Women Beyond a Certain Age

06/09/2025

The Sound and The Fury of Humidity
1983

My CCA externship was working in the pantry on a 2,000-passenger cruise ship. I was the first woman to ever work in their kitchens. Women chefs were something new. Wherever I would work for the next three or four years, I was either the first or the only woman where I landed. It was a surprise to me, too. I was a foot soldier in history but attended culinary school in utter ignorance.

You mean it will be hard to get a job?

There were no female kitchen crew quarters for women on the US Constitution, so the purser had me bunk with the cocktail waitresses. That’s when I met Dina.

Each cell, I mean room, had four bunks but there were just the two of us for the next few months. It was the slower season touring the Hawaiian Islands. Oh, those pesky hurricanes. We had a working hand sink in our room, a luxury in our battleship grey box. And lockers with crooked, bent doors, that banged with every roll of the ocean. When I got home to busy Van Ness Avenue in San Francisco, all I kept thinking was how quiet it was.

Dina was from Kiln, Mississippi. I had never heard of it. She promised it was close to New Orleans. Dina looked like a miniature Elizabeth Taylor. Tossed thick black curls and eyelash-fringed sapphire blue eyes. Dina was a true Southern girl: she had an accent, never swore, and exceptionally good manners. She called me Miss Denise.

Dina had gotten the job from her cousin; he was in hospitality placement. He talked faster than a used car salesman. He worked on commission.

Looking back, I know working on that ship was like being in a relaxed prison. Captive but you could drink and openly buy drugs.

Dina’s daddy wanted her to come home! She was always writing her family letters assuring them she was fine. Sometimes she included a snapshot to prove she was still alive. But daddy was right, ship life was sketchy.

The purser that was my contact and boss on the ship had just been released from jail. He could work till his court date. I remember thinking, “Huh… this can’t be good?” Attempted r**e. “Only attempted,” I muttered when I was in his office. I would find out, working in the kitchen, many crew were on probation. And here I was thinking badly of the purser. I carried my knives thru the hallways, wrapped in a towel, back and forth to my shifts. I looked more dangerous than I was.

Dina and I would be roomies for my two-month stint. We became as thick as the cockroaches under our bunks. (We tried bug spray. It was futile. Best not to turn out the lights.)

I promised Dina I’d come visit her when I graduated. “Miss Denise, go to New Orleans… you’ll love it there!” It was a date. My graduation present from my mother would be a trip to visit Dina.

When the cab pulled up in front of Dina’s family home, I realized I was stepping into the pages of a William Faulkner story. Crumbling porch, a dark patched roof, hanging shutters that needed paint, and nests of wild peacocks screeching up a fury. The peacocks sounded like they were being stabbed, but they weren’t! I was amazed to see them fly. Jump, fly, screech, jump, fly, screech… Crap, I did not know peacocks could fly… I’m from the city, what the hell did I know? They peered at me with their dark beady eyes.

As the cab pulled away two huge shiny, black Dobermans came around the corner to greet me. They were excited… smiling with huge teeth, I thought, “Do they look hungry?”

Dina’s mother, MeMaw, appeared, with pink foam curlers in her hair, screaming from the front door, “Killer, NO! Baby, don’t ATTACK!”

Killer was foaming at the mouth and Baby, even more, but they did halt. MeMaw, “Oh Miss Denise, don’t be afraid, they are as gentle as lambs!”

I remember thinking, so sleek, so pretty and I’m gonna die.

I stayed two weeks, and Dina and I did get to New Orleans. Brunch in the French quarter, tall frosty glasses filled with liquor-laden punches, powdered sugar beignets, breaded soft shell crabs, and Andouille sausage, hot and spicy in gumbo. Even gathering glass beads when it wasn’t Mardi Gras.

On the Delta near their home, I ate catfish, hush puppies, and greens cooked in fat, washed down with sweet tea.

It was all a revelation. Very different from North Beach. Not an Italian in sight. No pasta, no salami. They were the most gracious hosts. And Killer and Baby growled at me every morning, but they no longer lurched. As gentle as rabid lambs on steroids.

