Growing up in Northern California, picnics in the redwoods were a frequent occurence and a tradition on July 4th. We might have barbecued or fried chicken, or my dad might grill burgers and hotdogs, but some things never varied: my mother's potato salad and the fresh peach and boysenberry ice cream we cranked by hand.

Cut to 2013, when G and I will take our own picnic to Forestburgh tomorrow. I have a chicken brining in buttermilk, all set to be fried in the morning, and the potato salad is chilling in the fridge. Instead of ice cream, I made these sour cherry popsicles, which I hope will hold up in the cooler. We'll take the canoe out on the lake and row over to the waterfall. After all this rain, it's sure to be a surging monster.

We'll taste freedom and celebrate our independence—as a nation, as a family, as individuals. For all its many flaws (and I shudder to think of some), I still love our country. It remains a place of great beauty, optimism and possibility.
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I'm not sure that subtle is a word that describes me, nor the food I cook. I'm pretty open about my thoughts and feelings, and equally forthright with the flavors on my plate. I'm fairly certain that I'm a supertaster, yet my highly attuned palate does not shy away from big, bold tastes. I love sharp pickles, lethal chiles and pungent aromatics like shallots and lime leaves. The complex funkiness of aged cheeses and fermented fish is mother's milk to me. I embrace brassicas of all sorts, with their often pronounced mustardy character and their wonderfully cruciferous texture. I shared a recipe for a kohlrabi and apple slaw earlier this year, a crisp and refreshing salad with a citrusy dressing, and I'm offering another one here, to encourage you to get acquainted with this often neglected member of the wild cabbage family. Look for tender young specimens at farmers markets now—in pale green or deep purple—and enjoy them raw in all their glory.
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