The trip was off to an excellent start with the continuation of my favorite Madrid airport tradition. (Favorite tradition, not favorite airport. Madrid-Barajas is a soulless warehouse of an airport, with vast, fluorescent-lit hallways and overpriced amenities, cunningly designed to rob travelers of all hope and vigor.)¹ Anyway, my tradition is this: cheese salad. While I adore living in Morocco, and there are great things to be said about Moroccan cuisine, one of the realities of life here is that it is nearly impossible to get a decent western-style salad. You know, a salad that is made of lettuce. Salads here tend to be an odd platter of diced potato, beets, rice, tomatoes, and onions. Don’t get me wrong- potato, beets, rice, tomatoes, and onions are all things that I love. But sometimes I miss a nice, normal lettuce/tomato/carrot/cucumber/onion/vinaigrette salad. So the first thing I do after passing through security in Madrid is sit down with a beautiful, cheese and pear-topped green salad. This salad even includes cheddar, a rarity in Morocco, and on the way through the checkout line you can pick up these teeny little single-serve containers of olive oil and vinegar. Mmmm.

I digress. After landing in the tiny Bergamo airport, I made my way to the two euro bus into town, and received my first lesson about Italy. Although officially the bus is supposed to arrive every fifteen minutes, unofficially it arrives just after you’ve given up hope of ever being warm again. I live in Morocco, however, so I didn’t sweat it.² The guy standing next to me forlornly at the bus stop struck up a conversation and–after I found out that he was in Bergamo for an interview with a power company–we talked about solar/wind/water energy all the way into town. After parting ways at the train station, I had a frigid nighttime adventure finding my friend, Ilaria’s, apartment. Soon, though, I was snuggled into bed and ready for my very first day in Italy.

After a leisurely breakfast with Ilaria, who was a delightful hostess,³ I ventured out into the city. Bergamo is divided into two parts, the lower city (Città bassa) and the upper city (Città alta). Left over from bygone centuries when high ground was strategically crucial, Bergamo’s high city sits atop a hill (backed by the gorgeous foothills of the Alps) and is encircled by a high wall. I walked through what I guess could be classified as the high street of the lower city, with fashion outlets, pharmacies, bars, and shopping centers, then turned onto a side street and climbed up, up, up to the enormous, ostentatious gate of the Città alta. Caught between Milan and Venice, Bergamo was historically controlled by Venice. And if there’s anything Venetians like, it’s showing off. So in the 17th century, those Venetians marched into Bergamo, knocked down a bunch of homes along the edge of the city, and built a big wall and fancy gate in their place. Kind of a homewrecking, extravagant “suck it!” to the Milanese.

Do you think the Venetians were overcompensating for something?

Anyway, after a stroll on the magnificent wall built on the crumbled remains of Bergamaschi⁴ citizens’ homes, I began a tour of the bakeries of Bergamo’s upper city. But seriously, guys, there were a lot of bakeries. The kind of bakeries that make you stand outside the window, mouth hanging open, pondering exactly how many of those sumptuous sweets you could cram into your mouth at one time without drawing a crowd of incredulous onlookers.

I spent the next thirty minutes inside the famous Santa Maria Maggiore basilica, marveling at its intricate carving and beautiful tapestries. Even the iron railings surrounding the outside of the church were beautifully ornate; no two were alike and were oxidized just enough to lend a pretty teal tinge to the edges of the ironwork.

Every single one was different.

Details in the basilica.

More of the inside.

I made it a personal mission to traverse every single street in the Città alta and didn’t stop until my path was blocked by a throng of extremely loud and elated schoolchildren. I looked up and immediately saw the reason for their frivolity: an old-fashioned candy shop.

Seconds after this photo was taken, these two boys orchestrated a major heist at gunpoint and made off with several canvas sacks of gummy worms.

Hoping to escape the children, I ducked into the Museo Civico di Scienze Naturali. Turns out that they let kids inside natural history museums, too, but I wasn’t especially bothered because there were some excellent stuffed puffer fish and upset-looking crocodiles on display. I had just completed a thorough inspection of the museums preserved fauna and moved on to the African art room⁵ when the museum closed for lunch. For hours. Look, the Italians are clearly doing things right.

ATTENTION: SHARP TEETH (They should tape this sign to live sharks, too.)

