Judy Alter's Blog, page 17

Letting go

 

All my life, I’ve been in ahurry, always rushing to get more done, feeling pressured by deadlines, eventhough they were of my own making. I remember once hurrying back to my officeat five o’clock after an event had taken me away for a couple of hours. Thedean of students pointed out that I was going the wrong direction and it wastime to leave work, not arrive, but I replied, “If I could just get a few morethings done ….”

I don’t know where thispressure came from. My memory is that my mom took life as it came. Dad,however, was a workaholic, and I can still see him sitting at the dining table,late at night, with papers spread before him, a cigarette between his fingersuntil he quit at the age of fifty. (I remember thinking then that fifty wassoooo old—now I have kids who are older than Dad was at the time. How did thishappen?)

Even retirement didn’t slow medown. I just exchanged one job for another and went from directing the TCUPress to writing full-time. For several years, I pushed myself to write threemysteries a year. Now I wonder why.

It took pandemic to slow medown. Part of it was, like all of us, I stopped going out to lunch and dinner.After a few months, Christian was amazed. “You’ve been so social! How can youjust stay in the cottage day after day?” I assured him I was content. My familyate supper with me, and we had a small group of trusted friends, alsoquarantining, who came to visit on the patio, even in cold weather—we didn’twant to be in a small, closed room, breathing on each other. But I really wascontent as the whole pace of life slowed.

In the tumultuous years since thepandemic, I’ve wondered how I ever had time to write books. Many days I don’tfinish my opening-the-day routine until noon or later—I read emails (I get alot of them) and I read selected news sources online—the local newspaper, asite called atAdvocacy that I really like, Daily Kos (yes, I know, it’s aliberal rag but there’s some good stuff there), Wake Up to Politics, TexasMonthly’s daily highlights, etc. And of course food columns. Mostly I think ifI don’t write by noon, I won’t get it done, because afternoon is nap time. Inthe last year, I’ve started staying up until almost midnight—my whole schedulehas changed.

I kept thinking if thenational political scene ever quieted down, I wouldn’t “waste” so much timeonline, But something I read recently changed my view of it: retirement andslowing down gave me “permission” to be curious, to dig down any rabbit holethat interests me, including all those political opinion pieces. For instance,for yesterday’s blog, I went exploring to find out about fake scallops and tolearn about the comparison of sardines to tuna. If an article totally unrelatedto anything I’m working on catches my fancy, I feel free to follow it. So now Ican tell you a new trend, popularized on TikTok (no, I don’t follow that) ispairing wine and potato chips. Chardonnay alls for Kettle Salt and Vinegar. OrI can tell you about forest pre-school programs, where youngsters three to fivespend 70% of their time outdoors, learning about nature, both animals andplants. My curiosity has full play.

There’s another aspect to thisrelaxation. If I don’t write it today, there’s always tomorrow. I never everfelt that way before—I’d set a goal of 1500 words for the day and kill myselfto make it. Yesterday I had a scene in my work-in-progress in mind all day, butI just didn’t get to it. Come nine o’clock, and I’m ready to read someoneelse’s mystery. Then I thought, “I’ll just jot down some thoughts.” In the nexthour I wrote 1200 words. If I’d forced myself to write at that hour, I’d haveslogged through some uninspired passages. But because I let it happenspontaneously, I got in some good writing.

Perhaps the first sign of thisnew (to me) relaxation I noticed was that I stopped and stared out the windowmore frequently and for longer periods. At the right time of day, I can glimpsethe children going to school across the street. I have a cool glass teakettlewith neon blue lights indicating it’s heating. These days, I sit and watch it,stare at that blue light, watch the bubbles come up, wait for that magic momentwhen suddenly silently it goes dark when it reaches boiling. Never fails tofascinate me. The old me would have rushed back to the computer to make use ofthat two or three minutes.

None of us will ever in anyway be grateful for the pandemic, but I do think this is one small benefit.And, yes, I am most content.

One man tells his story

 

My hyacinth grape vine, having straggled through the summer,
is now blooming more than I've ever seen it. The friend from whom I got seeds
is afraid this year the seeds will be too late if they even show up.
Fingers crossed, please.
Maybe I move in a feministworld, but I am always hearing that women need to tell their stories. We needto hear from women—not Taylor Swift (bless her!) or Beyonce or even Hilary, butwomen like you and me. Ordinary stories. We’ve been silenced too long. Well,what I’m realizing with the book I’m reading is that undiscovered men havestories to tell too, stories that give us model for living life as it shouldbe. Forget the politicians and football players whose stories make instantbestsellers. Let’s hear from our next-door neighbor who struggles with careeror family issues or bill payments or all the little stuff of life that we alldo. And sometimes some added burdens.

