A Smattering of Napa, Part 1 (Kara's Cupcakes)

'We go get tuptates! We go get Trophy Tuptates!', Emilia shouted as happily as can be from the backseat of the car. 'Not Trophy Cupcakes, different cupcakes -- Napa Cupcakes!', her mama replied. 'Napa Tuptates! Oh, boy!' And that gives you a brief idea of how we spent our first afternoon in Napa Valley.

Several weeks ago Michael emailed an article from Saveur magazine to me that highlighted a cupcake shop (among other things) in Napa. I tucked the information into my brain somewhere and then promptly forgot about it. That being said, shortly after we checked in to our hotel, Michael sat with his laptop looking for local cupcakes. 'I think it was on Front Street or First Street or something. 610, maybe? I don't know. And maybe it was called Anna's or Kara's or something. I can't really remember .' And there you go: Kara's Cupcakes, 610 First Street. What more can I say? Well, maybe this, they are located in the magnificent Oxbow Market downtown Napa. And if you haven't ever been to Oxbow, let me also say this: It is completely my cup of tea. It is set up like some fancy indoor farmers'/local wares market. Admittedly we didn't spend too much time there (I've been sorely regretting the spice shop) -- we got cupcakes for the road, had a quick browse, and then sat down to share an icecream. (The Three Twins is so good, by the way.)

Anyway, back to the issue at hand: Kara's Cupcakes, or Napa Tuptates, if you will. We ordered three in all: one for me, one for Emilia, and one for me and Miss Milia to share. (Michael claims to appreciate a good cupcake so long as you don't ask him to eat it.) I got the Sweet Chocolate, Emilia chose the Passionfruit, and then we got the chocolate raspberry (on account of the fact that it was chocolate and had pink frosting).

After wandering around in the sunshine for awhile, we eventually made our way back to the hotel. And that evening, while Michael was out running in circles entirely different from our own, Miss Milia and I pulled the cupcakes out of the fridge and had a grand ol' time. Immediately after that little girl bit into hers I spent the next couple minutes trying to finagle the thing away from her. It didn't work. Instead, I just had a bite (or three) before tucking into my own. The Passionfruit cupcake is divine and completely worth stealing from a small child -- if, in fact, you have the nerve -- which I, unfortunately, did not. It was so moist with the perfect amount of sweet. And the frosting (which was why Emilia chose it to begin with) was vanilla buttercream with coconut flakes on top, 'You want coconut one! That look like yummy!' And, alas, the girl was right. I desperately wished for another.

As for mine? Equally divine, if you must know. In fact, I would go so far as to say that the only other chocolate cupcake that even comes close is my own. (The recipe is from my sister.) They use all local ingredients including E. Guittard chocolate, which has now gotten my attention -- and I fully intend to use it next time I pull out my mixer and tins. Usually I use either Scharffen Berger or Valrhona. However, the chocolate taste in the Kara's Cupcakes is exceptional, and definitely worth revisiting.

We waited until the next evening to have the last cupcake -- Raspberry Dazzle. Yes, it was good. But it didn't have the same effect as the other two. Although, to be perfectly honest, Emilia was a complete frosting hog and would hardly share. Lesson to be learned: next time we go to Kara's Cupcakes we get enough so we don't have to share -- and make sure that at least two of said cupcakes are Passionfruit. Because Emilia was right, not only do they look like yummy -- they are yummy.

Napa for the Soul

Here's the thing of it, if someone walked up to me and said, 'Move to Napa, Or Else!', I would likely say something along the lines of, 'Well, if you insist.' And then I would call for a U-Haul straight away and be done with it. I can't even begin to tell you how that place has managed to soak into my skin.

