California, I'm coming home.

This is where you will find me for the next eight months, beginning March 1. I'm packing up and moving to California. Sacramento, more specifically, or rather, to this farm right outside of Sacramento. I'll be working as a farm apprentice there for the upcoming season, until the end of October. I'll be living in a tent and getting paid close to nothing, but I couldn't be happier. This adventure combines a number of goals I've had for the past few years:

1) Live on the West Coast;
2) Work for a full season on a farm;
3) Get involved with a project that's improving food access for low-income populations; and
4) Live simply.

I had had two previous interviews for this position before the final phone interview last Tuesday, so the possibility had nestled itself comfortably into my brain as just that: a possibility. I had pretty well decided that it was a long-shot, too, because I was unable to go out and visit for a working interview, as had the other candidates. So it was a bit of a shock when I found out, a few hours after the interview, that I had been offered the position, and then decided soon after to accept. It was a quick transition from "life as usual" to "moving across the country in a month."

So, is farming my Job? I'm not sure. People keep asking me what's next, after the apprenticeship is over. I don't have a clue, which is fine. I'm still getting used to the first next, which will be upon me in just three weeks. If I love this, then perhaps I will continue farming and gardening in some capacity. I don't see myself becoming strictly a commercial farmer, but working with a non-profit, educational farm could be great. Maybe I'll realize that a backyard garden is about as much "farming" as I care to do. I know myself well enough to know that I won't know until I do it, and "next" will remain a question mark for many more months. At the end of the day, this apprenticehip might be a career move, but that's not necessarily the point.

So now, I'm getting organized. I'm gathering and sorting and purchasing things that'll prepare me for eight months on a farm. I feel like I'm going abroad again--I keep having to remind myself that it's okay not to bring everything; I'll be able to buy what I haven't brought once I'm out there. California only seems like a foreign country.

And, I'm trying to prepare psychologically for the change. I've had about the coziest winter of my life this year, doing crafts and cooking daily in my parents' comfortable home, reading classic literature by the fire while watching the snow fall. Though it's hard to imagine exactly what it'll be like, I know for sure that nearly all of these comforts won't be a part of my life come March 1. So the challenge will be to maintain the Zen contentment I've got going on here amidst a much more demanding, more dynamic and hopefully fulfilling, lifestyle. Now, however, I've got to get back to my knitting.

What is my Job?

I've been thinking a lot these days about jobs. I currently have one, thankfully, but I'm looking for another one, and trying to figure out what kind of job I want. I find the most difficult aspect of this is sifting through and reconciling "The Way Life Is Supposed To Go" with "What I Want." These two things, I'm realizing, may not overlap so much. Twenty-eight years of subtle and explicit cultural and societal messages about ambition, success, career, education, etc. have become a mountain atop the latter, which I am now trying to unearth, slowly but surely.

I read something today that helps. It's by Jon Kabat-Zinn, a Buddhist teacher who wrote the book Wherever You Go, There You Are. I read one short chapter every morning before meditating. It is an excellent and accessible guide to meditation and mindful living. The passage I read this morning is called, "What is My Job on the Planet with a Capital J?" I want to share a small part of it:

Rarely do we question and then contemplate with determination what our hearts are calling us to do and to be. I like to frame such efforts in question form: "What is my job on the planet with a capital J?", or, "What do I care about so much that I would pay to do it?" If I ask such a question and I don't come up with an answer, other than, "I don't know," then I just keep asking the question. If you start reflecting on such questions when you're in your twenties, by the time you are thirty-five or forty, or fifty or sixty, the inquiry itself may have led you a few places that you would not have gone had you merely followed mainstream conventions, or your parents' expectations for you, or even worse, your own unexamined self-limiting beliefs and expectations.

...[Asking this question] may not mean that you will change what you do, but it may mean that you may want to change how you see it or hold it, and perhaps how you do it. Once the universe is your employer, very interesting things start to happen, even if someone else is cutting your paycheck.

Kabat-Zinn also talks about Buckminster Fuller in this chapter, and about how, from the depths of depression, Fuller decided to live his life from then on as if he were an employee of the universe, basing his actions on the question, "What is it on this planet that needs doing that I know something about, that probably won't happen unless I take responsibility for it?" He says that Fuller also liked to point out that, for the honey bee, it's all about the honey, but in its pursuit of honey, it becomes nature's (or the universe's) pollinator.*

It's still not easy to figure out whether I want to be a farmer, a baker, a social worker, or something else entirely, but it's reassuring to know that no matter what job I find myself doing, if I approach it right, it will be my Job.

*from Kabat-Zinn, Jon. Wherever You Go, There You Are. New York: Hyperion, 1994.

