I was feeling less than inspired this past week, or perhaps it was just a feeling of overwhelm. With so much to accomplish and not always sure where to begin, my brain slides into shutdown mode. It’s when I tend to lose myself in the kitchen, the place I’m often most comfortable and happy. Tossing a bowl of young greens with a little olive oil, say; grating the zest of lemon into a dressing, trimming fresh herbs from my garden and scattering them over baked fish, then sharing with friends. These are the things that I take comfort in, that I also miss in my sometimes too insular world.

Yesterday, I was on set working on a photo shoot for a friend’s book, and the idea came up about how cooking can be healing, and my first thought was in making bread–kneading the dough which is a kind of physical work and later seeing it transform into a crusty loaf. Just in taking the time to prepare food, putting your intensions and heart into it, can in itself be restorative. For me, the process of cooking–the stirring, chopping, layering of flavors–always lifts my mood.

So, in need of a lift, not only did I make my sourdough bread recipe again–and have another batch in the works today, still trying to perfect it–I made Seville Orange Marmalade, which takes more than an afternoon, but is always worth it, especially when spreading the slightly bitter, lovely colored preserves on that homemade toast. Even my daughter had 2 pieces to go on her way to school this morning with her mom-made latte.

Seville oranges remind me of my trip to Spain at the tender age of 17 with my step-mother; wandering through the amazing, lush gardens and cobbled streets at all hours of the day and night; soaking up the ancient tiles, the rich colors, flamenco and deep throated song from that part of the world. I am hungry to travel, to return to these places, to delve once more into foreign territory; eat my way through the lively markets of Tunisia (where I also visited on that trip), take in the piles of brick-colored spices, the sky-blue trimmed houses brimming with deep pink bougainvillea.

But here I am, in my sweet little house with my tiny little kitchen like a good arm-chair traveler, drawing from the colors and tastes of memory for inspiration, hence my creative play with the camera too.

And yet before I get too caught up reminiscing, I have a winner from my granola giveaway, also made fresh today, and that is Susan Flynn, who worked at Nepenthe back in the seventies and commented with a story about her time working in the “lettuce cage.” If you have a minute, read through the many comments I received on that post, and you will capture a a reflection of Nepenthe’s history that is quite evocative of place. Thank you all for sharing your stories and dropping by. And full disclosure-it was a completely random pick.

Meanwhile, enjoy my recipe for the orange marmalade.

Seville Orange Marmalade

Seville oranges are slightly bitter, have lots of seeds, and a fairly short season, so if you see them in your market grab a bagful. But don’t be discouraged if you can’t find them; you can use other oranges or a combination of citrus as well, slightly adjusting the sugar up or down, as needed, with good results.

When using Seville oranges, I find it best to juice the fruit first, as there are so many seeds; you can otherwise simply slice the fruit (rind and flesh), capturing the escaped juices into a bowl, and proceeding from there.

8 Seville oranges
9 cups water
5 cups sugar
Juice of 1 lemon

Wash and halve the oranges; squeeze the juice over a sieve, capturing the pips. Tie the pips into a muslin bag or piece of cheesecloth. Slice the oranges into small, thin pieces, 1/4-to 1/2 inch in length at most. Place the fruit, the juice, and pips in a preserving pot. Cover with the water and soak over night. The next day, simmer the fruit until it is soft, about 2 hours. Remove the pips, squeezing out any juice (the seeds contain a lot of the pectin) from the bag.

Add the sugar and the lemon juice, stir over low heat until the sugar is dissolved. Bring the mixture to a boil, and cook rapidly, stirring on occasion, until the marmalade reaches its setting point, about 20 minutes. Allow to cool and thicken slightly before potting. In fact, sometimes, I will allow the marmalade to sit overnight again; gently re-heating (and adjusting for sugar, if desired) before potting on the 3rd day. Ladle into sterilized jars and seal.

Just as I was pulling a batch of granola out of the oven today, I received an email from the winner of my giveaway over at Menu for Hope. What good timing. This is the 3rd time I have made granola this week. Last weekend alone, I made 5 pounds for the Bakesale for Haiti project, which coincidentally raised more than $22,000 for Partners in Health, a group well known for their good work in Haiti.

Sarah Henry gives a run down of this winning bay area benefit on her blog Lettuce Eat Kale, including a brief catch up with the delightful Samin Nosrat who organized the efforts. Be sure to take a peek.

And just in case you missed it, Pim Techamuanvivit of Chez Pim has organized her own bakesale for Haiti this Sunday at Lulu’s at the Octagon in Santa Cruz, starting at 8am. No doubt there will be some good baking going on in that neck of the woods, so do yourself a favor and get there early.