I did not know how different I seemed to them, except for every introduction I was, “This is Miss Denise, she lives in San Francisco, in her very OWN apartment! ALONE! And her mother is still alive! Can you imagine?!”

In the mornings, when I drank dark, bitter chicory coffee and sat sweating on the porch, I would think I needed a shower and then remember I had already taken a shower. This was brand new sweat. I learned about humidity, and I heard the sweat droplets falling down my neck.

I smelled. A lot. But so did everybody else. A great relief.

Dina’s cousin got me a job interview on a riverboat going up the river. He said I was a shoe-in. He’d get me a contract for at least six months. My credentials were my cruise ship job. The riverboat was but a quarter of the passenger count, her cousin kept telling me, this job would be a breeze.

The galley of the riverboat was the size of my closet at home. The chef was a tall handsome black man who looked competent, friendly and comforting. He was patient. And he smiled. He gave exacting directions. I liked him.

I lasted my two-day trial. Chef kept telling me to slow down, I’d never make it in this heat. He was right. I felt myself wilting like a delicate bouquet of violets from a gentleman caller. By nighttime I smelled like an entire herd of farm animals.

Dina’s family told me I could keep a room in their house and work on the riverboat as long as I wanted, but I missed San Francisco, the wonderful cool fog, and my married boyfriend.

It was time to go home.

17/08/2025

Happy Sunday!

Helen Mirren and a Cheese Omelette
2003

Helen Mirren was petite. Of course she was. Movie stars seem big on a movie screen. She was wearing a pair of purple cotton pedal pushers, a light sweater and black flats. Not a whisper of makeup on her face and hair pulled into a short ponytail.

When she’s brought to the set for rehearsal, every single crew member has formed a circle. They have left their jobs to watch Helen. In the kitchen of an old mansion in Hancock Park, I witness the shadows of the crew sneaking behind faux pillars, huge flower arrangements and stylish oversized furniture, trying to peek. 100 sets of eyes are on Helen.

And on me, only because I was standing next to her. Helen draws an audience. And she hasn’t starred in The Queen or won an Oscar yet, but Hollywood knows Helen Mirren. Highly respected, and here working alongside us on a pilot.

The job call came to me from a prop man I’d worked with for a decade. Robert was happy to dump all the food from his list on us. Food can be a nightmare for the art department. Real food moves, discolors, burns, settles and, sometimes, stinks. It can create a scene and, also, inadvertently choke the talent.
Once a producer told me, “Easier to dance with a drunk monkey than shoot a big food scene.” I told him, “No, you just need to hire the right stylist.”

I look back now and think it was a simpler time, I was younger, braver, full of hope…and still had nice thighs. Now, as a jaded old crone, I know a million things can go wrong. And do.

This project was a primetime pilot, with a big shot director, hot off a money record-breaking film, but his first time working in TV. Boundary lines between film and TV work were blurring. I did recognize his name; he was known for his relentless attention to detail and need for perfection. A mad genius, he was called in People Magazine.

Robert mentions the director wants me to come in for a pre-production meeting—his assistant will call. Excellent, face to face, for the details.

On a famous movie lot with plush bungalows, polished wood tables, valets and a fancy water bar, I settled in for the meeting. The director, the supervising producer and me. I was passed a copy of the script pages for the breakfast scene. I could make notes and take the pages with me if I promised not to tell anyone. There would be NDAs from the production office to sign on the day of the shoot.

I gulped. I promised. It’s just breakfast, right?

Acting out all the parts in vivid detail, the director set up the scene for me.

“We are in Washington DC, a wealthy Senator’s wife is making breakfast, a perfect cheese omelette. A background table is beautifully set with exotic fruit and overflowing baskets of croissants, muffins, a rich assortment. The Senator’s wife greets her beautiful but hungover daughter arriving home and walking into the kitchen, the peaceful beauty of her morning is broken.”

I interject “Might there also be fresh flowers in a small vase and the dishes are china, right? Gold rimmed maybe cream color? So, the omelette pops?”

