We just returned from two weeks of total and complete freedom. The wilds of Oregon, Idaho, Nevada and glorious Montana fully embraced us, let our bodies relax, turned off our minds, opened our hearts. Nothing to do but make camp, eat food, have a little run. While I always enjoy the excitement and boundary pushing of international travel, to me nothing compares to our self-sustained, off the grid trips in the Landcruiser. We sleep in our own bed, cook our own meals and most importantly are outside all day and what can feel like all night with the rooftop tent flaps wide open, staring at the stars, awash in the night breezes.

Sometimes we just pinch ourselves. To reach the end of this project and have it come out even more beautifully than we had imagined feels like a total miracle. Every step along the way was a push and pull with all of the various builders and designers, constantly holding our ground to stick with our vision, which was often more complicated and certainly very different from what most of them had ever done before.

When we bought our house in Woodacre two years ago we knew we wanted to do some work to it. Take a few walls down, put in a new kitchen, bump up the ceiling...see how casual and easy it all sounds? We now know that the lightness of those ideas does not reflect reality in any way, shape or form. After a year of planning, demo began in September of 2016. Nine months later, broken and broke, we are finally using our new space. I won't say it's done, because all the little details will likely drag out through the summer, but it is fully functional and glorious.

All it takes is one week of sun for me to become Impatient Chef. No matter that at market I hear from the farmers how their fields are still buried under water, how they haven't been able to get even a quarter of their crops in the ground yet. I grab a case of asparagus, some beautiful leeks, a few bunches of green garlic, and mouth foaming, look around for more. But that is IT. No mas. No delightful fruits, cherries or stonefruit bursting forth. No English peas. Nada.

If there is one thing I sure get a hell of a lot of enjoyment from, it is a hot toddy. So when my family decided to start a yearly caroling party on their property, my mind immediately went to a land filled with cloves, lemon and whiskey. The first year we put a crock pot of hot toddies out, they went so quickly that we doubled it for the next year, only to find that we ought to have tripled the recipe. Picture a very cold, clear night, you walk up a fluorescent green grass covered hill to a gathering of people around a bonfire. Someone offers you a hot toddy. You have no idea what it is but everyone looks so contented and warm that of course you say yes.

I am currently a cook without a kitchen. We are in the middle of a major house remodel, and while I drool over thoughts of what our new kitchen will be like, I stand shivering in the garage with my camp stove. I figured it was a good time to talk about how AWESOME it is and how grateful I am to have a husband who searches out sweet stuff like this.

The following is from the article I wrote for the Fall 2016 edition of Breadlines, the Bread Bakers Guild of America's quarterly publication.

The barista knew not to bother me at 6am when I was fumbling around in the flour bin, cursing under my breath and dropping measuring cups. I hate baking was my mantra every morning I was on The Scone Shift. You see, I am not one of those crossover chefs; dough and I do not speak the same language. What I can pull off in a big stock pot, coaxing flavors from a humble onion, I routinely fail at in the mixing bowl. The exacting patience necessary to excel at the craft of baking is not a skill that I possess.

The change of seasons has finally hit and I have been thinking a lot about the way we process and store memories. Something about the way the fall air carries the scent of wood fires, wet earth and roasted meats manages to invoke childhood memories that never even existed for me, such as sitting by the fire and eating beef stew. How is that even possible?

If you ask me about my culinary identity, I do not have to stop and think before I say French Tunisian. I would most likely then point to growing up in California as major influencer, which is the only culinary inspiration given to me by my mother's side of the family. As Jewish immigrants to the U.S., her parents worked so hard to assimilate that they cast aside any dishes they may have remembered from their childhoods in Eastern Europe. The most edible food I ate at my grandmothers house came from the bagel shop down the street.

Let the diligence of the gardener not be judged by their zucchini. They may tend to their plants every day, patiently weeding and watering, maybe even singing to them. No matter the level of care, there is without fail, in every garden, a lurking giant hiding under the leaves waiting to scare the bejeesus out of you when it reaches two feet long and you finally spot it. Grumbling and only partially pleased that your soil is SO fertile to grow such a thing (though I swear they would do just as well in a dusty ditch by the side of the road), all you can say is, "What the hell am I supposed to do with all this squash?"

