Valrhona Chocolate Cookies With Reese’s Peanut Butter Chips

When I was fourteen, I was grounded from Cadbury eggs. Not because I misbehaved, but because I ate so many. (They’re seasonal. SEASONAL!)

Unfortunately for my well-intentioned mother, I was already adept at sneaking and hiding food by this point. I slipped my friend, Allie, a fiver, had her buy enough eggs to last all Easter, and hid them in my sock drawer.

Hiding and sneaking food were techniques I perfected early in life. Like most families with multiple children, we were competitive about food. Did your family have a Little Debbie rule?

Ours was that each kid got one per day if you ate your supper. This worked until my oldest sister went to college. I was eight. It didn’t take long for me to figure out that no one was accounting for her absence; that extra Debbie was up for grabs! So every day I took it, went into the bathroom, locked the door, and turned on the water. (The water covered the sound of the wrapper. To this day when I wash my hands, I crave Fudge Rounds.) After I ate my bounty, I lifted some trash and buried the wrapper beneath it. (The trick was to get it in the middle; if you put it on the bottom, then Dad would spot it when he emptied the can.) Is it any wonder I dreamed of being a spy when I was a child? Thanks to forbidden food, I was well on my way already.

When I left home for college, there was no one to care what I ate or when. It was a glorious time at first, but I began to miss those halcyon days of sneaking around. What’s the point of being bad if there’s no one to catch you at it? At this point you probably think I’m some weirdo with unhealthy food compulsions. I’m glad to see I’ve presented myself clearly. The point is that there are still some foods I hide from myself. This is one:

I love cookies. Who doesn’t? Nazis, maybe, and other morally questionable unsavories. Most people, especially most Americans, love cookies. (One would think there is no way to make cookies better, but the Brits do it by calling them “biscuits.” I wish we did that; it’s like everyone is a puppy–so cheerful!) I discovered this particular recipe when my husband and I were newly married. Originally, the recipe was for double chocolate cookies. Somehow–divine intervention, perhaps–I had the brilliant idea to substitute peanut butter chips for the chocolate, and, ta-da! an addiction was born.

Is there anything those two can’t make better? I submit that there is not.

This is the first time I’ve made the recipe with Valrhona cocoa powder, (for more about Valrhona, see my post on Milk Bar’s chocolate malt cake)but I always use Dutch process. (The Dutch process makes a darker, richer final product.) The key to this recipe, and to all cookie recipes, is to chill a few hours or overnight. Why? I have no idea. I just know it makes them bake and taste better.

This is my daughter who loves to help me bake. And guess what? Now I have someone new to hide food from. Life has come full circle, though I have to say she’s more adept at finding me out than my parents were. The child can sense chocolate or sugar from a mile away. I don’t know where she gets it.

Valrhona Chocolate Cookies with Reese’s Peanut Butter Chips

(Adapted from Nestle’s Best-Ever Cookies)

2 1/4 C. All purpose flour

1/2 C. Valrhona cocoa powder (or similar Dutch-process cocoa)

1 tsp. Baking soda

1/2 tsp. Salt

1 C. Butter, softened

1 C. Brown sugar, packed

3/4 C. Granulated sugar

1 tsp. Vanilla extract

2 Eggs

1 10 oz. Package Reese’s peanut butter baking chips

Combine softened butter, brown and granulated sugars. Beat on medium speed until thoroughly combined with no visible sugar crystals. Add vanilla and eggs, one at a time. Add salt, baking powder, and cocoa. Mix thoroughly. Add flour a half at a time, mixing on low speed until just combined. Add chips, mix lightly. Chill a few hours or overnight. Preheat oven to 375, portion 1 1/2 inch balls of cookie dough. Bake 8-10 minutes until edges are cooked and centers are still slightly doughy.