I’m reading The One-ArmedSoldier, an autobiography by Wayne Bizer, an osteopathic ophthalmologist (trysaying that three times fast). The book is far too long for an autobiography,and I agreed to read it only at the behest of a good friend. I admit I draggedmy heels, but then I found myself engaged in the story and charmed by theauthor.

The child of Jewish Europeanimmigrants, Bizer grew up afflicted with ADHD (attention deficit/hyperactivitydisorder), dyslexia, and a dysfunctional family background. Nobody paidattention to those afflictions when he was young, and he didn’t even recognizethem until well into adulthood. He scraped through school, was a collegedrop-out, and showed every sign of being a failure for life. But he had ambition.Instead of failing, he earned a medical degree and certification in a specialty(ophthalmology), married an apparently wonderful woman, raised two sons, andmade a great success of his career in medicine.

I’m not going to tell you thisis a Horatio Alger success story about a man who pulled himself up by hisbootstraps. Time after time, Bizer hit rock bottom. He was on the edge ofseeing his dreams collapse, but he was always saved at the last minute—childhoodaccidents that nearly cost his life, a near miss from the Vietnam draft, rejectionby two medical schools, only to find his niche at the third. Every time he wasgiven another chance, Bizer vowed to make it work—and he did with a combinationof determination and perseverance. And, until he married, without much encouragementfrom family. Finding forgiveness and reconciling with his once-alcoholic motheris yet another part of his story. So is the faith of his childhood—though dyslexiacaused him to barely skate through his bar mitzvah. Grown, he brings whateverfamily together that he can for Shabbat every Friday night. Although ADHD anddyslexia are mentioned, they don’t play a huge part in this story. It’s asthough Bizer used them as steppingstones on which to climb to his future.

Bizer tells his story in aconversational, friendly manner, without preaching but with lots of humor andnice touches of honesty about himself and the many times he goofed. As he saysat one point, his life story was always about “when I grow up.” If most livesare lived in straight lines, he says his is a bowl of scrambled spaghetti. There’snot a lot of introspection here, just casual comments offhand, no wallowing. Whatthere is, though, is the magic of storytelling, be it childhood adventures,scary episodes in school, or patient stories from his practice. Bizer is a manwho seems to love life and what he has made of his own. His is an inspirationalstory of a life well lived. And having never met him, I like this man a lot.

Ever thought about tellingyour story?

The suddenness of it

 

A friend died yesterday. Inthe morning, before first service, he was at church drinking coffee. In theafternoon, he was gone.

I didn’t know Father BruceCoggin well. Over the years we met occasionally because we had a few mutualfriends. But recently he and I have had some good conversations in my cottageabout the publishing world and what to do with all the things we’ve written.Father Bruce’s legacy includes an incredible amount of material, somepublished, some not—sermons, essays on history and the church, a memoir, travelpieces, accounts of growing up in a small Texas town and also of ten yearsspent teaching in Mexico, and a lot of miscellany. (You can find his publishedwork by searching for Bruce Coggin on Amazon; the works include a book ofselected writings by his grandmother, a remarkable woman way ahead of hertime—Bruce saw himself in part as inheriting her writing ability and outlook onlife. The book is A Soul Housed Up.)

Father Bruce was a giftedwriter, with a clear style, an incisive wit, and an ability to see through thefollies of mankind. He wanted to do something with all this work but wasn’tsure what. We talked about various possibilities, conversations that were asenlightening to me as they were to him. The last time we talked, he left withthe enthusiasm of a man with a job ahead, one he was looking forward to. He wasgoing to start with a web page, and a friend tells me he talked to her about itas recently as yesterday. I was looking forward to keeping up with hisprogress—and more conversation.

Sudden death is sometimes ablessing. The deceased is spared the pain, suffering, and indignity of alingering illness. But it is devastating to those left behind. In this case, itseems especially tragic that a man is cut off when he had so much he waslooking forward to accomplishing. Whether or not you want to believe that Godhad another, more important calling for him is up to you.

Not only do I mourn for thisman, his family and friends, and the many former parishioners who are devotedto him, I am shaken by the suddenness of his death. I saw him less than a monthago; a friend tells me she had lunch with him a week ago; another friend talkedwith him about his web page Saturday; yesterday, he was at church drinkingcoffee, though apparently not feeling well. And then, suddenly he’s gone.

RIP Father Bruce. I hopeyou’re up there, finding God’s fingerprints in old and new places and writingfuriously. And I hope someone down here publishes some more of your work.

Oh, to be young again!

