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The sky turned lavender right before the blast of liquid fire lit across the eastern sky at dawn. I carried a large rubbermaid tub filled with cellophane packets of freshly baked goods across the sand to my car - cactus shaped shortbread, mini-berry galettes, and the sunshine flecked Dawn Patrol Muffins. The white pop-up canopy had been packed into my Ford Escort the night before. With the backseat flattened and the passenger seat scooted forward I was able to fit a display table, my tent, and all of my baked goods in the compact car.

“You sure you can’t come for the full day?” I asked The Boyfriend.

“Grandma wants to come to the market, I’ll come by later with her,” he said, leaning against the sliding door from the porch.

I was nervous to set-up on my own, I had no idea how busy sales would be either.

“I have to go now then, I’m worried I won’t have enough time to set-up the tent,” I said. I’d only set it up with him.

“You’re going to do great,” he said, squeezing my arm. He never offered more than he wanted to give, and I never challenged him.

I hadn’t had time to make coffee, baking everything fresh had taken longer than I’d expected, even starting at 3 AM. My hair was thrown into a lumpy pony tail, and my feet were already sweating in my clogs. With my car fully packed I left The Boyfriend behind in the glow of our tiled living room. I knew it was asking for too much to have him come for the full day. But I still wanted him to be there with me.

Cruising down Highway 62 my car smelled like butter and toasted rosemary. Heading West down the grade, the neon sun glared in my rear view mirror, the desert hills on either side of the freeway shaded with morning’s first light. I rehearsed the layout of my booth as I drove, I wanted it to be perfect.

The Palm Desert Farmer’s Market was in a large parking lot near the Whole Foods shopping center at the base of the San Jacinto Mountain range. It was past 7 AM, and I screeched into the parking lot, anxious to get set-up in time. Stomping in my clogs I stacked the bins of baked goods in my assigned slot, not smiling at any of the other vendors that waved as I came in. I was too nervous. Finally I lugged out the white tent. Balancing it upright, I yanked one of the legs out from the center and it wobbled onto me. Centering it again, I pulled out both sides at once so I could crawl underneath and extend the other sides. I scurried like a hunchback under the drooping awning until at last it was set-up. In a flurry I popped up my folding tables and got to work laying out my baked goods. I’d brought wooden crates and vintage fabrics to spruce up the table, I’d wrapped each bread loaf in patterned fabric tied at the top. A precious bundle of carbs.

“Surf Muffins! You’re here!” said P and G, the husband and wife that operated the market. They were both willowy with wavy chestnut hair. They’d moved from Oregon to the desert and still exuded that particular flavor of Oregonian hippy donning natural fibers and floppy straw hats. Disappointed to find there were no Farmer’s Markets in the Palm Springs area, they launched their own.

“I hope everything goes ok today,” I said. I was terrified no one would buy anything and I’d go home with piles of pastries.

They perused my products, picking up each one to read the labels. As a Cottage Food producer, I had to individually package each item and list all of the ingredients. I hated the crinkly wrappers, but they did look polished.

“These ingredients are fascinating - you put beets in these cookies?” asked P, lifting her aviator sunglasses as she read.

“I love to experiment, there are so many flavors and colors available from fruits, veggies, and herbs,” I said.

“You’ve gotta meet Rachel - she grows and dries herbs,” said G.

“Her lemon basil is exquisite,” said P.

Across from me was a woman named Carmen who made green smoothies. A man down the row had a small-scale chicken ranch and there was a rush at each market to get one of his chickens before he sold out. There were date vendors who had a dozen different varieties of dates - some small and wrinkled, others plump and caramel brown. Mounds of pastel grapefruits and bumpy avocados overflowed from the tables of desert ranchers. As they continued to talk about the other vendors, I lost my nerves. I realized I was a part of the market, that these farmers and makers were my peers.

“8 AM - we’re open!” called out G into the light breeze.

Early bird shoppers were already lurking at the perimeter. Mostly retirees or snowbirds in clunky sandals and golf visors. They stalked the aisles of the market with discernment, and I stood behind my baked goods smiling, anxious to make my first sale.

A blonde woman approached my booth, hair tousled and golden, wearing paisley linen pants and a halter top. She picked up a muffin and read the ingredients, set it down and proceeded to pick up every other item and do the same.

“This isn’t vegan,” she said, holding up a vegan thumbprint cookie.

“It is - no eggs and I used coconut oil instead of butter. Did I mistype the ingredients?” I took the package, I’d been up all night drafting the labels and printing them. Of course there was a mistake.

“It has honey. Bees make honey, so this isn’t vegan,” she said, shaking the cookie.

I froze. Unsure of how to respond.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know. These date truffles are vegan,” I said, picking up the package of “truffles” that only had nuts and dates in them.

“Ok, how much?”

“Five dollars.”

“Here you go. Next time I want the cookie. But I want it vegan,” she said, handing me the five-dollar bill.

I slipped the money into the wooden cigar box I brought as my cash box. I had made my first sale to a difficult vegan. She’d later become one of my regulars, and my masseuse. I’d refer to her as Honey Vegan at home to The Boyfriend. I breathed a sigh of relief - a stranger had purchased a cookie I’d baked from scratch.

As the sun rose and the day warmed, my display of baked goods rapidly disappeared into the hands of hungry Coachella Valley residents. People fawned over the precious cloth tied rounds of sourdough bread, no one else at the market sold bread.

“Dawn Patrol - what does that mean?” asked one elderly man, squinting to read the lengthy list of ingredients.

“It’s a term surfers use for catching the first waves of the day, the muffin is all you need for breakfast. It’s got shredded carrot, banana, orange juice, and almonds,” I said. I was proud of the recipe, especially the crunchy coconut topping I sprinkled on top of each one.

“How’s the surf out here?” he said.

I’d gotten a lot of comments about the “Surf Muffins” name that day. The beach was only three hours west in Los Angeles, but it couldn’t have felt farther away in the parched sands of the desert. I’d come up with the name while baking in the bay area and had planned to launch the bakery in Santa Cruz - but I followed The Boyfriend to a sandier locale.

“Waves are a little flat,” I said, playing along with his dad joke.

I sipped the last of my “Desert Gatorade” - a date and a few pinches of sea salt soaked overnight in the fridge. The sleep deprivation crept in behind my eyes, but I couldn’t stop smiling. There were only a few pastries left on the table, and my cashbox was full of money. I missed the ocean, but I was discovering that the desert offered opportunity.

The market patrons were as colorful and strange as the botanicals that thrived in the parched landscape. A woman with a swishing ponytail and large fake breasts told me that the root chakra of the planet was shifting from Nepal to Peru. She also offered a deal on olive oil, her husband was a purveyor. I received dozens of questions about ingredients - this was 2013 and the gluten-free trend had not yet hit mainstream - but in Palm Springs everyone was hungry for it. I was in the flat & toned belly of southern california wellness, and I’d learn to tailor my products to suit niche dietary preferences.

The Boyfriend still hadn’t come to the market as he said he would. I was disappointed he wouldn’t see how good my tables had looked filled with golden pastries. There would be other markets, I told myself. Even him missing the first one wasn’t enough to bring down my elated mood. Between my deliveries to the Health Food Store and weekly Farmer’s Markets - I had a solid income. I was beginning to see a stable future in the desert and I couldn’t believe it was coming true.

“Did we miss out on the berry tartlets?”

The Boyfriend and his grandmother ambled down the aisle of market tents. She was tiny, under five feet tall, and moved elegantly even with her walker. It was almost 1 PM, the end of the market.

“All sold out!” I said. I was happy to see him, but upset he hadn’t come earlier to see my full booth.

“Any cookies? I like to have a sweet while playing cards” said his grandmother, she was a notorious card shark.

“Actually - I made a grapefruit shortbread with the fruit from your yard,” I said, plucking one of the last packages from the table.

“Well look at that grandma, bet you never thought your fruit tree would make an appearance at the farmer’s market!” he said, putting on a performance for her.

She cooed in delight and stashed the cookies in her purse set in the basket of her walker.

“I’m proud of you sweetie,” he said, leaning across the table to kiss my cheek. With my bakery proving stability, I released the anxieties that had been swirling in my head since I’d moved in with him. Maybe it was all just stress and worry, and now that I had established my work I could relax into our relationship.

***

As the desert rolled from the blazing heat of summer into the perfectly warm days of fall I found my groove at the markets. I knew what to bake the night before to save myself from 3 AM start times. I had also developed prep systems to save time during the bakes - I could freeze two weeks of unbaked scones at a time - they baked up fluffy and golden straight from the freezer. I pre-measured the dry ingredients for muffins and breads and stored them in containers ready to go during my bake days. Every week I figured out a way to make my work easier, and as I built my systems, the work became more enjoyable than it was stressful.

But the routine was still grueling. On market days I’d try to squeeze in a workout at the YMCA in Palm Springs that opened at 5:30 AM - I’d run sprint intervals on the treadmill and lift weights with retirees chasing workouts before the sun came out. After I’d chug down a green smoothie - my favorite recipe of a banana, date, spinach and almond milk. Then during the markets I’d barely eat anything, maybe an apple. In the rush of success, I ignored signs that my health was suffering. Until I couldn’t.

“That dinosaur looks like Little Foot, from Land Before Time,” said The Boyfriend, sitting on the couch next to me watching TV.

I started crying, my chin stuttering. “Don’t talk about Little Foot,” I said. Shocked at myself for reacting so dramatically. I couldn’t bear to think of the dinosaur and its dying mother, and thinking of the sad cartoon dinosaur unbottled what I’d been trying so hard to ignore. Tears streamed down my face as I held back ugly sobs.

“You’re crying because I mentioned Little Foot?” he said, laughing at the absurdity.

I glared at him. “No. I’m crying because I haven’t had my period in three months.”

His face paled. He wasn’t laughing anymore. “Are you -” he swallowed hard.

“No. I’m not pregnant. You think I hadn’t thought of that?” I snapped back. I’d taken multiple pregnancy tests each month since it had happened. To my relief, they were all negative. But it unnerved me that I had skipped so many months. I kept ignoring it, hoping I’d get back to normal. What was wrong with me?

“Maybe you should go to the doctor, just to make sure everything is ok,” he said, attempting to console me, but I could see he was edgy too. He shirked away from me rather than leaning in.

I nodded. It’s what I should have done, but I hated going to the doctor.

“Sure, I’ll try when I have a day free,” I said, avoiding committing to taking action. I didn’t have a doctor in the desert, and my days were jam packed with baking. It overwhelmed me to think about finding a doctor, and I just wanted to be fine. I’d never dealt with a health problem before.

“I’m sure it’s nothing. This happened to girls on the cross country team all the time. And you’re sure you aren’t pregnant?” he asked again, tapping my leg with tepid affection.

“I’ll take another test just so you can see,” I said, though I was confident I wasn’t. But my body clenched at the idea that I’d have to stop running. Running was how I calmed my mind, I hated to go a day without running. And he was suggesting that running might be the cause of whatever was off-kilter for me.

“You’ll bounce back from whatever is happening,” he said, reassuring himself more than me.

In theory, my life was settling into a perfect groove. I lived with a boyfriend I was crazy about, we had a sweet house with plenty of space, and I had launched a successful baking business in a matter of months. Just as my dream of a bakery was taking off, an unsettled feeling lurked in the recesses of my mind. I wanted to believe nothing was wrong, but my body’s subtle shift was an alarm bell I was running from.

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Dawn Patrol Muffins

By far, this was the most popular recipe that I sold at the markets. I continued to bake these for my mom in the years after Surf Muffins closed; they were one of her favorites. They are a bit of a production, but the crunchy topping contrasted with the moist muffin base is quite delightful. I’ve noted that you can use applesauce instead of the homemade apricot-orange juice puree in the recipe - this is the fussiest step, but I like the tart stickiness of the apricot-orange puree.

Ingredients

Muffin batter

½ c dried apricots

2/3 c orange juice

1 apple, shredded

2 carrots, shredded

1 mashed banana

½ cup olive oil

2 egg whites

⅓ cup maple syrup

½ cup buttermilk

1.5 cup spelt flour

1 tsp baking powder

1 tsp baking soda

½ cup ground oats

½ cup almond meal

½ cup shredded coconut

2 tbsp flax

1 tsp salt

Topping

¼ c unsweetened shredded coconut (I like the big flakes)

¼ c Turbinado sugar

¼ c pumpkin seeds

2 tbsp almond meal

Orange zest

1 tbsp ground flax seeds

2 tbsp oats

2 tbsp spelt flour

¼ c coconut oil, melted and at room temperature

Instructions

Simmer the apricots with the OJ until plump, about 10 minutes. Cool and puree.**

Prepare the topping: put all of the dry ingredients for the topping in a bowl. Toss with the coconut oil.

Prepare the muffin batter: In one bowl, mix the shredded apple, shredded carrot, mashed banana, olive oil, buttermilk, maple syrup, apricot puree, and eggs together. Mix the dry ingredients in a small bowl. Fold the dry ingredients into the wet until evenly blended. Scoop into muffin liners until ¾ full. Add a 1-2 Tbsp of topping to each to cover the batter. Bake at 350 degrees for 25 minutes.

**If you don’t want to make the puree, you can use ½ cup of applesauce and omit the apricots and OJ.

Stone fruit season is chaotic. The trees burst with fleshy spheres, so heavy with juice they recklessly fall to the ground. Once ripe, they are liable to bruise in the shopping tote en route home from the market. Smearing sticky juices onto the other respectable produce in the bag. Carrots never caused anyone trouble - but how many times have you sunk your teeth into a plum only to have purple juice squirt down your favorite shirt?

But these plump, deviant children of summer are divine in flavor, and their fragrant slices beg to be roasted into jammy pies. And when I don’t have the time and patience to roll, chill, and macerate, I follow the example of the lawless stone fruit and throw together a galette.

Anyone can make a galette. They are rustic by design and the ideal ‘no-recipe’ pastry. You can throw one together on a whim at a stranger’s house as long as you have flour, butter, and a wine bottle (to roll). When the pile of stone fruit on your counter begins to heckle you with impending rot - flick the oven on and tie on your apron - they won’t know what’s coming for them.

An easy galette up-level is to layer a frangipane filling onto the crust below the fruit. Rich and nutty, the fatty layer is the perfect smoosh between flaky crust and juicy fruit. People are also impressed by it, and making it is as easy as blending a smoothie. It’s versatile across seasons. You can use almonds, hazelnuts, pecans, pumpkin seeds - pair the nut with the fruit for endless combinations.

And in the spirit of unruliness, I’m sharing a list of books under the general theme of ‘defiant nuns’. A niche genre for sure; maybe it’s being raised Catholic, but I love a tale of a nun who becomes a mystical visionary and forges her own path.

So cut a slice of your nutty galette and sit down to read about medieval abbesses.

Recipe: Apricot & pumpkin seed frangipane galette

One basic pie crust

170 gm flour (I used 100% Kamut because I had it on hand, but you can use any flour here)

113 gm French salted butter, cold, cut into cubes

Cold water as needed

Frangipane filling

60 gm ground pumpkin seeds

60 gm sugar

60 gm french salted butter

60 gm egg (1 large egg)

20 gm flour

Pinch salt if you aren’t using salted butter

Fruit

300 gm apricots sliced into eighths

50 gm sugar

Directions

Make the crust: Measure flour into a medium bowl, and then sprinkle the cold butter cubes on top. Using your fingers, press the butter flat into the butter, rubbing your fingers as you integrate the butter into the flour. After about 5 minutes, the flour should be evenly coating flakes of butter. Do not overwork. The butter should not be melting. This is where a bit of intuition comes in, I’m not going to tell you how much water to use. Start with 4 Tablespoons. Using a fork, evenly distribute the water so it hydrates the flour, the dough should begin to gather. Use your hand to press the remaining flecks of floury butter into a disk, if it is quite dry add another tablespoon of water, but the dough should not be sticky. Pat the dough into a disk, wrap in plastic wrap, and chill for at least 30 minutes.

Prepare the fruit: Toss the sliced apricots with the sugar. You can add finely chopped herbs - like lemon balm- or a dash of orange blossom water. Stir until evenly coated. Set aside until you are ready to assemble.

Prepare the frangipane: This really does require a food processor. A vitamix will work, as will a Ninja, but both are fussy and not ideal. In the food processor, grind the pumpkin seeds until fine and sandy with the sugar. Add the butter and pulse until combined. Follow with the egg, and end with the flour. If you aren’t using salted butter, include a pinch of salt. Set aside until ready to assemble. This can sit on the counter for 30 minutes, but any longer it should be chilled. Note - if you do chill it, factor in time for it to warm up to a spreadable temperature.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees and line a baking sheet with parchment.

Assemble the galette

Roll out the crust on a clean countertop lightly dusted with flour. I like to use a pastry cloth. Roll until it is 1/8 inch thick; the edges will be ragged and wild, and that’s perfect.

Spread out the frangipane, leaving 1-2 inches of exposed crust. Decorate the top with the macerated apricots. You can make a nice design, or toss them haphazardly. Fold the edges of the crust over the fruit, pinching and pressing like you’re making an ill-fated paper raft.

Bake in the oven for 30 min-45 min. Check to ensure your crust isn’t burning, but you want to wait until the fruit are bloated and roasted, and the frangipane has set in a puff (not wet).

Slice and devour.

Booklist: Unruly nuns

Matrix - Lauren Groff

Stunning historical fiction, Groff reimagines the life of the 12th-century poet Marie de France as an abbess of a convent in England.

Hexes of the Deadwood Forest - Agnieszka Szpila

Ok, so this technically isn’t nuns. But the story begins with two women working in a monastery who start their own religious order after imbibing belladonna berries under an oak tree. It gets wild.

The Hearing Trumpet - Leonora Carrington

My favorite part of this book is the story within the story about an abbey in Spain. The Abbess acquires a perfumed unguent from Mary Magdalene’s tomb and goes on a quest to find the Holy Grail

Bride - Julia Elliot

This is a short story in her collection, Hellions. A nun becomes decadent, and honestly I just enjoyed the descriptions of the sugared almonds and treats.

More nuns

• In film, Black Narcissus is a high-intensity tale of nuns in the peaks of the Himalayas.

• And I can’t leave out Corita Kent, the actual nun artist who printed protest signs and taught art to high school students in Hollywood in the 1960s

• These nuns broke back into their castle after being sent to a nursing home

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Nestled in the picturesque Guinda in the Capay Valley of Yolo County, California is the aptly named Full Belly Farm. A peaceful round bellied Bhudda graces the farms signs, and conveys the essence of what Full Belly Farms is. Dotted with barns, farmhouses, and grazing sheep the farm was bustling with activity to fill the bellies of Northern California with delicious food, all while maintain an air of zen.

I visited Full Belly Farm to learn more about their grain cultivation. I had purchased a small bag of barley flour from Full Belly Farms at the Davis Co-op sometime ago and made lovely cakes with it. The day I went out to visit was bright and sunny, as soon as I veered west off of the main highway the scenery soon grew lush.

