There for two and a half days, we visited:

• Trefethen. We lingered over reserve flights in cushy leather loungers with the tasting room practically to ourselves, then received a complimentary and impromptu behind the scenes tour of everything.
• Peju. A quick stop that was kind of forgettable in truth with a congenial enough Steve Martin look-alike pouring.
• Domaine Chandon. Also a short but sweet visit involving a cheese platter with sausage and stone ground mustard that, in the words of @bayjb, swiftly devolved into an episode of When Animals Attack.
• Mumm. Hi, Mumm, I love you- I do. Alongside Trefethen, you’re my favorite and I would like to here and now thank you for replying to my tweet and for the “pour-friendliness” and, oh, for just everything.
• Domaine Carneros. Home of Tattinger’s Le Rêve (The Dream), also known as the most expensive wine I’ve ever purchased and would not have without the 30% “industry” discount they gave me- to you, I also say thank you!
• Cakebread. By appointment only, we lucked out at the last minute and were there first thing in the morning. Lacking a formal tasting room, we sipped our 10 am flights in the working barn where they began harvesting their 2010 vintage that day.
• Chateau Montelena. Way up in Calistoga and home of the infamous Bottle Shock, it’s worth the trip despite Chris Pine being nowhere to be found. I typically dislike Chardonnay, but quickly forked over $50 for a bottle of the sort that put Napa on the map.
• And indulged in lunch aboard the Napa Valley Wine Train. A whimsical ride up to St. Helena and back, during which there were mimosas, wine, and some seriously amazing food followed by Fancy and I hanging off the back of the train taking it all in.

Rather than launch into a flight-by-flight account of Napa Valley and its subsequent appellations, I’ve opted for the less verbose preferable route of simply showing a highlights reel (thank you for obliging me). I am, however, more than happy to provide recommendations or suggestions for where to stay, eat, and sip (both for the places we went and for the ones we intended but never made it to). And, if you’d like to see the brief picture captions, just click on the “i” in the right top corner. Cheers!

I must add that I loved the experience of learning about the grapes, the land, the winemaking process, and of course tasting, so much that I want to make it a yearly four-day sojourn.  Who’s coming with me?

*As in, a glass (or two) of wine and a cheese platter have become a daily institution in my household.

No "sweater weather" here!

Last week, my friend Fancy and I went to San Francisco and Wine Country (for those of you who follow me on twitter you’re likely all too aware and I apologize for being an asshole with all the Foursquare check ins!). A girls weekend to Our Lady of the Vine, albeit during the week.

We gave ourselves one day in San Francisco, which to our dismay quickly diminished into only half a day thanks to American Airlines’ four hour delay due to late boarding, pushing off from the gate, a fuel pump light that wouldn’t turn off, finding a new gate, waiting on a repair crew, waiting on repairs, deplaning, finding a new aircraft, and finally reboarding and waiting in line to take off.

In that time we managed to watch two episodes of The Office and the boarding video all the way through to the credits. Yeah, turns out there’s actually credits to that video of flowers and waterfalls set to sleepy music that they show before takeoff. Once we were finally underway, we settled in and realized that from the time we arrived at O’Hare (5:30 am) to the time we arrived in San Francisco (noon), we could have flown internationally. It certainly felt like we should be landing in Japan!

Aboard the cable car to Fisherman's Wharf.

After checking into our hotel (the surprisingly-lackluster-for-a-Kimpton Serrano Hotel with utter Sketchville a mere block away), we scrambled to get in line for the cable car (a feat in and of itself after a couple of wrong turns that landed us in The Tenderloin- we’re talking actual human feces in front of a boarded up storefront, half-naked cracked out women laughing as they shuffled down the street, and having to step over a man laying in the middle of a sidewalk) to make it to Fisherman’s Wharf for a late seafood lunch and boat tour of the bay.

We glimpsed the Pier 39 lazy ass sea lions; zippy dolphins along our boat; a shoreline view of the city; barge, sailboat, and kite board traffic; Alcatraz, and of course the Golden Gate. The bay was a bit rough and hella windy, but I still managed between my hair slapping me in the face every three seconds to chastise children whose parents neglected to inform them that throwing food overboard “for the fishes” was, at the less than observation-friendly speed we were traveling, basically just littering. Brats. The wind unfortunately carried away my sentiments.

