Food Finds: Kiwi Berries

I’m ashamed to admit I walked past the stall at the farmers’ market the first time I saw it. I didn’t even stop to look. Maybe I was in a hurry that week, or just in one of those ruts I occasionally fall into, treading a deep path along the same route each day, reluctant to step off and try something new. I like to think myself adventurous, but sometimes I fail in that department.

Yes, kiwi berries—have you heard of them? I hadn’t.



The sign at the farmers’ market read: “These Are Not Olives,” and that’s what they look like—green olives. They certainly don’t look like kiwifruit. Kiwi are bigger, and have a furry brown skin on them. Kiwi berries (also called Hardy Kiwi) have a soft green skin that is edible—and sometimes, like here, they blush a little maroon.

You heard me right. You can pop kiwi berries in your mouth without all the fuss of peeling them. They’re all that great kiwi flavor, in a much handier delivery vehicle.



Though, actually, the flavor varies—there are different kinds of kiwi berries. Some taste like kiwi, sharp, green, and sweet. Some varieties taste more like guava, a tropical flavor. I’m still trying to figure out which variety is which, and which I like best. But I have yet to meet a kiwi berry that I didn’t love.

This time last year I was eating handfuls of them. They were my favorite snack while I was racing deadline with my book. There were a few days where I went through a carton (or two!) a day. What the heck, they’re loaded with vitamin c, potassium, and vitamin e. The seeds in kiwi also contain one of the omega-3 fatty acids. They’re way better than most of the snacks we're popping in our mouths these days.

And they are so cute—little miniature kiwi.



Hardy Kiwi originally come from Korea, Northern China, and Russian Siberia. They grow well here in Washington, and I’m seriously considering planting some vines (they need to be well-supported, I am told, with room to grow). I am a huge new fan of the kiwi berry.

Commercial production of kiwi berries is still rather limited, just developing. They’re incredible seasonal—as in, grab ‘em now, if you can find them. I mention them to you here mostly as a public service. If you are lucky enough to see kiwi berries for sale, do not be a dunce like I was. Step off that well trod path and give them a try.

That’s good advice in produce shopping, and in life. I’m trying to remember it.




Kiwi berries shown here are from Greenwater Farm, in Port Townsend WA. Purchased at Seattle's University District Saturday Farmers' Market.

The Comfort of Japanese Curry

Oh people, I don’t know where you are this week, but here in Seattle it’s turned cold. Today it was even raining. I pulled out gloves from the back of the dresser drawer, unearthed scarves I haven’t seen in months, and started thinking about comfort food.

I’ve written before about how—due to the odd quirks of my life—Japanese food is where I go for comfort. What I haven’t told you about is Japanese curry—a mélange of carrots, potatoes, onions, and meat cooked until soft in a thick brown curry sauce that warms you up to the tips of your toes. It's not pretty—mostly brown and lumpy—but oh will it make you feel better after a cold walk home in the rain.



Now, before you start thinking of Indian curries, or Thai curries with coconut milk, let me say that Japanese curry is a different animal all together. It is influenced by Indian curry, certainly, but it has a different flavor. It’s not at all hot (even the hot version isn’t that hot). It is slightly musky and curry-like, and some varieties are even a bit sweet. In Japan, it’s considered classic kid food.

Like any kid, I’d say my [Japanese homestay] mom makes the best curry ever. I wish I knew how she does it. I know she occasionally puts grated apple in it (grated with a special, Japanese grater used for daikon). She might even use ketchup, I’m not entirely sure. I have to go back to Japan to find out her secret. I’ll let you know if I figure it out.

I don’t have to go to Japan to make curry though, for that I only need to go to the Asian grocery store. The same brand of Japanese-style curry base that my homestay mother uses is available there. It’s a funny thing, as many Japanese adaptations are, and goes by the name of Vermont Curry. What a state in New England has to do with it, I don’t know. When I asked my Japanese mom, she told me there are apples in the curry and that there are apples in Vermont and that is the connection. I cannot vouch for this logic.



No matter the name, this is how you make Japanese-style curry. I don’t care if it comes from Vermont or Yokohama, it’s good.

You start by chopping some onion and potatoes. Then you cut some carrots, and here I do as my Japanese mom does—she cuts on the diagonal, rotating the carrot as she cuts it. You could chop it in cubes, and it probably would taste exactly the same, but out of nostalgia I do as she did. I think this is mostly an aesthetic decision, to make it look prettier. She always told me that people begin to taste food first through their eyes, so appearance is important.



You can make Japanese curry by simmering the vegetables and meat in a pot, but lately I’ve been using a pressure cooker—as my Japanese mom does. I'm secretly scared of the pressurized pot and fear it might explode all over my kitchen, but it cuts the cooking time down from about forty-five minutes to fifteen. That's fifteen terrified minutes I spend cowering in the hallway outside the kitchen.



