My favorite waterfall is hard to reach, so I've only had to share it with my dog

Spring is a great time to visit waterfalls, so I recently made the long trek to my favorite one. And for the third time in a row, the only other soul I had to share the experience with was my dog.

That was cool.

Being able to soak in all that cascading water for as long as I want without mobs of selfie-takers waiting (or often not waiting) their turn is the main reason why that waterfall has become my favorite.

I also love that you have to WORK to reach it. You need to hike about 4.5 miles from the parking lot at the Valley View Trailhead to see the waterfall. And about half of that distance is uphill, including a mile of full-on, legs-and-lungs-burning uphill that always has me asking, "When is this going to stop?!"

But once you emerge from the trees and reach the top of the ridge, you're rewarded with sweeping views on either side, the Ukiah Valley on your right and the Mayacamas Mountains on your left. If the pond on the right is full and you've also brought your dog, they can take a dip while you enjoy the wildflowers, bees and butterflies until you see a bench and should begin looking for a trail heading left.

There's no sign marking this trail, just the sound of rushing water leading you into a canyon that turns cooler and greener with every step, always making me feel as if I've stumbled upon a secret world. Only once you reach the creek do you find a sign announcing that you're now on the Mayacamas Trail, and walked 3.7 miles from your car at Mill Creek County Park. Turn left again to head to the waterfall.

This board was the only evidence that others walked to the waterfall recently.

I know sharing the waterfall's existence here might lead more people to check it out, but I've written about it multiple times in the Ukiah newspaper I write for and still the crowds leave it alone.

It might be because the waterfall doesn't have a name, so it can't easily be listed on a Top Ten list or even a map, and there aren't any signs on the trail telling you that the waterfall exists or how to find it. So unless you already know where it is or get horribly lost, you're not going to reach it.

It might be because I've always hiked to it on a weekday, but that doesn't seem to make a difference for other waterfalls, especially those near the Mendocino Coast. When I hiked to another waterfall in a forest after driving several miles on a very sketchy dirt road off Highway 20 in the middle of a non-holiday Monday, I found two men perched in front of the water with tripods who had driven all the way from Tennessee to take pictures of it. Why? Because that waterfall has a name, it's much closer to the coast, and it's included in many lists of the best waterfalls in Northern California.

This waterfall also might not draw the crowds because Ukiah doesn't have quite enough to attract people from The Bay Area to drive up here for the weekend or even a day (other than another green plant that doesn't grow near waterfalls, of course.) But this waterfall doesn't even seem to attract people who live closer.

That might be because locals know Cow Mountain is full of ticks. I always find at least one crawling on me if not attached to my stomach, and my dog never leaves that trail without DOZENS of them on her. After one visit I took off more than 40.

Or they might know that much of the year the trail is very hot, and you have to carry a lot of water for you and your dog if the seasonal streams have dried up.

Or they might know that there's a gun range at the top of Cow Mountain, and often you can not only hear the gunshots echoing off the mountain, you'll swear sometimes you can feel bullets whizzing by. Because of that, I don't recommend using the trail on the weekends or holidays with clear weather until the summer heat has settled in and the gun range has been closed due to fire danger.

Have I dissuaded you yet? Good. If not, here is how to get there:

The Valley View Trail is reached by a short drive from Ukiah beginning east on Talmage Road, taking a right on Old River Road and then a left on Mill Creek Road. After passing the ponds, you will come to a trail sign on the left and parking on the right near a port-a-potty.

For my Sweet Sixteen, my mom couldn’t bake me a cake. So my best friend did.

On my sixteenth birthday, I woke to find a wonderful surprise: My friend Mechele had baked me a cake and snuck it into my kitchen. Next to the note wishing me a Happy Birthday, she even left me matches for the candles.

That was cool. 

Living in the same town again after I graduated college.

Especially since a few months earlier my mother had died, so this was the first birthday morning I didn’t jump out of bed. Knowing my father did’t care to celebrate birthdays, I wasn’t sure there was anything worth jumping out of bed for.

