The Real Skinny: "...we saw the same meat hanging forever and ever"

The real skinny (according to Girl): Tony and Mama were part of the charm of my made-up story. The Vegas trip was bona fide and the walking shoppers were also factual. It was true we saw the same meat hanging forever and ever. We investigated the dry aging process. I was surprised to learn that many of the better restaurants used it to give the meat time to break down and tenderize naturally. As for me, I would just say "slap something red on the grill, let it brown, toss it on a bun, and squirt on some ketchup." That always makes me the happiest girl in the world.

Quiet, Steaks Sleeping, According to Girl

Quiet, steaks sleeping according to Girl: No malls. No outlets. No franchises.
One of the charms of the Village were the little stores—mom and pop shops featuring unique boutique items, one of a kind jewelry, unusual clothing, or special foods.

The typical shoppers at these stores were on foot. Most walked past them on a daily basis. Those that bought from them usually lived nearby, so they would be able to transport their purchases in a single paper shopping bag. Many had little pull along two-wheeled shopping carts. No one drove a car.

Our trek from home to work and school provided us with the windows of the world. Everything a person might want or need could be transacted for on the other side of those windows. The signs above were not the draw. The windows were the billboards.

Did the store have customers—look in the window.

Did the store have a sale—look in the window.

Did the store carry steak—look in the window.

STOP! Just a minute, I think I saw that same steak last week. At least it looked like the same steak. I suppose all steaks look pretty much alike. But it sure looked exactly like the one I saw hanging on that hook. Was it a real steak? Or, perhaps it was a plastic replica of the actual product?

I am getting sick. How many flies would have landed on that piece of meat? If I had not walked past that same shop five days a week for the past year, would I have noticed? What would the health department say?

Maybe it was Tony’s idea to dry age the steaks. The little butcher in the back, with his blood-stained white apron, and the tall chef’s hat (which gave him the appearance of an additional eight inches). In his right hand he wielded a shiny cleaver, and in his left, a length of butcher paper. A roll of twine sat on a spindle, much like a giant sewing machine, with its "thread" looping through a few eyebolts, then ending up at his butcher block counter next to the rest of his sharp tools.

After work, the neighborhood would stand in line for his cuts. He would slice, weigh, wrap and price, just like a machine. At the door Mama Leoni would punch her cash register, take the money and smile an almost friendly "Arrivederci."

We watched from the window—slowing down, but never really stopping. Certainly never shopping.

Tony and Mama were always there, the lines were long, the beef-aging continued. We bought our groceries at the dirty little supermarket around the corner. I figured they also had a butcher who was also covered with blood, carried a similar cleaver, and also had a big butcher block. But that butcher wrapped his work in cellophane, and I never had to watch him violently chop up our dinner.

Less charm, perhaps. But I liked it that way.

So, at the end of the day, Tony and Mama retired to their apartment above the store. She would fix him his favorite, and they would count their money. Afterward Tony would tuck it under their mattress.

As they lay in bed at night, he would talk about the day they would open their own restaurant.

"Olive Garden" Tony Gallagher said, as he drifted off to sleep. "I think I will call it Olive Garden."

Mama just nodded her sleepy head and said, "Uh-huh."

Chapter 26 - Quiet, Steaks Sleeping

According to Boy: Two or three times a year Evie and I visit Las Vegas. It seems that all the technical trade associations choose that city for their conventions.
At first, we avoided going to the shows, because we did not like Las Vegas. After a time, however, we decided that we would have to go there for our business.

It took a while, but now we love the city. And the funny thing about it is, neither of us ever gamble. We try to feed twenty dollars into a slot machine; but that’s it—never any more than twenty. On our most recent stay in "Sin City," we were on the plane home when I realized that we had forgotten to contribute our obligatory twenty dollars.

There are several things we really love about Vegas. One of them is the food. We are not really into the buffets. We would never get our money’s worth, because neither of us really eats with quantity in mind. We have our favorite restaurants—mostly Italian. We always make the circuit, eating in each of them at least once, sometimes more, depending on the length of our stay.

