16 PUNCHMAGAZINE.COM or a historic home’s backstory to current art exhibits and newly opened restaurants. That’s why it felt like a perfect fit when I was offered the chance to try my hand at the communitybuilding work that outgoing PUNCH Editorial Director Sheri Baer has so nimbly accomplished with Publisher Sloane Citron over the past five years. Sharing the stories of the artists and entrepreneurs, volunteers and makers, chefs and scholars, immigrants and old-timers who make up the Peninsula’s vibrant and diverse community is a passion project I’m eager to take on. Even after spending most of my life here, I still have so much more to learn. I’m embarrassed to admit that I’ve yet to visit the Hiller Aviation Museum. After reading Senior Editor Johanna Harlow’s playful take on the San Carlos landmark and its amazing flying machines, it’s going to the top of my must-see list. (Page 92) I find the Peninsula’s evolving dining scene endlessly fascinating, not just for its delicious options but as a way to savor the cultural heritage, flavors and aesthetics of chefs and restaurateurs from all over the world. If you’ve got a sweet spot for baklava, come along as we pop into Oklava, a traditional Turkish coffee shop. (Page 68) And there’s no need for a passport to tour India’s myriad regional cuisines at ROOH Palo Alto. (Page 61) For inspiration at home and away, get a front-row seat to the intimate musical performances at SIP Napa Valley (Page 41), envision yourself living in the sleek, uncluttered interiors created by family-friendly designer Cathie Hong (Page 77) and admire the confluence of art and advocacy with environmentally informed artwork by Linda Gass. (Page 84) All this and more awaits you in this month’s issue. So let’s dive right in! Andrea andrea@punchmonthly.com {editor’s note} test,” and never betrayed the slightest interest in moving back to San Francisco. Most mornings, he’d step out the back door, look around and declare it “another beautiful day in paradise.” Then he’d head into the yard to pick some raspberries for his cereal, or check the progress of his beloved apricot tree. As a teen, I’d roll my eyes at his unabashed boosterism, but looking back, I can agree that it was a pretty idyllic place to grow up. Our block, a mix of young families and retirees, had no shortage of playmates for me and my siblings. Nearly perfect weather was a given, the pleasantly warm days spent climbing trees, riding bikes and running through sprinklers with neighborhood friends. I think I was in my 20s when I realized that the lemons on our bushy backyard tree were the Meyers prized by chefs and bakers. Sure, they tasted a million times better than grocery store lemons, but it didn’t occur to me that they were special, since I’d never seen anyone pay for them. On the Peninsula, you could get Meyer lemons for free by the bagful from a neighbor if you didn’t have an overproducing tree of your own. After I left for college, I started to appreciate all the things I’d taken for granted, from the sweet Hetch Hetchy water flowing through our taps to the breathtaking spring wildflower display in Edgewood Park and windwhipped Saturdays spent out on the Bay in my dad’s little sailboat. That sense of appreciation for this special place only grew as my husband and I raised our daughter here on the Peninsula, exploring parks, playgrounds and zoos when she was little, then visiting museums, tide pools, hiking trails and downtown shops. As a longtime local journalist, most recently as the editor of The Almanac, which covers Menlo Park, Atherton, Woodside and Portola Valley, I can’t stop myself from playing tour guide when we’re out. I helplessly spill details on everything from the fight to save Moffett Field’s Hangar One Greetings PUNCH readers, I’m the new editorial director, Andrea Gemmet! While I’m new to PUNCH, I’m not new to the area. I count myself among the rare breed of those who were born on the Peninsula and never left. I grew up here because my mother, a newlywed East Coast transplant, couldn’t bear San Francisco’s fog. The omnipresent gray gloom didn’t seem to faze my father, who was born and raised in the City, but after a couple of years living in Park Merced, she’d had it. Mom hopped in the car and drove down the Peninsula until blue skies appeared, and, failing to find anyone willing to show apartments to a woman unaccompanied by her husband, she kept going south until she found an accommodating landlord in Redwood City. My dad quickly adapted to the sunshine in a city that boasts “climate best by government
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