In my bag: matches from three different motels and restaurants, a stick of palo santo, a gold hairpin, a small canvas pouch stuffed with California sagebrush (fragrantly referred to as cowboy cologne), a wooden comb, sunblock, SPF lip balm, a black pen and a cork from a bottle of wine opened and finished under the cool desert sun.
I’m sure I lived deep in the Californian soil in a past life. It feels so easy for me to exist there, even in LA’s chaos. A drive 90 minutes north west to the Los Padres forest is where I feel most at home, amongst deep canyons and winding mountain roads and one-street downtowns where mom-and-pop shops are guarded by old sleeping dogs and frequented by locals so au fait with each other’s business, it’s as if they’re family.
I’m back on home soil now. The first thing I did when I walked to my flat was pick some jasmine and wash a cup of rice and put it in the cooker while I grabbed Cornish eggs and not Californian avocados for breakfast. Crisped up the rice in oil and butter, cracked in two eggs, and popped an extra pat of butter on top of the rice but under the eggs, so it marbles the dark soy.
Two meetings, two margaritas, two tacos, one beer and a 9 hour sleep later, I’m back at the airport en route to Dublin for a hen weekend. Here are a few LA leftovers and some extra things I’m eating, reading, watching and listening to.
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