Pretend it's a food blog; or, RIP JFT, Esquire

Tonight I decided to use up some food in the house and made an apple tart. It’s Christmas, I don’t have to go to work tomorrow, so why not?

Pretend this is one of those blog things with recipes, if you will, because there is a point to this, I promise. 

Improvised Apple Tart Thing

Ingredients:

1 sheet puff pastry (I have like 3 packs in my freezer. Is this normal, or am I just a hoarder of puff pastry?)

3-4 tart apples (I think mine are Granny Smith or whatever the equivalent is in Spain) 

1/4 cup Brown sugar (cue Rolling Stones) 

3-4 T Cinnamon 

4-6 T Sugar 

juice of 1 lemon

3-4 American pats Unsalted Butter (I have this European stuff that comes in a big block, so I’m guessing at how much. Yes, I'm aware "American pats" isn't actually a thing)

1 egg--if yours are fresh like mine, make sure you wash off all feathers and poop

1 bottle red wine

1 copy James Brown’s Funky Christmas 

Preheat oven to 220 °C. I have no idea what that is in F. Look it up. 

Pour out a glass of wine and turn on JB’s Funky Christmas. In case you don’t have this, any James Brown will do. In case of a musical emergency, any Rolling Stones will also do. 

Grease a cookie sheet. If you are in Spain, chances are you are using olive oil, because SPAIN. 🇪🇸

Call your thirteen year old to come down to help. Be ignored, go upstairs, nag nicely, be ignored, give up. This is life. Resign yourself to this fact and have another swig of wine. 

Take out that puff pastry and let it sit on a floured cutting board while it is defrosting.

Cut up 4 (maybe 5?) apples. Dance while cutting and make sure to not cut off the end of your finger. Avoid kitchen mandoline because it’s deadly; use sharp paring knife and hope you don't end up in the ER (AGAIN).

Drink the rest of the glass of wine 🍷 and contemplate your loved ones who left the world in 2018. Remember, don’t be morbid because they would not approve; instead, sing “Santa Claus, Go Straight to the Ghetto” with gusto.

Take thinly sliced apples and mix with a dash of lemon juice (or lime, since that’s what you have and YOLO), melted butter, sugar, cinnamon, and brown sugar.

Roll out puff pastry on lightly floured surface. Take a pizza cutter and slice in half lengthwise. 

Take a dance break, refill wine. 

Sing "Let's Make Christmas Mean Something This Year" loudly and wonder why it isn't more of a classic for the holiday. 

Place apple slices staggered in a somewhat organized pattern. Or just dump them (depending on how much wine you’ve had). Leave about 1/2 inch around the edges. Crimp them in that fancy way that your mama showed you many years ago because she's a Southern mom, and they do these things. 

While everything is cooking don't forget the timer (oops!!!)  for about 15 minutes (20? 25? I honestly didn't set a timer) and think about a long time friendship that ended this week with the death of said friend. 

Roadtripping to the Delta, 1997

Through a guy I dated in grad school, I met big, dysfunctional group of people that loosely gathered at a local video store between classes and during work breaks. Think Clerks meets Empire Records. I always credit my "in" to the video crowd as my amazing sports car my dad passed down to me---a 1982 280zx. Lin, a local lawyer, had owned one in the 1980s, and the store owner, Markal, constantly told me it was his dream car. Markal was a veritable walking encyclopedia of 1990s music. I can credit him for my mad love of the Pixies (and the Breeders), Pavement, and his favorite band, the Flaming Lips. 

Lin was older---18 years my senior---which was ancient when you are in your early 20s. I laugh now---he was only 40 when we met. He was a Hattiesburg native, had made and lost a fortune in a relatively short period of time, and had the best stories. I can't do them justice by repeating them, because context is everything, but some of my favorite were about drag queens, black beauty contests, juke joints in the Chitlin Circuit, and concerts---he had seen everyone from the Sex Pistols performing on a flatbed truck, to Lynyrd Skynyrd when they were just a FL bar band, to his favorite band, the Stones. So many stories about the Stones.  He liked to remind me that December 18 is not only my birthday, but also Keith Richards' birthday. I liked to tell him that I had technically seen one of his favorite performers, James Brown, when my mom was very, very pregnant with me. 

We managed to stay in touch through phone calls---long, drawn out phone calls. There was name checking, music trivia and gossip. Through my years in Colorado, Washington, and Texas, we managed a way to call each other a couple of times a year. The calls would last hours---like 3-4 hours sometimes--and through it all, I found a friend who was adept in the art of storytelling---not necessarily a requirement if you are a Southerner, but if you want to be taken damn seriously, it's a must. 

In July 1993, a recent college grad stopped by the video store to tell the crew that he was on his way to get married (to me). We sold the car to Markal and moved to Colorado. The video store has been gone for years---it was a bougie gift store, last time I saw it. The 280zx was totaled and I never got a chance to show it to my kids. Markal passed away a few years ago. My last Lin phone call was a couple of years ago over a shoddy connection in Cuba with me having to repeat myself several times and only hearing 1/2 of what he said. We talked about Markal and he told me that his own health was poor, and he would probably never talk to me again. 

He was right, of course, And now, Lin is gone, as well. 

James Brown's Funky Christmas, a present many moons ago from James Franklin Toney, Jr., Esquire, has become a standard this time of year. It's funky for sure, in the best, soulful, foot-tapping, you-can't-sit-still-while-you-listen-to-it way. 

It also goes well with a cheap Spanish red wine and an improvised apple tart that was---surprise!----delicious. 

the finished product

This Christmas, improvise a recipe (or use this one), play some tunes (loudly!), and think of how lucky we are to have friends pass through our lives. Almost thirty years of stories---30 years, y'all!---for many people, that's a lifetime.