Serve you meat, ma’am?

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All of North Carolina has been buzzing this week about the same topic, and no, it isn’t the weather (despite broad predictions of wintry mix Friday that never materialized but closed schools anyway). People are aghast, perhaps even grieving, and swapping stories about the closure of a cafeteria. Yes, really. 

It is not an exaggeration to say that the community is in shock about the abrupt end of K & W, the cafeteria chain that started with one location in my city of Winston-Salem almost 90 years ago and later expanded to 18 dining rooms across North Carolina and Virginia. The closure— of ALL of them— surprised the community and apparently even the workers, some of whom showed up on December 1 to find a startling message taped to the door. The same message appeared on K & W’s Facebook page.

The long history of a local institution

K & W was a place where you could show up by yourself or with 20 people, and there was always a table ready for you— in a real dining room without televisions, and with comfortable booths and dining chairs. The line to the food stations zig-zagged through permanent barriers that kept things moving efficiently, and you could find yourself striking up friendly conversation with the folks behind or in front of you as you waited your turn to grab a melamine tray and request the items that appealed to you on that particular day. And there were plenty of choices, from jiggly slabs of fruit-studded gelatin to fresh salads with homemade dressings, a variety of meats and more sides than you could imagine.

Hungry for Southern comfort? Take your pick from fried chicken, country ham, crispy fried whitefish or creamy chicken and dumplings. Following doctor’s orders? No problem— they had baked chicken and broiled flounder, and they were never too salty. K & W had everyone’s favorite desserts, and they’d pour exactly as much gravy as you wanted on your mashed potatoes. And, oh my goodness, the selection of warm breads and rolls at the end of the line.

One of each, please.

In its heyday, every location was packed after church on Sunday, and you could count on them to be open for Thanksgiving, serving up all the classics. Their homemade pies were so highly regarded that many people ordered whole ones to put on their own holiday tables and, for a time, the chain even provided catering services. Another thing about K & W, the workers were so efficient, that they’d frequently call out for your order from down the line before you could even see the selection they were ready to plate up for you. 

“Serve you meat, ma’am?” 

I had not been to K & W— named for its original co-owner team, Knight and Wilson— for at least a decade, but the sudden closing of this venerable business has stirred up a bunch of memories for me. It’s one of the first places I found a square meal at a good price when I moved here by myself from upstate New York in the late 1980s. Back then, they served up a wholesome hot breakfast, and I had plans to meet my uncle and his girlfriend there one frosty January morning in 1988, but while I was en route, I heard on the car radio that the restaurant had been rocked by a gas explosion in the wee hours (thankfully, there were only a few minor injuries of employees). That location closed permanently.

The next year, my mother visited me from Colorado and we went to another K & W for a quick and easy dinner. This was one of the times I realized that different regions give their own names to certain standard dishes. One of the offerings that evening was a hot macaroni dish with ground meat, spices and onions, wrapped up in a thick tomato sauce. My mom made a similar version of this dish and we called it goulash, but when she asked for a helping of it from the hot case, all hell broke loose behind the service counter.

“What’d you call it? GOO-losh??” Oh, the workers all had a good belly laugh about it, and my mother was indignant for the rest of the evening. To this day, I’m still not sure what that dish is named around these parts. Maybe some of my local peeps can tell me so that I don’t make the same embarrassing mistake.

This is my goulash, and it looked like this at K&W. 🤷🏻‍♀️

Finally, I remember K&W for the many Thursday night meals with my first husband’s school-age daughter. Their custody agreement was odd, affording him dinnertime with his daughter every other Thursday (in addition to Wednesdays and alternate weekends). But we lived in a different town than her mother, so we’d pick her up from school, gallivant a bit, and then wrap up our time at the K&W, where we were grateful for the “home-cooked” feel of a hot, nutritious meal before we had to part ways.

Indeed, everyone around here has memories of K&W, and though it was not in my restaurant rotation for many years, I will miss it. And I’m far from alone— there’s chatter online about people trying to find and re-create their favorite recipes from the cafeteria, and many of our community’s seniors feel that they’ve lost a dear friend. Where else are they going to get a complete Thanksgiving Day meal with turkey and dressing, cranberry sauce and two sides with fresh made bread, dessert and a drink— for $14.99? Nowhere, I reckon.

So what the heck happened?

I found something interesting today as I was poking around the internet about K&W’s closure. The news media said the cafeterias were shuttered on a moment’s notice, but I’m not convinced this was completely unforeseen. The company posted on Instagram seven weeks ago, with a caption asking followers to share their favorite memory of this community staple. And the music that accompanied the post perhaps foreshadowing: it was a snippet from Bob Dylan’s “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.” There must have been some kind of trouble simmering that just hadn’t come to a boil yet.

