Jennifer Jeffrey, Writer & Editor

The Accidental Consequences of Eating Local

I had an epiphany a couple of days ago. An uncomfortable one. Namely, that I care more about the environment in theory than in practice.

It dawned on me partway through Barbara Kingsolver’s book Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, which I’ve taken to reading in bed at night before I drift off. Gently, yet firmly, Barbara and her husband Steven Hopp build a case for eating local based on food miles and ecological footprints and petroleum reserves and such.

While I’ve been aware of these arguments, I’ve been buying more local food because it tastes good. Because I like shopping at the farmer’s market. Because I enjoy the challenge of designing meals around what is in season. As I’ve said in previous posts, eating well is fun.

But I’ve been realizing lately that the path that begins with eating more sustainably is a slippery slope that invites one into an ever-expanding awareness about choices, and the effect individual choices have on the world at large.

Doggone it, eating local is making me think!

It’s made me realize that for years, I’ve been paying lip service to environmental stewardship. I’ve blamed the woes of the planet on the “other guy,” the one who drives around in a Hummer, tossing Styrofoam cartons out the window as he peels out of a McParking lot. I’ve assumed that my small virtues put me in the Good Camp: I’m a fastidious recycler; I pull on a sweater instead of turning up the thermostat; I use organic cleaners instead of bleach; I make a (small) monthly contribution to an environmental group that does wonderful things.

But let’s be honest: “all that” doesn’t amount to much. I would guess that my ecological footprint, if measured, would be almost identical to that of my neighbor, who makes no such concessions, and only negligibly different than the guy in the Hummer. With the exception of food, I usually buy what I want, when I want, without a lot of thought about where it came from or what was involved in the making of it. I put thousands of miles on my car every year, usually driving solo. I like fresh towels and long, hot showers and green lawns and air conditioning.

And bottled water. I like bottled water a lot.

Too bad it has gotten so much ink lately. Article after article has posited me, the bottled water drinker, as Planet Wrecker Extraordinaire. Moi? C’est impossible!

J'Adore Le Sanctuaire

Say yes!

Dinner, Interrupted

To the Woman Seated Behind Us at AVA,

You don’t know me, but we both had dinner at AVA in San Anselmo on the same night in the very recent past.

I was so excited when I heard about AVA. Here was a restaurant attempting to interpret the concept of American Viticultural Area, usually defined in terms of wine, in an agricultural sense. When I found out that they source as many ingredients as possible from local farmers, and that they regularly shop at my favorite Marin County farmers market, I couldn’t wait to make a reservation.

As the hostess seated my man and I just inches from your table, I had the fleeting thought that you looked like a nice person, sitting there in your rose-toned brocade jacket. Grandmotherly, even. You must be in your late 60’s, so there’s a good chance you are a grandmother. We were close enough to eavesdrop on your conversation, but we were too absorbed in our menus to bother.

We felt a touch of worry as our first plates began to arrive. The grilled fava beans were delicious, and the house-smoked almonds were gobble-worthy, but the wedge of Point Reyes Pierce Point cheese was served stone cold, and our salads were just eh.

Then our entrees showed up, and we knew we were in the right place. The Moroccan had a juicy wedge of sirloin coated with a sticky-dark reduction, accompanied by a gratin of potatoes and cauliflower and  cheese that just screamed yum.

I chose the amberjack resting atop a feathery bed of shaved leeks and Meyer lemon, with fat spears of grilled asparagus on the side. We had just started to exchange stories about our day when we suddenly became aware of you.

Your Kid Isn’t That Cute Anyway (and other copywriting insights)

I recently offered to babysit a friend’s little one so that she could have a few hours to herself. I had the naïve thought that it would be as simple as arranging a time and making it happen.

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, my friend’s expression changed. “Um…” she began, looking away. “It’s not that I wouldn’t like that. It’s just.”

I had no idea where this was headed. “Just what?”

She gulped. “Well, on your web site, you, um, say that you don’t like small children.”

On my web site? Wha…?

