Judy Alter's Blog, page 20

Family and friends--and who we are

 

 

Sophie, because she too, deserves
that moment of consideration from me.
This morning a friend posted astory on Facebook. She went into the bathroom only to find an empty toiletpaper roll and a new roll of paper sitting on the windowsill. Obviously, herhusband had put the roll there but hadn’t taken time to put it on the dispense.What would your reaction have been? I admit I would probably have been angry,at least briefly. Well, I like to think the me who I am today wouldn’t havebeen, but I can tell you for sure the me who was married long years ago wouldhave been angry. Ranting that he couldn’t even take time to install the paperon the holder. But Brandy, my friend, said she thought to herself, “He’s sobusy, and he has so much on his mind, how thoughtful of him to make sure I hada new roll.” Wow! Learning lesson there.

I’ve been thinking all weekabout how we live with each other and how we treat each other. About being on autopilotwith knee jerk reactions or stopping for that brief second before we speak tothink through a situation. I fall down a lot of the time. Although I am notmarried any longer, I live in close proximity to my daughter and her husband,And there are lots of times I should keep my mouth shut or investigate before Ispeak. Tonight, me: “I never did get my dishwasher detergent back after it wentinto your house.”

Jordan: “I put it back. Didyou look?”

Me: “Not for a few days.” Iwas acting on old information. At the very least I could have framed it as aquestion: “Did you ever bring my dish detergent back?”

This morning in church thesermon was about the sinful woman who washed Jesus’ feet with her tears and driedthem with her hair. A difficult scene for us today to understand, believers or not,but it has nothing to do with washing feet and everything to do with how weperceive people. The Pharisee, in whose home Jesus was at the time, saw only asinner. Jesus saw a woman who repented of her sins and who grieved. He saw anindividual, not a stereotype.

I know from my own life how easyit is to look at a person but not see them—the difficult spouse, the impatientchild, the cranky colleague, the annoying neighbor. We just don’t want to taketime to find out who they really are, why they are annoying or cranky or difficult.In a surprise ending, after urging us to really look at others in his sermon thismorning, Dr. Peterman urged us to take a deep to take a deep look at ourselves.Are we really who we like to think we are—or is there room for change.

I think a lot of it comes downto how we treat other people. Consideration means many things—It means checkingour reactions before acting impulsively, it mean thinking about the otherperson and not just ourselves. It even means accepting help gratefully ratherthan resenting what is not done. It means putting others first at times—not allthe time. Nobody is that perfect and self-sacrificing, but if you watch, you’llfind the instances when you should put that difficult spouse, the impatient child,the cranky colleague, the annoying neighbor first, at least for a minute ortwo.

One of my favorites of Jordan’sfriends is the mom of a lovely, seventeen-year-old daughter, sweet, polite,accomplished. But the mom says sometimes she wants to say,
“Get over yourself.” It’s become one of my favorite pieces of advice, for me,and for those to whom I am close enough to say it.

Another family milestone, a cooking day, and the heat goes on

 

The Tomball Alters: Lisa, standing behind her mom,
who is seated next to Morgan, then Colin, and high school junior Kegan.
A fine family.
Morgan Helene Alter of Tomballcelebrated her eighteenth birthday by going off to college, which strikes me asparticularly appropriate. Specifically, she and her parents drove to Lubbock whereshe will be a freshman at Texas Tech and where a special guy was waiting forher to join him. Morgan is the third and last of my granddaughters—the othertwo are Maddie, who has graduated and is working at a genius bar in Denver andEden who begins her junior year at UCLA. I’m so proud of these girls, and sosure their boy cousins will catch up soon. To show how much things have changedsince my day: Morgan’s parents, Colin and Lisa, drove her in Morgan’s car. They’llfly back home tomorrow.

We had a visitor just now—a possum.All summer I’ve known there is a possum who likes our property. If a garbagebag gets left out overnight, it’s chewed and its contents scattered. Sophie hasoccasionally let loose with her “There’s a critter bark.” Tonight, she gave twolittle yelps, but then I saw Jordan bustling around on the deck. She sent mepictures of our guy, who looks cautious but not particularly scared. I amdelighted to have him as a resident because he eats ticks and fleas andmosquitoes and other worrisome insects. I think he needs a name, and for nogood reason Charlie comes to mind.Charlie, the possum.

Today was again a cooking Saturday,but I may have bitten off more than I wanted to chew. I’d been prowling throughold recipes—a file I’d stuck away in a cabinet in my closet when I downsized. Thiswas a recipe for a chicken casserole with tomatillo sauce—and the sauce nearlydid me in. Cooking two lbs. tomatillos in chicken broth was no problem, nor waschopping two cups green onions and two cups cilantro. Or even peeling tengarlic cloves. All tedious but easily done. But when it came to putting thatwhole mess in the processor, I stumbled.