While it is not actually a restaurant, we always get a delicious crepe and a bottle of cider at a little café in the Paris Hotel. We love Paris, and that little shop is the closest we can get to the real thing without sitting on a stuffy plane for six hours.

Then, of course, there is our favorite place of all in Las Vegas. That is New York New York—the hotel. We always stay there, if possible. Recently

one of our daughters got married at the MGM in Las Vegas. Even then, we chose to stay across the street at New York New York. Sometimes I think I like the feel of walking through the shops in that hotel even better than walking through the Village. That might have something to do with my getting older.

There is a tremendous deli in the hotel, with long lines just like at our favorite deli in New York. We always have them make us a sandwich.
Then, as the subject of this chapter would suggest, there is a steak house in the middle of the hotel shops that features the aging of steaks. It is called Gallagher’s. Every time (and I do mean every time) Evie and I walk by this place in the hotel, we comment about the little shop in the Village that we walked by every day that featured aging steaks in the window.

For the most part, Evie and I try to eat healthy foods. To us, that means we do not have red meat every day. Finally, however, after sensing the dry-aging steaks in the window of Gallagher’s calling out to us, we went in and ordered. The only word I can think of to describe the experience: "unbelievable." We did go in a little early in the evening, so we would have plenty of time to walk off the calories. But the experience was great, and we will likely do it again.

After we had finished the meal, Evie and I both wondered why, when living in the Village all those years, we never bothered to stop in and have one of those dry-aged steaks we walked by twice a day. We would get all dressed up on a Friday night, and take a taxi uptown to some French or Italian restaurant we had read about. But, we never entered the door of that original dry-aged steakhouse in the Village.

In fact, we are not even sure that it was a Gallagher’s—it could have been some other restaurant. Or, it might have been a store selling dry-aged beef. I am not sure. I am certain, however, that at the time it seemed to us to be unsanitary. We would study the steaks hanging there to note identifying characteristics of the individual steaks, then we would check to see when that particular steak would be removed and replaced. But it never entered our minds that we might actually eat some of that meat. It just did not seem right to us that someone would put steak in anything other than a refrigerator. That’s why our interest ended right after we had passed the window. Our loss.

We are now making up for our 1969 paranoia. Gallagher’s in Las Vegas is becoming one of our regular haunts.

The Real Skinny: "We both agree that the sandwiches were great"

The real skinny (according to Boy): New Yorkers can be short with you. I think it is a self-defense mechanism. The guy at the deli was at least gruff, if not actually grumpy. But we both agree that the sandwiches were great. And love was new. Still is, actually.

Drugstore Sandwiches, According to Girl

Drugstore sandwiches according to Girl: My first trip to New York City was to see and spend time with Mike. He was what I wanted. He was so easy to talk with. I loved that he had hopes and dreams. I knew I wanted to spend my life with him. The city, with its cracked sidewalks, smoking manholes, the wafting smells of garbage and urine—everything was wonderful. I was looking at life through the eyes of a girl in love. I was ready to make the break and be a New York girl—his New York girl.

I really think he liked me, too. I slept in his freshly laundered pressed shirt my first night visiting him. The next morning it was a bit (maybe a lot) wrinkled, and smelled like Estee Lauder.


It was an amazing night. His roommate was gone, so we had the place to ourselves. The room was about five stories up in a hotel that was leasing some of the space to NYU. It was a very small studio with just enough room for two twin beds, one desk, a hotel lamp, a small bath and refrigerator. The walls were painted neutral, while the carpet, which was a darker neutral, complemented it. Mike did not have any pictures on his walls, only a school calendar. I remember a gray typewriter on his desk. The most prominent thing I noticed is that there were books all over. Between the two guys, they had quite a library.

By 2 p.m. on the first full day we were getting pretty hungry. We put on our walking clothes, consisting of jeans and sweaters, and headed out. I had not seen the city in daylight. I was impressed with the elevator, with the hotel’s crest proudly displayed on the front. The lobby was set up with beautiful Persian rugs and dark rich well-cared-for furniture. The Queen Anne chairs were perfect for the little old ladies with their fancy hats and minks waiting for their rides to go shopping, or to get their hair and nails done.

