I have so many favorite days: Family birthdays. January 1. February 29. Summer Solstice. The first day of Autumn. Winter Solstice. The first day of Spring. Especially the first day of Spring.
Today! is one of my favorite days!
Favorite days call for waffle breakfasts with friends and long walks with Petra. Favorite days ask for daydreams and chocolate.
Favorite days beg for e.e. cummings:
The wine glasses have been polished and returned to their cabinet, and the leftover turkey has been tucked away in the refrigerator. Thanksgiving Weekend is nearly over.
I don’t want it to slip away without mentioning how grateful I am.
If you’ve read between the lines in my (scant) posts over the last few months, you know that it’s been a tough year for me on the personal front. There has been much sadness, and many tears, and more sleepless nights than I can count. My heart is still raw and punky and sore, and summoning my usual optimism has felt like a chore.
But that's not the whole story. Not by a long shot. I could easily stay stuck on the sad, discordant events of 2007, but the fact is that they’re only a small part of the rich narrative that has run through the year.
This weekend, I’ve taken some time to reflect on all that is good and precious and true in my life. There is so much – it makes me weak in the knees when I think of it. I’m a blessed girl, truly I am.
I don't have celiac disease.
At least, I don't think I do. I know a number of people who do, however, including my mother. She has a severe case of celiac; for years, she was thin and brittle as a bird, wondering why so many foods made her sick. Now that she's living without gluten, she's feeling healthier and stronger than ever. I can't wait until Shauna's book comes out so that I can purchase one for my mom.
They say that gluten intolerance can be partially hereditary, much like certain cancers or diabetes. I don't think I have celiac disease... but sometimes, after eating pasta for dinner or indulging in the bread basket at a good restaurant, I feel a certain sense of lethargy. It isn't overpowering; I don't feel the need to lie down and take a nap, but I do feel like my "batteries" have taken a hit. There are other small ways that gluten affects me; my stomach often puffs out unflatteringly after I eat it; I believe the correct term for this would be "bloat." Whoa. Too much information. Still, you get the picture.
I'm not ready to swear off the occasional handmade pasta at Quince, or the onion-cheese bread at The Dining Room. I'm not ready to walk away forever from Meetinghouse Biscuits or Kara's Cupcakes.
That said, I only indulge in those things on occasion, and I frequently take breaks from gluten. For a week, or two, or sometimes three. For the most part, it isn't difficult. I've never been one to design meals around starch - you'll rarely find pasta on the menu at my house, and I serve bread with dinner about four times a year. Wheat-based starches simply aren't something I crave.
The difficulty is when I'm out and about, rushing from one meeting to another, and I want something quick. I stop in at Peet's for a cappuccino, and there's not a single gluten-free pastry in the bakery case. Unless I'm nearby a Whole Foods, in which case I can find quick gluten-free treats, there are few safe things I can quickly access when I'm on the go. I know; I should plan ahead better. I should keep a stash of Lara Bars handy (and I often do), but still: it's frustrating.
I felt a stab of envy upon reading the recent New York Times article about the proliferation of gluten-free restaurants in New York; aren't they lucky?
Here
in San Francisco, arguably one of the best food scenes on the planet,
our gluten-free options are scarce... thus far. I'm hoping that will
change; gluten-free food is a growing market, and not just among people
who have celiac disease; some people, like me, are "occasionally gluten
free" and enjoy the variety offered by gluten-free foods.
Are there fabulous gluten-free options in San Francisco that have escaped my notice? If so, please enlighten me. I'd love to have more resources.
Pictured above: A dish that does appear on my menu with some frequency: baby potatoes from Full Belly Farms, steamed in their skins and dressed with rough-cut Walnut-Asiago-Thai Basil Pesto.
One of my grandfathers was a consummate storyteller. He alternately raised and lowered his voice as he spun a yarn, and his eyebrows wriggled across his forehead as he spoke. We hung on his every word.
Preachers are good storytellers; so are insurance salesmen and actors and successful real estate agents. Farmers? Scientists? Usually not such great storytellers - or if they are, their story hasn't been getting out.
For the past few decades, farmers have been delivering their onions and apples to the back doors of vast supermarkets; we walk in the front doors and select our produce from gleaming, shiny heaps without any knowledge of the farmer, or the farm, or the people who harvested our food. Scientists bend over lab benches and discover amazing things, but their findings are usually printed in obscure journals that no one reads.
Thankfully, that's changing. We're starting to hear stories from farmers and scientists, and real, measurable change is occuring as a result. Case in point: Al Gore turned global warming into a gripping story, and it spread like wildfire. A good story turns facts and figures into meaningful components of the human experience. When we know what happened to the cow we're about to eat, or we know where our carrots came from, or when someone takes the time to explain what genetic recombination in soy beans really means, it changes the whole dynamic of our experience as consumers.
One of the Taste3 sessions was called Storytellers, but it was immediately clear to me that the whole conference was about the art of telling a story. The presenters who knew how to communicate their passions in the form of a story had me on the edge of my seat.
These were some of my favorites:
Jeffery Henderson. I met Jeffery, otherwise known as “Chef Jeff” in the hallway between sessions, and got to hear his story before he delivered it onstage. A striking man, Jeff grew up in a poor neighborhood, and began dealing drugs while he was still a teen. He spent 19 years in prison, and afterwards turned to cooking as a way out. His is a riveting story about redemption, determination, and the power of a dream. Will Smith has already purchased the rights to this tale; I’ll be first in line for a movie ticket. But first, I’m ordering Cooked: From the Streets to the Stove, From Cocaine to Foie Gras.
Dennis Van Engelsdorp. I’ve never met a bee expert before, but listening to Dennis made me want to don a jumpsuit and a faceguard and walk amongst the bees. He was witty and gregarious, while making it clear that the recent mass bee deaths are more than just a random occurrence; they’re a tragedy that will ultimately affect all of us. Are the bees the canaries in the coal mine? he asked. That's the million-dollar question...
In my favorite yoga class last Saturday morning, the teacher guided us through a series of poses meant to symbolize letting go of the old and welcoming the new. We did a series of cleansing twists; we moved through a few exuberant sun salutations. We stood in Warrior II pose, arms radiating like arrows from either sides of our bodies, front knees bent, thighs parallel to the ground.
What do you need to let go of? the teacher asked us, quietly, as she moved throughout the room. We responded silently, thoughts whirling through our heads.
My hamstrings quivered as I tried to stay in position. My calves clenched like fists. Darts of twinging pain remind me of the knee injury that changed the second half of 2006 for me; my body is not the same as it was one year ago. In some ways I feel like I’m starting over again in yoga, despite the fact that I've been practicing for more than 6 years.
We turned our back palms up to face the ceiling; releasing what we needed to release, holding on to lessons learned.
The hourglass that is 2007 contains just a few grains of sand; I have no doubt that it, like most years, will contain both pain and joy.
Here I am! Ready for whatever lies ahead. New tastes. New places. New insights. The New, hand in hand with old familiar favorites, ancient wisdom, the tried and true. And the journey continues…
Happy New.