By trial and error andmistake, I realized I couldn’t put ingredients in the processor bowl and thenadd the blade—it wouldn’t go down to be properly seated. Duh! Should have takenme half a minute to figure that out. I did realize that I would have to processthe sauce in two batches, so I used a fork to pitch half the tortillas in. Butthen I had to add half the liquid and other ingredients, which meany standingup to dump them in and risking losing my balance because I need one hand to steadymyself on something—or sitting and raising the bowl far over my head, which wasa pain. I finally got it done, with only one major spill. I call that a triumph,but my arms are sore from stretching and lifting.

The casserole was delicious,and we have enough left for at least one more meal, which is a good thingbecause I warned the Burtons I would not be making it soon again. The goodthing is there was a lot of tomatillo sauce left which is now hardening in myfreezer, and we can use it on chicken breasts.

I have always been a believerin the extreme threat posed to our earth by climate change, and in this summer,which is unbearably hot even for Texas, I think the danger signs are clear. Wemust act yesterday—I applaud President Biden’s efforts in that direction anddecry idiots like Senator Tommy Tubervlle who said he’s seen it hot on thefootball field and this is just summer. That’s what you get when you elected a  coach to the Senate. (Don’t get me started onTuberville and his hold on military promotions—what a grandstanding idiot.)

Eastern Canada had huge firesearlier in the summer, and now British Columbia is fighting large wildfires.The world is still stunned by the destruction of Lahaina on Maui. Granted, theinvestigation of that fire is not complete and won’t be for a while, but it maywell turn out that human error and mismanagement were part of the cause, if notfor igniting it then for the inability to control it. That certainly has been thecase with some destructive fires in California. I saw a meme today that said ineffect while the earth burns, we may thank these people: and it listed, withpictures, millionaire CEOs of fossil fuel industries. Reading that, it struckme that the world really may disappear by fire. And so, tonight, I leave youwith Robert Frost’s poem, “Fire and Ice.”

“Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire,
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.”

 

In celebration of Julia--an odd recipe

 

Today is Julia Child’sbirthday. The legendary chef would be 111, probably still drinking wine and droppingchickens on the floor. In celebration of her birthday, the Kitchn website askedfifteen home cooks for their favorite Child’s recipes. Responses included theexpected: French dressing, upside down martini, crepes, coq au vin, chickenliver mousse, and, of course, the classic boeuf bourguignon.

By contrast, I thought I’d shareone of the most unusual recipes I’ve ever heard of. Let me stress I have nottried this, but I trust Texas author Cindy Bonner who sent me this recipe forWater Pie. You’ve heard of other Depression-era pies with simple, inexpensiveingredients—vinegar pie is a classic. Then there’s Ritz cracker pie, oftencalled mock apple pie, for when apples aren’t available—it is said to tasteremarkably like apple pie. Chess pie and buttermilk pie, rich with butter andcream or milk, may not be money-saving Depression pies, but they are classic,southern favorites and have the same custard texture that Cindy found in waterpie. My Mississippi daughter-in-law makes chess pie for us at holidays, and itis one of my favorites.

So what is water pie? Sounds …well, watery. This goes together like nothing I’ve ever heard of before, so ifyou try it, be sure to follow the directions

Water Pie

 

Ingredients:

1 - 9”pie shell, unbaked

1 1/2cup water

4 TBLall purpose flour

1 cupsugar

2 tspvanilla

5 TBLbutter cut in pieces

 

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Pour the water into theprepared 9” unbaked pie shell. In small bowl, combine flour and sugar together.Sprinkle the sugar mixture evenly over the water in the crust. Do not stir.Drizzle the vanilla over the water and top with pieces of butter. Bake pie for30 minutes. Lower heat to 375 degrees and cover edges of crust if necessary toprevent excessive browning. Bake for 25-30 more minutes. The pie will be waterywhen you take it out of the oven but will thicken as it cools. Once completelycool, chill in the fridge. 

Cindy served this with a dollop of whipping cream but saysher partner, Wayne, didn’t think it needed it. For Cindy, the texture remindedher of chess pie. It was, she said, surprisingly flavorful with a uniquetexture. She advises a couple of cautions: put the pie plate on a cookie sheetfor baking, to catch drips; also the crust stuck to the bottom—I suppose eithergreasing or flouring the pie pan would help that.

 

If you don’t know Cindy’s work, you might want toinvestigate. As she says, her heroes are most often women and her soldiersdrive supply trucks rather than tanks. Her newest title is For Love and Glory,a WWII saga about a Texas boy who joined the Royal Air Force to fly againstthe Germans when he didn’t quality for the fledgling US air force. Of course,there’s a strong romantic element. The Passion of Dellie O’Barr and Lookingafter Lily are classics, and Right from Wrong won a Texas PENAward. She blogs at http://cindybonner.blogspot.com andmore about her can be found at https://www.cindybonner.com.

