It’s this cleanse. You know, this one. Conscious eating. And I feel pretty dang good. I’ve eaten vegan for the past two weeks as well as abstained from sugar/gluten/caffeine/alcohol/artificial sweeteners. I am more aware of everything I eat.

Luckily I’ve gotten through it without many cravings. It was difficult sometimes, not because I disliked the food I ate (in fact there are vegetables I still haven’t eaten) but because breaking habits is hard. There were days when I was exhausted and couldn’t try to fix that with some simple carbs and coffee. But I didn’t have a late-afternoon crash either.

If this is the kind of thing you’d like to do, I think you should try it. I’m listening to my body more, giving it food for energy but not lacking energy when I’m done eating. Buying a few vegan cookbooks helped me, especially Veganomicon because it includes gluten-free recipes. The vegetarianism was a good lesson and I feel like I’ve reset my tolerance for how much meat I should eat — a lot less.

As for the gluten thing, yeah, I do feel better and I think not eating gluten is a major factor. So I’m going to lay off a lot of flours and bread products. Once I found out I could eat wheat again, I wanted to eat it. Daily. And it makes me feel sluggish, I’m certain.

All that said, I’m looking forward to eating a poached egg. And drinking an Amstel Light. But for now mmm hummus!

Bay Bridge at sunset, taken at Pier 30 on a warm summer night in San Francisco. Fantastic.

Ugh. The Dusty Springfield biopic, a movie with several starts and stops that never gets made, is back with a studio. This time it’s Nicole Kidman who’s set to play my No. 1 music idol/hero, Dusty Springfield. I object.

Nicole “Botox” Kidman singing “Son Of A Preacher Man?” Singing [my all-time favorite song ever by anyone] “What Do You Do When Love Dies?” Singing “Tupelo Honey”? Playing later-in-life Dusty, the one with the frizzy hair and cigarette and lived-a-lot-of-tragedy look in her eyes? Dusty the occasional lesbyterian? My head is spinning.

I have a 1960s Dusty promo framed in my dining room (it’s for the single “I Don’t Want To Hear It Anymore” b/w “Windmills Of My Mind”). It used to hang in the hallway of my single-girl apartment. Before that it hung at my music editor job, and at the music editor job before that. It’s impossible for me to take the who’s-playing-Dusty news lightly. Mostly because I always thought it would be me.

Girl better bring it.

For those of you not living in San Francisco, this is one of the random weeks that is hot along the Barbary Coast. Today = Hot. I’ve been working with wool, of course, sewing on my final project. At 6 p.m. I called off the work, searched the cabinets, created the In A Pinch Rum Cocktail and made a playlist. This is my open-window, sweaty-thigh San Francisco hit list. It’s best played on random with a squeeze of lime. I hope you like it.

Crosby, Stills & Nash - Suite Judy Blue Eyes
Janis Joplin - Mercedes Benz
Joni Mitchell - Big Yellow Taxi
Cat Stevens - Moonshadow
Judy Collins - Both Sides Now
Stevie Wonder - Livin’ For The City
Boz Scaggs - Lido Shuffle
Carly Simon - You’re So Vain
Queen - Fat Bottom Girls
The Carpenters - Superstar
Sonic Youth - Superstar
Flaming Lips - Do You Realize?
Bette Middler - Superstar
Carol King - I Feel The Earth Move
Don’t Go Breakin’ My Heart - Elton John & Kiki Dee

What? You didn’t know I was such a softie? I went to Montessori school in the 1970’s, people. Sing-alongs are ingrained in my brain.

The M.F.K. Fisher in me just can’t help but link places to tastes. New Orleans is a town of rich, spicy and fried. To partake in the food is to partake in the culture and New Orleans loves to share its culture. The camaraderie that goes with eating in the Big Easy makes you eat more. It’s true.

Parasols is my favorite po’boy stop. They also serve a giant basket of the best fried pickles. I practically needed someone to roll me out the door and into the Garden Distrcit after finishing my shwimps sandwich. The leftover pickles came in handy a few hours later after sucking down giant cocktails on the sidewalk at Igor’s, waiting out an afternoon rain.

The New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival is known for its food vendors. No two vendors are allowed to sell the same thing and the food is closely curated by the festival organizers. This year’s standouts included the red beans and rice, crawfish etouffee and duck po’boy. Every few hours a beer and food pick-me-up is just what the good doctor ordered at Jazz Fest.

To celebrate our anniversary, Ted and I dined at NOLA, Emeril Lagasse’s French Quarter restaurant. I appreciated the friendly, high end service. The food was spectacular, from the duck gumbo to the ribs to the mint juleps we favored instead of wine. It’s the south, y’all, and I’ve never found a red wine that matched a gumbo. I could have made a meal from the jalepeno cornbread muffins.

In Gulf Shores, Ala., we sampled fried alligator, which tastes like chicken. The Royal Reds were in season and I ordered a pile of these steamed, large shrimp. I love the ceremony of peeling and cleaning as well as the accessories of clamps, picks and shell bucket. As is true with most food eaten in the deep south, these delicasies were paired with a frozen cocktail.

