A cooking milestone

 

Obviously not a professional job
but, hey!, it was so good!

Color me proud. This is my first attempt at working with phyllo. It is not, I don’t think, my first attempt at spanakopita—I remember making it for Jordan and me (the boys in the household won’t eat cooked spinach), but I think I used puff pastry (I just found a picture and, yes, I did use puff pastry before--and may again). This was a lot more work, and obviously it’s not as pretty as the original—a New York Times recipe. But it tasted delicious.

I told Jordan this morning she’d better enjoy it, and before I could finish the sentence, she did: “Because we’re never ever having it again because it’s too much work.” Almost true—it will be a while before I make it again. Last night I dreamt about making the dish, and this morning I got up and did it, so you know it’s filled my day. And there were roadblocks—I put 1.5 lbs spinach on the shopping list, and Jordan brought home 5 oz. So I had to add to my open order at Central Market and wait till late afternoon for Jordan to pick it up Then I incorporated the seasoned spinach, which had been cooked with leeks (yes, leeks—I did not, as is my habit, substitute green onions) and garlic, etc. with the newly cooked spinach, while trying to preserve the large chunks of feta—cooking is not always easy!

I really wanted moral support when I tried to “work quickly,” as the directions said, with the phyllo—but Jordan had gone to a neighbor’s for happy hour. And despite her promise to be home at six, it was almost seven before she got here. Meanwhile, I was fighting (well, almost literally) with the phyllo—and once I got it put together, I realized it’s a time-sensitive dish. So there are all my excuses, but clearly I need more practice with the dough. And I have at least half a box left—so I’m watching for other recipes. Suggestions welcome. Still it was delicious—we will have company for breakfast on Friday, and leftover spanakopita just got added to the menu.

The TV was on while I puttered in the kitchen most of the morning—and did my PT exercises. I find it agonizing to hear the witnesses at the trial of Derek Chauvin for killing George Floyd, to hear people describe watching a man die, hearing him call for his mother and plead, “I can’t breathe.” I’m glad I’m not on that jury, because I could not be impartial.

Another thing that distresses me—there was a Facebook picture today of a big game hunter with a high-powered rifle who had killed an elephant in the wild. I am so angered by these “brave” hunters that I share the pictures on Facebook to spread their shame (doubt they feel it, but still…..) Trouble is, when I share it, other people share it and each time they do it shows up again on my timeline. And I can hardly bear to see that damn picture again. I’m afraid I have a not-good fate in mind for that hunter.

Splurge for the day—a bunch of tulips for my coffee table, which is the only table in the cottage. My friend Phil was having trouble eating on a tray table the other night and said maybe he should eat at the table. Phil is visually challenged and didn’t realize there is no dining table out here, but I will say it is one thing I miss. I’d love to once again give a dinner party at a real table. Meantime, tray tables are a better solution than hunching over the coffee table. I generally eat at my desk, even when there’s company, which doesn’t do a lot for ambiance. Tomorrow, for the great tuna casserole dinner, we will dine on tray tables on the patio, providing it’s warm enough.

But I do think my Easter table looks pretty, and I love having flowers in the cottage. I talked to the lawn guy today, and he is going to cut back the rosemary (dead at the tips but green near the ground), cut back the iron plants (same problem), and pull out the fountain grass, which has been a sort of lovely tan arrangement all winter. It’s time to repace it with living grass, and I prefer the purple. The oak-leaf hydrangea have come back nicely, but the Turk’s cap is iffy (gone, I think) and I need to have someone check the lantana. But the redbud is blooming—that’s an essential part of spring for me.

Easter and rebirth and the greening of the world—it makes me cheerful. Even as I fight with phyllo.

Houseguest, dogs, spills, and happy days

 

Nothing better than a houseguest who sends me flowers, especially when that guest is one of my sons. I’m enjoying a couple days’ visit from Jamie, and today when I woke up from a nap, there was an arrangement of spring flowers on my desk with a note he thought I’d enjoy them in the cottage. When he comes out for supper, I’ll tell him I like the flowers but what I really enjoy is him in the cottage.

