An Unmarried Woman

“Big plans for the 4th?!”  he asked, with a Cheshire Cat grin.

“Ask me on the 3rd,” I muttered, my mouth full of dental instruments.  It was Monday. I still had my head cold, was getting a silver filling replaced and my Match.com guy was interested – in someone else.  Did I really want to think of my first major holiday alone?   No.

But today is Tuesday.  The table is set for a madcap, potluck dinner with seven dear friends – or at least six. The seventh guest is my co-host for the evening, someone who “friended” me on facebook while he was traveling in Athens last month with his nephew. We are meeting for the first time at 6 o’clock tonight, roughly the same time my overnight guest and her dog Sofi arrive.

He has already written two poems for me. See if you can find me in this one:

Tulsa is where she says she comes from.

Really, she comes from everywhere…

Always, has, always will.

Creating her own sense of place

Each and every whistle stop of her journey…

You’d think she’d settle down by now.

Continue reading

May 17th, 2010

A glass of wine would have been fewer calories, but it didn’t come with these quotes.

Don’t eat anything you cannot lift. Miss Piggy
All you need is love. John Lennon
You are what you are when no one is looking.  Robert C Edwards
Life is too important to be taken seriously.  Oscar Wilde
Do or Do Not.  There is no try. Yoda
Hope is a waking dream. Aristotle

Lots of wisdom for 434 calories and a couple of bucks (American. Canadian coins are no longer accepted).

I am in the dining car of Amtrak’s Cascade Express.  My seatmate in car 9 had the look of a seasoned traveler; a nice way of saying he was smelly. Before I could decide how to deal with that I was sharply whacked on the head when the fellow in front of me declined his seat as I reached in the bag at my feet.   A swift kick to the head might be in order some days but the last time I bet on No. 9 was at a Derby Day party.  I raced for the comfort of a window seat in the bistro between cars 2 and 3.  So I’m watching the scenery, craning my neck occasionally to see what is around each bend, with an oatmeal cookie and hot coffee at my side.   The sun is poking through the trees.  I am on my way home after a weekend in Seattle.

The gypsy in my soul is waking up with each sip of java.

My sister recently repeated the advice she had bestowed on me in the early 1980’s.  “Settle down and you’ll meet someone.”  The encore was prompted by me sharing Buz’s comment about my two-city status. I reminded Shelley I didn’t follow her advise then; probably wouldn’t now.  Besides, I’d argue today, I met lots of people the past two days.

First there was the bicycle taxi owner on the waterfront.  He offered me tips on where to ride my recently inherited bike upon my return to Portland.  It was fun to hear him call out “Hey Portland” whenever our paths crossed later in the day.  A real gem was Jan, a Seattle Opera Volunteer, whose last name I should have caught. Her telling of the first act of “Amelia,” while we hovered close to a small theatre monitor in the lobby, was as engaging as what the audience heard inside. (I was uncharacteristically early to the theatre but had been given the wrong show start date by the hotel concierge so row G had a vacancy until intermission).  Jan also supplied added color with local production tidbits not in the program.

There was also Michael, the music history professor waiting tables at Tavolata, who promised he’d like nothing better than to email me suggestions for new music to download via iTunes.  And who can forget Desmond at the hotel front desk when by day two he was blowing me air kisses as I stepped off the elevator.  This after I handed him his head for botching part of my Sunday plan.  We indeed kissed and made up.

And least you think the trip was just brief, new encounters with no threads to my past or future, Tavolata is one of four restaurants (see the link below) owned by Chef Ethan Stowell, the brother of Portland friend and Oregon Ballet Theatre Artistic Director Christopher Stowell.  I also meet at noon on Sunday with Tulsa friend and caterer Angie Johnson of eat2u.  Connecting by phone Friday on business alerted us to the fact we’d both be in Seattle for the weekend.  Her ex-husband of 19 ½ years bought us a drink and took our photo near Pike and 4^th. (I wish we had a photo of Dean taking the photo; he did quite a back bend to get my lime green walking shoes in the photo.)

There is one person I didn’t meet this time in Seattle but we still got to know each other better through the trip.

Where to next?  After work tonight I am going to get out a map and consult the Whippets.

What about you?  Will you travel by boat, train, car or plane?  Where to?  And with whom will you share the journey?

