Tale of the difficult houseguests

 

 

 

Thanksgiving a day early

That’s us. Sophie and me. We are the houseguests from hell.

Colin’s house is midcentury modern with several levels. A wonderful house—unless you rely on a walker to get around. Then ordinary things become difficult. Last night it seemed all I did was ask for help—and much of it had to do with Sophie. Could you feed her? And then I gave precise instructions for what she eats, in what order. Could you give her the insulin shot?  Something I don’t do at home. Could I have another glass of wine? Could you hook up my computer for me? Could I have a night light in the bedroom, but would you turn out the overhead light because there’s a heavy chair between me and the light switch. I’m cold—do you know where you put my jacket? Turns out it is apparently still in the car, and I am wearing a cozy sweater of Lisa’s. Colin and Lisa have stars in their crown, but I am feeling so dependent. I’m sure in addition to my needs, they are tired of my apologies. At home, because I have things arranged to suit me, I am much more independent.

The worst of it came in the middle of the night. Sophie went out at eleven, just before we went to bed. At one, I had to tell Colin she was really begging to go out. At two she began to bark again and paw at the bed. I tried loving and talking—I’d get a few minutes quiet and then she was back at it, bouncing her empty dish around in frustration. I gave her water from my tumbler, and she drank it gratefully, was quiet for a while, and then began to bark again. Colin appeared, said he was taking her outside and then sleeping in the front room with her.

(Lisa told me just now that she dreamed a duck was quacking and woke enough to ask Colin if he thought the duck would be okay!)

Colin took Sophie, closed the doors to the front room and told her she was not leaving. But he said by the time he got up at six, she was anxious to get back into my bedroom. And when I woke up at eight, there she was quiet as an angel. I’ve never seen her so agitated, even though she’s been here many times before. So wish us luck tonight. She has appeared content and happy all day, so maybe she knows I’m not going away and leaving her with these strange people.

Tonight there were thirteen of us for dinner—Morgan’s longtime boyfriend and some of his family, with relationships to tangled to mention. Plus three dogs who got along admirably. Lisa’s mom, who grew up in Norway, cooked what we have come to know as Norwegian hamburgers, along with her special chicken recipe, and peas and carrots. I’ve been the lucky recipient of Torhild’s meals before, looked forward to this, and enjoyed it thoroughly. Noisy, happy, long dinner table. As the evening wore down, Colin summed it up perfectly: It almost felt like tonight was Thanksgiving

So blessed to be here. Tomorrow it will just be the five of us, and I’m looking forward to that too. Lisa and Morgan are talking about first and second dinner—first is scheduled for one; second, at six, will be leftovers.
Best of both worlds.

Sweet dreams tonight of turkey and dressing and cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie!

Crazy old dog lady

 

Sophie waiting for company.

Now I’ve done it. I have successfully defined myself as a crazy old dog lady. And it’s all Sophie’s fault for being the extraordinarily smart dog she is. I know most dog owners will tell you theirs is the smartest dog, but I really mean it with Soph. After all, she’s a deliberate cross of a miniature poodle and an Australian shepherd.

For one thing, she has an inner clock that would put the world clock to shame. She knows to the minute when it is time to start reminding me, gently at first and then more forcefully, when it is time for her to eat. Since some days she eats seven times (small snacks, to coordinate her insulin shots), that’s a lot to keep track of. But she does it.

There’s nothing Soph likes better than company. I guess she gets bored with my company. Happy hour is her happiest time of day, and she’s been known to sit staring at the gate, waiting to see who shows up. When someone arrives, almost anyone, she is convinced they came specifically to see her.

It’s that urge to party that made me look like a crazy lady. We have learned, through hard lesson, that Sophie knows when I leave her to go off the property. Then I can get away with, “Be good. We’ll be right back.” Colin has been known to say, “No, we’re never coming back,” but she knows he’s teasing her.

But there’s no fooling her when I go into the main house for a party—and she is not going to be left behind, if she has to tear down a door. It’s taken two people to accomplish it, and then I was worried the whole time I was inside. So now I just take her. With maybe four guests, its fine. She calms right down, prowls under the dining room table for crumbs, and sometimes sleeps peacefully.

