Judy Alter's Blog, page 16

Another day, another scam

 

I woke up this morning to atext message telling me that USPS was unable to deliver my package and offeringme a form to fill out to reschedule delivery. I’m not good at texting on myphone—clumsy old fingers—but I am a rule follower, so I began filling it out. Ihad to stop and start over once—this was before I had brushed my teeth or hadmy tea. I finally got a little suspicious when they wanted my credit card—if apackage was coming through USPS there should be no charge. So why the creditcard?

I checked Amazon and thepackage I was expecting had indeed been delivered—it was still in the mainhouse and hadn’t made its way to the cottage yet. So when I got myself togetherfor the day and finally settled at my desk, I decided to check out the web linkon the computer rather than the phone. Wonder of wonders! That page wasn’tworking right now.

Jordan came out a bit later,bringing the package, and said oh for sure to ignore such. This afternoon, the scamwas confirmed by two more emails exactly like the first. The first came fromAudrey—the next two from Margaret and Linda. They are clever, official lookingforms, presented with a cheery, “The USPS team wishes you a good day!” So thisis my warning to all of you!

I note with sadness thepassing of California chef, restaurant owner, and vintner Michael Chiarello atthe age of sixty-one from an allergic reaction. I remember watching him when hehad a regular TV show. As his last name implies, his focus was Italian food,and he was charming and fun to watch. In my appalling collection of recipes,there is a worn piece of paper with Chiarello’s picture (much younger) and thetitle, “Mom’s Stuffed Eggplant.” It’s a different kind of recipe for EggplantParmesan, calling for hamburger. The eggplant is cut in half, hollowed out, andthe eggplant meat, some hamburger, and tomato cooked together with seasoningsand Parmesan and then stuffed back into the eggplant shell for baking. Yes, it’sa bit of work, but it’s so worth it. RIP, Mr. Chiarello—you brought joy to mykitchen.

It’s been another intense dayfor me, past noon before I finished reading new emails and the various newscolumns I follow, like Heather Cox Richardson. I value my exchange with membersof Guppies, the online chapter of Sisters in Crime—today we got going on thepros and cons of Substack, the online platform that combines a blog, newsletter, payment system, and a customer supportteam. I have not for now considered moving this blog to thatsystem, but I’m curious how many regular readers would follow. Substack offersfree and paid content, and I would keep the blog free. At some future date, Imight serialize the Food of the Fifties project I’m working on. And I mightcharge a tiny amount for that. I’ll welcome any comments. Substack seems toencourage back-and-forth conversation more than the blog does. On the otherhand, I’m grateful for my blog readers and not anxious to shake up thatreadership. So I’m on that uncomfortable fence, but it’s not an immediateproblem: the Food of the Fifties manuscript, tentatively titled Mom and Mein the Kitchen, is a long way from completion. Indeed, it may be such an ongoingthing that, like my Thursday cooking blog, “Gourmet on a Hot Plate,” will neverbe finished.

Andthe horror from the Israel/Hamas War continues to come into our living rooms.Weighty thoughts tonight. Count our blessings and pray for the ordinary peopleof Israel and Palestine.

Tangled thoughts between war and food

 

Creamed chipped beef on toast.
Tangled and unhappy thoughtstonight, and I know I’m not alone. The barbarity of the Hamas attacks onIsraeli civilians keeps me awake at night, as I am sure it does you. I simplycannot fathom cold-blooded, mindless killing of innocent strangers. Nor theexecution of babies in their cribs. Those men are animals (I have not heard ofany women among the Hamas terrorists, and I’m wondering if that’s a culturalthing.) I was glad today to hear President Joe Biden make the strongdistinction: we must not confuse Hamas with the Palestinian people who are,perhaps even more than the Israelis, victims of Hamas. Netanyahu’s revenge willbe swift and terrible—and that gives me pause, because he too will obliterate innocentcivilians.

I did a bit of prowling aboutthe background of the longstanding enmity. Perhaps you’ve done that too. In1947, I was nine years old, far too young to care about what was happening insome far-away place. But that was when the land was divided into a Jewish stateand an Arab one. At that time, the Arabs had most of the land. Over the years,the Israelis have taken over most of the Palestinian land, and they have notbeen gentle about it. They would establish a kibbutz on Palestinian soil andthen react when Palestinians raided that village. Both were guilty; neithertried to find peace.

