she craves

Road Food

Caffe d'Bolla [Salt Lake City, UT]

Here's the scenario: For whatever reason (new job, vacation, work trip, acid trip) you find yourself in Salt Lake City, Utah. Yes, that Salt Lake City. Put aside the stereotypes or the general fears about being accosted by polygamists in long skirts and braided hair (that's only on the news and in remote pockets of Arizona and Utah). And fret not about finding a drink, especially a caffeinated one.

Whatever people might think, Salt Lake City loves its coffee. We have virtually every type of java you can think of. Drive-through kiosks. Corporate brands. The scenester lounges. Lately, a new breed coffee house can be found in this city. These are the dens of micro roasts, boutique beans and coffee talk that's more Robert Parker than Linda Richman.

The Short List: SLC Eats [Downtown]

People can think what they want about this adopted city of mine. We, like Buffalonians and Oaklanders, travel beyond our city limits with stereotypes and a barrage of lame jokes. The reality is, Salt Lake City is a bit of secret. Some of us like to keep it that way (those who already think there are enough California refugees in state limits) and some who love to preach the affordable cost of living, gorgeous landscape and the fact that not everyone is "of the faith."

I often tell my baffled out-of-state friends to think of SLC (all cities seem to have a hip or diminutive moniker, NYC, Sac-Town, Philly...) as a Chicago. A cultural — and in Utah's case, a political — capital surrounded by perceivably less enticing realms. The only difference: Red rock is infinitely cooler than acres of government subsidized corn.

Postcard from Summer: Slow Food Nation

This is what happens when a group of foodies — some very socially and politically minded, some ... not so much -- converge in a very food-centric city over a long weekend. I can't divulge all the details (only because I would bore you with policy talk), let's just say, we ate. A lot.

Postcard from Summer: San Francisco & Wine Country

It's easy to forget photos you take and upload onto the computer. Months go by before you happen upon them while you're, say, looking for a work file. The feeling is akin to finding $20 in the back pocket of a just-washed pair of jeans. Summer was a fine season. Good weather. Good travel. Good food. It would be a pity if I didn't share the happiness with anyone who happens to care. Or at the very least, give me a reason to look them over and re-live those months.

Turning Point with Champagne

Running away for a meager handful of consecutive days without any sort of contact with the desk, the computer, or insecure bosses — I needed it. Irregular sleeping patterns were the first of it. Then came the gnawing anxiety when I couldn't derive an ounce of pleasure from the simplest things in the life around me. When you get this numb all you want to do is run away and force yourself into something different, like the way you feel when you try on a new dress or new shoes you'd never dare to cross the street in just to add the element of fear. Make the hairs on the back of your neck rise a bit. And the feeling in your gut isn't fear but anticipation. Lots of wine helps, too.

Fall Leaves And Farmstead Cheese

Memento

When I look outside my window the sun is shining. But I know better. Within that golden, ever-morning light is the frosty air of winter. I feel it in my bones. I become lethargic. Sweaters and thick socks are my dailor armor. Properly swathed in warm gear, my mind goes inward, too. Despite the well-intetioned holidays, I hardly ever make any memories during the cold season. Family get-togethers are muddled into one multi-year extravaganza (if T.V. watching can be called that). Mostly, my brain likes to re-visit a different time when days were much longer and things grew and we ate in the fresh air. There are a few leaves left on otherwise bare branches now. And when the grey wind picks up and scatters them at my feet I think of one autumn day in Cache Valley—a place called Richmond, home of Rockhill Creamery.

The Carrot, So To Speak (A Week in Oregon Wine Country)

Most of that Thursday night was a blur. At least, that's what it felt like. Day to day interactions blur at the 24-hour margins. The underappreciated working life builds the thickest of shells until you end up with an unnatural anaesthetic numb feeling that gets you through most days. To break out of that shell, you need something to shock you back into your senses, to lure me out. So, I got on a plane, endured a drowsy commute next to an effeminate Korean hair dresser (who stole my issue of GQ) and a very late night in Portland. By the next day I found myself in completely unfamiliar territory. The sun was shining, 70 degrees. And this was staring me in the face. Acres and acres of it. Pinot noir. In the heart of the Willamette Valley. With this alluring dark purple bunch, the shell was cracking.

What I Did This Summer

(Drinking enough sangria, unfortunately, wasn't one of them)

Definitely not revamping the blog. Being technically challenged is painful to discover, especially if you're trying to gussy up the beloved blog. The makeover will come later when techie friends aren't dying of stress or I become graphically independent. But I can't put off posting any longer, so you get the same old same old. But with more thing to read ...

Peace & Quiet at Hell's Backbone Grill

My apologies for leaving balls on the page for so long. It wasn't meant to be a semi-permanent fixutre on this blog. But since I've been such a fixture in front of my computer for various other projects, I decided to up and leave before I grounded roots into my non-ergonomically correct chair and that humdrum shoebox I call an office. So I ran away. With a few girlfriends who also needed to run away, too. The destination: Boulder, Utah. Home of stunning landscapes, all the stars in the universe, and one Hell's Backbone Grill (the friendliest restaurant on Earth).

Here's To Feeding Your Inner Nerd: Dungeness Crab Noodles

Somehwere between Kalyn's fragrant curried chicken, pilaf, and asparagus, and Erin's vanilla spiked marscapone with berries, I made an epiphany that I've made made many times. I am a food nerd.

I should tell you all that as cliche as it sounds, most of my memories revolve around food. Scents, flavors, textures, full meals. Anyone who has had a prolonged conversation with me knows that I have to interject at some point with some food observation or useless bit of food trivia (Thank you, Larousse Gastronomique), if the topic isn't outright about food anyway. I totally believe that if my physics classes involved food, I would've aced every painful course in my lifetime and perhaps maybe even made it into medical school. Meh, maybe not.

But I take trips just to eat. And when I share anecdotes about those trips I know that my friends, as much as they claim to love me, roll their eyes. As if me saying "This one time at The Slanted Door, I had this incredible Dungeness crab with cellophane noodle dish..." is tantamount to Michelle Flaherty blabbing for the thousandth time "This one time at band camp..."

Out & About and Back—San Francisco

Black sesame gelato with smatterings of green tea on the corner of Broadway and Grant

Don't try to take a photo of your goods at Yoogo Gelato. Because what you think is an empty table suitable for food photography will become a target for an eager Cantonese family with strong elbows, wondering why on earth this girl is giving her gelato the Kate Moss-treatment. There's better luck outside on Broadway and Grant, where Chinatown melts into North Beach. Beforehand, you will spend some time wondering whether to get limone with your avocado gelato or go for green tea with black sesame. Once you step onto the busy pavement, the flavors in your cup become emblematic of this piece of urban earth. The inaugural taste of black sesame gelato overtakes your mouth—a seedy crunch and hazelnut butter-like richness mingle with the exhaust fumes of the traffic. And suddenly, when a swarm of taxis honk at your intrusion into traffic you realize...Man, I love this city.