Checking In

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Everyone’s looks different. There are some that are compact, on-the-go, holding it under your armpit for a tight grip, no-one-can-get-to-it, and there are others that are wide and open like a woven basket and round, large hoops for carrying with ease, swinging it back and forth as you walk in, and then there are the megas, the chrome, steel trap, vacuum sealed, never-see-the-light-of-day that get rolled in because they’re too heavy to carry.

I’ve seen them all. Walking through the doors of where I work, short of breaths over the phone, witnessing it myself while I’m out dining, I see men and women alike hold it all: the baggage of their eats.

We’re all somewhat familiar with the concept of “emotional baggage.” Someone has gone through a trauma, or an event in their life that has yet to find closure and so they carry it – the burden of grief, anger, hate, etc. It’s a kinder, more polite way to say someone is still fucked up. The imagination of luggage, a bag or two, that an individual lifts, sets down, and lifts again, is more subtle than the reality of walking up to said person and ask “what is wrong with you??” Because as humans we like to think that none of us are “wrong”, but lost, traveling to our destination and losing our sense of direction along the way, ergo baggage.

We’re on the road. That’s life.

As for the pit stops, most of those involve food: nourishment, a rest, and hopefully some relaxation. That is the eating – a short simple list that meets our basic, but most desirable needs. I’ve come to learn that with food and drink, we want so bad. Even on a diet; we want so bad to have eggs cooked without butter or oil and fluffed with the airs of our soon-to-be perfect, skinny bodies. The intensity of our food consumption surges through the whole spectrum of gluttony to fast.

All of the things to none of it; the American way.

I’ve had a rough week. It was rough because I couldn’t find clarity. Despite yoga, sitting quiet, sleeping, venting, punching, drinking, there was no clearing for me to finally come to. I was desperate to find that open meadow in my mind where the good of me lies- a breeze that runs through my fingers, my toes, and my hair, and inhale the wonderful gravity of the imaginary field. I could not get to this place, my place, because I had too much baggage – and it wasn’t even mine.

When you serve people there’s the superficial components you make something (a coffee), you run something (breakfast sandwich to table 2), you clean (sugar crystals everywhere), and you take orders (at the register, on the phone, at the table). Several interactions occur between A (what the customer wants) to B (what the customer gets). For the most part, and why I’ve stayed at my job for close to 5 years now is because my small but significant journeys from A to B have been immensely rewarding. I am an open person. Like a hug waiting for you to come in, I embrace people heart and soul. It’s a bit much, I know, but my mother is very similar. We’re both dialed up all the way: we love hard, we care hard, we defend hard, we work hard – you get it. Customers get that passionate energy when I’m there, especially the care. I care a lot. I care about your day, about your daughter, your new job, your latte with room because you don’t like to spill on your way to the car, and your distress. Why? I don’t have the answer yet, but the writing helps.

Over the course of five days, I’ve had every type of baggage thrown at me: the compact (“So do I get a free coffee for my inconvenience?..”) , the woven (“Just repeat exactly as I tell you”) the chrome (“I will mention your name and bring you down”), one after the other. I saw myself sweating trying to hug each tight in my grasp. My fingers grew white with the amount of pressure, my wild can-do attitude whispering to me that you can help, you can fix. But each piece I held of one unhappy customer after the next were locked. I did not have the key, but I wanted to. Desire is just that – the need to fulfill. My definition of service is fulfillment, and when I fail, I attempt one last time, and take it all – the weight, the luggage, in hopes that your free hands recirculate the blood in your distressed fingers and as they bend and the blood continues to flow from the tips to your brain, and oxygen follows, you exhale, and then peace.

I’m reckless.

Customer service is a dangerous road.

But when you face it, you will see the wide eyes of 3-year-old girl who’s known you all her life making warm milk just for her, and she’ll hug you with her frothy moustache, and you won’t think twice to take her Hello Kitty backpack and hold her happiness.

Bet It All

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The texture.

