The Crabby Cook - by Jessica Harper

Its very hard to get Thanksgiving-y in LA when it looks like August outside. Nature, in her recent whackedness, has been randomly eliminating the few seasonal changes we are supposed to have here. LA is just all hot and fire-scorched, relentlessly sunny.  For those of us who are used to a Thanksgiving that is cold and smells like wet leaves, it just doesn’t feel right.

I just went to NYC where I saw turkey-shaped cookies at E.A.T. and it was fifty degrees and rainy for two days (just SO November). Everyone kept complaining about the weather except me. I was all chirpy: “I am SO happy to see rain! To wear a scarf!” I’d say, alienating all the damp New Yorkers within hearing distance. Read More

Okay, so Tuesday I posted something on my Blahblahblog about the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile and then Wednesday, there it was: a piece I the New York Times Dining section about…Oscar Meyer. I know, I’m prescient, right? OMG.

Specifically the article was about the dozens of hotdogueros (hot dog vendors) in Tuscon, who sell Sonoran-style hot dogs, which are wrapped in bacon before grilling. Supposedly the bacon dog was invented by our pal Oscar, back in the fifties, in an attempt to sell more of his piggy product. Somehow, Mexicans picked up on this idea, and it evolved into a thing Mexican-Americans call their own: a bacon-wrapped dog topped with beans, chopped tomatoes, salsa verde and a squirt of mayo. Read More

If Oliver spoke English, he would tell you: a turkey burger with a little pesto thrown in is a beautiful thing. Oliver is, however, a golden retriever, so, although he is nearly perfect, his language skills are limited. But as a food thief, he has no peer.

He has, of late, really honed his counter-surfing skills; his silent stealth rivals that of a rattlesnake. I left Tom’s lovingly made, fat, juicy pesto turkey burger in the kitchen, stepping over Oliver, who was ostensibly sound asleep on the floor. When I came back seconds later, both the burger and the dog were gone. Read More

My daughter Nora is pissed off at me.

“Why do you buy things for yourself right before Mother’s Day?” she asked, irritably, when I bragged that I had just bought a panini maker, exactly what she’d planned to get me as a gift for my favorite holiday.

It is pretty shocking whenever I buy something for the kitchen, whether or not a holiday is involved, because I do it so rarely. I have limited counter space (and limited patience) for cappuccino machines and waffle irons. When things like that enter my house, they usually make their way to the garage in short order, where they cure for a couple of years before heading down to the Goodwill. Read More

You don’t hear much about St. Patrick’s day in Los Angeles. In New York it’s always so lively: parades and people barfing in the gutter. Here, it’s almost as much a non-event as Groundhog Day.

When my children were younger, there was more S.P.’s Day awareness in our house. This was because if I forgot to wear green on the day (which I invariably did since this was during the brain-challenged years), my children would pinch me mercilessly because they were taught at school that pinching is what leprechauns do to punish forgetful people like me. (That killer tuition was worth every penny.) Read More

So, here’s a story for you. A flight from Dubai empties at the Melbourne airport, a man is randomly yanked (by security) from the wad of disembarking passengers, and for once, they’ve picked a winner. (I myself have been pulled over many times, only to disappoint the friskers with no carry-on item more life-threatening than, well, once I was carrying a wrench. Long story.) The guy has, in his suitcase, an eggplant.

Okay, so far, not that interesting, I know, but then they tell the guy to drop his pants, apparently a routine request when you’re caught transporting an eggplant. (Thank God they don’t have the same rule for people carrying wrenches.)

He’s wearing black tights under his pants (always a red flag), raising suspicions (and eyebrows) and they tell him to drop the tights, too. And there, wrapped in padded envelopes and strapped to his legs, are two pigeons. Read More