Life of the party

Ahhh, Farmers Market Saturdays, my favorite day of the week. Oh glorious mounds of fresh, expensive organic produce, how you long to be taken home with me, placed in the fridge and hoped to be eaten before time rots you away. My crazy schedule has kept us apart and I recognize that the lull in our weekly (sometimes bi-weekly) encounter has been long and hard on our relationship. Don't feel neglected. I haven't cheated on you. Oh...how can I lie? I have. I have bought my fruits and veg from grocers scattered throughout the Bay Area. It has been convenient, but I say with earnest that it hasn't been fun. 

Yesterday my new roommate Ellie and I hiked our way through our neighboring hood of Bernal Heights to make it to the Alemany Farmers market. I had read that this particular market was renowned for its' amazing bounty. We looped our way over the winding hills that pass through this very charming and sleepy section of the city. I wanted to take it home and put it on my shelf...it is adorable.

The pita man and first stand we see has a delicious spread of fried pita chips decorated in both lemon and garlic and our excited fingers reach into the bag to sample. The pita man loves that we are girls so he flirts to try and get us to purchase one of his fluorescent orange dips. We explain that no purchase can be made at a farmers market until a full circle has been made through the vendors, eyeing all that is out for offer. I remember his eyes and gigantic smile though, and know that I will be back for an exchange. 

The next stand brings us to a Sikh man selling samosas and chutneys. "Wahe Guru Ji Ka Khalsa, Wahe Guru Ji Ki Feteh!" My hands meet at heart center, my head slightly bowed as I greet him a Satnam. The look on his face is the same as all Indian Sikhs face when I greet them like so. I see the wheels in their thoughts turning...how the hell does she know that? She neither dons a turban nor a sari. Then I ask where he lives and that I have been to his homeland where I was robbed and didn't get to see the Golden Temple. We taste his yummy compotes and move it on down the line to the bread man...where we don't even stop.

The produce stalls. My favorite. Hoards of various shades of green in piles and piles. Swiss chard, spinach and basils of many varieties. The monotone of envy bleeds into the glowing balls of optimism where oranges and tangerines and clementines fight for the top spot on the mound where greedy hands will grab and peel and devour their insides. Walnuts. Boxes and boxes of walnuts summoning us with Omega-3 promises of brain power and stamina. We buy a bag and spot cherries. How can you resist cherries? You can't. So we buy some of those too.

I want mushrooms but this market has none so we make out way back to the Sikh table for some provisions. There are now 2 tan leathered faces, silvered beards and dimpled cheeks. The original hits on Ellie and asks her on a date. The newest addition tells me that he has not been back to the Punjab in 12 whole years and that I must marry a Khalsa (a Sikh man) or I will not live a happy life. I tell him that my good friends live in Amritsar and he says he knows them but that is impossible. I think he just doesn't understand English that well? I buy a batch of his cilantro chutney and we Namaste each a happy, long eternal life.

The rounds have been made and this little market that I thought was going to be much grander is closing up shop. We stop back at the Pita man stand and I buy some 5 whole wheat rounds. "This will make some good dipping triangles for the chutney," I tell Ellie.  "I will bring it to the party tonight...it will be such a smashing hit."

We stop at the store for some cake baking ingredients and head home to get lost in chocolate cake batter. Ellie's boyfriend is also a Taurus which means he has recently celebrated a birthday. Him and their friends are hosting a little celebration so we thought that we would bring some delicious food so that people would like us more.

Upon arrival to the party I note the chips and dip that are strewn about on the table are looking meager. I quickly introduce myself to the crowd telling them they are not to worry, more pupus have arrived. I lay out the tantalizing green dip and watch some hungry hands attack the plate. Someone mentions the smell is garlicky. Everyone nods in agreeance as they chew.

"Yeah, and there are peanuts in it too. Weird huh? Peanuts. An odd ingredient for a cilantro chutney...if I would say so," I announced. "Beware if anyone has a nut allergy."

A sudden look of seriousness drowns my once potential new friends. I may have said something to bother.

"What? You're kidding right," says Josh.

"No way. Oh no." Says someone else.

I lift the lid that lists the recipe and there, the only element in capital letters, is the words PEANUTS. 

"I am afraid so," I shyly mutter.

"Great...see you all tomorrow," Josh whispers.

He takes a swig of his beer and disappears to his neighboring apartment in search for an epinephrine pen. My Cilantro Chutney bought from my Sikh friend Simran is now causing this poor, innocent party-goer an anaphylactic reaction. This response to peanuts can be fatal and certainly can end a night of drinking early. I suppose I saw that all going a bit different. I was so wrong in thinking I would be the life of the party because I brought munchies to a group of munchers. Oh how I was wrong. 

"It's not your fault," some reassured. "He needs to be more careful," others reinforced. But still...I couldn't drop the guilt.

Throughout the night we were fed reports on his status.

"He's fine. However, he accidentally used an expired epi pen so now he is nervous and unsure if he she use another, legit one. If he calms down I am sure he will be ok."

"He called his dad for advice on what to do. He wants to be left alone."

"We will go check on him. Too many people might make him anxious. It is best if we go alone."

"We are taking him to the hospital...just...in...case."

I certainly altered the dynamic of the party. Instead of enjoying culinary masterpieces from around the world and enjoying homemade chocolate cake, people were concerned that my lame hors d'oeuvre was slowly killing their friend. Tiny whispers were made in intimate conversations. "Did you hear Josh is going to the hospital?" 

Hmmmm, will I later be coined a killer and ruiner of all things fun within this realm of friends? Maybe it was the less of two evils. What if I had brought the cherries instead. I would feel even worse had we been chomping cherries and in saying something hilarious and witty caused someone to choke violently on a pit. And since I am the nurse it would have been added pressure not only to provide safe and edible-for-everyone food but also the CPR and Heimlich maneuver. I couldn't show my face again had that concept slipped through my hands. Yes, I am reassured that the chutney was the better option. 

So let this be a lesson. Either never bring food to parties or always pre-warn guests with a detailed list of ingredients in all dishes. You never know when a sensitive allergist is on the inside circle.