Judy Alter's Blog, page 14

What’s that green, fuzzy stuff?

 

 

Today is National Clean OutYour Refrigerator Day, and I’m taking it seriously. You see, I have aninherited tendency to stick things in the back of the fridge and forget them.My mom, God bless her, lived through the Depression as a bride and youngmother. It was an experience she never forgot, and the rest of her life she savedeverything—bits of aluminum foil were washed and re-used; bits of string weretied into one big ball; paper towels, used once to clean a counter, were storedin a special place to be re-used for floor spills. And every tiny leftover wentinto a small jar—often baby food jars she’d saved forever—in the back of thefridge.

When the sad day came that Momcould no longer live in her own home, my brother and I cleaned out herrefrigerator. And found all those jars with unidentifiable things—mostly nevermore than a quarter of a cup. But too many had mold, fuzzy, green, ugly. Ittook a huge garbage sack.

Mom thought I was wasteful:with four teenagers to feed, I chose leftovers carefully—a dab of this and a spoonof that just wouldn’t do anyone any good. Mom would say sarcastically, “I know,just pitch it!” Of course, the one dish that could make me save leftovers wassoup. I grew up on what we called Soup of the Week—just clean out the fridge,throw all those leftovers together, add a can of diced tomatoes or some broth,maybe a can of corn or something, and voila! There’s a cheap, frugal dinner. Mykids now remember liking it, though one did say, “Why did it always turn outbrown?” Jordan’s boys, husband and son, won’t eat it, so it’s been a long timesince I made Soup of the Week. Christian once said “I’d have to know what’s init,” and I told him that was an impossibility.

So today, I decided to inventorymy refrigerator—all those little jars at the back of the top shelf where I can’treally reach. Here’s what I found: enough pickle products to start my own store—cornichons,dill chips, two partially used jars of dill relish, pickled jalapenos (and Idon’t eat jalapenos), and the remains of the red onion I pickled myself. Anunopened, out-of-date small bottle of buttermilk I undoubtedly intended to usein cooking or a terrific salad dressing. An empty used container of Sophie’sinsulin, in its box (the vet told Jordan to keep it, and she’s religious aboutit, so I don’t question). An out-of-date tube of crescent rolls, for which Ionce had some intended use but I have no idea what. One half lime, dried outuntil it is rock hard. Three remnants of sticks of butter, scatteredthroughout. A jar of duck fat—I thought I would use it for lots of things, butit didn’t turn out that way. Three jars of Better than Bouillon, various flavors.Two half empty jars of sauerkraut.  Andthat’s not counting the things I really do use, like cottage cheese, eggs,lettuce. Oops! I forgot to tackle the cheese drawer and the vegetable crisper,though the latter gets cleaned pretty often.

I didn't tackle my freezer either, but I keep pretty good control of it. Except, like my mom, I save every end of bread, that stray piece left out of a loaf, some baguettes that have gotten old. Here's a hint: dice all that bread, toss the cubes with olive oil and garlic powder, spread out on a sheet pan, and bake for 20 minutes at 350. Commercial croutons can't hold a candle to homemade!

If you look up National Clean YourRefrigerator Day, the web will caution that you should do this to make room forthe turkey and all the holiday food coming up. Some unknown authority somewhereadvises that you need soap and a bucket of hot water, a sponge, and a garbagebag. You are advised to start by taking everything out of the refrigerator. Ijust didn’t go that far, but the next time the wonderful Zenaida comes to cleanmy cottage, I’ll ask her to look at the fridge. However, unless monitored, she’s liable to throw out things Iwant.

My refrigerator is sadly lowon leftovers, which leaves me wondering what I’ll have for lunch—I’m thinkingthat Braunschweiger that’s only meh, with sauerkraut. But today I expect to addsomething good to the fridge: I have ordered freshly made corned beef hash froma smoked meat company in Wisconsin. Yes, I fell for Facebook marketing—the pictureof that has in a skillet just looked irresistible. Christian said he’d eat itwith me; Jordan said she has a dinner meeting😊I’m thinkingcreamed corn would be good with hash.

So what’s in the way back ofyour fridge?

A twenty-four hour vacation

 

Megan and Jacob at Walloon's
Well, maybe it was astaycation, but what made the last twenty-four hours so special was that Megan,my Austin daughter, came to visit. Confession: coming to see me was not herprimary motive in coming to Fort Worth. She came to go to the TCU/UT footballgame Saturday night with her special TCU girls—those she was close friends andTri Delt sisters with—gulp!—some thirty years ago. She did it all and had ablast—staying up late drinking wine and catching up, margaritas at Joe T.’s, awalk around Mule Alley, and, of course, tailgating and the game. Even thoughTCU lost, all agreed it was a great game.

