What a trip

There will be no photos shared publicly about my trip, save a few generic skyline shots and, perhaps, an approved shot of the hostesses (once they okay one). I will also not share much about this one here, except the Slow Food Nation event, as Marcie would have been in heaven there.

Suffice it to say that this was the first trip that I went on really more for myself and my future than for her and my past. This is not the place for such things.

Pictures of it all later. For now, we're going back to my memories of moments of my Marcie. I have some thoughts to share about Marcie and how I felt looking out on my next home city, one she almost joined me in. That will be all that one finds here.

Friends, of course, can ask in person or email. I will have some private albums to view...

F.

Pictures from the patio garden

I took a few shots of the patio garden and a few of the yard in front. Keep in mind that when Marcie and I moved in, the yard was all rocks with a layer of cloth underneath. It's now almost overgrown, cloth be damned. The larger plants on the porch are up for adoption, and I have good cilantro seeds to send out.

Tanya helped me repot most of these plants when Marcie was very ill. We arranged them to give her a nicer outside view from her hospital bed.



Just let me know what you want and such, and I will send it. Those are jalapeño plants, by the way. If they or the tomato plants bear fruit, some will be reserved for seed and I can send some out from that as well. Let's hope they make it.

A Call to Breakfast

Some of my friends know that I have been on a diet of sorts. Mostly I am simply eating healthier and running, but I have definitely kicked in some calorie counting. Today, I was reminded to occasionally cut loose and enjoy a good hearty meal.

It almost didn't happen. I almost did an all-fruit smoothie. Tragedy.

I arose and ran 7.3 miles, according to Google Maps, and then got home and started making my list of things to do for the day. Since one was shopping, I started chekign my refrigerator.

I found a disc of some sort in the freezer. I drew a blank. Wrapped in a Glad Freezer bag, I turned it over and saw her writing: "Ham Steak, Fully Cooked, August 12."

Her writing always stops me dead in my tracks. I could see her hand on the Sharpie as she labeled the freezer bag and tucked it away. I gulped down a lump in my throat.

I decided that, despite being off pork for some time, I would make a breakfast.

I cooked the ham steak her way, slowly, in a pool of water, preparing the rest of my breakfast as it simmered.

I laid out tomato slices and spinach, and a mix of herbal and green teas. I chopped onions, some leftover home-roasted red bell pepper and a bit of (sweet) banana pepper.

In the refrigerator, I took out the last of some Italian mixed cheese we used for our last Trader Joe's pizzas together. It was still good and not a spot was to be found after 9 months. More lumps to swallow.

I beat some eggs and, after the ham finished, tossed the vegetables into the pan to absorb the taste, as I know she would have liked. I waited until everything was a little wilted, having added a bit of olive oil, and slid the egg over the veggies.

I knew it would stick and just dealt with it, flipping the whole omelet and adding the cheese inside. After I had lightly browned the edges of it, I plated it.

It looked very authentic, except Marcie would have insisted on toast or added her potatoes. A picture:


I sat and ate the plate and felt a little closer to her again, having enjoyed a little bit of her Sunday Breakfast tradition, albeit imperfectly. Someday I'll do the whole thing for a friend or six.

We'll have to have waffles, then.

Reviving the birthday spirit

Marcie loved birthdays. If it was her own, she had a mixed view, loving the attention and the opportunity to celebrate but loathing the passage of years (despite her defiance of age). But in others', she took a great and pure joy.

Marcie was invigorated by the celebration of the birth of people she loved so much that I simply had to ask directly. She was humming to herself as she decorated a cake for her friend Kathleen at work.

"Honey?" I asked. "Can I ask you a question?"

She turned and looked at me with her half-open-mouth smile and wide eyes lit in the kitchen's indirect sunlight.

"Are you going to ask me what I put in the icing?" she asked excitedly.

Whether a work fellow, a close friend or a family member, Marcie could be counted on for a cake. Marcie did not make just any cake, though. Her recipes created cakes of unparalleled moistness, flavor and density.

She also improvised to suit particular preferences among her favored recipients, carefully considering the balance of flavors before assembling them. She was truly a maestro of tasteful baking and great confection-making.

I knew her question meant, "Ask what I want to answer first then I will answer what you want to ask." I complied.

"Oooh, yes," I said. "What did you put in Kathleen's cake?"

"Well," she said, turning to the counter and putting one hand on her hip. She enunciated each word. "Let me just tell you."

