Judy Alter's Blog, page 11

Some assembly required--yikes!

 

    

A typical computer tumbler
All of us who have raisedchildren have spent more than one Christmas Eve—and into the wee hours of ChristmasDay—assembling various gifts from Santa. My children’s father was not particularlyadept with tools or construction or such, so the sight of him trying toassemble a child’s bike or trike was often enough to send me to the kitchen foranother glass of wine. And then there was the year he built a life-size “house”for them our of oversize construction toys. Not Lincoln Logs, but I can’t thinkof the name. You’d know if you saw them—plastic tubes plugged into roundconnectors. My four children were properly awestruck by Santa’s construction abilities,and my lips were sealed.

We even see cartoons about parents,usually the dad, trying to assemble toys, but nobody talks about assemblingChristmas gifts after the fact. This year I have two most welcome gifts thatrequire some installation or, at least, figuring out what to do with them. Oneis a cuckoo clock. My mother had a traditional German cuckoo clock, and thechildren were always fascinated by it, though they were strictly warned not topull on the chains. With the memory of his grandmother’s clock in mind, Jamiebought me a cuckoo clock, only this one can be programmed for many differentbird sounds. First, there’s the problem of where to put it—the cottage iscrowded, but it must go in the living area. In the kitchen it would get greasyeventually, and in my bedroom, no one would see it. So we’ve pretty much founda spot where it will replace a vase of artificial flowers.

A digression: Artificialflowers in my living room? The two Volkswagen Bugs I have owned in recent years(the current one is twenty years old this year) had bud vases in the dashboard—littletubes like you’d see in a science lab that you coud fill with water and drivearound with fresh flowers. Maybe in Germany, but in Texas, they’d wilt in aday. So I had a succession of artificial flowers, including some Texasbluebonnets. Friends had given me a handmade wall-hung small ceramic containerand eventually I filled it with flowers from the car. No, I don’t usually havefake bouquets—but this one has sentimental value. It will, however, be moved tomake way for the clock. When Christian has time to figure out setting it, andJordan has time to hang it. I don’t think it has any hangy-down chains like theold clocks which is a blessing with Sophie and also with my space problem.

The other gift—from Colin andLisa—is a compost system, something I’ve wanted for a long time. At Thanksgivingwhen I was in Tomball at their house, I saw this stainless container on thecounter and finally asked—it holds scraps to be added to the composter. Thekids gave us two such cannisters—one for my kitchen and one for the main house.And I have a spot picked by the driveway, next to where we’ll put my herbgarden when spring doth come again. My understanding is that it needs sun, so Ithink this will be perfect. Mary D. did tell me tonight that once the contraptionbegins to make compost, it makes its own heat.

Today Jacob huffed and puffedthe huge box out to the cottage, where it has, to Sophie’s dismay, taken up herfavorite spot to lie by my desk. I hope tomorrow to open it and fish out thedirections. Obviously, I will need a lot of muscle help to put this together,but I am determined. The sooner the better.

Jordan is afraid the tumbler will be ugly in the driveway, but that seems irrelevant to me. Christian is worried aboutodor and a lot of work, but I keep assuring him neither will be a problem.Depending on how much we accumulate in the kitchen cannisters, they have to bedumped every two or three days—a three-minute chore. And they have a charcoalfilter for odor control, much like my indoor garbage can. Since neither themain house nor the cottage have a disposal (long story), we keep garbage incans. The cannister can’t be any more of a problem than the garbage can. I’m excitedabout using the composter, partly so plants will flourish but also so I canlessen our footprint.

How about you? Have you had tofigure out where to put the wonderful things given to you over the holidays?Now there’s that set of small dishes for soy and wasabi to accompany sushi.They’re lovely, and I’ll use them for a variety of things, but where to keepthem?

As I write, it’s late, cold,and rainy. Sophie has not been out all day, and my problem is to convince herthe better part of wisdom would be to go now before I go to sleep. Sleep tighteveryone. I always think a gentle rain is conducive to good, peaceful sleep. Sothat’s my wish for all of you.

The good-luck foods of the New Year

 

Photo by Jordan Alter Burton
Before I get to the good-luckfoods of the New Year, I want to say a word about eggnog. I drank a lot ofeggnog over the holiday and relished every drop of it. Only prudence andcaution confined me to one small glass at a time, but I had eggnog for breakfastevery morning in Santa Fe. What a marvelous way to begin the day! My friend,Susan Tweit, brought a big jar of eggnog with rum for the nog when she visitedus on Christmas Eve, and Christian, coveting both the eggnog and the container,brought the remaining little bit home with us. So I’ve had it twice forbreakfast in the cottage. I did have the good sense to turn it down Sundaymorning before we went to church. But this morning, Christian and I split thelast little bit and discussed getting more. If anything is going to bring agood year, surely that will do it.