I hope you’ll post photos! Lots…   Traveling is great.  Sharing makes it better.

As always, Trix

http://www.ethanstowellrestaurants.com/

April 26^th, 2010

Some people are avoiding air travel these days.  I don’t have that luxury, nor would I consider it if I did.  The sticky wicket for many:  logging more ground time than moments up in the air.

Growing up overseas meant LONG flights, such as Sydney to LA.  As a young working professional for Mapco,  I racked up travel hours well into five digits.  Now I spend at least two working days a month computing between Tulsa and Portland.  That doesn’t count the time to pack and unpack, to get to the airport and from the airport and to stand in line(s).  A puzzling piece of glass art in my carry-on tote this trip kept me at PDX security an extra 10 minutes.

“Why do you fly UPS?!” a colleague teased me in a text message he sent last month while I was in transit.  He was  indirectly marveling that I was traveling at roughly the warp speed of 100 MPH between cities.

And no, I don’t travel UPS.  Despite over two million miles with American (according to my Advantage account), I normally respond well to the cattle call of Southwest.  And “luv” them I do for on-time delivery, even if the comedic antics of the flight attendants get to be a bit much when replayed upon each take off of a multi-stop flight.

A Gallup Poll trainer I met last year shared the skinny on why SW can be on time: financial incentives for employees.  According to him,  SW pilots are rewarded for on-time arrivals and fuel economies.  Ever been on a plane that arrived early at the gate only to be held captive waiting for the ground crew to hook up the jet way? Apparently this is uncommon with  SW.  The minute the jet way is connected to the plane the crew can cut to half power – not before – thereby saving fuel. Consequently,  SW captains make sure the ground crew is prepared when tail winds prevail.

Another important variable in the time equation is layover time in your connecting city.  When booking today’s PDX-TUL route, 20 minutes in DFW seemed ideal, except for someone who checks luggage.  I sucked it up and booked a later DFW-TUL flight to improve the chances of all three of us  (myself and my two 50# travel companions traveling steerage) arrived in Tulsa together. As I write this I am somewhere over the Rockies.  I’ll report back later on the success of my logic.

What doesn’t seem to matter is what city I change plans journeying between Portland and Tulsa.  Regardless of whether it is Dallas, Houston, Phoenix, St Louis, Albuquerque, Las Vegas, Denver, Kansas City or St Louis, the end result is the same.  When I study the map of the lower 48 in the back of the airline magazine, the straight distance I trace between my two cities appears to be PDX-DEN-TUL.  Had I gone through Denver on my last epic adventure I would have had time to learn to snow board.  As it was, I spent the day in DFW.

If you find yourself in this position, my best advise is to concentrate on the journey and not the destination.  Regardless of which gate you land at, hop the train to Terminal D.  It is newer, lighter, and more airy.  You might meander through the stain glass labyrinth, price your perfume in the duty-free shop… but eventually make your way to the exit.   Save dining on a cheeseburger for a time you can fulfill your carving with one from Goldie’s, Lucky’s in Tulsa or Blue Hour in Portland.  Get away from the crowds and head to the dining room in the Grand Hyatt for a respite!  If you hear an automated voice upon reading the words “Grand Hyatt,” you’ve been on the DFW train a time or two.  “Now leaving for D gates and the Grand Hyatt.”

After passing the security checkpoints, stop.  Look up and you’ll enjoy whimsical art. Suspended from the ceiling.  (Seeing my upward gaze prompted a fast walking flight attendant to stop and look skyward.  Her expression seemed to say, “Well, what do you know?!”).

Yes, with a little effort, a dreaded, long layover in DFW can refresh your spirit with art, exercise and good food.

And if you are ever delayed in Portland International Airport, don’t despair.  Though I haven’t a clue why PDX edged ahead to win the “Best Airport” moniker I think contributing factors must have been the live music, on-site spa, shopping that attracts even non-travelers from the city and burbs (really) and the two-way toilet flush mechanisms.  And did I mention no sales tax?

If you still are not sold on finding the up side to airport exploration, think back to the Valentine’s Day article published in Tulsa World.  Some travelers have found love down on the ground, across the crowded space of a bustling air terminal.

Bon Voyage!

