Are you ready? Because I am ready. I’m sooooooo ready. We will be slanging out the gelato for 2021 and we are here for you. I’ll be jamming my flow all year. So if there’s anything you wanna request just hit us up. Just nothing corny please, like none of that boy band type gelato you know what I’m saying. Otherwise just kick back and enjoy my gelato playlist.

We spent a good portion of our winter visiting Jenny’s family in California. Here are a few pictures for your enjoyment. I had written a post with our experiences there, but instead opted to focus on pictures. It is my observation that physically California is a very beautiful place. Its spirit on the other hand is something else entirely. This time around I told Jenny that after nearly 8 years living there I finally felt like a Californian. The realization made me laugh and shudder. Luckily, I can be multiple things at once so here’s to being back in New Jersey.

Get ready for a lot of ocean pics.

Big Sur, California. It is one of my favorite places in the world. Due to the location and terrain it feels like the point where nature, civilization, and the void intersect.

I love to bike. In California I am lucky enough to be able to just walk out of the house and follow a path that eventually leads to the beach. It’s not that close lol. It’s 14 miles one way, but totally worth it.

Mussel Shoals. Unlike the Jersey Shore there are endless miles of coast thats relatively undeveloped in California. And some beaches you can find temporary surfer camps although they aren’t the friendliest guys around.

California is the fruit basket of America. One of my favorite citrus towns is Ojai in Ventura County. The weather is always primo here and even though the town has grown in the last 5 years it still has a quiet vibe. I would ride my bike for miles and come upon stands along the side of the road selling citrus.

Irvine, California. You’d swear this town was designed by Germans. The local roads have speed limits of 55mph, and everyone goes 70mph.

In & Out the California classic. It’s where Jenny first got a taste of working in food.

Oh you thought California was all beaches and mountains? Nope. It’s still one of the top crude oil producers in the country. How’s that environmentalism working out for you?

Contrary to what you might think, this is the most Orange County pic ever.

McWay Falls.

We were lucky enough to get asked to be featured in a short documentary video by Jasmine and Danny of Incurrent Media for their Pursuit series. It was filmed before and during the pandemic so don’t mind if you see us without a mask. The vid is obviously well done, and it was our first time in front of a camera. So when I first heard my voice I was like, “who is that asshole speaking?” How the hell do I know how I sound?

I’m happy they got a bit of my hometown Passaic in it. Without that town there would be no APEM. Apparently it is the 4th most miserable town in America, but oh lawd there’s nothing like being back on the block or cruising around. They got the same guys hanging on the corner with the random comments, the Hasidic kids running around the park, and the smell of tortilla in the air. It’s prime.

Jenny was pretty embarrassed to do the video but she was perfectly fine. Shit she was better than me. One of her biggest fears is public speaking. To me, it’s funny as hell to speak in front of a crowd. Although a camera is weird. Most of the time I just wanna flip it off.

There was a bit of this and that from being in my family’s garden to Jenny talking about how we met and think up things. We hope you can take some time to watch and enjoy. They did a good job making us look like we know what the hell we are doing,

I love this weather. All the seasons are great, but Autumn is sooooo prime especially here in the Northeast. I love walking around while eating an apple and tossing the core somewhere I fantasize an apple tree will grow. A dream come to life would be where most of New Jersey and New York is littered with apple orchards to fully enjoy in the Autumn, flowers to enjoy in Spring, tomato gardens for summer, and cross country pathways for winter. I’d love to find every random open crack of pavement and plant something to enjoy years later. Usually I try to write something longer, but who wants to spend their time in front of a screen? I’d rather be outside looking for a spot to toss an apple core.

Song for Autumn

Don’t you imagine the leaves dream now
how comfortable it will be to touch
the earth instead of the
nothingness of the air and the endless
freshets of wind? And don’t you think
the tree, especially those with
mossy hollows, are beginning to look for

the birds that will come — six, a dozen — to sleep
inside their bodies? And don’t you hear
the goldenrod whispering goodbye,
the everlasting being crowned with the first
tuffets of snow? The pond
stiffens and the white field over which
the fox runs so quickly brings out
its long blue shadows. The wind wags
its many tails. And in the evening
the piles firewood shifts a little,
longing to be on its way.

