The Talk

I've been emailing recently with a young friend of mine in England, a bright and charming and tiny eleven year old who tells the greatest stories. Most recently she's shared the news that her form in school is now going through sex ed and she's absolutely embarrassed to pieces over it (as any self-respecting young girl would be). Right away I was transported to the time my mother had The Talk with my sister and me. I was in third grade and my sister was in fourth, and our mother--deciding it was better to warn us of our bodies' changes before they actually occurred and we lost our minds--checked out a picture book from the library. We sat down on the living room floor, leaning against the sofa, our young skinny legs sprawled everywhere while my mother's were tucked under her. And as she went gently through the pages, she'd explain what the diagrams meant, and ask us if we had any questions. I quietly absorbed the information until we got to the back of the book, where it transitioned into How Animals Made Babies. Dogs, cats, roosters, sheep, your typical barnyard reproductive fare. And this is where I got confused.

'But if it takes a boy and a girl to make babies, how do dogs make babies?'
'What do you mean?'
'Well, dogs are boys.'
'There are girl dogs, too.'
'But...what about cats?'
'Well...there are boy cats.'

I don't think there are words to describe the way my world exploded in that moment. Menstruation? Fallopian tubes? Penises? Pah. BUT GIRL DOGS AND BOY CATS?! SHUT. UP.  I couldn't stop talking about it for days. GIRL DOGS! BOY CATS! DO YOU PEOPLE KNOW ABOUT THIS?!

I'm still recovering from the shock. And when my period started five years later, I barely noticed. My mother's job was done.

The Farmer's Table: off the ground and running like mad

The past few weeks have been the launch of a little sum'in sum'in Alison and I are doing called 'The Farmers' Table' (or rather, we are like guest-hostesses while the Table's original creator, a certain dapper gentleman named Peter, is away holidaying on the shores of Lake Michigan for the season). The Farmer's Table--in a nutshell--is a sort of gathering place for friends at the Ferry Building Farmer's Market on Saturday mornings. We shop around the local farmers for the best cherries strawberries nectarines flowers cheese meat and then we set up a sweet mamma jamma spread with all of our goodies, adorned by the best chutney in town and bubbly Drinkwell soda, and our guests come laden with other treasures from their shopping--crusty bread or caviar or proscuitto, or in the case of the lovely Renee, the best organic, homemade quiches you've ever tasted. And as friends gather and the morning grows, it swells into this festive noisy food table friends chattering local affair. In other words: wonderful.

(The top right photo is of the red rings left behind from a colander of juicy raspberries.)

These mushrooms from Far West Fungi tasted like rain on top of a slice of heaven.

If you're ever around, do join us! Contact me for the Table's location and I'll make sure a seat is saved for you.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to the Opera to see The Girl of the Golden West! I'm so psyched and I'm totally going to take pictures during the press party if I don't crumple under the weight of my need to look super hip, and then I'm going to post them here, and then I'm going to get in trouble for it because that's how I roll.

See you soon!

It's been a good day today: I've gone to the grocery store and purchased cucumber and tomato and avocado and peach, and I've gone to the beach and buried my toes in the sand, and now I've drawn a bath and my book is right here and ready to join me in its bubbly depths and all is right in the world.

I'll see you tomorrow; I've got a lot to show you.

the fog rolling in at lands' end

I can't stop thinking about hot dogs.

A story from one of my favorite parents

So we’re driving down the freeway rocking out to the hit sounds of Lady GaGa, when, from the cheap seats (the third row), Autumn inquires quite out of the blue…."What’s a Disco Stick?”. Nicole and I turn to each other with a tinge of fear in how to respond. While there is some minor debate and interpretation on the internet regarding the exact definition of a Disco Stick, the general consensus is that it refers to a certain male anatomical part. We quickly devise a crafty answer, “Well, it’s a sparkly cane that you use when dancing to disco music.”…..silence….. Nicole and I thought we dodged a bullet…. Until….about a minute later of obvious deep thinking she says, “How do you ride a Disco Stick?”