breadbar.

guncgh. just looking at the photos i took at breadbar, i get a carb crash that just makes me want to sleep. no wonder it has taken forever to do a post on it. all i want to do is get one of those almond croissants (split buttery croissant, filled with marzipan and rebaked, then dusted with icing sugar and slivered almonds), a nice cuppa, and devour. then nap.

i usually go to the one in the century city shopping mall westfield shopping center in century city just because there's [cough] better parking (snort) than the third street location. relatively speaking, of course. lately it has been overrun by agents from nearby CAA, i can literally feel them breathing down my neck as they stand in line, waiting for a outside table to open up. the servers look like they'd be perfect for any "grey's anatomy" spin-off someone may just be casting--future century city mall employees will be younger, thinner, and more glamoo than ever, headshot included with every receipt.

i usually just end up getting stuff to go, but should you want to stay for a light repast, breadbar does not disappoint, mostly. i would call ahead to see what their hours are, if you are visiting the century city location; it is listed as open from 7 am to 11pm, but my best guess is that it is actually open from 9am to 9pm (surely subject to change). breakfast time is uncrowded, a nice leisurely space and pace. the food is good, but not particularly innovative; however, who needs to be for breakfast? omelettes, cereals, and of course, breads. the nomad is purported to be a sandwich, but is actually an herby omelette with beautifully roasted yukon gold potatoes with a side of five-cereal grain bread. the french toast is light and airy, made with their 'franco-american' loaf (i somehow conjure up spaghettiOs, but be assured it's not related); it is served with fresh berries, whipped cream, and a wholly unnecessary maple syrup. the fruit plate looks anemic, but had some of the best out-of-season watermelon i'd had since winter began.

lunch/dinner consists of sandwiches and salads, and carb bombing baskets of a selection of anywhere from two to six breads, jam and butter, and a hot drink. gaahaaaahaaggggg. they need to outfit the place with cots, more bench seating, something. my body can't handle all the refined flours and sugars running amok. i don't know what i can say about the salads and sandwiches except for that they are solidly good.

currently nibbling on their curcuma hazelnut loaf, loaded with roasted hazelnuts and spiced with turmeric, raisin walnut loaf, and a log of eggy bread studded with dark chocolate chips. mmm. that thing sugar speeding along santa monica blvd? that would be me. any minute now.


update 22 february: did i call it or what?!

breadbar
10250 santa monica bvd (at westfield)
la 90067
310.277.3770.

google mapped!

also

8718 w. 3rd street
la 90048
310.205.0124.

google mapped!

technorati tagged! bakery bread cafe los angeles

the calm after the storm.

I wish to stay forever - letting this be my food
But I'm caught up in a whirlwind and my ever changing moods

olson's scandinavian deli.

my knowledge of things scandinavian is limited to furniture design and IKEA (i'm pretty sure the tack för besöket! on the receipt means "thanks for visiting" though); however, thanks to IKEA i've come to appreciate a good lingonberry or two, and a nice elderflower cordial. truthfully, i don't find myself...gravitating towards the culture of sweden, denmark, nor norway, but there is something quite appealing about what woefully little i do know about these countries and their respective culture, even if it's just a little tord boontje, a lot of moomintroll, and like, way too much sondre lerche.

i was fascinated, and way too thrilled, when i learned a few months ago that i live a hop, skip and a jump from a scandinavian deli. i didn't think something like this existed in my neighbourhood, and in fact has since the late 'sixties when bertil and helene ohlsson first set up shop on pico boulevard. olson's scandinavian delicatessen and gift shop is tucked up next to an auto body shop (really, what isn't in this certain stretch of pico?), in a building i must pass every day, but never noticed, despite the flags flying outside. i'm actually quite ashamed that i never noticed it before; everything about it screams for my attention--the handpainted signage in a vintage font, advertising a family run business specializing in foreign foods and possibly strange trinkets. really, it should have been like a siren's song. still, i'm glad i've finally found it.

