A Passion for List Writing

Things to Love about Making Lists:

1.) Starting off with a frivolous entry, just because you can! Topping my Christmas list every year since I was literate: a pony.

2.) Practicing parallel construction! Because you just took a copyediting course, and you're an epic nerd.

3.) Scribbling (if working on paper).

4.) Color coding (if working on Word or Excel).

5.) Thinking about what my brothers and sister want for Christmas.

6.) Thinking about what Stevie wants for Christmas.

7.) Thinking about what I want for Christmas.

8.) Singing to self, "All I Want for Christmas Is You," the Mariah Carey version. There is no other version. Don't start.

9.) Checking things off, with big, swishy, inky check marks. I swoon for inky pens.

10.) Striking things through. I don't know which I like better between checking and striking. They're both so good. It really depends on the list.

11.) Feeling a sense of accomplishment! To quote my materfamilias: "I love writing lists. It's like getting things done."

12.) Perusing old lists of yore. For example, the Christmas list in which my brother Bruce, six years old at the time of writing, requested "gold," "silver," a "hullmeat" (sic), and other brilliantly spelled viking accessories.

13.) Bringing back the phrase, "Number one with a bullet!" Not only is it pithy, it's true. Things really do sound more important when they're in list, numbered, bulleted, or otherwise.

14.) Sleeping soundly at night. You don't have to worry about it! It's on the list!

Happy list writing! Happy shopping! Happy checking, striking, and scribbling! And most importantly, happy Christmas!!

Thanksgiving for Grown-Ups

I meant to publish this post on Thanksgiving, along with a gorgeous picture of a roast bird. But things happen (namely, gorgeous birds always taking longer than expected, needing to warm five thousand side dishes at the last minute, and frantically applying mascara before guests arrive). So imagine, if you would, a burnished roast! Or better yet, these Parker House rolls. They were stunners. And Happy Holidays! They're not over yet.

This will be the first Thanksgiving I haven't spent with my parents. I know. I know! I'm 25 years old. I've been away from home (starting with boarding school) for 10 years now. Cue Stephen:

"What, ever?!"

"Yes."

"You mean, ever-ever?!!"

"Yes!!"

I'm going to go for broke and say that British people really don't get this holiday. (Based on my sample size of one boyfriend. Look, I'm an English major. I'm going to let the social scientists worry about the ethics of sample sizes.)

Anyways, vacation days didn't work out, flights were expensive, and here I am in San Francisco. I was feeling pretty bummed about it a couple of weeks out. I just really love holiday cooking with my mom. She's really good at doctoring gravy, and not panicking when the Yorkshire puddings that you promised would be "so easy" happen to set off every smoke alarm in the house. Also, she has a generous hand with the Chardonnay. Especially if you're helping out in the kitchen.

So, I was feeling glum, and so, to cheer myself up, I did the obvious, and ordered an 18-pound turkey. Nothing like a massive roasting project to get the old spring back in one's step, right? Then I bought 3 pounds of Brussels sprouts at the farmers' market. The Brussels sprouts dude said, and I quote, "You must really love Brussels sprouts!" Yes. Yes I do.

We have two friends coming over, one of whom is vegetarian. Just thinking about the leftovers makes me a little weak at the knees. It's going to be great. My apartment may be outrageously small, but where there's a will, there's a way.

I also plan to open the first bottle of Chardonnay around noon. What can I say? I learned from the best.

The Challenge: Dumplings Galore

In a city of vast and various dumpling offerings, a few stars shine through. Take Yank Sing, of the legendary sesame balls. It's a lovely experience, posh, downtown, and priced like it knows it. The waiters/cart pushers even wear little headsets, so when you make a special request for sticky rice, they'll radio it back in to command. The only thing is that you might want to think twice about is taking an actual Chinese person. Once I lunched there with my friend Shawn Chen, who appeared to be enjoying himself, up until the moment the check arrived. At which point, he (a financier, even!) exclaimed, "This is for dim sum?!"

Venture out into the avenues, however, and it's a different story. Thanks to the 7 x 7 challenge, another shining star has swum into my ken: Ton Kiang, of the outer Richmond. What's that you say? You don't want to trek to the Richmond for brunch? Me neither. Good job I have a friend with a car.

My friend Lily, owner of said vehicle, happens to be a vegetarian who is having second thoughts. I was surprised, to say the least, that she was up for dim sum. Dedicated fans know there is a lot of pork involved. Lily, however, required no cajoling whatsoever. Guns were not put to heads. When I invited her, I even offered an easy out, with an alternative of buttermilk pancakes at Zazie's. But no, she really wanted dim sum. She was downright gung ho, proclaiming happily, "I'm going to eat meat today," as we stepped into the car.

On first inspection, the Richmond looks like a lovely residential neighborhood. We parked fairly easily, and strolled past a cute playground, as well as an abundance of nail salons. I'm not going to live there, due to its deal-breaking distance from major cultural events such as the Nordstrom sale. But what Ton Kiang lacks in centrality of location, it makes up for in an avalanche of little pork buns. Of this I assure you. For roughly FIFTEEN DOLLARS EACH--you heard me--one can have barbecue pork, steamed shrimp and scallops, shu mai, and spring rolls galore!!

