1. The water.

The Atlantic Ocean, as deep and true as denim, so blue it melts into the sky, horizonless. And the Charles River. Years from now, I’ll remember riding the Red Line from Boston into Cambridge at night – the way the lights streak across the black water like crayons lined up in a box.

After my childhood in Seattle to my college years in Boston, I don’t think I could live anywhere but a coast.

2. The seasons. 

I always come back to school right at the tail end of summer. Heat sinks into the subway stations like poisonous gas, and whatever you wear, it’s too much fabric. With October right around the corner, though, fall settles in. I love the way golden light fans out from behind buildings and through alleyways. Yellow leaves get stuck in the rain currents along the sidewalk. It’s my favorite time of year.

Boston has also taught me the true meaning of winter. Winter is wet hair freezing solid on the way to class, two pairs of socks, ears tucked into scarves. Torrential flurries of snowflakes that burn skin. Frankly, winter is miserable.

But then there’s that one morning – and it’s always a morning, and you’re never quite prepared for it – when you step outside and every tree in Boston has bloomed. Cherry blossoms opened like pale pink popcorn, blue skies, tender green leaves. It’s such a miracle that this can happen despite the sheets of ice and crazy wind tunnels, it makes everything worthwhile.

3. The quirkiness.

I love the farmer’s markets all over the city, the narrow brick alleys begging to be explored, the late night restaurants in Chinatown. Boston constantly surprises me. Today I discovered the food trucks – why didn’t I know that Boston has food trucks??

4. The history.

A handful of the founding fathers are buried mere blocks from campus. I walk through the oldest park in America to get to my boyfriend D-’s apartment in Beacon Hill, a neighborhood of gas lamps and weathered brick. Everywhere you look, historic churches stand between skyscrapers. The contrast is astonishing.

5. These amazing people.

Sure, most of them aren’t from Boston. A-’s from Colorado, C-’s from LA, and S- is all the way from Guam. But nine months of the year, they’re all mine. They make Boston feel like home.

Why do you love _______?

Last Thanksgiving, with only a few weeks left in my study abroad program, I packed a bag and flew to Barcelona. Although I visited a dozen countries that semester, for the first time I was traveling by myself.

It seemed daring and spontaneous when I booked the ticket. But as I walked into the rich Spanish sunshine, my nerves kicked in hard. I didn’t speak Spanish. I didn’t have companions. I hadn’t even read a travel guide or looked at a map. Nope, I went in blind and alone, a recipe for disaster.

Continued after the jump…

The next morning I visited La Sagrada Familia, a church designed by the Catalan architect Gaudi. I didn’t know what to expect, but it wasn’t what I saw. Eight towers distinguished La Sagrada Familia in the orange-tan Barcelona skyline. From a distance, they could pass as Gothic style spires, perforated with elaborate cut outs and classic rose windows. But closer up, each tower tapered into an orange bulb, like flower stamens stretching towards the sun. One of the gargoyles was – wait – a frog? What kind of church was this?

That’s when I turned the corner and saw the front of the church. I’d been studying the back that whole time, oblivious to how much more surprising this church could get.

Inside, columns textured like bark split into branches and bloomed into leaves, sheltering the nave like a forest canopy. Meticulous starbursts and carved foliage covered the ceiling, which glowed gold and green where sunlight reflected against the tile mosaic. The staircases spiraled up like a conch heart.

And the windows. The panels illustrated not biblical scenes, but the sheer beauty of intense color, abstract patterns in the otherwise familiar arched frames. Each individual window worked aesthetically, and yet, together they transformed La Sagrada Familia into a jewelry box, its white walls smudged with rainbow light. The geometry, the whimsy, the overwhelming color and movement! I’d never seen a church so organic, so whole, one I could actually feel breathing as I stood in its ribs.

I took stairs up into a spire, which offered a clear view of the city sprawl: a landscape of orange brick and flat black rooftops, dotted with palm trees and bordered by hazy blue mountains. I stood there a long time, looking out at the blend of modern and ancient buildings, breathing in golden Barcelona heat.

That semester I happened to take a Renaissance and Baroque art class. It was the kind of elective I would have never considered back in Boston. I enrolled because the selection of study abroad courses were limited, not realizing how perfect it would be. All semester I saw famous churches and cathedrals throughout Europe, monuments I’d just studied in class. And while La Sagrada Familia, designed in the late 1880s, wasn’t covered, we did review the Gothic era.

Studying La Sagrada Familia’s sculptures, cross-shaped layout, vaults and saturation of light, I recognized the Gothic influence, and admired Gaudi’s interpretation. Visiting the church uneducated upped the surprise factor and imparted a kind of magic, but knowing some art basics enriched my appreciation.

I visited a handful of Gaudi’s other works in Barcelona, each one spectacular, and brought my fascination back to the states. When I signed up for my Fall 2012 classes, I noticed a cool seminar on Magical Realism in the Arts. Too bad I’m not a VMA major, I thought. That’s when I saw that my Renaissance and Baroque art class was a prerequisite.

Two weeks later, I declared an art minor, the last thing I’d ever predict from a weekend in Spain.

I figure you need to sometimes follow your whims and let the unexpected take you. Take these Cornmeal Lime Cookies – how could I resist a flavor combination like that? I love a sense of surprise in my food, from unusual ingredients to a hidden ribbon of cream cheese. Something playful and unpredictable, because dessert is supposed to be fun.

Maybe you’ve had corn and lime together (my dad’s Blueberry Corn Salad with Lime, anyone?) Maybe it sounds completely impossible. All I know is these cookies are soft and chewy, studded with tart cranberries, and completely addictive. The lime is bright but the cornmeal is the real shocker, adding crunchiness to cake-y cookies. They were good out of the oven and even better the next day. My mom likes them plain, but I prefer a paper-thin coat of icing, sugary sweet and flecked with lime. They’re good enough to make again.

