Disappointment

Back to freewriting, did one of my exercises today. I found myself back to the young girl's voice that I use frequently. Here's what I wrote based on the prompt from Anna Quindlen.

Anna Quindlen, “Black and Blue,” p. 260.

“I loved the shit out of you, and look what you did to me.”

It was Saturday morning and Mama was going down to Carlene’s to get her hair done because she was having people come over that night for Uncle Willie’s birthday. On Friday she had brought home a yellow sheet cake from the Food Lion all decorated with chocolate icing and a bunch of hearts and “Happy Birthday Willie” written in green icing in a fancy script. Uncle Willie was Mama’s little brother. Their mama and daddy had died in a car wreck almost 10 years before and I was only a baby so I didn’t even remember them. Uncle Willie was the night janitor at the bus station. He was a bit tetched and he didn’t go far in school or anything so Mama watched out for him as best she could and every year she had a nice birthday party for him and invited all the neighbors. I was watching cartoons when Mama got out of bed and rushed out of the house, saying, “Now you stay here and watch Jeralyn and the boys until I get back. And I don’t want to come back here to a pig sty or any dirty diapers, you hear me?” “Yes, Mama, I hear you. When will you be back?” The door slammed without an answer from her. Mama was in one of her bad moods. I thought maybe I could make her happy if she came home to a clean house. So I put Jeralyn in the playpen and started scrubbing. I did all the dishes, made the beds, ran the vacuum cleaner, and polished the furniture. I kept screaming at the boys not to make a mess and changed the baby’s diaper even when it wasn’t dirty. It was noon and Mama still wasn’t home. I fed the baby and put her down for a nap and started folding laundry. It was 3 o’clock and Mama still wasn’t home. I wiped down the kitchen floor again because the boys were spilling juice and throwing crackers at one another. I finally got them to sit still to watch a movie on the TV while I sat by the coffee table and worked on a school project. Mama came home just before dark, her hair bright red and sprayed, and wearing a new green dress with a slit up the side, carrying boxes of food from Mamie’s BBQ. “Is that what you’ve been doing all day,” she shrieked, “just sitting in front of the TV?” “No, Mama,” I said, “I’ve been . . . “She didn’t hear me. She was in the kitchen getting out plates and napkins to set out before the company arrived. She pushed open the kitchen door, saying, “You go do something with yourself, Margaret Ann. I don’t want you embarrassing me in front of company by looking like that. I don’t know why you don’t care about your appearance.” I went into my room and looked in my closet. I hated the fancy clothes Mama had bought for me. I felt like some other person when I had to dress in those things. I opened the door to my parakeet’s cage and said, “Well, Chiffon, she didn’t even notice. Guess it didn’t work again.” I got Chiffon out of her cage and climbed under the covers of my bed with her and cried as she sat on my finger. Mama threw open my bedroom door. “What the hell are you doing? Are you some sort of anti-social retard or something? I told you to get dressed. Then get out here and help me. All I do for you and this is the thanks I get? Look at you. What have I done to deserve having a child like you? You’ve been the biggest disappointment of my life. I loved the shit out of you, and look what you did to me.”

Feet

When life gets tough some people take drugs or drink alcohol; others run screaming to a therapist's couch. Life has been really tough for me lately. So today I found consolation in a pedicure. Why not? This is not a new phenomenon. I wrote a piece about feet that's in my book, still unpublished. I'm working on getting it published but in the meantime, here are some of my thoughts on feet and a great pasta recipe. The recipe relates to the essay. Trust me.

Such Beautiful Feet

I need to rest on the sofa to let my pedicure dry thoroughly. I got the pedicure on Saturday morning. It’s now Tuesday and I have another week and a half left. The woman who did the pedicure said that it takes two weeks to dry. I’m pretty sure that’s what she said although she said it in Vietnamese and she seemed to be speaking to her co-worker rather than to me. In two weeks I’ll get another pedicure and I’ll have to start the drying cycle all over again. This is a grueling maintenance program. I just hope someone sees how great my feet look. But no one sees my feet anymore. Actually, the other women in my yoga class see my feet but I don’t think they notice the pedicure.