The Power of Vulnerability

I've known about TEDTalks for a while, but I've only recently started watching them regularly. Here's one of the many reasons why. Posting on my blog makes me feel vulnerable.

Rainy day soup times

It's cold and rainy here, and I am home alone for the weekend. Though there are higher priorities on my to-do list, I've been itching to make butternut squash soup for a while. With New Haven Restaurant Week looming next week, which means I'll be working double shifts every day from Sunday to Thursday at L'Orcio, and then the half-marathon in Richmond next Saturday, the weather just seemed to confirm that today is the day for soup.

This is not a food blog, and I am not nearly consistent or accomplished enough as a cook to highlight the dishes that I lovingly, if clumsily attempt. BUT, this particular recipe turned out to be pretty delicious, and makes for a pretty picture, too, so I thought I'd share.

More importantly, it gives me a chance to talk a little bit about CitySeed, the New Haven organization I have been volunteering with for the past several weeks. CitySeed's mission is "to engage the community in growing an equitable, local food system that promotes economic development, community development and sustainable agriculture." They run five weekly farmers' markets around the city and run programs to increase access of New Haven residents to fresh, local food. I've been helping them sell artisanal bread at their Wednesday downtown farmers' market and to implement a food access survey.

This Butternut Squash-Peanut Soup, (which I modified slightly, because I can't seem to stick to a recipe without putting in my own two cents), came from the bilingual cookbook that CitySeed created, called New Haven Cooks/Cocina New Haven, which features recipes submitted by New Haven residents, and which is being distributed for free to low-income residents in exchange for completion of the food access survey, and will also be sold to raise funds for CitySeed's programs.

It has been a great experience to get to know the CitySeed staff and volunteers and some local farmers and to begin to get involved in the vibrant and growing food movement in Connecticut. I love being around people who are so passionate about supporting small farmers and helping to improve access to fresh food. It helps me a lot as I try to figure out how I can best contribute to this movement. And unexpectedly, though perhaps not surprisingly, I have begun to get to know my own home state for the first time; I feel far more connected to Connecticut (ha!) than ever.

Okay, without further ado:

Peanut and Butternut Squash Soup*

1 medium butternut squash, peeled, halved lengthwise, seeds removed
1 1/2 Tbsp. vegetable oil
1 cup onion, chopped
6 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 tsp. salt
3/4 tsp. cumin, ground
3/4 tsp. coriander, ground
3/4 tsp. curry powder
1/2 tsp. cinnamon
4 cups vegetable broth
1 1/2 cups water
1 can cannelini, garbanzo, or other beans, drained
3/4 cup natural peanut butter, chunky or creamy
2 Tbsp. tomato paste
1/2 tsp. crushed red pepper flakes
1/4 cups fresh cilantro, chopped
1/4 cup squash seeds


1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit. Place two halves of squash facedown on a baking sheet in about 1/2 inch of water. Place on a middle rack and roast for about 35 minutes, until tender but not too soft.

2. Remove squash from oven and cut into 1-inch cubes.

3. Heat vegetable oil in large pot over medium-high heat. Add onions, garlic, cumin, coriander, salt, curry powder, and cinammon. Cook for 5 minutes or until onion is translucent, stirring to coat with spices and to prevent garlic from burning.

4. Add broth, water, beans, peanut butter, tomato paste, and pepper flakes; stir well. Cover the pot and bring soup to a boil. Reduce and simmer.

5. Scoop out about half of the soup, equal parts vegetables and liquid, and transfer to a blender. Puree and then pour back into the pot.

6. Simmer for five more minutes, uncovered. Meanwhile, heat a small cast iron frying pan over medium heat. Add rinsed butternut squash seeds. Allow water to evaporate; sprinkle with salt and curry powder and toast, stirring frequently, until dry, crunchy, and browned.

7. Ladle soup into bowls. Top with chopped fresh cilantro and toasted squash seeds. Dip some fresh bread into it, if you have some. I've been eating it with slices of Asiago boule, which is one of the loaves we sell at the CitySeed stand.

*This recipe is a modified version of "Peanut and Butternut Squash Soup" found in New Haven Cooks/Cocina New Haven, A Project of CitySeed, Developed by Tagan Engel

Reasons to Love Buenos Aires

I'm fully recovered from my initial city-shock now and soaking in the advantages of urban life, but one discomforting aspect of the city that I noticed upon returning here a few weeks ago, and which I still struggle with, is the overwhelming presence of consumerism. I spent days holed up in my friend Andres's apartment, where I was staying, because, it seemed, to go outside meant to spend money. Of course, this isn't necessarily true, but after spending so much time on the farm, where I was only in the vicinity of commercial institutions once a week or less, and then in nomad mode, where purchases meant a heavier backpack, I found myself suddenly stable, and in the midst of seemingly endless opportunities for consumption. Not only that, but I also was reminded of how easily I fall under the spell of the wizards of retail. These days, my purchases are mostly of the edible variety, as I'm still trying to avoid collecting things which I'll need to find space for in my backpack someday soon. I frequently find, upon arriving home, that I have several bags of various food items hanging from my wrists. This discovery is somehow always surprising.