These stuffed eagles reminded me of two old friends having a chat.

Luckily, we all escaped before the allo-sawr-us.

Given that every single museum employee and raucous schoolchild had departed for lunch and the city had become deathly silent, I decided that I should do the same. I browsed windows and menus, trying to find exactly the right location for my first Italian meal. (I briefly considered an Irish pub, then remembered myself.) Settled on a pretty little outdoor café, with purple tablecloths and handwritten menus. When the waitress asked me if I’d like anything to drink, I had a “Well, why the hell not– I’m in Italy!” moment and ordered a glass of local red wine. (Having practiced my Italian the whole airplane ride from Madrid, I immediately resorted to French.) And my inner five-year-old squealed delightedly when I settled on good, old-fashioned spaghetti.⁶ So I sat at this sunny café, wine in one hand and spaghetti-filled fork in the other, and spent some time thinking about exactly how awesome my life was.

I gave into temptation and purchased a scrumptious fruit tart from one of the nearby bakeries for dessert. Carrying it to the city wall, I gingerly set it down and singlemindedly began snapping photos of it, trying to make sure I adequately captured the glowing red berries, sparkling kiwi, and tantalizing crumbly crust. After several minutes of this, I sat down on the wall and, lifting the tart to my lips, looked up. An elderly gentleman was standing right there, grinning at me. He laughed, slapped me on the back, and said something in Italian that I’m pretty sure meant “My, you are so silly taking photos of that tart when you should be eating it! Kids these days! Ho ho. Thanks for giving me the best laugh of the day.” And then walked away. Let the record show that this tart was totally worth it.

My delayed-gratification tartograph.

The ever-helpful Wikitravel had recommended seeing San Vigilio, a small village on the hill above Bergamo’s Città alta. That’s right, a Città alta alta. What Wikitravel said: “Visit San Vigilio – a small hilltop village that can be reached on foot or by a second funicolare from Città Alta.” What I read: “Visit San Vigilio – a small hilltop village that can be reached on foot or by a second funicolare from Città Alta. If you cop out and take the funicolare, however, you are possibly the laziest person on Earth and people will stare and point in the streets, knowing that you are an American tourist.” So I walked. And walked. And then do you know what I did? I walked some more.

Passed at least five of these on the way up.

After many minutes and several passing funicolares⁷ filled with townsfolk, I reached San Vigilio and discovered that the village was composed of exactly three things: 1) the funicolare station, 2) the overpriced café outside the funicolare station, and 3) an old, ruined castle. So castle it was! The castle park⁸ appeared completely deserted, and I felt just slightly creeped out as I climbed up winding stone staircases with little shafts of light peeking in from medieval window slits. There weren’t even any signs, so I just continued up and hoped that I wouldn’t end up in some sort of medieval torture chamber populated by cloaked members of a fanatical religious cult. But there was light at the end of the staircase, and I was greeted with a breathtaking view of the surrounding countryside and mountains from the castle’s battlements.

Creepy?

This man looked like he had a story.

The Città alta from above.

Spent the rest of the afternoon completing my mental map of the city and befriending one very large dog. Home again in the evening for a cooking adventure with Ilaria: homemade lasagne with béchamel sauce, fresh pesto, and parmesan. To be honest, I mostly watched while Ilaria worked her northern Italian kitchen magic, though I made some significant contributions by a) holding plates, b) stirring sauce, and c) cracking really dumb jokes every few minutes. Her husband came home just in time to eat lasagne (well played, sir) and we chatted over dinner about everyone’s grand travel plans, past and future.

The Very Large Dog. Seriously, he was nearly bigger than me.

It rained on day two, so there was only one thing to do: visit the public library. After taking one look at the decor, I was keenly aware of the fact that this was a shushing library. You know what I mean- full of bespectacled librarians that go shushhh when you try to take a photo of the stacks or shussshhh when you ask a student what she is studying or shuuuussssshhhh when you step on a floorboard the wrong way and it creaks. I felt like I should get a free noise pass, being a librarian myself, but I wasn’t sure how to explain this concept in Italian so I kept quiet instead. Still, I wish that there were some sort of international camaraderie between librarians that guaranteed entrance to secret ancient book rooms and invitations for cakes and tea.

