It’s a sweltering July afternoon and even though the back door is open wide, only the scorching dry summer heat comes into the kitchen. Mother is standing by the gas stove, flipping thinly sliced zucchini  just as they turn golden brown. A tray sits on the counter, filled with a few layers of the uncooked ones, salted and dipped in flour, just luxuriating and waiting to be covered with egg batter and pan fried.

Father walks in on his way back from the hospital, grabs the top-most zucchini, and pops it in his mouth without stopping, oblivious to the fact that it’s still sizzling from the hot pan. The three of us saunter in the kitchen, refreshed from the shower we just took, exhausted and ravenous after a few hours spent at the city pool. I can’t help but sneak a zucchini off the platter, even though I make sure that Mother notices me rolling my eyes at the sight of her pan-frying a mountain of them on the hottest day of the century.

Chewing slowly to prolong the enjoyment, I swear that I will stop the tradition and avoid the kitchen when I grow up. After all, Aristotle would not have been Aristotle had he spent every waking minute cooking, cleaning, sewing, and helping children with their homework, as I sagely pointed to Mother fairly often, scolding her for abandoning her easel and her sketchbook for the degrading and not-at-all rewarding life of a housewife.

Some years later, here I am standing next to a gas stove in my southern California kitchen, flipping golden brown egg-battered zucchini slices, my apron speckled with flour. I checked the items off the list in my head as the mound on the platter next to me keeps on growing. I will have finished everything I intended to before going to work in the afternoon, including pan-frying zucchini and eggplant for next day’s Food Bloggers LA monthly meet-up.

As I proudly pat myself on the shoulder, my fourteen-year old enters the kitchen in a quest for something “sweet, creamy and delicious”. “That looks like the most tedious chore in the world!”, she proclaims, throwing one of her famous disdainful looks my way. And all of a sudden I am transported from this gorgeous, balmy May afternoon in California, with the breeze that brings the smell of roses and rosemary through the open front door, to one of the scorching summer days in Serbia filled with crates of pale green, tender-skinned zucchini begging for attention.

And I understand that Mother did not find her role as degrading as I thought it was at the time. She enjoyed preparing the most wonderful meals for her family, even though the job was not that rewarding and we definitely took her creativity, talent, and effort for granted. My precocious teenager is as haughty as I was at her age and I know better than to try to explain to her that Gloria Steinem and Betty Friedan would probably praise me for my choice to sacrifice a few hours of my precious free time to cook a delectable meal, as it makes me infinitely happy.

Bella Italia! (photo by Vamoos Travel)

If I ever win lottery, I will spend the rest of my life traveling. That is, after I donate a large sum to juvenile diabetes research, fight against cancer, eradication of hunger, and education. And after I help some of my family and friends better their existence. And after I secure a substantial amount for my daughters’ college tuitions. As I don’t have to stay in four star hotels and I don’t have to travel first class, I believe that there will still be plenty left for my traveling budget.

Vineyards as far as you can see (photo by Vamoos Travel)

I am not a great fit with guided tours, preferring to explore the unknown places on my own, following my curiosity and interests, rather than bowing to the general assumptions of what needs to be seen. I carefully plan my vacations doing a lot of research, reading comments and recommendations, and bothering friends and family who ventured in the the area before me.

Balsamico di Modena (photo by Vamoos Travel)

I like to book rooms in small, un-glamorous hotels which sometimes do not offer AC and definitely do not have every cable channel available on TV, providing there even is a TV set in the room. I like to be on the first name basis with the receptionists/owners and get their input on the best-ofs in their area. I like to ride buses with the locals across towns and get lost in small village farmers markets.

Suzie and Erika, the founders of Vamoos Travel

On a few occasions in the past I was pleasantly surprised to discover small tourist agencies that cater to unorthodox tourists like me who remain behind, hidden under huge, floppy hats and Victoria Beckham-sized sunglasses as their group herds after a guide carrying a flag and talking in a condescending kindergarten-teacher manner.

