There is something so soothing and calming, and yet so manic and nerve wrecking about baking. You can follow a recipe, with the right measurements, a hint of this, a teaspoon of that, but somewhere between the flour and sugar, things can go wrong. Kind of like life. But then, when you achieve greatness and the oven delivers you your magnificent golden brown cake with everything in place, you feel a great sense of accomplishment. Also kind of like life.

To bake, to create something with your two hands from scratch, it’s meaningful. And then to feed it someone who actually likes it is equally as satisfying.

With the Los Angeles sun setting on Friday afternoon, I decided to make meringue cookies.

I like the science of combining sugar and egg whites and watching them transform from a lumpy, clear mass to a bowl of glistening meringue base. But more than that, I like adding flavors and additions to simple recipes that carry memories, experiences and culture.

I was born in Tehran, Iran to Armenian parents. My parents fled to Greece after the 1978 Iranian Revolution and landed in Los Angeles, where I was raised. Their parents come from Tabriz and Moscow and Baku. This summer I found out that a part of my family going back a few generations might have been from the Nagorno-Karabagh region, which remains a phantom state, as the New York Times recently called it. My background is a culturally colorful map that has bred in me  a strong appreciation for diversity and curiosity, and yet, as is usual with immigrant families, a multidimensional identity that isn’t always the easiest thing to deal with when you’re an awkward teenager and young adult trying to navigate your way through the deep black hole known as life.

As I get older, it gets easier and the appreciation grows as the years go by, especially for food. As anyone with a similar Middle Eastern or Caucasus influenced background can tell you, food is truly the cultural essence of life in every sense of the word – in celebration, in pain, in moments of solitude and with more extended family members that rivals the Duggar Clan. It is used as the setting for laughter, arguments and everything in between. A table bubbling over with smells and concoctions holding the pain and joy of a tribe, is the hearth of the Armenian or Middle Eastern household.

Rose water, pistachios, saffron – they evoke memories for me, tied to occasions and people that have always appeared in the narrative of my life.

I used crushed pistachio, always ready to in a mug in our fridge, just in case my mom feels like making the mouthwatering Middle Eastern dessert known as Kadayif, rose water – an ingredient you will see all over the map in recipes from Cyprus to India, and saffron, an expensive but powerful spice cultivated in Iran. This particular one had been brought back from Iran with a relative a few days earlier, so I get an A for authenticity.

These flavors have incredible chemistry together. They compliment each other, without one overpowering the other. Opening an oven door and smelling rose water baking with hints of pistachio and saffron is comforting.

I have been thinking of what to do with this space of mine for a long time. I ignore it for months, out of frustration and when I do post, there’s no uniformity or continuity, no conversation.

I want to change that. For the last two years, a lot of the work I’ve been doing in my professional life as a journalist has revolved around communities and issues facing Armenia, the South Caucasus, greater Middle East and its diasporas. These parts of the world fascinate me. Maybe it’s because my roots are spread out in and around it. Maybe it’s a selfish, silly need to discover or enhance a part of my identity, or maybe it’s because despite my cultural connections, they are some of the most fascinating places facing the most fascinating issues in the world. I want to make this space a conversation about those issues, about the lives of immigrants in foreign countries and the ones in the developing countries I mentioned, about culture, civil issues, politics and human rights abuses, even Los Angeles, but triumphs as well, about what I have a passion for, which is writing about how extraordinary issues impact ordinary people.   The twist however, is to do it mostly around a virtual dinner table – a place that has been the cornerstone of conversation for most of my life, where ideas were exchanged between copious amounts of saffron-infused rice and arguments cooled over hot cups of chai made from the amazingness of the samovar. It’s a tall task, and there’s more thinking to do about how to approach serious subjects while talking about milk and baking soda and what to call it and if it should even be here.

I’m not sure what will unfold, but I’d like to think of it as my little experiment, a way to progress conversation and perhaps progress myself in the process.  Grab a cup of tea and check back soon.

The higher the heels, the closer to God/ © Liana Aghajanian, Yerevan, Armenia

One of the most interesting things I’ve noticed since I’ve been in Yerevan is how amazingly much of the country’s women walk the streets with 4 to 5-inch heels without wincing. In their finest clothes and jewels, they put on their towering shoes and parade effortlessly on the (sometimes unstable) cobblestone streets of this small city. And don’t think they’re going to a party or a bar opening.

