Judy Alter's Blog, page 5

One early Easter morning

 

 

Recreating an annual picture.
I had a lovely start to Easterthis morning. You know how girls talk about the BFF? Mine really is—BarbaraAshcraft has been my BFF probably for over seventy years. This morning, Iwakened to her email which was a quote from music we sang in choir when we wereabout ten or twelve: “One early Easter morning, I wakened with the birds.” Ianswered with the next line: “And all around lay silence/Too deep for earthlywords.” No need to say anymore.

Easter is a glorious day ofhope—but it can also be exhausting. By mid-afternoon, I was exhausted and feltthe day was over. But such a wonderful day. We went to the nine o’clock service—morecrowded than usual but not bad. The music was glorious. I said I’d go to churchjust for the processional, “Jesus Christ is Risen, Alleluia!” and thebenediction, which was the “Hallelujah Chorus.” But it was good to be there inperson and hear the inspiration of the service and sense the fellowship. At onepoint Christian and I thought we heard a dog panting, but no one else believesus.

I really noticed somedifferences between being present and attending through Zoom. It is impressiveand comforting to be in that gorgeous sanctuary and nothing can compare withhearing the music live—they had brass as well as our terrific choir. I hold mybreath at the high notes of the “Hallelujah Chorus” every time, but they madethem. But you don’t get that up-close view—I couldn’t see the brass at all, notcould I see the expressions on faces. I like in-person better, but I feel sofortunate to have the alternative on “ordinary” Sundays.Girls version
I felt like the queen bee, because everyone
came to have their picture taken with me.

Back at the house, Jordan put togetheran incredible brunch for twelve and set a beautiful table with thegold-and-white Royal Doulton my mom got me when I was a teen, along withgold-washed flatware. It was potluck, and we had ham, “funeral potatoes” (that wonderfulrich casserole) broccoli salad, fruit, and of course deviled eggs. Mycontribution was hot cross buns, but I note no one else likes them as much as Ido. And wine. Of course we had wine. It was a noisy, happy laughter-filledevent, everything Easter should be.Jordan's table

Now I am marooned in thecottage, having left my phone in the house by mistake. I can’t ask for leftoversfor my supper, can’t even adjust my hearing aids. Can’t check to see if myother kids are at their homes, let alone call them. I’ve emailed a bunch offriends asking them to call Jordan, but not many read their email on a holiday Sundaynight. One friend reports she called and got voice mail, so I gave herChristian’s phone number. But I imagine they are both napping (which I didearlier), so I hope they check their messages when they wake up. And I’mwatching like a hawk for Jacob to come home or for Jordan and Christian tobring the dog out to potty.

I started this post with aquote and will leave you with another that I really like. This is from JohnRoedel, who I’ve never heard of but now I intend to investigate—he has apparentlypublished books about his conversations with God as he tries to figure out life,his faith, raising children, and so on. “A dozen angels have started living inthe holes in my heart. They have put up hammocks and started growing roses—” There’smore, but now I can’t find it. I particularly like that opening image.Does this look like mischief afoot?

Some small “writerly” triumphs

 

Flowerpot cake by Mary Dulle
Photo courtesy Mary Dulle
The Guppy (Going to be published)chapter of Sisters in Crime weekly opens the listserv to NPV (non-publishingvictories) brags from members. I usually don’t respond because I don’t have alot to brag about these days—published or not, I’ve been in a long dry spell,partly because I spent a lot of time on the Helen Corbitt book that neverbecame a book. But today I do have some small victories.

One that I simply forgot topublicize because I put it aside to later make a “big” marketing effort, as ifI knew how to do that, is that my one collection of short stories, Sue EllenLearns to Dance and Other Stories, is now available on Amazon in audioversion. It’s my second foray into audio publishing, but the first was not verysuccessful, probably due to a lack of marketing. I vow to do better with thisbook. Short stories are hard for me—the idea has to hit me hard, and then Ihave to sit down and put it into words right away. I am in awe of people whowrite, “I am working on a short story.” I wonder how long it takes to write andpolish 3,000 words. Yes, I go back and edit, but I almost never write a bit,put it aside, and go back and finish it.

Two of these stories, “SueEllen Learns to Dance” and “Fool Girl,” won Wrangler awards from the NationalCowboy Museum and Hall of Fame, and one, “The Art of Dipping Candles,” bringsme to tears every time I read it—a boastful things to say about one’s ownwriting, but it’s true. Try it.

