The Dinner Files

Yes, those are reproductions of paintings by the mid-century Swedish abstract painter Olle Baertling (whose work, oddly enough, we saw in Marfa, Texas when we were there this spring)  being marched through the picturesque hills of the Marin Headlands just across the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco, why do you ask?

On Sunday my family went on a hike. It ended up being a much longer hike than my dashing husband had prepared us for, but true to form, Ernest champed out (only after having one complete breakdown about 10 minutes into the proceedings that, upon investigation, was caused by a bur in his sock). Let’s just say I was expecting that we might need to go on a hike after the “art hike” to get some exercise. Perhaps we’d take Ernest down to Rodeo Beach to run around for a bit. I invited my Very Tall Cousin Sam and his girlfriend to join us, knowing they were interested in seeing the Headlands, and was worried that they would feel ripped off.

No need. Everyone felt good and exposed to the Headlands, all thighs were well and worked, all energy was used and gone. It wasn’t just the hike. The hike also involved carrying the signs, the placards, the paintings – it doesn’t matter what you call them, they seemed carry-able enough when we first picked them up, but even plywood gets heavy after five miles of steep terrain and even well-sanded wood stakes start to rub delicate writer hands the wrong way after two hours.

We were hiking for art. We were part of a performance piece and eventual film by Jacob Dahlgren. We suffered for art. My hands are still stiff, my shoulder is bruised, and my neck is burned because – wouldn’t you know it – it was an amazingly beautiful day. The views were like this:

Yeah, so your sympathy for me is limited. I understand. And, you’re probably wondering, where is the food? Am I going to write about a delicious snack? A scrumptious picnic we tucked into at the top of the hill?

No. We had no food on the hike. We barely had water – in fact, the water we did have we scrounged off others. But when the hike was done and the art complete, we headed into the Headlands Center for the Arts for dinner.

For $10 we dished up giant bowls of shrimp & albacore and/or mushroom & tofu Thai curry, grabbed $2 beers or $3 glasses of wine, and sat down at communal tables in the mess hall (the Center is in a de-commissioned army base) on which waited large platters of the freshest, crispiest, most herb-laced, fabulous tomato- and cucumber-laden green salad I’ve ever seen.

These dinners are usually for the artists-in-residence at the Center, but whenever there are artists talks or other public programs (or protests, as the case may be) the public is welcome to the dinners – just reserve a spot ahead of time and bring a twenty (the meals are usually a bit more elaborate than the one we had – on other visits I’ve been served chicken perfectly roasted in that brick oven you see in the back, homemade pasta, an asparagus and wild mushroom combo, salad, and a mixed fruit tart for dessert), a few bucks for booze, and a willingness to pitch in with the dishes.

It is a totally fun, completely delicious, utterly unique experience to have dinner at the Headlands. I can’t recommend it highly enough. Also, if anyone ever invites you to hike through nature carrying a reproduction of a painting by an artist who believed art should get as far from nature as possible, say yes. Bring a pair of gloves, plenty of sunscreen, and a snack, but say yes.

The kitchen might look familiar, it’s where we held Sausage Club, Part 2 last January.

I had the great pleasure of dining with Kent and Kevin Young and their families last night. We all headed to Thai House Express, where some plate sharing and some plate hogging occurred (I did not feel like sharing; I just wanted my silver noodle salad). Very Tall Cousin Sam joined us and ordered some crazy double noodle creation in a yellow curry sauce. Note to self: next time you go to Thai House Express order crazy double noodle creation in yellow curry sauce.

p.s. My mom was at dinner last night too. We both ordered the exact same thing we did one year and one day ago.

I walked a huge loop through the Presidio and Crissey Field yesterday. It was bright and clear and sunny and just unbelievably windy. It was so lovely I stayed out longer than I had planned, so as I high-tailed it across town to pick up Ernest from his afterschool program I tried to think of what to make for dinner. I had had an early lunch and foregone my afternoon snack (I’m like child – I need that little something around 3 or 4) and was hungry enough that I felt just a little faint. I honestly could not remember any foodstuffs we had in the house except for a half dozen beets – 3 red and 3 golden. I seriously could not think of a single thing to make with 6 beets, much less anything that sounded remotely delicious.

Brain freeze.

I called my dashing husband almost in tears. He suggested Ernest and I fetch him from the office and all go out for Thai noodles. I’m not sure any food has every tasted quite so good as those did. Maybe the freeze-dried chicken à la king we used to have when we went camping when I was a kid. I was convinced it was the best dinner ever and could not for the life of me figure out why we never ate it at home. My mom finally humored me and made some. My 8 year-old self learned the magic that hunger, physical activity, and fresh air can have on the taste buds.

Since I can’t cook or otherwise fend for myself and child, and my husband, lord, and protector had a business trip, my mother has come to help. Like an angel. Sent from heaven. Just like my great-grandmother used to say. (Actually, my great-grandmother used to say I was an angel straight from heaven, just like my mother. She would say this with a straight face and complete sincerity when I was 15-16 years old.)

From the airport we headed to Thai House Express. I had my favorite silver noodle salad, my mom ordered green curry with chicken, and Ernie got “what Daddy gets”–pan-fried noodles with vegetables and tofu. He ate about half of it before putting his head in my lap.

A few minutes later he broke into tears, distraught that his mother and grandmother had “eaten all my noodles!”

Indeed, we had. We had eaten the remainder of the poor starving child’s dinner. Almost. He got a few more bites and was only comforted with the explanation that his dish was the best and we couldn’t resist its deliciousness.

Do angels sent from heaven eat their child’s (and grandchild’s!) dinners?