard time – what am I doing going off with these strangers? Ok, perhaps I should exhibit some caution – but it seems that when I throw caution to the wind is when I end up having the best time. That is, after all, how I ended up working on yachts in the first place –flew off to meet some stranger on some tiny island in a place I’d never been before… What can I say? I’m a seat-of-my-pants kind of girl. My life, like my cooking, is a work in progress until the main course is served.

So, I take off on a grocery shopping adventure with my new found friends and in the course of conversation, I learn that Mrs. Stranger is from the same two-horse town in Southern Oregon as my aunt, uncle and grandparents. “Do you know so-and-so, by chance?” and, well, by chance – she was one of my cousin’s high school teachers several years back – before she moved to Newport. Talk about six-degrees of separation! Sometimes the universe points in a certain direction and you have no choice but to go…

We head into Costa Mesa, to the Whole Foods Market, which is, by far, the largest Whole Foods I have ever been in. I feel almost guilty dragging my new friends around with me as pile up my carts. “Do you want me to grab another cart for you?”, they say. “Umm, if you don’t mind”, I reply sheepishly as I push two full carts up towards the front of the store.

Our visit to the meat counter goes like this, “How can I help you?”.
“I’ll take 8 racks of lamb”
“Sure, anything else for you?”
“3 boneless leg of lamb, 8 lbs. of lamb loin chops wrapped those in 2 lb. parcels, 7 lbs. of those organic pork tenderloins, 2 whole pork loins and 4 lbs. or ground pork”
“Having a barbeque?”
“No, just a little shopping. You know what they say, you shouldn’t shop when you’re hungry!”
“Anything else for you today?”
“Yes, 2 whole organic tenderloins. You don’t have to trim or tie them. 8 dry-aged Chateaubriands, 4 dry aged New York strips, 8 lbs. of ground buffalo and 10 lbs. of ground Kobe”
“So, how long is this going to last you?”
“Maybe a couple of weeks…”

Next, it’s on to the fish market and then Hi-Times Wines, a massive temperature controlled warehouse dedicated to the best grape juice from around the world – and they even have a “serve yourself” wine tasting bar!

Our day ends at a little shack, at the end of a short pier on a little inlet behind a trailer park – sounds like a horror movie, right? Wrong. It’s the best place in town to buy live, spiny lobsters for which the season has just begun.

After a long day of exploring the local goods, I’ve got coolers full of meat and fish and the SUV is loaded with tons of fresh produce. Hopefully it’ll last me the week and I won’t have to go shopping until we hit our next port…

If someone had told me five years ago that I’d pass underneath the Golden Gate Bridge by way of Mega Yacht, returning to the place I grew up, as the kickoff to traveling around the world – I wouldn’t have believed them. But now, here I am, the wee-hours of dawn, looking out at a glassy ocean, reflecting a cloudless, tangerine sky. The Golden Gate Bridge towering in the distance, with only a few puffs of fog dissipating on the north side. A pod of short, fat, black and white spotted dolphins leap across the bow as if to welcome me home.

We cruise into the bay in Sausalito and through my galley window I see the house my mom used to live in up on a hill in the distance. I take breaks from rolling out pasta dough for butternut squash ravioli for another day, to stand out on deck and take it all in. After a cruise around Alcatraz, we head for Pier 38 where we’ll be tying up for a few days, waiting for a spot to open up in Sausalito. But Pier 38 is perfect for me, only a mile and a half from the bounty of the Ferry Terminal Farmers Market!

I have strict orders from Mrs. X; I have to investigate the farmers market ASAP! Hey, someone’s got to do it. “Captain, can I go ashore to provision?”, we haven’t been docked five minutes. “Sure”. I grab my cloth grocery bags, flip-flops, sunglasses and wallet and leap onto the dock. I’m outta here…

“Excuse me, do you know where the farmers market is from here?”, I say to the tan, sailor-ish looking man with the sun bleached hair and flip-flops walking up the dock. “Sure, turn right, it’s just down the road – probably a 10 minute walk. I’m heading in that direction, would you like a ride?”, he says as we approach his car, conveniently parked right at the end of the dock. “What, in that piece of crap?”, I look down at the red, convertible Lotus Elise – the top of the windshield is about knee height. And with the sun shining on my face and my hair tussled by the wind, we speed off. “Can I jump over the door like they do in Dukes of Hazard?”; I ask as we approach the farmers market, he shrugs, “sure”. God, sometimes I love being a girl. I opt for the more lady-like exit by door, because knowing me, I’d fall flat on my face and break my teeth and Lord knows, I just don’t have time to deal with that…

