Judy Alter's Blog, page 15

A sudden burst of winter

 

Megan's pot of chili
I am not a happy camper nowthat the temperature is in the low forties. I have been shivering in my bootsall day, despite extra layers of clothing and a fleece jacket I refuse to beparted from. Sophie on the other hand is delighted by the weather and begs—uh,demands!—to go outside every minute.

In the proper spirit ofHalloween and the arrival of cold weather, Christian made a large pot of chilitonight—does indeed warm the bones. My day was also brightened by talking byphone with my two sons and by text with Megan, who was also making a big pot ofchili. In her house, Brandon is the king of chili, but he was out of town, andMegan explained they would need chili tomorrow when the high in Austin is to bein the low forties. Brandon will no doubt have something to say about her usurpinghis role.

Jamie gave me a Facetime tourof his new apartment in Denver—all glass and modern, in downtown Denver withthe South Platte River right outside his window—well, a few stories down. Todayit had the added beauty of brand new snow covering everything. I honestly thinksometimes that kind of cold feels better than what we are having. Jame says heenjoyed running in it yesterday. Today he too cooked for the weather—not chilibut a big pot of soup.

Busy weekend around here.Yesterday Christian went to a watch party for the Baylor game—oops, I haven’teven asked who won. Jordan went to a John Mayer concert in Dallas last night.When I asked Christian this morning if she enjoyed it, he said “Jordan couldlisten to John Mayer burp for two hours and be happy.” I replied she is one ofthousands of women in their forties and fifties. Jordan and Megan have beenknown to go as far as Chicago for one of his concerts—or was that an excuse togo to Chicago?

I first heard of Mayer severalyears ago when I was editing a novel by the late Holly Gilliatt. I think thetitle was ‘Til St. Patrick’s Day, and it was built around a Mayer songby that title. The gist of it was that you don’t want to break up with yoursignificant other in October or November because the holiday season is rightahead and nobody wants to be alone for Thanksgiving or Christmas. And then ofcourse there’s New Year’s Eve, for which it’s essential to have a sweetie, andnobody wants a lonely Valentine’s Day. But St. Patrick’s Day? It’s okay.Nothing special. That’s the time to reassess. Holly tried hard to getpermission to quote the lyrics but learned a stiff lesson in the ways of musiccopyright. I think Mayer agreed but his producers did not. Holly must have beenin the early wave of John Mayer fans. I’ve heard a song or two and he’s okay,nice, soft music, but I wouldn’t go to Dallas on a cold night for one of hisconcerts, let alone Chicago.

Covid has me in its grip still—orthe aftereffects do. I cough and sneeze and blow my nose a lot, and I still don’thave much ambition. I did absolutely nothing worthwhile yesterday but didmanage to go to church virtually and do some editing today. I am hoping to getback to a real schedule and routine tomorrow. The trick, I keep telling myself,is to stop thinking I’m sick. Today I began to wonder if it might not be betterto admit I don’t feel a hundred percent and just take to my bed. But then, ofcourse, I’d be itchy about the things I’m not getting down.

Stay warm and safe everyone. I’mabout to go try to convince Soph it’s time to come in for the evening.

Kitchen Tales

My kitchen sink
Last night Jordan found an oldcookbook on my shelves. “Did you write in this?” she asked, the moment sheopened it. The pages were covered with notes, recipes on index cards werestapled in at various places, and hand-written recipes covered the endsheets.Jordan, who’s been trained not to write in books, was astounded. I told it wasa first edition of Helen Corbitt’s first cookbook that had belonged to Linda’smother, Billie, and Linda (one of my closest friends) loaned it to me, knowingthat I was fond of Billie and at the time studying Helen Corbitt. “Linda can’thave this back,” she said as she leafed through it. (Be forewarned next timeyou visit, Linda!)

So I thought Jordan mightenjoy the cookbook my mom had helped put together in the fifties for theauxiliary of the osteopathic hospital where Dad worked. Mom was sort of theforce behind that book, but reluctant to have her name appear too often, she signed some recipes with the pseudonymPenelope Jones. Helpful cooking hints were contributed by the anonymous “GourmetGrace”—guess who. And then some recipes carried the names of my far-away aunts.It was one of those projects where the recipes are reproduced in the donor’shandwriting—and there it was, in roundish, childish handwriting: my firstpublished recipe, for hot cheese dip.