She held up the wreckage of a Scharffen Berger "Cacao Bittersweet" slab for me to inspect. "This is in the cake itself," she said. "Some I melted and added coconut."

She turned her nose up smugly and spun to the counter again, grabbing a container of half and half. "This you can use for your coffee, because I used it to replace the milk in the recipe."

She turned again and showed me some almonds, crushed in a small bowl. "These will be sprinkled on top of the frosting after I am done."

She smiled and I juggled the three to hold all at once. She turned and helpd up a little bag of Dove dark chocolate hearts.

"These will go around the outside of the cake and one in the middle," she said. "On top of the coconut and almonds."

"Wow," I said. "That is pretty deluxe."

I set the items aside and asked. "So you just love making birthday cakes, don't you?"

She wrinkled her nose. "Sometimes," she said. "Especially if it's for someone who I enjoy talking to. I like even more if they let me do what I want and make something of my own for them, or if it's something new."

"So what kind of cake is that?" I queried, nodding at it with my own half-smile.

"It's a deluxe dark chocolate cake with coconut and almonds that I used espresso for," she said. "It's delicious."

I nodded. She handed me a small bit from the center of the cake she had removed to make the final product sit flat. I took a bite.

I tasted the very moist cake first, then some bittersweet chocolate with a tinge of cocount. With no icing, it was already wonderful. The espresso was invisible in it.

"Wow," I said. "That is riiich!"

"I know," Marcie said. "Kathleen is going to love it. I made it to reflect what I think of her and her antics."

"So what you are saying is, 'Kathleen, you are a nutty, hyperactive woman with a sweet front, chunky middle and smooth exterior who goes down well with milk?" I watched her as she began her silent laugh.

She stop laughing as her breath came back, "Yes," she squeaked. "And I don't mind helping you get fatter, so have... a... cake..."

She took her breath in in deep, gasping breaths between chortles and cackles. she gave me a hug. "She totally lvoes my cakes and refuses to share them, which I completely understand."

"So you give her a cake you know she will eat all by herself?" I asked.

"No," Marcie said. "Oh, no no no. I give her a cake big enough to eat with [people at work and still have half left, which she tells everyone is for her family."

I nodded and she started cracking up. "Then she hides it and eats it all by herself until it's gone."

She took a few seconds then added,"Frank, I love her but she will eat ALL of it. I don't know how she can stand it, but she looooves my cake."

"So that is why you like her birthday so much?" I asked.

Marcie looked more pensive for a second. "I think I like to celebrate birthdays for people that have that lust for living. I like people whose appetites are as large as their personalities."

"I understand," I said.

"Kathleen can be annoying, but she's her own persona and I love that about her," she said. "So a cake for that kind of endless entertainment is nothing, let me tell you, honey."

She gave me a hug and looked up in my eyes. "Do you remember your first birthday with me? How you told me not to celebrate it?"

I certainly did.

Marcie and Rainy Days (2) (R rating)

We were lulled to sleep by the steady little drumbeat of rain on our window and the street outside. Marcie curled tightly into me and was lightly snoring long before I stopped stroking her, turned out the light and fell into dreams myself.

I woke to delicious smells after several "attempted awakenings."

The scent of cinnamon and butter filled the bedroom. I looked groggily at the clock. It was only 7 a.m., but we had fallen asleep at 9, so I had been knocked out for 10 hours. I noted the blinds were down and the curtains were drawn, making the room a dark, cozy cocoon.

Then I noticed it. There was a plate on a tray next to the bed on Marcie's old wicker chest. On it sat two steaming cinnamon rolls, two cups of coffee, two grapefruit halves and a slab of ham, some of it cut up.

Marcie came in with a pitcher of orange juice and set it down, then jumped on the bed, sliding up and getting my hands in hers, kissing me down. My hand went by instinct to her ass, and she broke the kiss.

"Ah ah ah, noooo," she said. "You're going to sit up and have breakfast with me, then we are going for a walk. Then, maybe we will have some fun. And you need to brush your teeth like, right after breakfast. It's nasty."

She crawled to the end of the bed and sat, using the chest as a table of sorts, the raised tray just right on it, height-wise. We munched in contented silence.

"Thank you for breakfast in bed," I said, kissing her cheek. "That was very nice of you. God, I slept a long time."