There was something in the way it was pulled off, ripped from the front teeth of it’s owner. Playful and appetizing, I remember licking my lips as I stared up at the screen and watched my Saturday morning cartoons demolish chicken legs. (It was always a leg). I think there’s a more aesthetic realism that exists when you draw the white bone at the end of a warm brown chicken meat.

From a very young age, I was never meant to operate as a vegetarian.

I’m not elaborating on the truth to make a good story when I confess that I drooled and daydreamed about all the cartoon foods I saw over the weekly afternoons or early mornings of my young television viewing routine. Arthur and his ice cream, the Coyote and his Thanksgiving Roadrunner feast – I mean I like the speedy little sassy bird as much as the next kid, but I found myself relating more to the steamy waves of a just cooked bird. I was carnivorous child.

Growing up didn’t take my lust for animated food away nor did it bury it under other childish wonders like Santa or the Tooth Fairy. In the pit of my heart, those bouncy, full depictions of nutrition were very real, but I wasn’t watching much cartoons anymore. High school came and so did first love, and my cartoons, though not forgotten, were placed on a high shelf, where I could look at the memory, but not play with it.

And then I heard about Bob’s Burgers.

I get Bob. We personify our food. He gives them voices while he cooks; I give them feelings while I write. For both of us, food gives us life. We light at up at its sight, we growl when others don’t appreciate all its peppery, zesty, sweet, sour idiosyncrasies. Bob and I are not fighters; we are food lovers.

Though I regard Bob with much more respect than I have for myself. I’m a selfish and vain lover. I’m not shallow, but I don’t try to flatter my Ego that I have a significant part in the making, the cooking, and creation of meals, small, and big dishes. I eat.

The Small Bits is about “deconstructing the eating experience,” and in my writing, I can’t lie. I’ve tried – it reads gross.

But Bob- he cooks, and chops, and dices, and flips his burger patties, and wears his heart on his punny chalkboard of specials. I won’t give any away here, I will force you to binge on all the chuckles that will ensue as each episode not only gives you a pun in the beginning credits (hint: look to the right neighbor) and on said the burger of the day special chalkboard.

As a kid, though my instinctive nature was to dream and imagine, I knew that my cartoon food was not attainable. Like Abercrombie & Fitch in my closet, it just wasn’t going to happen. Nevertheless, I tuned in and salivated over hunks of potatoes, chicken legs (of course), and even carrots that Bugs Bunny cracked into with his buckteeth that made me reconsider the usual dull thing that took up space in my mother’s rice.

And then some twenty years later, I heard about Burger Week.

It was all about Wednesday: “Bet It All On Black Garlic,” the burger that Bob enters a competition at a food festival in season five, episode five. The Oinkster, in both their Eagle Rock and Hollywood locations were throwing down some serious tribute to my favorite show – one of my cartoons.

I had thin breaths of anticipating excitement as my co-worker told me on Monday. Tuesday I half listened as he told me about the atomic hot pepper burger, and on Wednesday during all eight hours of my shift I only had eyes for one.

Today another co-worker told me “I’ve never seen you so happy as you looked in that picture.” I uploaded the picture of my burger and me with giddy pride on Facebook, and I will not disclose that posting that photo was on the same emotional level as posting my engagement ring. The mix of “look what happened to me” and “oh my god I can’t believe that happened to me,” made my stomach soar.

And he was right, my Thursday co-worker, I was elated. My inner child, and not the one a psychologist likes to use to explain everything wrong with you, but my true connection with the top shelf of memories was obtained. I reached up, standing on my tippy toes, as I took the first bite of sautéed mushrooms dressed in black garlic and adorned with a crown of melted golden cheese, and saw the treasure I had so long ago protected from adult realities.

Dreams do come true.

We just have to dust off the older ones.

bobs burger

Barista

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Everything has to be in its place. I don’t even touch the beans until all my towels are folded and exactly where I want them: one on the tray, one folded neatly like a book with a bit of hot water to damp the steam wand, one below the machine for the counter, and finally one hanging on my apron. Once everything is cleaned and anew, I then turn to the coffee.