Let me know if  you try water pie.I’ll pass the word along to C indy.

 

 

An interrupted blog

Superman became a senior in high school today..
This is the blog I was writinglast night when news about the Georgia indictments broke, and of course then Iwas glued to the TV. The blog isn’t anything that meaningful—it won’t make youday or improve your life. Mostly, it’s just a chance for me to show off howadorable my grandson was at three and whine about my awful computer problemyesterday morning, with a grateful nod to my son, Colin for this patience withme. But what happened in Georgia may change all our lives. It may, probablywill lead to difficult days, perhaps even the oft-threatened violence, but I amconvinced we will come out better on the other side, and that the tensions anddivisions that have beleaguered our nation since 2016 will begin to heal. I thinkas a country, a democracy, we had no choice but to prosecute our formerpresident and his colleagues to the full extent of the law. And as Fani Willisemphasized, they are presumed innocent by the courts, something that they woulddeny others. Today is a day to be proud of America.

Hard for me to believe thatthe kid who ran around my kitchen in a Superman cape is now a senior in highschool, but he is, all concerned with which class he should drop and whichclass he should sign up for. Wish I understood the process—if he didn’t wantthe class and didn’t need it for credits, how did he get signed up in the firstplace? He regaled us at supper with tales of the first day, and it sounded asexpected—pretty much chaos.Jacob headed out.

I put out a call on ourneighborhood email list for back-to-school pictures of neighborhood childrenfor the next issue of the newsletter, which as you may know I edit. I have beeninundated with pictures—which is a good thing. Mostly I get pictures ofelementary school children, but I have a few middle and high school. I know,however, there are a lot more high school students in our neighborhood.Perhaps, like Jacob, they don’t want their pictures published. Jacob will bechagrined to be the oldest one in the next newsletter—shh! Don’t tell him. Inever intended to tell him about the Superman picture, but his mom couldn’tresist.

I was the one who needed to goback to school today. I had just barely begun work at my computer, when thecursor froze—and then disappeared. Totally. Gone. In a panic, I called myColin. He spent an hour and a half on the phone with me, saying scroll herewith the number key, hit this key, tab there. Do you have any idea how hard itis to naviage a computer without a cursor. Poor Colin was supposed to bepreparing for two business phone calls this afternoon and instead he washelping his idiot mother. There would be gaps in our conversation, silences solong that I sometimes asked if he was still there. Other times I could hear theclack of his keyboard as he searched for a solution, I presume. I finallysuggested we give it up, he prepare for and take his afternoon phone calls, andwe’d reconnect in the evening.

He agreed but emailed a fewminutes later with one more instruction. I tried it and eureka! The cursorreappeared. I cannot tell you how devastated I was at the prospect of a daywithout a computer. Call it an unhealthy addiction if you will, but I had noidea what I’d do all day—even the book I am reading is on my computer. By theby, airplane mode was the culprit and turning it off for half an hour or morepart of the solution. Just turning it off and on again apparently doesn’t work.I have always said computers, like people, need time to collect themselvesafter a crisis.

North Texas is basking in acool front. Tonight at ten o’clock, when it has been in the upper nineties mostevenings, it is eighty-five—and a low of the mid-seventies is predicted. It’snot supposed to last long—a couple of days—and it apparently brings none of therain we so badly need. But this brief cool front, like the indictments, is sowelcome.

Have a great day everyone. Be proudthat we live in America.

Back-to-school Sunday

Our country—or the advertisingindustry—seems to have a special name for every day: Chocolate Chip Cookie Day,Love Your Dog Day, Eat More Vegetables Day, and so on. Churches have specialdays too, besides holy holidays, like Youth Sunday and Reformation Sunday, butI recognized one today and wondered if churches consciously name the lastSunday before school Back-to-School Sunday. The whole service had a differentfeel about it, an anticipatory vibrancy.

In my family I’m very aware ofwhat our minister called the energy and buzz that surrounds the opening ofschool. Jacob heads into his senior year in high school, Morgan begins collegeat Texas Tech, and the rest continue their educational path without milestones.I am so proud of each of them and so excited to watch their progress this year.But a part of me is a bit frightened, and I pray for my family. The churchservice this morning brought that home to me.

At our church after summerabsences, we had most ministers back and an almost full choir, a sure sign thatthe new year begins. The service was highlighted by dozens of youngsters, maybepre-K to third grade, who crowded the chancel steps and the floor in front,most with their backpacks, to be blessed. Perhaps this should be called BackpackSunday.

There they were, with a fewanxious parents hovering about.  Be stillmy heart! It has been ten or twelve years since Jacob was in that crowd, but itseems like yesterday. And those children looked so young and innocent and vulnerable.

