Lifestyle
How Karis Dadson’s Icy Stare at Pig Shows Conquered TikTok
As she prepared to enter the pig ring on a recent weekend morning, Karis Dadson shifted her focus toward a judge who stood on a thick mat of sawdust shavings about 30 feet away.
That focus took the form of an icy stare that has captivated the hundreds of thousands of people who follow Karis, 14, and her family on social media. It was the same stare that has been celebrated by her fans — many of them young women — as empowering, “tuff” and the “meanest mug” in the game. The same stare that has been a source of inspiration to those who dream of emulating her while shopping for groceries, walking their dogs or confronting an annoying neighbor.
The same stare that has prompted such questions as: Who ticked her off? Does she feed her victims to the pigs? Can someone explain this to me?
And it was the same stare that was center stage last month at the Western Bonanza Junior Livestock Show, a three-day potpourri of denim, cowboy boots and expertly manicured animals — swine, sheep, goats and cattle — at the Paso Robles Event Center on the central coast of California. “The stare is iconic,” said Madelynn Gardner, 15, who ran up against Karis and her twin brother, Krew, in several contests over the weekend. “It’s a little intimidating.”
And it is purposeful. You just need to know a bit about livestock shows to understand it.
A field of more than 50 boys and girls, along with their pigs, had been cut to 16 for an age-group final in “swine showmanship,” a specialty for Karis. In showmanship, the exhibitors, as the handlers are known, are evaluated at least as stringently as their pigs are. Judges call out instructions and base their decisions on a host of factors, including how effectively the exhibitors present their pigs, the pigs’ responsiveness to their commands and the pace at which the pigs move. (Optimal pace? Between a jaunt and a trot.)
Karis, who stands 5 feet tall, wore a dark top with leopard-print sleeves, bluejeans and a Navajo pearl necklace, with her blonde hair in a bun. She was accompanied by Johnny Ringo, a 9-month-old, 270-pound crossbred barrow pig she had scrubbed to an immaculate shine.
By tapping him with a pair of small, thin whips that bore a resemblance to conducting batons, Karis guided Johnny Ringo through the ring while steering clear of four-legged traffic. As friends and family members watched from metal bleachers, Karis’s mother, Karalyn, crouched outside the ring with her Canon EOS R10.
“I always tell my kids that you have to try the be the least amount of annoying,” Mrs. Dadson said. “If the judges can’t find something annoying, you might stay up there.”
Through social media, the Dadsons, who raise and sell pigs, have brought livestock shows — and, more specifically, the niche world of show pigs — to the masses. A palate cleanser for doomscrollers, the videos, many of which have surpassed 10 million views, are a smorgasbord of farm-themed infotainment: tutorials, explainers, show recaps and, of course, crowd-pleasing stares. Karis, in particular, has emerged as a surprising symbol of female focus and determination — not that she meant for any of that to happen.
More than 100,000 young people participate annually in pig shows across the country, according to Clay Zwilling, the chief executive of the National Swine Registry. But there is only one pair of Dadson twins, who, Mr. Zwilling said, offer a “positive example of the show livestock industry” to many who never would have known it existed.
Karis and Krew have handled newfound celebrity in their own ways. While Krew says he likes the attention, Karis seems bewildered by it all. She sometimes wonders: How did she and her brother wind up on Will Smith’s Instagram feed? Why are so many other kids asking for selfies? Is she really a 21st-century queen and boss who, according to the internet, both serves and slays?
“It’s weird,” she said. “To me, I’m just another person showing a pig.”
Sharing Their Life
One of the semi-apocryphal stories about the Dadson twins is that they were born during a livestock show. The official version is that Mrs. Dadson went into labor while her husband, Kyle, was showing pigs at a nearby county fair. She had nearly told him he should stay home, but there was no chance it would play out that way.
It worked out in the end. After Mrs. Dadson called him, he beat her to the hospital, she said. Karis was born three minutes before Krew and has acted like his older sister ever since.
The Dadsons now live on a quiet street in Paso Robles, where they share their property with 12 show pigs, six sows, six piglets, two show sheep, four dogs, two ducks and four barn cats that work security.
“They’re supposed to eat the mice,” said Mr. Dadson, 46, an agriculture teacher at the nearby Atascadero High School, where Karis and Krew are freshmen.