But Mechele made sure there was. And though she couldn’t spend the day with me, she made it a very Sweet Sixteen.

For another birthday about 10 years later she played Mom again when I was living in Chile. She sent me a care package with books, treats and something only Mechele would think to mail me. After I told her I was spending a lot of time with a sexy Australian guy and could not find a store that sold contraceptives, Mechele sent me condoms that made another birthday celebration possible. 

A few years after that, she sent me another Mom-style gift I still have. When I moved to Seattle and told her how many sweaters and long johns I was buying to adjust to the cold, she sent me a care package with a cozy and colorful blanket she knitted.

Today, that afghan lies on my bed and Mechele still sends me packages of things I “need,” which these days is nothing more than a box of salted caramels. But next time I need something more important, I know Mechele will put it in the mail for me.

December 2022 love gift from Mechele: Some of the delicious honey her backyard bees made.

I never thought I'd get a tattoo. Then I met Lyle Tuttle.

My freshly inked bird.

I interviewed legendary tattoo artist Lyle Tuttle at the perfect time in my life.
I was about to turn 41, the age my mother was when she killed in a car crash, and couldn't decide how to mark that milestone.
But as I listened to Lyle describe how he didn't need pictures of all the places he'd been or the people he'd met because he carried them on his body, collecting tattoos everywhere like "stickers on luggage," I knew exactly what I wanted to do.

That was cool.

At the time, I had a necklace my mother wore in high school that I put on whenever I wanted her close to me, especially on airplanes. But the necklace irritated my skin, and there was always the chance I'd leave it behind.
So if I got a tattoo on my arm, something small and discreet I could look at whenever I needed to, that seemed like the perfect way to carry her with me always.
I decided to get a bird since my mother loved them so much, and found a simple drawing of a hummingbird I liked online. Knowing I wanted a friend who lived in San Francisco to come with me and that I would prefer a woman to draw on me, I found a female tattoo artist in that city whose work I liked and made an appointment near my birthday.

The drink of courage.

After a stiff drink at a neighborhood bar with my friend, I headed over to get my ink. At first the artist resisted my choice, suggesting I might prefer original artwork to something I "just found on the Internet," but she soon agreed to do as I asked, only questioning me one more time when I explained to her where I wanted the bird.
"You do realize that if I put it there like that, it will be upside for everyone looking at it?"
"That's OK," I said. "It's for me to look at."
She smiled, then did exactly as I asked, and I could not be happier with it.
It is the perfect way to take my mother with me everywhere, helping me when my courage wanes, and reminding me that every day that bird is on my arm is a day she never had.
And I never would have thought to get my bird if I hadn't met Lyle. 

Lyle died Monday, March 25, at his home in Ukiah at the age of 87. Rest in peace, Lyle. And thanks.
 

Lyle said he liked being able to hide his tattoos "because they're mine."  (Photo by Chris Pugh/Ukiah Daily Journal)

Read more about Lyle's life here, including how he became fascinated with tattoos "when he was 10 years old and saw men returning from World War II with the ink, forever equating it with adventure, travel and escape from small towns such as Boonville and Ukiah."

Lessons from Lucy: Be more patient with everything that crosses my path

After we said good-bye to our cat Lucy, the animal hospital sent us a sympathy card, which is a very nice gesture I'd gotten before. But inside this one was something new: a piece of paper with ink prints made with her paws.

That was cool.

My husband thought the prints were made with a stamp, but I later learned they were indeed her paw prints. "And this is her paw, too," said the woman who gave me Lucy's ashes, handing me a clay disc with another paw print next to the cat's name. I smiled.
I loved that the staff at Yokayo Veterinary Hospital had taken the time to give us a small piece of Lucy to keep. And I love looking at those paw prints so much now that it surprises me, because I found it so hard to love that cat.