I love pedicures. Maybe if I admit this guilty pleasure, perhaps I can let it go, live without it. I already know I can live without it because I did for the first 50 years of my life. I could blame it on my daughter—she’s the one who got me started. The first couple of times I got pedicures with her when I visited her in Austin. But now I have found local sources and I even do it without her. God help me, it didn’t make me feel better to admit it. It just makes me want to drive by the nail salon for a fix, maybe sniff some polish remover.

Can there be anything more decadent than having someone scrape the crud off of your feet? The women (and an occasional man) who give pedicures seem to take great pride in the dedication and artistry of turning a gnarly pair of feet into feet that are buffed, polished, and suitable for public exposure. If you have never had a pedicure, picture this. First, the technician (yes, the job title is nail technician) soaks your feet in a mini whirlpool tub. Then she cleans under your toenails and around your toes. My brother used to collect this same debris from between his toes and chase me through the house with it. “The big stink’s gonna get you,” he cackled.

I can’t believe that I can pay someone to do this for me. After the cleaning process, the technician scrapes all the dead skin off of the bottom of your feet with a razor—it sounds dreadful but it’s my favorite part of the pedicure. Using the razor is a dangerous procedure, so dangerous that it’s illegal is some states. Maybe that’s why I like it so much—living on the wild side.

The technician usually follows all the cleaning and scraping with a moisturizing massage, and finally polish. The nail salon supplies flimsy plastic flip-flops to wear while the polish is drying. I’ve been tempted to take the temporary shoes home and wear them but it would be a dead giveaway. Everyone would know I got a pedicure. I don’t want people to know I get pedicures. I want them to believe that I am humble enough to maintain my own feet.

Once a man told me I had beautiful feet and it gave me the willies. He was a tour guide at the FBI museum and, out of the blue, he commented on my lovely toes. I had a strange, sinking feeling he was one of those people with a foot fetish. But occasionally sane people will compliment my pedicure and I wonder if they are just trying to find something nice to say. They say, “Your toes are so beautiful,” but isn’t that like the old junior high joke, “You don’t sweat much for a fat girl”?

________________________________________

I once read that women in ancient Rome used to soak their feet in lemon juice and olive oil to keep them beautiful. If my feet were soaking in lemon juice and olive oil I’d start craving this pasta dish from the Amalfi coast—a favorite from my friend Debbie who frequently travels to Italy and brought back this recipe.

Tagliolini With Lemon

14 ounces tagliolini (or other pasta)
¼ cup butter
½ cup dry white wine
½ cup heavy cream
1 dried chili pepper (or ¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper)
4 tablespoons Parmesan cheese
Zest from one lemon
1-2 tablespoons lemon juice

Cook the pasta.
Melt half the butter, add the wine, and stir until wine evaporates.
Add the cream and the chili pepper.
Drain the pasta and add to the sauce.
Stir in the remaining butter, the Parmesan cheese, the zest and the juice.
Toss gently.

Easter Sunday

I was wide awake before dawn this morning, anticipating the Easter sunrise. I’ve never before had an Easter like this. I am lost.

When I was but a month old I was baptized a Catholic and ever since have said that I am a Catholic. My attendance at church has lapsed occasionally and I briefly explored other Christian churches but repeatedly returned to my comfortable Catholic roots. Catholicism felt like home. For a long time I have said that if Catholicism ever got in the way of my Christianity, that I would abandon Catholicism. That time is now. I have reached my own personal tipping point.

I am no longer proud to call myself a Catholic. I am embarrassed by the leadership of my church in the wake of clergy sex abuse scandals and the obvious cover-ups. I've tried regarding the church leadership as a group of flawed human beings and felt that my allegiance is to God, not to the church's leadership. But in recent weeks, I see photos of the pope, all white and shiny and pompous, and it makes me nauseous to read and hear his lame statements, his lack of accountability, his hiding behind the impenetrable, fearful veil of the papacy like the Wizard of Oz. I no longer trust the church leadership or believe what they say.

The leaders of the Catholic Church are spending more time and energy protecting themselves and weaving webs of deceit than they are teaching the faithful how to life good, moral, Christ-like lives. I think about the adage "What would Jesus do?" I think Jesus would throw the Pharisees out of the temple and he'd sit with the lepers and the sinners, teaching them about God, teaching them about humility and repentance and goodness. The church—my former church—has strayed far from the teachings of Jesus.

