Radio silence

I’m moving back to L.A. I guess? I’m not sure. But first I’m going to New York and then Mexico City.

My friend Judy, a native of D.F. and current Manhattan resident, says New York smells of money and Mexico City smells of blood. That sounds appealing to me right now.

On Saturday I will be giving my brother’s car to my uncle. I’ve driven Momo everywhere in that car. I’ve spent many hours glancing in its rear view mirror to check if Momo has fallen asleep. The little silver hatchback still has spare napkins and takeout menus stuffed into its side door pockets.It still has a plush beer can in the window, the thing I use to identify whether or not I’ve found the right car in large parking lots.

I keep thinking about the car radio. I haven’t changed his programmed radio stations. Even though I hate commercial radio, sometimes I tune in to his stations, sort of adult pop and 80s R&B stations on channels one and two. It was a small way to be with him, sitting in the seat he sat in, listening to his music with my hands on the same steering wheel he once had his thin, arthritic fingers on. I remember how he’d check the mirrors to change lanes but never looked over his shoulder.

I once bullied him successfully into getting his car washed because it would get so filthy you couldn’t see through the windows. I took a picture of him standing next to his super clean car last Christmas. He has a small, bemused smile. His teeth were perfect. Unlike me, he never needed braces.




Thinking of Danny tonight, how he begged to go see the fireworks show at Mt. SAC, the local community college, when we were kids. We never did.

I’ve always hated the sound of fireworks, the whistling rockets, the bursts of light and color blooming over somebody else’s piece of the sky. I’ve always lived in neighborhoods where gunshots were fired on the fourth of July, and standing outside meant risking getting hit as those bullets fell to the earth.

I listen for the multiple rumbles that signal the end of the big shows so that I can try and go to bed as the amateur pyros pop their purchases through the rest of the night.


100 days

My brother died.

It’s been 100 days since my brother died, suddenly and unexpectedly.

Danny died.

It’s been eleven months since our father died.

I am living in the apartment they both died in.

People ask me how I am, but they don’t want to know. That I’m angry, that I wish to torch other people’s happiness.

It’s been 100 days.

In 100 days, Momo learned to stand unassisted, then walk, then climb furniture. Now she insists on walking down the stairs while holding my hand. She no longer eats baby mush. She can say her own name. When she wants more snacks in the car, she touches the tips of her fingers together above her head to be sure I can see in the rearview mirror. She chants, “Moh! Moh! Moh!” She is the sun and the moon and the tide and the air that I breathe.

I have tried to find the words to write here, to start somewhere. I may not be able to write here anymore. I may not be able to do this anymore.

It’s been 100 days since Danny died.

I am a wound on coumarin that bleeds and bleeds.

What now?

Urbanism in LA

I’ve grown out of my tiny 230 sq. ft. apartment and I need to either buy a place or rent a new one.

Despite really being into L.A., I don’t quite have my living/working situation settled. There’s still some friction between the different kinds of lifestyles I want. One is urban, walkable, with a sense of community outside my door. The other is secluded, quiet, with an expansive view and privacy. I hate driving to work but I don’t love downtown. I love having a view from my window but I hate having to get in my car to do every single errand. I want people but I hate noise. I love NY life, I love LA life, but if I try to combine them, am I getting the worst or the best of both worlds?

I don’t know how to reconcile it yet. These warring desires are making my search for a new place to live impossible. Combine that with my inability to decide whether or not to rent or own and my personal obsessive nature and it basically means I’m driving myself completely, totally bonkers.

I think about real estate 24/7 now. I troll Redfin daily, and I spout of the characteristics and flaws of every house under 600K east of the 5. I keep clicking on houses hoping that I haven’t actually seen them before. Redfin has become like an advent calendar after December, where I’ve eaten all the chocolates but I keep sticking my finger into the spent compartments hoping I’ve somehow forgotten one. I’ve taken to asking my dad for guidance because I feel only otherworldly intervention will pull me out of this brain spiral.

Expressive writing

Did you read this?

