Judy Alter's Blog, page 23

Judy’s list

 

The red, white, and blue.
May it proudly wave over freedom for ages to come.
Iam about to rant, so if you want to skip this post, please feel free. As agraduate and former staff member at TCU, a private university, I was dismayedto read that right-wing sources are attacking the university for a class on thehistory of drag. Texas has passed a censorship law forbidding such topics inpublic schools (likely unconstitutional), but extremists want to go beyondthat. The issue speaks to me of the culture problems in our society.

Ina world that is warming so rapidly scientists are alarmed (and Texans arehot!), in a country that averages more than one mass shooting a day, wherewomen are dying because proper gynecological medical care is denied them, politiciansand influencers are focused on banning books and outlawing drag shows,silencing drag queens who do a public service by reading to children, muzzingteachers who might teach CRT (which they don’t and nobody understands). Couldwe please get our priorities straight?

Idon’t think it’s enough to urge people to vote blue. Clearly, candidates likeRon DeSantis and Donald Trump not only a march toward authoritarian rule, whereour voices would be silnced, but represent the opposite of the traditionalRepublican Party. Instead of small government and fiscal conservatism, they arereaching into all areas of our private lives, their intrusion cloaked in thename of morality and justified by distorted references to Christianity (whichis NOT the founding religion of our country—sorry Josh Hawley!). Fiscal conservatismhas turned into conserving money for the very rich and letting middle- andlower-class families be damned to poverty.

Democracyis a participatory form of government. We are told every voice counts. Conventionalwisdom suggests that if eligible Texan voted, we could turn Texas blue and getrid of Greg Abbott, the mean little despot. Or take the Colorado district whereLauren Boebbert won by less than 500 votes and is again being challenged byAdam Frisch—that race proves that each vote counts. So I am more than weary ofmy friends, educated and liberal, who can’t be bothered with politics. Theirexcuses include, “I’m not interested,” or “It makes me uncomfortable” or “Ihave better things to do than keep up.” None of these, to me, hold water.

Here'swhat you can and should do: 1) Write to your representatives—local, state, andfederal. Concerned about the ban on gender medical care? Let officials know,even if you feel like a voice crying in the wilderness. 2) be active incampaigning for candidates you support—walk the block if you are able, man atelephone bank, hold small group meet-ups in your home—be active; 3) attendopen meetings, candidate fund raisers (you can attend without giving a hundreddollars), and sessions of the political party of your choice; 4) support candidatesfinancially.

IfI were a rich man (hat tip to Tevye), I’d give a thousand dollars right away toseveral candidates now in the running, mostly for the US Senate. As it is, Isend much smaller amounts here and there when a candidate says or doessomething that catches my eye. I have a list of those I support: Jacky Rosen ofNevada, Jon Tester of Montana, Colin Allred of Texas, Bob Casey of Pennsylvania,Sherrod Brown of Ohio, Ruben Gallego of Arizona. I support both Katie Porterand Adam Schiff and am dismayed that they are running against each other—we needboth in our national government, because they are experts on widely differingissues.

Icould rant on about why I support President Biden and Bidenomics and the manythings that are wrong with the fearmongers and moral police of the right, butyou can read that daily in the paper and on social media. Later, I may writeabout my feelings as an author about book censorship or my feelings as a womanand an adoptive  mother about abortion,but today my plea is please, please don’t be passive. Take part in yourgovernment, make your voice heard.

Rantover—but probably only temporarily.

Loud and clear

Highlight of my day was a tripto the audiologist on the TCU campus. My new hearing aids have been a bigimprovement, but there were still some problems—like the telephone. It cut inand out like there was a short, and sometimes I’d hear conversation in one earor the other, sometimes both. That’s not the way it’s supposed to be. Someresearch on the part of Tracy, the wonderful audiologist, confirmed whatChristian suspected: my phone is too old to interact properly with the newhearing aids. So a new phone is in my immediate future—not the latest,whiz-bang version with lots of bells and whistles, but one that is one or two generationsback. I don’t use a lot of apps, etc.

Then Tracy did a series oftests to determine what was a comfortable hearing level for me in variouscircumstances. I said that some soft-spoken men were hard for me to understand,and she adjusted for that. She reminded me my aids have various levels that Ican choose—normal, comfort (in loud surroundings), one that will refine music,etc. At one point, she was ruffling through papers, and I said, “I can hear thepaper noise!” Another time, I told her my own voice sounded loud in my head, andshe took it down a peg or two, saying she didn’t want it to be so annoying thatI wouldn’t wear the aids. It was really fine tuning, and I was impressed.

While there I noticed that heroffices are filled with children’s toys and books, and posters about childrenand hearing. Apparently as many as five children in a thousand having hearingloss, due to exposure to loud noise, disease, etc. I remembered that my Jamiedidn’t hear me when he was about three. I could stand behind him, speak hisname, and he ignored me—no, not a willful child. He wasn’t hearing. We thoughtof two causes—he loved to play gun games and make rat-a-tat sounds, whichprobably led more to occasional hoarseness than lack of hearing. But his earswere stopped up—I never did know why. The pediatrician recommended ear tubes,but the morning he was scheduled for surgery, this mom freaked out aboutanesthetic and cancelled. Eventually he outgrew it, and as far as I know now inhis fifties his hearing is fine. But children who don’t hear are at a hugedisadvantage in school as well as socially. They may also have speech problems.So get those youngsters tested.

