This specific pumpkin muffin was brought to me by my friend Noelle from her local Montana cafe, The Daily Coffee Bar.  Along with this gift of Fall infused pastry came my first sip of Daily espresso.  I have long been a friend of the Americano, but my love affair with them had ended with the introduction of the automated espresso machines and espresso pods now used by Starbucks.  This Americano, however, was something different: smooth with a soft, lingering bite that allowed me to enjoy the bitterness of the brew without being punched in the face by it.  Later in my visit, I mentioned the almost creamy quality of the Americanos made at The Daily and Noelle explained that it was the presence of the crema.  I know very little about coffee and so, before beginning on this post, my curiosity led me to Google, which of course, forwarded my request for information to Wikipedia.  This is what Wiki has to say about the matter:

” In the United States, “Americano” is used broadly to mean combining hot water and espresso in either order, but in a narrower definition it refers to adding water to espresso (espresso on the bottom), while adding espresso to water (espresso on the top) is instead referred to as a long black.”

A long black, you say?  I had never heard of such a thing.  I suppose I fell into the category of broad Americans who thought that water + espresso was a fairly simple matter.  Not so, as I learned first by experience and then by the schooling of the World Wide Web.  Wikipedia continues…

“The drink consists of a single or double-shot of espresso combined with between 1 and 16 fluid ounces (30 – 470ml) of hot water.

An alternative of the same ingredients is encountered with the Long Black. The Long Black is the same as an Americano but prepared almost oppositely. An Americano is created specifically by adding the water to an already extracted espresso. This process annihilates the crema.  The Long Black is an espresso shot pulled over hot water thus preserving the crema.”

From my conversation with Noelle, it seems that I had just had my first Long Black (and after this experience, I have to give credit to the old(ish) adage.  You know the one).  The presence of the crema made the simple combination of espresso and water absolutely decadent.  I had not even yet visited The Daily Coffee Bar and I was already a huge fan.

I got my chance to bond with The Daily Northside the next day, opting to forgo Noelle’s invitation to join her at Bootcamp and instead spend the hour sipping coffee, eating a breakfast burrito and writing in my journal.  Oh yes, and shyly taking a few pictures.

I talk a big talk, but with no introduction I felt a little odd about sticking my lens into other people’s business.  If ever I want to be a professional photographer or journalist I am going to have to invest in a bit more nerve.

Instead of strolling unashamedly about the place, I sequestered myself upstairs with a cup of fresh coffee and a delicious breakfast burrito made with local and organic ingredients.  The second story showcases Northside’s industrial construction with wooden rafters complete with old industrial markings, a classic V roof from which minimalist lighting hangs.

The walls are adorned with a themed art display, currently showcasing a contrasting mixture of Old World (Roman or Greek) statue photography and bright (and slightly creepy) Asian portrait.  The table I chose sits directly across from a photograph of a tattooed doll with large blue eyes and arms thrown up as though rejoicing or surrendering.  Its tiny nails are painted black.

The atmosphere on the second floor is one of muted conversation and daily work just getting underway.  There is an undercurrent of laughter and smiles, of comfort.  From downstairs comes the quiet roar of the morning hustle and bustle.  The upbeat music, woosh of milk steaming and clatter of dishware harmonizes with a steady stream of conversation.  The high pitched voice of a child rises above it all.  With my belly content with the veggie burrito and my mind buzzing with the smooth dark roast, I felt utterly at ease.

The next day I found myself once again at The Daily, accompanying Noelle who had a managers’ meeting so that I could fulfill my intent of snapping a few photographs.

The meeting lasted longer than my photographic ambitions and so I settled into a table downstairs by the window so that I could watch the coming and goings of the morning rush.  I love the feeling of being a fly on the wall.  The soft glow of the early morning just outside the window give the impression of a day much chillier than this, but I am glad for the trick of light as I cradle my coffee in my hands.  Behind the bar The Daily baristas bustle about serving up drinks and pastries.  The whole place is filled with the aroma of ground coffee and baking.  The entrance may as well be a revolving door as people come and go quickly, en route to their daily business.  A lone customer lingers over the daily newspaper, slowly turning the pages as he peruses the headlines.  Two mothers with young children sit chatting about the daily gossip, taking quick breaks to feed their little ones bits of homemade muffin and ooo and aahh over their drawings.

I understand why Noelle practically glows with pride when she talks about her coffee shop, employees and customers.  There is nothing strained or impersonal about this place, no undercurrents of turmoil among the staff, no grumbling behind the counter.  There is just a sense of ease, of contentment and of goodness.

If you ever find yourself in Bozeman, Montana, take the time to drop by The Daily Coffee Bar.  You will not regret it!

