I remember, only once, losing my cool with a medical worker. It was just before my double mastectomy, when I was sent to nuclear medicine for an injection of radioactive dye in each nipple. The injection was painful, but I do not remember the sting of the dye quite as vividly as the searing rage I felt when asked a routine question by the nurse, “Are you breastfeeding?” I had no children and had been told that my chances of conceiving would be low after chemotherapy. Of course I was not breastfeeding… nor would I ever be able to. The nurse was just doing her job, but I was swallowed up in the loss and angry at the world and my situation.

Seven years later, carrying a cabbage-sized, somersaulting baby in a body I once thought had closed its doors to this—now entering my third trimester—I’ve allowed the joy of this season to wash over any lingering ill feelings. I am so incredibly beyond happy to be pregnant with our little buddy. Little else matters. Yet, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that there is still a quiet holdout in me buried somewhere where a hope used to exist.

An aroma of memory takes me back to the in-home infant daycare my mother used to run all throughout my childhood, adolescence and young adult life, takes me back to my seasons of nannying in my early twenties. I sat beside countless mothers as they nursed before and after work, at drop off and pick up, learning how it’s done and always thinking someday it would be me. I helped friends get their babies to latch. I mixed what was probably thousands of bottles, thawing frozen pouches, gently heating mother’s milk in water till it was body temperature warm. The smell of a nursed baby is scorched into my memory.

Maybe it is just part of the process, but I struggled to put together my registry, caught up in a sort of decision fatigue. What bottle is best? What nipples should we use? What formula should we feed our baby? I’ve never given any of those questions much thought until now. I am so excited to get to make these choices, excited to resist the tides of avoidance that might somehow still arise.

The confrontations of breastfeeding have been pressed against my calluses: when my doctor accidentally mentions lactation classes and I have to remind him that I simply cannot breastfeed; when I come across the best bottle choices for breastfed babies; when I am served ads for nursing bras and breast pumps and silver nipple shields; when I see that it is World Breastfeeding Awareness Week; when I am reminded again and again by a society that doesn’t often see women like me, that— “breast is best!” No, not for me, not for my baby. For him, a bottle filled with love is more than perfect.

I have been excited to discover options to access and integrate breast milk that I never thought would be available or possible. I was delighted to learn that there are emerging options to access freeze-dried human milk—a dream of a discovery that went straight onto my registry. I burst into tears when a person dear to me sent me a message offering to continue pumping so she could share her own milk with us. What an unimaginably generous gift. My heart, engorged.

Nerves severed years ago seem to awaken just enough to reach for a baby they know is coming. The ghosts of my breasts ache with phantom pain as whatever residual cells live there grow, activated by pregnancy and reality. It is an astonishing, tender sensation… my hormones firing signals to tissue that is no longer there, a physical body trying desperately to carry out a promise it cannot keep. But my heart is strong. I am a cook. I am a nurturer. I provide nourishment. It’s what I do. This is the prep work, the mise en place. This kid will eat exceptionally well, of that I have no doubt. And maybe my hope was never lost at all, and he’ll even get himself some magical amount of breast milk… His first tastes of life, learning to share our love of gathering around the community table.

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I recently went to a bullfight with Gordon on his birthday and the experience was nothing short of every possible emotion at once. It was a confrontation with a reality I think we live with everyday, blinders on— the wretched mix of ceremony and cruelty, celebration and suffering, reverence and brutalism, blood and glamour, beauty and disgust, life and death.

I came to the ring withholding judgment, holding onto a sentiment of respect. I left overcome with every emotion and every empathy. I left with the kind of unanswerable questions that are a part of this life. It’s the kind of thing that provokes you so much it changes you. The way sitting with our discomfort often does.

Did you know that there are times the bull overcomes the matador? Times when the crowd turns toward favoring the bull and the bull is spared and survives? I held my white little flag of a hanky in hope for such a thing, the thing that is against all odds.

Recently, in a waiting room in the basement of the hospital here where I was sent for bloodwork— a basement where construction was taking place… a room being build within the room (a womb)— in the midst of a parameter of a crowd of waiting people, the sounds were loud and dizzying. Hammering, pounding, drilling mixed with beeps and boops, chatter and the bellows of an impatient child. All of it was such chaos, so much to take in while I waited to have my first blood draw of the day, to down the disgustingly sweet drink, to wait another hour for another poke for a glucose test.

There is a specific sound of a waiting room, but it changes depending on what is pending. It’s the same for the bullring. It can go from silence so clear you hear your pulse to all out ruckus and siren, in a moment. For a time, my wait felt heavy and sterile, with the smell of oncology strength soap, the sound of beeping monitors, and the look of down faces. Now, my wait is filled with the rhythmic swish of thumping fetal heartbeats on a monitor, and the life filled chaos of the basement waiting room. The shift is still so surreal.

When I see my body, I see a map of contradictions. There are the scars where my port existed, where cancer was cut out, there’s my flattened chest. Then, right alongside those markings, there is this ever enormous belly holding the free-willed movements of new life. Like the tree swallowing the fence, the metal of what I endured is still there, embedded deeply. It’s impossible to untangle the survival from the growth. Wood has grown over steel, consuming the trauma, refusing to let a chainlink stop the quest for more life.

I stand emotionally at a shoreline where twin oceans merge one into another. On the left is a fierce, protective love… a joy so sharp it makes my throat ache. On the right is roaring, hyper vigilant, utter and strange disbelief.

I look forward now at a horizon that was once entirely obscured, totally dark and invisible, lost in a mist of smoke and fog and night. It is true that my body and mind are still relearning one another, they dance like fabric and bull. I look at the shape of my stomach and recognize that my body never really forgot how to be a sanctuary, though for many seasons it seemed like it did. Maybe what I needed was the safety that comes when the matador is vacant from the ring.

When I think about the moment this child lands in my arms, I do not imagine his arrival as some kind of medical miracle. Though all life is miraculous. I imagine him as a warm, breathing weight against the scars on my chest. A mirror. What does it mean to hold a life that grew through the fence? To me, it means looking at an embodiment of resilience, a tiny testament to the fact that life has overcome my fears, again and again.

My child, I want you to know the story, the story of what came before, but I do not want you to carry the weight of the winter’s it took us to get here. My child, you are the spring. Your name has a meaning— safe, healthy, wise, brave. Your name it is less of a label and more of a wish, a living intention set right into the core, seed, pit of your future. You are a reminder that we don’t just survive— we learn, we grow, we expand, we regenerate.

When I hold you in my arms, I will be holding an answer to every quiet, terrified prayer I whispered under the bright fluorescent overhead lights of my hospital bed. When I hold you, I will be holding proof that flowers grow where roads were broken, that the tree isn’t stopped by the fence, that the matador eventually walks away, leaving the land to the living.

I feel we are not just turning a page, we are tending an entire forest growing over the bloodied golden sand of a battleground. For the first time in a very long time, I am ready to do nothing more than stand in the sunlight and be amazed as I see us grow.

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Beet, Feta, and Herb Stuffed Figs

A few weeks ago the figs ripened. Two whole trees worth of figs. We ate them off the branches, we made fig jam, we froze them and ate them like ice cream, then we stuffed them full.

INGREDIENTS:
20 Figs, fresh and in season
2 large Beets, roasted till tender. peeled. and finely diced.
~1/2 c Feta, crumbled
1-2 Shallots, minced
3-4 cloves of Garlic, minced
Small Handful of Mint, finely chopped
3-4 sprigs of fresh Thyme, leaves plucked from stems
~1/3 c Pepitas, roasted
White Wine Vinegar, a splash to taste
Salt & Pepper, to taste

METHOD:

Start by gently cooking your shallots and garlic in a small pan with a splash of olive oil until they are melty and sweet.

In a medium sized bowl, add roasted, peeled, and diced beets. Add melted shallots and garlic, pepitas, crumbled feta, finely chopped mint, thyme, salt, pepper, and a small splash of white wine vinegar to taste. Mix well. If your figs aren’t super ripe and your palate leans to the sweet side, add a titch of honey.

Cut an X into each fig and create a center by gently moulding it with your fingers. Add a spoonful of the beet mix into the well of each fig. Then gently hug the outer layers of the fig around the center, with a tender squeeze in your palm. Set onto a plate, and continue until all your figs are full. Top with more mint. Enjoy alongside grilled sausages or your protein of preference for a light and simple dinner.

Note: Measurements here are not exact. I just kinda used my intuition, measured things like the feta and pepitas with my palm, and tasted as I went along. Then, felt like this recipe was too tasty not to share. Trust your own sense of taste and add more or less wherever you desire.

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Lately, I have been thinking about blocks. The heavy, frustrating kind that stall a paragraph mid-sentence. The physical, stubborn kind that make food—even the most gorgeous, seasonal ingredients—suddenly lose its logic, turning appetite into an aversion. And then, the miniature, smooth wooden alphabet blocks we are stacking, spelling a new name.

We signed a lease on an apartment near the hospital here in Spain, where I am planing to have our baby. What we could live with at the cortijo before won’t work now that we have a little one on the way. And, as much as I’d like to stick to my plans while in the midst of so much change— to make it work off-grid in our rustic little ruin— the apartment is necessary.