Making fresh pasta (photo by Vamoos Travel)

Therefore, I was thrilled to meet Erika Suhr and Suzie Agelopoulos, the founders of Vamoos Travel, a small company that promises to take you off the beaten path and let you immerse yourself in the real life just waiting to be explored behind the glossy posters adorning the glass walls of most travel agencies. These two long-time friends hail from Seattle, where they dabbled in different careers before discovering their true passion: Erika sold pharmaceuticals and Suzie ran a Greek restaurant. Sensing that there is so much more out there, they embarked on an adventure and spent more than a year traveling the world and managing to feel at home at most places they visited.

Truffles of Emilia-Romagna (photo by Vamoos Travel)

Passionate and vivacious, they befriended locals wherever they went and spent many hours experiencing their day-to-day existence. People they met opened their hearts and their homes to them, eager to share their hospitality, and in no time they learned that they were the happiest when sitting down at the family table, sharing food and wine with strangers who became fast friends before the first glass was empty. The seed of an idea was planted, and shortly after they returned to the US and relocated to Los Angeles, they started Vamoos Travel.

Prosciutto di Parma (photo by Vamoos Travel)

Their first destination for the culinary travel tour is Emilia-Romagna, a northern province of Italy rich with traditions, culture, and history, and home to some of the best regional cuisines. Small groups (not more than ten people) would visit family-run factories that make Parmigiano-Reggiano, prosciutto di Parma, and aceto balsamico the old, traditional way; they would watch some of Bologna’s most acclaimed chefs prepare their dinner and learn how to roll pasta in some nonna’s small kitchen; they would ride in the pick-up truck to forage for truffles, and taste wine produced in small countryside vineries.

I want to be there! (Photo by Vamoos Travel)

I cannot imagine better way to spend a week. If that winning lotto ticket would somehow materialize in my hands, I would book this November tour for me and nine of my friends without blinking. In the meantime, I can keep this dream alive by practicing my Italian with my friends Barbara and Christina and eating simple, but flavorful foods that are the essence of Italian regional cooking. I offer you a recipe for baked vegetables, one of the quintesential Italian dishes our Food Bloggers of LA group sampled several days ago at home of Erika Kerekes in Santa Monica (whose kitchen I covet with every ounce of my being – when I get my own house, can I borrow Michael to help me with design of the kitchen, pretty please?)

Erika Kerekes prepared an amazing Italian lunch

I apologize for the poor quality of the photo; the sample of baked vegetables (eggplant in my case) is on the upper left side

Please visit Vamoos Travel site and look at the photos. These girls will fulfill their dreams and make dreams come true for so many of us. I wish them all the luck in the world. Arrivederci a Bologna, amiche mie!

Thanks, Erika, for your hospitality, for preparing those fabulous Italian dishes and for introducing us to Erika and Suzie.

For a few years, we have been facing some tough times. At moments, the panic would strike and I would not be able to breathe from anxiety, helpless, ambushed by an existential crisis that completely blocked my view.  I felt like a rabbit caught suddenly and without a warning in bright headlights, unable to move, frozen, awaiting with dread whatever came at me from the darkness.

The end to our troubles was an elusive, a pie-in-the-sky kind of thing, but I still believed and held firmly to that belief. Passage of time did not bring it closer, as it always stayed far enough away, tempting us with the promise, but never becoming a reality. And now, that there is no more “us”, my world changed completely, including new strategies, new goals, and new promises.

There were days when I did not know if the refrigerator and pantry would yield an edible meal for two teenagers, and I would drag out the printouts of all the places in the neighborhood that offered free meals to the indigent people. In time I learned the addresses of churches and temples, but fortunately did not have to use their services and hospitality. I was raised to be Aesop’s proverbial Ant and I somehow always managed to put food on the table. It helped that my girls were adventurous eaters, not picky at all, satisfied with whatever they found on their plates.

I want to think that those days are behind me. Freida, who opened her house to us, marvels at all the food that I manage to cram in the fridge, freezer and pantry, assuring me that I am not the only one who draws comfort from it. I don’t really want to do it, but in my head I keep a tally of all the meals I can prepare from the food I diligently dragged home. Just like there has to be some money stashed somewhere for emergencies, so there has to be emergency food. Once bitten, twice shy, they say. I was bitten twice already in my life in the US, and I’d rather be prepared really well.

