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I'm enjoying my summer of denial.
I'm spending a fair amount of time denying that I'll be back at work full time rather soon.
I'm spending time denying that my boy will be packing up for his first year of college far, far away in a couple of weeks.
I'm also spending time denying that my garage needs a good clean out.

This means we've had days of indoor reorg, cooking, movies and walks with dogs and now, finally, some art.

I'm taking this super fun online class at CreativeBug with the quite wonderful Pam Garrison. A class on Creative Sketchbooking with the first exercises intended to help you free up art ideas. So up my alley.

Here's my first non-dominant hand ink and paint process.

My girlie was sitting along and drawing along with me and she urged me to try a bird like Pam's. I love birds (see blog title) and kinda laugh at the outcome. Fun. Fun. Fun.

I see a bit of influence from the art journal peops I tend to follow. And a lot of me. Leaves and hearts seem to show up quite a bit. And blueberries.

You should try this course! I don't know how I missed out on the VALUE of Creative Bug. Monthly price ($4.95?) and seemingly unlimited opportunities to learn and play
Even the amazing Yao Cheng teaches watercolor. Really how did I miss this?

Go! Find something and create.

Persistence rewarded.

Nothing in this world can take the place of persistence. Talent will not: nothing is more common than unsuccessful men with talent. Genius will not: unrewarded genius is almost a proverb. Education will not: the world is full of educated derelicts. Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent.

-Calvin Coolidge

As a parent, I'm all too often concerned about getting it done, arriving on time, being sure they've eaten, said their prayers and finished all the homework. We're at the end of the school year and for one of my two, the end of high school itself. The end of the year seems to bring heaps of homework summarizing what they've learned before studying for final exams and then the end-of-the-year concerts, try-outs, banquets. 

In these weeks of work there are also honors. My daughter tried out for our high school's elite Madrigal Choral group and made it, and she was offered a singing spot on the Praise Team. She and her big brother performed a beautiful guitar and vocal rendition of City of Lions Shining Star. And after 4 years in the top jazz band, which meant Zero Period two to four days a week (depending on the year), my son was honored with the Louis Armstrong Jazz Award at the final jazz concert last night. Sure, I'm a proud mama, I'm thrilled for both of them truly. But the thing I'm most delighted about is that they get it. They understand the thing my dear, dear Uncle Jimmie shared with me and my cousins in our generation -- it's all about persistence and determination. And they have it in buckets. Buckets they're willing to carry and fill just about every day to get where they hope to go.

He wants to direct films, so since he was a freshman he and his friend Noah have shot footage, cut videos and made a couple of films to enter in festivals. (Both of them have taken top honors more than once together and on their own.) When my son didn't get in on the first round of (pretty competitive) film school admissions applications, he wrote appeal and support letters detailing the co-curricular work he does to augment his and his peer's school experience. He connected with counselors, admissions officers and deans to give them the reasons he should be a part of the student body. I was astounded by the quality and volume of work he did. And, it yielded an awesome result. He got in to one of the top 10 film schools in the country last week. It's a wonderful thing, the reward. But I honestly believe the gift was in the exercise -- perhaps the most valuable of his life.

In 6th grade my daughter and I attended Mother Daughter camp and found ourselves on a treasure hunt where, at one site, we were to share with each other something we really want to do in our lives. She shared that she wanted to become a singer. We wrote both of our dreams on rocks with a Sharpee marker and prayed, promising to uphold and support each other in these dreams. The very next week I sought out a vocal teacher who agreed to a six week trial for her. Five years later, after weekly sessions learning how to use her voice, she got into that Madrigal Choir and onto the Praise team.

God provides talent and I believe He also instills the dreams, it's a beautiful thing. But how many dreams do I have, do you have, that weren't really nurtured and attended to? Several for me. But those that get/got the attention and support of the sometimes agonizing work, are the ones we get close to or actually put our hand on.