“Yes.” murmurs the mad genius, he was excited now. He was sparkling like the Waterford crystal juice glasses we both imagined.

I brought our portfolio omelette pictures. Herb. Cheese. Bacon and vegetable. American. French roll. Open-faced. Frittata. “Please choose.”

“Cheddar cheese! That’s a bright orange color!” He shouts. His creativity couldn’t be denied.

I made notes about several strawberries on the plate, maybe a small toast point and the “just cooked and styled omelette” sleekly slipping onto the plate from the polished copper omelette pan. One easy movement for the talent.

A smallish American omelette—it will be folded not rolled. Only two eggs. We aren’t at Denny’s, and our Madame has gone to culinary school. I mention sautéed julienned vegetables are the way to go if he decides the omelette needs more interest for the camera.

In my mind, the meeting is almost done…I want to leave before traffic is any worse on Melrose…what? My new favorite director was wildly miming a pan; he wanted Helen to flip the omelette and “she’ll get it on the plate.”

Screeching brakes…I’m back…Does Helen know how to flip an omelette? Cooks flip pancakes not usually omelettes…How many minutes is this scene? This could take many more attempts, and maybe never really work. It would cost a lot more money. Okay, let’s talk, if the omelettes are premade…It’s a sure thing. I’ll have 3 or 4 perfect omelettes made and we just show the slide onto the plate.

“Free styling this will cost a lot more money,” I said. The producer is awakened. He was probably dreaming of leaving early too but now he’s awake…he’s keeping the budget.

I explained why more money. Because, with Helen making the omelette, WE are no longer in control. We might have to do 10 takes, 20 takes…and that’s if it all goes well…AND we get a recognizable omelette. This is going to take a lot more time.

Oh. Mad Genius said, “Okay, Denise, have several beautiful cheddar cheese omelettes made and bring extra eggs.”

“And pans, cheese, bowls, whisks, possible garnishes, a portable cooktop,” I squeezed in.

The producer broke out into hives and started to squirm in his seat. “Well, how much IS this all gonna cost!!? And please don’t buy anything you don’t need! This is just one tiny scene.” It’s always like this. Creativity versus budget. The producer told me again, “Don’t buy anything you don’t need!” I repeated my promise.

Everything outside was a mess when we arrived at the location the day of the shoot. Always is. Parking was scarce, neighbors already complaining about the congestion, private police arrived checking for permits, the talent trailers were scattered way too far away, walkie talkies needed more charging. Inside, barely enough room for three cameras and the ceiling too low for the boom/overhead camera….and every gardener in Hancock Park was using a leaf blower.

The sound man is already googly eyed with terror. Cindie and I were working in a maid’s room off the kitchen. No running water. Turned the twin bed into our prep table. I removed the very stainable bedspread and covered the bed with garbage bags. Those were probably flammable.

On a small table in the kitchen, out of the camera’s eye, I had beautifully styled cheddar cheese omelettes and several with colorful vegetables sprayed with PAM so they can’t dry out. Glossy, like they’ve just been cooked. Garnishes, herbs, toast, stacks of matching plates. Everything’s in order.

I had omelette pans, whole eggs and extra cheese at the stove. Helen was brought into place. We were introduced. Helen nodded.

Mad Genius loved the styled omelette and showed Helen. He then says “Helen, would you like to try making one?” Helen said nothing. It was a quick turnaround; I hated the Mad Genius now.

Helen proceeded to break a few eggs, I passed her a whisk, I turned on the heat, the pans are small non-stick not the tres chic copper, I’m not stupid.

I sensed Helen thought this was a waste of her energy. The omelette tore as she tried to retrieve it…and she forgot the cheese. It was grated in a prep bowl, but with her lines, camera blocking, lights…the cheese got lost.

Mad Genius yelled at me, “Denise, more cheese!” I was at the ready with several bags of grated cheddar. We could do 20 takes if we needed to. I was prepared!

I was shocked to hear Helen’s loud voice, almost booming…she was looking at me. Directly at me. “Oh, no, not that horrible orange American cheese!”

