F.O.S.

I'm not sure why, but recently I have really been interested in French Onion Soup.

Before this new phase, The number of times I actually had F.O.S., I could probably count on one hand. It's weird how that happens.

I just had a bit from Whole Foods and I'm still enjoying my decision. It's become a default lunch for me. I pop in, fill up a cup with soup, grab a small thing of whatever bread they are pushing that day, a small serving of gruyere and an apple. I give the friendly/hip cashier 7 bucks and now I have lunch. It makes me sort of sad that I never participated in the F.O.S. thing prior. I mean, yes it smells a tad to the outside person (as in the person not eating the soup) but other than that, it's the perfect lunch.

Today, I brought it back and watched a bit of the movie Wall Street while I diced the cheese and dipped my bread. (I love that they talk about "new" technology and at one point, Charlie makes fun of this portable tv Michael Douglas shows him.)

As you might be able to tell, I'm dragging a bit today and feeling a little uninspired at work. I guess that's why this posting is about soup and not back flips or something exciting. 2:15. I have 2 hours and 45 minutes until it's time to go.

Why is this post about soup and not our amazing weekend with Micah and Marianna? Well, I don't believe I can do it justice at this moment. I'm too draggy slow. When I have more pep, that will come out. I believe I'll think about soup until then. Maybe it will make the time fly by.

Talk soon
Ian

What I Learned This Week

"They" say you learn something new every day. I haven't gotten to share this just yet, but I learned something very interesting and very new on Tuesday.

I was riding the train home, and it was packed. Such a touristy time of year. I finally managed to make my way to the back of the train, where I could lean against the wooden cabinet and stay out of the way.

Enter eavesdropping. Or more exactly, enter--people talking so loud the words on the page of my book jumbled and blurred to the point that I was staring at a page with undecipherable black markings forcing me to instead listen to said loud talkers.

The girl on the bench--heavy, loud girl--self proclaimed "I'm part black, part Creole, part American" speaking to two French guys standing in front of her bench, holding onto the rails.

She started the conversation:

"Are you from France?"
The reply--"Yes, we are."

Small back and forth about how she knew they were French.

"Where are you from?"

"All over! I live in Oakland, but I've lived ALL over Oakland." Insert multiple neighborhood names here. "And I was born in Berkeley."

More back and forth.

"Do you speak French?" one boy asked.
"Nah, but I worked in a French restaurant."
"Oh! What did you cook?"
"Crepes--the easiest thing ever. And paninis, things like that."
"Oh. Paninis are Italian."
"They are? I didn't know Paninis were from Italian."

Enter more banter about food and origins. Then asks if she knows French words. She does. It's Bonjour.

"Oh, do you also know how to say goodbye?"
"No. But my sister speaks French. We're part Creole."
"It's au revoir."
"O river." Giggles.
"Good!"

French guy returns to food conversation. "Crepes are French, paninis are Italian--what cooking is American?" he asks, adding: "Other than hamburgers."

"Well, hamburgers yes. And pizza. Oh no, pizza is from Italian. French fries---well, no, I guess they're French.

I don't know! I mean, I'm only part American. I'm also black and Creole. So, I eat Soul Food. Greens, black-eyed peas, yams. That's American.

Oh! And BBQ! That's Amercian. I eat a lot of bbq."

"BBQ is American?" he asks.

"Yeah, it's American. It dates all the way back. Indians invented bbq. When the settlers came to America in the 1800s, or the 1300s or whatever, Indians showed them how to make the bbq sauce and everything. It goes all the way back in American history."

"Oh! Wow, I had no idea," he said.

And neither did I! A little nugget of grossly inaccurate American history is what I learned on the F Tuesday evening. Of course, it did spark my curiosity enough to check out the true origins of bbq, but her story is way better.

How I Know it's Wednesday

There are 2 ways I know it's a Wednesday. One I like seeing, the other one (though utterly dependable and sometimes amusing), not so much.

1. As I leave the house, and walk up Guerrero, I pass middle school children on Wednesdays. Just a block up, on Valencia, there's a huge yellow school. It's called The Friends School. Any school with the word Friends in its name must be yellow, I think.

Anyway, I enjoy seeing these kids because it reminds me that I'm in a city and their life is different from what my life was like growing up.

These kids are in various baggy tshirts, comfy shorts of all sorts, jogging pants. Girls' hair are pulled back in loose, messy ponytails. They're running around the blocks in groups of 2-3, then the stragglers by themselves, breath jagged, faces flushed. Or the occasional kid who's way behind, arms flailing, face so bright red it looks like a tomato ready to burst.

I love seeing them running. I like seeing the tall, stick thin kids in the front. I recognize myself in the middle of the pack, hating running but not wanting to be the last.

So different, running around city blocks during gym class and up and down the hills of San Francisco, exposed to the world of pedestrians, bicyclists, people gazing out their windows, dog walkers, and drivers. How vulnerable, compared to my upbringing of circling the Brookville track over and over and over again while staring at a stark landscape and chainlink fences. Coming up on the concession stand every loop around the neverending track which drew enormous lines during Friday night football games, but during the day was a sad, concrete maroon and gold closed box.

Anyway, I like seeing them and it makes me smile.

2. Get on the F like normal. But what's different is that I have to be very careful about where I sit. I head straight to the very back, which is being a little proactive, a little defensive.

Because what I know is that halfway down Market Street, we're going to stop in front of the Civic Center. And on Wednesdays, that means the Asian Farmer's Market is in full swing.

I don't know why this particular farmer's market is considered Asian. Maybe the vegetables you can get at the market lend themselves well to soba noodles, stir fry, and general tsao. But I do know that the stop is packed with swarming old Asian ladies and men carrying loads of plastic bags filled with all sorts of farmer's market purchases.

They overtake the F. They like to sit in the front (which is why I head to the back). Where the F was once a quiet commute--the main sound being the clicking of the levers in the front, and the sound of the rails--it becomes this enormously loud, chatty, high-pitched, guttural explosion of Asian exchanges. Pushy ladies toting 6 bags and cackling loudly with their friends. Squeezing into seats on the benches where there isn't a perceived vacancy. It's almost like hearing the wild parrots of Telegraph Hill for the first time, except much more discordant and disruptive.

I do not look forward to the last half of the ride.

Anyway, that's how I know it's Wednesday, and that's how I can tell time passes. Because it'll seem just like it was yesterday next week when I pass the school kids on my way to the F.