Judy Alter's Blog, page 9

Waiting for a storm, a dog crisis, and a nice restaurant dinner

 

Jacob with June Bug and Cricket the day they brought them home.
There is something strangeabout the period before a storm. In Texas we get frequent forecasts of severethunderstorms, possible hail or tornadoes, flooding, etc. Half the time, itdoesn’t happen. But you never now, and so there’s that period of anticipation.Not nail-biting, nervous anticipation but a wary caution. I can always tell astorm is coming when Sophie turns into a Velcro dog and won’t leave my side.Tonight she is staying nearby but right on top of me. She does not, however,want to go outside. So I do think there’s a storm coming.

We’re in a dog crisis at ourlittle compound. The Burton’s King Charles Cavalier Spaniel, Cricket, is indoggie ICU. Cricket is fifteen years old and has been frail for quite a while.She even went with us to Santa Fe because Jordan felt better—and thoughtCricket would—being with us than being home alone between pet sitter visits. Jordan,Christian, and Jacob got Cricket and her younger sister, June Bug, ten oreleven years ago. June Bug, who was two years younger, had a heart attackseveral years ago. At the time, they were told she might live anywhere from sixto eighteen months. She outlasted that by a long time, but by the time she diedshe was deaf, blind, and incontinent.. Now we’re in limbo about Cricket. Hopefor a vet recommendation tomorrow.

I ache for Jordan who istaking this hard, because I know how I felt a year ago when I thought Sophiewas dying. She however, younger than Cricket and perhaps hardier, has bouncedback in a remarkable way. The vet sees her regularly to check on her diabeticstatus, and says she’s being effectively maintained on insulin. I don’t think shesees much, perhaps shapes but no detail. She does need her teeth cleaned, and Iam always more than a bit terrified by that prospect.

On a more cheerful note,Christian and I had a good dinner with Subie and Phil last night at a new andvery popular Chinese restaurant (Jordan was too upset about Cricket to join us).I am always reminded of the time, when my Jamie was an infant, that my ex- andlate-mother-in-law said to us over the phone from New York, “Wo we ate at thechink’s.” I asked her son if he could please teach her a better word since shenow had a grandson who is half Chinese. I don’t think the lesson ever took. Therestaurant where we went last night has made a big splash for its dumplings. Idon’t think I had ever had Chinese dumplings, so I was particularly interestedin them. I had the combo—pork, chicken, and vegetable, and liked them a lot. Infact, they would probably have been almost enough for me for dinner, buteveryone else ordered an entrée, so I asked for beef and broccoli. Everyone lovedtheir meal—but I honestly think Christian does beef and broccoli better athome. The meat was tender but not as flavorful.

Tonight, a lovely happy hourwith close friends who will move to South Carolina at the end of this month.They are excited, but there’s a tinge of sadness. She calls herself my Canadiandaughter because her mom is in Ottawa, Canada, and when she moved next door tome, almost twenty years ago, she was a young divorcee wth two young kids. Nowthose kids are grown and gone, and she’s remarried to a really terrific guy. I’llmiss them, but tonight we had a lively discussion about the wonders of theCarolinas. They will be less than twenty miles from where my parents retired, apart of the country where I enjoyed many vacations and thought I was in God’scountry.

No storm yet. About bedtime,they say. Meantime, Sophie is calm enough to lie on the patio with her barestomach on that hard, cold, wet cement. Sure doesn’t look comfortable to me.Batten down the hatches, just in case.

 

A new friend and two words of wisdom

 

A truly worthwhile book by my friend, Stephanie
Sometimes serendipity can leadto the nicest things. Several months ago, the neighborhood newsletter that Iedit did an article about Ann Darr, the neighborhood representative to the FortWorth ISD board. I stressed to the writer that it had to be apolitical,following the guidelines for the newsletter, and it came back raving about whata good school board member she is. I sent it back, explained again about nopolitics, and got an article Ii thought usable (yes, I got some criticism, butnot much). A few weeks later, Ann Darr contacted me and asked if we could meet.We had confusion finding a date, and I had to explain I could not easily meether someplace for a happy hour drink but I would welcome her to the cottage.

Tonight, finally, was ourhappy hour meeting. I made a tuna spread—not very original, but it was good andshe seemed to like it. We chattered like magpies for over an hour and a half.Found out we go to the same church, one of her children is in Jacob’s class atthe high school, and one of her sons is at U of Arkansas where Jacob will gonext year. We are politically in sync, though her position, like my newsletter,is apolitical. We chattered about education today—charter schools, homeschooling, book bans, intrusive parents (she says that has peaked and dieddown), the necessity of trade school programs, financing, Abbott’s sitting on fundsallocated for teachers because he didn’t get his way on vouchers, and on andon.