the shop itself is divided in two sections--one that seems almost abandoned, with open boxes of various tinned and bottled food items, sitting next to christmas items, folk art, music cds, and more than a few dalahästs. there's half a dozen kinds of pickled herring, a chiller case with lefse potato bread, an entire shelf dedicated to salted licorice. the comestibles seem to have just come in, but some of the gift items look like they've been there for years; frankly, i could probably spend a couple years perusing all the odd items. there's a man in the corner who excitedly reverts from speaking english to possibly swedish when he sees a cod roe paste he's been looking for, gesturing to his friend that he might have to buy a case of the stuff. in the adjacent room there's a young man from the auto body shop, waiting for his sandwich from the deli to be made (a meat sarnie will only set you back $3.95, a meat and cheese combo $4.95). there's various cheeses, homemade liver paté and european-style cold cuts. the man behind the counter (mister olsson?) offers me a taste of the rullepølse, a danish spiced meat roll. it is fatty, but such a gorgeously thin slice of pork, cool and lightly herby, that i think that i will buy some for some open-faced sandwiches at a later time. i also pick up the house made pickled herring salad with beets, and a nice chunk of gjetost, a norwegian brown cheese made from goat's milk with an almost caramelized edge to it. i mosey on over to the chest freezer and open it; inside are dozens of hand labelled white paper packets of homemade meatloaf and swedish meatballs, potato sausages, frozen lingonberries, butter ring pastries and--just in time for christmas!--lutefisk. oh, where is lisa oslo foodie when you need her?? i pick up a coil of potato sausage ("a crazy minnesotan creation," i'm told), and will return later for some swedish meatballs. man cannot live on ikea swedish meatballs alone.

i love this place; there's an air of the run-down about it, but it still manages to have a healthy inventory. there's nothing manufactured about it--most of the signs are handwritten, the deli meats and cheeses are hand carved and individually weighed, and the folk behind the counter are friendly enough, knowledgeable, and there to serve you. while i was looking around, i became acutely aware that this wasn't a venture that would be passed on to another generation; when the owners pass on, olson's deli will probably just be another note in pico boulevard's history. i hope that day doesn't come soon; having just found it, i think of it as a treasure box of items i have yet to discover, and of spoken histories not yet told. the place wasn't exactly bustling, there seems to be a loyal clientele. i count myself as one of them.

tack för besöket!

olson's delicatessen
5660 w. pico boulevard (x-street spaulding)
la 90019.
323.938.0742.


google mapped!

update: ryan at losanjealous is embarking on a quest to master pico boulevard. i add olson's to the list of all things pico.


tagged! los angeles pico boulevard swedish scandinavian deli

one of my favourite signs: the electric company's art-deco era neon sign on beverly drive, beverly hills.

open all night: canter's.

when i was younger, we'd inevitably end up at canter's deli after a night of clubbing, enjoy a post-mortem of carbs and more carbs, sometimes stumble out at the break of dawn to sleep away the hangover. now it isn't the first late night choice it once was, and seems more like the actual hangover, but it still holds a place in my heart; no matter how long i've been away, the food always looks and mostly tastes the same, the decor remains untouched, and the same characters work there. everything--from the items in the bakery display to the barflies in the kibitz room--look like they've been there since the late fifties but in a completely unfaded way; they haven't been sitting there since then, i've just travelled back in time. or, time stops the minute you walk in the door. it's my own personal ghost world.





look, there's enid. it's not the best bakery in town, but there's an appealing quality about the squares of cheesecake with the plasticky gloss of cherry filling, the giant bearclaws, and piles of crumb-dusted rugelach, marbled ryes, and coffee cakes. the main room is 'sixties naughahyde banquette and fluorescent lighting perfect, with waitresses who have worked there since then or longer, the crowd is still somewhat lively and convivial. the side room that leads to the lounge, however, is another story. still vinyl-boothed and artificially lit, but in a somewhat dimmer way, like a photograph beginning to fade. it's always less populated, and almost always manned by the younger male servers (and by younger i mean mostly in their forties than the women in their sixties). there's a very transitional quality about the room as people wander into the kibitz room to listen to local bands, or to go outside for a smoke. no one seems inclined to stay very long, including the servers. it's like a quiet bus station lobby on late weekday night, in los angeles of 1974. jack webb would eat here. he probably did.