But last night was a party for Christian’s birthday, with a max of thirty people expected. That’s a lot of coming and going through the front door, and one of our fears is that she’ll slip out. In her younger days, Sophie had a wild urge to head north to Canada. These days, I think she’s realizes she has it pretty good where she is and won’t play door dash, but none of us want to take a chance. The other thing is that, unsupervised, she’d love to graze the buffet table, clean any plates left on low tables, and generally make a nuisance of herself in search of food. Since her diabetes diagnosis, she takes just enough prednisone to make her ravenous all the time.

So I took her leash inside with me. When guests arrived last night, there I sat,  leash in hand. Sophie strained to greet each new person and was generally rewarded with some gesture of affection. These wee mostly people who have visited in the cottage and know and love both of us (how blessed I am! And I love them each and all). So each would stop, speak with Sophie, give her a hug, and then move on to hug me.

But there were a few outliers, people that don’t know us well, and I suddenly realized, siting there, they must think I am one of those crazy old ladies who can’t go anywhere without her dog. The kind who carry the dog in a purse or shopping bag. The kind who have small dogs for support dogs. Believe me, it’s the other way around—I was supporting Sophie’s people addiction. Of course, no one said anything, and everybody was kind to Sophie, so this categorization of me could be all in my imagination. But I am attached to that little creature.

And if I look at her and ask, “Are you ready to go home?” her ears perk up and she hads for the back door. Party’s over. For us, it ends pretty early, and we are both happy to be back in the quiet of our cottage.

Party's over.

If something can go wrong, it will!

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!

Twelfth Night … and more about dogs and magical creatures

 

Jacob on Twelfth Night
too many years ago

We celebrated Twelfth Night, the liturgical end of the Christmas season, with our family tradition of each burning a small branch of evergreen and making a secret wish. I spent the morning making a large batch of potato salad and a marinated green bean salad while Christian fixed barbecued meatballs, so it was sort of anticlimactic that two of our guests cancelled because of illness and two others had not shown up by the time I came back out to the cottage.

My twig always misses, but I
don't think that's an omen

But we had a lovely ceremony at the front porch fire pit on this night of the full moon. I love that Jacob has been doing this every year his whole life and hung around with the old folks to make his own wish—then he was off to find his friends. Jean was with us, and Amye Cole, and Jordan burned a secret wish, written and sealed in an envelope, from a friend who was not able to join us.

The news about Sophie continues to be good—this morning, her fever was gone, her kidneys were improving, and she was eating canned chicken. We will go visit her tomorrow morning, and I am hoping we can bring her home Monday. June Bug, who had us as worried on Christmas Day, continues her sudden miraculous recovery. Christian found some pad for dogs’ feet to keep them from slipping, so now Junie is confident in walking—and wanders constantly all over the house.

Since my mind is on animals tonight, I have two things to share. First is a story I stole from Gabe Fleisher’s “Wake Up to Politics” column this morning. (If you don’t read this online bipartisan column of news from D.C., I urge you to look it up—now a college junior in D.C., Fleisher started it some ten years ago as a young boy. It is reliable, accurate, informative, and—as I said—bipartisan, to the point that I sometimes wish he’d lean a bit more left.) Fleisher likes, when possible, to end his daily column with a human interest or humorous story. This was this morning’s:

The Los Angeles County Department of Animal Care and Control recently received an unusual request. “I would like your approval if I can have a unicorn in my backyard,” Madeline, age six, wrote straightforwardly.

Luckily for her, the bureaucracy relented and cut through the red tape. Director Marcia Mayeda wrote back, granting Madeline a unicorn license, so long as she complied with the county’s “conditions,” including that the animal be given “regular access to sunlight, moonbeams, and rainbows.” So nice to know that bureaucracy has a sense of the magical.

Responding to my news about Sophie, a friend sent me this lovely quote from President Joe Biden: “Dogs’ lives are short, too short, but you know that going in. You know the pain is coming, you’re going to lose a dog, and there’s going to be great anguish, so you live fully in the moment with him. You can’t support the illusion that a dog can be your lifelong companion. There’s such beauty in the hard honesty of that, in accepting and giving love while always being aware it comes with an unbearable price. Maybe loving dogs is a way we do penance for all the mistakes we make in life.” Thanks to Jaimie Smith for sharing this—it has been a greatly comforting thought to me.