Dozens of vinyl banners from livestock shows line the interior walls of the barn in their backyard where several of their pigs are housed. The twins have been showing pigs since they were 4. One of their first public appearances was at the California Pork Spectacular.
Mrs. Dadson, 38, had modest goals when she started sharing videos of her children competing. She had always enjoyed watching showmanship content online, she said, and wanted to contribute. She also was proud of her children. Best case scenario? Perhaps the posts would help the family sell some pigs.
So she was floored when her TikTok of Karis (staring, of course) at the 2022 Arizona National Livestock Show eclipsed one million views. Mrs. Dadson thought it would be a one-off. But then it happened again and again and again.
The overwhelming response to the videos was encapsulated in a comment from a TikTok user, which read: “Do I watch livestock shows? No. Did I know who this diva was the second she came on the screen? ABSOLUTELYYYY.” The comment alone received more than 20,000 likes.
The Dadsons have reached their largest audience via TikTok, where they have about 420,000 followers. But given TikTok’s uncertain future, Mrs. Dadson is glad the family has a presence on several other platforms, including Instagram, Facebook and YouTube.
For the record, all that staring is not a gimmick. Austin Thompson, one of the judges at the Western Bonanza, described making eye contact with judges as an “unwritten rule” in showmanship. It is a sign that the exhibitors are paying attention to the judge’s cues. And if it conveys confidence, that helps, too.
“I like the kids who come out of the gate with that kind of intensity,” Mr. Thompson said. “It just shows a little more care: They’re here to win and to do something.”
Karis said she had practiced until staring became second nature.
“I’m not thinking about the way that I look,” she said. “I’m thinking about how I’m moving around the ring.”
“I think it’s a little goofy,” Krew said.
‘We Are Pork Producers’
At the Western Bonanza, Karis was a cyclone of energy, bouncing between barns — she was also showing sheep — even though her path was interrupted every few feet so that she could give someone a hug.
“These are all my best friends,” said Karis, who checked her iPhone. “I’m already at 9,000 steps.”
Here, no one treated her like a social media star. Instead, she was just Karis, a teenager who likes to cook, spend time with her animals and gab on the phone with her friends.
At one point, her mother urged her to grab lunch.
“And not just Starbucks,” Mrs. Dadson said. “You need some protein.”
Karis resurfaced a few minutes later — with an ice cream cone. Her mother groaned.
“The line was too long!” Karis said.
It was also lunchtime for her pigs. James Backman, a show pig breeder from Denair, Calif., who works with several families like the Dadsons, was studying the animals to see how much additional feed each needed to bulk up before the next morning’s contests. The scene was vaguely reminiscent of boxers who cut weight before their bouts, except in reverse.
It served as a reminder that luminaries like Johnny Ringo are livestock, not pets. In the old days, farmers would get together to decide which of their pigs were best for breeding. Now, there are competitions, but the fundamental purpose is much the same. Some show pigs go back to breeders. Others are harvested for meat.
“My dad used to say that you’re producing a product that’s going to land on somebody’s dining room table,” Myrna Wicks, the Dadson twins’ maternal grandmother, said. “And it better be the best product you can put on that table.”
At the Western Bonanza, that message was reinforced when Karis grabbed a pulled pork sandwich from a friend’s nearby spread. Breakfast burritos at a food truck next to the pig barn came with a choice of bacon or chorizo.
Still, emotional attachments form on occasion (think: Wilbur from “Charlotte’s Web”). “There was one pig that Krew was like, ‘Do we have to get rid of him?’” Mrs. Dadson said. “His name was Dwayne.”
Krew gets it, though, and drove the point home when his family appeared on a recent episode of “The Pork Podcast.” The host had asked the Dadsons about their interactions with livestock show neophytes.
“Me, personally, I think the weirdest question I’ve seen on the comments section is, ‘Do you eat pork?’” Krew said. “And to answer that: Yes, we eat pork. We are pork producers, and we eat pork.”
While the Dadsons have earned enough money from social media to “pay for more pigs,” Mrs. Dadson said, the videos do not produce a steady stream of revenue. They enjoy other perks: free swag, for example, from animal feed companies like Hueber and Lindner, and from Andis, which manufactures clippers.
Given their visibility, the Dadsons sometimes feel like piñatas for animal-welfare advocates. Mr. Dadson said he had stopped reading the comments on their social media posts. Mrs. Dadson mines them for material so that she can correct misconceptions.
