Tillamook

Today we woke up in the state forest and had a quick breakfast of acorn bread topped with assorted goodies—almond butter with flax seed from the dumpster, honey from Denise’s farm, blueberry jam and apple butter made from rescued and foraged fruit that I canned prior to our departure.  Being a lover of factory tours and learning how everyday products are made, we decided to visit the Tillamook cheese factory.  It’s a farmer-owned coop, and they’re famous for their colorful and flavorful block-style cheeses.  We weren’t expecting to be impressed, but a tour sounded like fun.  On our way in, I noticed most of the people exiting were chowing down on ice cream cones, so despite the rainy weather Andre suggested we buy one.  It’s a treat to buy food, so we vote with our dollars carefully.  I noticed the painted murals on the walls depicting gallons of the various flavors, labeled clearly with the words “natural and artificially flavored” in large font.  Hmm… the bright hues—greens, yellows, oranges—not found in nature gave us another tip that I might not want to vote for this one.  We asked whether they had any all natural varieties, and the young man behind the counter handed us a very large binder full of nutritional information for each flavor they made.  I was surprised to see the list of ingredients, although I suppose I shouldn’t have been so naïve.  FDA regulated colors, corn syrup, artificial flavorings, preservatives… ice cream is cream, eggs, sugar, and fruit or spices.  Why the laundry list of ingredients I couldn’t pronounce from a farmer owned coop?  We skipped the ice cream and took the self-guided tour.  Again, more disappointment.  I knew we weren’t visiting an artisan farm, but to see the waste inside the factory was really disheartening.  Plastic bits of wrapper covered the floor that assembly line robots and people (it was hard to distinguish between the two) worked on.  We learned that cows can drink up to 50 gallons of water per day.  We also ate more free samples of cheese than either of us would have preferred. Foraging makes us hungry, especially for junk food.  Evolution kicks in and salt and sugar become our goal.  It wasn’t like we gorged ourselves, but the cheese wasn’t so good—even just a couple of bites would have been enough of this rubber-like product.  They even slap extra slices onto the blocks to make weight and the slices just fuse to the block when it gets heat wrapped—it’s not cheese, it’s jello.  It’s what American’s like.  It’s what we’re used to.  Like white bread and jelly that contains more sugar and pectin than real fruit.  It’s what’s cheap.  It’s also pretty tasty, especially when you don’t think of it as cheese but rather a cheese-like product.

After our tour, we drove to a nearby forest and asked the rangers where we could find some old growth forest.  We ended up camping out in the Suislaw National Forest just outside Hebo.  After over an hour of searching for mushrooms, to no avail, we hopped in the car to look for a nice spot to sleep out.  On the drive, I spotted something white in a tree stump and yelled for Andre to pull over.  My wish from earlier came true—a huge cauliflower mushroom weighing in at 2 pounds.  It was enough to make us decide to camp here for the night, looking forward to searching the hills tomorrow, hopefully less our rain gear.  We celebrated with Mexican fiesta night.  I made a big pot of black beans and chili peppers, sautéed a pan of squash with onions and greens, chopped red cabbage and spiced it with apple cider vinegar, and topped our corn tacos with freshly made salsa and farm fresh eggs (from the dumpster).  Andre made vodka soaked marshmallow flambé treats topped with dulce de leche from Argentina (a gift from Rich) for dessert, which he served on graham crackers left over from our camping trip with my brother back in St. Louis.  We couldn’t do them on the fire, since we were stuck in the bus—it’s raining again, and again, and again.  We’re both looking forward to some sunshine!

Warrenton, OR

We hiked in the state forest near Warrenton, OR, for a couple of hours today in search of a porcini spot that Joseph told us about.  As I suspected, we didn’t find any.  We did, however, find a nice handful of oyster mushrooms, which will make for a delicious appetizer tomorrow night, when we’re cooking again.  Tonight, we have the night off from chores with enough soup leftover and no dry wood to make a fire in this rain.  So, we’re parked in the state forest, enjoying our books, writing, and staying in for a change.  What a luxury it is to relax, to have no food to process or cook, to sip hot coffee on a cold, rainy day while reading and writing.  Even though I miss my usual life, my work, my schedule, my neighborhood, and especially my friends, I know when I’m back I’ll be missing nights like this.  Off the computer I go.

Olympia and Tumwater

Breakfast in the hotel was much less desirable than our usual free breakfast at HIE.  Of course, the hotel was a third of the price, and we were thankful for a dry place to sleep for a change.  Everything on the buffet table came in a package, well, nearly everything.  Waffle mix came in a styrofoam cup, muffins came in plastic wrappers, butter and cream cheese, and cream for coffee in plastic and aluminum.  I opted for an English muffin, which was the only food that didn’t come all wrapped up except for the bulk sugary and colorful cereal.  Still, I used a butter and a honey packet.  Why do we insist on individually wrapped lifestyles?  Are we afraid of someone else’s germs?  I pulled a plastic spoon from the trash and washed it to use for my yogurt because Andre was still sleeping in the room and I didn’t bring either the room or car key.  Did I question my decision… yes.  Of course.  What if the person who used that spoon had some infectious disease?  I pulled out a clean one when my washing failed to remove the previous user’s breakfast leftovers.  After my breakfast, I washed the spoon I used carefully and placed it back in the bin.  Walking the line, I know.

Needing to escape the confines of our room we headed out to the Tumwater Farmers Market and hit the jackpot on trades.  For just 2 pounds of chanterelles, we got red cabbage, kale, parsley, cilantro, several onions, 4 pounds of carrots, a bunch of beets, and a few heirloom tomatoes.  It’s been a while since we’ve had this much fresh produce.  We chatted up the farmers for a while, learned how to press apples at a demo, and hopped back into the car in hopes of finding more chanties to trade.

It’s Halloween.  I watched children walk the streets of a tiny seaside town holding plastic bags that would soon be filled with individually wrapped corporate candies filled with artificial colors and flavors.  I relived my childhood memories of Halloween with Andre.  How our pillowcases would be so full of candy that dad would have to carry them for us.  How my sisters and I would empty our bags onto the kitchen table and sit there with mom ogling all our loot, each taking a turn to select their favorite.  That candy would last us almost a year.

We spent most of the evening cooking over the fire, which we felt lucky to have given the constant rain.  I baked bread and we whipped up the most delicious meal we’ve had on the trip so far – a huge pot of chanterelle and leek soup with potatoes and some of our pumpkin.  It was spiced with garlic, the garlic scapes I dried over the summer, thyme, fresh parsley, and salt and pepper.  We made a béchamel from flour, coconut oil, and fresh milk and cream, and added it at the end.  It was quite an elaborate meal, but we have enough leftovers for a second night, which means we can spend an evening working, learning, writing, or making things rather than cooking.  What a feast.  What a life.

Hoh Rain Forest

The temperate rain forest is really spectacular.  If you haven't been, go... the sooner the better as the local activists are constantly struggling to save the old growth.  Today, we left Quinault and headed to the Hoh Forest where hiked around in the drizzle.  The hall of moss trail was spectacular—trees covered in long strands of green moss that flowed in the breeze, downed logs covered in new living ecosystems, and… more mushrooms!  We found several more lobsters, another handful or two of chanterelles, and filled a small sack with angel’s wings.  We were back in mushroom territory and I was ecstatic.

