My sandals, purchased spontaneously while trekking to NYU last year in an attempt matriculate and move eastward (Saga. I didn’t go.), have finally given out after a year of heavy use. Nothing compares to a really awesome pair of $20 surprise sandals from a place you just ducked into to escape the rain. And now, perusing Zappos, I realize they are gone forever and I find myself stranded in a fashion quandary. It is Indian Summer here and we’re gearing up for two more months of beach weather while the rest of the country (and the shoe industry) breaks out the boots and jeans and falling tree leaves.

Northern California fashion, particularly East Bay fashion, is complicated for so many reasons. First of all, you’re surrounded by people in yoga pants and Patagonia zip-ups, who consider high fashion a trip to the Börn store. There’s this prevalent Etsy craftsy outdoorsy sort of look here. It involves clogs and bags from the Maker Faire, Timbuk2 messenger bags, little sustainable carved bamboo earrings and handmade leather items. This look is easily passed off as “comfortable”, but what people miss is that it’s a look that’s entirely value-based. Things are locally sourced. Organic. Charming and arty, as an extension of a personality that values social responsibility and art programs in schools.

It practically comes with an HRC bumpersticker. I totally get it. But there’s something about that look that’s so inherently responsible. Like that person would never sleep in too late and miss work, blow the day off having great sex with a cute bartender.

That person would freak out about the very idea of sex with a bartender. That person would want to scurry to the library and check out a book with that theme immediately, but would never act out so. Her therapist would advise against it.

Sigh. Makes me happy. Thanks, Clevergirl, for filling my ego bank with watermelon jolly ranchers, eyes with tears, and writing something as rad as “It’s summertime/ I’m on the road/ Fill the tank and feed my soul/ I dream of things/ You make them true”.

I do not have my requisite summer evening glass of wine because I am living in fear of fruit flies. It is cherry tomato and gushy nectarine season in the fruit basket. And yesterday we set out to use our new juicer to stop being so goddamn fat all the time, and then realized that Craigslist giveth, and Craigslist taketh away. Earlier this summer I scored so heavily with Michelle Obama the Yamaha scooter that we used up all our karma and now we have a shitty juicer that puts juice everywhere except in the receptacle. Well, we DID have one until this afternoon when I realized the fruit flies had seized the opportunity to do a condo conversion in the leftover carrot pulp and I promptly threw the whole thing in the garbage.

My shredded index finger (for which I will be suing Microplane, or my mother, or whomever is responsible for getting me into the mess of wanting to grate my own cheese with a torture device) is looking more like science fiction special effect today with its white blood cell activating and antibiotic cream lathering. Did you know that the old school of letting a wound “dry out” is not actually a good idea? My father drilled that into my head- exposing your owies to fresh air was the fastest way to healing. Apparently, airing out promotes cell death, the opposite of what you want to facilitate healthy repairing of damaged tissue and it’s best to keep things under a thick layer of ointment and out of sight. Oh, and scarring. Moisture reduces scarring.

Tomorrow is the first official day that the children belong to me all day. We are beginning the non-vacation part of maternity leave with no backup and no plans in place. I’ll either blow it off and set the oldest down in front of Phineas and Ferb and hand the baby his favorite spatula to gnaw on, or rock it out by getting amped early and journeying to the new Boot and Shoe Service Cafe in the old Cafe DiBartolo space on Oakland’s Grand Ave. Oh how I loved their bougainvillea patio. I hope it has been preserved.

I’m leaning toward the latter. After all, what sort of mother am I if I only educate my eldest about the wonder of coffee (she knew how to grind beans and make a single drip cup by age one, and I am completely serious)? The baby must start toeing the family line eventually.

Here’s a soundtrack for the sun tomorrow. May you all have deliriously happy fruitflies in your wine glasses too.

The last year we went was the year before those Nespresso-style coffee pods hit the market and I walked around feeling very “industry” when people were getting all geeked about them 15 months later. It’s fun to have seen and done before the average consumer gets there.

Basically, you wander around Moscone center for a day or two (easily two), wearing a badge that states your kind of business. It’s largely full of retail and import people, easily identifiable by their black suits and mover-and-shaker body language. They sort of heft around and dodge in front of you at the booths when you’re trying to break through the crowd and see what the Montepulciano d’Abruzzo lady has to offer. Catering (especially small caterers) don’t have much pull in a big room like that.. you’re only interested in making these tiny little orders and the vendors want, well, Whole Foods to come in and buy their whole year’s worth of stock.

