At Last, Jennifer Embarks on Her Future

   When it came to Jennifer’s future, we had been waiting.

   We weren’t exactly sure what we were waiting for until she unveiled the creations she'd whipped up: delicious treats she could claim as her own in the foodie Napa Valley.

   And on that day, when those three creations at last arrived—s’mores bars, lemon cupcakes with lemon cream cheese frosting and key lime bars with pistachio graham cracker crust—we were in a frenzy of delight.

   How we waited for this day! Because like every parent, we and Jennifer’s mom wanted to know our kids can take care of themselves after we’re gone and that they’re pursuing their dreams.

   Like me, Jennifer was a late bloomer. She endured hiccups, burps and paralyzing interruptions along the way, including family separations and a horrific car accident. For the past three years, however, she’s worked diligently to become a pastry chef with the ambition to run her own business someday.

   It took painful years for her to discover this track (especially after the car accident kept her bedridden for nine months). At last she arrived at the juncture where she found her path at age 35 (although she looks 20 and still gets carded). Her future now is so clear we can taste it.

   We became close to Jennifer’s family when her grandparents, Papa and Mama, helped raise our son. After Ryan was born, I was very sick and had horrible days where I didn’t have the strength to get out of bed from multiple sclerosis. In the ensuing years, through thick and thin, our families’ bonds became closer. It became clear how much Ryan loved them and they loved him back. By default, our family grew. Ryan now had a big sister (Jennifer), a big brother (Chris), a second mother (Memi, their mom) and an extra set of grandparents. To this day, Jennifer still calls him “Baby Ryan,” and I love to hear those words.

   This family became our lifeline, helping us with Ryan whenever they could. For all they had given us, we could never pay them enough. This we knew.

   In the meantime, Jim and I watched the kids grow. Honestly, I don’t think any of us were too worried about Jennifer. She was positive, creative and so comfortable in her own skin that we nearly let her slip by without providing that gateway to the future. Mature beyond her years while still in her teens, she helped her grandmother with the toddlers she cared for, changing their diapers and playing with them. It seemed to come naturally.

   As she grew older, it was clear she had no problem expressing herself in a variety of situations, including job interviews. She was snatched up for a succession of positions working with children, none of them paying very much.

   From the moment we met her at age 11, Jim and I knew she was the whole package—minus a tiny slice of the pie. It’s a place where many kids end up: trying to find their way and not sure where to turn. And when the adults around them suggest a direction, they resist, as many young people do, especially when it’s their parents offering the advice. (To this day I don’t know how my parents got me anywhere, but they did it and in my heart I thank them all the time.)

   Ryan was one of the delighted toddlers Mama cared for along the way. On many days Papa would drive the two blocks to our home to pick Ryan up when I was in bed. Mama would teach him his colors, a little arithmetic and how to socialize with other children. Jennifer helped change his diapers and played with him. Chris became his best friend/brother and introduced him to the sport he loves to this day, soccer. Memi (Jennifer’s and Chris’ mom) shopped for his clothes, drove him to soccer games and called me every year to remind me to sign him up for AYSO.

   The years went by. I started on a medication for the MS and was able to get out of bed more—a huge gift. Papa died before he could see his grandchildren grow up. Chris graduated from high school, went to Cal State Bakersfield on a full soccer scholarship and received degrees in business and kinesiology. Ryan graduated from the University of Michigan in sports management.

   Jennifer worked at the local Boys and Girls Club because--what a surprise--she loved children.

   Finally, well into her 20’s, she began to wonder about a career. But the car accident held her back. As she lay in bed for weeks on end, there was lots of time to think. She realized it would take years to heal—in more ways than one. With nine fractures in her pelvic area, she knew her path would be about regrowth.

   Her family moved from San Pedro (where we met) to Bakersfield, where she continued to recuperate. Soon she began taking care of children again at an affordable housing project. She couldn’t resist the little ones who needed her. And so many of them needed her.

   But I began to wonder if this was what she wanted to do for the rest of her life. While rewarding, helping kids paid very little, and there was still so much in her soul she had to explore.

   One of my favorite stories is when she went to an arts & crafts store to learn how to make sugar flowers to grace wedding cakes. Her flowers looked succulent: every sugar creation stunning to see, every fragile petal in place, each detail intricate and refined. Finally, her instructors told her the truth: There was nothing more they could teach. She was beyond them.

   Finally, she began to think: Isn’t it about time I focused on myself?

   Yes, Jennifer, it was.

   Three years ago, I approached our beautiful Jennifer about moving to Napa to pursue her culinary adventure. It made so much sense. She loved to bake and she could live with my 87-year-old mother.

   We had been getting worried about Mom being alone, but she wasn’t interested in any of her kids moving in, thank you very much. Jennifer, however, was different. Mom could lead her life without someone telling her what to do and Jennifer could seek her career.

   My parents had always been about helping others find their futures, and occasionally I tease Jennifer: “You’re lucky my dad isn’t around. He’d would’ve dragged you to college and set up your classes for you.” So many kids, all kinds of kids, need that push.

   Things with my mother fell right into place. Together, we invited Jennifer here and showed her all around the Napa Valley. We quickly realized the Culinary Institute of America was out of her league financially, but a woman there gave Jennifer an important piece of advice: Get a job in the industry and work for six months. Start with that.

