For the last fifteen years, my husband — Zach Baron! Author of Last of My Kind! Out Spring 2027! — has sporadically turned our personal life into magazine writing. Clearly I have no problems “being perceived,” but it has been a sometimes-startling experience to read about my own life as interpreted by the other person in the room (see also: marriage). I’ve gone along with it because writing at 5am seems to be how Zach works through his stuff, and also because he’s my favorite living writer, even including Kate Atkinson, and even when airing out dirty laundry (ours). Last of My Kind is at least partly inspired by our many rounds of IVF; he also managed to put that saga in GQ, though once again, the piece was so beautiful that I couldn’t be mad. I will never write about IVF, because I prefer to Men in Black my negative emotions, but if you are going through the process of trying to have children, in whatever form that might take, and need to vent, DM me. I mean it. It’s an incredibly lonely experience.

Anyway, tough break for ole Zach Baron, because my moment of payback has arrived. Last Saturday, while Zach and our son Knox were out picking up the babysitter, I opened the family Sonos to play the Totoro soundtrack for our younger son, Cy. (We are finally on the Miyazaki kick and I would like to say to all of you: you are correct! At least in terms of films that speak to children and adults both! Catbus!) Zach’s Spotify account was connected to the Sonos — separate Spotifys, separate bank accounts — and so while looking for Totoro I noticed a new album under Recently Played. It was called Wife Repeller, and it turned out to be not an album but a playlist — created by one zachbaron. J’accuse!

Historically, I am repelled by Zach’s taste in music, or rather I ask him to turn off his favorite bands at regular intervals. (Once, in response to a Jawbreaker song: “is this how this guy sings?”) Of course anyone in a marriage or otherwise deserves personal interests, time, space, shower products etc. But also: I am a student of Nora Ephron and I know copy when I see it. The opportunity presented was so benign and yet so…potent. During our drive to dinner, I made Zach play each song so I could yell “well actually, I like this!” at him. (I do actually like MJ Lenderman.) I told the story over and over at preschool events, waving the phone in the air for effect. I Instagrammed. I turned the playlist on at home while he was out just to make him mad upon his return. He was really mad! I’d stumbled upon something that was supposed to be just his, the most precious commodity in a house with two small children and one work-mostly-from-home wife. Plus I’d stolen the valor of the playlist title, which is too funny to keep private on Spotify1. Again: my favorite writer! If this is the closest we get to a “caught cheating on the iCloud sync” situation then we’re doing great. Still, here I am blogging. Life comes at you fast. You can listen to Wife Repeller here:

And if you find yourself thinking about wedding planning this weekend for whatever reason, here’s Zach writing about us in 2015:

We were in a field, gazing at the old arbor he thought we might want to get married in front of. I had just learned what an arbor even was. (It’s arch-y and wooden and you get married in front of it.) I was rapt. I could picture it, our wedding here, and in picturing it I wanted it. I turned to lock soulful eyes with my bride-to-be, only to see my bride-to-be surreptitiously attempting to climb out the window of the man’s Ford Expedition. Because that’s the type of salesman he was—the type of salesman who locks you in his car while he pitches you. He was looking at her, in the gender-profiling way I would come to recognize, talking about her wedding and how it would go down, and she was looking back at him, her face a horrified, get-me-the-fuck-out-of-here mixture of agony and antipathy. It was a look that said: Talk to my idiot fiancé. The bride.

This also happened on Date Night — I will not name the restaurant but I will say that the experience was in keeping with the choice of bitters:

Some friends and I have a recurring night out — yes, okay, a “Mom’s Night Out” — in which we try all the storied L.A. restaurants, old and new. We once went to Baltaire because we heard Ben Affleck goes there, which is true, though not on the night we were there. These are all the restaurants I remember, in alphabetical order:

Baltaire: Great fries, our incredibly nice server talked to us about Colleen Hoover books at length (positive.) We went because a friend’s much-younger facialist said it’s a hilarious pick-up spot, but not on a Tuesday I guess.

Casa Vega: good enchiladas, once I was so pregnant that I could literally not fit inside the booth.

Chateau Marmont: incredibly drunk person next to us with a large Louis Vuitton shopping bag. (I used to love to take out-of-towners to the Chateau at like 3pm for a bottle of rosé on the patio but I haven’t tried since Covid. Parties are still great here, obviously.)