This afternoon, neighborsbrought Jordan a cup of Tom and Jerry, a hot drink I always associate with NewYear’s. A Tom and Jerry is much like eggnog—egg whites, rum, brandy, spices,and butter. But it’s served warm and is, to my mind, more lethal than cooleggnog. Once again, reason prevailed. I took a sip and said no, thank you.Jordan drank the whole cup and took a nap. Needless to say, I took a nap evenwithout the Tom and Jerry.

The primary traditional foodon my mind tonight is black-eyed peas, because I fixed a big pot yesterday andlet them sit in the fridge overnight to gather flavors. Then today I cookedthem more, cooking down the excess liquid and getting the peas to just theright stage of mushy. After fifty-five years, I consider myself pretty much aTexan (barring some of the things that implies today), but there are parts ofme that had a hard time leaving a northern, Chicago background behind. I was inTexas a lot of years before I consented to try black-eyed peas. Then I tried todisguise them, burying them in the rice and tomatoes of Hoppin’ John. But in recentyears I’ve come to appreciate the humble pea.

In  Hoppin’ Uncle John, the peas are cooked with aham hock, onion, celery, garlic, diced tomatoes and served over rice. Tonight Imade Hoppin’ John but without the tomatoes (in deference to Christian). I can’tsee there’s much difference between plain peas they way we cook them and Hoppin’John. Even a plain pot of peas gets ham or salt pork or bacon or ham hock alongwith onions, celery, and garlic. Tonight, everybody else ate theirs with rice,but I had mine plain. So good. Can you believe I actually relish them now?

Probably my study of HelenCorbitt’s life and work had something to do with this. Texas caviar, her iconicdish, is simply marinated black-eyed peas The story is that after three weeksin Texas, at the university in Austin, she was challenged to prepare a banquetmenu using nothing but Texas products She invented what she called marinatedblack-eyed peas. I first remember eating that at the Cowgirl Hall of Famerestaurant in Santa Fe years ago (no relation to the museum in Fort Worth). Today,folks elaborate on Corbitt’s idea and add corn, tomatoes, black beans, avocado.I remain a purist and follow Corbitt’s original recipe.

Of course, if you’re going tohave black-eyed peas for luck, you must have greens and cornbread. I draw theTexas line at turnip greens—can’t, won’t do them. But I had leftover creamedspinach tonight. Surely that counts. As for cornbread, I did have that in theChicago home of my childhood, but my mom was an avid follower of 1950snutritionist Adelle Davis, which led her to the cookbooks from the Rodale Foundation,a Pennsylvania organic farming non-profit. I remember putting Brewer’s yeastand honey in cornbread. What I fixed today was far different, and like eggnog, mostdecadent. It’s a recipe that starts with two boxes of Jiffy cornbread mix andadds ingredients, such as two sticks of butter, a cup of sugar, a cup of sourcream—need I say more? It was delicious.

So there we are, starting offthe New Year with foods that bring us luck—or so we hope. Let’s hope that 2024will behave much better than 2023, but we’ve had the lucky foods just in case.You?

 

2024, here we come!

 

The cottage is cozy enoughtonight that I can almost pretend there’s a raging snowstorm outside. Candlesare flickering but the Christmas lights cast a steady colorful glow. Jordan andChristian have been here for a happy hour drink and gone on to a party. Jacobhas with much excitement gone to a concert with some of his friends. Sophie,having gotten locked out by mistake—how could I?—is asleep in her crate. A potof black-eyed peas simmers on the stove, and the dinner dishes are done. Iindulged in paté for an appetizer, lobster salad and creamed spinach for the mainmeal, and chocolate caramels for that “touch of sweet” my long-ago mother-in-lawalways wanted. A lovely evening that I hope forecasts a much better year ahead.Like many of us, I am ready to kick 2023 to the gutter.

Do you make resolutions? Igave that up long ago, but I have prayers and goals. My main prayer, for me, iscontinued good health. At my age, I think that’s a biggie, and I don’t want anysurprises. For my family, it is peace and joy and safety, especially as mygrandchildren continue to branch off in individual directions. This year, Jacoband Sawyer will mark five either in college or already through—the oldest hasgraduated, has a responsible management job, her own apartment, and is livingthe grown-up life, a thing that much impresses me. Only two left in highschool, both juniors.