“No, not American this is cheddar,” My voice was almost a whimper. I was perfectly still with my bags of cheese, standing in front of the entire crew. I was hit by a bus I never saw coming.

Helen went on to tell me, the director, the producer, and the entire crew, “I must only use PAR-MA-SAN!” Her accent makes PAR-MA-SAN seem even more elegant.

Helen went into hair and makeup, and I sent the producer’s assistant with his petty cash to the closet grocery store for PAR-MA-SAN cheese. I told the assistant to buy a lot and the most expensive. No cheap PAR-MA-SAN for THIS omelette.

We moved to final looks, and taping, very late in the day. Lighting director was now making the afternoon light look like morning light. Production ain’t easy.

We never did get Helen making the omelette. But the cameraman shot filled pans, empty pans, ingredients, the hero omelettes, Helen passing styled plates. We got enough coverage to make it work in editing.

A week later, when I turned in my invoice to the Mad Genius for his approval, he emailed me back to tell me all the food looked gorgeous. But he was now reworking the script, the pilot, recasting the daughter, the location, dialogue and maybe the breakfast scene. But he’d call me soon.

He thanked me.

I replied. “I see dead omelettes.”

12/08/2025

Celebrating our 7th year on Facebook. Thank you for your continuing support. We could never have made it without you. 🙏🤗🎉
But we are sure you know that!

10/08/2025

Helen Mirren and a Cheese Omelette
2003

Helen Mirren was petite. Of course she was. Movie stars seem big on a movie screen. She was wearing a pair of purple cotton pedal pushers, a light sweater and black flats. Not a whisper of makeup on her face and hair pulled into a short ponytail.

When she’s brought to the set for rehearsal, every single crew member has formed a circle. They have left their jobs to watch Helen. In the kitchen of an old mansion in Hancock Park, I witness the shadows of the crew sneaking behind faux pillars, huge flower arrangements and stylish oversized furniture, trying to peek. 100 sets of eyes are on Helen.

And on me, only because I was standing next to her. Helen draws an audience. And she hasn’t starred in The Queen or won an Oscar yet, but Hollywood knows Helen Mirren. Highly respected, and here working alongside us on a pilot.

The job call came to me from a prop man I’d worked with for a decade. Robert was happy to dump all the food from his list on us. Food can be a nightmare for the art department. Real food moves, discolors, burns, settles and, sometimes, stinks. It can create a scene and, also, inadvertently choke the talent.
Once a producer told me, “Easier to dance with a drunk monkey than shoot a big food scene.” I told him, “No, you just need to hire the right stylist.”

I look back now and think it was a simpler time, I was younger, braver, full of hope…and still had nice thighs. Now, as a jaded old crone, I know a million things can go wrong. And do.

This project was a primetime pilot, with a big shot director, hot off a money record-breaking film, but his first time working in TV. Boundary lines between film and TV work were blurring. I did recognize his name; he was known for his relentless attention to detail and need for perfection. A mad genius, he was called in People Magazine.

Robert mentions the director wants me to come in for a pre-production meeting—his assistant will call. Excellent, face to face, for the details.

On a famous movie lot with plush bungalows, polished wood tables, valets and a fancy water bar, I settled in for the meeting. The director, the supervising producer and me. I was passed a copy of the script pages for the breakfast scene. I could make notes and take the pages with me if I promised not to tell anyone. There would be NDAs from the production office to sign on the day of the shoot.

I gulped. I promised. It’s just breakfast, right?

Acting out all the parts in vivid detail, the director set up the scene for me.

“We are in Washington DC, a wealthy Senator’s wife is making breakfast, a perfect cheese omelette. A background table is beautifully set with exotic fruit and overflowing baskets of croissants, muffins, a rich assortment. The Senator’s wife greets her beautiful but hungover daughter arriving home and walking into the kitchen, the peaceful beauty of her morning is broken.”

I interject “Might there also be fresh flowers in a small vase and the dishes are china, right? Gold rimmed maybe cream color? So, the omelette pops?”

“Yes.” murmurs the mad genius, he was excited now. He was sparkling like the Waterford crystal juice glasses we both imagined.

