My Sabbatical

“Sweet Disposition” by The Temper Trap

So, yes, someone has had a lengthy absence away from writing. I suppose you could say that I have been otherwise prioritizing my time. I do almost regret not documenting some of my DC “firsts.” I emphasize the almost because I am trying to make it a practice to never regret any one of my experiences or actions. The latter is much more difficult to accomplish, and requires constant practice and reminding.

To sum up the rest of my first year in this beautiful capitol city, I experienced what I was constantly told was a mild winter; it deceitfully eased into a blisteringly hot summer, with skin that glistened the moment you stepped outside. Each day I’d hear the warning: “It’s going to get hotter, mark my words.” Nary a person was able to convince me that I was finally back on the East Coast and no longer in the temperate desert by the sea that is also known as Los Angeles. But the short perfect spring breathed its final windy sigh, and the notoriously selfish summer shouldered in, heaving its thick humidity the likes of a sauna with a trail of flying insects that ruled from noon to night. The level-eyed looks of “I told you so” deservedly followed the flying insects, and al fresco dining turned into a rite of passage if you dared, but most people did not.

Mr. Weather aside, I continued to enjoy peeling back the layers of this city full of workaholics, group houses, closet hookah addicts, and bourbon lovers. I moved into a classic gray rowhouse with a brick wall, high ceilings, and wood floors. I also experienced my first steeplechase, the Gold Cup (wealthy northern Virginia’s pouty answer to the Kentucky Derby, replete with its own version of the mint julep, wide-brimmed hats, pretty girls in sundresses, and drunken fraternity boys in madras print pants). I discovered coat checks, late happy hours, and made-to-order cocktails by intelligent and snarky bartenders.

And just as the summer was finished going through my closet of inappropriate clothes, ruining each of my favorite blouses with over-applied deodorant, it up and disappeared leaving a picturesque autumn foliage in its wake. The change was that sudden, too. It seemed to happen in one weekend…unlike the beautiful autumn season which kept hedging its bet and would record daily temperatures differing sometimes by as much as 20 degrees. But it did follow the summer, and now, exactly one year later, I am experiencing one of the coldest winters DC has had in decades.

With freezing temps and a brutal windchill, I was sure that people would hole themselves up either at home or in the office. But, to my welcomed surprise, everyone is still out and about, overflowing local pubs, shopping with purpose, and generally continuing to pump this city with a pedestrian lifeblood that is only possible in a town such as this.

I’m now settled comfortably at a back table in a busy coffee shop complemented by a full bar, happily lapping up a warm glass of mulled wine. This coffee shop is quid pro quo for the city, too, with interesting home-grown urban artwork hanging on the walls and servers dressed with a touch of hipster (skinny jeans with bright seams, hair tied up in scarves, and sporting Converse All-Stars). The music bounces back and forth from obscure indie rock to obscure indie hip hop. Large comfy armchairs are squeezed around small tables full of patrons, some with laptops, many just enjoying good coffee, laughing over a table of bread, mint leaves, and Greek yogurt.

A Jamaican eatery opened up a couple of blocks from my place, and I think I’m going to try it for dinner tonight. Downstairs burgers made from odd meats like goat and bison are served, and upstairs deejays spin Jamaican music. This effort was born from the same owners of several of my favorite establishments in the city; I have high expectations (and hopes) for it.

So, I believe this hastily patches up my lack of blogs for my first year here. My recipe will hopefully be following the blog soon. It’s a really delicious spaghetti recipe; it is really that good!

A Francophile in the City

"Jardin d'hiver" by Keren Ann

It is no secret that I am a little bit of a Francophile. I love the food and wine, the clothes, the attitude, the borrowed words…like connoisseur, rendezvous, décolletage, faux pas, patois, soiree. French words just exude this self confident sense of sassy, disguised as flirty little tongue-twisters that tease when they stumble through your teeth and lips, unhurried and impudent, sometimes clumsily, daring you to take that small mental leap into the inappropriate.

The inappropriate….

Without revealing my sources, mind you, this brings to mind a recent, thoroughly enjoyable, French experience that I happened upon…after several missed opportunities…and wearing what looked like an Hermes orange scarf (so said my friend as she espied our covert planning in the corner, all smiles, all double entendre). It was the last night of a string of happy, celebratory days and nights. I was on a high, from too much wine perhaps or from the momentum that had slowly built up over the night's activities even or maybe from the fact that this was the last time to take advantage of a very willing, and very qualified, advocate for the selfish arts of indulgence and gratification. I honestly wasn't sure which. I just know that a cab ride and two glasses of Makers-rocks later, I had arrived at the door of sheer and utter, beautifully inappropriate disbelief.

I do feel like lately I have been enjoying that kind of delicate balance, the one between instant reward and…dancing around it tauntingly. There is something deliciously conscious, purposeful, and patient about it, like a foreplay. It's become this intriguing game of self discipline and self discovery. How long can I keep myself at bay, hold myself at arm's length, how long…with anything? At what point does it turn into a self imposed punishment, of sorts of course? I do know that as long as I am enjoying this slow, patient game of wills, I'll continue to play it.

Back to my Francophilia, there is this French song that I've recently fallen in love with, fittingly called "Jardin d'hiver" (which means "Winter Garden"), and I keep playing it over and over again (every version that I own). It puts me in that soft, unhurried mood. Makes me want to…dally a little, enjoy that extra glass of something, slip into anything comfortable, and lengthen my acute experience, prolong it, whatever it happens to be.

It also makes me want to...enjoy a digestif, one that by its own flavor combo I am forced to drink slowly, almost gingerly. Like a classic cocktail.

Sidecar

The Original from Harry's Bar - Paris

1 1/2 oz. Brandy
1/2 oz. Triple Sec
1/2 oz. Lemon or Lime Juice

Combine all the ingredients in a shaker filled with ice, shake well and strain into a cocktail glass.

For Goodness' Sake

“It’s Amazing” by Jem

No tree, lights, or decorations up in my place, and not because I’m a Scrooge. I love the holidays at this time of year, all of them (Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Christmas, etc.). My time has just been otherwise prioritized (i.e., work). This is also my first holiday in a while in a new city, one that is known for being breathtaking and brightly lit during this time of year. Preparations for the approaching history-making inauguration have somewhat muted the regular round-the-town holiday fare, I’m sure, but I can still see glimpses of it in store fronts and on street corners. The city still seems to sparkle.

I can also tell it’s the holiday season by the weather.

