Two weeks ago, I flew more than 5,300 miles for a hug. Well, OK, lots of hugs. I needed to see my tribe.

the three nutty blondes, made even nuttier by the bubbly

I’m a hugger. And it still baffles me to no end how most people in San Francisco are not. Tree huggers, yes. People huggers, not so much. Even though my mom is German, she’s a hugger. That’s probably where I got it from. We hug every morning when we first see each other and again at night before we go to bed. We’re known to sneak some hugs in there in the middle of the day, too. So yeah, we hug. A lot. But hugging aside, it’s no secret that I’ve felt more than a little out of place in San Francisco lately. So I got on a plane (or two) and flew 5,351 miles from San Francisco to London to be with what a good friend (whom I met in SF but doesn’t hug) calls “my tribe.”

I’ve been a bit of an etymology nerd lately, thanks in large part to a fellow word nerd whom I met here in SF (and whom I’d classify as a medium hugger). While there are many definitions for the word “tribe,” my favorite is a simple one: A group of persons who have a common character, occupation, or interest. The word dates back to 13th century Middle English, from Latin tribus, a division of the Roman people: tribe. (Always the Romans, they knew what was up.) Even though I used the term quite often, I never put much stock or deep thought into it until last night when I was recounting my trip to the aforementioned word nerd. I realized then that I flew all the way to London for more than a bacon sandwich, really amazing gin or a giant bag of Cadbury’s mini eggs. I flew all the way to London to reconnect with my tribe. The tribe I have spent years depending on but never really realized it.

sometimes in life, you just really need to share a sausage

I hop around a lot, which confuses many people. I’ll move country or city without a lot of premeditated thought, I’ll get on planes to far away places on a whim, I’ll do yoga in jungles or French chateaux or tiny northwestern islands, and I’ll occasionally do crazy things like live on a farm in Ireland for three months. A doctor here once told me that this sort of lifestyle is a symptom of my “overstimulated mind” — apparently my mind moves more quickly than any other part of me, so I need to change my stimuli often to keep it happy. I fall into the hyper-creative, entrepreneur-brain category, which seems to have a common neurological pattern. We are “people that balance their neurochemistry by constantly doing something stimulating or innovative at all times,” according to this Inc. article that the doctor was interviewed for. Believe of it what you will, but much our 20 minute discussion years ago still resonates with me today.

a proper Sunday lunch with good friends can do wonders for the soul

I’ve deduced that a lot of people just don’t get me. (The doctor did add that romantic relationships would be challenging. Um, yes.) So for the few people that I meet that also fall into this same category, we get along swimmingly. For the rest, they’ll either a) try to calm me down, strongly suggest that I choose one path, or just shake their heads; or b) let me be my nutty self. This is not to say that the same person cannot play both roles at various times or in different situations, but the reactions are pretty clearly divided into those two groups. Because of this, I try to be conscious of my reactions to other people’s paths, dreams, career aspirations and the like. I hope I do OK on that front. But spending a lot of time alone these days had lead me to crave some seriously awesome human interaction with people who get me. People in group (b). This is not to say that I don’t have a tribe in the States. I definitely do. But it’s different. We are so work and career-focused here that it’s very hard to be, for the first time in your life, not defined by your job and truly embrace life in the US. Perhaps it’s the adventurous European spirit, perhaps it’s the bond you create with people who are in the trenches with you (another term coined by my wise Californian non-hugging friend), perhaps it’s a mix of both that lead me across the pond to my tribe.

we look so well-behaved here

I spent a week laughing and eating and drinking gin and hugging. I spent a week in a place without judgement, both literally and figuratively. I spent a week surrounded by unconditional encouragement and support for my new journey, and really good gin. (Did I mention the gin already? Oh well, it was really good.) On my last night, I got a bit emotional (shocker, I know). Surrounded by the smiling faces of friends, many of whom are as nutty as I am, I realized that I’m not as f—ked up as I often think I am, and I’m ready to carry on (as they say) back home.  No, I don’t have a full-time job. No, I’m not earning six figures anymore. No, I’m not moving back to New York tomorrow. No, I don’t know exactly where this new road will take me. But yes, I am exactly where I am supposed to be.

As a very good friend and fellow culinary school mate says to me almost every day, “How lucky are we?”

i love these mugs, and these lovely ladies

As Otis Redding so accurately captured this moment… just sittin’ on the dock of the bay

A few weeks ago, I went to the corporate offices of a well-known “disruptive” tech company in SF to pitch some content strategy ideas, and I was immediately struck by the overwhelming awareness that I’m not 27 years old anymore. (To be fair, I’m not even 37 years old anymore.) Waiting at reception after I checked in via an iPad (I miss humans), I watched oodles of twenty-somethings walk around carrying half-open MacBook Air laptops in the palms of their hands like a waiter carrying a tray, being followed by prancing puppies clad in denim jeans stopping at dog biscuit stations for treats and then bounding up the factory-inspired metal stairs after their owners. The girls wore classic San Francisco girl outfits — skinny pants, loose blouses, booties, big sweaters, Warby Parker black or tortoise-shell glasses. The guys wore classic engineer duds — gray T-shirts with some sort of logo or cartoon (the more unrecognizable the design, the cooler the dude), jeans, and sneakers. It was sort of cold that day so there were some hoodies. I was wearing a Diane von Furstenberg patterned tunic dress, burgundy leather knee-high boots and a gray wool Vince one-button cape jacket. So yeah, I, um, didn’t fit in. A born-and-bred New Yorker who started my career in fashion, I might be just slightly more aware of what people wear. But — it was soon very apparent that the outfits were very much the book covers by which we all could be judged.

