Jaime Eat World: A Love Letter To West Palm Beach

Grub Street Diet is one of my favorite things on the internet. 

It's basically a series of food diaries - actors, chefs, musicians, bloggers - and I am obsessed with it because in addition to really appreciating food, I am remarkably nosy. 

You can tell a lot about people by what they eat. I would totally hang out with Aparna Nancharla (vegetarian, lots of Mexican food, digs spicy food and also #NewBrownAmerica), Anthony Bourdain (obviously), Molly Yeh (lots of middle eastern food, chardonnay from a straw, amazing blog) and Chrissy Teigen (obviously but also Cholula). 

And I probably shouldn't/can't hang out with people who insist on consuming acai-moon-juice filled with ashwagandha, turmeric and other bullshit super foods.

(Sidebar: Ashwagandha translates to horse smell. I have no problem with pungent foods. I often eat black salt which smells sulfuric - read: smells like farts. But I wouldn't put ashwagandha in my tea for all the tea in Assam) 

Turmeric isn’t for smoothies, y’all. It’s for potato curry, rice and tormenting your children by forcing them to drink it mixed with milk.

I talk about food a lot. Like, a lot. 

So, I figured I’d blog about it when the mood strikes. 

Ergo, Jaime Eat World - A food diary which I will invariable re-read and think, "Jesus. You really need to drink more water."

(Sidebar: Jimmy Eat World's Bleed American album holds up to this day and their new stuff is excellent. You should check it out.)

Friday, February 9

I lived in PA for five years and in that time, I learned that snow is bullshit and that Wawa is magic. It's the best convenience store in the world with great coffee, decent food and an express case filled with fresh-cut fruit.

I grab some mangoes (thanks mobile app reward!) and a diet Cherry Ginger Ale and head to work. 

Mangoes are serious business for Indians and I have straight-up heard my dad and uncles yell about the differences between Alphonso and Dasheri mangos. 

However, my shit is from Peru and it's not stringy or super sweet (I prefer raw, sour mangoes to ripe ones), so I'm happy. 

I get to the office and almost immediately get an email about homemade banana-pecan bread. 

Friday is off to an excellent start.

I work through lunch, come home to two very cute pups and get started on dinner. I'm making a spicy corn chowder, pulled pork quesadillas for John and avocado-cheese quesadillas for me. I'm a vegetarian, he isn't and we make it work.

I eat entirely too many Late July Red Hot Mojo tortilla chips while cooking. The chowder is good, tortillas are shared with the dogs and I end my night with a glass of chardonnay which is much needed because holy shit, Indy has figured out that he's tall enough to reach the counter and that's where food lives. 

Saturday, February 10

I've gotten into yoga in a pretty big way lately and this morning, I'm off to Freshfest - a fitness festival downtown. I do yoga on the same stage I saw Gary Clark Jr. and drink coconut water and eat a chip with some taco-seasoned chickpea stuff and the actual best gluten-free, vegan carrot cake bites I have ever had in my life. 

Considering my deep and abiding love of butter, this is impressive. So impressive, I bring home a marshmallow-chocolate-chip cookie home for John. I will probably end up eating half of this.

I munch on tortilla chips and garlicky tzatziki and chardonnay with frozen mangoes (don't judge) while watching 2 Dope Queens. Hey! Aparna Nancharla is on this episode! Apparently, HBO is also producing a Pod Save America show which leads me to ask the question when can I expect a My Favorite Murder show? Because I kinda need to make that happen in my life. 

I meet up with friends to check out Shannon Wheeler's Shit My President Says art exhibit at Emko, but apparently, the show is over. We wander around the gallery anyway and grab a truly excellent cold brew. Thanks Alex!

After that, we decide to check out Elizabeth Ave Station - a retail/pop-up market space close to my old hood of Flamingo Park. I buy a teeny ring with an elephant on it and make plans to buy ALL the artwork from Palm Beach Native and ALL the vinyl from Rust and Wax. They have a shitload of Bruce albums. 

My thirties have been a love letter to West Palm Beach

It's this gorgeous, vibrant and diverse city filled with a ridiculous amount of art, music and love. I was raised here and couldn't be more proud to call it home. If Pitbull is 305 until he dies, I'm 561 until I'm done. 

Dinner is at Cholo Soy - roasted mushroom tacos, chifles with salsa rojo, margaritas and churros with dulce de leche. 

It is perfect. Cholo Soy is always perfect.

Back home for more margaritas and L.A. To Vegas. John's margaritas are lime juice, Espolon Reposado and precious little else. I add honey but they're still puckeringly sour.  We pair them with peanut butter Girl Scout Cookies. 

It's been a good day. 

Oh and I end up eating a quarter of that chocolate chip-marshmallow cookie. Indy sneaks up on the counter and gobbles up the rest.  

Sunday February 11

"Bagel time?"
"Bagel time."

Makeb's bagels are a weekend tradition. Bacon, egg and cheese on an onion bagel for John and a double-toasted everything bagel with veggie cream cheese for me.

I always say I'm going to order something else but that would be like scribbling a mustache on the Mona Lisa. Why mess with perfection?

I come home to discover my bagel has about an inch of plain cream cheese slathered on it.

Plain.
The worst of all cream cheeses because it tastes like nothing.

I scrape off as much as I can and eat half of the bagel. The bagel is delicious, by the way. If Makeb's veggie cream cheese wasn't so damn good, I'd eschew it all together. 

We're re-doing our yard so I get to work staining our gates while listening to Last Podcast On The Left's episode about the Unabomber. I just finished watching Manhunt on Netflix and the LPOTL guys do a great deep dive into the topic. 

We take Indy downtown to socialize with other pups at Paws in the Park and he discovers that on a hot day, nothing feels better than cold water.

Indiana Bones - Raiders of the Lost Bark

I grab a mixed berry iced tea which is served in a quart container. Like the kind Chinese restaurants use for wonton soup. Raspberry and blackberry seeds get stuck in my teeth. This was a bad choice. I should have stuck to lemonade or beer. 

We come home, John and the pups nap on the couch and I devour stovetop popcorn with chili powder, turmeric, sugar and salt and a couple of more episodes of The Good Place before heading to yoga. That show is forking funny. 

Returning from yoga, I am certain of two things: 

1. My hair is a sweaty mess.
2. I will murder someone if I don't eat soon. All I've had today is a half a bagel, a bowl of popcorn and some iced tea with berries. 

Luckily, my boyfriend is a good man who knows that in my love language, "Baby, let's eat," means so much more to me than, "I love you."

Sunday night winds down with a hot shower, veggie pizza from Hot Pie and cuddling up on the couch with John and the pups. 

This could be the yoga talking but this moment? This right here? This is perfect.

And hopefully, I'll get to make another moment like this tomorrow.