Jar of Goodness 1.12.25: Shelda’s Chocolate Party

. . . The weekly virtual “gratitude jar.”

This week, I’m expressing thanks for friendship and community.

The chocolates were just the focal point to gather us together, the way a candle, a cross, a mandala, or a swinging watch on a chain serves to draw one’s attention.

The invitation arrived from our friend Shelda via text:

“Chocolate party: Some time back, my friend Jaye and I were discussing how dispirited we were feeling in this new political reality. How could we gather our friends together and have more fun and community? We remembered themed parties we used to have in the 90s and early aughts. And we came up with an idea for having serious (and not so serious) fun. Maybe monthly or thereabouts, but with no obligations to attend each time.

“About that time Jaye remarked that it was time to taste test Whitman Sampler chocolates and compare them to Russell Stovers. Fun on! So being the over-the-top person that I tend to be, we’ve expanded the chocolate field. We have the aforementioned as well as See’s Factory.

“So let the tasting begin! This coming Sunday, January 12 [at specific time and place]. There will be coffee, hot tea, hot cocoa and horchata for your drinking pleasure . . .”

Subsequent texts expanded the competitive field to include See’s (representing Southern California), Fannie May (from Chicago), Lindt (which was imported from France), and Columbia, Missouri’s own Candy Factory.

Shelda had the chocolates all displayed to their best advantage, and she got out her beautiful pink rose-of-Sharon Depression glass plates for us to use.

The chocolates were really lovely, and they all tasted great, each with their own layers of goodness. Of course, some of them were definitely higher quality, with smoother texture, depth of flavor, nuances of fillings, balance of sweetness to bitterness, etc. But others—like the Whitman and the Russell Stover—had different levels on which to base my appreciation.

Like, I’m not a regular consumer of chocolates, but when I was a child, it seems that Grandma Renner, or my mom, would ALWAYS receive a Whitman’s sampler each year at Christmas, and the box would be passed around the room, with everyone getting a piece or two. When I was a kid, that was a huge treat, those grown-up candies. And we all remember the first time we grabbed that colorful Jordan almond, thinking it would be a delectable super-sweet candy, and it turned out to be a nut. Children quickly learn not to make that mistake twice! And I remember being rather skeptical about all the “weird” cream candies. At the party, I made sure to have a few of those, and I lucked out with a strawberry and an orange. Orange! They still taste kind of weird to me, but I appreciate them a lot more.

And it brought back so many pleasant memories. Later, at dinner, Sue and I reminisced about how our families approached boxes of chocolates when we were children. Sue talked about the Valentine-shaped Valentine’s boxes we all enjoyed as children. And later, as teens and adults.

Anyway, I didn’t mean to write this much about candy, because I’m not even that much of a fan of candy. The real reason I’m celebrating was for the community. This group of friends are people I appreciate and admire so much . . . these are women who were just a little older than me when I was in college. They feel like the older sisters I never had. As feminists, they were trailblazers who showed me the way, the ones up ahead in the tunnel, holding the flashlights, taking risks that I didn’t have to take, because they were a few steps in front of me. And they’re still doing it today: Come on, let’s get together and solidify our community and have some fun.

The time passed much too quickly! I hope that by writing about it I can help cement the positive energy into my being. We’re not alone, my friends. We’re not alone.

Shelda had made up score sheets for us and handed out pens, asking us to rank the chocolates, and indicate whether creams, nuts, or caramels are our favorites. But when it came time for an evaluation, we all pretty much said, Who cares? Most of us had lost track of which chocolates were from which company, and we aren’t serious connoisseurs, anyway. We all knew why we were there, and it wasn’t precisely for the chocolates.

It was for each other.

Thanks, Shelda, and bless you for hosting this gathering!

P.S. It was not a category for judging, but for presentation, Columbia’s Candy Factory gets first place in my book: the chocolates were beautifully decorated and had a nice sheen. Second place is Lindt (in part for the packaging and arrangement within the package). Since all the chocolates basically tasted fine (I’m not that snooty about chocolates), the presentation and the “wow” factor is kind of the difference maker for me, since I only buy chocolates as gifts.

World's Best Fruitcake!

Maybe you’re thinking, “Ew, I hate fruitcake.” Too bad for you! Because with an attitude like that, you’ll miss out on something spectacular.

Today I’m celebrating a genuinely superlative fruitcake. The kind to swoon over. The kind to completely hide from people who “don’t like” fruitcake (pearls before swine) . . . and the kind to hide from people who like fruitcakes, too (’cuz no, it’s mine, all mine!). The kind you hide from everybody, because you want every crumb for yourself.

. . . To savor.

We are so happy to have an annual cross-continent gift exchange with our dear friends Steve and Sherri, who live in Seattle. We send them an assortment of my homemade cookies, and they send us one of Sherri’s homemade, made-from-scratch fruitcakes.

It’s totally not a fair exchange. What Sherri sends us is far, far beyond my feeble cookie gifts. (Sherri? Me dilettante, you master.)

I remember the few winters we spent together as neighbors in Montana. Steve and Sherri lived next door to us in an elderly duplex in Helena, midway between downtown and the capitol complex, the last house on South Raleigh as it ascended Sugarloaf Hill. I’ve never had such fun neighbors. One winter, after endless bitter cold, it finally, albeit prematurely, got up above freezing. At almost the same moment, Steve and I both emerged from our respective front doors, glanced at each other, and laughed at each others’ shorts. Look, it’s a heat wave! Steve grinned and purred, “Ahh, another balmy day in beautiful Helena, Montana!”

They are epicures, and they don’t take life too heavily. Steve mountain-biked all over town as well as in the nearby mountains. Sherri created lovely, elaborate dishes, apparently with complete ease, and the four of us had many meals together—often in our shared backyard, or on the front porch, with its gorgeous view of the sunsets behind Mount Helena.