For my friends, far and wide, nearand dear, for whom I am most grateful, I wish good health, peace, and joy. Ihope for continued connections and sharing of all that is good in life so thatwe have strength, together, for that which is not so good—and there’s a lot ofthat going around.

What can anyone wish for theworld except peace? I remain horrified at not only the two wars that hold allour attention, but the regime changes and coups in small countries especiallythroughout Africa and South America—each rebellion, each regime change costslives, and we all long for a world without strife and greed for either richesor power. And I wish justice for all the innocents who are caught up inviolence, particularly the people of Israel and Gaza. I read today that 1200Jewish citizens were killed in the Hamas raid; to date, 21,000 plus have diedin Israel’s bloody revenge. I cannot believe that is the path to peace, and Iam horrified.

At home, I pray for commonsense in government, equal justice for all our citizens, and awareness forthose who wear blinders. I want to see the “former guy” convicted andimprisoned, I want to do away with book banning and teacher censoring andschool vouchers and flap over critical race theory. I pray the country comes toappreciate and understand the things the Biden administration has done for ourcountry with the American Rescue Plan, the Infrastructure and Jobs Act, theInflation Reduction Plan, the CHIPS and Science Act. America now is in better shape,its economy booming, than it has ever been, and I am proud to be part of that.I only wish those with blinders on could see.

My daughter recently told me Italk politics too much, and I replied that the reason we have a bitter dividebetween our people is that no one spoke up soon enough. So that is one of mygoals: to continue to speak my mind, to work toward what I see as good for thecountry I love and, uphill battle as it is, for Texas, my home state now forfifty-five plus years and the place that gave me its history and literature toshape into my career. I cannot let Texas go to the narrow-minds who haveimposed so many restrictions on us—and yet imposed none on guns. What crazylogic.

And perhaps that brings me tomy personal goal for the coming year—I have two books to see to publication.One is what I see as the final Irene in Chicago Culinary Mystery, though oneshould never count Irene down and out. She is a force to be reckoned with andmight one day again rise up and demand another book. But the other is thecookbook/food history study which looks at how the food of the Fifties,sometimes glorious, sometimes awful, has carried on to affect the way we eattoday. It’s turning out to be a tribute to my mom, who in the Fifties taught meto cook. Over Christmas, with all my family together, I realized how much westill carry on Mom’s traditions.

So that’s me and 2024. How aboutyou?

And, if you’re interested,here are a few more Santa Fe pictures. Counterclockwise; fresh snow, me with Maddie (my oldest grand) and her boyfriend Trevor, and me with the super margarita-making bartender named Juju. Sorry for the misalignment but t's the best I can do.

Car trip thoughts

 

It’s a long drive from FortWorth to Santa Fe and back, and my family was dreading the trip. Only the ideaof family, Santa Fe, and skiing made them even consider it. However, I lookedforward to parts of it. When you leave Amarillo, headed west on Hwy. 40, pastVega, Texas suddenly you leave prairie behind you. The land butts up in strangeoutcroppings, as though it were anticipating the buttes and mesas of NewMexico.

And then suddenly, you are inNew Mexico where the land changes rapidly. It’s flat up close, with scrub brushdotting what look like pastures. I’m no botanist, but it looks like creosoteand mesquite, though not the feathery large mesquite we get in Texas. In thedistance, beyond the open land are the strange, stark shapes of mesas andbuttes. The whole landscape is so different from Texas that it draws me in,perhaps in anticipation. We turn north at Klines Corner and after a bit on thatroad, the landscape changes again. The once-straight road twists and turns inhills, and mountains appear in the distance. I love it all, perhaps because Iam always happy and “at home” in Santa Fe. It is for me, a place of many goodmemories

But then, too soon, comes thereturn trip home. Once past Amarillo, you begin that long stretch of smalltowns leading to Wichita Falls. If you’ve traveled that road often enough, youcan click those towns off in memory. By Claude, the first town, I sort of letout a sigh and think, “We’re home. We’re back in Texas.”

For us this week, we made itto Wichita Falls in daylight, so I had a chance to study the towns. In mosttowns the highway bypasses the town, so you don’t really see it. Memphis forinstance has town on one side and railroad tracks on the other. Once a friendand I deliberately left the highway and explored each town, sometimes stoppingat junk stores, other times just imagining what life in, say Quanah, would belike. The five-hour drive took us almost ten, but it was a wonderfulexperience.

This time, as we barreledthrough, intent on making time, my first thought was that the small town inTexas is alive and well, albeit a bit shabby and in need of several coats ofpaint. Still, when we hear about young people leaving the small towns of theiryouth and the subsequent death of those towns, it was reassuring to see thatlife stll seems to be going forward in places like Clarendon and Chillicotheand Vernon.