the menu is a little all over the place and expansive. they've got typical deli platters, sandwiches, boiled dinners...chicken milanese and eggplant parmesan? guacamole and quesadillas? obvs a menu like this isn't going to be stellar throughout, but it's not horrible. a little pricey, but it's late night, it's decent, and there's something quite comfortable about it. the staff is generally efficient and genial. possibly the only smiling face you'll have seen all day. $10 for a sandwich of just meat and bread (although a generous portion of meat on generally fresh bread) and all the pickles you can eat isn't so bad when it comes with unspoken empathy and kindness. and foodwise, there's always some happy surprise. the chinese chicken salad is really good. you can't go wrong with a fried baloney sandwich. i'm a big fan of their knishes, blintzes, and even the matzo ball soup, which is really just a tumor made of matzo sitting in chicken fatty broth. mmmm.




not a leaden baseball, but not quite light and fluffy; could be hotter, but the chicken stock is good, if plain. and it comes with a side of warm saltines, which is magically delicious.



canter's deli is never fine dining, but still an experience all the same. wouldn't be los angeles without it.


canter's menupage




canter's
419 fairfax (x-street rosewood)
la 90036
323.651.2030.

google mapped!

tagged! los+angeles deli bakery fairfax+district 24+hours open+all+night

finally!

remember this house? it looks like we'll finally get to see the inside of it on e! channel's high maintenance 90210, which premiered late last night. the series follows employees of an exclusive placement agency that house of david™s owner norbert young is one of three people from whom brian the butler gets interviews; judging from the e!online bio page, mr. young will be regularly called upon. whooo! need to see the pool, which apparently features mr. young's face in mosaic tile.

tagged! reality+show hancock+park house+of+david™s los+angeles

"the most indie thing to have ever existed"

the beginning of indie as we know it. it's the 20th anniversary of the issue of NME's C-86 compilation. tonight at spaceland, the c-86 all stars, featuring dave newton from the mighty lemon drops, will cover all the pop songs from the eighties that will reawaken your hidden twee heart. you can come again, with vodka in your veins...splendour in silver dress, velocity possessed, the world can be yours again!

i'm just filling up the spaces in my happy head....i'll dig out my anorak and meet you there.

an afternoon at the cat and fiddle.

just before the holidays, i met up with a close friend and spent the day with her and her lovely family. we hadn't seen each other in years, and we fell in like old times, only this time with her toddlers and amenable husband in tow. we had a very yummy mummy sort of brunch in a neighbourhood joint popular more for its location, agreeable attitudes towards large parties with more children than adults, and pet-friendliness than its food or ambiance, although to be fair, the latter two attributes were more than satisfactory. she is as vivacious and kind as ever, she has married a good man, and her children are adorable as children get. however, i found myself exhausted from their exuberance and vigour, and feeling a little alien in this cosy family unit. i left them with well-wishes and a sincere hope to keep in touch, but with also a desperate desire for a tall alcoholic beverage and some room to breathe.

luckily a quick phone call and even quicker ride down sunset brought me to the cat and fiddle, a pub in hollywood that we--old friend and i--had frequented much during university years but i had not been to since. the building is a spanish-style stone complex built around a large courtyard, and dating from the 1920s. it is quiet and calm at any given time, and takes you away from the rush of sunset boulevard just yards in front. i found it to be the same as ever, although a bit foreign in the light of day. it was bright but chilly, and my friends were already ensconced in a cozy corner of the courtyard, nursing pints of stella. (i don't know if we've talked about this before, but i gave up drinking awhile back. i was a teetotaler up until...sometime this summer, but haven't really imbibed much in the ensuing months. however, when i was younger, i was a bit of a lush.) i was quite fond of snakebites; besides completely dating me (and apparently outing me as a former goth), i don't think there's any pub in la that will serve them. still, pubs get extra points from me if they've got cider on tap; cat and fiddle has strongbow, a pint of which suits me fine in my creakity older years.

i admit to have gone to the cat and fiddle for food, not drink, before, even though ye olde king's head has better batter on their fish and chips. it's still california, though, and i feel like the vegetables are more abundant and fresher than typical pub grub. we ordered plates of cod and chips, which came with either soup or a big green salad, and welsh rarebit, an abundantly cheesy toast made with double gloucester and served with a broiled tomato. everything was hearty, well-prepared, and reasonably priced. they've got typical fare as scotch eggs, shepherd's pie, and bangers and mash; of course you are in los angeles, so like other pubs, there are healthier, grilled fish and meat, and vegetarian alternatives. good side salad. good bread rolls (if you don't get one, ask).


