In the spirit of increasing my familiarity with my surroundings, I’ve decided to take advantage of the “Day Trip” feature in the local AAA magazine.

So yesterday my friend A and I set off for Palos Verdes Peninsula. Look at the map, and you’ll probably think “Set off? Why be so dramatic? It’s not far at all.” And you’d be right, except that distance and time bear no relation to one another on Los Angeles freeways.

Magazine in hand, we headed down the 405. Except because neither one of us is all that great at blindly following instructions, we made our first stop in Torrance.

If you like spices, you’ll love Penzey’s. I’ve ordered from their website any number of times, but I’ve never been to one of their stores. It turns out that one of the advantages of going to the brick-and-mortar location is the sample jars. Now I know what whole allspice looks like–and, based on a sniff test, I’ve decided that next time I order cinnamon, I’ll get the Vietnamese Cassia instead of the (really quite good) Chinese Cassia I have at the moment.

Having smelled and purchased spices, food was on our minds. We had lunch at The Original Red Onion, a chain which I had not realized specializes in Mexican food (although if you really want a corned beef sandwich, you can get one there). I was glad to see that they offer dishes with ground beef, but I ordered the chile verde enchilada, which comes with pork, and was very tasty. A ordered and failed to finish what may have been the world’s largest burrito.

From there, we headed to the peninsula itself. A and her husband were married at the Wayfarers Chapel there, on the southern side of Palos Verdes. The chapel and the views are striking, and it’s not hard to see why it’s such a popular location.

Next up was the Malaga Cove Public Library, a Spanish-style building that was closed for the July Fourth holiday. However, we were able to see the small park and large fountain immediately adjacent; it looked like a nice spot to spend some time.

With plans for a group viewing of “Public Enemies,” it was time to leave the cool, misty peninsula and head north into the (sweltering) San Fernando Valley. It was a really nice day, and I think we’ll probably try to do more of the AAA-sanctioned day trips, although I’m reasonably sure that we’ll wind up customizing those, as well.

And maybe I’ll even come up with a Sandwich-based nickname for A.

You know what’s tragic? Sandwich help from Gwyneth Paltrow. Sorry, but I refuse to eat fake bacon. Or fake mayonnaise. And I say this as someone who, yesterday, went to the store for late-night Chips Ahoy.

A week ago, Mr. Sandwich and I headed out for a long weekend in Chicago. As it turned out, getting there felt longer than the weekend. Why? Because there were tremendous thunderstorms in Chicago, leading to a series of ground stops and, for us, an ELEVEN HOUR LAYOVER in Phoenix.

But we finally made it to O’Hare, and, at 3 a.m., to our hotel room. After a late breakfast at the Silver Stallion (sounds like a strip club, but actually home to very nice breakfasts), we spent Saturday evening and much of Sunday with family (the purpose for our trip was a 50th anniversary party, which was a terrific event). And then Sunday evening we drove into Chicago itself to have dinner at the Chicago Chop House. Dark, wood-paneled, lined with photos from the city’s history (we ate under the gaze of Ada and Minna Everleigh, Chicago’s most famous madams)–the Chop House had just the atmosphere we were looking for. It also had just the steaks we were looking for. The evening was a tremendous splurge, but the dry-aged New York Strip was worth it–as were the Four Cheese Potatoes Au Gratin and the Asparagus with Hollandaise Sauce.

One might think that such a meal would be more than enough for one evening, and one would be right (indeed, I was not interested in more food until about 2 p.m. the next day). But thanks to Facebook, I had discovered that one of my grad school friends, now living in Philadelphia, was also in town. So four of us met in downtown Chicago and walked up the Miraculous Mile to spend some time catching up at the Ghiradelli Ice Cream and Chocolate Shop. A tip: the Decadent Drinking Chocolate is aptly named. While we were sitting, I looked through the front window to see that across the street is Hershey’s Chicago. I wonder if sometimes the competition gets too fierce, leading to a chocolate rumble.

The next day, we took the L (El? “El”? So many options) into the city so that we could board the Chicago Architecture Foundation’s excellent river cruise (hint: wear sunscreen–a week later, I’m still burned between the knee and the hem of my shorts). From there, we headed south through the downtown and then west past the soon-to-be-renamed Sears Tower to Lou Mitchell’s Restaurant. This Chicago institution is open for breakfast and lunch, with great skillet egg dishes and donut holes. It’s also the starting point for historic Route 66.

That evening we met another friend and her children (the younger is my goddaughter) at Nancy’s Pizza in the suburb of Niles. The deep-dish Hawaiian pizza was excellent, and if I’d had a way to eat the leftovers, I’d have taken them. But we were scheduled on an early morning flight back to L.A., so we sent them home with our dinner companions instead.

So we met our goals: spending lots of time with family and friends, touring the city, and eating iconic local meals. However, even though it was directly across the street from our hotel, we did not get to eat at Mr. Pup. Maybe next time.

And now, for your viewing pleasure, a few photos in no particular order:

Tex-Mex is a much-maligned cuisine. All I hear are sneers. “It’s unhealthy.” “It’s inauthentic.” “It’s got too much cheese.”

Well, get over yourselves, Californians.

Seriously, “unhealthy”? Hate you taken a look at those deep-fried tacos you can’t stop wolfing down at Tito’s Tacos? Because those things aren’t just loaded with fat. They’re a disgusting mess.

“Inauthentic.” Huh? It’s regionally authentic. You’re just used to food from a different region. And apparently you don’t realize that authentic food is based on local ingredients–which is funny, considering how obsessed you are with living La Vida Locavore. Hopefully local ingredients explain your own obsession with red onions. (Why are they in everything? Please tell me, and then explain why you’d want them to be.)

