Favorite Food

I didn’t mean to go a month without saying anything. But this month, I often had nothing nice to say, so I figured it was better to say nothing at all.

It’s been an “unseasonably” cold summer in SF, at least that’s what the media says. Of course, if you’ve ever had the misfortune of coming to SF in the summer months, you know that “seasonable” SF weather is still dreadful. There was a time that I’d hoped that global warming might at least improve San Francisco’s summer weather, but that is clearly not happening. At this rate, we’ll be eating Gravenstein apples — a sure sign that fall is coming — before we’ve had a single 70 degree day.

I was lucky enough to leave SF twice in July (and I’ve finally remembered that leaving SF is the only way to survive its wintery summers).  I went up to the foothills to see my family over Fourth of July weekend, where we ate watermelon and cold fried chicken and swam in the river, and I escaped to Tahoe for a week, too. My family’s annual trip to the Lake this year wasn’t all I’d hoped it would be, but at least there was sunshine. Every. Single. Day. At least, I didn’t need a sweater or my allergy medications.

Last Saturday was my first farmers market after coming back from Tahoe and I was struggling to enjoy what is normally the best part of my week. I got breakfast at Primavera, as usual, and sat in my usual place on the edge of a planter box, looking out at the Bay.

It goes without saying that it was gray out. I watched a big ship slip under the Bay Bridge as I ate my tlycoyos, and I thought about where else we could live and how soon we could move there.

Next to me was a family: mom, dad and a loud little girl who clearly liked to talk. “Our house is being renovated!”, she screamed out to no one in particular.

I focused on my breakfast. The tlycoyos were spicy this week.

When the announcement about home renovation didn’t get a response, the little girl turned to her mom. “Mom?” she asked, “what’s your favorite food?”

“Doritos”, the mom said without missing a beat.

“Dad?”

“Spaghetti”, he answered. “Or pizza.”

She didn’t ask me what my favorite food was, but I thought about it anyway. I looked down at the plate of food in my lap, preparing to take another bite, and realized that I was eating my favorite food that very morning. And I get to eat my favorite food every week, sitting outside and looking out at the Bay.

It didn’t bring the sun out or clear up my allergies, but it helped me remember, for a short moment, why I live here.

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2 Responses to “Favorite Food”

  1. superpissed Says:

    That was beautiful.

  2. wholehog Says:

    Aw thanks!

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