Maui, Day 1: Blackened Fish Benedict and Sunset

Sublime Blackened Opah Benedict at Market Fresh Bistro

(NB: All brunches should be followed by house-made tiramisu in the garden)

Up through the clouds to Haleakala Crater

Decent spot for a picnic...

Stars for dessert

Kauai, Day 4: Moonfish and Helicopters

Two things.

1. You can make this recipe with eggplant, and it will be just as decadently amazing as the original.

2. Today, there was a helicopter.

Kauai, Day 3: The North Shore and Bar Acuda

Na Pali Coast in the rain

Anini Beach

Local avocado type #2 of ??

Mango from the Waipio farmer's market

Hanalei

Bar Acuda: Local honeycomb, Fuji apple, Humboldt Fog goat cheese

Arancini with lime, honey, and truffle sauce

Blackened tiger prawns

Chocolate pot de creme with toasted macaroon

Kaua'i, Day 2: Beaches, Fish, and Farmers' Markets

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Kaua'i, Day 1: Purple Long Beans with Garlic and Mustard Seeds

The downside of cooking away from home is navigating a foreign kitchen. For instance, I would have thought low heat was lower than medium, but that may just be me and my sheltered mainland ways. And under no other circumstances would you be likely to hit upon the idea of trying to rinse rice with the aid of a coffee filter. (Tip: Don't.)

The upside to cooking away from home? Grabbing the most unusual things in the market to make for dinner.

Found on the way north from the airport: Fresh-caught moonfish at Fish Express, local purple long beans at Papaya's Natural Foods, palm trees, green cliffs, bougainvillea and bromeliads, a vast and shimmering sea.

The long beans I just threw in a wide pan with some olive oil, a smashed clove of garlic, and a scattering of black mustard seeds, then tossed, covered, and cooked till al dente.

In the face of what I can only assume is an island-wide drought of coconut milk (since I can't imagine why else a store would be completely out of it...maybe coconut-obsessed island gnomes who strike in the dead of night?), I bravely abandoned my go to recipe for moonfish in favor of a new one (sprinkle with salt, black pepper, and red pepper flakes, pan fry until almost cooked through, serve over black rice...then melt a pat of butter in the pan, toss in a couple tablespoons julienned ginger and let caramelize, throw in some cilantro and a glug of white wine, simmer briefly, pour over the fish).

It'll do.

Intermission

This blog is a blog about food, of course. But it is also, implicitly, a blog about social connection—about creating meals that we share with others, about food as a communal experience; about cooking with and for and because of, about smell and taste and texture that we experience with rather than alone. After all, what are we doing here, you and I, if not creating a shared space, a mutual reality?

Pull up a chair. Let me tell you something.

A friend of mine was recently remembering his dad, who passed away a few years ago, and I overheard an acquaintance tell him two sentences that have been echoing in my head ever since. She said something like: The people we love are concepts in our heads. They live on as long as we remember them.

Which is true, right? In a profound, ringing kind of way.

You can hear them. What they would say. Or see them and how they would look. Corner of the mouth pulling up into a smile. Eyes that crease at the corners. But more than that—you can feel them like a warmth, a presence, a concept in your head that's as real as anything (because everything, when you think about it, is a concept...our whole world is filtered through our minds...so why should one mental representation be any less real than another? There they are, nestled between our memory of yesterday and our thoughts of tomorrow).

So next time you sit down to a meal, bring them. The father or grandfather who passed away. The faithful companion who rested his head on your knee for eleven years. The friend who you somehow lost and the ex who you never stopped loving. Invite them to dinner. Lean into them. Breathe.

Feel that?

Right there.

Concepts in our heads. Food on the table.

Live on.