Going Steady With A16

Now that my semester is over, I have no excuses for not posting more. Except that, as previously mentioned, I have a tendency to be lazy and gluttonous. For example, the past two weekends I have managed to eat at A16 twice. TWICE. For those of you who haven't heard me go on and on about A16 or have been there yourselves, A16 is a Southern Italian restaurant, specifically based on cuisine in Campania, on Chestnut Street in The City. Definitely one of the most highly reviewed places in The City without being one of the most expensive or white table cloth-y. Then again, white table cloths are out, at least around here. In fact, table cloths in general are getting harder to come by. It's pretty much earth toned paper on wooden sheen or just the clamorous clank of your silverware on worm wood. We're very rustic these days. Needless to say, A16 is rustic, both in food and style. It's certainly a pleasurable rustic. You see it in their appetizers--we enjoyed their Minestra Maritata, which is pretty much the Italian name for Bomb Ass Meatball Soup--all the way to their sides--it's probably bad to say that I've had three of their five sides currently available; I especially loved the anchovy kale.

While I will warn that their pasta dishes can leave something to be desired--we concluded that they are truly meant as a pasta course and not a main entree, they're certainly delicious, but often drastically more mild then their pizzas, entrees, and even appetizer--obviously I truly enjoy every meal I have at this establishment. But even so, twice over two consecutive weekends, is even wild for me. The first was just a celebratory dinner with The BF, and this Saturday, The BF's sister and brother-in-law were coming into town from Wisconsin and just really needed to go there, which of course I respect deeply. You know when you're first dating someone and they seem really wonderful. You hardly notice the annoying way they have of sweeping their hand through their hair or saying "um" before beginning a long thought. They're just down right perfect, until a few weeks go by, a month or two, and then you start to see it all more clearly. Have you really been dating this person all along? Sometimes you shrug it off; it ain't a deal-breaker. But then sometimes, you can't. Sometimes it changes the way you see that person permanently. Well, with A16 and me, I guess I've finally started to pick up on some small flaws. And they are small, but still. The problem is that they're not A16's fault. It's locked in a burden of circumstance I suppose.

Okay, so what is this gripe of mine? The clientele of course. Though not all of them, namely just the overtly snobby ones that crowd the bar and make sniffling comments about wine that I can't stand. These are the kind of people that drive me nuts. People who are uptight and just plain rude. The BF and I witnessed a scene go down involving two of these said gentleman and another couple of (normal) gentlemen over two of the seats at the bar. No, there were no near brawls; there wasn't even any up-in-the-face action. There couldn't of been, since the two stick-up-ass men wouldn't even turn and look at the other guys and have a discussion with them. And the other guys were so very nice and accommodating. But no, stick-up-ass man one would only remark (loudly) to stick-up-ass man two, things like, "Um, should we give them these seats? I think no." Even their A-hole moves were lame as can be. I have Kharma Police Syndrome; basically I can't take it when people get to act mean with no repercussions, so of course, I was upset about the incident all night. I mean I was still able to lick my plate and dessert bowl clean, but you know, it wore on me. A16 isn't supposed to be about being mean for one seat at the bar. It's about noise, wine, burrata, pork and a wood fire oven. It's about eating seasonally and overdoing it on Salted Carmel gelato.

But maybe it's not. Maybe I've been living a lie, and I'm finally seeing it for what it is: all white table cloth-y or not even that, just plain snooty (there, I said it). I really want to make it work though. The way I feel about the pizza bianca and the tuna conserva salad, well, that's love. I can't just let it go. But without out a doubt, the honeymoon period is over. I guess we're in it for the long haul, fights and all.

The Thought Really Does Count

In case you hadn't noticed, Christmas is only two weeks away. That's fourteen days. I don't say that condescendingly either, I really didn't realize how soon it was. Until now of course, when only two of the eleven people I must buy gifts for are taken care of. And I've even narrowed it down big time. I cut out my usual holiday baking for extended family and friends. I even cut out Christmas cards, which (in case you're wondering) I feel horribly guilty about. I'm not lazy, I swear. I 'm just busy. Heard that before? Eh, me too, but it's true, for the most part. (Sometimes I do have free time to do productive things and choose not, and that's definitely lazy, but doesn't everyone do that?)

Then all of a sudden it’s present time, and not only do I feel too emotionally fragile to head to the hellish, overly-crowded zoo that is my nearest mall, but I don't have any ideas. NONE. Seriously, notta one.

If it wasn't already apparent from this post (please read sarcasm), I love giving gifts. No really, I do. But not just for the sake of gift giving. I like to put thought into things. I practically can't give a gift to someone, if real thought hasn't gone into it. I'll get guilt-ridden, anxious, and I'll think about it all year long. I'd rather just give nothing--a big hug and a "Happy Holidays." But you can't do that, which is why I'm so distraught. Isn't it better to not get anything one year but know that the next gift will really be just meant for you? I'm guessing, based on the shockingly long lines on December 26th, that I'm alone on this one. I'm thinking of mounting a campaign in '08: Presents with Heart or something. I suppose in the meantime, I better start shopping.