She was an eight-pound force that ruled our house for eight years, her stubbornness and loud meows trying our patience many times a day. 
My husband brought her home when his friend could no longer keep her and said she would likely go to a shelter. "She seemed so calm and sweet," my husband said.
But as soon as he put the cat in the car for the long drive home, she started yelling and never stopped, turning out to be the most annoying animal we have ever lived with. She became a cat version of my grandmother: hard to love, harder to like, but still impossible to give up on because she was family.

Lucy lives on.

Our house is much quieter and calmer now that she's gone.
But sometimes I still see her sprinting in front of my feet to direct them to her food bowl, a habit that made me swear with anger every damn time.
Only now do I realize she tripped me because I wasn't paying enough attention to, or being accepting of, life as it was right then.
Because if I were living in the moment, walking in my house instead of in my head, I would remember that Lucy was waiting in the hallway to fly in front of my legs when I walked to the bathroom.
And if I were accepting of Lucy, I would know that there was no use being angry at another being I can't control. And that instead of frustrating myself and others with futile attempts to change their behavior, I need to learn to walk past anger to acceptance.
 
So now I try and look at those prints every day to remind myself to be more patient with all things that cross my path. But especially the tiny creatures who have no other option but to throw themselves at my feet.

Trihuger's Treats: Chapter Five

(Chapter Four)

          

Suzie’s father was relieved then angry when she came home, though strangely lost interest in yelling at her as soon as he started. Without even punishing her, he sat back down at his desk and seemed to forget she was there as he began scribbling on a piece of paper and mumbling to himself. “No, I can’t go at night, then I can’t see him.”

          

“See who, the Berry man?” Suzie said, peeking over his shoulder to see what he was writing, but he quickly covered the paper. 

          

“Suzie, please,” he said sharply, then melted when he saw her face. “I’m sorry.” He turned the paper over and put an arm around her, sighing. “Oh, how I wish your mother were here. She would know what to do.”

          

“What to do about what?” Her father took a deep breath and stood up, leading Suzie away from the desk. “C’mon now, let’s get you to bed. I’ve got work to do.”

          

Suzie lay in bed for what seemed like hours, wondering what Mr. Trihuger had asked her father to do. If she knew what it was, maybe she could help him, since her mother no longer could. 

The next morning, though she had barely slept at all, Suzie sprang out of bed, hoping to catch her father before he left. But he wasn’t at his desk, and on the kitchen table she found breakfast waiting for her, along with a note. “I picked berries already for Mrs. Langley, and have an important errand to do. Don’t worry if I am not back before dark. This may take all day.” 

              

First disappointed that he was gone, Suzie quickly decided it would be much easier to find out things without him around. Getting dressed as fast as she could, she grabbed some food and launched out the door, nearly smacking into Oliver.

          

“Morning!” he said, grinning happily. 

          

Suzie already hated this cheerful new Oliver. “What are you doing here?”

          

“It’s a nice day. I thought we could go to the beach,” he said.

           

“Won’t you get your glasses wet?” Suzie grumbled, heading past him on the small path that led from her house to the larger path around the island. 

          

“I’m not going to go swimming, silly,” said Oliver, still cheerful, trotting behind her.

          

“Don’t call me silly!” Suzie snapped. “And why did your mom let you come here by yourself? Wasn’t she worried about the Berry Man?”

        

“No...I didn’t tell her about him,” he said.

         

“Hey,” she said, stopping to study his face. “Weren’t you worried about walking here by yourself? Didn’t you think you might run into him?”

         

Oliver shrugged. He was having so much fun looking at things with his glasses, he hadn’t thought about the Berry Man at all. “No, I guess not,” he said, smiling. 

          

Just another thing not to like about the new Oliver, Suzie thought, but she held her tongue this time, deciding now that he could see, he might be useful if they were to run into the Berry Man.

“Fine. I’ll go with you to the beach, but you have to go somewhere with me first,” she said, turning right onto the main path.

