Eat Here Eatery

Simple, under robin's egg blue

2012-01-22T17:54:00.006-05:00

The weekend draws to a close, and in northeastern Florida it's been a wonder. Clear, comfortable days under stunning skies as blue as diamonds wish they were, full of birdsong and hope, beckoning like sirens toward Spring. Too early!, our minds say, but to our hearts and our gardeners' hands, the lure is almost irresistible. And so at our house, we've spent much of the day simply sitting under the perfect turquoise sky, watching breezes ruffle the Spanish moss, being grateful for our blessings.

Among these, as my dear friends and readers will know, are counted simple foods. These are the foods we would all put before our families had we the time; these are the foods for which we yearn, not because they present the challenges of our favorite chefs de cuisine, but because they require little more than the investment of time, a commodity that often seems just beyond reach. As we sat tonight, watching the dusk come, listening to the last evensong of the birds, we prepared for a simple meal of roast chicken and potatoes with salad.

Roast chicken breasts are easily prepared on a two-tiered gas grill, using whole chicken breasts with skin on. Salt and pepper, and place on the topmost rack of your grill. Cover and allow to roast until the skin is golden brown the the thickest part of the meat tests done. Using those new, delightful tiny potatoes as a compliment to the roast chicken, I toss them lightly with olive oil in a small cast iron skillet and scatter with a touch of kosher salt. The skillet can be placed under the roasting chicken after half an hour or so of roasting; chicken breasts with bone and skin will need an hour or so - perhaps a bit more - to cook while the small potatoes take 30 or 45 minutes. When they're done the small potatoes need nothing more than a touch of pepper. This evening I split them and topped with a tiny spoonful of feta cheese, but no one knows your people better than you. Feta, fine cheddar, or nothing more than pepper: simple, simple. Finally, a bag of salad (yes, I did use a bag o' salad; as I've often said here, shortcuts have their places!), added fresh watermelon and croutons and supper was ready. The bright sky, which had verged on a bright robin's egg blue all day long, darkened until the silhouettes of trees and moss were backlit by shadow.

We moved indoors to simple food and company, and wish you all the joys of your own.

Wisconsin

2012-01-15T17:23:00.005-05:00

We inherited the Green Bay Packers from my father-in-law. He was born in 1920 in the curiously-named Poy Sippi, Wisconsin to Danish parents who still spoke Danish at home. His early years were spent farming in rural Wisconsin. In young adulthood he lived in Beloit and found his way to Chicago and eventually far to the south through the changing fortunes of the War. In old age he was afflicted by Alzheimers and was variously cranky, difficult and downright mean. In some ways it might be fair to say that parts of our family were destroyed on the rocks of his personal shipwreck, but that's a story for another time, my dears. This evening, we're thinking of one tiny connection that has successfully persisted as we watch the NFL playoffs and rally, as always, around the Pack.

This morning we happened upon an old movie on TCM. It was a typical Margaret O'Brien movie of the mid-40s, sentimental and simple, yet resonant thanks to a cast that included Edward G. Robinson and a screenplay by Dalton Trumbo. Our Vines Have Tender Grapes, it was called. Set in Wisconsin among Norwegian farmers, it had faint echoes of Pop's childhood, seen through the eyes of Hollywood, of course, but no less unmistakable.

A year or so before we were married - and many years before the perceptible effects of Alzheimers - we traveled to WIsconsin to visit Pop's family and see the places he'd known as a young man. It's a beautiful place with its great spaces caught in boreal forests that must have reminded all those Scandinavian emigrants of the snow-bounded and blue-skied lands of coastal and inland waters they'd left behind. And though the geography and some of the cultural fine points seemed foreign or even exotic, there was - and is - a common sense of warmth and openness between those of the south and those of the midwest as though they are cousins of cultural etiquette. Certainly they're cousins of the table; there was never a more abundant, homely, delicious board than the one we shared with Pop's sisters and their families. They were kind, generous and unfailingly polite, their pronounced northern midwestern accents shaped by nearly-forgetten Danish and Norwegian cadences. One of these aunts and her husband would, some years hence, travel to Florida for Pop's funeral at considerable inconvenience simply because it was the right thing to do, and for the love his sister always kept for him.

Long years later, we cheer faithfully for the Packers in memory of Pop, letting the sharp, jagged memories of recent years recede into the distance. It's still good to recall the words of Aunt Thelma, a Norwegian girl married into the family and often-uttered where Pop was concerned. "Well, you can always tell a Dane," she would say. "But you can't tell him much."

Go, Pack, go.

The robins are coming, the robins are coming

2012-01-01T17:47:00.007-05:00

Out with the old and in with the new, or perhaps: Let us put by that which we've outgrown or outworn or simply need no more, and let us take up and celebrate that which brings us learning, growth or most emphatically, peace. And let us remember to cherish what lies between. It can be so dangerously easy to envision only The Old and The New, without consideration for all that copious territory describing the rest of our lives. And most of that doesn't need to be thrown away, or embraced for the sake of its novelty. Most of that wide expanse simply needs to be tended.

Important things for tending: Robins. Beautifully plump red-breasted American robins arrive here every year, but the time of their coming can vary widely. We caught our first glimpse this winter just before Christmas, about December 23. It was a small flock, and they disappeared too quickly to be caught in photographs. Just a few days later, on December 30, the trees were suddenly filled with their voices (which really DO sound oddly like something a Victorian writer might have described as "chirrup-ing"), and their curious explorations on the ground, characterized by a good deal more hopping than flying. So much hopping and interrogation of the ground do they do that they provide excellent subjects for photos. In the photo at the top, here, there's at least one robin, but I defy you to find it. This is partly because I am a woefully inadequate photographer, and partly because I seldom listen to the wisdom of my dear old person on this, even when he stands at my elbow with a much better camera than my phone could ever offer. But it's there. And in spite of the general gloom of the landscape and the date on the calendar, that virtually invisible little bird spans the continuum of The Old and The New with a simple reminder. Spring will come.

As the chilly days wind along and we wait for more immediate proof of the spring for which mid-winter is the harbinger, we observe with familiar markers. Often the markers, the reminders, take the form of food. Here in the south, we mark the arrival and passing of the New Year with a plate like this one. Some people call it Hoppin' John; when I was growing up it was just "peas and rice", and everybody knew the peas in question were black-eyed peas cooked with ham and served over rice. Everybody also knew, or seemed to know, that the foods symbolized something, each with its unique significance. These symbols are lost to me personally; I only know that it's good luck to have this meal on New Year's Day, and that the whole thing turned out especially well this year. I thought I might talk about old and new by sharing the "how" of the cooking here. Standard apologies to my vegetarian friends.

This whole undertaking is made easier if you cooked a ham for Christmas. If you did, you have a ham bone and/or some pieces of ham you can cut up and use to season most of the meal. If you didn't, and you want to approach the meal from a traditional standpoint you'll have to face down the mysteries of ham hocks on your own. Good luck. For our purposes let's assume you DID cook that ham, or that you're adjusting for vegetarianism as you go along. So: there are, in our family, four main components to prepare.

Black-eyed peas must be bought dried and prepared according to package instructions. At my house this means simmered until done with the ham bone, some kosher salt and some Texas Pete.
Cornbread is prepared according to your own lights. At my house, this one has one of the shortcuts I advocate as a cook and a relatively sane person (readers will know that I believe cooks should identify and embrace those shortcuts with which they can live, and should heartily reject those with which they cannot). I use a Martha White cornbread mix shortcut, with the caveat that one cannot add sugar to cornbread. There it is, and I stand by it. Gather ye cornbreads how ye may.
Rice is critically important. In my kitchen we use a half-and-half combination of organic brown and basmati rices, both of which you can get at the grocery store. Simmered together, they fill the kitchen with a delicate aroma that takes its part in the whole of the meal's experience.
Greens are different every time I cook them, but this year they're splendid. I prefer collards for the mild flavor and one of the shortcuts I can abide is the purchase of them pre-cleaned and more or less ready to cook. This year I coated a cast iron skillet with olive oil and added very finely chopped onion, just enough to make a layer in the skillet. As the onion cooked to translucence I added about a teaspoon of kosher salt, a couple of teaspoons of sugar and several dashes of white wine vinegar. I thought something delicate like pear-infused vinegar would have been lovely, but no such luxury lay to hand. I also thought some red pepper would be a good addition. I was out, but in the top of my pantry was a small packet from a local pizza joint, enought for a slice of pizza. Perfect. A quarter cup or so of water de-glazed the skillet and the greens were added slowly to allow them to cook down. A pound of collard greens, when cooked down in a 10-inch cast iron skillet, results in about enough to serve 4 or 5 people, but it takes awhile. This cooked most of the afternoon, and when finished looked more or less like this photo.

Happy New Year and thank you for continuing to return to read, despite the erratic occurence of posts. As 2012 begins, one of my goals is to meet you here more often, for I am grateful to find myself learning and growing with each interaction. For now, peas and rice are on the table. Let's eat.

Midwinter's approach

2011-11-28T18:50:00.012-05:00

What magicks come to us on the changing wings of the weathers of autumn, as midwinter draws near and we must remind ourselves of the beauties of cold weather and the far-off hope of spring? These are all known to and cherished by us all. We gather by fireplaces; we cook amazing meals. We raise our glasses; we remember to hug each other, even when laughing at timeworn tales and jokes. We remember.

And as warm and sentimental as that notion may be, we also look into the faces of the new and the unexpected. My Dear Old Person and I spend as much time as we can walking the beaches we love, and he is always hoping against hope for Treasure. Really. You never know. Someone's 18th century silver might wash up any old day. But the unexpected turns up all around us: in this case, The Unexpected showed itself in the form of rare, gloriously beautiful Sandhill Cranes, who made a landing in a quiet field near Publix. We've often heard them in quiet spring mornings at Gatorbone, where their ritualized dance of romance is unmistakable. But we hardly expected to hear them - or dear, me, SEE them! - casually feeding in recently cleared fallow land so close to A1A.

We took pictures. We stared. We might have drawn a crowd, if we'd been watching North Atlantic right whales on the beach. It was a late afternoon, overcast and quiet, as though some glamour had been cast; perhaps the most precious among us were kept safe from much notice. So here they are; with or without the glamour my guess is you'll see right into the magick.

So what particular beauties are on offer when the clouds lower in the skies and the winds take their chill from the northeast? The season of gift-sharing draws nigh and the long, dark afternoons can make time for refining stitches. Colors and textures, contrasting and complimentary: matches you thought would work really don't, and matches you didn't expected can be made as the threads and textures show themselves in subtle winter light and shadow. We had a lovely, quiet holiday dinner. I hope you did the same, along the scale of boisterous and lively most pleasing to your own tribe. Warm leftovers and helpful hands foreshadowed the magick of mid-winter at our hearthside, leavened by windblown beach walks and shared hopes. Welcome, Christmas (and thank you, Dr. Seuss):
Fah who rah-moose Fah who rah-moose
Welcome, Welcome Welcome, Welcome
Dah who dah-moose Dah who dah-moose
Christmas day is in our grasp, So long as we have hands to clasp So long as we have hands to clasp...

MadriGalz excitement may just possibly skew this, slightly. Stay tuned for performance details, but we know we'll be appearing at Creekside Dinery and Saltwater Cowboy's on December 17/18 and 22/23.

Queen Palm Sky

2011-10-02T18:06:00.006-04:00

October has arrived, and with it the sharp blue skies we long for during the heartless, endless, breathless summer afternoons. With or without the filter of the tall queen palms, the blue is so deep that it stretches to infinity. And this is just our plain old front yard. Welcome back, October, with your reminder of all the promises of Fall. And welcome back, me: I have been long away from this beloved place of words, whispered and shouted, measured and thoughtless, balanced and unhinged. Welcome back, me, to the sharing of reflections and recipes and dialogue. I've been writing (lest you think I'd just been reading novels and eating bonbons these months. Oh, wait: come to think of it, I HAVE been reading novels and eating bonbons. But I've been writing, too, really). I've been writing over at GTMReserve and on a much smaller scale at BandBackTogether. They're a wide range of beautiful, for a range of reasons too wide to summarize here. Go forth and read.

And some things haven't changed. My dear old person continues to walk through pain. The small feet in the middle are mine; the big ones on the outside are his. Those little round dark spots on top of his are as browned by the sun as mine are all over, thanks to the small holes on top of the Crocs he wears most of the time for comfort. Neuropathy continues to make it more comfortable for him to walk with them on, rather than barefoot, even on the sculpted white sand on the beach. Chronic pain is a vague presence in most of our experiential vocabularies - mostly we take an aspirin or some ibuprophen and our headaches or backaches ease enough so we can think. Chronic pain that hovers above 5 or 6 on a scale of 1-10 isn't something most of us have to deal with, or even think about much, unless we suffer it ourselves or care about someone who does. For my own dear person, a walk on the beach sometimes shifts the balance of focus in his brain and allows pain to be shunted aside, at least for a little time. Walking with the power of Great Mother Ocean to one side and the prosaic but intriguing possibility that his metal detector may find a Spanish galleon on the other serves to switch some neurons or synapses off or on; we do not question too closely. We try to accept the gift as it is offered. My feet get brown, his open top-spots get brown; we laugh.

The long, comfortable weekend draws to a close with a touch of gold lighting the blue sky, peeking from behind this rooting angelwing begonia and its garden companion of little frogs. That glimmer of perfect light seated in the west touches the last of the streaky white clouds with pink and beckons the songbirds and fat brown marsh rabbits to their last meal of the evening.
Cardinals peep from every corner of the yard, reminding one another that the bird feeders are full. Barred owls settle themselves into the tall oak trees, obscured by great beards of Spanish moss, repeating their timeless call-and-response just above the canopy.

The kitchen waits quietly for me. I've promised comforting pan-fried cubed steak, mashed potatoes and milk gravy, corn and asparagus. It is at least as comforting to me to cook them as it is for my family to eat them. Did I mention pictures? Next time, my loves. Next time.

Simple words, simple food

2011-07-03T14:56:00.011-04:00

Indulgent readers will recall last year's summer vacation, which involved France, my dear old Person and me, the Tour de France, and oh, right: our TV. It's that time again, my dears, for early July brings the high American holiday of Independence Day, and also heralds the beginning of the Tour de France. This will mean occasional mention of my TV boyfriend, Fabian Cancellara, rather a lot of eye-rolling from my very kind dear old Person, an embarrassing number of hours logged by the DVR, and perhaps a few photos. New this year - and you'll be thankful to know this - is the role of Twitter in the 3-week long summer interlude. Twitter might mean less Tour conversation at Eat Here, but of course I'll keep you posted if anything big happens. (I know, I know.)

In the meantime, a very Happy Fourth of July to all. I do hope everyone has a lovely time with friends and family, dogs and burgers, and for those of you who've had enough rain to make them possible, bright fireworks bursting against your starlit skies. Whatever you're cooking, here's an idea for dessert, so fine that I thought it warranted more than one photo.
This was shared with just a few of our dearest friends yesterday evening, as we gathered to begin planning an upcoming family event. I've often spoken here about the gift of the friendship of women as one of the central blessings of my life, and I wrapped myself in its richness yesterday for some long, sweet hours. When small groupings of our circle form we miss the whole, feeling the gaps left by each unique pair of hands. But we're always happy to savor the presence of those of who have gathered; this was one of those afternoons. For those of my sisters whose presence I missed: fear not. There are a million favors to be asked in months to come, and millions of blessings, large and small, to rain down on us. For you who shared the afternoon with us, I have no eloquent words, only ones that have served us since the beginning of time, offered with a full heart: Thank you. I love you.

Just as plain words are sometimes the only ones perfectly suited to the moment, despite how rounded down and smoothed they've become with use, so is plain food often most perfect. So here's what we had for dessert.

It started with a pound cake I made a couple of days ago. You can use any pound cake you like, or come to that, any cake at all. This one is an old-fashioned cake, in which the eggs are separated, the whites whipped with sugar to soft peaks, then folded into the batter. It makes a taller, lighter cake with an especially delicious crust. But whatever cake you prefer or have on hand will serve nicely. Berries are abundant and cheap right now, so we had were strawberries and raspberries. A cup of cream, whipped quickly with a touch of confectioners sugar makes magic. Top with sliced almonds, toasted to bring out their flavor and add a golden touch. It's the simplest thing in the world, isn't it? It will make palates sing with the simple goodness of the flavors, and the memories sing whenever they're brought to mind. These are the rituals by which we are bound together, my dears. Bring on the fireworks. Happy Independence Day. And vive la France!

Figs on a new moon harvest

2011-07-01T21:54:00.004-04:00

Here I am, standing on the beach this afternoon. New moon, new beginning. Time for planting things, time for seeking new joys. And time for putting behind us that which is well and truly past, not unlike these past few weeks. It was a long, dark collision of hardware and software issues with the deepening complexities of the large corporate entities that exercise control over our access to precious virtual circles. But it seems to be over now, for the most part, and there is that new moon, and boy, did I miss The BlogLand.

But life has gone on apace, of course, out beyond the borders of the BlogLand. While I've seemed silent, I've had an abundant harvest of many things, including tomatoes. I shared this with you quite generously as regards How I Eat Them and How Good They Are, but have actually eaten most of them myself, sharing only rarely and with a perceptibly surly note when I do. There are just a few left, just as those of you in northern climes are beginning to get fresh beautiful tomatoes. And it's just as well that I can't reach them. You'd have to stab my hand with a fork at the table to make me leave some for everyone else. I had one sliced tonight on 5-grain bread with baby Swiss cheese and just touched with salt and pepper. That tomato tasted like it had been sprinkled with sugar. It did, really. The complex and dazzling chemistry of fresh tomatoes inebriates me and makes me greedy.

Not so the figs; our fig trees bore a small but positively toothsome first crop and have now busied themselves with - yes, really! - a second crop. I've never seen this before, but this second crop looks to be enormous and the fruits have begun to ripen. I promised to put the bulk of the crop in the freezer for Jayne, who promised in turn to make them into Fig Preserves. (Those two words used in conjuntion are quite sacred to my Dear Old Person, so I've been as good as my word, mostly. Mostly.) We are gathering them as they ripen and dropping them into a freezer bag, saving them from birds and other backyard thieves by virtue of the rather horrifying array of rubber snakes with which each tree has been adorned by my Dear Person. These are quite realistic and yet so commonplace to us that a few weeks ago EatHere's Editor drove in, parked, and said, "I just saw a snake by the gate. I pushed it out of the way with my toes, cause I thought it was one of the ones from the fig tree...and then it moved. Wanna see?" We did, naturally. Of course it was NOT a fake, but turned out to be a King snake. Which, by the way, looked uncomfortably like its deadly poisonous cousin, the coral snake. It gave me quite a turn, I must tell you. Thank goodness for the Field Guide to Reptiles, which reassured us. And thank goodness the birds do not have access to the Field Guide, and continue in their reluctance to swoop in for the ripening figs.

So plant something, make a wish, dream a dream, and charge it all to the new moon. Do not let the birds read the Reptile book, say your prayers, and take good care of each other. It is more lovely than I can say to tell you a small story and hum a bit of melody for you, a lullaby in the form of an ode to figs and tomatoes, under the pale light of the freshening moon.

Eat Here embraces summertime, or Involving Tomatoes

2011-05-23T20:36:00.010-04:00

Well met, my dear friends. I could say, "I've missed you," but that wouldn't be true, precisely: each of you dwell with me in some inner reflective space, perhaps more than you realize. If I don't know you but you've done me the favor and honor of dropping by for a read, it might be fair to say I dwell on you more than perhaps I myself realize. So then, I do miss you, whether or not you're a regular presence. AND I have this confession to make: all the things I meant to write about as winter drew to a close remain unwritten. I've been caught up in Work and Stuff, (go ahead say it you've been cheating with The Twitter oh all RIGHT, it's TRUE, everyone knows about me and The Twitter so now shut UP!) and, you know, important stuff like Gardening.

It's true enough that my gardening is lazily focused on tomatoes and could be said to be rather one-dimensional. I have a few desultory marigolds functioning largely as splashes of color, masquerading as useful bug deterrents. Basil is a fortunate and wholly accidental side effect of tossing some seeds near the dirt. Rosemary is a coveted triumph which apparently only occurs in the gardens of others. (Ahem. Some of these "others" are dear friends, from whose gardens I have fruitlessly or bootlessly stolen bits of rosemary. Do not tell them. And don't worry; they won't find out when they visit my garden. The evidence seldom remains.) Still, as the saying goes, even a broken clock is right twice a day, and these are those beautifully golden, rather too hot, lengthening summer days where the best may come before the end of any of them.

So brace up, everyone. Truly, you can be the same lazy gardener I am and still manage to put this together. Back in the day, Jayne and I used to make these at the office during summer tomato season, using a small toaster oven, with affectionate support from fans like Mr. Ming's mother. We drew crowds from far and wide. When our small toaster over betrayed us by belching just a bit of smoke we even drew unwelcome crowds from the management offices, but we didn't like them much, anyway so that was all right.

It was this easy and it still is today, as long as you have those all-important fresh garden tomatoes. Toast two slices of interesting bread. This may be sourdough or sunflower or Kalamata olive bread, but whatever your poison you must toast it lightly on both sides. Lightly spread one side of each slice with a good quality mayonnaise. (You can skip this step if you must.) Cover each slice of bread with slices of fresh tomato. Lightly sprinkle with salt and pepper (and if you've a bit of fresh basil you have only slightly stolen from a neighboring garden, now's the time). Top each slice of bread with a solid slice (or a good amount of grated) Cheese. You. Love. This can be a stout Vermont white cheddar or grated Emmenthaler or - really - any cheese you like. Put both slices under a hot broiler and remove when the cheese has melted or browned or bubbled or looks just the way you like it.
If you have fresh figs, put them on the plate or follow an alternate plan and add whatever lovely fruit you can. Add a glass of pinot grigio or cold fresh water and you've captured summer's flavors in your own kitchen and your own house and maybe even in your own garden. Just like that.

Belated birthday blessings

2011-05-06T20:44:00.013-04:00

My, oh MY, how the days do whirl past my head like fireflies on a summer night. Days and days have whizzed by without me finding time to write here. And so it comes to pass that I am finally writing a post I meant to write a month ago...ah, as Ms. Moon would say, la. Here are the Easter lilies, blooming well past their expected date, but perfuming the garden, nonetheless. Like them, I thank you for not giving up on me.

Several remarkable women in my circle celebrate birthdays in April, and in their honor I want to remember two other very special women who lived in St. Augustine when I was too young, perhaps, to fully appreciate them. Both of them were known to me by the now almost-extinct prefix of Mrs. They were Mrs. Weiderman and Mrs. Allemano, and though as different as chalk and cheese, they also shared a grace in aging.

Mrs. Weiderman was a frequent visitor at the Booksmith, the marvelous independent bookstore of revered memory where I worked. She was a tall woman, somewhat spare of build, somewhat reserved in manner. By the time I knew her, she must have been in her 60s, but it was hard to tell, really. She was active and self-reliant and might have been a decade younger or older. She had discerning taste and was always reading something interesting. And she lived on St. Andrews Court, a tiny street in downtown St. Augustine that has always welcomed the artistic and eclectic. This was about as much as I knew about her. But I wasn't her only connection to our very young household: she was also a customer at the mechanical shop where my dear old person worked in those years, long time past, my dears. By pure happenstance he mentioned her to me one day. She was an especially kind customer, he said. She'd made him a gift of a calendar from the 1940s that he treasured. I was surprised to hear him refer to her as "June", quite casually. I'm not sure I'd even known her first name. It was typical of him to develop a rapport with customers, because he was both generous with knowledge and unfailingly honest. Over the years he amassed an impressive following and I used to tease him about the mourning period that followed his move to a corporate environment. Even so, I was nearly astonished, and a bit awed, to hear him call this refined lady "June". For me, she was a respected customer. But she was also capable of establishing unlikely friendships, a gift not given to everyone. This wild iris or lily or whatever it is, blooms in a boggy spot under our oak canopy, and has always reminded me of women like Mrs. Weiderman. It is hardy and determined. It's also inherently - and unselfconsciously - beautiful.

Mrs. Allemano was similar to Mrs. Weiderman in height and build, in her love of books and scholarship and her capacity for embracing the unexpected. Mrs. Allemano, however, had an air about her that was at once commanding of respect, and generous and calming. She was quite tall, with a crown of silvered hair, and I never saw her dressed with anything less than the most exacting care and the most perfectly chosen accessories. She had a timeless quality seated in her very spirit which was most easily visible in her sense of style. If her person had been made invisible so that only her dress and accessories were considered, it would have been impossible to guess at the age of their owner. This timelessness was a function of her formidable intellect, as well, but it would be years before I realized that she was honored in many circles for her erudition and spiritual wisdom, but this is a story for another night, my loves. Perhaps it is enough to say that she was imperious and regal, but probably didn't realize think of herself in those terms at all. She raised children who made their homes arond the world, in London and Paris and various points on the African continent. She was an insatiable reader, erudite and relentless in the pursuit of learning. On one memorable MadriGalz occasion when she had gathered her family from the corners of the earth, they came to the Cafe Alcazar for a holiday luncheon. Surrounded by her grown children and Mrs. Allemano, who was was "Irene" to many members of the circle to which I would one day belong, was another breathtakingly beautiful woman for whom age was an enrichment, and nothing less.

For those of you whose birthdays I missed in a blue and beautiful April, I wish you this great blessing. For Tracy and Jackie, for Rima, for Issis and Nirvana and especially for beloved Lizzie, may the blessing of years sit as lightly and gracefully with you as it did with these two unique, lovely women. May a new year enrich and deepen the beauty of each of you. Love to each of you from our house under the oak trees, the Spanish moss and the benediction of the golden hour.
I'm sorry it's so late, but happy, happy birthday to each of you.

Guana is my new BFF. We need you.

2011-04-06T20:41:00.004-04:00

So: because we spend so much time at this beloved, pristine, undeveloped beach and because the state has tight controls over how its staff can interact with the Actual Internet, and for other, even more boring reasons, I've created a blog and a Twitter account for Guana (officially known at Guana Tolomato Matanzas National Estuarine Research Reserve). I know, I know. It's ridiculous. But it's beautiful and a source of peace and comfort to Rodney and I, such that I cannot begin to put into words. I would be grateful for your patronage, even if you don't live here, and can't walk with us on Saturdays and Sundays...just knowing you're willing to follow the blog and perhaps the (what will almost certainly be intermittent feed on) Twitter would be incredibly meaningful to me. I truly do feel that this is one of those places on earth we stand at great risk of losing. Your sister and brotherhood would be more welcome there than I can tell you.
Love, love.

Madrigals, MadriGalz and Mrs. Pellicer

2011-04-03T22:34:00.018-04:00

At the very heart of my town there's a web of connection reaching back decades or generations or, in some cases, hundreds of years. In the case of my dear old person, for instance, some of his connections go back to kindergarten at R.B. Hunt Elementary School (conveniently located right across from the Alligator Farm!) and some go back through his Aunt Helen to Spain and the island of Minorca and those descendants who settled along the eastern coast of Florida. The interesting threads of that web include people like Pellicers and Klipstines and Pacettis and Prevatts and Manucys and, well. Ahem. The list goes on and on, and it has a million stories. Father Tom Willis, who was once a plain old St. Augustine boy himself, recalled serving at Mass at the Cathedral, which stands right alongside the central Plaza in St. Augustine, and having everyone dash out the doors at the (locally famous) cry of "Mullet on the beach!" From this same Cathedral along this same Plaza, with their evocative sense of the old cities of Europe, Sister Patricia took one of her boldest steps toward melding our oddly Southern-cum-Catholic sensibilities with an appreciation of the culture and musical history that was always our birthright.

From about 1980 until about 2000, she served as musical director and organizer of a group of Madrigal singers who worked roughly as the MadriGalz do today, during the holiday season. She did Madrigal dinners. She taught madrigals, with their intricate, delicate harmonies, to a small, shifting group of singers who were all eager to learn. She taught Klipstines and Pellicers, at least two of whom married each other. She found people who could make period costumes, and tenors who were willing to wear them. I think it might have been during this time that she realized the breadth of the gift of musicality with which Miss Judy had been blessed, but that's a tale for another night, my loves. The Cathedral Madrigal Singers had a LOT of fun. It was a fine experience of the pure and undiluted joy of a capella singing in close harmony, perhaps something like being part of an ensemble of actors: perhaps too subtle to be noticed by casual observers, small ensembles can create an exhilarating trust in one another and consequent confidence, the effects of which can be felt for a lifetime.

All this leads us to the present day, albeit without the detail I ought to have provided. (Many people contributed to the evolution of madrigal performance in St. Augustine, some of them heroically. And this, of course, is another evening's tale, my dears.) Left to our own devices we were predictably naughty (all Miss Judy's fault, of course.) The MadriGalz pirated some of Sister's early ideas, figured out how to fit them to the vocal talent we had amongst us, and took a long happy dive into singing at Christmastide. Many, many voices and coaches deserve credit for early changes, helping step this quadrant of St. Augustine into the contemporary; driving toward incremetal change.

We - Judy and Lis and I - wanted to be better in our incarnation as The MadriGalz. We wanted to share the journey, however obscure or even invisible it might have been to our friends. We worked as hard as our day jobs allowed. We spent time recording at Gatorbone Studios; we took shameless advantage of indispensable talent (Lon and Rocky and Rick: we're pretty sure we still owe all these guys). But make no mistake: we would not have been able to share that recording beyond geography and logistics without Miss Dot. She made us a gift of faith that enabled us to replicate the CD that had been lovingly recorded for us by Gatorbone Studios. I believe she made many such gifts of love during her life, and I came to believe she was one of those "let not your left hand" people; for Miss Dot it was far more important to do those small good deeds than to be recognized for the doing.