Sunday Night Blues

Sunday’s are hard for me. Pretty much always have been. I have a tendency to get more and more down as the day goes by The BF and I made a pact this past summer: We can’t be sad until 8pm. At 8pm we can be complete grumps (read: A-holes) and snap at each other for no real reason, except that it somehow relieves the Sunday pain, even though it really doesn’t. When I say "we" what I really mean is "me", as usual The BF is far better at controlling himself then I am.


The only problem is that in the winter it gets dark sooo early, and 5pm feels more like 8pm then 8pm does when the time changes. And then I get confused. And the confusion only compounds my Sunday night blues. In fact, The BF and I have determined, through intense scientific testing and research that he does indeed suffer from SAD.


So lately we’ve found that cooking for Sunday night meals eases the pains. Mostly because we’re just too distracted and stressed out with cooking disasters (grease fires and the likes) to notice the sun fading, the time just ticking away, another weekend.


This weekend we decided to really embrace the distraction making an entire Indian feast. Let’s see there was Raita, Saag Paneer, Chicken Tikka Masala, Cilantro Chutney, Vegetable Dal, & Naan. I’m still full. But it was good. It was like we-couldn’t-believe-we-made-it good. Also, I think we just wanted to give ourselves some props after an entire day of cooking truly from scratch—we made the paneer (cheese) & Naan from scratch.


I’d include recipes if recipes hadn’t gone straight out the window as soon as we got going. And so did note-taking, right around the time the second gallon of curdled (but not curdled enough) milk was tossed down the disposal (along with a variety of expletives by The BF) during cheese making.

So though I can’t offer recipes this time, I do recommend that you join in a little food therapy next time you’re feeling blue. If you're not up for Indian, you could try these, I think they would help.

The View I Miss Already

Thanksgiving is over and now the true holiday season begins. I’ve returned from a few short days at home (as in where my family is) with a sense of nostalgia. It’s true that around this time of year I oft ponder those Turkey Days of childhood. At the time they seemed so picturesque: long wooden table, big family gathering, cousins galore.

Of course as I’ve gotten older I can see more clearly the falsity in those images I’ve maintained, like picking only the best photos for the album. But it doesn’t make that loss any less of one. In fact, as I write this I realize that sensation of nostalgia is actually one more akin to disconnection. Where is that family now? When did I last sit down for that Thanksgiving?

Part of being a child of divorcees is learning to take disconnection in stride. You disconnect from a bed, a house, a parent to take on the other. And as you get older home becomes less of a place and more of a concept. But I’m still just muddled with longing for the images that I remember, and yet lately find myself realizing are untrue. People change but then don’t change at all, so it’s easy to find yourself disappointed, but places? Some places never change.

Friday Shirley and I, along with another friend of ours spent one final night at the place of childhood fantasies (or mine at least): the Skyview Drive-In. It was an amazing time just lying in the back of the car, covered in blankets, stuffing ourselves with candy, while the cold, fall air chilled our cheeks. But it was so sad too. The drive-in is no longer, not as a gathering place to catch a flick and or specifically in Santa Cruz, where it soon becomes a hospital.

We knew it would be our last night time there, beneath the stars, amidst that big glowing screen. How many movies I’ve seen there, I can’t begin to count, but I can remember watching them from my car-seat as a child. So yeah, another thing lost.

Later that night I dreampt about someone I loved dearly as a child. Someone who flits through my mind rarely, but always brings a smile to my face. In the dream, this person had to tell me that nothing would ever be the same. I didn’t want to, but I knew I had to let my idea of them go. So I did…in the dream.

And I now I need to try to do the same with the drive-in. The one good thing about being [dreaded word to follow] an adult is that you get to finally make some of your own traditions. And stick to them. Or try your damndest to. Then when I’m eighty I can bore my grandchildren with stories about the drive-in.

“The last time I went was November of 2007. You weren’t even a twinkle yet. Can you believe I was worried things might not turn out okay back then?”

How Food And Multiple Homes Don't Work Together

So I'd love to show you all the beautiful Vietnamese dinner that The BF and I made last night. The pure white noodles, nestled beneath the mounds of green herbs, lettuce, carrots, and jalapeño, carrying the heavy load of caramelized-to-perfection pork. I wish you could have seen it as the glistening pink/orange of the nuoc cham spilled over the top, cascading to the depths of my bowl, creating a pocket of sweet amongst my noodles. Yeah, it would be nice for you to see that, but since I didn't have my camera available you can't.