I have friends I see often andsimply adore but familiarity sometimes results in fairly stagnant conversations(I can hear them now—“Does she mean me? Surely she doesn’t mean me!”). I thinkwe tend to know what our close friends think and not dive deep in conversation.But when you meet someone new, in the process of getting to know them, you godeeper—at least that’s what I found tonight. I hope Ann Darr will come back tothe cottage, and we can develop a friendship. PS She’s a dog person, so what’snot to love. After welcoming her with frantic barking, Sophie was as good as goldall evening, pretty much stayed on the patio.

Two words of wisdom for theday: resilience and gratitude. My friend, Stephanie Raffelock, posted in herSubstack column this morning about her goals to reach by the age of eighty. I misreadand thought she was referring to her seventies as her last decade, so Ihastened to send a rebuttal from my advanced age of eighty-five. She called tosay I had misread and her goals are to prepare herself to live into hereighties and nineties. We talked about aging, and she mentioned a book that is meaningfulto her: Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning. A Jewish psychiatrist,Frankl spent four years in various Nazi concentration camps, and he came tobelieve that the will for meaning was the single most important factor insurvival. He got so he could look at fellow prisoners and almost predict whowould survive and who wouldn’t. I probably won’t read it simply because Irefuse to read about Nazi cruelty. I find it too upsetting to realize such evilexists in the world. But I like the theory.

Stephanie had written that itwas a goal to be pain-free, and I told her that was a pipe dream—as we age weall suffer minor aches and pains. The goal is not to let them grow so big inyour mind that they become major. I mentioned that as a doctor’s child, I wastaught to be brave about health problems and pain. Doctors, my mom told me,laugh at those who magnify problems or pain. I took it so far that my brotheronce said he thought I was taking Mom’s advice too seriously. But once when Iwas in the hospital with a fairly serous health problem, I said to a residentphysician that I guessed this would change my life, and she replied, “Oh, I don’tknow. You seem to be fairly resilient.” So that, for me, is why resilience isimportant—bouncing back from major or minor upsets.

Stephanie had just beenreading about gratitude, and she proposed that as a factor in aging well. Gratitudetakes us beyond ourselves. If you can give up moaning and whining about yourpresent state—or about the state of our country or the world—and look for thepositive, your whole attitude toward life will change, and you will behealthier and happier. I try, every night, to thank the Lord for the blessingsof my day and those of my life in general. I find I have lots to talk about.

Resilience and gratitude: Trythem for a week

Life’s trivia—Christmas is finally over, a forgotten artist, and conspiracy theories abound

 

This is the image of Andrew Taylor Still I copied in paint--or tried to.
Okay, confess: I could not find a free image of Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce.
Life sure is interesting. Today,Jordan took down Christmas decorations in the cottage. That tells you a bitabout how hectic life has been around here. But after all, it’s rodeo season. Ihad truthfully gotten used to the Christmas lights, and now that they’re down,the living area looks a bit bare. Jordan kept the multi-colored lights on pussywillows (sounds a bit garish—you have to see it!) and put my antique lamp onthe timer, so I can turn it on and off remotely.

Biggest bonus: she unearthedfrom the high-up spaces of my closet a wonderful portrait by the late FortWorth artist Emily Guthrie Smith. It is small, maybe 12 x 15, of a winsomelooking young girl—Smith was noted for portraits, particularly those ofchildren. This is not a happy picture, but neither is it sad—more thoughtful. Ihave no recollection of buying it but I must have felt flush at one time, and Iwas as I am now intrigued by this face. I vaguely remember that I wanted to useit for a book cover but couldn’t find it.

And therein is the story: Ithought I lost this painting for some time and since it’s the only originalpainting I own, I was disturbed. The kids seemed to have no memory of it, andthat collection of things in the closet was far beyond my reach. So I was delightedwhen she got it down tonight. Along with this one, she got down a charcoaldrawing of me done when I was about twelve. It is by an artist, Kurt Frankenstein, who boarded in agirlfriend’s home. Kurt was a survivor of the Holocaust, and his work wastinged with that sadness. My mom didn’t like this charcoal because she said itmade me look too old and sad. Jordan has taken into the house to hang in herhallway gallery. The other thing she took in was a primitive painting of a logcabin in a snowy scene. She was surprised when I told her I painted it. The logcabin is the birthplace of Andrew Taylor Still, founder of osteopathicmedicine. I painted that and one other, taken from a portrait of Still holdinga fibula and studying it, while in Kirksville and exploring what I wanted to do.IN my salad days, I was a great class goer and took classes in painting,sculpture, macrame, and writing. The painting of Still already hangs in the livingroom in the house, and I’m a bit embarrassed. I hope it’s fair to say I’m amuch better writer than a visual artist.