I’ve been doing this for almost 8 years now, 5 of those at Paper or Plastik Café, in Mid-City.

There are lots of moments in creating a latte, or a cappuccino, or simply pulling an espresso shot that my brain is not really involved. Naturally, there’s some activity occurring to make my hands go there, and my finger curl over the espresso grinds, and my arm to the pull the steam wand to life, etc. But I’m attracted more by a feeling – a strong instinct based on trust, Ego, and love.

The three amigos.

I trust my machine, a beautiful beast called Synesso. To me, I see her as the Rosie the Riveter type. Sleeves rolled up, flexing, determined, all while looking fabulous. The Synesso has power, and if you’re afraid it, then she’ll humiliate you. Your shots will splatter, your milk bubbling with anger; the Synesso will quickly put you in your place if you don’t understand her.

With time, like in any relationship, I get her, and she gets me.

We finish each other’s sentences in such a way that, without looking, I can steam perfect milk.

Yes, perfect.

I grab the silver pitcher, fill it up with milk, and place the steam wand just below the milky surface, and then I listen.

Trainers will have tons of words about how to steam the correct and proper consistency of milk.

“It has to look like paint.”

“You don’t want any bubbles.”

“You have to tip the pitcher back and forth.”

“You need the whirl in the center.”

But when I finally began to trust myself, I realized I had to just shut my brain up and listen. It will literally scream at you if you don’t do it right. When milk is not frothed to the accurate thickness, the heat and power of the steam wand will pierce through the thin walls of your latte-in-the-making and shriek. Good machines talk. Bad baristas don’t care and press on. Ego, so obviously present in the creation of anything, can undo your art, and give you bad milk.

I’ve found that my heart saves me from myself more often than not. I operate with love. Furthermore, I exist in a life where I have to touch. I have to get “my hands dirty,” and through physical expression, I am.

I love what producing coffee demands of me. I must be quick, sufficient, sharp, creative, and strong. Whether it’s in the early minutes of my 630am call to open the café or the waning seconds of sunlight in the early evening, tasting my first shot, my first hello to my mechanical companion, there’s an immediate hush that falls around me.

For a mere second the customers blur, the street right outside the grid of windows softens, the kitchen right behind darkens, my co-worker is distant, and it’s me – beginning to make something.

Savor

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Goodbye.

Good and bye. The first part is somehow suppose to reassure you about the latter.

But nevertheless, it is the departure of something, someone, someplace from your life. It’s personal. It has to be, or else what’s the point?

I have lost lovers, friends, and family, and I have lost my favorite breakfast place in San Diego, the best quietest chocolate shop in Los Angeles, and my husband to Las Vegas for one month.

Such is the ticker tape clicking across my mind. Faces, dishes, the way he rubs his eyes before going to bed, the way the breakfast potatoes melded altogether to a point of mashed, the way you yelled before you never spoke again, the hand rolled tootsie roll that instantly melted at the point of contact, and clenching your heart as you’re told they are leaving.

I love all things equally, feverishly. I think I get that from mother. Everything and anything is dialed to a constant high. She feels all of it, and until writing these words, I didn’t realize I do too.

My “Nice and Easy” breakfast platter from the once existing Eggery in Pacific Beach, San Diego is as disheartening as seeing my loved ones away.

It makes me laugh too. I am comparing eggs and bacon to love and marriage. I function in this particular state of being. I exist simultaneously through my tastes buds and heart strings. A duo that croons together.

We love what we love, no? I don’t cuddle with the salted caramel brownie shots Lily made at her small store, Sweets for the Soul, in Atwater Village, Los Angeles, but trust me, I’ve day dreamed about it. “Weak in the knees good,” I tell my customers at my cafe where we carried those brownies shots since we first opened almost five years ago. To cuddle with such delectable greatness should cross your mind if you’re that daring to love a sweet. It’s good for your soul.

