clandestine lovers

Last night in L.A., rather than keeping me huddled inside, the wild weather itself drew me out. AIR, the most elusive of elements, seems to speak through the wind. Like a visit from a lover who has gone missing for a while, it comes at you with a vengeance: biting your neck, singing in your ear, pulling your hair…overpowering your entire being…

I can work with that.

Amidst a year of more transformations than I care to tally, simply being out with the elements is a welcome reprieve, and source of renewal. I snuck out last night under a smiling crescent moon for a visit with Mr. Wind. He did not disappoint.

Howling, enticing, shaking the proverbial bed posts through the frenetic vibration of all the trees, he caused me to look up…and then I saw my old friend…the Flowering Pear Tree.

Each year, come November, I start looking for her. Waiting for her leaves to drop so that her tender white petals can emerge right around the turn of the year – a sign of all the beauty that’s to come.

But, in this Official Year of Shit Storms, ahem, ‘growth,’ I’d forgotten all about Ms. Pear altogether. This year, it turns out, she was waiting for me.

She stood tall in all her glory, tiny white blossoms lit up by the moon, which was extra bright because nary a cloud graced the black sky. Her silken blossoms danced with the wind against an ebony backdrop and I stood there, like a giddy teenager who happened upon something naughty: in this case, the wind making love to the tree.

It was a gorgeous sight, and they seemed to be having a really good time of it. I stood there for a moment, admiring their force and grace – a beautiful pairing indeed.

Alas, it was time to move on and leave them to their privacy. More adventures, I’m quite sure, on the horizon….

impromptu orchestra

I’m not sure what it is, but more times than not, it seems like rain falls in the City of Angels after hours. It’s like the Powers That Be know that there is too much beauty, fun and loveliness to keep us indoors during the day here. We like to play.

Yesterday, when such sad news about Connecticut filled our entire country with tears, the rain, yet again held its tongue until after dark. And then it let loose.

We each have our ‘happy place,’ (hopefully more than one) and for me, lying in bed at night in the dark under a pile of warm blankets, while simply listening to the rain is definitely one of them. Last night was no exception.

Drip, drop, splat, ting, sing….

An impromptu orchestra takes the city by storm, dancing against tile roofs, metal cars, concrete sidewalks…and let’s not forget the plants.

We gardeners here in L.A. do a little happy dance when it rains: “free water!” Living in a desert and keeping even native specimens alive is a labor of love…and water bills.

But last night it was so much more than that. With the year coming to a close, and sad news that touched each of us in a different way, the rain reminds us that there is always something new being re-born; in us, in others and of course in the garden.

Waking this morning to sunshine and crystal blue sky (I love that), the plants were quietly drunk with nature’s elixir. Ecstatic. Sated. Alive.

Which is exactly as I am, as I give thanks for so many gifts, and offer prayers – around the entire world – to those needing a lift in their hearts, an extra bloom in their garden, some water for their soul.

Like a garden, we need to take care of and look out for each other. One seed, one bloom, one drop, one heart at a time.

Signs

L.A. is a funny place when our major freeway and major streets are shut down simultaneously. Things can get a little nutty. And so it was yesterday. With the 405 closed for major construction and numerous surface streets closed for the triathlon, what’s an Angeleno to do?

Yup, take to the streets.

I walked everywhere yesterday…even in the 90-degree weather. I walked to coffee. I walked to the store. I walked to the gym. I walked to the museum. I walked to a garden. I walked to yet another store. You get the idea.

I didn’t meet up with anyone yesterday, so it was a day of solitude: just me, the streets, my feet and my (thankfully) mostly peaceful thoughts. And I sort of understood, for the first time in my life, what all those monks and mediation teachers mean when speaking about the benefits of ‘walking meditation.’ (I must admit, in the past I thought – how boring!)

In all-day walking, there is no rushing, you have to pace yourself. It’s going to take however long it takes. Period. There are no shortcuts or detours, because, obviously, you can only walk as fast as you walk. It is what it is.

If it takes you 40 minutes to walk to the store, then it’s going to take 40 minutes. There’s no way around it. That’s how long it takes. You’re at your own pace – just you and your strides – you have to have full acceptance of this, because you can’t blame traffic or some a-hole cutting you off for how long or short it takes you to arrive at your destination. It’s all about you – which may seem confronting, but it’s actually an exciting relief, if you think about it – not being dependant on anyone but yourself to get you to where you need to go. Whew!