By Wichita Falls, dark wasclosing in, and as we angled southeast to Fort Worth, I noticed how brightlylit the towns are. Some lighting is decorative (no, it was not all Christmaslights), some is for security with lots of floodlights, too much is neon advertising.All of it is bright, and as a result you can see towns glowing from miles away.Up close the effect is almost blinding in some cases. I had the same thought Ioften have in my own backyard: could we tone it down a little and still besafe?

Studies have shown thatexcessive light disturbs the circadian rhythms (24-hour internal clock) ofbirds and other wildlife, altering their physiology and behavior because theyare no longer able to distinguish day from night. An appalling number of birdsdie each year because they fly into well-lit skyscrapers. Light pollution, orthe excessive us of artificial light, can even effect human health andwell-being, with some studies linking it to various forms of cancer. Withexcessive light, our eyes lose the ability to adjust to darkness. In a city,for example, we can no longer see the stars in the night sky because our visionis impaired by excessive light. All that lighting costs money and energy andcontributes to climate change.

What can we do?  Use motion sensors, dimmers, and timers. UseLED lights but only in warm tones, never blue, and lower the wattage. Use fixturesthat direct light downward, never up nor over a wide expanse.

I’m sure the folks inHenrietta and Bowie and Decatur are relieved that I didn’t have time to stopand educate them about light pollution, but it is a problem too few know about.At home, I struggle with it, because our neighborhood has “night visitors” andI want outdoor lights for security. But my conscience bothers me. We hope toput in some downward lighting in trees and along a walkway which will enable usto eliminate some flood lights.

It was an interesting drive,but as you can imagine, I was glad to get home.Photo from citiesatnght.org

 

 

My Christmas secret

 

Spectacular view from our rental property.
Sorry I didn’t post before about a Christmas trip to Santa Fewith my family, but I never like to advertise that Sophie is home alone, exceptfor a pet sitter. The whole family went to Santa Fe for six days and had aglorious time. Here are my notes on the highlights:

--On an overnight stop in Amarillo, seventeen-year-oldJacob offered to share a room with Juju. We got along perfectly.

Me and Jacob

Me and Susan Tweit
--On Christmas Eve, we entertained guests. I know author/botanistSusan Tweit through an online writers’ group, but it was a delight to meet herin person. Tina Miracle is an old friend from Fort Worth—lots of sharedmemories. Her husband Jay is a new friend we all like a lot. Proud of how thegrands welcomed these guests and introduced themselves. A really great evening.Our guests brought eggnog and hot buttered rum—can’t beat that for conviviality.

White Elephant exchange
--Christmas morning pandemonium included a White Elephantgift exchange.

--Watching oldest son and his daughter laboriously make mymother’s yeast-rising rolls and realizing that much of what was being cooked ChristmasDay was what Mom cooked for holidays.

Maddie, me, and Trevor
--Reconnecting in an adult way with my oldest grandchild,Maddie, and her boyfriend, who fits right into the family. 

--All seventeen of us standing in a rough, lopsided circle,holding hands, while my oldest son asked the blessing before Christmas dinner

--Christmas dinner, when all the grands came spontaneously to sit at my table, along with SIL Brandon.

Me and the grands

--Dinner at La Fonda with grown-up kids at an adjoiningtable eating with manners and dignity. Our upscale night out in a nostalgic andlovely setting.

--Lunch at the Tesuque Market—a four-hour experience in afunky place because we met a bartender named Juju (my grandmother name) who wasa delight--and apparently made great margarita. Tuna sandwich was the best thing I ate on the whole trip, and I hadn’thad even one margarita.

--Having my grown kids take such good care of me and mywalker, especially on stairs that terrified me. Santa Fe is not ADA friendly.

It was a wonderful trip that leaves me lots of memories totreasure. Yes, I’m glad to be back home. I always am. I’m not an easy traveler,and the altitude, stairs, and snow seemed united against me. But the joys farovershadowed those small nuisances. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

Sophie is glad we're home, and I've told her I won't be going anywhere soon.

 

A sleepy day--and a random thought about higher educatioin

 

Today, close to noon, I foundmyself dozing off over my computer. I’ve been known to do that in the evening,a signal that I should take a little nap—or else give it up and go to sleep.But in the middle of the day? I figured out what it was. All those loose threadsthat have haunted me all week have tied themselves off into neat little knots—myworry over arrangements for Christmas Eve guests, the lost check for a co-pay,even my iStock dilemma is nicely solved. And the plumber was here this morning,quickly fixed the leak with the tiniest of new washers, and it didn’t costnearly as much as I had feared. The gods are smiling on me, and I’m grateful.

