I hope to never take for granted the beauty around me and the natural settings, beaches, coves, lagoons, forests and shorelines that make Vashon Island special, but should I falter a time or two, all I have to do is take a look at this wonderful video, shot by fellow islander Mike Verharen on a wonderfully (and unusually) clear December day.
In his words: “Not quite a drone, but check out Vashon and Maury Island’s Parks, Beaches and Nature lands with a new perspective from an aerial filming rig. Filmed December 2013. Part One. DJI Phantom and GoPro Hero 3 Black. Song: Open Seas; A New Normal. Licensed by themusicbed.com.”
Tom’s eye view of Point Robinson Lighthouse looking south Sound toward Mount Rainier.
The first Friday of each month marks Gallery Cruise on Vashon, where local businesses open their doors and donate their walls to showcase works by island artists. One such artist, Pam Ingalls enjoys rock-star status for her award-winning paintings. Her work has been been juried into more than 125 national and international shows. And to top it off, she’s an amazingly nice person.
Tom’s kitchen with art critics Boz and Gracie; both painfully aware of their absence in the original painting.
I knew Pam was having a show at The Hardware Store Restaurant on First Friday, but I didn’t make it in until Sunday when I stopped for breakfast. On my walk through the gallery area, I delighted in her subject matter, the faces and places of Vashon Island. As I turned the corner, I admired the largest painting on the back wall and thought, “Wow that looks rather familiar, uh, really familiar. Hey wait, that’s my kitchen!”
“Slipping in,” a painting every islander can relate to.
Several years ago, Pam was visiting on a bright summer day, and taking a few snapshots of the old homestead. She knew the house well, for her dear friend Karin and Buzz lived there before I planted my own roots in the Peach Palace. Apparently the light in my unusually tidy kitchen caught her eye that day, and she captured it again years later in a wonderful painting called Tom’s Kitchen II. If I stare long enough, I can smell pie.
The 118 headed to the dock on a rainy winter morning.
Pam is known for traveling all over the world and capturing the essence of place and person. What I like about this show is how I’m able to see where I live through her eyes. I’ve never been to northern India or the backstreets of Rome, but I’ve slogged to work on the 118 bus to the ferry dock. I’ve never seen the red clay of the Mara, but I have leaned against the red bricks of the Landing Building on the corner of Bank and Vashon Highway.
Adam of Snapdragon Bakery, takes the cake, the chocolate-covered cupcake.
“I paint simple things – the things I see, am attached to and love. Every subject contains an essence that belongs to just that moment. I get to be with that feeling while I translate it into the poetry of paint. As I become more aware, I keep learning that truth is everywhere. Painting is my way to see and tell the truth. I hope that I’ll inspire others to look twice at the beauty of their everyday lives…and to find their own way of expressing that.” – Pam Ingalls
Behold an exceptional fruitcake, one that deserves a little respect.
Fruitcake, oh fruitcake, how I do love thee…
Oh, go ahead, start with your jokes, mock the baked good that moonlights as a doorstop, wrecking ball, and scapegoat for holiday angst. Get it out of your system fruitcake grinches, for I am here to redeem the reputation of this much maligned Christmas confection.
Great fruit makes for a great fruitcake: dried apricots, cranberries, blueberries, golden raisins, homemade orange peel, and sour cherries.
And may I just say, there are plenty of cakes out there that deserve one’s ridicule, though fruitcake is not one of them. Red velvet cake, really? It’s just a dyed devil’s food cake in disguise and has about as much flavor and presence as pre-wrapped Susie Q. Angel food cake? Um hmm, just an excuse to waste egg whites. Yellow cake? Sorry, its sole purpose is to be a vehicle for buttercream frosting. Sponge cake? Don’t even get me started. (Full disclosure: I am a pie man by genetic predisposition.)
I’m a big fan of vintage baking pans, so I bake my fruitcake in these metal molds designed for steamed puddings.
I have to admit the neon-bright candied fruit of old-school fruitcakes can be off-putting, but that’s an easy fix; indulge in the amazing variety of dried fruit available these days, usually found in the bulk section of a grocery store. For me, that includes all or any combination of the following dried fruit: apricots, candied orange peel , golden raisins, currants, sour cherries, blueberries, figs, and crystallized ginger.
