Jilliebeanery #1 (Including Panko-Crusted Goat Cheese and Sweet Lemon Vinaigrette)

 

I've been hitting the blogger circuit lately, stepping into other people's lives for a spell. After visiting, I always leave comments (please write back!), which I like to think of as the 2013 version of the 19th-century calling card. Blog posts are just like old-fashioned paper invitations: "Come on in and take the armchair by the fire. The tea's almost ready."

 

Most of my new bloggy friends share their favorite things now and then, lovely pictures and words of and about French homes and blue farmhouses, antiques and repurposed castoffs, mouthwatering concoctions cooling on countertops, and glimpses of family love--near perfect and almost dysfunctional, all waving me in, making me comfortable in their separate worlds.

 

So here's my invitation to you: Step in, and I'll show you around my place a little. Maybe we'll have a bite to eat when we're finished.

  

 

Matthew, my oldest son, brought this dear wooden elephant family back from a trip to Ghana, where he'd gone to take photographs. The carver sold them in sets, but not in graduated families of six, big to little.  Matty can be very convincing, and somehow the seller was made to understand that this gift had to contain a father, mother, biggest brother, big brother, little big sister, and baby sister. The elephant family rode home in a backpack, along with some Canon equipment, slung over the shoulder of a 6'4" traveler.

I had a hard time finding just the right spot for this sweet gift, the elephants' dark roundness blending too easily into tables and shelves.

Their current home is a repurposed planting box that held six small clay pots of portulaca for years, until the bottom fell out! Here, the repurposed box is turned on its side, allowing a private room for each of them.

 

 

 

 

 If you come to visit me, you'll find this ceramic heart hanging in my entryway. I found it in a little shop outside of Boston, where we'd traveled to watch my oldest daughter play lacrosse with her college team. Allowed some rare time away from her team, we walked the hilly streets linked by small shops, stopping first for red velvet cupcakes crowned with fat pink icing roses and then for creamy, white chowder spooned up at a table in front of an old stone fireplace.

I did indeed buy the little heart as a memento, but look closely at its message. "Expect miracles."

 

I always do. 

 

 

Okay, I'll admit it. I have a glass problem. I'm attracted (especially to dishes) to things made from glass, so if you need to borrow platters, plates, bowls, cups, or glasses, you know where to come. Once my husband asked me to stop buying dishes, but I think I've convinced him that one can never have enough (I just keep cooking!), especially when they are as lovely as this one. We bought this thin curve of a platter at the Three Rivers Arts Festival, where I stood mesmerized by the tablets of colors crafted by the vendor's glass alchemy.

 

"We'll take the big one," my husband told him.

 

 

And so we did. In the summer, this platter holds greens lightly tossed with a sweet lemon vinaigrette (mix the juice of 1/2 lemon with 1/3 cup olive oil, about 2 tablespoons of Splenda, and salt and pepper--this is a to-taste vinaigrette, so don't be shy---lick your finger and then adjust to your liking), often topped with panko-crusted goat cheese (the secret here is to partially freeze the cheese,  cut into 2-inch slices which are then pressed into a plate of panko crumbs and browned quickly in about an inch of olive oil), thin red onion, and chunks of pear,

just like this:

 

 

 

When the salad's all gone, and we've licked the lemony bits from our fingers, I wash the gem-studded platter gently, holding it up to catch the light streaming through the window.

 

 

 



On Blessings: Strawberries and Flying Children

 

 

 

You know that sweet saying about giving your child wings? I used to think it was cute, too, when I was still zipping my babies into footie pajamas. Back then, I fueled myself with aphorisms, imagining myself slam-dunking the parenting thing (imagine a very nice pat on the back here--"Oh, yes, I'm raising my children so that they will ffffllllllyyyyyyyyy!"). People who write darling little embroidery-worthy witticisms like this obviously haven't had children who are born in flight mode. My third child emerged in take-off position, landing gear raised and flight plan plotted. At first, she wanted to fly out of her high chair, and then across the ice, and then down the field. When her plan took her out of our nest,  being her mother morphed into a bittersweet combination of wonder and angst.

Once I wrote this:
 

My body does not forget. Missing her wells in me, rough waters threatening to pull me under. At the sound of my morning alarm, I imagine her still asleep, curled on her side, three hours behind me. We are connected by phone lines, divided by time differences. She calls me while riding her bike home, my mind tangled in the three lanes of traffic she has to cross with a phone held to one ear. Sometimes she calls me while in line at Starbucks, saying "Bye...love you" as she reaches the register.