Mary Oliver

Autumn is the purest time of the year. It is when I reaffirm my bond with nature’s chaos. The animals are busy, the weather is confused, and the cold silence on the horizon is always reminding you to savor the moment. Some may only think about the raking of leaves or the picking of a crisp apple off the branch, but Autumn is about remembering our limitations and impermanence.

Jenny and I, along with our dog Clyde, traveled up to the state of Maine. It was a much needed break after what felt like a long summer. We ate, breathed in the fresh air, and most importantly rested. I was lucky enough to go out into Acadia National Park before much people. Generally I don’t grasp hiking. Like the goal is to just walk around? Imagine going back in time to our ancestors on a savannah and communicating to them you’d like to hike. Or even go out for a jog. You’d be treated to the first laughs in human history. I prefer to imagine I’m wandering around and meditating. When I lived in West Marin County, California, I used to go out into Point Reyes and do the same thing. Really I was just always looking for a spot to take a nap and enjoy actual world beyond the glass, concrete, and metal. The world where our brains and senses were defined, a realm where you can be without the crushing oppression of society pushing you to conform. Who fears mountain lions, snakes, and ticks when you have social media and abstract ideologies? It surely must be impossible to become mad outside of society.

All critiques aside, Autumn is the best time of the year at the store. Whereas summer is hot and we naturally seek refreshment, during this time of the year we are naturally more melancholy and seeking warmth and happiness. Besides a hot cup of chocolate all the flavors we will be making are just right to soothe these feelings. The classics like Espresso & Ganache will instantly feel more satisfying, Pear Mascarpone will fill your tastebuds, and Cold Remedy will remind you to be vigilant during this precarious period. After a needed rest we are back.

*side note: Mary Oliver, whose poem is above, is one of my favorite poets and an enriching read during this time of the year.

What it says…

This weekend we celebrate Labor Day and an end of summer of sorts. While we will still have a few summery flavors up until the end of the month this weekend is like a spiritual end to the summer. We will be doing various typical classical American flavors along with some APEM classics. Someone’s been bugging me about the Dannyboy flavor, and I’ve done my best to pretend like I have no idea what he’s talking about. But it will be up at some point this weekend along with some Fresh Mint Chip, good old Cornbread, and El Diablo

Labor Day is an important holiday especially here in Jersey. When I was growing  up, most adults I knew were always busting their asses. That’s that immigrant mentality shit as people would say. You feel like that’s all you got to give and then you hit the clutch and kick it into another gear. And it doesn’t matter if you’re working at an auto body shop or as a pharmacist. You just GO. One of my heroes growing up is an uncle who used to pick asparagus in California and worked on a fishing boat. He’s so crazy. And he learned how to work from my Filipino grandfather who would go until you broke and made you work more. I’m definitely not like them lol. I bust my ass, but I also have a poetic heart. I love sitting idling by a brook just as much as I love turning out the gelato. To me working and creating things for people to consume is a temporary thing. Real living is something beyond labor where we are part of nature and we indulge in its fruits as simple beings. But that is not how our world works, and if I am to labor... then gelato it is. So stop by, shut up, and enjoy.

Michelangelo

Their names echo through time: Leonardo, Michelangelo, Montessori, Dante, Vivaldi, St. Francis, and Brunelleschi. Gods and Goddesses. There have been a share of douchebags from Italy *cough Cesare Borgia cough*, but they can’t overshadow its perennial flowering.

“People are very passionate in Italy. If you like something, you like something. If you hate something, you hate something. When you hate something, you are screaming.” - Monica Bellucci

If I never went to Italy as a child and consistently throughout each stage of my life who knows what kind of ungodly ice cream or gelato I’d be making today. I’m very lucky…no, blessed. I see a lot of gelato and ice cream today where there’s pretzels hanging off the sides or some other Kardashian idea. I immediately make the sign of the cross to the Beloved Virgin Mary to forgive such sins of class and taste.

