Buy an ever-popular Red Velvet cupcake from any Sprinkles cupcake bakery today and all proceeds will be donated to the American Red Cross’ Haiti Relief and Development Fund.

A lot of Bay Area food and wine purveyors are jumping in to help raise funds, following the devastating earthquake in Haiti.

Today through Monday, St. Francis Winery in Santa Rosa and Sequoia Grove Winery in Rutherford also will be donating all tasting room fees to the American Red Cross.

Head on over to the Presidio Cafe in San Francisco, 5 p.m. to 8 p.m. Jan. 18, for the “Wine for Haiti Fund-Raiser.”

More than 20 wines will be poured. Event organizers are asking that the public donate $50 to $100 as the entry fee. Proceeds will benefit Sirona Cares Foundation, Doctors Without Borders, Partners in Health, and the American Red Cross. For more information, go to the event’s Facebook page.

Take a pub crawl on Jan. 19 in San Francisco, as part of a fund-raiser for the American Red Cross. Starting at 5 p.m., Rickhouse, Cantina and Rye — all in San Francisco — invite you to make your way from one bar to the next to try a specialty cocktail created at each venue just for this event. Proceeds from these unique libations will be donated to the Red Cross.

On Jan. 23, Pizzaiolo in Oakland, Gioia Pizzeria in N. Berkeley, and Bi-Rite Market in San Francisco will join forces to host a “Bakesale for Haiti.”

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How gnarly looking is this?

Yes, if it popped up on my computer screen without warning, I might just let out a yelp.

Actually, it arrived by special delivery to my house the other day, hand-carried over by my friend Damian, a gardener extraordinaire who can grow anything, and I mean ANYTHING.

Yes, he grew this Buddha’s hand that’s otherwise known as citron. Once I got my nerves back in check from the sight of this crazy sea anemone-looking fruit, I nearly got high off its fragrance. It’s intoxicating to say the least. It has notes of Meyer lemon, grapefruit and even a little vanilla. Someone ought to bottle this as Eau de Buddha and sell it for a mint.

In fact, some people, including Damian and his family, just use the Buddha’s hand as a table centerpiece to scent a room beautifully and to be quite the conversation piece for unsuspecting guests.

All rind, and little juice, this citrus is prized for its aroma. Its rind is treasured for the exquisite candied peel it makes, too.

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Musician great Carlos Santana opened a fifth locale of his Maria Maria restaurant late last year in Danville.

Serving “Nuevo Mexican” cuisine, it features dishes such as chicken and mole tortilla casserole ($15), grilled skirt steak with nopales salad $(19), and mixed wild mushroom fajitas ($15).

No telling how often you might spot Santana, himself, there. But he did put in an appearance earlier this week to meet and greet media.

Cheese aficionados will want to head to the Pasta Shop in the 4th Street Market Place in Berkeley, 5 p.m. to 7 p.m, Jan. 15.

Allison Hooper, author of “In a Cheesemaker’s Kitchen,” will be on hand to sign copies of her book, discuss the world of cheese, and offer tastes of her luscious creations.

Hooper, of Vermont Butter & Cheese Creamery, will be joined by other artisan cheesemakers at this free event, including those from Bellwether Farms and Cowgirl Creamery, who also will be offering samples of their cheeses.

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I like to think of myself as a glass-half-full kind of gal.

I tend to have a sunny demeanor. I try to accentuate the positive even in the most grave of situations. And I’m optimistic that one can do anything one sets one’s mind to — or at the very least get darn close to it.

But when I stumbled upon a recipe early last year in Eating Well magazine for making potato chips in the microwave, I balked. I was a disbeliever. I was convinced this was beyond impossible.

I was wrong.

As part of the Reheat Anything Generation, I knew full well from experience that foods heated or cooked in the microwave most often turned out soft and limp, not crunchy.

So how could thinly sliced potatoes end up crackling crisp? Seriously?

They not only do, but they also possess a purity of flavor — of real, fresh potatoes. Unlike so many store-bought bags of potato chips with their long list of ingredients, there are just three in these: potatoes, olive oil and salt.

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This is the world’s easiest noodle soup that originated with the world’s hardest job.

Allow me to explain.

Warming, nourishing and filling, this bowl of custardy, thick rice noodles with sweet-smoky slices of Chinese barbecue pork is absolutely no-fuss, no-frett to make.

It has to be. It’s a work-all-day, race-home-to-put-dinner-on-the-table-before-I-collapse kind of dish.

Born of necessity. Born of invention. Born of the need to feed a family speedily, economically and, of course, deliciously.

It’s a dish my late-Mom used to make on hurried and harried weeknights for my Dad, two older brothers, and I.

Like many of my generation, I took it for granted that my parents always made dinner every night, no matter how tired they might be, no matter how much of a hassle it might have been. Not until I became an adult, myself, did I realize what a far from small miracle that truly was.

When I worked full-time as a newspaper reporter, there were long days when I’d arrive home so exhausted that I was in a complete daze. Those times, I’d often think to myself: “How did my parents do it? How?”

Here I was single, responsible for taking care of only myself, and it was downright draining. Even when I got married, and gained a husband to look after, it was still a far cry from how my parents managed to work five days a week and raise three kids without ever seeming too pooped to do any of  it. There was never a complaint, never a word uttered that it was all too much and they just wanted to give up.

I marvel at that, at all that parents manage to get done while life refuses to wait or even slow down one iota.

As a teen, I spent various summers working at my parents’ offices to make extra spending money. I remember waking up on weekdays at the same time as my parents, and climbing into the backseat of the car to go to work with one of them, as my Dad would make the drive into San Francisco’s financial district. He’d drop my Mom off first at the landmark, monolithic Bank of America building, where she would take the express elevator up to one of the higher floors to her job at a stock brokerage firm, where she handled estate work. Then, my Dad would drive on to his job at nearby Greyhound, where he was a book-keeper.

Sometimes at lunch-time, I’d walk with my Mom to nearby Chinatown to help her pick up provisions for that night’s dinner. Or if I was at my Dad’s office, the two of us would head there after work to buy ingredients before he picked up my Mom to drive us all home.

Often, those ingredients included that lovely lacquered Chinese barbecued pork and a box of freshly-made, fat rice noodles. My Mom would put a big pot of canned chicken broth to heat on the stove. In would go a few coins of fresh ginger, some slivers of yellow onion, a dash of soy sauce, a drizzle of sesame oil, and the slices of barbecued pork and cut-up rice noodles.

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