We signed the lease for the apartment on the exact same day Gordon, my husband, got laid off from his job of the last 4 years. It felt like a joke, or a prayer, or both. Irony and poetry. Exciting, as in: This is what it is to be alive… What can we do but keep sailing? Just as we reach out to steady ourselves against a sudden gust of change, we realize the only way through is absolute adaptability. We tack like a little wooden boat. We just keep moving, even when seasick. I can’t help but admit that I am thankful to have practice learning how to gulp the swell, practice in not giving up when the going gets tough— we keep our eyes on the horizon, we surrender when it’s time to go horizontal, we heave what we can no longer hold.

The hospital sits right near the sea, a massive concrete anchor against the endless blue that stills me. Everything about the geography of our current stress strikes me as privilege and blessing, even as I experience the challenges of transition in my body, identity, culture, geography, medical treatments, finances, etc. How will we make this work, I wonder? Will we be able to chew this massive mouthful of change and ambition? Can I find rest in this unsettled season? These are the roadblocks I figured we’d face eventually (with culture shock setting in), part of the learning curve we were craving… We chose this life here knowing this reality check would come. Still, living the life you want on your own terms is worth it. My heart cracks open as it grows, beauty and grief in lock, joy and emotion—a waterfall off the edge of yikes.

The hospital is a strange landscape for me to return to. I wish the somatic flashbacks were a sandcastle that would erode. Instead, the memories seem to be anchored. I have cried before and after each appointment of the trauma and the joy. As a cancer survivor, the sterile corridors always carry an echo—a reminder of a time when my body was lost, confused, and scared. Pregnancy, too, holds its own complicated viscera. I feel butterflies and moths. For a survivor of SA; the heightened interoception requires a radical, brave reclamation of my senses, moment at a time. There is a quiet resilience that takes over somewhere in my breath, even if it feels like a survival mode. I am alive. I look out the hospital windows at the water, and I am reminded that healing isn’t the absence of gale. We buoy ourselves as the winds shift, the thunder cracks, as the sun and shadow wrestle for sky. Yes, even the sun burns.

Gale

Wind Speed: Sustained speeds between 34 and 54 mph (30 to 47 knots or 62 to 87 km/h).

Effects: Twigs and small branches are broken off trees, and walking directly into the wind becomes highly difficult.

Marine Impact: High waves develop with white foam blown into streaks.

Right now, we are finding a rhythm that stretches between the olive grove and the sea. We go over the mountains, then back again. We take care of the trees with sea legs. We trim as the gale prunes us. We weed, we watch the soil and water, we plan for the early harvest. We kiss the dust and mist. We miss the familiar. I need the pattern. I need a grip. I hold the branch high.

There is a beautiful, terrifying synchronicity to the calendar this year: the trees and I are due at the exact same time. While the olive fruits swell on the branches, heavy with oil, a life is doing the same inside of me. Two kinds of labor to peak in the very same season. I tremble beneath the ripening hope as I learn in real time what it is I can endure.

To balance the weight of it all, I find pockets of deliberate luxury. Yesterday, it was an outdoor shower after a walk through the olive trees.

There is a beautiful juxtaposition in stepping out under the open sky into water, drenched, completely exposed to the elements, washing with products that smell of crushed herbs and quiet indulgence then wrapping myself in the thickest towel I packed from home in NY. These external practices are a reminder that even when everything is shifting, we can still curate our comfort.

My baptism was followed by a bite that finally landed me: body, mind, and stomach— which is rare lately. (I’ve included the recipe below.) Why is it the meals we conceptualize when the fridge and pantry are nearly bare that feel the most satisfying and magical?

We are building a life out of gleaming fragments, carving the puzzle pieces from these mountains, the grove, the sea, the blocks, the branches, our bodies and hearts. I can’t wait to teach baby how to re-stack the blocks that topple. How to crush a sandcastle… or watch and wait for the tide come wash it down. Over and over, we build and then we rebuild. Ever lucky. We make plans, and then we cry and laugh.

Fire Roasted Peppers with Hazelnut and Avocado

This salad/dip really checked all the boxes: sweet, sour, savory, salty, creamy, crunchy.

Fire roasting your peppers at home really takes it to the next level, but I’ve already recreated this with a jar of roasted red peppers and it was still superb. This would be good with more avocado, if that’s the mood. We scooped mouthfuls onto Spanish potato chips as a late afternoon snack, but we could have eaten it on it’s own as a salad, or on top of meat or fish. It’s a super versatile little side dish.

INGREDIENTS:
6-7 Sweet Red Peppers, fire roasted and chopped (or one large jar, drained)
1-2 Avocados, Diced
1/2 a Red Onion, minced
1 clove Garlic, minced
Handful (1/3 c.) of Roasted Hazelnuts, crushed or roughly chopped
1 tsp. Honey
Salt, generous pinch, to taste
1-2 Tbsp. Sherry Vinegar, a generous splash
3-4 Tbsp. Olive Oil, generous pour
Borage Flowers, optional as garnish

METHOD:
In the bottom of a mixing bowl, whisk together minced garlic, honey, sherry vinegar, olive oil, and a generous pinch of salt until fully combined.

Add the minced red onion to the dressing and give it a quick stir. Letting the onion sit in the vinegar for just a minute takes the raw edge off.

Add the fire-roasted, chopped sweet red peppers and diced avocado to the bowl. Fold everything together gently so the dressing coats the veggies without mashing the avocado.

Just before serving, add the crushed roasted hazelnuts for crunch, and scatter the optional borage flowers and more hazelnut over the top. Serve immediately.

Tip: Adding the hazelnuts right at the very end ensures they stay perfectly crunchy instead of softening in the dressing!

I unintentionally took a break. It began early March, immediately after we returned to New York, and stretched through the long weeks of April. Now, here we are in May, with some big news…

I am back at the cortijo in Southern Spain, staring out my window at a sprawl of budding olive trees as far as the eye can see... There are flowers, wild as ever, fulfilling the promise made by winter floods. The sun is shining, the sky is sharp blue. And, I am blissfully and delightfully no longer able to contain the secret that I am pregnant and expecting a baby this fall— just in time for olive harvest! Hence the break… the first trimester is no joke.

I find it baffling that we culturally ask women to remain quiet through the start of a pregnancy. I couldn’t even get a doctor to see me until I was 12 weeks along. Those early weeks are so strange and wild—a lonely sort of magic, a sensory limbo— where everything is rapid-changing internally but is mostly unknown and unseen externally. Even after experiencing a miscarriage last fall, and the subsequent breath-holding of hope, I wanted to tell everyone. I wanted to be close to community, no matter the outcome. Instead, I held my tongue, barely able to contain myself with this precious little secret (which, for the record, was paired with a lovely bit of morning sickness).

Seven years after being treated for two types of breast cancer— when I was told my chances of conceiving after chemotherapy would be “low”— and after years of feeling shipwrecked by the grief of childlessness (and miscarriage)… I am in awe with gratitude for this miracle of an opportunity to welcome a child. We’re blissfully in shock, as this is a dream we had accepted as near impossible save for a shred of undying hope.

For many years now, I have shared my focus— making a practice and art of the “possible”— aiming to alchemize my mixed feelings into something beautiful and nourishing despite the longings and losses I have grappled with. The tension of these emotions have been a constant current, pulling me in and out of a survival mode that doubled as my creative well, while shaking my social life and sense of self. There were entire seasons where it felt challenging to connect with friends—especially those with young children—despite wanting so badly to be part of their lives. Motivation was hard-won. My voice felt faded. Still, while struggling with fertility, I wanted us to cultivate a fertile life. So, here we are, celebrating this gift of time, spending our days beside the Mediterranean, expecting a child. I’m so thankful for the friends who have carried us through. I will never get over this ever-loving DAYDREAM.

I’m growing a new heart, friends. A literal new heart that beats. The most sincere and profound honor and dream come true. The way I burst to tears when I heard that speedy little lub-dub and saw the dancing arms and legs of a tiny growing body. The life in me is new.

Brown Sugar Oat Cookies

Being pregnant has really shaken my sense of taste and appetite— never have I ever empathized more with picky-eaters! Everything has just seemed so gross… All my favorite foods seem to be off the table, at least for the time being, and my affinity for salty foods has been replaced with a hunger for sweetness (and, randomly, cheeseburgers).

With a most beautiful jar of brown sugar packed back from Spain to NY, I made these cookies. Good Lord, they hit the spot. Crispy edges, chewy centers, and golden brown sugar sweetness.

INGREDIENTS:
2 sticks salted butter, softened
2 cups dark brown sugar
2 tsp. vanilla extract
2 eggs
1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 tsp. salt
1 tsp. cinnamon
2 tsp. baking powder
3 cups old-fashioned oat
1 cup raisins (or apricot, chocolate chips, chopped pecan… whatever you like!)

METHOD:
In a large bowl, cream together softened butter with brown sugar. Add eggs and vanilla and mix until throughly combined. Add oats, salt, cinnamon, flour, baking powder, and mix well. Place one inch balls of dough onto a parchment lined baking sheet a few inches apart and bake at 350f for 15-18 minutes or until lightly golden along the edges. For a crispier cookie, leave in the oven a little longer.

There has been notice taken of the glowing approach of the tender green blades of grass emerging from beneath the melting snow… one step nearer to, yet again, stitching themselves into a vivid covering that will overtake this dormant earth. We see the daily transformation, the growing gradient bleeding emerald.

