All the news that fits to print—or is it?

 

Watching the nightly news on TV or reading your morning paper can be disheartening. The world, clearly, is in a mess. The former president’s outrageous behavior at his current federal trial dominates the news, but Iran and Israel sniping at each other is a close second. I don’t understand why the media refer to Iran’s “unprecedented” attack on Israel. Didn’t Israel start it by taking out a consulate and killing several of Iran’s leading either diplomats or generals. That seems a bit of provocation to me. And whoever is at fault first, their conflict could escalate tensions in the Middle East. And then we read that famine is about to be declared in Gaza where half the citizens are in danger of starvation—where does starvation legally become famine? Is there some kind of line of statistic? Ukraine desperately needs tangible support—including arms and ammunition—from  the US but the MAGA caucus in the House seems to support Russia’s position in annexing Ukraine. They have voted against several bipartisan foreign aid bills, and hotheads like MTG are calling for us to withdraw from NATO—shortsighted if not outright stupid. Speaker Mike Johnson’s position is in jeopardy, but his removal could once again throw the House into confusion. So far they have accomplished less than any other House in any term.

Closer to home, some conservative states continue to pass draconian anti-abortion laws and voter suppression measures. Inflation continues, but few will believe that it is not government-inspired but due to greedy corporations that are making extraordinary profits. The disaster clock, driven by climate change, continues to click dangerously close to doom for the earth, and yet many don’t believe that either. We are told that if trump wins he November election, he will “Drill, baby, drill” and roll back all climate regulations. The southern border continues to be a mess, with MAGA folk blaming the increase in crossings on Biden, who is supposedly rubbing his hands with glee (please note not all immigrants are illegal—most have legal status pending asylum hearings—the only illegals are those that sneak across the border instead of crossing at checkpoints). Yet the House refused to support a bipartisan immigration reform bill.

Occasionally, the news is more puzzling than frightening. I read that Russian hackers have attacked the water tower in Muleshoe, Texas. Muleshoe is a town of about 5,000 out near Lubbock. Why in heaven’s name would Russian hackers be interested in its water tower? Did their girls basketball team just win a championship? Is Muleshoe the home of a hidden, secret spy group for the US.? Is there something special about the water tower. I’m sorry for the discomfort to Muleshoe’s citizens, but that almost made me laugh aloud. Most of the news does not do that.

So how can anyone, with all this and more, be an optimist? I can be and am. This morning I read a post by an author I know who said every morning she resolves to look for one occasion of joy in the world. As I look out my desk window, I look at those wonderful yellow wildflowers I posted about yesterday. Now they are about to be hidden by the oak leaf hydrangea growing tall and laden with blooms right by my window. Trite to begin with flowers, I know, but they truly do give me joy every time I look out the window at them.

But there are bigger victories: a panel of the 5^th court of appeals has refused to lift an earlier court order that bars Texas from enforcing a ridiculous book law that would have required every vendor to check every page of every book for explicitly sexual images and references before selling to a school district—this would have put many small vendors out of business, besides reinforcing our states already ridiculous book banning laws. A victory for reason.

A new federal order allows the Bureau of Land Management to protect 4200 acres of tribal-owned land from drilling and mining for the next 50 years—a huge victory for conservation. More college loans have been forgiven—not the principal but the outrageous interest rates which had people paying long after they repaid the principal. The economy is on track to best China’s economy for the first time in years, and unemployment has remained at a record-setting low for 50 years.

See? My wildflowers look pretty good. And there’s reason for joy in the world. Now I’ve got another reason—leftover meatloaf and I’m going to go ea my supper. Please remember to look for the joy in your life. It occurs to me that in focusing on national and international things, I have forgotten to mention the joy I get daily from family and friends. Never discount that.

 

Wildflowers, grandsons, and Ann Lamott

 

From my desk, I can look out at these beautiful, wonderful wildflowers in full bloom. It makes me smile just to see their yellow brightness. Across the walk is another bunch, lower and closer to the ground but every bit as bright. The yard guy didn’t remember what he planted, so I’m waiting for a friend, knowledgeable about flowers, to come tell me what they are. My view is about to be obstructed just a bit by the oak leaf hydrangeas right by my window—they are flourishing and have grown tall, covered with about-to-be blooms. After the last few years when we had frigid winters and blistering summers and nothing did well, seeing my garden in bloom is a real joy. Jordan has bought potted plants for the patio, and Christian has lined the deck with flowering plants—a bougainvillea that is trying hard to break out in blooms, a plant that had purple flowers until they opened full up and turned white, and a couple of smaller plants.