When someone said the other day that my kids are lucky I graciously agreed (probably correcting to the word blessed in my head). But what I wanted to say is that they are lucky to understand that hard work is the only way you get what you want. Good old, determination and persistence. Not money or connections or even talent. Work.

My daughter was just invited to audition for a choir which, if she makes it, will perform at Carnegie Hall. She's ready to get to work preparing an Italian Song and one more classical offering for the audition tape. I'm excited at the opportunity she'll have -- upping her game in a tough genre. But ya know what came into my mind first? The joke.

How do you get to Carnegie Hall?
Practice.

Peachy!

In my Sketchbookery class, we did a complete page. What fun! 

I'm reaching back into my pre-kiddos days when I used to lug a sketch pad on airplanes and draw whatever I saw: ice in glasses, table settings, food and when that was over, shoes and feet. 

I'd forgotten I'd even done that. 

My dear reminded me that I used to sit and contour draw on our apartment floor. 

And now there's color. 

Our teacher, Mary Ann Moss, did a fun strawberry study. I'm super grateful my boyo is so very into peaches. I had a whole box to choose from. 

And, surprisingly, all the colors were just, well, there. 

Sharing Christmas - These are a Few of My Favorite Things - One

Carols and all kinds of Christmas music are wildly important to me during this wondrous season. And for some reason, this one is snugly wrapped around my ears and heart.

It's an unexpected combination of big orchestra music, Art Garfunkle and Amy Grant. The Frog, approaching the Baby Jesus is a favorite but, really, I can't address Christmas cards without listening.

And, while we're at it, I have to hear the Alfred Burt Carols and I just love sitting around with the candles burning, lights on the tree and, oh yea, the cards, with James Taylor singing his way through my night.

This year my son brought home the dazzling acapella fun of Straight No Chaser. These post college funsters met at the University of Indiana and have been singing fabulous harmony ever since. At our house, we love the 12 days of Christmas and the Christmas Can Can. My Dear bought tickets for the family to see them last weekend. The boy was beaming as Dad told the story was told at the Thanksgiving party table of procurring 3rd row for us all. Unfortunately, darling boy turned out to be darling fluish boy for the weekend, so he and I stayed home. His younger sister accompanied Dad and Uncle Scotty to the event. The next morning she came out to the living room where flu-boy lay, wearing a big T-shirt signed by all 10 members of the group. "Do you like my shirt?" she said. Of course he thought it very cool and responded with a quiet, "yes". At this point she peeled that layer and tossed it to him saying. "I got it for you Big Brother."

Check these boys out on iTunes. The big album is worth every penny - you get videos! You can also find Straight No Chaser on iTunes and YouTube, and their website is pretty fun.

So there it is. A few of my favorite Christmas music albums (and a sweet story of Christmas love).

Fa la la la la la la.

Easing down the road

I must remark the day. We've come to the end, or the start, of another year on the road of marriage. I dare say, it's an adventure and a very good place to spend my life.
Happy Anniversary, Dear.

Quotable Sunday - My husband

"It doesn't matter if you can type 100 words a minute, you need to check your spelling."

My husband, and the spelled-perfect author of Rotation and Balance.

Falling in love, again.

Last night my husband, driven by love, walked out our front door on his way to see another gal. This move, this compulsive, but well considered decision is why I love him so much and all the more.

He was going to see our friend, his friend Paula, who at a very young age, has been institutionalized with late stage Alzheimer's disease. Institutionalized. My Dear learned this a few months ago in the turn of a conversation with a mutual friend. His question, "How's Paula? I can't seem to get in touch with her" was answered with that word. "Placed." Placed in an institution where they can handle her, care for her.

When he told me the story initially, I could see he was processing the questions, the how. He'd been told she wouldn't know him if he went to see her. And while it took a while to get there, there was never a question about whether or not he'd go and take all of himself to this dear, lovely friend. We went together the first time we tried to go. She wasn't at the facility and had been moved. It took a while to find out where she was and when he did, it took only the wait until a weekend for him to go.

