As one of the city’s most beloved treasures — the Notre-Dame — goes up in flames today, I feel deep sorrow and immense gratitude for our experience walking these streets so peacefully just one week ago. A day wasn’t complete without a glimpse of that beautiful, towering cathedral across the river. Vive le France.
Key learnings from our 5th annual Goren siblings camping trip: black bears eat 25,000 berries a day, our glaciers are melting, everything’s better in Canada.
Japan is an exquisite country, filled with kind people, impeccable order, and the best dashi broth and fatty tuna I’ve ever eaten. Everything is executed with the utmost attention and care. Each person we met felt like they had been waiting for us, ready to offer a cold towel at the izakaya bar after a hustle through Shinjuku Station, or draw us a bath warmed by fire and fill it with fresh mint.
Getting married on Orcas Island surrounded by the people we cherish most was indescribably magical. Lucky for us, that magic followed us across the Puget Sound as we hopped over to Lummi Island for a few days of relaxation and post-wedding bliss. Our days were long and slow, filled with salmon berries, hammock naps, leisurely bike rides, and jars of honey comb. All of the people we crossed paths with blessed us with such warmth and generosity, from the Willows Inn cooks who offered us bikes as they smoked salmon and grilled green garlic in the blazing sun, to the peony farmers who filled our house with fresh flowers. It was the perfect place to drink in this beautiful time in our lives.
A visual feast of the best weekend of our lives. Doe Bay, you’ll always hold a special place in our hearts. Photos by the lovely Lauren Kolyn.
My sister married Alex last weekend in a little town on Lake Ontario. It was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.
To witness the coming together of two people with such intention, spiritually, thoughtfulness, and love is an incredible gift. My heart is still vibrating.
Driving along the Olympic Peninsula feels like pouring out onto the earth’s edge.
We drove slow, taking in the vast and rugged coastline, eating oyster po boys and dreaming about the future along the way. We watched seals swim at sunset, befriended a deer, sunk our toes in the sand, and drank whiskey by crackling fires. It was just another beautiful Pacific Northwest weekend, until Adam asked me to marry him over coffee on our second morning. Read More
Passover is about many things. Cherishing our freedom. Committing ourselves to social justice. The power of storytelling. The bounty of spring.
Each year, we have an opportunity to celebrate, question, and interpret these themes. Each year, new faces show up around our Passover table, and the same story we’ve told holds new meaning.
For the last 5 years, I’ve been fixated on the question, “what is my relationship to food?”
Growing up, food was always at the forefront. I spent the first 18 years of my life sitting around a table with my family, eating a delicious, simple meal prepared by my mom. For years, and still now, I watched her churn out perfectly flakey salmon and quajado and Hungarian mushroom soup and chicken marbella that made the whole house smell like sweet prunes. I had the great joy of eating my Noni’s keftez and Spanish rice, thick with tomatoes and chickpeas, and crispy roast potatoes for holidays or special occasions. My 86-year-old Papu still whips up currant scones or French madeleines on an ordinary Saturday, just ’cause.
The changing of the season always takes me by surprise. Even though it happens each year, I am always struck by how it manages to creep in, quietly, doing its work in the night. Until one ordinary morning, it shows itself, as if sitting outside your window the whole time.