outside
January 21, 2010
it’s been pouring for five days straight and the wind has blown nearly all the tiny, pink, fringed carnations off the tree. the apartment is an ice chest, but i am home — mint tea within reach, tucked under a warm, wool blanket a very special 80-something-year-old abuelita knitted for me over the holidays.
there is art
January 20, 2010
along nearly every stretch of my commute home: in la placita olvera where the church bells ring every hour on the hour; at lincoln park where the high walls of la plaza de la raza look over the glassy lake; along huntington drive, home to xocolatl and its mayan cacao; and here, in the junk yards on mission, where men smell like oil and whistle and holler at drivers all day long, “Pasele! Pasele!”
something tells me
January 13, 2010
this little apron is going to transform me. there will be risotto primavera and greek stuffed artichokes, shrimp paella and a pumpkin thing called “autumn glory.” there will be cheese and pasta and herbs i can’t spell or pronounce. plenty of botched and burnt meals, too. but by year’s end, i will be a whiz (ok, i’ll settle for decent) in the kitchen. next time my mom decides to show up on my doorstep with 10 guests, completely unannounced, i might just be ready.
Next Post
January 10, 2010
hello. i’m back. to write. to shoot. and then repeat.