Jordan was surprised by theamounts or lack of. “It says one roll of garlic cheese—how do you know how big?”I explained that back then garlic cheese came, from Kraft I believe, in a standardsize. It’s no longer on the market that way. Another surprise for her broughtforth, “You can’t buy lobster in a can!” I assured her you could, probablystill can today. She looked it up and it is available, at quite a price.Several more oddities struck her, and we had lots of fun talking about thedifference in recipes. It was especially fun since she, my youngest, had beenher grandmother’s special baby because soon after she came along my mom moveddown the street from us.

Ruth Reichl’s Substack columntoday struck home with me. It reprinted a column she’d written several yearsago from an ultra-modern, ultra-efficient, swank leased kitchen in LA. The kindwhere you can do everything with a push of a button. The dream kitchen of thr1950s. Reichl hated it. It was cold and sterile, and she longed for her homekitchen with the stove that didn’t work right. She then reviewed variouskitchens in homes where she’d lived, with the thought in mind that the kitchenshould be a happy place (Helen Corbitt would have loved this woman!)

Of course it got me tothinking about kitchens I’ve known, from the remodel in the fifties that Momwas so proud of to the remodel in what I call my doctor’s-wife kitchen. Thatremodel, I swear, began the dissolution of the marriage. And then of course Icame to my tiny kitchen today. One of the points Reichl made was that she hadcooked for years in kitchens without dishwashers, which gave her a newappreciation for that appliance. I cook without one now—no room for it. And asmost of you know I cook on an induction hot plate and a toaster oven—no stove,no microwave.

I’ve been saying that if Ithought I would cook and live for another twenty years or so, I’d hire one ofthose expensive kitchen designers to gut my kitchen and redesign it. Ourcontractor, who is a minor god in my book, did a good job, building onknowledge from his wife’s kitchen. Mine is functional, but I am sure there is abetter way to design it for more storage, more efficient use of space, andbetter accommodation for a person in a wheelchair. I don’t do it because one neverknows in the mid-eighties how long this good run is going to last, and it wouldnot be an investment in the future—I can’t imagine anyone caring that muchabout a 4x6 kitchen in what will probably be rental property one day. Meantime,taking Reichl’s advice, I’m going to focus on my kitchen as a joyful place—it mostlyis, for me.

I resurrected a bit of thepast today when Teddy and Sue came for wine. I Jezebel sauce. There are hundredsof recipes out there, but I’ve never found the first one I ever made, so I wasdelighted to find this four-ingredient one: 1 18 oz. jar apricot preserves, 2tsp. Dijon mustard, 2-3 Tbsp. horseradish, cracked pepper to taste. Pour itover a block of cream cheese and serve with Ritz crackers. It was a hit, thoughI halved the recipe and still had about half of what I made left over.

I had one more kitchen tale totell—a disastrous delivery from Central Market—but it’s late, and I’ll save itfor another day.

Back at work, mostly

 

 

 

Quarantine’sover! Not that I’m rushing out into the world—or even inviting Christian to thecottage for supper (tonight’s supper was not very good anyway—delicious gravy,but the meat was tough—I got tired of chewing.) Our doctor’s advice was to maskfor five days after quarantine, and I will take that literally. Disinvited thefriend who was to come for happy hour tonight and the one who was coming forsupper tonight.

I‘mhaving trouble sorting out the sleep/wake/work thing. Today I crashed about oneo’clock, too early for my usual nap. I think a rainy day contributed, plus thefact I had cleared the decks for writing—and was maybe intimidated by that. It’sthe old Irma Bomback syndrome—she once wrote she’d rather scrub floor than lookat a blank piece of paper in the typewriter—Irma’s day, of course, predatedcomputers.

