Living With Poetry | The Last Bookstore + Grilled Nectarine Panzanella

Living with Poetry is an occasional series where we explore how  poetry infuses our everyday lives. Catch up with past features here. Interested in sharing your own story about how poetry inspires you (in the kitchen or otherwise)? Contact me.


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The second floor of The Last Bookstore in downtown Los Angeles is named "The Labyrinth," and for good reason. It houses 100,000 used books, all on sale for $1. Although a bargain, you actually pay more with your time, because it's easy to lose an hour or two browsing endless rows of books to find the gems you'll walk away with. 

Did I mention that none of the sections are marked? Actually, that's not entirely true, because as you snake through the aisles, you'll sometimes come across a large yellow post-it note with a guide like "Law" or "History," but more often than not, the section you're looking for won't be that easy to locate.  

I was determined to find the poetry.  

At first, there seemed to be no order. Romance novels were stacked next to get rich quick guides. But as I made my way through, there did seem to be a modest effort to cluster books by topic. Eventually, I stumbled on a few rows of cookbooks. There was a pie and pastries cookbook from Martha Stewart, probably one of the first books she published, and plenty of Better Homes and Gardens titles. Smashed between two 90s diet books was a slim, hardback copy of Epicurean Recipes of California Winemakers, a cookbook published in 1969 and I'm certain out of print, compiled by the Wine Advisory Board. I took it home. 

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My husband was very generous to help me, and just when I felt like turning around, he pulled down a worn, paperback book of children's poetry. A ha!  Despite the fact that the lingering dust was starting to give me a headache, and my stomach was starting to grumble, I refused to believe that with 100,000 books on the shelf, there was no poetry.  

The poetry section turned out to be three small shelves on the opposite side of the vinyl records. There were some old copies of literary magazines like RATTLE and the Denver Quarterly, and some paperbacks of obscure poets. There was a Rita Dove collection that I almost took home, but it was covered in notes from the previous owner.

After an hour and a half, I walked away with my wine cookbook, and a copy of 2002's Best Food Writing. For $2.18, I'd say that's the best deal in town. 

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We left just as I was beginning to feel faint with hunger, and walked two blocks over to Artisan House, an urban restaurant with a rooftop garden, seasonal dishes, and Sunday movie nights. With a philosophy of "Break bread. Share wine. Feed the soul," I knew we'd stumbled onto something good. We had other plans and left before Top Gun started, but we sampled a few memorable dishes during our meal, including the grass fed sliders below, and a salad of nectarines, burrata, hazelnuts, and a thick balsamic sauce. It was heavenly. The kind of flavors that both excite and cleanse your palate, and remind you what summer eating is all about.  Naturally, it didn't take long to bring those flavors home.

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Grilled  Nectarine Panzanella

I recently borrowed the flavors from our Artisan House meal for a summer panzanella. Precise measurements are tricky with salads, especially the kind that benefit from a "clean out the fridge" approach, but I hope my description will steer you in the right direction. The beauty of a festive salad like this is you can improvise a bit. If you have baby kale, use that instead of spinach. No mozzarella? Try goat cheese. Add toasted almonds! You get the idea.

A large handful of spinach
A large handful of microgreens
4 ounces fresh mozzarella, roughly chopped
4 slices prosciutto, torn
2 to 3 nectarines, sliced and grilled
1 small shallot, thinly sliced
4 green onions, grilled, then roughly chopped
3 to 4 basil leaves, torn
1/2 baguette, chopped into 1-inch cubes and toasted
Lots of chives

Dressing
Balsamic vinegar
A drizzle of honey
Salt & Pepper
Extra-virgin olive oil

Place all the salad ingredients into a large bowl and have two wooden spoons nearby. Give the dressing a quick whisk, then pour over the salad and gently toss until everything is evenly coated.  

Living With Poetry | Burning Your Fingers

Living With Poetry is an occasional series where we explore how poetry infuses our everyday lives. Catch up with past features here. Interested in sharing your own story about how poetry inspires you (in the kitchen or otherwise)? Contact me.


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The day after my birthday, our little pup Emma wasn't feeling well, and we decided to take her to the vet on Saturday morning. Walk-ins began at 7:30 am, so we woke early, got dressed (translation: I threw on yoga pants and a hoodie), and wiped the sleep from our eyes. It turned out she was just fine. Whatever bug she had went through her system (I'm convinced she swallowed a piece of her chew toy), and with her energy back, we decided to treat ourselves to a croissant at a new bakery in our neighborhood.

