Today is a good day.

I’m in a good mood. Like, a really good mood. Just when the week at work felt like it would never end and that my impatience would get the best of me, Saturday arrived and all of that is behind me now. A brighter future awaits, and I can barely contain the urge to do an Irish jig. Which leads me to….

I’m going to Ireland! And Spain! Today I booked my tickets to travel with three dear friends in September, and I’m so excited (and I just can’t hide it, I’m about to lose control and I think I like it). Since my travel partners and I are not currently in the same city to celebrate together, I have taken it upon myself to do it alone. Together or apart, nothing commemorates such a joyous event than a region-appropriate beverage, so I just uncorked (rather, untwisted a cap from) a bottle of 2008 Castaño Monastrell from Yecla, Spain. Of course I have no idea where said Yecla is, but I will. You better believe that in preparation of this upcoming adventure, I am fully committed to doing my homework and learning how I can fully appreciate cava, sangria, tapas, and all other things Spanish. Tonight I am merely taking a baby step in the right direction.

With a sprightly step and plastered grin on my face once I received the confirmation email that this trip was officially on, I headed out in the intermittently sunny skies of Portland earlier today to explore a new produce market on SE Hawthorne. Once a farm stand called Uncle Paul’s Produce (rumored to have sold ten cent avocados!), I read months ago that it had been closed, much to my dismay since I had not yet visited the place. But then, while driving past the red barn-like establishment recently, I noticed that it was yet again open, but this time owned by Kruger’s Farm of Sauvie Island. Selling produce grown on its own farm, other local farms, as well as out-of-area farms, Kruger’s Market seemed like an ideal place for me to throw down some cash and stock up my fridge with the spring’s best.

And stock up I did. As soon as I walked in the enlarged, quasi-farmers market tent, I knew I would not only be filling up my basket, but that I would soon become a regular of the place. The prices were more than reasonable for local (and oftentimes organic) produce. But even more than that, Kruger’s made sure to have a whole lot of my very favorite type of apple – the pink lady. I wouldn’t dare call the pink lady “cheap” (that would be more than a little disrespectful!), but 95 cents a pound is a stellar price for the variety.

I took my time carefully picking out my produce (what’s new?) and made out like a bandit. With a cloth bag chock-full of beets, watercress, asparagus, apples, a papaya, bananas, bosc pears, two heads of broccoli, and radishes, I walked out of the joint spending a mere $13. A homeless couple may have made fun of me for putting down my bag in order to take a picture of it on my phone, but I appreciated the sign posted outside the entrance.

Who doesn’t love a farmer with a sense of humor?

Food Lovers Unite

Today at work I met with a client who had some questions about his pending case. Many of the people we help, such as this particular man, are in such sad mental and physical states, sometimes such dire, even literal life and death situations, that most of the time I find it difficult to relate to them at even the most basic level. But today something amazing happened.

The client brought in a stack of documents, mostly medical records, with him to our meeting that he wanted to go over and discuss with me. As he worked his way through the pile, there was a colorful page that stuck out. It looked like a page from a magazine.

“Oh, this isn't supposed to be in here,” he explained, picking up the page. “See, I cut out this recipe for caramel nut bars and it got mixed in with all the rest.” Suddenly his rather sad demeanor began to lighten, and I noticed he had a glimmer of happiness in his eyes, a slight smile on his lips. I felt one on mine too.

Against my best judgment as the diligent attorney I strive to be, I suddenly perked up and leaned in to take a closer look at the picture. Instead of narrowing in on the more relevant records he brought in to discuss, I found myself more attentive to the contents of this particular page. Being the freak that I am, I detected the recipe’s publication from its font in one second flat.

"This is from Sunset magazine, isn't it?" I inquired. I couldn't quite see her from my peripheral view, but I'm pretty sure the legal assistant sitting next to me rolled her eyes at my question.

"Well, I'm not sure," he said. "You know what, I think it is. I got it from a magazine at the library." I restrained myself from lecturing him about ripping pages from library materials, but more than anything, I found myself utterly surprised by this entire interaction. I couldn’t imagine a less likely person to have any interest in baking, let alone carry around a recipe for caramel nut bars from Sunset.

"Those look really good," I replied, the glossy picture scratching me right where I itched. It was about 3:00 pm, and I could really use one of those bars about now, I thought.

Focus, Allison, focus. "So, uh, anyway, let’s talk about your appeal...."

As I carried on with business as usual, I noticed that something felt different. Maybe I couldn’t solve all of this man’s problems (heck, maybe I couldn’t solve any of them), but for a single, sweet moment against all odds, this man and I shared something in common. Something as simple as a ripped out recipe from a library magazine made me realize - hey, we might come from completely different worlds, but maybe we're not so different, you and I. This encounter gave me yet another reason to love food: sometimes it has the power to connect us in strange and wonderful ways.

What comes first: the chicken or the cook?

