Thought for Food

A stoner’s feast at Mission Street Food. I love the optional addition of crumbled Famous Amos, homemade ranch, and “your brain on drugs,” whatever that might be.* And foie gras french onion dip? Candy bar terrine?? You don’t even have to be stoned to appreciate those (though I’m sure it helps).

* A fried egg! Yes of course! Thank you, Carrie. xx

Theme dinners at Mission Street Food, a San Francisco pop-up restaurant within a Chinese takeout joint, that ran from 2008-2010. From the scrapbook/cookbook.

Team Biggie.

Paletas (Mexican ice pops) by La Newyorkina at the Hester Street Fair.

Paletas will always remind me of San Francisco. Just before the 3 o’clock bell rang, vendors stationed their white carts outside our school. If I had a dollar in my backpack, I bought one on my way to the bus — almost always tamarindo.

I still love the flavor of tamarind.

letterstomeryl:

fatted calf - neighborhood charcuterie.

Lucky you! A certain someone had entirely too much fun at the Fatted Calf in the Oxbow Public Market in Napa. Their meat is just hells yes.

Do you recall the first time you tried an artichoke? I do. It was in San Francisco and I was eight or nine. Oh! it was an extraordinary experience. Eat with my fingers and dip liberally in butter? Yes please!

But they were expensive, even in California, and so they were — still are — treats (I served them for the Oscars with homemade aioli; keep your diamonds and cleavage — tonight I feast on artichokes!).

When I was about ten, I was shocked to learn that in Monterey County, the artichoke-growing capital of the world, girls and boys were fed artichokes for school lunch. And they hated it!

They’re much like the long-ago prisoners of Cape Cod who, according to legend, revolted against mistreatment at the hands of their captors. For you see, lobster was once so abundant it washed up on Cape shores — and they were forced to eat it every day!

Sickening. Just sickening.

20 Years (via nevver)

Has it really been so long?

A memory: we were living in San Francisco at the time. As a fifth grader, the oldest in our school, I was one of two bus monitors. It was an unofficial position, not sanctioned by the school but assigned to us by our rather irresponsible and obese bus driver who often stopped the bus to get a bag of donuts at Dunkin’ Donuts. Basically it meant we were allowed to patrol the aisles while the bus was moving, reprimand kids who threw things or dared to stand up, and generally indulge the gestapo-ish tendencies which, let’s face it, every child possesses.

On the day after the long night of riots, unrest had spread to San Francisco and was especially strong in the neighborhood that our route took us through: the Mission, which was not the foodie hipster haven that it is today. It was better described as the place where my adopted mom once got hit by bullet shrapnel when a homeless man committed suicide on the street, and where I learned to spot a paper bag drug deal from a hundred paces.

At one point our bus was stopped in a crowd of people who had overtaken the street. They were shouting, throwing things, rocking the bus slightly. A few of the little kids started crying. In my memory I stood and calmly restored order, directing everyone to put their windows up and instructing the fourth graders to comfort the whimpering first graders.

But in truth, I have no idea if I did any of that. Or even if our bus really did get briefly waylaid by a crush of protesters. Memory is funny that way. Especially mine.

ruhnay:

Mom and Rose trying goat cheese at the Ferry Building Farmer’s Market.

Auto-family-reblog!

ruhnay:

My cousin Nora enjoys pictures of nice bathrooms…this is not one.

Can you find the hidden recycling bin?

Filmore+Haight, San Francisco

This reminds me of my favorite saying: don’t be hatin’ on the Haight.

Jk I just made that up but feel free to start saying it.