Our first task was to go out and harvest the prickly pear fruits.  While removing cactus fruits from the state trust land that surrounds my parents house is a bit of a no-no, we did not see any issue in removing them from the landscaping in the median.  After all, the rotten fruit would be bagged and tossed at the end of the summer and at least this way some of it would go to good use.  To harvest prickly pear fruit all you need is a pair of tongs and a paper bag.  Clamp the fruit gently with the tongs, give a little twist and the fruit comes off easily enough.  My first attempt was not so very graceful and went something to the tune of “death grip on fruit, pull.”  Half the fruit stayed attached to the plant and the other came away smooshed between the tongs.  My mom raised her eyebrows at me.  “Well, that one is no good.  Do we need to switch tongs?”  I gave a good-natured grumble; if I thought it was anything other than user error, I may have taken her up on her offer, but I was pretty sure a different set of tongs would have made exactly zero difference.  I watched her execute the picking procedure and gave it another try.  Success! Between the two of us, it did not take more than 10 minutes to harvest enough of the fruit (although in hindsight, in order to avoid a little mishap with fractions, we should have kept going another 5 minutes). We triumphantly paraded back to the house, desert bounty in tow.

The first step done and over with, the fruit of the cacti then sat in my mom’s refrigerator for several weeks.  There is no real need to let the fruit sit for any length of time other than the general hectic nature of life.  But finally a day came about when we had the time to devote to the project.

Like I said, I had never made jelly before and so I was amazed at the simplicity of the process.  (Though I’m informed that the use of packaged pectin was to thank for much of that ease.  Maybe next time I will learn how to use apples for the pectin.)

Before you start in on the actual jelly prep, I would highly recommend starting the sterilization process on the jars.  The following recipe makes about 36 ounces of jelly; plan accordingly.  Place open jars right side up in a stock pot and fill until the water is one inch above the lips of the jars.  Place the lids in a separate pot and fill with water.  Put both pots on to boil.  They will take a while to reach boiling so go ahead and start with the jelly prep.  The jars must be at a full boil for at least three minutes, so take note of when they start to boil.  After they have boiled for three minutes, take them out of the water using a pair of tongs and place mouth down on paper towels laid out on the counter.  After a few minutes (perhaps while boiling the jelly concoction) flip the jars over so that they can finish drying out and be ready to receive the jelly.  Leave lids in the hot water.  Leave both pots on the stove, turn the heat on the large stock pot down, but not completely off.

So here it is, the making of the prickly pear jelly:

Recipe:

2.5 cups of prickly pear juice

1 1&3/4 oz package pectin

3 Tbs lime juice

3.5 cups sugar

Also: Blender, cheese cloth, strainer.

First, make the fruit puree.  Ignore whatever else you have read, because this is the easiest way to prepare it (if you don’t believe me, Google agrees).

Using leather gloves and a sharp knife, peel the skin from the prickly pear fruit.  I found this very reminiscent of peeling a kiwi; a very spiny kiwi.  (I recommend having a pair of tweezers present.  The tiny spines ended up on my shirt and from their transferred to my elbow and forearm.  Although my mom didn’t have that problem.  Maybe I’m just less graceful.) The fruit should be a beautiful deep pink.  Put it in a blender.

Once you have peeled all the fruit, puree it.

Bust out the cheese cloth, strainer and large bowl.  Line the strainer with cheese cloth and place a bowl under the strainer.  Pour the puree over the cheese cloth.  To get all the juice from the pulp (there really is no way around this part) bundle the cheese cloth over the top of the puree, give a twist to seal and squeeze.  Delight in getting the sticky juice all over your hands.  Take a moment to ooo and ahh over the absolutely beautiful fuchsia color.  I love it when cooking is this pretty.

Pour the juice into a measuring cup.  Hopefully you have about 2.5 cups.

We had 1.75 cups.

So here is where we took a break to argue over fractions.  This really should not have been difficult considering the number of degrees represented in the house, but I quickly abandoned the attempt to do it by hand and broke out the calculator on my smart phone.  As my mom declared that we needed to multiply everything by 7/18, I declared, “.7″ and my dad said “7/18 isn’t .7.”  This went on longer than I care to admit when I finally, exasperated, said, “You guys are not listening.  All we have to do is divide 1.75 by 2.5 to get the conversion and it’s .7!”  Sometimes what you really need to do is stamp your foot and throw a little tantrum.

Having agreed on the conversion, we got the rest of the ingredients together.  I stared at giant measuring cup full of sugar and tried not to be a little aghast.  I stuffed my objections to mounds of white sugar underneath the joy I got from making jelly from scratch.  Cooking from scratch means actually facing up to what goes into the final product, a truth which can simultaneously be a luxury and an inconvenience.  No preservatives or additives but, wow, that’s a whole lot of sugar.  You catch my drift.  But pure pleasure came from the simplicity of the ingredients: prickly pear fruit juice, pectin, lime juice, sugar.

