Judy Alter's Blog, page 25

A ladies luncheon

 

We may have had a ladies luncheon,
but unfortunately none of us looked like this--
and no cocktails were involved. 
Lunch is not a social time forme. I rarely go out for lunch or invite people in. I’ve got this daily routinedown pat and socializing at lunch interrupts it. I work all morning, eatleftovers at my desk, and work until two, two-thirty when I take a nap. Buttoday was an exception: Jean and a young woman I’ve corresponded with but nevermet came for lunch.

Since yesterday was a busyday, I did not have the meal prepared in advance as I often do. I did make amarinated bean salad yesterday, but when I got up this morning and got goinginstead of rushing to my computer, I made a chicken casserole. Not a big deal,probably took me an hour to make it and clean up the kitchen. The most onerouspart was dicing celery and green onions and chopping up the chicken—a rotisseriechicken which was deboned and in the freezer. Jordan finally convinced medeboning them is not bad if you do it right away when they come from the store,still warm.

The young woman is thedaughter and niece of friends of mine, her aunt long gone, her parents recentlydeceased. Mary Lou was a friend through the years—we met in 1970. Shortlythereafter she lost her daughter tragically, and I was one of the people sheturned to. She was a big part of my life until maybe ten or twelve years agowhen she retired and moved to Dallas. Through her, I met her brother, Alex, andgot to know him because we both served on the board of the Friends of the TCULibrary. At board luncheons, Alex and I would sit together and whisper aboutliberal politics, trying to stifle our laughter like naughty schoolchildren. Weknew several people in the room would frown on our ideas, but we always had agood time.

In recent times, Alex’s wifedeveloped Alzheimer’s and was in a memory care facility, and he moved into aretirement facility (not the one I’m so familiar with). Jean and I went to havelunch with him once, were planning to go again, and I was making plans to havehim to the cottage for lunch to get him out of what I thought was a cold andunlovely environment. He fell, broke his shoulder, went rapidly downhill, anddied about a month ago. I had been in touch with his daughter, Leah,.becauseAlex had almost no vision left (macular degeneration) and dictated his emailsto her, so by the time he died, I felt I knew Leah.

So today she came to lunch,and that young woman (okay, middle-aged) Alex had described to me as anintrovert who didn’t like to be around people, was outgoing, frank and openabout her family, and talked constantly of how lucky she has been in the peoplewho support her and her family. She seemed thrilled with the prayer shawl Jeanbrought her. We had a lively discussion and a good time.

And now I have leftovers for afrequent visitor to the cottage who is coming for supper tomorrow night.Meantime I’ve had a slow, lazy afternoon and evening, enjoying the thunder andrain.

Between hearing aids, groceryand social engagements, the week that started off to be a writing week hasfizzled. Monday, I wrote 1500 words on my cottage memoir and felt so good aboutit. Full steam ahead. Since then, I have written countless words in my head butcommitted nothing to paper. I itch to get to it. Perhaps tomorrow, but Thursdayis always the day I post a recipe to my Gourmet on a Hot Plate blog, and Ihaven’t even chosen the recipe. The road to hell is paved with … but then youknow that saying.

Just in case you missed it, Ihad a guest post today on Lois Winston’s Anastasia Pollock blog. Lois has aspot for recipe blogs, so mine is on Texas caviar, a recipe developed by HelenCorbitt, later of Neiman Marcus fame, way back in the 1940s. It’s still goodtoday. Check it out if you want a good side for a summer barbecue or picnicparty: https://anastasiapollack.blogspot.com/2023/06/cooking-with-cloris-author-judy-alters.html 

 

A big, busy day

The Jim Clark exhibit at Trinity Terrace
Last fall the audiologist Isaw and I agreed—it was time for new hearing aids. And not the ones newlyavailable over the counter. But life interfered—and her duties in the speech andhearing clinic at TCU. This spring I began to inquire again, and she assured meshe had them, would schedule me as soon as she could. Then volunteer clinicalwork to her to—wait for it!—Kathmandu. Today, we f finally connected in heroffice, and tonight I have new hearing aids.

Getting new aids at TCU’sMiller Speech and Hearing Clinic is not just a matter of walking in and pickingthem up. First, Tracy Burger tested my hearing. I dread these tests almost butnot quite as much as I do vision tests: I have to repeat two-syllable wordsafter her (she is off in another room reading them into a speaker whichalternately gets higher and then lower) and then she plays a series of beeps,different pitches and levels of sound, and I have to raise my hand whenever Ihear a beep. I admit my mind wanders, and I may have missed a beep or two. Butthe verdict was I have lost a bit of hearing in my right ear but gained some inmy left. I hope it all balances out.