Since my audio of Saving Irenewas not the blockbuster I hoped, I had put aside the idea of audio, decidedit wasn’t for me. But then Amazon made me an offer I couldn’t resist: a freeaudio version using AI. Now every author I know resists AI, fearful it will takeover our creativity—and maybe our already published works. Plus it’scompetition. AI can write a book much faster than the human brain can write,proof, edit, design, etc. Still, it was free. I tried it. Overall I thought theAI voice was acceptable—not great, but okay. In several instances, the inflectionof a phrase or a word is not what I would have done, but I think the human earmay be less critical than the eye. The thing that most bothered me was the mispronunciationof Texas terms and place names. My AI “person” was clearly not a Texan. Thetown of Hereford became Her-e-ford, and the word cousie (for chuckwagon cook)was similarly butchered.

Since I’m blatantly marketing thebook, here’s a link to the Amazon audio: Amazon.com:Sue Ellen Learns to Dance and Other Stories (Audible Audio Edition): JudyAlter, Alter Ego Publishing, Virtual Voice: Books It’s also available inKindle and paperback editions, but the paperback has a different cover, aDorothea Lange Depression photo that is a classic. I like it better than theupdated cover, but I’m told it’s not as marketable. Really dislike that aspectof the writing business.

Oops. I’ve gone on so long I’llhave to be brief about my second small triumph: today was the second of MaryDulle’s two-part class on the cooking of Helen Corbitt. Mary did a masterful jobwith such recipes as turkey mornay and flowerpot cakes (Ladybird’s favorite),and I got to talk about the seismic changes in American food culture during thefifties and a bit how that affects us today, the Greenhouse Spa (if you don’tremember it, google it—ultimate luxury in the sixties and seventies), andCorbitt’s books. She wrote five cookbooks, all of them still available today. Theclass was responsive, had people who really took part, and it was fun. I amstill intrigued by the Corbitt story and hope to find other things to do withit in the future.

Meantime, tonight, back toediting Irene in a Ghost Kitchen.

From a flower-filled cottage, some thoughts on empathy

 

Sophie's white rose from our longtime vet
My cottage is in bloom! AnEaster Lily, a small bouquet of roses tucked into an Easter bunny vase, a whiterose in a bed of baby’s breath, a plant new to me called Orange Star, withstalks of just-about-to-open orange buds. This is just part of the outpouring ofsupport I’ve gotten since I first posted about Sophie’s battle with diabetes—a shorttwo weeks ago, though it seems an eternity. The internet has been full of supportivemessages, a couple of friends have stopped by for hugs, others have called. Andso many have said to me that they too had to make that hard decision aboutbeloved family pets, and they understand what we have been going through. Forme, empathy has been the key word of the week.

My computer defines empathy asthe capacity to feel or understand what another person is experiencing. Inother words, I feel what you feel. And in this case, my many friends feel andshare my grief and sense of loss. Even before we saw that we were going to loseSophie, I’d been thinking about empathy, because I read a blog on that subject.

The U. S. Army psychologist assignedto watch and study the defendants at the Nuremburg Trials wrote that he becamevery interested in the nature of evil, and after the trials he believed thatthe one thing that bound those heartless criminals together was a lack of empathy.They were unable to feel the experiences of their fellow men. He concluded thatthe lack of empathy defines evil in a person. The blog continued with twoquotes from Reddit. One claimed that conservatives invent new derogatory wordsfor empathy about ever fifteen years: “politically correct,” “bleeding heart,”and, the most recent, “woke.” The absence of empathy, the writer claimed, is aprerequisite for conservative ideology.

The second quote points outthat the conservative point of view starts a lack of empathy, a viewpoint thatis formed in one’s earliest years and is almost impossible to change in lateryears. “Many conservatives are beyond redemption.”

Now that our country is sohorribly split, I think the lack of empathy in many conservative positions is clear.We know, from generally accepted accounts of trump’s childhood and the writingsof his niece, Mary Trump, that the ex-president was raised in what might bestbe called unhealthy situations. He was taught to disregard others early on,repeating the family pattern of corruption set by his grandfather and father. Theylived by takin advantage of others. There is no hope of changing him at thislate stage of life. So he sets a horrible example, and he made it publicly allright in his administration to lack empathy. Joe Biden, a man who stoops to helpa stuttering child or give a few dollars to a homeless man, a man who loves animals,is a man of empathy.