I was about to leave the library when I stumbled across the card catalog room. A whole wall of card catalogs, most of them hand-written decades ago… how could I resist? Knowing that I lacked the language skills to pull the librarian card,⁹ I pulled the photographer card and managed to communicate my desire to take a few photos of the card catalog. The librarian sighed, but reluctantly agreed.¹⁰ Like the literature nerd that I am, I pulled all of my favorite authors and snapped photos of the ones with the most elegant handwriting. The librarian looked on suspiciously.

La Torre, apparently.

Easy to find.

The rain was bumming me out, so I slipped into a café/bar where I’d seen some university students go the day before. The bartender seemed really excited about serving me coffee or liquor, so I ordered a hot chocolate. And oh, what a hot chocolate it was! Listen, friends. This was not your Swiss Miss, Land o’ Lakes, Starbucks, or even [insert famed local coffee house here] hot chocolate. This was, literally, hot chocolate. Chocolate that was hot. It was like someone had simply melted a chocolate bar into a cup and handed it to me. It was heavenly. I may have made some inappropriate hot chocolate-enjoying noises, because the bartender came over to have a half-hour long chat in broken French about Italy, Bergamo, history, and architecture. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I only loved him for his hot chocolate.

I met Ilaria for a delicious afternoon snack that was like a cross between foccacia and pizza, topped with fresh sliced tomato, oregano, and heaps of garlic. One euro.

Even more delicious than it looks.

We nibbled our magic portable pizza and strolled through the just-opened botanical gardens (Orto Botanico di Bergamo “Lorenzo Rota”). I spotted several choice succulents that had just been brought out of the greenhouse by a slightly grumpy gardener. He eyed me suspiciously when I got too close to the sempervivum. As the sun set, we began our walk back down to the Città bassa, rewarding ourselves at the end of the journey with gelato in ice cream cones. I caught the train to Milan, had a late-night public transit nightmare, and attended the two-day conference. I caught a fleeting glimpse of Milan from a bus window on my way back to the airport, and a lingering glimpse of the Alps from my airplane window. I spent the rest of my journey to Tangier (including my second airport salad) thinking about visiting Italy again.¹¹

1. If you do find yourself there, however, try one of the apples. It is the only apple I have encountered in my life that actually tastes like a place: airport. Skeptical? See for yourself.
2. It was cold.
3. And not just because she fed me.
4. Yes, Wikipedia confirms that this is the correct demonym.
5. The irony of flying from Africa to Italy to look at African art was not lost on me.
6. Oh, the stories my parents could tell you about me and spaghetti.
7. Funicular, a quaint urban rail car that carries lazy people up hills: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Funicular
8. You know, where visiting lords and kings park their castles. Ha ha.
9. Please note the appropriateness of this expression, given the circumstances.
10. She did indicate, however, that video was forbidden. Who takes video of card catalogs, anyway? It’s not like they’re going to leap up, do some parlor tricks, or emit flashing lights.
11. That and the two kilos of parmesan nestled safely in my hand luggage.

A storm rolled in as we walked down the country road.

But cleared up in time for a great sunset.

We hiked through a forest of dead trees.

Surprised a marmot.

And watched a second sunset over snow.

Woke up to these clouds.

Hiking down, found several varieties of moss in only four square inches.

And three waterfalls into a lake.

And then a moth posed for me.

Then we drove ⁴ over to Mount Tamalpais,⁵ hiked to the top,⁶ and enjoyed even better views of Marin, San Francisco, Sonoma, and the park itself. I made the mistake of identifying a large bird as a vulture, but was quickly corrected by a fellow hiker. “It’s a condor,” he said, “Calling it a vulture is the biggest insult in the bird world.” Sorry, condor.⁷ After chatting in the gift shop with an elderly woman wearing a tiara,⁸ we reluctantly left the park, accompanied by an escort of seven or so cyclists. Crossed a mist-cloaked Golden Gate Bridge, parked, and ended the day lounging in a sunny park with some fresh pastries from a local bakery. Not bad, eh?

More photos on Flickr.