The next couple of days, we hit the jackpot over and over again. On the outskirts of the national park, we wandered around the state forest and picked pound after pound of chanterelles.  In just two or three hours, we probably harvested about 12 pounds of chanties, several pounds of lobsters, and few other goodies. The following day, still pouring cats and dogs, I donned my fancy new rain pants and we hiked for about an hour, filling our bags with nearly 8 more pounds of chanties.  That evening, we slept at Joseph’s house, Yanis and Max’s friend, who we randomly met in the grocery store parking lot in Forks.  Joseph is a mushroom buyer.  He’s an interesting guy, and he lives a tough life.  When the mushrooms are good, he makes a lot of money.  When they’re bad, like this year, he loses a lot.  It’s like gambling on the weather, and these days the rains are so unpredictable.  Creeks and rivers all across the states we’ve explored have been dry.  Seattle didn’t get rain for 82 days.  Vancouver 87.  Records.  No rain, no mushrooms, no money for Joseph, no food for us.  It's no wonder our ancestors, tired of the uncertainty, opted for agriculture.  It seems to have worked for a while...

Quinault Rain Forest

Our first stop on the Peninsula was in the Quinault Rain Forest. We were on our way to the Hoh Rain Forest where we planned to camp for the night, but the largest Sitka spruce tree in the world caught our attention.  I spotted the Quinault Lodge, a quaint little hotel parked alongside a lake and tucked under some giants.  Feeling sicker than I’d been, maybe since I was a child, I told Andre I wanted to stay.  It was getting dark, my fever was rising, and the rain showed now signs of letting off, meaning we’d have to sleep downstairs and I was ready for bed.  I was prepared to spend a fortune on lodging, but being the off seasons prices were really reasonable, plus, we were upgraded to a room with a fireplace and a television for just $10 more. 

Almost immediately, we went down to take a sauna.  I’m a firm believer in fevers, to a point.  Our bodies are designed to kill off whatever bad guys have taken over with a fever, but too much of a good thing can be a bad thing, so I was careful not to overheat in the sauna.  Afterwards, I treated us to dinner in the lodge restaurant.  The soup of the day just happened to be what the doctor ordered… chicken and vegetable soup with a nice clear broth.  I fell asleep next to Andre, who was glued to the television.  The next morning, I barely got down a piece of toast and had to nap after the effort of eating breakfast.  Being a terrible lounger, I desperately needed to escape the confines of our hotel room, so we drove about 10 miles up the road where a hike would take us into the old growth forest.  Our destination, a bridge crossing a mountain creek, was about 3 miles away.  Stopping to poke around the meadows and fern patches along the way, we gathered several handfuls of chanterelles and a few lobsters.  The walk back to the car was arduous.  My fever was still climbing and my body felt achy, so I was glad that we decided to stay at the lodge a second night despite the fact that I missed sleeping in Butter.  When we returned to our room, I sat next to the fireplace and watched as Andre cooked up a big pot of miso soup and sautéed a batch of chanterelles that he served with pasta.  I drank the soup with ease, but ate just enough of his pasta dish to make us both feel good about the effort. That evening, I took a hot bath and went to bed early.

BC or bust: October 17-21

We left Vancouver this afternoon after a 5-night stay with Andre’s friend, Danda.  She insisted on treating us to sushi on the night of our arrival, which wasn’t too difficult given that we hadn’t eaten sushi since long before we left LA. The following morning, we went to explore the mountains just north of the city.  The ground, covered in a thick blanket of moss and duff, was moist from the recent rain.  My feet sank deep into the forest floor, rarely actually touching the earth, as I went from one tree to the next looking on dead logs for the oysters I hoped to find.  Although our foraging efforts were unsuccessful, we did enjoy a lovely picnic protected from the rain under the shelter of a huge tree.  What a luxury it is to have forests of this magnitude and age.  Those who support the mass removal of our giant trees from public forests in the name of jobs and money don’t seem to fully understand their value.  Trees are the lungs of our planet.  Small ones do not replace large ones in their capacity to sequester carbon. Beyond that, trees are part of the hydrologic cycle—transpiration, like evaporation, makes rain.  Seattle went 82 days without rain until just over a week ago.  Vancouver had the driest summer in 150 years.  We need rain.  These giant trees house animals and fungus and those little ones simply cannot compete with their elders.  They help to ensure biodiversity, which if you don’t know why you should care about biodiversity, just remind yourself that bees = food.  But, beyond what our forests do to help maintain life as we know it, only those who are fortunate enough to stand amongst the giants can fully understand the satisfaction and comfort their canopy provides.  Happily snacking on the cheese we traded for back in Leavenworth, I was filled with gratitude.  What a gift it is to be cared for by the trees.

Chilled from the rain and cool weather, we returned to Danda’s where I threw together a big pot of vegetable soup and baked a loaf of seeded bread.  Yanis was coming for dinner and I couldn’t wait to meet him! 

Yanis is a picker—not like Troy, the urban picker we met in LA who makes his living selling things others toss in the garbage, but a wild mushroom picker who sells his finds to buyers, middle men if you will.  He spends most of the summer months camped out in the Yukon Territory of northern Canada.  The wild north.  He told stories of people becoming sick from mosquito bites, their faces swelling from the thirsty little blood suckers, and the strategies people developed in hopes of keeping them away.  He swore by olive oil, which makes one or two stick to the skin, buzzing like mad as if to warn others from latching on.  I was skeptical, but I imagine I’d try anything under similar circumstances.  Yanis works hard, like I imagine most pickers do.  He scours the forests for mushrooms, some days harvesting only a few pounds, while having to carry hundreds of pounds for miles on other days.  Since buyers don’t pay much, the big patches are what they’re hoping for.  It’s easy to romanticize the life of a picker.  Working hard for only a few months, traveling on the money earned during rest of the year.  Eating gourmet mushrooms every day.  Camping under the stars in remote places.  But it’s hard work, picking mushrooms.  I know, I’ve been doing it… and my forage voyage is luxury living compared to the conditions in the Yukon… luxury living compared to most any conditions for that matter.

Most of our time in the city was spent doing city things.  The highlights – seeing David Byrne from Talking Heads in concert followed by dancing at the Work Less Party party.  The real highlight, though, was a hike on our last full day in Canada.  Feeling the call of the forest, Andre and I slipped away to hike in the rain.  I wasn’t very hopeful that we’d find mushrooms, but made a wish that the forest would give me a cauliflower mushroom.  I’ve been wanting one of those beauties for a while, but have been making a lot of wishes lately so I knew I was pressing my luck.  First, the oysters, then lion’s mane, lobsters, matsutake, and, most recently, the icicle.  All wished for and delivered—usually that same day.  No joke.  Illusory correlations… or (and) the world is just getting weird.  So after Andre spotted something white at the base of a living tree about an hour into our hike, I knew I better not make any more wishes for a while.  Lucky again.  The forest just keeps on giving… deliciousness.

