Heading East, 4.15 to 4.27.06
(Salad Days...Or Not)
April 15, Topanga to Sedona:
“Widespread Dust”
101 to 5 to 10 to Loop 101 to 17 to 179
The
car is absolutely,
overwhelmingly, alarmingly full. I can’t believe the time is,
once again, here, and vow that next year we—or I—will spend the full
four months in California. Two and a half months is just not enough to
experience the experience. But I’ve also learned that our life as we
have designed it is and always will be a moveable feast. That, from the
taramasalata I wolfed down on
my final girls’ dinner at Taverna Tony’s last Thursday (the usual
scream-fest of smart, funny women
combined with white wine) to the strange things we’ll eat
driving cross-country, to the first pot of white beans I’ll cook in the
kitchen fireplace when we get home to New York, our feasts are more
dependant on our own presence than on our actual location. So, as I
survey the superb job C. has done in packing the Toyota, I am consumed
with love of this peripatetic man, and lifestyle. When Stella, the
black-and-white puppy from San Antonio, finally joins us at the end of
May, she will be instantly absorbed and become the kind of well-behaved
companion that all our friends will welcome with open arms as we move
seamlessly from coast to coast, border to border. Seriously.
We
head out very early on
Saturday, without even seeing our landlord Eric, because I am terribly
excited to finally show C. my Sedona, and want to arrive there in
plenty of time to enjoy the afternoon and magic hour. We breakfast in
Beaumont, at El Rancho Restaurant
and Celebrities Lounge, where signs on the rest rooms
have been just slightly altered to read “Stoners Only; No Exceptions.”
There is a brown cow on the roof of the restaurant and of course this
is what entices us in the door. The bar is open, at 9:30 in the
morning. We move easily across the Mojave desert, after waving goodbye
to the road to Palm Springs, home of many past and future long, dusky
evenings. Phoenix is experiencing an exceedingly bad urban planning
moment: Saturday of Easter weekend, and the powers that be have decided
to close Loop 101 at Camelback, thus forcing a nasty detour and waste
of potential sunny afternoon in the Red Rocks. However, in spite of the
delay we are turning down Verde Valley School Road by the very
reasonable and beautiful hour of 3:30pm.
First,
I show him the
chapel, with its huge picture window, in the position where, in other places of worship, one might
find a pulpit or a cross. Through that window, in all its
majestic and soaring glory, is the huge Cathedral rock, the rock that’s
graced a thousand magazine covers, books, and postcards but is in fact
the one and only higher power that shaped my transformation from a
selfish child to a slightly less selfish but vastly more aware college
girl back in the mid-seventies. Worthy of adoration, for me, as is this
whole red valley. It take’s C.’s breath away (since I never told him
the secret of the chapel).
“I
have never seen a more
wonderful place of worship,” he says.
We
wander the grounds of
this perpetually faltering,
bleeding-heart-liberal, alternative school and curse the market
forces that will cause the school to sell, in order to survive, land
right up next to the soccer field, for development into faux-southwest
cookie-cutter homes.
Dinner
is at the Cowboy
Club,
which for decades was known as Oak Creek Tavern. We sit at
the
bar. It is, perhaps, one of the most touristy weekends one might choose
to be in Sedona, and while mourning the loss of my scrubby town I have
to admit that a place like this can’t be kept a secret for long. At
least I had the honor of living here for two years before the mini-mall/tchatchki/vortex
invasion.
Photos:
El Rancho
Rest. and Celebrities Lounge; Reflecting at Verde Valley School, Sedona.
April
16 Easter Sunday, Sedona
to Albuquerque: Closed!
89a
to 40 to 25
We
drive out to Boynton
Canyon before leaving red-rock country. It’s one of the most stunning
of the many canyons, and now houses the reasonably attractive but
outrageously-priced Enchantment resort.
No chance, Lance. If I wanted a
time amongst the red rocks (oh and I do, I do) it wouldn’t be at $450 a
night for a bland, corporate-decorated cookie-cutter casita. So we hit
89a and wind up through the leafy, 
sparkling
glory of Oak Creek Canyon towards Flagstaff. Within a few miles the red
rocks are but a memory, and the rocky, tree-covered walls of the canyon
close in. It is, actually, Easter Sunday, and there are many
car-campers enjoying the sun as it filters through the trees and the
babbling creek.
Lunch, we are
thinking, should be in Winslow simply so that we can sing, at
the top of our lungs and with varying degrees of success, “Standing on
a corner in Winslow, Arizona, such a fine sight to see!” Unfortunately,
being Easter, absolutely every restaurant or place of business which
sells food is closed. Except for the Sonic drive-in, and we already
spend enough time in the car, we don’t have to eat in it.
At
the Flying J truck stop,
there is a Country Kitchen restaurant and buffet. By default this
becomes our festive Easter Sunday lunch destination. C. has oatmeal,
and I have salad from the salad bar with a few choice morsels of
sausage. Actually, in view of what came later on this Easter day, a
nice light meal.
After
four “Learn Italian” podcasts,
we’re
rolling into Albuquerque: The last time I was here, I sort of fell in
love with the town, and I’m eager to show C.—who’d really have
preferred to forge on to Santa Fe—why. We get off the 40 a little early
and head up Rio Grande, where he does indeed love the (fancier) houses
we pass and the general spread-out, oaky-scrubby/courtyard-ish charm.
Our room at La Quinta is singularly lacking in any charm, so we throw a
few bags in the door, check e-mail, and head out for a margarita in the old-town. But
first and for safety, we plan to scope our dinner-spot, the Roadfood-listed “El
Norteno.” It is cute, but closed. Every other
restaurant we pass on the long drive from El Norteno to old-town is
also closed. In the charming old plaza, there are no outdoor cafes.
This is a stunning, warm and soft New Mexican evening, and we’d love
nothing more than an icy margarita on a terrace, but it ain’t
happening. A restaurant I’d scouted and rejected on my last visit, is,
apparently, the only place serving food and they’ll be closing by 8pm.
So up 4th street we trundle, suddenly fearful we’ll be left high and
dry for dinner tonight. In fact Sadie’s
Cocinita--with its twelve acres of formica, lofty ceilings, and
soulless ambiance—is still serving. Luckily, although they want to seat
us in the cavernous freezing white space of the main room, we find a
real live patio
through whose
walls I can barely glimpse the beautiful evening that is taking place
outside. C. points out that, in a climate that is usually scorching,
luxury and comfort are represented by dark, almost windowless rooms.
The fry-bread is shaped like a
bunny and our waitress is wearing a set of pink fuzzy rabbit ears,
and seems not at all put out by our request for lime juice instead of
sour mix in the margies. When the sickly-green concoction appears it’s
instantly clear why she was so agreeable: she used ROSE’S lime juice.