1. After being previously awakened at 4:30am by a prank call to our motel room. Insider tip: If you ever decide to prank call somebody in a motel at 4:30 in the morning, try to think of a better pitch than “There are starving children in Africa so we’re charging you extra to park your non-hybrid car.” Not especially believable. The man in the room adjacent to ours went into a 10-minute yelling fit when he got the call just after us. And the motel staff said the police were on their way. There’s a special place in hell for people who prank call at 4:30am.
2. Yes, I think banana slugs are cute.
3. Ten points to anyone who can tell me the real name for a group of chipmunks.
4. There were so many bicyclists on the road that–at times–it seemed like we were on a large two-lane bicycle path. I loved seeing the sheer number of cyclists in Marin County. Wish we had that kind of bicycle traffic in the DC area. Maybe then it would be a bit safer for cyclists.
5. Or “Mount Tam”, as it’s affectionately called by locals.
6. Where we saw a guy on a nearby cliff getting ready for some rock climbing and enjoyed the shocked reactions of other tourists: “What’s he doing?” “I can’t believe he’s that close to the edge!” “Is he still standing there??” Apparently they didn’t know about rock climbing. And how sometimes people do that.
7. I guess it’s much more exciting, though, to see a critically endangered species. Glad condors are still out and about in California.
8. And buying a surprise for my mother!

The thing that always astonishes me when I travel to the west coast is how easily succulents grow in the wild, on people’s doorsteps, on walls, everywhere! I will never get used to rounding a corner and seeing a jade tree or a huge, basketball-sized rosette. In DC I have to raise my succulents indoors, with careful watering and maybe a few loving songs. If you don’t believe me about the sheer number and beauty of succulents in San Francisco, I’ve included photographic evidence in this post.

More photos on Flickr.

1. I am succulent obsessed and not ashamed to admit it.

Just when I thought I was safe, two pedestrians decided it was a good idea to amble down the street in the bicycle lane, even though there was a sidewalk was a few feet to their right. I slowed down, but passed close enough to make them both jump. I’m happy to say that I also yelled several loud words, including GET, OUT, OF, THE, BICYCLE, and LANE, possibly followed with one more not very nice word. But had I not still been shaking from my earlier encounter with the car, I would have pulled over and had the following conversation with them:

Me: “Excuse me, I’m really sorry I scared you just then. Did you know that you’re walking in the bicycle lane?”

Pedestrians: “Oh, we didn’t realize.”

Me: “That’s all right- I just wanted to stop and explain to you what a huge safety risk it is for all three of us. It’s dark out, you’re around a corner on this road with low visibility, and if I hadn’t seen you in time all three of us could be in the hospital right now.”

At this point in my imagined conversation, the pedestrians react with understanding and gratitude, thanking me for taking the time to make the DC streets a safer place. I’d like to say that this conversation could happen in real life, but in real life it would probably just be cut short early with a hearty “Fuck you!” from one of them. (My imaginary conversation with the motorist is much shorter, consisting of a few well-chosen four letter words.)

But there’s no use crying over unenforced traffic laws. I’ve been contemplating this post for several months now, and now I think it’s time to write it.

Bungee jumpers, skydivers, and shark cage divers of the world, I challenge you to partake in the ultimate adrenaline rush: riding a bicycle in DC. The only difference between skydiving and cycling in this city is in the statistics. Skydiving is safer by far. Don’t believe me? What about the District of Columbia Fire and Emergency Medical Services Department? So far this month (and remember, we’re only on the third day) nine people have been struck by cars. And this is just the alerts they’ve had time to post on Twitter during working hours. As of August, there had been ten pedestrian fatalities this year, with an average of 8-10 pedestrians and cyclists struck every day. Check out this neat map of accidents in the month of July alone, compiled by DCist.com:
View D.C. Pedestrian/Cycling Accidents – July 2010 in a larger map

A recent Washington Post article describes seven Washington area pedestrian accidents, including three deaths, in less than a week. Here’s a great excerpt from a related article about these incidents:

Although overall roadway fatalities have declined to their lowest level since 1950, the number of pedestrian-car fatalities has inched down stubbornly. Nationally, the fatality count dropped last year by 322, to 4,092. In the Washington region, it declined by one to 85.

Here’s a brief article (if you can even call it an article) about a woman who was killed by a car in southwest DC:

Now check out some of the comments from readers:

“You should always look both ways before crossing the street in DC. And always cross in a marked crosswalk. Not giving full time and attention and not being in the marked crosswalk contributed to her death … We are sorry for your loss.”