Once the curry has been prepared, you eat it with rice. It’s traditional to serve it alongside fukujin-zuke or rakkyo pickles (so very yummy). This is a standard Japanese meal, served at restaurants, lunchrooms, and cafeterias across the country. You don’t grow up in Japan without consuming your share of curry.

While curry rice is by far the most popular, I must admit that curry udon is my favorite—those thick, chewy wheat noodles. If you’re a Japanese kid (and in some small way I am, or I got to be one for a few years), this is the taste of home, the food your mom made, and the best way to end a cold, dreary, wet day.

Hope wherever you are, you’re staying warm and dry!



JAPANESE CURRY
Serves two, multiply as needed

1 cup chopped onion
1 1/2 cup chopped potato
1 1/2 cup chopped carrot
1 1/2 tbs oil (I use olive, simply because I use olive oil to sauté most everything)
4 oz beef (I like a thinly sliced stir-fry style of beef, but cubes are fine as well; you can also use pork, but I think beef is better).
3-4 cubes curry roux, House Vermont brand is my favorite
udon noodles or rice, as preferred. 1 1/2 to 2 cups per person, as desired (this usually means about 1 cup uncooked rice, 1 1/2 cups if you're really hungry).

In a large pot or pressure cooker, sauté the beef in oil on high heat for 3-4 minutes. Add onions, carrots, and potatoes, stirring to coat the vegetables in oil. Cook for an additional 5 minutes. Add enough water to just barely cover the vegetables (about 2 cups, or a little less depending on size of your pot).

At this point, if you are using a pressure cooker, put the top on and seal. Bring to full pressure boil and release steam vent. Vegetables and meat should be cooked though at this point. Let pot depressurize and open. I find this takes about 15 minutes. 

If you are cooking in a stew pot, let the vegetables and meat simmer until soft and fully cooked through. This will take up to 45 minutes.

Once the vegetables and meat are cooked, add the cubes of curry roux and let dissolve over low heat. How much curry you use will depend on how strong you want your sauce, and how soupy you like it. If serving with rice, you’ll want it to be less soupy; udon noodles can take more of a broth (though I like my noodles on the less soupy side, as you can see in the photos above). Start with 3 cubes of curry, let dissolve completely. Taste, and add more as needed.

Serve hot with cooked udon noodles or rice.

This is what the roux looks like.

What To Do with Too Much Chard

What happens when one foolishly plants forty chard seedlings, which all start to produce like gangbusters? You get a lot of chard, that’s what. What does one do with a lot of chard? Some of you were asking that question after my last garden post. I was asking myself the same question somewhere around June.

Chard, for those of you who are not familiar with it, is a green that’s halfway between spinach and kale: it’s a little more sturdy and strongly flavored than spinach, not nearly as tough as kale. It holds up to a bit of cooking, but not too much. Chard will wilt and get tender quickly, but it has a center stalk that usually needs to be removed (I often put it into a different dish—slivered and tossed into sautéed vegetables, for example). It’s chock full of vitamins as well. We should probably all be eating more chard.

But what to do with it—and what to do with so much of it?



Chard is great in soups, or sautéed briefly with garlic and tossed into pasta. I hid pounds of the stuff in frittatas (I told you that frittata was good for cleaning out your fridge). You could chop it and stir it into lentils, into polenta, into rice with fresh herbs.

But perhaps my most frequent use of chard this summer was a recipe for chard tzatziki that I found a few years back on Simply Recipes, Elise Bauer’s fantastic website. I make this recipe with almost embarrassing regularity, all summer long. Over the past few years, chard tzatziki has become a firm favorite.

If you haven’t made the acquaintance of tzatziki yet, it’s a Greek yogurt-based dip that traditionally includes grated cucumber and garlic. It’s one of my favorite summer snacks, served with bread, pita, or rice crackers. This version swaps out the cucumber for chard, which is a brilliant move.

First you have to drain the yogurt you plan to use, in a colander lined with paper towels. The yellow-colored whey will collect in the bottom of the bowl. This you can discard.



I like to do this the night before and let it sit in the fridge. You could use the thicker Greek yogurt, but I still like to drain it. The less liquid in the yogurt, the thicker your tzatziki will be.



Then you take a big bunch of chard, remove the stems, and quickly blanch or steam the greens. You want them to be wilted just very briefly. Take the greens out and place them in a colander (I use the colander I just took the yogurt out of). You want to press and squeeze all the liquid out of the chard. I start off in the colander, using the back of a spoon or spatula, but I end up using my hands in the end. You'll have to wait for the chard to cool to do this. A huge bunch of greens will wilt down into one well-packed little ball.

Chop the cooked chard into very fine bits. If you leave it in larger pieces, it will be less pleasant to eat.



