Tag: meal

The post with nudity!


Wagon O’ Dogs. Margot, Sparky, Rex, Guinness, and Minute

On the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend, Lynne came over and worked herself, Tom, and Tim to exhaustion on The Compound grounds. In addition to photographing dogs in Lynne’s gardening wagon (which I like so much that I put it in A COVENTRY WEDDING), I baked a couple of cakes that Lynne needed to decorate for some graduates, visited my mother, and dashed into Michael’s for paper to cover Lynne’s cake boards. (In other words, I shirked anything that would make me get dirty, sweat, or strain my back.)

Whenever I’m in the Wilton cake decorating section, I can’t resist looking at cake pans. This time, I spotted one that I knew I had to have for Edward Ladybughands. This is what the cake looked like after I finished it.

cakes, friends, and food fights

Leaving on a jet plane

In a little while, Mark G. Harris will be departing The Compound. Even though he’ll be blindfolded and driven in an indirect route to the airport, I have a sneaking suspicion he’ll be smuggling out some photos on his cell phone.

It’s been such a good visit, with a lot of conversation about writing and a lot of not doing much of anything, which is what he wanted. We’ve watched a ton of movies while eating Puterbaugh Popcorn–for some reason, all mushy romantic stuff, including Falling in Love, Heartburn, Crossing Delancey, Baby Boom, and Juno. One night we watched Across the Universe, which I thoroughly enjoyed because of the Beatles music and its look back at the tumultuous Sixties, but it made me miss Riley very much.

Last night, it was All Mark Request Night. Since he wanted to eat corn on the cob before he left, we had that with steak and this fabulous salad:


baby bella mushrooms and red bell pepper on a bed of baby spinach, with walnuts, crumbled bacon, and a choice of crumbled feta or blue cheese.

After a farewell visit from Rhonda, Lindsey, and Sugar, we watched Mark’s movie choice: Working Girl. I don’t think I’d ever seen the beginning, but I always relish Sigourney Weaver’s character (much the way I like Miranda Priestly in The Devil Wears Prada). I also appreciate all the views of the World Trade Center. Seeing it makes me happy and sad, which I guess is nostalgia. In fact, it feels like the theme of Mark’s visit has been nostalgia (even though I learned the shocking fact that MGH has never seen The Way We Were!).

Now I know what’s on the movie list for his next visit.

Friends: Random

1. In my kitchen, I have these two small, framed pieces of needlework that my mother did for me ten thousand years ago. EVERY time I see them, I think of Lindsey. Why? Because one is constantly askew, and I adjust it, knowing that if Lindsey were in my kitchen, it would drive her crazy. Here’s Lindsey getting a little R&R in the kitchen dog bed.

Edit: On second thought, maybe Lindsey is curled up in the fetal position because she noticed the crooked pictures.

2. This is a really low-quality photo shot with my cell phone of Lynne holding Lila.

I include it here so I can talk about Maggiano’s. I’d been trying to get a lot of errands done in a short period of time, and one of them included picking up something from Lynne. Rather than let me just dash in and out of the restaurant, she bought my lunch and made me sit and relax with her, Laura, and Lila. Sometimes a friend knows what you need better than you do. But here’s the thing about Maggiano’s. They have these columns covered with signed photos of various celebrities, sports figures, and such, many of them Houston locals. I’ve long threatened to send in a framed cover of A Coventry Christmas and write some gushing remark on it like “Thank you for hosting us after my signing!” (never happened) just to see if I can make the wall–even though I’m about as far from a local celebrity as there could be.

3. This is Mark G. Harris’s last full day at The Compound this trip. I’m already missing the idea of movie-and-popcorn nights. But I know my loss will be the Internet’s gain, because no matter how I’ve implored, he has refused to post in his LiveJournal until his return home. He’s a stubborn man. But a good dishwasher.

4. It’s one week until Lenny Kravitz’s and Stevie Nicks’s birthdays. If you don’t know what that means, you haven’t been paying attention. For quite some time, Rex has been daydreaming about what kind of cake I might bake.

The Lindsey Post

Lindsey’s on her way out of town and she won’t SEE this until everyone else has. Heh.

Last night, The Brides came over for dinner (ham and spinach casserole; fresh, steamed broccoli; salad; and rolls demanded by Mark G. Harris). For dessert, Lindsey made us GOOP. What is this goop, you ask? It is undercooked brownies, hot from the oven. Served alone, goop is fab, but with Bluebell (“The Best Ice Cream in the Country”) Vanilla Bean Ice Cream, it’s better than that time the strapping young Jones boy from next door lost his swimming trunks in the Presbyterian College pool.

In tribute to Lindsey and goop, this post is all about her.

of course there are photos!