These days I can send my girls to the neighborhood ice cream place with their friends without wringing my hands and second-guessing my decision. I feel secure enough in our family finances to indulge their occasional cravings for a milk shake or an In-N-Out hamburger. And I deliberately silence voices in my head who pipe up immediately as soon as I even think of doing something for myself, trying to make me feel guilty. I have to work on that, but I am determined to prevail.

My finger lingered for a few moments before it pressed the button that would make an online purchase final, but I made it move down. In a few days, the mail man delivered a box from Amazon and in it a beautiful book I coveted for months: Jerusalem: A Cookbook, by Yotam Ottolenghi and Sami Tamimi.

Some time back, my friend Beth of OMG! Yummy invited me to participate in Tasting Jerusalem, a virtual cooking group that explores the recipes of this fascinating region as seen by two people who grew up in the city, an Israeli and a Palestinian. For a long time I just watched from the bleachers, unable to take part, anticipating the day when I would be able to bury my face in the book and smell its fresh-from-the-press pages.

Jerusalem: A Cookbook, deserves a post all by itself, but today I have to concentrate on the topic of the month, which is couscous. I have cooked with couscous for many years, ever since I discovered the versatility of these small pasta spheres made of durum semolina wheat. Instead of replicating a recipe from the cookbook, this month’s challenge was to come up with our own dish using couscous.

My girls recently developed a love affair with tabbouleh, a zesty Middle-Eastern salad made with chewy bulgur wheat, sweet, ripe tomatoes, pungent parsley, fresh mint, and lemon juice. Substituting toothsome whole wheat Israeli couscous for bulgur wheat was a no-brainer and the results did not disappoint. I used mint that grows rampant in the bed of calla lillies and lemons from the yard next door. I only wish the tomatoes came from the garden, but that will have to wait for a few more weeks.

I don’t know if I will win the contest for the most creative use of couscous. I am just excited to be a part of this group that takes me virtually to a city I long to visit one day soon. It all started with a hesitant press of a button, an action that was not possible for me even a month ago, a deed that seemed courageous and momentuous that left me feeling comforted and content…Almost like a glance into my fully stocked pantry.

“Tasting Jerusalem is a virtual cooking community exploring the vibrant flavors and cuisine of the Middle East through the lens of “Jerusalem: A Cookbook” by Ottolenghi and Tamimi published by Ten Speed Press. You can follow along and cook with us by subscribing to omgyummy.com, following the hashtag #TastingJrslm on Twitter and Instagram, and liking our Facebook page.”

Once a month I play Bunco with a very diverse group of women. In my previous life across the ocean, I enjoyed playing cards and board games with my friends and I am still very passionate about sharing a few leisurely hours in a relaxed and lets-pretend-to-be-competitive atmosphere.

First time around I was a complete novice, ignorant of the simple rules. It did not help that I was the newest member of the Bunco tribe that had previously met for years. I was understandably anxious, but my fears were assuaged immediately by an exceptionally warm communal welcome that included a glass of red wine and a nice and versatile spread of nibbles. I felt comforted by the thought that these women are witty, funny, approachable, and as eager to pop a cork on a bottle of wine as I was.

As I said, the rules of the Bunco game are stupidly simple and not meant to be challenging, nor ambiguous. Anyone can win, and even if you lose, you can win. Throughout the night, I switched tables, rolled the dice, and got to know my fellow Bunco-ites. I concluded that the point of the game is not to win, to compete, to be better, but to make friends, to relax, and to enjoy the company.

I was introduced to the group by my friend and neighbor as a food blogger, a “foodie”, and a make-it-from-scratch kind of girl. It is only logical that I would think really hard about the potluck dishes I had to bring, having to uphold my reputation. Food for Bunco nights is supposed to be fun, unpretentious, and easy to eat. Small portions and bite-size offerings are hugely appreciated as we eat while standing up, holding a plate and a glass of wine.

The last time we met, I had to work during the day. I knew that I would not have enough time to make something very special and time-consuming, but bringing food bought at the grocery store was definitely out of the question. Having decided that I had all the ingredients necessary to make cheese crackers, I rolled up my sleeves and got to work. I was confident that these little cheesy bites would be popular with the ladies, as they pack just enough punch to wake up your palate in the most delightful way.