“Not saying this is the situation in this case, but people walk in front of moving cars in DC as if they are invulnerable, they dare you to hit them.”

A later commenter finally points out the obvious:

“Are there any more details on this? Everyone seems to assume that she wasn’t paying attention, but could it be that she WAS walking on green, and perhaps someone turned into her, etc?”

Now that I’ve served up these very sobering statistics and articles,¹ how about a side of anecdotal evidence? I don’t know anyone who cycles in DC and hasn’t been involved in an accident with a car at least once. I’ve had drivers speed past me with only a foot or two of space between us, leaning on their horns the whole time. Others have run stop signs or tailgated me for blocks, honking and flashing their lights. Just a few weeks ago, a colleague of mine was struck by a car while crossing an intersection. She had a green light. She (or rather, the car that hit her) broke several ribs, fractured her arm, and injured her hip. There were many other major and minor injuries. She doesn’t have feeling in one of her hands. In addition to the cast, sling, brace, and special orthopedic shoes, she’s still waiting to find out if she needs to have surgery. But if she hadn’t been wearing her helmet, she probably would have died. Her bike is gone, her helmet is cracked, and the only souvenir she has from her accident is the traffic violation ticket a policeman thoughtfully left with her on the stretcher. This is not an uncommon story.

I’m a very cautious, almost paranoid cyclist, but can’t shake the feeling that it could be my any day now.² In most places, it’s enough to wear a helmet and reflectors, turn on rear and front flashing lights, signal at turns, stop at signs, and use designated bicycle lanes.³ In Washington, DC it’s not enough.

All this is not to say that bicyclists and pedestrians are without fault.⁴ Many cyclists run red lights and stop signs, speed on crowded sidewalks, fail to signal when making turns or changing lanes, or even carry on phone conversations while biking (yikes!). Many pedestrians walk out into the street without looking both ways. Even more pedestrians walk into the street without checking to see if they have the walk signal. Just like motorists’ bad behavior, these things can be life-endangering.

DC cyclists, know your laws!

• Ride with the flow of traffic on the right half of the roadway.
• A person driving a motor vehicle shall exercise due care by leaving a safe distance, but in no case less than 3 feet, when overtaking and passing a bicycle.
• Allowed to pass motor vehicles on left or right, in the same lane or changing lanes, or pass off road.
• No person shall open any door of a vehicle unless it is safe to do so and can be done without interfering with moving traffic.
• Use of bike lanes and paths is not mandatory, but motor vehicles may not obstruct bike lanes!
• Cyclists are required to have a bell or other device. Sirens are prohibited.
• After dark, cyclists are required to have a front white light and rear red reflector (or rear red light), may be attached to operator.
• Helmets are required under the age of 16.⁵
• Motorists do not automatically have the right of way. Neither do cyclists.

Finally, please take the time to read this information about aggressive driving from the DC Metropolitan Police Department:

Aggressive driving is a combination of unsafe and unlawful actions that demonstrate a conscious and willful disregard for safety. The following offenses are included: running red lights and stop signs; following too closely, or tailgating; changing lanes unsafely; failing to yield the right of way; improper passing; and speeding. And aggressive driving is against the law.

Aggressive drivers may target bikers as well as drivers of other motorized vehicles. It’s in everyone’s best interest to avoid an aggressive driver rather than to engage him or her. Bikers can do that by getting out of their way and steering clear of them on the road; staying relaxed – remember, reaching your destination safely and calmly is your goal; not challenging them; avoiding eye contact; and ignoring rude gestures.
Whether you’re on a bicycle or in a car,⁶ you should report aggressive driving if you see it. Police will need to know the following information:

• Description of Vehicle (color, make, model, license plate state, and license plate number).
• Description of driver (sex, race, age, hair color, height, weight).
• Location of incident.
• Date and time of incident.
• Description of what happened.
• If you’re willing to be a witness, be sure to provide your name, address and phone number.

This information–along with great tips for drivers, cyclists, and pedestrians–also comes in handy PDF form (download here). I’m going to put it up in my workplace and encourage you to do the same.