Changing topics, I am alternatelyamused and disgusted by the buzz over Taylor Swift and Travs Kelce. Seems likethose folks who delight in conspiracies can’t recognize outlandish when theysee it, and now they are claiming Swift is a psych-op—slang for psychologicaloperations. She is, they claim, an undercover operative for the Biden administration.The thing is that Swift has endorsed some Democratic candidates (includingBiden in 2020), she is philanthropically generous, she pays her troupe well andtakes care of them—and, she’s a success. Of course, that means she’s anundercover agent.

A Dallas area minister,musician, and writer, Eric Folkerth, published a Facebook column with a wholedifferent take. The problem, he says, isn’t Swift—she’s been a target forconservatives at least since 2020—the problem is Swift and Kelce. Travis Kelce,billed as the best tight end in football, represents the repressed dreams ofmost middle-aged American men who wanted to be sports superstars and musiciansin their youth. Conforming to society, they’ve put away the high schooltrophies and hung up the guitar, gone to work in a steady job, raised a family,joined a church, become a good citizen. And here’s Kelce, living out his bestdream.

I found Mr. Folkerth’s columnthought-provoking (look it up on Facebook) but I believe, as someone suggested,he writes from the masculine point of view. The same could be said for womenand jealousy—yes, that’s the word—of Swift’s success. Most of us dream ofstardom of one kind or another—for me, it was the New York Times bestsellerlist. The closest I ever came was when they reviewed one of my books favorably.And a friend, older enough to be a mother figure, said to me, “Have you everconsidered that you’ve had more success than most who want to be writers?” No Ihadn’t, because we always want that spotlight, that stardom. And Taylor Swiftis one of the few women, at least in our day, who’ve made that dream come true,especially in show business.

And now she and Kelce are,from all appearances, wildly, madly in love. That once-in-a-lifetime, if you’relucky, kind of love that just like stardom and sports fame, eludes too many ofus. What’s not to envy? For me, they are so ecstatically happy, at least onscreen,and it does appear genuine, that I am delighted for them. And I’m sorry for theslings and arrows of the bitter that have been thrown at them. I wish them,individually and as a couple, nothing but continued success and happiness. Ifthey can hold on to what they have now, they will be fortunate.

But there are those conspiracytheories. You know what, if she were a Biden psych-op (what a strange term), Isay more power to her. We need good, successful people on our side.

What I ate today—or how boring is that?

Sauerkraut skillet supper tasted a lot better than it looked.
Besides, I forgot the picture until I'd eaten half the sausage.
But it's here for the algorithms
Sometimes I feel, especiallyon dull days of which there are a lot, that this blog deteriorates into “andthen I did this …. And then I did that … and then I ate that.” Especially the “whatI ate” part because so much of my focus seems to be on food. But tonight I haveto say I nailed it with a dish that I cooked off the top of my head, withsuggestions from an anonymous friend who apparently wrote me a note about it.

When I was a child, my mommade a skillet supper of ground sausage and apples. I remember liking it a lot.But when I tried to duplicate it recently, it didn’t work. The dish had nocohesion, nothing held it together. It was just two separate things cooked inthe same skillet. Along the same line, my brother’s ex-wife used to caramelizesauerkraut—I can see her yet with a sugar bowl in her hand, patiently shaking abit at a time into the skillet, while turning the kraut endlessly—it was wonderfulto us, two kids whose German mother despised sauerkraut and never ever servedit. I didn’t taste it until I was grown and out of the house. But we couldnever duplicate what John’s ex did.

Recently I came across arecipe for a sausage, apple, and sauerkraut skillet supper. I must havementioned it to someone because I have some notes about how someone else didit. Meantime, Mary V. who comes for supper occasionally and is a willing subjectfor my experiments—she told Jordan tonight that she really enjoys dinners of allthe things my kids won’t eat—was scheduled for supper. I wrote and asked if sheeats sauerkraut (sometimes it is best to ask these things ahead of time ratherthan have an unpleasant surprise). She wrote back that she loves sauerkraut.But then weather interfered—the night she was to come was one of those when itgot down to ten degrees, and she didn’t want to venture out. I was left with alb. container (a plastic tub, not a glass jar) of kraut in the fridge, and fourlovely plump veal and pork sausages in the freezer.

Our schedules didn’t mesh, andtonight, almost three weeks later, we had the skillet supper. Here’s what Idid: I browned two sausages in plenty of butter in the skillet and then addedthinly sliced onion, peeled apple slices (I think they were McIntosh), andseveral forkfuls of drained (but not squeezed) sauerkraut. I poured white wineover all and stirred in about two Tbsp. dark browns sugar. I started to simmerthis with the lid on but realized all that liquid needed to cook off if thingswere to caramelize, so I set the lid aside. And that’s exactly what happened—afterabout half an hour on a 220o burner (knowing the temperature is anadvantage of an induction hot plate), the liquid was gone and the kraut,apples, and onions nicely caramelized. I turned it off, put the lid on, and letit sit.

