I am on a bit of road trip this weekend. More on those adventures soon, likely. But in the meantime …

I stopped along the way last night for a sleep. This morning, and with no other alternatives in sight, I made my way to that Place of All the Places — the hotel breakfast room. As I begin to look around, not yet combobulated and trying to figure out my coffee and breakfast-ing strategy, I become part of a morning chat with two Moms, one at a table with three kiddos, the other fucking brilliantly managing her own two tables of six littles.

Mom of Three compliments Mom of Six.

She notes just how amazing it is to make all of that, happen.

You damn skippy, Mom of Three.

You.

Damn.

Skippy.

Mom of Six smiles and says that her husband, who is “in athletics,” has said that once you go from man-to-man to zone … It’s really all the same. And then she smiles, humbly, and notes she doesn’t really know for sure, not being an athlete, or anything. We smile, nod, and proceed to go about our breakfast business.

A few minutes later … Dad of Six ambles into the breakfast room, solo. Admittedly, I dunno what “in athletics” might mean, but that dude? He looks about as in the athletics as me. Which is to say, pretty much not in any athletics, anytime, anywhere, at all. He leisurely starts making himself a waffle, all while not speaking at all to his six, busy, chattering, eating children, as Mom continues to buzz around, serving, refereeing, and doing all the things. Magnificently doing all the things, I might add. Then, she orients Dad to the breakfast room, since he seems unable to pull that off for himself, seemingly so he can finish his - still totally solo, arguably even contemplative? - breakfast prep.

I wonder …

Perhaps Dad can really only find his way one place, over and over again, reliably?

Though to be fair, and best I can tell —

He likely gets a lot of help with that, too.

Soon after, as I sit a bit away, at my own table, making my way through the breakfast sammich I have magically created in said Breakfast Room, one of those six littles (My best guess is that she is the second or third youngest of the six. Hey there, Middle-ish Girl Kid! We see you!) starts to say, quite unsolicited …

“I’m a Gaaaang-ster!”

Girl.

Same.

It happens a coupla more times, with what appears to be no response. And that, my friends? That is pretty clearly not the intended outcome, at all. Still, fear not. Like so many other Middle-ish Girl Kids, our heroine is ever resourceful. She chirpily hops off her chair, makes her way to the next-door table where her Mom has - finally - been able to perch for a bit, and says,

“Mom! Watch!

Emily taught me this.

I’m a Gaaaaaang-ster!

I’m a Gangster!

I’m a Gang-sterrrrrrrrrr!”

But now? Now.

Now there is also an arm movement.

It’s a sort of …

Jaunty, perfectly timed “And how!” Kinda thing.

Much like if Little Orphan Annie was, also, a gangster.

Because, let’s face it —

Annie so clearly was.

Her Mom, who I can barely take my trying-not-to-pry eyes off of - so struck by how she so calmly, kindly pulls all this shit off - then asks Emily’s Little Sister (the artist formerly known as MGK) to do it all again, just like she did it before. After a coupla more practice runs, Mom films it all with her phone.

Wait.

Wait.

Maybe they’re influencers?

I’ve heard tell of such business.

And … Hell.

Six kids need stuff.

Not too long after, Mom of Six herds the whole, adorable bunch to whatever next adventures loom nearby. They are wonderfully ready to roll. Hopped up on Froot Loops or something like ‘em. In it to win it. Go, them.

And Dad?

Well Dad gets more solo, quiet time.

Scrolling his phone.

Eating his yogurt.

Nary a care in the world.

Yeaaaahhhhhhh.

It’s obviously really all the same, isn’t it?

Sadly, I realize I missed my chance to tell Emily’s Little Sister that I, too, am a gangster. But you know what? I’m not that worried about it, really. I bet she just knew.

Because game?

Game recognizes game.

1. A communications piece needs to be drafted and distributed with urgency. You send some notes to assist and get an impromptu call to correct your poor judgment in changing some initial words.

2. The relevant script then starts getting redrafted in places and by people with and for whom you have no useful script-related context, because you’re not in on it. Which is cool, as there are approximately 43 other things expected of your time and energy in about the next 18 minutes. (Give or take.)

3. Late(ish) that same Friday evening, you receive what appears to be a mostly-approved-by-multiple-people script, with a note that the beginning is not correct for its intended audience (Spoiler alert — That’s right on. It’s definitely not.) You make changes that still adhere to the draft, as it’s your understanding it has been drafted and approved elsewhere for reasons, again, unknown and not including, you. Then you send it back.

4. The person with whom final approval rests sends it back again, now questioning why the most irrelevant-to-the-intended-audience dreck is there, at all.

