I’m not really one to get precious about moving; I’ve done it about 26 times by now. But I’ve been battling a case of melancholy ever since we decided to move to the West Side a week and a half ago. It’s not like we’re going far, less than 10 miles, but I have a soft spot for this apartment’s crimson-colored walls—it’s where Neal and I met just two and a half years ago. I was just looking for somewhere to live, someone who didn’t mind that I came fully furnished. When I left here the night I came to check out the apartment $1000 lighter and with a set of keys, I was just glad to have found a place with wood floors and parking. In fact, when I woke the next morning I couldn’t remember if there was a window in my future bedroom. I couldn’t remember what color the carpet was.
But sometimes life calls for change. And Neal’s new job has him sitting in East-West traffic for an hour every night. So I’m going to pack some boxes and paint some walls and take a deep breath. We’ll be closer to the beach and have a whole new neighborhood to explore. There will be new farmers’ markets to check out and a bigger kitchen to play in. I’m going to make the most of our new home, because for the first time ever, I’m not making the move alone.
That said, I’ll probably be offline for a couple of weeks. In the meantime, here’s what I’ve been up to:
A new Farmers’ Market report – my monthly column for Serious Eats.
The first piece for my new food & politics column on the LA Weekly’s blog Squid Ink.