I brought our portfolio omelette pictures. Herb. Cheese. Bacon and vegetable. American. French roll. Open-faced. Frittata. “Please choose.”

“Cheddar cheese! That’s a bright orange color!” He shouts. His creativity couldn’t be denied.

I made notes about several strawberries on the plate, maybe a small toast point and the “just cooked and styled omelette” sleekly slipping onto the plate from the polished copper omelette pan. One easy movement for the talent.

A smallish American omelette—it will be folded not rolled. Only two eggs. We aren’t at Denny’s, and our Madame has gone to culinary school. I mention sautéed julienned vegetables are the way to go if he decides the omelette needs more interest for the camera.

In my mind, the meeting is almost done…I want to leave before traffic is any worse on Melrose…what? My new favorite director was wildly miming a pan; he wanted Helen to flip the omelette and “she’ll get it on the plate.”

Screeching brakes…I’m back…Does Helen know how to flip an omelette? Cooks flip pancakes not usually omelettes…How many minutes is this scene? This could take many more attempts, and maybe never really work. It would cost a lot more money. Okay, let’s talk, if the omelettes are premade…It’s a sure thing. I’ll have 3 or 4 perfect omelettes made and we just show the slide onto the plate.

“Free styling this will cost a lot more money,” I said. The producer is awakened. He was probably dreaming of leaving early too but now he’s awake…he’s keeping the budget.

I explained why more money. Because, with Helen making the omelette, WE are no longer in control. We might have to do 10 takes, 20 takes…and that’s if it all goes well…AND we get a recognizable omelette. This is going to take a lot more time.

Oh. Mad Genius said, “Okay, Denise, have several beautiful cheddar cheese omelettes made and bring extra eggs.”

“And pans, cheese, bowls, whisks, possible garnishes, a portable cooktop,” I squeezed in.

The producer broke out into hives and started to squirm in his seat. “Well, how much IS this all gonna cost!!? And please don’t buy anything you don’t need! This is just one tiny scene.” It’s always like this. Creativity versus budget. The producer told me again, “Don’t buy anything you don’t need!” I repeated my promise.

Everything outside was a mess when we arrived at the location the day of the shoot. Always is. Parking was scarce, neighbors already complaining about the congestion, private police arrived checking for permits, the talent trailers were scattered way too far away, walkie talkies needed more charging. Inside, barely enough room for three cameras and the ceiling too low for the boom/overhead camera….and every gardener in Hancock Park was using a leaf blower.

The sound man is already googly eyed with terror. Cindie and I were working in a maid’s room off the kitchen. No running water. Turned the twin bed into our prep table. I removed the very stainable bedspread and covered the bed with garbage bags. Those were probably flammable.

On a small table in the kitchen, out of the camera’s eye, I had beautifully styled cheddar cheese omelettes and several with colorful vegetables sprayed with PAM so they can’t dry out. Glossy, like they’ve just been cooked. Garnishes, herbs, toast, stacks of matching plates. Everything’s in order.

I had omelette pans, whole eggs and extra cheese at the stove. Helen was brought into place. We were introduced. Helen nodded.

Mad Genius loved the styled omelette and showed Helen. He then says “Helen, would you like to try making one?” Helen said nothing. It was a quick turnaround; I hated the Mad Genius now.

Helen proceeded to break a few eggs, I passed her a whisk, I turned on the heat, the pans are small non-stick not the tres chic copper, I’m not stupid.

I sensed Helen thought this was a waste of her energy. The omelette tore as she tried to retrieve it…and she forgot the cheese. It was grated in a prep bowl, but with her lines, camera blocking, lights…the cheese got lost.

Mad Genius yelled at me, “Denise, more cheese!” I was at the ready with several bags of grated cheddar. We could do 20 takes if we needed to. I was prepared!

I was shocked to hear Helen’s loud voice, almost booming…she was looking at me. Directly at me. “Oh, no, not that horrible orange American cheese!”

“No, not American this is cheddar,” My voice was almost a whimper. I was perfectly still with my bags of cheese, standing in front of the entire crew. I was hit by a bus I never saw coming.

