The Least of These

 Never criticize a man until you've walked a mile in his moccasins.  American Indian Proverb

Like millions of women in the world, I like to shop but the allure is diminished in the malls and big box stores.  The immensity of it all is overwhelming and impersonal.  And let's face it - there's no customer service any more.  I'm just one person in a mass of humanity who has to be dealt with.  It's so cliche' but I love to shop local - the small establishments where the owners are truly appreciative when you walk in the door because their livelihood depends on you being there.

Despite what my husband thinks of my retail therapy, I'm pretty sure I can blame it on my DNA.  My great grandfather John L. Taylor's and my grandfather William Elkins "Elks" Taylor's lives were devoted to retail.  As a young man in the late 1800's, John worked in various shops throughout the rural hills of Mississippi and even opened his own stores in a couple of small towns.  Travel during this time was by foot or by wagon making it arduous to get anywhere.  It was difficult at best to eek out a living but somehow he managed.

During this post-reconstruction period in Mississippi, the railroad system destroyed during the war was being rebuilt and small towns began popping up around the new railroad stops.  The Columbus and Greenville Railway established a depot in 1889 in Webster County and the nascent town of Eupora began to grow around it.

John eventually settled in Eupora before the turn of the century to partner with Captain Thomas Ford to open Taylor Ford Company.  The Taylor Ford Company eventually dissolved and my great grandfather became affiliated with the prominent Taylor Brothers (no relation) Thomas F. and W.G. Taylor to form Taylor Brothers & Taylor Company.  There, John flourished for the next seventeen years as the President and General Manager while the store gained statewide acclaim.  Their company motto was "You buy from me and I'll buy from you" which drew in the farmers wanting to trade poultry, eggs and excess produce for the dry goods sold in their store.  By this time Eupora had established its reputation as a major trade center of the region.

Around the late 1920's, department stores were all the rage in the big cities.  In a visionary move, John sold his stock in Taylor Brothers & Taylor Company and opened his own department store with his two sons, my grandfather Elks, and J. Paul Taylor, my great uncle.  The name changed a couple of more times and in 1947 it settled on simply "Taylor's".

The department store eventually moved into the location that I'm familiar with on the main street of downtown Eupora.  Just like the well- known city department stores, Taylor's boasted large plate glass windows from which it could display its clothing, shoes and other offerings.

Eventually, my great grandfather passed away and my great uncle pursued a career in academia so the store belonged only to my grandfather.  The highlight of our trips to Eupora involved going to the store to get new shoes and clothes.  In my child's eyes, it was a sartorial heaven.  The store seemed enormous with circular racks of clothing - a perfect hiding place during a game of hide and seek.  The original hardwood floors were well worn from the foot traffic and moaned and creaked under the weight of the customers.  The rectangular counter that held the large, antique cash register was positioned in the center of the store. Granddaddy always kept a big container of bubble gum on top of the counter.  I loved to sit and play with the register and chew piece after piece of bubble gum.

My beloved grandfather passed away in the fall of 1990.  My family gathered over the next few days to lay him to rest.  The day before the funeral, a visitation was held at the funeral home.  It was pleasantly cool and the side door to the funeral home was open to allow the crisp breeze through the screen door.  A few of us had gathered in the side room for coffee when we noticed an elderly black gentleman pacing back and forth outside the screen door.  "Can we help you?" we asked and he stuck his head in.  "I've come to pay my respects to Mr. Taylor," he sheepishly explained.  We invited him to please come in.  The man went on to explain how he knew my grandfather.  Back in the '50's, he had five small children and was out of work and out of money.  Winter was coming and none of his children had shoes.  Desperate, he took the kids to my grandfather's store and explaining his situation, asked if he could have credit to buy shoes for his children.  He promised to pay my grandfather back. Without hesitation my grandfather fit every child with a new pair of shoes and asked nothing in return from this gentleman.  "I never forgot his kindness," he whispered to us.

Through tears, we thanked him for coming and sharing some insight into our gentle grandfather.  I imagine my grandfather looking past the social divide and seeing a proud man trying to provide as best he can for his family. This man who, through no fault of his own, could find no work.  I imagine my grandfather looking at those five children and thinking (no pun intended) what if the shoe were on the other foot?  I imagine my grandfather contemplating the similarities in this man and himself.  And I imagine, my grandfather, one of the finest Christian men I ever knew, thinking of the Bible verse, "The King will reply, 'Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.'"