Make a wish for the coming year, if not on an evergreen branch thrown in the fire, how about on that full moon? And sweet dreams as we had full steam ahead into 2023.

 

 

 

 

Chicago longings, a cooking weekend, and some good visits

 

J

View from Chicago's Lower Wacker Drive
How can I, who dislikes skyscrapers, be homesick for those tall buildings?
But I am.

Jordan Elisabeth Alter Burton (you know how when you’re angry you call kids by their full name? That’s what I’m doing here!)—that girl! Is besieging me with pictures of Chicago. Today it was several, including at least two of her enjoying drinks, apparently taken along lower Wacker Drive by the Chicago River. When I lived there, I never went anywhere near the river, but when my kids and I went for a visit six years ago, we had a hilarious time on Lower Wacker Drive, including a picture of me in front of Trump Tower (Colin tricked me into it) and the river architecture tour. Even worse, she sent me a video of what she called “my lake” in one of its better moods, with the water a deep blue and fairly gentle waves splashing against the shoreline rocks. That naughty child knows she’s making me homesick for my hometown.

I know all I have to do is damp down my dislike of flying, and I could be in Chicago for a long weekend. Any or all of my four kids and maybe some others would go with me. We’d stay at the Palmer House and drive by my childhood home, which Jordan apparently didn’t get to do this time. We’d take the transport chair, so walking wouldn’t be a challenge for me—though when we were there before, my sons took turns in seeing who could push me up and down ramps the fastest. But it’s doable, and I am tempted, and Jordan Elisabeth Alter Burton is tempting me all the more. She knows it too.

As is often the case, this was a cooking weekend for me. Friday night, Jean came, and I made Salade Niçoise with smoked salmon. I set it on a bed of spring mix greens and dressed it with sour cream diluted with lemon. I loved the salad ingredients, especially the smoked salmon, but the dressing didn’t work for me. Too thick, too hard to spread. Last night, Christian and I were home for supper, and I made a pot of spaghetti sauce that I’d been craving—good but heavy. I still have leftovers in the fridge.

Tonight, a friend had to cancel our dinner plans because of serious illness in her family, so I fixed part of what I would have fixed her—the turkey tonnato, but without the baked spinach casserole and broiled tomato I had planned. Instead, I fixed myself a salad of lettuce and avocado, dressed with Newman’s Own Vinaigrette and grated pecorino cheese. A good meal, but I was glad I hadn’t served it to a guest. I requested quarter inch slices of turkey from Central Market and got paper thin slices that are hard to deal with. It wasn’t the dish I’d envisioned. Tonnato sauce basically combines mayonnaise, tuna in olive oil, a bit of anchovy, some lemon juice and some capers—whir it in the processor. It’s good but a strong flavor, and you either like it or you don’t. I do.

But it was lovely to have visitors over the weekend. Jean and I had a good, catch-up visit on Friday night, and I think next weekend she’s going to force me out of my cottage to go to dinner. I’m looking forward to it, though I have a bad habit of backing out at the last minute. Not this time, I tell myself.

Saturday night, Jaimie and Greg walked up for happy hour, bringing granddaughter Ophelia. I had purchased a Beto yard sign; then I gave him some money—that $37 which is the mysterious figure he’s arrived at that will put him over the top—and he sent me another sign. So, I offered it to Jaimie, who was glad to have it. They came to get the sign…and stayed to visit. Ophelia was appropriately shy in a house she didn’t know with an adult she doesn’t know (thanks to Facebook, I know her a lot better than she knows me). When I asked if she liked pre-K or days with Grammy better, she said, “Both.” That child is a diplomat. Jaimie thinks of all kinds of creative activities for her, like cooking their way through the alphabet. Ophelia is also one of those children who early on looks like she understands the secrets of the universe in a way that most of us mere mortals never will. I had a child like that, and I recognize it.

So it’s been a pleasant weekend, hot but not too hot, good food, good company, some writing done, but I didn’t beat myself up about it. I am ready for Jordan to come home, but this coming week is shaping up to be busy. And that’s a good thing.

How does your week look?

