Chai tea pour-over with a side of wildfires.

Well, WTF. 

That's about as much as I can muster after weeks of farm and ranch evacuations, wildfires and smoke (and fog) so thick the sun just didn't come out today. As a farmer, I'm used to working in the heat, rain, cold, wind, even ash - but when the sunshine doesn't come out and it looks like 11pm at 11am, that's when I throw in the towel and go back to bed. (I guess I should have said, "throw in the trowel..." Oh well, another pun for another day.)

But before I pull the covers up, I'm making this herbal recipe for a little cold comfort. I call it a chai tea pour-over. Think of it like an affogato, but with caffeine free chai tea. 



  • Brew a strong chai tea; bring your tea kettle to a rolling boil and pour hot water over 1 tbsp. of chai herbs. Fill up your teapot to make about 4 cups of tea. Allow to steep for 5-10 minutes, depending on how strong and spicy you'd like your tea. Once well steeped, remove the herbs and allow your tea to cool to room temperature. 
  • Scoop as many scoops of ice cream until you forget about our horrible government and our impending doom. For me, it's one hundred scoops. 
  • Drizzle honey over the top and sprinkle a pinch of sea salt. The sea salt flakes, rich in texture, make a world of difference to this recipe. 
  • If handy, chop up some mint or Thai (or purple) basil. A few leaves is enough. 
  • Pour about 1/4 - 1/2 cup of chai tea over your bowl of deliciousness. 
  • Get in bed with your ice cream and dream of better days. 

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Lavender Simple Syrup

With our lavender crop waning and cool-season veggies coming in, I find myself missing the lavender field. The huge expanse of purple is always so striking when the plants are in full bloom, and as you can imagine, the scent is calming and restorative.

This year, I decided to add lavender stem to our lavender tea, instead of just using the flowers. Making for an excellent, well-rounded taste and fragrance. Try our recipe below in a cocktail, Italian soda, or any afternoon drink you prefer.

Lavender Simple Syrup

The Syrup:

2 tbs of dried Lavender (more or less to taste)
2 cups fresh water
1 cup Half Moon Honey

Bring water to boil, remove from heat. Add the dried Lavender to the pot and steep for 15-20 minutes. Strain tea into jar. Add 1 cup of tea and the cup of honey into a pot and stir mixture together over medium heat. Bring to a boil, lower to a simmer and gently stir for about 3 minutes. Pour into a jar that seals tightly and the syrup should last about a month refrigerated. You can sip on the leftover tea while you make this! 


Lavender Gin and Tonic

1/8 to 1/4 Shot Lavender Simple Syrup
1 Shot Gin
1/2 Lemon (about 1 tbs Lemon Juice)
Tonic Water
Lemon Slice for garnish (optional)

Add Lavender Simple Syrup, Gin, and lemon juice to shaker with ice and strain over ice in a glass. Top with tonic water, add more Lavender Simple Syrup to taste, garnish with a lemon.

Want it to be a mocktail? Just omit the gin!


Lavender Simple Syrup Champagne Cocktails *two ways

1/8 to 1/4 shot of Lavender Simple Syrup
Sparkling Rose

Add Lavender Simple Syrup to glass with ice and top with either sparkling Rose or Champagne. Add more syrup if needed.

Use soda water to make a Lavender Spritzer


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Skincare, with Elizabeth Chambers.

Our old friend from the Coastside, Elizabeth Chambers, had a light, fun interview with The Cut, about her skincare routine and the troubles of facial melasma during and after her pregnancies. Read on to see how she uses our Spun Gold cleanser and Higher Ground serum - among other great brands. 


Elizabeth has just started a new company, kids visors. Take a peek

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Harvesting emails and Gram's garden.

“Write about ‘Meyer’ lemons.”

“CA poppies touched my butt.” 

“Smelling the roses in front of Mary at Mission Basilica.”



I have a folder in my email titled, write. It’s mostly filled with emails from myself with one or two hastily written sentences of writing ideas. In the moment, these ideas seem fantastic, and I am sure that I will remember exactly what I meant when I wrote them. 

One email says, “each leaf of tea.” 

Another says, “that goat that time.” 

I have the best of intentions to follow these sentences on a winding path to a great novel or personal essay or something that the NY Times would die to publish. Human interest stories about plants - what could be better? Mostly though, these emails stay in their folder and when I visit them on the rare occasion, I have no clue what the fuck I was talking about. “Write about ‘Meyer’ lemons” - Hmm, that doesn’t narrow it down. Should I write about how to grow them, the origin, a few recipes? I guess what pops up in my mind the most when I think of ‘Meyer’ lemons, is my Grandma Lee, who had a huge lemon tree in her back garden in San Francisco. It was planted back in the early 50’s, and by the time I was old enough to fall in love with it (around 5 years old), it was 1987 and the tree was enormous, with thick branches and bushels of foliage. My Grandpa Charles (pronounced, “Challles” with that old-fashioned native SF drawl, especially after a drink or two) pruned the tree in a uninspired rectangle, like most of the shrubs on the property. He was a good gardener, but not exactly a visionary when it came to design. I used to sit and watch him spray the shit out of the back orchard, filling the air with pesticides while I opened and closed the old brass spigot, watching the thick stream of water hit the pathway and bounce in different directions. I distinctly remember thinking, these chemicals are bad, as he sprayed the plum, apple and guava trees. But, a la The Godfather, I just sat and watched him, enamored with the visual and tactile delights of gardening. He wore a white tank top with slacks, and he smelled like church. 

