After a great year in the Diablo hills, I have landed in fog-tastic San Francisco. The above picture is a suitable goodbye to the treasure trove of yummy eating to be found in the suburban wilderness. All laid out - that's fresh baked sourdough bread made from local yeasts, then there's a cup of homemade beer, Wendy's plum jam, and a host of organic vegetables grown in my roommate's garden. I had hardly anything to do with these projects, except helping procure the supplies and being the first one to taste them.
Always a sadness leaving a home. We weren't built for this nomadic shit. Semi-nomadic, sure. Bring it on. Fact is, the eldery snowbirds who wear a path between New York and Florida live more like our deep ancestors than anyone else in America. We like to leave.... and then come back. This leaving forever to live someplace new where we're totally disconnected from the land to pack it up and leave again pattern is ... well, it just breaks my little heart.
So now onward to foggy adventures in the northwest corner of the San Francisco peninsula! Mushroom season is on its way, and there's about a dozen coffee shops to linger at with my never-ending pile of non-ficton.
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