Slow Food Eat-In

Not sit-in or walk-out or picket line, but eat-in. An eat-in is my kind of protest. This is how we change the world, people: free food.

Between my restaurant gig and a brief internship at Roots of Change, a local food sutainability organization, I've been spending a large chunk of my waking life immersed in the pleasures of a locally sourced diet.

It's easy to do here, San Francisco kicks ass at sustainable food. There are three weekly farmer's markets within a few blocks of our apartment and you can't throw a stick in this town without it landing in someone's beet gazpacho at a new organic restaurant. Michael Pollan is beginning to rival Barack as San Francisco's change-spouting favorite- although the Prez recently gained ground when the First Lady planted a vegetable garden on the White House's front lawn.

Have you seen this thing? More newsworthy than her latest shift dress.

I like this, because food is delicious. Eating has beaten out door-knocking as my favorite way to save the world (yes Mom, I know you have to do both).

This is why on Labor Day the boy and I cooked us a mess of rice and pinto beans, bungeed it to our bike rack and rolled out to the Slow Food Eat-In, a community potluck on a grand scale. It took place right in front of San Francisco's majestic City Hall to publicize the Child Nutrition Act, which is leglislation due to be reauthorized soon that can amp up our country's commitment to healthy food in public schools. Keep all the kiddies bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and diabetes-free!

Yesterday was a sunny indian summer kind of day and there were several long tables dotted with contributions from our fellow activists. This being San Francisco, home of the foodie fanatic, most offerings were a bit more sophisticated than the twenty-something standard we'd brought. I'm talking coconut quinoa with squash, massive wheels of sharp yellow artesan cheese, gorgonzola studded heirloom tomatos, cabbage salad with tangerines and crunchy japanese noodles... I could go on, but you get it. It was a nice spread.

You can't really blame the park's regular occupants for forgetting to bring a casserole of their own to contribute, and to be fair it did look somewhat like an outdoor soup kitchen. At one point a tall white guy in a soiled Giants hat walked up with his tablecloth bedecked lady friend and began addressing the Tupperware containers in a manner that suggested it had been a long time since their last roasted local lamb shish kabob. A Slow Food volunteer arrived to address the situation.

"So, sir, this is an event to publicize the Child Nutrition Act... It's for healthy food in schools? Did you bring a dish to share?" Her political teachings met a blank stare from the would-be activist. She tried a different tack. "So, like, I can't have you... taking 25 things and then there won't be any for- try to not take too much, okay?" She turned, and, satisfied with the exchange both resumed their duties, the volunteer returning to the seed-planting table and the hobo to making a large dent in the mushroom tabouli. Truly heartwarming to see individuals from distinct walks of life coming together to make a difference.

We left after listening to speeches from a kid from a recent San Francisco high school grad who had planted a kitchen garden on campus, a stoked politician and a doctor who'd written a book on the wisdom of the indigenous diet. We were up some oregano and spearmint seedlings, but down the Tupperware container that had housed our rice and beans, which seemed to have been appropriated by a fellow warrior for food justice who wanted to bring the good word to his buddies' bellies in the Tenderloin.

Anything for the cause,
Sister Caitlin

Confessions of a Street Food Junkie

I know it´s bad for me. But I´m in Colombia, and it´s practically the national pastime. And so cheap! You can get it on any corner. Too bad it leaves you feeling like crap afterwards...

Colombian street food. My least healthy addiction to date.

You would not believe the amount of sales that go on in this country. There´s vendors on every corner, clogging up city center and posted out on the most secluded, lonely beach on the coast. Batteries, sports bras, pornos, cigarettes, beach balls, blenders- there is a stand or stall or card-table to satisfy your every desire. Once, a guy tried to sell me a wine glass out of his blazer. We are talking entrepreneurs here.

But the most ubiquitous street vendor of all is that of the street food hustlers. We are big on eating on the run here, particularly if it is cheese-filled and soaked in grease. I´ve assembled an overly comprehensive hit parade of these delicious nuggets so that those at home can be informed as to the state of my diet.

Jugos Naturales- fresh squeezed juice, whole fruits. Maracuya (passionfruit), tomate de arbol (tree tomato, no really), guayaba and lulo are a couple of the more distinctive flavors you´ll find here. The fruit in Colombia is wildly plentiful, probably the reason for the prevalence of the next item on the list.

Fruit Cups- Big cups of fruit. Popular choices include watermelon or mango, and in Medellin, strawberries. This is the end of anything on this list that can even loosely be called healthy.

Patacones- the shining star of street food. Fried plantains, smashed flat and fried again. Commonly used as a sort of luxurious food envelope for fillings like cheese or fish or ground beef. In Taganga, Courtney and I briefly considered interning at one master artesan´s beachside patacon stall.

Arepas- Cornmeal cakes, again, stuffed with cheese, again, deep fried to all hell. Smeared with butter too. These guys will vary from crispy thin shells like a pita to big old thick slabs, like biscuit-sized. You can tell the genuine deal when they´re wrapped in banana leaves and grilled. The boys are on an epic search for Colombia´s greatest arepa. Once they find that vendor, they´ll set up their tent and hammock and our backpacking days will be over.

Empanadas- Fried pockets of love. Can be stuffed with our friend, cheese, or beef or pork or chicken. Most delicious and most elusive of these is the potato empanada. Mmm.

Ice Cream- You think we love ice cream in the United States? You don´t even know. Colombians´ love for ice cream is seemingly unparalelled in the world. Ice cream men go the limit, too. Once we rock-climbed out to a gorgeous little jetty looking across the bay at Playa Grande, sliding down hills and along paths slung precariously close to cliff edges to get to the most isolated spit on the bay. When along comes an ice cream vendor who´d swum (flutter-kicked) from the main beach pushing an aquatic ice cream cart in front of him, yelling ¨Helados!¨ at the top of his lungs. Obviously, we bought some of his cones. C´mon, this man´s a go-getter.

Buñuelos- Surprisingly uncheese-filled, deep fried orbs of nugget. Hollow, a little like a popover, if you´re picking up what I´m laying down. Absolutely okay if there´s nothing with even token nutritional value is availiable.

Meat Sticks- a total meal on a stick. Chicken, beef, sometimes a mini arepa on the end and a couple of potatoes to round out the deal. These, like vampires, appear only after dark on the streets of el barrio.

Pan de Queso- Bread filled with cheese. Can be anything from a deep fried twist item to a big loaf of bread. In Colombia, you can get anything filled with cheese. Anything.

So basically I´ve gained about twenty five thousand pounds. The normal routine is wake up, graze the streets for an hour or so, and then find something to do to kill time until we´re hungry again. You know, museums and cable cars and book stores and stuff like that. Repeat.

I can stop whenever I want, I swear.

***
So we in Medellin one more night enjoying this awesome, awesome city. I couldn´t believe how well run the place is- a fastidiously clean metro system, mind-blowing public libraries and world-class parks and community spaces. It gets my two thumbs up, it´s gonna be difficult to leave.

But leave we must, Erik and Courtney and I, tomorrow to Zona Cafetera, Colombia´s hilly coffee country. If, y´know, plans unfold as anticipated, which is never a given on this adventure. Hope all is well up north, missing my loved ones. And happy belated St. Patrick´s Day! We are all a little home sick for green beer.