Breakfast, on and on with no finale

What can I say? I’m a Sunday breakfast fan now.

Monday through Saturday, I mostly turn my nose up, preferring simple coffee and muffin fare. Toast, oatmeal, whatever – my goal is just to get it over with.

But Sundays are different. That’s when my husband and I have agreed that we will search out new places to try for breakfast or brunch. I’m enjoying the slow easy-going mornings together, where we lazily browse menus and look for unique fare.

I’ve written about this before so this is just to catch up on a few places worth mentioning.

Yelp has steered us to some good places. But on the way to one place, we saw a sign for Taylor’s Kitchen. Cars were parked out front so we quickly changed plans and stopped. The name made it sound like this was going to be a basic greasy spoon type of place. But, hey, why not?

Turns out that Taylor’s Kitchen is anything BUT a greasy spoon. Think Farm to Fork. Sourced locally. That sort of place. It’s also pretty good.

The Portuguese doughnuts called to me. Thick, satisfying, deep-fried, dredged in cinnamon and sugar and dipped in honey butter, they were filling and delicious.

To avoid sugar overload, we split an order of eggs, potatoes and bacon. Simple but perfect. Also nice was that on a traditionally busy morning, we were able to get a table immediately.

No pictures – I was busy eating.

Taylor isn’t the only one cooking a good breakfast. We also found a gem in Evan’s Kitchen, in the heart of Sacramento’s antique mall. It’s a home-cooking type of place, done well.

Be ready to wait. We arrived late in the morning so had a half-hour wait time to get a patio table. No problem. With several antique stores around us, we browsed happily and had to tear ourselves away to return for breakfast.

Favorite part: bacon bloody Mary. Seems to be a thing these days.

Crepeville is our latest find, with much of what you’d expect – crepes – and a variety of other breakfast choices. My husband chose a cheese, onion and mushroom filled crepe with home potatoes on the side. When he finished, he declared he’d return to the place and order exactly the same thing again.

I wasn’t feeling crepes that morning so I tried the banana bread French toast, topped with fresh strawberries and blueberries. I was thinking banana cooked into French toast but this was literally two thick pieces of banana bread on the plate. Far too heavy. I regretted my decision after the first bite and left most of it there. I’ll try a crepe next time.

I have a grand finale to this breakfast extravaganza piece but it’s truly worth it’s own blog piece. Coming soon.

Have dog, will travel

We’d been here before, so long ago. Mendocino hasn’t changed much though, other than to get a little more touristy.

This sounds bad, but isn’t in this case. This quaint little village is simply a tourist get-away, filled with tiny local restaurants, a smattering of shops and numerous galleries. Bed and breakfasts abound. 

The change we noticed from 17 years past is a bit of shine and polish to an old fishing town huddled on a peninsula on California’s north coast. It’s not overdone and the charm hasn’t gone away.

It’s known for a few things: abalone fishing, being an artist haven, Victorian architecture and a dog-friendly culture. That last point is why we attempted this trip with our sheltie.

Traveling with a dog most of the time limits where you go. We needed a place to stay that would accept pets. Turns out that lots of places in Mendocino are open to this, with rooms set aside specifically for people who can’t bear to leave their loved one at home.

The Seaside Cottages, a Victorian-styled house with attached cottages, turned out to be the perfect spot for us. We had a studio with a fireplace, kitchenette and private deck that had sweeping views of the headlands and Pacific Ocean.

The owner wheeled up a barbecue grill on our request and delivered a gratis bottle of champagne. Sounds pricey but the owner was eager to rent the room. My last-minute booking led him to offer a hefty discount before I even asked.

Then we were off to explore.

This is absolutely a great place to travel with a dog. Water bowls are set out on nearly every block. What surprised me the most was the willingness of stores to allow dogs inside. Even a high-end antique store allowed us to walk through.

We strolled through art galleries, gardens and gift shops. Only one store had a sign saying dogs were not allowed... unless they were carried.

There were also several restaurants that allowed dogs on their patios and we took advantage of these places.

Of course, there was the beach. 

And the beach.

And the beach.

Northern California beaches are wild, rocky, with surfs that are unpredictable and dangerous. The water is frigid and unwelcoming. Steep cliffs make access challenging. Fog drifts in unscheduled. For me, this makes the north coast mesmerizing and beautiful.

The only disappointment was we had planned to visit Van Damme State Park and were turned away by the ranger. No dogs on trails there. I had been looking forward to the fern forest. 

The ranger though gave us a great alternative that was just five minutes away. She gave us a map that directed us to an old logging road that paralleled the Mendocino River and led us up into the pines. Parking was free (versus the $8 entry fee at Van Damme) and views were satisfying. We hiked about until exhaustion and hunger set in.

We dropped off our sheltie for a well-deserved nap back at our studio and headed into town. Patterson’s, a bar and restaurant, beckoned. Inside was the kind of clam chowder you want from a seaside spot -- thick, creamy, with tender chunks of clams. A draft beer and garlic bread on the side rounded off a perfect mid-afternoon meal.

Sometimes it's hard revisiting a place that holds fond memories. Places age, lose their local flavor, or just don't measure up to the memory. Mendocino, though, holds up pretty darn well.

