Judy Alter's Blog, page 7

Monday blues

 

Christian fixed supper tonight: snapper piccata, Louella's rice, and blue cheese salad.
With thanks to Marty and Mike Slaughter for the fresh-frozen snapper.
It was a good as it was pretty.
Mondays are always hard, evenfor those of us who work from home. I talked to a friend yesterday at churchwho told me she generally makes it to her computer by nine o’clock orthereabouts, and I thought that sounded perfectly reasonable—as long as I couldstill be in the clothes I slept in and I had a cup of hot tea in my hands. Buttoday I moved slower than many Mondays, mostly because I don’t like what theweek will bring.

It’s tax time, and I got mytax organizer the other day. I thought I could whip it out Saturday morning,but no such luck. It’s like following the end in a tangle of yarn--one knotleads to another. I went through my Discover bills item by item and foundseveral that I didn’t recognize. So now I have to track those down, in a laboriousprocess, even if they don’t matter to my taxes. And the phone/internet/accessbill was absolutely out of sight and beyond explanation. Other things wentamuck: I tried to order dog supplies from Chewy.com but had to enter a newcredit card and they declared it was invalid. The bank sent a thick folderabout a dispute—over a $29 charge that hardly seems worth worrying about,except that I don’t want it to repeat. In going through online orders, I foundan email from Written Word Media thanking me for ordering books from them andpaying for them—but I didn’t do that. I think it’s phishing, but I am keepingit just in case some books show up uninvited. So tonight I am exhausted, andIrene will have to handle her affairs without me.

Yesterday, however, was a goodday. In the morning, I went to church—actually went to the building, and thewalls did not cave in. They were having an event called “Author! Author!” andthose of us who write were encouraged to display our work. I took five booksthat I thought were representative of the things I’ve done. When someone asked,“And these are all your books?” Christian laughed aloud. “A fraction of them,”he said. I saw people I hadn’t seen in a while, and I met new people. One incidentstood out. A man walking by held out his hand, saying, “We haven’t met.” And hegave me his name. I immediately said, “We’re Facebook friends.” He grinned andsaid “I read everything you post.” That really made me smile, because I oftendefend my heavy presence on Facebook to friends who are scornful. That demonstratedmy point. A number of my Facebook friends are from my church. I did not go to aservice, because there was enough traffic in the hall that I thought I shouldstay and represent my books. But Christian went to the service right by us—the nontraditionalservice called “Ten: 10,” and enjoyed it. One of my favorite ministers conductsthat service weekly and a wonderful young folk singer holds it all together.

I had great plans for Sundaysupper—meatballs and spaghetti. But I discovered that the 2 lb. package ofground meat I thought I had was really the one lb. package I couldn’t findearlier in the week. And it occurred to me that I don’t have a large enough, oven-safepot. So I filed the recipe away for another time and made hamburger sliders andbean salad. Jean came by for a drink, and Renee joined us for supper. Lots oflaughter and good times—and it may not have been meatballs, but the dinner wasgood.

Speaking of food snafus, itoccurred to me today that Jordan has invited anywhere from nine to thirteenpeople for Easter brunch—at a compound where the only working oven is mytoaster oven. She immediately began to think of creative ways to use the airfryer, the crockpot, the stove, and even their smaller toaster oven. Thisshould be fun. Fortunately she is the one in the family who inherited my plan-aheadgene.

Not my favorite week. Tomorrowan ophthalmology appointment, which I always dread because they take so long,and the vision test makes me feel like an underperforming teen. Then Wednesday,the dentist, which I always dread just on general principles.

And the final snafu: I just discoveredthat I loaded my personalized mailing labels into the printer, thinking theywere part of my stash of printer paper. So I printed tax info on the blank sideof pricey labels. When I do things like that, I always fear that I’m losing itand senility is creeping in. It reassured me, however, about my brain thismorning that I inadvertently caught myself quoting lines from Shakespeare’s JuliusCaesar. Perhaps all is not lost after all.

How about you? Do everydaydumb things that we all do make you worry? Or are you that rare person whodoesn’t do them?

 

Updates and thoughts on passion—no, not that kind!

 

Sophie in her donut collar. 
She is now old and mostly blind, and it shows in
her expression which clearly says
"Why are you doing this to me?"
I have no idea how to tell her it is for her health.
Update on Sophie: she isdocile about the donut collar, and the shot-givers have all learned to avoidthe tender areas, so no more snapping. Her cellulitis bump is going down, andshe sleeps through the night. Praise be!

Update on the plumbing crisis:my native plant bed is totally destroyed, filled with large rocks—who knowswhere they came from? No hole in the floor yet, but the handyman is preparedshould that happen. And it goes on. Today, Saturday, there is one man hereworking. I have no idea what he’s doing.

