Big birthdays, big steaks

...and a stuffed mushroom recipe

A few weeks before my 50th birthday, I made a visit to Sperry’s, the beloved Nashville steakhouse that some people describe as “old school.” Sperry’s plates—heavy as platters for holding slabs of prime rib and twice-baked potatoes—have a decorative print along the edge: Established 1974.

Me too, Sperry’s. Me too. 

You know that feeling when you run into a friend you haven’t seen in a long time—in a hometown grocery store, maybe, or a class reunion—and you’re surprised by the wrinkles around their eyes or a tinge of gray? You think to yourself, “Is that me too?” But you aren’t wondering in a mean way, because yes, you’re seeing wrinkles but you’re also seeing experience and the evidence of joy and life? Well, I felt a version of that at Sperry’s—a well-worn rug in a dim foyer, a comfortable menu, some chipped paint in a bathroom and a group of martini-drinking regulars laughing around an old bar stained in the deep shade of molasses. It’s a place with lines around the eyes, but it’s still so full of life. 

Is this what I look like too? 

The similarities between Sperry’s and me end at our age. It sits in an old-money part of town, and I’ve never been a regular. But this year, I’m seeing experiences through the prism of this milestone birthday. I’m curious about all the ways people—and places—age with grace or audacity and hope.

Toward the end of last year, I commiserated with my friend Shannon about turning 50. We were eating breakfast empanadas at a conference when she tenderly placed a hand at her chest. “My heart is 50 years old,” she said. “My heart is 50 years old.” The muscle has been keeping rhythm with 108,000 beats a day for half a century. An awesome prospect on its own. But maybe Shannon meant 50 years of heart aches and heart swells, heartfelt sorrow and heart-strengthening courage. A soaring heart of joy and a sinking heart of sadness. Either way, she helped me shift into a place of attention and gratitude for my body and its heart. 

My grandmother-in-law Mema has a heart that’s 99 years old. I’ve been spending more time with her, because my husband Tony and I have moved into a 55-plus community in Florida where Mema has lived since the late 1970s. Since Tony and I are a few years short of 55, we sometimes worry that we’re rushing it. But then I’ll be working on my laptop in the clubhouse, delighted to hear the seniors jazzercising to Toby Keith’s “Who’s Your Daddy?” I think about those hearts—beating, working, finding their joy in Toby’s line: “I got the money if you got the honey.”

Mema comes from tiny Spencer, Tennessee, and made a living selling Merle Norman cosmetics in Atlanta. Her heart has felt the loss of five husbands and the joy of three grandchildren, many Florida sunsets and ruling at games of bridge. In the mornings, she emerges from her bedroom wearing her pink robe with the brand JUICY printed in black goth letters. “What a pretty sky!” she’ll say. She says this a lot even though her vision is fading. One afternoon, as I worked on my laptop in her condo, we were under a tornado warning. No one but me and our whimpering, pacing dog seemed fazed. A game show boomed on TV as Tony’s mother (her heart is 81 years old, btw) had a conversation on speaker phone. “What time a day is it?” Mema asked. And then as she looked out at the wild wind bending a palm she said, “Am I the only one looking at this pretty sky?”

Mema would love Sperry’s. She would have been about my age at the time of its opening. Since then Nashville’s whiplash growth and change has caused some hand-wringing. But change at Sperry’s? Not so much. On my recent visit, I watched flames nearly lick the low ceiling as a server in a black tie fired bananas foster from a rolling cart. Next to us, a man gave the sign of the cross when his steak arrived and passed on the bread, so that he could “drink his calories.” He and a friend were one-upping each other over who had been in Nashville longer by dropping names of places that no longer exist. 

Sperry’s will do that to you. The bacon-wrapped filet and the salad bar with green goddess dressing and tubs of baby corns transport like portals to the past. Tony likes reminiscing about his short time at Sperry’s in the late 90s as “Nashville’s worst bartender” (his words). He had only worked one serving job before lucking into a spot behind Sperry’s bar. He didn’t know a Kendall Jackson chard from a Chateau Ste. Michelle riesling. And cocktails? Forget about it. He remembers making a martini for a regular who took one sip and said, “Tony, I haven’t tasted vermouth in years.” 