Also, the motion of putting one foot in front of another – all day long – shows you that you really can’t cut steps out of life. In the car (and in life), we look for shortcuts and distractions. A quicker route, a lane with less traffic. You can’t do this on foot. There are no shortcuts. It’s just walking – so basic – but such a reminder that we are only ever going to get anywhere by putting one foot, one step, in front of the other. Love it or hate it, it’s the only way things are going to get done.

And in that moment, I was reminded that realizations will come when they come, and that the point of life (once again) is to stay OPEN, even when (especially when) you have no clue what is going on, or how, perhaps, you got off track. Stay open. It will become clear.

In that moment I looked up to the sky, and saw the word LOVE in bold letters (see photo above). Perfect. Then I thought, “that could never happen twice.” At which point (see photo below) the word was written in the sky a second time, just to drive the point home.

There is the divine in the most mundane. Spirit is only ever inside of us. Beautiful ‘exterior’ reminders supporting us along the way. Happy travels.

Flower Fields

If you love flowers, and gardens and being in an open field first thing in the morning, then you are pretty much in heaven harvesting blooms at Silver Lake Farms here in Los Angeles…which is where I’ve found myself for the past few days.

There is something magnetic, magical and healing about a sea of flowers, all reaching for the sun, offering food for the bees and beauty for the eyes. Flowers don’t hold back. They give you everything and are totally open for those willing to slow down and be with them fully – this is how I like to be, too.

Poets ponder them, painters paint them and gardeners have the pleasure of tending them with their (dirt stained) fingers. Out in the field, I think of the single seed that produced an entire mass of blooms, and how lucky I am to watch this process, learn from it and experience the beauty (and challenges) that come up along the way.

In this instant gratification world, gardening reminds me that growth is a process, and that more times than not, beautiful things take time, patience and a willingness to sustain heat or pests or any number of nuisances. Weeds will come, fingers will bleed, but there is a moment out in the field, where it all comes together, and your heart bursts open like the tender bouquet of pink dahlias and zinnias overflowing in your hands.

Sunset & Salad

As I loosen the reigns on my need to know the ‘deeper’ meaning of all things all the time, I’m finding much more pleasure here on planet earth.

What a concept.

I’ve made a new friend, which is always a treat. She’s been taking me for evening hikes up in the canyon and I’ve been making her healthy food. It’s a happy exchange.

There is simply nothing like putting one foot in front of the other up a beautiful mountain, Hollywood sign in the background, pink sky overhead, L.A. lights putting on a show.

Finished off with a fresh salad, it’s a beautiful, delicious and healthy way to spend a couple of hours. And I’ve never slept better.

Sometimes I forget that it’s in the most basic things – done beautifully and with gratitude – where the real magic occurs. A free hike in the canyon, a simple organic salad made with love, good company – I’m a happy lady.

What simple pleasures give you joy?

Stone Fruit Soup

Why do people like to talk so much smack about Los Angeles? I was born here 37 years ago and this fine city still can’t get rid of me.

Accusations about there being no substance or culture here simply aren’t true – just look at the huge art and music scene.

But there is one criticism that, I must concede, is mostly accurate: we really don’t have seasons here. That said, why are 300 days of sunshine a year considered a problem?

When it comes to what’s seasonal, here in L.A. we have a vibrant and delicious way to experience the changing equinox or solstice: through our stomachs. And with bustling farmers markets every day of the week, it’s easy – and fun – to eat our way through the seasons.

Stone fruits seem to be the crown jewels of summer, and since yesterday was the unofficial end of the season, I decided to take the abundant and overripe peaches, pluots and nectarines on the counter and make jam. But not really jam…more like a fruit compote, or stone fruit soup.

The truth is that while I have extreme reverence for the practicality and historic necessity of canning, I personally don’t have the patience to deal with pectin, sterilization and those cumbersome oversized red rubber tongs.

But fruit soup I can do.

There is no recipe here, just trust your instincts and go for it. This is all about pleasure, and it’s hard not to feel kind of sexy while chopping and boiling sweet, juicy fruits; nails painted bright orange; Nina Simone serenading in the background; house blissfully empty.

Cut up the fruit, add a little water and a heaping spoonful of good honey. Simmer over low heat until soft and mashy (that’s a technical term). You could pile this warm over ice cream, refrigerate for a week and spread each morning on toast or just spoon some in your mouth on your way out the door as a last little blast of the season. I’ll be doing all three.

