Judy Alter's Blog, page 21

Bringing Mom into the Cottage

For all the years of mygrowing up, there were two chairs on either side of the Italian marblefireplace in our Chicago brownstone. On the left was Dad’s chair, overstuffed,beige, comfortable, but not exactly a stylish piece of furniture. On the rightwas Mom’s wingchair, more delicate and ladylike, upholstered in turquoise becauseit was her favorite color. There they sat most evenings after supper, readingsilently but often reading to each other. One would say, “Listen to this,” andread some passage, and pretty soon the other would respond similarly. Theirminds were so in sync that they couldn’t resist sharing passages. Sometimesthat sharing resulted in their reading aloud to each other. I distinctlyremember that they went through all the volumes of Will and Ariel Durant’s TheStory of Civilization that way.

Fast forward down the years,and Mom’s wing chair ended in whatever house I lived in. It was reupholsteredseveral times, the latest being when I moved to the cottage and chose a light, whimsicalpatterned fabric. But then where to put it? Neither the living area nor thebedroom were spacious and there seemed no place. Still, I would not get rid ofit because, well, it was Mom’s. For several years it has been shoved into acorner in front of my desk, with a dog crate making it inaccessible to allexcept Sophie who climbs on it when she needs to see out the window to the drivewayand check on who is coming and going.

Yesterday, upholstery cleanerscame. The couch and both barrel chairs that flank it needed cleaning. Over thephone, the owner of the company had asked if the fabric was washable or neededdry cleaning, and I said I had no idea. So two affable gentlemen came to look anddo a fabric test. Their conclusion was that the colors could run. The furnitureneeded dry cleaning which meant they had to take it to their shop whereventilation allowed safer use of the strong chemicals involved (I hope they don’tcome back smelling like cleaning fluid).

The absence of those two chairsleft the living area looking barren, so tonight, before company came, Jordanrearranged and put the wing chair on the right side of the couch. I love it inthat position. Not only does it look good, it seems to bring a bit of Mom intothe cottage. As it happens, I am doing some work on a project that involves mymom and her cooking and recipes, so it is doubly fitting that her chair is inthe living room. Not that I’m sure she would enjoy all conversations that go onin my cottage—I can see that chin go up in the air and the eyes go out thewindow.

But with the chair there, I thinkI can and will talk to Mom more. Like, “Why did you like this recipe?” and “Wheredid you learn to cook this?” I am delighted.

Yesterday, with no chairs, ayoung friend (she’s the age of my children) from the TCU library came for anearly happy hour. When she settled on the couch with no chairs around it, Iasked what she wanted to drink and offered my two easy choices: wine or water.

Reluctantly she said that shefelt dehydrated from the heat and a lot of hauling and schlepping she’d donethat day (librarians do not get the luxury of sitting behind a counter allday), and she’d prefer ice water. I already had my water, so I joined her. Welaughed and gossiped and caught up on each other and TCU news for over an hour,and when she left, she said, “I’m sorry I didn’t make it a happier happy hour.Wine next time.” I assured her it was plenty happy without the wine. And that’swhat struck me as important about it: I am so used to serving wine at happyhour that it was a delight to know that jolliness comes with ice water too. Ilook forward to a repeat.

My trivial note for the day:do you know what the latest TikTok self-care topic is: bed-rotting. Awful name,isn’t it? It means taking an extended period of time out by lying in bed, not sleepingbut doing other activities. My first question was: how much else can you do?Okay, there’s the obvious quick answer, but get past that. I for one do notlike to eat or read in bed, though I have been known to lie in bed, sort ofhalf-conscious, for hours at a time, if I’m not quite right with the world. Infact, I claim I nap because some of my best ideas come in that twilight,almost-asleep period. But bed-rotting? It’s an awful term.

Sleep tight, pleasant dreams—butno rotting. (Do you know how hard I’m resisting a play on words here?)                                                                                    

Haunting Hunter

 

Do you mind another rant tonight?I’m angry. Today the Washington Post had an article that in effect said Biden’scompassion for his son “blew up in his face.” I think just the opposite: the Republicansvicious, vengeful investigation of Hunter Biden has made them look ridiculous.

That’s not to say the younger Bidenhasn’t done some pretty awful things in the past—no need to detail them herebecause MTG already did a good and appalling job of that. Although he flauntedfather’s power and reputation, there has been no proof found that he ever compromisedthe president, whether that is due to the son’s caution or the father’s wisdom,we may never know.