He left, taking all the strength and love he has. He walked with her. Talked with her. Listened to her inner/outer conversations. Prayed for, hoped for a real moment of connection. Took her picture. And came home to share it all with our family. Our kids had a hard time understanding Alzheimer's dementia in the abstract, but when he reminded them of the people we visited every Christmas for the Naples Boat Parade, they took it in. Really? The tall lady with the fun laugh? She didn't remember you?

The thought was hard for me to reason through. Paula meant and means much to my husband. In her earlier days she was a great work partner and equally great friend. She still is all of that. Tucked in a mind that can't connect the information.

And she has a great partner and equally great friend in the man who will go and visit her frequently. He'll take all that love and respect and appreciation and go and hold her hand and walk with her and chime into her talking. He'll search for who she is and was, but for the most part, he'll just be with her.

Because she deserves it,  and that's who he is. He's the guy you want to know when you've hit a worst wall. He's the one undaunted by the hard stuff. He's the guy I fall in love with, over and over.

If you'd like his take: http://rotationandbalance.blogspot.com/2010/09/visiting-paula.html

The Good Samaritan was a 6th grader - the story.

A week ago I spent my week with about eighty 6th graders* in Vacation Bible School. That's a lot of 6th graders. Our structure for the 3 hour morning is that after a very fun and loud gathering (of what turned out to be 440 kiddos), they head out, by grade level and group. Three groups going to three activities and switching during the morning so they get to do all three.

I love teaching, talking, sharing, all of it, so for about 9 years, I've jumped at the chance to be a story teller. This year, we walked through the significance of the Jesus' Parables. I love the parables. I love these stories that require thinking and learning to open them up, to understand them, to grasp the clues about who God is and how He operates.

So the 3rd day, we focused on The Good Samaritan.

I struggled with how this story could go beyond just a good guy - how to make it meaningful. These beautiful kids range widely in their backgrounds and home situations - from white/suburban/churchy to hispanic/gang territory/unchurchy. How do you help them see a division of unspoken law in a way that touches their hearts and minds but doesn't really divide them as a group? So we talked about the division between homeless people and the rest of us.

I asked them about what I should do about the homeless lady I ran into that morning. They all replayed what they had been taught - you shouldn't give them money.
Why?
Because: they might not be really homeless, they might use the money for drugs, they might use the money to buy alcohol, they might just keep coming back to you instead of getting a job. (The list went on.)
But how do you feel when you see a homeless person?
Icky. Bad. Really bad. Sometimes they have homeless kids. And I think sometimes they get really, really hungry and really, really cold. I want my mom and dad to pull over so I can give them the rest of my dinner from the restaurant we ate at. My mom says we can give them a bottle of water - that's all.
What do you wish you could do?
I wish I could help. I wish I could give them something.
How can we help?
We can make sandwiches. (Light bulb!)

We continued, talking about how we can share what we have, even if what we have is very little or all we have is a kind smile or a prayer. None of us really wanted to just walk past the homeless person as if they weren't there.

So the next day, my friend Robin and I abandoned plans for a game or another way to set the scene for the next parable. Instead we set up two tables covered with butcher paper, food prep gloves, bread and knives - one table with turkey, ham, mayo and mustard and the other with peanut butter and jelly.

As each group came in they found a place at the table and made a sandwich - the best sandwich, or their favorite or one that anybody would love. David tried to make a triple decker with peanut butter, turkey and ham, but it just wouldn't fit in the sandwich bag. They wrote messages, drew smiley faces, and even prayed over the gifts in ziplock bags.

Then they sat down to hear the story about the friend at midnight. 

When we finished and they went on to recreation or games, Robin and I got to remind them that "tonight, someone is going to eat, because of you." They beamed on their way out. A couple of kiddos said they were going to share sandwiches with a kid at school who doesn't bring lunch. And several said thanks for letting them do that.