When you bake with a lidded pudding tin, the cake tends to come out moister and denser. If you don’t have a lid, you can always cover the pan with foil. And leave off the lid should you like a dryer cake.
I’d like to share a recipe, an updated version of this bejeweled baked good, a recipe festooned with the sweetmeats of summer and sopped up with a wee bit of worthy spirits. The recipe comes from one of my favorite celebrity chefs, Alton Brown, the no-nonsense science guy of cooking.
Alton (oh yeah, we’re on a first name basis) calls it a free range fruitcake, no doubt because he takes what has become the sad standard and improves upon it ten-fold. His cake is moist, aromatic, spicy and chockablock with sweet treats to tease your tongue.
As fruitcake is known for the boozey company it keeps, I went local and substituted the rum with Idle Hour Whiskey from the Seattle Distillery which is located here on Vashon Island. It’s a smooth bourbon-reminiscent spirit, that is tamed with just a nuance of honey. So let’s toast to our new year, your new love of a better fruitcake, and a plenty of idle hours to enjoy.
You’re likely thinking, “How to Slice an Avocado? Really Tom, really?” Trust me, I was reluctant to post this seemingly ridiculous tutorial, but I’ve had enough folks take note of my avocado slicing technique that I realized a public service announcement was in order.
The Best Way to Slice an Avocado (at least in my kitchen)
1. Select a ripe avocado, one that gives to pressure at the stem end of the fruit.
2. Cut lengthwise, rotating knife around large seed.
3. Gently twist each half in opposite directions to release the seed from one side.
4. Open up and behold the creamy green goodness.
5. Run the edge of a teaspoon lengthwise from top to bottom of the avocado half.
6. The action will remove the slice in one fell swoop.
7. Remove the peel-free slice with spoon.
8. Repeat until an empty shell remains.
9. Use the empty shell as a lid for the other half to keep the flesh from browning. Refrigerate.
A spoon works better than a knife as the curved bowl of the spoon acts like a plow share and separates both the edge and the bottom of the avocado slice, completely removing it from the fruit, seed and peel.
Stay tuned for my next tutorials: how to make ice cubes and how to mail a letter. 😉
Roasted carrots before soup: a bowl of caramelized gold
The Pacific Ocean hugs our coast with a warming embrace, usually that is. But in a game of meteorological rock-paper-scissors, the arctic air mass always wins. Needless to say, I’ve been freezing my bejeepers off in a century-old farmhouse where warmth is more of a figurative rather than literal state. After donning double socks and several layers of mismatched wool to trap my body heat, I am content to endure my indoor (seemingly outdoor) camping stint. Boz and Gracie resemble soft tacos, rolled up in blankets on the sofa with muzzles poking out for fresh air. When the wood stove reaches temperature, they venture out of their flannel flautas and park it on the hearth.
My favorite magic wand, the immersion blender.
This kind of bone-chilling cold for Pacific Northwest weather wimps (I admit it.) calls for rib-sticking, thaw-me-out soup. Here’s my recipe for such a mishmash, a carrot soup that spoons up with a sunny disposition and a few much-needed BTUs for the body and soul.
I’m a wee bit stuck these days; distractions are aplenty, and focus is just a setting on my camera. So I will dispense with words and riveting insights (hey, no clapping) and share some pics from the last week or two. Hopefully my writer’s block will thaw out with this week’s warming trend.
Gracing my wall: I love this intaglio print now brightening up a small space. Quartermaster Press artist Deborah Taylor will showcase her most recent work during the upcoming Vashon Island Art Studio Tour.
Boz’s Hierarchy of Needs: 1.) Food, 2.) Comfort, 3.) Affection, 4.) Neck Rubs, and 5.) Car Rides. Here he recreates Cloud 9 (much to my chagrin).
Annas hummingbird at the fountain: a bright spot in the day.
Boz and Gracie keep an eye out for would-be Christmas tree thieves, especially any named Charlie Brown.
I discovered that my Christmas cactus is really a Thanksgiving cactus.
One week later and I’m still eating turkey. You’ve got your turkey enchiladas, turkey salad, turkey soup, turkey tetrazzini, turkey ruebens, turkey wraps, turkey…
Note to self: next Thanksgiving more pies and fewer turkeys.
