Join me for visit to the studio of Big Sur artist Erin Lee Gafill topped with a bowl of Nepenthe’s delicious soup.
This poem is much like my children in that I’m occasionally astonished such a thing came out of me. I scribbled this down – an intact stream of images – while at the hairdresser’s, sitting under a fan of hot lamps, individual chunks of hair wrapped in foil. I remember I was giggling at the time. Perhaps I should try and write more under the influence of aluminum. Enjoy your Sunday Supper.
Most recently, my universe wanted pickled red onions.
It started one afternoon when Kid Two and his Buddy sat here after school and ate an entire jar of baby dill pickles and a one of cornichons for their snack.
Meatballs set to music in this video of Kid One cooking for an extra credit assignment.
Knowing how to brine a perfect turkey is not as important as the ability to remember what, exactly, to give thanks for. Here is novelist Lillian Bos Ross’ description of her 1939 Big Sur Thanksgiving meal. Lillian Bos is one of my heroes; read on to find out more about her.
Awkwardly slow-dancing to “Nights in White Satin,” bar hopping on Bourbon Street, and really, really, irresponsible adult chaperones. Food often evokes memories, of course. But in this case the memories were so elusive, and the food item so rarely cooked, the recollection took months to surface. It’s all the power of potato salad.