It’s funny, I can’t think of a single, specific food tradition in my family that relates to Easter. There was plenty of egg dying at the family table, and various celebratory and special foods made for the day, but nothing I can say is purely our own. What I do remember though, is the afternoon of dyeing eggs–in vinegar baths, or beet juice, or onion skins to reach that golden, straw color. There were the dozens of water glasses filled with food coloring laid out on newspaper, the stacks of wax crayons for marking, leaves for making patterns, and the pins for poking holes in raw eggs to make blown eggs. My cousins and I would spend a whole afternoon in my grandmother’s kitchen above the restaurant decorating our eggs–flats of them–to take to school or to an Easter party the following day.

And then there was Easter Sunday–usually a shared potluck at a mountaintop home, with all our friends and our parents friends. Hours of lazying in the tall grasses, the myriad games that consisted of chasing each other around the property; the oodles of chocolate and festive treats, a potluck table laden with salads and ham and homemade breads, bacon frying on the old gas stove and fresh eggs to eat; myriad colorful baskets tied with ribbons. And when the sun came out–swimming in the pool. Yes-a pool. Swimming stark naked in a hauntingly cold pool under the Big Sur sky–hard to beat.

Happy Easter everyone.

There is nothing like a trip south to shake out the cobwebs and open new doors, and that is exactly how it felt as I made my way that direction, recently, with a friend. After an overnight stop at another friend’s organic farm in the sleepy agriculture town of Buelton (think the film, Sideways) we kept going–two women with a plan.  Our destination was Laguna Beach, the small seaside village with bohemian roots in vast Orange County, where my grandparents lived back in the thirties, and where I was scheduled to give a talk at Latitude 33, a fabulous, eclectic bookstore in downtown.

It had taken me this long to come full circle, follow my own research back to where my grandparents’ story began, and from what My Nepenthe stemmed. No doubt it has changed some, become more grounded in the So cal life of sun and glory, but all in all its artistic roots seem to be in tact. The views were absolutely gorgeous at every turn; a walk along the beach one evening, up and over the promenade with a picture-perfect vista dotted with palms, seemed to vanquish any second thoughts about a place that has become as much a tourist trap on a sunny day as any other coastal California town.

Even so, tucked between newly constructed mansions on the cliffs, were the threads of another time, rustic, offbeat housing and a creative community still holding its own. Frankly I was happy and it felt like home–who knew there would be so many connections? Happy to have a second cousin who lives nearby take me to lunch in the sweet town of San Juan Capistrano, where my grandparents married, and who helped fill in so many gaps to their story. Another friend, and local doctor, hosted the weekend, even throwing a party for us that Sunday. How lovely it was to drink wine, talk story, and eat full-fat cheese, mid-day, on a run-down but artsy, sunny deck overlooking the sea. His private Nepenthe, and my kind of place.

In some ways my gestalt is more comfortable in that stretch of California–the sunny outlook on life, the relaxed almost laissez faire lifestyle, the Spanish style homes, tropical colors, and latin inspired food. Let alone the ocean, something I pine for on a daily basis.

That brings me to Santa Barbara, a beach town where I always make a stop, if nothing more than to go to La Super-Rica Taqueria on Milpas St., pictured above, Julia Child’s favorite Mexican restaurant and mine too. The food is no frills Mexican. Don’t expect chips and salsa, or sour cream on your taco–but fresh handmade tortillas, yes, and authentic dishes like chiles rajas (strips of fire-roasted pasilla chiles w/ cheese and herbs) served on paper plates. Order off a blackboard, bring cash, and taste the heart of one southern city’s food scene.

Back home this week, to morning sound of birds, children and blue skies–a steep hike in the hills above Berkeley with a writer pal reminded me why I live here and what I’m doing.  Overall, I’m feeling a little less dusty, and a wee bit  more clear.

