This is my 9th or 10th trip to New Zealand since 2011, but most of those have been all-too-brief work trips that put me in mountains of meetings vs. stunning mountain ranges; and sailing through back-to back meetings vs. well, you get my drift.

Each trip, however, has been marked by one thing: the amazingly warm, fun-loving people who seem to have found the key to a joie de vivre and lifestyle that is altogether enviable. It strikes me that there is a genuine goodness and often-present kindness in Kiwis and the way they walk through life. Not to mention their wicked sense of humor. And while I shouldn’t generalize, I have yet to be disabused of this opinion.

What made this last trip so different was the chance I was given (infinite thanks to my good friend, Rob who put on this entire adventure to showcase all the NZ has to offer) to explore Aotearoa/New Zealand’s South Island. We got to see everything from the rugged beauty of the Southern Alps, to the land used for sheep farming, forestry, arable farming, wine growing and more, and witness the rebirth of Christchurch.  Along the way we also visited some of the country’s hottest tech startups who showed off their potentially world-changing innovations.

On a quick stop to Wellington, I was also able to visit Parliament and headed up to the speaker gallery – something I’ve done in neither the U.S. or the U.K. The arguing back and forth (surely, some of it performative) reminded me strongly of the House of Commons back home.

New Zealand feels like I’m putting on a very comfortable pair of shoes. As we were driving from Blenheim towards the Rainbow Road (more on that later), I commented to my fellow road-trippers that looking out of the left side of the car, we could easily have been in England: cropped green grass, dotted with fluffy white sheep, verdant hedgerows and wildflowers; while flying by the right window were majestic gold and purple mountain ranges, covered in pines, that could so easily be mistaken for parts of Montana. And behind us, in and around Blenheim, row upon row of beautifully manicured vines reminding me of my home in California.

And then there are the heritage buildings: from red brick Victorians that remind me so much of parts of the U.K., to the ornate wooden-sided homes in areas like Ponsonby, Auckland, which echo of San Francisco. Not to mention the fact that Auckland, Wellington, and so many other cities and towns, are built along the water.

There is also a strong equestrian culture, which is perhaps surprising for such a small country with a population of around 5.5 million; but there’s plenty of space for people to keep horses at home, and I’ve been lucky enough to visit a couple of Kiwi friends who do just that, and frankly I’m a tad jealous. Yes, yes, the grass is always greener – quite literally in this case.

The Rainbow Road

Before I sign off, let me take you on a trip down the Rainbow Road which is a stretch of land owned by Rainbow Station, who charge $60NZD for cars/4×4 vehicles to cover the 112km from St Arnaud down to Hanmer Springs.

The gravel road is only passable in the summer—there is a small ski slope near the Blenheim-end in winter. For much of the journey you travel alongside the river, fjording through it is a pretty fun experience in a 4×4 truck, and as part of a convoy of about 18 vehicles we had a great time egging each other on, and radioing back and forth about gates that needed closing, hikers up ahead, and the depth of the swollen river at certain crossing points – it has been a wet summer. 

After stopping for lunch at Lake Tennyson, we continued on the journey towards Hanmer Springs. Typically from there, it’s a journey of just under two hours to Christchurch, which has been entirely rebuilt since the devastating earthquake in February 2011.  We made an unscheduled stop at Hanmer Springs and enjoyed the mineral hot springs to wait out a road closure caused by a severe traffic accident, before doing the final leg of our journey. While it was a loooong day with over 12 hours on the road, it was so well worth it to experience the natural beauty.

So would I move to New Zealand?

Back in 1998 I made a huge life change: I moved to San Francisco solo from London. At the time I thought it would be a fun thing to do for a couple years, maybe three max. But as the saying goes, life is what happens when you’re busy making plans. So here we are, 28 years later—that sounds wild to say out loud—and I am still living in California. While New Zealand really is appealing, at this point in my life, it’s too far away from my other center of gravity: England, to be anything more than a pipe dream. But if life has taught me anything, never say never.

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The price we pay for loving and being the custodian of any animal, is that at some point we have to make hard decisions for them, and put their interests first, not ours. While Electra was my second dog (excluding my childhood pets), she has since become one of five black Labs who’ve been a part of my family with Monkey. 

After we lost my heart dog, Hector, when Electra was just three years old, she grieved so deeply—taking to her bed, losing her fur, and generally showing signs of a deep depression—that I had no choice but to rescue Tank. In all likelihood, Tank was a Lab/Mastiff cross, although I never did a DNA test on him. Sadly he was in poor health, and much older than we were led to believe, so he was only with us for a couple of years before we said our sad goodbyes. 

Just two weeks later, we adopted Grace after her owner passed away suddenly. Aged 10 when she came to live with us, we didn’t expect her to spend much time with us, but she defied all our expectations and lived to the grand old age of 15 years and eight months. She was the sweetest, and goofiest, of our dogs, and being Hector’s niece, holds a special place in my heart.

Grace’s passing certainly had an impact on Electra, who by then was 11 and starting to slow down, and noticeably took a dip once she was a solo dog. So along came Arthur in the spring of 2022, a chunky black Lab puppy who has since grown to be a gigantic 82lbs and thinks every other dog is, like him, the size of a baby elephant. Over the last three years, Arthur has given Electra a new lease of life: tearing around together doing the zoomies, pouncing on her when she least expects it, and being sweet and cleaning her face and even patting her. Without a doubt, he has given her a reason for continuing to be.

But this post is really about our dear sweet Electra, who came into our lives aged 8 weeks old in August 2010. She was a sibling substitute. Monkey really wanted a brother or sister, which wasn’t going to happen, and so a puppy was the next best thing I could muster. 

While it’s hard to recall intimate details as far back as 2010, I do know that I was a single parent, running a consulting firm in downtown San Francisco, and Monkey was eight years old and in 2nd grade. I had no choice but to bring this little puppy to the office with me every day. What the hell was I thinking? As if my life wasn’t complicated enough.

To start, as she hadn’t had all her vaccines, she was too vulnerable to even walk from the parking lot to the office, so I’d carry her the two city blocks to the entrance. And she seemed to get heavier by the day, which of course is true as puppies grow like weeds. 

My young colleagues naturally loved the distraction of a teeny Lab fur ball in the office; while I had to schedule her potty breaks in between conference calls, which never went to plan. For one, Electra has always hated shiny slippery floors, so I couldn’t even get her to the elevator without much cajoling. And once we were outside, there was no way she was going to pee on the gritty concrete sidewalk of downtown San Francisco. So I’d stand there, begging and pleading, but nope. Naturally, as soon as I got her back into my office she’d go on the floor. Then there was hoping that she’d stay asleep in her crate just long enough for me to finish a conference call without the insistent puppy yapping starting up.

Somehow I survived and she thrived, and throughout it all, she and Monkey became the fastest of friends. My attempts to prevent him and his eight year old friends from winding her up and making her a crazy, jumping fiend, were to no avail. They reveled in tearing around, playing Pokemon with her and each other, and play-attacking each other nonstop. 

