As I do every year in the days leading up to Christmas, I’ve been craving this Triple Ginger Cake from the inimitable Mary Fishback of Hawthorne’s venerable Bread & Ink Cafe. She was also the creator of the Waffle Window and the pastry genius behind the quirky Rimsky-Korsakoffee House. Like her, it’s deeply flavorful, brilliantly intriguing and stunningly gorgeous. She shared the recipe some twenty-plus years ago and I’ve treasured it ever since.

A delightfully funny story she told me about this cake was that when it was originally featured on the menu at the café, it was described as Prune Gingerbread and sat forlornly in the kitchen waiting for someone, anyone to order it. Alas, almost no one did.

Realizing that perhaps the inclusion of prunes as an ingredient in the name might be off-putting to customers, Mary astutely changed it to Triple Ginger Cake for the combination of fresh, ground and crystallized forms of the root that went into it.

From then on, whenever it appeared on the menu, this richly warming dessert flew out of the kitchen, remaining a classic for years afterward.

Triple Ginger Cake

Adapted from Chez Panisse and Gourmet magazine by Mary Fishback

1 c. pitted, dried prunes
1/2 c. cognac, armagnac or brandy
1 Tbsp. fresh ginger root, grated finely
3 c. flour
2 tsp. baking soda
2 tsp. cinnamon
1 tsp. ground ginger
1 tsp. ground cloves
1/8 tsp. cayenne
3/4 tsp. salt
1 c. butter, softened
1 1/2 c. light brown sugar
1 c. unsulfured molasses
1/2 c. espresso or strong coffee
4 whole eggs, beaten lightly
1 tsp. vanilla
1/2 c. crystallized ginger, chopped finely

Preheat oven to 350°.

Butter a 10-inch springform pan or bundt cake pan, then dust with cocoa powder, knocking out excess.

In a small saucepan cook prunes, liquor and grated gingerroot over moderately high heat, stirring frequently, until almost all liquid is evaporated. Remove pan from heat.

In a mixing bowl sift flour, baking soda, spices and salt; whisk to combine. In a stand mixer, cream butter and brown sugar on high speed until fluffy. Reduce speed and add molasses; combine well. Add espresso, flour mixture, eggs and vanilla until batter is just combined. Reserve 3 tablespoons of chopped ginger, then turn batter into large mixing bowl and stir in remainder of chopped ginger and prune mixture.

Turn batter into prepared pan and, if using springform pan, sprinkle top with reserved ginger. If using bundt pan, sprinkle bottom of bundt pan with reserved ginger, then pour in batter or sprinkle the cake with chopped ginger after baking (as in top photo). Bake 1 hour and 10-20 minutes, or until skewer tests clean.

Mary recommends serving it with creme fraiche and sliced kumquats; or baked lemon creams; or ice cream and caramelized pears or apples. I find it perfectly satisfying all by itself, perhaps with a steaming cup of coffee or ice-cold glass of milk.

If you saw headlines about a recent gathering in Dubai with the indecipherable acronym of COP and, like me, wondered what the heck it was and if you should care, then read this personal report from Portland's self-described "soil nerd," Kristin Ohlson, author of "The Soil Will Save Us" and "Sweet in Tooth and Claw."

Over 97,000 people convened in Dubai this December for the twenty-eighth Congress of Parties (COP)—the United Nations’ annual conference on climate change. A much smaller segment of the world’s eyes were on Dubai for a gathering which preceded the COP by a few days and involved at least a handful of the same people: the Dubai Future Forum, billed as “the world’s largest gathering of futurists.”

Amazingly—or at least, amazing to me—I was invited to speak at the forum. I had received a request to connect on LinkedIn from someone with the Dubai Future Foundation months ago, and even though this seemed like yet another request from someone whose interests seemed so different from mine that I hesitated to make the connection, I accepted. Further communication led to a phone call.

The forum would have four themes: Empowering Generations, Transcending Collaboration, Transforming Humanity, and Regenerating Nature. The director of the Dubai Museum of the Future had read my book, "The Soil Will Save Us," and the committee putting the gathering together wanted me to speak on one of the regeneration panels. I’m not exactly a Luddite but I certainly don’t consider myself a futurist—unless one who alternately hopes and panics about the future is a futurist, which probably describes all of us—but I’ll go anywhere to talk about regeneration and healthy ecosystems. They had told me that around 2,500 people would come, many from that region and that they were also flying in thinkers and doers from around the world.