The Eggery was the soul of my college years. The backdrop to four years of hangovers, heated debates over boyfriends, ex boyfriends, friends, ex friends, dates, crushes, life goals, career aspirations, doubts, and self proclamations. My girlfriends and I rotated throughout the dining room, take our seats around a circle, the lazy susie spinning our sugars, creams, and jams. Over Megan’s breakfast quesadilla (she ordered it every single time) and coffees all around, we talk and eat and trust each other. Sharing bites of English Muffins, bacon, and sausage, mimosa at times brought us out of our college daze, the anxiety of playing our parts in adulthood, growing larger in our horizons. The giant sunrise of our maturity while our youth set. Add the crashing waves of the beach only steps away from the restaurant and the metaphor is solidified. To wash up on those plastic tables of the Eggery was a sad thing to see close down and stacked inside never to hold me or my sisters again.

Alex has been gone for twenty-three days. I eat for one, bothered with take out once and realized it just doesn’t work without at least two, and sleep spread eagle in the bed as to trick my mind and body that there isn’t someone missing. There’s a temporary closing sign on The Dandinos. Just Andrea, is the pop up that currently resides in the one bedroom, one bath in Studio City. I’m not bad; I make a mean oatmeal with almond milk (recipe stole from work) and a pour over coffee. I may even special out a bow tie pasta later this week with marinated mozzarella balls (olive oil, pinch of salt and pepper) with sauce, and top it with freshly torn basil. I even bought strawberry Mochi for dessert. So again, I’m not too bad off. The transactions of my daily life ring up: work, eat, exercise, sleep, hang out with friends, and next. I haven’t boarded up, called it quits, or retired. Though my partner may be gone, I am not. This is valuable to understand.

Good byes are unavoidable. They are fated to mark us.

So I savor.

Everything.

 

14 for ’14

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There’s a theme in this list: people. Unlike my list last year, I focused on all the meals that satisfied me. The beginning of this blog, I tried to find myself. I navigated what I wanted to eat, what I wanted to say, and how I wanted to connect it all together.

In 2014, the people that surrounded my plates and glasses made the moment of my first and last bite, memorable. I am more comfortable in what I want to say, what I wish to seek in my eating experiences, and how I want to share it.

Thank you.

1. Lake Arrowhead Resort and Spa’s cinnamon roll: sitting modestly in the pastry shelf. Unassuming and divine when warmed up. Enjoy on the balcony on a rainy evening up in the mountains with an Earl Grey tea and your husband lounging close by, and you’ll get warm fuzzies because love is in the air – with a hint of cinnamon.

27984 Hwy 189, Lake Arrowhead, CA

2. The Spare Room’s Tropical Punch Bowl: served in a stainless steel beaut with its very own ladle (stainless as well) and you got the best bang for your buck. On average, a cocktail at this classy Hollywood joint would set you back around $14-16, depending on your poison and style. The punch bowl though, delighted myself and two other girlfriends about three times each! My girlfriend, Veronica’s birthday was gorgeous down to the last detail – the last drop.

7000 Hollywood Blvd. Los Angeles, CA 

3. Pine and Crane’s Passionfruit Green Tea is the bomb-diggity. No doubt. Muddled, squeezed, strained, I’m not quite sure of their method of genius, but whatever they did behind that small beige counter and brought to my table that night was straight up. I downed one and then ignored all signs of being full from my dinner to make room for another. I had to, I told my friends who were visiting from Colombia, because I needed another hit; true American gluttony. At least I shared my Dan Dan noodles – that’s real friendship.

1521 Griffith Park Blvd. Los Angeles, CA 

4. Get Shaved’s ice: tiger’s blood. No matter what combination you concoct, make it bloody. As a mixture of watermelon, strawberry, and a hint of coconut, a hot day in the Valley while on a double date post-breakfast can find quick relief. Alex adores shaved ice and I can’t help but want to find any excuse to see that giddy joy on his face as the girl at the counter twirls his dreams true.

