A few weekends ago, I was driving down CA-2 to meet friends for what has become a quarterly dinner. That is how it goes in Los Angeles. After weeks and strings of text messages, you finally get a date on the calendar. Your place or mine? Takeout or potluck? I’ll bring the wine and that [insert item] I’ve been meaning to give you.
I’m not a great cook, but somehow I managed to make homemade dumplings with shredded carrots and just enough sesame oil. The dinner theme was hot pot. One friend brought a chocolate dessert made with miso paste; the one who hosted set the table with peanut sauces, fresh veggies, a plate of blue shrimp. We lit the pilot on the small camp stove in the center of the dining table. Watched the broth bubble. Poured the wine.
I’m usually in my head for these sorts of things—for social gatherings. That is to say, I’m usually always in my head. But I felt happy on this particular night. It started while driving down the freeway on the way to dinner, the cool air slippi…
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