Stalking Wonder: Spontaneity

No sooner had I declared spontaneity dead in San Francisco than I was convinced otherwise. It is true it takes planning to get together with friends there, everyone is so busy. My friend Meg and I once tried to make a date and were searching for a free evening three months out. Everyone is bustling, everyone is booked. Perhaps it’s just the way things are these days, but I don't like it. I miss spur of the moment pleasures.

But I was wrong, you see. Spontaneity is still alive in the Bay Area, you just have to make it happen.

The email was sent at noon, and a few hours later we were in the car, heading north to Petaluma. Rosie, Josh, and I decided to slip away from the city for Friday night dinner at Della Fattoria, driving through the rolling hills of West Marin to get there, the countryside of my childhood, the golden-green landscape that will always mean home to me.

I’d like to say you would have been lucky to be there with us. In truth I would have bored you silly, as I did Rosie and Josh, by pointing out all the landmarks and memories that dot this journey. You would have seen my old kindergarten, the ranch where I got bucked and then stepped upon by a horse, my very first library (I still remember where the Betsy, Tacy, Tib books were shelved), the variety store where I used to buy stickers and packets of watermelon-flavored Bubble Yum.

But soon even my nostalgic chatter died down as we fell under the spell of the winding road and the hills that glow in the setting sun. There’s a rustic beauty to this corner of the world, honest and unpretentious. Doesn’t matter how much I travel, I will never fall out of love with the place I come from.

I still wonder why on earth I’m not living there right now—especially when I see signs like this. I will always have West Marin mud on the heels of my boots. The gold-green tapestry of these hills has marked me forever.

As soon as the drive had lulled us, slowed us down and made us shake off the city, we had arrived. We slipped into Petaluma though the back door, a country route that brings you down from the hills into town past old Victorian houses on tree-lined streets. Our destination for the evening was on the main street of town: Della Fattoria Bakery and Cafe.

At night the interior glows with warmth, and the bohemian décor makes me feel like I’ve stepped into a Toulouse-Lautrec painting, a lovely pink painting where everyone is witty and looks beautiful. It really is a wonderful place to be.

And then there is the food. The bread with the perfect crumb that is ever so slightly redolent of the fire it was baked with. Words fail me when I try to describe this bread. You have to taste it.

The salad is made of the freshest greens, grown either by the wonderful Weber family, who own Della Fattoria, or by a local farmer whose name I am likely to recognize. In fields I may know from my childhood.

And then there was ravioli, made fresh for the evening. One was stuffed with rainbow chard, Bellwether Farm Crescenza cheese, made just down the road, and pancetta. It was served in a proscuitto cream sauce (yum). The pasta had been kneaded back in the kitchen, on the same counters I would walk past later that evening.

We ate our meal, and talked and laughed, and drank our wine, and the evening felt like a Hemingway story—weighted with simple pleasure and set in memory so that months and even years later it could be brought out and it would have lost none of it’s sheen.

Remember that time we drove to Petaluma for dinner?

The entire café feels that way, full of stories that are unfolding, people whose lives intersect for an evening to share wine, break bread, sit together at a communal table. People whose laughter intermingles for a brief moment in time. For me, these are the times I remember.

And the wine glasses are kept filled.

Of course the best of evenings still must come to an end, and this one does with a perfect Meyer lemon tart. The whipped cream was piped on by the Weber family grandson, who sometimes pitches in at the café. He's my favorite busboy, at no more than ten years old. I hear he’s socking away his tips.

After a warm hug from Kathleen Weber, we are sent off into the evening with the gift of a loaf of bread tucked under our arm.

We make our way back to the bright city, on the highway this time, now empty and free from traffic. And even though we’ve been gone only hours it feels much longer, like we’re coming back from a vacation instead of just dinner. The hours somehow stretched themselves out, filled a space that had been empty without our even knowing it. In the time we’ve been gone, we’ve breathed and laughed and been cared for with good food. In those few hours we’ve lived.

I won't soon forget it. And every Friday I will long to be there again.

Happy weekend, everyone. I hope you get to do something spontaneous soon!

Read more about Della Fattoria and their Friday night dinners

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If you're lucky enough to get to spend an evening with the Weber Family at Della Fattoria, enjoy it for me please. There is honestly no place I'd rather be on a Friday evening than sitting at their table in that pretty pink light, laughing with friends.