First things first: Thank you all for commenting on my last post. It's wonderful to see you all come out of the woodwork! The winner of Amy Chaplin's At Home in the Whole Food Kitchen: Celebrating the Art of Eating Well is "eb" (Elisabeth Bentz). Congratulations! Please send your mailing address to me at gluttonforlife at gmail dot com. I can't wait for you to start cooking from this beautiful book!

With the change of season, my thoughts inevitably turn to death and dying. What? you cry. How maudlin! And I can't deny that it's with a slightly melancholy turn of mind that I watch the garden wither and decay, for this is such an evocative reminder of the passage of time. Oh, spring will come again—the rhubarb will poke its gnarled pinkness up from the cold ground and the lilacs will bloom in a purple haze—but my own spring's awakening happened long ago and my winter years are soon upon me. Reading this piece by the wonderfully wise Dani Shapiro, I was comforted to know that I am not alone in wanting to acknowledge the inevitable, and to let that open me up to appreciating the moment even more. It's so important to embrace all of life's experiences. If we bury our heads in the sand and allow ourselves to by ruled by fear, who knows what we might miss out on?
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It's bloody cold. There have been snowstorms, ice storms, windstorms and rainstorms. The grey skies have wept frozen tears; these have melted and re-frozen, accumulating in big crystallized drifts that are beginning to lose their charm. And there's no end in sight. We're heading to Florida for a few days next week to visit G's parents and I'm looking forward to a little sun on my face. My bones are cold. But my heart is warm and it's filled with love. I know, kind of corny, but I think this meditation practice has really helped me. I've also been reading Pema Chödrön's Start Where You Are: A Guide to Compassionate Living and it's given me so much to think about. You might be the most depressed person in the world, the most addicted person in the world, the most jealous person in the world. You might think that there are no others on the planet who hate themselves as much as you do. All of that is a good place to start. Just where you are—that's the place to start. In other words, don't wait until you're better, or thinner, or happier, or richer, or less stressed. The time is now. For what? For whatever you've been putting off. Like loving yourself. Having real compassion for yourself. Start there.
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Gratitude is one of the many ways we can lift ourselves up. In my quest for greater inner peace, I have come upon this notion of giving thanks regularly and often. As the German theologian and mystic Meister Echkart says, "If the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is 'thank you,' it will be enough." So on a daily basis I try to say thanks for all the things I might otherwise take for granted: the clean air I breathe and the lungs that make it possible; the time to write and the hands with which I do it...start anywhere, the list is endless. I used to catalogue everything I had to do in a day first thing every morning. Sometimes it led to excitement, others to panic and despair. But it never brought me the same comfort and joy as when I lie in bed for a few moments upon waking and allow my mind to roam over all the blessings in my life. In this way, every day becomes Thanksgiving, at least for a little while.
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September has arrived and with it that bittersweet feeling full of nostalgia for the sweetness of summer, charged with anticipation for the fresh start that is fall. How I've missed you! This post will probably be a bit longer than usual because, in my month off, I have stored up so much to tell you.

I had many plans for the month of August, a long list of projects and goals. I wanted to make natural dyes. I was going to send out a survey to my readers. I had every intention of uploading all the content for the launch of my redesigned professional website. And guess what I did? None of that. Instead, I coped with having 5 herpes outbreaks in 6 weeks: a glaring sign from my body that all is not right. But your life is so perfect! you say. Country living, fresh food, walks in the woods—what could possibly be wrong? Actually, I am grateful for this wakeup call. I have clearly been pushing myself too hard, not taking the time to nurture myself and not really listening to my inner voice. You know the one. It tells us when we have reached our limit, when it is time for change.
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There's a game I play sometimes: I look at my life as it is in this moment, think of everything I possess right now, and ask myself if I would be happy if nothing ever changed. I won't deny that sometimes this leads to sadness bordering on desperation. What if I don't finish my novel? Never build that house on the lake? Fail to see Burma? Is this it?  Time and money often factor into this mental equation. Self-doubt can creep in. On those days, I question if I have fulfilled my potential, tried hard enough, risked enough. But I am not what I own, nor even what I do, and if I start to define myself by those measures, there is no satisfaction guaranteed.

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Today I am 50. It seems somehow inconceivable and yet it is merely the inevitable outcome of staying alive. (Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive.) I’ve done more than that though—I’ve lived. And, as the inimitable Édith Piaf sang, Je ne regrette rien. I learned to play the oboe. I lived in Spain. I graduated from Harvard. I made my way in New York City. I moved to Los Angeles and back. I married 3 times, divorced twice and was widowed. I traveled the world. I found true love and married again. I bought a house in the woods and 5 acres on a lake. I started this blog. There have been some admirable achievements. There have been some spectacular flameouts. Much has been lost, but even more gained.