Blecch. C. negotiates with the indoor bartender and secures two real
drinks, and we attack our pungent
and cheesy carne asada enchilada platters. Two of them. We could
have split one. I could have had a small quesadilla. I could go on but
I’m here to tell you that the dinner was a mistake we both regretted
all night long.
As
a result, tomorrow I
swear to begin my Salad Days,
since I was Green Of Judgement and, now, with regret.
Photos: Heading into
Boynton Canyon; With Easter bunny-shaped fry-bread in Albuquerque.
April
17: Albuquerque
to Colorado
Springs
I-25
The
wide road winds sinuously through
Santa Fe--where
it’s easy, even from the highway, to spy love-able homes amid the
green, scrubby arroyos--before setting out on an endless,
take-no-prisoners, flat straightaway up north to Colorado. It’s a long
drive through the pale, golden brown landscape, and though flat and
featureless the mountains to our left are definitely not unattractive.
Taos lies beyond them and we vow to go there on the next trip.
Fauna-wise, we see three buffalo and many small, delicate animals who
look much like gazelles to my untrained eye. But they are definitely
not gazelles; certainly not any kind of goat. It remains a mystery
until we reach Raton, just before the Colorado border and our chosen
lunch spot. It doesn’t take long to identify the Crystal Café as the top lunch-ortunity
in town: fake strands of garlic hang in the window and seventies-era
liquor signs are displayed prominently. Daytimes, it’s a diner; nights
see it morph into an Italian dinner spot. I am sworn, at least for now,
to pursue my Salad Days agenda. So, in fact I have become something of
a reluctant roadfoodie. I
like the idea of finding
characteristico, out-of-the way spots, I just don’t feel the need to
eat everything once I do. 
One
has only to recall the
Piggsickle in Arkansas. More recently, the carne asada enchiladas in
Albuquerque still weigh heavily
on my mind, among other places.
The
chef’s salad at the
Crystal Café is perfectly fine, though it sports thin shreds of
dark brown mystery-meat that I guess are meant to represent roast beef.
You
can’t miss with ranch
dressing.
The
couple in the booth
next door simply can’t resist asking where we’re from (I guess we look
out of place?). They ooh and aah at our long-distance driving ambitions
(or foolishness), and we get to learn that A: the delicate animals we
saw are antelope, running wild right by the highway, and, B. much of
the land we’ve just driven across—500,000
acres or so—belongs to Ted Turner. This nice local couple refer
to him as their “good neighbor.”
The
Acting Co. has booked
C. into the Sheraton in Colorado Springs, and it’s in a hinterland of
Denny’s and Burger Kings, plus has no free Wi-Fi. Gee, a more expensive
hotel that makes you pay for Wi-Fi, while the cheaper La Quinta offers
it free.
We
set out to find one of
two coffee shops noted on JiWire as offering such a service, and
although we don’t find either, we stop for a bottle of travel chard and
I solicit a restaurant recommendation from the owner of the liquor
store. Many wrong turns and way too many miles later, I’m ready to give
up and try to re-find the Sheraton.
But C., in his inimitably positive fashion, opines that “We are where we are meant to be.”
And
lo, there on the right,
on a deserted intersection kitty-corner to a self-storage facility and
a pawn
shop: it’s (the recommended) Carlos’
Bistro!
This
place ranks among the all-time,
best-ever impromptu and
undocumented finds. The owner Carlos is originally from Peru,
where his grandfather emigrated from Ireland in 1848 to start a small
fishing company. Fish is in
Carlos’ blood. After being a waiter for 32 years, he finally
opened his own restaurant 16 months ago and shows the kind of pride and
attention to detail that only a professional waiter could
understand—much less put into practice. Instead of offering too many
fish dishes, which might not be understood here in this land-locked
place, he features one super-fresh, special fish every night and adorns
the rest of the menu with escargot, Caesar, steaks, duck breasts, and
chops. Garnishes, sauces, and sides are sophisticated, not sophomoric.
Only one variety of locally-available oysters meets his standards, so
that’s all he offers: Chesapeake Bay. They’re in tip-top condition. In
a very slight break from my Salad Days vows, I start with escargot and
move on to a nice, cheesy Caesar
with the anchovies actually in
the dressing instead of draped over the top like roadkill (a Ceasar for sissies).
I already know Carlos favors Irish butter (we shared this mutual love
almost immediately) and I can taste its rich complexity in the pale but punchy snail butter.
After
his oysters, C. has a
crab cake fashioned almost entirely of blue lump crabmeat, whose like I
have not tasted even at The Palm.
Note
to self: A dirty
martini, six escargot, and an estimable Caesar: perhaps my ideal
long-driving-day dinner menu.
April
19: Colorado Springs to
Amarillo
I-25, Rt. 50 E, Rt 287 S, Rt 40 W.
C.’s flying to New York to
teach his class and will re-join me in Austin in three days, so I’m
back on the road
on my own. It feels fine.
After Pueblo, I’m on a
state road. A sign hand-painted on a grain silo reminds me to “watch
for speed limits ahead.” Every five minutes or so, I slow down to 45,
30, or even 25 mph to drive through a small town. The towns are poky
but populated, because there is some industry here, though very
little
natural beauty. The buildings are mostly brick, although there is interesting use of small river stones in
some of the nicer private homes. I’m not making very good time, and
realize that my goal of lunch in Boise City, OK will not work after
all. So I stop in Springfield, CO. At first it appears that the town is
closed, and I’m about to resign myself to a SlimJim, when I spy the
Bar 4 Corral on the outskirts of town. The lunchroom is
populated by locals and after I order a grilled cheese sandwich with extra
pickles, no chips
(there’s no
evidence of salad on the menu,
ok?), I'm dragged willy-nilly into a discourse about the new cop in
town, who has just busted a kid's party and hauled in what sounds like
75% of the teen-age population on M.I.P. charges. (“Minor in
possession,” if you didn’t know. I didn’t.) The three 60-something
lunchers who I’m chatting with are miffed because even kids who weren’t
in possession of—you guessed it: beer—were taken in, and now have a
record. A twenty-one-year old who just happened to be there too was
charged with supplying minors, a misdemeanor. This new cop’s not making any friends.
What’s the industry here?”
I ask. The mustachioed manager of the local Dollar Store fired back
“Hot Air!” which brought a big laugh from me, but actually he was
talking about all the windmills, more than I’ve seen since Palm
Springs. Now he and a lady at another table launch into a spirited
discourse about the current immigration issues. Even though they are
arguing, it appears to me that they both, really, want the same thing.
