PB & J(ust about anything)

I have always loved peanut butter. My last two years in high school as a vegetarian, I brought a peanut butter sandwich to school every day. (No jelly: I didn't want to bread to get soggy.) Later, when I was broke one summer during college, I experimented with peanut butter and dorito sandwiches. (Good jelly was out of my budget; I needed that money for beer.) When I gave up being a vegetarian, I dabbled with peanut butter and bacon. (Don't knock it til you've tried it.) A few years ago I introduced my friend Bettina to peanut butter and banana sandwiches when we were hiking through the jungles of Costa Rica. (I like to think she's spread the craze around Germany since her return.)

Crunchy, creamy, natural, decidedly not natural -- I love peanut butter in all its forms. (Well, except the low fat variety. I mean, come on.) Clearly I have been supporting the peanut butter manufacturing industry for some time.

On the bikeable feast, I've been working local ingredients into the peanut butter sandwich experiments. Blueberries right off the bush on my way through Concord, NH. Homemade kumquat jam from Jen's mom in Catalina, AZ. Steamed cabbage at Yochi's in Eugene, OR. (Okay, actually I didn't eat that one, but Yochi swears it's delicious.) With honey, with nutella, with the classic raspberry preserves or apricot jam. On sprouted bread, bagels, pita pockets, croissants, even those little melba toasts.

Today, in a moment of misguided fervor, I tried my first peanut butter and avocado sandwich. Um. Yeah. It was lacking in a little something, namely the ability to detach from the roof of my mouth. A water bottle and a half later, I've finished swallowing and decided it's high time to solicit some new ideas. I mean, variety is the spice of life, no?

This is where you come in, readers. I know you're out there -- I've been peeking at the google analytics stats every so often -- and I need your help. I'll be picking up food supplies soon for the next leg of the journey. Your assignment: send in a recipe for your favorite peanut butter [& something] sandwich. Actually, you know what, it doesn't even have to be peanut butter, just a sandwich that's tasty and relatively easy to assemble on the road. In fact, it might be nice to have a PB&J reprieve. When I get to New Orleans in about a week, I'll see what's been submitted and choose a winner, to whose home I will send a little cajun care package....

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OMG, did he just misspell "agribusiness"??

Thanksgiving is fast approaching, and you know what that means. Yep, lots of food -- hopefully lots of local, sustainable food -- and a few days off. I'll bet many of you are looking for something to do besides linger near the cheesecake at the end of the table or play Bananagrams.

During my time as a public school teacher, I was always expected to give some kind of project during school holidays. I tried my best to make these fun but thoughtful assignments. (Well, *I* thought they were fun; it's hard to please teenagers.) In honor of my former students, and inspired by a photo sent to me by my friend Mark earlier today, I've decided to hold a little contest....

Your assignment, should you choose to accept it, is this: Come up with a caption for the photo above.

Historical note: It marks the first (non-photoshopped) photograph of me with one of my heroes, Michael Pollan. As you can tell, I was looking pretty menacing as the crowd control person at the book signing following Pollan's talk at the Food For Thought festival this past September.

So, put on your thinking caps and don't give in to the seratonin-induced food coma! I'll choose a winner on Dec 1 and send the victor a little care package from the west coast....

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The lavish radish

It has been brought to my attention recently that many people actually enjoy eating radishes. I myself have been trying to accept these bright, easy-to-grow salad accents as legitimate players at the table, but it's slow going. I'm trying, though: I got a (temporary) radish tattoo; I attempted to make a radish salad at Judith's last weekend. (Actually, the salad turned out to be fairly tasty, but then, when you saute anything in butter -- as we did the quartered radishes before tossing them with the radish greens, arugula, and a viniagrette with citrus, curry powder, and yoghurt to make a wilted salad -- really, how can you go wrong?) I've thought about roasting and stuffing them like mushrooms, tinkered with ways to use grated radishes in a risotto, I wonder about grilling them over the beer can stove as a side for macaroni.