I was not disappointed: the crackers were a success, not only with the members of my Bunco group that night, but with my girls and Freida in my absence. I now have a standing request for these easy snacks, one that I am more than happy to comply with. Crackers are easily adjusted to tastes and availability of ingredients, very simple and fast to make, and satisfy kids and adults equaly. And my Bunco ladies never suspected that I did not slave in the kitchen for hours to bring these cheesy morsels to them.

I used Special Reserve Extra Sharp Tilamook Cheddar Cheese and it was divine! No, Tilamook cheese company has not supplied me with cheese – I just happen to love it.

When I look back in time of my childhood, I have to be in awe of Mother and Njanja for all the baking they did, almost on daily basis. I cannot remember a single day that we did not have something sweet to round up our meal and to snack on. I definitely took it for granted and only when I became a mother and faced the demands of the adult world did I realize how fortunate we were growing up.

My children do not enjoy daily doses of pies, cookies, tortes, cakes – not even crepes, the ubiquitous dessert that most of the European children learn to make about the time they start preschool (yes, I am kidding, but crepes are a simple, inexpensive and versatile dessert that can be whipped up in minutes, and as such they are considered ordinary by many of my “paesanos”). That way, when I bake something, anything, they are elated and tremendously happy.

Sure, I have inherited Mother’s hand-written cookbook and Njanja’s painstakingly recorded page after yellowed page of decades-worth of recipes, and one of these days I will embark on a project of preserving the old-fashioned, delicious, and oh-so-time-consuming European dishes of the past. I hate to see them lapse into the oblivion, but I am not ready yet to tackle Njanja’s Dobos Torte or Mother’s Napoleon Torte. My girls know nothing about this idea and that’s for the best. In the meantime, I bake the simplest of desserts, once every couple of weeks, and make a grandstand of it, accepting accolades, praises, and, of course, sweet kisses with feigned modesty.

Our Food Bloggers of LA April meeting was held in the Orange County, at a beautiful house perched on a Tustin hill. Kim of Rustic Garden Bistro was our hostess, and as this was the second spring she and her ever-so-nice husband Barry have kept chickens, it was no surprise that the theme of the get-together was “Egg-stravaganza”.

I planned on making a quiche, a Russian Salad, or maybe an assortment of deviled eggs, but I was ambushed by a few unexpected errands the day before, which left me literally scratching my head as I had to go to work in the early afternoon. I did not completely disregard the teachings of my female ancestors, though: every time I make mayonnaise, I save the egg white and keep it in a plastic bagie in the freezer – as I add more, I just change the number on the bag with my Sharpie.

I promptly excavated a baggie containing three egg whites, placed them in a cup of warm water to defrost, and danced a happy dance in the middle of my 70s kitchen in anticipation of light-as-foam, crispy meringues. They might not have been Mother’s elaborate masterpieces combining several beautiful flavors that sing to your palate in a delicious symphony, but the members of my household, including Pepe, the French poodle, were exctatic.

The recipe is versatile – you can omit the lemon zest and top each meringue with a quarted of a walnut or a pecan. You can add a bit of cocoa to color it and give it chocolate flavor. You can add chocolate chips or chopped nuts as Judy of Bumbleberry Breeze did. And besides, they are so easy to make that I entrusted my girls to watch them, turne the oven off, and let them dry out while I went to work.

A long time ago I read that baby animals are cute on purpose, to make us like them and protect them. I can’t say that I loved our several cats and dogs any less when they became fully grown, but I definitely lamented the passage of time that rid them of their round, fluffy faces, innocent playfullness and adorable tininess.

As a child I wished for a potion that would stop the kittens from becoming cats and puppies for becoming dogs. At the same time, I could not wait until my next birthday and rejoiced at every centimeter that added to my height. I envisioned my teenage self at seventh grade, yet I brought home countless animal orphans I encountered on my meandering way back from school, all of them very young, very neglected, and always abandoned. Alas, Mother would not allow me to nurture these pathetic specimens until adulthood and as soon as they gathered strength, I had to release them into the world, shedding uncontrolable tears and saying long, melodramatic goodbyes.

