California Sunflower Bowl in honor of the life and passing of Bob Weir

What Fed Us

Some of my earliest food memories live alongside music.
Some of my fondest food memories are tied to Shakedown Street.

Lot food.
Real food.

Veggie burritos wrapped in foil and eaten wherever you landed.
Coolers cracked open.
Paper plates balanced on knees.

Food made by people feeding each other because that’s what the moment required.

This was vegan food for me before I had language for it.

Plant-based eating before it was curated, branded, or explained.

Food born of conscience, necessity, and community.

That way of eating shaped me as much as the music did.

Months ago, I made a grown-up version of what I once called my Garcia grilled cheese—an echo of those early influences, translated through time.

Sourdough ligthly toasted and brushed with black truffle oil.

Garden pesto piled high.

Heirloom tomatoes layered in.

Vegan feta melted until it was creamy and unapologetic.

Warm, nourishing in every way.

A simple thing, elevated, but still rooted in the same impulse: feed people well, because that’s what the moment asks for.

It came together the same way the lot food always did—intuitively, without performance.

Indulgent and grounding at the same time. A reminder that nourishment doesn’t have to be austere to be honest.

That grilled cheese was about presence.
About pleasure without apology.
About feeding the moment you’re standing in.

This Bobby Bowl is what I carry forward—a small offering, made while listening to Bobby and the boys.

It’s lighter.
Cleaner.
More alive.

It honors California food as I’ve always understood it—sun-fed, mineral, honest.

Greens that still taste like the earth.

Sprouts that are actively growing.

A bowl meant to be eaten barefoot, windows open, early light coming in.

This recipe isn’t about nostalgia.

It’s about continuity.

Because what we were being fed wasn’t only food.

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The Harmony That Held Us

The last time I saw Bobby was at the Sphere in Las Vegas in 2024. It felt like coming home again—not to a place, but to a unifying frequency.

To an extended family bound by vision and a shared knowing that the world is alive with meaning, layered and shimmering, far more mysterious than we’re taught to believe.

I assumed there would be another show.
Another tour.
Another next time.

You don’t realize you’re standing inside a last moment.
You just think you’ll see them again.

That weekend felt like a reunion in the truest sense.

Friends came in from all over the country—people I’d been bound to for decades, not because of proximity or nostalgia, but because of what the music represented.

We picked up right where we left off.

Because when a bond is formed around shared vision instead of circumstance, it doesn’t erode.
It doesn’t require maintenance.

It simply is.

In 1990, my freshman year at Mizzou, there was a group of us who all landed on the Dead at the same time.

Looking back now, it feels less like something we discovered and more like something we were led toward.

It became everything we did—listening to music, hanging out, going to shows, and slowly learning how to look at the world through a different lens.

What started as music became a way of seeing.

A shared orientation.

A quiet agreement that there was more going on here than we’d been told, and that paying attention mattered.

That orientation felt familiar even then—like an inheritance.

It echoed the generation before us, the people of the 1960s who challenged authority, questioned consensus reality, and cracked open the idea that consciousness itself could expand.

The music carried that lineage forward.

Not as nostalgia for a past we hadn’t lived, but as a continuation of the same inquiry—translated into our own moment.

Psychedelics certainly played a role in that widening of perception.

They weren’t an escape so much as an opening—a way of loosening the grip of what we’d been told was fixed or unquestionable.

Around the same time, I was reading Ken Kesey, discovering meditation, and finding others who were asking the same kinds of questions.

The music, the books, the inner work, the community—they braided together.

The Grateful Dead connected me to a sense of Godliness in a way no church ever could.

It wasn’t about doctrine or rules—it was about direct experience—a feeling, a subtle knowing and recognition, a connection to joy, love, and a humbled reminder of our shared humanity.

A hug, and an I love you, man.

An I dont know you, friend, but I love you.  

Strangers hugging strangers.

Whatever you want to call it—each of us names it differently, but the understanding is the same thing: the Source, the flow, the other side, the way, it’s always there; it just gets buried.

Their music helped clear a path back to it, not by telling us what to believe, but by reminding us how to listen and how to see it’s shining light in one another.

What emerged wasn’t just a taste in music.
It was a way of standing in the world.

A shared understanding that reality is layered, that authority can be interrogated, that lived experience matters.

And within that, I found like-minded people—and a place that felt more like home than any physical place ever had.

