Taking on Sunday

If I wrote more often, then maybe I wouldn't want to shove the last 6 months into one post.

I wouldn't need to talk about the roller coaster ride/heartwarming feast that was Thanksgiving, and the detox that actually happened at the beginning of the year and the discovery and obsession with proper bagels about 2 miles from my house (a hard feat to find great bagels in LA) or all the waves and twists and moments in between. You would have read about these things already due to my consistent and disciplined updates. But that is not how my life works.

Over that week of blissed out nothing between Xmas and new years, when we could just sit and rest and eat and play and rest some more, I discovered the plethora of blogs out there, mostly drifting towards the ones of cute mamas and vintage finds and patchwork quilts and covet worthy shoes and picture perfect living rooms.

I dove in a little too deep, finding my thoughts consumed with how I could improve my EVERYTHING. My house, my wardrobe, my unruly hair, my Pyrex collection, my photographic and artistic outlets. I was also secretly disgruntled in the perfection these bloggers seemed to paint their lives. It's a great snapshot they take, and I found myself comparing my wants and possessions and style abilities to theirs. This is dangerous territory, and nonsense I have no time for.

I am trying to be open to inspiration, to ideas, to creative instincts and impulses.
The blogs I love the best are the great writers who share a moment or story so beautifully and awkwardly that I immediately get up and live my life or bake some crazy cookies or at least clean out my closet. I have no idea what turmoil or efforts or heartache these bloggers experience, unless they share it so gently and simply that I am invited into to look, to take a seat and share their lives for a moment.

So in this post, I want to catch up, to relay the all the heartache and divine eats. I have the urge to tell you about the moments that make me fall deeper in love every day, the dawning I experience that are carving out something old and making room for something new and pertinent. Life goals and mandates crystallizing.

The list of blogs have imparted some good on my life. I could tell you I now use more bobby pins in my hair and less rubber bands, that I hand made some valentines for maybe the first time ever and sent them off with the living breathing postal service. That I have made some kick ass meals, many of which I forgot.

I will tell you someday soon about the loss of our dog Spider. He was not so much my dog as my boyfriends, for the full 14 years of his glorious adventurous life. I only met him last March and became his roommate last September. I didn't know him in the years when he could leap onto beds and couches and had a straight spine and buddied up with the neighborhood dogs and cruised the streets on his midget pug legs. But I could imagine. So it was an honor when he would nap on my foot, or lean into my side or walk with him on the street. And it was even more of an honor to get to be there with him and his human colleague/best friend when he passed.

But I can't go there right now. Things are too fresh, that coil is still unfolding on the house and our hearts. And I am trying to avoid feeling overwhelmed for the first part of the day.

This morning I am feeling lost. Well, I was. Then I saw my breakfast in my minds eye, and that gave me the tiny bit of guidance I needed to start the day.

The broiled cheese sandwich of my youth. Where you toast the bread under the broiler for a moment on one side then flip it over and add (too much) cheese and broil till it becomes bubbly and crisp. White sharp cheddar. Cracked wheat sourdough. Slices of avocado. A squeeze of lemon. Hour old coffee reheated with some almond milk and half and half. And a shake of cinnamon.



This is my breakfast on my messy desk. No cute patterned napkin, no perfect light, no dollop of cappuccino foam. Just Sundays breakfast, the necessary fuel to create my day and shift my mood and write (and complete) the first post in months. I'll take what I can get.

The Fall Haul

Almost 37 years in this body and I have studied its waves and ebbs and little earthquakes. I go from intense bliss to extreme pain in a matter of days. I have yelled and cursed my organs and then whispered kind words to soothe them back to good spirits. This might make some of you uncomfortable. But I tell you, to breathe through pain and try to understand the root has much more leeway than popping pain killers and trudging through a miserable day and constantly feeling lost in your ails.

There are many schools of thought to wellness, to taking care of ones body. I read and study a lot of texts. I am maybe too quick to dismiss the wonders of Western medicine. It’s just that my experience with doctors and surgeons and waiting rooms and insurance and pills have discouraged and frustrated me to where I finally took action and put my health in my own hands. Mind you, if I ever, knock on wood, broke a bone or cut a large gash in my tender flesh, I sure would rather a doctor sew it up than pour tea tree oil and a mumble a few prayers over it. But in terms of the current weather conditions in my present state of health, I am going to use my intuition, past experiences and a little knowledge gleaned from health practitioners and some great books to try to amp things up to new levels of health and happiness.

So in short, I am going to embark on a cleaning out, a detox, a fall haul. And usually you should keep these things to yourself, but I need to be accountable. I need to publicly track this or I won’t go through with it. I am someone who needs to embark on this slowly but surely. And perhaps you’ll find humor or just pity in my wavering, or how I can justify beer on my cleanse because it is a local organic microbrew made by monks.

This first week I am just getting comfortable with the idea, and also trying to accrue money for a juicer in light of losing my main income (the perfect time to start a detox might be when your future looks uncertain). I have been getting off the coffee although here is evidence of much needed boost to write this damn paragraph.



The last few days, I have been eating a slew of herbs and dark leafy greens. Last night: brown rice pasta with garlic, dandelion greens and kale with a touch of anchovy oil and lemon. It was actually delicious, and I think my beau thought so too, even though he is biased.

What did I have after that? A date shake made with superfood vegan ice cream from Kind Crème. I will admit this is not the healthiest of choices. Sugar is sugar, though it’s not refined and that ice cream is loaded with raw cacao, Maca, goji berries and spirulina. See how I buy into the hype? Well, its fucking delicious, and I slept better than I have in days.

This weeks goals: smaller portions, a mostly veggie diet, and slow omittance of the heavy things like booze, cows dairy, meat, wheat, and yes, coffee. Right now mate and green tea are welcome.

Why am I doing this? Cause I feel slower, congested, sore. Cause I feel like things are not assimilating as well as they could. Cause I get a chance every month to see how my body is really working and feeling and if it feels like this now, I cannot imagine the discomfort in ten years. Well, I can. And its frightening.