It’s as if spring arrives before herself to the party, naked, baring every curve and limb, allowing us to watch as she gets dressed, layering on a look. Moving shamelessly slow. First it’s the undergarment, then the button down, the dress, the sweater, the tulips, the tights, the birds, the overcoat, the lady slippers, the sting of bees, the nettles. She makes us wait until she is ready, staring us in the eyes, chilling, misting herself—mouthing words like readiness and patience, courage and pride and purity. She gulps the gusts of wind. She makes the sky salivate. All of us stand a little taller in anticipation.

Suddenly the windows and doors are popped, cracking and hissing like the sound of an opening bottle. We achieve a re-acquired taste for sparkling effervescence. We sip every drop that falls on the dirt. Never bored of a poured out confession…

The coming warmth is seasonal hallmark. We wait for her in love.

Winter Citrus and Cod Salad

A few weeks ago while back in Spain, I ordered a super simple orange and salt cod salad that stole my heart. The salad was bright and juicy, sweet, tart, and salty, light and refreshing, while surprisingly sturdy.

For this recipe, I made a few personal tweaks where I felt compelled, veering from the classic Ensalada Malagueña. I used fresh cod instead of salt cod, because that is what I had available. I added the subtle bitterness of radicchio as a base layer, the creaminess of avocado because it sounded good, and a variety of citrus for a broader ranger of sweet and tart flavors.

I may still be crying over the fact that I was able to use the most delicious olives from our own olive trees that I dry cured in salt over winter at our cortijo Southern Spain! An absolute dream come wide awake…

INGREDIENTS:
8oz Filet of Fresh Cod
6-8 Tart & Sweet Citrus (I used a mix of Cara Cara, Seville & Blood)
4 Green Onions, sliced
2 Avocados, peeled and sliced
3 Soft Boiled Eggs, halved
1 head Radicchio, washed
Extra Virgin Olive Oil, preferable early harvest
Spanish Olives

METHOD:
Place your cod fillet in a wide skillet, salt them, and add just enough water to barely cover. Bring to a very low simmer (don't let it hard boil!), cover, and cook for about 6 to 8 minutes until the fish is opaque. Once cooked, lift it out and let it cool slightly. Use a fork or your fingers to gently press along the natural lines of the muscle to separate it into large, beautiful flakes.

Boil eggs. (I like a 7 minute egg, but you can cook to your preference.) Bring a pot of water to a rolling boil. Gently lower the eggs into the water with a slotted spoon. Set a timer for exactly 7 minutes. While the eggs boil, prepare an ice bath. As soon as the timer goes off, plunge the eggs into the ice water for at least 3 minutes. This stops the cooking instantly, leaving you with a firm white and a gorgeous, jammy yolk. Gently crack the shells all over and peel under cold running water.

Prepare oranges by peeling and slicing or dicing, carefully removing any seeds. Wash and thinly slice green onion. Peel and slice avocado.

Wash radicchio and carefully remove individual leaf petals. Arrange on a platter. Layer on the sliced oranges, halved eggs, avocado, olives, and flakes of cod. Sprinkle with the green onion. Pour any remaining citrus juices overtop (if your oranges are on the sweeter side, maybe add a squeeze of lemon for more acid). Cover with a generous pour of olive oil and good pinch of finishing sea salt. Enjoy!

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We are back in New York after an exhilarating season in Southern Spain. Following years of drought, the skies opened and emptied themselves this winter. For the last month, the light hardly broke through the gray. Our area experienced record rainfall—more precipitation than there’s been in 16 years. Friends became stranded, marooned. Roads washed out. It was great weather for hearty Spanish comfort foods like Migas and broken eggs, and terrible weather for almost everything else.

Day after day, I curled up beside the fire as the concrete walls of our farmhouse became damper and less stable. Gordon paced each room, pointing out new cracks as they appeared. The firewood became so wet that the fire would hiss for hours, if we could manage to get it lit at all. For the sake of practicality, I cooked an ‘everlasting meal’ in a single pot, adding bits (of chorizo, or jamón, or chicken, or anchovies) and bobs (of pickles, herbs, or spices) each day to keep it interesting. We had to let the dishes pile up for lack of running water. We lived by candlelight to illuminate the room. I went without a shower more days than I care to admit.

Work stopped on our little DIY bathroom renovation project, and we took refuge at our friend’s flat while it was available for a week. Then we returned to the cortijo and begged the sky for even a glimpse of sunlight for solar power. Some days we had just enough to get by; other days we were powerless. When we had no other choice, we tucked into a hotel to renew ourselves and treat our freshened selves to a meal out. You have to laugh at the gloom sometimes. It was not the warm winter we were expecting, but still, the experience was a tear of honesty and romance. A privilege. At times, it was downright disgusting. We felt alive, and I loved it.

The purity of life at the cortijo forced me into the same simplicity. No hair or makeup most days. No interesting menus or ‘fits.’ No real consistency—a night here, then there. It was wonderful, but it’s not easy going back. The lack thereof stirs that sense of appreciation and longing. It tests you. It leaves you raw as you peel back the layers of distraction. All that is quiet within starts to find a voice. The truth seeks its right to be heard. So, you take your time. You take it. You are not here to suffer; you are here to live. And you need a shower.

‘Everything feels like luxury,’ I told G after arriving back on Sunday evening. A salty hot bath, an electric thermostat, my oven and stove, the pantry, and my collected tchotchkes. It’s a luxury to reflect on the memories of our wet, wild, weary winter in Spain—spent appreciating how lucky we feel to have come so far as to take this risk for a life-giving dream of tending to ancient olive trees. We don’t have half of it figured out still, but I am trusting.

I always welcome our return with a pot of chicken soup; I find it’s the perfect remedy for jet lag no matter which direction I am heading. (I really hate air travel, lol.) It’s so good to be home, here or there, but always so hard to go back.

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Warmly Spiced Ginger Chicken Soup with Yuba, Enoki, and Roasted Sweet Potato

I made this delicious pot of soup yesterday on the Lunar New Year with an intention of health and prosperity as I reset back into my NY routine.

The broth is warmly spiced with cinnamon, star anise, cloves, fresh ginger, and turmeric. I added charred red onion for depth and green onions/cilantro for freshness. It’s served with yuba (tofu skin) for texture, noodles for longevity, and enoki mushrooms for good fortune. Roasty, caramelized sweet potato topped with molasses adds a touch of sweetness.

The flavors of this soup are a beautiful cross between a traditional Chinese ginger chicken soup and the aromatic depth of a Vietnamese phở. Serve with a few dashes of soy or fish sauce, or a scoop of your favorite chili crisp on top.

Serves 4
INGREDIENTS

Half a chicken (or a small whole chicken)
8 cups Water
2 inch piece of Ginger, peeled and sliced
3 roots of Turmeric, peeled and sliced
4 Green Onion, 3 cut into 2in lengths and one finely sliced
1 Red Onion, halved and charred
5 Star Anise Pods
1 Cinnamon Stick
4 Cloves
Pinch Cardamon
Dash of Coriander
6 pieces Tofu Skin Sticks (soaked in warm water for at least 10 mins)
1 package Enoki Mushrooms
4 Sweet Potatoes (roasted at 325f for 40 mins, turn off oven and leave in oven to cool)
Brown Rice Noodles
Cilantro
Salt

METHOD

In a large pot, add the half chicken, 8 cups of water, sliced ginger, turmeric, the 3 green onions (2-inch lengths), and the charred red onion. Bring the water to a boil, then immediately turn the heat down to a low simmer. Use a spoon to skim off any foam or "scum" that rises to the top in the first 10 minutes; this ensures your broth stays clear.

While the pot simmers, lightly toast the star anise, cinnamon stick, and cloves in a dry pan for 1–2 minutes until they smell fragrant and add to the pot along with the pinch of cardamom, dash of coriander, and a generous pinch of salt. Cover and simmer gently for about 45–60 minutes, or until the chicken is tender and fully cooked.

While the broth is simmering, handle your textures. Cook the brown rice noodles according to the package instructions, drain, and portion into soup bowls. Drain the soaked tofu skin sticks and cut them into bite-sized lengths. Trim the root ends off the enoki mushrooms.

Once the chicken is done, remove it from the pot. Let it cool, then remove bones and slice into small pieces. Save the skin and add to a small skillet over medium heat to crisp and brown. Serve as a soup topping for added flavor and texture.

Remove the onions, ginger, turmeric, cinnamon stick, cloves and star anise by scooping them out with a slotted spoon or straining through a fine-mesh sieve into a clean pot.

Add the tofu skin and enoki mushrooms to the simmering broth for 2–3 minutes until the mushrooms have softened.

Taste the broth and add more salt as needed. Place a portion of chicken in the bowl with the noodles and top with a scoop of the crispy chicken skin, nestle in a tiny roasted sweet potato, a few bites of tofu skin, and the softened enoki mushrooms. Ladle the hot broth over the top. Finish each bowl with the finely sliced green onion and a handful of fresh cilantro. Add a slather of molasses and a sprinkle of sea salt atop the sweet potato, if desired. A dash of fish sauce, soy sauce, chili crisp… whatever you fancy. Enjoy!