If you drive in DC, or anywhere, please be aware of pedestrians and cyclists! This means avoiding phone conversations, listening to loud music, or anything else that may distract you when you’re in your (relatively) safe metal bubble. Know your rights and responsibilities. Know your traffic laws. And remember, driving is a privilege, not a right.

My heart is still pounding, but at least I’m not crying anymore.

1. For extra credit, check out this national report, aptly titled “Dangerous By Design”, on pedestrian accidents.
2. Mum and Dad, if you’re reading this, please don’t panic. I’m as safe as I can be without giving up my right to personal, emission-free city transportation.
3. In fact, sometimes bicycle lanes can be more dangerous than the road itself. Where there are lanes, they’re usually hemmed in on the left by traffic and the right by street parking. Even something as simple as a door opened from a parked car into the bicycle lane is enough to seriously injure or even kill an oncoming cyclist.
4. There was a bicycle hit-and-run just last week.
5. If you’re over the age of 16, you’re still just as likely to die from head trauma! Please wear a helmet.
6. Or walking!

As is often the case, I volunteered to provide dessert for a social occasion without actually knowing what I’d make. Or if I had the necessary ingredients. Or even the time. This tart is the result of an hour of frantic online recipe browsing, leafing through cookbooks, and running around Harris Teeter like a madwoman, and another hour of stirring, accidentally powdering all nearby surfaces with confectioners’ sugar, slicing fruit quickly rather than safely, and pouring hot jam. But it’s worth it for all the envious looks you’ll receive from your roommate, passers-by on the street, and even the normally surly DC bus driver who isn’t supposed to let you on with open dishes of food but makes an exception because it looks so scrumptious. Most of this recipe is taken from Colleen Patrick-Goudreau’s The Joy of Vegan Baking.

Last Minute Vegan Fruit Tart²

SHORTBREAD CRUST:

• 1/2 cup (112g) non-hydrogenated, nondairy butter, at room temperature³
• 1/4 cup (25g) confectioners’ sugar
• 1 cup (125g) all-purpose flour
• 4 tbsp ice water

Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C). Lightly grease the pie pan with canola oil or nondairy butter. I used this 9″ tart pan, but any similarly sized pie dish or square casserole dish will do. Use tartlet pans or even a muffin pan if you want to make cute little tartlets.

In a medium-sized bowl, cream the butter and confectioners’ sugar until light and fluffy. (If you have an electric mixer, use it. If not, a spoon employed vigorously for several minutes is also sufficient. My mixture was creamy–rather than fluffy–and still turned out fine.)

Add the flour a third at a time and beat until the dough just comes together. If your dough, like mine, doesn’t just “come together”, stir in ice water one tablespoon at a time until the dough begins to form a loose ball. It’s okay if it’s still a little crumbly.

Press the mixture into the bottom of your prepared pan. (If you are making tartlets, be sure that you spread the dough quite thin in the tartlet pans or muffin tin, as it will puff up when baking.) Bake for about 20 minutes, or until lightly browned. Bake time will vary depending on your oven. Mine took about 35 minutes, so start out with 20 and check every 5-10 minutes after that. Remove from the oven and place somewhere to cool.

–

PASTRY CREAM (CUSTARD):

• 1/3 cup (65g) granulated sugar
• 2 tbsp (16g) all-purpose flour
• 4 tbsp (32g) cornstarch
• 1/4 cup (60mL) water
• 1 1/3 cups (315mL) nondairy milk (I used rice milk, but soy milk is obviously fine, too)
• 2 tsp vanilla or lemon extract (I used vanilla)

In a medium-sized bowl, beat together the sugar, flour, cornstarch, and water on high speed until creamy, about 2 minutes. (Again, I just used a fork for about 4 minutes, adding the ingredients one at a time.) Set aside.

In a saucepan, bring the milk to a simmer. Pour about 1/3 cup (80mL) of the hot milk into the sugar mixture and stir to thoroughly combine. This doesn’t have to be precise; just make sure the sugar mixture is a little liquid-y. Pour this sugar-milk mixture back into the saucepan with the rest of the milk. Return to the stove and heat over medium-low heat, whisking constantly. This is important! Don’t stop whisking for anything, not even zombies or kittens! It will begin to thicken immediately. (They’re not kidding. It only takes about a minute or two, if that, for the cream to thicken sufficiently.)

