impressions of a late afternoon at miss pasta

Let me begin at the end. Leaving the restaurant, I told the chef-owner that I’ve been waiting 15 years for him. It’s my truth; no restaurant has presented such pasta since my mentor Antonio, in his original MoMo Italian Specialities.

Back to the beginning. You enter on the side of the brick building, feeling it’s a secret trattoria you just happened upon. The entrance doesn’t face a parking lot or the frontage road to the busy Bush Tollway, but instead, the view from within looking out is the gorgeous patio of the upscale restaurant next door. Brilliant!

Miss Pasta’s interior, despite the unappealing counter ordering, is very warmly inviting. A magnificent picture sets a sweet tone and tables fill the windowed space. Lucky for W and me, there’s a long bar option which we always prefer, and here we can watch the chef prepare dishes. He does so in a modern-esque very small space designed for efficiency, and functions so quietly. That was the chef’s plan; six induction burners put out finished dishes with amazing speed. Brilliant!

The restaurant’s menu concept pays homage to Italian tradition, and pays it to such an extent that I think for many diners, it needs explaining. Pasta in Italy is considered a first course, as is soup, risotto, and more. Primi Piatti! A few dishes incorporate meat or seafood within the sauce, stuffed pasta, or rice, but that’s it. The Secondo, or second course, is a protein served with a side vegetable – never, ever, is pasta degraded as a side dish to this course. At Miss Pasta there’s such authentic attention given to cooking pasta as served in Italy, not as found on American menus. Brava!

It is truly a regional menu, so diverse with dishes from the country’s southernmost to northernmost. Sitting there sipping wine and trying to choose, I realized W really does hear me when I rant. She summed up their regional offerings as “from the heel to the veal”. Exactly, Sweets!

The two options we settled on to share were both delicious. They brought me watery eyes with the first bite; so much flavor perfected in such simplicity. Although W was forgiven for forgetting to order with the fried eggs, the very fact that Spaghetti Aglio e Olio (garlic, olive oil, chili peppers, breadcrumbs) offers eggs atop thrilled me! We often eat it that way when I cook but we never see it on any menus. Spaghetti alla Puttanesca was bursting with flavor also from minimal ingredients: cherry tomato sauce, olives, anchovies, capers, oregano, garlic.

The pastas are just so good that you forget you’re eating from a paper bowl, sturdy as it is. Another touch of brilliance considering any or all upscale additions – table wear, table servers, additional cleanup, would only increase costs for the establishment and its customers. This way the restaurant serves the quality of a finer dining experience while supporting a strong casual dining or carry-out status. Still, I’m sure Miss Pasta will hear complaints. During our dinner, we observed a customer say her goodbyes but scurry back in to comment to the owners that they should have a bigger sign.

Are there things I would prefer? Of course, but a bigger sign wouldn’t be one. Finer pasta strands such as linguine, fini linguine, and capellini would be, for they are simply personal favorites. And I very much prefer dried pasta for certain dishes like Aglio e Olio regardless of how excellent the fresh version may be. And these are!

I really, really wish for a half-priced-wine-bottles-day, which is a factor that keeps W and I returning most often to our special haunts which do. The restaurant has limited beverage offerings, and only bottled water for purchase which probably won’t settle well with a huge majority of diners. Didn’t with us. To pay $38 for a bottle of wine with no free table water, is a bit hard to swallow.

But W and I will be returning, probably soon followed by often and morphed into regularly. Miss Pasta feels familiar in so many ways and I’ve missed this feeling. Missed it terribly. Ancora!

please, don't wake me

To say I hate dreaming would be quite an understatement. I absolutely detest waking to a head full of nonsense, confusion, or occasionally twisted fear. I make no sense of most of my dreams, except the ones which involve searching for toilets. Those make sense some nights around four am.

I've had only one recurring dream and would welcome it again with open arms tucked under my pillow. In it, both times I was walking through a European town or a small section of such a city, looking for a specific, very quaint bakery where I had been before; perhaps a boulangerie or a panetteria. The structure as I recalled, sat on the left side of a circular dead end, and when you entered you were enveloped by the overwhelmingly homey sight and smell. It was a room full of the toasty warmth from the shades of brown: wood floors, wood tables & chairs, wood shelves, wood burning ovens, golden loaves... The details get cloudy at this point in the dream, but there might have been a faint tinkling bell with each opening of the door. As much as I have tried, I've never mustered up the dream again.