 

Jacob and his date Kegan and his date

It’s Homecoming weekend acrossTexas, and two of my grandsons—one in Tomball and one in Fort Worth—got allgussied up for the dance. I did have a moment of laughter—Jordan sent me apicture of Jacob and his date, he in a sport coat and she is one of those skimpydresses that all the girls wear now. But the first picture Colin sent me ofKegan and his date showed them in shorts and T-shirts, she holding a basketball(I think) and he holding a bunch of cut flowers. I laughed and told Colin thehomecoming dances must have been very different in nature. Pretty soon he sentpictures of them wearing their traditional mums and then dressed for the dance,she in a skimpy dress and he in a suit.

Of course I did an immediategrandmother thing and, in my mind, went back to the days when they were littlestogether. At one point, about fifteen years ago, I had a bunch of littlesaround me. Now I have all these teenagers and young adults. Kegan is theyoungest (and the tallest) of my seven grandchildren, and Jacob is the third from youngest. Ithink I don’t mind growing old myself as much as I mind them aging out ofchildhood. Of course, they’re neat teens and young adults, and I love themdearly. But there’s a lot of nostalgia there.

Otherwise a quiet, pleasantday. We didn’t go to church today—Christian had projects on his mind, and itturned out I was relieved because I hear there’s a lot of Covid going around. Iknow that last week, half the choir was out, and we learned later it wasbecause of Covid. They even cancelled an upcoming choir concert. I went tochurch virtually and did see a few people, both in the choir and in thecongregation, wearing masks. I’m afraid we may be headed back to a lot of uswearing masks.

Covid still seems to loom overus, even though many have sort of brushed it off. Maybe it’s my age, but havingnever had it, I am still quite afraid of it. When I had that whatever stomachthing one night last week, I briefly convinced myself that it was Covid. Aneasy thing to do alone in the dark at three o’clock in the morning. Three o’clockseems to be the witching hour. I hate to confess how many times I am awake atthe time, with a wide variety of scary thoughts. I have had to learn to tellmyself, “That’s a three o’clock thought. It will be better in the morning.”

Late this afternoon, thunderteased us, rolling around the sky. We even had one good, strong clap rightoverhead which sent Miss Sophie to barking angrily. Despite all that, we gotperhaps five scattered drops of rain. Jordan and Christian were on their way todeliver a sympathy meal to a sick friend in Arlington, and she says they werecaught in such driving rain that they couldn’t see the road, and she urgedChristian to pull over. I don’t need driving rain, but a bit more than fivedrops would be helpful.

Tonight Jordan made the iconicdish that is our family signature—and certainly my signature. Doris’ casserolehas been in cookbooks, articles, and blogs; it was served once by food serviceat TCU and is routinely served on special occasions at our home. The Burtonsmade a double batch today—one to deliver and one for us. And we all agreed, wehadn’t had it in a while, and it was so good.

I first ate Doris’ at a smalldinner party in the late sixties, when my then-husband was a resident insurgery. The wife of the anesthesiology resident fixed it for us. It was calledMrs. America Beef Casserole or some such, but for us, because Doris served itthat night, it has always been Doris’ casserole. One friend calls it Americanlasagna—it has a meat layer, the noodle layer, and a grated cheese topping. Iknow I’ve posted it before, but it may soon be time again.

And last night I had the firstof what will be many “home-alone” dinners this fall. Splurged and bought myselfscallops—three nice, fat ones. Cooked a small batch of baby spinach, and thensauteed the scallops in butter—didn’t get the crust I wanted, but they were abit browned and still soft. Squeezed a half lemon over them, plated them on thebed of spinach, and poured the lemon butter over. Felt like royalty.

May the coming week bring you health,good food, and blessed gentle rain.

Some random thoughts on food

Big Mac Salad
What could be more American?
I’ve been thinking about food—well,when don’t I always? But I’ve come to some conclusions, and one is about theway even a brief illness changes your perspective particularly on food, but alsoon sleep and life in general. As you may know, I had some sort of stomach “thing”that had me down and out for about thirty-six hours. I couldn’t bear to thinkabout food, I lay in bed but couldn’t sleep, and I had little interest in anythingfrom writing projects to politics which is, as you know, an obsession of mine.

But when I began to come backto myself, I found I was incredibly grateful for a boiled potato with butter,for sleep, for my own imagination. It was as though I had developed a new appreciationfor the things I took for granted. Oh, I well know this is a temporary feeling,a bounce-back if you will. But for now, it’s nice to see daily life through thesetinted glasses.

