Kenny Wayne

I wrote the following column in the year 2000. My friend, Kate, was only 30 or so. In fact, she put me through hell. It was cold outside at the end of the concert, but the roadies had suggested that we could get autographs from the band members, and Kate was young and idealistic. So Kate and I waited for two hours in hopes of signatures while the best and the cutest strode through the doors of the tour bus. I didn't buy Kenny Wayne's next album, though I did download the two songs with Noah Hunt. OK, so I'm an old romantic.

From the year 2000:

Fine. So the spouse walked out on me last Monday. I'd worked out my revenge.

The old turncoat wasn't yet out the door when my young date arrived to whisk me off for a hot night in center city: dinner and a concert, and maybe even some dancing.

The spouse put on a happy face about his trip to Columbia, Mo., for five (count 'em) days of dry lectures on orality and literacy in olden times. But envy was surely gnawing away at his innards. "Kate" (as I'll call her) and I were on our way to a true feast of the inner child: grooving (or whatever word youngsters use nowadays) to the Websters and the Kenny Wayne Shepherd Band. After 15 staid years in Springfield, off and on, I plunged into the music scene with both feet forward.

"Kate" knew my middle-aged fears; she knew I had ear plugs at the ready. But she had no mercy. After we indulged in some serious carbo-loading on South Street, my date lined us up outside the Juke Joint, and, once inside, staked out a position right in front of the stage, and the speakers.

I expected to retreat, and quickly. But I was paying the spouse back, and it isn't often that 46-year-old women are given the license to ogle good-looking young men. So I ogled. And I hung fast in front of the stage, for more than 3 1/2 hours.

I still look back in anguish. While "Kate" was dancing and waving and whistling with the best of them, I just stood there for most of the night, stiff and self-conscious. I was fiddling so desperately with my ear plugs that even the grim bouncer posted in front of us chuckled. And a nymphet in heavy makeup and little else, who squeezed up beside me to flaunt her wares to the musicians and roadies, actually apologized to me for hurting my ears with her squealing. Man, I felt old.

But I got into the swing of things. By the end of the night, even I was dancing. I had to: After hours in one position, my legs were falling asleep. Perhaps the nymphet knew that -- as she dashed off to the band's bus once the music stopped, she kicked over a bottle of beer onto my feet as a wake-up call.

Revenge? I'll bet that the spouse had it all planned.

************

I survived a night on the town with impressive stamina for a woman of my age.

Perhaps I was driven to greatness solely by the sight of young rock hunks. But I suspect that a fine plate of pasta from a South Street bistro was the real source of my amazing energy.

The dish I offer you here isn't half as fancy as the one that got me through the evening. But it's easy -- not a recipe that will drain any cook, young or old. I found it in "The Complete Vegetarian Pasta Cookbook" (Chartwell Books, 1995), edited by Emma Callery.

Pinwheel Pasta Bake

1 1/2 pounds of dried rotelle (multicolored wagon-wheel pasta), cooked and drained
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 cloves of garlic, crushed and minced
1/2 pound of mushrooms, quartered
1 cup of chopped zucchini
3 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley
1/2 cup vegetable broth
11/2 cups of grated sharp Cheddar cheese

Heat olive oil in a large pan, then saute garlic for 2 minutes. Add mushrooms and zucchine and cook, covered, for 5 minutes, or until softened. Stir in parsely and vegetable broth, and cook, covered, for 10 minutes more. Add the rotelle, then stir in the Cheddar. Put mixture into a deep casserole dish, and bake, in an oven preheated to 400 degrees, for about 20 minutes.