And indeed they did! I’ve never been at a gathering as truly diverse as this one—people young and older, from just about every part of the world, of every hue, and dozens of nationalities. Lucky for me, all speaking English albeit with the chiaroscuro of both their first language and the accent of whoever schooled them in English.

The reality of a conference like this is that you can’t get to everything, especially if you’re a speaker who’s a little nervous about being there to begin with. I managed to get to several of the regeneration panels, which were held in a dimly gorgeous room inside the Museum of the Future with walls that glowed with images of various life forms. In one panel, people talked about tapping indigenous wisdom to prepare for the future; in another, panelists talked about what might lie beyond Net Zero carbon emissions; in another, they talked about city planning that centers nature.

On my own panel, my co-panelists, Nithiya Laila, who works on biodiverse diets and equitable food systems in Singapore;  Christine Gould, who supports science-and-technology-based startups through Thought for Food based in Switzerland; and our moderator, Dionysia Angeliki Lyra from the International Center for Biosaline Agriculture in Dubai and I spent an animated 45 minutes talking about soil, seeds, native plants and feeding the world’s people.

I certainly wasn’t the only person among the 2,500 futurists who centers on healthy ecosystems—including healthy, prosperous humans, of course—but it’s also true that many of the panels and discussions at the conference were about shiny new things. Shiny new tools, shiny new technologies, shiny new approaches to problems. I told anyone who would listen that I’m not opposed to the new and shiny—unless those innovations are aimed at hacking the natural world for the convenience of humans.

Yes, new technology for benign sources of energy, please! New technology to turn my gas-powered car into an electric one! New technology for mining the mountains of garbage we’ve created to obtain the resources for future products! New ideas for our homes and cities! New science to parse the dazzling and essential complexity of the natural world and—this is the issue for me--to help us figure out how we can hack our own behavior so that both we and the rest of nature thrive.

Because life is so precious and—given what we know so far—unique. One of the early presentations at the Dubai Future Forum was a panel of astronauts talking about life on the space station. They talked about how they dealt with the conundrums of ordinary life while living in space—eating, getting enough exercise, staying in touch with loved ones—and agreed, sweetly, that one of the best things about the experience was the brotherly bond they now have with each other.

I couldn’t help but think of our marvelous planet as I listened to them. Scientists have searched through the samples brought back from space, hoping to find evidence of life. It’s not there. I have more life under my little fingernail after digging in the soil than has been found in all our extraplanetary explorations. We have to treasure life on Earth, respect that life, and change ourselves so that those coming next will also experience its beauty and abundance. Imagine if our collective aspiration for the future was to be good ancestors.

Watch a video of the presentation here.

Top photo: The Museum of the Future in Dubai, United Arab Emirates (l); presenters (left to right) Christine Gould, Nithiya Laila, Kristin Ohlson and Dionysia Angeliki Lyra. This essay was originally published at SoilCentric.

For the first time in several years, Dungeness crab season will open for Oregon's coastal crabbers on December 16th, in time for what could be a banner year for the state's fleet of 424 mostly individual family-owned boats. Delayed twice already due to insufficient amounts of meat in the crabs tested—crabbers were hoping for a December 1 opener—the go-ahead from the Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife (ODFW) was given for the coast from the border with California to Cape Foulweather (midway between Lincoln City and Newport).

A crab opening before Christmas can make a huge difference
to Oregon's Dungeness fleet.

Asked what it will mean to the fleet to have Dungeness season open this early, Rick Goché of Sacred Sea Tuna and captain of the fishing vessel Peso II, didn't mince words.

"After a summer when there was no salmon fishing, a poor tuna seaon and a shrimp season that saw the lowest prices in more than a decade, a crab opening before Christmas can make a huge difference," he said. "For many in the fleet, savings are gone, bills are late, and finances are dire. It's a hard thing to try explaining to young children why Christmas presents are few."

"A start before Christmas can change all that," Goché said. "Additionally, a pre-Christmas start tends to support a higher starting price, since consumers are more likely to inlude crab in their seasonal celebrations."

Good news for the Oregon fleet is, at least temporarily, bad news for California and Washington's crabbing industry. California's Dungeness season will be delayed until at least December 21 due to the large number of migrating humpback whales that regulators worry could get entangled in fishing gear. The delay for the North Oregon coast and Washington state is to allow crabs to develop better "fill" or meat yield, which should be resolved by the end of December, hopefully in time for New Year's celebrations.

Assuming the catch is plentiful, there should be a good supply of Dungeness crab available for holiday gatherings. I know I'll be thinking of those Oregon fishing families Rick talked about as I buy my crab this year, hoping their holidays are bountiful.