My grandfather never told anyone that story, not even my grandmother.  Had that man not taken the time to pay his respects to my grandfather, no one would have ever been the wiser.  There were no accolades for his good deed.  No social media proclaiming, "Look what I did!  Look at me!  Aren't I special?" Just a quiet, unassuming man walking a mile in someone else's shoes, peering across the counter and not seeing race, but humanity.

Me and Mrs. Jones (and a lemon pie)

“Egg whites are good for a lot of things – lemon meringue pie, angel food cake, and clogging up radiators.” ~MacGyver

My soundtrack:  Me and Mrs. Jones by Billy Paul
https://www.youtube.com/meandmrsjones

Family ties run deep in the Delta like the roots of the mighty bald cypress that anchor the majestic trees to the soil.  The generations before us were lifers - born, raised, reared their own then died in the Delta. Leaving was never fathomable.  Men especially stayed to carry on the family farm or business. The lifers became intertwined like kudzu to the point where it's hard to distinguish between friends and relatives.  More often than not they are one and the same.

I'm always fascinated by the lengths at which people in the Delta go to establish familial links to one another.  It reminds me of those long, tedious Bible verses - the begats - where they drone on and on about geneology.  It's boring to read but of immense importance as it substantiates historical accuracy and ties Jesus back to David.  I've sat for many an hour as my parents and their friends regale us over cocktails with stories of growing up here.  These conversations invariably turn to painstakingly weaving together how so-and-so is related to so-and-so.  It's like the Delta's own version of six degrees of separation that inevitably ends with us all somehow being cousins.  

During my latest trip to the Delta, I got wind of plans to sell off the contents of the Caile Methodist Church and either move or demolish the building.  The church was established in 1892 and the building has been a fixture on the side of Highway 49 since I can remember, keeping a faithful watch over the cemetery across the road.  The church has a special place in many people's hearts in the area but attrition, as it has in other small communities, has taken its toll.

My sister Anne and I along with Mama meet at the church one afternoon with Norman Aycock who is overseeing the sale of the church contents.   We look around and inquire about purchasing one of the pews.  Mr. Aycock explains that he's only offering to sell pews to actual members of the church or people related to members.  Anne and Mama immediately chime in on how they believe we're related to W.O. Jones, a longtime member of the Caile church.  Anne rolls off a lineage that would make any Delta native proud.  "Our grandmother's sister blah, blah, blah, blah, second cousin twice removed." (She loses me at "our grandmother.")  I'm  impressed by the detail to which my sister links us to the Jones family.  Those cocktail lineage stories are coming in handy and she is apparently a better listener than I. Satisfied, Mr. Aycock decides we've met the criteria for a pew and a deal is struck for the purchase.

We return to my parents' house triumphant,  When we proudly tell Daddy about our pew, he quickly sets us straight.  We're wrong on the lineage to W.O. Jones.  Oops.  We feel like swindlers.
  

In true southern fashion, while mulling over our dilemma, we decide to worry about the pew another day and instead set out to make a lemon pie with meringue from scratch.  Why, you ask?  Because it's spring and why not?  My sister settles on a recipe in the Inverness Cook Book.  She commences to cooking while I look on.  Everything is going great until we realize we only have store bought pie crusts.  A crime in any true baker's book but we press on. The time comes for the most important part, the meringue, so we call in the big guns - Daddy.  Everybody in the Delta knows what a fabulous cook and baker Daddy is and knows he never uses a recipe.  As he starts beating the the egg whites for the meringue, I start asking questions to which I already know how he's going to respond.  "How much cream of tartar do you use?"  Response:  "I don't know."  "How much sugar do you add in?"  Response:  "Enough." Whatever he does, it's just right because the meringue is perfection.

As we admire our work, I glance at the recipe.  It's by none other than Mrs. W.O. Jones. Coincidence? I think not.

The next day we return to Caile to retrieve the pew.  We sheepishly confess to Mr. Aycock that we may not be as closely related to W.O. Jones as we initially thought.  Not to worry.  He smiles as he presents a brass plaque that previously adorned one of the pews which reads, "In Loving Memory, Martha Francis Garrard 1847 - 1933."  With the last name Garrard, we know we have to be related to Martha, even though none of us are really sure who Martha is. I feel better heading back to Texas with pew in tow knowing the only crime committed while I was in Mississippi was using a store bought pie crust.  