Oliver followed reluctantly until he realized they were heading to Mrs. Langley’s house, which he loved almost more than his own. If he could, he would spend all day at her back door, watching her hand out fresh, warm loaves of bread as he drank in the wonderful smells.

       

“You two are here early,” said Mrs. Langley, opening the top half of the door to her house after seeing the children approach. “I’m sorry, but your loaves aren’t quite ready yet.”

       

“I know, that’s OK,” Suzie said, handing Mrs. Langley the berries she was carrying. “My dad picked the berries today and he gets up a lot earlier than us.”

       

“Oh, I see,” Mrs. Langley said, looking down at Oliver, who was leaning over the door, his eyes closed. “Well, it shouldn’t be too much longer, so would you two like to come inside and wait?”

      

Mrs. Langley wiped her hands on her apron and pulled open the rest of the door, laughing as Oliver nearly tumbled inside. She led the children back to a large brick oven, where the wonderful smells were coming from.

       

“Careful, now. Please don’t touch anything, especially the oven,” Mrs. Langley said, standing in front of a table with several bowls that had towels draped over them. “The loaves need a few more minutes.”

          

She reached into a bowl of flour and rubbed it over her hands, then clapped them gently before lifting the towel off one of the bowls and pulling out a ball of dough. Oliver was entranced as she began to knead it into the counter, but Suzie squirmed impatiently. 

       

“Mrs. Langley?” Suzie said, so anxious she nearly barked. “Did – did you know my mother?”

       

Mrs. Langley stopped kneading and looked at Suzie, her face soft and eyes sad. “Yes. Yes, I did.”

        

“Were you a spy like her?” Suzie cried.

        

Mrs. Langley coughed, expecting a completely different question. “A spy? Where did you hear that?”

        

Suzie paused, wanting to tell her about the book and meeting Mr. Trihuger, but wasn’t sure she should. And before she could decide what to say instead, Mrs. Langley wiped her hands on her apron and put a hand on her shoulder. 

“Now, Suzie. Your mom was certainly brave and curious enough to be a spy, but she was never so rude as to spy on people,” she said, patting the girl before turning to Oliver. “Now, Sir Oliver — would you like to try kneading?” 

          

Oliver was so excited he could only nod, his eyes wide. “I thought you might,” said Mrs. Langley, smiling and reaching up to pull a clean rag off a shelf above her. “But first, let’s wipe those glasses off, they’re a bit steamy. By the way, where did you get those?”

          

Oliver froze, hoping Suzie would come up with a quick lie. But she was heading to the door. 

         

“Um, m-my mom just found them. I - I think they were my dad’s,” was all Oliver could come up with, thinking Mrs. Langley would never believe him, but before she could answer, Suzie called from the door. “Oliver, could you bring us our bread later? I need to go.” And she marched outside without waiting for an answer.

          

Oliver turned back to the counter, where Mrs. Langley had placed another ball of dough in front of him. 

           

“OK, now, first put some flour on your hands,” she said, and Oliver obeyed, clapping his hands as Mrs. Langley had done, though he wasn’t sure why. When his hands were ready, he picked up the dough, which was so warm and soft, it felt alive. 

        

Before he knew what he was doing, Oliver lifted the ball to his cheek. He stopped, worried, but Mrs. Langley just smiled, her face looking like she had just seen someone she hadn’t seen in years.

           

“Oliver, how would you like to come here tomorrow and learn how to make bread?”

Oliver could only nod, his voice drowning in happiness.

Trihuger's Treats: Chapter Four

(Chapter Three) 

“What?! It is not! How could this be your island? I’ve never even met you!” Suzie cried, so indignant she forgot to be afraid, her hands flying to her hips.

“Actually you have. You just don’t remember,” Mr. Trihuger said calmly. “And I’m not sure exactly what owning this island has to do with meeting you.”

          

When Suzie didn’t answer, he stood up, carrying Oliver with him. “Come now, let’s make sure your friend will live.”

           

Suzie followed without another word. If Oliver had been awake, he would have been amazed to see that now there were two people who could tell Suzie what to do.