I only met one person there and she was perfectly lovely. Though we spoke quite different languages, we thankfully seemed to be speaking about the same thing. (Score!) During the presentation she mentioned on a few occasions that my ideas were “like so totally awesome.” (Double score!)  I can’t imagine what my slightly pained and very pensive face must have looked like during that meeting. I just really wished I had a millennial dictionary to help decode our conversation while it was going on.

Speaking of dictionaries, I’ve recently rediscovered my love for Strunk & White’s The Elements of Style. I have the third edition, published in 1979 and handed down to me from my older brother, who was also an English major and a grammar nerd. I’ve found one other grammar nerd here, he’s 30 so technically still a millennial but not as much of a logo T-shirt-er as his peers. We can nerd out almost endlessly about affect vs. effect and the correct uses of the word “hopefully” (there are very few, in fact). And I really appreciate this nod to concise and grammatically correct speaking and writing. Many, if not all, of my publishing peers in New York would think of these efforts as a given, but sadly in the young San Francisco tech scene, I yet again seem to be a fish out of water.

That same week I was also at the corporate office of another well-know “disruptive” tech company in SF for another meeting. The offices were stunning. Draw-dropping, crank your neck, mouth-wide-open stunning. A modern glass and open-plan space juxtaposed in a 96-year-old warehouse building, it is a design masterpiece. But when I looked around the dining room, casually eating my grilled chicken schwarma and still oogling at the tap bar from which I chose an awesome local sour wheat beer, I noticed that everyone looked, um, well 27. Trying to imagine myself working there, I just couldn’t get past feeling like a dinosaur. I guess in dog years in the tech world, I am. At least the building was older than I am.

All this to say, my life is different now. It’s been just slightly over a year since I left my corporate VP job and starting blazing my new trail. And it’s taken me that entire year to step back and get some perspective on it all. Some days are fucking scary. Others are amazing. Most mornings when I wake up to start the coffee brewing and start motivating myself, I don’t know which kind of day it will be. Although I don’t regret any of the adventures I’ve taken in life, I do miss the times when I had friendly faces of encouragement around me always. I do miss having coworkers. I realize now that the “we’re all in this together” hokey stuff is very comforting.

I was struck by an article I read recently on medium.com entitled Blind Positivity Sucks. After a bit of harsh reality around how much people on the Internet seem to be obsessed with positivity, motivation, and inspiration, it goes on to say:

Blind positivity is believing that your dreams will come true instead of putting in the hard work to make it happen.

That line actually gave me some reprieve around my approach to life lately. Because damn have I been hustling. Hustling for $0, it should be noted. Promises of payment or contracts or longer-term working relationships, yes — but actual money, no. So it probably goes without saying that there are only so many consecutive days that you can hustle for $0 that you don’t occasionally stop and ask yourself, “What the feeeck (as the Irish say) are you doing? Do you really think this will work?” And honestly, I have no feeecking idea.

I’m not 27. I live in a city where everyone is obsessed about the next big thing and disrupting anything and everything that could possibly need disruption. Many of my “peers” are brilliant and will go on to do great things. Many of them don’t use “your” and “you’re” correctly, but will still go on to do great things. I don’t really want to disrupt things as much as I want to make them better. I want to teach little kids how to cook. I want to show them where their (not there) food comes from. I want to help the awesome chefs and bakers and food people in this city spread their knowledge and their research and their amazing food with others. I want to connect those amazing people with the little ones like I’m Cupid with an arrow made out of bread. And every so often I want to put on my chef’s whites and open my knife bag and get cooking somewhere awesome. I just need to stop and remind myself — I’m doing all of those things. For $0, yes, but I’m doing them. I’m now on the Board of Directors for Bay Leaf Kitchen, an amazing non-profit organization that teaches kids about cooking, farming and food sustainability from age 3. I’m helping Chad Robertson with anything and everything related to the future of bread. He has taken to introducing me as, “This is my friend, Alexis. She came to me to bake bread and then I found out who she was.” It makes my heart sink every single time. And this weekend I’m going to cook somewhere awesome — at the Taste of the NFL charity dinner the night before the Super Bowl, which helps fight hunger across the country.

So the hustle is not for naught, but the true test is reminding myself every day that I’m putting in the hard work. It’s been crazy to leave a world where you define yourself and your successes from a corporate perspective. Audience growth, product engagement, unique users, PNL, percentage change year-over-year, etc. etc. — it all plays like a game of corporate bingo. If nothing else, I’ve learned from blazing this new trail that I need to redefine what success means to me.