Love Actually

'Tis the season for all things roses, chocolates and hearts.  Especially hearts.  I'm partial to hearts these days.  They stream from windows and adorn store aisles in an explosion of crimson.

Why is the heart so synonymous with our emotions?  Isn't its main job just to pump blood throughout our body?  Thump, thump, thump. The repetitive, rhythmic pulse.  Seventy beats a minute.  What is it about this essential, life-giving organ that, after wrapping us in red, clouds our judgment and separates us from all logical reasoning?

 I vividly recall from a few years ago the national sensation of the female astronaut who drove non-stop from Texas to Florida wearing a diaper so she didn't have to stop to go to the bathroom.  Her intent was to confront another woman over a man with whom they were both having an affair. The press had a field day over the story calling her crazy and obsessed.   In many ways, I think the press got it wrong about her.  But what makes a (up to that point) seemingly sensible, educated person behave in this most irrational way?

What compels a wife to put all her needs aside to the detriment of her own well-being to take care of her spouse? Why would someone risk rejection by friends and family to admit he or she is gay? What causes a young woman to put her life on hold so that the one most dear to her can pursue his dreams?  Why would a mother fight tooth and nail to save a child who is dangling on the precipice of disaster? What makes a 6 foot tall man break down in tears as his son departs to defend our country?  How do we account for all these agonizing decisions and the multitude of emotions we go through on a daily basis? 

Last week I was gainfully employed living my run-of-the-mill life in Texas. Within a span of twenty-four hours, I was 400 miles from home in a different state, unemployed and with an uncertain future. Why? Why, you might ask?  Well, it's love actually.  And the beat goes on. . . . 

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

E. E. Cummings

The Best Laid Plans for the White City

"Make no little plans.  They have no magic to stir men's blood and probably themselves will not be realized.  Make big plans; aim high in hope and work, remembering that a noble, logical diagram once recorded will never die, but long after we are gone will be a living thing, asserting itself with ever-growing insistency."  Daniel Burnham

Instead of a soundtrack, I have a book recommendation.  The Devil in the White City by Erik Larson is one of the best books I've ever read.  If you love historical fiction, then you won't be able to put this book down.

I come from a long line of control freaks.  I've never been a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of gal. I'm a planner.  I don't like to leave things to chance, especially when I travel.  I want to maximize every second of every trip -  see everything, do everything.  My rationalization is that I may never get to this destination again so I don't want to miss a thing or waste time trying to herd everyone into an activity once we arrive.  Although this is obviously a trait with which I was born, I think the analness of it was triggered on a trip to Italy where I failed to see the Sistine Chapel.  I've been haunted by that missed opportunity ever since.

My family has tolerated my travel organization over the years.  Our 1997 family trip to Disney World when the kids were small was mapped out like a battle plan.  Every day we conquered a different park, taking down the most popular rides one by one at a specific pre-determined time in order to minimize wait time.  This was all pre- fast pass, people.  We emerged victorious at the end of a 7-day trip, filthy and exhausted but we hadn't missed a single highlight.  I still consider that trip my Super Bowl of travel and it's not beneath me to pull that victory out and wave it in front of my husband when he dares to ask, "Can't we just relax?" before our next vacation.

It's with this planning fervor that I approach our upcoming trip to Chicago.  My husband and I have traveled fairly extensively but somehow we've never made it to Chicago.  My friends who have journeyed to the White City are eager to provide suggestions and must-see attractions.  True to form, I plan out our trip to the second, making sure that everything Chicago is known for is on the itinerary. I don't plan to miss a thing.

We arrive to rain and cooler temps even though it's September.  Texas is "hotter than a fur coat in Marfa" so the Chicago area weather is a a welcome change.  We brave on through frizzy hair and soggy shoes and hit the highlights of downtown - the Bean, the Willis Tower and the Navy Pier. We dine at Luke's for lunch and Shaw's Crab House for a seafood dinner and drinks. http://www.shawscrabhouse.com/  Our time in Chicago is chock-full.