12910 Magnolia Blvd, Sherman Oaks, CA 

5. Luna Vine’s duck prosciutto: the weekends are not mine. I work at a cafe and brunch is everyone’s business in Los Angeles. Everyone’s. Therefore, when I do get a Saturday or Sunday off, it’s something to rejoice. With good food of course. And good people. To live a five minute drive from close friends is the best, and to stroll down Burbank’s Magnolia Ave. (which has seen great new additions in the last six months), and happen upon a new wine bar, with vintage decor and a bottle with a full snake inside, defines spontaneity. The duck prosciutto was listed off by the sweet bartender who laughed when he saw my eyes go big at the words “duck” and “prosciutto” put together. Yes, a charcuterie plate is several selections, but the duck reigns.

3206 W. Magnolia Blvd, Burbank, CA 

6. Joan’s On Third’s turkey club on french baguette (not the country white as advertised) is my gift to you. You can grab several others when you go to Joan’s. Studio City, my neighborhood, recently got this trendy little marketplace opened in the last few months. I’ve never been to the original but I’m content without it, just as long as the club is present. Tables are long and communal and perfect for stealing pasta from your friend across the way. No one’s food is safe when I’m around, especially if I love you.

12059 Ventura Place, Studio City, CA 

7. Mama’s Musubi’s rice balls: LORD. Prepared and then grilled right before your eyes on the back end of their set up tent, these suckers will keep you coming back same day or at least making the trip to Studio City’s farmer’s market on every Sunday. Whether you pick the salmon, the beef, or the chicken, it’s the seasoning sprinkled over the rice that will get those eyes rolling and that soft grumble travel from the depths of your enraptured stomach. P.S. the link included leads you to their twitter; follow (figuratively and literally if you can’t make it to Studio City) and don’t forget to bring company and steal bites from one another as intended with any market visit!

Ventura Place, Studio City, CA 

8. 26 Beach’s O.M.G burger: skippy peanut butter, Knott’s Berry Farm’s strawberry jelly, applewood bacon, banana, beef patty, and brioche bun. Yes, that’s all together. And yes, it played. Man, did it play. It was Alex’s birthday, and I felt like I got the present – in my mouth. We toasted among some of Alex’s favorite people and as sushi burgers, fresh pineapple juice mojitos were enjoyed, I was in a surreal state of mind as my burger disappeared. I’m drooling.

3100 Washington Blvd, Venice, CA 

9. Ahi Sushi’s baked spicy tuna mushroom roll: last year was the year I embraced sushi like a long lost lover. Passionate, wondrous, and a bit hazy about why we were never together in the first place, sushi is now in my life. In years past, I denied Alex, who has loved sushi always, madly, deeply, time and time again. And like a good partner, he supported me – pouting, but supportive. But something buzzed off in my mind in 2014 and signaled my taste buds that we, indeed, wanted – no – craved, sushi. And Ahi’s back patio is where birthdays, date nights, random lunches after watching too many episodes of AHS: Asylum were enjoyed. All the while, ordering three essentials: Sapporo, miso soup, and baked spicy tuna mushroom roll.

12915 Ventura Blvd, Studio City, CA 

10. Home’s pancakes: this sought out patio in Los Feliz brings in the brunch crowds by the loads. The thing about the whole sunny 70 degree weather and the need to brunch makes you want to dine and mimosa outdoors of course. Home Restaurant has the booths, the small forest of trees, the fountain, and the arch telling you “there’s no place like” and you cozy up, drink coffee, and catch up with one of your first friends in LA, an old co-worker, and feel special. The pancake will interrupt your conversation about must-see movies, but just barely. You chew and are happy to listen.