Hot Artichoke and Crab Dip

Adapted from New Seasons Market

1 14-oz. can artichoke hearts
1/4 c. capers
6 oz. crab meat (fresh is better and cheaper if you buy a whole crab and crack it yourself)
1 c. parmesan, finely grated
1 c. mayonnaise
6 crackers, crushed, or Panko (optional)

Drain and chop artichokes. If using canned crab, drain well. Crush crackers to fine crumbs with a rolling pin. Combine crab with artichokes, capers, cheese and mayonnaise. Sprinkle with crushed crackers or Panko. Put in baking dish and bake for at least 20 minutes at 350°. When slightly browned and bubbly, serve with your favorite crackers, baguette slices or tortilla chips. (Also makes a great stuffing for salmon fillet or chicken breast.)

Crab Crostini

1 baguette, sliced into 1/4" slices
Olive oil
1 crab, cooked and the meat removed (or 1 lb. crab meat)
1 Tbsp. olive oil
1 Tbsp. lemon juice
2 Tbsp. finely chopped parsley
Salt and pepper to taste
1 Tbsp. capers (optional)

Spread baguette slices on cookie sheet, brush one side with olive oil and toast under broiler. Turn over and toast other side. (Don't get distracted! I've burned many a sheet pan of bread by turning away.)

Put crab meat in a medium sized mixing bowl and add olive oil, lemon juice, parsley and capers (if desired). Mix lightly and season with salt and pepper to taste. Spoon onto toasted bread slices, arrange on platter and serve.

Michel's Thai-ish Crab Cakes

Yield: 15-18 small crab cakes

For the crab cakes:
Meat of two Dungeness crabs
1/2 red bell pepper, minced
1/4 c. minced red or green onion
1 serrano pepper, finely minced
2-4 Tbsp. cilantro, minced
1/4 c. bread crumbs
1/4 c. grated parmesan
Zest of 1 lime
1/2-1 tsp. fish sauce, to taste
Juice of 1 lime
1 egg
Optional: Grated coconut, fresh mint or basil

Crumb coating:
1 c. bread crumbs, preferably Panko style
1/4 c. grated parmesan

Line a baking sheet with parchment or waxed paper.

Combine crab meat, chopped pepper, onions, cilantro, bread crumbs, parmesan, lime zest and fish sauce. Whisk together lime juice and egg and stir into crab mixture.

Combine bread crumbs and parmesan and spread out on a plate or pie tin.

Scoop up about 1/4 cup of crab mixture and form into a plump cake about 2-inches in diameter (approx. 1” high). With your hands, compress the cake so it holds together. Gently place cake in the crumb mixture to coat bottom and sprinkle crumbs over top to coat (don’t flip the cake or it will fall apart). Gently compress cake between your hands to meld crumbs to the crab cake. (Keep cake plump; don’t flatten.)

Set each formed cake on lined baking sheet. When all cakes are formed, place sheet in the refrigerator for at least 15 minutes.

Heat large sauté pan or griddle to medium-high heat and add olive oil, butter or mixture of both to generously coat pan. Gently place cakes in pan or on griddle, leaving plenty of room to turn them. Cook until golden brown and turn gently to brown other side, adding more oil or butter if needed. If cooking cakes in stages, keep cakes warm in oven until ready to serve.

Top photo from the Oregon Dungeness Crab Commission website.

The last thing we need around our house? More books (see photo, above). So why am I writing about three that you should absolutely have on your own shelves, or at the very least buy for gifts and then borrow them back? Let me count the ways…

Fermenter: DIY Fermentation for Vegan Fare by Aaron Adams and Liz Crain. As regular readers know, for the last couple of years I've become enamored of fermented foods, both eating them and, now, making them. Growing up with a mother who had the misfortune of being a dietetics major and thus was terrified of killing her family with "bad" bacteria—as a child I learned the word "trichinosis" almost before I could walk—I never really had any experience with pickling foods.

Aaron Adams, owner of Fermenter restaurant in Southeast Portland, and Liz Crain, co-founder of the Portland Fermentation Festival and author of a pile of wonderful cookbooks, have written a guide to "funky, flavorful ferments and fantastic hippie food that incorporate them" based on his explorations for the menu at his restaurant. But more than that, it's an enthusiastic primer for beginners and more advanced fermentistas alike, with recipes ranging from simple pickles and krauts to more complicated undertakings like koji and tempeh—as his signature t-shirt shouts, "mold is gold"—and delving into the secrets to making your own vinegars and water kefir.

Adams preaches the gospel of "failing is learning" and is an unflinching cheerleader for trying your hand at new skills. Which I, for one, applaud!