I had not noticed any pizza places or McDonald’s on the way to his place. Mike suggested we head to the deli.

Now, I was not sure I knew what that meant. Grand Rapids did not have delis. We had restaurants, we had fast food, and we had Meijer. But as far as I knew, Grand Rapids did not have a deli.

"What’s a deli?" I asked.

"Well, this deli is located in a drugstore, and it has the best sandwiches in the city. You’re gonna love it."

I still did not get it. To me, drugstores were for pills and medicine. This seemed a little weird, but I was anxious to eat.

We walked across Fifth Avenue heading east. About three buildings down was the drugstore Mike was talking about. The large windows in the front had a display of everything you might expect to find in a drugstore in Grand Rapids. There were crutches, hot water bags, aspirin ads and cough syrup. Mike held the door for a lady with her poodle coming out, then I walked in.

Just inside the door, I looked up at Mike with my "where’s the food?" eyes.

I followed him to the back of the store where I saw a crisp clean white counter, padded stools, and a grumpy old guy making a fresh pot of coffee. Mike said that it was a good idea to know what you wanted before sitting down because Grumpy did not have a lot of patience. There were no menus, only a chalkboard with half scratched ideas on it.

I asked Mike to order me whatever he was having. We settled on roast beef sandwiches, with tomatoes, lettuce and mayonnaise on whole wheat bread. We also asked for a water and a chocolate shake. They had a slicer that the grumpy man put the beef on and thinly sliced off layer after layer for the extremely well stacked sandwich, and then he put some ice-cream, chocolate and milk into a metal container and put it on the mixing machine.

I took one bite of the sandwich and thought, "This is wonderful. Eat your heart out McDonald’s."

Now I knew it was in my heart all along—I was falling in love with Mike, my new city, and the wonderful deli. I even liked Grumpy. Everything was beautiful on that sunny November day.

Chapter 25 - Drugstore Sandwiches

According to Boy: Evie and I still like to visit New York City often. I have on my laptop a folder entitled: "NYC Favorites." In that folder is a list of numerous and varied haunts, many from times past, to which we like to return when we visit the city.

I think I would be happy always returning to what is familiar, such as a favorite Irish Pub we found some time ago, or our beloved spot for breakfast, or our special bench in Washington Square Park. I don’t mind taking chances; but I do not like to be disappointed. I find that if we always return to our most frequented haunts, the likelihood of an unpleasant surprise is greatly diminished.

Evie, on the other hand, would never make a list of her favorite places. She prefers adventure. Whenever we go into a restaurant, she always orders something different. Not me! When I find an entree that I really like at a given restaurant, that’s is what I will most likely always order. Our waiter knows before I sit down what he’s going to bring me. Perhaps I am too predictable; but I am seldom disappointed with choices.

All that having been said, if Evie were to have a list of favorites, first on that list would be the little drugstore just a block or two east of the old Fifth Avenue Hotel. That place, rather the memory of that place (it no longer exists), owns a little real estate in our hearts.

I would bet that Evie and I ate there twenty-five times (That might not seem like a large number of times, but when you consider that we were very poor student types, that number looms large.). There was nothing special about the drugstore itself. It was, after all, just a drugstore. The eating area offered no tables, just a counter with padded stools.

What caused us to love it was the fact that they made the most wonderful sandwiches, and served them with huge hunks of dill pickle, or extra olives. We also liked the waiters. I think they were related. There were two of them, one or both of whom were always there. We had developed our special sandwiches, and they knew when we walked in just exactly what we were going to order.

We would walk in and sit down. Just as our rear ends hit our stools, one of them would yell: "Hi guys. You want your regular?"

And, of course we did. I am not sure if they served it with Coke or Pepsi, but we would buy one of these special sandwiches, made to our specifications, with a glass of soda. On the side of each of the serving plates would be half of a deli dill pickle. As soon as the waiter delivered them to us, I would fork Evie’s dill over to my plate.
My guess is that everything served was kosher. Perhaps not to Hassidic standards, but I think that most of the Jewish residents of the area who also frequented this drugstore found it acceptable.