   Jennifer did. She was interested in pastry-making, so she returned home to Bakersfield and found a job at Sweet Surrender. That’s possibly Bakersfield’s most famous bakery, having been featured on the Food Network with the Matterhorn, a cake the Sweet Surrender website describes as “heavenly” with “three layers of dense fudgy deliciousness covered with our signature buttercream frosting and topped with a generous portion of chocolate shavings.” Perhaps what sealed the deal was Oprah Winfrey touting the bakery as exceptional, because every time we’d go there a line usually flowed out the door.

   People came from all over the county, perhaps even the state, for scrumptious baked goods with names such as the Avalanche, a chocolate cake with mascarpone cream filling and topped with whipped cream and chocolate cake crumbles.

   For the next two years, Sweet Surrender became an intense training ground, where Jennifer learned to run the customer counter, keep things hygienic, organize the displays to look tempting, supervise employees managing the orders, frost the cakes and run the bakery’s small boutique. But what she wanted more than anything else was to learn how to bake and come up with her own creations.

   The owner had promised to teach Jennifer the baking end of things, but she became too valuable in other parts of the business, especially behind the counter with customers. The combination of her exuberant personality and fluency in Spanish brought in the local Latino community as an important part of the clientele.

   Suddenly, the Napa area seemed so much more promising. The growth of the wine industry had sparked tourism, including restaurants and specialty food shops. Many restaurants had their own pastry chefs.

   Within a few months, Jennifer moved in with my mom. She enrolled at Napa Valley college and was hired by Dean & DeLuca, the upscale grocery chain that opened in New York and expanded to several other markets, including right here in the Valley in St. Helena.

   Jennifer got her wish at the Dean & DeLuca commissary. She learned to bake in another intensive training ground – a job she adores. She pours out daily doses of cookies, cakes, brownies, tarts, strawberry-covered chocolates and…the list goes on and on. Within a year, she had baked thousands of sweet Dean & DeLuca treats, and with each there was a learning opportunity. One day, she pulled some banana muffins out of the oven and the mixture fell on her arm, leaving a nasty pink burn. When she showed one of the chefs, he told her it’s not a good idea to show off your burns. It’s probably better to hide them so you can prove you know what you’re doing. Kind of a secret in the industry, he said. To this day, she wonders if he was teasing her.

   Ahh…. still so much to learn.

   We’re not Jennifer’s real parents but we feel like we are, and we’re so proud she took the leap! Living together has been a godsend for my mom and for her. Jennifer leaves for work at 5 a.m. and doesn’t return until late afternoon, so they both have their own space. We moved to Napa nearly a year later and could see they were doing well. In fact, they didn’t need us. One day, I told Jennifer I didn’t enjoy grocery shopping with my mom because I get tired so easily. Mom likes to go up and down every aisle. “Oh, I don’t mind,” Jennifer said. “I like to do that, too.”

   No wonder they love their Costco trips together.

   Meanwhile, Jennifer is learning everything she can about baking, enjoying every moment. Oh, and remember those desserts I mentioned that are her own recipes? I figured they’d be like every dessert: so sugary sweet you can’t stand it, or overly dry, or whatever. There had to be something wrong. There always is, and it was our job to give her tips.

   When we popped a bite into our mouths, Jim and I were amazed. She had taken them to the very edge of sweetness but hadn’t plunged over. They were so light and creamy you’d think they weren’t fattening at all (but don’t believe it). They tasted like they were floating on air.

   My dad would have loved them. But more than anything, he would love that Mom was doing what they had always done together: Prepare a recipe to get another soul out into the precarious world and help them find themselves.

   And that’s the sweetest thing of all.

Posted 6/16/18

   For me, it was all about the gift section near the front of the store, where I’d been buying scores of items, especially at Christmas, for years. The selections were fun, whimsical and seemingly a bit chatty with different characters. Piled up high were colorful teapots and cups from London in bold oranges and blues along with striking paintings of cows, pigs and other farm animals.

   These gifts came with character. My friend Susan, who runs a gift store for a nonprofit aquarium in Southern California, says each section of a shop must tell a story to pull customers in and keep them there. That’s what Trish Pudewell (the Vallerga’s gifts buyer) did for me.  Every year for Christmas shopping, I’d beeline it to Vallerga’s. There was always room for surprises, such as when she carried beautifully knit ponchos in a stunning mustard-and-periwinkle pattern. I bought one for a friend. When I went back to get one for myself, they were gone!

    Over the years, Trish always managed to find items that provided a walk back in time to your childhood: small purses, interesting wallets, cookware, travel mugs with birds in feathery hats. Although the gifts were only a small section of the store, Trish had loyal followers. I found it like opening a book of fairy tales and walking inside. I took my time perusing the shelves crammed with matchbooks, tea towels, windchimes, garden trinkets, candles, mixing bowls and so on.

   Of course, when shopping for gifts, I can’t help but find some for myself. (You know the old “one for you, two for me” syndrome? I’ve got it bad.)

   One day I spotted this darling nesting bird candle for $4.95. It was a perfect Christmas stocking gift for my mother (and me!). Later, thinking about it some more, I decided it would make a great gift for lots of people, as a gesture of thanks. But once again, when I returned I saw a woman place most of them in her shopping cart. At least I was able to snap up the last one.

   Last Christmas, knowing my cousin, Nancy, loves snowmen, it was a slam dunk to buy a beautiful large bauble for her. Hanging from a small tree, it was a hand-painted scene of a snowman dancing on a golden evening surrounded by other critters in a cold forest. It seemed magical and timeless, conjuring up a simmering stew of early memories that recharged my batteries. Trish’s store, like Susan’s, did that for me.