We’ve had that tub of cornmeal in the cabinet forever, simply because we don’t know how to use it up. Mom sprinkles it onto pizza dough and occasionally crusts chicken, but I haven’t been trying. I know some of it will go into another batch of Cornmeal Lime Cookies, but the rest? Consider me open to suggestion.

There’s a good amount of butter here, but believe it or not, I’ve cut back from the original recipe to hinder spreading. I think I hit the jackpot – they’re moist and cake-y tender rather than crisp. If yours are spreading too much, try chilling the dough in the fridge for thirty minutes.

The glaze is admittedly sweet, but I can’t get enough of it. I especially like that it firms up in thirty minutes, so the cookies are stackable and smudge-free. But my mom liked the cookies plain, so I won’t judge.

Finally, some more Barcelona pictures:

Cornmeal Lime Cookies
Adapted from The Kitchn
Makes around 3 dozen

Cookies
1 1/2 cups all purpose flour
3/4 cup cornmeal
1/2 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp salt
14 tablespoons (1 3/4 sticks) unsalted butter, room temperature
3/4 cup sugar
Zest of three limes
1/2 tsp vanilla extract
2 large eggs, room temperature
2 tablespoons fresh lime juice
1/3 cup dried cranberries

Icing
2 1/2 cups powdered sugar, sifted
1/4 cup + 2 tablespoons lime juice
1/4 tsp vanilla extract
Zest of two small limes

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.

Whisk together the dry ingredients – flour, cornmeal, baking powder, and salt. Set aside.

Pour the sugar into the bowl of a stand mixer. Add the lime zest and rub in with your fingers – this’ll marry the sugar with the fragrant citrus oils, leaving the sugar damp and full of lime flavor. Add the butter and beat on medium-high with the paddle attachment, creaming until light and fluffy. Scrape the bowl, add the lime zest and fanilla, and beat until just combined.

Next, beat in the eggs and lime juice, mixing only until incorporated, around 30 seconds. The batter might seem to separate here, and that’s okay.

Slowly mix in the flour in three stages, beating only until incorporated. The batter should come together into a dough. Beat in the dried cranberries until just combined.

Scoop out the dough in rounded teaspoons and roll into balls, placing them 2 inches apart on a parchment lined baking sheet. Bake 12 minutes or until set and just barely golden on the edges. Let cool completely before icing.

To make the glaze, whisk together the powdered sugar, lime juice, lime zest, and vanilla extract together. Dip the cookies into the glaze and set on a wire rack. The icing should firm up in around 30 minutes.

Printer-Friendly Version – Cornmeal Lime Cookies

Today, after work, after eating lunch in my car and then driving home, I found myself back in bed. Even though it was only three o’clock. For some reason that made me feel old – shouldn’t I be outside, doing something fun? So I compromised by sitting up and writing for the first time in a long time.

What’s new? Still missing the excitement of studying abroad, this semester I got busy. I took a British literature class tougher than leather. I juggled two jobs, maintaining a 50 hour work week. I declared an art history minor and surprised myself, mostly, by taking a solo trip to New Orleans. In April I celebrated my 20th birthday. Best of all, I landed an editorial/social media internship with America’s Test Kitchen and Cook’s Illustrated Magazine, which I’ll be continuing in the fall (more on that later!)

What I didn’t do was bake. I blamed it on my lack of time, on the fact that my dorm’s mousy kitchen didn’t get any natural light and constantly smelled microwaved, and on the expense of ingredients. But truthfully, there at the midpoint of my college career, many things that seemed everlasting in high school had changed. I found myself drawn to new opportunities. Like finding an apartment – living in the freshman dorms was fun and kind of campy, but it was a drag this year, and moving on felt right.

I scoured Craigslist and contacted realtors, explaining our budget and requirements. We’re looking for three equally sized bedrooms, a big living room, and windows. We don’t mind commuting to campus, but proximity to the T is a must. Finally, because I couldn’t help myself, a nice kitchen.

A week later I fell in love with the third apartment we saw, and then nothing else could live up to its standard. A ground floor apartment, we were warned that its upstairs neighbors could be “rowdy” and that mice lived in the walls. The price didn’t include heat or utilities. The apartment looked more like a house than a complex, which I liked, but it was 40 minutes away on the B line, which was notorious for filling up and breaking down. As the last straw, it was a twelve minute walk from the subway stop, and that was enough for my friend S- to reject the place altogether.

“You realize how cold that’ll be in the winter?” she’d later say. “Plus, I don’t want to get mugged at night.”

I overlooked all of that because the apartment had charm. So many places we went on to consider were convenient, sure, and met our requirements on paper. But none of them felt as much like home as this one. I liked the character of the crown molding, the funky bamboo door to the bathroom, the stained glass detail at the top of the windows. But the kitchen sealed my fate.

I’d buried my interest in cooking for so long that I was surprised to care. But walking in and seeing the clean countertops, new-enough oven, and ample sunlight stopped me cold. While my friends snapped photos of the other rooms, I opened all the cabinets and stuck my head in the fridge. I saw myself setting out eggs and sifting spices. Making cupcakes for birthdays and cookies for the holidays. The kitchen was big enough for a lot of people to hang out, big enough for a fold up table in the corner (maybe I could sit there and blog?). Big enough to make me miss baking.

In my head, my future with baking hitched itself to my future with this kitchen, and I fought hard. I debated with my girlfriends the entire ride back, pleaded for a few more days, then finally, reluctantly, agreed to drop it.

We continued looking for another month. Then one of my friends bowed out due to financial reasons. April loomed and I panicked when the on-campus housing deadline approached. At the last minute I requested a single room in a six-person suite, locking in a junior year of dorm life. Disappointment steeped through me like bitter tea, hot and lingering. But then finals were around the corner, and then one by one my friends said goodbye, and when the semester ended I’d stopped thinking about a kitchen of my own.