I know liberals who say theyhave no sympathy for Hunter because he was raised with wealth and privilege andstill “went bad.” That seems to imply wealth and privilege will protect youfrom a bad drug habit, though I think just the opposite is often true. There is a judgmental Puritanical thought in that thread about strength and couragewill always lead you to make good choices. I’m not sure that’s true either. I liketo remember that Jesus pardoned the sinner, especially the repentant sinner.

But let’s go back to wealthand privilege. Hunter was born in 1970, the year his father was elected to theSenate. I don’t think there was a lot of wealth then. When Hunter was two, heand his older brother, the late Beau Biden, were seriously injured in a tragicaccident that took the lives of their mother and younger sister. The boys werehospitalized for some time. Who can calculate the damage done to a two-year-oldby such trauma? After that, theirs was probably not a normal childhood—their fatherwas in the Senate and they no doubt had nannies, though it is to Joe Biden’scredit that he rarely stayed in DC but went home to Delaware each night to bewith his boys.

I have not researched Hunter’slife enough to know when and why he turned to alcohol and drugs but apparentlythose problems increased after the 2015 death of his brother, Beau. Today,though, Hunter seems to be trying to put his life back together again. He haspaid his back income taxes. (Tax experts tell us that people almost never go toprison over delinquent taxes these days, so no, James Comer and  Gym Jordan, he did notget a sweetheart deal—he was treated like any other citizen.) That his pleabargain on the gun charge has to be negotiated does not appear to bepolitically motivated. He has acknowledged his out-of-wedlock child and isapparently trying to be a good father to all his children. And he has the firmsupport of his father and stepmother.

What Republicans Chuck Grassley(that old man who ought to retire and who has said he doesn’t care if theaccusations are true or not), James Comer (new to the national spotlight and soanxious for his five minutes of fame) and Gym Jordan (always a pain, but karma mayget him yet—lots of athletes remember Ohio) have done is to target Joe Biden athis weakest point. Hunter’s former business partner, Devon Archer, pretty muchlaid their hopes to rest this week, but they blunder on with accusations. It isa shameful spectacle.

Throughout all this, Joe Bidenhas remained in the background, at least on this specific issue. As a parent, Ican only imagine the urge to retaliate, to deny, to speak out in angermust be strong. But as Biden has done with other attacks on his age, hisintegrity, his ability, he has kept his head down and gone about the businessof governing the United States. I think such rectitude indicates great strengthof character, and I admire him.

And, personally, I am rootingfor Hunter. I hope he stays on the straight and narrow, finds his calling, andgoes on to a successful life. Gulp, he’s a year younger than my oldest son andthe same age as my oldest daughter. and I know how I feel about them. I couldnever be as restrained as Biden.

Preaching to the choir

 

The picture with this post is forthe algorithms but also because it was such a pretty plate—slow roasted salmon,marinated cucumber and sweet onion, and fruit salad with lime, lime zest, andjust a tiny bit of sugar. But it has nothing to do with the activist hat I haveon tonight.

I got caught up today on along anti-abortion thread, mostly because I am almost incapable of lettingoutright lies go unchallenged. This one was full of statements that there isnever any medical reason for abortion, and many doctors say there is never areason to kill the baby. These statements were followed by a long string ofone-word posts: “Absolutely!” along with a few about murderers, and noabortions ever, and the like.

One rude gentleman offered tosell me swamp land, but I happened onto a woman who seemed sincere in herbelief and a bit puzzled. What I discovered, exchanging messages with her, isthat these are the folks who didn’t pay attention in high school biology. Theyseem to think doctors abort a perfect baby and stand there debating: “Should wekill this one or not?” Also they seem to think that all nine months thisperfectly formed baby is in the womb. They have no idea about fetaldevelopment, fetal abnormalities, fetal death in utero, even complications thatthreaten the mother’s health. And I suspect they don’t want to know.

I am no medical expert, butfor probably the first twenty years of my working life I worked it was inhospitals and medical schools. I am a doctor’s daughter, sister, ex-wife, aunt,and niece. I learned as they say just enough about medicine to be dangerous.But I know when someone says to me, “Many doctors say there is never a reasonto kill a baby,” there aren’t many doctors and the person posting may have readthat once, somewhere, on an anti-abortion post.

In another post on that site Iexplained that I am not pro-abortion. As an adoptive parent who could notproduce babies, I think birth is a miracle. And I’m grateful that none of thegirls in my family ever thought of abortion—how did they suddenly get so oldthey are beyond that stage? At any rate, I am not pro-abortion. I believe asmany do that the decision is between a woman, her doctor, her partner, andperhaps the god of her faith.

