Growing Tomatoes in October.

Two days ago was the hottest day on record (ever) in LA: 112 degrees farenheit. In San Diego, it topped off at a paltry 108. Though I would relish describing the full-body-sweat-drench experience of working on a glorified roach coach in these temperatures, I'm going to direct my energies towards the anomaly of growing tomatoes in October.

Towards the end of August, San Diego-centric garden guides suggested I nip off the flowers on my tomato plants and allow the already formed fruit to ripen because fall was upon us and cooler, non-tomoto-growing-friendly weather was encroaching. Seeing as this summer was overwhelmingly fog-ridden, I held out hope that maybe, just maybe, summer was late and poo-pooed everyone's advice. One month later my little cherry tomato plant is finally ripening up (helped along by the plastic I cover it in at night to up the temperature even further) and today was the first harvest with much more on the way. Finally.

The weekend I made fire like a real woman

On Saturday I smoked a hunk-o-meat for my first, semi-annual, farewell-to-summer BBQ to be held the next day.


The good news: the sun came out for us between 3:30 and 5:30 and, in that time we were able to shoot this awesomeness:


The better news: In preparation for the BBQ, and with the lighter fluid nowhere in site, I was forced to make fire like a real woman. Having never been a girl scout and because I insist on barbecuing with mesquite charcoal and not those unsettlingly-square briquettes, this took me upwards of an hour. When I finally bit the bullet, got on my hands and knees and blew smoke and ashes in my face for ten minutes, I was rewarded with roaring flames and red-hot coals. Very satisfying and very womanly. (If I ever get lung cancer, it will not be from my brief romances with nicotine, but from the amount of ash and smoke I inhaled in those ten minutes.)


The bad news: my brioche buns were not up to my expectations. Next time.


As per usual, Gus knew where the party was. I literally saw a string of drool drip from his jowls during a particularly concentrated begging session.


We finished the day with a drunken parade to the roof for the sunset. Very safe.


Not a bad weekend.

not knowing what to do with myself

Today, I was called off work at 6 am. This left me not only neurotically insecure--Don't they love me anymore?!--but also without a daily activity (something I really can't stand). So, I brushed aside my hurt feelings and decided to take advantage of the slight nip and crystal clearness of a Fall morning in San Diego and drive up to Julian for apple picking/eating/subsequent-pie-making. On the way, we stopped at the waterfalls at Cuyumaca State Park: the falls were lovely and hummingbirds followed us around while drinking from the more nectar-like drippings of the creek (no exaggeration). Some pictures:

Emperial Apples


4 parts butter 5 parts flour pie crust


makes a giant pie


and a lot of peals (for the wormies--who I thought I had killed but are still alive!)



Tonight is The Jer's Birthday so the pie is (mostly) for him.

pictorial evidence of my gustatory existence

Here are some pictures of what I have been up to over the last five months.

In May, I briefly resurrected the Cream Queenz for MIHO


In June, I was drinking Micheladas with Lulu in Austin


Later in June, I had picked and salted olives from trees in the central coast and marinated them with thyme, lemon zest and chili flakes


July was busy. First I went to the fair with Allie and ate this piece of American artistry:


They called it a Texas Tater Twister. Mid July saw the advent of cupcake city when I started working full time for these guys: chocolate cake with cherry-marshmallow frosting, coconut tres leches cake with lime and pistachio frosting, lemon buttermilk cake with peach tea frosting and candied spicy pecans...




Late in the month, I got my first taste of Ensenada in the form or a stegosaurus-sized clam filled with every type of sea food imaginable, including slug.


Needless to say, this clam convinced me that I need to go to Mexico more often and did just that in August for the grape harvest festival in the Valle de Guadelupe. This is when I ate fried cricket tacos and loved every bite of them (picture forthcoming). By the end of August I was eating at Nobu Las Vegas with a certain Argentine permanent resident to see how their version of an Alfahor stacked up.


Not pictured is the part where we ate barracuda with miso powder and milk poached garlic chips. YUM.

The end.

today was a suburban day

Thanks to Edmunda, I am jumping back on the blog-train. Complete with a makeover, Dirty Toes is back! I am no longer in Hawaii and I am no longer in Argentina. I am, however back at my parents house in San Diego. To give you a taste of that life, here's what I did today:

To start things off, I went to work for two whole hours. After that exertion, I came home and read an article about the damaging effects of plastic water bottles in the local COOP’s newsletter and implored mother to stop buying plastic water bottles. Feeling responsible, I spent six minutes watering the potted tomatoes and dwarf citrus trees on the front patio. Then I went to yoga class—the sweaty kind—and followed it up with a visit to the aforementioned COOP where I bought three pluots, two Bosc pears, two ruby grapefruits, a small grouping of yellow dates shaped like quail eggs, a bunch of rainbow chard, some spinach and a guava Kombucha. All of this (excepting the Kombucha, which I drank in the car) I carried home in my own, 100% post-consumer recycled grocery bag. Now I’m blogging. Mummy said she brought home some wild Alaskan Salmon from Costco so I am now to go cook it. With the spinach of course.

Sometimes it is too easy to make fun of myself.