Jamie makes these visits periodically, and I treasure them. We cross paths briefly in the morning and then each go our own way. He is international sales manager for a large toy manufacturer (talk about a guy who found his niche—he’s a natural at both toys and sales!) and works from home. When he’s here, he finds a quiet corner in the house to work, and I work at my desk.

Jamie comes accompanied by Kosmo, his two-and-a-half-year-old Pomeranian who, I must say,

Kosmo

is a bit spoiled. He seems to eat only what Jame hand feeds him, but Jamie points out that tiny dog can run 15 miles with him. Jamie went from a big, old chocolate lab, perhaps the sweetest dog I’ve ever known, a dog that practically raised Jamie and Mel’s daughters for them, to this little feisty dog. When I asked why, he explained it was the closest he could come to a cat without the litter box. Go figure! Sophie takes it well, because Kosmo seems to recognize that she rules this corner of the world. So now, she has three dogs to keep in line—the two Cavaliers and Kosmo. She is up to the responsibility.

For me, one of the benefits of having Jamie visit is I get to cook some things that he will eat with me and the resident family will not. Last night, we had Chicken Divan, a recipe I haven’t made in years—while Jacob loves broccoli, his parents have an aversion. But that rich wine sauce—bon appetit! Tonight, in honor of St. Patrick’s Day, we’re having corned beef and cabbage, though we will chop the cabbage and sauté it in butter and sour cream rather than boil it. If you’re Irish and offended by that, please try to look away. I think tomorrow night Jame wants to go out to supper, so I am thinking about safe places with large patios. Will call about safety restrictions before we go.

Meantime, I am a mess. I have twice knocked over wine on the credenza where I keep the files I refer to often—finally figured out that if I swing my desk chair around, the arms can catch a wine glass just right. I banished wine from the desk because I ruined my last computer buy letting it sit in an undiscovered pool of wine.

As if wine isn’t enough, there’s a meat juice problem. I dislike meat encased in cryovac—which the corned beef was. Naturally, I dripped juice on my pants. I sponged it off with wet paper towels, but Jamie was quick to tell me that if he had done that as a kid, I’d have sent him to change immediately. Then I had a nosebleed on my clean T-shirt. So now, I’m “dressed” for supper, and I plan to ask him to carve the corner beef. Like too many other things, it was a curbside misunderstanding—I was delighted to find a one-lb. corned beef for $9.99, perfect for two people, and ordered it. What I got was three lbs. for $30, but just now when I chunked some potatoes into it, I noticed it had shrunk remarkably.

I think Mother Nature is fooling us into thinking Spring has arrived. For the past few days I’ve kept the French doors open—Sophie can come and go as she pleases. Of course, June Bug does too, which is a problem because her house manners are not reliable, and she ignores me, with a befuddled look, when I tell her to go home. She constantly looks like Winston Churchill, asking, “What fresh hell is this?” Only maybe she’s saying, “Why is that old woman yelling at me?”

Anyway, I know March 15 is the traditional Texas date beyond which you don’t expect a freeze, but I never trust it. And while the days are pleasant, a chill creeps into the air once the sun is gone. Nope, it’s not true Spring yet. But the kale in the garden has grown long and leggy, the dried grasses need something (not sure what), and I’m waiting for the ground cover to perk up. As someone said, it’s still a brown season. Storms possible tonight. Stay safe, my friends.

Thankful Sunday

Mark and his brisket

So much to be thankful for this sunny Spring Sunday. First and foremost, the New York Alters—both Uncle Mark and Aunt Amy have had the corona virus but are recovered. Mark says nothing heals like a brisket from Angelo’s in Fort Worth—his nephew, my Colin, sent it. And we are all thankful and offer continued prayers for my niece, Emily, who is an R.N. at Lennox General in New York City. In recent years, she has worked on an orthopedic unit but now it has been converted to COVID-19 unit. That’s Emily in the picture above, the one in the foreground without her cap. Every night at 7 p.m. crowds gather in the streets outside the hospital to cheeer medical personnel as they leave their shift.

