Melon & Mint

Beautiful on their own; made even more so when paired.

Little Italy: Round Two

My last day in San Diego was one of my favorites of the entire trip. It was a testament to a) how much I adore Amy and appreciate our friendship, and b) how the smallest things make me perfectly happy. We spent the afternoon in Little Italy. I again found myself charmed by the sunny (literally), pleasant atmosphere. Perhaps it was because I was on vacation and free of daily obligations that I sensed life was taken at a more leisurely pace in Little Italy. But don't get me wrong, people were still hard at work in their shops, on the sidewalk patios and in front of their laptops. Yet everyone's demeanor seemed a bit more relaxed than what I am accustomed to among the stern-faced comings and goings of Seattleites. Here, we always seem to be on a mission every second of our lives.

I had my second gelato of my entire life that day, and I was informed that it was nothing like what is actually eaten in Italy. I didn't mind, and frankly I didn't know the difference. All I cared about in that moment was sunning my face in the hopes of attaining more freckles, while alternating bites between scoops of peanut butter cup and espresso gelato. Satisfaction.

As we walked down India Street, amass with potted lemon and lime trees, I couldn't help being thrilled by what I observed. Each intersection greeted us with a view of glittering ocean, a palm lined marina boulevard and lethargic sailing ships. Along the way I peeped into little markets run by native Italians. I sighed both because of my enchantment by the sights and scents, as well as my disappointment in the 3 ounce liquid rule for the flight home limiting my purchases. There were cured meats, fresh seafood salads, imported cheeses, and carefully ordered shelves of good olive oils, sweets and wines. Glass cases displayed empty chocolate cannoli shells waiting to be pumped full of fresh cream and dipped in pistachios, amaretto cookies and other decadent sweets. Darling little trattorias had sidewalk patios set with white linens and clear shining glass goblets. It was beautiful.

We posted up outside at a small iron table next to a lemon tree at a corner cafe. I sat as the sun warmed my face, while my eyes raced down the pages and my mind filled with the daring adventures of the Scarlet Pimpernel, his comrades and the alluring Marguerite St. Just. The pleasantly strong, sickly-sweet cigar smoke from the gentleman sitting adjacent our table filled my nostrils. Passersby spoke loudly and animatedly in Italian, accompanied by enthusiastic gestures. In need of a late afternoon caffeine pick-me-up, Amy and I moved to Starbucks, chatting about home, our loves, the future, and reminiscing about the past and our families over one of the greatest things to come out of Seattle: fruity, bitter roast.

Alas dinnertime approached and it was time to meet our friends. I was sad to depart, but my soul was full and happy. The wall wishing me "Ciao" as I boarded the trolly sent me off in good spirits with pleasant memories to accompany me forever.

A 180

La Jolla. Now there's a beach community I could enjoy. Undoubtedly pretentious and swarming with flirty housewives, but upscale, classy and clean nonetheless. A pretty cove, clear blue water, and white frothy foam crouching up along the shore as a product of surging waves. Hoards of roly-poly, grunting seals packed flipper to tail while sunbathing on mammoth rocks, while picnicking women in rather large floppy hats did the same. 

And then there was a late lunch on the Ocean Terrace at George's alongside La Jolla's creme de la creme, accompanied by ocean views as far as the eye could see. What was on my plate? Farro salad with grilled zucchini, asparagus, roasted beets, cherry tomatoes, red onion, kalamata olives, marinated feta, mint, parsley and basil. Light and refreshing, corresponding with the way I felt about being in that lovely and pristine seaside town after the previous day among SoCal beach bums.

As Far As The Eye Can See

SoCal beaches are so interesting, in a way that made me realize I could never live here, not to be a Debbie Downer or anything. The weather was beautiful, the sand soft, the little courts of beach shacks (some not so shack-like) quite cute, and the sweet little Mexican woman who owned the taco shop we ate at as friendly as could be. Yet I can honestly say I never really felt happy the whole day we spent at Pacific and Mission beaches. Maybe it was because for some reason I couldn't shake the feeling of being cold all day. Maybe it's the fact that I have painful burns on the backs of my legs. More likely however is how shallow and "unreal" it all seemed. It was an endless sea of pectorals verging on becoming breasts, lame frat bros and trashy women, and the older generations trying hard to live up to their so-called glory days by partying hard with the youngsters. I was happy to head home.

Remember That One Time When We Tried To Bike To Tijuana?

Half a banana, a small handful of almonds and a rapidly gulped down cup of hot coffee on the sunny deck off our hotel room. The day started off like any other, that is, until we met Gino. He self-admittedly had consumed too much vino. Mind you, it was before noon. "Make sure you go through the Hyatt to get to Seaport Village. You can trust me, I've been coming here for over fifty years." Yeah, ok Gino too much vino. Going straight through the Hyatt isn't even an option, but thanks. 

We missed the ferry to Coronado by ten minutes, thanks to getting a bit too friendly with vats of every kind of balsamic vinegar under the sun (espresso and Mexican chocolate were a couple favorites).