My dad was a gardener. When he bought the house I grew up in, he bought the lot next door, and that was his garden. Every weekend would find him, on his hands and knees in awful, grubby clothes, working away. It was always beautiful. In pleasant evenings, we’d sit in the garden before supper, and he’d tell us about each plant. I didn’t inherit that gene. I’ve often felt deficient that I don’t get the calm, soothing healing from working in the garden that many do. But I love to have someone else to do the work, so I can enjoy it. In my defense, maybe the cooking and writing genes were my creative inheritance.

 

My grandsons are on a roll. Jacob played in the last golf tournament of his senior year this week—and shot a 70, his career best! And as my brother said, “Pretty damn good. I know lots of seasoned golfers who’d love to shoot anywhere near that.” My youngest grandson, Kegan 

Kegan David

David, a junior in high school, made the National Honor Society. And the oldest of the boys, Sawyer, will be off to Denver this fall to study music business—he is so very excited about that, and I am excited for him. (Confession: he looked at both University of Denver and Colorado University/Denver, and I’m not sure now which he chose.) But he will be in Denver with us Uncle Jamie and his cousin Maddie. Good times coming. We have yet to hear from Ford, the next to youngest, but he is an outstanding student and will probably outshine them all.

Sawyer Hudgeons

The three girls are doing fine, thank you, but it’s the boys who shine right now.

I’ve been reading Ann Lamott’s newest book, Somehow, and I am enthralled. If you don’t have it, please rush right out and get it. She has an uncanny ability to juxtapose the sublime and the mundane and leave you laughing but also a bit wiser. She is, as my writer friend Susan Albert says, reverent and cheeky at the same time. One of the things writers worry about—or should—is finding their own unique voice. Lamott has done it in spades.

While I was in the midst of the book, I watched two interviews with her. She is not at all pretentious. In fact my impression is that she’s bit unsure, a bit self-conscious. She assured Yoda and Jenna that she was not nervous, an indication that she expected she might be. There are probably others, but she is the only Anglo woman I’ve ever seen with dreadlocks. I kind of want to ask her how she does that. Her dress is equally individual, as though she put on whatever appealed to her that morning and never looked back. She is honest about her life—her hard-won sobriety, the joy of her late-in-life marriage, the trials she went through with her son’s addiction, and most of all her rock-solid faith. This is not a woman who plays around with the concept of God, mulling the meaning. She fully believes in God, prayer, the afterlife—and she is anxious to share that with all of us. I for one am a ready recipient of her words of belief.

She also doesn’t mince words and there is profanity scattered throughout the book. I remember many years ago when a group in my church read, Bird by Bird, Lamott’s classic how-to-write book. One good church woman complained, “Could she just say it without all the profanity?” (I’m sure she meant the f-bomb.) It was hard for me to explain that no, she couldn’t. That vocabulary was part of her voice, part of who she is. IF the title, Bird by Bird, puzzles you, it came from her young brother’s assignment to write an essay on birds. He left it to the last minute and then was predictably overwhelmed. “How can I do this?” he wailed. (I’m paraphrasing—it’s been a while since I read the book.) His father said, “Just take it bird by bird, son.” You can see where Lamott gets her writing skills.

Some lines I particularly like: “Courage is fear that has said its prayers”; “I hate it when God does not agree with my particularly good ideas”; and, admitting that there are annoying people in this world, she writes, “Jesus frequently had to lie down with a cold compress on his head.” The image of Jesus taking to his bed with a compress is so hysterical—and yet so humanizing. I wish I had one-tenth of her skill, her quick mind. But meantime, I’ll keep letting her inspire me.

Odd inconveniences, a good dinner, and Omigosh! What are Republicans doing to poor Ukraine

 

This morning I woke to a gray, dull day that seemed to threaten rain at any moment. Stretching and lying in bed enjoying the moment, I thought a day of reading and napping sounded just perfect. Of course, that’s not what happened. Jordan and I were out the door at 9:15 for a doctor’s appointment for me. All is well, and I got a good report, including praise for doing all the things I should—vaccinations, mammograms, etc. But I will have to take a swallow test because I’ve been having difficulty swallowing large pills lately, pills that I’ve taken for years with no problem. My doctor explained I would drink barium and they would x-ray it going down—yuck! It’s been over thirty years since I had to drink barium and I still have not-so-pleasant memories. What struck this osteopathic child was that my doctor did not palpate my throat (he said if it were thyroid there’d be a big and visible mass) and he didn’t look down my throat. He knew, without touching me, what the problem was—almost certainly not serious—and how to deal with it. But I grew up in the old days when a doctor laid hands on. I guess, like many things, I have to learn to adapt. He did come in physical contact to listen to hear and lungs and examine the healing lesion on my scalp.