Tracy told me to keep my oldaids as back-up which meant she had to upgrade them and then configure the new onesto match my hearing needs. All this took time, and I was afraid my chauffeur—oneJacob Burton—would get impatient, but he didn’t. And he turned out to be agreat iPhone consultant. Tracy hs a android phone, and I am just not smartabout iPhones, despite the fact that I’ve had one for several years, so once thenew aids were paired to the phone, he was most helpful in settings, disabling theold ones, etc.

I think I’m hearing better,though I had a hard time hearing my brother on the phone tonight, and he had ahard time hearing me. The acid test will come when I next see friend Phil whois soft spoken and loses patience with me when I can’t hear him. Lately everytime I see him, he demands, “Have you got your new hearing aids yet?” So now, the answer is yes, I do.

Jacob and I went from there tothe grocery store. He asked if he couldn’t just run in and I said no, because Idid not want to be left sitting in the car in that parking lot. I know of twowomen who were mugged there! The other reason—and I was fairly open about this—isthat I don’t think he knows enough about grocery shopping to choose the right brands.Turned out it was an cooperative venture for both of us—he reached items for methat I couldn’t, and I think I taught him about about brands and packaging andprices. Bonus was that I whizzed around the store on one of their handicapcarts and never hit a thing! Last time the two of us went together I took downthree dumps—I blamed it on the store for crowding their aisles. This time theaisles were mostly clear. I think I figured out why Jacob wanted to leave me inthe car.

It's an unusual day for me tobe out of the cottage and away from my desk—and my dog—for four hours as I wasthis morning. But the day wasn’t over: tonight Jordan, Christian, and I haddinner at Trinity Terrace with Jean. We went to see the display of some of thework of her late husband, Jim Clark, a folk artist of enormous talent. Hiswork, ranging from wood to silver to clay, is on display in showcases in thelobby. Looking at it again, I was impressed by the variety of media—and by hisunlimited imagination. Someone asked me the other day if he was a free spirit,and I had to say, “Ah…no.” He was a Air Force pilot and an engineer, with anengineer’s mind for precision and order. Yet there was this tremendouslywhimsical side of him that created everything from articulated wooden pull toysto weather vanes and a wonderful bench that seems to have people already seatedon it.

After viewing the exhibit, wehad dinner in the Blue Spire on the thirteenth floor. As always, the four of ushad lots to talk about, from taxes and real estate to churches. And dinner wasdelicious—who can go wrong with lamb lollipops, a Caesar salad, and an enormousbaked potato. And the view is so lovely. A thoroughly pleasant evening. And I’mexhausted.

Food matters on my mind

 

Don Artemio's
because I forgot to take a picture of our home-done dinner tonight
First, food is on my mindbecause I cobbled together a dinner of this and that, with low expectations exceptthat it got us fed and used up some leftovers. Jordan raved about it and said, “Mom,keep this recipe.” I wanted to ask, “What recipe?”

Jamie had given us three freetrial meals from Home Fresh. I explained to him that his gesture was sweet andconsiderate, but meal planning and preparation were part of my joy. Andgenerally I think I do it better than prepared kits. Christian and I used twoof the meals when Jordan was out of town, but tonight we had the chickenbreasts left over. (The green beans had long since bitten the dust.) I cut thechicken into chunks, salt and peppered it, and tossed with olive oil. Toppedwith fresh herbs from the garden.

Then I scraped and cut upthose last three lonely carrots in the vegetable bin. Tossed that with thechicken in olive oil and baked for 25 minutes. Christian has always shied awayfrom cooked carrots because they’re mushy, but not when you do them in a sheetpan. Just cooked enough. Served with leftover Caesar dip from last week’s happyhours because I dislike a plain dry chicken breast. I was afraid over time theanchovy taste would get too strong, but no. Jordan raved about it, said to savethe recipe. Should I tell her she’s eaten it with potato chips a lot in thepast?

Meantime, I goofed, again! onmy order from Central Market and ended up with a bag of spinach, plus a smallfresh bunch. The bag is for a company meal later in the week, but the smallbunch was extra. So I blanched it, drained it and squeezed off the liquid, cutit up so it was chopped, and put it in a skillet with melted butter—a lot ofwork for a tiny bit of spinach, but the story gets better. When Jordan asked whatto do with it, naïve old me asked, “Do you want creamed or plain spinach?” Shewas astounded. “I don’t eat it cooked,” she said. (I knew Christian didn’t, butI swore she did). I asked her to salt and pepper it and add a big dollop ofsour cream. Instant and easy creamed spinach! And it was so good, even if I wasthe only one eating it. Jordan made a big salad to finish our meal. When Ilooked at my plate, my instant reaction was, “That’s a lot of food.” “Oh, it’smostly light stuff, like salad and spinach,” Christian said.

