Simple Spring Sandwich

Even though the summer solstice is still three weeks away, there’s something (at least for me) about tomorrow’s date of June first that seems to usher in the early arrival the season. That’s why I’m holding onto what’s left of spring for a few last precious moments…moments that always seem to circulate around good food.

There is a little café here in Los Angeles called Chado Tea Room that is one of my all-time favorite places to eat. I’ve been going there for at least ten years, and they serve an amazing sandwich of goat cheese and olive tapenade topped with watercress. It’s the perfect combination of creamy, oily and bitter – and the colors just look so pretty.

I was lucky enough to find all the components of this amazing combo in my kitchen today, so I put together the perfect little afternoon snack. Just toast some sourdough bread, spread the goat cheese on one side, the tapenade on the other and top with a big mound of fresh watercress.

Spring perfection!

Plume

You are the tree
Reaching for the sun
Who offered its body
To form the page
Where everything is possible.

You are the fruit
Dripping with sweetness
Who offered its flesh
To make the ink
That writes your freedom.

You are the eagle
Soaring in a crystal canyon
Who offered its wing
So I could pen the story
Of this kind of love.

{poem/photo: Jill Lurie}

Garden Club Garden Party

I’m not quite sure how we got here, but the school year is winding down. Less than three weeks to go, then my son will be a second grader. As a parent, it’s exhilarating to watch your child become more of themselves, and yet there is always the knowing that with each day that passes, they are one step closer to eventually not being your ‘baby’ anymore. I try to not hold on either way – rather, just be in the flow of where we are at, doing my best to enjoy each stage along the way – however adorable…or (let’s admit it) annoying.

In the meantime, I try to weave little things into our days that bring a sense of connectedness, and (hopefully) memories between us. Part of that for me is running the Garden Club at his school. Ironically, he is the only kid each week who completely acts out during our hour-long class. Most of the time I have to send him out onto the yard until I’m done with the other kids and ready to deal with him. As an only child, I sense that he can’t handle me loving and attending to so many other kids, so he acts out, knowing that’s his ticket to freedom.

Such was the case yesterday when I heard screaming behind the garden shed only to find my son on top of the 3-foot-tall compost bin, hollering and kicking the shed on the one side and attempting to scale the fence on the other like a monkey/mad man.

You’re outta there…

Luckily the dozens of other students, parents and siblings who showed up for the garden party seemed to have a great time. I wanted to organize the event as a way to celebrate our successful year in the garden and to bring more awareness to the program. When I say ‘program,’ I basically mean me, as a parent volunteer, showing up each week to guide the kids through planting, weeding, watering and harvesting…and learning about where food comes from along the way.

I have lived in the garden my entire life, and perhaps take it a bit for granted sometimes. So I always get such a thrill when the kids squeal with delight, telling me they’ve never seen a tomato growing, or that they’ve never picked a strawberry directly off the plant. The six raised beds have become some sort of portal that transports us far away from the adjacent concrete yard and stucco bungalows. In that space we have come together to have fun, learn and grow. ‘Systems’ for watering, weeding and picking have developed on their own – no need to force. There are the leaders and the helpers of the group. All of this has developed naturally.

So it was bittersweet to experience the party yesterday, knowing that some of these beloved kids will be moving on to middle school, not coming back next year. We had a huge spread of healthy and not-so-healthy foods, a pretend farmers market, a garden tour and a final planting of the year (tomatoes, melons and corn).

The principal even came in her standard three-inch heels and pencil skirt. Quite a (wonderful) site to see.

Yes, all is good in garden land. I am happy and satisfied. I feel my role is to simply create and open up space for each child to have their own experience. Some simply like to come and dig or water. Others have ‘aha’ moments where they put it all together – the cycles of life and how precious it all is.

All of the parts are equally important, which is why, again, I love simply creating the opportunity. They are the ones who fill it with the perfect blend of sweetness and silliness, always learning and enjoying along the way.

Temple

It looks profane
Though it’s sacred.

A temple
That houses chipped cups, mismatched saucers,
And threadbare pillows I just can’t
Toss out.

Unsung relics
Devoted to
Raising a family and
Comforting lost friends.

A higher form of service
Is not known to me.

{poem/photo: Jill Lurie}

Alana Banana’s First Album Underway!

I am truly blessed to be surrounded by so many talented friends. They inspire and energize me by not just talking about goals – they actually pursue and reach them. I love that.

My dear friend Alana Gentry reached her Kickstarter fundraising goal a couple months ago and has been busy recording her first kid’s music album by The Alana Banana Band.

I’ve visited her twice over the past few weeks in the recording studio and it is so much fun to see the entire thing come together. The songs sound great!

My son and I visited her up in Laurel Canyon today at Canyon Hut Studio where she’s putting the finishing touches on the album. My boy got to sing on a few tracks, which was really fun to watch and hear.

