top shelf

The music was just loud enough.  The drinks were cold and the food was hot.  It was my birthday party and it was perfect!

Twenty something of us gathered that Saturday night, the Mark McKenzie Quartet squeezed into the alcove a few feet from where we claimed our space.  New friends were introduced to old friends. 

As any good and authentic evening of jazz demands, the party was held in a bar; Zanata on 15th Street, an understated gem and a favorite of mine.  Stairways on opposite ends of the room, connect the downstairs restaurant to the upstairs bar.  The stairs are many and they are deep but the rewards are great. 

Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars

Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars

In other words, hold my hand

In other words, darling, kiss me 

 

As requested, the band played standard after standard.  I snapped my fingers to them all, a good three hours and more.  I kissed my darling as the quartet played It Had To Be You; a kiss to thank him for this night but also because it did, it did always, have to be him. 

Perhaps it only seems we heard them all, all the greats; Antonio Carlos Jobim, Bart Howard, Cole Porter, Dorothy Fields, Duke Ellington, Fred Coots, George and Ira Gershwin, Henry Mancini, Hoagy Carmichael, Jerome Kern, Johnny Mercer, Irving Berlin, Irving Kahal, Isham Jones, Rogers and Hart, Rube Bloom, Sammy Fain, Victor Young . . . 

As the evening evolved, many friends mentioned my parents, this music being their music passed on, and they spoke of how Ernie and Colleen were surely with us in spirit.  I smiled a little smile, touched they were remembered.

The lonely night discloses

Just a passing breeze, filled with memories

Of the golden smile that introduced me to

The days of wine and roses and you 

 

A pastry tray of cannoli and tarts was passed around, sweet closure to the night as the MMQ gave us Snapple From The Apple, a song which often ends their set and makes me happy and sad, at once. 

Saturday had long turned into Sunday when Curtis poured me and my sister two final drinks; a scotch for our dad, white wine for our mom.  We raised our glasses and raised our eyes, and toasted them both.

Our parents really were with us that night.  Their ashes had been placed discreetly on the highest shelf of the bar, on the far edge, closest to the music.  It was my birthday but the night was all about them and the music they so loved. 

I couldn't imagine the party without them.   

I'll be seeing you, in all the old familiar places

That this heart of mine embraces

All day through

In that small café, the park across the way

The children's carousel, the chestnut trees

The wishing well

 

I'll be seeing you, in every lovely summer's day

In everything that's light and gay

I'll always think of you that way

 

I'll find you in the morning sun

And when the night is new

I'll be looking at the moon

But I'll be seeing you

 

 

 

Fly Me To The Moon; Bart Howard

Days Of Wine And Roses; Henry Mancini, music/Johnny Mercer, lyric

I'll Be Seeing You; Sammy Fain, music/Irving Kahal, lyric   





i am well

I'm entering a new decade this week, feeling all grown up.

Have you ever had a health scare---the kind that makes you weak and fearful?  I had the second of my life last week, giving me long days to think about the possibilities as we waited on pathology.

I was anxious but less so than I expected myself to be, and my faith aside, I wasn't clear why.  I know I have more experienced years to fall back on than I had the first time something came up, and I've love all around me which gives me comfort and support.  The odds too, weighed heavily in my favor . . . yet there was something more keeping me steady.

When I let my mind run loose, and it did at times, I calmly and strategically reined it in, planning the next step if one was necessary.  Doing that, gave me strength.  Still, I had a different feeling this time.

The night before my doctor called with good news, I found myself not just accepting but embracing the very real fact that there is nothing special about me, that I am not, healthy as I am, immune from anything that can strike any of us at any time.  I believe that subconsciously, because I am so well, I thought myself completely protected.  Acknowledging that I am not, was so humbling, and thus, so freeing, I was no longer afraid.

Others suffer every day.  Why should I be spared?

I know the question lies in the heart of many veterans, in Spoke's for sure, and not that this should be compared to that, I sense an understanding of the premise that I've never had before.  You want to be alive and well, but if fate says you're not, and you should find yourself among the others, it would be powerfully humanizing and that it is so, would be the source of your strength.    