I'd asked our Pastor Larry for a place to take these sandwiches and he responded later with a note - they were to be delivered to the Long Beach Rescue Mission. To the division called Samaritan House. (I think of that as a wink from God.)

So, while I was moved to tears over the miracle of the 6th graders' hearts and hands, my husband took 102 sandwiches, some apples and tangerines to the people we all too often don't really see.

My own daughter was one of the sandwich makers. She's taken the lead on making sandwiches on Sunday mornings to have with us on the way to church, just in case.

So maybe the word, "homeless" popped into my mind by coincidence. And maybe the kid said, "We can make sandwiches" by chance. Maybe even, the place was called Samaritan House out of serendipity. But I think, by definition, the remarkable concurrence of events or circumstances without apparent casual connection was totally orchestrated by the One who wants me to understand His heart and His love for all His creation.

In the parable of the sandwich makers.

* And an amazing 5th grade teacher whom I'll share about in a later post.

A cup of Joe.

Can we agree? It can be summer, winter, spring, fall, your house, my kitchen, the yard, the garden, on a walk. A Saturday morning and a cup of coffee is a thing of great joy.

In Search of Summer ~ Muddled Lemonade

Consider the lemon.
Beautiful in color. Tart and refreshing in taste. Versatile as all get out.
Perhaps at it's best in a rich, tart lemonade. I like the kind that has a fair amount of body along with the flavor.
For me, one of the signs of summer is the refreshment found in a glass of lemonade.
Here's my favorite recipe:

Muddled Lemonade
8-12 lemons based on size (you'll be working to your taste)
1 1/4 cups sugar
4-6 cups water (four is tart and allows for melting ice cubes, six is a milder lemonade, five might just be perfection)
Muddle to your delight. (Smash the lemons with a potato masher, mixing the juices with the sugar) 4-5 minutes.
In two or three steps, remove the lemon rinds to a sieve or china cap. Press juices through. Dispose of rinds and seeds.
Finally, run remaining juice through the sieve if you like pulp free, or simply remove seeds.
Add water and, if you like, just a pinch of sea salt.
Stir.
Pour.
Breathe in.
Enjoy.

A Friday Recipe ~ The Sunrise Bowl and Breakfast with My Man

Every once in a while you have to steal away for a romantic adventure with your espoused.

My dear and I ran away for breakfast this morning. He'd been at an early, early appointment and caught me home after school drops. I love the very romantic notion of the impromptu date with my dear.

As we sat at our favorite, favorite breakfast spot, The Coffee Cup, we talked about nothing of importance and enjoyed every minute. I had my favorite, soup and eggs for breakfast.
Here's a recipe for my (other) find of day: The Sunrise Bowl. It's founded in good Black Bean soup. If you'd want to try this at home, you can start with Dave Lieberman's recipe. (I'll credit the picture to his page at the Food Network, too.) For a super simple homemade version try the one below.

The Sunrise Bowl a la mi Casa

• 1 cup black bean soup (I like Trader Joe's Cuban Black beans partially blended with a little chicken stock for consistency)
• 2 poached eggs
• 1/4 avocado 
• Pico de gallo salsa
• Corn tortillas

Assemble in a deep soup bowl as follows:
Place soup in the bowl, Drop in freshly poached eggs. Top with thinly sliced avocado and pico de gallo. Serve with a warm corn tortilla or two. (or not...) High in protein, fiber and yumminess.

A rubber band or two and God ~ The Name is Mom

I'm not saying whom, but someone in my house (besides me) can spit out snappy responses with a bite. (OK, more than one someone.) I've found myself concerned, confounded, curious about the how of the necessary change. Admonishment, punishment, etc.? Not so effective when the moment strikes and the response is spat. So there we are, my Missy and I on Sunday at church and our pastor takes the stage (in my younger days it was a pulpit - now it's a stage) and begins to talk about blessing with our mouths.

