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!

 

dearest john

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.

Everything seems wrong, yet right.

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...

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. 

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.

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.

Now, we are sad. We will be for a long, thought-provoking while. 

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. 

thunder and lightning

Sitting here in the wee hours, I don't want to cry but it happens.

I used to tell Spoke what it was like to feel a period coming on... "It's like a storm is building," I'd say. "You feel it coming and you wish it would just get here already; the sooner the better, so then it'll be gone."

That's what these days leading up to Thanksgiving feel like. Six years he's gone, this time. Six, the average number of my heavy menstrual days. HaHaHa.

But I am happy today. So happy! Never thought I would be. That I could be... 

There are people I wish could be happy for me. No joke.

Breezy (as I call this Love-of-Mine who makes me genuinely laugh), and I are popping into a church the day after this holiday, to light candles. For Spoke, for Hyme, for Frances, and for so many others. Too, too many others. 

Note: 40% chance of storms. But of course. HaHaHa.

mondays

W,  as most of you know I call her in print, is at her place today and tonight. I am here at mine.

Our adobe and bistro, as they are affectionately known, are to each our own. I've never written about them as such till just now; 'to each our own'. Hmm...

It sounds quite separate. Distant. Cold.

So far from the truth. 

I love Mondays. It's a day apart after the weekends. I go back to book work, organizing the house, food prep work, contemplation. She goes back to desk work, artsy work, house/yard work, contemplation. The same but not.

Mondays remind me of how much I miss her. How much I love her. How much I wish she were here but glad she isn't. 

There it is again. Distant. Cold.

Makes me laugh. 

We are so close. Bare inches apart most often. Entangled. Tight in our thoughts. Mondays let us come up for air. I can think clearer in the few hours alone. So can she. Much, so much good comes from the brief time apart.

Mondays, by their end though, make me long for Tuesdays. 

what's in your fridge and pantry?

Funny I'm focused on writing recipes for others, when I've reached a point in my own kitchen where, baking excluded, I rarely use them. My approach is based on instinctual preferences from much I've learned and tasted and served over the years.

Example: I can now look at the head of cabbage I bought on a whim, knowing I have several ways to use it while it is fresh and without my tiring of it. I could make a rice wine vinegar Cole slaw to top blackened fish sandwiches, or bake sweet-and-sour cabbage rolls stuffed with rice-raisins-pistachios. I might toss crunchy cabbage shreds into a vegetable stir fry coming off the heat, or put cabbage chopped, in a pot for soup along with onion and white beans.

Prep work and planning that comes from intimately knowing my inventory, is my joy. Worth repeating; Is my joy! I make croutons if bread begins to dry out. I freeze all shrimp tails till I've enough to make stock. If there are a couple shallots on the rack and mint still growing in the patio pot, I'll make a quick tomato pasta sauce to freeze for a rainy night's dinner. I prefer my Herbs de Provence over any other blend. I haven't purchased bottled salad dressing in decades...

I am the home cook that chef and author Ronna Welsh hopes her readers will be. She wants you - us - to think of all foods in terms of their many possibilities, not as our Go-To for use in a few recipes. I feel I am very much already there but I know she has much to teach me. I am barely through a fourth of her wonderful book, The Nimble Cook.

She has a recipe, Seared Kale with Dates and Cream, which I got very excited about. I don't plan to make the recipe at all. I'm going to turn that (brilliant) rich combination of ingredients into a luscious penne pasta dish. Then I'll ever so joyfully, turn my attention to what to do with the likely large amount of remaining kale... 

I think the chef would be proud.

the gap is wide

 “Nothing exerts a stronger psychic effect upon the human environment, 

and especially children, 

than the life which the parents have not lived.” 

Many of my friends, those childless like myself, or the ones with grandbabies from children of their own, have heard me place blame on the retailers who discovered how profitable the marketing of children could be.