Trix

April 12, 2010

My last scavenger hunt was 40 years ago. Somehow I rigged the assignment process to ensure my partner was sixth grader Paul Egers.  He was a tall, blonde Dutch boy.   We were as much an item as two can be at 11 and 12 years old.

We lived in Sungei Gerong on the Indonesian island of Sumatra.  Our quaint ex-pat compound had no restaurants, no TV, no shops.  We entertained ourselves in much the same way as our parents, filling hours sharing meals (getting paid to eat frog legs), playing games (remember Twister, multiple solitaire?), listening to music (I swooned over Davy Jones and the Monkeys), reading books (below, above and at our grade level), bargaining with toucans (peddlers), swimming and drifting around the camp on foot or bicycle during the cooler hours of the day.  The Musi River separated us from villages, like Palembang, to the west.  The Stanvac refinery delineated residential blocks from work areas and the jungle stretched out beyond fence borders to the east and north.  Days were simple but full.

I fell back on that kind of resourcefulness Monday night last week in Tulsa and decided to make the evening with a friend a bit of a “culinary” scavenger hunt. We were hunting for something new, something familiar, good service, tasty food, good value…NOT frog legs.

Yelp suggested Tei Kei’s on Utica Avenue for happy hour.  We arrived at six o’clock and were offered our choice of almost any table in the exquisite, multi-million dollar Asian-inspired building.  My companion mumbled something about a not-so-recent food poisoning story that seemed blown out of portion.  I chalked it up to many food establishments hitting a bit of a lull between Easter Sunday and tax day, something I learned representing Polo Grill Restaurant in the 1990’s . “Happy hour prices ended at 6:00,” our waitress declared.  It was 6:05.  We ordered wine, deciding to save our appetites for the next stop.

We pointed the car north toward Trula in the recently reopened Mayo Hotel,   a Tulsa icon that fell to rack and ruin for over 20 years.  In September it opened as a mixed-use downtown destination after $40 million in renovations.  Part hotel, part residential, the stately building at 5^th and Cheyenne Avenue hosts a restaurant, Topeca coffee bar, the historic Crystal Ballroom and a new rooftop bar, dining room and outdoor terrace.

The last day the hotel was open in the early 1980’s my parents treated my sister, her family and me to Sunday champagne brunch.  Stepping inside the lobby this week was almost like falling into a rabbit hole.  I could remember that January afternoon as clearly as brunch at Philbrook this past Sunday.  A small group was camped out in the bar, looking happy, but we shared the restaurant with only one other couple. Nonetheless, a waitress who lived nearby assured us, “Things are happening down here.”  The formula for rejuvenating a city’s core is the same town to town.   The risk taker, the visionary, the optimist establishs the order in which it all comes together – residents, retail, entertainment.  Thursday was proof of that when the new Driller stadium opened for its inaugural game to a sold out audience.  Cains Ballroom co-owner Alice Rodgers excitedly captured the community enthusiasm with the tone of her post on facebook, which read, “25,000 people were milling around downtown last night!”

After a salad course (the fried green tomatoes were both visually appealing and filling) we were off to the Chalkboard, an uptown boutique hotel restaurant developer Paul Coury brought back into existence about 11 years ago by enticing John Phillips to return to Tulsa .  Somehow fate smiled on both the Mayo Hotel and the Ambassador Hotel and spared both from the wrecking ball when floods, fires and rodents did their damnedest to accelerate the affects of years of neglect.

At the Chalkboard Restaurant we found fellow diners and many familiar faces.  Three generations of a local family toasted a grandfather’s birthday, couples leaned close, and businessmen plotted and planed, paged through text messages and the like.

For a night cap we traveled slightly south to Vintage 1840, a wine bar on Boston Avenue  for the home-like comfort of an overstuffed antique sofa and nostalgic, recorded music.  From there we followed the allure of live music across the street to Mercury Lounge where the crowd was friendly, the musicians engaging.

As we found on Monday,  life is a banquet.  Sample as much of what your city has to offer as you can and tell me what you find.  Maybe get a group together and each pick a destination.  VooDoo Doughnuts is on my list this week and I anticipate LOTS to share with you about that Portland icon!

