My Husband, the Chef

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Have I mentioned I am married to a chef?

Seriously, ladies – If you are not already in a serious relationship, find yourself a chef to marry.  It makes life delicious.  And it helps if he’s really hot and a pretty amazing guy, too.  That makes life delicious, attractive and awesome.

This is my delicious, attractive and awesome chef husband Brad.

When Brad and I are not working in a restaurant, we are eating amazing food or planning the next amazing food that we have to put in our mouths.  For us, life pretty much revolves around meals.  What we are eating  now, what we will eat next, and where we have to eat soon.

We get two nights a week off together (if we’re lucky) and we usually have planned out early in the week what we are cooking one of those nights and where we are eating the other night.  When you live in LA, there are a million amazing hole in the wall restaurants just waiting to serve you up your most amazing meal ever.  We are seldom disappointed.

This weekend (our weekend is Thursday/Friday.  It’s kind of awesome.), we finally got to try out Son of a Gun, which is an AMAZING restaurant on 3rd in Hollywood right by the Farmer’s Market.  The chef/owners used to work with Brad’s boss, Ben Ford, and then branched out to write a cookbook, a catering business and eventually started their own place.  Their first restaurant was Animal, a meat based concept that is also down in Hollywood and also amazing.  Brad loves the amount of bacon, pork belly, and foie gras that is on this menu.  I wish there were more vegetables.  But last time we were there we ate across from Drew Barrymore and Justin Long, so I don’t complain too much.

One day I will give Son of a Gun a proper review, but for now I’m just going to tell you it was amazeballs.  Reminded me of a classed up East Coast seafood shack…  Felt like home.

So this brings me to tonight.  I felt like steak.  We decided we would grill.  We went a little crazy at Whole Foods and thought we were having more people eating, so we got a ridiculous amount of food.  This is usually the way our nights go when we decide to stay in instead of go out for dinner.

I skyped with my mom and dad while Brad chopped, diced, mixed and tenderized, so I cannot take credit for hardly anything on the table.  I did , however, make the horseradish cream sauce, and I did do a lot of the dishes afterward.  And Gibson helped out whenever she was needed to clean the floor, so we all contributed in some way.

The final menu?

Heirloom tomato salad with burrata.  Grilled potatoes and corn on the cob.  Olive oil bread (Brad called it “Mario Bread” because he totaly stole the recipe from Mario Batali’s restaurant).  And last but certainly not least – Skirt steak with chimmichurri and my horseradish cream sauce.


Just a typical Friday night meal.

I die.

To those who we thought were coming over for dinner, you totally missed out.  But don’t worry, we have lots of leftovers.  And we will probably do it again next Friday night, so clear your schedules.

3 oz Liquids

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I consider myself a professional traveler. I gained this title in my college years, being a Rapid Rewards member with Southwest and flying back and forth between Orlando and BWI for every break.  I know to wear shoes that are easy to slip out of at security, I can get my laptop out and in its own bin in 30 seconds flat, I check in before I get to the airport and I usually take all sharp objects out of my carry on bags.  Get behind me in a security line and I promise you will not be disappointed.

Even the new metal detector virtual strip search doesn’t really bother me. I do feel like I have to do it an unusually high percentage of the time, but whatever. Maybe one time I will write something really great on my butt in xray proof pen (does that exist?) or draw a smily face on my stomach so they can be entertained in that back room of faceless naked people xrays. It really can’t be the most interesting job in the world.

But until I get that creative, I just like to get through and get to my gate. And on the way to Miami this weekend, the guy in front of me looked pretty normal so I wasn’t too concerned.  I went through the xray thingy, raised my hands over my head, stood still, and then waited for my bag to get through. My heart dropped a little when security came around to get a bag, but they ask that guy in front of me if they can look through his carry on. Of course I’m nosy while I’m putting my flip flops back on because I have to get a look at what he got caught for.

No lie, there was a giant, unopened bottle of water in his suitcase. Like a 2 liter bottle of water.  Packed perfectly. And his come back to the security guard was “its just water”.

Duh, its just water. Where have you been the past ten years?? And where were you the last ten minutes when we waited in line next to ten BILLION signs that say no liquids over 3 ounces? Did you see all the pictures of water bottles then? With the big red circle with a slash through it? No?