One of my favorite memories of this drugstore occurred when we walked in and saw a new face behind the counter. He wasn’t there by himself, however, one of our two buddies was also back there with him. As we sat down, the new guy walked over and asked us what we wanted. "The regular," I told him.

"And what would that be?" he asked.

I knew right then that this was going to be a challenge. He had no idea whatsoever what we always ordered. So, I set about educating him. As I already said, I really cannot recall what exactly it was that we liked to order there, but I do know it was not on the menu.

After hearing my order, the new waiter wiped his hands disgustedly on a towel, and slammed it in a large stainless steel pan reserved for dirty

towels. Placing both hands palms down on the counter right in front of us, he snarled: "Do I look like I just got off the banana boat? We don’t make any sandwiches that even sound like that. You must be talking about a different place."

He then grabbed a couple menus and slammed them down in front of us.

Evie and I just smiled, as the other waiter, one of our buddies, walked over and snatched up the menus. "He’s new here. He’ll learn."

The "banana boat" waiter took a step back, and rolled his eyes as only New Yorkers can do, and walked away shaking his head.

Evie and I have since tried to find that little drugstore. One afternoon we spent two hours walking up and down the street where we remembered it to be. I think it was Eighth Street or Ninth Street, east of Fifth Avenue. We narrowed it down to just a couple spots where it could have been. But now those locations are filled with different businesses.

Our drugstore no longer exists, or has re-located. Sadly, Evie and I will now have to rely on our memories of our experiences there, and of those delicious sandwiches.

The Real Skinny: "We had some of the best sandwiches known to mankind"

The real skinny (according to Boy): I should never try to write hungry—especially a "skinny." I did forget about her homemade bread. Man, was that good. We had some of the best sandwiches known to mankind. We were both right. One observation that I should make here is that we did not have a police lock until we moved from Glendale into The East Village. Evie did, however, bake bread while we still lived in Glendale.

Weekend Sandwiches, According to Girl

Weekend sandwiches according to Girl: One of my favorite lines in one of the classic movies of all time (The Blues Brothers), Jake and Elwood sing the "Wish Sandwich" lyric: "Bow bow bow… Um, do that again… Bow bow bow… Have you ever heard of a wish sandwich? A wish sandwich is the kind of a sandwich where you have two slices of bread and you, hee hee hee, wish you had some meat…" (Rubber Biscuit, by Adam R. Levy and Father Enterprises).


On East Sixth Street, we had a small, but adequate oven, and on the weekends we discovered that I could bake bread.

I pulled out the Better Homes and Gardens cookbook, studied the procedures. I picked up some loaf pans, ingredients and I began to bake. This was unfamiliar territory for me. I felt like a four-year-old playing T-ball for the first time. "Let’s see, which way do I run when I hit the ball? And, what do I do with the bat? Do I carry it back to the dugout? Then, when I’m in the outfield, where do I throw the ball if it comes to me?"

Thankfully, no one was in my kitchen with a video camera the first time I baked bread.

I began the task of buying those necessary ingredients—flour, sugar, milk, butter, and most important of all, yeast. Now, this yeast is weird stuff. It has a date on the package that if not used in three weeks or so, it will expire. What could this mean? Do all the little tan granules just pass away? Or breathe their last gasp of stinky air? Yup, that yeast is very interesting.

Well, here goes—I put all my ingredients in the cart, proceeded to the checkout, and was soon on my way home.

I read in my book that the first step was to dissolve the yeast. Now, this could be interesting. "Why," I wondered, "did the water have to be the perfect temperature?" I decided to carefully follow all the directions.

I added the sugar and butter, and then opened the package of yeast. As I did, I thought I should take a whiff of the yeast if I’m going to put it in my bread. That was a mistake. My advice is to never smell the yeast—it smells ghastly, like something dead. The smelling of the yeast was my biggest blunder of the whole project. I knew that Mike would be coming home from school soon; so I made myself get a grip, and forge on. I was not only learning the baking terminology, I was learning to apply it. I was letting my dough rise as the recipe required. I was kneading and punching down—great fun, like a clay project in art class.