Mary arrived, Jordan came outto drink a glass of wine, and we visited. Finally I turned the burner on forabout ten minutes and served supper. (Jordan left at this point lest the krautjumped out of the pan at her.) The caramelized things were terrific, thesausage mild and good with a bit of Dijon. I think maybe Mary liked it betterthan any supper I’ve given her, and I liked it a lot myself. When I was heapingapples and onions and kraut into the skillet, I thought I was making enough forCoxie’s Army and would have leftovers no one wanted, but they do cook downdramatically, and between the two of us we ate it all. So that’s what I ate.

A word about gratitude—and groceries.Every week I place a fairly lengthy order to be delivered from Central Market (youhave no idea how I long to be able to shop there in person). This Saturday, asI was unpacking five paper sacks and thinking what a boring, exasperating choreit was, I suddenly realized how many people in this world would feel so blessedto have so many groceries. My attitude changed immediately. And so tonight, Iam grateful for the good food we ate, the company of friends with whom I oftendine, and the comfort of my cottage.

May you all enjoy good mealsand the bounty of God’s blessings.

A happy foodie weekend—and a cuckoo clock

 

My new birdsong cuckoo clock
I have a new cuckoo clock!Forestalling any comments on the appropriateness of such a clock in my cottage,I hasten to tell you this one is different. It could say “Cuckoo!” but insteadChristian set it to a bird song. On the hour, a little blue bird emerges andtrills it song—I am not knowledgeable enough about birds to tell you what birdit is, but it is cheerful and, to my delight, not too loud (it doesn’t wake meat night). It has a repertoire of twelve birds’ songs, but the instructions arein German, so we may not change it often. Thanks to son Jamie for this cheerfuladdition to the cottage. I’m really enjoying it.

As my weekends often are, thisone was devoted to food—but rather to writing about it almost more thanpreparing it. I keep finding recipes that fit into my cookbook featuring mymom’s cooking or my updates on it. I have now, I think, gone through most ofthe old files I have, but I also keep remembering things she fixed. Like salmoncroquettes—I had written that she rarely cooked fish, claimed she didn’t knowhow. And then I remembered the croquettes, only because Jordan and I had myversion (salmon patties) for supper Friday night. And today I remembered buthaven’t written up that in that era ofjellied foods, Mom had a fish-shaped mold and made a jellied salmon appetizer. Not sure I have—orwant—the recipe, but it deserves a mention.

Jordan and I have seen a lotof each other this weekend and enjoyed it, at least I did. Friday nightsChristan often has a late happy hour with a good friend, so it was just the twoof us. I made extra patties in case he showed up hungry, but I’m not sure hewould have eaten the salmon at all. He once told me his mom made them anddescribed them as like hockey pucks (she liked all meats very well done). I doremember once he said he’d try mine, and he liked them, but he hasn’t seemedanxious to try again.

Fresh salmon was on sale atCentral Market, so I ordered—what turned out to be a huge piece for Saturdaysupper for the three of us (Jacob never has weekend meals at home—ah, to beseventeen again!). At the last minute, Christan was invited to the rodeo.Saturday morning he was most apologetic about the last-minute change and thenbegan to tell me how it was really good for his business, etc. I told him hedidn’t have to rationalize, and he laughed. Jordan still wanted salmon but we discoveredthe pound and a half was big enough we could cut off portions for ourselves andstill freeze the rest for a meal another time. Christian has promised to grillit. Last night I roasted it with a garlic/anchovy/butter sauce. Good, but oneof those recipes I can’t follow exactly because it calls for starting the dishin a skillet and finishing it by putting the skillet in the oven. When you onlyhave a toaster oven, that’s not possible. Still, it was good, and I enjoyed thetiny bit I saved for lunch today.

Tonight though was the bigdeal. Christan a couple of weeks ago requested carnitas, one of his favoritemeals. I can’t tell you where I got the recipe, although some years ago I hadan editor who taught me to cube a pork butt and cook it in simmering wateruntil the water is all evaporated and the cubed meat crisps and browns in thefat. Then I found a recipe which adds spice to the water—orange peel, choppedonion and garlic, salt, bay leaves, oregano, cloves, and a cinnamon stick. Thetrouble is the water rarely evaporates in the time the recipe suggests, and Ialways worry that we’ll be sitting around until ten waiting for dinner. My preptime was lengthened because the boneless, cubed meat I ordered—wasn’t. I’d sayat least ten percent was on the bone and hard to deal with, and instead of theone-inch cubes I requested, I got three- and four-inch pieces. I am honestlynot a complainer, but I feel a call to Central Market coming on tomorrow.

