Desert Diversions -- Daughter Trip

Note: During my visit with my savvy daughter and her high-tech husband I was "coached" on the art of blogging -- more posts and don't try so hard. I'm giving it a go.


There is something a little bit strange and lot wonderful about going to visit your daughter, a grown daughter with a husband, career, and home of her own. The enthusiastic welcome, the obvious preparations, the plans. I'm tempted to say it's come full circle, but she was never a guest growing up in our home as I am now in hers. And that's as it should be. Our visit was extra lovely since she lives in San Carlos, a charming town on the peninsula in the San Francisco Bay area. I'd happily visit her in Gary, Indiana, but the central California coast is better.

First order of business was lunch at Mack's Smoked Barbecue, a favorite from a previous visit. The pulled pork there is unmatched; this from two people with over a decade of eating experiences in North Carolina, and everything else they serve is equally delicious. We sat so long on their cozy and comfortable back patio, chowing on pulled pork sandwiches and ribs and catching up, that we surprised them on the way out.

Early that evening we walked down to San Carlos's Thursday night Farmers' Market where dozens of stalls sold the most gorgeous produce, flowers, bread and pastries, and prepared foods. Every other of the many friendly dogs was a golden retriever, strollers abounded, and there were amusements and activities laid in for the kids. We scored with the best rotisserie chicken EVER, slathered in fresh herbs and grilled right on the street, accompanied by roasted fingerling potatoes baked below the spinning poultry, basted by the drippings of the herby birds. We were provided with limes to squeeze over the succulent hen, a surprisingly perfect spritz, and carried our dinner home in the perfect evening air to eat with the potatoes a salad of the most tender butter lettuce and incredibly sweet tomatoes. Breakfast the next morning was organic strawberries and a dangerously delicious pastry bought from a handsome French baker.


It wasn't all about food. Over the next few days we wandered the classic old-school neighborhoods in San Carlos and Menlo Park where every home is different and each yard a botanical garden. After almost eight years of gardening in the desert, all those big, green, flowering plants, huge twisted oaks, and soaring eucalyptus looked miraculous. All that walking gave us an appetite, and my daughter made Kofta from the Jamie Oliver at Home cookbook I'd given her for her birthday (what a good investment). Okay, maybe it's a bit about the food.

I put the amazing mass transit system to good use, getting myself easily from the San Jose airport to within a mile of my daughter's home without hailing a taxi. We took the train into the city to see the Ansel Adams, Georgia O'Keefe show at MoMA. The show itself was amazing, but I loved the building and sitting on the rooftop garden and people-watching most of all.

The best day was the last day. We headed to Half Moon Bay for a little mother/daughter beach time. A little history here -- my daughter was born on the island of Tortola in the British Virgin Islands and most of our play time together was spent in, on, or around the crystalline waters of the Caribbean for the first ten years of her life. Walking along that magical line where the earth, sea, and atmosphere all intersect feels like home to us.


We parked a bit back from the beach on the access road, and were glad we did as the stroll through the seaside neighborhood was enchanting with it's whimsical beach houses, the fields of flowers, and the distant hills cloaked in golden grasses and studded with deep green oaks. Here's one resident who clearly has it made in the shade, living the good life in sunny California.


We walked a large arc of Half Moon Bay, enjoying the perfect bright day with cool onshore breezes, avoiding the jellyfish washed up on the beach, peering into the tangles of beached kelp. We sat for a long while on the high tide berm, watching the battalions of pelicans cruising the waveline. Talking. Not talking. Equally good as the connection was there either way. Precious times.