With knowledge comes responsibility. I’ve been known to tout the old adage, “ignorance is bliss” but in reality I really should proclaim that my own ignorance is often a reflection of laziness. Once you’ve gained knowledge is hard to sit comfortably without action.

Today I’m acting out against slavery. Along with The Giving Table, International Justice Mission and 50 other bloggers across the Internet we’re shedding light on the horrific slavery that still exists within the U.S. tomato industry. In partnership with The Coalition of Immokalee Workers and The Fair Food Standards Council (FFSC), IJM is removing our ignorance by revealing the mis-treatment of thousands of migrant workers (including children) who earn less than $0.01 per pound they pick.

You should know that not all tomatoes are treated equal and not all are grown under these circumstances. Slave-free tomatoes can be purchased as places such as Whole Foods, Trader Joe’s and from many local farms. Not only are tomatoes purchased from these places guaranteed to be grown under much better circumstances – without abuse – they taste much better.

With the knowledge of this tragic mis-treatment comes responsibility. There is much you and I can do to change these conditions. In fact, I have no doubt that collectively we can completely abolish slavery in the tomato industry. First of all you can purchase all your tomatoes from places that buy slave-free tomatoes. As I mentioned above these places include Whole Foods, Trader Joe’s, Farmers Markets and direct from the farms. Your purchase is power. Secondly, send a letter to the markets who have not yet adopted the policy to buy slave-free tomatoes.  The form in the link provided makes it very simple. Just add your name and send. These markets depend on you to survive so don’t underestimate your power in making this change a reality. Thirdly, inform others of these conditions. No one should be treated in this manner and with this knowledge it’s our responsibility to shine light onto the darkness of ignorance.

There are few things more beautiful than a tomato. Ragged and jewel toned, tight skinned and fragrant with a scent that to me is the perfume of gardening. In fact I wish it came bottled so I could wear it year round. But nothing makes these nearly perfect orbs more beautiful than knowing that no person was treated improperly in the process of getting to my table.

Tomato Toast with Basil Butter

With a beautifully grown tomato I argue that very little should be added to it. A thick slice with salt is the perfect way to enjoy a sun-ripened tomato. This recipe has only a few more ingredients and has quickly become my favorite late-summer lunch.

This butter is summer’s condiment. On grilled corn it’s magic. 

1 Tablespoon chopped basil

4 Tablespoons butter, softened

1 piece of rustic bread, toasted

3 slices of thick-cut, slave-free tomatoes

sea salt

In a small bowl combine the basil and butter. Spread a bit on the warm toast. Top with tomatoes then sprinkle with salt.

Tomatoes and Avocado with Blue Cheese dressing

inspired by Ina Garten

With so few ingredients use the best you can afford. I used Rogue River’s Flora Nelle and I’d do it again. Pungent without smacking you in the face. This salad has no need for lettuce. Simple and stunning.

Blue Cheese Dressing

4 ounces blue cheese, crumbled

1/2 cup mayonnaise

1/2 cup sour cream

1/4 cup whole milk

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

Combine everything in a bowl and stir to combine keeping large chunks of blue cheese intact.

Arrange thick cut slices of slave-free tomatoes and avocados onto a platter. Generously top with blue cheese dressing. Finish with fresh ground pepper.

Serve immediately.

Leftover dressing can be refrigerated for one week.

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*This post was sponsored by ARM & HAMMER® Baking Soda, an ingredient and tool I use daily. The story and images are my own.

There are many secrets of the kitchen that are often not taught. Techniques and tricks that become inherently a part of those who work and live in the kitchen. We glide across our limited kitchen space employing numerous short cuts and skills that have been collected along the way like memories.

Lately I’ve been trying to become more aware of those subconscious tricks that I use in order to run my very small home kitchen more efficiently. In doing so I hope to do a better job of passing along such tricks.

Much of what I know about effective kitchen management I learned while working in a restaurant where pushing out over 250 desserts a night was not out of the ordinary. In order to perform such a task everything must be impeccably organized and everyone must follow the same plan. Every movement is calculated and every action is scrupulously examined to ensure that it is performed in the most efficient way possible.

But it’s the moments in which I recall a trick I picked up from my grandmothers or my mom that remind me of the real power of the kitchen. In those moments I feel a great sense of honor and duty in continuing the tradition and passing along skills in the kitchen to my children. I can’t help but think of how the future wives of my boys will thank me for showing my son’s how to finesse flakes out of a simple pie dough. And how my daughter’s husband will benefit from her lack of fear in the kitchen just as my husband has.

In the kitchen of my childhood I could only reach the front burner but I didn’t let that stop me from “helping” with dinner. At the cusp of learning how to multi-task and just beginning to hone my skills in having the kitchen run like a well oiled machine, I neglected to stir the pot and directed my attention elsewhere. By the time I returned to the pan a deep layer had crusted to the bottom and the evidence of burnt on food was in the air. My mother noticed what was happening at the same time but rather than scolding my negligence she reached for the golden box with the muscular arm while at the same time teaching me one of those invaluable kitchen secrets.