Tonight I calculated two hoursfor it to cook—forty-five minutes longer than the recipe said. We ate at 7:30which was only half an hour past my target time. We serve the meat withguacamole, sour cream, shredded Monterrey Jack, chopped cilantro, diced redonion and, of course, tortillas. For all my worry, it was really goodtonight—full of flavor and very tender. It’s a lot of work and worry but worthit. I promised to do it again in six months.

So here we go into anotherweek. Zenaida, who cleans the cottage, hasn’t been here since before Christmas,her schedule upset by holidays and weather, so Sophie and I are grateful shewill be here in the morning, even though she’s coming at the awful hour ofseven-thirty. And I have company coming for supper—I’ll need my nap.

May each of you have a blessedweek. In Fort Worth, it will be sunny and in the sixties. We will be lulledinto thinking winter is gone, but I am sure it is not. At least we can enjoythe good weather.

 

 

A delightful gathering

 

Women in Texas Publishing
(l to r), Fran Vick; UNT Press; Kathie Lang, SMU Press;
Gayla Christiansen, Texas A&M University Press;
Shannon Davies, UT and Texas A&M University presses,
and me, TCU Press, seated
It’s been a dull, rainy weekin North Texas, and for me, personally, a week filled mostly with a medicalappointment, untangling insurance mix-ups, and that kind of busy work. Not muchtime for writing, so you can perhaps imagine how delighted I was yesterdayafternoon to host a brief reunion of women I’ve worked with in publishing. Theannual meeting of the Texas Philosophical Society made this reunion possible.The society is meeting in Fort Worth this year, and most of my gatheredcolleagues were headed to a reception that marked the beginning of a  weekend of study devoted, far as I can tell,to the life and work of the late Larry McMurtry. Their list of assigned readingincluded the relatively new Larry McMurtry: A Live, by Tracy Daughterty.I expect them to be most knowledgeable about McMurtry, his puzzling life, andhis many and different books.

Meantime we gathered at thecottage, and I served them wine and a caviar dip (figured I had to do somethingto measure up against the reception they were going to). We talked aboutwriters we’d worked with, from McMurtry to Larry L. King, about what is goingon with various university presses today, and what we would do differently werewe still running the show; we caught up on news of some folks we hadn’t seen ina while. We talked a lot about food and cookbooks, though I honestly tried tosteer the conversation in other directions because I didn’t want it to be allabout the book I’m working on.

But a difference of opinionthat came up interested me: some thought in working with vintage recipes(strange to think of the Fifties as vintage, but that was seventy years ago, soits historical) you should never change a thing, not one  comma or period of quarter teaspoon of salt.Others  (including me) think it’s okay toadjust  the recipes for today’s palate.It struck me later that the conversation was like the division on the SupremeCourt—originalists vs. moderates—or like religious differences, principallyamong Protestant churches: is the Bible the literal word of God or the work ofmen, to be taken as a guide rather than carved in stone. I won’t check in onthat one, but I am not a constitutional originalist (mostly because I don’tthink the second amendment is at all relevant in an age of assault rifles). SoI’ve decided I’m not a recipe originalist either.

I also got nice words on whatan original and interesting character my diva chef Irene is—those comments mayspur me to go back to look at the half-written fifth book in the series.

And we caught up on familiesand children and grandchildren and, yes, Gayla and I exchanged dog news.Because these women are family to me. But the big takeaway of the afternoon tome was that I enjoyed book talk with women who are knowledgeable about books—thekind of talk I long for and don’t get often enough. I had a long career inTexas publishing and loved every minute of it. When I said yesterday that Istill sometimes dream that I’m working again, hosting an Autograph Extravaganzaor going to Texas Book Festival, someone asked, “Really? After all this time?”(I’ve been retired twelve years). “Really,” I replied. “I’m sometimes very busyabout books in the night.”

So for a bit yesterday I wasback in that world, and there was a touch of magic about it.

The philosophical folks aredining at the Drover Hotel tonight and were told to wear “Texas chic,” whateverthat is—lots of turquoise, boots and jeans for the men I imagine. Seemsperfectly fitting to me for a society that puts two disparate terms—Texas andphilosophy—together. I’m anxious to hear a report.