One could easily blame the trouble that befell K&W on the COVID-19 shutdown, which pushed it into bankruptcy and eventually led to it being sold to the Louisiana-based Piccadilly cafeteria chain, which is now apparently owned by— roll your eyes with me— a private equity corporation. Or it could just be a natural progression of things, the result of changing appetites and a collective desire for more upscale dining options (me, I’m guilty), or maybe everyone actually wants a TV in every corner with metal stools and high-top tables, rather than a comfortable sit-down experience that is affordably priced. I found Yelp reviews that suggested that the quality of food and indeed the overall K&W experience had suffered in the past couple of years. I wouldn’t know, given how long it’s been since I visited.

Whatever caused the collapse, I feel especially sad for my community’s senior population,  and I’m also concerned for the workers who are now out of a job, just in time for the holidays. It’s the end of an era, and folks around here won’t be quick to get over it.

On Earworms

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You know the drill when a song gets stuck in your head and certain parts of it play over and over and over, driving you nearly mad? It might be a song you love or one you hate, or maybe even one that you love to hate, and sometimes (but not always) its sudden appearance in your mind is triggered by something someone says or perhaps a TV commercial or a fleeting memory. Or it could just be completely random. In any situation, it drives me nuts, and the only method I’ve found for releasing it is to lean in. I search out the offensive song on Spotify and actually play it. Singing it loudly seems to help as well, and then I can get on with my life.

This phenomenon is widely known as an “earworm,” and research suggests that as many as 98% of people have experienced it, though it’s rarely considered to be a serious condition. 

An earworm is not the same as a brain worm, which is a far more daunting phenomenon in which a weak human brain becomes invaded by a parasite that eats the lobe associated with common sense, leading to conspiracy theory-driven psychosis that prompts the afflicted to seek a government leadership position so that they can eliminate longstanding, important public health policies in favor of nonsensical theories, such as rendered beef fat possibly being more beneficial than monounsaturated plant oils or the notion that vaccines are more dangerous than the diseases they aim to prevent, or that food dyes in soda are a greater enemy than childhood cancer. But I digress.

For some reason, the songs that become earworms in my head are generally tunes that annoy me— that damn “Piña Colada Song” from 1979, for example, or the repetitive hook that’s currently making the rounds on social media, actually creating the very anxiety it speaks of. Or (dare I suggest) “Pink Pony Club.” And there are occasionally good earworms that I actually enjoy— one of them being an old Schoolhouse Rock ditty, and I frequently bust out the chorus these days, easily recalling from my Gen-X childhood every single word of the Preamble to the Constitution. Again, I digress.

My latest earworm, however, is not musical. It is more an obsession with color and possibility, and it was re-triggered after an activity my husband, Les, and I enjoyed last weekend when we visited the Van Gogh Immersive Experience (speaking of people crippled by persistent thoughts). This was a multimedia adventure, filled with detail about the artist’s life, work, death and legacy, and we concluded our visit with a virtual-reality experience that was by far the coolest part of the exhibit. Since then, visions of sunflowers and starry night scenes have been swirling in my mind, and I’m not exactly fighting them. I’m leaning in, allowing the visions to swirl, and trying to immerse myself in them. For years, my muse has been challenging me to produce two specific, highly creative things from my culinary bucket list that are directly connected to Van Gogh’s art. I’ve accepted the challenge, and I’ll tell (and show) you how it goes.

Until we get there, please enjoy this quick recap of the Van Gogh Immersive Experience, along with one of Les’s very favorite ear worms. 

But, the cheese!

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My heart sank yesterday when I stepped out into our enclosed garage and noticed a stream of light running the full length of the refrigerator door. Had we retrieved something from the extra fridge earlier that morning and just missed closing it tight? Unfortunately, it quickly became apparent that this was not a recent mistake, as a large block of cheese on the top shelf was warm to the touch. The door had been open all night, at least ten hours, and the small thermometer clipped onto the top shelf registered nearly 70° F. Ugh. 

In that moment, I became the father in A Christmas Story in the scene where he wailed about all the favorite foods that he wouldn’t be able to enjoy after the neighbor dogs attacked the roast turkey. You see, I had just gone to Costco a few days prior to this debacle to restock on our favorite expensive cheeses, and I had placed them on the top shelf of the fridge. My plan was to grate the one-and-a-half pound wedge of Parmagiano-Reggiano together with the one-pound wedge of Pecorino Romano, and we would have a hefty bucket of our beloved “Parm-Romano Blend” to get us through all the pizzas, grilled caesar salads and quick pasta dishes that I would make during summer. I had been fantasizing ways to use the huge double block of feta before its early November expiration, and I’d finally make one of my culinary bucket list items, a whipped feta dip. And there was a mellow cheddar aged in pale ale that had caught my eye. That would be a winner on an appetizer platter, and wouldn’t it also rock a macaroni and cheese? Sigh, I’ll never know. 

