This morning for breakfast I had my favorite Blue Bottle americano and two slices of Acme whole wheat walnut bread, toasted, and with a smear of butter. Yes please. Can’t every day be Friday? If it were, of course, it wouldn’t be as special. So I’ll try to find something to love about Monday, too, when it comes around all too quickly in a couple of days.
Later today I will cook — I am helping make a little birthday dinner for a friend tomorrow night and because I like to do some things in advance I have slated tonight for: baking a cake, making ice cream, doing a pesto, and maybe even making a soup if there is time. For my own dinner, I must admit I will have more of the other night’s quinoa-with-mushrooms and perhaps topped with slices of avocado on a very wise friend’s suggestion. I feel like avocado + quinoa + of course roasted cauliflower might just make tonight the best Friday night ever.
So this weekend will be a very cook-y weekend, because Sunday is Father’s Day and I usually makebreakfast if I am in Sebastopol for it. I will not spill the beans on the menu just yet, but I might do a reprise of that frittata I made last year as well as a few other treats. After, there will probably be a trip to Salt Point where I’ll hope it’s not too foggy.
[Sunday afternoon, June 2008.]
We are on the cusp of summer — just one more week of spring — and all through the long, chilly winter (I can’t call it cold although there were certainly some cold days) I thought it would never come. Appropriately, San Francisco was warm and sunny all week until today, when I dug into my bag on the way to work and was inordinately pleased to find a scarf. So I was the one wearing a scarf on the bus and probably making people think I was a little nuts (hadn’t I looked at the calendar?) but you know what? I was warm. I sort of also wished I’d had gloves but I probably shouldn’t admit that.
Already at my farmers’ market stone fruits are making their appearance; I had my first fresh peach just a few minutes ago: hello, summer. Maybe this year will be the year my lovely city defies expectations and makes an effort at being a warmer one — now that I’m not going to Greece, I will need a fix of hot weather, and if the past two years are any indication, San Francisco ain’t the place to provide it. Still, as long as the berries (and plums, and nectarines, and basil, and summer squash, and tomatoes — oh, tomatoes how I have missed and long for you so) keep coming, I’ll tie my scarf a bit more securely and hunker down for the long haul.