Megan, who never plans farahead, planned ahead for this one. She drove up with two girls, Veronica andRachel, who live in Austin. But Sunday she sent them on without her so shecould spend the day with me. Bonus: I got long overdue hugs from Rachel and Veronica.And then I had Megan all to myself—sort of. While I took my Sunday afternoonnap, she went of and drank champagne with Amy, who she went to school withsince kindergarten—by the time they both got to UT law school, they wereroommates.

For twenty-four hours, I didn’tget much if any of my own desk work done. I was glad to forego it for Megan’scompany. Sunday night, we had dinner with Christian and Jacob at Walloon’s, thenifty new seafood place on Magnolia. Lots of fun and good food, though poorJacob ordered barbecued shrimp, and it turned out to be an appetizer. Skimpyfare for a seventeen-year-old boy. I had the oysters Rockefeller which were goodexcept the spinach was really heavy with garlic. Christian had a steak saladand said the dressing was oh so tart! I had done that the other night—made adressing so tart I couldn’t eat it, so I sympathized.

Back home, Megan and I hadmore visiting, talked about family and holiday plans and all manner of things.This morning we had just a brief visit before she left to take the eleven o’clockexecutive bus back to Austin. But she snapped this selfie before she left. WhenI think back on the girls’ teen years, I am so grateful that we are such goodfriends today. I am truly blessed by my children.Megan's selfie

I’ve said it before and willsay it again—with four children, it is pure bliss to have them all together atonce, with their families. When the grandkids were young and it didn’t seemlike there were so many of us, I used to think one of my happiest moments waswhen they were all asleep under my roof. But there’s a reverse to that—it’ssuch a delight to have one-on-one time with any one of them. And that’s what Ihad with Megan today. So my cup runneth over.

Tonight I had a five o’clockZoom meeting with a small group of writers, mostly one-book beginners. I was totalk to them about newsletters, blogs, and Substack. Not that I’m an expert onany of those subjects, but from their responses I apparently held my own. It’sa real jolt to feel, even briefly, that you have knowledge to share that willhelp others. And that’s what I came away with tonight after that meeting.

That Zoom event ended about 6:20,and I hastily reheated the cube steaks in gravy from the other night, cut up asalad, and ate dinner, trying to finish before the 7:00 HOA meeting. I didn’t quitemake it and ended eating my salad on camera—not the best look in the world.Christian came out, got the rest of the cube steak dinner and salad but couldn’tbe convinced to stay for the meeting. Now I feel like whoosh—all the air has gone out of me, and I will sleep happilyand well tonight.

Sweet dreams, y’all!

Veterans’ Day

All day I’ve enjoyed thepictures on Facebook—“my father,” “my grandfather,” “my uncle.” All of themlook far too young to leave home, let alone to go to fight a war in far lands.And yet they did. I wish I had pictures. I can see them in my mind’s eye, and Ithink they are probably in the attic somewhere, but I have none in digitalizedform. So all I can do is tell you about two servicemen, both of whom fought inWorld War I.

My father, Richard NormanMacBain, then a Canadian citizen, fought with the British Army; my brother’father, Richard Russell Peckham, fought for this country. Later, they would beroommates at the Chicago College of Osteopathy. My dad came home with few scarsbut some embedded fears—the whistle of jet airplanes when they were new wouldcause him to flinch and head for the nearest building if he was outdoors; hehad been gassed (mustard gas) and was ever after subject to bronchial problems.He never ever that I remember talked about the war, and yet from what I read itwas horrific. Men in foxholes who were never warm nor dry for months at a time.War then was no less brutal—it was just different than today.

Russell Peckham came home withshrapnel lodged in his jaw. I’m not sure I have the story straight, but I thinkit was considered too risky to remove it. So he lived with it, and in 1932fathered a son, my brother, John Russell Peckham. But in 1934 the shrapnel causedan infection and Russell Peckham died. If I got the story straight from Mom, itwas only a few years later that penicillin came into use and could have savedhis life. (To tell the rest of the story, Mom married my father in 1936, and Iwas born in 1938.)

Russell’s son, my brother,John served in the U.S. Navy in the 1950s, as a pilot. It was just after theKorean War, and though he flew patrol planes, he never saw active combat as didboth his father and stepfather. Russell’s grandson, Russell MacBain Peckham,served in the U.S. Army during the Iran conflict and, like both his forebears,is an osteopathic physician.

