Pacific Northwest Palate

After three days in San Francisco, I flew to Seattle, which will be my launching pad for a short sojourn to Vancouver and the site of my Thanksgiving feast under the patronage of the Nguyen-Lucier clan. JP hates it when I wear my navy jersey dress without a belt, as I did for my flight to Seattle. But the muu muu is quite comfy and convenient for air travel. My brother-in-law jokes that one day all men and women will resort to wearing muu muus on airplanes since they are so innocuous. Remember when Homer Simpson gained so much weight in a bid to receive disability payments that he had to wear a floral-printed muu muu? He was harmless, until he caused a meltdown at the nuclear plant.

Pinkberry, the bastion of low-calorie frozen yogurt flavored with a tangy zing, has legions of copycats in Los Angeles. Lo and behold, it also has one in Vancouver, dubbed Blueberry. Oh, why didn't those Canadians come up with a better name? It's the same thing with their Thanksgiving, which falls on the first Monday of October. Rather than labeling it Harvest Day or the Gluttony Hour, they had to call it Canadian Thanksgiving.

Fall in the Pacific Northwest was, as usual, nippy and wet. It's perfect weather for staying indoors and noshing. My travel partner, Anh-Thu, and I sampled a good variety of wine made in British Columbia's Okanagan Valley. On our first night in Vancouver, we supped at Zin, which lit up its dining room with a sensual shadow of a wine glass. Though we were the only diners at the late hour of 10 on a Sunday, Zin was one of many new establishments that recently opened in anticipation of the crowds that will throng to Vancouver for the 2010 Winter Olympics. Since the city has been growing so much in the past few years, there is a shortage of workers. In some cases, restaurants and stores have to hire foreigners from countries as far as Japan and Australia to man the businesses. Anh-Thu, who went to Whistler, B.C., before meeting me in Vancouver, said she met so many Aussies in the mountain resort that she thought she was in Brisbane.

But we didn't bother drinking any Foster Lager in Vancouver. Instead, we quaffed our thirsts with Granville Brewing Co.'s honey lager and IPA. See how crystal clear the beer is.

Sometimes we ordered food just to soak up the wine we sipped. One night, we snacked on fries dusted with cayenne pepper.

Back in Seattle for Thanksgiving, I was charged with babysitting a three-year-old named Geddy while his mom prepared six pies, a 14-pound turkey, big crusty rolls, turkey roulade and some half dozen side dishes -- all from scratch. As his dad is a huge Rush fan, Geddy is named after the band's lead singer. Geddy doesn't have any rock star tendencies yet. But he does like to ride lions and have his toy sharks be buddies with his toy whales. I took this photo of Geddy after I took him on a Bataan-style march to the grocery store to buy some of Armando Batali's salumi as edible souvenirs for my friends. For me, it was a brisk 10-minute walk down a hill. But for the 36-pound Geddy, whom I refused to carry since I was wearing a dress, it was a long trek. So I had to make up some games to lure him home. Let's race to see who can run the fastest! Let's ride the lions! Let's have the shark swim up the stair railing! Being a modern-day Mary Poppins is hard work.

Though the Thanksgiving feast was such a rich, decadent affair, I opted instead to photograph the Vietnamese lunch we had on my last day. Geddy's mom and grandmom are fantastic Vietnamese cooks. I look forward to getting them in the kitchen with my own mother. They could garner a star or two from Michelin, in my opinion.

Threaded with coconut, the sweet sticky rice made forks and chopsticks unnecessary. You could just pick up globs with your fingers.

That was just as well because we had to pick at the Dungeness crab cooked in roasted garlic with our fingers. We were joking at the table that this was a kind of meal that required the company of good friends. You would go minutes without talking to anyone as you concentrated on extracting the sweet meat from the cracked shells and licked the gooey sauce trickling down your fingers.

Hanging out with the Nguyen-Lucier clan means that I'll be well-fed even after I leave their house. Geddy's grandmom packed me a Thanksgiving dinner, along with some sticky rice and egg rolls, for the plane. While my fellow passengers scrounged at Burger King during our two-hour delay at the airport, I supped in style.

Savoring San Francisco

I kicked off my fall tour up the West Coast last week with a stop in San Francisco, where my sister and brother-in-law treated me to a belated birthday dinner at Open Door, the casual eatery run by the folks of the esteemed Vietnamese establishment called Slanted Door. For what is essentially a food court restaurant in Westfield's shopping center on Market Street, Open Door beats Panda Express hands down. Though Open Door's plating pales in comparison to its higher-end sibling Slanted Door located in the renovated Ferry Building, I tried my hand in sprucing up some quick eats like the fresh spring rolls stuffed with shrimp and pork. The polka dots of sauce that I plopped onto the plate were intended to evoke Yayoi Kusama.

For dessert, we walked across the food court to Beard Papa for some vanilla cream puffs.

You know it's a good place to eat when the lighting apparatus mimics the shape of the food.

My sister's sock puppy business is on a roll. But it's not easy for her to make these little critters by scratch, especially when she also has a demanding day job. Sometimes, the sock puppies lie around without a head, tail or legs for days.