Stir the chard into the yogurt, where it will look brilliantly green against the white background.



Add a little lemon juice, garlic, cayenne pepper, and olive oil (I often leave the oil out without any loss of flavor or texture). I also sometimes give the mixture a whizz with the immersion blender, if I haven't done a good job of chopping my chard, or if I want a smoother mixture. I like some chunk to it, but big pieces of chard are unappealing and get stuck in your teeth.



The resulting mixture is kicky with garlic and the tang of yogurt, the chard mixes through and makes it a healthy dip. I've been known to eat quite a bit at one sitting, which you can do with impunity as there's nothing in there that isn't good for you. It's a great substitute to some of those cream-based dips. You won't be giving up any flavor.

If you use rainbow chard—as I have here—the red veins of the leaves will bleed a little into the yogurt and over time will turn it bit pink. It won't impact the taste at all, but use white-stemmed chard if you are bothered by this.



Most happily, it uses up a goodly amount of chard. And when served with bread, pita, or "pita chips," it makes a great snack. Not a bad thing to bring along to a work party, when your friends are opening up a pizza restaurant. That's where this batch ended up.

To be honest, I don't follow the recipe when I make chard tzatziki any more. I use a big bunch of chard and a large container of yogurt, and add the rest of the ingredients by taste and feel, but the original recipe is on Elise's site. Give it a try—especially if you have a bunch of chard on hand. I don't think you'll be disappointed.

Chard Tzatziki, on Simply Recipes

Stalking Wonder: The Garden

I haven’t yet told you about my garden.

I’ve been gardening since I came to Seattle, two summers ago. That first summer I took over the neglected beds alongside the house. The soil was awful and it didn’t get much sun, but I did the best I could. At the end of the season I got raspberries, cherry tomatoes, handfuls of herbs, and one batch of pesto for my labors. I was hooked.

I didn’t tell you about my gardening last summer, it was too sad. I wanted more growing space, so I reclaimed a bit of land at the bottom of the hill that is my backyard. It was covered in buttercups and I didn’t realize what a hotbed it would be for slugs. I went out of town and came back to nibbled stubs. Some I couldn’t even tell what plants they had been; all identifying characteristics had been eaten off.



I knew then that I needed someplace else to garden. I had outgrown the space available.

Luckily Seattle has a system of community gardens called P-patches. Any city resident can sign up for a community garden plot in one of 68 different community gardens. There are 3,800 urban gardeners planting and tending P-patch gardens throughout the city.

And as of this summer, there are nearly 2,000 people on the waiting list.

I signed up for the wait list some time ago, knowing it would take a season or two for my time to come. This spring I received an email that a plot was available for me. I was thrilled.

That is how, in April, I was confronted with a flat blank canvas of dirt—ten by twenty feet—freshly plowed. This was to be my garden.



I’ve never had such a situation. I’ve been confined to window boxes or bits of raised beds. I’ve had to work around limited sunlight, poor soil, and other restrictions. What should I do with this wide open expanse? Should I plant melons or corn or teepees of beans? Should I grow potatoes or tomatoes? Perhaps I should plant the whole thing with basil and make batches of pesto. It was rather overwhelming, to tell you the truth.

I tried to pick foods I would make good use of, that I like to eat. Growing things like onions doesn’t make sense for me—they take forever to mature and are pretty cheap to buy, I didn’t want to tie up my space. Instead I planted what I thought I'd get most use out of—lots of greens and tomatoes, beans and peas, radishes and arugula, cauliflower, broccoli, and four kinds of strawberries. I liked to imagine the niecelets picking strawberries in my garden.

In the beginning it looked awfully bare, the tiny plants spaced so far away from each other. You need a bit of imagination to plan a garden. It may look sparse now, but think of the plants jostling for space. Gardening is the most optimistic, hopeful activity I know. What other hobby requires such initial investment without any chance of immediate payoff?



There is a leap of faith required. Not so much for the little plant starts—those you can see, but what of the seeds? It's almost fantastical that you stick these small bits in the ground, water them, and go away. The idea that the next time you come there might be a tender green shoot sticking out of the earth seems like a stretch.



Granted, it doesn't always happen, seeds sometimes fail, but more often than not they grow, and this very fact feels like a miracle. Babies are not the only miracles of life, sometimes a small plant sprouting out of the earth can feel equally wondrous.



The radishes are always the first, that gratifying bit of red poking up out of the ground. Radishes are quick to sprout and exceedingly reliable. Soon I was bringing handfuls of them—red and white—back to my house to be grated into salads and sliced up for sandwiches. This seed I had pushed into the earth was feeding me.