Bon appetite and happy hunting, Trix

Check these out:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mayo_Hotel

http://www.themayohotel.com/

http://www.hotelambassador-tulsa.com/

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March 28^th, 2010

If you are reading this, you have at least considered cheating. The kind of person that gives in and then truly enjoys the experience guilt free is my kinda person!  Life is short and self control, according to Switch authors Chip and Dan Heath, is an exhaustible resource.   Liberate yourself! Confess with a post on this blog wall (emailing me doesn’t count). “The last food craving I surrendered to was….”

I may have outgrown it but there have been a few late nights, often after a healthy dose of culture, when I have wanted and had a chili cheese omelette.  The addiction started nearly 30 years ago in the French Quarter restaurant the Coffee Pot (thanks Lisa and Chris).  Before that in college I was known for dunking Pepperidge Farm Nassau cookies in a tub of Cool Whip.  Disgusting?  Which story?  Got me beat? Prove it, I say!

The trigger for this self confession was my last indulgence.  Earlier this month, I was cruising down Memorial Drive in Tulsa.  That’s when it hit me:  the scent and then the idea of a hamburger!   South of the two miles known as “Auto Row,” the heavily traveled street is peppered with fast food establishments and retail.

Now back when he was dancing with Ballet West in Salt Lake City, Joel hit Wendy’s regularly for a double cheeseburger.  When we met, however, he was living a beefless life.   “I am  sure to sprout feathers and gills any minute,” I told my mother, commenting on our dinner menus after a few months.  Somewhere in the first year that changed. When I was pregnant we each had an emergency Burger Street cheeseburger in the freezer.  At the red light I texted Joel.  “Carving a hamburger.”

Typos are my trademark; Joel knew what I meant and accepted the assignment to find the ideal Portland burger for Wednesday night. By holding out 48 hours I was contributing to my knowledge of my new hometown, not just given in to a craving.

Speaking of research, many people may not know the shapely, dancer-looking author, publicist and NPR commentator Connie Cronley (Sometimes A Wheel Falls Off is a delicious read) has a hamburger named after her.  I suspect as many people don’t know the hamburger was invented in Tulsa, Oklahoma. It was! If Michael Wallis says it was (and the Dallas Morning News publishes it), who dares question his powerful, deep, entrancing voice that can only be the voice of authority?

Michael knows his stuff;  Athens, Texas can only lay claim to a “patty melt,” which is ground beef served between two pieces of bread.  Doesn’t count.  No bun, no burger.  Michael’s research revealed Oscar Weber Bilby was the first person to serve a real hamburger.  The date was July 4^th, 1891 – how American!  But wait; does this dethrone the hot dog?

When Wednesday found me back in Portland we took a cab across the Willamette River to… Burgerville.  Not the Tulsa legendary Weber’s in Brookside but a Portland icon, Joel assured me.  The Yukon Gold Fries were very tasty but my money’s still on the burger at Blue Hour.  And in Tulsa, it is hard to beat a Baxter’s Interurban Grill Theta Burger – my way, sans pickles.

Bon appetite!  Trix

www.burgerville.com www.webersoftulsa.com www.bluehouronline.com

Tidbit: In French literature, Blue Hour means any time of heightened emotions.

www.baxtersgrill.com

www.conniecronley.com/about.php

www.michaelwallis.com/

www.chrisbrogan.com/switch-a-book-review/

March 14th, 2010

Last night I had the most wonderful time on the town in Portland with my second husband. We attended Hooray for Bollywood, the annual gala for Portland Center Stage. Lavish silks and twinkling lights draped the Amory, costumed dancers and musicians mingled with exquisitely, colorfully dressed guests. The mood was festive, the giving generous, the performances sprinkled throughout the evening of the caliber I’ve known to expect of the theatre troupe since Steve took me to the season preview evening early last year.

And the food? The little girl who insisted her food groups not touch each other on the plate forty years ago, sampled every offering at the Indian food buffets. The chicken curry with Mahogany rice, cilantro sauce, pistachios and cashews was ambrosia. (I was also recently introduced to mouth-watering cuisine at Portland’s East India Company Bar & Grill http://eastindiacopdx.com/index.html.  The setting alone ensures a lovely experience, only to be surpassed by expertly prepared food that pairs nicely with Chateau Indigo Chardonnay 2008 – the first Indian wine I have tasted.)