Helen went on to tell me, the director, the producer, and the entire crew, “I must only use PAR-MA-SAN!” Her accent makes PAR-MA-SAN seem even more elegant.

Helen went into hair and makeup, and I sent the producer’s assistant with his petty cash to the closet grocery store for PAR-MA-SAN cheese. I told the assistant to buy a lot and the most expensive. No cheap PAR-MA-SAN for THIS omelette.

We moved to final looks, and taping, very late in the day. Lighting director was now making the afternoon light look like morning light. Production ain’t easy.

We never did get Helen making the omelette. But the cameraman shot filled pans, empty pans, ingredients, the hero omelettes, Helen passing styled plates. We got enough coverage to make it work in editing.

A week later, when I turned in my invoice to the Mad Genius for his approval, he emailed me back to tell me all the food looked gorgeous. But he was now reworking the script, the pilot, recasting the daughter, the location, dialogue and maybe the breakfast scene. But he’d call me soon.

He thanked me.

I replied. “I see dead omelettes.”

20/07/2025

Louie’s Fresh Tomato Sauce
2023

I look in the pantry, sure enough I have a pound of Rao’s dried spaghetti. The flavor is rich and the spaghetti less brittle than other packaged pastas. I’ll cook the entire pound. Leftovers will work for tomorrow.

Filling the biggest pot I own with water, I heavily salt it.

It should taste like the sea I murmur to myself. I make this sauce because of Louie, my grandfather. He taught me. He’s with me a lot. Been dead almost over 40 years, but not a day goes by I don’t think of him. Not like I need a fortune teller’s soiree or to burn sage, he’s just embedded in me.

I’m grateful for his DNA.

I lost the lid to this pot. I use a small sheet pan to cover, for the boil. Where do all my lids go?

And that stupid saying… there is a lid for every pot… that’s bu****it. Look at the divorce rate. There are lost lids, damaged lids, lids that should never have been tried on that pot. And so many eventual divorced lids… Not a lot of perfect fitting lids.

My half sheet pan works fine.

I have about 4 to 5 pounds of ripe tomatoes. Scrounged from all over town. What’s a girl got to do to find a tasty tomato? Two stores and a farm stand.

Gathered a mix of organic vines, some Romas and a couple of huge heritage tomatoes. The heritage tomatoes cost what I used to pay for a week’s worth of groceries. Deep purple and red, the heritage tomatoes taste good. And they are riper after a day in the sun in my backyard. Or I made myself believe that because I paid so much.

Remove any stems. Cut an X at the bottom of each tomato. Place each one in the “spider” or a small metal strainer, if that’s what you have. You can even use a big serving spoon. One at a time, I plunge the tomatoes into boiling water for about 30 seconds each.

I remember seeing Louie at his stove doing this. I did not learn the word ‘blanch’ until cooking school.

After the boiling water, plunge the tomatoes in ice water. “Stop the cooking, Dolly.” He always called me Dolly.

The tomatoes then drain on a kitchen towel. At the X, peel back the skin. All the skin.

I am left with my naked tomatoes.

The dish towels I use are from Louie’s kitchen. Old flour sack clothes, they are well worn. Soft, no longer pure white, some stained from use. I pretend I see Louie, a towel always thrown over his shoulder to wipe his hands or the counter. He cooks in a dress shirt, suspenders and his good shoes. Never leaves his home without a hat. And his huge diamond stick pin if he puts on a tie.

He came here from Italy in 1925 from the Piedmont region. A tiny town above Genoa. “Takes three days on a mule,” he’d laugh. My eyes were wide! Where’d he get the mule? When I asked my dad, “Where would Louie have gotten a mule!?” My father would answer between draws on his cigar… “Don’t ask him, he probably stole it! And would be proud to tell you.”

I would hear stories like this my entire life. The stories of Louie and his capers. As I grew older, I understood the relationship between the strong, fighting immigrant with his so very honest son. My father, often embarrassed, but also impressed with Louie’s fearless antics.