“It’s constant,” Mrs. Dadson said. “They don’t understand how well we take care of them. We like to think that they got to live out their best lives.”
The Dadsons can often be found wearing baseball caps with branding for All N, a hydration supplement. Their pigs apparently swear by it.
“Makes their skin pop,” Mrs. Dadson said.
‘She Commands Attention’
The pigs were not the only stylish ones in Paso Robles. The girls favored flared, boot-cut jeans by 7 for All Mankind with the No. 7 embroidered on the back pockets. Many of the boys wore jeans, button-down shirts and quarter-zips by Cinch.
“You put all this effort into their outfits,” Mrs. Dadson said, “and then they get ruined so fast. Pig poop all over them. But we try to keep them looking presentable most of the day.”
Despite the scatological obstacles, the fashion world has been calling. Karis recently made her modeling debut, appearing in the first issue of Domina Journal, a biannual art and fashion magazine that describes itself as a “testament to the perseverance of the artistic feminine spirit.”
Last summer, staff members from the magazine spent a few days at the family farm and at the California Mid-State Fair, where Jay Barrett, Domina’s editor in chief and fashion director, said Karis managed to stand out amid “cowboys in 10-gallon hats, rows of livestock and the biggest American flags I’ve ever seen.”
“She commands attention,” Ms. Barrett added in an email. “A look seasoned industry models strive for, at just 14, she’s got it. She’s exactly what we were looking for: defining female power, in an unexpected way.”
Karis said the photo shoot was fun. She also got a kick out of the people who dressed as her for Halloween. (One woman cast her husband in a supporting role as the pig.) But she knew her life had changed last summer when she was recognized at a series of livestock shows in the Midwest.
“It’s just different,” Karis said. “It’s not like I’m mad about it, but it’s new. I’m getting used to it.”
‘All These Kids Are Good’
In many ways, the Dadsons seem like accidental evangelists for the livestock life and the lessons they say it imparts to young people. Karis and Krew care for their pigs before and after school, feeding them, washing them and training them. They typically compete at one show a month.
In the process, Mr. Dadson said, the twins have learned how to create budgets and manage their time. Karis, who wants to work in agriculture when she grows up, said she was proud to be a part of her community.
“You could go up to any group in the pig barn,” she said, “and they would give you a three-course meal.”
Mr. Thompson, the judge at the Western Bonanza, recalled his own childhood raising show pigs. While the chance to compete often felt like a reward, each show produced only a handful of champions.
“It teaches you how to lose more than to win,” Mr. Thompson said. “You can work harder than anybody, and still not win. But you have to work to give yourself a chance.”
Win or lose, exhibitors invariably shake hands with the judge, though their disappointment sometimes manifests itself in the form of slouched shoulders and hangdog expressions.
For the longest time, Mrs. Dadson said, Karis looked up to her friend Maddy Lindley. Karis never thought she would compete at Maddy’s level, and when she did, her confidence soared. But Karis’s unusual level of public exposure has created unrealistic expectations.
“There are people who assume, ‘Oh, Karis should win every time,’” Mrs. Dadson said. “No, all these kids are good. You just don’t see their videos.”
At the Western Bonanza, the Dadsons advanced to the final in four contests. Karis won the showmanship crown in one and finished as the runner-up, or “reserve champion,” in another.
Whenever Karis left the ring and spotted her family, she abandoned the game face that has made her famous and adopted an expression that, as a show pig exhibitor, would most likely get her nowhere on social media: She smiled.
Taylor Frankie Paul attends the Oscars on Sunday, a week ahead of her scheduled Bachelorette premiere.
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The new season of ABC’s reality TV series The Bachelorette was all filmed and set to premiere on Sunday. But parent company Disney now says it will not air as planned.
The decision to shelve the show’s 22nd season came on Thursday, after TMZ published a video it says shows would-be bachelorette Taylor Frankie Paul physically attacking her then-boyfriend, Dakota Mortensen, in 2023.
“In light of the newly released video just surfaced today, we have made the decision to not move forward with the new season of ‘The Bachelorette’ at this time, and our focus is on supporting the family,” Disney Entertainment said in a statement reported by the Associated Press, New York Times and others.
The video, filmed by Mortensen, appears to show Paul hitting, grabbing and throwing three barstools at him. A child can be heard crying on the couch nearby, and Mortensen says at one point: “Your daughter is sitting right there.”