But wait! Cut, rewind.  “Second husband?” you say. Yes, a tall, swelt, salt-and-pepper-haired fellow who says I’m the “ideal date.” I know better; I am an easy 25 years older than his dream catch but since I’m still fairly new to town, having me on his arm allows him to glide seamlessly through a sea of faces belonging to forgotten names. When Steve says, “You’ve met Tracey? No…?!” that is my cue to extend a hand, introduce myself and simultaneously solicit the mystery person’s identity.

We’ve been an occasional couple since we met during my first visit to Portland in May 2008. For me it was love at first site of a building he’d designed (he also designed the renovation of the armory for PCS). I was accompanying a friend condo-hunting on a tour of The Casey. Steve’s reputation for green buildings meant even the sparkling stainless trash chute  allowed residents to direct trash into one of three recycle channels.

It was on the 13th floor that I found a two-bedroom I could live with quite nicely in. Subsequently, for MONTHS Joel avoided meeting Steve, sure if we ganged up on him, it would cost him a multi-million dollar mortgage. By early 2009, Steve began to wonder if I truly had a husband but continued to invite or escort me to functions while Joel traveled for business. Our first movie date was to see Slum dog Millionaire at the Living Room Theatre so a Bollywood themed fundraiser was rather fitting.

Every single woman my age should have a fellow to call on, a man who easily makes an even number at a dinner party. A two-by-two parade is something our generation, in particular, is more comfortable with at this stage of life.

“My married friends’ husbands aren’t too keen to include me,” said a Wyatt third-floor neighbor. “I’ve loved being single for over 20 years (following a marriage and two less-than-perfect involvements). “The husbands seem to fear I’ll give their wives ideas,” she said with eyes mischievously twinkling. She’s right; many separated and newly divorced friends tell me, “I’ve been approached by women saying they wish they were brave enough to walk away.” Voluntarily ending an established relationship, especially one tied to a desirable lifestyle, financial security and guaranteed companionship is frightening. Once you’ve done that you then have to muster courage regularly to walk solo into a room with a dozen to several hundred party goers assembled for a social event. It does take chutzpah! I know; I did it myself just a week before Bollywood when I attended the Tulsa C.A.R.E.S. 13th Red Ribbon Gala in Tulsa.

It isn’t easy but it becomes less difficult and you owe it to yourself to show up. Don’t miss out on celebrating and supporting your community or attending the events that benefit your career. Give the evening dresses in your closet an occasional airing out and yourself a night on the town. Don’t let the parade pass you by.

As always, Trix

Worth becoming familiar with:

To date this season Portland Center Stage has produced stellar performances of Ragtime, Snow Falling on Cedars, The Receptionist & Alfred Hitchcock’s The 39 Steps. See what is still in store this season at www.pcs.org

The Casey is a 16-story, 61 unit luxury condominium tower in the heart of Portland’s Pearl District. Designed by GBD Architects, the Casey was the first residential building in North America awarded a LEED Platinum rating. www.thecasey.com

Tulsa C.A.R.E.S., Tulsa Center for AIDS Resources Education and Support, delivers social services to people affected by HIV and AIDS.
 With the advancement of medicine, many of those infected with HIV/AIDS, are living longer, healthier lives, which in effect creates a greater need for support services in this population. According to the Centers for Disease Control (CDC), in 2006, there were an estimated 56,300 new HIV infections in the United States. There are approximately 2,274 people living with the HIV infection and 2,247 living with AIDS in Oklahoma, according to the Oklahoma Department of Human Services Fact Sheet (Dec. 31, 2007). According to the Community Service Council of Greater Tulsa, it is estimated that nearly 1,700 people are living with HIV/AIDS in the Tulsa Metropolitan area with a growth of 100 new cases each year.
www.tulsacares.org

3.14.10

Being a good guest is imperative unless you don’t wish to be asked back.

Among most of my friends the custom of showing up with a host or hostess gift is alive and well. Some may consider it quaint. Perhaps it is old-world, as I cannot say where it started, the practice of giving a token of appreciation for an invitation to a dinner party, cocktail party or holiday gathering. Can you?

