To Tracy and Kelly, as we are just days away from the longest day of the year… summer solstice 2025
Today, it’s getting out of bed and making lemon bars, and coleslaw, to celebrate Jack and Nori. Jesse has the ribs cooking at home and Nori’s, making baked beans and blackberry cobbler.
For the occasion, I thought of putting a mask on my face and plucking my chin hairs, but I’m not sure I even have time for that and besides, nobody gets that close to me anyway to see whether I have chin hairs or large pores or wrinkles. But, I will, for certain brush my teeth and my hair.
We’re expecting rain on Friday and Saturday. And so the temperatures have been dropping into the low seventies and the fifties at night, so what to wear has me in a conundrum. I know for sure I will wear my acrylic oyster barrette in my hair and take a long-sleeved sweatshirt to Jack’s house.
I suppose I can do laundry while I make the lemon bars and the coleslaw. I could maybe do some reading or do some scrolling. It’s more likely that I will do the latter.
If I’m driving, I should get my car washed because it’s covered in sap from the maple trees and dust from the road construction. The combination creates a sparkly but dull finish, that makes my car look as though it has sat in the barn for decades. Only the bird poop on the hood, falling from up high in the maple trees, gives it away as a car that lives on the street.
Maybe Ancel will drive instead. Either way, I will dread Highways 26 and 217. I will silently wish that Jack still lived on 25th and Ainsworth. But laughing and loving will make me forget that we have to return home on these dreaded highways.
Sitting here on the bed is not getting the food prepped. But sitting here on the bed pretending that I’m talking to you girls face to face makes me stay here a minute or two longer.
Tomorrow I’ll be going to Pho Van for #52, Bun, with chewy, sticky pork skewers and crispy rolls filled with vegetables and undisclosed proteins on noodles flavored with fish sauce.
Saturday, I’ll go meet with a bunch of women and play, I think it’s called, Cards Against Humanity. I haven’t decided what to make yet for me and others to eat.
And while all of these pleasures go on, I’m torn at heart and of mind and my hair turns ever more white around my face, wetted by my tears, as WW3 is being played out on neighboring continents.
I will breathe. I will breathe out prayers into the universe that this madness will end. But as David Byrne has written in his song, Burning Down the House”… “Same as it ever was. Same as it ever was.”
My joy is in knowing you and loving you and knowing that I am loved in return. I hope you’re safe, healthy, and at peace.
Anytime I come to see Tracy and Kelly, I’m gaurateed to eat really good and interesting foods and to visit some outstanding galleries and such. The photos in this post were taken at the Fry Bread Lounge, next door to the Native Market in Scottsdale.
Tracy and I are showing off our turquoise and silver rings. (Tracy’s has coral, too). Many, if not most, of the art in the market were made by local artisans. It was cool to see their photos and to read the bios. Not your usual tourist trap.
The Fry Bread Lounge is native owned and operated, as is the market. The drinks were so good and unusual. We’re going to try to replicate our favorite when we get to Sedona.
There’s me giving some love to Kelly and a couple of shots of the food. The”fry bread flight” came with different sweet and savory dips. I can’t remember the name of the plate, but it was a wonderful mix of hominy, wild rice and vegetables.
If you ever get to Scottsdale, don’t miss the opportunity to visit these outstanding businesses.
Missing from this post are photos of the first restaurant visited when I just got in from Portland. Extraordinay Chinese food at the “Big Buddha”. Not your typical American Chinese food at all. The orange chicken was not drowned in the usual flouresent orange sticky sauce, the egg foo young was … well, how can I describe it? The chop suey was indescribable, as well. Can I just say delicious and surprising? I can’t believe I didn’t take any photos of the food and of the giant Buddha. You know what they say: a picture is worth a thousand words.
Then last night, we drove to Alhambra to eat at the “El Tiburon” (The Shark). Kelly’s sister Mo joined us. This took me right back to Mexico. The building, the colors both inside and out, the dark lighting and disco club flashing lights, the two guitarists standing and singing the music of Juan Gabriel, Rocio Durcal, Marc Antonio Solis, and Pedro Infante.
The outside of the “El Tiburon” is painted turquoise and was festooned in white lights. If Tracy’s friend had not recommended this place, we would never have found it, because how would we know? We ate giant oysters with discs of pulpo (octopus), avocado and fresh salsa, fish fillet smothered in butter, fish tacos in blue corn tortillas, shrimp and octopus cocktails (in glasses the size of a child’s head)… beer, margaritas, and piña coladas.
One marked difference from restaurants in Mexico is that the restroom had toilets with seats.
Why, oh, why did I not take photos? I promise to do better.
Since temps are reaching 111° – 113° daily, here’s us in the pool.
I don’t know why, but lately, for some reason, lots of Cajun cooking shows have been coming up while scrolling. I guess the universe knows that I love Cajun food, music, and such.
So, today, the clouds rolled in and it’s a good time to make a pot of cannellini beans with andouille sausage with lots and lots of chopped peppers and onions, celery and garlic and even some shredded cabbage.
First, I’ll saute those vegetables in some bacon fat until soft. Then in goes the andouille, to infuse the vegetables with that good smoky flavor. After, pour in the cooked beans and let it simmer until dinner time.