The other population group wherehearing is a major concern is, of course, the elderly. Hearing loss again maybe due to many causes, from wax build-up to underlying disease, but often it issimply part of aging. Estimates are that about one third of the elderlypopulation suffer from hearing loss, and studies have shown that hearing loss increasesthe incidence of dementia. Unable to hear, too many people withdraw from thosearound them and therefore lack the stimulation of normal social interaction.

I cannot tell you how manyfriends I know who deny they need hearing aids. Often they demand that youspeak up, because of course the problem is yours not theirs. I guess there isan old-age stigma attached to hearing loss, so just as some deny signs ofaging, they deny hearing loss. And it increases without treatment.

My own hearing loss started inmy fifties and was a complication of a combination of drugs I received havingto do with menopause. I remember one morning when I had an appointment with thegynecologist, I saw a tiny item in the newspaper that a combination of estrogenand progesterone was causing increased hearing loss at a younger age in somewomen. I asked my doctor if he knew about it, and he said, “No, but I will be tonight.”I knew he would immediately look up the relevant study.

To me, hearing aids are likewalkers. Too many people let their pride get in the way of getting the helpthat is available, and then they don’t live their best life. I have no patiencewith them. So, think people are mumbling, especially on the phone? Have to turnthe TV up so loud others complain? Have trouble hearing in a crowded room or restaurant?Don’t miss out on the world—go get tested.

In the category of “If It’sgoing to go wrong, it will,” my kitchen sink is now backing up. Christian saidhe’d go get Draino but, impatient, I tried a home remedy—vinegar and bakingsoda. It didn’t work, and now the sink and counters are gritty because that combinationfoams up and overflows. If it’s not one thing, it’s another.

Ho hum! I won’t even temptfate by asking what tomorrow will bring.

If something can go wrong, it will!

That is usually not my attitude,but it sure has been true the last couple of days. After yesterday’s fiasco ofwaking sleeping children (grown, as in adult), I thought everything was okayand I could move along with my week without a hitch. Not so.

Tonight I fixed supper forfriends Subie and Phil because they are in the throes of moving to TrinityTerrace and a retirement apartment—the packers are coming Thursday and themovers, Friday. (As I write this it has dawned on me that I have never had packersnor have I ever hired a designer when I moved—and as my kids will tell you, wemoved a lot). Anyway, dinner was my small bit to help. I planned carefully,including my intent to make my favorite meatloaf: one that is half ground beef,half ground lamb. The ground lamb did not come with my usual Saturday orderfrom Central Market.

I asked Jordan to see when shewent to Albertson’s Monday if they had ground lamb. She assured me they wouldn’tbut said she’d look. If you read yesterday’s blog you know she never made it tothe store yesterday, so I ordered the remaining things I needed and could getfrom Central Market, including the lamb. I thought maybe they’d had a shipment.I specified that if substitutions were necessary that was okay if it was lamband not beef. Who ever would have expected they’d sub lamb stew meat for groundlamb?

I didn’t discover that untilthis morning when I dumped the meat into the breadcrumbs and eggs. So I fishedit out, piece by piece, and put it in my processor. No go. Finally I gave up,asked Christian to defrost a frozen pound of hamburger in his microwave (I haveno counter space for one), and froze the lamb. We will be having lamb stewsoon. The meatloaf, all beef by now, was flavorful, but I thought a tad dry,which it wouldn’t have been with some fatty lamb in it. I will keep orderinguntil I have a stash of ground lamb in the freezer—we had delicious lamb burgerslast week, and I make a lamb ragu we all like.

Subie and Phill were complimentaryabout the dinner, but I thought the rice casserole was also a bit dry—it justshouldn’t be cooked ahead. And the dump cake definitely needs work. I am throughcooking for several days—maybe. Sometimes I think it’s the days I tried hardestto make it all perfect that something goes wrong. I should have served Fourthof July hot dogs!

Social media has been full ofwarnings about firecrackers and pleas for consideration for dogs, cats, birds,and other creatures. So far, at nine o’clock, I have only heard a few distantpops, nothing that alarms Sophie. Phil’s seeing-eye dog, Porter, is reallyscared, so we planned an early dinner, and I thought we’d just keep Porterinside. He wanted nothing of that and lay on the deck by the back door to themain house all evening. I think what I’m hearing now is from Colonial CountryClub. Sophie is apparently sleeping in her favorite spot—wedged between thecouch and the coffee table. At any rate, she’s not right by me, so I assume she’snot frightened.