But I am passionately opposedto Draconian laws passed by old white men with no medical knowledge thatprevent pregnant women from getting adequate medical care. Today severalplaintiffs are suing the State of Texas. Some were near death before beinggiven medical care, and several have lasting effects that may prevent future successfulpregnancies. You can read their heartbreaking stories here:  Womensuing Texas over abortion bans give emotional testimony - ABC News (go.com)

I simply do not understand thereasoning behind making a woman carry a nonviable fetus to term at grave riskto herself. If you read the article, you will read of a woman whose fetus hadencephaly (undeveloped skull and brain) but she was forced to carry the baby toterm and watch it die in agony. How does that fit with the Christian principlesthat extremists espouse? Frankly, I’m horrified.

I also don’t understand how protestorscan quote the sixth commandment— “Thou shall not kill”—but are willing to let apregnant woman die. I suggested to one woman she read the Torah. Actually Ihave no idea if this is in the Torah or not, but I do know that Jewish lawalways placed the life of the mother first. The fetus comes into the world as Freud’sblank tablet, if you will, but the woman has a fully developed life, people wholove her and whom she loves. Possibly she has other children who depend on her.She may make important contributions to society. She has her place in the world.Thereis not an equal equation there.

If there’s a glimmer of hope,this is it: education. Instead of confronting anti-abortionists, each of ussomewhere along the line probably has a chance to educate. Maybe just asentence or two, calmy delivered. I think we’re obligated to do that. It’s nolonger good enough to say, “I didn’t want to be rude,” or “I don’t like confrontation.”We have been silent too long.

Rant over. Thanks for listening.

A milestone and some trivia

 

Would you believe I am stillgetting over pandemic? As I have written before, pandemic and quarantine madeit so easy for me to stay home in the cottage and not take my mobility challengesout into the world. Oh, occasionally I have gone out to dinner with friends,but pretty much I invite people to the cottage for happy hour or supper. And Ihaven’t been to church since March 2020. I was a faithful virtual attendant,signing in on my computer almost every Sunday. But I missed the physicalfeeling of being in the sanctuary, (University Christian in Fort Worth is abeautiful sanctuary), being surrounded by music, being part of the community.

The Burtons also never got backinto the habit of weekly church. My minister friend Renee tells me the churchrecognizes that having once broken the church habit, it is hard to resume. Thisspring Christian began to really agitate for going to church. The three Burtonswent one Sunday, but I opted to stay home. Then this past week, I had fourrestaurant meals and somehow got a big boost to my confidence. So I said I’dlike to go this Sunday. It was the last day of a five-sermon series Renee waspreaching.

Christian and I went to church.What made it work is that he willingly pushed me in my transport chair. I thinkmuch of my hesitation was based on insecurity about walking with a walker—I can’tgo far without getting breathless. Today, being in the transport chair waseasy, and he agreed, proud that just the two of us handled it.

After church, several memberscame up to greet me, which made me feel really welcome. I asked one if shestill lived out in the country, quite a drive from church, and she said shedid. “It’s my little piece of heaven,” she said. I remember when the churchorganist, asked about the long hours she spends practicing at the organ, said, “It’smy happy spot.” My church friend had found her happy spot in the country. I realizedthat my happy spot is at my desk, not necessarily with my computer on, but atmy desk where I am in charge of my world. I think—and hope—each of us has ahappy spot.

It's Sunday night, and I amgetting ready to dine alone. Going to marinate some cucumber (I am never againbuying those tiny cucumbers—they taste different, and they go bad five minutesafter  you buy them—I have heard that youshould wrap cucumbers in paper towel to keep them from spoiling; some say toadd a silver spoon—just sayin’.) I’ll have a leftover salmon patty and maybe abit of blue cheese salad. A nice evening.

Trivia: I saw an ad today formink eyelashes! No kidding! I thought of all the animal lovers (me includedthese days) who shun fur coats and wondered who is vain enough to want minkeyelashes. Maybe I misunderstood. No, they are all over the internet. A bitpricey, as much as $95. There is an internet warning that you are killing thesecute little critters. Do you suppose vain women care?

And get ready: I readsomewhere that stores are preparing to display their Halloween offerings. We’resweltering in the midst of summer, school hasn’t even started yet, andmerchants want us to think ahead to Halloween. I don’t guess so.

I saw a book title that I thoughtwas funny—until I read the description. There’s apparently a short storytitled, “Namaste Trump” which is the title story of a collection about brokenlives in small towns. I guess that’s appropriate if trump supporters can seethemselves clearly, which I seriously doubt. And then there is a book by thattitle designed for journaling and described as a gag gift for trump supporters.Wish we could see sales figures on that one. And finally there really is a MAGAjournal titled An Enlightened Trump Meditation.

