An Evening Spent at Joni's

In the course of reporting and writing about Joni Mitchell, TIME Correspondent David DeVoss received a dinner invitation from her. His report:

"Dinner's not done yet," smiles Joni, as the sweet-and-sour aromas of cooking drift through the open door, "but come back to the kitchen anyway. It's the best room in the house." Walking past packing boxes, a Tahitian rhythm drum and half a dozen guitars splayed next to a piano, Joni pirouettes proudly. "Isn't this a great old place? It was built in 1929. Look, it even has a hidden bathroom" (behind a wooden panel in the corridor wall).

The kitchen is dominated by a huge freestanding chopping block and a massive old icebox. "I thought I'd make that into a storage cabinet. Do you like Yorkshire pudding?" she asks expectantly as she mixes the batter. "The old lady used to make this on holidays. I love to cook, but with all this touring I've really lost my chops," she confesses, meaning manual dexterity in the musical vernacular.

Seated in a wooden breakfast alcove, Joni, her roommate John Guerin and I eat three meticulously cooked courses while the spiced apple dumplings cool on the sideboard. "You should try this," she says of a bottle of red wine. "We always drink Chateau Margaux. It costs $12 but it tastes like a $60 bottle."

Guerin thumbs a tattered copy of Arizona Highways. They are going to a little town to buy turquoise next week, he explains, but only from a certain Indian craftsman. "We should probably call to see if he'll be there."

"John, no!" Joni yells from across the room. "We're taking the train. Let's just go and wander around. It's more romantic that way."

With Coors in hand, Guerin returns to Monday night football while Joni reinspects her kitchen for traces of dust. "Maybe I'm growing old but I enjoy taking care of this place," she says. "Hey, do you want to see my studio? It even has a skylight."

At the top of a curving flight of stairs, there is a room sparsely furnished with several stools, an easel and a large table covered with charcoal sketches and grease pens. There is no mirror because Joni will not have one in a room in which she writes and paints--too distracting.

"Listen to this song," she says, producing a cassette recorder. "It's a theme song for a movie, but my songs never get chosen by producers."

Halfway through the tape a phone rings. It is a friend with an invitation to a party. "Yes, we'd love to," says Joni.

"But why don't you ask John," she says after a pause. "If I suggest it, he'll think I want to see my old boy friends."

Replacing the receiver, Joni turns and scowls. "Damn," she sighs. "We just put the phone in and it's time to change the number."

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