But it’s not just trump. Wesee that lack of empathy l around us—in the disregard for the lives of womenwith life-threatening pregnancies, the callous attitude toward immigrants atour southern border, even the willingness to stop free school lunch programs. Itis an “every man for himself” attitude that boggles my mind. I don’t think wecan dismiss it as politics. It is a moral issue, not political. For me, as afaithful Christian (not of the nationalism type(, it is a religious issue. If Ifollow in the steps of Jesus, I must recognize that his greatest command was tolove each other. But that morality is not limited to Christianity—the care forothers is found in all the world’s major religions, and—with a nod to criticsof religion—I must say I find the world better for that teaching.

Sometimes empathy is hard. Itmakes you draw a moral line. I saw a news clip of the perpetrators of theMoscow mass killing bring brought into court. They had obviously been beaten sobadly they could not walk upright and were dragged, and no matter how heinous theircrime, I felt for their agony at that moment. No, I didn’t want to rescue them,and I knew I was powerless, but at that moment I felt their experience. To me,that is empathy.

I cling to the Pollyanna-likebelief that most of the world is empathetic—there are good people out there whodon’t want to let children go hungry, or immigrants drown in a river full ofbarbed wire. I believe, to alter Faulkner’s words a bit, that the good peoplewill prevail. And this week, I’ve had a clear demonstration of that love. Ithas bolstered me, and as I keep saying, I’m grateful. And I’m okay. You knowthe thing that bothers me most? Looking at the empty spot where her crate was,where she loved to lie in her safe space.

Sweet dreams, everyone.

 

The end of the story—and so much gratitude

 

Sophie crossed the RainbowBridge late this morning, helped by our longtime family vet who made a housecall, for which we are eternally grateful. It was more peaceful than I couldhave imagined, and we are now picking up the pieces of our lives, assured thatshe is chasing squirrels with all her friends in doggie heaven.

I am overwhelmed and sothankful for the outpouring of response from family, friends, and most of all, you—myonline community. Sophie played to a wide audience and would be gratified athow many loved her. My gratitude runs deep, and I, for once, am almost at aloss for words. Bless you, one and all.

I can never replace Soph—she wasone of a kind, with her joy in life, her stubborn belief the world was heroyster, her need for tummy rubs and lots of love, her loyalty not only to mebut to the family and friends she knew well. I will get another dog, becausehaving a dog fills out my life. I think the longest I have gone without onesince grade school is six months. My theory about choosing a dog is like thatabout houses and cars—the right one will present itself at the right time.

Meantime, my heartfelt thanks.I’ll be back tomorrow and in succeeding days with reports on Irene’s doings,recipes from the Fifties and beyond, my own thoughts on our tumultuouspolitics, the sometimes horrifying international scene, and, I hope, lightheartedmoments. And someday soon, I may really write that book that’s been floatingaround in my mind: Dogs I Have Known and Loved.

For the moment, thank you andgoodnight.

Cooking on a sad weekend

 

Life has revolved aroundSophie this weekend. She was her bright sunny self Friday night, soaking uplove and affection from Jordan’s friends Chandry and Marj, who said they cameto see me, but I think they really came to check on Soph. Saturday morning,Sophie enjoyed the activity around the cottage—Zenaida was cleaning, and ClimmyReynolds hung a new flexible screen door on my patio door. But Saturdayevening, Sophie was again lethargic and disinterested in food. We gave her the “Ididn’t eat my supper” dose of insulin which seemed to perk her up. We fed her,including bits of hamburger and some canned green beans, which she loves.Turned out that was not such a good idea.

During the night, she wantedout at three but went into a far corner of the yar and ignored my pleas to comein. So I woke poor Christian. When she wanted to go out again at five, I heldfirm and crated her. This morning when I went to let her out, she was almostcatatonic and had thrown up in her crate. She has gone downhill a bit all day—wanderingwith no idea where she’s going or what she wants, collapsing into the grass inthe yard (I can only think it’s soft and comfortable for her). We’ve had greatdebates about what to do—I called the emergency clinic but when they said theymight hospitalize her overnight, I decided she’d be more comfortable at home.She hates the clinic. I will call the vet first thing, but I suspect we’ll helpher over the Rainbow Bridge tomorrow. The best thing we have done today is tosurround her with love. We talk to her frequently, love on her, but it’s hard totell what she understands.