I have no words. I am going togo quietly and eat my supper. Y’all have a good evening.

Older but no wiser

 

My almost disaster dinner.
Recently I saw a Snoopycartoon that advised, “Don’t worry about getting older. You’ll still do dumbstuff. Only slower.” I must have felt obligated to prove it true last nightwhile cooking supper. Jordan and I decided on salmon patties and a marinated beansalad. I had seen a “fancy” recipe for salmon patties but at Jordan’s request wentwith the old and plain way my mom did them. But one new trick I learned (hattip to Mary Kay Hughes) is that they hold together better if you chill thembefore frying. So I used two small cans of salmon and made six patties. Putthem on a plate in the fridge to chill. (Another tip, this from my mom: throw ahandful of instant tapioca into meatloaf or salmon patties or anything you wantto hold together—you’ll never know it’s there, but it works magic.)

The bean salad was already in thefridge “blending its flavors,” but I remembered I hadn’t put in the lime juice,so I got it out. And there I sat, bowl of salad in my hands, as I watched inawe as the plate with the patties sailed out of the fridge in a perfect arc andthen curved downward to land upside down at my feet. I felt like I was watchingsomething in slow motion and absolutely incapable of doing anything about it.

For a second, I tried for thethree-second rule: it hasn’t been on the floor long enough. Jordan wasindignant: “I will not eat off the floor, and I will not allow you to.” I knewshe was right. If it had been bread or biscuits or something, I’d have beenokay. But not uncooked patties. We shooed Sophie away—she seemed to understandthe gravity of the situation and did not try to sneak a bite—and Jordan sweptit up and threw it away. Jordan got two more cans of salmon out of the closet(my extended pantry), and I did it all over again. I guess, being my mother’schild, what bothered me most was the waste: I used four cans of salmon (it’snot cheap) to get five salmon patties. They were good though, and the beansalad was terrific.

About bean salad: my cookinghint for the day is substitute honey for sugar and cut way back on the amount.The recipe I followed called for two Tbsp each oil, vinegar, and sugar. Whoa! Iused 1 tsp. honey, and it was just right. My three-bean salad recipe also callsfor a bit of honey, and though I was skeptical, I have to say it’s great.

I demonstrated my age another wayone day not long ago. My oldest son and his family—wife and two grandkids—were goingto Gatlinburg, TN and Dollywood for a week. Don’t ask my why. Dollywood is notand never would be on my bucket list, though I admire Dolly a great deal. Ihave been to Gatlinburg years ago and remember it as crowded and touristy but withgood crafts. I once bought  a dinner setof good, heavy crockery in Gatlinburg. It went to whoever in the family when Idownsized.

In my old-fashioned idea of afamily vacation, you get up ungodly early, jump into the car, eat a sweet rollfor breakfast while traveling, and drive s far as you can until evening. So Ithought I’d just check the “Find a Friend” function on my phone and see if they’dgotten an early start. They were at Houston International Airport—no drivingfor them! Maybe it’s because I don’t like to fly, but flying and family vacationis an oxymoron to me.

No summer trip for me. Havinghad my riotous birthday weekend, I am once again content in the cottage andwelcoming friends for happy hour. Neighbors Greg and Jaimie came up tonight. Ihad invited them to walk up (about a long block uphill) but they admitted theydrove because it’s so hot. I love it when they come for a drink because wealways laugh a lot. And we did tonight, over everything from Jordan’s teenagestories (she was with us and shared them) to neighborhood gossip. Sophie loves it because Greg was oneof her early loves—when she was a pup, he came once a week to mow our yard andvisited with both Sophie and me. Jaimie often brings anappetizer—she’s the source of the good baked goat cheese recipe—but tonight I fixedpigs in a blanket, which ended up being my supper.

Christian is at a “guys only”birthday evening, Jordan has gone off to watch a movie, and I, happy and content,am going to read. Sweet dreams, everyone.

Helen Corbitt and what Texans ate

 

Helen Corbitt
Some of you may remember I’vebeen off and on trying for three or four years to write a book about HelenCorbitt, legendary doyenne of food service at Neiman Marcus. My effort didn’t workfor a variety of reasons, one among them few people thought my idea was asinteresting as I did (hat tip to Travis Snyder of Texas Tech Press who did likethe idea). My thesis was and is that she came at an interesting time in thehistory of food in the US.