I may run late scrambling to find a gift bag or a bit of ribbon, but showing up empty handed when someone has invited you to their house? Unacceptable. I did it once last year. Still pains me to think of it.

Oregon is known for Marionberries, a blackberry named for the county in which it was developed. Safe to say Salem, Oregon is the home of the Marionberry; 90% of the world’s production is grown near Oregon’s capital city. Read more at http://www.oregon-berries.com/

Failing to stop by Little Green Grocer in my neighborhood rushing to leave town, I stopped instead at the PDX airport gift shop after clearing security check points, loaded my briefcase with a deluxe hostess gift pack of Marionberry jam and boarded my flight to Kansas City. In the town where supposedly “everything is up-to-date,” the airport layout is a bit odd. It’s not uncommon in Kansas City to deplane, leave your arrival gate, walk to your next gate down the concourse and have to go through security, again. Check points are at every few gates instead of the entrance to main concourses.

Can you guess what happened?

“Madame, did you realize you are carrying more than 4 ounces of this product? We cannot let you board the plane with it,” said the security officer with, I swear, a trace of thought-you’d-get-this-past-us” attitude.

I was too dumbfounded to protest. The jam was confiscated! I only hoped Kim Smith, my Tulsa hostess and Kansas City native, would find the story plausible and humorous. Her hostess gift joined many other jars of jam in the plastic tub at the security officer’s post. “Someone should warn shoppers in PDX,” I thought to myself, that day and every day since that I’ve passed the airport gift shop.

In addition to gourmet delicacies, a bottle of wine or flowers are welcome gifts. It’s good advice to take into account the host’s variety preferences and house color scheme. My friend Steve Domreis bought me white tulips before a dinner party – something I never would have bought myself but an exquisite addition to our décor of rich golds and reds.

Mary Hinckley arrived at brunch one Sunday with a bag of gourmet granola. I enjoyed it many times with pear yogurt at breakfast for nearly a month and thought of her each and every time.

During my last visit to Tulsa artist Matt Moffett presented, our lunch hostess Jennifer Palmer with a delightful homemade music CD. He had one for me, too. Today, in shorts and tennies with the stereo cranked up, I did the “swim” to a magical mix of Petula Clark oldies. In doing so I remembered the many laughs we’d had over a yummy lunch on a sunny Friday afternoon.  And this is the reason I shop at Trader’s Joe for canned tuna for Sarah Graves, another hostess with the mostess.

I think it is a joy and privilege to acknowledge each invitation with a thoughtful  gift. What are some you’ve especially enjoyed giving or receiving?  Yours, Trix

March 12th, 2010

Reentry was a bit bumpy. It was Friday night. The restaurant was Lucy’s Table.

“Six, six thirty is the roughest time the first year,” a Portland friend told me. She was remembering back to her separation 20 plus years earlier. “It’s the time when you are accustomed to transitioning from work to family time and you find yourself alone.”

“Yes, a reservation for one at 7 o’clock tomorrow,” I told the maitre d’ at Lucy’s. I was walking by the restaurant Thursday night. I popped in on an impulse fueled by determination to tackle twilight funk head on.

Double-checking the address before setting out Friday night, I cringed. “Voted Most Romantic Restaurant” boasted the restaurant’s website, of course. Midday I’d happily spent at a ladies’ holiday tea at the racquet club, trying to convince myself the 40 or so impeccably dressed women in attendance couldn’t all be happily married. I was destined to make a day and night of experiencing my new status.

I am no stranger to dining solo. Traveling in my twenties for business and on holiday, I wouldn’t be caught dead ordering room service. Even if the nearest Zagat-rated restaurant was in the next state (and sometimes it was because MAPCO assignments often sent me to coal mines in dry counties) I made an evening of dining out. My apartment kitchen at Center Plaza in Tulsa was decorated with framed menus autographed by chefs. I was a food and kitchen tour junkie. And because I didn’t bury my head in a book, I was also approachable. In Memphis I had my first Oysters Rockefeller at the insistence of restaurant owner Frank Gristanti. He took it upon himself to orchestrate my first dining experience in his place when it was in an industrial district not far from Delta Refinery. While chatting I learned the fellow well publicized for paying $50,000 for a bottle of wine began his training at roughly the same age I was at the time – early twenties. In Florence I was shown the city’s night scene by a Roman I met sitting at a trattoria community table.