I hada good nap, woke up and wrote a thousand words on the Irene-in-progress, nowtitled Irene in a Ghost Kitchen, because the old title, MissingIrene, no longer was appropriate—she was only missing for the firstthousand words at most. I think the ghost kitchen will remain relevant, but younever know—stories have a way of taking on a life of their own, no matter whatthe author plans.

Fortwo nights now, since our stomachs felt better, Jordan and I have been eatingsupper in the cottage together, because it’s the one place we don’t have tomask. What are we going to do? Give covid to each other? Last night was greennoodles (watch for tomorrow’s Gourmet on a Hot Plate column). Tonight she likedthe idea of cube steaks in gravy. I recently cooked cube steaks and got themtender, but not tonight. Will have to keep working on that. I’ve been getting reallygood frozen green beans from Central Market so I pulled those out of the freezer.They had subbed microwave green beans for the ones I usually get, which wasn’thelpful because I don’t have a microwave. I cooked them the old-fashioned way,and they were okay—but uncut and difficult to eat. I am increasingly leery ofany subs made by CM shoppers.

We’vehad slow rain for most of two days—lovely, but it makes me sleepy—and tonightit has just stopped coming down rather steadily. I saw one report of fourinches in our neighborhood—the poster made it sound like a challenge to see ifanyone could beat him. Sophie is made very nervous by the occasional thunderand follows me everywhere. Since we think she has pretty much lost hereyesight, I speak to her, “Now we’re going to the bathroom to brush my teeth,”or “Now we’re going to my desk.” She follows along and camps wherever I am. Herpresence has the advantage of making me follow one piece of advice always givento writers: Putt your butt in the chair and keep it there.

I’mgoing to take a glance at Facebook and go back to bed. Thanks for all the goodwishes. I truly appreciate them.

An absolute bummer of a day

 

I awoke this morning to a stunninglyquiet cottage. It took me a moment to realize there was no hum of the refrigerator,no white sound from the HVAC unit. None of the appliances had their little lightslit to show they were functioning. I looked across the yard at Jordan’s houseand saw there were no lights. Then I found she had texted me that an accidentat the stoplight, a block and a half away, had taken out an electric pole. Itwould be fixed by nine-thirty, according to the power company.

There is not much I can do inthe cottage without power—no cup of tea, because I have nothing to heat thewater; no hot water (good thing I didn’t want to wash my hair); even the bidetwouldn’t work. I had thought my computer would work on battery, but no suchluck. No TV. No reading, because I read on my computer. Oh sure, I could dosome of that on my phone, but it’s tiny and both my old fingers and old eyesare not happy working on it.

Besides, last night, havinghad I guess all the sleep I needed, I was awake and at my computer at midnight,making a list of things to do today, like cancelling tomorrow’s dental appointment,making sure the Book Ladies knew I’d cancelled the group happy hour tomorrow (Istill am afraid one will show up, appetizer in hand). I wanted to check if thechurch would have charitable turkey dinners, and I needed to check on aneighbor. Little stuff, and the world wouldn’t end if I didn’t get it down, buta lot of it was locked in my computer.

Nine-thirty came and went,then ten-thirty. At eleven groceries were delivered, and I ate a banana. An emailtold me the power company now said three to four hours. I went back to bed, butI was restless, my body achy from having spent too much time in bed. The power cameon about three, and I worked like a demon until seven-thirty. With all emailsread and dealt with, my to-do list considerably shortened with only one of twothings postponed until tomorrow, I took a nap. Woke feeling so cozy andcomfortable, I debated getting up. But I did.

Now, at nine-thirty I’m aboutto go back to bed. I think my Covid is better, but neither Jordan nor I areready to charge out into the world. Tomorrow is the last day of quarantine. I’mcounting on a better day.

I have a message foranti-vaxxers (of course, none will read my blog): get up to date on vaccines.At my age, Covid could have turned into something severe. As it is, it was likean annoying, bad head cold, with a persistent cough (now mostly gone). I feelvery lucky but also grateful that I had good medical advice and kept up myvaccinations. Of course I’m not completely out of the woods yet, so maybe I’mtoo smug.

