The setting sun made the left side of my face feel like it was turning into a specimen of tanned leather. The light of the early spring evening glared across the windshield and made it difficult to see the traffic ahead. Northbound Highway 101 at rush hour is a trying friend, at best. However, I was deep in conversation with another friend, not so trying. My left hand felt somewhat sweaty as I gripped my cell phone. I looked like a yuppie Californian making my way home. Gross.

I filled Randy in on recent developments that might have turned our sails headed midwestward this summer, perhaps returning back home to the Detroit area for good. Finally, maybe there was some small hope of regaining the permanence we once had before we moved away those four years ago. Luck hasn’t been with us, as Randy succinctly pointed out as we closed our conversation. He’s a dry bastard.

*****

Morning sunshine in Encinitas along the 101 can be bright as hell. The first weekend of summer was upon us. The gray of May and the gloom of June seemed to finally be passing. I’m not so sure that these two months need to seem so dark and foreboding. I rather enjoyed the marine layer’s reign over the sun. It’s what gives the small strip of actual southern California greenery its chance to thrive without the oppression of the bright rays of the sun. The rest of the greenery here can sod right off because it’s fake and rapes the Colorado River of it’s natural sustenance to feed the land hundreds of miles away from here.

I sat at my chic little stone-top table next to a popular French café, St. Tropez Bistro & Bakery. Waiting for my daughter to return with her breakfast (we took some time to be French while our laundry was tumbling in dryers about a mile away), I stared down my almond croissant and my latté. Tapping the outer shell of the croissant, I became worried. It felt old. No, I mean old - as in not baked that day for sure, and perhaps not even the day before. Unleashing another series of taps of a more forceful nature so that the croissant would cave in and reassure me that what I was about to consume wasn’t complete ass – it didn’t give. It sounded hollow, like the artisan-styled rolls I made yesterday. A croissant isn’t supposed to sound like this. Taking a bite, the croissant did not flake all over me as it should, but it did fall apart about a third of the way from one end revealing the dry, crumbly almond paste that was supposed to be the creamy, rich, and decadent filling. With my pissiness mounting, I tossed it and the croissant landed back on my plate. At least after my first sip my latté seemed good. I recalled that on their website the following statement is marqueed:

“Voted best croissant and best almond croissant by The Reader”

If this indeed was the case, then The Reader (the entertainment/cultural weekly here in San Diego) doesn’t know shit. And neither do San Diegans. This was perhaps the worst croissant I’ve had aside from frozen or Burger King versions. The problem was this, though: this being the fourth time eating a croissant from the same establishment, I’ve only been moderately pleased with one almond croissant out of the four attempts. In fact, each attempt after the first good one became successively worse until this particular travesty of French baking. I think the French would slap them in the face for sending me off with this on a plate! Since I was feeling somewhat French at the time, eating breakfast under a beautiful morning sun, I should have done it myself!

Of course, when my daughter returned with her plain croissant, it was delicious, buttery, and flaky as it should be.

On her heels came a friend of ours who stopped in Starbucks which, incidentally, sits next door to St. Tropez. His name is Alex. He’s a funny, funny character and I do emphasize character. He’s done a lot in his young life. He’s been to Europe. He’s eaten a lot of foods and experienced different cultures. Alex knows a lot.

I complained to him about my croissant and how San Diego’s food really depresses me with its substandard quality. Perhaps it’s this way because so many people have the financial resources to pay for whatever they think might be good and think that it is good even though it’s not, or perhaps it’s because the really good food can only be afforded by the wealthy, which is a very sticky topic for me because it runs contrary to my views concerning food equality. Either way, Alex had a chuckle at my horrible croissant and we debated the requisite need for an excellent, affordable true artisan bakery and deli. Y’know, a shop with flour on the floor, barrels of home-cured olives, and all kinds of cured meats and sausages hanging from the ceilings. He said pointedly that Encinitas needs something like this – insert dramatic pause here – and that I’d be the perfect guy to do it.

*****

Last Saturday I watched The Endless Feast. This is a new program being offered on most Public Television stations. It is probably the best food-related program that has ever been broadcast by PBS and far surpasses any offering on The Food Network. The aim of the program is to demonstrate in various geographical areas the deep connection we all have with food, focusing obviously on local foods. This idea, reborn and harvesting a great amount of popularity, is a fundamental approach to preparing food and understanding where our food comes from. The ideas espoused by such a farm-to-table group displays the emerging evidence that people are beginning to truly care about where their food comes from, how far it travels to get where it’s going, and under what conditions the food is grown (whether humanely for animals or organically for plants).

This particular episode was set in Portland, OR. Now, I need not explain my undying love for the food culture of Portland because it surpasses so many places for quality of, quantity of, integrity filled, and economically ethical food. I’d stare anyone down who challenges this notion simply because there are so few other places that meet these standards. I was hoping upon moving to San Diego that I’d find this climate even somewhat, but I’ve been let down for the most part. There is indeed hope here, but class division and an extreme case of food injustice exists between the have-a-lots and the have-not-enoughs and, especially, the have-nots.

Simpatica catering company and Sauvie Island Organics were the primary focus of the program. The spread that was devised was truly a veritable orgy of local vegetables, spit-roasted local naturally raised goat, desserts, wines, and cider. It looked so amazing and the presentation was so rustic and beautiful. It made me truly miss what Portland has to offer to the public with its natural beauty and its regard for excellent food.

Food is some serious business to me. Aside from my family and dear friends, it’s something I devote my life to when I can.

*****

Today is the last business day of June and the job prospects I was hoping for in Michigan may have gone by the wayside, seemingly. I’ll blame this one on George W. Bush’s government and his failure to recognize the needs of the handicapped.

*****

I’m an old man.

When 35 dawned upon me this past May, it made me realize quite a lot. You know how you may picture yourself a decade down the line. Often, you’re successful, have a house, have traveled across the world, sport a nice haircut, wear nice, fashionable clothes, make lots of money, etc. This is always optimistic and it should be. If you can’t be optimistic about the future, then you have no future.

I certainly did not see myself at 35 still wondering what I’m going to do when I grow up. I haven’t finished getting my degree. I haven’t settled anywhere. I still live paycheck to paycheck. A permanent dwelling is but a far-off dream, especially here in Southern California. My wife is now working for Target, which is actually a good thing because it does two things: 1) It helps my brother-in-law manage payroll better with one less employee, and 2) Kim gets a steady paycheck every two weeks, which is not the case working for said brother-in-law. Ah, yes, the nature of small, start-up businesses!

However, not to be completely negative, I do also have a collection of some positivity. My daughters have turned out to be such wonderful children. My relationship with my wife is better than it has ever been. My mother (living in the Portland area) is enjoying being a companion to another aged fellow. Our friends from Michigan still communicate with us and love us, even though we’ve been kind of all over. We’ve lived in some amazing places and have met some pretty amazing people. But (yes, of course, there is a but), we’re not accomplishing anything except for existing and hoping that there’ll be a brighter day.

Sometimes, I suppose, a time comes when the brighter day seems just too far into the distance and doesn’t seem to move any closer. I suppose, as well, that a time comes that you have to force the brighter day to focus its light upon you and your loved ones. And sometimes, of course, sacrifice and hard work is essential to bring this to complete fruition. At 35, I think it might be time to do this – to make the proverbial career change.

Yesterday I applied to The Western Culinary Institute.

Surprised?

Yeah. Me, too.