I pretended I was making bread alligators, bread bunnies and bread snowmen. I was really getting into this. I had flour all over my clothes and in my hair, with lots of sticky dough pasted to my fingers. I was glad the dogs were willing to eat the bits and pieces that landed on the floor. "It must taste pretty good already," I thought. "the dogs are lovin’ it."

Then, just as directed, I covered my creation with a towel.

I couldn’t control my curiosity. I peeked under the towel often, trying to catch a glimpse of the magical raising of the softball-sized dough.

I was amazed when the small ball of dough grew to the size of a basketball. Right at the appropriate time, I split the ball of dough into three pans and slid them into the oven to finish the job.

Mike walked in the door about ten minutes before the bread was done. He said that when he was halfway up the block, the heavenly smell of a bakery hit his senses. As he came closer, through the double doors, up the steps, it was stronger. Then, bursting through the police lock and deadbolts, and into the apartment, he was in total amazement. I was still covered with a bit of flour, but he grabbed me for a messy kiss and opened the oven. We impatiently waited a few more minutes, found some potholders, and finally pulled out the hot bread. Smothering the warm slices with butter, we ate half a loaf. It was fabulous.

We learned to love ham sandwiches, turkey sandwiches, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, everything else we found in the refrigerator small enough to fit on a piece of warm, sweet bread. I’ve heard that even the "wish" sandwiches were better with hot bread.

Chapter 24 - Weekend Lunches

According to Boy: I doubt that there were more than a dozen weekends during our sojourn in New York that did not find Evie and me sitting in some park, at a drugstore counter, in a Zum Zum, or out in the middle of the woods, munching on a sandwich.
One thing that we seldom did was to sit around our apartment on a Saturday or Sunday. Even if we were not feeling well, we would tough it out. Perhaps not the first thing in the morning; but we would venture out on some sort of day trip.

If we were packing a lunch (which we frequently did), I was usually in charge of making the sandwiches. Typically I would make ham and cheese (with lots of mustard) on rye bread. Sometimes it was beer salami on rye, also with mustard. I liked a dill pickle on the side.

Evie and I liked the same type of sandwiches. The only major difference being she was not crazy about dill pickles. I would not, however, pack a dill pickle with a ham and cheese; only with salami. The reason I would not have the dill with the ham and cheese was that I did not want to screw up my breath. If we were having salami, it didn’t matter.

Evie did not like dills. She barely tolerated them in the refrigerator. She viewed dill pickles about the same way I viewed olives.

On those days when we did pack a lunch, we never packed anything to drink. We figured it would just add weight, and we could always buy a "pop." Of course, we were not long in New York when we learned that the proper word for pop was actually "soda." Were we to have gone in a similar store in Grand Rapids, and inquired about soda, we would have been directed to baking goods. That took a little getting used to.

If we were camping, we would take some soda with us. You could never count on finding water in the mountains.

Sometimes, on weekends, we would go to a Blimpie’s. We considered that a real treat. On those occasions, I would load up my sandwich with everything they offered, except for black and green olives. As I alluded to above, I hated olives (and still do). Neither of us were concerned about our breath on "Blimpie occasions." I suppose we assumed that when we got home we would indulge in sufficient other food and drink to mask the onions, dill pickles, or whatever other item we had them toss on our sandwich creations.

I almost forgot. It was during our New York era that we developed a taste for black pumpernickel bread. So, sometimes, we would substitute pumpernickel for rye. Beyond that, we were not terribly adventurous with our sandwiches.

Man, I’m getting really hungry!

The Real Skinny: "I liked my eggs a lot of different ways, runny was one of them"

The real skinny (according to Boy): Evie might be right. But I still think it was good. I think the juicy aspect of it scared her. I liked my eggs a lot of different ways, runny was one of them. I think I was accurate. I was definitely correct about how we spent the rest of that Saturday.

