If you jump in a Prius with a full tank of petrol and head east out of Los Angeles, you’ll end up in New Harmony, Utah with a big goose egg on your gas gauge. 

And lucky for you, there’s a filling station right off the 15 Freeway merged with a food mart. On the radio you’ll hear proud town statistics like, “highest number of families still together living under the same roof” and “lowest number of same sex couples living together.” I had fun with the same sex stat because New Harmony is a great name for a gay town. It’s one’s final destination out of the closet. 

New Plymouth, where you can shoot wild turkeys with a musket wearing buckled shoes. New Brunswick, where bowler dudes and poodle skirt wearing chicks share cheeseburgers, soda pop and saliva. New Harmony, where same sex couples dwell harmoniously in handwoven lavender-laced yurts by Tom Ford. 

Three things that told me I wasn’t in L.A. anymore: 85 octane, 10% ethanol and a hand written sign that read, “PAY INSIDE.” I walked inside and there was a man in front of me putting five bucks on pump #1. He had a spider web on his elbow and a long brown ponytail. I’m aware tattoos are mainstream but not that one. That tattoo pretty much says that he wasn’t interested in Clooney’s most recent Obama Bash. 

I said, “Forty on #2 please,” and went to swipe my card. A women with maybe ten teeth laughed and said, “We ain’t taking no credit cards today Hun, that machine’s broke. You can go ahead and swipe it anyway though.” I don’t like being called Hun or Sweetie. I just don’t, it bugs me. I wasn’t gonna explain my opinions to New Harmony’s tooth fairy but I did look to my right for a friendly face to share my awkward moment with and what I saw was a bunch of ink-laden white dudes on stools chewing their lunch. So I dropped a twenty on the counter, walked out to my hybrid and had the feeling I was being watched. In that moment, I wished I had a pickup truck because I never felt like a pussy in my Prius in L.A. 

What am I getting at here? I don’t fucking know, I’m a writer. Well technically I’m a blogger and a chef. Hold on, this is actually a newsletter. OK, it’s a website. How about I simply call myself a poet? 

Don’t worry, I won’t binge on heroine or autoerotic asphyxiate myself into oblivion. It goes like this: if you can cook you can write, if you can write you can make music, if you can make music you can paint, if you can paint you can photograph, if you can photograph you can direct, if you can direct you can act, if you can act you can get elected for the Presidency of the United States! 

How did I get here? Let’s go back to the gas pump in New Harmony. If I wished my Prius was a pick ‘em up truck then those Aryan boys got into my head a little bit. What is it about an angry white guy that makes me wish I drove a pick up truck? Nothing actually, it was a passing insecurity and his broke ass only had five bucks to spend on gas while my broke ass was willing to swipe forty bucks of plastic cash I know I don’t have. How far can a truck get on five bucks of gas anyway? That’s like one banana to Michael Phelps, not even enough to produce a dork. 

What does this all have to do with food, cooking, recipes and hopefully inspiring you to cook? Not much, with the exception of when I got back on the 15 Freeway headed towards Green River I opened a cherry Chiobani yogurt and it exploded on my lap. That lap explosion made me think of the two times that I’ve worked with Travolta… On one of those paid occasions I signed a confidentiality agreement… The other I did NOT! 

I leave you with this culinary proverb: When life gives you lemons & oranges you make L’Orangeade. It’s a low maintenance hybrid of a beverage, please scroll down for the recipe. And for more Travolta stories keep reading my newsletter or my blog! Whatever the fuck it is?