All jokes aside, THANK THE HEAVENS for Italy. It is where both haute cuisine and cucina povera exist at the same level whether it’s some orgasmic oxtail risotto or simple ravioli. The only other place I know of like this is China. Standards are so high across the board. But aside from just merely food, Italy has given us countless gods and goddesses in art, religion, science, philosophy, poetry, and even cars. What I’ve especially taken from reading translations of Italian writers, hanging around in a piazza, or just chit chatting with a random old lady while helping her setup a table is that Autonomy is life. Far away in Roma or wherever there’s always some assholes running their mouths making excuses and stealing from the land. But a strong sense of autonomy has allowed Italy to thrive in spite of them for centuries and discern what is best for themselves. It’s not just an individual autonomy, although that is strong, but one connection to the immediate area and people. Where you take a good look around to your towns, rivers, parks, flowers, orchards, air, and the people, and think about where we are right now and about being something unique for themselves. Even if it means you are filled with dread.

And in light of today that’s even more important because otherwise life is just algorithms and machines. It’s becoming to the point where the machines are turning us into accessories as opposed to being the other way around. Even being filthy rich can’t save you. When was the last time you thought about your autonomy, the area around, and how you have enforced you and your loved ones’ dreams upon it? Let that sink in for a second and think if those dreams are even your own or another trend. We have automation instead of autonomy. Many act like high technology has empowered them. Surely it has helped logistical capabilities, but on a human level, has it? I think it has made us weaker, less interesting, confused, and numb. How can you feel the vigor of creation when the canvas in front of you is leased and regulated. Leonardo and Michelangelo didn’t live in fantastic times, but they cut through time like a samurai through an enemy’s head. They commanded their visions in spite of all the control. They and many others throughout history lived with a sensual zest for life.

Enzo Ferrari

Sensuality is the other treasure of Italy. Almost every moment in my life is guided by the senses. I walk out the door and breath in the warm summer air, touch the tomato leaves, talk to the rabbits, and listen to every batch being made. With these fucking masks, I watch every persons’ eyes as they speak, and listen to the volume of every syllable. There’s also being close enough to someone to breath in their unique smell, and to touch their soft skin. I even listen to my car starting up and breath in that first bit of exhaust. (I’m a Jersey kid; I grew up on the smell of gasoline and the feeling of the gas pedal.) In terms of food I love the smell of onions and garlic. The sound of onions sautéing is a drug. But sensuality is rapidly disappearing not only because of coronavirus, but because we live in our machines. I’m living through it right now. I wish I could be chatting away with you on the street or at a cafe. I yearn for the days when I used to sit with my friend Etienne at Washington Square Park and we’d talk for half a day. I miss the intoxicating laugh of some people.

In the long run sensuality must return, and it has to be made a mission no matter what. It is what makes us human, not those tools and machines. Humans feel the terror of life and make it beautiful, and it is sensuality that gives that gift to us. Today is chaos. It is being ravaged by disease, corruption, impotence, hate, and algorithms. But it is also the time to remember the feeling of being human. And Italy is one of the best countries, cultures, and regions that manages to keep that autonomy and zest for a sensual life alive. Even right now as it is being ravaged.

Our blog always ends up being some type of lamenting alongside optimism. I wish that weren’t the case and that I could just rant about how awesome everything is. I mean, I just make fucking gelato…who the fuck am I? But today pretty much sucks. I spend a lot of time listening and thinking about today and paths out of the malaise (with a minor in Political Theory, it’s second nature). But the Buddhist in me says to focus on my time now making gelato and the flowers will bloom in their own time and the whole field will be filled. I just hope they bloom the Italian way.