She proceeded to boil the pot with a heavy dose of baking soda and by the end of the evening the pot contained no evidence of what was to be the first of many (many) kitchen mistakes.

Years later, while working in a high end restaurant, a similarly burnt food-crusted pan appeared on our station. Rather than whisk the pan away and let the dishwashers deal with the mess, I passed along the baking soda trick to my pastry chef and felt swollen with pride while doing so.

The ARM & HAMMER® Baking Soda box represents many of those tricks I learned at a young age. Imagine my delight when I was able to return the favor to my mom and share with her one of my favorite uses for this iconic ingredient. She was unfamiliar with the idea of adding a touch of baking soda instead of sugar, to tomato sauce for the purpose of reducing the acidity. I thought for a moment what that pan-burning little girl would think knowing that decades later she would have something to share with the woman who taught her how to move in the kitchen. She would be proud, I’m quite certain. Just don’t tell that little girl how many more pans she’ll burn in her kitchen career.

What are some of your favorite uses for baking soda in your kitchen? Share your tricks on beyondthebake.com for a chance to win.

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In Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott describes the process of writing to that of watching a Polaroid develop. Once the photo has been taken the image remains unclear for what often feels  like a painstakingly long time.

As with writing it’s only the faint shadows of a story that first emerge. The image and words are monotone and lacking in details but with perseverance, and in my case often, frustrations, the arduous process slowly starts to reveal a complete picture with stunning details, vivid colors and a scene that you couldn’t have even imagined.

When you try and look at the Polaroid before it’s fully developed or finish a story without working it out and giving it the time it deserves then you miss out on much of the detail that gives the piece life.

I can’t help but think that this analogy also works with traveling too, probably because I’ve been doing a lot of it lately and while reading this part of the book I was sipping Rum Punch while the Caribbean sun wrapped me warmly. I give you permission to roll your eyes in my general direction.

With each recent trip I assigned the adventure an already formed Polaroid without my even realizing it. I had set aside expectations and pre-conceived notions of what I should expect and what I planned to glean from the trip before I had even packed my bags.

On many of my recent trips I spent the first few days frustrated that the reality didn’t resemble the image that my Polaroid so clearly displayed. I fussed over failed expectations and tried my best to control the outcome until I finally realized (and realized again, sometimes it takes me awhile to learn a lesson) that I need to allow this experience to tell me it’s story rather than force one on it.

Once I allowed myself to simply experience I was open to changing of plans, fully experiencing the beauty of that place and the differences of culture. I was able to clearly listen to the story of the trip and the blurry scenes of the Polaroid began to reveal themselves into an image that exceeded my previous shallow expectations.

While I realize that it is nearly impossible not to enter in without some expectations, my hope for future trips is that I can quickly forget my Polaroid in order to make way for the one that is yet to be revealed.

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For the first time in my life I’ve kept a journal. I have repeatedly tried and with great excitement I would carefully select a fabric bound notebook with hundreds of blank pages and infinite possibilities. I dreamed of the words that would fill those pages with images of an older me reflecting on the memories and my poignant words that would turn those memories into lessons that shape who I am today. I would painstakingly choose a pen with a black point – not too thick, not too thin – and begin to fill the pages. Closing the book with a sigh eagerly anticipating what the next entry would hold. Returning to the journal I re-read the entry and push aside the book with embarrassment as to what I wrote. This is why I have stacks of journals with hundreds of empty pages and a few torn pages marking where the single entry once lived.

This blog has become my first journal to extend beyond the first page. Truth be told I have done the equivalent of ripping out some of the pages but many have remained despite my deep desire to not ever have to look at my images from the first four or five years.

I imagine you readers don’t view these pages as journal entries as they often don’t go beyond our dinner the night before but I look through them and each entry, each meal, each photo marks a place in time that I can now draw from because I recorded it here. Little pudgey fingers that enter the frame as I’m trying to photograph cookies and eager eyes peering over my set, words that hint at our days and the reality of what life looks like in those moments. There is a part of me that feels selfish for including all of that. The words that are found in many how-to writing books instruct to think of the audience but the truth is many times I’m thinking of myself.

I’m imaging myself scrolling through these pages after years have passed recalling every sense that the images provoke and laughing over the stories scattered throughout the pages. Remembering the times that were hard, appreciating the good and trying so hard to refrain from deleting the entries that no longer meet my standards.

In no way do I dare discredit your part in all of this, dear reader, but when I think of my audience many times it’s my family and me, much older.

During the days leading up to Christmas my husband and I looked through images from the Christmas a year before. And while it seems it was only yesterday the images tell a different story. My baby girl was actually that – a baby. One that lays content on the ground and where her smiles are still so new to us. The boys were both a bit more round containing the last little bits of baby pudge and now they are boys; tall and slender, strong and tender.