Along with that, to freshen things up, I’m making pickled beets and a chopped cucumber salad.
All I need now is a Cajun man and a barn dance with music played by a Zydeco band. I’m always so jealous when I see these Louisiana folks dancing to a live Zydeco band, bodies bumpin’.
I guess I’ll have to be satisfied with eating white beans with andouille sausage and playing some music on the stereo, nice and loud.
Yesterday, I was going through old photographs and there was Auntie Wilma, her midriff top pulled off her shoulders, in shorts and looking quite glamorous. So, I’m eating cinnamon toast in her honor today. Sometimes after school she would come over and we’d make cinnamon toast and eat until we had finished the entire loaf of bread. It was the same when I went to Grandma’s house when Auntie Wilma came over.
If I could wish for everyone something good, it would be that they grew up with an Auntie Wilma. She drove an all black Ford Fairlaine, totally tricked out in chrome with big fins. The back seat was littered with candy wrappers, empty bags of chips, and empty soda bottles.
Auntie Wilma’s1956 Ford Fairlane
When I was in grade school, she worked as a soda jerk in the bowling alley across the street from my school. Mom and Dad forbid us to bother her on the job, but occasionally we’d get to go in to get a chocolate milkshake… on the house. I was so proud of Auntie Willma and loved to see her coming and I loved to tell my friends that she worked in the bowling alley and she was MY aunt.
Sometimes on the weekends, if there was a bowling tournament, she would pick us kids up and take us to watch her bowl and to eat all of the chips, and sodas, and ice cream we could stuff into our mouths. Either on our way to the bowling alley or on the way back home, she would surely stop and buy us hamburgers and milkshakes that we were allowed to eat in her car. If we asked her where we were going, she would always answer with one word, “Timbuktu”. We had no idea what she was talking about but we were just so happy to be hanging out with Auntie Wilma. Later, I found out that Grandpa used to answer her that way when they would go out for drives.
Auntie Wilma had shelves with trophies for swimming, for diving, for bowling, and golfing. She had a great figure and loved showing it off. She loved going out dancing and was an award winning jitter bugger. When I was in high school, she liked coming over, not only to eat cinnamon toast but to show me that she could fit into my clothes. She loved flirting with my boyfriends. I think they liked it, too.
As a child, there was nothing better than having Auntie Wilma come over or to take us out in her big black car. When I was about eleven years old, she adopted a child. Occasionally, I would babysit for her because she was usually working as a night bartender. I thought she was quite lucky and lived an exciting life. And I was lucky because she would bring me home Chinese food or some other food from some bar or restaurant where she was working. She’d wake me up after 2 o’clock in the morning, and we’d share the food and we’d talk. Now, I can’t imagine what we had to talk about, but we were close.
It wasn’t until I was an adult that I found out that Auntie Wilma rarely made good choices in her life. She must have been the source of a lot of pain and suffering for Grandma and Grandpa. There’s some really bad things that she did in the family that I won’t mention here, because I loved her so and this is a post about me honoring Auntie Wilma today with cinnamon toast. It hurts me to think about those things because when I was younger she was magical.
No matter what, she was loved, and she loved us. Only if you had someone in your life while you were growing up, like Auntie Wilma, will you understand what I mean. I don’t even know if she was happy or not. All I know was that she was pedal to the metal. I don’t ever remember Mom and Dad saying one negative word about her, not even to warn us against turning out like her. Before I knew better, I practically worshiped her. I know better, and I’m glad she was not my only role model but only one of them because she was fun as hell.
PS: While looking at more photographs this afternoon, I ran into photos of Auntie Wilma in office wear, looking very professional. Somewhere tucked deep in my mind are memories of hearing that at some point she had office jobs, maybe even before I was born or before I was totally aware that she was my aunt.
To be fair. I also want to mention that she was a great fisher and hunter of, in particular, venison. We often went fishing with her and often went to the beach with Grandma and Grandpa and Auntie Wilma. Dad, Auntie Wilma, and Grandpa would swim out into the frigid Pacific Ocean and have been known to swim with seals.
No matter how much I write about her it doesn’t seem to be enough.
Today, I’ll make lemon pudding, I thought. I’ll squeeze the fat fruit. I’ll scrape the bright rind. I’ll stir the cornstarch and sugar together with the zest then I’ll pour in the juice. I’ll stir in sweet milk and when it begins to thicken, I’ll add in the creamy butter.
Then there came a memory like they are wont to do.
A lemon tree stood alone in the yard, scarce of leaf, bent and rough of bark, unexpectedly laden with fruit.
That old tree brought me joy on days when I tired of rice and onions. I’d go to gather the flawed, dimpled, sun-like yellow fruit to make pudding.
All I needed then was sugar, an egg, a lemon and cornstarch to stir until thickened. Lemon desserts aren’t lemon to me unless they make my jaw hurt from the tartness.
Now that I have the luxury of butter and milk, it doesn’t diminish the sweet and tart lemon pudding I made when I was poor… more poor than I am now.