Well, one winter, Sherri decided to put her formal culinary training (yes!) to use in making fruitcake from scratch.

Do you have any idea what that means? It was days in the making, because she candied her own fruit! Orange and lemon peel, apricots, pineapple, pears, cherries, you name it. Their apartment smelled like magic after Sherri spent whole days simmering fruits in sugar syrup. And Sherri used perfect, fresh, whole nuts—hazelnuts, almonds, walnuts, you name it. And luscious prunes, figs, and dates. All this was in preparation for the actual construction and baking of the cakes.

These are works of art. There’s just enough cake batter to hold the gorgeous, colorful, translucent fruits and nuts together. If you slice it thinly enough, it looks like a stained glass window.

It really does.

And the flavor. Mercy!

I’ve been meaning to write again about fruits at Christmas, and how our parents and grandparents, and everyone before them, considered fruits at Christmas a real treat. It wasn’t that long ago that you couldn’t get all kinds of fresh produce in midwinter. Winter was for cabbage, meat, and potatoes, over and over again. So dried fruits at Christmas were a treasure. They were expensive. Apricots, pears, apples, plums, cherries, grapes, strawberries. And fruitcakes celebrate that.

And so I celebrate fruitcake, specifically Sherri’s fruitcake, which we’ve been enjoying annually for several years now. Sherri, you’ve perfected it. In our humble opinion, you could serve this to the queen. You could sell this for about a million dollars. Nobody does it better. You rock.

So on December 25, once again, breakfast will be a slice of Sherri’s beautiful, precious fruitcake and coffee. Maybe the coffee will be elevated by a little Bailey’s Irish Cream, or Kahlua, Grand Marnier, or some such. It’ll have to be good to pair with the fruitcake.

Merry Christmas!

P.S. This year Sherri also sent us some homemade plum chutney! Her modest little comment on the card noted that the chutney was from their plum tree and that it is “pretty good with some blue cheese on a cracker.” . . . “Pretty good,” she says. When Julia Child or Jacques Pépin says something is “pretty good,” it’s time to sit up and take notice, because to us mere mortals, it means, “Try this, it’ll knock your socks off!” I can’t wait!

Another Reason I Love Old Cookbooks

Oh, I do love me some old cookbooks. As in used cookbooks. As in well-used cookbooks. You know the type. The ones that open naturally to certain pages, because those were the favorite recipes. The ones that have stains and spatters on them.

Often, old cookbooks have special gifts inside: extra recipes! Sometimes, clipped out of newspapers and magazines. Sometimes, they’re handwritten—either on the pages, or on a separate sheet and stuck within the leaves of the book. Sometimes, they’re even typed.

This cookbook came from an acquaintance of mine—an elderly friend and work associate who, after her husband passed away, gave up independent living and had to downsize. They loved books! She was closer friends with my dad, and she offered this cookbook to him, and he gave it to me.

Did you know I didn’t yet have a copy of The Joy of Cooking? Anyway, I have one now—it’s the 1962 edition. Full of good information.

Anyway, here’s the part I wanted to share with you: It seems that, at some point, my friend and her husband were planning a party—probably more, but at least one—and she tucked candidate recipes into a nice little envelope labeled, logically enough, “Party.” What a surprise! I thought, “Oh, boy, I wonder what’s in here!”

Inside, she kept a trove of snacky-type recipes: a shrimp-and-dressing preparation, a cheese log with California walnuts, cheese and mushroom canapés, ham and cheese roll-ups, drunken meatballs (they’re simmered in a mixture of ketchup and beer; I can just hear her chuckling; the idea must’ve tickled her), shrimp and crab Louis, seviche, and a special pastry crust, for use in quiches, that has Parmesan, cayenne, and dry mustard in it. She'd clipped that one out of the paper using pinking shears.

And finally, the best one of all: a recipe for paté: PATE.

She typed it out herself; but then, apparently after she’d made the recipe, she added the final note. Anyone who’s used an actual typewriter can appreciate how the type wavers drunkenly at the bottom of a slip of paper when you get too far down, as the paper slides around, no longer held by the roller. This adds to the hilarity.

Here it is. Read and enjoy.

Then, um, reread the first line.

Then, reread the comment at the bottom. And reread it again:

“This makes much more than anybody would ever want. I make half.”

Of course, you know what happened: she made the recipe as specified—once—and after the party, she and her husband were left with a pound and a half of liverwurst spread they felt they ought to eat, but probably ended up throwing out. (Ew, just the thought: spoiled liverwurst!) . . . Thus, the addendum at the bottom of the recipe. So deadpan: Much more than anybody would ever want.

No, I’m never going to make this recipe—I have better recipes for braunschweiger balls. (But Aunt Becky, where did you get this recipe, and why does it make so much?!)

But if I did make it, I would indeed halve the recipe!

Vines on Broadway, Jefferson City

“Here’s That Place I Was Talking About”

That’s a quote from one of the early social-media reviews for Vines, and the more I think about it, the more it seems perfectly apt for this friendly, cozy, relaxing piece of heaven on Jefferson City’s Southside. The place is a huge success without doing a speck of advertising; people just bring their friends, who bring more friends, and so on. “It’s a great place! Let’s meet there Thursday after work!”



There’s so much I want to write about Vines. I really could go on and on, singing praises and hallelujahs about it, but I kind of have a deadline: tomorrow (Friday, August 9, 2019) is its one-year anniversary of being in business, and I want to have this posted for it.