Art Institute of Pittsburgh, Culinary Conference, Day 2

Pittsburgh is a beautiful city. A onetime steel mecca, a pivotal centerpiece in the French and Indian War, and now a popular tourist destination, practically every corner provides a photo op. There are the three rivers, mountains, bridges, tunnels, industrial complexes, the Steelers’ stadium, the place where the Buccaneers play. You get where I’m going with this. But if something doesn’t smell like baked yeast and browned butter, I don’t think to take a picture. So here’s a picture I found on the internet.

Lovely, isn’t it? Now, back to food.

There’s a certain feeling you get when you go to a culinary school, or any vocational school, in my opinion. One of our speakers put it best when he said that they are where misfits find a home. Picture a live version of The Breakfast Club where everyone cooks. There’s something immensely comforting about seeing kids who, for one reason or another, have finally found their niche after so many years of not fitting into traditional school. The kids we encountered seemed passionate and excited to be there, even at eight in the morning–a far cry from most liberal arts students I knew (myself included.) The Art Institute’s overall post-graduate placement rate is an impressive 89%. In their hotel/restaurant management program, the rate for 2011 was 100% with a starting salary of $40,000. Also, they made these.

I have no idea what that has to do with anything, but look how pretty!

Anyhoo, our speaker of the day was Chef Dave Russo. He showed us how to make cheese. First goat milk ricotta and then fresh mozzarella.

For the ricotta, he heated goat’s milk to about 185 degrees, added salt and lemon juice, and stirred until curds began to form. (They don’t form as well with pasteurized milk, by the way.) Once the curds began to separate, he poured the concoction into a cheesecloth-lined strainer. (Why do chefs always have cheesecloth lying around? I’ve never even seen that stuff in real life, and yet they seeminly have it coming out of every orifice.) While the ricotta was straining, he made mozzarella from pre-formed buffala curds. (The female buffalo is called a buffala, something else I learned last week.)

He heated the curds in salted water until they began to melt, and then he pulled them using two dowels (sort of like taffy.) Not content to simply make cheese like any common peon, he then rolled it flat, lined it with prosciutto, and rolled it into a pretty design. Here’s a picture of the mozzarella along with a salad he made. It was topped with a simple vinaigrette (mind you he didn’t use recipes for any of this stuff; that’s why they pay him the big bucks.) The salad was amazing, and this is coming from someone who considers sugarcane a vegetable.

After a break, he taught us how to filet fish, (the one on the table is a flounder and then a salmon) and then he made some fish/cheese dishes.

 

This is poached salmon with polenta and beurre blanc with some of the fresh ricotta on top. For the polenta, he used the leftover whey from the cheese and added goat cheese and heavy cream. Seriously, best. polenta. ever.

Next he made a salmon mousse and stuffed it into the flounder. The noodles are soba which I learned are made of buckwheat. He made the mistake of setting all the plates in front of me. Heh, heh. I’d like to say the others got to taste the heavy cream-infused salmon mousse, but only the Lord knows for sure.

Finally, sautéed red snapper with vegetable ragout. (Did I mention that this was after we consumed a catered Italian meal at lunch? It takes conditioning to be able to withstand such a grueling day of eating without getting the meat sweats.)

After class, we retrieved my niece and nephew from the hotel where they had been keeping themselves entertained. My niece took this picture of one of the trolley cars that goes up and down the mountain. I don’t think she took any pictures of food. Crazy, I know.

Traffic in Pittsburgh was horrible. It took a half an hour to go a few blocks, and it was rush hour. So of course we picked up the kids, loaded up the car, and headed across town to a bakery.

With traffic, it took almost an hour to go seven miles. But, look, they put chocolate in their éclairs. Chocolate!

Side note: I have two friends from the Pittsburgh area. Coincidentally they’re both named Amber. For the last few years, I heard them lovingly describe smiley face cookies from an area restaurant. All this time, I thought they were saying Eaton Park. Then we passed a billboard with a smiley face and an ad for Eat ‘N Park.

