tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55276677141535796832024-03-23T05:17:30.302-05:00from 3906Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18385450029297475904noreply@blogger.comBlogger342125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527667714153579683.post-54706042164396466522024-03-22T20:29:00.003-05:002024-03-22T20:43:48.566-05:00the gift that keeps on giving<div class="separator"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><br />Continuing with our Christmas gifts of enjoying unexpected experiences throughout the year, I arranged one for W at </span><i style="font-family: "PT Sans";">our place</i><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";">, Jimmy's Food Store. It is a 50 year-old iconic grocery in East Dallas, with all things Italian offered: wine, deli, dry products, fresh products, holiday imports.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><br />This visit was to watch Jeff, assumingly the head of the deli department, demonstrate how to open a wheel of Parmigiano Reggiano. I had asked the favor and he immediately and most graciously committed.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><br />To our shared joy of and appreciation for the simple things in life, W and I arrived early to sip a plastic cup of wine and let the anticipation build. We chatted with some of the staff and filled out papers for the gigantic chocolate Easter egg drawing. We enter every year with plans if we win to set the three foot tall egg on a table and invite neighbors and friends over to indulge.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><br />There are always many Easter items on display and as sure as at Christmas, I choose a beautiful Panettone each time. Here she is. </span></span></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIXNKYMydjIUXkyLk6cwfp0fWf8MKh2qv-JjbtY_q7K5epMO49LUmGjUL7DA3uUxmJep4XDxp2aB57uNN5fAzx-td-qJfeCipp5gbIZx6owZeQNeyTFBKJ4sJo5n3qeVaTGGhuCUJ2hmB5rCLCFr0ZdDmyK9qWAguA88Ys6lC228y-wjPTgOdO-IrU-y0/s537/Pannetone%20pale.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="537" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIXNKYMydjIUXkyLk6cwfp0fWf8MKh2qv-JjbtY_q7K5epMO49LUmGjUL7DA3uUxmJep4XDxp2aB57uNN5fAzx-td-qJfeCipp5gbIZx6owZeQNeyTFBKJ4sJo5n3qeVaTGGhuCUJ2hmB5rCLCFr0ZdDmyK9qWAguA88Ys6lC228y-wjPTgOdO-IrU-y0/s320/Pannetone%20pale.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><span style="font-size: medium;">While we sipped our second glass of the two-glass wine limit - the only thing in the whole Jimmy's experience that seems very UN-Italian - dinner plans changed when I spotted the xxxlarge ripe avocados. I knew I had a bitter enough green lettuce, hearts of palm, a lemon, and pignoli at the Bistro, so I added a handful of cherry tomatoes, excited to plan a Garga Salad. It was made famous by a Florence restaurant of the same name, which sadly I've only peeked in the window on one trip when it was closed. (Recipe can be found online.)</span><br /><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja5Qj-Nhk0MmUxvC3yODpSITODgKw4i9aGzujBZNqNFChPqDt8y7Xuv3ktzv4VZNqeB3O8sUwEhqRrOmDGQrByFseB_m4TyfTfLryIVZjYFKgQeGN81DyzDdIYUk1sANEcubHn8VaWJ3QwFELW9Lh4kjboMrEp0D7RZdcCO29lSN4fcRgmQk6G1wUwDos/s537/garga.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="537" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja5Qj-Nhk0MmUxvC3yODpSITODgKw4i9aGzujBZNqNFChPqDt8y7Xuv3ktzv4VZNqeB3O8sUwEhqRrOmDGQrByFseB_m4TyfTfLryIVZjYFKgQeGN81DyzDdIYUk1sANEcubHn8VaWJ3QwFELW9Lh4kjboMrEp0D7RZdcCO29lSN4fcRgmQk6G1wUwDos/w250-h188/garga.jpg" width="250" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;">Jeff's arrival was perfectly timed. Not being allowed into the kitchen of course, we had thought to bring our step stool and Jeff moved boxes out of the way so I could step up to get a view of the cheese table where the magic was to happen. </span></div></span></div></div><p></p><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkYQjwtv0PEDS8-wLyRsFzw1zVAAIT7YGwmKq8Gb_hO-Z9tw9TaGpfiONwtL-YIntTrt-Eko_qN3X7d7XG3XI8hksTcEMfuuC4GsJLN_MBfIHN8v-9KHipoKQxTbGjZvXwkzKTblHOhtdAFsOhq8ScyzAQdU6j7-DXbwLyVVRm0nr1aDe_JXGLiLJoSAI/s537/Jeff.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="537" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkYQjwtv0PEDS8-wLyRsFzw1zVAAIT7YGwmKq8Gb_hO-Z9tw9TaGpfiONwtL-YIntTrt-Eko_qN3X7d7XG3XI8hksTcEMfuuC4GsJLN_MBfIHN8v-9KHipoKQxTbGjZvXwkzKTblHOhtdAFsOhq8ScyzAQdU6j7-DXbwLyVVRm0nr1aDe_JXGLiLJoSAI/s320/Jeff.jpg" width="320" /></a><p></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;">Magical it was! He chose to do this wheel by hand, I think just for us because there is a saw method which produces less crumble (thus more sellable product) but can't possibly be as moving as watching the man and his various knives break into this revered cheese. A testament not to size - but how popular Jimmy's Food Store is in Dallas - Jeff opens about three wheels of Reggiano per week. <br /><br />He began by scoring and cutting the perimeter, more than once. Then he cut again with a bigger and longer knife whose length could reach farther into the mid section. When the wheel split, there was applause all around. It happened much faster than I expected, and then there he was handing out soft, delicious samples to us and the people who had curiously gathered or were waiting in line for various orders. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKlihx9cQKXHTx49KI9h8hyphenhyphenvEqXExN7z370CiT3nDgiSa_5jJbHhSzVZ28bFthxiUicD5K1syHivYa657vifGLvpRpKwBrdnrXr_YGmbTaBWlvQlZO3wrb9vhbA7QV9l91d91mjyVKBuY9utj1FGDfYw6y3uPAWo8lr6DdqzCijUA_eUSQAZR1IVOdOUw/s417/Jeff2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="417" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKlihx9cQKXHTx49KI9h8hyphenhyphenvEqXExN7z370CiT3nDgiSa_5jJbHhSzVZ28bFthxiUicD5K1syHivYa657vifGLvpRpKwBrdnrXr_YGmbTaBWlvQlZO3wrb9vhbA7QV9l91d91mjyVKBuY9utj1FGDfYw6y3uPAWo8lr6DdqzCijUA_eUSQAZR1IVOdOUw/w272-h263/Jeff2.jpg" width="272" /></a><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3J54yJIAO8563S3OLIBDLmEvFW9RDnKJ4Rw4smZG5nLIjbNBCjZd1bR-mw7P1YOJEcX1MtV_jDY_TUaCYeJdbUlDS6ND3ypbhruGa1COC-7SwEkpF0HlHv396eFlMrRNl_bFtvAbnCmlFRgGB0AQli7pTY9uxiyLp7mK2m0gYmI2fPfKjZTQ9D_eKWdk/s401/Jeff4.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="401" data-original-width="320" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3J54yJIAO8563S3OLIBDLmEvFW9RDnKJ4Rw4smZG5nLIjbNBCjZd1bR-mw7P1YOJEcX1MtV_jDY_TUaCYeJdbUlDS6ND3ypbhruGa1COC-7SwEkpF0HlHv396eFlMrRNl_bFtvAbnCmlFRgGB0AQli7pTY9uxiyLp7mK2m0gYmI2fPfKjZTQ9D_eKWdk/w236-h296/Jeff4.jpg" width="236" /></a><br /><span style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;">Bravo, Jeff! I can't thank you enough for making this experience happen. No place except Jimmy's would be the same. Grazie.</span></div></span></div><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Grazie! Grazie! Grazie!</span><br /><br /><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf5Dr_bqQKVuBT0TkVzrhXVtozCz1GppqOrI6bb_v9QHWWB7J786WN9unmPF3xSuVBW-Z9bvFdkKnuukubSX__TUVpBskzRvcvgMmnfL4cyGG1H0f31Zjcobg8Ar0Cvvqpl1rDCG4osjaCgn9HZe5AozsOVjyagC-PxVOLREiKzlyZnDzhgs_wUFlOHA0/s466/Jeff5.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="466" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf5Dr_bqQKVuBT0TkVzrhXVtozCz1GppqOrI6bb_v9QHWWB7J786WN9unmPF3xSuVBW-Z9bvFdkKnuukubSX__TUVpBskzRvcvgMmnfL4cyGG1H0f31Zjcobg8Ar0Cvvqpl1rDCG4osjaCgn9HZe5AozsOVjyagC-PxVOLREiKzlyZnDzhgs_wUFlOHA0/w368-h319/Jeff5.jpg" width="368" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><i>Jimmy's Food Store<br />4901 Bryan Street<br />Dallas, Texas 75206</i></span></span>Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18385450029297475904noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527667714153579683.post-15543364697598062612024-03-18T16:21:00.000-05:002024-03-18T16:21:25.535-05:00the people's park<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmLe2SMBhZcwj5ewgBj7plxX5uO4yCaNiY5N2plWL5WqHJTW3BNPSFrVTfGvxOdIvOF4Uaz-OL8Ged6LRa9qbMJU8aOc7UoZ8U68W1kwUqFRyRgpizN3fCJ2Avbf_gZoHN98vcTJb3rwIuBpL6UGjNE-KT8grV9k7MK5VgZ1OWZ12WG89G_PAdURqdUhE/s3872/come%20with%20me%200426.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2592" data-original-width="3872" height="322" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmLe2SMBhZcwj5ewgBj7plxX5uO4yCaNiY5N2plWL5WqHJTW3BNPSFrVTfGvxOdIvOF4Uaz-OL8Ged6LRa9qbMJU8aOc7UoZ8U68W1kwUqFRyRgpizN3fCJ2Avbf_gZoHN98vcTJb3rwIuBpL6UGjNE-KT8grV9k7MK5VgZ1OWZ12WG89G_PAdURqdUhE/w482-h322/come%20with%20me%200426.JPG" width="482" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />I've been perusing the 30 year old Dallas Arboretum Cookbook. It's quite a trip down retro lane. So much margarine! <br /><br />That stood out to the cook in me but having lived here since before its publication, so did many of the contributor's names. A few may be coincidence, but the majority are obvious: DeGolyer, Hamon, Crow, Winspear, Minyard, Halliday, Marcus, Pyles, Kirkland, Strauss, Knox, Josey.<br /><br />At our last picnic, W and I packed up candied salmon from a market and the skin-on potato salad I made with German grain mustard and sweet & sour cucumbers I've had marinating in the fridge. (The key is to slice them super thin.)<br /><br />We sipped a still chilled enough Sauvignon Blanc and people watched from our bench in the shade, wishing we had chosen the next one over which was getting all the sun. There were singles, couples, clusters, and many large families enjoying the park with its glorious spring gifts of color and scent. The people were of so many nationalities! W and I were fascinated by the variety of cultural attires and accents that passed by us on every garden path.<br /><br />Back home these several days later, continuing my reading of Garden Gourmet, I'm embarrassed that I am so slow finishing my own cookbook. Mine is good; really, really good. But as I should be focusing on it this coming week, I'm instead thinking of a new and adventurous cookbook from the Arboretum. I have such a grand idea for it. If anyone has a foot in the garden gate, please refer me to those in charge.