They went to college together years ago, they inform me, and I feel
sorry for their respective spouses because it’s clear this couple have more fun with one
another than anyone else in town.
Why does crossing into
Texas always feel so good? I
have great friends—some are really my family--from or in Texas, but
I’ve never lived here. All of them are exceedingly fine, funny people,
and always seem to know how to have a real good time. Maybe that’s it.
I roll out of the cell-free
boonies into Amarillo at 5:30, now on Central time. Dinner is at
Hoffbrau Steaks, because it’s the closest non-chain steakhouse and I
don’t feel like any more driving. Turns out I’m in a dry county, but it
doesn’t really matter because Texans have come up for a way for
everyone to drink, anywhere, anyway.
“Do you have a Unicard?”
asks the stunningly beautiful,
tall blond waitress. I don’t have a clue what that is, but all I
have to do is fill out my first and last name on a form, sign it, and
now I have one, and can have a glass of Ravenswood merlot.
I settle in. The setting
sun reflects golden on the cars passing on Rt 40, just outside the
window.
When I’m anywhere in the
south, I tend to speak with a southern accent. I think I do this to
make myself fit in, but people always seem to know I’m from out of town
anyway.
Now the beauty and I engage
in a verbal duel, at staccato pace:
“Whad’you want?”
“I’ll have the ‘Sal’s Rib Eye’.”
“How d’you want it?”
“Medium.”
“Side?”
“Steamed vegetables.”
“Soup or salad?”
“Salad.”
“Dressing?”
“House.”
She’d caught me as an
out-of-towner on the Unicard issue, but now I’d showed my tough side by
not faltering for a moment on the gauntlet of ordering. She bestows a
sparkling blond smile upon me. (Why is she working here instead of as a
Dallas Cowboys cheerleader? Or a model? Empirical thinking—of which I
am a great fan since researching a book I co-authored, the scholarly
tome “Cowboy Cocktails”--proves to me that some of the prettiest girls
live in Texas.)
I beam back.
The steak comes with the
house lemon butter, an
inspiration that contributes to my impression that this is one of The Truly Great Steaks of My Life,
on a par with the one at The
Cattlemen’s Club in OKC last January. Lucky, lucky me. The chef
at Hoffrau Steaks has figured out the crucial balance between richness
and acidity, about which I've expounded relentlessly in every cookbook
I’ve written. Restaurant chefs know this, many home chefs don’t. We can
only appreciate the delicious side of rich when it’s paired with a
“bright” flavor. This may come from citrus zest or juice, basil, or a
tiny touch of good vinegar. In many--but not all--cuisines, the bright
note may come from cilantro. Imagine guacamole without cilantro.
Mozzarella and good green olive oil without basil. Sure, edible. Just
don't invite me over.
I sleep the sleep of the
righteous.
Photo: Bar 4 Corral, Springfield CO
April
20: Amarillo to Abilene
I-40 to I-27 to Rt. 84 to I-20
If yesterday was about
cattle, then today was about grain (and rain). I saw many, many grain
elevators; some were as large as skyscrapers. I drive from the town of
Happy straight into the town of Swisher. Was there a large gay
population here in the early days? 
The weather channel was making
threatening noises this morning, so I am fortunate to have my
support troupe, Linda, in Houston on weather.com to keep an eye on
things. But, about an hour south of Amarillo, I can keep an eye on it
all by myself: The horizon is black. At
first we dodge each other, but eventually I have to go right through
the middle of the scary bit. The lightning
was so intense I couldn’t even start
counting to see how far away it was. Because it was right over my head.
Around Lubbock (and lunchtime, coincidentally) it let up for awhile,
and I started to look for an appropriate lunch spot. Lubbock came and
went with nothing of interest and things were looking decidedly grim.
Then I accidentally (because I was talking on the phone) ended up on
the business 84 loop and stumbled upon a little building signed “Kremke’s BBQ Joint.” Eureka! I’m
convinced this was the best food
option in the 400 miles I drove today, and I just happened to
hit it at 1pm. I opt for the German sausage plate, which features
just-dry-enough, succulent slices
of house-made-and-smoked wurst, plus a very nice poppy-seed
coleslaw. The beans are indifferent. I secure a quantity of their
famous jerkey, the “hot” variety of course, for support-troupe-Linda,
whom we’ll be seeing in Houston on Saturday.
Tonight,
I’m celebrating
another mini-book deal, revealed when I checked into La Quinta Abilene
and checked e-mail. Hey, two in a row? You put ‘em together and they’re
not so “mini” anymore. I was
going to have a Denny’s club san and watch a movie, but I think we can all agree that that’s no way to celebrate.
I decide, instead, to
employ the following ploy: out here in fly-over country, probably the
best veggies and salad are to be found at a steakhouse, right? So I’ll
go to the local version (Lytle Land & Cattle Co., according to my
research) and simply have sides
and a salad.
Trouble is, after I elbow
up to the (empty) bar and peruse the menu, I discover that the place is famous for its rib-eye steaks.
Uh-oh.
Luckily there’s a
diminutive version called “Sharon’s Rib-Eye.” I debate between this and
the steak salad (made with sirloin, certainly not my favorite cut) for
about 30 seconds before declaring (to myself): What the hell? I am, A.
now officially researching steak-house rib-eyes in Texas, and B.
celebrating!
I hear you asking, “What happened to the Salad Days?
Or is she once again Green of Judgment?” I’m answering: A. I get a
salad to start, and B., Yes.
Fox news is on in the bar,
but I’m sticking with my story that not all Texans are Republicans,
small-minded, and/or Bush supporters (sorry for the oxymoron). I like
it too much here. Having said that? Re Abilene: there is no here, here.
Note to self re empirical
thinking: both of the bartenders are blond and lovely. Also, this seems
not to be a dry county.
But here’s my steak!
I request a little melted
butter and half a lemon to recreate my Hoffbrau superlative of richness
accented by acidity. The fat, wide green beans look completely
crucified, but I taste one anyway. After all, on the road no holds are
barred.
Wow.
Instantly, I’m transported
back to Jackson, Mississippi in
the late seventies, to the home of my Main College Boyfriend,
Fred LaRue (Jr.) At the time I had, in fact, accused his mother of
consistently overcooking his veggies, thereby extracting all the
vitamins and causing him, as a result, to succumb to every cold that
came along. (Actually, it was their housekeeper who overcooked the veg,
his mom never cooked a bean in her life. His dad, however, had lately become quite handy,
having learned to make shoes and handbags during a stint in prison for paying off the
Watergate burglars.)
Oh my, how food attitudes
change.