Anyway, I’m sure I rolled my eyes, because that’s just what I do, and then I told everyone I was with in Miami about how this stupid guy thought he would get away with all that water. So dumb.

So now I’m back at Miami International and I used my awesome boarding pass that was just a QR code on my phone and I’m going through security, feeling all cocky, when they bring out MY bag and ask if they can go through it.

I had a freaking water bottle.

The only excuse I can give is that I have a super Miami hangover and I must be out of practice. It really isn’t like me. Really.

I’d also like to personally apologize to the guy in LAX who I made so much fun of.  What karma.

See you in L.A….

Bienvenido a Miami

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And now, after about an hour and a half of sleep and about 2600 miles, I am sitting on South Beach watching the sun rise.  Its 7:23 am (I’m on eastern time again! Woo!) And its 82 degrees and sooo humid.

Not only am I not tired at all anymore, but I forgot how good a little bit of humidity feels. And how less scary the Atlantic is than the Pacific.

Taking deep breaths of east coast sea air. This is where you’ll find me all day….

West Coast

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Last night I took this picture before getting dinner at Brads old restaurant, Bar Pintxo…

Making Baseball Better

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In my fifth grade memory book, I wrote that in twenty years I would be as good at basketball as Joe Smith and as good at baseball as Cal Ripken Jr.

Well I guess I still have 4 years…

I was a baseball nut when I was a kid.  My next door neighbors had season tickets to the Orioles games and we would go to a few games every season.  I had a strict uniform for all games.  An Orioles jersey (about 18 times too big), a baseball glove (in case a foul ball came our way), and a book about Cal Ripken, Jr (for autographs).  And nearly every game I would either spill Hawiian punch or ketchup on my white jersey.  My mother is a laundry genius.

I used to make my family stay after as many games as I could get them to agree to and we would wait for the players to leave so I could hopefully get an autograph.  I wanted Cal’s or Brady Anderson’s, but the only signature I ever got was from Doug Jones.  Remember him?  I don’t really either.  I just remember being so disappointed that I got Doug Jones’ autograph.  Wasn’t he the worst closer ever or something?

I actually met Cal Ripken, Jr once.  It was Mother’s Day and players were at all of the gates welcoming Mothers to the game with carnations.  We just happened to go to the main gate that day and there he was, all dressed for the game and ready to go.  I approached him like I imagine I’d approach a god of some kind.  Everything else went blurry.  I forgot how to talk.  He was SO tall!  He saw the Cal Ripken book in my hand and made a joke about me reading during the game.  I didn’t even think to hand it over to him, and then he turned to my little sister Nicki.

“And how old are you?  4?” (or something like that, I was still in lala land)

Um, Nicki was not 4, she was 6.  And she was mad at Cal Ripken for the rest of the night because he dared to think she was 4 years old!  I, however, was mad at myself for the rest of the night.  All of those times waiting out front after the games and my autograph opportunity was pretty much handed to me – and I still had a blank book?  Really?!?

Anyway.  A lot has changed since then.  I have a lot of fantastic Orioles memories and I still consider myself a fan, but they are just not fun to watch anymore.  And because life gets really busy after 5th grade, I’ve started paying attention to baseball less and less.

But last Friday, with Nicki in town, we wanted to do something very L.A.  I looked through all of my touristy books and did a few Google searches, but we were kind of hungover and didn’t really want to exert a lot of energy into anything.

And then I thought of the Dodgers.  Another team that’s really not doing so hot right now, therefore tickets are easy to come by.  We went online for tickets and then headed downtown to check this stadium out.

Best idea ever.

Turns out, 45 years ago this weekend was the Beatles 2nd to last show ever, and it just happened to be at Dodger field.  The entire night was Beatles themed.  And oh, have you met my family?  We are Beatle-maniacs.  We play Beatles RockBand together and involve Beatles music in our weddings and know every word to every song.  We converted Brad when I started dating him, and now he’s come over to the dark side.  Him and a few friends back in Ithaca called themselves “The Yokos” and had listening nights for the re-mastered albums when they came out.  Oh yea, he’s one of us now.