In 2011, she moved with us from San Francisco to Petaluma, and somehow on moving day, we lost her. We’d just finished unloading the big truck outside our new home, and I realized that she had escaped. I couldn’t believe it, or bear the thought that we could have been so careless. Thankfully one of our handsome Irish movers was quick to scour the neighborhood and quickly located her.

We soon settled into our new home, a bigger yard and local walks. We’d drop Monkey off at school each morning and she’d join me either for a hike around our local regional park, up and down steep hills and on deer trails, or she’d come on a two-mile run with me. She was fit and healthy and an easy, happy dog to have around. 

She has always had a love of socks and shoes, and thankfully never chewed them, although guests are often a little perturbed to find that one of their sneakers wasn’t where they’d left it. She used to hoard all sorts of things in her bed and if anything had gone missing, it was always worth checking there first. I’m pretty sure I found a dead bird in there at least once.

Monkey would feature her in his homework projects, and no doubt she showed up in a few photo and video shoots that I supervised for clients. 

As she does to this day, come the evening, when I am finally able to put my feet up and hang out on the sofa, she comes over for scratches and attention. In her younger days, she decided that she wasn’t technically on the furniture if her back legs stayed on the ground, so there were full body hugs. These days she does’t quite have the strength to climb up, but the spirit is willing.

In 2020, we moved to a place that had more open space, and so began her era as a farm dog. She enjoyed following me down to feed the horses, eating horse manure and chasing the deer. She’d wander the pasture and find random things like a horse boot, and bring them to me.

For years, she has shown very little sign of slowing down. Even a few weeks ago she chased a squirrel, will still rush the fence to bark at the cat next door, and loves to roll in gross stuff. She has been skunked (too many times), had foxtails up her nose, and ‘decorated’ my house with the results of upset stomachs.

And now, life is not so easy for her. Her body is letting her down, although mostly, her mind seems to be still there. She’s quite deaf, probably can’t see that well, and can’t tolerate being on her own for more than about 20 seconds without barking in a shrill, and frankly grating manner. She’s figured out that if she doesn’t eat her regular kibble, she will get scrambled eggs, rice, ground turkey and cottage cheese. There really isn’t much that I won’t do to keep her happy.

Yet the inevitable is on the horizon and it’s a heartbreaking thing to contemplate. Like every pet owner, my wish is that she goes peacefully on her own terms, but that does seem to be a big ask. For the past few weeks Electra has truly been hanging out in the gloaming – that brief, yet often beautiful time after the sun has set and before night truly falls. We know that dark is coming, but we kid ourselves that the day will last a little longer.

We’ve had a few false alarms when it seemed we needed to make the decision for her, and let’s face it, it’s one that I really wish that I didn’t have to make. It seems to me, it is the biggest burden we carry as the custodians of our beloved domesticated animals. I’ve had to make this decision three prior times, and somehow, this feels like the hardest time. Everyone says: “She’ll tell you when she’s ready” – that remains to be seen.

For now, I deal with the nightly wake-up calls for potty breaks, the inevitable clean-up after accidents, and the worrying if we are doing right by her. I treasure the sweet moments and her wanderings around the garden. I know we have given her the best life, and in return, she has given us her whole beautiful, and often bouncy, life. We love you so much, Electra.

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When I was a young girl growing up in England, my grandparents retired to the Cotswolds near Chipping Camden, and so for me, began a love affair with a part of the UK that always calls me back. In fact, their home—a chocolate-box thatched roof cottage, which I believe at one point in around the 14th Century, was the local alehouse – was called Wold Cottage. (Wold means hill). As a nod to all of that, I have named my home in Northern California, Wold Farm, not least because it sits atop a little hill.

On my recent visit back to the UK, I made plans to attend Badminton Horse Trials in Wiltshire, which is one of the world’s elite fixtures on the eventing calendar. If you know me at all, you’ll know that I own two horses and compete as an eventer at an amateur level. I find it thrilling that Badminton attracts 200,000 visitors on cross country day. 200,000!! This is one of the largest sporting events in the world. Back in the US, most people haven’t even heard of eventing.

But I digress, the location of the event meant that I was able to stay in an Airbnb in Laurie Lee country – in particular in a little village called South Woodchester, just outside of Stroud. For the uninitiated, Laurie Lee was a British author and poet who wrote Cider With Rosie in 1959 about his life growing up in the Cotswolds during and after the First World War. (There are two more books in the trilogy: As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning, and A Moment of War.)

I was in the area with family, and it was all too brief, but we packed in as much as we could. We stumbled across a wonderful National Trust property called Woodchester Mansion, and went on a really long walk that took us up and down hills, through woods, across fields, out by a boating lake, and then to the mansion itself, which was never completed, but in any case, is a gorgeous monument to another time. It was easy to imagine that I was walking through the set of a Merchant Ivory film, and that at any moment a young Helena Bonham Carter or Colin Firth, might appear in full period costume. Sadly, this did not happen.

In my opinion, May is the best time of year to visit the UK, assuming you can catch the weather just right. The countryside explodes with a pent-up energy and vivaciousness that tells of a long, dark winter which has only recently drawn to a close. Wild bluebells. Cowslips. Wild Garlic. Lush green grass everywhere. Centuries-old majestic chestnut and lime trees casting their shade for sheep and cows to rest under. The remnants of wrought iron gates and abandoned boat houses make you wish you had lived in the monied classes 100 years ago, and could lazily drift in a row boat under a parasol, with only a book to pass the time until the dinner gong alerted you that it was time to head back inside.

It’s truly spectacular and I can’t think of another place on earth that looks and feels like this. After our longer than anticipated walk—that involved more uphill climbs than we were truly prepared for—we were thirsty and hungry. It turns out the Woolpack Inn in Slad, a haunt of Laurie Lee’s that features in his famous novel, Cider with Rosie, was just about 20 minutes away, and despite it being 2pm was still serving lunch. 

So we wound our way through ever-narrowing roads – which by the way, were never built with today’s SUVs in mind and often involve playing a bold game of chicken when you see another car approaching you. Then suddenly, jaw-droopingly, the wooded lanes end to reveal a stunning green valley. Dotted here and there through the valley are picturesque yellow stone cottages, built for smaller people with smaller furniture, if you were to venture a guess. Handmade walls, made from Cotswold stone, subdivide the land. Vegetable patches. The odd fruit tree. Laundry hanging out to dry. Churches with graveyards and tombstones telling of sons lost in the First World War, mothers dying too young, and occasionally, someone living well in to their 80s in the early 20th century. My memory is dim, but I recollect Lee writing about an old lady (a crone), who lived in the village and terrified them all.

And then the Woolpack Inn itself. We had a canine companion, and it was a gorgeous sunny day, so we sat outside on a vine-canopied terrace overlooking the valley. A true slice of heaven. The food was delicious with much of it grown locally at the owner’s property. My mum and I worked our way through a hearty chicken and liver terrine; globe artichoke with a wonderful thick vinaigrette; a cheeseburger served in a brioche bun (the burger itself did need a bit more seasoning); and my stepfather ate mackerel, which certainly looked pretty on the plate. 