Now I’m home for the summer. Away from Boston, I’m finally realizing how stressed out I was. Stressed out by work and the looming prospect of My Future. By my friends, and by my parents – my relationship with them is evolving faster than I can keep up. Somewhere along the way, responsibility and anxiety squeezed out the last of my creativity. I wish it hadn’t. But then this week, just as quietly as it snuck in, my writer’s block packed up and left. I’m walking on tiptoes, hoping it’s gone for good. It’s taken me a few days to write this post, but I want to be here.

After I started writing, I started brainstorming. I rummaged through our pantry and emptied out the fridge, possibilities unfolding. I was drawn to this recipe because I liked the idea of a simple dessert (what could be more classic than pound cake?) with a twist – the addition of sweetened condensed milk, a lot of it. The result is a moist, vanilla-studded cake, densely crumbed and uniquely sweetened. Adaptable enough to serve with macerated strawberries or a curl of ice cream, intriguing enough to eat plain.

It’s enough to pull me back into the kitchen again.

Three quarters of a cup of sweetened condensed milk? My first concern was that the pound cake would be too sugary, but the condensed milk made the loaf unbelievably moist and dense. The result was sweet enough that I didn’t need icing, but it wasn’t cloying. Three days later the cake was still soft and tender. We have a winner!

I added the cognac to balance the sweetness and it ended up lending an interesting flavor. It could be left out, but I’d recommend trying it.

Condensed Milk Pound Cake
Slightly adapted from Pichet Ong’s The Sweet Spot
Makes an 8.5 x 4.5″ loaf

1 cup unsalted butter, room temperature, plus more to grease the pan
1 1/3 cups all-purpose flour
3/4 teaspoon baking powder
1/3 cup sugar
1 vanilla bean, chopped, or 2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1/2 teaspoon salt
3/4 cup sweetened condensed milk
1 tablespoon cognac
3 large eggs

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees F. Butter an 8.5 x 4.5″ loaf pan and set aside.

Sift together the flour and baking powder and set aside.

In the bowl of a food processor, pulse the sugar and chopped vanilla bean until the bean is finely ground. Sift to remove the large bits of vanilla, then return the sugar to the processor. (If you’re opting for extract, simply put the sugar in the processor.)

Add the butter and salt and process until light and fluffy, about 2 minutes, scraping down the sides and bottom of the bottom occasionally. Add the condensed milk and pulse until well incorporated, about 15 times, scraping down the sides of the bowl once. Add the sifted dry ingredients and pulse until no traces of flour remain, about 10 times. Add the eggs and pulse just until combined, about 5 times. Scrape down the sides and bottom of the bowl, add the vanilla extract, if using, and finish mixing by hand to fully incorporate the eggs.

Scrape the batter into the prepared loaf pan. Bake until deep golden brown and a tester inserted in the center comes out clean, about 60 minutes. Cool completely in the loaf pan on a rack, then turn out onto a plate. Serve in thick slices.

Printer-Friendly Version - Condensed Milk Pound Cake

I caved the other day and bought a box of raspberries.

When I saw the carton at Trader Joe’s, I remembered Bainbridge Island. Our family friends live there, a tiny island off the coast of Washington state, and my mom and I were lucky enough to visit last summer. I fell in love with the ocean, still icy cold in July, and with the sky, an endless band of blue pressed against the beach. One morning I woke at sunrise to go crab fishing. Another afternoon I walked “downtown,” which referred to two buildings – a general store and the post office.

But my happiest memories are the times I spent grazing in their garden. Fresh artichokes, several potato varieties, the sweetest snap peas I’ve ever tasted. And raspberries. I ate handfuls of raspberries until I just couldn’t. I craved the way each section burst with juice, still warm from the sunshine. Some berries were so tender they broke in my hand, staining my fingertips pink.

Standing there in the grocery store, I thought about all that, and about all the other good things that came with the garden. Sundresses and lolling dog tongues and a boat that smelled like crab bait. And I knew I couldn’t leave without those raspberries.

I hadn’t had a raspberry since July! I was so excited I didn’t even wait to get back to my dorm, just opened the carton right on the train. These berries definitely looked the part. Big as thimbles, red as lipstick, the tops curved into perfect “O”s. I popped one into my mouth and waited for magic.

I felt the seeds crack between my teeth. The berry barely yielded any juice. Bitter disappointment.

It’s not that I can never eat another raspberry unless it’s just-picked and still breathing. I’m not on Bainbridge Island. I don’t expect that level of fantasy perfection in everyday life. But I think I’ve learned my lesson about buying imported raspberries in the dead of winter.

Instead, I decided to make some new memories using a jar of raspberry jam. I still have my baking box – a steamer trunk my dad and I refurbished the summer before college – snuggled beneath my dorm bed. Inside, I’ve stashed cake pans, half sheets, piping tips, cookie cutters, ceramic ramekins for baking custards… and one very weathered, very humbled 9×9” pan. I washed the pan twice, piled it high with ingredients, and carried it down the hall to the kitchen.

Raspberry Oat Crumble Bars don’t disappoint. They look good on a picnic table in July, and in a college common room in February. The bars bake up into three layers of shortbread goodness, sweet raspberry, and buttery crumble. They taste like brown sugar and old-fashioned oats, with a healthy smear of jam oozing out the middle.

But what I especially like about these bars is that you can tweak them to make your own memories. Add toasted coconut or fresh fruit. Throw in a handful of pecans, some chocolate chips, or a couple healthy shakes of cinnamon. Use apple butter, blackberry jam, or your neighbor’s homemade peach preserves.

Here’s what I’ll remember next time I make these bars: the weight of the jar in my hand as I stood in the grocery store and considered the possibilities. Bubbling jam as I scooted the pan out of the oven. The crackle of parchment paper, buttery crumbs all over the table, and the look on my RA’s face when she walked in and blurted, “That smells so good!”

I like to think I’ll remember being a college student who still liked to eat well all year long.

My only note for this recipe – I decreased the sugar from the original recipe and thought they were great, but they’re definitely on the sweet side. I’d recommend using a quality jam that isn’t too sugary.

