Judy Alter's Blog, page 4

Dog of my dreams

 

Jacob with Scooby, the only Aussie I've ever hard (several years ago, obviously)
Scooby deserves his own story--a wild hard but as sweet as he could be
A frustrating weekend dominatedby the ongoing search for the perfect dog. Last week, we met a dog named MerleHaggard—I love his name!—a medium black dog billed as a Border Collie but whatin Missouri we called a farm collie. He had been abused somewhere along the wayand the foster said is terrified of everything. Indeed he was shaking with fearwhen we entered the foster’s house, though he went quickly to her forprotection. Eventually he warmed to me enough that he would tentatively comeclose enough to take a treat from my hand. I felt so sorry for this baby, and,yes, I thought he would probably come to trust me so that I could keep himsafe. But there are enough people in and out of my cottage that he’d spend halfhis life terrified and a trip to the vet would be an ordeal for man and dog.Jordan felt so sorry for him and wanted to take him, but I told her I didn’t fallin love. Someone from the rescue agency called about our meeting, and I toldher the same. I have concluded this will probably be the last dog I have, andit has to be just the right fit. My intuition has to say to me, “This is thedog,” and I have to sense that the dog feels that way too. What makes it hardis that I swear this baby’s eyes were pleading with me.

I asked to meet another dog—anAussie mix, billed as trained, calm (if Aussies are ever calm), easy I thought.The rescue person told me he was scheduled to be shipped to a rescue farm inWashington in late April, so I thought “Good, we can meet him before then. Andif it goes well, he won’t have to be shipped.” The case work or whatever nixedthat, saying it had been in the works for a long time and the paperwork wasdone. All that, of course, is reversible to me, if their mission truly is tofind him a home. I felt like I’d hit a brick wall. The woman said they had acouple of Aussies and she’d send me something—she hasn’t.

I heard that this rescueagency—a big one—advertised a dog adoption at a dog park. When the day came,they said they didn’t have any dogs. They have hundreds in foster care. How isthis possible? The world of dog shows is a thing unto itself, and now I amfinding so is the world odf dog adoption.

Christian found a site called RescueMe (rescue me.org)—you punch in your state, the animal you’re interested in—dog,cat, bird, horse, and some odd ones. Voila! Forty-some Aussies in Texas. Ispent hours scrolling through them, marked a few as special, and landed on oneI really thought was a fit. The dog is in the Houston area, very close toColin, so he could go meet him. The dog was to have his vaccines updated and awellness check today, and then the owner said she would like to arrange ameeting. So we wait. Meantime, I do keep scrolling.

It dawned on me in the weehours of the morning that the Houston dog reminds me of the farm collie I hadin Missouri when I was oh-so-young! My brother and the man who would become myhusband were at a horse auction when a farmer came in carrying a litter of pupsin a bushel basket. They bought one for me and brought her home. Joel named herBathsheba Finkelstein, which he swore was the name of a girl he dated in theBronx. We called her Sheba.

Sheba was a wonderful dog,sweet, easily trained, I guess, because she was fine in the house, and I don’tremember doing much. She could sit in front of a six-foot fence and fly overit. She had a litter of puppies with a beautiful, purebred mahogany male colliewe had. Once, when nursing puppies, she jumped up on a counter, in my absence,and ate an entire pan of fudge. Chocolate is supposed to be lethal for dogs,but it didn’t faze Sheba. For days, when you picked up the puppies, theysmelled like chocolate. When we left Missouri, we reluctantly found her a farmhome where she could roam far and wide.

I sent a picture of thepossible dog today to an old friend from Kirksville days, and he immediatelyremarked on the resemblance. So a part of me would say that six-year-old boywas meant to be mine, but adoption people everywhere warn against such magicalthinking. We wait.

The problem that is Russia—and ours

 

 