Today, if I’ve got it right,the tiny remaining Palestinian lands—the Gaza Strip and the West Bank—are occupiedterritories, occupied and controlled by Israel. And the Israeli military is notgentle, not even humane in their occupation. The only innocent victims in thisare the ordinary citizens—particularly women and children—on both sides. And Iweep and pray for them.

There’s so much disinformationtoo. No, the U.S. did not give $6 billion to Iran which Iran in turn used tofund the Hamas attack. That money, held by South Korea, has not been touchedand can only be used for humanitarian purposes. The US facilitated theagreement—it never had the money, never gave it to anyone. Shame on Republicansfor trying to turn this world tragedy into a political talking point.

Jacob came home today worriedthat we would be bombed for sheltering refugees. That’s what he heard atschool. How to tell him to tell his schoolmates we don’t have many Palestinianor Israeli refugees, though we might get them, and neither Hamas nor Israel hasthe capability of bombing Fort Worth, Texas. I sympathize with him because Iremember the Bay of Pigs crisis—I was not a lot older and was living inMissouri. I begged my parents to leave Chicago, a prime target, but theyassured me they had lived through similar crises and would be fine. I supposethat is true today too—we have lived through this, but never untouched emotionally.

A side of this I haven’t heardmentioned in this day of anxious concern about the climate: war with rocketsand destruction is bad for the climate. It is another way we do not treat theearth kindly. I’ve been thinking this week about slogans: War is bad for people.War is bad for humans and other living things. War is bad for the earth. Take yourpick. There’s bound to be so much pollution of the air from the bombs andexplosions.

It all makes me think howshortsighted men of violence are. They cannot see beyond the next battle to theeffect on their own people, the earth and the world. I refuse yet to give uphope for mankind, but some days it’s hard to cling to.

I started out to say my thoughtsare tangled between war and food, because most of the day food has been on mymind—not to eat but to write about. Tonight I fixed dinner for my friend MaryV. Creamed chipped beef on toast, or, as it is commonly known, SOS. Somehow itcame up in conversation a bit ago, and I told Mary she was the only otherperson I know who would eat it, so I promised to fix it next time we gottogether. So simple to do, and so very good! All you do is make a white sauce,cut the beef into strips and add it, and serve on toast. With a green salad.Mary tells me she also loves liver, so that’s next on my agenda, but sheinsists next time she will bring dinner from Eatsi’s, and I’m up for that.

Eating a good dinner in apeaceful cottage it seems impossible that there is such horror half a worldaway. I often wonder why I am so blessed. You or I could be living in a kibbutzon the West Bank, we could have been at that music festival—and yet here weare, safe. It must mean, to me, that God wants us to do good, to fight fortruth and honor, to love our neighbor no matter what.

Sorry, I’m getting sloppilyphilosophical, but I think it goes with this week.

A bit of writerly excitement

 

Cottage pie
Image courtesy Mary Dulle

For some time now, I’ve beenfiddling with a project I tentatively titled, Mom and Me in Kitchen. Iwant to somehow capture the importance of learning to cook from my mom in theFifties with all that decade implies about foodways in America. It was a timeof vast change—WWII was over, the soldiers were home, the post-war economy wasbooming. America was optimistic.

Food manufacturers faced achallenge: realign their product from feeding the military to feeding thepublic. And thus fast food, convenience food, prepared foods—all those wereborn. The food industry launched a massive advertising campaign based on thepremise that housewives did not like to cook. Cooking was a chore they hadinherited, because of their gender, and they longed to have it simplified forthem. The less time in the kitchen, the better. Advertisements boasted ofprepared meals that could be on the table in fifteen minutes or less—think Swanson’sfrozen turkey and mashed potatoes dinners.

Not all American housewives boughtthat fifteen-minute dream. Surveys and polls showed a lot of hold-outs, womenwho were still scratch cooking for most of their meals. My mom was one of thosehold-outs. Oh, sure, she fell for some of the hype—we occasionally ate Spam,and when she and Dad were going out, she satisfied my BFF and me with cans ofspinach and Franco-American spaghetti. We thought we were in food heaven. Butmom still canned her own tomatoes, made her own applesauce, baked pies andcakes, even angel food, from scratch. And made seven-minute icing, which tookpatience and dedication. She made her own bread, and today my kids still clamorfor her dinner rolls, with a pat of butter hidden inside each.