<br /><br />Like everything else in Dallas, the Arboretum has changed as it has grown. The strolling guests are global, arriving from all parts of the world. It hosts hundreds of thousands visiting, but many who frequent the park likely live here. They, W and I, and I'm guessing those of you reading this, are very far removed from the lifestyles of the rich and famous; the committee members and contributors highlighted in the decades old cookbook. That thought is not a criticism. I have so much admiration and appreciation for the people and corporations which privately build and promote arts within cities. (I personally wish for them not to be outrageously taxed so that they may continue with their generous contributions.)<br /><br />How unique and unifying it would be, I thought, to have a modern Dallas Arboretum Cookbook version which is reflective of the patrons who visit. The people walking through the gardens that day were such an international presence, why not feature them through their favorite recipes? The format might remain the same but present English, Indian, and Japanese appetizers to Cajun, Irish, and German entrees, to French, Italian, and Vietnamese desserts. Let the recipes be from around the world, shared just as we so happily share this park's space. <br /><br />I have not a single time visited the Dallas Arboretum without seeing a photo shoot of a bride-to-be or a young quinceanera teen. People pose throughout the vast grounds among bountiful flora, in pumpkin patches and the many extravagant Christmas displays. W and I once picnicked on a small hill in view of a timely marriage proposal. (She said yes!) We also witnessed a very small and subtle wedding somewhat tucked within the cover of shrubbery. <br /><br />In contrast to the still shots in the cookbook, this new, exciting version could and should feature the people who helped build the park. Use photos of patrons by the lake, the culinary garden and cafes, the waterfall and koi pond, inside and outside the beautiful DeGolyer hacienda. <br /><br />There is no greater connector of people than that of a table with food shared. People bring energy to the Arboretum and Botanical Garden, and I'm positive they would bring such energy to a cookbook, through their recipes for dishes shared at their own tables.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Garden Gourmet, The Dallas Arboretum Cookbook<br />1994 The Dallas Arboretum and Botanical Garden</i></span></span></p>Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18385450029297475904noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527667714153579683.post-66933182062199555172024-03-14T14:21:00.001-05:002024-03-14T18:41:47.919-05:00the undertow<p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;"><span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR1zbdCiWOQtQkv9rNNqjSYBLytEg9aPsmreLhgoK2b3LS9PlMFH_WUDfYtloeqBdvGA64wk9HMlyzO1Si7GKNnT2905lDwEgC4okINVuGNKaa5FQTk3JO0zcoJodPtcBqY8rlu5yDxqUxehotWfsUzGJqKzeKDRw6J-Hx3VHbzf0XvAnVB1QChXSePkk/s537/spanakopita.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="537" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR1zbdCiWOQtQkv9rNNqjSYBLytEg9aPsmreLhgoK2b3LS9PlMFH_WUDfYtloeqBdvGA64wk9HMlyzO1Si7GKNnT2905lDwEgC4okINVuGNKaa5FQTk3JO0zcoJodPtcBqY8rlu5yDxqUxehotWfsUzGJqKzeKDRw6J-Hx3VHbzf0XvAnVB1QChXSePkk/w245-h184/spanakopita.jpg" width="245" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;"><span><br /><span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Death can throw a wide net.<br /><br />It was tossed out yesterday morning by Donna, a neighbor-friend in a weekly Happy Hour started during lockdown and continued these years later. Our cul-de-sac group of initially five, isn't gossipy but we do catch up on the goings on in the neighborhood and in our lives. I'd say we teeter between the relevant and the personal.<br /><br />Donna's text told us that the husband of her close friend, hospitalized unexpectedly as home-hospice was being arranged, had passed in the wee hours of the night. The wife was headed home to face the hospital bed doomed to remain empty.<br /></span></span><br />The image brought back many sad memories for Donna. She, Carolyn, Linda (now moved), and I, all lost our husbands while being neighbors. Oddly, all those deaths didn't bring us together as better friends as much as did the forced isolation of Covid.<br /><br />We met outside for months, enduring the Dallas heat and when it turned cold we gathered, bundled in coats with propane heaters keeping us comfortable enough.<br /><br />Her gentleman friend's death sends out unintentional ripples as many of us, like Donna, are caught, tangled up in our own remembrances of what made most of us widows. My friend Sheryl lost her husband last fall and it was months before the hospital bed and more were picked up from their home. She slept in another room or in hotels until very recently. Carolyn has her story, Linda has hers.<br /><br />I didn't expect it but I was also thrown back, harshly, to my night coming home from the hospital to an empty house, and the next night equally painful as I shopped urns for ashes yet to be. I have described that pain and the months which followed, being as if I'd fallen into a black hole. I am today happy years removed from that darkness yet within a single text I instantly relived what it felt like then.<br /><br />I did what I always do to deal... I headed to the kitchen. I drowned my sorrow, literally at the sink.<br /><br />Spanakopita has been in wait on my list and it seems the perfect time-consuming thing to bake. If it turns out, tomorrow I'll deliver for all the widows.<br /><br />Extra servings will be set aside for W, who brings the happy with her lightness of being to our Happy Hours. W didn't lose a spouse from death but has in many ways unexpectedly suffered far worse. But that's another story for another longer day in the kitchen.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><br /></span><br /></span><br /></span></p>Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18385450029297475904noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527667714153579683.post-55075667223260821732024-02-27T14:38:00.001-06:002024-02-27T23:44:06.511-06:00a visit<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: large; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9uBueBeG1eA4If_PvOBF7OcWgm7nvRt-R2N1RfrpMINVF2eXzCLlkm8gTfCjnyhxLiINK61FGBQejE-0rVkIPNTGtPXGKSHdCJWSUlWm-KgCpD8_cEjp0oAJ8_F5WkD73T59y3X8kQ4avpmn85id1T3uwPrvB9aWe8q3gbKkYsOOzFtdUWlUeHqos1iw/s403/CG0.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="302" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9uBueBeG1eA4If_PvOBF7OcWgm7nvRt-R2N1RfrpMINVF2eXzCLlkm8gTfCjnyhxLiINK61FGBQejE-0rVkIPNTGtPXGKSHdCJWSUlWm-KgCpD8_cEjp0oAJ8_F5WkD73T59y3X8kQ4avpmn85id1T3uwPrvB9aWe8q3gbKkYsOOzFtdUWlUeHqos1iw/s320/CG0.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span color="windowtext" style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">The Bistro had a visit from Carol Gray Friday night. I know
it as surely as I know Lilly, her cat now mine, is purring beside me as I write
this.<br /></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span color="windowtext" style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><br />We had a dinner guest coming at 6:30, around the same time W would arrive, stopping after work to pick up the menu’s much needed jalapeno and a handful of cilantro.<br /></span><span color="windowtext" style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><br />I stepped outside to move the several cat dishes which the wind had
blown and I knew would be in the car’s path to the garage. Walking back I noticed the two
garden features which are staked iron structures, each with a glass globe, one
set in a sun and the other in a moon. They are tucked in the bed of ivy which
runs up the gigantic elm tree. Keeping them straight is a cherished chore.<br /></span><span color="windowtext" style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><br />They are solar but in the six years that this has been their home, they have
never activated to light up the globes. Until Friday night.<br /></span><span color="windowtext" style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><br />We
call them Carol’s because of their past proximity to her house. When W was
house-hunting, she fell in love with a townhome in the neighborhood, one street
behind Carol’s. Sadly, she lost her higher bid to a cash sale, but for fun we
went to the estate sale which followed and I purchased a few things, the sun
& moon being a pair. If W had gotten the house, I’d have returned them to
their garden spot.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]-->Stopped dead in the driveway, I could not believe what I was seeing; one of the
stakes was blinking color: green, orange, blue…<br /></span><span color="windowtext" style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><br />I thought W had probably tinkered with them; she does such things
as little surprises to bring me joy. Not moving an inch, I texted her, but the very second I sent my
message I knew it was not W’s doing. Carol was reaching out.<br /></span><span color="windowtext" style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><br />I’m accustomed to signs. I have received so many. I </span><span color="windowtext" style="font-family: "PT Sans";">trust in them. I have no doubts. Carol was here!<br /></span><span color="windowtext" style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><br />I’m especially sure of it because after the many years being totally lightless,
a globe shines brightly on the very night that Carol’s daughter from NYC has been