Apfelstrudel with Daniel: October 16

Daniel has at least three apple trees that are littering his yard with large red balls of sweetness. Today, I learned how to make apfelstrudel, or as we American’s call it, apple strudel.  Translated: swirl.  We made two stuffed to capacity with apples, nuts, and dried fruit (1 hazelnut and cranberry and the other sliced almonds and raisins – I preferred the former).  We topped hot slices with freshly whipped cream and nearly finished both during lunch in the sun.  Thankfully, Andre made three tarts later that afternoon, two with apples and hazelnuts and one with fresh plums and almonds.  We nearly finished one of them as a snack before dinner. Good thing we’re leaving tomorrow or I’d have to be carried out the door.  Too full to walk.

Lazy Days in Kirkland, WA: October 14

Sunday was a lazy day, mostly spent catching up on work and chores.  Back in LA, I take the internet and phone reception for granted.  I don’t always have the best signal, but at least I know which corner of my living room will get me through the calls I need to make.  So, when we have a home base, like these past couple of days, Andre and I take full advantage of both services by making calls to family and friends, responding to emails, reading the news—all parts of life that don’t involve foraging and processing food.  Here on the road, I take nothing for granted. It’s a luxury to have lazy days.

We have fruit on the verge of rotting in our bus.  Plums, elderberries, apples, and even a few pears that we picked back in Wisconsin.  Even on lazy days, I can’t escape processing.  Ordinarily, I enjoy finding food much more than dealing with it, but not today.  We spent part of the day learning how to turn our overabundance of elderberries into booze, port to be exact.  It’s pretty simple, quite a bit like making the herbal beers I’ve been bottling for the past year or so.  Most recipes I found called for much more sugar than I would prefer to use, which is usually the case when I preserve foods like jams and fruit spreads.  With alcohol, though, the right balance is important because yeast feeds off the sugar.  If you give your brew too little, it’ll stop fermenting before the alcohol content gets too high and you could end up with kombucha instead of beer.  I haven’t tasted my port yet, since it’s still bubbling like mad—those little yeasties are having a feast—but I’ll let you know how it turns out.  If you live in LA, you might even get to sample it.

We’ve been eating mushrooms every day since we arrived, a joy given that the lobster mushrooms cooked up back in Wisconsin were our last find until we arrived here!  Steamed matsutake, chanterelle pasta, hericium frittata, chanterelle and kale sauté, hericium chili.  I’m definitely getting my fill while they’re fresh and abundant.  Dinners at Daniel’s house have been a real treat.  He is quite the character, generous with his time and space, and incredibly interesting to talk with, regardless of the topic.  He’s also hilariously funny, worthy of using two verbs that convey the same meaning twice in a row – hilariously funny.  This guy is sitcom material, seriously, and his daughter does a pretty job keeping up with her papa.  A German Buddhist who takes people on mushroom hunting (“Mushroaming”) tours to Tibet, Daniel has a passion for experiencing the world and mushroom hunting.  He was brave enough to try and make those two passions fit into a career.  Between giving lectures around the world, offering classes in his community, and taking people on mushroom adventures, I’d say he seems pretty happy… then again, maybe it’s the meditation.

Puget Sound Mushroom Fair: October 13

We spent much of our first morning in the Seattle area piddling around at Daniel’s house and the rest of the day at the Mushroom Fair.  Curt was there, selling his mushroom chachkies—socks decorated with neon-colored morels, porcini shaped key chains, amanita patches and stickers.  You name it, he sells it… so long as it has a mushroom on it or is at all related to mushrooms.  I adore Curt.  He is absolutely hilarious.  A retired postal service man, Curt now spends his days foraging in and around San Francisco where he lives with his wife.  He gathers mushrooms, wild fruits and berries, harvests muscles and “lobster barnacles,” and even goes diving for abalone.  His wife was on a salmon fishing trip in Alaska when I met him in Telluride at the festival, but I’m looking forward to meeting her.

Michael was also there, who we met the night before when we dropped off mushrooms for the display tables, toting a jar of the chanterelles he preserved with onions in a marinade of olive oil and vinegar.  We gave him a generous helping of fresh hericium in exchange, which he seemed excited about.  Bartering rocks.

After returning from the fair, Andre and I prepared dinner.  Daniel suggested how we cook the appetizer, matsutake steamed in soy sauce and white wine followed by angel hair pasta (rescued) topped with white chanterelles sautéed in cream and tomato for Daniel and his daughter.  As usual, the meal was delicious, especially with a round of the cheese we traded for in Levenworth.  I’ve said it before, but we eat like kings, us foragers! 

Today I learned that several of the species we supplied for the fair were edible.  I love learning about mushrooms almost as much as I love eating them.  During my evening meditation, I felt thankful for having such wonderful friends with whom to share my love.

Washington Mushrooms: October 11

It’s been bone dry in Washington, an unusual summer and fall without a drop of rain.  The forecast looked promising for the upcoming weekend, rain was its the way, but the Puget Sound Mycological Society (PSMS) was hosting their annual fair and needed mushrooms for their display and ID tables.  We were on a mission to help them out and feed ourselves when we drove towards the Wenatchee National Forest. 

Our morning hike was a bit disappointing, the earth cracked beneath my feet as I tromped over fallen leaves and broken branches.  I decided to quit early and opted instead for doing yoga and headstands against a tree… the yogis say it is important to do inversions daily.   Andre persevered, but came back with only a few conks and some dried out unidentifiables.  On the next stop, however, we hit the jackpot! Andre spotted a mushroom while driving, car hunting as we call it, and found a pullout about a ¼ mile down the road.  We walked along the shoulder of the narrow highway, trucks sent vibrations through my body as they zoomed past, and saw a perfectly shaped white mushroom with pink gills sitting atop a tree stump as if placed there by an exterior decorator.  It wasn’t an agaricus, but rather, a species unknown to us.  We photographed it, carefully picked it, and crossed the street to poke around the creek for its brothers and sisters. There were lots of interesting mushrooms including some pretty polypores, toothed fungi, and giant conks.  Most exciting of all, I stumbled upon a giant and very fresh hericium, commonly known as the icicle or bear’s tooth.  This mushroom feels as wonderful to touch as it looks, with its delicate white hairs and coral-like stems.  All in all, I’d say we found an impressive variety for the club meeting, maybe 15 species.

Daniel suggested we stop in Leavenworth, a cute Bavarian inspired town.  Andre was excited to have a sausage and sauerkraut, and I was looking forward to a local beer.  Being back on the warm coast felt amazing.  First, we strolled around town a bit, laughing at the other tourists and ogling pastries in the bakery, then we found a beer garden where they served up huge sausages, apple cider sauerkraut, 15 different kinds of homemade mustard, and a great selection of Washington brews.  We started talking to a local, Anthony, about our trip and he gave us the scoop on a productive mushroom spot in a campground near the lake we were planning to scout out.  Being from out of town is sometimes very helpful; pickers don’t have to worry that we’ll raid their secret spots… at least not more than once.  We finished our sausages and thanked him before heading back to Butter.  On the walk back, we passed a cheese monger and decided to take a look.  Chatting with the clerk, as we always do, we got to talking about mushrooms.  Usually, Andre does the bartering but today I got over my shyness and asked if she was interested in trading cheese for dried porcini.  She was, and gave us two delicious and hefty chunks of local $30/lb cheese for just over an ounce of dried mushrooms.  What a score!  Well fed, thirst quenched, cheese in hand, we went to find those white chanterelles!