Patriotic concerns aside, theFourth is never one of my favorite holidays. For years, my kids have gone offto picnics and lake parties and what have you, and I have often found it theloneliest of holidays. So I was doubly glad for the Greens’ presence tonight.

This morning Christian couldhave repaid me for waking them yesterday. I fed Sophie her first breakfast, perher demand, at seven-fifteen and went back to bed thinking I’d sleep anotherhour and feed her second breakfast at eight-thirty (the doctor has okayed thisroutine) so she’d be ready for Christian to give her insulin at nine. I woke atnine-fifteen when I heard him leave the cottage, having given her the shot. Butshe hadn’t had her second breakfast, and we’re told the shot should follow foodby no less than half an hour and no more than an hour. Poor Sophie—it’s awonder she survives and flourishes with all our mistakes in her routine. I amnow putting ear drops in twice a day, but she shuns me—because, you know, howpainful that is—NOT.

And poor Christian who puts upwith both of us while Jordan’s away. Last night my big problem, for which I calledhim to come back, was that my electric bed had no power (I raise the footbecause of my swollen feet). He found where the plug had been knocked loose,and all was well. But the frequency with which I ask him for help makes merealize how much Jordan does daily. See that yellow shirt? I can’t get it downfrom the hanging rack. Would you bring me another bottle of wine? Did you waterthe lawn and potted plants? His halo is shining.

All of this is tongue in cheek—itwas a pleasant Fourth with the company of people I enjoy. And how grateful I amfor Jordan and Christian. Phil and Subie insist if they had the Burtons watchingover them, they would not move into Trinity Terrace, and tonight Subie saidmaybe they should just move in with me. A joke, but it makes me realize howblessed I am.

Hope everyone had a happyFourth, celebrating in whatever way works for you!

Crazy start to the day

 

These guys are on the alert for fireworks. 
They want to remind you to follow city laws and be considerate.
Actually they're wondering why their human went across the street
and when he is coming home where he belongs.

Once upon a time a gentleman Iliked a lot ordered lunch of chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes withgravy. When he brought it to the table, I said in horror, “You don’t haveanything green on your plate.” He rolled his eyes and said, “Once a mother,always a mother.” This morning I proved him right, although I think it might bechanged to “Once a mother, always a worrywart.”

After Sophie’s last visit tothe doctor, when we got the definitive word about the time relationship betweenher meals and her insulin shots, Jordan and Christian committed to giving her ashot at nine a.m. I committed to feeding her at eighty-thirty. This morning, I texted,told them it was eight-forty. Zenaida came to clean the cottage, took the laundryinside to start, and came back aside, “They’re asleep. The door is locked.” I gaveher a key and said, “Nonsense. They know they have to give Sophie her shot.Jordan is leaving town and has promised to go to the grocery store first. AndChristian has to go to work.” So I called. No answer.

I asked Zenaida to go backinside, but she was hesitant. I told her we had to wake them up. Thus beganseveral trips, with Zenaida resisting each time, saying they would get mad ather. I said no, they might get mad at me, but not her. Each time, she went alittle farther—first to the kitchen where she called their names. No response.By this time I was seriously worried; she was still reluctant. At my urging shewent back, said she peeked through the open bedroom door and saw an arm over aforehead, so they were sleeping. My first thought was “Well, if they were dead,the arm would have fallen off the head.” That’s how paranoid a mother can get.I knew there was nothing on in July that would cause carbon monoxide poisoning,but what else could have happened? Christian is almost always up well beforenine, though Jordan can be a slug-abed.

About the fifth or sixth time Zenaidawent back, they woke up and weren’t angry at all. They thought it was funny.Seems a neighbor had come to visit late last night—and stayed until three o’clock.

So now all is well. Jordanwrites that she and a couple of friends have safely arrived at one friend’sfamily house in Key Largo, all set for four or five days of sunning andfishing. She swears she is not going in the ocean, and between sharks and rip tidesI’m just as relieved (there’s that worrywart mother again).

Christian and I had a goodsupper of chicken hash (it doesn’t look like much, but it is delicious), cornsalad (a new experiment for me and a keeper recipe), and sugar snap peas. I snappedand strung and they still had strings. I may give up on them, sweet and good asthey are.

It was a cooking day for me,but an awkward one, between working around Zenaida who tried to clean while Imade a mess. I kept telling her I would do my dishes, and she kept telling meshe would wash them. We didn’t quite come to blows. She helped me clean my refrigerator—Zenaidaloves to throw away useless things, and we got rid of old bottles of saladdressing, and dried bouillon flavoring, and a couple of unidentifiable smalljars. I was beginning to remind myself of my mom. She had lived through the Depressionand saved everything in little jars (maybe baby food jars she somehow got orsaved since we were babies) in the back of her fridge. When she went toassisted living and we cleaned out her kitchen, we found several jars withmold.

Living through the Depressionmade an indelible impression on people. Mom saved bits of string and scraps ofaluminum foil, and the one I remember most—paper towels. If she used one towipe a counter spill, it went into a special space beneath the sink to bere-used for the next floor spill. I inherited some of that and tend to be frugal,though in her old age she accused me of being too willing to pitch things.