My folks used to do a juice fast twice a year while I grew up. My mom is still doing cleanses at 63 and let me tell you, she does not look 63. I have put much more havoc on my bod than she did in her 20’s and 30’s. And I love food. I love cheese and wine and the occasional steak and Triscuits and burritos and god, I love coffee, and cheesecake and sausages and Grappa and tequila and bread and butter and a piece of bacon and a slice of pizza. You get it. And I think I could still occasionally dip into those food adventures with joy and love which is how you should eat anyway. But for now, I need to cleanse the palette, clear some space, find some quiet and meditation in my eating and cooking habits.

Now I'm hungry. Barley veggie soup with chick peas for lunch.
Off to cook. Wish me luck.

Gravy

There is not just one thing that won me over. It keeps happening, a sequence of moments and expressions and facts about the man by my side. The lack of resistance is a big one. A willingness to be open and let the day take us. He is warm and incredibly kind but does not dole out compliments like confetti. Each bask of praise and appreciation is given with weight and time and a holiness. I think I have been sighing for the last few months.

I will say, with perhaps his admittance, he is not an incredibly accomplished cook. Maybe he is only allowed the multitude of artistic and intrinsic geniuses he currently carries. I need to bring something to this union. So he watches with gratitude and appeal, as I move about his kitchen and concoct a late night Sunday meal.

Something has been telling me red sauce lately. And even though the most gorgeous ripe sweet tomatoes are now revealing themselves and will last till November (hopefully), I want to make an old style canned sauce. I want to know I’m able. I want to celebrate our joint Italian heritage, and his black haired gorgeous Italian mother on this Mother’s day, the one that taught him the smile he gives me that cracks open my chest. She has the same eyes as his, only his are a devastating blue. And I don’t say this cause I am in love. They are truly the bluest of blue. They let me swim in his face for extended periods of time, but usually I need something to hold on to or lean against if I do it for too long.

So we shop for ingredients. We make do with a few small saucepans and no oregano. With eagerness and appreciation, anything can be accomplished. I like learning this over and over again.

Garlic, a carrot, and a badly chopped onion are sautéed in oil (I chopped the onion, not him). Impatience and hunger have me pouring in two cans of crushed San Marzano’s before I add the tomato paste. I suggest you add the paste first, letting the base become dense with flavor, then adding your dried herbs. You will never get this step back, so savor it, make it rich and potent. I add too much wine. Which you can’t really, but that just means a little less for us.

Cook. Cook. Cook all day if you can. Or cook for 20 minutes like we did. The magnificent sous chef is asking questions, he is juggling pots and finding a can opener and telling me how he likes bitter vegetables. Oh, lord.

He blanches asparagus for a couple minutes; I fry up garlic and a shallot. We toss the asparagus in, salt and add lemon. I swoon over his ancient cast iron pan; he swoons over the burnt garlic.

How two folks dance together can say a lot about their chemistry. But I find the truth can lie in the dance of preparing a meal, or fixing a broken appliance, or sitting in contented silence. I think when it comes to food I can be a control freak. I like the willingness to become softer, to let things be imperfect. I take the pasta out a few minutes under its done-ness. We cook it the rest of the way in the sauce. Large rigatoni’s topped with parmesan. Another thing I’m not sure you can have too much of.

The pasta is good. It could be better, but it settles something inside. The ultimate comfort food is found for me in homemade pasta and red wine. Another man’s steak and mashed potatoes. It feels like home to me, no matter where I am. And when you are swimming in blue eyed bliss, floating in a long awaited deep warm love, it is nice to keep your feet on the ground and your belly full.

Seeking Placemats

I just bought my first dining room table.

I have my first dining room, so it seems appropriate. Not appropriate but necessary. Decadent. Like a landmark in my rattled wonky wonderful life. I was keeping an eye open for a table before I even moved into the new place. A standard selection to be found in thrift stores and craigslist: Ikea particle board tables, horrendous ornate wrought iron with ugly upholstered chairs, shellacked black wood lacquer with metal straight back chairs and leather seats. That is not appropriate. Not with the way I like to dine.

I then gave myself permission to buy something beautiful, something unique. Something older but sturdy. Practical but with character. A table where I could eat breakfast by myself in the easterly light of the window with a newspaper and a French press filled with coffee, or a late supper for two where utensils are optional. I imagine my friends sitting there, imbibing and being competitive over games and filling each other in on the weeks events. I wanted it to fit 8 but I am settling for 6. That might work out because I don’t even think I own 8 plates.

My parents had the same dining room table my entire life. It definitely seated 8 though I think they managed to always make room for more. It was a thick heavy slab of glass sitting a top an iron grate. It was gorgeous but intense. What I remember most about it was what a pain it was to clean. Whoever was clearing the table that night would have to grab the Windex and wipe away all the food and fingerprint smudges of that meal, all the intensity and problems and solutions that would arise during our dinners. We often left that table with our concerns and issues in mid air. Our bellies full but a heaviness looming.

That table got sold along with all the other furniture I grew up around.
My parents took great care to handpick all the furniture we lived with for twenty plus years. Mostly antiques, but livable warm earthy antiques that traveled with us from house to house all over the west side of Los Angeles. When they up and moved to another country 8 years ago they sold the majority of their belongings. I was living in Europe with no home or storage unit of my own. So any inheritance of these pieces, the welsh dresser from the 1800’s, the massive wooden couch I spent most of life lying on, the wooden kitchen table that was stained with berries and orange juice and pencil marks from homework, that mammoth glass dinner table which hosted endless dinner parties and my parents phenomenal cooking, none of it remains.

So instead of buying a cheap white formica table to fill the empty space in my new dining room, I went with a vintage handmade wooden table that seats 6. I am guessing it’s from the 40’s but what do I know? It could very well have been made in 1973. It has an extra leaf tucked away to extend and make room for the expected and unexpected. It’s base is rounded and curved like an art deco piece. It is heavy but hopefully not too heavy to carry up the stairs to my new cottage.