We have actually already experienced a few flurries, wispy ones that don’t stick to anything, but could tingle your tongue if you allow them to. And we have had some rain.... Just a few nights ago I was making my way home from apre-late-worknight-drinks, and there was this cold and heavy rain that I had to battle my way through with a small, inadequate, but better-than-nothing, umbrella, bracing myself against the faintest wind that would every now and again sweep the rain sideways and turn my inadequate umbrella into a completely ineffective one. I soldiered on, with my inexplicable (some might even call “idiotic”) half-smile, while others shouldered past me purposefully in appropriate early-winter attire, oblivious to what they would hardly call a sprinkle. Silly southern California girl.

Of course, there are other telltale signs of the holiday season. Everyone around seems to be more positive, more polite, friendlier. Granted, I could be subconsciously feeding into a proverb in the Bible: “He who seeks good finds goodwill.” Regardless, I’d rather be a misguided reveler than any alternative. There’s an insurance company with a commercial that starts out with one person helping someone else out, and another person seeing it and in turn helping someone else out, which is then witnessed by someone else, and so on. The idea of the commercial is not foreign to me. A few years back I remember this movement that promoted random acts of kindness (a popular coffee table book was published on the topic, I'm sure even Oprah touted it, etc.). I remember trying it, a random act of kindness; I sent a “thinking of you” note to an old friend that I knew was very sick and hadn’t been able to be out and about in a while. We hadn’t really been in touch either (in large part my fault because I’m horrible at keeping in touch with anyone). Her response to my note couldn’t have been more warming or more appreciative. I was startled at how my little amount of effort produced such a fountain of positivity and good energy. If I had the discipline, I’d practice it more often (gift-wrapping at a Georgetown bookstore for donations to a not-for-profit doesn’t quite seem as satisfying as working a soup kitchen in South Central Los Angeles on Thanksgiving day, but it was still really fun, and the intention was there, no?).

This past weekend, on my long walk home with a friend, from the best fried chicken in the city (i.e., The Hitching Post), I was bundled in two scarves, thick mittens, and a long jacket. We were actually passing a garden shop full of what looked like a massive group of carolers inside. I turned to my friend after I noticed that they were all men, and mouthed, “Are they the Gay Men’s Chorus?” since every major city has one (LA’s is one of the best I’ve ever heard). She, one of my trusted DC locals, shrugged uncertainly, so we walked inside to listen to them, and asked who they were. One of the singers responded proudly: “We’re gay.” A round of laughter followed by a: “Yes, we are the Gay Men’s Chorus.” And then they proceeded to share their beautiful, simple gift; they sang carols, lovely, heartfelt, harmonious carols. We were able to stay for two before we had to leave because my friend had a train to catch.

So, all this to say that while my little place doesn’t have any decorations or lights up inside, I still feel the blister of winter approaching as well as the hope of a long break over the anticipated holidays and the sparkle that this city is letting off (another idiotic smile), whether altruistically or intentionally. This is the closest I’ve come in a long time to feeling like it really is that “time of year when the world falls in love.”

Now be good to yourself and fall in love with these holiday cookies courtesy of Bridget Klein from Louisville, Kentucky.


Princess Tea Cakes

To make ahead: Prepare the dough (Steps 2 and 3), cover and refrigerate for up to 1 day. Store the cookies in an airtight container at room temperature for up to 3 days. Roll in the second coating of confectioners' sugar just before serving.

3/4 cup canola oil
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
3/4 cup white whole-wheat flour
2 cups confectioners' sugar, divided
3 tablespoons cornstarch
1/8 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
3/4 cup very finely chopped nuts, such as pecans, walnuts or hazelnuts

1. Preheat oven to 400°F.
2. Pour oil into a medium bowl. Whisk all-purpose flour, white whole-wheat flour, 1/4 cup confectioners' sugar, cornstarch and salt in another bowl.
3. Mix half the dry ingredients into the oil by spoonfuls. Scrape down the sides of the bowl and add vanilla. Mix in the remaining dry ingredients by spoonfuls until thoroughly combined. (The mixture will resemble creamed butter and brown sugar.) Stir in nuts.
4. Roll the dough into 1-inch balls; place about 1 inch apart on an ungreased baking sheet.
5. Bake the cookies until just set, being careful not to let the bottoms get too brown, 10 to 12 minutes. Cool on the pan for 2 minutes; transfer to a wire rack to cool slightly.
6. When the cookies are still warm, but no longer hot, roll them in the remaining 1 3/4 cups confectioners' sugar and place them back on the rack to continue cooling. (Reserve the sugar.)

When the cookies are completely cool, roll them in the sugar again.

Makes 3 dozen cookies

New in DC

“Dreamworld” by Robin Thicke

Moves are never short of a few hiccups. Mine should have had me at wit’s end, but with my refreshed vision (my relocation to the east coast largely to blame), I’m tending to take hiccups much less seriously now. My priorities seem to be more in the order that I would ideally like them to be in, and I find myself wearing this constant smile. In short, I feel renewed and alive, and I’m eagerly and pleasantly surprised as I look underneath each new rock in this gloriously different city. As is my nature with almost all things new and unknown to me, my curiosity is near unquenchable. And this city is not disappointing me at all.

This city has got me hooked. From the moment I wake up, slowly uncoil myself from bed, and realize that I’ll be stepping out into a completely new neighborhood with refreshingly brisk weather, lined with cobblestoned sidewalks, trees with changing leaves, shiny Vespas, and parked cars that are settled in for the week waiting to be used for weekend trysts... From the moment that I smell the brewing coffee delicately wafting into my bedroom from my cozy, little kitchen, enticing me to gingerly crawl out of bed and endure the cold slate floor so that I can pour a steamy mug to leisurely enjoy while I ease into my morning… From the moment that I know that I will have to wear a jacket and a scarf to wrap up in while I indecisively pick my way through the neighborhood streets to work, passing ivy-covered row houses, international embassies, the National Geographic Society, at least eight coffee houses…

From these simple, yet new and cherished moments…to that moment when I discover a soon-to-be favorite quasi-hidden watering hole full of interesting people chilling to an interesting deejay nestled in between shelves of dusty books in a small alcove spinning interesting music… Or that moment when a tall, mysterious stranger walks past me with his serious and penetrating eyes, thick wavy hair, pressed dark suit, and dangerously deep dimples, and his fragrance faintly reaches my senses, tickles my skin, and makes me blush. And then that moment when suddenly he appears behind me at the door of that dark lounge and follows me in, with a mischievous smile, escorts me up the stairs, and buys me an extra dry, completely dirty, martini… But this is not about him. This is about me, and I cannot devote my attention to any one person or thing because my attention span does not allow it. Let alone some handsome stranger with an exotic accent and an exotic name. Instead I tuck away a business card with an appreciative nod…and find myself drawn to that moment when I’m seated at a cozy dark wine bar that is walking distance to my place and I discover that it serves my favorite varietal of wine, Montepulciano, by the glass. And as I take my first sip, I feel like I’m suddenly moving in slow motion, and arriving at this comfortable nook in my mind where I can sit for a while and mentally pontificate over silly little nothings.