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Reality can be like a razor blade to the heart. It is universal, not personal. We are in this together, the putting on of our knickers, pretending to feel normal, figuring out what to eat and how to exercise what ever it may be that we might exercise... Our bodies, our voices, our free will. What I constantly need is a medicine, a balm, a damn distraction, some help. The kitchen is my pharmacy, my sanctuary— the place I reconnect with inner fire and begin to thaw.

I soften the blade as I press on through the gristle. My shoulders lower, my back muscles relax, and my breath deepens naturally as I begin to imagine what I might find to exercise my right to nourish myself. What is here? Of the now? What won’t wait? It is that thing that is most alive that is what I need.

Cooler mediterranean winter temperatures slow the growth of artichokes, resulting in exceptionally tender and sweet hearts that lack thistles. No choke to clean out. The moment won’t wait, but it’s best you take your time.

I read a thing the other day— likely a joke— that said a woman’s stress level drops substantially when she is called “baby.” Depends on the woman was my first thought. But then, I thought about how happy it makes me to use the word myself. A baby bird, a baby promise, a baby artichoke. A little, tiny, dumb whathaveyou reality check… there is just something satisfied when I name it “baby.” It softens the blow of wisdom.

A few brackets prickle my fingers; I peel back the outer layers of the flower, revealing the tender pale interior. I grab a knife and I begin meditation, breath as long as possible, shavings thin as I can get um. There are more fibers in this raw vegetation, with this, it is more nutritious, but its also harder to digest. It gives you something to sink your teeth into, to chew on… a raw heart.

I remember that a sour taste can be effective for managing high-arousal negative emotions like anxiety, panic, and stress. So, I prescribe lemons, and I squeeze. I remember that spicy food helps boost energy, pleasure, and excitement, so I run my knife through a red chili. I pluck sprigs of mint and parsley to brighten and fortify. I shave in a hunk of aged Manchego. Pinch in a bit of salt, my cure all. Then, I anoint it all with early harvest extra virgin olive oil, so potent and rich.

Though bracingly tart and wonderfully simple, my mouth is left sweet– the mix of textures and flavors revive my mind, and I am brought back to my focus on what is possible in this impossible world. With a little heart, I go on.

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Marinated Shaved Artichoke Hearts

serves 2-4
INGREDIENTS:
4 Baby Artichokes (the freshest you can find)
2 Lemons (One for the “acidulated water” to prevent browning and one for the dressing.)
1/4 cup Extra Virgin Olive Oil
Fresh Mint (just a few leaves)
Fresh Parsley (small handful, finely chopped)
1/2 a Red Chili (sliced thin)
1/4 cup Manchego (shaved)
Sea Salt

METHOD:
Artichokes oxidize (turn brown) the moment they hit the air. Fill a bowl with cold water and the juice of one lemon. This keeps the veg looking vibrant.

Snap off the tough outer leaves until you reach the pale, yellow-green inner leaves. Trim the bottom third of the artichoke and peel the stem down to the white core. Immediately drop each cleaned heart into your lemon water.

Using a mandoline or a very sharp knife, slice the artichokes vertically as thin as possible (paper-thin is the goal). Return them to the lemon water for a moment, then pat them dry thoroughly.

In a medium sized bowl, add the juice of one lemon, olive oil, a pinch of sea salt, thinly sliced red chili, finely chopped mint and parsley. Add the thinly shaved artichoke, tossing to gently coat in the dressing. When ready to eat, shave bits of Manchego into the bowl, toss and enjoy!

Across the sprawling Spanish landscape, where the view holds almost no vacant space—the ground a geometric grid of olive, mango, orange, lemon, avocado, and almond trees, interspersed by the season’s flocks of cabbage, beets, leeks, spinach, lamb’s lettuce, in between— I am considering the blank page.

I’m not a huge fan of resolutions, yet, I love a fresh start and a goal. Especially when the goal involves the movements of making a home, nourishment, and exercising creativity.

We’ve begun our work in the bathroom, stripping the walls bare of tile for a fresh layer of smooth concrete. Once the walls are prepared, we’ll mix and apply lime paint, then wash with olive oil soap and polish several layers of luxuriously smooth tadelakt for waterproofing and feel… learning as we go.

The bathroom was the most desperate space of the home needing improvement. It was cold, awkwardly situated, had a dropped ceiling, and it flooded when we showered. I am so looking forward to the finished product, but I am also enjoying the process.

The sound of chiseling hammers and ceramic tile descending into sharp shards against the floor was a delight to my ears all week, a necessary clearing of the ground and mind— mirroring the work of my own seemingly endless writing project—the slow, rhythmic carving out of ideas. It’s the pulses of life all around me, the fresh air energy that I crave. It’s the methods, the slow movements, the progress, the dust kicked up, then settling. The heavy lifting. The alchemy in answering the need for destruction, the hope of rebuilding. The clarity of intention.

It’s a winter day that feels like summer, at least to me. The warmth of the sun is on my skin as I sit outside in the courtyard in front of our house. I am eating a ripe tomato; unbelievably, it is January.

I am soaking almonds and stale bread for ajoblanco, a tasty, pure, creamy, comforting soup that acts as a canvas for pops of flavor. I take a small nibble off the edge of a tomato and I suck out the caviar of seeds. So many seeds.

Over Christmas we spontaneously accepted an invite to join friends in Morocco. Without preparation, I was dropped into sensory delight. The sights, aromas, textures, colors, flavors, and touches of hospitality were intoxicating. The spices, warm. Peppermint tea, free flowing. The argan, nutty. Each meal accompanied by a simple confetti salad of impeccably-diced tomato, onion, cucumber, and parsley. A month later, I’m still making it as an accompaniment to anything and everything. I’m still wanting more.

Ajoblanco with Moroccan Salad

This refreshing, creamy almond soup is typically served cold, in summer, topped with grapes or melon. I guess I am feeling the sun. :)

Blanched marcona almonds are the classic, but for this take on ajoblanco I used Spanish fried almonds (Almendras Fritas) for a nuttier bite, reminiscent of Moroccan argan. With some respect to season, I’ve prepared the soup at room temperature instead of cold (I think would be good warm, too) and I’ve topped it with a bright garnish of Moroccan salad.

Serves 6
INGREDIENTS:
for the soup
1 cup Almendras Fritas (soaked)
1/3 Stale Baguette (torn into chunks)
3-4 cups Water (adjust for desired thickness)
1.5 tablespoons quality Extra Virgin Olive Oil
1.5 teaspoons Sherry Vinegar
1 clove Garlic (optional)
Salt to taste

for the Moroccan salad
2 Tomatoes, finely diced
1 Persian Cucumber, finely diced
1/2 a Red or Yellow Onion, finely diced
1/4 cup Parsley, finely chopped
Salt to taste
(optional: squeeze of lemon, if the tomatoes need more acidity)

METHOD

In a bowl, combine the torn bread and the almonds. Cover them with 2 cups of the water and let them soak for at least 2 hours in the fridge. (This softens the fibers and ensures the soup becomes “pure and creamy” rather than gritty.)

Transfer the soaked bread, almonds, and their soaking liquid into a high-speed blender. Add the remaining 1-2 cups of water, sherry vinegar, and salt. Blend on high until completely smooth. (If you haven’t soaked your almonds long enough, blend— wait 5 mins, blend again. Repeat until completely creamy and no gritty texture remains.)

With the blender running on a low speed, slowly stream in the olive oil. (This creates a stable emulsion and gives the soup its characteristic white glow and silken mouthfeel.)

While the soup rests, dice the tomato, cucumber, and onion into uniform, tiny cubes. Toss them with the chopped parsley and a pinch of salt. If lacking acidity, add a squeeze of lemon. (Let the mixture sit for 10 minutes to allow the juices to pool.)

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Pour the chilled soup into shallow bowls. Spoon a generous mound of the Moroccan salad directly into the center of each bowl. Drizzle with a few drops of olive oil. Enjoy.

When hearing we don’t have a washer or dryer at the cortijo, friends have teased us that we are living like the Amish. Today, because it has been overcast for days now, and we run on solar, we don’t have power. We cannot shower. Soon, like in the next few weeks, we will invest in an improved system. Eventually, I will buy a stove. The bathroom will get renovated. We will get a washer. Things will improve. But, for some reason, I have wanted to draw out these early simple days that test my boundaries and force me to try new rhythms while not compromising health as my priority.

I crave routine. I love a plan. I yearn for comfort zone. And yet, releasing those controls in favor of spontaneity frees one of stagnation. Submitting ourselves to the flexibility necessary to make this new way of life in a new country work has brought flow, despite feeling stretching us to the energetic limit.

With relief and excitement, we both now have a Spanish visa. This allows us residency for the next three years in Spain. I received a plastic ID welcoming me to my new home featuring an absolutely terrible photo of me— jet-lagged, puffy, and tired— made worse by the way the color photograph was printed black and white, high-contrast. The contours of my face are blown out and exaggerated, my eyebrows look like a fragment of themselves… I almost don’t recognize the person I see in the photo. Yet, it doesn’t matter. I might need a makeover after these low-amenity days spent living ‘like the Amish’— but it’s the way I have felt at home here, along with that small identifier that I can stay, that eclipses my need to identify with any identity beyond being here, now, and alive.

