Eating on Lakeshore

I said that I was unemployed and would resurrect this column and write all the time, and I lied. If John McCain does it, why can't I? The truth is I job search, I see friends, I fill my time with other things. My apologies for leading you on, it is a genuine hope that I will do this more, and do it better.

But just to keep the record straight, my lack of frequent posting has nothing to do with the fact that I haven't be eating well. Quite the contrary. Since moving to the Lakeshore neighborhood I've indulged constantly. I eat better than well, I probably eat better than you. I can chock this up to three things that I have that you don't, unless of course you're my neighbor.

1) Grand Avenue's insane weekend market that happens mere minutes from our house. Every Saturday we trek downhill, canvas bags in tow for our weekly supply of the season's bounty. We have our cheese and butter vendor, Spring Hill, (how great is it that I can buy homemade butter?) and our various suppliers of produce. Blossom Bluff sells us stone fruits. Zuckermans gives us potatoes in various shapes and colors. We've bought orchids, figs, corn, avocados and other delights. Perhaps the greatest indulgence is the Roli Roti truck which parks at the end of the chaos and turns out blistering, fat, rotisserie chickens from Petaluma. Half the fun is just standing there watching them spit cook and drip fat on each other. And smelling them isn't half bad either. Buy a whole chicken ($12) or just a half ($6.50). Finger licking good. There is also live music, like Dylan Moon, the 15 year old Pink Floyd phenom. And a bouncy castle as if you needed any more reasons to be jealous.

Here is a picture after a recent trip to market land (chicken not pictured).


2) I live just up the hill from Arizmendi bakery. Part of the employee owned, cooperative series that brought you similar ventures like The Cheese Board and the other Arizmendi. They put out killer baked goods, breads, and pizzas for a phenomenal price. They also sell their extra pizza dough (which is a house made sourdough crust) for $1.50 a round. They have a double corn muffin that is worthy of tears. My only question is why they don't make bagels.

3) Colonial donuts. $.85 Glazed Old Fashioned. Open 24 hours. You do the math.

I'll end this post with photos of the food we've been enjoying thanks to the Lakeshore neighborhood.

Tacos on handmade corn tortillas made even better by garden fresh salsa, a Justin specialty.

A tomato snack with farmers market avocado and shaved parmesan.




Its great to be back in California.

The Carnivores Carnival

It amazes me that only three posts ago I was announcing my decision to take a full time job in Seattle and settle "permanently". This just reconfirms the notion that permanence exists in sixth month increments for those of us in our middle twenties. In fact, as I write this I am sitting at my desk for the last time. Typing on a computer that will remain at this desk after I leave today.

I'm not sad at all and really won't miss a thing about the job or the place. But simultaneously I have no regrets. I have learned a lot this past year: about foodservice and distribution and supply, and also about my personal relationship with food and the interconnectedness of my appetite and my morals.

Which has brought me to a new place in my dietary road: I am eating meat again. Sort of. As with all things related to me, it is a condition loaded with caveats. The catalyst for the change was a combination of poor health (during which I decided I'd shock my system with some extra protein and see what happened) and the anticipation of my trip to Morocco with Katie during which I don't want to have dietary limitations. If lamb is put in front of me...so be it. But eating meat raised and processed domestically has always raised a lot of issues for me. The thought of the factory slaughter process is disgusting (and if you aren't disgusted by it you really should be)So it was with much forethought that I ventured into my new omnivorous state. The first meaty meal was at Tilth one of only two restaurants in the country to receive organic certification from Oregon Tilth. I assumed their meat would be the kind that was raised lovingly on a farm, frolicking among the buttercups by day and wrapped warmly at night in dry wicking blankets, as sweet promises of cotton candy and dreams were whispered softly in their ears. I ordered their flat iron steak medium rare, it showed up raaaaaarrrreee, or mooing, on an oversalted mound of mashed potatoes and some oversalted vegetable. The meat was fine though no fireworks were coursing through Seattle's drizzly sky. I didn't get sick which was a huge plus, but the experience left me feeling like there was more and better out there, and I was going to try it.

Steak attempt two involved the Farmers Market (and in my mind some very coddled cows who were probably thinking "my life has been so good here on this farm, if only I could give something back....I would give my left shoulder for a newly retired vegetarian to enjoy the fruits of my loving upbringing") and an outstanding grill job by one Mr. Riggs, roommate to one never before mentioned boyfriend, Justin. The sky was drizzly, again, but this time there were fireworks. The medium rare was a true medium rare. The outside of the steak had a light crispness and the inside was tender and juicy. Naturally the boys were over the moon about dragging a vegetarian down their carnivorous shame spiral. But it was a great meal and I've climbed on-board the lovingly-raised-locally-without-antibiotics-or-hormones-and-only-fed-sweet-grass-and-clear-water meat train.