The next steps mirrored the simplicity of the components:

In a saucepan, bring prickly pear fruit juice and pectin to a boil, stirring constantly.  Again, admire the deep, rich hue and texture of the mixture, which should now be giving off a delicately sweet aroma.

Add lime juice and sugar, stir and bring to a hard boil (one that cannot be stirred down).  Boil for three minutes.  Be sure you have the mixture at a hard boil for three minutes so the jelly sets properly.

Pour or ladle jelly into awaiting glass jars.  Seal.

Place sealed jelly jars into the large stock pot and turn the heat back up.  Boil the jars for 10 minutes and then remove the jars from the heat.  Sometime in the next 30 minutes you will hear the lids POP, which means jars are sealed and safe to store.

When the jars have cooled off enough, label them.  Be creative…or at least give it your best shot.

Before I was ever born, my mom tasted a delectable combination: prickly pear jelly and brie.  When living in Houston, my dad had a colleague who would arrive to staff potlucks bearing the delicious dish.  With this in mind, my mom had picked up some brie from the grocery store that same day along with some strawberries.  Looking at the strawberries and brie my mom commented, “If only we had some champagne.”  My palate agreed with her lament.  ”Oh, I wish you hadn’t said that.  I would love some champagne.”  She looked thoughtful for a moment and said, “You know, we actually might have some.”  Sure enough, in the back of the beverage refrigerator she found a chilled bottle of champagne left over from some special occasion, possibly New Years.  The cork gave a loud pop, and our evening was complete.

Warmed brie on crackers topped with prickly pear jelly complete with fresh strawberries and champagne to drink.

“I can’t wait until this is all automated and I never have to touch a pen again.”

Blasphemy!  I am saddened and disgusted at the same time.  How can it be that this woman has forsaken the sheer joy of watching her thoughts appear before her in shiny wet ink?   That small, unimposing tube of ink can turn a blank page into a document that will last for centuries, travel around the world, change a life, tell a hidden truth.  There is limitless potential contained within that little pen, and here you are wishing them from your life.

Okay, so I know that you no longer need a pen to express your inner thoughts (clearly, I’m not blind to the fact that I am at this very moment expressing myself in writing without the help of a pen).  The experience, though, is entirely different.  Have you not ever stared blankly at the computer screen with no inspiration in sight and then picked up a pen to discover that you hold an entire world between your fingers?

I am still full of conflicting desires.  I want to slap this woman silly.  I want to give her a hug and tell her that everything will be okay.  I want to run away screaming from the pent up expression she must contain within her.  I want to pity her because maybe she’s just not that deep.  I don’t think that everyone has to have a special love for writing, as I do.  But c’mon…to wish away the ancient art of penmanship and the written word?  To desire to see lost one of the most important developments in human history?   Think about this: according to A History of Writing, by Steven Roger Fischer, the reed pen may have been used as early as 3000 BC to write on parchment!  We have been using pens of some form or another to record our thoughts and experiences, our hopes and our dreams, our fears and our faith for millennia!

I am completely unwilling to entertain the idea that the keyboard is the next step and will replace the pen.  Yes, word processing is a pretty nifty and handy tool.  I can type faster than I can write and I still sometimes miss a thought before I can capture it using either means.  I would far rather edit a document in Word than a handwritten essay.  But I also know that the physical act of writing, of taking pen to paper, is far more cathartic than typing those words on a keyboard.

There is a deeply personal quality to words that are composed of letters shaped by the hand controlled by the brain that contains the mind that created the thought expressed by those words.

And with that I will step off of my soap box.

With the day off, however, we were not going to be deterred from getting a much needed hit of nature.  For several months I had been hearing about a gorgeous spot called Fossil Springs.  We decided to give it a go.  Immediately upon reaching the parking lot we were inundated with PEOPLE EVERYWHERE.  The parking lot was bursting.  Not a good sign.  We headed down the nice wide trail, and went down down down until we hit the first spring.

The area is absolutely stunning except for one little hiccup.  It was crawling with boy scouts.  Here is where I will be completely honest in saying that we allowed ourselves to be deterred from continuing on by the droves of little people milling about.  We made it just past the first spring to the first open pool and small waterfall, sat down and had a little lunch and then headed back out.

I do, however, wish that I had done my homework before the hike because we missed most of the good stuff because we simply did not know it was there to be seen.  Perhaps if I had known that this

was ahead of us I would have been more eager to dodge the boy scouts in order to get there.  But in order to get as far as we had come, we had already had to squeeze past three groups of 15 people, give or take.  Their trail awareness was summed up by the girl running past in her cowboy boots and an entire group of teenage boys stopping at the cattle guard fence unsure of how to get past.  The place echoed with shouts and calls and even as we perched on a group of rocks we thought were plenty out of the way to enjoy a break and a Cliff Bar, we had to scoot out of the way of a rowdy trio.  Looking back, I think it likely our Bah-humbug got the better of us, being spoiled by hikes on which we would see at most one or two other people.

