coastal coziness

I don’t know if anyone would describe the beach as “cozy.”  I might, especially when I think of East Coast beaches in colder weather, with their cotton sweatshirts plastered with ironed-on logos, denim jeans, and fleece blankets draped on wooden patio furniture.  When I moved to California, I imagined I was bidding farewell to that delicious ocean coziness, and trading it for adapting a bathing suit as second skin.  That was cool with me. Year round 70-degree weather meant year round shirtless volleyball players, and I was willing to take a break from cold beach coziness for some long term summer fun.  But surprise, surprise! A trip to Malibu illustrated I could have both. 

I’d been to Malibu a few times. For those of you who haven’t, don’t be mislead by the “Malibu Barbie” stereotype. Malibu is an escape from the crazy urban lifestyle of Los Angeles. It’s quiet, a long road surrounded by cliffy beaches and mountains.  There are houses, and there are likely celebrities, but they all stay tucked away in the diverse foliage, reading their books and drinking Caipirinhas.

On Memorial Day weekend, Malibu was cozy, but for an entirely different reason. The PCH was crowded, filled with travelers looking for some rural beach time. My father, not wanting to put Mish and I through traffic-hell, suggested we turn around and do Paradise Cove another day. We were not as easily swayed.  Though traffic in Los Angeles is pretty awful, traffic on the PCH can be a vacation. You just need to do it right. Bring a beer (if you’re like me and in the backseat), a magazine (I selected Lucky Peach), roll down the windows, and blast some classic rock. Traffic? What traffic? This, of course, being said by the girl with a beer and not being the wheel…:)

 Much to our delight, traffic eventually dissolve and we were left zooming down the highway, waving at the surfers and the palm trees, keeping our eye out for the campy and oh-so-wonderful, Paradise Cove.

Paradise Cove. I had never been there, but I heard it was expensive and awesome. It was. Paradise Cove wins because it’s assembled beautiful location, comfy chairs, booze, food, and beach all in one area. You pay for parking (and then quickly forget about it), buy some Bud Light Lime from the convenience store, and sit with your toes in the sand until the beach bums call you in for your table.   Mish and Dad opted for a bottle of champagne, while I sipped BL lime with my legs propped up on the chair beside me. No bottle opener? Ask the people next to you, fellow beach-lovers also drunk off bubbles and the sun. You are GOOD. 

We waited about an hour before our table was called, which is the perfect amount of time to finish a 16oz beer and a bottle of Dom Perignon.  We sat outdoors, and it was warm. I wore a pink dress and no bra (!!!), and Mish still donned her flower headband we had recently purchased on the shores of Venice Beach.   It wasn’t the fireplace and baked bread feel of Virginia winter coziness, but it was it’s own lair of comfort. The umbrellas blanketed us in shade, the booze massaged us into relaxation, and the crushing rhythm of the waves echoed against the sand.   With my mom and my dad, two of my favorite people in the entire world, I felt very safe.

 Okay. The food. We ordered steamed clams, served in a white wine and butter broth. Three ingredient simplicity, served with a basket of extra crispy fries. They weren’t crispy because they were thin, no, they were crispy because they were dipped in twice the amount of oil twice the amount of times necessary. This creates a perfect fry. Ketchup? Maybe. I prefer to dip those bad boys straight into the buttery, satin clam broth. White wine+fried goodness is heaven on earth, friends. Chalk another point up to the cozy factor.

Our entrée, which we all split, was a delicious pot of Paella. Mish has a soft spot for Paella, and cooks an outstanding dish back in our Virginia kitchen.  The broth, saffron, and rice waltz away together to create a creamy risotto.  On top of the golden rice bed sits green peas, a plethora of seafood, and andouille sausage. All have had a minute or two to play in their Paella sandbox, and therefore have had ample time to absorb the flavors and fill with juice.  Though not the same as a homemade VA Paella, this feast serves as the lover on a cozy evening. Warm, intoxicating, and you eat way more of it than you probably should.

 

So I’ve reached my point. Despite weather inching into the 80s, scratchy sand and salty air, Malibu is still a cozy place.  It’s strange that place making the world look so big (have you SEEN the Pacific?!) can make one feel so safe. True, I was spoiled with ample amounts of familial love and boozey goodness, but I will continue to appreciate the comfort the ocean can bring.  You might not be the Atlantic on a November eve, but you are Pacifically you, and I like that.

 

to health and handholding

Today I am internally celebrating. The heat wave is (almost) over, Friday night is rearing it’s head, and  four-year-old Weston survived a set of chin stitches.