What that world gave me wasn’t fantasy.
It was learning how to see with clear eyes.

Not from idealism.
Not from anger.
But from something deeper—almost universal.

A truth that didn’t need convincing or defending.
Something that would stay with me for life.

The music taught me to think outside the box—not because boxes are bad, but because most of them are inherited without question. It taught me to pause, look again, listen harder.

To notice who benefits from the rules and who gets left out by them.

That kind of awareness doesn’t make you louder.

It makes you steadier.

Almost overnight, penny loafers became Birkenstocks. Argyle sweaters gave way to tie-dyes. Not as costume—never as costume—but as a shedding.

A declaration.

I never looked back because there was nothing honest to return to.

In the summer of 1991, my dad spent a few months in San Francisco. While he was there, he sent me a tie-dyed postcard from Haight-Ashbury.

By the time I saw the Grateful Dead live that fall—1991, at the Cleveland Coliseum—we’d already shared something that didn’t need explaining.

It was a cool connection to have with my father.

A quiet exchange, young and old, reminding each other what it’s all about.

The postcard had a quote from The Doors on it:

I awoke with the dawn, and put my boots on.
I took a face from the ancient gallery and walked on down the hall.

The West is the best.
See you in September.

Love, Dad.

It didn’t feel like advice.
Or persuasion.
Or a lesson.

It felt like recognition.

Like we were meeting each other in the same place from different points on the road.

Seeing the Dead live didn’t start anything.
It confirmed what I already knew.

I wasn’t getting off that bus.

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What About Bob?

There was something about Bob Weir that always felt steady.

Not flashy.
Not transcendent in a way that left the body behind.

He stayed here. In the song. In the rhythm. In the long arc of the work.

He held the middle.

While others burned bright or fell away, Bobby kept showing up—barefoot, weathered, present. He didn’t abandon the experiment when it got hard or when time took its toll.

He kept walking it forward, letting the music age, letting himself age with it.

There was wisdom in that.
A kind of faithfulness that didn’t need explaining.

What the Grateful Dead offered wasn’t escape.

It was orientation.

A way to stand inside uncertainty without needing to dominate it.

A way to listen—really listen—to each other, to the moment, to what was trying to emerge.

Bobby carried that forward long after many others were gone.

He kept the door open.

That’s why this loss feels different.

Not because the music stops—it doesn’t.
But because one of the living anchors is gone.

And still, what he embodied remains.

In the songs.
In the way we gather.
In the way we feed each other.

In bowls of food passed across tables.
In memories that don’t fade but deepen.

This recipe, this writing, this act of attention—it’s all part of that same lineage.

Not trying to hold on.
Not trying to recreate.
Just continuing.

Because nothing real is ever lost.
It just changes form.

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Memphis, 2003

In 2003, I saw Bobby at the New Daisy Theater in Memphis.

That night lives separately in my memory—clear, embodied, intact. He held the center of that room without effort. Barefoot. Sweet-eyed. Steady. He wasn’t trying to transcend life. He was fully in it.

Grounded.
Present.
Keeping the experiment human.

I was dancing—not watching, dancing—when someone asked if I wanted to meet him backstage.

Backstage wasn’t glamorous. It was quiet.

Human.

We stood together and took a picture.

Nothing ceremonial.

No performance.

At the time, it felt special, but not monumental.

But, somehow I knew.

It felt like alignment rather than novelty.
Like something clicking into place without needing to be named.

The kind of moment that doesn’t announce itself—
it simply settles in,
and remained pure and grateful.

When the Anchors Are Gone

I took it extremely hard when Jerry Garcia died. That loss cracked something open in me. But Bobby was still here. And so was Phil, Mickey, and Bob.

The music kept breathing.
The way of being—curious, awake, communal—still had living anchors in the world.

Now Bobby is gone.
And Phil is gone.

And with them, something has completed itself.

Not just a band.

Not just an era.

But a way of being that shaped my inner life for decades.

There was simply nothing like it.

And it fucking hurts.

Not in a poetic way.
Not in a way that wants to be softened.

It hurts because something real is over. Because what once felt endless is suddenly finite. Because this music didn’t just accompany my life—it helped form it.

When I heard Bobby had died, Brokedown Palace rose up immediately—not as a thought, but as a feeling. A trust in laying the road and the body down together.