This Christmas past, 2010, we gathered at Miss Dot Pellicer's house (she was 'Mrs. Pellicer', of course, but always 'Miss Dot' to us) and carolled just for her. We were scheduled to sing at Creekside Dinery at suppertime; it's close by and we took advantage of the time. We sang with more care than ever, not performing as we usually might, but rather sharing the music with her, knowing we weren't singing to someone without appreciation. We leaned close to her to sing the Arcadelt Ave Maria, a breathtaking 16th century version that always brings tears to our eyes and gives us goosebumps. Miss Dot closed her eyes and seemed delighted by the sound. Her kids and grandkids and great-grandkids (Pellicers, Klipstines, Prevatts: who knows? who cares?) gathered around our ankles or pushed into the small room. There were no acoustical challenges. We simply leaned together and sang in close quiet harmony, comfortably, hoping to ease Miss Dot in whatever small way we might. We eased one another. I think Lis and I dared to hope that our voices might have eased her mother, but especially that we might have eased Miss Judy in some small measure.

There were madrigals in St. Augustine, some time gone. And there are MadriGalz, and there were countless miles in between, more twists and turns than could be counted or followed. For all these and many other changes and challenges, there was Dot Pellicer. May the next generation of art and music and change find its humble way through the unquestioning blessing of others like Dot. Among the Pellicers is the example of Red River Band, with Miss Judy's brother Jonny and sister-in-law Lori as the principals: Lori was one of the founding members of that madrigal group I mentioned. She had a voice like a silver bell. She went from singing madrigals to singing bluesy ballads with the same command....but this is yet another tale for another night, my loves.

For this night, we send our love to Miss Judy and are simply thankful to Miss Dot. She is gone from us now, but leaves Miss Judy and her siblings as proof of her genetically inherited and shared talent, love and faith in the future.

For Miss Dot, the Angel of the Pellicers

2011-03-29T21:37:00.003-04:00

Just a very quick post, everyone, in brief but heartfelt praise of our friend Miss Dot Pellicer, mom of Miss Judy (Pellicer Bernhard), who is the well-known Boss of Us here at the MadriGalz. When the Madz were trying to figure out how on EARTH to come up with enough capital to record a CD, it was Miss Dot who came to our rescue, as she went often and quietly to many other rescues in our little town. Miss Dot passed from us this week at the age of 89, and while our dear Miss Judy and her family try to figure out how to get along without her, we know she's Up There now, watching out for us all.

The Madz were lucky enough to gather this past Christmas and carol for Miss Dot, but we were poor substitutes for angels. May the angels lead you into paradise, Miss Dot. You will be with us always.

Boys (or, Postcards from Spring, Part II)

2011-03-23T19:09:00.022-04:00

My theme of the coming of Spring continues, viewed through the remarkable lens of Gatorbone. There are more tales of boys than I can possibly write, or at least there are more than I can write before I commence my life as a Great Novelist. Yeah, yeah. I know.

Still, there were some great Boy stories. This dreadful photo (I promise there are better ones to come) is our beloved Lis, holding the darling baby of a friend whose weekend trip had been undone by a flu bug of some sort. I think Baby and Dad were the only ones who persevered, and just to be on the safe side, when we served their supper I gave them ginger ale.

And then there was Vergil. As Ms. Moon said (more or less - I am quoting from unreliable memory), It's not fair to tuck yourself in to our hearts like that and then leave. Vergil and Miss Jessie paired their mandolins to give us a delightful song about children learning to spell through the magic of music. They will probably be horrified to hear this, but it reminded me of good old Mister Rogers, who always talked to children like people, and tried to teach children to think of themselves as such. Go to Ms. Moon's: she has a lovely photo of Miss Jessie and Vergil there, and if you see it you may understand why I could not take a photo of them all weekend. They were as beautiful as snowdrops, and as fresh and as welcome. They stunned me with their beauty, their youth, the perfectly tuned instrument of their young love. They made me think of my own faraway boy, and his love and their family. They took my breath away.

It happened that my own old boy called at this moment, and I could put the phone between two great teachers he's learned from, and he could hear them playing together across a thousand miles and more. I whispered into the phone, "Can you hear them?", and he whispered into my ear, "Mom, put the phone back." And here I am again, in the middle of a story with so much more depth and texture than can be captured here, dipping along its still surface with you like a flock of black skimmers at the beach. You must trust me when I tell you that music came to my sons in the cradle, but their welcoming of it as self-determining individuals is a source of great joy to me. Some of the people in this picture stood as musical midwives, if you will, delivering music as a forever part of the lives of my sons. As verbose as I am by nature, I run out of words here. This is where I have no more than sentimental tears to offer; as soon as he called, I began to cry and could barely talk. I handed the phone to another of his mothers, Miss Lorie, whose kind voice welcome as cool water to him. My boys continue to write their stories, tanks be to God (as an Irish priest would say), they have this amazing village to help them along the way.

There was a pinnacle Boy moment, of course. We were diverted and entertained and often made speechless this weekend by our friend Ro, whose precocity is remarkable, yet leavened with a sweetness of spirit to take your breath away. There were long minutes in Lis's garden while we waited for the birds to come, (quiet, QUIET!) while Ro moved bird seed from the feeder to various preferred locations, each certain to make the birds far happier than the status quo placement. I sat at a small round table with my dear old person and Miss Cathy, and we called to Ro as he passed by us on a mission we couldn't quite see. We called to him, and very quickly he turned and blew a kiss in our direction. It was a fine Boy moment, one perfect moment among many on offer at magical Gatorbone Lake this weekend. I am grateful, grateful. Oh, I am.

Dona nobis pacem (or, Postcards from Spring, Part I)

2011-03-21T17:34:00.021-04:00

Our circle is wide, deep and diverse, and though it consists of friends rather than colorful lines on paper, it could be quite nicely described by one of those spirograph drawings you did as a kid: some circles perfectly repeated, others endearingly imperfect. The circle exerts its gravitational pull across generations, social connections, religion and history. It's made rich by the sensibilities of us all, some deeply religious, some seriously intellectual, all creative in an astonishing range of ways, and every member with his or her own spiritual awareness. My guess - unsubstantiated, for this is the kind of thing I never ask people - is that we have among us the Buddhist and Christian, pagan and atheist, and deeply ambivalent. We ranged in age this year from newborn to celebration of 70th birthdays and beyond. Some of us hold degrees that might genuinely surprise others among us. Others demonstrate their individual educations in their art forms, whether hand-built instruments, songwriting and performance, garden-grown or lovingly prepared food or art forms like ribbon flowers, rescued from a near-forgotten age. We write. We sing. We play instruments. We raise children, and grandchildren. We love, whether as young lovers who promise us babies and eternity or as dearly bonded, life-bonded couples, perhaps more softly but with no less passion. We fight, we forgive, we re-connect. And on the eve of Spring this year, we gathered to celebrate.

On a long dock stretching to reach the edge of a shallowing lake, our precious circle of friends perched Saturday evening and waited for the rising of the moon. I needn't explain here about the exceptional moonrise. It was a once-in-a-century occasion and you know that already. I stood near my dear old person, sometimes holding a camera, and watched with the others as the golden light of sunset bathed our backs and the deepening evening touched our faces. In the quiet before the moonrise I heard a small song rise, voices of my sisters raised in this sweet round: "Dona nobis pacem". Christian, Catholic, Methodist, Pagan and Buddhist, whatever...what does it matter, really? The song was lovely and the sentiment transcendent.

Dona nobis pacem.
And with that, the round of the moon appeared on the horizon over the lake, the pearl white color deepened to auburn for a moment and lightened as it rose above the trees. Dona nobis pacem. Grant us peace.

Author's note: My unsparing editor tells me, kindly, that much of this is sentimental bilge, though he concedes his definition of "sentimenal bilge" is rather more strict than my own, for which reason he's corrected some typos and given me a pass (dona nobis pacem, anybody?). I promise I'll try to rein in the sentimentality in the rest of the Postcards from Spring series.

Photos(c)Rodney Christensen 2011

Spring, jump-started at Gatorbone

2011-03-20T15:45:00.006-04:00

The photos are not all downloaded, the dirty laundry is not all unpacked. But the songs still ring in my ears, the scent of wisteria and bloom of dogwood are still fresh enough to breathe in and the blessed circle of friendship and love and sisters is far too humbling for me not to say a word. I have jumble of thoughts to share in the next few days as I sort over them and store them carefully in memory, and I bet I'm not the only one. I'll taste the last angel biscuit and show you where we've been and later this week we can talk about the magic of the moon, the joy of people and food and music combined on ancient sacred ground, and the almost indescribable benediction of shared memories and affection that have been woven into these past decades. Until then, love and deepest thanks to Lon and Lis and everyone else who made this spring ritual more magical than ever before.

Spring floats down from the sky, and Guana sends News

2011-02-26T15:20:00.030-05:00

A small yellow flower peeping up from a bed of moss and last year's oak leaves is often the first glimpse of spring where I live. Carolina jessamine is a glorious twining vine that lives happily cheek-to-cheek with oak trees. It climbs high up, seeking the sun, and its first blossoms fall to the ground, calling my eye upward for the message: the light has come. Spring may not be here just yet, but it is close, oh, very close. Creating contrast for the jessamine at treetop-level is the clear blue sky so typical of this time of year, clean as a soul's salvation and as welcome. You can't see it in this picture, but you'll see it in the canopy of oak trees further down the page.

It was a day of contrasts, illustrated by the clear weather at home this morning that gave way to a low, moist fog, waiting to soften the edges of the view as soon as we stepped onto the beach. The fog didn't really pull back its long grey fingers until past noon. As we walked off the beach around 1 pm, it was still visible in the distance, settled between the rows of dunes separating the Atlantic from A1A. Because of the weather the beach was nearly deserted until afternoon, but we happened upon couple who share our simple joy in a good walk in a beautiful place, Irene and Joe, seasonal visitors. They were watching for whales, looking for sharks' teeth, and unsuspecting targets of Bandit's ongoing social outreach program. We met them both south- and northbound on their walk and chatted for a bit at both intersections, in contrast to most beach walks, where we keep our own counsel or talk to each other in the easy shorthand of the long-married. It's funny how chance meetings and conversations with strangers can deepen your appreciation for the smallest things, including the presence of a veritable paradise right in your own backyard.

Contrasts and simple pleasures lingered into the afternoon for us. The peace under the oak canopy was interestingly cracked and broken by the sights and sounds of aircraft, including several really loud passes by at least two sets of planes flying in very close formation, moving so fast it was difficult to catch sight of them through the branches and the Spanish moss moving in the wind.
Aircraft or not, the pileated woodpecker pair continued their work, indifferent to the disturbance, and as the afternoon wore toward evening, the barred owls called "Who? Who? Who cooks for youuuuuu...?" right over the whine of jet engines, taking not the least notice.

The cool damp of the morning fog had by this time given way to a spring day warm enough for the taking off of sweaters. The dogs found puddles of bright sunlight and stretched into afternoon naps. My dear old person and I strolled around the estate, noting the tiny hints of spring. Besides the Carolina jessamine, which fairly burst into bloom two or three days ago, we have camellias blooming at long last.

Those of you who love Ms. Moon's camellias will find no similar expertise here, for I have but one variegated camellia that doesn't take itself very seriously. But its blossoms carry the same promise of spring throughout their very tightly wound winter wait, and are as eagerly anticipated. We found one very tiny perfect fig leaf open on one of the fig trees, small buds on the cherry tree, and the first of the wild violets I love most of all, the delicate flower nestled among its heart-shaped leaves, waiting to be noticed.

Another small, non-botanical flower reached me today, too: my constant nagging about using social media to put a spotlight on GTM NERR is being kindly received, and it may be that I can lend a hand...stay tuned. For now, you can find all the news and events in the newsletter and PAY ATTENTION: whether you're a photographer or a walker or a fossil collector or take an interest in local environmental issues, or are a history buff, there's something in here for you. There are photo safaris, organized walks, visits to Marineland (the "Matanzas" part of "Guana Tolomato Matanzas") and lectures on specific topics...hell, there's even a beach walk, focused on understanding the delicate ecological subsystems we probably don't even think about on our many excursions to this very spot.

As the day fades gently into evening, the theme of contrast echoes once more, carried on the sharp edge of the cooling air. The pools of warm sunshine have disappeared into oak shadows and I need a sweater once again. Time to put chicken on the grill, time to wash greens for a salad, time to check with my dear old person and our dear boy about slicing strawberries. Time to go in for the night, my dears, and wish you sweet dreams and beautiful Sundays.

Coming soon

2011-02-21T18:56:00.015-05:00

It hasn't been a weekend conducive to writing blog posts at Eat Here. We've had some issues involving wells and pumps, things evocative of (insert shudder here) Hardware Stores. So since I haven't had the focus for a thoughtful post, I've come up with a list of things I plan to write this spring. This is Eat Here's Coming Soon list for Spring 2011.

SPE
I'm going to work on my definitive Sister Patricia Eileen post this spring, collecting the work I've done so far, combining it with the generous recollections of others who've loved and appreciated her, and writing one combined post. Apologies in advance to those of you who know this story already; for those of you who don't, here's a brief recap. SPE, as she was fondly called behind her back when she was at her formidable best, was the Director of Music at the Cathedral of St. Augustine. She was the beloved, marvelous, talented, infurating, iron-willed inspiration to a generation of singers whose voices she brought to full potential, and for me she was a life-changing teacher and in some ways a substitute for my mother. These days she is lovingly cared for by the order through which she served the Church for many long years as she's afflicted by a form of dementia and, ironically, profound deafness. Sister Rosemary is in charge of SPE's pastoral care, and believes the collected memories will help SPE's caregivers have a more complete picture of the many years she lived and worked in St. Augustine. I know she's right. I've been putting it off, of course, because facing dementia is hard, and it's harder for people who've dealt with it in their own houses. To tell the story of a living person whose life has been made hollow and empty by this cruel disorder is to straddle the line between life and death. The person you loved is gone. In her place is another person, no less precious, but a stranger at best. At worst, she's a stranger who doesn't have any idea who you are, or how much she means to you, or how she changed your life. It is a hard thing. But it's Coming Soon at Eat Here.

Hey, this means if you have something about SPE to share, and you haven't sent it to me already, PLEASE DO. Quick, before I lose momentum!

Guana News
A much more cheerful Coming Soon is news from Guana Reserve. I hear another learning session is planned on the topic of Beach Fossil Collecting and Identification and I promise to keep you posted. I'll post any news I have about North Atlantic Right Whale sightings, and I also expect to have lots of news as the nesting season gets underway for the local sea turtles we all watch over with such hope.

Food (of course)
I've been inspired by my friend Lisa to write a post about the lighter side of Julia Child. French cooking isn't always heavy or serious, and I believe Julia knew this and wanted her American audience to understand it, too. I'm no expert on Julia, of course, but we've been celebrating her birthday here for some years as devoted fans, sometimes even marking the occasion with a dinner gathering. So Julia goes to the Coming Soon list, too.

There's more, of course. I've been making some rather nice hats and things, most of the early beauties of the earth have tiny, promising buds, and the Goddess has flung open her arms this full moon with astonishing high- and low tides, among other things, including black and white warblers visiting and wrens actively nesting in our garage...much, much more. But for tonight there is gratitude for an artesian well, which allows us running water, albeit without much water pressure; generous friends; a flexible workplace and best of all, readers who will give me a pass on a real blog post, accepting a Coming Soon in its place.

Follow Me on Twitter
blogspot doesn't have a terrific Follow Me widget, but I really like Twitter and find myself using it more and more. If you tweet, please find me. I'm AngieatEatHere, and remember, Twitter is case-sensitive.

Eat Here's favorite grilled sandwich

2011-02-19T19:52:00.008-05:00

Time for Eat Here to return to a topic near and dear to us: Did you eat yet?

Sandwiches are always a viable evening meal possibility for us, and this is an old familiar favorite. You probably have your own variation on the theme. For us there are a couple of necessities: sourdough bread, real beef pastrami, good cheese and homemade coleslaw. In your house these may be as varied as rye or wheat bread, turkey pastrami - or, honestly, no pastrami at all; you can leave it off altogether and still have a fine sandwich - and storebought coleslaw. Sorry about the cheese. By Eat Here Eatery rules, you can't really make this without the good quality cheese, though endless variations on that theme are certainly possible.

For perfection, you should make your own coleslaw*, but you can come very close to perfection with good-quality coleslaw from Publix or a local deli you already love. From that same deli, get some thinly sliced pastrami and cheese. I recommend baby Swiss or nice sharp cheddar, but my people are wimpy about cheese; a good quality white American covers this inadequacy pretty neatly. You'll need Thousand Island dressing to add a gentle tangy touch, though of course any homemade dressing meeting those requirements will do nicely. For hardware you need a good cast iron skillet or griddle (we use the latter) but if you don't have one, any skillet will do.

Here's the how-to. Place two slices of sourdough or whatever bread you prefer facedown on the cast iron griddle and set over medium-high heat. (We don't butter these since God knows we do NOT need the extra fat, but you can, if you prefer.) Gently spread the face-up sides with Thousand Island dressing (or your chosen variation). Place sliced cheese on one slice of bread and adjust the heat so the cheese can begin to melt while you add ingredients. Top the cheese with a slice or two of pastrami to taste, or omit this step for a vegetarian version of the sandwich. Top this same slice of bread with a generous dollop of coleslaw. (For the Rodney version of this sandwich, top with sliced bread-and-butter pickles or petite gherkins. For the Angie version, top with sliced jalapenos or roasted red peppers, or, um, both.) Assemble both slices of bread into a sandwich and flip gently as needed to toast evenly. Key to success: toast long enough to melt the cheese a bit without overheating the coleslaw.

Cut sandwich into halves or quarters and serve with salad. Sound good?

*Coleslaw
In a two-cup measuring cup, place about 4 tablespoons of sugar. Drizzle sugar with best-quality vinegar (raspberry or pear vinegar are great, but plain old apple cider vinegar works just fine), using just enough vinegar to absorb the sugar. When the sugar is completely absorbed, add about about a tablespoon of regular mustard and about a cup of mayonnaise or salad dressing. Let this mixture stand for 15 minutes or so before topping the vegetables.

Shred half a head of cabbage, a couple of carrots and half a sweet onion into a large bowl, and when the dressing is ready, toss everything together. The cabbage will shrink as if by magic and the big bowl will outlive its usefulness, but the outcome of the work is delightfully worth the effort, including washing out that big old bowl.

Time out of mind

2011-02-19T17:33:00.011-05:00

When you listen to music, do you hear harmonies in your head? And if you do, can you remember a time when you weren't able to hear them?

In one of the precious moments of very early spring with which north Florida blesses us most years, I walked along the beach at Guana today with a two delighted dogs and a dear old person. This is the time I dedicate to reflection, to contemplation, to what is called prayer in some spiritual languages. Today my internal reflections were framed by the drama of the high and low tide marks, defined by the fullness of the moon. And those reflections turned again and again to memory; specifically, to conditions of my own memory for which I have no fallback recollection. What existed before a given memory?

Until she died about four years ago, neither of my sons could remember a time in their lives when we didn't have a well-loved nursemaid of a dog named Sheba. She came to us when Mac was a little more than three years old. When he searches his memories there are no conscious flashes of images in which Sheba isn't at least a peripheral presence. Likewise, I don't believe either of my sons remember the ocean being introduced to their consciousness. Like their dad, they remember it as always having been there. In contrast I have a mental image, undimmed after all these years, of the first time I stepped into the shifting sand and surf of St. Augustine Beach. I was seven years old, had been born and raised among the hills and mountains of east Tennessee, and I had never seen anything so dazzling. My sons, like their dad, were carted to the beach most days, weather permitting, as babies in diapers, and set down into warm tide pools to sift sand and turn brown as acorns. Like Sheba, the beach was Always There.

Music and vocal harmony feels this way for me. My ear was tuned by my genetics - both my mother and my father were fine singers, and it might be argued that my father was actually quite a gifted singer whose sweet light baritone was relatively untrained but undeniably lovely. My mother fed me close harmonies with breast milk. I absorbed melody, nakedly gorgeous vocal ability and preservation of musical history through the voice of Joan Baez before I could talk. It would be many years before my dear teacher Sister Patricia would introduce me to formal bel canto singing, but when she did I recognized it right away. I'd been able to harmonize with "Barbara Allen" as a toddler; the duet of Palestrina's Stabat Mater was a challenge I'll have to tell you about later but as difficult as it would be to sing (and I'm proud to tell you I did selections from it with Miss Judy, one Lenten season long ago), it sounded like the most natural thing in the world to me. My mother poured the folk music of her time into my open ears and heart but she also believed in its roots, which were most easily to be heard in those days in the Grand Ole Opry. This, too, she poured out like baptismal waters. By the time I was invited to sing in a choir when I was eight years old, finding an alto line a third below the soprano was as comfortable to me as an old quilt. And though I already knew I didn't have the top range to voice them, those upper harmonies a third or a fourth or a fifth above the melody were just as familiar and comforting in my inner ear as that same faded old quilt.

What, my dears, do you recall in this way? Is there something you know you must have learned but cannot remember the learning of it, so that it seems something you were born with? Is there a person to whom you must have been introduced who nevertheless seems to have been with you from the moment of your birth? Are there other like tricks of memory and learning?

Or is it just me?

One Fine Thing

2011-02-15T21:10:00.012-05:00

Everyone has a first novel, as a Booksmith publisher's rep used to say; everyone has a first novel because everyone has their own story to tell. True novelists are born storytellers, who have many more than that one best-known and most intimately understood tale. By this standard it's easy to recognize storytellers in those second and third novels that succeed for their authenticity and resonance with readers. But let us not dismiss those who have only that one great and deeply honest tale to tell. Each person's personal story is of interest, though some are made more so by the embellishment of good writing. Occasionally you come across one which is much more than interesting. Now and then, you may be fortunate to hear a personal story so compelling as to transcend any dependence on the telling itself.

On a very ordinary day, I crossed from the building where I work to an adjacent building in search of some insight into a technical problem. I'd worked with Nash* for several years, not every day, but on several large projects where my understanding - and therefore success - had been enhanced by his knowledge and the generosity with which he shared it. Among a sea of cubicles, I found him and pulled a chair into his cube to ask questions, preparing myself to listen as Nash translated highly technical answers into more or less layman's language for my benefit. I posed my set of questions. In a moment during which he quickly considered how to frame his answers in such a way that they'd be helpful to me, I passed a casual eye around his cube, noticing framed awards and certificates of recognition and personal family photos. I focused on a photo of his young son; we chatted about kids, about boys, about having boys who were 5 or 6 years old: homework, headstrong behavior, whether or not to coach soccer or baseball, how to get them to listen. We laughed, enjoying the contrast of common ground and diversity of our connection. I was a middle-aged woman of Irish and English extraction, raised a Catholic in the southern U.S., with all the psychic wrinkles that implies. Nash had emigrated from India, where a deep value for education had been instilled in him. He spoke more than 5 languages comfortably. His dark eyes flashed with inteliigence and humor, and his early education had come from priests and brothers in a Catholic school. They'd seen his abilities quite early on, he told me: when he visited the school of his youth as a grown man, the walls were still hung with certificates of achievement he'd been awarded, records which hadn't been surpassed despite the passing of years.

He began to answer my immediate work-related questions, but I continued to be distracted by the photos on his desk. When I made out the details on one of them, I interrupted him rather rudely to ask about the faces looking out from the photo. Who were they? Did I know any of them? Was the small woman in the middle someone who would be recognizable in the western world? It was a bit of a story, he said, a bit shyly. Could we have lunch together so he could tell me?, I asked. Yes, of course, he said.

When we sat to eat, the tale flowed quickly and with a subtle note of pride. The photo that had caught my interest showed a group of young men, most of them (Nash would tell me) from Indian or Pakistani families. They were college students who'd been relaxing together in a common area, sharing a meal, talking inconsequentially, when their casual talk turned to speculation about the future. What will we do, one of them wondered, What great deed will we do that will define us and make us memorable? As they talked, one of them said, What if we set ourselves a task? What great and fine objective could we challenge ourselves with? They talked a long time together. Nash had been reading a newspaper before the long philosophical discussion began and he picked it up now. Looking out from the paper was a photo of Mother Theresa. It seemed to be a gentle inspiration, and before the evening turned to morning, the group of young students had decided: they would take up a collection of money and perhaps other donations, and they would take these to Mother Theresa herself, wherever she was, far, far away in Calcutta. And they would do it during a break so that no classes would be missed.

What began as a well-intentioned but impulsive, youthful, almost off-handed generous impulse became an informal mission. Because of the physical distance between their university and Mother Theresa's mission, the friends agreed they would bicycle to her with whatever collection of donations they were able to amass. Nash had no bicycle, but circumstances aligned themselves so that a bicycle found its way to him, and the mechanical fixes the bike needed were somehow managed. As the group of friends reached out for donations, they found such an outpouring of generosity that the logistics of delivery became another challenge: it was a long trip, they had a school schedule to keep and they had no money or arrangements for hotels or transportation. And yet it seemed that each question was answered with every step. When they needed to rest for the night, villages opened with hospitality. When they needed to continue their trek by night, word had spread so that truck drivers followed the bicycles at a distance with their headlights on, lighting the way for the riders. In truth, Nash told me, his eyes bright, they felt as though this simple, youthful idea to do just one fine thing had gotten some special celestial notice. Their One Fine Thing was being helped along by an energy they hadn't expected. And before they knew it, they'd arrived in the city and been directed to the facility run by Mother Theresa. Perhaps most remarkably of all, someone had spoken to her and she would be delighted to meet with this group of young men, most of them students of engineering and technology, none of them unusually religious or particularly idealistic. Interestingly, in Nash's telling of the tale religion played almost no part. This had been a mission of kindness. If any of the friends had a particularly relgious motivation, it seemed that was a completely private matter.

On Nash's desk was captured that moment: 8 or 10 young students of varied backgrounds and destinies, towering in a rough circle around the tiny, wizened and perfectly beautiful woman who had touched thousands directly and millions indirectly. Here was a glimpse of his One Fine Thing, he told me, the One Fine Thing he would be able to tell his son about, the thing he would be able to challenge his son to achieve for himself. This was how he saw the conclusion of his brief moment, really. It was his own effort to do something good to make a small but unforgettable change to the world, and it is his enduring effort to pass that human requirement on to his children, whose job it is to find - and do - One Fine Thing.

My own cube, whether or not it really is a literal cube (after all, who doesn't feel at least a little bit at home with Dilbert?) certainly shares latitude and longitude with someone else who has A Story, and maybe someone with a fine thing they've done or are just about to do. I just have to remind myself to listen.

*Nash is not his real name.

Ancient and modern, washed on the shoreline

2011-02-12T19:01:00.017-05:00

Note to self: Self, you are very lucky. There is no snow on your roof. The air temperature today was close to 60 degrees. You walked on the beach today. Do no complaining, Self.
Note to friends in northern climes: Friends, I wish you were all here.

We attended a clinic today at the Environmental Education Center at GTMMER. It was conducted by one of the guys who works at Guana, a self-taught amateur fossil collector like many of us named Jake, and a good time was had by all. Our friends Suzanne and Chuck came down (we were sorry to miss Ray and JoAnne - feel better soon, Ray!) and we spent an hour or so comparing some of our favorite finds and learning from Jake and each other. One gentleman had what Jake thought might be a sperm whale tooth, collected many years ago from a beach in the Bahamas.
It must have been 6 inches long, or more, and was quite amazing. Another lady brought the beautiful white turtle shell you see in the photo.

Jake's own collection included some examples of fossilized pieces we've all found but identified with varying degrees of accuracy. He took us through a thoughtful presentation, but spent a good deal of time poring over our pieces, identifying where he could and honestly admitting where he couldn't. Perhaps the most exciting piece we talked about was a jawbone with one tooth remaining in it, brought by Suzanne. Since it was Suzanne who first made me realize that the dull old sharks's teeth we'd collected for years were actually relics of planetary history dating back thousands of years, I took special pleasure in finding that the jawbone was mostly likely that of a jaguar, and probably more than 12,000 years old.
It's a terrible photo, taken with my phone, but you get the idea. Interestingly, we have a tooth, found some years ago along the beach in Guana, that almost looks like it might fit into that piece of jaw.

The room at Guana's EEC was full of people. There were old veterans of the beach walk, incidental collectors, people of our age and older, and, delightfully, at least a couple of young fans, one of whom shyly asked several questions and another of whom came in late and asked for help identifying the species of sharks from which her carefully gathered collection of teeth had their genesis. My dear old person and I stopped on the way out to donate a piece we'd found last weekend. It looked like an arrowhead, and so might well be an artifact of an ancient native people, although when we picked it up, it looked like a piece of rock. When it was cleaned up, we started to think it mightn't be an animal fossil, so we left it in the care of the Guana team. From there we set off for the beach, and walked 2 or 3 miles into a chilly northwest wind under a bright blue sky skirted with wind-brushed white clouds. It was a lovely Saturday. I do hope yours was at least as fine.

Beach fossils at Guana's Evironmental Education Center

2011-02-11T20:03:00.008-05:00

We have a huge jar of these. They're fossilized sharks' teeth, all collected from the stunning beaches of a Florida State Park. .
Tomorrow we're joining a bunch of other beachcombers and fossil freaks and interested learners at Guana's Environmental Education Center to learn more about some of the stuff we've collected. Walking a couple of miles on a pristine beach several times a week is restorative and healing. In the case of my dear old person, as many of you know, it's also a potent method of pain management, at least for a litle while. And you can build quite a collection, if you want to, of mesmerizing artifacts from the ancient history of the planet.

Good news: the kind people at Guana called me again, this time to say they'd like to do more than just add me to a mailing list. They want to reach out to you, gentle readers. How amazing is that? I can hardly wait to hear from them, and to extend their news to our little circle. Until that happens, please let me know if you'd like to help with invasive species removal, or are interested in learning more about the role of fire in ecosystems. Both involve field trips, and the former is an opportunity for hands-on volunteer field work.

Bad news: state parks have been on the budgetary chopping block. The list includes Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings State Park, and local favorite Washington Oaks State Park, where many springs have welcomed countless visitors as the dazzling, flamboyantly glorious azaleas open their faces to the returning sunshine. For the moment Lord Voldemort has said no to the closings, but keep your eyes open, people. These lands are fragile, diverse and preserve our heritage but they are dangerously vulnerable to loss.

