The summer doldrums

 

A place where I can lost the summer doldrums
Colin's lake in Tomball. Note Sophie next to me. 

It’s hot, and I’m in the doldrums. Or am I just lazy? Or is age creeping up on me? I have a friend, slightly younger than me, who says she no longer has the focus for long projects--like novels--and she is considering other ways to keep writing. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with me, but Missing Irene, the fifth adventure for my diva chef, is dragging along. For a while, it was going great, and I could see the road ahead for some distance. But now it’s ground to a crawl, and the road is murky. Oh, I know what’s going to happen, but I’m having trouble getting there. And I’ve only just begun.

I think if you’ve been writing long enough, you know when your writing sings—and you know when it doesn’t. Years ago, my then-agent asked me to do a proposal for a publisher who wanted a young-adult book about a girl in the American West. I wrote what I thought was an acceptable proposal and sent it off. It came back with one devastating comment from the publisher: “Frankly, we find Mrs. Alter’s writing pedestrian.” Pedestrian! What a devastating word! But it probably was spot on, and I was young and green enough not to recognize it. But now, with a long career behind me—forty-plus years and over a hundred books of various types, plus articles, reviews, columns, etc.—I am very aware when my writing “feels” pedestrian. And that’s where I’ve been the last couple of days.

Lately on a writing listserv I follow, there’s been a thread about how to tell a budding author what’s wrong with a manuscript, especially if everything’s wrong from syntax to plot to character. I remember once submitting a sixty-page manuscript, on assignment, to a pamphlet series about western authors. It came back with the first twelve pages so heavily edited I could hardly find my own words amidst the red pen notes. It was absolutely the best writing lesson I have ever had and much of it has stood me in good stead over the years. So maybe that’s what I need now—a heavy red pencil.

I know the best thing to do when a project seems stalled is walk away from it and let it sit for days, even weeks. Then go back to it with new eyes. But when I do that, I feel guilty for not writing, even though I set my own deadlines. No one else is telling me I must write a certain number of words a day or produce a finished manuscript by a certain date. It’s one of the big reasons I am an indie-published author.

I can put it aside because I have other interests and projects, principally cooking. With this hot weather, Jordan has challenged me to cook light meals, and I’ve been happy with my results. Like the open-faced sandwich (see last night’s “Gourmet on a Hot Plate”) or the old-fashioned layer salad I made last night and had for lunch today (probably see next Thursday’s “Gourmet on a Hot Plate”).

I so enjoy meal planning that my grocery bill is out of sight, but I have figured something out. I buy groceries for happy hour snacks (I limit happy hour these days to a few close friends who I know haven’t been traveling—call me cautious, but the cases of Covid I’ve known have almost all been people who’ve been traveling). And I buy groceries for dinner for the three of us—Jacob is now working at Joe T.s almost every night, so I don’t figure him in. That’s a lot of groceries, between Central Market and Albertson’s, but the thing I don’t do is go out to eat. I figure I save a whole bunch of money by cooking at home. Of course, because I experiment, I buy things I wouldn’t ordinarily, which increases my bill (I just ordered furikake—look it up if you’re puzzled).

I’ve been thinking, while my novel lingers in the doldrums, of doing another cookbook. I’ve learned a lot, found a lot of new dishes in the five years since Gourmet on a Hot Plate. And I have a thick file now of what I call “keepers.” I’d love any feedback on whether it would be a good idea or not to combine my food blogs into a book.

There’s one more thing that keeps me occupied, and that’s what I see as the state of our country and the need to speak out. I could blog about that every night, but I figure I’d begin to sound shrill and would become one of those with lots of indignation and no solutions. So I save such blogs for only occasionally, and only specific topics I consider crucial—hard to define that because so many are crucial.

And that’s where I am in the doldrums. I will appreciate any cheering words, advice, suggestions, jokes, and the like. This too shall pass, and I know it, but friends are gootd to have when you’re in the doldrums.

And now, I’m off to read an old Jessica Fletcher mystery set in my heart’s country, Scotland. I missed it the first time around. Stay cool.

When do you really start the new year?

 

When Sophie was home with Christian in the main house, 
she kept watch out the front door for any lurking dangers.
Christian labeled this, "Our security system takes a break."
Soph knows one place she is not allowed is that gold couch.