Update on Judith: I am facedwith chores I dislike—my tax organizer arrived, so did a multi-pagequestionnaire to complete before a ophthalmology appointment next week, mymiscellany holder on the desk badly needs sorting, and I need to check the Discoverbill.  The great American novel will haveto wait, though I have yet to figure out the resolution, so maybe that’s a goodthing.

I’ve been chewing on theconcept of gratitude lately. I try to make it a part of my life because I trulyfeel blessed. I was born white (not racist to say that’s worked in my favor),fairly intelligent with a comfortable life and a loving family. My refrigeratorand freezer are overflowing, and I sink into a comfortable bed with a secureroof over my head each night. I am, I think, the epitome of privilege. It couldhave been so different; I could be an immigrant at the southern border,desperate for a new life in America, or a child hiding in a makeshift shelternext to my dead sibling in Gaza, or a farmer in Ukraine, or a nonbinary teen inOklahoma. And somehow I think gratitude accounts for what Christian called mypassion for my beliefs. It is simply because I am not that teen in Oklahomathat my blood boils when I hear a legislator refer to them as “filth” andproclaim, “We are a Christian state.” (Ironic for someone in a state with ahigh native American population and for someone who proclaims himself aChristian.) Gratitude is why I despise Greg Abbott’s cruelty with his cursedrazor wire at the border—because I am not that pregnant woman who got entangleand died. I know life doesn’t have to be like it is for those and millions ofothers throughout the world.

There’s not a lot I can dofrom a walker in a cottage in Fort Worth, Texas, living on a fixed income. Ican’t walk the block or go to rallies; my financial contributions are so smallas to be insignificant, even though one of my favorite candidates insists $3helps. Were I wealthy beyond measure, the list of politicians and charities Iwould support would be long. Progressive politicians like Katie Porter inCalifornia or John Tester in Montana or our own Colin Allred here in Texas. Addto that environmental organizations, wildlife and animal welfare causes,women’s rights, and others. Someone said to me that money rules the world (Ithink greed was implied), and I reluctantly agreed. When I protested that somepeople use wealth for good causes and cited Joe Biden, Christian immediatelysaid, “He’s a millionaire.” But that, I countered, is not the operative thingabout him. His life is shaped by his passion for democracy. I believe the sameis true of Obama or Beto O’Rourke and was true of Ghandi, Mother Theresa. Wehave role models in this world. It’s just that too many of us ignore them.

One of the things I’m gratefulfor is that I have a church home where I am comfortable—and challenged to dowhat I can to make the world better. I like the Jewish concept of Tikkunolam, literally “repairing the world.” And I think it’s precisely because Iam so blessed that I am bound to do what I can to repair our obviously brokenworld. And so I speak out. I don’t hide what Christian calls my passionatebeliefs. Some have asked if I worry about alienating readers, and my answer isnot at all. (Besides my career is winding down).

I’ll end this rant by quotingMartin Niemöller, “Then they came for me/And there was no one left/To speak outfor me.” (see the complete poem here:  HolocaustMemorial Day Trust | First They Came – by Pastor Martin Niemöller (hmd.org.uk)

A new study on why art matters

 

A cookbook combining writing and cooking.
Part of the ars?
When iconic Texas novelist thelate Elmer Kelton told his father, a ranch foreman all his life, that he wantedto be writer, the elder Kelton gave his son a look that “could have killedJohnson grass” and said, “That’s the trouble with young people. They don’t wantto work.” Elmer by his own admission never made a ranch hand, but he made aheck of an important Texas writer. Does it matter?

Almost every congressional fiscalresolution includes motions to defund the National Council for the Arts and theNational Council for the Humanities, on the theory that the money could bebetter spent in more practical ways. In the US the arts usually play second fiddleto business and “practical” matters. Perhaps it’s our Puritan heritage, when artwas suspect of being at best unorthodox, dangerous, and at a worst a tool of Satan.Perhaps it’s the more modern reality, as Elmer’s father thought, that it’s hardfor a young person to make a living in the arts. Nonetheless the notion remainsin too much of society that the arts are frivolous.

“The arts” is an umbrella term.What, really, does it include? When people hear the word, they usually thinkvisual arts—painting and sculpture—with the performative arts next—theater,dance, musical performances, etc. And finally poetry. Somehow creative writtenworks are often left out of the mix. And yet, they require as much creativity asthe other arts. So I often include books in the definition and even that is toonarrow, but it may be the best we have at the moment.