Eat meat we most certainly did. Loads of it! It was lovely! Lily had just gotten a fancy new camera for her birthday, so we shamelessly snapped pictures, and chatted, and munched, and sipped tea, and the plates swung around, and they said, "Would you like such-and-such," and we said, "Yes, please!" and "Absolutely!" At one point Lily even had to restrain me from ordering a turnip cake. We were on a roll. I felt like a stuffed little dumpling when I left, and I had the most delicious of pork-induced naps that afternoon.

I like this version of dim sum. A little less decorum, a little more reckless abandon.

Incessant, Unavoidable Observation

I’m taking a copyediting class. It’s really fascinating, provided you’re really into things like comma placement. (Look, I never made any promises about not being a geek!) Last night, our instructor concluded with a quotation, which I found so wonderful I felt compelled to share it. It’s from editor and autobiographer (“whatever that means!” interjected our teacher) Margaret Anderson:

I was born to be an editor, I always edit everything. I edit my room at least once a week. Hotels are made for me. I can change a hotel room so thoroughly that even its proprietor doesn't recognize it . . .. I edit people's clothes, dressing them infallibly in the right lines . . .. I change everyone's coiffure—except those that please me—and these I gaze at with such satisfaction that I become suspect, I edit people's tones of voice, their laughter, their words. I change their gestures, their photographs. I change the books I read, the music I hear . . . It's this incessant, unavoidable observation, this need to distinguish and impose, that has made me an editor. I can't make things. I can only revise what has been made. [sic]

Do you constantly revise and rewrite the world around you?

The Casualties of Competitive Reading

The more that you read,

The more things you will know.

The more that you'll learn,

The more places you'll go.

Young cat! If you keep

Your eyes open enough,

Oh the stuff you will learn!

The most wonderful stuff!

I Can Read with My Eyes Shut! Dr. Seuss

One may not think of reading and writing as activities that are inherently dangerous to one's health. Compared to a career in construction, or, say, professional ice hockey, it pales. But I will assert nonetheless that there are a number of injuries related to too much reading. My chiropractor has chided me--more than once!--on neck craning. As for writing, much as my father suffers from tennis elbow, I'm confident I have an equally serious case of typing elbow. Ergonomic desks aside, one's elbows can only take so much. Sometimes I try this technique I learned from my friend PJ, voracious writer of research papers, which involves resting one wrist at a time on your desk. But so far as I can see, there's really just no way to stretch your elbows. (You're welcome to try at home and get back to me, but don't say I didn't warn you.)

The worst casualty, however, has to be the eyes. Reading is stressing out my eyes these days. Have you ever had an eye tic that started in your left eyelid, crossed over to your right, crossed back over to your left, and THEN, to be extra cute, decided to keep starting up again every time you sneeze? Try proofing iBooks for a few days. You'll get there. The zooming, oh, the zooming! I had sore eyes for weeks after our last deadline.

Previously in life, I've prided myself on being one of these people with annoyingly perfect vision. There's a certain amount of satisfaction in being able to read street signs that nobody else can. When I was a sharp-eyed little girl, I blithely disregarded reading lamps. As the sun was going down, and the colors of the room shifted softly from golden to blue tones, I would snuggle down deeper into the couch, happily engrossed in my E. Nesbit. Once, my Nana Pete came to visit, and I remember her catching me engaged in such activities. Snapping on a light, she exclaimed, "You'll hurt your eyes! You'll have to get glasses!"

Overly nervous grandmother, or prophet? Only time shall tell. But oh, reader! I have fears. I fear the day of glasses approaches. Combine a childhood of consuming Black Stallion novels under the covers by flashlight, an education in the literary arts, and a career in wading through semicolons and dashes, and it is starting to look like a losing combination.

And now, just because I'm an English major and we can get away with this kind of thing, I'll leave you with Milton. As any good student of literature can pedantically tell you, Milton went blind later in life. He also made his daughters read aloud to him in languages that they did not understand. I would not have wanted to be Milton's daughter, but I do love this sonnet.

When I consider how my light is spent

E're half my days, in this dark world and wide,

And that one Talent which is death to hide,

Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, least he returning chide,

Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd,

I fondly ask; But patience to prevent

That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need

Either man's work or his own gifts, who best

Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his State

Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed

And post o're Land and Ocean without rest:

They also serve who only stand and waite.

The Challenge: A Working Girl's Afternoon Off

Last week, my parents came to visit. They are always up to things, but my mom found a window to swing by the Financial District on a sunny Friday afternoon. After some hugging and mutual dress compliments, she said those magical words of parents everywhere: "Well, sweetie! Where would you like to go for lunch?"

I replied, "Just let me get my list." (Commence rummaging through oversize handbag.)

And because she is a particularly indulgent mother, she suggested we go to Perbacco. Now, keep in mind that my mother used to be a young urban professional herself, back in the day, in 'frisco, no less, during the 80s. Rest assured that she knows how to treat a working girl to lunch.