If I had one of those big world maps, I could track her with push pins. Sacramento, Tokyo, Chicago, Florence, Cinque Terre, Rome, Paris, Washington, D.C., Pittsburgh. Last week, she took off again, this time for Helena, Arkansas where she'll spend two years teaching chemistry in a modular classroom.

Guess who bought the luggage tag?

A little of mom goes with her by way of a teacher's box, including the same kind of book I've used to plan my classes for years.

  

Meet Momma Bear, who had to ride for 14 hours wedged between the front seats. Excuse her ragged looks, please--she's been on the road quite a bit over the last 24 years.

 

 

 

This may be one of those you-had-to-be-there kind of pics. Here's a play-by-play in case you missed it. I'm standing on the front steps yelling mother-love kinds of things (drink your orange juice, call me any time, park in well-lit spaces, the first days will be really hard--but it will get better, let me know when you get in!), and Gary is driving along side of Laura. Yes, you are seeing correctly. He drives down the street with her, forcing her to take up the on-coming traffic lane. He follows her down the hill to our plan exit, where he honks like a mad goose to send her off.

 



And where do the strawberries come in?

The thing is that Laura loves strawberries. Once, at a graduation party for one of her brother's friends, she stood by a silver tray of plump strawberries dressed in white and dark chocolate tuxedos, plopping them into her mouth until the hostess lifted the tray and placed it on another table. Laura really, really loves frozen strawberries mixed with Jello and layered on top of baked and buttered pretzel crumbs, the whole sweet thing slathered with cream cheese, Cool Whip, and sugar. The making of Strawberry Pretzel Salad annoys me with its mashing of pretzels and sloshing of Jello, So, when we went to a family gathering just two days before she left for Arkansas, I decided to try a more grown-up berry recipe, a Pinterest-proclaimed marvel: the Strawberry Blessing.

 

Here's how I conjured up a Strawberry Blessing:

You'll need to gather a few goodies.
 

1 cup strawberry jam (I had only enough strawberry to fill 3/4 of the cup, so I filled it up with a lovely mixed berry jam I'd picked up at a local farm market.)

 

1/2 cup warm water

 

1/3 cup orange juice

 

1/4 cup Cointreau (divided in half), plus one extra tablespoon

 

1-1/4 pounds mascarpone, at room temperature

 

1-1/3 cups whipping cream

 

3 tablespoons sugar

 

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

 

Savoiardi--also known as ladyfingers!  (You'll need three packages of Savoiardi. Twenty-four come in a pack, and I used exactly 52 in my 9 x 13 pan. You might be more Savoiardi-savvy than I, but, after a hunt through the bakery and cookie section in my grocery store, I finally found these in the specialty Italian aisle. Just a note: the bakery lady did not a) remember the bakery ever carrying ladyfingers and b) know that the furtive Savoiardi could be found in her store.)

 

1-1/2 to 2 pounds strawberries, washed, dried and sliced (And, oh!, it is strawberry season!)

 

2 tablespoons lemon zest (Use one plump lemon for this amount of zest. Naked lemons can be used for all kinds of other lovely, lemony things.)

 

 

Fourteen Steps to a Strawberry Blessing: 



 (None of which involve the annoying pretzel crunching or Jello sloshing!)

 

1. Mix the jam, water, orange juice, and 1/8 cup of the Cointreau.

 

2. In another bowl, whip together the mascarpone and the second 1/8 cup of Cointreau. 

 

  

3. Beat the whipping cream, sugar, vanilla extract and remaining 1 tablespoon of Cointreau until stiff peaks form. 

  

4. Stir 1/4 of the whipped cream mixture into the mascarpone to soften the mixture. Then, carefully fold in the remaining whipped cream mixture.

 

5. Spread 1/2 of the jam mixture in the bottom of a 9 x 13 dish. The Savoiardi will absorb all of this lovely liquid.

  

 

6. Behold the naked lemon! Sprinkle 1 tablespoon of the lemon zest over the jam mixture. (I've learned that a little of the bitter makes the sweet so much more delicious.)  

 

 

7. Line the bottom of the dish with Savoiardi, covering the entire pan. You may have to break the ladyfingers into smaller pieces to fill small spaces.
 