My mom used to tell me all things end in some good, and that’s generally the message we’re getting about the pandemic. We will never go back to normal as we knew it but will carve out a new normal, which most of us hope will be much improved. One of the encouraging signs pointing in that  direction is the renewal of the earth due to quarantine. Without so many people running around, driving cars, flying planes, the earth is restoring itself—the air is clearer, the waters purer, animals are returning to national parks and other areas where they had disappeared. Thanks to Regina Rosier for one of the most stunning pictures I’ve seen: Lake Michigan’s waters have turned clear revealing hundreds of wrecked ships on the lake floor. Having grown up almost on Lake Michigan’s shores, that’s especially meaningful to me.

A shipwreck on Lake Michigan's floor

Jordan and I “went” to church together, and once again I am super impressed by the creativity our church staff shows in these online services which combine pre-filmed segments—the senior minister preaching, other ministers leading us in prayer and thanksgiving and communion, a special message each week for children—with beautiful photography, sometimes of the sanctuary and other times of the natural earth. Today one scene carried me mentally back to the Smoky Mountains, though I don’t know for sure that’s where it was. For a hymn, they re-ran a segment from November 2018 of the entire congregation singing—for a moment  you felt like you were in the sanctuary again.

A neighbor, mother of one of Jordan’s grade school chums and today’s close friend, sent me a loaf of homemade bread. Jordan sliced it this morning, and we used it for communion for the online service. It smelled so good and reminded me of the bread my mom used to make. I can hardly wait for breakfast tomorrow when I will toast it and slather it with real butter. Jordan made herself a piece of toast at lunch, and the smell was wonderful.

This morning I read an article about how they deal with the elderly during the pandemic on the island of Sardinia in the Mediterranean. One village has had only one case of the corona virus—someone who returned from an overseas trip. The elderly live with their children, not in nursing homes which, as we’ve seen, are petri dishes for the virus. The grown children manage the household, feed the parents, minister to their needs, and visit with them to stave off boredom and depression. It struck me those are all the things Jordan does for me. I just didn’t have to move to Sardinia, and I am beyond grateful for not being in a nursing home—I watched my mother deteriorate rapidly in such a setting. I am sheltered and safe, blessed beyond belief, and eternally grateful.

Lots of gardening going on this afternoon. I think the Burtons are clearing out old supplies, shelves that collect junk, a plastic wading pool once used to house a lonely fish. Jordan has planted flowerpots along my patio, and this week the yard crew will deliver two fountain grass plants and will plant colorful penta in front of the deck. I love Spring in Texas.

Garden time—and a bit of role reversal

Jordan and I planned a full day—grocery, plant nursery, and a really belated birthday lunch. Only I forgot about the lunch. Since we had to leave early (for me) to get Jacob to school, I threw on sweats and a T-shirt with a hoodie. Grocery-store chic. At home, after the grocery and waiting for friend Mary who was going to the plant store with us, Jordan came charging out to the cottage and announced I had to change clothes. It was okay, she said, to go to the grocery in sweats and a T-shirt, but I had to dress better for lunch. So she chose some dark green sweats that look a little more like regular pants, and a lighter green sweater (of sweatshirt material). I threw on a fling, but it proved too much as the day warmed.

We went to Weston Gardens rather than the local chain nursery. It’s a bit of a drive, out in the country, but a wonderful place with most helpful employees. I sat in royal splendor in my walker with a seat and supervised as Jordan, Christian, and Mary picked out plants, mostly for pots. We came home with geraniums, columbine, fountain grass, phlox, hydrangea, ferns, and a pot of chives. Severe storms are predicted for tomorrow, so the more delicate blooming plants will live in my shower until Sunday, which Jordan has designated as planting day.

The winter rye in the back yard looks so wonderful that I hate to see it go away, but I know it soon will, and we’ll over-seed with Bermuda. Jordan worried that the ferns we bought were too small for the pots, but they will grow. And soon the yard will be filled with bloom, and we can enjoy lovely evenings on the patio. Someone please banish the mosquitoes.

For lunch, we went to Righteous Foods—Jordan’s choice. It took me a while to realize how really good the food is there. I was put off at first by the emphasis on smoothies and grains and the like. But I’ve had a couple of dishes there that I like a lot—and it’s nice to feel righteous. Jordan had a lovely hamburger, and Mary had shrimp tacos. I chose franks and beans—what kind of health food restaurant serves franks and beans? It was delicious—locally made hot dogs with marinated cabbage and cheese, with black beans on the side. And churros for dessert. Color me stuffed, but I only hate half my sandwich and will have the other half tonight.

