Sharing and Caring

My good friend who shoots documentary-style photography came over to capture part of my creative food process: gathering ingredients. While we were foraging, we bumped into a neighbor who’s an urchin diver and talked about the possibility of photographing him and preparing a meal with his catch.

In today’s fast-paced world, where screens often dominate our attention and personal interactions seem increasingly rare, I have found solace and inspiration in a surprising place: my own neighborhood. Nestled along the Ventura River, our community in Casitas Springs feels like a time warp, a sanctuary where human connection and creativity thrive. Here, most residents are artists or craftsmen, and the spirit of sharing and looking out for one another is woven into the very fabric of daily life.

Rick, our urchin diving neighbor, is such a legend. We had him and his wife Leanne over for dinner on a recent weekend. She has a bountiful garden and I often come home to find produce on our doorstep. When I’m out of town, she waters my garden and I, in turn, share all of my ice cream testing with her. My partner and I have organically gotten to know them over casual conversation in the street, and realized we have a lot of similar interests, despite our relative youth. Rick has been diving for urchin for over 20 years and when he found out I cook, he showed up one day with a bucket of urchin, and is teaching me the art of perfecting the alum-to-saltwater ratio. This experience is one I would have sought out and paid for and yet here I am in my own neighborhood. What began as solitary walks to gather herbs and wild plants evolved into encounters with neighbors who shared not just their gardens, but their stories and lives.

In today’s fast-paced world, where screens often dominate our attention and personal interactions seem increasingly rare, I have found solace and inspiration in a surprising place: my own neighborhood.

Photo by Shelby Moore

FORAGED TREASURES

I get out and forage any time I can. I’ve spent a lot of years in the food-styling world, which is notorious for food waste. There’s something in me that loves the challenge of using what I have to create beauty; I cook that way too. I’d rather look at what I have and create from that place. For me, it’s all about the treasure hunt and trusting in my creativity.

Along the magical and ever-changing Ventura River, my favorite time to forage is April when the blooming wild fennel sends wafts of fragrant anise through the air. I gather the fennel fronds and make fennel glass—a beautiful candy I use on desserts. I use the fennel blossoms as garnish in all sorts of dishes.

We have generous neighbors with olive trees, and they’ve let me harvest and cure the olives. Along the Ventura River Trail we have an abundance of black walnut trees, which we’ve harvested to make nocino each season. I forage miner’s lettuce along Sulphur Mountain trail, which is a beautiful hike—and where I am usually met with roaming cows in the early evening.

From my own garden I have beautiful radishes, Brussels sprouts and broccoli. When my partner bought his house there was a fruit tree he thought was a lemon tree. We later found out it was a yuzu tree and we feel like the luckiest people! We made a batch of yuzu-cello last winter and it was beautifully floral and drank like a digestif. We plan to make more this winter, as well as yuzu kosho (a fermented Japanese condiment typically made from a paste of chili peppers, yuzu citrus peel, salt and sometimes kelp) to hand out to the neighbors.

If not foraged, gifted or grown, I’m always using what’s in my fridge to inspire a dish. I cook for a living, so between shoots and client dinners, there are a lot of odds and ends. That’s the fun part! I was trained classically as a musician, and I found it more fun to break those classic rules when I was writing and composing music. It makes things more interesting and intriguing. I cook the same way: It’s all an experiment, and whatever I’m handed, I will find a way to use.

One of the most beautiful aspects of our neighborhood is the way food brings us together. We share produce from our gardens, swap recipes and often find ourselves gathered around a table, enjoying a meal made from ingredients grown with love. This exchange of food is more than just a transaction; it’s a way of building and maintaining relationships, fostering a sense of belonging that is increasingly rare in our modern world.

Living here has shown me that the essence of human connection lies in these simple acts of sharing and caring. It reminds me of a long-lost charm—a time when communities were close-knit, and people looked out for one another. This sense of community is not just nostalgic; it is essential for our well-being, providing a support system that nurtures both our physical and emotional health.

SAMPLING THE WORLD

My experiences as a solo traveler have played a significant role in shaping my understanding of community. I was healing my relationship to food, and in doing so, started giving myself permission to do what I desired. After a breakup, and living alone for the first time, I realized it was time to travel and experience. I booked my first solo trip to Spain and Morocco for my 25th birthday, inspired by the cuisine and textiles. It was riveting and challenging at times, but worldly and exciting, and it changed my life.

Immersing myself in the blue Medina of Morocco’s Chefchaouen was unlike anything I thought it would be. I was hardly alone—I met people who I deeply connected with. This happens when you find other travelers who are also so far outside of their comfort zone. Suddenly it’s like you’ve known each other for years. I was more than safe; I was taken care of and invited into locals’ homes because of my willingness to experience traditional cooking.

I took another solo trip to Lombok Indonesia, and since it was a remote village, the whole community gathers to celebrate weddings in town. I was staying with the family whose wedding it was, so they dressed me up and I was part of the whole experience. They were so excited to have an American there to celebrate the day. This serendipitous event taught me the importance of openness and the unexpected joys it can bring.

Something similar happened again later in Japan. This time, I was with my partner in a less-traveled area, and we were invited into a sweet woman’s home. She was beside herself that we showed interest in every facet of her daily life and cooking. You just can’t plan for these life-changing experiences.

So many of my travel stories play into the idea of putting yourself out there, trusting in the power of community and being open to what you can experience. I don’t operate from a place of fear; I stay very curious. Of course I trust myself deeply in solo situations, when I’m foraging too.

LANDSCAPE OF SUPPORT

Bringing that same openness back to my neighborhood has been transformative. I began to see the people around me not just as neighbors, but as potential friends and collaborators. This shift in perspective has enriched my life in countless ways, opening doors to new opportunities and experiences right in my backyard.

My hope is to inspire others to seek out and nurture their own communities, to reconnect with the natural world and to rediscover the joy of human connection. Whether it’s through foraging for ingredients, sharing an experimental meal or simply taking a walk and striking up a conversation with a neighbor, these small acts can have a profound impact.

With a bit of openness and a willingness to engage, we can create a landscape of support, inspiration and abundance right where we are. You might be surprised by the richness it brings to your life.