Etra: Perfect lighting. I’m sorry to be writing the sentence “don’t miss the tuna crudo” but the truth is the truth.

Houston’s: I’m on record about this.

Jar: Chic but REALLY calm. I felt like we were shutting the place down at 8pm.

Mistral: Incredibly cozy, not too far from the Valley Petit Trois but so much quieter (positive.) They took great care with everyone’s martinis and my Negroni.

San Vicente Bungalows: We were one of two occupied tables in the restaurant and they still wouldn’t let my friend order until the member arrived…but then Al Pacino walked in.

Smoke House: Probably the worst food of all the classic L.A. restaurants, but the cocktails come with sidecars?

We never made it to Musso and Frank’s as a group but I recommend going on Thursday for Chicken Pot Pie night. Sunset Tower is forever; Taylor’s is a goal for 2026.

Another entry in “Canon To Me But Forgotten To Everyone Else:” Martha Stewart’s paring knife. Also, from 20142: “I don’t get clogged pores.” Must be nice!

“Personal” shopping update: Chanel bought Charvet. Charvet, for those of you who live with fiscal responsibility, is a shirt-maker in Paris that has clothed both Jacques Chirac and Sofia Coppola. (Is Sofia the puppetmaster in this deal???!) My friend Marisa Meltzer wrote a great Vanity Fair piece earlier this year about Charvet and its renewed relevance, thanks to Chekhov’s Chanel collab; Marisa also accompanied me to Charvet last summer in my first, failed attempt to get measured for a custom shirt. (I didn’t have an appointment, it was vacances, only I am to blame.) This year, in advance of my Cannes trip, I bravely called Paris at 7am PST and booked a joint appointment for myself and Zach, and for only the second time in my life I experienced the nirvana that is saying exactly what you want and having someone else make it happen. I heard my tailor say, in French: write down that the client likes her sleeves too short. I understand why people become tyrants and/or film directors. Thank you to everyone who works at Charvet, I hope this means you get to take your lunch breaks again?

I’m not a baker — I distrust all forms of authority, including the authority that wants you to sift flour twice or whatever — but I do have a small arsenal of desserts in the Southern church cookbook tradition. (Similar genre to Junior League, elementary school fundraiser, or other community cookbooks, but perhaps with more “submitted by Mrs. Zach Baron3” bylines.) These recipes are almost entirely composed of shelf-stable ingredients, so they require a can-opener but no precision. I’m most “known” for my Key Lime Pie, which is a tweak on a recipe handed down by my beloved Aunt Betty that almost certainly came from the liner of a pre-made graham cracker crust. It’s also notably similar to Alison Roman’s Key Lime Pie recipe, to the point that I have been too self-conscious to share it publicly. Anyway, with love and endless gratitude to Alison Roman, whose trout dip I have been making since 20154, I realized I have the receipts: an email sent to my beloved Brooklyn therapist, dated 2014, with step by step instructions. This is real, you can use the Disclosure Day AI checker to verify it. My mom swears you can just substitute a pre-made crust but she’s wrong. Enjoy your weekend!

Who is more famous, Hilary Duff or Mandy Moore? We know what Juliet Litman thinks! #JamSession10 has conveniently coincided with the renaissance of Hilary Duff, or at least of Mean Mom Group Chat content featuring Duff and other assorted Valley (in spirit at least, haven’t Geolocated anyone) moms. I consumed all this drama through the lens of a Los Angeles Eastsider and also, as Juliet gently reminded me each time we returned to the subject, a woman of a Certain Age. The age in question is “Too Old to Care About Lizzie McGuire.” The age in question is “I remember when Andy Roddick won his single Grand Slam and climbed into the US Open stands to kiss his girlfriend.” The age in question is: Generation Mandy Moore.

Been noodling on this one as a cultural theory of elder millennials, say 1982-1985. People young enough for The Princess Diaries (2001) but far too senior mature for Agent Cody Banks (2003). This is not about picking favorites — Duff and Moore seem to be friends, and on the same side of the Mom Chat Drama, and once again I know nothing about Hilary Duff except that BarbDoesHair does her hair, and I didn’t think this NYTCooking recipe seemed so delicious — but about isolating a new micro-demographic in the vein of Generation Catalano. If we can understand our differences then maybe we can overcome them, etc.

