My mother, Shannon, and I scurried down Little Clarendon Street, Oxford at around 10:15 at night. We were starving and eager to sit down and talk. My mom had steered us down this road because there are a number of good restaurants to choose from: French, Italian, Tapas, Indian. I peered into each window and chose the least crowded of the bunch – the French one. If left to me, I will always choose the emptiest because I find that the din of busy restaurants these days overwhelms any chance of having a decent conversation. We hadn’t traveled all this way to explore new cuisine. We had come to see my mom.
My birthmother just graduated from The Continuing Education Department at Oxford University, with a focus on regional history. I couldn’t be more proud than to celebrate her continuing achievements, so Shannon and I flew to Oxford to watch her graduation ceremony that evening.
We pushed open the big red door of Café Rouge and walked through the bar into the dining room of the brasserie. The room was big with dark oak floors and tables, burgundy velvet banquettes, and antiqued mirrors which hung from every wall. We waited for a few minutes and then were shown to our table by a disinterested, lanky blonde waiter. He carelessly danced around, making faces at another lanky blonde waiter working the other side of the room. Menus were tossed onto our table, orders taken and we started to catch up.
Almost every night for the last month I keep having the same dream: I am biting into a smoked grape, enrobed in a soft Arizona goat’s cheese and covered with chopped pecans and pistachios, served on a long skewer. Typically, I panic at some point in my dream because the platter is getting empty and that’s enough to wake me. Usually it is 4am, I sit up and try to comfort myself by saying “well, you ate the other 6, though saying that doesn’t help me get back to sleep. I was served these sleep altering morsels at a Heitz Cellar wine dinner at the Arizona Biltmore hotel. I never would have tried them with what I know now. “Just one more” I heard myself saying to several waiters! Have these amuse-bouche changed my sleeping pattern forever? I am no longer amused...
Most everyone knows that in the UK an elevator is called a lift and an apartment is a flat, but beyond a few dozen words, we like to think that we speak the same language as our friends across the pond. Ha! 
Olympia is a charming little city in the Pacific Northwest, set down on rolling hills surrounded by forests of Douglas-fir, bigleaf maple and red cedar – a pretty, speckled egg resting in a nest of twigs.
This is Downtown Olympia, with its century-old buildings, its perfectly-proportioned Capitol, its tree-lined streets on which people drive politely and you can always find a place to park – often without a meter – near the still-family-run bookstore or café or bike shop you want to go to.
The Israel we know is a land of contradictions and conflicts and common ground can be hard to find. But having just been there, I can say the notable exception to this, is the food. The food is really, really good, and something everyone enjoys with gusto whether it's fine dining or street food. Like the country itself, the food is very diverse. And while the history and scenery might be enough for some tourists, I came for the food. Not just because it's good, but because it provides a window into the culture and the people living there.