I finally understood what I’d been doing for thirty years
I have moved a lot of people closer to their grandchildren.
I didn’t count, for the first twenty years. Somewhere in the second decade I started noticing it in the paperwork — a couple in their sixties selling the four-bedroom, buying something smaller eleven minutes from their daughter. I’d write it up. Downsizing, empty nesters, makes sense on paper.
That’s honestly what I thought it was. A financial decision with a family flavor to it.
Then Vivian was born.
[Phil — this is where the specific moment goes. One small thing, not a summary of how you felt. The Saturday you drove over for no reason. The thing she does that you drive across town for.]
So I’ve spent thirty years handling the transaction for something I did not actually understand. Hundreds of times. Some of those I financed before I ever sold a house, so it goes back further than my license does.
I ask a different question now. I used to ask how far away the kids were. Now I ask how often you’d want to drop by without calling first. Those are two completely different houses, and only one of those questions gets you the right one.
The reason there are still Texas Longhorns is a man from League City
Before it was League City it was Butler’s Ranch. George Washington Butler came over from Louisiana in 1854 and ran about two thousand acres of it, and herds off that land went up the Chisholm Trail. The town got its current name in the 1890s when the railroad arrived.
Here’s the part I didn’t know. By the 1930s the pure Texas Longhorn was nearly gone — crossbred almost out of existence. Milby Butler was one of a small handful of ranchers who kept a pure herd going, breeding for the corkscrew horns and the red-and-white coloring. The Butler line is one of the foundational bloodlines the entire modern breed traces back to.
The state animal. The mascot on half the trucks in Texas. It came within a generation of disappearing, and part of why it didn’t is ten acres off the water in the League City historic district, where there’s a museum about it that I have driven past roughly nine hundred times.
Mary Jones made me go to Pearland, and she was right
I know most of you aren’t in Pearland. Drive anyway. This is Houston — we all go forty minutes for dinner and pretend that’s normal.
[Placeholder Restaurant] is small, loud in the good way, and the person who seats you also owns it. Get there before 6:30 or plan on standing outside. There’s no sign on the building, which I found out the hard way.
Mary was right about the bread pudding. I want that on the record.
Gulf shrimp, and not turning the oven on in August
No story about my trip to Italy. I’ve never been to Italy. It was 103 on Saturday and I wasn’t turning the oven on, so this happens on the grill and takes about eleven minutes.
- 2 lbs Gulf shrimp, shell on — 16/20s if you can get them
- A whole head of garlic, more than you think
- One lemon, one stick of butter, good olive oil
- Whatever cayenne situation you’re comfortable with
- Bread you’re not proud of, for the bottom of the pan
- Shell on. I’m not arguing about this. The shell is where it comes from.
- Butter, olive oil, garlic and cayenne into a cast iron on the grill. Let the garlic go soft, not brown — brown garlic is bitter and you can’t fix it.
- Shrimp in, one layer, lid down. Four minutes. Flip once.
- Lemon over the top off the heat, not on it.
- Bread in the pan. That’s the actual point of the whole thing.
P.S. — Mary’s restaurant is up there because she told me about it. Half of what ends up in this note comes from one of you, so if something occurs to you between now and September, send me a fact about where you live, a place worth the drive, or a recipe — especially one that was your mother’s and you’ve never gotten right.
If I run it, your name goes on it. Say the word and it won’t. Either way, just hit reply — it comes straight to me.