After
my lovely day with Jamie, I was looking forward to a half day of girl time with
Jordan today. We planned to do our grocery shopping early, which meant leaving
at 8:45 to go with her to take Jacob to school and then on to the store. We figured we’d have plenty of time to bring
the groceries home and unpack, freshen up a bit, and head for lunch at Rise. It
seems that grown child has never had a souffle, so I promised her lunch at Rise
where they special in savory and sweet souffles. My mom fixed souffles frequently
(my favorite was a spinach/cheese) but it is not a talent I picked up, and I do
believe it would stretch the capabilities of my toaster oven.
With this schedule
in mind, I pulled myself out of bed much earlier than usual, washed my hair,
put on my make-up, got out the clothes I would wear, and only then fixed my tea
and turned on my computer. And there it was—a message sent long before I was up
saying she hated to do it, but she had to cancel. Work matters called, and she
had to spend the morning preparing for a two o’clock appointment.
So there I was—all
dressed up and no place to go. Often, in the face of disappointment and empty
time, I turn to food—not necessarily to eat it but to cook it. I decided I
would work this morning and pick up groceries at five o’clock from Central
Market. And a splurge—I would fix myself Dover sole and an artichoke for
supper. Even asked on the New York Times Cooking Community page for hints about
sautéing sole without it breaking apart. That resulted in an order for a
special fish spatula.
I went about my
day, had a nap, and began to watch for a notice from Central Market that my
order was ready. Nada. Usually I get that notice at least a half hour before the
time I specified, but today it didn’t come. The time came and went, and I called.
They had no record of the order. So instead of a sophisticated meal of Dover
sole and artichoke, I will be having scrambled eggs for supper. I’ll pick up
the groceries tomorrow around lunch time. Fingers crossed that the severe
storms are, as predicted, all in the morning. Fingers crossed also because I’ve
been invited to an al fresco dinner party tomorrow night.
I’ve just dipped
my toe into a book titled Women Rowing
North, by Carolyn Pipher. It’s for women transitioning from middle to old
age, though she makes an interesting distinction between young-old-age and
old-old age. She points to health crises as often marking that transition
point. But the gist of her argument, I think, is that we make our own
happiness, and with age instead of mourning what’s lost we should embrace what
we have and find new definitions of joy. I’ve always believed that life is what
you make of it, so I have no quarrel with this philosophy. But it strikes me as
particularly relevant today.
The old me would
have been distraught at the change in today’s plans and might not have handled
it gracefully. But I know when I had hip surgery and then a series of illnesses
that I feel were mostly an outgrowth of that event, I moved into old-old age,
though I still like to think I look and act younger than my age (ah, vanity!).
But the new me, this older me, is more able to roll with the punches, to take
life as I find it and be happy with what I have. So I swallowed my disappointment
and got on with the day.
I’ll keep reading,
but so far—and I’m not far into it—Pipher’s book is not breaking any new ground
for me. And Jordan? I know she feels bad and she thanked me a couple of times
for understanding. All is good.
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