a grateful bistro

Exhale. I finished my book. It's been many years coming, painful and joyous many times over. 

The book has morphed several times. Alon Shaya, author of Shaya, will never know me or just how much energy he fed me when mine was wavering and so very low. I didn't know how to take the reader on this journey with me that started based on evenings with two friends, then expanded to a book club, was halted by a death that tested me like nothing else, brought back to life as a modest pseudo bistro with southern roots but deeply felt leanings toward all things Italian. Sounds like a wordy mess.

I realized though, that Shaya's journey was an unusual path from Israel to Philadelphia in his youth, as an adult opening a regional Italian restaurant in New Orleans then returning trips to Israel returned him to his culinary roots and in The Big Easy he also opened an Israeli influenced Creole restaurant. Food gave him new life just as it did me! If he could bring his experiences together in a way that made sense, then I could also. I think I accomplished that. 

But now, here I sit feeling all dressed up with no where to go.

The chances of getting published are so very slim. It is just a fact. I have no trail of even the smallest crumbs for anyone to follow: no social media stamp, no prior book published, no credentials in the world of words or food, and as is often the key that opens doors, I have no contacts.

I am not interested in self-publishing, and even if it was my option I couldn't afford it. The book is 300+ pages chock full of glorious photos, yet another reason that publishers likely won't risk an unknown.

So how is it that I'm still so happy about my situation? 

Truthfully, as simple as the explanations are that prop up most sayings, I do believe and always will that it's about the journey, not the destination. Mine has been a humbling, beautiful, and rich experience.

Doesn't mean I'm giving up. I'm so proud of this book; it is really, really good and worth pursuing however winding the path ahead may be. 

hearts at ease

Such an anniversary post of love should probably not begin with dry, documented musical history, but for those who know W and me, it makes perfect sense. And besides, the girl does love rabbit holes.

So, here we go.

Killing Me Softly With His Song was a hit made popular by Roberta Flack. It was composed by Charles Fox and Norman Gimbel, in collaboration with Lori Lieberman whose lyrics reflect her feelings after hearing Don McLean sing, Empty Chairs, live at the Troubadour in 1971. 

Though my reflection is a happy one, the recent performance of Taylor Rae's, Fixer Upper, struck me the same way. The girl was killing me softly with her song. The flashback feelings of our romantic beginning was almost palpable that night. Our feelings have not weakened in these seven years together, quite the opposite. From across a crowded room, W can still stare an unnerving hole through me and make me swoon.

When you stand there it takes the air
right out of this whole room
I can't help but spin this chair
and stare down at my shoes

Sitting in the old, uncomfortable chair in McKinney's old courthouse theater and sipping cups of wine, Taylor similarly drew me in, as Don did Lori.

I heard she sang a good song, I heard she had a style, And so I came to see her to listen for a while, And there she was this young girl, a stranger to my eyes... Singing my life with her words, Telling my life with her words, Killing me softly with her song.

Seven years ago when W and I let our secret out, it was by my written note to family and friends. It explained our own shock but total commitment to the affair, knowing so quickly that this energy was heading us well beyond breezy and casual.

Cause I feel too high, coming up on nothing but you 

I closed the note with: "It feels like I fell off a cliff but landed softly." 

Let's fall down this canyon
You can be my soft landing

Let's fall down this mountain
You can be my soft landing
I've never had it so easy
Let me be your broken lover
I know you like a fixer upper
Oh, I promise I won't leave

We're falling down this canyon
You can be my companion
I've never had it so easy
Let me be your broken lover
I know you like a fixer upper
Oh, I promise I won't leave
I won't leave
I won't leave

Never, Sweets. Never. 



(Fixer Upper, Taylor Rae)

not a coincidence

W and I have each brought people from our prior separate lives, to the Bistro table, but we've also met new friends through our cul-de-sac friends. The latest are Kelly and Terry, met through Magdalena and James.

At the recent Bistro gathering to celebrate a guest's 95th birthday, acknowledging our seven years together-forever anniversary date coming up, our new friends brought a beautiful card to us and the most adorable gift. A painted rock! 

We're not sure if they have actually noticed that the Bistro has stones and rocks all around. I think not; I believe it was a subliminal force at work.

The rock is a beautiful earthy brown, making the two flowers so cheery atop. When I unwrapped it, I knew immediately where it would find its home; the kitchen window, as if the sill had been waiting. Little did Kelly and Terry know, but the Universe did. 

8:36

W and I, early on in these seven years committed, found instant common ground with our love of music. It's been a wonderful generational crossover of sharing. She's made me many playlists of songs not that new, but new to me. I've still not worn out their welcome, listening as often as I do. I've in turn introduced her not to the artists of my generation so much, but to the depth of the stories they tell and footprints they left us. She readily agrees that my parents' Great American Songbook as well as my Era's richness, have had no rivals since.

As much as I love Don McLean’s Vincent, which W shared last evening in a private social media group, it’s his American Pie that makes me turn mushy from the nostalgia. 

It was 1972 when the song skyrocketed and I was on a short trip to Europe with someone who would become a future mistake. Driving a rental, we were in Belgium on the way to Paris, and we picked up a hitchhiker. She asked us to take a very short detour to her house in Brussels for her to pick up a few extra things, lunch offered in exchange. Just writing this paragraph feels like a jarring slap in the face; how different our countries are today, how little peace & love prevail. 