I was actually born in California (Fremont, to be exact). When I was a few years old my family moved away (much preferring the horribly cold climate of Wyoming, I guess). When I was younger I adored California, and I vowed that as soon as I was old enough I would move to San Francisco.  I would also become very rich and very beautiful in the process, I'm sure. However, several years passed and I was singing a different tune altogether. (Eventually I wanted to move to France -- and that was that -- end of story.) Anyway, not only did California completely fall off the radar, but I began to look at it in a different light. It had become the land of plastic surgery, excessive teeth bleaching, and Juicy Sweatsuits (rather accurate, I must say), and, therefore, to be avoided at all cost. It's funny, really, as I happen to own two and a half Juicy Sweatsuits myself. However, I will deny this point-blank if ever asked. Besides, they don't really count as I've never actually worn them out of the house. (How you like that for snazzy logic?)

Anyway, my wonderful husband had to go to Napa for work, so naturally Miss Milia and I accompanied him. Shockingly, it is our third time doing so. The first time was when Emilia was only three months old, and I still remember the pilot saying as we boarded the plane, 'Why, she's fresh out of the wrapper!' For some reason that still gives me the willies. Yuck.

Visually speaking Napa is breathtaking. Whether you like wine or not (I happen to like it very much) the actual vineyards are gorgeous. I love driving by and seeing row after row of vines fly past the window. And most of the wineries themselves are pieces of art. (Michael is still talking about Del Dotto from our first trip. He came back to the hotel after being wined and dined and raving about the whole experience. As I recall, I said a few choice words and nearly knocked him flat. What can I say? I was very tired from a baby right-out-the-wrapper screaming her head off for two hours straight or something. And the last thing I wanted to hear about was wild mushroom ravioli and wine being poured straight from a cask --while being seated in a cave, mind you. Meanwhile, he still gets this glossed-over look every time the place is mentioned. Whatever.)

One of our favorites is Freemark Abbey,  and not solely because of the wine.  Although I seem to recall it being quite nice. Rather, we want to live there. One of the walls in the tasting room is dark wood and glass, and it essentially works like a sliding glass door, disappearing to goodness knows where. It opens up onto a beautiful patio with stunning grounds. I also love all the stone -- you know, actual stone and not the cultured crap you find everywhere that gives a slight Disneyland feel to things. It's magnificent.

Even though many go to Napa for the actual wine (I've heard that 29 can have some terrible accidents on account of this fact), it is most definitely not the only reason to go. It is always much cheaper to buy wines at home, really -- wineries are notoriously over-priced (you know, the whole captive audience thing). Instead, we go for the sunshine*, the beautiful scenery and architecture, the restaurants (albeit nothing terribly fancy -- no Bouchon for us, I'm sorry to report), the shops (including a cupcake shop that nearly blew my flip-flops off), and the much needed desire simply to get our bums off the front porch.

And so, get ready for a little barrage. I came home with a very full tummy and a few things in my suitcase. And I expect to tell you all about it.

*Now really, who knew it even rained in Napa? Meanwhile two out of the four days it did just that. And I'm not talking about a little sprinkle here and there. I'm talking about full-on-Southern-style rain.

best, For an Anniversary

when I don't think I'm good enough,
                           you make me feel better.

when I think I've let you down,
                          i want to be better.

when I've got you figured out,
                         i learn to know you better.

when you ask me if I love,
                        you should know better.

--Michael Bindas, c. 1999

Friday Harbor

Sometimes it is so nice just to get our bums off the front porch. Michael, being a not-for-profit lawyer, has very few perks with his job. In fact, the only perk I can think of is that when he goes out of town for work, Miss Milia and I usually go, too. (Unless he is going to Nevada or something, then he goes by himself.) That is why we found ourselves making the trek to Anacortes and then on to a long ferry ride to the beautiful San Juan Islands last week.

I'm not sure if you've ever been to the San Juans or not, but if you haven't, then get your arse moving. They are glorious. The ferry ride is beautiful, and supposedly you can do a little whale watching while aboard. But what we do is this: Michael hunkers down in a booth with work stuff while I chase Emilia this way and that. She runs to the race car video game where she can sit for ages, even with no quarters it is apparently very exciting, 'Going to Aunt Denise's!' Once mama has had her fill we then run around the rest of the ferry -- people watching**, and randomly dashing out onto the very windy deck.