I toughed it out until aboutone-thirty and then slept a solid two hours. It must be all the talk Jordan andI have done about food and menus and grocery lists, but I dreamt I was eatingthe most sumptuous, huge meal—lamb chops and salads and pate, all the things Ilove. I woke up full.

So, I’m feeling fairly readyfor Christmas. And I’m feeling optimistic about the national scene, ever since theColorado Supreme Court declared trump ineligible to be on the ballot. Buthigher education is on my mind tonight. I’ve read several articles thatquestion the value of a college education. Some point out that the importance ofhaving skilled craftsmen—plumbers, electricians, carpenters, etc.—is overlooked,and young people should be encouraged to consider trade schools. I’m all forthat. College is not for everyone, and we need those skilled people. Especiallytoday when I’m so grateful for the plumber, who by the by, had an apprenticewith him. Made me curious about how plumbers are educated—by apprenticeship,classes, or both?

But an article this morningsuggested that employers are dissatisfied with the quality of college graduatesthese days and perhaps a college degree is not worth the high cost, since itcan throw graduates and their families into a long downward spiral of debt.Some of the stories of people still paying in their sixties are horrifying. We’veseen President Biden try to release families from that burden so that they canbe productive members of society, rather than held back by financial distress.But that has met conservative opposition.

It’s a given that Republicans wantto dumb down America, because an uneducated populace is easier to manage, topersuade with propaganda and distortion. We see it in Texas particularly in themove to approve school vouchers, and thereby weaken public education, which hasfailed, so far—praise be! We see it nationally in restrictions on teachers andwhat they can teach, particularly what they can say about history. They areoften required to teach our history as seen through rose-colored glasses. Andwe see it in book banning.

Now we’re seeing a move toquestion college education. I wonder if this questioning of higher education isnot part of that whole campaign. Granted, some college costs are exorbitantthese days, but college is where people learn critical thinking. It’s not somuch that college prepares you for a career—really, how many of us have acareer related to our college major? But it’s that college classes teach you tothink. An educated populace, especially one that knows history, is not aslikely to fall for the blandishments of a demagogue.

Just a random thought forChristmas week when my mind should be on the meaning of Christmas, the why andwherefore of how we celebrate, the blessing of families gathering, and the foodwhich binds us in thankfulness and companionship.

It’s not late, but I can feelsleepiness creeping up on me again, so I’ll sign off. Tomorrow, I think ‘llblog about black-eyed peas, a much more seasonal topic.

 

More Christmas confusion

 

Charlie discovers Christmas wrappings
We all know kittens have a magicalattraction to Christmas trees. Charlie, Jordan’s kitten, not yet six monthsold, found the tree this week. Because he’s young and not quite civilized,Charlie has his own suite in the house—what really amounts to the family roomand Jacob’s bedroom. But he gets frequent forays into the rest of the house,and that’s how he found the tree. Charlie is destined to be an indoor cat—in fact,Jordan rescued him when he was about to be turned out to the wide wild world attoo young an age. But sometimes he feels his confinement severely. This morningI watched him march along the windowsills in the family room—the back wall isall window—watching intently as Sophie went about her morning business. He’s apretty cat and, so Jordan tells me, affectionate though playful as kittens are.I have barely met him. To say I’m not a cat fan without explanation is not fairto me—I have adored one cat, my beloved Wynona Judley (affectionately known asWywy), who crossed the bridge several years ago. But Jordan got a kitten inmiddle school that lived to nineteen and was, to my mind, the cat from hell.She peed everywhere, including on furniture, and I had to have a couch andchair reupholstered at great cost because of her. She’d stand right in front ofme and pee on the floor. Graffiti soured me on cat ownership, though if I couldhave another Maine Coon like Wywy I would (she was not purebred, but we’re surethe strain was in there—thick, fluffy coat, pointed ears, sweet disposition).

For some reason, the gods ofinternet fraud have decided to pick on me this week. I’m not over the iStock disasterwhen today I get, in rapid succession, two messages from Norton Life Lock, thefirst informing me that my subscription was about to renew for $467 and wouldbe charged to my account unless I called the cancellation line within 24 hours.So I called and ended up talking to a heavily accented gentleman who told me I’dhave to file a cancellation report. The more he talked, the less I understoodhim, but I was fairly sure the report would want my banking info. I hung up. Withinin hour, I got another email—different address, different amount—saying thatthe renewal had been charged to my Norton prime account. Good luck with that. Idon’t have such an account. But they said I could still call the cancellationline. Just to be sure there was a flag on my account, I called my bank afterboth emails. They were tremendously helpful, but it took a chunk out of mymorning.

