Love of food can be love’s most sincere form—especially when avocados are involved—but also bittersweet if paired with departure.
Consider the Delta smelt: an old fish in California, endemic to the upper Sacramento-San Joaquin Estuary, now caught between its home and thousands of drought-stricken acres.
An editor telephones complete strangers outside the US, asking them to describe a typical Thanksgiving.
In the city of Irvine, in the county of Orange, in the state of California during a season of sports, sometimes America reaches maximum volume.
Indian culture is under siege by Westerners enamored with yoga, authenticity, and convenience. The dosa—a beloved, inconvenient tradition—could be next to fall.
Continuing our series where we ask novelists to write restaurant reviews that are absolutely not restaurant reviews, the author of the Southern Reach trilogy meets his match in a Dublin brie.
Nobody stands between one cyclist and her cheese on a vegetable-fueled bike tour through Eastern Europe.
Between love and tacos, sometimes it’s better to choose tacos. Our series continues where we ask novelists to dine out, then write us something that 1) is a restaurant review; 2) is not a restaurant review.
A new series where we ask a novelist to eat in a restaurant, then write us something that meets two criteria: 1) it is a restaurant review; 2) it is not a restaurant review.
When celebrities are candid, they tend to go all out. Reddit’s “Ask Me Anything” interviews—edited for the seven deadly sins—provide an Idolatry of Self so big, it produces Zen koans.
Twice a year, a group of friends gathered in a coal-mining pocket of Pennsylvania—friends in their twenties with fragile identities, who didn’t know yet what would happen.
Small towns around Europe host goose-pulling days—contests to snap the necks of birds at high speed. In the name of sport and pride, a tradition from the Middle Ages prospers, criticism notwithstanding.