Writing in the “Maine CrimeWriters” blog, author Dick Cass reviews the book Your Brain on Art, bySusan Magsamen and Ivy Ross, an exploration of the ways that art and science,instead of being antithetical, actually come together. Our brains need both,and art, instead of being frivolous, is essential to good physical and mentalhealth. Here are some of the research-based findings that Cass reported fromthe book:

·       Music with a rhythm of 60 beats a minute can synchronize withhuman brains to produce alpha waves, the brain frequency associated with restand relaxation. Take it down to 40 beats or so and the rhythm synchronizes withdelta waves, associated with sleep. Music can also help rewire the brain aftera stroke.

·       Colors have a biological effect on human thinking and emotion.The color red raises the galvanic reaction in humans, how much sweat glandsreact, more than colors like green or blue. In one study, people in agray-painted room displayed higher heart rates than people in a more colorfulroom.

·       Research into architecture shows that building with elementslike curves instead of straight walls can reduce the blood pressure and heartrate of the people living within.

·       Imaging studies show that poetry has neurological benefits.Reading poems lights up the part of the brain associated with restful states,and rhythm is something our brains are hardwired to respond to.

·       Coloring, drawing, even doodling stimulate the prefrontalcortex, the area of the brain that keeps us focused and interprets sensoryinformation.

·       Research even supports the notion that people who engage in arthave a lower risk of developing chronic pain as they age.  

Notethat the last finding specifies people who engage in art, not passive recipientswho study paintings on a wall in a museum.

Areyou familiar with the concept of Tikkun olam, literally meaning “repairingthe world.” It’s a Jewish concept, although echoes are found in many Christian teachingsand writings, that each of us is obligated to leave the world a bit better thanwe found it, to contribute something to the good of the universe. I worry a lotabout that, because I fear I write frivolous things—young-adult literature,light mysteries. Yes, I hope my historical fiction brings a greaterunderstanding of history and women’s place in it, but there are all those otherworks. What, really, am I contributing? Cass’ article and the book have made meturn my doubt on its head. The question is not what am I contributing throughmy art, but what is my art enabling me to do for others? Is it because I write,a creative activity that stimulates both brain and body, that I am able towrite historical fiction and even some young adult novels that may shape somepre-teen’s reading.

The creative arts are not somethingself-indulgent nor something to be lightly dismissed. They are part of the totaldevelopment of an individual.  KurtVonnegut put it so well: Practice any art, music, singing, dancing, acting, drawing,painting, sculpting, poetry, fiction, essays, reportage, no matter how badly,not to get money and fame, but to experience becoming, to find out what’sinside you, to make your soul grow.

I think my avocation of cooking even falls within thatcategory, along with writing. They are both activities that allow me to sharesome of me with the world at large, whether it be a book you read, a recipe ina blog, or a dinner you share at my table. And I think that is a good thing.

Go, free your spirit, do whatever brings you pleasure (well,within reason)—it will help you grow.

A personal note on our family woes: my brother thinks he’s abit better, we are moving ahead with fixing the plumbing problem, and Sophiedidn’t snap tonight for her shot (after three tries—I got a donut collar).Maybe writing about all that has helped.

Thank you for listening and sweet dreams.

 

 

The butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker

 

Only in my case it would be theveterinarian, the plumber, and the HVAC guy—doesn’t have quite the same ring,does it? Trust me, it has more pain to the pocketbook. Yesterday, Sophie spentseveral hours at the vet for treatment of an abscess—I won’t go into detail,but it involved several procedures, none of which are cheap. Now, she’s home,with medication, and snapping at those who giveThe old house we all love but which is now
causing us maintenance problems
her an insulin shot (Jordanand Christian). And also yesterday, for the Burtons, they took their new-ishmale kitten to be neutered. A traumatic pet day all around. And, my olderbrother was hospitalized. It was a medically oriented day.

But things are never dull around theBurton/Alter compound. Today it was plumbing and air conditioning. The plumbingproblem seemed simple enough—the bobber on my toilet wouldn’t bob, and it wasrunning all the time. The plumber I have sworn by for almost twenty-five years hasretired, so I called a new company, recommended in our neighborhood list ofvendors. The main house had a leaking sewage problem, but we planned to call acontract company about that. Then I suggested we ask the plumbers to look sincethey were on site. They diagnosed a severe problem, with water gushing out of aleaky sewage pipe. After an early afternoon call, they left, and said they’d beback either late afternoon or tomorrow. They came back late afternoon with thesmallest, thinnest guy in their crew because part of the problem is that thedeck is built over the sewage pipe. At first they said they’d have to shut thewater off overnight, but then they recanted—after Jordan and Christian hadfilled pitchers and ice buckets and everything they could think of. Theplumbers got the gushing slowed to a trickle, said they wanted to sleep on thesolution, and went away.

Before I bought this property thirty yearsago, an addition had been added on to the back and that’s apparently where theproblem is—what should be two separate pipes for water and sewage is not (no,that does not mean we’ve been drinking sewage water—I don’t quite understandthe whole thing, but the reason they didn’t cut the water at the curb is thatthey were afraid of backflow when it came back on). I had happily been thinkingif the main house didn’t have water, they could have access to mine. Anotherno: it’s all one pipe which it shouldn’t be.

