Three Hundred Bucks at Bacchanalia

When Joe asked me where I wanted to go to celebrate my sixty-fifth birthday, I think he was hoping for Free Beer Glass Night at Taco Mac, but I picked Bacchanalia.  Bacchanalia has been on my radar since I first moved to Atlanta and saw it at the top of every list of best restaurants in the metro area.  I became even more interested the first time I happened upon Star Provisions with my friend, Nancy.  Star Provisions is owned by the Bacchanalia folks and it is made up of a darling set of small shops where you can buy wine, cheese, meats, and gifts for any foodie or foodie wanna-be.  You can even grab a deli sandwich and a pickle there and eat on the premises, which is what Nancy and I did.  

However, the most interesting part of the Star Provisions Bacchanalia connection, to me, is that you must walk through Star Provisions to get to Bacchanalia, kind of like a high-end Cracker Barrel. 

So I chose Bacchanalia and sweet Joe agreed, even though he knew it was pricy.  They have a prix-fixe menu, which means that, once they get you in there, you aren’t getting out without some pain to your pocket book or an attempt to sell one of your grandkids.  They also have wine pairings for each of their five courses, glasses of which they will be happy for you to purchase in addition to the five courses for which you are already paying an astronomical amount.

I must say I was nervous.  Joe and I had worried over the wine part since we aren’t exactly wine enthusiasts.  We kept hearing that the wine with each course is part of the experience and that we should immerse ourselves in the experience.  However, we also needed to immerse ourselves in paying our February bills and survive the drive home.   

In addition to worries about the wine and the bank we were going to have to rob to pay for our outing, we also couldn’t quite figure out what to wear.  We didn’t want to look like Bacchanalia virgins so I nixed my evening gown and rented tux idea.  

We eventually decided to dress somewhat up but not way up, hoping not to stand out, and arrived a few minutes early for the first seating.  But even as early as it was, it looked like the lights were out in Star Provisions.  Had they closed early in honor of my birthday?  

Perhaps because of the darkened demeanor of the Star Provisions entry,  and instead of listening to logical birthday-girl me and trying the door, Joe decided to take it upon himself to see if there was an alternative entrance.  Before I knew it he was jiggling the back door of Bacchanalia of all places, where the entire waitstaff was collectively hiding, trying to enjoy their last sane moment before the wild rumpus began.

To their credit, the waiting/hiding waiters were kind about our faux pas and assured us that they would escort us to the front door, and that we weren’t the only ones ever to arrive through the service door. So there we went, in our middle-best clothes, the only people not dressed in white toques and starched jackets, being guided like little lost lambs to the front, to the place we were supposed to be.

Because we were early and a bit unraveled, we opted to sit at the bar and have a drink before being seated at our table.  The first thing I noticed was that the décor wasn’t at all what I had expected,  based on the name of the establishment.  When I think of bacchanalia, I think of Rubinesque opulence.  This Bacchanalia was minimalist, with sand-colored ceramic-tiled walls and simple shades instead of heavy draperies.  Aside from the large window giving us a view of the kitchen with prep underway, the only other decorative touches were two large paintings.  The one closest to us was of a woman who was working in the field (perhaps picking our second course?) with a tiny unformed head  and  her body large and square - Picasso-esque at the top and Diego Rivera-ish at the bottom.  And, as Joe pointed out, she wasn't wearing any panties. 

After we finished at the bar, we were led to our small table, and that’s where the coddling began.  Reams of people kept stopping by and offering us delectable things.  This gifting reminded me of the times my cat brought dead or dying rodents to my door, lovingly placing them on the mat for me to enjoy.   

Water?, bread?, another drink?, an amuse bouche?, more bread?, more water?  Then, as our heads were beginning to swim what with all the water, the main attraction lady came by with the menu, the dreaded menu with five choices for each of five courses along with the wine pairings!  She quickly put us at ease, however, explaining how it all worked and how we didn’t have to have wine if we didn’t want it, sweetly indicating that they wouldn’t be laughing their asses off at us back in the kitchen, with our firstly not knowing where the door was and secondly refusing their perfectly-paired wine.

