A celebration dinner

 

Anniversary dinner.
I discovered tonight I have no pictures of the wedding on my computer.
Eighteen years ago, I had not learned to take and save digital pictures.
So here for the algorithms is dinner tonight.

I had special dinner guests tonight—and a special menu. Mr. and Mrs. Christian Burton were celebrating their eighteenth wedding anniversary. Originally, the plan was that they would grill steaks, and I would contribute twice-baked potatoes and a blue cheese sauce for the steak. The happy couple would have a romantic, candlelit dinner while Jacob and I ate steak and potatoes in the cottage. It didn’t quite work out that way.

Their house is still awash with Christmas decorations in various stages of storage and apparently the dining table is strewn with work material from both of them. So dinner was in the cottage which I loved. And it was really good. Christian is great at grilling everything from steak to hamburger, and I tried a new twice-baked idea—cream cheese instead of the usual ingredients. After dinner, we had a bit of that good eggnog with real nog—all so rich and good I was forced to take a brief nap.

Eighteen years ago when we went to University Christian for the wedding, we had four days of parties behind us and a whole world of friends and family joining us. We’d had a big dinner for everyone at the Star Café, then owned by friends Betty and Don, and we’d had a rehearsal dinner in the chapel at Joe T.’s. The kids had taken the New York relatives to Billy Bob’s and the Stockyards, and we were all ridin’ high.

The wedding itself was lovely—Jordan had been dreaming of a Christmas wedding, with the sanctuary full of poinsettias, since she was a child, and that dream sort of set the timetable for their engagement. They hired the church choir to sing on a Saturday night, and Jordan had her sister, sisters-in-law, and cousin as attendants. Jordan’s father was unable to walk her down the aisle, so her two brothers escorted her to where her dad stood waiting—and at that moment, each brother gave her a big kiss on the cheek—it was, as one usually cynical friend said, a heart-stopping moment.

Afterward, the reception was at the Fort Worth Club. You’ll forgive me if my memories are a bit blurred, but the one that stands out is of everyone dancing in a circle to “Hava Nagila,” led by Mark, the Bronx uncle. Even Maddie, then five, was in the midst of everything.

The next morning I had something like thirty out-of-towners for breakfast, my chance to get a last visit and hug before they scattered. Many of those folks today are gone, a few disappeared from our lives, too many passed on to the next life, so that morning is a specially treasured memory. I remember that afternoon, after everyone had gone and I was alone, cleaning up, I felt an unusual sadness. I told Jeannie Chaffee it was the first time I had missed being married, because I wanted someone to re-live the weekend with, share the memories. Her reply was, “You should have called me. It would be easier than having a man around the house.”

As I’m sure the Burtons would tell you, it’s been a mostly glorious eighteen years, with one lovely son. I am so grateful and proud to be part of it in a small way.

It was a nostalgia weekend for Jordan in another way. Last night, she and Christian went to a dinner for David Barnes’ birthday. He holds the distinction of being her first high-school boyfriend, and all these years later, they are still close, although happily married to others. She has called him her “brother from another mother” and David will always have a place as part of our family.

The holiday season is off to a whizz bang start for this family. I hope it brings each of you the same kind of good memories and new happy times.

Breaking quarantine

 

Kathie and I, with Carol taking the picture

Last week many pointed out that a year ago was the last “normal” week, although we didn’t know it. This week is the week of “We went out to dinner for the first time in a year!” Of course, in Texas for many of us, that dinner window isn’t open very far. Tonight, the mask and distancing requirements expire, so it’s the last night to go safely for a while, unless until we reach that vague goal of “herd immunity.”

I remember the events of a year go quite clearly, and, yes, I sensed the huge change that was coming in all our lives. That last weekend—it would have been about the 7^th or 8^th of March—both my daughters and two grandsons accompanied me to San Antonio for a meeting of the Alamo Society and the launch of my then-new book, The Second Battle of the Alamo. San Antonio had actually been one of the first cities to declare a health emergency, and we knew it, debated whether or not we should make the trip. Hearty encouragement from the president of the society finally won us over. Jordan, Jacob, and I took a Vonlane bus to Austin, picked up Megan and Ford, and went the rest of the way by car.

It was a memorable, if expensive, weekend. We stayed at the historic Menger Hotel where both history and age were obvious. Our suite was straight out of the Fifties, with avocado green kitchen appliances and walls and drapes and who knows what all. But we had wonderful dinners both Friday and Saturday in restaurants with nary a mask in sight, visited with a good friend, the kids did the River Walk, and it was great. We gave only fleeting thought to that strange virus, though I was surprised two weeks later when Megan expressed relief that we were all still healthy. When I asked if she worried, she said she thought about it.

But for me, Thursday March 12 was the last “normal” day. I spoke to the book club group of the Arlington Women’s Club at a lunch meeting—a talk that went well if I can judge by audience laughter. Subie and her sister, Diana, went with me and also gave favorable reports. That evening, Carol and I had dinner at Lucille’s and remarked that it was quite empty. It was the last dinner in a restaurant for either of us—until tonight.

I remember the next morning I almost called neighbor Mary to see if she wanted to go wander aisles of Central Market—something I love to do and Jordan does not. Suddenly I remembered: we couldn’t do that safely anymore. And for us, that’s when curbside ordering kicked in—remember what a mess it was at first?

So tonight, Carol and I went to Lucille’s and met Kathie Allen. I had called ahead to confirm their mask and distancing requirements and was told what I expected—they are in effect tonight but will be gone tomorrow. I was a bit apprehensive. As I told Carol, it felt a bit like a first date. But it turned out to be a lovely evening. We went early—5:30—wore our masks and found a restaurant with maybe half the tables marked “closed.” There were few people there, but all came in with masks and removed them to eat. Serendipity: it was Lobsterama, so I had lobster cakes with spinach; Carol, allergic to shellfish, had cedar-planked salmon with spinach; and Kathie, strongly opposed to cooked spinach, had fried shrimp and sweet potato fries. We talked and laughed and shared stories. We had seen each other during the year but not often enough, and it was good just to be together—and to be out in the world.

Will I do it again? Depends. With Texas tomorrow open one hundred percent, no masking, no distancing—no, I won’t go willy-nilly to a restaurant. But occasionally I may call ahead to ask about covid protocols, and if the answer are satisfactory, I’ll go. Many restaurants are caught in a bind—they’ll lose business either way, if they require masks or if they don’t. I don’t think Governor Abbott thought through the implications of his order for first responders and people in the service industry. But, hey, we’re wide open for spring break. Think of all those crowds of young people at the beaches, spending all that money. What’s your priority? At least tonight I am encouraged that there is an end in sight to quarantine.

 

 

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.