The journey began in Edinburgh. Down by the Firth of Forth on a cool evening in the south of Scotland. A football match (soccer game) ended and I some how managed to figure out the remote enough to change the channel, and, there he was. It was Jamie. Oliver. Talking to little British school children about where carrots come from. I was hooked. It was a jovial and hopeful program with plenty of addicting accents and cute kid’s humor, but what really got to me was how much I was learning about the food that I eat from this guy that I had never heard of.

Since then it has been a long and exciting journey. The next big step was (seemingly) randomly picking up a copy of “Animal, Vegetable, Miracle” in a Barnes and Noble in Minnesota. We were about to fly to Santiago, Chile and I wanted something to read on the trip. I don’t know exactly why I picked it but it proved fortuitous. It added a level, a depth, a richness to that trip. I started to remember Jamie and Edinburgh and connect more with the food around me and my choices. I saw massive Dole distributing centers and found that I had never realized that I was eating fruit off-season from thousands of miles away. Here I was in South America reading about this very thing from Barbara Kingsolver.  

In the winter of 2010-11 we traveled with the express purpose of studying and focusing on food. From Ireland to Spain, from England to Morroco, and especially France, we ate, prayed, loved (never read it but saw the movie at the Casino on Catalina Island. I think that place would make any movie magical, I mean, they play an organ while you wait for the movie to start, come on! Loved it.), breathed, thought, talked, and ate more food. What a gift to think back over all of my travels and see a common thread. A progression of meaning and learning that started so long ago. I cannot wait to see what’s next.

Here are some gems from that trip to England and Scotland in 2005. It was so much more than a sightseeing trip. Thanks for the fun memories girls!

Here is the view from our digs. There is the actual TV where I first “met” Jamie. Not sure what Emily is doing in the bathroom, Holly must be watching “Coronation Street.”

Here is me with a giant horse on the Royal Mile, Edinburgh.

St. Paul’s Cathedral and really blonde hair.

Hitting the town…

on the amazing food Mary Lokar will be cooking up in Skagway. Man, I had a feeling she would make it up there one of these days, I just thought I might still be around to benefit. Oh, well. I am looking forward to spring here in Whatcom County. Eating what’s in season, the Bellingham Farmers Market, the new produce/nursery store on Elm Street…all good reasons to be where we are at. Baby Ella doesn’t know how good she has it, yet.

Ella is 7 weeks old today. I always thought it strange that parents would describe their child’s age first in weeks and then in months, instead of in months and then years. A friend would say, “Oh, he’s 18 weeks old.” Or, “She’s 20 months!” Then I would start computing, converting those weeks into months and those months into years. Now that I have a little one, I get it. Babies develop fast. And so much happens in the weeks between months and the months between years, it just makes sense to give a detailed account of a baby’s age. So, she’s 7 weeks. That’s just shy of 2 months for those of you that are like me!

As Ella develops, I am regaining some of my own abilities. She makes new sounds, I can do the dishes. She smiles, I can type a blog post. I’ve even been able to cook a few dinners. Last night I made something of a tortilla soup. At first I hated it. Swiss Chard? In a mexican soup? It’s Swiss! What was I thinking? I (preemptively) felt way out of practice. But, then I cooked it longer, added the chicken, topped it with tortilla strips, sour cream, lime and cilantro and, voila! Or the Spanish equivalent there of. It tasted good. In fact, Severin called me from work and said that the leftovers were “top ten.” Top ten of what I’m not sure but it sounded positive.

Cooking again has felt good. But it has also reminded me that I have been on a break. A break from some of the ideals that we had begun to cherish pre-baby. In the weeks after having Ella, grocery shopping was about healthy food for me and baby and all the shopping was done in a bit of a frantic state. Severin had just started a new job and was racing around in the evenings shopping and stocking our house. It felt like there was no time or mental capacity to hem and haw over the seasonality or the origin of the food. It was get it, eat it, pass it on to baby. Now though, things - baby things, are making more sense. Life is slower and I can start asking some of those old questions again. I feel just fine about the food that I ate because, as Severin often says, you make the best choice that you can in that moment. That was the best choice for us as we embarked on parenthood for the very first time. But, now I can think more clearly and even venture into the grocery store by myself. I can think more about our food choices and I look forward to getting back to the way we were eating previously.

