ingredients

Jessica was going to write this Slow Food Nation Monday blog, but she had a delayed flight back to SF after doing a little summering in Michigan (which she’d like you to know is the “cherry pie capital of the world”). So I’m here—a bit last minute—to give yet another little shout out to SF-based Alemany Farm. The bounty of the farm is gracing one of our August covers right now.

Squash blossoms ready to be picked.

Today we start a month’s worth of Monday blogs, leading up to Slow Food Nation, which lands on SF this Labor Day weekend. I’m glad the big food festival is happening here, but I’d venture to say that in SF, Slow Food Nation is almost redundant. It’s kind of like putting an Obama bumper sticker on your car. There are Slow Foodies wherever you look.

San Francisco is a good incubator. Ideas take root here, trends grab hold, and before you know it, citizens of our fair city are fairly obsessed. First it was the farmers market, then artisanal foods (charcuterie chief among them) and then coffee—which has reached such a fevered pitch it’s almost ridiculous. In our own pages we’ve written about baristas and roasters, about hi-tech siphons and fair-trade shade grown beans. I would have thought, really, that we have covered this particular topic from every possible angle.

Agretti from Star Route Farms (photo by Stefanie Michejda)

My mother's family is Moroccan and to them, everything equals food. Visits from family: food. Saturdays: food. Sundays, Mondays and Tuesdays: food. Getting on a plane = packing food. My suitcase from a recent trip to Toronto was, in fact, full of Tupperware containers of couscous, tagines and salads when I got home. Here’s how someone homesick for Moroccan copes:

I don’t think there’s any path you can take directly from SF that offers a quicker—certainly more breathtaking—antidote to city-living than a trip down Highway 1 to Santa Cruz. On a sunny weekend, like this last one, it was everything I needed. Find a friend to drive you, so you can gaze out to the sparkling ocean without careening off the steep cliffs to a horrible death. It’s impossible not to look.

We all think we’re the master (mistress?) of our own universe, but the truth is, we’re not. You think you’re drawn to that fuchsia top because you like it? Sorry. Most likely, a highly-paid fashion forecaster set the palette for Summer '08 way back, stores have placed it strategically and, voila: You’re suddenly overwhelmed with the need for a closet-full of hot pink.