In the past I’ve just pretended to be a bigger caterer, in order to make the connection and find out what people are all about. But this year I was snooty and just passed the import people right by. I wanted to meet the artisanal producers, the (literally) mom and pop businesses. I collected a small stack of business cards but largely was unimpressed by the small-scale representation this year. All I really remember is getting a panini from Mezetta, whose booth eclipsed half of the North hall (and whose sandwiches, in all honesty, were excellent).

Here are the highlights:

HappyGoat Caramels- just what it sounds like. Caramel made from goat milk. Every bit as wonderful as that sounds. And they had a 15 year Malt Scotch caramel sauce that made my knees wobble. And SUCH nice people doing everything right: small production, sustainable farming. They got picked up by Williams-Sonoma and will be hugely successful next holiday season, just you wait and see.

La Quercia: Artisan salumi from heritage pigs (Berkshire, Tamworth) and is doing organic, small batch things to make prosciutto, bacon, pancetta and Acorn-fed coppa, lonza and so much more. They were sampling the Tamworth and Berkshire and they had me at hello.

Hodo Soy Beanery, located here in the East Bay where all good food originates, makes all sorts of high-quality soy products including yuba: thin sheets of fatty soymilk that can be cut, grilled, used like pasta and all kinds of fun things. They are also totally nice and organic/non-GMO and started out at local farmer’s markets.

I leave you with the vanilla and berry Strauss soft-serve above, clearly the best idea (and the best bite) of the entire show. May we all have Strauss Soft-Serve in our immediate futures.

Finally listen to the newest Grace Potter which I was so excited about I accidentally ordered three separate times.

And try to get someone to take me to Remedy for a scone.

Simple, but worth sacrifice, all.

I drove through the Mission today on a quickie errand. With all my life centered in the East Bay, and aside from making the occasional run for Peruvian food or ice cream or Quesadillas Suizas (you can see what my priorities in life are), I am rarely anywhere near Valencia Street anymore. But the Mission and I go back and we go deep. I had nearly forgotten that until today.

It has changed so much the last 10 years, from mid 90’s bike messenger gritty to swanky sushi bars (during the dot-com boom), then back to gritty again and now to this weird vacant Carroll Gardens-like hipster good restaurant enclave.

It’s always been a love-hate thing. I have been rolling my eyes at the Mission for YEARS, mostly due to its Trustfundian population.. you know.. the MFA students with their penchant for space rock, weed, rent control and really expensive shoes. I always looked down on the Mission from my other, more ironic ‘hoods that were, in truth, just more affordable (in retrospect, we weren’t all that punk rock). But we spent endless afternoons reading and sunning in Dolores Park, and nights in the Mission’s countless coffeeshops that didn’t mind our puffs of cigarette smoke, rants about consumerism and things like lack of adequate research on women’s health issues. We wanted passionate lives but didn’t know how to create them yet, and were contented to rely on passages from Howard Zinn books and Ani Difranco lyrics to inspire us.

When I moved to the city at the ripe age of 22, I was damaged and heartbroken. I had come to reinvent myself, but not from a place of reason and confidence; more for a lack of any other viable option. I recently had left Santa Cruz penniless and much more wise about recognizing the signs of heroin addiction when choosing a potential soulmate (long story, clearly). I had also been gathering momentum to put out my first album, and it seemed that San Francisco was a swell place for such a DIY project. Nothing made sense at that time but determination, and the Mission was a perfect landing place for me with its chaos, clubs, thrifty art stores, dirt, and renegade nonprofits.

At that age, we sought to fill the holes in our lives with experiences, so life emanated from the weeklies. We would scan the SFBayGuardian for show and club listings every Wednesday evening over a pot of coffee, and I felt an intimate connection with most local bands. We showed up for every operating all-girl dance party in our tank tops, overalls and purple lipstick, ready to dance all night*, even the ones in biker bars or office parks. I worked long hours as a nanny on the Peninsula and wrote lyrics on the train ride home and music in every spare moment. I reserved any actual personality for nights and weekends- work was a necessary function to fill. Like toothbrushing or tax filing. I went against traffic each morning, literally- standing at the train platform with my spiky bright red hair and camouflage pants, eyeing the “suits” on the other side on their way into the Financial District for a meeting as I headed south. I scowled at them. We laughed at them in the evenings over cheap bottles of red wine on our building rooftop and talked about how we’d never get suckered into that life. We wouldn’t take any pre-prescribed circuit. Screw ‘em. We would subvert the patriarchy… somehow.