House made
corned beef hash
As usual, despite the traumawith Sophie, a weekend means cooking. I posted before about my cooking fail—theSt. Patrick’s Day corned beef that was tough, good flavor but tough. Christianminced the meat and brough me about half a cup. I diced a medium Yukon Goldpotato and boiled it until tender, sauteed onion, and made my own hash. Havinggrown up on canned hash, I recently found a version from Nueske’s Applewood SmokedMeat in Wisconsin and realized how superior it is to canned. But it’s pricey.So, however, is good corned beef—I had splurged on our St. Pat’s piece becauseit was uncured (I had to look that up but it means no artificial preservatives—justnatural herbs and salts as opposed to chemical). My house made hash was, however,delicious, and I’ll do it again.

Aunt Amy's 
giant hamburgerSaturday night Renee came forsupper. I was rather proud of the meal—Aunt Amy’s Giant hamburger, Louella’s rice,and house-made refried beans (okay, they were canned but it was a new technique,and we thought it worked well). Jordan, Christian, Renee, and I laughed andtalked until after ten-thirty, but we always had one eye on Soph. That was whenshe seemed to rally, but I knew deep down she was off a bit. Still, we had alovely evening, trading stories and talking about everything and nothing.

Tonight, I had prepped a roastinghen—Christian spatchcocked it for me, and I spread herb butter under the skinand set it in the fridge to dry a bit. I roasted it on a bed of potato, carrot,and onion. The vegetables were sweet and wonderful, the chicken tender and flavorful.At one point I questioned whether or not I should cook the chicken, but Christiansaid, “We have to eat.” And we three ate heartily—Jacob was off practicing hisgolf, with a tournament tomorrow. Christian is like me—very few things can deterus from thinking we have to have breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I like anorderly day.

Tomorrow will be a difficultday, but I think Sophie has given us a sign. I’m at peace, though awfully sad.I feel she has gone to a place where I can’t reach her, though she does respondto her name. And for a bit on the patio with us tonight, she looked around withinterest, reminding me of all the evenings she has been so excited for happy houron the patio, particularly if there were guests. She has been the funniest,silliest, smartest dog I ever had (and that’s a long list of dogs). She’s beenstubborn, demanding, difficult, affectionate, and absolutely adorable. And she’shad a good dog’s life, almost her every wish fulfilled. An easy traveler and readyto adjust to almost any situation. I will miss her terribly and will be floodedwith memories. But what I’ve said before holds true here—I am blessed withhappy memories. There will be tears at first, but they will mellow intoremembering all the fun and loyalty.

Pray for us, please. The wholefamily is devastated, and Jordan and Christian have once again been wonderful.

Life in the fast lane

 

Christian giving skinny Sophie her insulin.
She's so good about it.
Many days I go from morning tonight with only Sophie for company (I’m not complaining!), but it sure was abusy place around here today. I began the day with—gulp!—an 8:00 a.m.appointment with my favorite dermatologist, a man I’ve known for more yearsthan either of us want to count. He presented me with a choice of treatmentsfor a small lesion on my scalp and therefore gave me another dilemma. I toldhim I do not need another dilemma in my life right now.

Got home just in time to meetthe dog groomer who came to give Sophie a much-needed haircut. She’d had a bathat the clinic, so I didn’t realize how badly she needed the trim until I saw mynew, lean dog. With her coat trimmed back partly for summer and partly tosmooth out the bare patches where the vet had shaved her, she suddenly lookedhalf the size she had. Christian has been joking that she was getting broad inthe beam, but tonight she has skinny hips and hind quarters. Today she is muchmore interested in food, and I am almost free feeding, giving her a bitwhenever she wants. She is one of the dilemmas in my life: I want to feed herenough to restore her health, but I don’t want her to get used to eating six orseven times a day. And of course, her ongoing health is another dilemma: if shehas another crisis I will be forced to make some hard decisions. Meantime, we’retaking it day by day, and today was a good day.

