It's all the simple stuff, really -- the walks, the moonlit nights, the pancakes. When you inhale up here, it’s so much better. When you exhale, it smells like pine.
I see soups as tiny prayers. Were I a Campbell’s exec, I’d create new genres of soup. Soups for lovers. Soups for sports fans. Christmas soups. Summer soups. Soups for a crisp autumn day.
As you may know, I come from very humble beginnings. I was born in a DMV line in Woodstock, Illinois.
Farewell, you painful, overpriced sport. I'd rather be tied to a horse and dragged through the Century City Mall than put on one more pair of rental ski boots.
These mountains always fluff me up. I come out of the Eastern Sierra like a big load of cotton sheets, warm and smelling of French butter.
I'm taking the tree trunk to my pal Serdar, who turns Christmas stumps into soup spoons and other keepsakes -- ornaments, baseball bats, pestles, nose rings, whatever.
With Christmas, as with LA, there’s such a fine line between good and evil. Like some sort of cotton candy fence.
College football's brand should be based right here, in the shadow of these stained-glass mountains, where every Jan. 1 the drum lines flail and the angels cheer.
Psssssst, here’s America’s dirty little secret: There is no record of anyone ever keeping a New Year’s resolution.