I polled some of my own group chats — same prompt as above, who is more famous? — and here are the findings:

From actual friends who also work in media, same-ish age range as yours truly, one in LA and one in Paris (come back Lauren!):

M: That’s a really hard question.

L: Hilary Duff. Obviously not to us.

M: My instinct was also Hilary Duff, but Mandy Moore was in that Nate Bargatze movie which tells me America knows her [Editor’s Note: Though no one saw it] but I guess my final answer is Hilary.

From a college friend in Houston:

I have caught this debate on Jam Session and unsurprisingly my worldview is yours…but my finger is rarely on the pulse of the people.

From two preschool-mom friends who I suspect are younger than me, but we are spiritually equal in the rearing of small children:

Mom Friend 1: Hilary Duff. Maybe Mandy Moore if the poll is only for people in LA. [two seconds later] Oh no now I’m just watching Hilary Duff music videos.

Mom Friend 2: Oh wow this is a difficult one, but I feel Lizzie Maguire gives Hilary the edge here. Marginally!

Mom Friend 1: Also: Younger. Slept on, but an important show. [Editor’s Note: True.]

Mom Friend 2: Nope not a clue

From a novelist friend, LA-based, currently on vacation so thank you for replying:

Haha for ME it’s Mandy.

From my friend Yasi Salek of Bandsplain and Fast And Loose fame:

Damn this is hard. I think it depends on the demo tbh. I’m leaning Mandy Moore though — network television show etc.

From a New York-based friend who I’m almost certain is younger than me but the relationship is too new and rosy to ask:

My gut is Mandy — she’s stayed in the zeitgeist more consistently. Hilary to me dips in and out. But I will concede that Hilary apparently sold out venues recently. I don’t think Mandy could do that.

And from the collective hive-mind of Scandal Club, a group of friends who used to watch the television program Scandal together and who now all regularly publish books (except for me, I’m the charity case friend):

Published Author #1: Mandy Moore!

Published Author #2: Yes, bc This Is Us

Published Author #3: Duff, she’s so weirdly everywhere.

Published Author #4: I mean for people even 3 years younger than us it’s no contest Duff, right?

No mention of Center Stage which is alarming, but otherwise the findings are conclusive: we all understand that Hilary Duff is empirically more famous — but not to us. Because we are Generation Mandy Moore.

On the anniversary beat, my husband — Zach Baron, author of Last of My Kind! Out Spring 2027! — and I hit ten years in May. We managed to spin a work trip1 into a few days together in Paris, but on the actual day were back in LA with our children and thus celebrated with fried chicken and champagne at home. (The concept came to me during Backrooms. This has been a film review.) Our preferred fried chicken recipe comes from Small Victories, a 2016 Julia Turshen cookbook that is not exactly undiscovered — Ina Garten wrote the foreward and Sofia Coppola gave a blurb— but remains an essential text in the Baron-Dobbins kitchen. The book is organized around simple tips, or “small victories,” that make the recipes more intuitive and you a better cook; Turshen’s fried chicken suggestion is to fry the pieces in the largest available pot, eliminating the stress of oil splatter/spill/chaos. I’m sure there are scientific reasons as to why we cannot cook everything in the biggest available vessel, but I made a regular-sized pasta sauce the other night in our 9 quart Dutch oven and felt calm, cool, collected. Inner poise, to quote Bridget Jones (the book). Julia Turshen has a romance novella out this month with 831 Stories and gives cooking classes over Zoom. Gift ideas abound!

I went to the Landmark Sunset for a screening last night, which reminded me that I still owe the world the definitive Los Angeles Movie Theater Parking Rankings. Here you go:

10. Alamo Drafthouse Downtown: I turned on Alamo before the rest of you, because they are petty authoritarians with bad food. But this parking structure — 5 levels up a Guggenheim-but-ugly ramp in a downtown mall with usurious rates and surrounded by one way streets — is unforgivable.

9. AMC Grove: Most people would put the Burbank 16 here but fighting for parking with the Aritzia and the Cheesecake Factory crowd is a negative, plus I swear to you that the structure, lanes, and spaces are narrower than the other parking on this list. Who designed the one-way system and was it Rick Caruso?? Never gonna be mayor with that attitude, my man.2

8. Landmark Sunset: This used to be bottom of the list — I’ve had friends decline to see movies because they would have to venture into this structure — but I got a P1 spot last night. Good view of the hills!