Raspberry Oat Crumble Bars
Tweaked from Gourmet
Makes an 9×9″ pan

1 1/4 cups flour
1/3 cup packed light brown sugar
1/2 tsp salt
5 oz (10 tablespoons) cold unsalted butter, cut into pieces
1 tablespoon milk
1 1/2 cups old fashioned oats
3/4 cup seedless raspberry jam

Preheat oven to 375 degrees F.

Mix the flour, sugar, and salt in the bowl of a food processor, then add the butter and pulse until a dough starts to form. Blend in the milk. (If you don’t have a food processor you could do this with an electric mixer, a pastry cutter, or even a fork and man power.) Transfer the dough-bits to a bowl and knead in the oats until well combined.

Put 3/4 cup dough off to the side (this will be used as the crumble.) Press the rest of the dough evenly into a buttered 9×9″ metal baking pan (I lined the pan with parchment paper and skipped the buttering). Spread the jam evenly over the top (if the jam seems tough to spread, heating it a little could help.) Crumble the reserved dough evenly over the top.

Bake in the center of the oven until golden, 20-25 minutes, and cool completely in the pan on a rack. Use a knife to loosen the sides, lift it out, and cut into bars on a cutting board.

Printer-Friendly Version - Raspberry Oat Crumble Bars

My dad picked me up at the Seattle airport when I flew home for winter break. Throughout the semester I’d grown used to the unfamiliar – a different hostel every weekend, foreign customs, menus I couldn’t read. Seeing my dad’s face and falling into a bear hug made everything else disappear, like I’d never left home at all.

I breathed in the chilly air and looked out at the silhouettes of pine trees. Dad unlocked the car and I threw in my bags, a little white carry-on and the replacement backpack I bought in Rome. He raised his eyebrows as I slammed the trunk shut.

“Only two bags?”

“Dad, I’m only home for a month,” I said, rolling my eyes.

I didn’t understand the strange look that passed over his face. He’d later tell me that was the moment he knew I’d come back different, even though I didn’t see it then. How much can a person change in three months, anyway?

But now that I’m back on campus in Boston, little things are different. Last year I didn’t just love living in the freshman dorm with a roommate – I needed that sense of community so I wouldn’t feel lonely, so I’d feel a connection with people. But I think I left Europe with something else entirely. These days I’m living in a single, and I’ve finally learned that living alone isn’t the same thing as being alone.

My parents are living alone. I worried about my mom when I saw her over winter break – she was eating really simple meals and bundling up instead of turning on the heat. For the first time in my life, I wanted to take care of my family, instead of just relying on them to take care of me. And I found that the littlest things in the world made her happy.

Like grocery shopping. My mom and I opened our eating horizons this winter. No more instant noodles and steamed spinach. And while I can’t wait for summer produce – delicate asparagus and heavy, thirst-quenching peaches – the winter has a lot to offer. We discovered cara oranges, faint pink and tangy. Pomegranates cracked into a thousand faceted rubies and acorn squash caramelized in the oven, its skin curling like parchment.

By January, my mom was back in the kitchen. She baked bread for the first time in months. The juicer returned to our kitchen counter (my favorite is apple-carrot, heavy on the carrot.) One afternoon she bought a strange fungus from a Chinese grocery store, learned how to cook it, and introduced it to our table for the first time.

Then she said, “I want a signature dessert so I can bake when you’re not here.” This coming from the woman who once told me my buttercream frosting tasted like cavities.

Then I remembered these amazing peanut butter cookies. They’re naturally vegan – no eggs, butter, or milk – and use whole wheat flour. Plus, the recipe swaps canola oil for olive oil and refined white sugar for maple syrup. The dough comes together in one bowl, and the cookies are as simple as preheating the oven and owning a teaspoon.

The first time I made them, I brought an oven-fresh cookie to my mom. She examined it from top to bottom, took a hearty sniff, and finally tried the tiniest bite. Fifteen minutes later, we’d consumed nearly half of the cooling cookies, and agreed that they were far too dangerous for their own good.

We made these cookies together. I showed her my favorite way to scoop flour (fluffed with a spoon, leveled with a knife) and the best way to avoid over-mixing. She rolled teaspoons of dough into balls, flattened them with a fork, and sprinkled salt and sugar over each batch. All I did was taste test.

My mom makes these cookies for holidays, for dinner parties, for friends. She even baked six dozen of these gems for a cookie swap at work. When people asked if I’d made them, she got to smile and say, “These ones are actually mine.”

When winter break ended and I flew back to Boston, there were still four jars of peanut butter and three pitchers of maple syrup chilling in the fridge. And by the time I’m home again, asparagus and peaches and all my favorite summer produce will be in season, but there won’t be anything I look forward to more than a peanut butter cookie.

[Also - if you're reading this before 1/22/12, I'm going to be a guest tonight on Olivia Wilder Talk Radio! Click here for more info and the number to talk to me on air.]

Even though this is a ridiculously simple one bowl cookie, a few tips make a big difference. Sometimes whole wheat desserts can taste a little dry or heavy. To discourage that, I like to “fluff” the flour before measuring – just stir it around so it isn’t packed – then lightly spoon it into the cup. Level off the top with a knife. Another way to prevent a too-dense cookie is to avoid over-mixing, which creates gluten. Stir until the dough just comes together, then stop.

Our favorite peanut butter is the Trader Joe’s brand, but any natural peanut butter will work. When I open a new jar and there’s lots of liquidy oil at the top, I leave out the olive oil. When the peanut butter is a little drier, I throw it in.

As for the maple syrup, I like the strong flavor of Grade B, but it doesn’t make a huge difference.

Soft Whole Wheat Peanut Butter Cookies (vegan)
Makes just over 2 dozen cookies
Adapted from 101 cookbooks via Oh She Glows

2 cups whole wheat pastry flour (or white whole wheat, or spelt, or all purpose)
1 tsp baking soda
3/4 tsp kosher salt
1 cup natural creamy peanut butter
3/4 cup pure maple syrup
1 1/2 tsp vanilla extract
1/4 cup almond milk (or soy, or regular)
3-4 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
Raw sugar & sea salt for sprinkling

Preheat oven to 350F degrees and line a baking sheet with parchment paper or a non-stick mat.