I have been eating on the floor for the last 5 years. Eating on my bed or a bolster or on the stoop of my old place. And I am hoping it fits easily through the narrow door and lives happily against the wall and the window of my bright dining room. I think my cat might love resting on its dark wood, although I promise to always wipe it off before you come over to eat.

sprung

I’m looking forward.

Spring.

It makes me blush at how gorgeous and sensual it all is. I shoved my face in a mess of jasmine on a walk this morning. Pink and heady. Intoxicating and almost illegal.

I’m looking forward to more cherry blossoms and jacaranda trees and all their purple robust flowers staining the sidewalks. I’m looking forward to the bright raw green of all the early shoots and stems and beans and peas making their way into markets and on to menus. Asparagus, skinny and sweet, fava beans being pushed from their furry shells with my thumbs. Green garlic and obscenely fragrant bouquets of mint. Tiny carrots, pea greens and the perfect paper skins of spring onions.

Fertile. Fresh. New. Terrifying. Because it is being delivered to my feet, to my hands, to my plate. All this newness, this possibility.

Today was too warm, but just right. It was a new year but felt like old times.

What do you want from this spring? Can you feel it rushing towards you? Are you ready to leave behind everything that doesn’t serve you?

I’m ready to get crushed into something phenomenal.

"...like most humans, I am hungry. But there is more than that. It seems to me that our three basic needs for food and security and love are so mixed and mingled and entwined that we cannot straightly think of one without the others. So it happens that when I write of hunger I am really writing about love and the hunger for it and the warmth and the love of it and the hunger for it...and then the warmth and richness and fine reality of hunger satisfied...and it is all one. "

-M.F.K. Fisher

You Give Good Sunday

I’ve been working hard. Working for the weekend, which is also filled with work.
When I lived in Germany, the majority of stores and restaurants would close on Sundays. The streets were quiet and serene and would force us all to find respite in our families and homes, or in church if that’s where you like to go, or the local lovely bar which is where I like to go.



This Sunday I awoke after sleeping for almost twelve hours. Catching up from a week of late nights and big emotions, of disappointments and wide awakenings. I woke renewed and hopeful. I ran in the park, then I lured my friend, (who might also be my culinary soul mate) into brunch plans.

My last meal had been at 4 pm the day before. So my hunger at 10 am on Sunday was extraordinary. Healthy ravenous post-running hunger. We chose Stella, because its not too expensive for the quality, the coffee is exceptional, our waitress is adorable and there is usually never a wait.

Sherry mushrooms and poached eggs on toast. Enormous mugs of coffee. A shared salad to balance the butter intake. There might have been fries. I’ll never tell.

We meandered that day. Window-shopped, pined over shoes that rival my rent, let our fingers fondle mid-century furniture, drooled over eclectic soul compilations. I bought nothing except for a pile of books from Out of the Closet. Old plays I want to re-read and magazines I want in my possession for my lazy low attention span moments.

Window shopping is hunger inducing work. And we needed an afternoon sugar fix. So my brilliant friend suggested Proof, a new bakery in Atwater. Glass cases with potato tarts and precious cakes and lovely scones. A huge glass jar filled with breadsticks that were over a foot long. Tiny tarts with promises of pistachio.


We shared a chocolate caramel morsel and a lemon cream tart with berries. Not bad. I might return. It’s definitely not its neighbor Sweets for the Soul, but what could ever top the brownies that come from there?



More window-shopping. Vintage clothes, snotty shop owners, overpriced items. More hunger. Or more, a thirst. A late afternoon glass of vino. Our favorite hangout, Little Dom's. And Dom’s at 3:30 on a Sunday is a glorious place to be.
The light is lovely, the bar is empty, the transition from brunch to dinner is happening but you can still get rice balls and order a bottle of organic/biodymanic wine from Sicily. And maybe we should have pizza too. Yeah, good idea. Anyway, it’s Sunday. And this is our church.

I definitely use food to soothe, to decompress, to alter any heavy working load upon my shoulders and mind. But it’s not just the food. It’s the company who loves to eat as much as I. It’s the steady pace between each meal while you digest and emit the gratitude for living in such a crazy diverse city that shines bright and warm in the midst of February. We enjoyed every bite that day, I guarantee. We might have overdid it, but we might be trying to tip the scales away from the heavy weeks we lead, only to bring us back to the true pleasures of life.

Love bites

Last week I lost my appetite. And if you know me, this a rare and disturbing occurrence. I did not lose it by means of something distasteful or rancid or unappetizing.

I lost it in the name of lust and yearning. I blame it on the man. He is somewhat irresistible.

This has happened before. In fact it happened exactly 4 years earlier, on Halloween night, at the Pacific Dining Car on 6th street on the edge of downtown and crack-ville.

Pacific Dining Car is overpriced, and truly of a different era. It's a great place for a kitschy first date or a rendezvous with your mistress or a late night business meeting when you're not afraid to throw down the company credit card.

The Halloween from a few years past was the second date with a boy who had admitted some feelings. So we boycotted costumes and entered into the dark aged plush world of the Pacific's dining room. Being the first to arrive, I found a spot at the bar, where the ancient bartender served me a 15 dollar Pinot Noir in a massive wine glass. Worth every sip.

In walks my cocky adorable date in a white snap button cowboy shirt and rumpled hair with a slight smirk on his face. I was smitten. I bought him a steak. A 30 dollar steak that was smaller than the palm of my hand. I think it came with a few green beans or a tuft of spinach swimming in butter. I can't remember. I can't remember what I ate either but I do remember the wine being the only food that could go down easily. Because my stomach was flip flopping around, my head was dizzy, I was lost in that tiny green velvet booth across from someone who would unknowingly become my lover for the next 3 years.