I rattle off the plans for the next day and quickly feel a mutiny rising. "We have reservations at Chicago Cut." "How about we visit Adler Planetarium and the Museum of Natural History?" "I would love to go on an architectural tour!"  (The last plea meets with crickets.)  From the vacant stares, it becomes apparent no one is interested in my Chicago tour, part deux.   

It's funny when I planned this trip, it played out in my mind like a Lifetime movie - we reunite with our son whom we haven't seen in months and he proclaims what great parents we are, how he's missed us and hasn't been able to function without our sage advice and daily guidance. We spend the days frolicking through Chicago.  In my Lifetime movie mind, downtown is the highlight of the trip. So many places to see, so many places to eat.  We happily post pictures to social media so the whole world can see what a fabulous time we are having.

But my planned-out, dream vacation morphs into a totally different reality.  It rains on us - a lot. We schlep for miles and our feet throb.  Our boat tour gets canceled due to bad weather. However, our trip is far from ruined.  As a matter of fact, something magical happens when I take a deep breath and put my best-laid-plans on hold.  A whole different side of Chicago emerges - small communities on the outskirts that we would have never taken time to visit had we stuck to my itinerary. Taking the road less traveled opens our eyes to some wonderful parts of the area - parts I enjoy even more than downtown.

Our first discovery is the Village of Lake Bluff, a small community north of Chicago on the shore of Lake Michigan.  A group of good old Methodist ministers started the Lake Bluff Camp Meeting Association back in 1875, a resort that brought religious, cultural and recreational activities to the area.  It was eventually incorporated and big plans were made to attract more families to the village, but those plans never came to fruition.  Thank goodness, as this is a charming suburb of about 5,000 residents who live in expensive homes but who are mostly interested in creating a down-to-earth family friendly community unlike some of the other high-brow areas.

We stumble upon the village when we get lost returning from the Naval base. I imagine that's how the residents want to keep it - a hidden gem.  The immaculately kept streets of the small downtown are lined with old brick buildings that have been transformed into high-end shops, markets and restaurants.

It's a beautiful, brisk night as we wander looking for somewhere to dine when we hear music wafting from Scranton Alley, a lovely vine-covered courtyard nestled between two old buildings. In the back corner of the alleyway is Prairie Expresso, a small shop offering not only coffee but wine and beer. John, the personable proprietor, allows us to sample before making our drink choices.  He also carries a variety of meats, cheeses and smoked fish and suggests several to include in our food basket.  The seating is all outdoor in the alley and the clear starlit skies beckon us to enjoy our wine and cheese al fresco.  We strike up a conversation with John who is easy-going and happy to brag on Lake Bluff and how he ended up there with his young family.

Our other discovery is the appropriately named town of Libertyville.  A larger suburb than Lake Bluff but with an equally interesting history, Libertyville was established in the 1830's and also has a lovely downtown.  Libertyville welcomes its military visitors with open arms which we greatly appreciate. We stroll the tree-lined streets and do some shopping.  The pride of this small town is evident by the amount of care they have taken to restore and preserve the buildings.  I only wish we had discovered the town earlier so we could explore more.

We decide to have an early dinner and find an interesting restaurant that seems somewhat out of place in this historic town.  Shakou Sushi http://shakousushi.com is a gleaming, modern restaurant in the middle of Libertyville.  Shakou means "social life" in Japanese and with the dance music playing in the background, you do feel at times like you're in an uber chic night club.  We didn't look like their target demographic from our dress but they welcome us in and we settle into the plush gray bench seats to order.  The gray and white decor with touches of purple is a feast for the eyes and their sushi is a feast for the taste buds.  Some of the best I've ever eaten.

Our time together is short but meaningful and it's difficult to say goodbye.  I realize that once I let go, we spend more time enjoying each other's company which is important when you have very little time with the ones you love.

It's hard for me to release control and go with the flow.  Control is part of my DNA.  But when I do surrender and let things unfold organically instead of trying to make things happen, I get the benefit of more worthwhile experiences.  I like to think I'm evolving.  Slowly.  Deep breaths now.  Inhale.  Exhale. . . .Awe hell, who am I kidding.   

The Giving Tree

"Once there was a tree. . .
and she loved a little boy.

"Come, Boy, sit down.  Sit down and rest.
 And the boy did.  And the tree was happy."
The Giving Tree, by Shel Silverstein

My soundtrack:  Fish & Whistle by John Prine
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G487EDeXadA

Everyone has a place they go when they need a break from life.  Some choose bars, others a gym or maybe the movies.  I've even known people to retreat unto themselves.  For our friends Kevin and Jackie, their retreat is the lake.  