Now,
I realize two things:
A., these overcooked, pork-centric vegetables are—as long as you don’t
eat them every day—the Cat’s Meow, totally pork-a-licious, and B., Fred
LaRue’s
constant sniffles were not caused by a cold. There was a more insidious
influence--ok, substance--at work. Those of you who lived the eighties
to its fullest will know to what I am referring.
Okay, I feel the need to
reflect on my two consecutive Texas steakhouse experiences (since I’ll
be writing them both off):
Hoffbrau
Steaks: Atmosphere 0, Dressing
10, STEAK 10, No
Fox News on TV +100, Wine:
Ravenswood merlot
Lytle
Land & Cattle: Atmosphere 6, Dressing
3, STEAK 5, Fox
News on TV -100, Wine: Columbia cab
The sky in Texas is unlike any other
sky, anywhere. For one thing, it’s very big. Today I saw about 59
versions. Most of them were scary and lowering. This morning’s was a
glorious display of perky cirrus, but it rapidly gave way to nimbus:
dark, rainy, and threatening. Then, for most of the day, a persistent,
dark stratus. But this evening after dinner, I was treated to a display of every
cloud formation known to mankind, all populating the sky at the
same time with no crowding. The showy cumulus were, of course, trying
to steal my attention from the very-respectable repertory of every
other defined cloud in history. I climbed the grassy knoll in front of
La Quinta and reveled in the
humming of the traffic
passing
on I-20, set against a spectacular backdrop of sky that changed
its personality every time I took a quarter-turn to the left.
All in all, a lucky, and
good, day.
Photos: Klemke's
menu, Slaton; Two bartenders at Lytle Land & Cattle, Abilene
April
21: Abilene to Austin
I-20 to Rt 84 S. to Rt 185 to Loop 1 to Bee Caves Rd.
From the no-here-here ambiance of Abilene
I move gently south and east; within minutes I’m deposited onto a lush
and green, pecan lined avenue that winds past horses, cattle, various
kinds of goats, sheep, llamas, and even zebras. The landscape resembles
Virginia’s horse–country in its richness, both of the flora and of the
residents, but it’s far more natural; it’s an unruly richness that
speaks of owners who don’t mind getting their hands dirty (as opposed
to Virginia, where I often get
the feeling that slaves are still doing all the dirty-work,
except that now they’re being paid). I drive past so many sexy goats—I mean, what else can
you call them? They are sleek, healthy, muscular, and have splendid
coats—that I realize sometime soon I’ll have to immortalize one on
film. But every time I spot a
photo-opportunity,
it’s instantly passed me by and I’m too lazy to pull over and back up.
So I go on high goat-photo-op alert, scanning alertly ahead to the left
and
right. The next thing I know a masterful
and imposing goat is standing with his/her front hoofs right on
the edge of the roadside. I see this incredible silhouette quite a
distance away, and am able to pull to a stop in plenty of time.
The goat does not move.
Just stands erect, like a show dog at Westminster, peering intently
across the four lanes of Rt. 84 at nothing I can see. I exit the car
gently—I’m about 50
feet away. Now I see that, although this goat is sporting manly,
curling horns, she’s also carrying very full and swollen udders. There
isn’t a lot of traffic, but I’m afraid this tense posture means she’s just about to bolt, so I
walk slowly into the road, almost in front of her, and spread my arms
wide in a sort of futile, uneducated attempt at herding. A car passes
by in the far lane going north and lets out a long, low, and, I
imagine, contemptuous hoot. I
inch forward. She bolts, first to the side, then backwards, and
finally ambles at a sedate pace directly towards the center line of the
highway. I have failed. I
anticipate the worst. Then a truck pulls out of a dirt road a few
hundred feet away. I imagine this is the
rancher. He pulls up opposite, hops out and releases a little black-and-white hurricane of
energy otherwise known as a dog. They make quick, but not
instantaneous work of getting Madame goat back onto her side of the
road; several cars and small trucks see what’s happening from afar and
slow to a stop until the dog seems to have gained control.
“Thank ye, Thank ye a real lot,” the
goat-keeper shouts earnestly over his shoulder to me, not yet quite in
adequate control of the goat to amble over for a chat. I’m not sure I
did anything to help, but my chest swells anyway; hey, I got a decent,
if slightly out-of-focus, picture of my goat. I resume my southern
drive and immediately call C., who is having lunch in New York city
(what a disconnect…wait, I thought we were doing this drive together!)
and shout over the line” I saved
a goat!!!!”
“You saved a goat?”
“I saved a goat!”
“Today was a good day to
save a goat.” He always knows the
right thing to say.
“OK, bye!”
I
lunch at the Wagon Wheel Café, an all-you can eat catfish buffet in
Lometa ($6.99), just north of Lampasas. Although the street out front
is completely Last Picture Show, the catfish is a mistake. I feel my
Salad Days coming back. Why, oh why did I ever let them go?
I roll into Austin at about
4:30 and head over to the home of my high-school buddy Pat (who is
responsible for the superb chicken-head photo, above right). She’s
recently relocated back to her home town after 20 high-powered years at
an ad agency in New York City.
“Do you ever regret moo...?” I
begin to ask
her, but before I can even finish the query she has fired back “Nope!”
She leads me on a
whistle-stop tour of some of Austin’s
greatest spots, from the ancient Dry Creek Tavern, a (total dive)
bar
overlooking the river, to Shady
Grove, an outdoor bar and restaurant; then the freshwater, Deep
Eddy swimming pool, to the pretty Bartram Springs, then to see the
famous bats
streaming out from under the bridge at dusk, and finally to Matt's El Rancho, where I
consume most of a large bowl of thin and pale but
delicious Chile-con-queso. (I can’t hurt Pat’s feelings by ordering
salad at this legendary Austin Mexican joint. Even if they had a salad). Whew!
At 10:30pm, we pick C. up
from the Austin airport and the
“together” part of our journey officially resumes.
Photos: My Goat;
Lometa, Texas (home of the Wagon Wheel Cafe all-you-can eat catfish
buffet).
April
22: Austin to San
Antonio to Houston
Rt 71 to I-35 to Co Rt 1604 to Rt 87N to
Together again, we head
south and slightly west for an appointment
with our destiny,
also known as Stella. Athough she’s only three weeks old now, and not
ready to leave her mama, in five weeks she’ll be winging her way to
upstate New York to begin 
her life with us. While we’re in the
neighborhood we simply must meet her, and of course her parents
(actually, if it weren’t for Stella, we could have headed due East from
Colorado Springs and saved about
1200 miles).
The breeder’s house turns
out to be quite a ways east of San Antonio, so we’re late. On the way
in we spy a rambling, tumble-down shack with a thin curl of really great-smelling smoke
wafting upwards from the rear. Emblazoned across the side of the
building: Home of Da Smoke. We file this away for future reference.