The meal was lovely, with each of us ordering different dishes for each course and tasting the others choice.  And, because it is what they call a "tasting menu" we were able to enjoy each delectable bite without puking.

They even brought me a tiny cake with Happy Birthday written in perfect chocolate penmanship on the plate because Big Mouth told them the occasion.  And they didn't make me stand up while the entire staff marched out singing and clapping like they do at Golden Corral.

After Joe paid the three hundred dollar bill (including tip)  and we were leaving through Star Provisions like we were supposed to do, I noticed  a group of people sitting at a farm table, eating bread and cheese from the cute bread and cheese shops and sharing a bottle of wine from the wine shop.  At first I felt a tad duped in that I was pretty sure their meal wasn't costing them as much as ours did Joe.  

But, then again, they didn’t get to see the lady with the tiny head and no panties.

When I'm 64 (I mean 5)

Darn it!   I'm too old  even to use the Beatles song as a title for my birthday blog posting.  The one we laughed about in 1967 when it was released because we would never, ever be that age.  Never.

How could this possibly happen?  I sometimes look at someone I know to be in her 50s and I think, yes, I'm old just like her.  And then I remember and realize that I am, indeed, a whole different kind of old.  And that realization sucks.

So, on my 65th birthday, here are 10 things I'm rather pissed about:

1. Medicare - really? How embarrassing.
2. I can’t drive at night and nobody needs me changing lanes at any time.
3. My feet hurt.
4. I have bruise that looks like Abraham Lincoln on my shin.  Just from barely hitting my leg while getting into the tub.  Joe says it might be Jesus, and that, if I can maintain it, perhaps I will become rich and famous.
5. I have the hands of a 100 year old farm worker.  I swear, my Aunt Madge, who is 97 and lives at Baptist Village in Waycross, is revolted by how old my hands look.
6. I have wrinkled everything. 
7. Eyebrows.  What eyebrows?
8. I can’t see in the dark or the light.  Joe and I went to an avant-garde play at the Actors Express and I was trying to get to the bathroom but ended up heading backstage, at which point Joe started hollering "Marcia! Marcia!  The other way!  The bathroom is the other way!"  I do believe some of the members of the audience thought I was part of the play.
9. Small print and mumblers.
10. Words and names.  I can't remember any of them. Especially under duress.

 But, come to think of it, the Beatles, just like the rest of us, did age.  Except for John and George, who never had the privilege.   Just like some of us.

Therefore, I guess I need to also include 10 things that are pretty rad about being 65.

1. Medicare - I'm happy to have it but I must say that I'm worried about my card.  It's just paper, no lamination.  What the hell?  I've had it just a couple of months (they send it early) and it's already looking worn.  I would laminate it myself but I'm afraid I'll be put in prison or something.  Old people's prison.  All the old people who laminated their Medicare cards.
2. My grown children and their children. Humans I hadn't met or even conjured up in my heart yet back in 1967.
3. Joe - what a surprise he was (and still is) to me, especially at my advanced age and level of disrepair.
4. Joe’s family - they're mostly Yankees but I'm able to overlook that.
5. Old friends who still love me and young friends who help me navigate this new world.
6. Teacher retirement.  One of the last things my daddy told me before he died was not to cash in my teacher retirement.  I didn't and now I'm very very very glad.
7. Only having to shave my legs about once a year.  My yearly shaving is when I noticed the bruise that looks like Abe/Jesus.
8. Enjoying Atlanta while most of the population is at work or school.  The Waffle House is much more relaxing without all the hungover weekenders. 
9. Old people's classes at Emory and the senior fares on Marta we learned about at the old people's classes at Emory.  I do have to add that old people can be really annoying.
10. Not having to worry about a tan.  Who would notice it through all the wrinkles?