Just before my systemrebelled, Jordan, Christian, and I had a calendar conference. Result is theyhave a busy October ahead—isn’t fall always a busy time as we head toward theholidays? I will be eating a lot of dinners alone. At first, I was sort of disappointed,but once I was on top of things again, I began to make lists—I would inviteclose friends for happy hour, so I began to list appetizer ingredients to haveon hand. Then I listed things I would fix myself for supper. Starting with tonight,which will be fresh spinach and scallops sauteed in butter with a squeeze oflemon and maybe half a tiny potato left from last night. I’m going to make atuna casserole, and one night I’m going to try to do corned beef hash as goodwe my mom did (don’t judge—I love it, to the amusement of my children). I’vegone from disappointed to excited. Oh, I do have some things on hand for acouple of dinners with the Burtons, and I did print a recipe for beef tips withgravy that sounded good. Jordan was not so enthusiastic about a marinated kalesalad with salmon, and while I agree I dislike kale, I thought this might begood.

Maybe that planning made merealize that my culinary tastes are going in one direction while those of myusual recipe sources, like The New York Times and Bon Appetit, areheaded in a totally different direction. This morning the NYT featuredcumin and cashew rice and sticky harissa wings. The Bon Appetit I justleafed through had tuna carnitas—can you just imagine Christian’s face if Iserved that to him? There’s a recipe for pancit sotanghon—some kind of soup, Ibelieve. Cộte de bœf au poivre or pork schnitzel would probably be delicious,but they’d take a lot of work and might be impractical in my tiny kitchen. Ihave no idea what butter pav bhaji is (just looked it up—street food from Indiaconsisting of vegetable curry and a soft bun).

I’m beginning to recognizethree things that I unconsciously bring into play on choosing recipes. Two arefairly straightforward: time and space. Much as I love to cook and to feed people,I don’t want to spend all day cooking, nor do I want to take on such messy, complicatedthings as dredging chicken in egg and flour (I can buy good fried chicken). Andmy tiny kitchen and limited supply of pots and pans dictates that I avoidcomplicated recipes that dirty every pan in a normal kitchen. Been there, donethat.

But the third things is thatgiven an unfamiliar recipe from, say the African continent, and a familiarAmerican dish, I’ll choose the latter every time. Maybe this is somehow relatedto the disinclination to travel widely that baffles my friends, but that’s arabbit hole I’m not going down right now. Truth is I love chicken divan andmeatloaf and tuna casserole and a good bowl of chicken soup. That’s why I’mworking on a cookbook about food from the Fifties, with recipes from my mom andmy contemporary adaptation of some, along with some text about the Fifties,including those ridiculous jellied salads. Southern Living is more my style.

I can hear Irene making asnide comment. Okay, Irene, I like French cooking too. Look at all thoserecipes in your books!

An apology, a kitchen failure, and a leaky disaster

 

Living room mess to repair a/c  unit
If you are a regular followerof my Thursday “Gourmet on a Hot Plate” blog, an apology. I didn’t get itwritten this week because some kind of nasty stomach bug laid me low, andwriting about food was the last thing I wanted to do. Which is kind of okay,because before the bug hit, the only thing I had to write about was a column onsardines (still to come—are you a fan?) and an epic kitchen fail. The two didn’tseem to belong in one post.

About the fail: I find recipesin all sorts of places, including culinary cozy mysteries, which are popularright now. So when the main character in a novel kept whipping up this dish(actually cooking it long and slow in a crockpot), I had no qualms aboutstealing it. (I won’t name the novel because I gave up on it before the end.) Oneof the other characters described this as Thanksgiving dinner in one pot. You seasonchicken breasts with salt and pepper and put in your pot; dump in a one-lb. boxof prepared turkey dressing and top that with a sauce made of mayonnaise, sour cream,chicken broth, and water, and top all that with some frozen green beans. Cookit on high for five hours. I thought it would be perfect for the day when wehave a regular happy hour visitor.

I will confess I made a coupleof mistakes: for chicken broth, I read cream of chicken soup and dumped it inbefore I realized my mistake, so later in the cooking process I added a halfcup broth. I can’t see that should have done anything but make it better. But then,due to uncertain schedules around here, I let it cook too long. Finally endedup eating alone because this one had a sudden happy hour appointment and thatone had something to do at the school.

I wished for a long cookingfork (lost in the downsize) to reach down and get to the chicken, but I used along wooden spoon. At first, it felt like I was digging into concrete. I endedup eating dressing with sauce and green beans. Let me say the beans weredelicious—must be the broth. The dressing was sort of crisp/mushy, if there issuch a thing, and not very flavorful. Christian tactfully said later that itneeded more seasoning. I just sent the whole mess into the house for the Burtonsto deal with and haven’t heard a thing since. My guess is that Jordan and Jacobdeclined, and Christian ate it. There may still be some in their fridge.Catastophe #1.

