This is Bay Area Burger Week (June 18-29), providing a time to reflect, respect and perfect our experience of the once humble hamburger. 

The concept of a protein patty betwixt sides of a sliced bun has evolved from a fast food to a complex symbol of the country from whence it came—that is, if we can agree on which that is. From Roman emperors to Ray Kroc (memorably played by Michael Keaton in the film The Founder), this is a story of the wholesale repackaging of a global culinary journey into an “American icon,” served with fries and a Coke.

Let’s rewind.

The hamburger didn’t start in America. Sorry, freedom fries. Its ancestry includes ancient Roman “isicia omentata” (minced pork with wine and fish sauce, wrapped in caul fat) and a few medieval meat rissoles—basically the artisanal sliders of the 10th Century. 

By the 1600s, Germans were pan-frying “frikadelle,” and the Brits were busy stuffing minced meat into toast and calling it “Hamburgh sausage.” Meanwhile, the Georgians were quietly inventing ketchup, which would eventually become the one true faith of condiment theology.

Fast forward to the 19th Century, when German immigrants hauled their Hamburg-style beef across the Atlantic and into the ports of New York. American menus obliged with “Hamburg steaks”—sometimes raw, sometimes fried and often prescribed by doctors, who were just beginning their long tradition of giving terrible diet advice. One Dr. James H. Salisbury suggested we cook these patties for better digestion. Thus: Salisbury steak. A dish that continues to live on in TV dinners.

The hamburger’s big break came when someone—no one can agree who—had the radical idea to stick the patty between two pieces of bread. Was it restaurateur Charles “Hamburger Charlie” Nagreen in Wisconsin? The Menches brothers in New York? Fletcher Davis in Texas? Louis Lassen in Connecticut? Pick an origin myth. They’re all trying to solve the same mystery: how something so simple could become so culturally omnivorous.

Technology helped. The invention of the meat grinder meant more people could afford to eat chopped meat without having to wield a cleaver. Railroads and refrigerator cars turned cattle into cargo. And Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle freaked everyone out just enough to demand cleaner meat, but not enough to stop eating it.

Enter White Castle. Founded in 1921 by a fry cook and a real estate agent (how American is that?), White Castle decided the way to sell the public on ground beef again was through aggressive hygiene and onion-smothered sliders. They invented the sack lunch. They perforated their patties for optimal steam. They looked like porcelain sanitariums for tiny square burgers. It worked.

Then McDonald’s showed up, took one look at the system and franchised the hell out of it. Cue the golden arches, the Big Mac, the Quarter-Pounder and the global burger monoculture. Meanwhile, the hamburger became a culinary canvas: ketchup, mustard, pickles, lettuce, tomato, bacon, cheese, truffle aioli, gold leaf, foie gras—whatever fits between the buns.

And that’s where we are now: a world in which one can eat a burger made of wagyu beef in Tokyo or kangaroo in Queensland. A tasty paradox: something that began as working-class fare now serves as both punchline and platform for haute cuisine.

So this week, as one samples their way through the Bay Area’s burger creations, whether it’s the blue plate special from a roadhouse or a meticulously curated brioche-bunned art piece, remember: the hamburger contains multitudes—Ancient Rome, industrial America, roadside diners and global empire—sometimes topped with cheese.

Bay Area Burger Week runs June 18-29. Download the Burger Week app for Apple and Android devices at wklys.co/burgers to check in, rate meals, post photos and win a burger, plus find additional participating restaurants around the Bay and in Santa Cruz County.

Sure, Inception, Dreamscape, The Lathe of Heaven or any of a number of sci-fi flicks that explore harnessing the dream state are entertaining—but are they healing?

A recent study led by Dr. Garret Yount, a molecular neurobiologist at the Institute of Noetic Sciences (IONS), which is perched over the border of Sonoma and Marin counties, points to the potential of healing minds while sleeping.

Yount’s research explored the potential of lucid dreaming—a state in which a person becomes aware of dreaming and can actively engage with the dream—as an alternative therapy for post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).