Stir the peanut butter, maple syrup, optional olive oil, and vanilla until combined in a large mixing bowl. Sift the flour, baking soda, and salt over the top and stir until just combined. If the dough is hard to work with, chill in the fridge or freezer for 15-30 minutes or until easy to shape.

Shape into balls (I like to use a teaspoon) and gently flatten with a fork. If the dough sticks, sometimes moistening your fingers or the fork helps. Sprinkle the tops with salt and raw sugar. Bake for 11 minutes until set.

Printer-Friendly Version – Soft Whole Wheat Peanut Butter Cookies

First, I noticed the doors.

I took a bus from Menara airport to Djemaa El-Fna, a large square in the heart of Marrakech’s old city. The bus swerved through a sea of motorized bikes, past flat stretches of fanned palms and arches marking unlit alleys. On the sidewalk I counted more feral cats than I’ve ever seen, and on the rooftops I caught glimpses of oversized nests and tall, toothpick-legged cranes.

We zigzagged between buildings the colors of rust, orange-pink and off white, with unpainted brick exposed on the sides. Elaborate grates decorated the arched windows. The Arabic tile was all geometric shapes and primary colors: chaos and balance. But the doors.

The doors were painted turquoise, seafoam green, red. Some were patterned with raised studs, others with thin scrolls or contrasting diamonds. As the bus sped towards the center square, the doors become vivid blurs against the burnt orange skyline.

(Click thumbnails for full-sized photos!)

Night fell by the time my friends and I arrived at our riad, which was tucked in the maze of side streets of a residential neighborhood. We turned a few corners, walked through a children’s game of football, and found the right alleyway. I saw a door marked 18, just like our directions said, so I pushed it open and the six of us walked inside, backpacks and all.

Inside I saw richly threaded pillows, candles flickering through the cut-outs of metal tins, and… a family of four eating dinner? The woman herded us out of her living room, back into the alley, and pointed further down. Wrong door marked 18. I’d been in Morocco for an hour, and I’d managed to walk into a stranger’s home.

We found the right door, knocked first, and settled into our riad.

We sat in the lounge and planned out our trip over a pot of mint tea – a super sweet drink consumed in tiny, steaming cups. The riad offered a two day excursion into the Sahara desert. We argued amongst ourselves before realizing we couldn’t travel this close to the Sahara without going in. As we came to the decision, I felt a raindrop, and looked up through the open roof as the sky began pouring.

I woke up early for the excursion. I showered on the rooftop terrace, under the starlit sky, and listened to the roosters crow just as my hot water ran out.

We loaded into a van – our home for the next two days. We drove out of the city, around crumbling red mountains and over rocky cliffs, past cacti dripping with ruby fruit. We stopped at villages along the way, where I haggled for silver bracelets and drank an Arabic coke.

By sundown we’d reached the edge of the desert, where we mounted our camels and rode into the Sahara. Here’s what I’ve learned about camels: I don’t like them. Mine was too tall, too fat, a little bow-legged, and very fond of spitting. I also managed to get the camel with the sassiest hips, and when I dismounted two hours later, I felt every ounce of that sass in my aching legs. Can a camel look smug? I think so.

But we set up our tents and ate vegetable tagines for dinner. We danced around the campfire and sang to each other. The sand, cool as the night air and finer than sugar, slipped through my fingers like silk. I stayed outside as long as I could, listening to the camels gossip, looking up at the clearest stars I’ve ever seen, until I woke up to a glorious sunrise edging over the dunes.

(For the record, the camel ride back in the morning is worse.)

We drove back through the snow capped Atlas Mountains, and seven hours later, returned to Marrakech. That night I explored Djemaa El-Fna, a square full of snake charmers, henna artists, and monkeys with chains around their necks. The night market offers heaped spices, fresh orange juice, and bin after bin of roasted nuts. I devoured dried apricots, figs, and dates by the handful.

In the morning, Marrakech experienced a torrential downpour. My friends and I picked that morning to visit the Majorelle Gardens, and by the time we walked there, my socks squelched. But thanks to the rain, we were the only visitors to the garden, and the sight of thick palms, lilies in still ponds, and a forest of bamboo moved the rain to the back of my mind.

With two hours left in the country, I fell in love with the Souks, Marrakech’s mazelike market. The stalls sell everything from slippers and earrings to glazed pottery and gunpowder tea. The market only has a few entrances, and the knot of alleys and streets of stalls were impossible to navigate. For about twenty minutes, thoroughly lost in the heart of the Souks, I thought, “There’s no way I’m making my flight back.”

Now I’m back in Seattle, my semester abroad finished. I’ve seen my old friends and had family dinner, and I’m happy to be home. But a little part of me misses standing ankle deep in sand, scowling at my camel. The weight of lifting the lid of a tagine pot. I probably won’t stop missing the crumbling archways, the brilliant fabrics, the thrill of feeling completely foreign – until my next trip to Marrakech.

Standing before the counter, I meant to order a double scoop of stracciatella for one simple reason – after a week in Italy, the chocolate-flecked gelato remained the only flavor I could pronounce correctly.

The first time I bought gelato, I waited in line behind a panther of a woman, distinctly Italian among the throng of tourists. She radiated confidence in a black leather jacket and sky-high stilettos, balancing effortlessly atop the uneven Roman cobblestone. “Una paletta di stracciatella, per favore,” she trilled, the double C crackling like almond brittle between her teeth, the final syllable sung out rather than spoken, a ringing “LA.”

When the line shuffled forward, my plan to smile and point suddenly lost all appeal, and I blurted out, “Stracciatella!” As parrot-like as the word sounded in my American accent, it seemed less embarassing than blindly butchering anything else.