The current Halloween date is not my lover. He is not even really a friend. I have cooked with him and watched him roast a turkey. I have quietly reveled at his choice of wine and his subscription to Cook's Illustrated. I know almost nothing about him; except what he does for work, that he is somewhat brilliant with the exception of matters of the heart, that he likes Donny Hathaway and that when we kiss it takes me a few days to recover.

Maybe all this vagueness and not knowing spurs on the longing. I came into our rendezvous hungry, but 15 minutes in all I could ingest were sips of Sangiovese and water. Those damn butterflies filled me up, a slight dizziness came over me. It has been a long time since I felt woozy from a man. It knocked me from a place I have been enjoying lately. A place of only a few harmless crushes and fewer distractions, of keeping men at arms distance so I can focus on what is directly in front of me and what I want in life.

He was able to clean his plate and mine as well. The pasta is cooked with a homemade fennel sausage. It is rich and clean and delicious. I also ordered us the rice balls, two heaping fried balls of risotto that ooze mozzarella.

I am not one of those ladies who picks at salads on a date. I can easily put food back and I appreciate those who has a diverse and healthy appetite. Even more so I like a man who can appreciate my appetite. But sometimes feelings prevail. Emotions and hormones and desire take up too much space and leave no room for real sustenance.

No substantial relationship will likely take place with this gentlemen. We are too different, the momentum is halting, we rarely run into each other, and he seems to be deep in his own complicated chaotic world into which he is rightly devoted. But for our brief occasional rendezvous, it is worth every moment of my lack of appetite. These days I find true chemistry to be a rare and fleeting thing. If someone can lose me in a kiss, I will gladly (temporarily) lose my ability to eat.

I do know, for future relationships, I will no doubt require someone who is adventurous with their food journeys. Someone who follows the beaten path to the hidden nook in the wall, someone who plans the next meal as we are finishing the current one, someone who shares a hunger for all things culinary, hopefully striking a balance between hunger and satiety.

I do hope he inspires my appetite as well as other things. I hope that's not too much to ask.

Medicine cabinet

I have never been good at meeting deadlines, completing assignments, following through. Admittedly, I am a bit of a slacker. Definitely a hard worker when given a specific task. But the follow-through tends to thin out and my attention runs rampant. The expectations for this here blog were a bit higher than they needed to be. What with 14 plus readers, do I need perfection, do I need Pulitzer prize material? Or do I need to meet the goal I set out to meet? Write. And write some more. Maybe post a pic or two. And when all else fails, write again.

I am eating every day. So I have plenty of material. Do you want to hear about what I just had for a lunch or about a lazy day messy recipe of throwing together what looks edible in my pantry? It seems so very exciting when being made, the satisfaction of eating my creation or someone else's work, but after the hunger drifts away, I forget about all the foreplay, all the details that made the experience worth writing about in the first place.

Too much comparison, too high of expectations. This is just a scrapbook. A virtual journal. An experiment. An experiment that is not reaching its potential considering I spend the majority of my income and waking hours ingesting or pondering food.

Maybe it scares me how my taste buds wane and wax, how my budget does not allow all that I want to experience, and that my body is less tolerant of my cocky brave appetite.

I'll tell you a story. A couple weeks ago my lower back seized and the majority of my vertebrae went every which way. I couldn't stand up straight for over a week, my right hip visibly 3 inches higher than my left. My emotions were a roller coaster of anger, helplessness, deep dull pain and occasional bouts of hysterics. So I laid on my back and began laughing and called a friend who tends to calm and soothe. He mentioned Mint Juleps; he was working on a project and was also thinking about making and drinking them. I don't know about you but on that hot day while I laid on the carpet immobile that sounded like true medicine. With the impetus of cold whiskey in my future I managed to rise up and pluck a few handfuls of mint from the garden and get a simple syrup started on the stove. My tall and lovely friend arrived not long after, a bottle of Makers Mark in his hand. He crushed some ice in the vita mix and put a straw in my lovely cocktail. The straw was curly and plastic and bright green and let me sip without bending over my glass.




Well, this started a 4 day trend. Since I rarely take aspirin I get to justify healing with booze. I know, I know. But the sweet mint syrup could not go to waste, or the bottle left behind. And my friends rallied and visited and tended to my thirst and mild hunger and crazy moods.

A four day binge can only end badly. Especially when your spine is not aligned. So a few days later, my liver knocking on my ribs, my emotions spent, I tried a new sort of medicine. A few beets were hanging out in the cooler, organic and golden. The thought of a raw beet salad made my body cheer.


So I grated those beets down, joyous yellow shocking my dulled out senses. Adding squeezes of lemon and orange juice, a few grinds of Hawaiian sea salt, a dash of olive oil. Chopped parsley to further aid in kidney repair and man, do I love parsley.


If you are a loather of beets, which I think 65 percent of you are, you might love this salad. That bitter beet grimy taste is nowhere to be found. It was crisp and citrusy. I felt my blood come back to life, color filling in my cheeks.

8 days later my spine found its way back to straight, the pain and burning allevaited, and I came out of it grateful, motivated, ready to dance.

I still think whiskey is medicinal, but I am happy to add beets to my repertoire.

happy accidents

If you haven't guessed by now, I find great solace in eating. Chemistry shifts, satisfaction settles, flavors abound and I find joy.

Joy is something that has been waning and waxing lately. It is a word that is coming up often. In conversations, on paper, with some great and wise folks I am lucky enough to have in my life. They tap this word on my forehead with firmness and big love and remind me to find it, or even just remember that it's there.

It has been tough times. For you, for me and for folks that have issues I cannot even conceive. I have gotten a few chances to step aside and watch the tape that plays over and over. The one full of doubt and beliefs and the reality that is unmovable and ingrained. I finally called bullshit. Softly at first, but now it comes out loudly and more frequent.

So then when you counter your current situation and dream up a new one, what the hell are you going to put in it? Other than a working car, an actual income, debts paid: what does your life look like?