invited to dinner.<br /></span><span color="windowtext" style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><br />She and W arrived at the same time. The three of us stood in awe watching the globe through watery eyes, putting on a show for us, this first and only night of all nights.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></span><span color="windowtext" style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><br /></span><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="clear: left; float: left; font-size: xx-small; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="302" height="99" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtDWLkYcsuBlB_RRr-Zd6ajK_od-o8c9w2AWHkRCBhfR88N00AAqooXo65t6NbkCgniYHgGqDTRM0qxJ0XvaOVRfN_05qj8V_BcvNKnZ0W9DovyQy8N3jRdR9SuwsA2vx80b7zlFJXvEGmHuwri8ajvHG5aoq-PgHy_O6MHO6uy0EPcD6i3Swx9Ko6z0Y/w74-h99/CGo.jpg" width="74" /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="clear: left; float: left; font-size: xx-small; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="302" height="94" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbKxZXGMmMvJcua1B6oEAqRVfeC_Ez6EHCxbZxyQ1UjKPoRb6vtyOK6uj5Y-1uMWdqOchOAEsUiWSBLewI8CIrwpHVYaT9OiQcH7L8kvWvr5or7mXr0dapEy1oy4aRi1lOJ1ADmEutfnVRPv9qxOxBTljxa17rDTYGhSW0Am2uXXOVngsDoTDsUAjLmdk/w70-h94/CGg.jpg" width="70" /></span><br /></div><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="clear: left; float: left; font-size: xx-small; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="302" height="91" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT2y1CJs5bhqbBCcTU3XdunzY5iVDBPhBhx6IqYOV9IUaMqenjdeeSSClqFsj5y3IJPhtHfTNe2Z1Wn44qu1BUBahpTQxXGRg3YUrJCLlYdwnrWd8QAeWnTThaedDTW0cIQZZ6ksGxj5nIChOKYy7gRcFdU1weZvppIhnaE41n-LXS4LgmKFCO7uTKUIE/w68-h91/CGb.jpg" width="68" /></span></div><br /><p></p>Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18385450029297475904noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527667714153579683.post-3282283673478622082024-02-10T16:20:00.004-06:002024-02-10T17:35:03.661-06:00the first note<p><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTP1IwOqeoT856uPDxCwWPQp8mgE4MDbveMLohbZoh7Ms9YbhMDgseODSGAHO7C0aBXKyUsOMOz-iLXVMRldg3GWyzeqq0xZUsJZ9n4Qa4d8lF4HSTr9kBvypI6ETm0vBWki4DAV_wSy3WcfJhI0uV-LH4Y4KVOYppSwe42u6MERK2SY5RIPoc04SiUfM/s537/penne.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="537" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTP1IwOqeoT856uPDxCwWPQp8mgE4MDbveMLohbZoh7Ms9YbhMDgseODSGAHO7C0aBXKyUsOMOz-iLXVMRldg3GWyzeqq0xZUsJZ9n4Qa4d8lF4HSTr9kBvypI6ETm0vBWki4DAV_wSy3WcfJhI0uV-LH4Y4KVOYppSwe42u6MERK2SY5RIPoc04SiUfM/s320/penne.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Christmas cheer arrived last night, as it will a few more times before this next December.</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><span><span style="font-size: medium;">W and I chose, this past holiday, to give each other two gifts each. They could be nothing tangible, nothing which could be wrapped up prettily in any box. They were to be experiences. Surprise experiences! <br /><br />Maybe a pottery class or a decadent lobster lunch spread out in one of our many preferred spaces at the arboretum. Perhaps a concert or spontaneously venturing to a restaurant that's been on our lusting-after-list for too long. Skateboarding on a half pipe at the park? Okay, probably not...<br /><br />Friday night was the first, a concert gifted to me: Jazz at Lincoln Center Presents - Sing & Swing. <br /><br />The night was Spoke's birthday and I learned as we were heading out the door, also the birthday of W's very beloved aunt. I've only met this lady once but the stories W has shared have endeared Aunt Rozemma to me in ways she will never know. Obviously the shared birthday coincidence (or not) was a bittersweet start to the next few hours. <br /><br />We planned our tradition of dash-gating; wine and a light meal in the car before the show. Anticipation being such a pleasure, we rarely omit this pause of ours.<br /><br />The band was comprised of two leaders, a male and a female, both on trumpets and vocals. The other musicians played piano, guitar, double bass, and drums, and yes, wow, could they play. I expected as much coming out of Lincoln Center but I wasn't expecting the fierceness of the emotional tides that rose and quieted in me throughout the show. I was hiding tears in the first introductory minutes. <br /><br />There is no quick or rational way to try to explain the why of it to most anyone reading this, but for my family tuned in, whether your feet are on this Earth or not, your presence with me was laid out so clearly in the evening's words as they unfolded: Coker, Anita O'Day, Gene Krupa, Sarah Vaughan, Louis Prima, Billie. Specific stories and memories close to my heart are attached to each of these.<br /><br />The singers gave us historical context for the greats like Gershwin, Cole Porter, Irving Berlin, Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong. As promised, they gave us the Great American Songbook in a wonderfully creative way. We all applauded on our feet and hoped for more after the grandest, swinging finale encore.<br /><br />W gave me a gift beyond her vision, but having myself a merry little Christmas was indeed how it felt this February night. </span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;">Dash-gating Pasta Salad: penne rinsed, canned albacore drained and flaked, seared fresh corn, scallion, peppadews, homemade sweet-n-sour cucumbers, french-style green beans, mayo, grain mustard, s&p, fresh cilantro. </span></span></span></p>Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18385450029297475904noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527667714153579683.post-22500070631738604892024-01-14T22:02:00.001-06:002024-01-14T22:02:53.195-06:00basil from the patio soon<p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;">I have found my groove in wintering. It arrived unexpectedly today when the wind departed and when I found the perfectly old, well-worn acrylic sweater buried on the bottom of a closet shelf. My body is warm. My heart is warm.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;">I had planned to overhaul the entire closet this week but it has an outside wall and the weather is so frigid that the day long chore will cool the entire house. Not a good idea when Old Man Winter is punishing us with 12* and 8* days and nights.<br /><br />So instead, I shall make vegetable stock. And cauliflower soup. And most exciting of all, I will make pasta! <br /><br />These have been on my wintering list but there have been plans pending, both long and short term plans. Bossy Mother Nature has brought them all to a temporary halt but I'm now so much in a wintering frame of mind that I may extend coming out of it beyond warmer weather boundaries. I crave the solitude which extreme cold demands. Strangely, it is in the time alone that I am able to think of others and do for others, small as the thoughts or gifts from it may be.<br /><br />One gift is sometimes pasta. I love making it. Mine is by hand cranked rollers and cutters. I have three: perfect sized linguine, delicate angel hair, and the very fun curly edged reginetti. Hardest part of pasta making is choosing the cuts; I love them all!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Winter reminds me that life can be so harsh, that wintering can be lovely or lonely, but always, always, always, there is a waiting spring. Time to plant...<br /><br />Come summer, I'll be wintering in a different yet similar fashion, secluded in air-conditioning to escape the heat. Some very hot random afternoon will likely find me again cranking out ribbons of pasta. </span><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></p>Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18385450029297475904noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527667714153579683.post-8079449276124519492023-12-04T15:09:00.000-06:002023-12-04T15:09:34.601-06:00impressions of a late afternoon at miss pasta<p><span color="windowtext" style="font-family: "PT Sans";"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span color="windowtext" style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrbC0vMGxo2Cy4CVI0TZii_Oziyhoe5izu-qSBZ-cs62D8-EQHvSNIWlcLJTibqTgjnkv3w3jX2R8gmrIbj-jg3PObZnhL60XEvmyOEcMqFIuOc_ZUZ-MZ_mtqT6xOMWPfnfqpyT8PHp6OVjNmj-yZ81treM77M1BybS6_luy9cSFIKJdOkasWRdTn9d8/s516/miss%20pasta.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="516" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrbC0vMGxo2Cy4CVI0TZii_Oziyhoe5izu-qSBZ-cs62D8-EQHvSNIWlcLJTibqTgjnkv3w3jX2R8gmrIbj-jg3PObZnhL60XEvmyOEcMqFIuOc_ZUZ-MZ_mtqT6xOMWPfnfqpyT8PHp6OVjNmj-yZ81treM77M1BybS6_luy9cSFIKJdOkasWRdTn9d8/w400-h313/miss%20pasta.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span color="windowtext" style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">Let me begin at the end. Leaving the restaurant, I told the chef-owner that I’ve been waiting 15 years for him. It’s my truth; no restaurant has presented such
pasta since my mentor Antonio, in his original MoMo Italian Specialities.</span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span color="windowtext"><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;">Back to the beginning. You enter on the side of the brick building, feeling
it’s a secret trattoria you just happened upon. The entrance doesn’t face a
parking lot or the frontage road to the busy Bush Tollway, but instead, the
view from within looking out is the gorgeous patio of the upscale restaurant
next door. Brilliant!<br />
<br />
Miss Pasta’s interior, despite the unappealing counter ordering, is very warmly
inviting. A magnificent picture sets a sweet tone and tables fill the windowed
space. Lucky for W and me, there’s a long bar option which we always prefer,
and here we can watch the chef prepare dishes. He does so in a modern-esque very
small space designed for efficiency, and functions so quietly. That was the
chef’s plan; six induction burners put out finished dishes with amazing speed. Brilliant!<br />
<br />
The restaurant’s menu concept pays homage to Italian tradition, and pays it to
such an extent that I think for many diners, it needs explaining. Pasta in
Italy is considered a first course, as is soup, risotto, and more. Primi Piatti!
