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!
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.
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.)