My cooking today reflectsthat. I make some of the dishes I learned at her elbow, but more than that, thedishes I make today build on what she taught me in that Chicago kitchen. Sothat’s what I wanted to write a cookbook about. Easier said than done.

For some time I havefloundered trying to explain my culinary interest and to justify my weekly foodblog, “Gourmet on a Hot Plate.” I enjoy the occasional challenge of asophisticated and difficult recipe but mostly I want to cook familiar things,the kind of food I grew up eating. For instance, last night I made a meatloafjust for me—no one else was around for supper, and I figured I’d have leftoversfor lunches. Tonight I made a shepherd’s pie—I don’t think my mom ever madethat, but it’s in the spirit of the food she cooked. I just wasn’t sure whatkind of label to hang on that approach to cooking in the 21stcentury.

So I was reading Laura Shapiro’sSomething from the Oven: Reinventing Dinner in 1950s America, awonderful resource, and I came across this line: “In culinary history, the ordinaryfood of ordinary people is the great unknown.” For me, it was an Aha! moment. That’swhat I’m trying to talk about. Menus from upscale restaurants and magazinearticles about the rich and famous tell us about gourmet food, but peoplelikemy mom didn’t write about their dinner. So far in research about the Fifties, Ifind only the upscale or the bizarre, but not the ordinary—no tuna casserole,not chicken tetrazzini, no meatloaf. And that’s my niche.

I can bypass the bizarre—all thosejellied salads and sandwich loaves iced with cream cheese and most of theconvenience recipes. To James Beard’s horror, Poppy Cannon, author of TheCan-Opener Cookbook, once made vichyssoise with frozen mashed potatoes, oneleek, and a can of Campbell’s cream of chicken soup.

The more I read today and tooknotes, the more I realized that this was going to be a memoir about my mom.That’s okay. She’s a good role model. And I’ll have to delve into that. Born in1900 (we could always figure out how old she was), she lived through two worldwars, the Depression (and oh my, did the effects linger). She was widowed at thirty-fourwith a young son. I won’t put her on a pedestal, but I will say despite all shehad a terrific sense of humor, and our kitchen episodes often involvedlaughter, if not the outright giggles.

So that’s where memory and Momare taking me, and I’m having a good time with it. Writing can be fun.

I want to end tonight, though,with a hope that we all pray for both the Israeli and Palestinian people. Mostof them are innocent pawns caught in a war fomented by men with power who courtviolence. It’s not a question of right or wrong—it’s a question of human livesand unbelievable suffering and grief. Pray for peace.

Fall temperatures—and influencers

 

A picture for the algorithms.
Jacob, much younger, and Sophie (pink collar).
What you do when there's no school and you're bored.
One of my favorite pictures.
These nice, lower temperatureswe’re having the last few days seem to energize people. I’ve heard from severalwho are rejoicing in how refreshed they fell, celebrating because it’s finallysoup weather, anticipating fall after the horrendous summer we have. Somehowthough, it has the opposite effect on me. All I want to do is curl up in my bedand doze. I even turned on the heat, but shhh! Don’t tell Jordan.

Yesterday I took two naps—longones, one in the afternoon and another for almost two hours after supper. Eachtime I slept heavily, and when I woke, I had to force myself to get out of bed.Once up and about I was fine, though aware that I was tired. Longtime friendscame for happy hour, and I was energized by their company. But after they left,I kept thinking about a nap—ate leftovers, wrote my blog, and went back to bed.Somehow, I stayed up from ten to midnight, and then slept soundly until Sophwakened me at seven this morning.

Today I didn’t feel as tired,but I still didn’t want to leave my bed. I fed Sophie at seven, went back tobed, fed her again at her insistence at 8:45 (she usually gets a two-stagebreakfast so we can time her insulin shot), and went back to bed for anunprecedented third time. After about half an hour, my old-fashioned work ethicdragged me out of bed, and I got going for the day. But by two o’clock I wasback in bed for another nap.  Surely bynow I’m caught up on sleep, but I can’t guarantee it.

