have i met you?

Thursday 6:10 pm

I'm sipping my second glass of wine, sitting at a cute bistro style table for two, flying solo tonight. Always one to love anticipation, the fettuccini primavera is right up there but not as much as the adjacent Eisemann Center presentation I'm heading into soon: Samin Nosrat!

Before W, I dined alone a lot. I quite enjoyed it, so much that I'm always confused that so many others don't. I was looking forward to some pre-show time to hole up here and start a blog, but the live guitarist put a twist in my plan, playing and softly singing many Neapolitan love songs. First up was That's Amore! That the couple sitting directly across from him ordered a pizza, didn't go unnoticed.

The (wonderfully affordable) house Happy Hour Chardonnay was average but the pasta was great, and don't get me started on the crisp, light bread roll. Several songs later, I really didn't want to leave.

Friday 1:46 pm

Idol might be a little strong but it is the word that first pops in my head, thinking about Samin Nosrat. The Universe has woven its web for our kindred spirit paths to cross.  

She spoke to me like lyrics speak universally. We, Samin and I, seem like strangers accessing life in the same way.

The presentation was a conversational format, her friend and narrator setting up questions to admittedly cover the contents of the new book on tour. It was light and funny and yet full of richness in story and heart. Story and heart is where I so strongly relate to Samin.

The book itself was the first thing to stand out to me. She spoke of how many years it took to finish her first, Salt Fat Acid Heat, and then this one. Granted they are both large, larger than mine, but I still wanted yell out from the Tier-Row U Seat 1, "10 years for me!" She too, hates writing recipes and testing recipes! 

Her approach to food is very grounded. She understands that many populations of people can't afford organics or the highest qualities in any food group, but she believes that dishes and meals can still be made delicious. I'm sure her new book, Good Things, will show you and me just that.

Affordability for quality ingredients has been a soapbox of mine for a long time. As a pescatarian, I am saddened that a typical family cannot afford good, nutritious seafood. Where it is farmed or caught, where it is processed then shipped, are all issues which can't even be considered for a majority of consumers.

Leaping to entertaining, because that's what food does to some of us, Samin confesses to appreciating, owning, and adoring nice things. Her collection of cookware, serveware, and objects of delight brings her joy, yet she frets that friends and guests will think her pretentious. Oh, do I understand that. I explain I'd sincerely rather a guest use an expensive item than for it to sit on a shelf somewhere. If it breaks, and a few have, then it becomes a gathering to especially remember and cherish. Samin says that in a way it provides relief; a set that was six is now five and seems more usable without caution present.

The last, a lasting impression, is our shared belief in sharing food experiences, be they eat-standing-up appetizers in the kitchen, outdoor picnics, or a large, gussied up sit-down dinner. As I once tried to garner interest in starting Sunday Dinners, Samin wished for the same. Instead, she got Mondays. Hers are informal, very kid friendly, and everyone contributes as they wish. 

In my house turned pseudo Bistro, there is an anytime, fairly regular congregation of friends. W and I find nothing more heartwarming than having guests who wish to come and share in sacred friendships, wine, food, non-stop conversation, and abundant appreciation for it all.

truths and do i dare

Such a wonderful day at Dallas Arboretum in so many respects, the loveliest perhaps being when, seven quinceanera dresses, and 100,000 pumpkins later, we chose our spot to pause. W sketched, I stared and thought about the view in front of us as we shared glasses of a rare White Malbec.

That balcony! It taunted me. It screamed at me. And so I kept staring. 

I have an oil painting that hangs in my bedroom; a straight line of sight from where I often prop up with several pillows. It was purchased in a frame shop on a whim shortly after Spoke died, and only because it spoke to me. I wasn't sure how it did, or why it did, until I had stared and studied it across many of those cushy hours.

The painting is of what looks like a rustic balcony. There is an iron guard rail which suggests a place far away, clay pots lining its length hinting of flowers not withering but not thriving. Who lives here? Who used to live here? What are their stories?

It took hours with this painting for me to realize the access onto the patio is not a double door but actually windows, which makes the balcony instead, oddly, a large and awkward window box, it having free standing pots. The implication slipped by me, as it has every person who has laid eyes on it. Everyone imagines a balcony, and so as one does with opera plots, we embrace it as an unlikely truth.