5. But … Wait. No. They don’t send it back to you. After all, that’s not the proper chain of command, you silly goose.

6. It gets sent back to you by someone else, to presumably … Fix it? Some more?

7. Then … It’s 7:08 on Saturday Morning when you send back what you hope to be a coherent upgrade to what should be a pretty straightforward communications piece. To be fair, you are also pondering whether bourbon is a superior breakfast drink to your usual espresso, neither of which you’ve had, yet.

Because you can think about two things at the same time.

Or you at least like to pretend you can.

And it’s 7:08.

On a Saturday morning.

Also — It seems Ole Dante was severely, spiritually misguided. Because that’s seven levels. And we ain’t even done yet.

So … Yeah.

Bourbon?

Superior breakfast beverage.

For you fellow book and word nerds out there, frowning and waving your library cards in my general direction … yes. I know. I even know, you know. Of course we know. (Though I admittedly did use the robot-facilitated internets to double-check, since me and Dante have been out of one another’s closer company for a bit.) There aren’t seven levels of hell, though the more common cultural reference tends to suggest there are.

Nope.

There are NINE.

Nine circles, actually.

And the upcoming eighth circle?

It includes …

Pimps.

Flatterers.

Hypocrites.

AND thieves.

Squeeeeeeeeeeeee!

I do so love having something to look forward to.

Imma just sit back, sip my Pappy Rye, neat, and await their arrival.

• 🏆 Lobster Roll

  Broad Street Oyster Co.

  Grand Central Market — Los Angeles

  https://www.broadstreetoyster.com

  https://www.instagram.com/broadstreetoysterco

This was, without question, the best lobster roll I’ve ever had. Studded with uni and caviar, because apparently we were not here to be subtle. Sweet lobster, briny depth, richness layered on richness — indulgent in a way that felt intentional, and perhaps even a little ridiculous, in the best way.

I remember thinking, mid-bite, that this wasn’t excess for the sake of spectacle. This was precision luxury — and that, friend? That is something to which I can certainly aspire.

Truth is —

I’d eat it again tomorrow.

I’d plan a trip around it.

Hell.

I already kind of have.

• 🏅 Everything. Every. Last. Thing.

  Herb & Omni

  Whitefish, Montana

  https://www.herbandomni.com

  https://www.instagram.com/herb.and.omni

There are dinners you remember because of where they happen. Then there are the ones you remember because of how they make you feel — just after the caviar chip and right before you dive, ever so delicately, into the most beautiful beet salad in all of creation.

I try to get to Whitefish for at least a coupla days each year. This time around, in early November, I went to celebrate the finished first draft of my first book. With that necessary toast — or set of them — in mind, a restaurant I’d heard about but never visited felt like exactly the right choice.

Herb & Omni is tucked into Whitefish’s beautifully restored 101 Central building. The menu is seasonal and locally sourced, executed by a chef with a storyteller’s sensibility, and served with equal wryness and skill in rooms as warm and intimate as a friend’s living room — just with better lighting. And waaaaaay better food, of course.

Chef Earl?

This man knows some shit.

Run.

Don’t walk.

• 🌟 Bubbles. Brine. Boy. Oh. Boy.

  Taylor Shellfish

  Taylor Shellfish

  Multiple Locations — Seattle, WA

  https://www.taylorshellfishfarms.com

  https://www.instagram.com/taylorshellfish

Taylor Shellfish isn’t about novelty. Best I can tell, it’s about simple things done so shockingly well they transcend. A couple of Seattle-based colleagues suggested their Melrose location years ago, and since then — I can’t stop going.

Taylor Shellfish has been family-owned and operated since the 1890s, harvesting and growing sustainable shellfish in the Pacific Northwest. It all started, it seems, with some dear great-great-grandfather and a fledgling oyster operation in the Puget Sound.

Bless that bless-ed man.

And bless his successors.

Now five generations in.

While oysters are always obligatory here, Taylor also does this other thing — another suggestion from those same colleagues — fresh Dungeness crab served with what I’m told is a crab-fat aioli.

Dude.

Duuuuuuuuuuuude.

A few years,

A few dozen oysters,

A few bottles of good champs,

And a few aioli-ed crabs in …

You.

Must.

Go.

Burned anything.

(Though maybe that does happen, once in a great while.)

Ruined a recipe.

(Rare, and still … See above.)

Forgotten a name or a ribbon or a delivery.

(I think — fingers crossed — that this is one that has never happened. Even so, do I occasionally, maybe have a sparkly December nightmare about that happening? Perhaps once or twice.)