Blue & Gold Fleet boat tour of the bay.

After the boat tour, we had planned to take the cable car back to our hotel, but short on time, we balked at the once again long line at the cable car turnaround and tried unsuccessfully to hop on a few blocks up.

Fancy Chinatown billboard.

For all our savvy, every cable car passed completely full both inside and out. So, we did what any torqued city dwellers would do. We said screw this noise and we walked. Strike that, we CLIMBED A VERITABLE MOUNTAIN. In a heat wave (so much for that cool bay weather- it was 90 freaking degrees!). With clam chowder and Sierra Nevada IPA sloshing around in our bellies. Stomach. Bloat.

Union Square at dusk.

We felt drunk. We looked drunk. And a few of those lucky souls passing by on the cable cars actually took PICTURES of us- we, the super smart girls who said to hell with you “San Francisco treat.” Ding ding, my ass.

Parched and panting, we dragged our sorry asses into a corner store and bought lukewarm water and a Pellegrino Limonata which we sucked down at an 8% incline. But then we found the Chinatown gate and strolled through Union Square, and all was right in the world again. An hour later, we arrived back at the hotel in a pile of sweat and blowsy hair and wound up a mortifying 35 minutes late for our dinner reservation.

Foreign Cinema's courtyard & movie screen.

But the people at Foreign Cinema in The Mission were understanding and kind and seated us right away at a great table. Both Fancy and I loved everything- from the food we were too full to really eat to the ambiance of the courtyard where they play old movies on a screen-lined wall to the friendly service and greeting. Definitely a unique restaurant concept with a caliber of food and service that make it more than just a “cute place” to go out to eat.

Remnants of sea bass, heirloom tomato, & garbanzo bean deliciousness.

The night we were there they were showing Monsoon Wedding and we lingered over our meal, then dessert. The restaurant staff was so accommodating that we were still there as the movie started over! I have to admit, being a slow eater and worn out from traveling, it was the perfect way to finish the day. I’ve never had a more relaxed meal at such a beautiful restaurant.

In the morning, we picked up our rental car, which was easier said than done (transportation did seem to be the bane of the trip). Our quick five block cab ride turned into a fiasco involving me having to remind the driver that we didn’t ask to be dropped off three blocks downhill from the address we’d given, then making him drive us around the block to the right address only to find out it had been relocated up the street another four blocks. Thank you Kimpton for providing the wrong address! Which reminds me- I have an angry email to write.

Tartine, aka porn for bread & pastry lovers everywhere.

The salve to this early morning drama took the form of pastry porn at Tartine. Oh my god Tartine. I want to make out with that place and can’t stop thinking about it…I’m head over heels absolutely smitten. I just…I…I have no words for how much I adore it. Needless to say, the Tartine cookbook is already on this girl’s Christmas list.

Croque Monsieur- I ate all but two bites!

I should note that our experience was all the more enjoyable because we went on a Tuesday at 11, thus managing to avoid the lines that plague its doors and small seating area.

With the majority of my Croque Monsieur devoured and the plate of my lemon tart literally scraped clean, and with a morning bun in my bag for later, we took to the road for Wine Country.

I leave you now with the promise of a similar post (tomorrow Thursday?) on our time in Napa and mayhaps a Very Special Edition of “Dressing for Dinner” later this week. But, most importantly, I leave you with Tartine’s LEMON TART, (i.e., a “tart” that even church going sorts can deem heavenly).

I actually debated getting the larger size, which is intended to serve 8.

I knew it was silly bothering to wear them as I rushed to shut the windows and turn on the air conditioning; knew it was sillier to continue wearing them while putting food in the fridge, pouring a glass of lemonade, then a glass of chardonnay, sifting through the mail and magazines, even removing my nail polish.

Task for task, I watched the minutes tick past and the temperature finally achieve a more apathetic attitude. I wasn’t “in” for the night; not yet. I was waiting to meet you.

I’ve known you for nearly a year and a half and yet I still want you to want me. I want to be the girl in the heels to you, the girl you look up and down, the girl you want to touch and smell and taste.

But I’ve already shown myself to be the girl without enough make-up on, the girl who swears at washing machines and double-wide strollers, the girl who is perhaps too “down-to-earth” in her more-often-than-not-these-days sensible flats.