Upon arriving at the farm, I took a walk around the grounds to get a feel for the space. There were long pallets of cut fruit and tomatoes basking in the sunshine, slowly becoming dried apricots and sundried tomatoes for sale at the famer’s market. In a shaded tent nearby more luscious tomatoes were being squeezed of their precious innards, buckets collecting the glistening seeds. In addition to drying tomatoes at the peak of the season, the farm is hard at work saving seeds for the next planting. In the field next to the sunbathing beauties swayed tall, deep green Sudan grasses, silently being treaded through and grazed by hidden sheep and goats. The animals were playing an important intentional role in the farm’s operations, they were grazing down these grasses that would otherwise need to be turned into the soil. My first fifteen minutes at the farm gave a telling snapshot of the diverse, integrated farming system in place at Full Belly.

Many Bay Area residents will recognize Full Belly Farms from a local farmers market, restaurant, or even a local grocery store. Paul and Judith Muller started the farm in the late 80s, and the farm is now a strong producer of fresh vegetables, nuts, fruits, and grains. Full Belly began to grow grains not with the baker in mind, but as cover crops and animal feed. It was an economical choice to grow oats on the farm for feed rather than buy them elsewhere, but Paul and others took an agricultural interest in grain cultivation.

They began to plant small plots of land with different varieties of wheat and other grains to see what might work best on their land. Sonora wheat grew too tall, but the Iraqui Durum wheat was able to grow with very little water. Ethiopian Blue wheat, Hulless Tamalpais Barley, and Bloody Butcher Corn are a few of the varieties planted and analyzed for success at the farm. Cultivating grains has been an evolving project of discovery. While propagating oats for feed has a function in the systems of the farm, growing other grains with the goal of milling them into flour is a new process. Luckily for customers of Full Belly, freshly milled whole grain flours have been a product of these trials. Flour production is currently a delicious complement to their main products.

In one large building many of the components to grain cultivation were housed; large sacks of harvested grain, drums of grain kept for storage, and a stone mill that had spent a previous life in the basement of a college professor in San Francisco. Full Belly has developed a system to grow, clean, store, and mill grains onsite, but Paul would like to develop the infrastructure to increase efficiency. Generations ago farming communities had established organizational and logistical means to collaboratively process harvested grains. Communities may have shared equipment, or had a centralized facility to clean and mill their grains. Seed cleaners, combines, and flour-mills can be expensive and storing grain after harvest requires space. As farms like Full Belly consider whether they would like to begin cultivating grains, they will need to consider the logistics and economical benefits.

Customer and baker feedback on the flavor and culinary performance of different grains will be important for farmers as new varieties are cultivated as well. These collaborations will shape how local grain economies are built and inform farmers of which varieties that perform well on the farm are also pleasing to the palate.

I happily took home some a sampling of Full Belly Farm’s flours to bake some goodies for sampling at the Yolo Land Trust “Day in the Country Event” held last weekend. The event brought together Yolo County wineries, restaurants, and farms at the Old Sugar Mill in Clarksburg, CA to benefit the Yolo Land Trust. It was a beautiful sunny afternoon filled with plentiful delicious tastes. Full Belly Farms was sampling their last of the season melons, and I brought a sourdough foccocia made with Iraqui Durhum, Barley, and Ethiopian Blue flours – all grown and milled on the farm. To top the sourdough I prepped up a late summer ‘salsa fresca’ with San Marzano tomatoes, pardon peppers, figs, caramelized onions, feta, and a bit of Eatwell Farms Rosemary salt (more to come on them later).

As a sweet treat I prepared two different cookies to really feature the flavor of the different grains – they were both a huge hit with the event crowd and couldn’t be simpler to make. Each cookie could be made with any fresh whole grain flour you could find in your region. I like to make tiny bite sized cookies; you can freeze the tiny scoops for a sweet treat at anytime. These cookies are a great way to try out a whole-grain flour that you are unfamiliar with, the recipe is very forgiving.

Full Belly Farms hosts a lively Hoes Down Festival in early October – if you are in the area be sure to swing by to learn more about the farm!

Ethiopian Blue Chocolate Chip Cookies

These cookies are so simple, it is important to use the most flavorful ingredients you can. Choose a cultured European style butter and a fresh, hearty whole grain flour. Always use a chocolate you would savor on its own, I prefer 70% dark chocolates

1 cup Cultured, Unsalted Butter, at room temperature

2 cups Ethiopian Blue Flour (or other whole wheat flour)

½ cup Organic Evaporated Cane Sugar

1 tsp Vanilla Extract

4 oz. Dark Chocolate, roughly chopped

pinch salt

1 Tbsp Buttermilk

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Prepare a baking sheet with parchment paper. With a mixer, wooden spoon, or your hands, blend the softened butter, sugar, and vanilla together until soft, creamy, and well combined. Fold in the flour and salt until a dough forms. Drizzle the buttermilk over the dough, and stir just until it is evenly absorbed. Fold in the chocolate pieces. Scoop 1 Tbsp sized balls of dough and roll into a ball. Roll the dough in a raw sugar like Turbinado if you have it, or place the ball on the cookie sheet. Separate the cookies by 2 inches on the sheet. Bake for 10-15 minutes, until the tops of the cookies are lightly golden and no longer look moist.

Bloody Butcher Cornmeal Shortbread

When baking with cornmeal, I like to use 50% softer flours to balance the coarseness of the cornmeal. If you don’t have barley or durhum flour on hand, use a spelt, whole wheat pastry, or unbleached flour.

1 cup Unsalted Butter, softened

1/3 cup Organic Cane Sugar

1 cup Bloody Butcher Cornmeal (or other cornmeal)

¼ cup Barley Flour

¼ cup Iraqui Durhum Flour

1 large egg

Pinch salt

Zest of one lemon

Follow the directions for the Ethopian Blue cookies above, replacing the chocolate with lemon zest and replacing the buttermilk with an egg.

Resources

Yolo Land Trust - working to preserve Yolo County’s natural resources and agricultural land

Center for Land Based Learning - Based in Winters, CA providing farm education programs and more

Sacramento Co-op - Great Co-op with cooking classes and delicious Yolo County foods!

When preparing to go on any adventure, trip, or travels I love reading and learning about the exciting locales I will be exploring. Often I will have a few destinations that occupy my mind while trudging through airport security, or pushing through a long highway drive. Sometimes they fulfill my expectations, and sometimes my daydreams surpass reality. I have found that making a list of must-see places while traveling is a good way to become familiar with a new city, some of my most memorable experiences from traveling come are those that are unexpected.

This was the case when I recently visited Eugene. I was daydreaming of all the grains & flours at Camas Country Mills before arriving, and had a blast making pie with Stephanie. The unexpected treat came from a recommendation by Stephanie – “You should meet Leda of 100 Mile Bakery in Springfield, just go and visit”. I hadn’t put 100 Mile Bakery on my list for Eugene, I hadn’t heard of 100 Mile Bakery before arriving in Eugene, and I almost missed out on a very special place.

The 100 Mile Bakery is owned and operated by one lovely lady, Leda. “Local Is Possible” is her motto, and she is setting a very delicious example of how a food producer can use all local ingredients, and have wonderful results. She sources ALL of her ingredients within a 100 mile radius of Eugene. Very few food producers are so committed to local ingredients, and Leda is driven by more than just flavor and freshness in her baking. She wants her baking to embody what it is to be a part of a local food system, her cakes and biscuits communicate with each crumb that it is possible to mindfully make delicious food while preserving the environment.

She was inspired to start the 100 Mile Bakery when she began to learn about the ‘carbon costs’ in distributing foods. So many food products are driven, flown, and transported many miles as they are distributed nationally and globally. This equates to a large amount of fuel being spent to bring sunflower seeds from China to the US, or to transport raw materials to processing plants and then into retail outlets. Leda sought to show that there is an incredible amount of local bounty in the Willamette Valley, enough so to sustain itself.

Leda works out of the Sprouts Food Hub in Springfield – a shared commercial kitchen space and market space. She can work out of one of the kitchens while also having a retail space set up, an ideal situation for a burgeoning food business. Her baked goods are creative, beautiful, and tasty. When I visited Leda she had a Buckwheat Carrot Cake made with Greenwillow Grains Buckwheat Flour, Walnut Teff Shortbread with Camas Country Mills Teff flour, and many other unique sweet & savory delights. At the Friday night market held at Sprouts, she has sourdough loaves made with Red Fife, Rye, and a gluten-free Teff & Buckwheat Loaf that blows many other gluten free breads out of the water.

These baked beauties have come from patience and creativity on Leda’s part. By sourcing locally, she has had to adjust recipes that might classically use something not available in the region. For sweeteners, she often uses honey as sugar and maple syrup aren’t produced in Oregon. In the realm of fats, her creations often utilize butter or nuts as there isn’t a cooking oil produced within 100 miles of Eugene. The upside to dedicating many hours in the kitchen tweaking and experimenting are unique flavors and tastes. Her baked goods are really something special, and you are guaranteed to not find anything like it elsewhere. If you get the privilege to visit the 100 Mile Bakery, the strudel is her specialty – a flakey pastry crust encasing the freshest Willamette region fruit – you can’t go wrong.

A few of Leda’s favorite flours: Lonesome Whistle Farms Corn Flour, Greenwillow Grains Pastry Flour, and Camas Country Mills Spelt Flours.

100 Mile Bakery is just one amazing food establishment using local bounty in the Willamette/Eugene area. Here are a few others spreading deliciousness in the area:

Agrarian Ales - Farm, Brewery, Restaurant – what more could you desire?

Pasta Gardener - Handcrafted Whole Grain Pastas

Activation Foods - Scrumptious krauts!

For more on local foods in Lane County:

Willamette Food & Farm Coalition

These links are archival - some may work - some may not!

When I first moved to California, I had a bit of Craigslist roommate success and found not only a good friend, but a surf buddy. We had never met before moving into a 6-bedroom house in North Oakland, but the Craigslist gods smiled upon us and we enjoyed two years of rush-hour bikini coffees, sunbathing on our concrete front porch, and late-night office chair rides down Telegraph Ave. Our surfing adventures led us to the charming village of Bolinas during these two years in our search for friendly waves, and despite the inevitable car sickness my friend would suffer, it was usually worth the drive north up Highway 1 into West Marin.

As I made my return to California after my whirlwind West Coast Whole Grains Adventure, I was feeling so inspired by all of the people and places I had visited that I wanted to learn more about the local food systems happening in small communities around Northern California. I had read months ago that a cob oven had been built in a community park in Bolinas, and I took an afternoon to have a picnic at the beach and take a look. I inquired about the oven (for bread baking of course!) at the Bolinas Community Center, and soon found myself with plans for the next weekend to volunteer at the Bolinas Food Festival.

I can say with some confidence that attending any iteration of a “harvest” “food” or “farm” festival held in Autumn is by far one of my favorite ways to spend a day. Some of these festivals are exactly what you would hope for – bushels of apples being pressed into cider, bales of hay for relaxing, and piles of pumpkins. Some fall short of my idyllic autumnal daydreams, but the Bolinas festival surpassed any of my preconceived notions of what a autumn food festival could be.

There were some of the most enticing apples I had ever seen being pressed into cider, and here in Bolinas everything is about a close community, and these apples were being pressed by a local man who grows them on his farm in town. There are multiple organic farms in Bolinas, which is only five square miles in size – all of these farms were represented in the community farm stand set up to benefit the Bolinas Community Center.

One local farm’s table, Botierra, was impossible to pass by without stopping. Botierra is a biodiversity research center and garden, with a focus on growing “nutrient-dense and culturally rich” indigenous plant varieties. A few of these varieties made a stunning visual display, and were also available for tasting. Botierra has found that Andean tubers, Quinoa, and Styrian Pumpkins love to take root in Bolinas – these unique botanical specimens represented only a snapshot of the expansive biodiversity growing & living at Botierra.

I tried tastes of light & crispy Yacon, roasted Jerusalem Artichokes, and fresh Styrian Pumpkin seeds. All were flavors familiar, yet refreshingly different. The founder, John Glavis, excitedly told me how Quinoa and Amaranth were being grown with great success in Bolinas. In my last month of traveling I had not visited any region that was growing Quinoa to any scale. While Quinoa is technically a seed, it is often utilized and prepared as a grain in the kitchen, nutritionally providing all necessary amino acids.

I volunteered at the festival, preparing pizza dough and pizza toppings that were fired in the cob oven at the Bolinas Mesa Park. The cob oven is a recent addition to the Bolinas community, and it was wonderful to see it fired up to raise money for the Bolinas Community Center. Beyond pizzas, delicious offerings from local food producers were plentiful. I couldn’t resist the spicy chai from Chai Baba Chai, and the vibrant green juices from Maiden Bolinas.

Also local to Bolinas is the Regenerative Design Institute, which offers a broad array of programs exploring sustainability, permaculture, health and healing. I was especially excited to watch their distillation demonstration. They produced a fragrant lemon balm hydrosol from fresh herbs that could be used to brighten up any recipe in the kitchen.

I was overwhelmed at the diversity in Bolinas farms and food producers represented at the food festival. While Bolinas may be small in size, it had an overwhelming bounty of tastes to offer. It was inspiring to see a community hold food security and sustainable food production as a value, and many other small communities could look to Bolinas to strengthen their own local foodsheds.

Last week I had the privilege to spend a few days in a veritable baker’s heaven – The Grain Gathering in Mt. Vernon, WA. The Gathering took place on Washington State University’s Northwestern Washington Research and Extension Center. Do not imagine sterile fluorescent lights and stale conference rooms, as the research center is more like the garden of Eden nestled in the Skagit Valley beside the Cascade Mountains and Puget Sound. The Grain Gathering is held annually to convene “home bakers, maltsters, brewers, millers, farmers, wheat breeders, food writers, wood-oven builders” over three days packed full of workshops, lectures, and discussions focused on reviving regional grain cultivation. Over the three days I absorbed an immense amount of information, savored delicious new tastes, and was inspired by the others I met who were passionate about their work with whole grains and food.

Today I am writing about the ‘sensory highlights’ of the Grain Gathering. I want to share the tastes, sights, smells, and personalities I experienced. Over the next few days I will be posting short writings to share what I learned, there is too much content to cover in just one post!

Upon entering the fields where the gathering was held I walked past trellises of apple trees heavy with the perfect apples, none of which you could pick as they were grown for research. Beyond the fruit orchards were acres of grain, The Bread Lab and Wheat Breeding program onsite research grain varieties that are best suited for growth in the Pacific Northwest landscape and analyze their characteristics in milling, baking, and for flavor.

Naomi Duiguid opened the conference with an inspiring collection of images and cultural explorations. She is a traveler and food writer who seeks the ‘edges of cultures’. Her presentation led the conference attendees around the globe through stunning images. Her beautiful photography showcased the integral part of life that whole grains have in cultures around the world. Tibetan Sampa (toasted ground barley) for mountain treks, transparent Iraqi Lavash, street-side millet pancakes in India, and Iranian flatbreads baked on beds of hot pebbles solidified that grains are omnipresent as a source of nourishment. She ended by verbalizing the point her photographs had silently spoken- whole grains are engaging across human cultures.

Sharing food throughout the conference gathered all of those in attendance.

Tastebud farms from Portland, OR supplied blistered, chewy, wood-fire pizzas enhanced by the slight sweetness of whole-grain flours and fresh produce. The Peach & Bacon and Padron pizzas were scrumptious. The farm has a portable wood fire oven that was used for multiple workshops throughout the weekend.

A Tandoor oven from Wood Stone in Bellingham provided seared salmon, steak, and the most delicious whole-grain yogurt Naan I have ever had. The Naan was made with a flour blend from Camas Country Mills and was tender, charred, and wonderful with an herbed yogurt dip.

The discussion of local grains was not limited to baking – there were multiple maltsters and brewers in attendance. Each evening there was a tasting of beers using Skagit Valley grains for their brewing, they were complemented by more local bounty of cheese and whole grain crackers. The Amber Ale from Skagit Valley brewing was my favorite, and perfect to have at sunset.

There were plentiful other workshops held throughout the weekend and the end products of each were shared with all. Buckwheat cream scones, cornmeal blueberry cookies, crumb knodeln, rye sunflower toast, and whole-wheat pretzels were passed around on trays to delight taste buds. The unique flavors of the local wheat varietals gave each item a depth of flavor I had not ever tasted. This encouraged simplicity in recipes to highlight the taste of the whole grain featured in each baked delight.

I attended one workshop explored utilizing single varietals of wheat for flavor and baking application. Four different wheat varietals were used – Pactole, Ludwig, Colonia, and Renan. For each varietal, a loaf of sourdough bread and Madeline pastry were baked. Workshop attendees tasted each, and we tasted the breads & pastries with discernment. It was interesting to experience the difference in texture, smell, flavor, and structure for not only each varietal, but also between the savory and sweet baked good. The Renan was a sweeter wheat and the sweetness was highlighted in the sourdough bread, but came across to heavily in the Madeline. The Colonia was almost oaky in taste as a sourdough, but the oakiness was lost in the Madeline. The tasting workshop exemplified how bakers could begin to develop recipes suited to nuances in flavor and performance as a wider diversity of wheat varietals are brought into cultivation by farmers. Just as the concept of terroir is used to describe regional flavors in wine, breads could also exhibit terroir as bakers begin to use regionally grown grains.

Jeffery Hamelman gave an inspiring talk one morning on what it is to be a student, a teacher, and how the craft of baking is one that has been passed through generations. Farmers, bakers, and millers are all circles overlapping in time, learning and growing from one another. He ended with the following:

“ We have the opportunity to improve conditions of humanity, don’t work in isolation; hands & hearts speak a common language. When we eat bread we absorb the labor of so many people. Let’s share the happy pleasure of the fleeting present and feed bread to each other”

Each evening as the sun was setting, as we gathered over a labor of love, we did just that.

Life of Grain

David Mostue of Dunbar Farms in Southern Oregon took on the hefty task of speaking to the economics, processing, and culture surrounding wheat cultivation. He began with the beginnings of agriculture in 10,000 BC, and told the story of the genetic evolution of wheat across time & geographical space.

Mostue went into great detail describing traditional methods of wheat farming, harvesting, and milling. I want to share with you today an info graphic that gives a brief outline of the farming process, as it gives a deeper understanding of the labors necessary to produce flour.

The culmination of Mostue’s wheat history lesson is what I found to be most interesting. The genetic change of wheat into its modern self has influenced how wheat is grown and harvested. The tools and methods of convenience humans developed for grain cultivation have directly influenced the downfall of nutrition in today’s breads. The “Scientific/Green Revolution” of the 1950s brought fertilizers, roller milling, packaged yeast, and the ability to create bread on a large production scale.

First a note on roller milling compared to stone milling (briefly discussed in my post about the Pie Ranch). Roller milling allows for a complete separation of the endosperm from the bran and germ for resulting in ‘pure’ white flour. During the 1950s the increase in production of white flour through use of a roller mill was a consumer driven one; bread producers wanted flour that could handle the fast leavening of packaged yeast. Pure white flour could handle a fast speed of baking & intense kneading that was necessary to produce loaves with the newly available packaged yeast. Before packaged yeast, breads were only leavened with a sourdough culture.