Nope. It simply means I’ve gone too far, again. Invariably, I’ve already been at it for a few days, by then. My “cooking” yoga pants and concert tee are likely able to walk, right out the door and down the street, on their own. But me? I just keep putting ’em on again, each morning. The countertops in my small kitchen are overwhelmed. The equitably small fridge and freezer are bursting at their seams. And the floor in the living room? That may also be increasingly full of boxes — a few that once held other boxes, still other that will hold all of the incredible goodness causing the kitchen to threaten a strike.

And yet—

My current home … An adorable, functional space of about 850 square feet …

It smells like chocolate, good butter, dark brown sugar, and—

Healthy doses of authentic, even passionate, love-to-give-more-than-I-receive holiday spirit.

Plus, maybe, that concert tee, just a little.

And still — my brain is whispering,

You could also make…

Or it used to, anyway.

That didn’t really happen this year.

Score.

This year, and with these few weeks I have away from my more usual work life, I started out with a fundamentally different approach. Most of that, I think, was meant to absorb the other work I also wanted to accomplish. I am working on the last set of drafts — pre-query — of my first book. It’s a memoir, of a kind, from a writer, of a kind. And I’m certain we’ll talk a lot more about that soon, especially in the New Year.

Still.

In the meantime.

This year —

Bake and cook.

Plus draft and redraft.

Hmmmmm.

I love this part.

I really do.

Even in the line-crossing moment when I most have to remind myself.

Did I mention that I love this part?

I really do.

I also genuinely love all the parts that lead up to it. I adore the planning, having a deep love of pretty much any kind of planning. The little, ever-in-the-first-grade, arithmetical math whiz? She loves the recipe scaling, the problem-solving, the calculations of baking and cooking … Just a little bit more. A touch more than what has been deemed enough. Just enough more to share, more widely.

For me, there’s also deep satisfaction in repetition, the growing recognition that comes with doing it over and over again, and finally, the ongoing refinement only made possible by those first two.

Recipe mastery.

But then—

Recipe tweaks.

New recipes from treasured older ones.

And, practically always—

Better chocolate.

Better butter.

Cleaner cuts.

Less waste.

Yaaaaaaay.

Ho, ho, ho.

Given that need to rescale and reconfigure this year, though, I started thinking about mapping out my approach several weeks ago. I cut usually yearly recipes, for instance, that required both semi-extensive baking and could prove harder to maintain freshness for any length of time. So — no cakes. Then, I settled on one less cookie recipe, and added a coupla every-few-years items that prove both delicious and portable.

Ultimately, this year’s list was not small:

• Peanut Butter Balls

• Hot Cocoa Mix with Handmade ’Mallows

• House Spiced Nuts

• Hello Dollies

• White Chocolate Snowflake Shortbread

• Rice Krispies Treats*

*Before I end up lying on myself … The Rice Krispies Treats? Those were a late addition. There is just no way you can not find a good, yummy use for fresh ’mallow scraps and leftovers. And as a middle child of Generation X? The Rice Krispies Treat is PEAK nostalgia, especially if you had a mom who, like mine … did not bake.

Double score.

With my calendar — and its daily to-dos dutifully color-coded and mapped — I was ready to go. Cooking, baking, and holiday merriment? One hue. Chapter pre-reads, additional drafts, and other manuscript work? Another shade, of course.

And how did it go, you must be (hopefully) wondering, reader-friend? Pretty freaking great, all things relative and considered. One thing I am finding … The same instincts and traits that make me a really good home cook — precision, foresight, calibration, restraint learned the hard way, over time … Those are some of the same ones I’m learning to trust differently, on the page, as I create ’em.

Things like—

You don’t need to say everything.

You don’t need to make six versions of eleven different things.

And maybe most?

You don’t need to prove your care, your skill, or your intention by exhausting yourself. Sometimes the most generous act is stopping before the system collapses. So this year, I stopped, and I even managed to do it when planned. (With that later rice cereal treat addition, of course.) Then I packaged what was made. I stacked the boxes. I cleaned the counter.

And on the cooking front?

I did not add Maldon salt just because I could.

And also because …

Do y’all really think my not-cooking mom did that, circa 1979?!

Instead, I let good butter do its job.

And on the writing front?

I trusted the gift of really good first drafts.

And then I made those suckers so much better.

I then noticed the moment when continuing could have tipped from joy into obligation. It was a few days ago, now, and … My little place? Real, real full. My concert tee? Real, real ripe. My writing schedule? Not quite really behind its calendar, but almost. Still — I chose not to cross it. I tilted a bit, perhaps. But tip? Noooooope.

That recognition—

which led to the ability to choose?

That felt newish.

And even a little radical.

So me?