   Nancy loved her gift when she opened it on Christmas Eve. “Oh, look at this snowman,” she chortled. “I love snowmen!” (I went back to get one for myself. Gone.)

   When Jennifer moved in with my mom to pursue a career in pastry baking, she became part of our Christmas family. I bought her measuring spoons in the shape of little champagne bottles. “These are so cute,” she exclaimed with a big smile.

   I can’t tell you how much I’m going to miss Vallerga’s gift shop. I have no clue where else to find such fun, thoughtful gifts. (I’ll have to go to see Susan.) OK, so maybe most of them were gifts for myself. But that’s fine.

   I purchased little bronze mice there, their heads pitched up with pride. The 3-inch-high figurines now decorate our bookcase shelves, holding library signs like “Classics” and “Fantasy.”

   A brilliant sunflower-colored pillow (with a set of feathers on one side and a rooster on the other) sits on our burgundy-red sofa.

   I use my Mason Cash mixing bowl constantly, sent baby blue mugs from London to my niece for Christmas and urged my family to buy gifts for me there. Trish’s displays spoke to me. I found the prices were affordable. So often when I walk into expensive gift shops, I turn around.

   When Vallerga’s announced it was closing, many customers cried, some in disbelief. The family had served the town for decades and now they’d be erased to backdoor memories. Just before the store closed in March, one employee (David) asked another (Annie) to marry him, right in front of customers. (She said yes!).

   “Say it ain’t so,” groaned a shopper on the market’s Facebook page. “My family has been shopping there since we moved to Napa in 1954. I still buy all of my meat and produce there. Produce is picture perfect and I’m going to miss the specialty items no one else has. Thank you for being such a great reliable place all of these years.”

   That customer reflected the sentiments of many. It was a painful time, as though the last roots were being ripped out of old Napa’s heart.

   Fortunately, I bumped into Trish just a few days before the store closed and was able to tell her what her gifts meant to me. We talked for several minutes, and she said her heart was broken. She was going to miss the place, but she hoped to start up again somewhere else. “Where?” people kept asking me, but at the time, Trish didn’t have any plans locked down.

   I hope she finds something soon.

   In the meantime, one of the few remaining independent grocery stores has been whisked away, and soon we will all be shopping at Amazon Prime or something like it. That seems so very sad.

   Joe Vallerga’s granddaughter wrote on the company Facebook page how much they would miss their customers.

   “Hi everyone, this is one of Joe Vallerga’s grandchildren, Leigh Burns, writing to you on behalf of my family. There are no words to express the experience of the past week. While closing the store is heartbreaking, at the same time, we are beyond humbled, overwhelmed and full of gratitude for the outpouring of support and love from our customers and community/family. We are also thrilled for Annie and David!!!! As you know, all of our employees are like family to us.”

   I can honestly say that was true.

Posted 5/6/18

Out for a Stroll with Serendipity

   What Baxter, our 8-year-old dog/friend, loves more than anything is going for a walk. When the time draws near, he can read the smallest of signals.

   We can’t open the closet door where the leashes are. We can’t pull out the plastic bags. We can’t even say the word “walk.” We can’t do anything without him knowing we’re getting ready to go. And then he becomes a crazed maniac.

   He descends into relentless high-pitched yipping. He jumps around, making it practically impossible to attach the leash to his harness. Then, grabbing the leash in his jaws, he tries to walk us, shaking it madly as we head out the door. Yet as soon as we start walking, the nonsense stops and he becomes a quiet gentleman again.

   On this day, we decide to take our little friend downtown along the Napa River, where the water blinks with splendor in the afternoon light. Colors ripple through small swells. Jim stops to take photos because it’s so breathtaking. When you look across the water at the stunning stretch of buildings in the Riverfront complex, it feels as though you’re standing in Italy.

   Just after we cross the First Street bridge, our friend Serendipity holds up her hand and stops us. Slip in here for a moment, she seems to say.

   Before us, half a block off Main Street, sits a wine store called the Gabrielle Collection. Having peered inside before when it was closed, I could see walls lined with olive oils, finishing salts, spice blends, chocolates and honey, not to mention signature wines. The store is impeccably organized with gift boxes wrapped in simple elegance ready to walk themselves out the door as splendid gifts.

   “I want to check this place out,” I say. Jim agrees but waits outside with Baxter.

   Strolling in, I immediately check out the specialized dog treats they have for sale with everything else. It’s such a mixed bag of offerings, I don’t know where to start.

   “Would you like a splash?” says a congenial, sharply dressed man with a wine glass in one hand and a bottle in the other. Long hair curling down to his shoulders, his attitude is formal in some ways, yet casual. I’m not into the elegance of stiffness, so I relax a little.

   “What is it?” I ask.

   “Sauvignon blanc,” he responds. I cringe. I don’t like sauvignon blanc due to its grassy smell and taste. While many people I know enjoy it, I can’t get past the bouquet.

   “Come on in,” the man (who turns out to be Bob) says to Jim and Baxter. “We’re dog friendly.”

   Bob asks me again: “Would you like a splash?”

   Of course, I say. He’s so kind and accommodating, I don’t know how to say no. I raise the glass to my nose. It doesn’t have that mowed-grass smell, so I take a sip. And smile. It’s the best sauvignon blanc I’ve ever tasted. I pass the glass to Jim, who agrees.