Catastrophe #2 – as I wasclosing the patio door last night, I looked down and found the chair next to mehad a big wet spot. Poor Sophie—when you’re the only dog in the house,suspicion immediately falls on you. I felt of it, sniffed, and determined itwasn’t Sophie. So I called Jordan because the next possible source was the ceiling-hungair-conditioning unit above the chair. She came out, determined that the entirechair was soaked, and began rearranging—the picture came down, chair cushionand pillow went outside, plastic bags covered the chair, towel, and bowl on thefloor. After all that prep, she turned the unit off. The cottage stayed coolenough with the bedroom unit all night, but of course I lay awake worrying aboutcritters eating the cushion. If they did, I would have to have two chairstotally recovered. They did not, but Sophie barked during the night, somethingshe rarely does, and I suspect she was scaring off a critter. You learn totranslate dog barks after time, and we do have a resident possum.

So this morning—for far toolong—the repairman has been here. I’m beginning to worry about the bill. He’saffable, and I’ve now known him for years—can’t tell how many. But none of thatmakes him cheap.

I am hoping there is no Catastrophe#3, unless my stomach bug counts. When your bed keeps calling to you and you haveno enthusiasm for doing anything, your mind wanders off on tangents. Mine beganto assemble a book last night, called “My Scrapbook” (tentative)—a collection ofshort stories, poetry, quotes, lyrics, maybe some of my own posts, even hymnsthat have meant something to me over the years. It’s barely a work in progress,but so far it includes Robert Frost and Emily Dickinson, Robert Flynn, ElmerKelton, and Dorothy Johnson, lyrics by Joan Baez and Neil Diamond, and therefrain from “We’ve a Story to Tell the Nations.”

For the darkness shall turn to dawning,
and the dawning to noonday bright,
and Christ's great kingdom shall come on earth,
the kingdom of love and light.

For some reason, that refrainhas been an ear worm for me for a couple of days—not a bad one. I hear myselfsinging along as though I could carry a tune. But I think everyone should havea scrapbook like that. What and who would be in yours?

A good dinner … and a recollection about dining out in Fort Worth

Jordan, Christian, and the French onion dip
Jordan, Christian, and I haddinner at Walloon’s tonight (for out-of-towners, that’s a new seafoodrestaurant that has gotten a lot of buzz—so much so that Megan in Austin toldme she’d heard good things about it). The occasion was Christian’s birthday—whichwas way back in early August, but we had never gotten around to celebrating.The dinner was a joint gift from Jordan and me.

The birthday boy enjoyed it alot—and so did we. The restaurant is in a restored bank area, complete with avault. Christian told me there was a table in the vault, but I was sure I’dfeel claustrophobic. Instead we had a nice table by the windows, where I couldgawk in admiration at the tin ceiling, old fixtures, and grand columns. It wasrestoration well done, so that the old and the new blended perfectly. Our tablewas either really old or a good faux job—wood with a raised pattern. I’m not rememberingthe floor, but I think it was those old, tiny tiles.

Our waiter, Marco, wascharming and efficient but not the hovering kind. We started with an appetizerof French onion dip which was subtly different from the familiar dry soup/sour creammix we all know. Both Jordan and I had the lobster roll—stuffed with plenty oflobster filling in a delicious sauce. So good, but so rich. It came with fries,which we both swore we wouldn’t eat—they were delicious too. Christian, whocame to salmon late in life, wanted to try the roast salmon to see how itdiffered from what we cook at home. Big difference: it came on a rich (there’sthat word again) bed of creamed corn, leeks, zucchini, and dill. I know howgood it was because he gifted me with the zucchini—may he never realize what he’smissing by not eating squash!

We absolutely didn’t needdessert, so we ordered one chocolate mousse with three spoons. Again, so rich,but so good. We let Christian eat most of it, but I will say chocolate mousse isone dessert that tempts me.

We came home, overfed andhappy. I admit I had to have an evening nap. It wasn’t the two glasses of wine—itwas all that heavy food.

Earlier today I was emailingback and forth with the neighbor who does restaurant reviews for our HOAnewsletter, which I edit. We both commented on the number of new restaurantsand the variety of really outstanding dining experiences now available in FortWorth, and that got me reminiscing about the past. I moved here in the earlySixties, and in those days if you wanted to go out for an upscale, celebratory dinner,there were two choices: the Carriage House and the Swiss House. I never went tothe Swiss House until much later when it had moved and was on a downhill slide.