The years pass more quickly than I ever thought possible and yet in their pages are hundreds of memories and the evidence that much changes in a year.

So forgive me while I have a moment and read through my journal over the past year. It’s been a great one, hasn’t it?

2011 exceeded my wildest expectations. We started the year off with lofty and well thought out goals. Many achieved, some were tried only to find that a better option was prepared for us, and some I’m still working through.

In the midst of it all we ate well.

There were quick meals and lingering date nights.

Quick Garlicky Noodles

Dating My Husband: Peanut Butter Pie

There were birthdays and cakes. Lots of cake.

Gradient Cake. For her 1st.

Poppy seed cake with mascarpone and strawberries

Lego/Pirate party

And oh the sandwiches.

Ham, gruyere, and arugula

Pork meatball Banh Mi

And then there were opportunities that I never dreamed would become a reality.

I’m on TV, whee!

Shot for BonAppetit.com

I was reintroduced to film.

Of course there was chocolate. There’s always chocolate.

Butterfingers

Cadbury Eggs at home

Chocolate Chip Toffee Bars

And a few incredible trips.

A coffee tour of Portland

Morocco

Thanks for reliving these moments with me. Such a blessed year. So much to be thankful for, so much to learn from and make me stronger.

If at the end of the year you can say you’ve laughed, cried, and became a bit wiser than I consider it a successful one. And if there was chocolate, there must always be chocolate.

Happy Goodbyes to 2011. Hello 2012.

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As one of the bench markers testing this relationships longevity, I asked Gabe if he liked The Simpsons shortly after we started “hanging out”. He seemed indifferent. – this was, at the time, a big deal for me as it was nearly an institution in our family. Sundays were not just “Nacho Night” they were “eat-nachos-in-front-of-the-tv-while-watching-The Simpons-night”. To not like The Simpsons was, in a sense, to not like a part of me. Luckily, I’ve changed.

He also didn’t like coffee. Luckily, he’s changed.

This is what happens when you marry young. You know one another before you really know yourself. People warn you to live your life first, to discover who you are before the marriage seed is planted in your mind, and for some, that is probably a wise decision, but we were a different story. We met, hung out for a couple years, I moved to Italy for 6 months, and then I realized I would be crazy not to spend the rest of my life with this guy. This “Mexican with a beard”, (which is how I first described him to my parents when telling them of my crush) who wore two button-up shirts at one time, carved his beard into the most creative forms imaginable, played the bass (hot), and loved me in a way that I never thought possible.

I was 21 when I told Gabe I would spend the rest of my life with him. He was 22. It never felt like a fairy tale, I couldn’t and wouldn’t tell you that Gabe was the only one for me but what I could tell you was that I loved him enough to choose to make this commitment and I vowed to make that choice everyday for the rest of my life. As life has carried us through different seasons of joy and sadness, as life has a way of doing, it becomes more and more clear to me that Gabe is indeed the one for me.

And now he drinks coffee. He also slurps coffee producing an even spray across the tongue in order to best taste his brew. This is not how he always drinks coffee, thank goodness, instead this sort of seemingly rude behavior is reserved for cuppings – a session in which one tastes multiple coffees and then rates and discusses them at great length, marking their sweet, sour, and bitter notes on a scientific wheel while jotting down scribbles such as “shoe leather, fermented blueberries, and tobacco”. He liked that particular cup. I did not.

When we were first married I was just beginning to fall in love with food. He patiently waited as I labored over cake batter tweaking and tasting, baking and re-baking, all the while he just wanted cake. Seven years later I still love food and I still love him even though it takes him a solid twenty minutes to produce one cup of coffee in the morning – you know what? I love him BECAUSE it takes him twenty minutes to skillfully brew his morning cup.

Gabe has grown to appreciate all that goes into a single cup of coffee. He has traveled to Guatemala and met coffee growers. He returned with stunning images and the excitement of a young boy explaining to me the process of turning the red coffee cherry into a green bean ready to roast. And now I watch this man that I’ve known for nearly 11 years as he slurps, spits, and scribbles down notes in his journal that is in existence solely for the purpose of recording coffee flavors and I can’t help but fall in love with him more.

Never would I have imagined that my husband would be schooling me in the subject of coffee nor did he know what he was getting himself into but we made that commitment to love and support one another wherever that takes us. If I can love him in-spite of his undying devotion to nacho-cheese sauce that squirts out of a pump found at sporting events or gas stations then I’m pretty sure I can love him through anything.

This cupping took place at Onyx Coffee which is located in Bellingham, WA. If you are ever in that area you must stop by. Their passion for coffee education is unmatched in the area. They are coffee purists encouraging you to leave the cream and sugar in order to taste the coffee the way the growers and the bean intended it to taste. Stop in for a coffee flight or just to hear Edwin and his crew speak about coffee with such passion and authority.

Previously on Film Friday

1, 2

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