A few things I won’t be making 😕

Not only were the specialty cheeses no longer cold, they had virtually cooked under the constant heat of the incandescent light bulb, and smelly, oily liquid dripped from the corners of all the packages. If I could have salvaged any of it, I would have. It was easily $70 worth of cheese. For someone who searches out volume bargains and plans so carefully with food, this was a gut punch.

On the bright side, the rest of the refrigerator’s residents seem to be mostly OK. A jug of buttermilk in the door was a loss, but it was almost gone anyway. My vermouths would be fine. On lower shelves, an array of drinks and cocktail mixers that don’t technically need cold storage. A few fruits and veggies that I picked up Saturday at the farmers’ market would be used quickly enough that they would not be a loss. Even my sourdough starter, Pete, is expected to make a full recovery.

But, the cheeeeese. 😩

I imagined what my frugal grandmother would do in such a situation. She’d probably cuss, as I did (one of these days, I’ll share her favorite “bad” word, which she used with bold intention when circumstances warranted), and then she’d put on a pick-up-the-pieces attitude, scan the pantry and pull something together for dinner. She would not let the mistake define her. 

Onward.

Under a Blood Red Moon

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A strange sound emanated from beneath my pillow just ahead of the witching hour on Friday morning. My mind pretended not to hear it, but the muffled insistence of an unfamiliar ringtone persisted until I forced my eyes open, vaguely aware of having set an alarm the night before so that I could witness the rare event of a blood moon— a phenomenon that seems as shrouded in mystery as I was in my comforter in that moment. I purposely chose a ringtone that was different from my usual, so that I would not be tempted to tap the snooze button.

What exactly is “the witching hour?”

During COVID, I had frequent bouts of restlessness that woke me at 3 am, and a Google search about this pattern yielded a myriad of results, from possible liver overload (hey, we were all drinking more in those days) to fluctuating hormones (reasonable, given that Mother Nature tossed me into the menopause bin at the worst time in history), to the most startling and somewhat upsetting reason of all: the “witching hour.” Apparently, there’s a spiritual veil between the realms of life and death, and it is thinnest at 3 am. It felt redeeming that this time, I needed an alarm to rouse me into standing in my jammies in the backyard, staring at the sky.

Drama above, uncertainty below

Scientifically, a blood moon is easy to explain: it’s the alignment of a full moon and the sun, with Earth in the middle. It presents in the night sky with a reddish hue over the familiar craters on the lunar surface. From a mystical standpoint, however, it seems a bit more complex. It was a spectacular sight— more so than my amateur phone camera skills could ever capture.

By the magic of the algorithm, which latches onto one’s slightest hint of curiosity and subsequently serves up a smorgasbord of related information, my Instagram feed was flooded on Thursday night with posts and reels that emphasized, sometimes urgently, that this lunar eclipse was going to be a powerful one. Something to do with the eclipse being in Virgo, and that makes sense to me because I married a man born under that sign, and urgency is his middle name (well, except in the name of this eclipse because when I nudged him if he wanted to join me outside, he made a mostly unintelligible sound that I interpreted as “no”). What is less clear to me is what the eclipse means in terms of the spiritual growth that all the mystics said was straight ahead.

This particular celestial event is said to be a time for “letting go,” but of what? For some reason, a bible verse I once studied has been playing on repeat in my mind. I’m out of practice on such things, but the gist of it was about silver being refined in the fire. It is only under intense heat and pressure that impurities rise to the surface to be skimmed away. I feel this deep in my chest, as if something has been begging to be skimmed out of my current reality. 

On reflection, realignment and letting go

Perhaps some of you can relate to having too much on your mind as of late. I can easily conjure a list of things that I need to “let go,” as suggested by the Instagram mystics. In no particular order:

  • Worrying— about the future of Earth and all its inhabitants, but especially those who have been historically marginalized for no good reason. Using my voice for good is the right thing, but worrying does not help. 
  • Regrets and long-gone ambitions— they only hold me back from being the best version of me that I can be today. That was then, this is now and I am reminded that I am overdue to clean out my closet (figuratively, but also literally).
  • Trying to figure it all out. Every. Single. Freaking. Thing. I’m exhausted from trying to mentally solve the problems of our country and the world, and most of the time I feel guilty for not having more problems than some other people around me. I am privileged because of my race, which isn’t my fault. It also isn’t fair. 

At the break of day

I woke for the second time on Friday at 7:15 am, and I felt extra weary from the sleep I lost staring at the moon. Clarity doesn’t always come quickly, and I suppose that is the point.

O Canada!