Tacos A to Z: A Delicious Guide to Nontraditional Tacos by Ivy Manning. The inimitable Portland author of nearly a dozen cookbooks on everything from her groundbreaking farm-to-table cookbook to crackers and dips to soups to one on cooking for a vegetarian when you're an omnivore, has just published her latest tome on tacos.

Ho-hum, you say? Not on your life. As Ivy writes in the introduction, her notion was to take the idea of "wrapping savory morsels of food in tortillas and eating them out of hand," and look at them through a creative lens. She also cleverly organizes the recipes alphabetically—one taco per letter, with a compendium of sauces and condiments at the end, plus recipes for making your own tortillas.

Starting with "A," you'll find Avocado Fry Tacos with Srircha Mayo, and Jerk Salmon Tacos ("J," of course);  "V" is Vindaloo Pork Tacos based on a recipe from Ivy's friend Leena Ezekiel, founder of Thali Supper Club; and even a dessert taco in the form of exquisite Chocolate-Dipped Ice Cream Tacos ("C"). As with all of Ivy's recipes, you can rest assured these are as delicious as they sound and are bullet-proof in terms of simplicity, since she tests each one multiple times with her army of recipe testers.

Ever-Green Vietnamese: Super-Fresh Recipes, Starring Plants from Land and Sea by Andrea Nguyen. I first came across author, freelance writer, editor, cooking teacher, and consultant Andrea Nguyen via her blog, Viet World Kitchen, and her YouTube channel. Her latest cookbook is full of vegetable-forward dishes as exemplified by the cuisine of Vietnam, laced with Nguyen's signature practicality and directness.

As with all of her recipes, she brings her teaching experience to bear, presenting them in an approachable, accessible manner that are do-able for novices and old hands alike, sprinkling cultural notes and family favorites throughout. You'll find favorite snacks, like Smoky Tofu-Nori Wontons and Steamed Veggie Bao alongside Vietnamese classics like Fast Vegetarian Pho and Banh Mi with Vegan Mayonnaise and Bologna. There are simple sides, like Nuoc Cham Cabbage Stir-Fry and Green Mango, Beet, and Herb Salad and wholesome hacks featuring Sweet Potato and Shrimp Fritters and Oven-Fried Crispy Shiitake Imperial Rolls.

If you've been curious about expanding your repertoire, you can't go wrong with Nguyen's books. This one is no exception.

Top photo: Our dear Cardigan Corgi, Walker (2007-2020).

It was on a trip to Ashland decades ago that I first enjoyed these baked eggs. We'd booked a room at the Chanticleer Inn, a charming Craftsman bungalow near downtown and the Shakespeare Festival grounds (yes, it's still there). The night before was a performance of one of the Bard's plays—not the one where some inventive but misguided director thought it would be totally cool if a lunar module descended from the rafters in the middle of the performance—and we'd walked back to the inn in the moonlight, the next morning rising to have coffee and breakfast in the quaint dining room.

Now, a dish can burrow its way into your brain for lots of reasons—a romantic setting, great company, a few too many mimosas—but this one was alluring because of its simplicity. Just butter, eggs, cream and cheese baked to a golden finish, crispy yet creamy, the yolks still oozing.

I'd begged the recipe from the innkeepers and we'd made them often in the years since, but it had been a long time since we'd pulled the stained, yellowed card out of the recipe box. Fortunately Dave was in the mood for making something besides his (perfect) version of Julia Child's cheese omelet, and I was so glad he was. This is one memory that's stood the test of time, and one we'll be enjoying for another umpteen years.

Chanticleer Baked Eggs

Great for brunch for a crowd (baked in individual ramekins) or just for one, the recipe below is an adaptation of the original from the inn. You can also add green onions,  fresh chopped herbs, sautéed greens or potatoes, or chopped, cooked bacon before putting in the eggs…or just keep it simple. Come to think of it, this would be great with a breakfast salad, or for lunch or dinner!

1 Tbsp. melted butter or margarine
1 Tbsp. cream or milk
2 eggs
Cheddar or other cheese(s), grated
Salt and pepper, to taste

Butter a 3 1/2-oz. ramekin or custard dish. Add cream or milk. Gently crack two large, farm-fresh eggs into the ramekin. Season with salt and pepper. Sprinkle cheese on top. Bake in pre-heated 425° oven for 8-10 minutes or until white is firm and center still wiggles.

