ON that early spring day in San Francisco, I walked out to buy local treats for my birthday party — country bread (sour, with walnuts) from Tartine bakery, tamales from the lady in front of my favorite produce shop, salted caramel ice cream from Bi-Rite and a tub of peanut curry ice cream from Humphry Slocombe’s.

Since I was a teenager in art school scribbling recipes in my illustration notebook, my life has been about cooking, tasting and sharing stories about food. I’m the former Roving Feast columnist for The San Francisco Chronicle and continue to write and appear on radio and TV. I’ve had about two dozen cookbooks published, and now I’m creating private supper clubs around the world.

Whenever I travel I tote back something delicious — miso-pickles from Japan; ripe Camembert from France; spicy salami from Calabria. My handbag always holds something to make life even more delectable — a tube of harissa, maybe Sichuan preserved vegetables or a head of garlic.

The light changed at the corner, and I began to cross the street.

Suddenly I was in the air. Storefronts, billboards and leafy treetops floated slowly by, until my head hit the street and I was flung like a rag doll onto the pavement. I was racked with excruciating pain.