A sign I’m feeling muchbetter: I ate the leftover tuna salad tonight, and I am again enjoying lookingat recipes. So guess what I found tonight? A recipe for an appetizer, of a Spamcubes (yes, you heard me), Gruyere, coarse mustard, and a cornichon. It wouldeither be interesting or appalling. I am amused at the combination of what you mightcall a low-class food—Spam—with a gourmet cheese like Gruyere. I also found a recipefor updated stuffed celery. I remember that from my childhood.

And a Facebook me that hithome, because I thought I was having such a bad day: “If you think you’rehaving a bad day, remember that the Salzburg airport has an entire counter forfolks who flew to Austria thinking they were flying to Australia.”

‘Night folks. Sweet dreams.

Ginger ale and other memories—a brief update

 

Sophie and her empty bowl


Yesterday I was talking toMegan, my Austin daughter, and mentionedthat I wished I had some ginger ale because that’s what my mom always gave mewhen I was sick. In a slightly amused tone, Megan said, “That’s why my mom gaveme too!” Couldn’t believe I’d forgotten that. She went on to remember that Igave them Lipton’s chicken noodle soup from a packet. I don’t have the soup,but either Christian or Jacob got me some ginger ale, and I’ve been guzzlingit.

Sophie still rules the roostand doesn’t understand that I’m not following my routine. I usually go to bedabout 11:30 and give her a snack of kibble then because it’s a long time for agirl from dinner at five to breakfast at seven. The other night I fell into bedat nine-thirty, completely forgetting the snack. At 11:30 promptly, she woke meup. I opened the door for her to go out, but she wasn’t interested. So I fedher two little treats. That didn’t satisfy her either, and she went to the kitchencorner where she usually eats. It dawned on me she wanted her kibble. Gave itto her, and she trotted happily off to bed. Sophie has a most accurate internalclock.

She has always disliked my beingin bed—will sometimes wake me, just to get me up. So she’s doubly unhappy thesedays when I go back to bed several times a day. I don’t let her have access tothe back yard when I’m not up and keeping an eye on her, so that adds to herfrustration.

I’m glad to report I haveapparently (knock on wood) had a mild case of Covid, like a really annoyinghead cold. But now I’m on the mend—ate a little bit today (not quite up to thetuna salad in the fridge but had cottage cheese and later a buttered potato),slept soundly, coughed less, and generally felt better. Jordan is not feeling asmuch better but has no fever (I never did have). Two more days of quarantine!Not that I expect to rush out into the world.

Have a good week, everyone.

Taking the night off

Sophie, my companion in isolation
No blog tonight. This morning,Jordan and I tested positive for covid. We’re both okay, just lethargic and notat all hungry. I think I live such a reclusive life back here in my cottage,but it was amazing this morning how many people I had to notify, appointmentsto cancel. I think I got everyone, and now I’m getting you, my blog friends.

One thing I learned today andam passing along in case it will help someone else. We’ve all heard that if youget covid, you should start Paxlovid right away—it keeps the disease from turningsevere. So I was ready to send someone to the drugstore, but Jordan wiselysaid, “Let’s call the doctor first.” I see a physician and she sees a PA in thesame clinic (which is where we think we were exposed, through no fault of theirs).We saw the PA virtually, and she said I cannot take Paxlovid because I am on ablood thinner.

So my warning is twofold—if youget covid, be sure to check with your physician before you rush off toself-medicate, and if you are on a blood thinner, do not take Paxlovid.

We are to isolate for fivedays—as Jordan said, it’s good we can hang out together—and then mask in publicfor five days. So if I don’t blog, you’ll understand, I hope.

Food, war, and chaos--finding comfort in bad times

 

 

You know it’s a slow week whenthe highlight of the day is going to the doctor’s office for blood work. The nicething about that is that Jordan and I both had appointments. And the brdy partwas that it got me out in the fresh air.

But that’s sort of how my weekhas been, so tonight this is a non-blog. I just don’t have much to say. My weekhas been consumed mostly by my dive into the food we ate in the 1950s. I can’tfigure out if I’m working on a cookbook, a memoir, a narrative about culinaryhistory or some weird combination of all those. I’m loving some of the factsthat I turn up, along with the stories friends tell me. One friend remembersher grandmother making biscuits in an old enamel pan, adding a pinch of thisand a glop of lard—no measuring. Still another remember the time the flour fromthe store had little black specks in it—not knowing any better, she dumped itinto the barrel where her mom kept fresh flour. Of course, the whole thing hadto be thrown out, and her mother was angry. She had lived through theDepression, as had my mother, and she was terrified of waste.