Christian, like me, is frugal,and Jordan and I were talking about something food related one day, and shesaid, “Christian Burton lived through the Depression.” I was indignant. “No hedidn’t. I wasn’t even born then.” She was philosophical. “In another life,” shesaid.

Tomorrow I’ll cook supper formy good friends Subie and Phil and then it’s coasting on leftovers the rest ofthe week. Jordan and Jacob will both be home next Saturday, and Christian and Iwill be glad to have life get back to normal. Meantime, we’re flourishing.

Happy Fourth everyone. We’re aproud country, and we will survive the current unrest and divisiveness. MartinLuther King Jr. said, “The moral arc of the universe bends slowly, but italways bends toward justice.”” I have faith in democracy.

 

Keeping the Sabbath

 

I definitely do not mean toturn this blog into, “Look what I had for dinner tonight!” but I can’t resist.Our dinner tonight was so good and so lovely to look at—a Mediterranean choppedsalad with marinated steak. Christian knows how to tenderize even the cheapestcut—tonight was skirt steak, and it was delicious, served with a bit ofmarinade to go over it. Grilled red bell pepper and onion, and fresh grapetomatoes, sliced baby cucumbers, feta, and pita chips, all drizzled with themarinade which was heavy in lemon zest. A delightful dinner, and as Christianpointed out, healthy.

Tonight there were just thethree of us, Jacob being at camp. But the dinner was a bit fancier and a bitmore work than any of us do during the week. That’s because we try to keep thetradition of Sunday dinner. When my kids were in high school, I often hadfifteen or more at my Sunday dinner table—my kids, some of their friends,assorted friends of mine including the family of my goddaughter, and always, mybrother and his two children. I sometimes ran out of menu ideas but occasionallysplurged on leg of lamb or turkey roulades. Other times, it was a casserole,but I tried to make it special.

The sermon at my church thismorning, delivered by my favorite minister and good friend Renee Hoke, wasabout keeping the sabbath. Renee began with her childhood memories—rushing tobe on time for church, sitting through Sunday school, the ritual of theservice, and then rushing home for the roast beef dinner that was in the ovenall morning. My memories are a bit different.

On Chicago’s changing SouthSide in the forties and fifties, we attended St. James Methodist at 46thand Ellis, because in the twenties my father, in osteopathic school, lived in afraternity house at 48th and Ellis. And, a preacher’s kid, he was aloyal attendee. When my brother was old enough to drive, his job was to deliverboth of us to Sunday school and then go back home to get Mom and Dad for theeleven o’clock service. Truth is he dropped me off, went cruising (having swornme to secrecy), and then got our parents for church. I never ratted on him.

But by the fifties, the faceof the neighborhood and the church was changing. Neighborhoods in Chicago weresegregated along fairly defined lines, and 47th Street marked thedivision between black and white. North of 47th was Bronzeville, aflourishing Black business and residential district. As kids, we knew not to gothere—except for church. Our church was increasingly Black and, sad to say,increasingly hostile to the remaining white population. One Sunday Mom heardsomeone preach about the white man as enemy. She went home with a migraine andvowed never to go back.

I meantime had made friendswith several girls who went to the United Church of Hyde Park,United Church of Hyde Park
safely on 53rdStreet in the middle of the Hyde Park neighborhood, even then a bastion forintellectuals and a diverse population. I began going to Brownies and thengradually to Sunday school and the evening teen group, called for some unknownreason Tuxus. That group and those friends were the core of my high schoollife, and to this day I remain grateful for that group and that church. Many ofmy church friends are now gone, but I remain in touch with at least one. Itwas, quite simply, a marvelous teenage experience.

Meanwhile, back at home, wedidn’t have the traditional roast beef—we’d probably been eating it all week.On Sundays Mom would fix “supper” instead of “dinner”—a spinach souffle (myfavorite) or a cheese strata or even Welsh rarebit. In winter, she’d roll thetea table into the living room in front of the fireplace, and we’d have oursupper there. Fond memories.

Today, all the Sundays of mylife come back to me. I am a faithful churchgoer, albeit on my computer, thoughI keep vowing to attend in person (that takes family cooperation). And I feelthe need to make Sunday dinner special—the Burtons feel it too, though notquite as fervently as I do. Yet today was a good example of how I keep theSabbath—the eleven o’clock service in the morning, a nap in the afternoon, andSunday dinner in the evening. And somehow, indefinably, Sunday always feelsdifferent to me than the weekdays. I think I take to heart the idea of rest,which I think is part of what Rev. Hoke was saying this morning when she talkedabout detaching—detaching from feeling we need to be in control, to worry abouteverything. Instead, she suggested delight—watching a hummingbird (that broughtmemories of my mom), watching a child’s delight (I have a whole warehouse ofthose memories). I am going to watchful now for sabbath delights—and just maybetonight’s dinner was one of them.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          

Circadian rhythms, or my clock is broken

 

Cold salmon supper
What to have on Saturday nightwhen you’re home alone for dinner: cold canned salmon with seasoned crème fraiche(lemon and horseradish), cherry tomatoes, and baby cucumbers. I would haveadded an avocado but I let it sit too long and it went bad. You could add a hard boiled egg to it, or maybe some green beans. I just used what I had. This was my mom’sfavorite summertime supper, though now I’m trying to remember if she served itto Dad or saved it for nights when he wasn’t home. Daddy was an Anglophile,strictly a beef (or lamb) and potatoes man. Fish not so much.

