Off again

By the time some of you read this, I'll be in New Mexico. After landing in Santa Fe tomorrow morning, I'll drive three hours out of town to a remote ranch where cell reception is spotty and a major grocery store nowhere near. My companions will be two women, one of whom I've never met in person and could recognize much more easily by voice than appearance. No, I'm not joining a cult.

Rather my writing group has been planning a retreat, and tomorrow it begins. Yee-howdy!

You might recall that just after 2013 rolled in, I started taking an online food writing class. We met there, drawn together by the deceptively simple act of writing about food. I've talked about these women before: one is a Louisiana gal who runs her own business; another -the NM resident- is a landscape artist, journalist, photographer and food historian extraordinaire; and the third is a New Englander who's taught writing and cooking and is quite an artist. Though not all of my online acquaintances have turned out to be friends, these women really have, and I am so eager to spend time together out yonder.

At the very least, we'll surely eat well.

I have felt oddly anxious about leaving. My departure at such a busy time of year seems ill-timed in a way. The logistics of child care alone would make your head spin, though my chart of who goes where with whom and when does beg the question of whether a room full of mothers planning for a short, solo vacation could solve world peace if given ten minutes.

Part of me feels that I don't deserve the decadence of five days away. I mean, this is a "working retreat" but it's not a formal conference or a business trip. I'm spending money versus making it, if you know what I mean.

Part of me will always worry about all the possible needs I won't be able to meet by virtue of being away; hell, I'm even fretting about our sweet fish although T seems to have taken such a liking to them that he regularly changes their water with a hand-pump siphon! Do I fear that no one will tend my flock as well or like as I do? Or that any differential won't actually make a hill of beans difference (in which case, I should probably take a load off)? Perhaps I know that if something happened while I was away, I'd never forgive myself. Then again, I'd never forgive myself if anything happened on my watch either. Sometimes moms just can't win.

It's curious that it gets harder to leave instead of the opposite. I'd have thought that as the kids aged, I'd worry less. But the stakes feel higher in some ways: homework starts to matter; discipline and rules are more important in some ways but burgeoning independence means that following those rules isn't as sure a bet as it once was; are they eating well? sleeping enough?... We have such a routine going. It's not always pleasant but it works for us, and I know what's being covered and taken care of. That said, we've all got to learn this at some point. I want them to grow, take responsibility for themselves, have these times with Tom. And so leave I will and must, even if my heart feels a twinge of 'ugh.'

In any case, I am thrilled to have this opportunity and a family who supports me in taking it. I cannot wait to hang out, hike, cook and write with these women with whom I've talked every couple weeks since our class ended eighteen'ish months ago. We have shared myriad works of depth, honesty, private memory and hilarity, with a frequency I suspect is pretty rare. Life tends to get in the way unless you carve out dedicated time.

I'm also excited to briefly sate my wanderlust. The last time I was in the southwest, I was thirteen and on a family trip. I had just recovered from a serious case of encephalitis, but we climbed the Grand Canyon, went to Taos and did other southwesty things that now escape me. My clearest recollections involve my parents' primary obsessions (as they seemed to me then): sopapillas with honey at every opportunity (mom); red rock formations (I thought I'd die if I saw another one); and huevos rancheros (dad). Dad also bought a Navajo poncho that he insisted on wearing daily once we returned home. It looked vaguely odd atop his physician scrubs, and in southern Louisiana, he must have been hot as hell though he'd never have admitted it. Hilarious.

I suspect this trip will sear exceedingly different memories into my mind, once I can get over the hump of actually leaving.

Grilled cheese + tomato soup = always a winner

After snarfing breakfast (fried egg on toast) so as to get J to Tae Kwon Do on time and then snarfing lunch (avocado, peppery olive oil and chevre on olive bread) so as to get to the gym on time, I patently refused to do anything but enjoy dinner. For the boys I made grilled salmon, pasta aglio olio, broccoli and oranges, and later for us, tomato and white bean soup with olive croutons and two cheese-grilled cheeses with Iberico ham. You simply cannot go wrong with any of these items. Plus, in making the soup, I christened my new pumpkin cocotte. I am smitten with it. Completely so. And no, skeptical husbands out there, it is not difficult to clean.

The soup included a whole bunch of basil and a pinch of saffron, a fair amount of garlic and a Parmesan rind. Tomatoes, white beans, olive oil and some peperoncino rounded things out, and the garlicky olive bread croutons were a delightful topper.