She nodded and mopped some crusted cinnamon and icing off her plate with a bit of ham, something I could never do. I kissed a little halo of the spices and sweets off her lips in gratitude.

"You needed your sleep," she said. "You've been studying hard and you have been working a lot."

The happy silence was near-perfect. Something was amiss.

"Where's the bubbin?" I asked, referring to Seamus by a very early nickname.

"I trapped Seamus in the kitchen so we can eat in peace," she said.

As if on cue, a clatter of wooden dowels and the clap of a child gate hitting linoleum resounded from the kitchen.

"Oh, great, now we get a side order of fur with our breakfast," she said, laughing. "Speak of the devil..."

Seamus sauntered in casually, not really looking at us, then meowed as he slowly turned to face the food and peer at us over the edge of the service. I chuckled. We locked him in the room and ate in the front room instead.

We took our walk, up sixth to Balboa Park and through a place we both called "Squirrel Canyon," feeding the little beasties a very solid meal of peanuts and dried apricots. We languished on a bench that no longer exists there, kissing and groping, then made our way home.

We stomped every puddle we came to into oblivion gleefully.

We had just gotten in the door when Marcie turned to me and kissed me. "Let's go get some movies from Ken Video," she said.

I smiled and nodded, and the rain, as if on cue, began to pour outside. She grabbed an umbrella and, bundled in her big, down-stuffed parka, pulled me into a wintry, plush kiss under it.

We journeyed to First and Beech to catch the 11. Locals drove by, nervous and clumsy in the unfamiliar wetness around them. We walked the mid-day streets alone.

No transplants dared brave our storm, lest their vapid delusions of permanent sun be dashed.
The act of ownership of an umbrella was tantamount to sacrilege, it being the first sacrifice paid to the Sun God, San Diego. Owed on arrival, it was paid in haste and regretted in time.

The bus was abandoned and no passengers waited for it until well into Hillcrest. We sat in the back, her in my lap whispering her week's conversations and tidbits we forgot to cover the Friday night before, me staring happily and dazedly at the streetscape as it scrolled by.

We only made it to University and Richmond. Marcie simply pulled the cord and said "Let's go."

"I held her hand as we crossed over to the Ralph's lot. "What's up?" I asked, a little annoyed.

"We're going to get a movie at the Wherehouse and some groceries instead, is that okay?" she asked, looking at me very faux-angrily.

"Okay, baby," I said.

"Good, now shut up and follow me like a good puppy," she said, tugging me along by my hand. I slapped her ass and she cackled. I chased her into the Wherehouse. She rented "Tacones Lejanos" (High Heels), an Almodóvar film with Victoria Abril.

At Ralph's She bought three different cheeses, a block of feta, crackers, tomatoes and olives, tapenade and spinach greens, grapes, croutons and a number of seemingly random items, then two bottles of wine. We checked out and off we went.

I played grab-ass with my free hand and chased her out to wait for the bus, which pulled up just as the sky opened. She curled up in my lap and actually napped a little, then it was time to get off.

We packed everything away in the house and let Seamus out when the rain lulled a bit, watching him deal with the unfamiliar sensation of soggy ground, his paws shaking as he sniffed the alien smells of a less dusty neighborhood.

We were driven inside when a thunderclap scared Seamus back into the house at top speed and the rain came down in giant spattering blobs of water. We dried him and he parked himself in front of the heater.

We showered and warmed ourselves, but Marcie cut off any thought of play beyond the bathing and caressing.

"Go get the VCR set up when you get out. I'm going to start cooking and making our hors d'oeuvre," she said, slipping out of my grip and the shower.

"Moooovies and Caaaaaandlessssss!" I hooted in my falsetto.

She squealed, "You're so crazy, I love when you are like this," she said.

I peeked out from the shower at her as she dressed, holding myself and biting my lower lip, catching her eye and licking my lips, pretending to hide.

"You're a dirty man," she said, playfully. "Filthy pervert!"

I snaked a hand out and groped her as tried to slide her bra up. She squealed and left.

When I had dried off, I set up the VCR, carefully disassembling the rabbit ears and connecting the adapter. I checked everything and it looked good. The tape was rewound.

Marcie came out, hanging up her pink phone as smells began to waft from the kitchen. "Go to Kashou's and get some Amaretto Disaronno, okay? I want coffee drinks with dessert."