Perbacco it was. Is it just me, or does San Francisco have approximately a bazillion upscale/Italian/Californian/rustic/house-cured/house-pickled restaurants? I don't really care. If they are all this good, keep it coming. Per 7x7's recommendation, we had the salumi misti. Made in house using "traditional Piedmontese recipes." You heard me.

But we really fell in love with some Brussels sprouts. Now, Brussels sprouts and I are old friends, but I understand there are people in this world who feel otherwise. If you labor under any delusions that you don't like Brussels sprouts, for heavens sake, I beseech you to stop boiling, steaming, and otherwise abusing them. Roasting really makes their nuttiness sing, but Perbacco does one better. Panfried, crispy-edged, bathed in (most likely an unconscionable quantity of) brown butter, tossed with burst capers, and sprinkled with a generous handful of Reggiano, they were to die for. Little cabbages to die for, I say. (Slams fist clenching fork to table.)

Then, after you've polished off your exquisite Italian/Californian/house-cured lunch, I highly recommend blowing off work for the afternoon, and going shopping at Loehmann's with the original working girl. One never knows. That next Diane von Furstenburg could be just around the corner.

The Art of Email

I'm an avid reader of etiquette columns. Etiquette, it seems to me, is ultimately an expression of how much care and thought you extend to members of your acquaintance. It's also clearly delightful to read anecdotes of people behaving badly. Someone's neighbor keeps giving them terrible cakes? Outrageous! You tell them, Philip Galanes. Where would we be without you.

If there is one area in which etiquette is lacking, however, I'd point to email. To be fair, email is a younger medium, and the social customs are not as ingrained just yet. (By comparison, my Great Aunt Leigh's first edition of Emily Post from 1922 contains suggestions on sharing tennis courts and how to tie a red ribbon on your pony's tail if he kicks. Email is what, 20 years old? Whereas it would appear that grouchy ponies have been frequenting the hunt club for centuries.) I also know we're all short on time, and admittedly emails, by nature, are meant to be written and read fast. But you know what? I think we can agree that there is room for a little more care and craft in most of the emails one reads these days.

A few points to consider:

Salutations: Use them. It takes approximately two seconds to type "Hi Ali," and hit hard return twice. And to paraphrase my friend's mother, writing someone's name on something is a really easy way to make it personal. (I believe she was talking about homemade Valentine's cards at the time, but the point stands.)

Signatures: Again. Use them. It'll make you feel strong. These should require at least a half second of thought--I read a charming piece in the Times demonstrating the pitfalls of automatic signatures. The classics such as "Thanks" and "Sincerely" never fail. Personally I tire a bit of "Cheers," which seems to me to be misused by most Americans (more as a general cheerfulness, rather than the British usage, which is more of a casual "Thanks"), but as you would. And let's face it, a well-crafted signature is a delight. "Stay fabulous!"

Capitalize and punctuate: Okay, I get it. Not everybody adores semicolons the way I do. But periods? Commas? Seriously? No one is that busy.

Emoticons: Emoticons are a really easy way to inject a little bit of warmth or tone. I use them all the time, in texts, Facebook posts, gchats, and casual emails to friends. But let's be firm. They have absolutely no place in any kind of professional email. And honestly, at the crux of the issue, when it really comes down to it, there's a much better way to express warmth and tone: words. Use your words. Even if it's just an "I kid!" bookending a sarcastic comment, or an "it was such a pleasure" or "so delightful" amending a sentence, there's a more elegant and accurate approach you can take. You'll end up looking smarter for doing so.

Proofing: Read before you send. There is an unnamed person from an unnamed institution that I once attended, who periodically sends out email newsletters, updates, and solicitations to an alumni list. Every time I get one of her emails, I immediately start counting the typos. It's embarrassing. She looks incompetent, and more to the point, it very much lessens my desire to hand over my money. If you're writing a long, formal email, go ahead and draft it in Word. While email clients have some spelling checks these days, there's no support for grammar. And regardless of level of formality, at least give emails a quick scan before hitting send.

Responding to invitations: It seems to me that with the immediacy of email, people are really slipping on RSVPs. Just because you can respond up to the last minute absolutely does not mean that you should. So don't take your host/hostess's time and efforts for granted. When you receive an invitation, open up your gcal. (It's one click away. I promise it won't hurt.) At which point, let me remind you, there are two correct responses to an invitation: you say thank you and accept, or you say thank you and politely decline. It is absolutely amazing to me how many people of my generation skip right over that first part. I really don't want to hear about how busy/important/hung over you are! I just invited to cook you a homemade meal on Friday night. I would be happy to talk about how annoying your boyfriend is once you're here and we've had a bottle of wine, but right now, all I really want to know is how much brisket to buy. Seriously, who raised you?

Don't say anything you wouldn't say to the person's face: Emails can get forwarded. Enough said. And I've personally had enough long, drawn out fights over email to be able to attest that there are certain conversations where you really ought to reach for the phone, or better yet, sit down and have a cup of coffee. Know email's limitations, and let's try to steer clear of embittered typing into the void, shall we?

