Saturday, November 10, 2007

The Momosaurus

Number One is having his first teenage birthday party. We decided to deviate from the one-year, one-guest rule, and limit the number to a select few, but expand the party’s cool factor by making it an overnight with movies and soda and such.

As I walked the aisles of Trader Joe’s (hey, it may be junk food, but it’s good junk), I loaded in two six-packs of soda. I wonder if it is enough, and load in another. Ditto the tortilla chips and guacamole, hot dogs and buns. Cheese doodles, gummi worms, and popcorn round out the offerings.

But if I’m having trouble estimating how much these budding teen boys will eat, it’s not only because of my relative inexperience with teen eating machines: there’s the issue of the guest list. Back when dinosaurs roamed the earth, my Grandmother, a Socialitaurus, handed me a copy of Emily Post’s Etiquette. It contained all sorts of dated information, such as how much household staff I would need, and how long a woman was expected to wear her widow’s weeds. I gleaned that in times of war, one could dispense with the inner envelope for formal invitations. And I read all about writing an rsvp. There were only two possibilities: one, you could write a thanks for the invitation, but regretted you would be unable to attend. No excuse may be offered, just thanks and regrets. The other choice was an effusive thank you, expressing delight at being able to make it.

My Mothersaurus explained that while the information appeared dated to the point of laughability, I should keep in mind that etiquette is at its heart about treating people with kindness and respect. An rsvp served to let the hostess know how many plates to set out and how much food to prepare—and wouldn’t it be unkind as well as the epitome of rudeness to leave her guessing?

Number One invited six friends, with the understanding that one would not be able to stay the night. Two mothers responded, promptly, with a thank you and we’re delighted to be able to come. Then the others chimed in the week before the party: One Child would be able to attend only a couple of hours, until which time he had a another birthday party to attend, he explained; Another Child wanted to attend the other birthday party as well, and was planning to come here, go there, then return here afterwards. And the Third Child called on the day of the party (after the wheat-free birthday cake had been baked to accommodate his dietary restrictions) to explain that he would be, “one or two hours late.”

I so want to make Number One’s party special, for him to show his friends how cool he and his folks are (we’re even shipping Little One off for an overnight elsewhere to remove the uncool pesky little brother syndrome). Call me a Momosaurus, but am wondering what dear old Emily would think. Instead of choosing one invitation and honoring the host, I’m not sure that our guests realize that opting to run back and forth between parties may leave both hosts feeling slighted.

Tuesday, November 6, 2007

On cocoa and airports

It is mid-morning, time for my cocoa break, and my thoughts logically turn to cocoa experiences on the road.

A cup of cocoa at an airport Starbucks was predictably disappointing. While not more overpriced than normal, the pale drink was bland enough that even Number One took one sip and asked, “Is there any chocolate in here?” I was relieved to know it wasn’t just me, but the long line at the counter (the fog had delayed many flights other than ours) dissuaded me from returning and demanding more chocolate.

As I reach into the cupboard for cocoa, I hesitate between Ghirardelli and Green & Black. Against my better judgment, I took the boys to Ghirardelli Square, which one tour guide now rates as “nothing more than a shopping mall.” The child in me recalls the factory that produced chocolate stars, and if you were lucky, Mom would spring for the little cardboard box shaped like the chocolate factory. The chocolate tastes different, and the place has truly become a tourist trap. I caved and bought the kids overpriced ice cream (at least it was Dreyer’s, from Berkeley); while we were waiting, Number One noted that a waitress was assembling a massive clutch of balloons in the back corner. Hoping to avoid a balloon Grinch incident I hailed our wait staff, and let her know of my allergy, but to no avail. Ten bites into my eight-dollar sundae, the latex-bearing waitress headed straight to our alcove. I picked up my bag and dashed to the nearest exit, but the clueless cookie followed, wanting to ask how far away she needed to be to keep from causing a reaction. If she’d had an ounce of sense, she would have been able to deduce the correct distance by how far from her I kept backing away—on the sidewalk. And Little One was clearly torn: here was his well-earned ice cream, and leaving it wasn’t something he wanted to do. Balloon Lady was standing between us, waving kryptonite at this Mama Bear. Not a good situation.