Two other things consume me,and my thoughts frequently go to the Middle East, grieving over the Israelidead and those held hostage and equally over the Palestinian civilians caughtbetween two warring armies—and two ideologies. But at the same time I amriveted to the chaos in our House of Representatives, or as Hakeen Jeffriescalls it, “the Peope’s House.” I am relieved beyond measure that Gym Jordan’shopes for the speakership seem doomed, but I am still a bit afraid to count on hisdefeat. To think of that man wielding political power, let alone being third inline for the presidency, is a horror beyond imagining. I should think that thisclown show has the Republican party hemorrhaging votes, but I know that mine isa simplistic attitude. At this point, there’s no explaining die-hardRepublicans.

I have also done some menuplanning this week—I will be entertaining a small group next week one evening,some book ladies, and a longtime friend another. So I was thumbing through oldrecipe files, something I like to do. For the small group I will fix pigs in ablanket and onion soup biscuits—where you quarter refrigerator biscuits androll the pieces in butter and onion soup. Remember how many things we fixedwith that soup back in the day? Today most people still use the classic dipwith sour cream—it’s so addictive. But I am trying to stick to finger food, sono dip. One friend is bringing deviled eggs—yum!—and another Parmesan crisps.The night my friend comes I’ll do a stuffed eggplant (it’s okay—she doesn’tread on Facebook) because I know she loves eggplant, and my family won’t eatit.

And then there are someeat-alone nights. I’m still in search of a can of corned beef hash so I can fixit like my mom did—refrigerated, then took both ends off the can and pushed themeat through in one big cylinder, which she sliced and fried. She got a good,crisp crust on it, something I have yet to duplicate, but I’ll keep trying. Speakingof such retro dishes, I did fix creamed chipped beef (commonly known as SOS orshit on a shingle) for someone last week, and we both raved about how good itwas.

As I look back at the week, orhalf week, I realize that I find comfort in reading, writing, and talking aboutfood. It draws my mind from the chaos of our world and somehow reassures methat the normal world is still there for many of us. That normal world is so fragile,and we are so fortunate, that it sometimes scares me a lot. But I am an optimist.I pray for peace abroad, and for tolerance here at home so that we may truly loveour neighbor—and let our kids read whatever books they want.

I’ll quit and read a goodmystery. Watch for Gourmet on a Hot Plate tomorrow—hint, the recipe of the weekis something from the fifties (no surprise there), and it involves chicken andlinguini.

‘Night all. Sweet dreams.

A little lesson on food and cooking

 

 

Leftover roast salmon with pasta.
So good!
Mymother made bread by instinct. When she taught me, her caution was, “Don’t usetoo much flour or your bread will be tough. Knead it until it feels right.” Sheknew just how much to knead, how long to let it rise. She had a big old woodenboard on which she pounded that dough. Her bread came out in beautiful goldenloaves. No recipe needed.

Ihave a friend whose grandmother made “the world’s best” biscuits in a shallow,white enamel pan she also washed her dishes in (on the kitchen table: there wasno sink). She dumped in a couple of coffee cups of flour, “measured” bakingpowder and salt with the spoon out of the sugar bowl on the table, pulled aglob of soft lard out of the lard bucket with her fingers and worked it intothe flour. Added milk until it looked right, kneaded a bit, rolled it out witha rolling pin her husband carved from a chunk of maple, and cut the biscuitswith a water glass. I still have the old, metal orange juice can that mygrandmother used to cut biscuits. Nobody cooks that way now. I call itintuitive cooking.

Jordangets frustrated when she asked me how long to cook something, and I say, “Untilit’s done.” Or when she wants to know how much flour to use, and I say, “Untilit feels right.” She wants a printed recipe, complete with amounts and detailedinstructions in front of her, and I don’t think she’s unusual in this day andage. Many young women have lost or never had instincts about cooking. (I dowonder if I somehow failed in that aspect of raising her.)