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I might have otherwise titled this post, “How I Spent My Eclipse Vacation,” but the dense clouds that encased Niagara Falls, Ontario, on Monday, April 8 rearranged the highlights of the trip we had planned for witnessing the totality of solar eclipse. There were many silver linings to the vacation and I’ll share them all, though I won’t deny the disappointment I felt in staring at fully overcast skies, trying in vain to figure out which direction we were even supposed to be looking with our UV-filtering protective eyewear. Yep, it really was that cloudy. We didn’t expect that our best picture of the eclipse would be the social media wall in our hotel lobby.

The view from our room, about two hours before the eclipse. Sigh.

Where are you, sun?

We ventured from our 15th floor hotel room, which offered a view of the American Falls, down a steep hill to Queen Victoria Park, a sprawling open space that abutted the main tourist attractions. The city of Niagara Falls had preemptively declared a state of emergency for that otherwise-ordinary Monday, anticipating a record crowd for this once-in-a-lifetime celestial event. The city was more than prepared, and as we scouted out a viewing spot on the lawn, we encountered people from every culture and every walk of life. Nothing like a natural spectacle (or two) to bring people together.

Hints of blue sky on the horizon, but not where we needed it.

Occasionally, we heard an eruption of cheers from the thousands of other hopeful eclipse watchers, as the tiniest break in the clouds gave us new (albeit brief) optimism for great views and photos. Alas, the main things we witnessed were the sudden total darkness at 3:18 and a big temperature drop, as the moon covered the peekaboo sun. Even that was exhilarating though, and it was one time that I wished my iPhone camera did not automatically adjust for ambient light. It was much darker in reality than our selfie suggested. And then, about three minutes later, it was over. Les caught a few decent shots just post-totality— what looks like a sliver of crescent moon was actually crescent sun— and then we trudged back up the hill with the rest of the throng and hit the hotel bar for a consolation cocktail.

There was something almost romantic about our experience.

We gave up on the UV filter. This was our best image, just after totality.

The other 5,756 minutes of our vacay

What we missed in eclipse excitement on Monday, we more than made up for with all of the other amazing things we had planned for our trip. Having grown up a few stones’ throws from Niagara Falls, I knew that we would have an awesome time, and seeing the falls up close never gets old for me.

It’s incredible to be so close to this wonder!

Les had seen the American side once many years ago, but his visit amounted to a drive-by while in Buffalo for an event for his daughter, so he was excited to do and see as much as we could on this trip. The falls did not disappoint, and we were blessed with fantastic weather for our Voyage to the Falls, Canada’s equivalent to Maid of the Mist.

The power and magnificence of the Horseshoe Falls is something that everyone should experience at least once in their lifetime. This was my second time seeing it this way, and as our boat churned forward with every bit of power its engines could muster, the ride became unsteady enough that I put away my iPhone camera and just took it in. As far as I could turn my head in each direction, we were surrounded by the falls, which are as high as a 12-story building. The loud, rushing water flooded my soul this time around, and as I stared up at this mighty force of nature, I felt myself fighting back tears. Truly, an incredible experience. A few days later, we went underground into the tunnels behind the falls for even more exciting, up-close views.

The sound of the rushing falls up close was astounding!

Toronto!

Toronto should be nicknamed “City of Glass!”

On the Saturday before eclipse day, we ventured around the tip of Lake Ontario to Toronto, Canada’s largest city. Toronto is, among other things, the home of the Hockey Hall of Fame, and we spent a couple of hours exploring the history of Les’s favorite pro sport, even getting up close and personal with the Stanley Cup.

We are pointing at the St. Louis Blues championship, favorite team of Les’s son, Alex.

A few blocks down, we explored St. Lawrence Market, which is essentially a humongous carnival for food lovers. Vendors in the market peddled everything from fresh and cured meats, cheeses and baked goods to spices, specialty pantry items, flowers and even prepared foods. I could have easily spent the entire day browsing this indoor market, but we had an important lunch date across the street.

A foodie’s paradise, if there ever was one!

Another Blog Buddy!

When I started Comfort du Jour, I was hoping to find community with like-minded foodies. And I did find that, but I wasn’t expecting the comments sections of our respective blogs to become an incubator for such wonderful friendships. When Les and I finalized our decision to make Niagara Falls our eclipse destination, I reached out to Sandy, my blog buddy from The Sandy Chronicles. Sandy lives in Toronto for part of the year, and I’ve been intrigued by her experiments with International cuisines, as well as her posts about photography, art and travel.

It was great meeting you, Sandy!

We were so pleased that she was able to meet up with us for lunch at a fantastic Indian bistro she recommended, and we conversed about everything from food and travel to the sad state of American politics as we nibbled fish pakora, vegetable samosas and a delightful appetizer called sev puri. Those little gems were like flavor explosions!