Glorious weather means gardening and guests

 

Sophie, waiting for happy hour company
on the patio

North Texas has had glorious weather for several days in a row now, and we are enjoying it—highs in the eighties, yet too early for mosquitoes and the humidity that blankets and smothers us in summer. The zoysia is still brown and dead-looking, but it’s always late to come back. I can see the first few buds on trees, and the bougainvillea is ready to burst. Jordan has new plants in many of the pots, and the patio is once again inviting. It has been a busy, cheerful place this past weekend, much to Sophie’s delight—and mine.

Saturday night, Jean came for supper. Talk about making someone sing for their supper, she had to go by curbside pickup at Central Market for hers. Then when she got it here, Jordan froze it. I went to get lamb chops out of the fridge and couldn’t find them. Fortunately, they hadn’t had time to get very frozen. I was on a nostalgia kick, so I paired lamb chops, which I think of as a somewhat sophisticated entrée choice, with down-home old-fashioned pea salad and carrots cooked in chicken broth. The latter are, of course, two things my family won’t eat. I need to make a list of dinners to fix when they are out, since they once again have busy schedules. But back to Saturday, Jordan joined us on the patio for happy hour before she and Christian went to a dinner party.

Sunday afternoon all three Burtons worked in the yard. At one point I saw Jacob come up the driveway, wearing dirty garden gloves, head down, and I wished I had gotten a picture. I would have labeled it, “The Reluctant Gardener.” He was not amused when I told him that. Christian planted the lettuce seeds I’ve been trying to get planted for several weeks—some in my moveable garden, some in a big planter. I’m looking forward to wilted lettuce. When I mentioned I want another pot of chives, Christian pointed to my green onions which are flourishing, so I gave him a lesson in the difference. I had the same pot of chives for years—it came back every spring—but snowmageddon killed it. I saw an apropos book today, titled The $64 Tomato. Like everything else, gardening is expensive and when you do it on a small scale, like we are, you have to do it for freshness and taste, not to save money.

Sunday night the Burtons went to PF Chang’s in Grapevine to meet Christian’s family. I was almost tempted to go along, because I haven’t been to a PF Chang’s in forever, but I had invited the Greens and the Springfields for happy hour. I made Margaret Johnson’s crab canapes—easy, absolutely delicious, and showy. Watch for the recipe in Thursday’s Gourmet on a Hot Plate blog. Margaret is our across-the-street neighbor and a good friend of Jordan’s, and I am indebted to her for a happy hour where I learned just how good those little bites are. But I have also seen the recipe online, so I don’t think it’s an exclusive. It was fun to get those four people together last night. Just before they left, Phil said to me, “A beautiful evening, Judy” and made it sound as though I had invented the perfect weather, including the slight breeze.

Sophie loves having a crowd on the patio. She goes from person to person, making sure there’s always a human hand idly stroking her head. When people arrive on the patio, she’ll race inside and bark at me, as if to say, “Come on! What is taking you so long?” Eventually, she settles down next to whoever she picks, a perfectly content dog.

This morning I wasn’t through with the patio. We had scheduled a meeting of four neighborhood women about a shift in responsibilities for the Poobah, the newsletter I edit. Amy, our association president, was held up at the last minute, but Subie, Debra Million, and I met on the patio. Jordan had provided an extensive coffee service, but Subie was the only coffee drinker. I did serve banana muffins—that is, I served them with Subie doing all the work. Inside the cottage, I can serve guests, but it’s impossible for me to go over the raised lintel from cottage to patio with anything that will spill, drop, break—you name it. If I can set it safely in the small pouch on my walker, I’m good to go—but few things meet that criterion.

So tonight, Jordan is off staying at a friend’s house much closer to where Jacob has a tournament today and tomorrow, and Christian is at work. I am at my desk with bright sunshine and lovely fresh air pouring in the open French door. I’m enjoying the weather while we have it, because storms are predicted for tomorrow night. If they bring rain, that will be a blessing. Texas in in a drought, wildfires are racing across the central part of the state, and every green growing thing needs moisture.

The Alter kids step out on the town—and some thoughts on eggplant

 

Lisa and Colin
date night

Jordan and Christian
American Cancer Society dinner

Megan in her new boots
No idea where she was going,
but she's ready for some dancing!

