Yesterday I opened a “letter” from my mother; a perfect example of
her eccentric idea of correspondence. Bereft of card, signature, or,
God forbid, “Dear Daughter”, the envelope contained 3 newspaper
clippings – each annotated with her inimitable, looping script. To the
first clipping, a review cautioning that a new kid’s hardback called
“The Graveyard Book” may be too dark for sensitive children, my mother
had added “This sounds good!” A study exploring the effects of the
color red on both attention span and anxiety prompted this commentary:
“You know I made all red things for your cradle and crib! How to
create an obsessive compulsive?” And of course my personal favorite,
an interview in which Nadya Suleman, the recent mother of octuplets,
asserts that she wanted a family to help combat depression. In this
article the words “children” “cure” and “depression” have all been
manically underlined. Radiating a giant arrow, the newspaper’s indent
points to my mother’s own thickly inked phrase: “What an idiot!” She
may not write much, but it sure reads loud and clear.
My mother’s attitude towards children and their rearing being what it is, she often chose the Wolf Creek Inn as the ultimate destination on the many and extensive road trips we took together. Touted as “the oldest continuously operated hotel in the Pacific Northwest” by the State of Oregon’s recreation department, the Inn boasts perfectly articulated period décor, both a ball and dining room, and a magical, perfumed orchard. It is also remote, haunted, and almost entirely unfit for children (read: no television).
The desert palate is grey and yellow now. The grey of sagebrush, and the vibrant yellow of daisy-like brittlebush that bursts in great round humps among the rocks. In fact, it's gloriously golden absolutely everywhere in Palm Springs. These plants flower only once or twice a decade, so I feel enormously grateful to have been there at the right time, not that my Hipstamatic does them justice.
A trip to Santa Fe is at once exhilarating and embarrassing. You say to yourself, “how can I be so corny and fall in love with the food, the shopping, the art, and the
physical beauty all over again?”. And yet, you do, embracing it all as
you roll your eyes at your own enthusiasm. The food, of course, is of
superior class with an emphasis on how we want to eat today: local and
seasonal. And each Santa Fe friend has their own passionate reason why
their favorite restaurant has the best green chili. But there is more
to the palette of Santa Fe food than traditional Northern New Mexico
cuisine, as good as that is. Here are a half dozen of my personal
favorites. One of the great things about them all is their unique
points of view on feeding you. Unique, like Santa Fe itself.
My husband and I were approaching a big anniversary and wanted to celebrate. As we considered lovely and exotic locales, we realized what we really wanted was a touch of wilderness and fresh air that involved no time changes from our California home. The Wickaninnish Inn, a straight shot north to British Columbia, bills itself as “rustic elegance on nature’s edge.” One look at the hotel’s web site, and we both sighed. It was perfect.