I love food. And I love going out to eat and trying new places. And I
love talking about food. In fact, I love food so much that whenever I'm
eating I actually try not to get too full so that I'll be able to eat
again in another two hours—which is something I think I inherited from
my mother. When I was a kid, I thought it took five hours to get to
Santa Barbara from LA because she would take the Pacific Coast Highway and stop to eat
three times. (If you are not familiar with the geography of Southern
California, it shouldn’t take more than an hour and a half to get to
Santa Barbara).
But despite that fact that I grew up in a household where it was the norm to discuss what we were going to eat for lunch during breakfast (even if breakfast was at 12pm), I am not a foodie. I hate restaurants that pile food into thimble sized pyramids in the middle of oversized square plates. And when things like soup are served in shot glasses (unless you're Hatfield's and then you can do whatever you want). But the other night when my lovely boyfriend realized that not only did he not owe extra taxes, but he was getting a hefty refund, I wanted him to take me somewhere nice to make up for all those nights of sopitos at Poquito Mas while he anticipated paying what he thought was going to be a huge bill from the government. It turns out my step-dad is not the only man in my life who can’t do his own accounting. No offense, Alan.
My mother used to tell me she would drive to Malibu several times a week. She wouldn't stop there, just drive there and back. To relax…to write in her head...to figure things out. She doesn't do it anymore, because of the price of gas, it's wasteful...but every once in awhile I'll wake up early and do the drive myself...watching the coastline as I speed by...I'd pay more for a movie...