Steak with Raspberries, Figs and Blue Cheese

1 cup red raspberries

3 tablespoons sugar

2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar

1 tablespoon olive oil

1 small red onion, thinly sliced

8 large or 16 small figs, quartered

2 ounces ham, chopped

1 teaspoon finely chopped fresh rosemary

3/4 teaspoon garam masala (Whole Foods carries this)

Freshly ground black pepper

8 boneless rib-eye or beef tenderloin steaks (about 2.5 lbs total)

6 ounces of blue cheese, crumbled

Prepare a hot charcoal fire or preheat a gas grill on high, or preheat a broiler. Lightly oil the grill rack or broiler pan.

In a small saucepan over medium heat, combine the raspberries, sugar, and vinegar. Simmer for 10 miutes, or until reduced by half. Set aside.

Meanwhile, heat the oil in a medium skillet over medium heat. Add the onion and cook for 5 minutes until soft. Add the figs, ham, rosemary, garam masala, and 1/2 tsp of pepper. Cook for 5 minutes, or until the figs are very soft. Set aside and keep warm.

Season the steaks generously with salt and pepper. Grill for 12 minutes, turning once or until a thermometer inserted in the center registers 145 degrees F for medium-rare.

Place each steak on a plate. Top with an equal amount of cheese and cover with some of the fig mixture. Drizzle a few tablespoons of the raspberry sauce over all. Serve the remaining fig mixture on the side.

Simply Organic, Jesse Ziff Cool

Culinary Explorations

I should note that, as I write, I'm eating an Asian pear that I picked up from the Pacific Grove Farmer's Market yesterday afternoon. I'm not sure I've had a pear like this in a long time if ever: crisp, bright, delicate floral and honeyed flavors...it's really fairly magical.

I've been going slightly crazy in the kitchen lately, due mostly to the fact that I actually have time now and also to the unbelievable produce available in the central coast of California. Figs the size of my hand, gorgeous avocados, strawberries, raspberries that melt under the tongue, and the list goes on. I have to limit myself each time I go lest I end up with more than we can possibly eat!

My mother in law gave me a fantastic cookbook for our wedding and I'm going to share a few recipes in the following posts from it and another that I picked up. I usually just throw whatever I feel like cooking together but these recipes meld flavors that I would never think to combine.

Tastes of the Idyllic Life

Despite the fact that I visit here every couple of months for a few weeks at a time, I'm still not convinced that Pacific Grove, CA is real. The weather is always in the sixties, the houses are bedecked in gingerbread and surrounded by picket fence-enclosed gardens of wildflowers, people walk to the market where they are greeted like old friends and one can see the ocean from just about any elevated point in town. (Please take this moment to ignore the fact that, as I'm writing this, Santa Cruz is burning to a crisp and scattering its ashes on post...)

Two days ago, I discovered that the PG library is where it's all happening. The librarians call you by name from the minute you apply for your card and they most likely know just about everything about everyone living here. The children eagerly discuss the events of their days with these women as they scan their piles of books and the kindly librarians ask, in turn, about their pets or their parents or how their grandmother is doing. Tucked into quiet carrels and bent over stacks of reference are the snow-headed saints of a generation I know far too little about. Who knows what they're researching? I wish I did.

On the corner of a block just two streets from my house is a delightful knitting and quilting shop that is run by a sweater clad motherly woman with a twinkle in her eye, a young tattooed twenty-something with a gentle smile and two very soft dogs who know exactly when it's 1:00 in the afternoon. Skeins of handspun wools and tiny balls of perfectly balled silks cover every available space. I think it's impossible to leave the place without some bit of wool or cotton tucked in a bag and a tip or two on how to better your purl or knit stitch.

Coming off of nearly three months of absolute insanity, it's a bit jarring to enter into this world where people hang signs in their business window that say "be back later" and the only establishments that stay open past 6 are the local chocolatier and a handful of restaurants. I'm having to re-learn what it means to sit back and take life in. I'm relishing the hours in the afternoon that I can spend trying new recipes, teaching myself to knit, sitting down on the rocks by the ocean reading and the obvious hilight of my day: getting to be there when Jason gets off work and spend the rest of the afternoon and evening hanging out.

I wish I knew when this country decided it was such a good idea to speed life up, wake up earlier, work later, eat fast food instead of carefully thought out meals, forego relationships for the ease of online connectivity...the list goes on. While I realize life will never be Pacific Grove all the time, I think this town teaches me something every time I'm here about how things really should be.

And with that, I'm off to check my fruit soup that is currently chilling in the fridge. Recipe and pictures to follow :).

Transience

I've begun packing my part of the Charleston apartment--preparation for the first of three moves that will take place over the course of the next year. This one isn't quite as major as the two to follow (moving across town as opposed to the cross-country then cross-? that will happen in December and April) yet I still find myself attacking it as my family has any of our many moves: carefully stored boxes are whipped back in shape with a little packing tape and items are stacked neatly inside with the precision of one whose packing tutelage took place under the watchful eye of a retired submariner. Five boxes of books later, there are still enough on my shelves to fill at least two more--another Egolf trait that I've discovered is latent in my husband as well (Uncle Sam's gonna love paying for our moves!).