I did, wandering in the rain and returning after a 15-minute discussion of Middle Eastern politics. Marcie was upset. "Ah, I told him to keep you there for a while," she said.

"What?" I asked. "You told Mr. Kashou to spring a conversation on me? I thought I was late..."

"It's okay. Do you smell the stuff?" she asked, her smile belying that she knew I was salivating over her work already. "I wanted it all to be ready when you came home."

"Yes, but I have no idea what you made," I said. "I can't wait."

We feasted on baguette with tapenade and bruschetta and a topping of melted Parmesan, innumerable crackers and olives and cheeses, glass after glass of wine, a wonderful array of stuffed mushrooms and a Greek salad with feta tomatoes,a few red onion slivers, and spinach.

The movie was crazy. We both loved it and took turn stuffing grapes into each others' mouths when we laughed or chortled at the action on the screen.

By the time I had made Marcie a decaf Amaretto latte and myself a Crown Royal-Amaretto cream, she had baked a plate of cookies and set them out. It was well past 10 o'clock.

"Choc-o-late chiiiip!" I coyoted. "Cooooo-kieeees!"

"Ha HA! Hah!" she laughed, stuffing one in my mouth, which I ate messily as I stood there, letting chunks fall out onto the floor like a wild man.

I handed her the drink and set my own down. She sipped it as she giggled at me.

"Li-quor and seeeeex!" I howled, making her spew latte from her nose.

I helped her clean up, but her memory was jogged.

"I was so embarrassed yesterday," she said, coughing as she recovered. "The mailman totally heard us."

I sipped my coffee and shrugged. "He heard everything," I said. "That means he sat outside for a good few minutes listening."

"I gathered that, uh- huh," she said. She moved close, looking at me in her Harriet the Spy way, whispering, "Do you think he's a pervert?"

I kissed her and whispered, "Only if he stayed after he dropped off the package."

We finished the drinks, blew out the candles, put away the cookies, rewound the movie, and left the uneaten to Seamus's not-so-tender mercies, then went to the bedroom and finished the list of rainy day to-dos in fine form.

Marcie and Rainy Days (1)

A rainy day and some time for lunch reminds me of Marcie's love of murky, stormy weather and the patter of rain on a roof. I shared that passion with her, and it made for some wonderful moments. But ours was a lively love of the weather. There was no melancholy about it.

A gray day looking out from the corner offices-something Marcie would have loved!

Marcie was big on atmosphere, and even bigger on weather. San Diego's constant stream of sunny, warm, with the occasional cloud and a light breeze, 70s, was a rut to her. The same went for me. Rainy days? Now those were special.

I remember the first time we had a rainy day together. Marcie was smiling as she looked out at a darkening sky one evening from our abode on Cortez Hill.

"Honeeeeey," she said, not so much calling as calling my attention.

"Yes, baby?" I asked, looking at her as she looked out our window, checking in all directions, delighted obviously by the impending storm.

She turned and looked at me, wide-eyed. "It's going to rain!" she whispered in her odd, excited low voice. She read the Union-Tribune's weather forecast. "It might rain all weekend. OOooooh! This is perfect! We're staying in tomorrow."

I nodded and watched as she went from window to window and stepped out on our patio, then hopped in and grabbed my shirt. "Cookies!"

"You want me to get cookies?" I asked.

"Noooooooo!" she stretched it out, then fired off her correction in a single word, a pile of giddy syllables lolling about in her gleeful mouth. "WhatkinddoyouwantIwanttobakesome?"

She stood and bit her lower lip, bouncing at her knees and clapping her hands together as she waited. It was incredibly cute, and she was acting like such a little kid...

"Choc-o-late chip!" I exclaimed, crowing it in a falsetto that sounded like a human coyote cry. I rolled my head back and around. "Chocolate chip coooooookieeeeees!"

"Ha Haaaaaah!" she cackled, grabbing me around the waist and kissing me. "Extra chips!"

"Extrrrra chiiiiips!" I chimed in.

"Extra vanilla!?" she asked, her eyes popping incredibly wider at the quesion we both knew was more of a proclamation.

"Exxxxxtra Vaniiiiilla!" I sang back.

"Okay..." she said, letting go and stepping back, thinking...

"Cinnamon rolls for breakfast and breakfast for dinner?" she asked.

"Mooooorning all day!" I said, which made her slide back over and hop, pulling my hands until I hopped, too.