“Writing forces people to reconstrue whatever is troubling them and find new meaning in it,” he said.

I like. And it reinforces that I should be putting my thoughts down here, trinkets in my own little cigar box to pick up, examine, and put down whenever I want to.

Low Self Esteem Chocolate Cake

I made the mistake of getting on the scale at my parents’ house the other day. So as it turns out, when you stop eating like a diabetic with congestive heart failure, you start gaining weight. I’ve gained back all the weight I lost while living with my parents to the tune of nearly 20 pounds. Ugh, depressing. And such a pedestrian, predictable complaint.

I went to my usual 6am spinning classes at the beginning of the month and the bikes were full of resolution makers, including one SoulCycle reject who felt the need to scream along with particularly energetic pushes. I got through two classes of this business and quit. (Okay, inertia is really why I stopped going, but the screamer did not help.)

I’ve been in a funk for the last few weeks as a result. No exercising makes me grumpy, which in turn makes me want to come home and bake this depression-era chocolate cake.

This is a dangerous recipe. I first tried it at the crab dinner party topped with unsweetened whipped cream and fresh raspberries. It’s the kind of thing I can eat day after day for a week straight, alone and on torn half-sheets of paper towel or directly over the sink. I’ve figured out that it can be measured and mixed, sloppily, in about two minutes. I don’t even bother greasing the pan.

I’m renaming it Low Self Esteem Chocolate Cake because it’s the kind of thing you make when you feel bad about yourself, or that you eat until you’ve sufficiently depleted your self worth. I like to shove a wedge of it in my mouth with one hand while rubbing my growing belly with the other.

At some point I’m going to pull myself out of this muck and get back to exercising. It’s 75 degrees in LA, for god’s sake. I can’t blame my January gloom on the weather. Now that I’ve finished the last piece of the second whole cake (oh god yes), perhaps this means I will turn a corner. I’m giving myself until February to wallow.

Pastry self-flagellation is fastest when you measure on the scale. If you do so, you only need to clean a bowl, a teaspoon, a fork for blending, and a Pyrex pie plate in the end. It’s vegan, and further proof that I can find a way to fatten up on any diet.

Low Self Esteem Chocolate Cake

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.


182 grams flour (1 1/2 cups)

150 grams sugar (white, brown, whatever, doesn’t matter)

20 grams unsweetened cocoa powder (1/4 cup)

1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon baking soda


230 grams water (1 cup)

65 grams vegetable oil (1/3 cup)

1 teaspoon white vinegar

1 teaspoon vanilla

Blend with a light hand. Pour into ungreased Pyrex pie plate. Bake for 30 minutes. Cool to as close to room temperature as your weak will allows. Serve with whipped cream and berries. Curl up into ball and watch English TV marathon: An Honourable Woman, Downton Abbey, The Hour recommended.

Keeps for one week in the fridge, but who are we kidding?

The Big Night Timpano

Look what I made for New Year’s Eve! I was KVELLING. I am still kvelling. Stanley Tucci’s recipe works incredibly well. I had moments of doubt as I was drying Italian bread only to resoak it in water for the 200 tiny meatballs the size of quail eggs, or when the paperback novel-sized lump of constantly contracting dough was supposed to get rolled into an unbroken, 30-inch circle to go around the filling. But with some effort and faith, it worked, IT WORKED, and I said a blessing for great recipe editors everywhere.

This being L.A., half the people attending couldn’t eat it (vegetarian, pescatarian, paleo, gluten-free, etc.) But all this good weather and lack of stress is turning me into a soft, magnanimous California dude. You can’t eat it? I’m sorry for you! More for everyone who can eat it!