   “Would you like to do a tasting?” Bob asks. “We’re trying to let locals come in and try more things.” I consider this a wise idea for many reasons so we agree, but we want to sit outside with Baxter.

   I have always believed locals are the bedrock of small business. As my father, who worked for the airlines for 35 years, liked to say: It’s not first class that makes the difference, it’s coach. Keep those customers happy and they’ll tell their family and friends.

   We sit down at a sidewalk table, our backs warmed by the sun. It’s a Goldilocks day: not too cool, not too hot. Just right. Baxter settles in under the table and doesn’t make a sound.

   We’re happy to be here. Bob treats us to small tastes that include popcorn with unusual flavorings (lavender and peppercorn, among others) and specialty chocolates. We taste Pietro Family sauvignon blanc and chardonnay and two reds from the Gabrielle Collection: Equilateral 2013 and Juxtaposition 2011—all delicious.

   The menu says Chef Jonathan Jones combines the flavors of olive oils and finishing salts in taste pairings such as “goat cheese, burnt almonds, rosemary sea salt, rosemary honey topped with fig and onion salad.”

   Jim’s lucky. Since I don’t eat popcorn he gets to try all the flavorings. “The Final Touch” on the menu offers up Jarlsberg cheese and lavender-infused honey.

   Bob explains each wine carefully, and his attentive treatment continues with the others serving us. It’s a friendly, comfortable place. If you don’t want a lot of attention, I would say don’t go. But if you’re like me, the experience will remain golden in your mind. It’s a small tasting room off the beaten track that combines tasting wine and scrumptious food with shopping for gifts.

   Ironically, we took home a bottle of sauvignon blanc, having not had a single one to enjoy in years. Now we do, thanks to Bob and our friend, Serendipity.

   Check out the Gabrielle Collection and tell them you’re local. Tastings with food pairings cost $75 a person.

Posted 4/27/18

   Of course, there were always folks who were blazing the freebee wine trail and would never spend a dime. At some point, the other cork had to drop. It most certainly has in Napa, and it’s making its way across Sonoma County, too. Favorite wineries have become so expensive that we don’t taste much anymore.

   One day, we stumbled onto a tasting room at the south end of St. Helena that’s different. It’s not an architectural showplace, which is probably why we hadn’t noticed it before. It resembles a ranch-style house, and the only reason we went there was because we were waiting for Jennifer to get off work at her commissary job just up the street.

   The minute I walked in, I was charmed by a poster on the wall with a photo featuring the wry smile of an older man and these words: “In 1990, my son turned 33 and moved into a garage.” With one hand on a walking stick, the father wondered when his son would stop bicycling all over Europe and get a “regular job-job.”

   Since I was a late bloomer and drove my parents to the brink, this type of story captures my heart every time. So I kept on reading.

   The son turned out to be Gary Erikson, who turned his magical love for biking into a thriving international business. One day, having just finished a 175-mile bike trek he now calls his “epiphany ride” (and, I assume, dripping with sweat), he realized he couldn’t stomach one more horrible protein bar. Ever again.

   That’s when he had the epiphany. He called his mom and, together, they floured up her kitchen and tried recipe after recipe. Once they had it down, a scrumptious new energy bar was born.

   Gary named it the Clif Bar after his dad, since he taught him the joys of exploring nature and being a good father. The Clif Bar became one of the bestselling protein bars in the world, popular with athletes, campers and climbers alike.

   As time went on and Gary built up the business, he and his wife, Kit Crawford, bought property, started an organic farm in Pope Valley, planted vineyards on Howell Mountain and launched a winery.

   The low-key Clif Family tasting room, on Highway 29 at the southern edge of St. Helena, sucks in cyclists and other athletes (the bathrooms are equipped with band-aids, bobby pins and hair ties; I love that).

   Naturally, bikes are often perched outside. Local biking adventurers or visiting tourists can start or stop here. I’m not a biker, but I do love what cycling represents—freedom and adventure—and this spot is a pleasant stop for anyone.

   You don’t even have to like wine. You can order a cappuccino or a latte and simply sit for a bit. I find the place rustic and charming.

   This is what Lisa was talking about: how wineries have to do something different to climb out of their rut. You can certainly say that Clif’s tasting room has done just that—and why Lisa and her partner were the perfect people to bring there.

   And I’m glad I did, because otherwise I would have missed my chance to meet Gary and Kit, who happened to be there at the same time. As we sat at a table eating and sipping, Lisa nodded toward someone having a cup of coffee across the room.

   “Isn’t that Gary?” she said. She had recognized him from the photos on the wall. I thought: “By God, it is him. How did I not notice?”

   That was a great moment, not just because I love success stories, but because Gary and Kit have more than one. We had just started talking when Lisa wanted to let them know how much she enjoyed the Tri-colore Salad from the gourmet food truck.

   Another wise decision by Clif Family was to launch its Bruschetteria food truck, which is parked outside the tasting room. Using organic ingredients from the Pope Valley farm, Executive Chef John McConnell whips up creations such as the Tri-colore (arugula, romaine hearts, radicchio, lemon, pecorino and apples; $6 small/$9.50 large) and the Red Flint Corn Polenta ($6) to accompany their many delicious wines.

   There’s also a line of packaged foods (nut mixes, spice rubs, jams/jellies/butters, chocolates) sold at the tasting room and at grocery stores around the valley. As for wine, I tend to go for reds, and my Clif Family favorites are the 2014 Bici (a Rhone-style red blend; $42 a bottle), the 2014 Napa Valley Petite Syrah ($45) and my absolute No. 1, Gary’s Improv, a Zinfandel that was sold out the day we visited (I was so sad).