After years of longing and reading Streetcar Named Desire, I got to eat at Galatoire’s. We were lucky enough to join Dr. Lutz, a fine southern host and member of New Orleans society, on our excursion. We got a corner table downstairs and could watch all the goings-on in the mirrors. Jackets are required and there were a handful of straw hats hung on coat hooks around the dining room. I ordered eggs sardou, a dish I discovered in New Orleans 15 years ago (artichoke bottoms covered with creamed spinach and each topped with a poached egg). It’s become the default Christmas breakfast for my family. Enchanting.

Our last afternoon in New Orleans we stopped for a muffuletta. The receipt read “One large muff.” I love a dirty ending.

(Photo by TedR)

Things have been quiet around these parts because I’m on vacation. That’s me with Ignatius J. Reilly. Can you guess where I am? I’d love to tell you more dear readers but pitfalls of blogging on this trip include spilling a daiquiri or getting sand on my laptop. I’m taking a break from everything but Ted, naps, frozen booze concoctions and shellfish.

It’s our anniversary! Ted & I have been married for four years. Which is as long as it takes most people to get through college, except for me because I’m slow. Cheers, to our diploma of love! Ahem. Surely you didn’t think I’d post clown pics and not make a bad joke.

Why the clown noses? Sillies. We were thanking our guests for coming to our big day when someone (Candace?) passed Ted a clown nose. No one knew I’d pinned a clown nose inside my gown in case someone got choked up during the ceremony. Happily we were all laughs that day — it was a funny wedding. Some people prefer this photo, taken when the wedding should have been underway.

L’amour!

This Sunday I’ll be slinging batter at a benefit for a friend who didn’t deserve the year she’s been dealt. The gallery space is light and airy. You should come.
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Polly Harrold’s Sometime Gallery hosts an afternoon of musical performance art and waffles on April 20. Come hear Crank Ensemble and Cheryl Leonard in the glass-lined sun-shined aerie. Popping, plinking, clacking, clicking, Larnie Fox’s Crank Ensemble creates rhythmic and repetitive patterns using handmade crank-operated machines. Cheryl E. Leonard, with A.L. Dentel and Karen Stackpole, will perform new compositions and improvisations inspired by ocean tides. Instruments will include shells, kelp, salt, sand, water and stones.

1 p.m. Waffletime
2 p.m. Musical Performances
Tickets are $10 and are available at the door or through the performer’s webpages. Come early and enjoy conceptual waffle performance by the Proprietor and Assistants; donations to benefit a friend.

In the Big Green Building at the Dutch Boy: 4701 San Leandro Street, Oakland, 94601.
(510) 536-6970
The Sometime Gallery

Park on the street | stroll to the rear | step up three flights. Look for a sign.

The club at the Ritz Hotel is the best sandwich I’ve ever eaten. It has a top-layer of bacon outside the bread. I ate it with knife and fork while sipping a perfect Negroni and people-watching. At a table next to me was a fashion photographer and an agent who was trying to lure new talent. Seated at the other table was Sean Avery, the hockey player, who spoke with the management about being concerned with paparazzi. I had no idea who he was but he kept repeating his last name to the staff so I Googled him. After leaving the Ritz’s Restaurant Vendome I ventured down to Bar Hemmingway for two more perfect drinks. After four cocktails in four hours it was time to make my exit. The doormen got me a cab, an unmarked black Mercedes. I had a Princess Diana flash — Ritz Hotel, Mercedes, Saturday night — as the car headed through the Pont d’Alma tunnel where her fatal accident occurred. I held tight to my seat belt and closed my eyes.

At La Coupole I dined on fresh green salad, oysters and sole meunière. I’d read about the dish in Julia Child’s My Life In France, a book I finished my first week in Paris. The sole and the memoir were a joy to consume. The restaurant is a beautiful brasserie, rich in history.

My favorite meals were at La Potee des Halles (3 rue Etienne Marcel, 1er), a traditional Paris bistro. The first night in Paris I went looking for a restaurant but couldn’t find it and ducked in here out of frustration. What a find! They were so kind to me from the moment I walked in. The waiter brought around a chalk menu and I selected osso bucco. He refilled my wine glass repeatedly while I slowly ate and read my book and took it all in. My second trip to the restaurant I was delighted that he remembered me. I ordered coq au vin and it was the most succulent I’ve ever had. I noticed the small brass plates along the banquette with the names of regulars, some deceased. I loved sitting under the high-up stained glass tulips and listening to quiet French conversations. I decided to make my last dinner in Paris at La Potée des Halles. When I walked in the waiter called out “Bon soir, madame! Your regular table?” The day’s special was honey-braised pork belly. I cleaned my plate but was too blue to drink my glass of wine. When I left the waiter kissed me on both cheeks. I promised to return.

This is the only picture of me with the Eiffel Tower. That’s the tower sticking out of my head like an antenna. I set out on my final morning in Paris to take portraits; I got to this spot and realized I’d left my camera and tripod (and lipstick!) behind. I asked someone to snap a pic with my iPhone. So it goes.

My bags are packed and a taxi’s been called. Paris, these are our last moments together. And so, a toast, to us!

If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.
- Ernest Hemingway