A friend sent me a copy of a poem the other night. It is something that she reads to her toddler son and occasionally reads for herself when she is troubled.
I immediately recalled the poem. It appeared in a collection of children’s poetry we had at home when I was young. I read this poem often as a child, but had not run across it in decades. As I read, I realized that I had forgotten not only the poem, but also some of the message. Reading it a few times slowly helped erase some of the troubles tossing in the back of my mind.
The poem is If –, by Rudyard Kipling.
Late notice, I know; but this is late breaking news for Just Cured.
Each year, the Homearama home show sponsors an evening to benefit 7 Days for SIDS. This year, that night is tonight, Wednesday, June 11. Area chefs will be doing cooking demonstrations from 6 p.m. to 9 p.m. in the kitchens of the show homes. In addition, they will be providing samples of their food to Homearama patrons as they walk through those kitchens. Whole Foods is a co-sponsor of the evening this year and is providing food products for the chefs.
Long story short, Whole Foods provided Jean-Robert de Cavel (Jean-Robert at Pigall’s) scottish salmon similar to the salmon I am using. He decided it would be fun to do something with smoked salmon and asked Just Cured to custom smoke the salmon.
Jean-Robert likes his salmon with a bit more pronounced smoke flavor than I am shooting for with Just Cured’s salmon. So, I am smoking his fish about 25% longer than our regular product. I will be interested in tasting the difference.
If you are looking for something fun to do tonight, visit Homearama, eat some wonderful food and support one of the best causes in the area. Oh, and pick up a Just Cured business card at Jean-Robert’s home for the evening.
A young friend called this morning and opened the conversation with this question: “Can I have someone charged with abusing smoked salmon?”
After taking the heat I have for my satire on the enforcement of traffic laws, I was extremely reluctant to pursue this conversation. In the end, however, I just had to know what was on his mind. And so, I replied:
“Well, if you can’t and if the smoked salmon involved was Just Cured, you should be so permitted. What were the circumstances?”
It seems that young friend and a pal had a craving for smoked salmon and bagels as their Saturday lunch (probably breakfast for them considering their ages and their Friday night festivities). Off they went on a quest to buy bagels, followed by a stop at Findlay Market for some Just Cured smoked salmon. They went back to young friend’s apartment and polished off his half pound of salmon. They decided to save the pal’s half pound for Sunday breakfast at pal’s place — after a quiet Saturday night.
Pal carefully transported his smoked salmon home and tucked the tidy package into his refrigerator. Over the course of the evening, pal remarked to young friend several times how much he was looking forward to smoked salmon and a schmear two days in a row.
Upon his awakening Sunday morning, my young friend was greeted by the flotsam and jetsam of a night of carousing and debauching by pal’s roomie and his posse. Scattered among the detritus of a night of hard partying were bodies in various states of consciousness and dress.
As he turned into the kitchen, young friend eyed a skillet containing the congealed mess of someone’s attempt at wee hour cookery. When he removed the pan from the cold stove, young friend noticed grains of rice, bits of vegetable, some sorry excuse for a sauce and bits of protein that looked suspiciously like . . . .
And yes, there in the garbage can was a square of butcher paper still bearing Kevin Luken’s scrawled “Just Cured Smoked Salmon.”
When pal awoke some time later, he confronted roomie and his buddies. No one admitted to the late night cooking. Further, no one recalled another’s cooking or anyone’s eating the slop that became of pal’s Sunday breakfast.
Some mysteries are meant to remain so, I suppose.
At least my young friend will not have to wait long for his next smoked salmon fix — and that salmon will be on me. You see, he foolishly volunteered to assist me at the 7 Days for SIDS brunch on Sunday. I will, however, make him work for his tastes.