Like most of my generation andthose ten, even twenty years younger, I have vivid memories of the Cold War,that period of deep tension between Russia and the United States that never,thank goodness, blossomed into a hot war—it remained a standoff for too manytension-filled years. If it began in 1947, as is generally accepted, I was nineyears old. I remember (or is it just that I’ve heard it so often?) WilliamFaulkner’s acceptance speech for the 1949 award in literature, with its classicline, “I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal … because he has a soul, a spirit capableof compassion and sacrifice and endurance.” I remember Joseph McCarthy andthe lives he ruined searching for communists in every woodpile (one might thinkof today’s desperate effort to impeach Biden). I remember the Cuban MissileCrisis of 1962 when we were sure that Russian nuclear weapons were about todescend on major American cities. I was in a small town in Missouri, and Iurged my parents to leave Chicago and travel to Missouri. I was sure, bystaying, they would die. I do not remember hiding under my school desk to avoidan atomic bomb—how futile that seems to us with our knowledge today—but I thinkthat came along after I had completed my early schooling. What I do rememberand will never forget was that Russia was the archenemy of the United States.It was a giant, evil bear lurking over our lives. Eventually into the sixties,the tensions lessened. The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics broke up, Russiaseemed less a threat, and life went on. But I never ever forgot our historywith Russia, the stories we heard about the KBG and work camps in Siberia, and otherhorror tales. Russia was always the enemy. Today, Vladimir Putin, with a KGBbackground, has brought those days back with a vengeance—not only by invadingUkraine but by his handling of dissent—prominent people poisoned, falling outof skyscraper windows, dying in prison. And his plan to infiltrate Americanpolitics and social media and influence the direction of our country has been wildlysuccessful.

It boggles mymind today to read that some Republican members of the House will admit thatRussian propaganda has infiltrated some members of the Republican Party, andsometimes the Russian line appears on the floor of the U. S. House ofRepresentatives. (Heather Cox Richardon has an explosive column about how theRussian propaganda machine has been effective in America since trump’selection: (61) April 8,2024 - by Heather Cox Richardson (substack.com) MAGArepresentatives oppose aid to Ukraine, saying that we need to spend thosedollars at home to help the poor—disregard that they are the party who isdesperate to cut social security, Medicaid and Medicare and continually votesto close school lunch prograns and anything designed to help low income familiesget a grip. Disregard also that stopping Russia now ensure the security ofAmerica in the future, and also that economists point out that helping beleagueredcountries boosts our trade partners in the future—when that war is over and Ukrainestabilized, that country’s grain supplies will again become crucial to theworld—and to America.

The presumptive MAGAleader, one former president of our country, has a plan to end the war inUkraine: he will simply give Ukraine to the Russians, and then fighting willcease. (He has apparently not consulted Zelensky about this). MAGA followershave no idea that stopping the Russian incursion into Ukraine is vital to ourcountry’s security. If Russia is allowed to swallow Ukraine, it will have beenrewarded for breaking international law in an unprovoked attack on anothercountry. Russia will then be free to march across Europe, swallowing countries.America will be left without major allies—in addition to defense, that wouldweaken our trade with other countries, our sales, our whole economy. People whoadvocate isolationism simply don’t realize what a small world we live intoday—America would not survive without its allies.

Have these MAGAfolks not studied their history? Do they not know about the Cold War, the CubanMissile Crisis? Do they not know a bit of earlier history about Germany doingjust what Russia is now trying to do—march across Europe subjugating countries.In the late 1930s British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain agreed to letGermany annex Sudetenland, a German-speaking part of Czechoslovakia, becauseHitler promised not to take any more land. We know how that worked out. Chamberlain’sdisastrous policy of appeasement led to WWII.

Does MarjorieTaylor Greene not know any of this history? Matt Goetz? Mike Johnson? It isappalling to me that we have elected so-called leaders who are so blind to thebasics of democracy and to our history. I don’t know whether to blame oureducation system for not teaching them history or to place the blame squarelyon their shoulders for being seduced by power and notoriety. Either way, weneed leaders with a grasp of history and diplomacy and internationalrelationships. Trump and his minions are not that.

Rant over.

Minor misadventures and cooking redemption

 

 

After the eclipse, I would havetold you that for most of the day there was a spot on the moon. Nothingserious, but nothing went quite right.

The major project for todaywas for Jordan and me to go to Christian’s office for covid booster shots,because this is the day once a month that a visiting nurse comes to give shots—awonderful service his company provides its people, and he was going to let metake advantage. Going places in the morning is always a bit of, well, a reachfor me. I much prefer to spend the morning at my computer. But I dutifullydressed in street clothes, even washed my hair so Christian would not be embarrassedby his mother-in-law.

We were early; the nurse waslate. I sat in my transport chair in the hall and tried to keep up with emails.Finally, she arrived—a substitute because the usual nurse, her mother, couldn’tcome today. It’s been six months since Jordan and I had our twin covid cases,and we were finally eligible for the booster. The nurse didn’t have Moderna,only Pfizer, but she assured us we could switch. I said our doctor said not toswitch, and she immediately said to follow the doctor’s advice. So I asked forRSV, which I also need. She didn’t have it. Then she found two doses ofModerna. But she could not take me Humana Medicare. She talked to her mother,who said something to the effect that she loved Christian so much her daughtershould go ahead and give me the shot. I do not understand any of this.