1760 Hillhurst Ave, Los Feliz, CA 

11. Nata’s Crunchy French Toast: drench the whole damn thing in the vanilla bean sauce. No regrets. Sit in the sun, share it with your friend, and also order anything with the sweet Portuguese bread. The ol’ most important meal of the day is my favorite meal of the day and I want a confetti of corn flakes, powdered sugar, and berries to commemorate the experience.

13317 Ventura Blvd, Studio City, CA 

12. Blue Bayou’s Monte Cristo: donut sandwich. I repeated over and over to friends Aaron, Veronica, and Nic. “I’m eating a donut stuffed with ham and cheese, guys.” The dipping sauces only added to the whole pastry effect. One berry, one almond, and one chocolate, the sinful dish is not only that, but also secret. Not written in the menus, my group and I only found out it was available to order because of our neighbors who 2 out of 4 picked it. My last minute change from roasted chicken to Monte Cristo was in honor of the birthday girl that day, Veronica. Her excitement for me was contagious. I, too, was bouncing up and down on my seat in the dim, twinkling, lights to the distance howls of “Yo-Ho.”

1313 Disneyland Drive, Anaheim, CA 

13. Aarti Paarti’s Gulab Jamun: I waited all day for these Indian doughnuts in chamomile-cardamon syrup. Make them about 36 hours or so, since Aarti instagram a step in the process and I lost my breath at the posted photo (I didn’t even care what the filter was). I have had the great pleasure of making Aarti’s coffee once in a while, often while she was editing her manuscript to her first cookbook (it’s lovely) and said anticipated doughnut was one of the recipes in her collective debut. Before knowing her mad skills as a cook, I fell for her warmth and general friendliness to everyone, including me. Over the years, we continued hugging and chatting, and when I was privileged with celebrating her book release, I couldn’t have a bigger grin on my face. Success and prosperity to a genuinely good lady is a sight to see –  while sneaking 2 to 3 doughnuts from the wandering servers.

Buy her book here! 

14. Tispy Cow’s Tispy Slam: 2 eggs (over medium in my preference), maple bacon, cheddar biscuit, homemade turkey sausage, and hash browns. Any breakfast with two meats could be a major gamble. In such greed, you could have one falter in quality. I’ve tasted this before at other places. The bacon is crisped to perfection but the sausage is just sad, or vice versa. Not on this urban farm. At this relatively new breakfast spot on the long stretch of Ventura Blvd, the bacon is short, thick, and maple. The sausage, though it be the alternative to pork, are juicy Pogs of goodness. Never mind the yolk soaking in rich cheesy biscuits, and the original plans to go to Blu Jam Cafe and the 45 min wait for a table of 2, a casual stroll a couple of doors down, yet again, has you spontaneously dining – and making googly eyes to your husband because you’re happy.

15005 Ventura Blvd, Sherman Oaks, CA 

2015, where will we go?…

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Big Mac Pride

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I took bites from others. It’s a bad habit that Alex considers, at times, to divorce me for because he gasps and proclaims I’ve committed a cardinal sin when I take a bite – no, I’m sorry – the first bite of someone else’s food. Mostly his. But when I was younger and had no husband yet to rob blindly of his dinners, I had cousins, and friends, and an older sister, and a father who share because I was of him. There’s a tendency to forgive more when you have the same curl of a smile and dark, thick brown hair.

I remember being bothered by the lettuce. Shredded, not cut in wedges, in got all over the place when you try to bite into the whole thing. There would be strings of green dangling from my mouth that I found irritating because I expected the food to corporate with with my mouth.

I didn’t really care for the middle half bun. More bread – big whoop.

The cheese, though, and that whatever 1000 island dressing had me coming back for more from my sister’s, my cousin’s, my father’s, and my husband’s order.

I grew up, don’t worry, and eventually bought my own. As a meal of course because once you’re there, you can’t kid yourself that you’ll be conservative with your meal. No, when it comes to the Big Mac, you take the meal and shut the fuck up.

I’m getting aggressive; you can tell. “Fuck” has a way of conveying that whether on the page or in person and the single syllable surges through the greater air around you.