Two hours later, covered
with puppy and mommy kisses,
we finally break away. We’ve met Lucifer and Eros and Iris and Isis
and, of course, the inimitable Miss Stella, who is small enough to fit
on C.’s palm. At first she is squealy and outraged at this rude
separation, but soon she bonds, first with my little finger and then
with the dark and warm inside of C.'s jacket (I love it there, too). Five
weeks is such a long time!
There is a beautiful
10-month old brindle girl named Karma
who is docile and smart and wiggly, and I long to make her
Stella’s pal. But this peripatetic life of ours doesn’t really lend
itself to two dogs. We’ve sworn to be a one-dog couple, and there it is.
Stephanie, the breeder,
confirms our suspicions about “Home
of Da Smoke,” and says “Tell Norman I sent you and that you’re
buying a puppy from me. He’ll take good care of you.” What an
understatement.
There
are just five
blue-and-white-check-covered tables in the simple little room but the
walls are covered with memorabilia of the old West: rusty farm tools, line drawings of black
cowboys, barbed wire, old license plates, the discarded detritus of old Texas life.
There is also a huge flat-screen television taking up one
entire corner, but it doesn’t bother me because it is just rolling the
opening credits on one of the great,
late John Wayne films: The Shootist. On one side of the room is
a small window; behind it a cheerful black woman of a certain age grins
out at us, like a framed photograph of a beloved aunt. There’s a
blackboard to her right that simply and efficiently communicates the
information crucial to the situation: ribs, pork loin, brisket,
sausage, chicken.
There’s no question about
what I’m going to have. I can
smell the brisket calling to me through all the other clamoring
aromas. C. is, at first, all for the sausage, then spies the pork loin
and is stymied by the inherent possibilities.
“You have pork loin?” he
asks.
“Shore
do. Whyncha have both?” asks our new favorite auntie
genially. So he does.
He grabs an ice cold Diet
Dr Pepper out of the slide-top cooler and we sit down to
wait for our smoky, saucy plates. They arrive, and we are silent at
first, then begin uttering small
noises of an appreciative nature. These give way to oohing and
ahhing, and then, once again, to silence, interrupted only by chewing.
These precious moments are not to
be wasted on talk.
This brisket is so tender
you can cut it with the provided plastic fork; it is imbued with smoke,
as tender as baby food and just as comforting. Halfway through my plate
I discover, hiding shyly
underneath several slices like a bashful schoolgirl, possibly
the most delicious morsel I’ve ever put into my mouth: a jagged,
crispy,
blackened bit of the end of the brisket. It’s caramelized with Norman’s
sweet sauce and yields to my teeth, at first hesitantly, like a girl
who says no but means yes.
“Yes,” I say, “And again,
yes.” It’s so easy to please me, really.
Eventually I ask for the
bathroom and
am directed down a short hallway past Norman’s kitchen (more about this
later) through a glass door into what appears to be an old-time juke
joint, sporting a pool table, a bar, and a trestle table where several
older men are working their way through plates of Norman’s finest. It’s
dim and smoky and the carpet’s definitely seen better days, but both
of the rest rooms are scrupulously clean and tidy and feature festive styrofoam bowls filled with
dried rose
petals.
On my way back from the
facilities I poke my head in and ask Norman if I can check out his
indoor pit (there’s a massive one outside, too). He’s proud of his
meats, and lifts the lid so I can peer into the smoky, black interior.
Boy, those half chickens look good. C. and I have already discussed the
fact that, if we didn’t need to get to Houston, we could hang out in the back lounge, and eat
and
drink all afternoon long.
“Did you learn from
anyone?” I ask Norman.
“My
dad,” he says proudly. To the right of the pit and slightly
lower, big hunks of wood are flaming brightly, smoldering darkly, and
assuming every state of fiery-ness in between.
C. is a big wood man, and
asks Norman what he’s burning.
“Oak, but you got to make
sure all the bark is off before you burn it, ‘cause if you smoke with
the bark on, then when you eat it and burp, you can taste the
bark.”
This statement is accompanied by a knowing shake of his head
indicating that it’s not a good
thing
to taste bark in your burp.
Photos: Stella; Home
of Da Smoke; A Smoky, Saucy Plate; Life is Good at Home of Da Smoke.
April
22, Dinner in Houston
It takes only about 3 hours
to make the drive from San
Antonio to Houston, where our friend Linda has rented a
fantastic, rustic little house in The Heights, a neighborhood that reminds us viscerally and in a very
good way of Venice Beach. The renovations of bungalow houses,
the judicious sprinkling of modern architectural touches, the use of
landscaping to create outdoor rooms are so familiar to us. All
contribute to the
feeling of a neighborhood slowly undergoing a shift,
but all the time retaining its energetic, melting-pot diversity. For
years, Linda has been flying chile
con queso from the famous old Felix restaurant to New York for
Christmas
Eve. (Once she flew in a great deal of it for her partner’s 50th
birthday party, where it was only
partially overshadowed by her other import for the evening, the band
Asleep at The Wheel). Linda is very excited to finally share
Felix with us in person, and for us to taste that thick, yellow chile
con queso without its having been frozen first. I am still working on
digesting my life-altering brisket, but when have I ever been not game
for anything involving cheese?
Tomorrow, I can fast (yeah, right).
Felix occupies a huge
corner building, where Linda has been coming regularly since she was five years old.
She and the waitress have a sort of special, abbreviated language all
their own, but she explains things carefully to us, so we won’t make
any mistakes. This is old-time
Tex-Mex food—for instance, the tender enchiladas are slathered
with chile rather than a tomato-based sauce, and the guacamole is
simple, honest, unadorned. Although Felix is justly famous with a blue-haired demographic of old
Houston residents, Linda worries that they aren’t finding a way to
appeal to a younger crowd.
On the way out, she places a take-out order for the following
Wednesday, when she's having 20+ people over for dinner: “I’ll have 3
quarts of con queso and 2 quarts of guacamole and a LOT of chips.” The
staff waves goodbye, but of course, since they know Linda, it’s really
only “See you soon.”
We’re off to talk and talk
and talk some more, out on the fountain-graced patio of Linda’s pad,
knowing that finally, we have made our Haj--and found the Mecca of Tex-Mex to be tasty
indeed.
Note: On the drive in to Linda's, we pass an enticing dive-y
indoor-outdoor bar called
Jimmie's (no time, today), with a marquee-style sign out front whose
letters spell out the following message: "The woman of your dreams in is a bar
somewhere."
Photo: C. and L. at
Felix.
April
23: Houston to
Vicksburg, Mississippi
Rt 59 to Rt 79 to I-20 to Washington Street North
We get a late start from
Linda’s because, of course, we have to talk some more, have tea, take
pictures, and play with Daisy the
Greek dog. (She can’t wait to meet Stella, she says.)
