Stories

Did you ever think, when you were younger and the creaks of closing doors hadn’t yet become thunderous, that you and all of your friends were going to do great things?  Because now it seems like circumstance has threatened, in the friendships it didn’t destroy altogether,  that idea of mutually assured success.  Three years removed from the rapidly fading end of college, the majority of my peers sport psychic bruises gotten at the hands of a world we’ve learned isn’t vested in our personal triumph.  The few people who know what they want to do have discovered their chosen professions aren’t guided by the principles of meritocracy.  It’s ostensible chaos, and, after fifteen years of structured, teleological environments, it breeds doubt—doubt that like a giant black maw eats away at the confidence of those glowing assessments you made back in the ninth grade.  When the maw isn’t satisfied—its appetite is only whetted by the feast on your friends—the jaws of uncertainty turn inward and you begin questioning whether that secret self-conviction you’ve always harbored, the belief you would add to the world in a distinct and remarkable way, was ever really justified.

But there are methods for sating such an ugly beast.  I’ve discovered one is you feed it at the restaurant where my friend pulls from the oven pizzas that, prior to glorious consumable conception, spent thousands of hours parbaking in his head.

Ahhh….end of summer.  Shooting stars spark August skies, like fireflies surprised my nights back East. When I was little, lightening bugs against a celestial backdrop made me micro, shuddering first at the size of the universe and how my life’s light merely flickers for a second in it, like theirs. Then I’d go macro and wonder if the teensy fireflies looked at humans and felt submicroscopic by comparison. Or were they far better off than girls like me losing sleep over such things. Fireflies never scared me; thoughts of my mortality did.

Ahh…quiet mornings with brilliant L.A. light….confluence of houseflies who found their way in through portals left open by window washers now stud clean glass seeking the sun. Fury overcoming fear, I attack, slap happy with my swatter. Now it’s hard to see out the cleaned windows around their drying corpses smearing the glass. Maybe one should only wash windows in winter.

Ahh…summer greenery caresses my cottage…and cobwebs decorated with gnat carcasses and teensy leaves line every corner in which they can be hitched.  Talented Daddy Long Legs lurk unseen between the eaves waiting to ensnare me in their astounding webs, or scare a scream out of me as they lurk in my bathtub. Why do they scare me so?

I'll admit it, even though I find most of the recipes atrocious, I am fascinated by the Pillsbury Bake-Off. Every two years the contest is held with much fanfare and prizes, including a million dollar grand prize. The judges are generally food editors and choose recipes based on taste, appearance, creativity and consumer appeal, but because the recipes use packaged "convenience" foods, they often end up sounding bizarre. Samosa Taquitos with Apricot Chutney Sauce, anyone? Or Huevos Rancheros Pizza?

The Ungarnished Truth: A Cooking Contest Memoir "A Woman, A Chicken Dinner, A Million Dollars" is out now in paperback and I devoured the book in two sittings. Bake-off grand prize winner and author Ellie Matthews is smart, funny and very engaging. Her story gives an almost unbelievable level of detail on her road to the win. But even if she never won anything, you would want to read about this quirky and down to earth woman (who shocked everyone by not jumping up and down or screaming when she won).

Of course I’m as broke as the next girl, but as I was waiting for my car to get serviced, I decided to treat myself for having to suffer two hours in Santa Monica. I called a friend and she suggested Huckleberry. I had only been there one other time and the breakfast was completely fabulous, so I was excited to try it again. But on this last visit, the service was verging just on the brink of truly awful (like surprised that the people in line "actually want to order something" awful) and the ready-made salads (which are even more expensive than they are at Joan's on Third) looked as if they had been sitting out way too long and that they might not have been that great in the first place.

My mocha was still perfect – the way the Europeans and Israelis make coffee – the type of coffee that is getting harder and harder to find in LA. However, my friend ordered an iced coffee (which cost her $4 by the way) and when they brought it out (after a fifteen minute wait) it seemed a little watery. For the price of an entire meal from Trader Joe’s, this starving writer wasn't about to get skimped on her much needed afternoon coffee. She marched back in and demanded (by demanded I mean politely asked) for a less watered down coffee. The baristas confessed that they had run out of iced coffee and simply poured hot coffee over ice. They promptly made her a proper iced coffee and after bringing it out to our table told her that the milk and sugar were inside. Call me lazy, but for $4 a cup I don't want to schlep my own add-ins!