Bye bye summer…you were one long, hot, messy ride.

Sunflowers & Stone Fruits: Summer’s Sweet Spot

Summer is finally winding down, and I say thank god for that. While this hot, sweaty, 80 degrees indoors at 8pm time of year is nearly over, I will say there is a sweet spot to this season, and it’s upon us this very moment.

Can you feel it?

It’s in the sunflowers that are bursting everywhere – yellow, brown and rust-collored, just now reaching their full regalia: on farms, at home, in the schoolyard garden and even (if you pay attention) in cracks in parking lot pavement – it seems even impenetrable concrete can’t resist this kind of beauty.

It’s in the stone fruits: peaches, pluots, plums, nectarines. The colors alone of these little gems are enough to make me warm up to this overbearing season: peach, pink, orange, crimson, purple, celadon green. The colors swirl together like paint on a canvas or an ikat blanket covering a caravan at sunset.

Let’s not forget the tomatoes, so old fashioned, dependable, delicious. They don’t ask for much: a little dry soil and some salt and pepper. A splash of good olive oil. Maybe a basil leaf or two. Red, yellow, green, orange. Beauty in the most basic.

If everything in life were this simple.

Yes, the air is officially changing, and the equinox is just around the corner. I don’t need a calendar to tell me this, I can feel it in the air alone. Warm and dry, a slight breeze, hot pink sunsets.

This sky bound beauty, a few ripe stone fruits and a table of just-picked sunflowers are an intoxicating delight for the senses, and somehow make me soften to my least favorite season.

They offer beauty and sweetness, and I offer them immense gratitude for offering a moment of pause and pleasure before autumn (thank god) is upon us.

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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.

Pie Party

I am grateful that my life seems to be a series of ‘accidental’ experiences that tend to work out quite beautifully.

Last weekend, on my way to my canyon hike, I spontaneously stopped at Malibu Cross Creek Mart for a coffee, ended up having to park on the far end of the property, ended up needing to walk by Diesel Books and (of course) ended up going in.

That’s when I heard about a new book called “Making Piece” about a woman’s journey back from immense grief, and what she did to heal and create a new life for herself. The back cover talked about the bitter sweet, which is a theme for me right now, so I bought the book and have been savoring it over the past few days.

The book party and signing is tonight, so of course I’ll be there to meet Beth Howard in person, hear more about her story and to simply show up in support of a fellow writer and blogger. Offering support to someone else is really so easy – even to a stranger. Besides, I was told there would be pie, so that seals the deal for me. If you are in L.A., it’s at Diesel Bookstore in Malibu at 7PM,

And in the spirit of pie making, I’m sharing some photos from my ‘birthday party’ last August where I held a pie party, asked everyone to dress up and bring a pie to share instead of a gift for me. We had so much fun on that warm summer afternoon!

May it inspire you bake a pie, read a new book, support a stranger…and share your gifts.

Jilly Juice

Here in L.A. we love ourselves some diet trends. Most everybody is on a food plan, or following a ‘style’ of eating. Locally grown, organic/non-GMO, vegetarian and even vegan based diets are for novices. If you want to up your game try macrobiotic, raw, g-free (that would be no gluten) or how about a juice fast?

I have been drinking a lot of juice lately. Why? Am I on a crazy juice fast? Of course not…I just like juice.

I love making pressed juices with sweet vegetables, greens and ginger, but there’s nothing like taking out the old citrus juicer for the most delicious and cheapest liquid gold in L.A. (fresh squeezed orange juice here is $7 for a small glass – or go to the farmer’s market and get a ten pound bag of fruit for the same price).

I somehow was lucky enough to end up with my grandfather’s juicer. It’s old. How old? Well, he died almost 30 years ago, so I’m putting the machine at about 50 years of age. I love that.

I’ve been making a really yummy combo of half sweet orange and half bitter grapefruit juice. Why this particular combo? Does it have body slimming or skin radiating properties? No – it just tastes good! And it’s a perfect metaphor for the bittersweet right now. My neighbor recently left a box of grapefruit on her curb, and the markets are booming with oranges, and so it is.

This juice has been really yummy in the mornings when I’m still adjusting to the time change. Typically up and ready to go well before 6am, I’m struggling to get out of bed by 7 these days. The juice, and a good song or two, seem to be the perfect morning combo.