Several weeks ago, in an act of uncalculated whim, my husband bought two places at the table of Edwin Garrubbo, an Italian pasta master who had agreed to bring his art to the
Valley Forge Barn in Wayne, PA. The Barn has become a fixture in our lives. The place where I buy my favorite gifts and meet my friend Kelly for our tradition of non-tea (okay, so, I have the tea and she has the gelato). The place that can be counted on for the unexpected pumpkin wreathe, leather from Australia, lessons in planting, flowers to carry home. Art and plenty of room overhead. Cookbooks I buy and actually cook from.
Last night was the Ed Garrubbo night. As I dressed for the event, straightened my hair, put on real shoes, I had no idea what to expect. Only that I was going to leave my worries behind for a spell and step out among lovers of pasta.
We were at ease from the moment we opened the door and entered in. Some sixteen expectant diners, the Barn staff, Ed, and eventually his wife and children, became our friends for the evening. Among those gathered there were
Dave Roberts, the acclaimed ABC weatherman, and his stunning wife Patti. I'd watched Dave report the storms and sun for many years. He had projected grace through the TV lens. That grace wasn't, I can tell you, an act.
And so we watched Ed cook. And we ate three of his pasta dishes. And we learned about Italy, olive oil, proportions of salt, favorite restaurants. We talked about the Pope, ribbons of intention, living here and living elsewhere, Italian Christmas traditions. We finished with gelato.
An evening to remember with gracious hosts and guests. We came home with Ed's cookbook,
Sunday Pasta, and a link to his popular cooking
blog.
It's been some time since I wrote that fifth memoir,
Ghosts in the Garden—a meditation on the two years I spent walking Chanticleer (in Wayne, PA). I was at a crossroads. Middle aged. Not sure. Pondering my purpose.
Published by New World Library, this slender book, about a well-loved but entirely local garden (every garden is an entirely local garden), went on to be reviewed in papers across the country (I could not have guessed that) and to be translated (this was an even bigger surprise) in South Korea. It sold out of its original modest printing of 5,000 copies and was never reprinted.
Done. Gone. Another Kephartian exercise, by most standards, in the small.
And yet. Every now and then the book returns to my life. This past week it did, in the form of this photograph—a South Korean garden lover who had read the translation in her country (she holds it in her left hand) and come here, to Wayne, PA, to find the garden with her husband.
A book brought a reader across the ocean to a garden.
What makes a book small? What makes a book big? I wish we never had to ask that question. I wish that we'd stop quantifying authors by sales or prizes and take solace in stories about individual readers who allowed a book to prompt a journey.
One book. One reader. One garden. One sunny day. One surprising photograph. Two smiles on two faces.
Thank you, BJ, for sending that smile my way.
I moved a lot as a child—and then, at last, settled in.
In this weekend's
Philadelphia Inquirer, I'm writing about the place that has been close to my heart ever since that eighth-grade move, the town of Wayne, PA, which has beguiled me, supported me, and, of late, returned old friends to me.
With gratitude to all those fellow Radnorites and shop owners and librarians:
this. While this Wayne story and my
South Street/Magic Gardens story were written too late to be incorporated into my forthcoming collection of essays and photographs,
Love: A Philadelphia Affair, both essays live close to my heart.
Meanwhile, this past week I've been watching intense movies, reading an extraordinary book, talking to the esteemed editor Daniel Menaker, sharing a glass of wine with the great Debbie Levy, and learning from my Class of Spectaculars at Penn. I'll reflect on all that in the Monday edition of tomorrow's blog.
Anyone interested in receiving a free ARC of
One Thing Stolen can now enter the
giveaway on Goodreads.
Image via Wikipedia
Nothing like John Wayne or like Eastwood , Randolph Sott was different he worn his hat different and even his gun. Was quick with the draw and tough with the talk. And even mention in a Statler brother song. And that most rare in terms of mentioning others in songs. Joe Dimaggio is another in a Simon and Garfunkel song.
Scott was one of those cowboys who made you want to ride a horse. Roger had Trigger the lone Ranger had Silver and Tonto had Scount. But he was also a dramatic actor but very under rated in terms of his era and generation.
Image via Wikipedia
Nothing like John Wayne or like Eastwood , Randolph Sott was different he worn his hat different and even his gun. Was quick with the draw and tough with the talk. And even mention in a Statler brother song. And that most rare in terms of mentioning others in songs. Joe Dimaggio is another in a Simon and Garfunkel song.
Scott was one of those cowboys who made you want to ride a horse. Roger had Trigger the lone Ranger had Silver and Tonto had Scount. But he was also a dramatic actor but very under rated in terms of his era and generation.