In honor of those men, andbecause I think it’s appropriate and we can never hear it too often, here isthe text of the iconic WWI poem, “Flanders Field” by John McRae:

InFlanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

 

The Story of Charlie

 

Charlies at four weeks,
when he was rescued
After years of both Christianand me saying, “No more cats,” a kitten lives in the family room in the mainhouse. Jordan was visiting at a neighbor’s lake house, and the two of themfound an apparently feral kitten, probably about four weeks old. Far too youngto survive on its own. They brought it inside, gave it milk, and decided toco-parent. There was no sign of the momma, though in later days they did seeother kittens. None were as lucky as Charlie to be adopted.

Since Christian really didn’twant a cat and since they already had Cricket, the remaining Cavalier Spaniel,the kitten went to live with the neighbors. Jordan made regular trips to feed,play, and love. When the kitten was about ten weeks old, the neighbors decidedit was time for it to be an outdoor cat. Even I, not particularly a cat lover,know that the survival statistics for outdoor cats are pretty grim: an averagelife span of three years as opposed to fifteen or more for an indoor cat. Atten weeks, the poor thing was doomed, and Jordan of course couldn’t stand that.I’ll never know what she said to Christian, but the kitten, still unnamed, cameto live in our compound.

The first order of businesswas to find the kitten a name. Charlie seemed to fit, for whatever reason. Fornow, he periodically gets the run of the house but for the most part isconfined to the family room, an add-on that sprawls across the back of thehouse. Jordan spends time loving on him, playing with him, and so on. Jacob,who has a perfectly good bed in his adjacent bedroom, chooses to sleep on thewrap-around couch in the family room—and then complains the kitten wakes himup. When he’s past kitten stage, Charlie will have the run of the house.Charlie at three months

A bit of an explanation here:Jordan has always loved kittens. Me, not so much, though I had one cat, WynonaJudley (commonly known as Wywy) that I adored. Christian says he had catsgrowing up, but I think his first real experience came with the cat Jordanbought ($5 at a pet store) when she was in middle school. Pardon my French butGraffiti was the cat from hell. She peed everywhere, in obvious defiance—sometimesright in front of you. I spent hundreds of dollars reupholstering furniture andeven then our house smelled of cat pee. When I found myself living alone withGraffiti and Wywy I banished Grafitti to the guest house, which was empty, soshe lived alone; Jordan came to visit, and I made her pay a monthly fee for thea/c to keep the cat cool (give me credit: I was trying to teach responsibility).I was also honestly at the end of my cat rope. Graffiti ended her long lifeliving in the bathroom in Jordan and Christian’s first apartment. She died onenight where she was happiest: sleeping on the floor next to Jordan. The detailsof what ensued after her death are hilarious, a story for another time. Butthat background is why I was not enthusiastic about a kitten, and I was amazedthat Christian acquiesced as easily as he did. I think that boy really loves mydaughter.

Charlie has been once to thecottage, a complicated maneuver in which Christian kept Sophie in the house.Sophie has demonstrated, in various veterinary trips, that she hates cats, andI see no reason to bring him out here again. Sophie knows where he is, and itbugs her. Jordan has put paper across the lower panels of the windows in theback door, but that’s an exercise in futility. The vet tells us Sophie isblind, so it’s not vision that tells her a cat is in there. It’s instinct,hearing, and smell. Some days I can see Charlie from my desk, sitting in thewindow, surveying that world he cannot be part of. Once I saw him stalkingSophie.

I suspect Charlie will outlastme as a resident of the Alter/Burton compound. And that’s okay with me. I wishhim no harm. I’m just not intrigued. But I have to redeem myself with the manycat lovers among my friends: I absolutely adored Wywy, the cat Jamie found as akitten abandoned on a roadside in Minnesota (do not ask what he was doingthere). For the first year of his life, we thought he was female; after the vetcorrected us (another hilarious story), Wywy lived a life of gender confusion.Today’s aggressive Christians would have had a field day had they known of histransition. We like to believe Wywy was part Maine Coon—he was big, with afluffy gray coat and a wonderful full tail. But beyond that he was sweet andaffectionate, and I loved him dearly. Wywy was helped over the Rainbow Bridgeat the age of nineteen, when he was truly miserable and trying to sneak off tothe back of a closet to die. He holds a special place in my heart yet.Wywy on my desk, ready to help me work

I am ambivalent about Charlie.I’ll never feel about him the way I did about Wywy, but Charlie and I haven’tcrossed paths much and probably won’t. Meantime he makes Jordan happy. Sheloves him. Who am I to quibble. You know what? He’s kind of cute when he staresout the window. I think he’s looking straight at me and trying to win me over.