It suddenly hit me about thosesweet youngsters—and my grands. They may not only be nervous, which theminister acknowledged, but they may be downright scared. Is this the year ashooter will visit their school? Will they survive the year? Texas has donenothing significant to protect them or control guns since the massacre atUvalde. You can stil buy an assault rifle at eighteen with no license, notraining, and only a cursory background check. Schools will have armedpersonnel, which may well lead to more deaths, not fewer. I suspect more than afew schools, desperate to conform to the law, are hiring untrained personnel.And more guns just mean more shooting and more chance of accidents.

There has been one special sessionof the legislature, at Abbott’s call, to deal with taxes, and apparently, hewill call another to try once more to push through his pet idea of schoolvouchers, which will render public education more ineffective than ever. But nospecial session on guns. Legislators were busy during regular session banningbooks and outlawing drag queens. The argument, of course, is that we mustprotect our precious children. But don’t dare come for the parents’ guns! Somehowtoo many Texans don’t feel their children are threatened by guns, despite thenumerous school shootings our state has seen under Abbott’s governance.

Abbott, whose firm handcontrols what goes on in this state, is not a man known for his compassion. Andhe makes no exception for children. In addition to nearly turning a blind eyeto school shootings, he is allowing children to be killed at the border byrazor wire and by neglect on buses illegally transporting asylum seekers to “safe”cities. He has issued not one word of regret about the child’s body found floatingin the Rio Grande nor about the infant that died on a bus to Chicago. He may,however, have gotten too big for his britches: assaulting asylum seekers violatesthe Geneva Convention, which theoretically could leave him liable for charges fromthe World Court at The Hague. And now, Texas twin politician brothers, theCastros, are asking President Joe Biden to halt Abbott’s forced bus trips.Abbott’s entire handling of the border violates Federal law and is now in thecourts, but for asylum-seeking parents with young children, the courts move waytoo slowly.

You may think it’s a leap fromthose earnest little kids on the chancel steps this morning—some did look a bitbored—to immigrant children dying at Texas’ hands, but it’s really not. Thosedeaths—and pray there are not more—speak to what kind of state we live in, whatkind of people we are, because we tolerate them. We elect the men and women whopass harsh laws without a trace of humanitarianism, who tolerate the far-rightdemands for guns, including assault rifles which no civilian needs. If we wantto protect the kids at my church, where my grandson was not too many years ago,we have to protect all children. We have to extend our love.

“Three things remain: faith,hope, and love, and of these love is the greatest.”

Feeling domestic

 

Our trout dinner.
I had all sorts of grand plansfor the day—investigate the bookshelves that are always hidden by the couch,now that the couch has gone out to be cleaned. First time in seven years I can evensee those shelves, and I have no idea what all those papers are. And I wasgoing to make notes on a new idea I’ve had--I know, I’m always having new ideaslately and rarely following through. But I have good intentions.

All that went out the window.I slept late and was slow to get going when I did get up. Poor Sophie was mostpatient waiting for her second breakfast. When I got to my desk, I found I hadan extraordinary amount of email for a Saturday, including articles that Iwanted to read slowly and absorb—one about Kamala Harris, another about E. JeanCarroll, something about launching a new scene in a novel.

But lingering in my mind wasthe notion that I had promised to make a corn salad for supper. Christian and Imake a great team—tonight he grilled ruby red trout (after first being alarmedat the color) and green beans. I made the corn salad and a peach galette fordessert. But that menu—and the idea that we were having a special dinner—led medown the recipe path.

I figured Christian woulddecide how he wanted to do the trout, but I had promised to look up directionsfor grilling green beans in a basket. And then I realized I had to do somethingwith those two gorgeous peaches—once rock-hard, they were now getting too closeto soft. So that meant looking up recipes for peach cobbler and peach galette.(More about that on Thursday’s Gourmet on a Hot Plate Column, but I will saythe galette was delicious). Of all things I didn’t need in my recipe prowling,I came across a recipe for a taco casserole—it will be great in the dark ofwinter but sounds way too heavy on an 108 day. That’s the trouble—I always getside-tracked by recipes I don’t need. My “never tried” file bulges, but show mean article that say, “Our thirty most popular recipes,” or “Our fifteen most loved salad lunches” and I’m hooked.

Then of course I had to makethe corn salad—I find that almost any recipe takes me an hour from start to clean-up.Perhaps it’s because I cook from my seated walker, which I also blame for themany spots on my pants. When you stand, things that drip and drop don’t get on yourpants, but it’s a totally different story when you’re seated. I gathered thingsfor the galette because I was a little uncertain about that but, after anafternoon nap, putting it together went well. Galettes are not necessarily meantto be pretty and mine wasn’t, but it tasted good. And somewhere along the way Iwashed fresh green beans and snapped the ends. When Christian was ready togrill them in his new round grill basket, I seasoned them with olive oil, saltand pepper and a bit of garlic powder. He added lemon before he grilled them—thatboy just can’t help improving on a recipe—and we dusted them with pecorinobefore serving. Christian announced it was his new favorite way to eat greenbeans.