The drive to the lake was bouncy, but Anthony was right about this place.  After hiking for just over an hour, we ended up with more hericium and a few chanties. The forest was primary growth, ancient trees towered over our heads reminding me of how short my life is relative to theirs.  How insignificant I really am.  The evening was spent canning several jars of elderberry pancake syrup and fresh plum sauce that we’d use for breakfasts.  I like foraging much more than I do processing the food we find, but given that winter is coming it seemed like a good idea to plan ahead. 

In the morning, a rather long hike resulted in several overfilled bags of mushrooms, nearly 50 species for the fair, including 4 pounds of white chanterelles, nearly the same amount of icicles, and my very first matsutake, matsutake, matsutake!  Yes, I was excited!  Had I known what it was before the helpful PSMS volunteers identified it for me, I probably would have found others, but alas…  In any event, they did let me keep it even though I didn’t particularly like the pungent fragrance.  Now that I think about it, I’m sure I found this same mushroom in Colorado once when hiking with my friend Cat, but didn’t take it because of its smell.

The PSMS fair volunteers fed us well, helped us identify some of the unfamiliar mushrooms we brought in, and thanked us for bringing in so much variety.  Other hunters weren’t so lucky.  I hope our good fortune continues!

Table Mountain HIE: October 10

We slept in the parking lot of a Holiday Inn Express.  The forest we’d planned to visit was closed due to the Table Mountain (aka Porcini Mountain) fire.  All access routes were blocked, the air quality was poor, and it was nearing dark.  Without many options, we found a fairly dark and quiet spot in the back of the parking lot to set up camp.  It wasn’t the most exciting place to park for the night, but we made the best of it… cooking a nice dinner and getting a few extra z’s.  I was particularly excited about the breakfast we would forage in the morning (definitely walking the line), especially after a full day of fasting.  As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, the cold weather brought on some cold emotions.  We weren’t foraging as much as we had been in the past few months, and I was feeling ready to get back to California where the sun was shining, our friends were playing, and my surfboard was being neglected.  I decided a day of fasting would be good to get all the nasties out… to cleanse and offer myself some clarity and focus.  If you haven’t tried a fast, I highly recommend it.  It might even be good for your heart, although this correlation could be due to any number of other factors.  In any event, it’s amazing how vigilant I become when my body is on high alert, how clear and sensitive my senses are—touch, sound, sight, all brighter and more focused than usual—and how good my body feels afterwards when I offer it the nutrients it needs to thrive.  The fast worked to clear it all out… and the breakfast the next morning was delicious.  After a lovely conversation with the local firefighters, who were staying at the hotel to work the nearby fire, we headed northwest, where the land of mushrooms was waiting for us… hopefully.  At this point, it had been 80 days since the last rain, but Andre and I keep claiming to be lucky, so we were prepared to test it.

Sandpoint, elderberries, plums, and RAG's: October 9

Oh, the joys of owning a 30-year old classic car… Butter had her manifold redone back in Springfield, which cost me a pretty penny.  This morning, after climbing trees to reach the gianormous clusters of black elderberries that dangled from the wiry limbs on our route through Montana and into Idaho, we started her up.  She sounded like a Harley, again.  Apparently, there were just 2 bolts holding on her manifold, keeping the guts of her exhaust system from falling into the road.  So, we spent a large part of the afternoon trying to find someone who would work on her in the tiny little town of Sandpoint.  Together, Andre and I must have made 20 calls, including one to the mechanic in Springfield who clearly didn’t tighten the bolts properly.  I was in tears after that conversation and ready to have her towed to Spokane, the closest actual city.  A shop there would be able to look at her in a few days, the best response we’d gotten by that point.  Finally, Andre found a shop, well, sort of a shop—Rag’s (repairs and general service, owned by Jim Ragland and his father).

Rag’s was an interesting place, extremely well kept, clean, and decorated with classic car parts and memorabilia.  It was situated next to Jim’s father’s house, and was kind of a do-it-yourself type of place.  Andre and Jim worked side-by-side, tidying up little issues (welding a piece onto the tailpipe to divert the diesel smoke, etc.) after the manifold was properly bolted and tightened.  I could write an entire book about this guy and his life, but for now I’ll just say that we regular humans can only dream of living such a full and exciting life—from his travels around the world to some of the most remote places, to his inventions, to his connections with people in nearly every small town and major city… we even learned that we a mutual friend, Spoon (Spooner, as Jim called him).  Jim’s shop used to be above Kona brewery in Hawaii, and he would sometimes go down to have a beer with his dad and Spoon after the shop closed.  Now, Venice Alehouse is one of my favorite places to go, and Spoon is one of my favorite Venetians.  This small world just keeps getting smaller! The best part about this mechanic is his ability to entertain you with story after story, but the second best thing are his prices.  He claims that he only needs to make $100 per day to make having the shop worth his time.  We were lucky that day because the woman before us paid $50, so our bill after nearly 2 hours of work (maybe half of that was chatting and laughing) came to only $50.  I couldn’t in good conscience pay that small fee, so I gave him $80 and two generously filled sacks of dried porcini and hawks wings.  I hope that was a fair deal.

After Butter was all better, Jim invited us back to his house to forage plums from the trees in his backyard, and we ended up with nearly 15 pounds after it was all said and done, which we later preserved along with elderberry pancake syrup… right in the bus.  He said the plums would be going to waste otherwise because of his impending move.  We stayed another hour, talking, learning, and listening to stories about his adventures and his life.  I could have stayed forever, but we had adventures of our own to enjoy.  If you ever break down in Sandpoint, or anywhere near Sandpoint, stop in at Rag’s.  Heck, even if you’re just passing through, it’s definitely worth the stop!  You might just decide to stay!

Back to Bozeman: October 5-7

We finally landed in Bozeman after a lovely drive along the Beartooth Highway that forms the northern border of Yellowstone National Park. As we were promised, the diversity of wildlife and colorful bubbling hillsides were impressive, and definitely slowed our journey to the farm we were so excited to return to.  We were visiting the farmers, new family, we met earlier in the trip when it was still summer. 

Now in fall, production on the farm was winding down.  What used to be a garden full of greens was being mulched over to prepare the land for winter. Food was being harvested and put into storage for use in the cold months.  Spring would come again.

My favorite part of the weekend was playing with Lily, their adorable and curious daughter, jumping on the trampoline, tossing hoops, getting prettied up and having my portrait drawn. We cooked with Laura and Josh, amazing and beautiful souls, sipped coffee over long and leisurely morning breakfasts, and hiked around the land and the hills nearby.  Andre and I used this time to process our acorns into flour, taking advantage of their dehydrator and kitchen equipment.  

