Anyone who ever hated on salad obviously did not know its true purpose: an excuse to eat crunchy, salty, fatty foods while pretending to be healthy. As long as you layer cheese, nuts and meat with greens, you’ve got a salad. And that’s why I make a salad almost every day for lunch. So expect a lot of it on this blog.
This particular salad is an excuse to eat bits of roast chicken with avocado and roasted almonds, all smothered in miso and lemon juice. It’s crunchy, salty, tangy, a little creamy and very satisfying. Continue reading “Roast chicken salad with avocado and lemony miso dressing”
Find what you love and let it kill you.
I saw this written in a bathroom in a local coffee shop the other night. To give the (original) author credit, it was Charles Bukowski who said it, which I found through a quick google search. Apparently, he was a writer born on my birthdate, heavily influenced by his (and my) home city of LA, and died not far from where I live. Coincidence? Maybe. Maybe not.
When I think of hobbies or passion that consume someone completely, I think of surfing. In my hometown, surfing is not just a weekend hobby or a minority sport. It’s a way of life. I don’t surf (although I wish I learned), but I grew up watching most of the boys and a lot of the men (and some women- not enough) in my community get up before sunrise day after day, even on school days, to pull on wetsuits and get in the freezing cold water just for the chance to catch a wave. I watched them line up on the cliffs in the morning and afternoons looking longingly at the ocean, wishing in waves, and I watched them climb up and down cliffs with heavy boards sticky with wax. I even watched them fall, boards cracked and skin grated up on the ocean floor. And I watched them get back in, again and again.
I realized even as a little girl that surfing is not like other sports. You cannot control the location, the time of day, or really any of the circumstances under which you engage in your obsession. You submit to it. Women who are married to committed surfers are called “surf widows.” Their husbands aren’t really dead, but they might as well be. They have lost them to the stubborn allure of surf. They have found what they love. And they let it kill them. Continue reading “Find what you love and let it kill you”
It’s been just over three months since I left Mozambique to come back to sunny Los Angeles. If you haven’t heard of it, Mozambique is at the very bottom of Africa, bordering South Africa and some other countries you might not have heard of starting with “Z”- Zimbabwe, Zambia…And if you haven’t heard of LA, it’s the metropolis at the bottom of California with a population equaling that of the country of Denmark.
LA county is where I was born and raised, but haven’t called home in a long time (nine years this September). But it’s home again for right now, and it feels good. It feels good to wear a tank top in February. And it feels good to get on the freeway and know it’s going to take me where I want to go, even if it takes two hours longer than it should. It feels good to have fifteen different options for an iced coffee drink. It feels the best to see the ocean every single day and watch people braver than I am take it on on their surfboards in mid-winter (trust me, the water here is always cold). Continue reading “From the dark continent to the golden state”