Inferiority Complex

We spent four brief days in Northern California, Tomales Bay and environs to be precise.
Four oyster slurping wine swilling cheese devouring days.

The temperature's cooler, the air is clearer, the sky bluer, everything along the coast is deep green. And everything tastes delicious, from the local grilled oysters topped with spinach and parmesan cheese to the local organic butter we spread on the organic whole wheat toast.

We drove and hiked Point Reyes National Park, watched and listened to the seals, admired the tule elk, deer, and passed cows frolicking under the sunshine like a damn California dairy commercial. We are reducing our cows' methane emissions read one dairy sign.

Sigh. I've got signs of a steeping, incipient inferiority complex. And in typical inferiority-driven behavior, I started lashing out.
"Ha!" I said to myself, "look at all the women with their hand made sweaters, clunky hand bags and fresh soulful faces."
Yeah, that showed them all right.


Things to definitely do:

Stop at Cowgirl Creamery in Point Reyes station. Can't figure out which of their hand-crafted cheeses to buy? Neither could we. Happily they have a prepacked sampler bag, which included Mt. Tam, a triple creme; Point Reyes Blue; Matos St. George and a delicious crottin, (goat cheese). Mt. Tam was our favorite.

Order up grilled and raw oysters at The Marshall Store (cash only). You sit outside, stare at the sail boats, swig the bubbly or white wine you brought and wonder why you should ever go back home.

Taste wines around Sonoma County.

Jump up and down on the San Andreas Fault.


To shake this wholesome cult of granola out of our heads we drove to Healdsburg, to unfortunately be disappointed by yet another picturesque town, this one surrounded by dozens of local wineries. On the town square people had begun to camp out for the concert that afternoon. La Crema, on the corner, served its complimentary wine samples. A bit hungry, we picked up more food at the local deli, this time some wonderful Spanish chorizo sliced mouthwateringly thin. "Where's this come from?" I asked, surly at the thought of another local wonder.

"La Espanola in southern California," the server replied.
Thank God.
We're not such a backwater after all.