They walk like this to work, to school, to the supermarket, to do the most mundane of tasks, decked out in shoes that make me wobble just thinking about them.

As a result, I’ve decided to undertake a voyeuristic photography mission to document them. I’m calling it “The Yerevan Street Shoe Project” and hope to update my Flickr page with the highest and funkiest of heels I can find in Yerevan.

See all the photos so far here.

© Newsha Takavolian

Just learned about the work of Iranian photographer Newsha Takavolian. Her work has been published in the likes of Time and Newsweek, and her images of women are striking. She has a new exhibition called “Listen,”were she photographed female singers who are not allowed to sing, perform or record CD’s because of Islamic law in Iran. These two images are from this series, which was recently shown in Los Angeles at the Morono Kiang Gallery. Disappointed that I missed it.

Reminds me of No One Knows About Persian Cats,  a 2009 film which follows a band in Iran, and the underground rock world that musicians and youth are forced to create in the confines of strict laws.

© Newsha Takavolian

When I look through old i.d. photos of my mother, aunts and grandmothers collecting dust in shoe boxes from a time in Iran where hiding in the basement after hearing air raid sirens was normal life for a while, I am fascinated with their black, plain roosaris, the Farsi word for hijab.

Though Los Angeles has a sizable enough Iranian and Pan-Muslim population, you won’t find people wearing the hijab as easily as you will in London, either a condition of leaving behind the symptoms of oppressive regimes, the California heat or other personal reasons. Or maybe I’m not looking hard enough, since the layout of  my pedestrian-challenged hometown, with its freeways and wideness doesn’t allow for too much interaction with as many people as I’d like.

Whatever reason these particular women have for wearing a hijab and despite opinion and legislation against this expression, it is interesting to see not only the inter-mingling of the world’s cultures on the streets of this city but how the women who choose to wear the hijab, and make it fashionable – a far cry from the hijab wearing of my mother’s day.

Here are a few iPhone portraits I managed to take, mostly walking on Oxford street.

A few links:

Hijab Style, the UK’s first style guide for Muslim women.

We Love Hijab, advice on how to wear a hijab, haute hijabi couture and more.

What It’s Like Without the Muslim Headscarf, a personal blog post by Egyptian science journalist Nadia El-Awady, who also reported on the recent Egyptian Revolution.

Why I Do – Or Don’t Wear the Hijab, an interesting video report from Radio Free Europe/ Radio Liberty with interviews from women from a variety of countries:

All photos © writepudding.com

A few snapshots from my iPhone in the last six months from a few corners of Los Angeles:

Egyptian Diaspora protests in front of the Federal Building in support of the Egyptian Revolution.

Iconic religious statues from India’s Sweets and Spices in Los Feliz.

La Morena, sliced green pickled jalapeños, Ralphs, Hollywood.

French macarons at a Koreatown mall, Koreatown.

Za’atar, Middle Eastern spice mixture and Armenian coffee, Shanto’s Bakery, La Crescenta.

Chrysanthemum Tea Drink, Sapp Coffee Shop, Thai Town.

Yerevan, Armenia t-shirt from Ara the Rat.

Left over Cinco de Mayor balloons from Mexico City restaurant, Los Feliz.

Matrioshka Russian Vodka.

Iran Air sticker, the country’s official airline.

Charlotte Stuart doing pain reduction procedure, Nelson, New Zealand/Photo by Wonderlane/Creative Commons

Recently,  I’ve started work on my third Spot.Us story, an exploration into how traditional and modern medicine intertwine to aid patients with a variety of ailments and chronic diseases.

This follows up two other stories I’ve done, one about the high number of unclaimed bodies piling up in Los Angeles County and the other about the city’s struggles with caring with and killing its growing rate of unwanted animals in shelters.

It’s a topic I am very much looking forward to exploring, mostly because I think it has the potential to uncover some amazing personal narratives that would otherwise have remained hidden. When people think about traditional and modern medicine, they are always pitted against each other, instead of alongside each other.  This is definitely a sort of “East meets West” intersection that I think will unearth cultural practices that are aiding people such as cancer patients, who are going to radiation treatments while employing things like Reiki and healers. It will also hopefully emphasize that when it comes to health, getting better is not just a physical manifestation – our mental and emotional health seems to be in need of therapy too.