   I believe this is what Lisa was talking about: It’s a good idea for wineries to expand beyond the norm of traditional wine tastings. There’s still plenty of room for the old-style tours, but expansion--foodwise, I believe--will become a must. People who are tasting often like to eat, so pairings make sense as do full meals. Many wineries are beginning to open their doors to that.

   At Clif’s, meals are available at the truck Tuesdays through Sundays and bruschette such as the Porchetta (pork, garden herbs, red onion, $12) to Mary’s Organic roast chicken ($11.50/half order $20/full). That’s what draws lunchtime crowds from around the area and brings us back repeatedly. The menu changes frequently (and of course all prices are subject to change).

   This beautiful winery/tasting room wouldn’t be here had Kit and Gary accepted offers along the way to buy them out. Protein bars had rocketed to millions of dollars in sales and larger corporations tried to buy out the small independents.  Clif Bars were selling everywhere: grocery stores, bike shops, camping equipment stores.

   In 2001 one of the “big boys” came riding in and offered $120 million for the business. Kit says the couple knew that if they sold, “we’d be set for life.”

   They thought hard and long until finally Kit told Gary she didn’t want to sell. There was so much more they could do with the company. They could expand, go green, take care of their employees (many people already depended on them) and see that their lives were committed to Mother Earth. (Their business plan reflects this. Most Clif’s employees own company stock, the plant has child care and each employee receives 20 hours of pay a year for volunteer work.)

   Employees are encouraged to exercise (there’s a fitness gym at the plant) and be creative, flexible and adventurous. At the company’s 20-year anniversary, Gary and Kit gave each employee a new bike (all red, the same color as the one on his epiphany ride). His original bicycle hangs dented--looking crushed and a bit abused--on the wall in the tasting room.

   The place has a somewhat industrial look but reflects comfort and caring. Pull up your boots, your socks, your gear and stay awhile. For $25, try the cheese plate with varying local cheeses and complementary jellys, jams and butters (my favorite is persimmon butter; Oprah’s is peach preserves; my other love is Meyer lemon marmalade).

   Because Clif’s believes the heart of the company remains food-based, the olives, rubs, spreads and sauces start at the farm, where they grow everything organically, including the grapes and nuts. They expanded all of this to their winery.

   The other thing I’m seeing wineries do, which I hope also will become a trend, is offer wines by the glass so customers can easily pop in and escape the tasting bars crammed with people.

   At Clif’s, you can have a coffee if you need to get off your feet for a bit. And if you need a bit of protein, grab a Clif Bar. They have plenty.

Posted 4/12/18

so they battened down their house and left along with their son, daughter-in-law and two grandsons (10 and 6 years old), who also had been evacuated from their home several blocks away.

   At the time, what made the most sense was to move in with Judy and Hank’s oldest daughter. That might have worked indefinitely except for…oh, about a dozen things.  Ann and her two roommates had a German shepherd and four dachshunds, while the new arrivals brought with them a lanky black Lab with endless amounts of energy and a caged cat.

   For those keeping score, that made it seven adults, two children and seven pets of assorted sizes in a three-bedroom home.

   So a short stay was of the essence. Having lived in their Santa Rosa home for more than 40 years, it was hard for Judy and Hank to watch the news and see the chaos in their city. Entire neighborhoods were scorched. Noxious gray smoke and gases hanging in the air were literally making people sick.

   But as the fires burned on for days, stuffing so many in one house was becoming more and more uncomfortable. On Day 1, you move in and everybody gets along. After all, it’s an emergency. It’s just for awhile. But before you know it, Day 1 butts heads with Day 3, and then days 4, 5, 6 and 7. It’s a shock to everyone’s system, no matter how tolerant they are.

   In the more than 30 years I’ve known Judy and Hank, I’ve found them to be self-sufficient and resourceful. They can make it through most hardships. But by the eighth day—with all the strain, the fires still blazing and wondering if their homes would be damaged—the stressors cracked wide open.

   Everyone was running out of clothes. Everyone was exhausted. Everyone was hearing about the annihilation of their friends’ and neighbors’ homes. Judy’s close friend, Sharon, lost her house in the middle of the night but was grateful to be alive. A neighbor woke her from a deep sleep and told her she had to leave immediately. Grabbing her dog, she jumped into her car and backed out of the driveway just in time to escape a wall of flames that gobbled up her home. A lifetime of memories burned down in that house alone. It would soon become clear that thousands more memories were scattered among the dust and ash.

   When Jim answered Judy’s phone call, I couldn’t hear everything. But I caught him saying in a calm voice, “Yes…” “No…” and finally, “I’m sure it’s OK. We’ll talk to her.”

   "Judy asked if they could stay with us,” Jim told me. “Of course I said yes, but there’s more room at your mom’s house. Maybe some of them could stay with her.”

   Jim and I sat down and thought about how we could make this work. We realized the best solution was for his entire family to move into Mom’s house while she and Jennifer moved in with us.

   Not only is Mom’s house bigger, it would give the family some time to themselves, which after all those stressful days would be welcome. The mandatory evacuation in their neighborhoods was still in effect. While their other daughter, who worked for the Sheriff’s department, reported their homes were still standing, the strain was enormous. Even if the homes didn’t burn, they knew there could be other problems such as smoke damage.

