Moved again. Good bye Seattle. Where are we now? Spokane. Where the hell is that? Slightly to the west of nowhere. And what is in this Spokane? Well, I am here, my house is here, my school is here, and you will be here as well for the next 9 months. A baby at the end? No, hopefully a degree and diploma though. Do you like the new art work? R painted it. Little Frenchy has come back, but this time a little different. So friends, welcome to Spokane.
Spokane [spo · can] is in the very most eastern region of the state of Washington, not the capital Washington, the real Washington--the state. It lies 32 kilometers from the border of Idaho; yes yet another forgotten among the nifty fifty. And though it does reside in the same state, it is no where near Seattle. Eastern Washington is a night and day variant from western Washington. The two are geographically separated by the Cascade mountain range, which keeps Seattles lush temperate climate all to itself.
Central and eastern Washington are dry, flat, and hot. It is a region of extremes; desert heat in the summer months, and an artic chill of severely low temperatures that bring thick blankets of snow in the winter. Extreme seasons have both the ups and downs, but then, what is out there that doesn't.
Between Seattle and Spokane lies about 500 kilometers of fields known as the Columbia Plateau, full of visually stimulating wheat, wheat, corn, wheat, some green herbish-crops, potatos, and more wheat. Humans are found inhabiting small boondock patches here and there, but city cannot begin until tree line and river line appear, and that is Spokane, lying in the shadow of the Rocky Mountain foothills. After mindless hours of driving, tumbleweeds and dirt devil storms as the only breaks inthe scenery, Spokane emerges seemingly out of no where. This city, known more collectively among the locals as Spokompton, is our next city. Bienvenue.
Second largest city in the state; home to many beautiful mansions atop the South Hill, though home to the many more who find themselves under or stradling the poverty line. To the north the main drags are lined by strip malls, fast food joints, and every style super-store imaginable under the sun. Gonzaga University (of which I attend) sits bordered on one side by the poorest neighborhood in the city, and on the otherside by the river and metropolitan downtown of designer retail and upscale dining and lodging.
We, the outsiders who move in periodically refer in snobbery to the locals as "Spokeys." Spokane is no Gotham, but it is no stranger to drugs and potentially high crime rate. The sense of security felt in some cities such as hmm Paris has no place here. Though no where near the mauvais reputation of say Atlanta, Chicago, LA, Detroit; no this is city meets small town topped off by a rotating population of rich alcohol-abusing college brats blasting teeth-grinding rap (music?) late into the night (can you tell where I am at this moment? yes). No I am not 43 years old, but my vision of college and ideas of pleasing ways to pass my life away have never seemed to mesh with the norm. Oh well.
There is another side of the coin however. It can be, if we look, a beautiful city. In the trees, the lilacs, the river and its many cascading falls. In the changing of seasons; pillowy piles of leaves in the fall, fresh whiteness in the winter, and tulips towering over dewey grass in the spring. Mt. Spokane is but a quick drive north, a day trip skiiers paradise. And for the runners, bikers, and walkers of the city, the Louis and Clark Centennial trail runs along the river, through the campus, and into the sparkling metropolitan downtown giving quite the vehicle-less route full of scenery and seemingly clean air.
For every negative, there is most likely a positive. Spokane is not Paris. Spokane is not Seattle. Spokane is Spokane. And We're here for a while. In my final year as a resident in this city, I invite you to accompany me in finally opening my mind to the good things here. Welcome to Gonzaga University, welcome to my house, welcome to Spokane. We're settling here, for now. Afterwards, only Cod knows. So, grab the blue bag and on y va.
* most photos are older than one year
à bientôt
You have never heard of a chocolate covered raspberry. No. They are too fragile. Blackberries are much sturdier in the basket, whereas at the bottom of every raspberry basket there is found the trampled few, crushed by the weight (though measured in feathers) of those postitioned atop. One must be gentle with raspberries. Many, many small little red pearls clustered together in the formation of just one berry, they are held together by tiny tiny threads. And though it may seem only fair to be rough in reciprocity to the painful thorns you braved in their harvesting, in the end, it is just a raspberry. And if you break a raspberry to soon, you are left with an involuntary jam, which is never as sweet nor preserves as well. So do not turn them into jam until they are ready. 
