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.

One day I had an empty calendar, bare feet, a great suntan and dirt clogging my fingernails, and the next day my phone was ringing off the hook and I was all booked up. Five events in one week meant my catering business was officially rocking and I retreated inside for many, many hours in the kitchen. I have been fortunate to get a lot of referrals from nice people who like me, and even more fortunate to book a lot of different kinds of events - variety is truly the spice of life. I swung from a private school garden party to a catalog photo shoot to a dinner at a crazy beautiful Belvedere home.

We inherited a rather fantastic apple tree on our property in Woodacre. At some point in time it was grafted with four different types of apples, so that each section of the tree shows a distinct personality. I have no clue what the varieties are, but one wears red stripes like a Gala, another is honeyed and soft, and a third crunchy and bright...a Gravenstein? When this tree gives, she gives. Late summer found me struggling to find creative ways to preserve the bounty. Jar upon jar of applesauce line the shelves next to snappy, cinnamon laced apple chips from the dehydrator. The most alluring transformation, however, happened in a big, sticky pot of apple butter.

One of my closest friends in college was a 6'5" red headed Frenchman named Bruce. He was at one point a member of an organization called Clowns without Borders, and later went on to work for the World Bank. He was an interesting character to say the least. Between existential philosophy, economics classes and theater, Bruce spent his time in the kitchen of my dorm house, crying. These were not tears of sadness or tears of joy, they were straight up tears of FIRE!