Friday Fresca

Oakland is on the map in the culinary world across the nation… Piquing the interest and, dare I say, ownership of discovery by that East Coast metropolis, NY, are our own Blue Bottle Coffee (Owner James Freeman) and Live Culture Company’s, Anya Fernald. No longer lingering as the wallflower while our sister cities of San Francisco and Berkeley steal the spotlight, Oakland is once again taking the dance floor. There is a reason these proponents of culinary simplicity chose Oakland for their home base and it’s not because of our socieoeconomics.

NY Times Magazine author, Christine Muhlke, states that “(w)ith its high crime and poverty rates, Oakland doesn’t have nearly the same precious food culture — or produce — that defines nearby Berkeley and San Francisco.” Although most of the country defines our city by murder count, those who live here know better. We tend to nod and grin as we immerse ourselves in the covert treasures that rarely make press.

Mangalitsa Prom Queens

But the marriage that has occurred between Blue Bottle and Live Culture lately must be celebrated. Oakland stands witness whereas others, like Muhlke, merely attend as guests. The Blue Bottle roastery, in the Produce District of 3rd and Webster, will once again host Live Culture’s Pork Prom this Saturday, February 6. This Ground Hog Day celebration offers 7lb packages of Mangalitsa, Ossabaw and Berkshire breed bacon, sausage and chops. These lovely porcine beasts have noshed on snowmelt, acorns and apples of the Shasta Valley lending to their luscious taste and Live Culture’s belief in slow food. As part of the pork pick-up scene, grilled sausage on crusty baguette will be the parting gift and Blue Bottle coffee café will be offering a reason to linger. With it mantra of Fresh (only beans roasted within 48hours available) and mission of organic, fair trade, shade grown beans, Blue Bottle represents and enlivens this City.

But, there is reason to rush… As of today, only the afternoon slots are available since the morning has sold out… and this is the last chance of purchasing for the season. Who knew there was a pork season? Perhaps they have to renegotiate their contracts…

So, buy your tickets now and join the dance…

Oh, and bring your tin cups and watch your back… After all, this IS Oakland….

It’s Friday(ish)… It’s Frivolous…. It’s Fresca… Friday Fresca

membrillo.. created from quince

The night was being compared to Easter time on the island of Cypress or early autumn in Barcelona. The heat rose from the patio steadily until the tipping point when the cool breeze of the evening, until then only stroking against one’s cheeks, slipped down around the ankles. This wasn’t our celebrity fog. This was Mother Nature closing out her dance card;  “Sorry, I’m done with the exception of those already chosen.”  Her mood is shifting away by enveloping us in a velvety cloak of comfort and repose whilst she implores the Southern Hemisphere with her temptress ways…

The perfect atmosphere, sunny yet cool, in which to create the Membrillo, the golden food of the gods, from the tart Quince that belabored my tree. The steps to Nirvana are seemingly simple in this one human process however the test of endurance lingers. Quince have the density of rocks with the same ease in splitting and coring, let alone peeling. One’s hands may suddenly spasm in arthritic pain if desiring a large batch of this delicacy.

When I could no longer continue without risking the permanent disfigurement of my hands, I placed the sliced quince in a large pot of water with cinnamon stick and strips of lemon peel. Left to boil until softened, the quince mimic the process and appearance of applesauce. Upon draining the fruit and removing the cinnamon, the cooked quince is put into the Cuisinart to whirl into creamy, well, quince-sauce, with the exception that one taste may send you buckling to the floor with cheeks so taut as to warrant the Jaws of Life. Simplicity returns with equal measures of cooked fruit to sugar being placed in the pot to begin the patience process that will test one’s endurance; too “quick” and you have a runny syrup, too long and you have taffy that will pull those hard earned fillings out…

Seeking instead a Membrillo that will stand alone, once set in the oven, I began stirring the fruit slowly, reassuringly as the aroma brought me back to Barcelona. I would have almost 2 hours to daydream and sway a soft Salsa step while stirring… endless fields of sunflowers saddled by endless vineyards in the Rioja region… twisting, pulsing spires and bodacious, robust cradles of Gaudy architecture… tantalizing tapas tempting then annihilating feeble taste buds… svelte, dark, alluring beauty adorned in chic fashion.