While the dessert menu looked intriguing, we were stuffed and ready for naps after our adventures of the day. We ambled out into the village to take a look at Holy Trinity church and its graveyard, sitting atop a tombstone for a moment to take it all in. Here, you get the sense of a deep history. Of lives that left a mark while leaving room for the next generation to come in and make their mark too. It’s changed a little, but not all that much. 

If you want to visit, I urge you to read, or re-read, Lee’s writings. I wish I had planned ahead and done just that, but I have picked up Cider with Rosie on my return home so I can be transported back in time and place.

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You can take the girl out of England, but you can’t take England out of the girl.

When I first moved to the U.S. in 1998, a entire lifetime ago, I used to get teased by my new American friends for starting far too many sentences with, “In England…” at which point they would jokingly add “…where it’s better…” Truthfully, in my newly minted ex-pat era, I didn’t mean to suggest England was better, I was merely trying to make sense of all the subtle, nuanced differences between the two countries.

Fast forward to where we are in 2025, the differences are no longer so subtle, and I don’t begin my sentences with “In England…” because honestly, I now only have my view of the UK, and it’s one I’ve carefully, if accidentally, curated. One that is a snapshot of May, and possibly August, when the weather is generally quite lovely. Although for some reason there was an Arctic chill for the first few days of my visit that definitely wasn’t on my UK bingo card. (Note: only a Brit would start a list by talking about the weather.)

It’s a view where the abundance of the British countryside is fully evident. Where birds trill joyfully with the delight of having survived yet another harsh winter, and flowers explode under occasional blue skies, and idyllic sunny days that remind you of an E.M. Forster novel. Where trees are fully leafed up with the glossiest, greenest foliage that I swear you won’t see anywhere else in the world. Where village cricket teams are reunited for a brief season on manicured greens. And where office workers rush outside to get some Vitamin D and sunburn during their lunch hour, just as I used to do in Soho Square, and then spill out on to the streets for a few drinks after work.

This England of mine, is one of nostalgia and fanning the flames of friendship that many tell me would have died out long ago were it not for my insistence that every year or two, a handful of us get together to retell the stories of our young adulthood, and regale each other with twists and turns of the lives that have since followed. I like to joke that I miss being wistful, but the truth is, I never gave up my wist – if that is even a thing you can do. As life marches on, my fervent belief that you don’t get new old friends only deepens.

One of the reasons for this particular voyage home, was to participate in a reunion of former colleagues from a job I held from 1993 to 1998. But calling it a job, is a disservice. This experience fundamentally shaped me, not just in my career, but also in the relationships that I’ve kept across the pond and the years. It was my second job after I graduated, and the first one where I was given the opportunity to be entrepreneurial, and responsible for outcomes, but that is barely the point. The company, Lexis PR, was founded by two individuals, who were really quite different personalities, but fundamentally the best humans you could ever ask to work for. And I say this, reflecting on over two decades of working in Silicon Valley, which has provided a stark contrast on many an occasion.

The co-founders had a knack of hiring a really good, if eclectic, group of people, and if memory serves me, I was employee number 10. The five years that followed were so full of growth: personally, professionally and for the company itself, it was a crazy ride. We were a fierce group with a passion for doing game-changing work, holding each other mostly to high standards, and more importantly building relationships that went far beyond our work together. We would workout together at lunchtime, and then open a beer and spark up a ciggie at our desks after 5pm. Once work was done, we’d head to the pub together at the end of a long week rolling into the weekend by letting off (a lot of) steam. We went on holiday with each other, lived through each other’s dramas, some even fell in love, and so we attended each other’s weddings, and over the life of the company apparently eight marriages were made. 

By the time I reached the U.S., the life-stage of my peers (being partnered-up or married, having babies, buying homes, etc, etc) precluded the type of bonds that you tend to make in your first or second job out of college, although I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge a couple of dear friends from my early work days in San Francisco.

In preparation for this reunion, which was an insane evening of joyous reunification, and madly and loudly scrambling over each other’s words as we melted away the intervening 25+ years, one of our number shared a video of a few of us at his wedding. It is a profoundly moving (and hilarious thing) to stare your much younger self in the face. I marvel at her freedom, lightness, hilarity and giggly-ness, with a little bit of awe. Even her voice is different. But mostly, WE WERE SO YOUNG and nothing had really happened to us yet. Being GenXers, we didn’t grow up being constantly videoed, or photographed, so it’s wild to have this moment of vivid time travel.

I ask myself more and more often these days, and others ask me too: Would I ever move back to England? Just like all those years ago, when my British friends asked me how long I’d stay in San Francisco, I really don’t have the answer to that question. I would be lying if I pretended that I don’t imagine it. I recently joined a Facebook group for Ex-Pats Moving Back to the UK, and just today, a woman posted a photo of her two horses boarded on a plane, leaving LA on their way to Dorset, England. Is it a sign? I ask myself. 

Let’s be honest, the most common question I get when I muse about moving back to the UK, is “What about your horses?” Well that’s a simple one. They would come with me. The hardest question to answer is “What about me?” My life in England wouldn’t be made up of back-to-back reunions, unlike my whirlwind visits; I couldn’t expect to just pick up friendships where I left off. Would I find work? Am I simply just too American these days? How would I cope with the arcane process of buying a house, where I’m used to it taking 4-5 weeks; not 8-10 months in some cases? And so the list goes on.

I think for now, the answer has to be about living in the moment and enjoying all that I have created at home in California. And yes, confusingly, I call that home too. 

Perhaps, after all, home is where the heart is. It’s just that your heart can beat in two places at once. 

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The area is pretty remote and involves treacherous night-time driving (don’t do it!), and just as treacherous day-time driving if the number of mangled crash barriers, mini landslides and roadside shrines are anything to go by. We spent a couple of nights on the coast up there with a generous friend who took great care of us, while we basically turned into vegetables for a couple of days.

The Joy of Flora Farms

First things, first, however. Immediately after deplaning, we jumped in a car and went straight to Flora Farms, which is renown for its beauty, its organic farm, including a farmstand, delicious restaurant, thirst-quenching cocktails, and tastefully curated stores. It’s home from home for the LA hipster crowd, but don’t let that put you off. The dry riverbed, aka as the main road in, may however, put you off. Driving, or for that matter, being driven, in Mexico is not for the faint of heart.

My advice? Hire a driver. The drinks at Flora Farms are phenomenal: Carrot juice and tequila, anyone? The food is incredibly well prepared and highly tasty. I loved the porchetta which was finely sliced under a bed of arugula drizzled with olive oil and lemon juice; and my dining companions were very happy with their wood-fired oven pizzas. Save some time to wander around the gardens and the property, it’s a soothing place to be.

From there, we hopped into a 4×4 for the dramatic drive up north in the fading light, which quickly turned to pitch darkness. Many of the roads are sandy, rocky, bumpy, pothole-ridden and poorly represented on Google maps. The drive was fast and hair-raising. Thankfully the previously consumed cocktails knocked the edge off our fear like a mild sedative at the dentist.