Really good news: your own state parks, whether in Florida or elsewhere, are probably just a few miles from you. And whether or not it seems likely to those of you in the northeast, spring is within scenting distance. A few more weeks, everybody. In Florida and Arizona we can already hear the herald of spring in the eagerly-awaited clarion call with which baseball fans put winter to rest: "Pitchers and catchers report". Spring is coming. Spring training is coming. Birds and flowers are coming. In a few weeks we'll all be able to step outside and bask in it.

Until it gets here, my beloved old person and I will wrap up in scarves and sweatshirts and walk on the beach. And I'll bring you all the news I can from the tiny, beautiful microcosm of life at Guana Reserve.

The weekend before

2011-02-10T19:22:00.028-05:00

The weekend brought a couple of beach walks for us under a lowering sky, sometimes promising rain, sometimes delivering on the promise. Now and then the sun would break through and illuminate some small treasure like this beautiful, doomed starfish, washed back and forth in the surf. There were few beachgoers willing to walk in the chilly wind under the dark skies so we had the beach to ourselves, as is often the case this time of year. The new moon brought what weather geeks call "astronomical high tides", along with their companions, beloved of beachcombers: astronomical low tides. On this day the views to the north and south were nearly as astronomical in their contrast.

This was the view to the north. Its warning, to those of us accustomed to subtropical midwinter weather, is of a cold wind and perhaps rough seas.

This was the view to the south. Here the warning is much more dire: I am a cold, dark wind from the south, from which compass point usually come sweet warm breezes. I might even be catastrophe.

There was a beautiful eye in the center of this, an opening in the clouds that really looked like an eye, just above where we walked on the beach. It wasn't so much the eye of a hurricane as it was a gentle celestial eye, opening on the dramatic meteorological activity. I tried to catch it with the camera in my phone, with mixed and mostly unsatisfying results. But you don't need an image. Reach back in your mind to a moment of your own. Think of the weekend, or the weekend before that one, when you walked on the beach or in the neighborhood or in the park and saw a break in the clouds, a beautiful blue spot, touched with swirls of white clouds, a glimmer of hope against the dark, lowering clouds.

So much for romantic reflection on the beauty of the weekend that was. I now direct your attention to THIS Saturday's Beach Fossil Day at Guana's Education Center, which Rod and I eagerly anticipate (what ARE those things we've found on the beach??), and to whatever your own weekend may promise.

The secret languages of families

2011-02-03T18:23:00.020-05:00

If you zoom in on this image, you'll see what made me stop in the middle of the road to take it: a wild turkey. She was crossing here to catch up with a flock of 8 or 10 other birds. We still have wild turkeys in Florida. In my younger days I often saw them across cut fields of pine forest, as I walked quietly behind a friend or family member armed with a bow or a black-powder rifle, for turkeys are notoriously suspicious and easy to spook. I haven't told you these stories yet? I must remember to write these, my loves. For now, my only sightings of wild turkeys are along roads, in places turkeys only find themselves because of encroaching development. It's part of the contrast of Old Florida and present-day Florida and a reminder that there are really very few years dividing the two.

This is an aside, of course. My central topic calls back to my past, but is more cerebral than primitive. It's about the language of a family, crafted slowly and almost unnoticed over the course of years and still emerging, despite the fact that our boys are mostly grown. There's magic here, for you almost certainly have a story just like this. It is the magic of love and family and continuity.

When I talk to one of my best friends on the phone today, I often use a greeting phrase like, "Hello, my little plum blossom..." or words to that effect. This is thanks to my girlhood and lifetime friend Carrie O'Hare Hogan, whose greetings included fruit, the more obscure, the better. She would call and say, "Hellooo, my little persimmon", or "...my little kumquat..." or something like that. After we were both married and had taken our husbands' last names with some reservation, she always greeted me on the phone with, "Hello, Mrs. Christensen", to which I always replied, "Hello, Mrs. Hogan", and these greetings entered the lexicon.

When Dylan was quite small, perhaps four years old, we were driving down a street in St. Augustine, overarched by golden raintrees that actually were wet with recent rain. When a heavy shower fell from the branches and splashed on the windshield, Dylan said calmly, "THAT wasn't very welcoming." It sounds so silly. But we burst out laughing and those words have been part of our family's secret internal language ever since. We say it whenever anything surprises us just slightly with its unpleasantness. Dylan is also the author of a beloved family slur that evolved from his unexpected use of the word "bonker" as the most devastating of insults. This was leveled at me when he was really angry: "You are a bonker poo-poo Mommy." Well. Ahem. For a couple of months I endured this from both my sons; it still surfaces now and then.

In local parlance, The Man Who Came to Dinner is referred to as The Movie. Other families have their own versions. Ours provides a taste of the pleasure of holiday reunions across time and distance. We only have to hear, "You are the moonflower of my middle age and I love you very much" to feel as though turkey and sweet potato pie are about to be served, a warm fire snuggled up to, and soft laughter of friends and family about to envelop us.

Other movies have shaped our language. We've never quite recovered from The Emperor's New Groove, which gave us our standard exchange when a possibly painful challenge is expected to be welcomed defiantly:
Person 1: "Sharp rocks at the bottom?"
Person 2: "Most likely." And then, in unison,
"Bring it on."

Thanks to Rowan Atkinson and Tony Robinson, who brought to life the character of Blackadder and his dogsbody, Baldrick, new ideas are introduced in very bad British accents with the words, "I have a cunning plan". This falls into the (credit to Monty Python) "say n'more" category. And in recent years, Madagascar, courtesy of Sacha Baron Cohen, gave us, "Shut UP, you're so anNOYing!". Since about 1990-something when we saw the movie Black Sheep, the word road when pronounced "row-addddd" reduces us all to helpless laughter. Actually I suppose that doesn't really constitute an addition to our family language. I just put it in here because I know it will make my family laugh. There are others, some more profane and some more obscure. I imagine there are more yet in your houses and hearts. Do tell what they are.

As a good-night postcard, here is the view to the west from Mane de Leon Salon. It was a beautiful sunset. I hope you enjoy it, despite the camera's inability to compensate for what the human eye does with so little effort. Between you and the sun is the Intracoastal Waterway, sunlight reflecting on the shimmering water.

Don't Buy a Puppy from a Pet Store, and other future classics

2011-01-29T16:57:00.021-05:00

It's my theme, at least for today. Somebody should write it as a pop song, or maybe Grant Peeples could write it as a moody leftneck ballad with a solid hook. It's catchy. It could have a repeat: Don't buy a, don't buy a, don't buy a puppy from a pet store...and it's just as true for cats, so there could be an alternate version: Don't buy a, don't buy a, don't buy a kitten from a pettttt stooooore...I can pretty much hear it in my head. If I recorded it, I'd dedicate the recording to Calvin, pictured here in his smiley, smart-alecky glory, and to Zeke, who was rescued too late, and to April, who was rescued in time to find her way into the heart of an adoring family, and to Jayda, who was pulled from the Nassau County shelter this morning, and to all the others helped by BARC (Boxer Aid and Rescue Coalition) and countless other ordinary people, making this small but important difference. For simplicity and to avoid writing the Great American Blog Post on the topic of rescued Boxers, let me just talk about Calvin and Jayda. There are so many rescues, of so many breeds and mixes, of cats and dogs, all deserving of applause. But I'll try to stay focused.

So: Mister Calvin. You can see his big smile in that top photo, the face of a dog who surely had every reason to mistrust and maybe even dislike people forever, but somehow managed to retain balance. Ever watch Cesar Millan? He has a dog named Daddy who serves as a kind of canine barometer, a behavioral translator able to relay information from the unspoken but unmistakable animal vocabulary resulting in behavioral predictors to Cesar, who understands that language. BARC's book on Calvin was that he'd been rescued from a dog-fighting situation in which he was likely used as a bait dog. I've also posted the photo of Mister Calvin and April, because if you look closely at Calvin's shoulder, you can see one of the scars.
It was almost the size of the palm of my hand, and his fur never grew back. Calvin developed certain strong preferences (he would rather be told to move than man-handled into actually moving, for instance) but I was always amazed that he seemed more than content to live as a member of our pack. He never acted on what might, in human terms, have been deep and justified resentment. He was adopted into an excellent family, by a woman who was in vet school and was able to give him every veterinary benefit. But vet school...yikes. It sounds not unlike med school, with the on-call hours, the grueling internship...she knew she couldn't give Calvin the attention he deserved, so she surrendered him back to BARC. This is one of the terms to which BARC adopters agree, and one of the things I love most about the organization: if you can't continue to care for a dog you adopt from us, you give it back, and we will always ensure that it's cared for. Calvin's adoptive mom knew she was giving him to a certainty of a good home. We met him as a prospective foster family, fell in love, and never looked back. As most of you know, he died in December, but not before he changed our family.

We adopted Bandit recently, a former foster we'd had and loved, whose life took a turn that happened to give us the chance to have him back. Because we were all adjusting to the loss of Calvin and the addition of Bandit, we decided to take a break from fostering for a bit. It's a tough call, and not just because of our ties to BARC. On a national and regional level, as well as a local one, pet rescue organizations are realizing that foster homes are far more cost effective and feasible than shelters, and foster homes are far better for the animals. A fostered cat or dog lives in a regular house, with people who do ordinary things and are able to offer affection and consistency. Animals kept in shelters experience the stresses of confinement, the surreal atmosphere of fear and uncertainty amplified by presence of other confined animals, and in most cases are likely to face euthanasia if for no other reason than demand exceeding supply. No-kill shelters are the exception; most have no alternative but to euthanize, because their resources are so limited. Our beloved vet, Dr. Searcy of Antigua Veterinary Clinic in St. Augustine, is a vocal proponent of foster homes as an alternative to shelters; he talks about the overhead costs incurred by a shelter environment, many of which are minimized or completely eliminated by utilization of foster homes.

This is what motivates many volunteers to serve as foster homes. In our case, it motivated us to temp-foster this week even though we know we need a break. Another volunteer can take Jayda in a week or so, but her time on death row had pretty much run out.
Though it's a bit dark and fuzzy, you can see Jayda in the middle of this photo. This morning she was in a shelter, this afternoon she walked on the beach for perhaps the first time in her life, and after a bath and a good meal, this evening she's figuring out her place in a comfortable, balanced pack. She'll get good care, attention for her medical needs, and above all, the comfort of a relatively calm, predictable environment.

Take a look at her face, as well as you can see it in this predictably poor photo from my phone. People are paying hundreds of dollars for every imaginable breed of dog and cat in pet stores. Jayda has clearly had more than one litter of puppies. Now she's more than 5 years old, she has a worrying growth in one ear, she is heartworm-positive and she was surrendered by her owners to the shelter because they "couldn't afford to keep her anymore". This may be true. This family may be a casualty of the current economy or victims of any number of difficult circumstances. There are many legitimate dog breeders whose credentials are impeccable and who do much to preserve the unique characteristics of various breeds of dogs and cats; I have no quarrel with them. But we know people breed dogs and sell the puppies for money. Puppy mills are a horrible reality and I imagine there's a parallel hell for cats. In the case of dogs, some may even be sold to people like Michael Vick. (Good Lord: don't get me started.) And when they're older, no longer useful for breeding, and develop the inevitable health issues of aging, they're taken to shelters and dropped off. Or just dropped off. Jayda is lucky.

Finish the melody and the air guitar part in your mind, and enjoy the head-banging and the big drum solo. Just don't lose the message: when you need a pet, adopt one. Find that perfectly sweet kitten or delightfully spotted and striped adult cat. Look until you see that particular expression on the face of a fat-bellied puppy or even better, a mature dog, already house-broken and readymade for best friendship. But don't, don't, don't...Don't buy a puppy from a pet store.

Credits: Dylan C., Editor and Proofreader

Dogs, resting comfortably

2011-01-27T18:51:00.008-05:00

Some of you may know that our dear old Calvin died in December. He disappeared one night, and we thought he'd just taken his beer money and gone walkabout. We searched and hunted, got the neighbors involved, all to no avail. A few days went by, and on a morning when holiday vistors were expected, we found Calvin. He'd apparently dropped dead of a heart attack or something, falling into a stand of lilies hidden in the oak trees. He had never put a foot out of his own yard. Devastated, we buried him and tried to avoid talking about it as we marked the year-end holidays.

In an almost uncanny turn of events, we were able to re-home a dog we'd previously fostered, and already loved, Bandit. Here he is, doing what Boxers do best, which might be summed up as "Sitting Where People Might Like to Sit, If Only the Sofa Belonged to Them". From left to right, here are Ty for Short, Meg, and Bandit, who is also known as Burgermeister Meisterburger. Happy news for us, who are so dependent on dogs for mental health and well-being; happy news for Bandit, who's finding himself at home in a pretty comfortable pack.

Here, too, is a sunset photo I took in December, looking back to the west from the west side of the Tolomato River. In this image I'm thinking of my dear friend Annie, who is dealing with new challenges as I write this. It was Annie who shared the ultimate parenting advice with me, which becomes more true each day my boys grow older: It's all about letting go. It's great advice, Annie, and I'm working on it. But for now, with you, can it all be about hanging on? I'm sending you love, love, love.

Fossils, courtesy of GTMMERR

2011-01-26T18:04:00.017-05:00

This is a close photo of the coquina you see in constrast to the fine white sand along the beach at Guana. Nestled in this stuff, which is mostly crushed or small shell, you can find shark's teeth of all kinds of sizes, pieces of turtle shell and teeth, all ancient, all amazing.

To those of you who love the beaches and inland waterways so perfectly protected and blessedly available to the public at our beloved Guana, here is the equivalent of a Valentine from those fine folks. To those of you who turn an indulgent but slightly bored eye to my praise-singing of Guana's abundant natural offerings, accept my thanks in advance.

Because I wrote a post in celebration of the anniversary of GTMMERR, sent it to the Director and opened a dialogue with him, I've been added to a mailing list. This means info I didn't have before, including an announcement all fossil geeks will find to be the delightful Valentine I promised (and everyone else will find incredibly boring): the GTM Education Center is hosting an educational event on February 12 about collecting and identifying fossils on our beaches. (If you're interested, reserve a space by calling the Center at 904.823.4500 - it's free, but space is limited.) We all think of shark's teeth when we think of fossils and my dear old person and I have a shocking number of these collected, but there's an amazing range of teeth and other fossils to be found on our beaches, and get this: we're invited to bring stuff along to have it identified! I might not have to plan that trip to the Paleontology Department at U of F in Gainseville after all. In all the years I've lived here, as I may have mentioned, I didn't even start looking for shark's teeth until, in the office of a colleague, I noticed a postcard image identifying different kinds of shark's teeth. I commented, because we walked on the beach all the time and I took them for granted. To my amazement, she said, "You know they're hundreds of thousands of years old, right? Some of them are millions of years old." I'd had no idea. And I was hopelessly hooked.

I've written about this, too, of course, in part because the University of Florida houses a great little museum of paleontology AND it is possible, in theory at least, to make an appointment with the nice geeky professorial types who work there. I'm told you can set up time and pretty much literally pour your collection of fossilized stuff on someone's desk for inspection and identification. But why drive to Gainesville? Come down to the Education Center. I wish you could all come, especially the kids. So if any kids care, let me know. I'll write a post for the really discriminating blog palate: kids, who know how fascinating fossils really are, because after all, when you think about it, they're pieces of dinosaurs. How cool is that?

St. Augustine sounds like a very cool place, Opus 5

2011-01-25T17:51:00.018-05:00

Here's another glimpse into the fabric of our little town, one I've been meaning to write for a long time. I know I just told a St. Augustine story in my most recent post, but writing that one fired the right combination of synapses to call forth this one from the proverbial back burner. So: another glimpse, which might be subtitled White Trash Cooking, by Palm Valley's own Ernest Matthew Mickler.

The Booksmith brought more than one writer into my orbit, but Ernie Mickler might have been at once the most different and the most reflective. He'd have been recognized in most any company as A Character, for any of a number of reasons. He was completely unpretentious and uproarious fun to be around. He was so easy in his own skin that he made other people rest more comfortably in their own, or if they didn't, you wondered what was wrong with them. He was gay, and in those years small towns in the Bible Belt - certainly St. Augustine - still took a rather dim view, in more ways than one. But my first adjective is my most accurate: Ernie was sublimely unpretentious. His authenticity gave him charisma, which he never took seriously. To my knowledge, he never lost the kernel at the heart of the authentic: the ability to laugh at everything, including and most especially, himself.

Ernie was a mirror, too, as I mentioned. Ernie's book, White Trash Cooking*, was published in 1986. In the social and physical geography of St. Augustine, you might say that Ernie's was one lens through which the contemporary dialogue about and horrifying reality of AIDS could be viewed. The Booksmith was on the eastern-most end of Cathedral Place. At the western end of our block stands the Cathedral of St. Augustine, where another lens entirely would focus on the subject; a beloved bishop and a popular priest would be part of that view. I might be making too much of that aspect, of course, and Ernie would have been the first to call me on it if I did. But here again is tale for another winter's night, my dears.

The mirror, though? I held it up to myself when Ernie was alive, and it changed the path of my life in several ways. Funny thing, though: as I thought about telling you this story, I reached back and realized that Ernie is more present than I'd ever realized. You know those recipes I'm always throwing in here, how they're always more narrative than classic recipe? I owe that to Ernie, and I didn't realize it. So as I wrote about Connie Fowler's influence teaching me to think of myself as a writer, I began to remember that it was Ernie who gave me some powerful lessons in how to do the work.

I've given you a (poor, as usual) photo of the book's cover. The other image is of the title page of my treasured and dog-eared copy of the book, which Ernie inscribed as follows:
To Angie,
Ernest Matthew Mickler
St. Aug 86
I know you're pure White Trash and proud

There's a saying that the further north you go in Florida, the further south you go; this must have been patently obvious to Ernie as he collected recipes and photos and memories for his book. For instance: "Never in my whole put-together life could I write down on paper a hard, fast definition of White Trash. Because, for us, as for our southern White Trash cooking, there are no hard and fast rules. We don't like to be hemmed in! But the first thing you've got to understand is that there's white trash and there's White Trash. Manners and pride separate the two....where I come from in North Florida you never failed to say 'yes ma'am' and 'no sir', never sat on a made-up bed (or put your hat on it), never opened someone else's icebox, never left food on your plate...That's the way the ones before us were raised and that's the way they raised us in the South."

As you might imagine, Ernie's book was born into a media circus. I think he was on The Today Show (oh, dear: another only-in-St.-Augustine-story, but I'll have to tell you about the NBC connection another rainy night, my loves) and just about every other talk show you can think of before he and his partner came home to live. At the Booksmith, I'm not sure we all knew what to make of the book at first, but I knew right away about the mirror thing. I could see myself in the Palm Valley Ernie's book recalled, for this was the cusp of the time when Palm Valley, a rural community northeast of St. Augustine where people lived in trailers or little Cracker cabins, kept chickens or pigs or horses (though not recreational horses, if that makes sense), made its fateful intersection with Development. It was only a few years before natives who'd lived for generations on the same parcels of land found themselves taxed beyond their ability to sustain themselves, only a decade or two before Palm Valley was largely absorbed into Planned Unit Developement World. I could see myself in Ernie's eyes and they could see the placid past and the inevitable future; in less than 20 years the Palm Valley Ernie affectionately documented in his book would be gone. The media covering Ernie and his book could hardly have grasped this, nor this, another quote from his book that explains a LOT about how I cook and how I share that with you in this blog:
"...equipment is the next most important thing...skillets, Dutch ovens, and cornbread pans (all of black cast iron) are the only utensils tha give you that real White Trash flavor and golden brown crust...Now don't be too concerned about keeping them clean. Netty Irene says, 'It's no trouble at all! All you gotta do is rench 'em out, wipe 'em out with a dishrag, and put 'em on the fire to dry out all the water'...Netty Irene also said that her mother would never use water on her black iron...pans, only dry cornmeal. She'd rub them until they were smooth..."

Does this sound familiar? You might have learned it somewhere else, of course, but you've heard it here, too. And it's partly because my mother and Ernie's mother were not so far apart but it's also because the simple learnings I carried from my mother's kitchen were validated by those Ernie wrote about. I should have credited Ernie in part for the Eat Here Eatery concept, as well as the way I write recipes. Here's Ernie's version of Ida's Indian Onion Curry Omelet:
" 1 tablespoon of vegetable oil
6-7 eggs
3 green scallions
1 teaspoon of curry powder
1 teaspoon prepared mustard (French's yellow)
1/2 cup of milk
Fry sliced green onions in mdeium-hot skillet. Add mixture of eggs, milk, curry, mustard and salt and pepper to taste. Cook until eggs are firm and all liquid is gone. Serves 4 or 5. Serve with toast and plain sardines, cold. Ida Dillard, of Due West, South Carolina, said, 'You gotta be kinda wild to try this one. It weeds 'em out.'"

Ernie's versions of recipes like tomato sandwiches and icebox cake just about make my hair stand on end. There are a million of them, and they'd be right at home at Eat Here. You'd love them. But the evening winds on, and this recollection has rambled far longer than I meant it to. Ernie didn't live to see the turning of the new century, but he did his part to usher it in, with a touch of hope and a boatload of laughter. In fact, I'm rather shyly delighted to find that Eat Here might in fact have carried forward a bit of that hope, that love of food and friendship, and maybe even a tiny bit of that willingness to stare into the mirror and laugh and laugh and laugh.

*White Trash Cooking, by Ernest Matthew Mickler, 1986
Ten Speed Press, Berkeley, CA

St. Augustine sounds like a very cool place, Opus 4

2011-01-20T18:46:00.008-05:00

It's been awhile since I told you a St. Augustine tale. Here's one about yet another writer, and how her work and kindness helped me begin to see myself as a writer. Oh, and you get a recipe tonight, too: Eat Here Eatery's Signature Cheeseburger is on tonight's menu. Stay tuned.

If you read here you know I used to work in a magical, unforgettable and now sadly gone independent bookstore called The Booksmith. It was a tiny place, really, with two small back rooms, one of which was the sale room, where we kept the remaindered books we loved, and one of which was the storage room, where only employees went and those few customers who might ask if they could use our restroom. The restroom backed right up on the men's room at the Trade Winds, the venerable watering hole next door. The Trade Winds is still there, still a watering hole, and a more-or-less mandatory stop on Palm Sunday. This didn't always fit together nicely for me during the days when I was also singing at the Cathedral, right up the block, but those are other stories, my loves, for other winter evenings.

This story is about Connie May Fowler, and the first novel she wrote, which was called Sugar Cage, and which was edited by the marvelous Faith Sale. (There are some intriguing blogland connections here, but those, too, are tales for another evening.) Connie was - and is - a novelist with a powerful voice and many tales to tell, which was a big deal if you were a bookseller. As one of our publisher's reps used to say, EVERYone has one novel in them. If you've lived a life, you have one novel. But real storytellers? Those are the people who have novel after novel, who mine some internal vein of richness the rest of us can only imagine. This notion of the true novelist, in fact, moved the publisher's rep to collect not first novels, as a fair number of book people do, but second novels, which by his lights were a far better measure of a writer of fiction. When a publisher's galley of Sugar Cage reached us, we knew something special had happened, something independent bookstores dream of, really: we had a novel with local overtones, written by a woman who had lived in St. Augustine as a child and had returned, and a novel that would be taken seriously on a national level. It was, in short, a book we would take to our hearts as readers, booksellers and locals. And it turned out Connie was someone very easy to take to heart, as well.

When I met her, her beauty took my breath away. It would be years before I would realize that she had suffered from such a serious misalignment of her jaw that the overbite would have to be corrected by a maxillofacial surgeon in her adulthood, and that she carried inside her the scars and ancient aches left by those who treated her with unkindness or outright cruelty when she was young. She simply looked lovely to me, with honey-colored hair, a willowly build and a sort of unpretentious warmth that seemed rooted in a rather shy personality. She autographed books for us, and we sold them joyfully, often giving that highest of bookseller recommendations: taking time to hand-sell the book, convincing people to read it, promising to take it back if they didn't like it. She was generous with her time (and those countless signatures and inscriptions!), did a reading at Flagler College (remember how small the Booksmith was - there was no way for us to get all the interested folks into the store for such an event), and best of all, she continued to write, as she continues to write to this very day.

Though I assumed it had been based, however loosely, on Connie's own personal history, Sugar Cage might have been written about Rodney's family. Some of the reminders were so poignant for me, some visions of my dear old person's history so powerfully evoked, that I would have to put the book down for an hour or a day. But remember: Connie is a novelist with many more stories than one waiting to be mined. When her book Before Women Had Wings appeared, it confirmed that she was indeed that storyteller we'd hoped for. She was no one-hit wonder. This was the real thing. Here's how I recall that book: I took a copy home and I can't remember if it was a publisher's galley, which are usually paperback versions that precede the print run, or whether it was a boud version of the draft. I can tell you this: I don't remember being capable of worrying about keeping the pages dry. I'd decided to take a nice hot bath and read in the tub for a bit. When I was finally able to stop reading, I had cried for so long that the water in the tub was utterly cold, and the pages might well have been as wet and messy as I was. It was a book I'd never really forget. At some point later, Connie inscribed a copy of the book for me, and in her kindness reminded me that I shared a love for "the word" and should follow that love. In some ways, I've followed it here, to the blog. Thank you, Connie. Thank you, from the center of my heart, Diana, Su, Katie...thank you, Booksmith.

If you stayed around for the modest food encore, this is it.
The Eat Here Eatery Signature Cheesebuger has been mentioned here before, of course, but since it's a nice time of year to have a meatloaf in the oven I thought it was worth revisiting. It's a sandwich I made some years ago to something less than universal acclaim: Dylan didn't eat many vegetables in those days (ah, the changes a trip to Africa can make!) and Mac doesn't eat cheese. But my dear old person loves it, and I love to make it, so here it is.

Make a meatloaf. I can tell you how to do this, but you probably have a recipe your mother made, or have evolved into a vegetarian version, or can make the yummy one in the Silver Palate cookbook or whatever. The only un-secret secret part of mine is the sauce you add to the meatloaf about 20 minutes before it has finished baking, which is a combination of ketchup, a touch of mustard, some brown sugar (or maple syrup - even better!) and a teensy whisper of ground cloves. You whisk this together more or less to taste and drizzle it over the meatloaf, allowing about 20 minutes' final cooking time so it can mature and take on a nice color. Be sure to make enough of this sauce to set some aside. You'll want it for the sandwiches and your people might like using it for other servings of leftover meatloaf.

When the meatloaf has cooled enough a bit, place two slices of very lightly buttered bread in a skillet to grill. We have a strong preference for sourdough bread for this sandwich but as always, use what you like. Add a slice of cheese (we use muenster or baby Swiss unless my dear old person is driving, in which case you're getting American cheese, baby, like it or not!) as for a grilled cheese sandwich. Top with sliced, warm meatloaf and a touch of the aforementioned sauce. If you're truly evil, or a fan of Ernie Mickler's White Trash Cooking (another night's tale, my loves) you can kiss this whole lovely thing with mayonnaise. Top the meatloaf with the other slice of bread you've been gently grilling. Slice and serve with salad or fresh fruit and do penance for it the next day. It's worth it, my dears.

Dr. King was here

2011-01-17T19:20:00.011-05:00

St. Augustine has a long and often ugly page in the book of the struggle for civil rights. In fact, the circles within circles in our ancient little city have their own shameful tales to tell. During my days as a singer at the Cathedral of St. Augustine, when a beloved young priest was dying and it became more or less public knowledge that he was a victim of AIDS, the outpouring of support and affection was far from universal. The leadership of love and tolerance that came to us after his death was provided by our bishop, who gave life to it by establishing and actively supporting a ministry for those afflicted by HIV/AIDS and their loved ones. He did not just preach this message from the pulpit, but chose to lead by action with love and humility, steadfastly and bravely looking into faces of ignorance and intolerance. Had he learned from St. Thomas Aquinas, from Gandhi, from the Prophet Mohammed, from Pope John XXIII? I imagine he had. And I imagine he'd learned from Dr. King, as well.

Dr. King himself visited St. Augustine, and was greeted with outright, unapologetic hostility, peculiarly ironic in a town that had prided itself on a warm hospitality that had drawn visitors and tourists for the most recent hundred years or so of its four hundred year history. Dr. King posed an unprecedented and particular threat to and aroused deep fear among the ignorant and intolerant of the little old city. His visit has given rise to stories that try the limits of the imagination; I can't begin to provide an accurate account. One guess, at least, feels pretty safe to me: the hostility Dr. King was shown was all too familiar to the people of color who called St. Augustine home, and its bitter taste lingers even today.

Today the beaches of St. Augustine greeted the remembrance of Dr. King as they often commemorate the afternoons in late January, with cold rain and low-hanging clouds, the very air inhospitable to the sea birds who live in its arms. Here they are, huddling against the wind, waiting out the weather. They wait as Dr. King did, facing into the wind, allowing it to blow around and past, confident it would abate so that he could do his work again, or failing that, that the work could be taken up by his sisters and brothers. And so it was, and so it is. For each of us in small ways we may hardly even understand, this was a man who made changes. Dr. King was here, indeed.

Winter themes and variations

2011-01-16T16:17:00.012-05:00

The cold-but-perfect weather has continued in St. Augustine. Rodney and I walked at Guana yesterday and the day before under polished blue skies and bright sunshine, the air temp around 50 degrees, but with an uncompromising wind blowing at about 15 miles an hour out of the north-northeast. We even took two of the dogs, who love walking on the beach as much as we do, but have certain prejudices against chilly weather. At a certain point, no amount of whale-watching or red knot-sighting or even possible gopher tortoise observations are enough to keep Meg from sitting down firmly, shivering pathetically, and insisting on going home for winter sports like toasting marshmallows by the fire or making pots of soup. As it happened that we saw no whales those days, we gave in and returned to the fireside.

But the winter's theme of repeating something in the name of learning it to the point of excellence seems to persist. We've begun to get early Florida strawberries, and they've been baked into several variations of a remarkable coffee cake (the recipe for which originated with the venerable Bibical reference of cake-baking, Susan Purdy's A Piece of Cake). We used blueberries in one instance, but there's something perfectly balanced in the pairing of this cake's delicacy and the late-winter strawberries. This is the one we baked last night, with Rodney and I as sous chef supporting kitchen staff, and Dylan as Chef de Cuisine. My phone camera doesn't do it justice, but no camera could capture its sublime simplicity without benefit of palate. You'll have to take my word for it. And as always if anyone's interested, the Eat Here kitchen is happy to provide a how-to.