8. Spread half of the mascarpone mixture evenly over the Savoiardi.

9. Layer half of the sliced strawberries over the mascarpone.

10. Spread the second half of the jam mixture over the strawberries. (You might want to lick the bowl.)
 

 

11. Sprinkle the remaining tablespoon of lemon zest over the strawberries and jam.

 

12. Repeat the process with the remaining ingredients, laying a second row of Savoiardi over the  strawberries and jam, then spreading the mascarpone mixture over those, and last,  covering with the  sliced strawberries and lemon zest.

 

13. Refrigerate for at least 12 hours. (I suspect this is when the blessing happens.)

  

14. Enjoy your blessings: strawberry and otherwise. 

 

 

You can find the recipe I adapted at Cream Puffs in Venice. Here's the Pinterest description that made me think Laura might like it:

"It was glorious. Angels sang. I think there were even harps. As far as I’m concerned you can call it whatever you like. I call it good."  

 

And we did think it was glorious, all of us--my sister's family and mine, from the oldest cousin (my son) to my nephew's baby boy (blessing number five for Jeff and Heather, and, well, okay, he's a little young to eat cake). What did Laura think? I'm pretty sure she still likes the Strawberry Pretzel Salad more, but, then, again, you'll have to ask her. I'll let you know when she's back in town.

 

 

 

Oysters and Hot Sauce: Who Knew?

Usually, we drove all night, so our four kids would sleep for at least part of the nine-hour drive. Around midnight, quiet finally nestled around us, although my children swear they never slept for even one second on any of our many drives to North Carolina. Gary and I looked forward to those late-night drives, our low voices creating a cocoon, our faces cool in the night air, our journey seemingly guided by the luminous stars suspended above. 

"Did you see it? The falling star?" Gary asked, though I never did. He's always been luckier than I in the star gazing department. Still, together we seemed to have more than most, sailing through the night in our red Astro van, holding hands between our seats, our elbows resting on the small tv/vcr combination Gary jerry-rigged for the kids' movies and Nintendo system.

 

 

Our first stop was the Duck Deli, a tiny breakfast/sandwich/barbecue place, for big white plates of bacon, eggs, and the greatest home fries in Currituck County. In the very old days before Corolla grew big enough to have its own grocery stores, we would have stopped at the Piggly Wiggly or the Food Lion in Kill Devil Hills before we turned left on Highway 21. Balancing a bag on each of our laps, others wedged between our feet, we made our way to Atlantic Avenue, where our family owned a house.

My heart sensed the left turn on Atlantic towards the water. Sometimes we couldn't yet see the ocean, but we could always hear it. In that second, when I heard the push and pull of the waves, life sweetened. But, oh my, in the early days when the girls were toddlers and the boys still so young, the next few hours were full of up-and-down-the-stairs work for my husband and me. Schlepping the suitcases and groceries...unpacking both...making beds...guiding legs and arms into swim suits...coating wiggling bodies with sunscreen...and then...AND THEN! the beach.

We'd run down the dune, the dry sand so hot that our feet propelled forward on their own. We moved in tandem toward the green and grey marbleized sea, our toes on the frothy wave line, waiting for the first rush of cold water. All I'd carried on my back the past year slid from me, crumbling into the fine beige sand.



Between the three of us sitting in the booth at Mitchell's Fish Market today, two are headed to North Carolina and one to Vermont, two of us for a fleeting seven days and the other for a lovely collection of weeks at her family home in New England. While we talked about our upcoming fall classes and our children, our minds turned toward the promise of the sea.

"I convinced Jamie to try oysters the last time we were here," our friend Marilyn said, as we looked over the menu. "I'm going to order some, and we can share them."

Shaking my head, I admitted I'd never eaten oysters, describing the tipping of a cold, slippery oyster from the shell to the back of my throat as outside of my culinary comfort zone.

"Actually, I liked them," Jamie interrupted. I'd been imagining her just getting through the experience, holding her nose, puckering her lips in distaste.

Almost convinced, I nearly changed my mind when our waiter confided that he can't manage tossing back a raw oyster. His suggestion of sandwiching the oyster between Saltines put me off even more.

"Wouldn't that involve chewing?" I asked.

