I remember a conversation with my good buddy and talented food writer, Monica Parcell, a few years back. The gist was the proliferation of food bloggers and the common themes. We basically bitched “we don’t care about your vacation to France” (because it’s always France, and maybe sometimes Tuscany).
So here I am, talking about my recent trip to Indonesia. But, it’s not just about sharing vacation memories, it’s about Banana Pancakes. When we weren’t staying at a hotel with a buffet breakfast (like the Phoenix Hotel in Yogyakarta – with the lovely morning adventure of fresh exotic juices, spicy soto ayam – chicken soup with condiments, rice porridge, tapioca with coconut cream, eggs sambal, fried noodles, platters of fruit, cheesy yogurt, fresh donuts, etc.) our choice for breakfast was between “banana pancake” or nasi goreng – fried rice with veggies topped with a fried egg and a few shrimp puffs. I always opted for the nasi goreng – it was too good to pass up. I love spicy food- even in the morning.
When trekking in Sumatra to view orangutans, we camped out on the river near Bukit Lawang one night. Oudin, our camp-master fixed us an amazing dinner, then for breakfast, Banana Pancake. The pancakes were like the others served on Java and Sulawesi, but impressive in that they were fried in a well-seasoned wok over an open fire in the middle of the jungle.
When you board an airplane and walk past the first-class passengers settling into their double-wide seats, it’s difficult to avoid feeling like a second-class citizen. The issue isn’t only personal space. As the curtain closes behind the lucky few, you know the crew is preparing a nonstop feast for those with plenty of disposable income.
Thirty miles from San Francisco, 
When I told friends I was going to spend four weeks in St. Tropez last summer, more than one of my foodie friends told me I must try the Tarte Tropezienne—which was described to me as a giant brioche filled to the heavens with a creamy vanilla custard. This sounded like a dream come true. As I child I loved pudding—homemade butterscotch pudding, or bread pudding, or crème brulee, were the best—but mostly we ate packaged pudding, the Jell-O Brand. I liked vanilla and my brother, ten months older, liked chocolate, and my father told us that as toddlers we would sit facing each other in twin highchairs and smear our respective puddings all over our faces, smiling in ecstasy. 
My sister and I went to Portland for the annual Champagne and caviar tasting at