There were tot versions of adult clothes and child sized furniture to match the rooms of grown-ups. The brains behind the concept had made keeping-up-with-the-joneses seem like child's play.

Today, decades later, the marketing is on an even grander scale, with parents' lives being designed with a children first approach, or even dictated by the children themselves. Adults' free time, where they eat most meals, what they buy, their vacation destinations, now seriously cater to children.

In sharp contrast are memories of my childhood.

My parents lived their lives their way. It was rich with friendships and music, seated dinners and neighborhood cookouts. The restaurants we enjoyed and the family vacations we took, were places our parents wanted to go. My sister and I were along for the ride.

One such trip was to New England with a stop in New Haven to visit one of my father's army buddies. We climbed outer iron stairs up to a dark second story apartment, entering through the door straight into a very small kitchen.  At the time I didn't understand what the fuss was about; these adults sitting at a table, in ecstasy eating bread and butter.

That image has loomed large for me over the years. My adult self can almost smell the homemade bread this milkman's wife likely pulled out of the oven as our car pulled up, and I can almost taste the creamy butter they churned. It was not a vacation I would have chosen given a say, but it's a wonderful trip I have since taken over and over and over.

Watching my parents lead their truest lives was a gift and I know my own has been, in large part, enriched purely by my observations. I can't credit them or praise them enough. 

Best wishes to you for a real and glorious life.

(Quote by Carl Jung)

the hill

We left The Hill early in the afternoon, W paying respects at Frances' freshly dug grave, before we headed home.

That's what the family calls this small, lovely cemetery. Yes, it does sit on the top of a tucked away hill, giving a sense of deceased souls rising high above. There were butterflies with us, and the unexpected yet not surprising cardinal.  

I walked the uneven grass, giving W some moments alone with her mother. The Hill is the chosen spot for many generations of families; some older tombstones' inscriptions too weathered to read. As we left, I was almost envious of the house just a few yards down and across the street. I wondered if the residents have picnicked among these dead, the gesture feeding their own souls, I would suspect.

We took a back road home; now miles and miles and miles of life playing out on each side of us. Everything about the countryside seemed comforting, and little passing on the two-lane road forced a slow pace of no rush to get home.

We saw young children practicing cartwheels in their side yard, and plant workers on break at a communal picnic table, hairnets still on. A life size metal sculpture, a gorilla, appeared in a parking lot and stared us down.

Cattle copulated, trains whizzed by. I wish I'd counted the many ponds. So many! We slowed, sometimes were stopped by the single intersection in numerous small towns. No matter though, how small or unpopulated they were, they had a church. Each and every one. The comfort gifted us may have, seemed to come from that. Rest in peace, Frances.

The images from this return road trip were vivid and will not soon be forgotten, but I will especially, especially, forever more now, mentally return to Kansas, to that country highway every time I hear this song. I believe its premise to be true.

W would snap her fingers from the start, and too quickly I'd be pleading, "Play it again, Baby."

Rise up this mornin',
smiled with the risin' sun,
Three little birds
pitch by my doorstep,
Singin' sweet songs
of melodies pure and true,
Sayin', "This is my message to you-ou-ou."

Singin', "Don't worry about a thing,
Cause every little thing gonna be all right."
Singin', "Don't worry about a thing,
Cause every little thing gonna be all right."

(Three Little Birds, Bob Marley)

concrete, cows, cotton

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The terrain of the west Texas highway seemed to mimic our mood. I say mood, singularly, for at times such as this, we seem one; 117 miles in, and we're still holding hands, barely breaking contact to change gears.

W learned of her mother's passing, just hours before we took off. Our short road trip was already planned, ironically but perhaps divinely, for meeting up was with extended family from W's mother's side.

Early miles were dominated by lanes of frantic speed, not unlike our frame of mind, rushing away from the ever present traffic, heading away from heartache. Eventually though, crowded lanes gave way to never ending green pastures of grazing cattle and we calmed down. Our hands parted ways for a while; she honked at the cows as I read aloud excerpts from Things That Matter.

