Only I wasn’t in Italy. I found myself in Napa on occasion of a work retreat I had the unenviable job of planning. And, god how I hate being in charge of those kind of logistics.

Here’s what I learned growing up in a large family and evolving into the youngest child, whose role was apparently, table setting, celery stuffing with cream cheese or doing whatever the fuck the mater needed me to do to get things done before the onslaught of holiday dining, I don’t suck at planning gatherings. I get the logistics. I sort of can figure out some other human beings different wants and needs. (Although, admittedly, I care a whole fucking lot less about their wants, if I’m in charge.) And, I know that the dessert usually comes later, the snacks earlier.

Overall, though, it cranks my anxious self into high gear. You just can’t sit the fuck down, enjoy or take it all in when there are 20 folks needing you to get them food, beds, beverages and a reasonably (a definition by which mileage can vary hugely) quiet room in which to be trapped and meeting. There’s always something or the tension of anticipating something.

As a side note, my usual anti-nurturing self was in its usual simmer for not wanting to deal with adults who were too hot, too cold or whatever state or condition I can’t control. My usual, though, was stumped by this year’s twist — not one, but two women telling me their ghost in the hotel room experiences. Just do what I do ladies, neurotically toss and turn all night. Ghosts don’t fuck with insomniacs.

One thing I learned back in the sous chef days of adolescence and family holidays, though, is the planner gets to make some choices. Like once I tried real cranberry sauce, I could effectively embargo the canned shit. This time around, choices were made and I am pretty sure I ate this last night. I think it was that. It was leafy and succulent and weird and salty-ish and crispy.

Why might have I eaten a weed by my own choice? Because a visit to Napa is all about food. Actually, pretty much all of Northern California is all about food snobbery and fresh and simple and dining and sauces and ethnicities and all manner of ways in which mankind can elevate gluttony into high art and eating and drinking into some kind of religious experience. In wine country, that kind of bullshit is taken to a whole new level.

In addition to your basic catered hotel meeting fare with a whole lot of snacking going on, I had to pick some restaurants for group dining enjoyment. When I figured out a celebrity-esque chef was whipping out a lot of major–publication reviewed vegetables, I had to give Ubuntu a whirl. Plus, you know, Linux distro good karma.

I ate shit like farro, which if it was good enough for the Roman guard, it’s good enough for effete Napa snobs. There were also ox-heart and purple haze carrots, ice plant and fingerling potatoes. I also ate pesto encrusted olives. Normally, I fucking HATE eating an olive, what with all that olive flavor, but these organic little nuggets were converting me. I think there was some bacon or something hidden in there, because they were mighty tasty.

Turns out you can fill up on biodynamic produce. Also turns out there are many fine local Napa bottles of wine than can make this shit go down even smoother. Add in the fact that work paid for 20 of us to gang up on the “community table” and, well, yeah, I did it, I ate vegetarian.

Better yet, if you are in charge of herding 20 people over to a dinner, and seeing someone pays and all, them yoga loving hippies (’cause what highly rated restaurant isn’t also a yoga studio?) are pretty chill hosts. We were a half-hour late and raucous, and unlike just about every other restaurant in the county they didn’t require faxing and repeated in writing confirmation.

Peace, love, farro, and zinfandel, y’all.

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