Upshot: I got my covid boosterbut haven’t gotten the RSV shot yet and will probably have to go to a pharmacyfor that.

I was expecting a lunch guesttomorrow (she has since had to postpone until Thursday). Heather was a studentintern in my office at TCU Press more moons ago than she would probably like toremember. She went on to editorial work at Harcourt, and then I lost track ofher. Turned out she had been in San Antonio attending the Culinary Institute ofAmerica. We hooked up again, and when I was working on my cookbook, Gourmeton a Hot Plate, she was a huge help. But we had at that time greatpolitical differences. I suspect she is more forgiving about that than I am. Atany rate, the relationship just sought of drifted into space, but recently sheemailed that she had published a small children’s book and needed marketingadvice. She admitted we probably still have our differences but maybe we couldset them aside. So she’s to come for lunch.

I am seriously challenged bycooking for someone who trained with the CIA, but I found a sort of non-recipeI liked: marinate tomato slices in balsamic vinegar and then top with creamedspinach and grated cheese—run under the broiler until cheese melts and isbubbly. Perfect! So I ordered spinach from Central Market, but it didn’t comewith my weekly order. I was sure I could get it before Wednesday, but today Ithought, “Yikes!” Then Heather emailed to say she has to cover for someone atwork tomorrow (she’s in charge of food service at an extended care facility) ,so I presented her with my dilemma—did she want to bring the spinach or did shewant my signature tuna salad? We have settled on the tuna, and she will be hereThursday.

Tonight was Mary’s regularhappy hour night, and I was so pleased that I had gotten a jar of pickledherring for her—she loves it, and I pretty much do too. But when I was tryingto cut off the cellophane collar on the jar, I noticed my fingers alreadysmelled like the pickling liquid—red flag. And then the lid to the jar poppedoff sort of spontaneously. One unusable jar of pickled herring, and one bigdisappointment. I will call Central Market in the morning—may be too late for arefund, but at least they should know.

But after these mishaps and mykitchen fails of the weekend, I redeemed myself tonight. Central Market hadsent me an unasked-for lb. of ground chicken. They hadn’t charged me for it,and I know they couldn’t take it back, so I had to do something with it. I’vemade chicken burgers in the past and not liked the texture. Lettuce wrapsseemed the perfect solution. I got the copycat recipe online for PF Chang’slettuce wraps, raided Christians supply of Asian seasonings, and made myfirst-ever lettuce wraps with real butter lettuce—a luxury. Served with sugarsnap peas (I’m not sure it wasn’t a mixture of sugar snap peas and snow peas—hardto tell them apart and Central Market may have slipped a bit). It was, if I dosay, delicious, and a recipe I’ll keep and reuse (may have to buy my own sesameoil and hoisin sauce, etc.—I did not use Siracha but substituted the ordinaryHeinz chili sauce I had).

So how was your post-eclipseday? A spot on the moon or all in order?

Eclipse awe and the Rapture blues

 

While everyone else wasrushing outside to stare at the sun (with protective glasses, we hope), I wassitting at my desk with the patio door open to a quiet and calm backyard. Iwasn’t so interested in seeing the aura around the sun—heaven knows there’vebeen enough pictures online and in the news media. I was more interested inwatching the world go from light to dark and back again. The darkening was a slowthing, and the air took on a funny color, like it sometimes does before a Texasstorm. Out my door and over the neighbor’s roof I could watch a patch of highclouds to the southwest without danger of looking at the sun. The dappling onthe clouds changed slowly and was fun to watch. I didn’t see thecrescent-shaped shadows that many others reported. I was surprised at howslowly the darkness moved in.

Then in Fort Worth we had twominutes and twenty-four seconds of darkness. While others have reported thewind kicked up, I didn’t notice that. I did notice the quiet—no birds, nosquirrels. It seemed forever, and in the midst of it I wondered what wouldhappen if the lights forgot to come back on. But then the light came back, Ithought more rapidly than it had left. Totality was at 1:40 and well before twoo’clock we were back in full sunshine with those high clouds that let somepeople see the sun and made others along the path miss it. Later, I would seepeople describe that silent dark time as everything from holy to creepy. I wassort of in between—it made me think how everything in our world works together,and most of it for our benefit. We knew the light would come back. I readsomewhere this week that those science deniers on the extreme right seethemselves as forced to choose between their faith and God or science, and theychoose faith. What’s sad is that they cannot reconcile the two in their minds.That’s what the dark moment was to me—a convergence of science and faith.

The mood across the countrywas much less solemn and more celebratory, with news programs showing peoplewhooping and hollering, and it struck me as significant that when nature wentsilent, mankinwas at its noisiest. I’m not sure yet why the joy in the eclipse—wasit science? Faith? Survival?