Because of my interest and ties to certain cultural communities that span the sprawling landscapes of Los Angeles, I can already see that this is going to be quite a gratifying story to be working on.

Growing up as an Armenian-Iranian-American (how’s that for hyphenation) I’ve been exposed to my fair share of traditional medicinal practices and if I’m being honest, to someone on the outside looking in, it all probably seems crazy. Really crazy. From firecupping to using donkey fat to cure ailments and a witch-y like woman who shall remain anonymous for now, that can literally “blow out” pieces of food stuck in your throat (a scene I’ve seen and experienced first hand), I have seen it all.

And those experiences probably bring me to another reason why I’m so intrigued by this topic – people judge what they don’t understand and that certainly applies to deep rooted ethnic, cultural and religious practices that are rarely discussed in a serious matter where medicine is concerned anyway.  I hope my narrative on this intersection can provide understanding as well.

In the meantime, if you’re reading this and know of anyone in the Los Angeles area who is using traditional and modern medicine in tandem, or of any cultural communities (and individuals within those communities) in the L.A. area who practice traditional medicine, please do leave a comment or send me an email – lianaaghajanian@yahoo.com. You can also donate to the pitch if it’s a topic that interests you or take this survey to earn credits and then donate, free of cost.

I’ve been to three swap meets in the span of three weeks and I couldn’t be happier. You can complain all you want about traffic in Los Angeles (ahem), lament about all the pseudo-humans you meet here, but there’s one thing L.A excels at better than any city: outdoor flea markets.

Here are a few finds from the Rose Bowl Flea Market which has been existence for over 40 years.

While the Rose Bowl Flea Market is amazing, this outing left me disappointed. Not only was it too crowded and lacked any really good finds, the entire process has become so commercialized. You have to pay $8 to just get into the meet, with no pets allowed and performers who are hired to keep crowds coming through the turnstiles entertained – men on stilts, unicycles, that sort of thing. It just seems so…contrived.  On top of that, the food inside will take a nice chunk out of the wad of cash you’ve saved for those sweet antiques or chotchkies you’re after.

Still, it is definitely worth it – especially when you can find such treasures as “The Wandering Jew.”

I’ve saved my favorite find for last. I know you might be thinking – hello? Did you not see the incredible Sonny and Cher barbies above? What can be better than the plastic versions of the dynamic duo responsible for “I’ve Got You Babe,” (which plays like a loop in my head even if I sing it once)? Well I’ve got news for you, no pun intended.

Behold.

Bound editions of bound  bi-weekly New York Times newspapers spanning from the mid 1920s to late 1940s.

I KNOW. I almost went into cardiac arrest right then and there. Most of these beauties came to the swap meet from the libraries of universities, and were being sold for $20 each. After scouring to find one in the best condition and some haggling, we left with the March 16 – 31, 1943 edition of the Times, which came from the Stanford University Library in all it’s glory for $15.

As any writer can attest to, there’s nothing better than the scent of a musty old book. For a journalist, a bound edition of the Bible of Newspapers from 1943 smells like absolute heaven. Heaven I tell you. Full description and pages (complete with Old Gold cigarette ads and calls for Victory Gardens!) to come in subsequent post. Excuse me while I go smell my newspaper.

Is this turning into a baking blog? I really don’t know.

At some point during the years I’ve been blogging, I’ve fantasized about having a baking or food blog, and then having said blog land me a book deal a la Julie & Julia, but there’s just too many things I love in life to narrow it down. Maybe someday when I grow up.

Back to food. You are looking at a white chocolate raspberry cheesecake with chocolate graham cracker crust made for two dear friends on their coinciding birthday.

Cheesecakes aren’t my favorite thing to eat (blasphemy) but people seem to love them. They’re just too rich for me – one bite and I feel full, but I have no qualms about baking them. You see that raspberry sauce on top? Made from scratch.

Nothing gave me greater pleasure than being able to swirl those raspberry blobs into hearts, especially after a long and tiring day.

And because I am going to have some long and tiring days ahead of me in the next few weeks, I wont be baking or writing here – but when it’s over, I’ll have a lot to share. Perhaps in the meantime I can finally nail down a niche for this lovely space of mine. Until then, au revoir.