A few dishes incorporate meat or seafood within the sauce, stuffed pasta, or
rice, but that’s it. The Secondo, or second course, is a protein served with a
side vegetable – never, ever, is pasta degraded as a side dish to this course. At
Miss Pasta there’s such authentic attention given to cooking pasta as served in
Italy, not as found on American menus. Brava!<br />
<br />
It is truly a regional menu, so diverse with dishes from the country’s southernmost
to northernmost. Sitting there sipping wine and trying to choose, I realized W
really does hear me when I rant. She summed up their regional offerings as
“from the heel to the veal”. Exactly, Sweets!<br />
<br />
The two options we settled on to share were both delicious. They brought me watery eyes with the first bite;
so much flavor perfected in such simplicity. Although W was forgiven for forgetting to
order with the fried eggs, the very fact that Spaghetti Aglio e Olio (garlic,
olive oil, chili peppers, breadcrumbs) offers eggs atop thrilled me! We often
eat it that way when I cook but we never see it on any menus. Spaghetti alla
Puttanesca was bursting with flavor also from minimal ingredients: cherry
tomato sauce, olives, anchovies, capers, oregano, garlic. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span color="windowtext" style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><span style="font-size: medium;">The pastas are just so good that you forget you’re eating
from a paper bowl, sturdy as it is. Another touch of brilliance considering any
or all upscale additions – table wear, table servers, additional cleanup, would
only increase costs for the establishment and its customers. This way the
restaurant serves the quality of a finer dining experience while supporting a
strong casual dining or carry-out status. Still, I’m sure Miss Pasta will hear
complaints. During our dinner, we observed a customer say her goodbyes but scurry
back in to comment to the owners that they should have a bigger sign.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span color="windowtext"><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;">Are there things I would prefer? Of course, but a bigger sign wouldn’t be one.
Finer pasta strands such as linguine, fini linguine, and capellini would be,
for they are simply personal favorites. And I very much prefer dried pasta for
certain dishes like Aglio e Olio regardless of how excellent the fresh version
may be. And these are! <br />
</span></span><span color="windowtext" style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">I really, really wish for a half-priced-wine-bottles-day,
which is a factor that keeps W and I returning most often to our special haunts
which do. The restaurant has limited beverage offerings, and only bottled water
for purchase which probably won’t settle well with a huge majority of diners.
Didn’t with us. To pay $38 for a bottle of wine with no free table water, is a
bit hard to swallow.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span color="windowtext"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: PT Sans;">But W and I will be returning, probably soon followed by often and morphed into
regularly. Miss Pasta feels familiar in so many ways and I’ve missed this
feeling. Missed it terribly. Ancora!<br />
<br /></span>
<br />
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de los Muertos</span><span color="windowtext" style="font-family: "PT Sans";"> Todos Los Santos</span><span color="windowtext" style="font-family: "PT Sans";">All Souls’ Day</span><span color="windowtext" style="font-family: "PT Sans";"> </span><span color="windowtext" style="font-family: "PT Sans";">Dia de
Finados</span><span color="windowtext" style="font-family: "PT Sans";"> </span><span color="windowtext" style="font-family: "PT Sans";">Festival de Barriletes Gigantes...</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span color="windowtext" style="font-family: "PT Sans";">In many languages and around the world, there is a
remembrance day for loved ones deceased. At its simplest there is lighting of candles,
visits to cemeteries, food offerings. The occasion may be made more lavish by
preparing elaborate altars, dressing in costume, hosting parties, or even parades.
We try to express our remembrances, be it intimately or outrageously.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span color="windowtext" style="font-family: "PT Sans";">We miss them. We loved them. On the Day of the Dead we
celebrate these lives well lived.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span color="windowtext"><span style="font-family: PT Sans;">There is for me, no place more sacred than the dining table. Abundant wine, and
great food ever present, it is the gathering spot which nourishes body and
soul. The table requires no words be spoken yet it hears many: blessings,
toasts, grievances, regrets, secrets, arguments, wooings, promises… <br /><br />It can be a
healing haven for the vulnerable, the grieving, the exhausted, and as easily a
most sought after seat for hours of anticipated joy and laughter. The dining
table is a universal platform of and for the human condition; shared with those
while living and celebrating those who have passed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
This is my such a table.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span color="windowtext"><o:p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"> </span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Rd2iyW2LfOvLg7aBIprBjx1ZdPo3YQC_orTkYUsOOikIleOu1q7dlWSu79uki1mE_1yk8mrkQsap1a-h4C1UuN187wKBoZeOxrs97mF9cI8Jqk5R8x2uYVLaRlaGISh1citlwbtGSXPII-1lTdtiKO-znAcKhp-tEAmYvn0R0jG4StBUl_hDqHoqHeQ/s2538/full%20table.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2538" data-original-width="1975" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Rd2iyW2LfOvLg7aBIprBjx1ZdPo3YQC_orTkYUsOOikIleOu1q7dlWSu79uki1mE_1yk8mrkQsap1a-h4C1UuN187wKBoZeOxrs97mF9cI8Jqk5R8x2uYVLaRlaGISh1citlwbtGSXPII-1lTdtiKO-znAcKhp-tEAmYvn0R0jG4StBUl_hDqHoqHeQ/s320/full%20table.JPG" width="249" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /></span><p></p>
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<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p>Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18385450029297475904noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527667714153579683.post-4198308285817019182023-10-12T15:46:00.002-05:002023-10-12T15:46:39.689-05:00soup, blessed soup<p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><span style="font-size: medium;">When the evil out there seeps in, I find solace not only in my crab shell of sorts, but in the kitchen. There, I can control something. I can control enough of something to quiet my screaming heart. <br /><br />Ironic just the grip of a knife is soothing.<br /></span><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfGWQUp8aDb1EM1VcJeAnMcwMTltCR_YUlUIIvgwv1cs1Lfdef4Ifkm8mb-9tFZk9j7GundjW7OFhrybjyztMuSoCYHHcePTePPxeO0BHOduUTtpSGPG3XylWuPCSUzH7l5m5qXZmKDkgBrd5bj2rhxEN2YClTKoubb5Omd4Vtr20w3rCOYIt7u_oqK4Y/s537/mushrooms.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="537" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfGWQUp8aDb1EM1VcJeAnMcwMTltCR_YUlUIIvgwv1cs1Lfdef4Ifkm8mb-9tFZk9j7GundjW7OFhrybjyztMuSoCYHHcePTePPxeO0BHOduUTtpSGPG3XylWuPCSUzH7l5m5qXZmKDkgBrd5bj2rhxEN2YClTKoubb5Omd4Vtr20w3rCOYIt7u_oqK4Y/w400-h300/mushrooms.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18385450029297475904noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527667714153579683.post-36410546220460199832023-08-27T22:03:00.002-05:002023-08-28T10:22:57.022-05:00a tale of two cafes<p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR4Pscn1ivB59d25V5Ub5CfgEaAsGLhonsVFtXTwSRaU4RRfapSdTCzXZ0Jb9uLjY7QOPzia_uV8VXHiEKFkKJ3PAQov5rFSXaPLoyNs_Bvoz3QK9k08N25GXw-tLNJJmGWIzXXSE_jkO4ayl3wGplCtmdYWd_5eakAZAbot8qXmZzToJTz4Xqi-KdDtQ/s403/Leila%20croissants.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="403" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR4Pscn1ivB59d25V5Ub5CfgEaAsGLhonsVFtXTwSRaU4RRfapSdTCzXZ0Jb9uLjY7QOPzia_uV8VXHiEKFkKJ3PAQov5rFSXaPLoyNs_Bvoz3QK9k08N25GXw-tLNJJmGWIzXXSE_jkO4ayl3wGplCtmdYWd_5eakAZAbot8qXmZzToJTz4Xqi-KdDtQ/w320-h320/Leila%20croissants.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">There is a lovely cafe in Dallas where W and I go for quiet brunches. We take a bottle of rosé, knowing to call and order the Florentine quiche ahead of arrival or we severely risk missing out. This quiche is old world; Paris driven in my mind. </span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We settle in, never in a hurry. Customers are cozied up to their thoughts or their laptops, seemingly as relaxed as we are, while others come in with or without dogs in tow, to grab and go. W often sketches. Maybe a cafe interior, or by my insistence one afternoon, the wine bar across the street. I peruse: the pastry counter, the ever changing cooling racks, the dozens of sandwiches being prepped in the kitchen, and sometimes the eclectic shelves of china, knick knacks, and books. <br /><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA1ux6LJJz3B71kSGwddOP9id45ItkyzhKdw2tW6ecyn7gkDszpNaImXkudUGKNGYahW7JqA1CdZG797f7ETwlnb1geSe6_b7Jp4S8zTbONanS-pkRCm1cVYy7XnXeeH6EaNYDfuNmsdnQoUP2YeneKLSNcvFmH25TeCe5Lh2fRf4KJjCmJY6fQIbgnYg/s537/Stoney's.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="537" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA1ux6LJJz3B71kSGwddOP9id45ItkyzhKdw2tW6ecyn7gkDszpNaImXkudUGKNGYahW7JqA1CdZG797f7ETwlnb1geSe6_b7Jp4S8zTbONanS-pkRCm1cVYy7XnXeeH6EaNYDfuNmsdnQoUP2YeneKLSNcvFmH25TeCe5Lh2fRf4KJjCmJY6fQIbgnYg/w320-h240/Stoney's.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">That is how at Leila Cafe I discovered the novel, The Last Days of Cafe Leila. <br /><br />I quickly secured a copy at the library and though I haven't quite finished it, I want to share a small but moving paragraph from its early pages. The about-to-be newlyweds, Zod and Pari, unaware of (more) tragedies to come, are enjoying blissful hours together.<br /><br /><i><span style="color: #bf9000;">So began their habit each morning of walking down to the sea, where Zod would spread his jacket close to the hem of the water and they would sit and eat their breakfast of bread and cheese and Pari would peel them an orange. Even this tiny resting of the rinds inside one another in her palm told Zod of the orderly home they would make together. With their life in her hands, Zod felt he would never again feel afraid.</span></i><br /><br />The author, Donia Bijan, expresses so beautifully how a small gesture can represent or suggest something much larger, and possibly lend unexpected rewards. </span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><span style="font-size: medium;">There is something about an orderly home that resonates deeply for me. Order grounds me. I think better in a clean and arranged space, it's true. I also crave routine for the same reason. My morning cappuccino in one of the thirty-year-old cups with chipped saucers is somehow an assurance that everything is going to be okay that day. If my physical space is in order, I can take on and relish anything in my path, from spontaneity to fervor.<br /><br />Leila Cafe and Cafe Leila - life and art once again appearing in my life in such a sweet and delicious way. <br /><br /><br /><br /></span><br /></span></p>Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18385450029297475904noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527667714153579683.post-23406713222683576092023-08-08T13:00:00.001-05:002023-08-08T14:23:27.257-05:00please, join me<p><span color="windowtext" style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><span>I can’t remember W’s exact words but there was honesty and
awe in her voice when she spoke.</span></span></p><p><span color="windowtext" style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><span>It was recent, over one of the dinners which we've come to enjoy having at the round high-top in the office
room we now call The Café, since hanging a half curtain at the window for evening privacy. It
fits us; a tucked away table for two, within the bistro.</span></span></p><p><span color="windowtext" style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><span>Our dinners are like Spoke and I had, like W has long wished for and now has with me, and
like Jacques Pepin describes of his own such ritual with his late wife.</span></span></p><p><span color="windowtext" style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><span>Wine is consumed and conversation never lulls. The dinners are leisurely no matter what. Time waits for us. Seems sometimes to stand still.</span></span></p><p><span color="windowtext" style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><span>“You treat yourself as a guest in your own bistro,” is what she said, full of
wonderment as if she was outside looking in; not wanting to be like me, but
intrigued by what she sees.</span></span></p><p><span color="windowtext" style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><span>It is true.</span></span></p><p><span color="windowtext" style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><span>If alone, I take the time to prepare what it takes to eat well, even if, and
often, in its simplest form. Well does not mean extravagant, but delicious, good
at its worst. That I plate and serve in a beautiful manner is what I do whether
for my guests or myself.</span></span></p><p><span color="windowtext" style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><span>The effort may just be my way of respecting the food. It, by
nature, is giving me so much pleasure and good health, meals should be acknowledged,
even celebrated. Handwashing pretty plates is not a chore.</span></span></p><p><span color="windowtext" style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><span>I know of perhaps only one like-minded person and that is my friend, Grethe.