Friday Harbor itself is wonderful. Once the ferry docks, you can literally walk off the boat and up the street to your hotel. It is a small town, so if you aren't paying attention you will walk yourself right out of it. But that's alright because you will most likely run into cows and the lavender fields. Pelindaba Lavender is based here and rumour has it that their farm is not to be missed. That being said, we keep seeming to miss it. (You need to drive there, and the only time we ever get in the car is to get back on the ferry. Even though our hotel would have loaned us some bikes, it would have been way too ambitious.) The Pelindaba Lavender shop is lovely though, and their lavender products are both unfettered and organic -- which means the smell is so pure they will nearly make you weep.  Miss Milia's hair likes the shampoo and conditioner, and I like the culinary lavender. I also just bought a bottle of their Hydrosol cleaner, which promises to be a wonder product. (Apart from cleaning fruit and veggies, it also polishes chrome, countertops, and wards off bugs.) 

Hot Cross Buns for Good Friday

Now really, I've never understood why it is that we are meant to eat Hot Cross Buns on Good Friday when we are also meant to be fasting. Particularly since I have a tendency to let my hunger override my piety. As it turns out, Hot Cross Buns were originally intended to be eaten when one broke their Good Friday fast. (That would be in the evening after skipping the first two meals, in case you were wondering. And not what one is supposed to eat with a giant bowl of very strong tea for breakfast, even though that is when they sound heavenly.)

Anyway, I suppose this does make me feel a bit better. After all, I can still keep my image of Jo (from Bleak House) running about the streets of Charles Dickens' London with a little Hot Cross Bun in his hand. Although, I should really choose a different character — one not so tragic and who may have actually stood a chance of procuring one of these delectable little buns, perhaps. (How about Guppy? Is that any better? No, it's not — I'm sticking with Jo.)

If we are striving for accuracy, however, we should bump ourselves over to the Tudor period (1485-1603, give or take) when Hot Cross Buns originated. Apparently they used to be sold throughout the year. However Queen Elizabeth I decided to put her foot down (in her attempt to stamp out Catholicism) and restricted their selling to Christmas, Good Friday, and burials. (Not that I can blame her. I suppose little buns with images of crosses on them are rather menacing.)

Nowadays, if you happen to live in England, you can get Hot Cross Buns year round. (Or so I have read. I've never actually wandered into a Sainsbury or Tesco in hot pursuit.) Yet it is still considered traditional to eat them on Easter. But if you are trying to be right-proper, then the evening of Good Friday is the ticket. And not a moment too soon, if you're like me. Because by that time your head will be throbbing, and you're mad at everyone for absolutely no reason at all, and you have lost all energy to even be bothered with making dinner. And you will be frustrated because what you are supposed to be doing is thinking about Jesus on the cross. (See, I told you I wasn't a very good faster.)

I have actually tried my hand at these two times before with very disappointing results. And I very nearly skipped them this year altogether. I have Michael to thank for their presence, as he gently reminded me that seasonal cooking is, in fact, my thing, so snap the hell out of it. Or something like that anyway. This year they were divine, and I'm not sure if it was the recipe I used (that would be Nigella's) or allowing the dough to raise in the oven. Probably both, I suspect. That being said, they are actually a lot of fun to make. The recipe is rather long, but don't let that deter you. In fact, you are supposed to make the dough and then plunk it in the fridge overnight. That way you can get on with it the next day — in between grousing about and feeling very badly about the fact that you've been grousing about.

Also, every recipe I've looked at has called for bread flour, as opposed to all-purpose. Nigella seems to sum it up the best: 'There's no point going through all this effort and ruining your chances of success over such a small but significant point.' So there you go. Live dangerously if you'd like, but my lovely husband offered to run to the store for a bag and I'm very grateful that he did.

Siblings

There are moments when you see something in public and feel as though you have stumbled (intruded, more like) onto something very private and not meant for your eyes. Your options are: quickly divert your eyes away from the scene being played out before you -- or, in this instance, slacken your pace, keep watching, and begin to think. In the process you are permeated with whatever emotion is being played out before you. Sadness, in my case. But let me backtrack a bit.