McDonald’s last night via twitter posted the nation’s worst nightmare: “It is with a heavy heart that we must announce that the Big Mac will no longer be apart of our menu. It is our sincerest apologies.”

I was livid. The last time I ate a Big Mac was I-don’t-know-when but damn if I didn’t feel the fire of my American pride in the deepest parts of my belly.

We, citizens of the United States of American, have a right to our Big Mac, whether we want to acknowledge how bad it is for us.

And that’s the thing with McDonald’s, the king of fast food, the pot-bellied, balding, bearded ruler of quick burgers and fries, he still still at the throne. Granted such a high chair is probably made up of high cholesterol, diabetes, and our drunken tears, he sits on it nonetheless, rubbing his belly and asking his next loyal subject if they want medium or large (small doesn’t even get mentioned).

And we come, in the morning hurdling past cars and running the red light praying to the heavens you don’t get to the drive-thru window at 10:31am, and to the late night witching hour (1-2am) and say to yourself, “I’m getting a BIG MAC.”

It’s all a very tall tale – when your friends put you on the stop and ask when you ate McDonald’s last, even more so, when you ate a Big Mac, and you pretend to rummage through your memory, crinkling your eye and lifting your nose to see whether you can sniff out the old, moldy memory because you’re good to yourself and don’t crave those fries and that Oreo Mcflurry every other week.

“God. Psh. I don’t-even-know.”

But fuck if I be ok if they took my Big Mac away.

…………..

………

……

…

.

Epilogue:

Source: http://www.nbcchicago.com/news/local/No-McDonalds-Is-Not-Getting-Rid-of-the-Big-Mac-286717741.html#ixzz3MmcopEQY

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Eat My Shorts

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I didn’t really care for it.

Birthdays are my thing. I love celebrating them – in all capacities. The cake, the hugs, the woos, the cake, and so on.

And I won’t sugar coat it, I loved my birthday just as much as I loved those of the ones I care for. I wouldn’t be ashamed to do my own countdown, day dream about the party planning on or before the day of my birth. I never hesitate to squeal and give myself a round of applause because it was my day (and finding numerous ways to make Alex do everything and anything he normally would shoot me down half way through my first explanatory sentence). A lot of this tortuous fun I rain down on my husband would be singing to me, dancing with me, jumping on the bed, smelling heirloom tomatoes, etc.

But this year, number 28 on the calendar year, I did not want cake.

Wait. That’s a lie. I wanted cake; I wanted to eat; and honestly, eating, in good company, was the one thing that kept me above my clouds. My dark stormy cumulonimbus clouds.

But you can’t eat all day, and I found myself in between the meals, the desire to retreat, to walk away from the chatters and the white lovely noise of my friends and family and say nothing. I was sad, yes, and I was melancholy, sure, another word to attempt to describe a sensation that overwhelmed me for the whole day.And even now, as I’ve come out of it, I can’t find sufficient vocabulary to describe something so vigorously emotional.

Yet there was pizza. I choose to begin a day I didn’t want with a pizza I never have time to get: breakfast pizza. On Sundays, Studio City’s Farmer’s Market homes a small little stand with a bi ol’ mobile wood fire oven (that thing is just as big as their tent) for “Olive Wood Pizza.”

The “breakfast” pizza is an off menu item nowadays, so you’re welcome. I’m sharing the secret and you better go eat it. The crust, of course, is good in all the right places. The crisp falling apart in your mouth, the soft chewable bits making their way to the back of your throat for full flavor immersion. And then cheese, dotted with black burns to let you know it will goo and stretch across from your fingertips to your lips. There’s bacon (mine and Alex’s additional choice), sprinkles of scrambled eggs, chopped potatoes, and an orange-pink chipotle sauce that zig zags over all the slices that almost makes you dare to grab a slice before the plate is even down on the table. Add Alex, and dear friends, Aaron and Veronica, and I was happy. Wholly.

