Running and Eating (But Mostly Eating)

On Labor Day, I drove an hour and half through the (very un-summery) pouring rain to meet up with some friends for the Acushnet 4 Miler Road Race. Fortunately for us, the storm cleared for the race. Though the humidity was still oppressive, at least we didn't have to contend with soaking feet and the attendant blisters.

Acushnet is an old whaling town with a large Portuguese population. My own heritage is mixed (think vigorously shaken, not stirred), and some of my ancestors were Portuguese whalers from the Azores who made their way to Honolulu, Hawaii. On lazy Sunday mornings, my dad would often fry up a batch of the Portuguese deep-fried pastries called malasadas that he loved so much as a kid.

But then, everyone loves malasadas. You could say that malasadas are to Hawaii what beignets are to New Orleans. Leonard's is the most popular place to get them (though I like Liliha Bakery). 

Malasadas at Leonard's Bakery in Hawaii

In short, I have really, really happy memories of eating malasadas. As an adult, I would often pick up a box of malasadas when I visited my parents on the weekends, stopping by King's Hawaiian Restaurant or standing in line for the "malasada lady" at the Torrance Farmers Market. They were, though, never as good as the ones my dad tossed into a vat of lava-hot oil and then into a brown paper bag of sugar.

Before the race, I asked my friend's husband where I could get a malasada nearby. As luck would have it, there was a Portuguese festival running through the holiday weekend. We could get malasadas there! The line though, he warned me, could take as long as 2 hours.

After the race, we sauntered over the festival, tired, grungy, and stinky. Luckily, the line wasn't terrible - yet. When we got to the front of the line, we waited several minutes for our order to be filled, allowing us to observe the malasada-making process up close.

Bits of dough were patted out into discs (like a small pizza dough). Then, into the fryer they went before being coated with sugar.

The finished product looked like this:

Sweaty but happy.

Note the empty picnic table behind me. By the time we left (after eating other delicacies like clam cakes and linguica sandwiches), the line was at least an hour long and every available seat was taken. In fact, people were camped out on their own folding chairs.

If you happen to find yourself near Acushnet and there isn't a festival going on, I have it on good authority that the place to go is Lydia's. 

Staying On Track

In the first week of the new year, my enthusiasm for new projects knows no bounds. Closets are cleaned, gym memberships are bought, and impulse buys are shunned. Surely, I think to myself, this will be the Year of the Improved Me.

And then around January 8th, cold hard reality sets in. The cruel alarm clock summons me from my toasty warm bed for a pre-dawn jog. I glare resentfully through the darkness at the Merry Husband and Merry Dog, who snore away happily to themselves. If only I could console myself with the purchase of a new Lilly Pulitzer shift...drats.

In short, I'm in need of inspiration. Luckily, this morning a friend pointed me to this story from the Today Show. The blog Runs for Cookies brought together twelve runners who had each lost over 100 pounds. Together, they ran the Ragnar Relay, a 200 mile race from Miami to Key West. 

So, if you find your resolve fading too, take a few minutes to watch their remarkable journey. Suddenly, that morning jog doesn't seem so odious anymore.

Navel Gazing and Whale Watching

If only.

Our local paper announced the beginning of whale watching season this week, and for one completely self-absorbed and horrifying moment, I thought it was talking about me. As the season of plenty slowly rolls along like Violet Beauregarde, I'm assessing the damage. Luckily, the New Year, and its accompanying health frenzy, is almost here. Two weeks of wheatgrass shots and 5 mile jaunts through the park should get rid of the holiday pounds.

But back to whale watching. Yesterday afternoon, I excitedly booked tickets for (sing it with me) a three hour tour, a three hour tour. The sales rep warned me that under no circumstances would the trip would be cancelled due to rain. "Sure, not a problem," I cheerfully concurred as I looked outside at the clear blue skies.

This morning, I woke up to the sound of rain hitting my window. I stood on the balcony and stared up at the darkened sky like a confused turkey. Firmly in denial, I brightly assured the Merry Husband that the clouds would clear ("You know, like Florida!), and drove through the flooded streets to the Redondo Beach Marina. We walked up to the deserted boat. ("I'm sure they'll be here any minute!") We waited.

I finally called the sales rep.  "I'm sooo sorry," she explained. "We cancelled due to rain. I thought I had gotten in touch with everyone. Come over to Polly's Diner on the other side of the marina and I'll give you two free vouchers for another day."

The Merry Husband and I rejoiced at the sudden and fortuitous change in company policy. After collecting our vouchers, we tucked into delicious plates of Polly's chorizo and eggs.

Dear readers, I wish I could share with you photos of me spotting a whale, me petting a whale, me becoming   BFFs with a whale. Sadly, today was not that day. Instead, here are some dark and stormy photos of the marina.

Polly's on the Pier

I hope that your weekend is going according to plan.