What a quandary! I really don’tlike summer’s high temperatures, but I perhaps dislike even more the extremecold we’ve been getting in winter the last few years—I think that’s my Chicagobackground showing. But I do like the “in-between” seasons, so I hope I adjustsoon so I can enjoy these balmy days.

Something that’s been on mymind lately: how do you get to be an influencer? I’m not even sure what aninfluencer is, but I think they are mostly on TikTok, with maybe some onSubstack, Patreon, and other online subscription newsletter services. I havefriends on Substack and a couple of columns I follow though I don’t know thewriters—are they influencers? I’m not sure. Heather Cox Richardson is acolumnist whose newsletter, Letters from an American, I read every day, but Iwouldn’t call her an influencer. To me, she’s giving us history lessons thathelp us understand today’s political turmoil. And my friend Susan Wittig Albertwrites about life in the Hill Country, nature, herbs, and aging—what she doesnot do, and I’m thankful, is try to influence you to buy her books (I’ll put ina plug—her China Bayles mysteries, now up to #27, are terrific reading). I alsofollow Ruth Reichl, the food writer, who offers recipes, memories of meals, oldmenus—all good fun, but I’m not sure she influences people as much as she interests and entertains them—and makes me want to be a better cook. Stephanie Raffelock alsowrites about aging and women’s issues and finding your core—good stuff, but itdoesn’t influence me to rush out and do something dramatic.

I think true influencersmention, even push brand names. They have sponsors—I’m not understanding thisenough even to cite an example. But I did read today about an influencer whodid a heinous thing—she adopted an Asian child with special needs and thendecided, two or three year later, to re-home him, as you should not do even toa puppy, let alone a child. The influencer part of that horrible story thatinterests me is that she lost all of her sponsors and her income droppeddramatically. But what did she, an apparently quite shallow person, do to get to that high-income pinnacle and tohave those sponsors in the first place?

I gather it’s a bit more complicatedthan saying one day, “I want to be an influencer.” You have to have a fieldwhere you have some kind of expertise. That’s a stumbling block—I have a bit ofskill at cooking and a lot of political opinions, but I don’t think either ofthose qualify me to be an influencer. I probably know some more than most aboutwomen in the literature of the nineteenth-century American West, but who would I influence? Threeor four interested readers—among other things, I don’t see any income in that,not that income is my major goal at this point.

Maybe because I post on myblog more nights than not, I am already an influencer and just need to flauntthe title. But what am I influencing readers about? Sophie’s latest antics? WhatI’m cooking and eating? What I’m reading. I find this entire online worldconfusing to say the least, and for the time being I have decided to stay whereI am: a non-influencer blogging most nights about some of life’s significant momentsand a lot more about the trivia. Seems where I belong.

Now, I feel another nap comingon.

Busy days at the cottage

 

Kristine Hall, me, and Stephanie Raffelock
It’s been wonderfully busyaround here the last couple of days. Today I had the fun of serving lunch toAustin author Stephanie Raffelock (Creatix Rising: Unlocking the Power ofMidlife Women and A Delightful Little Book on Aging) and KristineHall, publisher of the online weekly newsletter all about Texas books, authors,and writing, “Lone Star Literary Life.” I had met both before, briefly and onetime each, but we have ongoing email relationships. And I knew all along thatStephanie and Kristine also had an online relationship. So while Stephanie wasin the Metroplex, it only seemed logical to get us together.

Besides, it gave me a niceopportunity to cook for guests. I had explained to Stephanie that no, I did notwant her to take me to lunch. It’s easier for me to stay in the cottage andcook. So I fixed Coronation Chicken Salad—you can pretty much figure that oneout. Developed in 1953 for the coronation of Queen Elizabeth, it reflects the heavyinfluence of the flavors of India on British cooking: curry, mango chutney,dried fruit, and sliced almonds. There is debate over whether it should havediced, dried apricots or raisins—I went with raisins, because cutting up driedfruit is a pain. Watch for the recipe on next week’s Gourmet on a Hot Plate(Thursday). I admit it was a bit of work: I cooked chicken breasts on Wednesdayand cooled and diced them; Thursday I made the salad, so today all thatremained was to serve it in lettuce cups, with a side of mixed berries. It wasa hit—well, at least they cleaned their plates.Coronation chicken salad

We talked of books andpolitics and food and aging and books again and Substack and it was allwonderful. We laughed a lot, were serious at times, and Sophie was in heavenbecause Stephanie played with her. Lunch went by way too quickly, and I’m wishingthey’d come back once a week.