Paul has three children: two with her ex-husband Tate Paul and one, born in 2024, with Mortensen. She confirmed the end of their three-year on-again, off-again relationship in May 2025. NPR has reached out to both of their representatives.
In a statement shared with NBC News, Paul’s representative called the video the “latest installment of [Mortensen’s] never-ending, desperate, attention-seeking, destructive campaign to harm Taylor without any regard for the consequences for their child.”
Paul’s representative told People in a statement that Paul is “exploring all of her options, seeking support, and preparing to own and share her story,” and “very grateful for ABC’s support as she prioritizes her family’s safety and security.”
Mortenesen told Entertainment Weekly that he categorically denies “these baseless claims about me and our relationship,” calling it “a deeply upsetting situation.”
“I am focusing on our son and his safety, and hope that Taylor will do the same,” he added.
NPR has not independently verified the authenticity of the video, which TMZ says was used as evidence in legal proceedings. But it matches Utah’s Herriman City Police Department’s description of a February 2023 incident that led to Paul’s arrest on charges of assault, criminal mischief and commission of domestic violence in the presence of a child.
Court records obtained by NPR show that Paul agreed to plead guilty to the third-degree felony of aggravated assault and has been serving 36 months of probation. When asked about the incident on a 2025 podcast, she acknowledged that her kids were present but said she “never had hurt” her daughter and “never intentionally did anything with my children.”
The couple’s turbulent relationship was a central plot point of the other reality TV show that made Paul famous: The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives, which premiered in 2024 and just released its fourth season last week.
Earlier this week, People and other entertainment outlets reported that filming of the show’s fifth season had been halted amid reports of an investigation into domestic assault allegations involving Paul and Mortensen — presumably a separate incident, though details are scarce.
An unnamed spokesperson with Utah’s Draper City Police Department told People that “allegations have been made in both directions,” and “contact was made with involved parties” on Feb. 24 and 25, though declined to elaborate as the investigation is ongoing. NPR has reached out to Draper police, but did not hear back in time for publication.
There’s a lot we still don’t know. But if you’re just tuning in, we can help fill in some gaps.
(Left-right) Jennifer Affleck, Mayci Neeley, Mikayla Matthews, Taylor Frankie Paul, and Miranda McWhorter of The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives attend an event at SiriusXM Studios in May 2025.
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Who are we talking about?
At the center of the controversy is Taylor Frankie Paul.
She’s a 31-year-old influencer best known as the self-proclaimed creator of “MomTok,” a friend group-slash-collective of Utah-based Mormon moms that rose to social media fame in 2020.
They posted dance trends, beauty routines, skits and lifestyle videos to TikTok, promoting a more modern side of Mormonism and challenging its traditional gender roles. But it didn’t take long for controversy to strike, in the form of the 2022 “soft swinging scandal.”
The what scandal?
Paul revealed in a May 2022 livestream video that she and her then-husband, Tate Paul, had been “soft swinging” with other couples in their social circle. She described it as “when you hook up but don’t go all the way.”
“The agreement was just like, as long as we were both there and we saw it and we knew it, it was okay, and the second it goes behind without each other, then you’ve stepped out of the agreement,” she said. “And I did that.”
Paul and her then-husband, who had been in an open relationship, divorced later that year (she called the swinging situation “the tip of the iceberg” of their problems). Her confession also caused rifts in the MomTok community, since she had claimed — without naming names — that other members were involved in the swinging group.
When did Mortensen enter (and leave) the picture?
Paul and Mortensen confirmed their relationship on TikTok in September 2022, several months after she hinted at it online. It quickly turned rocky.
The couple broke up in December, then got back together in January 2023 — a month before the domestic violence incident that prompted Paul’s arrest. The relationship, while turbulent, continued, and Paul announced her pregnancy in September. Their son, Ever, was born in March 2024.
The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives, the documentary-style show following Paul and her #MomTok circle, premiered on Hulu later that year.
The first season ended with the birth of Paul’s son and cliffhanger claims about Mortensen’s alleged infidelity, raised by another cast member, which he has denied. The two split in December 2024, but sparked reconciliation rumors the following spring. Their dynamic has remained a focus of the TV show, including in the most recent season.
What about these Mormon wives?