Scrape the bottom and sides of the pan as you whisk. Cook until it begins to bubble, then whisk as vigorously as you can for 30 seconds, and remove from heat. (Mine never bubbled. If yours doesn’t either, just remove from heat when it seems about as thick as your average chocolate pudding.) Stir in the vanilla/lemon extract.

Your pie crust should be baked and ready, so go ahead and pour the cream into the crust right away, smoothing it flat with a rubber spatula or large spoon. It doesn’t have to be perfect, since the fruit will be covering it anyway. Be sure to put your fruit on top immediately, before the pastry cream sets.

If your crust isn’t ready yet, you can store the pastry cream (covered) in the fridge for up to 3 days.

–

TOPPING:

• 3-4 tbsp (80g) jelly, jam or preserves (I used apricot jam. Peach is also good.)
• 2 1/2 cups fruit, sliced (I used about 1 1/2 cups of strawberries, 1 kiwi, 7 blackberries, and a handful of blueberries)

Arrange your sliced fruit on top of the tart. Even if you’re the worst pastry decorator in the history of the world, there’s no way this will look anything but delicious.

Heat the jelly in a small saucepan, whisking constantly. Once it’s hot, strain into a small bowl, mug, or measuring cup, leaving behind seeds or anything else solid. It should be liquid enough to pour. If it’s too thick, just reheat with a little water added.

Using a pastry brush (or a small spoon, in a pinch), brush the heated jelly over the top of the fruit. Everything should be covered with a thickish layer, but not overwhelmed. It should look moist, shiny, and wonderful. NOTE: it may be difficult to stop yourself from devouring the tart right then and there. (Another argument for tartlets.)

Serves 8, supposedly. It served three of us, with about 1/6 left over.

For an equally delicious, non-vegan version of this recipe, simply use real butter and milk.

1. Don’t be ashamed! There is nothing wrong with wandering droolers.
2. More photos on Flickr.
3. I cheated and used real butter, from happy farmer’s market cows.

When I was in elementary school, I used to complain about stomach aches all the time to get out of math class.¹ And when I say all the time, I mean all the time. The school nurse knew me. She could even recognize my footsteps and my knock. Anyway, being an extremely patient and sympathetic woman (perhaps she didn’t like math either), she always let me stay. I would hop up onto the spare cot with a Where’s Waldo book and spend the next half hour searching through the pages.

So after stumbling across downtown Silver Spring with a vicious zombie horde,² I found myself seated next to undead Waldo for a special screening of Shaun of the Dead! It was like a dream (nightmare?) come true!³ Here he is at the bar before the walk:⁴

The great thing that I discovered about Halloween in the city (versus good ol’ Fredericksburg) is that festivities go on for at least a week preceding the actual day! This meant that after the zombie walk on October 24th, I still had a whole week of events to look forward to! Highlights included a screening of Nosferatu at AFI with a live orchestra providing the soundtrack, trick-or-treating as Charlie Chaplin, and a Halloween in Paris party at Bistro Napoleon, where I spotted one of my favorite costumed pairs of all time:

Fantastic, right? Happy Halloween, and don’t forget to mail me your leftover candy!

1. What can I say? Math gives me a stomach ache ;)
2. Yes, I dressed as a zombie too, complete with slashed throat and blood-smeared face.
3. I think I alarmed him with my enthusiasm.
4. If you love Waldo as much as I do, you’ll be thrilled to know that the DC Defenestrators staged live-action Waldo searches in the city recently. The fun never ends!

As promised, here are my four most recent paintings. They’re actually finished, which is more than I can usually say! We’ll see about continuing this trend.

Everyone should have blue skin.

spring

summer

fall

Voila! I’m going to save up for a couple of canvases² so next time I don’t have to paint on paper.

1. Have I lost you yet?
2. Did you know: en française, ‘canvas’ is ‘toile’. Not to be confused with etoile or toilette.

"I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each"

"I do not think that they will sing to me"

My sunburn notebook from two years ago:

And one extra this year because I had so many leftover magazine clippings:

1. I fell asleep on the beach for four hours or so…
2. I hope my mother didn’t need those magazines.

1. The songs used are, in order: “7 pm” and “La Vie Quotidienne” by Yann Tiersen