I did not stop driving my Mother crazy with my penchant for all things miniscule even when I became an adult. I had to fend off her exasperated looks when I gulitily placed on the kitchen table the tiniest new potatoes I could find at the farmers’ market, the slimmest carrots, cornichon-sized cucumbers and ripe, locally grown tomatoes slightly bigger than golf balls. My onions, peppers, tomatoes, and cucumbers destined for the ubiquitous Serbian summer salad were daintily cut in half-inch pieces, and I vehemently defended my approach as I wanted the flavors to meld and each spoonful to have some of all the vegetables present.

To this day I have not changed. I secretly yearn to adopt a teacup chihuahua or two and keep them in my purse. I wish I could bring home the whole litter of kittens found abandoned in a neighborhood church’s cellar. I still cut the food on my plate in the tiniest bites and pick the smallest specimens at the farmers’ market. I look at my leggy teenage girls and see the round-faced babies they used to be, perfectly fitting in the crook of my arm as I rocked them to sleep with one of my Serbian lullabies.

The world of miniatures enchants me and it takes a big dose of reality to make me resist the pull of speckled quails’ eggs beckoning from the shelves of our local Persian market. And when I opened a box from Melissa’s Produce that arrived a few weeks back, I whirled around whispering terms of endearment looking at the cuteness in front of me embodied in boxes of delicate baby kiwis and colorful kale sprouts.

Baby kiwis looked just like regular kiwis that experienced a shot of Rick Moranis’ special ammunition and shrunk, except that they were hairless and soft-skinned. Kale sprouts, on the other hand, resembled no plant I have seen so far. I examined them thoroughly from all sides, admiring vivid purple that marbled deep green in the perky leaves. They looked like something Liliputians would plant to fool Gulliver, a doll-house variety of  Brussels sprout that had a menage-a-trois with cabbage and kale.

Mesmerized as I was, I knew that I had to prepare them in a way that would preserve their resplendent coloring and keep their texture from going too soft. There is a dish served at the Adriatic to accompany grilled fish that is made with cubed potatoes, Swiss chard and garlic. It is simple and unassuming, but flavorful and satisfying at the same time. I thought that these purple and green bundles would be a perfect fit for such a dish, especially if I paired them with sweet new potatoes.

The final result did not look, nor taste like the original, just like the kale sprouts did not look like anything familiar when I fist examined them. Yet, what I ended up with was a dish that celebrates spring, its freshness and color. Slight bitterness of kale sprouts was mellowed by sweetness of new potatoes, and garlic, while not assertive, brought a distinctive fresh note to the mix.

Even though I was convinced from the beginning that odd little sprouts would not disappoint, I felt victorious. I did not do the chosing this time, Mother, but the miniatures worked for me again!

Use herbs, garlic skins, onion sacks, rubber bands and discarded sticky “dots” from a three-hole puncher to get unusual and festive designs.

I use onion skins, turmetic, and coffee to color my eggs naturally and I love the hues.

• 1 inch piece of fresh yeast (or 1 envelope of dry instant yeast)
• 2 tsp sugar
• 200 ml warm milk
• 2 eggs, slightly beaten
• 100 ml plain yogurt or buttermilk
• 1 tsp coarse salt
• 2 Tbsp butter at room temperature
• 650gr all purpose flour (a bit more for dusting the counter)
• 120 gr (1 stick) butter at room temperature
• 1 egg, slightly beaten

When I was a child, recycling had more to do with saving money than protecting the environment. Mother thoroughly washed every single glass jar and stored it in the pantry to be reused for preserves. We returned the glass bottles that held milk and yogurt to the small neighborhood grocery store knowing they would be cleaned and used again.

As a grade school project a few times a year we competed in collecting the newspapers around the neighborhood. We bound the bundles with rope and took them to a collection place where they were weighed and priced. The money we earned was applied to fund field trips for the students whose parents could not afford them.

And of course, you could not buy a case of beer if you did not bring back a case filled with the empty beer bottles. Not that it concerned us in the slightest at the time.

Some of my most horrid memories as a young teen stem back to the days when Father led us on trash-collecting expeditions on Saturdays when he was not on call in the hospital. Most of our friends enjoyed leasurely weekend moments watching TV, goofing around with their siblings, or running after a soccer ball in a near-by field. Not us. Equiped with plastic grocery bags, we’d follow Father around the building and picked up discarded bottles, plastic bags, and various paper trash that miraculously emerged during the night. He thought we were setting an example. We were mortified, but had no other choice but to follow him around and do his bidding.

