Dinner. (at Gordes, Provence, France)


A working French port redolent of fish, fuel and the Mediterranean. (at Port de Sète)


The Spanish métier: pork and peppers. (at Pyrenees Mountains, Spain)


heritageartifacts:

The only sounds reverberating off the hills are the clanging of the ancient, iron bells wrapped around the necks of sheep in the town of Montella in northern Spain. (at La Seu D’urgell, Spain)


Stick a fork in me…. I’m done. (at Cal Pep, Barcelona)


Pescado. (at La Boqueria)


The glass jar was empty of everything but a fine dust and I was beginning to feel anxious.  I’d made the requisite phone calls to providers, both legal and not so much.

No dice.

Seems my favorite strain of green bud had been sold out for many weeks, and the harvest was still months away.  The only thing left to do was go to the source.  We loaded the old wagon with a few days’ worth of provisions; cheese and yogurt, smoked trout and cured ham, tomatoes and peppers still warm from the garden, bottles of Sicilian red and old Champagne, crackers, granola, green tea and honey, olive oil and salt.  Books, three fingers of magazines, knives, bathing suits, hiking boots, and an old yellow Lab named Haas were all tucked in, too. 

Anderson Valley in northern California was our aim; home of tie-dye and flannel, age-worthy Pinot Noir, ancient redwood forests, un-oaked Chardonnay, crystal and rock shops, decades-old apple orchards, and some of the finest marijuana in the world; not just any old street-skunk, dime-bag ganja, but the nonpareil Blue Dream.

A sativa-dominant hybrid, the Blue Dream strain is a cross of 80% sativa (haze) with 20% indica (blueberry).  Sativa and indica are the two predominant marijuana species, which when crossed, create hybrid strains.  Both the species and their strains produce different effects.

Indica plants are short and stocky, are fast to flower within 45-60 days, and respond well to being grown inside.  Indica strains, such as OG Kush, Northern Lights, Buddha’s Sister, and Yumbolt hail from India and central Asia.  Their buds are thick and heavy, with sweetish sour aromas reminiscent of a Manhattan Jewish deli on a cold Sunday morning; warm yeasty dough, brined pickles, honeyed baklava, and sour tomatoes.

Indica produces a stony body high.  Muscles relax and a sense of thickness permeates the physical being.  Also mentally relaxing, indicas are often smoked at night to induce sleep, and used to relieve body pain, spasms, anxiety and headaches.

But it is the sativa strain for which I jones. 

Sativa plants are well suited to being grown outside, as their long leafy branches can tower to 25 feet in height.  Requiring a whopping 60-90 days of nurturing sun to flower, this strain was originally tended to in the equatorial climes of Jamaica, Mexico, Thailand, and southern India.  Sativa buds are often larger than those of indica, but less dense, and unfortunately for the grower, therefore not as weighty.  In spite of lower grow weights and a longer flowering period, the sativa strain is in high demand.  As opposed to indica’s body high, sativa produces a more energetic, uplifting, and cerebral high best suited to creative, daytime endeavors.  Sativa varieties, such as Willie Nelson, Lamb’s Bread, and Allen Wrench are often used to fight depression; toking to a sense of well-being.  Sativa’s fragrance is the essence of green:  pine needles, sage, wet evergreen, pineapple skin, juniper berry, white pepper, Jasmine green tea, peppermint. 

The entry to the long, winding dirt drive was difficult to locate and the gardens were set a fair distance from the main road.  Sequestered from prying eyes in different valleys at varying altitudes, the gardens were laid with rows of ‘smart pots’, each accommodating four hundred pounds of soil, a mulch of rice straw, and the fully mature plant.  The copious amounts of water needed to feed the giant ganja springs from a recently dug well and is gravity fed from tank to tank and from garden to garden, meandering all the way down the rocky mountainside.

The maestro of this semi-clandestine, pop-up farm is a young vegan yogi with longish hair and thick eyelashes who studies permaculture and ecological design.  His tanned and filthy bare feet are caked with the dry dirt of a drought-ridden summer.  In stained red running shorts falling from his thin frame, he proudly walked us through the gardens, a cloud of dust trailing him like a Charlie Brown character.

