Chef Ruth Zali - Green Bean Salad - Gazpacho - Poem: My Pink Bedroom

Carly of yesterday was raving about the new York Road Diner. They've been there 4 months.

  I ordered the cheese omelet and asked if I could substitute the taters and toast for applesauce.

Not a problem.



  The coffee was quite good. I was sipping it as I read one of my new books - checked out 6 - it's an elimination contest.

The cheese omelet was good and I decided to dip the next bite into the applesauce.

   It sure looked good, Lefty.

Ptui!  I spat it right back into the bowl.

Sharp taste akin to spoiled milk.

Ran up to tell the owner it was bad.

Egads! They brought me anudder bowl.

"It's good," he said. "I tasted it."

Ptui!

"I guess I just don't like canned applesauce," I said to him.

**

Told Scott when I met him at the train station this morning that I had a lot to do today.

Make the bean salad for Mom's BD tomro and paint her a BD card and mail it to her.

So he was surprised when he came over around noon and found me watching

  on Netflix.

Oh, I said, I made the bean salad

To prepare, I went to the library and checked out three audio books to listen to while I did the labor-intensive work.

The green bean salad is a meal in one:

steamed green beans from Solebury Orchards
slices of Asian pear
toasted pecans
chopped celery, red peppers, radishes, already prepared from the Giant salad bar
dressing made with Mayo, spicy mustard, minced garlic

I had no idea it would be THAT delicious, but it is.

**

When I forced my lazy self off the Red Couch, I went downstairs to my art studio on the screened-in back porch.

I knew I was gonna draw a PEAR for mom. I had emailed the orchards and asked em what kind of pears they were.

Hollow Delight.

  Ripens two weeks before Bartlett.

I shared both the bean salad and Mom's card with Brian Smith of the orchards. He thanked me.

That's Little Ruthie with Aunt Marion. I looked in horror at the back of the card - above - and saw I'd failed to put something on it. Then I spied this photo on my secretariat desk.

Drove over the the Huntingdon Valley Library - Mom lives in HV - and John assured me it would get there tomro.

Scott said, Why don't you just drive it over and put it in the mailbox.

Scott! I yelled.

**

My last dish was Gazpacho Zoup. We had an article in the Compass called  "Do the Gazpacho" by my friend Carolyn. I just made up the recipe myself, after checking the Internet.

Ground everything up in my 41-year-old Oster blender in which I used to make Sarah's baby food. 

Ingredients:  Tomatoes from the orchards, cuke, red wine vinegar, olive oil, mint leaves (orig from Robin at the Willow Grove Giant), garlic, water. Green scallions.

Garnished with scallions.

Took it outside by night and ate it in a lawn chair on the front lawn to the tune of the cicadas.

**

Just got back from a walk around the block at 10:30 pm to walk off my food.

The only sounds I heard were

the cicadas, two trucks pulling up next to the curb, one truck's tires scraping the curb

The stars were high above and I thought August is Meteor Month. Is that correct Doktor Einstein?

Let's talk peaches.

There is nothing worse than

- a mooshy peace

- or someone who has a peach tree and the squirrels have eaten every last one of em

This is a delicious peach from Solebury Orchards. My sugar is a fine 96. I'm gonna eat the entire peach and then check my sugar again.

I may have to go for anudder walk around the block.

**

Scott has a new strategy to fight his leg pain.

He walks outdoors in the morning and at night. He left for the train station early to give himself that longer walk.

I walked with him.

Last nite I was submitting my work to various places. One place wanted religious poems, of which I've written many.

I wrote the one below, sent it to Marf, and asked her if it was 'over the top.' She gave me her seal of approval.

MY PINK BEDROOM

The faithful servants of
God came every day
What is paint?

Call them saints.
Ed, a man whose
entire body quivers
unmerciful with
every breath he
takes. He will not
fail his God, as
he strokes my
bedroom walls
with rollers, brushes
and prayers.

His partner John
is another Holy Man
dementia stalking
his family and
maybe, now that he
is older, himself.  

The earth is not an
easy place. They paint
for the glory of the
Lord. I stand outside
under the cool August
sky, having thrown a
paper cup of coffee
into the trash, and
gaze up into my
pink bedroom.

The drapes camouflage
what lies within, the
way a woman’s body
is unseen under her
clothes, or in my case,
my short green nightgown
that sighs as I move my
arms and my legs toward
home.

As Heaven awaits us, so
does my bedroom at the end
of the day. I look forward to
it the way the dark sky longs
for the moon. There, to rest
my tired body, and say, “This
is what life feels like. This.” The open
window brings fresh breezes
that stroke my body as I gaze
upon the bright pink walls
painted just for me by Ed
and John, whose spirits
I am certain will reside here
until the end of my days.