Not long after the radishes, the strawberries started coming on. I’ve never grown strawberries before and planted four varieties—Rainier, Quinalt, Seascape, and Tri-star. I don’t mean to brag, but that first berry I tasted may be the best strawberry I’ve ever tasted. Supermarkets like to push those massive berries, but there was more flavor in one of my small garden varieties than in a whole basket of storebought.



There’s something empowering about growing your own food—even a little bit of it. So much of what we do these days is abstract, not connected to anything that feels real. I spend my days pushing around words on a computer screen and rarely have anything tangible to show for it. I don’t make anything useful, anything that can feed or clothe a person. The fact that I managed to produce radishes and strawberries felt amazing. It made me happy.

The other rather amazing thing about gardening is that it puts your food in stark context. Do you know how many yards of strawberry plants it takes to make up that green plastic basket you buy at the market? Do you know how much ground space and time it takes for a head of cabbage to mature—the same cabbage we then buy for $.79/lb? I was astounded at the calculations. People talk about sustainable food being more expensive, but after a season of growing it myself I’d say it’s not expensive enough. Not expensive enough to pay for all the hard work, labor, and water that farming requires. Most of us have it easy.

That’s the reality of growing our food—hard work. But there’s a magical side of it as well. The beauty of seeing droplets of water on a leaf of kale.



The anticipation and promise of green tomatoes.



The first handful of peas.



The plants that volunteer their services—this one is a potato that insisted on joining in the fun. I didn't plant it, but I didn’t have the heart to pull it up.



The glory of the most beautiful broccoli you’ve ever seen. Gardeners feel like parents—their progeny is the most beautiful ever (except when a neighboring gardener has better, then you experience true and hot garden envy, a serious problem I discovered this year).



Before I knew it, I was lugging home a garden basket filled with greens every time I went to the garden.



And trying to figure out what on earth to do with so much chard. I bought one small container of chard starts, but it had forty seedlings and I couldn’t stand the idea of leaving some to die. I planted all of them, and had chard coming out of my ears all summer long. I was harvesting a bunch this big every two to three days (and donating some to the food bank as well). 2009 will forever be known as the summer of chard.



By June I stopped buying greens entirely, and was racing to keep up with what the garden was producing. I may have overdone it on the greens front, between the kale, collards, and all that chard. I froze some, gave others to friends, donated a bunch, and made a note that next summer I should diversify my plantings. It is possible to have too much of a good thing, especially in a garden in August.



There was heartbreak in the garden this summer as well. I made the acquaintance of the flea beatle and his nasty handiwork. My lovely arugula (and mizuna, and peas, and radish tops) were reduced to lace.



There was also abject failure in the garden. The peas and beans never really grew up the teepees I built for them. I made two teepees so the niecelets could play in them, but the peas didn't cooperate, the beans didn't grow much at all, and three cucumber plants disappeared overnight. Can't win them all, I guess.



I learned lessons this summer, garden lessons. Those volunteer potatoes developed fruit. For a second I thought maybe there weren't potatoes at all, maybe they were eggplant that would grow and get big. When one of the "fruit" fell off I cut it open and it looked like a tiny eggplant. Then I learned that this is how potatoes reproduce from seed. Most gardeners start their plants from cut up old potatoes that have begun to sprout, but this is their natural method of reproduction. I hadn't known that before.



I also learned that it's awfully hard to go out of town if you're a gardener—you won't want to leave your plot, and the garden will run away from you if you turn your back on it. I never did catch up after my trip to Canada.

But mostly the garden was a joy, and quickly became my favorite place to spend the long summer evenings. The day had cooled by then, the shadows were getting longer, and I weeded and puttered and harvested and was happy. Gardens are such peaceful places—a deep peace and quiet not easily found elsewhere. To watch the honeybees and butterflies flit about vegetables and flowers that you yourself planted, is a joy that words cannot fully capture. Time slows in a garden, light becomes liquid, and even a messy, unweeded garden (as mine often was) is beautiful.



Forget the flea beatles, this summer I was bitten by the gardening bug. To watch the transformation of a small plot of dirt into something beautiful, something that feeds me and my family, where flowers bloom and butterflies and bees cavort, felt like joy. My garden was far from perfect—I suspect they all are. I'm not the most organized gardener, and towards the end of the season things got away from me entirely, but the process, the work, the beauty, and the yield, felt profound.



I'm hooked, and already planning for next year. Just please remind me not to grow quite as much chard.



About Stalking Wonder: the project started Spring of '09, in an attempt to bring wonder back into my life and onto the site, to make the time to appreciate what is all around. Read how it started, or check out the full archives. Stalking Wonder posts may or may not have anything to do with food.

In Praise of Purslane

Do you know what purslane is? I didn’t until recently, though I’ve likely been seeing it for years and not knowing. Purslane is a stealth green: some people praise it for it’s extraordinary amounts of vitamins and minerals, others will tell you it’s a weed. In fact, purslane ranks as number seven on the list of invasive weeds. My mother tells me she spent years trying to eradicate purslane from her yard, never knowing it was edible—tasty and nutritious.

