Yesterday as I was preparing the glace for the beef short-ribs, I looked over my shoulder from the stove-top and there was Dobbs, outside our front window. Dobbs is a a member of a local community replete with a sweat lodge. They have welcomed us with open and gracious arms. Sherry, one of their community members, works with us. They come for brunch and lunch faithfully and shop the groceries, local produce and local meat. Dobbs, a long-haired, wiry artist and craftsman, lived his life all over the world before settling here in Saxy. With his typical care he was drawing a plum line on our window next to our door.
Oops! back to the sauce. What is he doing?
My attention wandered to the previous evening. In the bustle of the busiest night of our sweet little store’s life, Dobbs and Shannon (the queen of Saxapahaw) began an applause. “The best meal I have had in North Carolina,” the artist warmly and broadly intoned. Slightly teary, I hit the mussels with a splash of Torrontes. Fire.
My sauce is coming together nicely as Dobbs puts the fifth gold star carefully in place. I go out to look. He is gone.