“I’ve always wanted to do research in dreaming since I was a kid,” Yount said. “And then as an adult was working with PTSD alternative therapies to help them and came across this combination. So, I was excited to explore that.”

The study involved a six-day lucid dreaming workshop providing 22 hours of live instruction and group activities via video conferencing. About half of all participants, including those in a control group, experienced at least one lucid dream. Among those who did, 63% of workshop participants reported achieving a “healing lucid dream,” compared to 38% of the controls.

Workshop participants reported significant reductions in PTSD symptoms and nightmare distress, with improvements persisting at a one-month follow-up. Increased well-being and diminished negative emotions were also noted.

“A lucid dream is a dream in which waking consciousness awakens inside the dreamscape,” Yount explained. “So the waking consciousness that we’re using right now to talk to each other just kind of wakes up inside the dreamscape. Realization occurs that dreaming is happening, and in that state, it becomes possible to interact with the scenario.”

The therapeutic goal is not controlling the dream but participating in it consciously, particularly when confronting symbolic representations of trauma.

“You encounter a monster in the dream, and instead of running from it, embrace it, turn to it, somehow ask to integrate with it,” Yount said.

In one of his own lucid dreams, Yount recounted becoming aware of a ghoul pursuing him. Remembering his training, he chose not to flee but instead addressed the figure: What can you teach me? he asked. The figure promptly shrank into a younger version of himself, leading to what he described as “an amazing healing lucid dream.”

For individuals coping with PTSD—whether veterans, survivors of abuse or others facing traumatic memories—this type of symbolic engagement can offer real relief.

The study also suggests lucid dreaming might replicate some of the neurochemical effects of medications commonly prescribed for PTSD.

“Many of the medicines are dampening neurotransmitters, which is part of the symptoms of stress in the brain,” Yount noted. “During rapid eye movement sleep, the neurotransmitters are dampened also. So it’s kind of like mimicking the conditions that the meds are trying to reach.”

In this unique state, traumatic memories can be recalled without triggering stress hormones, allowing for a kind of reprogramming. “Whether the dreamer embraces the monster or simply observes a recurring scene and acknowledges, ‘I’m OK; I’m going to be OK,’ the process becomes a kind of self-hypnosis,” Yount said.

Lucid dreaming offers a relatively low-cost and accessible approach to trauma therapy. While some achieve lucidity naturally, others can learn induction techniques like those taught in the study’s workshop. Even participants who did not consistently reach lucidity reported therapeutic benefits.

“Just doing this ‘dream thinking’ about dreaming—and realizing trauma can be transformed in dreams—seems to work even if lucidity is not achieved,” said Yount.

The findings point to a fascinating frontier in the science of sleep and the potential of the dreaming mind—not a fantasy, but an emerging therapeutic reality.

For more information on the work at IONS, visit noetic.org.

If one can remember anything about cannabis, it’s often the first time—and the last time—one imbibed it. 

Everything else is a blur of puff-puff-pass, gurgling bong water or the electric rush of realizing those were pot brownies about half an hour after eating them.

My first time was with my lifelong pal, O., in the early ’80s, during Christmas break our freshman year in high school. Boomer parents in that transitional period between hippie and yuppie-dom were pretty laissez faire about how they stowed their stashes. We found it, we smoked it, then proceeded to eat all the candy in the house while watching a random VHS training tape of a domestically challenged person learning to use a spatula.

The last time I smoked pot was during the pandemic when a bumper crop of new cannabis businesses were showering the media with free samples delivered to our home offices. I appreciated the descriptions of the products’ potential effects and how much of any particular compound they contained. This legislated development was a far cry from the chemical Russian roulette that casual and infrequent users like myself had long endured (despite the salesmanship of the mulletted 30-somethings dealing weed from their dirt bikes, who circled Petaluma High like mustachioed vultures).