When the spring rains bid their farewell to the area, the temperatures rise and the land dries out, Texans crave water in any form they can get.  Even though we like to boast about everything being bigger in Texas, there aren't that many large, natural lakes - most are man made.   But we're very fortunate that these man made bodies of water are plentiful within our geography.   Jackie and Kevin chose a lake east of I-35 where they can relax and fish and where their snowbird parents can fly south for the winter and wait out the harsh weather up north.  Being the good friends they are, they let us tag along to the lake a few weekends every summer so we can enjoy the benefits of having a lake house without all the responsibility.  That's how we roll.

We plan a trip to the lake with our "ya-ya" friends for the fourth of July weekend.  Every female I know has a "ya-ya" group.  You know who I'm talking about.  These are the friends who see me at my worst but love me anyway.  It's no big deal for them to see me with no makeup or come over when my house is a wreck.  These friends are brutally honest and don't mince words in a way that only family gets away with.  There are no filters, no sparing of feelings.  It can be refreshing at times and other times sobering and painful. These are the only people who can tell me I have a big butt yet still remain my friends.  (Yeah, I know, right?)  They are sisters from other misters.

Sadly, our fourth of July ya-ya weekend is cancelled due to the death of Kevin's mom, affectionately known as Nana.  She passed away on her 74th birthday.  Nana and Kevin were very close, speaking or emailing each other every day.  Any mother with sons would be jealous of this kind of bond.  She was a dream mother - loved to hunt and fish and encouraged her children and grandchildren alike to live life to the fullest and the dirtiest.  Her only concern was that everyone have a great time, especially on the 4th of July, her favorite holiday.  It goes without saying that this was a hard loss for their family.

Kevin and Jackie feel badly about our canceled 4th of July plans and re-schedule our lake trip for another weekend.  By the time our weekend rolls around, we are all in dire need of respite from life's daily grind and to escape the sadness lingering from Nana's passing.  

And just like every Texas August, it is hot and muggy on our lake weekend but no worries.  We have no intentions of getting out of the water.  

We float all morning and emerge shriveled like prunes.  We decide it's time for another type of hydration - of the alcohol persuasion.  One of Jackie's traditions at the lake is to have a signature drink of the day. Yet another reason to love being here.  Today's drink is the Cosmopolitan, always a refreshing choice.

6 T cranberry juice

3 T Vodka (or to taste, in my case)

2 T fresh squeezed lime juice

splash of Triple Sec

For an extra splash of color, our drinks are garnished with fresh strawberries.

And, of course, no trip to the lake is complete without fishing. The fish are biting but our fishermen will have to concoct some outlandish tales to make up for the size of their catches.  

There is no doubt in our minds why Nana loved this place and loved wintering here.  So to honor her, the ya-ya's give Kevin a gift in memory of his beloved mom - a weeping willow to keep watch over the lake.  And as all smart women would do, we leave the men to take care of planting the tree while we continue to float and sip Cosmos.

How many men does it take to plant a tree?  Three.  One to do all the work and two to supervise while chugging beer.

With the tree finally in the ground, we decide to take a picture to memorialize the moment.  And in true "no good deed goes unpunished" fashion, we are attacked by fire ants.

For some reason, I think Nana is up in heaven laughing hysterically.

Bloom Where You're Planted

 “We'll be Friends Forever, won't we, Pooh?' asked Piglet.  Even longer,' Pooh answered.” - A.A. Milne

My Soundtrack:  We're Going to Be Friends by the White Stripes 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PKfD8d3XJok

Girls, much like dogs, travel in packs.  I have a pack of friends who started a book club with me many years ago.  Our club evolved over time and we now mostly use it as an excuse to get together, drink wine, catch up with each other and occasionally read a book.  Our motto is "We're the book club that reads between the wines."  We celebrate each other's accomplishments, cheer each other on when encouragement is needed and see each other through not-so-happy times.  We are a tight-knit group so imagine our sadness when a member of our pack, Debi, announces she is abandoning us and moving to Dallas for an exciting opportunity for her husband.  Misters before sisters. (Insert sad emoji here.)