   Making sense of it all was just crazy. I knew Mom would want to help Jim’s family. But would she want to leave her house? Napa was glutted with thick, noxious smoke. Just a few days earlier, there was still the possibility that Mom’s hilltop neighborhood would have to evacuate if the winds shifted.

   I picked up the phone and called, clearing my throat. It rang several times before she answered. I began to explain the whole drama of how Jim’s family felt they were sitting on top of each other and needed to find another place. “Mom, Judy and Hank and the kids need a place to stay.”

   “Of course,” she said. “That’s what families do. I’ll give them this house and Jennifer and I can move to your place. You didn’t have to ask if it was ok.”

   I blinked, I’m sure, with happiness.

   For the next three days, the Righettis stayed at my mom’s, finally getting the break they needed. The grandkids came to our house to bake chocolate chip cookies (from the box. I’m not that good).

   When the evacuation finally was lifted about 4 p.m. on the fourth day, they considered staying another night but thought better of it. They wanted to leave right away. The drive back was somewhat reminiscent of the Gold Rush. That’s how eager people were to get home.

   Once the family saw their houses and realized everything was safe, they were able to relax. Home had never tasted so sweet.

   It was then I that knew (but then, I always knew) my mom had the right stuff.

Posted 4/7/18

Listen to Your Dog

Here is today’s lesson: There really are times when you should listen to your dog.

I know we get lazy and tune our dogs out. How can you help it? It’s only the mail carrier, UPS dropping off a package, a woman walking her dog by the window, a cat meandering by, a squirrel running across the street.

And our barking canines go beserk, doing their duty in response to just about anything that moves. And that’s what was happening one morning not too long ago.

Baxter went ballistic, barking and chirping and chirping and barking. If you met Baxter, a white poodle/bearded collie mix with black ears and a black “patch” over one eye, you’d think what a sweet, sweet dog. And you’d be right. He’s all boy and his favorite toy remains his ball (at least the one he hasn’t chewed and swallowed yet).

There is, however, one problem: He has a high-pitched bark that is sometimes painful to the ears. Minutes went by while I ignored him—or tried to. (“Hey, Baxter, shut up! I’m in the middle of my workout.”) I was exercising, which every one of my doctors prescribes, and the interruption annoyed me. His barks turned more ferocious, but I just exercised on.

Then a dark shadow floated overhead. I turned around to look out the back window and to my surprise…

Meanwhile, Jim was driving up Jefferson (a beautiful street with turn-of-the-20th-century homes and stunning trees) when he spotted a bright orange hot-air balloon ahead. It was so low he almost couldn’t believe it. It was also drifting lower, so much so that he could hear the roar of its gas burner just above those trees. He pulled over and leaped out of the car to take photos, then drove on only to get out and take some more. He finally lost sight of it, but when he came home about 10 minutes later he couldn’t wait to tell me.

Hot-air ballooning around Napa Valley has become increasingly popular, coming with champagne or wine and requiring just a few hours of your time and lots of money out of your pocket. I’ve always wanted to give it a shot even though I have a fear of both flying and heights. Nobody else in my family has ever wanted to go, so it’s still on my bucket list. Maybe someday, but I’m not a very adventurous sort, so the idea will probably remain in my back pocket.

So, while waiting for Baxter to quit barking at the top of his lungs, I turned around. Practically filling our window overlooking the Napa River wetlands at the south edge of town was a giant balloon.

It was on the ground. Just beyond our backyard fence.

The pilot seemed to be storming around grasping at lines to hold it down, while the three passengers (it looked to be a couple and their child) appeared frozen in a state of shock. It was one of those instances where no one but the pilot knew what to do. So the rest of us just stared.

In just a few minutes, the pilot got his bird launched again and it rose, making burping, belching sounds. I watched it drift up toward the burgeoning clouds.

A few minutes later, Jim burst in the door: “You’ll never believe what I just saw.”

Almost simultaneously, I said: “You’ll never believe what I just saw.”

Over the next few moments, we told each other our stories. They spilled out with enthusiasm, punctuations and thrills. It was something we could tell everyone about since we moved here last year. I mean, how many people can say a hot-air balloon landed in (nearly) their backyard?

Things gradually quieted down. Baxter’s irritating chirps had stopped. Everything seemed back in order. The next time we’d see a balloon, we thought, would be on a weekend morning, soaring in the sky.

A few days later, Jim went to breakfast with some of the guys in the neighborhood and tells everyone our balloon story.

They react nonchalantly. One of them said: “Actually, that happens quite a bit.”

When you think about it, that makes sense. There are lots of balloons around here. And if there was trouble, you wouldn’t want to land on Highway 29 or in a residential area. You’d choose a vast marsh where humans rarely go, especially since the county posted “no trespassing” signs to preserve the area.

Not getting much of a reaction from our acquaintances here, we sent photos to friends in Southern California to get the responses we wanted:

“Wow!”

“Amazing!”

Just another day in Napa Valley. A couple months later, another balloon came down in the same area. And a third one several weeks after that.

Now, I always listen to Baxter.

Story posted 4/3/18

One sunny Sunday afternoon, Jim talked me into visiting the lounge at the new Archer Hotel on First Street in downtown Napa.

It’s a gorgeous building, but if you’re not staying at the hotel I wasn’t sure what to do there besides eat at the high-end Charlie Palmer steakhouse. That doesn’t excite me too much because I don’t eat beef.