These days purslane is making a comeback. You can sometimes find it at farmers’ markets, and maybe even in the cracks of your own yard. Purslane does well in poor and compacted soil, and is able to tolerate drought well. These days, we should probably all be taking a second look at this “weed.” The ancient Greeks loved it, as did Medieval cooks and gardeners. Purslane is recommended in Chinese Medicine to help various ailments, and has more Omega-3 fatty acids than almost any other vegetable. Weed or not, purslane is a powerhouse.

This summer I found purslane at the farmers’ market, and I grew some in my garden as well. I discovered that I like the slightly lemony flavor of the fleshy leaves and stems. I was sad I hadn’t planted more. Purslane easily takes on the flavor of whatever it is served with. I can imagine it tossed Asian-style with sesame oil and a shot of soy sauce; with garbanzo beans in an Italian vinaigrette; or chopped up finely in pico de gallo. I haven’t yet cooked purslane, but I read about how the Greeks toss raw purslane into the roasting juices from meat, where it wilts like spinach and thickens the sauce through it’s mucilaginous characteristics.

(Gah, isn’t mucilaginous the grossest word ever?)



My favorite way to use purslane is in this salad, the recipe which comes from Jon Rowley, a local Seattleite who has spent his entire life searching for flavor. This quest has taken Jon near and far, and though he’s a quiet and modest man, he’s got some great stories to tell (if you want to read one, I love this story of his marriage to Kate McDermott and the compost gifts their guests brought). Most of all, Jon knows good food—be it the seafood the Pacific Northwest, his search for a perfect peach, or a humble salad of greens some people call weeds. I’m lucky to have met him, and lucky that he is generous in sharing his knowledge, passion, and recipes.

Jon’s salad is a simple thing—four ingredients: purslane, tomatoes, onion, salt. The first time I made it I thought it might need some olive oil, or maybe some lemon juice. When I tasted it, however, it really was perfect on it’s own—the flavors completely balanced. It’s been my go-to salad all summer long.



In addition to purslane, you want some tomatoes—those perfect late summer tomatoes just dripping with juice. Grab them while you can. They won’t be around for much longer.



The kind of tomatoes that leave a sopping mess on the cutting board. A delicious sopping mess.



Add a bit of onion, chopped finely.



Sprinkle a little salt over the whole thing and toss together. That’s it—the easiest, perhaps healthiest salad ever. But you won’t eat it because it’s healthy, you’ll eat it because the purslane is refreshing, the tomato makes you think of hot summer days, and the onion binds it all together with a little spritely kick. You’ll eat it because it makes you happy. And then you’ll go on the hunt for more purslane. I know I did.



If you want to hear more from Jon Rowley, you can follow him on Twitter (@oysterwine) or check out his gorgeous food and market photos on Flickr. He’s also featured in an episode of the new food and travel show with Gourmet Magazine editor Ruth Reichl: Adventures with Ruth (premiering Oct 17th). The second episode is titled Jon Rowley’s Seattle.

And for those aspiring bakers, Jon’s wife, the lovely Kate McDermott, is an accomplished and award-winning pie baker. You can sign up for her pie baking classes in Seattle (and one this month in Chicago) or follow her on Twitter (@katemcdermott) for tempting pie chat. Kate is a true master of the art, and passionate about it. When Ruth was in town, Kate taught her the way of pie.

JON ROWLEY'S PURSLANE SALAD
This is a very loose recipe, feel free to adjust to your preferences

3 cups purslane leaves (detach from stems unless the stems are small and easy to chew)
2 cups chopped tomato
1 tbs minced onion (or more, to taste)
Salt to taste

Cut the tomatoes across the midsection, halfway between stem and tip. Squeeze the tomatoes over the purslane until much of the seeds and juice have been expressed. Use this as a dressing for the leaves. Chop the tomatoes, making sure to scrape any remaining juice/seeds into the bowl with the purslane leaves. Add the tomatoes, onion, and salt to taste. Toss and serve promptly.

Thank You

Oh, you dear, dear people. You amaze and humble me. I’ve often said that I have the best blog readers in the world (not that there is a competition, mind you). That statement has never felt more true than in the past two days.

Thank you so much for your comments on my last post. I loved your sweet stories of passions, lost and rediscovered, your kind words, your encouragement, your commiseration, your sense of humor. The comments you’ve left have both moved me to tears and made me laugh (the woman who said, Go be a Twttering goat-farmer if it makes you happy, cracked me up). You are amazing and I feel lucky to have this small connection to so many wonderful people. If ever I doubt that kindness and grace exist in this world, I will come back here and read your comment stream.