Suffice to say, we made it in one piece. Hot and humid, doesn’t do justice to the weather in July, August and September (hurricane season), so unless you’re too lazy to do the research as I was, don’t go in those months. Thankfully, the Sea of Cortez was on our doorstep, and dips in the ocean, paddle-boarding, and rinsing off in the infinity pool, helped to keep heatstroke at bay. We experienced a spectacular sunset behind the mountains while guzzling fresh margaritas and consuming a ton of fresh fruit and fish.

The Cape, Cabo San Lucas

All too soon, we headed back down to Cabo San Lucas, where the hotel group had (begrudgingly) relocated us to The Cape, a stunning homage to modern architecture juxtapositioned against the rugged beauty of the Pacific Ocean. 

Among the things that have changed since I was last down this way in 2010, are the prices. Back then, a couple of hundred dollars would get you through a few days. Today, expect drinks and food to cost you more than you pay back in the U.S. Gas is about the same price as I pay at home. Decent hotels are pricey. So if you’re expecting, as I was, a cheap and cheerful Mexican vacation, (again, apparently I was too something – tired, lazy, naive – to do my research) this area isn’t the place for it.

That said, the hotel is really thoughtfully put together. Our ocean view room, had a stunning vista of the entire bay, including the famous ‘Arch’, and its various restaurants and bars did a very nice job. We enjoyed the free bottle of tequila in the room, and even more so, the tequila tasting we had at the Sunken Bar, which started out with four types of tequila, and by the end we had somehow tried at least eight varieties. My favorite, as it turned out, was the first one – a Reserva Platino in case you ever want to know what to bring me back from Mexico. Be sure to check out the sunset one night from the roof top bar – it’s spectacular.

Colorful Cabo San Jose

With more relaxation in order, we headed towards Cabo San Jose to get massages at the Cabo Surf Hotel, which is a sweet boutique property right on the coast. The spa is well worth a visit, and a little more affordable than some of the larger brand-name hotels in the area. 

From there we drove just a few minutes more to the old town of San Jose. It has a picturesque square, presided over by a colorful church, and all around the streets are decked out with bright bunting that just makes your heart sing. Combined with the gorgeous cotton wares, and joyful pom poms, it’s uplifting to just wander around and take it all in.

Dinner at El Huerto, Farm-to-Table

We wrapped up our all all-too-short vacation with a final dinner in the pretty outdoor restaurant that is El Huerto. A farm-to-table dining experience under the stars, looking out over the skyline of Cabo San Lucas, it twinkles in the moonlight with winking string lights emulating the constellations up above the palm trees.

The plates are generously sized, and I recommend you go with a group of hungry friends so you can try as much of the menu as possible. The Farmers Salad was a work of art, and enough for four people at least. The Swiss chard and ricotta fritters were crunchy and incredibly filling, complete with sumac mayonnaise, so we left it at that, with the exception of some ice cream to wrap up a perfect last evening. A word to wise, don’t trust Google maps if you’re driving there. We ended up on some never-finished road going around in circles, before we eventually found it!

All in all, I really enjoyed my time back on the Baja Peninsula, although Cabo San Lucas itself, feels a bit too much “Vegas-style” for this rural girl. Look out for my next post where I’ll share details of my favorite day when we explored the route to and from Todos Santos.

The post A Trip To the Baja Peninsula, Mexico appeared first on Alice Dishes.

And I’ll echo the lyrics of the song that propelled Sinéad to fame all those years ago, nothing, and no one, comes close to comparing to my dad. As I wrote at the time of his passing, he was a rare bird. A man who broke the mold, in more ways than one, he was an imperfect father, an impatient surgeon—who apparently blew the minds of his orthopedic surgeon colleagues by the number of surgeries he performed in a day, and overall, an impressive character in a diminutive package.

I’ve been traveling for fun this week with a short trip down to Baja, Mexico, and I’ve been reminded of him on many occasions. We traveled extensively with our parents as children – in fact, I’d go so far as to say they taught us how to travel. At a very young age I visited Hong Kong for the first time of many, and we lived there for six months when I was three, before returning for many extended summer trips as school kids. 

As the family grew to four kids, we’d regularly get squeezed into the back of our Mercedes estate car (station wagon) and make the long trip by road and ferry across the English Channel, and then back on the road through Europe: France, Italy, Switzerland, the Alps, the Pyrenees. Let me tell you, those road trips were often miserable. We’d fight over who had to sit in the middle and I got terribly car sick as we wound our way up and down mountain passes. 

Inevitably, one of us would have no legroom because the ice box (as I recall, it was fluorescent green, and somehow a light bulb had burned one corner of it, exposing the white insulation stuffing) was stashed behind the driver’s seat so my mum could reach it from the passenger seat. This spot became yet one more seat that none of us wanted to sit in. Added to which my baby sister’s car seat, which thankfully wasn’t the size and heft of the over-engineered ones of today, took up a ton of room leaving those on either side with one arm pinned down. Anyway. You get the picture. This was two to three days of travel each way that was, to all intents and purposes, pure hell.

My dad’s idea of a fun day during a holiday in France, was to visit as many wine chateaus (Chateau Margaux is one that springs to mind) as he could. We’d get packed up in the AC-free car on a stifling hot summer’s day, and then spend much of it sitting in the car park of some grand old French castle as he tasted wine and decided what to have shipped home. My mum would plead with him, occasionally successfully, to let us go swimming at some point.

But of course, we also had a lot of fun. I recall lively evenings eating outside at trattorias and restaurants, swimming in rivers—and if we were really lucky, the local ‘piscine’ or ‘piscina’. My dad would wear the skimpiest bright blue Speedos, and spend far too much time staring at the beauties sunbathing around us. 

I remember walking up to the top of a lot of medieval towers, visiting art museums, and in the late seventies in France, we toured a lot of dank, dark, underground caves where we saw some really famous cave paintings. I soon learned the difference between a stalactite and a stalagmite. Sadly, I believe most of these caves are now closed to the public in an attempt to preserve the treasures within, although replicas have been created.

On one particularly memorable occasion, we got into a small rowing boat in an underground lake—it was pitch black save for the guide’s flashlight—and my little brother, Ben, who had just been woken up from his car nap, didn’t stop crying the whole time. Ah, family holidays.

My dad absolutely loved to try local delicacies, almost as much as he liked to drink the local wine, and as I grew up, I came to really appreciate the gastronomical aspects of our travels. He taught us how to appreciate the food culture of where we were visiting. Today, as I travel and eat my way around a region, I always think about what his commentary would have been on the meal.

“Ooh,” he’d say, pointing a forefinger at some platter, “this is really, really good you know.” 

Or, with fingers smeared with sauce from shelling a large prawn, he’d offer it up: “These are so fresh, do you want to try one?”

He didn’t have a big appetite, and was infamous for only eating one meal a day, which my mother said made him hypoglycemic and contributed to his famous temper. He was invariably full long before the rest of us, pushing his plate away and waving his hand while shaking his head when offered more. Although we never saw that particular combination of sign language when the waiter proffered to fill his glass with the local vino. 

