Life Bill Lascher Life Bill Lascher

No one wants to read what I had for lunch

Wake to the parched taste of a dry mouth. Rise to the scent of a half-cleaned kitchen. Continue with instant maple nut oatmeal, a pat of butter, some almonds, a banana and a glass of milk. Two percent. Jerry's Farm, Mulino, OR. Coffee once. New Seasons Concordia Blend. French press.

Toothpaste. Peppermint with baking soda.

Coffee again, thicker and coarser, dripped from a DeLonghi machine in the kitchen of a temporary workplace.

Tap water.

Sub-par street cart seafood ramen served in a plastic container. Wet noodles, orange broth and a gritty mussel. Tortilla chaser. More water.

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Portland, Travel Bill Lascher Portland, Travel Bill Lascher

Ducking the Elephant in the Room

The day takes shape slowly. Getting out the door just happens. Once you do the bus is ten minutes late. Then, so is the MAX, but you don't mind. You've been quietly extricating yourself from time. You wait in the chill beneath an interstate, listening to teenagers gossip. Staring at the spikes lining the steel beams beneath the roadway you think perhaps a bit too long about pigeon deterrence.

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From New York to Jollibee and Back Again
Los Angeles Bill Lascher Los Angeles Bill Lascher

From New York to Jollibee and Back Again

It's not so much that I'm protective of my L.A. gems, but that it seems a latent instance of the somewhat annoying irony fad that so infected late 90's and early 00's Western culture, often fueled by inaccurate understanding of the term's definition. Perhaps, perhaps not. Whatever the case, I still keep picturing New York's food editors thinking how recession-chic it might be to list a new fast food outlet among the openings.

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