My mom jokes with me about the number of potlucks I attend. She’s right, it’s the way of my people. Islanders are a social lot by nature and food is always in the mix. Yep, potlucks are the new normal. Folks around here always (or at least nine times out of 10) respond to dinner invitations by asking, “What can I bring?” The rare instances when the host says, “nothing, just yourself” I worry that my culinary skills are in question. Maybe the cranberry-quinoa-curry salad was not as delicious as I thought, or perhaps the Captain Crunch encrusted jalapeño poppers were a bit too experimental, or was my pumpkin turmeric hummus dip reminiscent of something less appetizing?
When I’m invited to dinner, I follow island protocol and ask, “What can I bring.” If there is any hesitation in the host’s voice, I chirp in, “How about dessert?” My greatest fear of being invited to a potluck is being asked to make a salad. One look at me, and you know this man is not about leafy greens. Don’t get me wrong; I love salads, but just like it better when someone else makes them. Desserts are my domain: fruits, chocolate, sugar, crusts, cookies, dough, pie, cakes, slumps, pandowdies, crisps, puddings, buckles and pies. I am an equal opportunity baker.
Last night I enjoyed a lovely dinner at my friend Mary Ann’s home in Seattle, and I volunteered to bring dessert. While I pried myself off of the island, Mary Ann did all the heavy lifting with soup, pasta and soufflé. Even my buddies Mark and Doug picked me on the ferry dock, so I didn’t have to drive onto the ferry. As we say around here, I was a walk-on. Yep just a man with a cake tin, on a mission to cross the sound, dine and laugh with friends and pay the Washington State Ferry System five dollars for the privilege of making it all happen. Here’s how it went down.
Vashon Island low tide dock walk. (Blake Island on the right.)
My house is about a ten-minute drive to the north-end ferry. When you are a ferry walk-on, you park your vehicle in the upper lot, way up the hill–a hill that makes Machu Picchu look like a beach dune. Even first-time cyclists to Vashon pause and pray before taking on the hill. So I parked, bundled up, and trundled down the hill, vintage cake tin in hand.
As returning commuters passed me panting up the hill, their quips were aplenty. “Nice bowling bag, Tom.” or “Oh how sweet, you remembered my birthday.” or “You never make me a cake.” After surviving the gauntlet of hungry and outspoken commuters, I boarded the 5:10 ferry to Fauntleroy. Up two flights of stairs, I found refuge in the overheated passenger cabin, . (I’ve been in sweat lodges that were cooler. You’d think we were crossing the Bering Sea not Puget Sound.)
Washington State Ferries: my favorite marine highway
As I quickly unwrapped myself, removing jacket, sweater, scarf and cap, I could see my cake tin was a curious sight for most onboard. May I just say, anyone who needs to make friends and meet people should carry a cake tin with them at all times. The twenty-minute crossing became my little cooking show and coffee klatch, sharing the apple cake recipe with the interested, listening to home-baked stories as delicious as any doughy confection. And yes, I also apologized profusely for not being able to share the cake on the spot, but Miss Manners would not approve of presenting a half-eaten cake to one’s host.
Short days, early sunsets over the Olympics.
After dinner, I tried to leave the remaining cake with Mary Ann, Doug and Mark, but we all knew a cake left over is a cake quickly eaten. Willpower (for them, not me) prevailed, and I returned the half moon of a cake to its copper cradle and headed back to the island. Doug and Mark dropped me off at the ferry terminal and my dock walk deja vu began. Ferry workers commented, parked drivers joked, “hey, we’ll drive that home for you.” Once in the stark waiting room all eyes were on the cake caddy, but not a word was spoken.
I boarded the 10:20 p.m. ferry and someone seated near me said, “Oh is that cake for me?” I smiled and said, “Why yes, it is. Please join me.” She looked surprise, but I insisted, “There’s a cake in here begging to be eaten. The more you eat, the less I do, and full disclosure, it has apples in it, nuts, raisins, flour, sugar and eggs.” She laughed and said, “Not a problem. Now are you sure?” Then an impromptu social gathering and nosh session ensued and the cake was quickly dispatched by my new best friends. (Napkins, napkins, we don’t need no stinkin’ napkins.)
Apple cake: dessert du jour. Sorry, not a crumb left.
Tackling the vertical climb back to my truck baby step by baby step, pausing to gasp for air like a sherpa at base camp, I finally reached my truck. I may have disembarked with an empty cake tin but I drove home with full heart and warm truck.
