When TV Snacks Had Style by Amy Ephron Next to her, on the coffee table, was a Dewars-and-soda on ice and a pack of Kent filters. My sisters and I would lie on the floor, my father would sit in his teak rocking chair, and we would watch television and eat TV snacks—clam dip baked on toasted Pepperidge Farm white bread; Beluga caviar, whenever anyone sent it over; a really disgusting (but great) dip made out of cottage cheese, mayonnaise, chives, and Worcestershire sauce, with ruffled potato chips; and Mommy's favorite, blanched and toasted almonds. |
Turtle Pancakes by Laraine Newman But nothing makes you appreciate your mother more than psychedelics. When I was 15, my best friend and I decided to try Mescaline and drive up to her grandfather’s house in Trancas. Right on the beach, we thought this would be a glorious place to trip. |
Leading Lady by Robert Keats She’s felt that way all her life. So, years ago, she started coming up with new names and identities, as her inner spirit looked to break free from her outer Gladys. After passing herself off as an American living in Bombay, her phone was ringing off the hook. All the guys wanted to go out with her. Everyone wanted to get to know the girl from Bombay. |
Maybe It's In the DNA by Emily Fox She could sew and knit and organize into oblivion, and she could draw and paint, and she had beautiful penmanship and made her bed so neatly and perfectly that you could bounce quarters off the surface. Every photograph she ever put into an album (chronologically, always, all of them) was labeled and dated, and she balanced her checkbook to the penny. She could crochet. Her collection of antique hatpin holders – she had hundreds of them – was kept spotless. She saved every dollar she ever had and could account for every dime she ever spent. She had the most beautiful long nails that she kept impeccably manicured in pearly bubblegum pink. But cook? My Bubby could ruin a bowl of cereal. |
My Own Betty Crocker by Seale Ballenger |
We Always Have Paris by Brenda Athanus On our first sojourn, we happily discovered a precious little Bistro with a delightful French female owner that surely must have wondered what the story was with the two small hungry American children popping into her restaurant hand in hand. But all curiousness aside, her mission was to feed us and introduce us to French food and maybe our story would unfold. |
Mom's Favorite Banana Cake by David Latt As much as she loved Dong Khanh’s food, though, she insisted that the dessert be homemade. Since I was the cook in the family, I happily took on the assignment, and the waiters at Dong Kahn had long ago accepted our ritual so they were always ready with a stack of small plates and forks. |
Gooseberry Pie by Doug Cox Gooseberry pie is an acquired taste. The only places I know to get it are Du-par’s Restaurant (L.A.’s Farmers’ Market, Studio City and Thousand Oaks) and my mom’s kitchen in Edwardsville, Illinois. Call me be biased, but I like Mom’s better. She has made it just for me for at least 35 years. And yet, I’m not a bit spoiled. |
Stories
Stories
Turkey reincarnated into the perfect sandwich
From the LA Times
To call a turkey sandwich the stuff of memories sounds far-fetched (few have waxed Proustian about a turkey club), but that's what it is to Peruvian chef Ricardo Zarate. The chef behind Los Angeles' Mo-Chica and Picca came to know and love the turkey sandwich not in his native Lima but while working at the Millennium hotel in London early on in his culinary career. The object of his craving: roasted turkey with fried sweet potatoes and jalapeno-cilantro aioli between two slices of buttery brioche.
"To be honest," says Zarate, "Peruvians eat turkey only for Christmas. Christmastime it's crazy — you know at dinner we have to have the turkey … marinated with Peruvian spices, garlic, salt, pepper, a little Pisco, soy sauce." Now he's inspired to make it for Thanksgiving — so he can make the sandwich he still remembers.
This week, the leftover-turkey sandwich looms especially large. According to the National Turkey Federation, 91% of Americans eat turkey — about 675 million pounds of it — for Thanksgiving. And much of Thursday's bird will probably end up between a couple of pieces of bread. So, what better time to revisit the turkey sandwich?
Dear Mr. President, "I Believe" Isn't Good Policy
An open letter to President Barack Obama:
Dear Mr. President,
As a woman who worked very hard to make sure your last opponents were not elected -- walking door to door in the snow on your behalf, registering more than a thousand Alaskans to vote, exposing Palin in the national media, etc. -- I feel obligated to write you about a few of my concerns.
Your secretary of the interior, Ken Salazar, recently told reporters asking about Shell's recent drilling permits and Alaska's Arctic, "I believe there's not going to be an oil spill."
Sir, he just wrote the headline for the first oil spill under arctic ice.
"I believe" is not good policy. I believe that unicorn fur is the most absorbent clean-up product.
The Coast Guard, on the other hand, has held to its reality-based position that it doesn't have the assets necessary to cover a spill in the Arctic. The Coasties will have to pull resources from drug enforcement and fishing fleet security to boost safety in our most northern ocean. The Kodiak Coast Guard base is closer to Seattle than it is to the Chukchi and Beaufort seas -- 700 miles closer. Last winter we had to rely on a Russian icebreaker to deliver fuel to ice-bound Nome.
Trusting and believing is great in church, but when it comes to oil exploration and development, we have to do better.
Survey Says: A True Story from The Mall
She was old but sharp and I knew she identified me yards before I even noticed her standing there. With a sweet smile and grey hair, she was the kind of woman just nutty enough to have 3 or 7 cats but sweet enough to make apologies for her behavior. She held her clipboard like it meant the world to her.
“Excuse me sir, do you speak Spanish?” she asked. “Not very well,” I replied, causing her to slow down on her list of pre-anticipated responses. Her pencil fumbled to find a new section, and once she did she began all over again as if I hit a secret reset button.
“Do you like hot dogs?”
In 30-something years I don’t think I’ve ever missed the opportunity for a smirk or off-colored response to that question; with this woman it didn’t seem appropriate. I said “But of course. Why? Are you inviting me over?”
Children Are Assholes
They say that being a mom is the hardest job in the world.
I don't doubt it.
My dad always said that children were like small drunk adults. They walk around with little regard for their safety, they say stupid things, and they vomit. I am probably not going to have them. And I'm going to be real: I don't want to get fat. I don't want my body to change into something I don't recognize. But most importantly, I don't have the patience to be a mom. I have no idea how my mom put up with me. I would sabotage grade school Christmas shows by dressing as Michael Jackson. I would argue about everything, especially regarding bike safety (I didn't care that my helmet was a Barbie licensed helmet damnit.) I wouldn't eat anything she cooked.
In short, I was an asshole.
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