Some people claim that the gap between Christmas and New Year’s is the perfect time to cut yourself some slack, take it easy. January 2 you can once again set the world on fire. But for now, read several books, watch a lot of movies, treat yourself to that second glass of wine after dinner. Most times I would say, “Have long lunches in your favorite restaurant,” but with the omicron variant spreading so quickly, I think I’ll leave that out.

For me, though, the lax period extends from about Thanksgiving to Christmas. I’m wrapped up (pun intended) in Christmas planning and preparations—buying gifts and wrapping them, cooking for gifts, planning meals (most of my meal planning comes to naught because my daughters take over kitchen duties and generally ignore my suggestions; when I said recently that I missed the cooking, Colin suggested that I could be the wise consultant; soon enough Jordan wanted to know how to tell if her egg casserole was done and I told her to stick a silver knife in it—does that qualify as wisdom? But I digress.

After Christmas, I am energized rather than experiencing the letdown that many do. Having not done much serious work for over a month, I am full of ambition and goals.  This year is no different. My goals aren’t exactly New Year’s resolutions—those come in a whole different category about being a better friend, being less judgmental, thing like that. But it’s my work plans I’m thinking of now. At present, I have two projects as many of you know—another Irene mystery to finish (“The End” is a long way away, as I’ve just begun) and the Helen Corbitt book. I think I’ve decided that Corbitt will be my priority, at least to get fifty pages done and to focus on interesting a publisher. Those are goals that will develop slowly—for instance I am waiting to hear from the archivist who has Corbitt’s papers and since she’s with an academic institution, I figure she’s on vacation until classes resume. So I’ll fill my days with re-readng what I have on Irene. But I really hate to juggle two projects at the same time.

Today I played catch-up, paying bills, answering emails, ordering some things—all stuff that I had put aside during the week I was in Austin. Yes, I had my computer, but there are some things that are just easier done at home with my big-screen monitor and my files close at hand. Too, I need to straighten my desk: I am having a very few people in for a come-and-go open house this weekend (one can’t have a large guest list in a 600-square-foot cottage) and I need to make sure the cottage sparkles. Cleaning my desk is a big part of that. Jordan has cleared some surfaces to the point that I am wondering how I can live and cook in this space between now and Saturday!

In a bit of related trivia, Jordan went to the grocery this morning with my list in her hand. My list included a two-lb. piece of boneless ham—I know, I know, bone-in is so much better and the boneless is scraps welded together with who knows what—but I simply wanted it to dice and stir into black-eyed peas. I now have two 2-lb. boneless hams. I foresee ham in our future meals and am welcoming great recipe suggestions.

I’ve thought about my expectations, other than ham dinners, for 2022 with some puzzlement. Everywhere I see the hope that 2022 will be better than the previous two years, but I am leery of the omicron variant and can foresee another surge strong enough to send us back into at least voluntary quarantine. When Covid-19 first hit, I didn’t know anyone who had it. Gradually that changed—some of my family got it, a few friends. Still I was isolated and felt remote from it. Not so now—several close friends and/or their families have come down with the omicron variant. I am more alarmed than I like because I read that in heathy people who have been vaccinated and boosted, it should be mild, but the jury is still out on the elderly (ahem! That’s me!) and the immune-compromised (that’s one son and one son-in-law plus one close friend).

Other than an abundance of caution and the fact that Mercury will be in retrograde a lot of the time (I never understand that, but I know it’s not good), I do think 2022 will be a good year, and I have high hopes for it. How about you?

Back to school and not much else

 

This is Jacob, ready for high school, even though it will be remote. He's had his picture taken on the first day every years since kindergarten. This year is a first in several ways.

The first day of school but in such a strange year. My Austin grandsons and my local grandson started remote school today; I am still unsure if the Tomball kids are in the classroom or working form home, but I’m pretty sure their mom, a seventh-grade math teacher, is back in the classroom. Whether it’s remote or not, I don’t know. And the younger of my two Frisco grandgirls started her senior high school  year today. I think about her a lot—your senior year should be one of great adventure, lots of parties, lots of excitement, and I wonder what this year will be for her. I’m not sure if she’s in the classroom or not. Her sister, a senior at Colorado University in Boulder, is taking all remote classes except one lab.

