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!

speech! speech! speech!

It was a memorable birthday party, as all such parties should be. The Bistro threw it for W's 50th, and so many people came for her despite the torrential rains flooding streets city wide. 

They are an eclectic group of people which make for my favorite type of party. Ages ranged from 30's to 80's plus one honorary, energetic 93 year-old auntie. Dear old friends and dear new ones brought their natural abundance of joy. 

As hosts, it is so wonderful when guests comfortably mingle, genuinely interested in each other. That gave me time to keep glasses filled while I prepped the food to come. Also as with such parties at the Bistro, there comes a time for speeches. They are usually to give weight to the event or introduce people, so as this afternoon turned into evening, my speech was to celebrate a beautiful soul, known on these pages as W.

Blessed are those of us gifted with cherished romantic love. Fewer of us are gifted twice. Because I have been, my little speech came first, as a way of trying to explain that very thing. 

W was born under the sun sign of Taurus. I gave examples of how clearly she is that bull. Then I shared how from the early sparks of our chemistry, she reminded me of Spoke. Many little things! I struggled. I questioned.  Was I projecting? Did I so badly want her to be like him? Would that make my leap easier?

Turns out, her sun sign is Taurus but her rising sign is Aquarius. Bohm!

Where our sun signs are our core, our ego & id, our rising signs are the side of us we present to the world. Spoke was Aquarian, my mother was Aquarian, friends are... I know of these people well, I love these people, and so it all began to make sense.

I can write pages on Aquarian behaviors, but to connect back to the party... a main behavioral characteristic is that they are non-conformists. They beat to a different drum. They often go out of their way not to conform. So, in planning, even though W had chosen Italian cookies over a traditional cake (no surprise there), we would at some point want to sing to her, but my heart knew The Happy Birthday Song was not an option; not for this non-conforming Aquarian rising bull.

I chose Auld Lang Syne and a dear friend from W's past, played guitar to lead us in the singing.

Should old acquaintance be forgot

and never brought to mind?

Should old acquaintance be forgot

and the days of auld lang syne?

It is a Scottish song, a tribute to life is short and recognizing that these are the good days so let's raise a glass honoring people present and people passed. It is historically used to close out evenings or events; a soulful finale. And most of all, and very fittingly, it is used to say goodbye to one year and welcome a new one.

There were a few tears wiped away before W took what was a very brave measure for her, and gave a heartfelt speech. She took us not just from the passing of one year into another but her painful journey from the beginning of a decade to its beautiful ending.

Her words were full of hints to me which only I would know, but it also thanked all the people who have watched her and helped her walk through hell but come out gleefully floating on a serene cloud. 

Here is her personal draft which she read from that night. After our many, many, many comical conversations about legitimate use of the ampersand, she refuses not to let it be used freely in texts as a substitute for any and she pleases. Proof! Such proof, folks...  

She will not conform. Refuses beyond logic. The girl is such an Aquarian.

A wise woman once told me "Life is measured in decades." This nugget of wisdom was passed down to her by her beloved mother. 

I have spent a good bit of this week reflecting on that Psalm and I marvel at what this past decade as thrown at me. It began with the end of what can only be described as "apocalyptic chaos."  And it was peppered with several intense WTF moments. I have somehow managed to keep a few dear friends through it all; I thank you for sticking by me. Within these "character building opportunities" my salvation has been an ever present peace & lightness of being, reasons to laugh, and occasions to pause and be grateful that have mabbled me in the last three quarters of this decade. During this time I have found myself, found my passion, met a grand batch of new friends, and I have found solitude. But my greatest & most precious find, is Becca. What she has brought into my life is absolutely immeasurable & I am eternally grateful. I promise I'll spend our next six lifetimes together showing my appreciation.

So as I enter into this next phase, I shall raise a glass & with a toast I bid adieu to my forties & greet warmly a fresh decade. I look fwd to the memories, additional laugh lines with my loved ones, & more gray hair.

peale back the layers

Hello April. Showers or none, I welcome you. Open arms. More than you know...

In our personal lives, March was a scary and sad month for W and me. It was at times one of those months that bring you to prayers, the type that you begin to say aloud, and then say aloud several times a day. 

"Look on the sunny side of everything," said Norman Vincent Peale, and no one tried to live this ideal as truer than my mom. His profession aside, he wasn't preachy. Mom wasn't either. They both just believed, deeply believed, in the power of positive thinking.

I was reminded of this in March, along with "Be so strong that nothing can disturb your peace of mind." Easy to type, hard to do.