So that was an elegant Saturdaysupper—grilled trout, grilled green beans, corn salad, and a peach galette. Andnone of us felt too full after dinner. I call that a success.My lopsided galette
made with puff pastry.

In other bits of domesticity,I hung up the clothes that had accumulated on the chair in my bedroom—don’t judge!It’s one of the perks of living alone. And I sorted through a basket of thingsJacob had brought me from in the house, mostly packages that arrived fromAmazon. A couple of books I looked forward to—one on recipes of the Fifties(look out, family, we’re about to have pineapple upside down cake—I wonder ifChristian’s mom ever made that) and the other a memoir by Abigail Thomas titledStill Life at Eighty. Isn’t that a great title? You can take it any ofseveral ways. Since I’m eighty, plus some, I’m eager to read what she has tosay.

But the thing that excited meabout that basket was that it included two things I had ordered for Christmasgifts. It’s August, and I’ve already got two people on my list taken care of.Do you realize how exciting that is? I saw something the other day about howfar away Christmas is—not as far as you’d think. Whatever I saw was meant toencourage us that this hot weather too shall pass. And the Farmer’s Almanac sayswe’re due a hard winter. No, thanks. We’ve had a hard summer, and we don’t needa hard winter.

Know what? My day ofdomesticity wore me out. I think I’ll go back to writing. It’s easier.

Gratitude, blessings, and tragedy

 

Thinking tonight about themany blessings so many of us enjoy. We’ve been eating high on the hog aroundhere lately—a ribeye steak dinner with sour cream mashed potatoes one night, adelicious squash casserole another because someone brought me fresh squash froma farmer’s market, tonight a carefully made BLT—it still fell apart but didbetter than many I’ve made, and it was so good.

And while much of the world issweltering going about their business in days that are 107 and 108, I am comfortableand happy in my cottage, never sticking my nose out in the heat. Oh, it gets abit warm in the late afternoon, but it’s not bad. And Sophie sleeps contentedlyin whatever room I choose to be in. She sleeps on her side, which is supposedto be a relaxed position indicating she feels perfectly safe.

So here we are, with our pettyFirst World problems. And then I think of the people of Lahaina. Like many ofyou, I have been there. In truth, it wasn’t my favorite place in Hawaii—Jordan andI had come from Kauai, which I thought was magical. Lahaina, to me, was T-shirtshops and restaurants all with the same food, and a resort hotel indistinguishablefrom others.

But in the days since the fire,I have learned of other sides of that iconic town—it was home for many, and nowthose homes and all in them are gone. Beyond that Lahaina has a storied historyas the capital of the kingdom of Hawaii. As one scholar said, “It is a placewhere the past is always present.” Hawaiian kings and queens are buried there,and buildings along Front Street, some 150 years old, traced the history of thekingdom. But they are destroyed or severely damaged now. The banyan tree,planted to commemorate the establishment of the first mission on Maui (perhapsa dubious reason for celebration considering much of Hawaii’s history) is nowburnt and stark, though we are told the roots survive, and the famous tree willflourish again. As of tonight, fifty-nine people are dead and untold numbersare missing.

One thing that strikes meabout this catastrophic tragedy is that it shouldn’t have happened. We don’t expect afire to wipe out a city in this day and age. Somehow, I have the comforting thoughtthat modern firefighting techniques and dedicated firefighters will be able tostop any fire before it destroys an entire town. And yet, a few years back, wesaw towns in West Texas wiped out by wildfires. The Lahaina fire was fanned by highwinds, a phenomenon that we, for all our technology, cannot control. Suchdestruction should make us realize we are still vulnerable, still not incontrol. It should humble us.

The pictures of the devastation,the individual stories of survivors, the pleas of families who cannot locateloved ones are heartbreaking. And the online postings asking for help are compelling.It’s nice to know that Jeff Bezos has pledged $100 million to the recovery, butas posts make clear, any and all donations, however small, are solicited.

And that brings me to a pointthat has bothered me for some time. My instinct is to write the biggest check Ican (after checking to differentiate true Maui rescue groups from scams), butthe truth is I am besieged by so many needy causes. Every picture of a hungrychild or an abused dog tears at my heartstrings. The pictures of people tryingto flee some African countries in boats bring me to tears. So many worthycauses present someone like me, with limited ability to give, with a dilemma: is it better to choose one cause and donate a significant amount or to donate abit here and a bit there.