I remember its first night in business, because I was there, poking around, taking pictures, enjoying a glass of the Malbec. The appearance of a new business just steps away from our house was exciting, especially since Vines on Broadway is an establishment that sells wine and appetizers. And no joke about its nearness to our house. It’s exactly one hundred steps from our basement door. I counted. (This might mean that I’m “livin’ the dream,” folks!)

So I’ve been a regular customer for a year, now, so I can reflect on the development of this business. Sorry if you’re looking for a tough-minded critique—I decided long ago that I don’t have time to “review” places I don’t like. I do, however, have time for cheerleading sessions, so that’s what you’ll get from me: here is why you should check out this place.

Basic information: As of this post, Vines on Broadway is open Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays, from 4 to 9 p.m. It’s at 510 Broadway Street, which is just south of the Highway 50/63 Expressway, about three blocks south of the Missouri capitol building. If you really want the “ins,” I suggest following Vines on Facebook, so you’ll know when they’re open for, say, Halloween night (which fell on a Wednesday), or New Year’s Eve (which was on a Monday). On social media, you’ll also be notified of any featured foods—because it changes—and other events, such as this summer’s new grilled goodies on the patio on Saturdays. Lorie, the owner, does not advertise . . . because she does not need to.

Vines, Like Real Vines, Likes to Grow and Develop

One thing that’s been a constant over the past year is growth and development—change—in an organic fashion. Think of how vines grow upward, into free spaces, toward light—that’s how this business has developed. Lorie Smith, the owner of Vines, has an artistic sensibility and approaches her business with a creative mindset. She tries new things. If something’s unpopular, she’s okay with letting it go. But if her customers like it, then she flies with the concept. Here are some of the things we’ve noticed in the past year:

• The furniture changes. Lorie’s always discovering nifty old chairs, sofas, tables, and more, and she’s open to rearranging it, always looking for ways to make her customers more comfortable, in open conversational groups.
• The decorations change with the seasons—she has collections of vintage holiday decorations, framed prints, colored lights, floral arrangements—and you can tell she has fun placing these around the parlors where customers sit. Even the decor in the bathroom is fun, even heartwarming (yeah, I know, in the john even!). Soon after Vines opened, she had a friend paint stylized grapevines all along the floor of her front porch. The decorations and furniture are eclectic. Most of it is vintage, which goes with the building. It’s like being in someone’s home. Lorie’s artistic tastes are apparent, with stained glass, chandeliers, nifty antique-mall and auction finds, and occasional quirky pieces, like a carved end table shaped like a hand. The table decorations change with the seasons. It’s all very attractive and creative.
• The patio in back is a new development as of this spring. It had been about four parking spaces, but Lorie and her compatriots transformed it, enclosed it with a fence (a city requirement for serving alcohol), adding a variety of chairs, tables, string lights, patio umbrellas, and potted plants ranging from tropical elephant ears to tomato vines. When the temperatures got hot, she installed a fine-mist system that drops the temperature by at least 10 degrees. And now, she’s found friends who do outdoor grilling each Saturday night.
• Special events happen; for a while, each Thursday was “Vegan, Vinyl, and Vino” night, featuring a bona fide record player and a bunch of LPs (think Bonnie Raitt, James Taylor, Jim Croce, Neil Diamond, and Rita Coolidge . . .). Now, Alexa typically churns out Van Morrison songs and similar. Then there was the Halloween Party, and the New Year’s Eve party, and the Fourth of July Party, and . . .
• And the food has changed. In addition to the new Saturday-night offerings from the grill, there has been a lot of change and creativity in the past year. But the food should be its own category.

Tasty Nibbles

Vines has been described as a wine and beer bar with tapas. But calling it a “bar” seems wrong, because it doesn’t have a bar. It’s more like . . . a laid-back cocktail party in someone’s home. You’re sitting on real furniture, this is an actual coffee table, and that’s a genuine smile. And to me, “tapas” implies a distinct emphasis on Spanish tapas cuisine. But if you’re expecting oiled sardines, fresh squid and oysters, Spanish chorizo and butifarro, manchego cheese, and tortilla de patatas, you’ll be let down.

Actually, the menu at Vines started out much more eclectic than its traditional Spanish forebears. Changing the dishes makes it interesting, and it lets Lorie try different ideas, and have some fun in the process. It was also a way for Lorie to explore what her customers wanted. Over time, the menu has stabilized into two items that are available every night, plus two or three additional items that always change.



The “Vines Platter” is one of the two choices that are available every night. It’s a basic cheese and summer sausage plate, with sliced baguette, oil-cured olives, grapes, nuts, plus olive oil and seasoned grated parmesan for dipping. Usually, there’s a few squares of nice, healthy dark chocolate as well. (I've been lobbying for the possibility of a “Vines Plus Platter,” which would include some tastier, fancier, more adventuresome cheeses, and I am hopeful this will eventually happen.)

The other dish that’s available every night is the “Slap Yo Mama shrimp”: plump, juicy, shrimp sautéed in butter and garlic, served on crostini and dressed with a blend of Cajun spices. A customer favorite!

As for the other foods available on any given night, the choices have included

• Sliders (like, roast beef and provolone with au jus, for example)
• Wings (all sorts of sauces and glazes; now, especially nice on Saturdays, when they’re grilled)
• Crostini (beef and herbed cheese; steak, caramelized onion, and gorgonzola; reuben—a favorite of mine; tomato, basil, and mozzarella . . . for example)
• Spreads and dips (smoked salmon; homemade hummus; pizza hummus; spinach and artichoke dip . . .)
• Soups (French country vegetable; Italian roasted sweet potato; Tuscan; creamy Italian sausage and tortellini . . . the soups were popular last fall and winter)
• Miscellaneous appetizers (prosciutto-wrapped asparagus; goat-cheese-stuffed, bacon-wrapped dates; stuffed mushrooms; sweet potato taquitos; BLT lettuce wraps; pot pies; mini quiches)
• Desserts (Oreo and cream cheese truffles; blackberry cobbler; pecan pie bread pudding; apple pie; salted caramel pecan cheesecake dip . . . and now, gelato and sorbetto from a locally owned food truck business)

When soups are served, Lorie and company are happy to divide the order into separate small bowls, which is an incredibly nice touch, so you and your friends don’t have to pass a bowl back and forth. They’re also fine with splitting orders on the bill, which is one reason Vines is popular with groups of friends: it’s a sharing menu, so they know that the food bill will be split between, say, four people.