 

The mood of the country

 

President Joe Biden
Democrat
Last night, late, I looked atsome election results, all what I considered good news: the re-election of AndyBeshear as Kentucky governor, the enshrinement of abortion rights in the Ohioconstitution, the takeover of both houses by Democrats in Virginia, theelection of a Democrat to the Supreme Court in Pennsylvania, which those in theknow says thwarts trump’s scheme to take the 2024 election, the defeat of Momsfor Liberty in numerous school board races. After reading in the media all daythat no one should take off-year election results seriously, I thought, “I don’tcare what they say. This is good news. The American people are not as easilyhoodwinked as some would have us believe.” Somewhere I read the comment thatthese election triumphs reflected the mood of the country, and I liked that phrase.People are tired of the constant turmoil, lies, deceit, baselessinvestigations, vague promises and real threats of the Republican Party. They wantour country back. I went to sleep, anticipating reading all about the triumphsof democracy this morning.

But a tiny corner of my mindsaid, “There’s a hitch somewhere. There will be something negative.” And ofcourse there was. Early this morning, I saw a New York Times headline tothe effect that Biden remains unpopular but voters like the policies of theDemocratic Party. I saw red, pink, and purple. Where did people think thosepolicies came from, if not from the president? Did they think Democraticlegislators were enacting Bidenomics, curtailing the pandemic, reviving theemployment rate, passing bills to rebuild our flagging infrastructure, passingthe chip act, passing the first meaningful act to reduce gun violence, workingto insure reproductive rights and safety for LGBTQ folks, rallyinginternational support for Ukraine, and working toward a peaceful end to theconflict between Hamas and Israel without Joe Biden? What kind of nonsense isthat? If his policies are popular, so is he.

During the day today I read inat least three other supposedly bipartisan sources about Biden’s incredibleunpopularity. I was astounded and angry. But I also read two sensible argumentsthat the news media is wedded to a message of doom for Democrats. It makesabsolutely no sense, and I hope every thinking person in America will rejectthat notion. The Republican party is disintegrating before our eyes, dividedinto warring factions, unable to agree on leadership or policy, unable even tocome to grips with preventing a government shutdown, rife with accusations and baselessaccusations. And yet they claim it is Democrats who are doomed to defeat? I don’tunderstand it, but I resent it a lot.

I don’t think it’s just ageismthat is behind this. If it were and it were an equally balanced approach toageism, trump would come in for as much negative press as Biden. He is onlythree years younger than Biden, is obviously in much worse physical shape (the presidentrides a bike, trump rides a golf cart), and is seriously out of touch withreality to the point that a cognitive assessment sems obviously called for. Thosearound him must be in acute denial. Biden has fallen several times, they say—sodo a lot of people, though I still maintain he was set up when he tripped over asandbag leaving the mike at the Naval Academy. Trump was scrutinized during hispresidency when he appeared uncertain walking down a ramp, holding a waterglass and other minor physical movements. But all that seems forgotten now.

Part of the problem may bethat trump is a flamboyant, over-the-top, charismatic, a dramatic personality.He not only attracts news, he is good news copy. The more outrageous he is, themore the media hangs on his every word. Biden, on the other hand, is going quietlybut doggedly about the business of guiding our country through a time ofterrible turmoil, both here at home and internationally. He has a steady handon the tiller. But he’s a low key, sometimes understated, almost quiet kind ofa guy—not good copy. Do I blame major media sources for not making thedistinction between the two? Yes, I do—and I want Walter Cronkite and some ofhis colleagues back.

Now is the time for each of usto speak out and protest this foolish blindness. Call out the negativity. Ifyou believe in Biden’s policies say so. Write a letter to the editor, write toindividual columnists, don’t let them get away with misinformation and loadedlanguage. Many Americans will be hoodwinked by this bias on the part of themedia. Don’t be one of them and do work to fight it. That’s my challenge toeach of you!

 

So far, a good week

Sophie does not care about elections like I do.
Maybe Tuesday evening is toosoon to call it a good week, but this one is starting out well (hear thatsound? It’s me, knocking on wood). Last night, Jordan, Christian, and I went tovisit friends Subie and Phil Green in their new apartment at Trinity Terraceand were so impressed by how spacious it is, how well laid out, and how comfortable.Windows on the south and west provide a great view—well, okay to the west, it’sthe parking lot but the city is beyond and to the south it’s mostly the roof ofFirst Presbyterian. Their patio is the first one in that complex I’ve thought Iwould venture out on, because it’s only the third floor. Deliver me from Jean’sseventeenth floor balcony! I told Subie if they’d find me a ground floorapartment with an attached dog yard, I might move. I wouldn’t really, but it wasgood to see them so happily settled.