I must admit I had a chance togo to Joe T.’s for dinner tonight. Jordan and Christian were going with twocouples I’m fond of (both boys she went to school with from middle school on—ittickles me that their social life is still so filled with Jordan’s high schoolfriends). At any rate, I debated: if I have an opportunity to go out and don’ttake it, I feel guilty for not putting forth the effort, for daily becomingmore reclusive in my cottage. On the other hand, I’ve just been to Joe T.’s andwhile a bean chalupa and sitting on the patio sounded good, I didn’t want tohave to wash my hair, dress in real clothes, get there and wish I was at home.And I had lots to do on my desk.

Besides, my Circadian rhythmsare out of whack. Just in case you don’t know, those are the rhythms thatregulate daily life. Think of them as your internal clock, although thistwenty-four hour cycle is something we share with plants and animals. Forhumans, we think of this clock in terms of sleep. The average adult needs sevento nine hours of sleep a night, and some authorities says it is most importantto get sleep between ten at night and two in the morning.

The most common circadian rhythmdisorder is delayed sleep/wake. If you go to bed later than you are used to,you may find it hard to wake up in the morning. In a reverse pattern, you mayfall asleep early, like six p.m., and wake at two in the morning. Your sleeppatterns are mostly governed by light and dark but also by melatonin in yoursystem and by social behavior and physical activity. Circadian rhythm disordersmay be caused by changes in your shift at work, brain injury, even jet lag.

What I’ve noticed in myselflately is a tendency to work late into the night—often getting to bed justbefore midnight—and sleep later in the morning. That’s a complete reversal forme, because I was always up early and usually asleep by ten. Even as a teen,when all my friends were sleeping till noon, I was bright-eyed and bushy-tailedat eight in the morning. Now, I thought the change was due to aging, but as I readabout circadian rhythms, it may be due to a lack of physical activity.Dependent on a walker, I don’t get much exercise, and exercise is one of theclues by which your internal clock cues your body.

I think there’s another factorthough—and it’s my dog. Last night, Sophie had to go out at three and again atfour (she too is aging). I usually don’t have any trouble going back to sleepafter these interruptions or if I wake myself to go to the bathroom. But theydo interrupt my sleep pattern. And this morning I had to get up at six-thirtyand feed Sophie, so she could have her insulin shot at seven when the dogsittercame. (Explanation: we have decided for various reasons that I will not giveher a shot—the reasons range from the tremor in my left hand to letting herassociate me with a needle; as it is, she is shunning me right now because Iput drops in her ears, and you know how painful that is—NOT). So I was up from6:30 until about 7:15, but with the distinct feeling that I hadn’t gotten mysleep out. So I went back to sleep until about 8:45. But all day I still feltthat lack of sleep (did the overcast day have anything to do with it?). Bynoon, I was nearly asleep at my desk, but when I went to nap at two, I wasn’tsleepy. Go figure!

This is a daily problem forme, because Sophie usually wakes me at seven for her breakfast and to gooutside, and I almost always feel that I haven’t gotten my sleep out. I usuallygo back to bed for what some call second sleep, and I find myself reallyanticipating that bit of deep sleep.

The study of circadian rhythmsis called chronobiology. I’m convinced, however, that those who study theserhythms and disorders have not met Sophie nor taken her determination intoaccount.

I bet fireworks can also causedisruption. Don’t forget to keep your pets—and any sensitive friends or family—safeduring the holiday weekend. Happy Fourth!

Am I a Texan or a Chicagoan

 

I’velived in Texas since the summer of 1965—that’s a whopping fifty-eight years,well over two thirds of my life. That first summer saw the flourishing of the “Bornin Texas” movement, and shopping malls, which we frequented then, had kioskswith T-shirts bearing that slogan and others, like, “I wasn’t born in Texas, butI got here as soon as I could.” You could buy certificates that certified thatyou were a native Texan, although of course it would have been easy to cheat.In a few years, by the time I had children and wanted T-shirts for them, thecraze was over.

People in Texas thought Italked funny with my Chicago flat speech, but after a year, when I went home ortalked to a relative back home, they all laughed at my southern accent. To thisday, my kids say my accent depends on what I’m talking about—If I am, as Ifrequently have in the past, talking about author Elmer Kelton, one of myheroes, they say I get a cowboy twang.

