3 September Saturday

Here´s another one for ya: Take the last of the pepperoni bread, gently yet persuasively coax it open, spread it with herbed goat cheese, top that with thinly sliced oh wait, wait, I am getting way ahead of myself.

It began, as many pleasant things must, I imagine at the Santa Barbara Farmer´s Market. This is a magical place indeed. I was in search of big whole bunch of tomatoes to take home in the cooler I brought down with me. Bingo, bingo, bingo, bingo-fest. We found very large quantities of tomatoes. Heirlooms, cherries, grapes, baby grapes, but there were the early girls. Where did these perfect tomatoes come from? What early girl? How early was she? Oh and the melons and the fresh dates. It was an absolute paradise, accompanied by two young people playing cheerful Mozart tunes on a pair of violins. It was as unrelentingly sunny as well, the sun in Santa Barbara.

All that strolling and looking at fresh salmon, fresh caught mussels, the world´s largest shallots, enormous bulbs of garlic, mountains of figs and peaches, carrots, celery, potatoes, lamb, beef, goat, chickens, fresh eggs. Everything. Lunch wasn´t too far in the future, but another adventure, was even closer.

The little air-conditioned car climbed into the mountains, into Los Padres National Forest, as the temperature quickly rose twenty-some degrees until we reach 107F. Mercifully, we went a little further on and the temperature dropped to 99F. We pulled over behind a large line of cars in either direction of a little mountain tavern:

Cold Springs Tavern has been here since 1868. I don´t know if they were slinging their marvelous tri-tip sandwiches back then, but they hit the spot today. How can you eat a hot trip-tip sandwich on a 99F degree day? Well, first enter the darkest log cabin you can ever imagine, your eyes need to adjust to the darkness, and it is significantly cooler in there. Also, get the potato salad.

The ride back down to the coast was accompanied by Saint-Saens Piano Concerto in C minor, which was perfect with the views of sweeping, hot mountains with the living blue ocean below. We had one more adventure in store.

The long and winding road, that leads to Neverland Ranch, one time home of popular music star Michael Jackson. This has nothing to do with food or cooking or anything, really, except it was amazing to be here, and I attach the following photo with gratitude. It is so far far out in dry and barren fields, thirsty horses, no gas stations, no corner stores, no cell service, or anything connecting us to the bigger world. It felt strangely like the loneliest place imaginable. Of course, we didn´t see the house, just the front gate and various memorials. I took a picture of the intercom system that has probably been there for decades. It was the most harrowing and unassuming equipment on the property. It somehow seems fitting that the photo was mysteriously deleted.

We made our way down the hill, back to civilization we call it. The scent of the tomatoes and melon from the market filled the car with a heavenly scent. What is it about this little strip of land between the mountains and the sea that is so seductive? Is it the privilege of setting ones self apart? The little tavern in the mountains? The gated hillside houses with immaculate gardens? What draws the pilgrims to the distant home of a singular man way out here in the hot desert mountains?

Now, Now you may read the first paragraph again, the one where we put the fresh sliced tomatoes on the end of the butterflied pepperoni bread with the goat cheese. This is singular, this will call pilgrims.