Then I remembered: on the very bottom of my bio page, I wrote this sentence about myself (in the third person, natch): “She prefers salty to sweet, is not overly fond of small children, and writes copy that keeps people awake.”

“It’s not that I don’t like small children,” I stammered, “that was meant to be funny. You know, ha ha…” I trailed off lamely.

I cleared up the misunderstanding with my friend, but I dialed my web guy a couple of hours later.  “I need you to change something on my bio page right away,” I told him. “See, there’s this one sentence, right at the end…”

Something About Cherries

Before I left for the farmer's market this morning, I was enviously reading Jen Maiser's account of snacking on cherries over Mother's Day weekend. Two weeks ago, when I last made it to the market, there wasn't a cherry in sight.

This morning? Cherries everywhere.

I bought from several stands, just to spread the wealth, and sang "She's My Cherry Pie" all the way home.

They're almost halfway gone already! I hope the Moroccan doesn't read this, or he'll be mighty disappointed when he comes home to find nothing but a bag full of pits.

Oh, and apricots are out, too. I'm a happy girl.

Taste3: Tell Me a Story

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...

The Thistle on the Roof

While perusing the Chronicle over the weekend, I noticed this intriguing article about the not-yet-open California Academy of Sciences in Golden Gate Park. Before they closed a few years ago, the Academy was one of my favorite places to while away a few hours. Packed with preserved animals and compelling exhibits, it always made my science-loving heart go pitter-patter.

Now I have one more reason to anticipate its re-opening next year: a living roof. While the old Academy rooftop was simply a guard against the elements, the new rooftop will combine gardens, walkways and solar panels to become an integral part of the new building. According to the article, the roof's plants will attract butterflies, bumblebees and hummingbirds. It will grow poppies and lupine and beach strawberries.

Do you think they'll let me pitch a tent?

I forgot to mention, in my post on Quixote Winery, that their roof is also alive. From my spot on the ground, I didn't have enough altitude to capture the waving grasses that grace the rooftop, so you'll have to trust me that just behind those bricks, tufty green things are swaying in the breeze.

I can't imagine that the living roof will hit the mainstream anytime soon, what with the necessary complications of adequate structural supports and drainage issues, but still: it's a pretty thought to imagine looking down from an airplane to see buildings with living tops, of previously blank roofs transformed into fields of poppies opening their orange faces to the sun.

Taste3: Quixote Winery

My Taste3 experience began early last Sunday morning, when Margrit Biever Mondavi bought me a cappuccino. We were standing at the cafe counter inside Copia, looking for a caffeine fix to start the day. The woman behind the counter explained that they weren't open yet, but that she would make the drinks for us anyway. Margrit handed her a bill, waving aside my money with a shake of her regal head. We huddled over our cups with Katrina Markoff and Alex and Aki, chatting about which tours we were taking later that morning.

Magrit was leading a tour inside the studios of several Napa Valley artists; Katrina, Alex and Aki were all going on a tour of the French Laundry; I was headed to Quixote Winery.

As we went our separate ways a few minutes later, I thought: this is going to be an amazing three days.

Out in the parking lot, I climbed into a small van along with several other people, thrilled to see the friendly face of Elise from Simply Recipes, and we set off for Quixote. A man in a Panama Jack hat sat to my right; as the bus hummed along, he occasionally pointed to a building and made a comment about something that was happening there - a new owner, a feud, an interesting wine. When I finally asked his name, he introduced himself as Paul Franson, writer and author of NapaLife. I wished I could have sat beside him longer and listened to some of his insider stories. 

Situated on a narrow winding road off of the Silverado Trail, Quixote Winery suddenly appears around a bend like a child's fantasy drawing come to life. The walls curve and dip; colorful tiles meander across the adobe-colored walls. At the far right, a gold onion dome winks beneath the sunlight. Most strikingly, the building seems to grow out of the landscape; the Stags Leap Palisades rise up in the background like a natural cradle, creating a visual feast of sumptuous curves and random  textures.