Last night I had dinner withlong time friends Subie, Carol, and Kathie. We were celebrating two birthdaysbut more than that we were relishing the opportunity to be together. Like lunchtoday, it was laughter and stories, a bit of politics, a bit of life in theresidential community where two of them live and the third spends a lot of timewith her special friend. Our waiter, Matt, was young but patient with four oldladies who changed their minds a lot, tried to joke with him, and droppedthings on the floor. I noticed that when we first were seated, there was somuch background noise I resigned myself to missing much of the conversation. ButI played with the settings on my hearing aids and ended up hearing everythingperfectly and being able to participate easily in the conversation.

We had a good laugh over oneof our number who asked the waiter what Dukes was—we three immediately, said, “Mayonnaise!”and she said, “I hate mayonnaise.” She ended up with the lobster roll which hadmedium mayo and loved it. I had oysters Rockefeller, which were really good. Ilonged for the half dozen oysters on the half shell, but I heard they were $25 andyet not enough sustenance for an entrée, so I resisted. A lovely evening, andwe resolved to do it more often. And sometime I’m going to go back and havethose raw oysters. For some reason, the oysters at this restaurant are all tinyand delicate, perhaps more palatable than big fat ones.

So tonight Soph and I are beinglazy. I’m going to relish the last couple of days and sink into some pleasurereading. Looking forward to a long weekend.Obedient Sophie when Stephanie said, "Sit."

Sophie gives me a scare

 

Sophie and Christian in happier days. 
Last night, writing about three-o’clock-in-the-morningthoughts, I confessed to my superstitious nature. Now, here’s anothersuperstition: bad things come in threes. I’m holding my breath, waiting for thethird.

Actually, the first wasn’tbad, except it was medical confusion for all but me—Jordan with her rash, Jacobwith his swollen hand, and me with a sore arm from a flu shot and, during the night,a headache. But last night, a major bad thing: Sophie gave us a bad scare.

Now that she’s older andcalmer, she mostly spends her evenings sleeping by the couch while I’m at mydesk. But last night, when I was ready to lock up for the night, I checked onher—and she wasn’t there. I searched the cottage, but she was nowhere—the cottageis small enough I was not likely to miss a small black dog. Convinced she wasoutside, I armed myself with a piece of cheese and went to the door—she neverfails to respond to the bribe of cheese. But this time she did, and I could notsee her anywhere in the dark. I called Christian (my solution to so manyproblems).

He came out and wisely checkedthe cottage again. Nothing, so he started out the door, but said, “Here shecomes.” Sophie came in, tripped over the threshold she’s crossed a hundredtimes a day, and went down flat. Her back legs were not holding her up, and shewas stumbling. This had happened once before, and I thought I remembered theimmediate solution was food. So we fed her a cup of kibble, some of that cheeseI’d promised, and a lot of water, all of which she consumed. By the time I wentto bed, she seemed better if not perfect. During the night I checked and wasreassured that, as usual, she moved from favorite spot to favorite spot.

This morning, she let me sleepunbelievably late, but she did eat her breakfast and seemed fine. I called thevet nonetheless to report. About noon, she began to stumble, and I called in anupdate to the vet. They called back promptly, thought she was getting too muchinsulin, and advised me to feed her right away. I did, and once again sheseemed to improve.

The culprit? The wrong size needles.Somehow, the vet had prescribed some needles I didn’t need (I usually orderthem online) and they were different from what we’d been using. The vet techasked to see a picture of the box of new (isn’t email wonderful?)  and said “Yep, they’re wrong.” So tonight we’reskipping the shot and tomorrow beginning a reduced dosage.

But it’s never easy. Sophie,who is always ravenous, is not interested at all in her dinner. Maybe she’sfull from having a dinner-size serving at lunch. I am leaving the food out, butI am also uneasy.

