Market Value

My booty

So the latest adventure on the road to becoming a city girl is to shop at the fun ethnic markets. There are many to choose from in the big city...Spanish, Mexican, Asian (old Asian men are ADORABLE by the way...reason enough to shop there) and the list goes on. So far my loyalty lies at the Spanish market a few blocks from home. I plan my trips armed with my list of produce that is acceptable to buy "un-organic." [For more information simply google "The Clean 15" vs. "The Dirty Dozen."] but often end up with superfluous fun purchases such as a jicama, hot sauce which I deem "indigenous", and very cute yellow squashes with ruffles around the edges.  At the check-out I can't help but ask a few questions.  Pointing to the mountain of gelatinous cheese covered by a clear plastic dome I ask, "What kind of cheese is that?" The answer complete with rolled /r's/ and breathy /que/ sound, "Queso Fresca." "Ahhh," I find myself replying with a nod as if I knew what it was all along and merely had a brief mental block. I press on. "What do you do with these jicamas?" "Well we saute them and add them to Corno' Rosco' (SG's interpretation to what cashier actually said)." Again as if I can't help myself at this point, I reply AGAIN with a nod, "ahhh. huh." (Note: Jicama still sitting in produce bin on SG's counter - unsauteed.  Will likely remain in this state until rot and/or mold, whichever more indigenous to jicama species, sets in, ...And yes, I acknowledge this does make me somewhat of a poser) I limit myself to these two questions as to avoid being labeled the "polka-dotted pariah," and await the total. Nine-teen dollares and vente-cinco cents. Wait. Really? Surely she had forgotten to ring something in. All this fresh produce, spices, meat for the dog, and an entire jicama for under twenty bucks?! I hesitate counting out my dollares and she feels the need to translate slower.  "NiNE-TEEN Doh-Lars ann Twen-tee-Fih Sssenss." "Oh. Wow. Yes, mam...muchas gracias!" Really Caroline?!  You're such a nerd. Maybe you should take your damn jicama and google what to do with it.

Green Spaces

Out and about in the city today and I happen upon this...people sitting alongside the street (lined with sod) and enjoying themselves as if in the serenity of a park. Hmmm. What could this be? Several possibilities cross my mind, each trying to win as "most logical"...are they waiting to buy tickets to a concert? Is a new book about to hit shelves and they must have it NOW? But why the sod?  I suppose it is a clever way to cushion the ground if one expects to be sitting on pavement for an extended period of time.  After all Californites are creative creatures...pretty genius way to wait out a ticket sale if you ask me! And quite esthetically pleasing! Convinced that I have stumbled upon the most plausible explanation for this exotic site, I continue on my way. Wanting to share my discovery and perhaps boast a little about having deciphered the situation so well, I tell Lewis of the display.  Letting me down gently, he says, "I think they are part of that 'Take Back the Parking Spaces" movement." Uh. Huh. Of course.  Silly SG. Hippies don't do things simply for themselves -it's part of the Hippie Credo to act on the part of the greater good.  While I'm not exactly sure what the desired outcome is O' Beloved Hippies (do you want the city to rip up the concrete and replace it with a putting green? Not likely friends, but major points for optimism!), I have to say this is dedication at its finest.  It also further proves that you never know what sight or scenario might pique your curiosity in this fabulous city full of fabulous people on any given day!  I heart you San Francisco...and I color that heart green.

"Faux" Pho

Faux Pho

So those of you familiar with SG, know that I am a self-proclaimed "foodie" and love delving into any culinary adventure. However, being a bit of a germaphobe, I usually shy away from any establishment requiring a "sneeze guard," but decided to put all preconceived notions aside and try it. Today, Lewis took me to lunch at a salad bar joint called Fresh Choice. I walk in and am greeted with a sign boasting "85.5% local options" for today's date. Wow...these Cali's are on it! As I go through the familiar steps of being back in my elementary school cafeteria, I collect my lunch tray and silverware and venture along the "L" shaped salad-trough.  To my outward delight everything is labeled with calorie content, ingredients, and fun little animal icons depicting whether or not items are vegan, vegetarian, pescatarian, or the full-on contraband that are full meat products (tsk. tsk.)  I start loading my plate with all the fun choices (base of lettuce, edamame, garbanzo beans, jicama...nope don't even know what that is either, tofu, and vegan bacon bits topped with a low-fat vinaigrette). Then alas...I come to the "Pho." What is this foreign fun-ness?  Wait. There are Japanese translations.  This must be the real-deal-whatever this is! Looks innocuous enough.  I read the step-by-step directions.  Seem easy. Place noodles in bowl - check.  Add desired items (I choose scallions and bean shoots) - check. Top with chicken broth - check.  Extremely proud of my concoction, I walk over to the table to dive in.  Delish! Whoa! Truly delicious! Feeling more and more Californian with every spoonful! Much to my dismay, I am soon cut down to size.  While sharing my adventure with an authentic, I soon realize that I am a fake.  Turns out I wasn't eating the real-deal after all.  I wasn't even pronouncing it right.  (it's pronounced "fuh" by the way, not "foe" as the naive SG labeled it)  True Pho contains such intimidating ingredients as star anise and cardamom pods.  I was eating the baby food version. Humbled yet still happy about my discovery, I file the restaurant away as a place to definitely come back to.  Pho' real.

No Monograms Allowed...

The first discovery on my road to becoming a Californite (sic) was that there are no monograms, pearls, or even a polka-dot adorning anyone, anywhere in the city - the things that make us southern girls quintessentially "southern."  Oh and khaki shorts....out of the question (caveat: you will see the occasional cargo short, but that friends, is rare).  My fiance warned me that "no one wears shorts in the city."  I don't understand.  No one wears shorts? The weather here is perfection! Absolute perfection. and I consider myself somewhat of an expert on perfect weather having grown up in the rain forest disguised as Charleston, South Carolina. Humidity. all the time. ick. Also, drab clothes are in here...blacks, browns, tan, grey...these are the uniform. and if you can score an old t-shirt that used to be 100% cotton and is now 50% cotton, 50% holes you are z'man! Crisp white pants = nerd. uber nerd. (um. yeah. guess what SG wore to her first California outdoor concert. yeah.  i wasn't winning any "where's waldo" contests. see above) On the plus side, this city seems to be full of accepting people who have lots of patience for us "yuppies." And...as an added bonus, shopping at thrift stores is considered city-sheik. yay! love thifting....it's like a big-girl treasure hunt!  So SG finds herself deliciously curious and ever grateful for this wonderful city and its denizens who have welcomed her...as they have also, unbeknown to her, become her muse.