As for me, I have been distracted from most other recreation for the past couple of weeks as a contagion has possessed me more and more thoroughly. Just look at this. Thanks to some people who shall remain nameless (but I'm looking at you, Elisabeth) I have become obsessed with color and texture and have spent the past few weeks crocheting thing after thing. Even with my phone camera, you can see the intriguing greens and creams, reds and golds that have captured by eye and my heart. I'm only able to make the most rudimentary designs. I'm not capable of the elaborately adorable designs of my friend Erin at Ultra Cute Crochet. I'm not even close to the elegance of design imagined and created by Elisabeth Williamson of Mon Amie Ribbonerie, whose crocheted confetti pieces are treasured by the owners of her pieces, but whose artistic endeavors are more and more focused on ribbon flowers. But I can make a couple of things, and my winter labors are concentrated on making those pieces over and over again, learning with each piece. (See the beach photo of Rodney, above, who is wearing a slightly flawed but well-loved example of my handiwork.) The joy of matching colors and textures, high contrast and subtle shading, soft as lambs wool or smooth and fresh as cotton...these are the pleasures of winter for me this year. I hope your fireside is comforting and some of your joys as simple and uncomplicated as these.

A final note about the rhythm of winter and the coming of spring: I saw the first robin yesterday. My dear Jayne and I try to mark the promise of spring with this early visible sign. Last year the robins were here on the first of January; this year, a bit later. Whether early or late, the promise of spring always arrives with the folding of their wings.

Happy Anniversary, GTMMER

2011-01-07T21:27:00.011-05:00

There is a preturnaturally sacred place in northeast Florida that provides sanctuary for shore creatures you can imagine, and perhaps some that you can't. Various species of sea turtles nest here; ancient land tortoises burrow and breed here. Birds as elegant as egrets and as ludicrously beautiful as roseate spoonbills find peace here. North Atlantic Right Whales - a species estimated to number 350-400 at present - pass through these waters as they move south to bear their live young. Many acres and several beautiful miles of marshland and pristine beaches can be found here, with no development and relatively few visitors. This is the breathtaking Guana Tolomato Matanzas Marine Estuarine Reserve, which celebrates its 10th anniversary this month under the care and supervision of Mike Shirley and a dedicated staff including law enforcement personnel, biologists and volunteers. (Thank you, Folio Weekly, for including mention of this milestone in your December 28 issue.)

None of this is news to you if you read here regularly (and my apologies for being repetitive) but I think it's an anniversary worth of celebration. Quiet success stories like this one give hope to anyone hoping to share unspoiled natural glories with the children of the next generations. Pay the $3 and walk across A1A to take a look for yourself. Remind yourself that this is prime real estate, stretching out between expensive properties on both the beach- and riverside fronts, but preserved for the joy of every one of us regardless of means. If you're visiting the area, don't miss it. Either way, if you happen to see the volunteer sea turtle patrol, or run into one of the law enforcement guys who keep the place safe, or notice someone marking sea turtle nests or taking notes, stop and offer your thanks. Oh, and maybe your congratulations. It's a big anniversary.

An opportunity for grace

2011-01-07T19:04:00.012-05:00

It's been a remarkably cold December here, but we've managed to get in a few achingly beautiful beach walks. The sky is blue enough to stop you in your tracks, the water still warm enough to step through the shallows barefooted, and presumably the whales are gliding by, heading southward for the calving season. There are few places more perfectly suited to contemplative reflection, at least for me. My dear old person walks with me. Sometimes we marvel together over the minutely miraculous - brightly colored starfish or pods of dolphin dancing above the shimmering water - and sometimes we indulge our own interests. He looks for Spanish silver; I look for shark teeth, and let my mind wander. Perhaps because of the recent Season of Light, I've been thinking about the Biblical "more blessed to give than to receive" injunction. Because the MadriGalz were fortunate enough to carol for our patron Miss Dot this year, the theme was especially compelling to me.

The Dalai Lama said something like this (and I hope His Holiness will forgive me for paraphrasing him): Make someone else happy to find happiness yourself. Most of us know this to be true in one way or another. Research has been done indicating that humans are more or less hard-wired to donate generously when the recipient in need can be perceived with a human face. Statistics, no matter how heartbreaking, do not move us in the same way as personal appeals we can associate with real people. Appeals telling us that inumerable people are starving in Darfur are far less likely to move us than the very same appeal when it's delivered with the faces of the people or specific personal stories. And when we donate in response to such appeals, neurological chemistry rewards us. We feel good about giving. Spiritual texts and guides entreat us to do this, our brains reward us, and it's easy to believe that it is, indeed, more blessed to give. Certainly it is blessed to give.

But is it MORE blessed? The MadriGalz caroled this year for our friend and patron, Miss Dot, who is confined to bed, suffering a painful illness. It was a kindness, much appreciated by Miss Dot and joyfully welcomed by her family, for us to visit and sing some of her favorite carols. But I believe it was more blessed of Miss Dot to accept the gift with humility and patience. When Rodney's dad was afflicted with Alzheimers and had to accept care from his family, it was nearly impossible for him to do it gracefully. He had grown accustomed to dispensing such kindnesses as he could, but had never learned to accept the return of kindnesses from others. The folks I work with combine their treasure and talents to "adopt" a family during the holiday season. The outpouring of gifts to provide presents and a holiday feast is always moving. What always amazes me more is the ability of the receiving family to accept the generosity. In each case the recipients are, in truth, providing the givers with an opportunity for grace. We feel good about ourselves. We face our spiritual standards, our God by whatever name and in whatever language is native to us, with joy and a feeling that we've done something fine and good. And of course we have.

But it may be harder, and perhaps, indeed, more blessed, to receive. To allow others to care for us, to feed us, to visit us in our times of sadness or despair, to wash our bodies when we cannot do this for ourselves, to provide others with opportunities for grace...this may be one of the most blessed of all gifts human beings are able to grant one another. What do you think?

One more mistletoe kiss, and a last eggnog toast to 2010

2011-01-06T18:57:00.029-05:00

How easily and quickly the routines and rhythms of everyday life are disrupted, sometimes seriously but often to accommodate the smallest of joys and graces. So it's been at Eat Here: all storytelling abandoned in favor of holiday cooking, MadriGal singing, friends and family visiting, and several long cold days when the lure of the fireplace was irresisible. It was purely heaven, my loves, and I dearly hope you had some of those days, too. It's time for me return to something like order, pack away joyful holiday chaos with the Christmas tree ornaments and get back to work. At Eat Here, with your indulgence, my dears, there's still time for a shared memory or two. This is a perfect sunset caught near the time of the Winter Solstice at Saltwater Cowboy's, where the MadriGalz rang in the season. As perfect as the view was, it was also breathtakingly cold for December in St. Augustine. All was merry and bright in the restaurant, though; the carols were good and the food was even better.

Christmastide has come to mean MadriGalz to me, in addition to the other blessings of the season. It means singing together with two voices I admire, love and am humbled to partner with, for just a few short weeks, in the company of some of our most beloved friends. Some of those friends are also current or past performance partners, whose kindness is especially valuable to us. (I'm looking at you, Miss Jo.) Judy has astonishing vocal range and discipline, and the ability to become almost invisible as an ensemble singer. Lis has a voice of heartwrenching sweetness, and a nearly tangible charismatic charm. And though we've been singing in this configuration together for nearly 10 years, they both surprise me over and over again. This year Miss Judy opened her bag of tricks and treated us to an impromptu version of "Santa Baby" that I didn't see coming despite nearly 30 years of friendship and shared music. If you look past the terrible picture quality (it's an iPhone, okay? And it was dark in the bar at Creekside Dinery that night), you can see Judy, Lis and our friend Rick, who kindly took the guitar for this one. What you can't see is Miss Judy, intriguingly blending Eartha Kitt's sensuality with Judy Holliday's girlish-voiced frankness, delivering a rendition we won't soon forget.

Amongst the appearances at our favorite local restaurants and various other engagements, we were also able to carol for our friend Miss Dot, the benefactor who made our CD a possibility a few years ago. It was an opportunity of grace for us, and afforded this rare photo of all of us together. We were surrounded by Miss Dot's large and amazing family, among whom are members of the locally venerated Red River Band, and it's safe to say a good time was had by all, especially the MadriGalz. In years past we've actually managed go caroling, dropping in to carol for friends and acquaintances. This was a happy return to that tradition and one for which we're grateful to the Pellicer family.

So the MadriGalz delighted in the Season; meanwhile, we got ready at home, too. The house was decorated, Santa Claus was situated in his place of honor on the roof (yes, we have a ridiculous Santa, about 3 feet tall, whose inner lightbulb has been guiding friends to our house for more years than I care to count), Christmas Rum Cakes were baked and to my complete astonishment, several Christmas cards were actually written and - get this - mailed! I know, right? I'd pretty much reconciled myself to having been dropped from Christmas card lists, having not managed to get cards out these past few years. But some cards found their way out from our pens, and some were welcomed and hung in places of honor as they came in. Holiday cards are a gift, I believe. No one should feel bad about not sending them; not everyone has time every year. But the people who do send them get to feel really good about it, especially when some of us can't manage to return the gift. I didn't get cards out to all of you, but I did think of you as I worked on them. Maybe next year. For now, though? The Rum Cakes.

This recipe was given to me years ago by my dear friend Debra, who wrote it on a piece of stationary that abides even now in a recipe box once owned by my dear old person's mother. It's the only cake I make these days that uses boxed cake mix as its foundation, and I've been meaning to reverse-engineer it so that it can be made without the boxes; maybe I'll get to that next year along with the complete list of Christmas cards. Ahem. Maybe not. In any case, here's the Christmas Rum Cake recipe, for your consideration.

Christmas Rum Cake (doubled from the original; with thanks to Debra B. for the beautiful original version)
Combine 2 boxes of Yellow Cake Mix and 2 small packages of vanilla instant pudding mix with 1 cup each of milk, vegetable oil and rum in the large bowl of your mixer. Mix gently til combined and then add 4 eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Beat until you have a lovely creamy mixture. Pour into two standard tube pans or several loaf pans (each of these should be well-greased - I use cooking spray - and dusted with granulated sugar and if desired, pecans and maraschino cherries). Don't overfill your pans as the cake will rise above the sides; I fill the pans about 2/3 full. Bake cakes at 325 degrees for about 45-50 minutes or until they test done.

While they're baking, prepare a glaze. In a saucepan, combine 1 stick of butter (real butter - you can't cheat on this one), about 1 cup of granulated sugar, and about 1/2 cup of water. Bring to a boil carefully, and simmer at boiling for about 2 minutes. Remove from heat and let cool for a few minutes. Add about 2/3 cup of rum. In really tough years I use about a cup of rum, but you can do this to taste. Remember that the rum won't really cook out of the glaze, as it does the cake, so more rum means a stronger taste. Use your judgement. When the cakes are done, use a toothpick or an ice pick to prick the tops of the cakes; this will let the glaze penetrate the surface of the cakes. Drizzle the glaze over the cakes, distributing evenly. If you've made tube or Bundt cakes, you can invert on plates to serve. If you've made loaf pans as gifts (I use aluminum pans that needn't be returned) you can cover when the cakes are cool.

Doesn't that sound nice?

That's the mistletoe kiss I meant to send you, and the final raising of the eggnog glass in a toast to the very happiest of New Years. Coming soon? Eat Here goes back to the beach in search of North Atlantic Right Whales (their calving season runs through March), gopher tortoises, porpoises, shark teeth and cloud formations and whatever other gifts are placed in our path as we walk. Thank you for walking along with us.

P.S. Gold, Myrrh and Peaches
The best gifts are the gifts of the heart, and this often means they're handmade. It sounds trite, of course, but I still have all the handmade cards the boys have given me over the years. You probably have a collection equally humble and equally treasured. This Christmas we were gifted with a dazzling collection of jewel-toned fruits, canned by our friends Tina and Jimmy. Especially beautiful was a jar of peaches, captured at the perfect fullness of summer, as golden as any sunrise. These found their way into a peach-and-ginger upside down cake, baked in cast iron and short-lived in our kitchen. I can tell you how to make one, if you're interested.

The shortcuts you can live with

2010-11-22T19:02:00.018-05:00

You might be chopping onions or celery, or making pie crusts or wondering how to keep this in-law from boring that distant cousin or carefully selecting apples or thinking about table linens or any of a million pre-holiday things at your house. Or you may be thinking about picking things up at Publix. Or thinking, This holiday thing is bullshit: why am I worrying about this? Or getting ready to travel, or...there are as many possibilities as there are each of us. Inspired, as so many of us are, by Ms. Moon, here are some thoughts about how it works for me, along with love and hopes that the whole holiday/family/expectations thing works out well for you, too.

Africa is the starting point this year, or more accurately, returns from Africa. Having Katie home for the holidays took on a whole new importance when she was NOT home for them last year. But as big as that was, it was unexpectedly small by comparison. If you have a child of your own you know the simple pleasure and occasional heart-bursting, breathtaking, profound JOY of homecomings. We are missing one fine son for this year's feast but welcome the other home with exactly that breathtaking joy. You may have caught glimpses of him now and then, working hard just offstage to keep embarrassing typos and subtle inaccuracies out of Eat Here Eatery. He's home. In local parlance, The Baby Is Home from Africa. We have lots to be thankful for, but nothing touches this. Nothing comes close. The fuschia-bright basket of "Christmas" cactus on our back deck sings our happiness for us and connects us to the family of my dear old person, whose mother tended the ancestor of this cactus in her own garden. Dylan is home, and his grandmother's seasonal reminder of love is in bloom.

Job One for Dylan has been helping us figure out the menu, that list of dishes upon which the success of the Thanksgiving meal depends. And that list depends greatly on a delicate equation balancing what we want for Thanksgiving dinner against the shortcuts I can find a way to live with in order to get all those things on the table for one meal. If we must have pumpkin pie, what shortcuts can I take? I could make the whole thing from scratch (too time-consuming). I could cheat with a pre-made pie crust (not as good, not as good for us but work-reducing). I could cheat with a pie made by the nice ladies at Publix (not quite as good, certainly not as good for us, but opening enough time in my day to allow something else - perhaps homemade Meyer lemon meringue pie?) So: how discriminating ARE we? Can we tell the difference? If we have homemade whipped cream, will we really notice that it's a store-bought pie? And then the whole complex formula has to be applied to the other menu items. Each has its own variables. The solution to each equation is different, and each changes from one year to the next.

This year, the equation will work out something like this. The pumpkin pie will come from Publix; the lemon meringue will be made by hand down to the smallest detail, including juice and zest from lemons grown right in our own yard. The turkey and gravy will be strictly homemade. So will the stuffing. But the yeast rolls? Frozen. I have tasted Ms. Moon's Angel Biscuits and there is NO substitute. But if expectations are adjusted, no one is expecting the Angel Biscuits. Everyone will wait in reverential anticipation until the next time we're all together, when things are less hectic and the Angel Biscuits can be made without stress or heartache. (Don't tell my family, but this probably means the next time we share the table with Ms. Moon, whose hands hold the magic, here.) The macaroni and cheese will be made from scratch, but assembled on Wednesday evening. No one will mind if the pasta is just slightly overcooked. It's worth it.

And so it goes. The shortcuts I can live with as a cook whose ego is slightly overblown in the kitchen are the ones that make some downtime possible. The downtime looks a bit like watching the reflections of blue skies and drifting clouds in the shining sand on a beach where a man, a woman and a dog walk in peace, quietly savoring the joy. The Baby is home from Africa, and there is much for which to give thanks.

This may not be the last Eat Here post of Thanksgiving week, but just in case, love and blessings and thanks to all of you. I am more thankful than I can possibly put into words for the enduring generosity of each of you. Taking time to read each post, sometimes even spending more of your valuable time to share comments, opening your hearts to me this year: all these kindnesses have wrought gentle changes for me. I'm setting a place for all of you at the table this year. You're always welcome. Eat Here.

Have you eaten?

2010-11-20T21:12:00.004-05:00

There are leftovers on the stove, as there often are at Eat Here. Tonight's are good enough to write home about, except as I'm already home, I thought I'd just write to you instead. Vegetarian friends, I love you dearly but you may want to skip this menu and its associated how-to.

The center of the plate is a variation on a recipe for Boeuf Bourguinonne. I'd always avoided this dish because it was Difficult. Julia Child said so. But I read the recipe and as usual adapted it to my own skill level and intuition, and this is more or less how I made it.

I am the very proud owner of a vintage cast iron Dutch oven, given to me by my menfolk (see how smart they are?) several years ago as a Christmas present. I considered this amazing piece of cookware carefully while opening the first bottle of the season's beaujolais nouveau. Full stop, to allow for the wine tasting. This is always an interesting taste for me because I am NOBODY's wine connoisseur. Some years I think it's a pretty good tasting wine, immature even to my decidedly undiscriminating palate. Some years I think it's too awful to drink. This year, I thought it was good. So I dove in. To the recipe, I mean, not the wine. Well, okay. To both.

I had a bit more than a pound of round steak, and 6 slices of good quality bacon. Cook the bacon to the delightful crispy but not overdone texture you know it should have, then remove it from the pan and add about 2 tablespoons of oil. Contrary to direction, I used XVOO. While the bacon is cooking, cut the round steak (or London broil or whatever cut of lean braising beef you're using) into 1-inch pieces. Dredge in flour seasoned with salt and pepper (I added some ground cayenne and dried thyme to the flour, too). After the bacon is set aside and the oil you added is hot enough, quickly brown the floured beef in batches small enough to maintain an even temperature in your pan. Set this all aside as each batch is done - it took me 3 batches to cook the 1-1/2 pounds of beef. Add about 2 tablespoons of butter to the pan. The traditional recipe seems to ask for a dozen or so small pearl onions but I didn't have any. I quartered a red onion and half a sweet onion instead.

Toss the onions into the cast iron Dutch oven (or whatever pan you're using) and cook them slowly until they're softened. Add some finely minced garlic (I used about 2 tablespoons, but I'm a bit Emeril Lagasse on this topic - use your own instincts for this). Cook for a few minutes until the garlic is nicely browning but not close to burning, which can happen pretty quickly. Deglaze the pan with red wine (this year's beaujolais nouveau isn't a bad choice at all, but you can use any red wine you wouldn't be afraid to drink, I think). From here, I added about 2 cups more of the wine and another 2 or 3 cups of beef broth. Add the beef back to the pan along with any juices that have collected. Chop the bacon into a very fine dice (or crumble it with your fingers) and add that, too. I used 2 small bay leaves, dried marjoram and dried thyme. The recipes seem to call for the fresh versions of the herbs but I didn't have them on hand and they were really expensive at Publix. Dried herbs can be our friends. I added a bit of kosher salt and some pepper but not too much on the theory that I had time to correct the seasoning later. And here again, the recipe calls for sauteed mushrooms, but since my people just pick them out I skipped this. Julia Child calls for tomato paste, but I left that out, too. Cover the cast iron pot with a tight-fitting lid and bake at about 325F for...well, for awhile.

I put a couple of sweet potatoes into the oven at the same time, having scrubbed them and poked them lightly. After all, a roasted sweet potato, as we've discussed here, is just flat good for you and needs very little help to be ready to eat. So. Easy. And I had fresh green beans so those went on the stovetop to simmer with a couple of peeled, quartered potatoes and one of the extra slices of bacon, to make the peeps happy. Seasoned with a little kosher salt and a lot of pepper, these pretty much cooked themselves. I keep a blend of basmati and brown rices on hand always, because the basmati has that lovely popcorn fragrance as it cooks and the brown rice lends a warm, slightly nutty flavor. After the meat had been cooking for about an hour, a big handful of baby carrots when into the gravy to simmer and I put the rice on to cook. Dylan finished the meal with a few rolls - they were frozen (Alexia focaccia rolls) but pretty damn good. The final plate is what you see above.

There's the heart of Eat Here Eatery, my loves: had we a real restaurant, this is what we'd have plated up for you tonight. We'd have had a vegetarian option, and perhaps a non-red-meat option, but this would have been the blue plate special, as it were. But don't worry: there are leftovers on the stove and it's early, yet.

Pre-season greetings from the MadriGalz

2010-11-20T16:42:00.012-05:00

Have I mentioned The MadriGalz to you at all? Stop me if you've heard this. Oh. You have? Of course you've heard it. And for what's not likely to be the last time this holiday season I beg your indulgence once again so I can share our December performance schedule.

We're excited to begin the holiday season in downtown St. Augustine at At Journey's End Bed & Breakfast for the 17th Annual Holiday Bed & Breakfast Tour. (I'm including more links than usual so you can see more about the places and events for yourself.) We'll be caroling for visitors to At Journey's End from 2-5 pm on Saturday, Dec. 11.

That same evening we're honored to sing in for the second year in the comfortable dining rooms of a true local favorite, Saltwater Cowboy's, where we'll be caroling from room to room from about 5:30 until about 9:30. If you can't join us on December 12, we'll also be at Cowboy's on December 17 for the dinner hour.

Last but especially dear to our hearts, we'll be caroling twice this year at Creekside Dinery, on Sunday, December 12 and finally on Sunday, December 19, from about 5 pm until 9. If you've been to Creekside, you'll know about the delightful fire pit out on the deck overlooking the water, complete with marshmallows for toasting. And if it's too chilly for outside dining, we'll sing from room to room and bring a touch of The Season of Light right to your table. And if you haven't been to Creekside...well, come see for yourself.

If you're not separated by too many miles or other social obligations we would love to welcome you. If you are, we hope you'll be able to support live music this season in your own locale, where you probably have a talented local group performing The Messiah or The Nutcracker. Maybe it will be a group of kids singing The Dreidel Song, or perhaps something completely different but just as wonderful. From the hearts of the MadriGalz to the hearts of you, may the music and traditions of the season bring you peace.

P.S. Roasted sweet potatoes

2010-11-15T20:55:00.005-05:00

'Tis the season: all sorts of expectations and window-dressings will be suggested or applied to one of our most perfect foods: the sweet potato. For the holiday meals, you gotta do what you gotta do (or what your mother did, or his mother did, or grandma did...you get it)

Before (and after) the holidays, sweet potatoes are easy to cook, amazingly good for you, and about as easy to dress up as runway models, though admittedly not as glamorous on the outside. The easy part: choose 2 or 4 sweet potatoes of roughly similar size and shape. Scrub them clean and puncture in a couple of places as you would for baking potatoes. Place in a glass pie plate or baking dish or on a cookie sheet lined with aluminum foil. Oven roast until tender (usually about an hour).

While the potatoes roast, focus on toasting sliced or chopped almonds or chopped pecans. Pecans have a great flavor, but they're higher in fat. Almonds are one of those perfect foods, defying reason, nutritionally speaking. Toasting really brings out the flavor of nuts, so whether almonds, pecans or walnuts (or any other variation) you'll want to to toast them in the oven, or on the stovetop in a cast iron skillet. For the latter, use a clean skillet. Toast the nuts carefully over low heat. Nuts have lots of oil in them, which is why toasting is a good idea, but it also puts them at risk for burning so you have to watch carefully. The good news? You can use less almonds, pecans, walnuts or whatever, because toasting dramatically enhances the flavor. Toast until you have very lightly browned nuts, with much deeper flavor. Set these aside to cool.

When the potatoes are done, remove from the oven and allow to cool slowly. Meanwhile, whisk together in a small bowl 2 tablespoons of softened butter, 2 tablespoons of brown sugar, ground cinnamon to taste and ground ginger to taste. When you're ready to serve (and these along with a nice green salad CAN constitute dinner) split the potatoes. Top with the butter mixture, and garnish (sort of; you're actually going to eat this garnish) with toasted nuts. Finish with a drizzle of maple syrup OR tupelo honey. And on this last touch, seriously: do not skimp. Pay the breathtaking $10 for good maple syrup at your local grocery, or the same amount for your local honey. I'm not sure you can get tupelo honey in say, France, but you have to get the local equivalent. And of course maple syrup is preferred. It's a food group of its own, almost, and is the perfect companion to those plain and prosaic sweet potatoes.

Which really won't be plain OR prosaic when you serve them. Let me know how you like them. Do you have a better way of serving them between the holidays, avoiding the de rigeur things like tiny marshamallows? I know, I know: I have to do those things, too: they're Expected. But you guys are completely UNexpected. So do share. Love, love.

Celebration, understated

2010-11-15T18:22:00.022-05:00

When your age changes from XLVIII to XLIX, you take notice. After all, you're looking at L. You gotta take stock, think it over; reflect. Dress up, go out, have a party?

Or maybe your XLIX isn't the kind that comes with a tux or a suit, or fancy reservations. Maybe you mark the ultimate or penultimate mileposts in your own way, and I hope you do, whether or not fancy dress is involved. Here's my Dear Old Person, marking XLIX in an unforgiving 15-knot northeast wind, his face turned into the blue Atlantic. He's wrapped in layers of cotton tee shirts and fleece, carrying a rough picnic lunch courtesy of the Publix deli in his backpack. Despite the chilly wind, he's looking into the stunning blue of the sky, watching beyond the breaking waves for any sign of early-arriving whales and giving thanks without fanfare for the anniversary of November 13.

The cycle of high and low tides didn't match neatly to the warmest part of the day, but we found the mark of the most recent high tide to have left fascinating fingerprints. Where only a few days before the dunes undulated gently between the shoreline with its persistent breakers, and the higher, more permanent dunes, anchored by beach grasses and sea oats, the Great Mother showed a wholly different face on Rod's birthday. Overnight, the relentless tide carved out sharp cliffs standing in relief against the level of the ocean itself. Some of them were 4 or 5 feet tall. Some were even taller. Just out of perfect focus, any of them might have passed for images of the Grand Canyon, right down to the striations and layers of rock and sediment which in this case were likely composed of a visible layer representing each tidal passing. In this photo, the high point at the far right is about 6 feet above the breaking waves below. And those white bundles on the sand are sea foam, further illustration of the water's astonishing energy, churning each wave into beautiful clusters of bubbles, each casting itself into the windward motion, disappearing on the wind.

(A note about sea foam and Boxers, or maybe Dogs Generally, without regard to breed: our Meg finds chasing sea foam almost as satisfactory as chasing birds, which is forbidden to her. April, a foster dog much beloved of us who is now happily beloved in her Forever Family despite issues with breast cancer, had more fun chasing sea foam on the beach than I can put into words. Take your dog to the beach in a northeast wind if you can. And if you can't, curl up together and tell her stories about the beach. If you're telling stories you can even tell her about chasing birds. I'll never tell.)

The shoreline drew us onward, as it always does. We walked up to the northernmost edge of Guana's beach-facing Eastern border. At the very edge of the protected land just south of the sign marking the border we spotted several turkey buzzards; some were in flight and others seemed to be rotating in and out of a certain spot. When we got close enough, we could see what had attracted them. A mature loggerhead turtle, dead, had washed near the high tide line and was nestled against the sheared-off dune line. The shell was easily 2 feet from the back of the turtle's head to the posterior edge. How old was this turtle, we wondered? How did this turtle compare to the tiny baby hatchlings from this year, whose small bodies would fit neatly into the palm of your hand? I'm not sure, but I can tell you I'll be asking the Turtle Superhero guys for their insights; stay tuned. The edges of his shell were carefully covered by Rod to protect the body from encroachment by the buzzards - we called in the find and were hopeful someone would be able to analyze the remains for useful information.

So: how old was this beautiful old turtle? Female loggerheads begin to reproduce, I think, when they're about 15 years old. They are long-lived as a species and as ancient amphibious denizens of the planet. Perhaps this one had long passed his or her L birthday; perhaps the sighting was a kindness from the Great Mother of the ocean. Happy birthday, Rodney: thank you for helping as a steward of the planet. Take joy in every moment.

Turtle Superheroes

2010-11-01T16:53:00.008-04:00

See that guy? She (or he) is a large gopher tortoise, living la vida loca at Guana Reserve, which you know perfectly well by now to be one of our most favorite places. Saturday afternoon we went for a beach walk in what had turned into a very warm late October day. It was also, of course, Florida-Georgia football Saturday, a day when most folks here are at the game, at a party, or home in front of the TV. (It's never blacked out, of course, because not only does it sell out every year, I think somebody has to die for you to inherit tickets.)

So it was quiet at the beach, relatively speaking. There were a few surfers, scanning the horizon hopelessly, and one guy walking along the beach carrying some odd-looking radio equipment. This last guy disappeared up into the dunes, which troubled Rodney a bit: the dunes constitute a discrete, delicately fragile eco-system of their own, and are protected from humans, for the most part. Since Rodney and I were guilty of much violation of this kind of protection in our misspent youths, we're watchful now, perhaps hoping no one will remember our families spending whole weekends in the 1950s and '60s, gleefully driving through these same dunes, wreaking ecological havoc out of pure ignorance and human thoughtlessness. The guy didn't reappear on the beach. "Maybe he had to pee," I said, but I thought Rodney was making a mental note about it.

As we walked toward home around 4 in the afternoon, we spotted movement in the grass around the burrow Rodney'd identified that morning. Warmed by the sun, the large tortoise moved with surprising speed to take shelter in the cool burrow. We got some photos, but they weren't great. Still, we had the pleasure of watching her eat some wildflowers and grass, sun herself, and finally move toward home, even catching sight of flying sand as she either opened or closed her burrow entrance.

