Tony is in Canada, so I am the guest blogger this week.

Last year, when finances required us to cut back, we canceled all of our wine club memberships. The one we were most sad to lose was Geyser Peak. Not only did they send us the coolest wines (Tannat, anyone?), but we were always treated so well in their tasting room. We recently joined their club once again and were pleased to receive an invitation to their September Wine Club Release Party. Pack up the Prius…we’re heading to Healdsburg.

As you may remember from a previous posting, we spent the 4th of July weekend in Healdsburg hitting the list of Visa Signature wineries for complimentary tastings. This trip we planned to visit any wineries we’d missed. We even decided to (gasp) make a reservation at Mutt Lynch Winery, which is open by appointment only.

Mutt Lynch Winery has the motto, “Apply Dog Logic to Life: Eat Well, Be Loved, Get Petted, Sleep A lot, Dream of a Leash-Free World.” With a Muttitage (their version of a Meritage) red blend and an Unleashed Chardonnay, the dog theme runs through their product list. They’ll even host a Bark Mitzvah for your puppy!

Our next stop was Vizlay Winery (T-Bone, the black lab pictured above, gave us a tour) to taste some Prosecco. John Vizlay has a row of Prosecco (or Glera) grapes in the vineyard and makes a version that is less sweet than many of the Proseccos you’ll find in a local store. Too bad that he’ll have to start labeling his Brut to avoid hearing from the Prosecco Police. (Champagne? Better make that Sparkling Wine.)

The previous evening was spent at Geyser Peak with two new friends, Bert and Yvonne. Bert retired from the real estate business in San Francisco and now lives in Healdsburg full time. He and Yvonne met when he represented her in a transaction. Yvonne was a woman of mystery, having lived in a million places. She kept whispering to Tony and me, “You should move to Healdsburg,” which later became, “You should buy my house,” and then, “You should buy my dump.” We parted company only when we realized that the Release Party had ended 30 minutes prior, and the oh-so-gracious Geyser Peak staff was starting to clean up the joint.

The best part of the entire trip, though, was Diavola Pizzeria and Salumeria. Oh. My. I do think that we found where everyone in Geyserville goes on a Saturday night. The line was almost out the door and yet we were seated within ten minutes. A nice carafe of local wine, a Cha Cha Cha pizza (mmmm, pork belly) and we were set. We slept well that night, let me tell you.

The Trip to Bounty-Full

We actually had a decent crop of produce this year, with our newly oriented garden and raised beds all relocated to the backyard.

We had so many small Juliet tomatoes (the gift that keeps on giving), that even now, they keep Kathy sprinting. The programmable coffee maker comes on, the kitties rally for food, and Kath opens the sliding door for another harvest of “les tomates.”

Words that I would never have thought would be uttered by Kathy? “I wish these tomato plants would just die.”

And …. Scene.

So why the hell did Kath approach me last Sunday while I was adding the half-and-half to the coffee to ask, “So when do you want to leave for the U-pick?”

There is laundry list to do, an overdue blog post to proof, an abundance of tomato in our own backyard (finally!), and K wants to go U-pick! I’m thinking that this broad is nuts. And it’s not like Sunday is a picnic for her: She makes lunches, plans dinners for the week, and buys groceries for same. But she always likes to plan an adventure for her 2 days off. (More on that stuff next time; so wrong.)

We head to the agricultural wild fringes of the City of Brentwood, and Enos Family Farms. We, of course, being successful tomato farmers (this year), did not need any more produce. Yeah, right. Here’s the hook-up:

We got lots of Heirlooms, but it was so sad to see the orphan tomatoes on the ground.

So, Kathy and I walked away with lots of tomatoes and last-o-the-season strawberries. The take-away? When you have beautiful stuff, do not mess with it. For us, here, a bit of nice olive oil and herbs from the garden does the trick. And even over-ripe strawberries can get the flavor-party started.

The cool thing was that Kathy remembered a recipe from 20 years ago, during which one would set the oven to 350 degrees, and roast the tomato halves until caramelized.

