The sky was a brilliant blue bouncing off the ripples in the harbor. Richard pointed out that the apparent navy blue of the water was in nice contrast to what he called the cerulean blue of the swimming pool that we look down on from our small balcony. As is our habit on Sunday mornings, we snuggle for a while, then get up and have coffee together, while chatting about anything and everything, from children and grandchildren to world affairs. We also like to make up fantasies about the families, furry and otherwise, that we observe from our rear window.
We were planning to take supper over to the home of a cardiologist friend who literally saved Richard's life in 2000. We always want to provide a special meal for him and his wife, a professional party planner (who was kind enough to provide me with deodorant, toothbrush, and a hairbrush when I began what we thought was Richard's death watch for ten days in ICU). The menu for this meal included Maker's Mark Old Fashioneds, pork tenderloin medallions with a tarragon cream sauce (so good I'd like to bathe in it), steamed fresh, buttered green beans almondine, mushroom risotto (which I chose because I love it but don't have the patience to make it), one of Richard's super tossed salads, and a blueberry-peach galette with fresh whipped cream.
I made him promise to let me assist, in order to free up the time for more snuggling and to go out to breakfast. After a leisurely breakfast at Waffle House, we joined forces in the kitchen, he as chef and I as his assistant (or was it the other way around?). We cranked up the mood music and went to work. Oh! the slicing, dicing, grating and mincing that went on in that tiny kitchen: peaches, shallots, garlic, parsley, carrots, radishes, mushrooms, onions (red and yellow), peppers, and romaine. Precision, being right up Richard's alley, I am always happy to leave all of these tedious tasks to him.
The only problem was that this left little time for him to do any actual cooking. It fell to me to stir the pots. I don't know how many of you have ever made risotto, but stirring seems to be the most important ingredient: One hour of standing and stirring. Thank goodness I had Richard and wonderful music to keep me company.
Our cooking (and mood music) even brought out the poetic in him as he admitted that he thinks higher math and music can only come from the soul, as they both create something out of nothing. This led to a discussion of how Richard heard on NPR about a group of atheists who so missed the ritual, arts, and camaraderie of religion that they formed their own "church" of sorts. This philosophical discussion from a man who spends five days a week helping to refurbish a seventy-eight foot PT Boat at the National World War II Museum. Macho, macho man...
He is also the man who, before he was introduced to me twenty-three years ago, when told that I like to have discussions about the meaning of life, replied, "I'll show up fifteen minutes early and explain it to her."
Our friends live in a beautifully traditional Garden District home where his mother and father had reared their brood of six. The screened front porch sits atop a "daylight" above ground "basement". With the wonderful "feels like fall" weather, we enjoyed cocktails and appetizers as we breathed in the sounds and scents of Old New Orleans.We then moved inside for Sunday supper
Their home has original artwork everywhere you look, and the table is always beautifully attired for fabulous feasts. This day there was an exquisite ecru cotton crochet tablecloth that they brought back from Brugge, Belgium, and lovely Jazz playing in the background.
The meal was sincerely worth the effort put in. We loved watching and hearing the expressions of delight coming from both of these highly sophisticated palates, and the beautiful Hebrew blessing that our host asked upon us and our offering of fine food was the cherry on our Sacred Sunday.
We were planning to take supper over to the home of a cardiologist friend who literally saved Richard's life in 2000. We always want to provide a special meal for him and his wife, a professional party planner (who was kind enough to provide me with deodorant, toothbrush, and a hairbrush when I began what we thought was Richard's death watch for ten days in ICU). The menu for this meal included Maker's Mark Old Fashioneds, pork tenderloin medallions with a tarragon cream sauce (so good I'd like to bathe in it), steamed fresh, buttered green beans almondine, mushroom risotto (which I chose because I love it but don't have the patience to make it), one of Richard's super tossed salads, and a blueberry-peach galette with fresh whipped cream.
I made him promise to let me assist, in order to free up the time for more snuggling and to go out to breakfast. After a leisurely breakfast at Waffle House, we joined forces in the kitchen, he as chef and I as his assistant (or was it the other way around?). We cranked up the mood music and went to work. Oh! the slicing, dicing, grating and mincing that went on in that tiny kitchen: peaches, shallots, garlic, parsley, carrots, radishes, mushrooms, onions (red and yellow), peppers, and romaine. Precision, being right up Richard's alley, I am always happy to leave all of these tedious tasks to him.
The only problem was that this left little time for him to do any actual cooking. It fell to me to stir the pots. I don't know how many of you have ever made risotto, but stirring seems to be the most important ingredient: One hour of standing and stirring. Thank goodness I had Richard and wonderful music to keep me company.
Our cooking (and mood music) even brought out the poetic in him as he admitted that he thinks higher math and music can only come from the soul, as they both create something out of nothing. This led to a discussion of how Richard heard on NPR about a group of atheists who so missed the ritual, arts, and camaraderie of religion that they formed their own "church" of sorts. This philosophical discussion from a man who spends five days a week helping to refurbish a seventy-eight foot PT Boat at the National World War II Museum. Macho, macho man...
He is also the man who, before he was introduced to me twenty-three years ago, when told that I like to have discussions about the meaning of life, replied, "I'll show up fifteen minutes early and explain it to her."
Our friends live in a beautifully traditional Garden District home where his mother and father had reared their brood of six. The screened front porch sits atop a "daylight" above ground "basement". With the wonderful "feels like fall" weather, we enjoyed cocktails and appetizers as we breathed in the sounds and scents of Old New Orleans.We then moved inside for Sunday supper
Their home has original artwork everywhere you look, and the table is always beautifully attired for fabulous feasts. This day there was an exquisite ecru cotton crochet tablecloth that they brought back from Brugge, Belgium, and lovely Jazz playing in the background.
The meal was sincerely worth the effort put in. We loved watching and hearing the expressions of delight coming from both of these highly sophisticated palates, and the beautiful Hebrew blessing that our host asked upon us and our offering of fine food was the cherry on our Sacred Sunday.
Good read and a wonderful occasion. The menu sounds fantastic.
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