Meanwhile, a grilled cheese sandwich is always made better by being served alongside a bowl of steaming tomato soup. This duo can be as basic as a white bread-American cheese griller with a cup of Campbell's or as fancy as a multi-cheeser on artisan bread dunked in a vessel of just-crafted tomato bisque. Tonight I slicked slices of seed-heavy harvest bread with good butter before sandwiching them around shavings of both extra sharp white cheddar and black pepper-Parmesan as well as a paper-thin slice of Iberico ham from the farmers market. These were off the hook.

And dessert was The Knick, one of the best episodes yet. If y'all are not watching this excellent, engrossing show, you must. I wait for it with baited breath-anticipation every week. Clive Owen is too hot to be real. Mon dieu. Meow!

Speaking of meow, look at my doll-baby laundry cat. Look at the rear paws- could you die?!

A perfect night, an unforgettable story

I have not had as much fun as I did last night in a long time, at least as long as my 38-year-old-after-3-glasses-of-wine brain recalls (I'm vague today; let's just say that.) But I am clear on how seriously I enjoyed my hours with Shawn last night. Stoli, you're the best. We met at Ghibellina, grabbed the last two seats at the window looking out onto 14th Street and basked in the crisp air of a gorgeous evening. Shawn and I both believe that restaurant designers who make their establishments' front facades able to open -via huge windows, garage-type doors, etc- are the best.

My friend, Ralph, co-owner of Ghib was shocked to see my out on a Thursday. I know, it's rare. I'm livin' large. I even splurged for a cab there and back (actually, because I hate 90% of DC's cabs with the fire of 1,000 suns, I took an Uber on the way down which was so pleasant and cheap, and then, because three glasses of wine, I got all confused about pinning my position and so took a cab home, and I wondered the entire way if the driver had just moved to DC five minutes before picking me up. He literally seemed to have no idea where we were or where we were going).

But I digress.

One of my favorite of Shawn's peccadilloes is that he can't eat and drink at the same time. I mean, he can, but he does not in any way enjoy doing so. His palate gets all confused, and it's just no good. So, he drinks his beer(s) (peccadillo 2: he only drinks beer) before taking even a bite. I, myself, do not want to do this nor do I feel it would ever be a smart decision for me unless I wished to immediately be drunk and unable to taste the food I ordered.

And I really wanted to taste it because I was starving and had chosen the olive & artichoke pizza that I love at Ghib. I started in as soon as mine arrived. Meanwhile, Shawn's Margherita just sat there staring up at him, surely thinking, "What the eff is wrong with that guy?" Indeed, both our waitress and Ralph came over at different points to subtly ask just what was the matter.

"I told y'all he cannot eat and drink at the same time," I said as Shawn ordered another beer. Translation: that pizza would have to keep on waiting.

The waitress looked slightly sad (because really, the pizza was getting cold) but was supportive in saying "I mean, I do eat our pizza cold all the time, but it's better hot."

"But just wait until I do finish my beers," said Shawn. "I will WOLF that pizza down like you have never seen."

That happened, and it was with unprecedented speed and efficiency. He could be a competitive eater.

Now, I'm going to tell you a story that I feel is the sad sister of my Cat That Once Was tale. Shawn gave me his permission, even though his emotions are still a bit raw. Head's up, a beloved dog dies. But, get that out of the way and steel yourself because, as with the aforementioned cat, elements of the story are hysterical.

Three years ago, Shawn decided to get a dog. He'd never had a pet but always wanted one. He mentioned this plan to a friend who then showed up with a dog approximately 20 minutes later. The pup, a Boxer-Boston terrier mix, was about 18 months old and had been rescued from an abusive home. Shawn took to him like white on rice (he sort of had to what with the immediacy of the delivery and all), and he and Macho were inseparable. Shawn even let Macho put his "dirty, NY paws" on his pillows. The magnitude of that cannot be overstated.

As Shawn came to find, Macho had a heart condition and also a manic love of the doorbell. He went positively apeshit when the doorbell rang, quivering with glee and suspense. Who would it be? A new friend? The anticipation was equal parts exciting and awful.

"Macho, calm down! You're gonna kill yourself one day."

Friends, I fear you know where this is going.

One day came. Shawn was flying home from LA and checked his messages when he landed. A 911 from the dog sitter: "Shawn, please call me ASAP."

Because they weren't phone friends, Shawn called immediately and with dread.

The doorbell had rung, Macho thrilled with delight and then, like those fainting goats, he froze, keeled over and was no more. Legs straight out, stiff as a board.

Obviously this story is heartbreaking and tragic, and Shawn is in serious mourning. But we did have to share a series of guffaws over the repeated warnings to Macho and his fortune of dying suddenly in the midst of sheer happiness.

I offered to give Percy to Shawn, but he turned me down.