Then, of course, there was thewhole Rapture business that got wrapped into the eclipse. A friend, who bemoanedthat it had missed him again, helpfully advised that if you missed your rapturetoday, you can catch another in 18 months. But if you miss that, it’s somethinglike 350 years. In truth there are several total eclipses throughout the world eachyear, so I suppose rapture followers could just get the schedule and followthem-good excuse for travel. Some posts about the Rapture were hysterical—I sawsomeone who offered Rapture protection. Don’t want to be snatched up? Just callhim, though I don’t know if his work was guaranteed or not. Anotherentrepreneur was offering pet care—if you are swept up in the Rapture, he willcare for your pets (what? They can’t go with you?). Of course, his work wasprepaid, no refunds. And there were several posts about leaving random clothesscattered around so it would look like you’d been raptured (does it required nudity?I’m shocked!)  My mystery mind can seeseveral great plots around the Rapture—someone who wants to disappear can leavethat clothing trail, or perhaps if you are into paranormal, someone is presumedto be raptured, until his or her body is found, the victim of murder.

A couple of serious notes: Ihope we’ll hear about observatory studies of animals during the eclipse. Areporter in Fort Worth was assigned to zoo duty, studying the reaction ofanimals. That becomes a bit personal to me, because I’d been thinking about howI’d protect Sophie during the eclipse, though I had no idea if It would botherher or not. The thunderstorms predicted for later tonight would probably havebothered her more. Just one more thing to remind me of the hole in my heart.

Another serious note: if youwant to recycle your eclipse glasses, there will be an eclipse in South Americain August, and schoolchildren need glasses to be able to watch it. There’s alink on my Facebook page about how you can contribute your used glasses.

The excitement is over, and Ifor one am ready to move on. I was beginning to tire of the eclipse hype. Sohere’s to the rest of the week—may it be whatever you want it to be. In fullsunshine!

A sort of nothing weekend

 

Usually I plan ahead and seethat there are good things on my calendar for weekends, but this weekend?Nothing! It’s a bit of vanity to realize that one reason was that I couldn’twash my hair. Sounds silly and frivolous but I think it’s true. I had thatthingie removed from my scalp on Friday, and the doctor said to wait two daysto shampoo. That was Friday late morning, so does Friday count as one of the days?I decided to err on the side of caution and wait until Monday. But my hair had Vaselinein it from the procedure and was generally a mess, and I was self-consciousabout it. Tomorrow I am going to wash it first thing in the morning, and Iexpect the world to be a lot better.

We hoped to hear about the newdog we are interested in today—hear as in an invitation to greet and meet. Butit didn’t happen. The wheels of dog adoption, like a lot of other wheels, moveslowly. Having adopted four children, I should not be surprised at this slowprocedure, but I guess I expected pet adoption to be easier. It’s probably agood thing for pets that it is not. The foster said she wasn’t able to getapproval of my application today, so we wait (I am already conditionally approved).I was afraid that the poor boy was so attached to his foster that he wouldn’twant to be uprooted, but Jordan found out that agencies rotate dogs, not lettingthem stay too long with any foster for just that reason. I suppose that alsocuts down on foster fail, where fosters fall so in love with the dog, theydecide to be the permanent adoptive family. We did hear that the boy we haveour eye on has been in foster care for two years, which makes me so sad I wantto rescue him immediately. But we have also heard that he is afraid of “everything,”and that gives me pause. I had an experience with a fearful dog at Christmaswhen my granddaughter’s dog was afraid of my walker. And I want a dog with somespirit. So I am uncertain.

Weekends are usually goodcooking times for me but that too went awry this weekend. I planned last nightto make cod in a butter/lemon sauce, so with my grocery order I requested a lb.of cod. I got a quarter lb.—enough for no one else but me. We had garlickychicken thighs in an anchovy/lemon sauce. Good, but I wanted to cook the fish,partly because I like fish and partly because I’d like to add more of it to ourdiet. Jacob has been wanting spaghetti, so tonight I made a recipe calledWeeknight Bolognese. I can’t recommend it. I chose to make it on Sunday so Icould cook all day, but the recipe really didn’t take that long—except for browningtwo-and-a-half lbs. of ground meat (beef and Italian sausage). I got widepappardelle noodles, but the sauce wasn’t as rich and thick as I wanted. Infact, it was thin. Good flavor, but not what I want in an Italian sauce. And Ithought it was way too much meat in proportion to the sauce. Jacob didn’t say anything,but I noticed he didn’t eat much. I’m going to plan soon to make an old-fashioned,Italian nonna kind of Sunday soup that cooks all day. Honest we could have usedthe bottled Rao marinara sauce Jordan bought, and it would have made mehappier.

