Trying to make sense of the world and life through food and words.
It’s been a bizarre week. On Wednesday, I sat in a hushed room listening to an 82-year-old Holocaust survivor talk about her experience for 90 minutes straight: her move into the Lvov ghetto when she was five; hiding in a basement for two weeks; her father securing fake Aryan papers for her and her mother; the flight to the countryside, then to Sweden once the Soviets invaded; her eventual passage to the United States and all the harrowing details in between.
I find more and more excuses not to go into Santa Monica in the Summer – this year seems to be worse than ever, with throngs of people to rival Venice, Italy, traffic that snarls at snail’s pace and fellow drivers ready to knife any rivals for a parking spot. As far as I am concerned, I can wait to go to Santa Monica until next October.