The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives, aka SLOMW, follows eight Mormon moms-slash-influencers (and their families) as they navigate marriages, friendships, faith and increasingly, the personal and professional pressures of fame.
“I feel like if anything, it’s had a positive impact and it shows people that they don’t have to be perfect to be part of a religion, and be close to God and Jesus,” cast member Macyi Neeley told NPR last year.
Filming for the first season began in 2023, though paused and resumed after Paul’s arrest.
The first episode of its first season, which premiered in September 2024, shows Paul trying to smooth things over with the moms after the swinging scandal. It also covers the domestic violence incident, featuring body camera footage of police arresting a tearful Paul outside the house (though no footage of what transpired inside).
Hulu said the show’s premiere was its most-watched unscripted season debut of 2024, surpassing The Kardashians and leading to a rapid renewal of more episodes.
SLOMW has maintained a near-constant filming schedule, releasing two 10-episode seasons in 2025 and another earlier this month. Season four covers the fall of 2025, as Paul was preparing to film The Bachelorette.
The show’s popularity has catapulted several of its stars, not just Paul, into other high-profile roles. Two cast members, Whitney Leavitt and Jennifer Affleck, appeared on Dancing with the Stars. Leavitt is now doing a stint as Roxie in Chicago on Broadway, and helped the show smash its box-office record this week.
How did Paul become The Bachelorette?
Paul confirmed her relationship with Mortensen was officially over on a September 2025 episode of the Call Her Daddy podcast. That’s also where she announced she had been chosen as the bachelorette.
It was an unusual pick, not only because of Paul’s complicated relationship with her ex and her high profile, but because she hadn’t previously competed in the Bachelor franchise. That’s a first: Each bachelorette so far has been a fan-favorite contestant from the season of The Bachelor before it.
Disney is the parent company of both Hulu (SLOWM) and ABC (The Bachelorette). The choice to bring in an existing influencer-slash-reality star was seen as a move to revitalize the Bachelorette, which has seen a sharp decline in viewership in recent years. Part of that is, ironically, due to casting controversies including unexpected, post-season revelations about contestants on both sides of the rose.
What’s next for each show?
ABC plans to air a rerun of American Idol in the show’s place on Sunday. It’s not clear if Paul’s season of The Bachelorette will ever air. NPR has reached out to Disney for comment.
It’s also not clear when or whether filming of SLOMW will resume. At a press event for The Bachelorette earlier this week, Paul weighed in on the production pause, telling People: “my heart hurts to see it, to go through it, especially at this time.”
“It’s a heavy time, and it’s unfortunate,” she continued. “I’m struggling for sure, but also at the same time I feel like if I don’t show up, then I’m just giving these opportunities away and not enjoying what we’ve worked on and something super exciting that’s coming.”
My father spent the 1970s selling hunger to America: soda, waffles, chips, anything that promised satisfaction in 30 seconds flat. He also weighed 450 pounds and was always on a new diet with me as his little diet coach. All his best material came from our kitchen table: “L’eggo my Eggo,” “Once You Pop, You Can’t Stop,” “Coke Is It” — the lines he’d toss out between bites.
My grandma Beauty did the opposite. She fed me comfort, one recipe at a time, until I believed emotions had a flavor. My dad could sell the American consumer comfort, but he couldn’t quite give that same safety to the girl sitting across from him. Between my dad, who treated cravings like a religion, and my grandmother, who treated food like therapy, I grew up thinking connection was something you could taste before you could name it.
So when I met my Bumble date years later after my divorce, it wasn’t fireworks. It was something quieter. A sense memory. A familiar click in the body before the mind catches up.
The first meal we ever shared was at Dan Tana’s: rare steak and shrimp swimming in oil and garlic. He ordered quickly, confidently, passing plates back and forth like this was something we’d always done. Somewhere in that meal, I felt that oyster-like disbelief when something simple tastes better than expected, and you pretend not to notice because the surprise feels too intimate to say out loud.
After that night, we slipped into a rhythm. We went out to dinner a lot. Before I could even open a menu, he’d tell the waiter, “Sauce on the side, she eats like a celebrity,” making me feel adored, not demanding.
The dishes were always exquisite. Slow-roasted bone marrow, branzino laced with herbs, the kind of flavors that made us lean in and feed each other. He’d study my face and say, “Love it or hate it?,” shooting me a warm smirk.
