There is a difference between jam and preserves. Jam is sweet fruit you spread on toast. Preserves are a frozen moment in time—a piece of summer that you can carry with you the rest of the year: high grass, long naps, warm evenings, your front porch…
My neighbor Mary Wellington makes preserves.
Mary is a farmer. And not only a single-family farmer--a single farmer. She works three acres of very diverse orchards of Glenn Annie canyon all by herself, on which she grows over fifty varieties of fruit.
Her preserves were so treasured and ubiquitous at local farmer’s markets that many people came to call her “The Jam Lady.” Her Blenheim Apricot jam is intoxicating. Her Blood Orange marmalade is insane. The red raspberry is well… indescribable. But Mary Wellington preserves more than fruit.
If you wander up Glen Annie you will find a two story clapboard farmhouse peeking out from behind the persimmon tree. Mary will greet you with her typical burst of enthusiasm and a clap of her hands. She will launch into an impromptu tour of her orchard and its latest bounty: You will flit from tree to tree sampling God’s offerings in a feast of the senses that is literally Edenic. (I know I get religious about food—but I was raised that way.) Taste the Santa Rosas… Smell the outside of this blood orange… Look at the color on these apricots... Oh don’t mind the bruise—just taste it.
Cooking and travel shows make me angry. That's right, I said angry. For
a very irrational reason. They make me hungry, which leads me to
snacking which is making me fat. I usually have pretty good
self-control, mainly because I don't stock snacks in my home to begin
with; however, after watching Anthony Bourdain traveling the globe
eating across country after country, Mario Batali delivering another
delicious Italian dish and the Top Chef contestants turning vending
machine food into gourmet treats, I want to enjoy what they're
eating/making right at that moment and I can't.
In the summer of 1966 I worked as a dishwasher in a summer camp near Hunter Mountain in upstate New York. This was in the pre-automatic dishwasher days meaning dirty dishes were dumped in a super hot sink of soapy water and washed and dried by hand. I used to come in around 6 a.m. to clean the breakfast pots and pans. Henry, a very tall, rail thin man who had been a cook in World War II in Europe, had gotten there at least an hour before me; I usually found him smoking a filterless cigarette and slowly beating powdered eggs and water in a huge stainless steel bowl or ladling out pancakes on the football field-size griddle.
The other day, my daughter Hannah and I stopped by Surfas. It always
surprises me when she wants to go there, since their prepared food is,
lets just say..um..esoteric. She ordered the 72 layer biscuit with ham
and cheese and drank a Bubble Up. Oh to be 13, 5’5” and weigh 98 lbs.
After that, as we crossed over into the store, a fellow cradling a
basket of hot baguettes narrowly missed running into me as he made his
way to his station or should I say ‘kingdom’, because this guy rules!
Though I am not a foodie, I like watching chefs on TV. They are the
new "rock stars" and their antics are often equal amounts amusing,
terrible and inspirational (in the kitchen, that is). It's hard to
imagine a city's food lovers more connected to a chef than Los Angeles
is to Ludo Lefebvre. Trying to get a reservation to his tri-annual,
6-week pop-up restaurant is harder than getting VIP passes backstage to
U2. (I'm guessing, but I don't think I'm far off.) When out dining in LA, the conversation, if you're with passionate
diners, inevitably turns to the hottest local chefs and eventually to LudoBites - how many you've been to (3),
which incarnations (3.0, 4.0 and 6.0) and how much time/how many
computers you had running trying to get one of the elusive reservations
on OpenTable…before it crashed for those trying to get into 5.0 and 6.0.
This last time for 007 (back downtown at Gram & Papas), it went off without a hitch – that is if you
got into the system in the first 2 minutes, which by the grace of God my
Man did.