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We met in 1970s reissues — both reaching for the same scratched copy of a Alice Coltrane record at a shop on Sunset. Idris let Margaux have it on the condition she'd play it for him someday. She did, four years later, in a kitchen in Silver Lake, and neither of us has left since.
What followed was the slow, ordinary, extraordinary stuff: a small apartment with too many plants, road trips to the desert with the windows down, a dog named Mingus, and a standing Sunday habit of cooking far too much and inviting everyone we love.
This October we're doing exactly that — only bigger, and in the desert that's become our second home. Come be loud with us.