“Too much cheese.” Pretty big talk for the state that pays good money to brag about its happy cows.

So cry me a river, and pass the fajitas. Which, by the way, are from Texas.

Meh.

But the shrimp tacos are teriyaki-delicious. The only downside? They’re so full of cabbage that they’re kind of hard to eat. Maybe next time I should get one of the bowls.

Normally I like the strange, cool, grey weather we get in June. I love it if it lasts into July. Why? Because then it isn’t scorchingly hot.

But this year I’ve been longing for heat the way I did in the middle of a New Jersey winter, and the June Gloom seems gloomier than usual.

Plus I have a headache, which is at least partially due to sinus pressure. I blame the gloom.

Two of my friends–and one six-year-old–met for coffee on Sunday morning. (Not to worry. The six-year-old drank water. Her growth remains unstunted.) In an effort to find a location that was new, and was easily accessible from our three different points of origin, we settled on Jennifer’s Coffee Connection. In a corner strip mall in Studio City, Jennifer’s offers friendly service and a comfortable atmosphere. Oh, and the coffee’s pretty good, too.

From there it was off to the mall (just me) in search of a pair of grey slacks. This search was fruitless, as specific searches so often are. However, while at the mall, I found Healing Hands.

I’ve been meaning to find a new massage place, and this may be it. It’s not quite what I’m used to; the space is an open store with a combination of massage chairs, foot massage loungers, and massage tables. Everything is open, which is why you get your massages fully clothed. But you know what? It was pretty effective, and very affordable–I paid $35 for 30 minutes, which is a little more than I’m used to (I go to really cheap places) but certainly within my range.

Who are they? They’re people who, when you invite them over for dinner, say, “Sure! We’ll bring the food! And cook it!”

Courtesy of said friends, tonight we had grilled pork ribs with homemade BBQ sauce (mmm), grilled corn, and grilled broccoli. I made German potato salad and, for dessert, brownies. (Thank you, Ghiradelli. Seriously, there is no reason to make brownies from scratch when these mixes are available.)

Now we just have to figure out how to return the favor.

It can only sit thawed in the refrigerator for so long. As far as I’m concerned, “so long” is two days.

So the leg quarters must be cooked. We were going to grill them, but Mr. Sandwich cleaned the grill in anticipation of tomorrow night’s cookout. It seemed a shame to grease it up tonight.

As I type, the chicken is in the oven, in about 1/8 inch of old chardonnay and covered in thyme, rosemary, chopped garlic, and a little bit of cayenne pepper.

I also decided to fix the risotto that I got at Fresh & Easy a while back. Mr. Sandwich is not a big fan of risotto, but that’s okay. I’ve got Ranch Style Beans for him. Add some sugar snap peas (45 seconds in the microwave and they’re perfect, and we can call it dinner.

I know you’re all wondering what it’s like to watch someone run a marathon.

To begin with, you get up at 4:30 a.m., just like the runner does. Mr. Sandwich and I had prepared the night before; although we didn’t get to bed as early as we said we would, we did pack bags with every conceivable item that a runner might need, and put them by the door.

So in the wee hours of the morning, we headed for downtown L.A. (noting, since we are not usually up quite that early, that the sprinklers need to be adjusted, because the sidewalk does not really need water to thrive). There we met his parents and sister, as well as the afore-photographed Glenn, who was also running. After walking the runners in the general direction of the start, Mr. Sandwich’s mother and sister and I headed back to the car and drove off to a point near Mile 9.

We passed quite a bit of time at the McDonald’s at the corner of La Brea and Rodeo. (This is “Rodeo” like the competition with bucking broncos, not like the street where Julia Roberts did a lot of shopping in “Pretty Woman.” But I digress.) Clearly, this is the local hangout. The patrons all seemed to know each other, whether they were eating on their own or in large groups of older men. One man stopped periodically at different tables to ask for food; I bought him a large coffee as he requested, but did not give him 75 cents when he came back 15 minutes later.

After a while we walked down to Rodeo and West MLK, where the race takes a hard right turn to head east before heading north. We cheered on Mr. Sandwich and his father, but neither of them had any idea where Glenn had gotten to. Since we had no way of knowing where Glenn was or what his pace might be, we headed back to the car to find another spot.

This involves a lot of driving, because the Marathon closes off any number of major streets throughout the western half of L.A. Although we wanted to head northeast, we had to go quite far west to avoid road closures. Eventually (with only one instance of drastically overshooting our turn), we wound up between Miles 19 and 20–in a small-world moment, across the street from my boss and her family, who were waiting to see a friend of their own. Again, we saw Mr. Sandwich and his father, but not Glenn, and this time one of our many items of gear was actually needed–the SalonPas spray that we’d purchased at the expo. Mr. Sandwich took the spray with him, in case his dad needed another application, and the three of us headed back to the car and then back downtown.

[Aside: In some parts of Europe, spectators at bicycle races will clang cowbells at the racers, apparently as an alternative to cheering. We have a small cowbell-esque bell, but between the water and the gear and the camera and the looking for my favorite competitor, I can't also ring a cowbell. So if you're ever at a race and you hear someone yell "COWBELL!", come say hello. It's probably me.]

It’s impossible to get to the real finish line, so we waited in the “reunion area” which is marked by banners with giant letters, so that you can hang out with people whose last names start with the same letter as yours. The music is deafening and cacaphonous, and the food from the various vendors is very enticing. Eventually Mr. Sandwich and his father made their way over to the curb where we were perched, and shortly after that we managed to find Glenn. So all were reunited, and then we went our separate ways.

And then there were cheeseburgers.