The kids were invited to aneight o’clock dessert gathering at the neighbors’, so I got to do the dishes. Ican’t complain, because Jordan had them all scraped and stacked and almostalways she washes them.

But the other food thingtonight was that I watched the James Beard Awards Ceremony. I got started on itbecause Don Artemio’s, where I’ve had several good meals, was a finalist for bestnew restaurant. It didn’t win but hey! Finalist status is in itself a win. Butthe awards and the general atmosphere of the ceremony intrigued me. One presentersaid, “Restaurants build community,” and I thought about how true that is.There was a wonderful sense of community in this large audience. Anthony Blinken, U.S. secretary of state, spoke about the way immigrant culturecontributes to our food world and announced an alliance between the administratioin and the James Beard Foundation—what a fitting alliance.

The chef who was named bestnew or upcoming chef intrigued me, because his restaurant, Virtue, is in theheart of the Hyde Park Neighborhood in Chicago. In fact, I can picture thelocation at 53rd and Harper. Hyde Park is, of course, where I grewup and where my Irene in Chicago Culinary Mysteries are set. As I said to Jordan,“Irene will be so excited that it’s a Hyde Park restaurant.” Then again, whocan predict Irene’s reactions? Chicago—and Hyde Park—are still on my bucketlist, so who knows? Maybe I’ll get to eat at Virtue. It’s southern cooking,with a twist, of course.

Big day tomorrow, so I’m offto bed early. Then again, it doesn’t take much to make a big day for me.

Sophie got the zoomies

 

My kitchen floor after Sophie's zoomies
Sophie and I pretty much havea morning routine. If she wakes too much before seven, I placate with a snippetof cheese and tell her to go back to sleep. Inevitably, she wakes me againright at seven. I feed her and let her out, and by the time I’ve gone to thebathroom myself, she is back in, waiting for another piece of cheese. Then weboth goi back to sleep. This morning, that all went haywire. She did not comeback in. I looked out, and she was racing along one side of the yard at topspeed—and top speed for Sophie is darn fast. It’s the Australian shepherd inher.

My calls of “Cheese” wentunheeded. She’d run from one end to the other and then freeze, as though shethought she was a hunting dog on point. Only her tail would move, and it wouldwag vigorously. I went outside with the piece of cheese. Nothing. So, I went outsidewith the leash, having sunk so low that I was willing to pretend she was going somewhere.She ignored me. Since it was Sunday morning and my neighbors—and my family—wereprobably trying to sleep, I was grateful she didn’t bark much. When she did, itwas high-pitched, almost a squeak—from excitement.

Finally I did what goesagainst my every principle: I left the door ajar and went back to bed. But Ididn’t sleep. Every fifteen minutes or so, I got up to check on her. She wasstill running. Finally a little after nine I got up and started on my day. Toget her in for her morning shot, I had to call Christian—of course she came tohim right away. He gave her a shot, and I confined her to the cottage.

I had warned Christian not toleave water in her dish, but he thought she’d already splashed a bit and thatwas the end of it. Little did he know. She was mad at me, especially whenbarking to tell me she wanted to go out had no effect. She banged the fooddishes around a bit and then, in her anger, flipped the water bowl and walkedin it. You see above a picture of the results. I triple-mopped the floor, andit still needs to be done professionally.

One advantage—during all thosefifteen-minute dozes, I did really good work in my head. Noted the next scenein the novel-in-progress and came up with a plan—and titles—for the first fourchapters of pieces of my cottage memoir. When I finally got to my computer, Imade notes of all that had been racing through my brain.

Apparently, however, Soph wasnot through with the zoomies—or at least the squirrels. I let her out a bitafter noon, and she went right back to running and barking. Veterinary expertstell us the zoomies are natural to all dogs and result from pent-up energy.Zoomies are not bad for dogs—in fact, they look like they’re having a barrel offun when they’re running. But there is always the danger that running so fastthey will injure themselves. Once, before we got rid of deconstructed granitein some flower beds, Soph tore the pads on her paws badly and was off her feetfor several days while we treated with salves and ointments. And let’s berealistic—she is twelve years old and has a chronic condition and six monthsago was at death’s door. I worried a lot about her this morning.

The squirrels are to blame, ofcourse. They know exactly what they are doing when they tease her, and shefalls for it every time. What they say about dogs having the thought processesof a two-year-old is so true!