On quieter dates, we watched movies in bed, talked about our kids, anything except for whatever was forming between us. On the nights I slept over, he’d bring me matcha lattes in the morning casually like it was no big deal, and every single time, I felt like I’d won an Academy Award.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen!” I’d exclaim.
And he’d shake his head, amused. “You’re too easy to please.”
But what he didn’t realize was remembering that I liked only a splash of milk and an extra shot of matcha fed a hunger in me I didn’t know I longed for.
Our banter was fun, constant and warm. Everything worked except for when a question leaned into the future. That’s when something tightened, a brief, instinctual clam-closing and then loosening again just as fast. But I kept going because the present was good. Because we laughed a lot. Because the world felt softer when I was with him.
Then one Sunday evening, I asked, “What are you doing for the Jewish holidays?” He gave a quick, unreadable flicker. It was gone before I could interpret it. We didn’t talk about it. We didn’t need to. We were both leaving for our own family week. When I returned excited to see him and celebrate a big work milestone I’d helped him prepare for, I got “the text.” Careful. Polite. And at the end, a line that blew a hole through my chest.
“I don’t see a romantic future with you.”
I read it again and again until my body revolted. A wave of heat shot through me. I wanted to scream but I just stood there frozen, unable to breathe, like someone had cracked open my chest and scooped the air out.
Suddenly, I wasn’t a grown-up woman living in Hollywood. I wasn’t a mother, not a nutritionist, not someone who has taken care of people for years.
I was 9. I was in Chicago. It was 1975. I was in my grandma’s kitchen, the place I loved most in the world. The only place I ever remember feeling safe. My fingers were gripping her apron. The smell of dill wafting through the air. Her soup was bubbling. Nourishment, comfort, stability in the form of broth and steady hands. Then my mother’s voice sliced through it: “Dawn, get in the car.”
As I was pushed into the station wagon, there were boxes everywhere. Clio Awards, stacks of Playboy magazines with my dad’s byline, and when my mother slid in after me, she bumped into my dad’s cigarette and the ashes ignited the map — burning a hole straight through the Midwest. My stomach was in knots. I kept reaching my hand toward my grandmother.
“Don’t make me go.”
My mom, irritated, honked the horn, and my dad stepped on the gas.
Standing in my kitchen decades later, looking at the text message, the same feeling of nausea washed over me. The ground shifted. My friends, trying to support me, started texting me. “Don’t you dare text him.”
But I did.
“Hi.”
He responded immediately. We met for Japanese that night, and without trying, we fell right back into our rhythm over Santa Barbara uni and lamb chops cooked exactly the way we like them, crisp on the outside, tender on the inside, the kind of dish that cracks when your knife hits it and then gives way like warm silk. We were not awkward. We were not mad. We were not resolved. We were two people who kept finding each other at a table, even when everything else was uncertain.
Then, somewhere between courses, he looked up and said, “You remind me of my mother.”
The words hit something in me I couldn’t name. Not a wound, an internal flinch. He always told me his mother was unpredictable. Warm one moment, stormy the next. Comforting and chaotic in the same breath. I was none of those things. And I knew instantly that whatever he meant was tangled and that my warmth might feel like comfort to him, but also, unconsciously, like danger. That being cared for and being overwhelmed lived very close together in his body.
I didn’t take it personally. I took it as information. Maybe I felt familiar to him in a way that carried both safety and alarm. A green light and a red light at the same intersection. And the strangest thing was, in that same moment, he reminded me of my father, a man who could charm a room, feed America slogans that defined a generation, win awards and still feel shaky where it mattered most — with me.
Two grown-ups sitting across a table, mirroring childhood patterns that neither of us fully understood.
Later, when he drove me home, he dropped something heavy: his story, not mine to tell. The kind of truth that shifts the room without explaining the entire plot.
Sitting there in his car, I realized it was never just the two of us. We both brought our ghosts, and they probably showed up before we even opened our menus. Maybe that’s the real story. You can share the same cravings and still have to adjust the salt and heat as each new combination of flavors come together and unfold.
The author is a nutritionist who wrote the bestselling book, “My Fat Dad: A Memoir of Food, Love and Family, With Recipes.” Find her on Instagram: @DawnLerman.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
Editor’s note: On April 3, L.A. Affairs Live, our new storytelling competition show, will feature real dating stories from people living in the Greater Los Angeles area. Tickets for our first event are on sale now at the Next Fun Thing.
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