Our birthdays are just a day apart which may account for the similarities. It’s
a nice, albeit unique connected feeling despite the distance between us.</span></span></p><p><span color="windowtext" style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><span>Much like the pleasure of a great stemmed glass for wine, attention to detail sets
a tone which is touted often yet I never tire of it: Life is short, use the good
china.</span></span></p><p><span color="windowtext" style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><span>Eat the cake too, I'll add.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span color="windowtext">
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<br /><br /></span></p>Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18385450029297475904noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527667714153579683.post-34363297683254939612023-07-13T14:41:00.000-05:002023-07-13T14:41:13.522-05:00irony<div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;">EVERY SECOND COUNTS</span><div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;">It is a sign in the kitchens on the televised show, The Bear, and a theme by which the entire restaurant staff is reminded to operate. Start to finish, seconds can alter any stage of providing an exceptional dining experience to guests. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;">It struck me that the same could be said of this production getting scenes to the viewer. In this beautifully scripted and tremendously acted series, they have made every second count. Each are powerful. They may be a second's worth of a glance that warns or a smile that warms. A second might produce a single word, such as <i>fuck,</i> of which there are very many within each forty minutes, sometimes whispered under one's breath, often screamed loudly. <br /><br />The show is a non-stop, jam-packed thrill. Costly accidents happen in seconds. Hearts are broken and hearts are healed in seconds. So much can happen and does happen that I often find myself holding my breath for several seconds at a time.<br /><br /><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: x-small;"><i>The Bear<br />Written by Kelly Galuska/Directed by Christopher Storer<br />Seasons, One and Two</i></span></div>Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18385450029297475904noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527667714153579683.post-38472101964214161762023-07-10T16:01:00.000-05:002023-07-10T16:01:32.919-05:00gardenias<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3dcuOEVZg2ZHSBvxnTEZObQkZjLExNT17XoClvpbhZ_EKouxw9cHNpffB5tU2fNcD8c130Tw4tbzBhAotxfc_8q5_FDFqHlgSRgV3NFJvEr1ybKi6XmLtDA2Fm92PBifIqt51R5DAk5tZq8gx8dNwvtT8bnzftISzqFw0q5Cp74ZDNcbBItZ30hN6eM0/s537/gardenia5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="537" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3dcuOEVZg2ZHSBvxnTEZObQkZjLExNT17XoClvpbhZ_EKouxw9cHNpffB5tU2fNcD8c130Tw4tbzBhAotxfc_8q5_FDFqHlgSRgV3NFJvEr1ybKi6XmLtDA2Fm92PBifIqt51R5DAk5tZq8gx8dNwvtT8bnzftISzqFw0q5Cp74ZDNcbBItZ30hN6eM0/w640-h480/gardenia5.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;">I missed those gardenias and those times she would pass me in the house and I would catch the sweet smelling passage of her, that irresistible tonic of perfume she carried with her, attractive to bees and worshipful sons.<br /><br /><br /><br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Prince of Tides</span></i><br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Pat Conroy</span></i></span></div><div><p></p></div>Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18385450029297475904noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527667714153579683.post-18784103343388969702023-06-26T00:00:00.086-05:002023-07-10T14:09:07.792-05:0070<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><i>We were born before the wind</i></span></div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><i><div style="text-align: center;">Also, younger than the sun</div><span><div style="text-align: center;">'Ere the bonnie boat was won</div><span><div style="text-align: center;">As we sailed into the mystic</div></span></span></i></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><span>Hindsight has never seemed worth more than when one crosses into a new decade. My mother said, and most people would agree, that we measure our lives by them. </span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><span>We've all stories of our decades, be they falling in or out of love, new destinations to call home, beloved pets, music of the times, deaths we grieved. We have least and most favorite years based on such things, and blessed be the person who has many wonderous years within each decade. </span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><span>As much as I have had those wonderous years, and consider my life abundantly blessed, I found myself as this birthday crept up on me, experiencing what feels like yet again, the stages of grief. Kubler-Ross presents five, of which I've been wrangling three: denial, anger, and depression. </span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><span>First, a bit in denial that I could in what seems a couple blinks, be this age. Can-not-be-possible! I look well enough, and I feel great. Few complaints and no aches or pains. I stay busy out-and-about and rarely lounge. Everyone my age talks about aging. A lot. Enough! I mostly manage to ignore it, ditching the senior flyers that arrive daily to my mailbox, and instead hang out at trendy bars meeting the most interesting people</span></span><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";">. Of all ages. <i>Stranglehold</i> is still my go-to, crank-it-up song for God's sake! </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;">Anger I would say, presents as mild frustration, which emerges oddly at the happiest of times. I am two decades older than W, who arrived in my life unexpectedly in this passing decade. Six years together this summer and our entwinement remains tighter than ever. Hours to days to weeks within years have been free and magically easy; laughter and love both endless. Our difference in age doesn't affect us but will likely though, cut short our remaining years together. Whether by innocence or bad choices, some of both our prior decades seem wasted. Ridiculous as I sound, yeah, I'm pissed about that. <br /></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><i>Hark now, hear the sailors cry</i></span></div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Smell the sea and feel the sky</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Let your soul and spirit fly</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Into the mystic</i></div></i></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;">Thirdly, it's probably not accurate to say that I am depressed but rather, that our situation weighs on me emotionally at times, and none more so than now. Chances are, W will suffer the grief that I did with Spoke's passing, and I worry for her. I hurt for her just thinking about it. It is an unbearable pain that one thinks will never end. Comfort finds me in that she's young enough to find new love, as I have with her. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;"><span><span>There is no bargaining stage for me. It makes no sense; I've nothing to barter but time yet to come. How ever many more years ahead for me and for us, will be what they are to be. </span></span>I pray they are decades worth. <br /></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><i>Yeah, when that fog horn blows</i></span></div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I will be coming home</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Yea, when that fog horn blows</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I wanna hear it</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I don't have to fear it</i></div></i></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;">Thanks for reading. Putting head and heart on paper has always helped me, and this blog has for over a decade been a dear friend. So, aah... acceptance this 26th day of June. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;">Turning 70 is humbling. I'm grateful and greedy, both at the same time. I'm finally ready. Let's do this, Baby. <br /></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><i>And I wanna rock your gypsy soul</i></span></div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Just like way back in the days of old</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Then magnificently we will float</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Into the mystic<br /><br />Come on, girl<br /><br />Too late to stop now</i></div></i></span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><span><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Into the Mystic</i><br />Van Morrison</span></span></p>Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18385450029297475904noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527667714153579683.post-10561174681019457082023-06-09T01:12:00.000-05:002023-06-09T01:12:22.985-05:00my, what big ____ you have<p> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIP_nSNwbPEDqkkN54QHbQGlBficBc-kDXSZudV3FllEB6KKLQJIMVjYujNh2wsn-iKsGMEa893DBsDFoVeYLVJC4ntZABaoO7JywmK_l0B-Hbe3Uu7WahXTKJ9q53K-Iap03XzuYdtN7UMKBrQtpmX8DKT-vafOlD86aI0LZ9TDED05R_3v0WhOeN/s853/VHouseshyman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="640" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIP_nSNwbPEDqkkN54QHbQGlBficBc-kDXSZudV3FllEB6KKLQJIMVjYujNh2wsn-iKsGMEa893DBsDFoVeYLVJC4ntZABaoO7JywmK_l0B-Hbe3Uu7WahXTKJ9q53K-Iap03XzuYdtN7UMKBrQtpmX8DKT-vafOlD86aI0LZ9TDED05R_3v0WhOeN/w300-h400/VHouseshyman.jpg" width="300" /></span></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4IkvGolKyaV_CSS9NI_SYm4XUyRfyKj4lbiCbaVK8LraalzOn6YyKIN4QimBz6hxPhQdZjAenh5Ofl0v4BtGoBNvXxlSUqxASSqWLcqcnVgRAwe3neRZMBaWvXo7jP6zR1v4DPipQhi9du5cjrvB9YprzpZomWLMqvhdzAN4uEhxRBdtizYen7EMn/s640/VHousegirlonram.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="599" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4IkvGolKyaV_CSS9NI_SYm4XUyRfyKj4lbiCbaVK8LraalzOn6YyKIN4QimBz6hxPhQdZjAenh5Ofl0v4BtGoBNvXxlSUqxASSqWLcqcnVgRAwe3neRZMBaWvXo7jP6zR1v4DPipQhi9du5cjrvB9YprzpZomWLMqvhdzAN4uEhxRBdtizYen7EMn/s320/VHousegirlonram.