Tonight we had happy hour withthe neighbors directly behind us. Two or three years ago, they asked me to signan easement waiver or whatever so they could build a cabana/guest house closerto the property line. My cottage also sits too close to the line, but it wasobviously built before zoning restrictions. They are good neighbors, nicepeople (with sons about Jacob’s age), and I was glad to do it. They and theirarchitect—who also designed the renovation of my cottage—were most considerateof my privacy. The new structure directly blocks the view from my bathroomwindow, but a fence covered in honeysuckle hides their pool equipment and,besides, who spends a lot of time staring out the bathroom window? Windows onmy side of their cabana are for ventilation only and are up high—all they seeis trees, which is pleasant for them and keeps my bathroom private.

So tonight we saw the finishedproject, and it is classy. The cabana matches the house and faces the new pool.The main, two-story house has a new screened-in porch on the first level and anopen porch above which must be off their master bedroom. They’ve created alovely oasis, and I was delighted to see it. Having grown up with a scrrened-inporch in Chicago, I am more than a bit jealous.

A nice end to an off day. Imay have to take a nap before I go to bed. Sophie is now calm and angelic, andoccasionally I think the look in her eyes says, “Will you forgive me?” Herecomes a busy week. I’m looking forward to it. You?

Self-indulgent Saturday

 

Tonight, I had three of myfavorite foods for supper. They may have been odd pairings, they made a greatsupper for me: salmon (it was fresh Scottish salmon, so how could I resist), themild guacamole from Central Market, and fresh raspberries. When summer fruitsare in season, raspberries are my favorite. I remember getting buckets of themfor fifty cents at a rural market in Indiana as a kid. As for the salmon, I kindof went on instinct—just salt and pepper, poured a little white wine on the panto keep it from drying, and watched it almost constantly for the seven minutesit roasted. Salmon came out cooked just right, which for me is barely cooked.Guacamole was delicious—I can’t take the spicy version. And the raspberries weresweet—sometimes, early on, they’re a bit tangy, but these weren’t. Topped itoff with two salted caramels. Yes, a self-indulgent dinner. But I deserve.

Today was a piddling day.Everybody needs one of those. I was lazy about everything I did, dawdled overemails and news reports. I am so fascinated by the chaos in our country that itsometimes takes me a long time to catch up on all my sources, even on weekends.Still, I managed to write a thousand words and I have the next scene in mymind. Ate leftover for lunch and took a long nap.

The Burtons were gone most ofthe day, and when they were here, I was napping. We crossed paths briefly inthe late afternoon before they went to an American Cancer Society event at thezoo. Somehow the attendance requirement was to wear white. Jordan came out in awhite dress with puff sleeves and my only thought was, “I would so spill mydinner all over the front.” Christian said he fully expected red wine stains.Should have told him to drink white.

My interesting side note for the day. In my adult life, I've had periodic bouts of anxiety, a few times almost crippling. For that reason, I identify with the Simon and Garfunkel song, "Hello, Darkness, my old friend." I always thought Darkness was a reference to anxiety or depression which throws you into a dark state. Not so. In college, Art Garfunkel had a good friend who lost his sight and withdrew from the world. Garfunkel took it as his responsibility to help his friend and set him on the path to a productive life. He was by his side, literally, all through college, and he named himself Darkness. He would say, "It's Darkness, your old friend." Because of his devoted help, the man went on to get a law degree and graduate degree from prestigious universities. He married, had a family and a career as an entrepreneur, and became a wealthy man. Remember that, the next time you hear that song.

I’m off to read a novel Istarted last night. Not my typical choice—it’s about female spies in World WarsI and II. Hope it doesn’t give me nightmares. Sweet dreams, y’all

Joe Biden and ageism in the U.S.

A good friend came for happyhour last night, and when she brought up Joe Biden’s name, the first thing shesaid was, “You know he fell again.” The first thing I said was, “He justnegotiated a brilliant deal around the debt ceiling.” The two remarks embody asplit in this country about our current president and about our aging citizens.

Since before 2020 Republicanshave been crowing about Biden’s senility. I maintain that much of what they citeas senility is his style—they are used to the flamboyant drama of trump, butthat is not Biden’s way. He’s a low-key guy, who keeps his head down and goesquietly about getting things done. Occasionally he falters in a speech, theresult of a lifelong problem with stuttering and nothing to do with senility.

And the fall? Someone had lefta sandbag onstage in the path he took to exit after his speech. I fault hiscrew—security, medical, whoever. They should have been alert to such a hazardand moved it. Fortunately he was not hurt and bounced right back up. His quickrecovery is a testimony to his wellbeing.