I'm quite certain by this time that my roomates think I'm nuts. I don't move for another three weeks, yet I feel like I should've started a month ago. I like to face the week of a move with boxes packed, most of the cleaning done and only a few odds and ends to throw in the car. The strange thing is, I like packing. I like moving. I'm one of those freak-of-nature military brats that made it out of her childhood actually enjoying the life of being uprooted every two-three years for a fresh start (a good thing too, since the next fifteen years or so are going to follow suit). I love the process of weeding out, throwing away and streamlining. It satisfies the stifled type-A side of me that is only allowed out to plan weddings in a week, survive nursing school and, well, organize a cardboard box full of books so that only two square centimeters of space remain inside. I also relish the fresh canvas a new house or apartment presents where I can arrange the old into a vivacious new.

Packing cannot occur without the inevitable wave of nostalgia that comes with handling each possession individually. Even the boxes, already marked up from two moves evoke memories of the nearly disentegrated Allied movers' boxes that somehow survived my childhood. Scrawled across them in red and black are contents, destinations, rooms and instructions-an unlikely family record of sorts.

I can trace the annals of my life through the worn bindings of color-arranged books. Egypt, Gods of Egypt, Archaeology in the Middle East: Jr. High and High School when Zahi Hawass was the man and I wanted nothing more than to dig up old things and meticulously catalog them. The Koran, The Bible and the Qu'ran, Turkish for Beginners: High School and college when I lived and breathed the Middle East and sought out any way possible to get there. Romanticism, Human Anatomy for the Artist: my first undergrad degree. Blue Like Jazz, The Barbarian Way: the first time I questioned my faith. Virus Hunter, DNA: when Nursing appeared on the horizon as a viable career option. A small motivational book for students: a gift from a terminal cancer patient's husband just before she died. In the Land of Invisible Women, A Book for Midwives: third semester of nursing school. I Love a Man in Uniform: my beautiful unconventional marriage.

Next to go in the boxes was a shelf full of twenty plus pieces of pottery, mostly mugs, with a few vases thrown in. Every one has a voice, a laugh, a memory. Two orange and green glazed mugs remain from a set of six that I commissioned Dan Marinelli to make my freshman year. The other four became gifts for a gentleman that took a package to some friends in Israel for me. Two tall, gangly mugs textured by clay covered fingers take me back to the ceramics room where they were formed: Tim Pike on one side of me, Dave Siglin's sister on the other and a lot of insults, teasing and slurry being flung in between. Kammer's oversized mug and delicate vase are inscribed with peculiar faces that resemble a collision of the Muppet's hecklers and Keith Richards--day after day they sit on my shelf staring at me with the same deadpanned humor that their creator probably had on his face when he scratched them into the clay.

Once the knick-knacks and books are packed away, the difficult job of wading through piles of uncategorizable stuff commences. A pile of scarves, swag from college that somehow survived the last move's purge, an assortment of textiles from various forein countries and several bags from Bolivia, Turkey and the Army-Navy store. The latter was the source of my all time favorite messenger bag--a brown canvas number I snagged for seven bucks back in 2004. Sewn on the front was the Turkiye patch I picked up later that year and fastened next to it was a tiny button that stated "Save the Dalit!". Awash with memories again, I made the excrutiating decision to let the bag go as its inside pockets were shredded and it hadn't been used for the better part of two years. I grabbed a set of suture scissors and went to work salvaging the patch from the front flap. As I ripped the last of the threads out and lifted the patch, I discovered the original marking on the bag that I had forgotten about completely: a red cross on a field of white: the very symbol that my nurse sisters tirelessly served under in the late 1800s and one that embodies everything I'm currently studying to do. The irony of the situation struck me hard: when I'd bought the bag, I remember searching to the bottom of the pile for one with no markings but settled for this one when I couldn't find another, knowing I could just sew the patch over the decal. I had no idea that five years later, the dreams of kilims and kofta would be overshadowed by stethoscopes and sphygmomanometers.
The bag survived the purge.

There are, of course, aspects to moving that will never be pleasant, especially when the event occurs in the middle of a Charleston summer, but these are rather inconsequential. This particular move is especially exciting since it marks only six more months of nursing school and living three time zones away from my husband. At this point, only God knows what will be scribbled across my boxes in ten years, but I plan on enjoying every second of finding out.

Heroes

“We can’t all be heroes. Some of us have to stand on the curb and clap as they go by.” - Will Rogers

It wasn’t a ticker tape parade through the streets of New York but the energy in the cramped gates of Reagan National Airport rivaled even the wildest of parades. I heard the clapping and the band and saw the red, white and blue before I even made it through security, immediately assuming it was a returning active duty unit. I soon realized these soldiers weren’t the young strapping ACU clad men and women that I was expecting. They arrived in wheelchairs, with walkers and some pulled oxygen tanks behind them. They wore tissue paper poppies on their shirts and faded hats perched high on their foreheads. Some looked bewildered at all the fanfare, most humbly smiled and a few openly wept.