This world consists of dogpeople, cat people, and non-pet people. The former two, to me, lump together inone category. They understand that our pets have feelings and fears and achesand pains, that they are part of family, precious and beloved. Non-pet peopleprobably can’t fathom the depth of my concern for Sophie. But for twelve yearsnow, she’s been my best friend, my companion, my goofy pal who makes me feelloved and appreciated and often makes me laugh—and I try my best to return thatfeeling. She has taught me a lot about compassion and patience and love, notthat I hadn’t learned from a string of probably more than twenty special dogsduring my life. (I keep thinking I’ll write a book titled Dogs I Have Loved—somany books, so little time.)

So tonight I’m walking thatthin line between being a hysterical dog parent and a responsible, concernedpet owner. I am playing the wait-and-see game, but I am worried. I would loveit if she would pop up from the spot on the floor near me where she is lyingand go eat her supper. And for her, the evening will only get worse—thunderstormspredicted.

Prayers appreciated.

The three-o’clock-in-the-morning blues

 

My brother and me at his ranch.
Several years ago my brotherand I were having a deep conversation—I can’t imagine what about, since we aren’tgiven to such conversations, especially since politics is the elephant in theroom for us. But I distinctly remember that he said sometimes, lying awake atthree o’clock, he had the recurring thought, “Oops. Wish I hadn’t done thatone.” Those words have stayed in my mind.

Three o’clock seems to be thewitching hour, when all kinds of unwelcome thoughts occur. Not exactly night terrors, but along that line. Lately, I’ve found myselffighting what I call the three-o’clock blues, trying to make my mind acceptthat everything looks worse at three o’clock. An image that truly scares me maylodge in my imagination, like people trapped in a rapidly sinking car orsomeone in a cable car dangling in the air. Sometimes I am obsessed bysomething I’m planning, like a meal I’m cooking for company or maybe an eveningout with friends. I get not an earworm (oh, I do get those—I may have mentionedthat it took me days to clear “We’ve a story to tell to the nations” our of mybrain), but a brainworm—an obsessive thought I can’t get rid of that keeps meawake.  Sometimes it’s a memory, eithergood or bad, but even a trip to the bathroom doesn’t break the cycle. I getback in bed and my brain picks up where it left off. I will admit thatsometimes I write brilliant scenes for whatever I’m working on, or I plan out ablog—but those don’t often stay with me after my early morning “second sleep.”

What I am a past master at ismanufacturing illness in the night. At three o’clock, I am a raginghypochondriac. I have had heartburn that I thought was a heart attack (In mydefense, I’d never had heartburn before.) A cough and upset stomach turns intoa severe case of covid; a headache is a sure brain tumor; the call of thebathroom indicates an obstruction; if the bathroom doesn’t call, I am convincedmy kidneys are failing again. You can see I have to give myself a stern talkingto.

This is particularly relevanttoday, because I’ve just come from the doctor’s office where I was told, “Yousound wonderful!” He couldn’t find a thing wrong, and I had no problems toreport. I simply wanted—and got—a flu shot (yes, my arm is sore, even though Ithought I relaxed the muscles just before the shot). Sure, I have some chronic conditions,but they are controlled. I couldn’t run a 1K race if I had to, and as I justsaid to someone, I doubt I could ride a bike anymore.

But I am counting my blessings—formy age and history, I am in good health. And all those three-o’clock problems?They’re mostly in my imagination.

This has been a doctor day.Jordan had an appointment just before mine, because she has developed apeculiar rash (we’re hoping it has nothing to do with her new kitty, Charlie).And while we were at the doctors’ office (she sees a different doctor than Ido), Jacob texted a picture of a swollen, puffy hand. Instant telephonediagnosis was a bug bite, but I haven’t heard what his pediatrician said. But “doctoring,”as I call it, does take a chunk out of your day and kind of gets you offschedule. I’m not sure I’ve gotten back on yet today.

Watch me develop all thesymptoms of the flu at three o’clock tomorrow morning. It doesn’t matter—they’llbe gone by morning (knock on wood).