Snap back to the reality at hand.. gazing into the pot of fruit, I smile at the transformation from the once pale mush into deep ochre richness worthy of royalty. I pour the quince paste into a glass dish and nestle it into a barely warm oven for another hour, encouraging it to set, stand tall upon its release.

The gods have listened and the Membrillo is born. I cut cubes of this lusciousness, one for the platter, one for me, one for the platter… sprinkling them amongst Manchego, Drunken Goat and Campo de Montalban cheeses. Almonds, fresh figs, and dried apricots adorn the platter with drizzles of orange blossom honey and lavender sprigs…

Did I mention Nirvana??

from Canada to the tip of Chile

It was the first balmy night of the Summer, granted it was the second Friday of August… People from the East, who lament over the lack of seasons here in California, should acknowledge that no seasons are better than two Winters. Our Summer Solstice takes stage with the billowing blanket of fog that tucks tightly around the cranium like a scrutinized military cot, inhibiting any undisciplined behavior from taking hold. Sergeant Summer in the Bay Area (if you have heat during the months of June to August, you are not IN the Bay Area) deprives and punishes the frivolous behavior of being out of Winter uniform or absent from the interior drills and routines.

The warmth embraced an intimate group, initiating the southern hemisphere representation of the Asian Influenced Latin Fresca. Noshing on Peruvian Plantain chips and copious amounts of rich guacamole and Mi Pueblo tortilla chips, the small talk quickly dissipated. Frank comparisons of Daniel Craig’s playful appearance in the subconscious Dreamland, and the seductive thoughts to act on them consciously, quickly flourished in detail and intrigue. Personal links of desire and thrills, nurtured by the titillating warmth, flourished into what if’s and would you’s…Steamy stories, firing the body temps, prompted the serving of the Asian Ginger Chicken Lettuce cups. Chilled Iceberg lettuce, (yes, there is a place for Iceberg on a table), nestling a mound of pulled chicken (no on the ground chicken version…) seasoned in ginger, scallions, cilantro and sweet soy based sauce, filled the mouths enough to allow contemplation and provocation of a deeper thinking.

Our hypnotic state was shattered by the firing of a motorcycle muffler reverberating on the street. By no way suburban, yet homey, our street can be host to youthful impatience or disciplined slow pace. Rarely has the machine gun sound of a motorcycle raised eyebrows or conversation. Rich teasingly declared that perhaps the Harley riders, en route to Sturgis, South Dakota, had detoured to Fresca for hardy sustenance across the Rockies. The stories that stemmed from that comment would be as prolific as the riders, stretching long into the night.

I was first to utter that we had been immersed, surrounded by the passionate riders on the isolated stretches through Wyoming. Having celebrated the childhood home of my father and his siblings, in Grey Bull, my trio headed off to Yellowstone to ease our wanderlust and refuel our spirits. The vastness of Wyoming wilderness was the environmental genetic evolution that must have occurred in my father and continued genetically down the DNA ladder to me and mine. We stopped in Cody at Irma’s Bar, more for the nostalgia than for the refreshment, and were stymied for a parking spot (in Wyoming, mind you) for the copious amounts of Hogs lined up along the planked sidewalk and horse rails. This must have been the reasoning behind my father’s insistence, when I was 16, that the only two ways that I could anger him were if I eloped or if I rode a motorcycle… I wonder if he would now prefer that I had done either rather than the wedding…

Claire had another father/motorcycle story, which I find most amusing since her and I are both the creative, free spirited geeks, thrilled by scientific evidence yet mesmerized by the unknown. Perhaps her father had a better angle on the prevention of daughters on wheels when Claire professed that she would like to purchase a motorcycle before going off to Grad school. Upon hearing this, her father declared that she could either buy her motorcycle or be financially supported through Grad school. Easy Rider thoughts vanished and Dr. Claire followed her logical, yet longing, left cranium towards her Bio-Chemistry mastery.

