Gary V. Powell, Author

Somehow I don't feel like a member of the jet set, but I do feel like both Mary and I have been traveling a lot this year--some of it on pleasure, some of it on business.

I traveled earlier this week to Phoenix for two days to teach a group of bankers about annuities. Yesterday I traveled to Omaha to visit my daughters, granddaughter, and new grandson, Reed Heaton.

The pic is of Abby, doing Chicken Little. Reilly, my six-year old son, also had this costume, but he was better known as the Crazy Chicken. He liked to dress up in the costume, ride his tricycle, make loud chicken noises, and chase the poor dog. Abby is more subdued.

Phoenix

With the three hour time change, that first day seemed interminable. I checked into my hotel, took a nap, drank a glass of wine in the lounge, and settled on a non-descript club sandwich for dinner.

Upstairs in my room I fell asleep watching TV, shortly after sunset in Phoenix.

Of course, I awoke at 3:00 AM Pacific Time. I read for three hours, waiting for the sun to rise. Then I went for a walk. Then I poured down a quart of coffee.

Somehow, I pushed through that day’s six-hour training session, inspired by the energy and enthusiasm of my students. But no sooner was I back in my hotel room, than I fell dead asleep only to wake around dinner time. I was slowly adjusting to west coast time, but felt disoriented and exposed on that treeless desert where Phoenix resides.

I needed the kind of comfort that only a good meal and a bottle of good wine can provide a man of a certain age and disposition.

I found it at a little French restaurant named Vincent’s on Camelback Road.

The appetizer that grabbed my eye expressed comfort on a plate—sweet corn ravioli.

The execution of this simple dish was perfect. The ravioli was hand-made, as evidenced by the irregular sizes of the little packages on the plate. The filling was sweet corn puree combined with mascarpone, ricotta, and parmagiano regiano cheeses. Atop the raviolis was a perfect 1/8 inch dice of seedless, skinless tomato, and a chiffonade of basil.

The white truffle oil that graced the plate took the dish to another level. The glass of Sonoma Coutrer 2003 Chardonnay I washed it down with only helped matters.

The rest of the meal wasn’t bad either, but the incredible late summer flavors of the ravioli on a night away from home and family, in an unfamiliar landscape was just the ticket.

Omaha

I saw Ashley for the first time in over 9 months yesterday. I first glimpsed her seated on the curb outside of the beauty school she's been attending to learn how to be a hair stylist. Her hair was in a style I'd never seen before. She has two new tattoos, rather significant ones on her shoulders, of birds that somehow suggest good luck.

She's clean of drugs, has stopped smoking cigarettes, and is doing well with both her rehab and her school. She finally seems to have her medication right and is more stable than she's been in a long time.

I toured her school with her, then she and I had dinner with CJ and Jessica, played and read to my granddaughter Abby, and took a turn at holding Reed, who's only a few weeks old.

Jessica and CJ are doing well. They are good parent and they work hard to support their little family. I'm proud of them.

As for Omaha, despite all the new building and some spectacularly large new homes out here on the prairie, there is something sad and lonesome about the place. These rolling prairies would prefer to be farmed or hunted. The strip malls are like carbuncles on the landscape. And beneath the seemingly conservative upper middle class comfort, rage seethes. There's a murder a day. There's heavy drug use including Meth, there's tensions between whites, blacks, and newly arrived Hispanics.

The Chili Cook Off scheduled for this weekend can't hide it.