 So, here's to 65, I guess.  From someone somewhat pissed but very happy to still be here.

       

    

      

     



      

      

      

Dinner at the Colonnade

Joe had never been, so we went.  I had been before, but I went again. 

We had recently read that the Colonnade is one of those iconic Atlanta restaurants every Atlantan should visit at least once, so we did.  We took the scenic route, from I-85, down Cheshire Bridge Road, past the Tara Theater, the Original Pancake House, the sex-toy shops and strip clubs, and an apparel store called Fresh 2 Def, arriving in record time. 

We knew that the Colonnade is a favored dinner destination for both the Gays and the Grays.  We also knew that the Gays don’t arrive until later and the Grays go early.  Since we aren’t gay, we went early.  However, we miscalculated our time and got there at 4:40, which is early even for the Colonnade.  So, although it wasn’t officially Happy Hour in our time zone, we decided to stop at the bar and have a drink.  The bar, itself, wasn’t added to the Colonnade until 1982 and that must have been the last time it was decorated.  The walls are covered with book shelf motif wallpaper for that fake library look, whereas the restaurant, itself, is more hunt clubbish.

  Joe was sad that there was no draft beer to be found in the Colonnade bar but he made do with an Alagash Black from a bottle.  I, however, already knew that they had Jack Daniels and Diet Coke, which was one of the main reasons I wanted to go.  Joe picked up a basket of chips from the bar, along with our drinks, and brought it all to the table.  I do believe the chips must have been part of the original décor for the grand opening in 1982, and there may or may not have been a synthetic, polyester-like, onion flavor languishing in their aged carcasses.  As stale as they were, we managed, with minor chewing and major complaining, to put them out of their misery before we finished our drinks and retired to the dining room.

The host who seated us at our cloth-covered table was friendly, as was our waiter, Eric, a courtly black gentleman who knew his way around the dining room AND the Early Bird Dinner menu.  Other than Eric, there wasn’t a single person there under 60, with white heads shining like beacons and bald pates adding additional luster to the surroundings.  According to Eric, Early Bird Dinner is Monday through Thursday from 5 to 6:30, and we could see it was quite the deal.  No wonder there were so many liver-embellished hands gripping the daily insert and rheumy eyes reading the large print, ours included.  

Sitting near us was an unusual looking duo, even for the Colonnade: two men, most likely not gay as it was too early, both sporting longish white hair combed back, one with a robust beard and the other wearing faded overalls.  At first glance, I took them as OTP (Outside the Perimeter of Atlanta for those of you who are OTP).  At second glance, I thought they had to be way OTP, maybe from Barrow or Effingham County.  However, at first eavesdropping, I realized that, at the very least,  one of them, the one I could hear, the one in the overalls, had the language and cadence of someone learned, perhaps a retired professor, now free-range turkey farmer,  or an oddball poet.

When Eric was ready with his pad and pencil, I ordered the Early Bird chicken-fried chicken, along with mashed potatoes and pepper gravy, and green been casserole.  Joe, taking umbrage at the lack of dark meat in the chicken-fried chicken option, decided on the NON Early Bird (and more expensive) normal fried chicken, along with mashed potatoes and pepper gravy, and pole beans.  As Eric was finishing up our order, I couldn’t help but show my disdain that Joe, the Yankee, was ordering such an old-fashioned Southern side dish as the pole beans.

“Who orders pole beans?”, I asked incredulously?  “Do you even like pole beans?”

To which Joe said, “I don’t know what pole beans are.” 

And Eric offered, wryly and ruefully rolling his eyes, “Oh, we sell a BUNCH of pole beans!”

Dinner turned out to be just great in spite of our rocky start with the aged chips.  Both the chicken and the chicken-fried chicken were superb, with just the right amount of lard and salt, and the mashed potatoes were real potatoes with a few lumps thrown in to make us believers.  Furthermore, the green bean casserole was cheesy and Joe ate all of his pole beans.