Bye-bye, we wave…A
bientôt, and then we set off. We’re on state roads up to the
Louisiana border at Shreveport, and see many, many taxidermists, about
a gazillion armadillos who have
been unfortunately detained, plus, right around lunchtime, no
open restaurants. Sundays in a powerfully-religious place are not good
days for lunch. Note to self (remember last Sunday in Albuquerque?).
Today we listen to Lyle
Lovett and NPR’s Story of the Day on podcast (plus, of course, our
three daily installments of LearnItalianPod).
Here in far Eastern Texas
the landscape is lush and green, about as different from West Texas as
you can get. I’m surprised they never became separate states, but part
of Texas’ legendary power is
in its size. Speaking of size, I have now been in Texas for four solid
days. Prior to that I was in Oklahoma for only 40 miles—I never even
got out—and later today we will drive right across the top of Louisiana
in about three hours. This explains a great deal about Texans (but
don’t imagine for a moment it
could ever make me forgive George Bush's stubborness).
This morning while C. and
Linda were hobnobbing by the fountain, I went to Google and entered
“view, river, patio, Vicksburg.” This has resulted in a slight
divergence from the La Quinta concept, because while looking for a
simpatico place for a sundowner in Vicksburg, I’ve found a fabulous-sounding bed and breakfast
called Cedar Grove. When we arrive in Vicksburg and turn down
the hill toward the river we’re transported to a faded antebellum time of
porticoed porches, gently-sloping manicured lawns, magnolia trees, and
crumbling, lacy gazebos. On this one corner there are three imposing southern mansions which
have been converted into bed-and-breakfasts: Cedar Grove, The Corners,
and Belle of the Bends. They are all lovely but Cedar Grove is by far
the most grand. The building itself is crumbling around the edges—and
about to undergo substantial renovations--but curtains and upholstery
are new, rich, and colorful. We’ve walked through museums that showcase
this culture and time, but here you actually get to sleep among the art and antiques
that were bought at the time and have been used for a hundred years
(including the bed). On the phone, I had asked for the Poolside room or
the Garden room, based on my quick perusal of the website. The lady had
said, candidly “Are you asking about those rooms because of the price?”
“Yes,” I
replied. Why mince
words?
“I can give you The Sherman Suite in the main house for
the same price.” 
“Um, OK, well yes, please.”
When we pull into the
circular gravel driveway of Cedar Grove, it’s early on a hot, damp
afternoon dappled with the
honey-gold sunlight that filters lazily through the cedars and
live oaks. A mottled blue swimming pool is set in a pretty brick courtyard with four
lion fountains occupying each of its corners, spouting away. It looks
awfully inviting. After checking out the sumptuous but quaint Sherman Suite, with its
tall windows that face the front garden beyond a wide, second-floor
balcony, I’m straight into the cool water, happily alone in the Italianesque courtyard. The
water is cool enough that I take my time getting completely submerged,
wading back and forth in the shallow end, then edging a bit deeper, and
even treading water before doing a little limited paddling. About ten
minutes into my splash, I see a lovely sight: C. walks through the iron gate carrying
two glasses and a silver ice bucket, beaded with moisture, which
contains a bottle of the house chardonnay. I settle into a
pillow-topped wrought iron chair with my computer and a cold glass of
wine; C. settles in next to me with a recent New Yorker. Within minutes
it has slipped from his grasp and he snoozes peacefully in the still
afternoon.
One of those perfect
moments that I am quite content
to spend the rest of my life seeking out.
Dinner is at Andrés,
in a charming garden room
constructed long ago from brick and green trellis, then more recently
closed to the elements with plate glass and wrought iron screens; it’s
right there in the manor house and there is an atmosphere of somewhat
fawning service—dare I say
servility—that is unfamiliar to us non-Southerners. I understand
that it is, perhaps, traditional, but it makes me a little uncomfortable.
The food is a little spotty
but the local dishes on the menu have moments of greatness: my dry-rub
St. Louis-style ribs are almost as good as the Memphis ribs last
January; C.’s shrimp and crawfish etoufée is chunkily seafood-centric and
has been constructed with a professionally-executed
roux. However the salad dressing is almost inedibly mustardy and I suspect
some of the more ambitious dishes on the menu, besides their ambitious
cost, should be avoided.
One caveat about this
lovely place, where I would indeed stop again, and perhaps next time for longer:
the bed was as hard as a door; we both woke up sore and loathe to spend
six hours immobilized in a car seat. But perhaps the “extensive
renovations” at Cedar Grove will include soft new beds.
April
24: Vicksburg to Gadsden,
Alabama
I-20 to I-59
Mississippi is a lush land
that reminds me more of our drive up the Natchez Trace last May than it
does of my summer here in college—after all, an exceedingly long time
ago. We are into our stride again now, with me driving in the mornings,
a stop for the all-important
lunch search (never, ever at a chain), and then C. taking over
for the afternoon shift. Listening is always according to the drivers’
taste: when I drive, it could be anything from Herb Alpert to Joan
Armatrading to the soundtrack from Stealing Beauty, since I can’t think
of any Deep-South-related music.
It’s very, very hot here,
but due to the outrageous gas
prices we have to keep air-conditioning to a minimum, turning it
on only for a minute or two when absolutely necessary. Already my
original gas budget has been surpassed and the end result will be
something like 175% of the
original estimate.
Just after lunch, C.
receives a phone call that leads him to require, immediately, a copy of
“Macbeth.” I’m settling in
for my afternoon ride and idly wishing him well, when suddenly he swerves onto an off-ramp.
“What are you doing?” I ask—ok, shout.
“Getting a copy of the
play.” He sounds like a
reasonable person.
“We’re in the middle of
nowheresville, in Alabama,” I
protest, just as he pulls into the parking lot of a hangar-sized
building labeled “Books-a-Million.”
He’d spied two things I
hadn’t about this particular exit off of I-59: here were both the U. of
Alabama, and a Mall. Five minutes later he returns with a copy of the Scottish play.
Only C. could pull this off. I am chastened.
We’d chosen Gadsden as our
night’s repose based more on the mileage than any knowledge of the
area, but we see on the map that it is wreathed with large lakes, and of course, in
our way, begin dreaming of a lakeside sundowner and a little fried
perch. (Illogically, we are channeling
Lake Maggiore. Hopeless.)