Because the tide was low in the morning, we headed back in the cool of the early Sunday for a wordless worship I find immeasurably soothing, and walked up the beach. Whatever your own religious beliefs or internal language of spirituality, there can surely be no more glorious sight than this one, or the one Nature offers you wherever you live. When we arrived, there was the gopher tortoise, her neck stretched into the bright sunshine, her body perfectly still as she warmed for her daily constitutional. Perhaps she had a vague sense of pleasure, as we did, in the lingering warmth of the autumn days. We photographed her quietly and moved on. The water is still warm enough for me to walk in the shallows, bait fish skittering out ahead of me and diamonds of light dancing on the surface. Near the northern boundary of the beach, we ran into our Sea Turtle Superhero, Scott Eastman, and a helper, who seemed to be clearing away the land markers of one of the last sea turtle nests of the year. (In case I've forgotten to mention this, the number of nests this year, for reasons that are not yet understood, are nearly TRIPLE the annual average. Have I already told you this? ;))

Scott stopped for a quick word, and I told him the location of the gopher tortoise. He's the sea turtle guy, of course, and not the land reptile guy, but he said, "There's a University of Florida biologist out here, noting the nesting locations..." and about that time, my dear old person said, "Would he be carrying radio equipment?" Scott nodded, "That's him." He's marked about 20 gopher tortoise burrow sites, and of course this explained why he'd disappeared into the dunes and not returned to the beach: He's a Turtle Superhero. As, of course, is Scott, and as are all those folks like our friend Louise and many others, who get up REALLY early, take long walks looking our for the turtles, and who take stewardship of the glorious, beautiful earth and its denizens to heart. Thanks, Scott. Thanks, Louise. Thanks, U of F Biology Guy. And thanks to the daughter of my friend Jack, who takes time to observe and notice the most prosaic details about turtles and the world around her, which is slowly settling into her hands, and those of her peers, in hopes their stewardship will far exceed our own.

Wedding gift recollection, a propos of nothing

2010-10-25T21:28:00.016-04:00

This story might almost fit into my "St. Augustine sounds like a very cool place" series (thank you, Just Eat It, for the inspiration on THAT) or into other serial recollections of mine, but it's probably at home in any "wonderful things/small towns" category. However catalogued, here's a small, bright recollection that came to me this evening in such vivid color and immediacy that I couldn't put it into words past unexpected tears. It seems like a bridge between the now-archaic and the ever-changing present, and between a generation nearly gone and one still finding its identity.

I must have blabbed to everyone in the WORLD, all those years ago, about our wedding plans. In hindsight more people than I could have imagined were breathtakingly generous and kind to us, and we didn't expect it. In fact it was one of the reasons we chose to marry in a quiet, non-traditional way (we had lived together, we had un-traditional families, we had ye olde religious differences, etc. We didn't send wedding invitations because I didn't want people to feel compelled to give gifts. What an idiot I was, and how stupid about the grace with which humans bless each other, but never mind that, for now.) Invitations or no, people knew we were getting married and were kind beyond measure. In some cases we were overwhelmed by the kindness right up front but some things matured into beauty like wines preserved a century in careful cellars.

Eileen Ronan was a someone who turned up now and then at the Booksmith, and attended Mass at the Cathedral. I knew her peripherally. I thought of her as a nice lady. I had no idea she took any interest in my getting married, especially since I wasn't being married in a traditional way at the Cathderal where I sang every week. She must have been in her late 70s when I knew her and her mind was still like the edge of a knife. By her voice and her manners, I knew to be a non-native Southerner, though my guess was she'd lived in St. Augustine for a long number of years. I had the idea she'd been married to a diplomat; she made reference to having traveled in the course of her husband's work. By the time I knew her, it was clear he'd been dead for some time. It was equally clear that she loved him no less and would love him no less as long as she drew breath.

About a month before our wedding, she left a gift for us at the Booksmith. It was a copy of Southern Sideboards, a cookbook produced by the Junior League of Jackson, Mississippi. The gift of a cookbook wasn't surprising, but I did work in a bookstore, and this was NOT a book that could be bought in our store; she had gone to some trouble to acquire this gift. Since then, I've bought the same book as a wedding gift, passing along the kindness and gentle magic. But brides mostly haven't had any context for the gift beyond the convention - however passe it might be - of a cookbook as a fine gift for a new bride. (And sometimes the more practical gift of a check has been an alternative.) In some cases, I have tried to include an inscription more or less capturing Mrs. Ronan's sensibilities, almost certainly without success.

Tonight my dear old person and I were in the kitchen together and I happened to pull the book into our midst. I read aloud to him, and now share with you, the words Mrs. Ronan typed - with a typewriter! - and included with her gift. The typewritten page is folded into a plan white envelope and has been kept in the cookbook these long, happy years. This is what it says.

"Dear Angie & Rodney,

I wish you all the joys of a lifelong friendship and love and I know you will have them.

I know Angie is probably a splendid cook but I could only make chocolate cake and fudge when I was married. 'No problem,' I thought -- ' I'll just get a cookbook and follow the recipes.' But the cookbook doesn't tell you all the little nuances.

And of course I had to pick out the hardest recipe-- chicken cacciatore to start with. The recipe book said "Heat the oil' and I heated it to smoking. Then it told me to put in the garlic and of course it splattered all over the kitchen and me. 'Boil the chicken.' I boiled it fast and furiously and the more I boiled it the tougher it got.

But my dear husband insisted on eating it and pronounced it 'not bad'. That's true love.

Love and prayers,
Eileen"

As mentioned, I found myself unable to read the words out loud without tears breaking my voice. I hope "all the little nuances" touch your heart. As I consider the thing from the distance 20 years or more can provide, Eat Here would never have come into being without Mrs. Ronan and her gift and gracious willingness to bare her limitations as a cook and her clear-eyed passion for communications. In the understated style of the time she didn't say much about her husband, but in conversation her face lit from within when she spoke of him. So does the carefully typewritten page dwell inside the pages of my battered copy of Southern Sideboards.

What are your stories of unexpected kindness and open hearts? Do tell.

The barred owls of October

2010-10-23T17:40:00.016-04:00

Owls are often associated with wisdom and intelligence in literature and history. In T.H. White's The Once and Future King, one of the young King Arthur's most influential tutors was Merlin's companion, the owl Archimedes. And we can hardly do better than to follow the path of Pooh and Piglet, whose faith in Owl's brilliance was unwavering, awed as they were by Owl's ability spell his own name: W-O-L.

Last night The Golden Hour lay around us like a soft blanket. We sat on the deck, lingering in the light, when a sudden whoosh of wings burst around us and two barred owls flew past, one landing in the trees beyond our yard, and the other landing mercilessly on a mourning dove. We watched and listened as the two owls vocalized to each other, and before the light faded completely the younger owl swept back across the trees and more or less posed for this picture. I'm able to share it with you thanks to the tireless efforts of my dear old person, who took pity on the terrible photos I've been taking with my phone and bought me a small, miraculous camera, which I must confess I have only the vaguest idea how to use. This explains the appearance of midday, despite the fact that photo was taken at sunset.

Barred owls have been with us since we moved here. Generations of owl babies have doubtless been fed on hapless doves and frogs and snakes hunted and caught in our grass. Years ago, when my dear person worked at night, he actually recorded the bizarre sound he heard in one midnight lunch hour; neither of us had any idea what could possibly make such a sound, but it was clearly in the treetop canopy and clearly bore no resemblance to the "Who? Whooo? Who cooks for you?" owl voices we knew. Now we know firsthand what our National Geographic Complete Birds tells us: this familiar sound is sometimes preceded by "an ascending, agitated barking". The "barking" was the sound Rod recorded. In the years between then and now, the sound has become familiar to our family as we've watched - and heard - those generations of owls.

In the silence left by the departed barred owl family, we grilled brats and roasted potatoes on the grill. This isn't exactly how I made them last night, but this is my latest idea about October roasted potatoes. I'm trying it this weekend, so stay tuned for opinions, but this - a variation on my usual theme - is my plan.

Wash and peel one large white baking potato and one large sweet potato; cut into cubes. Whisk together olive oil, balsamic vinegar, lemon juice, soy sauce, mustard and maple syrup with the herbs you prefer. (I know. I wish I COULD give you measurements, but I just can't. It's just not how I cook, except when baking or candy-making. I ordered them so that you can see decreasing proportions of each, because you know what happens if you introduce too much of something, like maple syrup, which will tend to burn as sugar does...well, you know how to cook. I trust you. Do it by trial-end-error. Cooking is messy.) Toss the olive oil mixture and potatoes together and place in cast iron skillet. Cook over indirect heat on your gas grill for an hour or until the potatoes are done. (You could also put the potatoes on a cookie sheet and bake in a 350 degree oven for an hour or so. I prefer the grill because I always prefer cast iron.)

Let me know if you try it, or if you roast potatoes, or what you're eating as fall wraps its arms around us all.

One final note: I cannot say much about this due to the secrecy considerations of the holiday season, but I CAN tell you that my order arrived this week from UltraCuteCrochet. If you haven't looked at her stuff, do it now. If you need presents for loved ones in cold climes, or warm climes if your loved ones, like my dear old person, tend to be cold no matter the temperature. I've ordered from Erin more than once and always been thrilled with the quality of work, the speed of delivery and the amazing joy of a handcrafted, customized work of wearable art. Check it out for yourself.

Eat Here Eatery Disclaimer: Every writer knows the challenge inherent in proofing one's own work. In my case, since The Baby Went to Africa, I have no proofreader. All mistakes are my own. Until he gets back, of course.

A wedding in waiting

2010-10-08T20:15:00.021-04:00

We walked on the beach in the late afternoon today at our beautiful and oft-mentioned Guana. Because of the new moon, the low tide was VERY low, which gave us a beautiful wide white beach with long stretches of the red shell coquina where the ancient fossilized shark teeth hide. And clearly there was a human interest story brewing, as we could see chairs being set up for an evening wedding on the beach.

We walked around the preparations, but I thought about a reminder from Jayne yesterday: it is a new moon. Time for planting, time for putting embryonic concepts up for The Universe's consideration, time for petitioning God or the gods or the Godesss, depending on your own language for these concepts, your personal spiritual vernacular. Time for asking a blessing, as it were. It seemed a perfect time for a wedding to me. I remembered our own wedding: my dear old person illuminated by the pearl of the moon's fullness. We were not married on a new moon but on a luminous moon, as Jayne and Pablo recall very well. Has this blessed us in a different way? Have we been in the business of harvesting for our whole married life? In some ways it seems we have. Never mind: I considered the new moon and this couple, whoever they might be, and watched from a distance as folding chairs were set up so that their families and loved ones could have some comfort in the face of mother ocean, taking their part in the exchanging of vows.

We walked on, and suddenly Rodney pointed out at the water. Following the line of his arm I could see movement in the water. Puzzled, we closed the distance between ourselves to consult: had we seen a shark? Porpoises? A school of big fish, chased by predators? Something launched out of the water and rolled, falling backward, something BIG. A hundred yards to the north something else jumped from the water. For a few minutes it reminded me of the old days at Marineland, when porpoises danced on their tails and jumped through rings and did passable imitations of Flipper, who was On Television. There were porpoises dancing through the water in pods of three or four or more, sometimes visible together in groups in the breaking waves, like surfers sharing the tube. It was gorgeous, close to magic. We walked on, talking now and then of this and that, both of us thinking, perhaps, of the coming wedding.

This time of year is so breathtaking here in northeast Florida that you can be doubly frustrated by Things That Make Being Outside Uncomfortable. Mosquitos, for instance: we can be wrapped in the joy of the beautiful golden hour under our live oaks, and then be forced to say, "Yep, that's it. We're going in," because the mosquitos are suddenly out and we don't feel like spraying ourselves top to toe. A similar feeling comes to us this time of year at the beach, as the universe shifts and the sun's placement is different, and the shadows lengthen and darken on the sand. Glances are exchanged. The glances say, Yep, that's it.
So we head off the beach, grateful for the day, hopeful for the wedding party, whoever they may be, happy to welcome the weekend, the weather, the time together.

We cross the boardwalk, casting glances backward at the beach. It's so beautiful, people. If you've never been, this is the time of year to come down and walk along the beach with us. If you live here but you haven't been to this stunning beach in years, go. Go this weekend. If you go all the time, if you're one of the people we wave at every weekend...well, I love you, but I'm not talking to you. So we walk across and look backward, and there's the welcome for the wedding couple.

Leticia & Dale: whoever you are, may the New Moon bless you, may our Great Mother Ocean welcome you, may God look down on you from His heaven and kiss you with blessings. For our part, the writers, contributors and readers at Eat Here send you Love and Light, and a reminder that "the philosophy is kindness"* is a pretty good way to start a long life together. Mazel tov!

*This is from my most favorite recent quote from the Dalai Lama. If you need the entire reference let me know.

The MadriGalz: A Short History

2010-10-04T19:22:00.025-04:00

If I'm to make an honest start I have to tell you that's a lie: there is either no short version of the MadriGalz, or (and this is much more likely) I'm constitutionally incapable of telling a short story. Oh, and there's shameless self-promotion. The MagriGalz made a CD and we'd love for you to buy it. But either way, get a glass of wine and settle in. It's a good story, although in fairness, most of you probably know it already.

The photo at the top was taken looking from one end of the Cafe Alcazar to the other end, where (the teeny tiny black figures of) the MadriGalz (Judy - short; Lis - tall and elegant; me - bossy and probably laughing) usually stand when we sing our Christmas carols at a certain time of year when we perform at the Alcazar. If you don't know the history of the buiding, it was an elegant, luxurious vacation destination if you were in the John D. Rockefeller set in about the 1880s. This room was the swimming pool. It had (and has) three stories of a view, and the space occupied in this shot by our friends and family was filled with water. The Cafe Alcazar sits in what was the deep end of the pool all those years ago. If you visit you can feel the coquina/tabby floor sloping away under your feet and it's easy to hear the echoing voices of another century. My dear old person has a million shots of the space but it's late and I can't find them, so you'll have to trust me. Also lining the walls along what would have been the floor of the pool are several charming antique shops, where you can find precious jewels, paintings, linens and other delicious antiquities; I've sometimes done all my holiday shopping right then and there.

If you fast forward to about 2005, and up to the present day, you find a simple a capella trio, marking the holidays with close-sung harmonies. Funny, because we crossed paths again and again and again, and St. Augustine being what it is, we eventually found each other. I've told you pieces of this story before, but here's the backbone of it.

Sometime in the late 70s I was sneaked into The Tradewinds (the bar that shared a wall with The Booksmith) to hear Gamble Rogers and by some accident of booking or timing or whatever, the band on stage was Rose Tattoo. Lis was the singer, and I was lost. My dream? To meet her, to know her, to be her friend, to - dare I write it? - sing with her. It didn't happen like that, although I did move on the outskirts of her social circle, but we didn't begin a friendship. Not then, at least. Years slid past.

A few years later I began a long connection with the music ministry at the Cathedral of St. Augustine, and met Judy. Far from my own notice, Sister Patricia had a careful eye on Judy. Nothing happened with the speed of fairy tale magic, but eventually I found out some key things about Judy - and so did SPE, who might have been talent searching like Major League baseball scout. Judy was smart; she could read music (I'd been faking the ability for years!) and her vocal range gradually revealed itself. She played an instrument and not just ANY instrument; she played the oboe, which is one of the most difficult voices in the orchestra. And vocally, though this wasn't recognized at the time, there was very little she could NOT do: I think it took SPE some length of time to realize that Judy had a vocal range apporaching 5 octaves. She didn't have absolute pitch, as it's sometimes called, but her ear for harmonies was pitch-perfect. We studied together and separately with our much-loved Sister Patricia, and there was no moment spent in Judy's company during which I thought myself worthy to be called anything but a HOPELESS DORK, with (oh by the way) NO talent. Judy never sought the spotlight (if anything, the very opposite) but she could be in the light and if you were with her, your vocal performance was a no-brainer.

More YEARS went by, years in which my path crossed the paths of both Lis and Judy intermittently. Judy and I sang in different configurations of vocal groups, some brightened by people like Joan Taylor (whose voice is positively golden and unchanged by teaching) and Tracy Webb (whose voice transcends golden and has the unspeakable grace of making every other voice singing with her sound, simply, more beautiful). And St. Augustine being what it is, Judy and I also found ourselves in a madrigal ensemble Sister Patricia cooked up, called The Madrigal Singers. This group of about a dozen voices was often hired out during the holidays and the proceeds donated to the Music Ministry. I became one of 3 or 4 altos, wearing a costume kindly made for me by others, and loved it. Maybe because I cannot remember a time, even in earliest childhood, in which I couldn't hear 3- or 4- part harmonies in my head, I felt as if I'd come to the finishing school of my dreams. I did not dare tell this to SPE, though I did tell it to Judy after some years, and I'm sure I told it to Lis as well.

At some point, Judy and I were singing Christmas carols with Lori Pellicer, whose voice was like silver windchimes. She was married to Judy's brother, and a conflict loomed: Jonny and Lori were the principals of a venerated local performance group oriented to country and bluegrass music, The Red River Band. The pull of that slice of family performance won out. And Tracy moved away. Another alto we loved to sing with Theresa, also relocated with her family, And so it was just me and Judy, and we let it sit for some quiet years, made noisy by other things. We worked at our day jobs. We raised kids.

My job took me into contact with Lis. (Are you kidding? It's her? But I've always loved her!) I kept all my starstruck hysteria under wraps as long as I could but eventually the day came and we talked about it, and Lis actually wanted to sing Christmas carols and hymns and would be THRILLED to sing with Judy and me (neither of whom she could possibly have known at all) and somehow we were all sitting around the table at Lis's house in St. Augustine, talking about music, listening to music, trying out harmonies, putting voice to voice as though we were fabrics needing matching...and there was no looking back.

Some dear friends opened the door to the Cafe Acalzar, a delightful restaurant to which we were all connected in one way or another. The Alcazar is that small, delectable bistro in the deep end of the pool and thanks to physics and the tastes of the Flaglers and Rockefellers, it creates an astonishing environment for live music. This was what we wanted to take into the MadriGalz CD. And our dear Buttercups of "you don't have to pay me right this minute but those clams gonna sure come in handy" (Lon, Rocky, Rick - you guys know who you are, and how much we still owe you) helped us make this recording into a reality. Let us be the first to say that the recording is full of live-performance flaws and sloppiness we could have polished out. If you listen closely, you'll hear them. But while we sometimes did more than one take, there is no correction of pitch, no pretence: if you'd been with us at Gatorbone Studios at that magic recording session, you'd hear the same thing on the CD that you'd have heard with headphones on, listening. You'd hear three singers who trust each other enormously, working to match for pitch and blend. You'd hear one recording engineer and producer (Lon Williamson) resisting any temptation to guide the MadriGalz into a sound not true to themselves. The only thing you'll miss if you listen to this CD is constant giggling (I know; it's shocking) and the profound gratitude the artists have for the people who made it possible.

So it's early for the holidays, as we all say every year at about this time. But maybe this year you'll be listening to this recording, and maybe it will help brighten the flame of the joy with which you honor the Miracle of Light, Christmas, or the return of the sun to bless our crops. Or maybe you'll be with us at a performance: you can call Creekside Dinery for a reservation, since we know we'll be singing there in December. Maybe you'll be singing with us at a house party or concert thi year. Most of all, we hope you'll be celebrating your old and cherished connections to one another during the coming holiday season, as the MadriGalz do every year.

Breakfast with chickadees

2010-10-03T11:26:00.007-04:00

It's time to eat here at Eat Here, where I haven't fed you breakfast in a long while. Like all the cooking I've done lately, it's a balancing act wherein I try not to change the fundamentals of favorite dishes while avoiding my natural inclination to cook for 25. Not that cooking for 25 is a problem, of course, when your house is full of gigantic teenagers who are able to eat with superhuman dedication. But when they go away to pursue their own adventures, efforts must be made to cook for, well, you know, 5 or 6. My dear old person and I are still working this out, and I must admit that recently our dinner plans have been along the lines of, "How do you feel about an egg sandwich?", or "Cheese toast, dear?"

This morning has filled the Spanish moss with golden light and lit the resurrection ferns and the busy birds with bright halos like saints or sacred icons. And so: breakfast. Fresh locally made orange juice, perfectly scrambled eggs, crisp, pointed slices of starfruit and potato pancakes. It's not a breakfast you can get in most restaurants, though of course it's always on the menu at Eat Here. The part you have to make yourself is the potato pancakes.

Start with a cup or so of leftover mashed potatoes. Add one egg, some finely minced onion and, if you like, some equally finely minced garlic. Put in about a quarter cup of flour and whisk the whole thing together with a fork; season with a little salt and bless the whole thing with a few dashes of hot sauce (Texas Pete is the house version). Whisk once more. Using a teaspoon, drop onto your frying surface. For me this is a very well-seasoned cast iron skillet heated to medium high with a bit of olive oil. When the pancaked are nicely browned, turn once and brown the other side. Set on a cake rack, if you have one, while you cook the rest.

Take your plate and that big glass of orange juice out on the back porch, and eat quietly while the chickadees whistle around you and the blue, blue sky peeps out between the waving live oaks, moved by a freshening breeze with the tiniest suggestion of fall. It's always wonderful to have you with us at Eat Here.

St. Augustine sounds like a very cool place, Opus 3

2010-10-02T17:02:00.015-04:00

This was my grandmother's china. To my knowledge, my grandmother never saw St. Augustine, but her china came to live here and the story is in some ways quintessentially St. Augustinian. Connections, connections...

In the year of our marriage, I worked at the Booksmith (of blessed memory). We had an honored regular customer (the sort of person we thought of as a sort of Friend of the Store) named Marilyn, a smart, funny woman who valued fine writing and good books, and was an active patron of the arts community in St. Augustine. She'd been widowed fairly recently, though her husband had been an invalid for some years and I had the impression she'd been much younger than he was. I also had the impression that whether through his means or her own she lived comfortably after he died, as though money wasn't something she worried about. That seemed luxurious to me but I didn't give it much thought. Marilyn wasn't the kind of person to make you think about distinctions of class or money: she was warm and open and unafraid, with a ready laugh, rich enough to pull you into its circle. She was drawn, physically, on generous lines and dressed in bold, vivid colors, set against the brightest lipsticks. I liked her on sight and never changed my mind.

The summer of our wedding drew on toward the September date. We were an untraditional wedding couple in many ways. We were both long gone forth from the homes of our parents, and we'd lived together for several years. Neither of us had living mothers to create the framework (or hysteria) of some weddings. So our wedding, as I have mentioned here, was planned and executed by our own ingenuity and the breathtaking generosity of our families and friends. We were registered nowhere; there was no list of desired small appliances, no selected patterns of silver or china. In any case the only china I wanted was the simple pattern of my childhood - the cheery pink roses of my grandmother's Franciscanware. But my grandmother was gone and I had no connection with my father, and in any case, there were bigger fish to fry. My friend Tracey was making my dress; my aunt would make the lovely wedding cake. Rodney's brother would pay for the beer, and his oldest childhood friend furnish the limo. You know all this; I've told you the tale before. And it was pretty much all I talked about, as brides do, and there on the corner of Charlotte Street and Cathedral Place, I talked about it with all the Booksmith regulars. They listened, told their own wedding stories, wished us well, and bought their books.

In northeast Florida August steamed its way toward what I'd hoped would be a cooler late September. On one of those August afternoons, a stately burgundy-colored Cadillac passed through our neighborhood, the dust of the dirt road settling lightly on the polished paint of the car. It circled by once, and then approached again slowly, the driver clearly trying to locate a specific address in those days before GPS systems and in-car navigation. Suddenly it was in our driveway, and to my complete astonishment, Marilyn was getting out. And she was unloading packages, waving off my bewilderment: just dropping these off for you, dear, I know you're getting married, estate sale, great bargain, couldn't pass it up, wedding and all...

"But, but, wait," I babbled, "how did you know? How did you find our house? How..."

"Oh, you mentioned something about the china pattern, you know, and Diana gave me directions. It was such a great deal, I could hardly pass it up, and after all, you ARE getting married, and I hope you'll be VERY happy..." and in a cloud of dust and kindness she was gone. I stood in the doorway, looking around me at plates and platters and teacups, all bearing the small pink roses and green leaves of my grandmother's every day dishes. Here they were. Here they were, found, bought and delivered to me out of nothing more than kindness. It would have been lovely to have the actual dishes from Grandmother's cupboards. But I wasn't sure it wasn't somehow even more wonderful to have these pieces, conjured out of kindness.

After the wedding we spent a week in western North Carolina, where Rodney's Uncle Sam had what the family charmingly called a "cabin". (It was actually a modest but comfortable A-frame house, equipped with every amenity right down to a dishwasher.) On one of the days of that week, we drove over to east Tennessee to visit my Aunt Beverly, my father's sister. Like my father, Aunt Bev-o is gentle and sweet by nature and Rodney and I spent several lovely hours with her. And when we drove back to Crossnore, we carried a couple of boxes of Franciscanware across the mountains with us. Aunt Bev-o had been saving Grandmother's dishes and she gifted them to us. Close examination reveals the hand of my beloved little cousin, Aunt Bev-o's daughter, in the making of this arrangement. The beautiful pieces Marilyn had given me were united with the ones that had been taken for granted in Grandmother's kitchen. They've been in daily use ever since, but the story doesn't end there.

Fast forward about 10 years, and I am on a long, driving business trip with a colleague and friend, Miss Inga. With miles to cover and a long-standing easiness between us, we talk the hours away with gossip and jokes and confidences. I ask her about how she came to live in St. Augustine, her marriage to a respected local musician, her family, all in very general terms. She tells me that she came to St. Augustine because her beloved father owned a condo here. (He is a story all on his own, but not my tale to tell.) When Miss Inga was extricating herself from a bad marriage, and dealing with her father's death more or less at the same time, she came to St. Augustine and lived in the condo. She felt comfortable here. She'd visited before and in fact had a treasured friend here, a woman who'd been a friend of Miss Inga's father for many years, going back into Miss Inga's childhood. A woman who had been almost a mother-figure to Miss Inga, herself. A woman named Marilyn.

St. Augustine sounds like a very cool place, huh? Everything comes round again on itself. Does this happen where you live?

What the eye don't see

2010-09-30T21:53:00.008-04:00

There's an old Southern expression that runs along the lines of, "What the eye don't see, the heart don't need to grieve after," or words to that effect. It means that if you don't know about it, you needn't worry about it too much, and it dances through my mind now and then. You may know it. If you have ever taken a piece of otherwise perfectly lovely cheese out of your fridge, found and removed a spot of mold and then sliced and served the rest of it without a word to your family, it may seem a familiar refrain to you. The old Southern form of the words may be new, but they fit the melody.

But then there's what the eye DO see.

Tonight I have no photo for you with this post because I have the negative image in mind, which is all about what the eye does see, and how impossible it is for me to capture it as an image. The weather has cleared after several days of gloomy rain and begins to promise cool evenings and the dazzling bright blue skies of October. Tomorrow is likely to be gorgeous. Tonight the blue black velvet sky is rolled out like and endless furl of antique French silk ribbon, winking with tiny, perfect diamonds that shimmer across the great expanse. Above our little house, those diamonds wink and glitter coquettishly through the yards of Spanish moss, now visible, now gone, tempting and just beyond reach: impossible to photograph. But, oh, the eye can see them, my loves. The eye can see them with a perfection that no words can approach.

I hope your sky is clear and inky black and glitters with distant suns, however far from home or closely nestled under your eaves you may be. Good night, my dears.

Counting by candelight

2010-09-25T23:31:00.011-04:00

It's probably fair to say that most of your friends will not celebrate their wedding anniversaries with a trip to an exhibit of invertebrate fossils. (Yes, we are still celebrating.) An even smaller subset are likely to have made this trip without considering that the museum housing that exhibit is located in the middle of the University of Florida campus, in Gainesville, on a home game Saturday afternoon. This is SEC FOOTBALL, baby. What were we thinking? I know. I know. But this photo was its own reward. And then the ride home, from Gainesville to St. Augustine, happens to pass by the front door (practically) of Gatorbone Studios.

We could probably have gone home. There were lazy dogs, waiting for their supper. There was certainly laundry to do and things to clean, the beach to walk or any number of favorite places for eating out. Hell, there was even the Gator game on TV. But we went to Gatorbone Studios (having called ahead, of course) and positively basked in the Golden Hour of beloved friends. There were martinis. There was wisdom and laughter, music to remember for a lifetime and a hanky or two might have come in handy. There was a lovely dinner, a dessert of mangoes and fresh raspberry sauce over vanilla ice cream. And there was a LOT of talk about gratitude. We talked about some other much-loved friends and their wisdom, about the beauty of the elders and youngsters of the tribe and the bewilderment of we who are in between. After all, Lon said, "Isn't that what the tribe is for?"

It surely is. And, though Rod has laughed and said anniversaries are like birthdays for me (meaning they generally last a week or so, at least; you will have noted I said we were still celebrating) there surely was no better way to mark the occasion, to count the precious years, for us. I do promise to move along to a new topic, but for tonight: Thank you, dear and treasured friends.

Simple gifts

2010-09-23T18:12:00.027-04:00

The sea turtle nesting season is nearly over and most of the nests located in the northern section of Guana have already hatched. The babies who are going to survive have probably already made their treacherous trip from nest to water, past the challenge of the breaking surf and into the arms of the ocean. This little guy was perfectly still, and had flowing green algae like a mermaid's hair growing from his shell. Rod and I, celebrating our wedding anniversary with a visit to one of our most beloved places, were thinking in unison as the long-married do and said over each other, "He's not dead!" when his tiny eyes opened. I called the Guana folks: Best thing is probably to put him back in the water, the nice woman said, and that she would call the turtle guy to let him know. I walked back to the breakers to stand watch with Rod, for of course we'd already put him in the water. The small turtle paddled frantically, every now and then raising his nose for a breath, and resuming the paddling. But the incoming tide was fueled by the power of the waxing moon, nearly full: an astronomical tide. He would not make his way past the breaking waves. We did all we could to help, knowing the odds weren't in his favor. I can't remember the ratio but I think it's something like one baby sea turtle in a thousand survives. Helping one in a small way was in keeping with the occasion for us.

So: the occasion. We were married* 22 years ago, standing alongside the St. Johns River, and the moon was full then, too, and perfectly gorgeous. Sometime I'll tell you the story of our wedding, my loves, for it was made magic by the people who loved us and were kindest to us. We had lived together for three years before we married and had only one active birth parent between us so there was no talk of the groom's family paying for this, or the bride's for that; we did things ourselves and had them done for us at the price of simple love, no more. I will tell you the story, but until then it'll tide you over to know that David Hackney played and Miss Jo sang, "Tis a gift to be simple, 'tis a gift to be free, 'tis a gift to come 'round where we ought to be, and when we find ourselves in that place just right we will be in the valley of love and delight", and that is the heart of that story.