Manyof the women of my generation—we old ladies of the Silent Generation—mixinstinct with recipes when we cook. We can size a recipe up when we read it,judging whether or not it will work, and then we can adapt it to our taste andneeds as we go along. (Christian cooks that way too.) And we can make a pie orrolls without a recipe, because we’ve done it so often—and we learned from ourmothers.

Thewomen of the 1950s, that decade when American foodways changed so dramatically,may be the last to base their cooking purely on instinct. They had cooked withtheir mothers and grandmothers, and they cooked the way they learned. Not allwomen of the fifties, though. During that decade, food manufacturers switchedtheir attention from supplying the military, since the war was over, tocourting housewives. Advertising departments decided women hated to cook, andso the food industry set out to simplify cooking, make it easier and quicker.They did this with prepared food and new gadgets. By the end of the fifties youcould buy an angel food cake mix or a tube of prepared biscuit dough. All youhad to do was bake.

Mytheory is that having most of the work done for them by manufacturers, womengradually lost touch with the food they were cooking. They didn’t have tomeasure and judge the texture and feel the dough to see if it was right. (Ihope I get a lot of indignant responses to this.)

Onanother food note, I read a Ruth Reichl column today which convinced me thatI’ve found my niche in studying the plain, traditional food of the fifties.Reichl is writing from Marseilles this week and sending pictures of the food.Beautiful pictures—and probably not a dish that I, a fairly experimental eater,would touch. Blue soup that is fish broth with chard floating in it (no ideawhat makes it blue); sliced bottarga (I had to look that one up: a cured fishroe pouch) with caviar; a “garden of fish” floating in a green, seashell jelly;a carabinero (had to look that up too: a large, deep sea shrimp) servedsomewhere between raw and cooked, with fennel; ravioli filled with clams andmussels in an “intense” fish soup. Absolutely gorgeous pictures, smashingphotography. But I don’t know that I’d have eaten any of it. I love readingabout it, and about the old French restaurants with lots of atmosphere, but Isomehow can’t translate that to my life in Texas.

Soif you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go make a pasta dish out of last night’sleftover roast salmon. The simple life. (This is me, trying out material forthe cookbook/memoir I hope I’m writing. I’d love feedback.) Just for fun,here’s what I did with the salmon (without a recipe):

Cookenough pasta for one. Drain and put aside.

Meltsome butter in the skillet. Add a garlic clove and cook it briefly.

Addsalmon and some frozen green peas. Salt and pepper.

Putin a glob of sour cream, enough to make a sauce.

Adthe pasta and stir until dish is warm. Do not let it boil or sour cream willseparate.

Putin a pasta plate and top with grated pecorino.

 

 

Arguing with myself

 

University Christian Church
Fort Worth
Today, my church, UniversityChristian, celebrated its 150th anniversary with one huge service instead ofthe four separate services of a usual Sunday. The music was spectacular. Hymns andanthems from our traditional services blended with guitar accompaniment to “HowFirm a Foundation: and “His Eye is on the Sparrow”; a powerful group of windinstruments contrasted with the folk-music feel of guitar; and a full choirsoared to the high notes. Every minister on staff was involved in the servicein some way, but the highlight was a dialogue between senior minister RussPeterman and former senior minister Scott Colglazier on the future of the church,what the church of the next 150 years needs to be about. Visiting dignitariesmade brief appearances—the mayor of Fort Worth, the president of TCU, theregional Disciples minister, and a representative of the national headquartersof the church. The congregational turnout was huge and enthusiastic. Even inthese glum days, an air of optimism and gratitude and grace elevated theservice. Afterward there was a celebratory reception with food and fellowship,and a lot of people I would have liked to see.

I wasn’t there. I watched thealmost two-hour service online, which has some advantages: I could hear everythingbetter than I often did in the sanctuary, and when the ministers were talking,it was as though they were sitting across my desk talking directly to me. I almosthad an urge to reach out to Scott and say, “Hi, nice to see you again.” During hispastorate, I was most active in the church. My good friend and the director ofmusic, Betty Boles, could always find things she thought I ought to do. And Idid them willingly and happily. It’s a part of my life I miss now.