All of this meant Jordan and Christianwere in and out of the cottage every five minutes around five o’clock, justwhen Donald from Rhinefort A/C was working to fix my heating/cooling units. Hegot them working and promptly got it so cool I needed a sweater. So there Iwas, wearing my sweater, trying to write my thousand words for a day withJordan, Christian, and Donald coming and going and giving me updates. Proud tosay that I did it.

But it’s not over. The plumbers had to cuta larger hole in the deck for their small guy to get down into that gosh-awfulmess. Now they think they will have to come inside to the add-on back room,move the washer and dryer, cut the floor under them and locate the pipe thatshould have a Y and doesn’t. I told Jordan to ask for an estimate; she did, andthe guy apparently in charge said, “I have no idea.” Not words to lull me tosleep tonight. And as plumbers, they won’t be repairing the floor where thewasher and dryer go. Christian pointed out we will be without laundry servicesfor a while, and I asked how he feels about the laundromat. If there wasanything that made me grateful to be a homeowner, all those years ago, it wasgiving up the laundromat.

At least, as the sun goes down tonight,the dog and cat are healthy, my toilet isn’t running and my a/c works. The hugeshadow looming over us is the plumbing problem. Wonder what tomorrow will bring.My brother is still in the hospital, and he has one thing in common with ourplumbing: they aren’t sure what’s wrong (except maybe age—he’s almost 92 and ourplumbing is a hundred in some parts of the house) and they don’t have a plan. Heremains in fairly good spirits and his mind is sharp for which we are grateful.I do so much appreciate those of you who have sent good thoughts for histreatment.

 

 

 

 

 

Maybe it’s true that trouble always goesin threes. People caution that old houses are maintenance problems, but todays’trouble spots are in mhy cottage which is a new construction except for theshell. I’m waiting for the plumber—the bobber in my toilet doesn’t bob, whichmeans the toilet softly and gently runs all the time! Plumbers are neverinexpensive—and the main house has a major sewage problem we’ll ask them tolook at and give an estimate (that’s an old house problem, although thatkitchen was redone less than ten years ago). And I’m also waiting for Donald,the faithful HVAC repairman. I discovered late last night that neither of myceiling-hung units will open to operate. When I use the remote a light goes onand the thing beeps, but nothing else happens. It’s a lovely day today and willbe okay, but it was stuffy and hot at midnight last night.

A useless day—or a day when I was useless

My brother and me, in happier days
Truth is, probably no day istotally worthless; each has some redeeming quality. But I am hard put to findmuch good about today. No, it was not a bad day. It was just a day, a plainday, one when I didn’t know what I wanted to do and did almost nothing. Ichecked emails in the morning and made chicken salad for our dinner, so itcould cool and blend its flavors in the fridge all afternoon. And then Ifiddled, manufacturing things to do, avoiding what I’d set as my goal for theweek.

You see, I’m almost at the endof the first draft of Irene in a Ghost Kitchen. I have the end—the climacticscenes, if you will—in mind, and I think I know how they should go. But I am avoidingputting the words on paper. I think in part I’m afraid to ever call the silly,short book finished, and in another part I’m afraid the end won’t work out as Iintend it to. With Irene, one never knows. The entire cast of characters couldtake off in their own direction and spoil what I think are my plans. So Ipiddled.

And I didn’t know what to blogabout. It’s been a different day—my brother is in the hospital again, just downthe street from us. I knew last night they had requested transport fromGranbury to Fort Worth where his cardiologist is but there were no beds at thehospital. And then all day today, I knew nothing and was afraid to call, maybebecause I didn’t want to intrude or interrupt and maybe because I feared badnews. Finally at six o’clock, I called, he answered, and we had a short butsemi-reassuring conversation. When I asked if we should come visit him, he saidhis dance card was already pretty full. And then he said it was complicated toget there, and I thought he was thinking of me in my transport chair. I havefound in the past that hospital has a lot of twists and turns, and you can getlost if you don’t know where you are going. So we will talk again tomorrow.

Also today, Jordan’s new catwent to be neutered, which didn’t affect me much but did throw a monkey wrenchin scheduling. They took him eight and were to pick him up at three. Then Icalled Sophie’s vet because we discovered an abscess on the back of her neck. Ihad a faint hope he would prescribe antibiotics over the phone, but no—he wantedto see her. Diabetes complicates infection. Jordan took her at eleven and, tomy dismay, they kept her. Then they called and said she could go home at three.Schedule conflict! No way the kids could have the dog and cat in the car at thesame time. It all worked out: they got the cat, Jordan and the cat came home,and Christian got Sophie about four. She is home, has some antibiotics, and mywallet is a lot lighter. But I am grateful she didn’t spend the night.

