Pumpkin Polenta Recipe with Tomatillo-Avocado Salsa

My inspiration this week- pumpkin polenta with salsa fresca.

Time Travel

It's been a hot dry week here in Studio City. Windy. Dusty. With mercury rising into the 90's thanks to the annual Santa Ana winds. Fire weather. The polar opposite of the fallish, foggy mornings I just experienced back east on my trip to New England. We stayed in Great Barrington for four burnished days of autumn's last gold, catching the Berkshires at the tail end of my favorite season. More on the trip itself (and why we went there), soon.

In the meantime, I'll share a comfort food recipe from the archive- a creamy pumpkin polenta I cooked up while living in West Hollywood. So climb into my time machine.

Notes From WeHo: Comfort food weather has WeHo citizens ditching their flip-flops and plucking pumpkin colored sweaters off hangers, while tucking umbrellas into faux leather satchels. If you can find the dang umbrella, that is. It's got to be around here somewhere, right? You used it last year.

Maybe.

Or was that the year before? The harvest moon is playing tricks with your memory again. The crows outside in the oak trees caw like the crows in tomorrow's dream. Days turn into weeks and lunch turns into next month's breakfast. Hours spill through worm holes of time like so many episodes of Lost.

And the Buddha imagines the universe. And gets it close to right. We're talking atoms, people. Particles of teeny tiny specks of even tinier teenier fragments of a single point of something so small the naked eye perceives it as invisible.

I ponder this as I walk in a stream of brittle bronze leaves.

The succession of days that adds up to a life is only a blink. The moment when you started reading this sentence is already the past. You think about this stuff as you get older. When you squint into your future you see a shorter slope than the path that winds behind you. It can cause a slippery sense of vertigo. A tipping sideways melancholy that infuses every lost opportunity with meaning, bittersweet.

I walk to the market past ninety-pound skateboarders and a gaggle of thin actors smoking outside the Lee Strasberg Institute. I weave through Russian speaking men with impossibly sad eyes and impeccably groomed wheat-blonde women carrying shopping bags of kale. I smile at my neighbor sitting on his front wall listening to Miles Davis on a transistor radio. Great music, I tell him, feeling myself altering my cadence to the beat. It's JAZZ, Baby! he shouts, laughing as I pass by. I feel his joy in my chest. And I know he is exactly right. This whole life thing? This whole circuitous method of survival called living?

It's jazz, Baby.

And you just gotta go with it.


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