While my children were gallivanting, I was home with guests and an appetizer behind which there was a story. I had invited Teddy and Sue for dinner tonight. Teddy, is perhaps the only person I know who is really crazy about eggplant, so I promised to fix him my special Eggplant Parmesan—with the meat/cheese/tomato/eggplant mixture stuffed back into the eggplant shells. It’s showy and, in my opinion, delicious. We’d been talking about this a while, and I was looking forward to making it happen.

Yesterday, Jordan came home from the grocery with four tiny, baby eggplants, each about two fingers wide and about six inches in length. I fumed, I fussed—there was no way to stuff them, and they wouldn’t produce enough substance to adequately flavor the filling. I emailed, rescheduling the Parmesan dish but inviting them for happy hour and promising a nibble. Then is occurred to me that someone somewhere must cook with these tiny things, so I went online searching and came across directions for roasting, with an aside that you could scoop the meat out and serve like hummus or butter.

Following the directions I split the eggplants, salted them, drained them, rinsed them. Then brushed them with oil and roasted them, face down in the pan. Let them cool, scraped out the meat (not easy), added thyme, oregano, salt and pepper, and olive oil. And ended up with a lumpy mixture impossible to spread. So I hauled out my small food processor and gave it a whirl. Results: a spread I thought was okay, Sue said was good, and Teddy loved. I sent it home with him. I probably never will do all that again, but I’ll gladly give Teddy the recipe.

Several people told me this was a supply chain problem, and many shelves are bare at the stores. When I hear supply chain I think cargo ship, but realistically I suppose it has to do with the shortage of truck drivers. Toilet paper shortages or such I can see, but eggplant?

We touched on the subject of Coach Gary Patterson—I was wearing my TCU Friday purple—and Sue not unexpectedly agreed that he has really turned TCU and Fort Worth around, but she was philosophical about money talks, and it’s the way of the world, and twenty years is a long time for a coach. I remain indignant about the lack of respect and gratitude shown Coach P. by TCU, and it occurred to me that what the world needs is a lot less blasé acceptance of “the way things are” and a lot more righteous indignation. I for one will continue to fight for honesty, dignity, and openness in politics and schools and, yes, football, even though I never even watch a game.

Long day, good dinner

 

My first attempt at coulibiac

Whoosh! A long day, and I am so done. Started way too early when I got up to get a bit done before a 9:00 a.m. dental cleaning appointment. Dental appointments of any kind raise my anxiety level. My explanation is that I was traumatized by the drill when I was a kid. I had poor enamel on my teeth and, subsequently, a lot of cavities. Back then, in what I almost think of as pre-historical times, the dentist’s drill was a monster—slow and clumsy. Getting a cavity filled was excruciating.

To this day I fear drilling, and I don’t much like that hydroelectric whatever it is that they use to clean. I was happy during the early stages of quarantine when hygienists were told not to use it for health concerns—it sprayed water everywhere and could spray the virus. When they went back to it, I struck a bargain with my hygienist, whom I like a lot: if I continued to take excellent care of my teeth, she would clean them the old-fashioned way, with hand-scraping. The dentist kind of put the kibosh on that today when he explained that it really isn’t as effective. He hinted that they might have to go back to that thing with its high sound and bad memories But, hey, if that’s the worst of his bad news, I’m okay

I forgot the dental appointment when I invited Jean and Betty for supper tonight. Betty and I had dinner together on Wednesday nights for years. In the last few years, as Jean’s husband’s memory failed and he had to be in a memory care unit, we invited her to join us. Jean and I have kept up during quarantine—because she was alone and because we enjoy her company, we invited her over frequently. But neither of us have seen Betty in well over a year—just when we were coming out of quarantine, she fell and broke her hip. So tonight, we a long overdue first.

But the dental appointment took longer than I expected—probably because I insisted on the old way of cleaning—and I came home to cook. It wasn’t hard, but it took a lot of time. I made individual servings of coulibiac, a Russian dish of pastry filled with a salmon mixture There are lots of versions, but usually the dish calls for fresh salmon and one large serving, which is then sliced and served. I have a recipe that has survived my downsizings and sweeping cleaning out of my appalling collection for years. I’m not sure if I’ve ever made it before or not, but I was determined to try.