Much of my career—as anauthor, as director of the TCU Press—revolved around Texas, and over the years Ibegan to feel like a native Texan, even if it was a bit of a lie. Stillfolklorist Joyce Roach and I had a dog-and-pony show we took to meetings andother places—once even performing for an elite group of big donors at TCU. Joycetalked about the glories of being a fifth-generation Texan. My talk was titled,“Notes from an outsider.” I knew my place.

Not every book I’ve writtenhas been about Texas, but a high percentage of them have. I’ve been best known forwriting about women of the American West—Elizabeth Bacon Custer, Jessie BentonFrémont, cowgirl Lucille Mulhall, and Etta Parker of the Hole in the Wall Gang.But there were lots of Texas titles—a book about Elmer Kelton, books aboutTexas food from chili to great chefs, and most recently, three mystery seriesset in Texas. Yes, I claimed my credentials as a Texas writer.

But in the last ten years, afeeling for Chicago—I’m not sure how to describe it, but perhaps affection is agood word—has increasingly taken a place in my thinking. Years ago I wrote ay/a novel, I Wish I Lived at Eleanor Lee’s House, about something thatreally happened when I was a teen. I was then published by a small Texas press,and the publisher had no market for a Chicago title, so I put it aside. I’verecently gotten it out and reread it with some interest.

But it was The Gilded Cage,a fat historical about Bertha Honore (Cissy) Palmer, wife of hotelier androbber baron Potter Palmer, that first renewed my interest in Chicago. I loved exploringthe complex history of the city in the late nineteenth century, from the GreatFire to the Columbian Exposition, with the Civil War, the Haymarket Riot, Pullmantown,and a myriad of fascinating subjects.

None of that, though, explainswhy I set a new series of mysteries in Chicago. What may have sparked my moreintense identification with the Windy City is a trip there with all four of my children.We toured the neighborhood where I grew up and the University of Chicago whereI went to school, gazed at the lake, ate in fine restaurants, and took thehistorical tour at the Palmer House. I fell in love with the city all overagain.

That may be behind the Irenein Chicago Culinary Mysteries though I cannot tell you where the characterscame from. They were just there one day: Irene, the domineering, demanding fauxFrench chef who claims a Cordon Bleu background she does not have, and HennyJames, her apprentice, who tells the stories in a slightly snarky tone ofvoice.

Now, suddenly or so it seems tome, there are four Irene mysteries—Saving Irene, Irene in Danger, FindingFlorence, and Irene Deep in Texas Trouble. They haven’t set thebestseller lists on fire, but they’ve earned respectable stars on Amazon and enoughpeople have commented that I think someone out there enjoys Irene’s shenanigans.

A couple of months ago, Istarted a new Irene book—Missing Irene—and then for reasons unknown tome I set it aside, tried to write a bit on a memoir, fiddled and procrastinatedand didn’t know what I was doing. Tonight I went back and read what I have ofthat new manuscript, and guess what? I rather liked it. Maybe I’m gettingbolder but it will revolve around a case of incest. I think for the time beingI’ll go back to it. I hope you’ll read it one day.

Random thoughts from the cottage

 

Looking at Jordan, like,
Where are you taking me?
Sophie went to the vetyesterday. Poor dear leads a sheltered life. She’s either in the cottage or inour relatively small backyard, but at least she can come and go between the twoat will.
Still, she gets excited when we bring out her leash, and a car ride isa real joy. Somehow sheLooking at the world
never figures out that the vet is at the end of theride. But she got a good bill of health yesterday, some new medicines—ear dropswhich she acts like are the most painful things in the world, an anti-bacteriapill for an unhealed sore. Jordan took some cut pictures of her in the car (whywasn’t my daughter’s attention on driving? Maybe these were all at stoplights.)

Resting, all is well.
We're going home.

Some odd food notes: todayfrom my favorite grocery store I saw an ad for personal watermelons. Stopped meshort—I can’t think of what they are unless they are individual-sized watermelons,and I’ve never seen such. In other food news, for the past two nights we hadhappy hour company and never really had a proper supper. Last night I wasn’thungry but thought I should have something solid and substantial, so I decidedon scrambled eggs—my go-to. I had watched a video of Jamie Oliver’s foolprooftechnique for making an omelet, so I thought I’d try it, even if I wasn’t goingto put any cheese in the middle. Major fail convinced me I will order omeletsout and give up trying to do one at home.Not an omelet

Tonight I made lamb burgersand put lettuce, mayo, and feta in the buns. So good. And satisfied my longingfor a substantial meal. Added a cucumber salad with a yogurt dressing that had,of all things, a bit of mustard. You couldn’t taste the mustard, and it wasreally good.

But speaking of food, a friendemailed today and wondered if Irene ever made clafouti, the French dessert offruit, traditionally black cherries, covered with a flan-like batter and baked,then dusted with powdered sugar. After all, she reasoned, it’s French so Irenemust have made it. The subject came up because I said pitting cherries is toomuch trouble, and I intend to make a blueberry dump cake. I don’t even want toimagine what Irene would say about a dump cake (fruit, cake mix, and butter)but I have promised to mention clafouti to her. (In France, it’s calledcalfoutis.) And by the by, don’t plan a trip to France for your clafoutis—they arehaving serious problems with too many tourists.