Laura had a more typical leather jacket crowd tale of freewheeling with her male buddies in her freelance days. One can only imagine this buxom blonde being the only female amongst the fun loving guys and swaying side to side across the line of “one of the boys” or “girl in need”. Upon hopping onto the back of a bike, she impaled herself on the gearshift, immediately gauging a fleshy remembrance. Insisting that she needed to go to the hospital, the men readily agreed and piled her into the cab of their truck. Pulling up in the local liquor store lot, Laura reiterated that she didn’t need anything so they could go on to the hospital. Securing her ease, the boys said they knew she was fine, but they needed some 6 packs for the road. (Lesson to be learned here…)

Ultimately reaching medical attention and enduring stitches through layers of tissue, muscle and skin, Laura would later return to her own doctor for oversight and prognosis on the wound. Walking into the room, Scotch in one hand and cigarette in the other, her doctor suggested the stitches be removed readily, after only days of installation. Hmm, was that the Scotch speaking or the visionary brilliance of early cauterization via cigarette butts?? Who says we need Medical reform? I believe we have come a long way from that methodology…

We settled around our feast, in the double digits of the night, to Ann’s slow cooked Authentic Beef Enchiladas, my Cilantro Rice, Sarza, Chimichurri and grilled corn and tomato salad. James walked in, having arrived from visiting his mother, the El Salvadorian infuser, to perfect the Latin style of dining amongst friends. He decided we should have a Salvadorian Fresca centered around Papusas and grilled plantains. The Malbec was raised to offer Salud to the Latins and their love of food, friends and folktales and the proliferation of all.

Did I ever tell you about Oscar, who I met at the Chilean border near the entrance to Los Torres del Paine? He had ridden down from Canada, along the Pacific Coast, and was now nearing the end of the ride at the southern most point of the continent. My first thought was, “Wow, such perseverance and courage.” My next one was, “Does he have a catheter for kidneys?”… Patagonia, that is another story… prompted from the Ratta-tat-tat of an altered motorcycle muffler…. Salud!

Meet and potatoes... The Irish meet the Latins..

Wow… the Irish must have some pull with the powers above to have been granted a blazing summer (in Oakland!) evening beneath the glowing paper globes of luminescence last Friday. Not to mention, coincidence with the Giants hosting Irish heritage night in honor of Brian Wilson, who took the pride seriously by posting his 31st save of the season and giving young puppy, Lincecum, his 13th win. (If you are a numbers person, you are all over that combo…)

As the heat rose off what is considered a “solar mass” in the green retrofitting world, people arrived adorned in their Irish honor of our esteemed mate. From the men’s prevalent “Kiss me I’m Irish” tees and unique O’Malley’s Alley bowling shirt to the sassy sundresses of the females, the statement was apparent: everyone is Irish by at least one gene…

A steady stream of libations, making a genuine pub green with envy, bantered with the authentic and modern comestibles of niblets. Only the second loaf of homemade Irish Soda Bread made it out to the patio on the heels of the first loaf being devoured in the kitchen… The tiny red potatoes topped with sour cream and bacon were delicately savored whilst the stinky Irish cheeses were heavily laden on stocky bread. The food ran true to the invite… Nothing fresh but the attitudes…

Doses of Irish music danced from above.. everyone from the Gaelic Storm to the The Waterboys and Young Dubliners… yet the boisterous conversations would keep the music tame and limit the urge to kick up one’s heels. Stories streamed of roots and landings, adventures and dares. Generations past and current making the leap of faith to leave all they knew behind and set out for a new life of promises and disappointments. The strong connections to their homeland (did you say Jersey?) rival the solace found in their Chosen Land. Greats and Great-Greats setting the parameters for those who dare to do life differently… so many Johnny’s, Jimmy’s and Michael’s wandering about celebrating the return to simplicity of gathering and joshing, elbows up and seats down… not a pub in the Emerald Isle that would have outdone the patio.

