Birthday Girl

My mother was born on an August day of an undisclosed year in the 20th century, on Kauai–where she insists a plaque marks the occasion of her entry into this world.  Time spirited her far from Hanalei’s sandy shores–Europe, Africa, Asia–and has brought her nearly all the way back, to Honolulu, where we celebrated that great arc and historic birth, from the next isle over.

A familiar and favorite formula for family dinners: grilled fish; fresh vegetables; sushi instead of rice; cool breeze and sunshine. Two newcomers to this traditional pattern were grilled white peaches, and a “Davy Crockett” wine. I hate to call bottles “highly-rated” (let alone “somewhat highly-rated,” which is the case) but I will in this instance, just to lend some credence to a beverage styled after a man who wore a raccoon. (Davy, in his defense, is apparently mishpokhe.) His wine was zinfandelish (in spite of having no such grape–it’s a Syrah/Grenache/etc. blend) and really excellent for $9.99, but with a bouquet not far removed from a Western saloon’s spittoon.

And of course the sushi disappeared, and the salmon.  This intrepid reporter asked Fenny for her signature statement on the fish, which she confirmed: food, of gods.

To finish, Reine de Saba cake, much in the style of Orient Express, and sweet potato ice cream–see next post. Pretty packages wrapped in old paper, nice notes from family near and far, and a glow from the streets and lights of the jeweled city.

Happy birthday, Mom!

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