I knew I needed a little break when the neti pot poured out of my mouth and not my other nostril. And I could still breathe. And gargle to myself: Sigh…why is my head doing this…?
So much has happened since last time: CARMAGEDDON (the uneventful closing of LA’s 405 this weekend. I think it’s more fun to say “Carpocalypse”), I taught my first Turbo Kickbox warm-up to a real live class and didn’t completely suck(!), my roommate’s art show opened (check it thru August 6!), my good girlfriend visited for the weekend, I discovered Alibi Room in Venice (mmmini tacos), I got to pet a puppy Husky while buzzy on margaritas (sensory overload!), I got some freelance work at BLT, I saw Carlos Calvo rock the axe at Genghis Cohen, I cried myself to sleep a few times, laughed hysterically, shopped at Albertson’s with January Jones, signed up for UCB Improv 301 with Eugene Cordero, saw Beginners (thumbs up!), learned a hard lesson in scheduling and proving myself in this town, AND:
I discovered the Hollywood Farmer’s Market. What fresh
hell heaven is this!
I have always wanted to visit this market. Mainly because I go to a kickboxing class at 24Hr Fitness right across the street on Sundays. This past weekend, I had $10 in my pocket and thought — no, I shouldn’t. I should save my m—— no, f-it. I wanna see something new.
If you have never been. Or if you haven’t been yet this season, please know that it is PRIME PLUOT PICKIN’Z, PEOPLE. I am not kidding. They are ridiculously sweet and juicy and yes you will have to fight me for them.
This ice cream comes in flavors like salted caramel, Intelligentsia espresso and strawberry buttermilk. They give out samples. And they don’t make a fuss if you return with a mustache and ask for another one. Also, if you are making these caramels, you can totally find big ole vanilla beans at this stand for $8 (way better than the dried scabs they sell at the grocery store for $12).
A bit of obscene fruit photography. You’ve become a woman. Yicky.Some of what’s so brilliant about the market is the sampling. They know what they’re doing, those growers. You think “Ah, just one slice – what, an eighth? – of a plum and I’ll be on my way.” And 2 seconds later, you have both hands submerged in a dish of sliced fruit, your cheeks ruddy with sticky red juice, and you’re shamelessly bartering for the maximum load for the limited cash you have in your wallet. I say this from experience.
I walked away with my $10 gone, but my bag full of figs, pluots and okra.