This post is sponsored by Method, but all opinions expressed are my own. (And P.S. There’s a coupon below!)
It’s sort of funny, but I well-remember the first time I saw Method products on the shelf. I was in a Target and the packaging caught my eye. I’m a sucker for simple, attractive packaging, and I think I have some sort of delusion that if I buy beautiful cleaning products, I’ll start to enjoy the process of cleaning.
For the most part, I got away with just owning said products, but having a baby (and now a puppy) has changed that. Alas, cleaning (or at least wiping) has become a routine part of the day.
Of course, when we first had Hudson, it meant even more new, attractive cleaning products I was secretly loathe to use (e.g. free-and-clear detergent so that I might actually, gulp, do laundry). But those Method products came in handy: they’re made from naturally derived, biodegradable ingredients that are non-toxic, so I feel better about using them around our little one. In fact, you can find a health + environmental summary for each of their ingredients on their site.
So, when Method asked me to join their “Clean like a Mother” campaign, I happily got on board. The euphemism actually fit.
When you purchase Method’s all-purpose cleaner through Methodhome.com, use the coupon code APCBLOG at the checkout to receive $1.00 off your online order.
Method is in business to change business. Their challenge is to make sure that every product they send out into the world is a little agent of environmental change, using safe and sustainable materials, manufactured responsibly. And that also means no animal testing.
I first heard of Blue Bottle when they opened a roaster in Williamsburg, back in 2010. West Coast-transpants were doing somersaults over the fact that their beloved (formerly) local coffee had come back their way. Somehow, even after they opened a cafe in Manhattan in 2012, we never tried it. Living in the East Village (and practically–equidistantly–around the corner from places like Ninth Street Espresso, Everyman, and Oste cafe), I never lacked for good lattes.
Now that we’re out West, I find myself needing to acquaint myself with some new roasters. (I’ve also heard raves for Ritual, Four Barrel, and–in Sacramento, woohoo!–Temple).
Blue Bottle has a relatively new kiosk at the Heath Ceramics factory, and so I first had a chance to try them when we made our way over to the Remodelista market, in November. No surprise here, but they easily rank in that top-cup-of-coffee category. I decided to make a return trip to take a few photos. (And chat-up the baristas–who were so friendly by the way. Don’t you find that too many baristas are overly intimidating in that too-hip-for-you sort of way? Ugh.)
Everything is served, of course, in Heath ceramics. They have treats and granola from the Blue Bottle Kitchen in Oakland–it all sounded delicious and one of the baristas told me his favorite was the Olive Oil shortbread. They tout that they use single-origin milk (“100 percent Jersey, vat pasteurized, certified organic milk from St. Benoit’s herd in Sonoma county”) which made me chuckle a little (so Portlandia, right?), but this is certainly the sort of crazy thing that makes one feel attention is being paid. I believe there’s a restaurant in the works for Fall.
Even in sunny California, February tends to turn my mind to visions of warm water and sandy beaches. The past few years, while on the East coast, we were savvy enough to actually make plans to visit some sort of tropical destination–in fact it sort came to feel more necessity than luxury.
I know that the French beaches of Corsica are cold this time of year, but I thought it might be a nice time to pull out some old photos from warmer days past.
In the summer of 2006, Aron I spent a few weeks driving around Provence and the South of France. It was an amazing trip. Sadly, we have no photos at all. As soon as we arrived at the coast, we parked the car and ran for the water. It was just a quick 10-minute swim before hopping back on the road to Nice, but in that short time our rental car was broken into and all of our valuables were stolen.
It was completely devastating, the worst part being that our camera and all of our photos from the previous two weeks were gone forever. That night, spent in a danky hotel by the Nice train station, can surely be counted as a worst travel memory for both of us.
The saving grace (besides our generous families who helped us replace so much of what was taken) was leaving the mainland the very next day on a ferry to Corsica, an island 110 miles off the coast. We had planned it that way in advance, not knowing at the time how much that physical change would matter emotionally: we bought disposable cameras (the reason why these few photos are so blurry and grainy) and left the matter behind us, literally.
The ferry dropped us at Calvi, one of the island’s major towns and a popular base for vacationing French families. The culture of Corsica is sort of a mix of French and Italian, as the island is actually closer to Italy. We found a wonderful hotel, not far from the main beach, and were relieved to find that we could get more space for less money than elsewhere in France.
Corsica is known for its charcuterie: ficatellu, ponzu, coppa, and prosciutto are made from Corsican pigs who feed on distinctively tasting native plants. Some are fed entirely on chestnut meal–and chestnuts figure prominently into the island’s cuisine. Apparently, in the 16th century, all farmers and landowners were required to plant chestnut, fig, olive, and mulberry trees annually. As you can imagine, Aron and I were both keen to sample anything considered a regional specialty–including, and perhaps especially, the local chestnut liqueur.
Corsican honey is also distinctly prized and has been given its own AOC by the French government, and one of my favorite dishes was a pizza I had, beside the port, made of pungent cheese, topped with local ham, and drizzled with honey.
Over dinner, (and a glass or two of Muscat), we imagined that on our next visit we’d rent a jeep and drive into the island’s mountain to visit the smaller villages producing these goods (and onto further coastline where’d we, mais oui, rent a sailboat).
The main beach in Calvi was extremely pleasant–and shallow for a long ways out–so Aron dug us chairs in the sand and we pretty much roasted ourselves beside a bottle of Rose most afternoons. (We were SO foolish about the sun.) One day we took the narrow-guage train (tiny and nicknamed “the bone shaker”) along the coast to some smaller coves. The water was beautifully clear and filled with small Octopus and we had such fun snorkeling–just until the sun set.
We went Scuba diving one half day–loads more Octopus!–and ate our weight in Moules Frites before strolling along the port and watching tons of tiny fish circle the lights in the water behind the visiting yachts.
One could complain that, as a popular holiday resort for the French, the town had some artificial character. Maybe. But for these Americans, it sure was lovely. And I really can’t wait to go back.
P.S. Those last four years of warm February trips: 2009, 2010, 2011, and 2012.