The nutritional downfalls of packaged yeast & pure white flour were two-fold. For starters (pun!), packaged yeast is not a diverse culture of microbes like a sourdough culture, which eliminates some microbes that assist in leavening & digestion of gluten during bread making. Pure white flour lacks the germ and endosperm of the wheat berry, which contain nutritious oils, vitamins and fiber.

Modern strains of wheat are often cultivated with nitrogen fertilizers due to their shorter stature and inability to outcompete weeds (which also increases gluten content) and grown as a mono-crop (lacks genetic diversity). They provide high yields, perform well with one style of milling, and have perpetuated a “continuous wheat” farming method where now most of the country’s wheat is grown in one region with one standard set of cultivation methods.

Mostue spoke about Dunbar Farm’s focus on promoting diversity in their farm crops, developing infrastructure to process their grains, and develop onsite food programs (bread baking, wine tastings, farm shares). By developing new approaches to farming grains, based on what we know from previous generations, local grain production can develop on smaller farms with community support.

Milling Around

Grain kernels can be stored for years in dry, protected structures like a silo, which was incredibly advantageous to human populations before the time of refrigeration. Grain could nutritionally sustain families through colder seasons when growth of other produce waned. But these hardy kernels packed full of nutrients need to be transformed before a human, or any other creature, can utilize the rich nutrition of grains. The same qualities that are beneficial for long-term storage are akin to an iron fortress for the baker.

Grains can be soaked to initiate germination, subsequently breaking down the phytic acid and complex carbohydrates that render the kernel indigestible. Whole grains can be cooked, barley stews, rice pilafs, and wheat berry salads are all familiar culinary preparations. For the baker though, the whole grain must undergo a more extreme physical transformation to become the desired medium of the bread-maker.

Mashing is the simplest technique to create pastes and meals for flatbreads. This is demonstrated with corn and tortillas, or ancient Essene breads. In modern times we are most familiar with milled flour, which dates back to the Romans and Egyptians. Today there are two major milling methods to produce flour from whole grains: stone & roller milling.

At the Grain Gathering a workshop on Milling was presented by Tom Hunton (Camas Country Mills), Bradford (Tabor Breads-Portland, OR), and Clif Leir (Fol Epi-Victoria, BC). All three went over their experiences with milling whole grains in their work, and they also discussed the basics of milling and the difference between stone & roller milling.

Stone milling is at its most basic, grinding grains between two stones. I have written up a bit more about stone mills here. At Camas Country Mills, their large stone mill can process 900 lbs/hour of their grain crops to produce flour for distribution, whereas the smaller Ostiroller used by Tabor mills 50 lb of grain/hour. The flour produced by a stone mill retains all parts of the grain – endosperm, germ, & bran. Sifting can separate the finer ground endosperm from the other components to yield a ‘white’ flour if desired. One interesting tidbit of history told by Tom – the term Damsel in Distress comes from the noise a stone mill makes when the stones grind together as grain flow stops

Roller milling in comparison compresses the grain through a series of rollers. Each set of rollers separates out each part of the grain. The end product of roller milling is the endosperm, germ, and bran all separate from each other. Most commercial flour is produced by roller milling, and even those flours labeled “whole grain” may just be roller milled endosperm (white flour) with a specific percentage of the germ or bran added back. With roller milling the proportions of the germ:bran:endosperm may not be the same as with stone milled whole grain flour.

All three spoke about making adjustments in baking for variations in different crops of wheat, but the payoff in inconsistency is the incredible flavor and nutrition freshly ground flour provides. There was quite a bit of discussion and questions regarding the technical details of milling; moisture level of the kernels before milling, monitoring the heat of the flour as the stones grind, and adjusting the distance of the stones and speed of stones rotation while milling. The more questions that arose the more it became clear from the bakers and millers that milling is more of an art than a science, it is a craft developed by extensive practice and experience.

That same day Bethany, a graduate student in the Bread Lab, spoke about the work she does in the lab analyzing different milling methods. She researches how different varieties of wheat grown at the WSU wheat breeding program perform in milling and baking as whole grain flours. The Bread Lab had a small stone mill, hand mill, electric mill, and a brand new buckwheat mill, all present for Bethany to explore how different milling processes might affect the nutrition, flavor, and quality of whole grain breads. Many of the questions that bakers and millers currently have in their operations, may be answered through the research being done at the Bread Lab.

The main takeaway that lingered in my mind and mouth after all of this milling discussion, and nibbling on bread baked with freshly ground flour, was that the richness in flavor was worth every effort. Once you taste a wholesome loaf of bread studded with golden flecks of bran and sweet bits of germ, you will never question seeking out the freshest flour you can find.

To find fresh flour near you, ask your local Farmer’s Market, Food Co-op, or check with a local University’s Agriculture Extension program.

Resources:

Want to get a flour mill? Or supplies for any DIY Homesteading project? Mountain Feed & Farm Supply is your place

Search for foods produced in your area at LocalHarvest

Community Grains - California grown & milled flour

Hummingbird Wholesale – wholesale supplier of whole grains, fresh milled flour, and other sustainably sourced ingredients

Books on the history & culture of grains:

Harvest Heritage & Harvest Home by Richard Scheurman

Further reading:

Article on wheat history

Article on wheat genetics

Want to grow grain? Great set of resources here

Read the previous chapter:

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Out the door early for a morning run, I stopped on the sand in front of the house. A dead snake’s body lay limp and headless at the entrance to our driveway. I hadn’t yet seen a live snake on my sandy runs, though I was constantly on the lookout for the camouflaged Mojave Rattlesnake. The lifeless snake body reminded me that I’d heard Roadrunners were snake killers. Fast and agile, they seemed too charming to be killers with their frayed, feathered heads and jaunting cadence. But what else besides a sharp beak could have beheaded a slithering reptile? I was both comforted at the act of defense, and unsettled at the ferocity of a bird.

In front of a chain link house surrounding a large property, a pit bull charged under the loose fence and pounced on my thighs. I love dogs, but the dog’s face stayed serious and prodding. This was a display of territory, not of affection. On the porch of the ranch house stood a man with white hair flopping in the wind. I called out to him to get his dog and he stood in silence, watching.

Each run I took into the vast, sandy roads of our neighborhood I was reminded of how the desert had its own rules.

***

Early on a Saturday morning in August, I laid out baskets of muffins and granola on a folding table inside Radio Free Joshua Tree. It was my first official “public bake sale” (a pop-up before that was a thing). I brought Roadrunner Granola, Dawn Patrol Muffins, and Mesquite Date Balls. It was my desert debutante of sorts - with no school or job I didn’t have a venue for meeting people. And right away, I was taken aback at how interested and friendly the locals were. In the desert, not much new happens, and I was a welcome addition with my sweets. After two months of solitude, I found the local watering hole.

One man came in, tall and limber. Bleached blonde hair from years in the sun. He was a friend of Teddy’s; everyone was a friend of Teddy’s, I’d learn. He had a humble and kind demeanor and took home a few muffins.

“My wife will like these,” he said, and went on his way.

Near the end of my bake sale, a couple strode into the sparse art space, their presence indomitable. The man had hair and a beard like a pirate's; the woman was tall and decked in crisp, militaristic canvas.

“E & J - meet Joshua Tree’s newest baker,” said Teddy, bringing them to my table.

“Surf Muffin! I dig the name!” roared E.

They were an artist couple who were installing a show titled BEDLAM in the coming weeks at Radio Free. J designed costumes and masks for horror movies, and the two were in the noise band Brutal Poodle that frequently played at The Palms in Wonder Valley (an oasis of music deep in the desert). They fawned over my hand-sketched logo and creative names, taking a bag of Coyote Fuel (sweet and savory almonds roasted with tamari and pulverized dates).

“This is amazing, sweetheart,” said The Boyfriend, dutifully taking photos of me as my supply slowly dwindled from a day of sales. He lingered on the edges, hands behind his back.

With my delivery to the Health Food Store the coming week, I had income on the way. For all of the doubts and worries The Boyfriend may have had watching me bubble a vat of lard and cover the kitchen in flour, Surf Muffins was becoming real.

I lit up, talking to newfound friends and baking fans, while The Boyfriend lurked. He was friendly when people approached him, but let me do my thing. At the time I didn’t think anything of it, but already two months into living together, I couldn’t help but shake a feeling that we weren’t getting closer. I was so focused on getting the bakery off the ground, and he was so encouraging of it, that I didn’t dig deeper.

I’d also submitted an application for the Palm Springs Farmer’s Markets. If I made it into the markets, I’d be exposed to a massive audience in the Coachella Valley. In anticipation of being accepted for their market opening in September, I had my work cut out for me.

In 2013, the Cottage Food Permit was a brand new California policy. It enabled people to produce foods like jams, breads, and granolas in their home kitchens. Being a new permit, it meant that no one at the health department really knew how it worked. Thankfully, I had a degree in Public Health to navigate the muddy process to get approved. I had to show up in person at the San Bernadino Health Department, hours away from Joshua Tree, and the county was notoriously strict on food businesses. I also had to endure an inspection of my home kitchen, which I gratefully passed, showing off the tubs I’d use to bleach my dishes. In my expenses tracking worksheet, the costs of becoming a legitimate food business were adding up. Having watched a friend fundraise a research trip to Malaysia using another new app called Kickstarter - I decided to launch my own and raise money.

The languorous weeks of early summer were replaced with my first taste of high-production baking. The first delivery to the health food store had been a hit, and they wanted more. For my Kickstarter, I promised a box of baked goods to contributors - and that list was getting long. I zoomed around town getting sticker labels printed, had a pile of packages at the post office (we were too remote for door deliveries), and a row of large Rubbermaid bins lined our dining room to store fifty-pound bags of flour. I’d never baked in a professional kitchen, and I learned fast that producing for volume was no easy task.

I started the day tending to my precious sourdough and getting the fluffy bucket of bread dough hydrated and jiggly. I learned I had to pre-batch dry ingredients for recipes I made daily, and knew that scones baked well from the freezer. I taught myself new tricks to save time, but at the end of each day, my feet ached, and my hands were red from repetitive washes.

But despite the grueling days and frantic efforts to get the business started, I loved it. I was doing something I was good at, and it made people happy.

***

“How far will we go?” I asked, standing at a trailhead inside Joshua Tree National Park.

“Ten miles?” he said, bouncing his knees high to his hands, warming up.

Being a trailbuilder, he spent time further off the main tourist attractions, and on the weekends, we’d get in our long runs.

“Now, I’ll just draw arrows in the sand where I make a turn, so keep your eyes on the trail,” said The Boyfriend, pulling his lean quad in a stretch. Many of the hiking trails inside the park are meandering sandy washes, and once you’ve gotten away from the main road, there are few visual landmarks.

“Don’t get too far ahead of me,” I said. While we both loved to run, he could do a half marathon at a six minute mile pace. I hung out between eight and nine minute miles.

We bounded away from the main road on the narrow sandy trail bordered by chaparral. From the outset, The Boyfriend was ahead of me; it was always a solo run from the get-go. After a half a mile or so, the trail dropped into a rocky canyon, and any trace of roads and tourists drifted away behind us. I loved this part of the trail, round boulders stacked high on either side of the trail created a desert hideaway. I bounced down the flat rock tiles, emerging onto a sandy wash that had views of sprawling desert in every direction. While running in the Bay Area, I was either scaling the hills of the East Bay or going straight into the redwoods of the Santa Cruz mountains. In those locations, landmarks clearly indicated which direction you were going, but once you were way out there in the desert, you could quickly get turned around.

The Boyfriend was long gone now; I couldn’t even see a speck of him flying through the sand. I didn’t mind, though, running was when I could get lost in my thoughts. The repetition of the movement put me in a moving trance. And with the uptick in baking, I had plenty to think about. With the local sales in Joshua Tree, I had established a baseline of cash flow, but for the bakery to become a financially viable business, I needed to get accepted to the Palm Springs Farmer’s Markets. My shoes crunched the dry sand passing by cacti. It was August, and the desert was scorched. It was impressive how green the cacti managed to stay, hoarding away water in their plump pads.

I was far from the well-defined trail close to the road now, running in a ‘wash’. The problem with washes was that they could naturally form during the monsoon rains each year and disrupt the planned trail system. I slowed my jog at a fork in the trail, a clearly drawn arrow was etched into the sand, pointing right, a sign in the sand left behind by The Boyfriend.

After running another twenty minutes through a winding wash, I came to a dead end. The trail stopped at a tangle of dried chaparral. I spun in a circle to see only the twisted arms of Joshua Trees and purple hills on all horizons. The only sound was the wind fluttering the dried, dead palm fur on the Joshua Tree trunks. Hands on my hips, I let my breath slow from the run and walked back the way I’d come. I must have missed another arrow. I worried I had stamped right on top of it, smearing the sign back into the sand. Keeping my eyes to the sand, I slowly jogged, investigating every dip or meander from the wash for a sign of a missed trail.

I remembered the stories The Boyfriend had told me - his time spent living in a tent in the Sierras, and his wintery solo trek in Patagonia. Always alone and forging forward into the wilderness. How well did I actually know him? I was trusting him to lead me through the desert, and he was offering squiggly, drawn arrows.

My heart raced, I had been backtracking for some time, and a feeling of alarm escalated - nothing looked familiar. I had my running watch to keep time, but otherwise I had no way to contact anyone (pre-iphone, and the park was a service deadzone). I kept backtracking, telling myself I’d eventually hit the main trail again. I was now pissed off at The Boyfriend for running so far ahead of me on the back trails. How long would I last without water?

I was starting to freak out, and then I saw a flash of white through a hedge of chaparral.

“Hey! I’m over here!” I shouted.

The Boyfriend came down from the trail. I had ended up in a long wash parallel to the main trail.

“I saw a mountain lion paw up ahead, and thought I should come find you,” he said.

“Mountain Lions live back here?” I said, glad I hadn’t known that while floundering lost in the sand.

“Rare. But they’re around. You missed my arrow?” he said. He was concerned, but he also had an air of irresponsibility. His face was calm as if me going missing was no big deal.

“Wavy arrows are hard to see in the sand; the surface is already wavy,” I said in my defense.

“Well, I’ll keep closer, we’ve still got a ways to run out of here,” he said, and with that, he spun back around and bounded on the trail like a gazelle.

I stewed the rest of the run as he faded into a tiny speck ahead of me yet again. I was chasing a man through the desert who communicated using signs liable to blow away in the wind.

***

“I got in!” I said, sitting at my desk in the living room. The Palm Springs Farmer’s Markets had accepted me.

“That’s fantastic news!” said The Boyfriend, peeling a banana in the kitchen.

The rush of acceptance elated me, but I also knew I had a lot of work to do. My Kickstarter had been fully funded by friends and family - I had the money for permits and a tent - but I also had a good number of treat boxes to mail out. The list of preparations piled up in my mind. But my bakery was real, I could let go of the uncertainty.

“We should go out and celebrate, want to try out Pappy & Harriets? I think Teddy said he hosted an open mic,” said The Boyfriend.

We peeled out in his Honda Fit along Aberdeen Drive, the summer sun melting like butter on the scorching heat of the desert. Arriving at the rustic hideaway of Pioneertown - a mock pioneer town built for the movies in the 1950s - the hot wind wrapped around me like a blanket. Despite the life-threatening temperatures, scorched landscapes, and maze of similitude, the desert was welcoming me.

Pappy & Harriet’s dining room walls were lined with license plates and oil paintings of rebellious women lying in hay with guns. At the back was a simple stage lined with an Oriental rug. The backdrop drop was a mural of stallions riding over a red rose and a waving American flag. This simple stage had been graced by the likes of Robert Plant, Paul McCartney, and other famous tumble weeds who’d been swept east from Los Angeles.

The Boyfriend sat beside me, enjoying his steak tacos. I licked the salt from my margarita and inhaled the smoky air, but I was still unnerved at how easily he had left me behind on the trail. He was all I had here. I tore into my mesquite-grilled chicken. I liked to wrap the crispy skin around the steamed broccoli in my own creation - desert sushi. A tree-like man bellowed with a banjo, and I relaxed. I had started a bakery in the middle of the Mojave.

Tidbits

• My favorite Oregon pumpkin seeds

• This week I went to a book talk by the owners of La Copine in Joshua Tree, and their new cookbook is beautiful . I can’t wait to make the steak.

• Don’t go out in the desert without water, or even better bring the 10 Essentials

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I started writing fictional versions of my desert experience back in 2016. Compelled by the idea of writing, I stumbled into workshops at the Writer’s Grotto, unsure of what I was pursuing. I made outlines and drafted short stories. The seed of a book was in my mind, but a demanding job and a lively social life swept it away. Writing takes stamina and hours of solitude, and I didn’t have either at the time.

At the beginning of this year, I joined a workshop with The Brooklyn Writers Collective, and the desert stories bubbled back up in my weekly essays. After four months of 6 AM writing calls, I had enough material to launch My Sourdough Era on Substack.

As I got into the writing, I couldn’t help but feel like Laura Dern in Jurassic Park (a central archetypal character of my childhood). Memory is impressionistic. A whole year compacts itself into a single painting — places and people layered on top of each other until you can’t tell what happened when, or why. I wanted to recall the details of my life from over a decade ago, and like a paleontologist brushing away dirt to reveal a fossil, I was mining through the happenstance archives of my life.

I come from a line of archivists. Both of my grandpas did extensive genealogy research in the pre-internet era. They combed through the FamilySearch Library in Salt Lake City, flew overseas to hunt down headstones and other family records. They both left behind leather bound tomes filled with scans and family trees. I could spend hours filtering through information; I love the thrill of the hunt.

But my organizational methods are, shall we say, idiosyncratic. In the 7th grade I had a black faux-leather industrial binder purchased at Boeing Surplus. I had a picture of Green Day decoupaged on the front, and I did not have a single divider. It was three inches thick, and I could find a piece of paper amidst the chaos in seconds. I’m a ‘piler’, you could say, and digitally this means massive collections of abstractly named folders and screenshots. But after amassing two decades of digital data, my vaguely photographic memory is overwhelmed.

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Places my past self left evidence

“Stories are found things, like fossils in the ground... Stories are relics, part of an undiscovered, pre-existing world.”

―Stephen King

Gmail

I got a Gmail account my freshman year of college, 2004. My techy boyfriend told me I had to, and I’m glad I listened. I don’t throw out messages, so I’ve got emails going back twenty years. From my inbox alone, I reconstructed the insanity of May 2013: two drives to Joshua Tree, a wedding in San Diego, finals week, and graduation from my MPH program (detailed in Ch 2 & 3). I also used Gmail Chat as my main communication channel with The Boyfriend (neither of us had iPhones, so texting wasn’t really a thing). Those chats are all archived.

Ye olde software

Right now I’m an avid Notion user, but ten years ago it was Evernote. I’d completely forgotten about Evernote until I cleaned out my Gmail autologins. When I logged back in, I found all of my old story outlines and writing fragments from 2016. Archival gold. Same with Dropbox, where I found old bakery photos and recipe spreadsheets. In our software-laden existence, favors change as new tools come out. It can be easy to leave behind memories with the false comfort of digital eternity.