Another wonderful thing is the kitchen’s flexibility and willingness to alter dishes for people with dietary restrictions, such as gluten-free foods. Indeed, Vines used to have weekly “gluten-free Fridays,” and although that idea got dropped for lack of enough interest, you can always request gluten-free options. If you have a special dietary need, you’ll find Lorie a sympathetic host. She’ll come out herself and ask about your preferences. She’ll work out something for you. Her hospitality is amazing.

And at some point, you’ll have to “ask about our balls.” One night last winter, Lorie and her friends were in the kitchen experimenting with making white-chocolate-dipped bonbons, and they produced a completely unique combination of creamy, tangy, sweet, rich, crunchy, chewy flavors and textures. She kept going around to her customers, asking them, “try one, and tell me what you think is in it.” Few people could guess, because the flavors blend so mysteriously and so well. I won’t tell you what’s in them, but it’s a very tasty, not-too-sweet, grown-up truffle—and “unique” does mean “there are absolutely no others like it.”



“Tonight’s Forecast: 99 Percent Chance of Wine”

Yes, Vines sells wine, by the bottle and by the glass. There’s a corkage fee if you bring your own, but why would you? Lorie and her distributor have curated for you a lovely selection that covers all the bases, and you can try samples, so you’re sure to find something you like.

The wines are subject to change, of course, but they are all great examples of their styles, including domestic and imported, dry, sweet, and everything in between. There is no “goof wine” (as Sue’s dad would call it) on the menu. Here’s a quick description of what you’ll find, from a recent list. (And hey, if you want to know the names of specific wineries/brands, then you’ll have to go there and find out.)

• Whites: a Sonoma Chardonnay (CA); a Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc (New Zealand); a Veneto Pinot Grigio (Italy), and a Mosel Riesling (Germany).
• Reds: a San Joaquin Valley Moscato (CA); a rich Spanish red blend called Berola (which is kind of the house favorite); a Sonoma Cabernet (CA), an Uco Valley Malbec (Argentina) (my favorite of the reds); and a Pinot Noir and Merlot, both organic from Mendocino (CA).

Also available are a French Rosé and an Italian Prosecco, plus a selection of beer, and truly delicious water supplied by EcoWater.

By the way, I keep lobbying for Vines to offer at least one Missouri wine—for example, Stone Hill’s Hellbender Red (a dry, complex Norton blend, which is also a fundraiser for efforts to restore an endangered species) . . . but so far no traction. (I’ll keep pushing, my friends.)

“Home of the 7-Ounce Pour”

You want to know about the cost, don’t you. A glass of wine ranges from six to nine dollars, depending on the wine. Bottles start at eighteen (the Pinot Grigio); the most expensive is the Berola, at twenty-seven. In case you are interested, Lorie (who is also an accomplished stained-glass artist) etched a tiny little dash onto each of her wine glasses to mark the correct level for a perfect (and consistent) 7 oz. pour. (The industry standard, FYI, is 5 oz.) They won’t short you.

As for the other prices, unless you require large amounts of food (I’ve seen the enormous portions served at some restaurants), you will probably be impressed at how reasonable the food prices are. These are small plates—appetizers—tasty bites—prepared in a small kitchen, to order, just for you, and served on interesting little plates. Other, swankier places would charge you double for less. Which leads me to my last subject: The ambience, the feel, the vibe.

“What a Great Place . . . Warm, Inviting, and Unique!”

Okay, so they serve an interesting parade of fun, tasty little snacky-snacks, and there’s a reliably satisfying selection of good wine . . . but then there’s another, even better thing about Vines that I’d like to share with you: It’s just fun to go there.

First, it has to do with the layout and the decor. I’ve already told you about the changes Lorie’s made over the course of a year, but the basic framework—a charming historic brick home built by German immigrants about a hundred years ago—gives the restaurant a feeling of history and lots of charm. Lorie has learned about the family that owned it, the Schlehers, who had a hardware store uptown, back in the twenties. A recent renovation brought the building into the twenty-first century with flying colors, and Lorie’s using the first floor for the Vines business, while she actually lives upstairs.

So here’s the basic layout. You park on the street or in a small lot off the alley, walk up steps to the front porch, and enter the front door. There’s a host stand at the bottom of a staircase, and beyond the stand is a hallway leading to the small kitchen and to the restroom. Your greeter will lead you to the left, where there are three rooms for seating.

The first room is a front parlor, with a cozy gas fireplace, a sofa, coffee table, and antique stuffed chairs.



The next room is a second parlor, with another sofa and coffee table, plus a few other café tables with chairs. (I bet most people think of it as The Purple Room.)



Behind it, the third room has a big dining table. It can be used for small conferences or meetings. Nifty wooden pocket doors allow you to close off this room for privacy. I find myself thinking, Don’t I belong to some group that could have its meeting here—?



The patio is truly pleasant; I described its development above. The crowning achievement for the patio thus far was the Independence Day party. The place was packed with all Lorie’s regulars. She had some musicians on the back porch strumming guitars and singing. And the views of the Jefferson City fireworks display were excellent—while other people were a few blocks north, gathering chiggers on the capitol lawn and dreading the traffic to come, we were all sitting in patio chairs, sipping our beverages, enjoying the cooling effects of the misters.