The market at the ferry terminal is bustling – stalls of Romano beans, heirloom tomatoes, opal basil, breads, organic meats and artisan cheese line the sidewalk. My first order of business is to pay a visit to Recchiuti Chocolate to pick up some samples for Mrs. X to see if we can use them as our pillow chocolates for the guest rooms on the yacht. Fleur de sel caramels, ginger hearts, Lemon-Verbena infused truffles. Yum, I think they’ll go over well. But I’ll have to sample a few more just to make sure. I stop by Scharffenberger as well for cocoa nibs and baking chocolate, and stroll through the produce stalls – my first finds are beautiful squash blossoms, perfect for stuffing for a starter, two fragrant musk melons, baby greens and fresh shell beans and some sun dried heirloom tomatoes – which I think will go into the stuffing for the blossoms as well. Saving room on my arms, I head back inside to Golden Gate Market, which has an impressive selection of organic and game meats. So, I stock up on elk, wild boar, organic lamb, organic beef tenderloin and pork. Loaded down by 40 lbs of wild animal, bags of veggies and chocolate – I make my way towards the exit – but the rosemary focaccia at ACME bakery has been calling to me every time I pass by their shop front. I have nowhere to put it. But I can’t resist, so I take two loaves and grip the paper bag between my teeth. With a bent back and arms loaded, I struggle to make my way to the curb to hail a taxi – but I manage. The taxi ride back to the yacht is not nearly as exciting as the ride in the Lotus, but then, I don’t think the Lotus has the trunk space for all my groceries. Hey, you know, who wants a car that can’t fit a case of wine and a few bags of groceries in it, anyway?

Don’t worry little oysters, 72 virgins await you in Heaven…

I sit at the Oakland airport, enjoying some fine international airport cuisine and wonder if I’ll be able to chug down my giant bottle of water before my row is called for boarding. An announcement has just been made that solid food can be brought onto the airplane, but with the recent ban on liquids, salad dressing and condiments must be applied before boarding the plane. I fear abject stupidity more than a terrorist attack… Where is the line between rationale thinking and unrestrained paranoia?

As I bite into my “gourmet” burrito, I indulge in thoughts of the meals I’ve had over the passed three weeks of road tripping around Southern Oregon and Northern California. After four days jet skiing, hiking and hanging with friends in Lake Tahoe, and a weeklong reunion in Oregon, I made the long drive down to Sonoma, California to visit mom. Passed cow pastures and cornfields, the smell of hay and dry fennel, which grows wild on the hillside and along the side of the road, filled the air, tickled my senses and reminded me that no matter where I am, this is home…

En route, I called mom and asked her if she would be up for going out to Mexican food, because as any Californian that has transplanted themselves to New York knows, there’s no truly respectable Cali-Mexican food in New York (Rosa Mexican aside, but by California standards, it is preposterous to pay $20 for guacamole). Mom said ‘no Mexican tonight’, but promised that something better awaited my arrival… My curiosity was piqued.

Upon arriving in Sonoma I was greeted at mom’s house by 4 dozen fresh Tamales Bay oysters, a hot grill and a chilled bottle of Robert Sinsky Vin Gris. Who’s better than mom? Manolo Blahnik couldn’t create a finer pairing… As the embers glowed, my step-dad set to smashing garlic, melting butter and making quick work of red onions and summer squash for the grill; plus a big, crisp, green salad, all fresh from the local farmers market.

The Saucing Committee

For me, grilling is never merely a spectator sport so I couldn’t sit by idly watching as my step-dad set to martyring 48 oysters. I jumped right in and we placed the oysters on the grill; tongs, garlic butter and barbeque sauce close at hand. With a whiz, pop and a little splatter – the oysters unwittingly opened their mouths to reveal the treasure within. We quickly removed their top shells, brushed them with the garlic butter and bbq sauce and pulled them off of the grill. Trying to remove the shell of a hot oyster with tongs (without losing all the luscious juice, or losing the oyster entirely through the grates of the grill) is akin to trying to build a house of cards after downing four Grande Triple Shot Lattes from Starbucks… it just doesn’t work. So I relinquished the tongs and, much to the chagrin of my overprotective mother, began working the oysters with my bare hands (they really weren’t THAT hot) and within a few minutes I had not only taken command of the grill, but earned the respect of the men…

*Behold the Glory*

After a few exploding oysters, we second guessed our earlier mocking of safety goggles but none of us were willing to leave the excitement of the grill to actually go and find a pair… Besides, that would make me feel about as much safer as I feel right now, watching a lovely, frail grandmother pouring salad dressing on her salad at gate 9A, with an inspector looking menacingly over her shoulder… But I digress. In less than time than it takes to say “cavity search” a feast awaited, and nary a thing to wash! We polished off the Sinksy Vin Gris and moved on to an Eden Vale Pinot Noir. The friends that had brought the oysters promised fresh caught salmon and elk steaks for the next nights grill-off… So good to be home. So, so, so good to be home…