It rarely hurts to ask

Y'all may have heard me opine that it never hurts to ask. I mean it, the older I get the more I believe that little can be lost (and actually, much can be gained) by simply asking, politely and earnestly, that about which you wonder. Also, gratitude. Giving thanks goes a long way.

A minute example are the espresso cups and saucers I once admired at my family's favorite Italian restaurant in Houston (growing up in Lake Charles, we had to head to Houston for most ethnic food and foreign film experiences) and shyly asked our lovely waiter, an older, silver-haired man who had the most gracious and charming disposition, if I might be able to purchase a set.

He wrapped them up lovingly, and I still have them all twenty years later. Six porcelain cups painted with scenes from six magical Italian cities, and sturdy saucers to seat them atop.

I have a water carafe from a restaurant in an Italian hill town for exactly the same reason, although the charming waiter there was much younger.

Back in January, I read a Modern Love essay in Sunday's New York Times that really struck me. I loved the way it was crafted, and elements of it resonated deeply with slivers of my own life as they were then. 

A few days later, still thinking of that piece, I googled the author (Ellen Urbani), found her website, emailed her a note of admiration and thanks and rather imagined that was that. 

Imagine my surprise when she wrote back and when our correspondence continued. Imagine my delight when I asked if, during her book tour swing through DC in the fall (her second book, Landfall, was just released a few weeks back!), she might want to teach a personal essay writing class. Imagine that this morning, when I opened my front door to Ellen and we hugged and she came in to teach class, that I was awfully glad I'd asked.

A few writer friends and I sat around my table and ate and laughed and learned from this loveliest of women who generously spent two hours of her busy day with us. And tonight, I heard her present her book, and we hugged again and snapped a pic, and as I drove home, I smiled up at the beautiful sliver moon and was reminded that the world is full of possibilities. Sometimes all you need do is ask.

Rogie (Federer), Nanny, and memories

Who watched that incredible, for-the-ages, heartbreaking U.S. Open men's tennis final last night? I am still making tears and associated sad faces. Roger Federer, my Rogie, is one of the greatest players of all time and also one of the classiest. I mean, did you hear his speech just prior to being given that lame-arse, second-place plate? 

People, the plates have got to be retired. No one spends six hours a day for 18 years sweating and becoming super-human to win a plate. Even if it's sterling silver and engraved. 

Back to Rogie. The wavy hair atop his head never succumbs to scalp sweat. He is always gracious and lovely. He and his wife have TWO sets of twins. The colored side vents in his tennis shirts always line up with the same-color stripes running up the sides of his shorts. That alone is worth something more than a plate.

I honestly think that nothing more needs to be said in support of Roger. Except that if ever you've wondered why I love Benedict, it's rather the same: both RF and BC are expert at their  skill, both are classy beyond compare, AND both can wear a suit like nobody's business. Who could want more? Or, what more could one want?

Last night's game was an epic one: two real champions duking it out with various crests and falls of greatness. When T and I had been dating for about two months, I got tickets to the U.S. Open final between Sampras and Agassi. Another historic showdown, not least because Petey retired shortly after. I wonder if Rogie will do the same soon.

I grew up watching and loving tennis. I was a terrible tennis player, but my parents, sister and I used to set up a large "nest" on our family room floor -blankets, pillows, etc- and watch as much of Wimbledon and the U.S. Open as possible. My Nanny loved the sport too, and until she was no longer able, she often joined our family view sessions. 

Once I moved away and when she was too old to travel, I'd call her at the start of a match; she and I always loved the same players. Stefan (now, fabulously, Roger's coach), Pete, Roger. 

"Nan, do you have the game on? Are you watching?"

"Oh yes, do you? Isn't X handsome?"

"He sure is, Nan. I love you. I'll call you after the game, OK?"

I really wanted to call Nanny last night, both before and after the game. It's in these little moments that I miss her so deeply.

Last week, somewhere, I saw a darling elderly woman wearing those elastic-waist, faux-denim pants that Nanny always wore. Where does one get those? Will I find out after I'm 70? I saw that woman and I gasped. I wanted to see if she, like Nanny, had on a camisole, under her button-up shirt. Did she use Aqua Net hairspray? Did she wear Sas shoes? I wanted to hug her, and maybe take her hand, to see if it was soft and cool and smooth like Nanny's, like I can't imagine mine ever being. 

I couldn't do any of those things, but last night, as I saw Jack get really excited about the thrilling match we were watching; as I saw something spark in him the way it must have once sparked in me; as T, who has the crappiest cold, gave in and wandered off to bed,

I thought, "My Nan is gone, but my Jack is here. And if I let him stay up late with me tonight, watching heroic sportsmanship and athletic ability play out in front of us, maybe he'll come to love this sport as I do. Maybe we'll watch Wimbledon and the U.S. Open together each year and perhaps, if we're lucky sometime, we'll go to either tourney in person, together, and see something that we'll never forget." 

Maybe one day, he'll call me or his child will call me, and say, 'Nan, do you have the game on?' And I'll have found those elasticized pants and the perfect recliner, and I'll be so happy my grandchild is calling, and I'll say, "Oh yes, do you? He is so handsome!"

Though I'm still heartbroken for Roger, I don't regret our late night one bit. 

Cauliflower and Brené

So the other day at the store, I about fell out when I saw fresh Hatch chiles just sitting there waiting to be purchased. I can never find Hatch chiles in DC; they're like the Halley's Comet of eastern seaboard produce. 

In any case, next to the chiles were the most spectacular heads of cauliflower. Each one looked like a pearly white bowling ball was nestled in elephantine green leaves. "Fall's a'comin, shoppers!" I swear I heard one call. And so I bought it too. Also some sharp cheddar because Hatch chiles like cheddar and so does my husband.

Although my Tuesday, school's-in-session adrenaline had worn out by early evening, I was hellbent on combining my three delicious foodstuffs into one dish and so made a casserole, the added bonus being I got to unearth and use a lovely dish I rarely employ.

I roasted the peppers on the grill, blanched the cauliflower florets, shredded the cheese, and made buttery-garlicky breadcrumbs from a stale baguette. Happily and knowingly, I tossed things together, layered it into my buttered dish, sprinkled parsley everywhere and generously and baked.

roasted chile skins

Tom walked in as I took it out of the oven, and said, "Now honey, that does not look like anything I would like." True enough as he dislikes cauliflower and peppers, but I told him he best get started on his own dinner then. #amiright?

Naturally I neglected to take a photo of the finished product, but really, it was ugly as sin anyway, so who cares. Casseroles are often unattractive but equally as often, their looks are inversely proportional to their flavor.

I'm just back from hearing Brené Brown present her new book, Rising Strong, and have gone from dress to PJs to last bowl of cauliflower cha-cha in short order. T may not have cottoned to this dish, but it fed me for three really hectic days, so I'll take the short cut, thank you. I think Brené, a 5th-generation Texan who is awesomely funny and authentic and utterly devoid of bullshit, would enjoy it too, and you can bet I'd love to sit with her around my table and laugh, laugh, laugh while keeping it real.