A bit of borrowed wisdom and some kitchen fails

 

Sharon's happy hour

An online friend, one of thoseI’ve never met in person but consider a good friend, had a birthday recently, andfor her birthday resolve she vowed to follow her mother’s advice to “look upand out” rather than look “down and in.” If you look up and out, you focus onthe world outside yourself and what you can do to make it better. If you lookdown and in, you are focusing on yourself. Such focus leads to self-absorptionas opposed to a lively interest in the world around you. I can think of lots ofreasons to avoid self-absorption—the people I know that spend their dayslooking down and in tend to be boring, unhappy with their lot in life, obsessedoften by minor illnesses. On the other hand, have you recently met someone whoseemed genuinely glad to meet you, interested to know who you are and to sharethoughts with you? That person is looking up and out. I thought it was such aperfect way of encapsulating attitudes toward life that I wanted to share.

But I must admit I’ve beenlooking down and in a bit lately. One of the ways I define myself is as apretty good cook. I may not write recipes and I may be challenged by suchthings as crispy tofu in lemon-tahini sauce (really?) but I can tackle mostbasic dishes, even some fancy ones—okay I do really want to try Beef  Wellington. I can even often fiddle with aproblematic recipe and make it work out. And I enjoy doing all that. So kitchenfails upset me more than I should allow them to.

Friday night I was diningalone and decided to treat myself to a piece of salmon. I’d seen a recipe for roastsalmon filet with a horseradish glaze—I like horseradish as well as the nextEnglishman (perhaps an inheritance from my dad) so I tried it. Probably therecipe was a mistake in judgment on my part in the first place. The recipe wasfor four servings, and I was adjusting it to one. Plus the lovely piece ofsalmon I had was the tail end of what had apparently been a whole half—rather thin,so I adjusted the amount of glaze and the roasting time. Even so, I ended upwith a piece of slightly underdone fish with a thick sauce. I dislike overdone,dry fish and I love sashimi, but this piece was just thick enough I wanted itdone more. And the sauce didn’t make things better. Fail #1.

The next night I was expectingthree people for supper—Jean, who often has supper with me, and Greg andJaimie, who usually come for happy hour. I went all out—made an overnight saladthe night before, spent a bit of time that day making broccoli/cheese soup accordingto a Southern Living recipe. Jaimie, who is an excellent cook, brought aspinach/artichoke dip, and I immediately sensed one problem. I should haveprovided the appetizer, so that the total menu had a plan. As it was, we had alot of vegetables. As Greg suggested, a lot of roughage that might haveconsequences. And everybody ate so much of the dip, they weren’t hungry fordinner. Especially Jean,, who didn’t try the soup at all. Then it turned outGreg can’t abide broccoli. I said the soup had a lot of cheese, and he said he’dtry it. But he didn’t. Jaimie and I were the only ones who ate it, and she tooka baggie home for lunch, but I think she did that to make me feel better.Anybody want broccoli/cheese soup? I have it in the fridge, and I’m kind ofsoured on it now. It used to be my Jamie’s favorite, and I’d long been thinkingI’d like some but hadn’t cooked it because Christian, like Greg, abhors it, can’teven stand to be in the house when it’s cooked. Jacob loves broccoli, but he’snot been around much for me to try it on him.

So tonight I sort of redeemedmyself. Tuesday night is the night Mary comes for happy hour, and tonight weincluded longtime friend Sharon in honor of her birthday tomorrow. I stuffedmushrooms with my mom’s cheese mixture, made a spread with a cream cheese/currybase topped with cranberry chutney and garnished with green onions, and trottedout the rest of the ranch dip I’d served last night. I think Sharon felt wellfeted, and I felt redeemed a bit. The mushrooms were really good, but oneproblem with ordering your groceries is that you don’t get to choose themushrooms—I have never stuffed such tiny “shrooms.”

Anyway I feel better aboutthings now, maybe for having gotten this off my chest. Tomorrow, I think I’llpitch the soup (my mom would be so horrified at the waste) and make the familyspaghetti for supper. And maybe tonight I’ll dream of Beef Wellington.

An almost perfect day

 

No high drama, no hilariouslyfunny situations, no exhilarating moments—just a day spent quietly at home withmy nose in a book. It’s cold outside, Christian is fixing supper, I hadleftovers for lunch, and nothing demanded my immediate attention. I evenindulged in eggnog for breakfast—a habit I picked up in Santa Fe overChristmas, and I know better than to let it become regular. But there’s thatbig bottle Jordan bought staring at me every time I open the fridge.

Yes, I slept late, and yes, I “went”to church on my computer. And yes, I had a long afternoon nap. The only otherthing I did of any consequence was to proofread the forthcoming edition of myneighborhood newsletter—at midnight last night, I was still scrambling to getlast-minute articles and changes to the designed, so today I feel pleased thatthere weren’t more corrections than the scattered ones I found.

I’m reading Death at Bishop’sKeep, by Robin Paige, a pseudonym for my friend Susan Wittig Albert and herhusband, Bill. They team wrote it, which is of great interest to me because I can’timagine letting anyone else into my imagination as I crafted a novel. Susantells me they edited each other’s work but, eventually, there had to be one editorialvoice to achieve a consistent narrative style. She was the final voice editor.