Saturday I went out for a 'quick run' while Miss Milia was down for her nap. There I was: running away, listening to goodness knows what kind of garbage I have queued up on my i-pod, and trying to sort out the many thoughts that were racing away in my head. Anyway, as I was reaching the end I saw (ran past, more like) these two kids who were walking down the street together. Two boys -- one was about ten or eleven and the other was, I don't know, maybe seven. The older boy had a ridiculous hairstyle, much in the manner of all the other kids his age, while the younger one was shaved balder than a cue-ball. And they looked just like ordinary kids.

I was into my final stretch of sprinting like the dickens (where I essentially run up and down our street like a moron a few times before I go home), so I managed to see these kids a few times. Anyway, as I was catching my breath and about to turn down our driveway, I happened to glance back.  I saw the older boy hugging the littler one -- tightly and very protectively. They stood like that for a moment or so and then, back to business as usual, I guess. Except that the older one ended up putting his arm around the younger boys slumped shoulders as they continued to walk. I couldn't help but to stop dead in my tracks.

And, to be perfectly honest, watching this made my heart break.

Who knows what could have been going on. The younger one could have just gotten trounced in his baseball game. He could have gotten his Nintendo wii (or whatever) taken away from him for not cleaning his room. Who knows. But it didn't look like that to me. It looked like something very sad and very serious was happening.

I have a very hard time seeing something go wrong with a child. And it breaks my heart to see another child trying to act like an adult in order to make it better. It is difficult to watch someone so small grapple with issues they don't understand (or, unfortunately, do understand) when they are still so young. Yes, there is a lot of badness in this world, and, of course, we need to be wise to it. But not yet.

At the same time, it warms my heart to see the bond between siblings. (I am assuming these two boys are brothers.) And it reminds me how wildly important this bond truly is. Brothers and sisters are meant to be there for each other. They (we) are meant to help fix things for each other, even if we don't feel equipped to do so at the time. We are supposed to listen when our parents have gone off the deep-end.  And, if need be, go to the movies while our parents are deciding whether or not to get divorced.

We are also supposed to drive each other crazy, make fun of who has the bigger spots, and yell when our absolutely horrible (yet ultra-stylish at the time) chambray shirt comes up missing (maybe I should finally just thank Kari for that). And last but not least (one of our favorite things growing up), we are supposed to shout, 'Jim is looking out my window!' for ten-hour-car-rides, driving everyone else nutters in the car. It's a beautiful thing. What more can I say?

And that is why I was filled with such sadness watching that little exchange happen in front of me. Those boys, whatever their issues happened to be, are very lucky to have one another. Our little tomato (that would be Emilia, in case you were wondering) is not so lucky. Our sweet little girl ('Mia so little! And so sweet!') is as big as our family will ever get. As much as it breaks my heart (over and over and over again), she will be our only one. And she will grow up with parents who are ridiculously in love with her, and completely over the moon for her. (I'm not so daft as to toss the importance of that aside.) But she will never have the relationship one gets with a brother or a sister (or six). Yes, she will have loads of friends, and loads of cousins, and loads of people with loads to say. But she will not have what I had growing up. (Still have, really.)

And that makes it very difficult for me to sleep sometimes.

The Donkey (For Palm Sunday)

When fishes flew and forests walked
And figs grew upon thorn,
Some moment when the moon was blood
Then surely I was born;

With monstrous head and sickening cry
And ears like errant wings,
The devil's walking parody
On all four-footed things.

The tattered outlaw of the earth,
Of ancient crooked will;
Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,
I keep my secret still.

Fools! For I also had my hour;
One far fierce hour and sweet:
There was a shout about my ears,
And palms before my feet.

-- G.K. Chesterton

The Genius of a Honey Cake

It is so rainy and so very grey today. But I don't really mind. I suppose this is what spring should look like outside my window — pouring down rain and beautifully green. When I went to get Emilia out of her bed this morning, I opened her drapes and she said, 'Not going for a quick run! Not going to park!' And, alas, she was right. Instead we went to the library.