Throughout the years, I became disillusioned with the majority of the populace, their utter disregard for the environment and the inability to see beyond the next moment. When the snow melted in March and the ugly trash appeared along the banks of the rivers, I strongly supported my Father’s idea of steep littering fines. And when the pristine meadows became the depository of post-picnic garbage on May Day, my heart ached for the wounded nature.

We are in southern California now and Father’s OCD beautifully coincided with his convictions and the state laws concerning garbage and recycling. He meticulously separated our trash, making sure that nothing gets lost or misplaced, dragged the cans to the curb, and watched in amazement as the huge recycling trucks pulled up and giant claws grabbed the cans to empty them. He swore under his breath a few times remarking on the unwillingness of people to separate their garbage in Serbia even though the city governments gave away free differently colored plastic cans to all its citizens. “Hit them in the wallet and they’ll remember!”, was his lamenting cry.

I don’t take my girls around the neighborhood to collect trash, but I have instilled in them the respect for nature that surrounds us. They dutifully fill out the three paper bags that hold different categories of garbage and help me empty the bags of recyclable bottles in the recycling center. They keep the money and buy treats as a reward for good citizenship. We line our trash cans with grocery store plastic bags from the ever-dwindling pile and place our groceries in the big, colorful, canvas bags.

The other day I saw one of those bags with the writing: I used to be a water bottle; the woman who carried it was walking rather quickly and I had no time to pry more details, but I was intrigued. It is admirable to know that there are so many products that can be reused and recycled, but it is remarkable to actually see the results of recycling and hold such a product in your hand.

Arrowhead Water is running a campaign Recycling Is a Beautiful Thing in California, to celebrate the emergence of their new ReBorn Bottle, made with 50% recycled plastic. It made me smile as I read about their company policies and efforts to the environment trash-free and beautiful. They are committed to preserving mountain springs which are the sustainable source of the water they use. Their facilities are LEED certified and they use wind turbines for renewable energy. They are making it their priority to encourage the recycling and educate the people about various approaches and ways plastic can be re-purposed, again and again, with no end. The more plastic bottles get recycled, the more high-quality plastic can be given another life and turned into everyday products.

This is what Arrowhead Water has to say about their new campaign:

“Recycled plastic is simply a better source of plastic. It’s part of Arrowhead’s ongoing commitment to preserving our natural springs, and ensures that every bit of Arrowhead, both inside and out, is truly Born Better. Better IS the new ReBorn Bottle – proof recycling works.”

To launch their campaign and encourage recycling, the company made a short video “Recycling Is a Beautiful Thing” and uploaded it to their Facebook page. There are several other videos demonstrating their efforts and initiative about the recycling and commitment to preserve Mother Nature that so generously gives us its resources.

My Father went back to Serbia a few weeks ago and I am convinced that he will at least try to share his experiences and motivate his neighbors to pay more respect to the environment and make greater efforts in recycling. As for his part, he lines the shelves of his cellar with used plastic 1-liter water bottles filled to the brim with his homemade grappa and slivovitz, committed not to waste and doubting of the recycling views of the city officials.

Disclosure: This post is sponsored by Arrowhead Waters and I am delighted to be a part of their campaign to promote and encourage recycling and preserving of our natural resources.

I used to dread seeing the innocent-looking USPS van parked on the street, knowing that it would bring me only hours of misery, anguish and worry. But a few months ago, I bid farewell to that life and moved on, not even once looking back to the past. I chat with my mailman now without fear, as the worst part of his usual daily delivery is a bunch of useless ads. There are no boogie-men hidden in the mail box waiting to ambush me and the sight of the van parked in front of the neighbors’ house makes me feel comfortable and secure, rather than afraid.

A few days ago, the mailman delivered a $10.00 of card for Victoria’s Secret, a free trial-size bottle of Tide, a takeout menu for a new Thai place, and a brown box from Melissa’s Produce. This being my birthday week, I was elated, and could not run fast enough inside to see what was hidden within the carboard walls. Yes, recieving food and food-related stuff in the mail makes me ecstatic! And this humble-looking package delivered a genuine treasure: several pounds of fresh, organic, seasonal produce, cleaned and ready to use.