A native of upstate New York and a traineddietician, Corbitt came to Texas in 1940 to teach at the University of Texas atAustin. She was dismayed to find, as Prudence McIntosh wrote for TexasMonthly, “no artichokes, no fresh raspberries,no herbs except decorative parsley, only beef (chicken-fried, barbecued, orwell done), potatoes (fried or mashed and topped with a glop of cream gravy),and wedges of iceberg with sweet orange dressing. Fruit salad meant cannedpears or pineapple with a dollop of mayonnaise and a grating of cheddar cheese.Canned asparagus was a remarked-upon delicacy, as were Le Sueur canned peas.”

She moved on to the HoustonCountry Club, then a brief stint at Joske’s department store, and next theDriskill Hotel in Austin. Stanley Marcus began offering her a generous positionat Neiman’s long before1955, when she finally accepted.

Meanwhile it was an era whenforces were encouraging women to get out of the kitchen, to shortcut cooking,use prepared food and modern appliances, free themselves from the drudgery ofthe apron. Food critic Poppy Cannon published The Can-Opener Cookbook in1951; Peg Bracken followed with The I Hate to Cook Cookbook in 1960.During the fifties, manufacturers were busy finding new consumers for preparedfood since the military no longer needed as many MREs, and appliance manufacturerscame up with appliances that practically prepared the entire meal. Futurists predictedhousewives would soon be able to put an entire meal on the table in less thanfifteen minutes.

Corbitt’s advice tohousewives, however, was “Get back in the kitchen.” (She actually saved at leastone marriage with that advice.) She believed in fresh ingredients, tasteful presentation,and careful combination of flavors. That chicken bouillon that is still servedin the Zodiac? It took hours of cooking. Her signature dish, marinated black-eyedpeas (also called Texas caviar) marinated at least two days before service.There was no instant food in her repertoire. One of her battles in her effortto teach Texans how to eat was the “al dente war”—she believed overcookingsapped vegetables of their flavor and health benefits. Everything from greenbeans to asparagus should be crisp. In a way, her cooking, rich with butter andcream, paved the way for James Beard and Julia Child.

Corbitt was a feisty, red-hairedIrish woman with a temper. Stories abound about her tenure at Neiman’s, herfriendships with everyone from President Lyndon B. Johnson and his Lady Bird to the Prince of Wales, her occasionalbursts of temper and outspoken moments.

Corbitt’s legacy lives on in herfive cookbooks, which are still in print. Yet today I doubt even Dallas residents,except those of my generation, recognize her name. In her retirement, shetraveled and lectured all over the South and Southwest, but she had almost notelevision presence, as Beard and Child did, and her reputation, while notlimited to Texas, was pretty much regional.

I still think her story isinteresting, and her accomplishments deserving of wider attention. Hmmm. The booksis not going to fly, but I have submitted an article to a historical magazine (thatthe fifties is historical still boggles my mind). And I’ll keep thinking ofways to tell Corbitt’s story. No, I don’t see a novel in it.

Want to try a recipe? Google HelenCorbitt’s marinated black-eyed peas. If recipes tell you to add a lot of vegetables,move on. Her recipes has peas and onions.

 

Food on my mind (when isn’t it?)

 

Texas caviar

Tonight I had dinner withCarol, Kathie, and Subie, longtime friends who celebrate birthdays together—Caroland I both have July birthdays. Carol chose Fixe for supper, a choice I wasreluctant about. But I put on my good-girl manners, and away we went. It was delightful.Fixe is rightfully known for biscuits—crisp crust, heavenly soft on the inside,served with butter, honey, and strawberry preserves. Of course for the rest ofthe meal my hands felt slightly sticky from the honey, but it was worth it. I haddeviled eggs—three eggs with a dab of trout roe, good but not great, and a “LittleGem” salad which was delicious. Plenty of supper for me, and I enjoyed everybite. Of course, the camaraderie with old friends made the meal special, and itwas a pleasant evening.

As always I had some misgivingsabout logistics—afraid I would have to walk too far, etc. But it was smooth.Subie let us out at a ramp right by the restaurant door, and I felt that bothcoming and going I walked with comfort and self-confidence. A real boost to myego, after a flub with the family on Sunday. A thoroughly enjoyable evening. Withtonight and last weekend, I am convinced I must get out of the cottage moreoften, though as I write I hear the locusts singing their song of hot weatherto come. Nonetheless, I can do it—and I must.

