The Monogram

Carmel-by-the-Sea

Here is the great idea that I presented to Billy recently. We were coming up on a non-significant anniversary (not one of those number of years divided by five). So I thought it would be cool to buy monogrammed aprons to celebrate. Now, have I mentioned somewhere along the line that Billy and I cook together? I mean, we cook together a lot. He is Casa Healy's sous chef extraordinaire. Believe me, no one can prep food, including slicing, chopping, and shredding like this man. He is also an excellent bartender, and an ace barbecue chef to boot. What is it that Rita Rudner says about barbecuing? That men will cook if danger is involved. That's Billy -- give him sharp tools, booze, and fire, and he is all in.

Unfortunately, not so in on the apron idea. He even used the "i" word -- something to the effect of "Are you insane? Why would I want an apron?" So I pretty much dropped the idea for the time being. Billy can get a little cranky at times, and the "i" word is one of his favorites when, in his view, people are not seeing eye to "i" with him. I let this roll off my back because it's also meant to be funny, in a weird, hyperbolic way.

Besides, I knew I wasn't insane. Not by a long shot. You see, there is a store here in Carmel that sells yummy, luxurious french linens which can be personalized with embroidery in a myriad of ways. You can find out about this marvelous store here. I always go there when I am in Carmel, and have often bought kitchen towels as gifts for friends. But I've never acquired any of the linens for myself. OK, so maybe my mistake was trying to loop Billy into this transaction.

Looping Lydia into this transaction is another story altogether, however! For a little backstory, I must ask you to remember or review my post entitled The Sisterhood of the Traveling Scarves (available right here, for free!). Because once again, Lydia and Debra came to Carmel. And what a time we had. We spent a girlfriend day lounging around in robes at The Spa at Pebble Beach. We shopped a lot (or Lydia did, anyway, as she's our resident pro). They even shopped while I went to Mass on Sunday. We ate, I drank (they're such lightweights), and they took me out twice including one night to La Bicyclette where we had some pretty fine pizza, and some very fine pinot. And in the midst of all this frister fun, I mentioned the aprons. Then, I took them to the store to check out said aprons.

Lydia? Where's Lydia? She circled the store maybe once, eventually zeroing in on the aprons. Soon she had selected one she liked and began looking at the various images that could be embroidered on it. Now, before we go on to that, I must provide the back story that Lydia came late to the cooking party. Last summer, she made a commitment to begin cooking in earnest at her home. Her son had returned from college to attend law school, so she would be cooking daily for at least three. And she has taken this endeavor very seriously, even with some chatter lately about taking cooking classes. So, not to belabor the point, an apron was right up her alley (also right up Billy's, but as I've relented why am I going on about this, I ask you?).

Lydia was momentarily stymied by the choices of iconic images that she could have embroidered on her chosen apron. She could have had lobsters, or olives, or grapes, or herbs, or any of a variety of vegetables and fruits. She could have chosen a whisk, or a few sprigs of lavender. She had scores of options, and she seemed stumped. So I suggested a monogram, showing her one that I thought was pretty, with the initials written in script.

"Oh!" she said, as I handed her the apron with the monogram. I could tell she was considering it.

"Let's see, you would have the large "O" in the middle," I pointed out (obviously, Lydia's last name begins with an O. Duh.).

"What's your middle initial?" I continued.

"L."

"L?"

"Yeah, it's L."

Pregnant pause.

"Are you telling me that your monogram is L-O-L?"

"Yeah."

"No-o-o-o . . ."

"Yeah, it is," she said, smiling, as this had inexplicably never occured to her.

"Are you kidding me?"

A novice cook, with a family frankly surprised that she has taken this on and is making many things "from scratch." And . . . wait for it . . . an apron that states L-O-L. You just can't make up stuff like this.

Lydia purchased her apron, choosing a whimsical font for her initials, and it turned out perfectly. And, not to steal the thunder here, but I got one too. One that has olives embroidered on it (appetizer de rigeur at our house and here), and says Casa Healy. I'm hoping that Billy will be envious when he sees it, and perhaps request his own. But not as envious as I am about Lydia's acrynomic monogram.

Alas, the visit of Las Chicas passed too quickly, but not before we managed to laugh ourselves all the way to tears several times. In a store with a collection of wry slogans on magnets, Debra and I needed tissues after a laughing fit. And I know it won't sound funny here (rather mean-spirited, in fact, but what the heck). It was a characture of a middle-aged man and his portly wife. The caption read: Not only are you not the woman I married, but it looks as if you ATE her. OK, we were a bit punchy from an all-day shopping excursion with Lydia, which was, as usual, exhausting, comprehensive, and tons of fun. And, I must say that until you've spent a day like that, with these bright and funny women, you really can't appreciate the meaning of LOL. You must trust me about this. Thank you for reading my blog (and thanks for coming to Carmel, Las Chicas!).