In which I let down my food-adventuring friends.

The spice of life is garlic, apparently.

Back in February, as we drove north up Hwy 101, Lady and I passed through a particularly pungent province.  Gilroy, California is a self-proclaimed garlic capital of the world, that member of the onion family being a large part of the local farming product.  Even in the chilly damp air of California's "winter" we could smell the garlic in the air.  Lady mentioned that every summer they held a festival celebrating the tangy condiment.  I was in.

You think I'm kidding, but for months I've been sporadically checking the dates, and this past weekend was it.  I popped into Genie (the Prius) and drove south for the annual Gilroy Garlic Festival (32 years and counting).  It was an amazing array of garlic bread, garlic fries, garlic sausage, pasta con garlic pesto, garlic shrimp scampi, garlic pepper steak sandwiches, garlic stuffed mushrooms, garlic calamari, garlic kettle corn, and ...

Garlic. Ice. Cream.

I won't hold you in suspense, I didn't try it.  If you know me, you know I meant to.  I was in such a tizzy about the impending spicy smorgasbord that I skipped breakfast in order to maximize my appetite.  And I was hungry.  I had a garlic sausage with peppers sauteed in garlic for brunch in the sunshine, and it was delicious.  And then I thought about garlic fries... and realized I was stuffed.  OK, ok, I thought, let's wander the vendor stalls, pop into the wine garden, try some local wines, wait for the hunger to return.

I wandered.  The wine garden promised shade, and - was that a breeze?  I was in.  I tried a mediocre champagne, a decent syrah, and then I made a friend, who recognized my final ticket punch and indecision.  He poured a sip of zinfandel and told me to down it so he could pour a sip of the cabernet.  Both were lovely, but I opted for the light and spicy zin, talked about where the grapes were grown, and by the time I left booth had a card and a plan to visit the tasting room in San Jose.  Soon.

I got in line for the garlic ice cream.  It was a long line.  I moved forwards the space of a few people, and my stomach whispered to me, "I'm still stuffed, and it's hot out - overeating in the heat isn't fun.  Or pretty."  Word.

The vendors were the usual faire fare - some interesting, some gaudy, some downright bizarre.  For the record, I don't understand the appeal of flat bottles.  I bought the ceramic garlic grater that I'd seen earlier this summer (at another festival, this time of the Sunset magazine variety) - I tried it this evening and it works a treat.  It ought to, because Giada De Laurentiis says so.  Seriously, go google it.  I listened to the blues rock band, and the country band on the other stage - I love watching people lose themselves in live music.  I picked bulbs of free garlic to fill a small sack, and received instructions on growing garlic myself (oh yes, I'm going to).

Again I got in line for the garlic ice cream - still long.  It was pretty hot out, and by now I was tired of the crush of people, and starting to ponder the longevity of my sunscreen.  I realized that more than garlic ice cream, which my stomach was still not convinced we had room for, I wanted water, and that hat I'd tried on a few rows back, because it looked more whimsical and fun than then hat I'd worn for solar protection.

Contemplating the glory of the spicy bulb, while wearing the hat I came with.  My head is blocking the giant oven shaped like a bulb of garlic.  I'm not entirely sure what the message was meant to be, but it was some big garlic.

I got out of line.  Again.  I bought the hat.  I bought the $3 water.  I headed for the shuttle back to the parking lot.  It was a good day, even without the garlic ice cream.  And if it makes you feel better, I did come away with garlic-roasted pistachios, and they were wonderful.

The new hat.  I'm a fickle girl.

I tried...

The week before Christmas, while I was planning menus and making grocery lists I got ambitious. That combined with the extra time at home in the evening meant that I cooked dinner a couple of nights in a row - invented a pesto sauce from random ingredients, used lots of vegetables, the works. There were leftovers for lunches the next day at work, and the fridge was stocked with tupperware.

So then came a night when I felt that I had time to cook, but insufficient fresh ingredients. But I was on a roll of balanced meals, and even though I didn't feel like cooking, I was feeling guilty for my recent cheese and red wine streak. So I opened the freezer, and pulled out one of the meals I keep on hand for quick packed-lunch virtue. After five minutes I pulled the plastic bowl out of the microwave and my forehead wrinkled as I looked at pasta that was both over and under cooked at the same time, and I took a bite of bland sauce that made my mouth sad. I stood there at the kitchen counter for a minute, pondering the worth of virtue, and the five bucks this microwave disaster had cost me. Then, with a decisiveness that I would not regret, I picked up the bowl and found the trash can, pulled out the stand-by provisions (cheese, salami, and alcohol) and created the dinner that yes, I may have four nights out of five, but hey, add an apple (a usual accompaniment) and tell me that this isn't a balanced meal: Judge me if you will, but if this is wrong, I'm still living right.

At my favorite bookstore in August, I came across a book that looked fascinating, Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant. A bunch of well-know authors wrote essays about secret eating habits from their single days. Next time I see it in a store I'm buying it. We all have eating habits that we don't indulge in when others are around - I had a friend in grad school who ate cereal for dinner every night. For months. I remember a time when Meredith's favorite meal was white rice with butter. Jared admitted on Facebook recently that when his wife wasn't in town he eats Taco Bell - yuck!

My super secret food behavior isn't a type of food, rather my last step of food prep. When I eat alone, the last thing I do in the kitchen is to pre-cut all of my food. That's right, as if I were feeding a small child who can't be trusted with a knife, I cut my food into bite-sized pieces. This enables me to eat one-handed, freeing up my other hand to hold a book and turn the pages. There's nothing worse in my book (hah!) than having to put down whatever I'm reading between bites in order to pick up my knife.

Now, when I'm eating on my own in a restaurant, I feel lke I can't do this. Instead, I let my available reading material determine my food choice. If I've brought a magazine, newspaper, paper, or something that lays flat I order meat or anything that requires two hands. If I've got a book with me, then it's pasta, a salad, or some other meal that I can eat with one hand.

It's what works for me.