I can still feel that energy on Valencia, even if it isn’t coming from the community so much (there seems to be much more passion about Bi-Rite than politics, and the pirate radio has long been shut down). On those wide, dirty streets, I am still in my twenties, fighting a serious battle against the man, and trying desperately to hold on to what I believe in. I can still feel the flutter of working up the nerves to walk into Aquarius Records and ask if they want to carry my label’s releases, or promote my show. The store is still there, thank goodness. As I drove past, I thought about dropping in for music and saw a girl who looked a lot like me, posting her co-op flyer and having a quick smoke outside.

*A side note. It is difficult to dance in platform military boots. I know grunge is having its resurgence so I’m just warning those of you who didn’t rock it the first time around. Source alternative footwear for clubbing.

press photo from '98. cool schmool.

If we had talked at the end of May, I’d have told you I was on my way to New York, as soon as I lined up a job. By June, I’d have told you my real estate agent had a few garden brownstone apartments lined up to view, and that my daughter’s Park Slope school was the cutest thing in the world. After all, we had gone, researched, clamored online for borough opinion and made several scouting trips over the prior year, investigated every freaking neighborhood from Jackson Heights to Sunset Park and back. By July I had already seen the beginnings of our life there, and wandered around the DUMBO waterfront imagining how my two dogs would adapt to the change. We were definitely on our way East, and were absolutely thrilled about it.

I wore a Leifsdottir black dress with a navy ruffle and cute Kenneth Cole Louboutin knockoffs to an amazing interview in Midtown, where my new agent ordered a Tom Collins and over lunch pitched potential positions for me in the city. I joined my favorite family shortly after in Queens to celebrate this amazing day over Sangria and get a head start planning all the dinner parties we would soon be co-hosting, and all the fall family getaway trips to the New England rental of our dreams.

I had a little secret during this small celebration that at the time, seemed impossible and was therefore out of mind. I very much doubted that my wife was actually pregnant, since we had only made a few attempts and had surely depleted our karma bank with quickly conceiving our first child. She was home in Oakland that week, calling my cell phone, while I was wandering around New York investigating bilingual afterschool programs and considering commute times, leaving successively confident messages that our expectations of a year or two of trying to conceive were possibly very inaccurate.

The thing is, I never expected this kid to be so easy to create. With all the tools and systems in place in the lesbian baby-making paradise of San Francisco and Oakland (Oakland has more per-capita lesbian families than any city in the world. Did you know that?) it was an easy project to launch here and, frankly, a safer place to consider it. We have advocates for our needs here. Strong communities of inclusion for our multiracial gay family. Lots of supporting friends. A willing nanny and great preschool. Swift second parent adoptions. These things are key. I figured we’d move the process East along with the rest of our lives at some point. And it was important to just keep living and not get suckered into living for conception only.

I was planning to finally finish my degree at NYU and had gotten the green light to go. My wife was thrilled with any prospect of change. Life had been stressful and gloomy for awhile and we needed a boost.

A boost we got!

Obviously, our plans have changed. The limitations of what would be zero vacation time from a brand new job and no Paid Family Leave (come on, NY, get it together) the financial investment of moving your family zoo across the country, the timing of the school year and the beginning of kindergarten and lots of boring things you don’t need to hear about, have thrown a curve into this little plan of ours.

I still love you, New York. And someday you’ll hand me the key to my garden brownstone. But I need to let you go and focus on this little life I’m living here for now. In an awesome 1940’s townhouse with access to world renowned vineyards, a revolutionary food community (from the coast who thought of it first), a neighborhood full of art and inclusion, wacky politics and amazing coffee, nontoxic beaches and Indian summers. Bumping into Meshell Ndegeocello at Whole Foods and Ledisi at IKEA. Over 1000 square feet of home ownership.

Maybe in thirty years I’ll still be here. Who knows. I’m leaving the door open to everything, including bright California sun to guide us through these next few years.

Will you ever forgive me?

I try to orient all our meals around things that are seasonally available, and I think I mentioned this earlier, but I neglected to mention the rockstar center of the meal planning universe that is the Local Foods Wheel. It shows which foods are naturally available year-round in the Bay Area (like sardines and cauliflower) and which time of the year everything else is available. A quick dial to February, for example,  (arguably the most desperate for us as our hearts are already longing for avocados and berries in the season that lies ahead), shows escarole, grapefruit and artichokes. Inspiration renewed. We will rock the escarole until the berries appear.