I had one of those light bulb moments that had my sister careening through traffic to try and make the exit. The food was typical diner fare, but kids ate for .99 cents, so my nephew got two meals. And it came with one of the iconic smiley face cookies. It was an exciting time for us all. Now I want to go all over again. Next time I’ll try to take some pictures of the scenery. Probably. Maybe. Perhaps someone could put a bakery in the Steelers’ stadium; I’d definitely take a picture of that.

Art Institute of Pittsburgh, Culinary Conference, Day 1

Last week I had the chance to tag along with my sister as she attended an educator’s conference at the Art Institute of Pittsburgh.

She teaches home economics (although they don’t call it that anymore) at an inner-city high school. Basically she gives knives to angry, impoverished children, tells them to chop things, and hopes for the best.

This wasn’t our first foray into Pittsburgh. We used to sneak over for similar offerings at Le Cordon Bleu Culinary Institute. Sadly, it closed last year. Enter the Art Institute of Pittsburgh. I learned a lot of new things last week, namely that the Art Institute isn’t an art gallery; it’s a college. They offer a four-year bachelor of science in culinary arts, along with many other degrees. I thought this would be news to everyone, but my smarty-pants husband already knew it was a college. Someday I’ll discover something he doesn’t already know. *insert Scarlet O’Hara-style fist shake*

Anyway, Pittsburgh now seems like an old friend after so many visits, and yet there are still new places (read: bakeries) to discover. Like this place.

They’re famous for their chocolate chip cookies. I bought a dozen. Here’s a picture of The Precious.

For supper we headed to Fathead’s, a local institution.

Famous for their sandwiches (especially one that Maxim magazine listed as one of its top ten sandwiches in the nation), they offer large portions and make their own buns. I wasn’t hungry for some reason (did I mention I bought a dozen cookies? Because I bought a dozen cookies) so I stuck with soup and a pretzel.

After only eating a pretzel and soup for supper, I needed sustenance. I found it here.

If this wasn’t the best milkshake I’ve ever had, it was definitely in the top five.

Sick and miserable in that delightful way that happens after consuming too much good food, we headed back to our hotel to prep for day one of the conference. It started with Old Bay seasoning. I don’t know why. We made our own.

And then used some of the original in a low-country boil. Here’s an action shot of me and my sister cooking. (I’m not wearing makeup. It was an early morning. Don’t judge me.)

Here’s our final product. The culinary students cured the sausage.

I sneaked over and took a picture of their assignment–Salad Niҫoise.

The second half of the day was a fascinating glimpse into the Culinary Olympics. (Did you know we had those? I didn’t.) The event began in 1896 and is held every year in Erfurt, Germany. Each competing country sends five chefs–four savory and one pastry. This is one of the competitors, Shawn Culp.

He described the grueling application process and the two-day audition that makes Top Chef look like child’s play. The main event is this October. He and his team have been practicing every month for the past three years, and most of his financing comes from his own pocket. Oh, and the winners don’t get any money. After explaining how the games work, he created a deconstructed caprese salad for us.

What do you do after listening to an all-day lecture on food? Find a biscotti bakery, of course.

This is Enrico Biscotti, one of our frequent stops whenever we’re in town. It’s in the strip–a downtown section of Pittsburgh reminiscent of the Lower East Side of Manhattan. It’s ethnic; it’s busy; it’s wonderful. Here’s a really crummy picture of the strip because I feel bad about not taking any pictures of anything besides food, restaurants, and chefs.

Supper was at Smoke, a smoked meat establishment that specializes in tacos.

There were only a few items on the menu, but they were all done well. This might be one of my top-ten favorite restaurants. The best part? The price was great, like buying street food with a comfortable place to sit. It was so good, in fact, that I started eating before I remembered to take a picture of my food. Heh, heh. Did I mention they season their pinto beans with bacon? And now you understand my impatience to get started.

Dessert was here.