Last night,  I discovered I'm not as old as I thought I was. For the past ten months, I've been telling people I'm a year older than I actually am. This time, Gary happened to hear me. Wearing a sideways grin, he pointed out my mistake.

"Really?" I asked.

"Really."

Hmmm. So, I guess I've got a do-over. Perhaps I should live this one a little more daringly? I decided to jumpstart my extra year by trying oysters.

Marilyn and Jamie already had some on their plates. Squeezing lemon over the white flesh, they discussed which of the three sauces to use. The jagged shell between my thumb and finger, I moved my oyster from the bed of crushed ice to my plate. A squeeze of citrus and a smear of hot sauce, and I was ready.

Here's what I learned: eating an oyster is almost like doing a shot. Bring it to your mouth, tilt your head back, close your eyes if you want, swallow hard, and wait for the bang.

Oh, my!  I wasn't prepared for the clean, fresh taste of the oyster, heighted by the sharpness of the hot sauce. The oyster tasted like Corolla felt.

And then I had another.

 

.

Not Quite Done With Clairhaven Street



 





"You can't go back home to your family, 

 back home to your childhood ... back home to ...dreams of glory

 

 and of fame ... back home to the escapes of time and memory.”

 

--from Thomas Wolfe's You Can't Go Home Again

 

 

 

I try to write myself home. I'm not sure what I want to do if the ink on the page creates some kind of magic portal, allowing me to open a secret door, to lift the lid off of a rabbit hole, to bend time and space.

 

Would I change how we lived on Clairhaven Street, if I could?

 

I guess I would mostly like to be seated around our kitchen table on one of the good nights, like those when my father came through the kitchen door carrying a bag of fried shrimp from Young's Tavern, greasy circles dotting the brown paper. On such a night, though it was 10:00 or 11:00 or midnight, we marveled at our good fortune, at the beauty of  plump white shrimp inside hot, crisp breading, at the snapshot of a family sitting happily together.

 

 

 

 

 

This week, I've been lost in the past, reworking my essay about Clairhaven Street. While I can't find the word spell that will take me home again, I have learned that I can time travel on the whiff of a lilac. Today, peonies took me there. 

 

 This morning, I cut white and pink peonies from my side yard. Heavy rain bent their stalks, and the cabbage blooms pooled together into a carpet of blossoms. I cut only those broken stems, the collection of these damaged flowers combining to make something quite lovely.

 

 

 

 

Today, Rachel told me: "I want these flowers in my wedding bouquet." I smile to think of her finely-boned fingers carrying peonies bound by ribbons at the stems. 

 

 



 

She has my mother's hands. 

 

 

 

Clairhaven Street

My mother cut armfuls of lilacs, filling vases and jars in every room of our house. One vase, a blue piece of depression glass ringed by a thin, scalloped collar, held them best, the narrow base restraining their stems, allowing a lavendar and green explosion above--the thick branches pushing the blossoms haphazardly outward.  In the shade of the lilacs and forsythia grew a low forest of lily of the valley, their bell-shaped blossoms rising from leafy pod-like curls. I'd lie on my stomach and pluck them one by one, surprised at the strength of their resistance to my pulling, until I had enough to fill the tiniest of my mother's  crystal vases.

My own lilacs are on my kitchen table as I write, their dank sugar changing my patterns of thought. One of my three bushes burst this year, but still I don't have enough blossoms to fill my house. I left some to scent my yard while I drink cups of coffee on the deck, collecting myself in the dark. After I'd arranged my lilacs in a clear glass vase, I went back out to the shady section of my yard, where a small group of green leaves curved protectively around stems of bell-shaped flowers. I should have planted them when we first bought our house, but, even so, five lily of the valley shoots sit in a tiny vase on my kitchen sink helping me while I remember my mother.

 

 

Today, I'm still a little lost in the scent of the lilacs on my table. I'm writing in the kitchen, the lilacs directly in front of my laptop, and I'm struggling to stay put. The syrupy scent still threatens me, pushing relentlessly into my mind like the haphazard branches, toppling me back to my childhood home on Clairhaven Street.

 

It's like this: writers are pretty much always somewhere else. I know it appears that I'm here now (you can see me, right?), but most of me, the prime cut of me, is sitting on the low concrete wall just beneath the rose bushes on Clairhaven Street. My family will come upon what they think is me, their voices creating a forceful NOW, and I emerge from where I've been, disoriented, blinking furiously to find myself in a different place.