I’ve decided to keep doing that shit.

Because just maybe—

the hardest part isn’t knowing how to do the thing.

It’s knowing when the thing is already enough.

Score.

I love both the pleasure of my own company and the company of others in fairly equal measure. Still—there is nothing quite like the former, especially when a devoted home cook like myself is craving two things:

• the delicious nostalgia of a traditional Thanksgiving meal

• a luxurious, solitary chance to fool around with those recipes, my table-scaping, and other holiday joys

The result? A full feast, cooked by me, for me. No audience. No commentary. No family performance art. Just a woman in her (early, thank you very much!) fifties making a Thanksgiving dinner because she wanted the flavors, the ritual, and the smell of turkey roasting in this incredible, little bachelorette pad she lives in—quite happily—by herself.

And honestly? It was kind of fucking glorious.

OK — Maybe even more than kind of.

The table was more decorated than necessary for one person, which was likely the entire point. I set it exactly how I wanted: “maximalist” and maybe even at design odds with itself — paisley, florals, pumpkins, little red cocottes filled with sides. A table that might’ve looked over-the-top for guests (or not), but was just right for me this year.

Even so, there’s at least one beloved person it absolutely would have looked over-the-top to: my best friend and Dad, Joe. Our approach-based differences aside… Joe was a helluva family holiday cook, and we spent many happy years—several of us together—benefitting from that.

Dad died ten years ago this December. It hardly seems possible. That it’s been that long. That it will stretch out even and ever longer, across time, while still feeling like no real time has passed at all.

Among his countless great qualities, Joe loved him a “lil bun sammich.” Especially around those roast-meat, soft-roll holidays. That man could take leftover turkey, a soft roll, and a smear of mayonnaise (or maybe even ketchup—yikes) and build an entire “this is the reason I cooked all this damn food and invited y’all over” sort of mood around it.

Joe wasn’t fancy. Joe wasn’t picky. Joe wasn’t dramatic.

Dad appreciated good food in simple combinations—the kind of man who collected small pleasures quietly. The kind of man whose funeral, ten years ago this December, was so full that dozens of fellow firefighters lined the aisle in dress uniforms, serving proudly, tearfully as his bereav honor guard. The kind of man who deserved a better ending than he got—end-stage cancer being a swift and vicious partner—but who was loved enough, and loved so deeply, that a great many people showed up.

And at Dad’s post-funeral gathering? Of course there were lil bun sammiches.

Soft little rolls you could tear apart and fill with meat and memories and whatever else you needed to get through that terrible, terrible day.

Lil bun sammiches as comfort food.

Lil bun sammiches as grief food.

Lil bun sammiches because Joe loved them.

And lil bun sammiches because we all sure loved us some Joe.

A couple days ago, I made a sourdough version—Joe’s Lil Bun Sammich Rolls—because I sometimes need that sort of ritual now, in all of its many forms. And because, though it’s not true every year, I especially needed it this year.

Often—

Rolls matter.

Small comforts matter.

Food built from memory matters.

Being happily solo this year, I cooked up a storm: bone-in turkey breast, cornbread and sourdough focaccia stuffing, Yukon Gold mashed potatoes, roasted carrots and Brussels sprouts, roasting-pan gravy, fresh cranberry–blood orange sauce, and of course—those rolls. I plated it all from that highly adorned table like I was serving someone I loved.

Because I was.

Myself.

And also my Dad, Joe.

It seems certain enough I was also serving the part of me that spent too long letting other people dictate the emotional temperature of every holiday. But we’ll get to all that, reader-friend, some other soonish time.

In the meantime—

This is the soft-roll, soft-launch version of what our shared community, mouthy., is going to be: food, lineage, grief, humor, inheritance, truth-telling, and unapologetic joy wherever I - wherever we - can find it.

It’s not always going to be pretty. It’s unlikely to be polished or light all the time. It’s not performative wellness. It’s a little sharper than that. A little more real. And a helluva lot more centered on what authentic healing looks, taste, smells and feels like.

And today, as I glance resignedly at the dishes still waiting for their turn, and with far more enthusiasm at the lil bun sammiches awaiting me, some truths feel simple:

I made a feast for myself.

I ate it with complete satisfaction.

And Joe’s rolls turned out beautifully.

Not perfect.

Still close enough to feel like a small act of devotion.

Given that lack of culinary perfection, I’ve already rewritten the recipe and plan to tackle it at least one more time this holiday season. Trust and believe—when I get closer to roll nirvana, I’ll share it.

Today, I’m just sharing this:

I fed myself well, and it mattered. I hope you have and will do the same. And here—we’ll figure out how to keep doing that.

Together.