It's been an exhausting week but also one which has made me even more excited to have this birthday, to share this birthday, and I remain hopeful, but unafraid, that it will be one of many, many more.

i took a vow

 

A bottle of white, a bottle of red

Perhaps a bottle of rose instead

We'll get a table near the street

In our old familiar place

You and I, face to face

And there we were...  Spoke and I, another year married, celebrating in our old familiar place; MoMo's.  

Our romance, with each other as well as the restaurant, began back in the late 80's when it was called MoMo Italian Specialties.  We were there several times a month for many, many years, enjoying the most delicious, most authentic, regional Italian food in Dallas.  I credit MoMo, the man and the restaurant, for starting me on a food journey which has nourished me for well over two decades.

Our trattoria, as we affectionately call it, moved to new spot very nearby the old one and is now called MoMo Italian Kitchen, run by the talented, not to mention handsome, sons of MoMo.  It is small and warm and beautiful and though I admit to missing the larger menu of the past, MoMo still serves the most delicious, most authentic, regional Italian food in Dallas.

As is our style, Spoke and I decided to throw a bottle of wine in the trunk when we headed out on errands today, thoughts of ending up at MoMo for an early anniversary dinner, sounded so good.  When I think back across the years, there have been very few anniversaries we've celebrated anywhere other than at MoMo, always in our very casual and private way.

Twenty-four!  Hard to believe, not because this marriage has been anything but a blissful breeze but because time has passed so quickly, so frightfully fast that the momentous twenty-five-year-celebration will arrive before we can wrap our heads around the thought.   

I've read that some people celebrate twenty-five years by renewing their vows.  Renew?  Really?  Didn't you mean them the first time? 

I did.  Every single word with all my heart.   

Spoke and I, next year, will likely share another quiet meal together at MoMo Italian Kitchen.  Or maybe we'll invite family and friends and line both sides of a long table, filling it and ourselves with wine and cheer.  Either way, I know we'll enjoy the most delicious, most authentic, regional Italian food in Dallas.

A bottle of red, a bottle of white

Whatever kind of mood you're in tonight

I'll meet you anytime you like

In our Italian restaurant

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

Scenes From An Italian Restaurant

Music and Lyric by Billy Joel

 

MoMo Italian Kitchen

8989 Forest Lane, Dallas, 75243

972.234.6800

that seafood joint

It doesn't smell like a pier stand or a seafood joint you might run across on the East Coast but it kind-of feels like one.  The menu is both straightforward and odd and the food is great.

I say joint partly because that's the name; 20 Feet Seafood Joint.

Spoke and I checked it out Friday night.  I grabbed the dry Riesling from the fridge and we headed toward Casa Linda, our mouths watering at the thought of a really good seafood spot having opened close by. 

(20 Feet is currently BYOB and I do wish they'd consider staying that way though if I'm honest, come August, a cold Hendricks and tonic with cucumber could hit the spot alongside a bowl of those famous Green Room Mussels.)

We couldn't wait to eat but we took our time, hoping to grab a different table as soon as one opened up, to escape the ceiling vents blowing cold air upon us, which granted, I'll surely appreciate in the summer as I sip that gin and tonic and try to cool down... 

Once comfy, we split an order of Fish and Chips, cutting the last, third piece, right down the middle, threatening our better half if they tried to edge out any bigger chunk of the plump, snow-white cod.  I'd read about the fries so I was expecting them to be exceptionally good.  They were; hot and crisp with a light touch of herbs.  The Lobster Roll, served chilled, we saved for last, and it was about as good as I'd heard; simply dressed meat bursting out of a buttery, almost brioche-style, bun.

Tables all around us were sharing Blue Point Oysters.  If I'd had a large conch shell to put up to my ear, I do believe I'd have heard it summoning me to make this the place, the joint, where I get over my fear and learn to enjoy raw oysters. 

