Everyday...

I always think my anniversary is May 25th. The wedding was May 24th but that was the dice throw - not the destination. Everyday would begin May 25th. And the destination was life.

It was "everyday" with Paul that I craved. The errands, the cleaning, the planning, the joining, the yearning and the growing.

It isn't everyday that the azaleas are in bloom - but it's part of an everyday.

Everyday is writing or avoiding writing (rubbing cat tummies and deciding where I'd go in my time machine - I have a stellar talent for avoidance.)

It's something like this tilapia  (fish roll-up stuffed with shredded carrots) from Proud Italian Cook.

It's a simple fish roll-up. The fish is spread with pesto and then dimpled with shredded carrots. Add a little bread crumb topping, put in oven and the heat works it magic - and dinner is grand. Find Marie's recipe here.

The rhubarb is up and in Minnesota you learn to love rhubarb - because it's the first thing to make an appearance. It's even abundant along the highways. (Highways! Come on, that's everyday.)   

And because my daughter knows her mother, I am in possession of a lovely book Edible Twin Cities. Paul has already made the requisite strawberry rhubarb pie and there will be many more of those pies during the summer. But I was attracted to this - because it was a wee bit different - a rhubarb meringue pie. It's an old family recipe from the President of the St. Paul's Farmer's Market. The St. Paul Farmer's Market is a true local, farmers market. Everything must be local. Everything. You cannot get early Iowa corn - you must wait for Minnesota (and some of Wisconsin). Unlike the Minneapolis Farmer's Market where you can get bananas and citrus fruit - you cannot get that in the St, Paul market - it must grow within a certain radius of the cities or is ineligible.

The sweet meringue is a perfect foil the rhubarb. Dig down and the sweet tart taste is a wake-up call. And when it's enveloped in all that lovely meringue, it's welcome.

It's not remotely Italian of course. Let's just say it's in the spirit of the Italian tradition: fresh, local, garden-to-table. My grandfather Egidio who was an avid gardener would understand.

Everyday is Luce.

Lately everyday has been turkeys in the yard ... and ducks.

And lately - a fox! (Better watch out duckies!)

And now every day is this:

Part of the MN Fringe Festival. My everydays are better when focused on a show. The website info is here. And after last year's show about coping with grief, a zany, pasta show is in order! (And for chronic readers, an excerpt is here.)

There was another interview: "I Interview Playwrights."  (That would be me.)

And another showcase. Tease.

And - a lot of thinking. About the blog. I am at a loss without google reader and know there are other avenues to explore. But no time to go exploring. Everyday. It's crammed. It's sweet. The La Dolce Vita fairy has visited me. But it's packed.

And I am thinking about my focus with the blog - unlike with a play - do I even have a focus? I have no money/book deal/food writer aspirations. I don't want that. I love my work. And I do want that. For me, this has always been about community. But I think and ponder and obsess. "To blog or not to blog, that is the question?" But I'm not Hamlet and I'm not asking the audience. I'm everyday-Claudia and every-day Claudia needs to focus.  

And rub cat tummies.

La Dolce Vita

A lot of wishes have been blown into the air these days. Life is erratic and it seeps into my being, my work, my blogging. "Looking for normal" and find it in a blog, a recipe, an unexpected burst of silliness. A dandelion blooming way too early.
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I am learning about the end of life. Learning acceptance and grasping minutes that are "normal."

And then the unexpected happens. A playwright-colleague of mine wrote a play Danny is Going to Die about his bout with cancer. It's biting and sardonic. It satirizes the treatment of patients and the disease. And it's warm and fuzzy. Only Tim could pull that off. 'cause that was Tim - wry, sardonic, highly irreverent (wonderfully, strongly, enthusiastically irreverent) and thirty. He will always be 30. On St. Patrick's Day he passed away peacefully.
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His Facebook friends declared him sharing a pitcher of his favorite appletinis with St. Patrick. Facebook was oddly comforting and there was a lot of laughter in the remembrances. Tim wouldn't have it any other way. As I prepare for a different loss, I am blindsided by Tim. And I stop preparing - because I cannot, I shouldn't - it negates what I have now - la dolce vita - even when the sweet is savory - even when I don't taste the sweet.

Someone gives me some truffles. Very unexpected.

- I cannot cook in the hospital I visit regularly. I cannot shave these over eggs or into risotto or pasta. But I could slice them into butter. Savory cookies and cream. Pick up some artisan bread.

So I stir and with emotion - mash it into butter. My daughter's was wishing they were chocolate truffles. I am glad they are not.

It will sit in the fridge over night: 2 shaved small black truffles, 1 stick of unsalted butter - which I proceeded to salt with a few shakes of sea salt. And then it will accompany me and some mighty fine bread on my journey tomorrow to spend time with my parents and sister. We will break bread together in the seating area. We will hug and we will smile and we will laugh. We will chew and talk all at once with our mouth full.

La dolce vita from a truffle. From a gift. From remembrances. For this minute today.