As our interlude draws to a close,

I am sad to admit that...

I must start reading (or at least scanning) news stories again. You know something is amiss when your apolitical mom calls to inform you that America has lost its AAA credit rating, and 30 US soldiers were gunned down over Afghanistan ("What? You didn't know? Do we not live in the same state? Oh by the by, Costco is having a sale on contact lens solution- $2 off! Go go go.") while you were so blissfully ignoring the world, working through 3+ years of accumulated cookbook stacks, simmering down sauces, browning pies, adorning cakes.

I am never sure how I feel about keeping up with the political Joneses. Sometimes it feels more like this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P7VgNQbZdaw

than the practice of broadening your perspectives. Or whatever it is reading the news does for you.

I will, however, miss the SF Chronicle, for its glossy print, for its unabashedly partisan coverage, for its anxiously grammatical sentences and luxurious centerfold pictures. For Jon Carroll and the ghosts of Herb Caen, and Food&Wine Wednesdays, and 96 Hours Thursdays, and Travel-Editorial-Funnies-Insert Sundays.

I will miss Berkeley, and its personality, and its personalities, and the professors you can have tea with, and also the ones that flake on you.

I will miss salted caramel macarons and avocado-mâche-frisée-champagne-vinaigrette salads (forever pedestaled by their unpronounceable-ness) and the view of the bay from Grizzly Peak, and wild turkeys strutting atop the chem library, and the crusty, bumpy bus ride into San Francisco- the way the tourmaline ocean sparkles as you leave Oakland behind, refracting the sea-salty smell --like many rays of sunshine-- into the cracks of the AC Transit window.

I will miss the wheelers and dealers who adorn Telegraph like so many raw gems, and the wholesome indignity of Berkeley Bowl shoppers at 7pm rush hour. I will miss the way the houses segue into one another with brassy, nonchalant candor. Royal blue Victorian mansions that lean into the chain-link fences of tract homes, the shady oaks of Craftsmen bungalows.

I will miss,

Rick and whatever-you-can-man, and the Taiko drummers on campus. The crush of young families strolling College Avenue on a Saturday afternoon, and the evening readings at Pegasus and Mrs. Dalloway's.

I will miss the San Pablo opera-house Dollar Tree (and continue to wonder if anyone inhabits the upper balcony pews.)

I will miss Philz' Anesthesia to the Upside, (and the establishment's stolid inability to hand you the cream) and homemade orange-cinnamon morning buns out of a bin.

I will miss Zellerbach's pale golden lights on a Friday night. $13 tickets. The late-night noodles that follow each performance. The last happy stragglers in the contented evening crowd, returning home.

Goodbye, home! I hope we'll meet again. 'Til then though, I suppose my place lies with the Register-Guard.