I am a multi-generational Californian. From the time I was very small, I knew it was a complicated relationship, but I also knew it was love. Those most aromatic of California memories, those lazy, readily available pinches of remembrance, are of dry sunny days scented with orange blossom while a crack of the bat and a crowd’s collective whoop served as the soundtrack. Days spent in and out of neighbors’ pools or back and forth from the beach, sand sticking to the backs of legs now pink from too little sunscreen. Seasons marked by boxes of giant red strawberries and armfuls of sweet corn, of hammock swinging and the utter blending of outdoors and in. To this day, sun-warmed terra cotta tiles, newly creased paperback pages and an olive tree overhead is the height of what relaxed enjoyment should look like, every sensory receptor awake. The Los Angeles mystique is awash in easy pot shots at its preening vanity and silicone-drenched star worship. But for most of us local folk, there is a deep-seated gratitude for uncountable sun-soaked minutes and a breezy day-to-day. It is beautiful, and it is home.

With love from the coast,
Katie