Saga of a soupy recipe

What goes into cube steak in a crockpot.
Earlier this week a friendposted a recipe on her timeline—at least, it was a partial recipe. A list ofingredients for a crockpot dinner. It didn’t have a cooking time or crockpotsetting, so I posted a note asking. But I thought surely it was a no-brainer:six hours on low would cook some cube steaks. I told Christian about it, and heagreed it sounded good for Sunday supper. When we can, we like to make a familyevent of Sunday supper—something a little different from the usual weeknightrushed meal. I gave him a choice of which was easier: bring the crockpot out tome and I’d cook, or he could take the recipe inside and he’d cook. He oftenlikes to spend Sunday cooking, so he chose the latter. And it’s a good thing.

This morning he came out withthe recipe in hand and said, “I need more direction.” That’s the differencebetween us: whereas I tend to barge ahead figuring I know how to cook,Christian wants precise instructions. I told him the best my friend could offerwas that she was looking for the recipe. He stood over my shoulder while I wentback to the Facebook web site where she’d found it. It had no more information.With Christian pointing here and there, we explored on the computer. Finally,he threw his hands up in the air and said “I’ll do some research.”

It was a good thing he did.The recipe called for six cube steaks and a couple of soups. I had intended toput the steaks in the crockpot and pour the combined coups over them. WhenChristian found the recipe it called for layering the steaks with onions, sothey didn’t just melt into one huge glop of cube steaks. Then there was onemore soup than my sketchy recipe had indicated, and it had to cook for sevenhours—that sent Christian scurrying to get it started.

We had dinner at seven-thirty,which is about the usual times for us (my goodness, it took me a long while toget used to that late dining).

Soupy cube steaks

Six cube steaks

One sweet onion

1 can cream of celery soup

1 can cream of mushroom soup

1 envelope dry onion soup

½ soup can water

¼ tsp. black pepper

Layer steaks and sliced onionin crockpot. Separately mix together two cream soups, water, and pepper. Pourover steaks. Sprinkle dry soup mix on top (Christian chose  to stir it into the soup mix).

Cook on low for seven hours.Serve with noodles, rice, or potatoes.

It was delicious. Both Jordanand Christian harped a little on cube steak being tough, but when they ate ittheir tune changed. Christian said it was the most tender he’d ever had, and Ifound it fork-tender. Plus lots of gravy—always important to me. It’s a keeperrecipe.

And a big hat tip to @HarrietGerick Hunt for sending starting us on this saga and yay to Christian for fixing a really good supper.

 

 

What I thought I posted last night

 

Oops! I thought I posted this last night, but apparently all that came through was the image. So now I've changed the image and will try again. The picture above is my oldest granddaughter several years ago reading in the rain--never too young to be a devoted reader.

Shepherd.com, a readers’ browsing site, has asked authors to choose and describe the three favorite books read in the past year. I liked the challenge and immediately began reviewing the books on my Kindle (if I didn’t read it on Kindle, it didn’t make this survey—my memory is not that good). First the site wanted to know how many books I’ve read since October 2022. The Kindle count seemed low, but I know that I average a book a year, so I took a guess at forty. Then for each book, the site wanted to know if I listened to the audio version of the book and if I read it as part of a book club. I never do either of those things, so that was easy for me.

Here are the three books I read and why I liked them:

Dinner with Ruth, by Nina Totenberg

Nina Totenberg spoke to three of my deep interests in this first-person account: politics (the inner workings of the Supreme Court), memoir, and food. I was fascinated by the up-close look at Justice Ruth Ginsberg in her later days and drawn by two conflicts: should Justice Ginsberg have resigned because of failing health and given President Obama a chance to appoint a justice, and where should Totenberg have drawn the line between responsible journalism and friendship. Memoir is currently a popular genre but difficult for some to define, and I am constantly looking for examles that go beyond self-flattery. This book gave a lively account of Totenberg’s own career along with her friendship with Ginsberg. The food—and lively company—at Totenberg’s dinner parties were fascinating.

The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux, by Samantha Vérant

Recipes and gourmet menus alone make this book worth savoring and keeping, but I was charmed by the setting—an ancient chateau in France that is a tourist lodge with two restaurants, a vineyard, and wonderful gardens. Sophie, a disgraced chef in New York, flees to her grandmother Odette but finds responsibility and a whole new way of life. The contrast between her two worlds—New York and France—is nicely done, as is Sophie’s own inner conflict. The cast of minor characters brings delightful variety—two grannies are Sophie’s main assistants, along with an old, alcoholic man who is a genius with desserts. If the hint at romance is a bit formulaic, I overlooked it because I was so charmed by the people, the place, and the food.