Here’s to new beginnings.

After a horrendous fire season in which my house, along with many others, almost became enveloped in flames, Los Angeles saw its first drops of rain in a while a few weeks ago. That was a clear signal to me to bring out perhaps my favorite item of clothing I own: long johns.

Yes, I really own them and yes, I am going to devote a post to their magical ways because I am not exaggerating when I say that I had a horrible, terrible case of the Mondays, and writing about long johns is sort of refreshing after the soul crushing, depressing day I had. 

Though traditionally this one-piece is known as a “union suit,” it has somehow come to be known, at least in the U.S. as long johns -a term that is usually referred to a type of two-piece long underwear. Originally designed for women, the first union suit was patented in 1868 as “emancipation union under flannel.”

Michael Quinion, who writes about international English from a British viewpoint atWorld Wide Words has dug up a paragraph from the June, 3, 1944 edition of  Wisconsin Rapids Daily Tribune which suggests the origin of at least the “john” in “long john” comes from John L. Sullivan, the famous boxer who allegedly wore the garment. 

Though their popularity has long since tapered off, there are a few places that still carry them – and believe me, I searched far and wide to find the perfect ones that happen to be found at American Apparel. In fact, I have two pairs, one in black and the other in forest green. Don’t judge me. 

Long johns make me feel all warm and tingly. If I could, I would stay in them day in and day out. Yes, they are that comfortable. There’s nothing you can’t do in long johns. You can read, eat, watch television, write, have a phone conversation and even sleep in them, which is what I do any time Los Angeles turns into a normal city and exhibits a bit of seasonality. 

You can even do jumping jacks in them. Seriously. They are THAT cool. 

The only downside to long johns (and for some it might be a big one) is that if you live in colder climates, going to the bathroom might be a chilling feat. But really, this is a small price to pay for such a magnificent piece of clothing. They are so magical, that whenever I put them on, I feel like busting out into a song and dance sequence with “You Make My Dreams Come True” by Hall and Oates, because they really make my dreams come true. 

Despite my penchant for foreign and independent films, my piano training and love of listening to opera while cleaning, I have a special place in my heart for mediocrity. What I mean by that is when things are so bad that they spontaneously combust and switch sides to become INCREDIBLY AWESOME.

This is the reason that I recommend you go watch the masterpiece that is “Blame it On Rio.” I’m still mad at the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences for not giving credit where credit is due – Blame it On Rio is  cinematic gold. This is also the reason that I have spent many a Saturday night watching “Cheaters” with Joey Greco and his soul patch beckoning at me through the television screen. And also why I recognize the existent of Arsenium – Moldovan popstar and dreamboat.

These are the reasons that there’s something wrong with me.

My love of mediocre arts and entertainment is precisely one of the reasons why I indulge myself in the kitsch and camp world of Bollywood. If you thought the Western world was cheesy enough, you have absolutely nothing until you’ve seen an Indian film. Preferably with Abhishek Bachchan.

I am not a fan of people who don’t “get” mediocrity or cringe at the thought of watching “Real Housewives of Atlanta” (Who gonna check me boo?) or renting a too bad for its own good 80s flick. It’s nice to be low brow once in a while. It’s nice to indulge in guilty pleasures and watch the crappiest television show that’s on at the moment.

I have to mention though, that this special category that of awesomely bad or badly awesome pop culture does not apply to phenomenons like “The Hills” or “The Bachelor” or the Keenen Ivory Wayans movie franchise. The aforementioned are not awesomely bad, they are just plain bad, mostly because they either fail at being awesomely bad or they think they’re some kind of classy institution. Anything that shoots Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt straight to fame and into our houses is nothing but evil. And I didn’t even have to look up how to spell the names of that overexposed fame-whoring couple, that’s how bad they’ve permeated by brain.

So skip the really bad MTV shows and watch something like COPS. Oh COPS. I can’t get enough of it. Another personal favorite of mine? The Nanny.

I am probably one of five people on Earth that relishes in Fran Drescher’s excruciatingly annoying cackle. Mistahhhh Shefieeeeeeeeeeeeeeld. Love it.

The bottom line is, embrace the cheese. You can do it. Embrace it, love it, knit a sweater for it. You wont regret your choice, because really, life doesn’t need to be taken so seriously, mediocrity, while bad, is a good thing.