And there is no better reminder about how much hard work can pay off — AND how sometimes we just need to see what we have — than this scene from The Pursuit of Happyness. Especially because it was filmed on a street that I walk down almost every day.

*SPOILER ALERT — if you haven’t seen the movie yet, you should watch it first. Right now, in fact. It is one of the best. 

I thought breaking free would be the hardest part. But over the course of the past year, I’ve realized that staying free is much, much harder. Carving your own path is tough. But carving it alone is even tougher.

Every time I land at Newark Airport, I look out the plane window for the Statue of Liberty. She is my rock. She’s been standing in that water, holding her head up high, surviving hurricanes and blizzards and even terrorist attacks. And she never lets her arm down or her light go off. She’s pretty bad ass. And she stands there alone.

My attempt at being the Statue of Liberty — in Northern Ireland

I wish I were as bad ass as the Statue of Liberty. I try to be, but some days it’s not that easy. 2015 was a roller coaster, to say the least. A year ago, I boarded a plane to Ireland to live on a farm for three months and cook my heart out. It was one of, if not the, best experiences of my entire life. I learned so much about what was brewing inside me that I didn’t even realize was there, I gained confidence in the kitchen, I met friends for life, and I milked cows. Not much in life could top any of that. After school was finished, I traveled for a month to visit friends all over the world. It was probably the first time I really understood how fortunate I am to have friends in all of the far corners of the earth. And then I went to a jungle in Mexico and made some more.

There have been many ups and downs, laughs and tears, smiles and screams during the course of finding my new path. Although my wise yoga teacher tells me often, “You are on the right path, just keep walking,” some days it’s really, really hard. And to be honest, I’ve been struggling with how my world of absolutely wonderful and amazing friends could fill the void of one solid and loving partner.  The Uber driver who picked me up from Newark Airport asked me why I didn’t bring my husband with me for Christmas. I told him politely that I didn’t have one. And he said to me, with the biggest smile and look of optimism on his face, “Maybe Santa will bring you one for Christmas!” Santa did bring me some awesome new running sneakers, but a husband he did not. I could say that I’m lucky to have found love in my life. But when it doesn’t last, does it even matter? If you have no one to kiss at midnight on New Year’s Eve, does it matter what has happened in years past? I watched It’s a Wonderful Life the other day, such a classic for so many reasons. But this time I took pause when George Bailey’s mother says to him at his brother’s engagement party, “Nice girl, Mary. The kind that will help you find the answers.” What an amazing way to describe a partnership. And in the end, who calls Mr. Gower and Uncle Billy and brother Harry and He-Haw Sam Wainwright when George loses everything and runs out into the snow in despair? Mary. I could really use a Mary right about now.

I have been blessed with so many strong, independent female role models in my life. Those who take risks and do bold things and follow their dreams. They’re pretty bad ass. But when there’s a dip in the road or a change in the plans, almost all of them have a partner in crime to lean on. I’m jealous of that. I’ve never been one to need a partner in crime (and have been told many times that my independent spirit might actually be a turn off to potential partners), but have always loved having one. And the few I’ve had in my life have been pretty amazing. So I can attest to the power of two. Having spent about as many years in my adult life solo as I have as a twosome, I can say that I prefer the later.

My yoga teacher asked us in class today to sum up our gratitude for 2015 in one word. I said: DISCOVERY. I’m so grateful for everyone I’ve met, everything I’ve learned, and everywhere I’ve been. I’d like my word for 2016 to be LOVE. Love like my parents have even, especially, after 48+ years together. Love that you can lean on, love that holds your hand when life doesn’t make much sense, love that is a rock when you’re wading aimlessly out at sea. When I told my facialist in New York about the feast I cooked for Christmas dinner, she said to me, “The man who is lucky enough to be with you, is going to be the luckiest man on the planet.” So… anyone out there like prime rib??

Happy New Year to all. Cheers to a healthy, prosperous, and loving 2016.

The universe is full of boxes. But I’m beginning to wonder if I fit into any of them anymore.

a view of the world from the top — quite literally, at the very top of Northern Ireland

Lately I have been trying to shove my apparently non-conventional life into a lot of boxes — online forms, job applications, recruiting websites and the like. Who are you? What do you do? What do you want to be when you grow up? The final scene from The Breakfast Club comes to mind every time I attempt to do this… I’m a student and a teacher, a writer and an editor, a baker and a content strategist, a daughter and a sister and an aunt and a friend and a yogi and and and…

My yoga teacher said to us today to be careful not to think too much about who we are because our thoughts (and I’ll add to that our doubts) can become reality. I am definitely guilty of that. But it is very hard not to do that when you’re trying to carve out a new career path for yourself, one that doesn’t neatly fit into the universe’s boxes.