Klavon’s Ice Cream Parlor is an old-school soda shop. It looks and smells like nothing has been touched since 1934, but in a good way. After that things went downhill. The night turned into a doughnut hunt that lasted for the better part of the evening. Only those truly devoted to deep-fried pastry would understand. Suffice it to say we ended up at a Dunkin Donuts in a part of town we’ve never seen before. Maybe it didn’t really exist because they were having buy six, get six free, a magical event that seemed almost too good to be true.

Soon after, we fell into sugar comas, content with the knowledge that on the morrow we would be making cheese.

Momofuku: The Bakery That Sounds Like a Swear

Has this ever happened to you? You see a complicated recipe, decide to try it, and realize you don’t have the required ingredients. So you make substitutions with what you have, and then are dismayed when the end result looks nothing like the original. It happens to me all the time because I’m frugal, and I don’t like to buy special ingredients that I know I’m only going to use one time.

Enter Milk, The cookbook from Momofuku’s pastry chef extraordinaire, Christina Tosi.

I can’t possibly tell you how excited I was about this book. I requested it from my library (see: frugal, above), and bugged them every day to see if it was in yet. I read it cover to cover. Ms. Tosi’s story of how she came to be one of the most celebrated and innovative pastry chefs in the United States is as interesting as the pictures of her food are beautiful. I couldn’t resist trying one, and so I decided on the Chocolate Malt Layer Cake. I have a deep love of all things malt (except liquor; never tried it), so I knew this was the cake for me. And for once I decided to do it by the book, to buy every special ingredient and equipment.

The problem is that I live in a very small town. Our idea of fancy is cutting watermelons to look like baskets for baby showers.

(No, I didn’t make that. Sure is fancy, though!)

Try as I might, I could not find European butter (with a fat content of 82% compared to American butter’s paltry 81%), a 6-inch cake ring, or acetate to hold the cake together. This did not bode well because I am notoriously bad at making things look good. It’s why I never got into cake decorating. No matter how hard I try, my cakes always lean, my icing slides and plops–it’s a distressing dilemma for someone who loves baking as much as I do. Hello, my name is Vanessa, and I make ugly cakes. There, I said it. Feels good to get that off my chest.

One thing I did purchase especially for this cake is Valrhona cocoa powder. If you followed my previous posts, then you may remember that Valrhona is an export from France. It’s real chocolate with no non-food chemical additives. The cocoa powder is Dutch processed, or alkalized, to remove some of the acidity. Here’s a comparison of the three cocoa powders in my cupboard.

I was interested to see if Valrhona would look or taste different compared to the others. It does. Note how the powder is refined and reddish brown, not chunky or chalky like the others. (Though I should note that the Trader Joe’s brand is not Dutch process. The two are not interchangeable; take my word for it and never try Dutch process cocoa powder in no-bake cookies. Ick.) I tasted the Valrhona cocoa powder straight from the tub, and it tasted like ground cocoa nibs–smooth, chocolaty, and with no bitterness. Now, back to the cake.

There are several steps to this cake that, for a large bakery, probably become routine, sort of like a human production line. I’m sure they have people who are dedicated to making the crumb topping, people who do the cake, and other people who make the sauces. For the home cook, we do it all. I stretched it over a few days. Day one, I made the crunch–a mixture of milk powder, melted butter, Ovaltine, and white chocolate.

Day 2, I made the sauce. This is the sauce that goes in the cake, not to be confused with the sauce that goes on top. Think of this sauce somewhere between hot fudge and Hershey’s syrup. It made extra, and it was excellent on ice cream. I forgot to take a photo of this. Instead, here are some of the many ingredients used in this cake.

I don’t know why that’s important, but it seemed like a very “blogger” thing to do.

Day 3, I baked the cake, toasted the marshmallows, assembled, and made the malt sauce to go on top.