When we left the doctor’s office, the sun was peeking out, and the day ultimately turned out to be pretty. I meant to get someone to take pictures of my wildflowers but didn’t get it done. But we came home to no water—it’s not as though the whole block was cut off. It was just our house. Christian called the water department, and they said it was probably a problem with our meter. They would have someone out to fix it today. Fortunately, I had leftovers in the fridge for lunch, but it was a bit frustrating to leave the unrinsed decision in the sink. To say nothing of not flushing the toilet. My nap came in handy because when I woke up, the water was back on. I don’t say this often, so here’s a cheer for the Fort Worth Water Department.

Christian fixed chicken piccata tonight following a Southern Living recipe and I made cheese grits from the same source, plus we had the cucumber salad I made earlier in the week. A really good dinner, if a bit lemony. After all these years, Southern Living is still my go-to.

Tonight I shared Dan Rather’s daily column on my Facebook page. I hope you’ll take time to read it. Rather, whom I admire a great deal, points out that by stalling aid to Ukraine Republicans in the House are fulfilling Putin’s every wish. Ukraine, which has already suffered so badly in the name of democracy for all of us, is losing territory (and men) in the eastern part of the country. MAGA Republicans don’t seem to get it through their thick heads that the freedom of Europe is a stake, and if Europe falls America is at best isolated, at the worst without trade partners and vulnerable to miliary takeover. To me, it’s as simple as teaching math to a first grader—two plus two equals Russia steamrolls across Europe. Marjorie Taylor Greene, the dimmest bulb in Congress, says Putin claims he wants no more land, just Ukraine, and she believes him. I have a bridge in Arizona to sell her. As Rather says, men like Mike Johnson are playing politics with people’s lives. Is Johnson stalling because he’s afraid of losing his speakership? I cannot tell. It’s too late to hold his caucus together—that ship sailed long ago. I suspect his motivation lies in his recent trips to Mar-a-Largo, and the idea that trump is pulling political strings to get back in the presidency, as the cost of man’s lives on the battlefield, is so abhorrent I’m speechless. And I can’t even begin to contemplate what would happen to poor Ukraine if trump weaseled his way back into the Whie House.

Please do whatever you can—write your congressman, your senator, anyone who can put pressure on Johnson. I suspect Democrats will swallow hard and support him because they simply don’t want the upheaval of having to choose another speaker, poor choice though he is. Without saying that, maybe reassure him. We’ve got to raise our voices and get the off dead center. It’s unconscionable.

Seems rather silly after that to say, “Sweet Dreams,” but that’s my wish for you. And maybe positive thoughts about the world situation.

Monday all day long

 

This is one of those days when I’m tempted to shrug it off with the explanation, “All work and no play makes Judy a dull girl.” I have nothing outstanding to report from my day—or maybe I do—and the national news did not inspire me to comment. One report I read was full of minute by minute reports of jury selection in the trump trial—well, ho hum! I’m waiting for something blockbuster to break loose, or maybe at least for Stormy Daniels’ testimony. And, mostly I guess, I’m waiting to see what the decision will be. You hear so many things—some pundits say this is the most consequential of trump’s trials, and other say it will be impossibly hard to prove that he had felonious intent. I’m not holding my breath. It seems to me the American public is going to have to consider, when they vote, not these cases and their many delays which may well stretch out beyond our November elections. What they must consider is the no former American president has ever stood trial for a felony nor ever been indicted on 91 counts. Meantime, I am really tired of trump everywhere in the news.

Otherwise, the international news is discouraging. Netanyahu is promising revenge on Iran where, if I’m not mistaken, he started the pissing war that is taking real human lives. I once saw a map that showed Israel’s geographic place in the vast Middle East—it is but a tiny dot. You’d think Netanyahu would realize the precariousness of his position, but I suspect he’s gloating because Israel’s defense network was able to deflect most of the attack, which of course is a good thing in terms of lives saved. That doesn’t mean they will always be able to do so. To me, they are like David and Goliath—only this time I’m not so sure David has righteousness on his side. I weep for the people of Israel and for the people of Gaza. I don’t know much about it, but I like the name of a group that sends me emails: Win without War.