7. AMC Century City: Overrun and the exit machines stopped reading your license plate on the way out (creepy, but efficient.)

6. AMC Burbank 16: Controversially high at number 6 but if you go up the structure instead of down, IDK, parking’s free and relatively close to the theater. Definitely too many back-in parkers, the worst feature of Los Angeles driving culture

5. AMC The Americana at Brand: So here’s the trick: use the Brand Ave entrance and go directly to the fourth floor. The escalator design could be better but also you have a full thirty minutes of trailers before the movie starts.

4. Regal Paseo: Smells weird and sometimes there’s a convention across the street. But accessibly-sized and cheap!

3. Landmark Pasadena: Used to be my number one but the city of Pasadena started charging for street parking on Oak Knoll. It’s about 5 bucks for three hours, leaving you enough time to stop at Vroman’s on the way out. The Landmark bar is now open to the public, FYI, though they still don’t carry Campari. What gives, Landmark?!

2. Laemmle Glendale: Street parking and metered city lots abound. Once I entered the wrong license plate and got a ticket, but I submitted my parking receipt (for the wrong license plate) and the city of Glendale reversed it! Pasadena would never.

1. Regal La Canada: You drive right off the 2 and up to the front door. No structure, just wide flat-top spots waiting peacefully for you. Unfortunately the projection at Regal La Canada has not been updated in many years (or at least since I last went in 2024) and so even I cannot see movies here anymore, but I like to know that the suburban movie experience lives on.

On the subject of Madonna arms: yes, of course, please sign me up, but could I also offer the inspiration of Emily Blunt in Edge of Tomorrow? Chiseled, but not creatined. Repeatedly demonstrated in a Cobra pose which suggests that this definition is possible via yoga (it’s not). On The Big Picture this week, I talked briefly about cultural references that are canonical to me — “it’s your day” from Greenberg, “m’am, this is a Wendy’s” — but maybe lost on everyone else. Do these arms qualify? Let’s change that!

Kids music rec: I wrote most of this while sitting next to my 4-year-old and listening to Lynn Kleiner. She is a sort-of SoCal Raffi, with a stone-cold classic album about the power of the ocean. (“Larry the Lobster,” a banger!) We are a “I’m so sorry, I don’t have Frozen in my car” kind of family but I can respect this stuff. Soothing before a swim lesson. (More on this next week.)

And finally, The Real Real Accountability Hour: total breakdown of monthly protocols, I’ve abandoned my principles, I am once again on a intra-family payment program. What happened is that I went 5/10 on my monthly order, and then a Dries van Noten shirt I’d had my eye on for our Toronto shows came back online. I added in some Celine heels because I have a disease. Then the Dries shirt didn’t even work — this is becoming an issue with me and Dries, please remind me next time — and my friend Claire sent me a pair of clip-on earrings that were too Blazy-coded to ignore. [whispers: I also threw in a pair of $80 Prada pants as suggested by Bottom Feeders Anonymous.] Disgrace. Shame. I apologize to you and to myself.

Let us begin with the essentials: Negronis. I get asked about my preferred recipe often and am happy to share in great detail — welcome to Hobbies, where I share useless opinions in great detail — but first, a cri de coeur directed primarily at the east side Los Angeles restaurant and aperitivo community1: please stop making your own red bitters. Please stop importing artisan bitters you found at the Amaro Convention. (Please do not try to lecture me on the differences between bitters and Amaros.) Please, and most important, stop using Cappelletti. This is not (yet) a sponsored post, but it is the Campari that makes a Negroni. If you are using something else, congratulations, you have a delicious drink that is not a Negroni. Also, and confidential to the Hillstone Restaurant Group, please don’t put vodka in your Negroni??? To the recipe:

Amanda’s Perfect Negroni
1 part Campari and Campari only
1 part gin — I like Tanqueray at home, just make sure your gin is not too floral
7/8 part (just the teeniest, tiniest bit less) sweet/red Vermouth — we use Carpano Antica. Keep it in the fridge!
Orange twist
1 extra large ice cube — this is not traditional, but I prefer it. If you are looking for a gift (for me), get a custom ice stamp like they have at Le Veau D’Or, where they also use Campari.