Raspberry jam is the most facile and classically nostalgic homemade jam. Yes i decree that such a statement is pure fact. Raspberry is easy to bottle, though difficult to imitate. One does not find such a wide array of raspberry flavored candy, soda, cereal, yadda yadda--no, raspberries look best in a yellow bowl.* (quote from my mamie)
Kitchen canned raspberry jam. The Salty Cod loves to can its own jams. And vegetables. And jelly. We just like to can damn it. And raspberry is the request. Toast and jam; the classic purpose on this planet for the sticky liquid candy. For the American; peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The Brit (besides toast) scones or some type of biscuit thing, the French love jam as well on toast, but also on baguette and croisant. I am sure, though no authority of, that the rest of the world eats jam as well. How do you like it. At the Salty Cod we slather jam on cookies, raspberry jam to make raspberry hearts. Sun circles as well.
Ferndale Washington, the quaint farm town subburb of the larger small-ville, Bellingham Washington, sits about an hour and a half's climb by automobile north of Seattle, and a mere 10 minutes south of the Canadian border. Before Paris, before Portugal, before even the voyages not yet taken but dreamed of daily, there was (for this writer) Ferndale; the vacation of the year. Every summer my sisters and i would book rooms at a country inn located at the heart of Ferndale to pass lazily away the long summers accompanied by a plethora of animals that make even Noah look like a rube. A summer without walking a goat by a short leash in a parade was no summer at all. Looking to book a room at the inn? Contact my aunt and uncle (the puffs), you might be able to pitch a tent in the field. That is, if the soccer team is not in town.
Six dogs, more cats than i can count, two llamas, a dozen goats, three tortoises, a coup of poulets, tropical parrots, small birds in cages, a rabbit, a guinnea pig, and one horse. This is not a production farm, this is a fun farm. Or perhaps rather mad house is a more apropriate term, but that's only when i'm here. hehe.
What does one eat on a farm out in northwest Washington State; eggs? a side of beef? pie? biscuits and gravy? Nah, this is my family; we're a bunch of eccentrics with culinary perfection and themed meals on our minds. Spanish paella crawling with sea beasts, Sunday high-tea at noon with shortbreads, lemon mousse, and dainty tarts, Brasilian truffles, Eastern night complete with hand rolled sushi, tempura, singapore noodles, and a Salty Cod creation ice cream bomb; the Tokyo Torpedo (green tea ice cream, mango sorbet, vanilla ice cream, a chocolate fondant shell, and a caramel sesame cookie base). This is farm-town eating at the Ferndale farm. What did you expect, these people are related to me.
Rolling sushi is not a difficult task, though the idea is daunting. The correct tools and ingredients though are vital. Sushi rolling is not a game condusive to the art of system D, so no dorm-room jiggy-rigging that old jasmin rice, if it's not sushi rice you cannot make sushi. Bamboo rolling mats, nori (the seaweed paper) and sushi rice. The classic California roll is always in high demand, the tantalizing combination of crab, avacado, and cucumber is Americas favorite "sushi" though technically rolled sushi is awarded the title of makizushi, or just maki.
Unsurprisingly surpassing the California roll, is the Washington roll. Unfortunate though it is when we speak of it we must add Washington state roll else the unwary reader tragically envisions this nations capital. We're on the other coast. The Washington state roll, what does this gem behold? Smoked salmon and red apples topped of course by roe. Roll them tight, mind you. And fear not the agression of a tight sqeeze, one must be rather forcefull when rolling sushi. Provided here are a few rolling images, I am indeed the one in the flowery apron which I find choette but am often referred to as grandma in it. Perhaps it is my insistance at pairing it with a striped shirt that does me in.