This is where I tried to get fancy and use my butane torch like a real chef, but my tech-savvy husband wasn’t home to help, and I couldn’t get it to work.

I used the broiler instead.

Notice the Silpat, another export from France, and a must for every serious home cook. It’s one of my most-used tools. I bake cookies on it, make candy on it, pretty much everything that would be sticky doesn’t stick to it. You can bake at high temperatures or freeze it, and it lasts for years.

The cake was supposed to be baked in a sheet pan and then cut out using a 6-inch ring. For assembly, it was suggested to use acetate to wrap around the cake and keep the layers from sliding. I couldn’t find either of those things. Instead, I baked the cake in 2 8″ rounds. They didn’t come out. (See: I make ugly cakes, above.) Assembly was a wreck–everything slid off. I had high hopes when the first layer came together and looked pretty.

Here is the finished product.

Man, that is one ugly cake. But unattractive cakes, like many unattractive people, are often filled with good things on the inside. I don’t know how ugly people taste, and I never want to find out, but this ugly cake tasted DELICIOUS!

*Apologies for not posting the recipe, but copyright infringement and possible prison, blah, blah, blah. Perhaps I’m not dedicated enough to my art if I’m not willing to go to prison to bring you this post. Something to think about. If you’re interested, look for Milk at your local library; I promise it’s worth your time!

Columbus is a Foodie City. No, really.

Columbus is a Foodie City. No, really..

Columbus is a Foodie City. No, really.

I spent a lot of time in previous blogs detailing food in cities along the west coast. After I returned home, it occurred to me that I’ve never highlighted the food city in my back yard–Columbus, Ohio. But where to start? I could tell you about Cameron Mitchell, a self-taught chef turned entrepreneur who flipped the town upside down and singlehandedly started the high-end restaurant craze with his mix of well-thought-out concept restaurants. Or perhaps I should spend some time at the North Market, downtown Columbus’s mish-mash of artisanal foods. Hmm, where to begin? I know, how about here:

 

Okay, this has nothing to do with food. (Well, almost nothing. It is across the street from my favorite cupcake bakery in the entire world, The Pink Moon.I’ll feature them in another post some other time, perhaps.) I threw this in to start the blog because it’s where we started our day and because it’s free. After surviving on one salary for most of my married life, I have come to appreciate free things. Especially free things that are awesome. This particular gem is in Powell, Ohio, home of the Columbus Zoo. (Yes, the Columbus Zoo is as good as you’ve always heard and worth a visit from anywhere.) Moving on.

I think we can all agree that the best part of any fair/festival/carnival is the food. (Unless you’re in love with a carnie and the fair is the one time a year you get to see him. In that case, may I suggest a little thing called a background check? You’re welcome.) What if there was a place where all the best food from the carnival came together? A magical Nirvana of grilled onions, tater tots, and melty cheese.

Did you know Columbus has food trucks? No? Well, Columbus has food trucks. Today we attended an annual event that features said trucks and carts along with some local crafters and musicians.

The hardest part of this concept is the torturous indecision of where to eat. Finally I picked the longest line and ended up with a Philly pita.

My husband chose a burger with fried egg and smooshed tater tots.

Finally, no foodie sojourn is complete in Columbus without stopping here.

You can’t talk food and Columbus without mentioning Jeni’s, mostly because it has become a national phenomenon, receiving recognition from celebrities and critics alike. I’m the first to admit that Jeni’s is expensive. In her defense, have you priced heavy cream lately? How about heavy cream from a local dairy that only feeds their cows grass? Because that’s what Jeni uses, along with a bevy of other local and top-quality ingredients. This is my dark chocolate and brown butter almond brittle waffle cone. It was 6.50. (Next to it is my husband’s White House cherry cone.)

Is it worth it? A simple yes or no won’t do. Every day? No. Every week? Maybe. Once a year as we go? Definitely. This is the best dark chocolate ice cream I’ve ever tasted, and you know I’ve tasted a lot.