Tip: You can see where you’ve had logins in the settings of your Gmail, handy to remember where you might have stashed thoughts from years ago.

Analog

In my baking prime, I archived recipes like a medieval scribe. I hand-bound a journal of newsprint and wrapped the cover in linen I’d printed with fruit stamps. I hand-sketched each finished product and made notes on the process. I’ve carted those journals around in a Rubbermaid container for a decade. The downside to analog is pencil can fade, and in my case, my handwriting is terrible. The physical burden also becomes overwhelming at a certain point. But these relics are rich with memory.

Tip: Save everything? I can’t help it, I’m an information hoarder. When my grandpa died, we found a painted confirmation scroll from the 1800s. If you only keep one thing, make it your journals.

The internet’s cave paintings - The Wayback Machine

One of the coolest tools on the internet, The Wayback Machine is an archive of the internet since 1996. You can peruse ancient geocities pages like an archeologist discovering a hidden cave painting. My surfmuffins.com website met a tragic end when I updated a credit card and the billing failure notices went to my old business email. Wayback Machine let me recover the whole essay series for my West Coast Grain Adventure. I also like to scan 1990s UFO websites and other internet oddities from the past. It’s pretty awesome what you can dig up on there, maybe even screenshots of your old LiveJournal poetry.

People

One of my grad school friends maps her entire life in Google Calendar. When I asked her what we did the night of our graduation, she had our tiki bar outing logged. Helpful, because I had no recollection of the night, which makes sense since we were slurping flaming rum. Reaching out about shared memories is a great excuse to talk to people you love, and it’s surprising to learn what you’ve forgotten. If I were doing a more intensive memoir project, I’d reach out and ask for interviews from acquaintances I had in the desert era.

Detective mode

When an idea lodges in my head, I become a shark drawn to blood. I pinged around the internet until I located the UC Berkeley course catalog from 2012 because I wanted to reference the exact classroom (Wheeler Hall, Ch 1). We are blessed and cursed with the rabbit hole of information that lives online. But digging up the weird, specific details of a place or time is what makes stories feel real. For the novel I’m writing, I emailed a venue in Seattle to ask if they had show records from 1996 to accurately cite a headlining band. If your personal archive doesn’t have it, go wild with a search. And don’t be afraid to depart from the digital to the physical and talk to a real person.

The takeaway

1. Own your digital systems. One learning from this process is the power of centralized storage. Right now, I’m shuttling everything into Google Docs, which has an easy search function to dig up old files. I’m considering an annual dump of my Notes app and Notion to capture stray thoughts into docs titled with the year. I’m still not sure how to handle back-ups of Google Docs as it bloats in size. I dug up an old external hard drive for this project, and the plastic on the outside had become sticky with age. I fear hardware could suffer the same fate as outdated software.

2. Analog captures texture. Mining Google Docs is becoming even more powerful with AI, but it’s the little notes scrawled in journals that give shape to memories. It’s a delight to have my baking journals handy, and I know a person who prints a bound journal to remember each year. Barnes and Noble has a print-on-demand service for single books - I imagine pasting together different fragments, recipes, photos, etc., from trips or life chapters to have on hand and free up storage. Journals are indispensable in recalling how you felt in a certain moment in time.

3. Clear names. Super obvious but for some reason is hard for me. But with search the main digital excavation tool, taking a second to label a file or folder something like “Recipes 2026” will go a long way in the future.

4. The fuzz is part of the texture of a story. There are photos I know exist that I can’t find, specifically one of a cake made with cactus puree and frosted with turmeric. Some things only live in memory, and this is where ‘creative non-fiction’ comes in. ‘Perhaps’ and ‘imagine’ in your prose if you can’t find the facts.

Lastly, not all of our past can be recovered. There are plenty of secrets we’ll never know about the lives of dinosaurs.

Read My Sourdough Era from the beginning

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Read the previous chapter:

Each day I rolled cookie doughs and chilled crusts and shaped sourdough. As writers write, bakers bake. I’d never been unemployed before, and it made me nervous. So I filled my hours with puffs of flour, gritty dough collecting under my fingernails.

I knew my expectations to be a full time baker were ambitious, so I courted potential gigs (many years before the gig era). A small research group in Palm Springs sent me data to analyze on occasion. I spoke with the Joshua Tree community health center about designing a nutrition and cooking class. But it was the literal middle of the desert. The only real jobs were serving at one of the ten restaurants or working at the National Park. So I kept baking.

I decided to give myself the summer to see if it went anywhere. If it didn’t, I’d get a local job to stay stable. And with bundles of lavender cactus shortbread and bouncy rosemary sourdough loaves, I became the Johnny Apple Seed of gluten, spreading carbs across the Mojave.

As I started baking, I became obsessed with sourcing as many ingredients as I could from local producers. Convinced I could find delicacies amidst the sandy expanse. I even found a cookbook published in the 80s - Fruits of the Desert - I was determined to become familiar with the local edible flora. I sat in the landscaped front yard of a woman who cultivated cacti and mesquite - she taught me how to process the mesquite pods to make my own tawny powder straight from the desert floor. I pureed cactus flesh and mashed dates. Tart, pink, sticky, sweet. The flavors were rich with sun.

I sat in Araby Cove with the leader of the local Slow Foods chapter. She sprinkled chia seeds on my salad and showed me the collection of Chagall-inspired paintings left behind by her husband. She said to me, “You should introduce yourself to the couple who run the farmer’s markets in Palm Springs,” advice that would prove wise.

In my pursuit to find as many local ingredients as possible, I noticed a business card at the grocery store. A cartoon illustrated man riding a tractor with a large pair of animal horns. Bob the Butcher.

“Hello?” said a gruffled voice.

“Is this Bob the Butcher?” I said.

“If you’re looking for meat, I’m your guy,” he said.

“What do you have?” I asked.

“Buffalo, come on by in the afternoon,” he said.

In the low carriage of my Ford Escort I rambled down a pocketed wash road towards Bob’s land. He was only a mile or so away from my house. I pulled into the lot at the signpost marked with his address on the yellow sand. The driveway led directly to the nose of a massive buffalo standing behind a wire fence. Still in the heat of the day, its soft curls were tousled in the wind. Its massive black eyes, glassy, stared at my car. Behind the Buffalo were acres of sand, and no other animal in sight. To the right, a mobile home sat on a mounded hill. Ratcheting barks from dogs I couldn’t see broke the silence between the buffalo and me.

“Come on up, I’ll put them away,” said a stout woman with frizzy hair to her shoulders. She ambled on the gated deck around the mobile home. Two German Shepherds frothed beside her.

I walked up the short path to the deck gate.

“Lock it behind you!” she said from the other side of the mobile home, unseen.

“I’m Pat,” she said, stomping back to the front door.

Inside, Bob sat in a recliner hooked up to an oxygen tank. An old white man, bald and less lively than the cartoon on the business card.

“Hi, I’m Christine. I called about the buffalo meat,” I said. I tried not to look out the window at the lone buffalo in the sand.

“Right, we got frozen buffalo. From a slaughter a few weeks ago,” said Bob, hands in his lap.

“You can sit,” said Pat, gesturing to a chair to the right of Bob. I could see she was missing a few of her top teeth; she snapped her jaw when she talked.

“I just moved here, I’m a baker,” I said.

“Oh do you make a peach pie?” asked Bob.

“Pies are one of my specialties,” I said. “Actually, I’ve been curious to try out lard in my pie crusts. Do you ever have lard?” I asked. I couldn’t help but blurt it out. I had experimented with lard before and loved the texture. I remember the white box of fat on the bottom shelf of the grocery store in Mill Creek growing up, astonished that a solid block of animal fat could be unrefrigerated.

“Well, not right now. But we’re doing a slaughter soon. Shea will be doing it, I can’t make my way around the slaughterhouse with my condition,” said Bob, his plump body tipped backwards in the chair. I couldn’t see him moving much at all. Pat sat on his left, jaw clenched tight and eyes flitting about.

“Let me know when it happens, and I’ll bring you back a peach pie,” I said.

“You know who has the best peaches? Walmart,” said Bob with a raise of his eyes.

“Cheaper than the farmer’s market,” said Pat, suddenly engaged.

“Pat will take you out to the freezer; it’s $10 for a pound of the buffalo, cash,” said Bob.

“Thanks, I’m excited to cook with it,” I said, handing him a folded $10 bill.

***

One year, when I was growing up, my mom let me pick out a seed to plant in the garden at the nursery. I found a row of cardboard boxes with precut potato eyes ready to sprout. One box was filled with indigo cubes, the earthiest shade of blue I’d ever seen. We planted the Peruvian Blue Potatoes in the garden, and they yielded a surprise bumper crop - we had pounds of blue potatoes. I had a soft spot for the blue spuds ever since then.

In our fridge in Joshua Tree, a blue potato purchased at the local health food store got left behind in a drawer. I let the eye sprouts grow as long as the length of the potato body.

“His name is Mukluk, don’t throw him out,” I said to The Boyfriend as he picked up the shriveled tuber.

“His name?” he asked, unsure.

“Ya, I want him to stick around. A fridge buddy for when I’m baking,” I said, aware of the absurdity, but also staunchly attached to the root.

“We need to find you some friends, you spend too much time alone,” he said.

It was mid-June, only a couple of full weeks that I’d been in the desert full time. The heat made it unbearable to do anything outside after 9 AM. I’d go for a jog in the neighborhood early. Then, I’d either putz in the kitchen, or meander downtown through the bleached second-hand store picking up Pyrex bowls and vintage fabric scraps. In the vacant hours of the afternoon, I’d do a Tone It Up workout - Sandcastle Legs or Itty Bitty Bikini. At night, The Boyfriend would bring home a bottle of wine and we’d eat take-out tandoori chicken from Sam’s Indian, watching whatever dated movie I’d borrowed from the public library. It was quiet, but I was happy to be settling into a domestic routine with The Boyfriend.

Next to the thrift store in the small strip mall on Highway 62, there was a large red arrow lined with bulbs affixed to the exterior. It beckoned lone wanderers like myself to enter the blank white storefront.

Inside was a spare open space with art tacked onto the walls. In the back was a makeshift bar top, with books and papers stacked behind it.

“Welcome to Radio Free Joshua Tree,” said a slight man with grey hair, a ringer for Iggy Pop.

“You run a radio show here?” I asked.

“Well, it’s mostly an art space. We host concerts and art shows, you’re new to town?” he asked. In a small town like Joshua Tree, fresh meat stood out.

“I just moved here. I’m a baker,” I said, gesturing to the bag of bread and cookies I had to take to the Health Food Store to see if they were interested in stocking my bread.

“Oh, we haven’t had a bakery here in years. Are you renting out a space?” he asked.

“No, I’m just baking at home. Hoping to get into a farmer’s market,” I said.

He had spritely, big eyes. I felt like I was revealing my wishes to a magical being.

“Well you can set-up here on Saturdays during the farmer’s market if you want, it’d be fun to have you,” he said, cracking a smile.

“That would be amazing, thank you. Here, try some cookies,” I said, handing him the paper sleeve with the delicate lavender cacti cookies.

“I host an open mic at Pappy and Harriet’s on Monday nights. Sometimes we get lucky with who shows up. Hope to see you there,” he said. His gaze was gripping, and the blank slate of the space appeared to me as an open canvas of possibility.

***

I’d check my Surf Muffins email a few times a day, hoping to hear back from one of the many people I’d contacted about my baked goods. One afternoon, an email arrived.

Hey Cristine, we were wondering if you had a phone number we could call you at. the lard you wanted is ground up and ready for you to come and get but we couldn’t find a number to call you at. Thanks - Bob and Pat.

As I pulled into Bob’s land with the window down, my car filled with the sweet, smoky scent of bacon. In front of the fence where the buffalo had been, a tall wooden box was billowing smoke. The buffalo was nowhere in sight.

“You the baker?” I heard a man say. He was thin and ropey with a frizzy blond braid down his back.

“You must be Shea?” I asked.

“I do the slaughtering to help Bob out. You eyeing that bacon?” he said, gesturing up at the smoking box.

“It smells incredible - can I buy some?” I asked, I could taste the fatty sweetness in the smoke.

He opened a narrow wooden door on the front of the smoker, revealing a glistening pork belly. The flesh ruby red, streaked with golden fat.

“Private client, it’s not for sale,” he said, closing the window of the meat box. “But that pig had a lot of fat that the owner wasn’t interested in. I’ve got it all ready for you,” he said, walking towards a small structure at the base of the hill below Bob’s mobile home.

It was a simple building, no windows and a flat roof. Like a restroom at a beach or a park.

“Did Bob build this?” I asked as Shea opened the metal door.

“Took a lot of work, any slaughter facility has to be up to USDA standards. Sloped floors, specific lights, clean room. All kinds of rules. When Bob was in his prime he had a full shop, people from all over hired him to slaughter their animals since there’s nothing like it close by,” he said. I was impressed with the business Bob had built for himself.

In contrast to the blinding light of the desert, the slaughterhouse was icy and grey. Dim lights eerily splashed off the metal surfaces. Down a slim hallway, Shea opened a second door.

We entered a larger room, a cube of stainless steel. On one side were deep sinks, and across the way was an open area with a sloped steel floor. There were hooks in the ceiling and one dim lightbulb casting low illumination on the clean room. Stretched across two hooks was the pelt of the buffalo I had seen a few weeks before. Hung by the skin from its hind legs, its wide skull stared at the floor. The round black eyes that had gazed at me silently were empty and dead.

“That was Bob’s last buffalo. Active animal care is too much work. My girlfriend and I are going to cure the pelt,” said Shea as we walked past the great beast’s skin flayed open.

Pushing aside a curtain of thick, clear plastic, we entered another chamber with a large stainless steel table and standing fridges.

“Here’s the fat, what are you going to do with it all?” he asked, taking out a large garbage bag from the fridge. The black bag was tied in a knot and hung down to his thighs with the weight of the pig fat.

“Make pie crusts,” I said, unsure of the project scope I’d committed to. I’d rendered lard before, but the jiggling garbage bag intimidated me.

“Can’t wait to try one,” he said, handing off the heavy bag to me in the sterile glow of the slaughterhouse.

Back at my car, I lugged the garbage bag of bloody fat into my trunk. Rambling back along the sandy road to my house, I wondered how I would explain the carnal garbage in the trunk if pulled over.

I bought a large metal pot at the thrift store, anticipating the arrival of the fat from Bob. It was mid-June and close to one-hundred degrees outside. The swamp cooler rumbled in the hallway, pumping moist cool air into our small house. The Boyfriend wouldn’t be home for a few hours. I lit the blue flame of the gas stove to warm the pot. and untied the black garbage bag squat on the tile floor.

Standing on a stool, I carefully poured the ground-up lard into the pot. It was bloody, chunky, and laden with gristly flecks of bone. At least 30 lbs of fatty goo, the volume overwhelmed me. To render lard, you add water to the fat and boil it all to separate out the gristle and blood, and the fat breaks down into a smooth texture. As it boiled, I watched the bits of skin and meat fry into cracklings, spooning them off onto a paper towel in a pile that grew larger and larger.

The sliding glass door opened, and The Boyfriend stepped inside, his shirt already off from the summer heat.

“Hey sweetie, what are you making?” he asked. He burned thousands of calories a day on the trail and looked forward to the carbs I churned out.

“Lard,” I said, standing on the stool barefoot in a pair of shorts, looking down at the bubbling pot.

His eager hands pulled into his chest, recoiling like a vampire in daylight.

“That whole pot is pig fat? What are you going to do with it all?” he asked. Fair question.

“Pie crusts, cornbread - and look at all these cracklings!” I said, excited and afraid at the bounty.

He peered in at the bubbling liquid fat, unsure of the woman he had moved to the desert with. A woman who had a pet potato in the fridge and befriended men in slaughterhouses while he was away at work.

“I got this red wine at the Health Food Store, they have a few Chilean organic options. Did you drop one of your goodie bags at their store?” he asked, setting it on the counter. The label with its sketched mountains would become familiar in the coming months.

“I did, I left it with the woman who works the register, the one with long red curly hair,” I said.

“She’s cheerful,” he said, pacing the kitchen, patting his belly.

“I also met an interesting guy, Teddy, he has the art spot at the end of the strip. He said I could set-up there on Saturday during the farmer’s market,” I said.

“Fantastic, a grand debut in Joshua Tree!” he said.

He was genuinely delighted to hear my baking was getting a response, and I wasn’t going to be relegated to solo days in the kitchen. We were both silently anxious about my baking project. It sounded exciting and romantic while we were in the bay area. But the reality of starting a business was setting in. I could tell he was spooked at the possibility of me being at home unemployed for an extended period. Our expenses were low, and I had a bit of money in my savings account to float me for a couple of months. But I no longer had health insurance, and the contract gigs I’d courted had yet to fruit consistent income. We didn’t talk about the possible failure, just like everything else in our relationship, we kept it quiet.

***

Mid-July, further into the heat and solitude, my phone rang. I flipped it open to answer.

“Hello?” I said.

“Hi, is this Christine of Surf Muffins?” asked the woman’s voice, piqued and sharp.

“This is Linda, the owner of the Health Food Store, I got your samples and wanted to talk. Can you come down to chat in-person?” she asked.

The Health Food Store is the only proper grocery store in Joshua Tree. Yucca Valley down the highway had the Walmart and other big-box groceries, but the Health Food Store was a mighty force in a tiny space for the local community. It had one small fridge case for produce and a single freezer in the back stock room with steaks and packaged meats. It had a small bulk section, and a wall of bath & body products. In the back was a small administrative office where I sat across from Linda the owner.

A thin bouncy woman, Linda often wore leopard print leggings and brightly colored tops. Her skinny legs moved fast through the space showing off the various products she proudly brought to the high desert.

“Now, I can’t eat gluten, so I couldn’t enjoy your baked goods, but my staff was raving about the bread and cookies. We haven’t had a baker here in Joshua Tree in years, and I know the town will just gobble up your goodies,” she said, her legs crossed in the aged office chair. Her bob was bleached blonde and her lips shined with pink gloss.

“That would be incredible,” I said, barely believing what I heard. I would have to figure out how to make all of the products I’d marketed at a retail scale.

“Where are you baking everything?” she asked.

“Out of my home kitchen, there’s a new law in California called a Cottage Food Permit that allows you to make products in your house,” I said.

“Well that’s nice. Let’s start out small and see how people respond - when can you bring in your first delivery?” she asked.

I spun over the details. I’d researched the Cottage Food Permit but hadn’t applied yet. Labels, packaging, and supplies - I’d tooled around with designs and sources but now it was time to produce.

“How about the first week of August?” I said, giving myself a couple of weeks.

A stranger had agreed to buy my baked goods. Surf Muffins was no longer a fantasy, it was a real business. And I had no idea how many pounds of flour were in my future.

Supplies for this recipe

• Classic saguaro cactus cookie cutter, but also these adorable paddle cacti

• Pastry cloth - incredibly helpful for rollout cookies and pie crusts. It keeps the dough from sticking, and keeps it safe from picking up those invisible flecks of dust and food inevitably on the counter.