Upon landing at Coronado Island, with palm trees and sandy beaches in sight, I found myself taking the greatest and smoothest joyride of my life. The retro lines of my lime green beach cruiser fit my personality like a polka-dot dress and bright orange lipstick. It's always a good sign when I can't stop humming the Father of The Bride soundtrack, as I really was living the simple life. Tasting the fresh cheeses, meats, smoked almonds, and apples of locals while admiring unpretentious bouquets of sunflowers and ranunculi, I felt truly happy and content. Wide residential streets were lined with an eclectic mix of Cape Cod, mission, and craftsman bungalow style homes made uniform by their lush and blooming yards, complete with abundantly fruitful lemon trees. 

Somehow along the way, we got a bit off course. Leaving the ocean further and further behind, we found ourselves moving smoothly along deeper into barren brown lands. Perhaps the fact that we were riding along something that resembled a freeway should have tipped us off, but it didn't. If it hadn't been for Bekah's chain falling off in a rambunctious dive off the curb, it is highly likely that three friends would be in Tijuana right now. Realizing the error of our border-bound way, we turned around after a round of belly-aching laughs, only to be greeted by the wind working against us. Thanks for nothing Steve Jobs. Your maps proved not only potentially dangerous, but made for a completely unnecessary trek. Adventure! Exploration! Better yet, a great story and years of memories ahead of us. Remember that one time when we tried to bike to Tijuana?

Rest assured, we made it back to civilization, and one of great affluence at that. First things first: Moo Time. The above photo serves to document the remains of a solid layer of Heath lovingly snuggled between one heaping scoop of double double dark chocolate and another of toasted coconut (complete with gigantic shavings of toasted coconut). Pure joy immediately ensued, followed by a leisurely stroll through palm tree lined streets of oceanside mansions. Fine sand below my feet and between my toes, I looked upon over a century of elite leisure. Visions of white fur, diamonds and crimped hair of old Hollywood stars within the private villas and smoky restaurants of the historic Hotel del Coronado filled my daydreaming mind. 

Eventually the tired eyes and windblown hair of three dear friends greeted a hazy sunset to end an adventuresome and enjoyable day that brought us closer on a whole new level.

Europe In A Day

The day began in Spain at Balboa Park. We found ourselves amid beautiful and highly detailed Spanish-style architecture, walking through grand semi-circular arched colonnades and stretches of landscaped pathways. There were cactus and rose gardens, lovely palms and exotic flowers, coy ponds and sunbathing turtles. 

At sunset we found ourselves in Italy, Little Italy that is. Starved and looking for an authentic meal, we found it at Buon Appetito. Having never been to Italy myself, I was charmed, not only by the genial, warm personalities and heavy Italian accents of the waitstaff, but by the atmosphere in general. Dim, rustic and comforting like home. Hearty bread and fresh tomato, basil and garlic bruschetta set us up for an exemplary dinner of linguine boscomare. Whoever dreamed up shrimp, bay scallops, sun-dried tomatoes and asparagus in a divine pink brandy sauce has become my gastro soulmate.

Shelves lined with elegant bottles of truffle oil (double swoon!), olive oil, aged balsamic vinegar, and every other life-changing Italian product you can imagine filled the corner specialty food market, making my heart flutter.

I feel love.

Colors. Sunshine.

I hear from people back home that it's snowing. 

Joy!

I leave for San Diego in twelve hours. Have I even started to pack yet? Not a chance. I can only hope that the contents of my petite suitcase (which is supposed to somehow allow me seven days of outfits) come together as quickly and lovely as the soup I'm hastily devouring by the spoonful. Butternut squash, with my own additions of Trader Joe's roasted peppers and onions, wilted spinach, white kidney beans, two egg whites, and heaps of cumin and black pepper. My soul is getting some much needed post-finals lovin' as I sit next to the space heater and watch the amusing antics of Kathleen Kelley and Joe Fox.

You know what else has warmed my soul this evening? Joy. No, no, not the kind you feel, but Joy, Joy the Baker! What a treat that woman is. You read her writing and wonder, Can someone really be this sassy in real life? The answer: you betcha. Elisa and I happened to be the first to arrive at her book signing and got to meet Joy before everyone else. She even got a high-five out of the deal! Another bonus: Joy loved our shoes (her podcast parter was secretly sneaking photos of them, making me feel super special that someone so adored was adoring us!). What a fun experience to meet the woman I wake up and read every morning, musing over the latest in creativity to be extracted from her oven. 

Perhaps I'll whip something up tonight, as I always seem to do my best baking at odd hours. I mean, I can always catch up on sleep in the airport or something, right?

Hope

I have some. It comes in the form of daydreams. It serves its purpose in distracting me from the daunting hours that lay ahead this week, staring at words on a computer screen until my eyes glaze over or roll into the back of my head. 

I had my first taste of it this afternoon. Achiote pork, caramelized pineapple, red onion escabeche, cilantro, rice and beans. A teaser for what will in 13 days be 7 days of much needed reassurance that I can make it through the next 29 credits, to declare myself forever free from being a slave to academia.

Primavera. Que?

The ever-poetic Notorious B.I.G. once said, "It was all a dream." Was it? I'm beginning to think it was. Spring being a real concept in Seattle, that is.