the pub, at night, can get lively and horribly overcrowded in the late evening, but the afternoons are generally calm and genial--the perfect respite. it has been awhile since i've had the time to just hang out with my friends, and do absolutely nothing at all except sit and enjoy each others company. as the afternoon wore on, the christmas lights were turned on, and some of the employees began to decorate the tree outside, laughing and joking as if it was a christmas tree and not just the garden ficus. i began to appreciate my morning of familial chaos more, but also really treasured the "family" i was with at that moment. it was good to catch that breath before another season of chaos, stress, and overwhelming festivities began, but also to remember and experience a little of the real reason for the season: caring, compassion, friendship and family.

(and a little tipple to grease the wheels never hurt either--but don't drink and drive, folks!)



the cat and fiddle
6530 w sunset blvd (x-street shrader)
hollywood 90028.
323.468.3800.

tagged! los+angeles hollywood pub food

ray of light

ray ferra's iron 'n antique accents lamp shop on la brea. complete tip, but great resource for old lamps, parts, and fabrication. and of course, ray, who has probably lit everything that can be lit. i hear he's retiring soon, and i'm not sure what will happen to the shop. check it out while you can.




ray ferra's iron 'n antique accents
342 n. la brea
los angeles 90036.
323.934.3953.

tagged! los+angeles lamp restoration shopping

the *real* california's gold.

eggnog. huell. dairy. cheese.

imo, strauss creamery has the superior eggnog, but broguiere's has the better packaging. huell howser, host of "california's gold" and subject of a very entertaining drinking game, graces some of the regular glass milk bottles throughout the year as a tribute to being the dairy's favourite visitor; the "california's gold" episode featuring broguiere's dairy is one of the most popular episodes of the series. however, his visage is most apropos on their holiday eggnog bottles. the 'nog a little overly sweet, overly viscous, and best in small doses, but full of cheer and holiday spirit. just like huell. real california gold, y'all.

tagged! california's+gold huell+howser dairy holiday drink

rip this joint! dinner at mozza.

mama says yes, papa says no,
make up you mind 'cause I gotta go....

rip this joint, gonna save your soul,
round and round and round we go.
roll this joint, gonna get down low,
start my starter, gonna stop the show.
oh, yeah!

oh, the inevitable mozza post. after a couple of false starts, more than a few canceled and re-appointed reservations, i finally made into the mario batali/nancy silverton pizza joint, mozza. i went to dinner with a friend, whose previous experiences in that space on highland avenue included a collapsed lung, so you know this night was destined to make some sort of impression.

i do have to say, it was probably not a good idea for me to check out a new restaurant right after thanksgiving feasting, and on a bitterly cold night where lethargy was the highest form of energy i could muster. however, i had been really curious about this place, and after canceling out on three reservations in a row, it was a very kind thing of them to actually let me in (and not ban me for life). during regular dinner hours, even. i got there, actually found a space on the street to park (otherwise, it's $6 for valet parking--which is somewhat cheap, i think, considering how the valets risk their lives crossing highland all night), and opened a giant barn-like door to a high-ceilinged largish room that was darker than it was out on the street, and about 5 times louder. heaving with people, "exile on main street" on the stere-ereo. loud. we were seated promptly, at a banquette table at the back, and then handed what looked to be a stylized folded street map. oh, wait, that was the menu. it sorted reminded me of a font catalog, someone spent a lot of time on it. too bad they didn't hire that person to paint the dark orange and ochre walls, which seemed hastily done. guessing from the colour underneath the framed mirrors, the space was a little more soothing at some point--maybe nancy silverton influenced?--but now i'm told it looks similar to batali's pizzeria in nyc, otto, all orange-hued and honey wooded. i'm told orange is a colour that stimulates one's appetite. mario batali is very orange. i, er, am pretty sure that batali does not whet my appetite. the menu items do not seem very much like otto, but very much more like nancy silverton's doing (as other blogs and reviews have mentioned), even though the press kit says the food is not only "silvertonian" but "batalian" as well. (ergggggh. i just got the batalian/italian pun. bleah.)