I have promised to will the painting to someone, a young bartender forever dear to me, who was there for me during some personal months of grief when I wanted to be alone but not at home. I spent many hours with Joe. He used to introduce me to new customers as his best friend. Sigh.

Balcony or window box being a moot point now, I had shared with him my vision of a book about this painting and the many stories I think it has to tell. But I'm not a fiction writer so I've never gone so far as to even imagine the characters.

That painting, memories of Joe, the book premise, all swirled around me with each sip of rose as I stared at this other balcony, sensing it too seems to have many stories to tell. Each balcony, thus each book, could house many chapters of many imaginary lives. 

The bedroom painting might shield a group of girls on a vacation in Barcelona, or tell of the first impressions for the great niece from Wisconsin who has just inherited this ancient house in a village south of Rome. The arboretum balcony sets the stage for a honeymooning couple coming up for air and people watching all of us in the park from their rocking chairs, equally sweaty margaritas in hand.

Maybe some frigid January day, I'll tackle defining characters and their lives behind or on either balcony and I'll put them in ink. Or maybe I'll just, gloves on and scarf wrapped tightly, grab the same seat by the same pavilion and keep staring for staring's sake.

 

conversation in the rye

A few of us went to Central Market’s Passport Germany yesterday afternoon. But the thing is… we went with Erika!

She is 96 years young and recovering from a fall requiring hip surgery less than three months ago. Instead of using her walker, she repurposed a little store cart as such. I shadowed her the entire time, for pleasure as well as her safety.

Erika is German. Erika is quite particular and opinionated, not unlike my late Polish mother-in-law. Not unlike many of the regional Italians I’ve come know. 

Something in the way she thinks and the way she shops, runs parallel with me. Get the Savoy cabbage when you see it! Never tried white asparagus? Then that goes in the cart! I’ve never reached for either so that's just what I did.

Blame it on us for going on a Monday, but the event was a bit of a letdown. We expected, wrongly in hindsight, more extravaganza: Riesling wine sips, beers defined, pretzel bites with mustard, an enticing dessert display…

Nichts!

The bread shopping however, was interesting and at times humorous. I observed that when you want a sample but there are none, only full loaves set out, the baker will give you quite a chuck from a fresh loaf if you ask. Doing so, Erika, W, and I tried the ends from a small and round loaf of pumpernickel. The three of us as we huddled over the cart, thought it was delicious. Delicious until W and I commented on the soft dark raisins adding the perfect sweetness, which prompted Erika to then declare not to like it because she doesn't like raisins. Strolling further down the aisle, I noticed she tore off another bite and she had a genuine twinkle in her eyes when she saw I made sure the rest of the sample got in her bag to go.

I had a first hand lesson in the flavor characteristics of Jewish rye versus Bavarian rye. I was fine with choosing a loaf from the table of pre-sliced and wrapped, explaining to Erika that this popular bakery section restocks quickly and the loaves ready-to-go came perhaps just a few hours ago, from the same open bin where she waits for her chosen loaf to be sliced. She put no trust in my prediction and waited her turn. The rye loaf she chose was by nature particularly large, so she expected them to sell her just half. And they did.

Before we ended this afternoon memory in the making, I ordered a shared dinner to-go for W and me, from Central Market's large Sandwiches & Grill counter:  Salmon, grilled, with creole mustard on sourdough with red onion, cucumbers, cilantro, Manchego on the side, please.

I sat down to eat my half a couple hours later.

I thought 'toasted' meant toast the bread, but it meant the fully composed sandwich was placed in a grill press. That had produced a sandwich where the cucumbers weren't crisp, the cilantro was wilted, and the bread was a bit mushy from the press forcing moisture from the ingredients and the condiments.

As I took my last bite, I had quite a grin acknowledging the well know realization that I too, am particular and opinionated. No wonder I like Erika so damn much.

the p word

"Politics is the moat, the walls, beyond which lie the barbarians. Fail to keep them at bay, and everything burns."

Used to be - my parents' generation and their parents' generation, could talk politics. Did often talk politics. My father and a buddy of his would vehemently disagree politically, but at the end of their long and heated debates, there would be a couple slaps on the backs and a few beers enjoyed together. 