Of birthdays and other things

Hey, Timmy, here’s your sign:

Yes, today is the birthday of my writing partner, Timmy. Note: That is NOT the same person as Tim/Timothy, who does not want to be called Timmy. EVER.

Timmy probably actually prefers Timothy, as well, but I’ve been 35 too long to change that habit now.

March 4 is a big day in my life, because it’s also That Old Woman’s birthday and my agent’s birthday. This evening, I’ll be taking That Old Woman some chocolate cupcakes. Anybody want to come with me?

When I was in New Orleans recently, I saw that birthday sign on the side of a non-working streetcar and shot it for the express purpose of wishing Timmy a happy birthday with it. I wish I could be with you, Timmy, celebrating your birthday in your new home, but I’m sure that Paul and your many friends will celebrate in style.

Now, about this streetcar thing… I remember how excited Greg was when the St. Charles streetcar began running again. Although I’ve driven down St. Charles into the Garden District on other trips to New Orleans, I never rode the streetcar. Since Lynne and I had limited time before we needed to leave the city, we decided to jump on, ride it to the end of the line, then catch one coming back.

I can’t recommend this enough. I’ve always loved seeing those rattling old cars; this was my first opportunity to ride one. Riding the entire length of the St. Charles line ($1.25–exact change, please–the machine takes dollar bills and quarters) is a good way to get a glimpse of the beautiful Garden District. You also see Loyola, Tulane, and Audubon Park. You can hop off to explore, or go to the end of the line, where you’ll be asked to exit the car and pay another $1.25 for the return trip.

Instead, Lynne and I exited and headed for a place she’d heard about, the Camellia Grill.

A little backstory here…

In our youth, Lynne managed and cooked at a small restaurant with a grill and food prep stations completely visible to the public. I hung out in the restaurant so much, talking to old friends and making new ones, that even though I had two teaching jobs at the time, I also did a little waitressing there. Lynne and I both have tons of memories from that place, so grills hold a special place in our hearts.

The Camellia Grill wasn’t affected physically by Katrina or the levee failure, but it had apparently been struggling for a while prior to the hurricane. The loss of tourists and New Orleans residents probably wouldn’t have helped matters, so the restaurant didn’t reopen. Some people said it was for the best, since the owners hadn’t been reinvesting to improve the place. Others were sad about its apparent demise; all of this was summed up better on the blog The Third Battle of New Orleans, which posted the following photos of former patrons expressing their disappointment:


Photo permission pending from The Third Battle of New Orleans.

Happily, after being closed for twenty months, the Camellia Grill was bought by a new owner who gutted the grill area and rebuilt it and replaced the countertops, but otherwise pretty much left a good thing alone. Apparently, there is often a line to get in, but Lynne and I stopped in for coffee and chocolate pecan pie between the lunch and dinner crowds. We wished we hadn’t already eaten when we watched the burgers travel from a sizzling grill to the customers next to us, who said that yes, they were as delicious as they looked.

I liked the pie. The coffee was good. And I loved feeling nostalgic about old times with friends while sitting on a stool at the counter and watching the cooks.

If you like looking at beautiful old houses, I’ll put the rest of my St. Charles Avenue photos behind a cut. There are also a couple of pictures of trees still full of Mardi Gras beads. Please note that the white dot you see in the sky in some of the photos isn’t an early moonrise, but the reflection of the streetcar’s interior light on the window I was looking through to shoot photos.

Enjoy!

Pork Chop Blues: or, the post wherein I try to weave together disparate moments of my life

This post was inspired by Marika and her commenters complaining about songs that repeat nonsensical syllables, such as the Police’s “De Do Do Do, De Da Da Da” (I hope I punctuated that correctly) and Journey’s “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’.” My own contribution was “Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye,” by a band that made up its name, Steam, because the members were appalled that this song became their lone hit single.

Because this post was inspired by Marika, who often has user pics of herself as an adorable child, I opted for a new user pic, a twelve-year-old Becky at Lynne’s house for the first time. I’m not actually smoking that cigarette. In an attempt to pretend that I was one of the cool kids (I was giddy at being INSIDE the house of a girl who’d sneered at me and mocked me the year before because I was such a prissy little failure as an athlete in such respected sports as three-legged races), I grabbed one of Lynne’s daddy’s Camels when she or somebody went to snap a photo of me. Not too many years later, Lynne and I would be sucking at Benson & Hedges Menthols like there was no tomorrow, prompting a raid on my room by That Old Woman, who was at the time That Menopausal Woman, and a stern letter from my father from around the world in Korea.

But I digress.

After reading Marika’s post, I was trying to come up with one song that I hoped never to hear again–when I flashed on grilled pork chops. The answer was clear.

My cousin had a vacation cottage in Mexico Beach, Florida, which my parents sometimes used. One year, my sister Debby and her kids went with them, and my first husband, who may have been only a boyfriend at that time, and I decided to join them all. On the night in question, my parents grilled pork chops for dinner.

