Is this the cake you baked for me?

I got to be the queen in our second grade play. She was a demanding woman, who commanded her head baker (played by my best buddy Hiroshi) create the most exquisite cake ever made to grace her table. What she ended up with was a tiny little thing presented by a lowly baker’s apprentice (played by my other best buddy Jeff); thus the line my father made sure I never forgot, “Is this the cake you baked for me?” delivered with a just a touch of disdain in my voice.

This week’s CSA box contained the usual roots that are hard to be enthusiastic about after a long winter, but there were also some early shoots: rhubarb, raab, and—gasp!—asparagus! The kids weren’t around to hear my shriek of glee; probably just as well, since everything I do serves only to embarrass my 13-year old. Another cackle: Farmer’s wife has won Darling Husband’s everlasting adoration by throwing in an extra stalk of the red stringy stuff. I quickly slate that for compote with a wee bit of orange peel and plan to bake up some lace cookies to dunk/scoop the glop.

But it was the asparagus that made my heart leap, because I’ve lived here long enough to know that when the green spears head upward, it’s the time when the salmon arrives. Sure enough, a trip to the market revealed that the Copper River season started today, which would have meant waiting a day to eat the asparagus, which frankly wasn’t an option. So we “settled” for Columbia River King, and fired up the grill. Potatoes (yes, they were in the box as well) first, then the asparagus (ever so quickly!), and finally the filets, oozing enough oil to raise flames from the coals. No worries, though Number One Son, aka Armchair Fire Chief wanted to know if I wanted water to throw in the Weber.

The play has a happy ending, as all second-grade plays have: It turns out that the cake the apprentice baked was incredibly delicious, and I am duly impressed. But as I sit back licking my lips from that plate of fresh local goodness, I feel like a different sort of queen. Not only do I have the privilege of eating an incredibly tasty meal, not only have I had the honor of working with fine food, I have trod the soil that grew much of it, and have met the farmer (though I have yet to thank the farmer’s wife in person for that extra rhubarb in Darling Husband’s tummy). But there’s more: in that modest waxed cardboard box I have found something more than vegetables and other goodies: I have found time. I am spared standing in front of tables of produce asking myself, “Is it local?” “Is it in season?” No, I just say, incredulously, but with no disdain whatsoever, “Is this is the box you made for me?”

Concierge level

I have just returned from another board meeting, this time in the Lone Star State. The hotel that hosted our meeting was eager to book us for a full-fledged conference in San Antonio, and so pulled out all the stops. I was greeted at the airport by a limousine driver holding a sign with my name on it, and upgraded to the concierge level at the hotel itself. The room, a suite with a huge bed and French doors, heralded my arrival with a mini-buffet of cheese (Boursin) and crackers (Carr’s water crackers), mixed nuts (no peanuts!), a green apple and a tower of tartlets and chocolates. There was even a small bottle of wine (and a corkscrew) holding up a card with my name on it. I was beginning to feel special.

During the meeting, they fed us lavishly (fresh, local strawberries for breakfast, one of the benefits of the sweltering heat) and even secured reservations for us at the hottest restaurant in town, Boudro’s. This Texas bistro, surrounded on all sides by kitschy Tex-Mex places on the Riverwalk, delivered both the excellent and the unassuming. Tableside guacamole sounds like a gimmick, but it more than lived up to the hype, and I can see why the prickly pear margarita is on the list of 1,000 things to do before you die. I returned to my concierge level suite satisfied but not stuffed, slipped on the supplied fluffy bathrobe and worked my way through the cable channels and chocolates. I could almost get used to this. (Don’t worry, I missed recycling bins, and my knee still jerks at fresh towels every day.)

After our meeting, the hotel graciously provided a limousine back to the airport, perplexed that we were insisting on sharing rides, practical (read non-Texan) folks that we are. My flights home were uneventful, if full, but I was greeted at baggage claim by a young man with a sign with my name. Not my driver, but Number One Son, trying to make me feel special.

But here’s the thing: As nice as that designer hotel bed with Egyptian cotton sheets was, my bed, with down comforter and Darling Husband, is far superior. The soap in the white-tiled shower was full-sized (oatmeal soap from Ballard Organics), and my fluffy blue bathrobe was waiting on a hook for me.

I was woken far too early by a Little One eager to share his mother’s day gifts for me: a candle, a beeswax kitty, and a rock that he found that glitters in the sunlight. Number One made me a bouquet of Mexican tissue paper flowers and scraped up enough for a box of Theo confections. And they all brought me breakfast in bed. Sorry, Marriott, you may think you have the luxury thing down pat, but these guys make me feel like a queen.