In the late 1940s and early 1950s the French were watching a lot of the popular films coming out of this country. After a little while they stopped to pause and wondered what in God’s teeth was going on over here?! In these films there were men coming home from the war to find the women had taken their jobs, their wives cheating on them or leaving them for the men who weren’t even “manly” enough to go to war, and their children were completely alienated from them. We were full of cynical attitudes and sexual motivation. Absolute disillusionment. We were broken people. A broken country.
I am getting nervous. I am nervous.
In just one short week the second Dinner at Eight will be upon us. But this one won’t consist of six of my friends. This guest list includes six of my fellow food bloggers – only some of whom I have met personally. My peeps, yes, but these are also critical minds and educated palates.
You know it was a party when, the next morning, your guests send pictures as evidence and call with stories of their maladies that occurred in the aftermath of the evening. That reminds me, someone promised a picture that I have not yet received...
Occasionally, if it’s a clear day or during a sunset, while I’m driving along Mulholland, I almost drive off the road. Even after eight years of living in Los Angeles, she still takes my breath away. It’s easy to forget, sometimes, what a beautiful city this is when the blinders of traffic, smog and sheer population bombard our daily life. But when you have a moment to breathe, to change perspective, to look down at this sprawling metropolis from up above, you only see the landscape, the colors and shapes. The honking, tedium and wheeling and dealing going on in small nooks and crannies throughout the city become invisible.