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: "PT Sans"; font-size: small;">(Valley House Gallery, Dallas, Texas)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "PT Sans"; font-size: small;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: "PT Sans"; font-size: small;"><br /></span></p>Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18385450029297475904noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527667714153579683.post-85470216315598319502023-06-03T14:51:00.000-05:002023-06-03T14:51:32.630-05:00short and stout<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfHgn1RZNXhiaYXdUc6v-4uv0BU30b1vvs6u3_Mn_j2GL-XnnQJWo4F_vmk1THu3aGmF3j6L1pyFrmncy7_GyEA-rf1pK6JaxNayeqrAquYFq-p7dWBeOhuR_M0lyfa-j25SaiK-WPfIfDFxz01_2yP9OvtW7-GNAlyK_6NZ8T3ZBqWfxZMvu6J4wm/s426/teapot.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="426" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfHgn1RZNXhiaYXdUc6v-4uv0BU30b1vvs6u3_Mn_j2GL-XnnQJWo4F_vmk1THu3aGmF3j6L1pyFrmncy7_GyEA-rf1pK6JaxNayeqrAquYFq-p7dWBeOhuR_M0lyfa-j25SaiK-WPfIfDFxz01_2yP9OvtW7-GNAlyK_6NZ8T3ZBqWfxZMvu6J4wm/s320/teapot.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><i><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><span style="font-size: medium;"> I'm a very special teapot</span></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;"><i><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>Yes, it's true<br /><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>Here's an example of what I can do </i></span></div><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;"><br />Laura Calder crossed my radar, again speaking of the very things I myself tout. She does it often and it makes me somewhat jealous. The latest was in this month's letter to followers, promoting the book, The Beauty of Everyday Things, by Soetsu Yanagi.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;">Jesting aside, that my everyday world is filled with beautiful objects is truly important to me and I do talk about it a lot. Art imitates life, life imitates art.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;">The appeal of objects I reach for regularly, may be defined because they are beautiful by their nature or structure, their personal history tells a story, or because people with beautiful hearts gifted them to me. Being surrounded by lovely things is my constant reminder of the many aspects of my very beautiful life.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;">It did not get by me that Calder also mentions how this book caught her eye in a bookstore, much like I recently talked about with the Maiko book; her version being attributed to serendipity, mine credited to The Universe. The theory by any name, will place what you need right smack in front of you. Often!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;">My final chuckle came from the photo on the cover of the Yanagi's book. It is a teapot. A Japanese teapot I assume, and very pretty in a timeless way. So is mine.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;">My little pot never boils water but instead houses a few cards of recipe ingredients quantities that I reach for the most. It also holds scraps of paper; notes of words which I adore and wish to never lose. Words, to me, are as beautiful and to be as treasured as the objects which may contain them. I look forward to reading this book and perhaps collecting more.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;">We are so very similar, Laura Calder and I, though she speaks on a large platform and to many people while I occasionally reach into the teapot to read lines to special friends over glasses of shared wine. Art imitates life, life imitates art. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span><br /></span></span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>I'm a Little Teapot<br />George Harold Sanders/Clarence Z. Kelley, 1939</i></span></span></p>Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18385450029297475904noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527667714153579683.post-33089817453710888462023-06-02T16:21:00.003-05:002023-06-02T16:21:45.982-05:00pequeno toro de cocina<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTVs5BRSWeC6VrN_JsqeprW3B9i7JLRC2HjU15O531faXw8sM82HfEl5_mH7Djl89DK-Z3zES6FJMMV-sT0mzrgSTih1uk-qlHyzfjXmJ2SAdh8r8F1kf6WgAn_X4rDfZNDzp9AxN6BGo_HoQILTXMhnOGCW-t8wG6uvNgWgIgPnoMol8dS8WngxVu/s537/bull.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="537" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTVs5BRSWeC6VrN_JsqeprW3B9i7JLRC2HjU15O531faXw8sM82HfEl5_mH7Djl89DK-Z3zES6FJMMV-sT0mzrgSTih1uk-qlHyzfjXmJ2SAdh8r8F1kf6WgAn_X4rDfZNDzp9AxN6BGo_HoQILTXMhnOGCW-t8wG6uvNgWgIgPnoMol8dS8WngxVu/s320/bull.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p> </p>Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18385450029297475904noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527667714153579683.post-23324108785995663442023-05-28T15:05:00.001-05:002023-05-28T15:05:46.195-05:00suh-weet<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimMUDgIkpj75LqER1TNw0KLZ3MweJR7EToa7JNnTnpQsq8Ew822hVYROndHbE4rrHegyqgz4QBrN3UyW0apZ9gQL6jjRli8SLDo8mihzoCMkfiDA4EKGIZZigewCDS1SdE5lcf_miaSO1Cx5YtKY_vjD3zNc1wm-PqqBj4Tnyr5Sm1mHCGRspFAuBG/s537/baklava.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="537" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimMUDgIkpj75LqER1TNw0KLZ3MweJR7EToa7JNnTnpQsq8Ew822hVYROndHbE4rrHegyqgz4QBrN3UyW0apZ9gQL6jjRli8SLDo8mihzoCMkfiDA4EKGIZZigewCDS1SdE5lcf_miaSO1Cx5YtKY_vjD3zNc1wm-PqqBj4Tnyr5Sm1mHCGRspFAuBG/w400-h300/baklava.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><p></p>Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18385450029297475904noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527667714153579683.post-19263642078268013452023-05-25T19:44:00.000-05:002023-05-25T19:44:49.074-05:00friends and fusilli <p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;">She steps in, inhales deeply, then does it again. And then again.<br /><br />W and I order wines for us and our guests as we stand in this store's entrance, surrounded by boxes of tomatoes, onions, cantaloupes, and more. Bags of fresh basil lay open for shoppers to tear off the quantity they need.<br /><br />We are at Jimmy's Food Store, an Italian market and a Dallas icon. Three generations I think, in an old East Dallas neighborhood which is these days one of the city's most eclectic; little homes in disrepair but with front yard rose bushes in full bloom sit among new and sterile half-million dollar condos. <br /><br />Our friends begin to mosey down the first aisle which is stocked with anchovies and capers to soup mixes and dried beans, the row ending with many sweet treats. They chose a box of a</span><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";">maretti cookies to begin filling their extra suitcase, having planned ahead with the safe bet that there would be goodies galore from this trip to Dallas.<br /><br />Joe and Helen live in a small town in Oregon, biscotti and such no where to be found. I left them for a while, collecting my usual choices: Italian cheeses, dried pastas, canned tomatoes, wine, and when I returned to them it was much like that afternoon with Annie. W and I were giving Annie a similar introductory tour of Eataly, an Italian emporium in Dallas' glitziest mall. Breezy left us in the produce section to go sketch as she likes to do, and when she returned some twenty minutes later, Annie and I had moved only a few feet. That was the case with Joe and Helen. Made my heart so happy!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";">We went on to peruse every shelf and every item, circling back to some a few times. Wise purchases were made by them of non-perishables: wine to be consumed here, and pastas, truffle condiments, jams, to be gifted and consumed back home. <br /><br />If you get Jimmy's, you get it. It is Ground Zero for those of us who do. So, it was no surprise that standing in the old grocery somewhere between the espresso cans and the jars of Mostarda, we made plans to build a large antipasti board for our last night together. <br /><br />Loading up the car, Helen talked about the smell of the market and how she wished she could take it with her. I grabbed her hand and dragged her back into the store where she, for one more time, sucked in deeply to savor the combination of scents: fruits, garlic, grilled meat sandwiches, cheese, coffee, and likely the aroma from a few long ago broken bottles of wine.<br /> <br />I didn't care how silly we looked. It was a moment in time that I will cherish forever. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><br /></span></p>Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18385450029297475904noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527667714153579683.post-58597435791272708642023-04-07T22:00:00.001-05:002023-04-08T11:44:43.394-05:00it speaks, i listen <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI9Ou9-6WvqVxnB1jWWFpCBqaf4-68H0sorbeNvTbQ_MchZCDqt85S2Ywc2v-uA07IhkndTq6qBsS58wnPOyxAebWLGvtWtOO0Qx2ySMZz5yxd9S-fxfeDMXxfeQlLlPPsPDTb__1cjqjzatuDPEKOvj_LFBiU5N2RET6iSNv3rZlJxLn1fWfvMVyK/s537/Maikos.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="537" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI9Ou9-6WvqVxnB1jWWFpCBqaf4-68H0sorbeNvTbQ_MchZCDqt85S2Ywc2v-uA07IhkndTq6qBsS58wnPOyxAebWLGvtWtOO0Qx2ySMZz5yxd9S-fxfeDMXxfeQlLlPPsPDTb__1cjqjzatuDPEKOvj_LFBiU5N2RET6iSNv3rZlJxLn1fWfvMVyK/w400-h300/Maikos.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>I believe that The Universe, however it is comprised - God, angels, spirit guides, people who have passed - surrounds us and hears us and directs us. My imagination sees our grand union as like a circuit board; all of us as wires of energy which cross, crisscross, circle, entangle each other. </p></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;">Was W, then a stranger to me, throwing energy my way when she biked past my street all those many times all those many years ago? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;">I am convinced The Universe likes to toy with me. Sometimes it laughs at me, more often these days, it laughs with me. An example - I recently enjoyed a television series, <i>The Makanai: Cooking for</i> <i>the Maiko House</i>, a glimpse at two young girls pursuing ambitions to become geishas. In these several years of training they are called maiko, which means half-jewel. Sounds lovely and enticing but their days are rigid and strict. One of the two girls, early on, realizes it is not her calling, but cooking is, and she takes on the role of the house cook. I was immediately bonded to her. I loved each show and learned a lot. I raved about it on social media and was sad when the nine episodes ended.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;">Walking into a large bookstore soon after, I headed straight for the cooking section, as I always do, and facing me on a generic side bookcase display that I couldn't miss - no one could - was a most beautiful book cover featuring a maiko. My feet came to a stop. I chuckled. "Hello Universe!"