While food is on my mind, Iread a list of foods that are trendy on TikTok, and I must admit as a foodie Iwas appalled. I am not a TikTok fan, so this was all a surprise to me, but itcame on Kitchn, the daily foodie newsletter that is one of the highlights of mymorning email. Today, it has an article about irresistible TikTok recipes. Iwon’t comment on all, but here are a few that caught my eye.

Cowboy butter: A mixture of butter, lemon, herbs, andspices melted together for an easy compound butter dipping sauce for steak,vegetables, or bread. It looked like all grease to me in the picture,but the article raved about it adding flavor to everything from steak to vegetablesand bread. I can’t imagine dipping a good steak in something sotaste-disguising, but maybe it’s worth it. I might try that one sometime.

Blueberrycookies: they are a stunning shade of purple, and much as I love blueberriesand, as an alum and retiree I have emotions about TCU’s purple, I don’t think Ican do purple cookies.

Kool-Aidpickles: I don’t care if the colors are refreshing and the taste is acombination of sweet and sour, I just can’t get past the Kool-Aid of mychildhood. No, thanks.

Buffalo-ranchbutter board: Let it be said, loud and clear, that I love butter, I adore it.My kids have been known to say, “Have a little cracker with your butter, Mom.”But I tried a butter board, and I just couldn’t do it. I cannot believe that addinghot sauce, ranch seasoning, and scallions is going to make it any better.

Sushibake – if you like sushi, why in heaven’s name would you turn it into a rich,hearty casserole. The two—sushi and casserole—are poles apart, and never shallthey meet. At least not in my kitchen.

Pastachip for dipping: You cook pasta, like bow ties, drain, cover with oil, season withParmesan, garlic powder, and red pepper flakes, and bake until crisp and golden.Then use to dip in Rangoon sauce and other delicacies. Maybe healthier thanchips? I don’t know. Color this one a maybe.

Cowboycaviar: okay this one is familiar, a spin-off on Helen Corbitt’s Texas caviarrecipe. It just adds more things—and doesn’t have the black-eyed peas butinstead has black beans, corn, bell peppers, etc. But the principle of marinatedvegetables is the same. I just think Corbitt’s original recipe is better.

Sothere you have it—a lovely dinner, and a bunch of oddball recipes. If you reallywant to try any of them, I’m sure you can google them.

Bonappetit! No, that’s wrong. Too sophisticated! Y’all enjoy!

What did you accomplish today?

 

Cookbook cover for the algorithms,
and, yea, to push my book at bit.
It's old but still good.
I am definitely an inheritorof the Puritan work ethic. When I was young, I frequently spent the night atthe home of one of my best friends. Her mom was the church secretary, which mayhave accounted for this memory. But I remember that she would wake us in themorning by singsonging, “God has made another new day/Think! Shall we let it slip useless away?” Sixty-plus years later, I can still hear her voice, and Ihave a tendency at the end of the day to take stock, assess what I’veaccomplished. Some days it’s not encouraging.

Today I can report one bigaccomplishment: I had a new idea! You know the jokes about hot potatoes thatare too hot to hold, so you toss them back and forth in your hands? That’s kindof how I am about this new idea. I don’t really know what it is, what to dowith it, and so I am tossing it back and forth in my mind. I’ve been sayinglately that I’m waiting for inspiration to strike, and I’ve had a couple offalse starts. So, I’m not sure about this new idea, but it seems to havepossibilities. No, I’m not telling what it is. I’m going to let it simmer in mybrain. Hint: food imagery may give you a general idea.

Speaking of food, I got hookedon a website today that promised a list of things that are not good for you,particularly if you are elderly. I thought, okay, maybe twenty-five. I’ll readit and see how I do. And for the first twenty-five, I scored well—I think theonly bad thing for me was hot dogs. I know they’re not good for you, and I don’teat them often, but I do enjoy them. But the list went on forever—over 200foods, so you know many of the things you eat every day were on the list. Therewere some surprises to me, and some cautions I won’t take too seriously—honey forsugar content, tuna for mercury, other canned fish like sardines for sodium. Inmany cases, whoever wrote this site (it came from Street Insider.com) was carefulto balance the warnings with the advantages of some food. Sardines, for example,are high in protein and good fats.

I noticed some trends—if you don’teat these foods every day, you’re probably okay. As the ancient Greeks tried toteach us, “Moderation in all things.” Another take-away: pesticides make manygood-for-you foods a problem. Strawberries and tomatoes were on the list forthat reason: their skins are so thin that pesticides penetrate into the meatinside. Leaf lettuce is also there, because it needs thorough washing to rid itof pesticides, dirt, and bacteria. I am as of now being fussier about buyingorganic vegetables. And third: prepared, pre-packed foods, from mixes to flavoredchips to cake batter and icing, are a problem. I have long been an advocate ofscratch cooking, so that didn’t bother me much.