Jacob told me tonight that his remote classes were not a good thing—I forget how he phrased it, but I had read that the Fort Worth ISD had “technical problems,” as did Dallas ISD. Jacob liked the golf team which is new for him this year (I don’t think golf is offered in middle school.) He’s been taking lessons all summer and playing as much as he could. With the high school team, he goes to a golf course some distance from the house for team meetings and practices. Tomorrow is supposed to be his try-out for the team, and he tells me he thinks he’ll do all right but he doubts it will happen. It’s supposed to rain.

I foresee a cutting back on the family dinners we’ve enjoyed ever since we began quarantining. Jacob will have golf though I don’t know how many nights a week, and Christian has begun to have occasional evening meetings for various charitable committees. Perhaps the world is creeping back to some kind of normalcy, even as we still keep our distance. But I will regret losing those family dinners. Tonight I ate alone and had leftovers—a bit of salmon too dry to be eaten alone, so I made it into salmon salad and sided it with cottage cheese.

Tonight in Texas, we are expecting dramatically cooler temperatures—like a high in the eighties tomorrow. Today’s high was ninety-three, and when neighbor Mary and I sat out for happy hour tonight, it was downright pleasant. As I write tonight, at 10:30, we are awaiting rain which was initially supposed to arrive between two and five, then got pushed to eleven. It’s very still tonight and very dark, so I expect the rain is coming. Christian just told me the heaviest rain will be tomorrow. Meantime, we’re seeing pictures of heavy snow in Wyoming, and Denver is under a snow warning. On September 8? Really? The world is really out of whack. But then, we all knew that.

At home the only other news is a couple of small happenings—tonight, Sophie nearly caught her tail on fire. Mary is a magnet for mosquitoes, so Jordan had put a citronella candle right next to her feet. Sophie, being her usual sociable self, came too close and in a minute, we smelled burning hair. I haven’t examined closely, but I suspect there’s some singed hair on that full tail that she wags around.

I have decided I will never master curbside pick-up for groceries. Jordan picked up an order yesterday and came home with four—yes, four bottles of maple syrup. I had been so intent on posting a note to the shopper that I didn’t want the brands online but wanted Central Market’s Organic syrup (from Vermont, I think). We thought the four bottles were a mistake (not a cheap one) and I was prepared to object, when I checked my order and it said four. All I can think of is that I upped the number of lemons to four and somehow got it mixed up. I’m hoping Christian will find lots of maple recipes for grilling salmon.

I’m ready for a change in the pace of life. Maybe the back-to-school feeling in the air gives me the jitters or maybe it’s the increasingly tumultuous political scene, but I have this sense of waiting for something to happen. Something big. Not a completely happy feeling.

Tomorrow is bound to be a better day! Stay safe.

That alternate reality

Words and phrases that seem bandied about a lot in these critical times are “alternate reality” and “distanced.” I was acutely aware of the alternate realities in my world today. Woke to yet another thunderstorm, though it did “fair off” nicely and was sunny and warming up by noon.

But what got me was the distance between my reality and our world. I am isolated here in my cottage, reminding myself uncomfortably of that young boy who lived in a bubble back—when was it?—the ‘70s? I am quite comfortable, feel safe, have the company of my family, and am fairly content. My fear is that complacency will overcome me, though when Jordan brought in ground meat from the grocery tonight, I did chastise her for not separating touching the wrapping and touching the meat. But in general, I feel safe. She is inordinately careful and takes good care of me—and I am blessed.

Still, there’s always a bit of guilt with the feeling of being so comfortable when others are suffering. That feeling spurred me to make my annual contribution to my church last night, even though this is a difficult time for all of us financially.

On the other hand, I turn to my computer and realize the horror in the world around us. The number of cases of COVID-19 rises exponentially, as do the deaths. People are in desperate circumstances, hospitals are stressed beyond endurance, and the world is in a general mess. Suffering and loss and heartbreak that I cannot wrap my mind around. And here I sit, like a little princess. I am acutely aware of that distance.