Blue Dream, the one and only strain produced at the farm, is grown outside under the summer sun and lovingly fed an organic diet of guano from Oregonian bats, seaweed kelp from the nearby Mendocino coast, a special blend of phosphates and minerals, and a potent compost tea.  Cannabis plants produce nodes along their stems, from which grow leaves, branches and flowers (the buds).   The large green leaves flashing in the sun were unsurprisingly familiar; the leaf now emblazoned on a posters, beach towels and tee shirts around the world.  It was however, the warm sun and heady aromas of water, minerals, earth, and flowering green bud wafting in the afternoon breeze that made me excitedly high. 

And nothing had even been lit yet.

The constant whirr of DEA helicopters overhead was mildly disconcerting.  Sheeting the size of billboards displayed next to each garden with the California-issued license grow number did little to alleviate the feeling of shadiness and illegality. 

Perhaps I was expecting a Napa Valley with guns.  There was, however, nothing manicured about the place.  Rather, there was a wild, wild west vibe to the operation, albeit one with a very ecologically conscious bent.  And most growers, the ones doing it legally anyway, seem more concerned with poachers than with law enforcement.

After being gifted the last two large buds of Blue Dream from the harvest prior, we drove from Anderson Valley’s hot floor to the cool of our rented cottage atop a forested mountain.  From the porch, we watched the fog shuffle in from the Mendocino coast, slowly and determinately, like an old lady set in her ways.  The cackle from the crows perched overhead in the old-growth redwoods and throaty, amorous calls from the bullfrogs in the pond below introduced early evening.   Two king-sized rolling papers were glued together and the fragrant bud was finely ground in a stone mortar and pestle found in a kitchen cupboard.   A couple of puffs were sufficient to giddily send us into the nearby orchards, now overgrown with Asian and Bartlett pears, ambrosial Clingstone peaches, and a half-dozen varieties of apples. 

Under a darkening sky, we ate pears baked with butter, maple syrup, a whiff of nutmeg, a healthful douse of the local Germain Robin brandy, and topped with a dollop of fresh, soft cheese from Pennyroyal Farmstead, whose goats roam the neighboring hills.

Ah, yes, that advertised feeling of contentment and well-being…  Anderson Valley is the stuff of dreams. 

Blue dreams.


An Anderson Valley retreat. (at On A Mountaintop in Booneville, Ca)


San Marzano tomatoes from the garden. (at at home in Napa)


Dill and dahlias


It was late when I finally arrived to a silent house, the mid-summer evening unexpectedly warm and lit by a creamy moon almost full of herself.

Leaving my wrinkled linen dress in a heap near the basement door, I ventured to the kitchen, opening wide the door to the back porch. Stepping into the balmy darkness, I was overcome by the heady scent of orange and lemon blossoms, almost making me ache for winter’s Meyer and Kaffir citrus circus.

Locating the marble match strike, its exterior deeply mottled from years of use, the long beeswax tapers were lit, their natural perfume the florid honey of illicit afternoon intimacy. Wearying of the silence, I let the live recordings of Wayne Shorter rip through the muted night, his tenor sax elevating the mundanity of rinsing a handful of Rainier cherries, the fat orbs bursting with the high notes of both sweet and tart. A steel container of gelato was pulled from the freezer and set on a wooden board to warm. Homemade the day previous, and by a hand distinctly more deft than mine, it was churned with fresh buffalo milk harvested from a Sonoma friend’s exotic bovid; her opulent gift slowly steeped with vanilla beans and cardamom pods. 

Pouring two (and-a-half) fingers of bitter Amaro into a tumbler, I pondered that haughty water buffalo; her coat shiny black, long whiskers protruding from a thick snout ending at nostrils the size of tartlet pans, and a large, blocky head weighed down by two enormous horns the color and texture of cement. Her soulful brown eyes belied her air of superiority; prideful in her understanding that I had driven a considerable distance to score the good stuff from her. The milk of water buffalo boasts 8% butterfat, often twice the amount of that in cow’s milk, depending upon season. And she knows every drop of her milk is precious: a lactating water buffalo will produce only 2 gallons a day, while a lactating cow can offer 12 gallons.

Like cows, water buffalo are ruminants, feeding on plant-life for their nutrients, (as opposed to a feedlot conscripted cow’s industrial diet of corn and antibiotics). With a highly sophisticated digestive system, ruminants ferment the plants in one of their multiple stomachs, and then regurgitate it, and further chew this cud. This re-chewing is referred to as rumination and assists in digestion, thus processing the greens into high value protein.