Chaumont Bakery is a little Parisian-style spot serving simple egg dishes, sandwiches, and French breakfast items like a baguette with butter and jam. We sipped on tea and coffee, pulled flaky layers of our croissants apart, and talked the morning away. It was a perky start to the day.

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Around 11 am, we had watched a few episodes of Parks & Recreation and were feeling almost hungry for lunch, so I decided to make a frittata.

As any cook will tell you, sometimes things burn. I have a scar on my left forearm from an oil splatter, a faded scar on my hand from something I can't remember, and now, a bruised ego and a glossy finger from reaching for a hot pan.

If I pull a cast iron skillet out of the oven, I always cover the handle with a towel to remind myself (and anyone else nearby), that it's hot. But I forgot my own rule, and wanting to transfer the frittata to a cutting board, turned from the sink and picked up the pan with my right hand while setting a wooden spoon down with the other. It took all of two seconds for my body to register the heat, and I quickly ran my hand under cold water in the sink. I proceeded to hold an ice cube for the rest of the day.

All in all, my middle finger survived. The burn wasn't serious, and after the skin glossed over for a day or two, the pain went away and my finger is back to normal now. But incidents like this remind me that cooking plays an ever-evolving role in our lives, and just when we think we've got something covered, we're surprised. 

That same day I was browsing through Elizabeth Bishop's Collected Poems again. I still had the book by my bed from reading it the day before, and I landed on her poem "Going to the Bakery," written when she was living in Brazil. It reminded me of our morning, the quietness and hopefulness of it all. 


"The bakery lights are dim. Beneath
our rationed electricity, 

the round cakes look about to faint--
each turns up a glazed white eye.
The gooey tarts are red and sore.
Buy, buy, what shall I buy?" 


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Chive Frittata

8 eggs
¼ cup grated Parmesan cheese
¼ teaspoon red pepper flakes 
Salt and freshly ground pepper
2 tablespoons butter
Salt and pepper
1 bunch of chives, minced

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Whisk the eggs, Parmesan, red pepper flakes, and a pinch of salt and pepper in a medium bowl. Melt butter in an oven-proof sauté pan.  then gently pour the wet ingredients over the butter. Scatter the chives over the eggs and cook for just 1-2 minutes, then transfer it to the oven for 15-18 minutes, or until the frittata has puffed and is just cooked through. (If it's slightly underdone, best to take it out and let the residual heat finish cooking the eggs. There's nothing worse than an overcooked frittata.) Using a towel or kitchen mit, carefully slide the frittata to a cutting board to slice and serve.

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Living With Poetry | That You Are Here

Living with Poetry is an occasional series where we explore how  poetry infuses our everyday lives. Catch  up with past features here. Interested in sharing your own story about how poetry inspires you (in the kitchen or otherwise)? Contact me.

Are you a morning person or a night person? I'm not sure why we rush to identify ourselves with one of these categories. I tend to be a hybrid, anyway. If by night person, you mean someone who goes to bed past 10 pm or can stay away until 1 am watching a movie or exercising or drinking, then no, I am not a night person. If by morning person you mean I rise fresh-faced and alert at 5:15 am, ready to take on the day, then no, I am not a morning person either. But I do lean more on the morning side, I always have.

When my first job required me to be at the office by 7:30 to start combing through the newspapers, I woke up five minutes before my alarm went off almost every day. I was born with a strong internal body clock, and I'm one of those people that needs 8 hours of sleep. Now, almost 10 years later, I find myself getting up at 6 am most days to trek to work 35 miles away. (Many of those days find me waking up at 5:45 or 5:50, whether I like it or not.) Come the weekend, it's almost impossible for me to sleep in. 6:15 Saturday morning I'm wide awake thinking about the pancakes I want to make for breakfast. The movie we watched last night? I may have fallen asleep on the couch for a few minutes. Once 9 pm rolls around, my body doesn't care what day it is, it tells me bed is calling.

Early Saturday morning, bleary eyed, I opened my Facebook app and saw the new post from The Vanilla Bean Blog. On Fridays, Sarah has taken to sharing favorite links, pictures from her week, and some inspiring bits of poetry or prose that always turn my head. This week, it was Walt Whitman.

That you are here—that life exists and identity,

That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse. -Walt Whitman