I am also acutely aware of my temporary inability to concentrate on my work. There is a lot I could be doing, but in this time when the ordinary world is suspended, I don’t feel the urgency that I usually do. I can fiddle away the day, listening to videos that as Jordan points out only tell me what I already know about the disease. But the idea of doing research, picking up the threads of my professional life sometimes seems daunting. Shoot! I had to make myself clean off my desk-top greenhouse and clean my desk. Ulterior motive: we will go to church—or at least I will—in my cottage tomorrow. Jordan last week took a picture of my computer with the service, and I realized what a mess my desk was. So I have resolved to clean it before tomorrow’s remote service. And tonight I did do a bit of research reading.

Back to reality: Jordan and I made grocery lists tonight. In an uncharacteristic burst of planning, we listed meals for the coming week and then planned what we needed. Then, with computers at the ready, we crafted orders for Central Market (mine) and Tom Thumb (hers). But it was a discouraging experience—ordinary things were not offered, like Monterrey Jack cheese or a Boston butt pork roast. How can we make carnitas?

And when I went to submit my Central Market order, I got the message that no time slots are available. I’m a big CM fan, and I have sensed that HEB was doing a better job than most, but Central Market really disappointed me.

Besides, Jordan and I had anticipated a holiday dinner all week. We ordered a turkey breast and were going to make turkey and gravy, dressing, green bean casserole—the whole nine yards. When we picked up groceries today—ordered ten days ago—there was no turkey breast, no substitution.  Hard times for all of us.

And yet I hate to whine. See where I’m coming from? I am so much more comfortable and safer than most, that I have no right to complain. Something that came into the conversation last night as we enjoyed happy hour led Jordan to say, “Those are such first world problems.” And that’s where my conscience is. With a lot of prayers.

And no, I don’t believe the pastor who says this is God’s wrathful vengeance. My God is not that harsh and unloving.

Ho hum! Day number seven.

Jacob, eating Ramen on the patio

By shopping at several stores, his mom managed to get

enough Ramen to keep him happy for a couple of weeks;

it's apparently a high-demand item.

No, I don’t intend to number every day or consciously count them. That way lies madness, I am sure. But today it strikes me that a week ago today I spoke at a women’s luncheon and had supper with a good friend—and I haven’t been away from the house since. Our world has changed remarkably in the short space of seven days.

Rain and thunder again in the night, only I slept through them. My only clues were that the sidewalks were wet and Sophie didn’t want to leave my side. I woke to a dull morning and a temporary bit of the doldrums, which didn’t improve when the sun came out in the late morning. By noon, I was unbearably sleepy and not interested in doing much except either sitting at my desk or crawling back into bed.

I worked—and did some piddly things—but didn’t accomplish as much as I would have liked. I am torn between my natural inclination toward being a compulsive and an underlying sense that there’s no hurry about anything I do—I will have months and months to accomplish it. Add to all that an acute awareness of the danger of lethargy, and I didn’t much like myself this morning. I took a nap about two and swore to wake up a new person.

One of the things I like about myself is that with stern talking to, I can almost always pull myself out of the doldrums. It’s how I got through the long, difficult post-operative period after my hip surgery, and that same attitude stood me in good stead today. I woke up refreshed—dealt with a few things on the computer (my 10-minute census form and cancelling a disputed credit card charge) and swore to fix myself a good supper.

By 4:30 rain was threatening again, and Jordan came out to ask if I wanted to sit on the patio a big before the storm hit. She is determined that I get some vitamin D every day. I did like the idea. (Our patio is growing green algae from all this rain!) Jacob joined us, and we probably stayed 15 minutes before the thunder and threatening skies drove us inside.

I fixed a cheesy/tomato/white bean baked recipe from the NYTimes—glad I cut it in half because it was okay but not great. To go with it, I fixed salmon croquettes, a favorite since childhood—only I make them as patties, rather than the log-shape my mom used to do. While I was cooking, Jordan sat at my desk and compiled a Central Market order, thinking maybe it would be Saturday before it would be ready. Yep—it will be a week from Saturday!