Buttoning down for the predicted storms.

Come Spring. . . .

My cheerful funny socks

Perfect for a happy spring evening

That was the saying of frontier women in the 19^th-century American West. Hard as their lives were, they were always optimistic, they always thought things would get better, “come Spring.” It hasn’t quite come Spring yet…the days may be longer, but mornings are chilly and spring bloom is still to come in all its glory. But tonight, Christian was out spreading pre-emergent weed killer, although some have already emerged.

The biggest thing that gives me Spring-like hope today is the spectacle of all those fantastic young people who walked out of their classes today. In schools where they were locked in (that must violate fire laws if not civil rights), many took a knee. Their courage in bucking the status quo should give us all hope. No more shall we say, “That’s just the way things are,” or “It [whatever?] will never work, never pass. [Choose your topic—gun control, abortion, taxes] will never change.” The young shall lead us, and it’s up to us to follow, not give in to resigned defeat.

Conor Lamb’s stunning victory in Pennsylvania gives me hope too. It was a resounding rejection of our orange president, his policies, his instability, his mercurial temperament. He may think he’s the smartest man in the universe, but he just took yet another walloping. And Lamb set a pattern for other Democratic candidates to follow in the upcoming mid-term elections. I especially like him because he did not blindly follow the party line but adhered to his own beliefs. Integrity is pretty refreshing these days.

I am also heartened by the Republicans in Congress who are criticizing the shut-down of the House investigation of Russian intervention in our elections, with the weak conclusion that yes, there was intervention, but no, it didn’t favor Trump. That flies in the face of every other investigation, of the FBI and other agencies, and even of common sense.

And while the orange president won’t link Russia to the nerve gas attack on a former spy and his daughter, the UK has expelled twenty-three Russian diplomats because of the incident, other countries are following that lead, and even Nikki Haley, the US voice at the UN, has said publicly that the US associates Russia with the attack.

Meantime, the orange president is busy firing people. Someone suggested he be reminded  that he’s in the White House now and no longer running “The Apprentice” on TV. I remember my dad saying you never fire someone—you make them want to resign. Could it be that this flurry of firings represents the death throes of a terribly frightened man who is spinning out of control? That possibility holds both hope and apprehension, the latter with a prayer that he not do anything so drastic as to ruin all of us as Mueller closes in on him.

The firing that I find most reprehensible is the potential dismissal of Andrew McCabe from the FBI, just four days short of retirement. Sources say he may lose his benefits, which would be so unjust that we ought to all run screaming into the streets.

Saddest news of the day is the death of that amazing man Stephen Hawking. Tributes on the internet have been plentiful and eloquent and so have quotes—I like the one where he said we are but a pack of monkeys on a minor planet in the solar system of a very small star. Talk about putting us in our place. But perhaps the most striking quote is to the effect that those who talk about their own IQ are losers. Sound like anyone you know?

Peace and restful sleep, my friends. Some days are disheartening, but today I think humanity and compassion and love are going to win out.

A national disease

Before I launch into my rant I have to note that it was a beautiful if chilly first day of spring in North Texas. Woke to temps in the 30s and 40s, low 40s by the time we went to church. I always love Palm Sunday and the solemn children waving their palms. When we came out, you could be warm in the sun but in the shade the wind still cut through you. One of my last chances to wear a big sweater I got for Christmas—well, I hope it was the last chance. In Texas, you never know.

My rant: I have long been disturbed by the hate and crudity in some political remarks on Facebook. Lately it seems to have gotten worse. Today I saw a cartoon of Trump holding his boxers wide open so photographers could shoot his privates. Lots of comments about how funny this was—and I admit it was—but I pointed out that liberals would be incensed if that cartoon showed President Obama or Hillary. Then again, I guess neither of them brought the subject up as Trump did. Another cartoon showed a naked and obviously middle-aged or better Hilly riding a wrecking ball. Talk about bad taste…and I said so.

I have decided taking the high road is not enough. I am going to scold, rebuke, etc. If you hear I’ve been assassinated, please look at my Facebook posts. But when I commented, in response to a question, that it was high time the president and his family went to Cuba, some jerk asked, “How long have you been a dufus?” I told him I didn’t think personal comments were called for. There was one other today where I replied name-calling was inappropriate.