So in an attempt to overcome the temptation to buy, I set off the other day on a long walk, with the explicit intention to purchase nothing. With the Japanese Garden, several blocks to the north, in mind as my destination (I never did make it there), I went in search of those features of this city that define and enhance it.

I didn't have to look too hard. As I made my way north, through the neighborhoods of Almagro, Villa Crespo, and Palermo, I found Buenos Aires charm on nearly every corner. Here are the fruits of my latest afternoon stroll, and a few of the things that, for this girl, make this city special:

1) Free flowers! Okay, so technically this one involves consumption, but since there's no monetary transaction, let's let it slide. I had only walked a few blocks when I came to the "flower district," an intersection lined with flower shops, which I had passed before, and marvelled at, but which this time offered an important new discovery, which I think has changed my life here. Though it was the middle of the day, boxes of discarded flower bouquets and plant arrangement lined the streets and bordered the dumpsters. I'd been tempted by these flower stalls before, but, unable to reconcile a frivolous purchase of fleeting beauty with the nagging knowledge of the realities of the cut flower industry (pesticides, poor working conditions, etc.) in countries not so far away, I'd until now gone flowerless. Free, dumpster-bound flowers, however, posed less of an ethical hurdle, and so I rescued a still-beautiful bouquet of multi-colored daisies, which spent the day with me, riding around in my backpack (and are still, two days later, brightening up my room in yellow jug by the bed). Though surely not a feature unique to Buenos Aires, this floral free-for-all is a huge discovery--I have already started walking out of my way to pass by, and last night put together another bouquet to give to a friend I was meeting.







2) Old stuff: Cobblestone streets, antique subway cars, antique shops, old cars, nineteenth century architecture--history is everywhere in this city. Not just in the cute, touristy, historic neighborhoods like San Telmo, but all over the city. Cobblestones abound, peaking out here and there from under asphalt caps, or just as often, on proud display for blocks and blocks, in curved, fanning patterns or straightforward rows. Grand, ornate buildings with cornices and gargoyles and large wooden-shuttered windows provide a visual feast, and, though I didn't take it on this particular day, when I'm lucky I get to rest on the wooden benches of the 1920s-era cars of the A-line of the Subte (subway). These still-functioning relics make the city's distant past seem not so far off.




3) Street art: Again, all over the place. Vibrant, wacky creatures, political murals, artistic graffiti tags--they're everywhere, making a walk through the city like navigating a huge, labyrinthine art gallery.



4) Used books: Okay, so another questionable inclusion in this supposedly non-commercial list, but they're used, which in my mind is different, and I have somehow successfully resisted purchasing even a single one. There are rows of stalls lining Parque Centenario, where I go running each day, filling up a pocket of Parque Rivadavia, five blocks west of me, and along a median on Avenida Santa Fe, in Palermo, among other places, I'm sure. Though I haven't been buying books, I love browsing, and the very presence of so many yellowed, crinkly pages all over the place is reassuring.



5) Verdulerias: Fruits and vegetables are so much more alive when displayed on street corners in stacks of rainbow-hued crates. These I do purchase from, daily even, but also find it a soul-warming pleasure to walk by and absorb the vibrant energy of so much fresh produce.


6) Balcones y Terrazas: Especially after being a New Yorker for five years, I have a keen appreciation for the urban 'backyard' known as the balcony. While apartment searching a few weeks ago, it was all I could do not to exclaim out loud in excitement upon being shown the terrace, rooftop, or balcony. Only after visiting four or five apartments, all of which had one or more of these, that I realized that what in my city is practically an urban myth, is considered to be a human right here in Buenos Aires.

Each day I find new things to add to this list. I haven't completely cured my consumption blues, but at least, moving around with an eye out for the subtle beauty Buenos Aires has to offer, I've managed to hold on to a few more pesos.

Ghosts of Buenos Aires

I'm just recently emerging from a funk that I fell into upon returning to Buenos Aires. Last Sunday, after several days of drifting, unsure whether I was staying or leaving, and unable to muster enthusiasm about the many and various wonders of this city, unable to even call forth the excitement and pleasure I had so recently and consistently felt for travel, for adventure, for being abroad, I finally, mercifully, snapped out of it.