I argued with myself all weekabout going to this service. When I first heard about the plans I was excited, readyto be in the congregation. Since I don’t leave the cottage often, I think I shouldnever miss an opportunity. But the more I thought about it, the more Iquestioned the wisdom of going. Christian would push me in the transport chair,but if it was as crowded as I expected it would be awkward and difficult. Ididn’t want to go the reception because when you’re in a wheelchair at areception where people, all standing, are milling around, you somehow seem toshrink. Been there, done that, felt like a child among giants.

So I attended virtually, and itturned out to be the right decision. When I heard one minister mention parking difficultiesand the senior minister urge the congregation to used the exterior sidewalks toget to the reception and avoid traffic jams, I knew I’d made the rightdecision. Not only did I avoid what might have ranged from awkward todifficult, but I got full benefit out of the service—and yes, some inspiration.Jordan tells me she and Jean and Jeannie talked about how good it was that Iwasn’t there. Sounds funny, but it was true.

And I was still in my pajamasthe entire time.

There’s something about intuition,about listening to your gut. I find that more often than not my instincts areright, if I just have the courage to follow them. This was one of those days.To quote one of the ministers out of context, “Thanks be to God.”

And so we begin another week. Prayfor peace.

Who needs sleep anyway?

 

IThe Walkathon in an earlier year.
t happens once a year. Today wasthe day. I was awakened at seven o’clock by the sounds of a marching band,complete with drum rolls. The high school marching band was tuning up orwhatever they call it directly across the street from our house. We live acrossfrom Lily B. Clayton Elementary School, a historic school with an enthusiasticparent support program. The occasion today was the annual Lily B. Walkathonwhere all students who are able march a mile through the neighborhood, alongwith teachers, parents and friends. Neighbors sit on their porches or frontlawns to wave and encourage the walkers. The parade is led by mounted policeofficers, the marching band, and often a city official in the requisiteconvertible. It’s really a terrific neighborhood occasion. And a fundraiser forthe school. This year the kids raised $58,000 by getting people to support themin the walk.

But seven o’clock is awfullyearly, at least for me. I did doze, and then when they marched away, I fellsound asleep until I heard the drums returning at about nine o’clock. As I laythere listening to them, it occurred to me that it was like having an MRI,where you lie there and try to make sense or a pattern out of the sounds the machineis making. Only in this case there was a pattern. Those high school kids arepretty darn good.

To make it worse, four AmberAlerts about five o’clock in the morning brought me straight up in bed andalarmed Sophie who ran around the cottage barking at an enemy she couldn’t see.I’m not savvy enough on my iPhone that I could find out what child is missing,but I pray safety for them. Jacob tells me I missed a national alert lastweekend over the Hamas attack on Israel. Perhaps what I missed this morning wasa warning about the predicted Day of Rage. We are all grateful it doesn’t seemto have materialized, though when is at this point always leery of complacency.

All this on Friday thethirteenth. I don’t know about you, but I have never been particularlysuperstitious. In fact, I think it’s kind of silly that tall buildings neverlabel thirteenth floor. No matter what they call it, that fourteenth floor isreally number thirteen. But I read an interesting column this morning. Triskaidekaphobia is the name for extreme superstition of fearof the number thirteen. Writer Kait Carson (Scuba diving mysteries, the newestmystery of which is Deep Dive) points out that you never seat thirteenat a dining table (awkward anyway) and the number 13 is the death card in Tarot.She claims some writers refuse to advertise the thirteenth in a mystery series—howwould you get around that?

But accordingto Kait, in eastern cultures the number is considered lucky, and she herself hashad some lucky Fridays the thirteenth. Maybe it’s all in the way you look atit. Me? I think I’ll consider it neutral, just like any other day—almost. Thenagain maybe that marching band was trying to tell me something. How about you?Are you superstitious?

Meantime, I’mjust going to try to learn to pronounce Triskaidekaphobia—I can’t even break itdown into component parts that make any sense.