I am falling for this city, completely falling for it. Others have mistakenly compared it to much larger, more impersonal cities. I myself come directly from one of those. But I am not making the same mistake. DC is very much created in its own image with its own personality, and has its own problems with its own glorious moments (i.e., election night, with an energy that I will never forget; I’ll save that experience for another blog). This city is not trying to be anything else, not that I have seen so far. And while it heavily suggests of the northeast, in many respects it also hints of the south. And that is how I’ve come upon the following recipe. It’s an old dish that I loved and enjoyed years ago, and since moving to DC, I have had the hallowed experience of revisiting this dish, rather multiple updated variations of it because, oddly and pleasantly enough, it is served in so many places here.

Ah, yes. Welcome to DC…or as I find myself feeling more and more like saying: welcome home.

Shrimp Grits

Grits, instant or otherwise

2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

1 medium white onion, minced

1 garlic clove, minced

1 pound andouille or spicy Italian spicy sausage, cut in chunks

1/4 cup all-purpose flour

2 cups chicken stock

2 to 3 bay leaves

2 pounds large shrimp, peeled and deveined, tails on

Pinch cayenne pepper, adjust to personal preference

1/2 lemon, juiced

Kosher salt

Freshly ground black pepper

2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley

4 green onions, sliced

Follow the instructions on the package for the grits. Place a deep skillet over medium heat and coat with the olive oil. Add the onion and garlic; saute for 2 minutes to soften. Add the sausage and cook, stirring, until there is a fair amount of fat in the pan and the sausage is brown. Sprinkle in the flour and stir with a wooden spoon to create a roux. Slowly pour in the chicken stock and continue to stir to avoid lumps. Toss in the bay leaves. When the liquid comes to a simmer, add the shrimp. Poach the shrimp in the stock for 2 to 3 minutes, until they are firm and pink and the gravy is smooth and thick. Add the cayenne pepper, Tabasco and lemon juice. Season with salt and pepper; stir in the parsley and green onion. Spoon the grits into a serving bowl. Add the shrimp mixture and mix well. Serve immediately.

My Fond Farewell to California

“California Soul (Diplo / Mad Decent Remix)” Marlena Shaw and Diplo

I decided to end my time in California by doing something exclusive to this large and mostly sunny state. I headed up the coast to Napa, the first seriously taken wine region in the country, with some of my closest friends for some good ole winetasting. We visited Artesa, Domaine Chandon, Cakebread, Mumm, Duckhorn, and a random tasting room in downtown Napa; we also had dinner at Bistro Jeanty, a yummy French eatery in Yountville.

In true California fashion, and leading up to this winetasting trip, I managed to fit in a few other Cali-isms: dinner at the Hotel Bel-Air; wine at Primitivo, a cozy tapas and wine bistro; beer at the Otheroom, a dark, LA-trendy beer/wine joint in Venice; homemade margaritas on the sand in Hermosa Beach (thanks, U and W); dancing at Sharkeez, a frat-row-type bar, and karaoke at Fat Face Fenner’s Fishack, a dive-y seafood joint, both in Hermosa. I even managed cocktails at the ever-growing popular J Lounge, a new Asian fusion resto-lounge known for its $3-Grey Goose martinis before 3 p.m. (after 3 p.m. the price adjusts to about $20 each) in downtown LA, and I was able to sneak in a last Super 8 dinner at Rush St., a modern quasi-sports bar/resto that recently hosted a French Tuesday, located in Culver City, the new hot spot for restaurants in LA.

Hmmmm…. My intention right now is not to provide a laundry list of what I’m grateful for in California or what or who I’ll miss. Don’t know how long (or short) that list would be anyway, and I’m not in a mood to get nostalgic right now and confront my last ten-some-odd years. Admittedly I am feeling a little jaded right now. I have a head cold (which I’m sure I can attribute to lack of sleep mixed with a little bit of stress), and I am sitting in an airport waiting to head back east for a permanent time. I am actually thinking that I am homeless right now. I do not officially move into my new place in DC until this weekend, and in the interim I will be staying with family in the south. For the next four days I will be living out of three suitcases and settling final arrangements for my perma-reloke to the east coast.

Honestly, if I were to think about what I’m leaving behind as I head back east I might start to seriously reconsider what I’m doing. Well, no, I take it back. I wouldn’t. I’m very conscientiously making this decision, and without regret. I could wax on about how excited I am to have seasons again and live in an area where mass transit is taken seriously. I could, but again, I won’t.

Instead…if you will forgive me for reneging on my earlier statement about not getting nostalgic, I can’t help but smile as I fondly remember just a few of my favorite Cali-patois, and thus give myself the closure that every girl needs in a long relationship that has finally ended…hopefully healthily. Much of these are most likely targeted at southern California, Los Angeles, to be specific, a city where most of its residents are not homegrown, but from everywhere else, and a city where these same residents both love and hate it…with a decided passion--and yet they find themselves unable to leave it. My move is not unprecedented, but it is still infrequent enough to be considered unusual.

Okay already. I bid adieu to some of my Cali-faves: al fresco dining—year-round, the best resto wine lists west of the Rockies (probably east, too), sunshine 350 days of the year, an underrated music scene, beach volleyball nets as far as the eye can see, tailgating with one of the top college football programs ever, seeing movies before anyone else does, valet parking, beautiful people everywhere, a respectably growing resto/foodie scene (that includes two of my fave chefs: Govind Armstrong and Suzanne Goin), Pinkberry, the ability to snowboard and surf in the same day, Vegas close enough to be an occasional playground, the 6-Man Beach Volleyball tournament, my hula family, really good Mexican food (even though I’m not a big fan of Mexican), really good sushi (and I am a big fan of sushi), earthquakes, the strongest business school network I’ve ever come across, Peter Pans (young and old), movie studios, talent agencies (a la CAA and Endeavor), area codes making an impression, carpooling, multiple social hubs, multiple business hubs, awards ceremonies, beach cities, In-n-Out served protein-style-animal-style, the Hollywood Bowl, late-night Roscoe’s chicken and waffles.

I need to stop and take a breath…and go ahead and end this by (I think) aptly borrowing from the classic George Burns and his wife Gracie Allen: “Say goodnight, Gracie. Goodnight.”…oh, and include one of my favorite flavor combos (burrata, tomatoes, and basil), done best by one of my favorite chefs.