Like most people of a certain age, I prefer my weed Fentanyl-free and also, just generally free. So, when a media care package arrived, I seized the opportunity to momentarily put down my perennial wine glass and shift into some professional pot smoking. Included in the review kit was a pre-rolled joint, which I immediately thought should take the mantle from sliced bread as one of innovation’s greatest conveniences.

I lit it and took a drag. Bueno. I took another. Buennno. Another. Buennnnno. And then … it hit me all at once. I went from bueno to “bueNope” as I suddenly felt like I was inside a falling elevator—a simultaneous sensation of vertigo and claustrophobia, with a liberal smattering of my favorite, dementophobia—the fear of going insane—adding a certain extra elan to the moment. And by moment, I mean the hours it took to finally come down.

My experience may be unusual since my neurochemistry is a high wire act of psychoactive stratagems designed to minimize manic panic. Add any exotic ingredient, and this Mulligan stew boils right over.

And yet, I’m also curious. Not least because I’m susceptible to the word “lounge,” which I recently spied on a billboard looming over Petaluma’s Midtown. My favorite reptile is lounge lizard, and “louche,” my default sensibility, is just a typo away from it. The billboard read: “The Lounge at Mercy—Come Smoke & Chill.”

Thanks to new state regulations, local dispensaries like Mercy Wellness can now invite customers to enjoy their purchases on-site, opening a new business lane to our local bud industry. More to the point, as a man with perceptibly “no chill,” I’m in the market to get some. 

Do I smoke weed and chance, once again, angering the wine gods upon whose purple seas I’ve long floated this operation? Will I finally be smited into total madness? Or am I less likely to lose my shit in a public setting surrounded by professionals? After all, it’s called The Lounge, not The Panic Room—what could possibly go wrong? But if anyone sees me wielding a spatula, stand back—I’ve seen the video, and I know how to use it.

There comes a time in every reporter’s career when an actor must be interviewed because they’ve directed a short film. These moments are fraught with anxiety because the films are often vanity projects created for the sake of showcasing some nascent talent the actor believes has been overlooked, without ever questioning why. I’m happy to report this is decidedly not the case with Zach Woods’ debut directorial effort, David, a hilarious, humanistic portrait of psychic healing that should be prescribed viewing for the sake of global mental health.

Seriously. David is one of the 100-plus line-up of shorts that are part of the 12th Annual San Jose International Short Film Festival – Home Edition, playing Oct. 22-25.

Some might recognize Woods for his roles in The Office (“Gabe Lewis”) and Silicon Valley (Donald “Jared” Dunn), but you will not find him onscreen in his film. When asked why, Woods quips, “I auditioned, but I just didn’t get the part.”

Rather, he was steadfastly behind the camera, directing a stellar trio of talents: William Jackson Harper stars as (one of) the titular characters as a man in crisis, Will Ferrell is his therapist and Fred Hechinger is a surprise third-wheel whose presence catalyzes the story after a cleverly deployed slowburn that results in equal measures of chaos and caring (saying anything more would steal from the true delight of watching the film).

“The thing about directing that’s so nice is that your attention is so monopolized,” says Woods. “There’s so many questions to answer, there are so many things to pay attention to and there are so many people to attend to that it’s like, you really don’t have much bandwidth left to turn on yourself, which I thought was really, really nice. It’s more like hosting a party or something. You’re just trying to create optimal conditions for everybody to do their best work and it feels like you disappear a little bit.”

Woods’ ability to find humor in human frailty (without punching down) is evident in his own turns as an actor. When he brings these sensibilities to bear in David (co-written with Brandon Gardner), the result is an authorial wholeness that adds emotional ballast. This bodes well for his trajectory as a filmmaker, which Woods is continuing with another short film currently in post-production.

San Jose International Short Film Festival – Home Edition runs October 22-25. The film festival features more than 20 themed blocks of films. All films can be screened via Chromecast, Apple TV, computer, tablet, and most smartphones. For more information and festival passes and packages, visit sjsff.com.