Queen Palm Sky

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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.