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;">Another example - Not long before, I had told W it occurred to me that I had not seen a Dalmatian in a very long time. There seems everywhere to be Labradors, Pitties, an abundance of Mutts, and being in Dallas, Chihuahuas, but rarely do we see the spotted firehouse mascots. My plan was to purposely test The Universe with this observation. I put it out there. I said it aloud.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;">Well, it laughed with me, as Dalmatians in different forms crossed my path for days after.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;">The most recent event though, solidly sealed my theory. If my faith wasn't so strong, I might have been spooked. Oh, that circuit board! Check this out.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;">My sister, Robin, moved to a mountain top several states away and just as Covid was hitting hard. I haven't seen her in almost three years, so imagine the excitement surrounding her upcoming visit to Dallas. A bonus to her trip is meeting her new dear friend Doris, who has decided to come with her. Doris is a master gardener, and we are anxious to show her the beautiful Dallas Arboretum as well as a terrifically long list of other things. She has become a friend via social media and W and I are so happy to get to meet her.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;">Meantime, W posted an article, one of those enticing ads for all the beautiful, expensive places you'll likely never get to visit. There were over a dozen of them, spread across the U.S. east to west and north to south. One that really caught my attention was Blackberry Farm, a five-star 'hotel' in the foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains, a region of the country where I grew up and not all that far from where my sister now lives. It boasts acres of tranquil escape with views to die for.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;">Well, hear the belly laugh from The Universe? Would you believe..... Doris' son is the executive chef at Blackberry Farm! Not a joke but again, laughing just the same. Really, what are the odds?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";">But wait, The Universe isn't through.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";">It was only a couple days later, that W and I returned to the bookstore mentioned earlier. I checked out the blank journals while she hit the arts section. She took her time, knowing I would soon head to the cooking racks and would be there a while. I did.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";">I had no particular shelf in mind, simply approached a corner relatively new to me. The very first book I pulled out was </span><i style="font-family: "PT Sans";">The Blackberry Farm Cookbook</i><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";">. The Universe howled!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";">I sat at a small wood table nearby and opened the pages to see if it indeed, might be the very farm. It was. I immediately sent a group text to my sister and Doris. The conversation added to my theory, for I heard that the day before, Robin and Doris were together and Doris, for whatever reason, asked my sister if she thought I might like a copy of the Blackberry Farm book. She has an extra. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";">I stayed at the table and spent some time soaking up the beautiful pages, the photo within of Doris' son, the recipes I might first cook when I receive a gifted copy. What a special book it will be! You know..... knowing The Universe orchestrated this entire thing.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /><br /><br /></span></p>Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18385450029297475904noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527667714153579683.post-3805162117234653852022-06-26T17:32:00.000-05:002022-06-26T17:32:03.924-05:00una festa molto grande<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHcsa5JrHnpULaa80IWSy5GPMDcPR1sT2jx_KunMMzOX4OxhnmbGo9Gnz2d4vmIGwrFYhtEF4bvtOPe_POeHnh1Egyzib1Df_8IJwb57Rqqccj_t8cHIIT3zV4OVIbEGPv6Nhh8LwSpuBK2QnjYbh1y_nchwjLW1uJ6fMruCIogyj9QF5_Z9TEaqEX/s537/antipasti.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="537" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHcsa5JrHnpULaa80IWSy5GPMDcPR1sT2jx_KunMMzOX4OxhnmbGo9Gnz2d4vmIGwrFYhtEF4bvtOPe_POeHnh1Egyzib1Df_8IJwb57Rqqccj_t8cHIIT3zV4OVIbEGPv6Nhh8LwSpuBK2QnjYbh1y_nchwjLW1uJ6fMruCIogyj9QF5_Z9TEaqEX/w400-h300/antipasti.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We doled out the money for <i>All You Can Eataly</i>, an evening event celebrating the majesty of the wine and food of Italy. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">It was hosted by Dallas' Eataly, the Italian mega-market company in countries around the globe. They doled out what we paid for, and more, and they did it brilliantly and deliciously. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">The party's hours were excess layered on top of excess on top of excess on top of excess. It was loud. It was crowded. Everything was constant. It was sensory overload and I couldn't get enough. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">About the wine... <br /></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><span style="font-size: medium;">There were wine stations every few feet throughout the store. Nice pours in your personal stemmed wine glass; 100 choices of whatever you wanted however many times you wanted. The later the hour, the larger the pours. That night Soave seemed to consume us. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWD1StPk8L8R3kSCBceP7CadFe0l_c69yT8o5A7j2HmJH2NIn1HJePzTWnTD_Wi8FAzAFbQFcfw7Pinml10IxSA-AzXwY78MjpaalG3uARu-G7SuQjsJ-sFIbfzstsl8fOM0nmPNhJ_9CfOWUxNkh4ye8ZmawnCKTt6hLP3bY6x6JCjj-H4UeJNkGG/s537/bar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="537" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWD1StPk8L8R3kSCBceP7CadFe0l_c69yT8o5A7j2HmJH2NIn1HJePzTWnTD_Wi8FAzAFbQFcfw7Pinml10IxSA-AzXwY78MjpaalG3uARu-G7SuQjsJ-sFIbfzstsl8fOM0nmPNhJ_9CfOWUxNkh4ye8ZmawnCKTt6hLP3bY6x6JCjj-H4UeJNkGG/w200-h150/bar.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><span style="font-family: PT Sans;">About the food... <br />It's a daunting task to try and describe. So grand </span><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";">I want a do-over. Now mapped and memorized in my mind, I'd know what was where and I would have a better strategy for missing nothing. Here's a peek at the splendor.<br /><br />+Think of an antipasti table. Now think of several antipasti tables throughout the store, plated with every kind of Italian meats, cheeses, vegetables, fruits, mixed olives in pools of olive oil, touches of dried cranberries and Marcona almonds, baskets piled high with specialties of stuffed puff pastries...<br />+Mozzarella Bar, fresh, housemade offerings<br />+Focaccia Table, from simple with olive oil and rosemary (a favorite of the night) to fully loaded. We're spoiled forevermore.<br />+Pizza, Neapolitan and Roman styles <br />+Pasta Stations, top of my list, especially the center-space-table featuring pasta tossed within a wheel of Reggiano, hint of truffle and garnished with a big chunk of Parmigiano if you'd like. Uh, duh. <br />+Arancini, Sicilian rice balls we lucked upon, were likely the creamiest and best I'll ever eat. <br /></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";">+Seafood Counter with salad samplings of marinated seafood plus freshly shucked oysters handed out, one by one<br /></span><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";">+Cannoli, Gelato, and Tiramisu all of which we sadly missed out on. A serious do-over craved.<br /><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYTNP_1NmhJBRRinoJjw8DNsZEj0Ol_MvmzDLW2x8NpRr9kt_ipkv6PclaCDn2uUEqvSIjyNgpuYuE9xvf30R9_-OosgFkB1pL4fyBdnrN4PD0J2CGSfyhY0guEs9G4nNIDXbEvYVMgPPSReo0y7D12XkpWtrwNUF3l-1H-mT1qSFh3NCwcxRm63xs/s537/pizza.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="537" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYTNP_1NmhJBRRinoJjw8DNsZEj0Ol_MvmzDLW2x8NpRr9kt_ipkv6PclaCDn2uUEqvSIjyNgpuYuE9xvf30R9_-OosgFkB1pL4fyBdnrN4PD0J2CGSfyhY0guEs9G4nNIDXbEvYVMgPPSReo0y7D12XkpWtrwNUF3l-1H-mT1qSFh3NCwcxRm63xs/s320/pizza.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLPa0wa-jfsT2h-M8dkM3KePDIitfXuOTEiJ2whQHmfzGDjERqRynO3Rl8V-xOKB2zs5ELFedT4vX5Q3hgDIABToLJ5r1RmXrBCgqrBDrD-jtLv1XrrS6BNJDySsSlPsX3wdag2LS1uBpKsMjrCrBhHdEVC1-GpLNL5VvrDgdE7Q89nPMnJSSKsVXf/s537/pasta%20in%20wheel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="537" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLPa0wa-jfsT2h-M8dkM3KePDIitfXuOTEiJ2whQHmfzGDjERqRynO3Rl8V-xOKB2zs5ELFedT4vX5Q3hgDIABToLJ5r1RmXrBCgqrBDrD-jtLv1XrrS6BNJDySsSlPsX3wdag2LS1uBpKsMjrCrBhHdEVC1-GpLNL5VvrDgdE7Q89nPMnJSSKsVXf/s320/pasta%20in%20wheel.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvELjPwJ_OonD310dZyVi0nXbvwlcK3e99QwAjDLXFrneNaKzGBfNMFY7Eil1kIUX-Drcbcj0kcjcZ7voDj3kwe0-XPCB9Ruku7PFCRB-6zvaItLuEnOUeWi2vdCOcJ3iIjmio2_vMOr1ucrjv4fdyeQ-D1e6RxyTD4Oy9GoLg_DjxIIUhNgKHizeb/s580/arancini.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="580" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvELjPwJ_OonD310dZyVi0nXbvwlcK3e99QwAjDLXFrneNaKzGBfNMFY7Eil1kIUX-Drcbcj0kcjcZ7voDj3kwe0-XPCB9Ruku7PFCRB-6zvaItLuEnOUeWi2vdCOcJ3iIjmio2_vMOr1ucrjv4fdyeQ-D1e6RxyTD4Oy9GoLg_DjxIIUhNgKHizeb/s320/arancini.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF2ZtfnmWxQUCZMHDX0ZE8GJuy-0Q7KQCttjFVs2H_ljCmix4Lt1sm4Ytjvr4ylgrluGpXTubIVQZWXgyBRSnSSEEw2qEQwJIM0IbqHHCUk_7QnApxboiiaUSxLm1Wkxo1KHHvS2PhipSNhEn1NKJ0f-dcyn769dKtPiIAv9WSQbGhdg2Cze75KkR_/s537/oysters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="537" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF2ZtfnmWxQUCZMHDX0ZE8GJuy-0Q7KQCttjFVs2H_ljCmix4Lt1sm4Ytjvr4ylgrluGpXTubIVQZWXgyBRSnSSEEw2qEQwJIM0IbqHHCUk_7QnApxboiiaUSxLm1Wkxo1KHHvS2PhipSNhEn1NKJ0f-dcyn769dKtPiIAv9WSQbGhdg2Cze75KkR_/s320/oysters.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><span style="font-size: medium;">There were tables featuring Fabbri wild Italian cherries, Acetaia Giusti Balsamic vinegar, extra-virgin olive oil, meatballs, panini... You could watch a wheel of Parmigiano Reggiano be cracked, watch demos for making mozzarella, pasta, pizza, and Tiramisu. Even how to hand slice Italian meats.<br /><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdvcf_sA3PObG2rnZzeC-rzfQJssMUoWFYprigjlm0-XD9e1c5sJ_2qjJnqpZwne9qYG0EFURal6VhnVmZddpUlQHkZOHUanwiOuhRu8gv1b7Zznk7xtrvADClhQr2kirN3gQEUENB5D0DS6SwWUDNIwKMKe8GGNBPS-8ylgohIdOB-C6CvwD5Fvlt/s537/wheels.