Response times: My mom gets busted for this all the time. Between smart phones and the fact that most office jobs entail sitting in front of a computer for eight hours at a stretch, people expect you to be pretty instantly available. My personal policy is to try to respond to all emails the same day, or within 24 hours at the latest. The courteous emailer will also take into account time zones, which means that if I'm answering a food blogger in New York, or our IT guy in Colorado, I make sure I get back to them by early afternoon. But to be clear--I'm a big believer in having a life beyond the screen. If you're going to be away from email for an entire day or longer, post an auto response and let your correspondents know when you'll be back online. That way, when you abandon your email to go on a three-day spree of painting/book organizing/Christmas shopping/houseguest entertaining, you won't wind up with disgruntled colleagues/friends/family members on your hands. Not that anyone's mother I've ever known has ever done that.

The Oxford comma: This has nothing to do with email in particular. I just really love the Oxford comma, and you should, too. It makes life better. You also get a gold star in my book if you use proper dashes, learn the keyboard shortcuts for accents, use the active voice, and sport a stylish vocabulary. Such are the details that separate the boys from the men.

Finally, let me leave you with one of the great take-away points of nearly all etiquette guides I've ever enjoyed: just because someone else is behaving badly, it does not give you permission to do so yourself. There are a lot of poor communicators out there in this world. This does not give you license to write shoddy emails. Communicate well. Write well. Your emails are an extension of yourself, and your readers will be judging you by them. Most especially if you happen to know any English majors.

Did I miss any? Do I expect too much? Feel free to add or refute, in the comments section.

The Challenge: Tea & Tarts

I'm going to come clean: I'm a little bit scared of Chinatown. I know it's jam-packed with tourists and arguably one of the safest hoods to haunt on a Tuesday afternoon, but to be honest, I'd rather get hit on by ten sketchy guys in the Mission than wait on line with ten Chinatown ladies. It's the pushing. And the yelling. And did I mention the pushing? I'm putting it down as a cultural difference. As a WASP, I'm just not cut out for this kind of thing. (As a side note, I'd like to point out that one of my favorite aspects of British culture is the dedication to queueing. Just try to cut the line at an Oxford bus stop. I dare you.)

But venture into Chinatown I must, if I was to tackle the egg custard tart from Golden Gate Bakery on the Challenge. Now, I was ready to be fairly unimpressed with this one. I've met a few egg tarts in my time. They're eggy. They're tarty. They're good with tea, and I like things that are good with tea, but you pretty much get the picture. "What ho," I thought to myself, eyeing the old lady cutting me in line, "I'm sure this will be nice, but probably not worth dealing with Chinatown again anytime soon."

And then I took a bite of steep, unctuous custard. And muttered an obscenity. And ate my words; every last, buttery, flaked bite.

Go to Chinatown! Go! No seriously. Go! And shame on you, other egg tarts of this world. I will suffer your mediocrity no longer. I and the pushy old ladies at Golden Gate Bakery know what's up.

The Lunch Box Chronicles

Happy September, everyone! I could go on about crisp fall air and burnished leaves, but just to recap, I live in San Francisco, where the weather is schizophrenic, and summer is just finally beginning. I've been reading fashion week coverage with wistful sighs, thinking about the red, pressed wool coat that's going to be sitting in my closet for another two months. Sometimes life is hard.

In cookbook land, however, September means back-to-school month, or in other words, lunch boxes! Am I going back to school this year? Absolutely not, but when has that ever stopped me from indulging in new school supplies. A confession: I really, really enjoy packing my lunch. To be fair, I mostly pack my lunch because I work in print publishing and am poor and thereby, you know, have to. But also, I really, really enjoy packing my lunch.

Around this time of year our neighborhood Whole Foods puts up a display dedicated to lunch boxes, containers, and accoutrement. It's hard to resist. The scenario goes somewhat like this:

"Stephen!" I exclaim.

"Yes?" says Stephen, inching towards the deli meats.

"Haven't you always wanted a multi-tiered tiffin?!"

"No," says Stephen.

And so on.

Nevertheless, we've built up a pretty solid collection of different types of containers: a bento box, the tiffin, various glass jars, milk jugs, etc. When I was little I had a great plastic lunch box with examples of different dinosaurs on it. I wonder if my mom still has that. ALSO, Williams-Sonoma (WS to its friends) now has a vintage Star Wars lunch box. I hope Stephen isn't reading this, because that has Christmas present written all over it.

Photo courtesy of http://www.williams-sonoma.com.

This year, things escalated. First, I bought a new stainless steel sandwich box (Stephen said no, but I hid it under some tortillas in the cart and snuck it through at the check out). Then my company came out with an aaaaa-dor-able! little cookbook (shameless plug here). Plus I was super broke after I came back from my European vacation, so packing lunch every day became a kind of personal challenge.