Yesterday was not such a goodday. She refused her breakfast and was clearly confused. You know how you gointo the kitchen for something and then have to stop and ask yourself, “Why didI come in here?” That’s the look she had. She’d walk a few steps and then stopand stand still, looking puzzled. And she stumbled occasionally. I called thevet, who said she needed to be in the clinic. He called back in an hour or soto say her blood sugar was extraordinarily high; they were giving her IV fluidsand insulin, but he was quite adamant he did want to keep her overnight. Shewas, he said, clearly unhappy at being there again. We brought her homemid-afternoon, and she ate her dinner. So now I’m again figuring out medicationschedules and cajoling her into letting me spray the bedsore on her leg, etc. She’sworth it, and as I said, today is a good day.

Back to the rest of the day: theyoung man (really, he is) who owns the lawn service we use came by so we coulddiscuss bushes that need trimming, the dying grass in the front yard (he says itdoesn’t get enough sun), and the bare spaces in my native plant bed which has,miraculously, survived the winter and a plumbing crisis (piles of rock amongthe plants). I have cut back on plans for taking out the vines on the backfence (really old honeysuckle which is not flourishing) and replacing it. Wehad great dreams of crossvine, but the fence does not get enough sun.

Then the new handyman we’vediscovered (he really is handy) called and said he could come replace theflexible screen door in the cottage. By that time, I was ready for a nap, andwe agreed on tomorrow morning. But we need a new screen—after Sophie got herfoot caught in a hole near the bottom of the current screen, Jordan tookscissors to it and cut off about four inches. As a result, I have had a conventionof mayflies in the cottage—a fatal convention apparently because I find theirdelicate dead bodies all over. The wonderful Zenaida will also be here tomorrowto clean the cottage—another busy day. And then we are expecting company forsupper. I am reminded of the May Sarton poem:

“I always forget how importantthe empty days are, how important it may be sometimes not to expect to produceanything, even a few lines in a journal. A day when one has not pushed oneselfto the limit seems a damaged, damaging day, a sinful day. Not so! The mostvaluable thing one can do for the psyche, occasionally, is to let it rest,wander, live in the changing light of a room.”
~ May Sarton, Journal of Solitude. Thanks to Marilea Rabasa for postingthat this morning on our small writer’s group listserv.

 

 

Cooking for show and caring for Sophie

The contemporary compilation of selected recipes by Helen Corbitt.

Thosetwo things have occupied my thoughts and much of my time the last two days.Sophie first.

Iknow very well that people do not go home from the hospital and instantly pickup the thread of their active lives. There’s an adjustment or recovery period.So why should it be any different for dogs? I’ve had one experience with thisjust over a year ago when Sophie came home too soon and had to return to theclinic for a few days. Monday night I thought we were in for something similar.She wasn’t much interested in eating, sort of moped around the house, notinterested in going out. I was tiptoeing around the cottage and watching herout of the side of my eye. I decided it was best to give her occasional bits ofaffection but pretty much leave her alone to gather herself. Tuesday morningwasn’t much better, although she did eat about half her breakfast. I was afailure at getting her medications into her—that dog can lick around a pilllike nothing you’ve ever seen. Hide it in cheese? Forget it. I wouldn’t havecalled her lethargic but perhaps passive.

Tuesdayafternoon I heard one sharp bark from her, which was the first sound, and by evening,when Mary D. came for supper, Soph was more interested in what was going on. Sheate her supper and asked for her dessert—canned green beans, which the vet saidto give her sparingly. And then demanded her little doggie treats. We were backon familiar ground.

TodayI feel we’ve really made progress—she’s eating, and by feeding her in smallbits, I managed to hide a half pill in each bit and got all three down her.Christian tried to hide one in cheese, which only made her suspicious of cheesewhen I tried to give her a piece mid-day. Same with pill pockets—I tried tohide her tiny noon pill in one and give it to her—she clamped her mouth shut,so I left it on the floor, and she ate it, pill and all. Am I winning this warby any chance? She still lies around the cottage a lot, but hey! She did thatbefore all this. She’s an elderly dog.

Iso appreciate the concern for her. Fun to be dining out tonight with a friendand have another friend stop by the table—her first question was, “How’sSophie?” and then a conversation about my Sophie and another dog named Sophie,belonging to a mutual friend, ensued. I had dinner with Carol Roark at Lucile’s,a restaurant both she and I like (and some of our friends don’t)—we find it’scomfort food. So tonight we split a chicken-fried steak, and we caught up onthings personal and political. Been too long since we visited. As on every oneof my ventures into the outside world, now that I’m home so much, I saw newbuildings, things I didn’t recognize. I’m always saying, “When did they buildthat?” But it was fun to get out.