But I need more ideas for ways to prepare and enjoy these spicy little red guys, so I'm starting another contest: whomever submits the best radish recipe by the end of this month gets the second official Bikeable Feast postcard. Chefs, start your burners....

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And the winner is...

You know that sensation when something just feels right? I had one of those moments earlier this evening while riding my bike back from work. Ben, from the bike shop, was heading in my general direction so offered to ride back together. It was another gorgeous night in the District and near the end of the ride we passed by the reservoir near Howard University. We were chatting away as we rode up the gentle slope and Ben was telling me about his time on the West Coast, how he'd fallen in love with Olympia when he'd gone to visit the university there. And then it hit me: Olympia! Classy. Strong. Regal. Done. (I'm also excited about the nicknames. Ollie fits pretty well. I'm hoping to avoid Limpy, though her tires are feeling kind of squishy yet again, despite my having pumped them to 80 before leaving the shop.)

So, Ben, the postcard is yours. Heck, I like the name so much I may just send you a second postcard... from Olympia. (The next contest may be a wager on the number of flat tires I'll get between here and there.)

A bike by any other name

Vinnie kindly gave Sheldon and I a ride back from the garden in College Park in the late afternoon. A bit stiff from the afternoon's mulch pitchforking activities and wheelbarrow maneuvering, I flopped down in a chair, scarfed a banana muffin, and called over to Revolution Cycles in Georgetown to check on the status of the bike I had finally decided on: a 50" Surly Long Haul Trucker. (Color: Truckaccino. Love it!)

I'd done a lot of reading and asking people during my quest for the right bike for me. Being new to biking, it was a bit overwhelming. At least once I decided on a touring bike this cut down the options somewhat. Being of limited financial means also narrowed the field considerably. I visited a bunch of shops in the area and test rode what I could. The problem, it seemed, was that no shops happened to have a bike in my correct size, so everything was guesswork. (Also, keep in mind that I have only been biking for a month, so every new bike felt weird.) The Trek 520 was pretty good; I'd tried a few Jamis bikes. But when one salesperson described the Long Haul Trucker as virtually indestructible, something that "you could throw off a building and it wouldn't break," my mind was made up: that was my bike. And in spite of the photo of Dubya consulting on bike matters that sat framed near the front door (complete with secret service agent leaning against a pole in the background), Revolution Cycles would be where I bought it. Friendly, knowledgeable, and patient, Steve, the shop's manager, had talked me through the fitting process and warranty last weekend and I handed over my federal tax refund.

Luckily, Steve was working today when I went to pick up my new partner -- name TBD. We checked the seat height, the brakes. Later, when we started chatting more about my trip, he tried to talk me out of my determination not to bring a camping stove in order to have space in my packs for dancing shoes. (I'm still not convinced: I would choose salsa dancing over oatmeal any day.) Most importantly, Steve pointed out that the name I was kicking around for my newly acquired bicycle, Sheldon Junior, was a bit lacking in creativity. My friends Tori, Rudy, and Steve, who met me soon afterward as we strolled through Georgetown, confirmed this. On my ride home, when I wasn't dodging cars veering into bike lanes, I pondered this. Hazel? Shirley? (Come on, the Shirley the Long Haul Trucker has kind of a ring to it.) Man, now I know what my pregnant friends go through choosing names. At least I only have to deal with a tire pump rather than a breast pump at this point. The name... hmmm.... this is important.

Let's say whomever writes in with the coolest name gets the first postcard I write on my trip. I set out the end of April. Let the names begin!

Meanwhile, I am going to work on fostering a supportive relationship between Sheldon and [for now we'll call her] Shirley. This is critical, as the newcomer does not have a kickstand. I like to think this lack of kickstand is because she is more highly evolved, kind of like people who are born without wisdom teeth (at least that's what my friend Woody, who never had wisdom teeth, used to say. Then again, he was born with three spleens, so who the heck knows. But I digress...). Shirley and Sheldon seem to be getting along alright so far, though I sense both are vying for the alpha cycle position. Shirley certainly is a classy bike, and all shiny and new. She has a bit of a trucker mouth, though....