Just five minutes together at most; that’s what we cobbled together today. Less a complaint than an opportunity seized, I met you on the sidewalk as planned; a logistical exchange of a file requiring printing. I kissed you under downcast eyelashes, kicked wood-chips, and generally played it “cool.” Sometimes I can’t help approaching time spent with you with the same anticipation of a bright-eyed girl in a burgeoning relationship. I hope he likes me. Still.

Straight away you teased, “Where are you headed all gussied up with your heels on and everything?” You noticed, despite my feigned laziness: what, these old things? You leaned in and kissed my neck, told me that I smelled pretty. You lingered.

I’ve always loved talking to you; loved your wit and humor and insight, even those old-man curmudgeonly capacities. I grasp at even small moments like these with you because you’re my best friend and confidante, my champion and boyfriend. You’re the first and last person I want to talk to each and every day.

But these are all the things I didn’t tell you. Instead, merely perhaps and much later, I texted a confession.

I kept my heels on…for you.

Which is when my friend’s husband asked if I was “ready to have one of my own.” Right, because holding someone else’s child instantly kicks my ovaries into hyper-drive. Uh, no. But ever since that moment I’ve been thinking about how scary the prospect actually is to me.

I don’t know what it is…that sudden instinct to reproduce. Whatever it is and wherever it’s supposed to come from, that part of me has gone vacant. Rather than want a child more as I get older, the opposite has proven true for me. Whereas I always assumed growing up I’d have a couple in my twenties (because where I come from that’s what you do), now I just don’t feel the need. But, I’m 30 years old- GASP- and I better “get to it” I’m reminded by Interested Parties who have taken the most unoriginal and clichéd approaches in broaching The Baby Subject with me. What these Interested Parties don’t know is the fear that underlies what they deem The Most Natural Thing in The World.

I’ve dealt with chronic depression since I was 8 or 9 years old and was finally able to seek treatment in my twenties. I now take a medication every day, and if I miss even three days of the dosage, I can tell. That nagging “what’s the point of anything” mentality runs amok and I swing from utter emotional detachment to being on the verge of tears at any given moment. Don’t honk your horn at me; I’ll fall to pieces. And, why do I need to get out of bed, let alone shower, anyway?

Depression taps on my shoulder every chance it gets and it’s up to me to stay one step ahead. Knowing that and knowing I have every reason to be happy, the best I can do most days is avoid questioning what happiness is too closely. The best I can do is accept that a part of me doesn’t function the way it was intended to, that it’s okay to take a pill to keep myself afloat, and that it’s also okay to talk and even write about.

Some of you know me in real life and this confession, if that’s what it is, may come as a surprise. You see me smiling and making jokes, but this is what’s underneath. Most people never see it because I’m of the mindset that you don’t burden people with things like this. I grew up hiding what was really going on: from my family, friends, boyfriends, and teachers and I just…kept going. When things have spiraled out of control, I’ve always managed to activate some sort of “emergency survival button” on my own behalf. I’m a functioning depressive.

So what happens if someday I do have a baby? If I’m pregnant and I can’t take my medication because the only one that seems to work for me causes birth defects and passes through breast milk? What happens then? Is it more important to have a baby than to be healthy- both physically and emotionally- as a mother? Is a depressive still capable of being a “good” mother? What if I become a danger to myself or worse? What kind of mother would I be then?

These are the things I think about when people bring up my name and having a baby in the same sentence. My mom shrugs it off with a wave of her hand, telling me I’m being ridiculous, that once a baby shows up all you want to do is take care of it and love it to pieces. Maybe, but I’m staring down the barrel of depression already and it’s real whether she wants to ever acknowledge it or not. So is postpartum.

I can’t imagine what it is like for women who are expecting, who have dealt or are dealing with depression while pregnant, and who fear the possibility of experiencing postpartum first hand. I can’t imagine what the reality of facing that is like; I’m petrified at the mere idea.

Something inside me says don’t do it, it’s a ticking time bomb for you, an inevitability. Maybe it’d be selfish of me to choose never to have a baby because of that fear, but ultimately it isn’t just about me. I’m afraid not only of what could happen to me but also to those around me, and most of all to a child who’d subsequently suffer as well.