We had much more food, but I forgot to take pictures. 🤷🏻‍♀️

The Indian flavors were so comforting and satisfying, and I am feeling inspired to try making some of these special foods in the near future. Sandy even turned me on to a book to get me started, and you can bet I will re-create that Punjabi old fashioned cocktail soon, too. I wouldn’t have guessed that chai spices would be such a natural pairing with bourbon.

From Toronto to Tuscany

How do you suppose we sidetracked to Tuscany from Toronto? By way of a cooking class, of course! We were fortunate to have insider information from Sandy, who had sent me a link to the “My Place for Dinner” cooking school, led by Deb Diament. The Tuscan cuisine class took place in a loft studio that overlooked the St. Lawrence Market we’d visited earlier in the day, and it was a great and relaxing way to wrap up the Toronto leg of our vacation. We were treated to white bean crostini and Italian wine as we explored how to make arugula salad with lemon vinaigrette, handmade pasta with chicken piccata, and an orange-polenta cake with fresh berries. Most of the foods and techniques were already familiar to me, but what I enjoyed most was watching my husband become immersed in the lessons. The whole experience was a treat, and I can’t wait to put Les to work at home next time I want to make fresh pasta!

He was so focused on his assignment!

This whole trip was a lot to digest— no pun intended, well, maybe intended— and I’m still breaking down some of our experiences, so there will be more to share later, including one very special meal we enjoyed. But for now, I’ll keep you in the dark about that. 😉

Surprise!

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The surprises. That’s one of the things I love most about being married to my husband, Les. Valentine’s Day gave me pause to delve into what makes our life together so interesting and fun, and the common thread is surprises. Les is really good at this.

Sometimes, the surprise is a gift— like our first holiday season together when he purchased a piece of original art that I’d been admiring in one of my favorite wine bars. He conspired with the artist and the wine bar manager, reserving a table for us directly underneath “my” painting, so that when I saw upon arrival that it was sold, I’d notice and lament— though only temporarily, to my delight! I love the piece, and it hangs in our living room today.

He also surprised me in July 2016, when I thought we were just going out to dinner with live music for my birthday, but he had actually commissioned the musician (our friend, Colin Allured) to learn “our” song, and after it played (and we danced), Les put a forever ring on my finger. That was literally a life-changing surprise.

Other times, the surprises have been adventure— at Christmas this year, Les pulled out all the stops and created a version of “Let’s Make a Deal,” offering me a chance to trade in my new, gift-wrapped Rolling Stones Hackney Diamonds CD for any of three secret “doors,” which turned out to be recorded announcements he’d made on his iPhone. I chose wisely and traded up for a trip to see the Stones when they tour later this year. Yes, we’d have made the trip anyway (he already bought the tickets and made hotel reservations), but I absolutely love that he made it so much fun. We’ll celebrate seven years married this April, but he’s still dating me (yes, I know I’m lucky)!

Still rockin, after all these years!

Every once in a while, though, Les presents a surprise that comes out of left field in a way that makes me say, “aw, maaaan, seriously?!” This is exactly what happened the day before Super Bowl, and just two days after I managed to pull off re-creating my beloved Western New York “fish fry.” That’s when he announced to me without fanfare that he was going to get serious about eating healthier, dropping unwanted pounds and getting back into shape— starting immediately after all the deep-fried Buffalo wings and queso dip and jalapeño popper snacks I’d been prepping for the big game. No more ice cream after dinner every night, he said, and no bacon cheeseburgers or deep-fried anything— and oh, by the way, no more alcohol for a while because empty calories were off the table. Big sigh (but don’t worry, I have these indulgent recipes in archive and I will still share them).

Could I have all of this with a side of Lipitor, please?

I was stunned, and truth be told, a little pissed at this zero-notice announcement. But anyone who loves a Virgo knows that once a decision is made, there’s no point arguing. Virgos get things done, hard stop. And when I consider the timing of his resolve, I recognize that it came mere hours after I complained (again) that none of the cute, sexy clothes in my closet fit me or look good on me anymore. From that perspective, his decision is more a response to my own lament.

My lover is right. We need to do better and get healthier, and though I’m disappointed that I won’t be able to immediately practice my new (and highly successful) deep-frying skills, I am at least excited about the challenge of creating more thoughtful meals, and I’m ready to embrace the coming spring with some new outdoor activities. My realistic side knows that I won’t snap back into the same body I had in my 20s or even 30s— and I’m certain that I have never rocked it quite like Sydney Sweeney on that red Mercedes in the video (wow)— but I do know that getting healthier, slimming down and feeling stronger will give me more confidence to wear at least a few of the cute outfits I’ve kept on ice. Maybe in time for the Stones show, I’ll even be able to squeeze my middle-aged butt into those cute flare-legged pants I bought last summer. Regardless, if we stick with it, my husband’s surprise decision will buy us more lifetime together. More time for romance, adventure and other life-changing surprises.