After completing the climb out, I was ready to say that I had seen enough of Fossil Springs.  After a little further research, I would be willing to return to see more of the springs and waterfalls that lay further down the trail.  On a weekday.  During the school year.

There were five or six other people sharing the shelter at the top.  Three of them reached into their packs and popped the tabs on their victory beers.  I tried not to raise my eyebrows.  The hard part was still to come; the part where we had to fight the elements along a trail with steep slopes of rocky shale falling away on either side.  Footing was sketchy and balance sure to be difficult enough in the wind without the help of a few units of alcohol.  To each his own though; maybe they were all part mountain goat.

“We’ve got to get going before we get stuck up here.”  I knew Gabi was right but at that moment I was quite content to hunker down in the short walled shelter and bask in my triumph of the ascent.  The journey down would undoubtedly lack grace and poise and right then I just wanted to pretend to be a confident and skilled peak bagger.  But there was no way we could risk the gusts increasing in strength as we dawdled at the top and so we stuck our shoulders to the wind and with one foot in front of the other powered our way back to the saddle.  At least that is what Gabi did.  I stood up, took a step and got knocked down, crab walked a few feet, tried to stand back up and once again got knocked down and crab walked some more.  This scene was repeated five or six more times with Gabi watching me, hunkered down behind a boulder.  I finally figured out the technique.  Stick one shoulder into the wind and keep my body sideways so that the wind had less purchase to literally sweep me off my feet.

I am already a big wimp when it comes to climbing downhill, in part thanks to a spill I took on Camelback in March and the resultant still-not-quite-healed sprained ankle.  I was so focused on my feet and on staying upright that when we followed a couple of women down the side of the mountain, I had no clue we had left the trail.  ”I don’t think this is right.  It wasn’t this steep,” Gabi called.  ”Oh no, I remember this part because I remember thinking ‘oh shit, I have to go down this.’”  A few steps later it became very clear that I did not, in fact, remember it because we were quite a bit off the trail.  ”There’s the sign by the trail.  The trail we are definitely not on,” Gabi said, pointing to a sign post a hundred feet above us up the slope.  ”Shit.”

We scrambled back up the side of the mountain towards the sign.  Going up is no problem for me.  The mistake, in fact, afforded me a moment’s respite from the stress of going down.  We got to the sign and back on track.  Before heading on, I took a moment to muse over the message etched into the wooden sign: “Delicate tundra. No hiking off the trail.”  Or something to that effect.  A $500 fine might have been mentioned.  We were back on track, though, with no intentions of allowing ourselves to be once again led astray.

Finally the saddle came into view and with it the blissful sanctuary of the tree line.  By this time my face and hands were completely frozen and my mind was fried from concentrating so hard on not being blown off the side of the mountain.  And I was all smiles.

I truly believe that the best trips are the ones involving some sort of struggle.  In the moment it might feel overwhelming, inconvenient, maybe even painful or at least uncomfortable, but afterwards the experience and the story is well worth it.  How boring would the story be in which we faced nothing unexpected, difficult or ridiculous?

The Humphreys Peak trip was the hair of the dog for Gabi and I, the dose of trail to cure our hiking hang over from the Grand Canyon trip.  And what a stiff dose it was.  The trail is amazing, taking you first through meadow and then up into the pine forest.  If you love switchbacks, you’ll love this trail because there are plenty of them to be had.  After all, how else do you reach the highest peak in Arizona in a mere 4.5 miles?

We hiked the trail in early June and other than the wind, the weather was quite nice.  A windbreaker, gloves and beanie were definite assets.  Speaking now from experience, I would have brought a scarf as well to wrap around my face once we got above the tree line.  As we hiked through the forest we found ourselves climbing over several piles of packed snow.  Later, as we came down the trail, the warm mid-day sun had turned at least some of this snow to mud.  I quickly learned to be careful of the shady bits where icy patches lurked.  Despite the perils, I managed to make my way up and down without any new cuts or bruises.

I have to admit that by the end of the hike I was absolutely exhausted physically and mentally.  What a way to go about curing that hiking hang over!  But as always I had no regrets as I peeled off my sweat soaked shirt to replace it with a blissfully fresh one.  There was really only one thing left to do: eat!  Gabi and I made our way to The Beaver Street Brewery for a post-hike chow down.  After months of threatening to eat my first burger in almost 4 years I finally did.  Half of a scrumptious bacon cheeseburger and sweet potato fries out on the patio under a beautiful blue sky: the perfect way to end the day’s adventures!