 

"What did you say?" I ask them, peering over my reading glasses.

 

"You aren't even listening!"

 

.Ah, if they only knew where I'd been. All I can do is try to take them back there with my words.

 

Curious about Annie Dillard's writing philosophy? Read The Writing Life.
 

I've been envious of Annie Dillard, another Pittsburgh girl, who jumped with both feet into her writing world. Once working in front of a window with an engaging view, she covered it with brown paper, blocking the invasive NOW with packing tape. What would it feel like to lose control, to give myself over to the world inside my head? I wish I may, I wish I might, but I can't do it. Instead, I am a cheater, sneaking around on both parts of my life. My own dear writing life is surely jealous of my family, but I suspect my famiy doesn't have cause to know about my affair. 

 

This weekend, I'm taking Clairhaven Street to a writing conference in Pittsburgh. I'm hoping that they will be able to smell the lilacs, too. Wish me luck.

 

 

 

The house is quiet today (the NOW momentarily at bay), and I plan to build a tunnel of words to and from Clairhaven Street. I may stay for a lunch of my father's tomatoes.

 

 

Time travel to my childhood inspires a little caprese salad for lunch. I managed to find some decent tomatoes and basil at the market, and with a little fresh mozzarella and good olive oil, you can't go wrong. My mouth waits anxiously for summer tomatoes and my own garden-grown basil, but I don't think I'll ever find tomatoes like those my father grew on Clairhaven Street. I'll probably keep looking, though.

 

If you are still a little hungry, a smattering of Clairhaven Street (in very early versions!) can be found here: Tomato Whispers, Going Home, and Cutting Lilacs.

French Onion Soup

"Your due date is December 24th."

"No, no, no, no. Are you sure? That can't be right."

The doctor looked at me over the top of his reading glasses. It was 1991, and questioning medical authority was still unpracticed--especially when the questions came from pregnant women.

"It's just that I have three small children at home. I can't...I mean, seriously...I really CAN'T be in the hospital on Christmas Eve. Are you really, really sure?"

Was that pity or annoyance crossing his face?

Yes, yes, he was sure.

I'd come to the doctor in the first place--folded my clothes on the chair--wrapped the thin paper robe around me--sat on the edge of the stainless steel table, arms gripping elbows--because of my husband. Well, yes, of course, THAT, but really because of this conversation:

Me: I can't believe I've had the flu for so long. I just keep feeling like total crap. I mean, how long can this last?
Him: Jill.
Me: What?
Him: Look at me.
Me: What?
Him: You don't have the flu. You're pregnant. You should take a test.
Me: What?

Now, keep in mind that I pretty much knew I was pregnant immediately with my first three children. This time, my husband, a human being with no uterus, knew before I did. This is why I think I didn't know:
1. my oldest was sixish.
2. my second was four.
3. my youngest was, well, one.
4. my husband traveled...a lot.

After the baby was born, we spent a lot of time in surival mode: everyone safe and fed, nothing more and nothing less. (Well, there were the times that two-year-old Laura moved baby Rachel from the couch onto the floor when I went to the bathroom, that Laura drank Dimetap while wearing her bathing suit in February and the nurses at St. Clair Hospital narrowed their eyes at me while I held the baby in one arm and my poor toddler's head in the other while she vomited the contents of her stomach, that I sliced open the palm of my hand on a sheet of heavy-duty aluminum foil while helping Matty build a diorama of the Mall in Washington, DC while Andy wrote his spelling words and the girls pounded on their high chair trays and blood dripped on the Lincoln Memorial). [Editor's Note--these events are just a representative selection of the chaotic events that occurred in the Sunday household].

On the night of the bloody-monument incident, I looked at my babies--Matty's sweet face open with expectation with the promise of this project; Andy's red head bent over the paper, freckled hands carefully looping letters; Laura's little voice piping "Why, Mommy?" as she watched me tear the foil, squirming impatiently in her high chair; and the baby, Rachel's hands smacking the tray top, her movements sending cheerios into flight--and the deep ache of parenthood washed over and through me...this would not be the only time I would lovingly and unintentionally fail them.


In California, where golden warmth is a daily presence, where oranges mimic the sweetness of the sun, they call her Sunny. She is that, my own share of the sun, and decidely much more wonderful than a prolonged bout with the flu.