The gelato culture here isn’t anything like eating ice cream in the states. No matter where you are in Rome, you can probably spot a couple gelaterias from where you’re standing – across the street, inside the bakeries, even next door to one another. Gelato is denser and creamier than ice cream, with fresh flavors and prices cheaper than water.

I ate gelato twice a day while I was in Italy, for dessert and sometimes for dinner. Some shops packed scoops into chocolate-dipped cones, other topped the cup with a thin waffle cookie called a pizelle, and one store smothered the gelato with unsweetened whipped cream. Pretty soon, before lunch and after dinner, my order became a habit, the only flavor I could say with confidence: “Stracciatella.”

I stumbled upon a little gelateria one afternoon in Venice. More of a street-side counter than a shop, tucked in the south end of Campo Santa Margherita, the place didn’t advertise its fame as Venice’s best gelato with banners or framed awards. But the long line of people, all craning over each other’s shoulders to peek at the display case, wordlessly gave me the message.

Unlike some of the shops I’d visited, with counters that wrapped around the room, this place offered fewer than a dozen bins of gelato. But I was struck by the simplicity and intensity of the flavors offered, the effortless swirl of the gelato. Even though I couldn’t understand most of the Italian labels, garnishes translated for me – halved figs sparkling atop the fico, tan-edged wisps of coconut dotting the coco, a scattering of skinned hazelnuts over the nocciola.

I was tempted by the amarena, a cream based gelato swirled with sour cherry sauce, the fruit mixed in whole. In the next bin I discovered pistacchio, a flavor I’d seen almost everywhere. But the natural color, paler than the artificial neon green I sometimes saw, made this one stand out. And of course, there was my go-to stracciatella: white and perfectly smooth, aside from the streaks of rippled chocolate marbling throughout.

Before I could order the stracciatella, I discovered a wholly new flavor. Nearly black, this concoction churned dark chocolate into the creamiest-looking gelato I’d ever seen. In the afternoon sun, bits of candied orange peel studding the chocolate caught the light like jewels.

I found the label and immediately got lost in a string of C’s and vowels, still too proud to silently point. In the past few weeks I’d visited Scotland and England in the UK, English-speaking cities in the Netherlands, and Paris, which revived my high school French. But here in Italy, with no understanding of the language, I felt so invasive, so touristy, unable to blend in.

When I looked up, the man at the counter was smiling.

“Cioccolato all-arancia,” he said, the consonants soft in his deep voice.

“Cho-koh-LAH-toh ahl-ah-RAHN-cha,” I repeated.

He worked a bit of gelato back and forth a few times with a flat paddle until it was soft and creamy, and topped a waffle cone with a generous smear. This gelato had the texture of silk, an elusive airiness. The chocolate melted into a bittersweet custard on my tongue, the candied orange like tiny sunbursts. It was simply the best gelato I’d ever tasted.

When I found myself in line for a scoop the next morning in Florence, I scanned the bins, anticipating the flavor I’d choose next. Gianduja? Castagna? Something mysterious called zabaione, with no garnish whatsoever?

Maybe I couldn’t speak Italian, but by the time I returned to the Netherlands, I planned to be fluent in gelato.

Click for more photos from my travels in Italy…

A highlight of Venice – getting so lost, I couldn’t find a Venetian mask or postcard stand to save my life. Instead I walked through this beautiful neighborhood of marigold and off-white apartments, with laundry connecting each building like carnival banners.

The buildings in Venice are crumbling, but the exposed brick adds even more beauty and character.

Top: A merry-go-round lit up in Florence and the view from a Venetian bridge;
Bottom: Morning and midnight views of Florentine rooftops from the hostel patio

The loveliest door I’ve ever seen.

Last but not least… I’m so sorry. It had to be done.

See you on the other side of Morocco!

I flew to Rome last Monday with a single black backpack containing everything essential for a week-long romp through Italy.

To be completely honest, I’d been having a bad week. It didn’t help that before Rome I was in Berlin, where dying leaves littered the ground and the clouds poured rain whenever I forgot my umbrella. For the first time this semester I wanted to go home. Even though I knew how lucky I was to be abroad, I continually battled stress and exhaustion. Italy felt like an escape, a chance to find myself again.

My friend J- and I arrived in Rome on Halloween night. We navigated the train station and a few tram stops later we arrived at our apartment, where J-’s childhood friend A- had offered her couch. It was small, but centrally located, and in our excitement to explore Rome we dropped our backpacks down on the living room floor and rushed outside.

I fell for Rome in the hour we spent outside – how could I not? We wandered past ancient ruins in the middle of cobblestoned piazzas, leaping fountains, a blur of arches and columns. The night was so warm I wore a short sleeved t-shirt and a skirt. I had nothing with me. No passport, no wallet, no cell phone. For the first time in weeks I felt free.

We walked back, ready to fall into bed. The barred metal gate to the apartment building was ajar. Inside, the door to our apartment stood wide open. First, I saw my clothes on a pile on the floor, my journal tossed a couple feet away. In one hazy moment I realized my backpack was nowhere in sight, and without thought I opened my mouth and said, “I think we’ve been robbed.”

I sat on the couch and experienced my first real panic attack. J- had his arms around me as he tried to help me breathe again. A- ran from room to room. Laptops, cell phones, cameras, even expensive headphones and cologne – gone. I cried and cried as A- called the police and the seven people living in the apartment, whom I hadn’t even met yet. I’d been in Rome for three hours.

When the police arrived, we made lists of everything we lost. I sat on the steps outside with my torn piece of notebook paper and a pen, absolutely numb. The thieves had taken my backpack itself, leaving only my clothes and my journal. I lost my toiletries, souvenirs from Berlin, and worthless but sentimental things – a friendship bracelet from a dear friend, a bag from my dad, my favorite earrings.

My laptop was stolen. So was my Canon DSLR and 50mm lens. The moment I realized they were gone, I also knew I couldn’t afford to replace either. J- held my hand as I repeated, over and over, “I don’t know how to live without my camera.”

