Season of Yellow
It’s that time of year when even the overgrown lots and neglected front yards are postcard pretty. Matilija poppies shoot up and out of shaggy street corners near the beach. Wild radish and cheeseweed mallow blooms push through the open cracks of concrete along quiet neighborhood sidewalks. But it’s really the season of yellow blossoms, which are everywhere right now – the hills of Palos Verdes dusted with wide stretches of wild mustard, dry coastal bluffs thick with Encelia californica (California bush sunflower), unmanicured parkways blanketed in gazania and Bermuda buttercup.
There’s still a slight chill in the late afternoon breeze, but not enough to fight off the feeling of wanting to be outside more and for longer. Kai and I snuck off to our local break on Saturday afternoon, once Little League and some house cleaning were done. The water was brisk – 63° – but warm for this time of year. Kai ran right in. A small pod of dolphins swam back and forth along the shore about 100 yards out. A juvenile sea lion played in the white water just down the beach. Kai pushed himself into a small wave and bodysurfed it to shore. I could see his huge grin as he stood up and shot me a big thumbs up.
It’s a particular kind of gratitude, watching your kids inherit a love of the ocean, chasing the stoke.
Back at home, the smell of fresh pesto filled the kitchen. Sevenju was making some from scratch with basil, arugula, spinach, pepitas (instead of pine nuts because our kids’ nut allergies), and a generous amount of roasted garlic. I butterflied some chicken breast, seasoned it with garlic powder, salt, pepper, and thyme from the garden, and fired up the grill. Chicken pesto burgers were on the menu. We each dress and assemble them in our own way, but let’s be honest, my way’s the best – grilled chicken topped with a heaping spread of pesto, melted cheddar (we were out of mozzarella) roasted red peppers, tomato, arugula, and some mayo on a toasted brioche bun... I mean, c’mon!!!
Sunday afternoon, I broke out the Ooni. Dad’s homemade pesto pizzas, though time consuming, have become their own reason to celebrate. And the weather was too nice to be stuck in the kitchen. So after prepping the toppings – shredded mozzarella, thinly sliced shallots and red onions, garlicky sautéed mushrooms, fresh oregano from the garden – I fired up the oven, and set up my pizza station on our skinny old outdoor table. The family gathered under the shade of the passion fruit vine, and the pizzas came out one-by-one.
Monday would be here soon enough: 6:30 alarm. Sevenju packing lunches then heading out early. Dropping the kids off at school. Home by 8:40. Zoom at 9.
But that was tomorrow. I dusted the flour off my hands and grabbed a hot slice. Two of the kids passed a volleyball back and forth behind me as I gently stretched the last pizza dough between my two upturned hands.