       

Mr. Trihuger walked down the hall and into the room where the children saw the light coming from earlier. It was much larger than the room they had hidden in, and had cupboards lining all the walls except for one, which instead had shelves halfway down and a long counter underneath. The shelves and the counter were covered with all sizes of bottles and jars, and in the center of the room was a large table, where Mr. Trihuger gently laid Oliver.

        

“Well, he is breathing. I do believe he will be fine,” Mr. Trihuger said, heading to the sink at the end of the counter and running a hand over his bald head, which had a horseshoe of long gray hair on the sides. “Perhaps some water will help.”

        

“How do you know my name?” Suzie asked again, standing near Oliver’s head, but keeping the table between her and Mr. Trihuger.

       

“Well, have you met any other young girls on this island? Besides, with that blond hair of yours, you couldn’t be anyone but Abigail’s daughter,” Mr. Trihuger said, turning back from the sink with a small rag in a bowl of water. “You even wear it the same way – very, um, unbrushed.” 

      

Suzie was shocked again, having never heard anyone but her father use her mother’s name. And even he usually said, “your mother.”          

       

“Let’s see,” Mr. Trihuger continued, dabbing Oliver’s forehead gently with the wet rag. “You must be how old now? 9?”

       

“Ten” Suzie said, straightening her shoulders. 

       

“Ah, yes, of course,” Mr. Trihuger said, looking down as Oliver began to move. “Good morning, young man!”

         

Oliver’s eyes flew open and he bolted upright, barely missing Mr. Trihuger’s head before sliding off the table next to Suzie. He grabbed her arm and began yanking her toward the door. 

         

“Oliver, wait, it’s OK,” Suzie said, pulling her arm back. “He won’t hurt us. He was helping you.”

          

Oliver crouched behind Suzie, keeping an eye on the door in case he still needed to make a run for it.

         

“Oliver, is it?” Mr. Trihuger said, stepping around the table to stand in front of Suzie. “You’re Joan’s boy?” 

         

Hearing his mother’s name, Oliver peeked his head above Suzie’s shoulder, though he was still squeezed as close as possible to her back. Suzie normally would have pushed him away by now, but she wanted to know how this strange old man knew so much about her and even knew her mother, whom she had never met. 

      

And then there was the small matter of those things on his face. They looked like pieces of glass propped in front of his eyes. Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore. “What’s that on your nose?”

     

Oliver sucked in his breath, but Mr. Trihuger just nodded. “These are glasses,” he said, taking them off and holding them in front of him. “They help me see. Without them I would be lost.”

     

Still behind her, Oliver had lifted his head up completely above Suzie’s shoulders and was straining forward to see the glasses. Mr. Trihuger studied him as he said, “And I am guessing, based on that bump I see growing on your forehead, that you might have the same problem?” 

      

Oliver came out from behind Suzie, but still could not speak, even though she elbowed him and demanded, “Tell him!” Finally, she turned to Mr. Trihuger. “Does he ever! I always go get him in the morning now because he can’t ever find our house! The last time he walked so far he hit the water, then it took him another two hours to find his way back to tell me he got lost! After that, his mom asked me to come get him.”

      

Mr. Trihuger watched Oliver, who was now staring at his shoes. Putting one hand on the boy’s shoulder, he held out the glasses with the other. “Here. Put these on.”

      

Oliver looked up, his eyes wide. He took the glasses in both hands, studying them for several moments before guiding them carefully toward his face.

     

“Yes. But you need to slide those arms over your ears,” Mr. Trihuger said, lifting the glasses off and then back on Oliver’s face, which had a look that changed from shock to happiness so fast, the expressions had melted into one.

        

“Wow, I can see everything!” he said, turning to Suzie. “I can see the buttons on your shirt! And wait – those are flowers! I can see the petals!”

      

Mr. Trihuger looked almost as if he were smiling as Oliver turned slowly around, looking everything up and down. But Suzie was definitely frowning, her arms folded. “Why are they working for him, too? Aren’t they yours? And exactly what are they?” 