I want to answer each one of you, because it means so much to me that you took the time to write. I know that people don’t always go back and read for comment responses (and I’m not always the best at responding), so I’m going to do so here in this post. My gratitude is just too big to fit in that tiny comment box.

Here we go—

Kat—thanks for the hugs. I think I’m in need of that recharge you mention (onsen, anyone?). Hoping to find one soon!

Francesca—thank you so much for the incredibly generous words. I'm considering cutting out your comment and posting it above my writing desk, for days that lack inspiration. You are so kind.

Hopie—wise words, indeed: “People fall in and out of love, even with their dreams!” (and I hear you about the dream/reality of living abroad). Thanks so much.

Rituparna—wow, you are so sweet to say that. I’m glad you’re taking the food and life idea and making it your own. Thanks for your kindness and good advice.

Tanita—ah, how well you know me! It’s true, my friend. Good of you to point it out. And thanks for sharing your story with me. We must move away from the soul-destroying. I’m glad you seem to have found a balance in doing what you love.

Angelina—what good perspective, thank you for sharing your experience and thoughts. It’s funny the ties we develop, isn’t it. It’s amazing, really—and I feel the same when sites I read go dark for awhile. I miss these people I don’t even know. PS. shall I call my new blog “The Noble Goat Farmer?” :-)

Alice—you’re right. I think some mixing it up is in order. Good advice. Russian food, here we come!

Laurie A-B—such good advice from K. Cashmore, thank you! And thanks for the thoughts on “other people.” I should know by now that’s a bad comparison to make. I LOVE the image of you putting the right book in the right set of hands. That’s magical.

TKW—I think you may have hit the nail on the head: computer-free days are definitely needed! Going to implement something like that soon. Thanks!

Michaela—thanks, for the wisdom and the flowers. You're one of many who have mentioned The Artist's Way. I should unpack my copy...it's around here somewhere.

Danielle—yes, my blog is seasonal and wants its hibernation period! All joking aside, that's a very good point. The wisdom of nature, we've gotten so far away from it.

Tamara—good point about repetition, hadn’t thought of that before (I like to knit while watching TV, makes me feel better about the watching:-)

Kristen—I like that definition of success! I think I’ll adopt that for myself as well.

Heather—good advice, thank you. I think some museums and art galleries are in my future!

Britt—thank you, especially for letting me have unswept floors (I’m assuming this exemption covers not vacuuming as well:-). Sometimes things just need to be let go of, I think. Trying to learn to accept this. Thanks.

Knitsnwovens—wise words, indeed, especially from someone dealing with much of the same. Best of luck with your hobby/job as well!

Barbara—glad you liked the flowers, I think they’re so beautiful. Thanks for the suggestions (I’m three chapters in on Confessions of a CMB). You’re right, of course, Twitter doesn’t replace blogs, but it does distract bloggers!

Katieleigh—I hear you about marketing writing, not quite the same, eh? Glad you have some other creative outlets.

Brandi—thanks for the sweet words, I like the social aspect of it as well. Maybe that’s why writing is feeling hard these days—too lonely!

Ellen—oooh, good advice. Maybe I need to back to pen and paper. These days I’m hating the computer so much. Good luck with the PhD program, I can only imagine how that might take the joy out of things!

Whitney—what a lovely image of you falling for your city again. Thanks.

Jennywenny—it’s a dilemma, isn’t it? Best of luck with finding the answer that is right for you, and thanks for the kind words.

Beastmomma—thanks for your suggestions, and congratulations on your marriage! I do think I will write more about books, and more about other people. I’ve gotten bored with myself!

ChezUs—thanks for your lovely response (and glad you like the flowers, I hadn’t realized how gorgeous dahlias could be). It sounds as if you’ve found the right answer for yourself. I can only imagine it took courage to strike out and leave the corporate ladder. Thanks for sharing.

Cicero Sings—thanks for your kind comment (one of many you’ve been so nice to leave me over time!). I will look up that writing farmer. Isn’t it funny how a taste of reality (cooking for 70) can take away any bit of romance:-)

Emma Wallace—good point, even chocolate cake gets old. Sounds like you have a very healthy outlook on the ebbs and flows. Going to try and adopt one for myself.

Aran—how fun it would be to have you in Seattle! I was actually supposed to travel this fall, but just didn’t feel like I had it in me. Going to need to recharge closer to home. Come visit, please!

Izzyw—thank you so much, for the kind words on the blog and the validation of the idea of stepping back from it all. Might be the sanest thing to do right now:-)

Genie—it was great to see you Sat as well! Sorry to hear you’re wrestling with the burnout also. Think we need to go hiking on Tam and let it all blow away.

Janine @ Rustic Kitchen—you’re right, we are lucky to have these options at all. Incredibly lucky. Thanks for sharing your story. I think you book sounds wonderful! I’ll be the first in line to buy a copy when it comes out—farmers’ markets are just about my favorite thing ever!