And because I’m still in the giving mood, and have yet to have a GIVEAWAY on my site, anyone who posts a comment in response to this post about their favorite memories of visiting Nepenthe or Big Sur over the years will be eligible to win a pound of my granola, sent directly to their home. And if you have yet to go, drop a line anyway. Make sure to include your contact info so that I can reach you.  Deadline is next Monday, Feb 1st.

Just in case you’re not feeling lucky or want to make the granola yourself, here’s my recipe adapted from my book (pg. 253).

My Granola

Makes about 6 cups

My granola is a tasty and healthy alternative to store-bought cereal. Eat it out of hand, as my kids do, sprinkle onto yogurt, or simply add milk. For a sweeter granola that has more clusters, stir in 1/4 cup honey with the maple syrup.

2 cups whole oats
1 cup wheat flakes
1 cup raw almonds or cashews
1/2 cup pumpkin seeds
1/3 cup oat bran
1/3 cup high quality organic powdered milk
Zest of 1 orange
1 1/2 teaspoons cinnamon
1/3 cup safflower oil
1/3 cup boiling water
1/3 to 1/2 cup pure maple syrup
1/2 cup raisins or dried cranberries

Preheat oven to 275 degrees.

In a large bowl, combine the oats, wheat flakes, almonds, sesame seeds, pumpkin seeds, oat bran, powdered milk, zest, cinnamon, oil, boiling water, and maple syrup, mixing well. Spread out on a baking sheet. Bake slowly, stirring occasionally, until golden brown, 45-50 minutes. Stir in raisins or cranberries when cooled. Store in an airtight container.

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After the events of this past week and some personal soul searching, I am struck by a comment author Ruth Reichl posted on her blog about why she writes about food, especially during difficult times. It was in response to a reader that suggested she should maybe stop writing about all the great food she eats in light of the Haitian crisis. She said after thinking about it, she decided it was a spurious argument and the opposite of life affirming, and reminded her of when her grandparents stopped celebrating after one of their children died.

It reminded me of a class discussion in art school a few years ago where there was much discourse around what kind of art we should be making after 9/11, and was it (or not) the artists’ job to make work that is political, or at the least, to respond critically to a political/tragic situation? One of the pieces in discussion was by art critic Dave Hickey, where in an essay about beauty, he essentially pleas for the return of it in contemporary art (a simplification here). “What’s wrong with beauty (or objects of beauty),” my sculpture professor asked, as we all struggled to make art of meaning (for some, thinking it couldn’t be both meaningful and beautiful).

In the summer of 2006, while visiting Oaxaca, Mexico, I spent an evening with a group of artists at a fabulously funky (in an artsy way) bar owned by one of them. They were meeting in response to the local teacher’s crisis that at one point shut down the city, and the impending presidential race in Mexico City. In anticipation of their traveling to the city by caravan and my asking what position they would take, one of them responded–”We are artists, not politicians.”

And last night, I heard the tail end of an interesting discussion on a City Arts and Lectures broadcast with the author and journalist Eric Schlosser (”Fast Food Nation”) where he confessed that he felt like a fiction writer’s job used to encompass writing about the bigger life questions in a way that engaged us in world issues (paraphrasing); that his own writing was informed by the world he lived in and lived through, in relation to history, and that he felt privileged to be able to write about subjects that were important to him.

I’m not quite sure where I’m going with all this, but as I sat down to write today, these were the thoughts and ideas swirling in my head.  Meanwhile, it is raining something fierce outside with flashes of thunder and lightening, and I am grateful to have a roof over my head.

The world is in perpetual crisis, natural and man-made, as Ruth points out, and so isn’t it then in the moments and acts of beauty where life persists and invites meaning? Perhaps, not unlike the life affirming birth of a baby amidst the rubble of Haiti; the poets exquisite lament in response to tragedy. It seems, too, as Ruth also writes, we have a moral obligation to do something where/when we can, that daily there is opportunity to participate in making change, small or large, in our own way, in our own communities. As a friend once reminded me long ago, “begin at home.”

So why do I write about food and what about it is important to me? My reasoning is at once permeable and somewhat less than solid. I don’t profess to have the answer(s).

I write about food for the same reasons that I write about anything, the need to understand my relationship to the world, to write out what is central to my life–my children, cooking, creating, a passion for what sustains us, community and the art of gathering around the table. To not write about it would be a personal failing, a negation of meaning as I understand it, or rather want to engage with it. Today, I write hoping to open the door, to celebrate life while affirming its more meaningful connections.

On that note, a huge thank you to all who donated to the Menu for Hope last month in support of the World Food Programme, who incidentally are at the center of providing humanitarian aid in Haiti. A collective of bloggers raised close to $80,000. The winners of the raffle are now posted here.

And don’t forget, if you live in the bay area, belly-up this Saturday at a Bakesale for Haiti, as per my earlier post.