I am here to tell you that last month I was sorely tempted to move to Mexico.  First of all, I had the most amazing tomatoes aboard Nena.  No, these delectable slices of juicy red fruit were not my main reason for wishing I could throw caution to the wind and stay on island time for the rest of the summer (at least), but they were most definitely noteworthy.  I have never in my life tasted such scrumptious tomatoes and have spent the last two and a half weeks searching for their American counterparts.  So far I have had no luck.  Check back later for my Farmers Market adventures, coming as soon as I haul myself out of bed at 7:30 AM on a Friday when I don’t have to work.  I fear, however, that my search will be, pardon the pun, fruitless.  There are times when the intermingling of senses culminate in the heightening of a single experience.  In my case the sun on my skin and the salt on my lips, the music of the engine and the hull cutting through the water, the blue waters and the colorful spread of mango, red bell pepper, celery, jicama, lettuce and tomato must have interwoven themselves into a complex sensation that revealed itself in the climax of taste as I bit into that perfectly ripe tomato.  In that perfect taste was the simple truth that I am still head over heels in love with the ocean.  That is the reason I cursed my own good judgement for carrying the rest of me to the airport, through security and onto a plane bound for the middle of the desert.

We spent eight days on Cozumel, including those spent traveling.  We had only one mission: dive.  We spent six days aboard La Nena, the dive boat owned by Cristina, who actually went to graduate school with my Dad at Rice University back in the 80′s (small world).  After graduate school she headed back to Mexico, fell in love with the Caribbean and in 1987 moved to Cozumel.  You can probably see why I like this woman.  Besides living the life of an educated dive bum, she is warm, welcoming and hilarious.  Her husband Luis also happens to give the funniest dive instruction I have heard yet.  He usually only goes diving when there are inexperienced or resort divers on the boat.  He had me sit in on two of these briefings telling me that it was “good for my professional diving education.”  With much animation he sits his group down and tells them, “You think you are certified but you know nothing.  I am going to tell you the things you need to know so that YOU DON’T DIE.  I don’t like it when my divers die!”  He then proceeds to go through airspaces and squeezes, buoyancy and choking.  ”I have water in my mask but that water is not going up my nose and I am not choking.  Why?” “You’re not inhaling through your nose?” “NO” “You’re blowing out through your nose?”  ”….NO! I am looking DOWN.  If you have water in your mask and look UP then the water goes down your nose and you choke. So, you have water in your mask, don’t look up.  Clear the water like we practiced and you’ll be fine.”  His advice as to how to keep water out of your mask? “Poker face!  No smiling at the fishes.  Women, no smiling at me.”

Despite the offer to accompany the novice divers for further “education” I opted to stick with my parents and our divemaster, Chucho.  Unfortunately this trip we did not get to dive with Cristina herself because she had friends/business investors with whom she had to schmooze.  Fair enough since, after all, they helped buy Luis’s fishing boat, Second Front (basically meaning “mistress” which is exactly what fishing is for Luis – between fishing and diving, he’ll take fishing.  Maybe because he is always stuck with the muppets).  But Chucho was a fantastic alternate and he was more than happy to spend a week not getting kicked in the head for a change.

www.divewithcristina.com

www.chuchodivers.com

So we splashed….

Although the footage does not capture the true beauty of the reefs, it gives a glimpse of their majesty.  And the reefs around Cozumel are truly magnificent.  Towering coral formations – caves, pillars, overhangs – complete with an amazing diversity of life including countless species of coral, sponges, zoanthids, crustaceans, fishes, turtles, sharks.  Long spindly legged arrow crabs, huge file fish, tiny anemone shrimp and throngs of juvenile wrasse kept us company as we drifted the reefs and wove through the complex system of swim throughs.  I even saw something that I had never before seen: a Splendid Toadfish.  These funky looking creatures are thought to be endemic to Cozumel, which explains why I was so excited about the first one I found.  I made Chucho come look at it, smiling wide and shrugging my shoulders as to say “I have no idea!” he pointed to his temple and then motioned as though turning pages in a book: “remember, we’ll look it up”.  I had found something totally novel and after swimming a few feet I saw it again.  And again.  Those bearded toadfish made an appearance on nearly every dive after that point.  The real treat was seeing the whole fish, as they usually hide their backsides in crevices.  Chucho wrastled one out of its hole for a photo shoot and I was delighted to see that the rest of the toadfish was as spiffy as promised.

Each and every on of the 14 dives we did while in Cozumel was between 60 and 75 minutes.  There was no time limit beyond those set by decompression limits and air consumption, an arrangement that suited me perfectly well.  Nena only goes out once a day normally and so there is no rush to get back to the dock.  We left at 9 am and usually returned around 3 pm.  There was one day, however, when two charters went out and you bet your ass I was on both of them.