Myother adventure today was to be on a Zoom program with Mary D. She teachescooking classes for the Silver Frogs, TCU’s flourishing senior noncreditprogram. She came up with the idea of a two-part class on Helen Corbitt—she wouldcook, and I would fill in with background on Corbitt, her career, and her yearsat Neiman Marcus. It was fun, though it would have been smoother if we’d done adry run before, and Mary had trouble with her power point program. I thought I’dused almost all my Corbitt stories, which left me worried about what I’d talkabout in the next session a week from today. But since then, I’ve had some goodthoughts.

Itoccurs to me that my Food of the Fifties interest could be such a program—I’dbegin by asking folks if they eat meatloaf? Salmon patties? Squash casserole? Andthen talk about what a dramatic decade of change the Fifties was in America’sfood history. Which would segue into recipes from that cookbook I’m working on,which is turning out to be a tribute to my mom. Lots of her good recipes. I’mnot sure where to go with that thought.

Soit’s been a satisfying, good day, and I’m sleepy. Night y’all!

Sophie’s home—and I am grappling with deep thoughts

 

Sophie was comfortably asleep, so no picture of her at home tonight.
This is my so-so corned beef supper. Horseradish sauce was good. Is that a travesty?
Sophie’s home! Dr. Burneycalled early this morning to say he was pleased with her lab results and behaviorthis weekend (I think that means among other things that she ate, peed, andpooped) and she could come home today. Therein ensued confusion. Jordan andChristian had been out late last night—shoot! They were out all day! So Ithought they would sleep late. About nine, Christian let Crickett out, so Iknew he would follow to let her back in, and I captured him for a talk. It wasconfusing at best. Jacob was supposed to get a ride to school, so we could havehis car—he didn’t do that, although he did put my transport chair out of hisvan (oh, oops! I’m not supposed to call it a van). Christian had a morningappointment but said there was no way he could put himself, Jordan, me, my chair,and Sophie in his car. So he and Jordan went without me in the early afternoon,which was fine.

Once again, I spent themorning in suspended animation, not knowing how the day would work out. I didn’tchange into street clothes because I had a feeling I wouldn’t be going withthem to get Soph. About noon I decided I’d proceed with my day—had lunch, didthe dishes, prepped the dinner—more about that later—and took a nap. Sophiecame home in the middle of my nap, so we had a good visit/loving session. Butthen I let her wander about and re-orient herself, which is what she’s done therest of the day. She fell into old habits quickly—watching me cook from thedoorway between kitchen and bedroom, sleeping under the coffee table by thecouch, lounging on the patio, though she didn’t do much of that because it’schilly tonight and predicted to be in the thirties.

When I was waiting to see howthe day would work out, I read emails, answered a few, did some work on themonthly newsletter but didn’t really put my full weight down. I am reminded ofthe ninety-year-old woman who went on her first airplane ride. Asked about it afterward,she said, “It was okay, but I never dd put my full weight down.” An aside: Ithink putting our full weight down is a problem for many women today. But backto my morning, I didn’t do much productive. Then I read an article for womenabout the third stage of life and how we should put society’s norms, those “should”and “should nots” behind us and do what felt comfortable to us. The gist of itwas you don’t have to feel productive every day. Do what you want, what makesyou happy. (I can hear my father, with his strong work ethic, rolling in hisgrave). I think I’ve got that one, I realize that I work because I want to, notbecause society demands it and, fortunately, not because I have to.

But Sophie presents anotherdilemma. Her care this time and a year ago when she had her first diabeticcrisis was horribly, astronomically expensive. I know many people would frownon the folly of spending that much to keep a dog alive (I joked the firstepisode was the trip to Europe that I never took, so this week was the second Europeantrip, an extended stay). And that’s society’s norm, the standard from which myguilt springs. But the other side is that she has been my companion forthirteen years. She is a living, breathing soul who trusts me implicitly totake care of her. I could never look at her and say, “Sorry. You’re tooexpensive.” And condemn her to euthanasia. Oh, if I lived on the edge I wouldprobably surrender her to a rescue society in hopes they would find a sugardaddy to underwrite her treatment. But the blessed truth is I have the money.It’s my choice to spend it on her. Yes, there are starving children through theworld, and yes, there are a lot of progressive candidates I would like tosupport with more, but the other truth is that Soph looks at me with thoseliquid eyes and as long as she is pain-free and happy, I will keep her alive. It’sa bigger dilemma than the productivity one.