Would you accept a word of advice? Life gets a lot easier when you stock up on easy-to-grab snacks, like carrots, sugar snaps, mini cheeses, individual yogurts, and bagels. Dare to join the ranks of the lunch ninjas? Set yourself up over the weekend with a batch of toasty granola, some leftover grilled chicken breasts, or a big pot of soup. If it's there, you'll pack it. Here are some of our current faves:

Yogurt and muesli

Oat scones

Black bean and cheese burritos

Spicy peanut noodle salad

Smoked salmon wraps

Veggie and hummus wraps

Chicken caesar wraps

Caprese baguettes

Apple and brie baguettes

BLT's

Broccoli and cheddar calzone

Tuna melts and tomato soup

Carrot-ginger soup

Cobb salads

Curried chicken salads

Happy packing, happy lunching, and happy September, whether that means back-to-school or still-at-work.

The Challenge: Brunching with Tourists

On a Sunday not too long ago, I ventured somewhere few native San Franciscans dare: Fisherman's Wharf.

A miracle had occurred. The fog parted just long enough for me to meet my friend KC for some French/German bicyclist dodging a nice walk at Fort Mason. When I jumped out of my cab in workout gear, the driver said, "Have a nice run!" No, no I did not correct him. KC and I had a good laugh about this. Running? Us?

After some sunshine and fresh air, we wandered over to the Buena Vista Cafe, ogling the massive line of tourists willing to pay $6 to ride the cable car (nuts). We partook of the legendary Irish coffees, and ordered up some pretty standard brunch fare. The food itself is not particularly amazing, although stuff anything with Dungeness crab and I'm pretty happy. But the Irish coffees without a doubt deserve their reputation. A thick layer of cream floats pristinely over the murky libations beneath. The glass is warm; the coffee hot, and the rum warms you throat to belly to fingertips.

The whole experience made me think of my dad, who loved to swim in the bay when he lived here during the 80's. The Buena Vista Cafe is just across from the two big swim clubs, the Dolphin club and the South End club. I imagine that after taking a plunge in 55 degree saltwater, an Irish coffee and some unassuming eggs and sourdough toast would seriously hit the spot. I'm not going to do it, but you're welcome to try.

KC remarked that there seems to be a good mix of tourists and locals. The tables are large and seem to often get shared, and just as we were getting our check an older couple sat down next to us. They told us they had met in San Francisco 42 years ago, and remembered when you could only order three different entrees at the Buena Vista, none of them good, and the Irish coffees cost 75 cents. They also expressed amazement that the cable car went all the way through to the wharf, "now." We gently allowed as how our generation doesn't really take the cable car. I think it was a good learning experience, all around.

It made me wonder a bit about all these bars cropping up around the city, serving things out of mason jars, digging up vintage recipes from The Savoy Cocktail Book. Don't get me wrong, I eat that stuff up. But the Buena Vista doesn't have to feign mid-century cool. The Buena Vista was actually here mid century, and at the beginning of the century, and at the end of the century, for that matter. There's something to be said for that.

The Challenge: A Bit Gingery

Next up on the Challenge is Miette, one of the maaaaany entries on the list that calls the Ferry Building home. My office is all of six blocks from the Ferry Building, which is great if you feel like picking up some heirloom tomatoes on a Tuesday, or sampling some Korean tacos on a Thursday. Actually, I don't go as often as I should. Actually, I eat lunch at my desk most days, whilst working reading etiquette columns on the New York Times. (Brushes aside some keyboard crumbs of guilt.)

BUT, if you're in the middle of an afternoon slump, and you're pretty sure there is not one more inspirational sentence you can possibly write about juice (because let's face it, once you've used "sweet," "tart," and "refreshing," it tends to go downhill from there), what better than a jaunt to the waterfront?! Especially if there are gingersnaps involved.

I have often partaken of the pristine little cupcakes from Miette, but shockingly had passed over the gingersnap option. No more. These are large, thin disks, with prettily scalloped edges. At first super crunchy, they give at the last moment with a sugary confection bend. The spice hits hard at the end. They'd probably be delicious alongside a masala chai, but with so much character on their own, it's hard to beat a straight-up English breakfast tea, taken with milk. These are keyboard crumbs of a higher order.

And now I quote Stephen on ginger biscuits (please read with an English accent):

"What, you've never had a ginger biscuit? No, they're not a cookie. They're like a biscuit, but a bit more crunchy, a bit more gingery. . .. You know. Like a ginger biscuit."

The Challenge: Something Boozy in the Financial District

For round one of tackling the 7 x7 list, I did a quick scan to see what was near my office. Publishing types tend to be very easily persuaded into an afterwork drink. We seem to always end up traipsing to North Beach's 15 Romolo, which is happy-hour cheap, and has a knock-your-socks-off Pimm's Cup. I have a hard time asking any more of a bar. But as it turned out, there are a couple of top-notch cocktails we've been neglecting in our very own neighborhood. Like, within two blocks of the office. Outrageous.