My dad and I opted to do all four dives that day and it just so happened to fall on the best day for diving we had all week.  The currents were mild and the sun shining.  We were our own little group with Chucho taking the lead.  My mom joined us for the second half of the day.  When she first heard that conditions were fantastic and that we had found her coveted pipe fish (at least it wasn’t a sea horse) she was disappointed that she had not joined us for the first two dives.  But it just so happens that she chose exactly the right dives.  First we went to Santa Rosa reef and visited Chucho’s “girlfriend” who, I hated to tell him, was just using him for his fish lips.  My dad played videographer with his new camera and documented the orgy:

Other highlights from the two evening dives were another pipe fish, two sailfin blennies, a nurse shark and a mongo loggerhead turtle with barnacles on its back meandering across the sand eating hermit crabs.

Not my picture, but I had to show you how seriously cool sailfin blennies are.  I wish I had a video of the display.

Diving was not the only wonderful part of Mexico.  Afternoons and evenings were spent drinking various concoctions featuring either rum or tequila while soaking in the bar side jacuzzi, eating amazing food in town or staying in and making seriously delicious meals of our own, swimming about the shallow reef outside the hotel with flashlights in search of octopi (yes, we did find one!) and in general enjoying the good company.

Now, I am fully aware that living on an island is not like vacationing on an island but when Cristina spoke the words, “You know we are hiring…” I had to work to resist the urge to test her sincerity.  Sure, I do not speak Spanish, but I cannot think of a better way to learn!  But sadly there is no Bikram yoga on Cozumel and its absence would have soon been felt.  Even so, if it were not for my commitment to my job, a lease and a cat I may well have stayed a wee bit longer.

Evenings on Cozumel tended to end fairly early; as long as there was a dive boat to catch in the morning I was okay with calling it a night around 10.  On our last day there, however, I saw no reason to get a good night’s sleep.  Chucho had offered a could days before to take me dancing on Friday night and so at 10:00 we met at Viva Mexico, a second floor bar overlooking the ocean and two XX brought for every one ordered.  The crowd started out fairly mild but as the drinks were downed the scene unfolded beautifully, becoming a rowdy mix of locals and tourists, a eclectic mix of bodies with varying degrees of rhythm.  And the band was awesome.  They started with Pink Floyd and drew from bands like Jet, The Eagles, Journey and many many more that are now lost somewhere in a haze of beer and dancing.  Finally at 2:30 AM my legs gave out on me and I had to declare myself a pumpkin.  The reference was completely lost on Chucho, but my sleepy eyes got the point across and a cab ride (and a glorious shower) later I was happily passed out in bed.

The next day I had to say goodbye to salty sea air and the embrace of the ocean.  I ache for it still, here in the dry heat so many miles away from warm, clear waters.  Arizona has been so good to me this last year and I will always love this place.  But my mind has already started to plan my next move; one that will set my clock back to island time.

Between Cottonwood and Phantom Ranch the trail snakes through sheer cliffs, following the river.  The sound of the flowing water is deafening, precluding conversation and leaving the mind silent.  These cliffs appear utterly different coming from this direction.  Yesterday we traveled from Phantom Ranch to Cottonwood and yet I would swear that I had never witnessed such majesty.  Ahead of us looms a sheer rock wall, a solid face of sepia, auburn, crimson and even violet.  As we approach the canyon walls move away from each other, revealing the continuing path.  We are hiking at a steady clip, the perfect speed to witness the unraveling of these optical illusions.  Even for myself, scientist practically by birth, this place feels overwhelming magical.  My thoughts dwell only upon the mysteries of the canyon, my senses completely saturated with the sights, sounds and smells of the Canyon.  I reach out and allow my hand to brush along the rock face bordering the left side of the trail and for a brief moment I am connected to this place.  I feel suddenly grounded, completely aware of my heart beat as it becomes just one of the millions of pulses throbbing around me.  Even the rock seems to beat with life.  A smile plays across my lips and I draw my fingers away from the stone to adjust my Camelback.  Glancing up at the stone walls at the black stains left by rivulets streaming down the steep formations, I cannot help but see the stains of tears.  Tears of sadness and beauty and joy; all of these human emotions, my own emotions, absorbed by the rock surrounding me.

Gabi and I hiked 47 miles in two days, down South Kaibab and up North Kaibab and then down North Kaibab and up Bright Angel.  I will likely make many attempts to find words to describe the experience, but I do so with full knowledge that I will never succeed in capturing the magnitude of this hike.  The sights were awe inspiring; the roar of the river and the silence that followed equally deafening; the icy water at Ribbon Falls exhilarating.