our server asked us if we wanted anything to drink, i think, i couldn't tell as mick jagger was telling me how got his rocks off in a very loud yet muffled way. my companion ordered quartino (a 250ml carafe, maybe a third of a bottle?) of a dry-ish house wine, never found out which one as i couldn't hear him, even though our knees were touching (and even though i was at elbows with people at the tables next to me, i couldn't make out their conversations either).



we ordered the fried squash blossoms, because everybody orders the fried squash blossoms. they were filled with a fresh ricotta, and lightly battered in what i venture to guess is a rice flour/soda water batter, then salted with maldon sea salt. light and delightful. i don't know if this was a dish about flavour as everything seemed quite delicate; i think it was more about the creamy texture of the cheese and the delicate shards of batter that were only the tiniest bit greasy. no sauce to speak of, but also unnecessary. i think it was at this point that i realized there wasn't any salt nor pepper at the tables (my friend merry hates this, that the house presumes the chef's seasoning should suit everyone--what do you think?). also, that while the blossoms weren't cold, they mightn't have seemed a little greasy if they were warmer.



these were followed by a crostini with cannellini (white) beans, caramelized onions, and capezzana olive oil. beans on bread. carby, but packing more flavour than i expected. however, i found myself doing that thing where you start mentally calculating how much this dish actually cost to make, and thinking if you made it at home it might be just as good as the restaurant version.




then the pizza. you know about the crust: woodfired, crisp and bubbly on the edges, still crisp on the outside towards the center, but with a thin, chewy middle. you like it or you don't. i like it. it's not as hard as some of the bread crusts i've encountered in silvertonian breads (i am using that foolish phrase from now on), but there's enough heft to not sag under the weight of the (albeit modest) toppings. pizza not sliced all the way through, so for a minute i had a vision of a pizza tussle where half of it goes flying as i try to sink through the possibly impermeable crust. luckily it was easy going. the gorgonzola dolce, fingerling potato, radicchio and rosemary pizza was exquisite; the sweet creaminess of the gorgonzola matched the sweet creaminess of the roasted potato, the wilted radicchio cut through the fattiness, the fungal tang of the cheese and the pine-iness of the rosemary lent a very earthy, woodsy quality to the 'za. very very nice. if just a touch cold. the white anchovy, tomato and hot chilies (? the menu says olives. there were no olives) pizza wasn't as successful--the white anchovies were marinated in vinegar, which didn't quite blend well with the tomatoes. the spiciness of the chili was dull and one note. spice and acid, not much else. also a touch cold.




by now, i was fully carbed out, but still got dessert. the butterscoth budino (pudding), which many people have already raved about, and a fig crostini with a meyer lemon pannacotta.



the butterscotch pudding was something like a not-to-sweet caramel dairy thing, texturally a cross between a creamy pudding and a mousse. it was topped with a layer of caramel, a sprinkling of maldon sea salt, and whipped cream. i can't say i cared for the pudding part of it--the texture was great, like something i'd want in a hair product--but the flavour was mild (neither buttery nor burnt sugary) and not particularly interesting. the caramel topping and maldon was much better, like a liquid version of a very good candy. very rich, but the blander pudding balanced this out. it was served with pine nut and rosemary butter cookies on the side, which were tasty on their own, but didn't enhance the pudding itself in any way.



the fig crostata was a small free-form pastry with a buttery shortcrust and stewed (?) figs. fig jam. something. like an adult fig newton. the figs were quite good, but very one note--i didn't notice if there was any other flavours in there, of which it could have benefitted, maybe a little citrus or anise? the crust was okay, but again! cold. i would have been happier with a warmer pastry, to contrast against the very good meyer lemon pannacotta on top, which was like a sunny, citrusy greek yoghurt--tart, jiggly, sweet, refreshing.

oh, and coffee, which was really, completely, stone cold.

impression so far: effing loud. is "exile on main street" really restaurant music? orange paint does not whet my appetite. also, overall, while the food was competently prepared, i would have been much happier if the meal was hotter in temperature overall. i'll definitely return, but maybe during the afternoon, or any off hour. see if there's a difference in temperature and acoustics.



mozza
641 n. highland (x-street melrose)
los angeles 90036.
323.297.0101.

tagged! mario+batali nancy+silverton los+angeles restaurant pizza hype

frittelli's

fancy doughnuts in beverly hills. nice enough space, nice enough people, parking in the back. virbila recommended. raised, cake, specials. although the standard combos are special enough: apple cider, lemon poppy, cranberry orange, vanilla cake with espresso glaze, blackberry jelly-filled, bittersweet chocolate raised. coffee drinks available, chocolate and teas. did i mention nice enough space and people? hm. well.