Happy Easter to all who believe in the risen Christ. Pray for me, that I find a church that understands how to practice true adherence to his teachings.

To sleep perchance to dream

Today I awoke as the sun was rising—such a luxury. For the past few days I have been awake before dawn, tending to the matters of my father who had open-heart surgery this week. I awoke thinking about yesterday’s events and laughed in retrospect because it seemed so much like a dream. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t.

Everything is a bit blurred in terms of the timing, but at some point late yesterday my father was being moved from one intensive care unit to another. The nurse instructed me to go upstairs to the new unit where my father was being transported. So I went through the rat-maze hallways to find the correct elevator to get me to the correct floor in the correct wing and the correct unit. I walked through the doorway and could see my father on a gurney. The unit nurse told me to go away and wait in the family waiting room until she called me. So I dutifully found the family waiting room, which was housing an entire tribe from one of the tribal regions of Pakistan. They had sleeping pallets on the floor and they were cooking a goat on a grill. I think Osama bin Laden was in the group. (Now wouldn’t that just be the ultimate irony? Osama bin Laden is hiding in a waiting room at the Washington Hospital Center.) So I sat on the floor in the hallway beside a window where I could see in the distance the spires of the National Cathedral. And I cried. Various hospital staff walked past me to go into the adjacent stairway. Some made eye contact, some didn’t. I’ll bet they see crying people sitting on the floor all the time.

Meanwhile, several floors below my sister-in-law was bringing my mother into the hospital emergency room. My mother was having difficulty breathing. The day before, while we were waiting during my father’s surgery, my brother and I kept thinking our pager was going off—we heard rhythmic errwww errwww sounds. It was not the pager; it was my mother wheezing.

So after my father got settled in to the intensive care unit, I saw him and headed down to the emergency room to check in with my mother. I got on the elevator with two EMS guys from Fairfax County. Don’t ask me why they were at the Washington Hospital Center, far from their jurisdiction. They said to follow them and they would direct me to the emergency room. After another rat maze of hallways and double doors, we were deep into a patient treatment area. There were people with bloody heads and tubes coming out of them and all manner of human misery. The EMS guys went one way and told me to go straight ahead and turn right. I think I walked through an MRI scanner somewhere in there and I’m wondering if I’ll get test results. A big burly woman security guard stopped me and asked me for my visitor sticker. Yes, I had one. I could see my mother, just a couple of yards away, sitting in a chair. The security guard said my mother was in a patient holding area and I couldn’t go there. So I shouted to her that my father had been moved and he was doing okay. My sister-in-law, bless her heart, was going to handle my mother’s situation. I went home to sleep.

Rapini

Tried cooking something new today and it turned out great. I bought a beautiful bundle of rapini, also called broccoli rabe, although I understand it's not really related to broccoli but more a leafy green. It was so beautiful I wanted to figure out what to do with it. I did a little research and used what I had on hand to create a new recipe. Love it!


Rapini in Hot Sauce with Ginger and Garlic

1 bunch rapini (cut off tough ends and rinse thoroughly)
1 tablespoon hot pepper oil (my local grocery store sells olive oil with hot peppers that is intended to be a dipping oil)
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 tablespoon fresh ginger, minced

Bring a pot of salted water to a boil. Add rapini, cover and cook for 2 minutes. Drain rapini in colander, chop coarsely and set aside. Heat oil in wok over high heat. Add garlic and ginger just until they sizzle. Add chopped rapini and stir fry for about 2 minutes.

Makes about two servings.

Coconut cake

This month's Better Homes and Gardens has a picture of a coconut cake on the cover. Coconut cake symbolizes spring to me, but I'll bet my coconut cake is better than their coconut cake. I got this recipe from my cousin who is a great cook. However, this recipe is so far from gourmet I should be embarrassed even to post it. But I'm not. If you take it to the spring church picnic you're going to have to give it another name.

Orgasmic Coconut Cake

1 box yellow cake mix (no pudding in the mix or butter recipe cake mix)
1½ cups water
2 eggs
1 teaspoon coconut extract
1 14 ounce bag shredded coconut
1 can Coco Lopez cream of coconut (find in drink mix section of grocery store)
1 regular size container (12 oz.) Cool Whip

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Mix cake mix, water, eggs, and coconut extract in large mixing bowl. Beat with electric mixer for two minutes at medium speed. Add 1 cup shredded coconut to batter and beat until blended. (Reserve remaining coconut for topping.)