My love for pork chops is legendary, perhaps as much because of the way I eat them as that I, a girl who squeals over the adorability factor of baby pigs, will eat them at all. I’m sad to say that as long as I’m among family and close friends, I go after those things like a stray dog. A pork chop bone is CLEAN when I finish it. CSI: Green Acres wouldn’t be able to get a trace of tissue off those bones.

So we ate our grilled pork chops, then the rest of the family sat back to enjoy their post-dinner cigarettes. (These were the days before the government would break into your home and arrest you for smoking.) While they smoked, I twitched. My parents, in that way of parents, had convinced themselves that the Benson & Hedges Menthols had been a phase. In a way, they were right. My sister left the table and returned with my secret stash of Merit Menthols and set them in front of me. That Lucky Strike Chain-smoking Woman shook her head, while my father looked mournful, sighed his trademark sigh, and said, “I thought I’d have ONE child who didn’t smoke,” just before he inhaled his Vantage.

Later, Debby, the Boyfriend, and I went to the Miracle Strip in Panama City, and after a glass of wine and a ride on some screechy metal something that was an OSHA incident waiting to happen, I started feeling bad. REALLY bad. Lie down in the back seat of the car and beg my Creator to let me die bad.

It was the longest trip of my life, that ride back to Casa Tobacco. And it was made worse by Leon Russell moaning from the radio. I don’t know the song. But I remember that it went something like this:

My baby left me
My baby left me
I said my baby left me
Oh my baby left me
She went and left me
My baby left me
She was my baby
And you know she left me
I can’t believe
My baby left me
Yeah she left me
Oh she left me

At which point I was shrieking from the back seat, “Get over it, you whiny bastard, MOVE ON!”

And Leon replied:

So I got the blues
Yeah I got the blues
I said I got the blues
The blues, the blues, the blues
I got the baby left me blues
Because my baby left me
She left me
My baby left me
Oh she left me
Did you know my baby left me
Oh my baby left me…

It wasn’t the shame of being exposed as a closet smoker. It wasn’t the glass of wine or the Tilt A Whatever. Leon Fucking Russell made me throw up all night long, and I haven’t eaten grilled pork chops since. Lest any jig-dancing pigs or PETA members feel they have cause to rejoice, my ban does not extend to fried or baked pork chops.

Once and future design

This image in Mark G. Harris’s LJ from one of those thirty-seven Star Wars movies:

made me think of photos I snapped in New Orleans at this restaurant on St. Charles:

When we walked in, there was only one other patron, but others began to arrive after we were seated. The restaurant had a feeling of good will, including smiles bestowed on a young mother when she came in with a baby carriage filled with snoozing infant. The food was nothing spectacular or exotic, just a good meal with excellent service. I had catfish fillets with fries, and Lynne had red beans and rice, which she doused liberally with Louisiana Hot Sauce.

What I most loved was the interior of the restaurant, which is where that Star Wars image comes into play.

Excerpts and covers from novels (particularly those of James Lee Burke) that mention The Pearl were framed and hung throughout the restaurant, which is VERY cool to me.

And this wall near the entrance reminded me of Phillip Godbee sketching on the walls of his New York apartment before he left for Mississippi in Three Fortunes in One Cookie.

My heart is officially warmed

Saturday night, Tom and I went to a retirement party for our neighbor Jason. Jason has worked in the medical district for many years, and about 35 of his friends and coworkers showed up at the Churchill Room of the Black Lab to wish him well. We had a blast listening to people roast and toast him. His last day of work was made his day officially by a proclamation from Houston’s mayor for the many ways Jason has benefited our city over the years through the fine example he’s set as a citizen and through his volunteer work.

Jason is an avid reader–he plans to do a lot of that with his free time now–and he also wants to write a mystery (he said he’s started one, but it’s a bit racy, so he’ll let Tim read it but not me). He’s always been a big supporter of Timothy James Beck and of all the writing Tim and I have done, together or solo. Actually, I reminded him tonight of one of my favorite Jason moments. In December of 2006, I heard a knock on my front door. I opened it to see Jason, and he gave me the biggest hug and said, “Thank you!” When I asked why he was thanking me, he said, “I just finished reading A Coventry Christmas.” I understood. I wish I could hug every author whose work has felt like a gift to me over the years. (Well, not the deceased ones, of course.)

Tonight also reminded me of why I’m baffled when people place limitations on the right to marry. See, Jason and Jeff, his partner, have been together twenty-eight years. They are wonderful people who have enriched so many lives just by being who they are, as individuals and as a couple. Theirs is a relationship that I respect and admire and look to as proof that couples can forge a life together through good times and bad, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health. It is a marriage.


Thank you, Jeff and Jason, for being good neighbors and a lovely part of my life.