When I finally made it home—my Maui home, my Ulupalakua home, my home in the middle of nowhere on the slopes of Haleakala—I completely collapsed. I stopped answering texts. And phone calls. And emails. I cooked for the first time in two weeks. I cooked without documenting, without a recipe, without a plan. I cooked because I wanted to. And then I slept. I slept long and hard and when I woke up I was almost more exhausted than the night before. I cancelled all my plans to see old friends and I laid on the couch and watched Fifty Shades of Gray and cried in my exhausted, jet-lagged, premenstrual state. It was glorious. I napped dreamlessly and I only woke up when Susan came home. Hours of sleep later, I began to feel something like human again.
I walked outside, barefoot, to the place we once said had the strongest concentration of plant spirits. I stood in this fluttering vortex of green leaves and sunlight and shadows and insects and spirits seen and unseen and I let everything fall away, slough off like dead skin cells in a fierce Korean spa scrub. I stood still until the mosquitos started to draw blood and then I walked back in the house and drank tea. Doing nothing, I kept thinking of T. S. Eliot’s Four Quartets, of how East Coker begins: “In my beginning is my end.” I wondered if, suddenly, I could imagine myself moving back to Maui again. If I could be that person who felt plant spirits again. If I ever was not her.
The next few days were moments of ocean and giant honu (turtles) and long walks with dad and, in an unexpected turn of events, staying out until 2am dancing to Rihanna and making out with a friend/clearly-not-friend at a bar for 22 year olds. I strolled the upcountry farmers market, drank water fresh from coconuts and sipped on just-made bone broth and ate deep purple, fleshy star apples. I laughed with my dad and Susan and we ate leftovers and watched the sky turn into sorbet splashes of pastel light over and over again. Until it was all over and, yesterday, I had to fly home. Other home. LA home.
When the Lyft driver yanked my final suitcase onto the sidewalk outside my apartment, I spotted what may or may not have been a used condom just inches away from its wheels. My living room was stuffy and hot and a tad musty. Air unmoved for two weeks. I opened up all the windows and, with a pang of sweetness, felt less despairing than I’d anticipated, street condoms aside. Coming home to my own space always feels like a small miracle. Mine. The place I fought to make home. Not just the place I was given. The place I worked to make my own.
Today I’ll make tea and settle in with my gorgeous friend Kristan Raines’ book On Toast. I was stunned by Kristan’s kindness and brilliance from the first words we shared and my first glimpses of her beautiful blog, The Broken Bread. We were quickly bound by a thread of kindred knowing that continues today, despite her having moved to Seattle. Which is why I’m particularly thrilled that Kristan’s endlessly inspiring On Toast is finally on shelves and in my hands.
Any way you slice it, a warm piece of toast is one of the most versatile and exciting edible canvases on earth. These savory snack toasts combine so many textures and flavors that I love: The sharp, bright punch of good olive oil, the creamy lushness of burrata, the earthy caramel of roasted fennel, and the perfect crumb of toast.
I added some twists of lemon to the fennel roast and a few leaves of fresh mint, just for the springy fun of it. Because I’m still in the mood to do whatever I want.
I hope you are, too, and I hope it begins with toast.
ROASTED FENNEL & BURRATA TOAST.
Ingredients
- 1 medium-size fennel bulb, about 3 inches (7.5 cm) wide
- olive oil for drizzling
- salt and pepper to taste
- 1 tablespoon thinly sliced lemon peel
- 3 slices of shepherd’s or rustic bread
- 1 large ball of burrata
- 2 tablespoons pine nuts toasted
- fresh mint leaves to garnish
Instructions
- Preheat the oven to 400ºF (200ºC, or gas mark 6). Remove the tops of the fennel, reserving a few fronds. Cut the bulb in half from top to bottom, and slice into ¼-inch (1.3 cm) thick wedges. Place the slices on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper and drizzle with oil, making sure to coat both sides. Season with salt and pepper and bake for 35 to 40 minutes until fork tender and slightly charred. Be sure to flip the slices halfway through the cooking time. Ten minutes before finished, add the lemon peel to roast.
- Remove the fennel and lemon peel from the oven and set aside.
- Meanwhile, toast the bread to your liking, and divide the fennel among the slices. Divide burrata evenly across the slices of toast, and garnish with toasted pine nuts, a light drizzle of oil, a fennel frond, and fresh mint. Slice each piece in half, if you like.