So the moral of the story: The next time you’re feeling lonely, bake a cake, and take a ride on a Washington State ferry. You WILL make new friends.
PS- It doesn’t hurt to have an awesome standout vintage copper cake caddy. (Mine was a surprise gift from friends Sheila and Berneta).
Christmas came early when my friend Rondi dropped by yesterday to hand deliver her latest Christmas card design featuring Boz as Santa Baby. (Gracie is a bit camera shy and opted to let Boz’s Christmas star shine.) Rondi, the creative force behind Lightmark Press, features four-legged friends in her photography and greeting card business. Boz is always happy to oblige as poster boy, especially when dog treats are part of the photo shoot.
Riding shotgun: Boz and Gracie mugging for the camera, begging for a biscuit, and shining in their first greeting card.
My father is no longer with us, but the honor of this day is justly served in remembering him with admiration, respect and love, though such a pronouncement would have made him wince; he would have told me he was just doing his job.
Captain Dad and his trusty steed (F-100) on the flight-line.
I grew up loving a veteran: my Dad, a larger than life man who flew jets from the time I could finger paint until the time I could vote. His Air Force career spanned three decades and covered the globe (sometimes with us, and sometimes without). Our lives were interwoven into his sense of duty, patriotism and honor. As his family, we were along for the ride, or flight (as the case may have been).
While other kids met their Dad at the door each day, we would assemble on the flight line to reunite with a man we hadn’t seen in months. There was no complaining, no whining, and no grousing about time lost, missed birthdays and anniversaries. We would pick up where we left off and embrace our lives together, for however long that would be until the next assignment or remote tour.
It takes a team: My mother being honored for her service at my father’s retirement ceremony.
Behind Dad was my mother. A veteran in her own right, she was the glue that held our family together during long absences and uncertain times. They were (and are) a team. When we’d say grace, we’d also pray for the safe return of my father. When my father was back at the head of the table, my mother would amend grace to include a pray of thanks and gratitude.
My brother toasting my Dad’s final flight in an Air Force jet.
On this Veteran’s Day, I would like to salute the men and women of the armed forces for their service and to their families, for they don’t undertake this sacrifice and journey alone. Every day, our lives are touched by those who serve and have served our country. Every day we are likely to unknowingly encounter someone who has lost a loved one or a family member to the horrors of war.
Heroes are among us, living their lives quietly and without the recognition they so often deserve. Each veteran has a story, a story that plays out on the pages of our nation’s history and character.
From my father, to my three uncles who served in World War II, to my friend Leo who’s kind smile and quick laugh belie what his eyes have seen as a young soldier in Iraq and Afghanistan, I thank you all for your service. As a nation, know we not only hold you in high esteem this day, but every day.
Home from overseas (Japan), and a few years before my brother joined the family.
My hometown hero
I shared this post last year, and thought the message was worth repeating.
There are rainbows to be seen, even on a rainy day.
It’s o’dark-thirty here at home, and the world around me is just beginning to wake up. On my rural road no street lights shine, no porch lights peer from across the field. Even the easterly glow of Seattle from across the Sound is cloaked by the heavy rains and low cloud ceiling. Tree trunks and shrubby shapes appear when approaching high beams lead the way for speeding commuters, no doubt late for their ferry and/or espresso fix. As quickly as the light appears, it fades, along with the splashing sound of tires on the wet pavement. A clogged gutter spills over. The sputtering cascade of water acknowledges the accuracy of today’s weather forecast with each splash to the growing puddle below. My bulldog Boz snores at my feet and twitches from his dreams of hot pursuit. Gracie, his mate, does likewise, just upstairs in the warmth of my (make that her) down comforter. The furnace kicks on to warm the house and hopefully my toes, while the coffeemaker spits steam as it tops off the carafe.
It’s okay; you have my permission to sleep in today.
It’s morning at my house, and morning has always been a friendly presence in my life. As an early riser, I love the quiet and the darkness and the promise of coming light. I love the world at peace and the intermittent rustling of the day before it takes itself too seriously. So join me for a cup of coffee, and let me be the first to wish you a good morning and a fine day. And if you’re not a morning person, please accept my apology (in a whisper) and I’ll check back with you later.
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