So everything was Beatles all night long.  The font all around the stadium was Beatles font.  The organist played Beatles songs throughout the game.  There were videos of the concert and interviews from people who were there.  Did you know the Hell’s Angels rescued the Beatles that night from the swarms of fans?  Thanks, Dodger Stadium, for your Beatles trivia.

We realized early on that we hadn’t heard of a single player on either team, but the Beatles made it all better.  We ate a Dodger dog and did all the baseball game stuff you have to do (even got frozen yogurt in a Dodger helmet).  A foul ball even came within a few rows of us.  But we were mostly just waiting for the little Beatles moments.  And we were mostly waiting for the after-game.

Beatles Fireworks.

So the Dodgers won.  It was a great and exciting 7th inning, blah, blah, blah…  But once the game ended, the real show began.  And what’s even better than Beatles fireworks?  How about Dodger stadium letting everyone and anyone onto the outfield to sit and watch the show??  Seriously.  Please come down to trample and sit on our perfectly manicured grass.

Don’t mind if I do.

It was the coolest thing I’ve done in L.A. so far.  We sat on the left field grass in the darkened stadium and watched fireworks to a Beatles playlist.  Little kids, grandparents, and every age in between knew all the words and turned it into a huge sing-a-long.  My mom did make the point later that they should have included the song “Lucy In The Sky with Diamonds”, but other than that obvious omission, it was perfection.

Here’s the finale to “All You Need Is Love”.  You know, if your nostalgic for the 4th of July or something…

Baseball is still great, but the Beatles make everything better.

Oh, and mom?  I spilled frozen yogurt on my white shirt.  Had to keep the tradition alive…

Party Like Its FL 2004

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So I move to California and begin getting nervous every time I have to stop under a bridge while driving around LA.  What if there’s an earthquake?  I don’t want to be under a bridge in an earthquake!  As an east-coaster suddenly faced with news about fault lines and earthquake awareness, I started living in constant fear that the earth would start to shake under me and horrible things would happen.  But I’ve been on earthquake watch for a year and a half now with absolutely nothing to legitimately worry about, and the ENTIRE east coast gets shaken up this week by a 5.9.

Let me just add here that however this confuses/annoys me (as well as adds to my constant fear), I am very glad everyone is alright and that there was relatively small amounts of damage.  But really?  I live in an earthquake mecca and my east coast friends all now know how it feels?

Sigh.

And now there is this Irene.  I probably shouldn’t say anything until the storm has passed and I know that everyone and every thing is fine, but I’m taken back to this time of year in 2004.  The beginning of my junior year at Rollins, when four hurricanes rolled through Central Florida over the course of two months. Charley, Frances, Ivan and Jeanne delayed the start of school, closed down campus a few times, and caused dorms to be evacuated.

We also had some killer Hurricane Parties.

We prepared for the storm the best way any college kids could.  We stocked up on beer and liquor.  Frat boys handed out flyers with addresses of off campus houses where the beer pong and flip cup would be going until the power went out and the beer got warm.  And even then, we would drink warm beer.  In the dark.

Six girls from my sorority stayed in a landlord’s apartment and we raised our own hurricane hell.  We watched Disney movies (that was all she had) and made our own video documentary of the storm complete with interviews and live news coverage.  I think the highlight of the amateur video was someone dropping a Police Maglight Flashlight on my little toe during a sing-a-long of some kind just before the power went out.  We replayed that footage about a million times.  My face was priceless.  And I think my toe was broken.

See, in Florida we never had snow days.  We never had that random day off because Mother Nature dumped 5 feet off snow on us overnight.  We never had icy conditions or slush or sleet.  We never had a weather related excuse for classes to be canceled.  We had Hurricane Season and we made it count.

Fall semester of 2004 was one of my favorite times in college.  A few unplanned days off together to hunker down and let Mother Nature do her thing was the best way to spend some real quality time with your friends.  And nothing brings you closer than losing power (and therefore air conditioning) in August in Orlando, FL.  And thankfully, everything always turned out ok.  Mostly because there was always at least one gas station open on Colonial when we ran out of beer.  (We ran out of food even faster, but we were never as concerned about eating a balanced meal as we were about risking curfew for another case of Bud Light)

Be safe, East Coast.  I hope you are all plenty stocked up on booze, bread, and toilet paper.  We are thinking about you out here in LA and sending all of our blue-sky love your way!!