The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscan, by Lori Nelson Spielman

I was fascinated by this tale that weaves together an ancient curse on an Italian family, a fierce nonna who has ruled her granddaughters, and an aunt who has been ostracized by the family. It’s hard for us to understand the power of of an ancient curse, but these women have lived with it their whole lives. They flaunt tradition and travel to Italy, with its lush gardens and marvelous food, from their stark Brooklyn neighborhood back to Italy. Refusing to accept the curse, they reveal its source—and the reason the aunt was banished. There’s a strong feminist note here, along with lessons in growth and self-confidence--and love. A slow start, but I loved this book.

And waiting for me tonight is a clever cozy mystery with just enough suspense: Stone Cold Killer, by Lena Gregory.

Nothing better than Saturday night with a good dinner (chicken tetrazzini tonight—remember that relic of the Fifties), a glass of wine, and a good book. What are you reading tonight?

 

 

 

What I’m reading

 

Image from Chrisman (IL) Public Library
Shepherd.com, a readers’browsing site, has asked authors to choose and describe the three favoritebooks read in the past year. I liked the challenge and immediately beganreviewing the books on my Kindle (if I didn’t read it on Kindle, it didn’t makethis survey—my memory is not that good). First the site wanted to know how manybooks I’ve read since October 2022. The Kindle count seemed low, but I knowthat I average a book a year, so I took a guess at forty. Then for each book,the site wanted to know if I listened to the audio version of the book and if Iread it as part of a book club. I never do either of those things, so that waseasy for me.

Here are the three books Iread and why I liked them:

Dinner with Ruth, by NinaTotenberg

Nina Totenberg spoke to three ofmy deep interests in this first-person account: politics (the inner workings ofthe Supreme Court), memoir, and food. I was fascinated by the up-close look atJustice Ruth Ginsberg in her later days and drawn by two conflicts: shouldJustice Ginsberg have resigned because of failing health and given PresidentObama a chance to appoint a justice, and where should Totenberg have drawn theline between responsible journalism and friendship. Memoir is currently apopular genre but difficult for some to define, and I am constantly looking forexamles that go beyond self-flattery. This book gave a lively account ofTotenberg’s own career along with her friendship with Ginsberg. The food—andlively company—at Totenberg’s dinner parties were fascinating.

The Secret French Recipesof Sophie Valroux, by Samantha Vérant

Recipes and gourmet menus alone make this book worth savoring andkeeping, but I was charmed by the setting—an ancient chateau in France that isa tourist lodge with two restaurants, a vineyard, and wonderful gardens.Sophie, a disgraced chef in New York, flees to her grandmother Odette but findsresponsibility and a whole new way of life. The contrast between her two worlds—NewYork and France—is nicely done, as is Sophie’s own inner conflict. The cast ofminor characters brings delightful variety—two grannies are Sophie’s mainassistants, along with an old, alcoholic man who is a genius with desserts. Ifthe hint at romance is a bit formulaic, I overlooked it because I was socharmed by the people, the place, and the food.

The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscan, by Lori Nelson Spielman

I was fascinated by this tale that weaves together an ancient curse on an Italian family, afierce nonna who has ruled her granddaughters, and an aunt who has beenostracized by the family. It’s hard for us to understand the power of of anancient curse, but these women have lived with it their whole lives. Theyflaunt tradition and travel to Italy, with its lush gardens and marvelous food,from their stark Brooklyn neighborhood back to Italy. Refusing to accept thecurse, they reveal its source—and the reason the aunt was banished. There’s astrong feminist note here, along with lessons in growth andself-confidence--and love. A slow start, but I loved this book.

Andwaiting for me tonight is a clever cozy mystery with just enough suspense: StoneCold Killer, by Lena Gregory.

Nothingbetter than Saturday night with a good dinner (chicken tetrazzini tonight—rememberthat relic of the Fifties), a glass of wine, and a good book. What are you readingtonight?