Something in the month's woes put a kink in my normally strong being, and I've found myself tearful. All the time tearful. I should keep tissues nearby kind of tearful: a brief line in a corny movie, song lyrics, one glance of W's huge soulful eyes staring right thru me... 

Today at Easter Brunch a friend asked me about the necklace pendant I wore, a gift to my mom engraved with a biblical quote of importance to her, and tho I kept my watery eyes in check when I explained, it was obvious in my heart that March has not yet exited.

Ready... set...



Norman Vincent Peale
May 31, 1898 -  December 24, 1993

the gift that keeps on giving

Continuing with our Christmas gifts of enjoying unexpected experiences throughout the year, I arranged one for W at our place, Jimmy's Food Store. It is a 50 year-old iconic grocery in East Dallas, with all things Italian offered: wine, deli, dry products, fresh products, holiday imports.

This visit was to watch Jeff, assumingly the head of the deli department, demonstrate how to open a wheel of Parmigiano Reggiano. I had asked the favor and he immediately and most graciously committed.

To our shared joy of and appreciation for the simple things in life, W and I arrived early to sip a plastic cup of wine and let the anticipation build. We chatted with some of the staff and filled out papers for the gigantic chocolate Easter egg drawing. We enter every year with plans if we win to set the three foot tall egg on a table and invite neighbors and friends over to indulge.

There are always many Easter items on display and as sure as at Christmas, I choose a beautiful Panettone each time. Here she is. 

While we sipped our second glass of the two-glass wine limit - the only thing in the whole Jimmy's experience that seems very UN-Italian - dinner plans changed when I spotted the xxxlarge ripe avocados. I knew I had a bitter enough green lettuce, hearts of palm, a lemon, and pignoli at the Bistro, so I added a handful of cherry tomatoes, excited to plan a Garga Salad. It was made famous by a Florence restaurant of the same name, which sadly I've only peeked in the window on one trip when it was closed. (Recipe can be found online.)

Jeff's arrival was perfectly timed. Not being allowed into the kitchen of course, we had thought to bring our step stool and Jeff moved boxes out of the way so I could step up to get a view of the cheese table where the magic was to happen. 

 

Magical it was! He chose to do this wheel by hand, I think just for us because there is a saw method which produces less crumble (thus more sellable product) but can't possibly be as moving as watching the man and his various knives break into this revered cheese. A testament not to size - but how popular Jimmy's Food Store is in Dallas - Jeff opens about three wheels of Reggiano per week. 

He began by scoring and cutting the perimeter, more than once. Then he cut again with a bigger and longer knife whose length could reach farther into the mid section. When the wheel split, there was applause all around. It happened much faster than I expected, and then there he was handing out soft, delicious samples to us and the people who had curiously gathered or were waiting in line for various orders. 

Bravo, Jeff! I can't thank you enough for making this experience happen. No place except Jimmy's would be the same. Grazie.

Grazie! Grazie! Grazie!

Jimmy's Food Store
4901 Bryan Street
Dallas, Texas 75206

the people's park

I've been perusing the 30 year old Dallas Arboretum Cookbook. It's quite a trip down retro lane. So much margarine! 

That stood out to the cook in me but having lived here since before its publication, so did many of the contributor's names. A few may be coincidence, but the majority are obvious: DeGolyer, Hamon, Crow, Winspear, Minyard, Halliday, Marcus, Pyles, Kirkland, Strauss, Knox, Josey.

At our last picnic, W and I packed up candied salmon from a market and the skin-on potato salad I made with German grain mustard and sweet & sour cucumbers I've had marinating in the fridge. (The key is to slice them super thin.)

We sipped a still chilled enough Sauvignon Blanc and people watched from our bench in the shade, wishing we had chosen the next one over which was getting all the sun. There were singles, couples, clusters, and many large families enjoying the park with its glorious spring gifts of color and scent. The people were of so many nationalities! W and I were fascinated by the variety of cultural attires and accents that passed by us on every garden path.

Back home these several days later, continuing my reading of Garden Gourmet, I'm embarrassed that I am so slow finishing my own cookbook. Mine is good; really, really good. But as I should be focusing on it this coming week, I'm instead thinking of a new and adventurous cookbook from the Arboretum. I have such a grand idea for it. If anyone has a foot in the garden gate, please refer me to those in charge.