These men had braved the trenches, survived the shores of Normandy and rained fire down on German warplanes. They risked their lives on land, sea and in the air and lived to tell about it. Over sixty years later, they face a new enemy: age. Statistics show that around 1,000 WWII veterans die every day.

The Honor Flight Network has, in a sense, begun a race against time to honor this generation of veterans by providing all expenses paid trips to Washington, DC. to visit the WWII memorial. Donations are solicited via Honor Flight’s website, commercial flights are chartered and veterans who can’t afford the trip on their own are flown into the city for a day that is all about them. They are assisted during the flight and city tour by “guardians” (volunteers) and greeted at the airports by a band and “ground crew” of volunteers waving flags and clapping. The mood is infectious and, as I saw at Reagan, the general public is eager to join in the festivities.

It was moving, to say the least, watching such a rare display of patriotism, respect and awe. Complete strangers heading to their gates stopped to hug the veterans, another woman put her bags down to tie the shoe of a former pilot who couldn’t accomplish the task on his own without great difficulty. A WWII widow shook the hand of every one of the service members and thanked them over and over again. Tears were flowing freely. Many of these men won’t live more than a few weeks or months after their trip but Honor Flight has made it possible for them to fulfill a final wish. The Honor Flight Network relies entirely on Donations to make these trips possible—please visit their website today, read the story of how they got started and do your part to honor our WWII veterans.

www.honorflight.org

Truxtun

The relationship between a man and his ship is nearly incomprehensible for the average landlubber. The vessel is more than just wooden ribs or a metal hull—she is a living organism. At sea, her crew becomes attuned to her innermost intricacies and within days of first meeting, they are a seamless mechanism-an active and absolute symbiosis. She becomes their home, in some cases, their protection. It is understandable then that a decommissioning is much like the passing of a dear friend and conversely, that a commissioning can bring a swell of emotion and pride to the throat of even the most seasoned sailor.

This weekend I had the privilege of attending the commissioning ceremony of the USS Truxtun, the Navy’s newest destroyer, with my father. The crowd was comprised of the usual assortment of uniforms, young sun-dressed Navy-wives, children who can’t yet grasp the greatness of this life they are a part of and Veterans. Scores of Veterans in tweed jackets, loud patriotic ties and ship’s caps that have weathered more generations than I have lived. Some are bedecked with medals, some with pins. All bespeak the rich histories of these men who are, in themselves, national treasures.

We sat in rows of plastic chairs facing a scorching sun and slapping at the clouds of gnats that threatened to carry us off. We listened quietly as a new command was bestowed. We stood and applauded the bright and energetic young sailors as they ran to their posts and we cheered as the hulking ship came to life. With her colors flying, she and her crew become one—ready to face whatever lies ahead. The voice of the Chaplain rang out over the crowd, invoking the blessing of the Almighty God upon her to the strains of the Navy hymn and bringing tears and memories to many who had been at this place before—

“They’re all plank owners now” says my Father. “No one can ever take that away from you.”

Eternal Father, strong to save,
Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,
Who bidd'st the mighty ocean deep
Its own appointed limits keep;
Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee,
For those in peril on the sea!

O Christ! Whose voice the waters heard
And hushed their raging at Thy word,
Who walkedst on the foaming deep,
And calm amidst its rage didst sleep;
Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee,
For those in peril on the sea!

Most Holy Spirit! Who didst brood
Upon the chaos dark and rude,
And bid its angry tumult cease,
And give, for wild confusion, peace;
Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee,
For those in peril on the sea!

O Trinity of love and power!
Our brethren shield in danger's hour;
From rock and tempest, fire and foe,
Protect them wheresoe'er they go;
Thus evermore shall rise to Thee
Glad hymns of praise from land and sea.

the 18th, 8 months later

Completely unwittingly, I logged into my old blog on the exact same day as my last post--just 8 months later.

Who knew how much 8 months could hold.

On August 18th, 2008, I was in my first week of nursing school, single (VERY single) and I had exactly 3 friends in this city. Now, I'm halfway through nursing school, have been married for two months, and have made more friends than I can count.

About 3 weeks ago, I had my best friend change the password on my facebook account so I couldn't be distracted by it for the last month or so of school. The absence of my favorite vice forced me back into the land of the living where people use pen and paper to communicate and where they sit over coffee or tea to chat. It's been an invigorating past couple of weeks--I started running again, started going to yoga and I wrote letters. I dug out dusty boxes of creamy white stationary and favorite pens and a part of me that had been supressed by Mac-worship came alive. I also inadvertently unearthed several old journals and found myself almost distraught at having let 8 months get away from me with only facebook statuses to document their goings-on.

I've felt somewhat renewed in the last month--the realization that I'm halfway through school and less than 8 months away from truly beginning my adult life has put an extra little bit of verve in my step. Perhaps I'll start a new journal and perhaps I'll keep this blog up a bit more.