Then Number One, now officially a teenager, did something to make my heart soar: he barked at the waitress, forcing her to back off, then proceeded to find a paper cup and transfer Little One’s ice cream sundae to it. Unable to locate a spoon, he grabbed a straw. I am immensely proud of his composure in this situation, especially given that I would think having your mother freaking out on the sidewalk would be socially mortifying. I do have to add that I was extremely disappointed at the restaurant: no wait staff offered to help him, or even acknowledged that there was a problem that might require a manager (or a refund). Even the surly cable car brakemen could teach them something about customer service.

On the last day of the conference, my favorite waiter added a few cocoa packets to the breakfast buffet. Nestlé’s in a pouch is not my idea of real cocoa (nor is anything declaring “just add water” truly food), but I discovered it could be made relatively palatable with the addition of cream from the coffee station.

I decide on the Ghirardelli this morning, but make a note to myself to try the Dagoba drinking chocolate that I’ve seen appearing on market shelves recently. They’re in Ashland, and they may have the space on the shelf that was once reserved for my childhood.

Monday, November 5, 2007

The Ferry Building

It was enveloped in fog, only coming into focus around 11 in the morning on the second day of the conference. Just about the same time as we got our bearings.

Our hotel was a small one with what is usually termed “historic charm.” It could easily have been a dive, but cheerful paint and IKEA furnishings made it just the thing. With cable cars dinging outside our window and Market Street trolleys a block away, transit options were clear. We grabbed a bus pass, and made it pay for itself within 24 hours.

I was born in the Bay Area, Berkeley to be exact, so this is not an unfamiliar place to me. The City and clime felt immediately comfortable, even if I was stressed and preoccupied with association goings-on. But with elections (and a shaky-handed speech) behind me, we headed down to the Bay and walked along the Embarcadero.

In my childhood, this spot was the site of a freeway. Not just any freeway, but the ugliest, dirtiest-grey double-decker monstrosity you can think of. In the wake of the Loma Prieta earthquake, it was condemned, and the wise people of the City clamored for its removal. Politicians predicted traffic disaster, but they were wrong. It is no loss.

I remember many things about the City from my childhood: the steaming crab boilers in Fisherman’s Grotto, Ghirardelli Square (when they still made chocolate there), the empty-warehouse feel of the Exploratorium, The City of Paris Christmas tree (now gone), the waves crashing against the rocks at Fort Point. But I don’t recall the Ferry Building even being there. It didn’t make sense when my father talked about all the trolleys and cable cars meeting ferry passengers in the Ferry Plaza. But now I understand. The plaza bustles day and night: tourists, business folks, skateboarders, musicians, artisans and farmers all converge where once traffic noise presided. Trolleys and pedestrians have reclaimed it as their own.

Inside the Ferry Building is the Mecca of sustainable foodieness: restaurants, bakeries, organic provender, flowers and chocolate can all be found. We had been subsisting on conference hotel buffets, picking out the least offensive foodstuffs to nourish ourselves. But we didn’t feel we were really eating. Here, though, were sandwiches, roast chickens, chili, fruit smoothies and jicama and grapefruit salads (and amazing tortilla chips and guacamole).

I had come to the City uncertain of myself, unsure if I had what it took to merit the trust of my colleagues. The fog lifted, reassuring me with their vote of confidence, and placing me in incredibly good company.

And as the fog burned off, it became amply clear: in times of stress, comfort is necessary. Here was ours. Food that was safe and good for us all. We found ourselves returning to the pale grey arcades over and over, to enjoy the sights and sounds and smells, and to replenish ourselves.