Bishops Keep waspublished just after the first few of Susan’s signature China Bayles series,which intrigues me because I would think her writing style—the way she useswords—would have changed over thirty years. Critics often use the word “matured,”but that isn’t quite it—her style was never immature, but I think perhaps todayit has a bit more subtlety. Part of that, of course, has to do with subjectmatter. It is perhaps easier to be subtle about current manners and ways thanit is to go back over a century and recreate the social atmosphere of whichmost readers are innocent. And which sometimes now seem so—what? Trivial? Useless?

The time of Bishop’s Keep islate nineteenth-century England, the dwindling down of the Victorian era.Essex, to be specific. The book is a lot of things that don’t ordinarilyattract me—British for one thing, life and restrictions among the landed gentryfor another, the upstairs/downstairs/below stairs conflicts. But Kate Ardleigh,an American heroine—outspoken, independent, intelligent, and bent on being an author,which was unheard of in the day, especially in England—wipes out all myobjections. Sir Charles—the English nobleman who dabbles in crime detection andthe new science of photography—intrigues Kate to the point that sheoccasionally thinks maybe spinsterhood isn’t for her after all. It’s almost allstandard Agatha Christie stuff (albeit a bit earlier) but it has me hooked, andI have spent a happy day mostly buried in the goings on at the Keep, surely atroubled household. My fascination is in large part due to Susan’s skill with character,even British, and structure.

These days I find I am moreand more selective about what I read. Thanks to Amazon’s sample readingprogram, I often dip my bookmark into three or four books and withdraw it indisappointment. I long for that book that calls me back, tempts me away fromthe work I should be doing, keeps me up late at night. That’s probably why Iread so much mystery, but even within the genre, I find disappointment. So Irejoice when I find such a book. Granted, that enchantment doesn’t alwayshappen in the first twenty pages—you must persevere.

Bishop’s Keep is thefirst of, I think, twelve novels, and I’ll probably go on and read some of the remainingones, though I'll not commit to all--maybe that's what happens to most series. (China Bayles, with twenty-seven books in print, is an exception). Once I am hooked on characters and their fictional world, I want to staywith them. So thanks, Susan, for a good reading experience and a lovely, self-indulgentday.

What about you, dear reader?What book has simply carried you away from your ordinary world, captivated youso that you crave every reading minute?

A new word, gratitude, and hot water

 

Sometimes my experiments go awry. This is salmon with horseradish sauce.
I did not save the recipe. Enough said.
A quiet day for me, spentmostly at my computer. I said to Jordan it was awfully cold, but she replied, “Notas bad as the other day.” A friend pointed out, however, that what we in Texasare feeling now is Rocky Mountain northern cold, not the southern cold we areused to—a distinction I’d never thought about (and am still not sure I get).But when Sophie comes in leaving the door open, it feels cold to me, southernor northern be darned. I had let up on my “really cold weather” precautions andtaken the extra cover off the bed. So of course in the middle of the night Ihad to get up and prowl in the closet for my mom’s crochet afghan. And this morning,I decided I’d wash my hair just to be safe if the hot water goes out again. Therewas—eventually—hot water, but it sputtered and spit and never came on in astrong steam, which gives me cause to worry. Tonight, though, I could scald myhands washing dishes if not careful.

I heard from friends in Omahatoday, which gave me a bit of misguided schadenfreude—they are buried in snowand have had temperatures well below zero and wind chill factors down to -40o.Even while I am rejoicing that I am not there, I do worry about them. They bothhave had Covid over Christmas, he a fairly heavy case and she a milder case butfearing complications due to some ongoing health problems. It shows me onceagain that I must be grateful for the blessings of my life which include fairlygood health for a woman of my age.

My small online writing circleuses Fridays to “brag” about how we spent the week. The woman who starts us offon Friday, my friend Stephanie, used today to talk about what we are gratefulfor, and I used that prompt to think about gratitude and my life. I’ve been abit out of sorts, maybe due to the restrictions of cold weather and relatedproblems, about all the things that haven’t been done—starting to use my newcomposter (my kitchen sink cannister is officially full tonight and a bitsmelly), my new battery-powered electric blanket isn’t hooked up, my new cuckooclock needs to be hung and started—it plays bird songs, so I have to get intothe instructions and  see if I can figureout how to choose a song. I’m not optimistic about my ability, and I amwoefully ignorant about recognizing bird songs, so I figure this will give mean education. I think my mattress needs to be turned—remember when your mom didthat at least once a month and all by herself? Amazes me yet. But there is adeep hole where I sit every day to change clothes. Colin told me to Google it,and I did—found the mattress is supposed to inflate. I sent him a picture ofthe hole, hoping he’ll find a magic solution from a distance.