After dinner, despite the reading I already have on my desk, I started a new book: Erik Larson’s The Splendid and the Vile. I am a Larson fan, from reading The Devil in the White City, about the Columbian Exposition, set practically in the Chicago neighborhood in which I grew up, and Isaac’s Storm, about the 1900 hurricane that nearly wiped out the entire coastal city of Galveston. Larson’s new  book is about Churchill and the early days of WWII in England, the days some refer to as “the Gathering Storm.” I am particularly drawn to British history in that time and to Winston Churchill as a historic figure—an interest that makes me feel closer to my father, who was an inordinate fan of  Churchill.

So I salvaged what started out as a lost day and am feeling better about tomorrow. After all, we’ve got a long haul ahead of us—as did the Brits in 1940.

Stock Show weather—or not?

Fort Worth's annual Southwestern Livestock Exposition and Rodeo opened this weekend, and true to form, the weather reflected it. Yesterday was so dreary and bone-chilling damp that I just wanted to hibernate. It was a nap kind of day, so I napped and when I got up I was supposed to go pick up my groceries from Central Market’s curbside pick-up. But I wimped out, called them and asked if they could hold them until this morning. They are so easy to work with and so eager to please that they said “Of course. Don’t worry about it.”

Early this morning, when it was still gray, I glanced at the weather forecast onscreen and thought it indicated Stock Show weather for the next two weeks. But as the sun really got about it’s business, it rose in a cloudless, clear blue sky. And while it was cool, it didn’t chill your bones.

So I set out for Central Market, but I had one heck of a time unfogging my windshield—nearly froze myself doing it. (Word is telling “unfogging” is not a word, but what else would you call it? Defogginjg?) I had to sit in the driveway for a bit, and when I set out it was still a little fuzzy on the driver’s side. Of course, perfectly clear on the passenger side.

At Central Market, for the first time ever, I had to text to tell them I was there—they usually notice and come right out. When I said again that I was sorry, the young woman said, “Don’t you dare apologize!” She was gone a little longer than usual, but when she came out, she explained she thought they bunch of basil they gave me was too scrawny, so she went back to produce for another. I absolutely love the service.

Jordan says if she picks up my groceries, they say to her, “Where’s Judy?”

Sophie doesn’t like Stock Show weather either. It gets her off her schedule. Sometimes she refuses to go out during the day, which means nature calls her in the middle of the night. Maybe it’s the dampness, but she’s snuffling more lately, and a couple of days she seemed downright lethargic.

When it stormed in the night recently, she came to my bed but no amount of encouragement on my part could get her to jump up on it. She kept jumping with her front feet, just bouncing the bed enough to keep me awake. Then she began almost morning—little low sounds deep in her throat—from fear, I presume. I decided, with the typical three-in-the-morning gloom, that age was catching up with her, and arthritis prevented her from jumping all the way onto the bed, something she’s always done. But the next morning I watched her nimbly jump up into her favorite sleeping chair. Both of us needed today’s sunshine.

A measure of how spoiled I am: we have a wonderful woman who cleans both the house and the cottage every other Tuesday. We missed a time over the holidays so by last Tuesday things—including my laundry—had really piled up. (I don’t have a washer in the cottage and getting into the house myself is daunting, let alone with a load of clothes). She called to say she had the flu, but Jordan arranged for her to clean just the cottage this morning. She texted again to say she couldn’t make it. I cannot exaggerate my disappointment.

I got busy, cleaned the kitchen area, emptied all the trash, got out the laundry and spotted the things that needed it—I am an incredibly messy cook. Jordan is doing my laundry, and Jacob will take out the trash. The rest of the cottage will have to be gloriously messy and dirty for another week and a half. I love to come home after she’s been here, because my cottage glows and smells so clean!

Let’s reboot this day

tuna salad and squash casserole

an odd pairing but really good

No kidding. About noon today, I thought, “Judy Alter wants to recall this day,” so I could start over. It wasn’t anything really bad, just a lot of stuff.

My oldest daughter had surgery in Austin this morning. Routine stuff, all went textbook well, she is doing fine, her husband is taking good care of her and keeping us informed. Despite all that, there’s that maternal feeling that I should be there. I was there when both her boys were born, and I should be there now. And I’m not.

Then there’s the fact that I have not gotten one lick of work done, not read one word of the manuscript I’m editing. Spent a whole lot of the morning working on meal plans and grocery shopping—there seems to be a general sense of “We’re heading back into the school year, and we have to get organized.” And we got our family schedule mixed up. Jacob was going to the store with me, since Jordan wants someone on hand when I get in and out of the car and since there are grocery items it’s awkward for me to reach. But when Jacob would be available—he’s dog-sitting—was problematic.