The floor was a trampoline. Seamus stared with a paw raised, pointing in confusion as he mewed ineefectively, unable to penetrate our cloud of inclement celebration.

"Candles and movies?" she asked, swinging my arms.

"Moooovies and caaaandles!" I bellowed, tickling her sides until she cackled.

She stopped me and leaned in close. "Wine and nookie?" she asked, breathing in my ear, lowering her voice and nuzzling a bit.

I nipped her jawline gently, then leaned back, howling at the top of my lungs, "Liiiiquor and sex!"

There was a knock at the door. Marcie turned beet red and went to our room, embarrassed. I opened it. There stood the mail man, smiling his oddly uneven Asian grin. He handed me a little box. I smiled and thanked him, signing the slip.

"Thanks," I said, noting the box was from Gevalia. Coffee! Just in time.

"Enjoy the cookies, Mr. Pruett," he said.

I did not have any idea how much I would. Marcie, red-faced, came out and took my hand after I closed the door. We retired to the bed and the weekend began.

Marcie's favorite foods: Stuffed Treats

Marcie loved stuffed foods. Be it a chicken breast stuffed with feta cheese and sun-dried tomato with a bit of oil or white wine to cut it, or a mushroom cap filled with alouette and baked with a bit of red bell pepper chopped in the bottom, a tamale or an empanada, Marcie loved her stuffed foods. Some favorites:

1. Twice-baked potato topped lightly with with cheddar, bacon and chives, sour cream on the side or mixed into the stuffing before the second baking (halves or deep skins)
2. Twice-baked potato with Parmesan shavings atop, garlic, green onion and Italian herbs in the stuffing (halves) Served aside an Aioli-parsley covered steak and cold salad.
3. Stuffed RED bell peppers (made by me) with Spanish or yellow rice soaked in a tomato puree with tomato diced with green onions, cilantro and chives in a red wine, garlic and cayenne or paprika reduction. Topped with crushed flax, almonds and bread crumbs before baking...
4. The same as 3, but containing sauteed tiny bits of seed-removed Serrano peppers and red onions, stacked on chopped rare-cooked steak in the vertical middle of the pepper and covered with more rice and then soaked in the tomato base (it all finishes in the baking). She decided she liked this hotter variant after getting one of mine she initially was grossed out over. 5. Stuffed mushrooms of ANY sort, any size, and almost any stuffing, especially featuring roasted peppers.
6. Stuffed chicken breasts: (a) black olive tapenade, fresh tomato and alouette with a lemon-garlic-sherry-pepper sauce on the plate. Asparagus side. (b) feta, green olive tapenade processed with basil and capers, baked covered and then finished with a quick broil after being rubbed with a lemon on both sides and spiced to taste. Served cut into slices over a simple olive oil-tossed, basil-and-pasta, mixed-vegetable plate. (c) the above wine-based selection.
7. ANY empanada will do. ANY empanada, from the standard beef to the chicken and the pork.
8. Tamales, including dessert tamales such as the pineapple, cinnamon and apple, and other sweet variants.
9. Stuffed chicken in too many variants to list here, but especially with pine nuts and garlic, bread crumbs and a mix of white wine and broth. She loved those ingredients passionately
10. Stuffed pork chops with crushed rosemary and apple pieces, and a creamy sauce that included sage and peppercorns.

There are more, but I am hungry... I'll do this again tomorrow.

Instead of a post here...

I have done a Yelp review of the neighborhood that covers Marcie and my relationship a little. It's right here. I will post on Mother's Day later tonight.

Times Apart That Were Just In Time

Despite our closeness and our passion for each other, Marcie and I did spend time apart now and then. There were my trips with various entertainment companies, my degree completion trip, and various little journeys I embarked on, as well as long and painful stretches in multiple jobs, never seeing each other except in notes.

But there were other times apart that had their basis more in relief and vacation. Generally, Marcie engaged in these alone, and by design.

Sometimes they were just in time. Marcie and I would, when left submerged together in our little close-wrapped world, begin to pick at each other over stupid things.

Usually, we were conscious enough to defuse it, but sometimes a little complaint would become a huge problem. A memorably small but malignant example was my preferences in cooking, memories dredged up by my recall of her breakfast tastes. They drove her insane, and for a little while it was a wedge between us.

But if she was insane, I was simply mad. Our styles were in stark contrast, usually to my deep frustration.