When I repeat to my friend allthat Biden has accomplished—the decrease in jobless numbers and increase inemployed, staving off the anticipated recession, lowering inflation, legislationto rebuild the infrastructure, uniting our allies to support Ukraine’s fightagainst Russia’s attempted takeover, better care for veterans, changing the rampantcourse of the pandemic—she counters with actuarial statistics. He, at eighty,is more likely to have a stroke than she, in her mid-fifties. I point out he isan actual, living being, not a statistic. Her argument is not that he hasn’tdone great things for America but that we can’t count on him continuing to beable to do such.                                                                                                                                 

The whole conflict comes downto America’s continuing affliction with ageism, a fear of aging. Knowing I amalmost eighty-five, my friend asked how long I intended to live. I replied thatI hadn’t set an end date. I am enjoying life and as long as I am able, I don’twant to leave. I enjoy my family, my work, my dog, my cottage, my friends. Shethinks eighty will about do it for her, an easy thing to say when you’re in yourfifties, not so easy at eighty. I point out that Willie Nelson is going strongat ninety, and she counters that he is not responsible for a major world power.

Over 52 million Americanadults are over sixty-five. A recent Pew study reports that there is a huge gapbetween how young and middle-aged adults view aging and what aging adultsactually experience. Younger people expect a much higher rate of illness,inability to live alone, depression, forgetfulness, an inability to drive, anend to sex, and other symptoms than most elderly actually experience. On theother hand, studies show that most older folks feel at least ten years youngerthan their actual age and experience fewer of the problems young people expect.

At my age, I come at this froma purely personal perspective. Yes, I have some of the problems anticipated: Icannot walk without assistance, I have given up driving, and I probably couldnot live alone without assistance nearby, as it is in my cottage. (Don’t askabout sex, but I have memories.) But on the other hand, I do meaningful workevery day, I am engaged with the world around me (probably too much, some of mykids might say). I entertain friends frequently, I am (I hope) fairly cheerfuland fairly healthy. I am not sitting in a rocking chair staring into space.

And Joe Biden’s senility. Ifthe debt ceiling negotiations didn’t put an end to that speculation, Kevin McCarthy’swords should have. McCarthy, who has every reason to continue to spout hisparty’s line, said instead that in negotiations, he found President Biden andhis team, “very professional, very smart, very tough.”

Stereotyping the elderly only makestheir problems worse. If you expect the elderly person close to you to exhibitsigns of aging, senility, etc. and you convey that message, either openly orsubtly, often enough, it will come to pass. But the elderly are like children—stimulatethem, encourage them, and they can shine.

Me? I’m voting for Biden. Formany reasons, in my mind there’s no choice, but we also might remember hispresumed opponent is only four years younger, in much worse physical shape, andclearly not as sharp mentally.

Here’s to growing oldgracefully!                                                                                                                                                                                              

A French recipe and an Italian one—and not a lot of difference

 

It’s summer, and my thoughtsrun to cold soup (nobody here will eat it), main dish salads, and sandwiches,both of which are popular with my family. I was searching my recipe file for somethingto fix for one of my “eat everything but the unusual is best” friends and cameacross these two tuna recipes, one French and one Italian. I was struck by howsimilar they are. Both call for tuna, though I used salmon in the pan bagnat,simply because I had more canned salmon than tuna. And I adapted both to my taste,which means no peppers and no olives. Feel free to add. In fact, feel free to addalmost anything you want—these recipes are more guides than specificdirections.

In my Irene in Chicago CulinaryMysteries, Irene boasts a faux French background, even including culinarytraining from Le Cordon Bleu. She loves all things French, despises Italiancooking. Perhaps these two sandwiches would make her rethink that.

Italian tuna sandwich (servestwo)

For the sandwich:

A small baguette or crustybread (not the skinny baguette with no room for filling)

Lettuce

7 oz can high quality chunk tuna

2 hardboiled eggs

Salt and pepper

For the salsa verde:

I packed cup Italian parsley

½ cup olive oil

1 clove garlic, minced

2 anchovy filets

1 Tbsp. small capers

Zest from 1 lemon

Salt and pepper

Olives (optional), chopped

Serrano chile (optional),sliced

To make the salsa verde, blendparsley and olive oil into a paste. Remove to a small bowl and add remainingingredients. Mix well. If it is too thick to spread easily, add more olive oil,a bit at a time.

Split the baguette lengthwiseand cut into two equal portions (if the baguette is large, you do not have touse the entire thing—cut into two servin size pieces). Spread salsa verde onboth cut sides of the bread. Then on one side layer sandwich ingredients. Top withchile if using. Season with salt and pepper. Drizzle remaining salsa overingredients, and top with second piece of bread. Press down firmly. Serveimmediately.