Jim suggested grabbing a cocktail (which means he had to twist my arm!). Minutes later, we were on our way to check out the place. Napa residents watched the Archer’s birth for months on end until it finally arrived last fall. Seemingly, its signature feature is an atrium lobby with high ceilings and walls beautifully decorated with copper-colored wood and stonework.

Some residents were thrilled. Others were not, perhaps because for them the hotel symbolizes the slow chiseling away of Napa’s smalltown character, on the precipice of becoming yet another boutique destination where locals can’t afford to eat out very often.

With 183 rooms, the five-star hotel appears to be doing the right thing by welcoming locals as well as visitors into its airy, clean atmosphere—all industrial bright and light.

Employees smile broadly while holding open the massive doors as you walk in. In my mind, this kind of congeniality becomes a must in a town thriving in the tourism industry despite the wildfires. Competition remains intense, and the last thing the clientele wants to see is a staff that expresses little interest in the very people they are serving. My mantra: A server can make or break your meal, whether it’s in a coffee shop, a fine restaurant or a boutique hotel.

The Archer describes itself as “wine country with urban undertones.” We took an immediate liking to the lobby when we strolled in.

The immense atrium lets the light flood in and has wood art floating near the ceilings. The semi-circular 12-seat lobby bar feels like a moon landscape from Star Trek.

We walked around the spacious area a bit and peered into Charlie Palmer’s before settling into one of the inviting lobby couches (drinks are served there as well). Small groups of people were chattering away comfortably over glasses of wine and tidbits. The fireplace burned with warmth and everyone seemed at ease.

(The hotel says it will open a rooftop terrace in the spring with sweeping views of the Napa Valley. If the terrace is anything reflective of the lounge, will be startling.)

I ordered a Cosmo (cocktails run about $15), and Jim ordered a Scotch. I’ve become pretty picky about my cosmos, which can arrive overly sweet and diluted. But this pink one, which came in a beautifully etched glass, was one of the best.

Should you choose to eat, the lounge offers interesting fare such as crispy manchego cheese with shishito jam ($10), veal and ricotta meatballs with fontina polenta ($15) and yellowfin tuna tartare with pinkerton avocado and soy lime emulsion on sesame flatbread ($19). Jim and I settled on the manchego and jam (disarming flavors).

People murmured. Food carts clacked by. Servers plied customers with efficient service, not too in-your-face but caring. The amiable ambience became even more so when another visitor arrived and sparked a flurry of interest. No, it wasn’t an actor, a superman or a stunning model.

It was a dog. His name? Ollie.

This white Havanese pup with black ears and a black patch over one eye looked like a cross between our dog (Baxter, a bearded collie/poodle mix with similar markings) and the dog belonging to our practically adopted daughter, Jennifer (Martini, a toy Maltese terrier).

Ollie, it seemed, brought out the best in everyone. He was accompanied by two young men who probably never had such a remarkable icebreaker in their midst.

Once they walked in and sat down, a steady stream of people ambled over to see Ollie, who was very accommodating. Jim wandered over to say hello. An older woman sat down asking the usual questions (What’s his name? How old is he?). Ollie and his amiable nature made many visitors, including me, gush over him in the pet-friendly lobby. His two companions appeared happy to chat about him and were just as accommodating.

When they let me pick up Ollie, he nuzzled my neck and buried his head under my chin. I love when dogs do this. It seems like they’re telling you they feel safe and care about you. Oh, the unconditional love of dogs never stops amazing me!

Finally, I told Ollie’s friends: “I tell men all the time if you really want to meet a woman, just get a dog like this.” One of them said they were petsitting Ollie for a friend, and that was exactly the reason he was there!

He reminded me of actor Bradley Cooper and was very friendly. Darn, I wanted to say. I know a beautiful someone. Jennifer lives in Napa with my mom and is working on building a food industry career by whipping up remarkable pastries. Of course, I knew I was being over the top. Setting people up has never worked for me before.

But I couldn’t reach Jennifer on the phone! I couldn’t even find a good photo of her. The window was closing and the time would be lost to introduce them.

Later, I told her about Ollie and his friend and how I wished she could have come down to meet them. Jennifer knows my proclivity for matchmaking and was happy to say she was up to her arms in gloopy bleach cleaning her bathroom. She couldn’t have come, anyway.

I brought pictures of Ollie home, and she had to admit he looked like a perfect cross between her dog and ours.

The afternoon at the Archer had been sparklingly perfect, and it was all because of that sweet Ollie.

Story posted 3/16/18

Why the Blog?

I must ask myself how to best answer that question.

Perhaps it’s best to start with why we moved here in the first place in August of 2017. Why we pulled up roots in the Los Angeles area after living there for more than 30 years and landed in Napa Valley, the land of chefs where thousands upon thousands of eye-opening wines are born. Not to mention the delicious food that sprouts creatively almost with the same ease as traveling among green hills peppered with vineyards and colorful organic scenes you want to reach out and touch (and taste!).

It seems each morning when we wake up, a new painting has arrived with brilliant Van Gogh skies and brightly colored hot-air balloons against the deep blueness.

Perched along Highway 29, black-and-white cows munch away on grassy hillsides. Since we began coming here more than three decades ago to visit my mom and dad, we’ve called them “police cows.” Those cows represent a marking of time as well as that longing for peace that makes so many of us flee from major city traps of red lights, honking cars and traffic congestion so thick it makes you sick. We wanted somehow to get back to the solace of nature.

