Mrs. Astor of Brush, Colorado

In days of yore, I had mixed emotions when I confessed I had grown up (mostly) in a little town in Northeastern Colorado named "Brush." The name was not felicitious, speaking as it did of Sagebrush (our yearbook name) brush fires, brush piles, isolation and down market living.

Then I became proud of coming (mostly) from Brush because in time I understood that the little place had a certain authenticity that many generic parts of suburbia did not, and that isolation is not all bad and television and the internet un-isolates these little hamlets and brings their residents into the mainstream. My prejudices, that maybe it was uncool to be raised so far from an urban center in a place of no particular culture, gleamed like fool's gold.

A long introduction to this blog photo, which showed up in my parent's slides. Instead of ho-hum, another view of whatever, the slides provided a treasure-trove of memories and this photo, of which I have no recollection whatsoever. Back in the day we dressed up, but not like this, and usually only for church. I don't think I wore this to church. No recollection whatsoever of the hat or the coat, and usually I remember my clothes. All my clothes. Not so, this outfit. And an "outfit" it is.

My dad's ancient Buick, a car I loved, is parked in the driveway. My parents new house was actually a prefab, with three bedrooms, two baths, and a gas fireplace. My mom, ever practical, turned the dining room into a laundry room. We still didn't have a dishwasher, which I continually carped about. I had a few wild parties (for then) and have fond memories of smoking, drinking, music and wearing some cool outfits. But not in the green coat. Whither the green coat? Where it came from and where it went and if I ever wore it outside this photo.

No one will ever know.

Grapeshot

Mrs. Astor

Back in the day, when one actually dressed nicely for air travel, I arrived in at the Denver airport for a Christmas visit in a black wool coat newly purchased on Fifth Avenue in New York. I wore long black gloves, black heels, sported a black handbag, and a red (I think) hat. I was a new bride of a few months and my mother, seeing me, exclaimed, "You look just like Mrs. Astor!" It was my mother's high compliment regarding dress. For years whenever I would dress up (and back then dressing up was done a lot more than nowadays), Significant Other would remark, "You look just like Mrs. Astor."

She was buried yesterday, wearing we don't know what, but I'm sure it was elegant. Elegant funeral. Elegant lady, a class act. The telling detail about the affair, which the New York Times did not fail to report, was that although the church was open to the public, it was only half full, the reason being that New York society is no longer made up of people who would sacrifice a Friday afternoon in August to pay their respects or to quote the Times, "Asking people to spend a late summer Friday afternoon in town would be demanding a true quality-of-life sacrifice--or at least some heavy rescheduling. . . " Goes on to say Mrs. Astor was the kind of woman who sacrificed time and money readily. We won't see her like again.

I wondered idly, while I was ironing, if anyone from the antique boat cruise had interrupted the cruise for the funeral. Couldn't decide. Swells sailing through swells. Were you astounded to read that I was ironing? Lots of people (all women of course) say, "I don't iron." Does that mean that a) they're comfortable with wrinkles, or b) they have a polyester wardrobe or c) everything goes to the cleaners? Dunno.

Women, again, also announce, "I don't cook." Well, duh, you eat don't you? Have you noticed men never make themselves look like idiots by making I-dont-iron-I-dont-cook remarks. I never know what "I don't cook" means. Does it mean only instant oatmeal and mashed potatoes, or does it mean fast food and takeout and the salad bar at the supermarket? Does it mean not from scratch? Inquiring minds want to know. "I don't cook." What b.s.

Grapeshot, on the other hand, worries about dying before she can try all the outstanding recipes she has filed away. Today we are doing something new from the Times this week, an eggplant salad. Sounded so yummy, with grilled chicken breasts. The rest of the breasts will go into an Mexican (Yucatan) soup of orzo, chicken broth, jalapenos and lime juice. The problem with recipes is that there are old favorites, new favorites and the yet-to-be-tried. I cook.

Last night I didn't cook, actually. We had insalata Caprese, salami, rye bread, cheddar cheese, olives, pickles and potato chips. So filling we saved the dessert for tonight.

Insalata Caprese: Only make this when high qualitiy tomatoes are available. Slice a tomato or two thin and cut slices in half. Slice fresh (the balls that come in water) mozzarella thinly and put on top of the tomato slices. Hie yourself to the garden and pick some fresh basil. Chop up the basil leaves and sprinkle on the tomato-mozzarella mixture. Drizzle EVOO over the top. Season with salt and pepper. Notice no cooking was involved. Slicing and chopping and drizzling require minimal skills.

So good, esp. with the tomato from the garden not an hour before eating, and likewise the basil. We have regular and lemon basil this year. The old-favorite chicken pesto will be showing up on the table some night.

I cook. I even make my own garam marsala for Pete's sake.

Off to the kitchen,

Grapeshot