When my father died, wediscovered he had been sending $5 a month to countless charities and politicalcauses, many of which we had never heard of. So far, I follow a moderated formof his giving, but oh to have Bezos’ funds at hand.

Politicians beg us for just $5or even just $3 (though then the giving screen often shows $25 as the lowestgift, which is sort of a come-on). But I have the same problem with politiciansas I do with charities—I have a list, relatively long, of moderate to liberalpoliticians who I think would make real contributions to the country shouldthey be elected. But how do I choose? For instance, almost every Democratic senatorialcandidate will tell you keeping the Senate depends on their race. How do weknow? A friend who is a political consultant advised me to give to lesser-knownraces and not California where, he assured me, there is plenty of money. But Isure would like to see McCarthy defeated.

Politics aside, may God blessthe people of Maui, both those in Lahaina and the other areas affected bywildfires. Recovery will be slow, but pray it will be steady, with Federal helpalready promised. And perhaps the banyan tree as an enduring symbol for hope.

What’s on your bedside table?

 

The Fussy Librarian is a subscriptionwebsite with book news and reviews for readers and authors. I really like thename because I’m beginning to feel like the fussy reader. In the last couplemonths, I’ve started and abandoned more books than I’ve finished, and that’stotally not like me. I longed for a book that would grab my imagination and notlet go, something that I rushed back to and that kept me up too late at night.

Of two books that are currentlyon my Kindle, half finished, one is a novel based on the life of a famous twentieth-centuryfood journalist. I’ve read some of her writing and come away with the sense ofa life boldly lived, full of almost hedonistic pleasure that was not limited tofood alone. The first pages of the book swept me in, promising the same kind offictional adventure. But, then, after one bold move, the protagonist becomesthis unsure, introspective person, always questioning, always wondering what’sgoing to happen. Seems like her joy in life was suspended. I confess that I putit down before I was halfway through.

The other is a fictionalaccount of the family who owned and ran a longtime restaurant in Chicago. Ihave just enough restaurant experience in a small family café that I thought itwould ring a lot of bells for me. Instead, I was once again mired in the variouscharacters’ introspective meanderings. One chapter rang the familiar bell ofall that can go wrong and all that people complain about in restaurants. Otherwiseit was all family stuff—the gay son who longs to be part of a couple, thegranddaughter back from New York to pick up her share of family responsibility,the matriarch that no one can please.

I had enough of other peoples’angst. I longed for a book that would carry me away. Usually I read contemporaryfiction, mostly traditional mysteries. I’m just not interested in the Romanperiod or monks in old English monasteries in the fourteenth century. And I’mdefinitely not interested in the Regency period (early nineteenth centuryEngland), with its cultured and refined upper crust and extreme poverty ineveryone else. Think Wordsworth, Lord Byron, Jane Austen, Keats, William Blake.And also think extreme rules of social behavior.

So what am I reading? Who couldresist a book titled, The Benevolent Society of Ill-Mannered Ladies (byAlison Goodman)? It’s not really a mystery though there are plenty of tensemoments and illegal acts, and it’s not really a romance, though there’s an unusualtouch of that too. I’d call it a Regency romp. And I am really caught up by theladies who dance the quadrille and sip champagne while gossiping far into thenight.

Lady Julia Colebrook, petiteand ladylike, is only half successful in reining in her fraternal twin, LadyAugusta (Gus). The twins are forty-two years old and unmarried, which makesthem an anomaly in Regency society with its strict rules of etiquette. Searchingfor a way to lessen Julia’s grief for her fiancé, killed in a horsebackaccident, Gus decides they will rescue women in difficult situations in a societywhere men have all the power and rights. With relative ease, they repossesslove letters written by their friend Lady Charlotte to an unscrupulous lover.But things get complicated when they determine to rescue a woman being slowlykilled with laudanum by her husband and, along the way, are beset by a highwaymanwho turns out to be a disgraced nobleman—and, in Gus’ eye, devilishlyattractive. Julia is aghast. One problem follows another, including thedisapproval of their younger brother now in charge of them since he inheritedthe family title and property.

Moments of real, nail-biting tensionand the threat of violence are relieved by some hilarious scenes, and the wholethings is a fiercely feminist statement about a society where woman have no rights.

Who knows? I may add morRegency titles to my TBR (to be read) stick. If I can find another heroine likeGus ….What’s on your bedside table?

The Fussy Librarian is a subscriptionwebsite with book news and reviews for readers and authors. I really like thename because I’m beginning to feel like the fussy reader. In the last couplemonths, I’ve started and abandoned more books than I’ve finished, and that’stotally not like me. I longed for a book that would grab my imagination and notlet go, something that I rushed back to and that kept me up too late at night.