I have decided to try an experiment recently. I am breaking the habit of worry and despair and am giving up. I am deciding all is as it should be and I'm going along for the ride. In the back of my mind this seems highly irresponsible and somewhat arrogant but it is a hell of a lot more fun. I am experiencing surges of happiness that terrify me. I am attracting cool ass folks. I ask for big and little things like parking spaces and jobs and they show up.

After a long haul last week of massages and driving I was making my way back to the neighborhood. A big detour kept me off my exit and threw me into downtown. While coming up through Santee Alley, I was on the phone with my closet pal and driving aimlessly through dark streets and shuttered store fronts and haggard and hungry folks. I turn left and find myself in the hub and vibrant scene of Thursday Art Walk. Wow. Folks packed on city streets. Persian men sketching, punk rock kids hanging out of makeshift gallery spaces, tourists overwhelmed, tiny girls balancing on high heels holding on to their macho men. It is a time warp, a few decades represented in the sidewalk fashion show, a thrill in the air. The dead air of downtown is nowhere to be found. I strut down Spring Street to The Gorbals which is filled with raucous happy folks. Sitting, standing, pushing against the bar. Buzzed boys try too hard with sweet girls. A girl carries an accordion. The bandleader of Dakah Hiphop Orchestra enters and everyone cheers. It is a scene.

There is an empty seat at the counter. I am served calamari with a Vietnamese dipping sauce. Broccoli arrives, the one I have spoke fondly of before. Every one is harried and happy and shaking their hips as they work. A young man with 3 inch eyelashes sits down next to me. He takes one of the yellow flowers from behind his ear and hands it to me. I put it in my hair and swivel my chair to face the gypsy band that starts playing. Bliss. I watch folks dance and eat and hold each other. The owner bustles and smiles shyly.

The calm that ensues is the confort of being fed after a long day, as well as a stellar glass of Viogner. It is the feeling of being in a city that likes me in this moment. Of hearing great music and having an excellent date with myself.

It is all my great loves in one room in one time, and that is enough to let joy linger for awhile.

painting with cabbage

Cabbage is highly underrated. Versatile, crisp, inexpensive, it pairs well with so many flavors. It calls for sweet, salty, acidic. It likes to be raw and doesn't mind a little wilt, and also loves to be cooked down to a soft soggy mess. My friend Heidi makes a Christmas eve feast that celebrates cabbage like no other. On the menu there is her infamous borscht, perhaps the best I've ever had, as well as cabbage rolls stuffed with ground turkey.

I have never been a huge fan of coleslaw. Wet mayonnaise and sugar tend to turn me off. I have grown a fonder heart for it over the years, and I must admit The Pantry downtown has a pretty stellar version of the original.

But I grew up with the Asian version of coleslaw. No mayonnaise in sight. In its place were light oils and tangy flavors. The cabbage still kept its crunch and while ingesting foods off the BBQ, heavy meats and spicy dogs, a crisp cabbage salad creates the perfect marriage.

Napa cabbage is the princess of the family. Thin and light with a sweet ruffle, this cabbage takes on the flavors better than her sisters. I also love the shocking purple of red cabbage. With a bunch of green cilantro, an orange carrot, and some Breakfast Radishes we have a palette to work with.

I was never really a fan of radishes growing up, but recently I read a blurb about the health benefits of radishes. Loaded with Vitamin C, potassium, and calcium, they contain properties which help fight cancer and are also helpful in maintaining a healthy liver and gallbladder. I love their freshness and the shock of heat after a few bites.

I start my coleslaw dressing with minced shallots that marinate in rice vinegar for 15 minutes or so. I grate down my carrots and radishes and add some cucumber for coolness. Chop your cabbages thinly, then chop it again. Salt the whole salad. Cabbage loves salt. It releases the liquid in the cabbage which I actually want in my dressing. An option is to salt your cabbage and let sit in the colander, then press it dry.

A combo of sesame oil and olive oil to coat the salad. Add your rice vinegar and shallots. Sometimes I blend in some mustard, and sometimes tahini to make it creamy and more pungent. If you have a high quality mayonnaise feel free to add that as well.
The cilantro adds a shock of rich green and an earthier flavor. This gets better as it sits. Excellent on fish tacos, next to chili, or strewn on some meaty concoction, it is a feast for all your senses.

Fates and Lard

A little local downtown flavor was in order. We live so close to this bustling metropolis that it is only fair to occasionally head east and out of our familiar neighborhoods and see what is coming up anew.

My experience with downtown varies slightly. Half the time it feels like a ghost town, dark empty streets lit up with the neon light of the very disturbing LA Live. (ESPN burger, anyone?) There are a few gems. Church and State, Bottega Louie. I always love eating at Wurstkuche. The Varnish is charming yet pricey, and the scene at some of the watering holes and wine bars make me wonder where the hell are these folks from? It does not feel like LA to me.

My wing lady Miss V and I traversed in the dusk hour to catch the sunset at The Standard and see what adventure awaited us. The Standard is just that. Nothing remarkable although I always hope for miracles when I go there. I recommend a blistering hot weekday when all those poor fools are in their offices looking down at you lounging by the pool in the shade of a giant red pod chair, while some bored but kind out of work daydreaming actor brings you cold beer and appropriate day cocktails. Don’t head there on a Saturday night while a bachelorette party, a private industry party and an Ed Hardy boys night out is simultaneously taking place.

One drink in and hunger came over as it always does, and while the food at the Standard is decent bar fare I wanted a change of scene.

Miss V was down for the adventure as she often is and my brain gently reminded me of what was at the top of my downtown eats list.

The Gorbals. Ilan Hall, winner of Top Chef Season 2 won his place fair and square and with great grace and emotion. Very exciting that he has opened his own little personal spot in the newly revamped, haunted but glorious building that is the Alexandria Hotel.

The fates were in our favor. A parking spot half a block away. Absolutely no wait at 8:30 on a Saturday night. An adorable hard working chef greeting us as we slid into our stools at the counter overlooking the kitchen. (Who designed the great stools with a built in hutch with room for your purse and jacket and a sleeping infant?)