This year we honored the memories, walking and talking about our blessings, our children, our families, our friends. And we talked about the people we know who've been married as long as we have. Among our closest friends are several who've been married longer; Pablo, who shot the video at our wedding, is among them. Funny thing: on that ancient (giant!) VHS tape are captured many details of sight and sound, laughter and singing, stories and gifts and blessings, including an alligator gently swimming upriver past the wedding guests, virtually unnoticed by anyone but Pablo, and a shot of the moon reflecting on the wide sparkle of the St. Johns that may be a treatise on videographic terminal punctuation.

If we widen the circle by a generation, we find a couple who have been married longer than I've been alive. Gracious, simple, lovely people, they have spent more than 60 years seeing after one another, and in some way or another, seeing after every life they touch. They are older now, and things get harder but it seems to me their reward comes to them every day. They are together, their children and extended family love them, and they are (though I'm not sure they know this) venerated elders of the tribe. They have lived through the good and the bad, and if you've been married for a time, you know what I mean. Or if you don't, this is what I mean: When you are married to a person, no matter how much you love them, there are days when you want to shove them off the planet into deep space and I mean DEEP space. Where there is NO OXYGEN. Or something like that. If your marriage survives those times, you are likely brave, strong, devoted, tempered with humor and you are absolutely purely lucky. Sometimes it doesn't survive; it can't survive: the odds are surely not in its favor. But if it does, what a gift it is.

I was gossiping once with a friend over some rumored or true infidelity on the part of a mutual acquaintance. The details of the gossip are fuzzy but her commentary is as vivid a memory as any I have. She shook her head, genuinely puzzled. "I don't know," she said, "I don't get it. I guess I'm just a very married person." She was. She still is. She has in play all those pieces I mentioned as well as tenacity and patience, and undeniably, that good luck. But the blessing of a long marriage has been passed down to her from the likes of the 60-year-married couple I mentioned. I do hope those blessings pass from them to me to you, whatever your road, however long- or short-married you are, or were or will be. Perhaps the secret ingredient, the most magical thing I've not been able to put into words, is in the words of the Dalai Lama, who said, "This is my simple Religion. There is no need for temples; no need for complicated philosophy. Our own brain, our own heart, is the temple; the philosophy is kindness."

*I use the term "marriage" for the convenience of a commonly-understood concept, but without intent to exclude anyone. I assume each and every definition of marriage to be valid according to the beliefs and customs by which you abide. And I believe that when two people love each other they should be able to marry if they choose. Period.

P.S. Dylan, it is very difficult for me to proof my work without you. I miss you and love you very much. The good news? You are too far away to prevent me writing about you. MuWAhahahah! Stay tuned.

In memoriam: September 21, 2009

2010-09-20T18:44:00.009-04:00

I may be one of the most blessed of women when my blessings are counted in sisters. If you read here now and then, you probably know this already; you know that through pure good fortune and kindness my adult life has been to sisters what Willie Wonka's place is to candy. There are marvels everywhere.

By birth I am gifted with three half-sisters, all younger; two daughters of my mother, and one of my father. As an adult I have cordial but distant, intermittent connections to the daughters of my mother; sadly no more contact than one ancient, bitter letter from the daughter of my father. There's much archaeology of family here to be sifted and considered but mostly it comes down to this: we have no shared memories. Because of circumstances, we were thrown together and pulled apart like celestial objects with unpredictable orbits throughout most of our childhoods. The result is we don't understand each other very well. My extended family, however, gave me Daisy, a cousin near my own age, who began by brightening some of the long, sweet days of summers when we were young and who has been as close and connected in my thoughts these last years as she has been faraway in miles and lifetimes.

You probably know someone a little like Daisy; you may have your own sister of family or choosing who is as dear to you. She's very brainy, to begin with, and funny, and as open with her heart as a songbird with his morning love song. This is no real stretch for there's a good bit of the songbird in Daisy; it is one of the gifts of our family that most of us have music in us, as we have breathing. She is an empath by nature: that person everyone wants to tell everything to, partly for her lack of judgement, partly for her understanding and unpretentious humor and perhaps most of all, for that feeling of finding yourself and your confidences to be the most important thing in the world to her as she listens to you. But lest I paint a silly picture of some sainted being with wings and halo...well, Daisy is as human as everybody. She has issues with her own natal family, professional challenges and road-forks, she has fallen into and out of love, or thought herself in love only to find she'd married someone she hadn't really chosen for herself. In other words, Daisy is special and marvelous and prosaic and not that different from anyone else.

Last August I was caught up in the familial melodrama of Pop's death. It was a blessing, releasing him as it did from the sadness of Alzheimers and all that meant for him and the whole family. Bitterness was rekindled for me, as he had lived that long, long life, the final 15 years or so lost to the tangle of the disease. A few short years before he died, my dear old friend O'Hare had been lost to breast cancer. She was 45 years old, her youngest son only 5 years old when she died. Pop had to be buried and the sad chores of probate undertaken, and I'd been out of touch with Daisy for some while. This worried me not at all, for with Daisy I have the shared memories that knit us together for always. We would talk at the holidays, I thought, and went back to the work at hand. But it turns out that Daisy spent last August tangled in her own love and grief.

Lily had been a presence in Daisy's life for some years. They lived in a city large enough for all the amenities, but small enough for people in smaller circles to know one another. Not unlike St. Augustine, which you'll know from reading here, it's a city where, for instance, most of the people singing classical music attend one or another church or synagogue because regardless of their commitment to a given dogma, the best music directors can often be found there. And there are other smaller circles, as there are everywhere. Daisy knew Lily peripherally. They had common friends, knew of one another, finally were introduced casually at a dinner. In its aftermath, Daisy seems to recall nothing but Lily. Laughing, talking, laughing more: it seems to have been one of those moments in which, in movies, all the other characters and sounds fade to distance so that there are only the two people, falling in love. People talked, Daisy says: people looked at other people, after the dinner, and said, "What about Lily and Daisy? They barely spoke to anyone else..."

No surprises, so far: Daisy wrote in one of her brief-but-always-remembered birthday greetings of her dear friend Lily, and then later that Lily had had a recurrence of breast cancer, and later still that while Lily was sick, Daisy was helping care for her, and was herself content. No surprises, but of course, I missed it. I missed all the small mentions and the clues until after the fact. I missed that Lily was Daisy's Person. Here was the love Daisy had waited for. Here was the love we all wait for, the love some of us are actually fortunate enough to find in our lifetimes. To my dear cousin, one of the dearest sisters of my heart, my little much-loved Daisy, Love had come.

Fast forward, Spring 2010: Daisy came to Florida on business and we met for a drink and a talk; just a few hours to share between flights, but so much to say, to cover and no longer the talk of children or teenages beseet by angst or the serious intellectual talk of students. Now the hearts we opened to each other were those of grownups. Professional lives, aging parents - Rodney's father, her mother, and our common aunts and uncles, kids growing up - my near-grown sons, her growing nephews- her music, mine, our common friends and then at last: Lily. Daisy, whose empathetic nature always brought an open, affectionate expression; whose clear-headed professionalism would bring the same openness lit with bright intelligence, always warm but seldom sentimental or even demonstrative, suddenly looked up with eyes brimming and a tight expression as she struggled for control. "My dear friend," she said, her voice full as she spoke of Lily; her dear friend. Lily died. September 21, 2009. "Time," Daisy said, with quiet finality. "Time is all that really matters."

Daisy recalled Lily softly for me. Lily was one of those people everyone wants to be around, she said, one of those people everyone wants as a friend, one of those people others find themselves honored to serve. Her native generosity came back to her many times over, and as she confronted the accelerated process of dying, was surrounded by people willing to help with the burdens. They were perhaps people whose grief took a practical turn, or who loved Lily differently. Daisy surely found her way to offer Lily every comfort, but there was also this: she was frozen in a grief so profound it may have taken even her by surprise. It was difficult, so unspeakably, terribly difficult to consider life without Lily. And yet Lily herself whispered, "You know this will be fast, don't you?, and you know I want it to be fast, yes?" Daisy could only nod and agree. And it went quickly, and one year ago, Lily was gone.

I have used an image of The Kiss, by Gustav Klimt, for obvious reasons, and also because it dovetails in history with the writings of Rainier Maria Rilke. As I was driving in the car Sunday, listening to public radio, I heard a brief piece of an interview with a woman whose expertise is Rilke. I'd been thinking about Daisy and Lily as the date approached, and I kept hearing the echo of Daisy's voice, saying, Time is all that matters. Time is all there is.

And then I heard the words of Rilke, and thought I could not possibly write words of my own that would more more beautifully capture the sense of what I wanted to say here, how I wanted to remember Lily, how I wanted to honor the very human holiness of Daisy's love. And so I finish, with love to both of them and to all of you who have loved and grieved, lost and found:

"Is not impermanence the very fragrance of our days?"
-Rainier Maria Rilke (12.4.1875 - 12.29.1926)

The return of The Golden Hour

2010-09-14T19:27:00.021-04:00

The worst of the 90s (er, temps, not nostalia for) may be over for this year. For the first time since, I don't know, May? - we felt the golden hour spill over the treetops at about 85 degrees. Perhaps, I thought wistfully, we've put the 90s behind us for this year.

Rodney and I walked back to the creek with the dogs. They have absolutely no appreciation for curling silver wisps of Spanish moss, nor bright small branches of resurrection fern, nor glimpses of sky as blue as precious turquoise. But they like the clear air, the lightening of humidity; perhaps they sense my projection of hopeful anticipation of autumn. And certainly they like the view of the creek, shown here with a glimpse of rope swing (for those of you like Friend of the Blog Suldog, who share a fondness for ziplines and rope swings). And of course like most dogs, ours find the allure of mud irresistible. Dogs. Sheesh.

We carried cameras in the potential service of our own irresistible artistic needs. We took photos. And yet...these are such delicate hints of coming change, such finely drawn foreshadowing of the inevitable turning of the year they're virtually impossible to capture in images. How can I photograph the nearly imperceptible movement of the sun, the ever-so-slight moderation in temperature and the almost immeasurable decrease in humidity? The shine of the golden sun, descending through air more clear than that of June or July; the freshening color of the sky, suddenly showing true azure, veritable robin's egg blue, and oh, my dears, the cautious, hopeful longing for the changes of fall: I am far from gifted enough to catch these in images, though I see them well enough, and often tell my family that if I'd a choice of an artistic gift I would call for Edward Hopper's. If I had this, perhaps it would be in my two hands to capture the light, the change: the hope.

But it comes along, despite my ineptitude. The fall will come, The Baby will leave for Africa, the brilliance of fall will bloom in the persistent purple thunbergia Miss Inga gave me so many years ago. It will bloom in the pale pink trumpet flowers transplanted from Katie's garden. The wedelia brought from Jayne's garden will recede under the changing conditions. And the familiar will turn and turn until we can once again see the sun returning through our own carefully constructed versions of Stonehenge. And however inept I feel, I will continue to take the pictures, continue to share them here, continue to hope you take your own pleasure in the changing of the seasons and the immutability of our old world.

Together: 25 years of holidays

2010-09-11T22:45:00.014-04:00

The first Christmas my dear old person and I shared was marked by the gift of a Christmas ornament given to us by my friend Pat. Despite her worries about the viability of the relationship, or whether it was really the best thing for me, or any other concerns she may have had, she gave us a sweet oval-shaped ornmanent into which was inscribed, "First Christmas Together - 1985". It's graced our Christmas tree every year from that to this. I mention it because 2010 will mark our 25th Christmas together. Imagine that.

Northeast Florida is still usually hot and sweaty this time of year; this year is no exception. Nevertheless, it's about the time of year I begin to think about the holidays. I look forward to them for several reasons, cooler weather by no means the least of them. We approach the holiday season here with meteorological fits and starts. There are stretches of days without respite from summer: hot, muggy, trying - with the feeling that a hurricane might be brewing, might still happen. There are breathtaking days of brilliant blue skies and fresh, cool air to make you think of mountains and leaves and temperate climes in general. And those days, those cool days and actually chilly evenings, make me think of putting Santa on the roof. Yes, yes, I KNOW how tacky it is. But I have the fat plastic Santa and every year the boys replace the bulb inside it and perch it on the roof, and every year I have a quiet smile when I get home from work in those early-darkening evenings and can see Santa glowing gently on our roof...silly, I know, but there it is.

Regardless of the various perspectives of my friends, guided by religion or instinct, the coming winter solstice sustains care and anticipation. Simply put, the light returns. After the winter solstice the days ever-so-gradually begin to grow longer and the earth is coaxed once more into fertility by the returning sun. For our friends who are Jews, the miraculous light is remembered: despite the impossible, the light is not extinguished. For our friends who are Christians, the light comes to the word in the form of a saviour born. And regardless of religious affiliation or lack thereof, our lives are measured according to the rhythms of the natural world. In darkest winter the promise of spring is conceived, and this is subtly visible in the lengthening days and the retreat of darkness.

There's so much to look forward to: kids coming home, gifts as small as oranges in the toes of stockings (or Christmas crackers - see Mac wearing the paper crown from his last year?) and as large as unexpected kindnesses, impossible to put into works but vast as the Atlantic, friends gathering, great food, warm hugs, MadriGalz craziness...did I mention Santa on the roof?

There are profound lessons to be put into practice. For me, one of these is the challenge of accepting "More blessed to give than to receive", which was completely undone by our experience of Pop and Alzheimers. The truth, we learned, is that it is much EASIER to give than to receive. To be open to and receive kindness, one must fully embrace humility; this is far more easy to say than to do practically and is a beautiful lesson for the holiday season. I may not always be able to put the perfect gift under the tree for my sons. I may have to sit back quietly and accept the timely perfection of their gifts to me and their father, whether these are presents wrapped with bows or nothing more sentimental than their very presence. And blah, blah, blah: no matter what, there will be turkey or ham and I'll have the joy of the cooking, the very fine joy of making things like rich gravy, sweet potatoes and eggnog pies. Really. Sometimes there are unexpected food pleasures like making potato latkes one Christmas, when the First Night of Hannukah was around December 21 or 22, and one mother we knew was hospitalized in grave condition...but this is another story, my loves.

For this evening, I only wanted to tell you that I hear the music of autumn in the air, or at least the thing we call autumn in the deepest south. And this takes me to the holidays in my heart, where All of Us Together is the true music of my heart. For now I'm walking in our woods, looking for promising cedar boughs and branches that will be heavy with red berries. One of the dogs will walk with me, patiently watching for snakes and reminding me with glances that we are a bit too early. But we'll be ready. As the berries turn red and the fragrances of pine and cedar meet the air, we'll be ready.

And for dinner...

2010-09-11T21:09:00.005-04:00

...grilled chicken, a grated potato pancake made on the grill in a cast iron skillet (I'll tell you how to make it one of these days, my loves) and salad topped with garden-fresh-and-I-mean-never-seen-the-inside-of-a-refrigerator tomatoes, fresh honeydew and watermelon. You can just drizzle balsamic vinegar right over the tomatoes and melon, or you can make it fancy. Like this.

Put about 3 or 4 tablespoons of brown sugar in a nice big glass measuring cup, and drizzle the sugar with good quality balsamic vinegar until the sugar is absorbed. Let this sit while the vinegar and sugar fall in love with each other, get married, and begin to waltz toward a large family. This will take about 30 minutes. Add about 1/4 cup of reduced-fat (trust me) sour cream and whisk together. Drizzle THIS over the fruit on your salad (or use as a dip with a fruit tray). For a true salad dressing, use more balsamic vinegar and explore other flavor options. As culinary blank canvases go, it's respectable.

Love, love, my dears.

The Booksmith and September 11

2010-09-11T18:35:00.012-04:00

This is Guana State Park, St. Augustine, Florida, on September 11, 2010, forming the blue-washed backdrop of my reflections.

One fine morning many years ago, I was scheduled to open The Booksmith, the small independent bookstore of beloved memory in St. Augustine. Though more than 20 years have passed I remember it quite clearly. It was the day we were scheduled to place Salman Rushdie's The Satanic Verses on the shelves for sale. Shop owner and dear friend Diana was out of town, but I remember a serious, thoughtful phone conversation in which we worried together about the possibilities. Threats had been made on Rushdie's life and on the lives of those who dared to sell the book. I was surprised to find that I was actually afraid, a little, though St. Augustine's Muslim population at that time was certainly very small, and no less peaceful than anyone else. Diana left the decision to me: if I didn't feel secure enough, I should just go home and not open that day. She'd call me later to check in.

As I hung the sign out, the very same sign I'd been hanging up the day Peter Bogdanovich shouted at me to get off the street, I looked around at the quiet Plaza and down the street toward the Bridge of Lions and the outline of Anastasia Island, then up the street toward St. George Street and Flagler College. I remember the feeling, if not the actual physical gesture, of shrugging my shoulders. How could I not open the store? How could allow I myself to be scared enough to even consider not selling books? Why had I been foolish enough to allow the threats of bullies to make me hesitate?

None of this, of course, was viewed through the lens of the events of September 11, 2001. And certainly none of us had yet considered the position of a lunatic who would, 9 years after that, threaten to burn a sacred book in order to make some sort of deranged statement. But how much distance can there be between a Muslim religious leader declaring Rushdie's book forbidden and invoking the threat of violence against its author and those who might put the book into the hands of prospective readers, and a Christian religious leader threatening to burn copies the Qur'an?

Before the book burning was called off late this week, I heard several callers to a discussion on public radio suggest the idea of purchasing copies of the Qur'an in protest. I stand with these people. While I have no more genuine interest in curling up with the Qur'an than I do with the Bible as relaxing reading in the next few months, it's high time for me to read The Satanic Verses. I'm no religious scholar, but no one knows better than I do that reading lies at the heart of education, and I believe education lies at the heart of tolerance and compassion. Christian or Muslim, Jew, pagan, atheist: surely tolerance and compassion are the real lessons in which we should be schooling ourselves in the wake that dreadful day in 2001. Read the Qur'an, read the Bible, read War and Peace, read anything you like But read on, everybody.

Dragonfly memories

2010-09-04T19:44:00.008-04:00

Dragonflies stalk the beaches of Guana in elegantly deadly pursuit of mosquitos and possibly the beginning or end of their reproductive cycles, which are, I think, much more closely tied to their life cycles than we may imagine. Today this one was caught in a fatal tangle of waves and sand. I lifted it up with care, awed by the brilliant turquoise color of its body and the beautiful bright green of its head - colors that had spilled across my lap only last night as I worked on a warm woolen scarf for Dylan. I was able to capture the electrifying colors of its body, perhaps less so the shimmering bronze and copper-bright wings that moved delicately in the wind, in a photo: one brief moment of memory, and then it was gone.

But memory: I've been thinking about that. We talk about it often, my dear old person and I, for the obvious reason that we've lived through Alzheimer's with Pop, where the erosion of memory is the raw and never-healing edge of encroaching disease. We talk about it because pain management is a balancing act of pharmacology and surrender, resistance and retreat; memory is a wild card. In Alzheimer's, the most common memory loss is short-term. According to our dear friend David, a clinical psychologist whose illustrative description helped us envision the thing, memory loss in Alzheimer's typically happens from the outside, in. Imagine the brain is an apple: those memories you created 5 minutes ago, or yesterday, are the skin of the fruit. Memories created 5 or 10 years ago are the apple's flesh. And the things you learned before you can remember learning them (washing your face, going to the bathroom on your own, combing your hair): these are the seeds at the center of the apple. They are closely held and the last things to leave you.

What if you don't have a dementia in which memory is lost? Is your memory perfect? What DO you remember, after all? I cannot remember a time, reaching back past those snapshot recollections I have from being 2 or 3 years old, in which I could not hear musical harmonies in my mind. I could hear harmonies before I knew what to call them, how to label them, that they even had names. In memory I have always heard thirds and fifths against melodies. Melodies, in my memory, always seem to be of secondary interest; it was always harmonies I loved most. So: I do not remember the time before I heard music in dimensions.

Rodney doesn't remember a time when he did not know what the ocean was. He was born close by, he was taken to the beach as a tiny baby and the scent, the breath, the warmth and rhythm of the ocean are part of his heartbeat. (Like many who were not born on at the coast, I have a crystalline recollection of seeing the ocean for the first time: I was 7 years old and it was life-changing.) Dylan doesn't remember a childhood without Sheba, our dear old nanny-Boxer. He was 2 or so when we got her, but his childhood memories are shadowed by her presence. Mac, of course, doesn't remember a time without Dylan. He was 20 months old when Dylan was born, but in his recollections, Dylan has always been there.

Still, memory is a weird thing. It is as though a virtual video recoder is running all the time, for all of us. Our brains purr along, capturing everything, storing it all up for future retrieval. This seems self-evident; how else would we be able to call up memories of electrifying accuracy? How else would things we might in all honestly prefer to forget push themselves to high-definition recollection, front and center? And why does the film seem to break, now and then, so that review of our memories shows not a smooth, frame-by-frame view, but rather a halting clunky series of images like disjointed still images? Trauma? I was 11 when my mother died, and when I look back on those memories some of them stream along like film strips; some move with the jerky awkward flow of single images strung together. I can see clearly the scene in the darkness of evening in which my stepfather woke me to tell me she was dead. With an ache that has lasted these many years, I recall her funeral, despite being given a solid dose of paregoric to stop me vomiting that morning. I remember who gave me the medicine; I recall the glass from which I drank it. But there is so much more I have lost, or forgotten, or cannot bear to let myself recall.

Are our brains and their attendant memories and images wrinkled and changed forever by trauma, and perhaps compromised in their abilities to reliably deliver memories in their wake? Do the carefully recorded movies, those high frame-rate recordings, degrade under trauma so that the recording consists only of stop-motion still images with a different kind of power?

What do you remember, my loves, and what have you forgotten?

The face of the Sacred

2010-08-28T17:41:00.023-04:00

Endlessly delightful: flowers that bravely square themselves off, resolutely point themselves toward scorching sun and withering salt, and bloom with such equanimity you might think them at home in an English garden. These are the faces of delicate white morning glories, looking into the overcast skies of the southern Atlantic this morning. They are a fit metaphor for a person facing chronic pain armed with a good combination of stoicism and pharmacology, though the metaphor breaks down as the person walks determinedly into the northeast wind. His is not to simply survive, as morning glories must; his is to set aside pain and keep walking, keep walking, keep walking. His is to find joy at every turn, as often as he can.

Have you ever been in a hospital on some occasion of pain or worry or fear or uncertainty? If you have, you may also have found yourself in the L&D "baby gallery", looking at tiny miracles brought to life by people you don't even know, moved to a smile or perhaps that tightness behind your eyes where tears dwell. For here is hope. Here is the future. This morning is not so different, as you dear, patient readers have heard from me so often this summer; it is not so different here this year, as turtles nest in breathtaking numbers. There is no glass-walled nursery into which we can peer for comfort, but hope prevails: here is the future.

My old teacher (she of honored memory in this blog, Sister Patricia Eileen) used to remind us that the face of Christ is to be seen in every person we meet. The "Christ" part is a matter of spiritual or theological nomenclature, in my opinion: one might refer to the face of the Buddha, the face of the Goddess, the face of the Great Spirit...in the end it all means the same thing, which is that we look into that which is Sacred when we look into the faces of our sisters and brothers. This is not always easy. It is seldom uncomplicated. But it's there. My dear old person shows me the face of that which is holy every day, and some days I am actually able to see it.

For today, it was enough to walk along the beach, taking note of the still-increasing numbers of sea turtle nests (we saw N 143 today), watching the clouds rolling out of the dark sky to the northeast, grateful for the glimpses of that which is Sacred in the sea, the wind and the small cold drops of rain that found our faces now and then.

At home, a meal came together.
If you have a gas grill here's how to make nice tender baby back ribs. (If you're a serious cook, or heaven forbid, a serious Grill Cook, you can skip this part as it will only make you laugh.) Unless you have lots of time to slow-cook ribs, this always works. Season them with salt and pepper and cook in a slow oven over a pan of water. If you have a nice gas grill you can use like an oven, do it there. Tonight I put two racks of ribs on the grill with no direct heat, cooking over a pan of water. After about 2 hours, perhaps less, put the ribs over direct heat to finish them with a nice crisping. If you have a sauce everyone agrees on, you can baste the ribs with it throughout the cooking process and certainly at the end of the process. If not, finish the ribs in individual servings to taste.

We made mashed potates in the usual way. Dylan is a master of this art, but he asked me to consult when he was nearly done: they tasted flat to him; I tasted and agreed. I tossed in a half teaspoon of kosher salt, a dash of good old Texas Pete and a big tablespoon of grated Parmesan cheese. Dylan whipped them up and we all agreed that mashed potato-ness really can be next to godliness. We have tasted it for ourselves.

A simple salad finished things off, fresh garden greens, toasted almonds or pecans, golden raisins and virtually no salad dressing. The fridge died earlier this week and was beautifully and sadly cleaned out. Beloved jars of things like tahini dressing and the dregs of pickled okra were among the victims. Still, it managed to be, as one Friend of the Blog would say, "Fit to eat". And so we are grateful, my dears.

Keeping a book

2010-08-23T21:14:00.006-04:00

The summer has been a fine one, good weather and bad. This weather crept up from the east, with me keeping an eye to the changing cloud formations while I marked the evidence of nests, true and false, along the beach. It rained, of course, so we took ourselves to a comfortable bar for a beer and a bite. It was one of those places they keep the TVs on behind the bar without the sound. One of the TVs was tuned to the Little League World Series in Williamsport, and this started a rant inside my head. Rodney's heard it before so I spared him. You, naturally, are not so lucky.

Long years gone by, my heroes, I gave many hours to St. Augustine Little League. It was a natural fit, more or less: the boys played baseball, I'm bossy, er, assertive, by nature, they needed volunteers, and all else aside, there is this simple truth: I love baseball. Our boys played, and I volunteered in the concession stand. They played, and I was the Team Mom. The boys played on, and I learned to keep a scorebook. They played, and I eventually served as a league VP. Apart from the possibiity of good karma earned for the volunteering, the thing that stayed with me was the Art of Keeping a Book. I read a memoir by Doris Kearns Goodwin, a fine historian and deovted fan of The Game, in which she recounted learning to keep a book and sharing its arcane details with her father in the long summer evenings, and especially during several World Series. Her father taught her that a good scorebook is a guide to every pitch, every hit, every out...virtually everything that happens in a baseball game can be recorded in a book by any scorekeeper meticulous enough to take it on.

It was harder to learn than you might think. I asked people I thought would know: the coach at my kids' elemetary school, baseball fans I knew, to no avail...I had to take a class to learn the basics. From there I had help from my friend O'Hare's husband Tom, a sport cameraman who first taught me (by phone, long distance, during a Phillies-Braves game) the meaning of "6-4-3". He was astonished to find I didn't know what it meant. Later, I was astonished to find that while an average guy watching a game knows it means the out was made because the shortstop (6) threw the ball to the second baseman (4), who threw it to the first baseman (3) for the out, most of those guys aren't quite sure about the relationship of that numeric sequence to a scorebook. In time I would learn to keep a book clean and legible enough to be read by someone who had not seen the game (thank you, Lynyrd).

And when the boys eventually left Little League behind, their dad and I were left to watch the Little League World Series on television. The rant comes to this: the love of the game is a fine thing, and the gift of instilling that love in a new generation is fine, indeed. Even having a final tournament to determine, once and for all, who's best that year, or whose team has the best day that year. Having grandmas and grandpas come out for the games is a tiny bit of magic; having them cheer and perhaps have a tear gather for the departing youth of their young ones is no less common and no less magical. But maybe it shouldn't be on TV. Maybe it should just be kids, their families and coaches, the dedicated volunteers who serve as umpires and officials, who sell the popcorn and hotdogs to pay for next year's uniforms, the quiet grass and a breath of a breeze on a hot afternoon in late summer...maybe it should be just them. And maybe it will all be penciled into some grandma's tattered scorebook, stored in the attic with the dog-eared baseball cards and the balls nested in gloves, wrapped in rubber bands, until the next kids trot across the grass and the next spring sun warms the base paths. But that's just me.

Pieces of summer, for remembrance

2010-08-22T20:39:00.012-04:00

Summer draws to an end. School begins this week across much of the state, despite the hot, humid breath of the season, almost certain to persist for another month. Still, I can see the promise of October blue skies just beyond our reach, the cooler weather hinting at the coming of the holidays, and the gathering of our precious circle around a bright blue and orange fire in our back yard. It lifts my heart, the notion of the changing weather, shortening days and the homeward-turning of our boys, however brief it might be. But it's too soon, of course. So before I trot off into the sunset on the back of my imagination, here are some things I've meant to share, little squares of summer sunshine to be sewn into this year's quilt of ideas and memory.

For instance: this enormous old gopher turtle, ambling down our road as if on his way to the corner market, as I was myself at the time. There was a time when a turtle of this size, seen finding his way along the side of a country road, would have been swept into the back of somebody's pickup truck or dumped into the trunk and cooked into a stew. He (or she) was about the size of the platter you probably use to serve your Thanksgiving turkey, or at least a big roast chicken with vegetables. He was BIG. And to my surprise, he was also FAST, so that when I tried to photograph him, his external parts disappeared into his shell a couple of times until finally he began to speed-walk away from me at quite a breathtaking speed. I stood on the side of the road, watching and photographing him for 10 minutes or so. But despite the urbanity and charm of our small city, I am often reminded that Rodney and I live in the country, among the people we grew up with, many of them still quite capable of tossing a gopher turtle into the trunks of their cars and from there into their boiling stock pots. A truck pulled up alongside me and a man stepped out. "What is it?" he asked. In a voice I recognized, to my annoyance, as the one I use when I am especially delighted with the natural world, I said, "It's a gopher turtle. I was just watching to be sure he didn't cross into the ro...", but before I could finish the man strode up to the turtle, picked him up, and hurled him into the scrub oak trees between the road and our friend Giselle's (and formerly Claude's) pasture. And then he walked back to his truck and drove away. I sighed and went to the store for a Diet Dr. Pepper and a wistful thought for my brief acquaintance with the gopher turtle.