My wise yoga teacher also says, “Sometimes you need to disconnect to reconnect.” I’ve done quite a bit of that this year, living on a farm in Ireland, traveling around France without a wallet, doing yoga in a jungle in Mexico. What a wonderful year this has been, but also a crazy, stressful, confusing one. I’m learning that those things are not mutually exclusive. I’m starting to feel as though the more I leave to find answers, I just come home with more questions.

I treated myself to a real cup of coffee from a real coffee shop today. That’s not a luxury I afford myself very much any more, partly because it gets expensive quickly and mostly because that used to be how I escaped work when it got really bad. Somehow leaving the office to cross the street, spend a few dollars on a hot, frothy, steamy cup of caffeinated goodness could turn even some of the worst days around. Or at least remind me to breathe. Those real cups of coffee became my mediation. Today I found myself fixated on another women in line at the coffee shop. She was wearing real work clothes and makeup and trendy San Francisco hipster glasses, and I started to feel envious. Her colorful silk blouse and perfectly-applied eyeshadow were things I have lost touch with. Work clothes to me this year have either been chefs’ whites or baking whites, fugly supportive black shoes and aprons adorned with dish towels. For everything else, yoga clothes fit the bill. A friend of mine said to me early on in the journey of my new life, “Let me know how long you go without wearing anything that buttons.” That pretty much sums it up. To me, the woman in the coffee shop represented security, stability, and maybe a little bit of conformity. All things I’ve been craving lately. She looked like she fits into a box. It’s hard to live outside the box. It’s hard to not live in a box at all. Life would be awesome if we didn’t need to “make a living.”

I have been volunteering a lot lately, teaching little kids how to cook and helping the non-profit organization that puts the classes together. There is nothing more rewarding or fulfilling than doing something for the sole reason that you want to, and that other people want you to. No money exchanged, no “what’s in it for me” expectations. It’s simply awesome. One of the founders said to me after our class on Saturday, “When we get all the money in the world, can we hire you?” But here’s the thing, I don’t want all the money in the world. Crazy to say that, especially in this tech money-hungry IPO-crazed city that I live in, but it’s true. Through a series of events, most of which didn’t make much sense to me at the time but are starting to now, I find myself living in one of, if not the, most expensive cities in the country. And all I really want to do is be happy and pay my rent. Easier said than done when you don’t fit neatly into those boxes anymore.

So why am I writing all of this here? I have no f–ing clue. Maybe writing has replaced  expensive real coffee as my meditation. Maybe I thought I would have an answer by the time I was finished. Maybe I just needed a break from all those online boxes. Maybe this “real” coffee is just messing with my head.

someone left this on my pillow 3 1/2 years ago, but it resonates now more than ever

I recently came across an old photo that resonated with me now more than ever. It was of a tiny little quote card that was left on my hotel pillow three and a half years ago when I used to come to San Francisco on business trips before I moved here. It said, “We all have two choices. We can make a living or a design a life.” At the time I probably took it as a sign confirming my decision to move out west and try something new. Now, it actually gives me pause. Is it trying to say that life is really so black and white? What if the life you design doesn’t pay the rent? Am I just naive in searching for a happy medium in between those two definitives? I hope not. Those who know me know that I’m quite a perfectionist. I blame my German blood. And as such, I guess I almost always fit into one of the universe’s boxes. I probably never thought too much about it because I like neat and tidy things, and am most content when everything is organized. But my new life is not easily organized into neat little boxes anymore. In the new year, I hope I can become better at learning how to color outside of the lines.

the Dandelion Chocolate peanut butter and jelly ganache brownie

My universe came full circle today, in one of those tiny little ways that’s just big enough to make you take pause. I spent this morning at Dandelion Chocolate in the Mission District of San Francisco, learning how to make their famous peanut butter and jelly ganache brownie. The same amazingly delicious pastry that was featured on the Cooking Channel awhile back. Back when I worked for their parent company. Back when I was leading a completely different life. And I had no idea.

Andy Bates and the Pizza Hacker making pizza on the street, as you do in San Francisco

Only through my “Googling” (as my mom loves to call it) did I learn that today I made exactly what the TV cameras devoured years ago. I used to be on that side of those cameras, coincidentally (or maybe not) in almost that very same spot on Valencia Street where Dandelion Chocolate and Mission Cheese live now. We filmed part of the San Francisco episode of Andy Bates’ Street Feasts there for Food Network UK, where the Pizza Hacker (who now has his own shop not too far away in Bernal Heights) made pizzas with Andy on the street in his awesome make-shift oven that he used to take to parties. That was three and a half years ago. And here I was today, making pastries in a professional kitchen only steps from there.

this beauty roasts chocolate beans

I met the executive pastry chef for Dandelion Chocolate at a charity fundraising dinner I volunteered at a few weeks ago. We were both in the kitchen (she, working her magic and I, trying not to drop things or cut myself with knives), and she and her team created a pumpkin spice cake with chocolate caramel ganache that changed my life. The world is blessed with some amazingly talented people who are also amazingly nice, and Lisa is one of them. She invited me to come to the shop, tour the factory part of it where they make the chocolate (yes, they make the chocolate right there on Valencia Street, starting with the dried beans), and spend some time in the kitchen with the pastry chefs. YES! Today was that day.