Pan bagnat is a French classic,usually made with tuna but can also be made with just the eggs and anchovies orsalmon or whatever strikes your fancy. The beauty of this sandwich is that it getsbetter with age—it should be made at least several hours before you serve andcan be refrigerated for up to twenty-four hours. Ideally it is made in an 8-inch,round loaf to serve two, but you may also use a baguette or other crustyartisan bread.

Pan bagnat

2 anchovy fillets

1 garlic clove, minced

1 tsp. red wine vinegar

½ tsp. Dijon mustard

2 Tbsp. olive oil

Pepper to taste

Round loaf or baguette

½ cucumber, preferablyseedless, thinly sliced.

1 tomato, sliced

1/2 small red onion, sliced

7 oz. tuna

1 hardboiled egg

Sliced olives (optional)

Basil leaves for garnish

Slice bread in half lengthwiseand pull out some of the soft interior. Save discarded bread for another use,such as croutons.

In a bowl, thoroughly blendfirst four ingredients and then slowly whisk in the olive oil. Toss the slicedcucumber in the mixture. Brush both cut sides of the bread with the vinaigrette.

On the bottom slices of bread,layer half the cucumbers. Top, in layers, with remaining ingredients. Finishwith remaining cucumbers and pour remaining vinaigrette over all. Cover withtop slice of bread and press down firmly. Wrap sandwich tightly in foil and thenput in a plastic bag. Refrigerate, weighted down. The easiest way to do that isto place a small skillet on top of the sandwich and add one or two cannedgoods. Refrigerate for up to 24 hours before serving. Anchovy flavors will soakinto the bread, creating a delicious treat.

Bon Appetit/Buon Appetito!See? Even the languages are similar. We’ll never convince Irene.

 

 

 

A word about electricity and a lot about book bans

 

I may be the last person inthe world you would suspect of doing scientific investigations, but I sort ofdid today. When I found both my teakettle and my can opener weren’t working, Iunplugged them, moved them to another plug—and voila! They worked. Just when Iwas on the verge of calling the electrician who has worked on my house foryears. When I told Christian this, he (much more practical than I), said, “Itprobably just needs to be reset.” And he did. And tonight they both work intheir original spots. I also read the troubleshooting directions for my garbagecan and decided what we hadn’t done was to unplug it and leave it for hours.That was less successful. It still doesn’t work. Still, one savors the smallvictories.

I am overcome tonight with thehate in the world. A lengthy article on a bookseller’s newsletter this morningdetails an Arkansas law that bans almost every good book I’ve ever read andjeopardizes not only the jobs and income but the freedom of librarians,teachers, and booksellers. Can you spell Nazi? The law, signed by the odiousGovernor Sarah Huckaby (yes, I used a pejorative adjective) provides that anyonecan challenge the ”appropriateness” of a book in public libraries, but it doesnot define “appropriateness” nor does it provide a standard by which to judgebooks. Those who support the law say anyone under eighteen should not have accessto books that include racism, sexual activity, or LGBTQ topics. They call suchbooks indoctrination. I call such laws suppression of knowledge. Seventeenorganizations, including booksellers, librarians, publishers and parents andsome international groups, have brought a lawsuit. I wish the Godspeed.

I did not raise my children ina vacuum. I remember when one of my daughters read Flowers in the Attic, aboutfour children struggling to survive as they are hidden in the attic of amansion. Scary stuff but intriguing to a fourteen-year-old mind. We talkedabout it. When she moved on to books by Danielle Steele, I did read a couple ofthem, because I wanted to know what my child was reading. One of her brotherswas devoted to the Dungeons and Dragons series and was the kind of a kid whoread by flashlight under the covers at night. I never had a complaint aboutthat, except that he was hard to wake in the mornings. None of my four grew upto be a sex maniac, racist, or bigot.

The Arkansas law meansbooksellers can be liable for displaying “questionable” books but does not definequestionable. That means booksellers can display only innocuous titles—cookbooks,maybe?—or they have to forbid children to come into the store. If there wasanything my son Jamie loved, it was a trip to the bookstore where he would begand plead until I bought whatever caught his fancy. And I remember a nephew whoat fourteen or so was fascinated by Anne Rice’s vampire fiction. He’s asuccessful physician today, father of four, a good guy.

