Jennifer Jeffrey, Writer & Editor

Of Garlic and Figs and Divine Dinner Parties

This is the last weekend in July, which can only mean one thing: the Gilroy Garlic Festival.

What? You’re not going? You don’t want to drive into the hot, garlic-scented valley on a one-lane highway rife with minivans with bumper stickers that read: “It’s Chic to Reek”?

Can’t say that I blame you, but honestly: everyone should go at least once. It’s a kick. The atmosphere is contagiously goofy, and the air smells so strongly of garlic that even if you don’t eat any (impossible during the festival weekend), you’ll smell like it for at least three days afterwards. I spoke to Andrea Froncillo yesterday, chef at The Stinking Rose; he’s on his way down to Gilroy today for three days of garlic madness. He’ll be judging the Garlic Cook-Off, and then taking the stage himself, cooking from The Stinking Rose Restaurant Cookbook.

He’ll be in his element; the man is a born performer. He loves the energy of the crowd. I’ve often thought that his restaurants should have counter seating, where he could cook for an audience; it's truly what inspires him.

Which brings me to my fig story.

A few years ago, Andrea invited me to a dinner party hosted by his business partner in a gorgeous home in Russian Hill. About two hours before dinner was supposed to start, Andrea drove to Whole Foods and made up his menu on the spot in the produce section. He didn’t give it a thought before the moment he walked into the store; that there would be ten or twelve hungry mouths to fill in a short time didn’t daunt him in the slightest. He bought whatever was fresh and in season and piqued his fancy. Arms loaded with bags, he proceeded to the house, where he chopped and stirred, moving leisurely until guests began to arrive. Then he really started cooking.

The Occasionally Gluten-Free Girl Wonders Why San Francisco Has So Few Gluten-Free Options

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.

Adventures of an Italian Food Lover: Bellinis in Venice

When I heard about Faith Willinger’s new cookbook, Adventures of an Italian Food Lover (With Recipes from 254 of my Very Best Friends), I was immediately intrigued.

What interested me most was that the format of the book; rather than focusing on a particular way of cooking, or using the standard “Starters, Main Courses and Desserts” format, Faith offers a glimpse into her adventures around Italy over the past few decades. I'm all about stories, and this cookbook weaves one story into another. Faith has traveled widely and has eaten well along the way, and here she introduces readers to people she has met in towns from Sicily to Venice, from hoteliers to artisan cheesemakers and restaurateurs. Some of them are charmingly depicted in quirky watercolor portraits done by Faith’s sister Suzanne. The whole book has a friendly, informal tone, as if you were peeking into someone’s journal.

It smartly includes contact information for many of the places mentioned, making it one of the resources I’ll be using when I plan my next trip to Italy.

Meanwhile, I’m dreaming of my first trip to Italy, and especially of the first stop on that trip, which was Venice.

Tastespotting: Here, Have a Piece of Eye Candy!

It has recently come to my attention that certain People In the Know don't know about Tastespotting.

Silly me, I thought everyone knew about it.

It's been my top-of-the-morning read for months and months and months. I've sucked down countless cups of tea while perusing its happy Polaroid-like snaps of delicious food and drinks and interesting foodie tidbits. It finds all the best of the foodsphere for me... what's not to love?

I wholeheartedly recommend it, with one caveat: if you already find that minutes and hours mysteriously disappear as you happily click from blog to blog, high as a kite, you'll quickly discover that Tastespotting takes your addiction to a whole new level. First gear, it's alright; second gear, hold on tight!

It's pretty, it's fun, and it's as hard a habit to kick as crack.

So go; play, frolic, enjoy! Just don't say I didn't warn you.

Inspire me: Cornerstone Gardens

Sometimes I drive up in the middle of the week to eat lunch (sans wine) at one of the outside tables and soak in the sunshine.

Then there are the gardens themselves. Like walking through a living museum, the Cornerstone Gardens are a collection of "installations" by landscape designers and garden artists from all over the world. Some of the installations are modern and fun, like the blue bubble tree and the twirly-whirly field of pinwheels by Ken Smith, while others are startling in their stark beauty, like the "white room" of birch trees by Topher Delaney. They're the best kind of art ~ thought-provoking, informative and bewitching, floating against a canvas of blue sky and puffy white clouds.

And now you know.

Cornerstone Gardens
23570 Hwy 121
Sonoma, CA 95476
p: 707 933.3010
f: 707 933.3856

Quickies

Going Back for Seconds

In March, after a disappointing birthday dinner at The French Laundry, my sweetheart took me to The Dining Room at the Ritz-Carlton to see if it might restore my spirits. And how! We went again last week (why did we wait so long?), and I can happily report that it was every bit as sigh-worthy and toe-wriggling-ly delicious as the first time. Highlights: butter-poached lobster adorned with shelled peas and a vivid carrot-Szechuan reduction; a tender hunk of veal on a pillow of chanterelle-sweet corn risotto with a crispy sweetbread hat; the hot foie gras; the cheese cart. Ron Siegel, you’re the man.