Govind Armstrong's Burrata, Japanese Tomatoes, Panzanella, Wild Arugula

1 cup plus 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, plus more for drizzling

3 sprigs thyme

1 large clove garlic, smashed

3 slices rustic sourdough bread, torn into tiny pieces

Sea salt and cracked black pepper to taste

2 tablespoons white balsamic vinegar or red wine vinegar

2 pints mini Japanese heirloom tomatoes, blanched and shocked, then peeled

1/4 hothouse cucumber, split lengthwise, seeded and very thinly sliced

1/2 small red onion, thinly julienned

3 sprigs flat-leaf parsley, leaves only

1 sprig basil, leaves only

4 medium-ripe Japanese beefsteak/heirloom tomatoes, thinly sliced in rounds and kept together

1 (16-ounce) tub fresh burrata cheese

1 large bunch (about 6 ounces) wild or baby arugula

Begin by preparing the olive-oil-fried croutons. Heat a heavy-bottomed sauté pan over medium-high heat. Add 1 cup of the olive oil, the thyme, and garlic. Once the oil has been seasoned for approximately 1 minute, remove the herbs. Add the torn bread, and gently fry while stirring occasionally until thoroughly golden brown and crisp, about 5 minutes. Using a slotted spoon, remove the bread from the pan, drain completely on paper towels to keep the croutons from becoming soggy, and season with salt and pepper. (You may reserve the oil for up to two weeks for similar uses.)

In a small bowl, whisk the vinegar with a small pinch of salt until dissolved, then whisk in the 2 tablespoons of olive oil and set aside.

Just before serving, to keep the bread salad from becoming soggy, place the peeled mini tomatoes in a small bowl, add the cucumber, red onion (to your liking), parsley leaves, basil, and the croutons. Dress the salad with approximately 3 tablespoons of the vinaigrette.

Fan a few of the sliced tomatoes just to the left of the center of each of 8 small plates. Drizzle the slices with some of the remaining vinaigrette, then place a small pile of the marinated mini tomatoes to the right of the slices. Spoon out the burrata right between the two, fluffing the plate with the arugula as garnish around the outside. Drizzle the burrata with extra-virgin olive oil, and season the plate with sea salt and a few turns of the pepper mill.

N.B. To blanch and peel tomatoes, first cut an X in the end opposite the stem, then immerse in boiling water 10 to 15 seconds. Transfer to a bowl of ice and cold water, then peel.

Year of the Eight

“Overnight Star” by Flosstradamus

I had to recognize the Beijing Olympics and Michael Phelps (the song suggestion). The song is not to say that Phelps has become an overnight star; he has been one for a while. If anything, he has solidified his place in history now because of these Games. MP (as his sisters call him) sometimes listens to the original version of this song by Twista called “Overnight Celebrity” on his iPod before a swim (or so says Bob Costas) to pump himself up for the competition. But I really, really heart this remix by the two-man duo out of Chicago, Josh Young (aka J2K) and Curt Cameruci (aka Autobot), better known as Flosstradamus. The music they spin behind the rap has this positive vibe to it that makes me smile and nod my head. Kind of how I felt while watching this year’s Olympics.

The final weekend of the Games, Mzzz. Faboo (from A Midsummer Weeknight’s Dream) invited me to join her in San Francisco for a classic “faboo” experience that included a little bit of this (Radiohead at Golden Gate Park) and a little bit of that (a day at the Ferry Plaza Farmer’s Market), a pinch of this (dinner at Foreign Cinema) and a dash of that (apre-dinner activities at the Revolution Café and the Make-Out Room). My short NorCal weekender turned into a sort of Olympian feat in and of itself...in the sporting events of little sleep and alotta stamina.

Friday Night Itinerary

Catch short flight to SF; cab to hotel; check in; unsuccessfully try to flag down taxi while walking streets of SF because cab line was hopelessly long; give up and walk into another hotel; ask concierge for easiest route to GG Park; head below ground and hop MUNI to GG Park; break down six blocks from Park and set out on foot to finish journey; arrive at GG Park and get completely lost in woods; have guardian angel appear (Nezz, Hawaiian Filipino Spanish clothing designer for the likes of Sean John and Ralph Lauren) with his entourage; allow him to be escort through woods and to concert; arrive right as Radiohead starts; join Mzzz. Faboo at Visa Signature Lounge for drinks and better view of stage; head to Irish bar after show; vehemently deny possibility of doing Irish car bomb; give in and do Irish car bomb; hop in unmarked cab with Iver Collins (Irish cutie actually from Ireland with accent, wispy brown hair, and flushed, rosy skin to boot); head to Mission; get back to hotel at one point; fall fast asleep.

Saturday Play-By-Play

Wake up fairly leisurely; nurse blisters on feet from night before; shower, head to Ferry Plaza Farmers Market; sample everything (succulent, sweet fruits, rich honeys, dark chocolates, pure, green olive oils, savory headcheese, freshly shucked oysters, etc.); break fast with SF Fish Company crab breakfast burrito and Mistral French café lamb stew; wash down with Pellegrino; take TONS of food pics; stop at Wine Merchant; enjoy four-varietal wine flight; buy Montepulciano, boucheret, and Acme bread for afternoon siesta; head back to hotel; siesta with wine and cheese.

Saturday Night Gameplan

Cab to Laszlo’s for pre-din cocktails (Santa Ynez Valley Pinot Noir, Central Coast Cabernet); dine at Foreign Cinema (four kinds of oysters, tuna crudo, sole niçoise, roasted quail, fig galette, ganache tart, with Pouilly-Fuissé Chardonnay, Scherrer Zinfandel, Alexander Valley); pitstop at The Revolution Café (amazing candied ginger latte); dance at Make-Out Room (Hoegaarden).

Sunday

Catch early flight back to LA; sleep on plane; dream about ginger lattes.

Ginger Latte

1 1/4 cups 2% milk
2 tablespoons ginger-flavored syrup (recipe below)
1 (1.5 fluid ounce) jigger brewed espresso

Steam milk to 145 degrees F to 165 degrees F (65 to 70 degrees C) using the steaming wand. Measure flavored syrup into large coffee mug. Brew espresso, add to mug. Pour steamed milk into mug, using spoon to hold back the foam. Spoon foam over top.

Ginger-Flavored Syrup

fresh ginger (2 1/2 to 3 inches long); 2 cups sugar; 1 cup water

Peel fresh ginger and chop into approximately ½-inch pieces. Cut pieces into thin strips. Pour water and sugar into small saucepan. Add cut up ginger pieces to saucepan. Heat mixture until it comes to gentle boil over medium heat. Lower heat and simmer ginger mixture for approximately 2 to 3 minutes until all sugar dissolves. Make sure to stir mixture gently during this time as it thickens. Remove ginger syrup from heat and take out pieces of ginger from syrup. Discard ginger pieces or refrigerate them for later use in cooking. Allow ginger syrup to cool slightly, then strain in it into a storage container with a lid that closes securely.