Last night we had a farewellhappy hour for my Canadian daughter and her husband—I fixed a spread instead ofjust a light snack, because I knew they would have packed their kitchen andcouldn’t cook. Pigs in a blanket, devilled eggs, veggies with a dip, olives,pickles, cherry tomatoes, etc. We had a pleasant evening, and I worked to avoidtopics on which we disagree, but somehow the subject of money ruling the worldcame up. Reluctantly I realize it’s true, but I hate it; she accepts it with adegree of cynicism that frustrates me. When Sue said she as always provenright, I didn’t remind her that she had absolutely guaranteed that trump wouldwin in 2020 because money rules—and he didn’t. But I hated that a touchysubject came up when who knows when we will see them again.

So maybe all that baggage wason my mind tonight and kept me from writing or, until now when it is almostmidnight, from blogging. Who knows how creativity works? Tonight, because I asso at loose ends, I took a nap about eight-thirty and that was when I reallycame to grips with how out of sorts I felt. So I got up, came to the computer,and deliberately wrote three sentences. And I felt the muse kick in, I knew where I was going. It was too late to keep at it, but now I’m fired about tomorrow. I had promisedmyself I’d write a blog post first thing in the morning, so I turned to thebook I’m currently reading. And then it occurred to me that if I wrote the blogtonight, I could go right to the novel in the morning. And sort of what Iwanted to say flitted around in my mind. So that’s why these cobbled togetherthoughts on creativity and indolence.

Sweet dreams all. I hope Idream of Irene wrapping up that story in her usual fine style.

Watching the world go by

 

Obviously a picture from a previous year with colder temperatures
My neighbors and I in FortWorth’s Berkeley neighborhood were virtually housebound this weekend with a doublewhammy of events which closed our streets. Saturday was sunny and beautiful,with temperatures in the high seventies or low eighties. I think half thefamilies in Tarrant County decided it was a great day to visit the world-classFort Worth Zoo, which is on the edge of our neighborhood. Traffic on my street,Park Place Avenue, was backed up for four blocks—we do have the world’s longestred light at the corner before the road descends to the zoo. And by afternoon,cars were parked for blocks along many of our streets. This routinely happensover Spring Break, especially at half-price day at the zoo, and the Fort WorthPolice do a good job of planning their strategy and keeping traffic moving asbest they can. But who expects zoo weather in late February? Another sign ofclimate change, and one we should all take seriously. The traffic is not just anannoyance for those of us in the neighborhood: it’s a real problem if emergencyvehicles such as an ambulance or fire truck are needed. Christian wanted to goto the store and could go out by going the opposite direction from the zoo, buthe was afraid he could never get back home.

I was proud of my neighbors though—severalposted on the neighborhood Buzz how good it was to see happy families enjoyingthe zoo and the fine weather. Said one, “It’s a happy day in the neighborhood,”with a hat tip to Mr. Rogers. There have been suggestions about a parking garage, which I don't think would fit the neighborhood ambiance at all, and a few other remedies, but the general mood is that we're happy to have the zoo and have people enjoy it. The only thing niggling in my mind is the off chance of the need of an emergency vehicle.

Today one of Fort Worth’smajor events hit our neighborhood: the Cowtown Marathon, which attracts almostthirty thousand runners for the marathon and associated races—half marathon,ultramarathon, 10K, children’s races. The regular marathon goes right throughBerkeley and then down one of our main access roads. The halfway point for thefull marathon is approximately in front of our house, so we get to watch therunners go by. When I was in the main house, I used to sit on the porch and,silently to myself, assess the style and form of each runner. Now, from thecottage, I can only see them at a distance, if I peer down the driveway andthrough the iron gate.

Back when the marathon beganin 1978 my then-husband was one of the founders, and I was on the publicity committee.The group from what was then the Texas College of Osteopathic Medicine met inmy living room for months, talking about health and fitness and planning themarathon. I laughed each Sunday, because after the meeting, another girl and Iserved them fantastically rich desserts—and that ate every bite. Come race day,I woke my four children, ranging from nine to three, at five in the morning,and we headed for the Stockyards District where the race then began and ended.And I abandoned the children so I could help with whatever needed to be done (Iremember a TV station had a van on site, and I periodically updated them). I can’tbelieve now that I turned the children loose, but I did. They reported inwhen they were hungry, but otherwise they joined other “race orphans” androamed the area. They uniformly recall it as one of the really fun times oftheir childhood. This went on for two or three years until my husband and Idivorced. But like my children I have mostly fond memories of the marathon, sorace day is always a bit nostalgic for me.