For the last week’s regular menu, we have had slow-roasted tomatoes on the side of the featured dish, sprinkled with fresh herbs from our garden. And while sipping strawberry Daiquiris, made from, yes, our U-pick bounty, Kathy whipped up a bunch of soup utilizing our tomatoes, herbs, and garlic and onion. In any other part of the world, this would be “end of season.” It seems that in California, even Northern Cali, a “season” is relative.

No mutiny on this bounty; I go back to visit my folks in Canada next week, and still do not know what to pack. Yep, I am spoiled.

Aw, Shucks!

Yep, it happened again.

A few times every year, Kathy gets a jones for fresh oysters on the half shell. The other weekend, when we were strolling past a bistro on the downtown Sonoma Plaza, K skidded to a stop in front of the posted menu. It featured raw oysters, and she was almost prepared to drop over 30 clams to share a dozen with me.

Figuring that that sum would buy another bottle of wine for the cellar, she wisely decided that that may not have been the most prudent use of funds. As last week’s post noted, we moved on to another tasting room. Or two.

But the next week, Kath was jonesin’, man, and the ‘Nam flashback of Seattle-area seafood was, well, not “seared” into, because that’s not how we like our bivalves, but certainly on-the-half shell-shocking our brains.

Not sure if you remember, but here in CoCo County, far East Bay, any retail seafood available is “previously frozen for quality.” We’re not in the Pacific Northwest anymore.

Last Christmas, when Kathy and I needed to scratch our mollusk itch, we drove the 16 miles from Oakley to the eastern end of our BART rail line to arrive, an hour later, into San Fran for a bacchanalian feed of raw oysters from, among other West Coast beds, California’s Tomales Bay. Expensive, but a perfect week-before-Christmas sojourn. Get thee behind me, Heat Miser!

And then, the week before Labor Day, Kath suggests that, for oysters, we go to the source. She hits Google Maps and the next thing I know, we’re on the road to Tomales Bay Oyster Company on California Highway 1.

Tomales Bay is very much like Puget Sound in WA state: People think that they’re at the Pacific Ocean, but there’s an entire western land mass jutting out to protect you from, oh, I don’t know: sneaker waves, tsunamis, salmon attacks?

Very reminiscent of the two-lane highway, twisty-turny roads that Kathy and I have encountered on WA’s Olympic Peninsula, Napa-to-Sonoma’s Oakville Grade or Highway 128, and yes, the route to oysters.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I am here to tell you that Tomales Bay Oyster Co. was the coolest joint. I can not begin to describe the oyster experience, but that will not stop me from trying.

OK, first, cash only. Kathy and I made sure to arm ourselves with five 20s from the Oakley ATM. We left the house at 9 a.m., expecting a 2-hour drive west toward Bodega Bay because the facility opens at 11 a.m. I guess not on holidays. We arrived at 11:02, were able to get a picnic table, and watched as folks arriving 30 minutes later were asking if we’d be leaving soon, and, if so, would we let them know.

Look, I know that the last paragraph sounds pathetic, but you have to know how we, as first-timers, dug this. Frankly, I have never seen Kathy so happy. She kept repeating how cool everybody was. Almost every picnic table was positioned in front of a BBQ grill. The head of a family of eight came over to tell us that they were done with it, and that we could use it. The guys beside us had a case of Ashanti beer and one bottle of Chablis, but they forget the corkscrew. It was not until I remarked, “Wow, you guys have the right idea,” that he said that he saw that we had an opener. He was not even going to ask to borrow our corkscrew, until we actually offered.

Check it: K, upon arrival, does recon: find one table, hold, find one better. And that’s what happened, and that’s why other folks wanted our table. Now, you all can see the photo and check the bayside vibe at Tomales Bay Oyster Co. I can not explain it, but can this be a Labor Day tradition?