Most interesting part of theevening: their neighbor in the building is a man who grew up in the house whereI lived for twenty-five years and where Jordan, Christian, and Jacob now live. Christianeven found a place where he had carved his name—Kenneth Jones—into the cementin our now-crumbling driveway. Kenneth was born in the house next door to thewest, moved to our house when he was five, and lived here until he married, atwhich time he and his bride moved to the house next door to the east. “We wereworking out way down the block,” he said. He had memories of when there was noForest Park Boulevard and University Drive stopped at the river. Fascinatingevening, and I certainly hope to see more of him.

Tonight was Mary Dulle’s happyhour night, but she brought longtime friend Sharon Benge with her. It was greatto catch up with Sharon and particularly to hear her report on her oldest son.Years ago, Sharon and I lived in the same close-knit neighborhood, and I can stillremember her and Bill sitting in our dining room and announcing they wereexpecting their third child. Fun memories. Sharon’s late husband always used tocall to check on me, and I truly appreciated him. There are no friends like oldfriends.

Tonight I made a retro appetizer—stuffedcelery. I tried hard to string it but didn’t get all the strings. Still I likedit a lot, better apparently than any of my guests. I used pub cheese that comesin a carton but spiced it up with a recipe I found.

During the day so far I havemade my goal of a thousand words a day—that’s purely a goal I set for myself,but I figure it’s a way to keep up the momentum. If I don’t do something likethat, I’ll never get this book written. I am reminded of the saying of Ivan Doig—Ithink that’s the author—who said writing is like driving when you can only seeas far as the headlights. Certainly true for me with this book—my mind isusually only one scene ahead of where my writing is. I have no idea how thesilly thing is going to end—but that’s good, because you as reader will not beable to guess the end. At least that’s my hope.

I’ve also dealt with a host ofbusiness/housekeeping details this week—a bill for last year’s mammogram thatwas settled in April, but in October the insurance company asked the providerfor (and got) a refund which then became a balance for me to pay—can they dothat? I will file yet another protest. The upholstery cleaners I like so muchare coming by to pick up a newly cleaned cushion which has a new stain—and Sophieis going to the vet so maybe we can figure out why we’re getting these smallpuddles. I had to reschedule my dentist appointment, since my covid cough isalmost gone, and call an arborist because our lawn guy says our trees really,really need professional trimming. It’s always something. My to-do listincluded a book to order, a curbside menu to check up on, all the little stuffthat makes up daily living. And I’ve talked to my brother each day—he’s stillin the hospital, and yesterday his voice was strong. Today he’s been sleepingoff some pain medication that made him crazy (in the words of his wife). Itreassures me to talk to him each day.

It's election night across thecountry, and I am curiously hopeful. One column I follow—Wake Up to Politics—saidnot to pay too much attention to off-year results, but I think they will giveus an indication of which way the political winds are blowing. I can’t believesome of the statistics I read online—like trump, who seems more deranged dailyis leading in five key swing states. It’s too early to be alarmed by such, butI would feel better if we had some strong progressive victories tonight—likeenshrining abortion in some states.

Sweet dreams, all. Thinkpositive thoughts.

 

Kitchens, ghost and otherwise

 

My tiny kitchen
Despite my whining aboutstandard time, I woke up feeling rested and full of energy this morning. Sophielet me sleep until 7:45 daylight time—I am probably going to spend from now toMarch adjusting the time to daylight time which will continue to be thestandard I follow. Anyway, an hour later when I’d dozed off, my brother wokeme, calling from the hospital. I was glad enough to talk to him that I didn’tmind being pulled out of a funny, funky dream. We chatted a bit, but I didn’thave my hearing aids and pneumonia makes him wheeze so that I had a hard timeunderstanding. Still, I was delighted he called, even if he did think I’dcalled him.

I meant to write about ghostkitchens today, because the new title of the latest Irene adventure is Irenein a Ghost Kitchen, but before I got to that I spent a lot of time in myvery real, definitely not a ghost kitchen. My project for the day was to makebeef tips in gravy for dinner tonight, and this morning I got it put together—seasonedand browned the meat, sauteed onions and garlic, made the gravy. It’s in thefridge now but will come out to simmer for at least a couple of hours after Inap. And the cooking dishes are all washed and put away. Yes, I am feeling veryrighteous. It also smells delicious. Decisions, decisions—should we have mashedpotatoes or noodles with it? I thought of polenta but I don’t have enough inthe freezer.

