Penolin,

Man, what a night. I think i may have pushed it a little bit with the little dipper but it was worth it. The irish coffee, decadent, may have had wheat in it, in how they process the whiskey?, or perhaps the sky high cream she put on it, or the dark chocolate and caramel swirling awesomeness, or the cheese with basil and garlic and all the delicious fruit- i couldn't sleep and so did some emailing, ate some yogurt, took another lactaid thing, and talked to my stomach about what i expected of it, and then when i got up later to go to the bathroom, all full up with liquor and fruit, i took a tumble down the treacherous stairs and have a nice gash of pain on my ass. But whatever. Still, worth it. Unrelatedly I think the dogs have a rolicking good time on my bed when we're gone. I suppose I don't mind it- but the nerve i tell you! My cacoonlike lovely bed. It's not its fault i couldn't count the stairs as i stumbled down,down,down. And lets remember the little dipper and the parking space right out front just as we were about to despair, and the bubbly waitress who likes to make strong coffee and partys in vegas. And all our ponderings on how awesome life is and how strange and sometimes foreboding and puzzling. But here we are nonetheless, in this space and time, eating fondue, and falling down stairs.

Saddest Meal Ever

Over the last decade or more my mom could give a fuck about cooking. Gone are the days of fresh baked bread, photocheese soup, turnovers, perogs, truffles, porkchops, and swedish pancakes. Possibly this is because of my dad who could give a fuck about doing anything around the house in the way of chores. And also she's more of a baker than a cook. Culinary nuances, delights, surprises and different tastes do not appeal- but shortbread cookies have never gone out of style. i do not like shortbread cookies. I complained once to someone about my unquenchable need for culinary surprises and they suggested i go shopping for myself. And that is why I know I love eating food more than cooking it. Because even with money I won't do it myself. This goes beyond pure laziness. I want other people to be creative cooks for me. It's not that my mom has thrown in the towel completely- i get casseroles and bbq'd meat which i love.

So let me bring you to Monday night, when I return home, having abstained from getting food on the go, sort of hazarding a RARE bet there might be something in the fridge to eat. I come home to my mom adding kraftcheese mix to some fusilli spiral pasta and mixing it without milk or butter. she asks if i want some... she also points to some broken small bits of cauliflower. i shake my head. I grab the milk and butter and throw it into the pot. she shrugs. i hazard a taste. i say, "I'm sorry? I didn't know we were poor." Mom continues to stir the non-mac and cheese. She spoons it out, and puts parmesan cheese over it and pepper. "I can't even believe you're splurging on pepper. Can we afford to waste spices?"... Nevermind olive oil and garlic. The confluence of "I'm too stoned to dice fresh garlic or too poor to afford it," was too much for me. I grabbed 2 hotdogs out of the fridge and microwaved them- muttering about food stamps and the fresh sourdough bread i was going to have for dessert. I mean if we could afford the electricity to run the toaster, or maybe spreadable margarine.

Into the Woods

so my next foray into weirdness was with sarah. she gave me an appropriate weeklong notice. and i usually can never turn down the promise of food with friends. that is one of my weaknesses no doubt. I picked a french cafe with a follow up cafe that looked good too. it was a warm evening and i was still wearing my woolish trousers- think mistake. think sweaty hot pressure cooker. and my cute new shoes. . . we walked. cafe flore closed at 5. we walked. cafe meet me was no more. we walked and walked. stopped. and walked some more. cafe delice's umbrellas were folded in sleep. and we walked and walked. hang in there feet. and walked. and i began to sigh as we passed coco's, jack 'n box, that burger joint on the corner, papa johns, 5 sushi restaurants and one thai house... but that's when things got interesting. (the little dishes below i was convinced we'd get charged for if we ate them... what is it with foreign countries serving you things you did not order and then charging you for them if you eat them... bcs that's what happened to us in turkey...it's like false advertising or something)

the last cafe on the list of cafes to try, was on pico past robertson blvd. deep in the heart of west LA. beverly hills adjacent. and as i said on the phone the 'pit of la'... the nice part i said... to my mom who can never hear me... for we wandered into a strictly jewish neighborhood. having just read 'girl meets god'- about a woman who converted to strict jewish orthodoxy to christianity, their culture was more fresh in mind... i know we have lots of jewish people in LA but i can't say that i know many, if any even as friends, and i never go where they are if that makes sense, having my home in the barrio, that surrounds me for miles. seeing signs in spanish is a much more common occurance than hebrew as far as the eye can see. the girls getting food to go at the cafe were wearing plain clothing, skirts down to the ankles, sleeves to the wrists and eyeing us askance and the servers barely glanced our way as we looked over the menu. i thought- this place is definitely better approached by day...

i voted for the mediterranean restaurant we'd passed a few blocks down. (above a really tasty pita with grilled chicken)... she said, okay and all our cafe dreams went floating up into ether. on the way back we saw the guys wearing white shirts and hats with the curls, then less, then guys with the little circle hats on top, then less, but still lots of hebrew and it seemed barely one non-jewish person around, not those clubtypes, those up and comer LA types....not a one. and the phrase 'set apart' popped into my head alot. and exclusivity. culture. difference. different country. being a tourist in your own town... and spying a place called 'the nut house'... we really wanted to go to, to get dessert. the mediterranean place while slightly less hostile had the air of being overseas, a sign for something about shabbot services in the window, everyone looking vaguely like one big family but you. the waitresses all scowled except for one who smiled a lot and seemed pleased when i said the food was really good. they did not give us refills on water. they did not seem to appreciate that we'd never been there before but despite all that the food was AMAZING. and i smiled as talvuk shnitzel was on the menu (a fav dish in turkey. totally going back for it) and lots of things involving eggplant and i felt properly in another country... so we walked back, my legs stiffening. my shoes beginning to rebel after the 3mile break in session... a slight limp developing in my left foot... but we shuffled on. and left having had a really good time. thanks sarah! it was completely memorable! i recommend it to anyone... bring a friend, some good shoes, and walk on thru to places you've never been. Worth everypenny and possibly a blister or two.

My Skinny Pancakes

are better than YOUR skinny pancakes. i have the best swedish pancake recipe ever!!!

oh and apparently my aunt came over to my grandma's last night and noticed her car that she had stored there had been badly dented- but was more mad that no one had told her in the 2wks it'd been there. she actually stormed off and never came back. am i glad i missed it? or should i have witnessed it?... nah. still glad i sat and watched the first 2 hours of fanny and alexander and 2 hours of christmas themed scrubs. also o'd. on oj and fudge. so GOOD.