It’s August.
And every August, I think Hot August Night.
I know that’s a Neil Diamond album, though not one I actually owned. It came out in 1972, and while I was heading into 9th grade at John Adams Junior High, I hadn’t totally fallen for Neil yet. I’d moved on from The Monkees, and Goodbye Yellow Brick Road was the album on my turntable.
So, naturally, down the rabbit hole I went.
Hot August Night was recorded live at the Greek Theatre in Los Angeles. It was the album that turned Neil Diamond from a successful singer-songwriter into a full-blown arena superstar. I also learned he joked about his massive head of hair—and admitted he was terrified before walking onstage in front of thousands of people. He said that fear forced him to give it everything he had.
I guess it worked. “I Am… I Said” was his favorite recording from the concert.
It was probably pretty hot in the Greek Theatre, too.
Funny how one word can transport you somewhere.
For me, August led to Neil Diamond.
And “hot” somehow got me thinking about Erma Bombeck… and a melted pink rose candle.
I needed to remind myself of some of her wonderful quotes.
Down another rabbit hole.
“Guilt: the gift that keeps on giving.”
“All of us have moments in our lives that test our courage. Taking children into a house with a white carpet is one of them.”
And then the one that has stayed with me all these years:
“I would have burned the pink candle sculpted like a rose before it melted in storage.”
That line came from her essay If I Had My Life to Live Over.
She wasn’t really writing about a candle.
She was writing about waiting too long.
About saving the good stuff.
About thinking there would always be another day.
You need to use the good stuff now.
For me, the good stuff naturally revolves around food.
That first big chunk of imported, extra-aged Parmigiano Reggiano I bought stayed wrapped (incorrectly, I might add) in my refrigerator far too long while I waited for the perfect occasion.
And did I own a 25-year-old bottle of balsamic vinegar?
I sure did.
Did I save it for the perfect meal?
No.
Did I use it at all?
Sparingly.
Did my $124.50 bottle of balsamic eventually evaporate?
Yes.
Should have.
Would have.
Could have.
They all end in regret.
One bite… one smell… one meal you haven’t thought about in years can send you down memory lane. Those are the memories worth hanging onto.
I’m often asked, “What’s your most memorable meal?”
My mind immediately scans the incredible restaurants I’ve visited in San Francisco and Napa. There’s a soup at Spoon and Stable in Minneapolis and a dessert at Girl & the Goat in Chicago that still make my culinary heart skip a beat.
But truth be known…
One of my most memorable meals was wonderfully humble.
First, don’t tell my mom.
And second, remember the drinking age when I was a kid was 18.
So, at 19 years old, my mom asked me to take my grandma to the grocery store one Saturday morning. I was feeling pretty rough from the Friday night before, likely spent at The Outrigger.
But I pulled it together, got my grandma to the store, unloaded the groceries at her house, and she made me lunch.
It started with an unbelievably tall glass of icy iced tea.
We never, ever had iced tea at home, and that day it tasted like liquid gold.
Next came toasted bread absolutely slathered with butter and topped with chunky egg salad, perfectly salted and peppered.
Alongside it sat a bowl of tomato soup with a pat of butter slowly melting and swirling across the top.
It was glorious.
And I was 100% cured.
Well… one more glass of iced tea probably sealed the deal.
I only hope I thanked her enough. And I wish she really knew how much I loved that lunch.
Not because it magically brought me back to life.
Because I realized she used the good stuff.
She used butter.
Not margarine.
Butter easily could have been reserved for special occasions by someone who raised six kids on her own.
But that Saturday wasn’t a special occasion.
It was just lunch.
And she used the good stuff.
I even had room for a dessert actually they were bars, she’d made that I’ve never seen anywhere else since. Graham crackers layered with a buttery coconut filling, another layer of crackers, another layer of coconut, then chilled overnight.
I don’t know what occasion she originally made it for.
But she certainly didn’t skimp on the good stuff there, either.
Now that I’m a grandma, maybe it *was* a special occasion.
Maybe making something special for a grandchild was reason enough.
I know I inherited my love of food and cooking from her, so a lot more was passed on that afternoon than a couple pounds of butter.
Erma was right.
Don’t save the good stuff.
Use the good butter.
Eat the good cheese.
Pour the good olive oil.
And please, open and use that balsamic you’ve been holding onto.
Fortunately, I know where to find some really good butter these days.
French cultured butter with crunchy fleur de sel.
My grandma would have loved it… and she absolutely would have put it on tomato soup.
P.S. Add milk to Campbell’s tomato soup. Not water. Ever.
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