As much as Emilia loves her books, as soon as we set foot in the library she could not care less about them. Instead she deems it the perfect opportunity to 'do running!' She usually then proceeds to thoughtfully stare at everyone — close up, if you don't mind. But as soon as we get home, the girl pours over her books. I believe she is a genius in the making. As for her mama? I suppose I'm just bookish. (Although I don't really know what that means exactly. Maybe I should look it up.)

Anyway, a few nights ago Michael turned to me and said, and I quote, 'You are hot more in the Tina Fey sort of way. Not so much in the Pamela Anderson sort of way.' Now, I daresay many a fine woman would be wildly insulted by this sort of remark, and rightly so. But really, when it comes right down to it, we all just want to be complimented on our intellect and sheer genius, right? (Am I right? Please tell me I'm right.) That being said, I'm still a bit unsettled by the fact that Michael has taken to randomly saying, 'What is it you like about me, Jack?' Not so much that he says it, per se. More because, well, nevermind.

As it turns out, I am quite the genius. How else would you explain this glorious, this perfect, this lovely little cake? Once we were done, even I had to stand back for a moment of silence. It was beautiful and absolutely perfect for the first day of spring. Sticking with our theme of making cakes together, Emilia and I whipped it up after church on Sunday, while dada did the taxes. We let it cool during naptime, then frosted it and had a lovely little tea party. Who even knows when dinner was, maybe nine-ish? Nothing really sounded good after eating so much cake.

Apart from being so beautiful to look at, the cake was (is, actually, as we are still eating it) so good. The honey, butter, dark brown sugar, and rosemary made the whole house smell divine. And that is exactly how it tasted. The frosting was faintly lemon and just the right amount. The trend seems to be too much frosting these days, but it is always just that — too much. Anyway, it is perfect for springtime. Also, it doesn't hurt if your rosemary bush is flowering. (Just try and tell me those flowers don't look lovely scattered on the top.)

The recipe is from one of my favorite cookbooks, Apples for Jam by Tessa Kiros. Literally every time I open it, my heart sinks because it is so beautiful.

Economics

When I get overly tired, stressed, or just generally down, I have a tendency to do one of two things: shop (as evidenced by nearly every post I've done for the past month or so) or, I read a whole lot of silly and mindless books. (Yes, unfortunately, I am referring to the genre so irksomely called 'chick-lit'. At least it isn't Star Trek.) It pains me greatly to admit this, but what can I say? I have a penchant for escapism, but not just any sort of escapism will do, mind you. I tend to be rather snobby when it comes to literature of the feminine nature (i.e. chic-lit). For instance, I only read books that take place in England, preferably London. (Everything seems smarter with a British accent, after all.) And I will not go near the mass-produced-pulp-fiction-y sort you can so easily find at your local supermarket. When I have exhausted the London front, I will sometimes move to Dublin or New York City, but this is typically met with some resistance.

Since Sophie Kinsella refuses to publish a new and original work every other week for my reading pleasure, I must sometimes resort to other British writers who are attempting to walk in her shoes (4-inch strappy stilettos, no doubt, which she also happens to own in lilac and clementine). And that is how I stumbled across Hester Browne's newest book, The Finishing Touches. Yes, I have read a few of her others, and yes, they were entertaining. But they have also managed to annoy me throughout. I very much dislike when the heroine/narrator suffers from low self-esteem and needs to be either coddled and/or have her ego stroked throughout. And that nearly sums up the entire Little Lady series that Browne authored. Anyway, I digress.

I quite liked The Finishing Touches and read nearly the whole thing in a flash. Which is why I now find myself wandering around the house listlessly look for other London-Lady-Lit books. So, the point I am trying to make, albeit not very well, is that if you expect to need a lot of this sort of book to get you through whatever is ailing you, then you may want to economize and read slowly. Because I'll be damned if I'm going anywhere near Star Trek or the like. I've still got my pride. (Can you hear that sound? It is the sound of my entire[ly nerdy] family disowning me.)

Anyway, here are two quotes from The Finishing Touches. Although, really, the whole affair is chock-full of good ones, in the form of a very handy etiquette manual. The first is actually very sound advice that we should all take quite seriously, while the second happens to sum me up to a T. (What? It's not like it makes me a bad person or anything.)