The old lemon tree is far away but I’m sure it still stands. Why would anyone dare to cut down such a bountiful tree. But then who knows for sure what others might do. At least in my memory it still stands.
Now, I buy lemons from the bins at the store, the same store where I buy the butter and milk. I don’t know where any of them have come from or how far they’ve traveled.
I’d prefer anyday to go out and gather lemons from the old lemon tree. I’d fill my pockets with the warm fruit, heavy with juice and make the simple pudding that makes life good.
How was I to know she would be offended. I thought this would honor her. But it affected our relationship, negatively, from that day forward .
It was decades ago and we had moved from Whidbey Island in the Puget Sound, off the coast of Washington, and into the astoundingly and equally beautiful Columbia River Gorge in Oregon.
We lived on the Island for about 7 years. During that time, we met some very interesting people. Among them were Magdalene and her husband Ivor. They had both been born to Ukrainian parents in the same refugee camp in Germany after WWII was over. His family was then sent to England and hers to the US to begin again.
Their families didn’t know one another. But later, once both Ivor and Magdalene were grown young adults, by happenstance, they met in New York City and fell in love. I won’t continue their story since it’s their story to tell.
How they ended up on Whidbey Island with 2 children in tow, I can’t recall. We moved to the Island because we were promised a house and a job. An old high school friend of Jack’s was pastoring a church there and had connections.
It was at this church that we met Ivor and Magdalene. Now, when I look back, it was the friends that we made that made being in a toxic environment seem worth it. I still have a couple of friends from that time. Fewer, of course, because whenever you leave “the church” being ostracized is the norm. But I digress.
The Borscht
I’m no expert, but from what I learned, borscht is an everyday, common soup/stew eaten in many countries of the world. Mainly made of beets, which gives it its distinctively rich, red bordeaux color and the tomatoes, fresh or canned. It takes on unique flavors based on the meat used for the broth and the addition of other mostly root vegetables. Some cooks add cabbage and others add saurkraut. Dill, fresh or dried, is sprinkled in liberally.
Once the meat is seared with the onions and garlic, water is added to cover and then left to simmer until the meat is fall off the bone tender and the broth is rich and savory. Various meats can be used… like I said, this is not a “precious” soup. Its kinda like a “what’s in the fridge” kinda everyday soup. Anyway, this is what I was taught.
Then carrots, potatoes and other vegetables of your choice are added and cooked until very tender. The meat always used in this recipe was pork short ribs. Once everything is red, dyed by the beet juice and it fills the kitchen with a delectable fragrance, you should dish up huge full ladles into big bowls. Forget about small bowls.
This is a main course soup eaten with crusty, white bread or other breads of your choice. I can imagine a dark rye sliced into thick slabs smeared with soft butter. Never mind if your bread is a day or two old. This soup is made for dunking bread in.
The finishing touch is a large dollop of sour cream, sprinkled with cayenne pepper and more dill. This soup quickly became a staple in our household even though the children wouldn’t eat it. Why, I’ll never know because they’re advenurous eaters and have always been. Even to this day they turn their noses up in disgust when I offer to make a pot of borscht.
So, I’ve kind of roughly given you the recipe for what I learned to make from Magdalene. While living on the Island, we would often go to their house after church to eat with them. More often than not, there was the delicious pot of borscht on the stove. I could always eat bowl after bowl after bowl.
I was so enamored of this soup, I asked Magdalene one day for the recipe. She gladly told me how to make it just like I’ve told you here. She would say things like, “pork short ribs or spare ribs or left over roast, whatever you have”. And the same for the vegetables with the exception of the beets and she always used saurkraut and so when I began to make my own pots of borscht, of course I always used pork short ribs and there was always the saurkraut. I wanted mine to taste just like hers.
The theft of the borscht recipe
As I mentioned before, even though the kids didn’t like the soup, I still made it often enough to make them complain. I didn’t change a thing that Magdalene had taught me.
It seemed only natural when a morning TV show, that I watched almost daily, had a cooking contest. They were asking for recipes with a $25, or was it a $50, prize for the one chosen as the most delicious and desirable. Within a month my recipe had won the prize and a check arrived in the mail and the recipe connected to my name was announced on the morning show. To me this was just good fun. And even though I knew how good the soup was, I wasn’t really expecting to win, so it was a wonderful surprise to hear my name and the name of the recipe announced.
Excited, I called Magdalene to tell her and to tell her I would share the money with her or that I would give it all to her since it was her recipe. She responded in a way that I never expected. She was mad. She was offended. She wanted nothing to do with it or with me. She hung up on me right then and there.
From then on there was a rift between us. We never saw one another again even though she had moved to the eastern part of Washington and we had moved into the Gorge. We never even talked to one another on the phone again.
Occasionally, I saw her posts on Facebook. She had survived cancer and had grandchildren. She looked wonderful and I missed her as a friend. This morning, another mutual friend told me that Magdalene had died 2 years ago after a fight, I assume, from another bout with cancer.
Then the memories of the borscht theft came rushing in. Without doubt, every time I make borscht, I remember Magdalene and the infamous theft. Thank you, Magdalene, for the wonderful unintentional gift of borscht. I’ll never forget you.
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