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="537" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdvcf_sA3PObG2rnZzeC-rzfQJssMUoWFYprigjlm0-XD9e1c5sJ_2qjJnqpZwne9qYG0EFURal6VhnVmZddpUlQHkZOHUanwiOuhRu8gv1b7Zznk7xtrvADClhQr2kirN3gQEUENB5D0DS6SwWUDNIwKMKe8GGNBPS-8ylgohIdOB-C6CvwD5Fvlt/s320/wheels.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";">W and I never made it to the depths of the outdoor offerings. There was a band, more demos and there may have been a whole pig roasting. <br /><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZlduIVL2h3sQKmxASMqQ4JBWYTeKREMt4a8lrX1nGj1jU1Ygk6OXll0y5vnS0vzgt67FiV_KB1sFqClkWtRs4rKhUeckpY79xwdWfjvqXeofoNxCHCV6RbPgJeTKA5DfvWdjr0tmJGnQlBPRbBBO2sHpXm7RwzSAO3se7AepyiHMDLTfYxDQzhi0B/s640/tent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="299" data-original-width="640" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZlduIVL2h3sQKmxASMqQ4JBWYTeKREMt4a8lrX1nGj1jU1Ygk6OXll0y5vnS0vzgt67FiV_KB1sFqClkWtRs4rKhUeckpY79xwdWfjvqXeofoNxCHCV6RbPgJeTKA5DfvWdjr0tmJGnQlBPRbBBO2sHpXm7RwzSAO3se7AepyiHMDLTfYxDQzhi0B/w400-h188/tent.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><br />The energy inside was addictive and the closing of the night's event engaging. We watched the crew of people who made this event so successful, join the party and reap rewards for their hard work. The servers, head chefs, line cooks, bussers, dishwashers, runners, all partook. Many danced in celebration on the makeshift dancefloor. Managers shook hands, bumped fists, and hugged staff. A head bartender toasted his team with espresso martini shots. <br /><br />W and I observed with joy and in awe of so many happy people together, like clams in the same shell. <br /><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRTyzYca-Tx3bU6kRyHuGKIcfTtippBjZww-9kqMLALYVH7pD7fKIeeGA_29N38OFZqs1NY67hZPgN6f341cNMdiIjBf2HetRep4R7rQinT4orJmMiePbPxW4eRpo--KmSvhcoyZmCKK9u7RavxHPgegqVvkjrAT0_VrRLxjS1_dBO4PECQLVo1m2q/s537/dance%20floor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="537" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRTyzYca-Tx3bU6kRyHuGKIcfTtippBjZww-9kqMLALYVH7pD7fKIeeGA_29N38OFZqs1NY67hZPgN6f341cNMdiIjBf2HetRep4R7rQinT4orJmMiePbPxW4eRpo--KmSvhcoyZmCKK9u7RavxHPgegqVvkjrAT0_VrRLxjS1_dBO4PECQLVo1m2q/s320/dance%20floor.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><br />We sipped the last top-off and thought about which of our family and friends would have enjoyed this evening with us. Robin and Ashley definitely, with our history of such fun times. Joe and Helen and Misty for sure. Maybe Annie, maybe Anne, maybe Linda, maybe Doris, maybe Joyce, maybe Kerri, maybe Sylvia, maybe Jim. <br /><br />So, maybe next year...<br /><br />W and I will certainly be there for a very long awaited, greatly anticipated do-over. <br /><br /><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /></span></p>Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18385450029297475904noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527667714153579683.post-80064258829933237682022-01-05T00:37:00.001-06:002022-01-05T00:43:32.310-06:00all months matter<p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"> <br /><span style="font-size: medium;">"Comparison is the thief of joy."</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;">I think perhaps, this fifth day of this new year, that I should adopt the Theodore Roosevelt quote I'm always touting, as my New Year's Resolution and find a way to actually heed its truth.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;">The latest in my personal battle comes with the arrival of January. It may well be my favorite month, I'm ready to exclaim. But! Oh! Wait! So is November.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;">See?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;">Where this need or habit to compare and rate comes from, I do not know, but I do believe I'll be happier when I can stop. I like peach pie and I like cherry pie. I like fine-china and glazed pottery. I like several labels of Sangiovese. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;">I am however, drawing the line at restaurants, and this is where Roosevelt makes things most confusing for me. Let's take Thai food as an example... </span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;">We have such great Thai restaurants in Dallas, and W and I frequent many of them, preferring certain things at certain places. We both love two particular noodle dishes at Thai Soon, and the shrimp fried rice (add cashews) at Banana Leaf. Appetizers at Royal Thai always offer something unique. The husband & wife team at Ruang Thai presents a delicious meal in a most welcoming way, while a couple other places have good food but are off-puttingly-cool to customers. And in contrast, there's the much appreciated BYOB with no corkage fee offered at several. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;">So, if on a Friday night we've a hankering for the crispiest egg rolls and corn patties, or a green over a red curry, is it wrong to compare? I think not, but it certainly makes a New Year's Resolution trickier. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;">Without comparison, I will simply say, I do so love January! </span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;">The month is a much-needed breather for me, a calm after chaos. Coming days will be slowed down from post-holiday weariness, or the weather, or by my pure selfish preference. Excess diminishes, quiet prevails. January becomes not a comparison, just a truth; that was then, this is now.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;"> I'm finding joy in the now.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><br /></span></span></p><p><br /></p>Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18385450029297475904noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527667714153579683.post-69637400314192980582021-12-08T14:28:00.000-06:002021-12-08T14:28:03.923-06:00bookish things<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";">If any words can make you revisit grief, sigh and smile within the same sparse page, or long to write better yourself - it might be Rachel Joy Welcher's in her book </span><i style="font-family: "PT Sans";">Two Funerals, Then Easter</i><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";">. </span><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";">She is an author, another skilled one, who says so much with so few words. This 'collection of poems' reads like a jour</span><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";">nal.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";">I'm reminded I wrote a journal. He left me, though in a way different from how he left her, b</span><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";">ut such shared emotions are universal, and she reminds us of that. <br /></span><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><br /><br /><br />Yellowstone, the televised series, continues to mesmerize in picturesque and intense ways. For me, none stronger than the father-daughter scene in the episode, Under a Blanket of Red. </span><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";">Those few moments in that master bedroom boasting of fire and whiskey, were so moving that W and I have repeatedly watched.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";">The slow, rich dialog set us out to find Gretel Erhlich's book, </span><i style="font-family: "PT Sans";">The Solace of Open</i><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";"> </span><i style="font-family: "PT Sans";">Spaces</i><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";">. Maybe we'll read it together, albeit in a fenced yard by a chiminea fire. That is, after all, often where we each, or together, find solace.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";"><br /><br /><br /><i>The Tender Bar</i></span><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";"> </span><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";">is a book I speak of often, and often to bartenders themselves. Many people seek solace at bars. I've done that myself, in hours of grief as painful as Welcher describes. These days, these wonderfully joyful days, the bars find me with others, sharing laughs and bottles of wine. <br />I</span><span style="font-family: "PT Sans";"> was thrilled and drawn to share that J R Moehringer's coming-of-age memoir is now a film. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><br /><i><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: medium;">Cheers!</span></i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><br /> <br /></span></p>Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18385450029297475904noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527667714153579683.post-37627408310845630712021-11-30T03:09:00.001-06:002021-11-30T12:20:21.005-06:00dearest john<p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;">You are gone; left this Earth here in this November, just as you said the docs predicted it might be, way back in the year prior.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;">Everything seems wrong, yet right.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;">I, and I know I speak for Breezy, barely knew you, kind Sir, but feel we knew you on a level truer than we do many friends we spend many happy-hours with...<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;">Though we never met, your soul and spirt was shown to us across the distance from your small hometown in Mississippi to our large Dallas metroplex. <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;">Both were visible in your hands, whether petting a dog or uniquely strumming a guitar. Your soulful eyes with an eye for others' emotions was visible in your art. Your innate southern gentleman persona could not hide under the occasional political Facebook tirade, even not giving a fuck, or two, just two days before you left us.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;">It's ironic that Breezy had posted about the power of social media to connect us - strangers - in the most unexpected and amazing ways. And that Helen and Joe proposed we bring you to Dallas next visit, next spring... We were all, all in.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;">Now, we are sad. We will be for a long, thought-provoking while. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: PT Sans; font-size: medium;">But we are happy knowing that you loved, leaving in a place so special to you. We hope you felt how special you were to us. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "PT Sans"; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: "PT Sans"; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18385450029297475904noreply@blogger.com2