Rodney and I had talked not long before about the contrast between our own interactions with turtles and those of our parents' generation. We've spent so much time thinking about sea turtles this summer that the topic comes up pretty often. A few weeks after my meeting with the gopher, and since I last wrote here, we ran into our friend Scott, who helps care for nesting sea turtles at our beloved Guana. Scott confirmed what we'd been hearing about the stunning numbers of nests this year, shared some other details about the science of the subject and spent some time helping educate us. I promise to tell more about this, my loves, but as I've been absent a bit and deadly boring on the topic for months I thought you deserved a break. Don't worry: it won't last. But on we go...

This almost embarrassingly flamboyant display of color was provided in late summer by a collection of bromeliads Rodney has been cultivating at the base of a palm tree. Bromeliads brush too closely to cactus for my taste, mostly. But I have a fondness for plants that work with diligence obvious even to me at their own propogation. The lovely climbing pink Seven Sisters rose we have preserved through three generations is a great example, but it's a ROSE, for crying out loud. Bromeliads? I wasn't sure. But look at this thing. It's dramatic and glamorous and sings its own song. A bit of summer under the dappled light of the oak trees.

And what ode to summer could be complete without a view of the beach? Well, at least an ode to summer in my hands...but you knew that. Here's a view of the north entrance to Guana as we found it today, scoured by a wind out of the southeast pegged by FairWeatherFriends (my preferred weather app) as being "5-10 mph". This was clearly a lie. The wind was blowing strongly enough that stinging grains of sand blasted our legs on the southbound return walk, filling in the depressions of footprints as well as dusting over shells left in by the falling tide. But the day had its own rewards. About a mile into our walk I was pulled up short by one of things we dread most to see on the beach: a baby sea turtle, motionless and beached by the tide. Flippers and all, his little body was about the size of the palm of my hand. His eyes were closed; I thought to take a photo and pulled out my phone, but Rodney was there and touched the turtle gently as he said, "Is he dead?" and to my astonishment, his EYES OPENED. The law is clear that you must stay 500 feet away from sea turtles and they are not to be interfered with, and this is a law I respect more than most. But I didn't think. I just scooped up the baby and ran into the water with him, placing him beyind the first breakers as far out as I could go. And then we watched.

It took several minutes, but his flippers moved constantly in the timeless rhythm of life with which baby sea turtles are hard-wired. He rolled in the breakers a bit, seemed to struggle, and then seemed to swim, and finally, disappeared. We watched. Finally we continued our walk, another half mile to the north and back, watching all the while for the tiny body to appear again. All the way back, we scanned the breakers and the incoming tide, watching carefully. The little turtle had disappeared, though, for good or ill. Tomorrow I'll let Scott know, and give him as a reference point the nearest nest labels. And we'll hope for the best.

So, my dears, here are some glimmers of summer as its days grow gently shorter. I hope they speak to your hearts, as they're shared from mine.

Of biblical proportions

2010-08-07T21:44:00.003-04:00

The rain came this afternoon with comfortingly distant rumbles of thunder and a fresh, steady pouring that made it easy to drift off into a nap over my book, a Chinoa Achebe novel borrowed from Dylan. Drifting, I thought of the resurrection ferns coming back to green from their dry brown dustiness, and then was lost to thought. The rain continued.

I worked on a blog post; Rodney watched a race on television. It was preceded by a prayer, offered by a Christian minister with a fervor that astonished us both. We looked at each other and recalled moments from childhood. And those thoughts bring me to Pablo Notes. Pablo's been on a theme of childhood and other recollections associated with a collection of Bibles he's amassed. There's no religious screed here, no uncomfortable opinionating, no ranting of any kind: there is only the usual excellent writing Pablo offers, his view of youth in the Bible belt wry and as refreshing to me as a summer afternoon gin and tonic. With lime. It's writing for Writers and Readers. And the rain continues.

Enjoy.

Another dog, another potato salad

2010-08-07T19:33:00.006-04:00

Upon careful review, it seems I can't quite keep away from certain topics here. You know what they are: sea turtles, the beach, dogs...and recently, potato salad. I promise not to mention it, at least for awhile, after this post. But since some of you very dear readers commented on the undeniable charm of potato salad when it's freshly made and the potatoes are still a bit warm, I have one more to share. But rescue before food, my dears.

Pictured is Rubin, who joined us as a foster dog today. I have a feeling he won't be here long: he is a perfectly beautiful Boxer, a dark brindle color like our old dear Sheba. (For those of you who didn't know Sheba, she helped us raise our boys in a manner reminscent of the dog Nana in "Peter Pan" and was an honored member of our family for nearly 14 years.) Rubin is a young dog, full of energy and very eager to please, and he's sure to find a forever home soon. It's always enlightening to bring a foster home and observe (and of course direct) the dynamics of the pack. This is a guy without much experience with other dogs, so it was really fun to watch our dogs exert their varying influences. Meg's timid nature challenged his ability to control dominance impulses. Ty, who brooks no nonsense, tolerated him with her usual disdain. Calvin was the hero of the day. He was the soul of balance, setting an example of calm for everyone else. We learn something new from every dog, and Rubin is no exception.

So: the potato salad and then I really DO promise to shut up about it. This is based on a Moosewood Cookbook recipe with my own touches. It's too exotic for most of my family but I love to make it when Katie is home. (Remind me to put it on the list of favorites this fall, when the whole gang is home from Africa....)

If you can get them, Yukon Gold potatoes are lovely for this salad. Peel and shop as you would for any other potato salad, seasoning with some kosher salt as they cook. If you have new potatoes or those tiny red bliss potatoes, don't peel them, just scrub them well and chop into the size you want before cooking; kosher salt still applies, of course. I'm not sure how to tell you how many potatoes you need for this; I'd use about 2-1/2 pounds but it's a salad: you can't go wrong with the proportions. You can refine next time you make the recipe, so don't let it worry you.

While the potatoes are cooking, dice an onion and a clove or two of garlic. Saute these gently in a touch of olive oil, seasoning lightly with salt and pepper. Very finely chop some fresh parsley (or other fresh herbs, as you like - a touch of fresh thyme or rosemary would be lovely) and set this aside. When the onion and garlic are translucent and fragrant and the potatoes are fork-tender and have been drained, toss together in your best big salad bowl along with the chopped herbs. Add an 8-ounce container of ricotta cheese, toss gently and serve while warm. This is one of those recipes in which a low-fat or even fat-free ricotta will do very nicely. Bon appetit!

P.S. Rodney and I noted Guana sea turtle nest N138 this weekend. If the turtles of the southern half of Guana State Park are keeping pace, there should be well over 200 sea turtle nests so far this season. In the immortal words of Lulumarie (and indeed, of us all): GO, baby sea turtles!

My sisters Make Things. My response? Potato salad.

2010-08-05T19:59:00.018-04:00

The sisters of my heart make things, almost without exception. This is an interesting perspective for me, as I've always been richly blessed in this part of my life with friends so dear that the very word, friend, is not adequate to describe them. And as different as they are from one another, there are some threads of commonality. This breathtaking pink flower was made from rare, beautiful and oh-so-French antique ribbon by Elisabeth at Mon Amie Ribbonerie. She's also a gifted songwriter, singer and producer so music is something she makes, too, but it's not as visible in blog land.

Every now and then, something delightfully pickled will come to me from Jayne's garden; in this case, okra. Long years ago Lis and I were assigned to a video production crew and had lunch together. Though I'd known her loosely and admired her intensely from afar, this was the first time I'd sat down to a meal with her. She made turkey sandwiches with baby Swiss cheese and served them with pickled okra, commercially made but delightful and something I'd never tasted before and immediately loved. Years have passed, but when Jayne brings me a jar of pickled okra made with love and care in her own kitchen, I am always thrilled by the taste, by the homegrown nature of the thing, for she has grown the vegetables in her own organic garden AND done the cooking, flavoring and preservation. Imagine!

And there are other sisters dear, who make other things. Miss Jo makes something bittersweet and eternally hopeful every year with her classes of drama students, lighting the way to the stage for them. Remember me telling you that I'd learned public speaking poise (if one can call it that) from Sister Patricia by sheer force of having to sing in front of 400 people at the Cathedral? Whether any of Miss Jo's kids go on to the stage in London or New York doesn't matter. What matters is that she has given them confidence, shown them how to see into themselves, given them Art as something real and accessible, and taught them to make it part of their lives. And if you read Ms. Moon and her intriguing accounts of Life at the Opera House and Movie Making with Elusive Legends, you have an idea how valuable this insight can be, regardless of age or stage of life.

Debra makes poems to bring you to your knees, poems to make you glad to be alive and poems to make you glad to have lived through some things and rejoice. Miss Judy makes music other people can bring alive. Without her, the MadriGalz would not continue, because she teaches us how to harmonize, how to hear each other and ourselves, how to amaze ourselves. Lulu makes living space magical. She did it at our beloved Cafe Alcazar, and she does it at her own house with color and flowers and tiny, perfect touches, and at your house if you're ever fortunate enough to get a card from her when a much-loved pet has died or you've taken a fall and need a warm hug from a friend. Katie makes people feel good. It sounds so little, doesn't it, but it is so, SO much. Clare makes astonishing designs for things, including tattoos. Every single one of you makes something that makes life better.

In an effort to remain in step with my swan-like sisters, here is what I can make: potato salad. It came to me from my sister-in-law (I am not making this up), Elvis, and yes, she did grow up in Memphis. Apparently it was a common name then and there, regardless of gender. Anyway, she taught me to make this. And because it uses pickle juice, I encourage you to make friends with your local farmers and crafters, because the more homemade, the better. Enjoy.

Summer Potato Salad

Peel and dice about 8 medium potatoes, and two or three eggs (hard-boiled). I use those small baking potatoes that you can get bagged at the grocery store, but Yukon Gold or small red bliss potatoes are also really good, and you don't have to peel unless you're married to Rod, which I'm pretty sure you're not. Boil the diced potatoes with a teaspoon or so of kosher salt until they're tender and then strain and set aside. Chop the hard-boiled eggs and add to the potatoes.

Dice one small onion, one or two stalks of celery and two or three kosher dill pickles to as fine a dice as you like; add to the potatoes and eggs and toss together.

Now you have to make a decision: mayonnaise or not? If not, use olive oil and go from here. If so (and I do use mayonnaise in my version), combine about 1/2 cup of mayonnaise with a couple of tablespoons of mustard and a couple of tablespoons of juice from the pickle jar. (This is where having Jayne donate pickled okra to your cause becomes even more alluring.) If you're not using mayonnaise, you can see how olive oil, mustard, and pickle juice would combine for a lovely dressing. If you have fresh dill, chop some and toss it in. Season the dressing with kosher salt and a touch of cayenne pepper. Toss over the vegetable mixture gently and serve at room temperature if you can. It's great out of the fridge, but that first taste while it's still warm will make you very happy. I promise.

N125

2010-08-03T21:35:00.008-04:00

In beautiful Guana State Park, we're having a banner year for turtle nests. As we see more news stories about turtle hatchlings being released in other locations than the Gulf of Mexico, including the northeast Florida coast, I find myself fascinated with the topic. Well, after all, who doesn't like to see pictures of what we like to think are rescued animal babies, being released into what we hope is safe habitat? In species like most of the sea turtles still extant, we know nature is doing its best to ensure survival against daunting odds, if for no other reason than the sheer number of eggs one female produces in a season. There are lots of nests every year, each with many dozens of eggs. The hatchlings face human encroachment, predators, artificial light, beach driving, inadvertent daytime hatching...so many obstacles that serve to prevent their reaching of the open ocean and relative safety.

And it's one of the very few things we can all feed good about in the wake of this incalculable disaster. Most realistic people probably realize that this will be with us long, long after the well is finally sealed and cleanup efforts solidly underway.

Okay, okay. Nevertheless, most years see 90-100 turtle nests along the beaches of Guana in northeast Florida. These are watched over by a tiny, dedicated army of volunteers who get up in darkest dawn to check the nests, to mark the new ones made during each long, starlit evening and report the status to the biologists who keep careful track. The biologists in turn mark the date of the nest, and know down to a pretty specific estimate, when the hatchlings are due to emerge. They monitor nest viability and do all they can to ensure the success of each clutch.

But except for extraordinary interventions like the ones the news channels are reporting occurring as a result of the oil spill, they can't affect the number of nests. The turtles labor up the beaches every summer season, and most summer seasons they produce roughly the same number of nests. But not this year. As I've discussed before, this year, there are nearly 200 nests along the Guana beaches. This Sunday Rodney and I were delighted to photograph N125, which is the 125th nest in the northern section of the state park's environs. I find this nothing short of magical, and wanted to share pictures of some of the labors of the turtles, who must find their way from the water to the safety of the high beaches near the protective dunes to lay their precious eggs. And of course I couldn't finish without including a closeup up of N125, for which we continue to root as though for the Braves or the Red Sox. Yay, sea turtles!

Booksmith Recollection IV: Peter Bogdanovitch

2010-08-03T19:10:00.011-04:00

This was the view he would have had, Mr. Bogdanovitch, as he set up a scene and began shouting at the young woman at the other end of the block. He was standing with the Cathedral on his left, looking down toward that very small, very last building on the same side of the street. This tiny block was home to so much of what was central to my life, for a long time and through much change.

I worked at the wonderful Booksmith, as many of you know. I learned the fundamentals of small business there, where it was closely tied to the magic of matchmaking though admittedly the matching of books with people is less fraught with disastrous possibilities than matches with no books involved. Some of the friendships that would frame my whole adult life were born there. We gradually began the long process of mourning the demise of the small, independent bookseller, and we figured out how to keep our professional affinities alive in times of drastic change.

Just up the block was the Cathedral. I was born with a love of singing and perhaps some small talent, but it was at the Cathedral that my voice found its wings, coaxed and nurtured and enriched by Sister Patricia. More friendship came to me, or (in the case of Miss Jo) returned to me, and here again, the architecture on which I was building my life was made strong. Here I learned how to be a friend and how not to. Here I learned about love, and about having sisters, an ironic lesson for one whose family includes 3 half-sisters. Here I learned that people really can love you forever, no matter what, and that you can love people in the same way. The lessons I would need to be a married person, to be a mother, to be a friend: too many of them to count were learned on this tiny block. At the Cathedral end of that block, they were all learned against a backdrop of musical scores. Standing in front of that very large congregation, I found some reserve from which I could sing week in and week out without being crippled by stage fright. So well-integrated is that lesson that to this day I'm able to talk in front of people without more than a gentle nervousness. Sister used to say, "As you rehearse, so will you perform..." and she usually added some reference to not goofing off, or working harder. She was right in many ways, not the least of which was repetition helps improve performance, and training shows, often just when you need it most.

In large measure I grew into the person I am in the tiny neighborhood described by that block. And one morning, as I stepped outside the beautifully embossed brass door of the Booksmith to hang out the "Open" sign, the street was deserted except for a handful of people all focused on the same job of work, a man in big glasses standing in front of the Cathedral shouted down the street, "HEY! You there! Get off the street!!" And then I saw the camera, and realized what the job of work was: they were the movie crew we'd heard about, come to town to shoot a movie. The shouting man was the director, Peter Bogdanovitch. (Another of his movies had enjoyed a summer run during the time of my first high school job at St. Augustine's drive-in theater, but that, my loves, is a tale for another long winter's evening.)

Back into the store I stepped, away from my closest brush with moviemaking, to wait for Gamble Rogers to browse through a copy of Wooden Boat, to wait for Mr. Montagnaro to pick up a stack of erudition and art books and tell me about the blue collar working person passion for opera in Italy, to wait for you, maybe, and all you brought me in that tiny, dusty, beautiful library of books and sisters and learning, down the street from the heart of music, emerging spiritual thought, sisters and music. What a block that was you shouted down, Mr. Bogdanovitch. What a street. What a town.

Dogs and endings

2010-07-27T19:45:00.008-04:00

It was a happy weekend for many reasons, not the least of which was the matching of a rescued foster dog with a really nice family who give every sign of being a great forever match. Callie (the spelling is actually "Caleigh" but since it always trips me up I've given you the phonetic, easy version) is a sweet female about 2 years old, who was clearly used as a puppy mill and just as clearly spent most of her life before she came to Boxer Aid & Rescue in a crate. She was a challenge for us, not because she wasn't housebroken (she is). Not because she wasn't eager to please (she is), and not because she was badly-behaved (she wasn't). No, poor Callie came to us with A TAIL, and as people used to Boxers, it took us by surprise. It banged into things. It knocked tables over. On many hilarious occasions, it whipped into the faces of the other dogs, so that Calvin, our charming, wide-bodied male, averted his head when she came too close, blinking his eyes cautiously. But some very nice people saw her online, came to meet her, and took her home this weekend. Happy people, happy Callie, and I dearly hope, happy ending.

Coincidentally, I heard from April's adoptive family this week, too. I've written about April here; you may recall. She is a canine survivor of breast cancer, and one of our favorite foster dogs, ever. Her family informed me a few weeks back that she has a recurrence of cancer, inoperable, and they will continue to love and care for her now, while she feels great, and through the onset of symptoms to the end of her life. Here's some of what her adoptive family said:
"We are very, very blessed to have April. She is doing very well and has spoiled us tremendously. April is exactly what we were looking for and is our perfect dog. We will send pictures from the cancer walk where April wore a cancer survivor shirt! ...we especially like it when she GRUNTS as she is talking to us! And LORD, some days she “talks” more than some humans! Thanks for all the prayers being said for April...we understand the issues April has, but we try not to dwell on them each day...as long as she is happy, we are happy..." I had to laugh out loud reading this, because April is one of the most vocal dogs I've known, making a determined, grumbling sound when communicating with her people. And though she has inoperable cancer, she'll have a great life until she can't, any longer. She's a great dog, and she'll be give the love and dignity of a great ending.

Often I talked to Rodney's dad about dying. He couldn't remember he had Alzheimer's, but he said over and over again, "People should have an off switch; I should be able to say I'm finished, There should be a CHOICE". I talked to my dear old friend Carrie about death. Her perspective was more of the "Live strong and live long" variety, though she embraced the notion of living well and living at home when she knew the fight had ended. There are more examples, but I always end by thinking about the high standards with which we treat pets (dogs, in my case). I always think of standing shoulder to shoulder with the vet; I always think about crying my eyes out but being grateful for the joyful release from suffering.

And I think now how shamefully small the comparison of a dog's life is to that of any human, and do not AT ALL presume to draw a parallel. I am grateful for Carrie's life, for Lynn's life, for Helen's life, for Charley's life, and for so many others, lived with grace and humor and breathtaking courage and grace. For me, the lives of dogs and in some ways, the death of dogs, have made the loss of each of those humans just a tiny, tiny bit more bearable.

And so: here's to you April, and your darling family. Here's to you, Callie, and your delightful family and future. And here's to all of you who have gone before, human or canine. Love, love, love.

Welcome to the sea turtle nursery at GTMMER

2010-07-24T19:15:00.008-04:00

So I return from my long sojourn in the French countryside of my TV screen, and immediately annoy everyone with yet another sea turtle lecture, but this is BIG, people. Although you probably can't see it in my bad photos, this nest is labeled "N (north) 112", meaning it's the 112th sea turtle nest marked in the northern half of Guana Tolomato Matanzas Marine Estuarine Reserve in 2010. There are an additional 85 nests in the southern section of the park, meaning that so far there are nearly 200 sea turtle nests along this 8-mile stretch of Atlantic beach. An average year sees a total of around 90 nests in the whole season, which runs from May to October. And, as one of the turtle volunteers told us this morning, no one really knows why.

I'm sure there are theories, and certainly there's interest. As we walked along the beach last weekend, we encountered a 6-man golf cart filled to capacity with turtle volunteers and, we discovered, turtle experts. We asked about the numbers, since we've noticed what seemed like an unusually high number of nests this year. They confirmed what we suspected but had no real evidence for: an unusually busy turtle nesting season. So here are the plain, rather dull photos, without glamour or fast-moving drama; just the awareness of this simple, prolific goodness to warm your hearts. Whatever bad or sad or uninspiring news you saw or read or heard today, this is its happy counterbalance. Enjoy, my dears.

Postcards from le Tour

2010-07-23T16:15:00.020-04:00

It's been a long, hot, delightful 2-1/2 weeks, capped by a cold and rainy climb of the largest peak in the Pyrenees, but I am making my way back to la vie ordinaire (my friend Jayne can correct my appalling French later), which includes my blog.

The charming country roads and villages, tiny cities, elegant chateaux and crumbling Norman ruins were wonderful. The bike racing was an interesting sideline, and during the early part of the race, provided frequent glimpses of my TV boyfriend (or more accurately, my Tour de France TV boyfriend), Fabian Cancellara. Yes, that's him in the photo, pedalling his head off. And here are the rest of my vacation photos, carefully shot for your viewing pleasure. (Oh, that frame in the background is just the outside of our TV - you can ignore that.)

It seems surprising, but it was actually rather like a series of miniature vacations, watching the action taped by my long-suffering and indulgent husband in 3-hour blocks every evening after work. I'd work a normal day, come home, pour a glass of wine, and immerse myself in the scenery and, almost as an afterthought, the racing. Even if you don't dive into (or off the) deep end as I do, you may want to drop in for a few episodes next year. The roads through the Alps are narrow and winding, with sheer drops down some sides and patches of bright snow down others, and all are lined with positively crazy people who've clearly camped out for days or maybe even weeks to be in position. Some of them run alongside the riders, waving - or wearing - flags, bizarre wigs and even more bizarre costumes. There are signs, most of which my limited French prevented me from translating, though the British cycling expert who has very good French was able to hint at the meaning of one that was particularly uncomplimentary to President Sarcosi. The roads twisting through the flatlands are gloriously brightened by fields - acre upon astonishing acre - of sunflowers, and beautifully flowing fields of lavender...one can hardly imagine what it must be to breathe the fragrant air. And when the race rises into the heights of the Pyrenees, history seems to come alive. Every historical novel I've ever read suddenly seems to have touched on the endless Medieval struggles for primacy between France and Spain, with powers like England and the lowland countries playing their own roles. In more modern times, the voice of the Basque people in Spain is ever more audible. Watching the racing, it's clear that the EU has in no way dimished national or regional loyalty, and it has removed not one single nutty supporter of this or that flag or cause. It's lovely.

And all kidding aside, I MISSED you guys. Though I've only been writing this blog since the beginning of the year, the return to disciplined writing has been more satisfying than I ever imagined. The generosity of your reading, sharing thoughts and comments, and most unexpected of all, development of new and nurturing of long-treasured friendships has been breathtaking.

And while I've been away I've kept notes of all the things I want to share with you. There's big news on the turtle nest front. I've been helping with the concept of a "Best of Our Blogs" collection with The Surly Writer (whose editorial skills are considerable) and our pal Suldog. My dear friend Katie is bound for Africa (again) and this time, my young son is going along, too...so. There is much to discuss, and I promise to dive in as soon as Le Tour passes under L'Arc de Triomphe.

Thank you for being patient, for staying tuned, for reading, and for sending your affectionate greetings.

What I'm (Virtually) Doing on My (Virtual) Summer Vacation

2010-07-10T18:57:00.006-04:00

You may not even have noticed the quiet sounds of distant crickets chirping, coming from Eat Here over the past week or so. Just in case you did, I thought I'd let you know the quiet will continue for a couple of weeks, while I indulge my guilty pleasure and watch the Tour de France obsessively on TV through the month of July. A couple of years ago I discovered that I could immerse myself in villages, chateaux, cathedrals: the beauty of Europe in the form of a high def travelogue and best of all, it included a race compelling enough to be entertaining to Rodney. This was Before the Blog, of course.

Sadly, as I have to work and sleep and stuff while watching 3 hours of The Tour every evening, there's not much time for the blog. Happily, it's mindless and relaxing and makes for an excellent virtual vacation. And the ideas for writing continue to flow in and I continue to keep notes of things I want to tell you. I'll be back with lots of new photos and notes on the beach (I saw a turtle nest labeled "N 71" this week, which means at least 71 turtle nests in Guana State Park so far) and every other thing we talk about here. Keep well, keep writing, and keep in touch.

Eat Here refresher course with a side of potato salad

2010-06-24T21:22:00.023-04:00

Kind veteran readers, forgive me the re-telling of this old tale (or skip over it completely, if you like). New readers, this is by way of explaining why a blog so often centered on beaches, whales, turtles nesting and changing tidelines takes its name from something that might be culinary, or perhaps a pretentious literary device. Either way, it's why Eat Here is called Eat Here.

There are restaurants in the mythology of our town and our circle, real and imagined, really good and really ordinary. There are the legendary: Malaga Street Depot and its offspring and cousins, including The Zanzibar and Gypsy Cab Company, and even The Cafe Alcazar. Each is its own intriguing story. The Depot and the Zanzibar really are the stuff of legend. Gypsy has its lengendary status, but also dwells in the present day; you can go there are check it for yourself. The Alcazar straddles the line a bit for me, but you can, I hear, go there, too.

And there was a local blue collar lunch joint years ago called Helen's Eatery, which eventually became Stephanie's. When it was Helen's, someone had painted "Eat here" above the "Helen's Eatery" on the sign. This mild silliness was a quiet family joke long after Helen's was forgotten and Stephanie ran the place. She served breakfast and lunch, and I had a vague fantasy of taking over the place for the evenings, maybe just on weekends, and serving a limited menu of real, simple, honest food; the kinds of things people would cook themselves if they had time. I'm a good cook in that sense. In our family shorthand, we called it Eat Here, and when I cooked something that was well-liked, Mac or Dylan or Rodney would say, This should be on the Eat Here menu.

To my endless delight, thanks to the wonder of the blog and the mixed community of reality and imagination it makes possible, they ARE on the Eat Here menu today. Things like meatloaf and mashed potatoes, fried chicken with cream gravy, the marvelous cream biscuits adapted from a James Beard recipe, and Dylan's beloved macaroni and cheese are on the menu. Some have even been lovingly adapted, as in the case of the mac and cheese, elevated to a matter of culinary interest by dear Lorie with the addition of fresh spinach and mushrooms. If you want the recipe to something on the Eat Here menu and can't find it, just email me.

I have a summer pasta salad recipe, but I'd like to hear yours. With the abundance of summer yours probably changes, as mine does, depending on the yield of the garden or the farmer's market. But you probably have a favorite and I'd love to know about it. Another favorite with us is potato salad, and the standard is one commonly credited to Elvis. (No, not that Elvis; Rodney's brother married a woman named Elvis. I'd guess her to be in her mid-60s, and she was born in the Memphis area. Apparently it was a fairly common name, bestowed without consideration of gender.) This recipe made appearances at family gatherings regardless of time of year, but it evokes summer for us, matching well with anything off the grill. It's shown in the photo with burgers, sliced onions and the green foundation of a salad, yet unmade.

Peel (or scrub) and chop about 8 mid-sized potatoes. Red potatoes are fine, especially if you prefer them unpeeled, but thin-skinned new white potatoes are ideal for their texture when boiled. Boil these in salted water (I use about a teaspoon of kosher salt) until they're fork-tender but not overcooked. Meanwhile, boil some eggs. Because hard-boiled eggs are nice to have on hand, I usually cook about 6 at a time, though you only need 2 for this recipe.

I learned this trick along the way for boiling eggs: put them into an appropriate-sized pot, cover with cold water, bring the water to boiling and let the eggs cook for about 2 minutes. Turn off the heat, cover the pot with a lid, and let the eggs stand for 20 minutes or so. Perfectly boiled eggs every time. Oh, one more thing: very fresh eggs are very difficult to peel after you boil them in my experience.

While the eggs and potatoes are cooking, finely chop about 1/4 cup each of white or sweet onion, celery and kosher dill pickle. Chop 2 hard-boiled eggs to about the same dice when cool enough to handle. Drain the potatoes and while they're still warm, add the chopped eggs, onion, celery and pickle. Salt and pepper to taste, using a light hand.

Mix together about a cup of fresh homemade or very high quality mayonnaise, 2-3 Tablespoons of mustard, and about 1/4 cup of juice from the kosher dill pickle jar. Blend this together lightly with a fork, pour over the potato salad and toss. Taste and correct for salt if needed, again using a light hand. Sprinkle the top with sweet Hungarian paprika and ground cayenne pepper. Cover tightly and refrigerate for half an hour or so. The goal isn't to chill the salad, really, but to allow the flavors to marry. When you taste it after this half hour's rest, you'll be able to do one final correction for seasoning. Serve immediately, or chill to serve later.

Chopped green onions can be used instead of the white or sweet onions. This changes the flavor, but adds interest and color. Fresh, finely diced garlic also adds interest. Rodney's favorite variation is the addition of finely diced crisp bacon; not good for you, of course, but sort of the ultimate kiss of the Southern kitchen. Finally if you prefer to avoid mayonnaise or simply don't like it, you can use 1/2 - 3/4 cup of olive oil, whisking in the mustard and pickle juice as you might to emulsify a salad dressing.

Art, my loves, and just a touch of science: such are the best summer salads, and such is so much else in life. Drizzle that watermelon with a touch of balsamic vinegar, and pass the bowl this way.

"Deep", by Elisabeth Williamson: a view from another window

2010-06-24T17:45:00.009-04:00

When something is precious to you, it's possible to lose your perspective on it. This makes the thing no less precious, of course, but you may not be sure whether its value is apparent to others. The view from your own window may be absolutely invisible to others, even if they're looking out the same window.

This blog is a precious act of love for me, for instance. Had I no commentary from others, I'd have no way to know whether it had value to anyone else. I'm fortunate in that some of you, my dears, are kind enough to write, to encourage, to question. I've even gotten phone calls: "I read your blog last night and had to call and tell you..." It's an interesting mix in this metier, because some of you are friends I see often and have loved for years, while others are connected only through the virtual atmosphere we share. Either way, I am comforted to know there are people listening, and people who take pleasure in my voice.