In a similar vein, I recently fellfor a free trial offer, and I am here to warn others against it. It was fromiStock. iStock is images controlled by the Getty Foundation and those imagesare high priced.  I never consider themfor my blog. But I thought, a free trial? Why not? I can tell you why not—it’shidden in the fine print. If you don’t cancel in the first month, you arelocked into a year-long contract. And it’s not small change. Many offers likethat remind you when your trial period is ending or allow you to cancel at anytime. Not iStock, and they play hardball. So I will make substantial monthlypayments for a year. All my fault. I didn’t read the fine print. Even my lawyerdaughter says I’m stuck. If I don’t pay, they’ll send it to a collection agencyand damage my credit rating. I know it’s my fault, but I am still angry andstill feel I‘ve been tricked.

Before all this I also signed upfor a trial offer from the Washington Post—a reasonable $4 a month forsomething like three months and then no higher than $12. Still, I cancelled it—alot of little subscription fees add up. No problem. Easy as pie. Not many ofyou reading this would have occasion to even think about iStock, but this is mywarning to prevent anyone else from being taken by their free trial.

Otherwise, the event of the day wasmaking our traditional cheeseball, which I wrote about recently on my foodblog. Cheeseballs may be considered dated, but my family still loves this onewhich traces back to my childhood. In recent years, the girls in the family havemade it, so tonight was my first time in a long time. I’d forgotten how messyit is to work with all those soft cheeses—blue, cream, Velveeta. I had thebrilliant idea to grate the Velveeta—don’t try that! What a mess. And parsleyall over the place.

But the cheeseball is in the freezer,Sophie is contentedly sleeping in her crate, and I am sipping a glass of wineas I write this. The neighborhood newsletter is off to the designer, thekitchen sink leak is still not fixed (plumber comes tomorrow), and life goeson. I feel like a hundred loose ends are dancing around me, but I know, withJordan’s super organizational skills, all will be in order on Christmas Day.Counting my blessings.

That edgy period before the holidays

 

Porter, content in my closet
Subie and Phil came for happyhour tonight, bringing Porter, his seeing-eye dog. Porter usually goes out inthe backyard and ignores us, a behavior that puzzles Sophie who laps up companyattention all she can. Today, however, the yard guys, with noisy lawnmowers andblowers, arrived about the same time the Greens did. The difference in dogreactions was remarkable. Sophie, as she always does, turned tail for the houseand once safely inside, barked ferociously. Porter, on the other hand, was notgoing to let some guys with stupid equipment force him out of the yard, andSubie had to go out and almost literally shove hm into the cottage. Then hewandered down the hall to my closet and spent the entire time there. I was gladSubie got him inside, because some of the crew seem to be afraid of dogs, and Ithought a dog his size would really keep them out of the yard.

Meanwhile, Sophie is barkingin fits and stops but especially when they come close to the cottage with theirblowers. So Phil decides he has to leave because of the barking. It took threeof us to convince him it wouldn’t last long, and, no, he couldn’t get down thedriveway right now, because they had blown the leaves into big piles—an obstaclecourse. Our oak trees are shedding heavily and yet still have an abundance ofleaves. The pecan by the patio is through, but now the oak leaves migrate tothe patio, so Sophie brings them in. I sweep every day. Phil stayed, Sophiequieted, and we had a jolly visit. Except for Porter, who remained in the closet.

In a strange way, a weekbefore the holiday, I seem to get over the sociability part of the holiday.Tonight was not a holiday celebration—no gift exchange, no fancy appetizers norspecial holiday drinks. I had warned them: leftover appetizers, which turnedout to be ends of this cheese and that. Jordan cut them up and made a nice display.Just good friends getting together in a relaxed visit. At least for me.

This is the edgy time, when I’vepretty much done all I can for the holidays, and I think, “Now, what?” Somewrapping and cooking details require Jordan’s attention, but for her it’s thebusy time. She is, however, a dedicated list maker and has long lists ofgroceries from various stores. And truth to tell, she has a lot more responsibilitiesthan I do. I remember those days. In fact, I remember when we celebratedHannukah and Christmas—with four children. I had spread sheets of who got whaton what day.