Ribbon Falls

South Kaibab

North Kaibab

Deeper beauty existed still in my own experience as little by little, I crossed one of the wonders of the world, not once but twice.  The last three miles, coming up Bright Angel Trail, we were completely exposed to the sun as the path made sweeping switch backs up the side of the Canyon.  With every corner turned I could see the day hikers strewn across the cliff, marking the trail leaving no doubt that the end was literally no where in sight.  I counted my blessings with every step.  ”I am thankful for being able to make this trip; I am thankful for the clouds that drift across the sun; I am thankful for the sun that makes the colors glow; I am thankful for Gabi for giving me this opportunity; I am thankful for the Superstitions, which prepared me well; I am thankful for Charles for giving me weekends off of work so I could train; I am thankful for these shoes on my blisterless feet; I am thankful that my parents took me hiking; I am thankful for the yoga which has kept my body flexible; I am thankful that my ankle, so badly twisted, has carried me so far; I am thankful for that moment at the bottom of Camelback when I decided not to give up; I am thankful for the existence of these trails that traverse the Canyon;” on and on I found one more thing for which to give thanks.  There I was with aching feet and sore legs, drenched in sweat and covered in grime and completely happy.

You may think I exaggerate, but the trip across the Grand Canyon and back literally changed my perspective on life because it changed my relationship with myself.  With five weeks to train, my body survived 47 miles and 8,000 vertical feet in two days.  And I loved it; every moment of it!   I had to call on mental determination and faith and there they were, waiting for me to put them into action.  One foot in front of the other and little by little I made the journey all the while a smile on my face.

There are so many memories to recount from the training and the trip, I feel daunted as I try to figure out how I am going to fit it all in this tiny blog update box (yes, I know it scrolls up and down, that’s not the point).  Little by little the story will unfold as I reminisce and wax eloquent about philosophical epiphanies I had whilst on the trail.

But for now the present calls me back to the moment and I must away.  I hope to return shortly with more on hiking, yoga, diving and life.

One bridge of steel trestles and wooden planks and the other of concrete and cables.  The past and the present run parallel yet converge into a single origin.  The light rail glides past on its way to Downtown Phoenix, just a slight increase in the volume of the background noise.  The sun shines through the number 1912, cut into the cross piece of the trestles on the old Tempe Union Pacific Railroad; sitting on my perch in 1912 a passing train would have produced a much more profound ruckus.

The 1912 train sends vibrations through the air and the ground, causing my bench to vibrate and filling my ears with the clacking roar of the steam engine lugging its cargo to some far off destination.  This is the nostalgia that does not belong to me; pointless reminiscence of a time I do not remember and experiences I will never have.  And yet who can look at the relics of the past and resist the temptation to daydream about their memories, the lives they witnessed?  The actors are long gone, long forgotten and yet nearly a century later the stage – these tracks – survives.  They tell no tales, and so I create my own; shadows of the past against a bright blue sky, they take form but lack detail and are as fleeting as the time on which they are based.

As late afternoon turns to evening, the colors in the park are amazing.  Turning towards the Mill Avenue bridge I am brought back to the present.   I turn my lens toward the subtle nuances of the pastel shades and the duality between the fluidity of the lake and the geometry of the bridge.

Everywhere I look here, memories become superimposed.  Along that bridge I walked with my first love in the dying days of our relationship, blissful in our ignorance of the future.  Skip ahead just a few months to see two freshman girls from Hayden West jogging along the waterfront, under those arches.  “We just have to make it past the bridge and we can take a break.”  “Okay. Deal.”  And then the two friends become sisters and they laugh and talk in the same voice from so many hours spent together.  Across the lake on the north side I run alone as evening falls, listening only to the sound of my Nike footfalls and the chatter of sorority girls as I approach and pass them.  I run those paths countless times, up one side of the lake and down the other, passing the Tempe Center for the Arts where one night two lovers took their secrets from the stone wall and shared them with each other, the heightening of a romance in which every moment encompassed seemingly infinite intensity and passion, a fire to blind and a fire to burn.  A fire to watch sink into the lake with tears in my eyes as I said goodbye to Arizona alone.  A goodbye that lasted two years until I found myself looking out at the dried out lake from the window of a train that passed me by today with barely a roar.  My camera pointed out the window to capture the defeat of engineering, the dried up lake that glistened today as a rower’s boat glided between the pillars of the past and the present.

There was two feet of powder on the ground but I was determined to go sledding.  We pulled off the road, having finally happened across a lot with hills surrounding it on a side road up off the highway leading towards Idaho City.  The dogs were thrilled and raced through the snow, chasing each other in slow motion as they plowed through the drifts.  I trudged up to the top of the hill and gleefully sat down on my sled and gave myself a push.  I went approximately 6 inches.  Oh, two feet of powder.  Right.  Seven times we pushed our sleds down the hill to clear a trench for sledding and finally it was ready.  Kneeling on the back of the sled with my hands on the sides to steer I took the first ride down the hill.  I only got stuck twice.