Perhaps the action was a distraction. Especially considering my favoritism towards it. Whoever thinks I don’t love to eat hasn’t met me. It’s that much a part of me now and perhaps that’s why the meals on my birthdays interrupted my blue, the connection of feeling like myself through tearing off a bite with my fingertips, dabbing the corners of my mouth after savoring my father’s grilled chicken and my mother’s pillow potato salad later in the afternoon.

There is no fun in losing yourself on the day where it’s about you. The generous attentions, the tokens of love, and the embraces all work against…well…angst.

The literal bits on the numerous plates passed beneath my gaze were my tiny anchors to the somewhere in my head, in my heavy heart, that I was there – me – the girl who loved her birthdays.

Eat your cake, I told myself as my mother came towards me in her little footsteps that she takes, like she’s always tip toeing but not for the reach of quietness, no, she’s just dainty that way. I liked that so much about my mother. There it was, heart shaped (go figure) and two candles lit the circle formed around me and my nephew, Jack, who ended on my lap and grew fearful every second that the singing was for him. Tears swelled up in both his doll like eyes, his lip about to curl out in torment. I hushed him, rubbed his belly, and stroked his hairs over his forehead. Easing him, eased me.

I didn’t want to steal his thunder so I kept my tears in. There would be time later. For now, I did want to cherish this and at least try.

I tried all day. I gave it one last push when I had marion berry pie (a new favorite) and let the seeds of the muddled berries entertain my teeth with their pops, cracking into hard shells. Something about that playful texture makes me a goner; it’s so gratifying. I washed my slice with a chai latte. I got my friend Aaron hooked on them, but just at this precise location.

“Chai lattes?” He asks me with such mischievous glee. I really like that exchange we have every other week or so. His eyes will light up every time – the charm of an inside joke.

Though I came home with a full stomach, the rest of me felt elsewhere. I was there, sitting on the bed, changing into my pajamas, putting my socks on, and that’s it. I was ready for the end of the day like a bad date – with myself. I was bored, a bit annoyed, and completely disinterested in this 28-year-old staring on the wood linoleum.

Turning 28 didn’t impress me, but I only give 3 F’s.

Friends, family, and food.

The rest can eat my shorts.

Food Log: LA County Fair

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I went to the LA County Fair and all I* ate was…

  1. Caramel & peach ice cream from Dr. Bob’s (Holy cow.)
  2. Fried Reese’s peanut butter cup (peanut butter was the diva; there was no room to taste the chocolate.)
  3. Nachos (with generous and equal amounts of cheese and jalapeños. Like for real.)
  4. Steamed (veggie) and fried (pork) dumplings (Slippery, yummy, little bastards.)
  5. Bacon wrapped hot dog with gigantic bun (the bun was abandoned halfway through)
  6. 1/2 lb cheeseburger (the bun kept flapping over away from the patty, surrendering to the supreme ingredient: meat, all 16 ounces.)
  7. Fried Twinkie with strawberry jam on top (my favorite)
  8. Corn on the cob: butter, salt, and pepper (classic, with a side of floss)
  9. Shrimp ceviche (refreshing in lieu of carbs already taken; lack luster chips.)
  10. Fried lobster on a stick with french fries (stay classy Los Angeles)
  11. Funnel cake (original, just powder, and strawberries with whipped cream and powder sugar deluxe edition; devoured in less then 5 minutes)
  12. Foot long corn dog (Hot damn.)
  13. Curly fries with cheese (“She’s a brick house” kept playing in my head because the fries clung together as such.)

*And by “I,” I mean me plus three: Alex, Aaron, and Veronica – a decadent double date.

IMG_1248 When it comes to any county fair eatery adventure, sharing is caring (for your digestive system). IMG_1250Don’t be a warrior, don’t eat alone (unless you wan’t to be vain and take selfies with your all your conquered treats), and definitely get it fried.

This log is brought to you by the thrill of the taste.