There’s been a bit of a buzz about Ladurée opening in Manhattan last week. I keep hoping they’d think of us on the west coast as their next expansion target, but if it’s taken them over 100 years to cross the Atlantic I won’t be holding my breath. I suppose it’s still easier to get my Ladurée fix by popping into NY than Paris though.
But that’s not to say that other people haven’t tried their hands at the macaron game. Right here in Old Town Pasadena (and also Beverly Hills) we have Lette, which offers a smaller selection.
My first tries include violet cassis, lychee (seasonal), and coffee:
I can’t exactly say Lette has cured my love for Ladurée, but the lychee one was quite beautifully done.
So…who wants to go to Paris with me 
?
Weather lore has it that back in the early days of the Rose Parade, officials made a pact with the churches that if January 1st ever fell on a Sunday, they would move the parade to the 2nd so that no one would skip out on church service…in exchange for a sunny parade day. The “contract” must have been somewhat enforced because since 1890, it has rained only about 9 times on the day of the parade. This year, my parents are visiting me specifically at this time to attend the parade as a celebration of a huge milestone for our family: my dad’s 70th birthday.
So you can imagine the anxiety has been rather high for me with our recent spouts of heavy rain all leading up to now. I was still checking the forecast while on my way to the airport. Heck, if I’d known where to go I would have gone to renogotiate that deal for a sunny parade day myself! And if a hundred anti-rain dances had helped, I would have gladly done a thousand. But no need, because as you can see in these photos, we had beautiful weather both on New Year’s Eve as people began claiming their seats along the parade route…
and on New Year’s Day as the floats, bands, and horses began their 9km march down Colorado Boulevard (part of the iconic Route 66)…
Now, about that magic number 70. We tell him it’s the new 40, and with his new meds working and his appetite back, leading to revived spirits, he might as well be 30. Which makes me a mere child…and that’s fine by me, because to acknowledge the fact that he’s 70 is to also admit that I’m no longer 21. Aging is not graceful, not because of the physical changes (ok, I’m lying, it’s totally about vanity) but because of the realization that time is non-negotiable. The irony of rushing to arrive at an age where you finally find confidence in who you are is the futile effort in slowing time down so that you could prolong the relationship you now have with your parents as an adult, free of angst from navigating the muddy waters of parent-child boundaries.
But who am I kidding, perhaps on my father’s 100th birthday I would still feel like an overprotected 20-something child waiting for him to change the windshield wipers on my car while visiting me at law school. Or the kid he held in his arms while tracing the shape of the United States on a map of the world to show me the distance between Vietnam and our new home. I do not know why some of these memories remain so vivid to me still, but sometimes I do wonder if it wasn’t in that moment that the seed was planted within me to chase all those countries we saw on that map so many years ago.
Much has been said about the special relationship between a girl and her father, in any culture, and I believe my sisters would agree when I say that each of us has an unique one with our father. Perhaps for someone who can sometimes overshare in a forum as public as a blog, I probably have the quietest relationship with him out of the three girls. I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve; it is guarded like the Hope Diamond. I keep emotions in check lest I look human. But I think unspoken love has a long tradition in the paternal side of my family…at least till my generation. We are all mellowing out, cousins and all, and I am happy to see my uncles and aunts also reaching out to show the love that’s always been bubbling just under the surface. It is entirely possible to be both stoic and sentient.
So in spite of all the things my shrink told me I’m doing that are emotionally stifling (she, btw, shockingly does not believe in retail therapy as a fix!), the blog entries here that tell stories about my family have always been an open love letter to my parents. I’m still not so good about telling people often enough that I care about them, but today, to my father on his 70th birthday, I’d like say that if I don’t tell him I love him enough, it is not for lack of it. There is no word, in any language, that could describe the depth of my feelings for my parents. They may not want to jump off cliffs like I do, but they’ve taught me courage. They may find stability in roots that I shun, but they’ve taught me commitment. They may see way more good in people than I do, but they’ve taught me compassion.