• Oshala farms in southern Oregon grows incredible herbs, try their lavender

• I like blending whole wheat flours with all-purpose. If you wanted to experiment with California grown and milled flours, try out a 50/50 blend of AP and this Sonora wheat flour

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I struggled to find a place in my new Joshua Tree kitchen that wasn’t too hot for my sourdough starter to make its new home. Yeast likes temperate climates, and overheating a culture would kill it.

The Bay Area is infamous for its yeast population - the foggy oceanic air never gets too cold - and the lush flora provides ample surfaces for yeast to make itself at home. Countless iconic bread bakeries churn out outstanding loaves, harvesting the industrious microbes from the air to sacrifice themselves in the name of bread: Boudin Bakery, Tartine Bread; Arizmendi, The Cheese Board. I captured my own bit of the local wild yeasts from a glass jar filled with a slurry of flour and water left in a warm windowsill of the house I shared in Berkeley.

In Joshua Tree, windowsills were out of the question. The heat of the days beat down on the glass cranking the temperatures. I settled on the counter top of a rolling island pushed against a wall that always sat in the shadows. From the counter I had a view out the back sliding glass doors of the living room, a view of the pale yellow ground and the spaced out shrubs of the desert. The wind shook the spindly chaparral. I would come to learn that more days howled than didn’t in the high desert.

It was the first week in June, and I was alone in the kitchen. Where I would find myself for many days over the coming year while The Boyfriend lugged rocks in the park. Surrounded by acres of empty quiet. A quiet I had never known before. In unbearable heat. In a mere month, I’d left a three story house filled with graduate students in the breezy bay, dripping with fruit, and landed in Tatooine.

My graduation came and went as fast as the peak of an ocean wave. A flurry of friends, family, and ceremony. Standing in Sproul Plaza with my cohort and family, I kept looking to my side for The Boyfriend, but he was in the desert.

“I’m sorry The Boyfriend couldn’t make it,” said my good friend, she knew how hard I had worked the past two years.

“It’s ok, without him here I can have more time celebrating with all of us,” I said. And I partially meant it - I wanted The Boyfriend to recognize my accomplishments, but he was awkward with my Berkeley friends. And it was our last night together.

After major exams, we hit the Tiki Bar; a bamboo-teak plastered cave where time never slowed or fastened. We were infectious disease experts, but that didn’t deter us from swapping spit in the shared Scorpion Bowl; a ceramic dish of crushed ice filled with a melange of hard alcohol. A flickering blue flame elicited clapping hands and eager lips as we slurped up the flammable elixir through hot pink straws. We were the last to leave, the bartender playing Purple Rain too loud to get us out the door. Back in the cool night, we each left in our separate directions. None of us were staying in Berkeley, and we scattered like wild yeast cells in the fertile winds to our futures.

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Less than a week later, I packed my car with what was left in my Berkeley bedroom. The tiny Ford Escort was jammed to the windows with bags of clothes and boxes with my old notebooks. I tucked a zippered cooler behind the driver’s seat to ensure my sourdough starter stayed comfortable for the ride. If gold prospectors could keep a pouch alive in the wilderness, mine could survive the highway.

But before I made it to Joshua Tree, I had a marathon to run.

The Forest of Nisene Marks sits south of Santa Cruz in Aptos, CA - a sprawling 10,000 acres of redwood forest. An ambitious choice for my first marathon as the route climbs over 3,000 feet.

I’d been sleeping on a Therma Rest pad for the past month, The Boyfriend had taken my mattress to the desert. Arriving at the race early on a Saturday morning, I stretched out my calves and shoulders tense from sleeping on the floor. I tucked a single plastic wrapped date into the key pocket of my running shorts beside my car key, I’d savor its gooey sweetness 10 miles in.

Alone at the starting line I stood beside clomping, knobby trail runners. Wearing thick woolen socks and mismatched outfits, no one was here to show off. They were here to endure.

Through towering redwoods, my feet floated atop the soft bark trail. The pack of runners settled into their individual paces, and I found myself with space cruising past ancient trees and up winding hills. Only breathing and moving, it was a meditation. Even at the top of the steepest hill of the route, I was at peace.

But the final eight miles were hallucinatory. Deep in wilds of single-track trails, my calves brushed against hairy horsetails and ferns. I was truly isolated, dizzy with depletion. Each step became a shuffle as I climbed through the shrouded forest. The narrow trail wound deeper into the woods, and I worried it would never lead back out. Ahead, a flash of red caught my attention. I picked up my pace, and a mirage of a man cheered as I approached. From the red cooler, he cracked open a Rainier beer. I chugged it down, the icy carbs replenishing my starved cells. With the buzz of yeast fermented liquid gold, my aching feet twinkled through the trees to the main road.

I knew I had made good time, but had been oblivious to others during the race. I crossed the finish line in the grassy field outside the forest without fanfare. Platters of browning bananas cut in half and bite-sized bagels sat out under an awning. My legs found peace as I chugged water.

“Congrats, you placed second for women,” said a man with a clipboard. He gave me a thumbs up and went back to his post at the finish line.

I nodded in recognition, though it didn’t fully settle into my mind. I looked at the sweaty milieu of strangers. I had no one to tell about the success of my race.

I leaned against my car and picked at the basket of blueberries mashing from sun exposure in the cupholder. Tears formed at the corners of my eyes as the puckery goo shocked my taste buds.

I flipped open my phone and dialed The Boyfriend.

“I finished, I took second place for women,” I said.

“Second! That’s outstanding, are you going to treat yourself?” he asked.

I wanted him to be there. To drive the car to get food and show me where to rest. I had planned to spend the night at my uncle’s house three hours south in San Luis Obispo, but the idea of pressing the gas pedal melted my fortitude.

“I might go to the beach. I’m so tired,” I said, the delirium scrambled my frontal lobe. My luscious memory foam mattress was nine hours away in my new home. And so was The Boyfriend. I was on my own.

I waded into the salty ocean, calming the inflammation in my knees. The water was warm and placid in Capitola, the same beach I had been held under at a few months before.

I had finished graduate school, and placed in my first marathon. The flatness of the accomplishments washed around my legs in the lacking ebb of the ocean. I had poured all of my resources into the past two years and with a thud it was done. I brushed the surface of the water jagged with sun. I was in between, not quite here or there; the liminal space where the ocean pushes over the shore. Like Venus, but tattered and aching, I emerged from the Pacific to the warm sand, anew and wobbling.

500 miles of highway were all that remained on my journey.

***

The Boyfriend had already been in Joshua Tree for a month on his own. It was June, and I wasn’t prepared for the intensity of the heat. My dad had confirmed at my graduation that while my Ford Escort had a dial labeled as “AC” the car did not in fact have AC installed. I drove with the windows down, the hot wind battering my cheeks pink.

On my first day there, I found him at the back of the property where the owners had left assorted objects. Metal springs, bleached sculptures, rusted gardening hoes. The Boyfriend was wearing wide-legged pants covered in straps that he had bought at the Joshua Tree Music Festival a few weeks earlier on my birthday weekend. He was collecting curved rods of steel in a pile.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I think these are the parts to a human-sized gyroscope - I’m going to rebuild it,” he said. He was shirtless, his abs etched into his torso. He’d always been athletic, but he’d lost weight after a month of hard labor in the desert.

“A gyroscope? Like a carnival ride?” I asked, disturbed at the idea of a homemade body spinner.

He continued to collect the discarded metal. The wind blew through the Chuparosa, a desert shrub with small tubular red flowers that flutter like flags waving. I imagined his body swiveling inside the discarded burning man toy; the rickety metal rods crumbling under the force. The immensity of the isolation sunk in. The desert was where lost toys went to decay, where secrets could be buried, and screams were lost to the wind.

***

On weekdays, I woke up to a small white ceramic bowl in the sink filled with water, a few gummy oats still stuck to the sides. The Boyfriend left at 5 AM each day. It was the first time in my adult life I didn’t have a job or school. My day was empty, all that awaited me were my ambitions.

After the first few days I found my starter deflated by the evening after feeding it in the morning. In Berkeley it would be bubbly twenty-four hours after a feeding, in the desert heat the yeast was working double time. I hadn’t realized how much the new environment might affect some of my standard recipes. I had sourdough bread down, but in the quiet of the empty kitchen, I was nervous my concept for a desert bakery wouldn’t work out.

One day, with nothing else to do, I prepared to bake bread. It was what I was there for after all, wasn’t I supposed to be starting a bakery? I set out my tools - a large white mixing bowl, my grey kitchen scale crusted with dough, and a bag of King Arthur flour. With the hook of my finger I globbed a hunk of well-fed starter into a bowl of water and smiled as it floated to the surface. It was ready. White flour powdered into the water and with my hands I coaxed it to hydrate into a sticky dough, my hands covered in glutenous fur.

Sourdough bread takes days of patient action. A stir here, a fold there, waiting until it looks “just right”. I shaped the dough into a round loaf. The texture after it rises is like the belly of a baby pig, jellied and pattable. Then in the cradle of a cloth-lined basket, it chills in the fridge overnight. The yeast slowing their party to a lazy nibble, maturing the flavors and texture.

Cranking the oven to 500 degrees in the desert felt criminal, and I’d come to only do so before sunrise. Sweating in a pair of cotton shorts and stinky Dansko clogs, I opened the lid of the cast iron pot radiating intense heat. The doughy loaf had expanded, the slash of the razor exposing the stretched interior. I exhaled, baking bread was possible here. Not only was it possible, that loaf looked damn good.

The crust crackled on the cooling rack as it met the air of the kitchen. Golden and bubbly, the crust was exquisite. The shape, round and comely.

At 4 PM, The Boyfriend appeared at the sliding doors at the back of the house in his khaki National Park Uniform. The buttons of his shirt undone. The door slid open, the aged black rubber resisting the weight of the glass.

“Wow, what do we have here,” he said, rubbing his hands together. He smelled like cooled sweat and dust as he approached the bread.

I hadn’t showered yet. After the bread was done, I had fussed with the swamp cooler to bring the house to a comfortable temperature. A new feature of living in the desert was the strange grate in our hall ceiling that filtered in air cooled by a water tank on the roof. My armpits were still sticky, and crusted dough was hardened under my fingernails.

“I tested out my starter here, it seems to be working,” I said.

“I’d say it’s working just fine,” he said, circling the golden loaf.

I was satisfied with the bread, relieved it had worked. I still had tweaks to make in the proofing, and timing the feeding of my starter. But I had hope. Looking at that first loaf of bread I had a new goal. Perfect the desert loaf. Stud it with fragrant rosemary. Make the best possible loaf of bread.

I knew no one in the desert, but I did know that few people could say no to a good slice of bread. And it was time to introduce myself to the locals.

Bread supplies

There are a few basics that you’ll need to have around for sourdough:

• Slashing razor - I’ve taped a flat razor onto a wooden chopstick. But you can buy one.

• Proofing banneton - These are really pretty. You can also use a bowl or tupperware with a floured cloth napkin

• Dough scraper - Cheap and necessary

• Dutch oven - I love an enameled Le Creuset, but a classic cast iron works well too

• Kitchen scale - I’ve always made my sourdough by grams, there are cheap ones to get started and if you really want to scale up, a heavy duty one will become indispensible

• The book that started it all. And if you want to go down the whole-grain rabbit hole, Tartine 3 is a fun one to bake out of.

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“I’ve got some exciting news,” said The Boyfriend, holding the purple coils of the climbing rope.

With chalky hands, I cinched my harness tight around my stomach, empty and growling. We’d already gone for a run and surfed that day. I was hungry.

“I got a job offer to build trails in Joshua Tree National Park,” he said. The rambling departure to a new frontier hung like car exhaust in his aura.

My throat tightened. It was March, and I had wanted to move to Santa Cruz when I graduated in a couple of months and start a bakery, Surf Muffins. To peddle a muffin cart along the East Cliffs and serve up treats for the dawn patrol surfers.

“Not a lot of surfing in the desert,” I said, unsure if his job meant the end of our relationship, I deflected, asking more.

“Plenty of climbing,” he said, teeth ajar like a bird’s beak. “It’d be hard to keep our relationship up with the distance,” he said this with positivity, but not quite as a suggestion or an invitation.

“You want me to come with you?” I asked, attempting to discern his intentions.

“Only if it was for you, I don’t want you to move to the desert for me,” he said with a curated air of maturity.

I nodded, agreeing with him. But the statement was impossible, the only reason I would ever choose to move to the middle of the desert would be for him. While it wasn’t a choice I would make for myself, I also didn’t want to stay here without him. Just as I made a choice to deny myself certain foods, and to run a certain number of miles each week, I gave up something to be in control.

I had become closely acquainted the year before with Karena and Katrina - or as I referred to them in my head - the Tone It Up Girls.

I loved their beach waves, how tan they were; their perky cheerleader vibe was something I would usually make fun of. But a dedicated vegetarian, I was stuck in a rut eating piles of garbanzo beans. I was sluggish and puffy and running wasn’t cutting down on my bloated belly. I tried a chicken and quinoa meal from the Tone It Up plan, and felt transformed. Convinced of their wisdom, two bronzed sages who held the secret for flat abs in their copious beach waves, I jumped down the hot pink spandex rabbit hole with K&K.

I kept my obsession a secret, it was embarrassing to admit I did workouts titled Itty Bitty Bikini or Frisky Fullbody. In spare moments alone at the computer in the Tuberculosis clinic, I clicked to their site. I’d sketch out my meal and exercise plans, fantasizing about the neon bikinis I’d buy myself. While their diet advice was written with good intentions, I took their guidance and let it become my bible.

“On belay,” I said, tapping my carabiners and figure eight knot before gripping the red and blue holds screwed tightly to the artificial wall. My stomach growled, but after the climb I would have earned the cheese enchiladas we would get for dinner.

“Belay on,” he said in response. He held tension in the rope and I trusted him to catch my fall as I ascended.

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Once a week I baked in the back corner of the Pasta Pastifico kitchen at Strawberry Canyon Park. A charming brick building tucked away in West Berkeley housed a few architects, the pasta kitchen, and the Berkeley Herbal Center (at which I would attend classes ten years in the future). Late on Tuesday evenings, I had one aluminum work bench all to myself. My first professional kitchen space.

I sold my wacky, hippy treats to a student-led food co-op on Dwight Way across from campus. I baked up round mounds of healthful “power treats”, packed full of nuts and seeds. It was my attempt to bake something I also considered healthy. I wanted to craft nourishing treats that could power someone through marathon training or a full day of surfing.

The lead baker Eric, a legend who had founded Semifreddis and been a part of the Cheeseboard, would shuffle around the kitchen. He had a wide grin that stretched open as he snacked on a large macaroon, and bushy eyebrows that lit up as watching me bake.

“Your recipes are just so unique,” he said as I handed him one of my Mountain Man bars. A recipe that was much too complicated involving spent grain from brewing beer, juniper berries, and a melange of purple-hued fruits to fill the dough. But it was delicious.

“Thanks for letting me use the space,” I said. He let me use it for the price of one of each of whatever I was baking.

“You could really be successful as a baker, you’ve got real talent,” he said.

His casual mentorship lit me up, he was respected as a baker. If he saw promise in what I was making, it meant I wasn’t delusional. He’d built a successful life for himself stretching dough into loaves, why couldn’t I?

On Craigslist I looked up the rent for homes in Joshua Tree, astounded at the $600 monthly rate for a spacious two bedroom. I also found a new law passed in California, a Cottage Food Permit, that allowed a person to operate a baking business in their home. I jotted down numbers and compared the financials for staying in Berkeley and moving to Joshua Tree. If I was serious about launching a baking business, the desert offered wide open spaces on a shoestring budget. And surprisingly, there wasn’t a single bakery in a town full of hungry rock climbers.

***

The spring of 2013 before my graduation was grueling, and self-inflicted. Early morning sprints, marathon training runs, meals calculated for their protein content, and late nights analyzing data.

My master’s research presentation had been white knuckled, the panel of professors grilled me on my data, it was clear I had struggled to pull solid conclusions from the mud. I had been warned writing a final paper from imperfect clinical data was the toughest choice for a final project. I left the presentation sweating. I had to resubmit my final conclusions, but I was so close to being done.

I was interviewing for research jobs in San Francisco, but they were as appealing to me as a stale cracker. I showed up to the interviews devoid of desire. The idea of staying behind while The Boyfriend moved south ripped at my insides. Getting a drab studio apartment, cooking a small bowl of quinoa each night to eat alone. Pecking away at computer keys each day wrangling spreadsheets of data. I wanted to be free of the arduous life I had designed.

The thought of sumptuous dates warmed in the desert sun, the prickly pink juice of cactus fruits, and caramel-smoked mesquite pods - that is what whet my appetite. The idea that in Joshua Tree I could bring my dream of a bakery to life in a way I couldn’t if I stayed in Berkeley.

***

The weekend after my presentation in April, The Boyfriend and I sat on his couch, the coastal sun filtering in through the blinds.

“I want to come with you to Joshua Tree,” I said, nervous to say it out loud. My heart thumped at what it would mean, traveling into the unknown for the first time in my life.

He squeezed my hand. “You’ll get to start your bakery,” he said. He was the biggest champion of my baking, he authentically wanted to see it come to life.

“I can’t wait to figure out how to use prickly pears,” I said. A new palette of natural products, the tart and smoky fruits of the desert fluttered in the pages of my baking journal.

“I start the first week of May, right after E & M’s wedding,” he said. Their wedding a couple of weeks before my graduation.

“So are you going to miss my graduation, and the marathon?” I asked. I hadn’t realized his start date was so soon.

“I’m sorry sweetheart, I think so. It’ll be too much driving to start work and come back up here for just a night. But why don’t you come down with me after the wedding to look for an apartment?” he said.

“Sure, I’ll figure out the dates,” I said. I would end up driving from the bay to Joshua Tree three times in the month of May.

***

The sky cast a mystical shade of pale green on the wedding party, like the inside of a teacup. The dripping, coastal desert foliage secluded us all in a secret garden, ephemeral with E and M’s love. Like a scene out of Midsummer Night’s Dream, bards hung from the trees with billowing sleeves proclaiming the true love of the couple. Leggy young women draped in chiffon the colors of desert wildflowers, cast petals at their feet.

Tipsy and starving, I swayed in the buffet line with The Boyfriend. Before the ceremony I’d put down a couple of glasses of Rose, a pleasing shade of pink like the inside of a conch shell.

“Can you see what they are serving?” I asked him, hoping it had the appropriate protein content.

“All looks pretty good,” he said.

A murmur rose from the front of the line, the plump chef threw his arms to the sides of his head, pulling at his dirty blonde hair. Most of the guests were already seated with bountiful plates of a glossy coconut curry with shrimp and vegetables. I noticed the people ahead of us walking away with meager plates of white.

We stood at the mobile buffet, a food cart he had brought to serve in the idyllic garden setting.