     

“Well, they are specially cut pieces of glass that do what the inside of our eyes are supposed to do, and what your eyes do do,” Mr. Trihuger said, waving a hand at Suzie. “But I am very near-sighted. I can’t see anything further away than my nose. And that’s actually a very common problem. It’s not surprising at all that my glasses help Oliver.”

        

“Oh, wow,” Oliver was saying. “Wait – I want to see outside!” He started to run toward the wall, forgetting they were underground and there were no windows.  

       

Suzie grabbed his shirt and pulled her toward him, yanking the glasses off his face. Oliver did nothing, but Mr. Trihuger put a hand firmly on her shoulder. 

       

“Suzanne! That is no way to treat someone – let alone someone else’s property,” he said. “Were you raised by wolves?”

        

“No, my dad, Paul. Don’t you know him?” Suzie said, “Who’s Wolves?”

         

“Oh, it’s just an expression that means you have no manners,” Mr. Trihuger snapped. “Of course I know your father!”

         

Then he took a deep breath and held out his hand. “My glasses, please,” he said, and Suzie quickly handed them over. 

        

“Thank you,” he said, much calmer as he put them back on his face. “These would be very hard to replace, so I would appreciate your handling them carefully. As you should do with anything that belongs to someone else.” 

       

Both of the children stood very still, Oliver trying to adjust to everything being blurry again, and Suzie not wanting to upset Mr. Trihuger, who had walked over to one of the cupboards and opened it.

          

“Now, I know I put — ah, yes,” he said, sliding something in his jacket pocket before turning back to the children. “You’re in luck Miss Suzanne, I do have something you can have,” 

           

“Really? What?” Suzie asked as Mr. Trihuger crossed the room, opened another cupboard and walked back with a tightly sealed black bag.

           

“Your fertilizer,” he said. “It’s not too heavy, is it?”

           

He put the bag down in front of Suzie, who didn’t move. “It’s about time to feed your tomatoes, is it not? They must be in full production by now,” he said,

            

“Oh, yes, they are!” said Oliver, picturing the delicious yellow cherry tomatoes that were almost as sweet as her father’s berries.

            

“Yes, but — how did you know about my tomatoes?” Suzie said.

            

“Because your father tells me about your garden, of course,” he said. “How else would I know what to put in the fertilizer?”

            

Suzie nodded and finally picked up the bag.

            

“You’re welcome,” Mr. Trihuger said pointedly, pretending as if Suzie had thanked him. “I’m happy you can use it. I have more than enough. And now then, shouldn’t you two be getting home?”

        

He led the children back to the hall, where Suzie finally said “thank you” into the bag before heading up the stairs eagerly. Oliver started to follow, but felt Mr. Trihuger’s hand on his shoulder.

         

“Here, take these,” he said softly in Oliver’s ear. When Oliver turned back, he saw that Mr. Trihuger was holding out a smaller pair of glasses with black plastic frames. Picking up one of Oliver’s hands, he put the glasses in it, then turned him around and gave him a small shove up the stairs. “Put those away.”

          

Then louder, so Suzie could hear, he called. “Not so fast, Miss Suzanne. Remember the boy here can’t see as well as you.”

         

“He didn’t even ask us why we were there!” Suzie grumbled as soon as they were far enough away from the hill that she thought Mr. Trihuger couldn’t hear them. “I didn’t get to ask him about the Berry man or the other island — and I want to read that book! It’s my mother’s, not his. Why does he have it? I should!”

      

Oliver didn’t answer. He had put the glasses on and was busy looking at everything: his hands, his shoes, the ground, Suzie’s shoes, her face — “What are those?” she demanded, the bag of fertilizer sliding to her feet.

         

“Oh,” Oliver said, turning pink. “M-mr. Trihuger gave me these. Aren’t they great? Now I can see all the time!”

           

Suzie crossed her arms. “Why would he give them to you?” 