The wines are all California. The service is friendly with just the right amount of flirtation. The space is raw with blondish wood. There is no pomposity. Just a passion for what they do.

And what they do is so very…well this is what is difficult. The menu is brief with mostly small plates as well as a few big ones. We opted for sweet potato latkes served with a homemade applesauce and fried sage leaves. Nothing too remarkable but a good choice for Miss V who is veggie. The broccoli served with a chili soy glaze was unreal. Slightly fried, maybe a little toasted at the end. Pure sodium heaven. It was the last broccoli of the night we were told. Lucky again.

I will be brave and get the bacon wrapped matzoh balls next time. They looked perfect and I believe they were grating fresh horseradish on top.

On another dish of deep fried greens they were grating butter. Yes, butter. And what is the white creamy sauce they are dishing onto the plate of chicken schnitzel? Why, lard, of course.

The Gorbals is not for the faint of heart. And it is NOT for vegans. I was eyeing some gorgeous king oyster mushrooms being sautéed up and served with walnuts. Those accompanied a large roasted bone marrow and some dark brown rye bread. Crazy, I thought. But I secretly longed to try. Well, within a few minutes we were offered what was an extra bone marrow dish. And I am NOT one to refuse free food. So I took my little silver spoon and spread gelatinous opulent marrow onto my brown bread and arranged my mushroom walnut parsley heaven and enjoyed.

This is food you eat with guilt and wonderment. It is food that negates anything good you might have done that week for your health. It is food you create when you are alone in your kitchen teetering from drunkenness and insatiable hunger but you still have the wits to utilize your culinary prowess. It is sexy and slightly sinful and I can guarantee a food hangover the next day. And I will be going back very soon.

Breakfast of Champions

A facebook post from Bon Appetit magazine recently gave a shout out to local musician/photographer Jon Huck whose Breakfast Project is getting some major attention. Huck chronicled the eating habits of more than 100 of his friends and neighbors by photographing their faces along with the first meal of their day.

Comments flooded in, with Bon Appetit fans confessing what they had for breakfast that morning. I was impressed with the healthy delicacies fellow foodies are getting into their mouths for the so-called most important meal. Breakfast is what can often make me motivate myself from the bed. These days the thought of a smoothie from Naturewell on Sunset gets me up and going. The better I start out, as in the healthier, the less guilty I feel if I bend in a not so healthy direction later in the day. Eggs, oatmeal, high protein and high fiber are a sure fire way to keep things rolling (no pun intended). Grapefruit and avocados are winners. And forget cold boxed cereals. They will put me to sleep an hour later on my mid-morning commute. Plain Greek yogurt with sliced almonds and pumpkin seeds and a squeeze of agave is my favorite thing right now. For breakfast and dessert.


Some mornings though, I am defiantly in the mood for baked goods and old fashioned coffee. Fresh, just out of the oven, baked goods. And baking first thing in the morning is a lovely way to sort through the sleepiness and start a quick science project in your kitchen with a (hopefully) tasty result.

Despite my deep love of the act of baking, I am admittedly pretty bad at it. Due to lack of practice and my experimental tendencies in the kitchen I can understand why.
I once attempted to improvise a pan of brownies with a gorgeous block of Valrhona chocolate only to serve up an embarrassing goopy layer of something resembling hardened chocolate flavored mud. I would not be surprised if I enrolled in some pastry program in the near future and tried to tackle the art and intricacies of baking although my belly asks me firmly not to even consider it.

One recipe I tend to not screw up too royally is the muffin. Muffins are easy, quick and very adaptable to be incredibly chock full of fiber, texture and good morning ingredients. One can easily substitute the standard ingredients of butter and eggs with oil, yogurt and applesauce, use honey, maple syrup or agave instead of sugar, and whole-wheat flour, oats and flax meal can take over for the white stuff. And that makes spreading real butter on a hot muffin right out of the oven that much more pleasurable.

I have adapted and played with a few recipes over time to come up with this ramshackle but dependable recipe. I prefer a muffin that is hearty yet does not sit in the gut and one that is not too sweet so I can rub preserves all over it.




*Mind you, I know blueberries are presently out of season, so you can easily sub frozen blueberries or bananas. Yum.

Breakfast (or anytime) Blueberry muffins

(Makes about a dozen muffins)

1 1/2 cups whole-wheat flour
(pastry flour is best but all-purpose also works great)
1/2 cup ground flax or quick rolled oats
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp cardamom
1/2 tsp dried ginger (or 1 Tbsp fresh grated)
2 eggs
1/4 -1/2 cup agave, honey or maple syrup (depending on you, sweetie)
1 1/4 cup plain yogurt
1/2 cup vegetable or olive oil
1 Tbsp lemon zest
1 cup fresh blueberries

Preheat your oven to 375 degrees. Mix dry ingredients in bowl. Sift if you have a sieve. If not, no worries.

In separate bowl mix wet ingredients. Stir into dry ingredients. Please do not over mix.

Spoon batter in greased muffin tins to about 2/3 full. Bake for 15-18 minutes until a gorgeous brown on top and your knife pulls out dry.

Slather with butter and homemade jam.
They keep well for a few days and are even better toasted the next morning.

You say Oysters...

I hate to say it, but I think the moment I knew it wouldn't last with my former flame was when he made a face as I slurped down a freshly shucked oyster at the Hollywood farmers market. I knew if he wasn't brave enough to dive into the succulent sensual raw goodness of Vancouver's best, then it most likely wouldn't work out between us.

Maybe my initial oyster encounter is not as prophetic and life changing as Anthony Bourdain's. But I still feel best when immersed in the sweetness and brine, the feeling of the ocean covering my head, my entire being awash in some sea that lingers in my memory. And if you love oysters, dear reader, you know I am not being dramatic.