Mrs. B—thanks, my friend. This new life thing—can we just get there already? The journey is taking forever! Come on up and let’s find us some goats:-) Jenifer—love the plate analogy! I tend to be a generalist as well. May need to add some more plates. Keep me on my toes!

Karen—sounds like a great balance. Clearly, I need to get out more :-)

Katrina—VT, Maine, or a café in Mississippi all sound pretty good to me about now. Want a partner? :-)

Anon—ah yes, I remember training for things like that, when it takes over everything else in the world. Thanks for the reminder. Ebbs and flows.

Dmatthews—sage advice, thank you. Think I’m going to be listening hard for my own answers. Hilda—yeesh, post-production on films sounds worse than writing books. I love the story of your escape and adventure. That’s wonderful!

Fleur—oh my goodness, thank you for your comment (for a first time commenter, you hit it out of the ballpark!). Maybe I just need to adjust the balance, as you say. I would love to read your dissertation, when you’re done. Best of luck with that—and thank you again for your very kind words.

Lisa-Marie—brave or stupid, it’s a toss-up on any given day!:-) I have absolutely enjoyed what I’ve written here, it’s just the pressure feeling like I ought to be doing more that is hard. But I love imagining you cooking for your friends—thank you so much for sharing that!

Kate—so nice to meet you as well. I was inspired by the weekend, and by people who have found ways to successfully work the work into their lives. I’m still sorting it out, I think. Hope to get there too :-)

Elspeth—good idea on the part-time. I may be following in your footsteps! I’m glad you found a good balance for yourself.

Elaine @ Messy Kitchen—thanks so much, your words are very calming to one who does not feel calm these days. I’m going to try and adopt a similar perspective, try to find what works for me.

PaintEater—(great name!) I loved hearing your story of how you recalibrated your life. I think I might be at a similar point myself. Thanks for the brave example, and for the encouragement to question. You are MUCH wiser than you think!

Laura (What I Like)—they have a dahlia garden in SF? How did I not know this? I must check it out. GG Park is next to my house there. Thanks for the tip.

Vickie—I love your comment: “Blogging, like good manners, will never go out of style.” Thanks for the great advice. I appreciate it!

Chickenless Chick—ha, too funny! (the nooooos). I love the garden analogy, that’s perfect. Time to put this raised bed to sleep for awhile. Not sure if Twittering goat farmer is in my cards, but boy did it get a laugh out of me. Thanks for that!

Kickpleat—oh my dear, you know all about doing work you love. Yes, let’s talk when I get back. Over a nice meal and drinks. Might need to make a weekend of it! Xox

Anon—Year of the Goat? No, I haven’t—but I will. Thanks for the encouragement. It sounds as if you figured out what the right decision was for you. So glad for that.

Brooke—oh yes, I can relate to that! The new adventure is always more appealing than what’s already here. Thanks for the encouragement, it means a lot. And best of luck to you with the new/old business :-)

Dana—I was so surprised to hear about you giving up the business, but it seems like there is an ebb and flow to everything. Trying to learn to accept that. Yes, let’s walk soon! Xox

E—well of course there are more important things than blogging (world peace comes to mind:-). But I do believe that food—how we grow it, cook it, rely on it, gather around it, nourish our families with it—is incredibly important. Food, water, shelter—isn’t that the three most basic needs? (imported chocolate does take it to another level, however). Sounds like you’ve found a good balance. I’m looking for mine.

Laurie—very good perspective, thank you! I do try to explain this to my friends: just because I love my job, doesn’t mean that my job sometimes sucks (doing self-employed taxes comes to mind). I like your attitude. Thanks for sharing!

Briana—I know, hearing everyone else’s stories is being so helpful to me. Sometimes you just have to know that you’re not the only one going through it. Hang in there, maybe together we can make it

Marilyn—I can well imagine restaurant burnout, I think it’s 10x worse than regular burnout. We are lucky, this is true. Just have to find the right balance. Xox

Annapt—“I love my work, no matter how much it frustrates me,” that’s a great quote—and I agree. Think I just need the balance you were talking about. More walks in the woods. Thanks so much for sharing your story. I love imagining you underlining your biology books (I was looking at mine confused:-)

Allison—“passion is a lot harder to come by than I grew up believing.” Amen to that: harder to find, and harder to keep. Thanks for the kind words.

D—thanks. Your description reminded me of how wonderful it was to start a blog, to write about what I am passionate. Need to get back to that feeling. Hoping I can. Enjoy the process, the blog journey is filled with lovely serendipity and pleasure.

Allie—thanks so much. That Helen is such a talent, isn’t she? Was great to get to hang out with her.

Cookie baker Lynn—I think “sabbatical” sounds much better than “flaking on my blog.” I might have to adopt that term instead. Thanks!