I had been staying for a few days with my friend Kenyon, in the charming barrio of San Telmo, and decided last Sunday, after spending way too much time inside watching movies, to get outside and see what there was to see. Right outside her building is a lively weekly craft fair, a dangerous spot to be living. I hadn't meant to seek solace in retail, but before I knew it, I had found a pair of handmade leather sandals that I couldn't resist, even though the temperatures around here continue to drop as winter sets in (I justified the purchase with visions of my upcoming trip to Colombia in August). I made a brief attempt to enter the madness of the Bicentennial events, set up along a closed-off avenue not too far away, but was immediately traumatized by the rushing current of stroller-pushing parents and their flag-toting children, and extracted myself as quickly as I entered.

I headed back to San Telmo, and by that time it had started to rain--the first real rain since I had arrived in Buenos Aires two weeks earlier. People out "paseando" took cover under awnings, umbrellas, and newspapers, and I was grateful to duck into the indoor antique market and wait out the storm digging for treasures and souvenirs. I began asking around for yerba tins, something like this to bring home as a souvenir, but I was soon sidetracked by a stall with two huge crates of old black and white photographs.

Forty-five minutes later, my hands full of other people's precious, faded memories, I was utterly transfixed. Unable to part with any of the gems that I had found, I finally pried myself away, and ended up spending as much on the photos as I had on the sandals. The images are incredible: Grandma crouching next to four little ones--all in bathing suits, sun-bronzed, squinting against the bright beach sun; two smiling women in the backseat of a twenties-era convertible, their male companion, seemingly oblivious to the camera, taking a swig from a bottle.



And my favorite: five well-dressed young folks, in their teens and young twenties, probably siblings, posing for a portrait. Each is looking in a different direction, and smirking in unavoidable delight at a shared private joke. The photo was taken probably seventy years ago, their hairstyles antiquated and their clothing old-fashioned, yet I couldn't help but smirk back, in knowing recognition of such a timeless game.



I found so many that called to me, for reasons both obvious and mysterious. The shopkeeper, a middle-aged woman who readily agreeing with me about the power and beauty of these simple snapshots, gave me a discount, and despite the fact that I still paid the equivalent of two nights at a hostel, the treasure was well worth it.



When I left the market, night had fallen and the rain was letting up. I found a nearby cafe, and over my beer and salad, sifted through the photos again, a smile lighting on my face as I studied each one. Beaches, vacations, car trips, family portraits--such typical subjects and settings, yet there was something inexplicably special about these images. Somehow, inexplicably, time-traveling to another time, to the Buenos Aires of unknown ghosts, the fog lifted, and life was good again.

On eating, and carving out my own space

It´s the start of my fourth week here at Rincon del Sur. Anna, who was here when I arrived, left on Friday, and today two new girls arrived, and I moved into a tent. The weather has been chilly and rainy lately, but I´ve been looking forward to the move. Our days are full, and there´s a lot of togetherness. With the rain, it´s hard to go for walks, and quiet, solitary moments are scarce. The tent will be a sanctuary, and now, with five of us, I need it more than ever.

Last Monday we decided we wanted to have Thanksgiving, and when we told Cynthia, she was more than happy to help us out. We spent all day Thursday in her kitchen, and ate a huge Thanksgiving feast around 9:00 that night. We stuffed ourselves, and got to eat leftovers the next day for lunch, too, just like home. Here was our menu:

turkey and stuffing
raspberry sauce (it came out really well, and was delicious with the turkey)
grilled eggplant and squash
cornbread
potato and parsnip puree
apple crisp
butternut squash pie
homemade honey vanilla ice cream (everything but the vanilla was from the farm)

It was all amazing, but the feast was also kind of a turning point for us in our food-focused lives here. The next night, once we had finally digested, Aily, Lucy and I decided it was time for a bit of a scale-back. We went on a long, gorgeous hike on Saturday and Sunday, and are trying to take it a bit easier on all the fresh dairy and rich meals (so we used milk in our quiche tonight, instead of cream :).

Beyond just attempting to leave this place fitting into the clothes I brought with me, living with a family that makes the majority of its own food has changed the way I think about the food I eat. I know Cynthia enjoyed our Thanksgiving dinner, and happily donated whatever ingredients we needed from what she had. But as she dug in her freezer to find yet another stick of homemade butter for one of our many dishes, I couldn´t help but wonder what she really thought of our feast. Of course, it-s a holiday, and I´m sure a similar spread is prepared around here for Christmas. But I also know that in general, Cynthia and her family eat what they have--when there´s less milk because one of the cows is pregnant, they don´t drink as much milk, butter becomes a luxury, and cheese is a special treat. They eat fresh fruits and vegetables when they´re ready for harvest in the gardens, and preserved or frozen for the rest of the year, until they run out. Living like that makes you appreciate the work it takes to produce the food you eat, and makes you savor the meals you cook even more. And that´s a good thing.