Tulips in Ananda

It was a random set of events that led me to the cult. A full tank of gas. Springtime temperatures in the 70s. The temptation of a few thousand tulips blooming. A whisper from the angel/devil on my shoulder that sounded like “carpe diem.”

So off I went, to find Ananda Village.

Commune, cult, retreat, yoga center, village of peace –Ananda Village sits on about 800 acres near Nevada City in the heart of gold country. Those who choose to give up their worldly goods and become residents here are encouraged to live simple lives and to focus on spiritual growth. They follow the teachings of Paramhansa Yogananda who preached the idea that God is within each of us.

Along the way, someone started planting tulips on a hill there. Red, purple, yellow, orange, pink – all the colors that tulips come in, I think. Every year, a few more put in the ground. Today, there are more than 13,000 bulbs and that makes a spectacular sight each April as they bloom their brief display. For $5, you can enter the gates of the Crystal Hermitage and stroll the tulip-lined paths.

The terraced gardens are pretty spectacular, with views of a vast canyon and forested hills. The walk takes you by fountains, a chapel and the Shrine of the Masters. There’s a small gift shop and room of holy relics too.

The place hasn’t been without its share of controversy over the years. Religious leaders and accusations of sexual misdeeds seem to go together so a lawsuit of this sort came and went during the ‘90s. The word “cult” has been bandied about, with tales of happy people who seem brainwashed or drugged.

It seemed like a laid-back commune where people are trying to “get away from it all.” There are houses here and there (communally owned), the "Living Wisdom" school and "Master's Market" vegetarian grocery store. The deli offers homemade sandwiches, salads and treats along with organic duck and chicken eggs. There's a community center with a vegetarian cafeteria and a temple or two. It’s an interesting place and visitors are welcome. You can even stay to meditate, learn yoga and join one of their “silent” retreats.

Today, though, is about the tulips. 

Hopped up in Chico

I learned a few things on our recent trek to Chico. One: hops taste terrible. Two: Sierra Nevada beer is tasty, tasty, tasty.

I could say the beer is tasty, tasty, tasty, tasty, tasty, tasty, tasty. That’s seven “tasty”s, one for each generous taste visitors are given when they take a free tour. But, frankly, I didn’t like all seven.

Sierra Nevada has been around for a couple of decades and has grown up to be one of the biggest microbreweries in the country. Independently owned, the brewery enjoys a large footprint in this pretty northern California college town that perches on the edge of the foothills.

 I was surprised at how much, being a non-beer drinker, I enjoyed this tour. Our guide was a young woman who apparently had a master’s degree from Chico State in something related to beer chemistry.

She took us through science of beer-making, able to answer questions from home brew hobbyists and beer aficionados (i.e. the many college students in our group) without losing the rest of us. We saw the hops room, where bales of hops were stored, and were escorted into various rooms where giant vats stewed and bubbled. It was Willie Wonka's Chocolate Factory all grown up. No beer river to swim in, though, our tour guide noted.

The 90-minute tour was thorough and fun and included information on how the business was focusing on being energy and water efficient.

And, of course, there was beer.

One taste is handed out at the beginning of the tour. At the end, we were led into the tasting room and that’s where the other samples quickly flowed by tap into chilled glasses. 

Forgive me for not jotting down their names. I was busy tasting.

Sierra Nevada is known for being a little hoppy and bitter. Its Pale Ale, the one most often found in supermarkets, is the least bitter and was my favorite. There were six other increasingly bitter that we tasted, ending with a sludgy concoction known as Black Ale. I can’t explain how that left some smacking their lips and draining their glasses.

It’s also unexplainable how cops don’t patrol this area for DUIs but, as our driver, I was glad I didn’t drink all that was offered. The tasting glasses are generously filled. Not that anyone was complaining.

Note to future self: Remember to book a tour online in advance. We waited more than an hour to get on a tour and only got in because a group didn't show up on that rainy Saturday.

Into the wild

Incense, tye-dye, tattoos, dreads. We don’t fit in but we like it. Big Sur – a remote coastal area along California’s central coast -- is living up to its reputation.

We are here for the wilderness part of all of this. If you think California is crowded, visit Big Sur. Sure, traffic along Highway 1 is steady, but the beaches are open and free of the masses. There is room to roam.

Any trip to the ocean for us means a mad rush to stick our toes in the sand. We find Fernwood Resort first, our bed for the night – making sure of location before the sun goes down. Fernwood is less a “resort” than a camping spot. There’s a motel, a grocery, a restaurant. There’s a streamside campground, where we have a tent cabin and tent site reserved. The tent cabins are a comfortable compromise for me – a platform bed with a mattress, wood floor and a door. Perfect quarters for wild Big Sur yet not too wild. Clean, quiet, and with showers.

Then, to the beach.

Hermit crabs are uncovered and a happy dog learns about a moving surf and salt water. 

We wander and time meanders forward. Waves grow larger and the surfers come out. 

The sun lowers in the sky and we reluctantly trudge to our campsite as an inky darkness falls.

Morning. A stunning 80-foot waterfall at Julia Pfeiffer State Park cascades from a cliff onto the beach.

A ridge hike. We meet backpackers returning from days on the trail. Redwoods, ferns, a search for banana slugs.

Then we can’t help ourselves.

Back to the beach to squeeze out the last hours of the day.