I have been stalling here, not sure where to begin or what exactly to write about, and meanwhile, I started cooking professionally again–nothing like throwing myself in the frying pan after a decade hiatus on the line.  Even so, with the weather shifting between winter and spring on any given day, I haven’t quite known where to lay my allegiances–do I fit in a new post or a swim, is it a pot of beans kind of day or do I branch out and try something new, like this Palestinian Chicken dish (which I made, and is delicious) from food writer, Joan Nathan–that kind of thing.

None of this internal wrestling, takes away that I am hungry for warmer days, the kind that send me careening towards the sea, allow longer afternoons at places like Muir Beach or Big Sur; for gathering wild strawberries and fennel, and all the other good things that herald spring, like artichokes, at their peak now through May.

But I’m not complaining, as an artist friend, recently implied, giving me pause. He then offered to buy me a glass of wine (it was lunch time, after all), and later invited me to his studio. It was there, immersed in fat strokes of paint, memory, and bold color that I became a happier person, right then. It is painting that I need in my life, I thought, and what am I going to do about it?

At the moment, painting is about what’s on the plate, layering a recital of colors and new flavors to taste. I’m smitten with Suzanne Goin, acclaimed chef of Lucques in LA, who creates such goregeous food, and continue to turn to her book Sunday Suppers (2005) for inspiration.

From my own kitchen, I have a spread of recipes forthcoming in a food glossy (August)–imagine an al fresco meal–which gives me something else to boast about (not really) besides my kids who despite their not always so certain mom, seem to be holding their own, each finding their own rhythm and way in life.

Today, it’s a beautiful thing to see them blossom, to more than occasionally share a meal with them around our tired, but familiar table, to still get a response of sure, when asked to play a game of dominoes, to make my daughter a lemon tart because I can. Mostly, it’s a joy to find our way together, to be rooting for them as they develop their voice, to have them close by, as I broaden mine.

Meyer Lemon Tart (from My Nepenthe)

A lemony custard tart is always a crowd pleaser, and looks beautiful on display. It is often made around the holidays at Nepenthe restaurant, and is one of my most favorite desserts to make at home. The sweet dough crust is easy, and simply pressed into the pan.

Ma k e s 1 ( 8 o r 9 – i n c h ) ta r t, s e r v i n g 8 t o 1 0

Sweet Dough

1/2 cup softened butter

4 tablespoons confectioners’ sugar

Pinch salt

1 cup flour

Lemon Curd

5 or 6 Meyer lemons (about 1 cup juice)

3 eggs plus 3 egg yolks

7/8 cup sugar, or to taste

4 tablespoons butter

To make the dough, beat the butter with the sugar, salt, and flour until just combined. Press the dough evenly into a 9-inc h round fluted tart pan. You can make the dough up to 4 days ahead; keep it in the refrigerator until ready to use. Freeze the prepared tart shell for at least 30 minutes before baking.

Meanwhile, make the lemon curd. Zest half the lemons (setting the zest aside), then extract the juice from all the lemons to make about 1 cup. In a medium nonreactive, heatproof bowl, whisk the eggs and sugar until well combined, then whisk in the lemon juice.

Place the bowl over a gently simmering pot of water, and whisk continuously until it begins to thicken, about 5 minutes. Whisk in the butter in pieces; cook, stirring frequently, until the curd coats the back of the spoon, another 5 minutes or so. This is a good time to taste and adjust the sweetness, as needed.

Strain the curd into a separate bowl, then whisk in the zest. Press a piece of plastic wrap on the surface while cooling. You can make the curd up to 2 days ahead as well; refrigerate the curd until needed.

Preheat the oven to 375F.

Bake the tart shell for 20 to 25 minutes until golden brown. Cool slightly, then spoon the lemon curd into the shell, spreading evenly with a spatula. Bake for 7 to 10 minutes, until just set but still slightly jiggly in the middle.

Serve chilled with a dollop of lightly whipped cream or with fresh berries.