But the biggest surprise came at the end when Eric told me I got a dessert with my Early Bird dinner and the evening’s offering was apple cobbler topped with vanilla ice cream!  I was nice enough to share my Early Bird dessert with Joe even though he didn't really deserve it since he hadn't ordered from the Early Bird menu.

As we were leaving, I overheard the professor/turkey farmer/oddball poet say this to his dining partner as they were finishing up their dinner:

“The worst thing that ever happened to the South was not the Civil War.  It was the death of the chestnut tree.”

As Joe paid the bill, I took five mints from the dish next to the cash register, using the tiny spoon.   One white, one green, one yellow, and two pink, I ate them all.

When we returned home, I googled “death of the chestnut tree.” 

Yep.  It died.

What Joe Said

 

I had this great idea for a book.  The name came to me first.  Winner, Whiner, Weiner - a book about the three categories of husbands.  Then I had an even better idea:  Weiner, Whiner, Winner:  How to Train your Husband.

I told my husband, Joe, about this great idea.

Joe said I needed to start back with my blog so I'd have someone to talk to besides him.

Birthday Girl (reposted for Molly's 29th birthday)

 Already wanting to do it your way

 Dear Molly, 

Below is what I wrote for you last year, a year that turned out to be a very good one, the year you became a real teacher and earned not only the job you wanted so badly but also the recognition you deserve.

In re-reading last year's post, I see that both nothing and everything have changed as you continue on your journey and your itinerary unfolds. I'm very very proud (not to mention relieved) that you've become the woman you were destined to be and I look forward to seeing what comes next.

Here's what I said a year ago today:

If I were with you this morning, I’d make blueberry muffins from a mix and I’d put a birthday candle in yours, worrying as always that the melting candle just might be carcinogenic, one of many reasons why there wouldn’t be twenty-eight of them. 

People told me a late-in-life child would keep me young.  I’m not sure if that was true for me with you, but you have certainly kept me going, sometimes from worry, sometimes from necessity, often from your sheer Mollyness, your quirkiness, your dark and dorky humor, your carnsarned cussedness.

Through your more than a modicum of spills and struggles, you’ve managed to come to an understanding of yourself and others that I think is unusual for someone as young as you.  Although you don’t always trust enough to share this quiet discernment, at just the right moment, under the right circumstances, you offer up something so deep and insightful it leaves me slack jawed in wonderment.

People love you because you’ve been there, because you ask so little and offer so much: a sturdy shoulder, a big heart, a from-the-gut laugh, and a thoughtful answer to afraid-to-ask questions.   Your sense of irony comes from your sincere belief that, if it fell apart, it was because you didn't screw it on tight enough.  And, while that may not be all that healthy for you, it sure makes the rest of us relax a bit.  There’s such a comfort in world-worn you.

You worry that, at twenty-eight, you should be further ensconced in your adult life, more firmly rooted in knowing where you’re going and when.  I’m afraid I feel the same way at sixty-two, so I won’t be much help in figuring that out.  I do believe there’s a road map for your journey and an itinerary, both of which will come into your sight-line as you travel your life.  What a surprise that your heart’s own true love turned out to be with kids in high school, the very place that almost did you in.  Talk about courage, and perhaps a perverse form of payback.

You, my youngest child, share with me a love of reading.  In fact, you’re so pitiful and geeky that you profess the home-made Harry Potter coasters to be the best present you’ve ever received, and I’m pitiful and geeky enough to believe you.  We also now share a profession and a desire to pass on what little knowledge we have to anyone who will sit long enough to listen (and especially to those who won’t).  I’ll never forget that your first full-time teaching job came to you at the same moment I was leaving my final one.

The baton has been passed and the circle is unbroken.