When I was in third grade, we went on a field trip to a near-by chocolate and candy factory. I still remember the excitement, or rather frenzy, I felt upon entering room after spacious room with conveyor belts carrying a never-ending river of my favorite snacks. That’s pretty much how I felt as I emptied the produce box in my kitchen: rainbow chard, kale, green leaf lettuce, parsley, celery, collard greens, beets with greens attached, a head of garlic, a ginger root, apples – I thought I was in heaven.

As I later learned, my Organic Green Juice Box is just one of several different types available from Melissa’s Produce. Each box contains seven to eleven pounds of straight-from-the-farm, fresh, organic, nutrient-rich fruits and vegetables in varying combinations. and quantities. You can subscribe to have the boxes delivered right at your doorstep weekly, bi-weekly, monthly or as needed for only $25.00 per box.

I am not the only geek who gets excited over food, and I know how much joy these boxes would elicit as gifts, even though I would have to exclude all my friends who do not live between Santa Barbara and San Diego, as the produce is perishable and therefore not available for shipping outside Southern California.

I have to admit that I have not used a single item I received in the box to make a juice; I don’t own a juicer, and even though I slave for about thirty minutes every day to extract the essence of Valencia oranges that grow in our back yard, I cannot imagine grinding the greens in my mortar or subjecting them to the ignominy of being chewed up by a blender. I am closely monitoring Craigslist posts for a nice, used juicer that might induce me to start my day with a glass full of green froth, but in the meantime, Melissa’s organic greens were put to good use:

I made a cream soup with celery, and a phyllo dough strudel with chard and beet greens; I stuffed collard greens with ground beef and onions, turned parsley and kale into pesto, roasted beets for a simple garlicky side dish, and packed the apples into the girls’ lunch sacks. I am toying with the idea of making my own pickled ginger as my daughters love eating it when we go out for sushi. And besides using the crispy lettuce leaves for BLTs, I just might make a lettuce soup with leftovers.

My mailman is pretty busy delivering a smile to my face a few times a week. And one of the Organic Boxes from Melissa’s Produce will bring a smile to many faces, even if they are not obsessed with food as much as I am. As for me, I am relieved that I don ‘t have to hide in the corner and imagine the horrors that lurk inside the mail box. Instead of dreading it, I look forward to raising the flap and browsing, announcing that all is good with the world.

Organic Green Juice Box – the official photo by Melissa’s

According to my family tree, I am a hundred percent Serbian. I am lenient and allow for a trace of Turkish, Hungarian and Austrian genetic input. But as hard as I search, I cannot find an atom of Irish anywhere in my bloodline. But we are approaching St. Patrick’s Day and the only way for me to celebrate in style is to devote this post to my Irish-by-proxy experiences.

My first ex-husband was partly Irish, which showed in his ruddy cheeks, his jovial behaviour and his deeply ingrained love of adult malted beverages. Through his Irish genes he passed all those traits to our only child, my beloved Nina, who plans on taking a trip to the Emerald Isle one day soon to connect with her long-lost relatives (and I don’t doubt for a second that she’ll find several, even though the White family sailed to the New World on the Mayflower).

My cousin Vladimir is definitely not Irish, having been sired and raised by two full-blooded bona fide Serbs. But he can definitely fool anyone into believing that he is a genuine Celt, with his fiery red hair, fair skin covered with freckles, and a talent for breaking into the real Irish brogue at the spur of the moment.

I truly enjoy Irish music, especially the broody, morose tunes, Danny Boy included. It seems that Nina followed after my taste when  she danced her version of Irish jig in front of a boy she fancied in first grade. And it does not surprise me that she had a long-lived love affair with Riverdance, which we finally saw together a couple of years ago.

One of my best friends was a no-nonsense New Yorker, Debi, who went to an all-catholic high school in Ireland and was expelled, after a series of small, but disturbing events when she instigated rebellious behaviour and clandestine actions. I spent many days at her house, thoroughly enjoying the stories about her adventurous life in Ireland and Manhattan, and hugging her daughters when mine was far away in Seerbia with her grandparents. Oh, and she colored my hair blond once, just to jolt me out of my boring daily routine.