I also look forward to growing more and more and bringing Ella into the culture of “slow,” thoughtful, intentional eating. I know there will come a day that I will say ‘no’ to something she wants to eat.  I know that at some point she may resent that her home is devoid of food that is tied to Monsanto (http://topdocumentaryfilms.com/the-world-according-to-monsanto/) because hey, everyone else seems to be eating it. Oh dear, we have a lot to learn with this new life we have been graced with. 

Here are some photos from the last few weeks:

Before Ella…

About 5 weeks old…

Fun with dad…

Fun with wine…

While at our local grocery (Meridian Haggen), in need of butter, Severin and I discovered the Amish butter roll. Has anyone seen or heard of this? 2 lbs. of butter wrapped in wax paper. Butter presumably made by the Amish, because of the name “Amish Butter Roll,” we found that it was pleasantly devoid of marketing. No stoic stag, no Minnesotan Native American princess, not even a charming four-leafed clover to show us the spirit and depth of experience this butter would bring into our life. Nothing but a nutrition chart (required by law) and the ingredients: cream and salt. Needless to say, we had to have it. Their non-marketing drew us in. The mystery of their simple packaging left me imagining the horse and wagon that dropped it off in the wee hours of the morning for the dairy department manager to bring in. It came in a basket, lined with a gingham cloth. Pa was wearing his straw hat which wasn’t quite enough to protect his ears from the sting of the crisp winter morning air. Ma had her hand-knit shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders as she dropped off the butter rolls that were made, by her, from the cream of cows that grazed on fresh, pesticide-free grass…maybe they need a marketing manager. Needless to say the package and simplicity were enough to draw us in to the mystery of the Amish Butter Roll, even though I’m pretty sure the nearest Amish community is far enough away that there was a commercial vehicle and many gallons of fossil fuel involved in bringing it to Bellingham, WA. Nothing’s perfect.

I have done some research on Amish butter and I have found that there is a Facebook page, there are people who will put it out there on the world-wide web that Amish butter is “the best butter [they] have ever tasted.” Below is what the FB page states about this butter. I guess it is a standard thing, and you know what? I like it. It just feels more authentic, slicing a chunk off the old butter log. And that is what excites me about food these days. Authenticity. Simplicity. Connectedness to real people. I suppose it would be more ideal if these Amish folks were part of my actual community but as I said, nothing’s perfect. I am just trying to make small authentic choices. And this butter was a perfect inspiration to break out our never-before-used cast iron pan, season it, and make some biscuits and gravy from scratch. It was the perfect “fuel” for our day at Mt. Baker, Lillet’s first day in the snow. Thanks Ma. Thanks Pa. (Thanks truck driver.) Maybe some day I will get to a place where butter is something that I can “make” for myself. Baby steps…below are some pictures from our day.

I found these mission figs at the co-op the other day. Last basket, maybe last of their season. I’ve never cooked with figs but I was inspired by a picture in my “Jamie’s Italy” cookbook. Then I checked out the recipe…ummmm, did I mention that I don’t bake either. Never used figs, rarely a baker = find an easier recipe and just put some figs in it. It actually worked. And, against the sage advice of my father, who happens to be a very good cook, I served it to guests on the first attempt. They were nice about it. In fact I think that it was good. Did I mention that it was the first time I had ever had these people over to hang out. Brave things in the life of the unemployed, pregnant, emotional person. Here are some pictures. The first is for those that have asked for a “pregnant shot.” There it is…

First recipe…scary…many words…

Second recipe…not so bad. Just add figs (that, suprisingly, don’t taste just like the Fig Newtons that I used to steal at any chance from my Grandma Erickson’s pantry).

I love Jamie Oliver. Even baking is “add a handful,” “a bit of this,” “a lot of that.”

Did I mention that being pregnant is surreal. Just a side note. It makes me miss my friends.