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May 22

Tavola

Tavola.

The oddest thing about Charlottesville. It’s a small town, a ‘ville, a ‘burg, definitely not a city. So you’d think living here 4 years I would’ve met just about everybody there was to meet at the corner store. Or grabbing bagels at Bodo’s. Or getting dinner at Maya, or snagging a six pack at Beer Run. Or bumping eco-friendly shopping bags at the Saturday farmers’ market. Or pushing past the strollers at Fridays After Five.

But no. In my tenure as writer I’ve met the majority of Charlottesville food folks online. Seriously. I’d say a good 70% of either industry peeps or enthusiasts I’ve met through email, Facebook, Twitter, Flickr, Pinterest, or Google Plus. Just kidding. NO ONE has met anybody through Google Plus.

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May 3

photo credit: Kath Younger
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Kath Eats.

The aspect of food writing which first really grabbed me by the throat was of course the food. To write by describing something I care about so much was like playing on the swings then jumping off them, delightful. I’d write porn about how each dish looked, tasted, felt. It oozed decadence. I ventured onward, writing about its creation, the simple miracle of how flour can become tasty bread, or how biscuit dough feels between your fingers, like crumbly butter. I read more, and learned of others whose passion equaled my own. My focus traveled outward from the food itself to the people writing about it and creating it.

I read books chefs had written, essays food writers had created about their experiences. These folks pushed me to keep going. To have The Fates move us to Charlottesville, a town chock full of food people, was a real coup. I’m glad to have met many of them, and even broken bread with a few.

Kath Younger is one of those inspirational people because what she does, she does her way, with confidence, happiness, enthusiasm, and care for her product. Since 2007 she has documented every meal at her blog Kath Eats, and with her husband Matt, opened Great Harvest Charlottesville last year.

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Apr 6

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Leeks.

Dove into the fridge yesterday and beneath the heads of lettuce from Horse and Buggy we still haven’t used and the 3 or 4 lemons and limes we always keep around (acid adds flavor to anything) I found a leek. One huge, ginormous leek. Wondered why it was there.

Then remembered a month ago I planned on making Colcannon for St. Patrick’s Day. Had done a trial run in January when it was dank and cold and the tummy needed some warming. It turned out tremendously, a cabbagey, creamy, leeky bowl of nummy both filling and soul-comforting. Nothing like a pile of potatoes and cabbage on a cold night to make you fall into a bear-like hibernation. In case we get another “Cuddle Warning” from those fine local meteorologists, you could do worse than a giant bowl of potatoes, leeks, cream, and cabbage.

Alas, the weather got warm. Scratch that. Make it, “HOORAY! The weather got warm!” The sun came out to stay, my daffodils started going bonkers, the potatoes for the Colcannon ended up becoming Sunday hashbrowns, and this poor ginormous leek was relegated to the back of the crisper. So, dear readers, what should I do with it? What spring dishes are good for leeks? Besides vichyssoise what are my options?

Colcannon Recipe Link

Cooking Soundtrack: Francis Dunnery, “Man”

Apr 4

Books
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Inspiration.

Miss me? Yes, I’ve been gone a month. Sat at the computer in February and thought yeah, I need a break. The posts felt stale, my writing felt stale, my spirit felt stale. Every word out of my mouth felt rehashed. Despite my best efforts I’m still caving to what I “think” (notice the quotes) my audience wants rather than speaking what I know to be true. Once again I’m a slave to the hit counter, a servant of search engines. Ick.

I drift aimlessly about the Interwebs and all I see is an ocean of sometimes good but mostly bad food bloggery. How do I stand out while still retaining my unique voice? Is it even unique? I’m not saying anything others haven’t said better. Millions spouting off about organic or Monsanto or microgreens or nuclear dry ice gastronomy or pickled lamb intestines. It’s boring. Especially to my gadabout ADHD mind which flits along, attempting to find something new and interesting on the Interwebs related to food.

Today marks the 4th anniversary of this blog, which began as “edible cville” a space for a then-new Cvillian to jot down thoughts on restaurants. To her joy she also found talented purveyors of artisanal food, passionate brewers of beer and cider, elegant growers of wine and uber-passionate chefs. Expanding the site was in order, adding local food news, recipes, and musings. Further down the line a name change to reflect the owner’s personality. Along the way she fought to define and stand by her voice despite the numerous requests to become Charlottesville’s food source warehouse as well as repeated requests to review food apps and Kraft-produced products, ‘cause that ain’t quite how she rolls.

What now? My gut told me I needed an inspiration break. A time to reflect and re-evaluate, and find a reminder why I was still doing this. When you spend an afternoon Pinteresting your food pictures then surfing through hundreds of popular food blogs shaking your head at the shitty content you get a little discouraged. You need a nice inspirational kick in the ass to get you back on your feet. To stop writing and instead fill your soul with the stuff that inspired you.

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Feb 20

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Escape Cville. Rome, Part 3.

When I was 12, my family took us to Myrtle Beach for vacation as they always did. Except that year they decided Sis and I were old enough for some culture. Amid much protest and complaints about missing “valuable beach time” we drove south, to Brookgreen Gardens, hundreds of acres of plants and statuary developed back in the 1930’s by Anna Hyatt Huntington, an artist known for bronzes.

Highly pissed, but hoping to make the best of it, I packed my new Kodak Instamatic camera, the circular one, with film resembling a roulette wheel. Figured since I was about to be bored out of my skull for several hours I might as well have a toy to play with.

Little did I know I’d begin a love affair. I vividly recall wandering the grounds in unbelievably hot, stifling humidity, shirt stuck to my back, breathing difficult. Climbing the crest of a hill to find a life-size modern bronze sculpture of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. I had delved headlong into this novel the previous summer, precocious little shit I was, understanding about every tenth word or so. Seeing this sculpture, out there in the open, displayed so prominently like a national monument, was beyond overwhelming. The conjunction of art and nature started cogs in my artist brain that up to that moment had lain dormant. I started snapping photos like mad, exploring the grounds in earnest, a hunter whose prey was statuary.

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