by Donna Ball
Catherine
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: No Shrimp!
Bridget,
told you, I am a vegetarian and that means NO shrimp. Besides, they are tacky and COMPLETELY overdone. Why can’t we have lobster?
Traci
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: RE: Menu #3
Bridget,
Another thought—Mediterranean is terribly in right now. Maybe we could do something Mediterranean with a farmhouse flair?
Shrimp are very Mediterranean. And I checked with the Department of Agriculture—shrimp are definitely a local product.
XO
Catherine
P.S. Bringing the whole crew out Saturday for a tasting; I know you’ll come up with a fabulous array of dishes!
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Menu
Bridget—
Yes, I can eat eggs. I CAN eat anything I want. I just don’t CARE for shrimp. So take them off the menu, OKAY?
Traci
TO: [email protected]
CC: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Menu #5
How about this?
Crispy asparagus with pecorino
Mini beef Wellington
Caramelized onion and black olive tart
Local-caught Cajun catfish with remoulade dipping sauce
Of course we’ll have a fruit and cheese station and a selection of fresh-baked breads and muffins, along with a dessert bar, as we agreed. Let me know your thoughts.
Bridget
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: RE: Menu # 5
don’t know, dear. Catfish? Seems a bit pedestrian, don’t you think? And the entire menu looks somewhat lean to me. Could we have more variety? And what about the vegetarians?
XOXOXO
Cat
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: RE: Menu #5
I want an ice cream bar.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Ice Cream
In June? Outdoors?
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: RE: RE: Photographs from Home
Dearest Lori,
Your photographs make my day wonderfully! How beautiful you are! Every time I look at a picture of you I think, This woman, how can she be so perfect? Your hair is like painted by Titian, your face a Raphael masterpiece. But this you know already. And your mama, clearly she is an angel to have given you to the world.
Lori, you will come to my village and you will see the sun that rises over the hills and how it spills its gold over the ground so thick you think you can pick it up in your hands. We will lie on the ground together, you and I, and we will lose ourselves in the stars that cover my sky You will know why poets and artists for centuries have found their muse in Italia, because here is where love lives.
It required me some time to determine what is “egghead” and so I asked my American friend in history of literature class who tells me I should know because I am one. This is because am perfect in the philosophy exam. I hope this will not make you love me less? I am very happy to be perfect! Being perfect means I will acquire my degree in only six months and then I well leave Milano and return to the hills I love. You will know this feeling, Lori, this aching of the heart, this sickness of the spirit, this longing to be home. Being perfect is also wearing.
I will tell my mama to find the number of your telephone in the States, and ring up you to say I am her son and this is our home and I am yes, as you say, very cute. I also have four aunts and a grandmother and fourteen cousins, although three of them are too young to write, should you require further references.
I, also, spend too much time on the e-mail since I have come to know you.
Un bacion, mi amore—
Sergio
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: RE: RE: Photographs from Home
Dear Sergio,
You make my day wonderfully, too. I’ve read your e-mail like twenty times. I still can’t believe you’re real.
Love,
Lori
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Contract
Cici,
Darling, just one more little change to the contract and I think we’ll be fine. Instead of “not to exceed” 50 guests I wrote in “a minimum of”—just in case someone brings a date and takes us over the number. I know it’s just a technicality, but better safe than sorry. Also, that part about “no material changes to real property,” I just replaced the “no” with “Client agrees to reimburse provider for,” which is much more fair to you. Faxing it off right now, if you’ll just initial and get it back to me I’ll put copies in the mail for you tomorrow.
Sorry for all the fuss, especially when we have so much to do! Don’t you just hate lawyers? And my husband is one!
XO
Catherine
SMarcello319: Lori, do you Skype?
LadiLori27: Skype!!!
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: webcam
Hi Daddy—
Is it ok if I use the Am-Ex for a webcam for my laptop? The one I have is WAY too low-res for international transmission. Mom said No Major Purchases without prior approval but it’s only $249.95 online plus S&H.
I promise I won’t use it to upload porn.:) :)
XOXOXO
Lori
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: RE: vvebcam
LadiLori27 wrote:
should say No just for that.
Have a $249.95 webcam on me. And BTW forget what your mother says; it’s my card.
Love you more—
Dad
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: RE: Flowers
Daisies?? Are you effing kidding me???? DO YOU KNOW WHAT
WE’RE PAYING YOU?
TO:[email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: RE: RE: Flowers
Deleted
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Decorations
Darling,
White bunting? Out of doors? Are you sure?
As for the color scheme, I must say I really don’t know what it is just now. Yesterday it was navy and black. Perhaps you should check with Traci?
Yours,
Cat
From “Ladybug Farm Charms,” a blog by Bridget Tyndale
Thanks to everyone who has been so nice about the magazine article in Virginians at Home. If you haven’t read it yet, you can see it online by clicking here. Guess what? Ladybug Farm has gone into the wedding hosting business! We’re starting with a small affair for a darling young couple in June, and I’m trying to use as many fresh local ingredients as possible. We have a huge fig bush that gets lots of sun and usually has ripe figs by early June, so I thought of this recipe for a finger food. Try it at home and see what you think!
Does anyone know where I can get fresh local goat cheese?
Three-Cheese Stuffed Figs
1 cup chèvre/goat cheese
¼ cup blue cheese or Gorgonzola
1 cup Neuchâtel
2 tablespoons honey
¼ cup very finely ground walnuts
2 dozen pitted, split figs
<
br /> Blend the cheeses together in a food processor or by hand with the honey and finely ground nuts. Stuff each fig with 1 tablespoon of the mixture and refrigerate until firm.