In 2025, we entered metamorphosis. We made Spain our home. We became registered olive farmers. We learned so much about olive trees and fruit, milling, bottling, export, etc. etc. We sold sweet bundles of our lavender. We made too many trips back and forth from here to there. We confronted hard truths. We shared many incredible meals. We made new friends while missing old ones. We celebrated love.

In 2025, I became pregnant. I had a miscarriage. And, I hardly told a soul. The way I had dreaded even trying for pregnancy as much as dreamed about and longed for one for fear of loss (for fear of everything). But then, I felt met in the moment by loved ones in a way that allowed the sadness to feel free of trauma. The experience was so raw, so tragically natural. It goes beyond understanding, but, I felt joy invade grief in a wholly mind-blowing way— I was so happy for that life, I still am, it drastically shifted my perspective and senses. Somehow, the loss holds an invitation of hope.

In 2026, more life! To strength and renewed vision in the year to come…

xo
-danielle

Stew of Garbanzos, Roasted Chestnuts and Turkey with Garlic-Orange Aliño (dressing)

I found the chestnuts, but not until we returned to Spain. Ever since, I’ve been roasting them off in batches, peeling them patiently like a meditation, then storing them in the freezer to add to soups, like this one.

Flavorful and deeply warming, this savory, rich, stew sings with a subtle, earthy sweetness from the chestnut and a bright counterpoint of citrus. The rich, earthy texture of the chestnut is satisfying against the slight firmness of the chickpeas and the tenderness of the turkey. Do not sleep on that aliño.

Serves 6
INGREDIENTS:
for the stew
1.5 cups Chickpeas (dried beans soaked overnight and drained is best. if using from a can, rinse very well)
6 cups of Water or Stock
2 lbs Turkey Breast
1/2 cup Jamón (pancetta is ok in a pinch)
1/4 cup Dry Sherry (Fino or Amontillado)
1 Onion, diced
1 Leek, diced
2 Carrots, diced
1 cup Chestnuts (freshly roasted and peeled is best, but good quality jarred/vacuum-packed is acceptable)
1 Bay Leaf
1 teaspoons Saffron Threads
1 teaspoons good quality Paprika (Pimentón de la Vera), sweet variety)
Salt and freshly ground Black Pepper to taste

for the garlic-orange aliño (dressing)
3 tablespoons Spanish Extra Virgin Olive Oil
3 cloves of Garlic, thinly sliced
1 Orange, zest from half and 1 tablespoon of juice
Handful of fresh Parsley, finely chopped

METHOD:
Place the cubed jamon, onion, leek, carrots, and bay leaf into a large pot or Dutch oven. Over medium-low heat, allow the jamón fat to begin to render and the veg to lightly brown. Add the drained, soaked chickpeas. Pour in the stock (or water) until all ingredients are well-submerged. Bring the mixture to a rolling boil over high heat, then immediately reduce the heat to low. Cover the pot partially and let it simmer gently for 1 hour and 15 minutes. (Skim off any foam that rises to the surface.)

Tip: for best aroma, color, and flavor— toast and bloom saffron threads by placing in a small, dry pan over low heat for about 30 seconds until fragrant. Immediately transfer the threads to a small bowl. Add 1/4 cup of the hot liquid from the stew to the saffron. Let it bloom for 10 minutes.

Add the saffron, smoked paprika, and dry sherry into the stew. Stir well to dissolve the paprika and infuse the golden color of the saffron. Season generously with salt and pepper. Gently stir in the roasted, peeled chestnuts and the turkey pieces. Continue to simmer, partially covered, for another 30 minutes, or until the chickpeas are completely tender and the turkey is cooked. The chestnuts will begin to soften and thicken the broth.

While the stew continues to cook, prepare the fragrant finish. In a small skillet, heat the olive oil over medium-low heat. Add the thinly sliced garlic and cook gently for 2-3 minutes until fragrant and just beginning to turn golden (do not let it burn!). Remove the pan from the heat. Stir in the orange zest and the chopped parsley into the warm oil. This simple step adds a bright, sensory lift to the rich stew.

Carefully remove bay leaf from the pot. Stir in the orange juice to brighten the overall flavor. Taste and adjust the salt and pepper if needed. Ladle the hot stew into bowls. Spoon a generous drizzle of the warm garlic-orange aliño over the top of each serving before enjoying.

A suitcase is propped open on the floor of my closet, as it has been most of the year. I’m beginning to layer in what I’ll want for our upcoming trip back to our little ruin in southern Spain. It’s funny, though, because I haven’t really known what I’m going to need. Months ago, a friend of mine mentioned that this miracle move would probably change me. He’s never wrong; it has.

Driving into our property through miles of olive farms, all you see are the silvery-green olive branches everywhere. Each time we make our way to our little, crumbly Spanish farm home, it’s all I can think about. It’s not the rodent infestation, or the challenges of drought, or the trials of the visa, or the mile of work on this side of our ambitions—it’s the olive branches with their metaphors (and their fruit).

I was surprised to see enchantment return as a synonym for alchemy.

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The Google AI result list read: chemistry, magic, sorcery, witchcraft… and enchantment.

“What a wonder,” I thought to myself, “enchantment?” Alchemy is enchanting. Being enchanted is chemical. And yet, I don’t immediately clock the two words as interchangeable or comparable.

Is alchemy witchcraft or sorcery? I wonder. Is this how we iterate what it means to be transformed?

I’d been thinking about the alchemy of madness—about how absolutely bonkers this year has felt. Spending six to eight weeks in Spain, followed by six to eight weeks back in NY (following the demands of what was needed for our Spanish visas rather than a pace of our own). It was some kind of sorcery—an act of patience, metamorphosis, and magic.

It seems I could attach any adjective, any description, any label to this year, and it would be appropriate. The madness—for better and worse—has been mightily transformative.

The shape of our year was pots of chicken soup, withered fruit, and time taken to recoup from travel. It was time spent writing, learning Spanish, working to get our olive trees cared for, and trying to get our olive oil business off the ground. It was time spent reckoning. It was happiness and celebration (and tension). It was ever more sacred and cherished time with friends.

The fast pace of our year made settling into a rhythm elusive. But, the pulse of life to my senses and the love made me feel as if wrapped in benediction.

Getting to know our grove of olive trees has been remarkable. The trees have survived years and years of drought with few respites of rain. When we last returned, at first, I was somewhat worried and disheartened to see that our olives were sort of wrinkly. Then, I was amazed. Hardly a single drop of rain, yet the trees are so resilient they bear fruit—these ancient, enduring, wise, peaceful, fertile trees!

Our olive farmer has reassured us that the trees and the oil are quite fine, despite thirst. While I’m excited to spend the coming years rehabbing the vitality of the trees and nurturing the soil health, I found some interesting research that says the drought might actually bring out certain qualities and nutrients in the oil. I’m skeptical, but I love the idea of consuming this special oil that I have seen drawn from a stone—this offering of resilience and endurance.

With our first harvest just around the corner, time will tell! We’ll send our oil for testing to profile it and see what our baseline looks like. Then, we’ll use this for comparisons each year.

With hope, and depending on quality (and imports), we’ll be sharing our oil with you, our friends, real soon!

But for now, my hunt for chestnuts continues… as does this gratuitous meditation on the enchantment of madness. It’s cauldron season, babes. Let’s keep stirring the pot.

While knowing it’s a bad idea, I wash the pills down with my morning cup of coffee. Then, I take a guilty sip of water to, with any luck, right the presumed wrong of the buzzing muddy water. This life, this world, this reality is a paradox.

Nature and science say that the capsules should help the invisible things in me that need helping. My personal history says that the coffee is what a need, too. I offer my respect to both. Maybe it’s a reach for some kinda yin yang abstraction. I don’t know, perhaps the alchemy of these practices is misguided, toxic even. Or, maybe it’s all magic, placebo, hope, and fuel. This thing is as insensitive as it is sensitive, of matter and mattering oh-so-much, while also not mattering at all.

I get busy to-do-ing my to-do’s, the things life seems to be made of these days, (painting cabinets, building fences, stoops, and stone pathways… harvesting lavender) then I hardly notice the outcome of my potion. The thrill of productivity is a distraction, balance.

The cure I need must be beyond capsule and cup— must be beyond the folds in the laundry, pages of the presentation, curves of the logo—because it’s there my mind yet again drifts whenever it gets the chance. Pulling up to the rivers and valleys. Finding refuge in the harmony of the orchard. Seeking the breadth of peaks. Stretching myself across the path with the questions that don’t really need answers.

I leave teethmarks on the edge of a watermelon rind. I lace my breath with bites of wild bergamot and thyme. I brace my heart.

My lips are stained by the season— because how could I cope without reaching for fruit, for flowers…

I lunge from malaise toward beauty while held in the tines of life’s hungry jaw— ever thankful for appetite and the breeze of heavy breath.

Some of us keep wondering how the sun rises? How a flower opens? How the earth keeps spinning? Some of us don’t wonder at all.

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Hericot Vert and Fava Bean’s in Piccata Sauce

Reimagined the beloved classic “piccata” as a vibrant, refreshing cold vegetable salad, perfect served as a light meal or a sophisticated summer side dish. Crisp haricot vert and tender fava beans take center stage, tossed and marinated in a zesty dressing made of bright lemon, briny capers, and aromatic shallots, garlic and parsley. Seriously addicting, this salad truly truly sings!