In letting the burdens fall away. In being received by something vast enough to call us home.

The Grateful Dead didn’t give me answers.
They gave me permission.

Permission to trust experience over approval.
Permission to choose conscience over comfort.
Permission to live awake, even when it put me on the fringe.

That’s what I mean when I say I never got off the bus.

His death unlocked memories.

When music shapes a very formative time in your life, it doesn’t live only in your ears—it embeds itself in your body, your identity, the way you learned how to see.

So when that music loses one of its living anchors, it isn’t just the person you grieve.

You grieve the version of yourself that was formed in that sound. The time, the openness, the becoming. A whole interior landscape comes back online at once.

That’s what this kind of loss does.
It reminds you who you were when everything first cracked open—and that part of you still matters.

We didn’t know then that Bobby had been diagnosed with cancer back in July.

His fans weren’t told.

There was no announcement, no public reckoning with illness.

We only learned after his daughter shared news of his passing.

In typical Bobby fashion, he didn’t ask for sympathy or fuss.

He didn’t make a show of it.

He stepped back the same way he always did on stage—quietly, unassumingly, letting others—or the music itself—take the lead.

No performance.
No explanation.

Just a gentle withdrawal into the life he had left.

That restraint was its own kind of generosity.
A final act of grace.

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What I Carry Forward

So I cook.
I feed people.
I stay awake.

This bowl—this food—is part of that devotion.

What I carry forward is compassion.
Awareness.
And the understanding that we are all just walking each other home.

I was reminded of that when I saw Ram Dass’s Instagram feed—a photograph of him and Bobby together.

Two men who understood, each in their own way, that presence matters more than performance.

That love doesn’t require volume.

That you don’t have to dominate a room to shape a life.

It didn’t feel surprising.
It felt inevitable.

As if the thread had always been there—visible only to those paying attention.

Aside from his earliest days, I saw Bobby through every chapter his music lived in.

I didn’t follow out of nostalgia or loyalty to a band name—I kept showing up because the music kept meeting me where I was. It changed as I changed.

The music went on until I couldn’t anymore, not because it stopped mattering, but because time and life eventually ask different things of our bodies.

What he gave won’t end as long as the spirit remains. And the spirit doesn’t belong to one body or one lifetime—it moves through all of us.

There’s a thread that connects us, whether we name it or not, and Bobby’s music lived on that thread.

It met people where they were, softened what needed softening, and reminded us—again and again—to come back to the heart.

Now that Bobby has left the body, what he offered is still here. Not as a performer or personality, but as a presence.

It’s  the quiet knowing that we are all walking each other home, carried by the same music, the same love, the same shared breath.

It just moved out of the room and into memory, into the way certain songs still land in my chest, into the quiet recognition that something meaningful walked alongside me for decades.

Now that he’s gone, the music lives on the way all real things do—carried by people, by feeling, by the unseen vibrations that keep moving long after the sound itself fades.

As Ripple says, “If I knew the way, I would take you home.” Maybe that’s what he was always doing—walking with us, song by song, until we remembered the way for ourselves.

This recipe is a small token—my way of giving back. I could never repay what the music gave me.

That gift is too large, too formative, too alive.

But I can pass it along.
I can feed people.
I can keep Bob’s memory moving through the world through my art, the way the music always moved through me.

A way of saying thank you—for the music, for the memories, for the long strange trip, and for the understanding that the end is never the end.

It’s a crossing.
A release.
A beginning that asks us to keep listening.

River gonna take me
Sing me sweet and sleepy
All the way back home

🌻

This is a raw vegan, living bowl. Nothing here should feel cooked down, muted, or overworked. If an ingredient looks tired, skip it.

• Use the best produce you can find. When a dish is this simple, quality isn’t optional—it’s the point.

• Greens should taste alive. If your dandelion greens are aggressive, use less. This bowl rewards restraint.

• The dressing should almost disappear. If you can clearly identify “lemon” or “oil,” you’ve gone too far.

• Toss the beans first. This grounds the bowl and keeps the greens from wilting.

• Layer loosely. Scatter, don’t stack. This bowl needs air.

• This bowl is meant to be eaten fresh. It does not travel well and does not want to be prepped hours in advance.

• If you feel the urge to add heat or crunch, pause. Ask whether you’re improving the bowl or interrupting it.

• Eat it barefoot if you can. Windows open. Light coming in.

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