Locally, I am not over my disappointmentin Mayor Mattie Parker of Fort Worth. The Fort Worth Public Library prepared abig publicity campaign—print materials, etc.—for its annual Mayor’s SummerReading Program, with a special Pride Badge for youngsters who read one bookwith an LGBTQ theme. A splinter group—with “Liberty” in its name, of course(such words have become red flags to me)—complained to the mayor and she caved.Gave the library an ultimatum: withdraw the Pride Badge or she would withdrawher endorsement. The library felt it had no choice and withdrew the badge. Sowrong. I wished for just a moment there that I were director of the librarybecause I would have, I hope, told the mayor to go fly a kite. And she did thisat the beginning of National Pride Month. Bad call, bad timing, Mayor Parker.

Today I read that Texas and Florida(of course) have passed stringent laws that forbid immigrants from certaincountries to buy land except under certain circumstances—proof of citizenshipor a green card and then only land not close to a military installation, etc. Thelaws in large part are aimed at Asians and decisions are often made on facialstructure. Is this really the land of the free?

There’s a meme on Facebookthat says if you have to pass laws punishing certain minority groups to proveyour faith or morals, you have no faith or morals to prove. So true.

I cannot fathom people with somuch hate and fear in their hearts, but I know that they are a slim minority,and we must all fight back, each of in whatever way we can, to keep them from changingthe face of our land, the way we live and raise our children. My moral standardmay not be yours—as long as neither of us infringe on each other or commit acrime against society, that’s fine with me. How about you?

No sweet dreams tonight. Dreaminstead of every good book you want your children or grands to read.

 

The gods of small (and large) appliances

 

Our front yard has a mass of cone flowers I planted years ago.
Jordan brought me this bit of cut blooms. I love the color.
Some folks call them echinacea, but I like the simple name.
Somehow, I have displeasedsome mechanical gods. They say things break in threes, but I think I have alreadygone beyond that. Last night when I turned on the HVAC unit hanging from the ceilingin my living room, just before I went to sleep, it wouldn’t open its vents. Thepower light went on and all that, but no air came out. I finally resorted tothe unit in the bedroom, which is sometimes noisy. I didn’t set it very low,and I think that helped keep it quiet. Plus the humidity was low—I think highhumidity makes such things work harder. This morning the living room one workedlike a charm. Electronic things sometimes need time out to collect themselves.

But last week, my electric teakettlequit. Switch wouldn’t turn on. I figured it wasn’t worth repairing, ordered anew one. The new one is fancy—clear glass, with blue LED lights that match thelights on my electric corkscrew—and my Blue Willow plates. I took seriously theinstructions which said not to immerse, so I stewed over how to clean a newpot. Jordan finally rinsed it with hot water and pronounced it ready for use.So this morning, I filled my two-cup measure and dumped it in the pot. Itworked for two seconds, flicked itself off and refused to do anything else. Iretrieved the box, thinking it would have to go back to Amazon. Jordan camealong, said it was all wet, dried it and let it sit. After a doctor’sappointment in the late morning, I tried it again, and it worked fine.

But tonight the electric canopener won’t work. It has to be plugged tightly into the wall—I’ve run intothat before—but just to be sure, Jordan pushed it in. I tried it a few minuteslater and nothing. So tonight I let it sit, unplugged, to collect itself.

Meantime, the touchlessgarbage can has been collecting itself for two weeks with no results. When yourun your hand over the opening, the lights come on, but the lid doesn’t open.When you open it manually you can feel some tension it the lid—it’s not justlimp and dead, but nothing automatic works. I found today that you can order parts,but I don’t think a new battery pack is what we need. Christian has promised totake a screwdriver to it so he can get inside to the working parts—or nonworkingas the case may be.

Funny how dependent we get onthese small appliances. I know my mother would scoff.

Not a good day. I don’t havepanic attacks anymore, hardly ever, but I had a brief, mild one today. Jacobdrove me to the podiatrist’s office. I really like him and his wife, who is hisreceptionist, assistant, and all good things. But I dislike the handicappedramp going into the building. It’s steep and a rough texture. I especially feellike my walker will get away from me going down the ramp. Jacob was reallygood, holding on to the walker, but when we got to the bottom, he started towalk away while I was still struggling with the change from rough ramp to parkinglot. I got into the parking lot, no more than five feet from the car, and hadthat irrational thought: I can’t do this. I called to him, and he, sweet boy,came instantly, held the walker so I could sit on it. I ended up back peddlingto the far door of his SUV, which was probably much more dangerous than if I’dwalked. When he put out the stool so I could climb in, he said, “I’ve got you,”and I told him climbing on a stool to swing into an SUV was a piece of cake. Itwas that open parking lot. Nobody ever said panic made sense.

