I reflect at the end of every year. How was the past year? What opportunities were lost? Did I make a difference? I'll then turn to the new year and start making a list of goals or resolutions for the next 12 months that quickly begins to sound like the work of an overachiever.
But lately, I've begun making a life list -- things to do before I die. This is better; after all, I have the rest of my life to accomplish these things. And fun. My list includes travel, new adventures and experiences, new people and places. And whimsical. The list doesn't need to be rational, necessarily includes fantasy, and the typical barriers, such as time and money, are temporarily ignored.A big part of my list involves food. Being part of a farm catapults our family into the world of food. Daily, we're surrounded by it; our hands are sunk deep into it; we make a livelihood from it. I write stories inspired by it.My goal is to create a "food life list" -- food experiences before I die.I want to eat real muscats. We once raised them when I was a kid. The bunches grew on small vines, and the meaty berries were fat. Bite into one and the distinct flavor, sweet yet mellow, burst in your mouth. You could smell the taste.But part of the experience was eating them outside, preferably in the vineyard. Why? Because I enjoyed spitting out the seeds. You picked and popped a berry into your mouth, chewed and selectively swallowed (separating the seed), then spit -- often at your sister or brother next to you. Or in a decadent style, you just randomly spit anywhere, as if you owned the place and could do what ever you pleased.What freedom. Were I inside, I would have awkwardly slipped the seed into a napkin. In Europe, I've seen people nonchalantly deposit seeds in their hands (although then I'd be tempted, pretending no one was watching, to let them tumble from my palm to the floor. I'd make a rude guest, no?).In America, we've shifted to a seedless culture, not wanting to deal with such situations. Instead, I think of my muscats as "outdoor food" that must include seeds and spitting as part of the culinary experience.I love wild rice, the more wild the better. I've heard of Native American tribes in Northern Minnesota, who still use canoes and gather the rice by hand. My food life list includes not only the consumption but also the process of growing and harvesting. Does this rice taste differently, especially if I participate in the process? I'd like to think so, because then I know the story behind my food.Stories figure prominently in my food dreams. We have family in Wisconsin, and their hunting culture is linked with foods. They've given us gifts. Once we received venison summer sausage in honor of one cousin's first deer. The gamy taste, combined with stories of "little John's" rite of passage, created a wonderful flavor. I could taste the wild of nature.I want to taste real wasabi. Not the pasty, green stuff you typically find with sushi; that's made from a horseradish with a clean-out-your-sinuses taste. Real wasabi is a very delicate plant, often found only near mountain streams with a constant flow of cool water. When served with sushi, the root is grated, and the spicy "heat" has a mellow, rounded flavor, lasting only for a few hours when exposed to air. Best served extremely fresh.The keen sense of timing makes me want to try some even more. As a farmer, I enjoy learning about the temperamental wasabi: Growing something this good is supposed to be hard. It rewards the skills of the diligent farmer who adopts an artisan approach and the added mystique makes it even more worthwhile.Marcy, my wife, longs for two fantasy foods. First, she hungers for fresh raspberries with a flavor that explodes in your mouth. You probably can't buy these -- you have to hunt for them, possibly growing wild in the upper Midwest. Also, she longs for real buttermilk. It begins on the farm with fresh milk and the making of butter the old-fashioned way: churning. This results in a liquid (a byproduct of the process): not the sour or tangy cultured buttermilk I'm used to, but a quenching liquid that's sweet.All these dreams have something in common: the farmer and the farm.My food life list centers around "placed food," knowing where your food comes from and the stories behind the food. Muscats, wild rice, wasabi -- all products from the land they're grown on. Raspberries and buttermilk, Marcy's experiences, don't come from a grocery store.The French term terroir, or "sense of place," manifests my quest: Before I die, I want to eat not only these foods but feel the places they come from and participate in the discovery of what makes them so special. I want meaning with my food, the land a contributing character leading to a great story.We in the Valley know many of these stories. They're in the fields people sail by in their cars driving down the freeway, part of the landscape others pass through on their way to the big city or mountains. We have the opportunity to share these life adventures, combining a sense of place and history with the rich foods grown here.I want to explore the new and old world cultures of our Valley and seek perfection. Would fresh, organic grape leaves make a difference in Armenian or Greek sarma? Could you roll tender, baby grape leaves into a yalanche (vegetarian sarma) with a seasonal filling and call it part of the new California cuisine?Add to the new mix an ethnic diversity and our food life list table is full. The Valley's new immigrants bring their own food dreams. The fusion of their new produce and cuisine with our Valley climate and land can make for a fantastic new culinary adventure. The bitter melon here must taste wonderfully different from those in Vietnam. The Valley's chilies, tomatoes and fresh produce, combined with a blend of Mexico's flavors, are something we can claim as our own -- not greasy Tex-Mex, but something new.Finding perfection isn't easy, but I'm willing to work for food. I don't want the ordinary. I want to strive for the best. And complete my food life list before I die. Delicious and priceless.