It's ten o’clock, and I havejust had my second nap of the day. I relish my afternoon nap—it’s become a partof my routine, and I think it healthy. But when I fall asleep at my computer ateight-thirty, it’s a clear sign that I am not engaged in what I’m doing. Sothat too will have to change. I find I almost never want to go backand pick up where I left off—clearly I abandoned them because I wasn’t thatinterested. So I’m on a mission to find a book that absorbs my attention andcalls me back.

All of this leaves me with alot of resolves to kick up my interest in life. Fortunately, I understand thatthese dull, down periods are a part of life and are regularly more than balancedby periods of high activity and engagement. It’s up to me, so I resolve to be anew person (again!) starting tomorrow. Now who’s got plans for next weekend?

 

 

The search continues

Some time ago a good friend brought me this plant holder with a poinsettia in it.
I named her Serenity because I hope that was what she would bring me.
Nor she's abloom with spring flowers, and I think she's serene, a model for me.
I spent too much of today onmy ongoing search for the perfect dog to fill the hole left in my heart and mylife by Sophie. Don’t get me wrong—the perfect dog is the offbeat rescue, theslightly different one, the one that maybe no one else will want. I leafedthrough pages of Petfinder (they have 226 pages of adoptable dogs), and tonightJordan and I looked at many. We laughed over a dog named Juju, since that is mygrandmotherly name. “It would get confusing,” Jordan said, “which Juju would webe calling?” Another dog was named Panic, and Jordan said she could hear whathappened if at three o’clock in the morning I opened my door to call, “Panic!Panic!” She thinks the emergency squad would be here immediately.

I had found one dog thatreally interested me. His name is Oreo, an Aussie mix, four or five years old,house- and crate-trained, and billed as a perfect gentleman. But another dog,with the unlikely name of Merle Haggard, stuck in my mind. He’s about two yearsold, a black dog, the same weight as Sophie (which is perfect for us), house-and crate-trained. So many of the dogs that interest me need canine companionsor lots of exercise because they are high energy breeds. Merle Haggard’sdescription says he will adapt to my energy level, and he likes to chase squirrels,which was Sophie’s main occupation. Jordan and Christian are enthusiastic aboutMerle Haggard, so I put him first on my list and Oreo second. We would loveeither one.

This whole business isfrustrating because you apply and … nothing. I did get a response from SavingHope that I was conditionally approved, but once I specified a dog, I heardnothing. Poor Merle Haggard has been in their care for almost two years, and Ithink that’s partly because it’s hard to place black dogs. After Sophie I havea soft spot in my heart for black dogs (okay she was sort of mottled withsilver—he is almost totally black). Anyway, you’d think the agency would actquickly on an expression of interest in a dog that had been there a long time,but not so. I’m told by those who know that the problem is volunteer help. Ifind that’s cold comfort.

Otherwise it was a lazySaturday—Zenaida came to clean the cottage, and we had several teary moments rememberinghow much Sophie loved Zenaida and how she used to follow her around. I got somedesk work done, read a lot of political updates, made the dough for a snack forMonday morning company, and had a long nap.

We would have had dinner at adecent hour tonight, except Jordan joined me in looking at dog profiles. ThenChristian came along. He had spent the day enjoying the Fort Worth Food andWine Festival (you can interpret that as you will) and he wanted to talk moreabout Merle Haggard. So it was after seven when I finally started cooking andnear eight when we had dinner: chicken thighs in a garlic/anchovy/caper sauce.Delicious, but so greasy. One of those recipes that has you start it on thestove, then whisk the skillet into the oven. I can’t do that, so I winged it ina bit, but it turned out to be delicious.While Jordan and Christian waited for supper, they sat on the patio.
and she took this of my honeysuckle in bloom. 
A pesty plant but so pretty when it blooms.

I finished out the evening witha long conversation with an old friend who lost her husband this week. I knowthat it’s the age I am—I lose friends, my friends lose loved ones, and it’swhat life is. The best I can do is listen, and I’ve been trying hard to do that.But every time I am called on for comfort, it reminds me of my own mortality.But more than that, it reminds me how lucky I am to be as active and healthyand engaged as I am.

So it’s certainly been a mixedbag of a day. But as always, I am grateful. Sweet dreams, everyone.