All have ties to the potato, whose diversity lent itself to the endless dishes, whether independent or as the “vegetable” adorning the meat; platters of Shepherd’s Pie and Colcannon amongst the variations of papas. Perhaps therein lies the connection of the Irish and the Latins and their propensity to seek each other out as mates. Something as simple as the root, upon which entire cultures have based their celebrity and failures. The Peruvians have established more than 300 varieties in the Andes, 3000 varieties across all the countries dipped in the Andes, honoring the Incan brilliance of knowing a good spud when they see one. Who else has a park, Parque de la Papa, dedicated to the tubers? Gold wasn’t the only resource taken by the conquistadors at the expense of the natives… perhaps the Great Potato Famine was the curse of desecrated lives and culture lost…

Here’s to a Grand Craic and the lucky lads and lassies that are blessed by the Irish…

Being raised in a household where Latin culture smacked into the gregarious nature of the Wild West of Wyoming, we, children, were the creations of the Perfect Storm… endless stories of childhood pranks and young adulthood struggles; constant laughter over jokes, humorous situations or teasing; slamming front door as friends of all ages came and went. Our house was always filled, as was our refrigerator and plates, regardless of financial standing. There would usually be extra people around the dinner table, eager to listen, yet even more eager to tell their story.

Through the years of college and City living, this sense of living was fed easily within the daily routine. People were always gathering in hallways, offices, classrooms and pubs. It was simple to stroll out of one task, into the next, and be surrounded with a new mix of acquaintenances passionate about what they believed in and at ease with speaking their minds.  Meager means were common, and often a topic of priority, and the latest tales of adventures peaked one’s  interest.

But then the trying years of new parenthood hit amidst the sensation of child care and nannies.  Having not opted for the bi-monthly paycheck at the end of the 6 week “disability”, but rather, choosing the unpopular route of staying home with my newborn, I introduced myself to social suicide. The incessant chatter of my office mates, (yes, even engineers can chatter) keeping me current with the latest gossip, culture and technology had been replaced with the endless crying of a colicky baby.  My daytime hours were void of  friends either working or at home with babies “that all they (did) was sleep”.  I longed for any social interaction I could find and thus, my haunts became the neighboring Five and Dime  store, Peet’s Coffee and The Toy Store, where there was known opportunity to speak with the person trapped behind the counter.

Trips to the park in attempts to find other mothers only forth those who were desperate to fill their child’s schedule.

“Are you the nanny?”, was the common introduction from women that I had hoped would be approaching me for reasons other than children.

“Nooo,..”, was my blank stare response back.

“Oh, too bad. Who are you then?”

“I’m the mother.”

“Don’t you work?”

“Yes, from home.”, (with two jobs, both of which are 24 hours a day).

“Is that all you do? Well, could you schedule a play date with my nanny? She has her calendar with her.”

Odd, I thought, that this woman, mother, would be out trawling the playground in desperation to keep her nanny occupied with strangers for the week. And what was this “play date” vocabulary? Since when did children have to be slotted into convenience with the adults looking after them? I realized that the family definition had altered, not evolved, while I was engaged in my active youth. At some point, the family home had disintegrated and a gaping void had replaced the pounding heartbeats and footsteps of the American culture.  The children were no longer the pulse but rather, the flat line of social interaction and the adults would rather get their high off the throngs of strangers at the “see and be seen” scene.

Fortunately, I clambered into a fabulous group of women who had also left thriving professions to nurture their children at home. No longer the social pariahs of our peers, we sought eachother out regularly, spontaneously, by a simple phone call.. “I’m coming over now”. Whether it was the gnawing need from a demanding little one or the desire to listen to articulate conversation, the notion of dropping in, unscheduled, became the core of our friendship. The childhood memory of a full house was being re-established on the frontal lobe of  emotion and set into place by these willing volunteers.

It would be the arena in which spontaneous gathering involving food and stories would thrive and gain momentum. I attempted for years to have others follow, whether they be school parents or peers, the idea of dropping in whenever they felt like it. But, to no avail. Queries of  why they did not approach my door were met with a blank gaze expressing, “I didn’t know if you would want me to…” Finally, realizing my social standards of being completely open would forever clasha with the typical standard of “must be invited”, I formally created the “spontaneous” gathering by using the now old fashioned techy Evite. Without needing an immediate response, nor any response at all, just a broad announcement, I had declared, invited, informed my formal friends that my house was always opened… to make it more specific, my house was open every Friday.. and thus, Friday Fresca was born.

Friday Fresca… It’s Frivolous…It’s Friday…It’s Fresca…