I still have a photo, a slide actually, that I took with the heavy camera I had lugged along with my backpack. The shot is of this young girl's elderly neighbor who had dozed off in a garden chair set among sparse but peaceful greenery shared by the small homes.  If I’m remembering accurately, there was a rose bush. Maybe more than one. Maybe pink.

I don’t remember anything about the lunch except our very long conversation explaining the very long song, American Pie. The US Billboard hit had also made it to Europe and this young girl was gaga over it. We totally blew her mind (you might say) explaining all we knew about the true meanings of the creative and powerful lyrics which have since been clarified by McLean himself. Lyrics of a personal nature to him and his faith, about musical leaders and a cultural revolution, they continue to be dissected by fans today. Forever chilling whatever their meaning: 
Bad news on the doorstep, When the jester sang for the king and queen, Helter Skelter in a summer swelter, The marching band refused to yield,  A generation lost in space, I met a girl who sang the blues, I went down to the sacred store, The lovers cried and the poets dreamed, And the three men I admire most... 

McLean told of the times as grandly as Dylan and Joni did, artists W now knows well, and tho she can’t have nostalgia for them as I do, she digs them (you might also say).  Not American Pie tho, somehow for her, there was a day that song died. 

They were singin', bye-bye, Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry
Them good ol'boys were drinkin' whiskey and rye
Singin', "This'll be the day that I die"

a tale of two donkeys

I’m not sure which came first, Gabriel or Patrick, but W and my love for them is cemented.

Patrick is the donkey (and therapist) in the wonderful film, My Donkey, My Lover & I. Despite the film using more than one animal during filming, there will for us always and only be one Patrick; pronounced Pah-treek in our best French accents. Trust me, it was love at first bray.

Gabriel, the other donkey to steal our hearts, is the longest running Metropolitan Opera stage donkey, running 16 years before retirement. He was featured most often in La Bohème and The Barber of Seville. My opera bracelet, a version I had envisioned with charms related to operas or their arias, was started for me by W. The first charm was Ponte Vecchio, followed by a Rigoletto figure. My most recent gift was a donkey. A Gabriel!

So how fitting that Bistro 3906 now has a nod to Sir Gabriel. Meet Little Gabriel, also known as Baby Gabe. So adorable.

there's no place i'd rather be

Last night was the third night reading by the glow of the small battery lights W had foresight to purchase months ago. A lesser storm than the one which caused this dim routine, had just blown thru bringing more blessed rain.

Earlier we stood at a window listening to the constant croaking of frogs layered with two late cardinals’ unusual duet, then the newly arrived gophers. What cute chatter! Seemed they knew what was coming our way. 

I am reminded, although this book is set in Paris and has transported me there, of one of the things I love the most about the bistro. It could be the magical way that it has of holding in coolness. With wood floors in the back half, carpet and tile and marble in the front, you would not expect on so many days, to enter and utter an immediate, “Ahhhh,” as if you were in a vacation villa, but that is what we both do, so often.

That night, instead, I was reminded of how much I love this home when it rains. It has a very, very wide overhang and unless the wind is fierce, the windows can remain wide open. A true gift! Who would have thought a 1965 suburban brick house could transport us like it does.

“Ahhhh...”

seeing pink

Spoke said it very factually, without accusation, and he was right though I wouldn't believe it for many more years. "You're not a hockey fan, Becca. You're a Stars fan."

I had been bitten by the bug after watching a full game for the first time. I didn't understand much but I knew I was hooked. I went on to learn more and love it more.

Being the hottest guys on ice at the time, this was when Hatcher was Captain and Belfour was Goalie. There was Modano, Hull, Lehtiner, Nieuwendyk, Zubor, and young Morrow.

They won the Stanley Cup that year of 1999 and I became more obsessed. I flew a car flag and bought flags for my family to fly. I had a hockey puck on my office desk, and my sister gifted Spoke and me tickets to a game; center ice just a few rows up. Not unlike the squeak of sneakers on an ACC college basketball floor, the sounds of metal blades on Reunion Arena ice was thrilling to this novice fan.

My enthusiasm was unwavering; I did not, the following season, miss a single televised game. Not a one and that's a helluva lot of games! 

The Dallas Stars made it to the Stanley Cup finals again that next year but lost. I was so heartbroken and exhausted, I quit hockey. Spoke would say I quit the Stars.

Fast forward to life with W. In 2017 she had followed her familiar players to the new expansion team, Vegas' Golden Knights. She told me about their start, and so, I was off again. What an unbelievable start it has been.

The Knights, now in just their 7th season, won the Stanley Cup last year. (Dallas' 1999 Cup Win is their only of three decades.) Vegas has made the playoffs every year but one, losing in the finals in their very first year. 

So the heart and soul of this team has won me over and I've become a fan. Again, I'll give it to Spoke and end this acknowledging his insight. Yes, I'm not a hockey fan, I'm a Knights fan!" Flamingos on the ice!

Note: This was written in the wee hours prior to Game 7 of the Cup's First Round: Dallas Stars & Vegas Golden Knights. If the Knights don't win, I'm on record for supporting my city's team forward!