How could I ever be angry at that?

Out of My Comfort Zone

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Happy New Year, dear readers! The past two weeks have been a blur, what with holiday gatherings and meal prep and “Christmukkah” tree dismantling. Thankfully, our newest fluffy family member, Nadia, did not climb or cause damage to the tree, and she only briefly took to biting at the blue and white lights. And now, we are into a new year. A clean slate!

My one resolution this year is to not set goals. Or, at least, not in the traditional sense. In my decades of experience with New Year’s resolutions, I’ve come to recognize a pattern— a tendency to overshoot what is reasonably achievable, thereby setting myself up for near-certain failure and disappointment (with myself, always). Whether it’s diet and wellness, personal growth or my never-shrinking/always-growing project list, I simply cannot keep pace with my aspirations. Apparently, I am not alone in this phenomenon.

Researchers say that most Americans give up on their New Year’s resolutions by the middle of January, and only 9% succeed in keeping them. This is either poor planning or out-of-reach expectations, I suppose. Rather than stating any particulars that I will set out to accomplish this year, I decided to check the rearview mirror and recognize all that I did accomplish in 2023. What I saw there surprised and empowered me. And I dove deep to discover the common link among those achievements; in all of them, I was outside my comfort zone. 

What an odd realization for someone whose blog literally has “comfort” in its name.

Even the act of starting my blog was a huge leap of faith for me, though. There were many “what ifs” on the tip of my tongue back then: What if I can’t figure out how to run the website? What if nobody cares about my food or my stories? Would I even have enough time to commit to regular posting and engagement with readers? Won’t I run out of recipes eventually? Today I cannot imagine not having this special place of connection, creativity and curiosity.

Taking that first step out of my comfort zone is what unlocks the “what ifs” and transforms them into victories, large and small. Turns out, I did a lot of it in 2023, without really thinking about it. 

Here’s a short list of what I achieved last year in personal, professional and culinary categories:

  • Reconnected with a dear high school friend, despite some fears that maybe she wouldn’t respond or have time to get back in touch
  • Took a chance on a solo vacation to Vermont, during a historic flooding event that made travel terrifying
  • Met two of my blog buddies in person— one on that trip to Vermont and the other on a family vacation to California
  • Spent four days in the baking lab at King Arthur Baking School, where I met wonderful people and learned new skills and techniques
  • Embraced big changes at my job, including a promotion that has stretched me more than I imagined (in a good way)
  • Adopted a kitten— okay, this may seem easy, but it is a multi-year commitment to the care and well-being of a small, utterly dependent creature, and this relationship always ends with tears at the gate of the Rainbow Bridge (it’s a big deal and I’m all in)
  • Volunteered for a two-year term on our HOA’s board of directors, just in time for a very challenging situation of having squatters in one of the homes
  • Participated in a butcher class, where I learned technique for breaking down a whole hog
  • Tackled several of my culinary bucket list items, including porchetta, blue moon ice cream, homemade matzo, reverse-seared steak, babka and s’mores cupcakes (to name a few)

Yes, all of these 2023 highlights were the result of the same thing— stepping out of my comfort zone. Resolutions don’t stick, but if I stay curious and commit myself to taking chances and putting the “what ifs” out to pasture, 2024 may turn out to be my best year ever!

I hope it’s yours, too. 🤗

California Dreamin’

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My husband and I just returned home after a 10-day visit to Southern California, in case you’ve been wondering why I’ve been so quiet online. I packed my laptop for the journey— foolishly imagining that I’d carve out time to blog— but our planned (and unplanned) adventures took over every waking moment. This long trip was arranged months ago, timed around Les’s great-niece’s Bat Mitzvah in Los Angeles. But it also included a lunch meeting with one of my new managers at my day job, an impromptu drive-by to the beach in Malibu, a side trip to visit a cousin in San Diego and a three-day stay at my in-laws’ second home in the Coachella Valley. Whew!

We had some crazy fun times, ate incredible food, enjoyed sampling the goods at a winery and stood witness to some truly breathtaking scenery. We also got to celebrate with Les’s sister and her husband at her birthday dinner. For the occasion, Andrea chose a lovely, upscale restaurant that used to be Cary Grant’s home! It was great fun, but after all the excitement, the various family gatherings, five plane rides and spanning three time zones, I need a vacation from our vacation! I’m sure you can relate.

Though most of our trip was mapped out in advance, we did have a pleasant surprise on our drive to Palm Desert last Tuesday; we got a phone call from Jess, the girlfriend of Les’s nephew, Ethan. It turns out that Jess’s uncle schedules the acts at a new venue in the Coachella Valley, and when he caught wind that we’d be in town, he generously offered up tickets to a concert with fantastic seats that we couldn’t refuse! Press play on the video below— I’m pretty sure you’ll know very quickly who we were lucky to see.