Of two books that are currentlyon my Kindle, half finished, one is a novel based on the life of a famous twentieth-centuryfood journalist. I’ve read some of her writing and come away with the sense ofa life boldly lived, full of almost hedonistic pleasure that was not limited tofood alone. The first pages of the book swept me in, promising the same kind offictional adventure. But, then, after one bold move, the protagonist becomesthis unsure, introspective person, always questioning, always wondering what’sgoing to happen. Seems like her joy in life was suspended. I confess that I putit down before I was halfway through.

The other is a fictionalaccount of the family who owned and ran a longtime restaurant in Chicago. Ihave just enough restaurant experience in a small family café that I thought itwould ring a lot of bells for me. Instead, I was once again mired in the variouscharacters’ introspective meanderings. One chapter rang the familiar bell ofall that can go wrong and all that people complain about in restaurants. Otherwiseit was all family stuff—the gay son who longs to be part of a couple, thegranddaughter back from New York to pick up her share of family responsibility,the matriarch that no one can please.

I had enough of other peoples’angst. I longed for a book that would carry me away. Usually I read contemporaryfiction, mostly traditional mysteries. I’m just not interested in the Romanperiod or monks in old English monasteries in the fourteenth century. And I’mdefinitely not interested in the Regency period (early nineteenth centuryEngland), with its cultured and refined upper crust and extreme poverty ineveryone else. Think Wordsworth, Lord Byron, Jane Austen, Keats, William Blake.And also think extreme rules of social behavior.

So what am I reading? Who couldresist a book titled, The Benevolent Society of Ill-Mannered Ladies (byAlison Goodman)? It’s not really a mystery though there are plenty of tensemoments and illegal acts, and it’s not really a romance, though there’s an unusualtouch of that too. I’d call it a Regency romp. And I am really caught up by theladies who dance the quadrille and sip champagne while gossiping far into thenight.

Lady Julia Colebrook, petiteand ladylike, is only half successful in reining in her fraternal twin, LadyAugusta (Gus). The twins are forty-two years old and unmarried, which makesthem an anomaly in Regency society with its strict rules of etiquette. Searchingfor a way to lessen Julia’s grief for her fiancé, killed in a horsebackaccident, Gus decides they will rescue women in difficult situations in a societywhere men have all the power and rights. With relative ease, they repossesslove letters written by their friend Lady Charlotte to an unscrupulous lover.But things get complicated when they determine to rescue a woman being slowlykilled with laudanum by her husband and, along the way, are beset by a highwaymanwho turns out to be a disgraced nobleman—and, in Gus’ eye, devilishlyattractive. Julia is aghast. One problem follows another, including thedisapproval of their younger brother now in charge of them since he inheritedthe family title and property.

Moments of real, nail-biting tensionand the threat of violence are relieved by some hilarious scenes, and the wholethings is a fiercely feminist statement about a society where woman have no rights.

Who knows? I may add morRegency titles to my TBR (to be read) stick. If I can find another heroine likeGus ….

Crazy old dog lady

 

Sophie waiting for company.
Now I’ve done it. I havesuccessfully defined myself as a crazy old dog lady. And it’s all Sophie’sfault for being the extraordinarily smart dog she is. I know most dog ownerswill tell you theirs is the smartest dog, but I really mean it with Soph. Afterall, she’s a deliberate cross of a miniature poodle and an Australian shepherd.

For one thing, she has aninner clock that would put the world clock to shame. She knows to the minutewhen it is time to start reminding me, gently at first and then moreforcefully, when it is time for her to eat. Since some days she eats seventimes (small snacks, to coordinate her insulin shots), that’s a lot to keeptrack of. But she does it.

There’s nothing Soph likesbetter than company. I guess she gets bored with my company. Happy hour is herhappiest time of day, and she’s been known to sit staring at the gate, waitingto see who shows up. When someone arrives, almost anyone, she is convinced theycame specifically to see her.

It’s that urge to party that mademe look like a crazy lady. We have learned, through hard lesson, that Sophieknows when I leave her to go off the property. Then I can get away with, “Begood. We’ll be right back.” Colin has been known to say, “No, we’re nevercoming back,” but she knows he’s teasing her.

But there’s no fooling herwhen I go into the main house for a party—and she is not going to be leftbehind, if she has to tear down a door. It’s taken two people to accomplish it,and then I was worried the whole time I was inside. So now I just take her. Withmaybe four guests, its fine. She calms right down, prowls under the dining roomtable for crumbs, and sometimes sleeps peacefully.

But last night was a party forChristian’s birthday, with a max of thirty people expected. That’s a lot ofcoming and going through the front door, and one of our fears is that she’llslip out. In her younger days, Sophie had a wild urge to head north to Canada.These days, I think she’s realizes she has it pretty good where she is and won’tplay door dash, but none of us want to take a chance. The other thing is that,unsupervised, she’d love to graze the buffet table, clean any plates left on lowtables, and generally make a nuisance of herself in search of food. Since herdiabetes diagnosis, she takes just enough prednisone to make her ravenous allthe time.