But my ex and I were regularsat the Carriage House, so much so that we were always seated in the back roomwhich was sort of a private club. In those days, you had to be a member toorder a drink, so lots of restaurants sold memberships for a dollar or so. The wallsof that room in the Carriage House sported lovely, mostly tasteful paintings ofnude women. I’m not sure if that was a fetish of Mac who owned the place ornot, but I remember the night we decided our two oldest children were ready fora nice dinner followed by a Gilbert & Sullivan performance. In the privateroom, their eyes bugged out at those paintings.

There was a waiter named Chad,who would see me come in the door and say, “Dover sole and spinach.” It was my standarddinner (I still love it to this day.) If a patron had a birthday, the waiterswould gather and sing “Happy Birthday.” Joel, my then-husband, knew I hated suchpublic attention, so of course he took me there on my birthday—with his mothervisiting from the Bronx. The waiters sang, I was embarrassed, Joel was grinning,and his mother kept repeating, “Judy, dear, such a considerate husband youhave.” I wasn’t sure which one of them to kick first.

Gradually the dining scene inFort Worth changed. The House of Mole was almost as upscale as the originaltwo, and when the owners (who included an osteopathic physician we knew) soldit, it became Mac’s House. Yep, McIntosh from the Carriage House. My oldestson, Colin, went to work as a busboy at Mac’s House for his first job, and weall learned to love Mac’s salad and Wash’s fries (Wash was the dishwasher).Never could duplicate either one. And one of the next on the scene was the Merrimac,a river-front restaurant managed by Mac’s son-in-law. It was the first place Iever had ranch dressing.

Those glory days and those restaurantsare long gone, and while I love the many choices we have today, I miss thefamiliarity, the small world sense of those old places and the people we knewthere. Another memory to cling to.

Want a doughnut?

 

Cobb salad, a healthy dinner, right?
How many of the ingredients have chemicals in them?
Can you guess?
This morning, while skimming Idon’t know what online, I came across an ad, with picture, for a fried baconcheeseburger doughnut. Just reading about it made my arteries scream in pain. Iknow the Texas State Fair is known for bizarre foods—the farther out fromnormal, the better—but this wasn’t State Fair food. I assume it was someone’shonest attempt to attract fat fans.

Perhaps the State Fair sets abad example for us: I didn’t do an actual survey, but most of the new foods,sanctioned for this year’s fair, are deep fried. Right away, I’m backing away.Really, I don’t need or want a deep-fried fruity pebble pickle. Deep-friedcandy pecan bacon banana bread pudding might taste magnificent, but I’ll passthank you. Same with deep-fried Vietnamese coffee (I have no idea how they dothat) or deep-fried fireball shots.

Recently I read a couple of articlesmeant to frighten and intimidate. Titles like “Five Things Nutritionists NeverEat,” or “Seventy-two things you should never eat.” Obviously, because food ismy shtick, I read each article. My personal conclusion was that I do pretty well:yes, I eat an occasional hot dog, but not a lot—and Kosher when I do, which Ithink makes a difference. I will also occasionally eat sausage and yes, I lovebacon. But I don’t eat it often. Yes, I eat red meat but in moderation (okay,so we had giant cheeseburgers for dinner last night). Sometimes we use bottleddressing (a no-no because of the sugar) but usually it’s homemade, and I have agreat new recipe I’m waiting to try. Same with ketchup—it’s a rare treat. Thereare a whole lot of things on these “never eat” lists that will never pass mylips.

Basically, such listsrecommend no fried foods, no white sugar, nothing from the grocery store. Waita minute! If you can’t eat food from the grocery, what do you eat? The thing ismost groceries we buy are processed and full of chemicals meant to lengthenshelf life and enhance appearance. So instead of bottled dressing you shouldmake your own; instead of Lunchables, make your child a lunch box of goodies,but for heaven’s sake, don’t put prepared deli meats in it or American cheeseslices, such as Kraft or Velveeta. No diet soda, flavored water, energy drinks,bottled coffee, etc. Drink water. Even milk is suspect because it comes fromcows who have been fed hormones and antibiotics.

The list goes on and on, and Iwon’t bore—or scare—you with it. But the truth is that we should all becomecompulsive label readers as we shop in the grocery store. Watch for chemicals,hormones, vitamins, etc. When a label says, “Low fat” or “reduced sugar,” beaware that to compensate for taking those things out of a product, manufacturershave added something else. Onr person I know referred to the additives as “ashitstorm of chemicals.” I never, for instance, buy low-fat cottage cheese orsour cream. (I shouldn’t eat those things anyway because humans are the onlymammal who eats dairy after childhood, but I like them. And that reminds me,another favorite, mayonnaise is on the don’t eat list because of the fatcontent, but I’m not trying reduced fat.)