At my age, I would hope to bebeyond worrying about what society thinks. And I almost am—but not quite.

As for the dinner I prepped—itwas to be our belated St. Patrick’s day dinner. I got a fairly expensive cornedbeef because it was uncured (no artificial preservatives), and I roasted itbecause I’d read a lot online that said roasting was the only way to go. Iserved champ with it (mashed potatoes with lots of butter and green onion) andChristian fixed shredded Brussel sprouts, which may have been the best part ofthe dinner. The corned beef was tough though the flavor was great, and thechamp was just okay, nothing remarkable. Not my finest dinner. Sorry, Paddy!

It’s never too late for a goodIrish blessing:

Maythe road rise to meet you
May the wind be at your back
May the sun shine warm upon your face

Maythe rain fall softly on your fields
And until we meet again
May you keep safe
In the gentle loving arms of God

 

Peace and quiet

 

Sophie at the veterinaray clinic. Note the IV tube.
Ready to come home tomorrow.
I think it was Maya Angelouwho said we all need to take an occasional day out. The world, she reminded us,won’t fall apart without you. That’s what I did today—a day out. The Burtonswere out all day, celebrating Jordan’s birthday at the Roadhouse, which is supposedto have great burgers. They were up, bright and bushy-tailed early thismorning, Jordan is a bright green top with shamrocks dangling from her ears. Mybow to St. Patrick tonight is a pale green T-shirt (with a VW bus on the front)and bright green footlets. By rights I should wear orange because my ancestryis Protestant Irish. I’m fairly sure my forebearers, three generations back ormore, left Scotland for Northern Ireland. They were Protestant Irish, but Ilike the myth and legend of the larger Irish culture, the green of St. Patrickif you will. Perhaps W. B. Yeats best summer up Irish culture: Being Irish, he had an abiding sense oftragedy, whichsustained him through temporary periods of joy.

SinceI would be cooking only for myself, there’s no Irish menu in the cottagetonight. But tomorrow my family will get corned beef, champ (a mashed potatodish with lots of butter and green onions), and Brussel sprouts. Coming up witha green vegetable that’s Irish and my family will eat is hard becauseeverything is cabbage, and they won’t touch it. When Christian asked why theIrish eat so much cabbage, I suggested it is plentiful, cheap, and nutritious.I refrained from adding something to the effect that you can make somewonderful dishes with it. Colcannon is also out—no cooked spinach. I alsodidn’t tell him that Brussel sprouts, which he likes, could be considered tinycabbages. Tonight I have made myself a huge batch of pea salad and will eatwith it, I think, the sardines in preserved lemon that I would have served toJean the other night.

Iwas sad that my happy hour guests cancelled tonight—particularly sad becausefriend Jaimie burned her hand badly. But that cancellation added to my day ofpeace and quiet. I had planned to make a couple of appetizers to entertain Gregand Jaimie, but I’ll save them for a reschedule when Jaimie is in a betterplace.

Sothis was my day out: I slept really late, with no Sophie to wake me and demandfood. I barely had time to read emails before church, which I attended via Zoomin my pajamas. A bit of cottage cheese for brunch, and I applied myself to thelast words of Irene in a Ghost Kitchen. I finished it—at least the firstdraft—and I breathed a huge sigh. Seems like I’ve been writing this mysteryforever. It came out at close to 58K words, so if I can pick up another twothousand on editing, it will be a respectable length for a cozy. Tonight I’llstart some notes for a show about Helen Corbitt that Mary and I are tocollaborate on. Mary regularly teaches cooking classes for the Silver Frogs,the senior noncredit program at TCU. So she roped me in to provide commentaryand background on Corbitt’s life while she demonstrates the recipes. Should befun, though I am a bit confused on which one of us will say what. I’m sure itwill work out, and it’s one of those things I vow not to overthink. Oh yes, Idid have a nap in the late afternoon but only dozed—think I satisfied my needfor sleep this morning.

TheSophie report is good again. She’s eating, albeit with appetite-stimulatingmedicine. Today the clinic will take her off her IVs and see how she does onher own, with the goal of bringing her home tomorrow. I have a list ofquestions for our vet when we see him.