In the morning, J- and I ate a quick breakfast and left the apartment without a map or itinerary. We just wanted to wander. When we stepped outside and I saw Rome in the light for the first time, I exhaled all of the negative energy inside me and knew that everything would be okay. Being robbed was terrible, but in a superficial way, I’m glad it happened.

Honestly, things are just things. All I lost was money, and convenience. Nobody was hurt. We returned to the apartment so early last night, we’re lucky we didn’t run into the robbers, who I’m sure would have been armed. I can live without a laptop. And while it was painful to explore Italy without my camera, I used my iPod instead, and that’s where the photos in this post are from.

Most of all, the robbery provided an emotional outlet I’d needed. For weeks I’d been feeling miserable, but I supressed everything in an effort to appreciate the opportunity I’d been given. But the emotions I experienced during the robbery were so intense – fear, anger, depression, confusion, hurt – that I woke up cleansed the next morning. A blank slate. Ready to embrace Rome fully and whole-heartedly.

And we did. Rome is my favorite city of the five countries I’ve visited, and this trip – robbery included – has been my absolute favorite.

J- and I ate gelato twice a day. We walked through the forum in silence, absolutely spellbound. I stood beneath the Sistine Chapel, and I peered over the stretch of Rome from the St. Peter’s Dome. I sat beneath the Italian pine trees, soft and strong and older than I can imagine, and wrote in my travel journal, which I am so grateful to still have.

Whenever I snuck an olive off J-’s pizza or borrowed his pen, he wrinkled his nose at me and said, “I’ve been robbed!”

Sometimes, you have to choose to laugh.

The next day we filed a police report with the seven other people who were robbed. As I sat in silence in the Roman police station, that familiar numbness seeping through my skull, I wondered, “Since when is this my life?”

J- and I decided to treat ourselves to a fantastic dinner. We wandered until we found a beautiful restaurant, with outdoor seating and twinkling Christmas lights. We were the only people there but the prices were affordable and the fragrant air beckoned us to sit down. I ordered a seafood spaghetti with mussels, clams, and cherry tomatoes; J- ordered gnocchi with arugula and cream sauce.

I think I may have cried when our food came out. I wish so badly I had a camera to take a picture, because it was the most beautiful plate of pasta I’ve ever seen. J- moaned when he took his first bite, but I thought mine was even better. We split a bottle of chianti and then treated ourselves to dessert.

If that night, that conversation with J-, that astounding plate of spaghetti, doesn’t turn out to be the highlight of the semester, I don’t know what will be.

I’m back in the Netherlands now. Classes start again tomorrow. Life moves on.

I’m writing this in the computer lab, which is drafty and continuously buzzing. The internet is spotty and I am missing my laptop more than ever. When I head to Morocco for my next travel weekend, I’ll ache for my camera until my heart bruises.

But my life isn’t made rich by money, or by photographs. I have all the memories I need, and as long as there’s wifi, I’ll continue to share them with you.

When I originally set this weekend aside as a stay-on-campus weekend, I couldn’t help but feel disappointed. It was a smart idea for a couple reasons… Midterms are next week, my past few trips have been over budget, and I’m feeling under the weather. But I still felt a desperate restlessness when Friday rolled around and my friends packed their bags and flew away. Somehow it seems crucial to travel every week as I study abroad – a wasted opportunity to stop and breathe.

I didn’t realize how exhausted I’ve been until I experienced my first lazy Saturday in Europe. Instead of getting lost between train stations, I watched Spirited Away in the castle lounge and ate raisin bread. Today I curled up in an armchair with my art history notes, ready to absorb everything about Romanesque churches, when it hit me. I wanted to write. And for the first time in weeks, I had time.

I hadn’t meant to go this long without sharing my semester with you. Maybe photos of Scotland will help?

Our flight was delayed five hours and we arrived in Edinburgh far later than expected. It was so dark we couldn’t see a single building or street, but we found our way to the hostel and crashed on teetering bunk beds. I woke up early the next morning with no idea what Scotland looked like.

I found the shower room, pushed open the door, and groggily cursed the bright light coming from the window. But when I opened my eyes and looked outside for the first time, I actually dropped my bottle of shampoo, rushed back to the room, and returned with my camera. We woke up to one of the most beautiful sunrises I’ve ever seen – the whole city bathed in fog, planks of light skimming across steeples and trees and rocky crags.

We walked outside and realized, in the daylight, that our hostel rubbed up against the Edinburgh Castle. My life is unreal.

I spent my first day exploring. I tried to soak in the stone buildings, made up of a million colors – almond, tan, khaki, black, a few blush pink. I walked through a park and stumbled upon this beautiful cemetery. Some gravestones weren’t completely rubbed down by wind and weather, and the people laid to rest dated back centuries.

I watched a street performer breathe fire, swallow swords, and lay beneath a bed of nails.

More than anything else, I loved the layout of Edinburgh. I didn’t realize until we stood high on a ridge and looked down at the city, but the streets weave and tangle like a knot. The city has layers, with some roads above and some roads below, and massive inclines in between. For some reason, we always ended up walking uphill both ways to and from our hostel.

It didn’t make sense to us either.

Our first day in Edinburgh was absolutely gorgeous. People kept telling us not to be fooled by the beautiful weather… I thought it was modesty. Then one afternoon the rain turned on and never turned off. Up until that point I’d marveled at the way I could stand on a street and look all the way down, stretching out forever – that day Edinburgh fog swept through until you could barely see anything.

At night, we tried (somewhat unsuccessfully) to find late night food. We sang Brown Eyed Girl at a piano bar and went to a ceilidh – “kaylee,” in my American accent – or a traditional Scottish dance.

I befriended some of the kindest, warmest people I have ever met.

I left Edinburgh fulfilled and awakened, thinking that I could see myself living here someday.

This semester is a gift. I can’t wait to share more of it with you in the coming weeks!

I’m sitting on a windowsill, trying to write this post, but I keep getting distracted.