I finally tried something I’ve been meaning to: ordered from Tom Thumb through Instacart. But then that bound me to the cottage to await delivery. All worked out, and delivery by a nice young man was fairly prompt. But they left out the Fritos I’ve tried three times to get—can’t make Frito pie without.

Then, in a rush, Jacob had to be driven up to the school to pick up his spirit shirts—only he couldn’t find the right person, said there was no spirit store, and returned to the car empty handed. This did not please his mother, who thought he hadn’t listened to her instructions, and he countered that she had it wrong—and there I was in the middle. Everyone lived happily ever after.

By the time lunch (sardine salad) had come and gone, I needed a nap. But refreshed, I went to pick up more groceries at Central Market. I remind myself of my mom—she used to get somethings at one store and others at another. I remain committed to Central Market for meat, fish, and produce but won’t buy household staples like toilet paper there. So I went to get my weekly order from Curbside Pickup.

And on the way home I went by our local mechanic, and he put a new light bulb in my right turn signal. That rapid clicking that indicates a burnt-out bulb is so annoying, and besides, I think it leaves you liable for a ticket, if not being rear-ended.

So those are three good things today, despite the negative atmosphere—Megan is doing fine, I found I can use Instacart successfully, and I got that darn right-turn signal fixed.

Tonight, after a pleasant happy hour with Jordan and Christian, I fixed a squash casserole and paired it with tuna salad from Central Market. Maybe tomorrow the world will be back in order.

I am a wimp driver, or the saga of my groceries

Maybe I was not destined to get groceries from Central Market this week, or at least not easily. I called Friday to place an order and requested five o’clock pick-up. Never got a notice that my groceries were ready, so I checked. Seems I forgot to finish submitting it. So I submitted, with noon pickup Saturday to avoid the storms. But noon Saturday the storms were not gone—instead we had a tornado watch. So I called to ask if they could keep my groceries until Sunday. I’ve got to say every time I call, they are polite, cheerful, and agreeable. So I said 10:30 Sunday morning

Come Sunday I remembered our Texas blue laws and called. No, they could not let me have wine until noon. So just before noon I headed down the zoo road, my usual back way to half the world. Wrong move! It was impassable—they weren’t even letting cars turn onto that road but were ushering them on a back road behind the zoo. After waiting forever at a stop sign behind a monster truck, I came to a place where I could scoot into a driveway and turn around,

I went the long way, headed this time for the road behind the Log Cabin Village and through the park. But the Colonial golf tournament, which has another name these days, begins tomorrow, and all roads were blocked off. I knew that University would be a mess between the zoo and golf people. I contemplated my options, the best of which was not appealing—to turn left onto University and go to Vickery.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m a good driver. I learned to drive in Chicago and spent one summer commuting from the south side to Evanston via the crowded Outer Drive. But anxiety came with age. When I returned to driving, after a two-year absence due to health, I put anxiety behind me and was fairly fearless. But lately I’ve reverted to my back-road ways—I don’t do freeways and heavy traffics bothers me. I like to know where I’m going and have my route planned out.

Suddenly, I anticipated getting disoriented. That old panicky feeling came back. I cut to the right, turned right on University, made a left onto Park Hill and came home. Jordan, Christian, and Jacob were headed to lunch, and I asked them to get my groceries after their lunch, which they did. So after five missed tries, I got two bags of groceries and three bottles of wine.

Tonight, lamb meatballs, tzatziki sauce, corn salad, and green salad, as we head into a long and busy week.

Another lovely day

I felt very much the matriarch today at lunch. Last night Colin texted to ask if we would be able to meet for lunch at Carshon’s at noon today. He and his family plus close friends were driving through on their way to spend spring break skiing at Wolf Creek in Colorado. Well, of course, you know with a request like that we rearranged our schedules. Jordan and I did a quick grocery trip and then I made an even quicker run to Central Market for curbside pickup. I have gotten in the habit of doing what I call “ordinary” grocery shopping at a local chain but ordering special items from Central Market. Today that included Dover sole, ground sirloin, blue cheese, smoked salmon and a few other things.