I’ve been searching for the right way to say this: Vines is attractive, and beautiful, without seeming snooty or untouchable. There’s a casual feeling that tempers the elegance into something genuinely approachable, like the difference between some wealthy person’s mansion and your own beautiful, comfortable living room. Or Architectural Digest versus Shabby Style. Which leads me to my final subject: the mood itself.

“One Visit and You Feel Right at Home”

Lorie told me that when she opened Vines, her goal was to create a space where people could get together, socialize, and relax, and she’s achieved that goal. Her success, in large part, is due to the host herself; she is outgoing, kind, shrewd, and has an easy laugh. She is genuinely welcoming; she makes it personal. This is a chemistry that all the chain restaurants in the world cannot touch.

It really does start with Lorie; I don’t think anyone can long remain a stranger to her. She greets her customers, sits down with them if they seem agreeable, and chats. It’s not uncommon for her to bring out samples of something she’s cooking up or experimenting with. Like the time she brought around a plate of bonbons made by mixing crushed whole Oreos with cream cheese, rolling it into balls, and dipping them in chocolate. “Hey, wanna try one of these? Check it out. I just made them.”

When she was thinking of opening Vines, she had friends tell her, “You have to be on High Street,” and she insisted: “No.” She found the place on Broadway and knew it was ideal for her. Okay, if you’re not from around here, you might not “get” this. Jefferson City’s High Street (which runs atop a high ridge parallel to the river) is the main business district of the town, frequented by bankers, lawyers, judges, legislators, and lobbyists. But when you cross south of the 50/63 Expressway (which occupies the low valley of a now-diverted creek), you ascend up more hills as you enter Old Munichburg, Jefferson City’s German-settled southside. Working-class people lived here; innumerable state workers—clerks, secretaries, and charwomen—lived here; and the funky ghosts of sauerkraut-odor linger in the woodwork of many of these sturdy brick homes. Lorie, a Tipton native, I think, picked up on this vibe immediately and recognized its cozyness.

And this is the real reason to celebrate the first year of Vines on Broadway: its society. Don’t go there if you want to be in a bad mood, or if you want to sit alone in dour silence. Vines is built for conversations and interconnections.

You’d think by now I’d get used to it, but it thrills me each time: As I’m sitting there, sipping and chatting with my companions, I almost always see two separate groups of people become one. It’ll start with someone overhearing some part of the conservation at a nearby table: “Sorry for butting in, but I couldn’t help hearing you mention _____, and . . .” And the response is usually an enthusiastic, “Oh, you’re not butting in at all, and that’s interesting what you said about _____.” Eventually, often, the parties end up repositioning their chairs in a big circle so they can all visit together.



A few weeks ago, one couple was staying at the nearby motel and kind of stumbled upon Vines; they were sitting on the patio; and another couple, nearby, were visiting Vines for the first time, too. The topic that linked them was “Isn’t this a great place? I wish we had something like this where we live!” Soon, the first couple just flat-out said to the other two, “Why don’t you just come over here and join us at our table?” So that’s what they did, and they spent the rest of the evening there, chatting and having a grand ol’ time.

“Because It’s Not Good to Keep Things Bottled Up”

Vines is a place for the Chardonnay moms to get together and deconstruct their week. It’s a perfect place for date night (or double-date night), where there are no TVs to distract you from the one person you want to focus on the most. It’s a place for the gals at the office to meet after work on a Thursday, to share a bottle of wine and snort about their jobs. It’s a place for certain Munichburgers (ahem) to meet and strategize about the organization. It’s a place for book clubs to meet. Middle-aged Harley bikers staying at the hotel have turned the patio into their own mini meet-and-greet party.

Then there was the night were some women showed up with a board game they’d just bought at Carrie’s Hallmark uptown, called “Chardonnay Go!” Everyone at Vines that night was drawn in to the game and had a great time.



And it has occurred to me, more than once, that Vines is on some level “feminine space”—in the same sense that a parlor with nice furniture is feminine. You are expected to use your manners here; this is not a sports bar with a concrete floor that can be bleached and hosed off. Keep your feet off the furniture; use your “indoors” voice. Buckets of beer are not available. There are no televisions, so there are no flickering images of sweating athletes, no corrupt politicians and “shouting guys,” and no shoot-em-up cop shows. No strobelike TV commercials to agitate your mind. No wonder it feels serene.

One of my favorite memories of last winter was the night of January 11, a Friday night, when we got an exceptionally heavy, wet snowfall starting in mid-afternoon. Lorie had mentioned that Fridays were her slowest night, and as the snow accumulated, and moving cars gone from the streets, I peered out my window to see if Vines was even open. Her light was on. So Sue and I walked our one hundred steps through the snow, opened the door, and stamped the snow off our boots: “Are you really open? We didn’t want you to not have any customers!” So the three of us sat together, enjoying wine and chatting . . . about the neighborhood, about art, about ideas; about people; telling our stories . . . as the snow accumulated and the blue sky turned to deep midnight snow-cloud gray. It was well after closing time when we walked back home. And we had had a terrific time.



Vines is a place to not take yourself too seriously. It’s a place to enjoy life, cherish your friends, and cultivate new ones.



Although some people seem to think wine is a beverage for snobs, and use it to pretend they are somehow upperclass, I’ve read recently that wine has a very long history of being viewed as a “civilizing” beverage, compared to beer and especially to hard liquor. Wine asks to be examined, swirled, tasted, contemplated . . . sipped again. It inspires conversation, creativity, ideas, and sociality. Indeed, apparently Thomas Jefferson himself—our city’s namesake—believed this was so. How appropriate for Vines on Broadway to offer its tasty, friendly, civilized, social atmosphere to our City of Jefferson.