A few months ago I went to visit my Uncle in Denver. To greet me was a pile of folders - the contents of my grandfathers personal papers. Some were leases or salary negotiations that had to do with his company in Chicago, Acme Machinery Co. But most were letters from his mistress, Mae, affectionately knows “Wiggie”. Page after page of thin translucent paper was filled with her large cursive script. She was my grandfather Myron’s true love, they had been together for many years before he met my grandmother. In the words of my Aunt Deb, she smoothed all of his edges. I had only heard of her existence a few years ago, and was frankly clueless as to the depth of their relationship.

The day I got promoted from Garde Manger (salad/dessert station) to Grill, I was over the moon.  It was 2004 or 2005 at The Olema Inn - now transformed into Sir & Star - and my chef Ed Vigil had really taken me under his wing, teaching an untrained rookie how to cook. He liked having me there because I was a college educated quick learner who was happy listening to NPR with him all day, and I liked it because - I was a line cook! Whether it was out of scheduling necessity or because I'd earned it, moving up to the new station opened up another world. I loved working the grill, keeping all of the temperatures straight, learning the hot spots, and generally feeling important. And then, a few months later, I decided to become a vegetarian.

One of the advantages to being married to a bread baker and flour miller is the stupid depth of knowledge I've been able to soak up about different grains. A few years ago, if you would have told me einkorn is an instrument related to the tuba, I would have believed you. The much more clever me now knows that einkorn can be better described as a cute little farro. Brain plasticity is a wonderful thing.

I have had a hard time putting together my thoughts around our time in Sicily. Yes we were exhausted, mentally and physically, when we arrived. Yes we visited in the off season when over half of the businesses are closed. However that may have colored our impressions I can't say. What I can say is that Sicily felt unmistakably like a lost and forgotten land. With a 20% unemployment rate, 38% among young people, the huge flux of emigration over the past twenty years or so has robbed the island of many of its entrepreneurs and youthful energy. Houses are abandoned but not sold, simply left boarded and locked to await their owners who will not return. Construction projects are halted mid-way, leaving windowless office buildings to crumble back to the earth.

Of course there was disappointment. Committing a year of one's life to a single endeavor and in the course of one day have it all be decided is the true nature of competition. And man can it be harsh. Like running a race, there are endless variables beyond your control, and you hope to rise above. In the afterglow of the day there are many things that can be replayed over and over. But who wants to do that? Instead, let us rest our eyes on the brightest spark left now that it's all over - the relationships.

People - you need not wait until February 7th to root for your team. On February 6th history will be in the making in Paris, and that is what everyone should really be paying attention to. This ain't no sporting event. What is about to go down is a true competition in every sense of the word, a test of speed, skill, creativity, and focus. This, my friends, is an international baking competition.

I do not claim to have ever loved beets. Sometimes I think they taste like dirt. Other times, with the right treatment, they are sweet and sharp and I could actually eat a pile of them. So when two years ago, post Mill Valley Beerworks, my good buddy and very talented chef David Wilcox started cooking everything exclusively outdoors over wood fire, I came along to help out and see what he was up to with that 15# bag of beets.

I used to be an over-coordinator. Maybe it's too soon to use the past tense so casually. I am less often an over-coordinator with every year that passes. It could be the influence of being around so many friends with small children who fly in the face of your planning. Or that I'm simply chilling out as I age. Whatever the reason, it feels good to loosen the reigns a little bit, or "go with the flow" as hippies such as myself like to say.

I am officially back at the helm of the stoves at M.H. Bread & Butter. And stoked! When I heard that my replacements had put in their notice, I had no other single thought in my mind: I must go back. It seemed impossible to ask customers to stomach yet another menu change, not to mention the stress that another chef change puts on the front of house staff, the cooks, and the huge strain it would put on the owners. I am very happy that Devon and Nathan felt the same way.