East Meets West Meets East

“Mahina O Hoku/Aloha Wau Ia ‘Oe” by Natalie Ai Kamauu

Once again I've just returned from traveling, but this time only from across the country, the east coast, where we recently celebrated a significant birthday for my mother. It was heartfelt and hard work, but every bit worth the effort. And, more importantly, it was a family affair.

My Samoan mother is the eldest of 11 siblings, and most of them are local to her. Her father joined the military to get his relatively impoverished family out of the poor Samoan islands. He eventually retired in the last coastal town he was stationed at, Wilmington, North Carolina.

Wilmington is this beautiful boutique beach and golf course community off of the Intracoastal Waterway, considered to be right in the center of Hurricane Alley. Its southeastern coastline unapologetically juts out into the ocean just tempting the Atlantic to strike at it every year with a myriad of tropical storms and smaller hurricanes that fizzle into depressions as they hit the Carolina coast. Sometimes these storms do not weaken, and, in fact, severely punish the peaceful shores of Wilmington and its neighboring coastal communities.

This is not to deter from the beauty of Wilmington, however. I used to visit frequently as a child during the summers and most major holidays. Its winters are mild, although its summers are unforgiving, thick with humidity and flying insects. But its landscape is lush and green with rivers, sounds, and beaches seeming to be strategically situated throughout the city limits.

Likewise, my parents live in a lush, green neighborhood, a golf course community, which is not uncommon. Their backyard is where we decided to celebrate my mother's birthday…Polynesian-style. This is where most people are intrigued, that a large Samoan family has settled in a very southern coastal town.

My mother's Samoan side of the family is large, very large. I am one of about 36 first cousins. We celebrate graduations and major life accomplishments within the family by hosting luaus, where we invite friends not familiar with Samoan custom to eat, drink, and dance with us (it has become a cultural experience for many…as well as a time to celebrate for all). And actually, upon my arrival into Wilmington this time, my family had successfully hosted three luaus in the three weekends prior to my mother's birthday celebration. With a family this size, you can imagine how many special events can happen in a given year.

So, this celebration was not unusual; it reminded me of how appreciative I am to have my large, Polynesian family. My sisters and I flew in to town for the weekend (we are all situated in different states). My parents were putting up about 21 family members at their place, while other out-of-towners stayed with other local family for the weekend. And each day, family would come over to help in the kitchen, play suipi (the national Samoan card game), or break out the guitars and sing until late in the evening. It was shaping up to be exactly how I remembered family gatherings to be like in my childhood. Except this time I was taking a more active role.

In the thick of things I was in and out of the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled back, beside my sisters and cousins, preparing dishes like sapasui (bean curd noodles with vegetables, meat, soy sauce, and garlic) and oka (sashimi-grade fish in coconut milk, lemon juice, onions, tomatoes and cucumbers) while children ran underfoot. We had rolled over one hundred spring rolls (for frying) the night before, and I was making my fourth large batch of sushi rice. One of my uncles was prepping the umu (the underground oven) for the pua’a (the pig) with large banana leaves and rocks. He was going small this time with a 65-pound pig. We didn’t expect more than 100 guests at the luau because we hadn’t invited as many as we normally would (yes, they do get larger, much larger; both the luaus and the pigs).

My mother had marinated the chicken the night before, and another one of my uncles was hauling his large grill into the backyard with his truck to barbeque the chicken. Another one of my uncles had assembled a separate food station, complete with portable burners and woks, on a table under a tree outside so that he could prepare the pancit and fry the spring rolls. One of my aunts was preparing her famous banana poi (overripe mashed bananas, coconut milk or cream, and lemon juice served like you would a pudding). I can taste the banana poi in my mouth right now.

So, where exactly am I going with this? Well, all this is to say that, although I don’t really mention my Samoan half that much (I am also half German), I still very much identify with my Polynesian roots. And although most of my immediate Samoan family is not close by, and I only get to see them several times a year, I still hold them close and dear to my heart like a cherished hula that plays over and over in my head. Fortunately, I still have plenty of Polynesian family spread out all over, especially in California, Hawaii, and Samoa. And my roommate and good friend, a Hawaiian herself, and I are also in a halau (a hula school) in southern California, so we are dancing regularly and plugged into the Polynesian community somewhat still.

Of course, it is always in the little things that I am able to feed my nostalgia. Like listening to that familiar hula, or...enjoying this recipe, one of my favorite Samoan dishes that one of my uncles makes better than anyone I know.

Oka

1 1/2 lbs. sushi-grade Ahi tuna, cut into 1/2" cubes
1/2 cup Lime juice (or Lemon juice)
1/4 cup Coconut milk
1 Cucumber peeled, seeded, cut into 1/2" cubes
1 Tomato seeds removed, diced
3-4 Scallions chopped
Kosher or sea salt (big pinch)
Fresh ground pepper (pinch)

Mix all ingredients together well. Let marinate 10-20 minutes. Adjust seasoning to taste. Drain excess liquid. Garnish with some freshly chopped scallions and serve. Variations include: using other fish like halibut, snapper, or swordfish, and/or adding diced red onion, cubed red peppers, grated carrots, or minced garlic.

Greek Mythology

“I’m Good, I’m Gone (Fred Falke Remix)” by Lykke Li

Perhaps it is not so obvious that I just got back from a whirlwind trip to Greece--Athens, specifically, as well as some of its neighboring beaches and Aegina, one of the Saronic Islands--slideshow to the right notwithstanding. My appreciation for Greek Mythology has grown rapidly, exploded actually…insomuch as I tasted foods befitting the gods. I witnessed the turn of humankind in architecture still standing after two thousand years, and marveled at its breathtaking tenacity. I walked cozied narrow streets lined with inviting shops, al fresco dining, and ivy-covered townhomes, and was greeted with a friendly smile or wave. I ate dinner after 9:30 p.m. virtually every night, and followed the dining with drinking and being merry until the early morning hours. I even enjoyed the company of a Greek god who showed me his country from a very different perspective (thank you, Dimitris).

Yes, the pleasures of Greece come in so many unexpected (and some very expected) packages.

One of the more unexpected packages was in this soup, perfect to enjoy when returning home from a night of too much being merry, with lemon juice and chicken and rice, that was so satisfying. I’ve scoured the Internet looking for a recipe so that I can replicate what I enjoyed, but none of them seem to bring about what I believe my experience to have been. Finally, I stumbled upon one purely by happenstance.

