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.