Have you ever had a friend who lights up the place just by walking in the room?  Whose gigantic smile is matched only by the size of her heart?  That is our Debi.  People naturally gravitate towards her. She fills a room with her laughter and amuses everyone with her self-deprecating humor.   She has us falling out of our chairs in stitches while weaving a tale about her personal mishaps, which are many.  We laugh with her, not at her.    

The only cure for missing Debi is a road trip.  We plan to bombard her and head north on a hot, sunny Saturday morning.  Despite the fact that we are only spending one night, we pack enough clothes for a month.  We are women, after all.  We completely fill the back of our friend Kathy's SUV with suitcases. And not to worry should we get lost or stranded along the way.  There is enough food and wine being transported to feed a third world country. 

One would think that a trip from Austin to Dallas would be a straight shot but not with our group. We turn a three hour trip into a five hour trip by stopping at a couple of points of interest along the way.  First stop - Waco.

Never in a million years would I think Waco would be a destination but since the TV show Fixer Upper came out on HGTV, we, as a nation, are obsessed with Chip and Joanna and my group is no exception.  We are excited to swing by Magnolia Market https://shop.magnoliahomes.net/  The parking lot is overflowing with people and cars are fighting for spots.  The shop is surprisingly small and it is crammed full of people.  I do not exaggerate.  You can hardly move.  And forget about trying to browse.  It's a mad house.  There is a second outbuilding - also small and full of people.  Claustrophobic and baking from the heat, we notice, in true Joanna fashion, a table of glass dispensers with cold, fruit infused water.  Aaaah!  I want to be Joanna.

We spy the Pokey O's truck parked conspicuously in the store lot. http://www.pokeyoswaco.com/   Ice cream sandwich for breakfast?  Why, yes, thank you very much! What a great addition to Waco!  They serve delicious ice cream between two homemade cookies that have been baked to the precise consistency so that the cookies dissolve in your mouth and don't crumble to the ground.  In a word - perfection!  The instructions for enjoying a Pokey O's are as follows:

1.  Cookie
2.  Ice cream
3.  Another Cookie
4.  Shove it in your face
5.  Repeat

We manage to shove two ice cream sandwiches in our faces.  They are that good.  And did I mention that my adorable nephew Austin and his beautiful wife Julia are the proprietors?

We leave Waco behind and head north only to make it to West, TX before stopping again.  I dare anyone to attempt to drive to Dallas from Austin without stopping at Czech Stop.  http://www.czechstop.net/   The fragrance of their kolaches baking is enough to make anyone divert from the interstate.  This small, unassuming bakery has been serving hungry travelers for many years.  No matter what time you visit, there is always a line wrapped around the store to purchase these delicious delicacies.  We pick up a dozen assorted kolaches and hit the road again.  The yeasty aroma fills the car and we restrain ourselves from diving in before we reach Dallas.

After a couple of texts wondering where the heck we are, we finally arrive at Debi's!  After many hugs and unloading the car, we settle down to visit.  Debi is the Martha Stewart of our group.  She is a fabulous cook, entertainer, decorator.  Going to her house is like spending the night in a five star hotel.

True to Debi form, she has laid out a smorgasbord of hors d'oeuvres along with Blueberry Vodka Martini's - Debi's own recipe which she gave me permission to share.

Blueberry Vodka Martinis

Pour the following into a shaker:

1 jigger blueberry vodka (Debi recommends Western Sun Blueberry Vodka)

1/2 jigger limoncello

1/2 jigger vanilla vodka

Fill remainder of shaker with ice and lemonade shake and serve.  Repeat.  Repeat.  Repeat.  Repeat.

We sip and gab, sip and gab.  There is so much to catch up on.  It's been 3 months for pete's sake.  Then Debi presents us each with a gift basket which includes not only a candle but also a book mark made by Debi and a jar of homemade strawberry jam.  At this point, I feel totally inadequate as a human being.  I thought jelly only came from a grocery store!  Pass me the martini's.

After two or three more Blueberry Martinis (who's counting?), we decide it's best to head to dinner before we throw caution to the wind and indulge in a pure liquid diet.  Debi suggests the Yard House http://www.yardhouse.com/locations/tx/addison/  It's obvious this place is a popular watering hole among the locals.  It serves a vast array of beers by, what else?  The yard.  So we belly up to the bar and order wine.  Say wha?