The night before that firstrace, we were sitting in our home office when we heard it—and my husband said, “Sleet!I didn’t want sleet!” Actually he didn’t say it that politely. Next morning thestreets were ice-covered. Unfortunately I don’t remember the temperature, buttoday it is sunny and clear and 80 at one o’clock—far too hot for marathoners.By now, as I write, all but the stragglers have made it to the finish line. It’sfive hours after the start. And the zoo traffic is less, but it will pick upagain when the zoo closes.

The weekend events are butanother reasons I’m glad to live in Berkeley.

Good food and good times inCowtownMegan and me at Bowie ...

 

Good food and good times inCowtown

Megan and me at Bowie House
The fetish necklace was my nod to western wear 
My oldest daughter, an Austinlawyer, had business in Fort Worth Thursday and stayed over a couple of nightsso we could have some together time. As it happens Jordan was out of town on abusiness trip, so she missed the good times and we missed her. Thursday nigh Ihad plans to go to 61 Osteria, an Italian restaurant downtown, with friends, sowe decided when Megan was through with her day, she’d just meet us there. Itold her it was in a bank building—but oops! I told her the wrong bank, and she walked all over downtown in highheels.

The restaurant had a happyhour special with great price on wine and tiny snacks—I don’t eat olives so waspretty much out of that. But we ordered—a cheese and meat platter, focaccia, apolenta dish, and an artichoke hearts dish. The kind of food I would never fix—intruth, I was a bit intimidated by the complexity of the menu and nature of theoffering—this was definitely not your spaghetti and meatballs in a red saucekind of Italian restaurant. The décor in the bar is Fifties moderne, sleek andclean, with too tiny tables. The food was delicious, but what intrigued me allevening was the view. A wall of windows looked west, so I watched the sun gofrom gold to pink to flame and then, almost suddenly, gray. To one side wasBurnett Park, a two-acre urban park in the midst of downtown that features theiconic statue of a man with a briefcase. The statue is fifty feet tall, weighs 24,000lbs. and is made of brushed aluminum with the figure of the man cut out of thepiece of aluminum. After dark, trees in the park are lit with ever-changingcolors. Megan said she couldn’t believe I was going downtown, me who has alwaysavoided the center of the city as much as I could. I loved being there.Man with a briefcase

Megan and I both had work todo Friday, but by evening we stopped for a glass of wine with Christian andthen headed off for dinner at Bowie House, a new boutique hotel and Aubergeproperty with a well-planned, consistent western image—not flashy western butmore low key. We had reservations at the restaurant, Bricks and Horses. Whereto begin with the hotel? From reading, I knew that it has an unusual artcollection. 400 pieces from the private collection of the wealthy horsewomanbehind the hotel project. Young men in western garb and the required Stetsonroaming the foyer and bar area may have been subtle security but their mainfunction seemed to be seeing to the guests comfort. The minute we were throughthe door, one such man directed us to the ramp for my transport chair. Thefurnishings are heavy and dark, with echoes of the culture of the American westeverywhere—cowboys, native Americans, cattle, and buffalo in paintings and sculpture.Dress for men was boots and jeans, and for women mostly boots and short skirts.I was the only mobility challenged person in the entire place and easily theoldest.

We had one of those long slowdinners, with nice breaks between courses. At Megan’s choice, we started with tunatartare and then moved to Caesar salad. For an entrée, I had lobster Thermidorand she, a filet with a side of cauliflower casserole. Our dessert was a gussied-upbanana split in a croissant shell. Finally, just before ten, we headed home.

Megan was having a difficulttime backing my transport chair over the metal band between sliding glass doorsat the exit (If she had gone forward she would have likely pitched me headfirstonto the concrete) when I heard a man say, “Here, hold my hand.” And I did. Hewas a middle-aged, cowboy type, and while he had a firm hold on my hand, hispal helped Megan lift the chair over the offending metal. Then as they got intotheir SUV they called out, “We’re going to Billy Bob’s. Want to go dancing?” Thatquick bit of help made a great impression on me, after an evening of everyoneseeing to it that we were comfortable and being careful and respectful of mywheelchair. In a world rife with hate and anger and cruelty, Fort Worth is stilla friendly city. With wonderful opportunities for good food and good times.

Tonight for supper I haveleftover lobster Thermidor. Life is good.

A red trike, the pickle report, a lot of cooking, and not much else

 

Allow me a moment of nostalgiaand excuse the blurry picture above—those kids were really moving. That’s Jacobon the trike and Morgan behind him, trying hard to unseat him. That trike wasthe cause of more battles when the grands were little! And it has a history ofits own—it was some eighty years old when it was given to me by family friendswhose children and grandchildren had enjoyed it. Repainted at some time byloving hands, it had solid rubber tires, and the front one had a huge hole init. I can still hear Maddie, looking down one day, and exclaiming, “There’s ahole in my tire. When the playroom at my house was transformed to a TV room(what happens when grands outgrow hobby horses and trikes), the trike went homewith Colin. I hope he’s still keeping it safe for the next generation.

