My roots are in Prague. Not my real hereditary-type roots — they lie somewhere in Lithuania, in some long-forgotten shtetl in the Pale of Settlement.
I’m talking about my cultural roots, my identity as a bohemian, or in the current vernacular, a boho. The bohemian movement started in Prague, or at least was perfected there. Also, Prague is the capital of Bohemia, which is an historical region that takes up about two-thirds of the current Czech Republic. So, Prague is Bohemian and bohemian. Around 1912, Franz Kafka met a Yiddish-Theater actor named Isaac Löwy, who introduced him into a world of writers, artists, thinkers, physicists and anarchists.
They hung out in bars or in Berta Fanta’s salon – upstairs from her husband’s pharmacy; they drank absinthe, they had sex with actresses (I’m sure they did; I don’t have historical data at my fingertips, but believe me, they did); they stayed up all night and talked about Expressionism and Modern Music; they discussed the ideas of Einstein and Freud, who were both kicking up their heels around this time.
A couple of weekends ago, Martin and I headed out to Joshua Tree for a quick camp-out. Fall in the National park is spectacular. We enjoyed bouldering, dominoes, wine and beans by the campfire, a starry slumber, early morning coffee in our enamel-ware mugs and a wonderful hike to an Oasis.
Food is the epicenter of Mormon culture, which makes it seem like people rarely show up at church events – well, any event – without the expectation of noshing. No food is virtually a mortal sin punishable by social chastisement and tantamount to cultural anarchy. And while much of the layperson Mormon culinary lexicon consists of potentially disastrous gastronomic experiments and everything- but- the- kitchen- sink casseroles, the Lion House in Salt Lake City's Temple Square stands as the pillar of Mormon cuisine, our Le Cordon Bleu, if you will.
Every culture has fried dough--German Berliners, Italian zeppole, French beignets, and Indian balushahi--but none can top the gut-busting pleasure of the American donut. It's the latest iconic food to undergo a renaissance; here are our picks for the best classic and newfangled donut purveyors across the country. 
I did it for you, dear reader. I did it all for you. I did something
I vowed I would never do. Not in a million years. But there I was in
Verona. City of Romeo and Juliet. City of beauty. And after seeing so
many beautiful things, one does get a bit peckish. And all the
guidebooks recommended the same thing: horse. It’s a specialty of the
area. So when Jim and I found ourselves at the local restaurant
perusing the menu, there it was, staring us in the face: smoked horse
with arugala salad. There was also pasta with a donkey ragú on the menu
like it was the most normal thing in the world to eat these equines. “
I guess we had better try it,” said Jim. “Really?” “Yeah. How bad can
it be?” He said nonchalantly. I could sense a challenge. “OK, go ahead
order it.” “Ok, I will,” he countered, adding, “and we’ll share it.” I
took a large gulp of my prosecco and waited anxiously for the dish to
arrive.