These days I’m in a kitchen alot, whether it be my own, my imaginary dream kitchen, sometimes my mom’skitchen of memory, or Irene’s ghost kitchen. Irene wanted a café, like she hasin France, but as Chance, her billionaire lover said, “A ghost kitchen is muchcheaper.” Ghost kitchens, also known as cloud kitchens or dark kitchens, existonly to serve online orders and deliver food. There is no on-site service, andthe customer has no interaction with the kitchen staff. Irene’s kitchen servesher own gourmet dishes, but some ghost kitchens serve several popular brands offood at one. Ghost kitchens have much lower overhead—they don’t have to be in afashionable or well-traveled location, and they don’t require nearly as muchspace as a dine-in restaurant; they have no front-of-the-house staff such as hostor hostess, wait staff, bus boys, etc. The restaurants either maintain theirown delivery service or use one of the many delivery apps such as Door Dash or UberEats.

Ghost kitchens existed beforepandemic but really flourished during that quarantine. Customers didn’t want togo out to eat, restaurants couldn’t hire enough wait staff, some restaurantswere forced to close completely. Today, with quarantine lifted, ghost kitchensare still popular. Some major restaurant chains operate ghost kitchens underanother name: Conviction Chicken is the ghost kitchen of TGI Friday’s, CosmicWings and Neighborhood Wings are operated by Applebees, Chili’s has Maggiano’sItalian Classics and Just Wings. The list is long.

Sometimes ghost kitchens areshared—one building may house several, or an independent ghost kitchen may rentspace in an existing restaurant. A business called Fort Worth Food Works housesseveral ghost kitchens and offers all the facilities and services a restaurant needs.Perfect for a start-up chef.

Irene’s ghost kitchen, ofcourse, is none of those. It’s the whim of a faux French chef. She is, however,going to offer small cooking classes in her kitchen. First up, the French classicpopularized by Julia Child (shh! Don’t say that to Irene!): boeuf bourguignon.Then maybe a good hearty cassoulet; perhaps Coquilles St. Jacque (scallops inwine sauce—someone once asked me what I fixed for company the night before, andwhen I said Coquilles St. Jacque he said, “Gesundheit!” so I always explain it).Lobster thermidor and coq au vin may be on Irene’s class last, but daily she’llfix appetizers such as gougeres, desserts like crème brulee, and special orders—hersecret liver pate. Will she make a success of the kitchen? Who knows? Certainlynot me at this point, though I hope to know by next spring.

Speaking of recipes I ranacross a custom that is new to me but apparently worldwide: putting recipes ofthe tombstones of people, mostly women, revered for their cooking skills. Wantto make Bonnie Johnson’s No-Bake Oatmeal Cookies? Just go to the cemetery inNome, Alaska and get the recipe. Or read about it on Gastro Obscura Thefamily recipes carved into gravestones (mailchi.mp)

Happy Sunday night!

 

Not my favorite time of year

 

With my brother, at his ranch
This time of year brings outmy negative thoughts, so I’m going to put them all in this blog and get rid ofthem. I bet you share some with me. Tonight we set the clocks back an hour—veryfew people want to do that. I used to hear that it was for the farmers’ sake.But to my understanding with new farm technology, that extra hour in themorning doesn’t matter to farmers (someone correct me if I’m wrong). To therest of us, standard time means it gets dark—and depressing—in the lateafternoon. Truthfully, I don’t care about an extra hour of daylight in themorning. All it means to me is Sophie will wake up an hour earlier than I wanther to. But I love the late afternoon sunshine. So there! That’s my firstwhine.

Second is that weekends inthis season are all about football. Okay, I understand that the nation is crazyabout watching young (and some not so young) men fight over a pigskin ball on ahuge field. I am not intrigued, but I would be willing to be gracious about it,if it did not mean that regular news programming is cancelled. I am my father’schild, which means that I want to see the national news every evening,particularly in these times when both the international scene and our own Houseof Representatives is exploding. Football takes a distant second to the threatsto our democracy, our climate, our world.