The point of all this is thatas Americans (I can’t speak for other countries), we have modified our foodsupply to the point that much of it is unhealthy. Tonight, in another context,Jordan said so many people seem to be developing health problems—severe ones. Ithink it’s no coincidence that we are seeing more cases of severe disease—severalforms of cancer, including gliobastoma, the deadly brain tumor, diabetes, orautoimmune disease. Science tells us that an average of 200 synthetic chemicalsare present in the systems of newborn infants. So think what is in the systemof an adult in America. We are being processed and preserved to death.

Not many of us have the timeor inclination—or perhaps budget—to buy only organic, to cook everything athome from scratch. And yet that’s what it would take to even begin to reversethe pollution in our bodies. So each of us must choose a pathway—how muchprepared and preserved food are you willing to eat? How much work are youwilling to do to purify your diet, cook from scratch, and eat healthily? Notmany of us can live on the land and be self-sustaining. So somewhere there’s a compromisefor each of us. Where’s your line in the sand?

In the aftermath of the Paxton travesty

 

Sophie being cute. Photo by Jordan Burton.
But I also hope that folks across the country — even in “safe”blue geographies — are finally, finally, after years and years of ignoring thefolks who’ve been making the argument, starting to understand that Texas isn’tan outlier, it’s a bellwether. It’s a miniature funhouse mirror showing us aterrible preview of what’s to come for our national political situation if wedon’t course-correct (or, more terrifying but possible, can’t course-correct).—AndreaGrimes, Home with the Armadillo (Substack)

Sorry, but this is anotherpolitical post. The dangers of too much power in any man’s hands has been on mymind for a while. As far back as Harry Truman, conservatives found the word “socialism”an enormous threat; for progressives today, the fear-laden word is authoritarianism:power in the hands of one person. Authoritarianism vs. democracy.

The facts are a bit scrambled,but in 2022 Elon Musk refused to let Ukraine use his Starlink communications systemto coordinate a drone attack on a Russian fleet in the Black Sea. Ukraine andits allies were “concerned.” Musk claimed he averted a much bigger catastrophe—reada hint of nuclear revenge. Whichever side is right, the fact is that one man, holding the power ofcommunication, may have changed the course of the war. And that one man was nota military specialist, not a government representative. Just a man who isincredibly rich and controls a major communications network.

We see these one-man powerstruggles all around us. Ron DeSantis has come close to devastating Floridawith his strict laws enforcing what history is taught, what books students canread, who can vote, what rights women have, what medicine trained physicianscan practice, who you can love and who you cannot, who can play what sports. Strangelyenough, he has not carried his extreme control into the area of gun safety, andthere are few restrictions on gun ownership. His never-ending grasp reachesinto every aspect of every Floridian’s life--and he’s probably not done yet. Floridais suffering because of it—citizens, particularly physicians and collegefaculty, are leaving the state in droves. But so are LGBTQ citizens, parents oftrans children, probably Black citizens. Economic results are also being felt,with DeSantis biting the hand that feeds him—the enormous Disney complex thathires thousands of Floridians and brings millions of tourists to the state. Whatadvantage DeSantis sees in creating this 1984-ish society I can’t see, except thatit outdoes trump and appeals to a narrow segment of ultra-conservative voters.Perhaps—oh, make that probably, there’s a whole lot of personal ego involvedtoo. There’s been so much pushback out of Florida that I’m not sure how big hisbase in his own state is.

Greg Abbott of Texas is of courseanother example of a leader gone power-mad. Abbott came to prominence as theAttorney General who sued the federal government every day, a clear sign thathe was not into supporting democracy. He has not only passed draconian lawsconcerning guns—no license, no training, young age limit for ownership, anykind of gun is fine, including concealed—but he too has unrealistic lawsconcerning abortion, voting, gay and trans students, book bans, etc. Hisinhumane and devious tricks at the southern border have brought him clasheswith the federal government, but he remains defiant—while even young children die.

Texas and Florida have earned contemptfrom much of the nation. One could say they are laughingstocks, but there isnothing funny about the disregard for the individual human life. That disregardnegates everything this country was founded on: the principle that all men arecreated equal. Those regimes definitely move us toward authoritarianism.

One can’t quite say that Paxtonhas that much power, but what his acquittal shows us if that if you are auseful tool to powers with money, you can grab onto power and hold it. Corruption,in favor of the moneyed few, gives Paxton his power, and in many ways, it’s asscary as the domination of authoritarians. Anyone with half a brain, watching evena portion of the impeachment proceedings, knows that Paxton was guilty. His ownattitude and absence from the proceedings seem to indicate that he knew it didn’tmatter. He was confident and, to our detriment, it turns out he was right.Corruption won out.