Despite the large number of people waiting, we are quickly seated in a booth and commence to perusing the menu.  Our waiter is fun and thank goodness he's full of suggestions on what to order because the menu is so vast and full of choices that we are experiencing decision paralysis.  After much debate, I settle on the Miso Glazed Sea Bass.  We are in agreement that my meal is the best and Debi vows to order the sea bass from now on.  It is not only beautifully presented but the fish melts in my mouth.  The miso glaze is the perfect combination of sake, rice wine, soy sauce, brown sugar and miso paste.

After gorging ourselves, Wendy informs us she has intel on a wine bar in the same shopping center so we set off on foot in search and finally stumble upon Mercy. http://www.mercywinebar.com/ The name of the bar was inspired by the song Pretty Woman by Roy Orbison - "no one can look as good as you . . . . . Mercy!" Mercy is a cool little dive that proclaims it's "all about the wine experience" and it is.  We leave our wine lives in the hands of our over zealous server who gives us the third degree to help him decide on which wine to serve us.  He brings Marco Zunino Malbec, a dry Argentinian malbec with a bouquet of dark fruits.  Janet, our resident wine authority, gives two thumbs up so we dive in. Our waiter has not steered us wrong.  We enjoy the cool, live tunes and drink wine until we all cry "mercy" and head back to Debi's house.

The next morning it appears we have not worn out our welcome despite keeping Debi up until the wee hours of the morning talking.  She lays out a breakfast buffet fit for royalty with an explosion of pink carnations keeping watch over the table.  How does she do it?

We leisurely sip coffee and manage to chat for another couple of hours.  We never run out of things to talk about.  You would also think that we haven't eaten in days from the gourmandizing gusto with which we attack breakfast!

All good things must come to an end and it's time for us to head back to Round Rock.  As we begin packing, Debi pulls me aside to show me something.

When my husband and I moved to Round Rock almost 20 years ago, I was thrown for a loop by immense feelings of sadness.  This should have been a happy time but I was struggling to make friends, was dealing with two demanding boys and had an overwhelming feeling of loneliness.  My intuitive mother-in-law sensed something was wrong and sent me a sweet letter telling me all about how she and Papa had relocated often with his railroad job.  She had experienced some of what I was feeling and her mother had told her she just had to "bloom where she was planted."  Along with the letter came a cute blue and white striped tchotchke with a yellow butterfly floating overhead with that exact sentiment.  I kept that plaque forever in sight as a reminder that I needed to make the best of the situation.  As my mother-in-law knew would happen, I soon made new friends and settled into our surroundings.

Although excited about a new adventure in a new city, Debi also expressed a little anxiety about leaving her friends and starting over. Who better to share my plaque with? I paid it forward and gave it to Debi at our last book club meeting before she moved to Dallas.

As we enter her "she-shed" there sits the plaque on the top shelf!  Debi's face beams as she points it out to me and I realize that she, like me so many years ago, have taken the words to heart.

As we depart Dallas, I think of the anonymous quote, "Good friends are hard to find, harder to leave, and impossible to forget."   That certainly applies to Debi and I know that we'll all be friends forever.  Even longer. 

A Meal Without Wine is Called Breakfast

"I cook with wine.  Sometimes I even add it to the food."  W.C. Fields

My soundtrack:  Scenes from an Italian Restaurant by Billy Joel

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JUz48xw_OiM

If you read my last blog about our trip to the Russian River Valley, then you know that we ate and drank our way across the area. My scales can attest to the fact that there was no shortage of delicious food. I came home, not only with wine and some extra pounds, but also with several recipes.

I want to share these recipes on my blog but thought I should test them out first.  For my guinea pigs, I lure some friends over on a couple of occasions with promises of alcohol if they will indulge me.  They have their reservations because I am notorious for my lack of culinary skills. Undaunted, I set a pretty table with flowers from my yard and commence to cooking.

The first recipe, Overnight Blueberry French Toast was served to my husband and me by our hosts on our last morning at the Santa Nella House Bed and Breakfast.  I was comatose after indulging in this syrupy breakfast dish and thought the world should know about this gastronomic delight.

My girlfriends, Kim and Sandy, are my test subjects on a warm Saturday morning.  As they take their first bites, their faces take on a strange look.  Initially I'm worried until Kim asks if it would be wrong to have a second helping.  I take that as a home run!  Serve with mimosas for a beautiful brunch.