Serve with potato chips in a fancy bowl.

p.s. It can be batched for parties.

Been thinking a lot about Office Romance in terms of “romcom jobs,” or, more academically, the portrayal of white collar professional women in popular cinema over my lifetime. The Holy Trinity of 80s Yuppies — Baby Boom, Broadcast News, and Working Girl — are centered in news and finance (at least until Diane Keaton becomes the original TradWife CEO, but to/with Sam Shepard so it’s okay.) Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction: also a book editor! The Nora Ephron 90s are firmly in the editorial space (newspapers, books, write what you know) which leads us into the false advertising of the Magazine 2000s (How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days, 13 Going on 30, The Devil Wears Prada, 27 Dresses even though he’s the journalist. Doesn’t Sandra Bullock run a publishing house in The Proposal? I love books so much and: haha.) By 2015 Nancy Meyers has Anne Hathaway girl-bossing her way through a Net-A-Porter-like startup, but sacrificing at home by a) marrying that guy and b) letting him cheat. Does Sydney Sweeney even have a job in Anyone But You? Anne Hathaway (again) loses hers in the first five minutes of DWP2 and then has to choose between the symbolic ghost of Miranda Priestly and a contractor who reads about the Federal Reserve. (And, I guess, Laurene Powell Jobs.) You can’t have it all, unless you are having it all in between board meetings at a hand-me-down airline with late-stage Capitalism’s seal of approval. I am available to program this festival.

My husband — Zach Baron, author of Last of My Kind, out Spring 2027!!!!!!! — got shoulder surgery last week. I have supported him by texting Carine Roitfeld sling inspo (no response) and having a lovely lunch at Tartine Santa Monica while he was under the knife. Santa Monica: a different country! My scene report: Red scrubs, tiny European sneakers (mostly Nikes), boomers in tie dye t-shirts, teens in matching Rainbows, sweater vest and white flats, a pink polo button down with a bob and an eagle forearm tattoo, UCLA Campus Human Resources nylon briefcase from a man who wouldn’t stop talking to other people, “I was on a yacht with Tom Hanks in the South of France.”

We did an unhinged (speaking for myself only) twenty minutes about The Real Real on Jam Session this week. Instagram won’t let me post Reels — I guess they know how old I am, fair enough — and is also fairly bot-army lately so I am posting my saved searches here. This is akin to sharing my diary with you so please remember that intimacy takes many forms.

Amanda’s The Real Real Saved Searches, June 2026
Cocktail, Sleeveless (filters applied to the Dress Category)
Bode women
Evening Jacket
Prada, Shoes
Phoebe Philo
Khaite
Mules for Women
Le Monde Beryl Shoes
Editor’s Picks
Clip-On (filter applied to Earrings Category)
Prada, Sweaters
Marni Women
Silk blouse
Suede jacket (I should delete this)
Polo Ralph Lauren (so you get Ralph Lauren AND polo)
Rachel Comey Shoes

Note that we are applying the correct My Size filters (cast a wide range) and then checking twice daily for the latest drops. And expect mixed results: so far my June TRR order is 2/4, though of course the most expensive thing (a Dolce & Gabbana dress? Who am I or more to the point, who CAN I be?!) is a keeper. Mere hours after we recorded, the Le Monde Beryl wedges mentioned appeared in my size, but they are only Good condition and Juliet set very clear boundaries about re-orders. I’m instead posting all TRR items I can’t buy this month here. (The Isla products too!)

Finally, I would like to brag about the galleys I have received. Thank you to Cardinal Books for sending a copy of Min Jin Lee’s American Hagwon, out September 29, and to Doubleday for my beloved Kate Atkinson’s upcoming Our Noble Selves, out September 15. These books are going directly into my summer vacation pile, along with Anna Pitoniak’s The Swiss Agent, a sequel to her delightful (in a moody, international intrigue sort of way) novel The Helsinki Affair. (Just learned while hyperlinking that Anna has a third book, Our American Friend, which I am ordering immediately.) I read The Helsinki Affair because Anna cold-emailed me, knowing I like spy novels, and asked if I would be interested. I try to live Beyond Email these days but Anna makes a great case for occasionally hitting send. If you have a spy novel coming out soon, please email me!