And Mike Johnson has still refused to bring before the House a bill that would aid Ukraine and Gaza. He is so in thrall to trump that he does whatever the former, twice-impeached president wants. And trump apparently wants revenge on Ukraine because Zelensky refused to support his attempt to smear Biden during the 2020 election campaign and also is in thrall to Putin because he admires blind power. What a chain of thralldom they present. And how directly they violate the principles of American democracy. As for Johnson, I am tired of pseudo-sanctimonious Christians. There is no question in my mind that the American people at large understand the importance of supporting Ukraine and, despite our long ties to Israel, the humanitarian need in Gaza.

One of the things I’ve increasingly come to believe is that compassion and empathy are always more effective than punishment. I believe with all my might it holds true for our whole correctional/penal system which needs a massive overhaul. It is true in our treatment of the homeless—countries and local communities which have responded with compassion and provided homes and stipends for the homeless have seen that some large percentage go on to build productive lives. What do we accomplish by criminalizing those who would feed them, kicking them out of their encampments but offering no alternative. It is true for immigrants—in communities where they are welcomed, they become contributing members of society. “We have to stop criminalizing poverty.” When we yank lunch programs from children who are food-starved, we create a rebellious segment of society; feed them, and they become contributing members of our society.

Okay, I’m wandering around tonight in philosophical fields, and I am much more at home with the concrete, with specific facts. So I will say today I went back to Irene in a Ghost Kitchen, wrote a blurb and copy for Amazon. Then, with perfect timing, I got the beta reader’s comments. Lots for me to think about as I dig into yet another trip through the manuscript but basically good comments. He thinks it’s a book that will work. So now I have a project, and that makes me happy. Watch for a cover reveal soon!

Tonight my friend Mary V. came for supper. I had grave doubts what I intended to feed her—the spinach dish I didn’t make for my chef friend last week because I had no spinach. Now I had spinach, saved from my kitchen fail with spinach and scrambled eggs. Not a good start. But I chopped the spinach, added more salt, sauteed in butter and melted cream cheese—which made creamed spinach. I heated heirloom tomato slices, piled the spinach on top of them, and topped with grated cheddar. Ran the whole thing under the broiler—it was delicious. Mary brought grits; I added marinated cheddar, just a few cubes each, and cucumber salad, and called it a hodgepodge dinner. Mary called it a success.

So I have a positive reader’s report, with suggestions I understand and can see will make the book better, and I have served a good dinner. I think I’ll go to sleep with happy dreams tonight. But no dog news. I leave you with this quote from Ann Lamott: Courage is fear that has said its prayers.

Sleep tight, my friends.

Dog of my dreams

 

Jacob with Scooby, the only Aussie I've ever hard (several years ago, obviously)
Scooby deserves his own story--a wild hard but as sweet as he could be

A frustrating weekend dominated by the ongoing search for the perfect dog. Last week, we met a dog named Merle Haggard—I love his name!—a medium black dog billed as a Border Collie but what in Missouri we called a farm collie. He had been abused somewhere along the way and the foster said is terrified of everything. Indeed he was shaking with fear when we entered the foster’s house, though he went quickly to her for protection. Eventually he warmed to me enough that he would tentatively come close enough to take a treat from my hand. I felt so sorry for this baby, and, yes, I thought he would probably come to trust me so that I could keep him safe. But there are enough people in and out of my cottage that he’d spend half his life terrified and a trip to the vet would be an ordeal for man and dog. Jordan felt so sorry for him and wanted to take him, but I told her I didn’t fall in love. Someone from the rescue agency called about our meeting, and I told her the same. I have concluded this will probably be the last dog I have, and it has to be just the right fit. My intuition has to say to me, “This is the dog,” and I have to sense that the dog feels that way too. What makes it hard is that I swear this baby’s eyes were pleading with me.

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

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

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

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

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

I sent a picture of the possible dog today to an old friend from Kirksville days, and he immediately remarked on the resemblance. So a part of me would say that six-year-old boy was meant to be mine, but adoption people everywhere warn against such magical thinking. We wait.