Overnight Blueberry French Toast [from Allrecipes]

12 slices day old break, cut into 1 inch cubes

2 - 8 oz pkgs cream cheese, cut into 1 inch cubes

1 cup fresh blueberries

12 eggs, beaten

2 cups milk

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1/3 cup maple syrup

1 cup white sugar

2 tablespoons cornstarch

1 cup water

 1 cup fresh blueberries

1 tablespoon butter

1. Lightly grease 9x13 inch baking dish.  Arrange half the bread cubes in the dish, and top with cream cheese cubes.  Sprinkle 1 cup blueberries over the cream cheese and top with remaining bread cubes.
2. In a large bowl, mix the eggs, milk, vanilla extract, and syrup.  Pour over the bread cubes.  Cover and refrigerate overnight.
3. Remove the bread cube mixture from the refrigerator about 30 minutes before baking.  Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.
4. Cover and bake 30 minutes.  Uncover, and continue baking 25-30 minutes until center is firm and surface is lightly browned.
5. In a medium saucepan, mix the sugar, cornstarch, and water.  Bring to a boil.  Stirring constantly, cook 3-4 minutes.  Mix in the remaining 1 cup blueberries.  Reduce heat, and simmer 10 minutes until the blueberries burst.  Stir in the butter, and pour over the baked French toast.

The next two recipes came from the Twomey Winery.  

Shaved Zucchini Salad

8 oz green zucchini

8 oz yellow zucchini or squash

2 tablespoons pumpkin seeds, toasted

2 oz Parmesan cheese, grated

2 tablespoons basil leaves, torn

1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil

Juice from 1 fresh lemon

1 teaspoon salt

Slice the green and yellow zucchini as thin as you can.  Place into a mixing bowl with the pumpkin seeds, Parmesan, basil, olive oil, lemon juice and salt.  Mix together and serve.

Garden Pesto Pizza

1 recipe Silver Oak Pizza Dough http://www.silveroak.com/food/recipes/silver-oak-pizza-dough/ 

or for the uninitiated, I used Pillsbury pizza crust

1 cup pesto

2 cups mozzarella

1/2 cup goat cheese, crumbled

4 teaspoons preserved lemon, finely diced (can anyone enlighten me?)

1/4 cup sun dried tomatoes, finely diced

I don't particularly care for Twomey's pesto recipe so I substitute a recipe from the Come on In cookbook by the Junior League of Jackson, MS.

Pesto

4 1/2 cups fresh basil, loosely packed

1 cup extra virgin olive oil

1/2 cup pine nuts

5 cloves garlic

2 teaspoons salt

4 oz freshly grated Parmesan cheese (1 cup)

1. Puree basil, olive oil, pine nuts, garlic, and salt in food processor until smooth.  Stir in freshly grated Parmesan cheese and refrigerate if not to be used immediately.
2. Prepare your wood oven (really?) or home oven and spin the pizza dough (ha!) to the desired thickness.  (If you're in my house, pop open that can of Pillsbury pizza dough and flatten it out onto a pizza pan.)  I actually baked the crust for about 5 minutes before adding any ingredients.
3. Spread a thin layer of pesto then sprinkle with mozzarella, goat cheese, preserved lemon and sundried tomatoes.  Bake for 10 minutes at 500 degrees and serve immediately.

I must admit I am a little worried when I pull the pizza out of the oven.  The oil from the pesto has pooled around the pan but is quickly absorbed after I let the pizza rest for a few minutes before serving.  I also think it will be a good idea to cook the pizza 5 minutes longer than the recipe calls since my oven is a little slow.  Wrong.  The crust is slightly overdone and the sundried tomatoes a bit charred but with assistance from my friend Sandy, we flip those tomatoes over and voila - the pizza looks beautiful!

My friends are skeptical when the smoke alarm goes off upon opening the oven door. That seems to happen a lot when I'm cooking pizza.  But their skepticism is laid to rest once we sit down to eat.  This pizza is downright palatable!

These recipes are so simple that my friends and family think I can actually cook.  I'm pretty sure I no longer have to ply them with alcohol to get them to sample my homemade dishes.  Speaking of . . try a good Sauvignon Blanc with the zucchini or pizza.  Buon Appetito!!