Like everything else in Dallas, the Arboretum has changed as it has grown. The strolling guests are global, arriving from all parts of the world. It hosts hundreds of thousands visiting, but many who frequent the park likely live here. They, W and I, and I'm guessing those of you reading this, are very far removed from the lifestyles of the rich and famous; the committee members and contributors highlighted in the decades old cookbook. That thought is not a criticism. I have so much admiration and appreciation for the people and corporations which privately build and promote arts within cities. (I personally wish for them not to be outrageously taxed so that they may continue with their generous contributions.)

How unique and unifying it would be, I thought, to have a modern Dallas Arboretum Cookbook version which is reflective of the patrons who visit. The people walking through the gardens that day were such an international presence, why not feature them through their favorite recipes? The format might remain the same but present English, Indian, and Japanese appetizers to Cajun, Irish, and German entrees, to French, Italian, and Vietnamese desserts. Let the recipes be from around the world, shared just as we so happily share this park's space. 

I have not a single time visited the Dallas Arboretum without seeing a photo shoot of a bride-to-be or a young quinceanera teen. People pose throughout the vast grounds among bountiful flora, in pumpkin patches and the many extravagant Christmas displays. W and I once picnicked on a small hill in view of a timely marriage proposal. (She said yes!) We also witnessed a very small and subtle wedding somewhat tucked within the cover of shrubbery. 

In contrast to the still shots in the cookbook, this new, exciting version could and should feature the people who helped build the park. Use photos of patrons by the lake, the culinary garden and cafes, the waterfall and koi pond, inside and outside the beautiful DeGolyer hacienda. 

There is no greater connector of people than that of a table with food shared. People bring energy to the Arboretum and Botanical Garden, and I'm positive they would bring such energy to a cookbook, through their recipes for dishes shared at their own tables.




Garden Gourmet, The Dallas Arboretum Cookbook
1994 The Dallas Arboretum and Botanical Garden

the undertow

Death can throw a wide net.

It was tossed out yesterday morning by Donna, a neighbor-friend in a weekly Happy Hour started during lockdown and continued these years later. Our cul-de-sac group of initially five, isn't gossipy but we do catch up on the goings on in the neighborhood and in our lives. I'd say we teeter between the relevant and the personal.

Donna's text told us that the husband of her close friend, hospitalized unexpectedly as home-hospice was being arranged, had passed in the wee hours of the night. The wife was headed home to face the hospital bed doomed to remain empty.

The image brought back many sad memories for Donna. She, Carolyn, Linda (now moved), and I, all lost our husbands while being neighbors. Oddly, all those deaths didn't bring us together as better friends as much as did the forced isolation of Covid.

We met outside for months, enduring the Dallas heat and when it turned cold we gathered, bundled in coats with propane heaters keeping us comfortable enough.

Her gentleman friend's death sends out unintentional ripples as many of us, like Donna, are caught, tangled up in our own remembrances of what made most of us widows. My friend Sheryl lost her husband last fall and it was months before the hospital bed and more were picked up from their home. She slept in another room or in hotels until very recently. Carolyn has her story, Linda has hers.

I didn't expect it but I was also thrown back, harshly, to my night coming home from the hospital to an empty house, and the next night equally painful as I shopped urns for ashes yet to be. I have described that pain and the months which followed, being as if I'd fallen into a black hole. I am today happy years removed from that darkness yet within a single text I instantly relived what it felt like then.

I did what I always do to deal... I headed to the kitchen. I drowned my sorrow, literally at the sink.

Spanakopita has been in wait on my list and it seems the perfect time-consuming thing to bake. If it turns out, tomorrow I'll deliver for all the widows.

Extra servings will be set aside for W, who brings the happy with her lightness of being to our Happy Hours. W didn't lose a spouse from death but has in many ways unexpectedly suffered far worse. But that's another story for another longer day in the kitchen.

a visit

The Bistro had a visit from Carol Gray Friday night. I know it as surely as I know Lilly, her cat now mine, is purring beside me as I write this.

We had a dinner guest coming at 6:30, around the same time W would arrive, stopping after work to pick up the menu’s much needed jalapeno and a handful of cilantro.

I stepped outside to move the several cat dishes which the wind had blown and I knew would be in the car’s path to the garage. Walking back I noticed the two garden features which are staked iron structures, each with a glass globe, one set in a sun and the other in a moon. They are tucked in the bed of ivy which runs up the gigantic elm tree. Keeping them straight is a cherished chore.

They are solar but in the six years that this has been their home, they have never activated to light up the globes. Until Friday night.

We call them Carol’s because of their past proximity to her house. When W was house-hunting, she fell in love with a townhome in the neighborhood, one street behind Carol’s. Sadly, she lost her higher bid to a cash sale, but for fun we went to the estate sale which followed and I purchased a few things, the sun & moon being a pair. If W had gotten the house, I’d have returned them to their garden spot.