Since someone asked about mykitchen experiment, here’s the report on the pickles infused with Hidden ValleyRanch Dip: pretty good. I let them sit for twenty-four hours in the fridge, asrecommended, and served them with a bowl of plain Cheezits. Verdict wasfavorable, and we decided that the dip infusion softens the pickle flavor abit. I used a 24 oz. jar of Claussen kosher spears. You may remember that Ialso tried the recipe where you coat Cheezits with a seasoned olive oil mixtureand bake them---and I burned them to a fare-thee-well (and wasted a whole boxof Cheezits).

Christian wants me to try itagain at a much lower temperature than recommended. His theory is that mytoaster oven, being smaller than a regular oven, burns much hotter—and I havenoticed that before. The other night he brought out a chicken-and-wild ricecasserole (their oven is broken) and said the recommended temperature was 350but he wanted to do it at 300. I admit it was nicely heated through—and delicious.Christian is one of those cooks who needs a recipe to start with but then oftenbranches out on his own, adding and subtracting ingredients.

It's been a cooking week. Ifixed Norwegian hamburgers Sunday night, having forgotten that they are a bitof work although well worth it. Last night I did a hamburger Stroganoff—a lotless work and still very good. Yesterday, Melinda, who worked with me at TCUPress for years, came for lunch so we could catch up on families, publishingnews—and, of course, politics. Melinda is, if possible, even more fierce abouttrump and the Republicans these days than I am. But cooking both lunch anddinner for others takes a chunk of time. I made salmon patties and a salad forMelinda and asked if she preferred Thousand Island or buttermilk dressing. Atfirst, she chose Thousand Island because she hadn’t had it in ages. I proudlyboasted that both were house-made, to which she promptly said, “Oh! Maybe I’lljust have lemon.” Seems she’s leery of mayonnaise, but my cooking ego wasdeflated.

Much as I like to cook, I amhappy that we have leftovers today and Christian will be at a meeting duringdinner. I’ll have Norwegian hamburgers and mashed potatoes for lunch,Stroganoff for supper, and somewhere I’ll work in something green. My mombelieved you must have something green every day which led me once to sitacross the lunch table from the man then in my life and exclaim in horror: “Youdon’t have anything green on your plate.” He had chicken-fried steak, mashedpotatoes, and cream gravy. He rolled his eyes and said, “Once a mother, alwaysa mother.” My current green favorite, besides salad, is the fresh frozen greenbeans I get at Central Market. Give them three or four minutes in boilingwater, add butter and salt, and feast like they just came off the vine. Don’tget the microwaveable kind. Not as good.

Sweet dreams, everyone!

 

 

Monday trivia, some of it political

 

My favorite student of theweek, a child I wish I knew, is the one who asked his teacher if a certain wordneeded a “flying comma.” He meant an apostrophe, of course, but I thought it agreat description. And it leads me to one of my pet peeves: you don’t need aflying comma when you refer to a decade by numerals: its 1950s, not 1950’s.

My favorite meme of the week:Don’t give the nuclear codes to a guy who isn’t allowed to own a hot dog standin New York City. Another similar one says Don’t give the reins of governmentto that same guy. And that brings me to the tackiest thing any of us have seenall week: a man who wants to head one of the most powerful countries in theworld hawking glitzy, cheap-looking gold hightops with his logo at a politicalrally. Do you suppose he comes up with these ideas himself or has help?

I realized this week there isa new wrinkle in the manners we customarily observe with friends and neighbors:it used to be if you had the sniffles, you could still go to the party. Nowit’s de rigueur to cancel because you might have covid, My neighborsmissed a weekend party because of this and my happy hour guest tonightcancelled because he woke with the sniffles. I thanked him.

Something that seems odd tome: the Catholic Church is on a full-blown campaign to defeat Biden because he,a good Catholic, has not come out against abortion. (He does have a few otherpressing matters on his mind.) So I guess the powers that be think it’s betterto urge followers to vote for a proven rapist and fraudster who still facesfelony charges? And they think they are following in Jesus’ footsteps?

Kitchen fail: I saw tworecipes making creative adaptive use of Hidden Valley Ranch Dip. First calledfor putting a packet in the juice of a 24 oz. jar of dill pickle spears. Itried it, and it’s sitting in the fridge for the required 24 hours, so I can tellyou if it is a keeper or not. The second called for mixing olive oil, dillweed, garlic powder and the dry dip mix, coating two boxes of Cheezits, andbaking them. Now, I loved Cheezits as a child ….in fact I used to hide themunder my bed until one night I heard a strange noise that scared me half todeath: a mouse had found my stash.