I was looking on Epicurious.com for more versions of the recipe, and, again, I came across a version that seemed to miss the mark, but I noticed over 60 reviews of the recipe. Thinking this to be impossible, I started reading the reviews. ‘Lo and behold, one of the early reviewers, a first-generation Greek American from Boston, had graciously reviewed the soup, and then put in her yia-yia’s (her grandmother’s) recipe that she’s been making for years. Every one of the positive reviews was on HER version of the soup, the version embedded in another review. I read it, and I think I have found what I experienced in Greece. I’ve supplied it below…in case you want to have an acute, very Greek, religious experience (granted, without Dimitris).

Soupa Avgolemono

8 c. homemade chicken stock
1 c. orzo
4 eggs/separated
juice of 3 lemons
fresh ground black pepper

Boil broth, add orzo and simmer until tender 20 min. Whip whites until medium peaks, add yolks beating continuously, add juice, beating. Temper eggs with 2 c. broth, adding in constant slow stream while continuing to beat furiously so you do not curdle the eggs. Add egg mixture back to remaining broth and serve. When reheating, do not re-boil - heat slowly until very warm or you may curdle the eggs. Garnish with thinly sliced lemon. Try adding more than the juice of 3 lemons, as the sourness is the best part of the taste! You should taste lemon, richness of eggs, salt of chicken, and starch of rice, in that order and you've made it perfectly. You can also add thin pieces of shredded chicken meat (pull off bone in strips), although classic recipes don't include chicken, vegetables, garlic or any other ingredients.

Summer...Quite

“Koop Island Blues” by Koop

Ah, summer. I love this time of year. If I could take anything with me when I eventually leave the southern California coast, I would most certainly take the summer, with its perfect weather and bronzed skin, its beach volleyball and strong sangria, its play of innocence and prey on innocence, all shoved into my suitcase. It is just this kind of summer that provides the perfect excuse to lower inhibitions and commit some sort of scandal.

And what besides too much sangria, you ask, begets a scandal?

Perhaps a smile that is just a little too confident or a look at a most (in)opportune time, and a door with a questionable lock coupled with the anticipation of being discovered. Oh, YES! Don’t STOP!

Or perhaps it’s having a secret---a really, big, fat, brazen secret that you are not at liberty to share with others, and yet someone keeps pressing you for the details, the juicy, memorable, self destructive details. Here, let me get you another glass of that, they say as they smile and pour with that flash of perfect white teeth.

Maybe, just maybe, it’s you knowing full well that you are actually guilty, completely guilty, and, without question, you would commit your sin again…and again…and again.

And then the slightest twinkle appears and that knowing look is shared as the door eases shut.

Sigh.

My season opener, last weekend, was just this sort of unforgiving and unrelenting scandal. I was swallowed up, chewed verociously to unrecognizable, and spit out on to the shore of reason with a moral compass suddenly hanging around my neck like that infamous albatross of yore. Could I blame the extra glass of sangria? Most likely. Would I relive this past weekend? Most certainly.

Too Much Strong Summer Sangria

1 part red wine
1 part cranberry juice
1 part orange-flavored liqueur
1 part rum
Chopped apples, cored
Sliced oranges, with rinds

Mix everything together. Let the mixture marinate at room temperature for a few hours. Chill. Serve straight up or over ice. Drink more than you should.

My May Day Aubade

“Won’t Stop” OneRepublic

His lips wouldn’t stop moving.

I was not listening, but pushing food around my plate and adding the expected and attentive “Yes” or “I see” or “Right,” etc.

It’s a shame, too. He was actually rather attractive with his longer than necessary wavy auburn hair that kept falling in front of his eyes forcing his large, bronzed hand to push it back…again. And his smile was generous, nice full lips, perfect even white teeth. Straight, autocratic nose. Strong jaw bones. Everything that added up to a very handsome face. His overall physical presence was also a little intimidating. He was extremely tall, broad in the shoulders, narrow in the hips. I could enjoy looking at him for a while, that was certain.

But he would not stop talking, and I was losing interest fast. He chose the restaurant since I chose the day and time. Mutual friends thought we would have the “food thing” in common. Thanks, Sara. We totally have that in common (roll eyes here). Just because I happened to appreciate really good food, my friends thought I had a monopoly on nice restaurants in Los Angeles…well, that and they knew how particular I was about my food, but only when appropriate. I was not so much of a snob that I couldn’t appreciate really good street food as well (ala Philippe’s, a Los Angeles French dip icon).

So, here we were, having dinner at this cozy, little hole of a charming French patisserie called the Little Door, his obviously very proud pick. He had not stopped talking about it since we got seated. I was conflicted; should I be taking him seriously or is he really this full of himself? I refocused on my food.

“Don’t you agree?”

I could faintly hear someone asking me a question. I looked up across the table at his large, serious and questioning expression. He was anticipating an answer from me, and I didn’t know what I was about to agree to. But guiltily I had not been listening, tuned him out a good one or two courses ago as a matter of fact.

I responded purposefully…because the more convincing I sounded, the more believable I knew I would come across. “Yes, I agree.”

My answer must have satisfied him because he continued to talk and seemingly with more fervor if possible. This time I did not feel guilty as I turned to my plate, a delectable feast of a lobster tail medallion with avocado and Belgian endive lightly doused in a blood orange and avocado oil vinaigrette.

He had ordered the seared foie gras napoleon with granny smith apple compote and puff pastry in a port wine reduction. Again, another choice that he was particularly proud of as with every bite he commented about his food.

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

Again, I realized I was being asked a question, so I dutifully looked up at him. This time the expression on his boyishly attractive face was a little flushed, a little worried. Hmmm…interesting; it slightly caught me off guard. Why would he care what I was thinking or feeling? I decided to pursue this look of his with a question back.

“Why wouldn’t I be enjoying myself?” I smiled sweetly and innocently. I was not giving him any help.

He hesitated before responding gingerly, “Because I feel like I’ve been having a one-sided conversation since we got here.” He smiled as if trying to playfully chide me. He was very cute.

His smile did irk me just a little, though. “Well, actually I haven’t been able to get a word in edgewise now that you mention it. You’ve been talking for both of us the whole time, you know.” I gave him back his winning smile. If you wanna play, I can play.

He looked at me quizzically. “Hmmm…I’m sorry if I’ve been doing most of the talking.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sure you can probably tell why.”

Was he being coy?

“I have no idea.” I responded almost impatiently. “Are you nervous?”

“Yes, actually. I—I am.” He stuttered.

Mr. Brawny Know-It-All nervous? I couldn’t even wrap my head around the idea, it seemed so preposterous. But looking at the expression on his face, with his raised brows and shy half-smile, I could have sworn that I was witnessing discomfort sitting in front of me.

“What are you nervous about?” Curiosity was getting the better of me, so I softened a little.