The first was Bix, which is a seriously classy joint, with booths, atmospheric lighting, a second story, and live jazz in the evenings (although we were too early for that). We bellied up to the mahogany bar and ordered gin martinis and tartare. The salmon was fresh, lightly dressed, and exquisite, but I think the steak really stole the show, as the bartender makes a presentation of scraping up artful lines of mustard and capers and mixing it up in front of you. At $12 a cocktail it better be good--but it is so good! And the gin martini is a serious drink. Serious enough that after just one you'll get slightly lost going over to your friend's house for dinner. Your friend whose apartment you've already been to. . . twice. These things happen. I'd happily repeat the experience.

Comstock Saloon has such a good reputation we were a little worried about getting seats, but sneaking in on a Tuesday night just after work, we were able to nab a cushy booth. Comstock definitely plays up the saloon, with waistcoated bartenders, tiled floors, an odd contraption that turns the ceiling fans, and so on. Manhattans and pickled eggs are the recommended order, which opened my eyes to one of the beauties of the challenge, namely, that it's good incentive to try things that you'd never ordinarily pick out on a menu. I don't know about you, but I kind of doubt that pickled eggs with oyster sauce would have really leapt out at me. But delightful they were; crisp rye toasts, dollops of briny dressing, topped with thin slices of hard boiled egg, with a nice vinegary zing. The Manhattan is also a man's drink. At first sip, I was aghast that my grandfather drank these every day (against doctor's orders, if memory serves correctly). At second sip, you start to ease into it.

And now, just because I'm an English major and we can get away with this sort of thing, I'll leave you with a quote from Lucky Jim by the great Sir Kingsley Amis. Please note the common themes of mid-twentieth century charm, drinking, and pickles:

“Pocketing the eightpence change from his two florins, Dixon shoved one of the stemmed glasses along to Margaret. They were sitting at the bar of the Oak Lounge in a large roadside hotel not far from Welch’s house. From this seat Dixon felt he could recoup himself a little for the expensiveness of the drinks by eating steadily through the potato crisps, gherkins, and red, green, and amber cocktail onions provided by the ambiguous management. He began eating the largest surviving gherkin and thought how lucky he was that so much of the emotional business of the evening had been transacted without involving him directly.”

The Challenge: Eating One's Way Through 'Frisco

Every year San Francisco's 7 x 7 magazine posts a list of 100 Things to Try Before You Die. It's a collection of crave-worthy foodie experiences around the city. So I've formed a resolution (da-da-dah-dahh!!) to eat my way through the list.

What's that, you say? It can't be done before January when they're coming out with the next list, anyways? Well, if this is true, then all I have to say is that I intend to fail fat, happy, and trying. And if August seems to you an unseasonable time of year to be undertaking resolutions, I suggest you take a trip to San Francisco in the next two weeks to enjoy some stereotypically wintry fog (don't worry, I won't inflict you with the Mark Twain quote again.)

And so we begin. I checked off those entries I had already conquered: carnitas at La Taqueria, morning bun from Tartine, margherita from Pizzeria D, baby octopus at La Ciccia, salted caramel ice cream from Bi-Rite, dosa from, well, Dosa, a pint from the Monk's Kettle, sesame balls from Yank Sing (God bless them), crepes and cider from Ti Couz, Korean tacos from Namu, and fried chicken and waffles from Little Skillet. Which brings us to. . . 89 entries left to tackle.

Realization number one: apparently I only eat at restaurants in my immediate neighborhoods. We'll work on it.

Conversations Overheard at Work

And now, we present to you a new segment titled Conversations Overheard at Work! Working on cookbooks is really fun. In addition to getting to look at pictures of cheese whenever you want to, people tend to have a lot of serious conversations which sometimes sound strange out of context. I've been compiling a collection of snippets which amused me. Hope you enjoy!

"We need to talk. They're really upset about the cornichons."

"No, they're not happy with that. We need less of a minty green. More of an arugula-y green."

[Publisher]: "Yeah, sandwiches are like a really big thing these days, right?"

[Editor 1]: "Sandwiches are like, really big right now. Like, huge."

[Editor 2]: "Seriously, you guys. Huge."

"I mean, seriously. People freaking know how to toast nuts."

"And then just write something about, you know, firesides, bacon. . . you know what I mean."

"I really need to talk to you about waffles."

"Oh my god you guys, we need to meet so I can tell you about this salad I had yesterday!"

[Discussing a current baking trend, so-called "cake pops."] "Are you serious? They mash up cake and frosting? That is absolutely disgusting. If any of my friends ever asked me to make that, I'd tell them where they can put a cake pop."

"So if you could just, say, draft a list of every food adjective you can think of, that would be perfect. Great. Thanks!"

"Ugh. I am so sick of reading soup recipes. It's like, put some vegetables in a pan. Saute them. Puree them. Don't puree them. Figure it out."

"Just add some freaking watercress and we'll call it a day."

"Ooh 'wooden spoon'! I love that. That's adorable."

"Actually, he felt really strongly about the Douglas fir tips."

"Well, you know me and kale."

"I mean, really? That's the third occurrence of dandelion greens."

