Jennifer Jeffrey, Writer & Editor

Stalling for Time

Has it really been 10 days since my last post? I wish I could say that I’ve been off doing exciting things in some exotic destination, but I’ve been here, fixated on my computer screen, reviewing the copyedits to the crab cookbook and trying to keep my eyes from crossing as I make the necessary changes. Between that and taxes, I’ve been having more fun than I can handle.

But the blogsphere hasn’t been missing me, oh no. It’s humming out there! In between checking ingredient lists and tallying my business mileage, I’ve been sneaking peeks at Jeffrey Chodorow’s public spanking of Frank Bruni, and Sam’s clever letter to Jeffrey in response.

I’m a Frank Bruni fan. I think he’s an excellent writer; his pieces radiate a sense of enthusiasm and delight, and they’re always fun to read. From the Kobe review: “If Akira Kurosawa hired the Marquis de Sade as an interior decorator, he might end up with a gloomy rec room like this.”  Let’s hope that he continues to speak his mind, regardless of the occasional rants by self-aggrandizing restaurateurs.

Get Thyself to Napa

Have you seen the weekend weather forecast? Did you notice that temperatures in some places are going to slide past the 70º degree mark? Did you happen to note that Napa might reach 79ºF on Friday and Saturday?

The message is clear: this is the day to play hooky and get out of the office early. Go ahead; you know you want to. You’re sitting at your desk, staring out at an impossibly blue sky. After weeks of cold, it’s actually approaching t-shirt weather out there. But it won’t last long; the clouds are going to roll back in on Sunday and the rain might return by mid-week.

Hurry! Escape! Locate your giant sunglasses, the ones you bought last summer, put the convertible top down, and head straight for wine country.

On your way, dial Swanson Vineyards (707-967-3500) and make a wine tasting appointment. No, silly, this isn’t one of those places that looks like a faux-McBurgundy mansion. It doesn’t have artfully distressed stones or intentionally scratched floors. The tasting room is pink. Yes, pink. It’s decorated with seashells and flowers. The paper they wrap the bottles in has tiny little hearts printed on it!

Does the name “Swanson” sound familiar? Might it conjure memories of yellow cardboard boxes filled with frozen fish sticks? This is the same family. They’ve come a long way. If you leaf through your collection of old 7x7 Magazines, you’ll notice that one of the Swansons appears in the glossy social scene section nearly every month; her name is Alexis (now Alexis Swanson Traina, as she recently married Trevor), and you’ll also find her name on one of Swanson’s best offerings, a proprietary blend of Cabernet, Merlot and Syrah.

Tea for Two

When I moved to San Francisco seven years ago, the rental market was a mob scene.  Apartment showings were flooded with prospects, and people whispered stories about slipping landlords cash on the sly or paying six months rent in advance to secure a place.

I was lucky; I got the second apartment I looked at. It was in a gorgeous old building on Jackson Street, and let me tell you: every time I walked into the lobby, I felt like Holly Golightly. I had to pinch myself when I stepped inside the elevator and the wrought iron cage whisked shut behind me. I loved everything about my apartment: the gleaming hardwood floors, the tile work in the bathroom, the intricate crown moldings that graced the ceiling.

Several months after I moved in, I was standing in the lobby when a man walked through the door. He was tall and handsome, with a devastating smile and an accent that made my ears tingle. We got into the elevator together, only to discover that we were going to the same floor. By the time the doors opened, we had learned that we were neighbors. In fact, we shared a wall.

I walked away from our meeting feeling… intrigued. The next morning, I opened my door to find a delicate white orchid plant sitting outside. A tiny card was attached. “Welcome to the building,” it said, with his signature. My heart skipped a beat.

The Morocco Journals: Ksar Char-Bagh

We found Ksar Char-Bagh on the recommendation of a friend who is building an enormous maison just outside Marrakech.

“This place is something to see,” she told us, describing a small, exclusive palace outside Marrakech that functions as both hotel and restaurant. “You must go.” We agreed, and she made dinner reservations for the following night. When we asked for directions, she narrowed her eyes. “What kind of car do you have?”

A Clio, we told her. She shook her head dismissively. “You’ll never make it in that. You need a quatre quatre.” She explained that only way to get there was an unpaved dirt road, with no streetlights or signs to guide the way. She was adamant that we couldn’t make it on our own, and arranged to have her driver pick us up.

The next evening, the driver picked us up from our hotel, as arranged. Safely ensconced in the 4x4, we quickly left the paved streets for a pitted, dusty track that led straight into the desert. The headlights revealed the ridged trunks of palm trees all around us; small rocks pinged the windshield. I gripped my jaw to keep my teeth from clacking.

"Just you wait," the driver told us as we bounced about. "Next time you come to visit, this track will be paved, and all this land will have houses on it."

Twenty minutes later, reached a high wall lit with lanterns. A guard opened the enormous wooden door, and we stepped through onto sand-colored gravel that crunched beneath our feet. A small grove of olive trees led to a series of broad stone steps lit with candles. We walked up the steps to another door, this one made of dark wood decorated with silver studs. The door swung open just seconds before we reached it, this time by a man dressed in a flowing white jellaba and a red cap.

Fresh Cotton Sheets and Roast Chicken

After the stress of the last week, things are starting to get back to normal around here. Petra is slowly regaining the weight she lost during her ordeal, thanks to creamy cottage cheese, steamed chicken breast and peanut butter “truffles.” Her ouchies are beginning to heal, but she still has enough bumps and bruises that I’m dressing her in a  moss-green coat before we go out walking, lest people think she's being abused.

Our bodies are finally back on West Coast  time, and we’re sleeping through the night.  At mealtimes, we’re craving comfort food.

We’ve been back at our favorite stools at the counter at Ten Ichi, feasting on uni and saba and hot, spicy soup laced with kim chee and tofu. The chef that took Kazu’s place is a young man named Johnny. He’s bright and eager, and loves to try his hand at new things. He obviously paid close attention as Kazu’s right-hand man over the past couple of years; he’s doing great work, and we gobbled his creations down as fast as he set them in front of us.

After the Suitcases are Unpacked

Travel stirs up my insides. When I am completely and utterly outside of my element, I find that aspects of my life – my habits and thought patterns, even my conscious and unconscious beliefs - become clear to me in ways that they otherwise would not.

I usually discover the most startling insights during the low points: after three flights in one day, after running out of clean underwear, after a night of tossing and turning in a too-soft bed with a lumpy pillow, while being utterly frustrated by my lack of agility with languages: these uncomfortable moments reveal parts of me to myself. Kind and selfish, smooth and warty, flexible and unyielding: it all rises to the surface.

This trip taught me many things – some of them new, some of them reminders of things I knew once but forgot along the way.

Among them:

The most universal language is neither written nor spoken. We are a culture that leads with our heads, that will happily tear someone apart based on an ill-spoken phrase or a poorly written sentence. We forget – I forget – that the most authentic communication is non-verbal. I noticed in Morocco that the people there are skilled at reading faces, motions, body language. They’re adept at reading situations before a single word is spoken. It made me realize that words are a kind of shield for me, a cover that I frequently hide behind. When I don’t have them – that is, when I can’t speak the language – all I have is who I am.

If I had no way to explain myself, would it change the way I live?