 

A lost day

 

image from Freepik.com
I didn’t expect a minordermatological procedure to cost me a whole day,  abut it did. When I get home a little beforenoon, I felt fine, spent an hour or so clearing up emails and the like while eatinglunch and took my regular nap. It was when I woke up that my world was changed—thetopical anesthetic was wearing off, and my scalp and head hurt. Fortunately, aglass of wine helped with that. We had no dinner plan, but Christian offered tobring subs from our favorite sandwich shop, and Jordan and I wrestled with gettinginto a certain website that kept rejected our log-in. I had great and ambitiousplans for the evening for what I would do—but I have done none of it. I lost mystarch. It wasn’t that my head hurt anymore, but I was aware, in a strange wayof the affected area. And I had no energy. I resigned myself to frittering awaythe evening surfing the net, looking at adoptable dogs, reading Facebook, andthe like. Never even got to the novel I’m reading.

My mother came to my mind.When I was young, she suffered from migraines that would send her to bed for aday. When someone asked me about her, I would cheerily reply, “She’ll be allright in the morning.” And she always was. So that’s my story: I’ll be allright in the morning.

Two things interest me aboutmy lost day. One is, as a child of osteopathic medicine (not only was my fatheran osteopathic physician, so were many uncles and cousins and today my brother,one nephew and one niece carry on the family tradition), I was reminded againof osteopathic theory. No one part of the body is isolated, so the procedure,beneficial and necessary as it was (and let me stress it was minor), was aninsult not just to my head but to my entire system. My dragginess was my body takingits energy to get back to normal after the insult. Yes, I expect my head willstill be sore and tender for several days, but I also expect I’ll have mystarch or oomph or whatever back tomorrow.

The other lesson today is onethat it’s taken me years to learn: I gave myself permission to check out forthe day, to fritter the day away. In my world, there’s nothing so urgent thatmust be done today, and there’s no need to push myself when I don’t feel good.Granted, there’s a thin line there, and it would be easy to abuse thatrationale, retreat into “I don’t feel good” and never do anything, but I don’tthink I will. My compulsion to write, to be involved with the world will drawme back to business, and there are several things on my calendar tomorrow—phonecalls I have promised to make, a fish dinner I want to cook for the Burtons (I’veordered groceries to be delivered tomorrow, and if we are  going to have fish, I like to fix it the dayit comes from the market).

So now I’m cozy in the cottageand will soon go back to bed for—what? The fourth time today? It’s okay. I’llbe fine tomorrow. I hope you will too.

Questions about a dark figure

 

The tranquility trump has stolen from our lives.
Why is everyone afraid oftrump, handling him with kid gloves? He truly is the Teflon® man on whomnothing sticks. It’s beginning to look like even the 91 indictments won’tstick. Right now, I am indignant and furious over the image he posted of ahog-tied President Biden in the bed of a pickup. It is the most disturbingthing I’ve seen in a long time. Contrary to what trump spokesman Stephen Cheungclaims, it was not just a pickup going down the road somewhere. It was an imageposted by trump on his Truth Social network—and that makes him directlyresponsible for not only disrespecting the office of U. S. President but forthreatening the current occupant. And that, my friends, is illegal, accordingto the constitution. Why is the country, at least the sane half of it, not upat arms, angrily calling for action? Has trump so blinded us to his violenceand outrageous lies that we simply shrug and go on?

Cheung, in a kind of “All’sfair in love and war” aboutism, said that Biden has weaponized the DOJ againsttrump. We all know that’s not true. President Biden has deliberately distancedhimself from any of the litigation involving the former president. If a sittingpresident did use the DOJ against a political rival, I doubt they would do sowith an unbelievable 91 indictments, many of them felony. One or two strongcases should do the trick. trump earned every one of those indictments over along career of grifting, cheating, and lying for personal gain.

Last night, I saw a clip on FBof a pickup truck with the entire back gate an image of trump—in an orangejumpsuit, clutching prison bars and staring angrily out at the world. For amillisecond, I thought about fair play, and I wished some anti-trump patriothadn’t sunk so low (I still wish that). But I realized there’s nocomparison—the image of Biden threatens unlawful violence, and it was posted byone person to threaten the duly elected president; the image of trump behindbars hopes for justice and Biden had nothing to do with it. In fact, we don’tknow whose truck that was on or anything about it, but I assume the trumppeople haven’t found it yet or they’d be crowing about it.

One thing about this pickupcontroversy: it shows the power of AI and social media. Frightening.