Back to today, I thought thissounded great and I could make it first thing, easy and quick, and get to mydesk. In fact, I dreamed about it too much of the night. But the logistics wereoff especially for my toaster oven. It called for a single layer, which I thinkwould require a professional oven and half sheet pan. I only used one box, butthey were two and three deep. I followed the recommended temperature—375 for 30minutes, which is high heat and a long time. You can hear this one coming:burned you-know-what out of them. (It’s fortuitous that my happy hour guestcancelled, because that’s what I was going to serve). So tomorrow night, MaryD’s regular night, she’s getting plain, unseasoned Cheezits right out of thebox.

And a dog crisis averted: atfive this morning, I realized I did not have a can of dog food for Sophie’sbreakfast. Sophie has her routine down pat, and if you deviate from it, she letsyou know with indignant barking. In the evening, she gets two tiny milk bonesfor treats—and she counts. If you only give her one, she demands the second. Soshe would definitely know she was getting kibble instead of the canned meat sheadores. It’s a holiday—President’s Day—no school, no work for Christian—so Iassumed they would all sleep late, and I didn’t want to wake them for a can ofdog food. (I didn’t know Jordan was up at four to see Jacob off to a golftournament). I lay there, stewing about this until I finally got up, broke mycardinal rule about never waking a sleeping dog, and fed her dry food, more ofit than usual. She did give me a funny look, but she ate it and went outside.Just after she came back in, I saw Christian letting their dog out, so hebrought me the case of wet food, and the day was saved.

Except between the Cheezitproject and the wrong kind of food, I couldn’t go back to sleep. As I writethis, the day is half over, and I’m wondering what else will happen.

The day ended peacefully, witha chicken and wild rice casserole Christian made and me getting to write mydaily thousand words. Life is good, and I am grateful.

A short dissertation on a word

 

Celebrating another birthday on that path to old age
note the walker I'm sitting in

The word that’s on my mindtoday is resilience. The dictionary defines it as the capacity to recoverquickly from difficult circumstances. I think of it as the ability to bounceback. Several years ago I was in the hospital with stage four acute kidneyfailure, caused by an antibiotic that I should have known better than to take.I had already within recent years been hospitalized for a hip reconstruction (afractured hip so bizarre that people in the hospital looked at me and said, “Oh,your ‘the hip’” and a diagnosis of atrial fibrillation. By this time I wasfeeling a bit down when a medical resident, a woman, came in to talk with me.

I said, “I guess this meansthat my health is going to change forever.” I was having a pity party, but I sawvisions of dialysis three times a week dancing in my head. She replied, “Oh, Idon’t know. You seem to be pretty resilient.” Right then, right there, thatwoman, probably unknown to her, gave me a great gift. I began to think ofmyself as resilient. I was in the hospital for six or seven days, but every daymy creatinine (high is bad, low is good) came down. Eventually I went home andover the next months my creatinine came down almost to normal levels. Thenephrologist saw me every three months, but my triumph came when he said, “I’llsee you in a year.”

I think so much of resilienceis in our minds, and once I began to think of myself as resilient, I began to bounceback. Christian says I’ve been resilient about other things, like moving intothe cottage. There are lots of things I cannot do these days, between theconfines of the cottage and the limitations of my mobility: I cannot give thebig parties I used to love or even the elaborate dinner parties for six that Iloved. There are some recipes that I’d love to tackle but can’t with a hotplate and an toaster oven—those that boast of a skillet dinner you start on thestove and finish in the oven are beyond me. I have a closet that isnonfunctional for me—the hanging clothes are so high that I cannot reach them,even standing, and have to plan ahead so that I can ask Jordan to get thisshirt or that down. But I love my cottage. Christian says I have made it work.

This is not to brag about myhealth or resilience to my friends who are walking the eighties path with mebut to suggest that it helps to give yourself a message of resilience. When Iposted about life in a tiny house yesterday, one friend wrote that she didn’tknow if she could do that or not, but then concluded she probably could. Mymessage is that we can do almost anything If we set our mind to it.

It seems to me a companionword to resilience is flexibility. It’s too easy to cling to the old ways, theways we’ve always done things, from cooking to child raising. Living with oneof my grown children who is raising an adorable seventeen-year-old son, youhave no idea how hard it is to keep from saying, “When you were his age, youhad to be home for Sunday supper.” Or some such. A long-time friend was herethe other day and mentioned how angry she was to be quarantined at a daughter’shouse for Thanksgiving because she developed covid. “But I apologized,” shesaid, “Their house, their rules.” That’s flexibility. And perhaps apologizingis resilience.

To my friends walking with me,think about those two words: resilience and flexibility. How do they apply toyour life?

Okay, sermon over.