The problem that is Russia—and ours

 

 

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

It boggles my mind today to read that some Republican members of the House will admit that Russian propaganda has infiltrated some members of the Republican Party, and sometimes the Russian line appears on the floor of the U. S. House of Representatives. (Heather Cox Richardon has an explosive column about how the Russian propaganda machine has been effective in America since trump’s election: (61) April 8, 2024 - by Heather Cox Richardson (substack.com) MAGA representatives oppose aid to Ukraine, saying that we need to spend those dollars at home to help the poor—disregard that they are the party who is desperate to cut social security, Medicaid and Medicare and continually votes to close school lunch prograns and anything designed to help low income families get a grip. Disregard also that stopping Russia now ensure the security of America in the future, and also that economists point out that helping beleaguered countries boosts our trade partners in the future—when that war is over and Ukraine stabilized, that country’s grain supplies will again become crucial to the world—and to America.

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

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

Does Marjorie Taylor Greene not know any of this history? Matt Goetz? Mike Johnson? It is appalling to me that we have elected so-called leaders who are so blind to the basics of democracy and to our history. I don’t know whether to blame our education system for not teaching them history or to place the blame squarely on their shoulders for being seduced by power and notoriety. Either way, we need leaders with a grasp of history and diplomacy and international relationships. Trump and his minions are not that.

Rant over.

Minor misadventures and cooking redemption

 

 

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

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

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

Upshot: I got my covid booster but haven’t gotten the RSV shot yet and will probably have to go to a pharmacy for that.

I was expecting a lunch guest tomorrow (she has since had to postpone until Thursday). Heather was a student intern in my office at TCU Press more moons ago than she would probably like to remember. She went on to editorial work at Harcourt, and then I lost track of her. Turned out she had been in San Antonio attending the Culinary Institute of America. We hooked up again, and when I was working on my cookbook, Gourmet on a Hot Plate, she was a huge help. But we had at that time great political differences. I suspect she is more forgiving about that than I am. At any rate, the relationship just sought of drifted into space, but recently she emailed that she had published a small children’s book and needed marketing advice. She admitted we probably still have our differences but maybe we could set them aside. So she’s to come for lunch.

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

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

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

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

Eclipse awe and the Rapture blues

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A sort of nothing weekend

 

Usually I plan ahead and see that there are good things on my calendar for weekends, but this weekend? Nothing! It’s a bit of vanity to realize that one reason was that I couldn’t wash my hair. Sounds silly and frivolous but I think it’s true. I had that thingie removed from my scalp on Friday, and the doctor said to wait two days to shampoo. That was Friday late morning, so does Friday count as one of the days? I decided to err on the side of caution and wait until Monday. But my hair had Vaseline in it from the procedure and was generally a mess, and I was self-conscious about it. Tomorrow I am going to wash it first thing in the morning, and I expect the world to be a lot better.

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

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

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

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

 

 

The search continues

Some time ago a good friend brought me this plant holder with a poinsettia in it.
I named her Serenity because I hope that was what she would bring me.
Nor she's abloom with spring flowers, and I think she's serene, a model for me.

I spent too much of today on my ongoing search for the perfect dog to fill the hole left in my heart and my life by Sophie. Don’t get me wrong—the perfect dog is the offbeat rescue, the slightly different one, the one that maybe no one else will want. I leafed through pages of Petfinder (they have 226 pages of adoptable dogs), and tonight Jordan and I looked at many. We laughed over a dog named Juju, since that is my grandmotherly name. “It would get confusing,” Jordan said, “which Juju would we be calling?” Another dog was named Panic, and Jordan said she could hear what happened if at three o’clock in the morning I opened my door to call, “Panic! Panic!” She thinks the emergency squad would be here immediately.

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

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

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

We would have had dinner at a decent hour tonight, except Jordan joined me in looking at dog profiles. Then Christian came along. He had spent the day enjoying the Fort Worth Food and Wine Festival (you can interpret that as you will) and he wanted to talk more about Merle Haggard. So it was after seven when I finally started cooking and near eight when we had dinner: chicken thighs in a garlic/anchovy/caper sauce. Delicious, but so greasy. One of those recipes that has you start it on the stove, then whisk the skillet into the oven. I can’t do that, so I winged it in a bit, but it turned out to be delicious.

While Jordan and Christian waited for supper, they sat on the patio.
and she took this of my honeysuckle in bloom. 
A pesty plant but so pretty when it blooms.

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

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