She’s still got it!

As exciting as the Stevie Nicks show was (she flawlessly performed every song you’d expect, plus a few surprises), I was even more thrilled about an event the next day, when I finally got to meet in person one of my favorite online buddies, Michelle from Art of the Beat. Michelle and I started following each other on WordPress a few years ago— my recipes caught her eye, and I found myself drawn to her music-oriented photography and artwork— and our banter in the comments led to email chats and texts, which led to calls and FaceTime. Now I consider her my West Coast bestie!

I ditched the family for a few hours to spend a fun afternoon with Michelle at Shields Date Garden in Indio, which included lunch (check out the jalapeño-stuffed, bacon-wrapped dates, yum) and a leisurely stroll through the gardens where we received an education on various citrus trees and (gasp!) the sex life of date palm trees. Scandalous! 

The other interesting thing about the garden walk was that it featured various statues and stories about the life of Jesus— something I would not have expected at a date farm, but OK. If you’re familiar with the concept of “stations of the cross,” this is essentially what we encountered, and it gave us more fodder for conversation. Sadly, negative past experiences with religion are yet another thing Michelle and I have in common. Most of our discussion took place on a bench in the shade, directly in front of a statue of Jesus. It was very affirming, and we left the place as soulmate-level friends.

I’m pretty sure we were separated at birth.

I also bought some mouthwatering soft Medjool dates to smuggle into my carry-on for the trip home. If I can resist eating every last one of them like candy, I will try to recreate those tasty jalapeño-stuffed bites!

It’s great to be home after our travel adventures, and the excitement continues at our house this week with the arrival of Nadia’s first Christmas tree. Our 7-month-old kitten has been batting at the lower branches, and I think we will wait a few days before stringing lights and ornaments— just in case! 

A new recipe is coming your way this weekend, so stay tuned and come back hungry. 😉

Just for fun…

As my hubby noted in the comments, there were some cute moments with wild critters, as we visited The Living Desert Zoo and Gardens on our final day in Palm Desert. The park provides great information about the animals, their habits and endangered status, and I highly recommend a visit if you’re in the area. There was a whole section of the park dedicated to animals from Down Under. We never saw a kangaroo, but in “Africa,” it was feeding time for the giraffes! The park was selling romaine lettuce leaves at a concession stand, and some children near us got to feed the gentle giants. This one wanted to be my buddy. 🙂

Sugar and spice, and everything’s nice.

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My husband and I have decided to spice things up a bit. You know how it goes after almost seven years of marriage, where every day feels the same? As empty nesters and second-time-arounders, Les and I are each pretty open about what we want and need in our relationship. So, after several months of back-and-forth on how to make things more exciting, we finally took a big, adventurous step.

We adopted a kitten! And boy is she sweet. Meet Nadia!

So spunky!

This was not a light decision. A 4-month-old kitty needs constant monitoring, extra playtime and frequent feedings. And then there are the midnight zoomies, constant crashes, jingly toys everywhere and the never-ending untangling of the window blind cords. Nadia has given us a physical and emotional workout, but she is undeniably adorable.

And then there’s Taz, our 12-year old fur baby— about equal to my husband’s age of 64— for whom this has been no cakewalk.

One of the few pictures that captured how small Nadia really was. 🙂

When our beloved dog, Nilla, went to the Rainbow Bridge back in March, Taz found herself the only pet in the house for the first time in her life. She has appreciated being the sole recipient of our attention when we are home, but anytime we take a trip longer than a couple of days, it’s clear to us that she is lonely. This sweet little fluff ball, we hoped, would change that.

If you don’t think this is precious, I’m not sure we can be friends.

A couple of weeks into the introduction process (slow and steady, in compliance with all the YouTube videos offered by “the Cat Daddy,” Jackson Galaxy), something seemed very “off” for Miss Taz, and this nervous mama booked a vet appointment. Taz got a full exam, a couple of chest X-rays and a round of blood work, but nobody could offer a solid reason for her coughing and gulping, or explain why she literally lost her meow and spent two days hiding under the bed. We came home with a bunch of papers and some pain meds (for what, I’m not sure) but by the next day, her symptoms had expanded to include a wet, rattly cough that might have been nothing or could have been devastating. Ugh.

Did we make a mistake getting a kitten? I was terrified that something serious was wrong with Taz and now— with the demands of a sass-butt little whippersnapper in the house— we would not be able to focus on taking care of our senior cat, whom I had promised would always be my baby. By that time, of course, it was the weekend. The blood work results from our Friday vet visit wouldn’t be in until Monday and I was a total wreck.