Blue Plate Oysterette, the sister restaurant to the un-extraordinary diner Blue Plate on Montana avenue, is a fish haven. They carry oysters on the half shell, usually 6 choices from both the west and east coasts. About 5 catches of the day are written on the chalkboard, simply pan sauteed and served with a choice of sauce, such as lemon caper or roasted garlic pesto. I fell for the black bean chutney, a jammy intense concoction which played off well with the lightness of the Hake special.

A friend claimed the fish and chips to be the best in town, which is why on every visit to the Blue Plate it is the only thing he orders. He proved himself right; the ling cod is succulent and light; the crisp shell serves its purpose adding crunch and texture to the fish, never overriding or becoming soggy.



There is a generic list of about 5 beers on tap, which is surprising with all the great micro brews that are currently coming out of California. The wine list is not too adventurous but suitable and affordable. Heavy on the whites with a few choices of red. A Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand impressed us all.

While the fish tacos are not the best in town they are still incredibly tasty. I loved a recent appetizer special of Peruvian ceviche served with steamed baby potatoes, spicy paprika aioli and house-made tortilla chips.



The Lobster Roll, artichoke, and Lobster Mac n' cheese are the crowd favorites.
And don't miss desserts. I tend to always go for the coconut ice cream sandwich with a side of macaroon but I am a sucker for coconut ANYTHING.



What has also made me fall hard for the Oysterette is the awesome, friendly and efficient service.

When we called 15 minutes ahead to get our name on the list we were told a 30-45 minute wait. When we walked up 10 minutes later, we were seated right away. The place is jumping, gleaming and very friendly. One can sit and dine at the counter or get cozy in the banquet against the wall of mirrors.

On my first visit, while I pondered the wines, our waitress brought a bottle to the table so we could taste before choosing. She was not afraid to cite her favorite dishes and why, which is always a turn on. The manager will no doubt stop by your table and check on you as if you are regulars. It is sincere and consistent and makes you come back.

www.blueplatesantamonica.com
1355 Ocean Ave
Santa Monica, CA 90401
(310) 576-3474

Reminiscing on a few summer moments before we head full force into fall. Or Indian Summer no. 2. These are some of the delightful entries at the Orange County Fair.









Pure southern California...


A gorgeous trellis held together by gardening wire and thick string. Very inspiring.

Buena Comida

Eating with strangers should be a mandatory monthly event. It is good to get out of your comfort zone and sit among the folks in your community, eating excellent chow, watching hungry excitement turn into sated bloated satisfaction.

Last Monday I headed to Loteria Grill in Hollywood for a Mexi-Italian feast: my gift for supporting public radio and subscribing to KCRW during the Good Food radio hour. Loteria Grill is a gorgeous spacious place, with oversized Loteria cards hanging above the bar and banquet. I quenched my palate with a prickly pear margarita, hot pink and laced with salt and some chili pepper.



Folks are coming in fast, eyeing the large platters and bowls. Grab a seat then begin the rounds. Chicken mole tacos, zucchini blossom empanadas, carnitas enchiladas. But the star of the night was no doubt Evan Kleinman's butternut squash lasagna with fontina cheese. Sweet, nutty, creamy beyond the depths of cream. I gently reminded my fellow diners to the magic qualities of butter. And the gnocchi... I should have put a few dumplings in my purse to take home and freeze. Just to have them in my presence would create calm. Thyme Gnocchi with an Heirloom tomato sauce. Sort of puzzled by their beautiful rosy pink color. No idea why they would be pink. Don't really care.







The desserts were a city wide collaborative affair. Tres leches cake by Loteria, lemon tiramisu by Evan, caramel chili lollipops from Little Flower Candy Company in Pasadena. After a couple margaritas and all the goodness presented before, desserts were hard to get down, but still worth standing in line for.



My table of course fell into the subject of food quite easily; where to eat creole in LA, comparing good ice cream joints, recommendations for Brazilian food. I steered a couple towards a good BBQ joint in a parking lot in Alta Dena on Lake, then we all reminisced on our experiences at Bulgarini Gelato on Alta Dena Avenue. We got into our favorite treats at Trader Joe's. I am loudly celebrating the return of the almond macaroon, and now am on the lookout for chocolate covered caramels with fleur de sel.

A lovely festive atmosphere. The chefs were followed by cameras and fans, a little manic but worthy of the praise. Nothing too obnoxious. I would have gotten a photo of the chefs as well, but I was too full.

Eating Paste

I need a culinary incentive.

Something to lure me away from my usual food haunts, to keep my dollars close, to cook at home and plan menus. A store bought bottle of wine which costs as much as a glass out is a good way to spend the night in, but what can make an unmotivated breakfast palette want to cook in her own kitchen?

A singular ingredient that works morning, noon and night. Something to take pride in, something to spread and dollop and accentuate.

This week's motivator turned out to be pesto.

It started with me recreating my favorite sandwich from the Downbeat Cafe. Mozzarella Pesto on Baguette. Extra-toasted please and add avocado.

I avert my eyes from the cafe and head to market. Fresh mozzarella, a demi-baguette, an overpriced but perfectly ripe avocado from Gelson's. I spot flat leaf parsley and grab a bunch, but refuse to pay the 3 dollars for the measly sprig of basil in the plastic container. The full and lush plant of basil from Trader Joe's still sits on my stoop beckoning.

If you buy jarred pesto, I must insist you stop immediately. At Italian delis there are often containers of frozen or refrigerated pesto that are quite excellent. But jarred pesto reeks of citric acid and cheese by products, remnants of something that was once crisp and green.

I make my pesto in a mini Black and Decker food processor. I grew up on a smoother blended pesto, but have been getting accustomed to a more rustic grandmotherly pesto, where the herbs and texture are more prominent. (My food processor is effective but dinky.)

I add basil but also add Italian parsley, arugula, maybe spinach if it's on hand. And pine nuts are too expensive today, so I do walnuts. A tiny clove of garlic. High quality extra virgin olive oil. Juice of 1/2 a lemon. Too lazy to pick out the seeds that fell in. Blend again. I don't add parmesan only because I don't have any. I am cheap. Or forgetful.