Until then, there's so much to entice me and all of you at 20 Feet Seafood Joint; Caesar salads with shrimp, salmon, or pork belly, five types of Po' Boys, chowder, clams, and main dishes like Blackened Shrimp Scampi with Parmesan Grits.  Check the counter for daily specials.  

Did I mention Falafel, Ramen, and the Mexican Shrimp Cocktail? 

The restaurant is just down the road from the Dallas Arboretum which I frequent and that's a good thing for I love to walk the entirety of the vast park.  You see, I fear, 20 Feet could quickly mean 20 pounds. 
 




20 Feet Seafood Joint
1160 Peavy Road, Dallas, 75218, 972.707.7442
Look for the pale blue Jolly Roger flag flying high!

mad about la cafe

I was sure a day would come when I would be able to return to the café, confident I could handle the memories of those many hours spent there with my mother, enjoying wine and food, watching people and watching afternoons turn into evenings.  We had favorite tables and favorite chairs, sometimes preferring a window, most often a seat by the fire.  We knew which tables wobbled and which corners were always drafty. 

The first La Madeleine was built in Dallas and I have precious memories of sexy breakfasts there with Spoke when we were love-struck-giddy and ravished, and time stood still as we shared full baguettes and cup after cup of strong French coffee.

This café is in my mother's suburban neighborhood and she loved it. 

One afternoon many years ago, right around Easter, we met at La Madeleine and spontaneously celebrated the results of her recent cardiac workup for atrial fibrillation.  She was happy and relieved.  I was happy and relieved.  A few days later I wrote her a poem and stuck it in the mail.

Hippity Hoppity
tick...tick...tick...tick
All's well
tells
the Doc
Stolen afternoons
sharing the good news
Hippity Hoppity
tick...tick...tick...tock

The Doc in the poem is now my cardiologist and as I left his office last Wednesday, happy and relieved, and with a half-hour to spare, I knew it was the day for me to bravely return for the first time since her death, to our café. 

I sat by the fire. 

I did not cry.




Poem, Easter 2004

call me frances

The film Bella opens with the line, and I'm sure you've heard it before, "If you want to hear God laugh, tell him your plans." 

Has your life turned out the way you envisioned it? 

Would you choose to do some things over if you could?

I was considering all of this at the Easter Brunch table Spoke and I hosted.  We were a relatively small group and of the people present, the totality of our life histories included loves, deaths, children, divorces, good health, illness, good fortune, tragedy...

We had great conversations for at the table sat many people of faith; people who believe that from bad comes good. 
 
Our guest ChuChu, a lovely lady from Ethiopia, lost her house in a fire last year.  She has lived in Dallas for fifteen years but has only one cousin in town so when she arrived for brunch yesterday she exclaimed, "I have a family now."

It was my Frances Mayes moment.  That would be Frances from the screenplay Under The Tuscan Sun, not Frances Mayes the author of the book which is very different from the film.  (Loved them both.)  The character in the film, in one short scene, cooks for several people and she's obviously completely in love with feeding the people she loves.  It is the beginning clue that by the end of the movie, she will realize the bounty and the richness of her life, though it's not the life she expected from the start. 

I was equally as happy as Frances when I planned and prepared this Easter Brunch of deviled eggs, French cornichons, ham, shrimp and scallop cakes, potato-Parmigiano gratin, chilled rice with smoked salmon, spring salad with pistachios and warm, breaded rounds of chevre, white beans made creamy with crème fraiche and Herbs de Provence, biscuits and croissants with orange marmalade, lemon cake, fresh strawberries with whipped cream, all preceded by champagne and wine, followed by espresso...

(Put me in a movie!)

That Eddie, Ellie, Ernie and Colleen are no longer with us, in its way, opened our door at 3906 to new friends and good has come from bad. 

I heard God laugh on Sunday but for the first time in several years, I am looking forward to the next holiday.

  

all that easter jazz

I've been listening to more jazz than usual lately.  I've a study-sheet too; musicians listed by their instrument.  My theory is, if I look at it often enough, maybe things will stick for I still get them confused, especially those who play several horns. 