It scares me to think that this increasing lack of manners and civility it a mark of the decline of our country, but there’s not much other explanation. Take, for instance, the escalating riots at Trump’s appearances. I don’t think he caused the anger that fuels them—you may have to trace back to Ronald Reagan for that. But I think Trump knows how to fuel the anger and does it deliberately. Conservative columnist David Brooks put it well in a column in which he called Trumps followers “a coalition of the dispossessed.” He wrote that we must respect his followers and their feelings but never Trump. No, not ever Trump.

I am wondering if the first, almost inevitable death at a clash of protestors and followers might wake the nation up. Sad thought.

Meanwhile, I am surrounded by grandchildren and their friends who mostly say, “Yes, ma’am” and “Thank you,” are considerate and thoughtful. Maybe all is not lost if we only get out and vote. Yeah, folks, this is a plea to vote Democratic.

For tomorrow: my outrage that Mitch McConnell, he with no lips and no soul, says the NRA has to approve any SCOTUS nomination. Oh good glory!

Twas the Night before Easter...or the second night of Passover

The night before Easter at my house is sort of like Christmas Eve. Shhh, don't tell Jacob but the Easter Bunny visited just after he left following supper. The house is decorated, and now the problem is to make sure Sophie doesn't think the eggs are for her. The table is set for breakfast, and Christian brought a potato casserole--so rich with sour cream and butter and cheese that I will only allow myself one bite. Everything is laid out and ready, and Jordan left me with great warnings to go to bed early because we're going to sunrise service at 6:45.
She and I were enjoying an after-dinner glass of wine when I startled and said I thought I saw a bolt of lightning. And then we both heard it--thunder. She was out the door and headed home in a flash. I wish our much-needed rain would come Monday instead of Sunday, but I guess we have to believe the Lord knows what he's doing. Sunrise service will be inside, which is a disappointment because I love to see the daylight come while we worship. But the rain will be so significant as part of spring's new start.
Texas has two good seasons--spring and fall, and spring is by far my personal favorite. I love the light green of new leaves, the brightness of my redbud tree, the flowering trees all over town. When my children were young we went to North Carolina for the spring bloom, where redbud and dogwood abound. Redbud does well here, but only a few hardy dogwoods survive to bloom.
Greg, my gardening neighbor, and I are full of plans for my yard, including ferns which I have always loved, oak leaf hydrangeas, which he assures me will disguise the hurricane fence in the back, and coral honeysuckle to brighten the fence between my dog yard and driveway. I don't garden--used to but was never one who felt renewed by mucking in the dirt. These days my back won't let me garden--or sweep or mop floors or any of those things I don't want to do.
I've been fighting back pain and balance issues recently, and I decided tonight I might better quit fighting and go with the flow. Part of it has to do with faith in the physical therapy program, but I think part of it also has to do with my spiritual faith. Perhaps fighting--which means tightening up--actually increases the problems. It may not sound like a big deal, but I walked down to get the newspaper in the middle of the sidewalk today. Then Jordan and I went for a short (very short) walk.
So like trees budding out, I'm going to loosen up, go with the time of renewal, and let the good Lord help me heal.
And so, my friends, I wish you all Happy Easter, Blessed Passover, or if it suits you joy in the new start that springtime brings. Peace.