Aftera week fraught with tension and worry and distractions, I’ve enjoyed my peaceand quiet. Talking with a friend recently, I said one reason I didn’t want tomove into a retirement community was that I like my privacy. From friends wholive in Trinity Terrace I get the sense that even though you can get privacy inyour own apartment, it’s easy to be drawn into the constant round ofactivities. No such temptation in my cottage, and I was completely happy today.But I wouldn’t want to spend every day this way.

 

Back to real life

 

 

Jordan and Sophie
Twelve years ago, plus
Sophie seems to be on themend, so it’s back to real life at our compound. Tomorrow is Jordan’s birthday—mySt. Patrick’s baby. I won’t say what birthday it is, but here’s a hint: nextyear is a biggie. She has an all-day come-and-go party planned for tomorrow ata local hamburger joint/sports bar (I’m sort of guessing what it is, because it’snot on my circuit). None of my friends have been included—as she said tonight, “Noadults.” I reminded her that she and her friends are adults now, many of themin their fifties. But I get that mindset and it’s okay, Anyway I will not be atthis all-day celebration (and miss my nap? No way). As she pointed out, it willbe everything I don’t like—loud, noisy, crowded. So tonight, we had her birthdaydinner, the same dinner she’s requested since she was old enough to request:tacos.

There’s a bit of a storybehind that menu choice. For the first forty-seven years of her life, Jordanthought she was half Hispanic. That’s what we’d been told by the Edna GladneyHome, and we dutifully set about keeping her informed of her heritage, just aswe did for Jamie with his half-Chinese background. For years, Jordan resistedany kind of genetic testing, but a few years ago she broke down and did 23andMe.The results showed that she is almost a hundred per cent northern European. Sheadmitted it came as quite a shock after thinking of herself as Hispanic allthese years. So while she might have asked for bangers and mash or shepherd’spie for her birthday, she stuck with tacos.

Christian was out of town allday and late to our taco party. He had stopped, per my request, at the store toget things needed for the tacos but by the time he arrived we had eaten, so nowI have two heads of leaf lettuce, a bag of Fritos, and I don’t know what elsethat I won’t use. The sharp cheddar I will always use. I thought the meat wasdry, but Christian pointed out that sour cream, cheese, and guac hide amultitude of faults.

No cake. Jordan didn’t wantone, so I had chocolate bonbons after they went inside.

In the spirit of getting backto reality, I wrote a thousand words on my Irene novel last night—so close tothe end and yet so far; it is tantalizing to have it in sight. Except that justwhen I thought I could wrap things up, the mystery solved, the bad personcaught, a new plot twist plopped into my mind and won’t go away. I only haveone sentence in my mind, and I have no idea where it will lead me. Also, lastnight, I blogged and finished the novel I was being slow about reading. So Ifeel all caught up and a bit righteous.

Last night’s dinner guest, mygood friend Jean, cancelled because she had a cold. I didn’t open the can ofsardines in preserved lemon that I intended to serve, but I did make myself agood-sized panzanella (Italian bread salad)—so good. Tomorrow night, when thekids are celebrating all day (a concept I struggle to understand) neighbors areto come for happy hour, but now that is uncertain because the wife injured herhand badly enough for an hours-long, middle-of-the-night ER visit. I’m justletting that be on hold.

And the day’s Sophie report:she was responsive this morning and obviously happy to have Jordan pet her, butI thought just a bit more lethargic. The tech explained there had been a problemwith a catheter and fixing it had probably worn her out, plus she had just beenfor a walk an hour earlier. So maybe she was tired, which her panting wouldindicate. When we were ready to leave, she obviously wanted to go with us andstood before the door to the lobby. When the tech urged her out the doorleading to the kennel, she braced her feet and resisted for a moment, but thenwent docilely along. She is a good girl, but I think she is ready to go home. Myheart and my pocketbook are ready to have her home. Apparently, they don’twelcome visitors nor ever discharge patients on Sunday, so we are on hold. Ourvet, who I like a whole lot, will be back on Monday, and I am hoping we canmove this along.

Meantime, I leave you with aquote. There is a Tyler Farr folksong chorus that goes:

I wish love wasn't so hard.
I wish people could stay together.
I wish girls couldn't break hearts.
And dogs could live forever.

But I have seen anotherversion, and I can’t quote the early lines, but the end is: “I wish dogs livedforever and chocolate cake wasn’t fattening.” I love that, and if I ever comeacross it again, I’ll share.

Meantime, sweet dreams, happydays, and thanks for being my friends.