Like so many of our San Francisco rabble, I’m picky and take pride in our sustainable “locals only” approach to noshing. The body, the temple — the co-op veggie box, the parish? Though I do admit, some days my body feels like a temple built over an ancient burial ground (hello, hangover!), I want to do right by my body. I love freshness, feel awakened and clean, if only psychosomatically, by verdant, leafy things at the farmers markets. I geek out over the deep and dusky blush of an enormous heirloom tomato and am charmed by the beads of bramble fruits. Oh, the romance!
This past summer, cradling lil’ bitty baskets of fruits lovingly, I plopped golden raspberries, strawberries, and yellow peach slices into a white wine sangria for my birthday and scattered rosemary over the bowl. Admiring my work, and thinking, “Well, isn’t this just adorable?” I couldn’t stop adding to the mix: red raspberries, nectarines, oranges. The sangria bowl turned into an alcoholic fruit salad, and I was totally into it.
That was the beginning of my love affair with farm fresh ingredients and booze. And of late, it’s progressed into an unhealthy obsession that I hope is circling back to healthy on account of all the organic produce I’m consuming. That’s how it works, right? As the cold months creep and the heirloom tomato crops dwindle from the booths, I’ve been scampering to discover bars that follow a farm-to-bar philosophy.
(Continue to Poor Taste)