Just gotta say, Kathy had the sense to get me to pack the picnic basket with a couple of plates and wine tumblers, oyster shucking knives and gloves. To dine, and I say “dine” because that is what Kathy and I did this midday, is one of the coolest things that we have ever done together. She packed a separate insulated bag with cubbies for a couple of bottles of crisp Muscadet Sur Lie, and we made short order of them and a mesh bag of 50 Tomales Bay bivalves. The whole scene was very busy, packed and high energy, but the whole crowd was very civilized and friendly. Oysters, wine and a well-behaved crowd: Heaven.

Another highlight of the day occurred on the highway. That section of Highway 1 in Marin zigs and zags pretty severely, with only one lane in each direction. Some bozo in the car behind is riding our tail. Although we were obeying the speed limit, we, and the several cars ahead of us, obviously was making him impatient. We watched in shock as this doorknob proceeds to cross the double-yellow lines to pass every vehicle, one by one. Kathy and I were aghast, and uncharitably wished that we’d see him in the ditch up ahead.

We needn’t have wished for an injury: The only cop we saw on our road trip that day had already pulled Passing Pete over, about a mile up the road.

Champenoise and a Checkered Flag

So, last Sunday was our little exercise in vinous multitasking. Cline was hosting a club members’ party to pick up the latest selections, but since it didn’t start until 2 p.m., Kathy and I thought that we’d, to paraphrase Frank’s rendition of “Nice and Easy,” make a few stops along the way.

We thought that it would be oh-so-civilized to begin the day just past Cline to sip a flute of sparkling wine at Sonoma’s Gloria Ferrer; they’re a participant in the VISA Signature complimentary promo, but the last time we pulled up, they were hosting a special event and the tasting room was closed. This last weekend was magical chez Gloria.

But first, we had to run the Highway 12 cones at Infineon Raceway, this weekend the home to the Indy Grand Prix of Sonoma.

Now, Kath and I used to live in San Fran 13 years ago, and we’ve made this trek many times. Hell, in the 2 years we’ve lived in Oakley, we’ve made this trip, from the opposite direction, as many times. But this is the first time that we’ve hit the highway on race day.

California Highway Patrol is directing traffic into the various gates, as everyone, whether attending or passing through, is backed up on the drag; all traffic signals are set to flashing red. Actually, we’ve endured more frustration on our local Highway 4 than this semi-ordeal. And, hey, Helio Castroneves was competing. Today, as a driver, not on “Dancing With the Stars.”

So, Kath and I eventually get to Gloria Ferrer and its majestic facility. And the experience was both wonderful and hilarious. It’s a different experience, in that it’s more of a wine bar than a tasting room. One can get a teaser taste or two, but it’s primarily a joint at which to order a flute, sojourn to the patio and chill.

The patio overlooks the sloping vines, and on this gorgeously sunny ayem (see photo), we sipped our bubbles as the pitter-patter of INDY GRAND PRIX wafted over us! Kathy and I just had to crack up. Table service on the terrace didn’t hurt, either.

Our next stop, for the first time, was the downtown Sonoma Plaza, a quaint place that we’d tried to visit previously. It’s home to lots of tasting rooms, but the free diagonal parking disappears by morning, so every time K and I have tried to drop in, we’ve ended up circling the square, then abandoning the search in favor of continuing up 12 (the same main drag, BTW) toward Glen Ellen or Kenwood for other wineries up the Valley.

This time, we got here earlier, got parking, and got to experience many of the tasting rooms that have opened outposts downtown. Kinda liked we talked about a few weeks ago about the Walla Walla Woodinville tasting rooms. As usual, some places were more welcoming than others; again, the staff sells the show. Does not hurt when the winemaker is on site. Such was the case in the Plaza chez Westwood, our last stop downtown before hitting the Cline clambake.

Now, Cline has the wildest wine club. They have multiple tiers: reds, whites or mixed. But one can substitute anything on their roster for anything else. And one gets the same 25% discount. And that’s what happened when we showed up for our first party.

Great time: lots of wine, servers with silver trays and tons of people who want to share your table. Seriously, very cool.