Here's the latest addition to the sock puppy litter, a camouflage-printed pooch. I wiggled the little tyke around my sister's two sheep dogs. The real doggies wagged their tails in glee and sniffed at the fake puppy's tail. I'm such a bad human auntie.

To warm myself up on a chilly afternoon, I dropped by Citizen Cake for some hot cocoa and a chocolate cookie. The fog in San Francisco often makes me sad. But the cool mist also does wonders for my skin. That's quite the opposite of living in warm, dry, sunny Los Angeles. So I asked myself: Is it better to be sweaty and happy or to be not-so-sweaty and sad?

It's Piggy Time!

My birthday was last week. Yippee! I've always had great birthdays because my family always made a big deal of them. Come to think of it, my family celebrated every holiday, even Easter, which was an oddity because we aren't Christian. But this year's naissance was even more special because it was marked by the once-in-every-1,200-years Golden Pig, which the Eastern Zodiac deemed to be an extra lucky year. Following the cue of the boar statue that I saw sniffing around a garden in Santa Barbara, Calif., I'm declaring that it's piggy time.

All my friends know about my fascination with food and prose. Erin honored my two interests with not only a book in which I can jot down thoughts on my favorite restaurants, but also dachshund-shaped salt and pepper shakers. The seasonings flow out of the doggies' bottoms.

Emmie told me that I was too normal to inspire a character for her greeting card company. Well, I guess I can't have it all. But I do like the Lupicia green tea and Japanese pitcher that Emmie gave me.

JP gave me blue plastic sporks with clip-on handles. They're perfect for camping! The eating utensils are part of an inside-joke between me and JP. For starters, I don't camp, though I promised JP that I will adapt my urban lifestyle and accompany him on his next trip into the wild. Plus, the last time he and I used sporks was at a former KFC that was converted into a New California bistro called -- what else? -- Spork in San Francisco's Mission District. Imported from Korea, those sporks were very popular with patrons who got sticky fingers after eating the carnitas.

Continuing last year's birthday theme, I told my other friends that I wanted services for my Golden Piggy birthday. Anita gave me a gift certificate for a mani-pedi, as did Max and Josh. JP promised to transport, lodge and feed me on a weekend getaway in Santa Barbara. We had an amazing appetizer at Stella Mare on Saturday night -- sweet lobster medallions balanced on two strips of seared foie gras with brioche toast. On the other hand, the halibut poached in olive oil was bland, and we told the manager so. But the lamb was tasty. The next day, after a drive up Figueroa Mountain Road, where we spotted a bumbling school of quails as well as a dashing kingfisher, and an oh-so-yuppie wine tasting at Kalyra, we grabbed a quick meal at La Super-Rica Taqueria before we hit the road back to Los Angeles. The City of Angels is no dump when it comes to cheap and yummy Mexican food. But La Super-Rica was super buena. Plopped on the nondescript North-of-101 side of Milpas Street, neighboring businesses with names like First Step Immigration, the restaurant was miles and cultures away from chichi State Street near the beach. I tried chile pasilla for the first time. The green chilis were sauteed to soothing softness with onions and melted cheese. A bit sweet, the chile pasilla taco could have passed for a dessert.

I gobbled up the chile pasilla as an amuse-bouche before my hearty bowl of pozole, which was fortified with wholesome hominy, ripe avocado, crunchy red cabbage and mushy pork.

What a work of art.

Pleasing visual aesthetics also formed another theme for my birthday. Here I am modeling a scarf inspired by Mondrian and rendered with Van Gogh's palette, courtesy of Missy and Cory, at La Super-Rica. Scorpios rule!

Larkin's Update

After my initial visit to Larkin's in September, I returned to the Eagle Rock eatery an additional three times in as many weeks. The third visit proved futile, as JP and I were told that it didn't serve dinner on Sundays. How unSouthern! Starting at 4 p.m., with fixings such as biscuits, gravy, fried chicken and enough food to feed a high school football team on Thanksgiving, Sunday dinner is perhaps the most important meal of the week. On my most recent stop to Larkin's, I shared with the co-owner, Joshua, how blasphemous it was for him to rest on the night of the Sabbath. I understand that he and the cook need a night off. At first, they thought of closing on Tuesday nights, Joshua said. But at the last minute they decided to serve on Tuesdays and rest on Sundays. Now that the Tuesday night business keeps improving, they are loath to keep the startup dark on that particular weekday night. But the good news is that, as they develop their sea legs in the tumultuous culinary industry, they might open one or two times a month on Sundays, offering live music and accommodating only people who've made reservations. "Pray for us," Joshua said. A non-Christian, I never did memorize the Lord's Prayer, even though I was forced to recite it before every marching band performance at my South Carolina high school. But just for the sake of my stomach, I made one up really fast on the behalf of Larkin's. And then I ate.

The special appetizer on this particular Saturday afternoon was fried macaroni and cheese balls. Joshua joked that they looked like brains. They were compact comfort food. It's something I would have stuffed into my pocket and eaten on the edge of a creek while poking at crawfish with a stick.

The meatloaf sandwich would have tasted better served on Wonder Bread instead of a slightly chewy French roll, which I thought might have been a concession to gourmet Angelenos.

Having just finished a hike in Pasadena, JP and I were stark raving hungry when we arrived at Larkin's. Look at his dervish hands tear apart the fried chicken!