"I think it would be really nice to have a friendly offal in there."

Cheese Envy

Having spent a great deal of time bashing my head against the fact that no, clotted cream can not in fact be found in satisfactory form in San Francisco, I devolve into a sniveling fit of despair. I've recently come back from three weeks of travel in England and France, and as expected, it's a bit of a letdown. I find myself pouting in grocery stores. I stomp a foot and declare there is no more bitter form of disappointment than standing in front of your neighborhood cheese counter. (What do you mean, there are only three types of chevre?!! You call yourself a cheesemonger? I can't even smell your Camembert!) It's a pretty serious case of greener pastures. I want to live there, not here! I want what they eat, not mine! Everything is better over there, everything lacks luster over here. I whine, I pout; in short, I want vacation never to end.

Never mind that if I actually lived in Europe, I'm sure I would miss buttermilk nearly as violently as Fortnum's finest Devonshire. My imagination has not crept so far as to a Saturday morning without tangy, tender-crumbed pancakes. It equally ignores Thanksgivings without turkey and yams, and skips blithely over California summers filled with carne asada, avocados, and Mexicoke.

Fiction-lovers fall into this trap. We love worlds other than our own. As a reader, one of my favorite things is to crawl between the pages into someone else's life. There are innumerable places to explore and retreat into, and whenever you finish or tire of one, there is always another volume on the shelf to unfurl before you. A reader's curiosity is perhaps not so different from a traveler's itch, in both instances, there's a certain measure of healthy discontent. It is a life of endless sampling, never quite sated.

But for those of us who really can't get over the clotted cream thing (it's seriously just not as good!), well, there is of course one other option. It is not for the faint of heart. You'll need to set aside a large portion of your weekend, store up some patience, and brace yourself for the deprecating comments of practical people like boyfriends.

Homemade Clotted Cream

Honest-to-goodness English clotted cream, hailing from Devon or Cornwall, is made from unpasteurized milk, which is why nothing that travels over the Atlantic in a jar will be anywhere near as absolutely wonderful. If you have access to unpasteurized cream, by all means, use it.

1 pint organic heavy cream, such as Straus Family Creamery

1 quart organic whole milk

Pour the cream and milk into a large, heavy pot or saucepan that will moderate heat well (a trusty Le Creuset Dutch oven does the trick). Cover the pot and place it somewhere cool, but near the stove, and let stand for several hours, until the cream rises to the top.

Gently transfer the pot onto the stove, disturbing the upper layer of cream as little as possible. Warm over the lowest possible heat, for about an hour. Do NOT allow the milk to simmer. When the surface has developed a butter yellow skin and starts to crinkle, turn off the heat, cover the pot again, and let stand at cool room temperature, overnight or up to 24 hours.

Skim off the top layer of yellow skin and cream into a small bowl. Place this in the refrigerator, and chill until thickened. Certain sources claimed this would take a few hours, but my cream didn't really set up and take on the proper blobby, thick-but-spreadable consistency until it had sat in the fridge for another 24 hours. (I know. I told you! Not for the faint of heart.)

The remaining milk can be used for baking, which is great! Because you ought to start whipping up some scones right about now. I put currants in mine. However the spirit moves you.

Finally, at long last, put the kettle on. Sit down with your warm scones. Slather them with hard-won clotted cream, and top with curd, jam, marmalade, what have you. Finally, don't forget crack open a novel. Because, let me assure you--where your reading might fail to transport you, 55 percent butterfat indubitably will succeed.

Pencil Love

I dearly love a freshly sharpened pencil. The industrious grinding sound. The whiff of shavings and lead. The sharp slice of the first stroke on the first page.

My youngest brother Bruce (Norman Bruce Duffett III) got me an electric pencil sharpener this Christmas. I had put it on my list for two years running, but somehow no one seemed to take the entry seriously. I got lucky, however. The Christmas Eve frenzy set in, and I walked into the kitchen to witness my other brother, Jason, fielding an emergency phone call.

"Becky. Do you have a guide book on France?"

"Ooh! Tell Bruce I really want a pencil sharpener."

Jason stares.

"Please? I don't want any guide books."

"But aren't you going to France?" Blank look.

"I just really want a pencil sharpener! Why does nobody want to get me a pencil sharpener? Tell him they're cheap."

My wish was granted, because, surprise! The next morning I unwrapped a shiny, bullet-shaped gem, which now greets me in the office every morning.

At first, my coworkers were a bit distressed. One of the Julias asked me if I was doing some light drilling at my desk. No, not I! I am sharpening pencils! I introduced her to my new friend. I explained that my younger brother, Norman Bruce Duffett III, was the source. Julia gets this. We once bonded over the joys of lining up new rubber erasers in a straight row.

Now she and various others stop by occasionally for a grind. Designers, I've come to learn, are prodigious users of manual pencils. Honestly, I would expect no less. Designers are tremendously cool people. One of my favorite designers has a Depression-era glass jar on her desk, filled with pretty pencils. Things like this make it clear to me why the rest of us will never be able to keep up with designers.