Big news at the cottage todayis that we got new sod in the backyard—a variety of Bermuda called TurfTen Ithink. It was fun to watch the guys install it—they scraped out the old, dead,beat the new into place and affixed it with a huge roller thing, a much morecomplicated process than I never thought planting grass was. Grass in ourback  yard is a sore subject—we havetried everything—zoysia, St. Augustine, winter rye. And I always end up havingto replace it. The part of the yard that is grass is relatively small, and I’dbe all for decorative grasses and ground cover, but the dogs need someplace topoop and pee. And that, of course, is what kills our grass. I don’t expect itto improve a lot now that we have only two dogs instead of three, but my lawnservice friend assures me this should come back next spring (if it survivesthis summer).

I read today that in thirtyyears it will not be uncommon for the Texas temperature to hit 125o.  I am advocating for replacing the front lawnwith native plants but am stopped by cost and lack of knowledge. Christianshowed me one such front yard in a nearby neighborhood that he said was theonly way he would do it—plants grouped by variety and still a bit of grass. I wouldlike a wilder look. Probably a pipe dream since I am hit with vet bills,hearing aid bills, and other big expenses. At this point in my life, the oddsof making a fortune with a bestselling book are pretty slim.

Take heart, my friends.Tomorrow is supposed to be a tad better but still pretty hot. After that,though, we begin to head down into the nineties, which I find reasonable, andthere’s the promise of a breeze and a hint of possible rain next week. I keep rememberinga year when Colin and Lisa came for the fourth—at least twenty years ago—and itwas downright cold. Guess climate change has made that unlikely to happen everagain.

Stay cool and safe.

Preserving Fort Worth

 

When I was a kid, we went tomovies at the Piccadilly Theatre, some three blocks from the house. It was agrand, elaborate place with gilded columns and a heavy velvet curtain on thestage, chandeliers, and, if I remember correctly, gilt-edged panels paintedinto rich, red walls. The lobby, of course, was equally spectacular, and I cantell you from personal observation that even the ceiling was elaborate. I knowbecause to this day I remember spending all of Captain from Castile staringat the ceiling to avoid the violence onscreen. I was a wimpy kid.

That’s what movie theaterswere like in the forties—single screen and fancy. Fort Worth had its share,including the Parkway on Eighth (long gone), the Isis on North Main (still inuse) and the Berry on Hemphill. But now the city has issued a demolition permitfor the Berry, deteriorated (and trashed by vandals) until it would beprohibitive to restore it. The land will become a free clinic for uninsured inthe neighborhood, which is all well and good—except we are losing anotherlandmark.

I’m no preservation expert.Just someone who values the history represented by older buildings, but itseems to me Fort Worth finds the tear-down decision easier than restoration.Once a grand row of cattleman’s mansions lined what is now Summit Avenue andwas once Hill Street. The only remaining is Thistle Hill, restored to its GeorgianRevival glory and open for visitors and events by an intense public effort. Formore on the now-gone mansions, read Fort Worth’s Quality Hill by BrendaMcClurkin. You’ll mourn the history we’ve lost.

Another bit of architecturalhistory is under consideration by the city: the Community Art Center, formerhome of the Museum of Modern Art, now housing gallery spaces, studios,nonprofit offices, and the Wm. Edrington Scott Theatre. Alternative uses forthe building are being considered, but apparently the cost to renovate will beas great as the cost to demolish and rebuild. As far as I know, the city hasnot decided yet, though preservationists are working to save the building.

Not my picture; not Fort Worth.
But you get the look-alike idea.
All the history we have lostand continue to lose brings me to the topic of stealth houses. It’s notunrelated that I cannot have a stove in my cottage kitchen—I can have anythingthat plugs in, so I cook with a hot plate and a toaster oven. That zoningrestriction if part of the TCU Overlay designed to control student rentals inthe neighborhoods around the university. But it’s not renovated servants’quarters like mine that are the big problem: it’s stealth dorms, houses with as many as ten bedrooms and one common kitchen. Tocombat this, the city has passed laws for single-family neighborhoods that nomore than five unrelated people may occupy a single housekeeping unit. Thetrouble is the law is not heavily enforced. One friend attended a neighborhoodmeeting after a stealth dorm went in amidst their single-family homes. Shefound out you cannot even lodge a protest until the law is broken by too manyunrelated students moving in. By then, the battle is lost, the single familyhome demolished, the stealth dorm a reality.

Neighbors around TCU object tothe stealth dorms because they bring a raft of problems—parking, traffic,garbage, noisy parties, loss of green space, etc. My objection is as much tohistory lost as to the deterioration of neighborhoods that high-density buildingsinevitably bring. To build these structures, developers, looking for a quickprofit, tear down single-family homes, some dating back to the 1920s, manybungalows built post-WWII. In replacing those individual homes, developersreplace houses of distinctive and interesting architecture with blocks ofhigh-density, look-alike structures. We are losing the whole history ofneighborhoods, as most of us knew them as children. A chunk of city life, fromsay the early fifties to the present, is being wiped out. In one neighborhoodof 160 properties, only sixty-three single-family units are now owner occupied.