I have been beset by enough “business”problems to distract me from the holiday planning. Not the business of being awriter, but that of daily living. It’s the time of year for quarterly taxes andproperty taxes, and I need to have the trees trimmed by a real arborist (I’malready signed on for that). Now I need to wait for the plumber to fix thekitchen sink and pray that he doesn’t have to wait for a part—that suspicionlingers in my mind, but then I am given to worrying. I need to make a couple ofdoctor appointments, not for anything urgent but for check-ups. I figure awoman my age who spends as much time at the computer as I do ought to have hereyes checked regularly. And then, for a blue-eyed blonde, there are always skinchecks. But those are the things you put off until “after the holidays” so thatnow they just hover in my mind. I must pursue that free offer I signed up forwhich suddenly committed me to a year-long, expensive contract, but I did findout today the reason the nephrologist didn’t get my check is that it nevercleared the bank. So I had to stop payment and issue a new check. It’s alllittle stuff, details, but a pain. It’s perhaps like weaving with many strandsand constantly feeling you’ve lost one or two.

With family gathering looming,I don’t feel I can dig into the Irene manuscript I’m working on nor the food ofthe fifties book that is turning out to be a tribute to my mom. So far, eachday has kept me busy with those little details, but I figure the closer we getto Christmas the edgier I’ll get, and I am giving myself stern lectures aboutanticipation anxiety and all that kind of gobbledy-gook.

The plain truth of it is thatI love Christmas, love the lights and the music and the fellowship and thefood, but I get all keyed up waiting for it. This year, I resolve to stay calmand live in each moment, enjoying it for what it is. And then, there will comethat blessed moment when all my family is together. And we can watch themidnight candlelight service and welcome the hope that the idea of the holybaby brings, whether  you believe in himor not. He brings hope for all of us.

It’s always something

 

This morning  I was washing up a few dishes, but when I steppedaway from the sink, I realized I was standing in wet socks in a puddle ofwater. Foot neuropathy is why I didn’t realize my feet were wet, but that wasthe least of my problems. There was standing water on my hardwood floor andwater dripping from the cabinet under the sink, where everything was wet. I gotlots of bath towels, soaked up what I could, and called for help. There was noway I could get on hands and knees and drag all that wet stuff out. Christian,as usual, was sweet about it, mopping up towels, moving racks of things and boxes—you’dbe amazed at how much I can cram under a sink. Finally, it was all cleaned up, the cabinet just damp but we left thedoors open for air. At suppertime, Christian replaced the things that weresitting outside drying. I marked my calendar for first thing tomorrow morningto call the plumber.

It was the spray nozzle, whichwas leaking back down the cord into the cabinet. The nozzle is a Delta product,which is supposed to be good, but this is the third time I have had thisproblem. Delta must have recognized the problem, because it has given up freereplacement and now charges—last time it was $10, but with inflation who knows?I am less concerned with cost than I am with inconvenience. Trying to use thesink while keeping the sprayer down in the sink is inconvenient at best andoffers a free shower at the worst. I soldiered through fixing a pot of soup forsupper. But then, would you believe it, I lost all common sense, forgot aboutit, washed the soup bowls, and flooded the cabinet again. It’s late evening,and I didn’t dare call Christian again, so I got the one remaining bath towel,sopped it all up with my feet—a mobility handicap is teaching me to haveambidextrous feet—and looped the towel onto the cabinet so it would, I hoped,stop dripping onto the floor. Tomorrow, the wonderful Zenaida will be here andI’ll ask her to deal with the mess. Makes me feel bad, because the whole reasonI did the dishes—after Jordan and Christian decided to rinse and leave forZenaida, was that I have several extra-duty chores on her list for tomorrow. Ohwell, I’m sure she’ll appreciate good intentions.

Most of today was spent goingto livestream church—I went to the Ten:10 alternative service out of curiosity.It’s informal, casual, and yet very welcoming. I could see that people weremilling around, greeting each other. There was a baby dedication, much like theones at the traditional service, and a word from a new outreach minister--buthis mic was either not on or so low I couldn’t hear it, even with my hearingaids turned up. I am looking forward to getting to know him, especially becauseI hear he once trained as a chef. Yes, I’m not too proud to live vicariouslythrough the experience of others. The Ten:10 has a remarkable young woman who playsguitar and sings with more gusto than I am used to in church. She is a forcefor good, and I may go back again just to hear her. But I admit, for a traditionalistlike me, the service lacked something, so I tuned in to the first part of the traditionalservice at eleven. I am well churched today.

Jordan did a lot of groceryplanning for Christmas—several days with lots of hungry teenagers—and the onlyother thing I did today was to make a pot of chicken/wild rice soup. So good.All the family liked it, which is a good thing because I think they’ll get itagain tomorrow night, perhaps with a salad. This was a new recipe for me, and Ifollowed it carefully because I haven’t cooked much with wild rice. But as partof my ongoing effort to eat out of the freezer, it did clear out a one lb.package of skinless, boneless chicken thighs—and it was pretty good.