It was just three weeks ago that we discovered a small lump under the chin of our little black cat, Otter. A trip to the vet revealed the bad news: It was most likely an aggressive form of lymphoma, and there were at least three other tumors. The cytology test to confirm the diagnosis was several hundred dollars, and if it came back positive the treatment would be weekly steroid shots that might, just might, slow the cancer down, giving her an extra few weeks. Otherwise it was unlikely she'd last the month.

We decided to bring her home and make whatever time she had left as comfortable and love-filled as possible.

Her origins were a mystery, since she and her sister—both jet black with the softest, silkiest fur and yellow-green eyes—had been unceremoniously dumped at a horse stable in the suburbs of the city. They were a few months old and the stable owners thought they might have a future as barn cats, hunting the mice and other critters that inevitably sought out the barn's food-rich, warm environs.

Unfortunately the resident barn cats weren't thrilled to be sharing their territory with these whippersnappers, and the kittens were relegated to the tack room until a home could be found for them. A friend whose daughter boarded her horse at the stable knew we had recently lost our beloved big red cat, Chester, so I went out with her to meet them.

It was destiny that determined that one would be ours that day thirteen years ago, since my friend had decided to adopt one sister already. Unnamed as yet, Dave took one look at her and declared her to be Otter, with her shiny fur and spunky nature. She preferred our Corgis' companionship to ours for a long while, tussling with them like a puppy, grabbing the thick ruff around Kitty's neck and being dragged around the room like a favorite stuffed toy.

We eventually broke down her reserve by pulling her around on a small rug or a towel, stroking her at feeding time when she was face-down in her bowl and showering her with catnip, feather toys and treats. Eventually she would jump on our laps and demand attention, her purrs increasing in volume from bare whispers to a rumble. We felt victorious.

Now we are all missing her sitting in her favorite spot, hunched between the arm of a chair and the windowsill, watching the hummingbird feeder—dubbed "hummy TV"—out the front window, and we're still looking for her black silhouette in the shadows under tables and chairs, and yowling for us to hurry up with her dinner. It's strange to only have the two dogs' bowls to fill, and to not worry about closing doors quickly in case she was just waiting for a chance to dash outside.

We miss you, Otter, and your hard-won love for us. It's an emptier house without you.

Josh Volk is the farmer at Cully Neighborhood Farm. This essay originally appeared on the farm's blog. You can read a profile of Josh and his work.

We grew out eight of our dry bean varieties this summer and between the good weather and giving them a head start by transplanting, for the first time we actually got them in earlier than ever. So I figured it was time to make a post with more description of each variety.

I’ll list them in order from left to right in the photo below. At the bottom of the post I’ll describe the two corn varieties that we grew with the beans (and have been growing for many years now).

Dry Beans

If you’ve only ever had canned beans, or bought dry beans from the bulk section, these are a completely different experience. They cook easily and evenly and have an extra layer of flavor. In general these all have delicate skins and cook well by soaking overnight, then bringing to a boil and gently simmering for as little as 20 minutes, although as they get older they’ll take a bit longer, maybe 45 minutes to an hour. Add salt and other seasoning to taste, generally about one to two teaspoons of salt per pound. Alternatively, I really like to use the residual heat from baking in my oven to cook the beans gently by putting them in a covered, heatproof container and baking them instead of cooking them on the stove top—same directions otherwise. Be sure to save the cooking liquid, which is delicious.

Nico Cannellini. This is the one bean I haven’t cooked with much! They were brought to me as a gift from a farmer in Tuscany a few years ago and I’ve been slowly increasing the amount I’ve been growing. This is the same farmer who I got the polenta corn from and I don’t know if there’s really a variety name, but I’ve just named the beans after his farm, Agricola Biologica Nico. On a side note, the Pescia and Piattella white beans we grow [see descriptions below] are also cannellini types, but each is distinct in size and shape, with subtle flavor differences.

Swedish Brown. I’ve been growing this bean for so long I don’t even remember where I got it or why. I’ve probably been growing it for 25 years now and I just really like the flavor. It’s a bit like a pinto bean, but so much more flavorful.

Piattella. I got this one from a grower in Italy who also uses corn for trellising. It’s a Slow Food Ark variety [link here] and you might try to find it from the Italian growers if you really like it and [in that way] support their efforts to keep it growing in its traditional areas.

If you’ve only ever had canned beans, or dry beans
from the bulk section, these are a completely different experience.

Yellow Forest (Giele Wâldbeantsje). This is another Slow Food Ark variety [link here]. It’s from the Netherlands and does pretty well here. Flavor wise it’s similar to the Swedish Brown beans but it’s much larger. As these beans age in storage their color changes from light yellow to a darker yellow, and there’s some variation even when they are newly dried.