Granted, the city does notmake these individual decisions—developers offer homeowners deals they simplycan’t resist. But I remain convinced the city could do more to curtail theflood of stealth homes.

Like most cities, Fort Worthhas an organization dedicated to preservation: Historic Fort Worth. I wouldnever want to discount their efforts and their successes. I just wish for amore conservation minded—and less profit-oriented—attitude from the city. Oncehistory is gone, it cannot be built again. And stealth dorms are generallyugly.

Reviving happy hour

 

Jrdan's charcuteries
It’s been almost seven yearssince I moved into the cottage. At first, everyone was curious to see my digs.The idea of living in a converted garage full time was new, and friends werecurious. We live in a neighborhood where many older homes, like mine, had guestcottages that were really converted servants’ quarters. Oh sure, some peoplefixed them up as rental property—which led to my kitchen facilities being limitedby a zoning ordinance, but that’s another story. Still, I think the idea that Iwould move out of my three-bedroom house into a 600 square foot cottage was abit surprising. So it was like Field of Dreams—if you build it, theywill come.

And come they did, everynight. Jordan and I fixed elaborate finger food, often charcuterie butsometimes other offerings such as tea sandwiches or dip and chips or whatever.It challenged my kitchen creativity, and I enjoyed it. But happy hour began totake a toll on my work time, and the wine bill was pretty high. So we began to cutback. These days, I may put out a bowl of chips or a wedge of cheese, but that’sit, and many “regulars” bring their own drinks, partly because they know mywine cellar and liquor cabinet are extremely limited and partly to help my budget.It all works out.

Tonight, however, we went backto a full charcuterie board. Subie and Phil are preparing to move to TrinityTerrace, and Subie’s sister Cynthia and her husband from Colorado Springs arehere to help pack. We calculated tonight that Subie and I have known each otherat least forty-five years. I didn’t think in all that time I’d ever metCynthia, although she said tonight she thought maybe we’d met many years ago. Whatever,I was delighted to have them all for happy hour.

I spent some time debatingappetizers and finally settled on a charcuterie board, over crab bites or someother favorites. I thought that would be plenty for the seven of us. Then Ispent time deciding what to include—a couple of things I had in the fridge,like a really nice jar of marinated artichoke hearts and a tub of pub cheese. Ibought the slightest amount of three meats from Central Market and splurged onolives because Christian loves them. In fact, I had so much I ruled out someitems—like a sliced apple and honey to go with the blue cheese (too hard toserve and sticky). Jordan ruled out some leftover horseradish/crème fraichesauce which would have been good with ham but, again, was too hard to serve. Iordered a baguette—and forgot to ask to have it sliced, a mistake I won’t makeagain. And somehow my grocery order included some odd chips I never ordered—theygot saved for another time.

Faced with all that, Iwondered how to arrange it. Jordan to the rescue—she took charge and created abeautiful arrangement. Together we make a pretty darn good team.

So there we were—seven peoplein the cottage (which pushes my seating capacity) on one of the hottest nightsof the year. We turned on both a/c units and shut the door I usually keep open.Given the temperature, Phil did not bring his dog, Porter, but Sophie wasinside with us the entire time.

Sophie getting sympathy
Soph has been a happy hourproblem—bad habits have overtaken us. She has learned that if she barks enoughshe’ll get a treat to silence her. I’ve been trying to break the cycle, but itrequires enduring the barking—eventually she runs out and settles down. Tonightwe tried something new—her leash. I put it on her and kept her near me—and shelay quietly. When we finally took it off, she jumped up on the couch,apparently to tell the out-of-town visitors what a hard life she has, and theyresponded with appropriate sympathy.

It was a jolly evening, withSubie and me reciting for Cynthia how we’d met and some of our shared adventuresover the years—the time the three of us went to the Caribbean for Christmas becausemy oldest child was there, or the time the Burtons and I visited the cabin inNew Mexico that Subie and her sisters share. Lots of good times in our history,and I’m hoping they’ll continue after they move into the retirement community.serious talk on jolly evening

I think our move into moreelaborate happy hours is a one-time thing, although Subie has another sisterwho will be here soon. Got to get my thinking cap on. But Mary is coming forher regular Tuesday night visit tomorrow—I’ll pull out what’s left fromtonight, and she will bring what’s left from a Zoom cooking class she did todayon front porch entertaining. Leftovers are part of the fun.

If you’re in Texas—or readingthe newspapers anywhere else—you know it’s hot. Ninety-five at ten o’clock as Iwrite, and they say it will last all week. Knock on wood, the cottage isblessedly comfortable, and Sophie and I stay inside and go about our business.But the yard guys came tonight at five o’clock, and I thought what a long, hotday it has been for them. I love living in Texas—most of the time—but it doessometimes test one’s patience.

Stay cool and safe, please.