It's Friday night. I'm young. I'm single. The city is practically begging me to put on a LBD, 4" heels, and experience the vibrant nightlife. Instead, I'm at home. Wearing an apron. And Ugg slippers. With a chicken roasting in the oven. What happened?

A wise woman once told me that the true test in determining whether someone is a good cook is by the quality of her roasted chicken. This wise woman may have been Ina Garten (or was it Martha Stewart?), and she may have not been talking to me directly, but I've still taken her words to heart. I've asked myself many times before, and I will ask it once again: am I, in fact, a good cook?

Some may agree that the roasted chicken test is a fair evaluation of a cook's aptitude in the kitchen (for the record, I don't think it is), but it raises a number of questions, of which one that is particularly bugging me: how many cooks (even the "good" ones) still roast their own when they can pick up a rotisserie chicken at Costco for a mere $4.99? After all, it's roasted fresh daily, it's a good price, it tastes good, it goes a long way....why waste the time, effort, and money on roasting your own? Duh, because Ina says so! And because like so many other things, it's just so much more satisfying to do it yourself. Remember when Merrill Streep roasts a chicken and bakes the perfect chocolate cake because it's Alec Baldwin's favorite meal in It's Complicated? That doesn't really have anything to do with anything, but I love that movie and thought I'd give it a shout out. (I might also mention that I strive to have a house and bakery like hers in Santa Barbara one day.)

Meanwhile, back to reality in my little Portland kitchen, tonight I came face-to-face with a raw (free range, with no added hormones, of course) whole chicken for the first time ever, and I was a little on edge. There might be no judging panel or culinary authority watching over my shoulder, proctoring my progress and performance as I removed the giblets (gross), stuffed it with herbs and a lemon, massaged it with butter, and took all those other necessary steps according to Martha's Cooking School book, but I was still a little nervous. Having that glass of wine by my side as I write this certainly quells my anxieties some and I just keep reminding myself, "Allison, this is only a test", but still: what if my roasted chicken sucks? What would Ina say about me and my ability to cook? If I'm only as good as my roasted chicken...well, I could be royally screwed and my ego could be permanently damaged. On the other hand, if my test results show perfectly crisp skin and succulent meat, I might feel on top of the world. However, without an adjudicator in the testing center tonight, I'll have to battle with my own bias and judge for myself in the most objective way I know how. According to my oven timer, I have about 45 minutes until the moment of truth arrives... I'll let you know how it turns out.

For now, my recommendation to you is this: one of these days if you're feeling the need to sacrifice your social life to keep yourself in check as a cook, just roast a chicken! Or you could simply denounce the test, buy a Costco chicken, go have a night on the town, and save the oven to bake your ski boot liners like my brother.

Spring Cleaning

I’ve become a disgrace.

My laundry basket is overflowing with dirty clothes and towels. The bottom of my oven is caked with something that smokes and sets off my fire alarm. My walk-in closet has lost its “walk-in" feature. My stack of magazines presents an ungodly sight. My Christmas tree is still sitting on my balcony, for Pete’s sake. What the heck is going on? At times like these, I need someone to get in my face and scream a la Jillian on The Biggest Loser to some contestant about to collapse on the treadmill, “Allison, get it together!” (Side note: I once almost fell off a treadmill, and that was without someone yelling at me to keep going. It was very traumatic.)

Sure, I’ve been busy. There have been weddings to attend (wedding gown steaming and chauffeuring obnoxious drunk lawyers have both been added to my skill set; legitimate dance moves still have not), an out-of-town guest, a pseudo-Oscar party, spinning classes, work as usual, blah blah blah. Even so, I feel like my priorities and thoughts are all out of whack because 1) my apartment looks like a hurricane hit, and 2) I’ve had very little interest in cooking. As you may expect, number two is especially concerning for me. I may have whipped up some flaky scones for my guest and lovely hors d’oeuvres for the Oscars, but since then, my cooking (or lack thereof) has been a sad state of affairs. If you saw the lame lunches I brought to work this week, you would look at me, with sad puppy dog eyes and say, “Allison, I feel like I don’t even know you anymore.” You and me both, my friend. You and me both.

Well fear not folks, because now that I’ve recognized that I’m off my game, I’m determined to get it back. Spring might officially still be a couple of weeks away, but I am taking it upon myself to declare it early because frankly, I can’t take the rain anymore! (Of course if you live in the Northwest, you know that spring gives us just as much rain as winter…)

Allow me to share my declarations for a brighter immediate future: I will line up my shoes perfectly in my closet. I will scrub the crud off the bottom of the oven. I will rifle through some of those food magazines and find some recipes to try this week. I will make a grocery list. I will do as many loads of laundry as it takes to stop the overflow. I will throw my Christmas tree off the balcony and hope it lands in the dumpster below instead of on an innocent bystander. And then, I will relax with a cup of tea (let’s be honest, it will be a glass of red wine) and a book because believe it or not, I’m also a little behind on my next clatter selection.

We’ve got the list. Now for the follow-through….. Ready, set, go!