Sunday evening, my wife and I crashed someone’s graduation picnic. Well, we were invited to the party, just not by the hostess. Her brother, who was doing the heavy cooking, invited us by to pick up a spit-roasted chicken or two. Our intent was to grab our dinner, make a hasty exit, and leave the partying to the family and friends of the graduate. Typical of the hospitality of the hostess and her brother the pitmaster, they changed our plans.
Five minutes became two hours and a bottle of wine (mine) and a couple of bottles of champagne (the pitmaster’s brother’s). I made myself moderately useful as the pitmaster’s assistant. We did eventually head home with our chickens and made a late supper of one of them.
Kevin makes the best spit-roasted chicken I have had the privilege of eating. The roasting contraption is something special as well. This “small” version will roast 72 chickens at a time. Kevin did a mini batch for this party of 48 chickens (one spit removed just before I took this picture).
Is there anything better than unexpected time with friends, lively conversation and the smell of a charcoal fire?
I have been near several crises over the last several weeks. A young niece was sent home from sports practice with a note that a doctor needed to look at a severely swollen joint. A man I don’t know at all was told he will die soon; my connection: his wife is the life-long friend of a dear friend. Another friend is in a business dispute threatening her livelihood.
My niece is fine. The eternities between when the orthopedist and the radiologist sent her and her parents to a pediatric oncologist, when the oncologist spoke the word “cancer,” and when my niece and her parents received the test results confirming that the growth is benign were anything but fine. On the day of the first doctor visits, I happened to be visiting their town for a business dinner. I was able to spend a couple of hours with my sister and at least a few minutes with her husband and each of her three children. We didn’t do very much or even talk very much about the unthinkable. Mostly, I tagged along for the late afternoon and early evening activities of a household of teens and an adolescent — readying for, toting to and fetching from sports practices and games — all the while listening to my sister’s plans for an upcoming high school fundraiser. There was no place on earth I would rather have been that evening. As it was, I would have preferred to have begged off the society party and the late dinner at the fancy chain steakhouse with a client in favor of a grade school soccer match and burgers at some dive with my sister and her family.
My dear friend is not fine; neither is her life-long friend. How does one deal with the unequivocal doctor-pronounced death sentence of a loved one? A fortuitously scheduled meeting and a several hour car ride were not in the cards this time; my dear friend and I are separated by hundreds of miles. Are phone calls and emails and my constant thoughts a sufficient substitute for a concerned look, a proffered hand and an unconditionally open ear?
My other friend requires the analytic and negotiating skills that I possess. Her situation is not life-or-death. It is the more frequent (in my professional experience) prospect of financial or professional ruin. Unfortunately, I am the wrong person, in the wrong place, at the wrong time to help her. She, too, is several states separated from me geographically. Shortly after she took her current position, she asked me to represent her company in a minor legal matter. As a result, my ability to help her in a dispute with her employer is severely restricted. I scream to myself that I have assisted literally hundreds of clients resolve similar problems over the years. In my friend’s case, I can only help her find counsel in her locale and act as a silent sounding board to her as this dispute unfolds. I will be able to spend some time with this friend soon — but is that enough?
Tragedy and near tragedy strike millions of people each day. I understand that. Tragedy almost never visits those I love. And when it does, I expect to be able to fight it — or at least be there to help in the fight.
This weekend I received further evidence that joy breeds more joy and spreads to those nearby. My recent exposure to this phenomenon came in the form of a church group on an evening outing.
My friend Joe Tucker received a midweek call from the pastor of a church located in a town about 45 minutes from here. His church was arranging an outing for members to attend a weekend gospel music concert at Music Hall that was to begin at 6 pm. They wanted to have a bite to eat nearby before the concert, and they insisted on a non-chain restaurant. They found Tucker’s on the internet. The group would total around 55 guests. Joe explained that he closed at 3 pm, but would reopen for the group. The pastor called back later and said they would love to visit — they would arrive around 3:45.