Marcie did not understand my need to fry eggs until the yolks were solid. When I explained a family members' love of breaking my over-easy eggs and cutting them on the same plate as pancakes or waffles, ruining them and creating my distaste, I inspired her derision.

"FRANK!" she said. "You can eat a normal fucking egg, no one is going to soak your plate in yolk. Let me cook for you and just sit down and shut up!"

I simply asked her to scramble them from then on. That, however, was not the end of the Breakfast Wars.

She grated at my desire to fry and gobble up bacon up fast, its awful, wonderful smell driving me insane from the second she began to cook it. She liked to cook bacon painstakingly slowly, the salty pork lusciousness of the bacon wafting about for a half hour, or even 40 minutes or more if she was not hungry yet.

For me, it was hellish. I held my tongue but would come out and look, which drover her batty.

"FRANK! I will call you when it's ready, would you just GO AWAY? I am trying to cook!" she screamed one Sunday.

When one day she brought home the delicious and irresistible Hob Nob Cinnamon Roll, I made the ultimate mistake. After waiting a half hour for her to heat it up, I heated mine up in the microwave. She walked in as I took it out, her lips pursed, glaring.

"You couldn't fucking wait, could you?" she asked, crossing her arms. "You were so impatient that I could not even call a friend before you were in here, ruining your cinnamon roll with a microwave. Fine. Enjoy your cinnamon roll. What a nice breakfast we had together, Frank."

With that, she grabbed the other cinnamon roll, still in the box, and dumped it in the trash with a flourish, adding an entire Tupperware full of fresh fruit salad. She crossed her arms as I continued to eat.

"You don't even care," she accused.

"I care," I said. "But I have to work this morning, and I have twenty minutes to be there, so I went ahead and ate."

She grabbed her purse and slammed the door as she left. I wrote her a note and made it worse. "I'll see you after work," I wrote. "I'll eat with the guys, so save the steaks I see you brought down."

I actually won that one. I came home, forgetting to eat with the boys after our gig, and she gave me a hug and kissed my neck. "I'm sorry I forgot you ha to work, and I walked out because I was embarrassed," she said. "But you really drive me crazy with your impatience at breakfast."

"I know, honey," I said. "I apologize, too. But sometimes I feel like you are testing me, and I hope you're not."

It was far from over. After one morning, in which the bacon simmered for an entire hour in the pan, I walked out and saw that she was reading her People magazine. Ingredients for the rest of breakfast were out, but she had stopped when the mailman came with her gossip rag.

"Honey, can I just have some bacon and go?" I asked. "I want to go surfing, and it's getting late."

She tossed her magazine aside and started cussing under her breath. "I cannot believe how fucking impatient you are," she said. "I don't know why I even cook for you, you are such an asshole. You take the joy out of it for me, I hope you know."

I had had enough. I went into the bedroom and changed into my wet suit, grabbed my body board and gear, and headed out to Pacific beach as she cracked eggs and stirred angrily. She followed me out.

"Frank!? Where are you going?" she screamed, then threw up her hands as I walked down to the bus stop where the 30 awaited.

That night she sat me down. "Frank, the impatience has to stop, it is making me very sad," she said, beginning to sniffle.

I let her hold my hands and watched her closely, a little angry at it all. What kind of bullshit is this? I thought to myself.

We bickered over this even more and the waits got longer. Eventually, as the morning cooking process went past 11 a.m. and one and a half hours, I stopped waiting when I could not any longer, and just left, or ate cereal. The mornings grew ever more quiet and angry. Then, one Sunday, Marcie had an announcement over our sullen faces and  shared breakfast.

"I am going to see Jane next week," she said. "I need to get out and have a little vacation. You are driving me crazy."

I nodded and shrugged. She took her plate and mine and that was that. But things would be looking up, and I would soon be grateful to Jane for the ways in which, though she could not know, she was helping me and my beloved girl.

Thoughts of Food and Marcie (Breakfast Pastries)

Marcie had a special relationship with pastries. Certain pastries, that is. She could eat a few things from a few places, and none others.

Hob Nob Hill Cinnamon Rolls. Yes, she would buy these whenever she could. I will have a review on Yelp later highlighting these. We ate at Hob Nob once in a while, but this... heavenly, and to go!

She loved them, and she would pick them up, bring them home, wrap them in tin foil, add butter to the top and cook them at 400 for about 10 minutes. It was heart-stopping bad for you, heart warming tasty.