Waiting for thunderstorms...and going through recipes

We've had wonderful warm sunny days--in the high seventies and low eighties--the last couple of days. A little bit of heaven. Everything seems to have come out at once--redbuds all over town, that beautiful light green of new leaves on trees, the white blooms of pear trees. Even the air smells fresh. But tonight they say we're due thunderstorms with possible high winds and hail. If God would reach down and promise us no tornadoes I'd delight in that forecast. I love waking in the night to thunder and lightning but the possibility of a tornado lurks in my mind. Before it grew dark, I didn't sense that ominous quiet nor see that gun-metal gray in the sky to the west. Who knows? My car is in the garage, my dog is inside, I've done what I can.
Meantime, having written my requisite thousand words for the day, I spent a bit of time going through recipes, looking for something to cook Sunday night. I love the concept of Sunday dinner, always have, but my audience has dwindled (when my kids were at home it wasn't unusual to have 16-20--I don't think I'm p for that now), and sometimes I'm afraid my guests will tire of dinner at Judy's. Still I'm thinking ahead. Some of my possibles for this weekend:
Grilled chicken pan bagnat--those wonderful French pressed sandwiches, originally tuna but this one calls for chicken (I might do tuna sometimes if Christian isn't here)
chicken chilaquiles casserole--think I've made it before and it was good
King Ranch chicken--always a favorite, though I think I've learned that it has no relation to the King Ranch
Greek baked pasta with ground lamb--I have a hard time resisting anything with lamb
chicken enchiladas with tomatillo-cilantro sauce--really good, but ho, hum, I've made it a lot
Sunday chicken with two soups, white wine, rice and onion soup powder
Foil pack chicken--think I've about discarded that
If only my children come, I'll cook Dead Man's Bones--ribs cooked with garlic, apricot preserves and soy sauce--so good
I'm leaning toward the pan bagnat, which is a lot of work but can be done a day ahead. Which would you choose?

Sprintime ritual

I know spring is here because today I went to the nursery for plants for my porch and deck pots. Greg, who keeps my yard in shape and has a much better eye for things, went with me to advise what to buy and what to avoid--like delphinium which, although gorgeous, won't survive our Texas summer. I always have a big pot of fountain grass in one corner of the front porch; when we asked, they said they only had the purple, not the green, which I said was fine. Greg contradicted me--that corner is dark and needs the lighter plant. Last year I only got one frond. I'll go back when they get green fountain grass and hope for better luck.
We bought herbs and shade plants because my house faces north and doesn't get much sun. For the deck, which faces south, we bought a tomato, some lavender, and the beginnings of a vegetable garden. The pot plants will look a lot better when they fill out in four or six weeks--now they're just struggling babies.

Basil

The coleus will replace a Wandering Jew that had been in this pot for years. So many things succumbed this winter--the Jew died early, but as little as three weeks ago, lavender, oregano, and sage were showing tiny shoots of new green. Then we got hit with one last arctic freeze, and that was all it took.
                                                                 Coleus

I always get coleus and caladium mixed up, so I hope I have them right here, but we bought a caladium--I'd never seen one this bright green and full--to replace a small oregano plant at the shady end of the porch. I'm particularly pleased with the begonias and sweet potato plants we bought for the pots at the top of the stairs to the porch. Last year we had sweet potatoes and something leveled them off.  Hoping for better luck this year.
I'm excited about my vegetable garden--with a wild Indian of a dog I haven't been able to grow anything in the back yard. Last year Greg planted some rose bushes which he said would grow strong, tall, and full. They would have if Sophie didn't knock them down as she ran back and forth to bark at a possum on the wires way above her.
I saw an idea on either Facebook or Pinterest--slit open a bag of potting soil and plant seeds in it. So we did--lettuce, spinach, pea shoots, and I forget what else. I'm looking for onion starters. Greg put the bag on an old table we don't use and dragged it to the middle of the lawn to get sun. Yet it's safe from Sophie. Pictures to follow when the seeds sprout.
What a nice day! Spring makes everything look better.    
     
                             

What could be nicer?

