like a rabbit, down i go

A smoky scent from the burning sage still lingers. I love the smell. It speaks of late summer nights by Junebug when the pinon's remains that burn in the chimenea are mere embers, but we aren't yet ready to retreat inside.

W smudged the Bistro for me - with me she would say - as I stayed one step behind, her longer arms reaching towards all corners easily. Like many of her favors given me, she seemed a pro.

I was a hesitant follower until today. So worried had I been that this ritual would rid the beloved space of much, too much that is good, but I was assured it would not. So ready I was! This year was not one full of personal regret or due a fierce kick out Eve's door, but a year leaving an unusual, inexplicable yearning for a clean beginning, a relished welcoming for a new year with promises.

W also put up our winter tree. The seventy pound fixture will stay, in all its pseudo snowy natural glory, through the cold weeks yet sure to come. We're having a nice break currently; the extreme winter threats that Dallas always throws our way, seems to have taken a pause, and the madness of the holidays is over, both of which I think is contributing to the most intense calm that I have felt in months. May slow days continue, please, I pray.

I long to burrow: with W, with books, with candlelight, with friends enjoying food and wine and great conversation that comes easily. I long for little else, and what a wonderful, majestic, wintering place it is to be.

bubba

He had a rather mischievous Tom Sawyer look to him most of the time. If out to dine, his hair would be combed and set as if for Sunday school when he was a kid. Considering his age, and though mostly white, even with his very thick mustache he still kept that boyish look.

His name, James. Saint James was just one nickname and very fitting as his beloved wife Magdalena, and others, so often sang his praises.

A Texas boy at heart, James was rarely out without a cowboy hat, and if you were lucky he might tell you stories of home or show you his talents with wallet and belt making, but you best lean in toward him, so soft spoken was he. The little turtle he formed from the wire cage of one of the many Cava bottles we opened one night, sits in my kitchen window sill.

He had a, perhaps favorite, black hat when he and his wife came to a Bistro event, Givingthanks. We held it the day after Thanksgiving on James' birthday. He had not felt well for quite a while, but gave it his ever-present Saint's effort, hanging in with the group for hours.

The black hat has been by Magdalena's side since James' passing Friday, in his sleep. It is striking in its deeply dark hue, a thin braid wrapped 'round.  At a visit with Magdalena yesterday, she told me to look inside the hat. 

James had lost quite a bit of weight over recent months and the hat no longer fit snugly. At the Givingthanks gathering, he had apparently at some point, discreetly lined the inner band of the hat with torn and folded pieces of party napkins, hoping to make the fit tighter. When I peered inside to see, two little owls greeted me. My heart was trapped between laughing and crying.

That was his last visit to Bistro 3906, but I get great comfort thinking he went home with a little bit of the Bistro with him. He will be missed but remembered.

and so it goes

Christmas, as that hustle & bustle holiday, is officially over. This year's was personally a beautifully but heavily emotional one; maybe more on that later, but reflecting back on the past couple weeks being out & about, it seems happiness has hugged the masses. Almost everyone in my path or surrounding me, was cheerful. Genuinely so. I've not heard so many "Merry Christmas" salutations in years. I was reminded of days long gone. 'Twas nice.

Currently, I'm watching the posted Christmas Eve Mass from St. Peter's Basilica. It is so ornately stunning and soul stirring. Those choirs! 

I pulled out my Eucharist wafers to join in with a private little ceremony, and not to make light of it but God knows there was wine already poured. Even Lilly participated. 

I hope that your Christmas was splendid. On we go to soon, and as joyfully, exclaiming, "Happy New Year!"

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"