the melangers at Dandelion Chocolate, all lined up like good little soldiers

I won’t even begin to attempt to describe all the steps that they take to turn a dried bean into a bar of chocolate because they explain it much better than I ever could. But I will say that it was fascinating. And maybe a little life changing, too. I learned that chocolate actually comes from the seeds of a fruit that grows on trees (right about now you might be thinking, “How did she never know this? The gal who has been making chocolate cake since she was in the womb?!” — but I honestly never knew that… blasphemous, I know) and that a gorgeous machine called a melanger grinds the nibs into liquid luxuriousness. They have six giant melangers in the factory and one tabletop-sized machine in the pastry kitchen, which we used to make chocolate for macaroons. Chocolate nibs stay in the fancy big ones for three days (three days!), where the sugar is added and the whole lot is refined into perfection. I tasted a few different chocolates from the melangers, and while standing there, I couldn’t help but think that the entire process isn’t that dissimilar in steps and precision to that of making wine. Hmmm…

mini chocolate melanger at work

And then I got to make ganache. Not just any ganache. Peanut butter ganache. And raspberry ganache. All for… you guessed it.. their peanut butter and  jelly ganache brownie sandwich. YUM. As any good American would be, I’m obsessed with peanut butter. And I love baking with it. I tried to get my friends across the pond to eat it when I lived there (and I put proper American peanut butter in my purse), but only a few took the bait. Not one to give up easily, I found some American ex-pat bakers who happily worked with me on perfecting peanut butter frosting one night in the basement of their London bakery during the London riots of 2011. They had a baseball bat and endless jars of imported Jif peanut butter and somehow everything was OK. And we came up with a damn good frosting. But I digress… I love peanut butter. I love jelly. So transforming both of those magical condiments into ganache form was right up my alley (substitute with “right up my street” if you’re in the UK). And now my mind is filled with dozens of other things I want to transform into a ganache. They won’t be as magical as Lisa’s, but not one to give up easily, I sure as heck will try.

the pumpkin spice cake that changed my life

a mountain of chopped fresh cranberries ready to get folded into the batter of goodness

Now that my mom and I live 3,000 miles apart, we text — a lot. She loves texting. So much so that she often taunts my dad with how easy it is to talk to me because she texts. (He doesn’t text. This is a man who leaves insanely long messages on answering machines, but never uses his cell phone. Ever.) This past Sunday she texted me one of her weekend updates — which more often resemble full emails than quick texts (love you, mom!) — and she said, “I hope I have enough time to bake the cranberry bread, would not be Thanksgiving without it!” [heart emoji]

photo courtesy of amazon.com

We have been making this cranberry bread every Thanksgiving since as long as I can remember. It’s from the back cover of a story my parents used to read to me when I was little called Cranberry Thanksgiving. Amazingly, it’s still in print, the original copyright date is 1971. It’s a classic holiday story of a good guy and a bad guy, with a twist! The guy you think is the bad guy turns out to be the good guy! (Sorry if I just ruined it for you. It’s still a good read.) I absolutely loved the illustrations. I remember them vividly, they were so bright and detailed and delicious. I wanted to eat everything in the book. This is one of the first things I remember baking with my mom, even before the famous chocolate cake, because everything is mixed by hand. My whole family eats it for breakfast on Thanksgiving morning. It’s my dad’s hands-down favorite — he’ll pass up everything else for a slice of this. If you have kids, this is a perfect dish to bake with them. I hope it becomes a beautiful Thanksgiving tradition for your family, too.

the recipe for this cranberry bread is older than I am — and that’s hard to do

“GRANDMOTHER’S FAMOUS CRANBERRY BREAD”
From the book: Cranberry Thanksgiving by Wendy Devlin, Harry Devlin

Ingredients:

• 2 c. sifted all-purpose flour
• 1 c. sugar
• 1 1/2 tsp. baking powder
• 1 tsp. salt
• 1/2 tsp. baking soda
• 1/4 c. butter
• 1 egg, beaten
• 1 tsp. grated orange peel (*you can use fresh zest or dried peel)
• 3/4 c. orange juice
• 1 1/2 c. light raisins (*light raisins look better than dark, but if you only have dark don’t stress about it)
• 1 1/2 c. fresh or frozen cranberries, chopped (*I find a mini food processor or hand chopper is best for this)

Method:

1. Sift flour, sugar, baking powder, salt, and baking soda into a large bowl. Cut in butter until mixture is crumbly.

2. Add egg, orange peel, and orange juice all at once; stir until mixture is evenly moist. Fold in raisins and cranberries.

3. Spoon into a greased 9 x 5 x 3″ loaf pan. Bake at 350 degrees for 1 hour and 10 minutes, or until toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean. Remove from pan and cool on a wire rack.