I wish it was so for me today, but I've found that politics has become a circus stage from which people like to perform. There is such prevalent division now, at every turn, so that reasonable conversations do truly seem like something of the past. 

I cut ties with a friend several months ago. On the surface, one would think it was for political reasons but the political premise was merely a curtain. Once it was drawn open and I got a peek behind it, I was shocked. The angry and hurtful heart within this person was a vile new discovery. Exit right, Becca.

I am cutting a connection with another person for the same reasons. We disagree politically which should be fine, but again, politics simply revealed to me the lack this person has of a moral code. Decent moral code! Again, time to leave.

Policy differences are expected, but I can't live with myself if I turn a blind eye to what for me is beyond rude rhetoric, degrading disrespect, and displays of pure evil.

Funny not funny, but oh the irony! I am grateful to politics and the current, constant political theater, or these prior friend's sick truths would not be now known to me. 



Charles Krauthammer
Things That Matter

pause

 

a stitch back in time

Though I talk about it often, a long time has passed since I posted about rise n*1, so for new blog readers, it is the first of now several rise soufflé restaurants. This Lovers Lane location is the only one still numbered, I believe because as they expanded, numbering each, the closing of a Houston location brought the numerical idea to an end. Thus, the locations other than Dallas are now simply rise soufflé.

My late husband was not affected by rise's reputation as a ladies-who-lunch spot. It was his Dallas favorite, second only to the original MoMo Italian Specialties. He liked it so much he suggested since we could no longer travel to Italy because of his back issues, that we travel to each city when they opened a new rise restaurant, and I could collect more petite plates from each to add to my collection. He passed away unexpectedly before we made it to another.

These plates are just one item of what they sell, which is basically everything in the restaurant except personal gifts on display. I lost a little enthusiasm when the plates were no longer numbered, but I do lust after the many torchons.

The bathroom is what has brought me to this post. It is worth a visit just for the fun of stepping smack into a wonderfully scented, old world, country French space. Covid removed the individual cloth hand towels for drying, and also the pièces de résistance, an eye catching progressive towel. This showpiece for drying hands was a stitched together loop which hung on a removeable wooden rod. Customers were to pull down a dry area for themselves to use, the next customer to do the same. The idea is that the cloth if thin, will dry quickly, and being a revolving total of about 72 inches, will take a while to come full circle.

It may have been meant as display only, for in a busy restaurant it's not the best of ideas. But how perfect for this home cook in her little bistro I thought, and so it has been on my wish list for years. Enter the cloth genie I just told you about... From that scrap linen, she made me this and I just adore it! Might even bake a souffle soon.

a cut above

linen: a cloth made from flax

linens: household articles made of linen or similar fabric

I do believe it was Sunday dinners at my paternal grandparent's home when I fell in love with linens. It would soon extend to the reason I enjoyed the Eucharist services at our Episcopal church. The priests' robes and the altar dressings were always spectacular to my linen loving little girl eyes. Creamy whites, thick embroideries, and vibrant colors made my heart go thumpa. To this day, there is a certain shade I call Episcopal purple.

My grandparent's dining table was oval and for these dinners (very often Papa's Brunswick stew) it was usually draped in white damask, napkins perfectly pressed but creaseless and loosely folded. And oh so soft to the touch! These many years later, I set them the same way.

Recently, I retrieved a bed sheet from my linen closet, tucked away long ago because much of the linen had thinned and raveled to shreds. I have forever had the wish to make something from it, but although I can sew on a rudimentary level, when I think to myself that this is the day, I choose to do everything but.

As fate had a hand, I now have a lady who sews and alters all kinds of things for me. I think of her as my cloth genie. She's a creative, meticulous perfectionist. Such time and frustration she has saved me from, and such joy she has given me by bringing my visions to this bistro life.

Pictured are a few linens she made for me from the large scrap. Two are basic napkins, soft as Nez's damask. The pair are likely to become W and my slow Sundays linens when bubbly is opened early as brunch is anticipated. The other two pieces are larger; one with exquisite mitered corners, one with doubled layering. I've yet to figure out how she works that magic.

From the cloth, she was also able to create a large item I've lusted to make for several years, inspired by a local souffle restaurant. That project deserves its own special story. Coming soon...