The Food Wheel was conceptualized by Bay Area chef Jessica Prentice, who also operates something my family relies on: the community kitchen, Three Stone Hearth in Berkeley. A former Director of Education Programs at the Center for Urban Education about Sustainable Agriculture, and author of Full Moon Feast, she has done all sorts of smarty things for food and the Locavore movement (and remains, apparently, ego-free and undernoted.. this woman should be getting attention right and left in my opinion). Oh, and that term, “Locavore” that all the hip 30-somethings like to throw around casually like yesterday’s “slow food” and last year’s “organic”? It’s her word.

Anyhoo, I’ve become super dependent on the Food Wheel for all my meal planning and it occurred to me today that I would crumble into a thousand pieces without it. What if I had to actually wait until I got to the farmer’s market to see what’s available? To conceptualize an entire week’s worth of meals while standing at the farmer’s stand would take a much greater woman than me. And beyond that, what on earth would I do if I left the Bay Area and landed in New York, for instance?

Ta Daaa! The New York version is now available, thank heavens. There is a god. And she’s waiting for me with her food wheel in Brooklyn.

These things all in check, I felt at home again. We grabbed a macaroon (family fave, and it better be for $3 a pop) and settled into the grassy hill among the natives. But slowly, the crowd evolved and it became clear that something had changed. Once a cute meet-up and coffee spot on a Saturday morning, it is now a bonafide scene, with hot girls of all persuasions, shirtless toned dads, rasta families, college kids, cool grannies, hipsters and yes, moms with strollers. It's like a rainbow celebration of humankind and the best of Oakland all at once. The music used to be a simple guitar based trio. Now, it's a full-on multi-culti dance party (last week started Soca and turned HipHop in a matter of minutes and ended up Reggaeton) with folks bouncing and shaking it on the cement music area to the point that the musicians were completely obscured. All hands in the air, sweaty good old fashioned dance party. It can best be described as going OFF. And in broad daylight!

I was tempted to join the party but had bumped into an old friend who apparently goes weekly with her hipster friends, and we had just settled down for a coconut espresso on the shady grass where my daughter was doing laps around us to burn energy. The water fountain was shooting away and kids were stripping down to panties and sandals while the parents cruised other parents. You know how it is; checking their presentation on some sort of point system.. the less of a "parent" you look like the better.. women all bespangled with cool calm hip Oakland vibe, young men who could obviously be out playing but are attentively pushing their baby stroller instead (and even a happily married dyke such as myself is not immune to the sex appeal of that occurence).

So instead I people-watched in amazement. Clearly, this is where the beautiful people come to buy their organic produce and then stick around to see and be seen. My wife, clad in a tshirt that proclaims the name of our daughter's preschool and a basic pair of shorts and converse felt incredibly underdressed. Or maybe just under-hip. It occured to me, watching these packs of incredibly cute looking dykes strolling the venue (single and childless for sure, but not all that young and still looking tight!) that we don't even have the wardrobe anymore to front like the farmer's market crowd. A Power Look for interfacing with some snobby real estate broker? Check. Casually comfortable done with luxury labels and a handbag that makes the Marina chicks drool? Check. But Oaklandish-cool we don't really do. I'm pretty sure I don't even speak that language anymore. But I see it, and I recognize it and I kinda sorta think I need to at least remember how that feels, so I'm sure that I'm not just getting old and cranky and selling my uniqueness short for a Max Azria sundress (and oooooh how I love them).

In the end I was thrilled (slight ego bruise aside) to see such great representation of what Oakland consists of. This incredibly communal feeling energy and such beautiful representation of every possible color of skin, all mixed families from every possible background coming together. I love it here. Now if I could only remember where I put my edge. I think it's buried somewhere under a pile of skinny jeans.

I wrote previously about funky country livin' and it's something that really makes me smile. There's something impressive about having space to breathe and then not throwing it all away on a football field size television and stockpiles of Costco wares. I admire folks who inhabit rural areas who have real heart and guts, and though they're not crammed into one another (and therefore held to some city standard) they still put our really artful and inspired work.

Which is to say, they're not just microwaving pot pies and ignoring their communities like most country folk I know. They're actually improving things.

There are many, many more and you can see video and lots of pictures over at Laughing Squid or the artists' own website.