True Grit
I know most of us have been ho-ho-ho-ing and
clinking up a storm all the way through November and December, only to land, as
we do every year in January and February, otherwise known as the armpit of
winter. With nothing to celebrate in the still too dark days, we count the new
minutes of light like pennies and book tickets to Mexico (or wish we could),
and otherwise grit our teeth and get on with it.
 |
| Me and Elvis |
This year the gritting for me has mass and magnitude. On the year anniversary of my own mother's death in January, I got more bad news.
The cancer that seems everywhere on front pages (Oh Mr. Bowie you were
my first love), has come to roost too close to home. A longtime Jamestown friend, still displaced
from the 2013 Flood, got an advanced stage diagnosis in her Christmas
stocking. Privately, I don’t know what
else to do about this except spit and string hexes together. Publically, I will do quite another thing.
Karen was my first real friend in Jamestown, the
small mountain town that was my home-base for nearly twenty years, after I
moved there in the 90s. Known as “the crazy dog lady of Jimtown,” she was on a
first name basis with every canine in town—and that’s how we met. I caught
my dog Elvis giving her kisses through the fence one day as she fed him liver
treats. Soon we taking morning walks up
the forested lane where we lived with coffee and our pooches. Later we became road buddies. Picture two women, two dogs and two Toyota trucks.
Karen showed me the best spots to camp in Colorado
and Utah--and the best spots to eat. Our route was chosen by rest stop (for the
dogs) and restaurants (for us). We
always had a steak at Buck’s in Moab and prime rib at Quincy’s in
Leadville. There were the blueberry buckwheat pancakes
at The Meadow Mountain Cafe, a place where Elvis and Sophia could settle with
us beneath the picnic table on the porch, and the Southwestern Benedict with
its slightly spicy hollandaise at The Jail House Café. Karen and I once backpacked into the Grand
Gulch area of Utah, carrying vacuum-packed jambalaya from Herb’s Meat Market in
Boulder along with my home-made caramelized cinnamon apples and the makings of teriyaki
pork fajitas with mango salsa. No
just-add-water mystery mush for us. The
extra weight was worth it the minute we sat down to a fork-full of smoky andouille
and ham-laced rice cooled with apples at
the end of a long day of hiking.
Of course my response to the news about Karen is
to reach for food. My own mother
survived for two years after what was supposed to be her end—all because of it. She simply enjoyed the pleasure of cupcakes
and potato chips—things she’d been denied on her diabetic diet—too much. And while Karen's ultimate fate is less certain, the
way forward is still paved with delicious bites of whatever the hell she wants.
Food is life, along with comfort, love, memory—so many things. Now I bring Karen what she is craving. First it was my legendary mashed potatoes so good
they don’t need gravy (the secret is the garlic boiled with the whole potatoes,
a good ricer, and lots of butter and sour cream)—and the chocolate avocado
mousse I spike with a little cognac. To
my delight, Karen licked up both with her fingers. Next up: crème brulee, Karen’s favorite
dessert. I will also bring the Basque
Beef Stew, made with a mirepoix and a whole bottle of Malbec or Cabernet, a
meal that is as hearty as it is life affirming.
 |
| Basque Beef Stew over Polenta |
.
Comments
Post a Comment