This week I had another delicious culinary dream. It was of Panettone.  I am, obviously, a fan.

W might weigh in here and call me out, for though I am devoted to the holiday breads themselves, I am drawn to them equally by their packaging. I rarely buy one in a box, preferring the awkwardly wrapped, thick, gloriously patterned papers. I consider them art to the extent that there is one sitting atop an etagere, still, after almost a decade. 

My dream was rather like a Panettone Flea Market with vendor tables so tightly situated that they appeared as one long, continuous, communal table. End to end they took up only a portion of a single block's sidewalk. Each table's cloth covering was colorful as if the row of tables were a patchwork quilt. Vendors were selling different Panettones and I was up for sampling them all.

There was a classic with dried fruits, a classic with dried fruits & nuts. Some had cream fillings like pistachio or hazelnut. There was a caramel cream which I remember so well and find amazing that it didn't wake me. Chocolate offerings were of dark rich bread or classically plain with dark chocolate chips, and both came with or without orange. I vaguely remember something about strawberry...

I woke not having made it to the end of the row, taking that as a sign to perhaps pursue while awake. Too much to yet taste! 

There are two places in Dallas where I shop Panettones. Jimmy's Food Store always. Always. Christmas and Easter of every year, wrapped and tied up with ribbons, they are stacked at the entrance. It is for me a sacred tradition and the place I will return to soon; last visit the breads were just beginning to arrive. Eataly will be second, a return visit for I recently got a glimpse of what I believe are all of their offerings. I've eyes set on one type new to me, and although it is boxed, and the box not at all exciting, the glaze of chocolate with a scattering of nuts on top, is tempting to this purist.

So, bedtime prayers that perhaps the choice will come to me in my second recurring dream. It truly was a heavenly one.

the sweetest souls

 Day of the Dead   Día de los Muertos   Todos Los SantosAll Souls’ Day   Dia de Finados   Festival de Barriletes Gigantes...

In many languages and around the world, there is a remembrance day for loved ones deceased.  At its simplest there is lighting of candles, visits to cemeteries, food offerings. The occasion may be made more lavish by preparing elaborate altars, dressing in costume, hosting parties, or even parades. We try to express our remembrances, be it intimately or outrageously.

We miss them. We loved them. On the Day of the Dead we celebrate these lives well lived.

There is for me, no place more sacred than the dining table. Abundant wine, and great food ever present, it is the gathering spot which nourishes body and soul. The table requires no words be spoken yet it hears many: blessings, toasts, grievances, regrets, secrets, arguments, wooings, promises…

It can be a healing haven for the vulnerable, the grieving, the exhausted, and as easily a most sought after seat for hours of anticipated joy and laughter. The dining table is a universal platform of and for the human condition; shared with those while living and celebrating those who have passed.  

This is my such a table.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

soup, blessed soup

When the evil out there seeps in, I find solace not only in my crab shell of sorts, but in the kitchen.  There, I can control something. I can control enough of something to quiet my screaming heart.

Ironic just the grip of a knife is soothing.

a tale of two cafes

There is a lovely cafe in Dallas where W and I go for quiet brunches. We take a bottle of rosé, knowing to call and order the Florentine quiche ahead of arrival or we severely risk missing out. This quiche is old world; Paris driven in my mind. 

We settle in, never in a hurry.  Customers are cozied up to their thoughts or their laptops, seemingly as relaxed as we are, while others come in with or without dogs in tow, to grab and go. W often sketches. Maybe a cafe interior, or by my insistence one afternoon, the wine bar across the street. I peruse: the pastry counter, the ever changing cooling racks, the dozens of sandwiches being prepped in the kitchen, and sometimes the eclectic shelves of china, knick knacks, and books. 

That is how at Leila Cafe I discovered the novel, The Last Days of Cafe Leila.