Sure there are some downsides to dining without a companion. You don’t get a “taste” of dishes other than those you order for yourself. On the other hand, your entrée selection will never be second best to your husband’s choice. And I do find it sometimes necessary to tell the waiter when I head to the powder room, least one panic and think I’m skipping out on the bill. There are also still some servers who mistakenly think woman diner = bad tipper. Convert them by being charming, solicitous and confident rather than demanding or defensive. If they don’t rise to the occasion, don’t – do not reward them for bad behavior.

When evening falls, follow the advise on the paper cocktail napkin. Make your favorite thing for dinner: a reservation. Do it especially if you’ve recently occupied every waking minute with work. Work can get your through some tough daylight hours but all work… well you know. Spiff up a bit and whatever you do, leave the book at home, turn off the cell phone. Then sashay to your table. Put the napkin in your lap (hopefully it’s black and won’t cover you with annoying lint), take a deep breath and look around. Take in the setting (art, light fixtures, flowers…) and if you make eye contact with someone, smile. Chances are very good you’ll spot a couple painfully dining in silence. Be thankful you aren’t them. Then stay engaged. Ask your waiter what the best dish really is, what wine pairs perfectly with it and call him or her by name. Get the history of  the restaurant, the chef…Have fun! My waiter at Lucy’s Table sent me home with nearly a whole loaf of delicious fresh bread. Tonight’s special is Seared Ahi Tuna with White Bean and Ginger Succotash and Avocado Mouse.

In Portland treat yourself to Lucy’s Table, 1001, Paragon, WildWood, Gracie’s, Blue Hour, Isabell’s, Nel Centro. In Tulsa ~Wild Fork, Keo’s, Palace Cafe, Bodean’s, Lucky’s and Stonehorse won’t disappoint.

Bon appetite! As always, Trix

February 21, 2010

“Why did you give me all the decent knives?’

“Because you are the one who cooks?” I responded.

Joel moved out in January to a studio four blocks away, allowing us to share cab rides on the few occasions we cannot walk to a destination, like tonight when we attend a dinner for Portland Opera. Of the six plus tons of things in my flat, he chose only to take his computer, printer, some clothes (Portland is very casual. Suits, ties, shirts and dress shoes remain in our closet), a French press and “his” frying pan.

When I was first single I baked soufflés in my Center Plaza studio in Tulsa. My kitchen had two, divided, feet of counter space, no dishwasher and doubled as the entry hall. Those were the days when I rewarded myself for finishing a CPA exam review module with a purchase from William-Sonoma and a dance around the place to Marley’s “Jammin’.”

When did I stop cooking? Mid-90’s. Why? A writing gig with long-distance, evening interviews. Joel’s not the type to complain or sit moping, waiting for someone to cook for him. He discovered new talents; as I earned the family extra money tap, tap, tapping away on the computer, writing advertorials, pitching editorial. It was during the days when those of us with a home office enjoyed the benefits and challenges but had to pretend to be in a “real office.” Many such efforts were foiled when Clay and his friends forgot to close the bathroom door, regularly bungee jumped off the grand piano, slammed the back door and never paused to think a professional colleague wouldn’t bellow “MOM!” from the next cubical. I think I still have a note Clay slide under my office door that read, “Sorry for swearing so loudly! I love you. Clay.”  I know some of you have lived through this experience.

Ten years later it would be Clay who would walk into my office to say, “I have a friend over. Please knock and wait for me to answer my bedroom door.” Cool.  Back to cooking.

My Valentine’s gift from Joel arrived yesterday. This morning I bounded out of bed, eager to take its marvelously sculptured metal body with stainless accents for a test drive in the kitchen. Serious business that the perfect fry pan is, I even read some of the owner’s manual before firing up the stove.