Thankfully, the emergency vet is only five minutes from our house, but that was the only easy part of this adventure. Six hours, two more X-rays, an unpleasant confrontation with the reception team, another round of blood work and— wait for it—  a thousand dollars later, Taz was diagnosed with what amounts to a kitty cold. Respiratory infection of some sort, and the vet said it is common for a shelter kitten to bring this kind of thing into the home. Not that anyone is blaming the kitten; she did nothing wrong, and showed no symptoms herself.

No wonder Taz was mad; she was surrounded by dog pictures!

Now, there’s a fair argument here that when Taz started sounding worse, she was actually feeling a little better. By the time the vet techs called for Taz, she was pissed. She hates the carrier crate, doesn’t like to be touched (or even spoken to) by strangers and didn’t appreciate the wait. They sedated her for the X-rays, for what little good it did because she still fought them like hell, as she did me and Les when we tried to coax her into the crate at home. She was described by both the tech and the doctor as “a very spicy kitty,” a big departure from the limp, near-lifeless cats they are used to seeing in their facility. All I could say was, “That’s my girl!” I was so grateful that her problem wasn’t more serious. An antibiotic injection and liquid steroid regimen was all she needed. It has been almost four weeks, and Taz is doing great.

With the crisis averted, we didn’t even mention this emergency visit to most of our friends here, because at that point, it had been handled and our fur baby was on the mend. Lo and behold, getting Taz feeling better has also led to more positive interactions between her and the new kitten— that is, except for the ongoing battle over who gets the top spot in the cat tree, which Taz had ignored until Nadia showed up. It’s all quite entertaining!

Nadia is the sweetest, most affectionate and loving kitten I’ve ever raised. A perfect complement to the spicy diva who sets the tone here.

Taz remains queen of the perch!

All’s well that ends well, and this story is far from over. 🥰

Game Over.

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I just got back from our side yard garden, and I have an important announcement. After years of agonizing over what vegetables to plant, how to keep the damn deer out of my tomatoes and wracking my brain to develop new and interesting ways to use up zucchini, I’ve decided to call it quits. 

You heard me— I’m done with the garden. Not cut out to be a farmer. Over it.

I had high hopes for you this year, little buddy.

Our little garden had a rough start this year, as we experienced flooding rains just days after I lovingly sunk our tender greenhouse plants into the raised bed, and then came the scorching hot temperatures with no rain in sight, all amid a busy season of vacations and big changes with my day job. As I shared with our neighbor, Pam, the other day, I have literally spent about $183 this season alone (not counting the cash I dropped last year on that motion-sensor sprinkler) to yield only about $15 worth of so-so produce. I wish I was joking. Some of that expense was soil and amendments, some was the plants themselves, and the rest was all the special supports and supplies aimed at improving my harvest. Only they didn’t.

Pam calls these “hundred dollar tomatoes!”

Yes, we had a few small handfuls of good tomatoes, but most of the tomato plants withered and died in the unbearable afternoon heat, the few stalks of corn I planted were attacked by some mysterious critter during the night— and what a shame because the few silver kernels that survived the carnage were just about perfect— and the four okra plants I installed have been so moody that I have either waited impatiently for them to mature or I’ve found myself throwing them into the woods because they grew as big as baseball bats overnight. Anyone who knows anything about okra will tell you that if the pods are more than four inches long, they’re too tough to eat. Oh, and we’ve had exactly one skinny eggplant. The only thing in this year’s garden that still holds promise is the jalapeños.

Only one of my three Roma plants is still breathing.
We can’t figure out WHAT kind of animal ate the corn.
These fancy supports promised to promote a strong root system.
These monster okra are basically inedible.

In a couple of days, I’ll share with you one of my favorite creations from last year’s late summer garden, salsa fresca, along with several fun ways to use it in case your own garden is going gangbusters. Until then, don’t be disappointed for me because I’m not as sad as I thought I’d be. I’m just, as I said, over it.

Giving up the garden will free my energy, attention and money for more, ahem, fruitful projects— including our backyard remodel, which I’m eager to share in pictures as soon as the fence installation is completed. Les and I have wanted for a long time to be able to make better use of our spacious yard, and we have finally made an investment to make it possible. I’m also looking forward to putting on a cute hat every Saturday to trek downtown and enjoying chatting with the growers at our farmers’ market. They do know what they’re doing in the garden and they need my support. There is a special thrill in finding unexpected treasures and new ingredients to try, and I will be happy to hand over my money to real farmers for the joy in those adventures.

In the meantime, I have put Samy, our landscape guy, on notice— as soon as the jalapeños give up the ghost this fall, I will give the green light for him to tear out what’s left of the weary landscape beams, level the ground and just plant some grass. The game is over. I lost, and honestly, I couldn’t be more relieved!