Traveling the country was a wonderful experience I hope to repeat someday. In the meantime, I’m heartened by the knowledge that there are treasures to be found in my own back yard.

Pacific Coast Highway, Day 14: Redding To Seattle, THE END!

“Whoo, this is heavy! What do you have in here? A box of rocks?”

How many people can actually answer yes to that question? Ooh, pick me, pick me! The agates are settling nicely into their new home, the chinchilla has refreshed himself with a dust bath, and the cat has properly chastised us with accusatory meows. Ah, home.

On the ten-hour drive from Redding to Seattle, we stopped here, the public market in Eugene, Oregon. It was beautiful. It smelled good. It was bigger than our entire downtown.

Take me back! I’m not done soaking up culture yet! *clears throat* Ahem, moving on. Coincidentally, my husband’s cousin had just arrived near Seattle four days previous for a new job. Our last dinner was spent at Duke’s Chowder house which was so good I may have made noises while eating.

This morning we woke a little before four, sprinted to the airport, and realized that the hotel had mistakenly kept my husband’s driver’s license when we checked in last night. The good news is that you can use your Costco card as ID in order to fly. The bad news is that if terrorists join Costco, we’re doomed.

We’re home. The trip was as fun as I’ve (hopefully) made it seem here. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime adventure I would recommend to anyone. On that note, I would be remiss if I did not cite two sources that helped immensely on our journey:

In case you can’t read those titles perched artfully on the edge of my table, I’ll translate. Road Trip USA, Pacific Coast Highway by Jamie Jensen and West Coast Road Eats by Anna Roth.

Thank you for coming along on our adventure. In five years, maybe we’ll have another. (You’ll still be here waiting, right? Right? Hello?)

Pacific Coast Highway, Day 13: San Diego to Redding, Hollywood Highlights

As we enter the home stretch of our vacation, I’ve finally found the answer to two important questions:

1. How is it possible to grow enough food for the entire country?

2. Why do people say California is hot? The weather around the coast was downright chilly.

Today we drove for 10 1/2 hours on the freeway. The first half was nothing but desert and fruit trees.

When we pulled into our hotel, it was a brisk 112 degrees; we immediately headed here

Now, back to Hollywood.

Hollywood Boulevard is like a miniature Times Square. Billboards, shopping, and quirky performers abound. People dress up in costumes and charge money to take pictures with them.

That’s how we learned Minnie’s hugs aren’t free. My daughter ran up to her as soon as we arrived. We thought she was part of some show until she jabbed my husband in the shoulder and pointed to her palm for payment. The costumes ranged from really good (Iron Man) to really sad (a Spider man who looked like he was wearing a pair of footie pajamas for grownups. Not too many pics with Spidey.) Here are some more.

The Dolby Theater is the place where the Oscars are held, as well as the finale of American Idol.

Grauman’s Chinese Theater

I don’t remember what this building is called, but it’s where the old Superman show was set, and where he stood at the top holding the American Flag.

This is the nightclub where Whitney Houston sang her last song.

This was a movie prop warehouse–note the two statues from Night at the Museum.

It’s easy to see why studios support the town. They’re everywhere.

Pink’s hot dogs. I wanted to go, but look at that line!

The infamous Chateau Marmont. And, finally, what I thought was the highlight of the tour…

Stephen Spielberg’s house overlooks the city. It’s also known as Tony Stark’s house in Ironman. 

Pacific Coast Highway, Day 12: Costa Mesa to San Diego (!)

Our four year old has been an unbelievably patient and well-behaved traveler. We stuffed her into endless planes, busses, trains, trolleys and cars, dragged her up and down mountains, through cities, and to most bakeries on the west coast. Through it all she has remained cheerful and even-tempered.

So today we wanted to do something for her. But when you have limited time and a limited budget, things like Disney, Legoland, and even the zoo are out.

Enter Great Park of Orange County. They had this.

