When sweet, juicy strawberries finally arrive in spring, my husband will choose to eat a banana instead. When I can’t get my fill of peaches, plums, apricots, and candy-sweet pluots in the height of summer, my hubster still prefers a banana. In fact, hardly ever varying from habit, he eats a banana just about every morning. 

Go figure. 

It’s not that he doesn’t like other fruit. It’s not even that bananas are his favorite thing in the world to eat. It’s just that — how can I put this delicately — he’s lazy. Oh, believe me, he will be the first to admit that he is. Go ahead, ask him. Why go to the trouble of washing and slicing other fruit, he will tell you, when a banana requires none? Case closed. 

A banana does possess many merits. It’s the perfect grab-and-go food. It’s easily portable, what with its own built-in protective case. It’s full of good-for-you potassium. And it’s easy to digest — for everyone from kids to grandparents to those with upset tummies. 

I enjoy bananas, too — sliced atop Greek yogurt, with a sprinkling of crunchy granola. I also love them in banana bread, still warm right out of the oven. So when I spied this banana bread recipe from Oakland’s Bakesale Betty, I knew I had to try it. 

I’ve yet to have the pleasure of visiting the Oakland shop, where the fried chicken sandwiches and strawberry shortcakes are legendary. Because the place has such a following already, I had high hopes for this banana bread by owner-baker Alison Barakat, an Aussie transplant who used to work at Chez Panisse in Berkeley. Trust me, it didn’t disappoint. 

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Having been born and raised in San Francisco, I’m a big-city girl. I sheepishly concede that really shows sometimes, too. 

When I was a summer intern at the Portland Oregonian newspaper way back when, my editors sent me to the county fair to write a story. Any story. 

When I arrived, I noticed the dairy cow competition was about to begin. Admittedly, growing up in cramped, congested San Francisco, I never even lived anywhere that had room for grass in the yard. Not surprisingly, my experience with cows was limited to seeing them grazing off in the distance as I rode in a car on the freeway. Getting up close and personal with one was novel, to be sure. 

I walked up to a young man at the fair, who was tending his cows. “Excuse me, Sir?” I asked. “Are you in the dairy cow competition?”

The young man looked at me, looked at his cows, then looked at me again: “Ma’am, these are beef cows.” 

Ohhh, right. The cows were dark as coal, muscular, and rather hefty, I realized on second glance, as I slinked off in complete shame. 

So it goes without saying that I grew up getting my eggs from supermarkets, too. Sure, I’d read and heard people say that farm-fresh eggs were so much better. But I had been content to take the easy route, just picking up a carton of 12 on my regular trips to the grocery store. 

But a few weeks ago, my husband’s co-worker, who raises chickens, gave us two dozen of his farm-fresh eggs. They were about two days old, with shells that ranged in hue from alabaster to biscuit to bronze. 

My husband, who also had never experienced fresh eggs, was eager to try them, too. The next morning, he cracked two open for sunny-side up eggs with toast. The difference was immediately apparent. The yolks were orange, not the standard yellow. Some say the more vivid color is due to the chickens being less stressed; others say it’s because farmers feed marigolds to the poultry to purposely attain that color in the eggs. And still others say the color comes from the farm chicken’s natural diet of grains, leaves and bugs, in contrast to the commercial chicken, which is usually fed soy and fish meals. 

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Fresh tomatoes. Seared slices of flank steak. Pan-crisped Chinese egg noodles. 

Three simple ingredients that together have the most profound of meanings for me.

They make up my favorite tomato beef chow mein dish that my late-mother used to make for family lunches and dinners. Of all the home-style Cantonese dishes she cooked, it’s the one that most reminds me of her, it’s the one that most epitomizes her.  It’s a strong dish that can stand on its own, yet it’s unfussy, it’s comforting, and it’s full of sweet soulfulness. 

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For the past nine years, Joey Altman has been a familiar face on TV as the host of KRON’s “Bay Cafe,” where he’s welcomed us into his home and into the kitchens of some of the region’s best restaurants. 

Nine months ago, the award-winning show sadly went off the air, the victim of the dismal economy and the unfortunate lack of a major sponsor, Altman says. 

Altman fans shouldn’t despair. The 44-year-old, long-time Bay Area chef has been busy for the past year, working as a consulting chef for the new incarnation of Miss Pearl’s Jam House in Oakland, which just opened in late August. Altman was the opening chef for the original Miss Pearl’s Jam House in San Francisco in 1989. 

His first cookbook also was published this year: “Without Reservations” (John Wiley & Sons), which is filled with tips and recipes for cooking boldly flavored dishes at home. 

I caught up with him recently to talk about life after TV, his disdain for TV dinners, and his favorite TV and music idols. 

Q: I remember when “Bay Café” first aired. Would it be fair to say that you weren’t nearly as ease on TV as you are now? 

A: I was horrid the first 200 shows. They’re unwatchable for me. I was just ‘on’ as opposed to ‘being.’ I’ll go on a show now, and I’ll see other people practice bullet points in front of a mirror. I can’t imagine doing that today. I don’t think about it anymore. I just ‘do.’ 

Q: Was it sad for you when “Bay Café” ended? 

A: I was very sad. All of my life has been a series of 90-degree turns. It requires one door to close for another to open. I’m confident I’ll find something. I won’t sit at home and pick lint out of my belly button. 

I love the diversity of my career. I’d like to do another cookbook, more consulting on restaurants, and to play with my band (the Back Burner Blues Band, made up of fellow Bay Area chefs), and to a business project that would give me some sort of equity. 

Q: Would you like to open another restaurant of your own? 

A: God forbid. Not with three young children at home. Knowing what it takes to really make a restaurant work, I don’t want to sacrifice that much in my life right now. As it is, I’m doing 16-hour days at Miss Pearl’s. I’ll be there a couple more months. 

Q: Is the new Miss Pearl’s similar to the original one? 

A: The sensibilities of both are the same, but it’s really the evolution of the original as if it had continued to grow. The signature dishes are there and the funky drinks. We’re also embracing things that have come on the scene since then — sustainable and local. The cooking there isn’t trendy; there’s not a lot of sous vide or foams happening there. It’s just more sophisticated because the environment is more so than it was before. There are elements of whimsy there. It’s bold flavors that are really dynamic and evocative of island cooking with lots of chilies, ginger, and lime juice. 

Q: If you could trade places with anyone on TV, who would it be? 

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When I worked on the San Jose Mercury News Food & Wine section, you always knew it was going to be a good day if any Beth Hensberger baked goods were being photographed in the studio for an upcoming story.

That’s because once the photos were done, we’d all dive in, eagerly tearing off hunks of pie, cobbler, cookies or breads to nibble. They never ceased to make us smile and swoon. That’s because Beth’s baked goods are always filled with abundant love and expertise.

A former Bay Area caterer and a veteran cookbook author, Hensperger is a baking authority and one of the nicest people you’ll ever meet. We still keep in touch by email. And whenever I make one of her recipes, I always think of my dear friend whose sweet tooth is matched only by my own.

Her cinnamon-buttermilk muffins are as comforting as you can get. They are dipped in melted butter, then in cinnamon-sugar. I used organic cane sugar, giving the topping an even darker contrast to the golden muffins. But regular granulated sugar also works fine.

The batter, Hensperger says, is similar to ones for donuts, giving these muffins a cake-like texture. Muffins that are like donuts, but without the frying? Does it get any better than that?

Cinnamon-buttermilk muffins

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