'"Kathleen used to tell me that money was an umbrella. That it couldn't stop a rainy day, but it kept your head dry", I said, swinging in my chair.'

'"...I had no idea electricity cost that much! I thought it just ... flowed. What am I going to do?
"Economize."
Liv looked at me as if I'd just suggested she levitate.'

**As a sidenote, if you happen to be rather enamored with the pink pig you see above, then you'll have to speak with Bampa David. He bought it for Emilia on their last visit. However, if he won't take your call then you can always google it. Mudpie is the manufacturer and they are sold in only the most fabulous children's boutiques.

St. Joseph's Day Soup

'Wednesday is St. Patrick's Day', I said. 'And Friday is St. Joseph's Day! And we go to a farm! And do swimming!', responded Miss Milia. 'Yes! But instead of a farm and swimming, we'll make some soup!'

I think it is safe to say that 2-year-olds don't generally have the best grasp on time. 'In a minute' and 'in a month' are basically the same thing in the 2-year-old mind. Basically it means not right this second. But really, the memory on this girl is astounding. We mentioned last week that both St. Paddy's Day and St. Joseph's Day were coming up. We also said that we are going to go to a farm (weather permitting) on Saturday. I've no idea where the swimming bit entered into her head. It does sound nice though, doesn't it? Almost like what one should actually do on St. Joseph's Day. You know, a little swimming on a farm to truly celebrate the life and wonders of St. Joseph.

But instead, we'll have soup. Not just any old soup, mind you. Today we are having St. Joseph's Day Soup. And I've been looking forward to it since last year's pot.

Typically I would delve into the history of the celebrated saint in honor of their day, but, really, what does one say about our beloved St. Joseph? (Other than my mom's thoughts, when I told her about my yummy soup, 'Honey, you Catholics sure have a lot of holidays!') However, something should be said. Joseph never gets enough props, and I challenge you to say otherwise.

And so, today, being March 19th, is the Feast of St. Joseph. He was the husband of Mary and the adoptive father of Jesus. (My copy of The Lives of the Saints calls him Jesus' foster-father, but I find that wildly offensive. Apart from God, obviously, Joseph was the only father Jesus ever knew.) He is the patron saint of home and family. He is also the patron saint of the Universal Church, workers, and carpenters. Interestingly, today is not a Holy Day of Obligation. In fact, the Feast of St. Joseph is not even really celebrated in the United States. Everyone here is undoubtedly still recovering from their hangovers from green beer, and can't be too bothered with a saint that does not involve another trip to the pub. Unless of course it is a saint that sells chocolate and lingerie. (That would be St. Valentine, in case it wasn't completely clear.)

Italy is largely where St. Joseph's Day is celebrated, and the further south you go, the more impressive the festivities become. Apparently in Sicily families cook dish after dish after dish (sometimes up to a hundred dishes, I hear) in celebration, and hopes of intercession. Most of the dishes are fried, causing Joseph to also be called San Giuseppe Frittelaro, Saint Joseph the Fryer. These dishes range from cream-puffs to rice balls to artichokes. However, all the dishes are meatless because the day always falls during lent.

I have not dabbled with any of the fried dishes in honor of St. Joseph, namely because the idea of deep-frying is still slightly scary to me. (I really must invest in one of those Fry-Daddy's sometime.) Instead, I have begun opting for St. Joseph's soup, which is so good I've thought about making it at other times during the year. However, I like to have food traditions. For the same reason I would not serve turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and so on, in the middle of August, let's say, because that is a special menu for Thanksgiving. It is important to let certain foods be special and to have their place on the calendar. And before you start calling me some sort of bizarre and esoteric nerd, I'll have you know that some rather posh establishments celebrate St. Joseph's Day with this very same soup. Our highly revered, and rightly so, Salumi, for example.

Anyway, the soup itself is wonderful, perfect for the beginning of spring, yet still very substantial. It is also very healthy and low in fat. And in our family, it yields enough for dinner tomorrow night as well. Maybe even the next night if we're lucky. Although, really, that might be an awful lot of soup.