This morning, Heather CoxRichardson’s perceptive column, Letters from an American, details how trump isconducting shadow foreign policy. He is pulling the strings behind MikeJohnson’s refusal to bring aid to Ukraine to the House, presumably because trumpwants to weaken Ukraine to please Putin. The former president also has an“envoy” traveling the world on his behalf, meeting with dictators that trumpwants to court because once in office, he intends to ally himself with Putin,Erdogan, and others—and break our alliances with democratic countries. This toois against the law, specified in the constitution. (Read Richardson’s columnhere for the extent of trump’s treason: (55) April 2,2024 - by Heather Cox Richardson )(substack.com)

Last week, trump was underdeadline and court to come up with $470-plus million in bond money orforeclosure on some of his property would begin while he appeals his giganticfraud conviction. We all know what happened—the braggart billionaire couldn’tcome up with the cash (no bank trusts him anymore). But the courts gave himgrace and lowered the amount drastically. Would that have happened to any otherbillionaire? I doubt it. Why does he get special treatment? He’s not somesaintly figure—he’s been convicted of fraud, he escaped conviction of sexualassault but was convicted of defamation, he was twice impeached, once fortrying to blackmail a foreign leader, most of his cohorts have served or areserving prison time—and so much more.

Judge Juan Merchan hasextended the boundaries of his gag order after trump threatened him and hisdaughter. Will the judge enforce that order? Will the threat to President Bidenfall under it?

Then there’s the question oftrump’s mental health. Is he sane? Is he suffering from progressive dementia asmany health professionals claim? Senile? Psychopathic? I have never seen a manso full of anger and hate, so ready to lash out, at the same time he grosslytwists facts, lies, and rants and raves—it’s all part of his threateningdemeanor. Consider his impulsive behavior, his out-of-control mouth—do we wanta man like that leading our country, making decisions about our welfare,negotiating with other countries. Is no one going to demand extensive testing?Are we all going to sit back and shrug and say we can do nothing about it whilea severely disturbed (mild interpretation) man gets the nuclear codes again? Welucked out last time, but I have no confidence that we will again.

Where is America? Donald trumpis playing America for the fool, and we are letting him do it. Why aren’t wespeaking out? The world we leave for our grandchildren is at stake as it’snever been before.

Pickles and Pineapple

 
Or what do we do with theleftover ham after Easter?

We had a really good ham forEaster this year—flavorful but mild, the kind that doesn’t need mustard orhorseradish sauce or any disguise. But even with twelve people, we had a tonleft over. Jordan has been telling me she doesn’t like ham, which cuts me outof ham dishes on our menus. But now, trying to avoid carbs, she and I are botheating ham for lunch. Still a bunch leftover. I can make myself ham salad,which I like a lot—it makes terrific sandwiches. And tonight I made a hamcheeseball, which was pretty good. Online recipes sources are full of ways touse that ham, but most just don’t intrigue me. Like mac and cheese with ham—I’mjust not a mac and cheese person. Scalloped potatoes with ham sounds a lotbetter to me, but if Jordan wants a cleansing diet, she’s not going to eatthat. I will end up freezing some of my portion of the leftovers.

Another thing online recipessources are full of lately is pineapple. The controversy over pineapple toppingon pizza has been around for a while, but it seems to have taken on new lifelately. I’m not a pizza fan and definitely not a pineapple pizza fan. But therecipe that most puzzles me is pineapple casserole, which is all over the placethis season. I cannot fathom it, so today I look at the Southern Living version,because I really have confidence in that magazine’s recipes. What I found was basicallya white sauce made with pineapple juice instead of milk or cream, added sugar(in case, heaven help us, the pineapple wasn’t sweet enough) and grated cheddar,because according to the recipe the strength of cheddar will “hold up against”the sweetness of the pineapple. I remain unconvinced. I do remember, with pleasure,that my mom made a Jell-O salad—that scourge of the fifties—with pineapple, juliennedcarrots, pineapple chunks, and orange Jell-O. It wasn’t half as bad as itsounds. I also remember upside down cakes with pineapple that came out on thetop. Think I liked those. Mom also occasionally cooked a ham steak—a goodbargain I’ve learned these days—with a sauce of pineapple juice, brown sugar, andmaybe onion or bacon. It was pretty good, though I feel no urgency to try itagain.