Fluffy Omelets, According to Girl

Fluffy omelets according to Girl: Janice was my best friend in Grand Rapids. She was about fifteen years older than I. She had been through two failed marriages. She raised two boys on her own, and still found time to remodel her modest home by herself. She hung her own paneling, installed carpet, and had a real waterfall in her living room made with a heavy plastic basin, white stone and a small pump that created a soothing, relaxing place to read or listen to music. She worked in a factory during the day, while her boys attended school. I usually spent one evening a week just hanging out. My absolutely favorite thing I remember about Janice was that she was always positive about life. Life was tough for her. Not only had she suffered the breakup of two marriages, she also had to deal with breast cancer, which resulted in a double mastectomy. It didn’t affect her attitude. She handled work, kids, the house and life alone, but still managed to find time for me.


When I told her about Mike, she was my biggest cheerleader. She was delighted when we married and it was Janice that threw me my one and only shower. My family and friends all came. I received lots of things for the kitchen, like a few casserole dishes, one came with the recipe and ingredients for chicken and rice, (all except the chicken). I got an iron from my grandmother Handlogten. Janice, besides throwing the shower in her beautiful living room with the waterfall, gave me my first Betty Crocker cookbook. I had a feeling that it was going to be put to good use. I was going gourmet, and Mike would really be impressed!

So, I was off to New York. I was now a married lady. I would be expected to keep my own house, clean, do laundry, wash dishes, scrub bathrooms, make our double bed. And, best of all, I would learn to cook.

My mom was not the cook in the family when I was growing up. She consistently burned, or should I say torched, much of what she cooked. So, my dad did most of the cooking. If I did not know better, I might have suspected that there could have been a motive to Mom’s smoky meals. However, with four, then five, then (finally) six kids underfoot, she was most likely just easily distracted. Because Dad was pretty fussy about food, he became the family’s chef.

Dad would work every day until 3 p.m., then stop at Meijer (a big Grand Rapids grocery store chain) to pick up the groceries. After completing that errand, he would come home and cook.

I remember him sitting at the kitchen table, with his signature Camel hanging out of the side of his mouth. His very dark brown eyes would be squinting from the smoke. There he would peel a thousand potatoes. Using our shapest paring knife, he would deposit the potato skins upon the previous night’s paper. Because I never helped him in the kitchen, the potato preparation over a newspaper paper tactic was perhaps the only lesson I learned from him about cooking.

I took my Betty Crocker cookbook seriously. I studied it page by page as if I were going to be tested. I learned basic measurements, the art of the kitchen, how to blend, chop, and puree. I even mastered the Betty’s terminology.

"Mike" I asked, "Can Betty and I make a surprise for you on Saturday?" The plan was, he would stay in bed and I got the kitchen to myself.

That Friday, on my way home from work, I stopped at the local grocery store, and picked up all of the ingredients for my exciting Saturday Special.

I was juiced, and ready to impress. I set the table with our finest tableware. I lit a candle. Then I made coffee and toast. I placed the butter, jelly, orange juice and milk on the table, and was gearing up the fire to make the most incredible breakfast he had ever eaten.

I carefully measured the cream, beat it with the mixer until it was like white soft frosting, I whipped the eggs in a separate bowl, salted and

peppered them and folded the two mixtures together.

"Doesn’t it smell great?" I said. But Mike could not come into the kitchen yet. Of course, eggs never smell great, but I was sure he was getting hungry.

Then, just as Betty said, I poured the pale golden creation into the hot buttered frying pan until the desired time had passed. I carefully placed the spatula under the entire huge mixture and flipped it over with one swift movement.

I yelled, "Hope you’re hungry, Babe."

I placed the final creation on our plates and shouted, "Ready!"

Mike came into the kitchen, smiled at my beautiful table, sat down, we said grace, and I said "Bon appétit."

His fork went into the edge of the golden beauty and white ooze came pouring out of the side. It was slimy and dripping off his fork. He looked at me with eyes that said "Do I have to?"

It was awful. I was horrified. Betty let me down. It was all her fault. I followed her book and came out with golden blobs of slime. This was embarrassing.

And as quickly as possible, we smiled at each other, grabbed our plates, fed our disposal and marked that morning such as one would remember when Kennedy was shot. A morning permanently etched in our minds.

Janice eventually married again. This one stuck. She sold her home in Grand Rapids and moved to a small town in East Jordan, Michigan—a city with a population of around 2,500. The major industry there was the manufacturing of manhole covers .