These delayed chores orwhatever depressed me. So did the fact that Zenaida, who cheerfully cleans thecottage and does my laundry every two weeks, hasn’t been here since beforeChristmas, and I am expecting company three nights this coming week—to a housethat badly needs the thorough cleaning I can’t do. I had a little pity party,feeling frustrated because I am so dependent on others. But Stephanie’sreminder jogged me into gratitude. I think for a woman of eighty-five who needsassistance walking, I manage quite a lot on my own. Some days I want to make alist so I can say to Jordan, “Look what I did all by self (a phrase from mykids childhood) today!” I will have to continue to send myself that message—andbe grateful for hot water and other blessings.

My new word: my youngestgrandson had surgery two days ago for a torn shoulder (this is the third timesoccer has gotten him—two earlier broken bones). We sent him Tiff Treats (icecream and cookies) and when he texted his thanks, he wrote, “Thank you,shawties.” Well, of course that sent me to the online dictionary. It’s slangterm of generalized affection, African American in origin. But sometimes it’smore specific, referring to a beautiful young woman. Was that sweet boy being sarcasticwith his aunt and grandmother? If so, he’s a sly one. I was impressed one wayor another that he knew the word, although I can’t figure a way to work it intomy conversation or my writing. I guess for the nonce sharing it with you willhave to do.

Good night, shawties! Sleeptight, sweet dreams.

 

It’s always something

 

This pictue of my beautiful boys popped up on my computer today.
Jacob with Scooby, the dog that taught him to love dogs.
Scooby was a sweetheart but wild at the core. 
He has a huge place in my heart still.


Today was one of those days.It began early, though I was blissfully unaware of the confusion in front ofthe house. A couple of days ago I emailed Jordan and Christian, reminding themthe tree trimming guys would be here between eight and nine this morning andplease have all cars out of the driveway—except my VW which has been dead forweeks and sits in the drive like a permanent piece of sculpture, albeit badsculpture. Moving the cars was complicated because we live across from anelementary school that starts classes at eight—so the car moving, school dropoff,and arrival of the really big tree company equipment all collided. Sophie and Islept on.

I had fed Soph about seven andlet her out, but I knew she would want to go again after her second breakfast.By then, however, the gates were all open—I learned my lesson about thatyesterday. She was really good, and when Jordan came to give her a shot, shewalked her on the leash. The rest of the day Sophie was good as gold, and thetree crew closed the gate for me when they went to lunch.

Meanwhile, the temperature wasslowly rising. I checked throughout the morning, hoping it would get enoughabout freezing to defrost my tankless hot water heater. That may have thawedslowly, but the faucet on the deck of the main house thawed rapidly. I’m stillnot sure I got it right, but Jordan rushed out here about one o’clock and demandedI get on our neighborhood email and ask for someone to come turn off the waterat the curb—it was, she said, gushing. I suggested she ask the tree guys whowere eating lunch in their trucks. That didn’t please her, but she did—invadingtheir lunch hour, she said—and they got it turned off. She was not exactly calmabout the whole thing. Turned out there was something broken—never did find outfor sure what—so she called the plumber, who said it would be Friday beforethey got here. I have to admit I paled at the thought of two days withoutwater, because disregarding all advice, we hadn’t prepared for it. I had a bitof extra water in the teakettle, and I think there’s a gallon jug in my closet.And that’s it.

Action shifted to the spigoton the deck, where we’d had trouble before. A pipe below the deck burst. Itdawned on me, not a happy thought, that if they turned water off at the curb, Iwouldn’t have it either—somehow I had thought, “Well, that’s their problem. Atleast I have cold water, and the can use my water.” Fooling myself.

Next I knew neighbor Jay wason the deck with Jordan. They looked and fiddled and talked for a long time—andthen went away, leaving me in suspense. Just before I napped, Jordan textedthat all was okay for the time being. I tried the hot water faucet, and it hada trickle. I went to sleep,

When I woke, I had hot water!First thing I did was wash my hair. Next thing was to ask about the pipe, andit seems Jay is going to Home Depot tomorrow and will get the needed part. Goodneighbors are priceless, and I wish the story ended there, but about six, Jay’swife texted that she thought we should know that their yard was littered withdead branches and they were throwing them all into our yard. Jay had talked tothe crew, and they assured him they would clean it up.

Finally, about 7:30 Jordan andI had a calm supper of crab cakes, salad with my favorite buttermilk dressing,and marinated cucumbers that I made today because I had cukes that needed to beused. A good end to a fretful day.

Tomorrow peace and calm.Fingers crossed. But another cold spell is due in a couple of days. It’s athing called climate change.