I quickly secured a copy at the library and though I haven't quite finished it, I want to share a small but moving paragraph from its early pages. The about-to-be newlyweds, Zod and Pari, unaware of (more) tragedies to come, are enjoying blissful hours together.

So began their habit each morning of walking down to the sea, where Zod would spread his jacket close to the hem of the water and they would sit and eat their breakfast of bread and cheese and Pari would peel them an orange. Even this tiny resting of the rinds inside one another in her palm told Zod of the orderly home they would make together. With their life in her hands, Zod felt he would never again feel afraid.

The author, Donia Bijan, expresses so beautifully how a small gesture can represent or suggest something much larger, and possibly lend unexpected rewards. 

There is something about an orderly home that resonates deeply for me. Order grounds me. I think better in a clean and arranged space, it's true. I also crave routine for the same reason. My morning cappuccino in one of the thirty-year-old cups with chipped saucers is somehow an assurance that everything is going to be okay that day. If my physical space is in order, I can take on and relish anything in my path, from spontaneity to fervor.

Leila Cafe and Cafe Leila - life and art once again appearing in my life in such a sweet and delicious way. 

please, join me

I can’t remember W’s exact words but there was honesty and awe in her voice when she spoke.

It was recent, over one of the dinners which we've come to enjoy having at the round high-top in the office room we now call The Café, since hanging a half curtain at the window for evening privacy. It fits us; a tucked away table for two, within the bistro.

Our dinners are like Spoke and I had, like W has long wished for and now has with me, and like Jacques Pepin describes of his own such ritual with his late wife.

Wine is consumed and conversation never lulls. The dinners are leisurely no matter what. Time waits for us. Seems sometimes to stand still.

“You treat yourself as a guest in your own bistro,” is what she said, full of wonderment as if she was outside looking in; not wanting to be like me, but intrigued by what she sees.

It is true.

If alone, I take the time to prepare what it takes to eat well, even if, and often, in its simplest form. Well does not mean extravagant, but delicious, good at its worst. That I plate and serve in a beautiful manner is what I do whether for my guests or myself.

The effort may just be my way of respecting the food. It, by nature, is giving me so much pleasure and good health, meals should be acknowledged, even celebrated. Handwashing pretty plates is not a chore.

I know of perhaps only one like-minded person and that is my friend, Grethe. Our birthdays are just a day apart which may account for the similarities. It’s a nice, albeit unique connected feeling despite the distance between us.

Much like the pleasure of a great stemmed glass for wine, attention to detail sets a tone which is touted often yet I never tire of it: Life is short, use the good china.

Eat the cake too, I'll add.

irony

EVERY SECOND COUNTS

It is a sign in the kitchens on the televised show, The Bear, and a theme by which the entire restaurant staff is reminded to operate. Start to finish, seconds can alter any stage of providing an exceptional dining experience to guests. 

It struck me that the same could be said of this production getting scenes to the viewer. In this beautifully scripted and tremendously acted series, they have made every second count. Each are powerful. They may be a second's worth of a glance that warns or a smile that warms. A second might produce a single word, such as fuck, of which there are very many within each forty minutes, sometimes whispered under one's breath, often screamed loudly.

The show is a non-stop, jam-packed thrill. Costly accidents happen in seconds. Hearts are broken and hearts are healed in seconds. So much can happen and does happen that I often find myself holding my breath for several seconds at a time.

The Bear
Written by Kelly Galuska/Directed by Christopher Storer
Seasons, One and Two

gardenias

I missed those gardenias and those times she would pass me in the house and I would catch the sweet smelling passage of her, that irresistible tonic of perfume she carried with her, attractive to bees and worshipful sons.



Prince of Tides
Pat Conroy

70

We were born before the wind

Also, younger than the sun

'Ere the bonnie boat was won

As we sailed into the mystic

Hindsight has never seemed worth more than when one crosses into a new decade. My mother said, and most people would agree, that we measure our lives by them. 

We've all stories of our decades, be they falling in or out of love, new destinations to call home, beloved pets, music of the times, deaths we grieved. We have least and most favorite years based on such things, and blessed be the person who has many wonderous years within each decade. 