For an exotic variation, add 1 tablespoon of chopped, fresh rosemary to the cheese mixture, or 6—8 sprigs of spearmint. I’ve also added 1—2 tablespoons of bourbon for an unexpected punch.
27 Comments
AHarding said:
Be careful when you’re picking the figs. They attract wasps like crazy!
Bridget said:
know! I got stung last year!
DK21 said:
tried this recipe with the rosemary and served it as a starter for my special roasted vegetables and couscous. Very Mediterranean!
Bridget said:
I’ll have to try it with couscous. Sounds fabulous.
Terrytown said:
can’t believe you don’t have dairy goats on your farm! Then you could have goat cheese whenever you wanted.
Bridget said:
I’d LOVE to have a goat!
Secret Admirer said:
Dear Bridget,
liked what you said the other day about the way the fog sits on the meadow in the early morning. I think about it sometime when I’m stuck in traffic on my way to work, and fantasize I’m there. The life you have sounds like paradise, and I hope you know how much we all envy you. It brings such light to my day to read what you write, and for an old fuss-pot bachelor like me the recipes are a treasure. I loved the recipe you posted for One Pot Stew. It was delicious, and—the best part—easy. When I cook for myself, I like things that don’t take a lot of cleaning up afterward. Besides, sometimes I can’t find more than one pot.
Bridget smiled and read the comment again. “Secret admirer, hmm?” she murmured, and typed a reply.
Bridget said:
wish you could see our meadow today—it’s covered with red clover! So glad you liked the stew. I’ll try to post some more one-dish recipes. I know it’s not much fun to cook fancy meals when you live alone.
“Secret admirer,” she repeated aloud. She was grinning as she clicked Post Comment. “What do you know about that?”
Cici sat in her rocking chair, a glass of white wine in her hand, and watched the mountains turn from gold to purple. Bambi the deer wandered across the lawn, cowbell clinking and head lowered to nibble the freshest sprigs of spring grass, and Rebel darted out from behind the corner of the house, barking furiously. When the deer raised his head and looked at him, Rebel lowered his tail and slunk back around the corner of the house, almost as though embarrassed to have been caught barking at a deer he knew.
The screen door closed with a familiar, friendly squeak as Lindsay came out and, with a sound that was half sigh, half moan, sank into her own chair. “I’ve done some calculations,” she announced. “The time-saving devices of modern life are actually costing me about three and a half hours a day.”
Cici sighed heavily. “Boy, isn’t that the truth? Do you know it takes four or five times as long to type an e-mail or send a text as it would to convey the same information over the telephone? Why do people keep doing it?”
“To avoid conversation,” replied Lindsay succinctly. “If you talk to someone on the telephone, you actually have to listen to the other person’s opinion.”
“Which is a total waste of time.”
“Precisely.”
Cici sipped her wine. “Do you hate them yet?”
“Oh, dear God. Don’t get me started.”
“At least we know what happened to the previous wedding planners.”
Lindsay frowned. “Speaking of which, why isn’t she the one sending me e-mails telling me what a rotten designer I am?”
Cici slid a glance toward her. “I have a bad feeling.”
“Say it isn’t so.” Lindsay groaned. “Because if the wedding planner has quit, and I have to have one more interaction with that spoiled, pretentious, preadolescent, self-aggrandizing, social misanthrope—”
“Ah, come on,” Cici protested, though without much vigor. “Traci’s not that bad.”
“I was talking about her mother!”
Cici choked on laughter and spilled her wine. “And you, a teacher,” she accused, brushing drops of wine from her jeans. “I thought you were supposed to have patience.”
“Listen,” Lindsay said, “when you’re the last line of defense in a classroom filled with thirty-five little people plotting to kill you, the last thing you’re interested in learning is patience.” She tossed back a healthy portion of her own wine. “Especially for idiots,” she added.
Bridget came out with a plate of cookies, let the door slam unceremoniously behind her, and flopped down into her chair. “That blog is consuming my life,” she declared. “Who in the name of heaven ever went to bed and dreamed up such a ridiculous, pointless, self-serving way to waste time?” She offered a cookie to Lindsay.
“Here’s a hint. He was twelve years old.” Before Lindsay could select her cookie, Bridget jerked the plate away, agitated. “I mean, when people don’t read it, it’s pointless, and when people do, it’s pointless. And it takes up half my day!”
“Then stop doing it.” Lindsay held out her hand for the cookie plate.
“Are you crazy? It’s my business!”
Before she could snatch the plate away again, Lindsay seized it with both hands, took two cookies, and passed the plate to Cici.
“Besides,” Bridget added, and the smile that played around her lips was secretly satisfied, “I’ve got a secret admirer.”
Cici paused in the act of reaching for a cookie. “A secret admirer? Who?”
“Well, if I knew that, it wouldn’t be a secret, would it?”
Lindsay grinned at her. “Well, you be careful. That Internet dating business is risky stuff.”
Bridget gave her an impatient look and held out her hand for the cookie platter.
Rebel raised the alarm as Noah, returning from feeding the chickens, crossed the lawn. Noah dodged the lunging border collie absently, and Bambi didn’t even raise his head.
Cici said, “Not really, you know. Did you know that last year alone, more people met their significant others online than any other way?”
“Oh, yeah? Where did you read that?”
“Online.”
Noah mounted the steps, head down, hands in pockets. Bridget held out the platter to him. “Cookie?”
“Homework,” he muttered, without looking up, and the screen door banged behind him.
Cici watched him go. “I wonder what’s wrong with him.”