We’re at the Hampton Inn
in Gadsden by 5 and the sun is still high, so we check in and then
drive up the west side of Weiss Lake to find our place in the sun. With
some innate sense of practicality, I have iced down the 2/3-full travel
chard and brought it, plus two plastic cups, with us. At first we drive
through an odd area that is at once middle-class and depressed. About
ten miles out of Gadsden we begin to see the lake on our right: it’s a
big one. After a mile or so, a little hand-lettered sign advises us
that Pine Cone Marina is
on the right. That sounds promising, so we head down the little road
and find a campground marina populated by semi-permanent mobile homes
in a scrupulously clean, pine-tree
dotted compound. A ramshackle shop sells only cold soda and
minnows. It’s very still;
there are only a few people in evidence but some of the trailers sport
front decks decorated with potted plants, and wires connect a few
satellite dishes mounted on various pine trees with the trailers. The
lake is big, glass-calm, and dotted only sparsely with houses, most of
them of the occasionally-mobile variety.
Everywhere there is green. I could write a book here.
A large sign proclaims “Absolutely no alcoholic beverages.”
We grab the ice bucket and head for the water. Installed at a picnic
table only a few feet from the sandy shore, we pour some wine, and begin
reading aloud Seymour Hirsh’s New Yorker article about Iran. I wade in
the cool water as C. reads, trying to overcome the disconnect between
this simple, beautiful place and the fire in the Middle East onto which
this idiotic administration insists on pouring other peoples’ oil.
A few women drift out of a
trailer, prop a ladder against a pine tree, and begin attempting to adjust their satellite dish.
They don’t seem to mind us. Ten minutes later, a t-shirted, gray-haired
gent comes out of the store and proclaims loudly “Anybody see who drove
this here vee-hickle in here?” (pointing to our laden, NY state-plated
carriage). C. raises his hand bravely, but it’s pretty clear we’re the
only strangers here. He ambles over, just wanting to “be sure ah know
who’s who, ya know.” I see his
eyes widen when he spots the wine, in its plastic Hampton Inn
ice bucket, and pretty quickly he allows that A. this is a dry county, and there’s none of
that stuff allowed here, and B. we’ll have to pony up $5 for parking.
When we admit, sadly but truly, to being cash-free, he tells us to forget
the $5 and go on ahead with whatever we’re doing. Then he settles in
for a chat.
JR Vance is craggy and crew-cutted; a chatty
church-goer and not a mincer of words. It seems he was in the military
for 24 years and retired as a Sergeant-Major after mustering out and
then re-enlisting several times. He “just couldn’t take it out in the
world,” he said. Now, he runs—but doesn’t own—this little minnow store
and manages the campground full time. He’d cooked for a general’s wife in Vietnam,
and often for General Westmorland himself, so we exchanged a few food
and cooking stories. One of his was about when his general had
“blackened his wife’s eye” for daring to persistently question JR about
the presence—or not--of baking powder in a fluffy omelet (which she’d
asked JR to cook exactly according to the recipe she herself had
provided). I tell him about The
Palm way with steaks: a three-step process of
searing-resting-finishing that most enthusiastic cooks at first find
counter-intuitive. Until they try it. He nods sagely, which tells me
good things about his cooking ability. While stationed in Alaska, he
had won an award for top cook and been sent to a fancy cooking school
in Canada. There, he said, all the
non-military cooks were “slobs,” so he quit after three days.
An hour after JR joins us,
the sun is getting ready to kiss the tops of the trees goodbye and the
lone fishing boat is puttering toward the dock. We reluctantly beg our
leave; it’s time to go find some
fresh lake perch nestled in a sizzling, butter-and-sage-filled pan.
Instead, we settle for a
couple of anchovy-less Caesar
salads at Logan’s Roadhouse in Gadsden.
We are, JR had said “not
like any other New York kinda
people he’s ever met.” Damned right.
April
25: Gadsden to Radford,
Virginia
I-59 to I-24 to I-75 to I-40 to I-81 N
Hmmmm. The Hampton Inn’s
linens are waaay nicer than those at La Quinta. Despite my “Returns”
program, I may have to reconsider the hotel-of-choice for future
drives. In noodling over the true meaning of our bi-coastal lifestyle,
it has come to me that we will spend almost a month out of every year
driving.
And sheets are very
important.
As I’m trying to figure out
where to stop tonight based on the desired mileage, I note that we
actually have enough of those Returns points for a free night in
Radford, Virginia. Okay, yessss! One more night at La Quinta and then
we’re for Hampton Inn! Bad sheets and messy towels I can take for one
more night, especially if they’re
free.
Approximately halfway on
today’s drive is Athens,
Tennessee. It seems linear and correct to stop there for lunch.
Though Athens is a college
town, after we drive past the highway-side chain offerings and into the
“Historic Center,” there are no restaurants immediately evident. The
only thing we do spy is The
Beanery Coffee Café. But wait; is it a lunch place or a
coffee place?
We park and stroll toward
the brick building lined little main street (there is a shop called
“Greeks Bearing Gifts,” because someone evidently couldn’t resist the
Athens pun). Crossing our bow is a slim and pretty young girl hauling
an empty trashcan of the type commonly used in foodservice
establishments, so C. queries her on the lunch-ortunities in Athens.
“Well, there’s Maddie
May’s,” she drawls, “they do lunch stuff only, and then there's my
place, The Beanery. We do lunch and coffee.” This girl is cute as a terrier and already
sounds just as pugnacious. She’s got a feisty southern style that’s so far from the antebellum belle
it’s like strong black coffee vs. sweetened chocolate milk.
We poke our heads into
Maddie-May’s and instantly reject the modern soulless formica ambiance.
There’s new formica and then
there’s old formica, okay?
One is bad and one is good. Don’t
try to parse this out unless it makes instant sense to you.
The Beanery, although very
strong on coffee, it is certainly not just a coffee shop. For one
thing, it’s in a beautiful
high-ceilinged room that was once a bank (the kitchen is inside
the old vault, which still retains its door, now propped open). The
menu of wraps and panini is long and almost too full of options. The
pretty young woman proprietor, for whom our pugnacious friend from
outside works, lists a jillion options for the ham panini I’m set my
heart on: 
“Lettuce, tomato, onions,
black olives, green peppers?”
“Ranch, Italian, thousand
island, blue cheese?”
“Muenster, cheddar,
pepper-jack, mozzarella?”
To the first two queries I
have answers, but to the cheese query, my cheesy instinct leads me to
simply reply, "Yes.” I
start with a cup of punchy Florentine tomato soup. Hold on a sec, where
are we again?
The owner-proprietor of
this forward-thinking café is Audra Doughty, and the decision to
quit her job writing and selling classified ads for the local paper has
resulted in a precious gift for
the people of Athens. All day, every day, they flock in and out
of this pretty room. The mom of two just woke up one day and didn’t
like her view of the future, so she told her husband (and two small
children) “I’m going to quit my
job and we’re going to mortgage everything we own to start a
café.”
