Bumble Ward

starnoodle.jpgstardonuts.jpgThere's a ridiculously good restaurant on Maui – Lahaina's Star Noodle, which sits up on the mountain over looking the town. I'm afraid we went there three times (and would have gone more had we not restrained ourselves); once after arriving at the airport, once for dinner and once on the way home.

Imagine something like London's Wagamama or New York's Momofuku on a smaller scale – a deliciously modern, light space, filled with knowledgeable, kind people (props to Justin and Zane) and some of the best Asian food we've ever tasted.

The menu ranges from ramen to local saiman (local noodles with spam, fish cake and green onion in a delicious broth) to Vietnamese pancakes to spicy pickled vegetables (namasu) to yuzu sorbet to tiny donuts on sticks (malasadas) with three dipping sauces.

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silverbirch.jpgI'm spending a few days in what I'm told is the Mid-West of America (albeit the Northern Mid-West), a place I've never been to before.  It's a land of lakes and fir trees and glittering silver birches, and flying in I was startled (and a little homesick) by the landscape's resemblance to Norway.  Of course everyone who lives here is either Norwegian or Swedish.

My Minnesota hostess (who is also one of my best girlfriends) adapted a corn pudding from the book Local Flavors by Deborah Madison.  Don't be put off by the name. The recipe is delicate and delicious. I've found that using a mellifluous deep-South accent – as in "coooorrn puddin'" – assures its proper status in culinary Americana. 

This is an American staple, transformed and updated by the use of fresh herbs and goat cheese.  Up here, there is a farmer's market three times a week, and she used fresh corn as well as fresh parsley and chives cut from the selection of clay pots outside her kitchen door.

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blue-yellow-table-setting-l.jpgMy favorite thing about book club is that I get to hang out with some of my favorite women in the world. It has become a highlight of the month.  We're a diverse lot: both Brits & Americans; a full-time student, a pilates instructor who's writing her first novel, a painter, a former big-time film exec, a pr maven, an ex-pat marketing exec who now raises chickens (and is most generous with her eggs), an actor turned set decorator, a talent manager and me.

The way we've set it up, one person hosts and cooks a main course, and other people bring starters, puddings, wine, etc.  Miranda, this week's host, is completely fabulous – an American blue blood, Ivy League-educated, a beautiful blowzy blonde who speaks her mind and loves to have people around her dining room table. Her stepfather,  a famous painter, once gave her this piece of advice "Lay the table so that it still looks good when the food is finished" so her tables are filled with glasses and plates in shades of blue and green and turquoise, and bushels of flowers from her garden, and mercury glass candle holders.

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starbuckscup.jpgThis is how grumpy I am: I refuse to make up a pseudonym to make the people at Starbuck's happy.  My problem is this: My name is Bumble.  Yes, Bumble. And please, don't ask me "Is that your REAL name" because that's just rude.  No, it's not my REAL name. I wasn't christened Bumble, but I have never been called anything other than Bumble for my whole life and hence, I am Bumble.  However, as fabulous and memorable and jolly as my name may be, it has its downside.  First of all, most people repeat it back when they hear it.  They say "Bumble?" in a questioning manner, as if saying "Excuse Me?" in the Southern Californian/Gossip Girl cadence.  Or they say "Barbara?" with their voice swinging upwards at the end.  They say Barbara so much that my husband calls me Barbara in public, which amuses him, and him alone, enormously.

My name SUCKS when it comes to ordering things. For example, just fifteen minutes ago I stopped into the lovely Sweet Butter for a coffee (and, truth be told, a slice of bread & butter pudding) and the woman serving me said, "What is your first name?"  Now, for most people this is a very easy question. For me, it involves elaborate lies, some soul searching and a huge dose of tamping down the effrontery.  Is it my age? Is it that I'm English, that I feel it's forward to ask someone you've never met before their first name?  How many years have I lived in Los Angeles, you may ask?  Surely, I would've gotten used to this? No, I haven't.

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beets.jpgLos Angeles is shedding its winter coat, the birds are singing; Spring has boinged in like Zebedee. The farmers markets are jam-packed with citrus, strawberries, golden beets and asparagus.

I got four bunches of gorgeous, small, round radishes for $2, two bunches of sweet peas for $4 and tiny beets in every shade of pink and gold. 

Fifteen old friends came to supper last night, a Clein + Feldman reunion.  It was, of course, just as if twenty years hadn't gone by: everyone looked the same, sounded the same, but maybe wiser, greeting each other as if we'd been in the office together just yesterday.

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