Happy anniversary—sort of

How nice that John Mayer joined the anniversary party

For those that don't know, he's a singer and my daughters

are dippy about him. Not at all sure how Christian feels about sharing the anniversary.

This is a shout-out to my Fort Worth kids who celebrated their fourteenth anniversary last night. Since they were hosts for the son of friends, a good buddy of Jacob, they planned a romantic dinner for two at home. They’d feed the boys, and then enjoy steak and champagne by candlelight. It didn’t quite work out that way.

They came out to the cottage, so a couple of neighbors and I could toast their anniversary—and we bored the neighbors, I’m sure, with our detailed recall of that magic night fourteen years ago. But then Jacob appeared to announce that the house guest was sick and throwing up. I never saw a party break up so quickly—Jordan and Christian bolted for the house, and the neighbors made a hasty exit. Jordan came out in a bit to suggested I not count on the pork tenderloin she had promised me (I had scrambled eggs for supper). It seems the guest was still sick.

The way I got the story, Jordan came to the romantic dinner table in her pjs, and her toast was to “Poop and vomit, failed air conditioners and broken timing belts.” Christian raised his glass and said, “I can’t think of a better way to spend our anniversary.” Is that not gallant? I am so proud of their adaptability and open hearts—if that little boy had to get sick away from home, he couldn’t have chosen a better home in which to do it.

A postscript to the story: the house guest went to school, but Jordan had to go get him mid-day and take him to a doctor. There went the thousand errands she had to do today. She does so much for me, I was glad I could step in and run a couple of errands—to the bank, where I am now a failure at the drive-through because I can’t get close enough to reach (my reach does not exceed my grasp) and my feet get tangled trying to get out of the car in front of the machine—no room for maneuvering. I’m sure the teller thought I would sit in that lane all evening.

Then I went to Central Market for curbside delivery, so Jordan can bake cakes tonight that she needs for tomorrow. First time I’ve gotten the wrong thing—I despise parmesan in the green shaker and wanted the fresh grated from the cheesemonger—but I got that blasted green thing. And I had just assured a friend that curbside delivery never disappoints—me and my big mouth.

I’ve enjoyed a couple of celebratory holiday meals with friends this week. Monday night with two (the third was sick) to Michael’s, where I had Mac’s Salad, the real deal. The internet and even the Star-Telegram has offered various recipes over the years, and I’ve tried many of them and found they weren’t right. I even ordered blue cheese powder, which one recipe said was essential. Not so. But this was the real thing and so good. We had a delightful meal in a quiet dining room (I prize the quiet) in front of a fire.

Today I had lunch with three other friends at Ellerbe’s, a wonderful kraut and beef sandwich on marbled rye and a candy cane chocolate cake rich with buttercream and whipped cream for dessert. Just roll me out of the restaurant and point me toward a nap!

Love this season—and, yes, I try to keep my heart and mind open to the reason for the season.