It’s hard to believe that we lost him over four years ago. I still miss him every day, and wish I could share a special meal and a few glasses (or bottles) of wine. He’d be telling us some long-ago yarn about his days sleeping under the stars in the ruins of Knossos, or laughing uproariously with his beloved, brother-in-law, Ed, on a combined family holiday.

Nothing compares 2 u, Dad. Always and forever. 

The post It’s Been Four Years and Sixteen Weeks… appeared first on Alice Dishes.

When I first landed in San Francisco, back on April 30, 1998, I swore to myself I wouldn’t become one of ‘those’ ex-pats… the type that seek out their compatriots and rather than embrace their new surroundings, seek to recreate home abroad. Having visited Hong Kong many times growing up, and seeing these ex-pat communities in actions, it didn’t appeal to me to reject assimilating into the local culture. Looking back I wonder if there was a middle ground, a way to stay connected to the essence of what it is to be British without losing oneself in the likely fruitless task of trying to become a native Californian.

Like so many during the pandemic, I haven’t traveled internationally since late 2019, and especially haven’t welcomed the idea of sitting on a plane for 11 hours breathing in other people’s spiky protein particles. At the end of April 2022 I bit the bullet and headed back to England. Having been a veritable homebody for the last two years, I found I wasn’t relishing the prospect of being away, but knew it was time to go and see my family and friends, and reacquaint myself with the U.K.. What I failed to understand was that I actually needed to reacquaint myself with myself.

And boy, did England turn on a spectacular show for me. I landed on a balmy spring day. The sun was shining, and men in whites were playing cricket on Twickenham Green. The sky was blue and the parks were full of the happy voices of families and dogs. The trees had come into full leaf, apparently just days earlier, and blossoms were blooming everywhere. Within three hours of landing at Heathrow I was at gorgeous Marble Hill park in Twickenham with my nephews, my brother and his wife, before borrowing a bike to scoot down the Thames river pathway to get a quick (and very good) haircut. (Thank you Lucia at Toni & Guy.)

Seeing the verdant, luscious glory and beauty of what is forever England: looking across the Thames to Roehampton, crossing the historic bridge at Richmond-upon-Thames, and, of course, enjoying the antics, energy and occasional histrionics of my adorable nephews, I wondered why I had ever wanted to leave. Boredom? The folly of youth? The glamorous appeal of California?

24 years is a long time to be away. Of course, people’s day to day lives move on, my own included, but on some level we seem to stay the same. My trip included hilarious times with dear friends and old school chums. Personalities and conversations that seem not to have missed a beat over the intervening years. Catching up on my family’s day to day life, and getting to know their new routines and habitats. Little ones have grown; jobs have changed; my mum and her husband moved house during the pandemic, and it was good to see how the disjointed snatches glimpsed on FaceTime calls tie together in reality.

It has made me think about how I have changed. Perhaps when you’re the one that goes away, you’re the one that changes the most. I live in a ‘strange’ country, a different culture, and honestly, when I think about it, I live in a part of the U.S. – close to Silicon Valley – that seems to thrive on permanent dissatisfaction. The need to ‘disrupt’ (typically positioned as a positive thing), innovate, change, build, and erase the past while scoping out the future, is actually quite exhausting as it turns out. What’s more, it feels like we have to operate in fast-forward mode, afraid that if we hit ‘pause’ too often, or for too long, someone, or something, will overtake us. And in a local economy driven by being innovative, that is not okay.

I found it such a relief to be surrounded by history that was hundreds of years in the making. Walking through gardens, and gazing upon buildings that have withstood the march of time and seen people and things – dare I say, innovations – come and go. Take for instance, Bishop’s Palace in Fulham, which used to proudly boast the world’s largest moat. Somerleyton Hall in Suffolk which has featured in the Netflix series, The Crown. Or the splendid Badminton House (pictured above), which has played host to one of the world’s largest sporting events (with 175,000 spectators), Badminton Horse Trials, for the last 60-ish years – something I got to witness for the first time on my travels.

There is something so very grounding about gazing on these buildings and their gorgeous, well-kept surroundings, knowing that they were here way before I arrived in the world, and will be there long after I depart. It gives you a more accurate perspective of your place in the grander scheme of things. It offers you the opportunity to reflect, in fact, pause for a second. To use your imagination to conjure up what life used to be like, not simply to focus on imagining what life could or should be like. I’d go so far as to say that this is perhaps what the Golden West is missing. Or, certainly, what I am missing in the Golden West.

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The aforementioned ranch house came with a swimming pool – something that I have never aspired to own because I don’t really like swimming! – and it was about as ugly as could be. Surrounded by a 9ft tall fence that was painted mustard yellow with dark green accents, I really had to use my imagination to find the beauty here.

But by cutting the fence in half height-wise; using a heritage white Benjamin Moore paint, and adding a touch of modernity with updated outdoor furniture, the transformation was incredible. Although the fence is about 3-4 feet lower, it still affords a ton of privacy while also allowing us to see the cool palm tree in the background, which couples with the 70’s vibe of the pool to bring a touch of art deco to the kidney-shaped pool. Blue outdoor rugs cue the blue from the sky and the pool to draw the eye away from the grey concrete.

All in all, on a very limited budget, I was able to uncover the diamond that was hidden in the rough. If you have an outdoor space that needs a makeover, reach out to alice@alicedishes.com and I’m sure we can find the beauty within.

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No doubt the reason for this is the fact that I grew up in a family where the kitchen was the beating heart of our home. Everything happened in the kitchen. Of course, we cooked there. We ate there. We kept our dogs there. We had grand arguments there. We talked on the phone there. (It hung on the wall and had a long cord). We put the world to rights there. And so for me, a home is not a home, until the kitchen is just so.

Updating a Victorian Kitchen

If you’re lucky enough to have lived in a Victorian property, you’ll know that when the house was originally built the idea was to hide the kitchen away so the cook and her assistants could keep out of sight while they fed their Master and Mistress. Of course, today’s lifestyles are rather different and integrating our cooking, eating and living spaces into one open floor plan is what is desired. That means re-thinking the internal layout of a period home.

One of the things that Europeans have really mastered is updating period buildings to make them work better for modern-day life, all without losing the soul and beauty of the original design. My last home was a 1908 Victorian and when we moved in, the kitchen left a lot to be desired (see below). It was tucked away at the back of the house and had been partially updated, but wasn’t very functional.

With a little bit of imagination we kept what was great about the space, and hugely improved the flow and efficiency of the kitchen by giving it an open-plan feel and connecting it to the dining room by widening the opening. We eliminated a coat closet in the hallway so we could walk into the kitchen from the hallway, vs. always have to walk through the dining room. We added a ton of storage and work space with the new walnut island, and upgraded the lighting with recessed spots and eye-catching pendants.

Remodeling a kitchen is never easy, it seems like there are a million details to consider, let alone ensuring you have a spot for all your gadgets, tools, pots, pans, plates and glasses. If you need help, reach out! alice@alicedishes.com.