Pour cake into a 13 x 9 inch pan coated flour/shortening spray. Bake at 350 degrees for about 32 to 35 minutes until a toothpick comes out clean.

Cool cake in the pan on a wire rack. When cool, punch holes all over cake with a sharp pointed object. Pour cream of coconut into a small bowl, stir to blend thoroughly, then pour over cake very slowly, starting in the middle, filling all the holes. Spread thawed Cool Whip over whole cake and top with coconut. Refrigerate.

Carry my head

Today I went to visit my friend Lynne. We sat outside in the glorious sunshine, drinking tea and catching up. The winter seemed especially long and brutal, even more so for Lynne who in the past year has had a loss too deep to comprehend. Yet despite her own pain, Lynne offered to do Reiki and massage on me to heal the injury I have from shoveling six feet of snow in the past few weeks.

Lynne held the weight of my head in her hands and I felt the stress drain out of my head, neck, and shoulders. I’ve never personally weighed my head and I suppose it’s difficult to get an accurate measurement of its weight without detaching it from the body. (And I fear it would be difficult to reattach a head that has been severed from the body.) However, I’ve heard that an adult human head weighs about 10 pounds. Imagine walking around with a 10 pound bowling ball attached to your neck and you’ll know what it feels like to have a head. You probably already know what it’s like to have a head—you don’t need me to describe it to you.

It was such a relief to have Lynne support the weight of my head that I got to thinking—what if I could hire someone to carry my head for me? I would instantly be 10 pounds lighter. My neck and shoulder pains probably would go away. I could sleep comfortably. It might be a bit cumbersome to have my head-carrying assistant with me all the time but I think I could get used to it.

Meatloaf

Yes, meatloaf. I recently overheard a woman say that a good meatloaf is the secret to a happy marriage. One of the stories in my draft book includes my meatloaf recipe. No one ever accused me of being a food snob. Here's the story and the recipe.

Rewind

Last night I watched the film Tender Mercies for about the 43rd time and felt the same attachment to the character Mac Sledge as when I watched it the first time. And I still cry every time Gus McCrae dies in Lonesome Dove. It used to be Paul Newman. Then I had a brief fling with Daniel Day-Lewis (“I will return” from Last of the Mohicans) and I flirted with Johnny Depp—he’s the quirky sort that I like, but too young for me and a little too cute. The only man who can keep me forever is Robert Duvall, who played both Mac and Gus. He lives in rural Virginia, down the road from my best friend Toni. She sees him all the time in town, chats with him in the bookstore. Don’t think I haven’t considered moving there. Would Toni believe that I just wanted to be near her? But I’m not going off on a true confessions rampage about the man I love but can never have.

I found the VHS tape of Tender Mercies on sale a few years back in the previously viewed section of my local Blockbuster. Last night when loading it, I noticed an old sticker on the case that says BE KIND REWIND. And I wondered if there was some way I could insert myself into the old video player and rewind my life. Maybe attach a portal into my big toe, stick my toe in the machine, maneuver around so I could reach the controls, and hit rewind, sort of like a budget time machine. Come on—how hard can it be?

Rewind to pre-conception. I would be born a cowgirl in the western United States, maybe Colorado, in 1907. My family would be third generation ranchers who raised some of the most sought-after horses in the West. And I would have been the best horsewoman they ever saw, fearless and beautiful, riding throughout my life until I died peacefully in my sleep at 101.

Rewind to birth. I would have been born a dancer, limber with long strong legs, dancing almost before I walked. Throughout my childhood and into my teens, I would learn and grow and eventually work my way through the ranks to be the premier dancer on Broadway, and later a Tony-winning choreographer.

Rewind to age eight. I would have become a musician, learned to play guitar, banjo, and fiddle. By my teens, I would have been at the forefront of the resurgence of American roots music, would have played fiddle and banjo with the old timers in Appalachia, played blues guitar with Mississippi John Hurt and the Reverend Gary Davis, been at Woodstock in 1969, in New York with Bob Dylan and Joan Baez, in San Francisco with Janis Joplin. Now I’m trying to catch up. I have heard all of these musicians, saw Dylan live in the early days in a small venue, but it could have been so much more. Imagine the stories I would have had!