Pescia (Sorana). A great little white bean, very tender and tasty. Lane Selman and I brought this back from Italy by request for Uprising Seeds in 2014 and they shared seeds from their first grow out with me the following year. I’ve been growing it since then and it’s a favorite for its great flavor and early drying on the vine. It’s a Slow Food Ark and Presidium variety under the name Sorana and you might try to find it from the Italian growers if you really like it and [in that way] support their efforts to keep it growing in its traditional areas. Uprising calls it Pescia, after the area where it is grown, as the Sorana name is protected and should only be used by growers in the protected area.

Tolosaka. This is my name for the tolosa black bean, which I’ve been growing since 2007. This is a beautiful, large, deeply black bean that is from the Basque region of Spain. Look it up, apparently it’s famous [Uprising Seeds offers it]. I just know it’s delicious and one of my favorites.

Red Forest (Reade Krobbe). Another Dutch Slow Food Ark variety [link here]. As with all of these beans I just like eating these by themselves, but they’re also very good in soups as they hold their shape well. I’ve also made red bean paste with them for sweets.

White Runner (Katherine’s). All of the other beans we grow are Phaseolus vulgaris, but these are Phaseolus coccineus. They are related to the more common Scarlet Runner beans but have white flowers and beans. As with all runner beans I’ve had they are very large with delicious meaty interiors and incredibly delicate skins when cooked. My friend Katherine Deumling was my original source for this variety and a neighbor of her family in Salem was the grower. I don’t remember the variety name, just that I got them from her and that they grow better for me than the better known Corona White Runner bean—which is even larger, but doesn’t ripen well here (even these runner beans are a little marginal and tend to mature a bit late).

Corn

Dakota Black Popcorn. pops bright white and with great fresh popcorn flavor, not at all like the big stale stuff you get in most bulk bins. If you have a grinder that will grind hard corn it makes a good addition to pancakes and bread (popcorn is very hard and many grinders aren’t strong enough to grind it).

Otto File Polenta Corn. A number of years ago I was in Italy and visited a wonderful little biodynamic market farm in Lucca. The farmer gave me an ear of his golden polenta corn (otto file, meaning eight rows in Italian, because there are eight rows of kernels on the slender cobs). I ended up planting it in my garden and it made amazing polenta—tons of corn flavor, beautiful golden color, slightly sweet—so I grew more. We use a relatively inexpensive Corona hand cranked grist mill to grind it into polenta, but there are many other options out there (these mills will also grind popcorn).  It can also be cooked whole, but it does not make good nixtamal in my opinion—very gummy.

Top photo of a simple bean, green cabbage and bacon soup with carrots, onions and garlic.

Back in my college days in the 1970s, bran muffins were lumped into the category of "hippie food" along with granola, hummus, brown rice and pretty much all whole foods.

In my grandmother's time, bran and other foods, like prunes, were used as "digestive aids," a euphemism for their laxative properties. I remember my grandmother, a ranch wife in Eastern Oregon, putting up a dozen jars of stewed prunes every winter, the little black fruits doled out in moderation lest they prove too effective at their task.

I, of course, would sneak them out of their hiding place in her fridge whenever I thought she wasn't looking, enjoying their savory sweetness and even sipping the syrup they were preserved in—with no discernible ill effect as far as my grade-school self could tell.

(I was kind of a weird kid, foodwise, preferring having a slice of pie to a frosting-slathered cake, chewing on raw rhubarb to sucking on candy and generally favoring savory to sweet. But I digress.)

After my grandmother's day, bran's laxative superpower slid easily into the "health food" arena, synchronizing nicely with the booming weight loss industry of the 1950s and 60s. One television commercial from the era advised that if you consumed bran cereal it would promote "youthful regularity," and an article on the contemporary history of bran stated that "multiple diets emerged on the scene promoting bran as either the foundation of a healthy nutrition plan, or the secret weapon for preserving a rapid weight-loss strategy."

Here at home these days, bran is a fortuitous byproduct of Dave's home-milling, a result of grinding whole wheat for his sourdough bread and then sifting it to remove some (but not all) of the bran to get the result he wants. The recipe below probably uses bran from the same sifting process—the Washington State University (WSU) Breadlab, a group of WSU researchers, are dedicated to developing better tasting, healthier, affordable grains to support small-scale organic farmers while not pricing people out of staple foods. (Read more about The Breadlab's origins.)