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Many of Guild’s designs feature stunning floral themes, as pictured in the gorgeous shower curtain at the top of this post. One of my favorite design sites to buy from is Burke Decor and they feature a wide range of floral shower curtains from Designers Guild. In this lovely Victorian bathroom, I opted to make the floral vivacity of the shower curtain the main feature of the design – it draws in the eye and provides a lovely sense of optimism and freshness. After all, isn’t that what a shower is supposed to do for you? Wash away the bad stuff and leave you with the good?

In the same house, I chose to combine a soothing red and cream linen floral pattern with a velvet flock wallpaper on the landing. Another bold choice, but the grandeur of the house, with all its gorgeous original redwood molding just seemed to beg for something big and adventurous.

In another house, this time a ranch farmhouse, I opted to go for the floral shower curtains, but this time used a motif concrete tile from Cle on the floor to draw the eye down the room towards the floral attraction. Despite the low ceiling (compared to a Victorian house) there’s still room to think creatively and titillate the senses.

If you’re interested in a free consultation for your home, or even just a room, you can contact me at alice@alicedishes.com.

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Back then, we stayed at a vacation rental near Paia, which 21 years ago was a sleepy little hippy town with visitors only coming for the windsurfing or passing through briefly on the road to Hana. Two decades later, Paia looks largely the same, but is much busier with long lines outside most eateries and a lot of traffic trying to make its way through the one set of lights in the center of town. 

This trip, we spent the first three days in an amazing Airbnb in Upcountry – the rural, farmed part of the island which is lush and idyllic. The valleys are populated with giant trees and plants that look straight out of Jurassic Park. Pterodactyl gliding through the air wouldn’t be out of place. Winding country roads will take you past cows with their calves, and glossy horses swishing their tales. Little Colonial-style farmsteads remind you of the settlers who came out this way—on what surely must have been treacherous voyages—in the early 1800’s.

I hadn’t spent time exploring this area before and loved it. No high rise hotels. Almost unspoiled. Easy to imagine how the land has been for the last two or three hundred years. Not too far away from where we stayed, is Baldwin Beach Park, a beautiful long golden sandy beach with protected areas at each end which make it a little easier for swimming. The wind was high the whole time we were there, which I think it pretty typical. But first thing in the morning, with the tide on its way out, it was great to walk and job along the beach, trying to spot a sea turtle in the bright turquoise waters.

Afterwards, breakfast at Better Things just up the hill on Baldwin Avenue. With deconstructed iced latte (containing coffee ice cubes), handmade PopTarts and great toasts (avo, pesto, etc) it’s a nice brightly lit space, with inviting sofas to hang out in for a while.

If you’re looking for a fun thing to do, while also exploring Upcountry and catching some pretty awesome views of the North and South shores, then you can’t go far wrong doing yoga with goats at Maui Goat Yoga. Yes, I did say yoga with goats! To be fair, there’s more ‘goat’ than yoga, but our instructor did her very best to engage us with a sound asana practice, but the head-butting she-goats, and the cuddly little boy goats rather stole our attention. It may not be a regular yoga practice, but it was definitely entertaining and even the two 18 year old boys with me agreed!

If you’re feeling thirsty by mid-afternoon, then I highly recommend catching happy hour at Cafe Des Amis, also on Baldwin Avenue in Paia. Their margaritas are long and tall… and hit just the right spot. If you’re peckish, there’s a great mezze plate, as well as savory and sweet crepes and even Indian curries.

By now it’s probably time to go catch the sunset. The “true” sunset can be caught at Lahaina but you can see most of the sun going down from Ho’ookipa Beach which is where the locals head to get in their last surf session of the day while their friends and family socialize on the narrow beach. You’ll also see windsurfers zipping back and forth across the white caps, and if you’re really lucky some curious sea turtles may be hanging out near the rock pools. 

If you’re ready for dinner, then you can’t go far wrong with delicious fresh sushi from Izakaya restaurant and sushi bar, Nuku in Haiku. With the restricted seating capacity due to the pandemic, we opted for takeout instead of dining in. And sat in the comfort of our AirBnb, we had an absolutely tasty and satiating meal. You won’t be disappointed. With any of it.

The post Perfectly Paia. All The Ways to Enjoy the North Shore of Maui appeared first on Alice Dishes.

And yet. The planet enjoyed a brief respite from our punishing ways when we were all locked up in our homes in the Spring of 2020. Air cleared as traffic stopped. Nature ventured back out into spaces that are usually claimed by humans, and along the way we learnt that a lot of today’s jobs can be done from home. Vacation spots were quiet, allowed to rejuvenate their natural beauty. Instead of traveling, we improved our homes, wanting them to be “just-so” if we had to be ‘locked-down’ 24/7.

And so it was that back in the gloomy, Second-Wave days of December, I thought: “‘F**k it, I need something to look forward to,” and on a whim booked two tickets to Maui for June. I had no idea whether we’d actually be able to go, if vaccinations would be a reality, if Hawaii would welcome visitors. I prayed that Monkey would have graduated high school the week prior—it already seems like a lifetime ago—and this would be a good week to take-off. The prospect of this trip has kept me hanging on by a thin thread. The glimmer of its promise has been so necessary to get through these past six months.

2019 was dominated by the passing of my dad. Any significant travel we did that year was in service of his memory. A funeral. Burying his ashes. Mourning in the cold, damp British November. Starting to divide his belongings. Family disagreements. Since then, I have been grateful, numerous times, that he didn’t live to worry himself to death about the pandemic.

And so June 2021 rolled around. As we got our expensive Covid tests, and answered all the endless survey questions, and downloaded apps, and agreed to be tracked while on Maui, I just kept thinking: This is my first real vacation in almost three years, how did I let that happen? Grief, burnout, world chaos. These things have a habit of disrupting the normal patterns of existence that we come to rely on to get us through. And we moved house in the process. Enough said. 

Why am I telling you all this? Well, as I sit on the plane home, planning to write a nice little piece about some of the fabulous things we did on Maui – it just didn’t feel like I could put up a travel post out of nowhere. The last 18 months demanded to be acknowledged in some way or other. And so, there it is. It’s been hellish in oh, so many ways. But as I travel back home, after a blissful week of being reminded how life used to be (albeit while donning masks) I am hoping that the week of June 7 will mark a line in the Hawaiian sand and we will leave much of the fear, angst, heaviness and tough times behind that line, and propel ourselves forward. 

I have been reminded of what it is to take a break. Read a book. Nap. Lay in the sunshine. Drink a cocktail in the afternoon. Walk on the beach. And I highly recommend you try it (again).

The post It’s Been 18 Months. And It’s Been Three Years. appeared first on Alice Dishes.

There is a well-known framing of loss and bereavement called the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. (Recently, a sixth stage – meaning – was added). It’s clear that our government, and many of its supporters, has spent all of this crisis in denial. Certainly there is a huge amount of anger… and without reflecting on all these steps, suffice to say, we are a long way from acceptance.

I heard someone on the radio the other day describe our current state as ‘suspended animation’ and I think that’s a perfect description of where we are at right now. One day – in my case, it was March 10th – life was getting a bit weird, but it was basically the same, and the next, life as we knew it ceased overnight.