“Sorry folks, I really screwed up here, all we’ve got left is rice,” he said. The shame of his failure palpable as he jerked the serving spoon to put a pile of white rice on a plate.

I took it in my hands, frozen, drunk, and now in a panic. I couldn’t eat rice. I didn’t eat carbs after 3 PM. It was a new rule I had created for myself from the Tone It Up diet.

“There’s no quinoa?” I asked the flummoxed man. At least quinoa was a complete protein. I tried to act cool, but I was freaking out. Starving and scared about how to handle the disruption to my rules.

But that aluminum tray was also empty, dried curls of the ancient grain stuck to the bottom. He just flailed more and with his eyes closed, serving another plate of rice as if he was a volunteer at a refugee camp.

The picnic tables were covered in Mexican cerulean blue florals. Alcohol coursing through my veins I stared down the plate of rice.

“I can’t eat this,” I said to The Boyfriend.

“Well it’s all we’ve got, you need to eat something,” he said hushed. Another guest, a surfer from Santa Cruz plowed into his pile of rice.

I fidgeted my fork near the plate, each time I tried to take a bite I pulled back. It was against my rules and I couldn’t break them. Tears welled, I’d barely eaten over the past few days and had driven 500 miles and run a half marathon in that time.

The Boyfriend pulled me into the bushes, occluded from the wine drunk diners who were laughing off the caterer’s bloop.

“You need to eat. You ran a half marathon yesterday. You can handle the carbs,” he said, sternly negotiating with me, a woman functioning on the seashell-fumes of Rose. He’d run cross country at college, he’d seen this before in the lean legs of coeds smashing orange slices under their feet and kicking them under the bleachers.

I touched my stomach and counted the miles I’d run to rationalize the break in the rules. I could eat a little rice, but I wouldn’t like it. Later that night, twenty buckets of chicken wings would arrive, and I would ascend on the meaty morsels with abandon, the hunger too great to keep quiet.

After the wedding, we headed east into the desert on Highway 10. A highway of desolation, expanse, and the menacing loom of windmills. They stood white and impossibly tall on the horizon, their blades whipping through the clear skies at threatening speed harvesting power from the invisible. In front of the largest field of them in Palm Desert, we took a sharp right onto Highway 62 and started to climb. Joshua Tree sits at 3,000 feet above elevation, the High Desert. We climbed past the crumbling yellow ochre cliffs, big horn sheep perched in the gulleys.

It’s empty desert hills on either side of the highway, but speckled along the way was an antique store, a cafe with a weathered sun-washed sign. Everything was painted a shade of pink, sandy, flesh, and it’s further faded and bleached from the incessant sun. The plants of the landscape are separated by a healthy diameter, and so are the homes. Each home had acres around them, space is a commodity in excess here. Yucca Valley, an out of place suburban town with strip malls, a walmart, and chain-brand gyms flits by with a confused glance.

The road flattened and the sign “Welcome to Joshua Tree” announced our destination. I looked at the purple hills painted against the sky in every direction, the washed out sand that will define my sense of place. And the crooked, reaching arms of the mischievous Joshua Trees dominating the landscapes, seussian botanical guards.

The town was simple, and I came to know every business clustered near the intersection of Highway 62 and Park Boulevard. A laundromat, Three Sisters Cafe, Joshua Tree Health Food Store, Joshua Tree Tavern, Crossroads Cafe, Sam’s Indian. A big red arrow pointed to one unit in a strip mall.

“Here we are,” The Boyfriend pulled into the narrow parking lot of the Safari Motor Inn. The neon light sign flashed “POOL - VACANCY”.

“It has a pool!” I said. I imagined laying out one afternoon in the desert heat.

We were there for three days to find a place to live. I was the one tasked with finding a place, The Boyfriend had his first day of work at the park the next day. The motel would be our homebase. Parked in front of our room, we got out with our bags. It was already dark and the wind whipped my hair. The carpet in our room was darker than a glass of merlot, and the bedspread a loud geometric design with orange that was meant to look like the desert, but it was much too bright. That first night the wind howled against the window. In the morning, The Boyfriend left for his first day of work. I was alone.

I walked to the pool entrance of the motel to take a look, thinking of my day of house hunting and sunbathing. There was a concrete courtyard with weathered metal beams hanging overhead, a gesture at a sun covering that had never been installed. The dirty aqua concrete pit was drained, the white plastic loungers covered in grey soot. Wind blew the straw leaves of a tilted potted agave, white husks peeling from the arching stem. A disappointment from what I expected.

I had the addresses written down for two houses, I input each of them into MapQuest to write down the directions before I went out. They were both on the south side of Highway 62 close to the park entrance, and less than a ten minute drive from the motel. The first was a simple single family house, a dog barked on the other side of the chain link fence in the backyard.

The second was further out from town, way down Alta Loma Road where the neighborhood dispersed like tumbleweeds. Seeing these homes with no vegetation, no gardens, no green was foreign. In Berkeley the yards were overflowing with growth, lemons rotting in the soil, jasmine trailing over fences. The home I stood in front of was built up from the yellow sand, it looked like new development without the growth of plants to signify the passing of time.

Roaring down the road I saw a monster truck coming. The body unfinished aluminum with patches of matte blue paint. The tires were massive and the body lifted higher off of the axel. It swung at a wild angle into the driveway of the home and out hopped a taut, wiry man in denim coveralls. A shiny bald spot on the top of his head lined with a crown of tight black curls matching the bravado of his moustache. His elbows and knees permanently bent like a windup toy built to pounce, he bounded up to the front door.

“You’re the landlord?” I swallowed hard.

“Inside, let’s go,” he didn’t speak in clear sentences, he brayed and threw back his head. I caught an accent of some kind but couldn’t place it. I hesitated, what if this guy was a murderer?

He stood at the door and fumbled with the lock box, eventually opening it. He marched inside, it was clearly his home.

“This is the best for parties, I play my records, dance!” he twirled around a large entertainment room, flapping his arms like wings. Was he drunk? I was surprised he had even been able to text with me to arrange a showing, he seemed completely separate from reality.

I walked around and looked at the space ignoring his antics. The house was empty, I didn’t understand where he lived now if he had lived here before. It was spacious and the kitchen was expansive. I imagined baking pies and bread in it. Once I’d seen enough I made my way to the door.

“Thank you for the tour, I’ll text you if we’re interested, I need to talk to my boyfriend,” I said from the safety of outside the house.

“Call me if you want it!” he said, locking the house and hopping back into his monster truck before tearing back onto the empty desert road.

After 4 PM we had one last tour, this one The Boyfriend could join after work.

It was on the north side of Highway 62, further from the park. We turned down a ‘wash’ - a dirt sandy road. They were called washes because it was where the water flowed during the monsoons. The Boyfriend’s low Honda bounced on the uneven road, and we pulled in front of the property. It was painted a pale yellow and had green wooden shutters with cacti shapes cut out of them. The house was undeniably charming. Inside the floors were big square tiles the color of an ostrich egg, it was spacious but modestly so. Most importantly, the kitchen was airy with a massive work counter.

“We live out back in our trailer during the winter, but then we cruise around the rest of the year,” said the woman Kathy who owned the land with her husband Lennard. Retirees, she made jewelry and they spent their days on the road. The property was over an acre, so even with them on it, it wasn’t close quarters.

The only downside was the lack of washer and dryer. I’d never gone to a laundromat before and the idea of doing so repelled me.

“I’ll take the clothes to the laundromat, I’ll have to wash my park uniforms at least once a week anyway,” said The Boyfriend.

It was only $650 a month. A whole acre of desert sand and the wide open countertops of a kitchen to bake in. In the brown room of the realtor’s office in Yucca Valley, we sat at a vinyl wood-grain topped table with the 12- month lease. I signed first and passed it over to him.

I watched The Boyfriend hold his pen above the signature line.

“I’ve never actually signed a lease before,” he looked up with one of his wide, toothy expressions, not quite a smile, a retreat. He had told me about living in a tent for some months while working on a trail project, and otherwise, he’d always made it work with sublets and temporary crash situations.

And with his pen stroke, our life in the desert had a beginning.

The recipes I’m sharing in this series are dredged up from physical notebooks I kept at the time, full of scribbles and sketches. Some of them are wacky and experimental, but I’m keeping them pure to the source. With that said, bake at your own risk.

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My toes sank under the foam, and the sea pulled past my ankles as it inhaled between sets.

“Just stay to the left, you’ll do great sweetie pie,” He waved his hand to where a slight taper in the swells could be argued for.

My lips parted to oppose, but his eyes confidently led the jaunt forward. Four to six feet high waves were the largest I felt comfortable in, and today the swell was nearing ten feet tall. But I wanted to be a better surfer. I wanted to keep up with him.

A deep chill extended up my legs, hips, and with a sharp inhale my torso was submerged. Ahead of me, he expertly navigated past the break of the waves, and a pause in gravity’s force allowed me to furiously paddle to him where we would wait for the giants. When the waves got too big for my nerves, I’d paddle out as far as I could to be safely out of the break zone.

Once I felt safe far beyond the break zone, I sat up and rollicked on my board, bobbing in concert with the crowd. All eyes were attuned to the western rise of the sea.

“I think I should go in, it’s too big today,” I said, watching the steep backside of the waves breaking as guys on shortboards dropped over the ledge.

My white hands grasped for security on the waxed surface of my board, slipping in the spaces where the wax had been worn off.

“Stay out, this will be good practice. You get into your head,” he said, dragging his hands in the water.

Suddenly a shape rose on the horizon, as if we were on a country road zooming towards the base of a rolling hill. A dark blue peak altered the structure of the landscape, and without words we all rushed forward. The splash of quietly rushed strokes brought a buzzing to my limbs. Throwing my body to the board, I followed the pack of surfers in a race against the mountain.

The Boyfriend was already far ahead, his glossy black body adeptly darting into the shifting ripples of the blue desert. He would breach the shoulder of the wave before it broke. Despite the shake in my hands, I pulled through the dark water.

The lumpy mirage on the horizon was transforming; what could have been described as a common undulation took on a sharp forwardness, declaring its intention. I knew even with a faster paddle I wouldn’t make it before the inevitable crashing, curling vortex. As the sea rose in front of me vertically, a sharp ridge forming at the peak of the rise, I caught his eye, his head cocked to the right, looking at me below. We locked in a gaze, his effusively buoyant figure tipped to slide down the back of the wave, out of sight.

I faced the base of the aqueous wall, quickly grabbing both sides of my board and rolled underneath it. With a fleeting fill of my lungs, I pulled the tip at a hard angle towards the sea floor. The force of the wave rushed over, undulating each vertebra of my spine as I pulled the board down against the force. Emerging in the white wash, my lungs grasped onto fresh oxygen before I rolled over to survive another wave.

***

It was February 2013. Instagram was in its infancy, and iPhones weren’t yet ubiquitous. Get Lucky by Daft Punk would dominate the summer airways. Uber was still a luxury service, and third-party sellers hadn’t shown up en masse on Amazon. It was the last gasp in the pre-app era. If you missed the midnight BART going from San Francisco back to the East Bay, you had to take the mythic AC Transit 800 route bus over the Bay Bridge. I was a graduate student at UC Berkeley, and the days were golden.

***

The previous fall, my roommate and I decided to take a chance with Courchsurfing.com when we couldn’t afford a hotel in Santa Cruz for a surf trip. Strangers opened their floors and couches to other young wanderers, an early social experiment of the internet.

The Boyfriend’s profile photo was of him stretching his neck in an open-mouthed cry, not unlike a screaming goose. I knew he would be important to me, and it unsettled me that I felt this way. But I hadn’t stopped thinking about him since my best friend and I slept on his floor in Santa Cruz.

“Just invite him up here for the party,” said Lindsey.

He showed up to our Berkeley graduate student house in a borrowed work car. Nervous and tipsy, I ate forkfuls of Boston Cream Pie out of the tin in front of him. I had restricted myself on a Tone It Up diet that summer, and after a drink I relaxed my rules.

“You really like that pie huh?” asked The Boyfriend. I was mildly embarrassed.

I kept staring at the necklace he was wearing, it was a black leather cord with a marbled grey stone.

“If I could have any other name, it would be Jasper, like this stone,” he said when I asked about it. Jasper felt like a man you meet at a windswept gas station in the hills.

He told me about a hiking trip in Patagonia. He was alone and the sky turned cold and snowy, but he forged ahead when conditions got intense. I knew I wanted to be with him.

I cruised down Highway 1 every weekend from Berkeley to Santa Cruz, gazing at the white rush of the Pacific Ocean as if the universe was one cosmic explosion of beauty. That stretch of coastal highway transported me from draining days of biostatistics exams and undergraduate office hours into a den of earthly pleasure. Roasted lamb necks in ragu sauce, bottles of Chilean Carmenere, and rousing games of gin rummy convinced me I had found my love. His bohemian friends were artists and environmentalists, they encouraged me to pursue my baking hobby.

“We’re doing a trunk show at Saffron and Genevieve for Valentine’s Day, you should totally make cookie boxes. Your chocolate sharks are DIVINE,” said E. She had long blond hair like a pony and her voice chimed like fairy bells. She was dating one of The Boyfriend’s coworkers at a nonprofit that repaired trails and did environmental restoration.

On weekends, baking had become my release after intensive days as a graduate student. Our kitchen was a tiny horseshoe of laminate countertops; one or two people max could function in it at a time. For more elaborate projects, like layered cakes with frosting, I would take up the entire space for hours at a time. My roommates tolerated it, the cookies at the end of my mess barely redeeming my bogarting of the limited space and perpetual film of flour coating the fridge door handle.

***

I fell in love with Berkeley at thirteen years old. The jasmine wafting as I climbed Indian Rock, the racks of rainbow tie-dyed sundresses along Telegraph Ave, and the big wooden bowls of salad with a slab of whole wheat honey bread at Mezzo. It all felt like heaven, and as an ambitious young scientist, UC Berkeley held prestige.

“And yet another reason to avoid cats,” Dr. Swartzberg said, standing in front of the projector screen in 200 Wheeler. A gruesome slide with raised red welts on an anonymous arm next to an illustrated lifecycle of the flea and cat intertwined glowed on the screen. The cat overlaid with a microscope image of the Bartonella bacteria infecting the human, Dr. Swartzberg loved to point out how many diseases cats carried

Each week, my cohort and I would sit at attention in the polished oak chairs of the lecture hall as Dr. Swartzberg flashed slide after slide, regaling us with agents of illness and death. We were a neurotic bunch, walking a thin line of fascination and fear. What attracted me were the invisible molecular mechanisms of the body intruders, how they lurked within us out of sight. As a kid, I loved the blue fuzz of mold, and my first culinary endeavor was the “Mold Cafe” where I served French toast blotted with blue food coloring.

UC Berkeley was my first choice for graduate school, and to pay my way, I snagged a coveted yet grueling position as a Graduate Student Instructor. In exchange for my nearly free education, I drew the mechanisms for DNA replication on a whiteboard for anxious undergraduates clamoring for straight A’s, and graded tests for Nobel Laureate Jennifer Doudna.

I’d bike down Telegraph Ave each morning, pannier packed with garbanzo bean salad made with Berkeley Bowl bulk beans and Za’atar. For breakfast, a protein pancake wrapped around Greek yogurt and berries, a Tone It Up girl’s special. In between classes, I ran up the steep firetrails behind campus, catching the wafting power chords of the Vivian Girls playing at the Greek. With a full class load, wrangling undergrads, and my thesis research at the San Francisco General Hospital Tuberculosis clinic, my days were stacked. I was fully immersed in cramming my brain, philosophizing about probabilities and odds.

When I met The Boyfriend I was hungry for freedom.

***

Before sunrise, I folded the edges of brown cardstock, creating a custom-sized cookie box. In it, I placed a sand dollar, sea urchin, sea star, and a chocolate shark - all bespoke oceanic cookies I’d created for the Trunk Show. A single heart-shaped sourdough loaf was in the oven, and I had mini-cupcakes to frost with a vegan sweet potato-chocolate frosting. I had slept alone in The Boyfriend’s apartment the night before; he was on-site in the mountains for work. I was grateful to have the space to prepare, but I was bummed he was missing my big event.

I had been prepping for a whole week leading up to the trunk show, and the menu was much too ambitious for one person. Delicate lavender & elderflower shortbread, pine nut butter sand dollars, hand-dipped chocolate chili sharks, brown butter financiers.

With the sun coming up, I realized I didn’t have any coarse sugar for cupcakes, so I jetted to the 24 hour Safeway on Mission Street. The foggy dawn sat heavy above the oceanside town. In line in front of me was a red-faced man, hair greasy and stinking of cigarettes. It wasn’t quite sunrise, and he had a fifth of hard liquor on the checkout conveyor belt. It was my first glimpse of the liminality that bakers dwell in, up before the sun, we too were a rare breed of creature not quite of the day or night.

Saffron and Genevieve was a boutique in Santa Cruz designed down to the inch by its owner, and my friend E. I was nervous setting up in such a beautiful space. I’d never considered myself to be an artist; I was a science nerd. And my new girlfriends in Santa Cruz were effortless creatives, polishing hand-built furniture with beeswax or drawing fantastical creatures with fine pencils.

I had scoured thrift stores for weeks prior and super-glued together tiered boho displays from vintage china and crystal candle holders. Amazon existed in 2013, but it didn’t have bulk packaging materials like bakery sleeves and cute signs that today’s endeavoring market vendors have at their disposal. Even the dress I wore to the event I had sewn from salvaged vintage fabric with the help of my expert seamstress mother. I kept my cash in a wooden cigar box. I wanted everything to feel old-fashioned and handmade. I was doing what we call “trad-wifing” today, a decade ago. And there was barely any social media to document it - with Instagram in its infancy, we weren’t accustomed to in-the-moment digital updates.

“Everything looks amazing!” said E. Any compliment from her felt like approval from Anna Wintour, but sweeter. Her taste was impeccable. She could find a blanket at the Goodwill Bins, and with her touch, it became art.

“Babe, you killed it. The jeweler in the back, she’s been eyeing your stuff, maybe she’ll even make a trade,” E winked.

I almost sold out of everything, and in exchange for my last few boxes, the jeweler let me pick out a ring.

“I love this one,” I said, putting on a bronze ring with a long, pointed oval piece of abalone fitted like a stone. I was exhausted but beaming. I had made real money that day, and I had done it all with my hands.

***

“I’ll work on that, you’re right, the data is still too vague,” I said. I was standing barefoot on the cafe deck of Nepenthe, looking south down the coast of Big Sur. I was wearing a white cotton dress with blue embroidery, which I had bought at the ferry station on the island of Ometepe in Nicaragua a couple of years before. Early spring rustled in the eucalyptus trees beyond the iconic deck.

“You’ve got to figure out the meaning you can actually draw from this data before your presentation. Working with variables that shift through time like this is tricky business to draw conclusions from,” said my thesis advisor.

The Boyfriend ripped his teeth into a thick slice of bacon. We’d just run the eight mile loop at Andrew Molera, a training run for the marathon I was registered for in June.

Our relationship was effortless physicality. We prided ourselves on ‘triple sport’ days where we would go for a run around Twin Lakes, surf at Pleasure Point, and get in a quick climb at the rock climbing gym.