Opossum Playing Opossum

How exciting! My friend Jenice over in Moniteau County sent me this picture of a possum playing possum!

It happened on Monday—she told me the little marsupial had been snuffling up the uneaten seeds under her birdfeeder, when a friend had arrived with her dachshund, and the dog had, well, accosted poor little Tuffy under the birdfeeder.

With the following result.



Aww! It sure looks dead, doesn’t it. Think of it: A wee little wiener dog freaked out this scruffy wild animal! I suppose it is especially rude to be interrupted while dining, however . . .

You know, apparently when opossums “play dead,” they actually do kind of faint; it’s almost like a coma—they get so emotionally worked up, they lose consciousness. It’s not voluntary; they don’t control it. It’s one of their many defense mechanisms.

I’ve actually never seen this behavior in person. You know, even though I’ve claimed the “Opulent Opossum” as the name of my blog, I don’t have a long history of handling them, or even thinking they’re special . . . although as I wrote in one of my first posts, they really are nifty creatures, and worth naming a blog after.



And guess what! This is also my annual “Happy Birthday” post for my blog! I started the Op Op on March 3, 2009, so I’m embarking on my seventh year of this! (Boy, how time flies!)

Special thanks, and a big ol’ “Op, Op, Hurray!” to Jenice Taggart for sharing her photo with me! One of my favorite things about having this blog is that it’s connected me to so many great people, and she’s one of the best!

Watch This Blog: “The Five Pillars of Health”

It’s a new year, and naturally most everyone is thinking (after the holidays): “I need to focus on my health again.”

Well, here’s some good mind-chow to help you with your goals: Doc Bea’s The Five Pillars of Health. What are these five pillars? Love, Sleep, Water, Play, and Eat.



Notice that “diet and exercise” are not named (per se) in that list. And there’s a reason for it, which you’ll learn about in Doc Bea’s January 14 post, “Secrets of Good Health from DOT Drivers.” (I know, you’re thinking, “What-what-what?? Is she talking about truckers?!”)

Well, yes, as a matter of fact, she is.

My disclaimer, here, is also a big part of my endorsement for this young blog (which started in December): Doc Bea is a personal friend of mine. I went to high school with her, and for this reason I’m biased. But it’s also the reason I know this is a blog to watch. Bea (Beatrice) has led an interesting life. She comes from an interesting “place,” with her strong Greek heritage which in several ways set her apart (above, actually) from the rest of us silly, more Americanized high schoolers.

Bea was writing (very good) poetry, excelling in all her classes (even math!), and debating politics and philosophy while the rest of us were obsessing over our silly boyfriends and girlfriends, worrying about who was sitting next to whom during the football games, and hyperventilating over the new Star Wars movie.

While the rest of us were contracting our tight little circles of friends, Bea was expanding hers. She befriended all the kids—including the immigrants, the nerds, the holy kids, the atheists, the shy kids, and the loudmouths. Bea has an insatiable curiosity; she listens carefully, and cares deeply.

Doc Bea is getting close to age 50, yet she’s only recently gone to med school and earned her medical degree. She had already pretty much raised her children. She was a caregiver for her grandmother who had Alzheimer’s, and her father, who died of colon cancer. She has struggled with her own health problems, surgeries, weight issues, and she understands the difficulties of common people leading busy lives, who are trying to find some way to stay healthy.

As she says, “I have lived medicine long before I even considered going to medical school, . . . and I chose to take this journey because I made my dying father a promise to do so, and he made me promise, because he was comforted by my care and advocacy and wanted this for others. I was a non-traditional (aka OLD) medical student in my 40’s. I had a 14-year previous career in Information Systems as a Help Desk Analyst. I helped people to fix their computer issues. Now I have graduated to life issues.”

Actually, Doc Bea has always been involved with life issues, and that’s why I’m watching her blog. Don’t expect the status quo from her. She has strong feelings about the medical and insurance industries, and she has even stronger feelings about the dignity and rights of patients.

So check out her blog. Bookmark it, add it to your blog feed, friend it on Facebook. Because this is one to watch!

Turnips from Taos!

Turnips—beautiful ones!

This is a belated Thanksgiving post, but it’s no less thankful for the delay. We got a wonderful surprise on Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving: a big bucket of gorgeous turnips on our doorstep!

I’d almost forgotten the conversation I had one afternoon this hot summer with one of the fellows working on the new-sidewalks project here along Broadway. It started when I learned he lived in Taos (Missouri) (of course) and asked if he could identify a fellow in a picture I took at a church supper there.

Well, he could! People are tight-knit in those communities. And then we got talking about the Taos harvest festival and how they always serve turnips there, along with the sausage and the turkey and dressing. Turnips! And he mentioned that he grows turnips himself. I told him how much I wish turnips at the store came with the greens still attached, because I like to cook the greens and turnips together, and anyway, how dare they throw away those lovely greens?

And—without any prompting from me, honest—he offered to bring me some turnips! With their greens on ’em! He said he’d just leave a box of them on our doorstep sometime this fall.

We weren’t home Wednesday afternoon when he must have left them, but when we returned in the evening, there they were! Lovely, lovely fresh turnips. Stuffed to overflowing in one of those enormous 5-gallon plastic construction buckets. The greens were as pretty as the creamy-smooth roots.

And I was wondering what sort of vegetable I could serve with Thanksgiving dinner, besides the sticky sweet potatoes and straight-ahead canned green bean casserole. Turnips cooked together with their greens! So lovely!

