To Library Mike, Wherever I May Find Him

I never did thank you for your heroism that summer so many years ago, did I? But, you know, I still think about you sometimes. I still think about the morning you called and I was teary and upset because it was my birthday and I was so far away from home. But I hadn’t told you that part. Not until much later in the day. No, you came because your friend was sad, and because you had a car, and because you thought it would be nice if we stepped out for a while. And you did just the perfect thing – did you know it was perfect? You took me to the Dutchess County Fair. And you let me have the Kermit doll we won from the silly carnival game, whatever it was. And you rode the Ferris Wheel with me despite your fear of heights. And you were open to the merits of getting an old-timey portrait taken. (I remember how pleased you were with it after the fact. You swore we looked good enough to be models.) And you joined me in cursing the rain for putting a quick end to the pig races for the day, though I'm sure you weren't the least disappointed. And you insisted we watch Roy Clark (of Hee-Haw fame) play the banjo. For which I am especially thankful. I am always tickled to recall him onstage in his black, studded jumpsuit and red kerchief strumming the banjo for the fifteen or so of us brave enough to sit through the thunderstorm and listen.

You gave me a wonderful day. And you managed to pull it off without even knowing it was my birthday. I’m sorry I didn't mention it until we were ready to leave. I just didn’t want to be one of those girls who gets all mopey and depressed because she is another year older. That’s not what it was; I was just lonely. And you were exactly what I needed that day. Thank you endlessly for that.

I’m not sure where you are now or if this will ever find you. But I hope you get back the magic you gave. I hope you get it back a thousand-fold.

Love,
me

On This Most Patriotic of Days:

A dandelion wish.

Dandelion, puffs away,
Make my wish come true someday

(What did I wish for? I bet you could guess. No? Here's a hint: my wish has a last name. That starts with an 'O.')

Three Pounds of Sour Cherries Baked in a Pie

Nigella Lawson: I lay my obsession for sour cherries at your feet. Though I don't necessarily remember the context, or the precise recipe involved, I remain unshakably convinced that I first heard of sour cherries from you. And when I am unshakably convinced, you have no hope. I am Irish. Through and through.

Yes – I’ll go further – I swear it was when Rick and I were living in Seattle. That is when we found your show (back when it was on the Style Network) and watched and ooohed and aaahed and drooled and yearned religiously. I clearly remember that it was Seattle because I must have watched the passion fruit pavlova episode three or four times. And at the end of each viewing, I would march to Pike Place Market. I would demand passion fruit from the greengrocers at Sosio’s. When they laughed and said, “Try California,” I would search every last produce stand inside and adjacent to the market; no luck. It’s not lost upon me how funny it is that I would spend a lifetime in California not caring a whit about passion fruit, only to go to Seattle and decide to fall in love with them.

Passion fruit and sour cherries. I was slightly less obsessed about the cherries. But only slightly.

I am not generally a fan of cherry pie. I tend to imagine over-sweet bings lumped together with that dreadful, red, diabetic-coma-inducing gel, yielding a pie that is altogether too gooey and sticky to put in my mouth. Even as a dare. Even as a dare with money on the line. Ah! but sour cherries – now that sounds promising.

I have dreamt of this pie for years now. If I knew the farmers who deliver these gems to the Sunday Farmer’s Market better – hey Sosio’s, you were right; trying California worked! – I would kiss them. These cherries are leagues apart from anything I have ever seen or tasted before. They are radiant in the sunlight. And more sour than even the sourest sour patch kid. (Don’t make fun; I love them.)

Oh, and the recipe? I found it on epicurious and followed it to a T. I was worried a bit about the crust as I rolled it out. Far too gluteny for someone who is as perpetually insecure about the quality of her pie crust as I am. (My mom makes perfect pie crust, every time. I should mention that.) But it worked! The heat cast its spell over the dough and it complied nicely, coming out goldeny, buttery, and flaky. Which totally made the two and a half hours I spent pitting three pounds of cherries by hand worthwhile.