Two seconds into it, I was giddy. Exuberant even. There he was, my friend, my brother, my pastor talking directly to me...I mean, my girlie and I, us, her, us! Bless. Choose to bless. Bless with your tongue. Oh the talk is much longer about how he got there and the James and Corinthians scriptures that underscore the dangers of the tongue, but all that mattered was the shift.

As a mom I know the distraction away from "don't" to "do" is powerful. And there we were. Soaking it in. Bless.
Bless.
Bless.

Then he handed out these lovely bracelets (rubber bands) to remind ourselves every time we revert to misusing our mouths. We're in. Both of us. Even as we snap away, the awareness has shifted. Oh, I love my new point of view and I love watching daughter, my friend snappin!

Once in a while God does the parenting.

The first day of Kid's Color Week, hosted by Kerry at Young Ones, is RED. Here's my girlie's contribution: a rather salmony red S.

It happens that today is also a big birthday at our house. The young missy turned eleven which shocks me just a little. It seems moments ago we were on our way to the hospital for the whole two and a half hours of labor this little one afforded us. Now she's singing to Justin Bieber songs and excited about a family gathering to celebrate her special day at the California Pizza Kitchen.

We make a spectacle of birthdays at our house. Stars are hung in the bedroom hallway door and have been since the big boy man turned one.

The birthday sign goes up and you start the morning wearing the birthday hat as you open cards. Tradition. Fun.

There will be cupcakes at school and that promised dinner with our friends, who really are our family. Her big bro has tucked a pair of earrings in a box and put them on the front seat of my car. This means she'll find them after school. I think he's an awesome big brother and even though they can fight with great passion and a tone that shakes me to the core, they have the shape of best of friends in their thoughtful hearts. Evidence? He went into Justice for Girls to shop with his dad. He never mentioned how mortified he'd have been if any of the girls from school came in. He just soaked it up when she squealed over the JB T-shirt.

So our red day is also a pink and green happy day. As we celebrate the birthday of the baby.

The Group Event & The Name is Mom

Ok then, it was a week ago that the Topanga, Westlake, West LA and LB moms and kids converged on the Broadway Deli. Traffic got to some of us and we ate in hilarious shifts. First Joan and L. Then my kiddos, Dad and me. In comes Jem with M and H and finally, Michelle and the boys arrived. We talked and walked and talked and walked along the Santa Monica Promenade until Joan made us stop for gelato.
I can't tell you how much I love these women. They are individual and familiar and beautiful and so magnificently magical. Joan with a bit of Ireland in her voice and lyrical laugh. Jemma with the outright guffaw,  and the zest to just keep going until we can't. And Michelle, who laughs with her (still short) men while she stares down life's dragons and offers them her happy flash of a smile.

I'll tell you more about these moms in a few days.

I'm inviting them and you to participate in a fun Blog Event for the month of May (or before, it's your pleasure) called:

The Name is Mom.

Share your stories of your walk in momhood. What do you love? What surprised you? Share the ups and the downs. Share a moment. Share many moments. Pose a question. Talk about your favorite mom. Your mom. Your grandma. Tell how a mom changed you or how being a mom changed you. We can likely fill a whole month with wonderful stories. Write once or write every day. It's up to you.

Mary has designed a beautiful button which I'll make available.
Email me if you're in and off we go!
We'd love to have you.
Happy Mom Musings to you.

More Randomness - Ahh Spring.

I awoke this morning to heaps of cool air pouring over the open bedroom transom window and down onto my exposed feet. I quickly got up, covered up and then pokes a foot back out to soak it up. I love nothing more than a cold, white pillow case against my face. And apparently, a little breeze on the toes too. Ahh, Spring.

I was also met by the brilliant waft of Freesia fragrance, from the Freesia gracing my dining table and sending the "come breathe, slowly, deeply" message my way. Mine are long gone. These are white and light, light lavender. Big, huge Freesia. They were the one purchase I allowed myself to decorate the Easter table. (I have a box full of darling Easter specials to reuse, reuse, reuse.) But, I may just go right back to that overpriced market and buy another bunch. Ahh Spring.

