This cute witch greeted trick-or-treaters
at our house
Omigosh, what a busy twenty-four hours. Halloween was hectic as it should be—lots of polite little kids in cute costumes. I had the perfect seat—inside the front door where I could see all the kids but wasn’t out in the cold. And I could snack on all the goodies laid out, mostly a re-run of the night before but I added a chili-cheese dip. When a friend wanted the recipe, I said it was awfully difficult: mix equal parts of canned chili (preferably Wolf brand, with beans) and Velveeta (get the 1 lb.box, not the big 2 lb. one). Don’t let it boil, because it will get a funny texture, and don’t let it scorch—Velveeta will burn. Serve warm and reheat as needed.
After a while, I’d had enough and retired to the cottage—one of the great advantages of my living arrangement. But maybe it was the chili, or I don’t know what. I had such a busy night. I have always had vivid, four-color dreams that stay with me in the morning. Sometimes I have a dream that persists—if I wake and want to get out of a dream that for some reason makes me unhappy, I can’t get rid of it. Takes a real effort.
That didn’t happen last night, but in my eight hours or so of sleep I did a lot of work on the project that I’m considering for my next after I finish the one I’m working on (I know, I should finish this one and stop thinking ahead); I wrote a juvenile story about a green dinosaur that stole a hamburger from the Star Café, owned by good friends Betty and Don Boles—somehow, dimly, I realized that here had to be more character development for a walking talking dinosaur if he was at the center of the story, and why the heck did he steal the hamburger anyway. Gave that one up fortunately. I also attended a convention of Western Writers of America—for years I was active in that group, on the board, president for a term, but I haven’t been in years, the travel having discouraged me. Finally, I dabbled in real estate—walking through large apartments in the Caverswall, a building down the street from the house I grew up in. Where that mishmash came from, I have no idea.
Instead of waking up tired, I woke with all kinds of plans for the day—and I’ve accomplished most of them. Some good work on the book I should be focusing on, stringed that pound of green beans I forgot I had in the fridge, froze the rest of the meatloaf, feeling it had lingered in the refrigerator long enough; took a sweater to the cleaners. But all my efficiency crashed when I started to make chocolate chip cookie dough—I had only defrosted half the butter needed. Now I’m waiting for a frozen stick to defrost.
Next on my ambitious list is supper. I will make shirred eggs. I could have said a baked egg, but shirred sounds so much more like a gourmet. I’ll put a slice of buttered sourdough toast in a ramekin, cover it with a bit of chopped spinach and then grated cheese, top with a raw egg and cover that in a bit of milk.
I’m worn out. Guess I’ll bake cookies tomorrow.