• No more school
• No more leaving the house unless it was crucial to sustaining our lives
• No more in-person work meetings
• No more horse shows, clinics
• No more going to the movies
• No more eating out at restaurants
• No more inviting friends over for a spontaneous dinner
• No more graduations
• No more birthday parties
• No more sleepovers
• No more inviting anyone inside your home
• No more beauty or hair treatments
• No more live music
• No more doing yoga with your mat 2 inches from the next yogi
• No more group exercise classes IRL
• No more hugs unless you live with the person you’re hugging
• No more childcare
• No more work (for 33 million people as of today, and counting)
• No more traveling anywhere… and especially around the world
• No more planning to see my mum’s new house in England this summer
• No more planning to see my dad’s siblings and my sis in Hong Kong this year
• No more gathering to mourn our dead
• This list could go on, and on, and on…

I don’t know about you, but my brain simply couldn’t process all this in the first few days, weeks, and probably month(s). I’m not sure it can even now. When I stop for one second to try and take it all in, I just feel a huge amount of loss. Of grief. Of bereavement. A loss of freedom and the loss of feeling somewhat carefree. Unlike some, I don’t feel the need to take up arms and rail against those who are trying to keep us safe. But I do feel the need to try and keep on keeping on. One day at a time. One foot in front of the other. I meditate to inoculate myself the best I can.

We embrace the new normal, because what else are we to do? And because that is what makes us human. We have the creativity and inventiveness to do our best to make the most of the hand we have been dealt. So we live a different way…

• “Live” exercise and yoga classes with our favorite trainers while we are in our own homes
• 8-10 hours a day of Zoom meetings for work
• Zoom gatherings for birthday parties, happy hour, and memorials
• Restaurants have become our pantries, food pick-up is the new treat
• Husbands are dyeing their wives’ hair
• Wives are cutting their husbands’ hair
• Babies are being born (thankfully this hasn’t changed)
• Animals still need vet care, we just can’t go inside with them
• We wear PPE wherever we go
• We know what the acronym PPE stands for
• We know what it’s like to live through a shortage of toilet paper
• We have all learned to cook again
• There is no yeast left in the country because so much bread is being baked
• Drive-by graduations and birthday parties are a thing
• Fashion companies have quickly pivoted to making masks
• This list could go on, and on and on…

I do believe that in the end, we will find meaning in all this, but with so much devastation affecting so many, it’s going to take a while. For now, we should let the grief in. We need to recognize it and let it move through us. Everybody’s grieving. And this time it’s true. Go easy.

The post Everybody’s Grieving… And This Time It’s True appeared first on Alice Dishes.

Powerful and catastrophic wildfires have threatened to wipe-out species and force people from their homes.

Political leaders and governments are willing to push into territory that comes within a hair’s breadth of the law—or perhaps even breaks it—yet somehow they keep the majority.

Long-forged governing unions that have helped to ensure peace and stability across the European continent are being broken apart.

And today, we are dealing with fear and panic caused by the rapidly spreading COVID-19 virus with its fast-rising death toll, spread around the globe and complete economic havoc.

The list goes on.

I haven’t even mentioned the rapid environmental shifts that are changing life on earth as we know it. Or gun violence. Or the drug epidemic.

Is it any wonder that over 40 million Americans experience anxiety disorder, and our teenagers are feeling that the literal weight of the world is on their shoulders?

In the face of such powerlessness, what is there to do? 

One of my favorite analogies is this… paraphrased from Pema Chödrön. If the stones on the roads ahead hurt your feet, do you wrap the world in leather to protect yourself? No. You bind small pieces of leather around each foot so you can move freely, and without suffering. And then you are free to move, be effective, care for yourself and help others.

So it is that I sit, close my eyes and meditate for 20 minutes first thing each morning. Before reaching for my phone, or coffee. Before being bombarded with more anxiety-inducing news. 20 minutes to try and build a little buffer between me and the world’s happenings, so I can be of use. And feel okay with being powerless.

I invite you to join me.

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We headed over to our neighboring town, Sonoma, which is just 25 minutes away, a couple of days before Christmas. Special deals were available, so it was within reach, wallet-wise, to stay at the lovely, and recently renovated hotel, MacArthur Place, which is just a short distance from Sonoma’s main square. Stay mid-week and you’ll get 20% off and a $100 resort credit. Score!

Originally a family estate and vineyard, the seven acre property is now a lush and serene place to escape from the hustle of everyday life. The rooms are gorgeously appointed and what was most exciting to me and Monkey, was the generously stocked, tasty snack bar in the room, and—get this—everything is free! (You pay for drinks.)

I went to MacArthur Place during our balmy Californian fall for an evening dinner in the warm air, and I can attest that the garden is just a lovely place to dine when weather permits. For our visit, we were seated indoors for dinner. Sad to say, the kitchen wasn’t ‘on’ the night we were there. I had to send back one dish for being so over-salted, and believe me, I love salt. Our waiter informed me that the head chef had a night off. Hmm. I won’t say don’t eat there, but perhaps proceed with caution.

One of the things Monkey loved the most, was the fact we could borrow eBikes and zip into town. I wasn’t convinced that I’d want to be battery-powered, while he of course, went as fast as he could. I have to admit, it was pretty fun!

There’s a cool little coffee shop just off the hotel lobby where you can grab coffee and a bagel if you’re not planning on sitting down to a big breakfast. And after that, there’s the whole of Sonoma to explore.

First stop on your list, especially if you’re after a new ‘do’, looking for some ‘clean’ or organic beauty products, or some pretty jewelry, should be Purely Sonoma. Recently opened by two friends, the place is a feast for the eyes and will nourish your skin, hair and soul – you won’t be disappointed.

After that, go for a wander around the square. From tasting rooms, to kitchenware shops, an olive oil store and high-end clothing boutiques, there’s something for everyone. And when lunch calls, be sure to check out perennial favorite, the Girl and the Fig (reservation recommended).

The post A Brief Stay in Sonoma at MacArthur Place appeared first on Alice Dishes.

You can read about the progression of the fire in the media, so I won’t dwell on those details, but as I write, 90,000 people—NINETY THOUSAND—have been mandated to evacuate their homes in Sonoma County. Just think about that for a second. That is 90,000 people, their pets, livestock and treasured possessions, needing a place to go.

What’s more, almost ONE MILLION people will have their power shut-off around the Bay Area, in an attempt to prevent power lines that may become damaged by the expected high winds, from starting yet more, fast-spreading fires.

It’s been just two years since the fires that took 24 lives in Sonoma County alone, and many of us are experiencing what can only be described as PTSD. I spent this morning out at the barn with our horses, only walking them so as to avoid exposing their lungs to the harmful smoke in the air.

The barn is in a bubble—literally and figuratively. With no cell service, I was disconnected from the outside world for three hours. On returning to Petaluma, I found a new, hellish apocalypse had begun. Two major towns: Healdsburg and Windsor, had been ordered to evacuated by 4pm. I literally burst into tears. The thought of all that was about to unfold was overwhelming, and too much to contemplate.

