pequeno toro de cocina

 

suh-weet

 

friends and fusilli

She steps in, inhales deeply, then does it again. And then again.

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.

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.

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 amaretti 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.

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!

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.

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. 

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.
 
I didn't care how silly we looked. It was a moment in time that I will cherish forever. 

it speaks, i listen

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. 

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? 

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, The Makanai: Cooking for the Maiko House, 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.

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!"

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.

Well, it laughed with me, as Dalmatians in different forms crossed my path for days after.

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.

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.

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.

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?

But wait, The Universe isn't through.

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.

I had no particular shelf in mind, simply approached a corner relatively new to me. The very first book I pulled out was The Blackberry Farm Cookbook. The Universe howled!

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. 

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.

una festa molto grande

We doled out the money for All You Can Eataly, an evening event celebrating the majesty of the wine and food of Italy.

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. 

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. 

About the wine... 
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. 

About the food...
It's a daunting task to try and describe. So grand 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.

+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...
+Mozzarella Bar, fresh, housemade offerings
+Focaccia Table, from simple with olive oil and rosemary (a favorite of the night) to fully loaded. We're spoiled forevermore.
+Pizza, Neapolitan and Roman styles 
+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. 
+Arancini, Sicilian rice balls we lucked upon, were likely the creamiest and best I'll ever eat. 
+Seafood Counter with salad samplings of marinated seafood plus freshly shucked oysters handed out, one by one
+Cannoli, Gelato, and Tiramisu all of which we sadly missed out on. A serious do-over craved.

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.

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. 

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.

W and I observed with joy and in awe of so many happy people together, like clams in the same shell. 

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. 

So, maybe next year...

W and I will certainly be there for a very long awaited, greatly anticipated do-over. 

all months matter

 
"Comparison is the thief of joy."

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.

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.

See?

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. 

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... 

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. 

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. 

Without comparison, I will simply say, I do so love January! 

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.

 I'm finding joy in the now.

bookish things

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 Two Funerals, Then Easter. She is an author, another skilled one, who says so much with so few words. This 'collection of poems' reads like a journal.
I'm reminded I wrote a journal. He left me, though in a way different from how he left her, but such shared emotions are universal, and she reminds us of that. 



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. Those few moments in that master bedroom boasting of fire and whiskey, were so moving that W and I have repeatedly watched.
The slow, rich dialog set us out to find Gretel Erhlich's book, The Solace of Open Spaces. 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.



The Tender Bar 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.
I was thrilled and drawn to share that J R Moehringer's coming-of-age memoir is now a film. 

                                                Cheers!