          

“I don’t know,” Oliver said. “He said he doesn’t need them anymore. And they can help me.”

             

Suzie wrinkled her nose. “Suit yourself. Too bad they look so stupid.” She picked up the bag again and began walking away.

            

“They do?” Oliver said, touching them worriedly and catching up to her. “Oh, well. It doesn’t matter. As long as they help me see, right?”     

             

Suzie didn’t answer, and they didn’t talk again until they reached the main path and Suzie turned left to head to Oliver’s house. 

            

“Wait, uh, I think I can walk home by myself,” Oliver said, smiling shyly and pointing at the glasses. “I can see pretty good now, you know, thanks to these.”

         

“Yeah. Right. OK,” Suzie said, not smiling back. She studied him for a bit, then said, “Yes, that’s definitely better, because now when my father asks why we left the house instead of waiting for him, I can tell him that I had to walk you home because you were too scared to stay by yourself.” She turned on her heel. “See ya. Good luck!”

         

Once again, her nasty words just floated over Oliver. He was too busy wondering if he could skip home, or if that would make his glasses fall off.

Chapter Five 

If men are like bread: Have fun with croissants, but marry a good crusty loaf

In college I wrote a silly column comparing men to bread, advising that while croissants are good for some fun, when it comes time to choose one to spend your life with, you need to choose a much more versatile “loaf of crusty French bread.”

More than 20 years later, married me finds the advice from college me surprisingly spot on, as the only thing I would change about that column now would be to recommend sourdough instead of French bread. Because sourdough is more complex, providing more interesting flavor to enjoy over the years to come.

And the best part about reading this column now is knowing that at my first newspaper job after college, I met that versatile loaf of bread (one far more tangy sourdough than mild French bread!) to share my life with.

That was cool.

Here is that column originally published in Cal Poly SLO’s newspaper The Mustang Daily un the mid-1990s, though I did tweak it a bit, both because it was too long and because some of the passages need not be repeated. 

“All We Knead is Love,” by Justine Frederiksen

Love is like bread — it’s all in the dough. The success depends on how you knead it and how good the yeast is.
But before you make the love, you have to choose the person to make it with. And you must choose carefully, because you can’t make love that is better than the person you are with.

First, there are breadsticks. These look good, and if you're really hungry, they'll work. But only for a short time. They're small and crumble easily. Not satisfying at all.

Next, stay away from anything that's always in bars, like pretzels. These are usually old, stale and only good when there's lots of beer around.

Also, be wary of croissants, which I have a weakness for. They are very hard to resist because they are exotic (not your everyday biscuit or toast) and look and taste very good. But you can’t make a habit of eating them because they are expensive and bad for the heart. I know, they are very tempting and I have very fond memories of the croissants I’ve met, but trust me, you can’t live with them.

Don’t be tempted by doughnuts either, because they’re just a lot of pretty packing with no substance underneath. They are the bimbos of the bread world: fun for a little while, but soon you’re hungry for meaningful conversation and real interactions.

Also stay away from bagels. They aren’t as dangerous or as tempting as croissants and doughnuts, but are so dry and boring that you need to add lots of fattening and expensive ingredients ingredients like cream cheese and lox before they’re worth eating. Not good long-term.

Whole wheat bread can be good, because it can be healthy and interesting, especially if it has nuts and ancient grains. But choose this only if you’re really good, too. If not, you might find yourself craving a bit of naughtiness and sneaking out for doughnuts.

What I suggest instead is a loaf of versatile French bread. It can be simple or fancy, snack or meal, filling or decadent. It’s good plain or topped with butter, cheap cheddar or expensive brie. 
You can have it over one night for cheese and wine, then spend the whole next day with it: toast it for breakfast, make sandwiches for lunch, then eat it with soup for dinner.

Of course, really good French bread is hard to find. Sometimes you have to travel quite far to get it from the right baker. But it's worth all the time and effort to find that special bread you will enjoy every day.