So I took her leash insidewith me. When guests arrived last night, there I sat,  leash in hand. Sophie strained to greet eachnew person and was generally rewarded with some gesture of affection. These weemostly people who have visited in the cottage and know and love both of us (howblessed I am! And I love them each and all). So each would stop, speak withSophie, give her a hug, and then move on to hug me.

But there were a few outliers,people that don’t know us well, and I suddenly realized, siting there, theymust think I am one of those crazy old ladies who can’t go anywhere without herdog. The kind who carry the dog in a purse or shopping bag. The kind who havesmall dogs for support dogs. Believe me, it’s the other way around—I wassupporting Sophie’s people addiction. Of course, no one said anything, andeverybody was kind to Sophie, so this categorization of me could be all in myimagination. But I am attached to that little creature.

And if I look at her and ask, “Areyou ready to go home?” her ears perk up and she hads for the back door. Party’sover. For us, it ends pretty early, and we are both happy to be back in the quietof our cottage.Party's over.

Two views on the food we ate—and what I ate tonight

 

Today I happened across areference to Adelle Davis, the most famous American nutritionist in the twentieth century, and itbrought back a flood of memories. My mom was a follower of Davis, and as aresult I remember wheat germ in cereals, honey instead of sugar in cornbread,and maybe a bit of Brewer’s yeast in who knows what.

Probably the Davis book thatmost influenced Mom was Let’s Cook It Right (1947) which was, somesources claim, an attempt to update the popular Joy of Cooking. Davis’sgoal was to teach people to eat properly for nutrition, and to that end sheadvocated nutritional supplements such as wheat germ and powdered milk, theavoidance of prepared food, sugar, and preservatives, and an emphasis on fresh fruits,vegetables, and whole grain breads. Davis believed that outcomes in life dependedon nutrition, and women who did not well properly during pregnancy would haveunhealthy babies who would not do well later in life. Almost no one in Americaate a healthy diet, according to Davis.

She criticized both foodproducers and the medical community for their lack of knowledge about nutrition.Food purveyors, she claimed, misled us about harmful ingredients in their products,and physicians, ignorant of the truth, prescribed unhealthy diets for theirpatients. Needless to say, she had many critics.

I can remember once as anolder teen I had some sort of severe infection, and the doctor assigned to carefor me was gentle in his approach—he was after all, an old family friend, aswere almost all the doctors on the staff of the hospital where Dad wasadministrator. This particular one—his name was Ward—said, “I know your motherhas some unusual diet ideas.” I have always remembered that moment, though Idon’t remember what came afterward.

Running into Adelle today wasalmost like running into a long-lost friend, but what struck me most was similaritiesand yet contrast to Helen Corbitt (if you read my blog and don’t know by nowwho Corbitt was, I give up!). Davis was born in 1904 and died in 1974; Corbittwas born in 1906 and died in 1978. They were contemporaries, both nutritionists,both dedicated to changing American eating habits. Both focused on fresh foodand vegetables and proper cooking methods. Books by both women continue to sellwell, all these yeas later.

But Davis took the academicroute--one book had over 2,000 footnoted references to medical journals andstudies. Her tone was peachy, almost scolding for bad habits, verging on the shrill.

Corbitt on the other handfound joy in food, delight in the flavors she combined, the dishes she created.She once claimed God had put he on earth to teach southerners not to overcookgreen beans. When Stanley Marcus wanted her to share her cream of tomato soup recipewith a visiting dignitary, she demurred and later explained they wouldn’t wanthim to know it began with a can of Campbell’s. Corbitt’s arena was smaller too—whereDavis had a national audience, Corbitt reached mostly people in Texas andsurrounding states. But Corbitt’s books are cookbooks with no judgement beyondsuch cautions as cooking vegetable al dente and often with chatty notesto a recipe.

That’s it—two women, similar backgrounds,similar goals, and such different paths. I have no conclusions to draw aboutwhich one succeeded better. Both have pretty much slipped into obscurity thesedays. And maybe that’s my mission—to rescue them.

So with my head full ofhealthy eating, guess what I had for dinner tonight? A plate from the potuckbuffet for Christian’s birthday—Cane’s chicken fingers, that decadent andubiquitous potato casserole with sour cream, butter, etc., a sour cream corndip, some really good dippers that were so crisp they must have been deep friedin a ton of grease, marinated black-eyed peas (okay that was my contributionand Corbitt’s recipe). It was good, and I enjoyed it, but I could feel thosetwo nutritionists frowning at me.

By contrast, one of the thoughtfulguests brought me a bag of tomatoes, peaches, and squash from her family’s freshmarket. I guess it all balances out.

Here’s to a healthy anddelicious daily diet!