Foie Gras & Flannel

I’m not big on tradition–at least, not in the form that it seems to take during the holidays. Thanksgiving, for example, long ago highlighted the rich flavors of harvest, but the “traditional” celebration seems to have devolved into canned sweet potatoes, green beans topped with crispy onions, and a cranberry-colored gelatinous substance. Sure, my family serves a version of these dishes; my grandfather also smokes venison and my aunt makes a bourbon pecan pie that I would fight you for–if there’s a turkey, it’s usually wild.

This year, Kim and I didn’t travel: we packed a picnic, and headed to Yosemite for the Thanksgiving day with my brother and Kim’s sister. That’s Kim on the left, Ashley on the right, and Jason photo-bombing in the background:

More of the family:

And Darla Abercrombie dog:

We live less than an hour from the entrance to the park, but in my seven years here I’ve been once (actually, I think that was before I moved here!). I’ve forgotten how incredible our national parks are.

We spent the morning walking around the lower falls (and the village). We gave up on waiting for sun to come out and settled on a spot on the bank of the Merced for our picnic.

Lunch:

Kim and Ashley cooked everything. From the top: ham and Gruyere bake, roasted acorn squash with wild rice and cranberries, and cauliflower soup. I want to marry that soup.

Overall, it was an incredible day, rooted in spending quality time with loved ones, and in savoring the flavors of the season. That’s our new tradition.

You know that joke about Nascar drivers only being able to turn left? (That is a joke, right? I know I didn’t make that up.) Well, I feel like that with my travels–my car is always pointed toward San Francisco or Sacramento. This weekend, however, I’m in Santa Monica for the International Food Bloggers Conference.

Last night’s start to the conference included small bites from several area restaurants, but the highlight (with regards to the food) was being turned loose inside of The Market at Santa Monica Place. We learned how to make macaroons, sampled cheeses and gelato, and ate tacos; specifically, beef cheek tacos with a peanut mole from The Curious Palate.

I’ll take four more, please.

Edit: I really do love Denver, but Diablo Burger is in Flagstaff. D’oh!

I had to reflect on this for a week, but the more I think about Diablo’s Wrigley Field burger, the more I know it’s one of the best I’ve had. Ever.

I’m in love: with the burger, with the emphasis on local–with the entire concept of the restaurant. A focused, mouth-watering menu. Cash only. Two beers on tap (two good beers, that is). Small, intimate environment. Locally-sourced beef and ingredients.

The four paragraphs at the top of the menu that introduce the burger list urge customers to trust the cooks:

Because this beef is about 95% lean, we recommend that your DB burger be cooked medium-rare…In addition, please understand that we cook all of our burgers to order, literally taking the temperature of every single burger we make.

That attention to detail shows throughout the restaurant. But enough talk.

Ready. Set. Drool.

That’s six-ounces of mouth-watering beef topped with homemade sauerkraut, bacon, Swiss cheese and a spicy honey mustard–all on an English muffin. On top of Belgian frites.

Jason ordered The Cheech, generously topped with guacamole, pepper jack and jalapenos. And we both sipped on a delicious IPA.

Once again, Flagstaff, you’ve been good to me. I may soon plan a trip to the Grand Canyon just to have another reason to pass through.