With a worldwide population of just less than 2 million heads, water buffalo are classified as either Asian or African species. They are further divided into either swamp buffalo, often used for work in Asia’s hotter climes, or river buffalo, the preferred type for milk production. 

The milk from water buffalo differs significantly from that of other ruminants, containing a higher content of fatty acids and proteins, along with more solids, rendering it ideal for making cream, butter, and cheese.

And gelato.

An Italian word meaning ice cream, gelato gets its fluffiness from being whipped with air, contains at least 3.5% butterfat, and is composed of 16%-24% sugar, which balances the water content to prevent it from freezing into a solid block (most ice cream in the US is 12%-16% sugar). In the late 1600s, Sicilian chef Francesco Procopio dei Coltello perfected the world’s first gelatiere machine, introducing the world to the wonders of churned dairy.

Refilling my now-empty tumbler of Amaro with more of Calabria’s finest, I pulled up a spoon to the steel container, the gelato now soft enough to reveal its consistency of whipped clouds, and warm enough for the woody, sweet-earth aromas of Tahitian vanilla bean to bloom. The unmistakable palate tingle of cardamom transported me to long ago Sunday mornings of coffeecakes and cartoons. It was, however, the nectar of rich, ambrosial baked milk that had me swooning; once again staring into the eyes of that massive, magnificent, black beast, the water buffalo.


Morning reflections on Tomales Bay… (at Point Reyes National Seashore And Lighthouse)


Pine cone. (at Point Reyes National Seashore And Lighthouse)


Nasturtium. (at Bolinas, California)


Summer mornings, quiet and early and dripping with the gray fog of northern California, are ideal for working in the garden.  Into an old linen housedress I slip, and accompanied only by a mug of Jasmine Pearl tea, enter into the small, green world of my making.  Hoping to be ignored by chatty neighbors who often peek through strategically placed shrubbery, I fill our absurdist bird feeder, a wood and iron piece based on the 1920s design of the Barcelona Pavilion by Mies van der Rohe, complete with a tiny outdoor pool.  The efforts and architecture are seemingly appreciated by the greedy Blue Jays, their ferocity making even the cats cower.  Ancient window panes, edged in chipped red and blue paint from a long-ago weekend project, are thrown open, the seed boxes now carpeted with unkempt rows of spicy micro-greens and tiny radishes. 

Radicchio seeds, smuggled in from southern Italy and planted the week prior, are finally extending teeny shoots.  Roma tomato plants are tied, bondage-style, to copper posts; their splayed, thickish branches coating my arms with a viridescent, resinous and stinky pollen, and making them itch in a most delightful way.

Armed with a pair of oversized Spanish kitchen shears, I wondrously examine a large raised bed, now spilling over with leaves the size of baby elephant ears and sprouting curlicue tendrils, which grasp desperately at an old bamboo trellis firmly situated in its midst.  The plant is a volunteer, one of many in the garden; a rogue outgrowth of this lazyman’s compost pile, which is laden with squash and tomato remnants, and their seeds, from last year’s harvest.  The squash plant was left to languish, but instead dug in its roots and flourished, announcing its feat with dozens of fat, bijou blossoms the color of a two-day old jack-o’-lantern.  I snip a baker’s dozen of the gaudy flowers and their spindly stems, easily filling my harvest basket just as the mid-morning sun muscles through pewter skies, shooing the fog back towards the coast.

Rinsing the delicate flowers, two stunned ladybugs are liberated by the water and sent fluttering from the gossamer folds.  Into a bowl of room temperature Sonoma sheep’s milk ricotta went several eggs, their yolks a Cadmium Yellow Deep hue.  Tiny leaves from the overly-proliferate Globe basil bush were added, along with a generous handful of Sicilian pine nuts, the edges charred bark brown in hot cast iron.  Flaky salt, coarsely ground black and white pepper, and a hit of allspice to fool the palate were gently folded into the mix.  Using an antique quenelle spoon traded ages ago for a bottle of Dujac Burgundy with a too-savvy sous chef from a distant restaurant gig, I filled each flower with the rich goodness, twisting the ends tightly, sealing their fate.  Each blossom was brushed with a bit of whipped egg and dusted with freshly grated crumb before being blasted in a roasting hot oven.  An old Pieropan Soave was uncorked, the smoky, salty notes from the Garganega grape a wonderful companion to the stuffed squash blossoms.   We stood at the stove, dirt from the garden still encrusted on our bare feet, and ate them straight from the pan.


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