I’m not sure of this fellow’s name, so I’m asking the concrete contractor to tell me, so I can write and thank him. What a sweetheart, for him to remember, and to be so generous!

~~~Such beautiful turnips! Thank you, kind sir, for now, until I can write you a thank-you letter directly!

A note: I took these pictures this morning, so the greens have wilted somewhat. And there were lots more; remember I cooked some on Thanksgiving!

Good Eggs!

One sign of spring is farm-fresh eggs! I don’t think that many Americans realize that eggs are a seasonal item. Their appearance in spring is one reason why we think about eggs at Easter.

If you stop to think about it, most birds don’t lay eggs in wintertime, and so neither do chickens—according to nature, anyway. The reason we have hens’ eggs in our grocery stores year-round is because big commercial egg farmers manipulate the photoperiod using artificial light to trick the chickens into not having any idea what day, month, or season it is! There are no calendars in commercial chicken houses.




Before farmers figured out how to fool the chickens with electric lights, and before refrigeration was available, it was a real game for people to figure out how to preserve eggs during the months when hens weren’t laying. To give you an idea of this chore, here’s a quote from The Hearthstone; or, Life at Home: A Household Manual, written by Laura C. Holloway, published in 1883:

To keep Eggs Fresh.—One of the best means of preserving eggs is the following: Select good fresh eggs and pack endwise in a mixture of equal parts of fine dry charcoal and salt (cold). Keep in a cool, dry place until required for use. A thin coating of gum or a trace of oil will prevent loss of moisture through the shell. The best time for preserving eggs is from July to September.

So anyway, there are still some chickens in this land, our land, that do natural things, like scratch in the dirt, flap their stubby wings and go clumsily airborne (as chickens do), peck at corn, strut around and cluck, nibble on grasses, capture beetles, and listen to robins singing on these fine spring mornings. And they do know what season it is: It’s the season to lay eggs!

My friend Rhoda lives in Columbia and has chickens, and now that her hens are producing again, she let it be known (Facebook to the rescue!) that she was ready for buyers again. (Note: if you are reading this and are wanting to contact her, let me know, and I’ll put you in touch. Realize—she’s not a commercial chicken farmer, so she doesn’t have a bazillion to sell.)

For my Central Missouri friends who are wondering, hers is not one of the backyard-chicken-coops that have recently become lawful in the city of Columbia (last year the city council passed an ordinance permitting it—cool, huh?)—she’s actually zoned “Agricultural.”

Anyway—what a great thing! Happy chickens, awesome eggs.

I love it that they’re all different colors, shapes, and patterns. Sometimes you want a smaller egg; sometimes you want a great big one. And the variety reminds me of the fact that each of her chickens are individuals—I don’t know if she has names for them, but they are certainly far from being anonymous, confused birds in little boxes.

Having awesome eggs makes me want to do something special with them.

Stay tuned!

Gratitude

Sorry to be going on and on about the ankle, folks, but since it’s been so hard to get around, there’s not a lot I can “do.”

Maybe it’s the lengthening days, or that the weather’s warmed up so dramatically, and all that damned ice melted, but I’m surprisingly not in the sour or depressed mood I would have expected with this second round of having a foot in a cast.

But more than that, I chalk it up to the knowledge that this situation isn’t anywhere near as problematic as when I had that Jones fracture, which by definition means “takes an eternity to heal.” Nope, once it was clear this wasn’t any kind of messy ankle-bones fracture, or a horrific tendon injury, the prognosis has been comfortingly “routine.”

Lord, here it is, not even a week after the surgery to fix the lower portion of my fibula with a mending plate, and except for some incision ouchiness and the fact I’m effectively casted up, I feel like I could walk around on the damn thing.

Also, as I mentioned earlier, I’m extremely gratified to discover that my hard-won talents for getting around on crutches hadn’t disappeared. Perhaps this is one good thing about posttraumatic stress—having lived through a trauma once before, you realize you can handle it again: I know this scene; I don’t like it at all, but I know I can do it.

Indeed, three years ago after three months in crutches, when I was crying about the hopelessness of my situation, someone much more knowledgeable about human nature than I suggested that someday in the future, I would be completely recovered, and that I may even be grateful that I had gone through this difficult time. I didn’t laugh at that suggestion (outright), but I couldn’t take it very seriously, either.

But perhaps I’m starting to see the truth of her statement.

There is another gift I’ve received from these experiences, too. This gift takes the form of the many friends and family who have offered supportive and comforting words, Facebook notes, phone calls, and food. During the time of the surgery, my Facebook peeps offered a steady stream of stuff like “we’re thinking of you” and “stupid ice! I sure hope you recover quickly!”

Within only a few minutes of my mentioning my injury on Facebook, my sister-in-law had told my brother of it, and he was on the phone to me immediately. What a nice thing, huh?

I’ve already told you my folks brought over pumpkin bread on Valentine’s Day; they also spent the day after the surgery with me (wow, that must have been boring), so that Sue could go to Columbia for work. They bought some groceries for us, and fed me lunch. My uncle and aunt, on Valentine’s Day, brought a rose and candy, a container of the best split pea soup I’ve ever had (outside of Grandma’s), and (hooray!) some much-needed bran muffins.

And then, too, soon after the surgery, we got a call from Sue’s family up in Ohio—the whole Berlin Heights gang, her mom and dad, and her sister’s whole family. They had positioned their speaker phone in the center of the room, and we all had a great chat. Yes, it was Sue’s dad’s birthday, but they stressed that they were calling to find out about me. I was genuinely touched by this.

And then there’s Sue, who was going, “Oh, no, not again!” as much as I was. You couldn’t ask for a more thoughtful or attentive partner in the world. I won’t bother to list the hundreds of ways she has patiently helped me this past week, ranging from “can you come outside and help pick me up off the sidewalk” to “can you bring me my [book-coffee-mountain of pillows-icepack-briefcase-telephone-lotion-etc.-etc.]” to doing all the chores, to being The One to sit waiting for me at the hospital, to drive me home, and help me up the steps.

