To California and the Good Food Awards

Y'all, guess where I'm going tomorrow? San Francisco! For two nights. By myself. And do you know why? Because after my strawberry-cardamom jam scored exceptionally well in last year's Good Food Awards, I was asked to be a judge this year. So enthusiastically, I said "YES!"

The GFA believes that "For a long time, certifications for responsible food production and awards for superior taste have remained distinct—one honors social and environmental responsibility, while the other celebrates flavor. The Good Food Awards recognize that truly good food—the kind that brings people together and builds strong, healthy communities—contains all of these ingredients. We take a comprehensive view, honoring people who make food that is delicious, respectful of the environment, and connected to communities and cultural traditions."

I'm going to spend all day Sunday tasting the delicious entries in Preserves. My co-judges sound like fascinating people, the other categories are as fabulous as preserves (think: charcuterie, cheese, oil, beer...), and there's an after-party at The Perennial that I can't wait to attend.

I leave at the crack of dawn tomorrow, will spend a few hours with my aunt Renee once in SF, and fly home Monday. A whirlwind and an exciting one. Woo-woo!

BARE Vestland restaurant in Bergen, Norway

Yesterday, Tom and I had one of the best meals of our lives: lunch at BARE Vestland, in Bergen, Norway. We’d read about the restaurant in the New York Times recently, and with a free day in Bergen decided to take advantage of the noontime hour.

Bergen, the second largest city in Norway after Oslo, sits on a peninsula on the country’s southwestern coast. It is by far the most urban place we’ve visited and has a distinctly coastal and also industrial feel. It boasts an historic city center and a thriving fish market, and is surrounded by seven mountains, or fjellene.

After taking the funicular to the top of one, Mount Fløyen, Tom and I left the kids with the rest of the family and headed back down the steep face. First stop, Det Lille Koffe Kompaniet.

​Run by a mother and daughter who bore a striking and beautiful resemblance to one another, Det Lille was the best cup of coffee I’ve had on this trip so far. Raccoon, in Alesund, and a tiny stand in Amsterdam on day 1, were solid seconds, but Det Lille, you are doing it right and with charm. Three lovely cakes still in warm, aged springform pans sat on the counter. A man had just delivered them from a nearby kitchen. They looked as if they'd just sprung from Nanny's oven. I ordered a slice of the pistachio almond cake but when the mother went to cut it, she found it wasn't quite done. We shared a laugh, she refunded my money, and the man wrapped the cake back in its pan and outer layer of foil and hurried it back from whence it had come. This would never, sadly, happen in America. I loved every moment. As it turns out a slice was $9 US so I probably didn't need it that badly. Norway is stunningly expensive. 

As we sipped and sighed happily, we strolled through Bergen’s Bryggen area and made our way to Vågsallmenningen, near Fresco Hall. Three steps down to a door in a subtle exterior and through into a dark, sleek yet cozy interior.

​Bare Vestland is a hyper-locally sourced small-plate establishment. And it offers an extensive selection of beer, which felt as if they’d be perfect matches with the menu. I chose a Porter style and Tom a Saison, both made by 7 Fjell bryggeri. They were sublime.

To go alongside them we ordered the: sourdough bread and oxtail butter; radishes, turnips, and tarragon cream; lightly smoked fish with cauliflower, lemon, and dill; chicken confit with broccoli and lovage; and Plukkfisk, a Bergen specialty of mashed potatoes whipped with white fish and topped with bacon and leeks. Each was a revelation.

Every bite was better than the last, and we cleaned our plates. The turnips and radishes were bright, tangy, devoid of bitterness and fibrousness; utterly fresh and of the season. I wanted to bathe in the tarragon cream.

The fish was so lightly smoked that the center of each piece was raw. The exterior was speckled and shimmery from heat, the whole like a work of sashimi art. Green dill oil slicked it elegantly.

The chicken confit was sublime: tender, moist, completely chickeny in the best way (it was a local organic chicken). And the Plukkfisk was of the gods. Highbrow comfort food that I will most definitely be replicating. 

Stuffed, we nonetheless ordered dessert: almond cake with strawberry, rhubarb, meringue, and sour cream. 

Truly, we were blissed out. While Bergen had some lovely sights, it didn't speak to my soul in any way except at BARE Vestland, where food and the love of preparing it thoughtfully and with great attention to detail and locality gave me a marvelous sense of place and character.  