INGREDIENTS:
Green Beans, 1 pound
Fava Beans, 1 pound while still in the husk
Capers, 3 Tablespoons
1 Shallot, minced
3 cloves Garlic, minced
1-2 Lemon, juice and zest
Parsley, minced
Olive Oil, 2-3 Tablespoons
Salt and Pepper, to taste

METHOD:
Begin by setting a large pot of water on the stove to boil over high heat. While the water heats, trim the stemmed ends of the green beans and remove the fava beans from their pods. Once the water is boiling, first add the green beans, which take slightly longer to cook. After roughly 2 minutes, add the fava beans. Continue cooking for 5 or so more minutes, until the green beans are just beginning to become tender when tested. Drain the green beans and the favas, then immediately plunge them into a bowl of ice water to halt the cooking process and preserve the bright green color of the vegetables.

Each fava bean is contained in a small, soft husk. Gently pinch one side of the outer layer of each bean and remove the bright green, tender bean inside. Discard the outer membrane. Add the prepared fava beans and green beans into a large mixing bowl.

Meanwhile, mix the dressing for your beautiful beans in a small bowl. Add finely minced capers, shallots, garlic, and parsley. Add the zest and juice of one or two lemons to the bowl. Then add olive oil, and salt and pepper to taste.

Pour the dressing over the blanched and prepared veggies, toss, and refrigerate until ready to serve.

Our return to the sun-drenched coast of the Algarve wasn’t only a few days of respite; it was a quiet pilgrimage, a seeking of echoes from a time just before a profound shift in our lives. Just weeks after our first visit to this beautiful coast, nearly seven years ago, my world tilted on its axis after a breast cancer diagnosis. It was when I was offered pink lemonade during breast cancer awareness month on our return flight home that I knew I needed to press my doctor for a test. The vibrant memories of our days spent in Portugal became a bittersweet comfort, a whisper of normalcy before the storm. Among those cherished whispers? The bright taste of Algarve Marinated Carrots.

Despite not being a lover of carrots, I remember falling for the way the root veg is typically prepared along the Southern Portuguese coastline. Served as a simple side, often part of the couvert that first arrives at the table alongside bread and olives. The carrots are part of the prelude to what is likely a grilled, fish-filled feast.

The brilliance of these carrots lies in their quiet complexity: the earthiness of the carrot transformed by a marinade that sings of sunshine and sea. Each bite a burst of tangy delight, a testament to how something simple can be so profoundly satisfying. Returning to the taste all these years on brought me to tears of joy.

While in Southern Portugal, we also made a return visit to Monchique, a charming town nestled in the hills above the coast, built around thermal baths. Seven years ago, the area surrounding Monchique was scarred by a devastating wildfire. The landscape was raw, blackened, and starkly beautiful in its resilience. Looking back, that scorched earth feels like a foretelling, a vivid, if unwelcome, metaphor for what was to come with my health. The sense of something wild and destructive tearing through a familiar landscape, leaving behind a need for healing and rebirth.

Returning this time, the earth has recovered to lushness. And, the flavors and places have become more than just memories; they’ve become a bridge connecting me to that earlier, unknowing self… and to the strength I’ve found in the years that have followed. Recreating these carrots in my own kitchen is life-filled magic, a joyful re-engagement with a place and a palate (and former version of myself) that holds such significant emotional gravity and beauty. Few things resonate with me more than the profound meaningfulness of memory, in both food and life.

Algarve Marinated Carrots

Ingredients:

5-6 carrots, peeled and sliced into thin rounds, elegant sticks, or rustic gems
1-2 bay leaves
2-3 cloves garlic, thinly grated on a microplane
1/4 of a sweet onion, finely diced
1/4 cup quality olive oil
2-3 Tablespoons white wine vinegar
1/2 teaspoon sweet paprika
1/4 teaspoon cumin
A whisper of red pepper flakes (optional, if you like a gentle hum of heat)
Fresh cilantro (or parsley), a tiny handful (~2-3 Tablespoons)
A generous kiss of sea salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

Instructions:

Bring a pot of generously salted water to a rolling boil. Add sliced carrots and bay leaves to the pot for about 5 minutes, until the carrots yield tender and crisp when poked with a knife, retaining their vibrancy. Immediately, like a sudden dive into the cool Atlantic, plunge them into the marinade to soak up and meld the flavors.

In a bowl, whisk together the olive oil, vinegar, garlic, onion, sweet paprika, cumin, cilantro, and those tiny sparks of red pepper. Season the marinade with sea salt and pepper, tasting for balance.

Add the blanched carrots to the aromatic bath. Toss to ensure every single slice is coated.

Transfer to a container, cover it with a gentle seal, and let it rest in the cool of your refrigerator for at least 2 hours. If you can bear the wait, allow the flavors to deepen overnight. The extra time in the marinade is truly transformational.

Before serving, give the carrots a stir. And, enjoy!

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The once barren road up leading to our cortijo has nearly disappeared, hidden beneath the crowd of freakishly tall purple thistles, bright yellow mustard flowers, and the prehistoric looking variety of dandelion. The olive trees, too thirsty to produce fruit last year, seem full of promise, now— their limbs heavier each day, dripping in the tiniest little white and yellow blossoms.

I thought Spain was pretty when I met her in her deserted form. Now, with the rains of relief flowing after many years of drought, the landscape is mind-blowing and dreamlike— a technicolor heaven of wild super blooms— The hills are painted red and orange by the flocks of poppy and calendula. The roadsides are fluffy with wild fennel and borage. The city streets are lined with flowering bitter orange trees carrying an aroma so sweet and intoxicating it stops me, dead and trackless. I huff the scent like it’s a drug, inhaling deeply to savor the memory, exhaling to fix the stress that comes with the motions of life, excitement and change.

Immediately after we closed on our new property (a farmhouse on 6 acres of olive tree land) we learned from the original owners that they were also listing the bordering plot comprised of an additional 12 acres of olive trees. Despite the fact that our house is set directly, and I mean directly, next to the property line, we barely considered the option of purchasing the additional land. Our hands more than full and our budget more than maxed, the additional land purchase felt out of the question. So, with a promise from the selling family to offer us first right of refusal, we put it out of mind. That is, until, only a handful of weeks later, we got word that there had been an offer made by someone interested in the land.

While still taking inventory of all we would need to budget for the home improvements and tree maintenance and visa expenses, taking on more land and costs felt impossible. I kept running the numbers, trying to brainstorm, but my girl-math wasn’t math-ing.

A night or two of restless sleep later, we still couldn’t shake the feeling we just had to figure this out. We knew we definitely couldn’t afford do make the purchase now, but with a developing relationship between us and the original owners, we wondered if, maybe, they might consider us paying over the span of a couple years… With a gut of nerves, we decided to pitched the idea to our lawyer to pass along. Much to our surprise, they said they would be glad to agree to a payment schedule and happy to know that the family land would remain whole. As a bonus, the family granted us the allowance to work the land for the coming seasons, harvesting the land each fall, as if it were already our own. We are overjoyed and have immediately begun devising our plans to raise the funds, while being mindful not to allow urgency to destroy our intended pace. (The hope is to make our fall harvest of olive oil available for sale as a way to accomplish some of our fund raising.)

To best let it all sink in, we walked the perimeter of the property once or twice on days when we could find the time. We took the map with satellite views and counted our trees— a total of 571 lively vessels, on what will eventually be our 7 hectares (18 acres total) of olive grove land. Incredible.

Driving through the region and seeing that almost every square meter of land is occupied by olive trees sets it to scale. It’s total mono-crop. Like the corn fields in Iowa, which means tending to our trees as naturally as possible will come with it’s challenges.

BUT! VERY HAPPY TO REPORT… Sergio, our local tree expert, has already helped us make the change to utilizing organic practices during his first maintenance visit. Meanwhile, I have been really enjoying digging into information that breaks down some of the ancient techniques for olive tree care. The tradition of cultivating these trees has gone on so long, it seems each family has their very own practices and something we can learn from.

Visa Update

Getting a visa sorted is nothing short of a run around. There is information out there, but nothing specific to really prepare you for what you need. It is all process and paper, paper and patience.

When we headed to Spain in January, planning to spend the first three months of the year there, we thought we had what we needed from the US for our visas. But, it wasn’t even a week after arriving that we found out we would need more documents from home. So, without another choice, we re-arranged our travel and booked it back to NY. We went for scans of our fingers. We submitted for official background checks. Then, we sent the checks to be “apostilled,” and waited while the State Department stamped the report as genuine. Weeks passed.

One last document we needed was still hung up in the mail when we were set to return to Spain. Seconds after we landed back in Malaga, FedEx sent a photo of the envelope resting on our porch— A sweet friend in the HV agreed to rescue it and overnight it to our lawyer here. We breathed a sigh of relief, until the two-day shipping turned into a small saga when the parcel was delivered to the shoe store next door to the intended address, misplacing our only copy of the document. In what seemed like a miracle, after a volley of WhatsApp messages to numbers found online, the mix-up was untangled and the last of our first round of paperwork finally arrived.

Our initial application has been submitted. And, we are back to waiting for a response.

Side note: WhatsApp is Europe’s secret superpower. Everyone—from bureaucrats to baristas—use it. The built-in translator has saved us more than once while our Spanish skills still limp along.

