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Last night we ate beef patties in the shape of Texas. The Husband spotted them during his last grocery store run and wrangled them right into the cart. They’re called “Bubba Burgers” and they also come resembling the U.S.A. “Now, that’s just over the top,” said The Husband. Clearly, his patriotism has parameters.

Like true ranchers (we live in a ranch-style house. Does that count? ), we gorged ourselves well into the evening, reclining in the warm moonlight and counting lightening bugs until it was time for bed.

Then, early this morning I got on a plane to San Francisco. Four hours in the air and suddenly I’m in Union Square, my mother, sissy and I storming the Post Street H and M (my favorite European one-stop shopping). Then fast forward to the Ferry Building and we’re grabbing three seats at Ferry Plaza Seafood- crab cakes on sourdough, clam chowder and Chardonnay. And the Bay, blue and bright, right there- just how I remember it. Salty and delicious. It takes only a few deep breaths of Pacific air to confirm that I am home.

Talk about a change in scenery.

I love that about traveling, especially early morning flights or even better, the red eye. You leave one place, fall asleep and drool on your neighbor, and wake up somewhere completely different or absolutely familiar. It’s disorienting and refreshing. It shakes me awake. In fact, I was shaking in H and M. I was in the dressing room trying on tweed cropped trousers when my hand started to shake. That’s when I realized I was kamikaze shopping and I hadn’t even had my coffee yet. Never a good idea.

So, I’m in the Bay Area for a week: doing some production work, visiting with family and friends, reacquainting myself with the smells of eucalyptus and fog. The Husband and man-children are on their own. I arrived in flip-flops and short sleeves (what an idiot), and was quickly reminded that in Northern California, one dresses in layers. Always. Only in Austin is it still hot in late October.

Now, I’m in socks and long sleeves and wrapped in a blanket. I’m at my mom and stepdad’s house, where the Red Sox are playing in the other room and green beans are simmering on the stove. I feel very cozy, content and safe. And the Sonoma County wine isn’t bad, either. Isn’t it funny? In just a matter of hours, you can depart from one home and land in another. Last night I was the stepmom in Texas. Tonight, I’m the California kid.

Image courtesy of Ferry Plaza Seafood