As for the dead-simple recipe below, apples of all stripes are available this time of year, so find a nice tart variety—we are currently in love with Ashmead's Kernel from Kiyokawa Family Orchards in Parkdale and Liberty apples from Queener Farm—and make your own applesauce, or simply core and dice one up, sauté it in a knob of butter until it's slightly tender, then mix into your muffin batter.

Applesauce Bran Muffins

From the WSU Breadlab: These apple sauce bran muffins are made with 100% unsifted Climate Blend, with a ton of extra bran added. We say it every few months, but we do not understand bran muffins that call for white flour. Our lab, along with soil scientists, plant breeders, food scientists and medical professionals, is participating in a USDA-funded Soil to Society grant to create more nutritious, affordable and accessible whole grain-based foods. From the soil to your table, we think a muffin is a good start.

1 1/2 c. any whole wheat flour
2 c. bran and germ (if you sift use that) or a good all-bran cereal
3/4 c. tart apple sauce [or sauté 1 medium-sized chopped apple in 1 Tbsp. butter until tender]
Scant 1/2 c. sugar
1/2 tsp. salt
1 1/2 tsp. baking powder
1 1/2 c. milk
1 egg
1/4 c. oil

Soak bran in milk for a few minutes. Add all other ingredients. Mix by hand. Adjust moisture as needed. [We didn't need to add any more milk.] Line a muffin tin with parchment baking cups and fill with batter. Bake for 20 minutes at 400°. If needed, you can broil for last 30 seconds or so to brown the tops. [We've never needed to broil them.]

First: Read the latest newsletter here!

Here's a brief explanation of why you may have noticed its absence for the past (wince) couple of years:

First off, Dave's broken leg and subsequent rehab took the wind out of our sails for several months. (He's great now, btw…thanks Matt from Broadway Physical Therapy!)

Second, of course, COVID. While we have so far miraculously avoided its scourge, the psychological and spiritual toll it took on our household was grim, as it was with most folks. I liken it to the toll that the Great Depression and WWII took on my parents. While they were both very young during the Depression, and young adults in the war, they both had been deeply affected by, and could recall in detail, the experiences they had and the effect those events had on them, their families and their communities.

Third, and perhaps most significantly, it took a surprisingly long time to find an e-mail newsletter service I wanted to partner with, since the Good Stuff NW mailing list had grown beyond my personal e-mail server's capacity. Most of the large companies in that arena track subscribers and compile data, which they may—or may not, or may at some point in the future—sell to outside actors. Compiling and storing that data also creates a security issue if they ever get hacked. And they don't allow users to turn off that "feature" to protect their subscribers.

Buttondown, the service I eventually chose, allows users to turn off tracking, and it says it doesn't store or compile data. It's simple to use and very basic, qualities I admire. We'll see how it goes.

If you've read this far, good on you! If you want to subscribe to the newslettter, use the link provided under the search bar at the top right. If you decide you no longer want to receive it, there's a link to unsubscribe at the bottom of each newsletter.

And, as always, thanks for reading!

Photo at top of my neighbor's blueberry bush that I took today!

It's the holiday known as Samhain or All Hallows Eve—Halloween to you trick-or-treaters out there—and I thought it might be appropriate to repost this story from my friend, Laurie Harquail, who wrote about a very unusual experience she had on a visit to one of my favorite destinations, Port Townsend, Washington.

Chapter One: Arrival

It was not a dark and stormy night.

In fact, it was the longest day of the year, and I had taken a Summer Solstice jaunt to the historic seaside town of Port Townsend, staying in what appeared to be a charming Victorian hotel on the main drag.

After a four-and-a-half hour drive, I walked into the main lobby of The Palace Hotel—sun blazing a trail in the late summer afternoon sky—and immediately asked the front desk clerk, Bob, “Are you going to tell me this hotel is haunted?”

And why did I blurt out this odd question? Because the main lobby had a strange kind of filmy feeling—as if a layer of gauze or a veil was laid over it. Before I continue, I must digress. I have stayed in numerous “historic” B&Bs by myself, both here and abroad. I had also been in countless older homes for my previous job at Rejuvenation—and I had never encountered a place quite like this.

OK, now back to the story.

In regard to my question, Bob gave a nervous chuckle and told me the hotel “does have an interesting past” as a seaport brothel. In a half-hearted attempt at transparency, he offered me the hotel’s binder containing guest reviews.

For reasons I can’t fully explain (the reoccurring theme of the weekend) I told Bob I wasn't up for the binder, and that I’d prefer to remain objective. Bob then asked if I’d mind paying up front. And again, for reasons I can’t fully explain, I tentatively handed over my credit card and committed to my stay.