The recipe called for canned salmon (I have that good canned stuff that I order from Oregon) along with finely diced carrots, onion, and celery, thinly sliced mushrooms, a bit of lemon juice, sour cream, and dill (which I promptly forgot). This mixture was encased in puff pastry (although the recipe is so old it called for pre-made pie dough—many online coulibiac recipes call for puff pastry).

I’m no expert at working with puff pastry. The first sheet made three servings and went fine; the second, not so good. The dough got too warm, soft and hard to deal with. Five minutes in the freezer was not as helpful as I hoped. Finally got it all together and re-read the directions I’d been thinking I’d cook it while we had a glass of wine—but on re-reading I found it was to be served cold.

I finally ended up with six presentable pieces of coulibiac. They aren’t beauties, but they tasted delicious (even without the dill). Served them with marinated veggies, the easiest salad I ever make. And it keeps in the fridge for days. I simply use Newman’s Own Vinaigrette Oil and Vinegar as a marinade. Jordan is anticipating helping me finish the leftovers

Betty brought dessert—her signature banana pudding with real whipped cream So good, so rich, I am so full. Clever woman that she is, she served it in disposable plastic glasses. I have a bit left over for breakfast tomorrow.

So now, once again, I have cooked myself out and am going to rest on my laurels, if any, and do some writing work. But first, I may have to have a nap.

Something’s awry in the world

Oh, I don’t mean the big stuff that has obviously gone wrong in our world—impeachment, DACA, Jimmy Carter having brains surgery, all the corruption being revealed, climate change is destroying the planet. It’s enough to boggle the mind, but little things are amiss, I blame it on the cold front.

Yesterday Jordan brought her morning tea out to sit for a minute in the cottage, as she often does. I can tell you precisely when the cold front hit. When she came in and saw me bundled in a sweater and lap robe, in anticipation, she said, “Mom, it’s not cold yet.” When she left my patio doors it still wasn’t cold, but by the time she got to her back door—and, folks, this is not a big back yard—the wind was ferocious, her hair was blowing in all directions, leaves were swirling around her, and she could barely get the big sun umbrella down. For those who haven’t lived in Texas, the answer is yes, that’s how quickly our weather can change when a blue norther blows in.

Last night we were to have happy hour company—parents of a girl Jordan was close friends with in grade school and has re-hooked with in the last couple of years. I always liked the parents, and when Jordan suggested we invite them, I happily agreed. Jordan came out to straighten, as she always does when I’m having “special” company, and then left to get Jacob, asking me to put out some appetizers (we keep a drawer full of cheese, sausage, etc. for happy hour visitors). A little before they were due, I put out crackers in a basket, got out the cheese board, and was just unwrapping sausage and cranberry-coated goat cheese (does that not sound wonderful?), when she called to say they were re-scheduling. So there I was—wrapping cheese and sausage up, storing crackers and hoping they didn’t go stale. And I was all dressed up with no place to go, no one to impress. Christian saved the evening with  pot of chili, so good on a cold night, and the four of us had a happy supper in the cottage.

This morning Sophie began to dance round at, heaven help me! 6:30. I could hear her nails clicking on the wood floor. She was also coughing quite a bit, not unusual for her in the morning. I ignored it for a bit, because the house was chilly—it was 24 outside—and I was cozy in my blankets. Then I decided I’d give her a Benadryl and she’d sleep—wrong! At 7:20, she made it clear she had to go outside. She came right back in, but by eight she wanted to go again, and I gave up, got up.

This morning, when I should have been working, I had to fight with bill collectors. The security system sent me a dunning email, even though I had given them updated automatic deduction information last week. Got that straightened out with a cheerful representative, but it was the long wait until I got to her that frustrated me. Then I had to check the automatic deduction for my household/automobile insurance because the premium has gone up (of course).

All that out of the way, the world looks a little better tonight. It’s still cold, but the sun shone bravely today, and the future of DACA recipients is still uncertain—can you imagine living with that cloud over you?—but Jimmy Carter is recovering, public impeachment hearings begin tomorrow, and we had our usual Tuesday happy hour with neighbor Mary tonight. I told her I hoped she saw it as a compliment that we called it, “It’s just Mary,” and served leftovers—a bit of this piece of cheese and that, some herring left in the jar, a few Parmesan crisps—gosh, they are so good!