But like the waves of grief can hit, out of nowhere we were surrounded by an angrier land. It was dry and rocky, scraggly at best. No grass was to be found. With each mile, the desert plains turned harsher, huge rock formations on each side giving way to gaps and notches. I was intimidated and mesmerized, all the while wondering how many lizards and snakes there must be... 

It was a good place to dump some anger that comes with a death. 

Miles of prairie desert emerged, pockets of rougher grazing for the cattle. Lots of cattle. Lots and lots of cattle. But too, there were horses and goats. We always spotted a mama and her baby. Again, divinely I suspect.

One odd cotton field was visible, and seemed as out of place as we felt arriving in this dusty, western town. Our sadness faded though, with each sunset as we explored the downtown, its rhythm as strikingly different from our big city life as the contrasting landscapes we had driven through. 

Our hotel hosted a communal area with many patio heaters and fire pits. Even a heated pool. Each night, from our third floor, we watched the clusters of guests. They were tossing wood in the pits and in the larger fireplaces, laughter floating up with the smoke. Some of our weight drifted up too. We smiled and laughed, holding hands, fingers intertwined.

 

 

kitchen antics on a monday afternoon

Every time it rains, it rains
pennies from heaven.
Don't you know each cloud contains
pennies from heaven?
You'll find your fortune, falling all over town.
Be sure that your umbrella is upside down!

 

 

 

(Pennies from Heaven; Arthur Johnston music, Johnny Burke lyrics)

we were warned

 What I learned from the winter storm that hit Dallas, February 2021.

I just thought 32* was cold.
Wearing the same socks for four straight days isn't so bad.
Proof that one can never have too much pasta in the pantry.
You don't have to be sweet sixteen to wash your hair in the kitchen sink.
I just thought 24* was cold.
Sloppy Joe's aren't just for kids.
It's okay to forgo morning coffee and go straight to champagne.
Neighbors matter.
I just thought 17* was cold.
Four beaten eggs in a 13 inch pan make a nice omelet for two.
I am too old to go down a snowy hill on a cookie sheet.
It's okay to let someone totally pamper me.
I just thought 9* was cold.
Watch backyard birds for the most accurate weather report.
L'oven run a close second to Bay's English muffins.
Never, ever, ever take water for granted.
I just thought 1* was cold.
It is always five o'clock somewhere.

meet you at 11:00

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I'm game if you are..... 

Two double cappuccinos or a pot of French?

 

 

cold hands, warm heart

There's a winter storm arriving this Valentine's Day. I'm here and she's there and it feels so wrong.

That said, everyone who knows me knows I don't view this, one of my favored American celebrations, as exclusive to romance. No!

Most every Valentine's Day finds me driving around Dallas delivering Bistro goodies to family and friends. Love is love is love. I was hoping the forecast would change last minute as it has a reputation for doing so here, but predictions for this storm are certain, and bordering on scary. No choice but to bundle up inside and keep myself good and cheerful company for the coming week.

Second cup of coffee and I'm savoring the scenes that cold and snow present: the nine sparrows in the crape myrtle tree greeting me this morning as I brushed my teeth, their feathers boasting chests to double their size, and the puffs from the heated house across the street, escaping from the roof vent into the frigid air, swirling like a strange smoky dance. Gotta find some good in this and the beauty is undeniable.

It's 17 degrees and dropping. W, just two miles away though it's a world away on black ice, sends me a valentine.

It is true; absence does make the heart grow fonder, even when you think it's impossible.

Wishing you all a warm Valentine's Day. Go spread some love if you can.

still wooing me

I had adapted, to the extent that I could, to the physical demands of running a house alone. I improvised often, I relied on my tallest friends to change my light bulbs, I paid people to do small (tho huge to me) tasks. And I ignored much.