That kind of finished mywriting ambition for the day. I took a nap, and Mary came for happy hour.Jordan was under the weather and didn’t join us, but we had a good visit, thoughboth of us were a bit boring, confessing that we really didn’t know much new. Ifixed breakfast sandwiches for supper so I could use up the Canadian bacon inthe fridge. I intended to put them on croissants, but Central Market sent memini croissants with a sugar coating. Not the stuff of an egg and baconsandwich. Luckily, I had English muffins in the freezer.

So tonight, in bits and pieces,waiting for the Burtons and then after supper, I wrote 500 words. The thing iswhen I went back to bed this morning after feeding Sophie, a long, complicatedscene came clear in my mind, and I wanted to capture it. Now I’m hoping it willstay until tomorrow, when I have, I hope, a clear day of writing, followed bysupper out with friends.

Life is sweet, but a bit complicatedsome days.

A long night

 

My brother, home and in the wheelchair.
I think he looks great considering all he's been through
I am so grateful.
Was there a spot on the moonlast night? From my cottage, I heard all kinds of spooky things and had somewild dreams. I went to bed late, maybe just before midnight, and immediately felldeep asleep (yes, I am blessed that way). But after about twenty minutes, I cameawake suddenly because I heard voices, men shouting and hollering. And Sophiebarked. I jumped out of bed and grabbed my walker so fast that I ignored the medicalwisdom I’d heard about sitting on the edge of the bed and collecting yourselffor a minute before you stand up—good advice, I think, for the elderly. ExceptI didn’t do it and felt almost woozy. Now in the cold light of day I don’t knowif those voices were in my dream or real. I pulled the kitchen shade aside, butall looked peaceful. I heard nothing. But if there was nothing out there, whydid Sophie bark? This morning, Jordan told me she heard nothing.

After prowling around thecottage a bit, with Soph at my heels, I went to bed—and then I began to hearthe police helicopter circling. Not directly overhead but probably a bit to thenorth. It seemed to come close when it circled and then fade off into thedistance. And it circled for almost forty-five minutes—by now I was wide awakeand watching the clock. Finally it disappeared, and eventually I went back tosleep.

Only to have something on mybedside table beep loudly to tell me it was out of batteries. So I waited, hopingit wasn’t like the alarm system which keeps beeping until you do something. Apparentlytwo beeps was enough. I tried to take a mental inventory of what it could be:not the hearing aid charger, not the remote control for the lamp, not the digitalclock, not the remote for the security system (yes, my beside table is a bitcrowded). Either the automatic control to my Sleep Numbers bed or the remotefor the HVAC unit that hangs from the ceiling and was not in use. I have notinvestigated yet, but writing this reminds me I must.

As for wild dreams, eighteenhours later I can’t remember them, but at the time they were crystal clear and inmy mind I wrote about them in detail. I’m not sure now how much was dream andhow much reality. I often remember dreams at least for a few hours and shouldhave written these down. There were two separate dream stories. Wish I knew.

I also in my mind (you can seeI was busy) wrote a preface to what I’m calling the cottage memoir. And Iremembered that, because this morning I wrote a rough draft of about elevenhundred words. I have had what I call memoir angst—all around me women arewriting their memoirs, yet I never felt I had enough to say. I guess I never feltmy life was interesting enough, though I will say the one big thing I have donein this life is to adopt four children and raise them, after twelve years, as asingle parent. But then I began to learn about the difference betweenautobiography and memoir, and I began to imagine a memoir about my seven years,so far, in the cottage. There is a story there, but then comes the question ofwhy I feel compelled to share it. Perhaps I’ll share bits of that preface inanother blog.

This morning, Jordan, probablyaware I’d had a sort of lonely weekend, assured me Christian would grilltonight. That has fallen apart to the point that we are debating what to dowith leftovers. Christian brought home some taco meat with bell peppers—that rulesit out for me. So he and Jacob will have tacos, and Jordan and I will eat the twosalmon patties I have left. She will toast hers; I will make a sandwich spreadwith lemon and mayonnaise out of mine. Not exactly a coordinated, bountifulMemorial Day picnic! Not it’s almost eight, and no one has appeared. The kindof evening when I wish I had planned a big meal ahead of time.

I just found a message fromJordan that said she was “Kirkegaard delayed.” Puzzling, especially since sheis not given to an interest in philosophers, and I’m not sure she even knowswho Kirkegaard is/was. I assume autocorrect got her. She was telling me justthis evening about autocorrect changing Virginia to virginity and how you haveto be careful these days because when you send a message to some one with oneof the new cars, the phone system reads the text aloud, no matter who is in thecar with the driver. She had texted a message to a friend about meeting atColonial with Virginia, and it made the change—she cancelled it because sheknew the friend had his young daughters in the car with him. Technology isn’t alwaysthat great.

My week is off to a goodstart. I hope yours is too.