Love always,

Mama

Why It's so Difficult to Talk to a Man

Joe talking to his daughter, Meghan.  You can tell by the look on her face that it's something boring.

When I moved to Midtown Atlanta and began teaching elementary school again eight years ago, the only people I talked to were women and kids.  Women and kids are easy to talk to because they are logical and make sense. Men, on the other hand, aren't and don't.

About six months ago, Joe re-entered my life - an old friend who became my new love.  The very good and very bad news is that Joe is a man.

I now remember why it's so difficult to talk to a man.  Here are just some of the reasons:

1.  Men can't (or refuse to) remember important things.

 Joe can recall the names of every athlete, author, musician, actor, poet, composer, or protagonist he's ever watched, listened to, or read about in his entire life, but he can’t remember the names of any of my friends. 

For example:

Me:  “I’m going to call Bonnie.” 
Joe:  “Who?” 
Me:  “You know Bonnie, the one we visited whose husband is the banker.  They have the baby named Jasmine.” 

Or:

Me:  “We’re going to visit Portia on the 10th, right?” 
Joe:  “Who?” 
Me:  “Portia, my cousin, the one we are going to visit on the 10th.”

So it’s hard to carry on a conversation when I'm always having to regurgitate everyone’s biography every time I start talking.

 2.  Men don't gossip (at least not well).

 Joe doesn’t know how to gossip.  He just doesn’t get the point of it.  This is made more difficult since he can’t remember anyone’s name and I have to provide the back story before I start in on the juicy stuff.

For example:

Me:  “Remember Mavis?”
Joe:  “Who?”   
Me:  “My friend whose brother accidentally set himself on fire.  Well, her other brother, not the one who set himself on fire, his wife ran off with another man.  Mavis is so upset.”  
Me:  “Who?”

3.  Men aren't interested in anything interesting.
 

 Joe only speaks in sports or old movie or Bob Dylan analogies, which are stupid. And when I ask him a sports question just to pretend I’m interested, he goes on too long, with too many facts, too much analysis, and, before I know it, the commercial break for House Hunters International is over and I’ve missed out on which house the cute couple chose.

4.  Men's sense of humor is different (and less evolved) than that of women. 
 

Joe only knows one joke, the string joke, which is not funny.  In spite of that, he doesn’t get my jokes, which are funny, although they are often dirty.

5.  Men are not good commiseraters.

When I want to complain about something or someone, Joe provides a solution.  A woman would never do that.  She would just agree with me about what an ass that person who wronged me is.  Joe doesn’t understand that I don’t want to solve the problem, I just want to bitch about it in a friendly and agreeable milieu.  I want to be validated, not fixed.

6.  Men are literal and without nuanced layers.

The other evening, Joe and I went out to his back patio for an after-dinner drink when he noticed that something had torn the upholstery on his patio chairs.  After some brainstorming about what it could have been - a squirrel, a snake, a cat, a dog, a mountain lion (in Coastal Georgia), or an angry neighbor, Joe finally conceded that it just might have been a raccoon since they are known to frequent his neighborhood.  

At that point, Joe said, "I wonder if Robert would let me use one of his traps," to which I said, "Now, remind me of who Robert is", hoping that he'd fill me in on some kind of interesting information (if not gossip) about Robert.

But alas, Joe's reply was

"He's the guy with the trap."

And so, there, in one big ole man-sized nutshell,  is why it's so difficult to talk to a man, or least to Joe.*

*If you have any commiseration to offer, let me know. Otherwise, keep all solutions to yourself.

How Raphael Saved Père-Lachaise for Joe and Me

 Raphael and Marcia invoking Marcel Marceau

Everyone had told us how great Père-Lachaise, the historic cemetery in Paris, was and that we should visit, as everybody who was anybody is buried there.  Jim Morrison, Frederic Chopin, Oscar Wilde, Edith Piaf, Yves Montand, Sarah Burnhardt, and both Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas are just some of the more famous dead people living there.