At 11:55 we were at Carshon’s where Stephanie and Theresa made a table for twelve work even though they were already busy. Colin has literally been eating at Carshon’s all his almost-fifty years and does not ever think of coming to Fort Worth without going there. You’ll note, he didn’t come home—he went to Carshon’s. Theresa takes one look at him and says, “Rebecca. No Russian dressing.” Jordan and Christian splurged and had another designer sandwich, and Jacob seemed to like his bagel and cream cheese. The family of four that my kids always ski with joked that this was not their first time at the deli, and they knew exactly what to order.

But I had one of those special moments as I sat at the head of the table and looked at all the twelve people. I thought, “I made this happen. This wonderful moment. These are my kids, their children, their friends. How blessed we are.” Later, Jacob sort of echoed that. Waiting for Christian to bring the car up, I sat next to him—and he immediately scooted away. I joked about it, and his cousin Kegan sat between us. “Juju,” Jacob said, “Kegan doesn’t see you very often. I live with you.” I hope that was a brag and not a complaint.

Sophie had a good day too. Here she is in that classic position that indicates a dog feels perfectly safe and perfectly content and at ease. Christian and I had a good laugh at the one leg sticking straight up in the air. She actually sleeps that way a lot in the daytime.

Tonight, Jordan’s longtime BFF, David Barnes, came for happy hour. Nice now that he lives just blocks away, even though his wonderful new wife, Kelly, was out of town. We had a great visit, with lots of projections of what they would all look like as they aged. Funny, but my warning to them was not to laugh it off too lightly. Christian, whose father is bald, did a projection of himself as bald—much better than with long hair.

They went inside for dinner, but I chose to stay in the cottage. I made an avocado/blue cheese/cherry tomato salad with lemon and cooked the Dover sole I bought today. Although a friend told me about a recipe with brown butter and capers, I chose to use the garlic/herb butter I bought by mistake and need to use, and I left out the capers—that particular fish is so delicate in flavor I didn’t want capers to overwhelm it.

Amount of work I got done today? Zero, zilch, nada. Maybe tomorrow. But then again, that’s what being eighty and retired is all about. It was a lovely day.

an absurdly happy day

Because there was no school and his parents both had to work, Jacob spent Monday and Tuesday with me. He was cheerful about trips to the grocery both day, though he confessed he hates grocery stores. Such trips are hard on me because I make the mistake of holding out a treat. Monday I had to say "No more cereal when we have two boxes," while he countered "Juju, we don't need that much Kleenex." My explanation that I like back-up fell on deaf ears. Central Market was easier--we came away with a container of six oatmeal/raisin cookies, his choice. They may just be my favorite new thing--we each ate three yesterday. So good. And I rationalized to him that they're good for us.
Last night Jacob spent the night. We went to dinner with friends Jacob particularly enjoys (it's mutual), and his parents didn't want to come get him at eight nor did I want to drive him home. This morning, I delivered him to his mom's office at 9:30 so they could be home in time to watch the TCU bowl game with young (well, they are to me) friends.
And then I was home, absurdly happy at the prospect of a day home alone with Sophie. We are holed up in my office with a heater--cozy when I've been cold all day. I admit to fiddling at my desk and only starting on work late in the morning--still have to do yoga but a nap beckons.
One precious moment with Jacob: when I have my nightly love and tummy rub session with Sophie, on her dog bed  next to my bed, Jacob hangs his head upside down over the edge of the bed and looks at me. Last night, he asked, "What do you want to talk about?" I don't remember now what we talked about, but as I drifted off--and he tossed and turned--he said, "You know what I really like? The conversations we have when you're loving Sophie." Be still my heart. Sometimes I wonder what he'll remember twenty years from now, and I guess that's one thing. May all his memories be that pleasant.
Tonight, weather permitting, I'll go to a bring-your-own-steak dinner with Jacob and his family and the football watchers who will no doubt stay to watch the new year in. Christian is a master at cooking my meat the way I like it--seared on the outside and very pink in the middle. I'm anticipating a nice small sirloin. And an early-to-bed, quiet New Year's Eve.
And to all, a blessed New Year with peace, joy and love.