I also taught Josh how to brew herbal beer, which is always a pleasure for me. We whipped up a batch with rosemary plucked from their garden, and added a little of the lemongrass I foraged with Nick at the VA where he lives, along with a touch of dried nettle I picked on the Mookie and Roger’s goat farm in Oregon.  I’m looking forward to hearing how it turned out because it was really quite delicious when we started the primary fermentation.  Throughout the weekend, we shared heaps of love and laughs and time together.  We also swapped acorn flour and plum bombs for some greens and fresh eggs from their chickens.  Otherwise, there wasn’t a whole lot of foraging to be done.  I can hardly wait to go back in the summer!  Thanks for a beautiful weekend, and I’m sure we’ll have many more in the future!

Buffalo Jump and Cooke City: October 4

The hot springs were much hotter in the morning than they were last night, and soaking felt amazing.  I didn’t even have breakfast before going in.  Today we drove to Cody, an adorable western town with a fantastic new winery, Buffalo Jump, which we were lucky enough to stumble upon.  They offer free tastings, and the pours seemed like they nearly filled the glass.  After talking about our foraging adventure, we got the star treatment from owners, Scott and Beckie. They took us on a tour of their operation, a small warehouse and production facility where grapes are brought in, fermented on site in small batches, and the bottles are, corked up, and labeled—all of this by the hands of Beckie and Scott!  Beckie talked about her experience growing up on a ranch, where her family raised Buffalo (hence, the name of the wine).  They cared greatly about their animals, and still do, being mindful of who they sold them to, how they were transported, and how they would be processed.  It was so refreshing to see the care instilled by her family going into the wine she and Scott brewed.  Not only was it made with love, it was absolutely delicious!

After nearly 2 hours at the winery, we decided it was time to move on.  The drive to Cooke City brought the snowstorm we’d been anticipating, as well as the cold temperatures.  It was predicted to be 14 overnight, so we decided it would be best to book a hotel room, and found openings at the Alpine Lodge.  Before settling in, we cleaned out the entire bus of all potential freezables, nearly filling our spacious room with boxes, bottles, and food.  How did all that stuff come out of Butter?  Andre settled in immediately following the completion of our only chore, and turned on the television.  For the next hour or so, he was fixated on Patrick Swayze, not even noticing when I spoke.  Completely zombified.  This is why I threw out my television when I was 18.  It just sucks you in, and the only point of commercials is to tell you that you suck if you don’t buy the latest and greatest new thing.  Who needs that?  It was the best thing I ever did for myself, and certainly accounts for why I spend so much time outdoors.  After a while, I was able to capture his attention with a bottle of our new wine and  some yummy Bozeman cheese. 

In the morning, I woke up from a dream about the bakery up the street and offered to treat Andre to breakfast.  We walked there, in the cold, watching our breath fill the air with moisture. Me in my slippers, my clown feet as Andre says.  When we arrived, we learned that they were closed for the season.  Next door was the only other hotel in town, the Super 8, and I joking suggested we go in to forage free breakfast.  Andre went straight in and asked if we could have a coffee. The friendly clerks kindly said yes, and we ended up talking politics, farming, and homesteading with a native Alaskan for nearly an hour.  Connecting, so much of this trip has been about beautiful people.

Butter didn’t want to start when we got back to our hotel.  It took more than 20 minutes, what felt like 100 turns of the engine, but finally she got going.   Phew… on the road again.

Thermopolis: October 3

Our quest for warmth brought us to Thermopolis, again.  It was the first time we’ve gone back to the same place twice.  A symbol of being homeward bound.  Immediately, we retreated to the hot springs, were we warmed up and strategized about how we’d get through the cold night.  After a failed attempt to stay warm on the short walk back to Butter, we started her up and drove into “town” for margaritas and dinner at Las Fuentes Mexican restaurant, an adorable little spot – and one of less than a handful of restaurants - that offered local beef as their specialty.  The menu informed us that they killed each cow one at a time, by hand.  They also had an array of organic vegetables, handmade tortillas, and boasted the hottest wings in the world.  If you could finish all 8, you’d get a photo on the “Wall of Flame” and a $25 gift card.  Their secret ingredient, ghost peppers.  We thought of trying them, but the waitress talked us out of it.  Instead, we just enjoyed our dinner and wonderful margaritas that we hoped would keep us warm at least until we fell asleep.  On the way out, we grabbed an organic lollipop… two each, actually.  I loved this place.

Tensleep: October 1-2

Dashing out of the lakeside campground just after dawn, we stopped in Moorcroft at a little hotel where Andre asked if we could cook breakfast. We took advantage of the free wifi and had a lovely meal of fresh fruit and oats, our usual, topped with a splash of maca, pine pollen, and roasted dandelion root for that extra umph.  On our drive out of town, we stopped at a local market.  I took this opportunity to peruse the isles, oggling the eclectic selection of food and food-like products they offered.  I was most impressed by sardines canned in pure maple syrup, an odd combination, sold as a breakfast treat, as well as the wide selection of local products they carried. But, alas, we’re foraging, so we moved on towards the Bighorn National Forest. 

Tucked into a nice spot in West Tensleep campground, elevation 9100 ft, we parked Butter for the next 3 days.  There, we spent our days doing leisure activities—processing the acorns we gathered back in Wisconsin, shelling and soaking them in a nearby mountain stream, baking bread on the fire and cooking, fishing, chatting up the forest ranger, reading, being creative, and hiking around the beautiful lake and hillsides.  The days were fairly warm but the nights were very cold, freezing as a matter of fact, and on our last morning it began to snow just as I pulled a fresh loaf of bread off our breakfast fire.  Butter had a little trouble starting up, but nothing serious.  We stopped for a short hike, knowing we’d be car-bound for the next several hours. Gorgeous 6-pointed snowflakes fell on the ground around us.  They landed on our shoulders and atop my hat, making me feel happy enough not to notice my cold fingers.  We hiked along the creek, taking pictures, enamored with the snowflakes and the quiet that winter brings to the forest, and to my mind.  A quiet mind can hear the trees whisper to each other.  The imminent storm filled me with excitement and, I’ll admit, a bit of fear.  Butter doesn’t do so well in the cold.  She’s a California girl… We needed to find some heat.

Devil's Tower: September 30

Today was Roger’s day, a best friend, a trusted elder.  We headed to Devil’s Tower, WY, the first National Monument. I was never all that interested to seeing the Tower, but it was on Roger's bucket list and it sounded like something fun to do together.  It felt like we still did. 

On the drive there I was wishing that I'd taken Erika, his daughter, up on her offer to send the feather that their family decided was meant for me to my dad’s house so I’d have it for this experience.  It was a beautiful feather adorned with colorful beads that Roger used on me twice to do a feathering ceremony, cleansing me of all worries and negative thought.  It was one of the most beautiful gifts he’d ever given me, a cherished memory.  Since I'd been talked out of having it mailed, I went featherless.