There’s the jet lag I can’t seem to shake. I find myself asleep throughout lunch and wide awake at three in the morning, powering through the headaches that come and go and the occasional ear pop.

There’s the noise. In the hallway outside my room, I hear every step on the creaky wood floors that are older than me. Downstairs someone is playing the untuned grand piano. Whenever a door slams – and they have to slam or they won’t shut – the sound bounces up every flight of stairs, around the high ceilings, and into my jet-lagged head.

But most of all, there’s the beauty. From the window opposite me I can see into the courtyard, four even brick walls and a stone tower around a square of cobblestone. If I lean I can see the path continue into a drawbridge, then an open field. My bedroom window looks over the moat, slowly churned by a single fountain and home to one black swan.

I’m blogging from a small castle in the Netherlands, a three-hour bus ride from Amsterdam and a seven-hour flight from Boston. For the next three months, this is home.

I found out I’d be studying abroad way back in first semester, but it didn’t feel real until I was loading my bag onto the bus, lugging it through Logan Airport. I didn’t think I slept much on the flight but I blinked and the sky changed from charcoal to pink and apricot. Then the plane touched down onto the flattest country I’d ever seen, and “Welcome to Amsterdam” crinkled over the speaker.

Even though the airport was filled with English, nothing was familiar. I instantly regretted wearing my Boston sweatshirt, which made me feel extra touristy and kind of guilty. We boarded yet another bus and passed windmills, grassy stretches, and lots of cows until finally we arrived at the castle.

There’s a village ten minutes from here, where we can buy shampoo from “Everything Under One Roof” and applekorn shots from the bar (Wednesday nights are American Night.) Cars always honk warmly at us when we walk through town, elderly couples smile when they pass on bikes. So far I can’t help but adore the Dutch. Every local I’ve run into is friendly, to the point, and has a good sense of humor.

Still, the culture feels so new, with distinctions I haven’t really learned. I asked a teacher if I could find an oven somewhere in the village and her reply was polite, but brisk – “No. The Dutch are a private people. Nobody will let you into their home just to use a kitchen.”

I can’t cook, but I can eat. Our castle tour guide passed around a bag of stroopwafel, two thin waffles sandwiched with caramel syrup. I bought apricot tart at the village bakery. The dough was like bread and the apricots were so sticky sweet, they perfumed my fingers for hours. I’m obsessed with the tomatoensoep from the little café. It’s like marinara! I ended up dipping French fries into it because – sorry – I didn’t like the weird custard-like mayonnaise that came with them instead of ketchup.

I didn’t expect much from the castle’s dining hall, but I’ve been pleasantly surprised. Breakfast and lunch usually includes breads, deli meats and cheese, even fresh fruit. Dinner always has potatoes in one form or another, and a heavy white sauce. It kind of feels like home until you reach the spreads. Literally, a table full of various jars, available at every meal and totally strange.

There are two chocolate spreads. One is kind of like Nutella and the other is a milk/white chocolate swirled duo. I tried to read the back for ingredients, which were offered in six languages, none of which were English. I tried a strange black syrup on a dare – it turned out to be apple. There are cheese spreads, vegetable spreads, and more of that European mayo.

Then, for no obvious reason, every table has peanut butter and jam.

For the first time, I was reminded of something wholly American. I was thrown back to childhood afterschool sandwiches, thumbprint cookies, and this Peanut Butter and Jelly Loaf I made in Seattle. The pound cake is soft and sweet, and the sugar coating on the pan makes the edges slightly crisp like a peanut butter cookie. I couldn’t help but add dollops of grape jelly, which became set into a sticky swirl after baking.

I ate my potatoes and heavy white sauce but I kept thinking about that loaf. Finally I decided to make a PB&J. I expected the unexpected, because everything that looks familiar ends up being strange. The milk is extra thick, the yogurt is extra thin, the butter has a texture I can’t place. But I opened the two jars, spread each onto bread, and sandwiched them together.

Unbelievable. The peanut butter was creamy and sweet but really… A whole lot like Jif. And the strawberry jam? Maybe a few more strawberry chunks than I’m used to, but exactly like jam at the Boston dining hall. I ate my peanut butter sandwich and felt wholly American, and kind of okay with that. I have plenty of time to adjust, travel, and adapt. Next weekend I’m off to Amsterdam, and the weekend after that, Edinburgh. For right now, though, I’ll enjoy the occasional PB&J.

The internet is a little spotty, but I’ll keep blogging! Expect some photo-filled travel posts…

Peanut Butter Jelly Loaf
Adapted from Cuisine At Home Magazine via Anger Burger
Makes a 9×5″ Loaf

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp baking soda
1 tsp salt
1/2 cup whole milk, room temperature
1 tsp vanilla extract
3/4 cup creamy, all natural peanut butter (with no added palm oil)
2 oz (1/2 stick) butter, room temperature
3/4 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup packed dark brown sugar
3 eggs, room temperature
1/2 cup jam

Preheat the oven to 350 F. Butter a 9×5″ loaf pan and coat it with sugar.

Sift the flour, baking soda, baking powder, and salt into a small bowl. In another bowl, stir the jam to break it up and get it loose.

In the bowl of a stand mixer, cream the peanut butter, butter, and sugars on medium high speed for a full five minutes. The mixture won’t get light and fluffy and the sugar won’t dissolve, but the mixture will be less grainy.

Beat in the eggs one at a time, mixing well after each one and scraping down the sides of the bowl.

Beat in half the flour mixture, then the milk and vanilla extract, then the rest of the flour, scraping the sides of the bowl. The batter will be thin. Pour half the batter into the loaf pan and dollop with jam. Pour the rest of the batter over the jam and sprinkle the top with large grain sugar.

Bake the loaf for about 50 minutes. The time for this one really depends on your oven, so keep checking. If the edges start to get too brown, loosely tent some tin foil over the top and keep baking. Then bake for another 10-20 minutes or until a toothpick in the middle comes out clean.

Cool in the pan for 15 minutes, then turn the cake out onto a cooling rack and let cool completely.

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