When I arrived for breakfast that morning, Joe was a bit nervous about the size of the party. He borrowed extra chairs, plates and silverware from the Catholic church next door. The Franciscan Brothers even offered their dining room for the group. Joe was also worried about getting killed after a busy Saturday and before opening for their first Sunday (10 am to 2 pm) the next day after many years of being closed Sundays. Finally, he was worried about being short handed as one server was out of town for the weekend.
I had no plans for the afternoon, so I volunteered to pitch in. Prior to the arrival of the party, I prepped some food, cleaned a bit, fetched borrowed items from next door, and did my side work.
The group arrived just before 4:15. A party of 53, consisting of families from grade school children to their grandparents (and maybe a few great-grandparents). It was a tight squeeze; Tucker’s is normally configured for just under 40 guests.
This group’s joy suffused the restaurant. They were excited about the concert they were attending; they were belatedly celebrating one child’s birthday; they were thrilled to be dining together as a group. The six of us working were immediately caught up in their joy. Our apprehension melted away in an instant. The restaurant was filled with 59 big smiles.
I was assigned a section of four booths, plus served the food to three more. Take drink orders, recite the specials (shrimp and grits, huevos rancheros and vegetarian huevos, oatmeal, grits, only two orders of biscuits and gravy left). Not a single person ordered a special; they had studied the menu on the bus and all knew what they wanted when they arrived. Take orders. A dozen tickets hit the pass within 5 minutes. Coffees, waters, soft drinks, fill, re-fill. The food starts to come to the pass. Several guests have switched tables; no problem, it’s a small restaurant. Everyone loved it all; the smiles got yet broader, the conversation more animated.
“And how would you like your check at this table?” I asked at table 1. Single. Single. Couple. Single plus child at the next table, a child at the counter, the pastor over there and the bus driver. Every table was like that. Their joy was contagious; I couldn’t have cared less how they wanted their checks. I just re-wrote every dup for every table in the restaurant (someone else did the counters) into as many checks as they wanted.
Exactly 75 minutes after arrival, the bus pulled out from the parking lot. 53, very full, very happy guests to go, please. Their joy kept me smiling for the remainder of the weekend and into this morning. I only hope the concert exceeded their expectations by the margin that Joe, Carla and their team did so.
Please join Just Cured and your favorite restaurant chefs from the area for brunch on Father’s Day, June 15, 2008.† I will be serving Just Cured smoked salmon at the brunch benefiting Seven Days for SIDS at Midwest Culinary Institute from 11 am to 2 pm.† For more details and to purchase tickets, visit Seven Days for SIDS.
This will not be your first opportunity to taste (or buy) Just Cured salmon; it is, however, the first scheduled event.† It will also be great fun for you and your family as well as your opportunity to support a cause very close to my heart.
Please come see us on June 15.
Yesterday was a local holiday in my city — baseball’s Opening Day. We have a parade sponsored by the vendors at Findlay Market. The city essentially shuts down for the afternoon. Everyone-who-is-anyone attends the game, baseball fan or not.
For many years, I have cheered on the Redlegs from the seats reserved for the Findlay Market vendors. The seats are nothing special, top rows out the left field line; but the company is excellent. This year I found myself with a couple of extra tickets. I offered one to my former assistant and the other to a baseball fan new to the city.
Early on the holiday morning, my former assistant called and begged off; her younger son was ill with a stomach virus. I held out hope for the baseball fan even though he had told me he could not take the afternoon off work.
I attended a couple of meetings downtown during the morning and kept an eye out for someone who might enjoy the two tickets burning a hole in my pocket.
Shortly before noon, I stopped by the business of a friend. He was beaming when I walked into the shop. A customer had just handed him two tickets for the big game, box seats inside third base. He had already called his daughter. She was on her way downtown with her son, my friend’s one year old grandson; the three of them were going to their first ever Opening Day!
I made one last call to the baseball fan to see if his baseball fever got the better of his work conscience. He was tempted but still declined. I finally told the friend that I had come into his place to offer him my extra tickets. We offered them to his employees, but they had to keep the shop open. My friend told me to leave the tickets with him; he would find them a good home. He also wrote down my seat location because I offered to buy him a beer if he would take the long walk up to visit the commoners.