Even with more and more tourists pouring into wine country, you can still find peace here. At this moment I am watching a display of brilliant afternoon light that graces the marshland near our home and softly highlights its hues of butter brown and gold. It seems the sun brings everything back to life.

Frogs croak out their afternoon songs. Birds from harriers to red-tail hawks float on the wind. Canadian geese glide by honking out their musicality through flight. A stunning array of white clouds dashed with bits of pink douses our backyard ceiling, the sky.

Why we ripped up and transplanted our roots to this vine-growing country can be told in a nutshell: My 89-year-old mother has lived in the scrub hills above Napa since the 1980s when my parents built their dream home overlooking the river. My father died unexpectedly a few years after they moved in, but she refused to leave the house that they worked toward for most of their lives.

As she aged, she did so gracefully, but we worried about her more and more. I lived in LA; my older sister in San Diego and my younger one on Washington state’s Kitsap Peninsula. At the same time, Jim and I wanted to retire to a less urbanized locale. We considered the Seattle area where I was born. But three days of solid rain following the relentless California drought convinced us that Jim (born and raised in Southern California) would be miserable there.

So we chose to remain in the Golden (poppy) State, but in a harvest land where we can unwind and appreciate a single flower, a Cooper’s hawk floating above our heads, the golden/green marsh with small grassland mounds that edge up to our backyard terrain. The Napa River crisscrosses here, wending its way in some spots near an area integrated with the waterways to prevent flooding.

Last August, we had no idea what lay ahead and why the move was just in the nick of time. In October, relentless fires slammed Napa and Sonoma counties, burning down close to a thousand structures and causing billions of dollars in damage. My mom lives not far from where the fires were burning and could spread in half a second to the dry vegetation in the hills. Jim’s sister and her family live in Santa Rosa, where entire neighborhoods were wiped out.

During the fires, cellphones were out. Television and the internet worked only sporadically, and we couldn’t even call many of our friends who were checking to see if we were safe. Had Jim and I still lived in the San Pedro area of Los Angeles, we would have gone crazy trying to find out if our mom and Jim’s family were secure. At the most risk in these fires were the elderly and infirm: 42 people died, most of whom couldn’t get out in time.

A few years earlier, my sisters and I had begun to realize someone had to live closer to our mom. With Jim and I retired, moving to Napa began to make more and more sense.

However, we hadn’t made a final decision and didn’t want to rush. We figured it would take more than a year to get ready. There was so much to do: selling our house, packing up our belongings and finding a place to live. Our 23-year-old son, Ryan, wasn’t interested whatsoever in moving to Napa. (I have to admit I understood: When I visited here at the age of 20, I couldn’t understand why anybody would live in such a remote, godforsaken place. Then you get older and can’t wait to get to that godforsaken place.)

But the move still seemed too crazy and rushed. We would be leaving behind friends who seemed more like family.

Then an incredible thing happened. Pure magic. The family that helped us raise Ryan decided to rendezvous with us at my mom’s for a mini-Napa vacation. My friend (more like another sister), Memi, came with her daughter, Jennifer. Beginning when Ryan was 4 months old, Memi’s parents--whom we called Mama and Papa--cared for him when I was too exhausted to get out of bed because of multiple sclerosis. Most of the time, I was too ill to even talk on the phone, much less raise a needy toddler.

The minute we met Mama, Papa, Memi and Jennifer (who was 11 at the time), we realized we couldn’t have found better people. We walked out of their small home and knew we’d found the right spot for Ryan. Our deep affection for this family stemmed not only from all he learned from them, but even more because they loved him as their own. To this day, Ryan considers Jennifer (now 34) and her brother, Chris, 28, as his own sister and brother.

Years went by. Kids grew up and went off to college. We lost Papa. Together, we stumbled through heartwrenching losses, car accidents, love and good times.

Then about two years ago Memi and Jennifer came to Napa for a weekend visit while we were staying at our mom’s house.

The next day we were walking along Foster Road, that well-traveled two-lane street through vineyards and rolling hills.

“Ask her,” Memi said to Jennifer as we walked.

“Ask me what?” I said.

Before Jennifer could respond, Memi asked for her: “Do you think Jennifer could pursue her (baking) career here and move in with your mom?”

I stopped dead in my tracks. What? I couldn’t believe it. I was stunned. We had been hoping for something like this, but it never happened. Having Jennifer move in with my mother was a godsend on so many fronts. Mom could have someone in her house to help out, but it wouldn’t be an impersonal caretaker.

Jennifer could pursue her baking career in an area world-famous for its food and restaurants. And we would have more time to plan our move. Jennifer moved in the fall of 2016 and we landed here last August. Now a trip to Mom’s house takes five minutes rather than seven hours.

The irony of this situation left me wondering who was up there looking out for us. We had gone full circle with the family who cared for us during our worst times. For my mom to be able to give back to them was remarkable.

When some of our friends came to visit us in our new home, they suggested we start a blog about our Napa adventures. At first I wasn’t sure. But I enjoy telling and writing stories, and we decided to take a stab at it. That’s how Becoming Napa started.

Then another odd thing happened. I started baking.

If anyone had told me when I was younger that I would move to Napa, start a blog – and even more peculiar – bake muffins, I’m sure I wouldn’t have quit laughing. I didn’t even like baking.

Oops, excuse me. I have to pull some muffins out of the oven. Welcome to Becoming Napa.

Story posted 3/10/18