When winter came, the tree was filled with heaping clusters of fragrant lemons and virile bright green leaves. The garden was a traditional postage stamp-size, outlined by a thin concrete pathway, leading in a rectangular round-about, through the garden. The lemon was on the left, but it dominated the garden. We all loved that tree; grabbing lemons off of it almost year round. Pulling at the branches and gathering the citrus in outstretched clothing at the waist, letting them weigh down our t-shirts or hoodies. The soot from the city often covered the outer growing lemons and leaves, so I would go under the tree, harvesting from the middle. My grandma told us a story once of a tortoise that lived under the tree for many years. Every time I butt-scooted under it for a lemon, I’d secretly hope to find that tortoise. I never did - and still don’t really know the full story of why my grandparents had a giant tortoise in their city garden. 

Originating in China, the ‘Meyer’ lemon was introduced to the US in 1908, and continues to grow excellently in the Bay Area - and in my opinion needs to be in every single garden. Beyond it’s great taste and medicinal qualities, it makes a lovely companion, planted along side of anything from succulents to roses. There’s little pretense with a tree like this, you just grow it and enjoy. 

The lemon tree is still there, long after my grandparents passed away. Another owner is living in the house and I have always wanted to knock on the door and visit the garden again to see that tree. 

The feeling of ‘Meyer’ lemons is what sticks with me the most. Origin is irrelevant. Recipes bore me. I want to spend time feeling like a little girl again - remembering what the blossoms smelled like for the first time and feeling the soft weight of harvesting lemon after lemon. Oils on the hands and green stains on our clothes.

“Write about 'Meyer' lemons”. One email down.


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In community.


"Jenny, get in. I have an idea."  

This is just one of the many memorable, albeit abrupt, requests I'd get from Carl over the years. I would be watering or tending to my garden in front of my house on Johnston Street, and he would drive by heading to or from Feed & Fuel. If he had a landscaping idea or a plant question - I'd get swooped up and we'd check it out together. We would race down HWY 1 headed to his ranch, with speed I was hesitant to acknowledge. Conversation about tractors and (his favorite) passion vine flowers had a nice ability to distract as I white-knuckled the seat belt. 

You see, I started to get to know Carl back when I was about 16 years old, planning my gardening business, Wildflower Farms. I would buy seed or hay from the feed shop and bounce ideas or questions off of him. If he was in a generous mood, he'd give me tips and resources that would otherwise have taken me years to compile. If he was busy, I'd get the fuck off look, and... well, I'd fuck off and come back another day. Ultimately, he told me when I was ready (subtext - get your shit together, get a business license and checking account) he would give me a small line of credit within the shop. When I was 18 years old, I went in and got that line of credit - consisting of a small index card in a rolodex of sorts, with my name on it and the date. I couldn't have been more proud - and it facilitated my buying a wheel barrow, shovels and seed. He reminded me to not let it get too big and that I needed to pay it off each month. And I did, religiously.

You didn't fuck with Carl. 

Even as he continued to call me "Jenny" - despite my name being Jenn, I didn't correct him. Call it fear, disinterest or... fear - Carl could call me whatever variation of Jennifer he wanted. I always felt happy to be in conversation with someone as knowledgable, generous and fiery as he was. From a young age, he helped inspired me to be in business and stay in the agriculture industry. 

Years later when the little retail space at 329 Main Street opened up, I walked in and inquired about it. "You want to open up a little flower shop, Jenny?" Well - something like that, I explained. He was generous with rent, my weird requests and improvements, and helped me get going in my new retail venture. Once Garden Apothecary opened, he came in and said he didn't know what the hell I was selling, but he liked the colors and how I decorated. Through the 4 years I've rented from Carl, he was nothing but generous, moody, kind, brutally honest, creative and fiercely helpful (like that time he yelled at the health department for me).

It was clear he wanted me to succeed. 

Carl was a mentor and someone in this community I felt grateful to work with and grow up in front of - in the same company as Bev Cunha, John & Eda Muller, Naomi Partridge, Ron Bongard and many others. I've been in business in Half Moon Bay more than half of my life, with some years being very challenging. The loyalty, helpfulness and influence of our Coastside matriarchs and patriarchs is felt daily, and I believe integral to younger companies thriving locally. They are our advocates when times are tough, and a critical eye when (we think) we are successful.

As the Coastside slowly grows and changes, I find it increasingly important to take note of the folks here that have rooted down, brought business, thanklessly helped others and positively influence generations of Coastsiders. Carl Hoffman is among the ranks, and will be deeply missed. 

We are all a connected, woven tapestry in this weird little farm town - and a loss is felt when someone leaves us. 

Don't worry Carl, us at Garden Apothecary will continue to tell tourists to stay the hell off the big plastic cow, we will take shots at Feed & Fuel during December, and we will help keep the passion vine growing on the fence.

Thanks for everything, Carl. 

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