A hodgepodge Saturday

 

 

My herb garden, varnished and ready to go.
We have the liner, pebbles for drainage, and dirt, plus
four small plants. I had a vision of winter lettuce, but apparently
there is no such thing. I'll plant seeds in anticipation of
early spring lettuce. 

Bricklayers, I have learned, are quiet—until they are noisy. Yesterday they quietly laid brick all day on the new guesthouse/cabana that neighbors are building, with my blessing, directly behind my cottage. There was one incident at noon when it sounded like they were banging on a kettle drum—I thought maybe they were mixing mortar, but what do I know about what bricklayers do? Otherwise, it was quiet, even though the neighbor warned me there might be construction noise. My one request was: no loud music in the afternoons when I like to sleep.

This morning, being Saturday I was sure they would not work. So wrong. They began hammering and pounding at seven-thirty. What do bricklayers do that requires hammering? Anyway, it’s been fun to watch that wall of green insulation with wires protruding everywhere turn into a smooth brick wall.

These are good neighbors. They came to me for an easement or whatever it’s called before they ever started this project, and they have been careful to keep me informed and be sure I didn’t have any problems with what was going on. Philip Newburn, the architect who designed my cottage, designed this structure too, and he put the windows facing my cottage high up so that they provide light in the new cabana but do not invade my privacy. I call that Texas neighborliness.

I once had a friend who claimed she could be perfectly content watching paint dry. That is so not me, so I had to move on beyond watching them lay brick. Still, it is Saturday, and I fiddled and piddled more than usual, once again drawn into posts about what I am now calling Abbott’s Law—may it go down in history as an example of evil in government.

But I did manage to read the last two chapters of Irene in Danger, checking for typos. And I had fun, as I did yesterday, putting together recipes for the back of the book. So far I have gougères (little cheese-y puff pastries), gibelotte (a rabbit stew—not to worry, I have other suggestions), salade niçoise, Henny’s Mom’s ranch beans, and Henny’s Mom’s potato salad. A nice mix of French and Texas, representative of the food to be served at the wedding of Henny and Patrick—that is, if they ever get to hold that wedding. Wait! Did I just give away a bit of the plot?

Emails kept me involved for a while, especially an exchange with Carol about my updated Handbook of Texas entry on the Waggoner Ranch. Carol is my friend who is an archivist, research librarian, and a walking encyclopedia of Texas history. I was delighted to be able to tell her a few things about the Waggoner family homes that she didn’t know. The Most Land, the Best Cattle: The Waggoners of Texas launches October 1. I need to be doing more advance publicity and checking on what the publisher is doing.

And tonight, Jean and I had our regular Saturday night supper. We usually choose Saturday because the Burtons have other plans, but it has become a running joke that she finds them at home, their plans having changed or cancelled. Almost happened again today when the pool party they thought they were going to was cancelled. But tonight, they are at the seasoner opener for TCU football. TCU is playing DuQuesne, and Jean and I had to look it up to see where the school is located—Pittsburgh, PA. Jean was guessing East Coast, while I thought Davenport, Iowa. Nine minutes into the first quarter TCU was ahead 7-0; too early to predict much.

On tonight’s menu was blonde puttanesca. Puttanesca is commonly known as the whore’s spaghetti. Usually a red sauce, it has the strong flavors of onion, garlic, anchovies, red pepper, and capers—the ladies of the night made it from what they had on hand. I avoid it because it is too spicy, but I thought this blonde version, with tuna, would be good. It was, but it was a bit fishy—a combination of the anchovy and capers. Lemon cut it a bit, but I probably won’t try it again. Jean happily went home with a serving for her lunch tomorrow.

And I’m ready to spend the evening reading. Sleep well and have happy dreams, my friends.

 

Happy hour with Jacob

Trying to take a spontaneous picture with my Fort Worth family is an impossibility—they all three take wonderful pictures, and they can’t resist posing. Tonight I missed the action shot I wanted. So here’s a posed picture in which Jacob looks quite glum about the artichoke his mother is pointing too. A few seconds earlier, when I didn’t have the phone in my hand, he was laughing and saying, “It’s really good.”

The amuse bouche

While Christian labored over a hot stove, Jordan, Jacob and I had a happy hour. Jacob had another assignment to cook something French for his language class. Previously he did a credible croque monsieur, and for tonight we found directions for an amuse bouche that was nothing more than goat cheese rolled into a ball and then rolled in chives. Somehow that didn’t translate—and it ended up goat cheese with chives mixed in and then spread on baguettes slices. Good, but not I think what a true French chef would serve.

I had gotten an artichoke with my Saturday groceries—and what looked like the smallest container ever of hollandaise (not cheap—I really must master making it at home again; I used to do it beautifully, but now I don’t have a blender nor the confidence). Christian doesn’t eat artichokes, so we added that to our happy hour.

When Jacob was little, I bought bottle after bottle of “kid wine,” carbonated white grape juice. I thought he had long outgrown it, but tonight he asked plaintively if we couldn’t have kid wine again. Jordan objected that it’s too sweet but guess what—it will go in my shopping cart next week. That’s what grandmothers are for.

The amuse bouche was good, but the artichoke was a learning experience. Jacob went from refusal to try it, to trying one leaf without the Hollandaise, to trying the sauce and then, with a sheepish grin, said, “It’s really good.” After Jordan extricated the heart and divided it, Jacob recorded on his phone that hereafter he gets the entire heart every time. We did not agree to that. But I have added another artichoke to my Tuesday order for imperfect veggies.

What most delighted me was that Jacob, not at all an adventuresome eater, tried something new and ended up liking it. I’m afraid I’ll badger him with this incident every time I want him to try something new. I can hear myself harping, “Remember the artichoke!”

I was grown before I ever had an artichoke. I remember my mother and I once tried to cook a package of frozen baby ones—but we didn’t know to put Hollandaise on them, and we didn’t know what to do with them. I suspect they ended in the trash. I’m not sure who taught me to like fresh ones—it may have been my brother’s ex-wife. But now I think they’re a wonderful treat, though I admit they are in part a vehicle for the Hollandaise.

I told Jordan we’ve done a bad thing, teaching Jacob to like them. My mother didn’t encourage me to eat avocadoes for a long time, because she didn’t want to share (my dad didn’t eat them). Now we have to share, but he cannot have the whole heart. I’ll stomp and throw a hissy fit.

As long as we're talking about food, here's our dinner tonight: pork tenderloin in a cream/mustard sauce, wonderful roasted potatoes with chives and Parmesan, and a green salad. Christian outdid himself as usual. The potatoes particularly hit home with me.

Another gloomy day, and Sophie is reacting to the weather by snuffling, sneezing, and spitting up. Ah, spring in Texas.