* = my commentary, not included in the original recipe

chewy cherry chocolate oatmeal toffee cookies cooling obediently on their rack

When I lived in London, chocolate chip cookies were almost as alien as pumpkin-y things. I searched high and low for a bag of chocolate chips that would be large enough to bake a batch of cookies, to no avail. And once again my London team nodded their heads in acknowledgment that I was correct, they don’t have proper bags of chocolate chips there. One of my coworkers in the New York office felt so bad about my chocolate chip meltdown that he bought me a giant bag of Nestle chocolate chips at Costco in New Jersey and carried it with him to London on a business trip (one could say he put it in his purse).

I never fancied myself as a chocolate chip cookie aficionado until then, and soon found myself giving lessons in the London office kitchen about how to make a chocolate chip cookie. (I might have gone one step too far, turning those cookies into ice cream cookie sandwiches — to which most of my coworkers shook their heads and politely passed. Too much Americanness, I guess.) But it was during those lessons that I realized all the important and seemingly small nuances that go into making the perfect chocolate chip cookie. Apparently, Martha Stewart has taught me well.

In a nutshell, you can have a chewy chocolate chip cookie or a crispy one. These results are based largely on the amount of butter you use, and how long you bake them for. I’m partial to the chewy gooey kind myself, but even that world is vast and full of options. Every fall, I love to bake these chewy cherry, dark chocolate, oatmeal and toffee cookies. They’re hearty and gooey at the same time, and for some reason have always embodied fall for me — especially when pumpkin and apple fatigue have set in. Even raisin haters can get on board because the dried sour cherries add the same stretchy texture as their dried grape friends with a more subtle flavor. And they stay soft for  a few days so they’re very gift-able and cookie swap-able.

fresh from the oven, these guys will look pale and almost underdone — but wait two minutes and watch the magic happen

The original recipe is a Martha Stewart oldie but goodie. I’ve modified it slightly to change the amounts of all the mix-ins to what I feel is a better ratio, and to add a wee bit of salt to the dough to act as a foil to all of the sweet elements. You could also sprinkle the cookies with sea salt before baking instead of adding salt to the batter. The crucial part about this recipe is taking the cookies out of the oven at the right time. (But that’s actually the crucial step in baking any chocolate chip cookie, in my opinion.) Depending on your oven, they will bake for anywhere between 14-16 minutes. Even at 16 minutes they’ll likely look a bit raw and underdone — but they’re done! Trust me. When the edges start to turn golden brown, that’s your cue to get your oven mitts out. At this stage, the center will be pale and very soft to the touch but the edge will be firm and brown. As soon as they come out of the oven and cool on their baking sheet on top of a cooling rack for two minutes, the puffy centers will firm up, turn even more golden brown in color and sink down slightly. Sinking is good. It means gooeyness. Keeping them on the cookie sheet for just a few minutes will add that extra boost of heat and keep them from overbaking in the oven. (It’s almost as if magic fairies sprinkle their finishing dust on them at this stage and transform them into perfection.) Then transfer them directly to the cooling rack to finish up. If you have kids, let them watch this part as it really is magical and awesome.

CHEWY CHERRY CHOCOLATE OATMEAL TOFFEE COOKIES
Modified from marthastewart.com

Ingredients:

• 1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
• 1 teaspoon baking soda
• 1/4 teaspoon Kosher salt
• 1/2 pound (2 sticks) unsalted butter, room temperature
• 3/4 cup packed light-brown sugar
• 3/4 cup granulated sugar
• 1 large egg
• 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
• 1 1/2 cups oats (no quick-cooking oats, please!)
• 1 cup dried cherries — I use Trader Joe’s dried pitted tart Montmorency cherries
• 5 ounces bittersweet chocolate, coarsely chopped — I use half a bag of Ghiradelli bittersweet 60% cacao chocolate chips (no chopping needed)
• 1/2 cup toffee pieces — I use Heath English toffee bits

Method:

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper; set aside. In a large bowl, mix together flour, baking soda, and salt with a whisk.

2. In the bowl of a standing electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream the butter and both sugars on medium speed until light and fluffy, about 2 to 3 minutes, scraping down the sides of the bowl as needed during mixing. Add the egg; mix on high speed to combine. Add the vanilla; mix to combine. Scrape down the sides of the bowl.

3. Add flour mixture to egg mixture, and mix on low speed until well combined. Add the oats, cherries, chocolate, and toffee pieces; mix to combine after each addition. *At this stage your standing mixer will get tired, so be gentle with it. Small bursts of power are best.

4. Use an ice cream scoop to spoon a heaping tablespoon of dough onto a lined baking sheet. Repeat, spacing 2 inches apart.

5. Bake cookies until golden brown, 14 to 16 minutes, rotating baking sheet halfway through. Remove from the oven and let cool on the baking sheet on top of a wire rack for 2 minutes. Then transfer cookies directly to the wire rack to finish cooling. Store in an airtight container.

Makes about 3 dozen cookies, depending on the size of your scoops. 