I came home tonight from a lovely dinner to find a message on my voice mail. When I listened to it, a seven-year-old voice said all in one breath, "Goodbye. I love you." I laughed, because when last seen I was dropping him off at baseball practice. He had insisted I put the top down on the car--I think so he could make a showy arrival, climbing out of the car instead of opening the door. When I jokingly said, "I don't suppose you're going to give me a kiss," he gave me the most disgusted look I've ever seen from this normally sweet child. I know, in front of the coach and the other boys! Never! So I guess this was a bit of a way of making amends.
I had just come home from a wonderful dinner with good friends. Sue lived next door to me for six or eight years and we became close friends. Her parents live in Ottawa, Canada, so she calls me her Fort Worth mother (the age difference is about right). Tonight her parents and her boyfriend, whom I adore, were in town, and they invited me to join them at Sera, a relatively new place near my house. We had a joyful evening, and the food was great--I had Arroz something--with roasted tomatoes, greens, a couple of pieces of artichoke and wonderful sautéed scallops. So good. We had Littleneck clams for an appetizer. Now I consider myself a fairly sophisticated eater--didn't I have tartare last night?--but I've never had clams. I wasn't blown away by them. But we had an olive oil cake (much better than it sounds) and a chocolate/orange something that was wonderful. Nothing better than a great meal with good friends.
I am eternally grateful for the life I lead. Of course there was one blip on the day's screen. Jacob was to go home with a friend after school today, and I was peacefully napping when a neighbor called from the school and asked if I knew that Jacob and his friend were in the principal's office. No one had picked them up, but they had called the other boy's grandmother and she was on her way. So I waited a bit and called, and, yes, she had the boys. When I went to pick Jacob up, I told the grandfather, a friend and neighbor, that I'd forgotten the books I laid out for his wife. "That's okay," he said, "I forgot to pick up the kids." We all have days like that.
Feels like spring, redbuds are blooming, and I think--not sure--I saw a dogwood in bloom today. Maybe this time spring is really arriving, even if a little late. I think today was the first day I had the top down on the car.
Life is good, and I feel blessed with friends and family.

Flowers in the house

I love having fresh flowers in the house, and today I am blessed with them in three places. To me, these blooming things signal that spring at long last is going to arrive. Today I went to get my flowers of the month and placed them in their customary spot on the sideboard in the dining room.
Then I turned to the dining room table where Jordan has been kind enough to share with me the lovely flowers her friends bought for her Saturday night birthday celebration. And finally there is the orchid Jordan brought me for Valentine's Day. I feel surrounded by flowers and they brighten my day. Here they are, in reverse order--orchid, birthday flowers, flowers of the month. Lucky me! Just thought I'd share the joy tonight.

 
 
 



January--the cleaning out, cleaning up month

I used to know an older doctor who told me he hated January because he'd just paid for Christmas and here came January and quarterly taxes. Well, my dislike isn't quite that severe, though I do pay quarterly taxes. But to me, it's a month of cleaning out and cleaning up.
First of all, I leave my Christmas decorations up through Epiphany, so January 7th is the big take-down-Christmas day. It involves having my local kids and/or neighbors get the storage things out of the attic (I'm not allowed up there except in extreme cases with four younger adults in the house). Then I have to dismantle, wrap and pack all those decorations--and there's always something you find after you think you have everything packed. This year it was a music box Santa in a sleigh. Then kids/neighbors, whoever, has to put the boxes back up in the attic. Christian has become kind of keeper of the attic, and vows to get me large storage bins but think how hard they'd been to get up and down--he doesn't like my 15 or so grocery bags. This year I was appalled when he said his goal is to see a tree in my house at Christmas--haven't had one in years because I'm usually gone. Jacob, Christian and I got it all back in the attic the other night. I wanted to clear out the guest room because other branches of the family will be coming the end of January for rodeo weekend.
The other January chore I dread is accumulating tax information--once I get that questionnaire from the accountant I feel honor-bound to get it done quickly. This year I've developed a new system and have dealt with quite a few categories--but I have miles to go, and twelve months of bank statements to check. I resolved to do one tax chore a day, but I've fallen down on that. So that huge task still looms.
This year, the leaves were slow to fall from the trees, and I have a lot of oaks on my property. When they did fall, it was first too icy and then too cold to rake, so when we came home at the end of December we waded through piles of leaves. They're mostly gone now and it's a joy to walk down a leaf-free driveway after dark, but the yard and porches are discouraging--devoid of plants that I've brought in to winter. Those that are still outside are mostly ones that will flourish again in spring (well, not the dusty miller Jacob had to have and has since ignored) but even the oregano looks pretty pitiful. The wandering jew has died, as has a plant I don't know the name of--it was lovely with dainty white flowers in the spring, but they disappeared with summer heat and now it looks like straw. Greg has cleaned out the cyclamen and some other non-survivors, but the whole aspect is discouraging.
We think of January as a time for a new start--resolutions and all that--but I think it's a month designed to get us ready for spring. Of course we still have stock-show weather and February to go through. And it's to be bitterly cold day after tomorrow.