Feeding My Morocco Fixation

Whenever I start daydreaming about Morocco, I go to My Marrakesh. The fabulously talented Maryam spells Marrakesh differently than I do (I use the ‘c’ spelling) but she LIVES there. She is building a guest house, which I have no doubt will be gorgeous, and which I hope to visit some day (she has peacocks!); perhaps I’ll alternate between here and Ksar Char-Bagh?

You Only Think You’re Committed To Saving the Planet

Yes, I’ve given up bottled water. Yes, I'm increasingly incorporating more planet-friendly measures into my daily life. No, I don't deserve a pat on the back... I'm not quite ready to toss out this common disposable paper product. This same lovely family has a great source for locally grown produce.
 

Make a Wish, Mamacita!

Last week, as I was sorting through an old box of stuff, I came across this picture of my mother, circa 1972. Isn’t she a hottie?

Not that she would want me to say that. She blushes easily, my mom. She doesn’t like the spotlight; she listens more than she talks. She is a woman of strong convictions, but she holds them quietly. More than twenty years ago, she was already passionate about natural foods, and believed that organic was the only way to go. When people challenged her on this, she blushed all the way to the roots of her glossy brown hair, but she stood her ground.

Her early  influences were Adelle Davis, Frances Moore Lappé (Diet for a Small Planet was a bit hit in our house) and Sugar Blues by William Dufty. She joined the first Rodale Book Club, and read each month's shipment before she carefully wrapped it up and sent it back. She read everything on nutrition and health that she could get her hands on, and she sought out people with "alternative" ideas. We didn't have health insurance, but we did have cod liver oil and raw garlic and all the vegetables we could eat, thanks to my mother.

I’ll never forget riding across the countryside with her and watching her point out a crop duster hovering over the fields. “Roll up the windows," she said tersely. "He’s spraying deadly poisons all over the ground." Her voice was grave. “People are going to eat that food.” We all felt the gravity of what was taking place right in front of our eyes. “What do you think will happen to that man?” she asked us. “He’s breathing in all of those fumes. Do you think his lungs will suffer?”

Those are the kinds of conversations that stick with a person.

Hold the Rock 'N Roll (musings on music to accompany sushi)

When I got my first iPod in 2002 – a gleaming, snow-white block of happiness with a 5 GB hard drive and the ability to hold up to 1000 songs – I became obsessed with creating playlists. I copied most of my CD collection to my Mac and spent hours compiling the Soundtrack of My Life.

I created playlists for Dark Days and Lazy Afternoons, and ones for Impromptu Road Trips and Uncontrollable Fits of Laughter. I mixed Antony and the Johnsons with Cat Power and Bebel Gilberto, Pink Martini with Ladytron. I made an R.E.M.-only playlist and one titled Marshmallow Creme, featuring female jazz vocalists. For an Asian-themed dinner party, I made a list titled The Silk Road, punctuated by a pop piece by Dim Dim, and a haunting number by Mokhira.

I made so many playlists that I burned myself out. For well over a year, I haven’t made a single one; rather, I’ve been enjoying the results of the hours I spent swapping one song for another. Most of my playlists are now as familiar to me as any of my favorite CDs.

My original iPod has long since been replaced by a newer one (I gave the original to one of my sisters, who took it with her on a European jaunt. It was swiped from her seat on a train bound for Florence. Somewhere, an Italian person is humming along to bits and pieces of my collection. Oddly, this makes me happy.).

Last weekend, as the Moroccan and I sat down at the counter of one of our favorite North Bay sushi restaurants, we were amused to hear Def Leppard playing over the restaurant sound system. We were less amused by the third Def Leppard song in a row. “Guess they’re playing the whole album,” I sighed.

Walk a Mile in These Shoes

I was talking with a friend of mine a couple of days ago about my recent blog posts exploring the complex intersection between the slow-local-organic movement and the pressures and expectations inherent in most women’s lives.

“I’m curious as to why you chose that topic,” he said. “I mean, it isn’t hard for you to make it to the farmer’s market. And you don’t have kids. What gives?”

“Oh, I’m just a selfless advocate for women everywhere,” I replied breezily.

We both laughed, and then I gave him the truthful answer. The truth is that for many years I lived on the extreme end of the slow-local-organic spectrum. I’ve briefly alluded on this blog to the fact that I grew up on 13 acres in rural Oregon. For reasons both financial (we were, to put it bluntly, poor) and philosophical (my mother was firmly against any and all processed foods, pesticides, herbicides and sugar), my family grew, prepared and preserved most of our food.

When I write about the slow-local-organic movement, I’m really talking about a significant portion of my life.