Tool Note:
I’m very particular about tools when I bake. OK, let’s be honest, I’m very particular about lots of things in life — but this is a big one. I bake cookies always and only on aerated baking sheets. I totally drink the Kool-Aid on this one and truly believe that they help the circulation of air enough to make a big difference. I bought this set at BBB for my mom and it has changed her life, too.

we love our pumpkins, especially wee little ones

Americans love pumpkin. We can debate all we like about how festive a red coffee cup might be, but there is no debating how much Americans love pumpkin. I never understood our (perhaps slightly overzealous) attachment to all things pumpkin until I lived in London a few years ago, and the fall (aka autumn) was absolutely devoid of pumpkin. There were no loaves of pumpkin bread at the bakeries, definitely no pumpkin spice lattes at Starbucks, and when I suggested that my coworkers just buy a sugar pumpkin at the store or the farmers’ market, they all looked at me like I had seven heads. It was a sad, sad season, made even more sad by the fact that I didn’t have the foresight to pack some Libby’s canned pumpkin in my purse before I crossed the pond. A transatlantic chocolate mule I was, but a pumpkin mule I was not.

I’ve been baking pumpkin bread since I was in third grade. My class took a field trip to the Crane House, which is a federal-style home that was built by Israel Crane in 1796 in Cranetown, NJ (now Montclair) and is part of the Montclair Historical Society. It is exactly everything you would imagine an historical colonial house would be like, down to the tiny chairs and little tables where the nice women in period dress showed us how to make pumpkin bread. (Amazing how they had pumpkins in America in 1796 but they still don’t have them in London!) It was the most delicious thing I had ever tasted to date. And so I have been baking THIS pumpkin bread every year since. My mom still has the original “ditto” in her kitchen pantry, which was likely made with a mimeograph machine since the now-faded text is blue.

I’ve modified the recipe slightly because, let’s be honest, we didn’t really think too much about sugar in 1985. Or vegetable oil. So I’ve experimented over the years and have decided that this slightly healthier version is just as awesome as the original, and I don’t feel nearly as bad eating half a loaf in one sitting anymore.

ahhhh… pumpkin bread

PUMPKIN BREAD RECIPE

Preheat oven to 350F (180C) degrees. Grease 2 long loaf pans or 3 standard loaf pans (this puppy makes a lot of batter).

WET INGREDIENTS — Mix together in the biggest bowl you have:
1/2 c. canola or vegetable oil
4 beaten eggs
1 c. water
2 c. canned or cooked pumpkin*

DRY INGREDIENTS — Mix together in a separate bowl:
3 1/3 c. sifted flour (I use 1 c. whole wheat and 2 1/3 c. all-purpose flour)
2 c. organic cane sugar
1 1/2 tsp. salt
1 1/2 tsp. nutmeg
2 tsp. cinnamon
2 tsp. baking soda

Add the dry mixture to wet mixture and fold together with a wooden spoon.

Optional additions:
1 c. raisins
1 c. chopped nuts
1 c. mini chocolate chips
Grated orange or lemon peel

Fold in any additions, and pour into prepared pans. (Sometimes I sprinkle finely chopped nuts on top of the loaves.)

Bake for 1 hour at 350F (180C).

*For my British friends, you’re in luck! It seems as though Libby’s canned pumpkin is available at Waitrose now. It might be ghastly expensive, but it’s worth it. For everyone, make sure you buy the pumpkin puree and not the pumpkin pie filling. They are very different things! As my friend Julie will attest to….

Happy autumn.

[I just stumbled on this post in my drafts folder — I wrote it in September 2015 when I was traveling in France for the month. And while today is Sunday, albeit a Sunday in San Francisco, I thought I might as well publish it…]

a vineyard in Bordeaux

I’m going to count yesterday as my first Sunday in France, and forget about the actual first one when the “putain de merde” stole my wallet in Paris. After a full week in the country, I was finally starting to feel like I was in the France I remembered.

I went to France looking for something, but I have no frigging idea what. Or maybe I went to France looking to run away from something, but I’m not exactly sure what that would be either. I guess I just felt lost, and I often turn to France to find my way. Since I’m a homing pigeon for Paris, I decided I should see some more of the French countryside as well on this trip. So after three days in Paris (most of which were spent in the police station, in the bank, or on the phone), off to Bordeaux I went. I went seeking wine, and the familiarity of the French lifestyle to comfort me. But I didn’t find it, right away.

hiding in the vines

I did find the wine. And it was pretty good. Some bottles better than others. But I’ve come to realize that I’m becoming a California wine snob. I realize that the French love to blend their wine, making it more “complex” and in their opinions, more interesting. But I think it’s really hard to beat a great bottle of a California cab or pinot or zin — the purity of the respective grape variety really coming through, with each different vineyard showcasing the mastery of their winemakers and their terroir. I’ve also realized that I’m becoming a San Francisco food snob. I expect every meal to be mind blowing, if not life changing. And honestly, about 95% of them in SF are. The meals I had in Bordeaux were mediocre at best, most of them actually quite terrible. And it made me sad. Very sad. Where was the France I knew, that used to blow my mind with each meal? Do I just have a different perspective now, after living in California with the amazing produce at my fingertips daily and after going to culinary school with a better appreciation that it’s pretty hard to funk up quality ingredients if you know what you’re doing? Maybe. Or is not all of France created equal in that regard? Maybe. Or am I just looking for something I’ve already found?

a picturesque part of the Bordeaux countryside

I think the later became clear on Sunday morning when I went for a run along the Garonne River. I stumbled on the biggest, longest, nuttiest farmer’s market I have ever seen in France. It seemed as if it stretched on for miles. And then it all made sense. This is the part of the world where you put the food together yourself. The crappy touristy food I was eating in Bordeaux was likely just that — for tourists. I walked up and down the endless stalls of fish mongers, cheese makers, bakeries, farms, crepe stands and such about three times to soak it all in. This was the France that I remembered. This was the France that I love.