Another favorite pastry was, of course, croissants. Any kind would do, but the plain kind was best, or occasionally one stuffed with almond paste and bits was good.

Finally, donuts. "Glazed Raised, Rainbow Sprinkle and Chocolate" was her response to my queries on her wishes. Off I would go to Golden Donut down the street, delivering her precious cargo untouched and whole.

I'm hungry for bad things now...

Thoughts of Food and Marcie (Breakfast)

A friend recently asked me to recall the foods Marcie loved to eat and those she preferred to not. I have been trying to sit down and write it, but what I realize is that just about everything I eat every day had a mark on it from Marcie, from enthusiastic approval to distaste and dislike or hatred bordering on fanaticism. There was little in between with her.
 
So, this recent request has me evaluating everything I eat through that lens of Marcie's tastes. It's sometimes very telling about the impact she has had on me. Rather than just spit out a list, I have decided to post for a bit about Marcie's food tastes as I live my life, and eat, without her.

Yesterday, for instance, I went with some new neighborhood friends to Rosie O'Grady's for Sunday brunch. We had a variety of egg and potato dishes, some soda breads and sides. I thought of Marcie's breakfast tastes the whole time.

Ham had to be thick and delicious and from a ham steak, not a pressed can. She preferred bacon thick and crunchy, not thin and greasy or crispy. Marcie loved Spam, but she would get ham first, if possible. She liked sausage cooked in some water, the thick links if possible, occasionally she made patties from ground tubes.

Marcie loved breakfast, but she was picky with her preparation. Scrambled eggs had to be fluffy, not greasy, not overdone and not hard. She liked over easy eggs. Omelets were to include mushrooms and cheese of any variety would do. Marcie's  favorite way of cooking her eggs was in the pan used for the breakfast meat, draining the excess fat (mostly) first, but not scraping the pan. I once commented, early on. She lectured me as she cooked, then shooed me out of the kitchen

"There is no way I am letting all that flavor go down the drain or into the grease container," she said once. "If it's not healthy, too bad. I like it, and that's healthy enough for me. It's ridiculous that people agonize over every little detail when they eat, it just takes away from the whole experience."

I never brought it up again.

Potatoes either had to be roasted or home fries, deep- or pan-cooked. "I hate, absolutely hate, mushy potatoes and greasy, soft hash browns," she commented once at a restaurant.

Marcie always had some fruit with breakfast. Strawberries were always welcome, and she occasionally liked to make an entire fruit salad from whatever was in the house. But Marcie squeezed orange juice fresh or avoided it.

"No matter how expensive or good it is supposed to be, it always tastes like tin from a carton," she said. "It's like I am drinking part of the orange juice factory with every gulp."

She had coffee black, no cream, no sugar, or would take a caramel macchiato as a treat with a light pastry as a whole breakfast.

Marcie loved oatmeal with raisins and loved making biscuits, hand-dropped from scratch or Bisquick, occasionally using a cookie cutter to make round ones. She was a baker and, from time to time, made scones, cinnamon sugar for me and chocolate chip for both of us, cranberry or dried cherry and almond for herself.

Marcie, oddly, was not good with French toast, but she loved it. I would make it for her, using Texas toast if possible, and serving thick, crispy slices of bread dipped in some sugar, egg wash and cinnamon, then doused in maple syrup and melted butter with a sprinkle of powdered sugar on top.

For me, Marcie made waffles. I could make them, but she liked to make them for me, as one of my favorites and as a little way of telling me she was happy, because she herself preferred pancakes. In fact, she bought a large griddle just to make pancakes on, which is in its box, clean but well-used.

She loved crepes, especially fresh from the Hillcrest Farmer's Market, but she did not make them herself.

Basic Marcie breakfast rules were:

1. Butter, real butter, is always the only butter.
2. Similarly, the only syrup is maple, even if it is not pure.
3. Eggs done fast, bacon done slow.
4. Potatoes are firm or crispy or sometimes both.
5. Waffles are just browned, like pancakes.
6. Juice is fresh, or not at all.
7. Fruit will be had if fresh juice is not. Old fruit makes good salad.
8. The meat residue is a flavoring, not a health hazard. Cook the eggs in it.

That is about all I can recall for now. Live by these rules and by her diet, and you live her joy for cooking. I never realized how much I missed those elaborate Sunday mornings until yesterday. It's hard to think about.

F.