To say it performed like greased lighting is misleading. Beauty of it is, no grease, butter, olive oil, high-flash point grape seed oil…none of that, is required for my flying pan to produce perfect eggs that slip onto the plate. My Danish Scanpan* Ceramic Titanium 8” Professional Poele (Fry Pan) is inspired and cleans up in a snap (best “done while the pan is still warm”). Every kitchen should have one. Shop today at http://www.scanpancookware.com/

On my next visit to the kitchen I am going to edit the spice collection to Martha Stewart guidelines. Past a year spices & pantry items lose their desired flavors.  I’ll also make time today to buy frozen shrimp, a staple suggested for a quick meal by Chef Ellie Krieger and my Tulsa roommate, New Orleans native Judith. I figure by Mother’s Day I’ll be dropping hints about wanting a microplane grater. For now, I am taking myself to lunch at Lovejoy Bakery. Best I keep cooking a bit of a novelty, don’t you agree?  In the meantime, please write and tell me what other kitchen “essentials” I should stock.

Enjoy your Sunday! Trix

*Chefscatalog.com writes, “On the forefront of cookware technology, this Danish company uses a patented ceramic titanium nonstick process to craft pots and pans that not only offer foolproof release, but also sear, brown, deglaze and make sauces. The incredibly smooth nonstick surface stands up to years of everyday service. Made with extra-thick pressure cast aluminum for excellent heat distribution, Scanpan classic cookware provides outstanding heat retention without hot spots. Tempered glass lids let you monitor the cooking process. Stainless-steel rims surround the glass lids and phenolic stay-cool handles, adding to the durability. PFOA-free.

2.12.10 Guest writer Candace Conley of http://girlcancook.blogspot.com

My good friend, Tracey, is experiencing one of those rites of passage…not a rite for everyone but certainly for many of us. She has found herself (at fifty-wonderful) on her own…an unmarried woman. So to everyone who is going through similar circumstances, I share my therapy of cooking…doing it, talking about it and blogging about it. Certainly, not everyday (obviously) but when there is a time to say something I do and this is one of those times!

Now, on to the recipe…this is a “do something nice for yourself” meal. It is a wonderfully easy and delicious recipe for grilled tuna plus it’s super healthy!!

The tuna needs to be very fresh, preferably sushi-grade but stay away from all of those endangered ones…like bluefin, big eye, etc. The pesto and salsa are good with lots of different things so make the whole recipe and save it. You can freeze pesto, you know…get some of those old-fashioned ice cube trays, divide the pesto among the cubes, cover with foil or some wrap that won’t come off easily and slip it in the freezer. You then have individual servings of pesto whenever you want. Just pop it out of the tray and let it come to room temperature in a small container or plate on your counter. It will keep for months in the freezer! The salsa is so good…you’ll want to put it on everything so it won’t last long.

Grilled Tuna with Pesto and Mediterranean Tomato Salsa (for An Unmarried Woman)
You need to make the salsa and pesto before you grill the tuna…which you only want to sear.

SALSA
2 lbs. tomatoes, ½ inch dice
6 green onions, thinly sliced
2 cups loosely packed Italian parsley
½ cup loosely packed mint
1 serrano chile, seeded and minced
2 tbsp. freshly squeezed lemon juice
2 tbsp. freshly squeezed lime juice
2 tbsp. olive oil (get a nice fruity one)
Kosher salt and pepper, to taste
On a cutting board, pile up the tomatoes, onions, herbs and chile. Using a large knife, chop all ingredients together until they become salsa consistency…chopping is a great stress reliever. Transfer to a medium sized bowl and add lemon and lime juice and olive oil. Season with salt and pepper.

PESTO
3 large garlic cloves
½ cup nuts (pecans, walnuts, pinenuts or any other nut you like)
2/3 cup Parmigiano Reggiano, coarsely grated
3 cups loosely packed fresh basil leaves
2/3 cup olive oil
Kosher salt and pepper to taste

With food processor running, drop in garlic and finely chop. Stop motor and add nuts, cheese, salt, pepper, and basil, then process until finely chopped. With motor running, add oil, blending until incorporated.

TUNA
One 6-ounce tuna steak, ¾ inch thick
Olive oil for brushing
Kosher salt and pepper
Light a grill (indoor or out). Brush the tuna steak with the olive oil on both sides and season with salt and pepper.
Grill tuna over moderately high heat until cooked to desired doneness. 1 minute per side for rare to medium rare; 2 minutes per side for medium.
Service:
Spoon salsa on plate, place tuna on salsa and top with a spoonful of pesto.

Pour yourself a glass of wine (Pinot Noir is great with tuna and these earthy flavors) and enjoy!