Don’t get me wrong—it’s not like I’ve been thinking of this injury as a way of gaining people’s attention and sympathy—not at all! Instead, all this support has given me an opportunity to be reminded that there are so many people in my life who love me. This accident has put all my loved ones in the spotlight; it’s reminded me how brightly my true treasures shine, and for that gift of awareness, I feel the most gratitude.

Snowpocalypse

It’s extremely hard to concentrate on work today, since we’re getting, apparently, the first bona fide official blizzard Central Missouri’s ever had in recorded history.

Naturally, this can easily be seen as a sign of the ongoing effects of global climate change, while those who don’t “believe” that climate change is happening will undoubtedly see this uncharacteristically intensely cold weather as a sign that nothing’s changing.




Anyway, it started snowing here before dawn, and at this point—around noon—the strong winds are blowing the snow sideways—it’s supposed to be sustained winds of 35 mph. There’s at least an inch and a half of accumulation per hour, and visibility’s awful. I can’t see anything beyond a half a block away.

When I lived in Montana, this wouldn’t be any particularly big deal. Yeah, I vaguely recall that.

But then, when I lived in Phoenix, one time we got some below-freezing temperatures and some sleet that collected in the cracks in the sidewalks—and that was remarkable, too. All those tropical and subtropical landscaping plants that could freeze.

Obviously, it’s all “relative,” and our homes, our heaters, our vehicles, our city’s snow-removal equipment, and our bridges, roads, and utility poles are designed to handle the bad weather we usually get. But this weather is definitely worse than usual.

There’s been a lot of nervous chatter and laughter among my Facebook pals. We’ve all known it was coming. For a week, the weather forecasters have been talking about a major snow, and for the last few days, they’ve been saying it’s a sure thing that most parts of Central Missouri will get at least 15 inches.

Which, as I said, is a remarkable amount of snow for us, especially considering we’ve already had several good snowfalls this winter.

A lot of folks (including me) laugh at the urge to go to the store right before the storm and buy “bread and milk.” A Columbia newscast showed pictures of empty bread shelves at one of the local Walmarts. One of my friends called this “overreacting.”

But truly: thank goodness people have enough sense to hit the grocery store before the storm. If bread is on the grocery list for survival purposes, it is understandable: in our culture, bread is the staff of life; it is the bare minimum. It is to us as rice is to the Orient, and corn to the Aztecs.

We certainly went to the store yesterday—not for bread and milk, particularly, but for the items we might have purchased within the next three or four days. We were out of eggs; we needed more cheese; we were almost out of lettuce. So laugh all you want, my friends, but I keep having thoughts of the Grasshopper and the Ant.

I’ve also been thinking a lot about Katrina these past few days, as excitement and dread mounts, and I’ve been wondering how much in denial we all are. They knew the evil weather was coming, and for some reason, too many of them didn’t take it seriously enough.




The ice that’s falling just a few counties south of us is going to cause widespread power outages, right before subzero temps. Remember the freezing rain in early December 2007?

I do. It’s more than a memory—it’s practically post-traumatic stress for me. I had broken my foot the October before and was still in a cast; on December 3, since no healing had occurred, I had surgery to repair that Jones fracture with a screw. The freezing rain came on Saturday, December 8. I wasn’t even in a cast again at that point, I was still in the post-surgical splint. Plenty of swelling and pain, and still (of course) on crutches. And yes, I also had a concert to play that weekend, in Columbia! Sue drove us on ice-covered roads, and we ended up staying in Columbia that night.

(By the way, in case you were wondering, trying to walk on crutches on ice is flat-out impossible.)

So, that Saturday night was the night we had no power at our house—it went off after we’d driven to Columbia, and fortunately we weren’t home to shiver all night with the kitties. By the time we got back home Sunday evening (because there was a concert Sunday afternoon, too), the power was back on and the house was getting warm again.

But the power went off again on Monday night, when a tree on our street collapsed and strummed down a set of powerlines. It was a cold night, and a dark morning, and we were grateful for every bit of insulation our house has.

It’s hard enough to bathe with a splint on, much less in the dark in a very cold house. Fortunately, we have our old percolator, and it, with our gas stove, meant that we could have hot coffee that morning.

Our power came on again sometime that day, and life was relatively dandy after that. We decided that when it comes to power outages, we’re very happy to be living in the center of town, just a few blocks from the state capitol, and not way out in the country somewhere and low on the list of priorities. For some of those people, the power was out for a week, and they had to seek shelter elsewhere.

Okay, and so that was just a fraction of an inch of ice that weekend—and I don’t recall any serious winds or additional snowfall with that, either.

But with this snowfall, now, they’re saying that counties southeast of us may receive up to an inch of ice, with additional inches of snow on top, plus 35 mph winds. They will have power outages galore. Then, to have this followed immediately by subzero temps? I feel for them, I worry for them.




How long will anyone’s power be out? Who knows? How do you “prepare” for that, when the roads will be impassable? We here in Jeff City and Columbia can Twitter and text about how exciting our big snow is, we can crack wry jokes about “waiting for the roof to cave in.” We can make up clever, hyperbolic names for this situation, calling it a “snowacane,” and a “snowpocalypse.” And we can warm our attitudes by telling each other about our Crock Pots of beef stew and chili, our Kahlúa-spiked coffee, our split pea soup and our homemade bread. We can afford to grin and share, feel warm and cozy, because we know we’re just very lucky this time.

But when I look out the window, I can’t tell if I’m shivering, or shuddering.