All the thoughts on a Friday, which has now turned into Saturday

My youngest darling was the burp contest champion at camp this week. He can do, what he calls, "constant burp," and it's pretty impressive if you appreciate that sort of thing. 

I came across and bought this manly tomato today, just after having a really wonderful, fulfilling lunch with a relatively new but total gem of a friend. 

Those two things are not remotely related except that she responded to this picture in this way: "Yes! I love it when I find lewd veggies! This is a fine specimen!" She's a keeper.

I really do feel so terribly rich with friends. Last weekend I was lucky to get to host my online writing group for our first in-person retreat. We've been writing together for a few months now, though several of us have done so before. Ah, the interwebs. But, not all of us had met each other in real life prior to everyone's arrival on Saturday. 

We needn't have worried. It was one of the easiest 48 hours ever and included spending enormous amounts of time in pajamas eating, watching Roger win Wimbledon, leaving the house after more than a day to eat a delicious meal at Ghibellina, and enjoying a last morning together at Politics and Prose (although the customer service in the cafe was staggeringly terrible. Ex: "I'd like that chocolate croissant." With a sneer she replied, "That's not chocolate." My friend: "May I ask what it is?" Reply: "Yes." WTF?!?!) It did not include any writing. Hah!

Champion of champions!

The boys returned to Calleva on Monday, and despite the horrific heat wave DC has been steaming in for the past week, they had, as always, a fabulous time. It's such a great camp. They are so filthy at pickup every single day that I send them directly to showers when we get home, no delays. You should see the seats of my car; they've been tinted by their bums this week, the aftermath of literally lolling about in nature, on shore and in the river.

We resumed our 2Amys Monday for pizza and meatballs and sitting in the front window tradition. We've been going there regularly, sometimes weekly, for eleven years, but 2Amys Monday is a Calleva-specific ritual. That's a long time to have a place in your life, and I love that. One of the managers, Darlene, has been there the whole time. She has seen the kids grow up, and we have watched with delight as her commitment to pink winds through hair, nails, outfits, and so on. 

The heat and humidity this week have been tough, even for me and my Louisiana blood. Temps have topped 100 most every day with not a cloud or drop of rain in sight. We have had thunder though; one clap broke a neighbor's glass patio table. And today, Saturday, I'm watching as dark gray clouds roll in like a storm surge from nowhere. The trees keep blowing to near horizontal positions before returning to an eerie stillness. 

Because of the oppressive sultriness, it has felt near impossible to cook. Everyone is basking in cold, raw opportunity: salad, chilled soup, crostini with lots of cheese. I managed to grill pizza one night, and inexplicably (beyond my desperate need to use up a ton of rhubarb) I made some jam. Today, because our tomatoes are going nuts, I passed the black krims through my food mill to make the base for gazpacho and then had the opportunity to use up all my bell peppers, green onion bulbs, and cucumbers.

pain de campagne, burrata, tomatoes, basil, and great olive oil

Not pretty but very delicious gazpacho

A few days ago I went to Politics and Prose (again) to hear Angela J. Davis in conversation with three of the contributors, Roger Fairfax, Kristin Henning, and Renee McDonald Hutchins, to her new book of essays, Policing the Black Man. Each essay constitutes a different perspective on the racism pervading America's criminal justice system: how black boys and young men are stereotyped and treated by police; implicit bias; various legal viewpoints; the history, present, and possible future of our justice system; and so forth. It was a terrific event, and I look forward to reading the book.

Angela J. Davis and her newest book

In other book news, I'm about 2/3 of the way done with Quiet Until the Thaw, and I must say that while there are some beautiful phrases and passages full of wisdom, I am disappointed. I have zero idea why Fuller decided to fictionalize this story. It puts her, as a non-Native American, in the voice of one. I'm not surprised by the flak she's taking from native writers, not least because the style in which she's chosen to write often feels glib. It too frequently feels like a poorly rendered stereotypical description of Indians and reservations- names, headdresses, alcohol abuse... There is a better way to respectfully treat Native American traditions and people in literature although I sincerely believe she has a profound respect for them. Which is why this is disappointing. I wish she'd just written of the months she spent on the Lakota reservation, from her perspective. 

Ok, the rain has passed. God did we need it. Perhaps we'll actually be able to cook something for dinner. Dessert at least.