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| 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.
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| 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
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