Green Almonds

If I hadn’t been so caught up in the process of the transition over the last several months that I fell behind on writing and substack-ing, I’d have been updating you on all the new tastes and flavors we’ve been enjoying.

Like, we were so lucky to be visiting Spain perfectly in the midst of peak green almond season. While our almond trees are struggling a little and not looking their best at the moment— we have been blessed with several, set amidst the olive trees in front of our property. I about screamed when I saw the glowing fruit.

I had never tried a green almond before plucking one of the tender fuzzy little guys from the branch and crunching right through the tender skin like it was a tiny unripe peach. The flavor is delicious, kinda tart and bright and citrusy with subtle hints of almond. I experimented using them in several dishes: Serving them raw with yogurt and honey and fruit. Stewing them with pork spareribs, dates, and orange. Roasting them with chicken and rice… I didn’t have the chance to poach in something sweet, which I think would be really tasty as well. I’ll have to start there, next year!

Upcoming

Travel Diary: A Return Roadtrip to the Algarve + Recipe
Field Trip: A Visit to the Worlds First Organic Caviar Farm + Recipe
NY Update: Our latest projects in the Hudson Valley + Recipe

Enjoying the sunlight from behind the pulsing veil of my eyelids, and the warmth on my face, the colors began dancing as the sun painted a thousand hues in the vast canvas of my inner vision. I was enchanted by the riot of colors flooding my mind—with the golden glow leading me into a space of serenity.

The interplay of light and shadow once again became a profound mental dialogue. Their relationship to one another. Their spectrums and the way the two seem to magnify, prove, and enhance one another. The sun growing brighter, with the boundaries and shadows becoming sharper and deeper. The eerie-ness of a shadowless moment, often experienced in moments of eclipse when light is hidden.

With my eyes open, the sun’s brilliance was so electric and vivid it carved deep silhouettes, reminding me of the harmonizing contrast of an orchestra—each note a burst of light, every pause a shadow that gives the melody its depth. With my eyes closed, the unformed texture was hazy, bright, muddled and soft, reminding me of the electric and numb feeling of disassociation.

I drifted back to heartache and happiness for a moment, thinking about the way the two didn’t always seem to me like they belonged to one another or like they should be viewed at the same time by the same set of eyes. Yet, the two behave like they are in relationship, contrast enhancing clarity. Grief, acting as a shadow on a day bathed in radiant joy, making distinct the edges of experience, adding depth and meaning to the brightness of our resilience. The flow of our emotions echoing unique and particular quality. The more I come to appreciate the spectrum, the more I find appreciation and peace in even my worst woes.

Waking from my trance where I was lost in the interplay of these luminous thoughts, I reached for my phone, curious to see if reality mirrored the dreamscape my eyes had painted. Opening Google, I quickly searched, “colors of the sun”. Appearing before me in the resulting page, I was surprised to see images taken by NASA not so dissimilar to what I had been seeing a moment prior while looking toward the light with my eyes closed—all these textures and bright colors conveying strong feelings of emotion.

The images from NASA’s Solar Dynamics Observatory reveal hidden wavelengths, unveiling a realm of the sun that remains unseen to the naked eye—a secret world that echoes the beauty of contrast—the known and unknown. It’s pretty wondrous to remember and think about how much is invisible, to both the eye and the brain.

I was so inspired and enchanted by my daydream/meditation and way the images reflected my experience that I decided to base my design plan for the house in Spain on it. And, with us calling this project ”House of the Noonday Sun” (I’ll write more about the story behind this name at a later date…)—what could be more fitting or in alignment?

I want this house to reflect both it’s place in the sun among the olive groves— and the meaning behind the lessons we are circling around in this life. We will lean on contrast while considering balance, and reach to color to speak to emotional harmony. We’ll keep things minimal and the spaces reflective so the home can be a reverent place for alchemy, adding personal touches as a nod to identity. And, we’ll remember fluidity, like the flow of oil from our luck of olive grove land.

Ultimately, it was the interplay of light and shadow—both the radiant and the hidden—that has guided us here. The contrasts that have shaped our days and the mysteries that have lingered in the unseen that have remind us that every nuance contributes to the grand symphony of life. As we continue to seek knowledge and meaning, we remain ever curious, doing our best to embrace both the brilliance of the brightest color and the most subtle obscurities with equal wonder.

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We’ve continued sharing more of our process on YouTube! View the latest video where we begin digging deeper into our design plan.

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RECIPE: Frozen Pear Palate Cleanser

I got spring cleaning on my mind. And sweetness.

A few nearly overripe pears made their way into the freezer about week or so ago. Then, last weekend we picked up this beautiful aged balsamic (with these delicious notes of dried fruit and molasses and the mildest acidity) which inspired a simple sense of play in the kitchen and resulted in this bright, refreshing treat.

There’s a lot going on in the world. A lot of heavy and hard to process stuff. And, there’s been this reminder in my heart that has been carrying me, the reminder that— in difficult moments and times we need tiny bits of magic, and sweetness, all the more. To keep myself from sinking, I seek to create these moments of buoying beauty/flickering, these brief distractions from the stare. Something of a palate cleanser.

INGREDIENTS:
4-6 Pears, Diced and Frozen
2 T. Olive Oil
2-3 T Lemon Juice
Drizzle of Balsamic
Pinch of Sea Salt

METHOD:

Place the frozen pears, olive oil and lemon juice in a food processor and pulse patiently until smooth like a sorbet. Scoop into a cute serving dish, top with a drizzle of aged balsamic and sprinkle with a small pinch of flaky sea salt. Enjoy as a light dessert, yogurt topping, or as a palate cleanser— while allowing yourself a moment to detox the palate and the weight of your worries.

Note: I left the skins on my pears for a little added texture to contrast the creaminess of the fruit. You can peel the pears if you want something silkier. I personally really enjoyed the texture.

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I found it disorienting, being greeted by the glistening ice covered landscape in the Hudson Valley, candy coated and uniform like something out of a storybook, only slippery and splintery and shivering. A homemade cookie and a train pick up from friends warmed our welcome, ever so slightly helping me ignore the way that the shift in temperature from the warm, moderate Mediterranean to the cold of New York was activating and destroying my skin.

I unpacked the suitcase straight away just to ground myself physically. I purchased every green herb at the grocery store, a bunch of good mushrooms, some dried beans, silken tofu, a tub of yogurt, lentils, and a few lemons. I made a nourishing pot of chicken stock. An emblem of home, an everlasting gift, still simmering.

The thick ice in the field is melting into puddles under gleams of sunlight, my body is covered in a slick balm, while mentally— I keep wondering about "our" wild farm dogs back in Spain. How are they doing? Where do they wander out there in the sprawl of olive trees without as little as a plan?

On closing day, back in November, appearing from out of nowhere was this scared little wiry-haired farm dog. Tail-tucked and wagging, squealing sadly as she whimpered and begged for what seemed like food. She was so jumpy and nervous, dodgy and persistent— but too timid to be pesky.

“I think she is a mama,” I said to Gordon, while crouching down to try to get her to warm up to me. Her body showed signs of nursing. We quickly gathered a few snacks that seemed suitable enough to share. She approached the food cautiously, snatched it up, then darted away into the distance— disappearing under the labyrinth of branches. Where was she going, I wondered…

When we arrived back at the property nearly two months later, at the beginning of January, we were surprised when we heard her whistle of a cry singing out as we began to unpacked our rental car. She was back! She’d made it another few months!

The name, “Whimpers,” quickly began to stick, as she was always showing up in tears. This time, she looked, perhaps, even scrawnier than she had the few months prior— her ribs were showing through her fur. We shared more food, then set off to get some kibble, for the case of her return.

I am not much of an animal person, but I fell in love with Whimpers the moment we met her. The deep in her eyes. The kind way she begged. Her nervous bravery. Her flighty little self. Her wild, (un)trusting ways. Her untold story. A kindred spirit.

When we first shared about Whimpers on Instagram, so many replied telling us to keep her, or asking if she was ours now… What were we going to do? And, I wasn’t sure of the answer. It seemed obvious that we would help her, feed her. What else could we do? Coming and going, here and then not, she’s just not a dog you can hold. She is a holder of many homes.

I wondered for a moment if I should call a vet, or if there were animal services in Spain I should locate— especially after she returned one morning with puppies… But, hesitated— unable to imagine having her picked up only to be caged, taken to a pound, and put down. Not to mention— she runs lightning fast— fast enough to catch a rabbit, which we saw her proudly do one afternoon after a few good meals of kibble.

I can’t imagine how she’s been treated in the past, she is skittish and seems traumatized, while still needy. For weeks she kept her distance, until one morning after we fed her and the pup she had at her side, she came in close enough to welcome a momentary head scratch. Before continuing on her way, she slyly licked the back of my hand, as if to say thanks.

Whimpers (and her pups) belong to the wild. They belong to nature. To the pits blanketing the ground of our luck of olive grove land. We have offered nourishment. We have taken care. But, we cannot not cage them or take them as our own.

It was easy to feel as a first impulse, fear and worry. For me, that is the catch. I haven’t spent much time around wild dogs. I’ve never really known a dog that belonged to itself, never learned from that non-attached freedom. Honestly, I’ve always struggled, some, with trust. Trust of love, trust of life… Were the dogs ok, I wondered? Who was looking out for them? How had they made it this far? Did I need to travel back to Spain with flea medicine? How can we be so attached while so unattached? How do we love, wild?