Joe and I had been in Paris for just a few days and were still figuring out the metro system, but it seemed that the cemetery was an easy enough walk so that’s what we did.  We arrived in the midst of a dappling morning that would soon give way to a warm day.  As is typical of us, we entered through the closest, albeit perhaps not best, entrance and just started wandering around.

Oh my God!!  There are a lot of people buried in Père-Lachaise!  Some in grand tombs, others under slabs, all packed in tighter than the rush-hour metro traffic we were still getting used to.  We found a couple of famous graves, but overall, we just stumbled around, growing hotter and hotter and more exasperated.  The other back-door meanderers seemed just as lost as we were.  Joe would ask them in French if they knew where the heck we (and they) were, but their answers were typically a sad “Non.”

At some point, we decided to give up for the day and do some research and come back.  We were hot and our feet hurt.   

But just as we tried to figure out how to exit the labyrinth that was Père-Lachaise, out of a small grove of trees appeared what seemed to me to be a wood nymph of some kind.  It was wearing a black shirt and trousers with dark curls encircling its head.  I had thought our wood nymph was female until I noticed the male pattern bald spot peeking out of her curls.  He introduced himself as Raphael  and then said, rather than asked, in quite good English, that we were looking for Jim Morrison, which, of course, obviously being Americans, we were.  I thought it was so sweet of this petite Parisian to take time out of his day to show us that iconic American tourist destination.

Before we knew it, we were following Raphael all over Père-Lachaise.  Boy, was that rascal fast!  At some point, Joe and I whispered to each other that we were going to have to pay this guy, but we tacitly agreed, whatever it was, it would most likely be worth it.  Not only did Raphael know his way around, he knew the shortcuts and he knew stories about the most famous of inhabitants.  He knew who died of what (often something messy or scandalous), he knew how many dead-people layers were allowed and who would have to be dug up after 99 years so others could be buried, and who was famous enough to stay forever.  He was bossy and sometimes just on the edge of boorish, but he was always interesting and entertaining. He told us that he wanted to be cremated when he died, or "barbecued" as he put it, and said that those who were dug up for others to be buried were typically "barbecued" at the end.

One of the most interesting of Père-Lachaise stories was that of Victor Noir, a journalist killed by Pierre Napoleon Bonaparte in a dispute over a duel.  It wasn't his death so much as his tomb, which is notable for the realistic portrayal of the dead Noir, that makes him, according to Raphael, the most visited of all Père-Lachaise dead people.  And the photo that Raphael bullied us into posing for and which embarrasses Joe just a tad, became my absolute favorite of our whole Paris trip.  I'll leave finding out the entire story of why Victor Noir is such a hit with cemetery visitors up to your own investigative resources (as in, how fast can you google Victor Noir?) but I can tell you that my right hand in the picture is placed (under Raphael's assertive instruction) just where you think it is.

Apologies to Joe Guiendon for including this great picture!

 

Finally, after lots of stories, a few yarns, and, most likely some outright lies, Raphael was spent and so were we.  Joe shook Raphael's hand and thanked him, asking how much we owed him.  Raphael responded with something about how our enjoyment was all that mattered to him. But when Joe pulled a twenty out of his pocket, that scamp, Raphael, intoned with "More."  When we laughed at his cute retort, Raphael responded again, this time with, "No, really.  More."  At that point, I pulled my own twenty out of my purse, which led to a couple of "Mercis", several "Adeux", and quite a few cheek kisses.

Joe and I agree that meeting Raphael and his "friends" at Père-Lachaise was well worth the forty euros we were coerced into spending, especially since our intrepid huckster guide also showed us how to exit the cemetery.  Otherwise, we might still be wandering around in there somewhere.

Road Warriors

  

View from the backseat.

We knew it wouldn’t be easy.  Sixteen hundred miles, a rehearsal dinner, and a wedding, all in three days.  Traveling in a rented minivan with two children, one six and one three.  Three drivers, one half-blindish.