doughnuts in general do not excite me. on my 0-10 scale of doughnuts, krispy kreme falls somewhere at 5 (hot raised glazed: 5, 7 without glaze, the rest: 3), bob's at 8 (nostalgia: 10, doughnuts: 6, kitty doughnuts: 10), hong kong mandarin oriental bakery a solid 10 (the apricot-filled doughnuts? seriously, the best). frittelli's would be a 7. these have very interesting flavour combinations as far as doughnuts go, and are executed well, but don't change my opinion that raised are better than cake (these are mostly cake), and that simpler is better. their raised doughnuts are large and have a lovely, silky texture, but not much of a taste without the glaze. cake are fine crumbed, not greasy, and not as stodgy as the ones in your local donut hut. the flavoured coffees aren't made with commercial syrups, and are competently brewed, and they seem to be awash with mariebelle chocolate products for sale--maybe they use said product for their house hot chocolate? they are definitely raising the (buttermilk) bar, so i can't dismiss them. maybe with a name like frittelli's, i was expecting something a little more old world, a little more old-fashioned, more wood and brass and old italian men and proper football on the telly (as in soccer not nfl). maybe i'm asking too much from a small shop in beverly hills. but maybe, i am really asking too much of doughnuts, to be better than they really able to be.



frittelli's doughnuts and coffee
350 n. cañon drive
beverly hills 90210.
310.276.1408/1414

tagged!beverly+hills doughnut donut+shop

peregrine on pico?

sorry for the bad photo, but i saw this bird flying high above pico blvd, near fairfax the other day. i've seen it a few times since then, but always high above. does anyone know what kind of bird it is? i'm just a little curious. it has a small head, a short, sharp turned beak, medium brown feathers on top, and white on the bottom, which some dark/black markings throughout. i think it might be a peregrine falcon, but i've never actually seen one in los angeles.

give thanks

that you weren't on frankie's shit list.

back in pv.

back to puerto vallarta, for yet another wedding. eh. could be worse.

capturing summer.

the poetic: the bounties of the markets, gardens, and backyard trees of friends and family speak so much of summer; the long, lazy days, the heat, humidity and stickiness, the vividness of colours and heightened senses all captured in elements of each fruit in their own unique way. the first bite through the earthy, thin membrane of strawberries to the warm, sweet, slighty saline dribble of juice reminds me of the salt-tinged, hot, heavy air of the coast and the glaringly sunny, dusty fields from where they were picked. lemons recall a day of easy companionship of friends, the waxy skin akin to the shiny leaves from the gnarled tree from whence they came, pruned back reluctantly; the pucker of stinging juice a reminder of the hidden thorns which pricked us in retaliation. there is so much of it that one would long to remember in the grayer, busier, more stressful days of the year; a way to capture the essence of summer, to give a sweet reminder of sunshine, warmth, and grace.

fruit, sugar, water, heat. easy alchemy.



the reality: 1. i go to the farmers' markets and vendors are practically *throwing* their wares at me--i'm tempted by everything in season, and the idea of buckets of berries going for a fistful of crumpled dollars that won't even get me through a fast food value meal menu is hard to resist. i visit friends and family who complain that it's too hot to pick the fruit or veg bursting off the vine, falling off the tree in their backyards. if, they slyly comment, i want some, just go ahead and take what you want. they know that i already know where the ladder and secateurs are; they also know i'd rather pull down everything ripe for the picking and leave the majority for them. cheap labour, they secretly know. suckaaaah. oh yeah, whatever, where are the gloves.

2. i take home pails, laundry baskets, milk crates of ripe-at-that-moment fruit. i gleefully arrange jadeite bowls, plastic polka-dotted trays, and precious craftsmen-era sideboards with marthaesque towers of lemons, blossom, and herbs. i waft around in ballgown skirts and pearls whilst vacuuming, citrus fruit gently tumbling down to the rug like a scene from a stanley donen musical starring a demented asian girl, set in rue du pico-robertson. i live in ignorant bliss for 48 hours before the reality that it's a hazy, stifling 90 degrees outside sets in, and there's penicillin mold bulleyes growing at an alarming rate on all the lemons. i start to hyperventilate the mold spores in as i imagine grisly fruit-fly-related illnesses or slipped-on-rotting-cellulose concussions. i am reassured i will not contract scurvy, but only just.