Satisfaction Saturday ~ Seasons, Cycles, Renewal

This week has been filled to brim with lessons and underscoring of life's cycles, seasons and God's always-fulfilled promise of renewal.


This Redbud tree graces my backyard. Its called the Forest Pansy tree. We have two other Redbuds in the front yard, Western Redbuds. My friend, John Petach, a wonderful northern California artist, made a great argument for planting these about eight ago. They're slow growing and provide four seasons for we Californians who seem to have fewer. 

In spring the Redbud offers a showing of these profuse and beautiful, more-pink-than-red buds. The buds are followed by leaves. Green on the Western, deep red on the Forest Pansy. Both heartish shaped. These take us through summer when, the Western version adds magenta pods. Leaves and pods turn to brown in fall, and drop. Winter in both trees leave the leafless tree that speaks to the barren rest of winter, preparing, gestating to spring.

I love these trees and all the more as they progress through their cycle.


The pondering alongside, is the loss of a dear, dear, family matriarch, my Aunty Margie. The earthquake of my 7th year brought a baby sister, a departing father (and doggy) and new neighbors. The Foscos, Margie and Fred, moved in to the house next door and brought their three kids, Barbara, 16 and model beautiful, Nancy, 14 cute, darling, fun and the one I wanted to be just like when I grew up, and Freddy, 12, a lanky blond mystery called older boy.


Margie saw the effects of loss in our house and quickly enfolded Mom and we girls. We were granted side door access and spent our days running in and out of the Fosco house. We attended graduations, had the best baby-sitters in the world (Nancy did my hair and make-up, taught me how to eat bags of sunflower seeds and could read a Nancy Drew book in one night), ate bowls of Mostaccioli at every family gathering, watched TV, played cards and every Christmas Eve after going to church, went directly through the kitchen door to one of our best Christmas traditions, time with the Fosco family. We held conversations across our two facing kitchen windows and often just saw the beckoning arm -  come over. The family had big borders too. Auntie Margie's parents, her brother and sister and their families were all part of the celebration and Uncle Freddie's family would visit from Chicago. There was always a recognition that we were in the midst of comfort and joy. My sister and I received love and correction and laughed loads within this family. It was all our normal daily fare. Uncle Freddie would tease me about my love of those Bums - the Dodgers (it was his team too unless the Cubs were in town). My sister was teased about how she drove her VW into the driveway, stopping an inch before the front porch. On a dime. Margie allowed the escaping into her house in my teen years when being at home wasn't always my very first choice. We shared weddings and births and were connected in a simple, expected way, the way neighbors can be.


At 89, Auntie Margie passed on and we all gathered again to celebrate her going on to Glory. Freddie's son, Nick created a beautiful slide show of his "Gigi's" life. I absorbed every picture. I learned bits of the life before ours. I never knew she was born in Texas. What I knew and what I experienced all over again as we gathered and ate and talked is this: She was filled with a very happy love. She met the perfect man, Fred Fosco, and grew this family with joy and laughter, leaving all kinds of marks in all kinds of lives. 


The renewal here, is in the gathering. In the connected lives, who love each other because she, when her beloved and both of her siblings were gone, when loads of grandchildren and great-grandchildren were born, just kept enfolding every one as if they were maternally hers. 


In this loss, I see the cycle. There will be, I suppose, some dormant time, but I see the promise of this spring too. Barbara and Nancy are grandmas now. As I sat with and watched two of their beautiful daughters loving their babies, I saw Margie's love all over. 


There is so much satisfaction, and I am blessed, in the confidence of Love and Renewal. 
I love you Fosco family. Good bye Auntie Margie, may you rejoice in the arms of the others who love you too.

