That is usually not my attitude, but it sure has been true the last couple of days. After yesterday’s fiasco of waking sleeping children (grown, as in adult), I thought everything was okay and I could move along with my week without a hitch. Not so.
Tonight I fixed supper for
friends Subie and Phil because they are in the throes of moving to Trinity
Terrace and a retirement apartment—the packers are coming Thursday and the
movers, Friday. (As I write this it has dawned on me that I have never had packers
nor have I ever hired a designer when I moved—and as my kids will tell you, we
moved a lot). Anyway, dinner was my small bit to help. I planned carefully,
including my intent to make my favorite meatloaf: one that is half ground beef,
half ground lamb. The ground lamb did not come with my usual Saturday order
from Central Market.
I asked Jordan to see when she
went to Albertson’s Monday if they had ground lamb. She assured me they wouldn’t
but said she’d look. If you read yesterday’s blog you know she never made it to
the store yesterday, so I ordered the remaining things I needed and could get
from Central Market, including the lamb. I thought maybe they’d had a shipment.
I specified that if substitutions were necessary that was okay if it was lamb
and not beef. Who ever would have expected they’d sub lamb stew meat for ground
lamb?
I didn’t discover that until
this morning when I dumped the meat into the breadcrumbs and eggs. So I fished
it out, piece by piece, and put it in my processor. No go. Finally I gave up,
asked Christian to defrost a frozen pound of hamburger in his microwave (I have
no counter space for one), and froze the lamb. We will be having lamb stew
soon. The meatloaf, all beef by now, was flavorful, but I thought a tad dry,
which it wouldn’t have been with some fatty lamb in it. I will keep ordering
until I have a stash of ground lamb in the freezer—we had delicious lamb burgers
last week, and I make a lamb ragu we all like.
Subie and Phill were complimentary
about the dinner, but I thought the rice casserole was also a bit dry—it just
shouldn’t be cooked ahead. And the dump cake definitely needs work. I am through
cooking for several days—maybe. Sometimes I think it’s the days I tried hardest
to make it all perfect that something goes wrong. I should have served Fourth
of July hot dogs!
Social media has been full of
warnings about firecrackers and pleas for consideration for dogs, cats, birds,
and other creatures. So far, at nine o’clock, I have only heard a few distant
pops, nothing that alarms Sophie. Phil’s seeing-eye dog, Porter, is really
scared, so we planned an early dinner, and I thought we’d just keep Porter
inside. He wanted nothing of that and lay on the deck by the back door to the
main house all evening. I think what I’m hearing now is from Colonial Country
Club. Sophie is apparently sleeping in her favorite spot—wedged between the
couch and the coffee table. At any rate, she’s not right by me, so I assume she’s
not frightened.
Patriotic concerns aside, the
Fourth is never one of my favorite holidays. For years, my kids have gone off
to picnics and lake parties and what have you, and I have often found it the
loneliest of holidays. So I was doubly glad for the Greens’ presence tonight.
This morning Christian could
have repaid me for waking them yesterday. I fed Sophie her first breakfast, per
her demand, at seven-fifteen and went back to bed thinking I’d sleep another
hour and feed her second breakfast at eight-thirty (the doctor has okayed this
routine) so she’d be ready for Christian to give her insulin at nine. I woke at
nine-fifteen when I heard him leave the cottage, having given her the shot. But
she hadn’t had her second breakfast, and we’re told the shot should follow food
by no less than half an hour and no more than an hour. Poor Sophie—it’s a
wonder she survives and flourishes with all our mistakes in her routine. I am
now putting ear drops in twice a day, but she shuns me—because, you know, how
painful that is—NOT.
And poor Christian who puts up
with both of us while Jordan’s away. Last night my big problem, for which I called
him to come back, was that my electric bed had no power (I raise the foot
because of my swollen feet). He found where the plug had been knocked loose,
and all was well. But the frequency with which I ask him for help makes me
realize how much Jordan does daily. See that yellow shirt? I can’t get it down
from the hanging rack. Would you bring me another bottle of wine? Did you water
the lawn and potted plants? His halo is shining.
All of this is tongue in cheek—it
was a pleasant Fourth with the company of people I enjoy. And how grateful I am
for Jordan and Christian. Phil and Subie insist if they had the Burtons watching
over them, they would not move into Trinity Terrace, and tonight Subie said
maybe they should just move in with me. A joke, but it makes me realize how
blessed I am.
Hope everyone had a happy
Fourth, celebrating in whatever way works for you!
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