3. spend an aggravating afternoon trawling the westside for canning supplies--am blanked out at major supermarket chains and at 'spensive gourmet outlets. do people not can anymore??! only on the prairie, says a blithe stockboy. well then, get me some mother****ing jars from the mother****ing plains! i am reminded that winter is just. around. the. corner. and what with al gore sightings and melting ice caps and such i can't be too careful you know? (la cienega at sunset would make the perfect slalom run, btw.) weirdly discover that the major 'spensive gourmet supermarket, gelson's, carries every canning supply i could possibly ever want, including paraffin wax for airtight sealing. hardcore, awesome. i'll take a case of each size, please. as i am pushing my cart through the aisles, i look at the other patrons in the store and wonder: are kyle maclachlan and ricki lake (not together) a part of the secret gelson's canning society? does special agent dale cooper can royal anne cherries for homemade pie? do orson and bree preserve victory garden vegetables for fun? does tracy turnblatt have a pickled beets recipe to die for? i buy enough cane sugar to make the supercilious checkout lady assess the size of my thighs. i seethe quietly yet quite visibly alarm the law clerk who just wants his yogurt.

5. get home, bung all the jars into the dishwasher for a round on the hot rinse cycle to sterilize them. leave 'em there to dry and tackle the piles of flesh around me. slice and dice like a human ronco machine.

6. take out a pot. take out two pots. take out four. dump lids for jars into one pot of boiling water, then ignore it. generally, it doesn't take that much to get your jam on, especially if you're not too picky about the consistency of its consistency--throw in any amount of ripe fruit, adjust acids and sugars to taste, add other flavourings, cook down until a teaspoon of the boiled liquid begins to gel/harden on a saucer chilled in the refrigerator. of course i don't follow a recipe, that would imply i am more prepared than i am. i clean out the fridge and pantry use my imagination and come up with some winning combinations:

1 pint of fresh figs, quartered + 1 small meyer lemon, sliced, with peel (without seeds) + 1/2 cup white sugar + 1 cup port wine

2 pints strawberries, hulled and halved + 1 pint blueberries + a handful of royal anne cherries, pitted + juice and zest from 1 meyer lemon + 3/4 demerara sugar

2 pints strawberries, hulled and halved + 2 pints blueberries + 1 cup brown sugar + freshly grated nutmeg

4 cups white corn kernels + 1 pint red cherry tomatoes + 1 pint yellow pear tomatoes + 1 cup apple cider vinegar + 1 cup brown sugar + 1 tablespoonful whole mustard seeds + 1 bay leaf

7. fill dozens of clean jars with prepared fruit or veg, and discover boiling method of canning not as difficult as building a sod house under the banks of a river. basic, scary looking directions here, but help from the dishwasher eliminates step 3. all you really need to do is fill the jars carefully, leave a teeny bit of room on the top, remove as many air bubbles as you can, seal not-too-tight, then boil a bit in water. anyway, if you fear you are the harbinger of plague or the e. coli strain that will wipe out your entire blackberry list, then put the finished jars in the fridge anyway. no biggie.

8. flatmate opens the fridge for a beer. stares for moment then finally says, "what are we? poor?" i finally perfect the Santos Death Stare™, then stalk off to the little garden. too bad you can't really slam a sliding door.



back to the poetic: by far my favourite of the lot is a four fruit marmalade made from a haphazard zesting, grating, chopping, and juicing of blood oranges from my uncle's garden, meyer lemons from merry's, lemons from cyrano's, and a ruby red grapefruit stolen from a neighbour (shhhhhh). the jewelled tones of red, orange and gold are as vivid and brilliant as any sunny summer day, the sweetness, bitterness, acidity and sheer brilliance of flavour is such a perfect reflection of my bond with each of the people who contributed to the bounty. each taste is as fresh as the next, with a subtle difference from the intermingling fruit; yet, it is as classically traditional as marmalades should be. a bit of summer in every bite, a little reminder of friendships forever, even after the last spoonful is long gone.

gilmore guy