Diet cola, American cheeseslices, bacon, and commercial salad dressings are no surprise Do you know howeasy it is to make salad dressings at home? But meat—just plain meat—is on thelist because of the antibiotics and hormones given to livestock. Once again, anargument for careful shopping and organic products. For instance, I make it apoint to buy free range chicken and organic eggs. Hot sauce—the spiciness can damageyour intestines. Okay by me—I can’t eat spicy food. Spray cheese and pork rindsare no surprise—who eats those anyway? —but tortillas and frozen vegetables?Mass produced tortillas have too many chemicals including preservatives, sostick to homemade. Frozen vegetables can break down if kept too long in thefreezer (I’m guilty, because who doesn’t want to always have a pack of greenpeas handy?).

I understand pre-packagedhamburgers should be on the list, but it also includes hamburgers. From what Iread, that means fast-food burgers, but probably those wonderful burgersChristian makes us at home are okay. Again, there’s a boost for scratch cookingat home.

Want to check the list and seehow you rate? Find it at

Speaking of food, I did haveone other accomplishment: I made myself a Reuben for lunch. I had badlyoverestimated my family’s appetite and bought way too much deli meat forSaturday night’s poor boy sandwiches. We had a lot of turkey, roast beef, andham left over. I thought there was pastrami too but couldn’t find it. So, I madethe sandwich with roast beef, provolone, kraut, and some of the homemadeThousand Island dressing in my fridge. Got to say, it was really good. TomorrowI’ll think of something to do with some of the turkey—perhaps a turkey and bluecheese sandwich, one of the few good ideas I salvaged from a two-year collegestint in small-town Iowa all those years ago.

So how was your day today?

 

Aftermath of a birthday

Mini carnations from a granddaughter.
She bought the vase in New Mexico.
My grown children like to pokefun at me for my participation on Facebook. I think they believe that I takeany word from any source as gospel. My protests that I check out reliablesites, ignore the crazies, and try to be responsible about what I read and whatI share fall on deaf ears. But the other point they cannot grasp is thefriendships I have made on Facebook. Many many people that I have never andwill never meet in person but whom I consider good friends and with whom Ienjoy frequent exchanges.

That was brought home to mewith this birthday. Colin, my oldest and perhaps the biggest skeptic, asked mehow many birthday wishes I got on Facebook, and I’d say as of today it’s about250. Most of them came on the birthday site that Facebook posts but today othershave come in on a post Jordan put up and a few other ways. A good number ofthose came from members of the Guppies subchapter of Sister in Crime, my fellowsisters and misters in writing mysteries. Guppies are a wonderfully supportivegroup, and I have many acquaintances and a few good friends in the chapter.Then there were wishes from people from various times in my long life, like thechildren of some of my childhood friends, and people I knew when they werechildren, regular readers and commentators on my blog, people who share mysocial and political sympathies, and a couple who don’t but remain friends. It’sreally a remarkably varied group, and to say I am flattered beyond words is anunderstatement. It’s been a lesson inA glorious orchid from a young friend.
gratitude.

I think I mentioned on a Facebookpost recently if not on this page that Colin dug out my lifetime statistics forAmazon book sales. Amazon has sold slightly over 99K books by me, though I mustconfess almost 9/10 of them are one title—Mattie, the first adult novelI wrote and one which won a Spur Award from Western Writers of America. Foryears I sold it on Amazon for ninety-nine cents, which accounts for thetremendous sales numbers. (Today a reprint edition is available from TwoDot, asubsidiary of Rowman & Littlefield publishers, and it’s a bit more thanninety-nine cents.) But that total figure does not count copies sold bypublishers. Regardless, the thought that I have perhaps brought readingpleasure to that many people is a significant accomplishment for me. I havesaid before that it’s my core belief that we must leave the world a bit betterthan we found it, and so perhaps my books have done that. I am surprised anddelighted. Best-selling authors might laugh at my figures, paltry compared totheirs, but for me, a low midlist author, those numbers representaccomplishment.

The two things—birthday greetingsand book sales—may seem unrelated, but in my mind they go together. I have madefriends, and I have given people reading pleasure. To me, that indicates a lifewell lived. I don’t mean that in a smug way at all but in a happy way. We allwant to know that our lives have meant something.