Location never means anything when it comes to cuisine. Ok well in the end location does have bearance on what fresh ingredients are made available to you, and how costly an import retails for can sway the menu. The meal is always the highlight of the day around here, as I have found it to be so many a time traveling elsewhere. The style is always different though, here at the farm we never sit, plating is rarely ever in order, and the meal is taken around a low coffee table, standing up, around an outside picnic table, while walking, or sitting comfortably in a leather chair with one, maybe two dogs on you lap, and always with white wine. white white wine.
Traveling does not have to be to an exotic far-away country to be conisdered an adventure or vacation. Though astronomically more thrilling and new would be a voyage to Tibet or Madagascar, the more proximal destination can be destinations none the less. For those of us living in the larger countries found in the Americas, driving two hours to reach a town in ones own state means oftentimes for many Europeans crossing a border into another country. There are so many wonderful places to be visited that can oftentimes allude the eye--if it is a there then it is a destination, and a destination where one does not refer to themself as an inhabitant of is, in all terms of sincerity, a visitor--or rather traveler.
Do you know what a Brigadeiro is? No it is not a cookie, not a pastry, not a military figure from antiquity, but rather a simple little truffle covered in sprinkles that melts on the tongue. My editor suggested I play around with these candies about (exactly) a month (and 6.5 days) ago, informing me of their overt popularity and the saucy little detail that, aside from containing no wheat, they have the look. And we here at the Salty Cod covet and invest a great deal in the importance of presentation. I had been waiting for an excuse to make them; an event to share them at, ok fine an event to display them at. Enter 18 Juillet, l'anniversaire de ma soeur. Excellent. Two birds will die at the expense of only one projectile. She will undoubtedly be quite charmed by such a statement, but she is a true supporter of all Salty Cod endeavors, sacrifice much for the good of the many! Ah screw it, she gets some chocolates. So on y va.
Food history is an interesting subject matter; nearly every creation we covet has a history, a myth to accompany its birth and naming. The world of gastronomic history is an odysee of fables and facts that combine in enough variation to fill a ten volume set of infantile bedtime stories. When "researching" a foods history one inevitably encounters, at the minimum, three variant explanations of its origin. And while nearly every account of the story found on the internet is a re-worded version of the one found at our dear freind Wikipedia, (where would man be without the wikipedia) the story of how a food came about and how it was named are differing in every media. The stories are kept in homes, in family anecdotes, in history books, in cook books, in cultural lore, etc. The naming of edibles throughout the world has and continues to be a subject of interest, honor, and ever-changing myth. From Australia's fuzzy little Lammington, to France's mysterious Madeleine, the origin of names is as integral a part of the dish as the thing itself. One must take note, however, that there are a few concrete gastronomic descriptions out there. The Quaker Oats man was in fact a quaker after all, and not rather a Shaker in disguise. 
Collective opinion on the internet places the naming of the candy on the shoulders of Brigadier aviator Eduardo Gomes. Now whether the Brigadier was awarded such an honor for his heroic aviation record, a failed run for the presidency, his public love for sweet treats at birthday parties, his noted ability surpassing that of Chuck Noris' at one-armed cobra wrestling whilst blindfolded, or my favorite found at the site of a fellow internet food (writer?) : Well, back in 1922, he was tall, dark-haired with blue eyes. AND SINGLE!!! I must say, the truth could be any, they all appear to hold some amount of water. In metrics. But perhaps, as is the case in dissecting and digesting any and all genres of history of this world, the real answer is never just one singular fact, but rather a combination of myriad perspectives taken always with a grain of salt and with a questioning eye. 
If you are still with me by this point in the novel then I assume you, like me, are thinking that the Brigadeiro is without contestation the most fascinating candy available for human consumption. Chouette non. Therefore we must make them now. Mixing the candies in the old country-house kitchen while Paella is being assembled on one side of the room, a constant stream of the six dogs rotating through eager for perhaps a bite, the clinking of wine being poured that never seems to ebb, and the passings of bystandards (ok family), mon unc puff bellows at me "what are you making now, some French crap?" No, I respond, it's brasilian. "Oh no not Brasilian crap!" It appears that there is a lot of crap in this world, but what can I say, I am attracted to crap, that's all.