It seems there are two, not
one, pugnacious women in the room,
but Audra, being a tad older, has discovered her grace, style, and a powerful imperative to be different.
Thank goodness. Just sixteen months ago, the doors of The Beanery
opened and she hasn’t looked back since.
Books generously line
shelves on one side of the corniced terra cotta-and-white room; there
is free Wi-Fi, and live music several nights a week. Apparently, Audra
was moved—it sounds like forcibly—by her parents from Riverside, California at the age
of sixteen. And didn’t like what she found here one bit: kids
getting together in parking lots to chat. In their cars. I imagine the
seeds of this cafe began to sprout way back then, when a young girl
found herself in a situation that could benefit from some new ideas. I
wouldn’t be surprised if, when I drive through Athens, Tennessee next
year (and I will, to see Audra and for one of her ham paninis), she’ll own the whole block.
Heading ever north and
eastward out of Athens, we’re listening to “1776,” by David McCullough,
when, out of the corner of my eye I catch just a quick glimpse of an
enticing sign: Lodge Cast Iron
Outlet. But too quickly the sign has whizzed past and I have no
concrete information. 411 connects me with Lodge in Knoxville, TN, and
they are kind enough to give me the exit number, so ten minutes later
we are rolling up to—wait for it—a discount cast iron store!
Being that I have been
i.s.o. a footed Dutch oven to use
inside the fireplace for 8 months, this is a fortuitous
development indeed. If the car were not already packed to the gunnels
and riding alarmingly low on the wheels, a more substantial investment
would have been made. But hey, there’s always next winter’s drive…and
next spring’s….(route 40 through Tennessee will, probably, always be a
part of the odyssey).
Richer by a Dutch oven
(with three feet), ridged griddle pan, and a stunning green oval
gratin, we forge on to Radford’s (free) La Quinta. The towels are
sloppily folded, the sheets don’t fit right, and we’ve been placed just
across from the ice machine (for whatever bizarre reason, this noisily provides ice to customers at
3:30am and then without cease starting from 6:30). ‘Nuff said.
Dinner in Radford? It’s a
college town, again, so we’re hoping for some choices. The 12-year-old
desk clerk directs us into the center of town, to Macado’s, which is
filled with more 12-year-olds who
are swilling swimming pool-sized tankards of dark beer. We’re
scanning the massive, burger-centric menu and waiting for the bartender
to figure out what kind of glasses to use for "two dirty martinis on
the rocks, please," when, before we can protest, a waitress swoops down
on us and clips indestructible blue bands to our right wrists. It seems
tonight is Karaoke night,
and we’ve just squeaked in before the cover charge begins.
Oh goody. Sorry, is my age
showing?
Five minutes later we’re seated
at something called Spinnaker’s, in the Best Western across from La
Quinta. It is a bit soulless (new formica, you know), but at least
offers chunky salads and a nice bottle of chardonnay.
My gut is warning me: we’re
fast approaching the rust belt and the civilized options are shrinking.
April
27: The Final Day: Wilkes Barre, PA to
Hudson Valley, NY
I-81 to I-84 to I-87
The last day of this year’s Eastern odyssey is a
short one: only 200 miles. This way, we’ll roll in nice and early, see
whether the builder has finished
his outstanding winter projects, and inspect the progress of the new
lawn, seeded back in October. And, of course, cook something in a real kitchen for the first time
since mid-January. These northeastern gas prices knock our socks off,
but taking I-81 means we’ve avoided any rust-belt metropolitan areas.
Pretty quickly we’re rolling into New York state, and I get a little teary-eyed.
Although Tennessee and
Virginia were already lush, here the leaves are just beginning to show
hopefully on the trees; the gentle mounds of the Catskills are soothing on the
horizon.
Although my heart will
belong, forever, to the West, upstate New York offers an unspoiled
landscape of green and water; livestock, apples, and vines, a simpler
place where the neighbors are far enough away that you don’t hear them sneezing in the
summertime. (Sometimes, they even bring you, impromptu, an
entire, bloody rib of
really, really fresh venison, which you can turn into a killer pot of
chile in the fireplace.)
Gardens here may be only
seasonal, but they are almost alarmingly
exuberant: when things start to bloom, you’ve gotta get out of
the way. I’ll have to channel the gardening skills I learned back in
England, after thirteen years of year-round herbs and geraniums in
Southern California.
The
history-laden river
that I can
see from our front window continues to carry commerce back and forth
just as it did during the American Revolution (which James McCullough
is currently telling us about). The odd pleasure boat sculls or motors
past, but you never feel like jet-skis
have taken over the world. To sip a glass of something cool at
the Stewart House’s elegant
pergola bar in Athens, so close to the river you can get your
feet wet, is a simple pleasue. In Los Angeles, such a pleasure would
involve idling in traffic, $15 valet parking, and sharing space with shrill, taut women, or perhaps
the medallion-wearing crowd. Here, it’s a five-minute walk. And if
we’re too lazy to walk, there is plenty of (free) parking.
And here we are. After thirteen days in the car, driving through California,
Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado, Oklahoma, Texas, Mississippi, Alabama,
Tennessee, Virginia, West Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, and New
York.
The heavy car ambles carefully up the
rain-rutted driveway, and I can see that there is a haze of green on
the brown dirt. Not a lawn
exactly, yet, but a beginning. The new little peach tree—a gift
from great good friends--is blooming. The wisteria, another gift from a
good friend that, last fall, got off to a shaky start, is showing its
first buds. Soon it will festoon the ruined building it's planted in
front of. There is the heavy antique bench that Linda and her posse
gave C. for his big birthday last year. On it, a patina’ed plaque
offers: “The man who views the
world at fifty the same way he did at twenty has wasted thirty years of
his life.”
In Los Angeles, some wags
(such as C.) always say, you have a cup of coffee and a bagel, you turn
around, and all of a sudden you’re fifty! What the Hell happened?
Here, I sense, we will
notice the precious passage of time because nature doesn’t give us any choice.
With mirth and laughter old wrinkles will, indeed, come. We may as well
embrace them.
Soon enough it will be time
to go back to that other--perhaps more stimulating, but far more
crowded--place. It’s kind of forced perspective that I like very much.
A balance that leaves no room for
complacency or inattention.
Inside the house, every
project on the final punch-list is done. I feel like hugging the
builder. Now, we can make a life.
For now, the West
can wait. The screened-in porch is finished, the sun is warm and
golden
on the partially-dressed trees across the meadow, and I’ve got garlic
to fry, fish to roast, and a glass of Tempranillo rosé with my
name on it.
Photo: Waiting for the truffle
oil to thaw.