I’m not a foodie. I seldom watch the Food Channel. The one cookbook I
own came with my microwave. I only go to Williams-Sonoma to get a gift
for someone else. So I’m surprised that some of the best memories of
my bicycle trip in France last summer are of food.
I was the only American in our group of 14, the rest were Irish or
British. Every day we biked 20 to 35 miles through the beautiful
Provençal countryside and every evening we had dinner at one of the
many restaurants in the village where we stayed. Even the smallest
towns had dozens to choose from. Sometimes we were the only ones in
the place.
Dinner was our evening’s entertainment. The group would meet in the
hotel lobby, then wander the narrow streets checking out menus in
restaurant windows until we reached a consensus. Usually, the only
dissenter was a snooty vegan, a London financial planner studying to be
a yoga instructor. She would frown as she studied a menu. “Can’t eat
that. Won’t eat that. Ugh, no way.” Then she would drag her poor
husband off for a salad somewhere. Once, I offered her some of my
sunscreen. “I don’t put chemicals on my body,” she told me. She came
back at the end of the day with a spectacular sunburn.
It's not a common occurrence for me to be hit with something that rocks the fabric of my gastronomical universe so unbelievably hard that I'm forced to reassess all that I believed to know about food and my own taste buds. Quietly hiding in the heart of Ohio, I had come upon what I can only call a culinary A-bomb, and it came in the form of a deceivingly plain post dinner pie. Encased by a simple crust, peaches purchased from Amish neighbors lay nestled in gooey fruitiness, cold vanilla seeping in from the sides. It looked harmless enough.
What do I look for in a travel experience? The answer is simple: culture, nature,
world-class shopping + food and the best nightlife, parties + events I can find. Sometimes in one day! Like many world-class cities London offers diversity, and my trip there this past fall provides a great example of how I was able to combine my favorite vacation pastimes.
Munch's summer house was not far from my family's summer home, in Åsgårdstrand. He spent every summer there between 1889 and 1905, fell in love with the pretty town and with a married woman, 
There are two faces of Carnival. Friday night my husband and I stood next to Hermes parade newcomers from Dallas, and when they asked where to eat I peppered them with questions to find the right restaurant. It's my favorite food writer challenge. They were looking for casual so I recommended SoBou from the Commander's Palace family for cocktails, Crescent City Brewhouse for brunch with a balcony, and Elizabeth's for fried chicken if they make it out of the French Quarter to the Bywater -- ask for Erin. We parted friends, and I hope their bellies benefited from the exchange.