Chapter Two: Settling In

I followed Bob as he scurried up the main staircase which was presided over by a large portrait, "The Lady in Blue," and he planted my small suitcase in Room 4, Miss Claire’s room.

Despite its tawdry past, Miss Claire’s room was airy and bright. I entered, but immediately froze in my tracks. The vibe overwhelmed me. It felt like something was in the room—but I couldn’t see it. More specifically, it felt like a patch of sad energy gently hovering overhead—kind of like an invisible, clinically depressed blimp.

My first instinct was to bolt, but after a few minutes of self-talk ("There is NOTHING WRONG with this room, Laurie.") I decided to stay. To get the weekend off to the right start, I sent “the presence” a telepathic greeting (no joke). Something to the effect of “Hey Miss Claire, you seem kind of down, and I’m sorry about that, and I know this is your room, and I’ll be a really good roommate."

I hit the telepathic “send” button and started to unpack.

Usually, for record-keeping purposes, I would take pictures in a historic hotel, but I decide not to use my camera (or for that matter, turn on the TV), fearing the camera flash or electronic devices might trigger a paranormal event. (Again, no joke).

I realized I was truly beginning to grasp the Victorian concept of "going mad."

“Shake it off,” I told myself. I pulled myself back from the brink, bucked up and headed out to dinner. After a lovely meal and a healthy dose of wine at The Silverwater Café, I headed back to Room 4. With the table lamp on, I went to sleep. Thankfully, the night was uneventful.

Chapter Three: Things Get a Little Lively

Saturday morning arrived, and summer light flooded the room early. “How ironic," I thought. “My own little version of 'The Shining.'" I got up and did a gut check on the room. I felt Miss Claire was not present—perhaps she was out running errands. (Do ghosts run errands?)

I headed out for a normal day of sightseeing, and made sure to leave the room extra tidy, thinking that if Miss Claire moved anything while I was out, I’d be able to tell. I returned later that afternoon after an invigorating bike ride to Fort Worden. The room felt normal. I breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed, then started to get ready to go out for an early dinner. Although at this point I was trying my best to apply makeup while NOT looking in the mirror, since I know from childhood slumber parties that mirrors and apparitions go hand-in-hand. (Mary Worth, are you listening?)

And wouldn’t you know, while primping, the closed door to my room popped open in that scary movie kind of way—creaky sound effect and all. “Hmmmm…” I thought to myself. “Pretty sure that was closed." I shrugged it off and attributed it to an old building with old locks. I continued to blindly apply mascara, when suddenly I felt something behind me.

That's when I broke out in goose bumps, quickly brushed my hair and left. “She’s back," I think, “So I’ll just let her have the room to herself for a few hours.”

I feared I was starting to lose it.

Dinner was another lovely meal at the the Silverwater, washed down with two very large glasses of wine. After taking in some live music and knocking back another stiff drink, I felt fortified and ready to return to Miss Claire’s room. “One more night,” I said to myself.

It was still twilight when I returned, but I decided to turn in early. I switched on the table lamp, got into bed, pulled the covers over my head and hoped for the best. I drifted off.

Fast forward a few hours. I was sound asleep—that is, until the locked door once again mysteriously popped open. I sat bolt upright in bed, and said loudly, “Hello? Hello?” No answer. I walked to the open door and looked out into the still-lit hall. I saw nothing.

And then I had a funny thought—an epiphany of sorts. I realized that I don’t really WANT to see anything. I’m tired of this ghost stuff, and I was now more annoyed with, than scared of, Miss Claire. She reminded me of so many roommates from days past, stumbling in late on a Saturday night, probably drunk, but meaning no harm.

At least she didn’t bring home a guy.

Epilogue

Sunday morning arrived, bright and sunny. My first thought of the day was, “I’m getting the hell out of here." I skipped the shower (no more creepy bathroom for me), quickly packed up and say goodbye to Miss Claire. This time I spoke out loud, for I was no longer in denial about her existence.

But before I left, I did review “the binder” which was chock full of experiences similar to mine—and then some. I also learned that legend has it Miss Claire was engaged to be married, but was jilted by a sailor who left her at the dock. Her never-used wedding gown was stashed in a trunk found in Room 4.

I hit the road. By the time I got to Tacoma, I realized I've spent the weekend with a broken-hearted ghost, and I had a full-blown case of the heebie-jeebies. For closure, I call Front Desk Bob when I got home and told him my tale. Bob confirmed that my story was “consistent with other events” at the hotel.

I guess that’s paranormal-speak for this stuff goes on all the time. As for me, I still sleep with a light on.

Photos from Palace Hotel and KOMO News.