Wes is four, and has now been to hospital more times than he is old. His mom, a Phish-lover and former East-Coaster, gave me the run-down of his previous injuries, and it only took me a few minutes to that this spunky guy had a LOT of energy, and needed to exercise it. I started nannying for Wes and his 8-year-old brother, Dylan, about two months ago, my second week in Los Angeles.  Since then, we’ve strolled the promenade, modge-podged, played hockey using brooms and marshmallows, decorate cookies, eaten sushi, and made several lego hottubs. I served them their first mocktail, and was severely scolded for over soy-saucing white rice.  We’ve even had a slumber party, staying up until 9pm and participating in Dylan’s favorite pasttime: sharing embarrassing secrets. And now, we’ve gotten stitches.

Short version of the story: The three of us were hanging out in the classic childhood fort setup. Four chairs, one sheet, and battery operated candles. We set up fans, I put out a bowl of popcorn, and the boys were cozy in their pajamas. Life was good. Until the parents came home, and in his excitement, Wes took a step off the couch and went chin-first into the coffee table.   Mom was calm, Dad checked out the wound and decided stitches were in order, and Dylan and I held down the literal fort as Wes went off to get his repairs.

 

and then he was six foot

Hello friends. It is Thursday, five o’clock somewhere, and the bar flies (though this seems incredibly inappropriate for Santa Monica) of Sonoma Wine Bar are donning their sunglasses while playfully sipping pinot noir.  My little bug, which some of you know as Caroline, is getting her doctor’s appointment at the Volkswagen dealership, and I am stranded along the Pacific coast with nothing but a handful of test assignments and the impending pressure to FIND JOB NOW.  Thankfully, there is FREE WIFI.

20 years ago, I did not think that I would be living in a nearly empty Los Angeles apartment, watching Lilo and Stitch and eating cheap vegan Thai food.  I did not think I would be counting the stars on my back, consistently googling “wine specials” and “free trial,” or relishing in unexpected, long-distance communication. No, I was three-and-half, and a little too preoccupied with the birth of my soon-to-be-sibling.

I don’t remember my reaction when my parents told me I was going to be a sister, but they’ve told me they made it sound as centered around me as possible. “YOU’RE going to be a big sister. YOU get a baby brother/sister. This will be YOUR BABY.”  Up to this point, I had been the only female born into the Kohr family in several generations, and was therefore commanding the attention of every single member of my extended family. My reaction to a new offspring could have been quite sour. Luckily, my parents framed it “just so,” and the arrival of this mystery package fueled my excited like a carton of Pixie Stix.

When Aaron was born, he looked like a beautiful old man. When he was one, he was the cutest child on the planet: big eyes, auburn hair, and he waddled around in a fluffy diaper like a penguin. I was obsessed with him. He was obsessed with me.  We shared a room, the upstairs loft of my parents’ then bachelor pad, and therefore lived the childhood dream in our little playtime nursery.  He only ate white food, had already gotten stitches, and liked trains. His most mischievous moment was kicking me around the kitchen after I had stuffed both legs into one legging-hole, and proceeded to fall onto the tile floor. (My dad has the whole thing on video. I was not helped, rather laughed at.  However, siblings have a special unspoken forgiveness, and I was laughing right along as I slid across the floor.)

When we moved to our new home and into separate rooms, the current residence of my parents and brother, Aaron could stand comfortably under the counter-tops.  On Christmas Eve, we would lean over our former glass coffee table, wearing matching footie pajamas and debating over what to write to Santa. (We are always on our best behavior, duh.)

 As children, we ate white rice and ketchup, microwave popcorn, and Wildberry poptarts.  We sang ‘”Sound of Music” and told jokes on the platform of a brick fireplace, and played GameBoy Color on two-hour road trips to Ammie and Pop-Pop’s.  We’ve since graduated to Unagi and homemade pizza, though on occasion (as per past blog post,) we’ll take a trip down our childhood memory lane and indulge in the artificial flavors of our youth.

One food memory, shouts very loudly when I think of my sweet little brother. I was not in the picture at the time, probably covered in Barbies somewhere, but he was sitting in his high chair, smiling wide for the camera, and clutching a bright green apple. (Note. Green apples have a white interior. Therefore, this food was deemed acceptable by Aaron.)

Mish: *behind the camera, please read in a slightly playful/teasing voice* Don’t you throw that apple…..Dooooon’t you throw that apple!

Aaron: *ADORABLE BABY GRIN* 

Mish: *still teasing* Aaron, you’re gonna be sad if you don’t have your apple.  Don’t you throw that apple!

Aaron: *heaves apple across the room as far as his baby arm can.* 

Pause.  And then..

Aaron: *Look of utter distress* ME APPLE……!!!

To Aaron (whom I know my parents will show this to), HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! And I love you. I don’t have the appropriate equipment to whip up our traditional, shove-in-your-face yellow cake, but tonight, in your honor, I date the green apple.