The former guy, as Joe Bidencalls him, has long been a known admirer of authoritarian leaders, from Hitlerand Mussolini to Putin and Kim Jong Un. What semi-saved us from some of hisworst ideas was that he had a minority in the House. Democracy worked, to someextent. Trump is already spouting his plans for a revenge reign, should hereturn to the White House in 2024. And he has famously said that he listens tono one but himself. Scary words from an overweight man of questionable mentalstability who has surrounded himself with corrupt advisors. What Joe Biden didwhen he first came into office was to surround himself with experts in manyfields.

I watched a video recently by areporter who toured Kevin McCarthy’s district, the farming heartland of California.It was scary. Almost to a person, voters said Biden was too old and they werethinking they would support trump again. The word authoritarianism means nothingto them. I won’t use Hilary’s term deplorables, but I will say they are amongthe uninformed who believe every bit of disinformation handed to them. Withoutquestioning it.

I leave you with a scary thought:does the Paxton acquittal presage an acquittal for trump? I would hope not. Trumpwill be tried n a courtroom by a jury of his peers, not by politicians withpolitical loyalty to blind their judgement. But in this day, no one can predictanything. I for one want to fight hard—against authoritarianism, against corruption,for democracy. Hope you’ll help. There’s no room for complacency now.

 

 

 

 

Living in a judgmental world

 

Don't judge! Home alone on Sunday night, you have sardine toasts.
Sardines, on buttered garlic toast, with tomato, pickled onion, and lemon juice.
so good!
Sunday mornings these days Iwake up with a one-word question on my mind: “Church?” I always hope for anearly enough answer from the Burtons so that I have time to look presentable.Like I don’t want to show up in church with still-wet hair or no make-up. Sotoday, Christian, Jacob, and I went to church.

The sermon text was from Matthew,the parable about noticing the speck in your neighbor’s eye without being awareof the log in your own eye. The point, of course, was that we live in ajudgmental society. We judge others without looking at our own weaknesses. Ithit home with me because I’m aware I tend to rush to judgment.

I’ve been working on my owntendency to be judgmental for a long time, though I’m not sure the work has donethat much good. This morning, I noticed a young woman in church with bleachedblond hair, poorly cut, dry as straw—and that was my impression of her. Until Itold myself she was young and she was in church, and that was to her credit. Wasn’tit too bad that someone couldn’t reach out to her and help her make her hairmore attractive.

There was a young mothersitting off to the side with a toddler, maybe two years old. Still in the phaseof uttering sounds rather than speaking—and utter sounds she did, throughoutthe entire service. The mother made half-hearted attempts to shush her and toreplace the hymnals the child scattered on the floor. I felt sorry for the mom,because I assume she wanted to be in church badly enough that she endured the child’santics. I didn’t even judge because she didn’t put the child in the nursery,because I remembered the time I tried that with Jacob. He was terrified of thevolunteer who scooped him up in her arms, and he held his arms out to me, hiseyes pleading to go home. So I understood this mom. But I still judged because thenoise was a distraction. Every time the child screeched, I found myselfinvoluntarily turning my head in that direction. But it was Jacob who in the carsaid, “Speaking of judgmental ….” and mentioned the child. In the car betweenchurch and home we caught ourselves in three instances of judgmentalism. We hada good laugh about it, but the truth is that our tendency to rush to judgement,as a society, is a real problem.

Judgmentalism particularlydoes not belong in church. We all know that church membership in this countryis declining gradually, but Russ told us this morning that the principal reasonfor the decline is the judgmentalism that people meet in church. My church describesitself as open-hearted, a place where all are welcome without judgment. Iwonder how much that works out in truth.

My mom was fond of aphorisms,and one that she quoted often was, “Never judge a man until you’ve walked amile in his moccasins.” Today it makes me think of the blonde in church or theyoung mother. I am too prone, despite myself, to spot the weakness in peoplerather than the good. I’m still working on it. Today a woman posted onlinecomplaining that middle school kids waiting for the bus were standing on herlawn. I suggested she go talk to them, and she replied it was their problem,not hers. I replied gently that if it bothered her, it was her problem. Kidsthat age probably had no idea that it offended her, and I repeated she shouldtalk to them if it bothered her. I’d call her judgmental, but my bad was that Iadded that I was sure glad I wasn’t her neighbor.

Back to church for a moment. Afterthe service, we were talking to the associate minister who said as she waswriting the prayer for today’s service, the verdict from the Paxton impeachmentcame in, and she had a real conflict praying not to be judgmental. We all had agood laugh, but in truth that story hit too close to home. Politicians?Especially Republicans? Feel free to judge, especially after this weekend. (I onlyhalf mean that as a joke.)