Rewind to age eighteen. I would have studied architecture. I would have been in a trailblazer in efforts to build green, to save natural resources. And I also would have specialized in restoring historic homes. My own home, a historic house on a western-facing slope in the Shenandoah Valley, would be a model of simplicity and charm, with a perfect garden and a stunning view.

VHS is being phased out and, call me a pessimist, but I think my VHS-rigged life rewind machine isn’t going to work for me. I’m not going to be a cowgirl, dancer, musician, and/or architect. What I am going to do it work on acceptance, serenity in what life has dealt to me, no regrets. And if that doesn’t work, I’m doing to start searching for a more powerful rewind machine.

______________________________________________

Newsflash: I have discovered that meatloaf is the secret to a man’s heart. Don’t mess it up by adding exotic things like mushrooms or green peppers. Real men don’t like mushrooms and green peppers. Look at this—it’s basically ground beef and catsup. Another requirement is that you serve it with mashed potatoes. Some think it even improves when eaten cold the next day. So, do you think Robert Duvall would have me if I showed up at his door with meatloaf?

Secret Meatloaf Recipe

2 pounds ground beef
2 eggs beaten
½ cup chili sauce (or ketchup)
1 cup seasoned croutons (Caesar or something zesty)
4 slices bacon

Mix the ground beef, eggs, chili sauce, and croutons in a large bowl.
Shape the mixture into a loaf and place in a shallow roasting pan or loaf pan.
Top with slices of bacon.
Bake in 350 degree oven for about 60-75 minutes.
Remove from oven and let set for about 10 minutes before slicing.

Serves one for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Forget forgiveness. Send help!

A few days ago I heard a radio interview about a new film entitled Brooklyn’s Finest. In the dialogue, one of the characters says to a priest in confession, “I don't want God's forgiveness, I want his f*****g help."

Although I don’t think I’d dare use the f-word in the confessional, I totally understand the character’s line of reasoning. At the moment I’m beyond the forgiveness thing. Yes, I’m grateful, very grateful that Jesus died for my sins and that all has been forgiven. And I trust that I surely will fail again and will be forgiven again and again. I know I take forgiveness for granted and hope that He can even forgive that assumption.

But sometimes (now would be one of those times) I need God to have a more hands-on, direct approach. I’ve got questions and I need answers. I don’t have the patience to sit and wait for God to reveal the answers to me in time. I feel like a bratty little snot-nosed girl whining for the Lord’s attention. It’s like a bad case of spiritual ADD. For maybe five minutes I can sit in prayer or meditation and then I expect a concrete answer. I want an angel to appear in my living room. I want a burning bush in the backyard. I want to hear the voice of God in English with clear instructions. It’s probably not going to happen that way, is it?

Please Lord, send help! I’ll ask for forgiveness next time.

Survival

Oh, the perils that lurk out there in the cruel world! And apparently among these perils the previously unknown dangers of potluck.

I belong to Weight Watchers. Surely I’m the difficult one, the worst one in the meeting, like the alcoholic who leaves her AA meeting and picks up a six-pack on the way home. But I keep going to meetings despite my lack of success. So this week in Weight Watchers the weekly hand-out was about strategies for eating at events like family gatherings, including on page 5, a list of potluck survival strategies. These strategies include things like staying far from the cocktail nuts and close to the raw veggies. Why bother to go out if you have to stand near the raw veggies through the entire event?

The phrase “potluck survival” struck me as a bit ominous, a touch of fear-mongering. It reminded me of the Cuban missle crisis back in the 60s when we kept "survival kits" in our school lockers and people built bomb shelters in their backyards. Back then we were expecting the Russians to drop an atomic bomb on us at any minute. Is there really so much to fear at a family potluck? Truthfully, for me there’s more fear of wacky family members than there is of the food. So I’ve developed my own more realistic list of potluck survival tips:

