Favorites 8.12.13

Nectarines. Bright with flavor and beyond juicy just like a peach—but without the shiver-inducing baby fuzz on the skin.

Hiking through the jungle beneath a thunderstorm. You didn't expect the thunder or the rain and you're hiking in shorts but it's not cold and your bathing suit is not dry and the shadows between the trees loom in so close that you can almost touch the dusk around you and the smell and the sound of the rain hitting the leaves makes you think of a real jungle you walked through once when howler monkeys were going wild in the canopy.

Sourdough toast.  Slightly browned from the heat coils in your toaster, with a lovely crunch and that snappy sour finish. It makes everything from butter and fig jam to an avocado, cheddar and dijon sandwich taste totally incendiary.

Windblow World: The Journals of Jack Kerouac 1947-54. You can dip in and out anytime you need a bite of self-pondering romanticism or raw, beautiful language.

Favorites 7.29.13

Pattypan squash: Cute. Creamy. The only summer squash worth eating. Believe.

When dogs sniff the wind: There's a moment in a dog's day when he's lying regally by the back door and suddenly the breeze kicks up. Watch him lift his nose to the wind. See him retreat from the front of his eyes as his shining nostrils pulse. Picture how he's catapulting all over the neighborhood on waves of scent—to lilac bushes, to sputtering lawn mowers, to the zucchini rotting in the compost pile, to the dead mice under the porch and all the lotion-greased kids in the park. I just ... it just kills me everytime, guys.

Chambray button-up shirts: For summer, I used to be a cardigan woman, but that's over now. Chambray shirts for life! They're cool and casual. Layer ’em over prom dresses, tank tops, boyfriend's tee shirts, or tube tops and worry not.

David Bowie singing in Italian: The sweet harmonies of Space Oddity, done in Italian, translated as god knows what. Love you, David.

Favorites 7.11.13

 Your friends' weddings: The centerpiece of a summer night. A place where you can make poor decisions concerning alcohol and cupcake consumption. Where you power bond with new pals age 8 to 80. Where you don't say goodbye when you've reached your party limit but simply fade out the back door—off to ride a late train home through the city, phone dead, feet aching, head spinning, happy.

Weeding the herb garden: This is work, but it's also quiet time and you're creating order out of chaos and it smells really, really good in there—alternately like lavender and like rosemary—and thus it's not just a worthwhile thing but a favorite thing.

Soba noodles: Made with buckwheat, cooked with love, eaten with pleasure. So much rich, nutty flavor you can go just sesame oil and salt on top. Minimalist delicious.

The Doors, "My Wild Love": It's primordial, haunting ... is it even a song? Or is it dark magic—sweat and chanting in the deep southern heat. Does it reach your deeper consciousness? Thanks to my fave Portland couple Jen and John Vitale for this one ...

Favorites 6.14.13

The wedge salad: Do you know it? A crucial salad event—half a head of lettuce, chopped down the middle and sprinkled with blue-cheese dressing, tomato, and boiled egg. Plus (if you're lucky), more blue cheese crumbles, caramelized onions, toasty croutons, et cetera. I don't do bacon. Aaanyway, I'd never even heard of the wedge until recently. I apologize for my tardiness on this matter.

Grey's Anatomy: I'm watching the whole series, start to finish. Kinda melodramatic, sure—but there's some wow moments in almost every show. Don't start an episode unless you're prepared to blow a night on three or four. Cliffhangers.

Going home: Fun is sorta fragile. It tends not to last. When the fun expires, you can feel it in the room like a drop in the air pressure. There's a skill to identifying this moment and promptly saying goodbye.

The National, Trouble Will Find Me: Didn't you know that The National had a new album? It's nice. Fraught, and sad in a lovely way. Also, two out of thirteen songs have my name in them. A sign?

Favorites 5.29.13

French bread: The very fresh kind, from a real bakery—I'd forgotten all about it. Soft as a pillow with a lovely crunch. Employ it as a makeshift spoon to consume your bowl of soup, and be rewarded with joy.

Ray Romano: He's got this salt-and-pepper, funny-awkward thing going that I'm pretty down for.

Sleeping easily: You don't really appreciate it until suddenly you don't have it—the kind of night when you fall asleep naturally and sleep deeply, waking only once to let in the cat and maybe lie there for a moment listening to the rain out on the lawn before slipping off again.

Milk Music, "The Final Scene": Wild, beautiful stuff. Eight minutes, sure, but ride it out—it won't be a chore. Let the reaper laugh, let the mountains crumble.