When we arrived, we walked around to the backside away from other visitors.  It was nearing sunset so there wasn’t much time to hang out.  We hiked up to the base, watched some climbers descent the vertical wall, and found ourselves a nice spot to sit and take in the last rays of warm sun. I sat, attempting to conjure up memories of Roger, his powerful words of wisdom, the sound of his voice, thoughts of our time together.  Nothing came.  I sat longer.  Still, nothing.  Then, coming down from the sky I saw a feather floating in the wind.  I watched it sail in the air, back and forth, slowly, like feathers do. It landed right beneath a ponderosa tree (sugar cookie tree, as Rich and I say) a few feet in front of me.  I walked over and picked it up.  The feather was perfectly white, small and beautiful.  I looked up.  There wasn't a bird in the sky.  Afterwards, memories came, his voice and love flowed through my mind and body.  I put the feather in my bag and we started to walk out, now nearing dark.  I heard a dove cooing in a sandstone cubby and stopped to listen for a minute.  I couldn't see it, but I have a feeling it was white.

Hocus pocus woo woo shit. Yeah, I know.  But it makes for a beautiful memory.  This stop was for you, Roger, con amor y gusto.

We drove to Keyhole State Park and slept on the lake that night in a quiet little campground that we had all to ourselves.

Bison in the Badlands: September 29

This morning we woke up to 100 bison grunting and growling and grazing around Butter.  We were in the Badlands of South Dakota, and were told explicitly not to get closer than 100 feet.  Apparently, they weren’t told the rules.  We watched them from the upstairs bedroom, dipping our heads down, stretching, to see them from the backseat window.  I crawled down, groggy but excited, and snapped some photos, wondering if they’d mind, if they’d come at us like they did the poor chap yesterday in the Land Rover.  They didn’t even bother to look up.

We drove to find a nice sunny spot with good views to make breakfast, and afterwards prepared for our long drive to WY.  On the way, Butter got another flat tire.  Her 4^th (Andre thinks her 5^th) on this trip.  A tribute to all those backcountry roads.  We pulled over to change it, and met Don, a 78-year old farmer who works 1200 acres by himself.  He grows oats, wheat, and millet, the latter of which goes mostly for bird feed but he sprinkles it in his oatmeal every morning.  Don talked about the pipe that transports water 6 miles to his house, his 3 sons, 2 of whom are cowboys, and his experiences working the land.  He lives in the same house he was born in, the house his parents built in 1908.  He’s been farming since before he could even form memories.  He also told us about the miles and miles of sunflowers growing along the road on which we were parked.  The seeds were harvested to make oil, which made sense after tasting them—they were tiny and not all that flavorful.  I was tempted to take a few, but thought better.  Why eat bad food when we’ve been living like kings?  Despite our political and philosophical differences, Don and I had so much in common, reminding me that the “us versus them” dialect is one of war, and should just be considered silly by now.  We’re all in this together.

The tire was changed, we said goodbye to Don, and headed to Mt. Rushmore to play tourist.  Too thrifty to pay for parking, and went for a pull-out about a mile or two away.  A steep trail led right up to the walkway meant for the tourists who paid the fat parking fee.  We took in the views, made lunch in the bus, and moved on.  We were on a mission.

Happy Birthday Andre: September 28

Despite being back in the forest, our haven and sanctuary, this week has been pretty tough.  We’ve both been a little edgy and cranky with one another.  Maybe it’s all the driving we’ve had to do, living in tight quarters, readjusting from city life… whatever the reason, it hasn’t felt good.  Thankfully, we ended a terrific and healing talk last night just in time to start celebrating Andre’s birthday, and I woke up this morning feeling full of love and joy.  After a long and luxurious morning laughing and playing like children, I made his favorite Swiss recipe for carrot cake, fashioned into pancakes, which are mush easier to cook out here in the wilderness than baking an actual cake.  Mix together equal parts carrot, flour, and nuts (hazelnuts, almonds, walnuts, plus, pumpkin and sunflower seeds), with a little baking powder, salt, cinnamon, nutmeg, an egg, oil, milk, and don’t forget the splash of grand marnier (that part isn’t in his recipe book).  We topped them with the maple syrup my mom tapped from her friend's tree, wild grapes, and sliced pears from a neighborhood tree.  All but the spices were foraged or gifted.  Happy birthday, beautiful!  Thank you for sharing this journey with me, for being a part of my life and for letting me be a part of yours!

wolves and ham, not in that order: September 24

I have always wanted to make it up to the Great Lakes region, which dotted the green area denoting National Forest land on our map with little blue misshapen circles.  Andre says water is magical. It’s the only thing that expands both when it heats and when it cools.  So, we pointed Butter northwards and started driving towards the Northwoods of Minnesota.  Stopping for a hike to scope out the wild rice paddies, we learned about the logging industry and how beneficial it was for Minnesota through a series of animated cartoon informational markers that lined the loop trail.  Sadly, we also learned that we missed the wild rice by a couple of weeks, but we did manage to forage a farm raised smoked ham from Ben Cliff, a hunter who I caught Andre chatting up in the parking area.  Here's Andre devouring some of that ham. Yum.

Later that afternoon, we landed in a town called Ely and stopped to work at a coffeeshop.  Despite the impending cold, harsh winter, I adored this place, so much that I contemplated the idea of living here.  It felt like my kind of place, filled with my kind of people—people who ride bikes, wear dreadlocks and sandals—and the streets were lined with small shops and galleries.  Maybe that was just the impression I got from the few people we met, including one couple (fellow Westy owner) who gave us directions on a place to camp and hike outside of town.  They parked their bikes to visit with us, telling us of their dream to drive around the country in their bus, and even had a plan worked out involving a “for sale” sign that they believed would allow them to stealth camp in any neighborhood.

Unfortunately, the lake they sent us to was beautiful but not suitable for camping, so we continued down the road until we stumbled upon Hanson Lake. We’d have this entire lake to ourselves, for sure, which meant we could toss in the fishing rod, although fishing turned out to be poor.  Instead, we had plenty of fun making videos of us pretending to forage for a television producer who wants to do a show about our journey.  Andre built a fire and I put together a nice plate of appetizers.  We cooked ham and black bean tacos on the fire and listened to the wolves howl at the moon. Unlike the pack we heard a couple of nights ago, though, this pack sounded quite large, maybe as many as 20. They were also much closer than they were other night, close enough to deter us from sleeping outside.  I fell asleep listening to their songs, cuddling next to Andre, warm and totally blissed out.

acorns in MT: September 23

This morning we threw together a quick breakfast of foraged pears with rescued yogurt and roasted dandelion root powder, eager to see if we could find more lobsters. After just a few minutes of hiking together, I told Andre that I wanted to go off on my own. Hiking alone is something I feel perfectly comfortable doing, and I haven’t made enough efforts to get my fair share of EW time since we started the trip.  Plus, I wanted to gather acorns since we found a stash of rather large ones for the first time since starting this trip. All the acorns we’ve been eating were gathered around our old stomping grounds back in California. I walked down the path lined with colorful trees, filling my foraging bag with beautiful leaves that I used later to decorate Butter.  The forest was quiet, all but my singing, when from out of nowhere came a medium-sized black bear just 10 or 15 feet in front of me.  It looked my way as it crossed my path (its path, I suppose), moving slowly but steadily, but clearly afraid.  That made two of us.  I wanted to keep hiking but felt torn, after all, I just scared a bear and was able to walk away without any problems.  If I continued, would it think I was following it, would I be tormenting it like the crocodile hunter who taunted those poor sleepy crocs?  I decided to continue, but first I grabbed a stick.  It crumbled in my hand.  I took a few steps and heard rustling in the trees nearby, so I turned around with the small chunk of wood that used to be a stick still gripped tightly in my hand and chose another route.  First, though, I stopped by Butter to grab a bell.