I suspect that new school supplies are so immensely gratifying because of the sense of possibility. When you sit down with a freshly sharpened pencil in the morning, you can tackle anything (or at least any sentence) the world has to throw at you. Misused comma? I'm on it. Making every word count? You betcha. To quote the Stanford Writing Center: Saving the world, one thesis at a time.

One of my favorite parts of my job is that I actually get to work with paper and pencil. I love it when someone drops a stack of pages on my desk, and I get to spend the remainder of the afternoon not looking at a screen. I think very many people today are deprived this simple pleasure. Of reading. And writing. By hand. Moreover, one of the biggest delights of making books is that you're actually making books. Meaning that after months of thinking about something, and working on something, that something actually shows up on your desk, bound and printed and gorgeous. And you get to hold that something up and say, Hey! I helped make that.

And so, this morning, as I did when I was eight years old, I select my weapon. I sharpen it to within a point of its life. I line up my erasers, and take my seat. I consider the page with a wild surmise, silent above a peak--and then I really get down to scribbling.

The Luddite Purchases an iPhone

So what happens when the girl who took unrestrained pleasure in mentally judging other people for being permanently attached to their personal devices (around their kids/friends/coworkers/at parties/in cafes/in airports/in lines/on the street/on the bus/train/basically anytime when you could be READING--seriously, is that game of Tetris you've been squinting at for 45 minutes soooo much more enthralling than a BOOK?!) finally takes the plunge? Does she eat her own minced and measured words?

The future has come. And I don't like how it edits my text messages.

Domesticity: the Modern Woman's Dilemma

"I think every woman should have a blowtorch."

Julia Child

This week, dear readers, I caved. I told my boyfriend he didn't have to make a Valentine's Day reservation.

I know, I know. I can't believe I'm letting him get away with it, either.

The thing is, despite my own vehement arguments in favor of being wined and dined--I quavered. Does anyone really want to sit down to a five course dinner on a Monday night? And upon perusing the February issue of Bon Appetit, I had a sneaking suspicion of what fun it might be to design and execute my own outrageous Valentine's day menu. I started to wonder if I had the moral fortitude to tackle live lobsters. I dreamt of truffled mashed potatoes and juicy steaks au poivre. I had an internal debate about the merits of molten chocolate cakes versus cardamom-spiced creme brulee.

And therein lies the rub: 21st century young, educated, working female, versus aspiring domestic goddess. What can you do.

I cook for my boyfriend a lot. Like, a lot. I pack his lunches (I know! I know). Sometimes, he leaves for work with still-warm scones from the oven. I fix Saturday morning cups of tea, I muddle afternoon cocktails. And nearly every single night of the week, I dish up homemade dinners. I plan, I shop, I cook. . . and Stephen? He does the dishes. Most of the time. Okay, sometimes.

It's not exactly a 50/50 division of labor.

So I broached the subject over dinner last night. It went something like this:

"Stephen, I was thinking about our division of labor."

"Mmph. This is really good jambalaya."

"Thanks. I was thinking that, since you're an enlightened modern gentleman and everything, you might like to start cooking dinner one night a week."

"Hmm."

"What do you think?"

"Can it be take away?"

"No."

"Can it be microwaved?"

"No."

"Can I have Fridays?"

"No."

"Can I have Saturdays?"

"No!"

"Okay."

"Okay."

I then promised, that so long as he actually cooked something on the stove or in the oven, I would do my best to withhold all critical comments. At this, Stephen started rolling on the floor laughing. Okay not really, but he did look pretty skeptical.

Tonight's the first night. I'll let you know how it goes.

And don't worry--no boys in the kitchen on the 14th of February.

The Canine Commuter

On Thursday evenings I now take a French class, and so ride the trains home later than usual. More often than not, catching the J-Church at Union Square, I've noticed a blind woman, who boards the train with her service dog: a lovely black labrador. I've shamelessly and delightedly observed the latter every occasion I've had to seen her.

The dog is truly adorable. I can't imagine that she's more than two or three years old, with brown eyes and big, almost puppyish paws for her smaller size. She patiently navigates her owner through the commuters on the platform, and together they seem to know exactly the spot where the front door of the train will open. At which point they assume the same seat, close to the driver and door.

The labrador typically sits quite obediently with the grave expression one might expect of a guide dog, but last night, something clearly was too much for her. She just--desperately!--absolutely--had to!--smell--the floor of the train! Again and again, she sunk her head downwards, and again and again, her owner corrected her, pulling up on her leash, occasionally having a few strict words. Until finally, taking advantage of a momentary slackness, she happily bellied down onto the floor, and gave whatever deliciousness there lie a big, resounding lick.

It made me wonder of the things we ask our dogs in the city. All the time, one sees dogs riding the trains--big dogs, small dogs, dogs in purses, dogs in laps, veteran, well-behaved commuter dogs, serious police dogs, and exuberant puppies alike. And honestly, I think certain dogs like having "jobs" as much as humans do. But consider the agony of walking through a stinky train station every evening without having the liberty to smell anything!