A generally good reflectiveSunday. But watch out, world, at least those of us who celebrate Christmas.It’s about to get frantic time! And that’s all part of the fun. For me, it hasto balance with a deep recognition of what we celebrate. Merry Christmas.

Cooking and gardening, from scratch

 

Christian's gardening on the front porch
In many households across thenation you’ll see a big ham on the Christmas table. Not in my house. I can’teven get the family to eat a ham slice. I ordered one from Central Market,expecting a small slice I could turn into ham salad for lunch, Instead I got alarge piece—one lb., pre-cooked, for just over five dollars. A bargain! Iremembered my mom cooking ham slice with pineapple and brown sugar, and I knewI didn’t want to do that. But what to do? I looked online and finally came upfor a recipe with a Madeira sauce. Right away I ran into trouble: Jordandeclared unequivocally she does not like him (I’ve known her for forty-eightyears—what did I not know this?); Christian declared he would try it, but hedidn’t want the mushrooms in the sauce; I didn’t even ask Jacob because nowthat he’s a senior, with golf, work, and his buddies, he rarely eats dinnerwith us. So I decided I’d cook it, without mushrooms, on a night Jordan was out,and Christian and I would eat alone.

We tried several times—and eachtime, Christian had a business meeting (read that as happy hour) come up.Fortunately I hadn’t defrosted the ham, but I was getting tired of having ittaking up space in my freezer. And now that it’s December, I’m trying to bejust a bit frugal and use what’s in the freezer rather than buying more. Sotonight, Jean and I had ham with madeira sauce and mushrooms. It wasn’t verygood, after all that. The flavor of the mushrooms was great, but the sauce wasrunny and by the time it sat in the sauce during the cooking time, the pre-cookedham was overcooked. The flavor was great but not much else. I threw the recipein the trash, but after some thought I retrieved it because I think I could doit right.

I’d sauté the mushrooms andthen make the sauce around them—madeira, chicken broth, shallot—and thicken itwith a cornstarch mixture. And I’d cut down on the amount of broth. Only thenwould I add the pre-cooked ham (the recipe probably was meant for an uncookedslice if there is such a thing). Not sure I’ll ever try that, but I might.Meantime I only used half the ham steak, so the other half will go into hamsalad for my lunches.

Tonight I also served butterroasted sweet potatoes—another failure. You peel the potatoes and cut intorounds. If you’ve ever tried to peel a raw sweet potato, you know thedifficulty. And while the rounds were good, it’s a lot easier to just bake asweet potato and serve it with lots of butter. These got a bit dry, but that’sprobably because my odd cooking arrangement means I have to cook, let sit whileI cook something else, and then re-heat. We also had sauteed spinach—so good,but one bunch of spinach gives two people tiny servings each—and a salad withhomemade croutons and buttermilk dressing. It was the best part of the dinner,and Jean, having turned down a second helping, stood at the sink to finish whatwas left in the salad bowl. The meal was, at best, a mixed success.

Now it’s on to Christmas. Nomore experimental cooking as we get ready for the big meal. Except tomorrow, I’mgoing to use those skinless, boneless chicken thighs in the freezer that havealso been challenging me for a chicken/wild rice soup. The rest of the week it’speanut butter.

If I am a dedicated if notalways successful cook, I am definitely not a gardener. Now, with a mobilitychallenge, I couldn’t get down in the dirt if I wanted to, but the truth is Inever wanted to. My dad gardened to relax—weekends, on hands and knees, wearingthe oldest, scruffiest clothes he could find. Mom was always afraid one of hisstudents would come by and catch him in the garden. But it was the place wherehe was most happy. Christian, too, is a gardener--a pot gardener mostly, who fills the front porch with a lavish display in the summer But he also runs a plant nursery and can revive plants, like orchids that die in my care or a kalanchoe. I have always sort of envied those who find joy workingin the garden.

So I saw a blanket-type thingwith holes that you spread over dirt in a large planter and—voila! Plants. Itseems the blanket is weed and insect resistant, and the holes have the seedswhich germinate without your help. You never have to do anything but watch yourplants grow. I may be old-fashioned, but I think for many that would robgardening of much of its benefit. I know my dad would disapprove, and I think sowould my botanist friend Susan Tweit who strongly believes in a visceralconnection to Mother Earth.

Those instant gardens are likeconvenience foods—they take away something elemental about the process, and in sodoing they rob us of the satisfaction that older generations felt. I may notgarden, but I will darn sure keep scratch cooking.