With hot weather and Father’s Day upon us and a family gathering coming up, I was reminiscing the other day with my dad about summers past and the time I nearly drowned on one of our family camping trips.
They say the first step to dealing with addiction is admitting that you have a problem. I’ve been in denial for months, but I’m finally ready to fess up.
One of the results of writing this column for so many years is that a large number of PR agencies and food companies have placed me on their mailing lists.
My culinary historians group gathered last week for a tasty feast of dishes we had prepared to share. But it wasn’t your ordinary potluck.
In my ongoing skirmishes with CVS, I brought this on myself.
They say travel is broadening, but it isn’t. At least, not in the physical sense. I have developed and proved an important scientific theory that holds that it is impossible to gain weight while traveling.
It has been more than 16 years since I bought my adorable little bungalow in Napa. To me, it seems like I just got here, but that may be because since then, it feels like I have moved more than once — just without having to buy a new house. The town has changed so much that I live in a completely different place now.
I own enough gadgets to stock a small kitchen store. My drawers are jammed with parers, graters, slicers, juicers, thermometers, brushes and measurers. You name it, I’ve got it. I’m prepared to tackle just about any food you throw at me.
I recently spotted a piece on a local TV news show about a guy who has carved out a unique niche for himself in the wacky world of the blogosphere. He bills himself as the world’s first “refrigerator dating expert.”
On gloomy winter days, I dream of exotic travel. And my college alumnae group must know it, because information about their latest group adventure usually shows up about now to lure me.
I woke up the other day with the oddest feeling in the pit of my stomach. An odd kind of gurgle.
Some evil person has been meddling with my calendar. Thanksgiving was just the other day. How did it suddenly get to be December 20-something? I demand an explanation. Who let this happen? When I find out, heads will roll.
Hi friends. I hope you had a great Thanksgiving and ate as well as I did (though perhaps with a little more moderation). I told you about my sister Judy’s plans, so you know my trip to Florida was a weeklong feast.
Seriously, do I even have to write this column? You already know what it is going to say. After all, it’s late November. Of course, I am heading for the airport to catch a plane to Boca Raton for Thanksgiving.
The cookbook book club gathered together for an absolutely dreadful meal last week. What a fun night. We had a riotous evening in which we all united in hating just about every dish we made. As host and the person who selected the book, I can humbly take credit for ensuring this most excellent good time.
Remember back a few years ago, when we were freaking out about gas prices, the collapse of the global economy, unemployment and upside-down mortgages?
My book club recently read a novel in which one of the characters was uptight and overly controlled. The author established this in part by describing the woman’s pristine kitchen and, more particularly, her cabinets filled with neatly labeled and alphabetized Tupperware containers.
My old college roommate, Margo, and I were reminiscing recently via Facebook about the horrendous acts of cooking we performed with our other roommates in the suite we shared in our apartment-style dorm oh those many eons ago.
Here’s the thing about an earthquake. Days and weeks after the ground has stopped shaking and you’ve swept up the shards of your beloved possessions, you keep finding new problems.
I’m not sure if it is still in the curriculum, but when I was in high school the short story “The Monkey’s Paw” was required reading. It’s the ultimate “be careful what you wish for” tale, where the three wishes granted by the magic paw bring horrific unintended consequences. I still shiver when I think about it.
It has recently come to my attention that a terrible food fraud is being perpetrated in this country. I’m outraged, and I feel it is my duty to draw attention to it so that you do not fall victim.
Here’s something I learned recently: It’s really hard to work at a computer while jogging in place. I know it can be done, because my friend’s son Brett, who works in one of those tech start-ups with a ping pong table in the lobby, has a treadmill under his desk and walks nonstop all day long while writing code. But it is not easy. The few words I’ve managed to type correctly keep bouncing in front of my eyes.
Here’s the secret to having a spotless house and a perfectly organized life: Get yourself in a position where you have a column to write, the deadline is looming and you just know the topic you have picked will result in hate mail.
I tuned in to “The Colbert Report” a couple of weeks ago and caught the show just in time for a fantastic comedic segment featuring an interview with a young comedian named Rob Rhinehart. I have to tell you about it — it was so funny.
I know, I know. You’re thinking “enough about Turkey already!,” and wondering how much longer I can possibly milk a two-week vacation.
I know you want to hear tales of Turkey, and I promise I’ll bring them to you in the coming weeks. But today, I have another much more pressing topic: wishing my dad a happy birthday.
I know you find my tales of life in Napa to be infinitely fascinating. I mean, who wouldn’t be enthralled with stories about my oak tree, the weather, my efforts at housecleaning and, of course, the antics of the always fascinating cats?
Today is the day we all get to celebrate and be super happy that I was born, all those many years ago. Yes, it’s my birthday. Hip, hip, hooray! And ugh.
When I woke up on the first official day of spring, the sun was shining, the air was warm and my yard was decorated with drifting cherry blossoms. I thought it was a perfect day to relax and smell the roses, which had conveniently burst into bloom.
In honor of Fat Tuesday last week, I started writing a column about the obesity epidemic and the inexact science behind everything we think we know about what is good for us and what we should do about it.
The cookbook club had another amazing meeting last week. Together, we produced a delectable Thai meal from Pok Pok (a renowned Portland, Ore., restaurant) — perhaps the best dinner I’ve had all year.
Oh, Italy. What has happened to you? You used to be such a nice country. Beautiful countryside, magnificent art, handsome and charming men, the only coffee worth drinking, and of course amazing food — you were such a paradise.
As I get older, I am realizing that my abilities are not as boundless as I once thought. Even if I went back to school and studied, there are an amazing number of jobs out there in the world that I could not possibly do. Doctor, lawyer, plumber, garbage collector? Trust me, even if I could learn the rudiments, you wouldn’t want to place your life, your pipes or your refuse in my incompetent hands. In fact, I hardly know anyone whose job I could do.
The interesting thing about living on a planet with 7 billion people is that even if we are one in a million (and who among us is not?), there could still be about 7,000 of each of us.
It’s New Year’s Eve — have you drawn up your list of resolutions? I admit, I’m running a bit behind on mine. I’ve only come up with one resolution so far, and I really shouldn’t put it in print.