Still, to this day, whenever I see steam rising from one of thousands of "East Jordan" labeled manhole covers that polka dot every large city, I think of her and hope she found happiness, just as I have.

Chapter 23 - Fluffy Omelets

According to Boy: According to "www.cook.com," the following is one way to make a "Fluffy Omelet":
2 tbsp. quick-cooking tapioca

3/4 tsp. salt

1/8 tsp. pepper

3/4 c. milk

1 tbsp. butter

4 egg whites

4 egg yolks

Combine tapioca, salt, pepper and milk in saucepan. Cook and stir over medium heat until mixture comes to a boil. Stir in butter. Remove from heat; cool slightly.

Meanwhile, beat egg whites until stiff. Beat yolks until thick and lemon colored. Gradually blend tapioca mixture into egg yolks; fold into whites. Pour into a hot buttered 10-inch skillet. Cook over low heat for 3 minutes, then bake in a preheated 350 degree oven for 15 minutes, or until a knife inserted in center comes out clean.

Cut across at right angle to pan handle, but do not cut all the way through. Carefully fold from handle to opposite side. Turn out onto serving platter. This produces four servings.

I am not sure if that was the recipe Evie used for that first breakfast she cooked for me, but it might have been. Let me set the stage for this culinary adventure:

We had just moved into our Glendale apartment, and this was our first breakfast together as a married couple, aside from those we bought at restaurants. Evie wanted to impress me. So, after consulting Betty Crocker, she decided that she would make me a Fluffy Omelet. I think it was a Saturday morning, or maybe a Sunday morning. I do know that I was still in bed, and she was up banging pans in the kitchen.

When I finally started to get up, she ordered me back in bed, and then told me that she would call me when she was ready for me. I was concerned. I had never remembered her cooking before, and I wasn’t sure what to expect.

Finally, after an inordinate amount of time, she said I could get up. I was anxious to see what all the pan clanging was about.

I went into the kitchen, and there it was. It was setting on my plate like nothing I had ever seen before. "Looks good, what is it?"

"Do you want to try it?" she asked insecurely.

"Sure," I said as I put a fork in, and ate a bite. It was good. I wasn’t quite sure why she was just sitting there watching me. I ate a few more bites, and asked again, "I like it, what is it?"

Then she broke into tears. I had no idea why she did that, either. "What’s wrong?" I asked.

"You hate it, don’t you?"

"No. Babe, I like it. I just have never had anything like it before. It’s good."

"No it isn’t. I messed it up. I’m sorry. I’ll never cook again."

She was in total tears by now.

I got up and walked around behind her chair, and pulled it out. "Stand up," I said to her.

She did.

"Now turn around."

She did that too.

I then hugged her, up close and full body. With my thumbs I wiped away the tears from her cheeks. She was looking into my eyes with her brown (almost black) eyes.

"Evie, I mean it. It is good. But, you know what? You could set a plate of screws and nails in front of me, and it would not change the way I love you. You did a great job, and it is good. I appreciate it. But I did not marry you for your cooking. I married you for a lot of other reasons—not one of them was your cooking."

"But I’m a total failure as a wife. I cannot even cook a fluffy omelet right. It’s horrible. I tried it," she said. She had stopped crying. That meant she believed me, but she still needed some reassurance.

"Look, Babe, I love you because I love you—whether or not you ever touch a pan to a stove again for the rest of your life, I will still love you with all of my heart. You have to know that."

"Do you mean it?"

"More than anything."

Then, we ended this "fight" just like we ended every other fight during the next forty years—I kissed her soft sweet lips, and smelled the hot scent of passion emanating from her body. We stood embracing in the kitchen for several minutes.

The floor was much too hard, so I picked her up and carried her into the bedroom. And there we made love until we died. The next thing I remember was waking up to the barking of our neighbor’s twin Saint Bernard puppies—it was nearly one o-clock in the afternoon.

Evie has never attempted another fluffy omelet. I sort of wish she would. I can’t say that it was the best breakfast I ever had, but the dessert was great.