“Well—simply put, I like you.” He was quietly matter-of-fact, hiding nothing. “But…I’m guessing you don’t return the favor…which is okay. I was hopeful going into tonight, though.” He took a deep breath and settled his broad frame back in his seat with that half-smile again, but more resigned this time.

Okay, this was bizarre and completely unexpected. I had to probe further.

“You don’t even know me. How could you like me? I’m pretty sure this is the first time we’ve ever met.” I instantly performed a mental inventory of moments out with our mutual friends soaked up in too much wine and where I might have actually met him. I was drawing a blank.

“No, we haven’t met in person before. This is our first time.” He paused, and mischievously smirked. “It’s just that I’ve heard so much about you, and I’ve seen a lot of pictures.” Pause. “It was my idea to have this blind date actually.”

Wait, what?!

“Uh, you mean to tell me that you are the reason why we were set up to begin with?”

“Yes, I am.” He nervously chuckled.

As the idea slowly dawned on me, I became almost protective of him, and wanted to reassure him that I thought he was actually endearing, so I reached my hand over the table and laid it over his. I was not expecting to feel anything, let alone an instant jolt of electricity, but I did. I could tell that he sensed it, too.

My voice surprisingly caught before I could get out a lame and inadequate, “Well, then. I’m sorry for misreading your intentions tonight.”

He slowly smiled, and his hand turned around to engulf my much smaller one. “You know, you’re shorter than I imagined,” he teased.

I completely blushed. I was totally in the conversation now.

He continued, “And your hair…there’s so much of it…it’s beautiful.”

I blinked. Had the conversation really headed in this direction?

“I’m sorry. Are you serious? What you’re saying?” I shook my head, “Are you teasing me?” I was incredulous.

“No, I mean every word.” He responded quietly, pointedly. His look turned somber. His grasp on my hand tightened. He was all but staring at me now, and I wanted to fidget, turn away for a second to collect my thoughts, but he was still holding my hand at the table.

“Now you’re making me nervous.” I couldn’t believe we had spent the last hour together, and I had hardly recognized that he existed. I had mistaken his chatter for arrogance and disinterest. “Can we talk? Really talk. Get to know each other a little. No more about food. I know plenty about it.”

He grinned, “So, I wasn’t impressing you then.”

“Were you trying to?” I peered up at him sheepishly.

“Well, yes, of course. I know how much you are into food, so I was trying to impress you with my knowledge…but I haven’t, have I.” It was more of a statement than a question.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think that I’ve been really listening to anything you’ve been saying.” We both laughed.

He let go of my hand then and sat up straight in his chair. “Okay, let’s start over.”

I looked at him questioning, but he held his hand out to me over the table, “Hi, my name is….”

A Midsummer Weeknight's Dream

Playing "L'aventure Fantastique" by The Fantastic Plastic Machine (aka Tomoyuki Tanaka of J-Pop/DJ fame)

Mzzz. Faboo (because she is ab-fab!) invited me to a midweeknight break at Maison 140, a boutique Beverly Hills hotel, for a wine and cheese tasting at their Bar Noir. The hotel is small and beautifully appointed with French and Far East-influenced decor, otherwise known as chinoiserie (one of my fave words for the way that it irreverently rolls off of my tongue with a self-satisfying superiority). The tasting was cozy and quiet, a perfect setting for us to catch up with each other.

After two hours of delicious vin et fromage, we stepped into the warm night...and walked around the corner to the Beverly Wilshire (yes, the former Reg-Bev-Wilsh). We made our way to sidebar, the lounge right across the foyer from Cut (Wolfgang Puck's famed eatery). The only available seating in the popular lounge was a quasi-comfy silver couch against one of their large windows overlooking the valet. We parked ourselves and ordered martinis. I saw steak tartare on the menu (a must-order for me) and we added a seared-ahi-something-yummy on mini wonton chips with wasabi paste and chives.

Perusing our surroundings, I noticed the usual cast of LA characters: a glut of attractive people who sort of looked familiar, but not really (commercial actors? bit-t.v.-role types?) and the sprinkling of average joes trying to fit in, but not really (vacationers? inlanders?). What piques my interest the most are when the twain meet (i.e., the relative-attractive majority who do not look famous or familiar, and who also don't mind suffering from the social constraints of living in LA while trying to survive first impressions).

Not two moments after we started sipping our classic 'tails, there were flashing lights outside. Mzzz. Faboo and I turned to look out the window joking with each other that someone was getting arrested in valet. We were trying not to look too earnestly because we wanted to maintain that modicum of cool, but someone loudly whispered "TomKat" and then everyone turned to look outside the window none too conspicuously. Sure enough, right underneath our little quasi-comfy silver couch stood Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes waving at the 'razzi and climbing into a large black tagless SUV, bodyguards in tow. Because we were so close (separated by a window pane), I had to look on TMZ the next day for those pics, and as I suspected, you could see me and Mzzz. Faboo in a video clip of the celeb power duo getting into their car. We were visible for about three seconds (an eternity on TMZ, mind you). Apparently they were having dinner at Cut that night with the Fresh Prince and his lovely wife (Will Smith and Jade Pinkett Smith) and Posh and Becks (David and Victoria Beckham). Nicknames for power couples...another LA trait.

After a few failed attempts at convo with us by well-dressed older men, Mzzz. Faboo and I decided to call it a night. As we walked back down Wilshire Blvd. towards our cars, we passed Saks Fifth Avenue and stopped to examine their display windows. Each display case had a row of headless mannequins wearing nondescript black prom dresses with their arms stretched out holding different pairs of Jimmy Choo shoes in their motionless hands. For a split second I felt like Holly Golightly in "Breakfast at Tiffany's" peering longingly into the Tiffany display case while (not really) eating a croissant. The shoes were very LA...and I loved them. Yet again, I was separated by a window pane from a lifestyle that I could hardly identify with, if at all, but looked on with slight envy.

Don't get me wrong. I am not turning this into a "poor me and my life as compared to theirs" essay. I love my life. I also choose to live in LA. And most assuredly my experiences tonight are no different than many others I've had while living here. They do in fact make up for me what is quintessential LA: that healthy mixture of bold, beautiful, insecure, and selfish. In LA, there is no split neighborhood where the railroad tracks divide the seedy side from the wealthy side. Everything, good, bad, and ugly, is kind of all mixed in together with its inhabitants agreeing to disagree at nearly every socioeconomic level. And therein lies the beauty of LA. I cannot think of anywhere else that has this dichotomy with such a prevalence, where everyone enjoys the status quo, is even fascinated by its fuzzy, yet deep groove in the sand.

Mzzz. Faboo woke me from my reverie with a tug on my arm. Time to stop dreaming, gorgeous. You've got the rest of your night for that.

