Around the World in About an Hour

It was the last day of school — a foggy gray June morning, the day before the solstice, the kids already adapting to their summer schedule and rising late, slogging off to class with sleep still heavy in their eyes.

The Ancestor Feast, Ms. Denmark’s 2nd grade class, Topanga, CA

My son, Flynn, had recently been studying ancestry in his second-grade class, interviewing grandparents and making family trees. For the last day of school, they would be having an “Ancestor’s Feast,” in which they — or their parents, who were invited too — would bring in a dish honoring the country, or “a” country, of their ancestry. More

Sopa of My Dreams

I like to think of myself as an honorary Mexican. After all, where I was born was once part of Mexico, and we in California now have a population that is more Mexican than non-Mexican.

An edible summer bouquet

My two oldest brothers — twins, 20 years my elders — both married Mexican women. My earliest childhood memories are filled with large, spirited fiestas. Our live-in housekeeper, Angelita, and the brick mason Sisco who worked at our house were both like family. By the time I was six, I could eat the hottest salsa you could throw at me. More

Things the Wife Does Not Steal

My friend-I’ve-never-met, Ben, was commenting on my recent post about tiny tasty fishes that he had a favorite bar where he ate fried smelt like french fries. And best of all, his wife didn’t steal them. Now there was an idea for a blog post, I thought self-servingly.

Silky lardo from Boccalone in San Francisco

In a follow up comment, Ben also confided that his wife will not share foie gras, roasted bone marrow, very runny cheeses, cheesecake and sushi maki-rolls made out of mackerel or salmon skin. Lucky Ben. This got me thinking about some of the things my own wife will not eat — especially those that I order with that knowledge in mind (i.e. I will get to eat all of it and not have to share.) More

Clarity of Flavor

One day recently, I was reading a restaurant review by one of the great treasures of the L.A. culinary scene, our Pulitzer Prize-winning food writer, Jonathan Gold. If you don’t know Jonathan or his work, he is a grizzled hippy Jewish rocker who used to write concert reviews for the L.A. Times, and at some point transitioned to food — and now is one of the country’s most celebrated authors on all things edible, the only food critic ever to win the Pulitzer. He brings a literate rock & roll sensibility to his reviews that is perfectly suited for Jim Morrison’s City of Night.

The makings of a perfect dinner.

Anyway, in this particular review, he was praising the fresh, focused cooking of whatever restaurant it was (“seasonal, well-sourced produce presented in a way that lets its virtues shine through undisturbed”) against the prevailing trend of molecular cooking and the “restless mutation that modernism needs to survive”. He went on to point out that ” in California, the taste of a Cara Cara orange straight from the tree will always eclipse the flashier pleasures made possible by a packet of xanthan gum.” More

The Myth of 27

It’s always been a symbolic number in my life — 27.

I remember sitting with my best friend, Dan, at his house in Topanga close to my 28th birthday. Dan was a few years older than I. “27 has been a really hard year,” I said — tired and disillusioned. “Oh man,” he replied, “I’m just getting over 27.”

Chris Hillman and Gram Parsons in Topanga, 1969

27 is, of course, the year that so many talented young artists perish. Browse the obits, and it truly is astonishing — Robert Johnson, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, Gram Parsons, Brian Jones, Jean-Michel Basquiat, Heath Ledger, Kurt Cobain, Amy Winehouse. It’s often morbidly referred to as the “Forever 27 Club.” More

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