Stopped dead in the driveway, I could not believe what I was seeing; one of the stakes was blinking color: green, orange, blue…

I thought W had probably tinkered with them; she does such things as little surprises to bring me joy. Not moving an inch, I texted her, but the very second I sent my message I knew it was not W’s doing. Carol was reaching out.

I’m accustomed to signs. I have received so many. I trust in them. I have no doubts. Carol was here!

I’m especially sure of it because after the many years being totally lightless, a globe shines brightly on the very night that Carol’s daughter from NYC has been invited to dinner.

She and W arrived at the same time. The three of us stood in awe watching the globe through watery eyes, putting on a show for us, this first and only night of all nights.

the first note

Christmas cheer arrived last night, as it will a few more times before this next December.

W and I chose, this past holiday, to give each other two gifts each. They could be nothing tangible, nothing which could be wrapped up prettily in any box. They were to be experiences. Surprise experiences!

Maybe a pottery class or a decadent lobster lunch spread out in one of our many preferred spaces at the arboretum. Perhaps a concert or spontaneously venturing to a restaurant that's been on our lusting-after-list for too long. Skateboarding on a half pipe at the park? Okay, probably not...

Friday night was the first, a concert gifted to me: Jazz at Lincoln Center Presents - Sing & Swing. 

The night was Spoke's birthday and I learned as we were heading out the door, also the birthday of W's very beloved aunt. I've only met this lady once but the stories W has shared have endeared Aunt Rozemma to me in ways she will never know. Obviously the shared birthday coincidence (or not) was a bittersweet start to the next few hours. 

We planned our tradition of dash-gating; wine and a light meal in the car before the show. Anticipation being such a pleasure, we rarely omit this pause of ours.

The band was comprised of two leaders, a male and a female, both on trumpets and vocals. The other musicians played piano, guitar, double bass, and drums, and yes, wow, could they play. I expected as much coming out of Lincoln Center but I wasn't expecting the fierceness of the emotional tides that rose and quieted in me throughout the show. I was hiding tears in the first introductory minutes.

There is no quick or rational way to try to explain the why of it to most anyone reading this, but for my family tuned in, whether your feet are on this Earth or not, your presence with me was laid out so clearly in the evening's words as they unfolded: Coker, Anita O'Day, Gene Krupa, Sarah Vaughan, Louis Prima, Billie. Specific stories and memories close to my heart are attached to each of these.

The singers gave us historical context for the greats like Gershwin, Cole Porter, Irving Berlin, Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong. As promised, they gave us the Great American Songbook in a wonderfully creative way. We all applauded on our feet and hoped for more after the grandest, swinging finale encore.

W gave me a gift beyond her vision, but having myself a merry little Christmas was indeed how it felt this February night. 

Dash-gating Pasta Salad: penne rinsed, canned albacore drained and flaked, seared fresh corn, scallion, peppadews, homemade sweet-n-sour cucumbers, french-style green beans, mayo, grain mustard, s&p, fresh cilantro. 

basil from the patio soon

I have found my groove in wintering. It arrived unexpectedly today when the wind departed and when I found the perfectly old, well-worn acrylic sweater buried on the bottom of a closet shelf. My body is warm. My heart is warm.

I had planned to overhaul the entire closet this week but it has an outside wall and the weather is so frigid that the day long chore will cool the entire house. Not a good idea when Old Man Winter is punishing us with 12* and 8* days and nights.

So instead, I shall make vegetable stock. And cauliflower soup. And most exciting of all, I will make pasta! 

These have been on my wintering list but there have been plans pending, both long and short term plans. Bossy Mother Nature has brought them all to a temporary halt but I'm now so much in a wintering frame of mind that I may extend coming out of it beyond warmer weather boundaries. I crave the solitude which extreme cold demands. Strangely, it is in the time alone that I am able to think of others and do for others, small as the thoughts or gifts from it may be.

One gift is sometimes pasta. I love making it. Mine is by hand cranked rollers and cutters. I have three: perfect sized linguine, delicate angel hair, and the very fun curly edged reginetti. Hardest part of pasta making is choosing the cuts; I love them all!

Winter reminds me that life can be so harsh, that wintering can be lovely or lonely, but always, always, always, there is a waiting spring. Time to plant...

Come summer, I'll be wintering in a different yet similar fashion, secluded in air-conditioning to escape the heat. Some very hot random afternoon will likely find me again cranking out ribbons of pasta.