Lindsay—very good advice. I think I will try to shake it up and be less structured, as you say. My tea party may become a tapas party—lots of little bites!

Megan—clearly, I need more Nutella in my life. That would solve all problems! But I think you’re right. It’s an ongoing challenge. Thanks for the encouragement, it means a lot!

Annabelle—I had a Scottish friend who used to say, “Tea is the way forward.” I think she’s right. And time off never hurts either. Thanks!

Sprouted Kitchen—I know, I’m overwhelmed by all the wonderful comments. Everyone is so kind.

Connie—what wise words. Yes, time to hold babies and look at the ocean. I think your professor was right, and I think you are very kind. Thank you.

Leslie in CA—aren’t the flowers lovely, I was so lucky she gave them to me. Thanks for your nice words on the blog. Twitter isn’t the same, but it’s awfully addictive. Not much on depth, as you say.

Lisa (dandysugar)—I like your idea of a “breather” (sounds so much more pleasant than a “break”). I know the book as well, must dig it out and reread. Thanks for your kind words and for sharing your dance story—I can definitely relate!

JovianSky—your wisdom belies your years! Thanks for the advice, I think you’re right, and you have a great attitude about it. Thanks for sharing.

Kendall—long but good! I loved hearing about your acting, and your father’s advice. Sounds like he’s given you some very good guidance. Best of luck with your future acting adventures. I hope you can strike a balance that is right for you.

Emma—oh, I hear you on the grad school thing. I never wrote as little, creatively, as I did when I was doing my MFA. I wrote papers about other people’s writing, but none of my own. You’re right about creatives, I think. No one else can really understand. Best of luck to you with the program. In many ways it was a relief to finish mine.

Lynne—thanks so much for the link. I took a look and you’re right. There are so many fears and ways to sabotage. Thanks for your insight!

Bansidhe—thanks for the advice. I think you’ve got the system figured out (and some lovely hobbies). I’m going to be taking a page from your book soon.

Kellybeth—thanks, especially for the confession that some days you can’t stand to face the yarn. Made me laugh, and feel better. Glad to know I’m not the only one!

Meaghan—thanks, my dear. You are very sweet. Isn’t that money/time balance a funny thing=when you cut back you have time and sanity, but fewer funds. I might have to just tell my deadlines who’s boss. Thanks for the encouragement!

Leah—that's great, and how wonderful that you've found the thing that you love to do. It will be curious to see if that shifts over time. I love writing, but I'm beginning to realize how much I love not writing too!

Literarygeek—there is so much fun and joy to be found in blogging, that bursting with ideas and excitement feeling is so much fun. Enjoy the process! I am sure you will.

Irene—thanks for mentioning the Proust quote, that's a lovely analogy, and thanks for the kind words. Sending hugs back to you!

Alisa—you dear thing, thanks so much for writing (and glad you like the noodles!). I have the same feeling, but mostly it's goes: when I grow up I want to have a site as cool as Heidi/Molly/Shauna. You are very kind, and thanks also for the Frey link. This writing is a funny thing, no? Can't live with it, can't live without it! Thanks again.

Ibteda—thanks for sharing such an inspiring story of going after what you love. I'm sorry if you don't feel like you have the muse in you right now, but I am sure you will find it again. Perhaps we all need to step back and recharge from time to time. I hope you find your peace. You are an inspiration for your courage in following your passion!

Anon—yes, cupcake bakeshop was wonderful (and I'm not even a baker). I suppose I have been melancholy lately. Burnout sometimes does that to a girl, I'm just trying to find my way through, to find balance. Writing a book throws things out of wack! Will tell more about it soon, I promise. Thanks for your kind words.

Julie—good point, sometimes we do fall out of love. I can't imagine not writing, however. Think my challenge is a matter of balance. Working on it. And thanks for weighing in, writing as a job does change things.

Anna—glad to hear that other people can blow hot and cold about things as well, thanks!

Di—oh my dear, I'm sorry to hear you've been through the wringer as well. I hope as life rolls forwards you will continue to feel less shattered (oh do I know that feeling), and I'm glad if this site was able to give you some small solace (and Shauna, isn't she wonderful?). Thanks for sharing your story. Sending you all the best as you build a life in your new city. May you bloom there, beautifully.

Denise—thanks, dear. I do think I need to mix it up, find a better balance, and if worse comes to worse, I'll have some tasty goat cheese!

Alvia—thanks for sharing your story and helpful links. I love your phrase: life has a way of going unchecked. It sounds like you are listening to those small voices. They do tend to guide you right. Thanks again!

That’s it, folks (for the moment). Thanks so much for sharing your stories with me. I loved hearing more about all of you. Your generosity buoys me up; you make me want to be a better blogger. Seriously.