Ignoring was the hard part because I had to sacrifice aesthetics for function just because I wasn't physically able to something, or I knew better than to try. Then... along came W and changed my life.

She flirted. I freaked. Then I didn't. So I flirted, and here we are three years later...

Is there anything she can't do, I exclaim more than ask. New toilet installed? Why not two? Want that heavy piece of furniture moved left just an inch? No problem, Sweets.

Several bird feeders have been repaired, locks changed, a patio heater rigged to work, gas grill assembled, lawn mower repaired, outside cameras for bird-watching were installed (seeing inside potential nests), potting soil loaded and unloaded, an adorable little bird fountain created, and she re-stuffed the loveseat cushions to perfection. The list is longgggggg.

Word has gotten out too, and she's the Honey of the cul de sac. W has moved a potted lemon tree, resolved several technical media issues, transferred wheelchairs, changed out electrical outlets, played Santa's elf, assembling a large gaming/desk chair in a matter of minutes on the sly.

We are all getting spoiled.

It was a few afternoons ago when that truth struck me. I had a failing freezer needing to be taken to the curb soon to make room for a new refrigerator being delivered. It is my nature to ponder such things for days: I could post a call for help on Nextdoor, I could buy the refrigerator from the place I bought the freezer so they would haul it off, or we could ask a close friend if he would come and help us.

I must surely drive W mad.

Next thing I know, we've borrowed a neighbor's appliance dolly and W has the large upright freezer tilted into position and down the inclined drive we go with W walking backwards, absorbing the weight of the freezer all the way to the curb. (What? Belts? We don't need no stinkin' belts!)

This girl, oh this girl of mine, she makes me nervous and makes me laugh, all at once. 

There are more projects for her in wait: knives to sharpen, ceiling fan painting, full house window washing, leveling a concrete bird bath, clearing and cleaning out an entire garage. 

There's never hesitation or a tiresome sigh. With any bare mention of something I'd like done, her dimple shows itself as she smiles the smile she can't hide, anticipating more to come of what brings her joy. Then, lastly, the flirt;  "Don't worry, I got you, Boo."

That she does.

 

 have a seat

 

I'm at the stove at the adobe, stirring a pot of lima beans, cornbread in the oven, the cat in the window above the sink, his one good eye focused on the cooktop.

I'm telling W about the 2020 article by Gabrielle Hamilton on the closing of her NYC restaurant, Prune. I never dined at Prune, haven't visited the city once since I was five, unless you count the one connecting flight from there to Rome a very long time ago. But I own the restaurant cookbook and I have read her memoir, Blood, Bones & Butter. I fell in love with her reading that book. Head over heels.

I'm over three years in real love with Wendy, who owns this house we call the adobe and owns the cat, plus another, but still spends most of her time at my house which we call the bistro. 

Bistro 3906 came about because I became a widow. I made good emerge from bad for my own broken self needed healing and nourishment, and I got it by providing hospitality to others. There's powerful magic in a bottle of wine and a bowl of pasta generously shared together at a table. Hamilton sincerely believes that. I do too. She brings the idea of it and her honest discoveries, lovingly full circle in her book.

I salt quartered tomatoes then fill their splayed centers with spicy coleslaw as I tell W more from the article: the painful impact of Covid forcing closure, the camaraderie that followed, the fear for what is next if anything at all. 

By then my tears aren't contained; W, multitasker extraordinaire, has given me full attention, her doe eyes looking sad, but it's sadness for me because it's pretty obvious that I'm not just talking about Prune. I have a bistro! I have a bistro which is shuttered, its future unlikely to ever be the same.  

Her book is published, mine morphing yet and yet and yet again, not unlike the virus.

Closing the article, the amazing writer/chef/owner describes the thoughtful hours she spends in her empty restaurant space, remembering yet hopeful. I don't know if she cries. My bistro may be pseudo but these tears are real.

 

Note:

(It's been a long time... feels good to be here. Thanks for stopping by.)