I’m not sure what pickled pickleshave to do with Easter except that watermelon pickles seem common on some tables.My mom used to fix a pickle/vegetable tray for big dinners—celery sticks,carrots, etc.—but nine times out of ten she found it, after the meal, still inthe back porch cooler where she’d stashed it. But, pickles too have been allover the internet. I recently started getting emails from a web site called OliveMy Pickle. They not only try to sell their products, they try to educate on thebenefits of fermented food. Apparently there was an article in Time Magazinerecently about fermented foods as probiotics. and this site was recommended.They sell not only pickles but an array of olives, kimchi, etc. Fort Worth ishome to Best Maid Pickles, and that company has opened a retail store, the BestMaid Pickle Emporium, on Vickery Boulevard where they sell  pickles, pickle juice (supposedly great forbrining chicken), Bloody Mary mix, condiments and even T-shirts. I confess Iwant to go there just to browse. I grew up thinking I didn’t like pickles—ittook marriage to a Jewish man and kosher dills to teach me how good they are.My mom grew up hating sauerkraut—in a German household she had to eat it,so I never tasted that either until I was grown. But now I love it. For some reason,I’ve shied away from kimchi, though it is the kind of thing I usually like.Have you tried it?

And perhaps the ultimatepickle news: the Clausson folks, who make great pickles, have introduced apickle jelly bean. Where are you, Ronald Reagan?

The popularity of pineappleand pickles is testimony to the power of social media. I’m quite sure we would notpay inordinate attention to these two foods if we weren’t bombarded with themon the net. Then again, maybe I’m just more aware because I’m a foodie andspend time every day on food sites.

If you try a pineapple casserole,please let me know about it.

Thunder and lightening

 

As I write this, the gods havebegun bowling in the sky. All day we’ve heard predictions of severe stormstonight, with the possible threat of hail and tornadoes. Jordan planned for usto eat early, because Christian was going to grill and didn’t want to bestanding over the grill in the rain. But the prediction moved a little bitlater, and we ate as usual about seven-fifteen. So far, the thunder has notbrought rain, but I am hopeful. Jacob had a golf tournament today, and I amthankful the weather held off until that was over.

After the luxurious mealyesterday, we had burgers tonight. But not just any burgers---lamb. I mentionedto Jordan tonight that I now have four or five recipes for lamb burgers, and Ihaven’t kept track of which ones we liked best. But tonight’s version had twoTbsp. of Worcestershire and were delicious. And that marked a culinarymilestone for me: I actually used up a bottle of Lea & Perrin’sWorcestershire (is there any other label worth using?) and had to open the newone waiting in my pantry. It made me think of that old saw about a housewifewill never use up a bottle of Tabasco. Times have changed, and I guess for awhile cooks, male and female, went through Siracha at a rapid rate, but itseems to have fallen out of favor now. At any rate, I’m going to put five starson tonight’s recipe. And I have one and a half burgers for lunches this week.

Yesterday’s meal—and a coupleof mid-day glasses of wine—sent me to napping, but when I woke up I surprisedmyself by working at my desk for five straight hours. I drafted a newsletter,wrote a blog, and finished the book I was reading to the point I was ready toreview it and move on. It is One Way Back, Christina Blasey-Ford’smemoir of her experience testifying at the confirmation hearings forthen-SCOTUS nominee Brett Kavanaugh. Of necessity in telling her story,Blasey-Ford delves back into her high school years when his assault on herhappened. When Kavanaugh’s nomination became public, she thought she could justtell someone her story and that would be it, but of course the whole thingsnowballed. Ultimately, at great personal cost (she still needs securitydetails) she exposed what Kavanaugh did to her as a high school student, butmore than that what kind of man he is today—a whining, sniveling, angry man whowas nonetheless confirmed to a lifetime appointment on our highest court. Iagree with her in uncertainty that the initial incident warranted the weight itwas given—I suspect such happens in homes all over America all the time. Butthe revelation of his beer-loving character today was significant, and Iapplaud Blasey-Ford. A PS; she is a surfer, and the phrase, “One wayback,” is surfing terminology. It’s a good book, and I recommend it.

Now it is raining—steady,fairly hard but not destructive.

I’ve spent some time todaysearching for the right new dog—it’s a good cure for missing Sophie, and I hopeshe would understand. Tonight, with the thunder, I remember how scared shealways was, curling up right by me, and when I was cooking, I remembered howshe stationed herself right by me in my tiny kitchen lest I drop a morsel. Thedog that interests me is named Oreo (can you change a rescue dog’s name?). Heis an Aussie mix, crate trained, housebroken, a true gentleman who loves tocuddle (don’t all gentlemen?). I have asked how to arrange a meet-and-greet,and I think Jordan and Christian are with me on this one. I’ve seen severaldogs online that entice me, but many rescues, especially Aussies, stress thatthey are wary in new circumstances and, too often, afraid of men. I’ve got twomen here—Christian and Jacob—who are ready to love a new dog. It’s calledmoving on.

Already the rain has slowed,but I expect we’re in for a spell of it. I hope it keeps up until I go to bed,so I can lie in bed, cozy and comfortable, and listen to the thunder.

Stay safe, everyone.