“I’m sorry to take the call on a Saturday, it was the only time he was free this week,” I said, closing my flip phone.

“It’s important, I understand,” said The Boyfriend.

The concrete deck was cool on my feet, but when the breeze ceased, my shoulders were warm to the touch. My thesis presentation was still months away, but I couldn’t wait for it to be over. All I wanted to do was spin my legs on the trail, paddle in the ocean, and be with The Boyfriend. With him, the world was a limitless playground. In his world, I could be a surfing baker.

Continue reading My Sourdough Era: Read Chapter 2

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Twenty-eight years old, sobbing into the dirt of Sycamore Canyon in Big Sur, is where I ended up after following my heart. I left a delicate plum compote-filled pocket pie behind in The Boyfriend’s Honda Fit, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a string. My heart had beaten out of my chest chasing a man, and I was equally enchanted by the ancient allure of soft dough and the heat of the oven.

I’m a firm believer in listening to your intuition and taking the path less traveled. But I despise rose colored glasses. The hard pill I had to swallow is that following your heart does not always end well. It can result in tears, empty bank accounts, debt, and a frazzled nervous system. It doesn’t mean no lessons were learned, or that it was the wrong choice, but that taking risks is, well, risky. My story is not one of regret. But one of saying yes to the unknown because in my heart, there was no other option. And of hitting rock bottom on the other side.

As a graduate student at UC Berkeley, I loved scratching my brain with strange factoids about infectious diseases, but I was desperate for adventure. In my late twenties, all of life was laid out ahead of me, every choice a sampling of a potential future reality. I was also obsessed with baking. In my baking journal, I sketched a drawing of every fantastical recipe I baked in the crowded, tiny kitchen I shared with five other roommates. They barely tolerated my weekend takeovers when I covered the counter in flour. After graduation, I jumped into a car with my boyfriend, headed south to Joshua Tree. My only plan was to bake bread for money in the middle of the Mojave.

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I had never made such an irrational decision before. I paid my way through grad school with savings and two jobs, and came out of it with no debt. At every moment in life before, I had the security of a job. But convinced I was in love, I decided I didn’t care; I wanted to be free. The Boyfriend I followed to Joshua Tree was happy I was coming, but he said, “I only want you to come if it’s for you, not for me.” A warning from a man who hated to be tied down that I chose to ignore. Why else would I uproot my life to the desert if it wasn’t for him?

We landed on an acre of windswept sand in a house with wooden cactus cutout shutters. The days were hot, and the emptiness was vaster than any place I had ever known before. And I baked. I baked loaves of stunning rosemary sourdough and brought them to strangers at the farmers market, Slow Food chapter meetings, and local business owners. It was 2013, I didn’t have an iPhone, and grassroots promotion still worked. And people wanted my bread. My bakery, Surf Muffins, was born.

My small business story is a fairy tale. With a Kickstarter of $5,000 and a digital marketing budget of $0, I was bringing in $6,000 of monthly revenue after landing in the desert with zero social connections. Rent back then was all of $600 a month, and to my delight, my no-plan plan was working. I cruised down Highway 62 before sunrise with a Ford Escort full of baked goods for my days at the Palm Springs Farmers Market.

It was heaven. That is, until it wasn’t. Special orders would burn at 4 AM, and my long-distance trail running began to wear my hormones thin. My relationship was also wearing thin, and I avoided talking about it. Or acknowledging that it was happening. The Boyfriend threw a curveball at our lives with a job offer, and I was faced with the decision of whether I would keep building my business or follow him again.

It’s a good story. An inverse Cinderella fairytale. Not to mention it takes place in two of the most iconic landscapes this beautiful world has to offer - Joshua Tree and Big Sur. I’ll be sharing it as a mini-memoir of one of the most transformative phases of my life. I’ll stay close to the truth, and ‘perhaps’ and ‘imagine’ the moments that aren’t as clear anymore (this was over a decade ago). There will be recipes - I’ll revisit some of my favorites from this era, which are still *classic*.

As I release chapters, they’ll arrive in your inbox, so no need to subscribe to anything new.

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The Sourdough Starter Kit

Once you start reading and craving bread, here are the basics you’ll need to get started.

• Slashing razor - I’ve taped a flat razor onto a wooden chopstick. But you can buy one.

• Proofing banneton - These are really pretty. You can also use a bowl or tupperware with a floured cloth napkin

• Dough scraper - Cheap and necessary

• Dutch oven - I love an enameled Le Creuset, but a classic cast iron works well too

• Kitchen scale - I’ve always made my sourdough by grams, there are cheap ones to get started and if you really want to scale up, a heavy duty one will become indispensible

• The book that started it all. And if you want to go down the whole-grain rabbit hole, Tartine 3 is a fun one to bake out of.

A technology win

I hosted my original surfmuffins.com website in a way that was too technically advanced for me at the time. I’m a set it and forget it kind of gal when it comes to cars and technology, and a friend had convinced me to set it up “self-hosted for more control.” When I stopped running the business and got swept up in life, I stopped checking my business email. Turns out my old credit card had been linked to my web hosting, and they took the site down. I was heartbroken, as I had a healthy archive of writing on there documenting the West Coast Grain Adventure that had been sponsored by the Small Planet Fund.

After being prompted by my writing teacher, , to try and find it I took a gander in the Wayback Machine at Internet Archive. If you aren’t familiar - it is incredible. They have archived the INTERNET.

I was able to recover a vast majority of my writing and some photos, and they now live here on Substack in the Surf Muffins tab. If you’re a whole grain geek or a baker, dive in.

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Portland, Oregon has many virtues – a plethora of breweries, streets and bridges begging to be biked along, bookshops and coffee shops adorning neighborhood blocks, and of course the cities love of delicious, local foods. The city boasts good eating from its well-developed food truck scene, to bustling farmer’s markets, and down the list of endless options for a fine meal out.

My visit to this foodie haven began with a Saturday night out. A good friend and I began the evening by biking to the wrong storytelling event on the east side – yes there were two story telling events on this Saturday night in Portland. We had break a sweat to bike up to the north side to make the event we had tickets for, the doorman was not impressed with our mixup as apparently this happens all the time in Portland. On our bike ride home we peeked our heads and noses into Ned Ludd – they were unfortunately closing up for the night but had a beautiful cocktail menu and space. Rumor is, their Monday pizza night is Wu-Tang themed.

The next morning I set-up a demonstration at the King’s Sunday Farmer’s Market. It was a beautiful sunny day out in Portland, and the King’s market is a perfect sized market. Small enough for farmers and customers to build up a friendly rapport, but large enough that there is plenty of variety in produce, meats, honey, and some delectable prepared foods.

I was sampling buckwheat kefir pancakes using Greenwillow Grains buckwheat, and Emmer sourdough pancakes using flour from Camas Country Mills. I was able to spend much of the day flipping pancakes and chatting with the people of Portland about whole grains, sourdough, and grain cultivation. For everyone who made it out, thank you for being so welcoming!

That night I celebrated the bounty of Oregon with friends. We dished up truffle chips, local goat cheese, figs, apples, and red fife sourdough from 100 mile bakery. We ended the night with a sweet treat – a rustic galette filled with homegrown figs & plums fresh from the ripe yards of Portland. I snuck in some rose petal jam from Premrose Edibles, and made a tender golden crust with corn flour from Lonesome Whistle Farms in Junction City. I made my classic whole grain pie crust recipe (here) using 50/50 corn flour and sifted red fife flour (a pastry flour would work great).

The next day I went to visit Tabor Breads, in the Hawthorne neighborhood of SE Portland, which I will post on soon.
I discovered a nourishing lunch spot on my bike ride back from the bakery – Harlow. They have fresh smoothies, juices, kombucha on tap, drinking vinegar and a menu filled with dishes featuring gorgeous vegetables. I rarely visit a place where I feel like I would enjoy every dish on the menu and here I settled on a bowl of steamed & fresh greens adorned with avocado, tahini dressing, and saurkraut – a perfect lunch in my opinion. I could have gone back for every meal, and snuck a sesame almond butter truffle to my friend during her study session.

For dinner on my last evening, I had a date night with my same lovely friend. We hungrily biked to Trifecta, and enjoyed a lovely wood-fired meal. Our favorite was an Oregon Albacore Tuna Confit with house pickles and sourdough crackers. Our wood-fired beets and smokey cauliflower did not disappoint either, Trifecta is a bakery as well, and every meals comes with their country loaf and walnut bread accompanied with house churned butter.

The morning I left, I swung by Tabor again as they were opening for fresh pastries and coffee – my favorite pastry was the Rye Fig-Fennel Scone and the Buckwheat Breakfast Cake. Early in the morning they are pulling their pastries fresh, and just starting to put their wood-fired breads out.

Rustic galettes are my favorite way to showcase seasonal fruit, and different whole grain flours. They are simple to make, look beautiful, and are always enjoyed by all. To make a galette at home, here is a simple outline for making a rustic dessert with any fruit you have on hand.

Rustic Galette

1/2 recipe of whole grain pie crust

2-3 cups sliced fruit (1/2 inch thick or less)

Jam, nut butter, ground nuts, or honey

Roll your pie crust out until it is 10-12 inches in diameter, and 1/8 inch thick. Transfer to a sheet of parchment paper on a baking sheet. Spread the pie crust with jam, nut butter, or ground nuts, leaving a 2 inch border around the crust. Top with sliced fruit in an even layer. If you like, drizzle with honey or sprinkle with raw sugar. Fold the edge of the crust over the fruit, crimping as you go around the fruit – remember this is rustic. If you have time, chill the assembled galette for 30 minutes. Chilling the galette will help keep the crust flaky. If you don’t have time to chill the galette, bake in an oven preheated to 375 degrees for 45 minutes, or until the crust is lightly golden and the fruit is bubbling and warm.

My first venture took me into the picturesque Applegate Valley west of Medford. Winding country backroads took me through the quaint historic town of Jefferson and into the country side. Tall evergreen trees lined the roads and were interspersed with small farms. Soon I came to my destination, Rise Up! Artisan Breads, a golden, round orange structure perched on a hillside. A front common room with high ceilings framed by wooden beams framed the entrance to the bakery.

Once through the double doors, the beautiful bake space had an air of calm I had not experienced in many professional kitchens. Music could be heard throughout the space while two bakers calmly shaped ciabatta together. Jo (one of the co-owners) told me he knew when building the space that a good music system was at the top of the design list – this and the beautiful rotating Liopis wood fire oven were both excellent decisions in my opinion; the atmosphere was highly conducive to inspired baking.

Joe and his wife Rosie moved to Southern Oregon to start a bakery and build their lives around it. They live on the property where the bakery is, and devote many hardworking hours to creating beautiful bread with high quality ingredients. Their Ciabatta is one of the most popular loaves they bake with their Farmer’s Market customers, and while I chatted with Jo in the bakery he was shaping many of these loaves for the market the next day – he would be awake until almost 2 AM preparing the breads for the Ashland Farmer’s Market the next day.

Rise Up! sells their bread at a few farmer’s markets in the area, but when Jo and I spoke he talked about developing a diversity in customers in their community. They had recently partnered with a local school to serve their bread, in a small community like the Rogue Valley, local connections are important. Rise Up! uses Dunbar farm’s wheat and rye flours in three different loaves – I sampled a bit of the whole wheat sourdough, and watched them shape the loaves. It was delicious, nutty, and flavorful. Jo mentioned that working with a locally grown & milled flour meant that some adjustments needed to be made while baking to manage the variations in crops, but that the breads produced with local flours were something that customers ask for, and enjoy.

The next morning I visited the Ashland farmer’s market to see what Rise Up! had been baking until the early morning hours. The loaves baked with the Dunbar wheat flour were gorgeous, but I arrived too late to try the 100% Dunbar Rye loaf. I was able to sample their famous Ciabatta – light, airy and would go wonderful with olive oil.


Delicious goodies at the Ashland Farmer’s Market by Higher Power Foods

Another bakery at the Ashland market that was utilizing flours from Dunbar was Sunstone Bakery. The bakery is in a renovated in-law unit not far from the market space in Ashland; the owners Ben and Sheila live in the front house of the property and sell at farmers markets and wholesale. Paul, one of the bakers at Sunstone, was working the booth at the market and happily talked to me about the many different loaves Sunstone bakes. A special of the day were classic German pretzels – literally smiling up at you from the basket.

I sampled their whole wheat seeded bun baked with Dunbar wheat, it made a fantastic cucumber & tomato sandwich for lunch. Paul told me that the owner Ben takes his sourdough care seriously – you could tell by taste that one very happy sourdough culture was living at the Sunstone Bakery.
Sunstone Bakery Rye & Jefferson Buns

Next time you find yourself in Ashland, be sure to talk a walk through the Farmer’s Market and enjoy some of the delicious breads being baked up by Rise Up! and Sunstone, both offering lovely breads of all kinds to the Rogue Valley community.

After leaving the heat of the Sacramento valley and winding north through the Siskiyous, my whole grain adventure landed me in the Rouge Valley of Southern Oregon. I made the charming town of Ashland my temporary home for a few days to explore a few grain destinations of interest.

My first morning waking up in Ashland, I headed out to Dunbar Farms in Medford, OR. You may remember this name from an earlier post I wrote as the main force behind Dunbar Farms is David Mostue who spoke at the Grain Gathering.

After driving through suburban neighborhoods of Medford, I came upon the gravel driveway marked for the Dunbar Farms Farm Stand. Rolling, idyllic farmland seemingly came out of nowhere given the surroundings, and the Honor Farm Stand stood at the entrance. The Farm stand is stocked with fresh produce, flour, breads, and grains that are available for purchase using the ‘honor system’; customers write what they buy and leave their payment. Adjacent to the farm stand is an open-air wine tasting room that looks out at fields of flowers, vegetables, and grazing animals.

David was already hard at work in the main barn of the farm, but within minutes of speaking we were engaged in discussion about modern farming, food security, and how grains play a role in both. David is a man of many skills, and he has a focused vision of what he would like the farm to become; a sustainable inclusive system. He explained how diversity on the farm, intentionally rotating crops to support fertility of the land, growing crops that can provide food throughout the year, and eventually incorporating animals into their farming systems are all important pieces of creating a sustainable system.

Many small farms focus on growing fresh produce, and the local food movement has blossomed in celebration of heirloom tomatoes, crisp fall apples, and other familiar farmer’s market bounty. While delicious and wonderful, fresh produce doesn’t store well and for small community food systems to achieve food security in any season, grains & beans become important crops to focus on. Dunbar farm has been working to incorporate grains into their farming program for this reason, and David mentioned that for smaller farms to do the same some lessons need to be learned from larger farming methods (ie. equipment operations, farming more acres).

I let these ideas linger in my mind as I thinned rows of carrots for the morning with their farm intern. In adjacent fields hay was being baled and trucked across fields, chickens scampered under young apple trees, and newly sprouted brassicas and swaying corn was rooted in the rows nearby. The diversity David spoke about earlier could be seen and heard in every direction.

When David had a free moment, we hopped in his truck to go and visit the fields where the most recent crop of wheat had been turned. The straw was still left in the fields after the combine had harvested the grain, this straw would be turned again before planting the fields with hay to overwinter. When crops are turned into the soil, the soil experiences an excess of carbon which can inhibit seed germination – hay and larger seed crops can still seed (when done thoughtfully) even with excess carbon. The hay is planted after a crop of wheat has been harvested, and David rotates the perennial hay with annual grains. The hay will allow the soil to become fertile again and support the growth of grains in future seasons – this is the intentional rotating David spoke of earlier.

We then traveled to the main barn where the post-harvest grain operations take place. In one large area, wisely overseen by a white barn owl, was the seed cleaner and stored grain. David, a true engineer of all trades, had constructed screens of various sizes to use in the cleaner for use with different grains. Dunbar mainly grows hard red wheat, rye, heirloom corns, and is starting to test oats and barley. He showed me a crate of their cover crop blend, which is grown and saved each season.

I was led upstairs to the future milling room – again it was inspiring to hear David talk about what his vision was for streamlining their milling process. He has plans this winter to create a vertical loading milling system that will allow him to efficiently mill, store, and move various different grains and flours. I was getting excited at what he planned to construct – and I think a few local bakeries are as well. Currently two local bakeries (Sunstone and Rise Up!-Don’t worry I visited them too!) and a local home baker are using Dunbar flour in their breads, and as Dunbar’s milling operation grows there will be no lack of interest in freshly milled flour. David was impressively teaching himself how to re-dress the stones of the Ostiroller they use for milling. It was a great opportunity for me to see a stone mill taken apart and observe the variations in texture across the stone that work to turn a grain into flour.

As David went back to his many projects and work on the farm, I made my lunch from the farm stand produce and ate watching the llamas and cows in the fields near the tasting room. I left the farm with a bag of rye flour and a Red Crimson pear grown on an orchard down the road. The next morning in the kitchen of the hostel I was staying at I made two new friends with what I am calling the Rogue Valley Rye Cake, and I became friends with Dunbar farms rye flour.

Rogue Valley Rye Cake
Makes 1x 8 inch loaf pan, or 2x 4 inch loaves. Feel free to make it as muffins.

I used all Rogue Valley produced ingredients for the cake – taste the flavors of your region though and use a local honey, butter, and fresh eggs if you can!

140 gm honey
150 gm butter
2 eggs
2 egg yolks (or 1 whole egg if you don’t have yolks)
80 gm sourdough starter
175 gm Rye Flour
1 tsp baking powder
2 tsp cardamom
pinch salt
1 pear diced into 1 cm pieces

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Line your pan with parchment and lightly butter any exposed sections of the pan. Warm the honey in a sauce pan, but don’t bring to a boil. Once warmed, add cardamom and butter. Stir until melted. Take the honey mixture off the heat and pour into a large mixing bowl to let cool for about 10 minutes. In a small bowl combine the rye flour, baking powder, and salt. Once cool to the touch, blend in the eggs, yolks, and sourdough starter until smooth. Fold in the flour mixture until combined, and then fold in the pear pieces. Pour the batter into prepared pans, almost to the edge, the cake will not rise much during baking. Bake for 25-35 minutes until a toothpick comes out clean.

While I wasn’t able to try Eatwell’s flour at my recent visit, I am looking forward to it in the future when the mill is back in operation. I was lucky enough to take home some strawberries begging to top some shortcakes though. I also used some of their Rosemary salt at the Yolo Land Trust event in my salsa fresca, which was beautifully fragrant and added a perfect touch.

This last weekend my grandparents celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary, and I happily brought dessert for the family. Strawberry shortcakes are a great way to feature fresh fruit at dessert, and they also transport well if you need to feed a party. Pack a big bowl of strawberries, platter of shortcakes, and a jar of heavy whipping cream and be prepared to make a bunch of people happy. I used some of the Iraqui Durum flour from Full Belly farms, the Durum flour gives a golden hue to the shortcakes and adds a slightly nutty flavor.