Even though my need for speed was not quite fulfilled, neither did I barrel headfirst into a suddenly appearing solid wall of dog like I did on my last sledding adventure.  A few trips down the hill and a thorough white washing ala Laran later, rosy cheeked and a little chilly from the snow stuffed down my pants, I gladly climbed into the warm car and headed back to civilization.

The hot chocolate mocked me.  I cradled the warm cup in cold hands, seemingly everything a cocoa was supposed to be after a day spent playing in the snow.  Everything was right about it except for its total lack of chocolate goodness.  This was a 16 ounce cup of steamed skim milk with a barely detectable pump of chocolate syrup added to it.  I stared at the disappointment , closed my eyes and willed it with all my imaginative powers to be deliciously rich.  I took another tentative sip; the drink was no better, no more chocolaty for all my brain power.  And we were stuck in the snow.  In a parking lot.  Back and forth and back and forth the car rocked.  Reverse, 1st gear, reverse, 1st gear, going no where.  And the hot chocolate that was not a hot chocolate was completely at fault.  Taking this winter wonderland day and turning it against me.  Not even towels under the tires seemed to be getting us unstuck and we were going no where.  I glared at the cup in my hands.  I rarely treat myself to dessert drinks and my excitement for this simple concoction of hot milk and chocolate had just turned into the ruination of my whole evening.  The car gave another jerk forward and stopped.  “We can get you another hot chocolate from somewhere else just as soon as we get out of here.”  “No, I’m fine.  I don’t want it anymore.”  The words rang in my ears, sounding like a petulant child and making me angry at the persistence of my own juvenile sullenness.  I glared harder at the object of my derision and stuck out my lower lip.  And laughed.  The little black spray-painted beater lurched forward out of the ruts it had burned into the snow and we finally made it out of the parking lot.  “You know, I think I will take that hot chocolate.”  I poured out all my crazy into that steaming mug of mediocrity and tossed it into the trash on my way to the counter.

My mouth is watering.

This is my first quiche in over 6 months and now I wonder how I waited so long?  Somehow it slipped my mind how incredibly easy and undeniably delish quiche truly is.

The hardest part of the whole process was climbing up on top of the counter with hands caked from crust making to retrieve my new rolling pin of choice:  A bottle of Pinot Grigio.  Roll your eyes all you kitchen snobs, but it’s far classier than my last rolling pin:  A bottle of vodka.  Though there are some people who would argue that last part, since it was a bottle of GreyGoose Vodka versus an $8 bottle of white wine.

So the true motivation behind this post was my dear sister, Janice’s request for a quiche recipe.  In answer to your inquiries, I have a great recipe, that earns the title “great” in several ways.  First of all, it’s versatile, proven so as I’ve made spinach and broccoli, barbeque chicken and pizza quiche all from the same base recipe (and tonight I add tomato, spinach and basil to that list).  Second, it’s easy as…well…easy as pie!  And here’s the kicker and answer to your query, it is crustless.  Or CAN be crustless.  I never make it so, because doing so would be to cheat myself out of an excuse to make and eat shortbread crust, both of which I love dearly.

Without any further ado, here it is:

If you prefer a crust:

One recipe basic pie dough
1 cup flour
1/2 tsp salt
1/3 cup butter
3 Tbl water
You know what to do…and if you don’t, I recommend looking it up for best results.

Filling:
2 cups broccoli, chopped
2 cups spinach, shredded
1-2 cloves garlic, minced
butter to saute
(Or whatever type of quiche you want!)
4 extra large egg whites (or one egg short of a cup of egg whites)
3 extra large eggs
1 cup shredded Italian blend cheese (or mozzarella)
1 1/4 cup skim milk
1/4 tsp pepper
1/2 tsp salt
1-2 tsp Dijon or yellow mustard
1 Tbl grated parmesan or italian blend cheese (save for top)

Preheat oven to 350

Saute the broccoli and spinach with the butter and garlic until bright green and aromatic. (Or whatever ingredients you have chosen)
Mix all other ingredients (minus the 1 Tbs cheese) together with a whisk.  Whisk away until frothy for a lighter quiche.
Place broccoli and spinach (or tomato, or chicken, or pineapple…) in the crust.  Pour in egg mixture.  Cheese has a tendency to come out at the end so take a fork and distribute it evenly through the quiche.  Sprinkle the 1 Tbs cheese on the top.

Bake at 350 for 40 minutes.

Like I said, easy as pie!

And lo and behold, my timing is perfect because I just took the final product out of the oven and it is now taking a few moments to set before I partake of that first coveted slice

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