I devoured Trinity by Leon Uris, eager to understand the years of conflicts, bombs, threats, and unstability. I saw many movies on the subject, and the ones made in Ireland reminded me of our own, Balkan movies, with their overwhelming sense of gray, drab, rainy and grimy, intended to paint the picture not only of the life in Ireland, but of the sadness and despair its people carry with them every day.

And even though I have never been to Ireland, I love Irish food, the hearty, comforting stews, succulent lamb, warm and satisfying potato dishes, and sturdy breads. My girls await with anticipation the celebratory American-Irish meal of corn beef, potatoes, cabbage, and soda bread some time this week and our foggy mornings keep me motivated and eager to tackle the humble feast.

My Irish flag tart probably has as little to do with Ireland as I do, but it is festive, fresh, simple, and rewarding, pairing tart mandarin oranges and fragrant baby kiwi with rich vanilla-scented custard and sweet, ripe bananas. It is a small indulgence, an easy surrender to the world of desserts, a pretty and uncomplicated few forkfuls, just enough to satiate the desire for sweets.

I wish all my Irish and Irish-wannabe friends Happy St. Patrick’s Day – you have definitely colored my life with so many unusual and bright hues that it can never be drab and boring.

This tart was made possible by generous contribution from Melissa’s Produce, the biggest distributor of fresh fruits, vegetables and food products in the U.S. Mandarins and baby kiwi* were delightful to play with and I truly appreciate this gift of food!

* Baby kiwis are grape-sized, smooth-skinned version of regular kiwis, best eaten fresh as a snack, in salads, in fruit salads or on top of a fruit tart.

IRISH FLAG FRUIT TART

Shortbread Pie Crust:

• 8 Tbsp (1 stick) butter at room temperature
• 1/3 cup granulated sugar
• 1 egg yolk
• 1 1/3 cups all-purpose flour

Pastry Cream:

• 3 egg yolks
• ¼ cup granulated sugar
• 1 ¼ milk
• 1 tsp vanilla extract
• 2 Tbsp all-purpose flour
• 2 Tbsp cornstarch

Glaze:

• 1/3 cup sugar
• 1 ½ tsp cornstarch
• 1/3 cup water
• ½ cup orange juice
• 1 Tbsp lemon juice

Fruit:

• 1 banana, sliced,
• 1 package (6 oz) baby kiwis, sliced
• 1 mandarin orange, segmented

Directions:

Crust:

Using a hand-held mixer blend butter and sugar together into a paste. Add the egg yolk and mix to combine. Slowly add the flour and knead lightly until the dough comes together. Wrap in plastic wrap and put into the refrigerator for 1 hour.

Preheat the oven to 425F.

Using a rolling pin, flatten the dough into a circle slightly bigger than the pie pan, and using the rolling pin, transfer the dough into the pan. Pat the bottom and sides to adhere to the pan and cut off the excess dough. Spear the bottom with the fork a few times, cover with aluminum foil, fill with pie weights (or dried beans) and bake for 10 minutes. Remove the pie weights and foil and bake for another 5 minutes, until it starts turning golden brown.

Pastry Cream:

Using a hand-held mixer, mix the egg yolks and sugar together until combined. Sift the flour and cornstarch together and stir into the egg mixture to form a paste.

Heat the milk on medium temperature until it starts to bubble up around the edges. Remove from the heat and slowly add into eggs and sugar, vigorously stirring to prevent curdling of the eggs. Return to medium heat and cook until boiling, whisking constantly. Once it boils, whisk for another 30-60 seconds to thicken and remove from heat. Immediately stir in the vanilla extract. Cover with plastic wrap to prevent the crust from forming and keep refrigerated until use.

Glaze:

Combine all the ingredients in a small stainless steel pot and heat on medium temperature to thicken slightly.

To assemble:

Pour the cooled pastry cream over the crust and place the fruit decoratively on top. Pour the glaze over the fruit and keep in the fridge until ready to eat.

More recipes using baby kiwis:

Minted Tomato, Pepper, Feta Salad with Baby Kiwi from Shockingly Delicious

Honey-Glazed Baby Kiwi Mascarpone Cheesecake from Cooking on the Weekends

Kiwi and Peach Puree from Weelicious