So, I'm here to tell you now that my golden moment was at the end of a day, when my babies were fed, bathed (so sweet-smelling in their soft necks), and piled around me for story time, all of us leaning into one another, through a weird blend of mother will and metaphysics morphing into one. I'd close the last bedroom door, tiptoeing away, a peaceful lullaby beating in my heart. Yeah, even if I had to bleed on the Lincoln Memorial again (even repeatedly, just like the seemingly never-ending Groundhog Day) I'd buy the ticket for that time-travel experience without hesitation.

About a week after my first boy left for college, the sweet-faced Matty of the Mall project, a bottle of Red Hot in the Giant Eagle condiment aisle did me in, his absence in my daily life made so clear to me by the fact that I didn't need to add that thick, spicy liquid to my purchases. His siblings followed suit, of course, as it should be, and my cart was less full of their wants and needs.

"What would I  like for dinner?"

Hmmm....now that's a question that took some time to answer.

My children call me for my recipes, often while pushing their own carts through grocery stores as far away as Maryland and California. (Soon, there will be calls from Helena, Arkansas, as "Why, Mommy?" Laura begins work there.) When Laura dropped her college meal plan, after she'd moved into an apartment as a sophomore, we'd spend an hour or so on the phone while she strolled the aisles of Safeway.

Sunny Rachel girl would roll her eyes, "Are you really on the phone while she SHOPS?" It wouldn't be long until I shopped long distance with her, too. Now we trade Snapchats of our separately-prepared feasts.

In my comfy chair, with my feet up and my eyes closed, I walk next to my girls, sharing recipes. Later, a little bit of me shows up at far-removed dinner tables, sometimes at four different spots in one night!

Look! There I am.

On a weekend like this, when Mother's Day temperatures threaten to take us back into the chilly zone, and I long for that long lost golden hour, it's best to comfort ourselves with some French Onion Soup. The most glorious French Onion Soup I've ever "ohhhheeeddd" over spoonful by spoonful, I ate at a little bistro in Paris situated across the river from Notre Dame (but within perfect view of its spires), and just down the street from Sylvia Beach's legendary bookstore--Shakespeare and Company. The best version I've made myself is fashioned after Pioneer Woman Ree Drummond's creation; she concludes her beautiful step-by-step photographic instructions by saying "It’s everything, is what it is."

When my children were little, I often made French Onion Soup in the crockpot. I like this new version better, and when they call me for the recipe, here's what I'll tell them:

There will probably be tears. [Editor's Note: Feel free to substitute a mental image of the Lincoln-Memorial incident here.]



Things will probably get a little messy. [Editor's Note: Feel free to insert "Try, try, and try again" or "I think I can...I think I can..." here.]

 

 

 

Quality counts. Buy the good cheese. [Editor's Note: Feel free to subsitute "To thine ownself be true" here.]

 

 

Don't cook with wine that you wouldn't drink. [Editor's Note: Feel free to substitute "I hope you dance" here.]

 

 

 

 

Hot cheese fixes everything. [Editor's Note: Feel free to substitute "I will always love you" here.]

 

 

  Here's Pioneer Woman's recipe for everything.  Enjoy.

Einstein, Say It's So

The outdoor rotunda, Pittsburgh's Pennsylvania Railway Station

The Broadway Limited left from Pittsburgh's Pennsylvania Railway Station around 1:06 a.m., the hour late enough to make my mother cranky about having to drive me downtown. We'd park under the great rotunda, never looking up at the circular patterns of terracotta-colored stones topped by centered slices of glass. Later I'd think about the lovers who parted from or joined to each other under this shelter all because of these tracks, the cumulative comings and goings, the damp jackets where faces had buried themselves in angst or relief. Then, though, I thought only about getting to my destination, maybe trying to sleep a bit through the night's journey, nodding off but shaking myself awake as every station was called, each clackety-clack of the rails taking me closer to him.

Imagine if I'd only looked up!

After the saying goodbye (I'm going, I'm going, I'm going!) and the thrilling sound of "ALL ABOARD!," if I was lucky enough, no one would sit next to me. Twice I remember not being lucky at all, sitting once next to a girl who was actively determined to save my apparently sorry soul before the train pulled into Trenton. Another time, I spent the entire trip turned fully toward the window in an effort ward off my seatmate, who was trying his best to "accidentally" touch the curve of my breast.