And this.

And especially this.

I think you can win any argument with “Yeah? Well my local park has a hot air balloon ride. So there.”

A hot air balloon can make even a parking lot exciting. (At least to me.) The best part? It was all free!

Further south we passed through San Juan Capistrano and the famous swallows. That’s when I realized Capistrano is in the United States. For some reason I thought it was in Italy. Geography and I haven’t always been the best of friends.

As soon as we entered San Diego County, things started to look decidedly khaki.

Ah, Camp Pendleton. Twenty miles of rough coastline belong to the marines. God bless them even more after seeing where they have to train. “Rugged” is too polite a description. At least they can look at the ocean and think how pretty it is. I bet they do that all the time when they’re hanging off a cliff.

Hard to see in this picture, but it says “HONOR.”

The freeway became a parking lot again, so we headed back to the PCH. The scenic stretch of 101 leaves me feeling a bit nostalgic for what we’re about to leave here. This is our last bit of coast, our last chance to soak up the scenery, and what wonderful scenery it is. Million dollar homes intersperse with tourist shops to perch over white sandy beaches and choppy turquoise water.

We passed through Carlsbad and Torrey Pines. (I threw that in for all you golfing fans. Hi, Tiger! My love to the kids.)

At last San Diego. Here’s a view of the harbor from our hotel.

Although I’ve seen plenty of yummy-looking Mexican food, I waited until we were as close to the border as possible and then got a recommendation from our friends who relocated from the area.

Casa de Pico in La Mesa was everything I hoped for and then some. If there’s anything I love more than sugar, it’s guacamole, so I was pretty stoked to see guacamole enchiladas on the menu.

They had a courtyard with a beautiful fountain.

And these guys.

Another attempt by my husband to interact with someone who doesn’t speak English ended in us being serenaded by the mariachi band. At first I was mortified, since drawing attention to myself in a crowd of strangers is up there with having a root canal. But then it began to seem like a fitting benediction on our vacation, and I started to feel a little weepy. Then again, we didn’t stop at a bakery today. Maybe I’m having withdrawal-type mood swings.

To round out the meal, we stopped at Mariposa Ice Cream.

I had the peanut butter and jelly flavor with a HOMEMADE waffle cone. (If you’re a fan of Veronica Mars, as I am, then you might be interested to know that it was filmed in San Diego and this was her favorite eating establishment. It’s not fancy, but it is very good.)

What’s that? You want to know about San Diego? After the frenetic pace of San Francisco and LA, San Diego seems like the quiet smart kid in the back of the room. You sort of forget about him until you need him, and then you realize he’s sort of integral to your world. That’s San Diego. Relaxed, deceptively large, and built around Balboa Park—a 125,000 acre park with every conceivable thing you could ask want. There’s the zoo, of course, plus museums, gardens, sculptures, and even this.

Sadly, we arrived at night and didn’t have enough time. (Story of our lives lately.) But it was lovely. Tomorrow I’ll post some more pics of the park along with the stuff from Hollywood.

Also tomorrow we begin the sprint back to Seattle. Something tells me it won’t be as much fun going up as it was coming down.

Pacific Coast Highway, Day 11: Golena to Costa Mesa

1. People find it interesting that we’re from Ohio. “Ohio? Wow, that’s fascinating. Neat!” Being a native Ohioan, I can tell you that interesting, wow, fascinating, and neat are not words commonly applied to my state.
2. One should not load up on juice and coffee before driving into LA traffic.
3. Speaking of LA, I heard people get discovered there all the time. I’m 35 and a size 8 in a size 0 land; it’s over for me. But I have a pretty child. Today I dressed her in a cute white outfit with bows in her hair and the instruction to “Smile pretty for the hidden scouts.”

Because we were merely passing through, we decided to take a pre-scheduled tour. And since we have a four year old who thinks double-decker busses are the coolest thing ever, we chose one of those. But first we had to get there.

