Stirring It Up with Molly Ivins Read Free Page B

recipes.
    There was an even better encounter before we were seated. Molly had been invited to the VIP cocktail party that preceded the seated dinner. Shortly after arriving at Austin’s downtown Marriott Hotel, I released Molly from the responsibility of introducing me around. I knew our table number and we agreed to meet there. So there I was, having staked out a strategic spot to do what I love to do anywhere: watch people. After a while, I noticed a familiar face looking as though he might be people-watching too. So I summoned up the courage to engage him under the guise of going to the bar. He smiled. I smiled. I secured liquid fortification and headed toward the smiling man. I introduced myself and said he looked really familiar.
    He nodded and smiled some more. I asked him if he lived in Austin. No, he said. He asked me if I lived in Austin, I told him no, I live in Denver, but I’m visiting a friend. He smiled. I smiled. I reiterated my feeling that I’d seen him before. Maybe, he said. So being as I’m from St. Louis I thought maybe I knew him from there. And as I asked him if he was from the Gateway to the West, Molly saw me and walked in our direction. He perked up and greeted her by name.
    â€œAh, Sweetsie,” she said, invoking the nickname she conferred on me from time to time, “I see you’ve met my friend Salman Rushdie.” At that point I prayed for a hole to swallow me and to do so quickly. Molly dined out on that story for weeks. I mean, shoot, it’s not like I didn’t say I knew his face from
somewhere
. . . . It certainly broke me of ever again suggesting that I might recognize people because I thought they were from St. Louis.
    I liked that I could make Molly laugh. Through alternating waves of internal smiles gleaned from silly and somber moments and bone-deep sadness, I kept returning to food memories and decided they are a good way to remember people you care about.
    The notion of creating a chronicle of cooking with Molly probably began percolating when Bonnie Tamres-Moore and her husband, Gary Moore, approached me during the 2007 Texas Book Festival. I was part of a panel discussion about Molly, which had been held in the same church where her memorial service had drawn standing-room-only mourners only ten months earlier.
    Fellow panelists held forth with all manner of erudite observations. I was sandwiched between Lou Dubose and author and humorist Roy Blount Jr., and award-winning documentary filmmaker Paul Stekler was the fourth panelist.
    They addressed the hows and wherefores of research; engaging an audience through the deft use of humor; and the importance of historical accuracy. All I could talk about was cooking with Molly. I realized after the session that hardly anyone knew she was an outstanding cook and as clever in the kitchen as she was on the page. Only a small band knew. Food stories slid into conversation sideways if at all.
    I had found a parking space just in front of the church, and the Moores and I stood talking for a while. They insisted that people would be interested in knowing more about Molly’s kitchen skills. I thanked them for their kind comments. They gave me a cooking game they had just bought called Food Fight. I thanked them again and went back to Denver. A year later I realized they were onto something I hadn’t considered.
    Anthony Zurcher, who for nine years was Molly’s editor at Creators Syndicate (the outfit that made it possible for readers across the country to read her), was frequently in touch with Molly and shared intermittent lunches. Her destination of choice was almost always the Eastside Cafe.
    â€œWhenever we went there someone always knew her,” he said. “Molly was great at holding court, being warm and generous with her time. After I moved to California I returned to Austin periodically and usually took her to lunch. Once she asked me if lunch was coming out of my pocket or