And to my credit, I baked the last of the oatmeal cookies, got all the dishes washed, and went through two cooking magazines to pull out the recipes I wanted and throw out the magazines. I need a clear and clean desk. Writing? What’s that?

Cooking, food, and delightful guests

Food on my mind today all day long. This morning, Jordan and I went grocery shopping. I’m getting to be a pro at the motorized cart, and we went to the store I like best—wide aisles few people. I’m comfortable standing in the car to reach items on the top shelf—a graduation mark for me. In spite of great cooking plans, I did not buy nearly as much as last week.

And I cooked. Company for dinner. I made five dishes, all of them experiments for me—the way I love to entertain. We had ham and pickle roll-ups and a chipped beef spread for appetizer. Turkey burgers, cucumber salad, and a vegetable medley for the main course. I learned something by cooking each dish—I’d use thicker slices of ham and only one slice in making the roll-up. You spread cream cheese on the ham, plot a pickle in the middle, roll, and slice. Easy. But the two slices of ham recommended don’t work—the outer layer peels away. I cut the spread recipe in half and then in half again and was glad I did—still have quite a bit left over.

Turkey burgers met with approval, but I would add more spice to them, even salt and pepper, and make each patty smaller. The recipe called for mixing in buttermilk, mayonnaise, and sour cream—the result to my mind was a patty that was too wet and hard to deal with. The vegetable medley was good, I thought, but too heavy on the corn side. The cucumber salad included pickled blackberries (good) and the blackberry vinegar that came from the pickling, along with mint leaves. Good, but I sure couldn’t taste the mint.

My guests thought it was a successful meal and offered to let me experiment on them any time. I hadn’t visited with Katie Sherrod, local journalist, TV reporter, and activist, and her husband, retired Episcopalian priest (do they ever retire?) Gayland Poole, for over a year—they were people I missed during my long year out, so it was special to have them here tonight. They hadn’t seen the cottage and really raved about it, which of course pleased me. Conversation was about politics and the state of the country a bit, but more about kids and grandkids and dogs and food and Texas geography and all kinds of things. A delightful evening, and I hope now that they’ve found their way to the cottage they’ll return. Sophie thought them both among her favorite people.

Darn! Why don’t I remember to take pictures of the food I cook? A picture of Soph will have to do.

Walking with Teddy and Fun in the Kitchen

Teddy Springfield came to walk with me this morning. He is half of a wonderful partnership—the other half is my Canadian daughter, Sue. Those two are so happily together it makes your heart sing. Teddy is a fitness buff and a retired chiropractor, two things that matter when I’m trying to learn to walk again. His strength is comforting—I know he’s not going to let me fall. And his knowledge of body and bones is helpful—he told me one evening recently that I had to hold my wrist stiff. He could feel the bones popping, and I was going to have trouble with that wrist if I didn’t change the way I held it. Since it’s my right wrist and essential to typing, I can’t afford to have trouble with it. Holding the wrist stiff and straight puts more pressure on my legs, which is good. Even I could tell that. Today, when I said my back hurt, he said it was because I was using muscles I hadn’t used in a long time. I’m going to ask him about that dreaded subject, spinal stenosis.

We walked the driveway to the point where it takes a sharp downward incline. Teddy was ready to try the incline but I wasn’t. Still, it was a longer walk than I’m used to taking, and I was tuckered when we got back to the cottage. The thing about Teddy is that he’s also one of the most positive people I’ve ever met. As we walk he utters soft words of encouragement, and when we got back, he was enthusiastic about how well I’m doing.

I don’t want to diminish the importance of the walking Jordan and Christian do with me, but there’s a difference—Teddy comes specifically to walk. The kids try to fit it into their busy schedules. Tonight, we had happy hour company—about 8:30, they all left the cottage to retreat into the house, but I didn’t get my nightly walk. Ideally, I’d like to walk twice a day—not on the walker, but holding on to someone—that requires more effort on my part.

Chandry and Lee, our guests tonight, brought wonderful snacks—cheese and apples, hummus and a dip. My contribution was an egg dish that a treasured friend gave me years ago. I never tried it because, well, I just wasn’t sure how it would work out. But I’m experimenting these days, and I decided it was time to either try it or pitch it. Tonight, I say it’s a keeper for sure. Essentially you hard-boil eggs and then make a pesto of garlic and parsley, olive oil and a hint of vinegar to go over the sliced eggs. Refrigerate. Delicious!

