Saturday, November 2, 2013

bistro 3906

She reminded me very much of myself when I was her age.  Petite, introspective mistaken as quiet or unaware. 

We were together in my kitchen, prepping the following night's five-course Creole dinner for my friends, one of them, her mother.  I'd done a lot already that week; specialty shopping, linens pressed and silver polished, corn fritters ready to go from the freezer, BBQ butter for the Gulf shrimp chilling, palmiers baked.  Still, there was much to do and I found myself, before she arrived, timorously wondering if it would be easier to do the rest myself.

We fell surprisingly though, into a smooth and rhythmic afternoon; I moved this way, she moved that way, I probed, she shared.  We smiled often and the afternoon flew by. 

I taught her how to break asparagus at their giving points and how to poach pears in wine.  She introduced me to 'my person', a term new to me, and she told me about a sushi-seafood market she thought I'd like on Greenville Avenue.

We washed lettuce, we made vinaigrette, we toasted pine nuts, we rolled pie dough. 

We went over the sequence of serving plates and bowls and the final touches for the table; honey for the corn fritters, blue cheese with pears, individual ramekins filled with butter, espresso cups stacked. 

"Welcome to Bistro 3906," we said playfully as we greeted guests the next night, she seeming so mature and I, well I, longing to be a kid all over again. 

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