The Magic Market at Heritage Square Museum

Only bad vibes at the witch market & a warming recipe for beef stroganoff.

Well, I left my house to do something and hated it again. This time, it was my own fault. I fell prey to an Instagram ad. The Magic Market hosts pop-up events at different locations in Los Angeles, and one video for an October event caught my eye. This party had everything for Halloween: creepy old houses, lotions and potions, a nice woman wearing an all black Victorian dress. Unfortunately, it was sold out. I bought tickets for the next best thing: their Day of the Dead pop-up at Heritage Square Museum in Montecito Heights

Heritage Square is a block of eight historic houses which were saved from demolition and preserved to showcase life in Southern California in the Victorian era. It’s pretty and interesting. Worth seeing! But… you should see it on a normal day when no one’s there.

We thought parking might be a bear (it was), so we took a car and met our friend Caissie, who was being dropped off by her husband Matt. We stood by Matt’s car for about ten minutes to chat–about five feet from the entrance. This is a detail that you’re probably like, Kristen… why are you bothering with this absolute tedium, but it matters for this story! When Matt drove off, we casually strolled up to the front, excited to get our energies healed.

As I held my ticket out, a Magic Market person working the front said, “Baaaad news, guys,” in a voice I believe came from a nose inside her nose. We were at the wrong entrance and needed to go to the back. At literally any moment in the ten minutes we were chatting beside her, she could’ve said, “Hey, heads up! This isn’t the entrance!” Instead, she waited until the person who could’ve quickly taken us to the correct spot drove away. 

You know how some people just love being (in this case literal) gatekeepers? You find them at the DMV, the front office at school, the place at work you have to go when you lose your ID. They relish in telling you that you forgot the last page of a form, and no, they can’t look at it on your phone. You have to set another appointment two weeks from now. This was her. Despite absolutely no pushback from us, a shit-eating grin spread across her face and she said, “You should’ve seen the address on the ticket.” I looked at the page I’d printed, expecting to see a note like, “Hey! Heads up, dingus! This address is different from the normal one.” Nope. Just a small-print address that anyone in the world would ignore in favor of typing “Heritage Square Museum” into Google Maps. 

I politely asked for directions to get to the back entrance. She looked at me with an eerie vacant expression and answered, “Um… use your GPS?” If it had just been me and Jason, we would’ve called it. We would’ve said hey, we left the house, good enough, no one needs a new candle that bad. But we were there with Caissie and our friend Ashley, who was still driving over. Nevertheless, we persisted. Jason GPS’d the address and realized it would be a 25 minute walk. It was 80 degrees and post-strike, I’m no longer about that life. We called Matt back from the freeway to pick us up and transport us.

As we waited, we witnessed everyone else in the world get turned away from the entrance. People in their goth finest. Many people in velvet dresses. A person wearing metal Viking horns. All sauntered away and into the neighborhood. Matt picked us up and got us to the back just in time for Ashley to arrive and be promptly sent away, because they said the parking lot–with plenty of empty spaces–was full. We waited for Ashley to park and arrive with her pup Gordi and then made the surprisingly long walk through the dirt road parking lot to get inside. As the heat and the smell of the LA River started to get me, I thought, “At least I didn’t wear my metal Viking horns.” Graffiti outside the place told us to “Turn back now.” And you know what? We should’ve. We should’ve turned back now. 

Instead, we checked in and walked around the stalls and looked at the old houses. I politely smiled through a presentation about tumbling your own crystals. I paid $5 for a water. By the time we made it to the front, we saw the Market had given up on keeping people out at the front and were now just letting them in the front entrance. Somehow this made me and Jason madder. While Caissie and Ashley ordered vegan tamales, Jason and I watched the steady stream of people who didn’t have to suffer our same indignities, just because they arrived later. We were like those people who get mad at student loan forgiveness, because they already paid off their student loans. I’m not saying we were right. We weren’t. And yet.

The only saving grace was when we parked ourselves at a picnic table and spent time catching up on each other’s lives, something I adore and am thankful for, but could’ve done anywhere else for free. 

Gordi at the picnic table, a forever good girl.

I knew I couldn’t leave without getting a reading, but my vibes were off, and there was no way I would be able to get them back. Plus, I felt embarrassed. There was a woman lying in the grass, getting reiki out in the open for what seemed like hours. There were people getting sound baths, while a band played Goo Goo Dolls covers right next to them. I realized something about myself. If I’m going to engage in any sort of spiritual practice, I need to be indoors and alone. I can’t have someone looking at my palm while people I respect are standing behind me. 

I ended up getting a tarot reading from someone who asked if I was a big reader. (Yes, pre-pandemic, but the only thing I read this month was Britney Spears’ memoir and technically, I listened to that.) She asked if I was having a problem with my social circle. (The only problem I could think of is that I'd like to see my friends more.) Finally, she said my marriage was too predictable and we needed to date each other to get our spark back. (Our predictability is probably my favorite thing about us.) I agreed to take Jason out on more dates, and we headed down the long dirt road to leave. I am committed to going on more dates, just not back to the Magic Market. 

And now a recipe. It’s that time of year where 65 degrees in LA somehow feels like an arctic tundra. I’ve grown soft. It’s this kind of weather that makes me crave beef stroganoff. I’ve made the recipe from Gimme Some Oven twice now and can confirm it’s perfect. The only thing I change is to stir in ¼ cup of sour cream at the end instead of a ½ cup. The gravy is already so flavorful, I just can’t bear to sour cream it up. 

BEEF STROGANOFF

INGREDIENTS

• 1 pound, egg noodles

• ¼ cup butter, divided

• 1 to 1 ½ pounds thinly-sliced steak (I’ve used a nice sirloin & the pre-cut beef stew chunks, and babe… the pre-cut chunks tasted better)

• Salt & pepper to taste

• 1 small onion, diced

• 1 pound, mushrooms, sliced

• 4 cloves, garlic, minced

• ½ cup dry white wine

• 1 ½ cups beef stock

• 1 Tbsp, Worcestershire sauce

• 3 Tbsp, all-purpose flour

• ¼ cup, sour cream

DIRECTIONS

• Melt 2 Tbsp butter in a large saute pan over medium-high heat. Add steak in a single layer, seasoning with salt and pepper. (Do two batches if the pan is too full.) Let it cook for 3 minutes on one side to get a good sear. Flip and cook on the other side till browned, 2-3 minutes. Remove and set aside.

• Add the remaining 2 Tbsp butter to the pan. 

• Add the onions and and saute for 3 minutes.

• Add the mushrooms and saute. The recipe says for 5-7 minutes, but I needed to saute these for much longer than that. There were a lot of mushrooms, I crowded my pan, and I’m not sorry.

• Add the garlic and saute for 1 minute, stirring occasionally.

• Add the white wine to deglaze the pan. Let the mixture cook down for 3 minutes. 

• In a measuring cup, whisk together beef stock, Worcestershire sauce, and flour until smooth.

• Boil the egg noodles according to package instructions.

• Pour the stock mixture into the saute pan, stir to combine, and simmer for 5 minutes.

The sheen!!

• Take off the heat and stir in the sour cream. Taste and adjust seasonings as needed. I tossed in a frozen lemon ball, because I can’t help it.

• Serve over the egg noodles.