The game’s start was delayed an hour due to rain. During the first inning and much to my surprise, I looked up to see my friend, his daughter and grandson inching down our row. When they arrived at the seats next to me, I teased my friend that he just couldn’t stay away from the upper deck rabble. He whispered to me that the other tickets — the box seat tickets, the tickets given to him by a good customer — scanned as stolen. It was just dumb luck he said that no one who came into the shop after I left needed tickets. One of his employees drove “my” tickets down to the ball park for my friend.
My friend, the fan of every known sport, had no expectations of attending his first Opening Day game yesterday. But having been offered the hope of going, being turned away at the gate would have been a huge disappointment.
Fortunately, two people who I really would have liked to have spent the afternoon with had other obligations.
Fortunately, I decided to visit my friend yesterday.
Fortunately, I left those tickets for him to dispose of.
Fortunately, he didn’t.
Fortunately, my friend got to see his first Opening Day game, and his grandson got to see his first of a lifetime’s worth. I know they will remember yesterday for a long time.
There is a picture of that baby on my lap enjoying the game. I hope his mother remembers to send me a copy. Because I want to remember as well.
I was intrigued when a friend told me he had “something” for me and to stop by today. I was surprised when I saw this:
Inside the beautiful packaging was this yet more beautiful creation:
The photo does not do justice to this treat. There is a large chocolate egg encased within the chocolate openwork shell.
It is almost too beautiful to eat. Almost.
Thanks JP!
For most of my adult life, I have had the fortune of being a regular at a hole-in-the-wall eatery. During my law school years, it was a place called Albert’s Tavern (more restaurant than tavern, I promise). Albert and his wife, Maryanne, treated me as if I were family. The payback for that treatment was my (willing) obligation to pitch in whenever the restaurant was busy. That restaurant is long gone, but I will never forget the kindness and generosity its owners extended to me.
For the past several years, my place has been an establishment named Tucker’s. Open for 62 or so years, Tucker’s has operated continuously in this location for nearly 60 years — on a block that has seen more than its share of problems and several lifetimes of change. Joe and Carla Tucker took over the operation of the restaurant from his parents 30 years ago; Mrs. Tucker still works every day. If you visit, you will recognize her from the pictures of her as a stunning young woman adorning the walls.
Everything about the place is old, from the straight-backed wooden booths along the wall to the counter stools and from the cooking griddle to those photos from the 1940s and 50s. Yet, to me this space feels almost like another home.
I often describe Tucker’s as the most inclusive 600 square feet in our city. The Tucker family’s guests range from the poorest of the neighborhood’s poor to CEOs of multinational corporations and from struggling artists to world renowned musicians.
My wife and I ate lunch there today. Our dining companions included a number of young men in their boxer shorts and jeans cinched to their lower thighs, a few older neighborhood gentlemen who had clearly seen happier times, mothers with toddlers in tow, Franciscan brothers or priests from the church next door, tattooed and pierced bohemians, businessmen in suits and a dozen high school students along with their three teachers on a field trip from a town about 90 minutes from here. Although the crowd was loud and the staff was showing the strain of handling the party of 15, there was no sign of tension at all. Everyone was happy to be sharing a midday respite of home cooking and fellowship.
It occurs to me nearly every time I walk in that door that if only there were a few more places like this one, the world would be both safer and happier.
Postscripts:
Those of you who have been checking in for news of Just Cured and its business will have your patience rewarded. I expect to be posting next week significant developments in the progress toward product release.
I will make a public apology to a dear friend for hoarding this post. Nearly a year ago, she asked me to publish on her site an email quite similar (from what I remember) to this that I sent in response to her essay about a like place in a different city. I declined at the time; maybe I knew I was saving it for another time and place.
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