Soon after Santa Barbara, the 101 turned into an eight and then ten lane monstrosity. Gone were the two-lane country rambles. This was the point where someone also apparently flipped the unseen switch to “Drive Crazy Now.” Still, there were farmlands and mountains along the way. One was labeled “organic.” I wasn’t aware smog was considered organic.

At this point, almost everything has a Spanish name. And my faulty memory is causing my husband endless frustration.

Him: You took Spanish.

Me: Twenty years ago in high school.

Him: What does el canejo mean?

Me: I have no idea.

Him: Does it mean rabbit?

Me: I have no idea.

Him: Well, what’s the Spanish word for rabbit?

Me: El rabitto.

Him: *shakes head in exasperation*

As sustenance for the journey, I broke out some Icelandic yogurt I bought from the market yesterday.

It’s called skyr, I think because that’s the sound you make when you taste it. The hubs wonders if it’s made from yak milk.

Here we are.

We had two hours to kill until the tour. Surely that would be enough time to see some sights. Hmm, what to do, what to do?

It took 45 minutes to drive six miles and pay two dollars for six cookies. Was it worth it? Yes! Not only were the cookies warm and gooey (I ate them before I could take a picture. Don’t judge me; you weren’t there), but we saw a lot of famous sights on our way—Sunset strip, Ventura Blvd, and this place.

Even though we were only a few blocks away, we barely made it back in time for the tour. I’m going to post the highlights later because I’m crunched for time, but we saw lots of neat stuff!

I didn’t expect to like Los Angeles. There’s a not-so-secret rivalry between New York and LA, as if you are supposed to choose between them. I fell decidedly in the New York camp. I thought there was no way that glitzy, sunny, sprawling LA would win me over. But it did. It was pretty, interesting, bustling, and yet it still felt friendly and welcoming.

Sadly, I did not make it to Sprinkles, the first cupcake bakery in the US. But I did make it here.

The best frozen yogurt I have ever had in my life. It tastes like nothing else I’ve ever had. Somehow it still retains the pungent tang of regular yogurt which is a nice contrast to the sweet creaminess. You don’t feel like you’ve eaten dessert after you’re done; you feel like you’ve been healthy. Dear Pinkberry, come to the Midwest. We have cows!

Finally, there was this.

500 varieties of hard-to-find soda, including the last remaining cases of real Dr. Pepper (the kind from the original bottling plant in Dublin, TX that has since been shut down, the one that uses real sugar and the original recipe.) We had some varieties shipped so it will be waiting for us when we get home—an odd souvenir for two perfectly normal people.

This is where the trip turned evil. And by evil I’m of course referring to traffic. (You thought I was going to say agates, didn’t you?) I’ve heard a lot of jokes about LA traffic. All of them are true. We sat for hours, hungry, tired, and angry at every motorcycle that wended its way between the lanes. It was at such a standstill that a banner ad flew overhead, as if we were spectators at the beach. Do those banner ads work on anyone? On a totally unrelated note, I’m suddenly thinking of switching to Geico for some reason.

We limped into our super fancy hotel (I got it for half price) feeling bedraggled and poor, never knowing who we’re supposed to tip or why. Eventually we just start handing out money to anyone who’s standing near the door wearing dark clothing. It’s possible we tipped a bank robber; at this point we don’t care. We headed to the largest, nicest mall across the street. (They had Jimmy Choos and Armani. I gawked and took pictures like a yokel.) By the time we found a restaurant (Ruby’s diner), I was too tired to even take pictures. Let me give you the mental image instead: the food was laden with calories and consumed quickly.

Tomorrow we reach the end of our trail. I can’t help wondering if this is what the pioneers of old felt like after the end of their journey, especially if they were staying at a Westin that charges $20 for JellyBellys.

PS. Somehow my child did not get discovered. I should have had her sing and dance. She’s a triple threat!