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I grow old . . . I grow old . . .I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.These lines from T.S. Eliot's The Love-Song of J. Alfred Prufrock come to mind whenever I bite into the first peach of the summer. Food is memory, is love, is comfort. The peach evokes summers past, Augusts at the beach, the steady thrum of the sea like the beating of my own heart. Only one of these will go on forever. With age comes introspection, but I sometimes wonder these days if solitude of mind at any age has now become a willful act. There is so much stimulus around us, everywhere at least one screen conveying essential information at all times. With the touch of a finger we are connected to thousands of people, opinions, conversations, comments. Is there any escaping this feeling that we are missing out if we aren't constantly checking in, tweeting, reporting, connecting? My old college pal Bill Powers has written an eloquent book, Hamlet's Blackberry, that looks to great thinkers of the past—Plato, Shakespeare, Thoreau—for ways to approach the digital dilemma and, ultimately, to disconnect. But there really is no way back; Pandora's box is open. And out of it, along with the demons, have emerged wonderful tools to enhance our lives.
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I've spent quite a lot of time ruminating over this post. Like a cow chewing its cud, I have carefully digested everything I've gleaned from reading Fast Food Nation, Omnivore's Dilemma, In Defense of Food, Eating Animals and Food Matters, and watching Supersize Me and the incredibly eye-widening Food Inc. At the very least, I think I can say I'm a conscious eater. I'm not going to delve into the horrifying truth of how government and industry conspired to convince us that we all need to have a big slab of (corn-fed) meat at the center of most of our meals on a daily basis, I'm just going to say that we should all be eating a great deal less of the stuff—for our own sake and that of the planet. But a recent article in Vanity Fair, where fluffy blonde wellness "guru" Kathy Freston (Tom Freston's wife, so she can't be far from her own show on Oprah's new network) convinces a die-hard British carnivore to turn vegan really got my hackles up because of its one-sided presentation of the issue.
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I am thankful for my loving husband, Titi, family, friendship, a cozy home, freedom, goat cheese, Bach, heirloom tomatoes, hammocks, squirrels, deer, blue jays, black bear, foxes, snakes, spiders, animals in general, ferns, our vegetable garden, walnuts, the 4 Agreements (don't make assumptions, be impeccable with your word, don't take things personally, always do your best), Philip Roth, Coetzee, Alice Munro, Patricia Highsmith, technology, craftsmanship, artists, Pablo Neruda, Joni Mitchell, Maria Callas, Nick Drake, Elvis Costello, Silvio Rodriguez, Irving Penn, Andy Goldsworthy, Velazquez, Goya, Frida Kahlo, traveling, India, Mexico, Venice, Morocco, Madrid, San Sebastian, Iceland, new challenges, old traditions, curiosity, my tastebuds, bourbon, brown sugar, cardamom, lavender, geranium, rosemary, herbs and flowers, fragrance, essential oils, frankincense, sandalwood, myrrh, grapefruit, lemon, yuzu, noodles, tempura, cork, leather, glass, wood, stone, slate, wool, cashmere, silk, sequins, embroidery, Marni, Prada, Jil Sander, Rick Owens, Comme des Garçons, gratins, raw milk, cows, grass, sunrise over the mountain, sunset over the lake, collaboration, allies, support, confidence, children, curiosity, humor, laughing, giggling, chortling, spices, curry, coconut, ice cream, sorbet, popsicles, sneezing, caramel, chocolate, nougat, youth, old age, middle age, grey hair, any hair at all, strength, resilience, courage, kale, quinoa, low cholesterol, high standards, movies, books, Momofuku, Thomas Keller, Wylie Dufresne, Alice Waters, Ferran Adria, Arzak, MFK Fisher, Laurie Colwin, Suzanne Goin, Los Angeles, AOC, Lucques, Campanile, La Brea Bakery, Fairway, Chelsea Market, Dickson's, Lucy's Whey, Eataly, Union Square farmers market, Chinatown, dim sum, Mitsuwa, tofu skin, fresh fish, pickled mussels, pickles in general, flamenco, tapas, molecular gastronomy, textiles, ikat, bargello, velvet, tie dye, street food, fresh potato chips, ethnic markets, theater, poetry, wine, sherry, port, ginger, fields, grains, purple rice, wild rice, risotto, forests, sequoias, silver birch, pine cones, orchids, peonies, ranunculus, naps, meditation, yoga, hiking, sweating, swearing, discipline, sex, romance, loyalty, long walks on the beach, margaritas, rainstorms, kidding!, driftwood, mobiles, driving, convertibles, OH MY GOD I COULD GO ON FOREVER!!! What I'm trying to say is that I am grateful for life and all the complexities and emotions and smells and tastes and people and things it delivers on a regular and generous basis. I am grateful for you, readers, who so kindly share it all with me. I wish you all the contentment that comes from wanting what you have.

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This week, a friend asked me to post a recipe for hummus. This is a somewhat controversial issue: just ask someone from Jerusalem or Beirut. People in the Middle East are totally obsessed with this creamy stuff, as you can see by the gigantic vat above (weighing 23,520 pounds) prepared by Lebanese chefs who set the latest Guinness world record—beating Israel, which had previously beat Lebanon. So there’s the Galilee hummus or the Jerusalem kind, with or without fava beans, topped with warm chickpeas or served without. I suppose it’s like masala or gumbo, with every good chef developing his own version. Mine was inspired by a horseradish-laced hummus I once bought at Whole Foods. I was never able to find it again and, after hankering for it for months, I finally concocted the version which I humbly offer you here.
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