Zucchini Corn Fritters

Zucchini Corn Fritters.

 

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The erstwhile CEO of China, Mao Tse Tung, (which was how he spelled his name at the time), reputedly retorted, upon hearing President Kennedy’s comments about a potential military assault on his homeland, “you can kill a million of us and I’ll send a million more, you can kill them and I’ll send even more.” These days, I feel the same way about zucchini. No matter how many you pick, there’s more a comin’. Continue reading “Zucchini Corn Fritters”

Roasting salmon in Alaska and other fish tales

 

A beauty, nose to tail.

 

I’m sitting on a crate in a 12′ X 12′ mosquito tent with five guys: a lawyer, a carpenter, an accountant, a property manager and a marijuana grower. If something were to go wrong here, It felt like we had the bases covered.

It’s nine in the morning and drizzling as I finish up a plate of lukewarm pancakes. Fortunately the roof is solid fabric. I wear long under-ware, chest waders, wool shirt, fleece vest, rain jacket, boots and hat. Black coffee warms my hands. I’m beat. I want to stretch my bones out on the gravel.  None of this group, to my knowledge, has washed or shaved in 10 days, which makes me grateful for the mesh walls.

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Fattoush by bike.

Fattoush by bike

 

 

Call it Fattoush, call it Niçoise, but call it good...
Call it Fattoush, call it Niçoise, but call it good… eggs boiled in their shells for 8 minutes @ 5280 ft above sea level, plunged into a cold water bath and peeled.

 

We flew down the hill to the market on Saturday without worries or care. Crawling home, we peddled in pain, sweat dripping nose to toe, baskets laden with a week’s worth of eats, shoots, and leaves. For this is a market worth supporting.

 

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A five-day supply— with a little help from pantry and garden…

Every city needs a central market and now, finally, with the help of our farmer friends in Boulder, we too have one that we can call our own. It’s like a little snippet of Boulder in the big city. It’s happy, it’s trippy and it’s seriously organic. Continue reading “Fattoush by bike.”

Ratatouille

Ratatouille

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The first time ever, that I exchanged glances with an eggplant — previously known as an aubergine to me — was at a family’s picnic table, across from our table at a campground in the south of France. We were on holiday, my parents and I. I was thirteen. My brother, who at the time was considered too troublesome for company, got dropped off somewhere in a field to learn French, and my sister, deemed to young to come, got dumped into the fray with four feisty female cousins. She never forgave my parents for this, and my brother has yet to utter a phrase of coherent French. But that’s all in the past.

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