Having taken stock like thatdoesn’t mean that I’m checking out. It’s just that eighty-five does seem, asJordan kept telling me, some sort of milestone birthday and an appropriate timeto take stock. So what I find is a life that has been enriched by so manypeople, so many friends, and moderate success at writing. Who could ask for more?

Flowers for my desk from a neighbor
Sometimes life is glorious andwonderful. Sometimes, though, it is mundane, and so tonight, after all theglorious food and good times of the weekend, I found myself improvising ashepherd’s pie out of the roast beef left over from poor boy sandwiches for acrowd Saturday night. And oh boy, did we have leftovers! Turkey salad, anyone?

To share a bit of my birthdayjoy, I’m posting pictures of the flowers I received.

What a weekend!

 

Brunch at Carshons'

The cottage is strangely quietand empty. Sophie and I had long naps, and I know she is disappointed that allher favorite people disappeared. But such a great weekend we had with family,friends, fun, music, laughter, and maybe just a bit of wine … okay more than abit.

The family met at Joe T.’s fordinner Friday night—some worried about the heat but we didn’t eat until eight o’clock,and between the fans and a nice breeze, it was a lovely night to sit on thepatio. We came home, sat around the cottage, talking—the teenagers left us, ofcourse—and about eleven-thirty I kicked them all out. Next day I learned that someof them stayed up until three, and Jordan and Jamie were up until four-thirty, listeningto his guitar, talking, laughing.

This weekend was an eatingmarathon, as we went to all the kids’ favorite places. Saturday lunch found usat Carshon’s Deli, where the kids have been eating since they were infants. Maryaccommodated twelve of us—grandson Kegan loves matzo ball soup, and Jamieordered that too. For my kids, it’s mostly a chance to have food they never getanywhere else. I had lox and cream cheese but no bagel—toasted rye for me.

Saturday night, a very fewclose friends joined us for happy hour and then we had poor boy sandwiches andcake—lots of cake, several cakes, a plethora of cake. When Jamie wentMegam
home thismorning he took with him leftover Joe T.’s plus one and a half cakes plus twoGerman pancakes he stopped and got at Ol’ South. I was afraid he’d be on asugar high by the time he got to Frisco. I admit that Saturday night I crashed,and I said to Jamie and Megan I thought I suddenly felt my age. But I think itwas more that I hadn’t slept well the night before, it was a tiring if happy day, and westarted happy hour at four. Even though I had tiny bits of wine, I think myglass was refilled too often.

After a good night’s sleep, Iwas fine this morning and ready for a trip to Ol’ South, next on the kids list.Once again twelve of us, and lots of memories.

In other things than food,Colin did some repairs around the house—pronounced myColin and Soiphie
automatic garbage candead, and I have ordered a new one. He replaced the handle/lock mechanism on mybathroom door and promised to do a better job next time. To me, it works anddoesn’t fall off the door, as it had been doing, so that was fine. He also didsome computer work and paired my new phone to my watch. Christian hadpreviously paired it to the telephone, so now I’m all set to go. Jamie, asalways, did a lot for me, including feeding Sophie and giving her insulin shots.And Megan and I had long talks about everything, especially restaurants andfood. I am so fortunate that my kids are my best friends—and have such a closerelationship with each other. Sometimes I think Norman Rockefeller should comeback to life and paint a picture of us. I guess the snaps from Joe T.’s andCarshon’s will have to do.

I am so grateful to Jordan whoorchestrated the entire weekend, planning food, making lists,Jordan and the cakes
putting out ahappy hour spread followed by sandwich makings. She had everything undercontrol and is the reason we all had such a good time. Christian helped so muchand took lots of pictures on Saturday night. I am chagrined when I look atthem, because I look bored, tired, whatever—I was none of those things. Ienjoyed every minute. (I once had a dear friend who said it was too bad I didn’tlook as good in pictures as I do in real life—I cling to that thought.) Meganworried at dinner Friday night that I was in the middle of the table, betweentwo conversations and part of neither. She needn’t have worried. I like justseeing them all together.

And those teenagers. Onefriend, who has known my family forty years, said each of the teens stopped tospeak to her. So grateful for their good manners. They are wildly different,but all good kids, and their joy at seeing each other was evident. Okay, theyeventually looked bored at dinner Friday night, so Jamie and Brandon, looking a bit cynical
Granddaughter Eden and
the flowers she brought me



much so we wanted to laugh.But they are a delight.

What can I say except thatturning eighty-five (really? I can’t believe it!) is a breeze when you have allthis happiness all around you.

Sophie’s going to have a hardtime adjusting to the quiet in the cottage.