The Broadway Limited rounding Horseshoe Bend in Altoona, Pennsylvania.

When the conductor called "NEXT STATION STOP, ALTOONA!" ..."HORSESHOE CURVE COMING UP!" I never failed to rub my eyes, turning sleepily toward the window, to watch the train nearly meeting itself as it rounded the great bend.  Altoona was midpoint, or a little over, in my trip. From this point on, I was fully awake, anxious to be free of the train, to be jumping down the three iron steps, to be scanning the crowd for his face, to be kissing and falling and spinning and losing myself in the suddently very solid fact of us.

While Gary's strengths don't always include being on time (When we got married, I told him the ceremony was at 1:30--when it was scheduled for 2), he never was late to meet the Broadway Limited. We rode back to campus in his roommate's taped-together green Dodge Dart, feeling ourselves becoming invisible to the world. For the next 72 hours, there would be only two.

One of the many Princeton arches. Imagine your back curving against its stone, face rising to the one bending to you.

"Princeton was a great place to be in love," I tell my husband from the back seat of our rented SUV. Our oldest son rides shotgun because of his long legs, and three of us sit hip to hip behind them. We are making a lunch stop in Princeton, having left Philadelphia on route to Fairfield, Connecticut as we follow Rachel's college lacrosse team that's come East for Spring Break.

Gary drives down Nassau Street slowly, ostensibly looking for a parking spot, but I can sense he's searching for something else . He eases into a parking garage that wasn't there the last time we visited, and we spill out into a crossroad where our past looks haughtily at our present.

"We may not have lived up to your expectations," I whisper.

I can feel us here, still here, and while I'm glad for all that is, I want to weep for all that's lost. Would I sell a little bit of my soul to be young again, my long hair swishing mid back, the skin around my eyes smooth and taut, our married life yet to be, hanging before us like a glossy ripe plum? If our youth is fossilized anywhere, it is here.

And, if Einstein was right about the fabric of time, our past, present, and future exist simultaneously. Might an 80-year-old Jill be tapping her way down the street? Today, I'd be happier to find the 20-year-old Jill, who could be walking across campus after a Cat Steven's concert, the fingers of her left hand looped in Gary's belt, his arm slung proprietarily across her shoulders. Dorm windows open to the May air, a mash-up of "Morning Has Broken" and "It's a Wild World" floats above us.

If it were late enough, we might hear our young selves calling "HOT DOG MAN!", desperately in search of the vendor peddling steamed dogs and buns at 2 a.m. Sometimes we ate at The Grotto, a tiny storefront decorated with white fencing and plastic flowers, where candles dripped down the sides of rope-wrapped pot-bellied wine bottles. At The Grotto, we ordered either eight-inch club sandwiches or featherweight gnocchi (I've judged every dish of gnocchi by The Grotto's standards since then). We often tripped down dark stairs to a basement bar called The Annex where we'd drink Sicilian Kisses (Southen Comfort and Amaretto) until I spoke only in Spanish. Then we'd order the 99 cent ham and cheese special to bring back my English. Once we lunched at The Nassau Inn, our tureens of clam chowder served on a table carved deeply with initials of long gone boys and men. I believed the silver pitcher of cream served with the soup prophesised our future.

The Peacock Inn



If there is a place in which our younger selves could manifest, it would certainly be the Peacock Inn. Set back from the bustle of Nassau Street on Bayard, the Peacock seemed to be a spun-sugar house, lit from within. Was it our future selves climbing the steps,already transitioning into our next, more formal stage? We dressed up for those dinners, ordering wine, holding hands across the crisply-clothed table set along a curved wall of windows in this glorious old house.The details of what we ate have faded, but my fingers remember the silver's heavy curves. We walked in tandem, slowly, me crying a little at the end of our Peacock nights.The next day I'd again board the Broadway Limited, this time moving too quickly backwards, clack-clackety.

Nothing like a good old cup of Joe to bring us back to reality.

Today, our present selves are meeting old college friends, Bryan and Audrey, at P.J.'s Pancake House, one of the few eateries that hasn't changed much since Gary and Bryan graduated in the seventies. We sat in the corner nook, our younger selves crowding the booth, all of us catching up over P.J.'s best.

The corner table at PJ's, where we rubbed elbows with the past.

Rachel may have had the best plate: Eggs Benedict...

 

...with a side of strawberry pancakes!