I also pickled blackberries today. Who ever heard of pickled berries? Yet in one week I read two recipes for them and decided I had to try. It was really so easy, and the cool thing is you get blackberry vinegar as a result. I’ve refrigerated the berries and vinegar separately but will make a marinated cucumber salad with them for company later in the week. Cucumbers with blackberries? I’ll keep you posted.

Yes, I did work on my writing today, but not as much as I should.

The Joy of Old Friends

October 5, 2016

….and the trauma of a doctor’s visit. Today I had both those pleasures. I had an afternoon appointment with a gastroenterologist to get to the cause of my ongoing GI problems. Yes, I was nervous about it. The doctor is an old friend who has treated me previously; we have friends in common, and he reminded me that he treated my oldest child and diagnosed his Crohn’s disease. So the appointment should have been a piece of cake, and in many ways it was because I felt at ease to talk with him. But there is no easy solution—he recommended a two-week trial period of lactose restriction, ordered blood work, and told me to come back in three weeks. A step in the right direction.

During his exam, I panicked because I was on a narrow table and was sure I was going to fall off—in fact I thought I was falling. He and the nurse kept assuring me they had me, but I wasn’t convinced. Realized that my fear of falling is strong, and I have to get over it if I’m to be fully mobile again. Kind and gentle as he was, the experience made me feel wrung out and exhausted.

And the no dairy news was not good for me. I used to live on cottage cheese, still eat a lot of it and yogurt and cheese. I had prepared an appetizer array for my guests but realized I couldn’t eat any of it—pimiento cheese, roast salmon with herbed cream cheese, assorted veggies which aren’t yet on my “can’t have” list but the doctor warned against them

I’ve known Bill and Sharon well over forty years, and they came to see my new digs tonight. We had a wonderful visit—lots of laughter. We talked about their kids, my kids, our Chicago trip. They had brought a cold supper—a Mediterranean salad with roasted vegetables and salmon. But we ate so much appetizers, we weren’t hungry—I tasted the eggplant and squash but passed on the tomato and mozzarella. They left, repeating how pleased they were for me, how impressed with my cottage.

It’s a nice night to be cozy in the cottage, and I’m ready to tuck myself in. Sweet dreams, everyone.

The Big Book Sale

Subie and I waiting for eager buyers

Today was Jordan’s big book sale. I call it that, even though it was my books we were selling, because she conceived the idea, carried it out, planned it, and was hostess. She invited teachers and moms from Jacob’s school to come to a special sale, 3:15-5:15. We forgot that on Wednesdays most kids are in school until 4:00 instead of 3:00 because of UIL.

By 3:00, Jordan had everything ready—small quiches, fruit, cheese, salami, and wine. One mom came with two boys and bought two books. But as the afternoon went by, more moms came—the ones she and I both know—and they bought books, sometimes three or four children’s books, sometimes my newest novel for which we charged full price. We were disappointed that no teachers came, in spite of promises, but still sales amounted to a nice total. And, most important, it was fun. I get lots of hugs from these young mothers and I love it. They drifted around the house, they chatted and gossiped and they browsed books and asked questions about them.

Friend Subie was here to act as treasurer, not that she was that busy. But we had a good chat, sometimes joined by Jordan. Subie had to leave just as more moms were arriving. The last guest left about 9:00—no wonder I was tired.

Tonight my house looks like a book display, with many books on zogs borrowed from the TCU Press. Jordan and I will take them down tomorrow, but she did all the dishes and refrigerated the food before she left. Tomorrow I’ll have quiches for lunch—enough of the small ones will equal a regular serving, and they were so good.

It was a nice end to a day that didn’t start off well. My ankle hurt, my hand hurt, and I was still feeling sorry for myself. I stumbled about the house, fiddled at the computer without accomplishing much, and ate peanut butter for lunch—a sure sign I’m out of ideas and energy. Then an early nap, but by the time Jordan arrived, I was up, with makeup on, and ready to go.

Caroline, Jacob and Hayes, with the old lady
(Sorry I think I closed my eyes)

Two of my favorites of Jacob’s friends were here, and I was lucky enough to get my picture taken with them.

A good day, but oh my, am I ready for bed.