So this is where I break and become more business guy Alex. This weekend we will be doing a classic Italian gelato menu. I had thought of some new stuff, but I’d rather keep it classic like Monica Bellucci in a LBD (little black dress). Expect Fior Di Latte, Ricotta, Gianduia, Pistacchio, Olio d’Oliva, Gorgonzola, Arancia Rossa, Limone, and whatever else. We just want to celebrate the classical Italian way. I wish there were no coronavirus and we’d do this whole weekend at some park where it is a giant party and everyone’s eating gelato up to their eyeballs. Some scene where everyone’s having fun and no one gives a fuck. Maybe next summer. For now stop by, wear a god damn mask, and enjoy yourself 2020 style.

St. Francis of Assisi

Thinking about berries reminds me of when I lived in Northern California. We lived in this small town called Tomales at the northwestern edge of Marin County. The next towns over were Petaluma, Freestone, and Valley Ford, all Sonoma County. I feel like counties don’t really mean anything here in New Jersey, but in California they do. Partially that’s because of how states develop, their terrain, and their shape. I grew up in Passaic which is in Passaic County, but the next town was Bergen and Essex was just right there. Plus Passaic County has an hourglass shape. West Milford is in the same County as Passaic which is nuts. All that said, Tomales was a ranching town as is most of West Marin and parts of southern Sonoma County. I used to wake up every morning and drive pass a herd of Hereford cattle on my way to the dairy farm. My days were spent more around cow, sheep, and goats than people. And since this was grazing country there were a lot of small creeks winding around. Within those creeks were plenty of wild blackberries. They grew like weeds. Further north along the Russian River where I used to lounge around and swing from ropes, there were wild berries all around. That was a really great thing about Northern California in that it’s not totally developed in the way that part of Northern New Jersey or Southern California are developed. You can still walk in the woods and find something to eat that isn’t full of toxic shit. 

Blackberries

Northern California grows great strawberries— there’s no doubt about that. But what they don’t have are great blueberries. I lived there for years and never could I eat a blueberry with that same flavor as here in the Northeast. It’s probably because of the climate, soil, and terrain; but, man, a blueberry here in Jersey, LI, or even Maine is something else. You pop a bunch into your mouth and there’s this undeniable flavor. My grandparents in Long Island used to have this massive blueberry patch along the old barn. They were potato farmers, but my grandma had a sweet tooth second to none. She could make a mean blueberry pie. Those few summer weeks that I’d spend there she would ask me to pick blueberries before the birds get them, and I’d go all out. A few in the basket, a few in my mouth, repeat, and repeat. 

Back to California. I probably know that state better than Jersey, if I’m honest. I spent years reading incessantly about the history of that state, driving up and down, meeting all kinds of people, camping alone at random locations, stalking quail and coyote, and so on. I lived a full California life in a short span of time. It’s possible I could write a whole book about my time there. But the history is rich. Those Kevin Starr, the state historian, books were portals to the past and meant a lot to me. The day he died was a depressing one. 

“Golden” Raspberries

The area where I had the consistently best strawberries were along the Central Coast, roughly around the area of Vandenberg Air Force base. There were endless fields, and you could just pull up and drop some cash into a box and take a flat. Eating freshly picked strawberries while they’re still warm from the sun is something insane. How could anything be that good? You stand there as the dust blows all around you and wonder why can’t life be as good as eating this berry. Of course I’ve had single better berries elsewhere. I was once wandering around Portola Redwoods State Park and saw some wild strawberries along the path. I picked the brightest devilish berry I ever saw and popped it into my mouth. It was like eating one of the Kami itself. And to be in the woods alone where the only sounds are non-human transcend generic living. Your sense of hearing becomes stronger, you feel the air better, and your eyes widen. All this from eating a berry along the path. 

I have a few blueberry and raspberry bushes in Passaic and just started growing blackberries. They’re never enough for me to use at the store, but they are plenty for my own personal indulgence. And in turn, they inspire flavors. I don’t think berries really represent summer even though they peak at the beginning and end of it. Summer is more like a watermelon to me. But berries of all kind are something primal, primal joy maybe. 

Blueberries