It was the perfect L.A. day: blue sky, sunny, breezy. Driving through Hollywood on Sunset Boulevard with all the windows down, then up into the curvy, tree lined canyon reminds me so much of my roots, growing up here in this amazing city.

So much more magic on the horizon…

Outside the studio with my silly son in the background

Dream

Last night as I was sleeping
I dreamt – marvelous error!
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.
And the golden bees
were making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old failures.

-Antonio Machado

words take work

Words are a funny medium for an artist.

Art is about expression and expansion. Giving form to an experience and (hopefully) expanding something in yourself through the process of bringing it to fruition.

As with most things in life, it’s a reciprocal experience. The artist wants to expand, and the viewer wants his perception/vantage point expanded.

It’s a happy exchange.

As someone who studied art history, and spends most of her days immersed in an endless bath of color, light, fragrance and texture (through gardening, cooking, and all of my other creative projects) the words on the page – sometimes – look cold and cramped. I judge them as a visually ‘less beautiful’ means of expression than perhaps a gorgeous painting, drawing or sculpture.

They are black and white, boxy, linear, confining – the exact opposite of how I experience the very things I write about.

In this way the medium makes me dig deeper, not able to get lost in the allure of washing bright crimson across a rough canvas…or the feel of smooth, wet clay passing through my fingers.

I am learning to make peace with the visual monotony of my medium, and to embrace the irony of it. The words on the page remind me that something may look one way on the surface, but can be very different if you take time to excavate what’s underneath.

Words take work. Work for the author to chip away, distill, refine, revise. Labor is required of the reader as well; to take the time to be with the words, to open to what they are trying to say.

Both participants have to really want it, otherwise the exchange is over before it’s even begun. Unlike a painting, which is often (sadly) experienced in a matter of seconds, the ‘viewer’ of prose or poetry is committing to spending a certain amount of time with you, just as much as you are committing to them. There is intimacy and trust here, even amongst strangers.

Yes, the writer’s life I’ve chosen (or that has chosen me) is asking me to look beyond its ‘flat’ exterior and dive into what’s underneath the surface. Using the words as a type of code, or as a means to decode or deconstruct something. To be brave and have faith that the words will land as they are meant to, and reach those who want to read them; building a bridge, or perhaps dismantling one that is no longer needed.

Happy Mama’s Day

The purpose of life is to discover your gift.
The meaning of life is to give your gift away.
–David Viscott

Garden Helpers

The ‘crops’ in my tiny ‘urban farm’ have been a little hit and miss this season. I’ve planted two batches of tomato starters already and none of the plants have seemed very happy. The peppers aren’t doing much and even the herbs are just hanging around, waiting for something to happen.

At first I thought that maybe it was the soil. But I’ve added plenty of organic material, and the thought of testing pH levels was just too much for me.

Recently I noticed that some of the plants had holes around them or were even partially dug up. I wondered if the roots were being damaged by squirrels or perhaps some aggressive crows (we have lots of those around here) poking around when I wasn’t looking.

I even wondered if my son and his eager buddies found the big dirt pile too much to resist.

Today I happened to glance out my bedroom window between writing projects…and I think I figured out the problem….no soil tests needed…

Santa Monica Farmer’s Market

The Santa Monica Farmer’s Market here in L.A. is a funny, funny thing. It’s sort of an institution. People get very serious about this market.

I’ve been coming here for 20 years and the antics never disappoint. It’s basically a little village that congregates and then disperses without fail – rain or shine – every Wednesday. But as eye catching as the produce is, it’s the people watching that’s not to be missed.

Business people, homeless people, yogis, hippies, moms and of course all kinds of farmers.

But the chefs are my favorite.

Oh, those chefs. There is not one ‘type’ to them, but what they do all have in common is immense bravado and the desire to arrive well before anyone else to clear out all the specialty produce before the poor, destitute common folk like us have a chance at it.

The Los Angeles Times has been covering this phenomenon for years, discussing whether the chefs have the ‘right’ to get first dibs on things. Believe it or not, there is actually a lot of public resentment over this.

I say who cares.

Rather than the debate, what I find much more interesting is the bravado of it all. The chefs walk the market like peacocks with plumes fully spread amongst a sea of the rest of us regular pigeons. While some show restraint and wear street clothes, many of them don their full regalia (even at 9:00AM): bandana, chef’s jacket (monogrammed with their name and restaurant name), requisite clogs or crocks and an entourage of one – or two – ‘attendants’ to push their massive cart of horded produce.

This is not to be missed.

Weaving through the crowd of mere mortals (ie, us) they seem to take pity on people (like me) who at 11:00AM have already more than missed the coveted goods.

Yesterday that would be zucchini blossoms.

But I say chefs be damned! I have a little veggie patch in my own back yard which just so happened to have two fat blossoms on it this morning, just screaming to be filled with goat cheese, then gently cradled into a pool of sizzling olive oil until ever so slightly golden in color.

A perfect little snack enjoyed not in a fancy restaurant, but in my humble kitchen, alone on a sunny spring afternoon.