I’m a crossing guard at the intersection of Food, Adventure, and Natural Systems.
We were shucking oysters at the picnic tables at Hog Island Oyster Farm on Tomales Bay. The sun was low across the water and a web of light danced on our glasses.
“Is it like this in New York?” she asked.
I wrote this piece five years ago, as the Red Sox and their very strange park were in the process of snatching defeat from the jaws of victory and beginning an unprecedented and unhinged run of last place, first place, last place, last place, and now first place finishes. As playoff…