As much as I have had those wonderous years, and consider my life abundantly blessed, I found myself as this birthday crept up on me, experiencing what feels like yet again, the stages of grief. Kubler-Ross presents five, of which I've been wrangling three: denial, anger, and depression. 

First, a bit in denial that I could in what seems a couple blinks, be this age. Can-not-be-possible! I look well enough, and I feel great. Few complaints and no aches or pains. I stay busy out-and-about and rarely lounge. Everyone my age talks about aging. A lot. Enough! I mostly manage to ignore it, ditching the senior flyers that arrive daily to my mailbox, and instead hang out at trendy bars meeting the most interesting people. Of all ages. Stranglehold is still my go-to, crank-it-up song for God's sake! 

Anger I would say, presents as mild frustration, which emerges oddly at the happiest of times. I am two decades older than W, who arrived in my life unexpectedly in this passing decade. Six years together this summer and our entwinement remains tighter than ever. Hours to days to weeks within years have been free and magically easy; laughter and love both endless. Our difference in age doesn't affect us but will likely though, cut short our remaining years together. Whether by innocence or bad choices, some of both our prior decades seem wasted. Ridiculous as I sound, yeah, I'm pissed about that. 

Hark now, hear the sailors cry

Smell the sea and feel the sky

Let your soul and spirit fly

Into the mystic

Thirdly, it's probably not accurate to say that I am depressed but rather, that our situation weighs on me emotionally at times, and none more so than now. Chances are, W will suffer the grief that I did with Spoke's passing, and I worry for her. I hurt for her just thinking about it. It is an unbearable pain that one thinks will never end. Comfort finds me in that she's young enough to find new love, as I have with her. 

There is no bargaining stage for me. It makes no sense; I've nothing to barter but time yet to come. How ever many more years ahead for me and for us, will be what they are to be. I pray they are decades worth. 

Yeah, when that fog horn blows

I will be coming home

Yea, when that fog horn blows

I wanna hear it

I don't have to fear it

Thanks for reading. Putting head and heart on paper has always helped me, and this blog has for over a decade been a dear friend. So, aah... acceptance this 26th day of June. 

Turning 70 is humbling. I'm grateful and greedy, both at the same time. I'm finally ready. Let's do this, Baby. 

And I wanna rock your gypsy soul

Just like way back in the days of old

Then magnificently we will float

Into the mystic

Come on, girl

Too late to stop now

Into the Mystic
Van Morrison

my, what big ____ you have

 

(Valley House Gallery, Dallas, Texas)

short and stout

          I'm a very special teapot

           Yes, it's true
           Here's an example of what I can do 

Laura Calder crossed my radar, again speaking of the very things I myself tout. She does it often and it makes me somewhat jealous. The latest was in this month's letter to followers, promoting the book, The Beauty of Everyday Things, by Soetsu Yanagi.

Jesting aside, that my everyday world is filled with beautiful objects is truly important to me and I do talk about it a lot. Art imitates life, life imitates art.

The appeal of objects I reach for regularly, may be defined because they are beautiful by their nature or structure, their personal history tells a story, or because people with beautiful hearts gifted them to me. Being surrounded by lovely things is my constant reminder of the many aspects of my very beautiful life.

It did not get by me that Calder also mentions how this book caught her eye in a bookstore, much like I recently talked about with the Maiko book; her version being attributed to serendipity, mine credited to The Universe. The theory by any name, will place what you need right smack in front of you. Often!

My final chuckle came from the photo on the cover of the Yanagi's book. It is a teapot. A Japanese teapot I assume, and very pretty in a timeless way. So is mine.

My little pot never boils water but instead houses a few cards of recipe ingredients quantities that I reach for the most. It also holds scraps of paper; notes of words which I adore and wish to never lose. Words, to me, are as beautiful and to be as treasured as the objects which may contain them. I look forward to reading this book and perhaps collecting more.

We are so very similar, Laura Calder and I, though she speaks on a large platform and to many people while I occasionally reach into the teapot to read lines to special friends over glasses of shared wine. Art imitates life, life imitates art. 

I'm a Little Teapot
George Harold Sanders/Clarence Z. Kelley, 1939

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.