I don’t know if it’s ever possible to repay your parents for the life they give you. And it’s unlikely I’ll ever know the love of my own child (do cats count?). But perhaps in these few words today my dad can take comfort in knowing that all of his children, in our own ways, recognize his sacrifices and that we love him unconditionally. Happy birthday, daddy.
Tags: New Year's Day, Pasadena, Rose Parade, Route 66
This whole food truck craze has been going on for a while without me, but a year ago in NYC my bro-in-law initiated me into the wonderful world of fast food on wheels in his neighborhood. It was a fun way to get a hit of Mexican food on the Upper West Side. When I got back to LA, I read blogs about the food trucks in LA, dug a little bit more, and finally get around to chasing a truck here for dinner today. The Nom Nom truck was slated to roll into Old Town Pasadena after 6.30, but I wait and wait…
and it’s a no show. I had a light lunch today so I am way too grumpy to wait any longer, and it’s on to the second choice, the highly popular (on Yelp) La Estrella truck in Highland Park:
But it turns out that the truck doesn’t have the seafood dishes, so we head over to its stand-alone diner, La Estrella #3…
and my eyes, definitely hungrier than my belly, order everything that remotely looks like seafood! I have no idea how big the portions will be and the pictures on the glass window do not look like they’d be huge servings.
Highland Park is a mostly Latino neighborhood bordering Eagle Rock and Pasadena.
Looking at the fantastic mural across the street from La Estrella is a fun way to kill time while waiting for the food to be prepared:
About ten minutes after ordering, the food is ready, and in the car I can already smell the wonderful aromas of paprika, cilantro, and other steaming hot ingredients. When I get home and open up the “surprises,” I am bowled over by the sights and smells of the food. This is the shrimp taco with a kick of paprika…
The succulent, sweet ceviche tostada…
The ceviche mixta with fish, shrimp, and octopus…
And the al pastor tacos that it’s known for…
I have to tell you, I struggle to finish everything. It’s A LOT of food for just $20. The seafood tacos I had on a beach in Mexico are still the best fresh tacos I’ve ever had in my life, but La Estrella is as good as it gets this far away from the ocean. I recommend an ice cold beer with the ceviche. Yum.
Tags: al pastor, ceviche, Highland Park, La Estrella #3, La Estrella Taco Truck, Nom Nom truck, Pasadena
Remember when I wrote that the stealth bomber flies over my house for the Rose Parade each January 1st?
This year I wasn’t fast enough to film it, but today, for Memorial Day,
I catch something just as cool flying over head: vintage war planes.
So for all the mudslide and fire and earthquake dangers, it’s pretty neat to live hillside in southern California. Imagine waking up to these sights and sounds over the pretty palm trees outside my living room…the planes make the same sounds as what you hear in movies about WWII, but how amazing do they look over a peaceful sky instead of going into battle:
Hope your Memorial Day was as memorable as mine.
Tags: Memorial Day, Pasadena, Rose Bowl, vintage war planes
There are many charming small cities within Los Angeles County. And by small I mean it still takes half an hour to three times that long to get from point A to point B, depending on how lucky you are once you are on the freeway.
Past the 110 tunnels where the freeway dead ends to Arroyo Parkway, you will find Pasadena, home of the Rose Parade,
Rose Bowl (flea market),
Old Town shopping area,
Huntington Library, Norton Simon Museum, and countless architectural gems to make you (and by you I mean me) swoon:
Pasadena has been my secret garden for many years now. A quiet, elegant sanctuary just north of downtown LA and a “hop” away from Hollywood. It’s a bit far from the westside where I like to shop, but traffic is the price for living in LA. On days when I feel a little challenged, I like to drive particularly slowly through the hills over the arroyo…
and rest my tired eyes on the green lushness polkadotted by Craftsman and midcentury homes for which the town is known (more on this in another blog). At the stop signs I roll down the windows and just listen to the birds. Sanctuary is wherever you make it.
Tags: arroyo, California, Old Town, Pasadena, Rose Bowl, Rose Parade
