Morrisville and Praston Progress, Thursday, March 27,1997 - 7
From partying with kids to savoring a Five Star dinner, the focus is food
By Roxanne Powers
March has inflicted its manic-
dq)ressive personality on my fam
ily in a big way this year. Along
with its usual wet/dry, warm/cold
shifts in the weather, this year
March has seen fit to add
laughter/tears, significant
hellos/good-byes, birthdays/deaths.
An accident, a deacon dinner, a
wake, (and the retirement party we
missed for the wake), a family
reunion, our child’s seventh
birthday party, a five-star dinner
and the Easter holiday all laid claim
to our time and emotions this
month.
All these occasions have one
cCHnmon denominator; Food. This
considered, it should come as no
surprise that most of our society
must deal with weight-regulating.
Perhaps it should be equally un
surprising that something so neces
sary to our viability should also
vacillate between offering comfort
and entertainment.
You know, like when a certain
teenage daughter flips her car two
or three times, and emerges with
nothing more bruised than her
psyche...so you offer to buy her a
grinder. But friend and restaurant
projjrietor Terry feels sorry for both
of you and gives you the grinders.
Mter all, you are dealing with the
vacillating emotions that she’s all
right, but the car you bought for her
just a few short months ago is to
taled!
The next week, you go to a
deacon dinner, and while there, suf
fer the indignance of losing 2-to-l,
an argument with fellow church
members about how to pronounce
"pecan." Now this was an impor
tant issue because some of us were
sensible enough to order pecan pie,
while others of us ordered a whole
coconut pie, in the guise that it was
for our children.
Now, I’m not going to mention
any names, but at least one of the
people present is recently retired,
and she and her husband sat across
from us at the last deacons’ dinner
we attended. This person, and some
others, insisted that they eat "pee-
can" pie.
I've maintained for years that I
could never eat something that
sounds like it sat by someone’s
bedside for nocturnal excrement
purposes in the earlier part of the
century.
Now. Allow me to drama(ically
clear my throat and puff out my
chest in pride as I point out that
some people may have won the
battle that night, (only because of
the majority rules rule) but that our
pastor, the waitress, and Webster’s
New American Dictionary agrees
with me and James.
Well...we must be more right
anyway. At least the first pronunci
ation listed is ours...So there! Pi-
kahn! Pi-kahn! Pi-kahn! Swallow
that with your cold glass of milk!
Okay, so it wasn’t Pi-kahn.
It was Pi-kan with those two liule
dots over the a, but my computer
keyboard is lacking the ability to
Prestonwood
Gourmet
By
Roxanne Powers
put those two little dots over that
stupid little a, so just leave me
alone while I figure out some way
to mispronounce pronunciation!
When the daughter of a dear
friend from my childhood called to
say her mother had been given last
rites, and that I should come to
Austin, Texas, if 1 wanted to say
good-bye, I began to make prepara
tions for the flight.
However, my husband reminded
me that my father’s family reunion
was just hours away from Austin,
and the fact that it was to be held
that weekend was perhaps not in-
significant...our children had never
met their great aunts, under, or
even great grandparents. So, when
the kids came in from school that
day, we loaded them into the Sub
urban for a trip that for me, would
include two reunions: One sad, and
one joyous. Just a few short hours
after my arrival at her side, my
friend left us.
In an effort to offer some
sustenance to her shaken and griev
ing daughter, (her mother had just
been diagnosed with cancer three
weeks before) I thrust my own
freshly-made cup of Cafe Vienna
into her hands. She took a sip, and
a small expression of surprise
passed over her face, as she pointed
out that we, who have not seen
each other for more than a decade,
share an addiction to International
Club Coffees! After sharing coffee,
tears, hugs and vows to keep in
touch, I climbed back into the Sub
urban with my family for the next
leg of our trip.
The family reunion included the
usual corny comments, jokes and
exclamations on family resem
blances; it also included my grand
mother’s not-so-usual strawberry
cake, and her disclosure for how to
make any pound cake (even boxed)
taste as good as hers. But thm’s one
litde family secret Tm keeping to
myself a while longer!
When six people travel 3,000
miles in five days, they will take
desperate measures for escaping
fast food. One evening we decided
to try dinner at a truck stop. Jake,
our three-year-old, must have de
cided that the truckers looked bored
as well as lonely, for he launched
into his entertainment mode when
he overheard some of us discussing
the death of his grandmother’s dog,
whom he hasn’t seen for two years
now.
In shocked tones, he queried, "Bo
DIED?" When we assured him he
had, he began to lock eyes with
anyone whose attention he could
catch, and with a desperately sad
expression on his face would ex
claim pitifully. "My dog died."
Just when he got good at this act
and I was ready to send him around
with a hat, the waitress approached
our table, becoming his next vic
tim. When she politely and
reverently exclaimed, "Oh honey, I
am soooo sorry!" Holli managed to
maintain some decorum as she
quietly snickered behind her hand.
Wimessing this, the waitress said to
her sweetly, "Honey, that’s not
very nice!" Holh’s’ control (along
with the control of everyone else in
the room) collapsed as she
laughingly replied, "But you don’t
understand...he doesn’t have a
dog!"
Just as we began to feel com
fortably close to the end of the
meal, a lady with a substantial
backside got up and walked out the
door. Jake’s eyes followed her
every step before turning to us and
loudly exclaiming, "DID YOU SEE
THAT BIG BUTT?" Because the
truck stop actually had good food,
we decided that truckers started
those greasy-spoon rumors to keep
people like us out of there.
Last Saturday afternoon, I in
dulged in heart-shaped cream
cheese and raspberry jam sand
wiches and gingerale punch (Oh,
and let’s not forget the Barbie doll
birthday cake!) with a house full of
fluffy-dressed seven- and eight-
year-olds as they tea partied. Hours
later, James and I indulged in deli
cious herbed cream cheese and
shrimp Crostini, and Peach Bellinis
with a room full of flufry-dressed
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atkilts at a Five Star dinner held at
Prestonwood. Don’t get me wrong.
I’m not comparing my culinary at
tempts with those of Chef
Kaminski...there is no comparison,
but it did occur to me that we were,
in a way, merely re-enacting our
children’s tea party on a larger (and
tastier and more expensive) scale.
Actually, maybe the similarities
don’t end there...when we and our
table-mates, David and Vickie
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sound coming from James’ chair. I
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up to be the entertainment for the
evening by placing James in the
chair he broke a year or so ago.
When a lady at a nearby table
wore her Sgropin due to a mishap,
we admired her cool response of,
"Well, it’s cold," as if she were
responding to an inquiry about the
weather. We truly felt regret for
those involved. But we must also
confess to feeling tremendous relief
that this time at least, it wasn’t us
calling attention to ourselves.
When David shared some inter
esting and amusing facts with us
regarding the making of cigars and
insisted it remain a secret, I warned
him in seven-year-old fashion that
while I would honor his request, I
would reveal that he bad made the
request and that the cigar story had
something to do with virgins. And,
like a seven-year-old, I have little
doubt that had anyone tried to steal
a bite of my treasured Tiramisu, I
would have hit them with no less
than a leftover bite of Gnocchi!
The dinner was a result of Chef
Kaminski and his wife Robin’s trip
to Italy, and what a nice way for
them to bring Prestonwood mem
bers along! Hmmm, I wonder
where they’ll be vacationing next
year?
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