This pesto is good enough to eat by the spoonful. I proclaim it a true elixir of health, warding off all diseases and weak minded folks.



This pesto cracks my tired imagination slightly open. Awesome downbeat sandwich gets made (I am even motivated to make my own coffee) but the next day I add it to pasta with sauteed chard and zucchini. Green on green on green.

I make a very thin omelette and spread the pesto, maybe some chopped treviso, now time to add the parmesan that was once forgotten. (Never again, I promise.)

Little toasts with cheese and pesto make the perfect afternoon snack. Mix with a bit of oil and vinegar to make a salad dressing. Folded into rice. Spread on a piece of fish. Use it as a face scrub. Minus the cheese. Lots of basil left. More motivation to come.

Post Summer Mortem

Now that was a great summer.

Mild weather.
Lots of swimming.
Long lazy afternoon lunches.
Twilight dinners.
Old and new friends.
Cooking for 30. Cooking for 1.
Immersed in a river in Eastern Washington with a cup of Sangria made by a dear friend.
The carving of a massive 20 pound slightly perverse zucchini.



Things have changed.
The boy mentioned frequently in my last post is no longer in my life. I will no longer refer to him or his culinary choices. It was a good run while it lasted but consistency is key.

Speaking of consistency, I have sorely neglected this seedling of a blog. I have thought of it often, maybe like one thinks of the mountains of boxes lying in the attic above them. Treasures galore, but the weariness sets in and summer is just outside.

But I can honestly say, I have fallen more in love with food than ever and this summer I cooked with feverish joy and curiosity. With time and space (physical and mental both), inspired by articles, books, moods, friends and boredom.







As we venture into Autumn, my favorite season, I hope to reflect back on some good recipes and good times. This blog currently lives in Los Angeles where seasons are subtle and intricate. A bounty awaits. I want to follow it, pick at it, explore the possibilities.

Back in my small apartment with my clumsy ill-equipped kitchen. My cat lies next me, eyes closed, arms overhead in full surrender. Fall down, fall in. Eat up, eat out. Record these adventures. They come and go so fast.

Learning to Love

In many ways the man I date is my dream dude. Soulful, warm, affectionate, creative, and smart. With a wicked sense of humor and a penchant for late night dancing and grub, he is the bees knees in my book. Sure there are differences; obstacles and annoyances on both our parts. But it seems to get worked out in the midst of a great deal of fun and who can ask for more.

When you have good love, it more than makes up for the fact your lover has an aversion to most vegetables, when you yourself could not live without them. You can let it slide when he expresses his momentary craving for KFC, the mere thought making a gag well up in the back of your throat.

He is not interested in the arduous shopping process of fine picking fruits and veggies from the local farmers market. He finds it ridiculous and time consuming to frequent several different shops for necessities and special ingredients. He is a sucker for bland and meaty, super sweet and saucy, and is wary of anything green and oddly shaped. He loves food, no doubt. But not in the way I love, obsess, and NEED food. He does try to support my habit and attempts to keep me well fed every few hours, so you can see why I stick around.

He has stood by his valid excuse to keep a fridge stocked with packaged items and frozen treats. His kitchen is makeshift in his studio/dark room, consisting of a toaster oven, a one burner camping stove, and a very large sink. One might find this restricting, keeping meals simple, reheat-able and effortless but I find this a welcome challenge and a way to slowly creep in fresh seasonal food that is worth the small extra effort to shop for and prepare. And he has been eager to make a shift and to be healthier.

So I start slow in his hopeful transformation.
Yesterday we made our way to the Saturday market and spent approximately twelve dollars on a good selection of produce. He kept an open mind as we chose ingredients for his favorite standbys; tacos, fajitas, stir fries, pasta. Let's not get too adventurous at the risk of scaring him away.

Zucchini goes into our bag, along with a shiny Japanese eggplant, a bright red pepper, and carrots (of which he is not fond but attempting). He bravely chooses a knobby root of ginger on his own. He opted for the baby spinach because the mesclun mix looked "jagged and spiky". To my delight he picked up a fresh head of garlic contemplating throwing his jarred (oh, the horror) garlic out.

We picked up a red onion and cilantro, an herb I am grateful he likes. The pluots were gorgeous but he opted for a honey melon instead.

Then on to Trader Joes, where I wrestled fish sticks and frozen gyoza from his hands, settling on marinated mahi mahi and a veggie burger that was not saturated in corn by-products.

I picked up some organic chicken breasts and marinated it overnight in greek yogurt, cumin, a dash of Worcestershire sauce and lemon.



Searing the chicken in the pan first, I then managed to fit it in the tiny toaster oven on broil setting. I chopped and salted my eggplant, allowing it to drain and prepared a pot of wild brown rice.

Small ceramic colorful bowls are a favorite while I prep, so I filled one with minced garlic, ginger, and red onion and then thinly sliced my other veggies. I cooked the eggplant first, starting with a healthy guzzle of olive oil and stirring till tender and a slightly fried crust.



I throw my garlic, ginger and onion mixture and saute till the onions become translucent. The rest of the veggies get stir fried all together for a few minutes, then I put the lid on to encourage some steaming. Just a splash of soy sauce at the end. I am trying not to over season anything in hopes the taste and texture of fresh veggies influence his sensitive and warped taste buds.

I do some mushrooms in the pan on their own. Just a few minutes to brown slightly, then add the eggplant and vegetables. I fill a bowl with rice, top with veggies and diced chicken and finish with cilantro.

The flavors marry each other well. The salty caramel of the eggplant with miniscule bites of ginger. The earthy mushrooms against chewy nutty rice. The cumin in the chicken is subtle but rounded. I say be generous with the cilantro. I love the contrast of the fresh bitter herb with the cooked veggies. Your basic stir fry in under an hour. Success shows on a satisfied and grateful mans face. Maybe next time, he'll cook.