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!