He didn’t last long there, but he remembers celebrity visits and regulars too, which these days includes a younger generation and chefs on their nights off. I think people love Sperry’s, because it doesn’t get swept up in the razzle-dazzle of new Nashville. It doesn’t sway to trends. It knows what it does well and sticks with it, and it doesn’t worry too much about its worn edges. Its people—the ones who know and love it—will give it grace and appreciate its eccentricities and character. Good reminders for a person turning 50 too. 

For sure, as I move into this next phase, I’m interested in less flash. I’d like less on my menu. Less stuff but more adventure. Less trying to be certain and more curiosity, wonder and experiments. Less striving, more contentment and simplicity. And while I’d also like less anxiety, that one will probably be a long work in progress. 

Indeed, it can feel pretty anxiety-inducing out there—wars, natural disasters exacerbated by climate change, a black hole that will someday swallow us up. And yet, it’s part of why I wanted to start this little newsletter. It makes me more determined to relish in and share everyday awe and graces and the ways we’re in this together. Not because awful things aren’t happening all around us. But because graces and joyful moments are happening in spite of it. 

I remember hearing that a good antidote for anxiety is asking how to be of use. Channeling fear into service or being of help. Good hospitality at a steady, longtime restaurant can help. The people at Sperry’s have been asking how they can make our days better for half a century. I’m hoping a few stories about the graces of life and a recommendation for something good to eat can maybe help in some small way too. I’m hoping it reminds me and maybe others to pay attention, as Mary Oliver would say, to simply “be astonished and tell about” in all our flawed, beautiful and messy ways. 

So for this birthday post, I’ll try to channel a bit of Sperry’s and a lot of Mema. I’ll take my 50 year old heart to the window where she sits on a sunny morning or a gray one (doesn’t matter) and ask the question she so often poses: Have you looked at this pretty sky? 

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Recipe: The mushroom appetizer at Sperry’s has a slightly spicy stuffing of sausage sweetened with mango under a blanket of bread crumbs. It’s almost casserole-style in presentation.

Here’s my homage. 

Sausage and Mango Mushrooms 

Makes 12 servings 

24 whole white mushrooms, stems removed (choose larger ones if you can, about 2 inches in diameter)

1 pound hot Italian sausage, casings removed 

2 cloves garlic, minced

3/4 cup shredded parmesan cheese, divided

4 ounces cream cheese at room temperature

1 egg yolk

1 mango, diced into small pieces about the size of a pea

1/2 cup plain panko breadcrumbs

2 tablespoons Italian parsley, chopped 

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Spray a baking dish or cookie sheet with olive oil. Place mushrooms into the dish, smooth-side down in a single layer.

Heat a medium-sized skillet over medium-high heat. Add the sausage to the pan and cook until brown, about 8 minutes, while using a fork or back of a spoon to break the sausage up into small pieces. Add the garlic and cook 2 to 3 minutes more. 

Using a slotted spoon, remove the sausage and garlic from the pan and place into a large bowl. Add half of the parmesan and the cream cheese to the bowl and stir until cheeses are blended with the sausage. Stir in the egg yolk and then the mango. 

Spoon the sausage mixture into the mushroom caps. It should be heaping, a good teaspoon for each mushroom or maybe more depending on the size of the mushrooms. 

In a small bowl, combine the breadcrumbs, remaining parmesan and parsley. Sprinkle a generous amount of the breadcrumb mixture onto the mushrooms. Bake mushrooms for about 20 minutes or until they're tender and the topping has browned. Serve warm.

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Recommendation: You know another place turning 50 this year? The Station Inn, the best bluegrass bar in the world. Tony and I were married there. I hope it continues to hang on.  

I’m also thinking about dipping back into a few books that were published 50 years ago: Zen & the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert M. Pirsig, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard and Oreo by Fran Ross.

Do you know some places or things turning 50 this year? I’d love to hear. Thank you for reading!