And then, tonight, there’s mygreen bean story: I am slowly learning to mark the “No subs” box when I orderfrom Central Market, because I have gotten some really strange substitutions.Like skinny baby eggplant, when I wanted nice round ones to stuff. I have founda brand of frozen green beans that taste just like the fresh—they are easy tokeep in the freezer and cook however many I need. One day I got instead apackage of green beans to microwave, which didn’t do me much good because I don’thave a microwave. Last week, I got a pound of fresh green beans when I orderedfrozen. Okay, I’m not above snapping off the ends and cleaning them, thoughJordan tells me tonight that she doesn’t like them fresh.

Anyway this pound of freshbeans came in a baggie that was not closed in any way. Yep, you got it. Idumped it all over the floor. Had to call Jordan because the only way I can getthings off the floor is to sweep, and I didn’t want to sweep the floor with thebeans. She was all for throwing them away, but my Scots blood rebelled. So asshe was carefully picking them off the floor, she muttered, “You better washthese carefully.”

Tonight I double washed them,first in a bowl of salted water—a trick I learned from my mom who insisted thesalt scrubbed things clean. She used to clean mushrooms that way, which I thinknow was probably ill-advised, but I thought it would work with beans. And itdid. The second water was much clearer. Then I blanched the beans for my dinnertonight. Then Jordan comes out to tell me she and Christian do want theleftover meatloaf I was having. So we’re having a delayed dinner together. Shestill doesn’t want the beans.

One complaint I can’t erase bywriting about it: my big brother (and the only sibling I have) is back in thehospital with what he, a physician, would probably call old man’s problems.Please pray with me for a speedy recovery. As I think back over our lives, Irealize how much each of us has shaped the other’s life. I wouldn’t have leftChicago without his prodding; he wouldn’t have moved to Texas if I weren’t here—notthat he moved to be close to me, but that because of me (and my ex) he knew ofthe opportunities here for him. Over the years, we have been close, then not soclose, then especially lately closer. Perhaps our golden era was when we wereboth single with kids in high school, and I used to gather everyone for Sundaysupper—such treasured memories. I’m feeling a bit nostalgic tonight.

What are you reading?

If someone asked you how manybooks you read in the last year, could you answer? And if they pushed further andasked which three were your favorites, could you answer? I found myselfanswering those questions recently—and because I read Kindle digital editionsalmost exclusively, I had a fairly handy answer in my Kindle account.

I know some people scorndigital editions and wax eloquent about the feel of the book in their hands,the smell of a newly opened book. I understand all that, but I usually read atmy desk—for goodness sake, I eat at my desk, phone there, practically live atmy desk when I’m awake, so it’s not unusual that I read there, especially lateat night. But I find putting a book on my desk and bending my neck to read isawkward and gives me a stiff neck. (No, I don’t know what I did all those yearsbefore Kindle). I also find the type is too small in some books and too crowdedtogether. On my oversize monitor, text is straight in front of me and clearly legible.

As for reading in bed, forgetit. I have never been comfortable doing that. When I go to bed, I go to sleep.Reading in bed would really give me a stiff neck.

Some people keep a readingjournal, listing books by date, author, plot, and personal reaction. I thinkthat’s a great idea, and some days I think I’ll start that. But I haven’t.

Back to the questions I answered.Shepherd.com is a website founded by avid reader Ben Fox to help people findthe books they want to read. Fox solicited memberships from authors and readersand began listing books by favorite topics. We were asked, for instance, todream up categories and list our favorite three books, so I listed my favoriteOutrageous Cozy Mysteries.

When a call came to list my favorite threereads in the last year, I simply went to my Kindle directory and scrolledthrough what I’d read. Here are the three I picked: https://shepherd.com/bboy/2023/f/judy-alter.It interested me that none of my favorites made the list of books most oftencited. Here’s that list: https://shepherd.com/bboy/2023.I think I’m a bit proud that my books weren’t on the popular list. To me, itmeans I’m following my own personal tastes and not being swayed by what’s popular.You won’t be surprised that my list is heavily into food-related books. You’llalso find I read forty books last year—that was an estimate, and I expect it’son the low side.

Several people in an online authors’group also submitted to this list, and a bit of correspondence with themconvinces me that I need to go back and give a second chance to a couple ofauthors I’ve previously decided against. One is Richard Osmond’s retirementcenter series where a group of four meet to discuss murder—and find themselvesin the midst of real murder investigations. There are four books in the series,starting with The Thursday Murder Club. I started that once, guess Ididn’t give it enough of a chance. So I will go back to it.

The other author I’m told I’denjoy is Janet Evanovitch. I have real reservations about that, but it’s beenso long since I read about Stephanie Plum that I’m not sure why. My memorytells me I thought it was over the top crude, but I do know that thegrandmother in that series has lots of loyal followers. So I’ll try.