Step one: release. “Whimpers the wild dog” is a survivor. She’s made it this far and free. And, what’s so great about loving her is that she asks us to trust her instincts and that she’ll be ok. Things will be ok. She’ll live. Undue, filthy and wandering, her tail wags on. Mi maestro.

It’s been such a special part of making home in Spain— having Whimpers and her pups there to play with and enjoy. When Whimps showed up, we took it as a great sign of life welcoming us. And, when she came back with the babies, it was hard not to fall into the hope it was some kind of foreshadowing.

Each time I think about Whimpers, catching myself wondering how she is doing, I return to thoughts of her unfettered existence—how she trusts her primal instincts and navigates the world without overthinking, trusting her senses and internal compass. Her impulses and fate. I think about the way she hungers, honors, and leads. The way she knows and doesn’t.

Making Whimpers acquaintance reminds me of what it means to release fear and allow nature’s rhythms to guide. Loving her, wildly, reminds me to unleash my heart. To allow love to be both close and free, untethered by anything other than respect for the pure and honest rhythms of life.

Back in New York, as I wait for background checks and brace against the winter chill, I carry Whimpers in my heart. Aside from her whistling asks, she is almost always quiet. She hardly barks, but strangely one still night just before we left, I heard her howling in the middle of the night. And, it wasn’t even a full moon.

I wonder what she was saying? I wonder how she was being so moved, to the point of singing into the dark?

Spanish Spiced Red Lentils

I brought back two beautifully vivid paprika varieties from Spain (pimentón de la Vera and pimentón picante). I wanted to scrawl down and share in a quick non-recipe/recipe how I’ve been enjoying using these magical dusts.

I love a fun fact or two— so allow me to pass along the fun fact that paprika originates from Central and South America, specifically Mexico. In the 16th century, Christopher Columbus returned to Spain with peppers. An area called “La Vera” region has since become renowned and maintained their reputation for a unique production tradition that slowly dries peppers over oak wood fire, imparting a smokey flavor that ranges from sweet to bitter to hot.

Another fun fact— because I remain curious and interested in the ways our foods are like medicine— paprika is rich in antioxidants that help protect our cells, it’s a good source of vitamin A, C, and E… it supports eye and immune health, may aid digestion and support heart health. The peppery powder is also an anti-inflammatory (especially the picante variety).

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Today marks one month since we departed NY for Spain. Our first weeks here have been so full of life, each day different and not crusted in the comfort of routine or predictability. Each day asking for curiosity and productivity, adaptability and patience. I've been so immersed in the moments here, it's been a little hard to make the time to sit down and write an update!

I know there will be more of a rhythm formed in time, but for now I am relishing the way that this big transition has shaken away the stagnant and made clearer what is truly necessary. The shift illuminates just how much is out of my control that I hunger to reach for, how much obligation I place on myself, and just how much is in need of my touch and attention in the immediate present. Getting out of sync is sometimes the reminder we need to let go of tension and return to grace.

Our days here have been focused, first, by rekindling the warmth of the fire each morning, then by looking down our checklist with a cup of cafe con leche (and away from the literal doom spiral that is the news)... Day one kept us busy sourcing water and firewood. Day two was filled by getting connected to the internet for work. Day three, or four, or thirteen, was something like a meeting with our lawyer to figure out all we need for our visa's (sharing more about this process as a resource soon!).

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Recapping the last month, I can see just how much has been accomplished in such a short period of time. We've made a plan for olive tree maintenance. We've purchased a refrigerator. We've picked up several finds from the FB marketplace to begin making the empty space feel slightly more like a home. We watched a Calla Lily in the front courtyard bloom and the Narcissus I picked up at Ikea open its laughy little yellow daffodil flowers. We've indulged in quite a few tasty restaurants and even more meals cooked by fire— roasted pears with local cheese, fried eggs and potatoes, blistered peppers, charred eggplant, caramelized sweet potato, slow roasted beef and chorizo meatballs (recipe below), melted cabbage, creamy risotto, pot after pot of savory soup drizzled with the finest, freshest olive oil eaten alongside salads made up of the wondrous local produce available here even in winter.

We've met with local craftsmen who will help us improve the farmhouse. We've checked into a hotel for a night, once or twice a week, when a cold shower or a sponge bath would no longer cut it. Then, finally, on Friday after a bit of trial and error, we got the hot water heater at the cortijo replaced and had our first hot shower at the property. The bathroom is not yet a very luxurious set up, but the way a hot shower felt like a true homecoming, reaffirming my belief bathing is nothing short of a spiritual act.

There's a lot I feel a bit behind on, still much on the to-do list, like enrolling in a local Spanish class, finalizing what we need for our visa's, purchasing our local health insurance, getting caught up on this little newsletter, and and and... but the rich and grounding accomplishments of each day, whether grand or insignificant, has been a solid place to steady my focus.

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With each new friend and person we meet here comes an echo of the same phrase— un poco a poco— little by little. The day, with its pause for siesta, also carries the reminder to enjoy taking things step at a time, slowly. We we take the time to plan ahead— because even the grocery stores are closed for siesta (and every Sunday).

The more I soften and adapt to the local pace, the more I am reminded of a sweet feeling of expansion, peace and clarity I used to get when doing a walking meditation, a practice where while walking I would try to focus on nothing but my breath and my feet moving against the ground. If my mind wandered, I would simply notice, and then without any further rumination on the thought, return to the next breath or step. Moment by moment… by moment.

The way moving slowly and mindfully with my breath helped bring ease to body, mind, and spirit. And, perhaps counter intuitively, it was during that slow and quiet time I felt my most organized and productive and free with my sense of time and ability. How did I fall away from the practice, I wonder?

The Spanish way of taking things little by little, step at a time, slow enough so one can breathe, and then notice, and then think... a life that feels more like meditation— I know it is why I am here.

A sweet friend asked us the other afternoon if there was even a slight part of us feeling regret for the leap we've taken. I am known to be slightly fickle, prone to doubt, adverse to change and discomfort, but without hesitation, the answer is no. No regrets. Each challenge and obstacle and cold shower has felt so so worth it... at least, so far.

Going to continue trusting the poetic way things can unfold when I make space to pause and honor what asks for energy, step at a time.

Beef and Chorizo Meatballs (cooked fireside)

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I watch my life in a new country unfold as I reminisce past lives all crinkled. All the parts of life I cannot seem to forgive.

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After 10 months of waiting and paperwork, we closed on our property in Spain!

I don’t know how, but the word finally came on a day that couldn't have felt more tense— election day. What a rush. What quicksand. What feelings and things that could be said.

Once word was received, it was go time. We booked last minute flights, packed a bag, and set off feeling dazed and confused— and admittedly, still, a bit doubtful.

Our closing date that we had traveled back to Spain for in June had been delayed and delayed and delayed. We boarded the plane for the trip holding our breath, still in suspense. Would this be it? Would it all work out? I had my doubts.

I'll spare you the details, but we did hit one last delay after arriving back to Andalusia. This ate a bit into the time we had expected to spend at the property before returning stateside... But, no complaints here, because— we did it!!!

I couldn't help but burst into tears the moment the enormous keys were placed in my hands. So overwhelmed by the joy of the moment and accomplishment.

The delay left us with just one day, or 24hrs, to enjoy the property before our return flight to New York. One perfect, perfect sweet day.

I started by sweeping the courtyard, something I had been dreaming about all year. Gordon started by removing odds and ends that had been left behind from the previous homeowners. Then, we set to work documenting the moment and space, toasting with a glass of local wine, plucking a few olives to crush and soak in a salty brine, watching the sun slip behind the mountains. What a total daydream. I would hardly believe it was real life if I hadn't brought these chunky keys home with me.

This week, the 6th anniversary since my cancer diagnosis, I can't help but reflect on how far it feels we have come. At diagnosis, I had lost all faith I could carry on with the grief, the losses, the treatments, and risks. The way I felt hopeless and so weak against what I was facing. I wanted so badly to give up. It was so incredibly difficult for me to imagine a way forward or a future. It was so hard to carry on in hope and dreams as I had in previous times of adversity, like when I was forced to foreclose on my first home at just 21.

Now, years and years later, here we are. We've carried on despite the heaviness that doesn't seem to fade. Despite countless trials and challenges and set-backs. Despite worry and fear. The feels are bigger and more monumental than I yet can express! More soon, just as soon as I find the words…

In celebration of it all, we’re sharing this little preview video we put together to document the memory.

Below, paid subscribers will find an exploration of our initial mood boards and floor plans, detailing the start of our vision for this project.

Enjoy and thank you so much for your continued support! More refections coming soon…

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It’s been the kind of month that wreaks of a surreal hot summers night. Of, alternate reality and mindful disassociation.

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The full moon glows fiery and passionate, ripe with transformational energy and the spook of late October. Super, again. Pots and kettles of soup are stirred, alongside emotion. Who can help but feel the pain? Who can resist confronting the trigger? Who wouldn’t want to release the pattern?  Let the scarecrows sleep, now. Feed the birds. Light the pumpkin. Carve your teeth.

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