Note to self: Buy cherry pitter.

The pie, by the way, was everything it should be: tart, fruity, and perfectly complemented by a scoop of vanilla ice cream. File it away in the repertoire.

For the Penderwick Family Honor

I checked out The Penderwicks: A Summer Tale of Four Sisters, Two Rabbits, and a Very Interesting Boy (Jeanne Birdsall) from the library last month – the first of my summer reads. And actually rather fitting that I would share a three-week reading vacation with them. They were, after all, spending their three-week summer vacation in the book, at Arundel cottage, at the cusp of puberty (well, three of the four anyway) and finding their ways to growing up.

I was slow, at first, to warm up to the story. It seemed a little formulaic to me in those opening pages. With the maternal older sister just discovering boys, the fiercely independent, math-friendly sister with her aversion to tchotchkes and disarray, the starry-eyed sister who reads poetry and writes adventure stories chronicling the imagined exploits of her alter-ego, and the littlest, precious sister who is just, well, little and precious. Ho hum I thought. And the lot of them sat on my nightstand for weeks.

I’m not exactly sure why I picked the book up again. Maybe the pressure of the library’s deadline. Maybe a refusal to be bested by a young adult novel. But I did, which is the important part. And that Batty (Elizabeth) – the young, precious Penderwick sister – completely charmed me out of my skepticism. With the butterfly wings she’s appropriated into her daily wardrobe, the standing very still and quiet to become invisible when she feels shy, the telling of secrets to her dog, Hound. But mostly she got me when she met the caretaker’s rabbits, who are normally as shy as she. But not with her. No, when they met Batty they hopped right out of their hiding places and up to her hands, which she’d placed palms up on the floor as an invitation. She rubbed their little velveteen noses and was utterly, genuinely taken aback and thrilled to say, “Oh! They love me!”

Yep. That was the end of me. That moment right there.

I can also report that she caught a lightening bug named Horatio. And that her favorite toys are, I think, the most perfect menagerie of stuffies: Sedgewick the Horse, Funty the elephant, Urusula the bear, and Fred the other bear. (Yes. I will devote significant craft hours to recreating that team.)

I could tell you so much more about her and her equally charming sisters, and their sweet, lonely, nerdy, kind, Jim Broadbent-y father, but I would hate to spoil it for you. And I would attempt to entice the remaining holdouts by quoting a handful of particularly sweet vignettes from the novel directly, but I had to return it to the library. You see, while the book was busy lounging on my nightstand, someone placed it on hold . Which normally, I don’t worry much about. But this time I pictured a sweet, real-life Batty counting the days until the Saturday in the end of June when the call would come that her book is ready. I imagined her feeling sad once that Saturday passed, wondering who would possibly go about breaking promises they made to the library. I remembered how Batty (in the book) put on her brave face and went to the caretaker's house to meet the rabbits even though she was still uncertain as to whether or not she liked the caretaker. Because he'd already told the rabbits she was coming, and she couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing them. She knew how sad it was to feel disappointed. (Uff.) So I've returned the book. I can't bear (any longer) the thought of disappointing real-life Batty.

It's on the way to her now. And I hope she finds the note I tucked inside:

I am. And I do.

Real Pimps Don't Fake the Funk.

Rad, right?

I wish I could say that I made it up, that it spilled from my mouth in a flash of genius (or possession -- I'd take that too). Sadly, no. Actually I discovered it in a rather heated 'discussion' on Yelp. But here's the thing: I don't give a shit about its origin. Because I am appropriating this for all that I'm worth. In fact, I've been repeating it in my head all night. Allowing it time to seep in, get natural, become mine. And I'm writing this because -- well, to warn you. I am madly in love. And I'm warming to this thought that every post I write from now to the end of time should be called Real Pimps Don't Fake the Funk. And I haven't decided yet if I'm kidding.