• Don’t bring a plate of raw veggies to a potluck or people will hate you. Instead bring a big bag of potato chips and that horrible dip that you make with the dry onion soup.
• If you really are concerned about consuming too many calories, don’t use a turkey platter as your dinner plate and don’t refill it more than five times.
• Remember to step away from the buffet table occasionally. Constant inhalation of fumes could render you senseless.
• If your cousin’s weird husband Bert traps you in the corner, turn green and run to the bathroom like you’re going to barf.
• It may be wise to pack a potluck survival kit. This would include items like a Swiss Army knife, a plastic tablecloth, water purification tablets, 9 volt batteries (don’t ask me to explain), and a comfortable pair of shoes.
• Whatever you do, don’t bring either a jello mold or anything with marshmallows. It would be considered bad form and an insult to Aunt Ruthie who is the only one deigned worthy to bring such items.
• Don’t eat the “roast beef”—it’s really not part of a cow and whatever it is has been in you brother’s freezer since 1972 when he went on that ill-fated hunting trip.
  

It's a jungle out there. Be careful and there and remember you gotta do what you gotta do to survive.

Unplugged

I’m trying to be detached. Really, I am. For nearly two weeks I’ve had spotty Internet service. About a week ago I called Verizon to ask them why. They showed me what happens when a customer complains about service—for a week now I’ve had no Internet service at all. Let me just state, for the record, I HATE VERIZON. In all my calls to their people in the US, people in India, people in the Philippines, I got nothing but contradictions and false promises. But I’m not going to rehash the ugly, nerve-wracking conversations I had with Verizon people on the phone or with the technicians who came to my house. Perhaps I should be grateful to Verizon. This time that I’ve had in near-isolation has taught me a few lessons:

(1) I have learned that it's okay to be away from the Internet for days and days. So what if I can't do online research or order a book from Amazon? So what if I can't check my e-mail? Most of the time there's not much happening. I get the same spam e-mail, I get the same information about upcoming events, I get an occasional e-mail from a friend asking me where I am, nothing that can’t wait a few days for a response from me. Anyone who has something urgent to communicate with me will call me. At least I hope they’ll call me and not presume I don’t care. Breathe in, breathe out.

(2) I have learned that I can go to Plan B. Plan B is using the public library for my Internet connection. The trouble with Plan B is that my local library closed down for renovations late last week. So I went to Plan C, going to the regional library. However, the library has a wait list for available computers and a 30-minute use limit. It’s okay—I can get a lot done in 30 minutes. Remember to breathe.

(3) The detachment issue. I don’t need to be one of those people in meaningless constant communication with the universe. Maybe I needed to be unplugged for a while to stop my own growing obsessive-compulsive cycle of cyber connection. Maybe I need to remember what it was like only a few years ago when I didn’t have so much available. Shush . . . . be still and just breathe.

Perhaps I've had enough time unplugged to detach from the Internet a bit. The computer guy I hired just fixed everything. He had to talk to the guy in India too but at least they both spoke computer geek. He had to change settings and I think he spanked my computer but it had it coming. It’s working now but I’m going to try to remember the detachment thing. And I'm breathing a sigh of relief.

Moving

Oh, no! I'm not ready for this. For years and years I've been saying I can't move away because I have a great dentist. A great dentist is hard to find and I've had one for over 30 years. I first went to him when he was a young dentist in a small practice near my home. Twenty-some years ago I moved across the county, miles away from him, but continued to drive to his office for routine visits and non-routine visits. When I first moved across the county, I briefly used a dentist near my new home but quit the new dentist when he dropped a crown down my throat. I fled back to the old dentist, vowing that I would never leave him again.

Last night I broke a tooth. I thought, okay, no big deal--my dentist is an artist, a genius in his field, no fear, he'll fix it. So I called his office first thing this morning and Valerie, who works at the front desk and has become like a member of my family, broke the news to me. The master guru best dentist in the world retired two weeks ago on short notice. He has been diagnosed with Parkinson's disease.

Until today I claimed that I stayed here because I love my dentist. Now what do I do?

Ganache

Yesterday was my mama's birthday. I would post a photo of her, but I wouldn't dare post a photo she had not pre-approved for posting. My mother is quite glamorous. Obviously, I must have been switched at birth--I didn't inherit the glamour gene. We're having a birthday lunch for her tomorrow. I'm bringing salad (boring . . . ) so I needed to pump up the volume and cook something much more interesting. So I made this bittersweet chocolate and ricotta cheese tart, adapted from a recipe I found in The Washington Post. It's barely sweetened, like an addictive drug to a chocolate lover. When I first made the recipe about a year ago, I was intrigued by the ganache. The ganache is fabulous, but the combination with the crust and the ricotta filling is perfect. And search for Scharffen Berger chocolate because no ordinary chocolate will do. Warning--this recipe is rather time-consuming and complicated. But it's worth it. Trust me--it will be a much bigger hit tomorrow than the salad will be.

