Rose Bowl, episode 5. In which we find our mojo.

You know how it is with memory and food, right? That first bite of the right dish will flood memories right through your brain and (in my case) sentimental heart. I especially savor that moment in Pixar's 2007 feature, Ratatouille, when Peter O'Toole's aloof restaurant critic takes his first bite of Remy's elegantly deconstructed rustic dish. His flood of memories immediately returns the rough-edged critic back to his provincial childhood and the comforting warmth of his mother's lovingly-prepared casserole of farm-fresh vegetables and herbs.

Although my own meatloafing of America throughout these here ramblings can recollect many happy memories of traveling with Mari, there was no meatloaf in my childhood. There are other dishes that evoke strong memories of my mãe e pai, especially Portuguese and Brazilian recipes from my childhood. Although I've managed to nearly recreate a few family favorites, including stuffed peppers (a hint of cloves in the ground beef mixture was my mom's secret signature) and pudim flan (slowly stewed sugary prunes embellish the otherwise silky smooth surface), the recreations are never quite perfect as you know if you've ever tried to copy a family recipe.

I've also never been able to come close to my favorite family dish, my mom's obsessively layered lasagna. I have no clue where my mom came up with her recipe, but her carefully constructed casserole has absolutely no origins in Portuguese or Brazilian cuisine. The weight of that finished glass lasagna pan and the corresponding heft of the memory of family celebrations will forever cloud my gastronomic judgment, I suppose, and (much like a cake left out in the rain in MacArthur's Park) I will never ever have that recipe again.

Many thanks to Donna Summer for bringing me out of that foodie reverie!

Sometimes, however, you do happen across a heavenly taste of the cherished past and such was our good fortune the weekend of Mari's Rose Bowl fleamarket 50th birthday weekend. During last year's LA visit for my 50th, I was surprised and happy to discover a West Coast location of a Midwest favorite, Portillo's, where Mari and I enjoyed a post Long Beach flea Chicago dog and Italian beef sandwich.

Another Midwest favorite blipped its way onto my culinary radar while planning this year's post flea refueling. I could not believe that after all these years (our last visit was in 1989 in South Bend) Mari and I were about to enjoy pizza and perfectly seasoned slices of Mojo potatoes at Shakey's!

Thinly sliced and delicately battered, Mojos are the perfect side dish to accompany a memory-inducing and oh-so-savory starch-fest. Our trip down memory lane was incomplete, of course, without our college friends with whom we had shared many a heavenly Mojo, many a comforting meal, and many a lasting memory.

Visit the site to plan your own starchy walk down memory lane. Although no longer in the Midwest, there are Shakey's locations in a variety of unexpected regions of North America (and Asia).

shakeys.com

Originally, our plan was to enjoy a memory (and Mojo potato) filled lunch at the Glendale Shakey's, the closest to the Rose Bowl, immediately following our 3-hour shopping safari, but along our route that morning we couldn't help but notice a few colorful and strategically-placed signs advertising an estate sale. Hmmm.

That hot pink sign a mile south of the Rose Bowl stuck in our memory throughout the morning and we couldn't help but be tempted by it again on the way to our well-deserved and much-needed Mojo-memory-filled nourishment.

And, of course, you know how these things go...

there was a garage sale on the way to the estate sale.

This delicate beauty made its way into my weekend stash of treasures. For all of two dollars, I was absolutely elated to still find this bone china beauty so late in the garage sale day. 

Remind me to share with you some blog day the location where I am now cleverly displaying my fleamarketed teacups that could no longer control themselves in their own display cabinet. It combines two things I cannot live without.

Now, I have a confession about estate sales.

I have kind of a love-hate relationship with them.

I love them because I enjoy hunting for treasures as you all know. I hate estate sales because more often than not, they are happening because someone has moved on (and I'm not talking about a simple move across town, but a more metaphorical move).

As you know I can sometimes get a little (way too much for my own good) sentimental even about such seemingly meaningless miscellany as indelibly-inscribed slide rules, 99-cent owl-emblazoned souvenir plates, and four-dollar Avon pressed glass rose bowls. Imagine what it's like, then, for me as I walk through someone's former home and forage through items that have been selected for one final purge.

Let me share with you, though, one final bargain purchase that helped round out a small collection started a few years ago. I don't know what Lenox was doing getting involved with spices, but back in the late 1980s the Lenox Spice Village made its debut to the delight of collectors somewhere.

Miniature (each about 3 inches tall) Victorian-style cottages, each unique and delicately embellished with painted artistic interpretations of two dozen herbs and spices, were available to culinaria collectors who likely never used them for their implied function.

None of the dusty but still brightly embellished spice cottages still remaining in the emptied Pasadena townhouse that afternoon, the final (deeply-discounted) day of the estate sale, bore witness to any trace fragrant herb or spice.

Each porcelain cottage, I'm absolutely confident, had displayed proudly in that formerly pristine and orderly kitchen. The three carefully-chosen beauties photographed here found their (discounted to $2.50 each) rightful route to join two previously fleamarketed rescues (Bay and Saffron) on my kitchen counter. I make no attempt to disguise their far from utilitarian function although I did select herbs and spices that are among my favorites. My functioning spices (all 48 of them) have their own spice drawer where they are alphabetically tucked away in identical Penzey's spice jars with all their labels dutifully facing upwards as they await appropriately seasoned selection.

The five members of my Spice Village help maintain the eclectically collectible vibe on the countertop where I enjoy experimenting and recreating family food memories.

Chive, Tarragon, and Nutmeg have found a new home in my controlled clutter and will have their own spicy story to share some day.

This was my last photo at the flea. My drooping pineapples and I are posing with reminders to all visitors of other upcoming local events.

So many fleamarkets...

so little time!

A return trip (or two) is on our list.

More sites (and maybe a few stars) from SoCal next time.