I suppose that I do.

City Hall (The SS Remix)

Thanks to an invitation from a friend, I was able to join a mixed group of sorts at, oddly enough, a DJ set on the lawn of City Hall in downtown Los Angeles where one of my old favorites was spinning, Groove Armada. They were being opened by Jason Bentley who many forget was a DJ before he became a radio personality for a reputable music program on KCRW.

I’m listening to Radio1’s Essential Mix (they are showcasing Moby’s set in Miami from this past WMC) courtesy of my girlfriend in Grenada; she is there for medical school (and always a good source of music).

My friend and her boyfriend picked me up on their way; and we made one more stop to get Chef Matt, an interesting and worldly friend of theirs whose music tastes trend towards the largely under-discovered European electronic artists (minimalists he calls them). He is so-named because he is a personal chef. He just got back from Miami and was sharing his WMC experiences with us in the car. For those not in-the-know, the Winter Music Conference is a weeklong electronic music event held every March in Miami. It is a who’s who of electronic music and attended by fans from around the world.

Switching up my music to The Faint’s “The Conductor” remixed by Thin White Duke on their Danse Macabre Remixes album

We got Downtown early enough to reminisce at the Standard, where both good and bad memories haunt me…and so be it. What fun is nostalgia if it cannot offer you a pointed experience when strolling down its familiar lanes?

At the bar we ordered Ketel-sodas and Ketel-Citron-sodas. Admittedly I am not a soda girl. I switched from tonic to soda several years ago only because soda has no sugar, but it also has no flavor. So after a season or two of ordering vodka sodas, I switched to straight, clean vodka, neat with a twist and served in a snifter. No more watered-down versions of what could be a smooth and tasty liquor for me…although I had to change this preference as well because I am a fast drinker (not a tippler, mind you).

Les Rythmes Digitales “Jacques Your Body Makes Me Sweat”

Of course that put me in my kind of a frivolous bind. What should become my drink of choice now? Should it be socially influenced or driven by my taste? I happened to visit Cuba several years back (it was a once-in-a-lifetime experience) and for a while I was faithfully hooked on Mojitos, but invariably none are ever as good as I had tasted in Cuba, so on to the next. An old friend of mine, a southern belle, would always order Black Russians, so I had a flirty stint with those as well...but enough about cocktails. I settled on the Ketel-Citron-soda because Chef Matt ordered one, and it seemed like a nice, light starter cocktail for me.

We also ordered food: overcooked sliders with dried-out skewers of steak and chicken and a wilted frisee salad. Yes, I didn’t know it was possible to wilt frisee either, but apparently it is. The French fries were dark and crispy, which is fine to me, but they were also heavily salted (but who doesn’t make that mistake these days unfortunately). All things considered, it is the rooftop bar at the Standard, and that culinary experience has always been a mixed bag of sorts for me.

Another one of their friends, a private practice lawyer, joined us as we repositioned ourselves at the couches. He played football in Nebraska and came out to California like many others do, for a sunny, more successful, upbeat change of pace. He found his refuge in Hermosa Beach. Not a shock as many supplants first migrate towards the beach cities, also known as the South Bay, when coming to California. I myself live in Hermosa, and up until about three months ago in Manhattan Beach.

Felix da Housecat “Silver Screen Shower Scene” (Thin White Duke Mix by Jacques Lu Cont)

Our conversation spanned an array of topics, from the delicate to the severe, from the perceived loss of habeas corpus for non-citizens to Top Chef, a cooking show on Bravo TV. I am a huge fan of Top Chef, so all of my questions were of course directed at Chef Matt. “Have you considered being on the show?” “What knives do you have in your knife roll?” “What is your favorite ethnic food group to prepare?” etc.

On our way out, I stopped in the restroom and was surrounded by the happy alcoholic buzz of three rambunctious Newport Beach women pitstopping on the rooftop before heading home from a designer jeans sale at the LA Convention Center. They proudly pulled out their Hudson and True Religion purchases from their purses for my inspection. Yes, I know, why? I guess I have a friendly smile--and they were also drunk.

The Whitest Boy Alive “Golden Cage (Fred Falke Remix)”

We parked at an outside lot a few blocks away; the opening acts had already begun and we could hear a persistent electronic bass line from our outside lot. That alone was enough to give me that giddy feeling akin to a teenage girl before a school dance. We started our beeline through the parked cars towards the sound.

Tickets, will call, nasty bathroom stalls, and a few grassy knolls later, we were standing in the middle of a crowd of head-bobbers and enjoying Jason Bentley. With cheap cocktails in hand, and a little over an hour later, we appropriately shouted our welcome as Andy Cato and Tom Findlay, aka Groove Armada, strode onto the stage.

Their set was pleasant and pumped. It had the perfect crowd-pleasing crescendos that broke into ear-splitting bass lines. And as I enjoyed the music and soaked in the experience, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy at how many other people were experiencing something akin to my appreciation of their music. A part of me wondered if my best-kept-secret-of-yesterday had become the latest kitschy music craze.

Hot Chip “The Warning”

Ah, well. I cannot deny that I love the music, no matter how popular it is or not. I just do.

A Case of You

Admittedly this Joni Mitchell song prompted me to post for the first time in months.

"You're in my blood like holy wine. You taste so bitter and so sweet. Oh, I could drink a case of you, and I'd still be on my feet, I'd still be on my feet."

Don't know why it affects me with nostalgia whenever I listen to it. When it was popular in its day, I don't think that I was even born. But there's something familiar, something comforting...it makes me smile.

That's how I felt last night while enjoying our potluck-turned-quasi-Easter dinner for those orphans among us (there are quite a few). Our spread was a veritable feast of sorts. We started with two types of tapenade, olive and artichoke, and four kinds of cheese, with a basket of assorted crackers, pita chips, and chunks of soda bread. Someone made delicious cheese and onion stuffed mushrooms. Our gracious host made stuffed dates wrapped in bacon. The main courses were even heartier and full of classics. There was a crunchy onion-topped green bean casserole, a spinach dish with bacon and onions, a squash souffle, and I made the baked ham with a whole grain mustard glaze and mashed potatoes with celery root and garlic. Our host made a pumpkin cheesecake for dessert. And everything was accompanied by wine, a buttery chard, a New Zealand sauvignon blanc, two California cabernets, and some microbrews.

Our conversations flowed with a familiar ease. I could have closed my eyes and transported myself back ten years, having the same experience with my family. I wore a permanent smile all night. The evening was as comforting to me as my glass of cab.

As I left the dinner party with my packaged leftovers (thanks again to the host), I couldn't help but be reflective, almost retrospective...in the perfectly sappy and sentimental sense.

It feels good to be back. It feels really good.