But it was totally worth it.  We drove, we laughed, we argued, we cried, we danced, we celebrated, we remembered.  We sunned and swam and made sand castles.  We were late. Once we were somehow early.  We lost things and found them. We sang in the car.  We ate and drank and loved each other in spite of ourselves.

The wedding was beautiful as was the bride, my recently-lost brother’s youngest. Also beautiful was the officiant, his oldest, already vigorously pedigreed, just ordained online.  And, of course, their mother, who is always gorgeous and impeccable.

 I couldn’t help but wonder if the bride's choice not to walk down the aisle was an homage to her father, who would have given anything to be there. 

Now that the miles and the "Are we in Delaware yet?"s are behind us and the expenses are safely ensconsed on my credit card for future consideration, I'm so glad my daughter and her family and I were able to attend my niece's wedding in Bethany Beach, Delaware, especially now that my brother, who was the tether that attached me to this part of my family, is gone.  My nieces and I share DNA and they and their mother and I have memories in common, all of them involving a man we loved so deeply.  

We made some new memories this past weekend, and, as always, my brother was right there. 

 The Bride, the Groom, her Mother, and Sister

My Daughter and Me

Georgia and Miles letting off steam during a break.

Haute Cuisine

Neither Joe nor I can cook, although he can grill up a mean steak in his back yard or even in his kitchen with George Forman at the ready.  However, at some point after we started hanging out, we decided we needed something to go with the steak, so our first foray was into the realm of the baked potato.  Now, I know how to cook a baked potato as I eat them all the time.  However, I believe God would never have invented the microwave if He’d not wanted people to “bake” their potatoes in one of them.

Joe disagreed, being the Yankee purist he is.  He said we needed to bake our baked potatoes.  That’s when the degrees argument ensued.  He said 400 for an hour.  I said 350 (because basically 350 is my setting of choice for all cooking).  I won and what we won was a rash of rawish potatoes after an hour.  Joe was smug and said he told me so but I just put the potatoes in the microwave for a few minutes and that way I won again.

Next we tried quiche because Joe is a Francophile, plus I guess he feels manly enough to withstand any aspersive remarks toward said manliness based not only on his quiche eating but also his quiche cooking.   The quiche was good and we ate it for the next three weeks.

Next, we decided to take a cooking class.  Again, because Joe thinks he’s French, we chose the Spring in Paris Hands-On Class at the Cooks Warehouse in Decatur.  It started at 6:30, which is not only late for me to cook or eat, it’s also past my bedtime.   However, I womaned up and we set out for the class (after stopping by Taco Mac so Joe could get his free beer glass because it was Free Beer Glass Night).

Our class consisted of 12 participants in two groups, a bevy of sweet volunteers, and Chef John Wilson, who was not only not French, he was also a bit of an ass.  Our group had Joe and me, an adorable mid-20s couple who were just moving in together, a woman who was a history professor at Agnes Scott, and another woman who just liked to cook.

Chef John yelled a lot, although I don't entirely blame him.  He had an ambitious menu and 12 morons in the kitchen, people who couldn't follow directions very well.  The menu consisted of:

Three Cheese Spread with Olive Oil

Corn, Tomato, and Basil Individual Souffles

Green Beans with Bacon and Mushrooms

Pan Seared Sea Scallops with Beurre Blanc Sauce

Buttery Madeleines

Chef John was an equal opportunity yeller and we all caught some of his wrath; however, I was the only one he told to step away from the stove and to "go stand over there."  Somehow, though, having John abuse us only brought our group together in that weird common foe way.   And the class was really fun, although I think we should wait until after our instructor retires and opens that bed and breakfast he's planning before we show up for another one.