[… Fast forward to today, May 28, 2017, a year and a half after I wrote about France. One thought in particular still resonates quite strongly — “Am I just looking for something I’ve already found?” Most days I feel like I’m looking for something, searching for something new, ready to take on a new challenge or adventure. Will that ever go away? Will that ever change? I hope not. I often think that search is a large part of what keeps me going. And I’m excited to see where it takes me next.]

a cheese stall at the farmers’ market

Bordeaux baguettes

For as long as I can remember, I’ve associated baking with love. As cheesy as it sounds, that’s how I roll. (Pun slightly intended.) From baking a loaf of sourdough and adding “loads of love,” to the simple, pure happiness I feel every time I take anything out of the oven — baking is love. And then there are those I bake for. And with.

this “Aunt Judith fruit tart” made with Cali pluots got more likes on Facebook than I have friends

Aunt Judith’s fruit tarts and I go way back. On a visit to Maine so many years ago I lost count, she presented a wild Maine blueberry tart at the end of the most perfect lobster dinner, and I fell in love. Since that night, I’ve baked countless Aunt Judith fruit tarts — her mother’s recipe from Iowa. Between her mother, her sons, herself, me and whomever else is lucky enough to have the recipe, I can’t even imagine how much love has been spread via “Aunt Judith fruit tarts.” Last week, Aunt Judith lost a very dear friend. She texted me today to say what she had been cooking for the family and simply said, “I’m baking tarts to take over. He loved dessert.”

Those same tarts have welcomed babies, celebrated successes, feted birthdays, completed dinner parties with good friends, and mourned losses. They are love.

Aunt Judith snapped this one while my hands were full… sneaky

Last week when I visited Aunt Judith in Maine, we baked bread together. I put my sourdough starter in my purse (OK, technically my checked luggage) in San Francisco, and whipped it out as soon as I arrived. We named her Gracie, fed her every day, and by mid-week, there was bread. Sam and Judith are possibly the coolest, most hilarious people on the planet, so the event was not without its fair share of shenanigans. But it was worth every minute. They are love.

we have chocolate cake! but sadly, no oven

Today I surprised my two favorite munchkins, my nieces, who thought they were just heading to Oma and Opa’s house for Sunday dinner and standard Mersel shenanigans. I told them I flew 3,000 miles because I really wanted to bake a chocolate cake with them. And it’s true. We’ve been baking together since Jamie was just learning how to read and Lauren was just able to sit in the kitchen chairs and not topple over. We’ve made countless chocolate cakes (and cookies, and brownies, and cupcakes, and cheesecakes — but it should be noted that Lauren doesn’t actually like cheesecake, she baked it because Jamie really likes it — and flag cakes for Oma’s July 4th birthday, etc. etc.), but today we made Aunt Judith’s mom’s chocolate cake with fudge frosting (yes, Julie, I saved you a piece). Well, we sort of made it. The oven broke and we ran out of time to make the frosting, but like the awesome little troopers that they are, we all went over to the neighbors’ house together to ask if we could use their oven for about 35-40 minutes. Within minutes, my nieces were playing with the neighbors’ kids and not too long after, we had chocolate cake and big smiles. They are love.

The first time I baked a chocolate cake with my Godson, Alden, he was barely one year old. We gave him the beater to lick at the end and he looked at it like an alien from Mars. His Dad had to show him what to do with it, and skeptically he followed suit. Within about three seconds, the smile on his face was bigger than Mars. I can remember that day like it was yesterday, seven years ago. He is love.

My mom and I used to bake a lot of chocolate cakes together. Her famous German chocolate cake (to be noted: chocolate cake from Germany, not the kind that was named after an American chocolate maker) graced many birthday parties.  We had the special dark chocolate glaze sent over to the U.S. from relatives in Germany. From my mom, I learned how to tell when the batter was completely mixed, how to properly fold in chocolate chips, how to grease cake pans and unmold them after the cake had cooled, and how to perfectly melt and spread the special German chocolate over the top. It’s the first thing I can ever remember baking, and it’s pretty much what I attribute my love for baking to. There’s not much in this world that can beat baking a chocolate cake with your mom. In its purest form, it is love.

from left to right: my mom, brother, random stranger and my aunt at my brother’s first birthday party… with the famous German chocolate cake (which my brother seems oddly scared of)