Say hello to one of the many problems that face those of us that live in limbo between two locations: not having the things you need when you need them. It's a frustrating thing, especially when you stay that extra night and you have absolutely nothing left to wear. And you have to run into your own place before work and get completely dressed in a massive hurry. And then, if you've cooked a big meal, you have to move the leftovers to the appropriate house as well, so you don't waste them (and you get your damned moneys worth from that grocery trip that cost far more than eating lunch and dinner out for the next three days would have, but you do it because you love it).

Anyways, there's no point in posting the recipe because without the pictures it just doesn't have the same appeal. Even if I describe it as best I possibly could, it's just never going to do it for you. I understand that, because I'm the same way. Which leads me back to my gripe about not having all my things readily available to me when I'm at The BF's and vice versa. It's not something that can be helped right now. So we must overcome. I must not think about the bottle of Calvados that's sitting nearly full in my cupboard that was bought for just a tablespoon that was needed, and may never be used again. Or about the broth that needs to be made before Thanksgiving dinner at The BF's house that involves using 1/2 cup of Calvados. The same 1/2 cup that is sitting at my own house. Sure, just bring the Calvados from one place to the other. But it's not that simple. It involves planning out the week. Who's house will we stay at what night? Are there plans any night in The City that we must be around for? Is the commute from San Rafael worthy of that damn bottle of Calvados?

Conclusion: if you're going to do the whole food thing you need to either be single or you need to live with your significant other. Or, as an alternative, you need to be super rich so you don't have to feel bad about buying multiple bottles of esoteric alcohol.

Well, There Goes Another Weekend

So this is the post I talked about last time, where I was going to be all positive and "I love life" and stuff, but then decided I just wasn't a good enough faker. Basically, I removed the trite, happy paragraph that led into it, and put this in instead. Isn't honesty always the best policy anyways? I guess sometimes I'm honest to a fault. It was a good weekend though; sure as hell beat this last one...


The weekend before last, The BF celebrated his 25th birthday in the form of a surprise weekend getaway. When he found out on Thursday night that he wouldn't have to be going to work on Friday and that we were going up to Sea Ranch, he was shocked, to say the very least. (Apparently he doesn't give me enough credit for manipulative capabilities.) Needless to say, when we made it up to Sea Ranch and I informed him that we were actually going to be joined by his closest friends (and some of mine too), he was catatonic with astonishment, which was followed with complete panic.

"But, we don't have enough food. I have to clean. Where are they all sleeping? How are we going to entertain them?"


Both The BF and I happen to be Type A personalities; we have a hard time relinquishing control to fate. However, after I assured him that everything was taken care of and everyone showed up, we had a great time. We ate more than I care to recognize, but it was all fantastic. The men cooked a potluck with a variety of food that could never possible go together anywhere else, like short ribs and red chile beans, steamed salmon, flanks steak with chimchurri, as fresh as you can get abalone ceviche, and fish tacos. It was quite the smorgasboard.




We could not have dreamed of better weather, espcially in November, daylight savings weekend, on the northern coast of California. We played out our fantasies of moving up there for a few months or even a few weeks like we always do. And though a good majority of me wanted to just stay up there forever, and pretend The City was just a place I visited, the sunset on our drive home, reminded me that are defintely some things worth coming home for, even with work, all the projects, and daily life dramas (like my Mac costing $700 to be repaired). I wouldn't have wanted to miss that sunset for the world, even if it meant that I didn't have to deal with rent or my crazy clients anymore. Wait, now that's a bit extreme. It was good, but certainly not that good. I'm pretty sure nothing is that good.

Heels On Hardwood

I had my post for today all written out about how I'm all set to enjoy my final weeks of the semester instead of willing them to go by faster, cause I'm "all positive and stuff." But you know what, eff that. It just ain't my style, never has been. Maybe I'll post it, but certainly not today. I'm not feeling "all positive" at the moment, especially when I awoke to the sounds of heels on hardwood this morning, brought to me by who else but my lovely neighbors. I pretty much wake up to their sounds everyday, which is fine. I get it, they have hardwood floors, it's gonna happen, but at 4:45 in the frickin morning? WTF?! Does Ms. Noisy Neighbor really need to stomp around the apartment in heels before 5am on her way to the airport or god knows where? Can she not just place them on her nyloned feet as she walks out the door? Is that so damn difficult?

I fantasize...

Dear Noisy Neighbors,

I do not mean this letter to be an attack on your lifestyle, but rather an informative message so that you might make more considerate daily choices. From downstairs your short runs to reach a telephone in time sound like the violent tremors of giant's feet. Your patterned romps and bed creaks sound both depressing and disturbing. Oh, and are you really moving furniture nightly? Cause it sure as hell sounds like you might be.

PS: Hearing the steady whir and then buzz of your dryer is just plain cruel as we stuff our three week old laundry into overflowing hampers and netted bags to far off locations.

PPS: It's called a space rug. Try it.



I'm bitter, I know. I'll work on it. I mean I won't but, you know, I'm at least aware of it.