My one Janet Evanovich story: shespoke to a capacity crowd at TCU one night quite a few years ago, and myassigned job was to stand by the door of the ladies’ room so that she couldhave a moment of privacy between her talk and book signing. So there I stood,barring the door, when a woman came up to me and said, “I know who you are.”Well, yes, I preened a bit and thought, “She’s read my books.” No such case:she said, “You run the cash register at the Star Café.” She’d apparently caughtme at what was then my Saturday night gig in a café owned by good friends. Somuch for fame.

So, to wrap this up, right now I’mreading, Guilt Strikes at Granger’s Store, the ninth Samuel Craddockmystery by Terry Shames. I really recommend this series. It will probably go onmy favorites list next year.

In all that is so sad in ourworld these days, this struck me as particularly sad: I saw where a teenagegirl had finally brought down the “magnificent’ buck she’d been stalking for years.She talked about what an honor it was for her to kill this buck. I know peoplewho hunt for meat, but hunting for honor and glory strikes me as so wrong—and fora teenage girl. Besides, if she’s been stalking him for years, the meat willprobably be tough and stringy. Why couldn’t she have let him live his life insplendor. Color me a soft heart.

 

Random thoughts on a cold night

 

I have no idea what this image has to do with this blog, 
but it somehow landed here and I cannot get rid of it.
At least it satisfies the algorithms.

This is the kind of night whenI really notice the one flaw in my cottage: there is no fireplace and no roomfor one. Jamie bought me a tiny artificial fireplace—the flames look very real,and it gives off just a smidge of heat, but I like it for the atmosphere, thethought of a fire. We have not yet gotten it down from wherever it was packedaway over the summer. The cottage tonight, however, is toasty warm. I have thethermostat on the two ductless split systems—one in the living area and one inthe bedroom—set at a level I never would in a regular furnace, but I don’tthink these units heat as well. At any rate, I am comfortable—and I spentyesterday being cold all day.

I had the classic school dreamlast night—I was enrolled in two college classes but didn’t really want to takethem. Finally I realized that I had already completed the degree requirements,and I dropped the classes. Such a relief! Occasionally I dream I am enrolled ina class and it’s time for the final, but I’ve never attended—or I couldn’t findthe classroom. I think the class is often paleontology, something way out of myfield of interest.

School dreams like that arenot unusual and often mean that you are dealing with unpleasant memories or areanxious about something. I really don’t feel that there’s much in my life to beanxious about. But in the wider world, there is so much to be anxious about. Ifind that since the horrific Hamas attack on Israeli settlements, I am lessoptimistic. These days I am truly worried about an international war, with ourtroops suffering air raid strikes and half the Middle East ready to join thefight—though who on which side remains sort of unclear, except I don’t thinkIsrael would have many allies. And at home, antisemitism is on the rise at analarming rate. It’s like that night over three weeks ago Hamas let loose allthe evil and hate in the world. It scares me that people are so fierce, and theindividual stories break my heart.

Where is Solomon with his wisdom?Not only did he use his sword to settle a matter of motherhood, he successfullyruled over two tribes and is recognized today, in different ways, by both Jewsand Muslims. I see no path forward to peace, and I grieve at the bitter fate ofcivilians on either side of the conflict. I read somewhere that over half thePalestinians killed in the conflict were children. Both sides are fixed onvengeance, but as Ghandi said, “An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.”I am afraid that is what is happening to us.

It's hard these days to goback to the ordinary, to root yourself in such things as Halloween and getting plantsin before tonight’s frost and what to fix for supper tomorrow night. But it isthose ordinary things I think that often hold us together. And today I read anarticle about that most ordinary of things: the common southern phrase, “Blessyour heart.” We all know it can be a biting insult, but an article in SouthernLiving suggests it is much more nuanced. The meaning depends heavily on thespeaker’s tone of voice.

Whispered in a conspiratorialvoice, usually about someone not present, it casts doubt on the subject’s abilities,mostly mental or social. Stated in a clear, caring tone of voice, it conveysreal concern or sympathy. Said with sass, it implies judgement and anincredulous, “What were you thinking?” If the speaker’s voice holds pity, andyou’re the recipient, accept that it is not a compliment and move on. If it’ssaid matter-of-factly, it may mean that the speaker doesn’t want to revealtheir real feelings and wants to end the conversation.

Feeling much better today—thanksfor asking. Cold symptoms cough and stuffy nose persist, but I have more energyand more interest in what I’m working on. Wrote a thousand words today, most ofthem good words.

Bless your heart, one and all.