The fragrance of thoughtfulness

May I just say that I have learned a great deal about thoughtfulness?
It appears that thoughtfulness is a thought turned to action.
In the situation of being bound to house or limited in some other way, I now can say: I believe that thoughtfulness is a fragrance wafting richly.

Thoughtfulness from Lynette and Dale.

The Fragrant Freesia - In Search of Spring

Freesia probably changed my life. The beautifully, delicate and fragrant flower entered when I was the VP of a marketing team in a big corporation. The creative director in my group would stealthily place a handmade, sky blue, pottery vase on my desk or table filled with Freesia at the first bloom each February. They were so pretty. But then their fragrance became more engaging even than their appearance.
I would notice the faint beckoning of tea topped with the Freesia's sweet finish. Coffee drinker that I am, I'd often find myself strolling for a cup of Earl Grey in the blooming winter months.
A couple of years into this, I decided to plant a few of my own Freesia. They are simple to grow and bloom prolifically. They also are more than willing to share summer space with carrots or broccoli in the big clay pot in the garden.
So today, I share them with you and encourage you to plant a few. The whites (don't you love white flowers?) are particularly fragrant. You'll find them at the nursery, but I found some specialties at Annie's Annuals.
Here's my favorite: Freesia
As to how they changed my life, you have to stop to smell the flowers and to brew the tea. The change is in the stop.

I Love:: Karla's Love Banner - Six

Well, who wouldn't love this Love Banner. A day or so ago I checked in to see what Karla was up to and there it was. A very pretty  Valentine's creation. This weekend we'll be working on our own fun pieces and you can bet something from someone here will embrace this direction! 

To really understand the brilliantly shining creativity surrounding this fancy you'll have to see Karla's blog - Life is Good.
http://karlakroese.blogspot.com/2010/02/love-banner.html

Karla is inspired as she inspires. Go peek! And beware. It was my first visit to her site that inspired my current writing expeditions. 
I love another's creativity.

I Love:: Three - the landmark - Philippe's

History may repeat itself, but there are places we visit where something new can be found in the old. Philippe's French Dipped Sandwiches is like that. My family introduced our niece and nephew to Philippe's over Christmas break. It was great fun. The kids all sat in phone booths with the wood framed door closed, and perhaps for the first time, talking on phones tethered to the wall. 

My niece was astonished to find a place that really only offered one thing - the French Dip sandwich. (She'd had Subway for lunch and figured it would be the same. Mais non!)

Philippe's boasts inventing the French Dipped Sandwich sometime after it opened in 1908. Apparently, the owner dropped a sandwich roll into the roast juices and voila! l'histoire was made. The next day a police officer came in to have that sandwich again. And so on.

Our group ordered beef dips. A couple tried twists like adding bleu cheese (wonderful) or using Philippe's French mustard (hot) and were delighted. 

The place has a couple of rooms, with decor related to it's location near Union Station: circus pictures and a train collection. I watched the kids loading up at a big common table and looking at the old stuff which was quickly deemed cool. It is. Very cool to be a part of Los Angeles history. To sit in a restaurant where I know my mom and dad ate, where my husband ate with his parents, where, we get to go to LA's downtown and dine with Angelenos from all over the basin.

I recalled my first trip to Philippe's. I was working at my first advertising job as an account executive. A group planned to drive down to Philippe's for lunch and invited me along. All I'd heard was that it was French and I considered my cash accordingly. We all piled into someone's car and when we arrived, I was stunned. A big brick building where you queue to order and sit at any number or shared tables. I was thrilled at the potential for saving lunch money - sandwiches were cheap and coffee was then, 5 cents. (It's 9 cents now.) But I was most thrilled by this bit of history where I could see back in time a bit - lining up with weary workers for a hardy meal. I could picture a young, snappy reporter from the Los Angeles Times and that historic beat cop who ordered the first beef dipped sandwich and the builders of the Los Angeles infrastructure all together. 

It's a tasty picture.

http://www.philippes.com/