My dad, my mentor, knew them all and by the beginning notes on most of his era's recordings, he could tell you who-was-playing-what-with-whom-and-where-and-when... He never bragged, they were for him just moments of music which had made him so very happy. 

I wasn't aware until his last years, how much I'd picked up and come to love, and of course now I'm very aware of the incidental lessons I took for granted.  That jazz guitarist Charlie Byrd was influenced by Django Reinhardt is easy, I can hear it, and I've listened to hours of Jazz Samba recorded with Getz, but it's guys like, say, Lester Young... not so much.    

Jo Jones was the drummer on many of the American Recording Society Jazz Division albums.  I read he was instrumental in advancing brushes, replacing the bass drum for them in fact.  That's an example of common knowledge so buried in my dad's history with jazz that he wouldn't have thought to talk about it yet here I am, finally ready to know more, much more, and he's gone.

Gosh, it hurts.

My dad saw many of the greats in his time, documented for me in a small turquoise book, the scraps of paper he placed between blank pages were a second thought to the opera notes which were the original purpose of the journal I forced upon him.  Most of his favorites, musicians and vocalists, needed no last names, his scratchy writing preserving his memories for me; Anita, Basie, Billie, Carmen, Christy, Chris, Dizzy, Django, (in a Paris bistro!) Ella, Ellington, Frank, Heywood, Kaye, Kenton, Krupa, Lockjaw, Mooney, Peggy, Prysock, Rosemary, Sweets, Teddy, and so many more...

I had the insight to hand my dad my voice recorder one afternoon, with instructions to tell me anything that crossed his mind which might not be in the journal.  Once he got the hang of it, he left brief entries for several days about the more obscure musicians he saw and the ones he wished he'd seen.

It turned out to be much fun for both of us.

I listened to the recorder for a second time, too soon after his death.  It was so painful hearing his voice, the familiar way he'd phrase things, his glee, that I put it away and just this week, with jazz on my mind and a heavy heart which two years has begun to heal, did I try again.  Here's a sampling of his notes to me.

"Hey Becca, I told you before and I'll tell you again, I saw Stan Kenton in Raleigh and he was terrific. This was when he had June Christy with him."

"I first saw Ella when I was fifteen years old, with a friend, Max Jones who was sixteen and able to drive a car. We drove to Forest City, to Ashville when Ella was singing with a band called The Chick Webb, who had a real good orchestra back in those days and Ella wasn't much older than I was. It was her first gig and did I get knocked out.  Ooooo-whee! That helped start me on the jazz scene."

"Good ones that I never did get to see and think there'd be plenty of 'em but I've got a few right now... I never got to see, oh hell, Artie Shaw, Mildred Bailey... would you believe Nat King Cole?  Oh, and really sadly, Sarah Vaughan. Johnny Hartman's another one I missed and would love to have seen."

He'd throw out a few news alerts; "Washington cherries are at a good price," a hint for a homemade pie, before he continued, describing nights with "Billy Eckstine and his big band", "Joe Williams with Count Basie", and "Arthur Prysock and Eddie Heywood" at a new Nashville hotel nightclub.

On a track not halfway through the total of his messages, my dad surprised me with a bit of praise at the tail end of his musings of Sarah Vaughan.  He said "I've read your latest blogs...  You know, you're a hell of a writer.  I love the way you write."  A trusted critic, I'll remember this and find it encouraging any time my thoughts and words won't come together. 

Tonight I'm going to hear the Mark McKenzie Quartet.  It's been a personal struggle, whether to go or not, today being Good Friday but I've made peace with my decision.  If live music on a solemn night like this helps even one person, then it's a good thing I say for I know how hard holidays can be for those missing loved ones.  I never expected them to affect me, knowing we'd been through the worst already, but I was wrong.  The holidays kicked my butt. 

So, I'm heading to the wine bar in a few hours, seeing it as the blessing it is, content to fill my soul with music and share the evening with friends.  As my dad said at the close of many of his recorded messages, "I'll talk to you later".

Happy Easter