|Jacob and his mom on the midway|
Conversations—first with a close friend and then with my daughter—carried me through the evening until it was bedtime, and I wasn’t sharp enough to post on the blog. You didn’t miss much except a bunch of trivia. This morning, in retrospect, I will say that mother/daughter conversations are a rare and lovely treat.
We talked about family—siblings and children/grandchildren, holidays, travel, fences and gutters, food, and a host of other things. We laughed, we worried, and we got downright passionate about some things. And we drank wine. Such evenings are a benefit of my unusual and wonderful living situation.
The rodeo ended in Fort Worth amid great hoopla because it was the last year the event would be in the iconic Will Rogers Coliseum. Next year, the new and lavish Dickies Arena where, among many changes, I hear the tickets will be a lot costlier. The new building has risen like a behemoth just blocks from the old coliseum. I am with the many who feel sentimental about the change of venue. And where will the midway be? Jordan and Christian bravely took three pre-teen boys to the rodeo and midway Saturday.
|Sopphie's first day with us|
Did you know this month is Black Dog and Cat Appreciation Month? I am wondering at the overlay with Black History Month—coincidence or was that someone’s wicked sense of humor? I never had a black dog in a long life filled with many dogs—until Sophie Girl. I didn’t even think of her color when that lively pup stood out so from the other sleepy, lethargic ones. She was simply adorable and mischievous at the same time. In the last almost eight years, I’ve found the only difference about having a black dog is that she’s harder to photograph. But I do often call her, in affection, “my little black dog.” She still sniffles and snorts—poor baby is living with allergies. When I told friend Jean last night about this special month, she immediately thought of Velvet, the pure black cat she had and loved for many years, now long gone.
It was a dreary weekend, and I had to go to church via my computer because life was too hectic for my family. I appreciate being able to do that, but I like so much better being in the rich surroundings where the music is lush and full, and you feel a sense of awe at being in the community of faith. The Texas Boys Choir sang for our service yesterday, and I know they sounded better in the sanctuary than on my computer.
I filled the weekend with cooking. Saturday night I made salmon patties, something I’ve probably been making for at least sixty-five years. But somehow, I got off on the proportion of meat, egg, and binder. Ended up with salmon hash—tasted just as good but not pretty to look at, and I remembered my mom insisting food is half eaten with the eye. Sorry, Mom. I also wilted some cabbage and cooked it with water and a bit of molasses—half of Sunday’s meatloaf dish. Christian walked into the cottage and demanded, “What is that smell?”
The meatloaf was kalpudding, a Swedish dish which sandwiches meatloaf between layers of cooked cabbage. No, I don’t know why the Swedes call it that. Much as I like cabbage, I found it