Since the class, we haven't used anything we learned, although Joe spent about thirty bucks on a Madeleine pan and a lemon zester.  We did cook a pot roast (at 350) in 80 degree weather a few weeks ago.  It took us all day but tasted good and certainly warmed our bones.  We still go to the Waffle House for breakfast most days and supper is often a bag of Lay's Salt and Vinegar potato chips.

I can't remember the temperature for baking Madeleines.  I wonder what Chef John would say if I were to tell him I just cook them in the microwave.

MeeMaw has a Boyfriend

In one of my crazy books written years ago, I talked about how tacky is was for someone named MeeMaw to have a boyfriend, meaning that a geezer woman needed to either hang in with the old fart she married when he was still young and cute or to be happy in her MeeMaw status, sporting roll-down stockings and keeping the cookie jar full. 

And when I became a grandmother myself I fully subscribed to my earlier stand, although I can't bake and I don't own a cookie jar.  I even wrote a blog post about how lacking I was in any interest in the romantic arts.  (See That Dog Still Hunts)

Until now.  I’m here now to tell the world that MeeMaw (in my case, Grammy, me, Marcia) has a boyfriend and his name is Joe.

Joe was my boss twenty years ago and his wife, Mary, was my friend.  When Joe’s beloved Mary and my adored brother, Sandy, died within just a few days of each other, we were both left wondering if that was it for us.  Would the rest of our lives be spent in lonely waiting for our own sad ends?

Enter Facebook, that newfangled arena for reuniting old people, and the rest is our own personal history.  We have liked and loved and lived and laughed and yes, lusted (sorry kids) in a powerful way, and I have to take back most everything I said about sex in our later years.  What we lack in prowess is made up for with some wisdom and great humor.  

So now, we are trying to figure out how to make it work, to love each other while still taking care of our children and grandchildren, to balance the me and you with the us, to look forward to the years we have and to prepare for the time we don’t have.

We feel very lucky to have (re)found each other at what might have been considered too late a date. Lucky and happy.

Early Bird

 I’m early to bed and early to rise.  I’m two hours early for flights and thirty minutes early for appointments.  I’ve spent many many minutes parked along roads and streets and cul-de-sacs so I wouldn’t be early to social engagements.

I will most likely be early to my own funeral.

When I was teaching, I’d get to school so early I’d sometimes set off the alarm and, occasionally enough to be worrisome, the Atlanta Police would show up and admonish me.

There may be some connection between birth hour and temporal activity and notions of time.  Two of my three kids, Billy and Molly, are also early arrivers.  They were both born in the morning as was I.  Melissa, who was born in the afternoon, was always late when she was a child and teenager, with me in hatchback, honking the horn, and her telling me to “hold on!” way too many times.  Now that she has children of her own who take forever to get into the car, she’s sped up quite a bit, but she still doesn't see the need to leave an hour before having to be somewhere thirty minutes away.  Go figure.

Even though being early appears indicative of stellar character, at least to me, I can see how it might be annoying to others.  Early birds show up at dinner parties while the hostess is still shaving her legs.  They arrive at interviews while the interviewer is trying to finish off his Big Mac.  And they must annoy shoppers who finesse a timely parking-lot disembark as soon as they can possibly take leave from their Thanksgiving repast to be armed and ready for Wal-Mart's 1 am Black Friday opening, only to find the early birds already camping out, looking smug in their lawn chairs while eating a leftover turkey leg.  I believe that EBs are the ones who get most hit on the head with those big pocketbooks you see flailing around on the evening news.

And then there are certain jobs early birds just can't do.  Arriving at a fire before it starts would be seen as unprofessional at best and perhaps no small amount of suspicious.  The same for removing a gall bladder before it becomes all gross and gnarly, and serving a fine wine before its time.

But, for my oldest best friend, Allison, and me, it's great to be an early bird.  We arrive for dinner before the fashionably-late, hungry hordes, often knocking on the locked restaurant door while the waitstaff is still going over the menu, and then asking for the senior citizen special.

We aren't annoying at all.