Louie’s parents were poor with 15 kids. Well of course, they were poor. They had 15 kids. Louie came to San Francisco and later one brother, Tony, came too. All the other family stayed in Mon Forte. There are pictures of them sitting in rickety chairs under the big, leafy trees. All now lost in time. They were not adventurers.

In Louie’s dining room was a portrait of his mother. He had it painted from a photograph in the 30’s, when he made some money. Above the frame, dried palm leaves from many past years of church celebrations. I don’t think I ever knew her name.

Use the same pot of boiling, salted water to boil the pasta. As soon as the spaghetti changes color, it’s ready. Guessing 6-8 minutes. I watch the pasta. Slowly stirring. The pasta will cook a little longer when I add it to the tomatoes. Over-hang cooking, I called it in my commercial kitchens. But I know it’s ready when the pasta goes from beige to light yellow.

The strand I taste is slightly chewy. Al dente is the fancy way to say chewy. And you really don’t want mushy.

Drain the pasta and keep it warm. I dress mine with a few drops of oil and grated Parmesan.

Cut the tomatoes in half. Core and clean out the seeds out with a teaspoon. I chop the tomato meat by hand. I like the gentle chopping. I end up with a chunky purée.

Louie came to San Francisco with 19 dollars, from Northern Italy on a train to Le Havre, France, and then on a steamer to New York. He drove across the country with a wealthy Italian family he’d met on the ship. He told them he could drive. “It was a beautiful big car! I polished it every day. Driving? What’s to know? I put my foot on the gas pedal and it moved! They were always sleeping!”

Fearless. And determined. Little details like a driver’s license never got in his way.

He would assure me “Dolly, that 19 dollars was a lot of money! I saved for two years, after I bought my ticket.”

He loved San Francisco. The fog, like Northern Italy. North Beach where his language was spoken and the Italian fishermen’s boats at the wharf.

Later, the wine makers in Sonoma and the Napa Valley: Petri, Gallo and Sebastiani, he made friends with them all.

Louie became a cable car conductor, a butcher, a shop owner and a landlord to Sally Stanfords’ first brothel.

When the stock market crashed, he wrangled (well, his name was on the deed) a duplex in Pacific Heights. Again, better not to ask. Sally lived on the right side. Two-story duplexes with winding staircases, huge bedrooms and an enviable view of the Golden Gate Bridge. My oldest sister says she remembers the lights on the bridge looking out the windows. I wasn’t born yet.

Louie eventually traded the duplex for the 12-unit apartment house that my family has owned for 90 years. He lived in the manager’s apartment and retired at 50. “I put my feet up and collect the rents.”

Any day in my life, no matter how much trouble I got in, my father would say with a heavy sigh, “Jesus, she’s just like my father, Louie.” Luckily, he couldn’t stay angry at either of us for very long. I took that comparison as a compliment.

In my deep sauté pan I pour olive oil; I don’t know, 3 or 4 ounces… I’m not cheap. 2 cloves of finely chopped garlic. Yes, chop some parsley.

I’d use more garlic but my husband, Kenny, can’t take much. Neither could my first husband. What’s with that? Who marries a woman with a last name like mine and doesn’t like garlic? The universe plays tricks on us!

Slowly warm the oil and the garlic, then add the tomatoes. When it starts to smell good, season with salt and pepper. I pick rosemary or basil. A big handful from my garden. Strip the stalk or tear the leaves and add to the tomatoes. A few minutes of simmering to meld flavors. That’s it.

I swing the pasta right into the sauté pan. Taste it. Fresh shaved Parmesan on each serving, I use my favorite bowls. Old fashioned soup bowls, easy to eat from and wipe up every drop. Of course, you need fresh bread. Get a loaf of local sourdough.

I pour a glass of a Sonoma or Napa red, and think to myself, “It doesn’t get any better than this.”

Epilogue: In the basement of our apartment building after his death, I found Louie’s knives. In an old wooden crate, from a local business long gone, there they were. Mostly European knives from the last century with wood handles and steel rivets. The knives hang framed in my kitchen. They are well worn and the blades thin with decades of sharpening.

I admire them every day. Like I said, Louie’s in my DNA.