It’s no accident that I’m reading Dooce’s memoir, It Sucked and Then I Cried: How I Had a Baby, a Breakdown, and a Much Needed Margarita.

Pockets!

The Dress: A Gap sale rack find! The dress is a recent purchase so it may look familiar to some of you, and may even still be available in stores. It’s white linen and a bit more girly than I typically go for in a “Holy floral print and oh crap there’s an actual butterfly on this too? Great. What am I, five years old?” kind of way.

Nevertheless, the dress won me over with its light-weight fabric, empire waist, and beautiful criss-crossing back. I’ve worn it twice now and it’s proven to be the perfect casual but ladylike dress for Ravinia, a day at work (with a cardigan of course), and now dinner. The first time I wore it I instinctively reached for the sides and wouldn’t you know…POCKETS! Don’t you just love that? Finding pockets in a dress you already loved? Jackpot.

A Thing with Feathers

I kept the accessories simple this time: just a small charm necklace and comfy sandals. My boyfriend got me the sterling silver charm from a local designer at the Chicago Folk and Roots Festival last month (where we sat in 95 degree heat eating funnel cake and watching America’s Future assualt the man behind the magic that is Puppet Bike).

The shoes are Born Alcala II in tan linen print and are what I have dubbed my “comfy old lady shoes.” Born doesn’t fuck around when it comes to making a good quality comfortable shoe, and while many of their shoes seem pretty fugly to me, I kind of thought these weren’t.

I featured this pair in my “Shoe of the Moment” widget a while back and am tempted to get them in “nero” or “mogano” leather too. They’re that comfortable (though not that cheap: $125 on Zappos). You can’t really tell in the picture (unless you zoom in on my feet and WHY would anyone want to do that because, like, FEET), but my nail polish color this time is “Re-fresh Mint” from China Glaze, which you can get at Ulta but not on their site because apparently they hate you.

The Dinner: Girl and the Goat. From the moment we walked in the door, everyone was friendly and everything SMELLED amazing in that smoked BBQ kind of way. The space is dark with exposed wooden beams, many of which are burned to a blackened sheen, and the back wall of the restaurant is open to the kitchen where you might catch a glimpse of Ms. Izard checking each and every dish. Once at our table (with a “chopping block” looking tabletop) we settled in for a parade of “small” plates…

The Eponymous "Goat"

Chickpeas Three Ways (My Favorite)

Crisp Soft Shell Crab with Sweet Corn, Lime & Chili Aioli

A Pretty Little Salad- Girl and the Goat Style

Smoked Goat Pizza with Tart Cherry Soffrito, Black Kale & Ricotta

Grilled Baby Octopus in a Lemon-pistachio Vinaigrette

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The Verdict: We’ve already made reservations for November!

Like I told Stephanie, (that’s right! I got to meet her and tell her how awesome she is and then I even hugged her and got a picture with her because I’m a big weirdo I guess) the food is just really, really good. You don’t sit there wondering “Am I eating this correctly?” You just dig in and stuff your face because everything is so damn tasty.

In fact, some of what we ordered didn’t even make it to being photographed: the “fat” bread (which I didn’t care for personally- the butter is more like a liver mousse- but the boy quite enjoyed it) and our dessert. We ordered the “fudgecicle” dessert and I immediately started in on it, completely forgetting that you would be wanting to see the pretty little bowl of olive oil gelato, chocolate, and “dragon’s milk.”

I’ve already found four additional items I’d order on a return visit (black olive mezzelune, seared scallops, seared summer flounder, and ham frites) but I know the menu will have already changed by then. Can’t wait to see what she comes up with!

If you’re interested in trying Girl and the Goat, make reservations now. I made ours using OpenTable within a week of the restaurant opening and got the day and time I wanted (three weeks out). They’re definitely busier now, but it’s worth the wait and the price is reasonable (estimate $130-150 for two people inclusive of drinks, dessert, and gratuity).  And, like the food, you’ll find the dress to be laid back too…jeans, mandals, and of course, sundresses were in abundance- don’t forget to wear yours!

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Okay, so that doesn’t actually rhyme, but you get the gist. Leave me a comment or send me an email at nicnarrates at gmail if you’d like to read the latest.