Running Through San Diego
Had my BEST run in the month we’ve been here in San Diego this morning … military police not withstanding. We headed toward the beach at Coronado. Stu was taking Satchel to the most excellent dog beach, while my plan was to run south on the beach, past the Del Coronado.
I was looking for a flat, hard-sand beach, and was I thrilled! Perfect! I ran past the hotel area, and then, boy, the crowds really thinned out! No one there! So on I ran, about 2.5 miles, then turned, and on my way back, I saw a military policewoman walking slowly toward me on the sand on my right, and she motioned me over, so I trotted toward her, pulled out my ear buds and said, “Yes, ma’am?”
“Are you in the military?”she said.
And of course, I answered, “No ma’am.”
“Well,” she said, “in the future, you can’t run past this point. You’re on Navy property.”
I apologized profusely and told her I didn’t see any signs that would indicate I should turn around. She pointed up the sand, in a sand dune, to a row of five orange cones, sitting close together. I pointed out that I hadn’t even seen those! They just looked like a little cone depot. There was no sign, nothing that would indicate I should stop.
“Yeah, I know. We’ve run out of cones.”
NO CONES? The richest military in the world, and we’re … short of cones? Go ahead, Russia! Invade Ukraine! We’re outta cones, so go for it!
It was STILL the best run ever.
Couple days later, my last Sunday morning: Last run around Balboa Park.
Seen:
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Large man, 300+ lbs, yellow safety vest, smoking a cigar, riding a bike. NOT an e-bike. Props, brother.
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Counted: 25 discarded face masks.
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Every group or single walker/runner has a DOG. True story. In a city of 1.3 million people, there must be 1 million dogs.
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Graffiti on the inside of a bathroom stall (old bladders don’t go 4 miles without a potty break) written in perfect penmanship in silver nail polish: “A stinky poop is a sign of a healthy digestive system.”
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Girls soccer team, practicing on a big lawn, playing field marked off with orange cones. Hey, Navy! I know what happened to your cones!
Later, at the farmer’s market, on a cool-down walk, just a block from us: passionfruit, guava, kumquats, oh my. I will go home to turnips and kale, if I want to eat local. It’s an honest way to fill a winter belly. If that’s what Oregon has to offer in January, I’m in.
Jan 30 2022
Two passions: food, words. Some days, it’s a tug of war, some days, a peaceful coexistence.
Best day ever? Create it, cook it, eat it, write about it. I sold my restaurant, Nora’s Table, in 2015, and now I can be possessed by anything in the long day that I choose: writing 400 words, creating the next menu for the Chefs Collective at Ruby June Inn, teaching a cooking class at Jacob Williams Winery, or tromping through the fields with farmer Laurel Bouret.
A rainy afternoon with a foundational cookbook, such as Marlene Mater’s fabulous “Allepo Cookbook” or Michael Ruhlman and Brian Polcyn’s “Charcuterie” can feed my spirit and spark my creative power. So can reading Maggie Shipstead, Michael Chabon or Alison Kraus.
I live in Hood River, Oregon, with Stuart, also known as the Happy Meal Man. In other words, all I can desire. And then there’s Satchel, our six-year old Idaho Shag who is simply the world’s best dog. We run together, and sometimes, we even let Stu join us.
Our oldest daughter Annie and grandson Levi live in Eugene, Oregon. Annie is cooking in restaurants, like her Mom. Son Max and his wife Hannah and our granddaughter Shiloh are in Portland, where he is a school principal. It’s a good tribe, all the way around.