Bittersweet Chocolate and Ricotta Cheese Tart

Crust:
1¼ cups flour, plus more for the work surface
¼ cup sugar
2 teaspoons grated lemon zest
½ teaspoon baking powder
Pinch salt
4 tablespoons chilled unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
1 egg

Filling:
1 pound whole milk ricotta
4 tablespoons confectioners' sugar
½ teaspoon vanilla extract
2 tablespoons heavy cream

Ganache:
4 ounces best-quality bittersweet chocolate, chopped into small pieces
1 tablespoon unsweetened cocoa powder
½ cup heavy cream

For the crust: Combine the flour, sugar, lemon or lime zest, baking powder, salt and butter in the bowl of a food processor. Pulse until the mix is crumbly. Add the eggs and process just until the dough begins to come together. Lightly flour a work surface. Transfer the dough to the floured surface; knead the dough just until it is fairly smooth.

Have ready a 10-inch round tart pan (or rectangular equivalent) with a removable bottom. Roll out the dough on the floured surface into a 12-inch round (about 1/8 inch thick). Carefully transfer it to the tart pan; gently press the dough into the bottom and up the sides; fold the overhanging dough into the rim to reinforce the dough on the sides. Use a rolling pin or your hands to even off the perimeter (top) of the dough in the pan. Refrigerate dough at least 1 hour.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Remove the tart shell from the refrigerator; use a fork to prick the bottom of the shell all over. Bake the tart shell for 10 minutes, until the edges are just beginning to turn pale golden. Remove the tart shell from the oven and let it cool while you make the filling. Leave the oven on.

For the filling: Place the ricotta in a large bowl. Add the confectioners' sugar, vanilla extract and cream; use a fork to gently incorporate those ingredients, breaking up the ricotta as you work. Spoon the filling into the partially baked tart shell; bake for 20 to 25 minutes, until the filling is set but not at all browned. Transfer the tart (still in the pan) to a wire rack; let cool to room temperature.

Meanwhile, make the topping: Combine the chopped chocolate and cocoa powder in a medium heatproof bowl. Heat the cream in a small saucepan over medium heat just until it bubbles at the edges; do not let it come to a boil. Remove from the heat and slowly pour it over the chocolate mixture; stir as you work so the cream is incorporated and the mixture becomes a glossy, dark and smooth ganache. Carefully spread the topping on the cooled filling, starting in the middle and creating a thick layer that stops short of the crust (there should be the tiniest bit of white ricotta filling showing around the perimeter of the tart). Refrigerate for 2 hours, until well chilled. To serve, remove the rim of the tart pan and transfer the tart to a serving platter. Let it sit at room temperature for 30 minutes before serving.

Makes one 10-inch tart (12 servings)

Chucks

I've got this little obsession with Chuck Taylor All Stars that I can't quite explain rationally. There used to be a Converse store nearby--my idea of paradise--that regularly featured some random color of Chucks on sale for under $20. Alas, the store is gone. Yesterday I went into a discount store looking for white towels. I just strolled through the shoe department because I thought I heard one of my children calling me. (My children are in their 30s and they live far, far away.) I'm lying. I walked through the shoe department because I'm weak. I found a pair of low-top baby blue Chucks cheap and in my size. But I sat there, looking at the shoes, telling myself I was stronger than the shoes. I put them back on the shelf and left the store. No shoes, no towels. All day today I've been thinking about those darned shoes, wondering if some other woman is wearing them now.

This shoe thing is not new for me. I wrote a piece about shoes in my book. Here's the piece I wrote.

A prayer for moderation . . .

Shoes

I just found the shoes of my dreams online. They were horrifically expensive. My wedding dress didn’t cost as much as these shoes. I’ve never owned a single garment that cost as much as these shoes. I could have put tires on my car for the cost of these shoes. I just pushed the button to complete the sale. I don’t know whether to be thrilled or ashamed, but I can’t wait for them to arrive.