This was my fourth bear sighting on the trip, not counting the two grizzlies we spotted from the safety of Butter back in Yellowstone.  Camila said I’m like a deer, maybe that’s why they like me.  Andre didn’t come home with any lobsters, but we both had heaps of acorns.  Time to get cracking.

forest lobsters: September 22

A long afternoon in the car ended in time for a hike before sunset.  We were somewhere near Hazelhurst, which is just south of Woodruf, Wisconsin.  The leaves were much more colorful than they’d been down south, displaying all of the shades of fall… red, orange, yellow, green, and everything in between.  Is it the death of summer, or alternatively, the birth of winter?  In either event, I was hoping for an Indian summer as I dug for my warmer jacket.

Out on our hike, I spotted some little blue mushrooms, lavender really, and wanted Andre to take a peek.  When we see something especially interesting in the forest, we usually call the other over.  Otherwise, we often separate staying just within earshot of the call we’ve developed. On his way over, he found our first lobster mushroom.  Lobster mushrooms aren’t really a type of mushroom, but rather lobsters refer to a host mushroom of some sort that gets taken over by another fungus.  In the case of this edible lobsters, which is often the case, this fungus was the color of a lobster (orange like a pumpkin).  I found several others nearby, giving us plenty for a full meal, although I was hesitant to eat them because there is no guarantee that the host mushrooms is edible. After reading and rereading our ID book to be sure, I sautéed them in a spoonful of coconut oil and a pinch of salt.  With a bit of leftover vegetables from the soup I made yesterday, they made delicious lobster tacos.  After dinner, we listened to the wolves howling nearby, calls that are very different from the coyotes I am accustomed to hearing down south. During my evening meditation, I felt grateful to be back in the forest.

adventures in Madison: September 20

I can’t wait to get back into the forest, but visiting with friends and family has been a nice respite from the work of foraging and processing food.  This was going to be our last city stop for a while, and you know what they say about saving the best for last.  Andre and I made our way to Madison, Fitchburg actually, to visit a woman he has known since his days in San Francisco, Theresa, and arrived just in time for happy hour (but every hour is happy hour on the forage voyage). Theresa had opened a bottle of wine to go with the beautiful selection of Wisconsin cheeses spread out on the table.  We spent the evening chatting and playing with her daughter, Miranda, who is simple and innocent and full of love in its most pure form.  She also had her beautiful thick brown hair tied up in pigtails, which reminded me of how much I like to wear pigtails myself.

Butter needed new shoes again, so in the morning we took care of her, then drove to the Madison MOCA where Theresa was giving a tour of a new exhibit by Leo—a show of computer programmed LED lights inspired by the Playa. I took in a set of works by an female artist from Ireland, who used both photography and video to depict her experience in a deforested area of close to her home. She was running across a nearly colorless landscape wearing a red dress and black tights, sometimes tossing stones that rolled from one screen to another.  The sound was mesmerizing and the beauty of the bare landscape really captivated me. I could have watched these films for hours, but mostly they made me want to skip rocks across a pond.  Clearly, it was time for me to get back outdoors.

We decided to stay a second night at Theresa’s because the forecast called for “ice pellets and possible snow.” After piddling around for a bit, she and Andre went for a hike and I stayed back to do some yoga and catch up on my work.  My only request was that he bring back some oyster mushrooms. Naturally, he delivered.  I cooked a simple pasta (dumpster) dish with sautéed oyster mushrooms, onion (rescued) garlic (gifted), and greens (foraged from Theresa’s fridge) in a bit of cream. 

In the morning, Theresa, Miranda, and I baked Sorghum molasses cookies after breakfast of buckwheat pancakes topped with the maple syrup my mom tapped from her friend’s tree with a side of mixed fruit from the bus.  We picked a few pears from the neighbor’s tree, exchanged gifts of food – my peach and ginger preserves and some dried porcini for all the leftover local cheese, local hot chocolate mix, and a friend’s homemade cherry jam, then headed back into the forest… where we were going, we didn’t really know, but as nice as our stint of city visits was, we were both so happy to be back on the road.

Pewaukee friends: September 19

Neither of us were ready to leave Britt’s.  I could live there forever, literally forever, but it was time to move on.  So often we find ourselves wanting to stay with the people we go to visit. It’s never easy to leave new family and dear old friends, but the adventure must go on.  Today we were making our way towards Pewaukee where we planned to surprise our friends from Venice, CA, Sara and Whaka, with a visit.  They thought we were coming tomorrow – so did we.  Sara and Whaka were staying with her family, who live over the bait shop they own, on the lake for the summer, where they were building a business teaching various forms of somewhat alternative yoga--acro, arial, and even paddle board yoga! I’ve flown (acro) before, but got to experience arial yoga for the first time in a class Sara taught for free on the night of our arrival.  What fun!

In the morning, as I promised last night, I whipped up a batch of acorn meal pancakes for the whole family before we went out to the lake for our first paddle board session with Whaka.  The route: 5.5 miles from one side of the lake to the other, which seemed like a lot to Andre and I what were we to know. Sara dropped us off and we hopped on our boards after a 5-minute lesson.  I was fully prepared to fall in.  It couldn’t be nearly as bad as the “wash machine” waves I’m used to surfing in Santa Monica.  And the water wasn’t nearly as cold as the Pacific.

Things started out great.  We had a nice strong tailwind, the sun was out, I wasn’t cold at all. Then, we decided to make a little stopover at the sandbar (an actual bar with a coffee shop upstairs that looked more like a bar than a coffee shop except for the pastries) for a shot of tequila and a beer.  Whaka flew the staff – the look on the male bartender’s face when he saw the female bartender doing acroyoga with him was priceless.  Not long after, Whaka flew him, too.  Everyone was having a great time. We ordered another round of beers and some snacks before saying goodbye to our new friends. I advertised for Sara’s yoga classes just before walking outside.  The wind seemed to have picked up, but that was probably because the tailwinds that helped ease the long paddle home had turned into headwinds.  I got on my board and paddled with all my might, but was going no where, fast.  Actually, I’m pretty sure I was moving backwards!  The guys were out of sight, I was tipsy, tired, and struggling.  I got down onto my knees and cried (whimpered is probably more accurate, but there might have been some real tears when I squinted hard enough).  After a few minutes, I laughed at myself, then started paddling again.  Eventually, I caught up with the guys who had pulled over to wait for me and we all took a break.  Whaka said the hard part was over; we’d have a tailwind again for the remainder of our ride home, which would take about 30 minutes (that meant 45 for me, at least).  As I made my way back to the bait shop, I watched the trees bending in the wind and the leaves trembling like little cymbals on a tambourine.  All was right in the universe again.

When we arrived home, Whaka already had a big pot of chili cooking on the stove, and it was almost ready.  As usual, we didn’t want to leave.  We had so much fun visiting with Sherrie and Greg, John and Loui, new friends who we hope to see again, and Sara, Whaka, and Tahi who we know we’ll see again in Venice when we get back.  Something (just another something) to look forward to!

