So, whatever, I am like an eighth Jewish and sometimes my Jewisher friends like to tease me about it. Then I have to prove myself by doing things like eating chopped liver by the pound. I am only bummed that because my oven is broken, I had to buy Zabar’s challah and couldn’t make honey cake from scratch, but I’ll atone for it on Yom Kippur.

Apples & honey, for a sweet new year.

An ENTIRE FISH, because I’m hardcore. This apparently has to do with Rosh Hashanah literally translating to the ‘head of the year’, and also something about being ‘the head and not the tail’ - leaders rather than followers (the shiksa blog claims this appears in Deuteronomy. I grew up going to Unitarian church where we were busy making bird feeders out of pinecones and not learning this stuff, but I can tell you that an entire tilapia can be purchased at Pioneer for three dollars, that it’s a very impressive presentation, and that with a little olive oil, salt and lemon, it tastes pretty darn good.)

Fish heads, fish heads, roly poly fish heads.

KASHA VARNISHKES! I love kasha varnishkes. Kasha varnishkes from the 2nd Avenue Deli got me hooked, but this was the first time I’d tried making them from scratch. They are fairly impossible to screw up, containing four main ingredients - buckwheat groats, onions, farfalle (which my boyfriend pronounces “farfle”) and olive oil or schmaltz. I knew they’d be better with schmaltz, but I couldn’t figure out where to buy it - anywhere legit enough to sell me some was closed today - so I did them with olive oil and The New York Times recipe. My Polish great-great-grandmother Loewenstein would’ve been proud.

Challah from Zabar’s. The round kind, braided into a circle, represents the cycle of the year. The way this particular loaf tasted reminded me how excited I am for Christmas panettone. We had it with Trader Joe’s honeybear honey and kosher cabernet. 

Apples & pomegranate - new fruit.

Saturday night at Sushi of Gari, literally right downstairs from our apartment.

Near plate: sashimi platter. Highlight was the garlic-miso seared swordfish (I think) on the far left. The quality of the fish was pretty unmatched, and I liked that the waitress walked me through everything on my plate (although, clearly, it didn’t stick with me once I was busy eating it all.)

Far plate: Gari platter. Highlight was some amazing pickled pine nut tuna business, and the spicy tuna roll, but all of it was amazing. The rice-to-fish ratio was perfect, and each of the ingredients in every unique piece felt like they added something, rather than just being overstylized.

Not pictured: Maguro avocado appetizer (blue fin tuna and wasabi sauce on half an avocado); lots of sake.

Dessert: Grom gelato. The girl at the counter was a total sweetheart and cautioned me against my inclination to get their flavor of the month (cinnamon with white chocolate). She was right - it tasted like a Yankee candle. She was also generous with the samples. I tried the crema de grom (organic egg cream with corn biscuits and Columbian “Teyuna” chocolate chips) and nearly committed to a whole scoop of its fantastic flavor and appealing graininess, but ultimately went with my classic pairing of nocciola and tiramisu. Some people are purists and had the vanilla bean and chocolate (see above). I hate to admit it, but the chocolate - more bitter than sweet - was the best of the bunch.

A few weekends ago (July fourth, to be exact), I woke up at 7 a.m. and decided I wanted to go to Stacks for breakfast. Most memorable as of late for my belgian-waffle-with-ice-cream-and-bacon breakfast at an equally ridiculous hour, Stacks is perhaps most valuable for its unwavering willingness to make you anything you want, anytime. 

On the menu are an array of pancake wraps, quaintly named after Hoboken streets, with fillings like scrambled eggs, home fries, bacon and salsa (the Hudson) or egg whites, grilled turkey, swiss and tomato (the Observer). There’s also a list of double-decker deli sandwiches, available all day long. I never order off the menu. But, uncharacteristically, I decided that what I really, really wanted was a tuna melt, wrapped in a pancake, with melted cheddar. So that’s what I ordered. I asked for “a side salad” instead of the fries.

What I got was a giant, twelve-inch pancake, filled with tuna salad and unmelted American cheese, with butter, syrup and a few leaves of iceberg lettuce on the side. I was hardly about to be the girl who sent back a pancake tuna wrap, so with a few quick adjustments, I tailored the meal of my dreams.

I did away with the cheese, syrup, and butter, sliced up the lettuce with my butter knife, and added some of my boyfriend’s fries (as usual, he got the egg white veggie omelette). Please believe me when I tell you this was one of the most spot-hitting and memorable meals I’ve had in recent months.

On Thursday I took a work lunch with one of my best friends in the world since the second grade, Katie, who lives in Boston but was staying in Brooklyn visiting her sister. We went to Takahachi for my favorite near-office lunch special (the miso-marinated grilled salmon). Katie ordered some sushi.

It’s my last night in San Francisco and it’s hitting me that this is the first time in years I’ve gone anywhere besides New York and Chicago for an extended vacation (in the schedule of the working world, four full days is practically studying abroad). I serendipitously got to spend most of the weekend with my friend Mary and her sister Liz, who happened to be in Cali at the same time, and we had some delicious eats: lunch at Rose Pistola, where I had a truly memorable antipasti of seafood-stuffed grilled calamari surrounded by lentil salad and rosemary aioli: 

Liz bravely ordered the capponada salad without knowing what it was: it turned out to include tuna, bread, and that gorgeous farm egg floating on top. The pesto tasted unbelievably fresh.

Mary had the acclaimed pizza, made in a wood-burning stove, with artichoke and prosciutto and green olives. The artichokes were strangely a little bland, but the crust was excellent.

Liz and Mary, who spent months this past year living in Paris, fell in love with a little North Beach bakery called La Boulange. You can see why.