I always thought my daughter had a shoe obsession, but she didn’t get it from me. “Not me,” I protested. “Sure, I like shoes, but there’s no major fixation there. They’re just utilitarian items to me.”

But then my friend Kath was here visiting and made me face reality. She looked in my closet. My closet is not that big, but it’s almost obsessively neat. I’ve got three shelves of t-shirts, folded neatly. One shelf for long-sleeved shirts—dark colors on the left, light colors on the right. One shelf for short-sleeved shirts—dark colors on the left, light colors on the right. One shelf for sleeveless shirts—dark colors on the left, light colors on the right. I’m not obsessed—I just like to know where things are!

The jeans are on hangers—fat jeans, skinny jeans, cropped jeans, gardening jeans, dressy jeans, jeans I forgot I had.

I have almost no dressy clothes—they’re way in the back. I don’t get out much.

Then there are the shoes. Nine pairs of Chucks Taylor All Stars, mostly high-tops, in a variety of colors, on the top shelf. They are collector items, aren’t they? I even have a pair of high-top John Lennon peace Chucks. I don’t wear them often. On the floor—shoes on racks on the left (mostly black) and shoes on racks on the right (colors other than black).

So Kath is looking at the contents of my closet, she says, “Wow, you have a lot of shoes. My friend Ellie has almost 100 pairs of shoes. Can you imagine? Why would anyone need that many shoes?”

“I can’t imagine,” I sheepishly responded. “Never counted mine.”

So she started to count for me. She counted to 86. I almost had as many shoes as Ellie. She had a hard time believing anyone besides Imelda Marcos could have as many shoes as Ellie.

Then, in a moment of insanity, I confessed, “Actually, there are a few more. My winter shoes are in plastic bins under the bed in the guest room.”

“Winter shoes?” she exclaimed. “You have a separate category for winter shoes?”

I have summer shoes and spring shoes and winter shoes? Leather and fabric and black and colors other than black, flats and flip-flops and lace-up boots and three pairs of cowboy boots. (I’m particularly fond of the cowboy boots.)

She dragged out the bins of winter shoes from under the bed and continued the tally. She got to 100 and I covered my ears. I think she finally stopped at 108. As soon as the package arrives it will be 109. I do not have a shoe obsession. I swear.

Red beans and rice

Okay, okay, here it is. I promised I would post it. I didn't get to make this for Mardi Gras but at least I made it during the week of Mardi Gras. A couple of days ago I tinkered with a couple of recipes I had and came up with my own version of red beans and rice. And it has come in handy the past two nights. Last night my friend Rick and I went to a matinee at the Shakespeare Theater and luckily when we got back I had this in the refrigerator. Voila--dinner in five minutes! I also had made a big batch of my infamous guacamole. A little dollop of guac is nice on top of red beans and rice. [But I have to report that we saw less than one act of Richard II. There was a technical malfunction early in the play and they had to cancel the rest of the performance.] And tonight my friend Trish stopped in for a visit and I fed her. Maybe one more round tomorrow night? It was a good experiment, a keeper!

Red Beans and Rice

12 ounces pound andouille sausage, cut into ½-inch slices (Aidell’s is good)
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 large onion, chopped
2 garlic cloves, minced
2 celery ribs, cut into ½-inch pieces
1 medium green bell pepper, seeded, stemmed, cut into ½-inch pieces
2 cups chicken broth
1 14 ounce can diced tomatoes
2 teaspoons bouquet garni
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
¼ ground cayenne pepper
2 bay leaves
2 15 ounce cans red kidney beans, drained and rinsed
4 cups hot cooked rice (I used brown rice)

In non-stick skillet, sauté sausage until brown, drain grease and set aside.

In a large soup pot, heat the oil over medium heat. Add the onion, garlic, celery, and bell pepper to pot. Sauté until the vegetable are softened, about 7 minutes. Stir in the broth, tomatoes, and spices. Bring to a simmer over medium heat.

Stir in the drained beans. Reduce the heat to low and simmer, covered, for 30 minutes. Stir in the cooked andouille sausage and cook for 15 minutes more.

Using a large wooden spoon, crush enough of the beans in the pot to thicken the dish to your desired consistency. Serve in bowls, spooned over hot cooked rice.

Serves 8.