Los Angeles - Something was off on my appointment calendar this week, and I totally forgot that some clients are not coming for their usual appointments this week. I did not mind having to drive through ninety minutes of traffic for one appointment, and intended to spend the rest of the day catching up on other work. Shortly before five o'clock in the afternoon, I decided to call it a day. I drove out and I guess , was a bit preoccupied, and missed my entrance ramp to the freeway. It led me back to Sunset Boulevard, and drove towards downtown,hoping to take the freeway entrance off the Catholic cathedral.
The streets around the cathedral were almost empty, and knowing that there would be no service at that time, I snuck into the cathedral's parking garage. Soon, I found myself inside the church, attempting to pray, but soon gave up. I sat still and enjoyed the stillness and quiet. I could hear the muffled drone of the evening freeway traffic and occasional clicking of footsteps. I walked around the church corridors, out in the yard and into the tiny grove of olive trees. I sat on a bench in the plaza, and picked at the newly-trimmed rosemary hedges.
Yeah, nothing special, just a quick moment to myself, as I waited for traffic to ease. After about forty five minutes, I headed back to the garage, got into my car and proceeded to the exit. I handed the parking ticket to the attendant, and expected to pay a couple of dollars for visiting my church. He smiled as he took the ticket, punched into his register, and politely said:"That would be eight dollars for you". Huh? Eight dollars? You don't understand, sir. I am a baptized, confirmed, communioned, card-carrying Roman Catholic by origin!! How very dare you charge me eight dollars! "Sir, it wasn't me. It was my cash register. If you want free parking come on a Sunday morning". I inhaled, fished out bills from my pocket, and handed it to him. Eight dollars. Eight pieces of one dollar bills. I was not upset, or outraged. Just surprised.
Times have changed. I now have to pay whenever I pray at this stone church by the freeway. Do not get me wrong. My sense of charity is in place, but not for things such as overpriced parking. For that price, I get a valet to park my car in other places. In this church, find a spot, park it yourself, pray for relief, and hand cash, and walk away. Relieved, I don't know. Next time, I will try to find a quiet corner, close my eyes and say hello to God, remembering that I do not need to be somewhere to chat with the big guy.
This is my first attempt to replicate the wonderful pistachio chocolate biscotti made by Michelle Myers of Boule fame. I found the recipe in a back issue of Food and Wine (December 2005). I am not big on bakery and dessert items, given my aversion to cleaning up after a cloud of flour and cacao, or floors strewn with nuts shells and or cream all over the kitchen counter. I baked the amaretto infused dough (my ever slight tweak on the recipe) for about 25 minutes at 350 degrees F, then allowed the bars to cool before cutting them up in finger-sized pieces, and baking the pieces again, at 200 degrees F for 30 minutes. 
With the nut and chocolate scents wafting throughout, and it smelled like I baked a ton of it. The recipe calculated for six dozen pieces but I managed to make half of that. Maybe I cut the slices thicker than the instructions. Well, it was so choco-laden and so delish, that I started going on a choco-OD. Skipped dinner as I picked through the bits of pistachio and chocolate dough. Good for the sweet soul and bad news for my trainer.