Since then, tens of thousands of more people have been ordered to leave their homes. Our town, Petaluma, is in semi-darkness with no obvious rhyme or reason. We are lucky enough to have power at home, but 3/4 of a block down the street, one of the main grocery stores in town, Petaluma Market, is a victim of the power shut-off.

At 7pm, I stopped by the market to grab some bread, and the shelves were stripped-down: a combination of shoppers desperate to stock-up, and staff who were having to hastily pack up all the refrigerated and frozen items and put them in cold storage somewhere.

Like everyone else, I stocked up on gas, have 40lbs of ice stored, oh, and I have $40 in cash, so we’ll be fine. Joking aside, I’ve been trying to figure out why I feel so debilitated and deeply unnerved, when last time, I leapt into action.

The only answer I can come up with is that in 2017, we had no idea what was coming. No experience to draw on. No sense of how long the disaster would last. Its deep ramifications couldn’t be projected. Our reflexes took us out into the community. We stumbled our way through running livestock shelters. Caring for strangers and putting our lives on hold. It unfolded day by day.

And that’s the difference. This time we know just how disruptive, painful, devastating, life-changing, draining, exhausting, scary, dirty, messy and damaging large fires can be. We know, all too well, what we have to do, to avoid losing what we have to lose.

And that’s why it’s so traumatic. And why the powers that be: PG&E, CalFire, the Sheriff’s department, and the police, are taking no hostages, and in many cases not making friends. Forcing evacuations early and in daylight. Planning buses to move the infirm and those unable to move themselves. Evacuating hospitals so we won’t have to see images of patients on gurneys with raging flames as a backdrop.

It’s a mammoth effort and we can only wish it’s for nothing, because that would be a win. At the same time, can we really live like this year after year? Life as we know it in California has changed irrevocably in the last three to four years. It raises some pretty giant questions… questions that I’m just too tired and stressed to even contemplate right now. Let’s just hope we get through the next 24 hours safely.

The post Sonoma County Fires. Déjà Vu. All Over Again. appeared first on Alice Dishes.

North of Marshall, and just a few miles west of the village of Tomales, Dillon Beach has, until now, been an eclectic collection of beach homes and rundown trailers. The new owners of this 50 acre property—a group of families from Marin—have been working hard to update the original inn (where the restaurant is located); and bring together the best of local fare and wares at the general store and in the kitchen.

What drew me to Coastal Kitchen was Monkey, who has just started working there, but what will keep me coming back is the truly excellent food. A short, frequently changing menu (always a great sign), is created by chef, Matt Elias, who, I discovered, has a knack for taking the best of Sonoma County’s excellent produce and making it even better. This is not something many restaurants in the area can claim. What’s more, the value for money was truly astounding. More on that later.

On the evening I visited, the restaurant was completely socked in by fog, but rest assured, there is a great beach view on a good day. The team have done a nice job channeling the feel of a traditional coastal inn… with simple whitewashed walls and black paintwork. I was reminded of the pubs and eateries along the south east coast of England. And I liked the familiarity and nostalgia that brought.

Inside, the decor is beach-y thoughtful, a tad whimsical and light and airy. There’s a surfboard propped against the wall. Fishing-basket light fixtures, and black and white prints of beach frolics from yesteryear.

We started our meal with a seasonal salad of Pink Barn heirloom tomatoes, cucumbers, ricotta salata and basil vinaigrette ($12). For the most part, the tomatoes were lovely and ripe and tasted of summer.

I ordered the local halibut (pictured up top), with fresh corn, an amazing cherry tomato relish which was so tangy and sweet and toasty hot green squash, which hit the spot on our chilly evening. The halibut was cooked to perfection with a salty, caramelized crust. And the value for money, at $20, was unbeatable. A dish like this would easily cost $29+ elsewhere.

My companion, a vegetarian, ordered the Summer Vegetable Mediterranean Plate ($17). The roasted eggplant Baba Ghanoush and the slow cooked Romano beans were excellent. My only nit-pick, is why serve this with Indian naan bread instead of pita, but it didn’t spoil anything.

Although we were completely and uttered stuffed to the gills, we could not resist the caramel soft-serve ice cream ($7), and chose the homemade ‘magic’ topping for an extra $1. This was to-die-for. I generally avoid desserts, but honestly, I would come here just for this!

I’m told the clam chowder is the “thing” to get here, so try it for me when you go. And Monkey loves the burger and fries. Overall, it’s so rare to visit a restaurant in Sonoma Co. that has got so much right. As a diner next to us said, “I used to work in San Francisco, and eat there all the time. This is just as good as anything the city has to offer.” He’s right.

Coastal Kitchen offers a simple, superbly executed menu, in a great location, with calming interior design that doesn’t overwhelm the experience. It’s really all you could ask for.

Reservations for Dillon Beach Resort Coastal Kitchen can be made via Resy here.

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We spent one night at the brand new Santa Monica Proper Hotel which is stunning, but also not quite finished. It’s a bit odd to be lazing at the pool surrounded by electricians, landscapers and building inspectors and they had yet to install signs directing you around the maze-like layout of the hotel. Apparently, the entire building was designed to mimic the undulating nature of a wave, which can be a bit disorienting initially. Don’t get me wrong though, the hotel is stunning and once the initial price promotions are over, I’m afraid it will be way out of my price range.

Anyway. As we hopped on sparkly new hotel bikes, the concierge directed us to a quieter road that would take us down the steep ramp to the beach and across the freeway. From there we headed south past Santa Monica pier, bowling along past a number of kids’ summer camps which were set up along the beach. 

As we got closer to Venice, sadly, the number of homeless people living at the beach exploded and a grittier type of coastal living became evident. The encampments and colorful graffiti on the concrete and palm trees, remind you that you’re at the edge of one the country’s largest cities.

We had two destinations in mind: Gjusta and The Rose Venice. We hit The Rose first, and sat down to enjoy a coffee and matcha in the sunny back patio. A large, airy warehouse space, that includes a restaurant, cafe and bar, it was quiet and sedate at 10am. The pretty bar, while closed, caught my eye, or at least my camera lens.

Having worked up an appetite sitting sipping my latte, we soon hopped back on our bikes, took a few wrong turns (it’s hard to follow Google maps while wobbling around on a beach cruiser) and finally followed our noses to Gjusta.

The smell of baking bread literally envelopes the entire neighborhood. In a small-fronted, whitewashed building, we spied some floury bakers taking a break. We locked up our bikes and wandered inside the cavernous, dimly-lit brick building to find a gluten-laden treasure trove that set the senses alight.

I felt like I had stepped back in time. Here was a place bustling with men and women working at baking, making and cooking, and wanting to serve you a hundred kinds of delicious.

In addition to all the baked goods, including multiple types of bread, cake and pastries, there are fresh preserves, canned fish and more. There’s a full menu of dishes made to order: I ordered the quiche (a superb custard and crunchy pastry) and Monkey ordered the lox atop a potato latke with a poached egg. So much goodness.

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