I heart mushroom men: September 18

What a lovely morning visiting with Andre’s old roommate, Mark, in Wicker Park.  We strolled the streets, and I pointed out all the greens I saw along the way—purselane (apparently Gandhi’s favorite food), dandelion, plantain, lambsquarter.  I realized I’m constantly on the hunt for food, not necessarily to pick, but merely to take in the cornucopia that exists around me.  When we pull over for a break from driving, I look around the grass.  When walking through the neighborhood, I look in sidewalk cracks and front yards.  When you take the time to notice, you see so much! 

We arrived at Britt’s house (an expert mushroom enthusiast, more to come about him in the book) just before sunset and spent the evening talking mushrooms over a gourmet meal of curried turkey salad, delicious meat stew, and green bean casserole.  This wasn’t the sort of green bean casserole typically served at holidays in the Midwest (canned beans, cream of mushroom soup, and those fried onion bits that come in a can).  Instead, it was a wonderful casserole made from fresh beans just harvested from his garden, topped with foraged white chanterelles that were simmered in cream, then the whole thing was baked until it was lightly golden.  I had seconds of everything, and maybe thirds of the casserole.

The following morning, after a coffee, breakfast, and then lunch (we ate like kings at his place), he offered to let us forage in his garden. We harvested 3 pumpkins, two were for the kids we were planning to visit in the coming days, a handful of chard and kale, a tomato, and a few onion greens.  We still had so much fresh produce from our dive, but I couldn’t resist picking a few things.  I was most excited about the amaranth seeds, which I’ll winnow and try mixing into the blend of other seeds that I have recently harvested to whip up a batch of wild seed and acorn flour crackers.  I’ll keep you posted on how they turn out, and if they’re good, a recipe will follow!

Chicago style: September 17

On the way to Wisconsin, I realized we would pass right by Chicago where my friends Leigh and Danny now live with their 3-year old son Tyler.  We used to be roommates in the house that Rich owned, along with Seth and whoever else came to sleep over at our little commune on Martin Drive in Boulder, CO.  I phoned her up to see if she minded a last minute visit from the hippies.  She didn’t.  In fact, in our back and forth text messages that preceded our arrival (we were both very excited), she said “I knew you were going to get me to eat trash on this trip.” 

We arrived just in time to prepare a cocktail before dinner.  Danny’s sister makes the most delicious limoncello—the most delicious primarily because she uses Meyer lemons, which adds a wonderfully sweet flavor to the usually tart liquor, but also because she makes her booze strong.  I poured a sake glass full and decided it should be shared with Andre.  Following that came a taste of her homemade coffee liquor.  OMG seems the most appropriate way to describe the way my mouth felt when the sweet dark liquid hit my tongue and nearly made it break out into song.  If it were socially acceptable, I’d drink a small cup of this stuff every morning, heated slightly, with a piece of seeded toast we rescued from Whole Foods.

I offered to cook. I started with TJs spinach hummus and crackers, which her 3-year old devoured gleefully, followed by a mixture of sweet and rather colorful potatoes sautéed in oil with rosemary from their garden.  Along with the potatoes, I made a huge pot of random vegetables harvested from various gardens and dumpsters.  Leigh loved it, which surprised me given that until recently she refused to drink milk even a day past the sell by date.  The rest of the night was spent catching up.  When we pulled off, Josh sent a text that said he’d just caught Leigh eating dumpster salad for lunch.  Leftovers.  I don’t think she’ll start diving, but I still count this as a success.  I already miss you, Leigh and Danny.  Kisses to Tyler and a rub to your belly for the one who is on his way!

diving with my sister: September 16

My family is far from rich, but they’re very happy.  My sisters and I grew up poor, but never knew it.  We always had everything we needed, and spent a lot of time playing outdoors.  My sister, Donna Michelle, or just plain Michelle as she likes to be referred to these days, has four beautiful children, is finishing school to become a special education teacher, works as an intern, and takes care of her lovely partner and household.  She works harder than most anyone I know, and is truly happy.  What better to bless her with than knowledge of diving, and thankfully, she’s interested!  Just as we were finishing dinner at my parent’s house she asked if she could join us on our trip to TJs tonight.  I was so excited to take her, especially after having already taken my brother a couple of days earlier.  We went to three stores, and barely had room for her in the bus on the ride home. 

We made trip after trip from the bus to her kitchen, carrying boxes and bags full of food—packs of still frozen tilapia and mahi mahi, fresh chicken, heaps of yogurt, eggs, vegetables, fruit, crackers, nuts, breads, chips, and even some chocolate covered pomegranate seeds and bouquets of fresh flowers.  I decided I couldn’t even be bothered to log it all as carefully as I usually do, just because of sheer quantity.  What am I going to do about food waste, teach everyone how to rescue it with the requirement that they share with at least one other person (and they must tell the person where the food came from).  I used to write letters to the CEO of TJs asking them to instantiate a zero-waste food policy.  No response.  So, if they’re going to throw it away, I’m going to spread the word.  Know this – dumpster diving is illegal, trespassing, and violators can be prosecuted.  I wonder what it would feel like to be that cop who arrests a woman taking food from the trash.

foraging St. Louis style: September 10

I worked at Schnuck’s Market, the St. Louis grocery chain, for 2 or 3 years as a teenager. In all that time, I never questioned what they did with the spoiling produce, the day-old breads and pastries, or any of the other food that we typically find in grocery dumpsters.  Back then, I was completely naïve to the fact that perfectly good food went to waste, and even though I was a poor college student, I might have reacted like my sister did when I offered her a bagel that Andre and I rescued from the dumpster at the Schnuck’s up the street from my dad’s house—with a look of disgust and the comment “I will happily buy my groceries, thank you.”  When we landed in St. Louis, I knew we’d be visiting the Trader Joe’s dumpster I’d scoped out during my trip home last Christmas, which was unlocked and full of bags.  Diving at the local grocery chain, however, never occurred to me.  I thought somehow they’d be better about donating their spoils.  After all these years, I’m still naïve.  Roger Moss called it “close to nature.”

I’ve been questioning how we became so afraid of food.  For example, why is it that we feel the need to refrigerate eggs in this country?  What have we done to our eggs, sterile little balls of goodness, that they now require refrigeration? 

Many of us are truly afraid, I suspect because we have lost, or more likely distrust, our ability to determine what is good and what is bad.  We have come to rely on other people, experts, authority, to tell us what is safe to eat and what must be trashed (round-filed as my dad used to say).  We expect unripe fruit, flawless avocados, salads that expire 4 days from now even though we plan to eat it today or tomorrow.  That’s what fresh means.

Thankfully, my parents eat the “trash” that I bring home.  In fact, they’re happy to eat it, but I think showing them the documentary “Dive” helped to convince them of the quality and safety of dumpster food. Dad immediately slathered cream cheese on a sesame seed bagel, his favorite kind, that we brought home on Saturday, but many people would turn their noses up to our offerings—something fellow divers are probably happy about, but food in the trash is bitter sweet for me.  I’ll have a cheese bagel and figure out what to do about this mess.