Durum Flour Shortcakes
Makes 8 large, or 16 small shortcakes

1 1/4 cup Durum Flour
2 1/4 cup unbleached all-purpose flour or (barley, whole wheat pastry, or make a blend!)
¾ cup sugar
1 Tbsp baking powder
1 tsp salt
1 cup butter, cut into cubes and chilled
1/2 cup cream
1 cup buttermilk
80 gm sourdough starter (about 1/3 cup)
zest of one lemon
1 tsp vanilla extract


Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper. Combine the flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt in a large bowl. Set aside. In another bowl combine the buttermilk, cream, sourdough starter, lemon zest, and vanilla. Place this in the fridge to chill. Add the cold butter to the flour mixture, incorporating the butter with your fingertips until the butter pieces are the sizes of peas and evenly distributed through the flour. Do this quickly, and do not over work the butter to where it is getting soft and warm. If needed, place the bowl in the fridge to rechil the butter & flour if it is a warm day. Make a well in the center of the flour-butter mixture and pour in the buttermilk mixture. Stir to combine, again do this swiftly and do not over mix or let the dough warm. As soon as there is no dry flour, form the dough into either small (1/4 cup) or large (scant 1/2 cup) rough balls. Condense the dough with your hands to form the balls, pressing them lightly onto the parchment. Be sure to keep 3 inches between the balls. Brush the tops with cream, and sprinkle with a raw sugar (or fine sugar). Bake for 20 minutes until lightly golden, but not raw in the center. These are best eaten the day they are baked.

Note: You can prepare the dough, shape them on baking sheets, and freeze the shortcakes at this point. When you are ready to bake them, you can take them straight from the freezer to the oven, but you may need to add 10 minutes of baking time to account for the frozen centers.

Strawberries
6 cups strawberries, hulled and quartered
¼ cup sugar
zest of a lemon
splash of vanilla extract

Combine all ingredients, tossing the strawberries lightly to coat with sugar, zest, and vanilla. Keep in the fridge until ready to serve. The berries can be prepared up to a day in advance of serving the shortcakes.

Whipped Cream In a Jar
You can use any jar for this recipe, but it should have at least two more times the volume than the amount of liquid cream being used.
2 cups heavy whipping cream (ideally not ultra pasteurized)
2 Tbsp organic cane sugar
1 tsp vanilla extract
4 cup capacity mason jar

For this to work, the cream must be as cold as possible at the time of serving the shortcakes. Right before serving pour all ingredients into the mason jar. Find a strong, determined, and ideally hungry individual in your vicinity. Ask them to shake the jar, with vigor. When they no longer hear liquid sloshing, the cream should be magically transformed into delectable whipped clouds.

Slice a shortcake open, pile on the berries, and dollop with a cloud. Enjoy.

Read my memoir about starting a bakery in Joshua Tree, a wild ride of love and bread

I arrived in the Whittaker neighborhood of Eugene in the evening earlier this week, and only had time to curl up in bed and fall fast asleep after leaving the beautiful bakeries of Ashland. The next morning I headed out on my morning jog to find myself amidst vibrant murals, wildly alive community garden patches, and even a kefir-based frozen yogurt shop that all lie near the epic gates of the Ninkasi Brewery. Within moments, I could tell Eugene had not only a lot of creative spirit, but was also a city that took its food seriously.

I had scheduled a visit to Camas Country Mills for the morning. Camas Country Mills is an extension of the Hunton family farm, most of the grain, lentils, and beans processed at the mill are grown on the Hunton’s land. The Hunton family has been farming in the area for decades, and while the farm has a history of grasses and seed production, they have become a farm focused on food crops. There is a deep history of grain cultivation and milling in the Willamette Valley, but this practice was lost in recent decades. The Hunton’s were some of the first in the region to begin to grow grain and legumes again, and they have done so in a way that is focused on community food security and education. Grains, flours, and legumes from Camas Country Mill are distributed throughout the West Coast via Hummingbird Distributors, and they have become a stronghold as a resource for local ingredients amongst Oregon food producers.

I was looking forward to visiting their mill in person, and I could not have expected the lovely visit I was soon to experience. A mere 15 minutes out of the funky Whittaker neighborhood and I was rolling through vast fields, I took a short walk through the Luper Pioneer cemetery where 17 Oregon Trail Travelers lay buried. The mill is housed in an industrial building amidst farm land, and as I passed through the shelves of whole-grain abundance in the front shop, I soon met my contact Stephanie. Stephanie coordinates the educational programs at the mill, tests recipes using the mill products, and exudes warmth, excitement, and knowledge regarding all that Camas Country Mills does.

As soon as we shook hands and began to talk, Stephanie told me I would be making a pie that day. I couldn’t express how big my smile was after I heard this, and I knew that my day at the mill would be a wonderful one. We only had to drive a few minutes down the road to the apple tree to harvest our pie filling. To make this scenario even more idyllic, the apple trees grew behind the 1800s school house the Hunton family had recently acquired; its destiny is to become a place where the community can come to learn about farming, milling, and local oregon history. After a quick swoop into the happiest hen house in all of Oregon for eggs, and we were back at the mill.


Stephanie had that special aura about her that any professional educator has – she described the milling operation with clarity and exuded an obvious passion for learning in our conversation. After an overview of the large stone mill, she set me up in her test kitchen and let me loose with all the flours a baker could ever dream of. I couldn’t have felt like I was baking any closer to the source with the stone mill humming in the background and farmland in sight out the front door.

I gave a lesson in pie crust making, per Stephanie’s request, and made a 50% Emmer 50% Club Pastry Flour Pie crust for our Gravenstein apple pie. A whole grain pastry crust takes a bit of method, and I have compiled my tips and recipe below. I experimented with a 100% Barley flour chiffon cake with our happy-hen eggs, and I was also responsible for crafting some lunch sustenance. Camas Country Mill has an array of delicious lentil varieties, and a pot of tumeric Shasta lentils with greens from the school house garden sounded like a perfect midday meal to stave off hunger while baking up a storm.

Another whole-grains aficionado and pasta maker extraordinaire came to visit the mill during my visit as well – Jeff Gardener of the Pasta Gardener. He sells delicious handmade pastas at Eugene farmer’s markets, and is working with Camas to develop a whole grain pasta recipe for use in local schools. With the passing of new USDA regulations on school lunches, all grain-based food items must contain 51% or greater whole grains. Stephanie has been busy developing muffin mixes using Camas flours for Eugene schools, and had success with a tasty Emmer-Applesauce Muffin Mix.

Jeff and I chatted about our favorite uses of different grains in our culinary endeavors, and as I finished up my baking projects at the mill Stephanie had already made our plans for the evening. She thought it would be lovely if Jeff and I made dinner for Tom & Sue Hunton (the owners of the mill) and served it in the old schoolhouse, it would be a great way to try out Jeff’s lasagna and my apple pie.

We were instructed to pack up the tools we might need from Stephanie’s test kitchen, and make a list of anything we needed. We felt a bit like we were contestants on Survivor running through our menu items as we prepared for our impromptu pop-up dinner. Our kitchen looked out at the charming school house and after a tromp through the gardens for herbs & vegetables we happily cooked to Italian music streaming out from a smartphone speaker.

Final menu

Rye-Gruyere & Parsley Gougeres, Green Salad with Flax-Hazelnut Crisps, Whole Wheat Lasagna made with the end-of-summer tomatoes and zucchini

Dessert:
Emmer-Apple Pie and Barley Chiffon Cake Raspberry Trifle

As the sunset in the school house while we enjoyed our meal, you could feel the history of the old school house. It is a perfect venue to celebrate the culture of agriculture and food in the Eugene community and inspire future generations to keep these traditions in their lives.

Whole Grain Pie Crust

350 grams flour, pinch of salt, 226 gm cold unsalted cultured European-style butter, 1/2 cup ice cold water

Sift or whisk the flour & salt in a large bowl. Cut the cold butter into small cubes and rub the butter pieces into the flour until the mixture has no uncoated butter, and is a varied mix of butter flakes and small butter pieces (see image below)

If it is a hot day, chill the flour & butter in the fridge for 10-20 minutes. If the butter is staying firm, proceed. Fill a one-cup measuring glass with water and a few ice cubes. Carefully drizzle approximately 1/4 cup of this water into the flour, and stir with a fork until it is absorbed. Do this again, adding the water slowly, use your fork and then hand to fully hydrate the flour with as little water as needed. I try not to exceed 1/2 cup total of water. Compress the dough into a disc and flatten, wrap tightly with parchment and put in the fridge for 30 minutes. Proceed with pie recipe of your choice!

Tips in making whole grain pie crust

1) Weigh your flours, experiment with different ratios of different flours
2) Keep all ingredients chilled throughout the process
3) When adding the water, stop adding when the dough still looks almost too dry. You will be able to compress what looks like crumbs into a dough. Experience will teach you when it is time to stop adding water. I like to have my water in a measuring glass so I can keep track of how much I add each time I make the recipe.
4) It is important to chill the dough disc before rolling out and using in a recipe. This will allow the whole grain flour to fully hydrate.

To reach the northern most destination on my adventure, I wound along Highway 101 through the Olympic peninsula, pedaled my bike through Port Angeles and ventured across the Strait of Juan de Fuca via ferry boat to foreign lands; my ship arrived at the southern tip of Vancouver Island in Victoria BC. I had set out to visit a bakery that mills locally grown grain to bake beautiful bread loaves and pastries.

Fol Epi sources organic Red Fife Wheat and organic Rye from Canadian farms, stores the grain in silos on site, and freshly mills flour with a 32-inch stone mill daily. When I arrived in the bakery, the wood-fired loaves waited patiently against the brick wall behind the artfully crafted pastry case. Elegant simplicity spoke from all of Fol Epi’s offerings – only two grain varieties, five different breads, and classic pastries showcasing the freshest of local flavors (Italian plums, raspberries, apple).

Beyond the delectable sweet pastries and thoughtfully crafted breads, lunch-seekers in Victoria swarm the bakery each day for pizzas, sandwiches, and sausage rolls; all made with house-cured meats and pickles. The bacon in the quiche is not to be missed, and you may find yourself having dreams like this after trying the country ham sandwich.
Behind the scenes the bakers are endlessly busy. Everything is hand-crafted, which means there is always grain to be milled, dough to be mixed, pastries to be shaped, and the list goes on. I was most interested in seeing how a smaller bakery integrated flour milling into its production. There are grain silos built onto the side of the bakery, which allow for storage of multiple month’s worth of grain onsite rather than constantly ordering grain by the bagful. The grains then travel through a set of tubes directly into a mixer for hydration. Once the grains have been carefully tossed, they take another fall into the stone mill. The end result is a whole-grain red fife flour, a sifted red fife for use in pastries, and whole-grain rye flour.

The thought and design that had gone into orchestrating the grain to bread process was impressive, and after tasting the bread it was difficult to imagine baking any other way. My favorite loaf was the Rye – the flavor was rich with slight acidity and the texture was smooth in a way that is difficult to achieve in rye bread.

The story behind the sumptuous creations at Fol Epi is inspiring, especially to any one who has pursued their passions and understands the labor and dedication it takes to make your craft your life. Clif Leir, baker and the owner of Fol Epi, began his baking career pulling loaves from a self made wood fire oven in his driveway at age 19. He recounts stories of waking up in the middle of the night to tend to bread doughs in those early years, and while his oven is no longer in his driveway, he can still be found mixing dough, shaping loaves, and dedicating many of his waking hours to making delicious food.

Fol Epi has built itself into the Victoria community. Local restaurant Ulla serves the ciabatta loaves on their bread boards and coffee roaster Bow & Arrow has baskets of pastries to accompany their espresso – those are just two examples. I was reminded of the traditional idea of a village baker providing nourishing bread for a community while in the cafe- bicyclists were coming and going to procure baguettes for their dinner in the later afternoon hours. Mixing flour, water, and wild yeast seems such a simple act, but it is one that creates sustenance of no small importance. While I thoroughly enjoyed savoring the offerings at Fol Epi, I was even more so inspirited by what Clif had built with dedication over the years in his commitment to crafting and sharing simply wholesome, good, local food.

I had the opportunity to dedicate some time to playing with the fresh milled flours, with so many wonderful ingredients at hand it was difficult not to. There were garden-grown rhubarb stalks and milky fennel fronds I nestled into a whole-grain rye tart. It was lightly sweetened with nectarines, and the hearty rye crust stood up to the assertive rhubarb and fennel.

Since the bakery sifts some of its whole-grain red fife flour for pastries, there is a fair amount of golden wheat bran that is sent to farms for feed. I took the challenge upon myself to disprove the common misconception that bran muffins are something dry, heavy, and best left unbaked. The Red Fife wheat bran was just too delicious for this bad reputation to be proven true. Organic kefir, fresh-squeezed orange juice, toasted nuts, and asian pears picked straight from the tree didn’t hurt either. The muffin was almost creamy, nutty, and a delight to have with coffee at breakfast.

My time testing recipes in the kitchen and observing the fine work of all the bakers and staff at Fol Epi left my mind full of ideas for tastes and motivation to keep creating. Acting as a food producer that a community comes to depend on is no small job. Local food systems are strengthened by supporting independent food artisans, and communities are nourished as well. When bakers can use local grains to bake bread, and this bread feeds a village, farmers are supported in growing grains and food for their communities.

More delicious tastes I found in Victoria:
Ulla
Bow & Arrow Coffee
Uchidas
Fry’s Red Wheat Bread

Home bakers may not give a second thought to the life history of the flours that form their many creations. It is easy to take a bag of flour out of the cupboard, scoop a cup or two for some cookies, and twenty minutes later, when a gooey chocolate chip cookie emerges from the oven the flour has long been forgotten. Grains must take a journey through the seed cleaner, to the mill, be packed into bags, and then sent to retail outlets across the land. But the labor of the farmer occurs long before a bag of flour reaches a baker – and in some cases, a labor of many years may have preceded a humble bag of flour.

Seattle residents may be familiar with the infamously light & crunchy carrots grown by Nash’s Organic Farms in Sequim, WA. These delightful carrots, and many other vegetables, are available at farmers’ markets and PCC Natural Markets throughout the Puget Sound area. With over 400 acres of land cultivated organically to produce vegetables, berries, grains, seeds, and pigs, Nash’s is a successful example of mid-size diversified organic farm providing nourishing food to its region. A newer project (to Nash’s customers at least) is grain cultivation.

Grain cultivation on Nash’s organic farms is not new to Sam Mccullough; he has been leading the grains project for the past 10 years. While in school in the Sequim region, Sam excelled at engineering, understanding plants, and doing creative work with his hands. When an opportunity arose to help Nash himself with farm work, Sam quickly found his calling as farming utilized all of his passions and skills. When he began working with Nash the farm was focused on produce. Early in his time on the farm, though he wandered past an abandoned grain combine, which currently lies in a patch of tall grass near the grain facility. Nash encouraged Sam to revive the old combine, grow some grains on the farm for seed, and cover crop. Ten years later, there are freshly milled Nash’s Organic flours available at their market stand and even in some PCC markets.

Establishing grain cultivation and processing operations did not happen overnight. When I went to visit the farm, the majority of my visit was spent with Sam showing me the innovations he and his team had come up with to either solve a hiccup in the process of going from field to clean seed, or to alleviate growing pains as they went from a couple of acres of grain to over twenty. He explained to me that each step taken to establish a grain program took creative problem-solving for the farm crew, as there weren’t many examples for them to follow. While there are many large-scale conventional grain farms with established operations, there are not many mid-sized organic farms growing and processing grains.

One engineering innovation in particular was a grain dryer that Sam showed me. In the wet Pacific Northwest climate, grains becoming too moist and potentially molding before harvest can be an issue for farmers. To help solve this, the grain can be harvested while it is still wet and then dried before processing. For the amount of grain that Nash’s needed to be dried, there was no piece of machinery that fit quite right. Sam and his crew constructed a series of grain storage crates on top of a fan-blown drying tunnel. There have been countless other innovations and constructions that have allowed grain cultivation on Nash’s farm to grow to where it is today.

I was very impressed by the coordinated seed cleaning facility as there are many different grains, beans, and seeds processed on the farm. When each different seed or grain goes through the seed cleaner, a different screen or selecting apparatus is needed to properly sort and clean all of the various tiny seeds from each other. The farm grows Rye, Triticale, Hard Red Wheat, Soft White Wheat, Buckwheat, Mountain Corn, Fava Beans, and many other seeds and grains. It was apparent that many long days of work had gone into making it possible for all of these flours to be available to farm customers.

After the grains are cleaned, there is a stone mill on site to mill flour. The grains are not exclusively grown for flour, but are also grown for use as seed as a part of Nash’s farming operations, which is establishing a sustainable seed collection to use from year to year. The Mountain Corn that Sam showed me had deep jewel tones of blue, purple, and maroon. The corn is sold in whole kernels, as cornmeal, and corn flour.
Nash’s farm has become an important part of the community as a food source. They are unique in that they produce meat, vegetables, and grains – they grow a diversity of foods in an effort to establish food security for their community. This has been done with hard work, determination, and dedication by farmers like Sam and the others at Nash’s Organics.

I took home many flours, grains, and beans to try at home. My first test run was with the Triticale flour, which I had not used before. Triticale is a cross between wheat and rye so it has the nutty taste of wheat, but behaves similarly to rye in baking. I had apples from my parents back yard that needed to be baked before a certain canine took them as her afternoon snack.

I made a pan of apple-triticale crumble bars with oats, pecans, and nutmeg. They were a perfect fall treat to have on what was most likely the last BBQ night of the season here in the Pacific Northwest.

Triticale Apple Crumble Bars
Crust
1 cup ground pecans
1 cup Triticale Flour
2 Tbsp muscovado sugar
pinch salt
1 cup butter
2 eggs
1/4 oats
1/4 chopped pecans

Filling
3 medium apples chopped into 1/2 inch cubes
3/4 cup cider
1/3 cup maple syrup
1/2 tsp fresh grated nutmeg
1 tsp cinnamon
1 Tbsp butter
1/4 cup cream

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Combine the ground pecans, triticale, sugar, and salt in a bowl. Rub in the butter in cubes until the mixture is crumbly and all of the butter is coated with flour. In a separate bowl whisk the eggs lightly. Stir the eggs into the flour mixture until well combined and a dough forms. Take 2/3 of this and press into an 8-inch spring form pan evenly on the bottom. Put in the fridge to chill. Add the oats and chopped pecans to the remaining crust mixture and put this into the fridge to chill. In a saucepan on the stove top simmer the apples with the cider, maple syrup, and spices. Simmer for 10 minutes, or until the apples are softened. Scoop the apples out of the cider and set aside. Turn the heat up to medium high on the stove and add 1 Tbsp of butter until the mixture bubbles and thickens slightly. Set aside. Take the crust out of the fridge and bake for 15 minutes. Take the crust out of the oven and spread the cooked apples over the top. Drizzle the caramelized cider-syrup over the apples, and also drizzle the cream over the apples. Take the remaining crust mixture out of the fridge and crumble evenly over the apples. Bake in the oven until the top is golden brown and the apples are bubbling lightly (about 30-45 minutes). Let cool before slicing.