Photo above by Raina. Look at how that dough drapes. It was like a gorgeous satiny wedding dress train made of pasta. Fuck yeah, there are layers of hard-boiled egg in it.

photo 1

Cooks for an hour uncovered, 1/2 an hour covered in foil, then must rest for 30 impossibly long, nerve-wracking minutes as the timpano sets and contracts, allowing you to slice it like a motherfucking badass meat and pasta cake. Can you imagine how happy I was when I flipped the pot and the drum slid out totally intact?

photo 2

You could save yourself two hours of work by not doing the 1/2 teaspoon meatballs, but you are making a timpano. Make it right.

photo 3 photo 4 photo 5

The most expensive ingredient turned out to be the genoa salami. Half a baton of that stuff set me back $25, but I didn’t use it all, and fuck it, the whole project cost me less money than a dinner at a middle of the road restaurant in New York. Why did I spend so much money on eating out in New York? I want my money back.

For a little history on the timpano/timballo, read Regina Schrambling’s excellent article.

The next big cooking project should probably be vegetarian. The first two weren’t good for my cholesterol. I’m taking suggestions.


A few weeks ago, while searching for deals for The Sweethome, I noticed that a 60 qt. stainless steel pot was on sale on Amazon. Seeing as my apartment is only 230 square feet, this is possibly the least practical purchase I have ever made. But regrette rien!

For its virgin run, I bought Dungeness crabs from 99 Ranch in San Gabriel at $6/lb. The lady at the counter fished out six snappy guys (and Dungeness from the store are always male) with lots of verve. It’s disconcerting to hear your dinner rustling around in plastic bags en route home. I was also very conscious of the fact that I was toting a tank of flammable propane in the back of my CR-V. I also considered reincarnation and the whereabouts of my father’s soul. Hopefully he’d not made it into one of these crabs. Is that fucked up that I thought about that?

Brought my trusty patio stove over to my friend Raina’s house, cranked the heat on a few inches of water, and waited for the steam to start seeping out. First we steamed artichokes, potatoes, and corn until they were tender. I suppose we could have steamed them with the crabs, but I didn’t want to fuck it up seeing as I didn’t want the crabs’ sacrifice to be for naught.

I dumped the veg and turned to the crabs. Before everything else, I thanked them for the lives they were about to give. I released the crabs from their doubled-up plastic bags and dumped them into a stainless steel tub I had. Using some too-delicate tongs with scalloped nylon grippers, I tried to lift each crab’s body and lower it into the steamer basket, right side up. At one point, my friend Lisa’s tiny, hoodie-wearing black and white chihuahua ran out to observe the crabs as they snapped about and fell from my tongs’ grips. Fearing for her life, as the crabs were easily twice her weight, I yelled to everyone inside:

ME: Somebody get the dog!

My friend Dan came out to put the dog away, then observed the sacrificial pot, concerned.

ME: They should die pretty quickly in there.

DAN: Doesn’t look like it.

Once each guy was finally in, I shut the lid on the pot, waited for the water to come back to a boil, and set the timer for 12 minutes. After they were done, the freshly ruddy crustaceans were dunked into ice baths, cleaned with all guts and fat scraped from the shell for crab fried rice, and hacked into quarters.

(Photo below by Dan)



KOZY: We should say itadakimasu before this.

And we did, with great gratitude. And, holy shit, they were the best crabs I’ve ever had—sweet, tender, meaty, and not at all waterlogged. We dipped them in garlic butter and ponzu and squeezed lemon from Raina’s tree over them. Once we had eaten our fill, we picked the  remaining meat from the shells and Kozy made crab fried rice with the white fat scraped from the shells—easily the best crab fried rice I’d ever had. I ate the leftovers for lunch the next day. That next night, we also got back together to make crab artichoke dip, butternut squash crab bisque, and the meatiest, thickest crab cakes we’d ever had. Raina even made stock with the crab shells, which now sits in her freezer, waiting for risotto night some time in the future. Six crabs fed five people three full meals, meals we’ve all been talking about for three weeks.

The occasion now feels momentous for me, one worth chronicling. I feel like I figured something out about how to enjoy life in L.A.—backyards in December, the freshest food in an unpretentious setting, gratitude for everything that I have, including this too short life which can be taken in a steamer basket, in a fender bender with a tank of propane, by globules of cholesterol coursing through my veins.

I’m standing over a fire again and it feels fucking fantastic.