This is true when I sing. All the years with Judy and Tracy and Jo, all those years of love and learning with SPE...each moment is a memory to be savored, for there are few things as profoundly physical and joyful as singing close harmonies with your whole heart.
The MadriGals, as most of you know, is a simple source of practically giddy joy. What could be more fun than singing Christmas carols with trusted best friends of many years' standing, right into the ears of more trusted and beloved friends? It's more fun than I can begin to tell you. And you know this: you've been reading here about Sister Patricia (and that story's just BEGUN, my loves) and Miss Judy and Miss Tracy and Miss Jo, and in the incarnation of the MadriGals, Miss Lis.

So, Miss Lis. Since I was sneaking into the Trade Winds to hear Gamble Rogers, I've been listening to Lis sing. I remember telling Sister about her, about that voice, about the bluegrass, such a departure from the classical vocal technique she was teaching me. She said, "You will learn something from absolutely every musical experience. Listen! Sing! Learn!" And at varying distances over the years, I have listened and learned, even been blessed to sing with, and mostly LOVED Lis, and her music in all its settings and arrangments. If you read Ms. Moon's blog, you probably already have a sense of the marvel of Lis and Lon, and all their delicious, humble, irresistible orbit. And if you read either of our blogs you've been gently and affectionately harangued into listening to "Deep", a collection of original songs Lis wrote and finally released on New Year's Eve in the form of what the ears of love can only call a beautiful and breathtaking CD. We all loved it. More than half the people who read this blog can tell you that they watched it born, if only present for a split-second of the labor. The songs would appear gently in the regular appearances of The Driftwoods at Creekside Dinery, and you might think, "That's a pretty...wait a minute. What IS that?", only to find it was a new song Lis had written.

Until Creekside hosted an unforgettable CD release party, we dressed up and celebrated New Year's Eve on a true blue moon with a thousand of the people we loved best (Ms. and Mr. Moon came all the way from Lloyd, and countless others, countless miles) and we LOVED it. Ms. Moon has written eloquently of it, many of you have heard it, I hope you are downloading it now. My photos were all blurred and teary, though I did catch one especially demonstrative of the love and open arms with which Lis generally greets life, loved ones and the universe. Forgive, if you will, the terrible quality and look into the heart of it. Perhaps it will help you see how well and truly Darius has captured that heart in his review of Deep.

So now: the view from the window of Oliver di Place. An objective look, thoughtful and interestingly insightful. Are you reading Darius yet? Are you downloading the CD yet?

Nest 51

2010-06-23T20:09:00.039-04:00

Turtle season is in full swing at Guana. I did make an ill-advised promise not to bore the readers of Eat Here with this detail, and am still avoiding writing about The Spill. I can't help myself, though: this week, we noted a nest labeled "N 51". It was there Tuesday of this week, when we went to the beach as we always do for peace and comfort. It had not been there Sunday.

Judging by the tracks, we surmised the female turtle had made the long, slow, danger-frought trek Monday night during the high tide. By the time of our visit the tide had fallen way out, and the evidence of her determined incursion to the very beach, perhaps, of her own birth could be seen a long way out. I was standing at the low tide line when I took this. It's a phone camera so the quality isn't great, but you get the idea; if you look closely you can see the nest, marked that very morning by the Turtle Patrol. It's a long way from where I was standing. When I got close enough I could see a spot where it looked like she might have rested. "Oh, surely she did," Rodney said, "If you've ever seen a turtle walk up from the water and dig her nest...they look like the need to rest." And this raised another topic, one from the history we share as members of families and communities where conservation and the protection of natural resources were notions seldom considered, and when they were the tone ranged from humor to skepticism to outright sarcasm. Here's a photo found in Rodney's family archives (read: shoebox) taken in 1968 of a just-laid clutch of eggs in a turtle nest. You can't see it in this faded old second-generation photo, but they are definitely speckled, perhaps even leatherback turtle eggs. He remembers clearly seeing, more than once, turtles coming up onto the beach in the South Ponte Vedra/North Vilano area, and recalls the casual indifference of his parents and their friends as the parties carried on into the night, while the turtles fulfilled their destiny, unchanged by millennia.
Fast-forwarding to the current century (this week), this photo show the imprints of the turtle's flippers on the sand and coquina, marking her deliberate progress. I hope she laid a hundred eggs that night, and I hope those eggs beat the odds. I know I've written about it already. I know I promised not to be boring on the topic, and most of all, I know I vowed not to write about The Spill, and I won't, directly, mostly because the thought weighs too heavily for my heart to bear without wild unbounded grief: an outward and visible sign, as may resonate with you if you went to Catholic school as a kid, of our inward and spiritual positive and absolute heartbreak. But I can give you the turtles, people. I can tell you that this week saw the marking of Nest 51. Here it is, finally, right where you can walk to beach and see it yourself (with apologies to my far-away friends and readers). Rodney and I are told that the Guana Turtle patrol has marked one leatherback nest so far, and more loggerhead nests than I have numbers for. Say your best and most honest prayers to the Great Mother or God or Yahweh or the Great Spirit, or to whatever language frames and constitutes the Holiest of Holies when you lay down your head at night. Pray for the tiny, brand new and ancient beings dwelling in the small shells, nestled in the warm white sand, cradled in Nest 51, wrapped in the summer solstice.

Eat Here offers its sincere thanks to Jake, Linda, John, Scott and all the other people - employees and volunteers - who keep Guana safe for all manner of wild things, including unhatched baby turtles and people.

Birthdays are for cake, and sometimes for home

2010-06-20T22:25:00.022-04:00

Father's Day and Dylan's birthday sometimes coincide, which can be a good thing if they're both fans of whatever kind of cake Dylan's picked that year. As I've doubtless mentioned, Eat Here is proud of its homey, comforting culinary style, which sometimes reaches new heights when cakes are baked. (Regrettably we don't make the same sorts of guarantees about the outward beauty of our cakes, for We Are Not Lis, and Don't We Know It.) But they are damned good to eat. This one is the famed Chcolate Buttermilk cake of Susan Purdy, the Second Goddess of Cakes at Eat Here, with Lis reigning unchallenged as First. You can - and should - get yourself a copy of A Piece of Cake, and I can tell you in less formal terms how to make this one, if you like. Suffice it for now to say that it doesn't come out of a box, has a touch of nutmeg and is the all-time favorite at-home chocolate cake at Eat Here.

Kisses are favored by both honorees also, in this case the birthday kiss being featured, but best friends who live most of the year in Africa and spend the rest of the year working so much you seldom see them any more frequently when they're home, do not have their kisses taken lightly. And the bestower of kisses could only be Katie, of course. This was before we settled down to the requested dinner. In our family it has long been the prerogative of the birthday person to choose the menu and the cake. By process of repetition I've learned to predict with pretty reliable accuracy what each of them will request. Mac usually asks for That Chicken (or as Suldog fondly recalls it, "Thai Chicken". Rodney always wants something that results in milk gravy over mashed potatoes. Dylan tends to change up the game a bit, but I'm never surprised when he wants tilapia a la meuniere, as he did this year, and neither is anyone else.

Consider, then: his menu.
Shot in too-little light with a camera phone, you can only glimpse its glory, but trust me: there is the tilapia with it beautifully browned, delicate crust and simple topping of browned butter. There are cheese grits, not the quick ones you do on the stove in 5 minutes and throw cheese on, but the ones you finish slowly in the oven (or truthfully: the crock pot) with carefully grated cheese, Teaxs Pete and a beaten egg, simmered for a couple of hours and topped with bright beautiful cayenne pepper. There are roasted potatoes because in their hearts my menfolk have a yearning for something with ketchup on it at just about every meal. And there was a decadent salad. Katie put fresh cilantro in and chopped fresh avocado, plums, mango and apricots and the most lovely goat cheese I've ever tasted, one that had a kiss of honey elevating it to mysticism. And of course, we put Tahini Dressing over the whole thing, though we had a backup plan in the form of a bottle of Annie's Goddess dressing which would have done nicely in a pinch. And those are gardenias off to the side, sweetening the savory scent of the room with their magic.

As the evening spun out like threads of gold, with laughter, friends, food and finally candles and cake, here is the ham we didn't eat, but which we enjoyed quite as much. I'd brought my exquisite Mon Amie Ribbonerie hat to show Katie. Looking as perfectly gorgeous as ever, it became a stage prop to the Dylan's Birthday Gents of the Back Deck Vaudeville Review.*

And at last, the best present of all, and the least expected: a brief visit from the only older blood brother with whom he has always marked the passing of time. Perhaps I will take my sentimental self into the kitchen tonight and make them stand still to be marked again, though they are both taller than their dad or me. Passing 6 feet, passing 6 feet and 2, maybe this year touching on 6 feet and 3 or so. No matter. I will sleep well tonight. As Ms. Moon reminds us, seldom do we sleep so well as when those babies, grown to men (or women) sleep in their childhood beds, Winkin and Blinkin and Nod. Love, everyone.

*Photo credits
Last photo but one, from left: Rodney, Luke, Dylan and Evan (all but Rodney products of the St. Johns County Center for the Arts at Murray Middle School and St. Augustine High School, with MANY THANKS to Mrs. Nance and Mr. Dodd!!)

Hat available from Mon Amie Ribbonerie (Remember, these are handmade and therefore no two are alike!)

Last photo, from left: Mac, A Gargoyle, played by Meg, and Dylan
Photos mostly taken by Angie
P.S. I think because I started drafting this last night it carries the 6/20 date. For the record, I'm actually publishing on 6/21, accounting for the belated note in Mac's appearance today.

Father's Day, birthday: simple graces

2010-06-20T09:46:00.014-04:00

Here is my person, my dear old love. We have been married since 1988 and together since 1985, which adds up, astonishingly, to 25 years. Imagine that. Long relationships can be their own reward; such is this one. It's not always easy; it's not always perfect, but it is always its own blessing.

We have two very tall sons, of whom we are very proud, and a long history of dog children, often including fostered Boxers. This a kind of charitable work I couldn't do without Rodney's support and more: he is often the most important factor in changing a dog's life. Some dogs don't take much notice. Others are changed forever, and given the best days of their lives in the too-brief time they spend with us. Here's how Meg feels about it.

Some days are fine enough for a walk and a swing, some are by necessity quiet and subdued, passed in reading, old movies, resting. Each, we remind ourselves, is a gift; each is unique to itself, and creates a memory for us.

We spend days together walking on the beach, worrying about our kids, playing with our dogs, indulging our shared sporting obsessions, laughing with each other, finishing sentences and anticipating phrases for one another, figuring out how to get through things together. Some days the chronic pain of neuropathy makes this harder than others, but we manage to laugh and to cling to each other for strength and courage, each believing that the other is the brave one, the other is the strong one. Some days are bright, some are overcast but this is true in every long relationship and ours is typical in this way.

On this particular Father's Day, we will bake a cake and cook a special dinner for our Dylan, who celebrates his 19th birthday today. Mac will call, Katie will come to celebrate with us. And I'll post some pictures. Because the simple graces are the sweetest in life, and should be shared.
Dylan: Happy Birthday, sweet boy. We love you so.

Rodney: Happy Father's Day, dear old love. I love you now and always, and am grateful every day to have found you, and to share my life with you, still laughing, and still crazy, after all these years.

Time to make the lasagne

2010-06-17T18:26:00.021-04:00

Here's one of Rodney's sago palms, lover of the sun that it is, opening its bizarre flower. It's amazing to watch. The leaves open as beautiful, nearly perfect circles, more or less once a year. When these luxuriant green rings are open and the flowers spread themselves into our view, the hurricane season is upon us and anything could happen.

The days are long and hot now, as we settle into the deep heart of summer. REALLY hot. The temperatures are running in the upper 90s. Factor in the humidity and we're touching 105 most days. It's too hot to put anything in the oven, but people are still hungry. My workaround involves the grill. And we haven't had any food at Eat Here for awhile lately. It's been all sea turtles or beaches or figs. So: time to think of friends coming to visit (maybe Katie? maybe Sunday?) Time to set the table. Time to make the lasagne.

We do a lot of grilling. Mostly we grill the same things everyone else does: hot dogs, burgers, veggies, chicken. But we're lucky to have one of those ridiculously large gas grills. This piece of hardware has allowed me to test the outer limits of The Grill: what can you do? what can you NOT do? Beyond the limits of the classic barbecued and grilled standards another possibility beckoned after we got the grill and it didn't take me too long to learn how to turn the back porch into a semblance of a summer kitchen. I've used the grill for everything from ham to pineapple upside-down cake; because you can control the temperature pretty reliably it's easy to do. If you don't have this luxury you can still make the dish in your oven.

This recipe is in no small part the result of a revolutionary idea from my friend Sue: You Don't Have to Cook the Pasta First. (Thanks, Sue!) Begin with a tomato sauce you love, whether it's homemade or from a jar. If you need a recipe for sauce, there's a fine one in the Moosewood cookbook, and I'll tell you how I make mine at the end of the recipe. I start with a vegetarian sauce for its versatility and because it lets the other flavors shine through. Because my family people aren't vegetarians I also usually make meatballs, but that's a recipe for another evening, my dears. Short version: start with a tomato sauce* you love, and plan to have plenty of it on hand. This is the secret to not pre-cooking the pasta: you gotta have moisture from the sauce.

In addition to your excellent sauce, prep the veggies you want to include. I usually use things like squash, zucchini and broccoli, usually chop into something like a small dice, and usually steam them to bright colors of yellow and green. But use whatever you have in the abundance of your own garden. If you don't have a garden this year (and I don't) use whatever you like or have on hand. This is one of those dishes made for gathering around. The contents aren't as important as the company.

The cheese mixture is another crucial component. I use an 8-ounce container of low-fat ricotta, about a cup of grated mozzarella, and a quarter-cup of Parmesan. Mix this together in a bowl with 1 or 2 eggs (if they're small I use 2); season with salt, pepper and a touch of nutmeg. I also include finely chopped fresh parsley, about a quarter of a cup, but that's optional.

Cover the bottom of a 13 x 9-inch baking dish with sauce and add a layer of noodles. Add a layer of cheese and the veggies you have ready; top with sauce. Repeat this until the pan is full, then cover the pan with aluminum foil and bake. (Aluminum foil tip: spray the downward-facing side with Pam or something like it. This will allow the foil to release without sticking.)

To do this on the grill I preheat with all the burners on, looking for a steady temp of about 350 degrees. When the whole thing is assembled I turn off the burner directly under the pan, turn the others on low, close the lid and monitor closely, letting the indirect burners create even heat, as in an oven. It takes about an hour and a half to cook through, but that timing is variable and depends on your own grill or oven. Either way, about 15 minutes before I think it's done I take the foil off and top with grated cheese. The only recurring challenge is the size of the pan: it never seems big enough and I usually end up making a second pan. Good luck with that part.

Almost certainly you have your own lasagne recipe. It's probably better than this one, so please share it.

*Tomato Sauce
Saute finely diced onion, green pepper and garlic in a bit of olive oil until softened and almost transparent. Deglaze the pan with a touch of red wine. Add 1 large can of tomato puree, a large can of whole or crushed tomatoes and a can of tomato soup (I know, I know). Season this mixture. (I usually use a LOT of fresh basil and a LITTLE fresh or dried rosemary - again, consult your own garden.) You'll need fresh or dried basil, rosemary, oregano and marjoram. I use a touch of kosher salt and one of sugar, but this is up to you. I also use ground red pepper, but if you like a milder sauce you can use black pepper to taste. Simmer the whole thing for an hour or so, then taste and correct for seasoning. Or open a jar. :)

Booksmith Recollection III: The OED

2010-06-16T17:29:00.020-04:00

In the image at the top here, you can see the 1880s view of the intersection of Cathedral Place and Charlotte Street, where the Booksmith stood a little more than a hundred years later. What used to be called by locals "the slave market", though slaves were never sold there, is visible in the foreground, where it stands today at the eastern end of the Plaza de la Constitucion. (The bottom image is of the Cathedral itself, after the fire of 1887. The Cathedral was rebuilt after this fire. In a corollary blog I've been telling the story of Sister Patricia Eileen, who worked tirelessly to see a pipe organ added to that re-contruction, also just about a hundred years later. It's a funny little town, as I may have mentioned.) I believe these are antique stereopticons, common at the turn of the last century and viewed with a device kind of like the ones Boomers remember as View Masters.

There's the intersection of Cathedral and Charlotte. The Booksmith stood on that corner. It was a tiny place, dusty and eccentric, filled with books and related stuff I loved, bordered by St. Augustine landmarks as venerable as the Plaza and the Cathedral and as uniquely local as the Trade Winds. And it was peopled, as you probably already know, by a range of regulars and locals and droppers-in, who ranged from the most intellectual and erudite to focused specalists to the most casual readers and tourists. I've told you about Gamble Rogers and Jack Hunter, and maybe Jimmy Buffett and the guys from Tom Petty's band (and one of their mothers) and a million other interesting folks. There were so many of them. One by one, they seem to be wandering into my recollections. With your indulgence, here's another.

This was long time past, my heroes, as T.H. White would have said, long before there was a Barnes & Noble 30 miles to the north, so long ago that you couldn't order books online, if you can imagine such a thing. There wasn't a Borders, at least not one within easy reach. There were only a few small independent stores whose staff members carefully chose the books we put on the shelves, actually read the books, and sold them by hand, which essentially means we sold them as a result of thoughtful conversations with people and the application of our own insight and expertise. It was a special skill, believe it or not, and while it might have been classified as "retail sales" it wasn't a job for a faint-hearted retail store person. You had to know about books. You had to know about people and the books they loved, and the books they WOULD love, if only you put those books in their hands. Because there wasn't a huge store locally, one that felt sort of like a library and allowed people to browse, our Booksmith people came to us so we could order books for them. Even after the big new Barnes & Noble opened in Jacksonville we had dedicated customers who went up there to shop, made lists and called us so we could order the books for them. Others read the New York Times on Sunday and called us to order on Monday; sometimes we made predictions: "I bet this person will call to order this book...", after we read the Times Book Review ourselves. Often we were right.

But this memory is about a special order like no other, one we didn't see coming at all. Louise and George were Booksmith favorites. I didn't know them well and can't tell you much about them, except that judging by the books they ordered, they were both educated people and inveterate and discriminating readers. They were an older couple, retired, I guessed, with old-fashioned manners and sensibilities. Louise would call and say, "Hello, Angie. This is Louise (she would always give her last name, too). I have a list for you today," and she would dictate her list to me and inquire about the expected arrival date. I would try to wrap up the conversation in the time-honored southern way, making a little small talk. Invariably, Louise would say very kindly, "Thank you," and just hang up the phone. No "good-bye", no small talk. I thought it was a little odd at first, but I got used to it. Their book lists were always so interesting I looked forward to Louise's calls. And then she called to order the OED.

The Oxford English Dictionary - the OED - is the ultimate ride for word lovers, work collecters, writers...just about anyone with an interest in etymology. Anyone passionate about the English language has probably peered into a copy of the OED at one time or another; today most of its content is available online. Long ago, you had to buy a copy. For most people, this purchase was of something like the Compact Edition, or another variation. When Louise called, she said, "Hello, Angie; this is Louise. I would like to order a copy of the Oxford English Dictionary, Unabridged."

Unabridged? Was she sure? She was. I looked it up. It was in 20 volumes, and it was $2,500.00. It's not a typo. Two thousand, five hundred dollars. Yes, Louise said calmly, that sounds about right. Please call us when it comes in.

The order was placed, the OED arrived, it was duly picked up and presumably installed in a suitable location at home. Back at the Booksmith, the staff continued to marvel now and then about the order. The price tag seemed staggering, but it was the value, the relative importance of spending all those dollars not on real estate or stocks or a grandchild's college or trust fund. Imagine: the study of the English language was important enough to this couple to warrant an expenditure that equalled in one publication what most people spent on books in a year, in two years, or more. It was, in the truest sense of the word, wonderful.

A year or so afterward, I asked Louise about it. "I'm just curious," I said, "about the OED. What's it like, having the unabridged version at your fingertips?" Louise was genuinely pleased I'd asked, and as it happened: it was delightful. Not only were she and George deeply gratified by having access to the whole language, right at home, all the time, but they'd found it to have a kind of irresistible pull to their family and friends, as well. Often, she said, they would find a houseguest curled up with a volume of the dictionary. Having meant only to look up a word, they seemed to be easily caught up in serendipitous energy, driving exploration. A quick consultation of the Dictionary could become an hour or two under a reading lamp, uncovering the unexpected. "You can read it, you know," Louise said, marveling a little, "You needn't be looking for anything in particular, you know. You can just pick it up and drop in. Just...read it."

Tonight's credits:
Photo courtesy of The Internet (as Your Aunt Becky might say)
Proofreading courtesy of Dylan; any typos or missed recollections are on me. Thanks, Dylan.

To walk in fields of gold

2010-06-15T20:40:00.020-04:00

With beautiful understated eloquence, Ms. Moon has caught the thing perfectly in her new header. So while we are not talking about ensuring the safety of the walrus population, nor shoes nor ships nor sealing wax, I feel obliged to share this with you. If you were planning a trip to Florida, don't cancel. If you had an idea of some sparkling hot summer days, reading a fat paperback on a sunny beach, don't change your plans. As much as I complain about tourists (and I do; we all do - hell, it's a community pasttime here) visitors bring prosperity. And every one of them sees a treasure and is able to share the memories for years and years to come.

The photo at top right was taken yesterday at Guana Reserve just before sunset. There was almost no one on the beach; Rodney and I were walking, and a lone kite devotee was preparing to check the wind with what appeared to be a very sophisticated kite. This is what Rodney called "a field of gold" and so it seemed to be: long parallel lines of red shell, or coquina, stretching west to east, down to the low tide line. You can't see it in the photo, but every thread of shell shimmers as if it had its own careless scattering of tiny diamonds. I could squint and imagine carefully sown and tended crops, gleaming in sunlight.

But of course it's not a pastoral scene, but rather this pristine, gorgeous and under-utilized north Florida beach. If you're watching the news, or listening to NPR, it might be hard to form a picture in your mind of what things look like, here. Well, it looks like this. Those are my feet in the surf, with the clear water breaking over them and the hem of my skirt caught in the southeast breeze. The worst may be coming, but as Ms. Moon reminds us, we must cherish what we have, while we have it. It's perfectly beautiful, and as my poor photography demonstrates, can't really be captured in still shots. Come down. Bring the kids. Look for shells, shark teeth, turtle nests...whales, even: the county thinks there may be a few of them still in our waters, thanks to the long chilly spring. Come out and skimboard or swim or surf. Step into the warm, clear water and look to the horizon. You can just see the gentle curve of the earth, where the water meets the sky. If you were coming to see us, come on. And if you weren't planning to travel, maybe you should. Take joy in the present. We'll meet you at the beach.

Turtle tracks

2010-06-14T19:21:00.038-04:00

Early June in northeast Florida. It means, as our Lorie reminds us, that it's time for gardenias to bloom, scenting gardens and front yards with such a perfume as might have been brought across endless sands and mountains in caravans of camels and traders in centuries past. Soft petals of brightest white burst into flower one after another, covering the plant, the collective perfume so powerful as to be all but visible. A single blossom, cut and placed in water, is enough to scent a room.

June means the onset of hurricane season for us, too. And this year it also heralds the onset of potential disaster we do not hazard to begin predicting, here on the east coast, at least not yet. As the pleasure of gardenia blossoms remind us of happy summers long past, of hot weather really coming, of the grass-mowing season, of long evenings and cool drinks in the shade of the oaks, so does this other, deeply alarming hint of approaching evil scent the air with something like poison. I promised I wouldn't write of it in detail here, and I won't. Thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, of writers far more talented and informed than I am will take it on, have taken it on. I mention it only as a reminder of the timing and of that which is precious to all of us, and vulnerable. So: June means Turtle Season comes into full swing. This means female sea turtles find their ancient ways to ancestral homelands, lay their eggs, do their immutable part in the continuation of their species.

In the photo at the top right, you can see two sets of tracks quite clearly. Flowing down toward the ocean are those of the turtle, as she came out of the sea to find her nest site; alongside are those she made as she returned to the sea. Parallel to the breaking water are the 4-wheeler tracks made by the Guana volunteers and staff who monitor the nests and help ensure their success. The turtle clearly came up to the high (west) side of the beach during the night; the turtle folks came along shortly after daybreak to investigate. If you could see this without the limits of the photo you'd note how deeply the sand was imprinted by her flippers as she came laboriously up the beach. You'd be able to see how close alongside are the return-trip imprints.

When Rodney and I were kids our parents and their friends had parties on St. Augustine and Vilano Beach (and I'm sure the rich people in Ponte Vedra did the same thing). They'd start early, spend the day on the beach and then dig a pit, build a bonfire, boil shrimp, roast hot dogs for the kids, and stretch the parties out into the night. If a turtle came ashore to lay her eggs, people would stand around and watch. In previous generations of ignorance, people would wait for the eggs and then collect them, or excavate nest sites and steal them. One turtle egg was said to be as rich as three chicken eggs. They were a delicacy. In ignorance people prevented turtles from finding their way to their historic nesting sites, inhibiting reproductive success; in dangerous ignorance they actually prevented it. The turtles were nearly exterminated.

Conditions have improved for sea turtles. They're not ideal, of course, but in my lifetime change has occurred. People know now that turtles are disoriented by artifical light, and it's controlled by law so residents and visitors must control the ambient light on beaches at night. The nests are carefully spotted, marked and protected by law and by dedicated individuals. Some work for the State of Florida at the Guana site; others are precious volunteers. Still more are those who can afford to donate and help ensure funding for the effort. (n fact, you can, too. Adopt a sea turtle nest.)

As I've described here before, the turtle watch is so closely kept that it's possible for a nest of hatchlings to be collected on the day they hatch and released carefully after dark, helping the tiny baby turtles avoid a wide range of pitfalls. Even now only a very small percentage survive to adulthood in the wild.

It's a new moon, or it was this weekend when I took these pictures. A new moon, my friends would remind me, is the best time for planting, for sowing, for making new beginnings. And there were a LOT of new nests this weekend, and at least one attempt, documented on the left, in which a turtle made the long, difficult trek to the west and for some reason returned to the sea after nothing more than a brief rest. You can see her tracks coming and going, making a nearly perfect U-turn. Though it's hard to see in my imperfect photo, she left the imprint of her body in the sand before the long walk back. With no exaggeration, from her nose to her tail she was at least 3 feet long and she'd started life as a nestling small enough to fit into the palm of your hand. Honest. The photo of the baby turtle was taken last year, and unfortunately has no comparative object for perspective. Trust me on this: it would fit in the palm of your hand, tiny flippers and all. This one is courtesy of Tara Dodson of St. Johns County, who helps oversee the health of the turtle population in our county.

Any of a hundred things could have prevented the digging of the nest, the laying of the eggs. It could be that the nest site wasn't just right for her. Maybe she wasn't quite ready to lay her eggs; maybe she walked back down to the breakers and came back later that night, or the next night. Maybe she found a better spot. I'd have to ask someone with more knowledge of the habits of sea turtles even to make an educated guess. Something kept this turtle from digging this nest. But there's good news. The nests are numbered in order of their discovery. And I can tell you for sure that before last weekend, the highest number Rodney and I saw on a nest was 10. Tonight we saw one numbered 23. Here are the tracks, leading up to the high tide line and back, obviously inspected by our turtle patrol as you can see from the overlaid track marks.

We watched something called "Through the Wormhole" on one of the science channels the other night. It provided several theories for the origin of the universe, including one based in physics and described in elegant equations, one based on theological contemplation, and one (intriguingly) based on the hypothesis that out of left-brain anxiety about the end of existence is born a right-brain counter balance in which the brain creates a sense of the spiritual, a belief in holiness, by which that anxiety is alleviated. One theory, however, is positively Gene Roddenberry-esque. It proposes that we are all the creations of an elaborate entertainment, the brain children of ourselves sometime in the future. Leaving aside religion for the moment, this last is ineffably appealing to me. It implies, as Roddenberry's Star Trek did, a hope for the future, a belief that we are somehow able to save ourselves from ourselves. If it turns out to be true, perhaps we are somehow able to save our sea turtles from ourselves, as well. Hope springs, my dears.

Credits:
Baby turtle photo - Tara Dodson, St. Johns County Environmenal staff member

Of memorials and solitary work

2010-05-31T18:41:00.021-04:00

For the past couple of years there's been an informal memorial up at Guana Reserve, almost at the northernmost point of the beach. I've written about The Monument before. It's been called "Rodney's memorial", not for my husband Rodney, but for a man we used to call "Segway guy", an older man with long grey ponytail and a long, pointed beard, riding his Segway on the beach, looking like a biker with a really unexpected ride. When we finally talked to him we all laughed: not only was his name Rodney, too, but he is married to a woman named Angie. We haven't seen him in a few months but didn't worry because we know cold weather keeps him off the beach. But there may be another reason we haven't seen him: the memorial has been taken down. It's just one of those things, but it's kind of sad. It was, as I've said, a form of organic, living art. More than that, it was a form of dialogue, a discussion, a conversation without words. We'll all miss it. It's been gone for several weeks now.

Its voice was present this Memorial Day weekend, though. Sally, a retriever mix who barks her head off at Rodney (my Rodney) every weekend and of whom we're very fond, was there Sunday. This is their beach spot. Sally's person had marked the spot with a small American flag. It was a solitary marker, standing in the stead of that larger reminder, but it spoke as loudly.

I was thankful for solitary work being done for its own sake and for solitary work becoming less less so, as in this place. It used to be that writing a memoir or recollection, an autobiographical sketch or short story intended for any publisher who might be willing to accept it was lonely work, indeed. But here, where my voice is my own, the work is lightened by other writers, reading, calling out encouragement from their distances, implying interest by their very continued reading.
The water sparkled with diamond lights, the spilling oil kept its distance. Guana's other familiars like Sally and her person, and our friends Brian and Kathy, shared greetings and understanding, spoken and silent. The day did not end before those distant called greetings were heard: Michelle H., from the far north; Miss Jo from our own backyard, almost. And finally Mac, who started and ended the day with joy. Sleep well, everyone.